June 2, 2023 / annakpf11

A Few Roses from Paris

Hemingway’s moveable feast is also a visual banquet. “Everywhere you look,” says Dave, “there’s something interesting to see.”

Art and artistry seem to infuse every detail of daily living.

The weather is perfect. During our five days in Paris, the temperature rises to over 80 degrees, and I am grateful for the sandals, shorts and sleeveless dress that I threw into my suitcase at the last minute.

No two ways about it: Paris is a city like no other. Dave and I have been coming here, separately and independently, all of our adult lives, and it is reassuring to find that post-pandemic, life here seems much the same, French joie de vivre and savoir faire intact.

We arrive on a Sunday afternoon, and EVERYONE is out and about.

Our apartment is a rare gem. One of Dave’s best finds ever. On the top floor, facing north, we have a distant glimpse of Sacré Coeur, close-up views of rooftops and a lovely church dome, topped with a dainty spire.

The slow-witted, scratchy-eyed effects of jet lag cause a few silly missteps, but no major catastrophes. When Dave ducks into a café bar on the Rue Saint Antoine for a quick espresso and pays with what he thought were euros but are actually British pounds, the barmaid merely laughs. I nip across the boulevard to a convenient ATM and all is resolved with the proper currency. Later, I pick up a basket of cherries at an outdoor stall and present them to the cashier only to realize I have forgotten my wallet. The merchant grins and says, “Oh la la!” A useful Gallic exclamation that can signify mild surprise, disappointment, annoyance, or, in this case, commiseration. During a visit to Musée de Jacquemart-André, a 19^thcentury mansion housing a special exhibition of works by Giovanni Bellini, Dave is overcome with a desire to take a nap. Surely this can be blamed on jet lag, not on his antipathy for 15^th century iconography?

It is the season of Rosé! Also, apparently, of mussels and oysters. We had thought shellfish would NOT be in season, for according to the rule governing their consumption, they should only be eaten in months whose name contains the letter “r”. But somehow, les huitres and les moules are on the menu, even at the end of May. We eat beaucoup, and all is well.

“Our” waiter at Ma Bourgogne on the Place des Vosges recognizes us from our visits over the years. He is a little older and grayer now, but then so are we.

Lunch at Parcelles with Catherine, Anna’s friend since university days, is a rare treat. It is lovely to reconnect, and to have stayed in touch over the years

We view a retrospective exhibition of abstract art by Catherine’s father, Georges Noël (1924—2010), at the Galerie Gaillard (3 rue Chapon), and Dave feels a great affinity with his work. It is easy to spend an hour admiring and scrutinizing his canvases.

Later, Catherine invites us to visit George Noël’s former atelier, where we look through catalogues, drawings and canvases, trying to decide if there is something we can afford.