What? Aren’t I done yet?

by

Fuck.

I am tired.

My arms are tired.

My neck is tired.

My back is sore.

There.

Done with the gripping.  I really am ok, but I am sore.  I walked a lot today.

A lot.

I walked hours and hours.

I did it slowly though and I took loads of photographs.

I would post some here, but I am too tired to think about doing that again.  If you would like to see some of the photographs I took today please click here for my photo blog and get yourself a gander.

I have already done two blogs tonight, which is why I was none too keen to get in here and write another.  However, that is what I do.

I write.

Motherfuckers.

I write.

I remind myself this as I see myself on the dole when I get a few Euro from a friend or my room-mate takes me out to lunch.

That was a nice steak.

Yes it was.

I had a bavette cut, which is a skirt steak, in French, or that language otherwise known as tasty.

Hey, I am in Paris, I am going to eat the steak frites or the steak tartar when I get treated out.  I will also have some of that there cheese, you say it’s Roquefort?  Gimme.

I made up for lunch by having oatmeal for dinner.

That sounds bad, like poverty.

It was actually quite enjoyable, I use a trick I saw my friend Beth do once on her Twitter/Instagram feed, I made savory oatmeal.  I cook up a cup of oatmeal with some sweet corn, garlic, sea salt, fresh ground black pepper, and a sprinkle of parsley, top with butter and chopped pan roasted chicken breast.

Accompanied with a little salad tossed with virgin olive oil and apple cider vinaigrette and you have yourself a nice tidy meal.

I needed the fuel.

Did I say I walked a little bit today?

From the 7th to the 18th and then down to the 9th.

I probably clocked in over six miles by foot, plus a fair bit of riding the Metro rails.

I went from the 9th to the 7th, which unless you live in Paris or know your way about, is not as close as it sounds.  The trip door to door is about thirty minutes.  After some fellowship in the 7th I walked with my room-mate and a friend from San Francisco (they are just falling out of the wood work, who’s coming next?) down the open air market under the Metro Line 6.

We walked up to the Seine, crossed over the Passy bridge, climbed up and over the Metro stairs, headed over to the Trocadero, wandered through some park, saw the Eiffel Tower from a new perspective, then walked toward the Arc de Triomphe.

We stopped for lunch at a cafe on Rue Kebler.

Cafe Copernic.

The boys digested their food and I thought where next?

They were ready for naps and I was ready for free day at the museums.

I had a friend call me from the line at the Orangerie.  I was tempted to hie down toward her, but I really did not feel like being in the thick of the throngs.

Throngs there would be.

The sun finally came out today.

When I walked outside today and looked up, I gasped.

Blue sky!

“Oh thank you God,” I said out loud.

I just could not have a bad day when the sun was out the way it was out today.

I debated, knowing what I had known since yesterday, I was going to the Dali museum in the Montmartre.

I departed my friends and walked to the Metro on the Champs-Eylsees.

It was mobbed with people and I knew immediately that I had made the correct choice, at least for my temperament.  I don’t mind tourists, I really don’t, I still like to act like one myself.

Aside, my friend from San Francisco told me how he and other friend of ours had walked into a grocery store in the city and walked around asking each other if they had any Grey Poupon.  I just about peed my pants laughing.

I mustered through the crowds of people and got onto the Metro.

I hopped off at Metro stop Anver and walked toward Sacre Couer.

And yes, it was mobbed too.

Nice day and all.

I skirted around the heaviest of the crowds and went off the beaten path a little.

I did not completely avoid the tourists, but I did manage to go where the crowds were a little thinner and I was not so pressed to wait when I wanted to take a photograph.

I got lost looking for the Dali museum, overshot by a few streets and went to the Musee de Montmartre.  However, they were having a special exhibit and it was not free.

No thanks.

I wanted free.

Ha.

I did not get free.

Indeed.

I ended up paying 11 Euro to get into the Dali museum.

I waffled.

Then I felt the stack of coins my friend had pressed into my hand last night before taking my leave.  “I am not going to play the money exchange game,” he said, “I don’t have the time, take this.”

I had it.

I had also been given 50 Euro from another friend the day before and instead of letting myself do anything with it, I had handed it directly over to my room-mate for rent.

I fingered the pile of coins.

There was 11 Euro here.

I could see down into the gallery, the lights were shining and the art was calling.

And there was no crowds.

There was no line.

There was no one but me.

I nodded to the woman and pulled out 50 centime pieces and 1 Euro pieces and clicked and clacked through the coins until I had piled up a little stack of gold and silver.

I got my ticket and I descended into the surreal.

Oh Dali.

There is nothing quite like seeing the real thing.

Especially when I recalled the poster I had on my wall in the living room of a second story walk up in Madison on the East side.  I had two Dali posters for years that I had picked out with my then boyfriend.  To stand before the original piece, to have the experience of standing before the original over fifteen years later, in Paris, by myself with the light falling on the painting, is an experience I will not soon forget.

I spent a good bit of time slowly walking around the museum.  It was small and bereft of people.  I watched a Dali movie of a Don Quixote type tilting at the Moulin Rouge windmills in a trompe l’oeil cathedral space tucked into the corner.  I went to exit, found the bathrooms, used them, then turned back around and went down for another spin through.

I had paid 11 Euro after all, I was going to get my fill.

And I did.

I made a faith-based decision to let myself be gifted an experience.

When I left the museum it was sunset and I was at the pinnacle of the Montmartre, minutes from walking out to the cobblestone streets winding around Sacre Couer.  I went into a park and looked out over the city smothered in sunset and breathed in deeply.

I am here, in Paris.

I walked down the stairs, winding down the hill toward the 9th, toward Rue Bellefond.

I came home.

Down loaded the photographs and got onto the second part of my “work day”.

Editing the photographs I had taken.

Posting to my photography blog.

Putting up photographs on Instagram.

Tweet that shit.

Post to Facecrack.

Make dinner.

Pause for tea.

Then I went back into the blog that I had written for my friend about turning 40.  I spent time editing and rewriting it and after about an hour of that I had a nice 1300 word piece to send off to her.

I’ll post a link to the blog when it goes live.

I was tempted to just post it here as my daily blog post, but I knew that was cheating.

So, I sent out a query for agency for my memoir, girded my loins and hopped back into this forum to write this blog.

Not bad for a Sunday in Paris.

The Surrealistic Eye

The Surrealistic Eye

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