This is our last full day in Paris. Tomorrow we catch the overnight train to Barcelona.
Another glorious day here - we have been amazingly blessed by good weather.
It does occur to me, on reflecting on today, that we have perhaps been too eager to wring every last bit of history - and by that I mean (I guess) 'worthy' - moments on the trip. Today, however, was a rest day - a day when we 'don't do much' and that means we don't plan to see one of the big, destination things. But, in doing this, we might be missing something about the city. Oh well, perhaps the next time we visit.
Today, I was adament that I (at least) would visit the erstwhile residences of the Fitzgeralds, Stein and perhaps Hemingway (if feeling that much goodwill). I (re)found the website I had found and lost a few days ago that nominated some walks you could do to see all these places. The great thing about this is because I don't have my books with me, and I can't actually check, I might just be visiting whatever on the advice of whoever. But I chose to believe. It is easier that way. I also wanted to check out a bakery called Poilane that has been in the 6th arrondismont since 1932 and apparently has the best sour dough bread in the world. I discovered this on David Lebowitz's blog. I didn't know who he was until just recently and he waxed lyrical about this bread. And when I investigate further, I discovered that Salvador Dali was a fan and commissioned a whole bedroom made out of bread from Poilane. They obliged which made me like them even more. And as the bakery was close by to the Fitzgeralds and Stein, it seemed like destiny. With the gorgeous weather at our backs, we set off for the Luxembourg gardens. This was a rather lovely part of the city and the gardens were glorious. We firstly saw where the Fitzgeralds lived in 1928 - 58 rue Vaugirard and then onto Stein at 27 rue de Flerues.
It made me think about the 'empty' present and the 'full' past. I guess it has been on my mind since watching 'Midnight in Paris' on the plane, but Woody Allen (and I) are not the first to contemplate this in terms of Paris, and in terms of their own place in the cycle of history. MFK Fisher writes about Paris and how she felt sorry for anyone who hadn't seen Paris when she had in 1929 when Les Halles were still open (at least, I think that is what she laments. I'm not sure - I can't check. I hadn't realised how often I check things in books. I miss my library. Daily). When she calibrates this with her husband of the time - Dilwyn Parrish - he tells her that he feels sorry for anyone who didn't see Paris when he first did; with boots muddy from the Western Front in 1916 when there were still chestnut trees (somewhere, but where?). This is the mythical Paris, the one that isn't ever quite there - just floating in the past, beyond our reach. Perhaps this is the magic of Paris, that you don't ever quite land - you are looking around, trying to capture something. Fitzgerald wrote about this in Gatsby (though not about Paris) and then in a short story called 'Babylon Revisited' (is that right?) when he tries to explore the past through the geography of Paris. I have written before on this blog that Paris is haunted. But perhaps I mean this more - that Paris is elusive. I wanted to be where the Fitzgeralds once were, share something like the elements they once knew - the green of the gardens their apartment overlooked, the white shutters, the grey streets, the air. The bright light of winter. But it isn't what it is (if you see what I mean). It is more like some kind of moment of nostalgia that doesn't share anything. It is just me wishing on a building that they once spent some time in. Having said that, it did give me some peace. A building is a building is a building after all.
Paris is of course, nothing like the city is was in the twenties, predominantly because it is not longer a cheap option for those seeking a place to live and create. You have to be wealthy (or at least have a decent paying job) to live here, and you have to be seriously wealthy to write here - to sit in cafes hour upon hour in the hope of hitting the right sentence, or to walk the streets for inspiration, or even to drink with other writers. This is not that city now - the economics of it are all changed. Hemingway writes about Paris in his last book - 'A Moveable Feast' - where he claims if you see Paris as a young man (he was all about men), it stays with you for the rest of your life. Perhaps that's right; I'm not a young man so I don't know. But what might have actually stayed with him was the opportunity to be in a city with just enough money to spend your days and nights contemplating creating. And have the good fortune to share that with others at the time. I want to share with the Fitzgeralds, but they are not of my time. I need to move through time like Allen's hero, or wade into my own time with good grace and enough respect for the past to appreciate what I might have the luck to discover.
Stein's place when I saw that was more grounded for me. The door is glass and you can see through to the garden. I think I remember this from her writings and the biographies; that they had a garden and a kind of atelier outside where Stein could work. There was a plaque too for her, which made it all the more concrete. When we took photos of this place, people stopped to allow us to do so. They must be used to it.
The other thing about these few moments this morning is how ordinary the neighbourhood is - how they must have sallied out daily for bread, how life is just what it is - not fireworks or explosions or great moments of epiphany.
Off we went to visit the bakery, this quite real and of the moment bakery called Poilane. We found rue du Cherche-Midi pretty readily and walked up to number 6. This was a lovely little street with shops and apartments. Number 6 has biscuits hanging in the window, and tourists all over it taking photos. In we went and bought half a loaf of sour dough (they bake huge loafs and you buy it by the kilo). I also bought some Christmas biscuits cut into the shapes of stars and hearts. If this were my local bakery, I might be happy for ever. Perhaps I could learn how they make their bread and open a branch in Melbourne.
We wandered back to the gardens. I wish I had found this shopping area earlier. I found a great shoe shop with the perfect shoes at good prices. I will return tomorrow.
The gardens are just what you want in a busy city - enough bird life to keep you company and some terrifically comfortable chairs to sit on in the sunshine. Myles fell asleep.
When we got home, I ate most of the bread. It really is THAT good.
The afternoon we whiled away on the joys of washing at the laundrette. But clean clothes are important ...
This evening, Myles and I went off to have a drink in a local cafe (not 'The Local' downstairs). We ended up in a little square up the road, drinking exotic cocktails because it was happy hour and everything was five euros. And there, without the ever present horror of the traffic, and with Christmas lights mesmerising us, and local people walking to and fro, buying bread or stopping for a beer, it was a moment - a little embedded, quiet piece of time that was right now. I didn't write a novel, or find the perfect sentence (the one that didn't leak according to Stein - she like the Great Gatsby for this reason, and both her and Alice loved the dedication: 'Once again, for Zelda'). But I did have a campari on a mild clear night in winter in Paris and was happy. There might have even been chestnut trees; I can't be sure.
I'm blowing kisses to the past that has been a guiding light for so long; achingly long.
No photos today; the camera sighed and quietly gave way. We are hoping it is a battery thing.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Paris, day seven
I woke and was 44 years old. Well, that's that. But I was in Paris and that was something. The sky was blue and we were off to Versailles. The stuff we bought in our shopping expedition last night was wrapped and given to me with a lovely card written on by all members of the family. Very sweet.
We went for pain au chocolat and then caught the train to Versailles. The kids are kind of over seeing large palaces, but too bad. This one could not be missed. I was keen to see the marble sign that notes the beginning of the Estates General but the lovely woman from whom we bought tickets to the palace did not know what I was talking about. Oh well.
Versailles is very gold - gold on the gates and gold on the palace. You'd have to like gold if you were indeed (un)lucky enough to be monarch. Marie Antoinette was apparently the only queen to have spent any time redecorating the palace ('in her style' according to the information sheets). So we stumbled around with bus loads of other tourists, all with audio tours clamped to the sides of their heads. Not us. I don't mind an audio tour personally, but it kind of makes you a little blank too, and there were whole swathes of people flicking their heads from side to side to locate the structure or painting the audio tour was describing. I see could see us being drawn into this world and losing our kids in the process. So we went sans audio tour, and relied on our map and the english signs dotted about the place. I liked that the King's Bedroom was more or less right off the Hall of Mirrors. We saw the Queen's Bedroom from where Marie Antoinette escaped from the angry women in October 1789 - through the left door and into the King's Bedroom. Not sure why they couldn't find that - but there you go. History tells us that the fishwives (which they were, by and large) then shreded her bed. No evidence of that now. It was perfectly made up and looked rather comfortable too. Versailles made Myles a little panicked. He worried that if he were the King, he might get lost. Yes, well.
Huge as palaces tend to be, we spent about an hour looking at palatial room upon palatial room until we were fairly cured of luxury and finery. You can see how the royals might get this way early on in the peace.
