Naked in Chicago (or, art school for a week)

July 25-August 2, 2026

I just returned from taking a week-long life drawing class at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago with my mom. We’ve been talking about going away to take a summer art class for years, but neither of us ever figured it out in time. A few months ago I discovered the Art Institute had adult education classes and sent the schedule to my mom. She likes Chicago and my nephew (her grandson) lives there so this plan was a winner.

She chose “Anatomy for Life Drawing.” I’ve always struggled with life drawing (that’s code for I’m bad at it) and would have been happy to never take it again but, shrug. Never say never I guess.

This cover of a notebook in the gift shop of the Contemporary Art Museum that made me laugh

I rented an apartment so we could have our own bedrooms and a kitchen for breakfast and a living room for evening lounging if we didn’t want to go out. The apartment was in the Fisher Building (from Wikipedia): “completed in 1896 by D.H. Burnham & Company^[3]. At the time of its completion, the building was one of two buildings in Chicago that was 18 stories or greater. To this day, the Fisher Building is the oldest 18 story building in Chicago.”

The apartment was great inside, well-furnished with epic views that included skyscrapers, the lake, and an apartment building across from us whose windows were like dozens of tiny TVs that I watched throughout the week. Most people didn’t close their blinds and we didn’t either so I figured it was a fair trade as far as spying went. My favorite was “messy girl” apartment. While most units were generically clean, her floor was littered with clothes and shoes and other crap and the configuration changed every day. One night I saw her hurriedly picking things up and called to my mom, “I think she’s got a date!” and sure enough an hour later a man’s legs were visible (we were higher and heads were generally out of view).

On the minus side, this was the noisiest place I’ve ever stayed at. I thought being on the 17^th floor would mean train noise wouldn’t be an issue but the elevated line ran right in front of the building. Trains took a sharp turn two blocks away and screeched and threw up sparks as bright as lighting – really! When I lay in bed the flashes were like someone was arc welding in the room. Other instruments in the noise symphony included twelve giant fans on the roof of the DePaul university building directly east of us, facing our unit, all turning furiously and causing a huge din. It was awful. Finally add in the sirens. Unpredictable sirens that usually quieted down around 3 a.m. or 4 a.m. and started up again around 7 a.m.

Good view, yeah? I like the plaid ceiling.

Alright, enough whining. The first night we had dinner at a historic German place, the Berghoff (founded in the late 1800’s) that my mom’s friend recommended. Any historic charm had been renovated away long ago, but it was a fun place with average pub food and I was happy to be there.

Sunday was a free day before class started and we had breakfast out, visited the Museum of Contemporary Art (just okay), and saw the bean aka Cloud Gate and watched kids frolicking at the fun video walls that squirt water. Finally, really good Mexican food at Momento Cantina.

Obligatory photo of the bean. How do they keep it clean?

Monday was a scramble to get to class on time (we failed). We were at a disadvantage due to the time change; Chicago is two hours ahead of California, and we had to pick up our student IDs at a different location than the class. SAIC (acronym for the art school) has buildings all over the place. Many classes started that day, including some for little kids and middle schoolers, so the place was chaotic, but we got our very official plastic badges with our photos and a lanyard boldly printed “SCHOOL OF THE ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO” which I wore proudly all week. The cool, full-time art students hid theirs away immediately after scanning in.

The teacher was in mid-lecture when we skulked in, having negotiated a confusing maze to find the classroom. Ours was on the third floor, the top, and had good natural light but like CCA in San Francisco, they’d made the “artistic” decision to have half-height walls separate the classrooms, which meant we got to listen to the hilarious and fun class next door to us (wished I was there) while we silently and studiously learned about skeletons and muscles and proportions.

The thrill of that first day was the summer storm. We never get rain in the summer in California so I eagerly checked my phone weather app and watched the big storm bearing down on us. I stood outside at lunch as the rain started. Fun, hot rain. When we returned to the classroom we found the rain continued, indoors. The roof leaked extensively. Not little drips but streams of water that filled full-sized garbage cans. The cleaning crew muttered about tornado warnings. What? It was true. Tornados touched down in surrounding suburbs, ripping limbs from trees (I found out later).

We moved our easels to the dry side of the room and class continued. The format all week was lecture and drawing from drawings in the morning, and live models in the afternoon. I laughed so hard in my head when my mom remarked, “He has a very large penis.” Ah, the best mother/daughter artistic getaway ever!

That afternoon, we’d just about made it back to the apartment and stopped in for coffee during a normal, partly cloudy but bright day. When we walked out, it was like night. Very dark–the streetlights had turned on and cars drove with headlights. Midwesterners will laugh at my amazement as I’m sure this type of storm is common but it was brand new to me.

We got back before the first drops hit. The view of the storm from our high floor was great! Sheets of rain, hail, wind, thunder, lightning! I opened the big window to take a video and in minutes the floor was soaked. Then, an hour later, the storm passed and the sun came out. I took a walk and appreciated the shiny, wet streets.

On Tuesday we took the Chicago Architecture boat tour. We barely made it as the streets were gridlocked with after work traffic. Oh – I forgot to mention how we lucked out with the weather. The temperatures ranged from low 70’s to mid 80’s. A friend of R.’s who lived there said they were the best days of all summer. It was so cool I almost wished I had a sweatshirt while on the boat. The tour was good and had me itching to do more boat things, though there wasn’t time.

I liked Bertrand Goldberg’s brutalist River City condo complex. 1986.

The most surprising thing to me was that the lake is blocked off from the river with a lock. I read later the lake water level is higher than the river and needs to be managed. I won’t go into the whole thing about them reversing the flow of the river to send Chicago waste downstream instead of into the lake. It was a shady business, and on top of that, Chicago didn’t start disinfecting its sewage until 2016…gross and negligent.

Thursday we decided to play hooky from school. My mom lamented that we were in Chicago and barely getting to see it and I agreed. Also, I really needed a break from life drawing. It was a tough and frustrating class. I could either painstakingly construct grids and make everything the proper proportions by measuring heads, or I could wing it, have fun drawing, but then have most drawings come out “wrong,” usually with the people having giant heads. I’m glad I wasn’t an art major. It might have taken the joy out of it to study it full time.

In this exercise we started by drawing the model with blocks, then added details over that.

My mom had big plans of the things we’d do together, but after a great breakfast outdoors, I cut myself loose and took a long bike ride along the lakeshore. The only downside of this experience was me not getting my normal amount of exercise every day and I was getting a little antsy. The ride was great. The lake was a striking blue I hadn’t expected, and the wildflowers along the shore were so beautiful and so tall–like nothing I’d ever seen in California.

