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March 2, 2005
Unicorns, Burgundy and the Code of Hammurabi
Even though the elevator made a lot of noise last night, I still managed to get a decent night's sleep. That didn't stop me from changing rooms the next morning. My second room at the hotel wasn't as nice as the first one, and the bathroom could have used a refurbishing, but there was no sign of the creaks, whizzes and hums of the elevator that had driven me batty.
My plan for the day was to do an east-west circuit along the left bank of the Seine, stopping at various museums and churches along the way. I didn't want to spend an enormous amount of time outside today; it seemed like it was getting colder. So the more time I could spend inside buildings, the better.
Leaving the hotel just after 9:30am, my first stop was the Musee de la Moyen Age, also known as the Cluny Museum. Occupying one of the best preserved 15th century mansions in Paris, as well as an 1800-year-old Roman cooling house, the museum was one of the best places in Europe to explore medieval history. I'd been to the museum once before but I'd always wanted to go back, and since it was located less than a five-minute walk from my hotel, it was an ideal place to start the day.
Inside the museum, I spent a couple of hours exploring its many exhibits. It had several rooms dedicated to 12th century stained glass, in which the glass was mounted on black walls with continuous light behind them, allowing you to inspect the details of the glass up-close. In one of the largest rooms of the mansion were the remains of the original statues that once adorned the front of Notre Dame. Most of them were severely damaged during the French Revolution, so they now reside inside the museum while copies occupy their places at the cathedral. Another room had a marvelous collection of gold work, some of which dated back to the time of the Visigoths.
But my favorite exhibit at the museum was by far The Lady and The Unicorn, the world-famous collection of late 15th-century tapestries featuring exquisite pictures of a young woman with a unicorn. Woven for the Le Viste family more than 500 years ago, they were largely forgotten until the author George Sand began writing about the at the turn of the last century. The tapestries are located in a special room designed to preserve them. Along with strict temperature and humidity controls, the room uses fiber optic light and specially focused lenses to illuminate the tapestries with the least amount of damage.
There are six tapestries in the collection, five of them representing the senses. In the first tapestry, Taste, the woman is seen with a lion on the left and a unicorn on the right. Throughout the tapestry are an assortment of other animals, including rabbits and dogs. The lady is tasting some kind of sweet; in the meantime, a monkey has grabbed a sweet as well and is about to eat it. The second tapestry, Hearing, features the unicorn, lion and most of the other animals; the woman is playing a small pipe organ sitting atop a table covered in a Turkish carpet. The third image, Sight, is perhaps the most touching. The unicorn has its front legs resting in the lady's lap, while the lady shows the unicorn its reflection in the mirror; meanwhile, the lions sits to the left, looking forward with a happy expression on its face. The fourth tapestry, Smell, shows the lady weaving a string of flowers. The curious monkey plays a lead role in this tapestry as well, as it can be seen sniffing a rose it's stolen from the flower basket. The fifth tapestry, touch, shows the lady holding a standard in her right hand, while her left hand gently grasps the horn of the unicorn, somewhat erotically.
The last tapestry in the collection is titled "A Mon Seul Desire," which translates as "To My Sole Desire." The tapestry features the entire cast of characters from the five previous images, including the lion, unicorn, the lady and her maidservant, the monkey and a host of playful rabbits. The lady is now standing inside a large tent, and she is removing a jewel-encrusted necklace, placing it in a box. (Until I looked at the tapestry, I hadn't realized that she had been wearing the necklace in all the others.) It's the biggest of the six tapestries, which makes sense since the weaver had to cram an ark's worth of animals into it.
I stayed in the room for a very long time, coming up with creative ways to take long exposures with my camera since I couldn't use a flash. There were several benches in the middle of the room, all with a flat surface, so it made it a lot easier to take exposures lasting as long as four or five seconds without blurring the image. The bigger challenge was taking pictures of the tapestries without getting any people in the way, though in some cases the blurry image of a person in the foreground with the tapestry in the background made for an interesting picture.
