>more weekend art and activities

The most majestic feature of the grounds is easily the cascades. Walking away from the chateau, down a series of steps, you see row after row of fountain. In the distance, a powerful geyser in the middle of a pond. Once you reach the bottom and look up, you see the fountains and the waterfalls, and hear the sound of rushing water, and are transported.

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Royal celebrations were organized along the Seine and citizens headed down to the banks to wash themselves and their clothes. But commerce was important and these frequent gatherings along the river hindered boat dockings. With the increasing needs of the city, there was a delicate balance between recreation and commerce.

From the 1750s, recreational activities were phased out while the Seine underwent many improvements to become an industrial and commercial waterway on a national level.

The exhibition “Paris Sur Seine: from the old docks to Paris Plages” invites you to discover the many faces of the river and its banks from the 18th century to today.
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The story is that, as we – I am now speaking of Parisians – have invaded their space, having built our big buildings on the dunes and marshland and in the woods and valleys that were their natural habitat, they have had no choice but to find somewhere else to live, to become city dwellers. Or might it not just be that, once we’d become acquainted, they’d become accustomed to our faces and felt lonely and lost without us and the noises we made – cell (mobile) phones ringing, vehicle engines revving up, TV blaring away even at night, and not to mention the noise that we call music these days – and had come running, or rather flying, after us?

Paris’ falcons are kestrels – falco tinnunculus. They are birds of prey, of course. I therefore presume that they are giving Paris’ rodent inhabitants a very hard life.

There is an ornithological center – CORIF – that’s monitoring Paris’ kestrels. It had started to do so in 1986 and in the 1990s noticed that the city’s kestrel community had suddenly started to increase in numbers. In 2005 it was monitoring 29 kestrel couples. Apparently kestrels form life-long opposite-sex relationships and remain faithful. This is more than can be said of France’s politicians, sadly.

CORIF says that there are now about 50 breeding kestrel couples in Paris. Where are they? With patience and a good camera you will be able to snap them nesting on the Arc de Triomphe monument, under the armpits or in the boots of its statues; between the columns and pillars of the Château de Vincennes, and on the Notre Dame Cathedral. And if you are in Paris on the weekend of 18/19 June, you will be able to watch the nesting falcons through telescopes CORIF will be setting up at the Arc de Triomphe, Vincennes Castle and behind Notre Dame Cathedral on Jean XXIII Square where there will also be an information stand.
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In and around Paris it was a river that was put to work, primarily in the tanning industry. After centuries of abuse, it had become a dead channel, clogged with blood and dyes. At the beginning of the 20th century, the city authorities decided that they had had enough, covered over the stream and directed it away from the Seine and into the city’s sewerage system.
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Back when we lived in Seattle, the first sentence out of my mouth upon entering a park was not, “Oh my God, look at all the GRASS!” That would have been a strange thing to say. But times have changed, and I truly was amazed to see the large expanses of touchable grass at theButtes Chaumont. No one blows a whistle at you, even if you pull out handfuls of grass and rub them all over your body (In our defense, we were delirious with grass freedom.)

Karin, a fellow blogger friend from An Alien Parisienne, stopped by the park for a visit. It’s “her” park; she lives nearby and likes to give any visitor she knows a quick howdy-doo when they come by (that’s not a euphemism for anything). She showed Lucien the grotto and told him it was Batman’s batcave. Loosh was nervous until he realized a grown man dressed as a bat is someone to pity, not fear.

We had a leisurely picnic lunch next to the stream. While Coco ripped apart every sandwich we made and flung the parts in all different directions, Lucien joined in with a group of boys — most of them making noise! — and ran around like little boys do. They splashed through the stream, rolled down hills, talked about poop. Even with all the little boy commotion, they didn’t attract a single stinkeye from the adults. Lots of grass and no stink-eyes? Quick, someone remind me why we’re living in the 6th.

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The guides don’t have paddles at all – they use the two steel cables you see on the left in the picture above to pull the boats along. The trip lasts about 75 minutes, and they take you past all sorts of waterfalls and rock formations. Our guide was very informative and shared a lot of information about the history of the area, and the geology of the site.

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The art of Monet moves me in a way that almost no other art does. And I don’t know why. I’m not a fan of landscape art or floral themes, but something about the scale and stroke of Monet’s work has always affected me. Perhaps it is because his water lilies were the subject of my first museum trip, at 19, a birthday gift from my mother, and never before had I seen up close the brushstrokes of an artist: so layered and so careful, so full of appreciation for their topic, physical and tactile before me. But 10 years later, years of art history classes and world travel and art making of my own behind me, the sight of a Monet still affects me the same way it did that first day. So upon my arrival in Paris, one of my goals was to visit the place that inspired him, to see for myself the natural beauty that acted as his muse.

I took the train from the Gare St. Lazare (captured by Monet) to the Vernon station, about an hour outside Paris, a trip that flies by as the architecture and bustle of Paris give way to the sylvan lushness of the countryside. Upon arrival at Vernon, I got off the train and was herded with the other tourists toward a bus going directly to la maison de Monet. It appeared to be a sardine can full of Americans. I know I’m a hypocrite for saying so, but I dreaded mounting that bus. So when I saw a sign at Bar Restaurant du Chemin de Fer (directly across from the station) that read, “Here Rent Bicycles,” I was, of course, delighted, as it was a sunny, 70 degree day. I was wearing my favorite new vintage dress and a sun hat. What could be more French than riding around town on a bike in a skirt? Warning: this café only takes cash for bike rentals (about 12–15 euros)!
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