Lest you think I’ve abandoned writing about books in favor of writing about travel, let’s talk books today. My next blog post will preview a book about America—promise! But today, let’s linger overseas. Let me first tell you about a famous English-language bookstore in Paris called Shakespeare and Company. It’s located across the street from Notre Dame, it has an exquisite selection of books (in English!), and it has a motto to live by (see the photo). And let me now tell you about a book I read about Paris, before traveling to Paris.

Book Club Fiction and Women’s Fiction

Paris by the Book, a recently published novel by Liam Callanan, was given to me as a gift by a family member, upon my sharing that I was planning a trip to said city. Although it’s not the type of book I usually read, I read it before my trip and thereby learned a few facts about the city, and picked up a few additional French words. Paris by the Book is what publishing professionals call “book club fiction” or “women’s fiction.” These labels don’t mean that the book can’t be read outside of book clubs or by men. They merely mean that the book is well suited to be read in women’s book clubs . . . which are a huge source of revenue for the publishing industry.

In such books, there is often a relatable female heroine. And such books often raise issues that pertain to modern women’s lives, without being too inflammatory: issues easily discussable over wine and cheese in someone’s stylish living room. Often, the reader doesn’t need a lot of background knowledge to understand the book, or too much grit to make it through the entire thing; in other words, such books are accessible to a wide audience.

Literary agents with whom I’ve had contact seem to wish that my books were in the “book club fiction” category and/or “women’s fiction” category. Such books sell like hotcakes. When one women reads one, all the women in her circle have to read it, too.

Paris by the Book is indeed an easy read. There is indeed a relatable female heroine. (She is an American woman with two daughters; they all end up traveling to and living in Paris.) And indeed, the book raises issues pertaining to modern women’s lives.

Yeah, I’m a Woman

In fact, the book seemed so relevant to my own life that, upon reaching a certain point, I had a strong reaction. Anger. I was so angry! At a character in the book, yes, but also at people in my real social circles. I had trouble sleeping one night, I was so angry. And upon finishing the book, I immediately gave it to a female friend to read, because I’m eager to discuss it with another woman.

Book club fiction? Women’s fiction? Spot on. And, as my Airbnb host in London said to me, upon my confession that I could not stop crying while watching the play Emilia, “If it provokes an emotional reaction, it must be doing something right.” (I describe the play and my reaction to it here.)

Art’s Purpose

And that’s what art is all about! If I’m reacting, a connection was made. True, other people might react completely differently, or not at all, to the same work. However, if the artwork is making a connection with at least a substantial proportion of its audience, it’s doing its job. It’s expressing something in a format that other humans can understand. It’s communication in the emotional sphere.

Paris by the Book is far from perfect. I agree with the critique of it in this excellent review. But a certain key aspect of the book caused me to react, and this prompted me to think. Why am I so upset about this? wondered I. And I learned something about myself, and others, as a result.

When was the last time you had a strong emotional reaction to a work of art—such as a novel, play, or visual piece? Did you learn something about yourself, or others, as a result?

In full disclosure: Paris and I didn’t groove together as well as London and I did. My trip to London was a dream, from start to finish. Paris, however, was a struggle. This was partly due to the fact that I had already been traveling for nine days by the time I got to Paris, and I was getting tired. This was also due to the language barrier, which caused my stay to feel more like an intensely difficult challenge than a carefree vacation. But the most important reason why Paris was a struggle for me was that . . . I had wardrobe issues. And so, without further ado, let’s discuss what to wear in Paris, as well as what not to wear, in case you wish to pack a suitcase more appropriately than I did, before traveling to the famously stylish capital of France.

Do wear traditional Parisian styles and colors.

I saw a lot of stripes in Paris. There were a lot of black and white stripes. And navy blue and white stripes. There was also a lot of solid red. And there were a lot of berets. It’s perfectly okay to wear stereotypically Parisian attire in Paris!

For example, here’s a woman in red and white stripes, exiting the famous cafe Les Deux Magots:

Hemingway and other famous writers used to hang out at this cafe. I had intended to hang out at this cafe, as well; but as you can see, it was very crowded when I was there. So I went elsewhere. Guess I’m not as cool as Hemingway. But back to clothing. I noticed that, for men, funky hats and colorful shoes are in. Check out the dude in the crosswalk with a white hat and neon green shoes.