Just before noon I left the museum; I then walked west of Boulevard St. Germain, passing countless cafes and numerous boutiques. Several blocks into my walk I spotted the first Starbucks I'd seen in Paris. I stopped inside long enough to by a bottle of water, during which time I got to watch the staff argue with an elderly homeless woman smoking a cigar, demanding that she receive a free espresso. Eventually, she got the espresso, whereas I had to pay the requested 2.50 euros for my drink of choice.
A few blocks later, I arrived at St. Germain de Pres. Built in the 11th century on the remains of a 6th century abbey, the Romanesque church was the primary cathedral in Paris until Notre Dame was built. The church is named for Saint Germanus, the first Bishop of Paris, who was buried here. The church also served as the burying place for the Merovingian kings nearly 1500 years ago, but sadly their tombs were destroyed during the Revolution.
Inside, St. Germain de Pres was darker and more intimate than Notre Dame; still quite beautiful but more functional in design. In some ways, the church felt bigger than Notre Dame, but it was just an illusion caused by the sheer lack of tourists dominating its halls. There were perhaps another dozen tourists inside, none in groups larger than two people. Meanwhile, a small group of parishioners were seated in front of the altar, waiting for mid-day mass to commence. I sat in the back row for about 15 minutes, watching the priest and deacons make their way down the aisle and begin the service. It was very serene, particularly when thinking back to the chaos of Notre Dame.
When I had entered the church, I'd been listening to the Chemical Brothers on my iPod, which struck me as thoroughly inappropriate. But rather than shut off the iPod entirely, I switched to Arvo Part's Te Deum, a haunting work of choral and strings, written for the Latin prayer of the same name. As explored the church, Te Deum brought it to life, adding a whole new dimension to the experience that I can scarcely describe.
Leaving the church, I continued down St. Germain, past Café Deux Magots, one of the most famous fin-de-siecle cafes in all of Paris. I then veered northwest towards the Seine, hoping to arrive at the river near Musee D'Orsay. The museum, formerly a grand train station, was later converted into once of the best art museums in Europe. I was very excited about visiting it, since I hadn't been in many years, so you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered the museum was closed. It was Monday, and many Parisians museums are closed that day of the week, but I could have sworn that my guidebook had said otherwise about Musee D'Orsay.
There was no point getting upset about it, though I was mildly irritated that I had walked so far for no good reason. So I decided to salvage the situation by walking a few blocks east on the Seine and crossing to the right bank, for one of the greatest museums in the world was only 15 minutes away.
Now I know I wrote earlier this week that I would try to avoid the Louvre; its overwhelming collection and incomparable crowds can easily make a visit to the Louvre a very frustrating experience. On top of that, I'd been at least twice before, so it seemed prudent to invest my exploratory energy on other Parisian locales. But here I was, the Musee D'Orsay metaphorically flashing a giant "Non!" at me: nothing that a few hours that a visit to the largest palace museum in the world couldn't fix.
For a moment I began to regret my decision as I entered I.M Pei's glass pyramid to the museum's central underground courtyard. Literally thousands of people could be seen in every direction: Japanese tour groups, busloads of French students, aggravated American parents dragging along their sobbing children, an assortment of random characters on a Da Vinci Code wild goose chase. I even contemplated leaving and finding a café somewhere, but the thought of descending into the Louvre and walking away from it with nary an art-filled glance struck me as a little silly. So I plopped down my eight euros like everyone else and got my ticket for an afternoon of art and world history.
Of course, you can't just show up to the Louvre without a plan; its thousands of pieces were scattered in four enormous wings across an equal number of floors, throughout one of the largest palaces in Europe. Unless you had an inkling of a plan, chances are you'd wander aimlessly for hours, wondering whether the Mona Lisa was on tour in the US or if the Code of Hammurabi had been mistaken for a Da Vinci Code relic and put away for safe keeping. So rather than heading directly into one of the galleries, I grabbed a soda and a sandwich, sitting down with my guidebook and museum map to plot out Andy's Ideal Louvre Tour.
My primary goal, I decided, was to focus on the ancient near east, which would take me through their Assyrian collection and the Code of Hammurabi. Rather than go directly, though, I'd start in the ancient Greek collection, and perhaps make a mad dash to the Mona Lisa and back. From there, I'd reach the near east collection, then cut through the French sculpture gallery to explore Emperor Napoleon III's apartments, wrapping up my visit on the top floor in the Rubens collection. If all went well, I'd manage to explore about four millennia of exhibits in less than a hour per millennium. Seemed like a good plan to me.
