The Louvre

Ajourd’hui I visited the most famous art museum in the world. Let me tell you about my time at the behemoth known as the Louvre. My shins are killing me--I walked for miles in that place.

I made my way in with ease, and virtually no wait, thanks to the Paris Museum Pass. Then the confusion began. I thought I was heading toward the Egyptian antiquities, but either they were closed or I was wrong. Probably the latter.



Anyway, I first took a walk around the Etruscan and Roman antiquities, and was taken with Horus Albani, a massive marble sculpture of a pharaoh-looking dude. There were amazing sarcophaguses, with decorative sculpture all over them--warriors in robes brandishing swords or spears. Also loved the amazing pottery, brilliant Egyptians in Bangles poses. I swear, some of that artwork was more impressive than the huge canvases upstairs.



I was blown away by the fragments of the Parthenon, and, of course, the Venus de Milo and her stumps.

Upstairs, I found myself in the area of art objects from royal France and the Renaissance: clumpy suits of armor, ostentatious pistols, amazing stained glass. Then I toured the apartments of Napoleon III, talk about living in grandeur. The furniture, the elephantine bureaus, so astonishing that I didn’t even notice the ceilings until I saw people with cameras pointing skyward. Brilliant chandeliers dropped from ceilings engraved and decorated with gold or painted with royal scenes.

I was surprised at how interesting I found the porcelain and earthenware, especially the plates covered with scenes of war or religion before under a brilliant blue sky. Hundreds of these--if they would’ve had one in the gift shop, I would’ve considered buying it. Then more huge plates, with snakes or frogs or fruits glazed into them and painted in the most intricate detail. Sounds tacky. It wasn’t.



I made my way to the third floor, toured the paintings from Holland. I saw works by van Loo, Steen (love me some Steen), Van de Velde, van Ostade, Fabrituis, and Vermeer (The Lacemaker). I really enjoyed Gerard ter Borch’s work of a man playing a lute for his lady. And when I reached the Flanders rooms I came across Van Dyck’s Charles I, a painting I’ve admired since I saw it in my high school history textbook. I sat down and stared at it for a few minutes.

"Enjoy that head, Chuck," I whispered.



I liked Nicholas Tournier’s Le Concert. Sharp focus.

And in the French square of galleries, I have to mention Le Brun’s massive ancient canvases; Pierre Cupuis’ still lifes, including his plums and peaches where you feel the fuzz; Le Brun’s luminous Elisabeth-Louise; Baron Antoine-Jean Gros’ Bonaparte au pont d’Arcole (1796); Corot’s crackly and beautiful Le mariee; and Delacroix’s stunning Jeune orpheline au cimetiere. Why the latter two aren’t super-famous is beyond me. Especially Delacroix’s, it’s already one of my favorites. Here it is:



I went down to the first floor—I had to see you-know-what, didn’t I? First I came across a great Botticelli (similar to the one I had seen at the National Gallery last year), Portrait de jeune homme (and I don’t need Babelfish to tell me that means “Portrait of a Young Man”). If you asked me, Botticelli blows Leonardo away.

Nonetheless, we all know who’s the star here. So I followed the signs, followed the crowd, and there it was--the most famous painting on earth. I got as close as I could, and, even though it’s not one of my favorites, it’s historical up the wazoo, and I soaked it in. And, I’ll confess, as I turned the corner into the room I got a tingle in my belly (like walking through the corridor at Fenway Park, about to see the Green Monster for the first time).



“You’re smiling,” I whispered to Mona Lisa. “I’ve always thought you were smiling. Never understood all the mystery.”

Afterward, large format French paintings. Of course, Delacroix’s legendary Liberty Leading the People, their Declaration of Independence canvas, so to speak. He’s great. Also, Paul Delaroche’s Bonaparte franchissant les Alpes en 1800, David’s Coronation of Napoleon, and Ingres’ regal yet sexy as all hell Une odalisque. That broad was the Marisa Miller of her day. Seriously, this is SI swimsuit issue stuff, circa 1814. Judge for yourself...



I finally found the Egyptian section. The giant sphinx, how’d they get it here? Did they sail it across the Mediterranean in one of those wooden ships you see in history books--wouldn’t it have sunk the fucker? I can’t even imagine how many tons that thing must weigh.

