Sunday, 29 June: Summer Abroad, Day 58: London Again, Day Three

Recollected a couple days later.

1) As mentioned on earlier days, the most wonderful unexpected things happen with Craig. I finished my packing in time for us to leave for Sunday mass at Westminster Cathedral. This involved taking the Underground to Green Park (“Hey, I’ve been here!” I said as I recognized the Art Deco statue of Diana at the exit), through which we walked to Buckingham Palace, and then . . .

2) . . . and then our progress was arrested as traffic along the Mall was entirely blocked off for an indefinite period for what I hoped would be a marching band. It was very hot in the sun, but at least we were at the curb (there was a discussion about the different definitions of “pavement”) and we could be first out of the gate when allowed.

A much better view than I had a few weeks ago leaving the King’s Gallery!

3) And then there they were! Unless it’s a waltz, there’s nothing I love more than a good old-fashioned John Philip Sousa-style band, and that’s exactly what we got. I think they even played “Mademoiselle from Armentières.” At least I hope they did. And we got a great view of them as they marched off to our left . . . and again 15 minutes later as they marched back the way they’d come.

3a) In that 15 minutes, more than a few people were getting impatient about crossing the street, especially cyclists. There were some cycling around the Queen Victoria monument in that traffic circle, but not where we were on the Mall. One cyclist tried to muscle through us to the road anyway. “The officers are flagging bikers,” I said. “But what about them?!” he asked, pointed at the cyclists by Victoria. “That’s not my fault.” He went on anyway.

4) There was great rejoicing when the crosswalks were opened again, and Craig and I made tracks to get to the cathedral before mass started. That meant barreling between people posing for photos and their family/friend photographers. “Nobody cares,” I heard one woman lament as we zoomed past.

And here they come again! Craig observed that a good drum major was shift course enough that they could dodge what I recalled the Boston Brahmins used to refer to as “horse apples.”

5) We made the enormous cathedral with a few minutes to spare. The place was quite full. Craig pointed out the Byzantine interior decorations that stop halfway up the walls because they ran out of money (as happens). I actually think it works as it is; how odd, me advocating for restraint! But I noticed most the primary color scheme: the midnight blue walls and ceiling, the columns of yellow marble around the altar with dark green bases, and the red carpet and altar cloth. Sorry, no photos.

5a) Craig also explained that red was the proper liturgical color of the day as it was the feast day of martyrs, Saints Peter and Paul.

5b) When, during the homily, the priest began “Pride is a word that’s in vogue right now,” I silently raised one eyebrow.

5c) The music was beautifully done, and I was lost in thought with my eyes closed when the collection bag made it to our pew. How embarrassing not to be ready!

6) After the service, it was definitely time to think about food, and we ended up at a place not too far away called Bill’s, where I tucked into a full English washed down with an aperol spritz.

7) In the late afternoon, with all my luggage, I sallied forth to find a taxi to my final hotel. A sign of my impatience, I just thought we would never get there. And it was so very hot.

8) My Final Hotel is quite close to Kensington Palace, and my room is small but with a very high ceiling, basic but cozy.

9) Craig met me at the Ivy (quite close to my hotel) for a very swish dinner. It made a nice celebration for the official start to the last leg of my trip.

10) Afterward we took a little stroll through Kensington Gardens in the hopes that the Princess Diana Garden would be open. Alas, it was not; its hours are probably tied to those of the Palace. But it was nice to be in this beautiful, not too carefully manicured public garden.

10a) On one side of Kensington Palace is a wrought-iron fence enclosing an area with a statue of William of Orange. I was surprised to see the gate and the fence on that side covered in signs and tributes of Princess Diana, in advance of her July 1 birthday. There was even a beautiful floral heart made of white flowers with a centerpiece of pink roses and green and white-striped leaves. I was surprised it was permitted, but then when it comes to the People’s Princess, the People are going to have their say no matter what.

Saturday, 28 June: Summer Abroad, Day 57: London Again, Day Two

Recollected a couple days later.

1) Craig was keen for me to see the Borough Market near London Bridge, so after some tea and toast off we went to a Foodie Paradise teeming with people. I was so busy seeing it all that I never took photos! Under and around a bridge, a maze of every kind of food: cheeses, paellas in enormous pans, bushels of baked goods, artisanal oils and vinegars, chocolate, you name it. I am still thinking of some creme brulée doughnuts I didn’t get to try, but I have time to go back.

2) Then we got on the Underground to explore the same kind of experience in Camden Town, at the market there — which turned out to be more like a very large version of Shop Therapy in P’town. And much more crowded, oppressively so. But it was just about noon, and I talked Craig into joining me in a frozen negroni offered by a distiller there. “Frozen negroni” sounded like “negroni slushie” to me, but it was really a pre-mixed negroni in a paper cup with a very large ice cube. Nevertheless . . . not unwelcome.

On the Camden Town canal.

3) About five minutes after Craig pointed out the fresh gull poop on the canal railing and told me not to put my hand in it . . . I put my hand in it.

4) The other advantage of Camden Town was proximity to Primrose Hill, which I had never seen, and the Shakespeare Oak — which was doubly appropriate considering our evening plans. Walking there, we were delighted to find a pub called The Engineers with Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s portrait as its logo (but they were understaffed and only serving food for parties with reservations; I give them points for honesty).

The Shakespeare Oak.

5) Primrose Hill had attracted more people than just us, and we had a nice chat on the summit with a Couple Older Than I from Liverpool who had come down for the day. And I was amused to see a little girl, obviously new to walking, nearly get out of reach of her grandmother (?) as she started to toddle downhill.

5a) We shortly followed suit to the Shakespeare Oak, which Craig explained was not the original Shakespeare Oak, but a replacement that had been planted by no less than Dame Edith Evans Herself. I did my best to remember bits of the Bard I had known — “But if the while I think on thee, dear friend//All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end,” “If music be the food of Love, play on! Give me excess of it, that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die” — but it’s been a long time since I paid active attention to Shakespeare.

5b) We weren’t the only ones there. I particularly noticed a big ol’ drooling dog, who belonged to a couple Men Younger Than I nearby talking, who clearly wanted someone to Throw the Ball. One of the men, in fact, had a plastic stick with a cup on the end for exactly that purpose, so he didn’t have to touch the ball — which was really good, since that doggie was drooling a tidal wave.

6) A pub called The Albert did for lunch, somehow full of families on this Saturday afternoon. We sat in a sort of anteroom between the pub and the back garden (complete with apple tree), at one of three tables. A father and his little boy were playing cards at one of the other tables until the boy became inconsolable as friends were leaving for home. After that his mother gave him his pillow, and his tears gradually subsided.

7) For some reason there was an awful crowd at Camden Town underground, and we chose to walk to St. Pancras, which was ultimately the right decision, despite the heat.

Just before the start of the second half; Shakespeare may have five acts, but this theatre presented them in two halves. Theatre in the round.

8) But the main event of the day was yet to come: the Bridge Theatre’s new production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a once-in-a-generation theatre sensation. I haven’t been so excited by live theatre in such a long time! Days later it’s still the most exciting jumble: Hippolyta presented in a glass case as a museum exhibit, the rude mechanicals costumed in bright-colored workmen’s jumpsuits, the fairies cast as burlesque dancers (male and female), the astonishing acrobatics of most of the cast working with aerial silks, and 1,001 line readings. Listening to the actors, I felt I was hearing the entire play for the first time*.

8a) Which is all the more significant since I played Demetrius with the Little Theatre long ago in Lago di Carlo. I had even forgotten that “The course of true love never did run smooth” came from Midsummer, and one of my favorite throwaway lines from all Shakespeare, Hermia’s “I am amazed and know not what to say.”

9) I was buzzing after the show, and we walked along the riverbank by Tower Bridge among the nighttime crowd — not just from the theatre, from all over — which helped me to come back to myself a bit before ending the day.

*In the words of the late Addison DeWitt, “A dull cliché.”

Monday, 30 June: Summer Abroad, Day 59: London Again, Day Four

I’ll cover the weekend later; apologies for the delay. Too busy living it to write it down!

1) In my dream I had animals, one of which was a large tadpole sort of thing with 1,000 eyes — like that monster in the animations of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. To see it suddenly with all its eyes open was quite a shock!

2) The irony of being so glad to be back in a country where I spoke the principal language is that the Final Hotel’s coffee machine and the original language of the breakfast room attendant are not English. Nevertheless, there was coffee.

3) Kensington High Street feels very familiar after previous stays in London (2019, 2023), which it was a pleasure to reflect on as I walked to my first order of business, a much-needed haircut and beard trim. My barber turned out to be a Sardinian who has been in London for 12 years and England much longer, and we talked a lot about travel, particularly a trip he made to Mexico.

Fresh cut!

3a) I’m very happy with the results; my head looks much more organized.

4) My Interlochen friend Bootsie had suggested I visit Leighton House when I came to London in 2019, which I did — and I loved it. Staying so nearby (it’s on the other side of Holland Park), I went back. Since 2019 they have added a little café and allowed photographs of the interiors. It was wonderful to be there on this very hot day, as almost no one else had decided to visit!

The stair hall as seen through the Narcissus Hall. Lord Leighton very clearly stole my life.

4a) Leighton House, the home of Frederick Lord Leighton, the great Victorian artist, is a little gem of a maximalist Orientalist paradise, celebrating rich colors, tile work, and carving — and peacock feathers. The sound of the little water tassel in the Arab Room communicated coolness. Upstairs in the Silk Room I got to have a nice chat with the guide on duty.

4b) In the temporary gallery they had mounted a small show from the bequest of a collector of Victorian art named Chester French. Something he was quoted saying struck a chord with me: “Edward Burne-Jones’s drawings are beyond everything . . . but I wake o’ nights thinking how mad it is to live with pictures when one’s house is going to decay and civilisation is surely going. And yet, and yet . . . ” I took this as a sign that, during our National Moment, it remains vital to continue to celebrate, create, and safeguard what is beautiful, in the face of everything.

The dome of the Arab Room.

4c) In the little café I had a sandwich and a glass of wine for remarkably little money, and with practically no company at all. I may have to go back there.

5) From there, on a whim, I headed into the Design Museum, where their special exhibition, Splash!, focused on swimming and style over the last 100 years. While there was an awful lot of swimsuits — from “sunback” bathing suits and speedos to burkinis — they also covered architecture, ecology, and politics. A fascinating show.

It’s a towel and a cape!

5a) Feeling my energy flagging, I restored myself with a cappuccino and a chocolate brownie in their top floor Design Kitchen. Just the ticket as . . .

MARY!

6) . . . suddenly I was meeting Craig at the National Portrait Gallery. Poor Craig, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into, because there was something or someone for me to get excited about at every turn. Apparently my Gasps of Recognition were heard throughout, but, well . . . if you can’t get excited about seeing something beautiful unexpectedly, you’re dead inside.

The Coronation Portrait!

6a) There was a gallery of Tudors, basically the casts of The Private Life of Henry VIII and Fire Over England. There was a gallery of Stuarts, including several of the folks I’d just read about in Queen James. Princess Charlotte (first edition)! Queen Adelaide! Ada Lovelace! Queen Victoria’s father, the Duke of Kent! Lord Byron, Mary Shelley, and Dr. Polidori! Mrs. Siddons! Jenny Lind! John Wesley! Fanny Kemble! Pocahantas! Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench! And on and on.

National Treasures!

6b) Her late Majesty by Annigoni!

Maharajah Duleep Singh by Spy.

6c) Earlier this year I read Sophia: Princess, Suffragette, Revolutionary about Princess Sophia Duleep Singh. And wouldn’t you know it, there were four portraits of people from her life: her father Maharajah Duleep Singh, her eldest brother Victor, and her suffragette friends Christabel and Emmeline Pankhurst.

6d) THAT WOMAN! I certainly wasn’t expecting to see her . . . but that portrait is one of her very best.

6e) I Gasped with Recognition over favorite portraitists, too, when I recognized their work: John Singer Sargent, Giovanni Boldini, my beloved Philip de Lazslo, Sir William Orpen.

6f) I was practically melting down with delight — no, not the heat.

7) After all that stimulation, turns out it was the cocktail hour. We drifted in roughly the direction of Seven Dials, dallying a bit in I forget which square which was broadcasting opening day coverage of Wimbledon. People on the grass and in lawn chairs eagerly watching the action on screen!

7a) We ended up at a standard pub, ordered drinks, and Considered Many Things. One of which, after a bit, turned out to be dinner. And after a bit of wandering, wouldn’t you know it, we ended up back at that food court where the cheese conveyor belt is. But this time we went to a Syrian place for some excellent lamb.

8) Afterward, I wandered to Tottenham Court Road to take the Central Line home. This involved a lovely leisurely walk through Kensington Gardens, which is now my neighborhood park. Joggers, strollers, families, sunbathers (even at that hour), dogs and their humans.

9) I finished out the day sitting in the hotel breakfast room by an open window, writing this, and contemplating all the Big Issues.

The gigantic Sir John Lavery family portrait of the Windsors (minus most of the boys).

Friday, 27 June: Summer Abroad, Day 56: London Again, Day One

Recollected on Sunday evening.

1) My day began unexpectedly early when, rolling to my left side, a millisecond’s familiar gathering of tension resulted in the usual excruciating cramp in my right calf.

2) I showered and dressed and wrote my pages in the hotel lobby’s Caffé Nero.

