Initially, I had had big plans for waking up early on my second day in Paris to run about the jardin des tuilleries like a real local. Then, as I continued to press the snooze button on my alarm clock, I realized that was just wishful thinking. Around 9:30 a.m. I finally found the energy to get myself up, get showered, and get dressed before heading out to do je ne sais quoi—I had big plans for je ne sais quoi. Around 10:30 I found myself at a newspaper stand and successfully located “Le Figaro” before heading to a café for well, a café. After perusing the paper and sipping casually on my French coffee—a.k.a. delicious diesel fuel—I decided to walk to the Musée D’Orsay to immerse myself in Impressionist art.
After standing in line for three hours, I finally made it into the Monet exhibition at the Grand Palais in the Musée D’Orsay. The exhibit yielded all of Monet’s works—pieces from his early years, pieces from his personal collection, pieces from his later years. In all, the exhibit told a beautiful story of Monet’s life as a progressing artist. In pieces it was a snap shot of his thoughts and of his current technique. One of the more thought-provoking pieces was a painting of his wife on her deathbed. The painting appeared to be blurry with the slightest presence of a face that was wrapped in what looked like wedding-veil tool. To me, the painting spoke volumes. It spoke of love lost, the failure to accept the death of a loved one by shrouding it under a veil, the unclear image of the deceased as a form of disregarding reality—failing to clearly see a loved one as being dead; the blurry vision one has while tearfully looking at the deceased, the presence of a wedding veil and the significance of the words, “til' death.” I stared at this painting longer than any of the others because although the more famous works of Monet captured his talent, this painting captured his emotions.
Following the art exhibition, I spent the rest of the day perusing the shops along the Champs-Elysees. I purchased a beautiful winter jacket, a hat, an alarm clock, and an umbrella—all of which are vital when living in the north of France. Following my shopping spree, I headed back to my hotel where I was planning on refreshing before going out for a final dinner in Paris. I made it as far as the bar in my hotel—where I stopped for a simple glass of water—and ended up staying for dinner. While I was sitting at the bar drinking my l’eau gaseuze, the Italian waiter commented, “how sad it is that you only drink water, not wine,” in French that was touched with the slightest Italian pronunciation. So, as is customary with most Europeans—but especially the Italian and the French—he poured me a glass of wine and gave me a basket of bread. The waiter and I conversed for a good hour or so and in the course of that time I had finished the entire basket of bread and had successfully polished off half a bottle of wine without realizing my deed. By the time the wine began to hit me, I figured staggering through the Parisian streets was a bad idea so I chose to stay for dinner. At dinner my wine glass continued to “magically” refill itself—a trait of waiters that I was warned about—and I thanked my stars for the fact that my “commute” was only stairs away. During the meal, I couldn’t help but laugh when “Smooth Operator” played over the speakers in the Italian café that was located in Paris, France—how bizarre, how bizarre. I concluded my meal with a delicious Tiramisu then bid the waiter adieu, thanking him for the wine. Before stumbling up the stairs following my one-woman wine show, I asked the concierge to reserve a taxi in the morning for what was to be the beginning of my journey north.
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