a full day in Paris

When I was boarding the plane in Madison, I thought how my Paris stay was wide open. I planned nothing. I told myself that I would wait until an idea formed. By the time I came down to breakfast this morning, images formed, ideas were born quickly, effortlessly. I wrote them down: Jardins, Les Nereides, bookstore, Cyrillus, Petit Bateau, Bon Marche, Cafe Varenne, d'Orsay. No imperatives, but this will give structure to my walk. 

This is what came of it -- my one non-rainy, full day in Paris:

Gray skies outside. Actually, the whole day is rather gray (initially). Does it matter? No, it does not. I have sweaters, I have a jacket. I have a French scarf. It's October after all.

I come down for breakfast. They've shuffled things around a bit. No more self service, and there's a menu. With prices. And this I approve of -- they've kept the price of rooms steady, but they've made the breakfast an extra option. There are days when eating breakfast elsewhere is really very tempting. Today is not one of those days, but still, I like the freedom of going down the block for a bigger croissant. But today, I find my favorite seat and order the usual.

Again, it's like watching a film in slo-mo. Every bite is deliberate. Every movement -- steady, unrushed. Nothing but the moment. This is Paris for me!

I start my walk. I'm rested, I'm so happy to be here. 

And yet, it's not easy to stay focused on just what's near me, and to move slowly all day long. When I come to busier streets, my pace picks up. I shop a little for the kids and now I feel as if I am part of the city's machinery. I'm using my credit card rather than my eyes. It's good, but it's not slow and quiet. It's intentional, but I'm sliding into a rhythm that is too familiar: my pace has quickened.

 

 

I'm in the neighborhood of the Cafe Varenne. There was going to be a day when I ate lunch here. As it happened, I'm in the vicinity, it's the golden lunch hour in France. So of course I stop. I love this place so much and yet, it is also true that this has to be one of the busiest, tightest eateries to park yourself in for a midday meal. Nonetheless, the owner and the waiters take the burden off of you so well (they find a space for you, they talk to you, you could be a tourist from Korea (I sit next to one) or the dignitary from the elites of Paris (plenty of those from the government offices nearby) and they treat you like you're their best guest. 

 

 

And in letting them do their work, I relax, again curbing the adrenaline rush that comes from that faster pace.

Lentils and poached eggs. Just that. Delicious.

But I don't linger. I want to take my packages home before heading out to the Musee d'Orsay. My Stockholm knee is acting up (so labeled because the very first time it went awry was in August, in Stockholm), and yet I do the long walk to the Baume, even though I have to be back again to this neighborhood for the museum. Seems like this is anything but leisurely.

But it's okay! Switching my pace, falling into step with the city's demands is just fine, because I know I can step out again when I begin to feel dazed by all that I want to see and do here.  I can even (oh horrors!) retreat to my hotel room and stay there for hours on end. No one will frown. No one will care! No one will know. (Well, you will know.)

Still, today I'm not needing a hotel room retreat. I want to go back and visit d'Orsary.

The urge to pop into this museum actually surprised me. I had checked the exhibitions in advance and felt no tug. But I suppose the publication of the new book on Monet stirred me up. Plus I have a specific request for an item from their gift shop. I cannot imagine standing in line to get in and then bypassing the art while there. So I buy a ticket. And because it is a weekday in October, I can easily get one for the late afternoon. This is the best time to visit d'Orsay -- toward evening. 

I take the bus most of the way. No lines at all to the entrance. I'm in.

While there, I spend the first hour rethinking Monet. Canvases of his, re-imagined, thanks to the article I'd read on September 16th (so just two weeks ago). 

I'm a little unsettled by what I read in that review of the book Monet -- a Restless Vision (I have yet to read the book itself). My first attraction to Monet was born of the same feelings most people have when they look at his canvases: they seem (at first glance) serene, often idyllic, bucolic, delightful. By the time you've come across the range of his paintings, you of course realize that there's more to this man than a love of pretty gardens would suggest. But you're hooked and you keep on looking at paintings like this one...

