Friday at the Louvre

A very grey, cloudy day in downtown Paris - good day for a major dose of art at the Louvre. Click to enlarge.

View of the courtyard and famous triangle from inside.

The indoor sculpture garden seen from inside.

 Hard to see, but there's a woman dressed all in white as a sculpture with a group of schoolchildren, showing them how the movement of the sculpture works.

The Louvre's two Vermeers, all alone. So humble, so magnificent - private and solitary, dignified and silent. Made me, of course, cry. This time I saw the piece of crumpled paper on the scholar's desk, the glint of his fingernail, the delicacy of the lacemaker's wrist. Concentration and stillness - and weird hair. That's my beloved Vermeer.

I always like the paintings of people reading and writing. This is Erasmus by Holbein (and in shadow on the glass, another writer.)

Art aficionados.

And these.

Rembrandt and the people he painted look at us with infinite depth and sadness. I think of him as a fellow autobiographer - he painted his own face over and over, and through his face we see mankind. As we memoir writers try to capture ourselves, and what it is to be alive, with words.

A miscellaneous staircase.

Poor gorgeous naked Venus, surrounded. An American girl beside me said, "She's not very feminine. Look at her waistline!" Always with the critics.

 A miscellaneous ceiling.

The Mona Lisa.

French children learning about French painting. 

I lasted three hours, actually took a break, sat down and had a coffee and some quiche, which is a first.  And I only cried twice - at Vermeer, as always, and happening upon Leonardo's stunning Saint Anne with her daughter the Virgin and babies. From room to room, encountering friends - Botticelli, Fra Lippo Lippi, Bernini, Michaelangelo, and all the unknown artists, the millions who've created magnificence through the ages. Truly makes you proud to be a human being, at least for a while.

I asked directions of an employee at one point, and after pointing me the right way, the woman complimented me on my blue silk scarf, bought at the Marché d'Aligre the other day. It's such a deep, rich colour, ca vous va a perfection, she said - it suits you perfectly. I thanked her. That means a lot, I said, coming from someone who spends their days in the Louvre.

When I could take no more, I escaped, as thousands were pouring in - NEVER go to the Louvre in the afternoon - and there was the #27 bus, just around the corner, waiting to take me and my aching feet home. Tomorrow is my last day. On Sunday, on to hideous little old Rome.

the nearly 170 year-old Polidor

Moving slowly today, after the excess of yesterday. I thought I'd never eat again, but no - somehow ended up at the wonderful ancient restaurant le Polidor, the guest of my old friend Michele. 

 "Polidor doesn't accept credit card since 1845."
Incidentally, as Michele said, the toilets date from 1845 also. I didn't think there were any more "dinosaur track hole in the ground" toilets in Paris any more. But there are.

Afterwards we strolled and sat for hours in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It's chilly today, but the place was bursting with life.

A grey Paris sky. It's a wonderful thing to have a park this vast and beautiful nearby.

the King tweets

Henry Tudor @KngHnryVIII Today: - Fruit smoothie - Apologise to Spain - Cuddle w France - Restore monasteries - Conscious uncoupling w bacon - Yoga April Fool!

Eating. So what's new already?

Click to enlarge. 

A crocodile line of schoolchildren climbs down to the Seine.

Grandparents with the best-dressed grandchildren in the world. These are boys!

I went to see an exhibit by Martin Parr, a wonderful British photographer - his take on Paris, mostly on tourists - here, up on the towers of Notre Dame ...

… and here in the rain in front of the cathedral itself.

Then I ate my usual ham sandwich in this park - that's the Tour St. Jacques, the remains of a 16th century church destroyed during the revolution. Nice place for a picnic. Midtown, as they say in NYC.

Along the Seine - the Mona Lisa and tourists.

Tonight - meeting friends at the Bistrot Paul Bert, one of the best bistros in Paris, apparently.  No one there, in this unpretentious warm place, at 7.45 p.m.

 Les asperges blanches - white asparagus, in season in spring and sublime.

Beef cheeks.

For dessert, my friends had creme caramel and Grand Marnier soufflé -

I had the raw milk cheese.

 Our interesting neighbours - a couple from New Orleans, a musician and the daughter of a well-known restauranteur, and another couple, he from Bermuda and she from Brooklyn, all discovering the joys of dining and living in Paris. 

The interior of the bistro.

a beautiful day

I just heard from Don Bastian, the publisher, that the book is being published right now and will soon be available through Amazon, maybe even in a week! Much sooner than I'd thought. Major excitement.

And I just had more excitement - Skyped with Anna and Eli, and he called me by name. He called me Blamma. Does it get better than that? I'm Blamma, and my book will be out in a week.

At dinner tonight, the bread and chèvre were so good, I could not stop eating. Bread, cheese and a fantastic bottle of 6 euro wine. Not to mention the tarte au citron for dessert. Today was really spring here - hot and lovely all day long. Every single person in Paris was sitting at a sidewalk café today. Except moi - I drink my coffee at home, and when I want to people-watch, I walk. Today, I got the fabulous number 27 bus about as far as I goes and walked most of the way back. But first - I went into Galeries Lafayette, because it's the most beautiful store in the world.

That's not a cathedral, it's a STORE. But the place is grotesque these days; the whole ground floor is crammed with people from Japan buying designer handbags. It's almost funny except it's not - they were actually lined up at Louis Vuitton. I pointed at one ordinary little bag and asked what it cost, and the woman said 985 euros. That's $1500. Some of the people did not look wealthy - some were young couples. It seems to be a Japanese honeymoon thing - you go to Paris and spend $1500 on a handbag. Incomprehensible. The makers of luxury goods must be screaming with laughter. All the way to the bank.

After I'd asked about the price, I turned around and saw that a security guard was eyeballing me. I guess I don't look like Louis Vuitton material.

Next door is Le Printemps, which is even more expensive. I didn't go in.

This is not a temple, it's Le Printemps, a STORE.

Started walking back toward the river - past the humble little opera house.

Passed a store called La Canadienne, maple leaf above the door, and went inside to find out what they sold - maple syrup? Mukluks? It was full of leather and suede jackets, so I asked the anorexic young saleslady about the connection to my homeland. The store, it turns out, is based in Lyons and has nothing whatsoever to do with Canada.

Walked and walked - a heavenly day - until I got hungry and jumped on the bus home. I know, there are a million cafés in this city, but I love sitting in my dining-room, in silence. Was going to work afterwards, but the day was just too too too beautiful, so I walked down to the Jardin des Plantes to commune with Dad.

His tree is transformed.

It felt so good to sit on a bench in the sun and share Paris with my dad.