An interesting/fun though sometimes annoying twist to the week was that the Lollapalooza music festival was happening in a park literally across the street from the building where the art class was held. First day, the uber driver was able to drop us off right by the building. Day 2, part of the road was blocked off and we had to walk a block. Day 3 we couldn’t get anywhere near the place and had to be dropped off blocks away and go through a couple of security checkpoints. The crowds and bands were right there, separated only by tall chain link fences. I could see a stage from a grassy mound and watched for awhile, which was fun.

The city sidewalks were filled with armies of young women in Festive Attire. Extremely short shorts or miniskirts, skimpy top, maybe a glittery see-through shawl, and then boots or sneakers. My mom was overjoyed. She loved that they all dressed up. We both wondered where the guys were–all we saw were women.

Unfortunately, the festival closed many streets and I couldn’t walk to the lake even though it was only a few blocks away. It was great watching everyone leave the festival each night at 10 p.m. We had a great view.

Saturday was drizzly so we went to the Art Institute. They have a really great, huge collection and I saw many paintings I loved. No photos since I checked my bag, which is for the best as who needs to see a photo of art? A nice moment. I was looking at a Jackson Pollack painting, Greyed Rainbow, when a man came up beside me and exclaimed, “I’ve been looking all over for this one!” His son is an art student and got his dad interested in art, and he, the dad, really loves Jackson Pollack. It was also nice to hear young people critically discussing paintings. I never encounter that in museums in San Francisco.

Sunday we had a late flight out and thus had time to visit Frank Lloyd Wright’s home and studio in Oak Park. He bought the lot, which was in the middle of nowhere at the time with prairie just across the road, and designed the house himself. He was 21(??), working at an architecture firm in Chicago and newly married. Interesting fact: the great Chicago fire of 1871 destroyed much of the downtown and subsequently created a huge demand for architects as the city was rebuilt. Frank Lloyd Wright met his wife at the firm where he worked.

The studio, added on later, was much more bright and spacious-feeling than the house. And what a nice drafting table!

His house was fairly modestly-sized and many of the rooms felt cramped. There were hints of his developing style but also some goofy (to my eye) classical Roman art reproductions around. He wired the house for electricity even though it hadn’t yet come to the town yet. His studio, built later and attached to the house, was very bright and spacious.

Many of the first homes he designed were in the neighborhood, and as a special added bonus, I discovered the house where Hemingway was born was just around the corner so I paid it a visit.

Frank Lloyd Wright-designed houses, very different and just across the street from each other.
The one on the left is a strange mish-mash to my eye.

All in all this was a great trip, though the art class was a bit intense, and it was a struggle to stay focused when an exciting city pulsed with life just outside the classroom windows. If I took an art class like this again, I’d chose a more boring location, or a location that incorporated the environment with the class. Like, tree painting–go outside and find a tree! Something like that. Still, it was great and nice to spend the week with my mom learning and growing and not just doing tourist things.

Black cows look better in the shade

A short trip to Oroville, California to see wildflowers

March 25-27, 2026

Springtime in California is glorious. My favorite time of year. The normally golden (aka covered in dead grass) hills are a vivid green, and wildflowers pepper the slopes. It’s a magical time and I try to get out into nature as much as I can before everything dries out again. It doesn’t last long.

A friend of mine mentioned she’d gone to see wildflowers on Table Mountain near Oroville and I was intrigued. My first question was, where is Oroville? It’s north of Sacramento and I’ve never been through there as far as I can recall. It’s adjacent to a huge reservoir, Lake Oroville, which has the tallest dam in U.S. (770 feet). 

We had a few days free mid-week so I figured why not check it out. It’s only three hours from here and we had credit card points to pay for the hotel. 

This was the longest trip (I think?) we’ve taken our little electric car on and though we could have just about made it we did stop for lunch and a charge in Davis, which worked out well and saved us from stressing.

We checked into an adequate but sad Hampton Inn and Suites, with its plastic and fake wood furniture and in-window air conditioners. The doors to the lobby are permanently locked (you have to have a key to get in, which is hard when you haven’t checked in) and the front desk featured a large sign warning guests not to leave anything of value in your car. Made me worry we were in a bad neighborhood. One statistics site said Oroville is safer than 2% of cities in California! Hah! 

I went for a swim in the tiny indoor pool to perk up after driving. Perking achieved, we jumped back into the car and drove up to the dam (which faces west) for sunset, which was as spectacular as I’d hoped. Many locals were up there as well, walking dogs and admiring the view. Even though it’s the tallest dam in the U.S. it’s not dramatic because it’s made of earth, covered in grass, and slopes down like a natural hill. 

That’s Table mountain to the right

We had dinner at Shakey’s Pizza on the way back. My bad. I was nostalgic because I hadn’t seen one of these restaurants since I was a kid. It was not good. Thin cardboard-esque crust and tasteless sauce and cheese. Back at the hotel we had a drink in the overly lit lobby bar and then watched a movie in our room. 

Lake Oroville

The next morning I set off for Table Mountain on my own. R. has a pinched nerve in his shoulder and the drive here didn’t do it any good, so he decided to rest for the morning. Table mountain was easy to spot. Steep cliffs rising up north of town and a fairly flat top. I’d have called it a mesa if we were in the southwest, but it seems like mesas form from erosion, and this mountain is volcanic basalt. The twenty-five-minute drive to the trailhead was great – on a twisty, tiny road, two-lane road with no traffic and lovely scenery. 

My worries that I might get murdered out hiking on my own vanished when I saw the crowded parking lot and the wide-open grassland with scattered oaks and a well-trod path. And the cows. There were cows everywhere on the North Table Mountain Ecological Reserve–which is open to grazing. 

There weren’t as many wildflowers as I’d expected. Overall, though, it was beautiful up there with scattered flowers and the green grass set off by lumpy piles of black lava. I saw the tiniest California poppies I’d ever seen. Flowers smaller than a dime. I noticed that some variety of yellow flowers had already bloomed and died.

I found a patch of wildflowers and crouched down to make it look extensive

I’d planned to walk to Phantom Falls but I’ve learned my lesson…so many falls aren’t falling and that name was particularly suspicious. I asked a woman with a kid and a dog if she’d been to the falls and she said yes, but it was more of a trickle. I knew it!

In lieu of going another mile (up and down a canyon) I wandered out on my own until I got to the western edge of the plateau which offered a hazy view of the central valley. It was a great hike and all the nature I’d been craving. 

Back at the hotel R. was ready to go, so we had a great Mexican lunch and then went car hiking on the “scenic route 70 bypass.” I only put that in quotes because I learned about it from a brochure in the hotel lobby (which activated my inner skeptic), but surprise – it was scenic, almost breathtaking at points as we hugged the steep side of mountain on the way down the river ravine. 

