We’ve long heard that Prague is a special place in the world and want to find out for ourselves. After all, this is a land of dark satire by Franz Kafka blended with the pious generosity of Good King Wenceslas – along with a heroic backdrop painted by Alfons Mucha and overlaid with the grandest of musical scores by Dvorak. The land of the Czechs is surely a treasure to be savored.
Our train pulls into Praha hlavní nádraží (Prague Central Station) and it’s pretty clear the language will be an interesting challenge. The European Union has 24 official languages (including Latvian, Slovene, Maltese, etc), but English is how many Europeans currently navigate the linguistic thicket they inhabit, and to get by in a world where English has become the language of discourse. That’s lucky for us, because Spanish (our second language) is little spoken in Europe outside of Spain.
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We crossed the border from Germany and we’re no longer in ‘Euro country,’ as the Czechs have their own currency. We might be able to use our pocket full of Euros here, but we’ll likely lose too much value converting them at shops and restaurants. So before hopping the Metro, or doing much of anything else, we’ll draw out some Korun Českÿch. The Czechs call them ‘crowns.’
Next we sort out the Metro line, which takes us to a tram that will get us to the apartment. Every nation speaks in a ‘code’ of some kind, and language challenges are good brain exercises. So we’ll take our time and try to navigate the Czech Republic, and its language, as best we can.
We arrive at our nice rental apartment, owned by a friendly young guy named Jan. It’s in the Karlin district, which is only a modest walk to the center of things. And we’re near a transit line, in case we want to ride it around town. There are good restaurants near the apartment, and a food store within a block or so. It’s a fine location for us.
We had asked if there was an elevator so we didn’t have to muscle our bags up several flights. And Jan said, ‘Yes, but it’s kind of small.’ After a few days in town we realized we’d never actually seen the elevator he mentioned. I happened to open a small door in the stairwell and found a very small elevator – actually more of a ‘dumbwaiter.’ Jan was right; it's really designed more for quarts of milk, and not luggage.
Most mornings we’ll enjoy a fine breakfast in the apartment, with foods bought fresh daily. Then we’ll stuff a handful of maps and our rain gear into a courier bag for a day abroad in the streets of Prague.
The first evening is a bit chilly as we wander the streets near our apartment, and we’re glad we packed our stuff-able jackets that can double as pillows. Luckily, we’ve arrived in time for a neighborhood music fest with several good bands playing. Lots of local musical events happen in the balmy European summer and it’s easy to get lucky that way.
After a hearty helping of local rock music we wandered onward. We soon found a good place for drinks and some eats before heading back to the apartment for a quiet night’s rest.
We use the next morning after breakfast to take care of various organizing and internet chores before wandering out to find a good little eccentric place for lunch. The 'sendvič's are huge and delicious.
The streets of Prague are a museum in themselves, filled with constant fine distractions as we stroll more or less toward the center of the city. We could attend a performance of “Carmen;” it was written in French, which we also don’t speak, but the music is great. If we hadn’t just had lunch we could order some food by pointing at the pictures. Or we can simply admire the sheer beauty of this place.
We stop for a couple of ’Trdelníks’ (Pronounced Turdelniks?!). They’re a delicious cinnamon-covered roll filled with ice cream, if you can get past the pronunciation.
The city is alive with the daily life of people going to work, and children on a field trip somewhere. They recycle things here efficiently, as they do throughout Europe these days. Skoda cars, a Czech brand built by the 5th oldest car manufacturer in the world (next to Daimler, Opel, Peugeot, and Tatra, another Czech brand), are a common sight here. Plus, you can buy a novel by Ken Kesey at a well-stocked local bookstore.
Down near the heart of things we score tickets to a classical music concert in Smetana Hall, one of those old and gorgeous settings that European cities are blessed with. The entryway and the concert hall are dripping with murals and Gothic decoration, and the musicians gave a fine performance.
After the concert a stairway in Smetana Hall takes us down to the Americky Bar, ‘The Oldest Bar in Prague.’ There’s not much happening in the bar so we go to the restaurant beside it that specializes in traditional Czech food. And that’s where we had one of our best encounters in Prague. It’s a bit of a tourist place, and there are several large Asian tour groups there, but it’s fun and the food is very good.