Into the gardens we went. Gone was the blue sky; we were now deep in grey cloud and misty rain. Paris was under dressed (being completely blindsighted by the blue sky) and I wondered if there was gift shop for velvet cloaks. Alas no.
The gardens are incredibly, miles apparently of formal gardens and lakes and then forests and hunting grounds. Louis XVI didn't mind a hunt. Indeed, the day the Bastille fell, his diary recorded the word: 'Nothing'. This referred not to the events in Paris (which he cared little for) but for the daily hunt - he had caught nothing on July 14 1789. History judges him harshly for this. It probably should. Poor Louis. Not the sharpest tool, but a tool none the less.
I was keen to go to the Petit Trianon; the mini palace where Marie Antoinette like to escape from the stuffy protocol of Versailles, and where she built her little fantasy of a village and a farm.
The Petit Trianon is tiny compared to Versailles but in reality is a huge country house. Inside it has become something of a shrine to Marie Antoinette. There are portraits of her everywhere; and her china is preserved with great love. There is a real sentimentality to the relics of her life. I can see why; the story is full of excessive details like the Petit Trianon and her hair styles and it all ends very badly for her. But for the most part, Marie Antoinette had a pretty good life. The last year wasn't great, and the last two months were particularly bad, but I would have lived her life any day of the week compared to the lives of most of her subjects. Anyway, I digress.
The village is a little Disney worthy imaginarium of what a village might be like. Everything is in miniature; except the fish in the moat which are huge and you could practically ride. Then you walk past a miniature vineyard, and into her fantasy farm. There is a barn, and little farm houses and tiny paddocks with lovely little animals. The animals are clearly new - and the whole thing was restored in 1993 by those who hold this memory dear. I'm not being completely cynical but it is all rather over the top. We lost the boys in the park, they had run off to play some game, so when we found them, we walked back via a different route. We then found the restoration (not yet completed and therefore not yet open) of Marie Antoinette's music room and grotto on another man-made lake. She didn't want for much.
By this stage we had been walking for some time - about three hours - and we were a little peckish. Had we been royal, we could have called for a chicken or two to be brought to us. But, sadly, we are only poor, ordinary people and had to make our way back into the town. This took us another 40 minutes or so. The grounds are huge. Some rather clever types had hired golf carts to convey themselves around. We walked, and we began to get very wet as the misty rain got more serious. When we made it back to the train station, we fell into McDonalds and ate a Royal with Cheese. It was appalling. Not only because McDonalds is appalling, but also because there was some kind of mustard that was most unwelcome. It was after 4pm. We got back onto the train and made it back to the apartment just after five. The kids and Myles then went out for birthday cake. They brought it in triumphantly with balloons and candles. It was so rich, I think it might have ruptured an organ in or around my stomach.
Then, for fun, we youtubed University Challenge and became rather addicted. I don't know if anyone knows this show, but it is worth seeing. Completely abstruse questions with little or no chance of possible answers, and yet these boffins from various English universities can produce them. It is so funny.
It might be a rest day tomorrow. We are all rather footsore and a little tired.
We went for pain au chocolat and then caught the train to Versailles. The kids are kind of over seeing large palaces, but too bad. This one could not be missed. I was keen to see the marble sign that notes the beginning of the Estates General but the lovely woman from whom we bought tickets to the palace did not know what I was talking about. Oh well.
Versailles is very gold - gold on the gates and gold on the palace. You'd have to like gold if you were indeed (un)lucky enough to be monarch. Marie Antoinette was apparently the only queen to have spent any time redecorating the palace ('in her style' according to the information sheets). So we stumbled around with bus loads of other tourists, all with audio tours clamped to the sides of their heads. Not us. I don't mind an audio tour personally, but it kind of makes you a little blank too, and there were whole swathes of people flicking their heads from side to side to locate the structure or painting the audio tour was describing. I see could see us being drawn into this world and losing our kids in the process. So we went sans audio tour, and relied on our map and the english signs dotted about the place. I liked that the King's Bedroom was more or less right off the Hall of Mirrors. We saw the Queen's Bedroom from where Marie Antoinette escaped from the angry women in October 1789 - through the left door and into the King's Bedroom. Not sure why they couldn't find that - but there you go. History tells us that the fishwives (which they were, by and large) then shreded her bed. No evidence of that now. It was perfectly made up and looked rather comfortable too. Versailles made Myles a little panicked. He worried that if he were the King, he might get lost. Yes, well.
Huge as palaces tend to be, we spent about an hour looking at palatial room upon palatial room until we were fairly cured of luxury and finery. You can see how the royals might get this way early on in the peace.
Into the gardens we went. Gone was the blue sky; we were now deep in grey cloud and misty rain. Paris was under dressed (being completely blindsighted by the blue sky) and I wondered if there was gift shop for velvet cloaks. Alas no.
The gardens are incredibly, miles apparently of formal gardens and lakes and then forests and hunting grounds. Louis XVI didn't mind a hunt. Indeed, the day the Bastille fell, his diary recorded the word: 'Nothing'. This referred not to the events in Paris (which he cared little for) but for the daily hunt - he had caught nothing on July 14 1789. History judges him harshly for this. It probably should. Poor Louis. Not the sharpest tool, but a tool none the less.
I was keen to go to the Petit Trianon; the mini palace where Marie Antoinette like to escape from the stuffy protocol of Versailles, and where she built her little fantasy of a village and a farm.
The Petit Trianon is tiny compared to Versailles but in reality is a huge country house. Inside it has become something of a shrine to Marie Antoinette. There are portraits of her everywhere; and her china is preserved with great love. There is a real sentimentality to the relics of her life. I can see why; the story is full of excessive details like the Petit Trianon and her hair styles and it all ends very badly for her. But for the most part, Marie Antoinette had a pretty good life. The last year wasn't great, and the last two months were particularly bad, but I would have lived her life any day of the week compared to the lives of most of her subjects. Anyway, I digress.
The village is a little Disney worthy imaginarium of what a village might be like. Everything is in miniature; except the fish in the moat which are huge and you could practically ride. Then you walk past a miniature vineyard, and into her fantasy farm. There is a barn, and little farm houses and tiny paddocks with lovely little animals. The animals are clearly new - and the whole thing was restored in 1993 by those who hold this memory dear. I'm not being completely cynical but it is all rather over the top. We lost the boys in the park, they had run off to play some game, so when we found them, we walked back via a different route. We then found the restoration (not yet completed and therefore not yet open) of Marie Antoinette's music room and grotto on another man-made lake. She didn't want for much.
By this stage we had been walking for some time - about three hours - and we were a little peckish. Had we been royal, we could have called for a chicken or two to be brought to us. But, sadly, we are only poor, ordinary people and had to make our way back into the town. This took us another 40 minutes or so. The grounds are huge. Some rather clever types had hired golf carts to convey themselves around. We walked, and we began to get very wet as the misty rain got more serious. When we made it back to the train station, we fell into McDonalds and ate a Royal with Cheese. It was appalling. Not only because McDonalds is appalling, but also because there was some kind of mustard that was most unwelcome. It was after 4pm. We got back onto the train and made it back to the apartment just after five. The kids and Myles then went out for birthday cake. They brought it in triumphantly with balloons and candles. It was so rich, I think it might have ruptured an organ in or around my stomach.
Then, for fun, we youtubed University Challenge and became rather addicted. I don't know if anyone knows this show, but it is worth seeing. Completely abstruse questions with little or no chance of possible answers, and yet these boffins from various English universities can produce them. It is so funny.
It might be a rest day tomorrow. We are all rather footsore and a little tired.
Paris, day six
Bright, bright blue out the window; it was ten o'clock by the watch. What is happening? It was a day to see Montparnasse, the catacombs and the Conciergerie (and possibly some shopping later). But things didn't quite go the plan. We didn't leave the apartment until 11am so the jam packed day was looking decidedly shaky. The website I had found that told me all about the addresses of Stein, Fitzgeralds and so on had disappeared and I couldn't locate it. So we abandoned that part of the tour (with some bitter tears from me), and went to the catacombs. I don't know it it was because it was Saturday, but the line for the catacombs stretched around the block. I don't want to see dead people THAT much, so we turned tail and headed for the Conciergerie. Enough dead people there, frankly.