Finishing my sandwich, I pulled out my ticket and entered the Denon Wing, to the south. On the bottom floor, I soon found the ancient Greek collection, an amazing exhibit of pre-classical pottery and figurines. My favorite piece there was the so-called Cycladic Idol, a eyeless, mouthless bust with a long, thin forehead and prominent nose. Not unlike a Modigliani piece or perhaps a Brancusi study, the idol reminded me of what Picasso said when he visited pre-historic cave paintings in southern France: "We have created nothing."
Upstairs on the next floor, I passed briefly through the Etruscan and Roman collections, staying long enough to marvel at a sarcophagus for two, featuring a life-size sculpture of a husband a wife, reclining arm-in-arm on top of it. Going up yet another floor, I arrived at the legendary Winged Victory of Samothrace, one of the most confident looking statues of the ancient world, even though it's missing its arms and head. A group of Italian teenagers were sitting on the steps across from the statue, flirting and smooching with each other like they were chilling on the Spanish Steps in Rome.
To the next floor, I found myself in the grand gallery of Italian art. Stretching the full length of the Denon Wing going west, the gallery is truly one of the great rooms of any museum in the world. The walls are simply packed with thousands of paintings, almost to the point that it's hard to appreciate any of them individually. Whenever I think of feeling overwhelmed at the Louvre, this is the room that comes to mind. Hundreds and hundreds of visitors occupied each gallery along the hall, some banging into to each other while listening to their audio guides, others following their tour guide dutifully like a flock to its shepard. I made a game of weaving through the crowds, trying to avoid making contact with anyone as I worked my way west.
At the far end of the gallery, a large crowd had gathered in a room pointing northward. It could have only meant one thing: I'd reached the Mona Lisa. Frankly, the best reason to visit the Mona Lisa is to people watch: invariably there is always a group of at least 100 people crowded around the Da Vinci painting, encased in bullet-proof glass. People shove and prod for the best angle, holding up their cameras to capture the moment as best as possible. And amidst the chaos, the most famous image in the world smiles back -- smiling ironically at the absurdity of the crowds jockeying for her attention and approval.
Now that I'd gotten that out of the way, I could concentrate on the Near Eastern collection. I backtracked through the grand gallery and exited the Denon Wing, pausing for a brief bathroom break before heading east into the Sully Wing. I spent the next hour or so slowly working through each room of the Near East collection, marveling at the diversity and enormity of the artifacts pillaged or purchased from that part of the world. In the Iranian antiquities collection, I had flashbacks to the Pergamon Museum in Berlin as I explored the giant blue bas reliefs of lions and other animals. A few rooms down, I found the Apadana Capital, the massive top of a column that once graced a hypostyle hall in an ancient Persian palace. Even though the column itself was gone, the capital was still probably 30 feet tall. At is base were four pairs of marble cylinders, then more column, then another four pairs of cylinders. Above them, two enormous statues of rams supported a giant wood beam, like a pair of Atlases holding up the world. The sheer size of the capital made it hard to fathom what it must have been like to have seen dozens of them atop giant columns. It truly must have been one of the wonders of the ancient world.
Further west, I arrived at the Mesopotamia and Anatolia collections, featuring stonework from ancient Iraq and Turkey. In perhaps the grandest room of the collection were the massive sphinx-like guardians from the palace of Assyrian king Sargon II. Each guardian, which must have been 20 feet high and 20 feet long, was a mythic creature with the body of a bull, a lion's tail, Pegasus-like wings, and the head of a bearded man with curly locks cascading down to its shoulders. The room featuring the guardians was a two-story arcade, giving the space a palatial feel; in one section, the guardians were paired next to each other and you could walk between them like you were entering the palace.