A couple of guys are playing Czech music on fine old instruments and singing hearty lyrics in words we can’t comprehend. After a few songs, they ask us where we’re from. We say that we live in Mexico and wait for their reaction, recalling that we were greeted with silence in Germany since Mexico had just defeated the mighty German soccer team in the World Cup.
But the Czech accordion player bursts into a broad smile, leans forward with a ‘thumbs up’ and says, “You beat the Germans!” European memories are long, and ancient rivalries live on. We were instant good buddies, and they played several more songs before giving us one of their CDs. Life is good, out on the road.
(A recent article about the supposed mental health of sports fans, says we were sharing the glow of schadenfreude tinged with the essence of gluckschmerz. Just ask Freud.)
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European animosities are as deep as the history is long. I once sat at a bar with a couple of guys I knew, one Hungarian and one Romanian, and made a wise crack about their ancient conflicts. That quickly developed into a loud dispute (“Remember what you bastards did back in 1526?!”). I regretted bringing it up.
But when I mentioned ancient battles to an Aymara boatman on Lake Titicaca at Puno, Perú, he turned to his Quechua buddy and said, “Yeah, while we were fighting with each other, those damned Spaniards conquered both of us!”
Octavio Paz said, “Man…is not in history; he is history.” As long as we remain trapped by our childish passions and frettings, we may never rise above our long and tragic history.
Or, as the flawed philosopher Rodney King said in 1992, “Can’t we all just get along?”
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We awake to another fine day for a long walk – meaning, it’s really not raining all that much this morning. And the enchanting streets of Prague are beckoning us onward, to the historic center of things. Actually, just about everything is historic in central Prague, and it’s a term that’s easily overused here.
But it’s also the non-historic stuff that calls to us from shop windows and sign posts, the sort of everyday detritus that really defines a city and a people. Catchy signs and posters divert our eyes and our attention as we wander in the general direction of a goal we may well reach today. Or maybe tomorrow. Prague is a lot like Paris, gorgeous, wonderfully walkable, and with plenty of things to see and do to keep you marvelously distracted.
On such a nicely drizzly day in the city we find a place called ‘Cacao,’ that just happens to serve up the sort of warm and rich beverage we had been craving to ward off the chill.
After getting ourselves well fortified, the streets of Prague and her richly encrusted buildings are once again calling us forth. We’ve had no particular grand plan for visiting the city, but there are so many things to do and experience here that our time will go quickly. And we’re content to simply keep our eyes open and let the whole of it wash over us. Maybe the whole of it will end like a Kafka novel – which never really ends and the people never really get where they're going. It could happen to us, and that would be OK.
An assembly of extravagant cars-for-hire occupies our attention for a while. But we’d prefer to walk and don’t bother to ask for prices. We could also opt to ride the Prague Beer Bike, powered by the beer drinkers aboard (Powered by Beer!), but we pass on that one too.
A store selling ridiculous floppy puppets grabs us. They’re very light weight, and we buy a couple for the grandkids back home. And so we continue to wend our way onward to – somewhere up ahead.
We arrive at the big open square, with its carnival atmosphere. And then we lose ourselves for a while among the happy throngs enjoying a cool summer day in the heart of central Europe.
Actually we did have a loose plan, of sorts – to find the square where the Mucha Museum is located. Alfons Mucha (pronounced ‘Mooha’) was an unsuccessful young artist in Prague who was advised to find another way to make a living. Shortly after he arrived in Paris he was tapped at the last minute to quickly produce a poster for Sarah Bernhardt, and he soon became world famous.
We’re drawn to the visual and graphic arts, so the Mucha Museum became a destination for us. They were showing a couple of other guys at the Museum (we’ve seen those guys), but it was the astoundingly prolific Mucha who we came to see. (We hiked up the stairs, but couldn’t resist taking the hilariously teensy elevator back down.)
After his success with Sarah Bernhardt, Mucha’s floridly heroic and romantic images would soon be found on everything from book covers, to playbills, to sheet music, to calendars, to postage stamps. His achingly beautiful illustrations of young women would grace biscuit tins and cigarette tins, and the sad and piercing eyes of a Russian mother would beg for donations to help the starving victims of a famine.
He also designed furniture, dinnerware, cutlery, etc, etc….
After all that, it was time for another fine dinner and a good night’s rest, before going on to explore more of the city.