The starring photo in the brochure was a “steel arch highway bridge” over a railway “three-span through-truss bridge.” I really wanted to photograph the bridges but there were no pullouts. We doubled back and stopped, blocking a scary one-lane road and I took my life in my hands running up the highway as there was little or no shoulder (giant semi trucks use this road.) Amazing luck – a train passed by when we were there. Perfect. 

I was feeling done with sightseeing after this busy day, but relaxing in our room at the Hampton Inn with a view of the parking lot, a Starbucks, and a Panda Express wasn’t very relaxing. I like to imagine I can entertain myself anywhere, but if I could have teleported home I would have, and taken a nice shower with good water pressure. 

I took another swim in the silly pool and we had dinner at a nicer restaurant in historic Oroville. Restaurant was good, nice décor, but had only four other patrons–a happy group of three that soon left, and a sullen, paunchy guy in shorts, flip flops and baseball cap that wandered in and downed beer after beer and talked nonstop to the poor captive bartender woman.

Back at the hotel we watched a movie in our room again. I worried I’d taken R. on a substandard getaway but he assured me it’s always good to leave the house. 

The next morning I took a walk along the river and through town. Oh – I forgot to mention we stopped at the river on our way back from the scenic drive. It was pretty and populated by fewer homeless than I’d have expected. I saw only three. While I was wading in the river a group of three cheerful men yelled “God Bless you!” to me, and I said, You too. They tried to give R. a pamphlet we he refused but they didn’t hastle him. They then had a group prayer with one of the homeless dudes, which I thought was nice. 

The drive home was smooth with lunch and a charge in Davis again. 

After a good night’s sleep in my own bed, memories of this short trip began to take on a rosy glow. We had a fun adventure and saw many new things, surprising things, and the nagging feeling I’m not taking advantage of the wonders around me vanished. For now. : ) 

(If you didn’t get the reference in the post title, I was thinking of an 80’s song, “Black Cars” by Gio Vanelli. Now I can’t get this song out of my head!)

Paris doesn’t love me. London thinks I’m cute.

March 1, 2026, London

It’s our last day in London and I’m feeling sad about leaving and quietly panicked that I didn’t do all the things I should have done and seen all the sights. Trying to find information on the web has been super frustrating. The top five hits on any search are usually pure garbage, as the sites that rise to the top are usually very prolific bloggers who have some domain like “love to brunch” and tons of content, SEO optimized, but no real knowledge of London. They’ve just scraped other blogs.

I bought a paper book, “The 500 Hidden Secrets of London,” hoping it was better curated (and with no ads) but after going way out of my way to visit an amazing craft boutique that turned out to be a small and expensive one-room art gallery, I threw it back into my suitcase.

I like the juxtaposition of old and new in London

I vaguely wanted to “go shopping” today, hoping to get some interesting clothes, but I don’t think I was really in the mood. Plus it was raining again. I walked to Liberty (current location built in 1924, most of the wood used was taken from old battle ships), mostly to look at the building which is beautiful, but the clothing is unaffordable.

From there, R. and I hoped to have lunch at Mercato Metropolitano in Mayfair, in a food hall built inside an old church, but as we’ve experienced in other food halls on the trip, it was packed. More than packed. Crawling with people jostling one another and zero places to sit. It was very frustrating and not fun.

Luckily, we stumbled into an amazing Asian place, Ivy Asia, just a few blocks away with the most amazing floors I’ve ever seen as well as excellent food. Was it just a tiny bit tacky and overdone? Suuuuure. Yes. It was. But the floor was real stone, lit from beneath, and I couldn’t stop staring.

I walked through Selfridges because I was there, but it was a pretty standard department store, though it did have a giant, scary, moving robot face, and stylized mannequins that seemed to have been built from whatever was laying around in the storeroom. A wooden body like the little art models students use, a white plastic face, and realistic human hair. Blech! Pick a style.

That evening we had a drink on our street (more staff than clients but no one wanted to help us, so I shouldn’t only complain about Paris). Next, we headed to Space Talk, a hi-fi listening bar. People are meant to listen to and appreciate the music vs. just yammering loudly all night. The interior design of the bar was both futuristic and calming, if that makes any sense. Lot’s of dark wood, browns and greens, comfy chairs, interesting angles, subdued lighting.

All that said, no one besides us seemed to be paying particular attention to the music, though it was a mellow, happy crowd and once we said hi to the DJ and praised his choices, we too got more wrapped up in conversation than in careful listening. It was a little like being a very rich friend’s living room on a Friday night. You aren’t supposed to take photos in there–I assume they are trying to keep out the instagram crowd–so while I may have snuck a few I won’t post them.

When we left I was startled and happy to stumble upon a site from my to-do list, another ornate Victorian industrial marvel–Smithfield Market, a wholesale meat market opened in 1868. It was 10:30 p.m. and trucks were beginning to roll in. I would have liked to see the inside but I was a little intimidated. I shouldn’t have been such wimp. It’s scheduled to be relocated and this might have been my only chance to see it in action.

We caught the last train back to our neighborhood–they literally pulled the gates down behind us after we got off the escalator. I didn’t know some lines shut down like this. Glad we made it!

And that was pretty much it. A wrap on our vacation minus the dragging the suitcases down 70 steps the next morning and getting back on the tube and then the plane.

Greenland. The plane is over 30,000 feet. Those mountains must be huge!

What a good vacation. Having friends who live in Europe adds a relaxing and grounding element and also makes me think harder about the effect of tourism on cities. If I were a mathematician I expect I’d be able to make a formula that included the population of the city, the number of major sights, the number of tourists, and with that be able to calculate if me going to a place is harmful.

Of all the places we visited, I felt most welcome in London. You might think, yeah, of course, but having people eager to talk to me and expect that I lived there despite my accent went a long way in making me feel comfortable. Someone asked me, where are you from, and I said San Francisco, and they said, but you live here now. I smiled.

California is the fourth largest economy in the world, “according to the IMF’s 2024 World Economic Outlook data released yesterday, and BEA data California’s nominal GDP reached $4.1 trillion, surpassing Japan’s $4.02 trillion, and placing California behind only the United States, China, and Germany in global rankings,” but we aren’t very worldly in our day to day lives, and I wish we were. I like being part of an international community.

My family teases me about traveling so often, but I don’t spend a lot on other things (same shoes, same jackets, same car). Travel resets and reorganizes my brain every time without fail and I need that. I took a three-week vacation from the news and made some of my own. : )

Victorian Decadence

February 28, 2026, London

I slept well and woke naturally after eight hours. Jet lag finally vanquished–just before I head home. I had tea and a piece of toast and then headed out to the former home and studio of Victorian artist Lord Frederic Leighton (1830-1896). I knew of his work and my friends told me about his fantastic place in London.

