But we felt obligated to go look at the Seine one more time, so we hopped the Metro down to the Louvre. Well, not literally hopped, as in fact our Cartes d’Orange are good for one more day. But there were a couple of stile jumpers, which seem to fascinate Dirk. I understand the fascination somewhat, as many of them have a certain casual athleticism which is a joy to watch. Funny thing about it is that they do have occasional spot checks, and while I have no idea what the fine is, the jumpers are few enough that I suspect that it’s not a profitable enterprise. I suspect they do it for the same reason people like to play slot machines—the excitement of possibly ending up ahead outweighs the disappointment of the more likely proposition of ending up behind. And of course, there’s the whole “beating the system” attraction. The funniest one I saw was a young couple, clearly in deep lust judging by the wandering arms around the middle while they maneuvered through the Metro crowds. The fellow would go ahead with his ticket, then hold the gate as the girl jumped the turnstile. It worked smoothly, and they scarcely had to stop physical contact whilst they did it. I have to admit, though, I am a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to these sorts of things. I think a gentleman should give his ticket to the lady when on a date, and risk arrest himself.
The Louvre. None of us had been, although we had admired the outside from the Jardin de Tullieries.
It used to be the Royal residence before Versailles, so it was worth a visit in that regard. Like I said, I can be a traditionalist, so I didn’t really appreciate the glass pyramid squatting in the courtyard, even if my guidebooks insisted it was brilliant rolleyes
One thing about museums is that size really doesn’t matter. There’s only so many things you can see in a day, after all. I much preferred the Dali museum or the Cluny where the crowds were thinner. Frankly, despite the fact that I don’t mind the Metro or the bustling city crowds, I can get a bit agoraphobic in tourist crowds. Don’t ask me why, maybe it’s my irritation at not being able to get close to what I want to see, maybe it’s the inanity of the average tourist. Anyway, to keep things manageable, we stuck to just the Hogarth exhibit. I couldn’t take pictures, but I’ll see if I can’t find some online. Hogarth was one of the first caricaturists, and he never fails to make me laugh (unless he’s making me wince). And he liked dogs, even doing a series of paintings preaching against animal cruelty. Dirk seemed to think he was a Puritan, and Hogarth does disapprove of vice. But mostly, he seems to disapprove of silliness. Tom Rakehell (A Rake’s Progress) doesn’t end up in Bedlam because he likes drink and fancy clothes, it’s because he wastes his money foolishly and won’t treat his girlfriend decently (she does take care of him in the end) .
Beyond his cartoon-like morality tracts, Hogarth did some really nice portraiture, as well. I hadn’t seen that before, and he had a great ability to show his subject’s personality. Unlike a lot a 18th century portraiture, where the subject comes off as heroic (or possibly smug), Hogarth’s subjects seem to be like people you might actually know. I swear, there was one lady (a Miss Mary Edwards, I believe) who looks exactly like a college friend of mine. I half expected her to turn to me and ask to borrow some of my class notes (for the record, Jane eventually graduated with honors, although I’ve lost track of her since)
After a few hours of fighting crowds, though, we were pretty much done with the Louvre. There’s only so much waiting in line to look at a painting whilst other people lean over your shoulder one can take. Yes, there are roughly 5 quadrillion other masterpieces there to see. But there’s also a few hundred art museums in Paris. If there’s a particular exhibition I’d like to see next time we’re in Paris, we’ll probably go. But it will be in spite of it being in the Louvre, not because of it.
That afternoon, we wandered the neighborhood with Dirk for one last time. At his insistence, we tried hard to find a direction we hadn’t gone in before. It didn’t take long before we discovered a little urban garden, Le Jardin de Ruisseau. Set up along an abandoned Metro stop, it was a long line of individual gardens with paintings and poetry on the old stone walls. Benches and tables were laid out, and there was even a koi pond. We wandered around a bit, admiring it all and dodging crowds of frolicking children. I watched a group of girls playing jump-rope for a bit (good practice for my numbers razz ) Their mother misunderstood my standing there and apologized for the way they were blocking the pavement.
I couldn’t quite catch everything she said after that, so I shrugged and said “C’est bon. Les jeunesse” (“That’s fine, they’re young girls”).
She laughed and replied, “Ah oui. Les jeunesse”
I caught up with Dirk, who was staring at some broad cartoon of a cross-eyed lady with wild hair, hovering over one of the flower beds.
“Not the same as the Louvre, huh?” I said.
“Not one bit. It’s far better,” he said. “The Louvre was for the royalty. This is for the people.”
As I watched the girls resume their game of jump rope, I couldn’t have agreed more.
Les jeunne filles sautent: un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf!
V.