This building was the kind of watch house for the palace until it was turned into a prison. It was used as a prison by the Ancien Regime (the Bastille was not there only Paris prison) but its most famous incarnation was as court room and prison during the Revolution, particuarly during the Terror. Now I know I have complained about the silence that Paris maintains on the revolution, but this was great. If I were going to advise anyone on Paris and the revolution, I would definitely suggest a visit here. There were a whole number of recreated cells demonstrating the various levels of comfort you might be entitled to depending on your wealth and fame. Then there was a whole part of the upstairs that took you though the revolution and the Terror - finally, the stories were all there. Myles and Paris got right into it - Zelda and Niccolo not so much. I somehow missed the actual blade of the guillotine (with someone's blood on it - when I questioned Myles and Paris, they couldn't remember the name - groan), but photographed all manner of other things - letters and busts and whatnot. Then we went downstairs into the Girondin's chapel. This was the very room where the condemned Girondin deputies drank and ate their last before going to the blade singing the Marseillaise. One of my heroes, Vergniaud, was there drinking with them, after offering the Convention a glass of blood to slake their thirsts. He was some kind of guy. It is amazing to stand in the same room as these kinds of moments - you strain your ear for some kind of echo - listen! can you hear them? No, that is just the American tourist asking the way to the toilet. Through the door to the left is Marie Antoinette's chapel. This has been restored and does not in any way resemble her prison cell. But still, there she was, for two months. Waiting her trial and execution (as she must have known would be the outcome). Through a tiny door you go, and into the courtyard. Here the women wandered in daylight hours and washed their clothes. But here too the condemned waited, in groups of twelve, to get into the tumbril and face the guillotine. So, here stood Barnave, Manon Roland and (for me, the saddest) Camille Desmoulin.
Through another door was the recreation of Marie Antoinette's cell (they like Marie in this museum; she was friendless here two and a half centuries ago). Then we were released. In the general space, there was a very strange exhibition of animals. It was really interesting and great - a knitted giraffe for example - but there was an owl suspended in flight in the middle of hundreds of strands of fishing wire that held stones or what looked like those fairy wishes that blow in the wind. The effect was incredible. Paris asked for the camera to take photos (I think the first impulse he has had to this point).
We were hungry and so we ate at a little bistro. Then we went shopping. It was no better than the first time - can anyone truly enjoy such an experience. There were about six million people milling and the shops were like saunas. I was looking for a present for myself and the family would not let me leave until this had been done. At least, in a very unlikely looking shop, I found some great shoes. Hooray! not only because I had a present, but because we could get the hell out of there and go home. The prices in the department stores were beyond belief (40 euros for stockings!! - and that was a cheap pair). Golden ropes holding the plebs out of the Louis Vuitton shop - hmmm, they might see another revolution yet.
Our TV at the apartment no longer works. So Myles and the kids watched a documentary on Napoleon on youtube and I re-read Wuthering Heights. It was a Saturday night.
Today was my farewell 43 - I will never be 43 again. Well, it has been a privilege really. Poor Marie Antoinette didn't make it past 39. I suspect you have to embrace age. But we live so long we start to resent it. It is true, you begin to look like crap. But what about the joy of the brain that can see both ways - east and west, back and forth, past, present and future. This is good, great, important.
This building was the kind of watch house for the palace until it was turned into a prison. It was used as a prison by the Ancien Regime (the Bastille was not there only Paris prison) but its most famous incarnation was as court room and prison during the Revolution, particuarly during the Terror. Now I know I have complained about the silence that Paris maintains on the revolution, but this was great. If I were going to advise anyone on Paris and the revolution, I would definitely suggest a visit here. There were a whole number of recreated cells demonstrating the various levels of comfort you might be entitled to depending on your wealth and fame. Then there was a whole part of the upstairs that took you though the revolution and the Terror - finally, the stories were all there. Myles and Paris got right into it - Zelda and Niccolo not so much. I somehow missed the actual blade of the guillotine (with someone's blood on it - when I questioned Myles and Paris, they couldn't remember the name - groan), but photographed all manner of other things - letters and busts and whatnot. Then we went downstairs into the Girondin's chapel. This was the very room where the condemned Girondin deputies drank and ate their last before going to the blade singing the Marseillaise. One of my heroes, Vergniaud, was there drinking with them, after offering the Convention a glass of blood to slake their thirsts. He was some kind of guy. It is amazing to stand in the same room as these kinds of moments - you strain your ear for some kind of echo - listen! can you hear them? No, that is just the American tourist asking the way to the toilet. Through the door to the left is Marie Antoinette's chapel. This has been restored and does not in any way resemble her prison cell. But still, there she was, for two months. Waiting her trial and execution (as she must have known would be the outcome). Through a tiny door you go, and into the courtyard. Here the women wandered in daylight hours and washed their clothes. But here too the condemned waited, in groups of twelve, to get into the tumbril and face the guillotine. So, here stood Barnave, Manon Roland and (for me, the saddest) Camille Desmoulin.
Through another door was the recreation of Marie Antoinette's cell (they like Marie in this museum; she was friendless here two and a half centuries ago). Then we were released. In the general space, there was a very strange exhibition of animals. It was really interesting and great - a knitted giraffe for example - but there was an owl suspended in flight in the middle of hundreds of strands of fishing wire that held stones or what looked like those fairy wishes that blow in the wind. The effect was incredible. Paris asked for the camera to take photos (I think the first impulse he has had to this point).
We were hungry and so we ate at a little bistro. Then we went shopping. It was no better than the first time - can anyone truly enjoy such an experience. There were about six million people milling and the shops were like saunas. I was looking for a present for myself and the family would not let me leave until this had been done. At least, in a very unlikely looking shop, I found some great shoes. Hooray! not only because I had a present, but because we could get the hell out of there and go home. The prices in the department stores were beyond belief (40 euros for stockings!! - and that was a cheap pair). Golden ropes holding the plebs out of the Louis Vuitton shop - hmmm, they might see another revolution yet.
Our TV at the apartment no longer works. So Myles and the kids watched a documentary on Napoleon on youtube and I re-read Wuthering Heights. It was a Saturday night.
Today was my farewell 43 - I will never be 43 again. Well, it has been a privilege really. Poor Marie Antoinette didn't make it past 39. I suspect you have to embrace age. But we live so long we start to resent it. It is true, you begin to look like crap. But what about the joy of the brain that can see both ways - east and west, back and forth, past, present and future. This is good, great, important.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Paris, day five
Day five already? Really? We have been on the road now for a month. It is an amazing feeling; cut loose from most of the anchors of life with the exception of 'us' (that is; the five of us).
Today we were going to return to the Louvre triumphant, ticket aloft, doors open to welcome us. We even woke up the kids with pain au chocolat early to make them get up and come early. Regardless, we didn't get going until late - 10amish.
Off we went to the Louve via the Metro and entered the Louvre not through the pyramid, but through the underground mall. The Louvre is odd - long lines to buy ticket and to go through security and then almost no one actually checks your ticket. We speculated that perhaps you could just buy and ticket one day and go for the rest of your life. But perhaps the system is just more sophisticated than what is immediately obvious to the eye.
Niccolo had decided very early on that he wanted to see the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo. So, it turns out, did ever other visitor. We found ourselves riding a wave of eager tourists rushing, rushing, rushing to Salle 6 and the mythical ML. We stood in front of her. We looked from angles. We took photos (without a flash of course). And then Niccolo said: 'Why is this the most famous painting in the world?' We shrugged. 'Cause it's beautiful', I said lamely. But I did think that it might be worthwhile writing a kid's book called 'Why is the Mona Lisa the most famous painting in the world?' and provide at least an explanation of this history. Not that I know it. But perhaps the Mona Google does.
