Départ

ST LUKE'S: Computer's at work have crashed, or at least the software we use to work has, so I figured now is as good a time as any to finish the story of Paris. Four or so weeks late. (This should be amended too over two months late but hey?)

Our last day in Paris the Louvre, the whole Louvre and nothing but the Louvre. ("You can't handle the Louvre!") We were unable to buy our tickets online, apparently you need to do it weeks in advance so they can post it to your home country. Instead we rocked up early to get a jump on the queue. Having entered the building, bought tickets and checked coats with a minimum of fuss we found a cafe to draw up an attack plan.

Three one and a half hour sessions broken up by lunch and afternoon tea. The first session was spent with the da Vinci hordes taking in the renaissance masterpieces. They were, of course, lovely, as were the large scale French paintings housed in the same wing. The pre-lunch highlight however was Canova's sculpture "Love and Psyche". These two beautiful figures coil around each other animated by pure desire. The space between their lips was probably the most emotionally charged space I've ever seen in a sculpture.

After lunch we tackled the Dutch Masters amongst others and while some of the paintings I'd been hoping to see had been rotated out we did see an incredible collection of David Teniers. Situated on the other side of the gallery, it was so quiet it felt like we were in another building.

With our attention almost ruined we refuelled with coffee and cookies and then tackled some of the remaining sculptures, the "Winged Victory of Samothrace", the Islamic galleries and various other archaeological curios. But after about six hours inside an art gallery like the Louvre we were shot. So we left, walked through the Tuiliries and got to the Metro back to the West Bank for one last supper of over priced coffees, crepes and pastries before heading cross town to catch the Eurostar home

Jour Deux

BRIXTON: Day two started with a walk through the beautiful mansions of the historic Marais, then across the Seine, as it separates the Île de la Cité and the Île St-Louis from the Left and Right Banks, and down Notre Dame with another overpriced flat white to kickstart the day.

Then we walked through the enormous Notre Dame contending with the legions of tourists desperate to take grinning happy snaps in its sombre surrounds. Afterwards it was off to Saint Chapelle for a guided tour of this stained glass masterpiece. Unfortunately the tour was hosted by an atrocious performance poet on speed so when she moved to take the group upstairs we lingered by the gift shop for another ten minutes.

Upstairs, however, the stained glass windows, at least fifteen minutes high, were absolutely stunning, bathing the room in a cornucopia of light. After spending five or so minutes gazing up at the stained glass from the seats lining both sides of the chapel, we walked over to the Pompidou for some modern art.

Five stories high the Pompidou is perfectly positioned to take advantage of the stunning Paris skyline. From the sandcastle stylings of the Sacre Couer, to the Eiffel Tower, the gothic splendour of Notre Dame, the modern skyscrapers and the romantic rooftops that seem to roll on forever, it really is the most impressive skyline I've ever seen.

Inside the art gallery has some excellent works by Kandinsky, Picabia, Duchamp and Braque but unfortunately the fourth floor, which houses the gallery's contemporary art, was closed. However to compensate there was an exhibition of graphic journalism on the bottom floor that included, not only an exhibit on one of my favourite writers Joe Sacco, the work of a host of graphic journalists I haven't yet read but now intend to do so.

Then it was back on the Metro and over to the Left Bank for another wander through the various streets. We were originally going to find a cinema to catch one of the numerous repertory seasons perpetually screening in Paris. Unfortunately there wasn't much on. There was a Fellini festival but speaking neither Italian nor French made this kind of pointless.

But it was on this ultimately pointless search for a cinema that our Paris trip took it's most exciting turn. Before describing our adventures though I'd like to point out that I'm a massive fan of Ernest Hemingway. His novel The Sun Also Rises is one of my all time favourites. A fact attested to by my Blogger profile. But despite going to visit San Sebastian and Pamplona on my trip to Spain last September (both locations central to the novel), I had completely forgotten I liked the novel. To say nothing of that fact that much of the action takes place in Paris. So while I watched The New World on Thursday night I tried to scribble down a few locations. But that beer coaster had long since been misplaced.

So there we were. Standing on a street corner, having just partaken in the fruits of a local patisserie, looking for Atlantis. As tempers frayed I made one last plea to Kate that we scale the small hill in front of us. And what I wise move that decision proved to be.