And did you notice the young woman in full-on traditional Parisian attire in the crowd before the Mona Lisa, in my first blog post about the Louvre? Here’s a detail of the photo. I did not notice her until after I got home and looked at my photos, so it’s not like she stood out to me as bizarrely dressed. On the contrary—she fit right in.

It’s also okay to add modern flair to traditional fashions. Check out the dude in red and black walking past the Notre Dame cathedral in the first photo (at the beginning of this blog post). Now here’s a fellow who knows how to go traditional, but with a modern flair. And note that he, also, is wearing a funky hat and colorful shoes.

Do be fashionable and stylish.

I shared this photo earlier, in my blog post about migraines and other health issues. I wish you could see more clearly how well dressed this young couple was—the two whose heads are leaning romantically toward each other. I was in awe, particularly of the woman. She had short hair, styled chicly, as you can perhaps see here. She was wearing a dress that had two thick, long, black, vertical stripes from collar to the hem at her knees. And her fabulous shoes had heels, but also a hardcore, stabilizing thickness to them—which was a good thing, as she needed to stand on them for hours at this concert.

Later, I was near this piece of outdoor wall art—one of those works that’s easier to read when you step back—when I met another fashionably well-dressed person. He looked like he had walked right out of the 60s. But he also looked very modern. I loved the jazzy hat, the double-lapelled jacket, the stylish shoes. He turned out to be, like me, a lost American. Luckily, I had just found where he was trying to go, and he then found where I was trying to go. He was in a hurry, so we exchanged numbers, and after a series of comical mishaps, met up for drinks very late that night. Kudos to him for knowing how to dress in Paris to impress a woman! And we parted friends (and nothing more; no one freak out).

Do go au naturel . . . depending on who you are.

I visited the famous Paris Opera House, known as Palais Garnier, on my first evening in the city. Here’s a shot of the appropriately majestic exterior, with a bus photobombing the scene just to remind us what century we’re in. Thus I fulfilled my original inspiration for traveling to Paris, which I explained in this earlier post.

The interior was equally majestic, with a colorful ceiling fresco painted by Marc Chagall. This photo does not do justice to the massiveness of the chandelier. I would not want to be under it if it fell!

So what does this have to do with what to wear in Paris? At the opera house, I saw an excellent ballet. I especially enjoyed the first dance, set to music by the great Philip Glass (the second movement of Symphony No. 2); Sol León and Paul Lightfoot were the choreographers and set/costume designers. Two of the many dancers were stationary on extremely tall stilts, except for their arms, which danced at key intervals to the music. It was a very interesting performance. It got even more interesting when, halfway through, one of those two tall dancers, the female one, dropped her shirt and performed the remainder of the dance topless.

This was was my first night in Paris. Welcome to France, Liza!!

However, I did not see any other topless ladies in Paris. Unless, of course, you count the lovely Venus de Milo and other statues, such as this impressive collection in a cafe window:

 
So I don’t necessarily recommend going the au naturel route. It is a good idea to pack a suitcase before traveling to Paris. With clothes in it.

Do wear swan feathers . . . if you are a swan.

Check out this elegant Parisian look:

 
This fashionable style merits a closeup of the models on the runway . . . er, swimway:

 

This idea is for daring, fashion-forward types only.

These cottonlike seeds were falling from trees all over Paris when I was there. They were wafting through the open doors of cafes and collecting in clumps on the ground. At times, I found it difficult to eat a meal and enjoy a view in peace, for these kept falling into my food and face.

Are these from cottonwood trees? I have no idea. But perhaps Lady Gaga, or someone else on the cutting edge of fashion, might hire someone to make a dress out of these for their next red-carpet appearance. Just a suggestion.

Don’t wear uncomfortable shoes.

So there I was, sitting at a cafe called The New York, which was, oddly, the only cafe I could find at this particular location, across the Seine River from the Eiffel Tower. So I ordered some New York cheesecake (“When in Rome . . .”) and a glass of wine, and sat back to enjoy the view.

The view was obstructed, but it was still a very good view. So I snapped a photo. Those cottonlike seeds were everywhere, so I turned around in my seat and snapped the photo above.

