Chapter 7: Second Day in Paris

I awoke to discover that the assassin had not returned home that night - killed on the job, caught or maybe he's fled - and discovered a message from Jane informaing me that her and the family would be going to the Louvre today and this was a good plan to me. I got dressed and headed out the door, handing the key in at the front desk to the friendly black man with a big smile, no front teeth and a practically non-understandable accent because of it. I took the crowded metro down to the Champs-Elysee and walked down the cool, drizzling streets to the Place du Louvre, picking up a breakfast crepe with Buerre de Maron (chestnut butter). For some reason, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds was the perfect soundtrack to walking down the path to the Louvre as it rained, for some reason...
I arrived at that looming glass pyramid and entered the main corridors of the Louvre. Within 10 minutes the family arrived and we began our walk to our various favourite sections of the 18km of the Chateaux du Louvre. First stop, Mona Lisa. Along the road to the famous Da Vinci lay, at the top of the first staircase, Winged Victory, the headless angel. It stood there, as if blowing in the wind on the stone bow of a ship, looking majestic in all its glory. After we passed it, we headed down the corridor to the Mona Lisa itself encased in protective glass, and barred off by a barrier, separating it from the audience by almost 10 ft. It was not as small as I thought it would be. It was about A3 size. It was still magnificant in its smallness. The eyes did follow you as she stared directly outward at you, and today, she looked sad. Across from that lay the Wedding Feast at Cana, which is as big as the wall is hangs on and took 3 years to complete, an amazing masterwork with intricate detail in every body and face.
Off in the "Large Scale French Paintings" we saw the Raft of the Medusa by Gericault and the famous Lady Liberty by Delacroix. It was such an awe-inspiring moment to see these paintings in the flesh. I felt humbled.
After a brief repose we headed to the Ancient Egyptian artifacts where we saw the famous Seated Scribe which is 5500 years ol and whose eyes will haunt me for some time.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Each time a flash hits a coloured piece of Egyptian work it's 200 years of degradation, give or take a decade or two. People kept using it despite the various signs imploring you not to, so, I told them off, "Stop using flash, please," I sasked them, which was more telling them, "every time you do, it degrades the colours by 200 years and you'll destory the work. Don't touch the artworks either, the oil from your skin destory's them."
"oh, ok." I sufficiantly put the fear of God into them and the slinked off, embarrassed and guilty.

Through the vauled and lavished halls, resting in the centre of a crowded corridor, lay the stunning and impressively beautiful Venus de Milo. Her shapely body beautiful in the natural light from outside as she gazed downwards into nothing, her arms both missing but she still embraces us.
We sat for lunch at the Louvre Cafe, which was a lot cheaper than we had assumed it would be, and quickly moved on to see Napolean's living chambers and the crown jewels of French Royaltym which were far more gaudi and outlandish than the beautiful gold and stone elegant royalty of Ancient Egypt. Napolean's chamber was lavish and decadant, as I expected, with a dining room for 46, enough gold to outweigh an elephant and a chandelier big enough to killone.
After we finished with that, the family and I were separated as I moved off to the Cemetiere du Pere Lachaise. The sky still overcast and a light rain falling, the mood was set even further by the cawing of large, black crows overhead.
Craw.
Craw.
Craw.
I lost myself in the world of the large, ornamented mausoleums and gravestones, getting lost as I visited the final resting places of Chopin, Jim Morrisson, Oscar Wilde, Delacroix, Gericault and Modigliani, and not being able to find Pissaro and yelling to the dead and the crows, "Ou est tu, Pissaro!? Merde!" (Where are you Pissaro!? Shit!) and passing a tomb which a cat had made its homely sitting place.
As I finished in the graveyardm stomping uneasily though the graveyard mud and most certainly over corpses of th deceased, I arrived at a small hilltop to rest and map out where to go from there. And as I sat on the hilltop, I noticed the clouds had finally cleared and the sun was setting over Paris, releasing the pinks, oranges and yellows which must have inspired the impressionists, as I looked at the Eiffel Tower high over the Paris skyline.
I called for help to a friendly Englishman who helped me find my way to the old side of the Bastille - which is now ust an obelisk-like monument to the dead and the day - and then around to Notre ame de Paris. They were basically a straight line from the Cemetary.
As the sun set over Paris and I approached Notre Dame Cathedral, the oranges and pinks set a backdrop for the Eiffel Tower as it flashed its rotating spotlight over Paris like a protective beacon, as the Cathedral rose in view before me. The building is simply, indescribably huge. Its enormity covering practically an entire city block of Paris with gargoyles and buttresses to create an ominous gothic appearance, the light shining up on it giving the building a heavenly glow, and I smiled wide and sung a little to whatever I was listening to. I walked inside to be hit by the smoky smell and taste of incense burning and the bellowing voices of gregorian chanters. I left the place with a light shudder and bought a lemon juice and sugar crepe from a nearby street vendor. As I began to walk away, back towards the Champs-Elysee and the metro home, I stepped into a small restaurant by the River Seine for a light dinner - and what a perfect dinner it was - a delicious and well-made onion soup - the bread, moist, the cheese creating a thick layer over the ctop - and, finally, a steak tartare that, despite being slightly overspiced, was delicious. And, of course, a good glass of red wine. The place was practically empty, but it was cheap and it had charm, and it played swinging jazz, blues and funk, including a brilliant song called, "Is it Because I'm Black?"
As I ordered the tartare the man, just like the woman the previous night, gave me a strange look implying, "You know what that is, right?" And I nodded, smiling wide, "I promised my dad I'd have a tartare in Paris." and as I ate the moutfulls, I raised my wine glass in a small toast.

Catching the crowded French metro back at 20h45 is almost ridiculous as no one seems to understand the word "full". People just kept getting on, despite the obvious lack of room. To the point I was spooning a middle-aged French woman who smelled like cookies and my shoulder was in the face of a young French woman wearing a beret.

- from the Journal 17th Dec.