The Day After

It was a rough start to Friday morning...with me having caught a nasty case of The Wine Flu and all. I was so overcome with my...er...symptoms...that the only breakfast food going down was bread, nutella, and coffee. Neal volunteered to lounge around the hotel until I began to feel a little more human, but there's just no time to waste when you're on a Museum Pass, people...the clock is ticking. Besides, Neal was already showing signs of the actual flu and he was still willing to attack the itinerary...dripping snot and achy joints be damned! I hardly had an excuse...on account of mine was self-induced.

So we started moving toward The Rodin Museum, which was actually high on my list considering I had written a 5-page paper on Rodin in high school. And how do you visit Paris without making a stop to see the original Thinker? Museum pass holders skip right to the front of the line, which was fortunate as people stretched out the door and halfway down the block. Even on a Friday. Even in autumn. You can carry a purse through the museum, and you may carry a backpack, as long as it's strapped to the front. I assume they don't want you to get distracted and, while spinning to answer your wife when she says, "Honey, look at this! What do you think it is?", knock a priceless work of art from its freestanding pedestal with your NorthFace hunchback.

The ticket office/baggage check building empties out on the gardens. It's worth a walk around, especially when the Parisian weather is cooperating. You'll see a pensive The Thinker...

Rodin once declared that this was a statue of himself...evolving beyond an animal nature, to think the first thought, to reinvent the self into something better. Sitting still with the mind moving faster than the speed of light.

Then there's Balzac...as he finally came to be in Rodin' repertoire...although there's an earlier version of Balzac in the museum that I like much better (all I'm saying is...penis...).

and then there's the occasional blonde...

Be careful....she bites. 

While the gardens do wrap around the house, to the back, we decided to meander on in to the museum and then finish with the back gardens on our way out. In the Rick Steves book, he details the main pieces of each room and there are 2 floors to the house. We decided the best place to start was Room 1. 

As the story goes, when you are a fresh-faced artist in Paris, you are generally poor. And live models cost money...especially the pretty ones. So, when deciding where to spend your money, it makes total sense to eat well and hire the ugly people. Such is the case with this gentleman who, although hard to see here, had some sort of nose deformity. Rodin sculpted him anyway. After leaving the finished product in his studio overnight, he returned to find the back of the head had frozen and broken off under the bitter cold conditions. Rodin loved it and kept it....the critics freaked out and demanded he fixed it. So there are 2 heads on rotation at the Rodin museum. This one happens to be the original. The titles are all in French so I'm calling this one Lobotomy. 

We could truly appreciate this sculpture, The Bronze Age, after having seen Michelangelo's "slaves" in the Louvre. So similar in pose and realistic features. Rodin created this while he was living in Brussels and was accused of not sculpting it, but instead simply casting it from a live body. Pft! Critics! Nope...he was just that good. 

This always has been (and probably always will be) my favorite Rodin sculpture...The Kiss. It's like sitting on the jagged rocks of a California beach and, just as the sun sets, turning to wrap your arms and your lips around the person you've chosen to see it with. Er...except for the whole nudity thing. Although...in California...This was the first of Rodin's work that the public actually adored, but he came to hate it...claiming it was too simple and sentimental. Silly man. We love sentimental! 

These 2 hands, which form The Cathedral, are actually 2 right hands. I don't know the story on this piece, I just know that sometimes I enhance our photos with Photoshop and sometimes I butcher them all to hell. This would be the latter. On my screen it looked amazing and haunting so I hit "save and replace" and got this...which looks like a skin disease. So, my apologies to you...this is such a breathtaking display of art that you really do just have to see it for yourself. 

Although it is primarily Rodin's work in the Rodin Museum, they also feature pieces by Camille Claudel...who began as Rodin's muse and ended as his lover (of course. And this is why the only nude Neal will ever paint is me. I've seen How I Met Your Mother...I know how this all works out in the end). This sculpture, titled Maturity, depicts a scene (probably more realistic than we realize) of Rodin ultimately choosing to stay with his wife (who stands behind him and whispers into his ear that if he sees that skanky little bitch one more time, she will cut off his balls and feed them to him) and Camille, just as he breaks free from her desperate clench. Somehow, I found myself both rejoicing for Rose who has won her husband back, and feeling utterly heartbroken for Camille as she loses the only thing she loves. 

