Barcelona, day four

All power to the long sleep in, and waking up to glorious sunshine. Another wonderful day in Barcelona with a long sleep, some reading in bed, getting up with much stretching of limbs and jaws, and taking off when we feel like it. It was sunny (is it always sunny here? so happy). We had to go the train station. My rather glib statement about not caring how we were going to get to Carcassone was premature. Myles was actually sweating bullets over it, found the internet useless and wanted to go in person to get the tickets as soon as he could. I insisted on the metro. This walking everywhere thing has whiskers - big ones.
The train station was a stereotype as all train stations tend to be - all full with people yelling and trying to buy tickets and lots of other people with suitcases on wheels going licketty split towards you with fire in their eyes. After some false starts, we found the right line, got the right ticket and sat in to wait. This, of course, involved us moving to a cafe to fuel up the kids with all kinds of rubbish (this has to end; everyone is just bad mooded because of the food). Then we waited. What was great about this system is that the weak left with their tickets so that as the numbers rolled around, there were less and less people there to claim them. In 50 minutes we were at the counter, buying tickets. With them in sweaty hands, Myles was happy to begin his day. Sigh.
We were off to Park Guell; another Gaudi site.
So we surfaced from the metro at the right stop and followed the signs and a dozen other tourists. And Barcelona has thought through the problem of having so many (potentially lazy and overweight - not pointing fingers ...) tourists trapising off to this park which hangs high above Barcelona and even the suburb in which it sits. So there are a series of escalators that run up the roads that lead to the park that you ride. It is more American than America and the kids were enchanted.
The park itself is kind of confusing, but perhaps we are idiots. You walk in and see no Gaudi. You walk to the top and still see no Gaudi but there is an amazing view of the city. Then you walk down a series of steps that lead into a large open space and suddenly there is Gaudi all over the shop. It feels a bit Dr Seuss; loopy shapes and everything very dream scape. I (happily, what a nerd) had bought a book all about Gaudi at the Sagrada Familia so I had a whole lot of information about it. The Park Guell was originally planned as an urban development (not a park at all) with houses and services and all kinds of innovations. One of which, just by the way, was having a water collection point through the public square that funnelled water through the columns that were beneath the square and into a tank below that would be used for watering. Can you believe this? This was begun in 1900 (so architects knew about these possiblities) but what are we doing in our urban design, even now? Sad.
There are some houses here, but it is mostly a park with some lovely mosaics and aquaducts and funny little houses - and all among them now are dozens of buskers with violins (mostly) playing quietly ethereal music.
Zelda and I went into the little pink house the Gaudi lived in from 1906. The furniture was completely charming, most looked like it could come to life and jump up for a pat. One room looked like a cave with dark, brooding wardrobes and green glass in the panels. There is something about Gaudi's work that is so like a fairytale that I wonder if you could ever be unhappy in one of his buildings. It is somewhere between the gingerbread cottage of Hansel and Gretel, a recreation of the natural world in bold colours and (seriously) Dr Seuss.
Have I found my Barcelona narrative? Perhaps.
After being completely charmed by the architecture, we left to go back to the city. The kids were tired and wanted to go back to the apartment for a rest. I wanted to read some of my novel (obssession is a bold thing).
Then back into the old city for dinner. We were looking specifically for a place with heating because, while the days are warm and sunny, the nights are cold. But we ended up in a little square, in the open with no heating. The owner took pity on us and brought us inside his place (which was really too tiny for us). The square had a playground that Niccolo took much interest in. It was 9pm at night, but there were still lots of parents and kids playing around. They do social stuff here very well.
We ordered blind from the tapas menu. And it was so fantastic. The vegetable tapas of the day was some kind of cauliflower thing that had quite firm cauilflower scattered somehow with stinky cheese and cumin seeds and pomegrante seeds and then shards of heat that came from an unseen source and I couldn't get it into my mouth fast enough. The kids could barely eat the bread and hummous, and the fried potatoes with enough vigour, while the ham and the coquettes disappeared with the help of oily fingers. I washed mine down with beer. Myles decided on red wine.
We had fun window shopping for stuff; so much to love in the shops here. I have (to some shame) done some damage. Others are holding off (for what?). But I'm not sure that I'm planning on taking my foot off the pedal in this city. It is too good for words.
I really love it here. Really, really love it.