And then I snapped a photo of my little reminder of home (the napkin and cheesecake), my little reminder of Paris (the wine), and my little reminder that fashion and style are not—contrary to popular belief!—the most important things to consider, when packing a suitcase to travel to Paris.
You see, In London, my shoes broke. I found a shoe store and bought a new pair. These were sensible flats with style. Of course, walking around all day, for days on end, in new, unbroken-in shoes is never a good idea. By the time I got to Paris, I had developed a massive blister on my foot. I bought some foot pads at a pharmacy, which helped with my comfort while walking. But the blister remained stubbornly alive . . . and kept growing.

After a couple miserable days, I transferred my new foot pads to my running shoes and started walking around Paris in comfort. Duh—why did I not do that sooner?

I confess, I have shoe issues. Like many (dare I say most?) women, I love fashionable shoes. But even more, I love running. And walking. And gardening. And strolling through London and Paris and Washington, D.C. Time and again, my cute shoes let me down. Time and again, I revert to my trusty running shoes . . . and then get bored of the sporty look and long to switch things up in favor of the stylish look . . . and feel lucky one day . . . and try the cute shoes again . . . and it’s a terrible, vicious circle.

I keep telling myself that, one of these days, I’m going to give up on fashion and start wearing running shoes everywhere I go. That would be fine for Paris, but I’m not sure how that would go over at my next work conference. . . .

TL;DR

You’re wondering what to wear in Paris? Here’s a quick-glance guide:

1. Wear comfortable shoes. That way, you can walk around all day and enjoy the world-class architecture, museums, gardens, and more.
2. Bonus points if you dress stylishly.
3. Triple bonus points if you manage to do both 1 and 2 at once! (And if you do, or have suggestions for managing this perennial dilemma, let me know your thoughts!)

And here is the view from inside the foyer of the Louvre in Paris, looking up and out through the right-side-up pyramid. As you can see, it had not started raining yet, at the time I took this photo, so it’s a cheerier photo than the one I shared two days ago in my post about the Mona Lisa. Note the many stone statues and bas-relief sculptures on the building out there. (I’m excited to finally make use of the term bas-relief, which I learned in that art history class I took so long ago.)

The museum contained many other stone statues and bas-relief sculptures. I’d like to write about two of them today, which I found especially notable in their excellence. As it turns out, others throughout the years have agreed, for these are famous sculptures: the Winged Victory of Samothrace and the Venus de Milo. Have you heard of them?

Both of these beautiful and larger-than-life women were sculpted in the region and era of ancient Greece. Both, too, are missing their arms. Winged Victory has also lost her head; Venus somehow held onto hers.

Another similarity is that they were both entirely lost for centuries and only discovered, at different locations and in different years, in the 1800s. Winged Victory was discovered by an amateur archaeologist. Venus de Milo was discovered by a farmer. A farmer—can you imagine? I dig in my backyard all the time, and sometimes I unearth some pretty big stones . . . but nothing like that!

I was going to write to you about how I felt while viewing these lovely ladies in their voluptuously scant attire; but it seems that I have been preempted. Upon arriving home, I tried to explain my feelings about these sculptures to my sister-in-law, who immediately said this:

“Oh, like the Rilke poem.”

“Oh, what Rilke poem?”

My ignorance having once again been revealed, she pulled up the short poem on her phone. I asked her to read it aloud to me, which she did. Well, and yes. That was exactly how I felt; that was exactly what I was trying to express. Holy Aphrodite! Please read this poem: “Archaic Torso of Apollo” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

I hadn’t been anywhere close to expressing this to my sister-in-law. But yes, this is what I was trying to say. (With the exception, of course, that the poem is about a male statue, while I was looking at female statues.)

Did you click the link and read the poem? Best to do it before reading on: “Archaic Torso of Apollo” by Rainer Maria Rilke.

While in the Louvre, I made sure to view the Winged Victory from the ideal “three-quarters on the left” angle, which was dazzling. (This is shown in the second photo here.) Later, while walking slowly around Venus de Milo, pausing here and there to view her from all angles, I think I may have unintentionally walked between the statue and a young woman’s camera. I think this not because I saw the camera or the young woman, but because I heard her mutter something indiscernible. And then her companion, another young woman, said in American English, “I’m really glad you said that. I’m really glad you said that!” and they both laughed loudly, but self-consciously. No one else was nearby.