Camille was quite talented and this room is full of her art...which does sort of look like Rodin's. But Rodin returning to his wife ruined her and her ability to create anything at all. She went mad with jealousy and grief and spent the rest of her days institutionalized...probably sculpting the most beautiful mashed potatoes. 

This version of The Thinker was created for a massive project Rodin began but never finished (you see a lot of that in here. Mama Virgo would not approve), titled The Gates of Hell and filled with characters from Dante's Inferno. They are outside in the gardens...beautiful but ultimately unfinished.

The Thinker(s). I couldn't help it. He is most handsome when he has no idea I'm hiding behind art and taking pictures.

And this brings us to my favorite sculpture Rodin did of Balzac...headless and holding an erection. I wish there was a series of these...say...with all politicians.

These are all pieces that I loved and wanted to remember. I don't know the stories or even the titles. But they speak to me all the same.

The garden view from the second floor of the museum. I did very little tweaking on this one. It truly is that green. Maybe they should hold The Masters here.

This is looking at the back of the museum...in the opposite direction as the above picture. When you come out and walk around the side of the house, you will pass several food carts as you stroll to the back. The area is also littered with sculptures and fountains. I'm sure if you were starving, you could eat here, but we had plans to grab something on Rue Cler.

The Gates of Hell...as seen in the garden.

As we exited the museum and started toward Rue Cler, I realized that I should have peed back at Rodin's place. We were fairly close to the Army Museum and still on our Museum Pass so we decided to stop at Napoleon's tomb so I could use the bathroom. And, of course, to see the tomb...which Mama Virgo insisted we visit. If you make a pit stop at Napoleon's Tomb, you should know that it's in the cafe, down the stairs, and it costs 40 cents to use. I just saved you a lot of hassle at a time when you'll be needing less hassle and more privacy. You can thank me later.

So, while we were there...

OK...yes...it's several nested coffins inside of each other (oak coffin holding an ebony coffin, housing 2 lead ones, then mahogany, then tinplate). But really?? Is this necessary? He was like 5'2". And this thing was freaking huge. I mean compare it to that chick standing to the right and it will sort of give you an idea of the scale of his final resting place. Although if you want to preserve anything, ask the French. When they exhumed him to move him here in 1840, he was still perfectly preserved...even after 19 years of being 6 feet under.

And because it's the Army Museum, there are other famous military leaders entombed here.

You can visit the crypts and view it all from downstairs, but by this point we were starving. And we still had to walk the 6 blocks or so over to Rue Cler and search out food. So, we blew a kiss to Napoleon and head out the gates.

If you are going to piece together a picnic while you're in Paris, Rue Cler is the place to go. The marches (imagine there is an accent mark over that e, will you?) put out delectably fresh fruits and vegetables everyday, the charcuterie displays delicious cuts of meat, and of course there are the boulangeries for all of your bakery needs. We decided to grab a sandwich, dessert, and drink from one of the takeaway stands in the middle. I think this was the first time we had eaten lunch outside of a cafe...and we were hooked. There is not a single meal at a cafe that can compete with picnicking in Paris when the weather is nice. I don't believe we lunched in another cafe (except at museums) after that. With plastic bags of goodies in hand, we headed over to the Eiffel Tower for an afternoon of people watching and relaxing.

As everyone knows, chocolate lava cake is the perfect cure for the wine flu.

The entire day had been warm, but overcast. Heavy clouds threatened eventual rain. But in the late afternoon, after we had seen literally busloads of tourists flock to the tower for pictures and picnics, the clouds finally started to break apart and the tiniest patch of blue shown through.

