D'Orsay to Darcy

I finished my time is Paris with a visit to the Musee D'Orsay, which I must say, is probably my favorite museum. It was a train station in prior life and has these wonderfully tall ornate walls and lots of light and a beautiful giant clock at one end and the bones of the station are still in tact. Many of my favorite artists are here and the sculptures are amazing. These two were my favorite (the photo doesn't do them justice):

I decided to leave Paris a few hours early as everything is closed on Sunday and I was growing a little weary and lonely in that city. I took the Eurostar through the Chunnel to London and got to see (at high speed) the northern French countryside.

I was making my way to Hampshire, which I hadn't realized was so far from London. I was planning to take a taxi from the Waterloo stations, but I was told to take another train for an hour in order to get there. Lugging my two cumbersome suitcases up and down, bumping people as well as myself, and trying to catch the train before it departed, I was exhausted and at my wit's end when I finally sat down in the first avaliable seat. It took me about three minutes to realize that I was facing a young couple, about age 19 or 20, in full Anime costume. That made my day. The boy was a hot nerd type dressed like that popular Anime character that wears that banada thing on his forehead (no, I don't know the names or the shows, but I do recognize the characters) and the girl was that little kitty animal thing with the big gold balls on her ears. She was too cute. They chatted on and on about the two day convention they were just at and I scored come Poky off of them.

An hour later, I arrived at the station, found a taxi and in fifteen more minutes I was at the hotel. Oh my goodness - the hotel. It's the Four Seasons Hampshire and you can google it if you want. It's a former manor house in the Hampshire countryside where the future King Henry VIII met Catherine of Aragon for the very first time. The rooms are lovely, as one would expect, but the land! I'm kicking myself for not coming here earlier.

Then to top it all off, it just occurred to me that this is Jane Austen territory and my heart went pitter pat, as my dog-eared Pride and Prejudice, which I take with me on all trips due to it's compact size and security blanket like qualities, can attest. As soon as it is light out I'm going for a walk. I will not have time to explore the UK while I'm here, but I'm definitely going to explore these grounds as much as I can and nerdily imagine myself to be Elizabeth Bennett as I walk through the countryside.

People, don't just see the movies and think you know the story. Although most are very well done, you miss so much of the humor that way. Jane Austen, besides writing these classic stories that everyone copycats or reproduces for modern day (Bridget Jones Diary = Pride and Prejudice, Clueless = Emma), she is hilarous and her characters are just as applicable today as then.

Winged Victory

Winged Victory stands alone in a classically stark marble rotunda. It's energy is aerodynamic - following the wet windswept folds of her dress, over her strong legs and shoulders, off her wings and feet and circling around the walls in a full circuit.

There are many sculptures from the Greeks, Romans and Etruscans, and onward to Michelangelo and Rodin that make marble appear so lifelike one would swear blood was rushing through veins, or folds of cloth to be so delicate as to imagine a breeze stirring them. But that is amateurish compared to this. Look here at her stomach, how it is distinct from the wet veil of cloth covering her. Utterly distinct. One piece of solid marble begets wet over sheer over skin over muscle over feeling. Yes, feeling. You feel it. Her pride and determination and strength - her core and everything that goes into her stance. And you know how the cloth feels - how it sticks and pulls, how the water pools in her navel and trickles over her thigh and collects at her feet. How her stomach tightens against the cold fabric and supports her in the wind on the prow of the boat on which she stands. Her wings are magestic. Her stance is powerful and feminine. But to me it is all about her stomach; that is where her energy comes.

Tucked in a corner of the rotunda, a good ten feet away, is a twelve inch glass box sitting on a pedastal at eye level. It contains her right hand, which originally was cupped around her mouth as she announced her victory. Now it sits on its back, palm up, in more of a position of welcome or abundance. Often overlooked, it is the second most expressive thing about her.

This sculpture was created to commemorate an important Rhodian naval victory. It was placed in a rock niche in the side of a cliff and wasn't unearthed until 1863.

To me, this sculpture is a better representation of "woman" than all the round-bellied fertility fetishes and beautifully serene Venuses and beatific Madonnas combined, because those sculptures capture only a facet of womanhood. Too often, they are one-dimensional. Winged Victory in her anonyminity and masterful lines is trancendent.