And the reliefs from the temples, I looked at the hieroglyphics. And I wondered--how many of the pieces were found by Champollion and his team, did he have these hands on this piece I’m looking at now? Pretty cool to think that.



One last tour of some sculptures, looking long at a bust of Alexander, greatly in need of pupils.

All in all, I spend about six hours there.

When I got back to my hotel, I rested my tired ankles for about twenty minutes, then went around rue Mouffard for some souvenirs and groceries. When I bought the souvenirs, I handed them to the lady (who already knew I spoke English, they can tell right away here) and said, “Je voudrais l’acheter maintenant.”

(Because I couldn’t remember how to say “this,” I had to settle for, “I would like to buy it.”)

She smiled. “Very good pronunciation!” she said.

She asked me if it was first time in Paris.

“First time in Europe!”

“In Europe!” she said. “My goodness!”

She was nice. Everyone has been.

And when I went into the bakery, I said “Bonjour,” then “Je voudrais…” and pointed to the loaf I wanted (this is my chief method of communication, I’d be a mute without “je voudrais”). She rang me up, handed me the bread, and said, “Thanks a lot!” in choppy English.

I smiled, pointed at her. “Merci beaucomp! Au revoir!”

“Goodbye,” she replied.

Pere Lachaise

Around 9:20 this morning I hopped on the Metro at Gare Austerlitz, and about twenty minutes later, after a transfer at Republique, I walked toward the gates of Pere Lachaise. It was a chilly Sunday morning, Boulevard de Menilmontant damp from a light rain a few hours ealier, wet leaves smashed into the pavement. There wasn’t a whole lot of activity--a few people walking dogs, a few people riding bikes, nothing like the Latin Quarter or Concorde. In fact, the brick buildings, the storefronts, this small part of Paris reminded me of old pictures of Detroit in my dad's books, pictures from the 1930s and 1940s. Don’t laugh, Detroit looked very different back then.

Anyway, I found the east entrance to Pere Lachaise and labored up the Ave. Principale. I hadn’t seen any information place, a kiosk or something, so I decided to tour the place without a map. Foolishly, as it turned out.

There was a large map display near the entrance, and thought this would suffice. Two stupid things about this theory: one, this map did not have Richard Wright’s grave listed, and that’s one I really wanted to see; and, two, the hundreds of winding paths told me I’d have trouble finding just about everything.

“Just follow the crowds,” I told myself, “and you’ll see the biggies. And walk around enough, and you’ll come across Richard’s grave.”

Sounds ludicrous now. Hell, five minutes into the place and I knew I could’ve walked around for a week and come up empty.



Each section was a city in itself--almost a slum, albeit a grand old one. Great sepulchers of stones, crowded next to each other, and sometimes barely enough room to press between. Thousands of graves any way you turned. Really, I could’ve strolled past my mother’s tomb and missed it.

And some of these sepulchers were bigger and taller than my dining room. The older ones stained with large water marks, some adorned with grand sculptures--a weeping angel, a bust of the deceased, or an elaborate cross.

In many places it looked as if coffins were laid beside each other, cement poured over them, and the newer ones covered in black and polished to a stately ash. Perhaps a cross was grooved into the lid.



When they say the dead “rest,” it’s really true here--many sections resembled furniture showrooms, countless square feet of stone beds with a tiny cement walkway to navigate, shop, choose. Or, along the cobbled walkway, the older stone “outhouses” line the sides, and they’re twice as tall as you, and some even have a cement bench built within.



For the first half hour or so I sought no celebrity. Yes, I was headed Oscar’s way, but I just enjoyed the scenery, the craftsmanship, the solitude, and the quiet. It was brisk out, somewhat windy, I kept my head in my pockets and strolled along, and reminded myself that no matter how lost I was, I wasn’t really. It’s impossible to get lost in Paris. If you are, you have no soul.

I was on the Ave. Circulare, which, as its name suggests, circles the place. I decided to cut through on Ave. Carotte. This was a lucky choice, for I soon saw the familiar tomb of Oscar, the zigzaggy angel holding up the upper half of his tomb on her back.



