A number of things
Still jeudi.
I left Shakespeare & Co. with a little book bag: recto, "Stars, hide your fires, let not light see my black and deep desires"; verso, "Bard-en-Seine 2014--Shakespeare's 450th birthday." Sweet.
All I had to do was follow the river, and tea and pillows awaited. Sadly, however, the walking apparatus had packed in. It was a long slow draggle, lightened just a trifle by the scenery and the shop windows. Many little galleries and genuine antiques: like Etruscan, or at worst Directoire. Fauteuils in marquetery. Faience. My dear!
Fell over.
By great strength of will, I made that nap an hour, so I could get to the Musée d'Orsay, which was open late. But first, actual food. Sadly, their Café de l'Ours, with its beautiful sleek white life-size sculpture of a bear--in septentriones sempiterne--was just closing. I so wanted to sit bestride or astride it, in honor of Exit. The next café I tried--the Papa Bear--was scarily expensive; but the Mama Bear, behind one of the clocks, was just right. Duck foie gras (I shouldn't but I do love it) on vanilla brioche, with pineapple marmalade; and a salad of infantine chard. Just right for a summer evening. And you can walk out on the rooftop from there and admire Paris, brooded over by vast allegorical figures. Heaven knows what they're meant for. This was built as a railway station, so perhaps Diligence and Aspiration. Or the Nine Muses of Steam. That left a good hour and a half for the Impressionist galleries. More happy recognitions: wait, that's here? Renoir's pair of paired waltzers, the elated and the elegant, a Manet haystack soaked in pink light as a Eastern sweet is in honey. And little girls breathing O! at the Degas dancer in her ragged pink skirt, her chin up to confront her future. Diligence and Aspiration.
A toddle home, and so to bed.
Nine
I left Shakespeare & Co. with a little book bag: recto, "Stars, hide your fires, let not light see my black and deep desires"; verso, "Bard-en-Seine 2014--Shakespeare's 450th birthday." Sweet.
All I had to do was follow the river, and tea and pillows awaited. Sadly, however, the walking apparatus had packed in. It was a long slow draggle, lightened just a trifle by the scenery and the shop windows. Many little galleries and genuine antiques: like Etruscan, or at worst Directoire. Fauteuils in marquetery. Faience. My dear!
Fell over.
By great strength of will, I made that nap an hour, so I could get to the Musée d'Orsay, which was open late. But first, actual food. Sadly, their Café de l'Ours, with its beautiful sleek white life-size sculpture of a bear--in septentriones sempiterne--was just closing. I so wanted to sit bestride or astride it, in honor of Exit. The next café I tried--the Papa Bear--was scarily expensive; but the Mama Bear, behind one of the clocks, was just right. Duck foie gras (I shouldn't but I do love it) on vanilla brioche, with pineapple marmalade; and a salad of infantine chard. Just right for a summer evening. And you can walk out on the rooftop from there and admire Paris, brooded over by vast allegorical figures. Heaven knows what they're meant for. This was built as a railway station, so perhaps Diligence and Aspiration. Or the Nine Muses of Steam. That left a good hour and a half for the Impressionist galleries. More happy recognitions: wait, that's here? Renoir's pair of paired waltzers, the elated and the elegant, a Manet haystack soaked in pink light as a Eastern sweet is in honey. And little girls breathing O! at the Degas dancer in her ragged pink skirt, her chin up to confront her future. Diligence and Aspiration.
A toddle home, and so to bed.
Nine
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