Tuesday morning dawned slowly with grey skies full of heavy clouds that brought a drizzly mist to the city of Paris. All along Rue de Madagascar, pedestrians were strolling quickly, wearing raincoats, and dodging umbrellas as they passed each other on narrow sidewalks. I got up early and went through my coffee ritual: two spoonfuls of instant coffee and two sugar cubes in a white cup on the counter, followed by boiling water from the hot pot, and finished with whole milk to the brim of the cup. We had planned to see some major sites on this day, and we wanted to walk to all of them after the initial ride on the metro, but I was worried that the rain might hinder our goals. Breakfast was a repeat of the day before, and we managed to get ourselves dressed and ready to go by 10:30, zipped up in raincoats and toting a backpack full of ham sandwiches and water bottles.
We found a metro station that was a little closer to home, and on the way, discovered another grocery store that was larger than the one we've been frequenting; so we purposed to stop there upon our return. In less than half an hour, we were out of the metro and walking in the rain toward the Place de la Concorde to view the monument of Rameses the Great, a three-thousand-year-old obelisk originally standing at the front of Luxor Temple and gifted to the King of France by the King of Egypt in the late 1880s. (I pondered the fact that I’m lucky just to be gifted a new pack of boxer briefs on my birthday.) The obelisk was located in the middle of a vast roundabout, and we had a bit of trouble negotiating traffic, but we prevailed and made our way to the Musee de l’Orangerie located in the park nearby. More impressionist art was on our plate for the morning as we entered the museum housing Claude Monet’s Nympheas panels from the early 20th century. A complete renovation of the building since the time Deena and I visited two decades ago made the place unrecognizable to me. I reminisced about almost being tackled during that visit by a security guard when a trance-like state generated by the beauty of the art compelled me to reach out and touch one of the paintings. I am a textbook example of a rule-follower, and I don’t know what came over me back then, but hey, I’ve touched a Monet.
The primary exhibit which is located on the main floor of the museum, consists of eight panels spread out over two oval rooms, depicting a cycle of light from sunrise to sunset on the water and the lilies in Monet’s Giverny garden pond. The panels measure six-feet-by-thirty-five-feet and are trimmed with thin gold frames which just barely contain the hymn of colors that Monet blended over a ten year period. The artist gifted these paintings to France and the city of Paris as a respite from the horrors of World War 1—a gift well given and well received. After reviewing a bit of history with the children, we went off in separate directions to view the panels as we each saw fit, eventually coming back together to sit on a bench in front of the panel we deemed most compelling. Even though the paintings captured a moment in time and are fixed objects, sitting in front of one of these is like viewing the ocean from a balcony, or the mountains from a porch, or just watching people pass by a busy intersection. The paintings draw attention to many different points, and the water seemed to move as light is reflected on the lilies. The effect produced a restful reverie that we were loathe to break.
Musee de l'Orangerie
There is a large bronze copy of The Kiss, a sculpture by Auguste Rodin, placed right by the exit of the Orangerie, and it depicts two characters from Dante’s Inferno naked and making out in front of God and everyone. I appreciated the artistic talent on display, but not being a big fan of public displays of affection, I hustled my crew on down the promenade.
We began our long walk from the Place de la Concorde to the Isle de la Cite, a mile-and-a-half trek in the steady drizzle that continued to swirl in the air. It was the kind of rain that tempts one not to bother with the hood attached to one’s slicker but produces a headful of soaking hair after a short period of walking. There was no stopping my intrepid crew, and before long we were crossing Pont au Change on to the Isle de la Cite and headed to the French Gothic wonder of Sainte Chapelle, a 13th-century royal chapel containing some of the finest original stained glass in the world. The security measures were hefty here, and I submitted to my usual frisking by a big French dude wearing a machine gun who stared at me unblinking during the whole uncomfortable ordeal. The payoff was sitting in the chapel for the better part of an hour with my little family as we discussed history and how people made stained glass eight-hundred years ago. The western wall is dominated by a rose window that shows the events of the Revelation, and the rest of the chapel is surrounded by fifteen soaring stained glass windows depicting over 1,100 scenes from the Bible, barely contained by leaden filigrees. We learned how to read the panels, left to right, top to bottom and enjoyed locating the scenes showing the Passion of Christ, Cain and Abel, Noah’s Ark, and many others. We weren’t aware that we had just made the cut off before the afternoon visitors' break, and at times we had the whole chapel almost to ourselves. As we left the courtyard, we saw a large queue of people waiting to enter the chapel, and we were thankful for the timeliness of our visit.
Outside Sainte Chapelle
The Altar of Sainte Chapelle
After strolling another quarter mile or so with Joseph and Deveny leading, we turned a corner, and the kids stopped in their tracks and shouted a collective, “Whoa!” We followed quickly behind and realized they had just caught their first head-on glimpse of the classic French Gothic European icon, Notre Dame. A long time ago when Deena and I were young and fabulous, we picked a stone bench in front of the cathedral and ate our lunch, and now we sat with our children eating lunch in the same spot, as the gargoyles of Notre Dame repelled evil spirits from the Isle de la Cite as they have for nine-hundred years. It took almost-two hundred years to build this cathedral—a fact which is hard to comprehend considering modern glass-and-steel skyscrapers can be constructed in a few years' time. By this time of day, we were almost at history overload; so we reviewed basic facts about Notre Dame and then spent about an hour wandering the interior, photographing the rose windows, and finally sitting in the middle to just take it all in. Joseph and I considered climbing the stairs to the tower balconies, but fatigue and the price of admission left us content to view the gargoyles from ground level. Before leaving the area, we walked around the side of Notre Dame to view the flying buttresses, the graceful architectural elements that keep the whole building from collapsing on itself, and my favorite aspect of the cathedral. How does one tap the well of fortitude and leave a place like Notre Dame? Somehow we staunched the wounds of parting with an appreciation of the inspired work of those gone before us and the memory of beholding it together as a family. Munching a freshly prepared banana and nutella crepe helped as we walked through the Latin Quarter and to the metro station for passage home.
Notre Dame
Supper was a chicken stir-fry with fresh broccoli, carrots, and peppers purchased at the grocery store we spotted earlier in the day. We were slightly disappointed by their higher prices and the lack of a few necessities, but they had a pretty good selection of two-euro wine. The Southern Cross Academy was in session after supper, and the kids got in a solid time on their laptops to supplement the education they received strolling the streets of Paris on a rainy day.
No comments:
Post a Comment