On a new day we set out to find the John Lennon Wall. John is highly revered here and the memorial wall, near the Charles Bridge, is an enduring testament to his legacy. A singer was doing credible renditions of his work during our visit. And there’s a ‘John Lennon Pub’ nearby if you want to linger over the moment, although we did not do so.
A walk over the ornate 600-year-old Charles Bridge – along with several hundred fellow walker-gawkers – is one of the must do attractions of the city. It’s a strolling-party-scene, but the bridge is lined with portrait artists (some of them talented), odd-but-clever musicians, and tall ecclesiastical statuary. Life on the ancient Vltava River below is entrancing, as well as views across the river to the ominous mass of Pražsky hrad (Prague Castle) on the heights at one end, and to the ornate gate into the red roofed Old City at the other. It’s really a joyous experience worth plunging into.
At the end of the Charles Bridge we lose ourselves in the crowd as it pours through the old gate and into the Staré Mesto (Old Town). This is a place to find Baltic Amber, odd multi-colored sweet things to munch on, lots of tourist trinkets, and even a Mexican Restaurant! (No, we didn’t stop there.)
The distinctive kind of architecture to be found in this area keeps a person’s eyes elevated and off the pavement.
The Apple Museum caught our eye, but we didn’t stop. Still, it looked intriguing.
You can take an afternoon break for another delicious Trdlo (’Turdlow!?’), a cinnamon-crusted shell full of ice cream.
And after all that, the day ends well again at a very nice bistro near the apartment. It’s really hard not to like beautiful Prague.
On another fine day we happen upon the Jazz Dock, along a canal down by the river. It’s just the kind of place we hope to find when we travel. It looks like a fun spot where lots of local bands perform; but it’s still early in the day, so we make plans to return later.
We get back to the Jazz Dock early enough to get decent seats as a good local group starts the evening. The fine chops by the young woman on the sax and the guy on the piano quickly set the good vibes flowing, and the gorgeous flaxen-haired singer beguiled us. The ample food and drink also kept us happy and content.
Afterward, we crossed a bridge over the river to the closest tram stop as the quiet of evening settled onto the city and the glow of Prague Castle glistened across the water. It was another good day indeed.
On previous Euro-trips we’ve spent time following the lives and work of artists such as Picasso, Matisse, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, etc. But we also have a particular interest in the work of Egon Schiele, and his mentor, Gustav Klimt; and that’s one of the reasons we’ve traveled to central Europe this time.
A tram near our apartment took us over the river to a park near the imposing grey Soviet-era National Gallery. It’s where a number of Schiele’s important works are shown, and works by Klimt, as well.
We first encountered a powerful display of photography from the First World War. And along with that, the cartoons of Josef Lada featuring his hapless soldier called, “My Friend Švejk” – a Czech precursor to Bill Mauldin’s WWII cartoons of “Willy and Joe.”
Several of Egon Schiele’s provocative works are hung in the Gallery, including his morose “Dead City.” It’s an allusion to the village of Česky Krumlov, where he came afoul of the local authorities, and where his mother was from. And it will be our next destination as we follow the trail of this doomed young artist across the Czech Republic, to Vienna.
Among Alfons Mucha’s more famous works – and certainly his most gigantic – is The Slav Epic (look for it on Google) showing the story of the Slavic people through centuries of historic events. We had hoped to see this work at the National Gallery, but it was no longer on display.
We finally exited the Gallery past a bizarre work that may well be titled “Electrician’s Nightmare,” for all I know. It looked like a lot of work, and I guess it’s ‘art.’ I tend to judge art by whether I’d want it around the house. I’m not fastidious, but I can’t imagine having something around that requires that much dusting. Sorry, it flunks the ‘Dusting Test.’
We’ve been to lots of European castles, but after almost a week in town it seemed we should make an effort to at least get near the Prague Castle. Tram 22 goes very close to the Castle and gives a good peak at it from several angles – along with throngs of Asian tourists (they seem to have replaced the classic fat American tourist in Bermuda shorts with a camera and a straw hat). We wanted to climb those steep streets, but not get stuck in those massive tourist crowds swarming around the Castle itself.
We left the tram after the rain quit, and made our way through various byways and alleys toward the Castle. The streets of Prague were again filled with enough fascination, magicians, fine crystal, and sheer beauty, to keep us distracted as we plodded our way uphill.