Barcelona, day three

Gaudi. I'm not sure much can prepare you for him. I'd seen photos and knew that the buildings were strange; mesmeric, but not on the scale of standing in front of them, or indeed inside them. I had promised Paris a church that would be like no other he had seen. He is sick of churches, and has refused to go into some we have stopped at. This one, I said, was different. We were going to visit the Sagrada Familia. 'Is it in the shape of a chicken?' he asked. I said I didn't think so. 'Well, if it's not in the shape of a chicken, I think I've seen it before.' No, I insisted. No. You have not seen anything like this. He remained unconvinced.
We left the apartment at our usual hour; this suits Spain by the way. Nothing gets going here until 10am, and even then. (Later in the day we went to a tee shirt shop that we thought Paris might like. The hours of this shop were 4.30pm until 10pm. Paris was impressed. I seriously see him moving here.)
We walked in a completely different direction - I had it on good authority that we needed to catch the metro from Sant Antoni and this took us somewhere quite away from what we had seen to this point.
Barcelona continues to enchant us. Every little alleyway is another joy, and everyone seems to be happy or at least relaxed here. We found the station and made our way to the Sagrada Familia.
You come out of the metro and you feel (really, you do feel it) that something is behind you, something almost alive. I turned first and practically on top of me was the Sagrada Familia; the Nativity Facade - the side that genuinely looks like it is melting. I told the others to turn. We were all stunned (including Paris). It is incredible. And then you begin to look at the detail. On the top is the Tree of Life and then around that are short towers topped with different kinds of fruit. It is funny (and fun) as well as brutal (the slaughter of the innocents is there is full gore) and the whole thing is a fantasy that Gaudi dreamed, and for some reason the Church and government decided to indulge. Three cheers for that.
We found it difficult to locate the opening (building work going on all over the place) but finally went in. Zelda suddenly said: 'I know this building. We studied it at school. The inside is like a forest.' Hmmm, I thought. Doubtful. But no. Absolutely true. The inside is exactly like a forest with all the columns branching out like trees and the light is somehow liquid and mysterious. There are flowers poking our from columns and vine-like staircases winding up to the ceiling. The iron railings are like kelp, and the skylights are like suns - the skylight over the altar is the most incredible thing I have ever seen - it is somehow paved with gold and is completely hypnotic. Architecture that is alive; breathing.
The stain glass windows are equally amazing, but there is an equal (at least) number of windows that are plain glass (to bathe the whole thing in light).
Our camera didn't work. I hadn't put the battery back in. We have no photos (I did buy a book).
There was a little explanatory vault off to one side to explore what Gaudi did, and what his architecture was about. A little bit about his childhood and growing up among trees and nature. But then everything else appeared to be about mathematics. Luckily Paris was at my shoulder (not luckily, he was humming a hardcore tune and doing the snare drum), and could explain some of the mathematics and the shapes that Gaudi was working with. Not being a mathematician myself, or even a fan, I thought how I might be able to fall in love with maths had I sat on the floor of the Sagrada Familia and done maths equations that explored the shapes he was working with. Suddenly, maths was incredibly beautiful (where in the past it has been all about creepy numbers that sat on a page, ready to confuse me, or trip me up). If maths can create such a dreamlike building, I'm all for it. Myles speculated that had Gaudi had access to computers, he might have done even more amazing work. Zelda disputed this. She said that half the beauty was in the labourious calculations and the kooky, not-quite-where-you-might-expect-it arches or fruit. I love the fruit most of all. I love that this church has taken more than a century to build and that they keep at it, building with faith on Gaudi's details designs and instructions. I love that serious looking men in orange hard hats are taking this mythical building utterly seriously. Magic, real and in front of us.
Zelda said she thought this might be her favourite building in the world - then she qualified that and said it was her favourite church in the world. Niccolo liked that the floor was slippery enough to skid on (he and I had words about this). Paris said that had I taken him here first, he might have felt differently about churches. We all liked that some of the pillars were set on the back of turtles, that there were dogs on the facade, and donkeys wandering around in the background of the tableaux.
It is clear that I don't have good words for this experience.
We are seeking out further Gaudi tomorrow.
The wind had come up when we left and we escaped into a restuarant for lunch and to get out of the dust. Then we went to the bus station to try and buy tickets to get to Carcassone. (Not yet successful on this front; strangely - for Myles in particular - we are unconcerned about this state of affairs). We found a park and Myles and I sat for a while on a sunny bench while the kids played about with a toy Niccolo had bought from the market the night before. Then we all saw a dog that was the perfect hybrid of Shimmy and Cassie - we practically followed it home it was so good. Zelda and Paris speculated that it was named Shassie. Who can say?
It was time to head home for a siesta. Or a bit of shopping; whichever came first. Turned out it was shopping. I couldn't talk Zelda into anything - including the greatest coloured teeshirts I had ever seen. I'm thinking I'll buy them in a larger size so she can have them when she is older ...?
It was treat Friday too so there must be ice cream somewhere in the world (or our hands).
Then it was siesta time. I can see how, with a siesta, you might be less done, but you are incredibly happy and rested. Mind you, I'm seriously concerned about how it is that you do work. How do you fit in all the things you have to do? Currently, I can fit in some blogging in the morning, a bit of a walk, some lunch, some reading and a siesta, and dinner. Can't find any hours there for work or housecleaning or any related task.
After the siesta, Myles and I decided to go to a bar for a drink. We walked a decent way, for some reason, nothing spoke to him (and sometimes it didn't speak to me). We ended up in a tiny place called Cian in a tiny laneway with very groovy and young Spanish lovers. The bar was run by a bloke (Cian?), and his mother. We ordered tapas (and in my defence, tapas to this point have been little plates with little amounts of food) and it came to the table with such abundance that Cian had to pull up another table. 'Too much,' he queried, smiling. Perhaps. But I did my damndest to finish off the food; the best guacomole I have had, and excellent ham. I also had too much beer, but I love the beer here. Myles had a mojito. He is a bit of a girl.
Visibly scattering crumbs and flecks of beer, we left and swanned into the mild and busy Barcelona night. So much going on, such fun. We had to get home to kids. In addition, I had become a little obsessed by The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo (I do realise that I'm the last person in the world to read this novel; but not any more) and I wanted to finish it (I did; most disturbing. Those Swedes ...).
Tomorrow promises to kiss us again with sunshine but without wind. We will go the park to see more Gaudi.
Sorry about the no photo thing. Tomorrow I will stack the site.

