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Monday, July 12, 1999

My alarm went off at 6:30; we were getting up early to say goodbye to K. He quickly packed the last few items into his small shoulder bag as we got the kids up; they gave him bleary hugs and then waved to him as he crossed rue Bobinot and went into the metro station, the route we would follow in less than a week's time. He had given up ten days of his precious vacation time, during which he could have covered a lot more ground, to just hang out with us and do whatever we did. He was never in the way, he helped with the kids, and he paid for most of our meals and many incidental expenses. I'd like to think we took him to some places he might not have gone, and to some restaurants he might not have experienced. But was it worth it for him? If it wasn't, we will never know; he is not the type to complain.

A and I stayed up after that, while N and Z slept, but they were up by eight. I wanted to get a really early start, but it took another forty minutes or so until we got into the metro, and took line 7 to Pont Marie. A man in one of the folding seats by a door chatted with the kids, who wanted to stand and hold the pole. "Where are you from?" "Waterloo," said A. After instructions to give the country, she told him, and he said, "You can't be from Canada! Every Canadian has a Canadian flag on their backpack!"

It was cool, with a mix of sun and cloud, as we strolled along the north side of the Seine and crossed the bridge onto the back of Ile de la Cite. The kids wanted to go into the gardens again, but I suggested that we should go directly into Notre Dame; already there were many tour groups heading for the entrance, mostly Asian. Inside, there were many groups also, but we could find space where they were not clustered, if we timed things right.

We went up the right aisle to finally see the rose windows full on, then across beside the altar to look back down the nave and examine the carvings in the choir. I explained some of them, stories they remembered, from the life of the Virgin that they examined in Padua in the Arena Chapel the year before. Walking towards the transept, I carried Z briefly because she wanted to tell me something. "The stories are scary because he dies so much," she said, meaning of course Jesus. Through the left transept, which had been jammed full earlier and was empty now, for another look at the rose windows, then back along left aisle and out.

We crossed the Parvis in front, and continued on towards the Conciergerie. Our plan was to see this building and Ste-Chapelle both, because a combined ticket was only a few francs more, and we thought the kids might like the prison and justice aspect of the building. But due to renovation work, the Conciergerie was closed until 12, so I bought tickets just for Ste-Chapelle. When we visited it in 92, on a rainy February afternoon, it had been crowded and dark; this time, shortly after opening on a sunny day, it was light and airy, with relatively few people inside, and the door at the end of the upper chapel open. We entered through the basement, whose gilded wood was impressive enough to the kids, and then up the narrow spiral staircase to the upper chapel, whose walls are mostly glass. It was hard to make out much of it (very old and small designs) but I explained some of the glass to the kids, stories from Genesis.

Then it was down and out. Line 1 to Bastille, where N and the kids went to the Monoprix to get odds and ends, and I went to the Banque de France to change the old 100F banknotes for new ones. This turned out to be more onerous than I expected. First, a guard held me outside until some people left, in full sun. Then I had to take a number. It was 028. The sign said 007 was being served. I waited, with the others. Nowhere to sit. From time to time the matron handing out numbers would snarl at some poor tourist. After a half hour, the counter reached 028, and I went to the wicket around the corner, handed my 200F in through the device, and had new notes within seconds. What was happening between such quick transactions was a mystery, since everyone else seemed to be there for the same reason as I.

It was just twelve. I dashed to the Monoprix, paid for N's purchases, and we set off at a brisk trot through place des Vosges ("We always come here," complained N), crossed Beaumarchais to rue Amelot, and walked up the narrow, empty street in the sunshine. The restaurant I had chosen, C'amelot, was shuttered; I had missed the bit in Patricia Wells saying it was closed on Mondays. I flipped through possibilities on the Newton. We hurried the kids along to the Chemin Vert metro stop, up to Republique, change lines, down to Charonne. It is almost one, and any place that was really popular would be filling up or full by now.

