Dawn Ponders: A Few Stories From Paris

We have done a great deal since the last time I wrote. Museum visits, a trip out to Versailles, a creepy tour of the catacombs, and a hike up Montmarte. At the bottom, I will give some highlights in my quick thoughts portion of the post, but for now, I wanted to tell a few short stories of human interest.

A couple of days ago, while we were touring the Louvre, The Husband and I happened upon an elderly gentleman who was taking a breather in the Dutch Masters' rooms. Twin Son wanted to view some Rembrandt paintings, so after we had pretty much exhausted our initial tour with Carinne, she took us to the other side of the museum to see the great man's work. While we were there, The Husband nudged me as he wanted me to look at the older gentleman sitting next to him. The man had to be in his eighties with a face that looked like it had seen a lot. Upon a closer look, it was evident to both of us that he wasn't in very good shape. He was slightly stooped, and while he was making a concerted effort to look his best, his jacket had definitely seen better days. There were tears under both sleeves and across his shoulders. He sat quietly in the Dutch room, dozing. None of the docents bothered him as he took his afternoon siesta, and I wondered if he was a regular visitor to the museum. As Carinne explained some of Rembrandt's work to us, I was captivated by the old man and wondered aloud to The Husband what his story might be. This old man's face stuck with me as we departed from The Louvre.

Yesterday afternoon, we met up with Carinne again for our private tour of Musée D'Orsay. We were terribly excited to get up close and personal with The Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. Honestly, this tour has been circled on my calendar for months. The brushstrokes and vibrant colours simply jumped off the canvases and did happy dances on my retinas. I absolutely love this period of artwork. The great works of Manet, Monet, Cezanne, Pisarro, Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gaughin, and Toulouse-Lautrec are so plentiful here that I was experiencing a type of sensory overload. I honestly didn't know where to look first. I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store. I was recounting a story about my grandfather and a Degas copy (I'll tell you that story below) when I looked up and saw him again, the same gentleman in the same torn jacket. The coincidence was striking. Once again, he was just sitting in Impressionist Room, taking in the art and the people, and nobody bothered him. As we were leaving the museum, The Husband pointed him out to me for the final time. I have made up a dozen stories about this old dude in my mind. Does he spend all of his days in the museums? Who pays for him? Is he a senior art historian? Maybe he is a retired professor? Perhaps he is a widower and remembers happy days spent in the museums with his dear wife? I honestly have no idea, but I cannot get this gent out of my mind. The odd thing is that I believe that if I went back to one of those two museums today, I think we could find him. A small story from our time in Paris.

A few random thoughts.

* I promised you the story of my grandfather and the Degas. My grandparents had a large painting in their living room that looked like a copy of one of Degas' ballet scenes. It was a recreation of a ballet master holding court during a rehearsal. It was over their sofa, and the memory of it was embedded in my cerebral cortex. Many years later, when The Husband visited my grandfather for the first time, he saw the painting and noted it was done by a cousin of his who had survived the concentration camps. He must have been influenced by Monsieur Degas. I would have loved to have been able to keep that painting, but a surly aunt descended on my grandparents' house after their deaths and absconded with it. I have no idea where it is today. Seeing Degas' paintings of the ballet school in Musée D'Orsay left a large lump in my throat.

* I forgot this little tale of our visit to Monet's Water Lilies. As we sat in the room breathing and taking in the atmosphere in silent contemplation, a guy sitting next to The Husband was scrolling through his phone, watching cat videos. I have nothing else to add to that atrocity.

* The Palace at Versailles is the definition of opulence. Every room is more garish than the last. I wonder if Agent Orange got his sense of style from Louis XIV. The gardens, on the other hand, are breathtaking. I could spend weeks there.

* We took a jaunt over to the catacombs, and I will admit to being more than a bit freaked out. I don't do bones well. Over six million souls are entombed down there; honestly, it is a really cool place to visit. I just felt like a voyeur disturbing the dead. As we made our way to the surface, one of the security people checked my backpack for any bones that might have been absconded. Why would anyone think to do that?

* The Pantheon was a bit more my speed. Death with dignity. The tombs of great French writers, thinkers, scientists, and politicians are laid to rest here. I got more than a little excited seeing the graves of Marie and Phillipe Curie and Josephine Baker.

* We have had excellent guides on this trip. Carinne, who The Professional Volunteer encountered during an online experience, was truly incredible for the art museums. If anybody is coming this way and would like a private tour through any of the many art museums of Paris, contact me offline for her information. Today, we arranged a private tour of Versailles and Bertrand, our guide, was funny, knowledgeable, and a real character. I have taken tours worldwide, but I think doing it privately is the way to go if you can make it work. We have learned and seen so much.

* The Professional Volunteer spent part of her youth in France and has many warm memories. Thanks to The Divine Spirit for her and Twin Son's Better Half's ability to speak French. Things would be far more difficult without the two of them and their language skills. While she was here many years ago, The Professional Volunteer had a portrait of herself done in Montmarte. With a photograph of that picture in hand, she found another sketch artist in the same area to draw her today. It was a charming nod to a memory of her parents.

* I am not usually a sweets eater, but eating French macarons in Paris is a must. The shop windows at the boulangeries are art.

A few more days to come with a couple more posts to enjoy.