3) With this my last morning in Bloomsbury, it was also the last convenient day to visit the Warburg Institute a block or two away. (As mentioned in a previous entry, the Warburg has interested me since I read about its 1934 move from Hamburg to London in The Exiles.) So off I went, and was pleased indeed to have the chance. Their special exhibition on tarot cards had closed only days before my arrival in May, which made me sad. But now they had on view an exhibition about artists’ books which offered me a few facets of original thinking I wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

3a) Tech Rant Incoming: Decks of tarot cards were offered for sale in a case in the lobby, and I was interested in getting one. But the attendant at the door said I had to fill out an order online; she couldn’t just take my card and hand me a deck. So I completed an order on the phone and paid for it, showed the completed order to the attendant, and received my new tarot deck (which is great). Later that afternoon, I got an email from “the appropriate department for processing” asking when I could come and collect my order. She was so happy when I explained that I already had it.

Virginia Woolf in Tavistock Square.

4) The time came for me to check out. The day before one of the guys I knew on the front desk led me to believe they could flag a cab for me (one of my phobias), but when I mentioned it to his colleague, she said in the nicest way possible, “You do it.”

4a) The result was that after seven anxious minutes I managed to flag a cab with an experienced cabbie who enjoys debate on issues like religion and philosophy (NB: it’s not my favorite thing), and we had quite a discourse over the din of London traffic. I was kind of sorry my dad wasn’t able to talk with him.

5) My destination was on the other side of the Thames, near Tower Bridge. I mistook where I was supposed to go, and ended up with all my luggage on a green where an American marching band was performing — because who knew, it’s Marching Band Week in London. And they were pretty awesome!

Flag corps is flagging while the band is banding.

6) “Just follow the music” I texted my host. Before long, I heard “Arranged for your arrival!” as Craig came around the corner to collect me — though we stayed a few minutes for more music. Yes, Craig was my weekend host, and as Mammy said in GWTW, “It sure is good to see home folks.” We stowed my luggage and headed off to the Underground.

Cheese!

7) We met a friend of Craig’s at what I think of as the Automat of the 21st Century, Pick & Cheese, a conveyor belt of servings of cheese and other savory type goodies (but 90% cheese). Is this not novel? A little challenging at first to read the numbered metal tags on each glass dome describing the contents while having a conversation, but one does get the hang of it.

Puppets!

8) This was by Seven Dials, where a crowd was gathering as we left. At Craig’s suggestion we lingered to see what all the fuss was about, and it turned out to be a street performance of a stampede of cardboard animal puppets from the new musical Roald Dahl’s Matilda. Completely unexpected, completely wonderful.

9) We kept walking, through Trafalgar Square and down Whitehall. Passing the Raffles OWO (for Old War Office), Craig suggested we go in and take a look. Big surprise, a hotel ambassador took us under his wing and gave us a good 20-minute tour, including a couple of the exceedingly high end suites, the ballroom, and finally their 007 speakeasy in the basement. Lots of history stories, lots of hotel design/development stories — just fascinating.

9a) We stayed for a Vesper martini each in the speakeasy (not on the hotel’s tab), which was perhaps the most succulent martini I’ve had in awhile.

10) By then we had to make tracks to get to our true destination for the evening, a performance of the Verdi Requiem at St. Giles-without-Cripplegate. The sun was really coming down in force at this point in the evening, and approaching the church I noticed outside the line of audience members waiting to get in, and the long line of choristers in black waiting to make their entrance, too.

Milton’s bust at the back of the church (not the statue at the end of our row).

10a) The church itself is of great interest, but the person of most relevance to me that evening was John Milton, who was buried in the church, and whose statue was at the end of our row. I also noticed a wall monument to Sir Martin Frobisher, of whom I had never heard, but was apparently a hero in the battle against the Spanish Armada back in 1588.

10b) The concert itself was powerful, magnificent, delicate, nuanced — magnificent. Watching the ten rows of ten choristers, I was interested to see who expressed the emotions of the music unconsciously through their faces as well as their voices.

11) Following, we had dinner outside at a little Thai restaurant with a very floral gin and tonic for me. This was a day full of unexpected surprises — and the expected events delivered, too!

Weds-Thurs, 25-26 June: Summer Abroad, Days 53-54: Vienna to London

“As the years roll on,

After youth has gone,

You will remember Vienna!

Nights that were happy and hearts that were free,

All joined in singing a sweet melody . . .”

“You Will Remember Vienna,” by Oscar Hammerstein II and Sigmund Romberg

1) On a travel day, one of my limitations is just not being able to think about anything but the travel. That may be why I prefer to book my transport early in the morning. This time, my train didn’t depart until 6:30 PM — and I just didn’t have it in me to consider cramming one more museum or attraction or café into my time. So all I really did during the day was step out for my morning coffee and pastry, finish my packing (straining every seam of every bag), write, and watch Topsy-Turvy from 1999. After all, I was returning to London . . .

2) I figured out how to manage the subway with all my bags all the way back to the train station, but the key, it turned out, was not asking Gyygle how to get to the train station.

3) Wandering the station after getting a sandwich, I spotted the sign “Lounge.” Did I qualify with my ticket? Turns out I did, and I was able to get away from the mob for half an hour, and avoid the pay toilet.

4) The next time I come to Vienna I’m really going to have to study some German before I get there. I felt the lack several times, but especially in trying to figure out where my car and seat were on the train, only to find out that the train on the track was not the correct train, which would be arriving after this one left.

4a) That said, DB does not include carriage and seat numbers on their online tickets the way Eurostar does, and it’s a problem for more people than just me. I know, because several of us ended up in the same car, and we took the advice someone gave me en route to Vienna: just sit down until someone tells you to move.

4b) Auf wedersehn, Wien! I feel like I didn’t get to experience half your charms, but I hope to return.

Somewhere Austro-German.

5) The first leg of the trip was from Vienna to Munich, then Munich to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Paris, and finalmente, Paris to London. A long overnight trip, 20 hours, but believe it or not, I wanted to do this. I just fancied it would be more direct . . .

5a) The attendant from Vienna to Munich served me an excellent schnitzel and was really plugging the white wine, but I knew it would be unwise to overindulge.

5b) Between Munich and Frankfurt — midnight to 4:40 AM — I really wanted to sleep. But the lights were kept determinedly bright, music would leak from people’s personal devices, and one couple behind me would occasionally burst out into German conversation with their Outside Voices.

Munich Station at 5:00 AM.

5c) I had an hour between trains in Munich, a very early-morning hour wandering this very large glass shed jeweled with brightly lit chain bakeries and peopled with tourists, homeless, and half a dozen burly polizei.

5d) Inexplicably, I caught a bit of a second wind between Munich and Paris, mustering enough energy to finish The Greedy Queen (quite interesting, actually) and make some notes for the final leg of my time abroad. The attendant brought me coffee, and then brought me coffee again later.

6) Now Paris . . . Paris was a mob scene. Getting from the Gare de l’Est to the Gare du Nord was not a problem. One takes an escalator to the second level for security for the trains to London. And when I got to the top of the escalator, I was, um, surprised that so many people had to fit into so small a space — and for a train earlier than mine that was supposed to be leaving in 45 minutes. Long story short, it was a cattle call, and it took forever.

6a) When one of those passport scanning machine thingies failed on me after two attempts, I was pulled aside to speak to the UK border control agent personally. But everything was handled courteously.

6b) Once I finally got through security, there was barely anyplace to move among all these shoals of travelers, all with large numbers of bags on wheels — just as I was. And it was especially tough noticing people having to negotiate all this in wheelchairs, with canes, with a knee scooter.

6c) What was announced was that a train had arrived late from London. What was on the email I got later announced “over-running maintenance work.” The result was that an extra train’s worth of passengers was crammed into the waiting rooms, and there was no place to sit.

6d) When my train was called, I was near the start of the group that would enter first, which began with a few people who had mobility issues. I was especially concerned for one elderly man with a cane, unsteady on his feet, traveling with a family group of five or six, and having to get on one of those escalator ramps. He managed it, but it was tense for a few moments.

7) My car was full, and shortly before we started, a Frenchman out of view behind a divider starting having a loud phone conversation in French. And then a second phone conversation. More people than just I noticed it, and I was naughtily considering calling out “Mais non, je t’entends bien!” when he finished his call.

7a) I made notes for my trip until I was served a lovely little lunch — some little bits of chicken in cous cous, a roll with butter, and a cube of something like strawberry cheesecake — and white wine, and then coffee. So of course it’s understandable that I might have slept soundly through most of this part of the trip.

8) The area in and around St. Pancras was just as crowded as the Gare du Nord, but the familiarity of the neighborhood felt so comfortable. Victor, my guy at the front desk, remembered me and upgraded me to a sunny room overlooking the front of the hotel. I promptly fell asleep for a few hours.

9) Tomorrow I collect my other suitcase and change accommodations for the penultimate time on this summer abroad. My return home is becoming visible on the horizon . . .

Tuesday, 24 June: Summer Abroad, Day 52: Vienna, Day Nine

1) I attempted the Café Savoy again, this time for breakfast — but I got there just after 9:30, and they didn’t open until 10 AM, which somehow just doesn’t seem reasonable on a weekday. So I strolled about, and imagine my surprise when I found myself someplace vaguely familiar with a tree and tables and chairs underneath it. My goodness, the Café Sperl! What on earth is it doing here?! I took it as a sign that I should colonize a table outside.

1a) And what a very lovely way to spend a morning, living out the stereotypical American expatriate fantasy of living in Europe: sitting at a café table outdoors writing. (To fulfill the fantasy completely, it should have been a marble-topped table. Details, details . . . ) The air was cool, the sunlight dappling, my little corner fairly protected by shrubs in tubs. And the waiter was agreeably slim and smiling, my coffees were perfect, the butter and homemade raspberry jam on my two rolls exactly right.

1b) I wasn’t just writing, but also texting with a couple friends. The photo I snapped to send one made me look sloppy and stoned. Oh well, in the words of the late Bill Sampson, “Everybody can’t be Gregory Peck.”

2) Still, I had gotten there just before 10 AM, and I left about 11:45. Quite a long time to linger over two coffees and two rolls with butter and jam — but it was one of the loveliest experiences of my entire trip, not just in Vienna.

3) To leaven all the baroque/Rococo/what-have-you Hapsburginess of my trip, I went off to the Kunst Haus Wien, a museum designed by and dedicated to Friedensreich Hundertwasser. I sort of remembered being taken to view the exterior on that 2014 trip, but we hadn’t toured the museum itself.

3a) And there would have been one very good reason for that: the floors are as lumpy as the sea at high tide, by design. From their website: “Hundertwasser considered the architecture of KunstHausWien ‘a stronghold against the false order of the straight line, a bastion against the grid system and the chaos of nonsense.’” So you can’t just walk anywhere; you need to be aware, and woe betide anyone with mobility issues.

Model of a housing development that wasn’t designed because of fear of tourism. (I agree.)

3a.i) Back in graduate school when I was working at the Weekly Newspaper Chain, one of the projects I was responsible for getting printed was the annual calendar, a large-format piece printed in bulk and distributed by the sales team to all the advertisers. The first year I was involved, the designer was married to the idea of reversing the usual calendar grid. She absolutely insisted on putting the days on the left, from bottom to top, and the weeks on top. She convinced the powers that be that to reject this idea was to reject her validity as a designer and as a person. The result: no one who was given the calendar actually used it, because they had to think actively about something that should have been obvious if it had been designed for the user. So while it is, um, interesting to walk across an unevenly wavy floor, it’s not without hazard, and it actively excludes those in wheelchairs or otherwise walking with assistance.

3b) Does that mean no one should visit the Kunst Haus? Absolutely not! It’s a very interesting window into the life and work of an activist artist, Hundertwasser, and some of his innovations in printmaking, ecology, design, and painting. I’m glad I got to go, and that I was reasonably light on my feet to get through without incident (though there were a couple moments . . . )

3c) In the galleries for temporary exhibitions on the top floor was a show called Antimatter Factory by Mika Rottenberg. Her kinetic sculptures recalled for me the wonderful works of Arthur Ganson seen at the MIT Museum, but hers often involved living things, like potatoes in glasses of water sprouting vines. And her mushrooms lit from within — I rather wished there was one in the shop!

3d) There is a little indoor/outdoor café there, and — because I had slept so badly — I was already starting to feel a little woozy. Nothing a bottle of sparkling water and a Croque des connaisseurs sandwich couldn’t help, possibly the first knife and fork sandwich of the trip.

4) My informal plan then led me down some barren neighborhood streets, past a church, alongside the Danube Canal, and over a bridge to the mall — and there was a place there that had Falke socks. Mission: accomplished.

5) The top tier of the Tourist Pantheon of Vienna must include (in random order) Mozart, Sisi, Klimt, Strauss the Waltz King, and sachertorte. The tier below that is probably (again, in random order) Maria Theresa (or Theresia, I’m not here to judge you), the Vienna State Opera, Marie Antoinette, World War II, Wiener Werkstatte, coffee culture, and anything mit Schlag. After that, depending on your depth of knowledge, comes Freud, the Vienna Boys Choir, the rest of the Hapsburgs, and schnitzel.

