Paris, Troisième Visite

Our first stop on our last tourism visit to Paris was the Musee d’Orsee. This museum has an impressive collection of Impressionist masterpieces, and an enormous collection of sculptures.



I was amazed at how close we could get to some of the most famous paintings in the world, and that we were allowed to photograph them, which we were forbidden to do in most parts of the Louvre.

This particular museum seems obsessed with clocks. There are few places where you cannot see at least one enormous clock. The one shown below is in the museum café. It's almost as though the museum designers want to emphasize the passage of time for the visitors, while attempting to stop it completely for the artifacts contained within the walls.



I was completely charmed by this Monet painting of a lemon, which is approximately life size. I wondered what compelled him to invest the time to paint this image. Also, who is the person at the museum responsible for the selection of frames? The one on this lemon picture is far too ornate and bulky for such a tiny, simple image. It’s almost as though the curator wanted to emphasize the importance of the artist, ignoring the fact that it’s a goddamn picture of a lemon.



Here I am standing in front of one of Monet’s famous haystack paintings. He did a whole series of these, and they’re quite lovely. I was suffering from a nagging, phlegmatic cough the entire time, so I’m afraid I left a fine spray of bronchial mucus on some of the great Impressionist works of the early 20th century. Some poor conservator will have to clean it off someday.



My daughter reached art saturation fairly quickly, and found a place to sit where she could read a book, surrounded by beauty she was unable to appreciate. Note the large clock on the far end of the sculpture hall.



After the museum, we went out for coffee. In Paris, you can order coffee in many forms. We had café noisette, café Viennois, and cappuccino.



Later, we strolled through the city, and I pointed out a Boucherie Chevaline (a butcher specializing in horsemeat) to my daughter, who was totally grossed out. We visited a Fromagere, a shop selling nothing but cheeses. My daughter was in heaven, and bought a giant lump of Mimolette to bring home.



Well, that about sums it up for this trip to France. I would like to thank the French people, who were unfailingly gracious hosts. In particular, I would like to thank the proprietor of Les Princes café, which was located near the parking garage. We used the bathroom there every day on arrival and every evening on departure from the city. Merci, mon ami. I would also like to thank the mayor of the city of Paris for installing the cool space toilets in high-tourism areas. These little pods would open at the press of a button, enabling you to do your business, then they would clean and sanitize themselves before admitting another desperate tourist. Formidable!

Contraband in the Presidential Palace

Whenever my wife and I travel, we buy a coffee mug to add to our collection, which brings back memories of our travels. For some reason on this trip we couldn’t seem to find just the right mug, no matter where we looked.

One afternoon, Norberto took us to Café Tortoni, a beautiful old restaurant that has become something of a tourist destination. In its heyday, it was a gathering place for artists and intellectuals, who are commemorated by bronze busts and paintings. It’s all Tiffany glass and dark wood paneling, bustling with activity, the waiters scurrying between tables.

Eventually, the waiter slid up to the table and took our drink orders. I ordered coffee, but everyone else ordered soft drinks or bottled water. He was a bit long returning, and Norberto began a slow burn. The waiter seemed stressed and distracted, and messed up the lunch orders not once, but three times. This is the kind of thing that Norberto’s family fears, because if there’s one thing Norberto expects, it’s good service. And Norberto isn’t shy about expressing his displeasure.

It wasn’t long before Norberto was chewing the waiter out in Spanish, up one side and down the other, demanding to see the manager. While this was going on, I finished my coffee and noticed that the cup was very nice, emblazoned with the charming Art Deco Café Tortoni logo, which clearly stated “Buenos Aires, Argentina.” So I casually slipped it under my hat, which was resting on the table, and walked out with it after Norberto paid the bill and stiffed the waiter.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten our next destination. We walked down the street, across the Plaza de Mayo and into the Visitor’s Center in the Casa Rosada, (literally, the “Pink House”) which is the seat of the Argentine government. It’s where the President of the country has his office, although it’s not his official residence, unlike the White House. Norberto had arranged a tour for us, and there I was, clutching a stolen coffee cup, clearly marked with the name of its owner. Worse, the entire building was surrounded by riot police setting up high steel barricades in anticipation of a political demonstration. I could feel their eyes on me as they buckled on their bulletproof body armor.


We were herded to the main entrance, guarded by two stone-faced soldiers with sharp-looking swords. We had to pass through a metal detector, so I was grateful I hadn’t stolen any cutlery.


The building, unfortunately, had seen better days. Paint was peeling and parts of the façade were crumbling. But we were soon informed that the building was undergoing a major renovation both inside and out in anticipation of the bicentennial, occurring in four years. I would have loved to take some photos, but it was forbidden.