I had downloaded several of Rick Steves podcasts of what I guess is his radio show. Who knew?? And the guests were 2 French gentlemen who discussed everything from off-the-beaten path walks in Paris to cafe etiquette to the history of the Eiffel Tower. During one of the call-in segments, they discussed how Parisians have a lot less personal space than Americans. When an American walks up to a sidewalk cafe and sees maybe 1 or 2 empty tables, they deem it too full for dining and look for something emptier. French walk up, see a lively joint with just enough space for them..how lucky! And they pop a squat to join in on the madness. And, I must admit, we had been choosing our cafes like that. The quieter, the better. Well, when in France...

As we strolled back to the hotel, keeping an eye open for a cozy dinner place, I spotted a cafe across the street that was happening. Tons of tables out front were full of young Parisians, smoking, drinking, and eating the most delicious looking salads. We stuck a pin in our personal space bubble and crossed the street to grab the last open table on the sidewalk. The waiter quickly came over to take our drink order ("Happy Hour" over there starts at like 3 and goes all night...but I would not consider the prices to be anything similar to back home...where 2 for 1 is the ideal. Most beers were still $5-$6 for a pint...) and explain some of the menu items. He was quite pleasant and easy to understand. We waited patiently for our drinks to arrive and discussed how glad we were that we had chosen such a bustling cafe. This was the way to eat in Paris...why hadn't we done it sooner??

Not 2 minutes later, our charming waiter got into a screaming match with his co-worker over a table of his guests who had skipped out on their bill. Hands were flying, curse words (I'm assuming they were curse words...apparently today's young Parisians have moved past "Mon Dieu!", which is what I learned in the 8th grade) spewed forth. Our waiter stormed inside the restaurant, leaving us a little puzzled but not concerned....until he clopped back outside, man-purse in hand and headphones on his head. He was ranting and waving with his free hand and headed off into the sunset.

"What are the chances that it's shift change?" I asked Neal.
"Not great. He was awfully mad about something. I think our waiter just quit."

Now we were concerned.

We had been waiting almost 20 minutes for our drinks to arrive and had seen the tables around us served drinks and dinner. A lovely managerial-looking woman appeared outside and began waiting tables. She flitted about, checking on drink levels and how dinner was tasting. It was time for action. I followed her into the cafe, to the register and kindly asked if she spoke English. Of course she did. I explained that we had given our order to our waiter, but not had received drinks or dinner yet. She nodded in understanding and then spouted, "My waiter! He just....PSH!" and made a dismissing motion with her hand.

"He quitter??"

"OUI!"

He had managed to quit after taking our order but before actually putting it in the computer. What are the odds?? So they had no record of us at all. She was so frazzled and seconds from having a full come-apart in my presence that leaving now seemed inhumane. I gave her our order again and returned to Neal to confirm his suspicions...he had just PSH!

They didn't comp our meal or really even apologize...like they would have (or we would have insisted) in the states. But the salad and burger were divine and the story is priceless. I would say, in the end, we might actually owe them.

Tres Tres!

So this brings us to the morning of my 33rd birthday and only the 3rd birthday that Neal has celebrated with me in the 6 years that we've been together. The Army hates birthdays. And anniversaries.

Breakfast was a delightful spread of nutella crepes, nutella slathered on a croissant, nutella dripping from a baguette, and eggs. And a cappuccino to wash it all down. Also a healthy dose of water to bring my electrolytes back into balance from the evening before. Neal managed to keep all peanut gallery comments regarding my very non-caveman diet to himself. It was, after all, my birthday. I will make myself ill on hazelnut spread if I want to.

The weather in Paris on 8 September left a lot to be desired. Low hanging clouds and a mist that evolved into a drizzle only affirmed our initial plans of being inside all day.

To the Louvre!

I had been told by numerous people and had read in numerous guides that the only way to survive the Louvre is to pick your top 10 (15 if you're ambitious) pieces and save the rest for your next trip to Paris. Rick Steves has, of course, a podcast available on iTunes that will ensure you hit all of the museum's highlights (read: the art that even your hillbilly cousin saw when his John Deere convention came to Paris). But if you want to venture off of the main drag and away from the swarms of people who would like nothing better than to walk directly in front of your camera as you are firing off a quick picture of the Mona Lisa, then you better do a little research ahead of time.