5a) Of that pantheon, one thing had been notably lacking during my stay. A friend had suggested that I visit Mozart’s apartment, and quite by chance it showed up on my route from the mall to Café Demel. If you love Mozart, you must visit. This is the apartment he actually lived in! The entire building of four floors is a museum, and it is dense with information — about Mozart himself, his music, his domestic life, and about everyone living with him at any given time over the three years he lived here, including his wife, father, students, and his librettist Da Ponte. I found the audioguide especially dense with information, like a slice of delicious cake cut so thickly that it can’t be finished.

6) From there I trekked easily to the Café Demel, where I needed to pick up a couple things. And from there, I hobbled to the subway and back to my room.

Did Klimt have something to do with this?

7) I spent my last evening in Vienna in the hotel restaurant writing over a glamorous bowl of tomato soup (seriously, the wide lip of the soup bowl was gold-plated — what on earth?!) and a club sandwich and a Campari spritz. And I will turn to my packing later; laundry will wait until London. This is not a very, shall we say, Viennese way of concluding this leg of my trip. But aside from the spontaneity of my ending up here in the first place, I’m just wiped out. I hope to return to Vienna again some day, but when I do, I’ll have planned it out much further in advance.

Monday, 23 June: Summer Abroad, Day 52: Vienna, Day Eight

1) Sometimes the payoff for being wakeful in the night is setting the alarm ahead one hour and having absolutely blissful sleep in that hour.

2) That’s not to say I bounded out of bed at 8:30 “sizzling with zeal” as the late Charles Fillmore said. Except for going across the street for my coffee and croissant, I didn’t get out and about until noon.

3) Today’s light focus was on shopping, first to get postcards for a friend of my sister’s who collects them from all over the world, and then to Knize for cologne. My progress was hampered first by the subway, “operating on one track in some sections,” which created delays. Did I mention they don’t really air-condition public transportation here? I ended up getting off at a stop where I sort of knew where I was, and ended up getting a bit lost, even with ye Gyygle backing me up. This is your opportunity to cue Judi Dench as Eleanor Lavish: “Two lone females in an unknown city; now that’s what I call and adventure!” And also “Inhale, my dear. Deeper! Now that’s what I call a true Florentine smell.”

4) Which gets me back on topic. Knize first came to my attention in the 1980s when ye Cyswyll-Myssey* opened up at Costly Space. They printed wonderful Victorian-inspired catalogs then (that the saleslady told me everyone loved, but not enough to buy anything), and they included some of the scents from Knize. The firm is, in fact, one of the most respected haberdashers in Vienna (and the world) since they first opened in 1858.

4a) And because I am who I am, I remembered finding Vicki Baum’s sequel to Grand Hotel, Hotel Berlin ’43, and that one of the characters (an old lady hiding her yellow star) was wearing something from Knize. I had to look it up: “Tilli kept on staring at Sim’s mother. That’s the suit Knize made for her in ’31, she thought. Good clothes will tell. But, God, how she looks otherwise. Sim’s mother nodded and opened her mouth in a grimace that was meant to be a smile. ‘Yes, Tilli,’ she said gently. ‘We’ve changed. Both of us.’” But I still remembered it.

4b) So I was not shopping for suits, but to get a small vial of cologne, even though I was dressed like a tourist in T-shirt and shorts, and lost in the heat of an early summer day in a city where I don’t speak the language.

4c) These ritzy stores can be very intimidating, but I didn’t have to penetrate much beyond the narrow entry to get what I wanted. In fact the small entrance was mostly taken up by a man trying on a pair of pajamas and his wife and the saleslady assisting them. I could barely see in the more expansive rear of the store. And then another saleslady came out, and they had exactly what I was looking for right there at the register.

5) The other event of the day was to go to dinner at a gay café that had been recommended to me, the Café Savoy, which was not too far from my hotel. Having had an extremely heavy NAP — when the alarm when off I genuinely wasn’t sure if it was 6:45 AM or PM — and apparently I’d slept through a real gully washer. The sky looked freshly rinsed, the air was cool, and the streets were running with water. No complaints, it was needed!

5a) In 2015, on my first vacation in San Francisco, I remember standing at the intersection of Bush and Stockton, eager to get a photograph of the street signs because that’s where Miles Archer had been murdered in The Maltese Falcon. But I was kept from taking that photo by the speedy approach of a woman with large flying hair, a total stranger obviously very eager to have a conversation with me which would, I knew, include a request for money. I fled. Coming out of the subway, I saw a building façade that interested me enough to take a photo. But I was kept from taking that photo by the approach of a Man Younger Than I very eager to interest me in his music, and nothing would dissuade him. You have probably seen him at every comicon and/or science fiction convention ever, which is all the description needed. I fled.

5b) The Café Savoy was agreeably Viennese, shabby, and gay — but without any empty tables for dinner, alas for me. So I wandered this new neighborhood, freshened by the rain but mostly empty, until I found someplace suitable, had a good dinner, and returned home without other musicians accosting me.

6) And I finished writing all this at the hotel bar with a negroni. Groundbreaking.

A rain-cleaned Pride crosswalk. Vienna is full of Pride rainbows.

*Apologies to those who find my lapses into faux-medieval irritating. The key is, I pretty much substitute Y for any given vowel.

Sunday, 22 June: Summer Abroad, Day 51: Vienna, Day Seven

1) Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to wake up to the news of the bombing of Iran. Returning from the bathroom at 6:30 in the morning, I just thought I’d check my phone quickly, little wotting something so important that it would not be possible to get back to sleep.

2) I did a tarot reading for myself, got dressed in full canonicals, and went over to the little café at the subway station (which has become a regular stop for me) for a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. It’s funny, a) I’m drinking less coffee on this vacation than I do at home (unless at a hotel buffet, where I feel obligated to get value for money), and b) having brought along a two-month supply of my preferred sweetener packets, I forget them so often I either just use regular sugar or do without.

After the service.

3) A dear friend had advised me to go to the Augustinerkirche for Sunday Mass because of their music program, so wouldn’t you know it, it led me right back to the Hofburg. Seating in the church is in three long sections, two central and one to the left. When I arrived at 10:30 for the 11 AM High Mass, the two central sections were 3/4 full and the section to the left was nearly empty. I took a seat in the back half of the central section, on the aisle in an old wooden pew for four. The church was tall and light and hung with gold or brass chandeliers at different heights, all outfitted with electric candles but turned off. That was no matter; the church was amply lit by the enormous windows in the left wall.

3a) I honor the legacy of my father when I put on a suit and tie to go to church; he believed in dressing well, especially for church. The result today was that I was the most splendidly dressed man in Vienna, though I did notice a couple other gentlemen in suits as the mass got under way. Most of the congregation was dressed for tourism: short-sleeved shirts, khakis or varying lengths, and a lot of backpacks.

3a.i) But was this congregation only tourists? Afterwards I did see people embracing each other like old friends which made me think they were Actual Parishioners — but it must be very challenging for them to have to welcome a horde of strangers who are, perhaps, more motivated by Musical Enjoyment than Christian Worship.

3b) By 10:50 the church was full, including the arrival of three or four people in wheelchairs, who were stationed in the aisle to my left.

3c) Little flurries of music, like the organ or another instrument being tuned, gave encouragement, but then I knew the mass would be starting as the chandeliers were turned on, in groups of three or four, from the front of the church to the back. It’s not like we needed the light, but they definitely added brilliance to the scene.

3d) A procession of many priestly people, the four priests at the end glittering evenly of gold embroidered into their green vestments.

3e) The service was conducted entirely in German, though I knew enough German to tell that the homily took its points from Peanuts with a lot of references to Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and Linus.

3e,i) But speaking of languages, the €10 cost estimate per person to provide the music program was printed in three languages in the bulletin. Good for them, managing expectations.

3f) The mass chosen by the music director was the Oboe Mass by Michael Haydn, who it turns out was the younger brother of the more famous Joseph Haydn. I’d never heard of Michael Haydn or his Oboe Mass, and it was a beautiful experience to hear it performed as as mass, in a church, rather than as a concert.

3f.i) During the music, I noticed a white man of perhaps my age standing in front of a column in the center of the church looking up at the organ loft. Dressed in a black trousers and a rumpled, untucked white shirt, I discerned that he was somehow connected with the music ensemble. Undoubtedly he made his report to the organist after the service.

3g) This was definitely a day to pray for peace, and I could recognize the names of places that need it in the prayers of the faithful.

3h) For a church that full, they got through Communion in fairly quick time, with one team at the main altar, and one team in the center of the church. This led to a bit of confusion, as three lines formed where there should have been two, but it all got sorted out.

3g) For the recessional they gave us another piece I’d never heard of, a toccata by Joseph Jongen, both silvery and stern at the beginning, and progressing to the Expected Frantic Ecstasy at the end.

4) With the service over, I felt I could now look over the church and take pictures. (To do so beforehand would not have been respectful, though that didn’t stop a few people.) The church is beautiful, and by lingering I was able to see the Canova-designed monument, the altar with the painting of Karl, the last Hapsburg emperor — and the bonus of seeing the chandeliers turned off.

5) The service had taken 90 minutes and the day had become very hot as I walked to the Café Mozart for lunch. My Friend Who Knows Vienna had recommended it for “a Third Man vibe,” and indeed, it was more postwar than the other Established Viennese Cafés I’d been to. I definitely preferred a table inside, and ordered a couple aperol spritzes to go with my schnitzel and, eventually, a slice of chocolate hazelnut torte.

The Strauss Memorial.

6) There was nothing for it but to go back to my room for a NAP. I had no way to string two thoughts next to each other! And when I woke up sometime after 4, I also knew I couldn’t just stay in my room or hang around the hotel neighborhood; my time in Vienna was starting to wind down. So into town I returned, and found myself at the Stadtpark, where the Viennese were disporting themselves in shade and sun, singly and in groups. One group of young women near the Strauss memorial were painting Frida Kahlo portraits. I strolled about, taking in the scene, sometimes sitting on a bench to write down a reminder to myself about something.

6a) I was trying to stay out of the sun, still a bit fierce, as my Donauinsel hike the day before had given me an honest-to-God farmer’s tan. I must say, it makes me feel old.

6b) Entering the park I heard a clarinet playing to a recorded background. In a city known for Mozart, Strauss, Schubert, Léhar — all of whom have monuments in this park (I think) — what was he playing? You guessed it, “My Heart Will Go On” from Titanic. Well, the locals must need a break from all that operetta once in awhile, and I guess tourists love the familiar. 😉

6c) My strolling took me out of the park and down the Ringstrasse, to a vandalized monument to Karl L****r, “a controversial politician.” As mayor of Vienna back in the day, he was responsible for modernizing city administration, transportation, and utilities. But he was also a nationalist and an anti-Semite. So his monument, which was put up in 1926, has been covered with graffiti and enormous splashes of black paint. The latter, to me, give a powerful new interpretation to the friezes of workmen along the base.

6d) There was a promising looking café at that intersection, but walking in I didn’t like the vibe. So I got back on the tram to ride around the Ringstrasse. And after awhile, I noticed the track wasn’t really moving in a ring any more . . . and where the hell was I? Time to disembark and retrace my steps on foot down a quiet evening street of open sweet shops and closed businesses.

6e) But then I found myself in the most beautiful rose garden! Many Viennese sitting on the benches in the evening light, a large group of tourists having their photo taken together. A man playing songs from the American songbook on a keyboard by a fountain. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s the Hofburg. It’s like my North Star, it always turns up.

6d) I found myself in a restaurant on a shopping street, where the waiter spoke as much English as I did German. But I enjoyed my dinner, and my “chocolate cake in a shirt,” which was really a warm chocolate cake covered in chocolate sauce, with a side of Schlag decorated with almonds, and the most perfect sphere of vanilla ice cream in its own delicately-sized dish on the side.

7) So often in Vienna I do my sightseeing during the day and hole up in my room at night. How lovely to see downtown Vienna on this particular Sunday evening, then, when most of the tourists had already gone away, and the heat was fading with the light. I was pleased to go back to my room and end the day on this note.

Saturday, 21 June: Summer Abroad, Day 50: Vienna, Day Six

Recollected on Monday.

1) Too much culture can wear you out. Saturday I needed a break, so I succumbed to hotel breakfast, spent the morning writing and futzing around, and didn’t get out and about until noon.

2) Donauinsel is a narrow and very very long island in the middle of the Danube, and I ended up walking much more of it than I had planned. Retracing my steps via Gyygle two days later, it says eight kilometers, or roughly five miles, from my arrival on the subway to the Point of I Just Have to Sit Down Now.

2a) The first thing to catch my eye, crossing a footbridge to the island, was a fence studded with love locks. What impressed me from a distance, though, was that they were pretty evenly spaced out, and some sparkled with jewel colors; they weren’t all brass.

2b) Because of its length, I feel like I walked through all the urban/rural environments: set-up for music festivals, clusters of food trucks, campsites, and well-worn but isolated paths through high grass and tall trees. Many Viennese were out to enjoy themselves and the weather, choosing sun or shade (where it could be had). I was impressed with the number of people who had brought hammocks to string up between trees at the water’s edge.

The swans were encouraged.

2c) Swans were evident, and before I could snap a photo, at one point I saw one flying low over the water, its long neck fully extended. Later, a gorgeous gray crane set off from the water line.

3) After a pause for about half an hour (during which I was bedevilled by flies), I had to consult ye Gyygle for a less active way home. And there was a subway station much closer, which involved more walking and discovery of a footbridge over the other side of the Danube. It was hot, and the sun was quite strong. My walk led me into a tangle of foot- and bicycle paths, but I finally sorted myself out in a neighborhood of car dealerships closed for the weekend. And then there was the subway (same line as my hotel is on!), and I got home.

