I’m going soon on a trip to France, via a Viking Riverboat Longship, secure in the knowledge that my house is safe with several family members staying there.
I’ll see Notre Dame, and the many monuments to that rampaging thief Napoleon. I will go the Musée D’Orsay and stun myself with the beauty of all that gorgeous art by Monet and Manet, Cézanne and Seurat and Gauguin and the others.
I’ll drink the red wine at lunch and at breakfast eat the croissant, a word which when pronounced right sounds like you’re trying to clear out some serious post-nasal drip.
I’ve also been busy trying to retrieve the exact right phrases from my four years of teenage French so I can tell the waiter what I would like to eat without having him think I’m saying that I desire him, because who knows what construction might be put on things in the land of oo-la-la?
I really can’t wait to go that Musée D’Orsay where the paintings by so many 19th century artists shocked! – just shocked the bourgeoisie in La Belle France – and none more than this guy Manet in his Le Déjeuner sur L’Herbe, or ‘lunch on the grass,’ with two fully dressed guys enjoying the picnic together with one entirely UNDRESSED lady who has the guts to stare right back at us even as we stand staring at her.
“Oo-la-la!” is the last thing I think studying this very large painting. For me “You go, girl!” is a lot more like it.