I’m most likely just being paranoid; but perhaps they really were talking about a mistake on my part. I would have been happy to apologize profusely, had I been confident that I really had done something inadvertently impolite. Instead, I did not look at them, I said nothing to them, and I moseyed away. But truly, I would not be surprised if I had stepped in front of a camera, because I was having a moment.

I must. Yes, I really must.
 

While I was overseas, the architect who designed the Louvre’s crystal pyramid, I.M. Pei, died at the age of 102. I went to the Louvre myself a few days later. It was a Saturday afternoon, and there was a long line angling past the upside-down pyramid within the underground shopping plaza. Visitors to the Louvre must pass through a security checkpoint before entering the large foyer. There, they can stand in another long line to buy a ticket if, like me, they did not have the foresight to purchase one online beforehand.

Halfway through my visit, after wandering through many large halls filled with renaissance and early and ancient and otherwise freakin’ old art, climbing up and down huge stairwells, and feeling lost and overwhelmed, I came across a window to the outdoors and snapped the photo above. It was raining quite hard. These two old robed figures were standing out there, getting wet, while keeping watch over the right-side-up pyramid. One of them even had a hand raised toward it in praise, or in happiness, or maybe because he just couldn’t help it.

But the main artwork I was in that vast building to see was not these two friends, nor even the pyramid, but rather Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. She is in her own, private room. To get to her, one must follow many signs, leading up stairways and through huge galleries. Finally, one happens across several other Da Vinci paintings. A sizeable group of people is often hovering around these; but soon they move on, and one is able to enjoy these paintings up close and personal.

Across the hallway is a cordoned-off section where one can stand in line to see Mona Lisa herself. Once entering the room, one can push through a huge crowd for five or ten minutes, taking care to safeguard one’s personal belongings, until one finally reaches the front of the crowd. Then, one can lean against the security belt and peer, in awe and astonishment, at the masterpiece, as she gazes back at you. You can stare at her and study her and be with her and enjoy looking at her for as long as the guards let you, which is generally only a few minutes.

At least, this is what I did upon reaching the security belt at the front of the crowd. Here’s what everyone else was doing:

Strangely, only a small percentage of the people here seem to be intently focused on experiencing the masterpiece before them. Many more are focused on taking photos of said masterpiece. This I struggle to understand. If I wanted a reproduction of the Mona Lisa, that is easily had. They are plastered all over the Louvre gift shops, indeed all over Paris—indeed all over the world. More probably, these folks wanted to share with their friends, on social media or elsewhere, the fact that they experienced the masterpiece in person. This is fine and wonderful and good: in fact, I am doing the same thing, right now!

The only problem is, they didn’t experience the masterpiece in person. The act of taking a close-up photo of the thing inhibits one from actually experiencing the thing, since your time before it is limited. But perhaps all these people already experienced it! Perhaps they already drank it in fully, and then got back in line and pushed through the crowd a second time, to take a photo. Do you think that’s what they did? This must’ve been what they all did. Yes? Right? No? Sigh. But since I wrote about this topic (direct experience of the real world vs. staying inside your own head) in this blog post about Matthew B. Crawford’s book The World Beyond Your Head, let’s move on to what I myself experienced.

I was amazed by the Da Vinci paintings in the hallway. I had seen reproductions of these in my art history class in college. I had a professor with a thick Italian accent who kept saying “I want you to understand.” Over and over she said this. But I never quite understood. Seeing the paintings in person, decades later, however? I understand now.

The people in the Da Vinci paintings pop out as real . . . unlike every other painting I saw that day (I must note that I did not see every painting in the Louvre, just a whole lot of them). More than this, they have expressions on their faces that convey serenity, confidence, and inner wisdom. You feel as though you are in the presence of someone who knows, who understands, but who isn’t necessarily telling. The paintings in the hallway have religious themes. Thus, they seem to express the divinity of God: the all-knowing, omnipresent One.

But our friend Mona Lisa is secular. This makes her expression particularly astounding. My thoughts upon first entering that packed room, all those bodies crowding up to get a glimpse of her, were as follows:

“How is she handling all of this attention? Is this gawking at a woman really appropriate in this #metoo era in which we live? If I were her, I would not enjoy being stared at, photographed, hashtagged, as if by predators, or paparazzi, or teenage groupies, all day long!”