3a) In Vienna I have hardly been reading at all. En route home, however, I restarted a book I got in Bristol, The Greedy Queen, and Queen Victoria and her food, which is turning out to be quite fascinating.

4) At the hotel, I simply didn’t have the energy to think about dinner, so after a short and heavy NAP, I indulged in a schnitzel in the hotel restaurant, which was very traditional and very good.

5) Overall this was a helpful day to be alone with some disquieting thoughts. We all need those days.

The path not taken.

Friday, 20 June: Summer Abroad, Day 49: Vienna, Day Five

1) A reasonably timed start, the morning was only marred by forgetting my hat in the station café where I had my breakfast coffee. But it was still there when I rushed back, so all was well.

2) If I had planned this visit in advance, as God intended, I’d be retracing my steps a lot less. As it is, I always seem to be taking the subway to Karlsplatz and somewhere in the wide radius of the Hofburg. This time my path took me through the Burggarten as four beautiful white horses were being exercised, so that can be considered a bonus.

Horsies!

3) Today’s first stop was the imperial treasury. My goodness, they sure do have a lot of pretty things here, and very few people to admire them — which gave me a lot of elbow room.

If only they had a caftan version in the gift shop, we’d all be entirely ready for the holiday season.

3a) I didn’t expect quite so much couture, being more interested in jewels, but still — my goodness, what a collection!

3b) I really must read up about the Dukes of Burgundy at some point.

It is actually called the Burse of St. Stephen.

3c) Most surprising was the Holy Handbag of St. Stephen, which I guess is no longer exhibited with the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

4) From there it was a hop and skip to the imperial crypt. It sort of surprised me to see this Capuchin friary in such a posh retail district (but obviously they got there first). They make it clear via signage that “You are entering a graveyard” and you will show respect, which overall people did.

I mean, really.

4a) Now I had been the crypt at El Escorial in 2022 (you know, those other Hapsburgs . . . ), and that had been mighty lavish and impressive. I hadn’t really thought about what to expect here, but these severely spare chambers are just filled with lines of metal sarcophagi. But some of them are so elaborate they should be parade floats.

Just look at that big ol’ thing!

4b) Maria Theresa’s double-wide sarcophagus (which she shares with her husband) was designed to overpower. The information plaque indicated that the empress prayed there every day after the death of her husband, which reminded me of a story Madame Campan told her in her biography of Marie Antoinette. One of Antoinette’s older sisters, Josepha, was about to set off to marry the King of Naples (as one does), but just as she was preparing to leave, she “received an order from the Empress not to set off without having offered up a prayer in the vault of her forefathers.” Ordinarily not a problem, except another member of the family had just been laid away there after dying of smallpox. Oopsie. “The Archduchess, persuaded that she should take the disorder to which her sister-in-law had just fallen a victim, looked upon this order as her death-warrant” and “Her anticipation was realised; confluent smallpox carried her off in a very few days, and her youngest sister ascended the throne of Naples in her place.”

4c) In the (extensive) rules posted near the entrance, visitors are prohibited from placing floral tributes on the sarcophagi, including in vases. So I found it quite clever that gray hatboxes filled with red roses had been placed in a couple places. An ingenious solution.

4d) In the penultimate chamber Franz Joseph had been laid to rest, with his beloved Sisi on one side and his tragic, sadly misunderstood son Rudolph on the other. Each of these sarcophagi had some sort of floral tribute at its front: a long-stemmed pink rose for the emperor, two small nosegays for Rudolph, and for Sisi three small bouquets, a small sheaf of handwritten notes, and three framed pictures of herself.

As seen from the rear, so Rudolph is on the left and his mother Sisi on the right.

4e) I also took note of Zita, the last empress, who died in 1989.

4f) In conclusion, most members of this family are not remembered for their achievements, or even as individuals. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” indeed.

5) Then, to the Café Demel, another of those recommended by my Friend Who Knows Vienna. The joint was jumpin’ since it was just after noon, but one must go upstairs to be seated, not just linger on the first floor with all the pastry and candy counters. The modern staircase disoriented me for a moment because one wall is only clear glass with no handrail. #acrophobia

5a) Mademoiselle seated me quickly, and I was very glad indeed to be sitting down. And eventually I had my first goulash of the trip, with potatoes and an aperol spritz, which I enjoyed while contemplating a vista of Venetian glass chandeliers.

5a.i) Then of course I had to have a melange and a slice of chocolate torte.

“But you’ve gotta have a gimmick if you want to get ahead!”

6) To walk from the café to the Leopold Museum was to walk a straight line through the Hofburg, which made things simple. There are street musicians in Vienna the same as there are in tourist destinations all over the world, but this is the first time I’ve seen one wearing a horse’s head mask while playing the accordion. Of course I put some change in his basket; that’s dedication.

Portrait of Egon Schiele by Max Oppenheimer.

7) The Leopold focuses mainly on Vienna of 1900 and the artists and designers who made it so vibrant (some of whom I’d never heard): Klimt and Schiele, of course, but also Alma Mahler, Richard Gerstl, Koloman Moser (of whom I must learn more), Oskar Kokoschka, Carl Moll, Max Oppenheimer, and Minnie Moore*. Most of the Klimts in this collection are from early in his career, before he developed his signature style. Schiele, brilliant and disturbing. Richard Gerstl was a surprise, particularly because I recognized one of his self-portraits. (By the way, it’s a really bad idea to have an affair with the wife of your mentor.) But Moser’s works most made me want to learn more about him.

7a) The lowest level of the Leopold was devoted to the Biedermeier period, which is basically the period between the Congress of Vienna (1814-15?) and the revolutions of 1848. What I knew about the Biedermeier was not much — basically curly maple furniture with black bands — but they put together a really magnificent collection of paintings, clothing, and other items to illustrate the period.

7b) When in a museum with an unexpected entirely empty room, one must pause to honor the memory of Irving Penn with a selfie.

Why indeed? Seen on the way to dinner.

8) Truly, I was worn out — not least because one of my sockless socks just would not stay in place — and very happy to take the subway back to my hotel. I looked in at the little shop of household goods that also advertised “souvenirs,” hoping for Viennese house numbers and postcards. But alas for me, it was mostly cleaning supplies and kitchen organizers.

9) After a brief but heavy NAP, I returned to Café Eduard for a glass of rosé and their chicken risotto — which could have been cooked a little longer, but was still savory. And then a negroni at the hotel bar while I wrote.

*Or was it her sister, Minnie Others? 😜

Thursday, 19 June: Summer Abroad, Day 48: Vienna, Day Four

1) Having slept in until almost 9 yesterday, I was determined to be somewhere by 9 today. And I determined that that somewhere would be the Upper Belvedere. At 9 AM.

2) And . . . and I was there, third in line behind two Asian ladies with Zouave-style sun hats. But it started when I couldn’t sleep past 6 AM and actually stretched out in the bathtub for a long soak. Just like England, Viennese bathtubs are narrower than I am, but they are long.

3) I left my dress shirts at the front desk to be cleaned and pressed. “They’ll be back tomorrow evening, it’s a national holiday today.”

4) Gyygle isn’t always intuitive, and I got mixed up a couple times walking from the subway station (right by the main railway station, so at last I know that HBF stands for Hauptbahnhof on all those train notices). And all the cafés I walked by were closed, and almost no one was on the streets. National holiday? The neighborhood? The café part concerned me, as I had yet to have any coffee.

4a) A healthy feeling of familiarity came over me as I walked into the grounds, as I had been to the UB before, on that trip in 2014. The gardens between the UB and the Lower Belvedere are lined with buxom sphinxes, and I certainly remembered the one near the entrance. Some of them have discolored breasts from ahem undue fondling.

4b) I strolled through the gardens behind the UB, noticing the temperature of the morning, and weighed down by the heavy shadows of my many sins. (It was that sort of day.) But about 8:40 I got into line, and watched it fill, mostly with a large Asian tour group.

4c) I did notice a quite beautiful Woman Younger Than I, with beautiful black hair swept up, wearing a cocktails-at-five ensemble of long and wide black trousers with a midriff-baring satin top with one long puffed sleeve and one bare arm. Very Ingrid Bergman in Notorious, but a little much for the breakfast hour.

5) And . . . they’re off! The door opened promptly at 9 AM, and because I didn’t bolt upstairs first thing, I didn’t get that impossible moment alone with Vienna’s biggest attraction, Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. When I got there half dozen or so viewers were already enraptured (or taking selfies); I’m sure it got worse as the day went on, but nothing like the Mona Lisa Madness of the Louvre.

5a) There were other beautiful Klimts there, particularly landscapes, which I remembered from before and still love. And what else was there? A fantastic Edvard Munch painting of men at the beach; Kurzweil’s portrait of Bildnis Bloch-Bauer (obviously a relation of the more famous Adele), a van Gogh landscape, a really active composition of Samson pulling down the pillars of the temple, Egon Schiele portraits, and a few other things.

5b) And the Messerschmidt heads! I did remember them from the last visit, and also seeing some in Prague. Unique works of art from the late 18th century, genius experimentation by a master.

A Messerschmidt head.

5c) A couple galleries included works related to art and artists impacted by Austria’s political situation in the 1930s, even before the Anschluss. Photos were forbidden here, but having reread The Exiles earlier this year, and other WWII history — and having seen that Max Beckmann portrait only yesterday — it was both interesting and poignant to see and feel what this group of creatives experienced. Some were able to flee and succeed abroad; others could not.

5d) A couple ground floor galleries were devoted to medieval/Renaissance religious art.

5e) Selfies in museums can be a mine field — and I ought to know, since I take so many. But I would not stand so close to a painting that my hair would get caught in the varnish, as I noticed one woman doing with Egon Schiele’s The Family. I was kind of anxious about the art.

5e.i) Also, please do not take a phone call while your nose is two inches from the surface of a painting. One of the guards had to reprimand a young man who had just yelled “Hello!” into his phone.

6) By this time I was “perishin’ for real vittles,” not to mention coffee —Art makes you hungry — and I retreated to the elegant sun-filled little café in a remote ground floor corner. My melange coffee came along with my “kaiser” breakfast plate: a croissant with jam and honey, and a good hard roll with slices of ham and cheese and a cube of butter. It hit the spot, and it was great to take the weight off my feet awhile, even if I was putting it on my waistline.

The Upper Belvedere with waterfall.

7) A long sloping garden with fountains and waterfalls connects the UB and the LB, which was my next stop. The day was getting hot (I think it was 83 F), so a stately pace kept me from glowing too much. A German family asked me “Can you make our picture?” while handing me a phone, and I was happy to oblige. I also noticed a very pale young woman with very pale long blonde hair in a very pale long pink dress working with her photographer by one of the side fountains. Influencers will influence.

8) The big deal at the LB was Radical! Women*Artists and Modernism 1910-1950. A female photographer named Claude Cahun was a big part of this show, and until this year I knew exactly nothing about her. So the friend who gave me No Place Ever Just Disappears did me a big favor, because Claude and her work and her life in France was one of the seven chapters of that book.

Leonor Fini may have painted the Mother of Barbarella . . .

8a) One of the most helpful aspects of this or any exhibition of multiple artists was, in the last room, a multi-wall display of all the artists, alphabetically by last name, with head shots, dates, locations, and even couple quotes. A powerful pantheon when seen together, and a helpful aid for simpleminded viewers like me.

Portrait of Natalie Barney by Romaine Brooks.

8b) Aside from that, they also had a conservation exhibition of Klimt works, Klimt: Pigment and Pixels, to review how his works are being conserved and investigated. Here, as in other Viennese galleries, the subject of one of the beautiful portraits on view had been murdered during WWII.

8c) Finally, almost as an afterthought, the LB stables had been converted into a gallery for a passel of medieval religious artworks, hung densely together for an overpowering effect.

“Here, try the arancini.”

9) Then it was time to take one last turn through the gardens and move on to something else, on this very hot day. The exit was through a portico at the far end of the LB; when I walked in I noticed a photography setup at one end . . . and a bride and groom across the way. So basically this passthrough was being taken over for a photo shoot. A couple large tour groups weren’t going to let it bother them, and I don’t blame them. The photo party seemed to take it all in good grace.

10) I ended up tailing that tour group, mostly college students, to a large and beautiful WWII memorial and fountain. On a hot day, the fountain mist was a whisper of relief.

11) And then suddenly I was at the Karlskirche, that distinguished Baroque church so important to the Hapsburgs. Paid my money and entered a lofty space — very oval, very sunlit, very majestic. But not very prayerful, which was less to do with tourist chitchat (of which there really wasn’t much), but the prerecorded Baroque music in the background, which was just a wee bit too heavy on the brass.

11a) Looking up, I did a double take when I saw what looked like a tangle of white neon suspended from the dome of the church. Later I learned that it’s part of the church’s Contemporary Arts program. But at the time I thought, “Zeuschen, don’t aim the shower of gold in here. Danae has left the building!”

11b) I climbed the spiral staircase to the organ loft, which provided a powerful view of the church, and the church treasury. But I knew better than to climb up any further. Oh no, not after Sagrada Familia in 2022!