Barcelona, day two

We stretch our limbs and rise at 10am. I'm sorry to do this to you, but our hours now match those of teenagers (including our own teenager). He is so happy. I think he might stay in Spain forever. Perhaps we all will. It is rather beguiling.
This morning, when I got up, Myles had the TVon and on it was British parliament. Weird choice perhaps. But then Niccolo got up, looked at the TV and said: 'What is this? A game show?' (Well, yes.)
Zelda was not well. She had a stomach ache. I thought that perhaps it was what she was eating. Being sterling parents, we had been allowing her to decide what she would like to eat and much of it had consisted of hot chocolate and ice cream. But as the day progressed, she developed a fever, so perhaps more than just rich food. Kids can eat anything can't they?
But she was a trooper and agreed that she would come with us to the Castle that overhangs Barcelona (Miramar?? Our knowledge of all things Barcelona is rubbish. For some reason, we have not interest in acquiring knowledge at this stage of the tour; it is a mystery.) We walked up the large hill (small mountain) and enjoyed the views. This was supposed to be the worst day of the week, and yet the sun shone like polished smile and the sky was blue. I was in a tee shirt. Well, I was when I was walking up the hill. We passed by the diving pool from the Barcelona Olympics (I do remember it had an amazing view and now, here it was before me.) and then up further to the castle. Again, the royals abodes here are rough and ready, all lilac and light brown square stones and big, square shapes. But the view over the sea is incredible. A million kinds of blue all resting against one another. Perhaps that was enough for the royals; the view.
We didn't go into the castle; the kids are thinking strongly of revolution so I don't think that I should show them any more over the top pomp and affluence (Paris requested The Communist Manifesto for Christmas.).
To go down, we caught the chairlift thing - the boys were a little concerned, Niccolo in particular, because none of them like heights, but it wasn't too high or scary or even long.
It was lunch time. Niccolo began to get very angry and teary. Why? Because he was trying to break the world record for keeping one's hands in one's pockets, but had taken them out to go to the toilet. What can I say? Tapas for lunch. Fried artichoke was a revelation. Great squid and meatballs. I wish I had ordered the fried green peppers. I will tomorrow. I didn't have beer this time. Myles is on one of his weird diets (excellent timing) and isn't having beer. I feel sad about drinking alone. But perhaps I won't tomorrow. This sunshine and food calls out to beer like a long lost lover.
Zelda, by this time, was failing. I walked her back to the apartment, and put her to bed. Well, on the couch anyway with a movie and some water. We all had a nap.
Later, Myles and I went walking. Zelda's temperature had come down with panadol and Paris said he'd keep an eye on her, so we went out for Christmas shopping. Barcelona is a perfect town. There are fifty million more pedestrians than there are cars (a relief after the crazy traffic of Paris), it is mild, there are quirky laneways with lights and funny shops and there is life and love and laughing.
We bought books for the kids, Niccolo's desired ipod shuffle and then some clothes for me from this sweet little shop down a laneways with the nicest woman. You could walk here for hours, looking and chatting, and stopping for a quick something and walking on. La Ramblas is full of flowers even very late, making everything smell sweet. Kids run about well after nine through the streets. It feel like a party, but one where you know everyone and like most.
It is not nearly as beautiful as Paris to look at - that amazing uniformity of Parisian streets is incredible, but also very formal. This rather higgledy piggledy, low rise (that is; about eight stories) buildings of many colours and various structures has beauty, but it is to be found unexpectedly. You look up in Paris and you expect to be impressed (and you are). But here, you look up and there are umbrellas on the side of a building, or someone has painted the building pink, or there are funny, decorated shutters or something. It is a happy place.
We returned to check on Zelda. Still not well. I sat with her and the boys went walking for ice cream and exercise. They came back sated on both counts and bought Zelda some vanilla ice cream, which she ate. Sugar; who knew ...
I'm posting some final photos of Paris as well as the first days in Barcelona. The Paris photos are of us in front of the Fitzgerald's place in 1928 and Gertrude Stein's place (always). Plus, eating and drinking ...