The Castle was soon lost to view among the tall buildings, and I was reminded of Kafka’s novel, The Castle, in which his protagonist, named ‘K,’ only views the Castle once briefly from a hill outside the city. After entering the surrounding warren of narrow streets, he never actually gets to the Castle. In fact, he never sees the Castle again. That seemed to be us, as we huffed our way up the hill. The famous Prague Castle is probably still up there, but we got sidetracked, as we do, and lost interest somewhere along the way.
And anyway it was getting late. It was time for yet another wonderful dinner with a couple of cold Czech brews, in a fun place with a bunch of locals on another back street, far away from all those tourists.
So a glorious visit to the Czech capital has come to an end, and it’s time again to pack our bags for the next leg of the journey. We’re off to a place we’ve never heard of before this trip, and with a link to Egon Schiele – that magical place called Česky Krumlov. You'll definitely want to join us there. — PRW
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Interested in Prague scams? This Czech guy is very entertaining, and he hates all those new Thai Massages popping up around town!
Summer 2018: Paris II
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Fondation Louis Vuitton
A big item on our list is the highly-touted Fondation Louis Vuitton, Frank Gehry’s new and challenging creation located in the woods, in the broad Bois de Boulogne. It’s a brisk walk on a fine day through the park from the Porte Maillot Metro stop in Neuilly, and the museum is hard to miss as we draw closer. Gehry makes a statement, although this one, unlike his museum in Bilbao, is hidden in the trees. Perhaps there was no good site available along the Seine, even with substantial Louis Vuitton funding to back it.
Gehry’s latest extravagance gives few clues as to what lies inside. It’s an exterior-dominant exercise in sculptural-structural complexity and ‘candy wrapping’ that demands exploration of its artistry, its ‘funhouse’ dynamic before getting to the art on display. Its amorphous ’crumpled tinfoil tossed on the ground’ aesthetic recalls the one in Bilbao, which is highly viewable from various parts of the city, including the riverwalk – and especially from the top of the funicular across the river. But the Paris example is curiously hidden. And as in Bilbao, the artworks on display take second place to the building itself.
(Here's a link to our post from Bilbao in 2016: http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2016/06/summer-2016-bilbao.html)
Views toward the great city of Paris are rare, with peeks at the modern skyline of La Défense being chief among them. Oddly, little homage is paid to the masterpiece of Gustav Eiffel, a kindred structure, where majestic form and robust connections are proudly shown as a main artistic element. The great Iron Lady is largely ignored here and only visible through a small opening in a remote corner, if you can find it.
On show in several large galleries, the huge and fantastical work of Takashi Murakami, born in Japan in 1962, deserves attention. The large sculpture in the center of one gallery, entitled “Chakras open and I Drown Under the Waterfall of Life, 2017” represents his response to “…the trauma of the tsunami that struck Japan in 2011.”
In other rooms, Murakami’s cartoons and splashing colors, drawn from his work in anime, require a close encounter to fully appreciate the detail involved.
In other galleries, the ghostly presence of Jean-Marie Appriou’s large “Lips and ears, 2018” dominates a room by itself.
Other galleries contain works by modernist masters such as Brancusi, De Chirico, and other notable artists.
And a hidden exterior water space provides a bit of whimsy, and a hall for mirror play by wannabe photo-journalists.
After an afternoon drenched in the challenging Fondation Louis Vuitton, we walk back into the city again, in need of a quiet dinner and a glass or two of good red wine.
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Paris is one of the world’s great cities for living and wandering without any plan at all, for stopping at the window of a ‘jam shop,’ or heeding a sign that reads, “Enter! Here good wine makes good moments.” (Except the place was closed.) We check out the fine art in a gallery nearby, notice that Charlie Hebdo is still publishing outrageous political satire – despite a deadly attack by extremists – and consider turning up for an Archie Shepp concert at ‘an undisclosed location.’ I find a jaunty chapeau somewhere to keep the sunburn off my thinning scalp, and now the locals don’t assume I’m American anymore; they think I’m a lost German tourist.
There’s time to hang out by the lazy waters of the Seine, or stop by a tempting place that assures us, “Here one drinks and one eats until 2:00 in the morning.” And not far away is another good nose-wet called Le Smiley, with a fine singer in house.
