18/03/2024 – J’aime Paris au printemps!

Mid-March in Paris is wet. As Matthew 5:45 has it (en français): “…il fait pleuvoir sur les justes et les injustes.” Everybody gets rained on – c’est la vie.

We’ve been to the Louvre three times already. We’ve squinted at the Mona Lisa from afar (Carey insists on telling the guards “I have no soup”, every time we go through security*); admired the Niké of Samothrace**; roamed the top of the Sully wing, which houses Chardin’s portentous, disturbing “The Ray” and both Géricault‘s sketches for his seditious, stirring “The Raft of the Medusa”. None of these masterpieces qualifies as “art” under Carey’s definition. After so (too?) many European museums, his considered conclusion is that “art” requires the display of at least one boob.

Carey strolls along, forbearing my excited chatterings: titbits of history (fifteen minutes on the Henri II staircase today), art-history, my own theories… I am his personal, unstoppable (un-fact-checked) audio guide – like it, or not! Accordingly, our choice of destination is strongly influenced by the fact there is a Starbucks within the Louvre complex.

Our FB friends have already seen the photo of what I call “Carey yoga” – the lithe harmony of place and posture he achieves, perched behind the tiny table, radiating inner peace through the mediation of coffee.

I continue my attempts to engage in French: “deux ‘Pike Place’, s’il vous plait, grandes, avec crème.” At the Louvre Starbucks, bien sûr, the team speaks fluent English. When first asked: “pour ici, ou á emporter?”, I got flustered, paused, thought about it as the crowd behind me waited and, a little desperately, went with: “aller” (“to go”), generating the response: “Good try!”

Similarly, they recognised us at the bakery down the street (purchasing more of their excellent tarte au pomme). We got a cheery greeting, to which I responded “nous retirons” (which I know now means “we withdraw”), throwing the cashier into total confusion. I was aiming for “nous retournons”, but missed.

In Paris in 2020, a wasp got tangled in my sleeve. Understandably unhappy, it stung me, repeatedly. My arm swelled, a bad reaction. Carey walked me into a nearby pharmacy. While I struggled with how to explain (I figured out “a bee bit me”, not quite what I wanted…), Carey marches to the counter, raises my puffy arm, points and goes “buzz, buzz – ouch!”. He was immediately understood. I had antihistamine and a freeze spray before you could say “Jiminey le grillon”.

Carey’s “bonhomie” continues to do a LOT of heavy lifting. No one is unkind about my good-faith (but often random) attempts at French with him around. Despite the frequent confusion/embarrassment that results, I remain determined to try.

* Lobbing soup at the protective glass and promptly getting arrested is a favourite protest move.

** I visited Samothrace in 2012, including the small archeological museum at the site where the Niké was discovered. It includes a plaster-cast reproduction - and a rather bitter/biting exposition about the original being in Paris…