No more than a hundred metres from where we'd spent ten minutes lingering, pondering our evening, was the Rue de Moufettard. A spectacular street steeped in the history of the Lost Generation overflowing with gorgeous restaurants, cheese shops, fruit markets, fish mongers, book stores and literary cache. It was as though we had come home. After enjoying the delicacies of wine merchant and a chocolaterie we found the only cheap boozer in France and settled in to watch England lose to Ireland in the Six Nations. Then it was off to a bistro to stuff ourselves with three courses of finest French cooking.


After a couple of apres-dinner drinks and some more Lost Generation atmospherics it was time to pour ourselves into the Metro and head home.

And another thing

ST LUKE'S: See the tag below. It says france. Click on it and it'll take you back to my other French posts. Why would you do this? Because I've added a couple of pictures and you might be curious.

Jour Trois

BEDFORD ROAD: Day three was all about Montmartre, the neighbourhood famous for its artists and most recently for its appearance in the film's Amelie and Moulin Rouge. Being massive fans of guided walking tours we decided to go with Paris walks. Along with a handful of Welsh (over for the Six Nations), a family of San Franciscans, an Indian student based in London and a handful of others, a Cornish expat pointed out various locations associated with Impressionists and Post-Impressionists like Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Utrillo. We finished at the foot of the sandcastle cathedral Sacre Couer. The views of Paris would have been stunning, if the entire city hadn't been dressed in a London-esque coat of drizzle.






After picking up a couple of excellent ham and cheese baguettes we crossed town to the Musee d'Orsay. Following the trend to build art galleries in converted industrial sites, the museum expertly utilises it's former life as a train station. However the art was disappointing. But I got the feeling that most of the pictures I really wanted to see where either being loaned out or rotated.

Afterwards we took another meander through a less populated part of the West Bank, winding back through Jardin du Luxembourg where Hemingway allegedly hunted for pigeons. Then past the Sorbonne and a host of streets associated with Lost Generation adresses before winding up in the now familiar Rue Mouffetard. This time we found the house where Hemingway spent much of his original sojourn and I bought a copy of A Moveable Feast in the bookstore downstairs. Kate bought a beautiful red coat as well.





On the beautiful square at the top of the street we bought more 9 Euro beers before another three course feast in another house that Hemingway used to live in. More interesting, though, was it's status as the house where the poet Paul Verlaine departed this mortal coil. Stuffed and thouroughly sozzled we poured down the hill back towards La Republique.

Arivée

BRIXTON: Waking up before five to catch the third Eurostar of the morning at Waterloo is not an ideal way of starting a holiday but it is the cheap option, gives you extra time at your destination and is an infinitely better option than it's similarly timed Gatwick or Stanstead cousins. And we were in Paris, on our way to our hostel in Republique by 10:30, including winding our watches forward an hour.

First stop after depositing our bags was a coffee shop and an abrupt lesson in the cities extortionate prices for anything liquid. A good coffee and a light wallet later,we hopped on the Metro to visit Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise and pay respects to the graves of Balzac, Proust, Stein, Wilde, Modigliani, Piaf, Bizet and the original TomKat Heloise et Abelard. A visit to Apollinaire's tomb was also in order but we couldn't find it. In fact even with our map we were luck to find the modest flab marble slab, just off a main path, that honoured Proust. With the map though, and it's sometimes ambiguous grave markings, the whole thing feels like a Celebrity Death Treasure Hunt.



James Joyce isn't buried their though. So our next stop was to find the bookstore Shakespeare and Co. on the Left Bank. The bookstore was something of a lending library to the Lost Generation writers in the 20's. It's original owner, Sylvia Beach, was actually the first person to publish Joyce's Ulysses. (She continued to champion the book long after Joyce cunningly sold the rights to Random House for $50,000 leaving poor Beach with nothing.) The bookstore is rather average but we both bought over priced books as souvenirs. At least I got John Ashbery's new book.

Paris has probably the most recognisable over sized metal phallus in the world and it was off to the Eiffel Tower next to queue and ascend. Up the top I didn't want to pretentious prick (contrary to my very nature I know) but I couldn't help thinking it was no World Trade Centre. We picked out the landmarks and then walked up the Champs Elysees for that other source of Gaulish testosterone, the Arc de Triomphe. Kate took photos while I marveled the delicate artistry that makes up the truly monumental thing.



Then we walked back to the Eiffel Tower to watch it's (albeit crappy) light show before grabbing some French toasties (over here they call them Croque Monsieur and charge you 7 euros for the pleasure) and heading back to the hostel.