Rodin's Leaper
On our first night in Paris - last Thursday - we sat in a small restaurant on Rue Mouffetard, quaffed a couple of carafes of the house red, and told jokes. I have only the mental capacity to remember one joke at a time, so I re-told the resident of that slot - "these two muffins ..." - over and over, with different accents and variations. We laughed and laughed, delighted to be in Paris, delighted that the scorching day and Ava's death march through the Latin Quarter were over. When the family dining next to us left (locals, we believe) they smiled at us and offered us the rest of their wine, a half bottle of red. Apparently we were very entertaining, or maybe we just obviously needed more wine. I'm not sure what protocol or local custom dictates in such a situation - is it rude to turn down such an offer, or impolite to accept?
I didn't have to think too long to decide it was the former, perhaps because the wine looked so good, they smiled so warmly, and our carafe was so dangerously close to empty. And now I have added a new rule to my guidebook of life: when someone offers you a half bottle of red wine in a Paris eatery, you say yes. It is true: you do learn something new every day.
We arrived mid-day on the Eurostar (I know there are good reasons why high-speed trains never get built in the US, but they all seem short-sighted and stupid when you actually get to ride one) and promptly set out from Gare du Nord to walk to the Google office across the plaza from the Opera House. The day was quite warm, and we were fairly wilted by the time we got to our destination. But a fine Google lunch in the beautiful cafe overlooking the plaza perked us right up. The kids counted motorcycles buzzing by while Ava and I plotted our afternoon. I would work for a few hours in the office, while they would walk to the hotel, passing by the Notre Dame and through the Latin Quarter. Look, I plotted the way for you, only 13 minutes, I said, all proud of being a caring husband. Hmmm, she said, it sure looks longer than 13 minutes, she replied. Oh no, it's Google Maps. We're never wrong.
Note to self: when plotting walking directions, make sure to click the box that says walking directions. It was indeed a 13 minute trip to the hotel, by taxi. Which, for some reason, Ava refused to hail, even after they ran out of water and resorted to dunkings in public fountains.
The hotel was clean and somewhat charming, but lacked internet access. Not to worry, the McDonalds across the street had wifi. They also sold beer. This is how I came to be sitting in a McDonalds in Paris, 11 at night, a little drunk, sipping a can of 1664 and going through my email. The wifi didn't work right away, but the three people behind the counter gathered round my laptop and together we figured it out, erupting in smiles and cheers when it finally worked. There was a crisis in Mt View and Jonathan was yelling at electronically, but it was hard to get very upset about it. If I could have offered him that bottle of red wine I would have.
On Friday we walked over to the Eiffel Tower (much cooler day and we weren't rolling suitcases, so it felt like a little walk in the park!) Climbing the steps to the first and then second levels, we looked out over the city, checked the box, and clambered down. Lunch was a nice sidewalk cafe where when they say large beer they mean it! I decided that my new habit of readily accepting offers of alcohol was perhaps a bit misguided.
Look at that beer, tiny Elvis. It's HUGE!
Later we hit the Musee D'Orsay. The art and the building converge to create interesting beauty everywhere you look, and we took great pains to explain to the kids how different and revolutionary the impressionists were at the time. How to explain a time when art was one of the primary forms of entertainment? They listened, mostly bored, until we came across Monet's Woman With A Parasol. Andie was simply enchanted, standing in front of it for a few minutes. I don't know that this will awaken any deeper passions in her, but those moments of study will somehow be important.
The Paris nightlife called to us, and we turned it away. We enjoyed a picnic in the hotel's tiny courtyard followed by reading and lights out. Someday Ava and I will see if Paris really is romantic. Maybe.
I don't think you are supposed to laugh when you see the Mona Lisa. But it's really pretty funny to see all the people there, stacked up 10 deep, taking pictures of the famous painting. I really don't understand why people take pictures of paintings. (I also don't get why artists paint photographs, but one pet peeve at a time.) There are perfectly good postcards available for not a lot of money. I watched and noted that a lot of them hardly look at the painting itself, rather they spend the whole time trying to get a good shot. Did you see the Mona Lisa? people will ask when they get home. No, but I got a picture of it with the flash flaring off of its glass enclosure. See?
