Monday

This evening, I walked over to the Luxembourg Gardens. In the Museum, located to the front of the park, there is a special exhibitions. These are nearly always outstanding. But the one there right now is the outstandingest of them all -- it brings together Impressionist paintings from all over the world to demonstrate the role played by the art dealer, Paul Durand-Ruel in supporting and pushing the art movement forward at the turn of the centuries.

It's just a sublime display and if you're in London this spring, or Philadelphia this fall, it will be there then. I highly recommend it! (Caveat -- the Impressionists make me happy and so I tend to enthuse about them, given a chance.)

There was a funny photo policy at the exhibit: each painting had its singular instruction as to whether photos were permitted. Well alright then, but I happen to know that some of those paintings come from Paris's Musee d'Orsay, where the recent policy is that no photos are permitted of ANY work there. So here I was, photographing paintings that, in their true homes, remain off-camera. Go figure.

I wont bore you with my enthusiasm. But I will sprinkle a few paintings from the exhibition throughout today's post. Just for fun.






I wake up to a pretty day. I know it is supposed to rain in the afternoon (and it does do that), but for now, the skies look promising. I can tell! Right outside my window!






Breakfast. You know I eat quite the un-nutritional breakfasts in Paris. It's just the way it is. A pain au chocolat or a croissant and coffee. If I feel I can splurge -- then I'll add an orange juice.  I do consider buying groceries for a breakfast in the apartment, but that's just no fun. I'd much rather people watch!

Luck has it that right next to my apartment building there is a splendid cafe with a fixed price breakfast menu which gets me a coffee, a croissant and a juice. It's heaven! Especially since I remind myself that it's December and that Madison (back home) is in the middle of an sleet and ice storm and in this particular cafe they have the heat lamps going strong and so I can luxuriously eat my breakfast outside on the porch. The reason for the red glow over the croissant? It's right under the heat lamp.






Time to go somewhere. Anywhere, just go.

Shopping. That really has to come first because if I don't pick up the holiday items on my list, I'll feel sad. And so I spend more than two hours in just one department store, which is a total photo white-out for you as I take no pictures there at all. (Though here's one on the walk over -- with the Montparnasse tower in full view. It's the last skyscraper to have gone up in central Paris. People wizened up after it.)






Oh, I did want to add that if I got a dime for every woman in a fancy hat that I saw today, I would more than cover the cost of this trip. (Maybe.)











And then I am done shopping and it's time for lunch.

That is, if I'm to eat lunch. I could just eat bread and cheese at home but it is always more expensive to eat dinners out and so of the two, I choose lunch at a cafe. And bread and cheese later, at home.

I go to my favorite cafe in this whole complicated food-wise city. There's too much pressure to do food well here. There are phenomenal places and there are the usual indifferent places and you don't want to be so unlucky as to hit all the indifferent ones. So it requires work. If you don't do research (and I don't, because people are all over the place with their opinions about Paris), you can go by the crowdedness factor (unreliable in this city), or you can just keep going back to places that treated you well in the past. I choose the latter.






The Cafe Varenne is crowded and spirited and if ever you go there when you are in Paris, I promise you, you will have the best waiters, wishing you good cheer no matter who you are. I have gone there pretty much every time I am in this city and it is always like this.






And so I eat my big meal now. Broccoli soup that is the best broccoli soup ever, a piece of veal smothered in mushroom sauce. And for dessert, I ask for their most special lemon tart.
















Ten years ago, I would get a whole dinner in Paris for what I spend now on lunch. The prices are climbing and though it's not New York or London yet, it's gettin' there.

I walk home and it's raining a little. I put away the camera.

And now comes a frustrating pause where I go back to the apartment and notice that the WiFi isn't working. I do eventually track down the owners and I learn how to reboot it and it's fine now, but it took a chunk of time and poor Ed had to listen to me howl afterwards. I really am dependent on WiFi when I travel. It's far too lonely for me to be without it.






And this is when I set out for the Luxembourg Gardens. I go to the park before I go to the museum. (For one thing, the park closes at 4:30 in the winter months). Mostly, I need to pick up my calmness there.






A morning of shopping and an afternoon of WiFi troubles is enough to make me twitch. A stroll through this most wonderful park will always have me smiling again. Always.


