We wandered through the Renaissance with lots of saints (that is, on the walls) and God. We all liked the Archiboldo ones. Then it was off to the Venus de Milo. Niccolo didn't query why this one was famous. The rest of us did. She is rather lovely, but there are other lovely marble limbs about (Myles' joke of the day: 'I did find her rather disarming'). Then we walked through the other halls of antiquity, and finally found ourselves in the Medieval Louvre which turns out not to be art, but the sub basement of the original palace. Dig a little here and you have a ready made museum. Our land lady from Normandy said that standard French real estate contracts includes something about anything found in the ground of any property you own belongs to the French government. No fool them.
The kids were running out of steam. It was incredibly hot and there are only so many dead saints to look at. So to fuel and to post letters back to classmates. We fuelled and then returned to the second floor to look at eighteenth and nineteenth century French paintings. We liked the dogs. There was a great deal of still life with dead animals. There is also a lot of fat, pink babies flying around in blue skies. Altogether, it was making me feel a little ill. It was time to leave. Museums are difficult places we have found.
We returned home. We had all be afflicted by some terrible sleepy disease and found we needed an afternoon nap. Which we had. But more than a nap; I think I might have slept for two hours. I felt fantastic when I woke. If only we could sleep as we needed. We would feel so much better. There is a best seller in that; I can tell you.
It was Treat Friday, so we had to get out and 'have' it. So we left as it began to get dark and set off for the Christmas markets at the Champs Elysees. It was all lit up with acres of little wooden huts full of Christmas cheer in the form of food, drink and stuff. The kids began with spanish donuts. Then, the bit that we all dread. We turned for seconds to look at a stall, turned back and there Niccolo wasn't.
Imagine this: we speak little of the language, we didn't have a working mobile phone, it was dark. The only police we could see were carrying submachine guns. Myles went in one direction; I walked in the other shrilling his name into the night. But Paris and Zelda knew what they were doing. As soon as they realised that this might be serious, Paris just ran full pelt in the direction we had been travelling and found him in a few, long, long seconds. Luckily, he still thinks like an eight year old. Niccolo was crying inconsolably; it was amazing that no one had stopped to help him. I had had my adrenalin rush for the day; I didn't need to go on the ferris wheel. Niccolo held my hand in a vice-like way for the rest of the trip. You can't blame him.
Paris and I bought hats (we both wore them immediately knowing the problems with carrying hats and the occupational hazard of loss). We ate more food, excellent sausages and bread, snowballs, and chocolate. I had some vin chard (mulled wine). Then suddenly, to the strains of Bing Crosby, Santa flew over our heads in his sleigh, calling out to all the little children. My kids were a bit ho hum about the whole sight. Then, Niccolo bought a string of elephants with his tooth fairy money.
After two hours, we got back onto the Metro to go home. We were exhausted yet again. Perhaps we need a rest day. It won't happen for a while.
Today we were going to return to the Louvre triumphant, ticket aloft, doors open to welcome us. We even woke up the kids with pain au chocolat early to make them get up and come early. Regardless, we didn't get going until late - 10amish.
Off we went to the Louve via the Metro and entered the Louvre not through the pyramid, but through the underground mall. The Louvre is odd - long lines to buy ticket and to go through security and then almost no one actually checks your ticket. We speculated that perhaps you could just buy and ticket one day and go for the rest of your life. But perhaps the system is just more sophisticated than what is immediately obvious to the eye.
Niccolo had decided very early on that he wanted to see the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo. So, it turns out, did ever other visitor. We found ourselves riding a wave of eager tourists rushing, rushing, rushing to Salle 6 and the mythical ML. We stood in front of her. We looked from angles. We took photos (without a flash of course). And then Niccolo said: 'Why is this the most famous painting in the world?' We shrugged. 'Cause it's beautiful', I said lamely. But I did think that it might be worthwhile writing a kid's book called 'Why is the Mona Lisa the most famous painting in the world?' and provide at least an explanation of this history. Not that I know it. But perhaps the Mona Google does.
We wandered through the Renaissance with lots of saints (that is, on the walls) and God. We all liked the Archiboldo ones. Then it was off to the Venus de Milo. Niccolo didn't query why this one was famous. The rest of us did. She is rather lovely, but there are other lovely marble limbs about (Myles' joke of the day: 'I did find her rather disarming'). Then we walked through the other halls of antiquity, and finally found ourselves in the Medieval Louvre which turns out not to be art, but the sub basement of the original palace. Dig a little here and you have a ready made museum. Our land lady from Normandy said that standard French real estate contracts includes something about anything found in the ground of any property you own belongs to the French government. No fool them.
The kids were running out of steam. It was incredibly hot and there are only so many dead saints to look at. So to fuel and to post letters back to classmates. We fuelled and then returned to the second floor to look at eighteenth and nineteenth century French paintings. We liked the dogs. There was a great deal of still life with dead animals. There is also a lot of fat, pink babies flying around in blue skies. Altogether, it was making me feel a little ill. It was time to leave. Museums are difficult places we have found.
We returned home. We had all be afflicted by some terrible sleepy disease and found we needed an afternoon nap. Which we had. But more than a nap; I think I might have slept for two hours. I felt fantastic when I woke. If only we could sleep as we needed. We would feel so much better. There is a best seller in that; I can tell you.
It was Treat Friday, so we had to get out and 'have' it. So we left as it began to get dark and set off for the Christmas markets at the Champs Elysees. It was all lit up with acres of little wooden huts full of Christmas cheer in the form of food, drink and stuff. The kids began with spanish donuts. Then, the bit that we all dread. We turned for seconds to look at a stall, turned back and there Niccolo wasn't.
Imagine this: we speak little of the language, we didn't have a working mobile phone, it was dark. The only police we could see were carrying submachine guns. Myles went in one direction; I walked in the other shrilling his name into the night. But Paris and Zelda knew what they were doing. As soon as they realised that this might be serious, Paris just ran full pelt in the direction we had been travelling and found him in a few, long, long seconds. Luckily, he still thinks like an eight year old. Niccolo was crying inconsolably; it was amazing that no one had stopped to help him. I had had my adrenalin rush for the day; I didn't need to go on the ferris wheel. Niccolo held my hand in a vice-like way for the rest of the trip. You can't blame him.
Paris and I bought hats (we both wore them immediately knowing the problems with carrying hats and the occupational hazard of loss). We ate more food, excellent sausages and bread, snowballs, and chocolate. I had some vin chard (mulled wine). Then suddenly, to the strains of Bing Crosby, Santa flew over our heads in his sleigh, calling out to all the little children. My kids were a bit ho hum about the whole sight. Then, Niccolo bought a string of elephants with his tooth fairy money.
After two hours, we got back onto the Metro to go home. We were exhausted yet again. Perhaps we need a rest day. It won't happen for a while.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Paris, day four
It was time to visit Miss Stein. It is the rule; when in Paris, all aspiring writers must go and pay homage to Miss Stein and receive advice on their writing. I'm not so young, but still aspiring, so it was off to see Miss Stein. Gertrude and Alice didn't care much about what people wore (they gave Hadley Hemmingway advice about making her own clothes and cutting her own hair so that she and Ernest could save some money and put it to good use - towards his writing). I was, therefore, less concerned about what I wore and more about actually finding the grave.
The plan then was to go to Pere Lachaise and pay respects, and then head to the Bastille, and then go to the Musee Carnavalet (thanks Louise for your suggestion for this). It was a funny day weather wise, but not enough rain for there to be any real problems with this plan.
So to the Metro.
Today we headed to Stalingrad. This is genuinely a station on the Metro (on our line actually: line 7). Paris and Myles couldn't be more excited - it's the little things: ('When we get there, there will be not one step backwards,' Myles declared as we left the apartment. Yes, well ...). From there, we changed lines and headed for Pere Lachaise.
This is the biggest cemetary in Paris (Paris - that is, our son - likes to call cemetaries social clubs for dead people. You can see his point), and the most visited in the world. It was certainly busy when we arrived, with about twenty of us jostling for postitions in front of the sign that tells you where everyone is. Believe it or not, Stein is not on this official sign. We did notice that other guests had actual maps, and so we asked one group where they got their map. Apparently the local newsagent sells them. So off I hopped to the newsagent. 'Bon jour!' I said gaily. 'Map?' 'Ah yes,' said the newsagent man, 'map!' Stein was on this one.
