At breakfast a text from Brendon.
‘Just woken up in the UK, three prime ministers later.’
He said he was having the full English with black pudding.
We both agreed my repast held no comparison.
I took the 12 under the river, direction Mairie d’Issey and got off at Solferino. A beautifully tiled station. Some stations were like this and others terribly scruffy. I wondered what governed that.
This was a pleasant neighbourhood, just south of the Musee d’Orsay and I made a note to think about this area for a stay – Rive Gauche – on another occasion.
While I waited in the queue I contemplated whether the rhino sculpture had a pet detective escaping from its rear.
Inside at opening time proved effective and I headed straight for the Post Impressionists on the 5th floor. Passing an impressive cafe on the way.
Here’s a selection of what I liked most.
Some Gaugin, Degas, Monet and Van Gogh.
And I loved this painting by Lautrec called simply, Le Lit.
Oh and these too..
Then I went downstairs and bagged some of my favourite artist, Camille Corot.
Nobody paints trees like him. But in truth there were better ones in the Ashmolean back home.
And then I found there was a Munch exhibition on. It was incredible and worth a trip to Paris in itself.
But, horribly crowded and stuffy which was a shame.
I lit out onto the river and looked for a bar to do a bit of research.
I decided on the Museum of Modern Art. There was no easy train so I hailed a green-lit cab. He wanted to take me to the Louvre and drove onto Concorde. I said ‘No, wrong way. Pont d’Alma!’
‘Ah. You want the Museum of African Art.’
‘Certainly not. Here, look at the map on my phone mate.’
When we got there I mumbled that it was hard to miss. He laughed and said that nobody had ever asked him to take them there before.
And when I got in I realised why. A pretty second rate permanent collection that was not worth missing sunshine for.
I liked these two.
But fell for this by Soulages.
A giant painting three metres by two – impossible to photograph – and the size of my allotment shed. He’d scumbled in some grisaille and laid on beautiful black with such confidence. A woman next to me saw me goggling at it and asked me what I thought. I told her that I only wished that I could paint like this. She was a lecturer at a local university and a painter herself. She said that she only came here to view this painting. And I agreed that it was the strongest work I had seen in the gallery. 
Sauntering back I dawdled through a stunning farmer’s market. Imagine coming here and deciding what to cook that night from what looked good. Rather than making a list and finding that your local Sainsbury’s didn’t stock half of it?
‘Veal chops sir? No. Never had any call for those. Have you looked in the freezer section?’
After a croque madame I stretched my legs down the Seine and did a bit of sunbathing in a sheltered spot.
Last night in Paris. It had been a mad day of angry traffic. It was still going now at 7pm. All day there had been police and ambulances rushing everywhere. Snarling the traffic and making everyone lean on their horns. This was a city that could quickly boil over and I’d been caught up in a nasty demonstration once in the past. On the other hand I’d brought the boys here the day after a crazy night of rioting and looting and there was no trace of it. It had been big enough to make the news headlines…but nothing to see next day. Keep it together guys until I exit.
I bade a fond farewell to the ‘hummingbird’ cafe who had made me really feel at home.
Tonight I was going to a little bistro that Leo had suggested, Le Petit Vendome.
This place was the real deal. I ordered the Blanquette and a pichet of mid-range burgundy. St. Joseph in fact. Superb.
Then a tarte tatin to die for…if it didn’t kill me first.
Cripes! I was going to have to take the cure after all this. Perhaps liposuction?
I refused the waitress’ siren call of cheese. God it looked good. And repaired to my digs for an early night.
Adieu maitresse…jusqu’à la prochaine fois.
