Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

Last Friday evening (yes, I am behind, thanks for asking) we went in search of Joseph Ducreux at the Louvre.

We were not successful, though we continue to find whole sections of the museum that we’ve somehow missed on our previous visits.

Saturday we headed to the petit palais for Paper Tigers, only to discover that I had written it down wrong, and Paper Tigers was actually at the musée national des arts asiatiques-Guimet, which is not at the petit palais.

Finally, we headed to the perennial favorite musée national de la marine for an exhibit on cod, which was interesting until you look at the size of the modern catches, wonder how that could possibly be sustainable, and then have your suspicions confirmed when the end of the exhibit basically notes that vast swathes of cod fisheries are on life support, and they’re effectively fucked unless there’s serious international cooperation and goodwill. (Spoiler alert: your grandkids are going to be asking what cod and tuna are, to say nothing of the big cats, rhinoceri, probably elephants, polar bears, whales…)

But hey, they’ll have memes. Maybe.

Saturday’s excursion to Versailles felt like a bit of a revival for us; while my mood was certainly buoyed due my consumption of one of the two boxes of (eight small) macarrons that I would consume between Friday and Sunday, the exhibit that we went out to see, Le roi est mort, felt like the first one in a while that had been genuinely engaging, that we had really enjoyed, that was worth the effort. This isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy L’art dans le jeux vidéo or, for that matter, Athens or the opera or Le musée de la chasse or everything else that we’ve done since we went to Rome.

Perhaps it was simply interesting and definitively French, which led to the feeling of being firmly in the here and now, as opposed to being overshadowed by both larger (13 November) and smaller (the no-longer-full hourglass that contains the remainder of our time here) forces.

While I am saddened by the fact that we didn’t get to see Juan the donkey (the biting wind and hiking distance made this decision easy), we did (due to the placement of the exhibit in the château) spend a bit of time wandering around, and we were able to see the rehabilitated form of one of the larger fountains which on our last visit had been reduced to a muddy pit and a pile of rocks.

On to the visuals.

It would be reasonable to argue that Saturday’s expedition was perhaps not our finest weekend, but while it fell short of the good idea mark, it did not fall so short as to earn the classification of “dumb idea of the week.”

Our primary foe was the weather; the past few days have brought with them a rather harsh cold snap, and the temperature on Saturday, even given our noon hour late start, was only in the mid- single-digits (Centigrade, obviously). As we left the apartment, we both noted that while it was colder than expected, the weather was still bearable; further, we regarded ourselves as prepared since we had each brought an umbrella.

Having ridden the RER from Pont de l’Alma to Gare d’Austerlitz, we found ourselves along the banks of the Seine (near the Charles de Gaulle bridge), amidst a noticeable breeze and a touch of rain; while somewhat annoying, I managed to take random pictures of stupid shit, and we continued to our destination, Art Ludiqe – Le Musée. There, we were searched twice (once in the atrium, and again just before the ticket desk) before buying our tickets to L’art dans le jeux vidéo.

The exhibit was a serious treatment of video game art (with walls of concept art, backgrounds, and “digital paintings”) from francophone video game companies. While this led to some surprises (I didn’t realize that Quantic Dream and Arkane were francophone studios), I also got most of what I was interested in, which was walls and walls of art from Ubisoft, the lion’s share of which came from the Assassin’s Creed series (though Rayman and the associated rabbids were well-represented as well). Our tour complete (and well-timed, based on the crowd at the previously-empty entrance), we emerged to find that the weather had turned to absolute and complete shit.

Fighting the wind, rickety umbrellas, and near-horizontal rain, we managed to make it back into the gare. At this point, we made the first in a series of dumb decisions; instead of going home, we decided to continue as per the original plan to the grands magasins, in pursuit of what I don’t even remember (I lied; champagne, food…and a hat for the purrito?). After bungling my way through what should have been an idiot-proof conversation with a gendarme blocking the entrance to one of the métros, we hopped on the RATP-app-suggested line, only to find that our expected travel time was in the ridiculous duration range. Fortunately, the Purrito knows the area, so we altered our route in favor of an arrival in significantly less time.