Barcelona, day one

When we woke, there was a new land at the top of the Faraway Tree; the land of Barcelona. Now, here is an interesting thing. While we have arrived at every other location with a whole host of things to do and to see - and a whole historical narrative to take us around,we arrive here with nothing. There is something absolutely wonderful and liberating about this; and the kids are delighted. No more damnable, long winded stories about beheadings, or writers going mad, or unbelievably, oversized palaces. Nothing but a blank slate.
Firstly, it was mild. After a month and a day of pretty cold weather (though clear) and puffy jackets for breakfast, lunch and dinner, we were walking around in long sleeved tee shirts. But we were disorientated. Not much good sleep was had in the train (Paris was worried my bunk would collapse onto his, Zelda tied herself into her bunk for fear of falling, Niccolo shared his bunk with a huge suitcase, and Myles was on the floor; good times) so we were exhausted. But dogged. Instead of taking a taxi (right there, in front of us) we persued the metro with luggage and foggy heads. Amazingly, we made it from Barceloneta on line 4 to Liceu on line 3 and walked the rest of the way down to the apartment. There, at the door, was the smiliest Englishman you have ever seen who welcomed us in, showed us around and gave us a map and advice. Best service we have had. And the loveliest little apartment you could imagine with three bedrooms (Paris is kissing the floor as I write). Barcelona is great value.
It is an odd city - not at all like its more northern neighbours who are beautiful but a touch uptight. This city is more like an Asian city, with much more narrow alleyways with washing everywhere and ricketty, inelegant shops and cafes. Much more colour, much more relaxed. Palm trees for God sakes (a little, Myles said, like California - or the other way around perhaps).
Despite the beguiling nature of the place, we were (not to put a fine point on it) cactus. So we changed a little, and went into the local square for breakfast. We are one street parallel to La Ramblas called Raval which is great. There were a million (or so it seemed to tired eyes) little cafes to choose from. The cafes are on one side and in the middle of the road are the chairs, so we sat and ordered hot chocolate and crossiants. Hot chocolate in Barcelona is more like hot chocolate mousse. The children were delighted.
Then we went to bed. That is to say, Myles went to bed, I slept on the couch (and very comfortable it was too), and the kids sat around me and watched Agatha Christie movies from the sixties.
After we felt a little better, we went out for a walk and lunch. Ah lunch. Tapas and beer; where have you been my whole life. Potatoes, sausage, lamb, tomatoes, cheese all there before us. And a huge mug of beer for happiness. The sun was shining on us and there were lots of people around us, drinking beer and writing; perhaps this is where all the writers come now. And very cool young women in leg warmers; who ever thought that would work again. But here, yes. Not for me, no matter how I am charmed by how they look. That would go very wrong.
We sauntered off to the habour to see the Mediterranean for the first time. I think this is my first time looking at the Mediterranean. I was thinking through this, and I'm pretty sure it is. A lovely dark blue lapping away at the walls of the harbour. Seagulls everywhere. Lovely boats (including an Arrrrr Pirate Boat), and people walking about. Then, around a corner, there was the Rainbow Warrior, ready (apparently) to weigh anchor and set off for good works. There was music and dancing as the local people sent her off with good will. Zelda (grumpily) demanded that we needed to seek out dessert. So to ice-cream (the first time this makes sense on this trip) and the largest nativity scene in the northern hemisphere. We were feeling fine.
Barcelona is much more rough hewn than the delicate spires of Paris or even London. The royalesque palace-y place at the harbour was big but bulky and dark. I liked it a lot. Mind you, we haven't seen any Gaudi yet, so that whole 'rough hewn' thing might change.
We  made a hook turn and went back into town. Great art work around this city - near us there is a huge cat with a very bad mooded look on its face. In the harbour, there are 'boys' standing on buoys looking up at the sky, there is a huge Joan Miro looking sculpture just at the end of the harbour. And along La Ramblas, there is a decent smattering of human sculpture. Niccolo is very into these, and likes to 'pay' them (as he puts it). So much life as the sun sets; people everywhere, eating and laughing and drinking. But we were at the end of whatever energy we had garnered at lunch. On the way back, I tried to buy a pretty fabulous 10 euro bag but (from what we could understand) it wasn't for sale until 21 December. Interesting ... weird. Perhaps we didn't look the type.
We fell into the apartment and watched cooking shows for a while - thinking about our own Christmas dinner and what we would be cooking and eating. We won't get to Carcassonne until the 21 which doesn't leave a lot of room for shopping and cooking for Christmas. But we will manage. Niccolo is determined to cook custard. I want to buy and cook a Bresse chicken. Zelda wants chocolate to feature in most dishes. Paris doesn't care as long as there is enough. Myles is worried about a heart attack. Should make for interesting eating.
Love Barcelona already. Can't wait for dawn.