And now I'm at the museum. This is where it doesn't matter that the days end early now. An evening glow of outdoor lamps makes the visit to an exposition all the more special. As if you're playing grown up and are doing something so extremely decadent and mature as going to look at art at night. I even put on lipstick for the occasion.

The evening rolls to a close for me. I go to two stores - the grocer and the baker. I need to add cheese and an endive to my salads back home. And of course, bread...


 



...and pastry. From this tray, which one do you think I picked?






Maybe that's too easy. And if the perceptive reader noticed that it's my second pastry today -- well now, that's right. And yes, I know that I wrote once that I no longer have a pastry craving when in Paris. It's cool how our moods and desires can change, isn't it?






Here's my supper plate tonight. Yes, of course: I like pistachios, I like raspberries and I like meringue. Together, they create this pastry:






It's time to retire for the day. I'm enough sleepy that I will doze off on the couch if I don't watch it. Until tomorrow then!

misty thoughts

The fog rolled in with the first morning light and hid the Chateau from view.





My immediate thought is -- wouldn't the park, fanning out from behind the Chateau be beautiful on such a morning?

But first, breakfast.






And, too, the market. In Fontainebleau, Sunday is the big market day and the stalls went up overnight right next to my hotel. I walk through it, noting that our collective breath is leaving puffs of mist in the cold air.



(bundled)





(do you see his steamy breath?)





(winter produce)





(always the greeting)



I want to detour to the park now, while the fog is thick enough to hide anything that is jarring or excessive.






And though I haven't much time, I pause again and again to take in the sheer beauty of this majestic landscape.









(can your eyes see through the mist?)









But the clock moves forward. I want to catch the 11:30 to Paris, so that I can have my big meal of the day there, in the narrow window the French allow for eating. The books say it's a 45 minute hike to the station. Madame at the tourist office said it's a 45 minute hike. I'm thinking -- they're both wrong! I'm sportif! I studied the map and found the shortcut through the park. I can do it in 30!

I leave my sweet and very proper little hotel, I turn my back to the town of Fontainebleau...


 


... and I wheel the suitcase, clattering on the cobbled stones of the Chateau courtyard, all the way to the back and to the park that stretches almost to the train station.

The fog is lifting now and I pause for the occasional photo.






Wouldn't you?









(like a Seurat canvas)



The park is stunning here, in this section! How can a bare forest be this beautiful?






But I walk briskly. And  glance at my phone clock. I'm no fool! But what good is a glance at the time? It is what it is. (For future reference, the "shortcut"  through the park is also 45 minutes.)

Finally, I arrive at the station and like a bullet, do the ticket purchase and come out to the platform, just as the train pulls in. Hey, it was one minute early! Not fair!

[In any case, the drama is missing today. Had I been late for the train, I simply would have had to wait two hours for the next one and forgo my lunch in Paris. The rail strike ended this morning. The trains are on schedule, or in my case ahead of schedule.]



(train station in Fontainebleau)


And now I'm ready for Paris.



(train station in Paris)


Ask me now what I want from the city this time and I'll mention three imperatives: two exhibitions that I really want to see and one holiday shopping moment that I want to experience. But truly, I'm not bound to an agenda. As surely Fontainebleau had shown me, royal history if viewed under proper circumstances can shake you to the core. As can a walk through a park. It all depends. Moods change with the season and for quirky reason we don't fully understand.

Alright. But today is Sunday and I do want my big meal. (You can tell: there are lots of families out and about.)


 


I wheel my suitcase all the way from the station -- the Gare de Lyon --  to the Left Bank neighborhood where I always stay -- that's a good hour's worth of wheeling! -- and I head for Le Procope Restaurant. Maybe you'll remember my writing here, on Ocean, a long time ago, when I was passing through Paris exhausted and flustered after an especially difficult December visit to Poland: I said then -- when you don't want to think about where to eat in Paris, just go to le Procope. And so I settle in to this reliably congenial and efficient place for this French main meal of this day.

I eat vegetable soup and coq au vin and it's good that I'm in Paris, because here, you'll always find the odd assortment of diners, whereas in the provinces most Sunday meals in restaurants are shared with family and so you can feel a bit lonely sitting there by yourself pretending that your own company is the very best thing imaginable, while everyone is in groups spanning the generations.