However, there were other people I wanted to visit. I discovered that the Abbe Sieyes was buried here so he was someone I wanted to see and pay my respects. The Abbe Sieyes was a French revolutionary - he was a priest who was sympathetic to the cause of the Third Estate and wrote a very influential pamphlet called 'What is the Third Estate?'. More importantly, for someone so prominent so early in the Revolution, he made it through alive, and died in a more dignified (and elderly) manner in the early 19th century. Myles wanted to visit Jim Morrison, Marcel Proust and we all wanted to see Oscar Wilde. So that was the plan.
The Abbe Sieyes is in section 30 (for your reference) which is the section that abuts the hill. He has a little house and just his name - no dates, no accolades. I think that would have made him happy. And safe.
We then went to see Jim Morrison. So did about fifty other people. Silence as young people stood in awe of a small grave behind some others (and fenced off, so you can't get too close). I can't see it myself. Why (she asks, why when she herself is visiting other graves - the answer, surely, is in her own motivation. No?) is Jim Morrison such a touchstone for others? Anyway ...
It was Miss Stein next. But on the way, Zelda and I began to get interested in the number of graves that include some kind of dog motif. You might be surprised at the number (though it is Paris). We took photos of every one we could find (and we certainly didn't walk around the entire cemetary, so it is an incomplete record). Stein is in section 94, right at the back of the cemetary and right on the walkway. I said hello and smiled at her. Lots of other visitors had left stones and chestnuts and flowers for her. I didn't. A little known fact (or well known, for all I know) is that Alice is buried with Gertrude but instructed that her name be carved into the back of the tombstone (rather than under Stein's name on the front). So I went around the back and visited with Alice too. There were no cakes. Belatedly, I realised I should have bought one myself. And with no letter of introduction to either lady, there was no reading of my ms either. Sigh.
Off we went to see Oscar. He has a rather fabulous tombstone that is protected by glass and bears a sign in French and English warning off would-be defacers. He still raises the ire of many. God love him. Despite the defacing, I think he would like the attention. The only thing worse than being talked about ... and so on.
Then we saw Proust. This might seem like a weird one (it is, just quietly) as none of us have read him, and the closest I have ever been to Proust is eating a madeleine, but Myles and Paris very much like Little Miss Sunshine and Proust is intergral to the plot. So they posed with Proust.
It was time to go. Zelda and Niccolo were over the other members of their family talking to old graves. And we ran dry on the dog references.
Off to the Bastille. In a previous post, I waxed all kinds of lyrical about how the French people know how to preserve history and keep the faith through all kinds of tributes (I was referring to World War I in this case), but I do have to observe that they are rubbish when it comes to the French Revolution. The Bastille - the first moment the people of Paris really showed their power and strength, and the moment the Revolution really became one (and, not to mention, a national holiday) - has nothing to mark its passing except for the name of the square (Place de la Bastille) and a very busy roundabout. I thought (I might have read it somewhere) that there was a red line the marked out the foundations of the Bastille. I thought I did see a red line (under the wheels of many, many cars), but it looked completely round and that can't be right. It also looked small. I think it might have been some kind of traffic control. In the middle of the Place de la Bastille is a large monument celebrating the revolution of 1830. Weird no? I took some photos is a rather gloomy manner. Most of the photos feature a bus.
So we headed off for the Musee Carnavalet. Now here is a neighbourhood I can get into. This is in the Marais, and it is my kind of place. We wandered through the streets and ended up at the Place des Vosges which is where I will stay next time I'm this way bound. Very pretty.
The Musee Carnavalet is a free museum that charts the history of Paris. It's great; little models of Paris in the 16th century (it was just the island where Notre Dame is) and then through to the 20th century. This is a museum that does actually have a section on the revolution, though not really enough story telling (for my fussy tastes), but amazing artefacts. Cockades from the period, china, a revolutionary pike (whoo, hooo), busts of the main players, locks of hair, a death warrant for a counter-revolutionary, Robsepierre's briefcase. I'm a bit unwell around things like this and kept taking photos. The kids thought I was really strange.
Zelda liked a small bronze statue of a nude man with a dog, with his hand on his chin. She figured he was thinking: 'I have my dog, where are my clothes?' Paris liked the portrait of Louis XVI. Niccolo was more or less unmoved by the whole thing. He was worried about his masterpiece stick that he had found in Pere Lachaise and I had made him leave outside the museum.
When we left, it was lateish, perhaps 5pm. The kids were all wilted and barely able to speak. I wanted to look at hats in a hat shop, but they were speechless. So we sat them down at a little cafe in Place des Vosges (circa 1927, could the Fitzgeralds have eaten here???), and ordered hot chocolate. The cups came out; empty. I told the children that this was all we could afford. Empty but elegant cups of imaginary hot chocolate. And then the waiter came with a tray which was all silver pots and huge dishes of whipped cream. He poured and they got straighter as the cups filled. Then there was a slow but somehow frenzied drinking of chocolate and eating of whipped cream. It revived them to the point that we could return to the hat shop and I could buy a lovely little black hat with a rose on the side. Zelda bought skull earrings. So happy.
We sauntered back to the Metro, a swing in our step and much laughter.
Then I somehow lost my hat. Dang.
We had some hours of clothes washing ahead of us. The apartment was supposed to have a washer and dryer but, as luck would have it, not. So to the glamour of a Parisian laundromat. However, we now have clean clothes.
Paris cooked dinner (God bless him.). Niccolo lost a tooth (and many tears).
And on reflection, what I learned today was that, for this family, happiness is really only one good hot chocolate away.
Treat Friday tomorrow.
The plan then was to go to Pere Lachaise and pay respects, and then head to the Bastille, and then go to the Musee Carnavalet (thanks Louise for your suggestion for this). It was a funny day weather wise, but not enough rain for there to be any real problems with this plan.
So to the Metro.
Today we headed to Stalingrad. This is genuinely a station on the Metro (on our line actually: line 7). Paris and Myles couldn't be more excited - it's the little things: ('When we get there, there will be not one step backwards,' Myles declared as we left the apartment. Yes, well ...). From there, we changed lines and headed for Pere Lachaise.
This is the biggest cemetary in Paris (Paris - that is, our son - likes to call cemetaries social clubs for dead people. You can see his point), and the most visited in the world. It was certainly busy when we arrived, with about twenty of us jostling for postitions in front of the sign that tells you where everyone is. Believe it or not, Stein is not on this official sign. We did notice that other guests had actual maps, and so we asked one group where they got their map. Apparently the local newsagent sells them. So off I hopped to the newsagent. 'Bon jour!' I said gaily. 'Map?' 'Ah yes,' said the newsagent man, 'map!' Stein was on this one.
However, there were other people I wanted to visit. I discovered that the Abbe Sieyes was buried here so he was someone I wanted to see and pay my respects. The Abbe Sieyes was a French revolutionary - he was a priest who was sympathetic to the cause of the Third Estate and wrote a very influential pamphlet called 'What is the Third Estate?'. More importantly, for someone so prominent so early in the Revolution, he made it through alive, and died in a more dignified (and elderly) manner in the early 19th century. Myles wanted to visit Jim Morrison, Marcel Proust and we all wanted to see Oscar Wilde. So that was the plan.
The Abbe Sieyes is in section 30 (for your reference) which is the section that abuts the hill. He has a little house and just his name - no dates, no accolades. I think that would have made him happy. And safe.
We then went to see Jim Morrison. So did about fifty other people. Silence as young people stood in awe of a small grave behind some others (and fenced off, so you can't get too close). I can't see it myself. Why (she asks, why when she herself is visiting other graves - the answer, surely, is in her own motivation. No?) is Jim Morrison such a touchstone for others? Anyway ...
It was Miss Stein next. But on the way, Zelda and I began to get interested in the number of graves that include some kind of dog motif. You might be surprised at the number (though it is Paris). We took photos of every one we could find (and we certainly didn't walk around the entire cemetary, so it is an incomplete record). Stein is in section 94, right at the back of the cemetary and right on the walkway. I said hello and smiled at her. Lots of other visitors had left stones and chestnuts and flowers for her. I didn't. A little known fact (or well known, for all I know) is that Alice is buried with Gertrude but instructed that her name be carved into the back of the tombstone (rather than under Stein's name on the front). So I went around the back and visited with Alice too. There were no cakes. Belatedly, I realised I should have bought one myself. And with no letter of introduction to either lady, there was no reading of my ms either. Sigh.