Paris: Day 3

had an excellent day today. I saw the sun rise over Paris and spent time exploring Les Halles. After working through the majority of the day, I stepped out in search of a late lunch and while crossing the street bumped right into none other than Thom Yorke.

THOM YORKE!

p.s. I'm reading "Plainsong" by Kent Haruf. A great book so far, and a perfect earthy counterbalance to this trip. I highly recommend it.

Paris: Day 2

I don't know what time zone I'm on but it's not Boston and it's not Paris. I think I'm on Tokyo time. I slept three hours last night, got up at 6 a.m. worked from 7 until 2, then fell asleep. The room is so quiet, I didn't wake up until 6.

I strolled around and took some night photos and grabbed a bite to eat. I was stopped in the street two times and asked directions in broken French. Perhaps I'm not as obviously American as I thought. I replied back in broken French that I had no clue as to where Rue _____ is.

I may have avoided being instantly labeled American by two people - most others did peg me for English speaking - but I can spot the Americans here from a mile away. Shoes tell all. As does sitting spread eagle in the courtyard of the Louvre with your buttcrack peeking out of your jeans and the darker streaks of the tanning lamps marking your back from laying in the tanning bed too long as you rummage through your North Face backpack for a stick of gum. God give me strenth until this buttcrack phenom blows over.

For some reason the MTV in the hotel is German MTV. While I was getting ready I caught that dating game where one person has five dates to choose from who all sit on a bus and wait for their turn. It was the American version with German subtitles. Besides being totally horrified with the stupidity and shallowness of it all (this from a girl who watched Studs religiously) the subtitles cracked me up. While I don't read German, I still tried to figure out how they would possibly translate all the slang and cheeseball sex metaphors being tossed around. I think they took some creative liberties because when one girl said "my body's at tight as a Jay-Z bootleg" the German subtitles said, "Ich ben ein Beyonce" or something like that.

Paris: Day One

Has any other woman felt that they were missing out on experiencing the moment because their feet were killing them?

I'm here on business. I wore a new suit and a new pair of pants with fairly comfortable, pretty chunky 3" heels. Fine for wearing all day. Fine for a stroll. Not fine for walking at breakneck speed over cobblestones and wooden bridges for 30 minutes or more. By the way - Parisian cobblestones beat Boston cobblestones in the ankle twisting category anyday.

Yes, I brought sensible shoes. No I'm not one of those women who can't wear sensible shoes. I know Carrie Bradshaw is a fraud. I'm a true city chick - I wear sensible shoes when walking around town and I plan on wearing them all weekend while I'm here. But my pants are tailored for high heels so I can't trade heels for sneakers or flats without changing clothes, etc., etc., so I was stuck walking to dinner in them.

At first it was nice. Ah, Le Louvre at night. What a quaint rickety wooden bridge crossing the lovely Seine. Ah here we are at the restaurant unscathed. These new shoes held up. Sweet.

Dinner was a very French affair at a place called Les Bouquinistes "restaurant avec Guy Savoy". I do not know who Guy Savoy is, but I hear he's a big deal.

I am always anxious at dinners like these. I was the pickiest kid - living off of peanutbutter sandwiches through most of my childhood. I was brought up vegetarian for the first ten or so years of my life, so I also don't have an affinity for a lot of meat. And I don't like seafood. I've expanded the things I like over the years, of course, but meat and seafood are still issues. Today though, I told myself to grow up and try everything - I mean how much meat and seafood can one be served in one meal?

Ha. Ha.

First, there was champagne and an "amuse bouche" - a tiny, tiny appetizer to "amuse the mouth". It was a shotglass of cold pureed soup of an unknown seafood origin, from what I overheard. I tasted it. It was delicious. Phew.

Second, there was pate with toast and a white wine. It was also good, though I only had a bit of the pate.

Third, there was a small casserole dish with a ravioli stuffed with fish covered in a buttery sauce and a small de-shelled lobster like thing on top and another glass of another white wine. I couldn't do the lobster (yes, I don't deserve the title New Englander) but the ravioli was wonderful too.

Fouth came three long slices of very rare duck, with a bit of more cooked chopped duck served with a '98 Bordeaux. I like duck. The cooked duck was great. The rare duck was still quacking. The Bordeaux was delicious.

Fifth came a long slice of fish, skin-on, cooked to a crisp, served over a creamy risotto. And I think a different glass of wine. The fish was good - I think I might like fish now - and the risotto was out of this world.

