I took notes on our vacation to France, but it has been more than a month so I’m sure to have lost the ability to write about all the charms of the trip. I’ll do my best to remember my version without cheating by looking at Mom’s.
Thursday, April 5th we got up early to catch the train into Paris. My poor mother was worried out of her mind and it didn’t help that I took everything so casually. What could go wrong that couldn’t be made right again? It helped that I wasn’t responsible for this part of the trip, and I know how stressful it can be to be in charge. Mom did a beautiful job of dealing with the taxi driver and we soon found ourselves on Rue de Bac and walking into our dear friend’s Paris flat.
She is an artist and their place is a work of art.
I was afraid I’d break something, but thankfully the klutz in me lay dormant for the time. (For all the grammar I’m learning I don’t know if that’s supposed to be “lay” or one of the other infinite varieties available.) After a brief orientation by our host we walked along the Seine and over Pont Neuf to Sainte Chappelle.
I must say here that it was extremely frustrating to be useless. I know no French and cramming on the train ride didn’t do me much good. Spelling is an irrelevant triviality to me that makes no sense and has no importance, and that’s in English, so the French language with its bazaar love of adding in as many extra letters as possible for the shear fun of it presents a barrier to learning that is hard for me to try to overcome. I had fun practicing the nasal sounds and intonation of the French, but I’m afraid I made enemies with the written word. Luckily, my parents took French back in the day and Mom studied hard and was able to help us get around. Nearly everyone was patient and friendly with us, quite contrary to all the rumors!
Sainte Chappelle and Notra Dame were very impressive and beautiful, but I was soon growing irritable from the crowds of tourists. The frustration was only to increase and knowing that I was just another one adding to the crowd didn’t help me either . . .
We took a retreat by the Stravinsky Fountain (made by Tinguely!) and ate the most delicious crepes at a café while watching locals chat and play games. It was a lovely break.
We caught the bus to the Eiffel Tower in hopes of catching the sunset, as had been highly recommended to me. It must have been highly recommended to everyone because the lines were long and very slow. Disney, Paris is not. Switzerland, Paris is not. We caught the sunset alright – in line on the ground. This part of the wait really wasn’t too bad. We were talking and laughing and I’m used to lines, but when we finally got to the elevator and got to the next level and saw another long line I nearly snapped. Well, it’s the perfect opportunity to grow in patience and the view wasn’t bad from there anyway so I survived to the top. I think it would have been better in the daylight, but Paris is the city of lights and it was a nice view. After everyone was satisfied we headed back only to be met with the worst part of the adventure. I was tired, annoyed, felt trapped, wanted to leave, and nearly went nuts waiting for the elevator(s). You can read the real version of the story on Mom’s blog. I have been spoilt by Switzerland where they keep you informed and keep things running. Waiting half an hour for an elevator to arrive only to be denied access because they let ‘special’ people on from the exit side and having that happen time and time again is not my idea of fun. Luckily there were some loud-mouths with us that did the complaining for us and we were finally escorted down in the service elevator. Oh, what a big favor, they’d let us down after we paid to go up. Next time I’ll ask if it’s a round-trip ticket. Two hours up, ten minutes at the top, 1 ½ hours down. How romantic.
I was a bit more optimistic in this video.
Other than that it was a wonderful day. We got home late and not without adventure, but that is better read at Mom’s blog (see above).
Good Friday, April 6th we were up again at 7:30 and enjoyed a lovely Parisian breakfast at a café on our street: baguettes, croissants, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, fresh squeeze orange juice. Yum! As you’ll soon hear why, I put on all the weight I’d lost in preparation for this trip. I must say I think it was worth it.