I had Oscar to myself for a few minutes (I’ll bet he would’ve loved that). There they were, the lipstick puckers all over, wet bouquets of flowers at the base, a bottle of wine, a few folded notes with the ink bleeding from the morning rain.
And then a tour group came, the guide speaking French. People held out digital cameras and snapped pictures, and I channeled the tomb’s occupant and thought, “Either these tourists go, or I do.”

(Although I’ve read that it’s just a myth that Oscar, on his deathbed, said, “Either these curtains go or I do.”)

After the tourists left, I walked around Oscar’s tomb, and found it hard to believe the genius who wrote so many profound words was so close to me. I stayed about ten minutes, just thinking about that.

When I resumed my journey, I headed back down Ave. Circulare, consulted a map, and decided to see another celebrity. After a pleasant walk past more and more old, massive tombs, and a few shiny new ones, only a few years old, I followed a few voices and came to the most popular grave in the place, the only one (that I saw, anyway) with guard rails. And there was the Lizard King, who could do anything.

Not much of a crowd, only four or five people. I took my pictures, then leaned on a rail and just looked. It’s a wonder Jim is so popular here, he’s one of the thousands at the cemetery that is quite tucked away.



“James Douglas Morrison, 1943-1971,” read the tombstone, with the edge of the letters turning a rusty green and water stains running from the “D” and the “4” and “3.” And I thought about all those Doors CDs I listened to, I heard “Break on Through” and “When the Music’s Over” in my head. I thought about “Light My Fire” on Sullivan, and, again, it was hard to fathom that a guy I worshipped in high school was here, right next to me. Hell, I patterned my signature after his in 1983, 1984--it’s still on my Social Security card. (Although I wish it wasn't, seems pretty stupid now.)

I made my way toward the entrance, paid my respects to Pissarro, told him that part of the reason I drove twelve hours to Memphis last year was to see his paintings. "Told him" meaning I thought it, I didn't speak to the guy.

However, I really went back to the entrance to get a map. I found a tiny booth near the gate.

“Bonjour” to the lady, and followed with, “Avez vous un map?”

I didn’t know how to say “map” in French, so I hoped she either spoke English or “map” was close to how it sounded in French—although I bet it’s something that sounds like “cart,” as in “cartography.” At any rate, she understood me, for she nodded and gave me a small map of the place.

Things were easier after that. Right away, I found Colette’s dark, shiny grave. I had pretty much walked right past it on the way in.

A few minutes later, I found the obelisk of Jean-Francois Champillion. He died at 42, the age I am now (although it could have been 41, they only had the years on his tomb and I don’t know his birthday). A few years ago I read a great book on the cracking of hieroglyphics called The Keys of Egypt, a book that sort of doubled as a Champillion biography. Now that I stood next to Jean-Francois I rested my arms on the gate and took it all in for a few minutes. Much of what you read about ancient Egypt in history books, you only read because of Champillion.



I saw Chopin, the Divine Sarah, and Edith Piaf. Sarah, perhaps the most-famous actress of all time, is almost hidden away, off a path and behind a large tomb. She has sort of an arched roof covering what looks like her coffin encased with stone. Or is it “covered” with stone, I didn’t want to use “cover” twice in once sentence.

(Oh, the irony.)

I cannot overstate how cool it is in there--and part of the coolness is the disorder. It’s like there’s very little planning there, and I liked that. The cobbled roads are uneven, the stairs are steady but don’t look it, the rails are rough and rusty.

It’s a village of tombs, gardens of stone.

On my way out, I resolved to go to the booth and ask the women, “Savez vous ou Richard Wright est?” and hope that was correct.

(That’s “Do you know where Richard Wright is?” I didn’t know how to say, “Do you know where Richard Wright’s grave is?”)

However, as I strolled down a cobbled path toward the entrance, I noticed a young couple in front of me holding a very large map of the cemetery. I took a few quick steps to get a better peek at their map, and saw it was much more detailed than the one I picked up at the cemetery entrance.

The couple spoke in Irish accents thick as a milkshake, but I understood almost every word as I eavesdropped for a few moments. Good enough. I asked them if they could help me, and told them I was looking for Richard Wright. They looked him up, and he was indeed on their map, in Section 87, near the corner adjacent to Sections 90 and 91. I thanked him profusely, and they laughed.

