The title is a joke…from a comedian…so a real joke. Because I’m out of good ideas.

It’s been a couple of days, and they’ve all blended together in some weird continuous “art museum-good food-good sleep-peaceful wandering” dream.

Last I left off I was sitting in the expensive, but not fancy, juice bar. It reminds me of shopping at Easy Way with my grandmother–the smell of produce sitting in boxes in a small space. I was there for five hours, no lie. With my giant backpack. But they didn’t care.

Finally got into my apartment at 16:00. How dreamy! Airbnb came through on this one. I thought I was done with them for good, but this place is seriously great.

I dropped my stuff off, laid down for a bit, then back out to wander the neighborhood.

It’s really cute. I was worried it would be too touristy, but it’s all very nice. I stop in at a cafe close to my room for dinner. The special is duck confit. And it is special indeed. So good I can hardly stand it.

A nice couple is sitting next to me. They stare at me a bit when I sit down, probably because we are packed onto this patio like sardines. I put in my headphones, find some good music and chill some more.

I finish my dinner, and the couple next to me orders dessert. They finally ask me, “Did you like it?” They got the duck too.

“Oh my gosh, yes, so wonderful.”

“Yeah it was really good, we liked it too….where are you from?”

“Memphis, Tennessee. USA. Where are you guys from?”

“Ontario….Canada.”

“Oh, nice!”

We talk for a while. She is here for a conference. She only had to speak for fifteen minutes, so now they’re here for the week on vacation. They ask how long I’m in town, so I tell them about my trip.

“Oh wow! Good for you! That’s….very brave. Have you felt safe the whole time?”

“Yeah, knock on wood, no problems so far!”

“Wow, that’s just… very brave.”

Listen, don’t freak me out, lady. I’ve been feeling good about this. They are going to Portugal in August, his family is from Portugal and his mother wants to go back one more time. Oh, that’s great! The waiter comes back and asks me if I’ve decided on dessert. We stop talking.

They finish dessert and she gets up to go to the restroom. He finally says, “Did you see what happened in Texas?”

“Yes. Yes I did. It’s horrible. Just…unimaginably horrible.”

“Yes it is. The only English-speaking channel we get in the room is CNN, so that’s really all that’s been on.”

We talk a bit more. They finish dessert, wish me well on my travels, and leave. It’s nice to have those small connections with people. Randomly.

I wake up the next day with no plans. I get online. All of the obvious things are booked for the day–the Louvre, the Musee d’Orsay, etc. So I decide on the Picasso Museum. An hour walk from my apartment.

I get some fancy juice and head out. I could take the metro, or a bus, or an Uber, or anything. But I’d rather see the city.

Across the river and past the Louvre. I’m so allergic to the trees. Just like in Rome. They’re sycamore trees, and I immediately start sneezing and sometimes my arms and legs feel itchy. It’s very strange, but always around the stupid sycamore trees.

Some soccer thing in a square. Apparently a big match between Madrid and Liverpool. I stop in and check it out. It makes me miss soccer so much. I’m definitely finding a recreational team when I get back to Memphis. I’ve been saying it for years, but I really want to.

Walk a bit more and look down the street–Oh, just the Pompidou Center. My god, I cannot get over this place. I will have to come back to you, my friend.

Walk through more of the city and then down a quiet street, turn the corner and the Picasso Museum. It’s small, not many people here. I walk up through the galleries. Some of his sketches, other pieces of his work. I love all of the chandeliers. And an exhibit about his daughter from an affair, and the paintings she inspired. It’s really beautiful to see. And interesting to hear about her relationship with her dad. She loved him and was with him often, watching him paint, in his studio. And then she grew up. And when she married, they never saw each other again. How strange. And sad. And how selfish to not let your children grow into adults. Somehow feels….relatable. Anyway.

Yes, I bought a book there. It was good, ok.

A cafe for lunch, some window shopping, a fancy skincare store (because the water here has completely dried out my skin and hair), then back across town for a chill evening.

The next day I wake up and head down to my new favorite expensive juice spot. This particular morning I get some kind of coffee smoothie with protein. I don’t know. It was…not cold. Which was a little weird. But it was tasty.

And then off to the Musee d’Orsay. This is another place I can’t actually believe I’m about to walk into. But again, it’s starting to just seem like a regular day. Like, this is what I do now. Wake up, eat good things, and go look at masterpieces. Just like I wanted to do.