12) Gyygle was not exactly clear in how to get where I was going next, but I did get it worked out, and I did get into one of the most famous buildings in Vienna, the Secession. My Friend Who Knows Vienna told me that it’s sometimes called The Cabbage, and I get it! That gilded floral dome . . . there’s nothing like it.

12a) The famous Klimt murals at the very bottom of the building are well worth the trip. While some of the other exhibitions didn’t compel me, there were a couple works that really captured my attention, particularly a preprogrammed grid of church votives; aspects of that exhibition left me feeling very 2001: A Space Odyssey.

12b) It’s worth noting that almost all the museums in Vienna have flung out their rainbow banners, flags, and (at the Albertina) staircases for Pride Month. It’s refreshing and affirming.

13) And from here, a hot walk brought me to the Café Sperl, highly recommended as being off the tourist grid, and it is. I sat inside on a banquette of very worn old damask and enjoyed an aperol spritz and a slice of sachertorte and two bottles of sparkling water. I was seated near three old billiard tables, two of them ready for a game, the third covered with current newspapers for patrons to read.

My view during dinner.

14) Once I got back to my hotel and had a concrete NAP, I went off to that little neighborhood restaurant I passed by the other night because it was too full, Café Eduard. You cannot know the relief there is in a sign that reads “Please wait to be seated.” And I did, and I was, and I had my first schnitzel of the trip, along with some lovely arancini, under a large tree on a gently sunlit evening. The restaurant had a real family vibe, particularly with a baby who had just learned to say “BA BA BA BA BA.” Baby was actually adorable, and the father who had charge took the opportunity to walk about the little square with Baby. Just . . . it was just enormously cute.

Wednesday, 18 June: Summer Abroad, Day 47: Vienna, Day Three

1) Didn’t crack an eye until almost 9 AM, practically heresy. But I had not put out the light until 1 AM, which never happens.

2) Laundry had to be a priority, and I was as proud as a five-year-old to have found a laundromat all by myself (via Gyygle) just a block and a skip from my hotel, Green and Clean. I loaded up my backpack (so easy with those packing cubes I was given, which I’ve mentioned before), found a bakery café en route for coffee and pastries, and praised the laundromat management for installing machines with instructions in multiple languages.

2a) Rather than wait through an entire wash/dry cycle, I passed the time in a little neighborhood park, overgrown and a bit scruffy, but full of shade and pigeons and pairs of Viennese smokers. The latter sat on the park benches, old friends with their arms around each other, students facing each other and laughing.

2a.i) The pigeons — there were a lot of them in this flock — interested me for two reasons: in all those gray pigeons there was one white pigeon with gray tail feathers. And it was quite obvious that none of those gray pigeons gave a damn that that white pigeon was a different color. They were all going after the same crumbs. As if that weren’t enough, seeing two or three of them perch on the top of an obelisk was like watching King of the Mountain.

2b) I really had not planned the day, but when I saw that a special exhibition at the Albertina was closing the next day, I booked an afternoon ticket online right there in the park. Finalmente, action!

3) My clothes came out of that combined washer/dryer in an undoubted state of dampness, but I folded everything into my pack, spread it all out as best as possible in my room, changed clothes, and headed into town.

4) All I knew about Albertina was the Albertina Rasch Dancers, which is not relevant. It was actually named for Archduke Albert (I forget which one, they all run together) — but then shouldn’t it be Albertino? And how about shaking up an Albertini for me? Decide for yourself here.

Three works by Matthew Wong.

4a) The special exhibition about to close compared two similar painters: Vincent van Gogh and Matthew Wong, Painting as a Last Resort. They both had trouble fitting into the world as it was, used similar techniques, and each died young by his own hand. The exhibition was thoughtful, boldly colorful, and made me wish to see more of the van Gogh paintings that we don’t know about. There was one, White Cottages at Saintes-Marie-de-la-Mer, that reopened my eyes to what van Gogh could communicate.

Undoubtedly the most beautiful work of art I saw today.

4b) Then up to the permanent collection, really wonderful and sometimes startling work of the early 20th century. I look at my photos this evening, and none of them capture the vibrancy of what I saw. Lots of Fauvists, some Surrealism, lots of color. One painting that made me feel like I had never seen anything like it before was Peace, by Giacometti, four little girls seated attentively on the floor while one of them tunes what looks like a musical instrument.

Self-Portrait in the Hotel, Max Beckmann, 1932.

4c) But the work that spoke to me of its time and place and my time and place was a self-portrait by an artist I hadn’t heard of, Max Beckmann. From the placard: “In January 1933, with the **z*’s seizure of power, Beckmann left Frankfurt for good and moved to Berlin. In hat and coat, a thick scarf around his neck, his hands in the coat pockets, he stands in the backlight, ready to leave. His face lies in the shadow . . . the converging lines, and the hard, black outline mark Beckmann’s fear of an uncertain future: the world seems to be out of joint . . . more than almost any other work, [this painting] testifies to his life situation and gloomy prospects at that time.”

4d) The State Rooms at the Albertina are an enfilade of drawing rooms in all the colors of the 19th-century rainbow. The yellowest yellows, paired with the palest lilac; arsenic green, silver blue, warm crimson — these people stole my life.

5) By this time it was 3 PM and Daddy was starting to feel peckish. The Café Central had been recommended to me and was a very easy walk away on this very hot day — why, I said to myself, not?

5a) I’d been warned that it’s “often crowded but worth a look,” and I did have to wait in line for about 15 minutes or so. Like the late Durgin-Park, they’re doing it for the tourists. Unlike Durgin-Park, their quality remains smart and sharp and 100% delicious. And did I mention that they’re air-conditioned?

5b) My table turned out to be right near the entrance, and my waiter laughed in a friendly way when I absentmindedly said “Nein sprechen ze Englisch.” Oopsie, obviously not doing very well with German either! We understood each other enough for me to order a Campari soda and a sandwich, and then later a melange and a slice of their Johann Strauss torte.

5c) I alternately scrolled through the (bad) news from home and took in the scene. During the leisurely period between my last sip of coffee and the presentation of the bill, the pianist started playing “Wiener Blut” and the Radetsky March, which absolutely lent the the right tone.

Inside Saint Stephen’s Cathedral.

6) At that point, I struck out with the informal goal of a prominent old-school haberdasher, which led me down a couple very high end shopping streets. There two women in perfect 1920s period ensembles walked past me: cloche hats, light floral cotton summer frocks, Harold Lloyd eyeglasses, and bright red lipstick. Just two matrons out for a stroll, looking wonderful.

6a) I continued my promenade to find a) a baritone singing opera in the street, and b) St. Stephen’s Cathedral — both impressive.

6b) I did eventually get into the cathedral, an experience unlike the controlled chaos of Notre Dame. First, far fewer people (though it felt like a lot) and a far darker interior. More of the church’s interior was off limits to tourists, too — less space to maneuver, and I don’t blame them.

6c) I should mention, too, the line of horsedrawn carriages along one side of the cathedral (and in front of the Hofburg, too) offering rides to tourists. I feel sorry for those horses, especially on a hot day like this. Were I a Victorian, I know I’d be contributing to the horse relief fund. That said, the sight and smell of their, ahem, “horse apples” was evident for some distance.

7) Instead of retracing my steps to Karlsplatz for the subway, I went the other direction to get on the same line at a different stop. The streets were full, but it felt like they were full of tourists, not locals.

8) Back in my room with a small tomato ciabatta sandwich, I fell like the dead onto my bed into a heavy NAP — I know, at 6 PM!

9) And then, what seems to have become my nightly routine, I come to the hotel bar with my laptop for a negroni. Now I need to turn my attention to structuring my remaining time here, and laying plans for my final weeks in London.

The Albertina is truly embracing Pride, as everyone should.

Tuesday, 17 June: Summer Abroad, Day 46: Vienna, Day Two

1) Too little sleep, too much fretting. I gave up pretending about 6 AM and started the day.

2) “Do a ‘Skip the Lines with Sisi’ tour!” advised a friend with a Deep Knowledge of Vienna. And so I arranged it, a tour of the Hofburg (the Winter Palace of the Hapsburgs in the city center), with a guide, and an assigned meeting point in the Michaelerplatz.

2a) So naturally I was anxious, mostly due to overthinking. What about the subway? What if I miss the guide? What if I’m late? (Impossible!)

2b) The subway part turned out to be relatively easy, but on the Continent, I’ve learned to use cash instead of a card, as I have no idea what my PIN are. What’s unusual about Viennese subway stations, though, is that there aren’t turnstiles. People just walk in and out, and there’s a little blue box (I discovered later) that says “Ticket Required.” Well, I did get a weeklong ticket, but I completely missed that blue box. How much trouble am I going to get into?

The diving board at the Albertina.

2c) Five stops later I disembarked at the Karlsplatz, walked a long peopled concourse lined with shops and exits, and popped above ground just behind the famous Vienna Opera. A not too confusing walk up the SomethingStrasse brought me to the Michaelerplatz, where I easily found the meeting point — and also some colossal statues of the Labors of Hercules.

Now these guys would put the Brute in Brutalism! Let’s order a few for Boston City Hall.

2c.i) Now whenever I talk about American cities needing Urban Renewal, what I really mean is an increase in Integral Male Statuary. Every plinth, lintel, archway, you name it — they need the Support of Pulchritude. Think of it as a beautification program.

3) The time passed, and as arranged, the guide appeared and members of the group magically formed around her as she checked names. As we were about 20, we were all given “devices,” a box with an earpiece on a long cord so we could hear the guide in any circumstances; on previous trips I’ve heard them referred to as “whispers.” They are Very Helpful Indeed.

4) Our approach to the Sisi Museum was hampered by two no-shows (who did appear 15 minutes in), a restroom break (the restrooms were at the start of the tour, not the end), and one person who needed to use the elevator and then disappeared.

A replica of Sisi’s Worth gown for the Hungarian coronation. It was wider that most of the exhibition spaces.

4a) The Sisi Museum was designed as a series of narrow, angled corridors that occasionally opened into larger rooms. The guide pointed out that it was designed in the 1990s, before Sisi had become quite the cult figure she is today. They were definitely shoveling ten pounds of tourists into a five pound bag; it was tough to move.

4b) What was on view? Some of her gowns and other clothes, both original and reproductions, that showed off her dangerously slim figure. Curling tongs and other “instruments of torture” from her beauty regime. Replicas of her famous diamond stars. Gifts, correspondence, etc. I couldn’t take photos in the space.

4c) The Sisi Museum then transitioned into the private apartments of the emperor and Sisi, so we had a little more space to maneuver. The rooms were both beautiful and reminiscent of Schönbrunn.

Poor Carlotta.

4d) One room was dedicated to the memory of the emperor’s doomed brother Maximilian, who was named Emperor of Mexico and then assassinated a couple years later. Also a portrait of his wife Carlotta, who went mad afterward. (Bette Davis played her in Juarez.)

4e) Sisi’s boudoir — rococolicious. I loved the pale cream upholstery, so natural, until I found out that they had found remnants of the original crimson upholstery and were having it reproduced. What I was enjoying so much was the lining!

4f) To see Sisi’s bedroom with her gym equipment really gave me an idea of how rad she was in her time.

4g) So, that was the Hofburg. The rest of the tour time was spent walking around the building, through the Burggarten, and back to the Spanish Riding School. I wish I could recommend this experience, but the squash at the Sisi Museum really keeps anyone from taking in what’s on view.

5) Nutrition was needed, but what I got was my first sachertorte at the Café Sacher Itself, and even with glass of champagne and a coffee. Have you had sachertorte? Do you like it? This is a cake that will hold you in its embrace in new and tantalizing ways every moment you linger at the table, and beyond. Of course it was served mit Schlag.

5a) A young man, not without beauty, sitting alone at the next table, asked me what I had ordered. We fell into conversation and he did end up ordering the same thing (but without champagne). Wouldn’t you know it, he’s from the Boston area! We had a nice conversation until I got my bill and rose to go.

6) In need of something more self-directed, I wandered through the Burggarten to the enormous Kunsthistoriches Museum, one of the most significant art collections in Europe. And I spent about 2.5 hours just wallowing in the depth and breadth of what was shown. Some delights:

• My old friend Marie Antoinette!

• A whole room of Velasquez portraits of Spanish Hapsburgs, including Old Hog Jaw himself. To paraphrase GWTW, “You know the Hapsburgs always marry their cousins!”

• Tintoretto’s Susanna Bathing.

• Guido Cagnacci’s Vision of Saint Jerome. I hope I can bring an energy like that to my later years.

• Wolfgang Huber’s portrait of Jacob Ziegler.

• Any and all Cranachs.

• A whole panel of gold rings set with carnelians.

• A bust of a Hapsburg in Louis XIV style with a face so comical I thought of him as Monsieur Potateau Head.

• A small allegorical figure of Fury carved from ivory.

7) And then it was time to return to my hotel, which all took place without incident. I did remember to use the ticket box.

8) After a night of almost no sleep and an active day, I had a heavy NAP, and when I came to about 6, I knew I had to do something affordable about dinner. The result: a neighborhood perambulation lightly guided by Google, which led me to pass up a couple places and end up at a neighborhood restaurant for my first tafelspitz.

8a) Now for those of you who don’t know (which I didn’t until yesterday), tafelspitz is basically Austria’s version of New England boiled dinner, only the potatoes are grated and it’s served with applesauce and another sauce involving chives. It was also a favorite of the emperor. And it was filling, which was what I really needed most. Along with a glass of wine so white it was harmless, it was the perfect dinner for the day.