Our destination was Le Zygotissoire, and when we arrived, they still had a couple of tables left. It was quite warm inside. We ordered off the daily 80F menu for the kids (a stunning bargain, with three choices of each of three courses): ravioli aux champignons, saumon roti, fondant de chocolat. N and I, ordering a la carte, split a terrine de queue de boeuf, then we each had a demi canard roti (90F), which came with potato galette, and a delicious sauce with cherries. All the food was great. A half-bottle of bourgogne aligote to refresh, and the assiette gourmande (50F), a mixed dessert plate we shared with A, who can't eat chocolate: ile flottante, fondant, apple tart, some sort of cake, a thick crunchy cookie, and a garnish of raspberries and blueberries.

On our way to the metro, we spotted a bus marked Louvre-Rivoli, and decided to try it. The bus was crowded; the kids shared one seat, we stood. Eventually, as people left, we shifted around, and finally all got seats. Once again, we were stuck in traffic on rue de Rivoli. Jets raced overhead as we disembarked; they were practicing for the big military parade on Bastille Day. We crossed the stret into the east centre edge of the Louvre, through the first interior courtyard and into the main one, past the glass pyramid and a line of people stretching to one side and down a collonaded arcade (not moving, arcade and people both), across the street, and to the Porte des Lions. It was 3:40. There was no line; we got right in (26F, the reduced rate after three), but had to check the large black daypack at a vestiare which closed at 5:30.

The elevator straight up led to the end of the Italian paintings, which we consequently viewed in reverse chronological order. Highlights were some later Venetian Baroque paintings, and for the kids, portraits of real people from the children's book "The Second Mrs. Giaconda", about Leonardo, Salai, and the Duke of Milan: Isabella d'Este, Cecilia Gallerani. The Leonardos, a little further on, were undisturbed, and the kids were primed for them. We continued to discover small gems that had escaped us earlier: a fine Saint Jerome by Lorenzo Lotto (one of N's favourite artists), a solitary Caravaggio. Back through the large French paintings, and down to the Michelangelo slaves (huge mock caryatids of which we had seen on a building on rue Daumesnil from the Promenade Plantee) and Canova.

It was almost five and we had to worry about the daypack. We made a plan to meet in the Greek earthenware, somewhere between rooms 40 and 44. I headed straight towards the Porte de Lions. Retrieved the pack, left the building, and a few steps later went down what looked like a subway station into the Louvre de Carrousel entrance just near the Arc du Carrousel. A brisk unimpeded walk down to the stores where we waited the previous Sunday, but this time there was no line (though there were long lines for tickets inside the glass pyramid). I checked the pack (this vestiare closed at seven, though the museum was open until 9:45 that night, go figure), went straight in, through the pre-Classical section (pausing for a few moments at some old friends like the little Cycladic figures), up past Victory of Samothrace, past Apollo gallery, our plan had worked wonderfully, and - closed doors, ropes, a guard! Rooms 37 to 50, including the Greek earthenware, were closed!

Somewhere in this huge maze of a museum were N and the kids. We had made a plan, in case the lineup from the Louvre du Carroussel was too long, to meet at 6:30 at the Virgin Megastore, but the kids would be quite tired and thirsty by then. I had to find them. Back down staircase, carefully through the Etruscan and Roman antiquities, into the Greek antiquities, and there they were, working their way forward very slowly. Amazing.

We continued through, once again the only ones behind Venus de Milo, A studying her spinal cord, and marvelling at the antics of the flashing crowd in front. But worse was to come. In one room a woman leapt up on the pedestal of a headless torso, presumably to put her face on it so that her friend could snap a shot. Before I could say anything, a museum guard charged at her. "Ne touche pas!" she said, as the woman climbed down. "Sorry," said the woman insouciantly, leaning against the marble with her open palm, then giggling and running off. Why do people go to places they don't care anything about, and abuse them?

Back through the Roman rooms, into the preclassical section, a quick tour through early European sculpture, and we headed out a little after six. We had a quick dinner in the Universal Resto food court -- merguez and couscous for kids, tarte salee and tarte sucree (blueberry) for us. Then a single metro line home. I went to supermarket for a few items, and then everyone stripped down to the buff except for a pair of spare shorts, which I wore to carry the laundry to the laundry room. While it was running, I typed travel notes back in the apartment, drinking wine coolers made from a tetrapack of grapefruit juice and the leftover Cotes du Rhone rose.

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