Not that le Procope lacked its family gatherings: these three adult siblings came together (with a partner and child of the woman) to celebrate their dad's something or other. I'm guessing birthday, but what do I know. Notable is the fact that the young boy (age about 9) really loved his snails and was a pro at fishing them out of their shells.






This was a larger familial gathering: ages varied from two upwards.





And then it's time for my 3pm appointment at the apartment that I'll be renting through AirBnB this week. I can't tell you whether these rentals are legal or not. Opinions vary. But I do know that finding a nice, affordable hotel room in Paris is getting to be harder each time I come here and this is the third time that a private rental has saved me from running from the city altogether.

The place isn't ready yet when I get there and so I leave my bags and go out to get some groceries. Not so lucky there: the two neighborhood stores are already closed. Ah well, must make do with the exquisite prepared foods at a bakery a couple of blocks from me: a few salads and a pastry will do for tonight. (Which pastry do you think I chose from this tray?)






And now I am back at the apartment -- on the 6th floor, with commanding views of the street below and of St Sulpice church in the background. I'm sure I'll photograph them plenty in the days to come. For now, I just want to post a few photos of the rooms. They're lovely and fresh and comfortable and honestly, it is by far the best accommodation I've had in Paris.
















I know the discussion rages about the future of AirBnB rentals (the claim is that they undermine the hotel industry). Honestly, I'm okay if the regulators impose some more stringent requirements and perhaps taxes (and inevitably prices will go up), but for now, they are gloriously inexpensive (or at least less expensive) and so here I am, pretending that I have my own little place in the city. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a pastry to consume.

Fontainebleau!

[fair disclosure: a very long post!]

In the early morning, it emerges - out of darkness, this place of French royalty. Again I have music in my head. All morning long. It seems so fitting! Listen along, if you want (Ton Koopman's J.S. Bach and the Magnificat).

Out my morning window:






Breakfast. Timing it so that I'm done by 9:30.






Cross the street and I am there.






Through the gates...






It turns out I'm not the first, but the second. The group before me is Russian and they want to inspect everything, so it's easy to pass them.






And to have the entire Fontainebleau Chateau to myself. (Are you playing the music?!)



(did the womenfolk sit and chat here?)



It is the only chateau to have been inhabited by all of France's kings -- from the 12th century until the 19th. Such magnificence! Really, such lavish opulence! No more words. Just look:
















(she slept here)






(his throne)






(he slept here)






(the chapel)



And the gardens -- always beautiful, I'm sure, but for me, winter is such a good match -- that somewhat somber complement to the seriousness of this whole enterprise!

































(the entirety)



And look how stunning their winter selection of blooms is (we couldn't do this in Wisconsin, but here, these will survive even a stiff frost):






That's my morning.

At noon, I have an appointment at "La Petite Reine." I walk briskly...


 


...past tempting shops (they are serious about their pastries here!)...






...to the little store where there is a velo (a bike) waiting for me. I'm renting a bike: it's the only way I can imagine seeing the Fontainebleau Forest -- such a vast place, with so many trails!

Madame smiles when I sheepishly ask for a helmet. I'm sure she's thinking -- these Americans! They want to protect themselves from everything! (I do not bother saying that I crashed some ten years ago and the helmet saved my head.)

It's a mountain bike and I'm a bit surprised at that. The terrain here is flat, no? Off I go! I have a destination -- through the woods and into the next village -- Barbizon. Have you heard of it? It was once a hot spot for painters: the preimpressionists lived and painted there ("the Barbizon School") and the Impressionist giants came to visit as well.

It's cool outside, but not too bad. Maybe low forties. I do miss my gloves, but otherwise, pedaling is a good way to forget about winter. And just as promised, there is an occasional wisp of blue sky. The rains stayed mainly on the southern plains!

Forest photos. Of course.






The path to Barbizon is supposed to be easy and not too long -- maybe half a dozen miles.

I lose it instantly. I don't know why. It's their fault!

I'm huffing on sandy terrain that seems pretty steep to me. I almost have to get off and push.

But after several turns and guesses, eventually I hit gold -- a nicely paved path and one that miraculously leads in the direction of the painters' village.

No, this landscape is not flat. Not at all! Take a look:





So beautiful!






On a good trail, it's manageable, even for me. (On one incline, I pass some hikers and as I puff my way to the top, they shout out the familiar encouragement here -- courage! courage! It reminds me of the days Ed and I biked through Provence many years back. Courage! Allez, allez! Go!) 