I’ve been stopped in my tracks by so many bakery windows on this trip and worked really hard to look but not eat. R. and I have been on a diet and I didn’t want to get home and have lost six months of progress. Today though, about five minutes into my walk to the tube station, i passed a bakery with beautiful crisp pain au chocolates in the window and I went in and bought one and it was GREAT. It was so flaky parts of it blew away in the wind when I bit in. My gosh I wish I had a different metabolism and could eat pastries all the time.

I took the tube to…what was probably the wrong stop but I had a nice walk through Holland Park and its posh scary neighborhoods where you clearly can never paint your identical house any color but beige. There was a protest in front of an embassy, but I didn’t recognize the flag and I’ve been on a vacation from bad news, so I didn’t know what it was about.

Leighton’s house was great! Lush Victorian decoration done right. I loved it. There were so many patterns and colors and textures…it should have been too much but everything was high quality and designed with an artists eye. I wanted to touch everything and lay around and wished I could have gone to one of the many parties he threw. It wasn’t very crowded and the volunteers weren’t intrusive, so I was often in a room by myself and could just “be” there and imagine I was a guest.

He was a bachelor and his sexuality is a “mystery” (he left no journals or letters) but my guess is super secret gay. The house, the drawings of hot men writhing around in agony. Just saying. It seems like most male artists of the time had wives, lovers, ex-wives, a smattering a kids, so his completely blank slate is unusual.

The Arab hall, modeled on a 12th century palace in Sicily. Many of the tiles are 16th century, from Damascus.

It turned out the interior was/is being faithfully recreated because when Leighton died, everything was auctioned off (by Christies). I wonder who got all the money? Thankfully there was a catalog and they are buying back what they can and getting similar pieces when they can’t. Oh and also, the house was damaged by a bomb in world war two, which the website doesn’t mention. I didn’t know there was a backlash against Victorian decor in the early 20th century, but of course there was. The last thing always needs to be thrown under the bus so people can be more modern.

I love art deco, mid-century modernism and minimalism, but this maximalist house blew my mind and helped me imagine what intense decoration could be done to any room. I’d like to make our house more lush.

Afterwards I took the bus to the Tate Britain, not modern. The bus was diverted due to other protests and it took forever to get there. I was so starving I almost ate in a Pret A Manger. When I finally made it to the Tate, the Turner/Constable exhibit was sold out! In despair I got an egg salad sandwich from the museum cafe, regrouped, and visited the permanent collection, which I really liked. Famous stuff and artists I’d never heard of.

Ophelia, 1851–52 painting by John Everett Millais and beloved by overdramatic teenage girls.

I bussed back home and was stunned to find our neighborhood overrun by weekend crowds, everyone walking in the streets though they were not closed to traffic.

I took a brief rest before we went to meet E. and B. for Indian dinner. The show they’d come to see, musician Andrew Bird performing with a symphony orchestra, was tonight at the Barbican Center. We’d tried to get tickets weeks ago but it was sold out, however I went online and found seats had opened up at the last minute and we got them.

The walk from the tube was weird, no people and the street seemed to be underground. The Indian restaurant had good food…though down in a basement. I don’t enjoy being in windowless rooms.

The Barbican development is fascinating. The adorable young man sitting next to me at the concert, 18 and wearing a suit (his Dad is from echo park in Los Angeles) told me the development was 60 years old and not always popular but now considered a great place to live because you can own the flats outright no city of London interfering. (?)

I read more about it later. It was built on a site that had been completely destroyed in WWII, and the architects wanted to build a new city within the city, with 2000 flats as well as a school, library, art center, big pond, all raised above street level and in the brutalist style (aka big concrete). Construction started in 1965 on forty acres. It’s loved and hated, and has been used as a backdrop for futuristic and dystopian movies. I’m sorry I don’t have any photos. It was too dark.

The Andrew bird concert was amazing! The orchestra was so good! Energetic! The conductor was great! I’m so embarrassed not to know much of Andrew Bird’s work. He sold the place out. I loved it though. Wow. Though it was sold out the two seats in front of us were empty so we had an extra great view.

We returned home to find our neighborhood still abuzz.

Art and life in London

London, Feb. 26-27, 2026

We had a fairly lazy day today. I woke and showered and made breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast from the extremely overpriced bread I bought. It’s good, and if we eat every slice it may have been worth it.

We took a bus to the Design Museum to see Wes Anderson: The Archives exhibit. The bus ride was great. We got the front seats on the top level (the best view) and were surrounded by chattering French and Italian tourists.

The exhibit was great. Each room was devoted to one movie, and housed costumes, props, notes, models, artwork, photos, and videos. First time I read everything on, whatever you call those explanation cards by art at museums. I didn’t know Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson were roommates at university in Texas and co-wrote many of the early movies together. I loved seeing Anderson’s hand-written notes and drawings.

The attention to detail on the props was amazing. I particularly loved the teen girl fiction book covers they made for Moonrise Kingdom, and the books and magazines for the Royal Tenenbaums.

For Moonrise Kingdom, they found a 12-year old to paint the watercolors the main character, Sam, painted in the movie. They also had left-handed kids from a local school audition to write the notes from Suzy to Sam. For the French Dispatch, they had every page from the entire magazine pinned up on a huge bulletin board. This telegram from Grand Budapest Hotel is so rich with details. They had to make the telegram form, the country stamp, fill it out, rip it up, and tape it back together and make it look old. Wow.

For Darjeeling Limited, they built a scale model of the train car complete with art on the walls. For that atomic movie they made full-sized vending machines with era-appropriate products.

I love how deep they went to build these worlds. It was so good. We stayed for hours. After we got lunch nearby, then wandered. Houses like those below are grand and expensive I’m sure, but this kind of uniformity gives me the creeps.

That evening our friends from Amsterdam arrived in London. By coincidence they’d planned a weekend trip here to see a show, and we were happy to get to spend more time with them. We met them, and two other friends that live in London, at a Thai place nearby. The musician/DJ regaled us with tales of parties past…being hired to DJ on a yacht where everyone had to be naked, performing at the palace of a drunk prince…they were all great stories but it felt like I was listening to a podcast and I couldn’t participate. I suppose that’s why famous people hang out together. When no one can match your stories it’s hard to have a conversation.

The streets were so packed and all the bars so crazy we all ended up going back to our apartment to hang out. Having the apartment has been great. A taste of local living we could never afford.

