The unexpected meeting on the metro of a kindred soul of a
decade, now. Long-lacking joyful embrace and caresses of a dear dear friend and
the curious, confused, and amused looks of the Parisians around us.
First sight of Paris: Moulin Rouge. Darker, a bloody redder,
and much ickier than Toulouse-Lautrec led me to believe in his pastel paintings.
Hokier, smaller, and more realistic than Baz Luhrmann led me to believe in his
Bohemian passionate film. But a long line of people just as curious (but bound
to be disappointed) as to what it really looks like on the inside.
Crepes, croissants, baguettes, french onion soup, duck,
fish, beef bourguignon, crème brulee, raspberry cake, wine, macaroons.
Saint Chappelle: oldest fresco in France sitting unassuming
under the breathtaking nave of wall made out of stained glass.
Walking in the prison where Marie Antoinette was held before
she went to the guillotine. Wondering what happened to her children while she
was there.
Finding sanctuary in the motherly Notre Dame, posing as a
gargoyle, and enjoying the less populated park behind her with sweet flowers,
trees, and views of her flying buttresses.
Wishing I could settle in to a nook of Shakespeare and
Company and never leave. Singing along to “How High the Moon” while fingering
through a Lucian Freud book and thinking about all the starving writers who
found refuge in this place.
Magical sea-foam green Laduree and their spectrum of
colorful, precious, delicious macaroons.
Escaping the Parisian rain showers by having a cool-kid
picnic under the bridge by the Seine instead of a chic feast on the lawns of
the Eiffel tower.
----The sight of a one-legged pigeon just as interesting as
the giant famous triangular structure. I don’t know what that says about us.
The Louvre:
Disillusioned
by the hundreds of visitors who do not view the art except apathetically
through their camera lens, attentive to only what people have told them is
important.
Redeemed
by the Winged Victory of Samothrace standing isolated in a round cream apse
with a skylight, apart from the overwhelming concentration of still life’s,
portraits, naked nymphs, and babies riding on lions and staring at rainbows.
----but
still enraged by the way that people did not walk around. They took a picture
directly in front and immediately took a right to see the Mona Lisa.
see if you can spot Mona.
Amazed
by the globe of Vermeer’s Astronomer, Corot’s natural arches in the landscape,
and the technique Fayum portraits
despite being so ancient.
Satisfied
by catching the small detail of a dog pooping in a painting.
The view of blue and white Paris reflecting the sky from the
top of the steps of Sacre Coeur and from our window on the fifth floor in
Montmartre.
Listening to the two young men playing the piano and guitar
at our restaurant (after the uncomfortable karaoke singing of an old man in a
silky white shirt and belt-buckle that said “Danny”) that turned into forty
minute jam session with them singing Ray Charles, Coldplay, Beatles, and ending the night
with “Everybody Wants to Be a Cat” ---not even my request.
Opulence on opulence at Versailles. Escaping the herds of
tourists inside the palace to frolic in the extensive gardens with classical
music blasting. Resting in the grass of the Marie Antoinette’s Petit Trianon
where gold and red and crystal were replaced with simpler greens and whites.
The blessed Orsay, the train station turned museum:
Much
needed distortion of idealized youthful figures in the caricatured clay heads
of Daumier.
The
luminous, sorrowful, dirty peasants of Miller. Sacred in the simple.
Paint
on Cezanne’s hands like scales.
Boldini’s
Madame Charles Max with her feathery skin and dress, posed to soon lift up and
fly away.
Butterflies
in my stomach and wanting to cry at getting to be so intimately close to the
work of Van Gogh’s hands that I have been acquainted with for so long but never
so close.
Experiencing
the seasons with Monet
Degas’
menagerie of ballerinas made out of airy lines and lava-like bronze dancing
ignorant of his defeated woman with her absinthe at the cafe.
Luce’s
rainbow beard of Henri Edmund Cross and the unanswered questions of Whistler’s
mother.
Camoflaged with Monet’s water lilies and willows in the oval
rooms of the Orangerie museum with my turquoise dress and maroon tights. He
never got to see the paintings installed in the place specifically built for
them, and he never got to see me swimming in his pond.
Resting in the portable green chairs with crepes in hand
alongside the other men in a row sleeping in the sun in the Tuileries Gardens.
Well done, Paris, with those chairs. They lean back and everything.
Looking up at the Opera Garnier and imagining the Phantom
standing on top and singing with a rose in his hand.
Blending into the familiar crowd at Closiere de Lilas, one
of Ernest Hemingway’s favorite bars and doing some people watching. Which made
it ironic when the cute old black man in a cardigan sat down next to us and
made a gesture with his hands like he was zooming in with binoculars towards us
and took an imaginary picture. If only we knew French and could have extended
the gesture of a conversation with him. We walked out greeted with several
“good-evenings” only to run back at the faint sounds of La Vie en Rose being
played by the man at the piano.
Excited to come to this magical place with friends old and
new, and just as excited to return back to my lovely roots in Orvieto---where a woman holding her baby will wave and blow kisses at me as I see her through her window whether I know her or not.
