So Thursday, August 22, 2019 was the day I had booked our tour of the Louvre. I was very pleasantly surprised to discover that the Louvre cost about the same as a ticket into the Parthenon in Nashville, TN...which I refused to pay. I thought $14 was ridiculous to pay to see a bunch of pagan statuary and paintings. But the Louvre, for $17? OUI! Si'l vous plait!
I was a bit bummed out that Rhonda would not be accompanying me...but somebody had to stay with the dogs, and she was almost over her Lupus flare/jet lag---why run the risk of triggering it again? But my consolation prize was the company of her partner/publisher Michel. He's easy-going, he's intelligent, he's French----and he's younger than me. MUCH YOUNGER. So for the next few hours, I get to pretend that I'm a "prize". Maybe someone would think I was a cougar. So for a little while, I get the opportunity to imagine that other people think I'm rich enough to get a younger man.
But...alas; the French are a blase bunch. They've seen it all; of course they wouldn't give a older woman with a younger man any thought at all. Besides...they can look at me and know a) that I am an American and b) I am most decidedly NOT wealthy. So much for being a legend in your mind.
So we took the Metro, as I mentioned at the end of my last post--and got off at the closest exit to the Louvre. We had to be at there by 11 a.m., so we were rushed. I had hoped Michel would rent a couple of those scooters that we saw all over France (they were a traffic menace in Lyon. But more on that in a later post), but alas encore! Mr. Youthful Fitness decided that we would walk the distance to the Louvre. I honestly don't remember how far it was from the Metro station. My natural (Wilson) proclivity for embellishing the truth (my Daddy was the World Champion of it) wants to say "12 blocks"---but realistically it was more like between 6 and 10. Along the way we passed impressive buildings like this one:
This is the French National Conservatory of Music. I guess it's the equivalent of Eastman, Juilliard or Berklee----only federal, not private or public like the schools I named.
We also passed the national French opera house, but my camera wouldn't function for some weird reason. I talked Michel into taking a picture of it for me, with the promise that he would e-mail it to me; but with everything going on, he forgot to do that. Perhaps he'll read this post and remember it, and maybe...just maybe (if he's in a good mood---which he usually is), he'll upload it to this post in the comment section. I don't even know if steemit is set up to let that happen, but I bet I find out soon.
Anyway, we made it to the Louvre before 11 and got in. We were in an atrium underneath the glass pyramid that has become so iconic. Here is what it looked like gazing up:
We were trying to make our way into the section of the museum where the French art is, when all of a sudden we were caught in this:
We were trapped in this sea of people who were being herded by the Louvre staff into the room where the Mona Lisa is housed. This is when my Asperger's kicked in. I began to feel claustrophobic, triggered by the throng of humanity enclosing me. I found myself constantly maneuvering to avoid being touched; overwhelmed by the perfume the Chinese women around me had (seemingly) doused themselves in; overwhelmed by the profusion of the world's tongues swirling around me, and fighting a growing urge to push or punch my way out of it. Plus I am trying to hide my angst from Michel, who didn't seem to even notice my growing agitation. I did what I always do when I feel those walls starting to close in on me: I prayed for peace and strength silently in my spirit. It worked, like it always does.
You know, I didn't even want to see "Mony, Mony". I have artsy friends: art teachers and artists who'd told me that comparatively, the Mona Lisa is a postage stamp. For all the hype surrounding this painting for the centuries it's existed, you would expect something grand. Maybe not on the scope of a mural, or the Cistine Chapel, but at least bigger than 10x14, or something close to that. But the bottom line was: the Louvre staff was gonna makeme see "Lisa, Lisa, Sad Lisa, Lisa" (that's my favorite Cat Stevens song. You can hear it here:
So see it I did. And I wasn't impressed. It's dark. It's little. It looked like Lisa needed to lose about 80 pounds. No wonder she was sad. With a cryptic quasi-smile. Maybe she was thinking about Quasimodo...
Speaking of Notre Dame, that's a place we didn't get to see; nobody wanted to--the fire was too recent. We also didn't get to the Champs Elysses, Versailles, Giverny, or even La Rive Gauche. There just wasn't enough time.
The Louvre is gargantuan. Not quite as large as our Smithsonian, but pretty close. I had an epiphany: I should have visited the Louvre when I was younger. Between the mile-plus power-walk to the museum, the mental energy exerted in controlling an impending meltdown, and enduring the throngs I was being propelled by against my will, I found myself wearing out and winding down within 3 hours.
If you've known me for any length of time, you know that Claude Monet is my favorite painter. My sister bought me a copy of the painting that inspired the Impressionist movement for my birthday one year in the early 1980s. The name of that painting is Impression: Sunrise. It still hangs in my living room, right over my left shoulder as I write this. I was hoping to see it and maybe some of the water lilies series he's so famous for, but we could not find them. I did manage to find three early Monet landscapes that I had never seen before. Here's the first one:
Monet #2:
And here's Monet #3:
In my estimation, these paintings are not representative of the style we all associate with Claude Monet. But he had to develop presbyopia or some other ocular oddity first. Obviously at this time of his life, he hadn't.
Michel, being the sensitive and astute person he is, knew my stamina was fading and began to guide us toward the exit. Before we left, we stopped by the French sculpture part of the Louvre and had a look around. I was struck by the oddity of this statue, proported to be the left foot of King Louis XIV. You know, the opulent, corpulent and decadant roi des rois of France. For some reason I thought of Percy Shelley's poem Ozymandias (which you can read here, if you are so inclined): https://poets.org/poem/ozymandias
ANYWAY, here's the King's foot. The sculptor was Francois Girardon:
So we made our way toward Argenteuil where our Air B & B apartment, Rhonda and two dogs awaited us. One of the last things I saw in the Louvre was the inverse pyramid. It compliments (on a much smaller scale) the upper one. Unlike the upper one that can be seen by everyone near it outdoors, this pyramid can only be seen as you prepare to exit. I am sure there's symbolism there, but I don't get it. Maybe one of you can "throw some light" on it? (Pun intended)
Later that evening we came back to Paris to visit the Eiffel Tower. Along the way we saw this statue in a roundabout that commemorated the liberation of Paris by the Americans from the Nazis:
And I saw this poster for a memorial concert to honor Aretha Franklin:
Finally, after driving for several blocks around the Tower, we found a place to park and walk to the adjacent park. This park is a favorite among Parisian young people, who often bring their dates and/or lovers here for a nighttime picnic at the foot of the Tower. C'est trop romantique! This sign posted at the Parc du Champ du Mars warns visitors that there are always gardeners and "agents of surveillance" who keep a constant watch over the park every day. The implied message is: don't do aberrance among the arbors!
Lastly, I leave you with a place to go with your significant other if you're still feeling romantic after your picnic at the foot of the Eiffel Tower ...the typical bistro du Paris.