In the last room of the gallery I found the famed Code of Hammurabi. A black basalt stone carved like an elongated finger, the pillar was taller than a person, with a bas relief of King Hammurabi supplicating to the Gods at the top, and thousands of words in cuneiform text occupying the rest of the pillar. While Hammurabi's Code wasn't the first set of laws in history -- there are at least three Sumerian codes that are known to be older -- they were certainly the most comprehensive. The pillar is a laundry list of pronouncements by the king, hundreds of them, on a variety of legal subjects, ranging from the criminal to the administrative. The Old Testament's notions of an eye for an eye perhaps originated from the Code of Hammurabi, which spells out laws such as, "If you are a mason and the house you built falls down and kills the owner's son, the mason's son shall be killed." The code also outlines a woman's right to divorce; if she brings forth a proper claim saying she's unsatisfied with her husband or he has been cruel to her, she can return to her father's house and take her dowry with her. But if turns out she was "a flirt" and caused problems for the husband, she would be "thrown in the river" as punishment (though it doesn't make it clear whether this was a death sentence or merely a form of watery humiliation).
Beyond the Hammurabi gallery, I found a shortcut to the Richelieu Wing and the Cour Puget, an enormous glass-enclosed courtyard, with more than two stories of open space. The brightest, airiest, least claustrophobic room of the entire palace, the courtyard is home to a fine collection of neoclassical French sculptures from the 18th and 19th centuries. Many of the statues in the courtyard appeared to have formerly graced the palaces of various French kings, and they truly captured the over-the-top opulence of that by-gone era. At various points in the courtyard, art students sat beneath the statues, sketching them in their notebooks. A pair of women in their 40s sketched with pencil and graphite, while across the courtyard, several young art students captured the sculptures with pen and ink.
On the far side of the courtyard, I found a series of long escalators leading to the upper floors, where I would find the royal apartments and the Rubens collection. Unfortunately, one of the escalators was being repaired, so a group of us had to walk up the steps. It was only one flight of stairs, but since one floor of the Louvre represents probably two floors of a modern office building, it was a rather steep climb. It didn't help that there were giant bay windows to the south which were letting in huge quantities of sunlight, half-blinding you in the process.
On the next floor, I reached the entrance to Napoleon III's royal apartments. This mid-19th century addition to the palace is one of the few parts of the Louvre that captures the Versailles-like richness of imperial life. The apartments were all fully appointed with Second Empire furniture and artwork, reminiscent of some of the grand mansions of Newport, but with even more opulence. The rooms were not well lit to protect the carpets, wallpaper and artwork, but the light from the windows refracted off the giant chandeliers, adding a subtle discotheque atmosphere to what was otherwise very formal and conservative. Surely the emperor's uncle and namesake would have enjoyed himself here.
I, on the other hand, didn't linger for long in the apartments, as they were somewhat musty. I'd noticed several American sneezing on their way out of the apartments, and by the time I'd reached the last room, I was doing the same. Since the apartments were at the far end of the Richelieu wing, you couldn't just exit at the end; instead you backtracked through the apartments, exiting by the escalators. By the time I reached the end of my imperial visit, my eyes were watering from the dust and mold. I don't think I've ever welcomed the open space of a giant escalator so fondly.
The final gallery of my visit to the Louvre was the Rubens Hall, an immense room featuring some of the largest work ever produced by the Dutch master. The paintings were commissioned by the de Medicis, and they all told a sequential narrative -- a narrative I'd have to read about later, since there was no documentation in the room apart from the titles of each painting, and neither of the two tour guides working the room spoke English. (German and Japanese, in case you're wondering.) Nonetheless, my lack of comprehension of the story's details didn't stop me from marveling at the sheer genius of his work.
I departed the Louvre late in the afternoon, walking back to the Latin Quarter by way of Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris. The bridge is under renovation at the moment, so the sounds of jackhammers and other equipment discouraged me from lingering too long. Besides, I only had a short amount of time to catch up on email and get ready for my evening with Gregoire Japiot of the Omidyar Network, who'd invited me to dinner with his sister at her apartment near the Eiffel Tower.
Back at the hotel, I grabbed my laptop and went to the local McDonalds for about an hour, going through my email and chatting with Susanne over the Internet. I'd just introduced Susanne to Skype IP-telephony software, which allows you to make phone calls over the Internet. When you use Skype to connect to another computer rather than a telephone, the call is free, and usually the connection is excellent. So despite the typical chaos of a busy McDonalds on a Monday afternoon, I managed to chat with Susanne for about 40 minutes, using my headset microphone to avoid the distractions around me.