Paris, day nine

We were on the road, but we had to wait until 8pm for that to be a reality. In other words, we had tickets to Barcelona on the overnight, eight pm train. We had to pack up our place in Paris, leave our bags in a secure spot and then wander about under the Parisian skies for the day.
But there was rain.
Ah well. Woody Allen argued that Paris is more beautiful in the rain. Perhaps. If you have raincoats. And somewhere to go when you are too wet. So we waited for a bit in the shelter of a post office and then hopped between porticos to get to a cafe for hot chocolate and a roof.
And then the sun came out; suddenly. It was like the skies had never been grey or filled with water. There was some discussion about shoe shopping, but I put a stop to that. Its not fair really. There can be shopping elsewhere. So we decided to go to Montmatre for God, art and a deeply tourist experience. Off the Metro and up a little alleyway towards Sacre Coeur. This alleyway was filled with all kinds of tourist fun - the most puzzling was a series of blokes with three black discs, one of which had a white tag underneath (the same game as that with a one ball and three cups). What was amazing to me is that this game is impossible to win. We know that almost by instinct. And yet; there they were. A number of (often English speaking) tourists betting quite large amounts and looking surprised when they lost. And there were about four of these blokes cleaning up. But we went so smug. We got caught in a bracelet scam - more about that later.
We staggered up the apparently thousands of stairs and into the air that hangs above Paris. God it was beautiful. All around the church was a little christmas market (there is an epidemic of these things - they are in every town in Europe, but I'm addicted to them). We bought sausages and donuts and hot wine. Happy days. Then we wandered around Montmatre with all the crooked little houses and the painters and the cafes. It was all too quaint for words.
We watched a storm blow in across Paris and thought about shelter. Happily, there is Sacre Coeur at our back. In we went, and there were toured around. Niccolo bought a medallion.
Then we left Montmatre, but before we left the kids got hooked into some bracelets and Myles lost his temper about it.
Then there was some more walking - to the Hotel des Invalides and to the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais. We were shattered by this point - cold and tired and still with hours to blow before the train. It was time for more hot wine and so to another conveniently located christmas market.
Finally, with sore feet and headaches induced by the cold, we found ourselves at the station and our train trip to the sunny south. Our cabin was the size of a closet - this was an interesting challenge to our family relationship. Feet issues were the most critical thing - but then the train steward (is that what they would be called?) came in and set up our beds and more or less ordered us to sleep. We obeyed. And when we woke, we were in Barcelona. It is like the Magic Faraway Tree where the lands change at the top.

Paris, day eight

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.

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.