The next morning I walked to the National Portrait Gallery to see a Lucian Freud exhibit. I wasn’t familiar with his work but liked it very much. The little frizzy hairs on this portrait of his then wife made me feel seen.

I wanted to see a Turner and Constable exhibit at the Tate but there wasn’t time as we’d planned to meet our friends at 4 p.m. at the pub where they were staying. I had a cider and then we took a stroll through St. James park and discovered the same parakeets, which we now called parrotkeets, that we saw in Amsterdam also live here. Daffodils were in full bloom and some of the trees were starting to leaf out.

We walked along the Thames to Big Ben and heard it chime 5 o’clock which was very satisfying, and then watched a very dramatic, fiery sunset.

E and B were seeing a play at the National Theater, so we joined them for dinner at a nearby restaurant. We had tickets to the 99 Comedy Club and walked there through a beautiful London night.

The comedy was great but the chairs were so uncomfortable–small folding chairs jammed one next to the other, too small for an adult body which meant we were thigh to thigh with strangers. In the middle of the show one of the chairs collapsed, sending a big guy sprawling. The staff was apologetic, but seriously, get some better chairs!

We got out right after a rainstorm had passed through. The streets were glistening and the trees dripping. I know I said Greek Street was busy last night, but tonight it was jammed, overcrowded with 20-something club goers. Not my demographic anymore, and as exciting as it is to have so many stores and bars so close to our front door, (Our apartment is on the left-hand side of the street next to the building that is white with black windows.) I would not want to live in this neighborhood. This would be hard to deal with if you just wanted to step out to get a pizza.

I was up above it and down in it

London, Feb. 25, 2026

I braved the 70 steps to leave the apartment and went out in the morning in search of good bread. I found a French bakery, Copains, in seven dials. The seeded loaf I got was breathtakingly expensive (I didn’t think to ask) but it did turn out to last for days without getting stale.

R. needed to get some work done so I headed out on my own to a neighborhood I’d never visited–Hampstead. It is alleged to be one of the wealthiest places in London, with a village feel and a large park, Hampstead Heath. Sounded promising.

Arriving on the underground, I was excited to learn this was the deepest station in the system. There was a warning sign on the spiral emergency exit stairs proclaiming there were 320 steps, so maybe you’d better wait for the lift.

I love a decrepit tube station

The small downtown was very charming, with shops and what would be big leafy trees once spring arrived. I had an excellent lunch in a fancy Lebanese restaurant–a mixed mezze plate for only 16 pounds. Again I was amazed and annoyed that San Francisco seems to be more expensive than Paris and London. What’s going on?? San Francisco isn’t the most exciting city in the world and shouldn’t be the most expensive.

I wandered up a hill to visit Fenton House and Gardens, some grand house I’d learned about that instant by looking at my phone map, but it was closed for the season. I continued on to Hampstead Heath, but it was still winter dead and the dirt paths were muddy so I didn’t stay long. As I walked through the neighborhood, I saw a moving van packed with possessions and a very old man being helped into the passenger seat. He was obviously being moved out of his home. This curio cabinet was laying on the ground. I wasn’t sure if it was a free give-away or yet to be packed, but it kind of broke my heart. It’s a bunch of random objects, none particularly interesting, but they are memories embodied. It felt very intrusive to take this picture as the people were right there, but I also worried this collection of objects might be about to vanish and that seemed more wrong.

I continued south to Primrose Hill, which looked to be the Dolores Park of London. A huge green lawn with views of downtown, many people lounging around and enjoying what I forgot to mention–the first sunny day in a long time according to locals. People in London like to talk about the weather as much as we do in California. : )

I was tired of walking and sat for a while admiring the view, then rallied enough to make it to the Grand Union Canal, where I’d walked last time I was here, and finally to Camden and got on the underground to get home.

Later that evening we went for drinks at Tricia’s, a members-only basement “jazz club” (I’d call it a dive bar) just down the street from us. The doorman made a show of sponsoring us for membership for the night, and we wrote our names in a ratty guestbook. It was early in the evening with few people there, but R. got an earful from two old timers at the bar as he waited for drinks…bragging about connections to celebrities and royals.

A four-piece band arrived to set up and do a sound check. There was no stage and the room was small, so they pushed tables aside and set up in the corner. They were great!

We were starving and the real show didn’t start for an hour, so we went out and grabbed a burger and then came back. The place was packed by this point but we managed to grab a small table in the back when someone left. Our apartment is in such a hopping location. It’s easy to motivate to go out when there are 100 bars and restaurants within two blocks. We get a bit lazy in San Francisco but pretty much anything is a 15-minute walk. Not that far I realize but does sometimes cause the couch to win when we are deciding what to do. This trip is a great reminder to get up and get out. It’s worth it.

Waste-ing time at Crossness

Feb. 24, 2026. Crossness Engines, Abbey Woods near London + more fun in actual London

An ornate, 1865 steam-powered Victorian-era sewer pumping station? I ran across photos of the Crossness pumping station the last time we were in London and the place looked spectacular. They only do tours a few days a week and were sold out. This time we got tickets well in advance.

We took the train to Abbey Wood. The walk to the place was longer than I expected and not very scenic, though spring was beginning to make an appearance and some trees were blossoming. We should have taken a cab…I had the scale wrong and made a bad call.

As we neared the destination we came upon a car parked in the middle of the road, a grizzled older man sitting on a camp chair beside it. This screamed “volunteer giving directions” and indeed that was the case. He pointed us to a walkway that led over a large berm. To my great surprise, on the other side was a small-scale diesel train with a crew of three in bright safety jackets. They’d be taking us, very slowly, the last 500 or so feet to the pumping station.

They were so sweet and friendly and noticed that I had an accent (I have an accent! That really thrilled me) and asked where we were from. One ran to a shed and came out with an American flag and went to the front of the engine where flags from four other countries were flying. He laughed and said Belgium would have to go, and swapped our flag for theirs.

After the short trip, we hurried to the building (not much to look at from the outside). We weren’t late but were about to be, and it turns out we were the last to arrive. The thirty or so people milling around (most appeared to be locals) were directed into a small room to watch a slide show and learn more about the history of the London sewer system.

Here’s my faulty-memory recollections from the talk. Pre-1865 there was no formal sewer system, just individual cess pits under homes and/or open sewers running down the streets and emptying into the Thames–where people also got their drinking water. Two million people lived in London–one of the largest cities in the world at the time. It sounded completely disgusting, and even people dying from cholera didn’t motivate the government to invest in a better sewer system. Finally, a heat wave in 1858 caused such a “great stink” that it disrupted Parliament and they finally gave the go-ahead to design and construct a new sewer system. “Sir Joseph Bazalgette was the Victorian engineering mastermind and public health visionary behind the vast sewage system that Londoners still rely on today.”