The museum itself is simple enough with 3 wings, or spokes, leading off of it...the Richelieu wing (Oriental antiquities, French, Dutch, and Northern art), the Sully wing (French painting and ancient Egypt collections), and the Denon wing (the one you hit if you have 8 hours in Paris and an hour of that is dedicated to the Louvre). Here's a little tip about French art museums...they are constantly in flux. Paintings are moved, loaned out, being restored, etc, etc, etc. If you have not at this point in your life learned to roll with it, Paris is happy to give you a crash course. While allowing Rick to guide us through the Louvre, we were often in the wrong room, at the wrong end of the hallway, and once...in the wrong wing. Sometimes we eventually stumbled upon the piece he was discussing, sometimes we had to admit defeat and walk away (I still don't know where the Musee d'Orsay is hiding Whistler's Mother).

 There is a possibility that after seeing The DaVinci Code 3 times while packing for Paris, I may have had a bit of a moment here.

The podcast started with Greek art, circa 500 BC, but we couldn't find it. He said "climb the stairs and make your first left"...which would have lead us straight into the restrooms...and while that is certainly considered art when you are at the Pompidou (Modern Art Museum), it hardly qualifies here.

Next up were the Parthenon friezes...actual stone fragments from the Parthenon (which is in Greece and not to be confused with the Pantheon..in either Rome or Paris). This particular panel shows a centaur sexually harassing a woman at a party and, consequently, being thrown out...just as Greece conquered its barbarian neighbors and became civilized.

Don't you kind of wonder if centaurs are hung like a horse?

Many statues of famous Greeks filled the next 3 rooms. I got some stellar photos of Caesar and Tiberius...on the other camera. So...we'll just fast track it to Venus de Milo (I assure you that you're getting the best end of this deal...as you're reading this on your couch and not walking upstream against the hordes. Also, there is no good time to go to the Louvre. Just put on your comfy shoes and your game face and go). 

Oh Venus...with her 6 pack abs, perfectly even breasts, and...missing arms. Yes, well...no girl can have it all. Great abs, no arms. Purposely sculpted to resemble no woman in particular, she represents every woman. Grace, style, beauty, and perfectly balanced from left to right. She is actually created from 2 pieces of stone, which were sealed at the hips. Although most Greek statues are simply copies of earlier Roman work, this one is a Greek original. She is exactly how the Greeks imagined Aphrodite would look in human form...the epitome of keep calm and carry on.

And if Venus is keeping calm and carrying on, Winged Victory is kicking ass and taking names. This winged and scantily clad woman once stood on a hilltop to commemorate a naval victory. She forges forward into a hurricane-force wind. She is a pillar of strength, standing firm even as everything whips around her. When she was first carved, her right arm stretched high, waving a "#1" finger. The finger was found in Turkey in 1950. Considering the number of treasures French had looted from Turkey in the past, they're lucky that all they got was the finger.

One quick look up at the sky, as we passed from room to room, showed us Icarus, falling out of the sky as his melted wings gave way to the sun's heat.

Shuffling along the last couple of rooms before emptying out onto The Grand Gallery, you begin to appreciate the Italian Renaissance and how vastly different it was from Medieval art. Although there are stories to be told about each of these paintings, as we walked, I just observed them with a larger lens...taking note of how perspective in painting came to be used and how the subject matter evolved from idyllic religious figures to the realistic fight for freedom.

St. Francis of Assisi Receiving the Stigmata by Giotto

The Madonna of the Angels by Cimabue

La Belle Jardiniere  by Raphael

And this brings us to the mother load...the belle of the ball, the star of the show...Mona. If you aren't sure where it is in the Louvre, just follow the mass of tourists with Canon Rebels already aimed in anticipation. 20,000 extra bonus points to anyone who can take a picture without someone else's head in it.

See her? She's waaaaaay down at the end of the hallway and the only painting enclosed in bulletproof glass. What's really amusing about this room is that directly opposite of her, is a painting that takes up almost the entire wall, from floor to ceiling. Talk about an inferiority complex.