Turns out Richard is in the massive crematorium. I found his marker with little trouble, even though it’s behind a stairway. I took a picture, then bent down for a few minutes. I thought of that asshole teacher he wrote about in Black Boy, that woman who told him he’d never be a writer and asked him who in the world put such an idea into his “n— head.” I wonder how many people sought out her grave today.


I took a short tour of only a small corner of the crematorium. The best way to describe it: It looks like two stories of old record album covers glued to the walls. And it’s huge, taking up an entire section of the cemetery itself.

Just before I left Pere Lachaise, I stopped at a railing on a hill that offered me a sweeping view of a good chunk of the cemetery below me. I took in the solemn beauty of it all. I know that’s a corny way to put it, but that’s what I did. You do that a lot when you’re by yourself and you’re exploring Paris.

Paris, Day Two

(Here's day two in Paris--I know you've been on pins and needles. When you're in Paris and you're describing an art museum, you tend to get a little purple-prosey, so excusez-moi.)



It’s 11 a.m., and I sit in the Place d’Italie Metro station in Paris, France. Tourist that je suis, I could’ve boarded a car a minute ago, but wasn’t certain it was the right one. It was. I’ll have to wait for the next train.



I’ll manage. All I need to do is look like I’m busy, occupe, and I don’t think anyone will bother me. And I look busy by looking, I don’t know, sort of annoyed. Remember that episode of Seinfeld, where George convinces people he’s busy by always looking annoyed when they walk into his office? Well, I’ve taken that to heart--I walk around here with a sour look on my face, in the hope I don’t look like an American tourist but an ordinary Frenchman with a looming work deadline. Last year the cute waitress at Caribou Coffee said I look “European,” so maybe I’m blending in.

And I’ve found myself a nice little prop--a French newspaper. I carry it with me, and when I sit in the subway station and write in Le Monde’s margins, perhaps anyone watching thinks I’m doing a crossword puzzle. What they don’t know is that I’m writing these words you’re reading now.

Or maybe I flatter myself, thinking I’m so important and so noticeable that every Parisian grifter is obsessed with every move I make. I guess I read too many horror stories on the web the past six months.

(And, by the way, I get a mild joy from reading the signs in the Metro tunnels--or, rather, understanding a few words.)



It’s 2:35 p.m., and I’m in the RER station at Gare Austerlitz, waiting to allez to the Orsay. I had planned on visiting the Louvre aujourd’hui, as I thought it was open until 9:45 on Friday; however, I consulted my guidebook one last time and discovered I was wrong--don’t know where I had read that before. So I should have at least a few hours at the smaller Orsay, and, if that isn’t enough, I’ll go back.

(By the way, I know it’s d’Orsay, but isn’t Musee d’Orsay translated as “Museum of Orsay,” so saying “the d’Orsay” would be saying “the of Orsay” in English?)

I enjoyed the Tour Montparnasse this morning. Wonderful views of Paris. I love the architecture of this city, the diagonal streets and buildings that fit right in.

(Here’s a pic I took, looking toward Sacre Coeur. The one at the top of the page was also taken from the roof of the Tour Montparnasse.)







Hey. It’s 9 p.m., and I’m in my hotel room.

L’hotel is situated against a small street, Rue Buffon, and across from my window is, I guess, the paleontology section of the National Museum of Natural History. When it’s light outside, I can easily peer from my third-floor perch into the giant windows and see dozens and dozens of skeletons--dinosaurs, primates, saber-tooths.

This evening, as the first signs of night crept into the streets, I opened my hotel room window, leaned outside, and, in this relative solitude, I watched the people on the street below. One dude rode a bike and held another bike beside him, so he rolled four wheels down the street. And I saw a pretty young femme, dressed in black, curvy European butt--big and slender all at once. “Oui, oui, indeed,” I whispered. Only the pigeons rule Paris more than she.

(Here’s a view of Rue Buffon from my window, taken earlier in the day.)





Okay, the Orsay. I had a little trouble figuring out which RER train to take—actually, I had trouble figuring out which line was the RER, which is the Metro but isn’t the Metro, I guess. However, I eventually figured it out, and rolled over to the museum I have looked forward to the most.