Sneak peek at the interior of the station

Embankments were built along the Thames, narrowing it which helped the river flow faster, and creating a place to house big pipes to collect all the sewage before it went into the river. These pipes, gradually sloping downwards, carried the sewage east. The Crossness station was built to raise the muck up twelve meters where it was dumped into a huge covered reservoir and released in to the Thames when the tide went out. Untreated of course! Baby steps.

They handed out hard hats and we got to the good part. The interior of the building was amazing. The restored half is a beautiful art piece with a working steam powered beam engine. Not working when we visited. I believe they run it once a month.

The unrestored half is a moody wreck that they are leaving as is because movies producers love to film there. I bet that pays a lot of the bills.

We called an Uber to get back to the train station, and stopped to pick up a woman who’d been on the tour with us who was walking back. She was very happy!

R. wanted to ride the IFS Cloud cable car that goes over the Thames in the Docklands, so we got off the train at Custom House station, had a late lunch in a deserted Italian place (it was after 3 p.m.) and walked over to the station. The ride was expensive, and while I didn’t see any cliche London sights, I did wonder where the heck I was and what was this city they were building here?

New skyscrapers and mid-sized apartment buildings lined the river, with more being built on what looked like a former industrial area. It felt like every time I turned a corner during this trip there were cranes and a new downtown rising up that hadn’t been there ten years ago. This area didn’t look that interesting–yet, with it’s new construction sterility and empty sidewalks and unpopulated public spaces. How long does it take for a neighborhood to develop a character of its own? At present I wouldn’t want to live here. I think you’d come home from work and be too tired to get back on the tube to go somewhere interesting.

Across the river I was surprised by the O2 center, an arena and giant mall. I had no idea anything like this existed in London. It was an interesting structure–a huge dome–but still, it was a mall with a mall vibe.

We got back on the underground and rode it to London Bridge. I wasn’t sure what was around there and wanted to explore. By lucky chance we stumbled onto Borough market, a covered market on my to do list.

I love covered and outdoor markets, but since I wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to carry around a pound of fruit or raw fish, I couldn’t do much here but gawk and admire the ironwork. Which is enough, really.

The sun was setting as we found the Southwark Cathedral just around the corner and the light inside, hitting almost horizontally, was quietly beautiful.

Many old gravestones paved the floor. I always feel guilty walking on them. On the walls and in the naves are the graves for the fancy and famous people, usually with angels and an idealized statue of the deceased. This one though, from 1588, surprised me by portraying the subject as very, very dead. Very grim. Perhaps he was not well liked?

All natural light in the photo below. Golden hour.

Near the church we happened upon a cute post office-themed “speakeasy” bar, Cahoots. The guy at the front door, dressed in a 1920’s outfit, stayed fully in character, asking us if we’d seen any coppers before letting us in. The interior was like a movie set, cubbies on every wall stuffed with lost letters. So well done. I imagine I’d like to be a set designer but I don’t know if I have the stamina. Some of the drink were delivered by pneumatic tube. I’m fine being a wide-eyed slack-jawed tourist sometimes, and this was one of those times. I’m not cool, I’m gawking.

Not very tipsy after our overpriced drinks, we walked along the Thames. It was a beautiful night and the sexiest I’ve seen this river looking. Nice to see it like this after hearing how it used to be a sewer.

Back home at the apartment I was excited to watch some British TV before bed. Ummm…Naked Attraction? British TV show that ran for seven seasons that I’d never heard of. Here’s the premise straight from Wikipedia: “A clothed person is faced with six naked people who are initially hidden in booths. Their bodies and faces are gradually revealed through successive rounds, from the feet up. At each round, the chooser eliminates one naked person until only two are left, when the chooser also takes off their clothes to make the final choice.” Hah!!

It was intense and bizarre and I couldn’t stop watching. We don’t have fully naked people prancing around on U.S. TV. I’d love to share a screen shot but probably shouldn’t if I want this blog to stay up. It was awesome but sadly the most traditionally attractive body won on the episode I watched. Sweet dreams!

Eurostar to London

Feb. 23, 2026. Paris to London on the train

One of life’s great pleasures is writing while relaxing in a window seat on a train in Europe. I’m doing that now. Let me catch you up. Last night we took a taxi from S.’s apartment to the Whistler Hotel. I didn’t understand the name as my mind went straight to the painting, Whistler’s Mother.

It turned out to be a train-themed hotel, including having a screen behind the check-in desk with the view from the front of a train, and vintage suitcases on shelves in the small entryway. The room doors looked like sideways trunks. In the room, the small closets on either side of the bed also looked like huge trunks, and a suitcase attached to the wall opened up to be a writing desk. I was thoroughly charmed. Even though the room was small with no place to lounge, it was well thought out. I’d stay here again and recommend it.

I know this isn’t, Oh my gosh gasp amazing, it was just a really nice surprise given I like trains

We walked around the corner to a bar I’d found online that sounded friendly, and though it was mostly empty, a group of four energetically played darts near where we sat and livened up the place. Big screen TVs showed the closing ceremonies for the Olympics. The neighborhood around the bar seemed very slightly sketchy but in a refreshing way.

Much of Paris was leveled and rebuilt by Haussman between 1853-1870, creating the beautiful city everyone loves, but it’s very uniform. For the first time, I felt this design style to be heavy-handed and possibly stifling for a city existing in 2026. Often I walked down a street and felt like I could be anywhere in Paris. I’ve been mildly discontented with Paris this visit but I think it’s a healthy progression from being starry-eyed, infatuated, loving the clichés (Emily in Paris) to a more complicated “adult” relationship with the place.

I woke up naturally had my first and only “included” breakfast of the trip. I love included breakfasts! So much good food was crammed onto the small counter: cheese, eggs, cold cuts, fresh croissants, fresh bread, fruit, yogurt, muesli, and a press the button coffee machine that made 10 different types of coffee–very well. I was really happy.

The shower had great pressure AND a door, thank god! Our friends had showers with no doors, same for many hotels. I know this is a design thing and very popular, but it doesn’t work for me. I guess I move around too much. I get water everywhere and I get cold.

While R. was getting ready I took a quick walk around. The taxi driver said the area in front of the station has been torn up for years and indeed the whole area is a big mess. It’s such a beautiful station it’s a pity. Progress though! The street that leads directly up to the station is getting a big landscaped area down the center and they were doing the planting that day–a dozen workers and a truck full of plants–so the end is in sight for that section at least.