Finally in Barbizon.





I locate the place where I want to pause for a late lunch -- La Creperie Barjole.

I eat in the overflow outdoor space, but it's shielded and well heated. The French share my feelings about heat and AC: in the winter, their spaces are warm, in the summer, they are never over-cooled.

I order a galette (a savory buckwheat crepe) with cheese, tomato and an egg and it is just exactly what I need.






At the table across from me, madame and monsieur finish a somewhat more copious lunch, one likely to be their main meal. They are from these parts and they watch me with mild amusement because I am so enthusiastic about everything that is brought to my table. (I am just really happy that I found my way here in the end.) As they finish their last cheese course, monsieur leans back and starts humming. And then the hum becomes a song and madame joins in, recalling some melody that they shared.






He smiles, I smile, she smiles. And then, oddly, he hums "Tom Dooley." I comment -- une chanson Americane. He admits it. I sing along. And so here we are in Barbizon, eating lunch and singing an Appalachian ballad. He asks me about the lyrics but before I struggle to recall them all, she reminds him that they can find it on the Internet later.

I finish a dessert crepe -- with a favorite combination of mine: honey and lemon.

And then their grown daughter (I'm guessing here) shows up and they fuss over her and I finish my noisette (macchiato in America) and get back to the task of returning to Fontainebleau.

The sun peaks out with greater certainty now and I am sure I will get to town before dusk.






Which is a good thing.






In Fontainebleau again, where there is a weekend, preholiday buzz in the air.






Evening.

Let's talk about some contrasts. But before we go there, let's get in the mood. I walk toward the center of town. My hotel proprietors suggested two places for dinner -- informal ones (you only have to look at me to know that's what I want). I want to check the menus. Oh, wait! A store is open! With delicacies! Let me look inside.

Would madame like a glass of champagne? Say what? Have I stumbled upon some opening night of something? No? Well then sure!

I must now make a purchase. No problem! These!






I walk out, continuing my search for the two eateries. One them should be right here. Hmmm...

[insert title: know when to make a joke:]

Excuse me Monsieur, do you know where I can find the Hotel Napoleon? There's a restaurant right next to it...
Yes, of course. But... do you have a car?
(worried) No....
Good! It's 20 meters up the street!

[..and when not to make a joke:]

Settling in with the menu now at the Grand Cafe. The proprietor comes over. Do you know what you want?
Is your homemade foie gras good?
(boom!) Madame. It is not. (pause. sigh.) If you want, you can get some cheese and crackers next door. Here, we cook.

I order the foie gras and scallops, each prepared perfectly.

And now -- would you like to return to a very controversial Ocean topic, from way back in... October? Okay! Let's talk about French children and food!

Enter a family. Two young kids and parents. Locals. They didn't dress up. The little girl (maybe 9 yrs old) is in a pink sweat shirt that says New York City Gym. New York (and variants thereof ) is the most popular shirt logo in Europe. Everything is New York this and New York that.

The kids don't even sit down. they go straight to the bathroom to wash their hands. They know the drill.

The proprietor, the same one who would not stoop low enough to address my questioning of his foie gras asks the little girl if she will be drinking wine. She smiles daintily and says no. He asks -- sure? She smiles again and shakes her head. He whisks her wine glass away.

The whole family (the boy is maybe 6) is preoccupied with the menu. The dad teaches the boy to read a word. They go back to menu studying. They order.

So what do you think? The kids picked the frogs legs? The grilled endive? The veal kidney? No! They chose hamburgers and french fries! We have so corrupted the French palate! Oh, but wait! Did I tell you about the table with the beautiful young women?






Three out of four also chose hamburgers and French fires!





It's the food of the young. None of the "past 30" crowd around me is ordering hamburgers and fries.

And speaking of the juxtaposition between young and not young -- here's an older mother and adult son. They are not having fun. At all. Perhaps he told her he wont be home for lunch tomorrow and she is processing.






The  family with the two little kids joins pinkies and recites some funny words together before diving into the food. I like that! It's special! It's their own! It reminds each and everyone that they are together and that life, or at least the next half hour of life, surely is good.





And it is. It really is.

The full moon shines brightly over Fontainebleau tonight. I hope it does over you as well.