Tuileries, Musée d’Orsay, and a French Cell Phone

The city of Paris has enjoyed the most beautiful weather during my stay so far. Of course, after the summer we experienced in New England, twenty minutes of sunshine would feel like a day hand delivered from Heaven. I’m told the pleasant Parisian weather will not last forever, though. In an attempt to take advantage of the sun, gentle breezes, and the occasional decorative cloud, I spend my days promenading through parks and ambling down streets, saving the museums for cooler weather on the horizon.

I allocated an afternoon recently to the Jardins des Tuileries. My pictures fall drastically short of relaying the beauty of the garden, and do nothing for capturing the sweet scent of the rainbow of flowers. The garden enjoyed a collection of visitors: sightseers on bicycle tours, businessmen and women taking the scenic route in between meetings, young children on field trips, couples sharing quiet moments in the grass under the watchful eyes of the various statues, and faction of photographers attempting to manipulate the manner in which the light hits the reflecting pool and bounces onto the hair of a passing Parisian woman. The garden is spacious, offering shade, sun, water, statues, perfectly trimmed hedges, a view of the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, and Eiffel Tower (at some distance), and is flanked by an assortment of lovely buildings. One is seemingly forbidden from experiencing a sense of urgency while in the midst of the garden, and the pace of living slows to a comfortable stroll.

From the Tuileries, one can see the Musée d’Orsay across the Seine River. The building that houses the museum was originally a train station, built for the occasion of the World Trade Fair in 1900. For only 11€ I was able to purchase a year-long membership to the museum. Being less than 26 years old in Paris continues to be financially advantageous. Thank goodness, because being a “volunteer” is not at all financially advantageous. Ha. Anyway, the museum was wonderful, and I am very much looking forward to my next visit. While I delight in viewing and thinking about art, I must admit that I do not “know” much, so I’ll spare you my faux art history lecture. I will say this much, though: having the opportunity to stand directly in front of Van Gogh’s “La Nuit Étoilée” (“Starry Night”), to gaze at the textured brush strokes, to imagine the initially blank canvas underneath, is to begin to understand how and why the piece is venerated, iconic, and timeless.


One of my only complaints so far is the issue of local transportation in the evening hours. The trains and metro operate until roughly 1:00 AM, but the buses immediately surrounding my neighborhood stop running at the ridiculous hour of 8:00 PM. French people don’t sit down to dinner much before 8:00 PM, let alone retire for the evening, so I just don’t understand the logic in this decision. Doubting my ability to persuade the mayor of St Cloud (my suburb) to operate the buses until a more reasonable hour, like 11:00 PM, I am forced to consider the alternatives. I can walk home from the train station. My house is roughly one mile from the train station, and the walk is through a safe neighborhood with relatively well lit streets. However, as the temperature drops in the coming months, the prospect of walking alone in the cold evening hours becomes less attractive. After discussing the matter with Anne, she suggested I consider taking a cab home from the train station. So, upon returning to St Cloud and arriving at the train station around 11:30 PM, I decided to wait for and signal a cab. Oh my, let me tell you about this. First of all, the taxi was not a beat up, putrid yellow Ford Taurus, leaking oil or some other nondescript fluid like the cabs in Worcester. Instead, the cab that pulled up to the curb was a Mercedes- a silver, sparkling, clean Mercedes. Behind the wheel sat not a road-ragged intoxicated man yelling at you to close the door before going from zero to 60 MPH in less than four seconds like in San Francisco (remember that one, Annie?), but instead I was welcomed into the cab by a salt-and-pepper haired, broad shouldered man who spoke with a polite tone of voice. As if that wasn’t enough, he was playing classical music. How civilized and utterly delightful. So, the next Saturday night that I can’t find plans, I may call Bruno (of Bruno’s Taxi), and treat myself to a cab ride through town.

In less exciting news I managed to buy a French cell phone. The transaction was completed entirely in French, at the end of which the cashier handed me a number, prompting me to say excitedly, “Mon numéro?” (“My number?”), only to have him reply, “Non, c’est mon numéro!”… A sweet gesture, but no, I will not be calling him.

Mmm, the status of my French. Well, my ability to write and read French has improved dramatically, although has not yet attained the level at which I was performing in college. My French conversational skills.. (or lack thereof) are still disastrous, and would make Ms. Sweeney, my high school French teacher, blush. I am, however, fluent in something I like to call “Frenglish”, which will simply have to do for now.

Oh, just so you all are aware: I have given up officially on sending email. I can’t determine what is wrong with my computer, gmail, the internet connection-- or some combination of the three. So, I do apologize. I will keep blogging, continue to read email (just won’t respond), and would be thrilled to write and receive letters. In a pinch, you could always call my French cell phone, too: +33 6 78 48 27 90.