Lastly came the dessert - it was cold cappuccino with bananas and coconut and cream. It was very tropical tasting. Eh. And a chocolate mousse thingy and some sweet dessert wine.

It was a feast in the moveable feast that is Paris and I'm glad I got over my fear of trying new foods in such a fabulous setting. Merci Guy Savoy, whoever you are.

But my feet are killing me! After we left, a little less sure on my feet, we took the long way back, walking to Notre Dame to see it at night. I haven't been there for fifteen years and it made me reflect on my life then and now.

Apparently I haven't improved on appropriate fashion for the moment front. Last time I was at Notre Dame I was wearing some outfit from Tello's, a scrunchi, and a pair of Keds. Though my taste level might have improved since then, the practicality of it all has not. I resolved to wear comfy shoes only for the remainder of my trip.

I began to lag a bit behind and the balls of my feet were screaming in pain when suddenly everyone stopped on another rickety bridge (or maybe the same one) to see the light show that the Eiffel Tower puts on these days. Stopping actually makes foot pain worse in my opinion so I was leaning from one foot to the next in my personal hell and that is when I realized that I am a very stupid woman who is missing the beauty of the twinkly lights and the sparkling Seine because of a footwear malfunction. I forced myself to appreciate the view and just barely stopped myself from ripping off the offensive shoes and walking back to the hotel barefoot.

Thank goodness I get to spend the weekend here. If I'm not crippled permanently, I'll write more through the week.

Employee of the Month

I kid you not, this is a true photo from one of the insane workplaces in town. Can you guess who the employee of the month is?

No Exit

ARGGGGHHH!! I am so fucking frustrated right now. Let me ask you this: have you ever met a city or county or state or government clerk type person who handled his or her job with thorough knowledge and efficiency and a smile? NO? Me neither. If you do, please give the person a hug. Write a letter. Have a parade.

I feel like I just spent my afternoon in a Satre play with the waiting room of hell reinvented as the county clerk's office. Seriously, if you ever wondered where sadistic Ines went, head down here. She's wearing bad polyester and an serious attitude. I think Edvard Munch must have been here when he painted his famous Scream. That's no bridge; that's a counter with little windows that are as useless as a broken fucking vending machine. You stick you paper through and it shoots right back out at you.

I should have known when I went to the "check in here" counter and told the 90-year old lady what I needed to do and she handed me a red square of plastic with a number on it. Thinking I'd be proactive, I asked if there was a form I needed to fill out that I could do while I was waiting. She looked at me as if I asked her to explain string theory. Whatever, I thought, fully prepared to get to a window and be given a form and told to take another number after that was done. That, I would have been ready for. That would be my normal assumption of bureaucratic incompetence taking place in my life. I have time. I will win. I will take your germ-covered piece of plastic and wait for another. I will get this thing resolved before I leave, I swear to god.

The woman at the window tells me, "I don't know what you have to do." What? What do you mean? This is a transaction that happens every day here. I'm not trying something new that nobody has ever head of. What the hell? "Maybe you can get a blue number and wait for someone over there to answer your question." Maybe? Whatever. Give me a blue number. I'm not going down so easily.

The woman at the blue window tells me she can't help me. "We can't provide legal advice." What? I don't want legal advice. I just want whatever form I need to fill out so I can staple this shit to it and hand it over to you. "Well, I can't tell you what form you need because if I do and I'm wrong that would be giving you the wrong advice." What? "You need to talk to a lawyer or a realtor or something." Why? I'm not selling my place. OK, so maybe I'm missing something here. Just tell me what I need to do. "We can't tell you." You can't even tell me what I'm not doing right? "Nope." Look, ALL I WANT IS THE FORM. The form you showed me two months ago and that now I'm ready to fill out. Can't a regular person come in here and fill out a form without a laywer for chrissakes? "Well, if you told me what form you needed..." What? I'm asking YOU what form I need. You're the people who MAKE the forms! I don't care about the forms. I'll just give you this piece of paper and you can figure it out for all I care. I'm trying to help YOU. "I can't give you that information."

I swear to god she smirked. That's when I imagined myself jumping over the counter.

This went on for a while. I became so frustrated, I began to cry with frustration, so I left. Some nice lady slipped me the number to her friend who might be able to help. She renewed my faith in the kindness of strangers. As for that incompetent, lazy, bitch of a clerk - fuck her for making me cry.