...being a tourist. When you put your mind to it, I mean, rather than merely drifting in a daze round somewhere that isn't entirely familiar. And I suppose that was part of the reason why neither of us had been 'tourists' in Paris for such a long time - although, after a certain point, any place becomes sufficiently familiar that it no longer seems relevant to be 'doing' the headline things, and instead you focus on the everyday stuff, like eating and drinking and shopping and laundry and seeing friends and going to the cinema. Technical Dept largely finished being a tourist in Paris sometime in the early seventies, and I suppose my last burst of it was around 1981 (Malmaison, Les Invalides, and the Rodin Museum...) And, as a result, there were some gaps to be filled. Effectively, we had an 'I've never seen Star Wars' week (which, by the way, I haven't ...but that's a different matter entirely), and spent much of the time filling in long-empty gaps.
Tuesday was spent at Père Lachaise, which was quite wonderful. Under a leaden January sky, we wandered for hours along the rambling paths, and struck out from time to time across the peaks and valleys of the hinterland of the cemetery, beneath a skyline dominated by the stark profiles of crumbling mausoleums. Elizabeth Demidoff's massive tomb was memorable, as was the avenue of the tombs of the Maréchals de France; Hèloise and Abelard, in their mock-gothic splendour; Piaf (and the youthful greek who shared her grave....was he her husband or her son?); Modigliani (and why did his mistress die on the day immediately after he did?); Gertrude Stein (why is her grave covered in old metro tickets?); what was the 'Dixmuthe' disaster?; who was Countess Harriet della Gherardesca, and why did she end up here in solitary splendour? (della Gherardesca is a old Pisan family, hence our interest). Endessly fascinating. It was only after about five hours, and the incipient onset of hypothermia that we were forced to seek the warmth of the metro, where we gradually thawed out during the length of the journey back to Reamur-Sebastopol.
The Egyptian Galleries in the Louvre took up much of Wednesday, after we'd also 'done' the exhibition there of the late Raphael (which was frankly a bit ho-hum - an awful lot of 'studio of' rather than the man himself, and a number of items where the attributions looked distinctly iffy), and the excavations of the fourteenth century walls of the original Louvre, which had been built by Charles V. Mesmerising. Although it pains me to admit it, the Louvre, these days, has the BM knocked absolutely into a cocked hat - and especially so since Neil Magregor has turned the latter into a form of theme park, apparently aimed at eight year olds.
On Thursday, we 'did' Versailles. It's been on my list ever since I turned up there, only to find it closed, sometime around 1980, and the TD's last visit had been in 1972, so it was overdue for a re-run. When I say we 'did' the place, I mean we really did it: King's Apartments; Queen's Apartments; State Apartments; Dauphin (and Dauphine)'s Apartments; the Gardens; Grand Trianon; Petit Trianon; and all the bits in between. Splendid overheard in Marie Antoinette's bedroom, where she-australian was reading out to he-australian from an information placard:
She: "on the night of October 6th 1789, the Queen fled through the concealed door to the left of the bed, and took refuge in the King's Apartments..."
She (carefully reading verbatim from the placard): "The rioting crowd".
He (displaying polite interest, but with a vague idea that Marie Antoinette was the name of the hairdressers in Wollombooga Springs): "Oh." (Exit, to State Dining Room)
Overall, the Chateau was impressive (if not actually oppressive), the Trianons were charming, some of the garden treatment was intriguing, and the astronomical price of the macaroons in the café at the Petit Trianon was enough to inspire another round of revolution, and certainly an interesting play on "Let them eat cake!"
And on Friday, we actually did a non-Star-Wars thing, and went instead to the Musée Nissim de Camondo, in rue Monceau. A time-capsule house, and of its kind a perfect gem. The kitchen, as historic kitchens often are, was completely mouth-watering.
And talking of mouth-watering, we were perfectly situated, at the southern end of rue Montorgueil, within fifty metres of a fishmonger, two butchers, three boulangeries, half a dozen wine merchants, three small general stores, and (had we wanted to use them) a couple of dozen restaurants, brasseries, and bars. Being on the fourth floor, without a lift, had its moments - especially when carrying half a dozen bottles of mineral water, and two bags of provisions - but the apartment was comfortable, had an excellent kitchen, and was blissfully quiet. And friends who arrived for dinner had the additional benefit of a full work out by the time they reached our floor (eighty stairs exactly - I counted!).
Haddock Mousse, with a lemon butter sauce.
Boudins Blancs Truffés (thanks to the butcher in rue Montorgueil); Turnip Gratin.
Apple & Almond Tart.