Off we went to see Oscar. He has a rather fabulous tombstone that is protected by glass and bears a sign in French and English warning off would-be defacers. He still raises the ire of many. God love him. Despite the defacing, I think he would like the attention. The only thing worse than being talked about ... and so on.
Then we saw Proust. This might seem like a weird one (it is, just quietly) as none of us have read him, and the closest I have ever been to Proust is eating a madeleine, but Myles and Paris very much like Little Miss Sunshine and Proust is intergral to the plot. So they posed with Proust.
It was time to go. Zelda and Niccolo were over the other members of their family talking to old graves. And we ran dry on the dog references.
Off to the Bastille. In a previous post, I waxed all kinds of lyrical about how the French people know how to preserve history and keep the faith through all kinds of tributes (I was referring to World War I in this case), but I do have to observe that they are rubbish when it comes to the French Revolution. The Bastille - the first moment the people of Paris really showed their power and strength, and the moment the Revolution really became one (and, not to mention, a national holiday) - has nothing to mark its passing except for the name of the square (Place de la Bastille) and a very busy roundabout. I thought (I might have read it somewhere) that there was a red line the marked out the foundations of the Bastille. I thought I did see a red line (under the wheels of many, many cars), but it looked completely round and that can't be right. It also looked small. I think it might have been some kind of traffic control. In the middle of the Place de la Bastille is a large monument celebrating the revolution of 1830. Weird no? I took some photos is a rather gloomy manner. Most of the photos feature a bus.
So we headed off for the Musee Carnavalet. Now here is a neighbourhood I can get into. This is in the Marais, and it is my kind of place. We wandered through the streets and ended up at the Place des Vosges which is where I will stay next time I'm this way bound. Very pretty.
The Musee Carnavalet is a free museum that charts the history of Paris. It's great; little models of Paris in the 16th century (it was just the island where Notre Dame is) and then through to the 20th century. This is a museum that does actually have a section on the revolution, though not really enough story telling (for my fussy tastes), but amazing artefacts. Cockades from the period, china, a revolutionary pike (whoo, hooo), busts of the main players, locks of hair, a death warrant for a counter-revolutionary, Robsepierre's briefcase. I'm a bit unwell around things like this and kept taking photos. The kids thought I was really strange.
Zelda liked a small bronze statue of a nude man with a dog, with his hand on his chin. She figured he was thinking: 'I have my dog, where are my clothes?' Paris liked the portrait of Louis XVI. Niccolo was more or less unmoved by the whole thing. He was worried about his masterpiece stick that he had found in Pere Lachaise and I had made him leave outside the museum.
When we left, it was lateish, perhaps 5pm. The kids were all wilted and barely able to speak. I wanted to look at hats in a hat shop, but they were speechless. So we sat them down at a little cafe in Place des Vosges (circa 1927, could the Fitzgeralds have eaten here???), and ordered hot chocolate. The cups came out; empty. I told the children that this was all we could afford. Empty but elegant cups of imaginary hot chocolate. And then the waiter came with a tray which was all silver pots and huge dishes of whipped cream. He poured and they got straighter as the cups filled. Then there was a slow but somehow frenzied drinking of chocolate and eating of whipped cream. It revived them to the point that we could return to the hat shop and I could buy a lovely little black hat with a rose on the side. Zelda bought skull earrings. So happy.
We sauntered back to the Metro, a swing in our step and much laughter.
Then I somehow lost my hat. Dang.
We had some hours of clothes washing ahead of us. The apartment was supposed to have a washer and dryer but, as luck would have it, not. So to the glamour of a Parisian laundromat. However, we now have clean clothes.
Paris cooked dinner (God bless him.). Niccolo lost a tooth (and many tears).
And on reflection, what I learned today was that, for this family, happiness is really only one good hot chocolate away.
Treat Friday tomorrow.
Paris, day three
You may (or may not) be glad to learn that my bad mood of the last post has gone. It might have been a product of a bad day or that I was writing the blog at three in the morning (Paris time) because the neighbours think that door slamming is a late night sport or that our heating wasn't working and the apartment was arctic. Or it might be because Paris is a little haunted with figures and events from the past that I have somehow managed to make part of my present. It is a city with too many expectations for me - here was where many of my idols were inspired to write. Here is where MFK Fisher (despite my crabby post last time about her) starting really thinking about food, where F Scott Fitzgerald sat at Gertrude Stein's feet (I think she might have liked it), where Diagaliev staged many of the Ballet Russes triumphs and so on. As I say; haunted. Can one city have done so much to inspire so many? And what does it say about me if I can feel or see or be affected by that city? It was more panic than anything else.
So, to day three.
Another day when the wind and rain were supposed to prevail. Another day where it began with sunshine and cold air, but not much else. The market in Place Monge (our local square) was in full swing when we left the apartment. We wandered around and looked at the food. People eat well here, no mistake. We bought nothing. We were heading out. Today was the day for the Eiffel Tower. And we had learned out lessons of the day before and caught the Metro. Very smooth. I'm becoming the expert on finding the connections and tranfers. It is pretty amazing considering the map is drawn for a Lilliputian. And my eye sight is rubbish. But regardless, I seem to work it out.
Like driving into Paris - suddenly you are THERE - we got off the Metro and suddenly the Eiffel tower was THERE, rearing up before us, shockingly close. By now the wind had picked up; Niccolo was beginning to panic about going up the tower. We had to reassure him that is was not required. As it turned out, none of the boys wanted to go up the tower; they are all a little affected by the problem of vertigo. Zelda, however, was determined to go to the top. So we got in the line (surprisingly long for the cold of winter) mostly with other English speaking types and a whole lot of Italian lads. It all went very smoothly; then through the security and on to the lift. They jam you in the lift with little room and less air and then suddenly propel you up into the sky. I was getting a little leary at this point; Zelda was completely sanguine. We did discover that the summit was closed because of high winds, which she was a little disappointed by, but me ... I was good.
The Eiffel Tower is less a building and more a structure - it is like clinging to the sides of a sculpture more than walking around an actual building so once we got out of the lift - even at the moderate height of the second level, we were a bit overwhelmed by how high up we were, and how exposed we were. And we could see why the top was closed; the wind was practically ripping the clothes from our bodies. But once you adjusted, the view was amazing - the whole of Paris spread out like some kind of gorgerous carpet - flat as a landscape but roaring with architecture and green park land. We stayed up there for ages, kind of mesmerised by the view and how high up we were. Then we bought a tiny Eiffel Tower for our (at this stage mythical) Christmas tree and got in line to go down. Just as the lift was rising, there was an announcement that the summit was opened. To my considerable surprise, Zelda decided she didn't want to go up. I think she might have weighed up how far up we already were, and what that again might feel like (along with the wind). Also, we were hungry. And a bit cold.
At the bottom, we met up with Myles, Paris and Niccolo (right there; we didn't even have to turn our heads or wonder where they might be), and we all confirmed deep hunger. So we went to the nearest bistro - no doubt a notorious tourist haunt, but who cares. It was called the Cafe du Dome (I know this name, from where, who can say). It was staffed by a Parisian who managed the bar, took orders, told jokes, organised sauce and so on, while watching TV and having his own lunch. It was kind of like those guys at Pellegrinis who have been there for ever and do the work as if they have several arms. I had steak frites (what else?) and hamburgers are ruling the lives of the boys. Zelda ordered spaghetti (in Paris!). Myles had vegetable soup. It was warm and quick and prepared us for the next journey - up to the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees. But now the rain got serious. We sheltered for a while in the door of another museum and watched it pour. And then, the sun came out and we walked across town to the Arc de Triomphe. The weather changed again, and Niccolo decided that this time, he wanted to go to the top. But I wasn't game because the wind was insane and it was pouring. Next time, I told him. Even he didn't believe me. We paid our respects to the Unknown Soldier. ('I don't fancy being him,' Zelda said. 'You'd never get any sleep with all that traffic.') Indeed. Paris must have been a very different place without the crazy traffic. It is really nuts. We were wet and cold and a little cafe beckoned us. Actually, a little lady of a certain age beckoned us; we hesitated at the door and out she swept and pushed us in to a table. It was blissfully warm and the hot chocolate was perfect. She told Paris off for his hair (not just your mother, buddy), and took photos for us (see below). Then told us about the Christmas market at the end of the Champs Elysees and bid us on our way. As we left, I saw her on the second level, forking a cake into her mouth with some relish. Yes, I can see my own destiny.