9) Unwisely I brought my laptop back to the hotel bar for a negroni, which is where I’ve been writing all this. The environment is pleasant, as is the staff.

10) Tomorrow . . . who knows?! Vienna awaits, but so does my laundry. And I really need to look for a barber again . . .

Monday, 16 June: Summer Abroad, Day 45: Vienna, Day One: Schönbrunn

“Let’s get organized. What time is it and what day is it?” — Coral Browne as Vera Charles

1) Up a little after 8:00 AM with almost exactly no idea how to get started in this new city. A dear friend from graduate school who Knows Vienna had sent a flock of suggestions — a lot to pore over. But one reason I chose this hotel (aside from the fact that it had availability at the last minute) was its proximity to Schönbrunn, the Hapsburg’s summer palace. So I booked an early afternoon ticket for a palace tour.

2) That gave me a couple hours to have breakfast in the hotel (which will not become a habit here), investigate some other ideas, and catch up on communications with friends and colleagues.

3) The day was gray, and the forecast for rain, but I took a chance and didn’t ask for one of the hotel umbrellas (thank goodness, more on that later). A touch of coolness made contact with me every few seconds, but 15 minutes later, on my final approach to Schönbrunn, my pale gray shirt was spotted more than I thought it would be.

A courtyard fountain.

4) The first view of Schönbrunn has everything to do with 21st century transportation. One doesn’t see the palace, only parking for electric vehicles and large tour buses. But when one does come to the entrance, how wonderful!

5) I took my time in the shop, because of the rain, but everything was really geared to the Myth of Sisi — baseball caps, fans, sparkly pencils, etc. There were umbrellas, but I resisted. I sat on a step until it was my time to approach the tour entrance.

6) And why was it a good thing that I resisted an umbrella? Because at Schönbrunn they need to be checked! And that would have impeded my progress through the day.

The billiard room.

7) Now, this is not really my very first ever trip to Vienna. I had a lovely sample of it on that 2014 Travel Program trip for two days. Schönbrunn was a wonderful part of that. This tour allowed me to remember what I saw, see what I missed, and take my time over all of it.

7a) From a preservationist standpoint, how fortunate that Franz Josef I reigned for 68 years and didn’t like change. What progress his successor Karl and his wife Zita had made in modernizing the palace in 1916-1918 was “reversed as much as possible” after 1918. The result not only gives us a good look at Austrian imperial and family life, it’s pretty darned amazing.

Here they are! Franz Josef and Sisi, early in their marriage.

7b) First one goes through Franz Josef’s and Sisi’s rooms, then family rooms, then some enormous public and ceremonial rooms, and then (if you’ve booked the palace tour and not just the state rooms tour) an additional suite of rooms mostly dating from the time of Maria Theresa (or Theresia, you choose).

A photo screen!

7c) Surprises? There were a few:

• A bronze statue of Hercules bashing a dragon that had been a stove.

• Remember that fabulous photo screen of Queen Alexandra’s I saw in London? Whaddya know, Franz Josef had his own photo screens in his bedroom!

• Franz Josef died in that bedroom. I didn’t expect to see a really lovely and poignant painting of him on his deathbed exhibited next to the bed.

• The family dining room is known as the Marie Antoinette Room. (“No no, Vera’s in there!” IYKYK.)

• Happy recognition from books of a couple portraits of childhood Marie Antoinette.

• The two Chinese Cabinets, oval and round, small rooms with magnificent chinoiserie panels used for cards or very private conferences.

The Millions Room, with furnishings. I would totally have this in my home.

7d) But my very favorite room, which I remembered from before, is the Millions Room, paneled in collages of Mughal court life actually assembled by members of the Hapsburg family. It’s like putting out a puzzle at the office or the family room, and everyone just contributes as they feel like it — only here it’s with priceless works of art, and the result is sumptuous interior design. According to the audio guide, it’s the most valuable room in the palace.

8) Speaking of which, I’m generally audio averse, but the Schönbrunn audio guide has the advantage of no headphones. You just press the number(s) and hold it to your ear, and that is so simple.

The Great Gallery, largest of the public rooms. Notice the budding influencer at left, being filmed giving his tour.

9) A palace tour room by room like this flows very much like a river. That means some people move along more quickly than others (and sometimes you’re glad they do), and sometimes people (like me, a couple times) move backwards because they missed something. Aside from a couple large tour groups, I particularly noticed one young man in a flat embroidered cap (dark blue with a white border) being filmed by another young man as though giving a tour. That could have been Tyranny of the Pretty Lady, but they didn’t complain about anyone getting in their way or impede anyone else. Still, it requires attention to try to see an exhibition and not end up in someone’s Yewtybbe.

Empress Elizabeth’s salon. Not that she was there much . . .

10) Once back outside (the whole thing took me about a hour and 45 minutes, because I lingered), I found the little restaurant in the outer wing of the palace, and a table inside for one. Having been warned that café service in Vienna was “leisurely,” I was prepared for a wait. But I didn’t think that included a wait for utensils after my meal had been served (a wonderful and, I gather, traditional salad with fried chicken, marinated beans, greens, and potatoes). The waiter was so apologetic he provided a complimentary espresso, which I enhanced with a slice of the haustorte.

11) Whaddya know, they have the same kind of blue house numbers in Vienna that they do in Paris . . .

12) Back in my room, my head wanted to take a nap, but my body didn’t. At 6, I made myself go down to the hotel bar with my laptop for a negroni, and to write. And now, I’ve had my second negroni . . .

Sunday, 15 June: Summer Abroad, Day 44: Paris to Vienna by Train

Sweet mercy goodness, Day 44!

1) Couldn’t sleep from about 3 AM on. Just couldn’t. Tossed, turned, occasionally surfed the socials until I couldn’t stand it any longer at 5. Wrote my pages, showered, dressed, finished my packing — forgotten things seemed to turn up in the unlikeliest places, despite everything I’d done the night before — and then headed for the p’tit ascenseur.

2) There in the elevator was the day manager (who had been very helpful to me) with a few towels. He looked at me with a little surprise until he remembered that I was checking out early and a taxi was coming for me. We went downstairs, settled my account to the sound of a vacuum cleaner, and he very kindly offered me a cup of coffee.

3) One of my favorite parts of Our Hearts Were Young and Gay is when Cornelia and Emily have to overnight in Rouen and end up in a pension recommended by the Ladies Rest Tour Association. All the other guests seemed to be young women in extravagant evening gowns, and the patronne was rather heavily made up. You guessed it; our girls had spent the night in a brothel by accident. “As surely as we were what our mothers would have called ‘nincompoops,’ that house was one which our mothers also would have called ‘of ill repute.’”

3a) Why do I bring this up as I’m checking out of this little hotel? A little before 6:30 AM, as I’m sitting alone in the lobby with my luggage and my scalding café au lait, a young, rumpled couple walk in and stand hesitantly. I say in English “He’ll be back in just a minute.” And the day manager was. I knew enough French to know that the young man was looking for a room for two to three hours, but the day manager had to turn him away. When I asked him about it, he said “We’re full up. The only room I had to give him is yours, and it’s not ready.” Brings new meaning to the phrase chambres disponsible . . . or does it merely underline an old meaning?

4) The nice taxi man came for me, helped with my bags, and drove me through the silent, near empty streets of “un autre beau jour de Paris.” Gray really was the color of that hour, but as we got closer to the Gare du Nord and wider spaces of sky, that gray became pearlier and warmer.

5) Inside the station, I got a very small coffee and a chocolate croissant, and eventually found someplace to perch awhile. That coffee must have had a nicotine filter. Sitting and observing all the other travelers engaged me more. So many backwards baseball caps. Several instances of bright flowing full-skirted kente cloth, sometimes with a matching turban. So many people ready for more sleep.

6) I was assigned to coach 18, so it was concerning when the track was finally announced that the first car was 9, and the numbers got smaller the further one went on. Turns out coach 18 as the first car of the second train. This confused a lot more people than just me.

7) But we all struggled on board hefting our big ol’ bags into the overhead racks. Once we finally got going, the conductor — who enjoyed celebrating his French accent in three languages — let us know that the train was full, and that we would have to put our bags in the overhead racks because of crowding. Or something.

8) I alternately slept, looked out the window at the French, and then Belgian, countryside, and wrote in my journal.

9) Pulling into Brussels, I knew I had time between connections, but the aisle filled up quickly with people and luggage. One young woman from the center of the car did have a much quicker connection than all of us, but we managed to make way for her without much difficulty.

10) One thinks of grand railway stations like Grand Central and the original Penn Station, and then there’s Brussels, which is like an underground bunker housing a discount mall. Nothing beautiful or comfortable, nothing to delight the eye.

Cologne Station.

10a) And then there was the pay toilet, my first encounter with one on this trip. In a blow for equality, ladies and gentlemen all had to use the same entrance. Unfortunately, one of the only two turnstiles was broken and closed, and the other had to serve for both entrances and exits — with all one’s large luggage. Sounds like a fire hazard to me. A cluster of about a dozen people speaking more than two languages was trying to negotiate the ticket machine at the turnstile. When it was my turn I at least used my card to speed things along, but then had trouble getting my bags through; and of course I hadn’t forgotten when I had to pay twice in the Madrid train station when my bag handle got stuck on a turnstile bar which wouldn’t move without more money.

11) Pretty Manzhay served for a sandwich and a bottle of water, after which I returned to the platform.

12) En route to Cologne the train was stopped for police assistance (!) for 10-15 minutes — Heaven knows why. A couple policemen walked through my car. European police have some secret power that makes them look simultaneously hulking and slim.

13) My anxiety about Cologne intensified when I suddenly woke from a doze and realized we were supposed to be there already and were still traveling forward at a fast clip. Did I mention that I would have 13 minutes between trains in Cologne, and then 11 minutes between my next transfer? If this was Boston, it would be like arriving at North Station and having to get to South Station. In the end, I just made my connections, in part because the second train was also running a wee bit late. But I also had to hump all my bags down and up a couple long staircases — a periodic reminder that Europe is not subject to the Americans with Disabilities Act.

13a) The Cologne-Nuremberg leg of my journey was made slightly more challenging because (having had to figure something out the night before) I had no seat reservation. (I did eventually find one.) Navigating the aisle with my laptop bag and valise I got to see all the types of travelers, not least because they were blocking the aisle, LOL:

• The mother, wearing the largest non-camping backpack I have ever seen (she could have had a mini-fridge in there), traveling with a party of more than two very young children, one of whom just would not be controlled and kept running away down the aisle; Mother’s backpack made any movement between their seats and wherever that boy got to impossible.

• The pair of petite young women, one of them in a wheelchair and with a cast on one leg, looking anxiously down the aisle and fearful they would never make their places before the train started because of that little boy.

• Finally there was the old lady standing by her table, first being helped out of her coat, then being helped out of her vest, then having to go through her bag and remove things she might want to use, then put something back, then stow her bag, and finally sit down. The delays were almost comical. (Think of Jean Arthur putting her pen away in A Foreign Affair of 1948.)

14) In Nuremburg I transferred to my final train of the day, after which I could watch Germany’s rolling farmlands in the fading light, and then Austria’s rolling farmlands in the grey-gold twilight. Some of those smooth fields were like mohair velvet.

15) To be honest, I disembarked not once but twice at incorrect stations, and got back on board just in time.

16) But finalmente, Wien! Pitch black night by this time, but it felt good to be almost at my final destination.

17) I found the taxi station just outside. A woman was getting into the first taxi, and the driver of the second taxi was telling me to get into the first taxi with her. For some reason he thought we were together! “I’ve never seen her before in my life,” I told him (in English). “Well, you never can tell,” he replied.

18) My room at this conferency hotel gives a feeling of aggressive neutrality with its hard grays and whites with touches of black — very much like a space between and removed from the worlds. Think of that bedroom Keir Dullea imagines at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. That feels both protective and cautionary, as in yeah, it’s a good retreat, but I’ll know I’ve lived my life more fully the less time I spend in it.

19) The kitchen having closed, I had to forage in the hotel’s overpriced convenience kiosk. But I splurged on a tiny bottle of pink champagne — Wiener Blut, like the famous waltz — to toast my arrival in a city long on my bucket list.

Saturday, 14 June: Summer Abroad, Day 43: Paris, Le Jour Dernier

1) I did not feel like rushing anywhere, and I took my time in the morning writing my pages, breakfasting in the lobby (another amazing omelette), and I did a card reading in my room. By roughly 10:30 I was on my way to the Marais to stroll about and see what I could see before going to Notre Dame for 1:30.

2) The Marais — such chichi shops and bakeries, such narrow sidewalks! Before I knew it, I was astonished to find myself outside the Musée Carnavalet. Having visited in 2011, I wasn’t really planning to go again, and yet here it was . . . and the Sert murals were here, weren’t they? I passed the metal detector inspection, and was on my way.

2a) I had forgotten a lot of what I had seen there the first time: the Medici queens of France, Catherine and Marie; Madame de Sevigné, who lived at the Carnavalet for a time; the parades of the Catholic League, commedia dell’arte, chinoiserie, street signs, paper fans (but no reproductions in the gift shop . . . ), historic interiors, and of course the French Revolution. It was a remarkable journey.