We headed to the Louvre, which was my only request for this part of the trip. I wanted at least a day there, but Mom and Dad didn’t feel the same so I decided to take what I could. I like to go my own pace, so I let them go off and do their own thing while I bought an audio guide and headed out to the wing with 17th, 18th, and 19th century French paintings. In Italy the audio guides were wonderful, but I guess the Louvre has too much art so hardly anything had a caption. I was very grateful for the Teaching Company video we watched in preparation for the trip because I recognized and appreciated so many of the works that would otherwise have been clueless about. It was such a treat to come upon work after work that I knew and could pick out aspects that the professor had pointed out, as well as let the work effect me in its original beauty. I hardly made it through that little wing before the two hours were up that signaled the time to check in with Mom and Dad. Luckily, they had much more to see as well so we arranged to meet after another three hours. Who needs lunch after such a nice breakfast and with such a feast for the eyes available? I have never known too much about art, nor have I ever particularly enjoyed it, but these works were so beautiful and moving and it was a delight to wonder through at my own pace imagining and thinking with little interruption from other people. That, I soon found out, was because I’d slipped up to the top floor in the morning. I loved the ‘little’ French treasures, but of course I wanted to see the big and famous works, too, and that is where I met the crowds. Everyone was so crowded around the Mona Lisa that they didn’t see The Wedding Feast at Cana behind them. This happened over and over, but that was fine for me, because it meant I could enjoy this “less famous” works without interruption, apart from the noise the restless crowd made. I must say, Mona Lisa was impressive. I had heard everyone whine about how small she is, but she really isn’t that small. I don’t know if I’d have noticed her if she weren’t so famous, but there is something interesting about it. Still, as I mentioned, I prefer to find my own little treasures and avoid the crowds. I must admit that the crowds were not nearly as bad as I’d expected, having the memory of the Vatican Museums in my mind, in which we were practically herded through like cattle! I can hardly think that I appreciated a fraction of what I saw or of what goes into making such works of art. I get an inkling when I see works in other museums that just don’t quite move me as much, but I can’t really say why.
A head for the headless Winged Victory of Samothrace. Haha.
It was time to meet again before I’d finished that wing, but my feet were tired so it was time to stop anyway. We had baguette sandwiches in the Tuileries and decided to split up so Mom and I could rest and Dad could see a coin museum. It was a needed break. For as wonderfully as my whole extended family gets along, we have our differences that cause tension when we must do everything together 24-7. We reunited energized from resting (Mom and I) or being efficient (Dad) and enjoyed another two hours at the Louvre. I was able to finish seeing the paintings and even got to see some sculpture and the Nepolean III apartments.
Exhausted, but happy, we had a snack at the flat and went to bed. Before saying goodnight my dear mother turned to Dad and taking me in her arms said with gravity in her voice “This is our daughter. These are her last few hours of being 22.” We had a great laugh over that.
Here is the crazy trio at the Louvre. I just love this picture. We're all nuts.
Holy Saturday, April 7th, I got to sleep in a bit as my first birthday treat. This whole two week stay with Mom and Dad was my birthday present, so it was the first birthday where I didn’t open a single present, but it was also one of the most special birthdays I’ve ever had. First of all, I got to spend it with Mommy and Daddy and it’s been a long time since that happened! Life isn’t always easy, and the tensions from the previous day were unresolved, but you know you are loved when people take the time to work out tension and bear with your emotions and needs. I heard someone say that he/she wanted to marry a musician. For the life of me I cannot imagine why, unless it’s not by profession, but only a musician on the side. It might be fun to be around beautiful music and passion, but the need to express all that emotion in music comes with a very emotional, deeply feeling personality that can be pretty tough to deal with. Musician marriages often work because they’re both that way and understand each other. When only one is, it can take some pretty hard work to create understanding. Mummy and Daddy might still be baffled by me sometimes, but I’m so grateful they bear with me even as they wonder where this musician among logical beings came from. It was convenient of me to choose my birthday to discuss some issues, wasn’t it? Really, I wasn’t trying to be manipulative.
Again, I write all this for those of you out there who think we have such a perfect relationship. Yes, it’s beautiful, but we have our problems as well. I am very happy to report that when we arrived in fairyland all the tensions melted away entirely, but I must wait to write about that fairyland for the next update. For now, we’re just finishing up crepes and intense discussion and heading off to the Orsay Musuem for another morning of incredibly moving art.
I’m never sure what people mean when they say “I’m a hopeless romantic,” but I think I am. I love Romantic music, I love books like “Pride and Prejudice,” I love romantic walks and talks and sunsets, and I love impressionist art. Some things cannot have the same effect in reproduction, and impressionist art is one of them. It speaks in an entirely different way to be there in front of a live painting where the brush-strokes are practically leaping out of the canvas at you. Unfortunately, that is not the only thing jumping at you. The crowds were nearly as bad as at the Vatican, and an unfortunate development in museum-going habits has cropped up since my trip to Italy in 2004. Obviously, I need to be educated in this new etiquette. The pattern I observed was
- Wait impatiently (pretending to be patient) for your turn in front of the painting. During this step it is important to stare at the floor or the people you are waiting for.