The entire inside of the building is built with liberal use of Italian marble and French bronze chandeliers. It’s similar to many 18th century European palaces, very ornate and heavily gilded. We were followed around the entire time by Secret Service guys wearing little earpieces.

When we exited, we passed by the Ministry of the Economy, which is still pockmarked by bullet holes from the military coup that unseated Juan Peron in 1955.


As we returned to the front of the building, the demonstration was in full force, and we walked up towards the barricades to see what it was all about. It turned out to be a fairly minor event, with some students, some drums and a few signs. But the police don’t take any chances in this country, where presidents are tossed out with alarming frequency. I must say I felt better when we got past the guards and the barricades and I had that coffee cup hidden safely in my luggage.

The Squeegee People

The neighborhood where we stayed in Buenos Aires consists primarily of apartment buildings, most 7 – 10 stories tall. However, one block away was Avenida Santa Fe, which is a bustling shopping district, similar to Fifth Avenue in New York. The streets are fairly narrow, although Buenos Aires boasts the widest avenue in the world, Avenida Nueve de Julio. You could land a 747 on the median.

The narrow streets form a canyon effect, so street noise is a bit of a problem, but you get used to it very quickly. Once you’re off the main avenue, the streets are fairly quiet, with occasional restaurants, taverns, bakeries, and my personal favorite, the “Locutorio.” A Locutorio is a little store where you can buy candy, cigarettes and soft drinks. They also have a few phone booths where you can make an international phone call for reasonable rates, and a few computer terminals where you can check your e-mail, write a letter or do your homework for about 15 cents a minute. But the keyboards are Spanish. They need room for the upside-down question mark, the upside-down exclamation point, the N with the little wiggly line over it, and more. So they left off the “at” sign (@). This means that anybody in any Spanish-speaking country who sends you an e-mail had to press ALT-64 to insert the “at” sign in your address, so give them credit for perseverance.

Every morning, I’d wake up at my usual time while my wife and daughter slept. I’d go out to the street and walk less than a block to the nearest panaderia (bakery), which was called the “Cafeteria Sudamerica” for coffee and fresh pastries. They have a few tables in there for the customers who like to sip their coffee and browse the newspaper before heading off to work. The first time I went in there, I stumbled through the order, because I didn’t know how to say “to go” in Spanish (“para llevar”). The owner was very patient with me, and we eventually came to an understanding. I ordered 3 Cafés con Leche, and a half-dozen fresh rolls, usually “medialunas,” which are the Argentine equivalent of croissants, but more chewy and honey-glazed. From that first day forward, whenever I entered the Café Sudamerica, the owner instantly sprang forward to begin preparing my order without my having to say a word.

When my order was complete, the owner put the three coffees in a plastic bag so I could carry them back to the apartment. The coffees tipped and dripped in the bag, so it was a bit of a challenge. Nowhere in Argentina did I see anyone carrying beverages in one of those fold-out cardboard carriers. I also never saw a soft drink fountain anywhere, not even in the soccer stadium. When you order a soft drink in Argentina, you get a bottle, or the drink is poured into a cup for you from a bottle. If you use this information to make a fortune, please remember where you found out about it.

We’d sip the delicious South American coffee and munch on the pastries while my wife and daughter slowly regained consciousness. It was the nicest part of the day, in my opinion.



As I strolled around the neighborhood, I noticed that the city sidewalks are different than those they have in the U.S. They’re composed of paving blocks, not concrete. This is because the water, sewer and electrical lines run under the sidewalk, not the street. To avoid noisy jackhammer operations, paving blocks are used to ensure that the noise of repairs are kept to a minimum in those residential neighborhoods. This sounds like a very civilized solution, but of course, it’s got a major problem.

Bright and early every morning, all over Buenos Aires, business owners and building managers come out to the sidewalk carrying a hose and a long-handled squeegee. They then hose off the sidewalk in front of their establishment or residence, and squeegee the water into the gutter. This fastidious behavior, while praiseworthy, seems unnecessary, because the sidewalks simply don’t get that dirty in 24 hours. Yet somehow, some enterprising squeegee salesman has convinced an entire city of 8 million people that they NEED this gizmo. The problem is that every day, those sidewalks are doused in water, which seeps between the paving blocks, and erodes the earth supporting them from beneath. The sidewalks look beautiful when they’re first completed, but over a little bit of time, some of the paving blocks start to rock unexpectedly when you step on them, threatening to pitch you into the gutter. As more time passes, the blocks sink or break until the sidewalk resembles a military obstacle course, and every day, some moron squeegees it off.

This concept of unnecessary cleanliness appeared all over Argentina, in very unlikely places. When we were visiting the city center, we saw a guy up on a ladder washing the traffic lights. In the central train station, I saw the owner of a newsstand dusting his magazines with a feather duster. Dude, if you have to dust off your magazines, maybe dirt is not your biggest problem.