Field trip!

http://www.hubertdelartigue.com/dossier_falcon/001.jpg

Genius. A trip to Trocadero for coffee and voila, artwork springs from your fingertips!

ch. 12.19: In which I ramble on ramblings with M

A street with Pacman graffiti, a hotel with walls made of papier mache, gray rooftops with little peaks. Extremely pointless canine companions, all of them smaller than the average basketball sneaker, and many of them less interesting. A restaurant with typewriters as candles.

Paris is still a kaleidoscope, a flush of colors of the carnival by the canal, the taste of warm nutella melting from crepes and down fingers. Honey or marmelade or marron glace or nutella by the kilo! The cotton candy was abandoned because really, the wind, it would be blown away. Or, you know, because in the knock-em sock-em rumble, chocolate and sugar beats sugar floss like the Hulk v. paper snowflakes.

The carnival also included such fun attractions as King Kong’s Castle of People-Munching Hydria Doom, which not only lit up but also flung dismembered limbs of men in a jerky manner.

We found the river, and the paths that line it, and the sleek bridges that slip across from bank to bank.

We found Notre Dame and I had to double take- real? movie set silhouette? But we stood on the banks of the Seine and there it was, the Ile rising up, the stones dark against the sky. Inside of Notre Dame I think everyone finds a different peace or at least a different fuzzy postcard; the candles still flicker, and oh, the voices, if you go at sunset, there is still light behind the stained glass, and there are sopranos who flood the stones. That does not do justice. None of this does justice. I didn’t take any photographs because honestly, they would be a pallid reflection of stones worn out by prayer. You should go, and you should walk to the back, where it is quiet, and you should stop.

I feel like next came blocks of cobblestones and restaurants, always more restaurants, with menus in languages and candles on every table. The city of lights! Que magnifique!

The halls of the Louvre are so long that they start blocks away, and it is minutes until you can see a painting, or a lit hall. Mona Lisa’s smile is probably stuck in a dust heap on top of a gilded frame in the little-used peintures of still life niche.

Honestly I think the huge number of pictures- and that is not all of the catalogue- speak for my mental state. Candy shop? It was like being asked to choose clouds in the firmament. (M- oh, do I love you, that you did not abandon me after the nineteenth close examination of Roman corkscrew drillholes). Even better though (sorry, Romans) was the Baroque- those shadows! Those eyes, the folds of fabric that never end! M reminded me that the ceiling is a sight and looking up was the best idea ever. Forget the Mona Lisa. She is stuck in a wall beyond plexiglass, the least sexy and appealing gallery partition- bright, industrial lights? Plexiglass? A BEIGE wall?

And worst, she is all alone in a wall that is Godzilla-tall, which is probably why everyone is so surprised at the portrait’s curtailed stature. Also, that is somewhat demure, as poses go, and she shares the room with Titian and Tintoretto and everyone else who saw velvet and flesh and decided in some genius way to make paintings from passion and candlelight. In other words, she is surrounded by bold and dashing men- men, and saints, and angels- and frankly, da Vinci did not make her a gallant.

Anyway, once we escape the coterie of suitors for la gioconda, we found more old things and further old things and a great many saints. Also a modern art exhibit that was sort of awesome, from a distance, until I read the labels and realized we’d been had by pretentious modern dreck. Fleeing, the land of the Empty Galleries of Non-European Art arose before us. It was empty, but it was full of wonderful things. Really! You should go, especially if it is at night and the shadows are creeping.

Oh there was so much more- streets and more streets and the Opera-Bastille at night, and the Archives, and the mistake of ordering too much sweet and crisp white wine. Whoops. Chocolate mousse. In Paris. You should probably book a flight now.

The Paris metro sells items impossible in America; it also delivers high velocity travel on a meandering ribbon- okay, bizarre weaving of lines and numbers- which it gets away with as it is cheap, fast, and the trains open doors every six minutes or so. MAGIC.

After turning a corner at Trocadero the next morning, we discovered bright sunlight and something called the Eiffel Tower, which, despite its ignominious end in three movies (one excellent, two dreck), seems to be doing okay for itself. If you go into the museum nearby you can buy (good) pricey cappuccini and sip in strangely ovoid chairs while looking out on a plaza and vista of white limestone and the Tower. This is also highly recommended. (Thanks to a certain photojournalist-yachtsmen with an architecture habit!)

There was a giant Ferris wheel for no particular reason in the Jardin just off the Place de la Concorde, as well as the ridiculous fountain, noted below in two parts because at that point I was drunk on all the sunshine.

At some point we ended up back at the top of the tourist map, where the Gard du Nord stood waiting, and where we narrowly missed Posh Spice in her latest Nazi Detective phase. (I am borrowing this allusion from a British tabloid, which should explain everything.)

It is true that the rest of the missing week had been spent in England, but aside from a run-in with Steampunk attire and Persian astrolabes and overdoses of marshmellow- well. It was an excellent week.

In which you might see that there is Paris outside of the Louvre

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Knick-knackatory, con’t.

A knick-knackatory of curiosities

(Designed by a magician: a superlative gallery tag.)

Maybe tonight there will be more words, but the pseudo-science of pirouetting failed, as was, indeed, expected. But it was a bon voyage, and oh, what sights were seen, what streets.