About five drachma an hour.
Monday
Ant, Carol and Paula head off to the Louvre this morning. I want to deal with my email, so I leave a little later. I said I would meet them in the Egyptian section at noon. I turn up at the main entrance and remember I still have my Swiss Army Knife in my pocket. Luckily I also have Paula’s digital camera in the same pocket, so when the metal detector wand pings, I pull the camera out of my pocket and am waved through.
On the way to the Egyptian stuff, I check out the ancient Greek pottery. My favorite piece shows two comedians in action. It’s clear that not all Greek plays were tragedies, and not all actors wore masks.
There is this debate at museums if exhibits should be displayed chronologically or thematically. The Louvre solves this problem by having one floor of stuff arranged chronologically, and one floor thematically. The Egyptian collection would be a good sized museum in its own right. It takes a while to connect with the rest of the gang, but we eventually connect. In the mean time I have done the whole Egyptian tour, including the mummified crocodile and the manuscript Book of the Dead.
What follows is a classic story of the old France, something that helps to explain the Hundred Years War and why Wogs Begin at Calais. These days, not much of the old France is left, but they seem to have preserved some of it in the Louvre. We went to a cafe there for lunch. The waitress took out order, (two chicken baguette sandwiches, two ham baguettes, and drinks,) ignored us for fifteen minutes and then returned to tell us there was no chicken left. Fine, we’ll all have ham. We are hungry, thirsty and hot at this point. Fifteen minutes later she stops by to tell us that there are no baguettes left at all. This is the heart of Paris. How do you manage to run out of friggin’ baguettes on a Monday lunchtime? You can barely stand on a corner in the First Arrondisment without being propositioned by some boulangier.
We leave in disgust. I feel good about having smuggled my Swiss Army Knife in.
There is another cafe in the basement where the prices are a little higher, but the ambience is much better and the service is obsequious and the food is superb. Refreshed and fortified, we set off for some more culture. Paula wants to see the French Crown Jewels. “I’ve got my Swiss Army Knife,” I say. “Let’s steal them.”
On the way there, Paula points out there we are in the room that we are in the English and Venetian room. Let’s put it like this: the Louvre is not big on English painting, so the few Reynolds and Gainsboroughs they have rub shoulders with Titian. There is reputed to be a Turner somewhere, but they’ve probably hidden it because he makes the impressionists look derivative.
At this point Ant, Carol and Paula vanish. Ant claims to have seen me heading for the Egyptian antiquities, but I suspect it was someone who looked like me. Next time, Ant I’m the one with the wine stain on his shorts. Anyhow, when I find they are gone, I head off to the crown jewels, which it turns out are not on display at the moment, back to the English and Venetian room, back to the place where the crown jewels would be if they were there, and then I give up, and go look at some paintings.
The seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century French paintings are a delight. The galleries have relatively few people and the air conditioning is working overtime. It’s possible to pick a work you like and spend some time enjoying it, without having to move out of the way while someone poses for a photograph next to it. There is one painting that makes me laugh out loud. It would have been a still life with seafood, except that a cat is pouncing on the oysters.
Down to the basement, to the Islamic art collection. I dislike the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The first time I got to visit the place, I particularly wanted to see their Islamic art collection, and I found it was closed for the afternoon. Huh? Then they wouldn’t let my friend Geraldine the Egyptologist see their reserve collection. So, I noted with a certain pleasure that the Islamic collection in the Met is now “closed for refurbishment” (probably a polite term for “closed for fear of vandalism by Christian terrorists”) and that the best bits are now on loan to the Louvre. The stuff the Louvre had was better than the loaners anyhow, with the exception of one glass bowl.
Having not been able to find Ant and Carol in the Louvre, I run into them in the liquor aisle of the local grocery store. Ant has already got the pastis, so we head on out. At the checkout, I discover that I was supposed to have weighed the plums in the fruit section, and stuck a label on them saying what they are and how much they weigh. I go back and do that while people wait in line behind me. Remembering that the French never apologize for anything, I do not bother to apologize. I should be a couple’s councilor in Paris, I could save so many relationships just by teaching the Parisians to say sorry.
We veg out at the apartment for a while, eating Camembert and Brie, and drinking pastis and kir royale. Eventually we roll out to dinner. I suggest heading up Montmartres and eating in one of the tourist places. Am I getting homesick for Fisherman’s Wharf? At the bottom of the steps, Dan and Patrick are snagged by African guys who insist on braiding bracelets around their wrists. Then we get to haggle over how much they are worth. Paula eventually gives them five euros for the two, as much for the fun of haggling as for the bracelets.
It’s started to drizzle, but we still try to eat outside. We find a place that will seat all six of us and had rabbit on the menu, but the table for six is not under the awning, so we risk the rain getting heavier. “This is no problem,” I say, “This would be a fine day in San Francisco.” Our waitress, a fairly formal looking older woman, smiles. It turns out she has lived down on the peninsula. T rain gets heavier, and we have to move inside. We sit net to a family from Mexico and Carol chats to them in Spanish.
Carol had a hard time with all the stairs in the Louvre today. There comes a point when the most beautiful thing is not one of those paintings, the thing you really want to see is an escalator.
