Haze of ash and Jetlag

Wow. So were we super lucky not to get caught in the shut down of every major airport in Europe? Thank you universe for being kind. I feel for everyone waiting...and waiting.

We are settling into our urban life...but first we had to deal with housekeeping so to speak. Wireless seems unworkable so Stephen's assistant was on the phone with the internet company for quite a while. We are now truly wired - cords everywhere. How 1997. Plus trading down to a cheaper phone. Friends you recall I've been jaded about my iPhone? I am now texting on a number pad again...o.m.g. Hilarious. That banking? The nice man at reception explained that the person I needed to see would be available...on Thursday, at 10 am. How...quaint? I shall move my ducats from one account to another until she is disposed to speak with me. I forget that although we are in one of the world's foremost metropolitan areas, bureaucracy is king. I had to smile. But my franglais is coming along - I managed to buy wine, groceries, and those meringues as big as our heads today with no problem.

The kids are learning to sit patiently while we have a quick coffee. We struck out on own and ended up at Musee Carnavalet, which is right in our neighborhood. I meant to just sit in the little garden but we ended up fascinated by the permanent collection - it's the attic of Paris, a museum of the City's history. Strange paintings of grand vistas or Emperors or Kings, many many models of the Bastille, and even some of the Templar complex, which comes in handy to explain the history of our neighborhood. What I didn't expect was an emotional note - the haunting portrait of seven year old Louis XVII - the lost dauphin. The painting is not artistic nor even skillful, and the helmet head haircut doesn't help matters. Oh but those eyes. The fear follows you. It's as if that child's spirit came to rest in those painted eyes. I expected to see ghosts in the catacombs and crypts of Paris, not in a history museum. The boy died after nearly four years of imprisonment, and his heart is saved somewhere in the crypt of St. Denis. Paris has such a visceral history...I was glad we walked home through Place de Vosges, every square inch of grass covered by a living, breathing person delighted to soak in the sunlight.