Portraits of one kind and another

Our Dear Aussie Hosts had booked tickets for us all - four biggies and five littlies - to see the Arcimboldo (the 16th Century Fruit & Veg Portrait Guy) exhibition at the Musée du Luxembourg on Boxing Day.

For those of you who have neices or nephews or children of your own, you'll know that trying to organise five children under nine out the door to catch buses which won't wait can be a challenge. However, we were determined, and skated in to the Musée at the eleventh hour (literally) with tickets clutched firmly in hand. (A stroke of brilliance on the part of our DAHs, as it meant that we didn't have to wait in the very long queue in the rain.)

The exhibition was a corker and extremely busy, which meant that a certain amount of child-swapping and entertaining was required in order to maintain a level of interest which would allow us to see all the paintings and other artifacts without the kids totally losing the plot.

Nonetheless we managed to see it all, and subsequently congratulated ourselves as we consumed roast duck and pink lemonade among other things cheesy at a nearby café (hey, when in Paris...), having lost not a single charge in the melée, nor had to endure any meltdowns of substance.

Thus, substantially revived, we plunged again into the cold and spitting rain, to perambulate through the Jardins du Luxembourg, which were mostly deserted, though we were reliably informed by our DAHs that come spring and summer you'd find barely a free seat, and students taking tutorials and engaging in discussion in the park. Ah, Paris!

I must just say at this point that I'm extremely grateful to our DAHs, whom DH and I left standing at a rainy bus stop with all five kids for fifteen precious minutes as DH and I ran full-pelt to the former home and formidable Paris salon of Gertrude Stein, in nearby Rue de Fleurus.


I was a little envious of the residents of Number 27 who politely excused themselves as they unlocked the gate and nonchalantly slipped inside, as though going nowhere in particular: Just another day in the Rue de Fleurus.


DH and I had places to be, though, so we flung ourselves back into reality. DH ran like lightning, laughing at the slow Hausfrau, but the fact is one does have to watch one's feet on the streets in Paris, as there is much merde to dodge.


In fact, DH reckons he could still smell Paris on our return journey to Zürich, even under the chèvre and camembert which we were pasting onto baguette as the train carved its way through the Swiss countryside. I'm not so sure, and one doesn't like to leave Paris thinking about merde. It just leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

(Ha. No more bad jokes, I promise.)