Ant, Carol and Paula head off to the Louvre this morning. I want to deal with my email, so I leave a little later. I said I would meet them in the Egyptian section at noon. I turn up at the main entrance and remember I still have my Swiss Army Knife in my pocket. Luckily I also have Paula’s digital camera in the same pocket, so when the metal detector wand pings, I pull the camera out of my pocket and am waved through.
On the way to the Egyptian stuff, I check out the ancient Greek pottery. My favorite piece shows two comedians in action. It’s clear that not all Greek plays were tragedies, and not all actors wore masks.
There is this debate at museums if exhibits should be displayed chronologically or thematically. The Louvre solves this problem by having one floor of stuff arranged chronologically, and one floor thematically. The Egyptian collection would be a good sized museum in its own right. It takes a while to connect with the rest of the gang, but we eventually connect. In the mean time I have done the whole Egyptian tour, including the mummified crocodile and the manuscript Book of the Dead.
What follows is a classic story of the old France, something that helps to explain the Hundred Years War and why Wogs Begin at Calais. These days, not much of the old France is left, but they seem to have preserved some of it in the Louvre. We went to a cafe there for lunch. The waitress took out order, (two chicken baguette sandwiches, two ham baguettes, and drinks,) ignored us for fifteen minutes and then returned to tell us there was no chicken left. Fine, we’ll all have ham. We are hungry, thirsty and hot at this point. Fifteen minutes later she stops by to tell us that there are no baguettes left at all. This is the heart of Paris. How do you manage to run out of friggin’ baguettes on a Monday lunchtime? You can barely stand on a corner in the First Arrondisment without being propositioned by some boulangier.
We leave in disgust. I feel good about having smuggled my Swiss Army Knife in.
There is another cafe in the basement where the prices are a little higher, but the ambience is much better and the service is obsequious and the food is superb. Refreshed and fortified, we set off for some more culture. Paula wants to see the French Crown Jewels. “I’ve got my Swiss Army Knife,” I say. “Let’s steal them.”
On the way there, Paula points out there we are in the room that we are in the English and Venetian room. Let’s put it like this: the Louvre is not big on English painting, so the few Reynolds and Gainsboroughs they have rub shoulders with Titian. There is reputed to be a Turner somewhere, but they’ve probably hidden it because he makes the impressionists look derivative.
At this point Ant, Carol and Paula vanish. Ant claims to have seen me heading for the Egyptian antiquities, but I suspect it was someone who looked like me. Next time, Ant I’m the one with the wine stain on his shorts. Anyhow, when I find they are gone, I head off to the crown jewels, which it turns out are not on display at the moment, back to the English and Venetian room, back to the place where the crown jewels would be if they were there, and then I give up, and go look at some paintings.
The seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century French paintings are a delight. The galleries have relatively few people and the air conditioning is working overtime. It’s possible to pick a work you like and spend some time enjoying it, without having to move out of the way while someone poses for a photograph next to it. There is one painting that makes me laugh out loud. It would have been a still life with seafood, except that a cat is pouncing on the oysters.
Down to the basement, to the Islamic art collection. I dislike the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The first time I got to visit the place, I particularly wanted to see their Islamic art collection, and I found it was closed for the afternoon. Huh? Then they wouldn’t let my friend Geraldine the Egyptologist see their reserve collection. So, I noted with a certain pleasure that the Islamic collection in the Met is now “closed for refurbishment” (probably a polite term for “closed for fear of vandalism by Christian terrorists”) and that the best bits are now on loan to the Louvre. The stuff the Louvre had was better than the loaners anyhow, with the exception of one glass bowl.
Having not been able to find Ant and Carol in the Louvre, I run into them in the liquor aisle of the local grocery store. Ant has already got the pastis, so we head on out. At the checkout, I discover that I was supposed to have weighed the plums in the fruit section, and stuck a label on them saying what they are and how much they weigh. I go back and do that while people wait in line behind me. Remembering that the French never apologize for anything, I do not bother to apologize. I should be a couple’s councilor in Paris, I could save so many relationships just by teaching the Parisians to say sorry.
We veg out at the apartment for a while, eating Camembert and Brie, and drinking pastis and kir royale. Eventually we roll out to dinner. I suggest heading up Montmartres and eating in one of the tourist places. Am I getting homesick for Fisherman’s Wharf? At the bottom of the steps, Dan and Patrick are snagged by African guys who insist on braiding bracelets around their wrists. Then we get to haggle over how much they are worth. Paula eventually gives them five euros for the two, as much for the fun of haggling as for the bracelets.
It’s started to drizzle, but we still try to eat outside. We find a place that will seat all six of us and had rabbit on the menu, but the table for six is not under the awning, so we risk the rain getting heavier. “This is no problem,” I say, “This would be a fine day in San Francisco.” Our waitress, a fairly formal looking older woman, smiles. It turns out she has lived down on the peninsula. T rain gets heavier, and we have to move inside. We sit net to a family from Mexico and Carol chats to them in Spanish.
Carol had a hard time with all the stairs in the Louvre today. There comes a point when the most beautiful thing is not one of those paintings, the thing you really want to see is an escalator.