The time zone difference between Paris and California is a little more difficult than I expected it would be. A 10am meeting in California (nearly unheard of!) is a 6pm (18:00) meeting in Paris (nearly unheard of!). When Europe hits daylight savings time this weekend, that’ll become even more exaggerated, so that 10am PST becomes 7pm CEST (19:00).
Two nights ago, I had trouble getting to sleep because of my first case of real and actual jet lag. I was laying in bed, listening to the neighbors play Madonna through the walls, and suddenly I felt a little bit feverish. I had been tired only 10 minutes earlier, and now I couldn’t even quietly lie down. My stomach felt heavy, like my dinner was just sitting in my stomach. Crazy thoughts started to go through my head, and somehow I kept coming back to the idea of how much fun it would be to work as a barback. I thought that I was delirious with food poisoning.
Perhaps it was the four cups of coffee that morning. Maybe all the wine, bread, and cheese. Hard to say.
The next morning, I decided that I would try to shift my schedule to be more in line with California. I doubt it really helped, but I took advantage of the expected late day to head to Musee d’Orsay in the morning.
The museum opened at 9:30. I got to work around that time, then walked to the museum, starting down the street from the big church past the other big church, where Napoleon had himself painted into the fresco behind the cross, down to the obelisk that was a “gift” from Egypt, and over the bridge to the Left Bank towards the Museum of the Legion of Honor, and then next door.
At 9:50 or so, I got into line, and it was already 7 or 8 lines deep.
The woman in front of me said, in English, “It says in the guide book they stop selling tickets at 17:45. I hope they don’t run out soon!”
Idiot.
Her son, a 14 or 15 year old boy, continually held up the line as tries to finish up a game on his gold Dolce & Gabbana cell phone. It seemed excessive to me, but then I noticed the Diesel shoes. I suppose that brand has really gone down in quality and exclusivity lately, so I’m still unimpressed. The jeans, though. G-Star Raw. I thought that was mostly a gay/hipster SF thing, but maybe I was wrong. That’s when I noticed the gold tinted Versace glasses. His mother may have been an idiot — can’t subtract 12 from 17!! — but she at least seemed like she could be nice. This kid though.
I did not like this kid. I considered heading back to work.
But, I was on vacation. For the moment. I took a deep breath and waited my turn in line, carefully staying behind, but not too close to, the spoiled Americans. Eventually I made it into the museum.
And, it was pretty great. The museum is a converted train station, so it’s kept some of the architectural elements that identify it as one. The ceiling is arched, and the central entryway is filled with classical sculptures, some of classical Gods and figures, Napoleon, and nudes. Musee d’Orsay picks up where the Louvre ends, in the early 1800s to the early 1900s, and it has some of the most famous impressionist pieces in the world. Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Sisly, Pissarro, Cezanne, Toulouse-Latrec, Degas, Boudin, Rodin, and many others. It’s shocking to turn a corner in a gallery and see Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the Rhone ahead. Head downstairs and see Manet’s Olympia. They look better in person, where the texture of the paint and scale of the painting add something that you can’t capture in a print. Dare I say, aura?
After that, it’s back to work. I stop outside and order a “Caesar Tortilla,” then head across the bridge to the Right Bank and through the park next to the palace by the fountain up past the church towards the other church.
I slept well the next night.