I walk through the main hall of sculptures and up to the sixth floor. The Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. Manet is here. And Van Gogh. I can hardly stand it.

I remember learning about Manet in my Humanities class and weirdly being in love with Le Dejeuner sur l’herbe. I don’t really know why. I really did love it. It was a bit strange, the men being fully-clothed, the one woman not, the way she looks at the viewer, while the men seem immersed in the their conversation, weird perspective, the depth of the woman in the background and her relationship to those in the foreground, the haziness of the background, just a general wondering what is happening, is the background a dream? And then that it was the piece that started the Impressionist Movement.

And then seeing it. So strange to be standing right in front of it. Like Manet once did. Like everyone at the Salon once did. And again, almost like we’ve known each other and are meeting in person for the first time. I constantly have to talk myself out of crying like a complete crazy person.

There are so many people on this level of the museum. SO many. It’s loud, people are standing around in front of the paintings talking. So I put my airpods in and turn on the noise cancellation. I don’t know why, but I picked Philip Glass. Debussy would have probably made more sense, given what I was looking at, but I went with Philip. It’s weird and repetitive and I like it.

I make my way through the Monets, the Haystacks, Degas and the ballerinas, Cezanne and the Card Players (another one I’ve always loved for some reason), Caillebote. Insane that I’m just walking through my art history texts right now. I spend a significant amount of time on this floor (with about 65% of the rest of the museum-goers), then downstairs.

The Modern Style and Art Nouveau. Love this too. The proportions. And all of the organic detailing. I have always loved Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Maybe someday I’ll get to Glasgow.

I see this painting. A woman in lavendar, with a big beautiful dog, and purple across the canvas, in the detailing of the shadows. Today is my mom’s birthday. And her favorite color was purple. I don’t know that she would really enjoy this place, but I feel like she would like this painting. Maybe. I miss her. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Down through all of the galleries. Several Rodin sculptures, some Fauvist pieces (also love those ALOT). There is a Gaudi exhibit here. His drawings and some pieces from a few of his buildings. I’ve also loved Gaudi since high school. In my second year of Spanish I did a project on him and made a display board with part of the facade of the Casa Battlo made from clay. I was pretty proud of that one…

He made some of the most beautiful stained glass I have ever seen in my life. Layers of glass with different opacities to create depth.

I’m about to walk into the bookstore when I realize that it is very odd that I didn’t see any Van Gogh. My favorite. And I see his self-portrait on every banner for the museum…

When I was in third grade, new to Richland Elementary, and new to CLUE, we were to draw the room of a famous person. The drawing had to include pieces from the person’s life. I drew an easel, paint, a sack of potatoes, sunflowers, and the title at the bottom said something like “The Room of a Famous Artist.” It was Van Gogh. I still have it…I need to find it.

I check my map. The sixth floor? I thought I made it through the sixth floor all the way to the cafe…?

Ah, but they make you go through the cafe to get there. Interesting. Back through the sculptures, back up the stairs, back through Manet and Monet and Degas. Through the cafe.

A winding way past some restrooms, another exhibit of Gaugin. And then I see a ton of people gathered in front of a painting. Starry Night Over the Rhone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I wait through the people until it’s my turn to stand in front of it.

And then his bedroom. I remember when I moved out of my parents’ house I printed a small print of his bedroom to put up in my apartment. I’ve always loved that painting. And then his self-portrait.

The church, another self-portrait, Dr. Gachet.

Ok, I’m done forever. Just kidding, I’ve got to see him in Amsterdam too!

Ok, back down to the bookstore. The only thing saving me is that at least 90% of the books are in French. I get a book on Van Gogh’s trees.

I walk out of the museum and text my friend. He’s here too! Alone, on vacation, needed to get away. How perfect that we’re both here at the same time.

We’ve been friends since seventh grade. And in eighth grade Josh and I and several of our friends had every single class together. That pretty much sealed the deal on us being best friends. It’s still one of my favorite years. In tenth grade, when I was on crutches for six weeks from a soccer injury, he walked with me all the way across campus, from Chemistry to Computer Programming. We had to sit in the last row because of me. And our teacher thought it was funny to whisper things when he was teaching, and we could never hear him. Needless to say, our Frogger game we made did not work–the frog wouldn’t make it across the stupid street! And the student teacher couldn’t figure it out either. It was the only class in high school I got a B in. Josh and I still laugh about it. He lived down the street from me. After football games we would all be at my house, and on random rainy weekends, we’d hang out at Josh’s. We played Risk, I helped him paint his room, we would always love on his dog, Millie. He is one of the funniest people I’ve ever known, and he has the best laugh.