2b) But the Sert room, when I finally found it again! José Maria Sert, third husband of my beloved Misia Sert who left her for Roussy Mdivani, was a fashionable muralist of the early 20th century. He knew everything about living expansively — which requires more than spontaneity and resources, dahlings, it requires intelligence and taste — and did so. But the fashion for his work did not really survive WWII, alas. It still suits me, though! I loved getting to see this room again, all silver with swags of red draperies, fantaisies of tropical and mountain landscapes with elephants and fanciful inhabitants.

3) The hot sunny walk then began to Notre Dame for my 1:30 admission. En route, I had to walk under a fire truck’s ladder on which a fireman was walking two tethered little boys up the ladder into a window. C’est plus curieux!

4) I didn’t really know what to expect at Notre Dame, but the courtyard in front of the church was teeming with tourists, most of whom understandably had no idea what to do.

4a) The façade had very obviously been cleaned; it looked like it had only been built 100 years ago.

4b) I figured out where the end of the long line for advance reservations was and took my place, falling into conversation with the Asian-American couple in front of me. They had been booked to see Notre Dame in 2019 two or three weeks after the fire, so obviously had still not been inside yet. We talked about my previous visit in 2008, and our collective visits to Sagrada Familia, ascending church towers in general (the husband loves it, his wife and I do not), and other matters.

4c) Suddenly the line started moving a lot faster than I expected. I noticed a party ahead of us, of People Younger Than I, including a man in a tanktop and shorts that it’s a good thing they weren’t shorter. Remembering the dress codes in Catholic churches of Portugal, Spain, and Venice, I wondered if they would let him in, but I guess dress codes aren’t as much of an issue in Paris.

4d) Near the front of the line I noticed an altercation between a party behind me and a man in a family of four who it looked like might be trying to cut the line. I didn’t get involved; I was not late, and I figured God was going to judge us all based on what we deserved anyway.

4e) My ticket was scanned and I made it through the metal detector unscathed, but then the guard called me over to his little table because he wanted to know about the pouch inside my shirt. When I bring my passport, I wear it inside my shirt so no one can get at it; I didn’t think it might look suspicious. Oopsie.

5) Yes, it’s disorienting walking into Notre Dame from that bright courtyard, but don’t just stand there, people. Keep it moving.

Well, she influenced me. 😒

5a) When I visited in 2008 I remember a dark interior, and I don’t remember a lot of people. Since the fire and restoration, the stone walls are lighter and brighter, and the world has come knocking. I’m sorry to say that at times there was an atmosphere of NotreDameLand, e.g. “Tyranny of the Pretty Lady” Influencers eager to pose against a new background, never mind that it’s a sacred space.

5b) The staff did their best to contain the hubbub with the occasional broadcast of a prerecorded SSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH! followed by “Silence please” in three languages and another SSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH! Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t work as well.

5c) I also gave up not walking in front of people taking photos. There’s not enough time in the day.

5d) Despite the crowds, the church remains a beautiful jewel, with its time-honored darkness cleaned away to give us something of its original splendor. And splendid it is! Though that splendor was made a little more ordinary when I saw single panels in a few stained glass windows open to help ventilate the church. All those tourists made it very humid.

5e) The choir and the pietá at the back had been reserved for prayer, and I got in the short line to be admitted. Coincidentally, the couple who had been in front of me in line earlier were in front of me here. The nice young man admitting those who wished to pray asked them if they understood English (they did), and then explained that they could not have their audio guide headphones on during prayer, and that photographs during prayer were forbidden.

5f) When it was my turn there was a seat on a three-seat pew right at the front. I knelt and prayed for our beleaguered country, and when my knees protested, seated myself and continued. Notre Dame was not really on my radar this trip; if Craig had not explained how to sign up, I wouldn’t have gone. So it was meant to be.

6) Leaving Notre Dame, I turned left and crossed to the Right Bank, and turned left again up the Quai de Tournelle. I had an idea that it might be fun to get a Parisian street number for my house, and little blue numbers for the doorbells. Gyygle was not exactly helpful in targeting Parisian hardware stores (please, no instructions or commentary; it’s done now), and the one I stood before was just way too chichi to have anything so basic. Oddly, an old TryppeYdvisor page recommended a store called BHV, which just happened to be in the Marais, where I had planned to return anyhow.

There’s still much to be done.

6a) That journey brought be across and down the Seine again — and what could be wrong with that?

6b) Finalment, BHV appeared just after the Hotel de Ville. Long story short, after searching the entire hardware floor, I found the street sign section, with the blue house numbers . . . and they didn’t have my number! I took that . . . as a sign. Guffaw.

Important graffiti.

7) By this time Daddy was feeling a visit from Miss Dee Hydrate, and it was time to get rid of her in the Place des Vosges, one of the loveliest pockets of Paris. After having settled at Ma Bourgogne on the edge, I realized it was where the travel director of the trip ye Instytytte sent me on in 2011 had taken me for a ricard. How did I remember? I recognized the comical brass fittings on the toilet doors.

7a) An al fresco table, an aperol spritz, a salade césar, a large bottle of sparkling water . . . and then profiteroles because I was bad.

8) After this light midafternoon meal, I strolled about the crowded place, loving the four identical fountains, the statue entirely obscured by the four trees, the walkers and the sunbathers and the young people just sitting on the ground in groups talking to each other. At the center someone was trying to organize a large group photo of some group of ~50 people, probably scholars.

9) Walking back to the Métro, I could both observe and reflect on how difficult it is to get around Paris when one is mobility-impaired. The sidewalks are narrow, half café and half chaos. And I don’t recall seeing many cuts for wheelchairs or scooters at the curbs.

10) Back at my hotel, I had the extremely disturbing experience of learning that my connecting train from Brussels to Vienna had been cancelled, and the app had not automatically booked me on replacement service. I just have to keep reminding myself that Adults Solve Problems, and I am Actually An Adult (though it doesn’t often feel like that, even at my age). The victory: I was able to rebook (but one connection in Cologne or Nuremburg is 15 minutes 😬). But did my voucher take? I fear I am going to have to solve this at the train station in Vienna with an Actual Person.

11) I brought my laptop downstairs to sit at one of the outside tables, write, and enjoy a negroni and a croque monsieur. (Their version is more like a grilled cheese, but no complaints from me — I didn’t have to eat it with a knife and fork.) During the process a Parisian man panhandled me.

12) Now upstairs for the night, and preparing to pack for Vienna, which I suspect will be fairly easy. Now that I’m packing, I’m sorry I didn’t arrange to stay longer here. But I have been here before, and I’ve never really been to Vienna.

Friday, 13 June: Summer Abroad, Day 42: Mostly the Louvre

1) The news, shall we say, impacted my sleep. Even though I knew I needed to get up early, my body anticipated the alarm by a few minutes.

2) Mademoiselle served me a café au lait and a beautiful omelette, light and golden as cannot be found in America. The day was off to a good start.

2a) I must say, for a quirky little hotel with a DJ spinning in the lobby every night, I saw more than a few well-dressed business professionals, both ladies and gentlemen, passing through the lobby.

Cousin George!

3) Today’s first destination was the Musée Guimet, dedicated to Asian art. On the Avenue d’Iéna, imagine my surprise at seeing a statue of Cousin George at the intersection; the American embassy must be nearby. Being early, I lingered outside in the hot sun before the 10 AM opening, reading the news and looking with idle concern at the number of schoolchildren arriving to tour the museum.

4) I really did not know what to expect — oddly, I chose the Guimét because I was going to the Louvre later — so imagine my delight at finding bits of Angkor Wat right there. Such graceful decay, such elegant curves.

Absolutely mesmerizing.

4a) But the most captivating (I choose the word carefully) piece was a sculpture of a woman set into a curve around her head almost like an ear. I looked at it for a good five minutes.

4b) A Korean moon jar, exquisite tiny bottles for snuff or scent, astonishing sculpture (one goddess could have been Leontyne Price in front of a large artichoke — why not?). Some of the pieces recall the old saying by I forget whom “Good design is not when there is nothing left to add, but nothing left to take away. (I just looked it up and the internet says Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said it, but the links all look sketchy.)

A pillow shaped like a tiger!

4c) Happily, the school groups had zero impact on my visit. But after about 90 minutes, I knew I needed to press on to my big destination, the Louvre. How convenient, the Métro was right there at the museum’s entrance. Surprise!

5) On the Métro platform I saw a lady put together as only a Parisienne would be: red boater with a wide brim over curly brown gray hair, white blouse not too close fitting, and a tiered and flounced skirt of a couple different bandana patterns of navy blue and white. Perfect.

Gaspard de Coligny, admiral of France.

6) Walking down the Rue de Rivoli in search of a bottle of water, I noticed the heat, the tourists, and the Louvre Oratory, now given over to Protestant worship. Streetside there was a beautiful memorial to Gaspard de Coligny, one of the martyrs of St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre of 1572.

6a) I got my water at a tourist shop just in time to hear a little boy break a coffee mug.

6b) With some time to kill, I sat on the steps in the deep shade of the Carrousel (sp?) entrance. Sadly, I found out I couldn’t use that entrance, pauvre moi, and I had to head out to the heat-blasted courtyard and the Pyramid. I was very anti-Pyramid when it was first unveiled, but I have definitely come around.

6c) That said, when the line started moving, I was at the metal detector in ten minutes.

6d) Interestingly, quite a few people were using folding fans. How Spanish! I rather wish I’d brought mine (the Medusa one Jonathan brought me back from Florence), but it was in my room. I was deliberately traveling light at the Louvre.

7) Finalment, I was inside! And the thing about the Louvre is, ya gotta keep on truckin’, no matter how tired and footsore you may get. There will be something of interest to see in 95% of the places you end up there. So . . . allons y!

Hans Hoffmann’s famous rabbit. I recognized it immediately because Mother had découpaged it in the early 1970s.

7a) I began with a special exhibition related to the collections of Rudolf II of Prague, full of the excitement of a period when people started asking questions about why the world works as it does, a period of great intellectual curiosity from the highest levels (the opposite of what we’re seeing now, alas). Full of allegories, engravings, carved ivories, and a fabulous collection of cups carved from semiprecious stones.

7b) Then began what I would call the Hardcore Louvre Experience. You just start somewhere in the permanent collection and keep going until your brain is full and your feet are gone. I started in the sculpture court on the Sully side, flooded with strong afternoon sun, transitioned through more French medieval et cetera sculpture, medieval Not Sculpture interspersed with gowns from the Louvre Couture exhibition, the Imperial State Apartments, then up to the second floor for acres of paintings (and wandering in that labyrinth forever, only once having doubled back on my path), down to the first floor, through Italian paintings to the Mona Lisa (I wasn’t going to, having seen her in 2008, but then I felt I ought to pay my respects), the painting I really didn’t want to miss, down to the ground level through more sculpture, and then out into the underground mall in the Pyramid. It took a little over three hours.

7b.i) What the Louvre needs is a nap room with foot massage. I’m totally serious.

7c) Throughout I had little jolts of recognition of when I was there in 2008, and from my parents’ copy of Art Treasures of the Louvre, which I grew up with. (Copies of it are found in every used bookstore in America today.) But I made new friends in the collection along the way.

7d) Roaming around the second floor was very easy. But the first floor, where the Mona Lisa and Winged Victory are to be found, was a mob scene. A humid mob scene, as it turns out someone had left an enormous window open. Don’t they climate control this space?! I remembered getting to visit the university library in Coimbra last fall, where tour groups are allowed to be in the library only ten minutes, and there are ten-minute gaps between groups entering and leaving — all to control the humidity.

Viewing the Mona Lisa. Glad I did in 2008.

7e) Watching people watch the Mona Lisa is more entertaining to me than Mona Herself. One of my eccentricities.

7e.i) But with a museum stuffed with treasures, the world has chosen to focus on this one rather small and enigmatic portrait. And some people will do anything. Entry to the gallery is through two doors at the far end, and you must exit through one door at the opposite end. There are two staffed barriers on either side of Mona; as I was passing one on my way out, a man with two family members in tow tried to rush past to get close to Mona the back way. The guard prevented him, but as I was leaving him I noticed him starting to attempt entry on the other side. Naughty naughty!

7f) And what was the painting I really didn’t want to miss? The Death of Elizabeth I, Queen of England, by Paul Delaroche. (Please note, not Delacroix — learn from my error.) All I remembered was that she was hung high on a wall in a large gallery; turns out that gallery is just after Mona. Had I not gone to pay my respects, I’d’ve missed the Death of Bess altogether!

7g) The other thing they make very clear at the Louvre is the Point of No Return. You may have a ticket, but once you leave, you may not go back inside. But as I left, I was just grateful and exhausted, and feeling all the power of the Louvre in my lower back. I did my best to follow the signs through all the shops (an astonishing number of shops), to the Métro.

8) I had an intense nap back in my room — like the dead, I tell you — and when I woke up about 6 PM, I knew I wanted to get a little table at the bistro in the Place Pigalle, Les Vedettes. Because it was close, and also picturesque. Well, all the tables in the front were taken, so I took a promenade around the corner to see if I couldn’t find something else as picturesque. What I found instead was a long string of sex shops with a lot of unladylike lingerie, a little leather, and unimaginable devices, all in their front windows. This will be the last time I see a miniature pink Eiffel Tower made of silicone. “We’ll always have Paris” indeed!