But upon finally catching a glimpse of her, I realized that she has more than enough mental resources to endure any amount of gawking. Like the Virgin, Baby, Baptist, Angel, and others in the hallway, she was expressing serenity, confidence, and inner wisdom. However—and this is key, and elemental, and why our dear Mona Lisa is considered, above all, enigmatic—she was doing this without the benefit of being divinely appointed and consecrated by God. How is it possible for a person be so calmly in charge of herself, particularly a woman living in paternalistic times, particularly an ordinary, secular, workaday citizen?

She is an inspiration to us all.

What should one eat while traveling in London? I’m glad you asked! I have been overwhelmed, actually, by requests from family, friends, blog readers, acquaintances, and strangers who heard that I am traveling in London.

“Okay, so you are in Europe,” they say to me. “Okay, so there’s art and culture and fascinating people and bloody weird language permutations and beautiful buildings and elaborate ceremony and centuries of history and a bridge that is falling down, my fair lady. All very good. But what did you eat?!!”

All right, all right, all right! By popular demand, here is a blog post about food in London.

And I would like to note that we are definitely on the same page here. Truly, I believe that feeding oneself properly is of utmost importance in life. And that goes for not just physical food . . . but also spiritual food. Oh, I fed myself well in London!

Food for Mind, Senses, and Spirit: Theatre

I partook well of the theatres in London: This is some seriously good sustenance. I saw three productions that blew me away. They were quite similar in theme—which I didn’t realize would be the case when purchasing my tickets. They were about women and the societal forces that keep them (us!) in submission.

Here is a photo of the chandelier at Duke of York’s Theatre, where I saw Rosmersholm by Henrik Isben. If it had not been for the characters’ clothing, this play, written in 1886, could have taken place in modern times. The themes—politics, gender, and religion—are just as relevant today as they were 100+ years ago.

I had the feeling that I had heard the name of the heroine before: Rebecca West. She must feature large in literary criticism, and rightfully so. This play is a masterpiece that I somehow missed studying in college. It’s about the constraints of society. It’s about people who disagree with the majority opinion and must choose to either conform (and stifle themselves) or, bravely, live uniquely and work to change society (and risk becoming an outcast and losing everything).

Ditto pretty much all of the above in regard to The Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov. How did I miss encountering this masterpiece earlier in my life? The Three Sisters was written in 1900 and, like Rosmersholm, spotlights the plight of an intelligent woman—that is, three intelligent women, who are being stifled by the town and circumstances in which they live. Also like Rosmersholm, the production was spectacular. The choreography, costumes, lighting, dancing, and acting were phenomenal. I laughed, I cried; it was great. (Thanks to R. for recommending this theatre and production to me!)

Embarrassingly, I could not stop crying through Emilia by Morgan Lloyd Malcolm, a play written last year. This does not usually happen to me. Near the beginning of the play, tears began streaming down my face and dripping off my chin. I controlled myself. It happened again in the middle of the play. Again, I controlled myself. At the end of the play, however, it was a losing battle. I was sobbing outright, though I managed to say silent. Luckily, I was sitting far back in the orchestra section (so far back that opera glasses were available for rent), so I felt inconspicuous. Also, there were empty seats around me. When the production ended, I slipped out of the theatre with a wet face and crazy eyes. Instead of descending into the Tube, I walked for a couple of miles, weeping in the dark of the London streets. OMG, I’m tearing up again—let me move on and write about something else!

But I suppose I should explain the cause of all this emotiveness. The heroine of Emilia, Emilia Bassano, is a historical figure who lived in Shakespeare’s time and may have been the “Dark Lady” he writes about in his sonnets. I do not know how much of the play was based on known facts, how much was speculation, and how much exaggeration. In any case, the play dramatizes the plight of a woman who wanted to be a writer, despite prejudice against her due to her gender, and who wrote feminist poetry (that survives today!). The play uses many of Emilia’s own words, written 400 years ago. And it is very funny. It features an all-female cast, who play both the female and male characters—which is hysterical considering that in Shakespeare’s time only men acted (men dressed as both men and women on the stage).

Food for Thought

Amidst all of this theatre going, I visited many cafes and bars, seeking out quaint places to work on my laptop. I found some adorable venues and ate some delicious food: I remember a lot of eggs, avocado, fancy cheese, spinach, nuts, and smoked salmon, along with numerous pots of tea with milk. However, I was starting to get frustrated because I kept choosing places to work where the music was a bit too loud, or the chairs and tables a bit too crowded together for comfort. And then, one day when I was feeling homesick for my quiet office in my house in Maryland, I experienced the glory of stumbling across . . . a Starbucks! I ordered a cup of tea! The barista poured milk into my tea without asking permission, but that was okay with me! The music was low! And it wasn’t very crowded! God bless the USA!!!!