Yeah, she's tiny...at least in comparison to most of the other work hanging in the Louvre. But she comes with a lifetime of questions, mystery, and myths. Should you want to achieve your own photo where the eyes follow you...just turn your head in one direction and your eyes in another. Works every time. The brain, like the heart, is so easily fooled.

We said au revoir to Madame Mona and pressed our way back out the door. I feel bad for the other paintings in there because after about 3 minutes with 100 tourists, the last thing you want to do is stand at look at other art. You really just want to get the hell out.

After exiting, Rick brought us around to French Neoclassicism (1750-1850) and then French Romanticism (1800-1850) before ending at Michelangelo's Slaves from the Italian Renaissance. I recognized almost every painting he brought us to, including Veronese's The Marriage at Cana

50,000 points to anyone who can spot Jesus in this orgy of wine, food, and beautiful people. Another 50,000 to anyone who can spot me.

The Coronation of Napoleon by David

If only that guy was 2" shorter...aghgh! 

David has my undying respect because he straight up painted himself into this portrait of Napoleon crowning himself emperor...here...

Sometimes...you just have to do it.

Last of the French Neoclassic stops was La Grande Odalisque, which I studied at length in my first college art history class, and was somewhat mocked later by Manet.

Onward and forward to the French Romantics, who were painting the heart and soul side of the 1800's while the Neoclassicists were playing it cool, calm, and balanced. Two of the best examples of the grit and passion of the romantics are The Raft of the Medusa by Gericault...

and Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix...

A far cry from cherub Jesus in the arms of the Virgin Mary and angels with pie plate orbs hanging over their heads, yes? I freaking love art. 

The noon hour had come and passed and all of that nutella had run its course. We had not yet made it to the Dutch painters, but we were starving. Our 2 options were to either leave the museum to eat at a cafe somewhere along rue de Rivoli and then return, or stay at the museum and eat at a cafe inside. And trust me, I am the last person to advocate dining at museum cafes. I'm still paying off a lunch we once had at the Chicago Art Institute. But standing in line for 20 minutes just to eat a cold sandwich and chips was, at the time, a better choice than leaving and then having to come back through security into the museum. The Louvre is not a "we'll come back this afternoon" kind of place. It's a process.

So, lunch was a chicken sandwich for each of us, which was not even disguised as handmade. It was served in the triangular box it came in...the same box you see in the marches and gas stations everywhere. A bag of chips and a plate came with the box, as well as a beer (for an extra 1.20). For 15 euros we were refueled and ready to go on.

The last of the day's sculptures, Michelangelo's Slaves, stood unassuming in a hallway and if I had not been on the lookout, we would have probably walked right by them.

The Rebellious Slave

The Dying Slave (or Sleeping Slave...whichever)

And one that has nothing to do with slaves but that I loved anyway.

Last stop before heading into Napoleon's lair apartment was The Code of Hammurabi. I am certain that this means nothing to anyone but me and the rest of Mr. Roach's History class...but here it is, boys and girls. I walked into the room expecting a palm-sized stone with hieroglyphics and instead got a 7' tall pillar of rock. 

I guess if you are going to establish a code of conduct for a new civilization, you need bigger stones.

It was tempting to skip Napoleon's apartments altogether because by this point, our eyes, brains, and feet were all aching simultaneously (which is probably how you feel right about now if you've made it this far...minus the feet, of course). It's just so much to take in. But we persevered and wound our way around (read: looked for the swarms of tourists and followed them).

We didn't get the audio guide for these rooms and Rick doesn't cover them so I will only say...Holy opulent wealth Batman.

Suddenly, I want a dining room table big enough for two chandeliers...

The final stop was at the Dutch painters because I had studied Vermeer and his pals in college. And...I had seen The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Our photos of the Dutch art are dark and blurry because, for whatever reason, the Louvre has seen fit to hang them in what amounts to a cave. I'm not sure if that was a specific artist request...citing they were meant to be seen that way, or they just don't deserve the lighting that Mona gets. Either way, without a tripod, it is practically impossible to take a clear photo. 