The Christmas market was charming with great food, but we had a dinner date with our land lady (from the Normandy gatehouse) and her family, so we had to regretfully forgo any of the food (and good call too, because the dinner we ate was fantastic and huge and it would not have tolerated snacking before hand). The rain again. We caught the Metro back to the apartment (the heating was fixed! Hooray!) and had a little lie down. Then we dressed again and went to dinner.
It was four courses, all delicious and was great fun. Completely lovely family who fed us up until veal stew was dripping from our eyes and ears and then send us into the Paris night with all good cheer.
Record time back to the apartment. It was half past ten at night and still the trains come every six minutes. And it was very busy with people too. I guess if it works, people will come.
So, to day three.
Another day when the wind and rain were supposed to prevail. Another day where it began with sunshine and cold air, but not much else. The market in Place Monge (our local square) was in full swing when we left the apartment. We wandered around and looked at the food. People eat well here, no mistake. We bought nothing. We were heading out. Today was the day for the Eiffel Tower. And we had learned out lessons of the day before and caught the Metro. Very smooth. I'm becoming the expert on finding the connections and tranfers. It is pretty amazing considering the map is drawn for a Lilliputian. And my eye sight is rubbish. But regardless, I seem to work it out.
Like driving into Paris - suddenly you are THERE - we got off the Metro and suddenly the Eiffel tower was THERE, rearing up before us, shockingly close. By now the wind had picked up; Niccolo was beginning to panic about going up the tower. We had to reassure him that is was not required. As it turned out, none of the boys wanted to go up the tower; they are all a little affected by the problem of vertigo. Zelda, however, was determined to go to the top. So we got in the line (surprisingly long for the cold of winter) mostly with other English speaking types and a whole lot of Italian lads. It all went very smoothly; then through the security and on to the lift. They jam you in the lift with little room and less air and then suddenly propel you up into the sky. I was getting a little leary at this point; Zelda was completely sanguine. We did discover that the summit was closed because of high winds, which she was a little disappointed by, but me ... I was good.
The Eiffel Tower is less a building and more a structure - it is like clinging to the sides of a sculpture more than walking around an actual building so once we got out of the lift - even at the moderate height of the second level, we were a bit overwhelmed by how high up we were, and how exposed we were. And we could see why the top was closed; the wind was practically ripping the clothes from our bodies. But once you adjusted, the view was amazing - the whole of Paris spread out like some kind of gorgerous carpet - flat as a landscape but roaring with architecture and green park land. We stayed up there for ages, kind of mesmerised by the view and how high up we were. Then we bought a tiny Eiffel Tower for our (at this stage mythical) Christmas tree and got in line to go down. Just as the lift was rising, there was an announcement that the summit was opened. To my considerable surprise, Zelda decided she didn't want to go up. I think she might have weighed up how far up we already were, and what that again might feel like (along with the wind). Also, we were hungry. And a bit cold.
At the bottom, we met up with Myles, Paris and Niccolo (right there; we didn't even have to turn our heads or wonder where they might be), and we all confirmed deep hunger. So we went to the nearest bistro - no doubt a notorious tourist haunt, but who cares. It was called the Cafe du Dome (I know this name, from where, who can say). It was staffed by a Parisian who managed the bar, took orders, told jokes, organised sauce and so on, while watching TV and having his own lunch. It was kind of like those guys at Pellegrinis who have been there for ever and do the work as if they have several arms. I had steak frites (what else?) and hamburgers are ruling the lives of the boys. Zelda ordered spaghetti (in Paris!). Myles had vegetable soup. It was warm and quick and prepared us for the next journey - up to the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees. But now the rain got serious. We sheltered for a while in the door of another museum and watched it pour. And then, the sun came out and we walked across town to the Arc de Triomphe. The weather changed again, and Niccolo decided that this time, he wanted to go to the top. But I wasn't game because the wind was insane and it was pouring. Next time, I told him. Even he didn't believe me. We paid our respects to the Unknown Soldier. ('I don't fancy being him,' Zelda said. 'You'd never get any sleep with all that traffic.') Indeed. Paris must have been a very different place without the crazy traffic. It is really nuts. We were wet and cold and a little cafe beckoned us. Actually, a little lady of a certain age beckoned us; we hesitated at the door and out she swept and pushed us in to a table. It was blissfully warm and the hot chocolate was perfect. She told Paris off for his hair (not just your mother, buddy), and took photos for us (see below). Then told us about the Christmas market at the end of the Champs Elysees and bid us on our way. As we left, I saw her on the second level, forking a cake into her mouth with some relish. Yes, I can see my own destiny.
The Christmas market was charming with great food, but we had a dinner date with our land lady (from the Normandy gatehouse) and her family, so we had to regretfully forgo any of the food (and good call too, because the dinner we ate was fantastic and huge and it would not have tolerated snacking before hand). The rain again. We caught the Metro back to the apartment (the heating was fixed! Hooray!) and had a little lie down. Then we dressed again and went to dinner.
It was four courses, all delicious and was great fun. Completely lovely family who fed us up until veal stew was dripping from our eyes and ears and then send us into the Paris night with all good cheer.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Paris, day two
It was supposed to rain so we decided that this would be a museum day. As it happened, the rain didn't come till later, but these things are an imprecise science. But first to the train station to buy our tickets to Barcelona. We have modifed our trip a bit and now will only spend a week in Spain and only in Barcelona. The whole getting accommodation thing was weird. We were finding it stupidly difficult to get somewhere to stay outside of Barcelona so ... (It's been the same with the South of France, very odd.) Then I argued that despite the fact that we were going to be walking around the Louvre all day, we should walk there so we could see some of Paris in daylight. It is a pleasure to walk along the river and across the various squares and look up at other people's windows. But it did result in everyone being exhausted way before the day was over. I wanted to see the prison in which Marie Antoinette and Louis and various others were kept duirng the Revolution. We need to get a proper map we can walk around with. We keep looking online and thinking that we have a fix on the place, only to get there and go: hmmm. Anyway, I think I saw it; but there was heavy duty restoration going on, so I'm not sure.
We arrived at the Louvre. Niccolo was thrilled to see the glass pyramid at last. Zelda liked the fat pigeons ('the richest pigeons in the world'). Why am I concentrating on the externals? Because the Louvre was closed for some kind of private function ('Or cleaning', as Paris suggested). Bugger. So we went next door to the shopping mall to see police on roller skates (see previous post). They were not to be seen. Myles was distressed but his credibility is not looking good. It was all super glamous and posh though. So we then went to the Museum d'Orsay. The lines here were incredibly long though the woman in line in front of us thought that they were pretty short considering. She was interesting, and had all kinds of advice for things to do and places to see. After waiting for some time - the kids wilting a bit - we arrived inside. It is amazing to see paintings all together on walls that you have only really read about or seen reproductions of. The Van Goghs were really fabulous as were all the post impressionists. I liked the impressionists too. A fun fact. On the information board about the impressionists, there is a note at the bottom that many of the paintings have been aquired through the state seizing art in lieu of taxes. Imagine. On the fifth floor, where the impressionist are, there is a huge window that is the back of a clock and you can see across to the right bank and all over the roofs of Paris. We liked this very much. There was also a comfy looking couch right by the clock that the kids were desperate to try. But no one was moving. Many people in Paris are tired.
