I’m sick of getting sick on holidays. I woke up this morning feeling unwell, to go with my sensitive teeth. But the show must go on.
Where to go today? Alex hasn’t seen the Louvre. We haven’t been inside in 25 years. An art gallery? He is not very enthused about that.
Beneath the tracks outside our hotel is a morning market selling fresh fruit and vegetables, cheese, seafood, meats, cooked food and raw. The first fromagerie has samples and I am convinced to buy some paprika cheese and ginger juice. Clementines for a palate clenser. B and Alex want the paella and roast chicken, the cooked baby potatoes in a butter sauce.
We take it back to the apartment to store in the fridge for dinner.
A couple of rides on the metro and we are at the Louvre. But the roads are blocked from a marathon so it is a roundabout walk to the I.M. Pei glass pyramid entrance. I have purchased online tickets for 11.30 am and the line moves quite quickly.
Of course the desire is to see the number one attraction, the Mona Lisa. That requires passage through several other sections first in the Denon wing. There are sculptures and paintings from France, Britain and England. Even one of Tassie.
I amuse myself with the portraits, inventing new stories behind them. Some of the subjects look like right ponces. But the pieces are fascinating in themselves, the differences in techniques, in lighting and subject matter. I have always loved the backgrounds in many of the Italian paintings, for example. Or the silly baby Jesus paintings that look nothing like a child from that region.
Naturally there is a crowd in front of the underwhelmingly small Mona Lisa, but it is possible to see it and appreciate that enigmatic smile.
There are grand French paintings, massive works taking up most of the wall, celebrating the small man Napoleon or various horrific scenes from history.
Sometimes the rooms themselves are the works of art. The Galleri d’Apollon, sumptuously covered in intricate carvings of figures from the horoscope and colourful frescos of the months and the gods.
We find ourselves in the very extensive Egyptian antiquities section, multiple levels of statues, tablets and objects covered in hieroglyphics, then the sarcophagi, solid stone or more intricate and ornate caskets and, at the start, or the end, depending on your direction, a mummy.
There is also the basement of the Louvre, the stone wall remnants of the original castle before it became an ostentatious palace.
In these few hours we see more of the Louvre than one our original visit. Even Alex is impressed!
The exit funnels us into a shopping area that appears to be aimed at Chinese tourists. It’s lunch time and the options around the Louvre are pretty dire. There’s a good court and the other two choose some pretty awful Thai dishes from Pitaya. I go for a quite decent lasagna from the Italian outlet. Some actual Italian tourists in front of me in the line struggle to sort it out and end up spilling fizzing Coca-Cola everywhere.
Next stop, the Arc de Triomphe, which is on Alex’s bucket list (he can’t remember being 3 years old there). The metro line takes us to the Charles De Gaulle – Etoile stop, where we emerge on to the Champs Elysees opposite the Arc. Another underground pass takes pedestrians to the centre of the big roundabout that encircles the Arc. You certainly wouldn’t try crossing the madness of traffic that weaves in and out the multiple lanes.
The elevator is out of action, so reaching the top of the Arc requires climbing 284 steps, many of them a spiral staircase.
When we reach the top it is cold, windy and raining quite heavily, but there are still magnificent views across the boulevards that converge on the Arc. Down to the Montmartre, the Eiffel Tower, the skyscrapers of La Defence, the shops of the Champs Elysees. And the cars weaving in and out of the roundabout, coming, going, stopped to let others in or out.
We return down the corresponding steps, an easier task than going up. It is no longer raining by the time we reach the ground.
B wants to visit Sephora along the Champs Elysees, almost a kilometre away past luxury branded boutiques and trashy fast food outlets. Sephora is a form of perfumed skin care hell, densely packed with the fashionable and the wannabes.
They’ve sold out of the skin care product that B wants. Does it really matter though? Sephora is everywhere now, including Miranda Westfield close to home. This is just the first place we found it, twenty-five years ago.
I’ve reached my limit and just need to lie down. We return to opposite the Arc de Triomphe and ride the metro back directly to La Motte-Picquet – Grenelle.
A quick stop at the Monoprix supermarket, then back to our room to rest and reheat dinner. It‘s a pity that I’m not very interested in eating right now, not with all that wonderful food options out there. Tomorrow night we will be staying at the airport and the food there is, by all reports, not good. We have one more day to enjoy French cuisine before then.