There and Back Again, Part 5

Friday, October 27

Seemed only to open at night

Friday morning, we got up with the construction and headed out to find a place that was serving breakfast. I really wanted to sit in a cafe, drink coffee and not worry about dishes. We walked down rue Beaubourg and found a corner bistro serving omelets and similar breakfast fare and we ordered ham and cheese omelets all around.

After eating and another cup of coffee, we headed out to find a taxi and headed to the Louvre. Things were really hopping there. We had our museum passes, so I expected to get in fairly quickly. But there was a security line, and the things they were checking were purses, backpacks and the like.

Kittie and David at the Louvre

Now, I knew that they would be stopping people carrying stuff, so I advised Kittie and David, and took my own advice, and we didn’t carry anything. But this did not matter, as those of us without any packages or parcels were required to stand in line with those folks who feel it necessary to carry their worldly possessions in a ruck sack when they travel.

I think they would do well to create two lines, one for those with bags and one for those without. The French, though, don’t seem really good at streamlining that kind of procedure, though they excel Americans in setting up and installing (instilling?) bureaucratic structure.

I had started out the day feeling good, but by the time I had stood in line, my hip was aching once more, but a good stride and the reasonably wide open spaces of the Louvre would work that off.

The graces or muses or something

This museum, too, had changed over the decade I had been absent. On top of that, they had several exhibits closed down, the most notable one being the Egyptian antiquities. I tried to get my bearings in the place, but it, too, was a labyrinth, and things didn’t flow from one to the next as I thought they would. I guess this is what happens when you adapt older buildings as museums rather than building them from the ground up, like Americans do.

Venus and Cupid

Today, we decided to kind of hang together but not expect everyone to stick together all the time. We had a general plan of attack, starting at the Roman antiquities and concentrating on sculpture.

The things we did not get to see that I would have liked: the Asian-Oceanic exhibit and the collection of Arab art and artifacts. Another closed-off area was the medieval art wing. All three of these are exceptional collections.

It's that satyr guy I can't remember

In fact, walk into any room or hall in the Louvre and you’ll see enough to fill an entire regular museum. And to think that a good portion of the Louvre’s collection is in storage.

After we cleared the Roman sculpture and finished the smaller Roman artifacts rooms, we headed over to see the most famous painting in the world: her; the L de V bee-atch, the MoLi, dog.

Emperor Claudius, my favorite

She is situated on her own wall in the center of a large hall. There are ropes blocking off access at about six feet from her, and she’s in a bulletproof glass case. There she sits, grinning smugly at all these idiots in front of her, pushing, jostling, craning their phones into the air to get a picture of this trollop. And she just smiles back, like she’s the only one who gets the joke.

Now my back was bothering me. I hobbled and bitched. Kittie and David tolerated it as gracefully as possible, but I could tell it was getting as tiresome for them as it was for me. So we wandered around and got lost once or twice, but we finally found the main area below the pyramid and headed to the eatery (a cafeteria/restaurant affair with a food court atmosphere).

There she is back there!

I remember ordering a hamburger (I stayed at our table to save our seats while Kittie and David stood in line; of course there was a line). What I got was a kind of bland pulled-beef sandwich in the most mediocre tradition of prêt-á-manger. I can’t recall what Kittie and David had, since all of it was just okay.

After lunch we were all refueled, slightly rested, and I suggested that we walk over to Notre Dame. My back was feeling much better, and it couldn’t be more than half a mile. That way, we could see the Seine. Of course, as usual, it was rush hour and the Quai du Louvre, which we walked down, was crowded with pedestrians.

Look at them look at her looking at them.

This trek was a good thing and a bad thing: a good thing because I found some refrigerator magnets that I had seen when we were driving past the day before in the taxi. The stall that was selling them was right on our route.

The woman from whom I purchased the magnets (two of them; one of Monet's Irises and one of Lautrec’s Chat Noir) didn’t say a word to me, but earnestly wrapped the magnets each in a little bubble-wrap bag inside a tiny white paper bag. She then handed me the items and a lovely smile broke across her face as our eyes finally met.

What would you keep in this box?

Taking the walk was a bad idea because it was not a half-mile, but a mile between these places of interest. Also, waiting for traffic lights is not unlike waiting in security lines, and my back was knotting up and I needed to relax. And I find just the potential of discomfort, the anticipation of it, is almost as debilitating as the actual condition.

It was around 4 p.m. when we got to Notre Dame. It was as crowded as any other popular landmark, and there was a long, long line to get in. Since the cathedral closes at 5 p.m., there was little point in standing on line. And even if we did get inside before closing, the sun would have gone down by that time, and the whole point of Notre Dame is the stunning stained-glass windows. Kittie and David saw the wisdom in this, and spent some time wandering around the exterior as I sat on a stanchion and stretched.

Notre Dame Cathedral.
The long lines are behind the doors.

After Kittie and David had seen what they wanted to see, we headed to the taxi stand, getting a most unpleasant driver. It was obvious he did not want the fare (he was playing solitaire on his iPad), and took us begrudgingly because it’s the law. Once we got to the Marais (our neighborhood), he took several wrong turns and ended up dropping us off like three blocks from the apartment.

So we walked up the street to our place, climbed the four flights of stairs to the apartment and I, at least, collapsed. But only for a time.

Selfies prove you were there.

I am finding that, in writing these missives, my memory dulls once we have returned to the apartment and trudged up the four flights. Then the shoes get kicked off and my thoughts turn to relaxation.

Cantina California was open

Such is the travesty of old age and infirmity. Where evenings were
once a time for partying and celebration, as I’ve aged, evenings have become the time when I unwind, relax, withdraw from the crazy and find my center. Perhaps this is why I can’t clearly remember what thing happened on which evening.

In any case, we headed out to dinner and ate at a place called Cantine California. David had poo-pooed it once earlier in the week when we walked past. In Paris, he thought, we should be eating French food. He would derisively point out every Starbucks and McDonald’s that we drove past in taxis.

The bar inside Cantina California

When we went out, I was looking for a certain restaurant, only to find out it was really more of a bar and smoking spot. This was true with the Royal Beaubourg and the Maryland (the name of the restaurant Kittie had spotted the previous day). I soon realized that a “tabac” sign on an establishment meant it was a bar that served food, and not a bistro, cafe or brasserie.

After once or twice around the block looking for something new, we stumbled upon Cantine California. I was just wanting to sit down and have a drink. I don’t know whether it was my whining or his spirit of adventure, but David decided to give it a try. I’m glad he did, because it actually became one of my favorite meals of the entire vacation.

My bacon-guacamole burger with fries. I'm sorry, but
the French do better American food than we do.

I ordered a bacon-guacamole burger. It was a gem of ground beef, like a juicy, tasty cabochon, on a brioche bun with lots of lettuce, tomato and sautéed onions. It was so juicy, and with the guacamole there was no need for condiments although, being an “American” restaurant, they did have ketchup on the tables.

Our server was new to the job, and she spoke a fair amount of English. She was kind of amused that people from California were coming to eat there. Her service was wonderful and attentive, and David flirted like hell with her, which she loved. I left her a €10 tip, even though the tip was included in the price.

After dinner and a drink, I was feeling much better. We got back to the apartment at a reasonable time, though, because the next morning was the raison d’être for the trip: le Salon du Chocolat.  It would be our last day in Paris.