And for breakfast we stop at Le Pain Quotidien for coffee with almond croissants and a view to the street, while Parisian parents deliver their children to a nearby school. On another morning we’ll enjoy delicious buckwheat crepes at La Petite Bretonne, while tradesmen make deliveries to a nearby boucherie (butcher shop). It’s another day in the early morning life of the city.
For us, having ‘something to do’ isn’t necessary, or even desirable, in a city like Paris. We're content to absorb the energy of the streets in a place that has inspired great writers, artists, and thinkers for centuries – with no illusions that ‘greatness’ will somehow rub off on us. But it’s nice to be in a place where that often happens.
In Paris, iconic images are everywhere, none more so than a modern Parisienne shugged against a wall with a cigarette in one hand and her iPhone in the other.
The streets and squares of Paris lend themselves so well to wandering. Wherever you end up, there’s a Metro nearby to get you back where you need to be. And the words of the prophets are sometimes plastered on those Metro walls, with all the catchy ads and notices. And there are good musicians to make use of those fine acoustics in the tunnels.
And at the end of the day, we’ll return late to the apartment for rich chocolates, a few crispy crapotes (!?), and a snifter of Armagnac. The soft rumble of late Metro trains deep below us in the granite heart of Montmartre lulls us to sleep.
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La Cigale
A poster on a wall reads: “Ben Folds and a Piano,” at nearby La Cigale. It’s a well-known Parisian nightlife venue, even if the façade is badly ‘modernized.’ Inside there’s a gorgeous old theatre with intricate cast iron balconies and a stage front to recall the glory days when Toulouse-Lautrec was hanging out a few blocks down the street drawing posters for the Moulin Rouge.
But the people were waiting for the manic energy of Ben Folds, who soon attacked a piano waiting in the spotlight. He spoke to the crowd with riotous black and white key work, pain and anger – personal but general, at being screwed by The Man – and they sang with him. After a long and furious crashing set on the piano, Folds assaulted an innocent drum kit – subtlety not a part of his nature – to rumbling applause. The evening ended with a standing ovation and the throbbing, sated, crowd poured out into the Parisian night.
We walked about a block, to our cosy apartment overlooking the Pigalle.
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Atelier des Lumières
Abundant 60s references come to mind as color visions from 140 BARCO projectors swirl the entire space and a seamless sound track resonates throughout. Think, ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; or the Byrds coloristic: ‘…and wander in the forest, where the trees have leaves of prisms that break the light in colors that no-one knows the names of’.’; or Joni Mitchell’s Chelsea Morning, ‘…and the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses.’ Just try to imagine what they could do with this show in Amsterdam….
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Pere Lachaise
And after that full-immersion, we plunge ourselves onto the famous slopes and woods of Père Lachaise cemetery, only a block or so away. Here in these leafy grounds, dozens of famous artists, writers, musicians, and performers have found their final resting place, along with dozens of ordinary souls. A raven perched among the markers seems appropriate for such a grey and drizzly day.
This city of the dead has a long history and the list of permanent residents is noteworthy: Colette, Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, Balzac, Apollinaire, Georges Bizet, Delacroix, Daumier, Yves Montand, Simone Signoret – even Porfirio Diaz and Benjamin Franklin’s grandson William.
Numerous sad, crumbling old monuments in this jumbled city of the dead remind us that unless someone comes to attend our graves they too will crumble into soil or succumb to tree roots someday. Regardless, we all return to the fertile land as bio-mass to nurture the future. And our best ideas, if we’re lucky, may pass into what Robert M Hutchins called, “The Great Conversation.”
OK, we also did the ‘60s thing’ and stopped by the grave of James Douglas Morrison. Someone said, “You can tell where it is by all the hippies around it.” Jim’s grave is not spectacular, wedged into a small and well-trampled spot between many other burials by a ‘gum tree’ — one of those trees that people stick their gum to for some reason. His tomb seems oddly anti-climactic after his short and flamboyant life.
Many others in Père Lachaise must have led flamboyant lives for their era, but that’s long forgotten as the artists and rogues of each new age concoct outrages of their own. And rarely do graves blaspheme the dead with factual accounts of their lives. That’s for the biographers and novelists and should not sully the headstones of the deceased. A bit of whimsy may suffice, however.
