Ladies in the garden

On my way to the Cluny museum (which was on my List for Paris, but which—having seen—I do not have to revisit) I took a stroll through le Jardin du Luxembourg. Or at least a part of it; it’s pretty big, as befits a palace.

I’ve always liked the gardens—from my first visit after graduating from college. There’s something about its carefully laid-out plantings, its graveled paths and its sense of space that makes me wish I lived nearby so I could walk through it all the time.

Here’s a sampling:

There are a lot of these corridors of trees. During late Spring and through Summer, they’re lush; right now, kind of spare, though this one is clinging to leaves:

In addition to the usual pigeons and a bunch of seagulls, there were several of these birds:

Kind of like pigeons on steroids; I couldn't help but think about roast squab. It may or may not be a stock dove, whatever that is when it’s at home. I shall have to ask some of my birder friends.

The central pool, where in warmer weather little kids sail toy boats, is ringed by a concatenation of statues of powerful women in French legend and history. Here are a few of them.

Valentine de Milan, duchesse d’Orléans, 1341-1408:

Valentina was a member of the powerful Visconti family of Milan. She was shopped around on the marriage market before being wed to Louis, second son of Charles V of France and eventual duc d’Orléans.

I don’t know the significance of the book she’s carrying, except that she was a patron of the poet Eustache Deschamps and the mother of another, Charles d’Orléans.

Marguerite d’Angoulême, 1492-1549, on the other hand, was an intellectual powerhouse, whose mother, Louise of Savoie (16 when she gave birth to Marguerite) was also brilliant.

So, I don’t know why she isn’t holding something bookish; although that is rather a pensive pose. Actually, Marguerite got her brother, François I, in trouble during his reign, due to her Protestant leanings, which she articulated quite a bit. Her first marriage, to Charles d’Alençon, paired her with a kind but practically illiterate man. Her second was to Henri II de Navarre. Marguerite was a tremendous patron of arts and letters.

Marguerite d’Anjou, 1430-1482, was the wife of Henry VI of England, who was not the brightest bulb on the tree. But in his name, and that of her son the Prince of Wales (who I presume is the boy clinging to her), she was a ferocious leader of Lancastrian forces when the Wars of the Roses broke out.

Following the defeat of her army (which she led on the field) at Tewksbury in 1471, and the death of her only son, Marguerite was imprisoned by Edward IV, and eventually ransomed by Louis XI.

But here’s the depiction that just puts me in awe, Marie de Médicis, 1575-1642; look at the determination on that face:

Marie was married to Henri IV (the king of Navarre who famously converted to Catholicism in order to ascend the throne of France because “Paris vaut une messe”). It was a marriage for dynastic purposes, which she fulfilled by producing several children who lived to adulthood. But it was hard on her because Henri pretty much flaunted his mistresses. Following his assassination, Marie was regent for her son, Louis XIII, but came into conflict with the other great influence on Louis, Cardinal Richelieu. Marguerite died in exile, scheming against the cardinal to the end.

Now, this is something I found interesting:

Marie’s was the only name plate I saw to be so adorned.

I liked this guy stretched out under one of the queens, reading a book in the sun:

However formidable these women might have been in life, they cannot escape avian attentions in this incarnation. I noticed this attempt at defense on several of the statues:

And you can see why it’s needed:

And why I love Luxembourg.

Day at the museum

One of my three must-dos for Paris was to revisit the Musée de l’Armée, the museum of French military history, to see what they did to mark the centenary of the First World War. I’d not been to it since the turn of the century, so it was time. (I don’t much care about the previous centuries of French military might; after a while, one suit of armor looks remarkably like all the rest in line, so…)

They had some very well-designed multimedia displays, but they really hadn’t done much to incorporate recent historiography. (There was a temporary exhibit, in another part of Les Invalides, on the continuation of World War I in the East, meaning the combat in Eastern Europe and the Middle East from 1918-1923, titled appropriately “À l’Est, Guerre sans Fin”—In the East, War without End. I whizzed through that, but it’s not my area of focus.) But not particularly illuminating.

But here are a few bits and bobs from my visit:

First of all, they concatenate both world wars into a single exhibit—fair enough—which they start in 1871:

  

In other words, they date the world wars of the 20^th Century from the defeat of the French by the Prussians in the war of 1870-71. Which, I suppose, is valid, from a nationalistic perspective. (If you go to the Imperial War Museum in London, you’ll discover that Britain and her Empire pretty much won both world wars with its stiff upper lip, and maybe a bit of assistance from, you know, everyone else. I haven’t been to any US military museum—if we even have any—but I well recall all the retrospectives on D-Day 50^th, 60^th and 70^th anniversaries that showed how Americans totally kicked German ass, and there were a few Brits, Canadians and French guys scattered about the beaches. We all have our historical lenses.)