I saw some biggies on the first floor. Millet’s Les glaneuses, peasant women gathering straw, their aching backs bent, their outstretched arms throwing shadows on the ground. Mountains of hay in the distance.

Many Corots, stately landscapes of long-ago workdays, lined one of the walls.

Languages of all kinds all around me as I wandered the hallways--I recognized German, Spanish, and something Asian, maybe Japanese.

Was it the second floor where I saw a number of my favorites? I’m pretty sure it was. Some of these I may get mixed up, but I’m almost positive there was Pissarro, Sisley. Love those two, love Pissarro’s winding paths—some of which I’m certain I saw in Memphis last year--love Sisley’s street scenes that look slow but still move. And I loved a work by Bazille--poor, doomed Bazille. I read that Renoir took his death hard.

Speaking of, I found, by accident, the Renoir room. I had read earlier this year about his last important painting, The Two Bathers, in Jean Renoir’s memoir of his father. And there it was. Renoir even makes tits more lovely than lustful--no small feat in my book. Or in any guy's book.

(I hate the way that sounds: “Renoir’s memoir.")

And I saw the Young Girls at the Piano, a favorite of mine. I love the sweeping strokes of their cheeks, the smooth brilliance of the piano, the blue vase with its gobs of color which produce its explosive pattern. And either Renoir made two of those or it was on loan last summer, for I’m certain I saw it as the Met during the dazed excursion I spoke of yesterday.

And next to each other, two dancing scenes, similar to the one I saw at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston last year. I even remember the order: the more cheerful La danse a la campagne (1883) on the left, the more formal Dance a la ville (1883) on the right. Strange--the former sounds more formal, but it’s not. The chubby lady wearing a floppy red bonnet and Palmolive gloves, she sees that Auguste takes her picture, so she smiles for his camera. And in the latter, I leaned close to see how he creates the effect of a bouncy and crumply tail of the white gown—with choppy gray lines and smudges of silver in a planned here-and-there. Or maybe it wasn’t planned and I just don’t get it.

(Here they are.)





Monet and Degas were well represented in adjoining rooms.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Gauguin, who fits in here in time only. Crazy self-portraits and the exotic Arearea, sexy Polynesian girls with stumpy arms sitting Indian-style behind their rusty dog, which sniffs the ground.

Then I made it to the fifth floor, the museum’s place to be, and be they were. Just some of the highlights…

Manet had many excellent works there. Three that stood out: Berthe Morisot au bouquet de violettes. I love Morisot, so it was great to see her huge eyes and pouty lips right into me; Vase de piviones sur piedouche, I looked close to see how Manet throws darkness into a leaf, how he makes the effect of a flower viewed from the side—something I have trouble with when I dabble in pastels; and L’Evasion de Ruchefort, I got as close as decorum would allow, closed one eye, took in the lines of gray and green and olive and white and swirls of blue and black, then stepped back to see how it all comes together.

Another one I enjoyed, de Chavanne’s Le Pauvre pecheur. A man in a canoe against the shore, digging for crawfish, perhaps? His bowed head, beard, closed eyes--it’s Christ-like. His wife picks small flowers on the shore as their baby naps.

(I must confess, some of these, if not all, may have been on the second floor.)

Caillebotte’s Raboteur’s de parquet, three shirtless workers stripping a parquet floor. The room is dark and musky, save for the light coming through a window and throwing a shine on an unstripped part of the floor. And, of course, a bottle of wine near the wall--they’re Frenchman, after all.

Monet again. The landscape, the Bridge at Governey, his two almost faceless umbrella ladies standing stop a flowery hill.

To be honest, I didn’t know that Vincent had a room all to himself: I always thought he was post-Impressionism. But there was a self-portrait, a vase of flowers, and melancholy old Dr. Gachet in his groovy dark blue coat, resting his head against his fist. And a coaster-makers dream, Vincent’s room at Arles. I had seen it so many times--in gift shops, on cubicle walls, on my refrigerator. So it was cool to see the genuine article.

(And, here it is. A teacher lectured a class of middle-schoolers as I took this.)