.. with such love for what it does to your inner soul. You don't feel sold out or manipulated. And then, you read about the man himself and can you now separate the art from what you learn about what drove him to it? I already knew that he made his kids work hard to keep up the garden at Giverny. But that's only a fragment of his story. And to be sure, I don't just fall for the art of persons whose lives I find to be noble or admirable. I first look at the painting. Nonetheless, I see now in Monet's canvases the disquiet that the author of the book apparently claims drove him to paint as ferociously and in the manner that he did (based on extensive research, and I mean extensive!). I'm seeing that now and it's just a tiny bit sad to recognize it. Maybe I should have stayed with my love of his colors, landscapes and gardens!

Seeing this painting of the Giverny bridge:

... also makes me think that it really is time for me to go back to Giverny. It's a great bother to get on that train, there and back, in one day, but maybe I should do it anyway, if not on this trip then surely on the next.

Most of the time, when I finish with the Impressionists, I feel done with d'Orsay. Unless there's a special exhibition that lures me in. Today there is indeed one, and though on paper it seemed just okay, in reality it is fabulous! It's on the work of Harriet Backer-- a Norwegian woman who painted in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. So in the period of Impressionism, and indeed, she was a great admirer of Monet and other painters of his caliber. She never reached great levels of fame outside of her home country (though she studied in Germany and in France) and indeed I have to admit -- I'd never heard of her! But oh my, is her work grand!

The theme here is music and color and you can understand why -- her art touches on both (she came from a musically talented family and her use of color is exquisite!). She painted quite a number of people playing the piano.

An incredible exhibition. See it if you're in Paris before January 6th!

[A note on museum photography: how well I remember the days when it was a real no-no to take out your camera in a museum and especially for a temporary exhibition! How grateful I am to smart phone inventors who put that camera lens into the phone! It popularized picture taking to such an extent that rare is the place that will tell you now to put that camera away. There are just too many people wanting to take a picture of paintings, sculpture, anything! Even the view out the museum window.]

I walk back slowly now. The day was full, but it had those gentle pauses and lovely moments that are nearly always here for me in Paris. 

For dinner, I booked a table at a place called Le Jardin Saint Germain. I dont remember how or why I chose this, though I'm sure proximity to the hotel (a seven minute stroll) played a role. 

(across the street from a high school)

It's good. Well prepared stuff. But I'm not likely to return. The restaurant is very tiny and the menu too is very tiny. That doesn't usually bother me. Rare is the day that I can't find something interesting to eat. And yet, here I am: a fish dish, duck confit, and two beefsteak main courses. Did they make the duck confit themselves? Many places dont bother. And if I scratch that off, what I have left is steaks or the fish dish. I like fish. But this one is served by a waiter who is hell bent on speaking English to me and he better be well trained for it, because the place is full of Americans. I expect that a good portion of seats would be taken up by my country men and women, but this one is just not making it in the neighborhood at all. No French to be heard at any table. And to really add insult to injury -- their four deserts are "brownie" "apple pie" "key lime pie" and "pain perdu." That's just painful. I take the pain perdu, which is very good, though it could be argued that this, too, is a glorified serving of "french toast." It's as if the place is trying to demonstrate a fine way to cook our American favorites. Too bad, it really is very close to the hotel. On the upside: the fish was very good, the pain perdu was good and the waiter speaks fine English if you need that in life. But then, is there a waiter or waitress these days in Paris who doesn't?

 

 

I'll end with this note on speaking English here. As you know, I try not to, at all. One reason I will always favor France over other European destinations is that I can try not to. And so when I popped into Les Nereides -- a tiny handmade jewelry store just a few steps from the Jardins, I once again launched into my French. This time the sales clerk knew pretty quickly that I was not from this country. Anytime I go beyond two or three sentences, they know. And so she asked where I'm from. Quebec? No? So maybe German or Dutch? It's back to that. For some reason, I speak French like a German or a Dutch person would! Or, is it that I look the part? Austere and Germanic? Dutch-tall? Certainly not! The funny thing is in all my years of travel to France, no one has ever, ever guessed Polish or American.

I am a woman from nowhere, I am a woman from everywhere.

Tomorrow, I leave Paris.