The Franco-Prussian War ended with the humiliating defeat of French armies at Sedan, the capture of the French emperor, the ceding of Alsace and much of Lorraine to the Prussians, extraction of a ruinous indemnity and the declaration of the Second German Empire via the coronation of King Wilhelm of Prussia as Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany…in the Galerie des Glaces at Versailles.

That seriously bites. I don’t think it’s accidental at all that the post-WWI treaty that dismantled the Second Reich, took back Alsace and Lorraine, imposed ruinous reparations on Germany and placed guilt for causing the war squarely on Germany and her allies (among other humiliations) was concluded in that very same Galerie des Glaces. These things are like high school: they’re never over.

(The display notes the signing of the Armistice and effective surrender of the Germans in Marshal Foch’s railway carriage in the forest of Compiègne on 11 November 1918. It refrains, later on in the World War II part of the exhibition, from mentioning that Hitler dredged up that very car, hauled it to that very spot in Compiègne and forced the French to capitulate on 22 June 1940 in it.)

One thing I had not previously known about was that there was a Russian Expeditionary Force deployed along the Western Front, in Champagne.

Following the February 1917 revolution in Russia, as well as their participation in the catastrophic Nivelle offensive, the soldiers mutinied in France; the brigade was disbanded by the end of the year.

As I moved into the Second World War part of the exhibition, I came across film clips of some of the concentration and extermination camps as discovered by liberating Allied forces. The films were not new. But I thought this warning caught my eye:

:

This is what PBS should display before docus that deal with difficult subjects and tell uncomfortable truths—they might be too much for you if you’re utterly pig-ignorant fuckwits.

Okay, I did not go to any other parts of Les Invalides, but I got a bit of a chuckle out of a few things I saw on the way to the exhibit I wanted to see.

First, this row of probably 17^th Century cannon:

Yawn, right? But here’s some detail:

That was pretty. But what caught my attention was this:

What do you suppose the royal porcupine is all about?

Also, the larger topiary in the background is actually the home of a rather robust rabbit, which I saw bolt across the lawn (too fast—despite his size—for me to get a shot):

And then there were these two ladies at the top of a staircase:

I have no idea who they were meant to be, but the one on the right looked like she’s checking Twitter on her mobile. I guess not:

I really am a culture vulture, non?

Au revoir, Paris

The gilets jaunes protests were still tying up Paris yesterday as my taxi made its way across the city to Charles De Gaulle airport. It wasn’t clear to me that they were still marching, but the gendarmes had blocked off a number of streets in the 7^th arrondissement, and traffic was even worse than whatever passes for normal.

We went around the Arc de Triomphe; I didn’t get a shot—taxi moving too fast by that point—but I could see that, while Sunday’s power washing had got the worst of the graffiti off, there were still the shadows of the slogans up.

I did get a few pix of other graffiti, enough to make me think that the power washing business is about to experience quite the surge.

Well, I’d factored in some wiggle room for the airport run, so I wasn’t worried about missing the flight. And indeed, I had enough time to relax for a bit before being selected by Air France for a “random security screening”, so I had to haul out everything remotely electronic from my person and my carry-on bag—for the second time. (First time in regular security screening.) I was pulling mobile, cameras, lenses, laptop, pedometer—it was like one of those clown cars at the circus. But I passed. Woo-hoo.

Other than that, and the deep joy of Washington Dulles airport’s Mickey Mouse system for international arrivals, it was a pleasant enough flight. And I confess that I was deeply happy to get home, take a shower in my own bathroom and pull clothes out of my own dresser and not a suitcase.

I’ll still have things to report from my travels, but for now I’ll just leave you with these shots of a Northern Virginia sunset.

Un promenade dans le boulevard

Further to my post about the “gilets jaunes” protests in Paris, I went to the Champs-Élysées yesterday to have a look at the Arc de Triomphe. Well—I didn’t get to go to the actual Arc, because they were power-washing graffiti off it from Saturday’s rumpus:

  

I actually saw some yellow-vest types, but they were vastly outnumbered by riot police, and things were quiet.

Further down the boulevard, there were other signs of the weekend activity—

HSBC boarded up:

A perfume shop taking down the boards:

Société Général's ATM screens smashed:

And a notice telling customers an interior ATM was available (except the bank was actually locked up, this being Sunday):

Louis Vuitton took the steel mesh route:

Not precisely on the Champs-Élysées, but nearby, I found this graffito, which was appropriate to the protests. It invokes modern-day (gilets jaunes) and historic (sans culottes) revolutionaries, and cries, “Death to the pigs”:

And something that heralds the fall of civilization: a Five Guys—a really big Five Guys—right there on the Champs-Élysées. That's what people should be protesting:

Riots on the right

I was eating le petit déjeuner in Singleton Siberia at my hotel yesterday (I’ll tell you about that later), when I overheard the guy at the front desk speaking with an American couple who needed to get to Charles De Gaulle airport later in the day. He was giving them the various options, but warned that things were complicated “because of the riots.”