Taking the international train/chunnel was surprisingly like getting on a plane…arrive two hours in advance, wait in lines, show passports, get in other lines, end up in a crowded waiting room. Only difference being we didn’t get to hand off our heavy suitcases and had to wrestle them onto the train and up into the luggage racks.

We arrived in London and I was excited and happy to be back in a mish-mash city. Old and new, no uniform style. I’d worked hard to convince R. that we should stay in an apartment instead of a hotel since we were here for a week. He loves hotels and I do too…it’s fun to experience curated worlds, fun lobbies, and clean towels and a nicely made bed every day. There are drawbacks though like living in one room, housekeepers who ignore the “Do Not Disturb” sign, no way to store and cook food, and not being able to really live normally. I wanted to experience London like a resident, albeit in a neighborhood I’d never to able to afford.

I was really nervous about what we’d find when we arrived. Places are never as good as they look online. The cab pulled to a stop on Greek Street and the neighborhood, in the west end, was fun and lively and full of restaurants and bars and theaters. The building held several apartments (all short-term rentals as far as I could tell) and ours was the topmost. The price per night was reasonable, I think because of the 70 steep stairs to get to it. I knew about this in advance, thanks to reviews, and I promised R. I’d bring his suitcase up and down (because he had a pinched nerve in his shoulder this would surely irritate).

And…it was an amazing place. Exactly as pictured and maybe even better.

Photos from booking dot com as I didn’t get any without people

Numerous skylights and windows brightly lit the place even on gray days, which were most days. The compact kitchen had expensive and seemingly seldom used appliances and a full-sized fridge. The bedroom had a full wall of closets and drawers and I was grateful to be able to unpack after living out of . The bed was comfortable. The bathroom was large. Oh and there was a fun sitting area loft with a window door out to a small patio with sweeping views of the backs of neighboring buildings. Not exactly beautiful but very unique, very specific. I was completely happy with the place!

We were starving and had a late lunch at a nearby Indian place (very good). I’ve mentioned this before, but prices for eating out at sit down restaurants have been cheaper on this trip than in San Francisco. What’s happening in the Bay Area? How can things be more expensive than Paris and London?

This apartment wasn’t far from where we stayed when we were last in London, so we revisited Seven Dials Market (food court) and Neal’s Yard cheese shop where the nice people let us taste cheese. We bought several kinds of cheese and fresh eggs, and then stopped at a Marks and Spencer market for more supplies on the way home.

Turns out Ronnie Scott’s Jazz club was only a block away. I’d not heard of it but researched and learned…”Founded in 1959 by saxophonists Ronnie Scott and Pete King, Ronnie’s was the first UK club to host American jazz musicians regularly. From Miles Davis, Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald and Chet Baker to Jimi Hendrix, Prince, and Amy Winehouse, some of the world’s greatest artists have played on our stage.” Luckily, Monday night had a lower-priced show, I think with the house band, and we got tickets. We hadn’t seen any live music on this trip so far and I was eager to correct that.

While waiting in the end of the long line we struck up a conversation with a couple our age-ish, out for a date night. They seemed to be from out of town, and had not posh accents which I’m learning to recognize thanks to watching BBC shows. To my surprise–a doorman from the club walked the length of the line and pulled us and the other couple out and brought us right to the front! While checking in they offered us a front-row seat upgrade for 20 pounds. We did it. I suspected he was probably grabbing people over 40 as we were more likely to spend money. I can’t think of any other reason to hustle us in! Regardless, it felt nice to get special treatment as that hasn’t happened at a club since I was in a miniskirt (and in my 20’s).

The club, music, drinks…everything was excellent and I went to bed very amazed at everything I’d seen and done in just one day.

The end of the line

Paris, Feb. 21 & 22, 2026

I had no idea there was a huge medieval castle/fortress in Paris. I only knew château de Vincennes as the last stop on one of the metro lines. S. planned this surprise day trip for all of us and I was surprised!

Construction of what was first simply a manor started in the 12th century…and the place continued to grow throughout the centuries and was at times a king’s residence, a prison (Marquis de Sade was here), arsenal, military barracks, etc. I got the impression this has been heavily restored and rebuilt throughout the ages which always makes me wonder what I’m looking at and whose hands carved the stones. I found myself searching for things that looked original and very old.

This looked pretty old, especially the tiny, creepy animals on the column

We stopped at a grocery store and boulangerie and got snack foods for lunch back at the apartment.

The view from S’s apartment

Everyone but me wanted a rest after lunch, so I went out for a walk. There’s a Parisian version of New York’s High Line (elevated train tracks converted to a park) nearby–Coulee Verte Renee Dumont. The arches under the brick structure now house shops which I remembered enjoying, but today most were closed. I went back to the Seine to see if it was still flooding and it was.

That evening we had dinner at a boisterous and delicious Italian place across the canal. R. managed to slip his credit card to the waiter secretly to pay for dinner, and S. was really angry when he found out. I’ve never seen him like that and it was upsetting. Like, he almost wrestled R.! He’d been feeding housing us for days so it seemed only polite that we treat him to dinner. ???

We slept better that night, getting the hang of the tiny bed. I woke naturally at 8 a.m. S. told me he likes to go to the farmers market early, and after the tense moment at the restaurant last night I didn’t want to be a bad guest, so I ended up being dressed and ready before he even woke up. Today was Sunday and S. cooks a special meal for lunch every Sunday, and I wanted to go with him to shop.

Our first stop was a meat market S. likes in that same covered market we went to the other day. He had the butcher hold up a cut of meat and asked me if it was enough, but I didn’t know, given I didnt know what he was cooking. I realize I have a very strange view of S. thanks to him speaking somewhat stilted English. It makes him seem hesitant and cutely thoughtful as he searches for words, but I suspect he comes across totally differently when he’s speaking French.

The outdoor market, adjacent to the covered market, was okay but not particularly charming. Seemed like every stall had the same items. S. says the produce is much cheaper than in the supermarket which is not the case in San Francisco where we pay a higher price for what we hope is higher quality fruits and veggies.

S. insisted we get a meringue pastry from Aux Merveilleux de Fred. I’d seen a huge line for this bakery in the Marais. I’ve walked by many patisseries and drooled at what I saw in the window, but these sugar balls did not appeal to me. Whipped cream sandwiched between meringue, coated in more frosting and then rolled in chocolate…even my sweet tooth has a limit and these went way beyond it.

We stopped at a boulangerie for baguettes and I got a chocolate croissant, almond croissant, and a pain aux raisin for us for breakfast. We are eating so much. Barely keeping pace with our steps. I’ll be more careful once we get out of Paris. (She says seriously. Don’t believe it!)

After breakfast I went out for a walk, across the river and through the Jardin des Plantes. Most plants were dormant but a few bulbs were popping up and they’d planted pansies to add color to the dull winter ground.