And while at Père Lachaise, how could we not go in search of the final resting place for a person listed on the roster simply as ‘Sex Toy?’ Below a large bronze placard emblazoned with “Sex Toy,” the name of Delphine Palatsi (1968-2002) is etched into the cold and mossy stone. Known around Paris as ‘one of the premier female techno-DJs of the 1990s,’ she began her career mixing at Le Scandalo, a club on Rue Keller in Paris. She mixed at venues for Louis Vuitton, l’Oréal, and the Cannes film festival, appeared in several films, and lived her manic life until 2002 when she died of a heart attack at 33 years of age.
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It’s appropriate that we’ll depart Paris on a train from the Gare Saint Lazare to visit Monet’s home and garden in Giverny, since he often painted the old coal-chuffing engines arriving from Normandy in this very station. In his day, those giant and powerful machines were strong symbols of a new industrial age transforming much of Europe from its medieval past into a brave new future. The romantic old coal-burners are gone now – and the air is cleaner – but the Gare Saint Lazare still exudes some of its old magic.
Monet was largely a self-taught rebel, ignoring his father’s wishes to join the family grocery business, and rejecting art classes to study with the masters. Michelangelo, Goya, Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso – the list of such artistic rebels is long.
Monet was known for his mastery of many subjects besides smoking steam engines. He’s mostly remembered for his peaceful and romantic scenes of canals in Venice and Amsterdam, the sailing boats at Argenteuil, and his beloved gardens in Giverny. His attraction in later life to a peaceful life in the countryside far from the clangor of Paris is understandable.
In less than an hour from Paris by train we’re at the Vernon station and boarding a bus for the short drive to Giverny. Then it’s a modest walk, on a crowded pathway, from the bus park to the Maison et Jardins de Claude Monet, where he and his family lived from 1883 to 1926.
Oscar-Claude Monet was a founder of French Impressionism – the term came from his painting Impression, soleil levant (Impression, Sunrise) first exhibited in 1874. He would paint scenes numerous times to capture subtle changes in light and the seasons of the year. He created his own landscape for painting in Giverny, where he lived for the last 43 years of his life.
Along the way to Monet’s home and garden we make the acquaintance of a friendly Chinese couple who are enjoying their own extended retirement wander in Europe. She’s very sprightly and a real spark who used to work for a German company in China. She speaks German, decent English, and Mandarin Chinese. He’s courtly but more quiet, and speaks no English. He was a manager for China Telecom. We find ourselves piloting our way together through narrow lanes to a very long line outside the entry door, but we’ll lose track of each other later, somewhere in Monet’s broad gardens.
The expansive gardens of Claude Monet are resplendent with flowers, just as we’d expect on such a fine warm day in springtime. The bees stay busy with the abundance of floral choices giving forth their bounty of honey.
Monet’s famous lily pond and arcing Japanese bridge are in a different
section, through a passageway under the rural road that runs beside his home and garden. The lily pond and woods are a fine place with hidden creeks and copses to lose ourselves among (along with a crowd of others) while tracing the pathways leading to the pond and bridge.
Monet’s modest home is charming and inviting, as if he’s only gone for the day and expected back later for supper. Besides the walls covered with his art and collections, the kitchen is a romantic image of old Brittany. It’s easy to see why Monet spent his final years here.
Back in the gift shop, we recline on some very comfortable couches for an informative talk about Monet by Helen Bordman, ‘Executive Volunteer,’ formerly of New Jersey but now resident in France. Helen has collected a variety of stories and impressions of Monet’s life here in the little community of Giverny and she brought those days to life.
(For more Monet & Giverny: https://www.claudemonetgallery.org)
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Alas, it’s time to leave…
But in the end we must leave familiar Paris behind, and search out other challenges. Our original loose itinerary has semi-evolved so that we’re now heading through Germany toward the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Austria, and Italy. The old river port city of Strasbourg, lying just on the French side of the Rhine, will be our next stop. We’ll see you there! — PRW
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• For more of Paris from 2013 & 2016, see:
http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2013/07/summer-2013-sojourn-aaaah-paris.html
http://wilkeskinsman.typepad.com/tierra_de_tortugas/2016/08/summer-2016-paris.html
Posted on June 21, 2018 | Permalink | Comments (0)