More Food for Thought: Books

My original strategy on book buying was that I must not buy any books. Why heft a book across an ocean, when I can have it delivered to my home?

Naturally, that didn’t work out so well. I see a bookshop, I enter it. I enter it, I see a book. I see a book, I want to buy it. Well, I compromised by buying only small, skinny books.

So now I must heft a huge pile of small, skinny books across an ocean. Sigh.

The silver lining is, skinny books are quicker to read and thus will help me reach my goal of 50 books per year. LOL.

Also: Have you read Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins? (That book about a grown woman on a train?) Well, I took a train from London to the Midlands and, very truly, the backs of houses are lined up against the train tracks! (I did not see any people suspiciously kissing, though.)

Food for Ears: Music

I traveled to the Midlands to see Kate Rusby, who was performing in Derby to celebrate the release of her new album, Philosophers, Poets and Kings. As she explained during the performance, the title track is not about philosophy, poetry, or royalty. It’s about wine: now that’s a song I can get behind! (With due moderation, that is: and there ends my similarity to the grown woman on the train.)

Kate Rusby’s performance was impeccable, really wonderful. I love the simple beauty of her folk music. She sings on universal themes like love, death, birds, and the night sky. She often takes centuries-old ballads and sets them to her own music. I adore her—thanks for a great time, Kate!

Next, I saw Thea Gilmore in concert at Union Chapel. What a beautiful venue this is! Thea Gilmore is a singer and songwriter whose lyrics are remarkable for their wit, insight, and irreverence. It felt strange (in a way that is apropos to her music and persona and vibe) to see her perform in a church. However, this is a church with a bar. Alcohol is not permitted in the chapel itself; but for some reason, irreverent, subversive music is completely acceptable. . . .

Thanks, Thea, for an amazing performance. I adore your (literal and metaphorical) voice!

Food for Companionship

As long as we’re back to playing our old game of Find the Hidden Item in the Photo (did you find not one but two fluorescent signs amidst the ornate architecture and Biblically themed stained glass in that last one?), let’s move on to the story of this photo.

While sitting in a Parisian cafe in London—not to be confused with a Parisian cafe in Paris—I asked the man sitting at the next table to take a photo of me, which he kindly did:

As the well-dressed men behind me had a serious conversation about Jesus, my companion and I had a witty conversation about, among other things, the genius of Bertrand Russell, of whom both of us, it transpired, are fans.

However, as this blog post is about food, our conversation is irrelevant. And so—per your request—here’s what we ate in London over the next few days: Yorkshire pudding with meat, potatoes, and vegetables; beer; a cocktail garnished with an origami bird (me) and a virgin drink (him); tea; Caesar salad with chicken (me) and steak and potatoes (him). Also, we wished to order gelato at one restaurant, but the waiter didn’t visit the outdoor table where he’d seated us for half an hour, so we gave up on that idea.

At one point while walking around London, half lost (and half not), we stumbled across this church. It’s called All Souls Langham Place. Do you see something notable, hidden in the narrow gap between the church and a nearby building? (I was going to try to read a deeper meaning into this; however, thinking better of it, I shall move on to the final sentence in this paragraph.) It was nice to have a companion to hang around with during my stay in London, and we parted friends (and nothing more: nobody freak out).

Food for Eyes: Art

On my last full day in London, I visited Tate Modern, a spacious museum of modern art that looks, from the inside, like an empty factory. I saw many thought-provoking and lovely pieces, but the most nourishing food there, which sat best in my belly, was the Mark Rothko room. Mark Rothko is famous for his large, abstract expressionist paintings. These works of art often have just a few, large bands of color. They are beautiful. Furthermore, studying them quietly can offer one a meditatively spiritual experience. Here’s one of the Rothko paintings I saw.

I entered the Mark Rothko room, which was lighted only dimly, and sat on one of the benches in the center. The nine paintings surrounded me. I sat and looked at the paintings, occasionally turning to peer in different directions to see them all.