Many kids were running around as there’s a natural history museum, zoo, greenhouse, and–a mineral museum. I was very excited and paid 9 euros to go into what looked like a huge hall. There was good stuff but it was only one room and the rest of the place was closed off. Not cool! Afterwards I hurried home for lunch at 12:30.

I can’t believe nature made this! Amazing!

The house smelled great. Of course we had to have a small glass of champagne before lunch. S’s pan fried beef was very good. He cooked it with strange soft peppercorns that I really liked and need to track down. They were dry in a bag but still squishy. The potatoes were amazing–cubed and cooked in goose fat which S. has trouble getting “even in Paris.” Oh and of course bread and salad. I was so full after I took a nap, and it turned out everyone else did too. S. was reading and fell asleep in bed, C. passed out on the couch, R. in a chair. I slept for 1.5 hours! I asked petite C. what she normally eats for lunch during the week and she said an apple.

I was the last to wake up and S. was eager to take us on a walk to see the flooded Seine (which I’d been watching for days) as well as other attractions. At this point his slight stuffy nose had evolved to a full on cold with coughing and sneezing and a headache. I urged him to stay home and rest but he insisted he was fine and then spent the next two hours right next to me explaining everything we passed by. I gave up, sure I was going to catch what he had. (Miraculously I didn’t nor did R.)

We wandered until it started to rain…S. wanted us to stop for tea but i wanted to get home before the rain got worse as we had no umbrellas, and for the first time the rain was soaking through my down jacket and I was getting wet. It can absorb a lot before it gets to that point.

Weekend crowds in the 3rd arrondissment

Back at home S. and C. enthusiastically watched a rugby match, and I begged them to speak French to each other. They were politely speaking English about the game which was sweet but silly as I didn’t care about it at all. S. made butternut squash soup for dinner. The flavor was very mild, and he blamed the vendor that sold him the squash and said he’d have to go somewhere different next time. We had the Merveilleux cake for dessert. It wasn’t as sweet as I feared, and did have some flavor besides sugar, but my god. Who eats these things and why are they famous?

After we were able to gracefully leave for our hotel. It was a tough decision as we knew S. would have hurt feelings if we didn’t spend the night but our train for London left at noon and we had to be there two hours beforehand. C. was leaving to back to Dijon at 6 a.m. which meant we’d have been woken at the same time as the bathroom is right by the guest room. Finally, the thought of spending another night on the tiny bed depressed me. I did some research and found a highly-rated and inexpensive hotel right across from Gare du Nord.

S. was initially upset but I explained that we really weren’t morning people and needed to be right there or we’d miss our train. He was confused but pretty quickly accepted the decision, and probably didn’t mind having a night alone with his girlfriend.

And, we were off. Next stop London!

I talked about the secret life of Paris behind the closed double doors. Have fun in there Parisians!

Secret Paris

Paris, Feb. 20, 2026

While R. was sleeping in I went shopping for a fresh baguette, cheese, butter, and ham for our petite dejeuner. My god, there is nothing like a fresh french baguette. Even after only a few hours they change texture. But fresh…the thin crust explodes with crispness. Literally cracks and flies apart when you rip or cut it, revealing the moist fluffy interior. Ahhhhhhhh. I’d been waiting to bite into one.

We packed up and left our bags at the front desk–as we were moving to S’s apartment that afternoon. I went off on my own to speed view a gallery and a few museums. The gallery opened my eyes to a part of Paris that is hidden from view, behind the huge double doors that open onto courtyards large and small, with businesses and apartments safely out of sight of the tourists crawling the city. Once I realized this, I saw these doors everywhere and realized how Paris can still function as a place for locals despite the millions of visitors. My bleak assessment of the city eased.

Here’s a set of doors, open, with a glimpse of the treasures inside.
Most streets I walked had doors like this but closed.

To backtrack…when I got to the address of the Carpenter’s Workshop Gallery there was nothing there. No storefront, no sign. I looked back and forth from my phone to the huge closed doors, feeling annoyed that they were supposed to be open and weren’t. French lunch time? Strike? I was about to leave when a well-dressed couple walked up and pressed a buzzer I hadn’t noticed, and the big doors clicked and they pushed one open. I followed them in, abashed I’d missed the obvious, albeit very small silver plaque. There weren’t many pieces in the gallery and I didn’t stay long but my eyes had been opened to hidden Paris.

Next I went to a drawing exhibit at the Grand Palais (built for a world’s fair in 1900), mostly to see inside the building. Sadly the exhibit wasn’t in the big central, light-filled room, which was closed.

I try not to post too many pictures of art, but these portraits by Marlene Dumas really haunted me. They felt alive, trapped behind the glass. Abstract but also realistic. Fresh, quickly painted, but so masterful. (The photo below has reflections from the gallery. No way to avoid it due to the glass.)

I walked along the Seine and got my first glimpse of the Eiffel tower this trip. I forgot to mention that the river is flooding. The walkway along it is underwater which was fun to see, or not see. There were huge floods in the south west of France as well, and strangely the (U.S.-centric) news app on my phone never mentioned this. Huge–like whole towns under water. While I don’t want to follow every disaster worldwide it really makes you realize how filtered the information is that is surfaced to us.

I hadn’t realized there was a city of Paris modern art museum across the river from the Eiffel tower. I was pretty tired but I was right there so I went in and did a quick walk through. Good art, not thronged with tourists. I would spend more time there some other day.

Back at the hotel, we retrieved our bags, called a cab, and moved to our friend’s apartment on canal St. Martin. We hadn’t been there in years and the nostalgic part of me was happy that not much had changed. He immediately took us out to a historic covered market (le marché couvert Beauvau) to buy cheese for a quiche and for the cheese course. I loved the place. Turn of the century cast iron building, stone walkways, and dozens of food vendors. We bought too much cheese and S. wouldn’t let us pay.

That evening, S. and his girlfriend C. made us a delicious dinner of quiche, salad, wine, and more cheese. I sense that our French friends are always slightly alarmed by the quantity of cheese we consume during the cheese course, but we don’t have a cheese course in the U.S.! It’s amazing! Yes I want more! They are also confused that we don’t want to drink wine before during and after every meal. I think they are genetically built to handle this, but wine puts me to sleep so I have to be careful.

After a really great evening we headed to bed and…the bed was really small. Smaller than a double and R. and I are big people. This bed is totally normal for europe and we are awful big Americans but it was really hard for us to figure out how to sleep. We were shoulder to shoulder with the edge of the bed right there, every turn pulling the duvet off the other. I had a wakeful night, trying to stay still and flat.