Day Four: 25 Aug. 2002

Kathryn and I look forward to another breakfast on the terrace of Samaritaine, but the department store turns out to be closed. Why? It's Sunday! No way - we thought it was Saturday. Hmmm. Will all restaurants be closed? we ask the concierge. No, don't worry about it. We consider taking the Batobus to the Eiffel tower, but it's hazy and we now own 5-day museum passes. We cross the Pont des Arts and make our way to the Musée d'Orsay. On our way we see the "smallest building in Paris," as it was pointed out to us from the Vedettes du Pont Neuf. It's a tiny, 2 story, 2-room (?) building sandwiched between huge Haussmannian buildings. I take K's picture in front. There's a huge line to get into the d'Orsay, but we flash our Cartes Musées, and we're swept in ahead of everyone else, like we're Lady Di. Well worth the price! We head straight for the escalators to the top floor, for brunch and impressionism, in that order. Brunch was fine - we sat amongst Italians and Brits. Kathryn knows some Italian, and it's tempting for her to talk to the couple next to us - she feels like she could easily fall into speaking a combination of French and Italian if she's not careful! We go out to the roof briefly, to get a view of the Seine and the Tuileries (including the ferris wheel!) on the other side, but it's very smoky. Time to see some art.

So many famous paintings in one place! We take horrid pictures of each other next to some beautiful Van Goghs. I particularly enjoy the pointillists, including Paul Signac with his vibrant colors. Seurat is here as well, with some preliminary studies he did for "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," but Kathryn and I are well aware that we won't find the final work here: that's on display at our beloved Art Institute of Chicago. The Musée d'Orsay is very crowded and the rooms are small and poorly laid out. It's great that they could make use of an old train station this way, but it's not necessarily the most convient arrangement for museum space. We finish the floor, exhausted, and descend to the gift shop. Buy lots of postcards, among other things. Home? Not yet.

Our feet are way tired, but we head south and west to the Musée Rodin. It's crowded as well, but worth it. We try to imagine Rilke sulking around the halls. We sit in the garden afterwards, watching tourists parody the Thinker for snapshots. Our feet were killing us. Maybe there's a Metro stop nearby. Or... We decide to go to Rick Steves's favorite street, the Rue Cler, for lunch. At 5:30 pm. We cross the Place des Invalides, admiring the frolicking Parisians all over the Esplanade. This is probably the most open area I've seen so far. We marvel at how much we've walked in Paris as opposed to home, and theorize that it's because Paris walks are so unfailingly rewarding.

As if to prove us wrong, we arrive at Rue Cler, which, on this Sunday, at least, is a disappointment. The whole street is very, very closed. As we turn right, onto Ave. de la Motte-Picquet, a deep grey autumnal feeling settles over the neighborhood. We hold hands and kick our feet through the dry leaves. We're even more tired than we were, and we look for a non-smoky restaurant to relax in. The pickings are very slim. The fact that I'm closer than ever to the Eiffel tower thrills me, though - just a block or two to the west, we could be walking down the tree-lined Champ de Mars towards the Eiffel tower, with the sun setting in the background... But we've got to stop!

And finally, on Avenue Rapp, there it is: Dell'Angelo, a charming, temporarily smoke-free Italian restaurant. It seems a little like cheating to eat the same Italian food I could have at home, but at this point, a little comfort food feels great. Kathryn has the spaghetti bolognese, and I have the prix-fixe menu: tomato-basil salid, lasagne, and mousse au chocolat. Parfait! Kathryn's vodka & jus d'orange lifts her spirits. We take the RER from Pont de l'Alma to the St. Michel stop on the Left bank south of the Ile de la Cité. We pop in to Shakespeare & Co. for a book on Paris restaurants, but decide it's tros cher, and pop back out. We remark that we have not yet had the famous ice cream that one can only find on the Ile St. Louis, and we cross the Pont de l'Archeveché (upon which played a lovely string quartet) and the Pont St. Louis to return to La Flore en l'Ile for REAL dessert. K's tarte au pomme was good, but my hot fudge sundae was, surprisingly, even better. We steal a menu for a friend and head home. We will never walk again.

On to Day Five