But we haven’t talked in a while. It’s always interesting to me to see how long it takes for the awkward to wear off and for us to pick back up to our high school selves. Fortunately not long.

I walk back down the river, he’s been at the Eiffel Tower, just generally wandering around.

I’m starving because I haven’t had anything since the weird protein drink thing.

We stop in at a cafe for drinks and some food. We catch up for about two hours. I tell him about my boarding a school bus in Italy. That gets a really good laugh. And then we decide we both need a nap (we’re old now). But before we go, we have to get a picture. With the Eiffel Tower. We step out into the street and both look down at our phones–if we go this way it should just be right over there…we both look up and it’s literally towering over us. Another big laugh. We’re dumb.

We walk over to the park and take a selfie. We try a few and they all look funny–the tower coming out of my head, etc. He says, “We could just ask someone to take it for us, but I don’t want someone to take my phone…” About that time three guys walk up and ask him to take their picture. He holds up their phone and I whisper to him “Oh my god…take his phone.” Again we can’t stop laughing. We turn around and take another picture.

I walk him back to the metro station and then back up to my room. I’ve eaten so late that I just have gelato for dinner. It was very. very. good.

It’s now Sunday. I get a late start. And I don’t really know what’s on the agenda for today. But I see a Modern Art museum right across the river that I decide I should check out.

This time I get juice AND an acai bowl. And it’s actually a really good acai bowl. The last one I had in Memphis tasted like Fresh Market smells. And I know you all know what I’m talking about. It was not good. But this one is good.

Then off to the museum. I haven’t heard about this museum ever, so not sure what to expect. I walk in and there are three exhibits and a permanent collection. Perfect.

It’s quiet in here today, but I decide on Radiohead while I walk through. It seems like a weird match for the weird art.

I’m not a huge fan of the first exhibit, but it’s a lot of pieces. I work my way through, find some pieces I find interesting, then out to the next exhibit.

A contemporary artist who makes use of recycled objects–melted plastic pieces, melted styrene, old wheelchairs, etc. It’s actually really interesting. And totally weird. I like it.

Then off to the next one. A ton of pieces that all look similar. But they’re organized by subject–portraits, landscapes, seascapes, etc. And interestingly, they do look like those things. But also just like layers and layers of paint on a canvas. But also very much like those subjects. I don’t know, I found it so intriguing. I really enjoyed this one.

And a series of crucifixions. Not like any of the crucifixions I have seen recently. These somehow show more emotion than the others, even though they are almost so abstract you may not be able to tell what they are. I decide I should do a series on crucifixion pieces.

The permanent collection has wonderful, enormous Matisse paintings. And others I really, really enjoy. And another Dejeuner sur l’herbe.

The next day, the Pompidou Centre! It’s beautiful outside–cool, sunny with magnificent clouds. And of course the city looks good. I cannot get over the clouds.

I walk back through my route from the other day on the way to the Picasso Museum. I don’t really know what to expect. I learned about this place in my first or second year of architecture school. It was opened in 1977. All of the systems outside, exposed structure, circulation literally on the facade of the building. Painted in bright, primary colors. One of Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers’s first works. I just hope it has held up over time.

It has. Standing in front of it is special. It’s strange to be here. And somehow, almost 50 years later, it still feels relevant. I love it.

I think there’s something about it that makes it feel unfinished, or in process. In movement. It’s not static. And I love that about it. I love seeing buildings under construction. Sometimes it’s more interesting to me than the finished product. Maybe that’s why I love looking at artist’s sketches, or the paintings they never finished. Something left to think about. What it could be. Fun and mysterious and intriguing. Maybe that’s why I like the weird modern art–maybe it’s finished, but it feels in process. It’s constantly in motion. It’s not perfect. Which is a weird thing to say coming from me. Maybe I could learn something from it…

I ride the escalator to the top. Again, with the clouds, oh my god.

An exhibit by Charles Ray. Weird sculptures and a few paintings. The intro to the gallery says that he doesn’t have many works, but each one explores the idea “what is sculpture?”

What a fun question to explore. What is sculpture? What is painting? What is architecture?