And then, the next room (perhaps it was two over), the main reason I came: Renoir’s Bal du Moulin de la Galette. Everyone focuses on the two ladies leaning over the back of the bench, or the tall couple noticing the camera. And with good reason, they’re so joyous and so alive. However, as with Luncheon of the Boating Party, I marvelled at the rounding sweep of the hats, and I zeroed in on a bystanding reveler far in the background, noticed how he was made. This painting is one of those rare things that deserves every last morsel of praise it gets.

In the next gallery I ran into someone I had forgotten would be there: the mother of James McNeil Whistler, or, should I say, Arrangement en gris et noir: Portrait de la mere de l’artiste. I gazed into the white speckled pattern of the curtains.

And I doubled back and saw it all again, everything I listed and most of what I did not. Wonderful experience.



On the way back to my hotel room, I took a walk along the Seine, stopped at a few trinket stands for postcards and a fridge magnet, made sure I said “Bonjour” to the merchants, and went on my way. I felt a thrill when I saw the spires of Notre Dame rose into view when I emerged from beneath an overpass.

(Something like this…)




I could’ve hit an RER stop, but I decided to take a walk in the part of the Latin Quarter near the Seine. I strolled from the Pont des Arts Bridge to the Cardinal Lemoine Metro stop. Tons of quaint cafes, restaurants, flower shops. No hucksters or pickpockets (at least none that targeted me), just Parisians going about their evening. I think I need to mellow out about the whole pickpocket thing.

I love the architecture here, the way a large apartment is built into the curves of the street. Or is it the other way around? That’s some of the best views, just walking through the neighborhoods, and admiring the slanted, white four-story building where Parisians rest when they are not bustling through the streets of one of the most-famous places on earth.

(This blog, my first, is about my trip to Paris in October of 2008. Much of it is taken from my journal--some of which I wrote while visiting a particular landmark, some of which I wrote in my hotel room at night, so excuse any changes in verb tense. I listened to some French CDs for a few months before I left, so I'll throw a word or phrase in here or there. All my French will be in italics. You'll be able to keep up--I know very little.)






It's a struggle to stay coherent enough to write these words. I knew, when I booked the flight, that I’d get no sleep on the plane. You know those people who conk out on the sofa with the TV on? I’m not one of those people. I need my bed, my blackness, my white noise. Somewhere over the Atlantic I put on my headphones and played soft classical music, closed my eyes, but it wasn’t happening, and I knew it wouldn’t happen. I gave up and watched The Transporter—not exactly Shakespeare, but it passed a few hours.

And then, those first strips of light on the horizon, and I dialed up the interactive map on the seatback’s screen to see where we were. Yes, it was a thrill flying over the gold and brown and green quilt of southern England, zipping over the freighters in the Channel—and that first view of the coastline of France, of continental Europe. Cross a big one off the to-do list.



And, passing north of Paris, look far out, stabbing through the haze—is that the top half of the most-recognize structure on earth? What else could it be?

All in all, it was one smooth ride, only a few bumps somewhere over the ocean. Well done, Northwest.




After I landed, went through customs, and got my luggage, I had to kill a few hours at l’aeroport—my hotel wouldn’t let me check in until 2 p.m. I slipped on my ipod and listened to some downloads from Detroit’s sports talk radio that I’d been saving up for the last few weeks.

A young woman—who was dressed like, I don’t know, sort of a cross between a punk rocker and a gypsy—walked up and handed me a sheet of paper. I looked it over, then back at her. It was some sort of sob story, some sort of appeal, and I gave her my best quizzical expression.

“English?” she said.

I shook my head. A few posters on travel forums had said that this was an effective deterrent, and it was. She politely took the paper and walked away.

Involuntarily I rubbed my belly, felt the reassuring bump of my money belt.

I finally took the Air France bus to Gare Lyon, then rolled my suitcase across the Seine (that sounds so cool) to l’hotel.




You know how lions can immediately spot weak antelope? Well, Parisian hotel clerks can easily spot someone who doesn’t speak French. When I walked up to the front desk I said, “Bonjour,” and thought it sounded pretty damn good. But it didn’t fool the clerk: She smiled and addressed me in English.

She asked me how I was doing.