It was time to buy new pants. We are having a pants crisis, so off to the Galleries Lafayette for some shopping. We negotiated the Metro (Paris and I discussed the merits of the Metro versus the Tube. This is probably not going to be a popular opinion but, after watching Myles spend ages buying tickets through a really helpful lady, and then trying to decifer the lines, we decided that we thought the Tube much easier to use. Perhaps it is a problem of language. And dog pooh. The whole dog pooh thing in the Metro is beyond a joke. And when you are travelling with a kid like Niccolo who is very busy looking at everything but the ground, it can get trying), and made it out into shopping heaven. Now, call me churlish, but shopping in the Galleries Lafayette and Printemps was nothing short of torture. I guess I don't like shopping too much anyway - so unbelievably boring I think - but in addition, there was a sale on that wasn't accessible unless you were a card holder which meant that everything was stupidly expensive. We are also giants in Paris (France generally, and possibly across the world) so it was hard to find sizes for any of us. The heating was sub tropical - I thought Paris was going to expire. We did manage to get pants, miraculously, for Paris, Zelda and Niccolo (and tee shirts for Myles), and I was beginning to think that unless you are young, thin and very rich (ie: Kate Moss), Paris shopping was not for you (or, as it turns out, me). Perhaps with more time and less kids and someone who was excited about being in a large department shop ... but even then.
I'm starting to wonder about me and Paris. I was here about twenty years ago (yes ... shudder). I think it was about three days with my mother. I think I liked it then, but I don't remember being overwhelmed by love. I don't remember the people and cars from that time. I do remember walking around everywhere but I have no recollection of the people. (FYI, people everywhere in the most intense manner. And cars. Holy hell, cars, cars, cars.) Perhaps we are not meant to fall in love, me and Paris. I have been thinking back to my idols and their relationship with Paris. Zelda Fitzgerald wasn't much of a fan - she liked New York better. Elizabeth David and MFK Fisher write with more passion about provincial France rather than Paris. All those starving artists came close to freezing to death in the winter and had to find patrons to get them off to warmer climes. It makes me think - and there are probably howls of protest here - that Paris is a city to love when you are incredibly wealthy. Not that we are poor, of course. But right bank wealthy in swish hotels and eating in swank bistros and going to the opera. Or perhaps you have to be in the bright light of new love. I watched Midnight in Paris on the plane coming over and it is a love story about Paris, but is it also a love story about wealthy and connected Paris. Those writers and artists who came and loved Paris with little money usually came clutching a letter of introduction to Stein or someone. And then they could come and go in the warm bath of intellectual Paris. Me, I'm struggling. It is like there are too many of us (I don't mean me and the family, I mean generally) trying to find a toehold in the myth of Paris and there aren't enough spots.
Perhaps tomorrow I will fall in love with it. Tomorrow I think we are going to the Eiffel Tower and all around the places there.
I guess too that I'm looking for Revolutionary Paris (that is, Paris of the Revolution) but because the French apparently don't like to celebrate this part of their history, there is little to see or marvel at. There is a statue of Danton on the Boulevard St Germain and the Palais Royal is still there, but the stories have been removed. I was trying to find out if the Louvre is the same palace that Louis and Marie were bought back to Paris to stay in, but I think not. I think they were at the Tuileries Palace which perhaps no longer exists. I must get history and a map of all the buildings.
It is a problem. Everyone is supposed to love Paris. What happens if you don't? Are you another kind of cliche (but a bitter one), or is there something really wrong with you?
Stay tuned. Perhaps there will be a turn around.
We arrived at the Louvre. Niccolo was thrilled to see the glass pyramid at last. Zelda liked the fat pigeons ('the richest pigeons in the world'). Why am I concentrating on the externals? Because the Louvre was closed for some kind of private function ('Or cleaning', as Paris suggested). Bugger. So we went next door to the shopping mall to see police on roller skates (see previous post). They were not to be seen. Myles was distressed but his credibility is not looking good. It was all super glamous and posh though. So we then went to the Museum d'Orsay. The lines here were incredibly long though the woman in line in front of us thought that they were pretty short considering. She was interesting, and had all kinds of advice for things to do and places to see. After waiting for some time - the kids wilting a bit - we arrived inside. It is amazing to see paintings all together on walls that you have only really read about or seen reproductions of. The Van Goghs were really fabulous as were all the post impressionists. I liked the impressionists too. A fun fact. On the information board about the impressionists, there is a note at the bottom that many of the paintings have been aquired through the state seizing art in lieu of taxes. Imagine. On the fifth floor, where the impressionist are, there is a huge window that is the back of a clock and you can see across to the right bank and all over the roofs of Paris. We liked this very much. There was also a comfy looking couch right by the clock that the kids were desperate to try. But no one was moving. Many people in Paris are tired.
It was time to buy new pants. We are having a pants crisis, so off to the Galleries Lafayette for some shopping. We negotiated the Metro (Paris and I discussed the merits of the Metro versus the Tube. This is probably not going to be a popular opinion but, after watching Myles spend ages buying tickets through a really helpful lady, and then trying to decifer the lines, we decided that we thought the Tube much easier to use. Perhaps it is a problem of language. And dog pooh. The whole dog pooh thing in the Metro is beyond a joke. And when you are travelling with a kid like Niccolo who is very busy looking at everything but the ground, it can get trying), and made it out into shopping heaven. Now, call me churlish, but shopping in the Galleries Lafayette and Printemps was nothing short of torture. I guess I don't like shopping too much anyway - so unbelievably boring I think - but in addition, there was a sale on that wasn't accessible unless you were a card holder which meant that everything was stupidly expensive. We are also giants in Paris (France generally, and possibly across the world) so it was hard to find sizes for any of us. The heating was sub tropical - I thought Paris was going to expire. We did manage to get pants, miraculously, for Paris, Zelda and Niccolo (and tee shirts for Myles), and I was beginning to think that unless you are young, thin and very rich (ie: Kate Moss), Paris shopping was not for you (or, as it turns out, me). Perhaps with more time and less kids and someone who was excited about being in a large department shop ... but even then.
I'm starting to wonder about me and Paris. I was here about twenty years ago (yes ... shudder). I think it was about three days with my mother. I think I liked it then, but I don't remember being overwhelmed by love. I don't remember the people and cars from that time. I do remember walking around everywhere but I have no recollection of the people. (FYI, people everywhere in the most intense manner. And cars. Holy hell, cars, cars, cars.) Perhaps we are not meant to fall in love, me and Paris. I have been thinking back to my idols and their relationship with Paris. Zelda Fitzgerald wasn't much of a fan - she liked New York better. Elizabeth David and MFK Fisher write with more passion about provincial France rather than Paris. All those starving artists came close to freezing to death in the winter and had to find patrons to get them off to warmer climes. It makes me think - and there are probably howls of protest here - that Paris is a city to love when you are incredibly wealthy. Not that we are poor, of course. But right bank wealthy in swish hotels and eating in swank bistros and going to the opera. Or perhaps you have to be in the bright light of new love. I watched Midnight in Paris on the plane coming over and it is a love story about Paris, but is it also a love story about wealthy and connected Paris. Those writers and artists who came and loved Paris with little money usually came clutching a letter of introduction to Stein or someone. And then they could come and go in the warm bath of intellectual Paris. Me, I'm struggling. It is like there are too many of us (I don't mean me and the family, I mean generally) trying to find a toehold in the myth of Paris and there aren't enough spots.
Perhaps tomorrow I will fall in love with it. Tomorrow I think we are going to the Eiffel Tower and all around the places there.
I guess too that I'm looking for Revolutionary Paris (that is, Paris of the Revolution) but because the French apparently don't like to celebrate this part of their history, there is little to see or marvel at. There is a statue of Danton on the Boulevard St Germain and the Palais Royal is still there, but the stories have been removed. I was trying to find out if the Louvre is the same palace that Louis and Marie were bought back to Paris to stay in, but I think not. I think they were at the Tuileries Palace which perhaps no longer exists. I must get history and a map of all the buildings.
It is a problem. Everyone is supposed to love Paris. What happens if you don't? Are you another kind of cliche (but a bitter one), or is there something really wrong with you?
Stay tuned. Perhaps there will be a turn around.
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