I have always loved this painting. It's playful in a way that only girls can be. In my mind, they are sisters who are up to no good, creating controversy for their poor mother who is slaving away at her sewing in the background. 

And, with a few exceptions I have chosen not to include merely out of sheer exhaustion, that was it. We sortie'd (the French word for "exit" is sortie and it is posted everywhere...so we were constantly making jokes every time we left a building, metro station, cafe, etc). The rain had stopped but the sun never quite broke through. So we paused for a couple of quick pyramid pics...

strolled under the arch marking the entrance to the Tuileries (or Louvre gardens)...

paused for a caffe and a flaky apricot snack...

indulged Neal as he toasted art and the good life...

 photographed the statues...

and then, seeking refuge from a day of self-absorbed tourists, we fled to the gardens behind the Palais Royal, where the rest of Paris goes to do the same thing. 

And here we sat until it got late and it was time to dress for a birthday dinner with Gil & Gabrielle. On the way back to the Hilton, Neal suggested we walk by La Duree, home of the mouthwatering, multi-flavored macaroons...just on the off chance that they would still be open at 6 PM on a Thursday evening. As luck would have it, they were! I purchased my tiny box of assorted macaroons (I believe my exact words, "a mix of whatever. How could you possibly go wrong?"), took about a dozen photos inside the shop (with the other camera), and climbed on the metro. It was somewhere between La Duree and the hotel that our Cybershot found a new home. Whether I laid it down in anxious anticipation of colorful, sugary goodness...

or it encountered someone with sticky fingers on the metro, we'll never know. And we didn't even realize it until 2 days later. 

Our dinner spot was handpicked by Gil & Gabrielle. They made the reservations and invited us up to the Executive Lounge for a pre-dinner drink. Or...in my case...four pre-dinner drinks. I accidentally inhaled 4 full glasses of French sparkling wine before putting anything on my stomach. As it usually happens, they were just going down so well. I stumbled with my entourage to Neva Cuisine, where I then proceeded to dump tampons on the sidewalk as I pulled the saucy red heels out of my purse and stick the ballet flats in, offend (I'm sure) the wait staff with my butchered and drunk French, and visit the bathroom at least once. The room spun, I could not bare to eat a single thing, except for a little of the chocolate dessert. Neal ate both of our entrees and maintained excellent table conversation with our guests while I sat in my chair and tried not to think about how miserably drunk I really was. Happy Birthday, Allyson...you dumbass. I will neither confirm nor deny that I eventually threw up an 80 euro dinner. Well, I only ate the chocolate and a tiny bit of beef so maybe it was closer to 10 euros. Neal managed to keep the other 70 euros down and enjoyed them immensely. 

I remember very little from the night, except that in my birthday celebration, I continued to announce that I was "tres tres!" Gil, being the gentleman that he is, let it go until the end of the evening when he finally turned to me and asked, "Why do you keep saying you're very very?" I stopped, thought and screamed, "I'm trois trois!"...3-3 in French. Because I'm classy like that. 

My wish for each of you is that you have a spouse like Neal and sweet friends like Gil & Gabrielle who will agree to dine with you later in the week so that you can prove you are not always as asshole. Just on your birthday. 

If you go...

• There are multiple ways to gain access to the Louvre (legally, anyway). If you are going on a museum pass, I HIGHLY recommend coming in through the underground mall entrance, the Carrousel du Louvre. Get off at the metro stop, Palais Royal-Musee du Louvre and exit at the end of the platform, following the signs to Musee du Louvre-Le Carrousel du Louvre. We were second in line through security. The entire process took about 2 minutes. 
• Large bags must be checked and they will not check coats unless they are stuffed into a bag. 
• Photography without a flash is allowed (obviously). And there is always a museum staff member close by to remind you of this rule. 
• Neva at 2 rue de Berne is, Neal tells me, an excellent place to dine. Just don't tell them I sent you.