Then down to the next floors. So many great pieces. More than I can even talk about. An exhibit about 1920’s German art. And a bit of the Bauhaus. That’s my jam.

A Gerhard Richter (though I like his out of focus, photographic paintings best), LeCorbusier drawings and paintings and models (wow, wow, wow), Matisse and Chagall and Rothko and Beuys and Basquiat. Donald Judd and Dan Flavin (they always put them together). Then back up to the ridiculously overpriced cafe for lunch and a cocktail and views of the city.

Then down to the bookstore. Ughhhh everything’s in French. But isn’t it worth it for the design of the book? Step away from the books. Just go buy your two dozen post cards and go.

I walk out and over to the Brancusi Studio. It’s a re-creation of his studio, Renzo Piano did the building. It’s so wonderful. It’s here that I decide I want a simple, small house, but with enormously tall, white walls. With huge canvases, some hanging, some stacked and leaning. And arrangements of photographs on some walls. And some random sculptures or interesting pieces of furniture. And a ton of bookshelves. Wooden, floating bookshelves. And an enormous wooden table for dinners with friends. And a studio. Maybe the house is concrete. Or very smooth concrete block. Or even a light-colored, gray brick. But with a lot of light. And plaster walls inside. And wood floors. And a nice garden. Yeah. Maybe someday.

Back across town to my room. I’m tired and my knee hurts for some reason. I decide on picking some things up from the market down the street instead of eating out. I stay up too late drinking wine (that I had to open by stabbing the cork down into the bottle, because who doesn’t have a corkscrew in Paris??) and watching Baby Driver. I don’t know why I’ve never watched it before, but I loved it! And sometimes I feel like Baby–constantly with my music in, a soundtrack for my life.

And today was very strange. I made an appointment to get my hair cut at an “international salon,” which is a nice way to say they speak English. It is an hour and a half walk across town. So I grab breakfast, this time at the Starbucks down the street. I know, shameful to drink Starbucks in Paris, but I just want to walk around drinking my coffee like I used to, just for one day.

I walk by the Maison de Verre. There’s nothing to see from the street. Ugh. And I can’t get in. You’re supposed to make reservations like six months in advance or something. Who knew? I was hoping someone might be outside…but nothing.

Off to the salon! I walk past a park, and I’m early anyway, so I stop in and sit for a while. I sketch and write a little in my sketchbook. It’s so nice. I check where I’m going again to make sure I’m going to the right place. Yep. But I read the email more closely–they only accept cash payments or French checks. What the hell? Are we in 1922 or something? I’m certain I don’t have enough euros for a haircut. And I definitely don’t have a French check…..!!!

I speed off to find a bank. I’m praying this is not a big deal. I walk ten minutes to a bank and nobody is inside, only the ATM. I google really fast to see if this will work–if I put in my debit card, will I be able to withdraw money. Google says yes, so I insert my card. It sucks it into the machine. I start to get sweaty. If this doesn’t work, I’m screwed. The thing just swallowed my card. The screen processes through and asks how many euros I want. I tell it, and it process, and gives me my card and money. Piece of cake. I stand on the side of the street muttering “thank you” repeatedly for a few seconds while I put my things away and pull up the address to the salon on my phone.

The woman who owns it is from Minneapolis. She met her ex-husband, who is French, at the Atlanta Airport five years ago. She has a four year old son, so she is planning to stay. She says it’s not really the same when you live here, but she admits that at the end of the day, it’s still one of the greatest cities in the world. She’s very nice. And tells me, like everyone else, that my dry hair woes are from the water–very hard with a ton of Limestone. Awesome.

Another woman comes in. She also happens to be from Minneapolis. They grew up down the street from each other! She and her husband are taking a year sabbatical. COVID burned them out and they had to get away. A very, very small world.

Then I walk down to the Cartier Foundation while chatting with Emily. I can’t wait to see her in a couple of days.

I get to the Cartier Foundation, closed. Dammit.

Up to a cafe that was on my list, twenty minutes away. Kitchen’s closed. Dammit.

Back across town to my room to eat my snacks from the market.

I feel like I’m running out of things to say, ways to describe what I’m seeing. I need some new words. It’s all still so great. So, so great. But I wish I still had the language to talk about it in a meaningful way. Maybe I need to be in the “zone.” Maybe I just need to write more and I can get back to it…We shall see I guess.