Pompidou

... mangoes -- 2 for 5 Euros ...

We strolled along the banks of the Seine, looked at the metal boxes, now folded up, the boxes which by day, fold out into small kiosks for sellers of old books and of prints of the Seine or the city of Paris for tourists that pass by. The sun was dropping behind Notre Dame, which we could see in the distance. We had chosen to walk, knowing that we would only be in the Pompidou for a short time. Still the stroll was pumping life back into us since museums are a staid, almost stationary way to spend the day.

Rebecca makes an endive salad
stuffed with oranges, walnuts, chevre

Rebecca chose the Marie-Claire option for us, once we got to the museum. Straight to the seventh floor and then, looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead we strode down the main isle. All of us cheated, darting into one room or another. But we moved quickly. First the ticket seller, then the ticket checker, then the attendant on the seventh floor all warned us with either you have dix minute, sept minute, cinq minute seulement. One woman had turned us back as well but Rebeca told her that "the man said we could have ten minutes". The woman acquiesed.

Bonnie said, "I can remember Greg and Wyona driving us here. I can remember the slight smile on Greg's face when he told us that the building was controversial - constructed with the pipes on the outside that would normally be up in the ceilings and covered. That was 30 years ago."

... the first slice into the mango ...

When we left the museum we sat at a cafe on the square. I drank hot chocolate, sitting under the warming lamps and enjoying the scarves and coats on my body that Bonnie and Rebecca cast off, since the evening breeze was just right for them.

At midnight we left the square to walk back to the Louvre. We found our now familiar bus stop, rather than taking the faster metro home. The sign said 16 minutes until the #68 arrives. So we walked a few more blocks toward the opera house and in the direction that the bus would be coming from, just to keep walking along the streets.

 ...a simple 6 1/2 minute French boiled egg ...

 I knew at some level there is something just wrong about being out that late at night. It is not the lateness of the evening that is wrong. It is that the next day has no "must-dos" planned, no appointments, no responsibilities and so no reason to get home and be in bed. My life is generally not run on that scale of lack of responsibility.

We wandered by the Nine Wave Buildling (Grand Ondes), staring in at the large window where the description of the building takes the form of the window dressing.

 We would step backward to the curb to get a better look at the building and then return to the window for more of the words about its architectural form.

The woman from whom we are letting the flat left us a five page, single spaced exposition of the house and the neighbourhood which has come in handy.

 I have especially liked her telling of the ethnic store down the block that has scalper prices. Don't use the store unless it is late at night and you have no where else to shop. 


That is us.

...chevre and two day old baguette ... now inedible ...

 When you don't come home until midnight, there are not many other places to pick up the few items you might need, such as a fresh baguette. So we should have a frequent shoppers card at that store.

 Last night we needed toilet paper.

 We needed it the night before as well, but Rebecca says she just couldn't pick up on.

 Only fushia and canary yellow were available and that seemed just wrong.

Still last night, it had to be purchased ... at scalper prices.