RICK'S BIG TRIP page 10 (Looking down, a cat on the sidewalk; a hand on the rail)
My first night out, the night I arrived, I took a little walk around the base of the Monmarte (that means, “martyr mountain,” because it’s a little hill where some people were supposed to have been killed for a good cause some 1,800 years ago). I was following a guide book, to see where Vincent Van Gogh and his brother used to live, among other famous guys. It turns out, they just lived in city apartment buildings, like us regular guys would do if we had to live in a stinking city. Although, I admit, those old Paris apartments with their scrolly ironwork and masonry have a style you don’t see in downtown L.A.
So, my first morning in Paris, and what did I do? I took Eric Metzger’s advice and headed straight for the Musée d’Orsay. So doing I learned my first lesson in Parisian navigation: just because the Musée d’Orsay looks like it’s close to the Concorde subway station on the map, doesn’t mean you should take that route to get there. I emerged from the Concorde subway to find myself in a merciless swarm of cars, freight trucks and tour busses, with no signs or landmarks telling me where I was or where to go. Fortunately, I had my compass – yes! I carry a compass in the city – but that little jaunt took me through some of the most pedestrian-unfriendly stretches I’ve found in Europe so far.
Once at the museum, I learned my second lesson: waiting in line. It took about an hour and a half, partly in the sun, partly in the shade. By the time I entered this beautiful building I was already exhausted! The museum was formerly a train station, and you can see that the train stations of old had a much different view of train-waiting environments than the boxes we push ourselves through today. A magnificent arched ceiling! Spacious! Now transformed into an indoor sculpture garden.
But of course, the first thing on my agenda was breakfast. I shunned the fancy looking museum restaurant and, with difficulty following the French sense of sign directions, found my way to what was called the “self-service cafeteria.” Neither self-service, nor a cafeteria, this cheaper restaurant astonished me with my next gourmet meal: Smokes salmon on the bottom, a salad of greens with wonderful sauce, shrimp in another sauce, toast carefully spread with tuna, tea and garnish; the whole thing ran me, with a tip, 100 Franks. That’s about $13.33 American. You hear what I’m sayin’? Go to France. Eat the food.
I spent about an hour savouring my first work of art in the museum, the food of course, then moved on to the visuals. In keeping with the Great Breasts in Art theme we picked up earlier, here’s something for my friends, raised on capitalist propaganda, who dread the Welfare State, even though they’ve never seen one: a famous picture by Honoré Daumier, Le Republique immortalizes the notion of the State serving the People. Look at those kids, just sucking off the government! Does it make you crazy? Vive La Revolution!
Lots of sculptures, an awful lot of sculptures. I think this was 19^th century stuff, just how smooth can you get! I found this one kind of sexy. What do you think?
If you’ve never seen this gal before go back to art history class! She and her little picnicking cohorts are just terribly present in recounts of the rise of impressionism – even though it’s not an impressionistic painting. Whatever. Apparently her nudity, in company of the clothed gentlemen was supposed to be alarming. Oh, Manet, what are you thinking! But fear not, my gentle friends, for on closer inspection you will find that this seemingly bold woman has a modest secret: her breasts have no trace of nipples whatsoever.
And there was that guy Degas, remember? – the one who was always painting girls at ballet practice? Some of these pictures were really rather ghostly – or should I say ghastly. Scary little chalk-white faces with black hole mouths and eyes. Jeepers!
I was relieved to note that a few years later Degas gave the girls some color! Let the girls be flowery forchrisake! Why do you think they want to be dancers?
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