Our time in the grands magasins is a touch hazy; between the crowd, the security (the new world in which we live: one has to open ones coat to prove that there’s not a suicide vest, since those were the hot new thing in the recent attacks) and the rising hunger level, there’s not much that strikes me as noteworthy; I will note that their upper-floor mini-Disney-store was a source of amusement (from which we somehow managed to exeunt without a stuffed animal), and that I tend to be more helpful in the “what do you want to eat?” department when we’re in the store and I’m hungry (in my defense, those cans of foie will eventually get eaten… we just have to go back for more toast so I have something on which to put it). That, and half of Galeries Lafayette’s (in)famous holiday display windows were filled with Star Wars (the other half with some amusing robots).

I know there’s another movie coming out, but it’s Star Wars. Doesn’t anybody remember May 1999?

Last Friday’s display of barbarism cast a pall over our trip to Athens, and even now, a week later, I find that my thoughts are still scattered.

I like to think that we’ll go back, that we’ll eventually climb the Acropolis again, and that next time, I’ll be armed with scopolamine, so we’ll take a boat to one of the islands. I’d like to see more of the ruins, the Purrito wants to see the blue waters of the Mediterranean, and both of us want to rent a donkey and spend the day laughing at something as stubborn as each of us is, as we attempt to cajole it into going where we want.

We’re not returning to the States for a few months, but I’m already hoping that we’ll be able to come back to France. I wonder though, if a vacation is just going to be a tease, a cruel reminder of something we once had, a time that we’d enjoyed, a moment in our lives that we can’t go back to.

These aren’t questions that are appropriate if one is living in the moment, which is something both of us have been trying to help each other do; it’s easy to give up, to check out, to say that we’re going to be headed back anyway, that we might as well get on with the rest of our lives.

That’s antithetical to life though, isn’t it? Has not this been our life? Are we not justified in responding to anyone droning on about a return to “the real world” with a “fuck off?”

This is our here.

This is our now.

Perhaps I’ve yet to figure out how to handle knowing that nothing lasts forever.


This post did not go where I expected it to.

I suppose there’s a lesson in that.

Our hastily-planned jaunt to Versailles on Sunday evening was the result of a bit of aimless wandering on the Versailles website in pursuit of information about one of their current exhibits, Le roi est mort (a reaction to which I should be writing in 3 weeks or so; The List has evolved to The Schedule).

As the result of this errant curiosity, we found ourselves slugging a glass of champagne and then sitting in an overly-packed (the seating was not well set laid out) galerie des Glaces, watching a symphonic version (read: not staged, but not simply sung either) of l’Orfeo (which is, per wikipedia, commonly performed in this unstaged version for reasons that, as always, are poorly explained and not sourced).

I’ve listened to l’Orfeo a number of times (having been introduced to it by one of the Toll Brothers-Metropolitan Opera Radio Broadcasts – thanks, NPR), but had never given much thought to what was being sung or the content of the opera, particularly since I don’t speak Italian, and it’s now very high on the list of operas that I’d like to see (though I’d like a fully staged version), right behind Tosca and perhaps slightly ahead of the Ring Cycle (Houston Grand Opera, why do you save the interesting shit for when we can’t see it?).

Which isn’t to say it’s a perfect piece; I realized how unbalanced acts I (woo, they’re happy) and II (a snake bit her) are as compared to acts III (Charon is a dick) and IV (she’s not really behind me, is she?), and how hilariously weird Act V is (eh, she’s in hell, but you can look at the stars to remember her… after your ascension).

All of that said, I was enamored of the cast and the music; the messenger made me want to cry as she delivered the news of Eurydice’s death to Orfeo, Pluto boomed convincingly at Proserpina, and Orfeo sang his ass of for the better part of two hours and ten minutes.

Aside from being abandoned by Uber at the end of the evening (I know it was Versailles on a Sunday, but still), we had an (unexpectedly) great time.

Not a bad venue.

Not a bad venue.