Just after 6pm, I changed clothes at the hotel and walked down Boulevard St. Michel to the local RER commuter train station, where I caught a train heading west along the left bank. The train was jammed with commuters, and several people got caught inside the train, unable to get out before the doors closed. Taking a cue from their error, I got out of my seat and waited by the exit so there would be no chance of me getting stuck on the train. When we reached the Eiffel Tower stop, I exited and went up to ground level. I was actually surprised how far I had to walk to reach the tower, but it provided me with a nice stroll along the Seine, watching the Eiffel Tower getting bigger and bigger as I approached.
I arrived at the tower at 6:45pm, 15 minutes prior to my rendezvous with Gregoire. It was getting bitterly cold outside, making me regret not bringing a sweater as an added layer of protection. I stood directly under the tower, watching the passenger cars moving up and down each of its long iron legs. Precisely at 7pm, suddenly the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle with thousands of strobe lights flickering on and off. I remembered that the tower did something similar in the minutes and hours past midnight on New Years 2000, which Susanne and I had spent here in Paris. I didn't realize that they were continuing the tradition.
A few moments later, I saw a young brunette man approaching me with a large smile on his face. I'd never actually met Gregoire in person, but we recognized each other immediately. He and I walked south along the Champs de Mars, pausing every few minutes so I could turn around and snap yet another photo of the still-flickering Tour Eiffel. We walked through a new peace monument at the end of the mall; the metal and glass structure had video screens set up along its inner passageway, some of which gave access to a website with messages of peace from people all over the world. I clicked the screen to go to the page that would let me add my own message, but then we realized that there was no keyboard for us to type. I half expected to see instructions on how to send an SMS text message, but no dice.
We took a left at the end of the mall, heading a couple of blocks to his sister's neighborhood, first to his car and then to the apartment. She gave me a warm hello when I entered the flat; she'd spent time living in the US so she had a great command of English. We spent the next four hours going through a culinary tour of their home town, Dijon, and Burgundy province in general. Gregoire has worked on and off in the winemaking industry, so I couldn't have met a better host for the experience. We started with an aperitif of Chablis, served with slices of a spicy dried sausage and salted cashews. For the main course, we switched to a classic Dijon meal of charcuterie and cheese. The meat was seasoned with parsley, chilled and sliced, reminiscent of a moist pastrami without the intense spices. There were four different cheeses, including a raw, soft cheese made by Burgundian monks; a stronger bleu cheese, a mild, semi-soft cheese and a flavorful chevre. On the side we also had a variety of fresh breads and a local salad reminiscent of watercress with a dash of balsamic vinegar.
Gregoire selected two red Burgundies for the main course, both pinot noirs. The first bottle, a Nuits St-George, was young and fresh, a very nice complement to the two mildest cheeses. I thought I was in heaven until I tasted the second pinot noir, which was several years older; I've never had a wine like it. It was rich, complex, a hint of smokiness, but still velvety smooth, and paired with the stronger cheeses it was pure perfection. As I told them that night, I'd never full appreciated the concept of pairing certain wines with certain foods; I'd grasped the basics but rarely ever paid attention to them. But tasting that second pinot noir with the pungent cheeses, it was a sensory paradise. I'll have to email him and get the exact name of the wine to see if I can track it down anywhere.
It was a wonderful, relaxing evening. Gregoire and I didn't really know each other very well; in many ways, we were just online professional acquaintances. But he and his sister welcomed me into their home like old friends, eating and drinking, chatting about politics, religion, family, world affairs, and of course, food and wine. Before I knew it, it was past 11pm; I still needed to pack in preparation for my 7:30am departure the next morning. On top of all his generosity that evening, Gregoire was kind enough to offer me a drive back to the hotel. We took his car across the Seine to the Right Bank, following the one-way road along the quay until crossing back to the Left Bank. I managed to get back to the hotel just after 11:30, giving me enough time to pack and get a good night's sleep. -ac
Posted by acarvin at March 2, 2005 1:04 AM
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