Well, I should hope so.

Turns out that there’ve been protests against the high cost of fuel over the past few Saturdays, always along the Champs-Élysées. And another one was scheduled for yesterday.

As I was preparing to head out to the Musée de l’Armée and handed him my room key, I checked that the riots would be on the Rive Droit, and I’d be okay if I stayed on the Rive Gauche. Yes, he assured me, just along the Champs-Élysées.

Okay, I hared off to the museum, fighting with Google Maps, which insisted I could not use public transportation to get there. It wasn't until I switched to Les Invalides as my destination that GM grudgingly said, well, okay, I could take Ligne 12 to Concorde, then switch to Ligne 8 (the museum is in Les Invalides). I was downcast to hear the announcements at the first station that whole bunch o' stations in the vicinity of Champs-Élysées were closed on account of the expected riots, including Concorde. However, it turns out that Ligne 8 and Ligne 12 have two consecutive touch points, so Madeleine got me the needed transfer.

When I'd logged three hours at the various exhibitions of interest,  thought I’d swing by le Bon Marché, a famous department store, on the rue du Bac on my way back.

Well, color me surprised when I stepped out of the Métro station and heard a ruckus. Here’s what I saw passing by on the boulevard Raspail:

I mean—they weren’t rioting, but they were definitely part of the “yellow vest” protests. (As for the riots: they were real. A few score arrests were made in the course of Saturday.)

Also, I noticed that the gendarmes who guard the intersection of the rue du Bac and the rue de Varenne (which appears to have some government offices) were accessorized with gas masks:

Huh.

Here are some other things I thought worth noting on that trek.

Someone decided the rue du Regard needed a name change:

Here was an interesting shop window display:

It was a shoe store, if you’re asking. (Rue du Bac is trendy.)

And here’s a very bright toaster:

This woman was transporting her Christmas tree…on her (non-motorized) scooter:

And a tale of two bicycles, the first rather sad and the other I just dunno:

Paris, baby; it’s all there.

Un petit déjeuner à Paris

Something intimate today from Paris.

Yesterday morning, when I pulled open my blackout curtains, I saw only one window lighted in the buildings across from me—the ground floors appear to be offices, all the floors above are apartments.

I noticed that this one view showed a white-haired woman laying a candle-lit table. Well, an 0800 meal is generally breakfast, and it’s not very often at all that you see candles at breakfast. So I hauled out my point-and-shoot and shot. (The photos are very grainy because of the low light and the optical zoom.)

She was moving quite slowly and deliberately, making sure things were just so. After a while, a white-haired man entered the room; they kissed and he sat down; they ate. (It must be a regular Thing, because they were at it again this morning, by candlelight. It was lovely.)

That’s it, folks, just an old couple still affectionate, and enjoying a candle-light breakfast in Saint Germain-des-Près.

Parole sur les avenues

We’ve moved from Berlin to Paris, the last leg of this trip. I have to say that, for a capital city (and increasingly the capital city of the leader of the free world), Berlin’s Tegel airport is not whelming. It’s about the size of Hollywood Burbank airport; even so, the lack of clear signage and any type of information was aggravating.

There was a hotel-related kerfuffle with getting me to the hotel here, which I’ll write about later. But I’m here, I have a to-do list and I’m ready.

Yesterday I spent three hours at Musée Rodin; it was absolutely spectacular and I could have spent longer, but my joints wouldn’t let me. I’ve got a couple of hundred photos to sort through of the museum and garden, but until then, here are some shots of the neighborhood.

Parisians—and the French in general—love their dogs. (So, apparently, do the Germans. My hotel had several four-pawed guests; they also took public transportation with their humans. None of that service animals only stuff.) I noticed this one waiting for his human to get his hair done:

Street parking, as you might imagine, is an issue. Take a look at this lineup:

I have to say that I wonder not only how those vehicles got parked, I wonder how any of them gets out:

In this instance, that smart car probably has room to pull away; I dunno about the minivan behind it. (If you look closely, you’ll see the latter has already had some scrapes and is being held together with what looks like duct tape:

I loved this little window garden, although I suppose there’s always a risk of a passerby filching your herbs:

Paris—like other EU countries—is big on recycling. I noticed this plea on all the neighborhood collection points, asking the green-minded to also be mindful of the residents and not to throw their bottles between the hours of 10pm and 7am.

On one receptacle there was also this declaration:

Paris has a unique qualifier to daily life, something it holds onto fiercely. Here's a reminder:

A memorial to an "unknown French Forces of the Interior" (résistance) killed during the insurrection against the Germans ahead of Allied liberation. Still remembered.
 

And people slapping up bills and posters is such an old problem, I guess, that this building has “defense d’afficher” carved into the stone:

At least with some success, because I didn’t see any signs that any had been pasted up.