“Je suis fatigue,” I said, thus using up one of the seven or eight French sentences I knew.

She smiled again.




I spent about 45 minutes unpacking and fighting the urge to take a nap—that could easily throw my internal clock out of whack and screw up the next few days. I ran a few blocks down Blvd. de L’Hospital to grab some milk and Diet Coke—or, as they call it here, Coke Light.

By the time I got back to my hotel and unfolded a few more things, my eyelids weighed about fifty pounds, so I forced myself to go for a walk. Across the street from my hotel, behind the Paleontology Section of the Natural History Museum, is the Jardin des Plantes. So I took a long walk through the gardens.



Last year I read a book called The Anatomy of a Rose: Exploring the Secret Life of Flowers, and found it fasincating--the biology of pollination, the tricks a flower uses to ensure the best pollinators keep coming back.

So, it must have looked bizarre to anyone walking through the gardens this afternoon: You had couples strolling hand-in-hand past the roses, you had little kids running around the saplings, and you had this American idiot bent over a purple flower and watching a monarch butterfly crawl inside. And I got up close, and saw the butterfly dip a "leg" from its head deep into the flower--so that's how you spread pollen around. And I got even closer, less than a foot away, so close that I actually whispered to the butterfly, "Dude, doesn't this bother you?"



I kept on going—when I exited the gardens, I told myself to use a huge yellow crane nearby as a lighthouse—and walked through some streets of the Latin Quarter. I went up Rue Monge, with its cream neo-classical apartments, then back down the very narrow and very cobbled Rue Mouffetard, a great little walking area. Butchers, bistros, cafes, women’s fashion, bakeries, trinket shops. Parisians with places to go and ears to smother with cell phones—some things are universal.



I stopped at a sidewalk stand that had chicken breasts roasting and oval potatoes warming in bins below. A young couple ordered a large chicken breast and scoop of potatoes, which the vendor shoveled into a paper bag. After he rang them up, he came out and said “Bonjour” to me.

“Bonjour,” I said. “Je voudrais le meme chose, sil v’plais.”

(“I would like the same thing, please.”)

He nodded.

And after he rang me up, after I said, “Merci beaucomp,” he replied, “Thank you.” As I walked away I giggled, so jazzed that I was able to communicate in a foreign language, however novice that communication was.



And when I walked back through the park—it took a twists and turns to finally see the crane again—I almost bumped into many Parisians. Almost stepped on them, actually. I’m talking about the pigeons—fearless, lazy, or both, and citizens as much as any of us.

An indication of what this city is like: Along the paths of the park sit many empty chairs, and rarely in a line. Rather, the chairs are always positioned in a huddle of two, three, or four, never just one—and all in a circle, facing each other, as if a conversation had just ended and one was expected to replace it soon.

I sat down on a bench near one of the park’s entrances. This was something I’d been telling myself to do—not just see the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, but take some time to relax and watch Paris go by.

A pigeon, five feet in front of me, picked up a small wood chip with its beak, and used it as a drill to scatter a small area of pebbles, to check for any morsels hidden below. Quite ingenious. And the bird looked pissed when it found nothing but dirt underneath.

I've never seen that before. Maybe the birds are smarter in Europe.




And that was basically it, my first day in Paris. Yes, I could’ve gone out and saw something grand, something significant, but I decided that wouldn’t be smart. When I was in New York last year I went to the Met after a sleepless night, and it was like walking around in the haze of a bad hangover. The Orsay is open tonight until 9:45—but why go there when I’m so tired I’ll be bumping into Manets? No, my goal for today was simply staying awake until 8 p.m. When I couldn't walk another step, I returned to my hotel--although that required more steps, I suppose--slid a chair to the window, and watched people walk down Rue Buffon.

At 7:30 p.m. I flipped on the TV, and stumbled across Grease, dubbed in French with English subtitles--except for the songs, which remained in English and were subtitled in French. It served as interesting background noise as I sat down at the desk and wrote about my day--it's on right now, "Greased Lightning" just ended. Once in a while I'll take a break to watch the movie and get some last-minute language practice--I've always wondered how you say "hydromatic" in French.

(I'm fading fast--I just dotted an "o." Time for bed.)