As is the way while one is on tour, sometimes it is hard to find a spare moment to write it all down.
Especially as we all got London madness and existed in a kind of frenzy of trying to be out amongst it all and see people before we left.
There was a Swedish Midsummer dinner, a gorgeous bbq in the garden of our friend A’s wonderful house in Hackney
lunch at the Rochelle School Canteen, visits to the Tate, the Royal Academy and the Dover Street Market, where we could only afford to look.
C went especially dotty and insisted we not get on the plane back to Melbourne and instead move into some shoebox on the Hackney Road. And I also managed to whinge for a good three days about the Portugal leg of our trip as I have ended up changing my flight to come back to London five days early, so that C and J can ‘work on a project’ without the distraction of wives or children. Hmmm.
Anyway – to return to glorious Paris.
Future travellers please note: Paris is highly inconvenient for those who cannot walk. Cobblestones, hills, stairs, vast tracts of underground Metro corridors, all connected by stairs. Montmartre? No, not the delightful, park-filled neighbourhood I had somehow re-imagined it in my mind – just stairs.
Steep hills. And cobblestones.
We were shattered by the end of each day. Um, whose bright idea was it to go to Pere Lachaise cemetery? ALL cobblestones and acute staircases, apart from being the size of several stadiums. We just about found the two main famous interns – Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison
– but I was sad not to find Isadora Duncan or Gertrude Stein. We nearly found Max Ernst, but lost patience and concentration. I mean – it was beautiful. But poor S – her teeth were rattling in her head as we pushed her over miles of bouncy pathways. Fortunately she thinks bouncing is quite funny, but even she got tired after awhile.
I have totally given up cooking in the evening. And Paris kitchens are miniscule.
We just ate & drank our bodyweights in bread and cheese and wine while in Paris. Happily we achieved one lunch at a recommended restaurant, Le Chateaubriand.
Just about managed to keep S occupied with a steady supply of pea pods before she got quite bored by being in the same spot for 45 minutes.
The Pompidou continues to kick arse as my favourite modern art gallery. Not only was the feature exhibition on one of my favourite artists, Alexander Calder (I love his mobiles, but had never seen any of his amazing wire sculptures of people), the main collection had been re-hung to display the work of female artists, which was fascinating and fantastically bold.
After that, we managed to get rid of some pesky Euros weighing us down at the ancient E Dehillerin cookware store.
The highlight of this day was when S charmed a shop attendant into giving her for free (!) her first pair of Parisian sneakers – a ‘California yellow’ pair of tiny Asics trainers. At €50 (nearly $100), I laughed when she pointed to them and after I tried them on her (perfect fit), handed them back to the man at the counter.
When SJ came out of the shop with the pair of red Nikes he purchased, there was a tiny box in his hand – the yellow trainers for S. “She is so cute!” the shop man protested. “I want her first pair of shoes to come from my shop in Paris!” Seriously – have you ever heard of anything so outrageous. A charmed life indeed.
I think they go well with the pretty summer outfit I bought her from the Parisian baby shop, Bonpoint, non?
