Peeking Through the Louvre

October 10

I finally got us lost on this trip, but don’t know if it counts. We were in the Louvre, where everything is upstairs, downstairs, or both, and nothing’s in a straight line. “Je suis perdu” was the phrase of the day.

It’s hard to remember that this was actually somebody’s home—well, residence, in any event—and everybody, both men and women, walked through it on high-heeled shoes. I was in Rockports and my feet were killing me after three hours.

Of course, it isn’t normal walking when you’re in the Louvre. You creep along, amazed at everything. Then every once in a while you stop dead in front of one of the premier pieces—the stele with the Code of Hammurabi, Cupid and Psyche, any number of Venuses, Dianas, and Herculeses.

I wanted to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace. I’ve seen photos of it, with those frightening back-swept wings and the proud, thrusting boobs. It was out for restoration when I was in the Louvre a year ago.

After a few episodes of being perdu, we found it. It’s not in a room, but on a huge pedestal in a staircase. And it’s standing on a stone platform that looks like the bow of a ship. I was wondering: Why did they put the statue on that? Was it another I.M. Pei idea? After all, that was the architect who put the dumb glass pyramids in the yard.

The museum is so proud of the Wing Victory, however, that they translate the information about it into English. It was found in the 19th century and the figure was standing on the stone boat. 

When we first came on it, we saw the right side lit up by a window behind us so the wing was almost the color of the wall behind it. When we got to the other side, the light was better, and as it turns out, that was OK. The right wing is a plaster restoration. 

When we reached the room housing Venus de Milo there were at least three tours clustered around it. It looked almost like the eternal mob around the Mona Lisa. But we sat to cool off by an open window and in a few minutes the place cleared to no more than a dozen people.

The statue is magnificent, graceful rhythmic curves, a tell-nothing facial expression, the wrinkles and waves in the falling tunic. Goethe, Heine, and other Romantics competed with each other to come up with superlatives to describe it. Besides, in addition to being romantics, they were writers.

Rodin, however, was a sculptor. He was supposedly impressed by the abdomen, which is indeed pretty pretty.

I’m not sure, though, that the Venus is breath-takingly better than dozens of other wonderful pieces here. Right next to Venus de Milo is la Salle des Caryatides. I think most of the pieces there—
Roman copies of lost Greek originals—are equally wonderful. 

Somewhere we stumbled on the Italian Renaissance. Giotto, Botticelli, Fra Angelico: it was like being back in Florence. Among the Botticellis on display were a few frescoes. I’ve always wondered how they get the plaster off the wall in once piece. Very carefully, I’d guess.

We strolled the long gallery to say hello to John the Baptist and many of his friends. This is where we were swept out by the man with the broom at closing time a year ago.

We got a little farther today, but not much. the museum outlasted us again this time. After three hours, we had to call it quits. This was on part of the first floor (1er Etage). I still haven’t seen the Deuxieme Etage.

Walking at a regular pace was easier, so we did that for a while. We took Rue de Rivoli to Boulevard de Sebastopol to Rue Rambuteau and then to Rue Montorgueil. We actually found the street easily enough. It was in the Les Halles district.

We walked up R. Montorgueil looking for a restaurant that Larry recommended—Aux Tonneaux des Halles. We came near the end of the street. I checked the address, No. 28. We had come four or five blocks and across the street was No. 17. But a few steps farther, we saw that the street name had changed. 

We walked back. I felt so bad for Joanna. Her feet must be hurting. She must be exhausted. I’m taking her on a wild-goose chase. And not one word of complaint or reproach. “It’s part of the adventure,” she says.

We got back on Montorgueil and stopped across from No. 27. The restaurant name on the awning was “Escargot.” Could they have changed the name of the place since Larry was here a week ago? Hey, this is their country; they can do what they want. But no. It was No. 38. It’s straight across the street from 27. But as I just remarked, this is their country.

The waiters claimed never to have heard of Aux Tonneaux des Halles. They said people often stop when they’re looking for 28 and then come back because this is the place they actually wanted.

We strolled back and found the one we actually wanted, No. 28. The name is on the wall, but the place gets lost because it has no awning. It’s maybe 100 feet from 38 and those guys had never heard of the place. Yeah, that’s likely. Anyway, stay away from 38 Rue Montorgueil. They tell lies, so the food is probably from a can.

We walked in and the bartender told us the kitchen was closed. What? After all that searching, they only serve lunch? 

Then he explained, it would open in an hour. 

So we sat at a table near the door to drink wine. Unfortunately the table was too close to the open door and cigarette smoke was blowing into our faces. We moved to the back room. 

Most of the tables there were for four people. After a couple of changes more, we wound up in the back corner, away from the door to the toilets and out of traffic. We had the room to ourselves. 

Larry had recommended entrecote Tonneaux. But the bartender had handed us English menus. I ordered the rump steak Tonneaux and learned a new French word. Joanna had a filet. 

Mine came with a bone full of marrow and both plates came with fries, or frites.

I had a Gaillot and a Taurine (I think those are the names). Both were red. The first was the stronger flavored of the two and very good to kill time with while we waited for the kitchen to open.

The list also had a Cotes du Provence and Cote de Pont du Gard. But they are southern wines, and we will be in the south in a few days. I’m waiting till we get there before I try those.

We cabbed back to the hotel and slept the clock around.

The photo of the day was taken in front of the Fontaine de St. Michel, about a block from the Petit Pont and Notre Dame. The musicians were playing a blues riff and the guy behind them felt a little upstaged, but had good humor.

It was a good day in Paris. I hope it’s always a good day where you are.

Harry