Andie and I scooted around to the side, where the people were not stacked up ten deep, and looked at the painting from the side. Flashes popped like paparazzi. Is that allowed? I ask the guards. No, they shrug, but what can they do? I would have said c'est la vie, but I don't speak French.
What's the big deal, she said enigmatically.
From the Louvre we scooted over the the Musee de l'Orangerie, which was as serene and breathtaking as the Louvre was grand. The museum was built specially for Monet's water lilies pieces, and it also has a great collection of other impressionist work. It was absolutely spectacular.
Ah ...
After yet another delightful sidewalk cafe lunch we headed over to the Rodin Museum, where I learned my new thing for the day. It turns out that the default mode in Paris is that grass in fine parks is not for walking unless the sign expressly says otherwise. Or at least that was my conclusion after the gendarmerie shooed us from Rodin's fine lawn just moments after Will and Andie sprinted and leaped their way down its length. They couldn't contain their exuberance, having conquered their 4th museum in two days. Yay, we're free, no more lectures on how this is all so old and famous and important. We're kids, and we know that art museums are - how do you say? - an acquired taste! The Thinker, just yards away, is contemplative and inscrutable. The Leaper, that trespasser of lawns, is blusterous boy energy, all expressive and energetic. I'll take him any day.
Sculpt this!
Will and I weren't done. We scooted across the street to the Army Museum, where we were amazed by Napoleon's very large tomb and by the great exhibits on WWI and WWII. I could have easily spent a couple more hours there - the exhibits did such a good job of explaining the history of the wars - but we had a date with Ava and Andie at the Jardin du Luxembourg. For all the great sites of Paris, among everything the guide book had to tell us, the thing that most excited Will was the prospect of sailing the boats on the pond there.
These are not real boats, mind you, they are wooden models. And they are only remote control if you consider a stick a remote and random puffs of wind control. But they are fun and engrossing, and dozens of kids raced around the circular pond catching up with them, setting their new courses, and pushing them back out to sea. It took very little imagination to go back a hundred years and picture the children doing the exact same thing. Will was completely delighted.
All I ask is a tall ship and a stick to sail her by.
By Sunday we were done with museums. We walked through the Latin Quarter, skirted the Notre Dame (jam packed), had a fantastic lunch at a creperie on Isle Saint Louis, and ended up back at the Jardin du Luxembourg, where we lay on the grass (the small section where it was expressly allowed!) and watched the clouds. Then, another picnic dinner, we gathered our stuff, and descended into the Metro to catch the subway to Gare du Nord.
When we first rode the underground in London, Ava told the kids that if something ever happened and they got on a train and we didn't, that they should get off at the next stop and wait.
The trip to Gare du Nord required that we change Metro trains. The connecting train was quite crowded, and Ava noted as it approached that it was older than the other cars we had ridden in,
but Andie is now an experienced and confident subway rider and she stepped into the crowded car first. I was right behind her, but not close enough. Inexplicably, and despite my pushing as hard as I could, the door closed, Andie on one side of it, the three of us on the other.
I think it is no longer fashionable to complain about how rude Parisiens are, but if the subject ever comes up I will argue their virtues into the night. While Andie's face crumpled in fear, Ava shouted "one stop" to her, and I struggled to get that damn door open, the people around her in the car let us know that they understood and would see to it that she would be OK. It all probably lasted no more than five seconds, an interminably long time.
I worked the lever and finally got the door open (or maybe it was someone on the other side), and we pulled her safely into our arms. The train moved away as a woman came up to us and explained that this is Paris and that Andie would have been just fine. "How old is she," she asked. Eight. "I lost my daughter on the Metro when she was that age," she shrugged, "and she was fine."
We held Andie's hand all the way back to London. Maybe we'll let go when it's time for her to return to school in September, but I'm not counting on it.
