Paris! A Story in Pictures

Bienvenue à Paris!

Welcome to Paris!

Paris. My favorite city. The second of my three reasons for this trip. This is a long entry, and the gist of the story is told in the photographs. I won't be offended if you skip my sterling text in favor of a quick photo tour.

I arrived on Saturday afternoon, and ninety minutes after checking into the Grand Hotel Leveque on Rue Cler, I was mixing with thousands of Parisiens on the Champs de Mars, enjoying the fine weather in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

Le Grand Hotel Leveque

A lovely day, and everyone was out and about.

Performers were everywhere.

I walked a lot that first afternoon and evening, before finding myself at a crowded and noisy sidewalk café for a late dinner a half block from my hotel. In fact, I walked a lot the next three days I was in Paris. I used the exceptional Paris metro often enough to cover distances when I had to, but just as often I found myself looking at my map and thinking, "I could walk that." As much as anything, walking sums up my time here. I bought a two-day Paris Museum Pass and made the most of it. On Sunday I started at the Rodin Museum (my second favorite museum in this city), then walked to the Musée de Orsay (my favorite museum in this city and, I think, the world). Just getting started, I moved on to the small but spectacular Orangerie.

I have a rule when I visit art museums. No photos of the art. That's what postcards are for. I allow myself photos of the museum itself, and of the people looking at the art. I sometimes break my own rule, if I have a special reason. On this trip, I was looking for close-ups of faces for a project. Maybe the results will be found hanging on a coffee shop wall someday. Or, maybe not.

Having made that proclamation, I gladly break my own rule
for Auguste Rodin's incomparable sculptures.

The clock in the main hall of the Musée d'Orsay

An unhappy guy in l'Orangerie

A prop from the famed shadow theater of the old le Chat Noir cabaret.

Sunday was a lovely early autumn day and, as on Saturday, it seemed as if all of Paris was outdoors taking advantage of the fine weather. The Tuilleries Gardens were packed with residents soaking up the sun.

Sunday in the park, Parisian-style.

Parisians at leisure.

Some eschewed the parks for the tranquility of le Seine.

On Monday, I visited the Louvre and the funky Pompidou Center, not to my liking but also not to be missed if you want to get a complete picture of Paris. At the Louvre, I turned left where thousands turned right in search of Mona Lisa. I found myself in a nearly deserted Richelieu Wing filled with sixteenth century Dutch, French, Flemish, German and other northern European masterpieces. (I even found a Danish painting.)

Not wanting to leave, I wandered through a section of objets d'arts and tapestries. I smiled at a vast tapestry featuring dancing bears holding some VIP's coat of arms.

I decided on a quick visit to the Denon Wing, home of the Mona Lisa. I didn't need to see Mona Lu so much as the crowds that came to see her. Indeed, Leonardo's masterpiece was lost in the crowd. Whereas the empty Richelieu Wing had offered cool serenity, the heat generated by the mobs, and the meandering, oblivious, elbow-to-elbow throngs themselves were all I needed to motivate me to move on to the Pompidou Center.

The Louvre, through the eyes of I.M. Pei

A modern day artist copies a master.

The Louvre reveals its own beauty.

Party girls, immortalized.

Where's Mona?

The Louvre's beauty isn't always hanging on its walls.

From the Louvre to the Pompidou Center is a journey from the sublime to the ridiculous. As the French say, however, a chacun le sien. To each, his own.

On the plaza outside the Pompidou Center

After the Pompidou Center, I found my way to a favorite haunt of Ellen & Ben for a late lunch.

Later in the day, my museum pass took me to the top of the Arc de Triomphe for spectacular views of the entire City of Light.

l'Arc de Triomphe

Three generations at a memorial service for the fallen at l'Arc de Triomphe.

Montmartre, seen from the top of l'Arc de Triomphe.

Near day's end, I returned to my favorite spot in Paris.

And always walking. On Tuesday, my museum pass useless, I wandered all day. I spent hours in the lovely, haunting Père Lachaise Cemetery, a silent refuge in the midst of the busy city.

A visitor can lose himself on the endless winding paths of Père Lachaise.

You can purchase a cemetery map for a euro, but why bother?

Oscar Wilde, popular still. (Click on the photo to read the note.)

Autumn

Amadeo Modigliani and his distraught lover, together forever.

Time passes...

...and has its way.

Then, it was off to the honky-tonk atmosphere of Montmartre, for the sole purpose of getting a photograph of the distant Eiffel Tower framed by the shade trees of Montmartre.

Far below Sacré Coeur, the hucksters thrive.

Mid-day haze can't detract from the beauty of the Eiffel Tower.

Gare du Nord, my departure point for the Netherlands,
possesses its own museum-like beauty.

A few miscellaneous postscripts:

• The Magic Sinks in the men's room at l'Orangerie: I wave my hands under the faucet, water pours over my hands and I wash. Next to me, a man waves his hands and nothing happens. He moves to an adjacent sink - nothing. We look at each other and smile. Then I try to rinse and - nothing. He waves his hand and voilá! Water! Then, nothing. We are completely flummoxed until a third man points to the small disks on the floor. We step on them, and we all rinse, laughing in different languages.

• After walking for hours on Sunday, I decide to try to find Coté de Bergamote, where I have a dinner reservation in the evening. I wander through the streets of Saint Germain without success. Hot and tired, I come upon the Church of Saint Germain des Pres and step inside. The church is filled, not with worshippers, but with people listening to a organ/flute concert. I find a seat in the cool, dark recesses and let the sublime notes flow over me as I rest for the walk home.

• Parisians have fun. So many cafés, bistros, restaurants, brasseries. So many people in them, eating, drinking, talking, having a good time. Armed with my map, I have no trouble finding Bergamote and no trouble enjoying the superb three-course formule.

• Walking home after dinner at Coté de Bergamote in the dark along the quiet streets by the Seine. From across the river, in the darkness near the Louvre, gentle strains of jazz float through the night air. A lone saxophone, somewhere in the city, keeping time.

• On another evening, I seek out Café Breizh, an upscale crêperie recommended by Ellen. The intimate, inviting restaurant is packed, so I make a reservation for the evening of jeudi. I am proud to make the reservation speaking entirely in French with the host. On Tuesday evening, I arrive at eight o'clock, but the restaurant is dark. I am puzzled. As I walk the streets looking for another restaurant to my liking, I search for an explanation. Then it comes to me. It is Tuesday evening. Mardi, not jeudi. I have recited the days of the week thousands of times since I learned them in high school; how could I do this? I sink into a grand funk, completely annoyed at my own stupidity. At the Seine, I stand on the bridge and watch the lingering daylight on the distant horizon behind Notre Dame. Finally, I find a sidewalk café on the banks of the Seine. A friendly waitress, soupe l'oignion, salade niçoise and a carafe of vin blanc restore me to a good mood. (Although dinner was good, the onion soup and salade niçoise that I make at home are much better!) A long conversation with an Australian couple and the next table finishes the job. The waitress hovers, wanting to close up for the night. We say our goodbyes.