- Analyze the painting through a tiny cell phone screen
- Apply blinding light to delicate painting
- Whip around to next painting.
- Repeat steps 1-4 until you have enough bad photos to annoy your friends for days with, but that you will never look at again. Congratulations, now you can say “I’ve been there.”
Sorry, for that. I just don’t understand the point of it. It probably annoyed them that I wanted to stand in front of the painting and think, feel, and sometimes get my nose up close (without breathing!) to see some detail. It really is such incredibly vibrant and moving art. I really like Renoir now and I’ve already written about another painting that moved me greatly here.
If you get to Paris and can tolerate art at all, go to the Louvre and the Orsay and let yourself go at your own pace. Open your eyes and your heart and drink in all the feeling expressed in paint. The true masters create not solely for the intellectual, but for the ordinary person.
That was the end of our time in Paris. In sensitivity to my poor Mom, we went to the train station extremely early so she wouldn’t worry herself sick about missing the train. We ate at a café there and made the train without trouble, probably because we were there so early. ;)
Now, my friends, I must get back to work and save the story of our fairytale adventure for the next time.
"Lay" is absolutely correct. Past tense of "lie." You done good. Er, you did well. :)
Actually Janet, I think you're *not* a Hopeless Romantic—in all the worst senses, though maybe you are in the best ones. Like the 1960s, I have relatively little esteem for the 19th century. I'm much more fond of the 17th. I don't think you're a Romantic, I think you're a Baroque.
To explain what I'm talking about: there are so many elements of the 19th century and of Romanticism that are either unpleasant or downright abhorrent—the birth of humanism, a glorification of paganism and naive titillation at the occult, the first displacement of the true gospel with the Social Gospel, the rapid growth of the perceived schism between science and religion... but over all an aesthetic and a worldview that deified emotion and the "spiritual"—meant in a very new-agey, mysterious sense. I'm not fond of all that.
Neither do I have a strong affinity for the 18th century, with the silliness of the Rococo and all their powder and starch and hoops, with their gimlet-eyed Deism and brazen secular "rationalism," and with an abhorrence of vehement expression of the "affections."
Rather, I think your love of the beautiful and freedom to express your emotions are Baroque, when they were still tempered by common sense and tethered to a living orthodoxy. For myself, I had rather be John Donne than Sartre, and certainly than Goethe (although I spent most of my melodramatic teens unwittingly being him). You love contrasts, variety, the beauty of juxtaposition, and most tellingly, you still believe in truth. (And take the quaint view that it is neither Nature nor man's wisdom.) No, my dear, I think you're a Hopeful Baroque...ist. (Though exemptions are granted for Jane Austen and Brahms... at least I sure hope they are!)
Dope—mildly misplaced modifier there. I'm not like the 1960s. (I hope.)
I hear you, Andy. There's definitely a dark side to Romanticism -- C. S. Lewis specifically credits George MacDonald with rescuing him from its attractions. But I think Lewis, MacDonald, and Tolkien, to name a few of the brightest stars in that sky, are sufficient evidence that there was good in Romanticism as well. Since you've read the space trilogy, I'll mention the end of That Hideous Strength, where he mentions some of Mother Dimble's characteristics that would be frightening and wrong except that they have been "baptized" and redeemed (or restored to God's original intent). The "Romp" in Prince Caspian is similar.
Besides, I think maybe she's more Medieval than Baroque.... :) Actually, she seems to be able to take the good from all eras!
Was the laugh you had about the last few hours before your birthday because Mom was two years off, or was that a typo and the laugh about something else?
Beautiful essay, Andy. You should get a blog of your own, but I appreciate the insightful comments. I don't know enough about the mindset during medieval times, but I'm certainly interested in more than the courtly love idea that dominates their poetry. Mom, you remember that poem from the concert you went to here? It's all like that. ;)
Yes, Heather. It was because she was two years off that we had a good laugh. I'm sure half of it was the serious show she made of the announcement.
True, true, medieval is even better. (Though, ironically, I prefer a Romanticized "Idylls-of-the-King" medievalism to the lack-of-indoor-plumbing reality. And of course, after having said all this, I also want to avoid what I call "Miniver Cheevy Syndrome"—http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/234.html )
