The first day we had nothing planned, no major expeditions, no restaurants to go in search of. We all slept late. "Bastille Day today," I said to Z. "Two more days in Paris after this, then we go home." "I don't want to go home. I don't like moving," she said. No friends, almost no toys, a tiny apartment, and milk she didn't care for, but she wanted to stay.
We had a breakfast of Poilane pain de seigle aux raisins (great), blood orange juice, and melons from the market. I asked A what she wanted to do and she chose the Musee des Arts Africains et Oceaniens, out to the east in the 12e, which had a tropical aquarium in the basement.
We took line 6 towards the west. The subway car we entered had a violinist and hammer-dulcimer player, in mid-tune. I slipped a franc into A's hand for her to give to the violinist, in honour of her own instrument. The number of subway musicians, both in cars and on platforms, seemed to be down this summer, as were the poetry-rhymers, tellers of tales of woe, and just plain beggars. We did see one man a few times playing organ music on an accordion, a clever idea considering the reverb qualities of subway corridors.
Out at Daumesnil and down the avenue. Despite the holiday, some places were open -- the occasional boulangerie or patisserie, a charcuterie, even the Prisunic where we had bought the umbrellas. Relieved that we wouldn't starve, we continued on to the Porte Doree and to the museum. It was housed in an older building, originally built for some grand exposition, with a colonial sculptured facade outside and great frescoes inside of the white man bringing civilization to the natives. But the collection was displayed in an attractive fashion, in well-lit cases spaced apart rather than crammed together as in older museums. The labels, though, only described the function of the object, its date of acquisition, and the country it was from.
That was later. First we saw the aquarium. The kids enjoyed this immensely, seeing old friends from Hawaii like triggerfish, surgeonfish, and angel fish; rays (Z's favourite), eels, rockfish, and even a large pit in the centre with crocodiles. The kids systematically went around to each tank, asked what was in it, observed for a while, and marvelled at the eating and swimming habits of the inhabitants; when I would wander off, one or the other would come running up with something intriguing to show me. There were perhaps one or two dozen people in the whole place, nearly all young parents or nannies with children.
Then upstairs, and we were pretty much alone. Masks, ceremonial figurines, huge drums and totem-pole-like sculptures. Not much context, and Z was grumpy after having finished with the fish, but A carefully took her in hand and found things to interest her, and soon they were both running from case to case and looking for things to discuss together. A high point was the Harrer collection of wooden masks and sculptures from a tiny province of Cameroon, documented in the modern fashion. A quick look at Moroccan jewelry and the temporary exhibition of elaborate headdresses from Irian Jaya and New Guinea, and we were out.
We returned to the Porte Doree for lunch, where there was a restaurant (also labelled brasserie, salon de the, and many other things) with sidewalk terrace called Les Cascades. It wasn't a place I knew anything about, but it seemed pointless to go chasing after gourmet experiences on a holiday. It was cool and overcast, so we sat outside; the sidewalk was wide and there were few pedestrians. The kids split an assiette de charcuterie (55F, with sliced country sausage, Hungarian salami, terrine de campagne, jambon cru [Z's favourite] and pork rillettes [A's favourite]); N and I had quiche with ham and peppers, and salad (40F). I had a 25cl pichet of the recommended VQDS red, served cold, to drink, plus a bit of Cotes du Rhone donated from the too-large pichet of the Englishman next to us. It was a decent meal, enjoyed by all.
Into the Bois de Vincennes and along lac Daumesnil, a pleasant but rather generic park experience, then through the centre of the park, a long walk, past the equestrian centre and up again to avenue Daumesnil for a glimpse of the Chateau de Vincennes and the entrance to the Parc Floral de Paris. This was the only park for which we paid an entrance fee, 10F for N and I, 5F for A.
We walked down past the pavilions - while we can all be convinced to study botany from time to time, none of us had much interest in it that day - and well-arranged gardens, dodging people in pedalled carts, to a considerable playground area, spread out under shade trees. Thankfully, the kids didn't care for any of the pay-and-line-up activities (cars riding on tracks, ball room, ping pong) but amused themselves for quite a while climbing and swinging. The place was busy but not mobbed or even overcrowded, with parents of all races, and children dashing about.
We were walking back when we heard music and chanced upon a free concert in a bandshell, a group called Ensemble Odyssee, six young men in black playing various brass instruments and percussion, performing "Couleurs cuivres", a clever medley touring through recent musical history with a bit of mime and mummery thrown in. It was quite impressive, and made up for the night before; the crowd agreed, and enthusiastic applause brought them back for two encores.
We walked up to the end of line 1, the Chateau de Vincennes stop, took one of the modern trains all the way to Bastille, changed to line 5, and were home by seven.
After a spell of playing, while we read and cleaned up, the kids were ready for dinner: Poilane bread, toasted to revive it, almost the last of the Alleosse cheese, endive salad, and a treat for me: a half-bottle of Saint-Emilion Grand Cru Classe, picked up in the Au Bon Marche food court for a little more than I usually paid for a full bottle. It was slightly tannic, but rich, and brought out the best in the cheese.
Dessert was artisanal pain d'epices from a honey seller at the market, terrific fragrant strawberries with a perfume hard to find in North America, tasty raspberries, and part of the kilo of apricots (I broiled several, as I am allergic to raw apricots).
I read double the amount from A Children's Homer to the kids to make up for the past few nights, and they went to bed at a reasonable hour, Z having finally given up her ambition to watch the grand fireworks over the Trocadero that night. The papers later said there were 600,000 people there, and in Toronto, we spoke to a couple on the shuttle to the parking lot who had regretted going.