9) A table had opened up at Les Vedettes by the time I passed by again, and I settled down to a couple glasses of rosé and a salade césar with a chopped galliard of fried chicken and a hard-boiled egg in it. And then a negroni. The soft evening breeze and light emphasized the activity around me, as well as the placid scattering of the large fountain.

9a) The activity around me included a young man with dark hair wearing a white monk’s habit with white socks, black shoes, black backpack, and a large rosary looped into his belt. He just stood at the intersection for a noticeably long time, and I began to wonder if he was going to be soliciting funds. Before long a friend in civilian clothes greeted him and they walked off. Imagine my surprise when I discovered enjoying a drink at a table outside my hotel.

9b) My negroni came with a tiny spoon in it. How novel!

Thursday, 12 June: Summer Abroad, Day 41: Paris

1) The day began with the sort of dynamic tension between wanting to get the day started and being so very comfortable in bed that there is little desire to move at all. Eventually I made the move.

2) Without going into detail, something happened to start my day on the wrong foot. I sat in the hotel lobby, steaming and stewing, with my café au lait, which was just steaming, and I knew if I stayed rooted in that chair, in that building, that I would be in a horrible funk for the rest of the day. While several recommendations had been made, I decided that it would be best to be around the fewest people possible. So I packed my little backpack and headed to the Métro to take a little hike in the Bois de Vincennes.

3) My first trip on the Paris Métro since 2011, and I was quite bewildered by the ticket machines, but somehow got it sorted out. If you don’t know what to do, watch other people (discreetly, of course). That’s how I figured out how to use my new little Métro card.

4) I expected this to be all underground, so I was pleased indeed when the train came aboveground in a few stretches and I could see Paris around me.

One view of the chateau de Vincennes.

5) Disembarking at Vincennes, I realized I was getting both dehydrated and hangry, and claimed a table at the very first sidewalk bistro. A very plain and long ham sandwich and a beautiful glass of ruby port helped get me settled — and a very large glass of water.

6) Then it was off into the bois, first down a road with the chateau on one side and a fort or something else interdit on the left. But getting into all that green on this hot day, and only joggers or cyclists or road maintenance employees around, as opposed to the hordes on the sidewalks — this was what I needed to restore my equilibrium.

7) Back in my room about 3 PM, you will not be surprised to learn that I had a NAP. But this time it was interrupted by having to cancel a dental appointment at home. How on earth did THAT get on my calendar?

Street art of Montmartre.

8) A friend had recommended a restaurant in Montmartre that just happened to be a 15-minute walk from my hotel. Uphill, this being Montmartre. I set out early so I could investigate a cemetery the map said was a little further on — downhill, as it turns out. By the time I found the entrance, closed. But to see the street art, the tourists, the bistros of Montmartre, this is not a bad thing! I lingered in the shade to catch up on the news, and read a couple information boards about Vincent Van Gogh’s time living in the neighborhood.

8a) Walking downhill, ahead of me was a tall French resident with distinguished silver hair wheeling out his bicycle, and having to dodge a woman on her phone saying in a brusque American accent “AND IT CANNOT BE CANCELLED OR MODIFIED.” The way that man looked at her, I laughed out loud!

8b) On the fashion front, I also saw a Frenchman Older Than I walking uphill wearing a light blue suit with short pants and dark knee socks with dark shoes and a short-brimmed straw hat. I know it’s hot, but I’m not sure I could pull off that look. Somehow it seems specific to Bermuda to me, why I have no idea since I’ve never been there.

9) Coq et Fils served me an exquisite little dinner: artichoke hummus, a quarter of a roast chicken with marvelous sauce and a small dish of mac and cheese, and then a succulent chocolate mousse. (I must admit, the dessert was an extravagance.) Their specialty is poultry, and there’s a reason: they’re amazing.

9a) When I wasn’t actively engaged with my food I was scrolling the news and overhearing a lot of French dialogue between the staff, and a possible diner who ducked his head in the door to ask “Do you do duck?” Since the answer was no, he didn’t stay.

10) Then I retraced my steps back to Le Pigalle, and put myself to bed for the night.

Tuesday, 10 June: Summer Abroad, Day 39: Bristol to London

Recollected two days later in Paris.

1) Packed up, hotel breakfast, back up to my room for a couple last minute things, and a knock on the door from the housekeeper. “You checking out today?” she asked tentatively, clearly eager to get an early start somewhere. I cleared out in ten minutes for her. Travel days sometimes make me antsy; no point in unduly hanging around.

2) I walked to the train station after all. It wasn’t as onerous as expected. And then I sat outside on a bench getting to the explosive denouement of His Majesty’s Airship.

3) Which I finished en route to London. Spoiler alert: almost everyone dies a fiery, excruciatingly painful (but hopefully brief) death. Zeppelins were never really the best idea, and this team of empire builders was hampered by not wanting to pass bad news to the top — especially to Lord Thomson, who never wanted to hear it anyway. Hubris at the top, cowering at the bottom.

3a) Mysterious fact: among what little wreckage could be identified was one woman’s shoe, which was quite remarkable considering that no women were on board. The author suggests that it might have been in Lord Thomson’s baggage as a souvenir of his romance with Marthe Bibesco. Who knows?

England flies by as I get ever closer to London.

4) Pulling into London there was an announcement that one Tube line was closed and another operating with serious delays, so I chose a taxi instead.

5) Back at what is now my Old Stomping Ground, after a bit of a delay I was shown to a room on the lower level accessed through the breakfast room and the back stairs. Con: no elevator access. But, Pro: more spacious, which was helpful for the Great Repacking.

Unbelievably, my travel library has grown to this! I promise I only packed two of them, and only two were gifts. Like they said in Jaws, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

6) Which I started almost right away. One side of my small suitcase is now entirely books. It stays in London while I proceed to the continent.

7) Catching up on the news (always a risky activity these days), something (I no longer remember what) upset me so much I was overpowered by the need for a NAP.

8) And then came the conundrum of what to do for dinner. Which meant a stroll through Bloomsbury. So many possibilities, so many risks! I strolled up and down a whole street of restaurants and finally settled on an Italian place (please, contain your astonishment), where I had a very good dinner — especially the dessert.

Om nom nom.

9) And back to my room to write, and bed later than I expected!

Wednesday, 11 June: Summer Abroad, Day 40: London to Paris

1) I slept heavily, but woke earlier than I wanted to, well before 6. But about 6:15 I started the day with my pages, showered, dressed, brought my luggage to store to the front desk, breakfasted at the hotel (for simplicity’s sake), wrote some in my room, and then gathered my three bags and headed to St. Pancras Station.

1a) It was only a couple blocks away, but I felt like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn, the sidewalks were so crowded.

1b) Just as “ballet parking” for valet parking and “carrion bag” for carryon bag, so is “St. Pancreas” for St. Pancras. Stop it.

2) After a wee panic about my ticket, the Nice Frenchman pointed me toward security. Surprise, a metal detector! But at least I didn’t have to remove my shoes or my laptop. Unaccountably three young Japanese people were engaged in confused hesitation at the luggage screening. Was the operator having a problem? Were they unclear on the concept? Was this performance art? Someone on the staff finally came forward and jumpstarted them all again, and that was that.

2a) The station was crowded, so I was glad I had splurged on first class and could go to the premiere lounge (or whatever they called it) — which was just as crowded. I found a place to light and did my best to write, but it was not easy to concentrate.

3) Finalment, my train was called. In New York, they give first class a head start to the gate, but not at St. Pancras. I walked out of the lounge and was immediately part of the rat race up the flat escalator.

3a) And we were all packed on that thing, too, which made it urgent when the party of three ahead of me got off the escalator and just stood there with their bags. Somehow I got around them, but come on people — keep it moving!

Safely in my seat before departure.

3b) My car was at the extreme end of the platform, and after a wee panic about the seat numbers (they seemed to skip around a bit), I got settled in my correct seat. Ten or 15 minutes later, voilá, we were en route!

4) I had a single seat with a pull down tray for my laptop. Quite soon we were offered pouches with rolled-up moist towelettes. I was then offered a (stemless) glass of a delightful dry Champagne. Before long, lunch was served: chicken with some lovely little bits, cheese and compote, and a sweet little honey cheesecake thingy. And another glass of that excellent Champagne, all followed by coffee.

4a) The coffee service quite impressed me. The attendant came by with a coffee pot in one hand and a tray with a milk pitcher and a sugar bowl on it. He directed me to put my coffee cup on his tray so he could pour the coffee; I then retrieved it, added milk, took a sugar packet, and we were off to the races. And all this on a moving train!

4b) By the time I had finished lunch, I was surprised to realize that we had cleared the Chunnel and were now in France.

4c) Most of the journey was accompanied by the (mostly) harmless prattle of a little boy, maybe about three or four years old, two rows ahead of me with his mother. You notice things, you notice they bother you, and then suddenly you notice that they aren’t happening any more.

5) And then . . . bienvenue Gare du Nord! I couldn’t believe we were here already! And I spent a period of anxiety about getting to my hotel. I needed euros just in case the taxis didn’t take cards (you never know). Then, after finally finding an ATM, I only had €50s, and needed to find something to buy to make change. (That’s how I ended up with two chocolate bars.) And then where were the taxis?

5a) I got into what turned out to be a long and almost interminable taxi line, which confirmed that a) I no longer spoke the dominant language, b) it was hot in Paris and I was wearing my dark suit, and c) even if I was in the long line with no end in sight, I was in Paris.

5b) About 15 minutes in I ended up talking with the lady ahead of me, a Californian with a British accent traveling with her daughter, and that helped the time pass.

5c) “The darkest hour is before the dawn,” and I was at my most anxious when I was two cabs away from my own. Mother would have said “This is an opportunity to practice patience.”

6) But at last I was in a taxi, and actually making sense in French! “J’ai attendu une heure complet pour le taxi!” And later “Je me suis trompé appeler l’hotel ‘L’Hotel Pigalle.’ C’est jusqu’ ‘Le Pigalle.’” (“Je me suis trompé” is one of the things Mr. Ratchett said that fatal night on the Orient Express, which is the only reason I know that sentence.)

6a) The cabby very efficiently got me to my hotel, helped with my large suitcase, and confirmed the stereotype of Parisian cabbies as dishonest by shortchanging me €5. La plus ça change . . . to which Lauren Bacall in How to Marry a Millionaire would respond “Gesundheit.” No, he didn’t have a card reader in the taxi.

7) I was then standing immediately before a friendly open-faced man at a large red-brown marble table in a long room part café, part lounge, part hotel office. Happily he spoke English, and immediately introduced me to his trainee (sadly I have forgotten her name already), who would be observing my registration. But first, would I like anything to drink? Sparkling water, merci bien.

7a) Now invariably when I arrive at a hotel I want to be handed my key and go up to my room that very minute. And you know and I know that that is not the way things work any more, but it look less than ten minutes. I was given my key fob, instructed on the use of the elevator, and soon I was two floors up, lumbering into a quirky small room done in neutrals.

7b) I unpacked at once, and realized I was definitely in France because the toilet was in its own little room by the door, and the rest of the bathroom was as far away as possible from the toilet, next to my bed. The closet also doubles as the in-room bar, which meant I had to hang my suits with trousers full length on the bathroom towel hooks. (My seersucker suit looks quite wrinkled after three weeks in a suitcase, but I will trot it out tomorrow.)

8) I had to have some sleep, but after about half an hour I realized I ought to get up and into the city. So I put on some shorts and a T-shirt (too cold for that in England), and headed off to the Galeries Lafayette, 20 minutes on foot. Passing through the lobby, the Nice Man asked if everything was all right and I replied “Je suis contente,” which I know from Cocteau’s La Belle et la Bête. He corrected me gently to use the masculine, “content.”

8a) My hotel is just off the Place Pigalle, so Sacré Coeur is visible at the intersection. I made a hairpin turn to the left, and proceeded down one of those residential Parisian streets with very narrow sidewalks, narrower sidewalk cafés, and a few too many people. I was surprised to find myself walking by Rue La Bruyere only because Charles Boyer mentions it to Hedy Lamarr in Algiers.

La Rotonde!

8b) Coming into a little, very active square, I was surprised to discover a café with a name I recognized: La Rotonde. Could that be the La Rotonde, Hemingway’s?! Didn’t I go there with Akeena back in 2008? Or was that 2011? And wait a minute, wasn’t that on the Right Bank? I filed it away for future reference and kept on.

8c) Approaching the Galeries Lafayette, I witnessed an altercation in the bike lane between three Frenchman, one of them outraged that the other two were going the wrong way or something. It was clear that they were all locals; he wasn’t flaming tourists with no clue.

They’ve added an observation platform — terrifying.

9) Finally in the store, I realized how rare it is that I actually shop like this, in the big stores. In part because the sales staff have you under surveillance. (The saleslady in Lisbon last year was even worse.) I picked up a couple (needed) pairs of dress socks and went on my way . . .

10) . . . back to La Rotonde. It was the perfect place for a first-night dinner in Paris, not least because of the volume of people milling around on this hot sunny early evening. I settled down to a proper kir (white wine and cassis, not a Royale, which is champagne and Chambord), a chicken cutlet Milanese with a glass of rosé, and then crepes La Bretonne and another rosé.

10a) The energy of Paris on this day: the heat, the disco music, the many many many people, the brasserie menu.

11) And then I retraced my steps back to my hotel, returned to my room, forgot all about my chocolate bars, and wrote. Now, what will I do tomorrow?