After two or three minutes, something astonishing happened. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the colors of the paintings emerged in all their brilliance. It was like the rising of the sun: a meditative and spiritual arising that I had not anticipated.

After a few more minutes, something else astonishing happened: the blocks of color began to invert. Whereas I had been seeing numerals like 0, I, and II, suddenly the inverse space appeared to be prison bars. But they were not imprisoning bars; no, they were safely nestling me in the meditative space. They were keeping me in a place of understanding and compassion, while sheltering me from the outside world of ignorance and cruelty. For me, the paintings had suddenly transformed into an expression of the life of the introvert: you erect shields to save yourself from the chaos of the outside world. Your shields keep you safe from panic, while warning others not to intrude. I was honored to be shielded by Rothko’s paintings for those few minutes of my life.

A brochure I received at the Tate Modern advertised a Vincent van Gogh exhibition at the Tate Britain, a museum in a different part of the city. I wanted to go, but I had a ticket for a matinee performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor at Shakespeare’s Globe. After the show (which was funny and silly—but not one of Shakespeare’s masterpieces), I completely forgot about the exhibition. So I stood here for ten or twenty minutes, listening to a street performer in front of the Tate Modern and, when I turned around, admiring the view of the Millennium Bridge over the Thames:

Then I moseyed on over somewhere else, whereupon I noticed that I had access to WiFi. That’s when it hit me that I should look up how to get to the Tate Britain and get there ASAP! So that’s what I did. I had to walk to the subway, take two trains, and walk to the museum. I got lost, and encountered a fellow traveler (from Sweden or Finland, I believe) who was also searching for the museum and the exhibit. We found the museum and entered 20 minutes before it closed. She had a museum pass already. As I was purchasing my ticket for £22 (about $29), the woman behind the counter warned me that there wasn’t enough time and asked whether I really wanted to buy it. I really did. Next, the man who took my ticket at the door looked at me in horror and said,

“A ticket, at this hour?!!”

I mainly wanted everybody to stop talking, so I could see the exhibit! So I quickly entered. And it was spectacular: another spiritual experience. Here are some of the Van Gogh paintings I saw. Ignoring the paintings not by Van Gogh, I focused on the masterpieces: and so they were. Looking at the paintings, I had this repeated thought: “He gets it. He gets it!” He understands this life. He understands the beauty and strangeness and spirituality and liveliness of the world. Every brushstroke, every color, is perfectly placed in those paintings. Looking at them, I feel as if I’m peering into the soul of the world, the essence of reality, something much more real than even reality itself. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but here’s another attempt:

There was a room full of paintings of sunflowers. I think these sunflowers were painted by contemporaries of Van Gogh—though I can’t be sure, as I did not dawdle to read the descriptions. I glanced at each of the paintings to see if it was by Van Gogh, until finally I came across the Van Gogh. My thoughts went like this: “Hmm, a painting of sunflowers, another painting of sunflowers, okay more sunflowers, geez lots of sunflowers in this room, here’s another vase of sunflowers, these sunflowers are kinda boring, more sunflowers over here . . . WOW—THOSE ARE SUNFLOWERS!!!!”

Yes, I had seen reproductions of that particular work of art before. No, it’s nothing like seeing the painting in person.

I made it through the ten or so rooms of the exhibit in ten minutes, which was exactly what I needed to do, as the guards started hustling people out ten minutes before the museum closed. The experience was worth every penny. (That is to say—it was worth all the pence!)

Food for a Brick in the Belly: Traditional British Fare

Then there was the day that I decided to go full-on traditional with my food. I had British tea with milk—always in England tea is served with milk—and carrot cake at a British bakery, as you can see here. Later, I had fish and chips, peas, and beer at a tavern. I don’t particularly like cake, fried food, or peas, and the beer was subpar; but I ate and drank with gusto anyway. (I thoroughly enjoyed the tea with milk.) The next day, my belly felt not so good. Despite that inconvenient fact, God save the Queen!!!!

TL;DR

I know, this blog post is very long. So here’s the bottom line on what to eat in London. If you ever decide to travel to this truly great city, I recommend that you nourish yourself with theatre, books, music, art, companionship, tea with milk, alcohol, and, for good measure, actual food.

I’m off to Paris now. (If you’re wondering why, see my blog post about the unconscious mind.) Until next time—bon appétit!