Paris, day 2

Today:
Louvre. Mona Lisa. Rembrandt. You name it, I saw it. Except of course for the French painting exhibit, which is closed Thursday. I thought French painting is why they invented the Louvre in the first place.... That is like going to Starbucks and finding out there is no coffee on the menu today. Not that I will ever go to Starbucks again. And yes, it does exist in Paris, right by the Comedie Francaise, of all places.

I bought a last minute ticket to Don Giovanni at the Paris Opera (note: The Opera is always sold out. What you have to do, I have learned, is to stand on the steps outside the opera 1 hour before it starts with a sign that says 'achete 1 billet'... it worked in my case! ) It was at the old opera house, you know, the one with the Chagall ceiling... the one that bankrupted France. So, imagine, you walk into possibly the most decadent ornate 19th century building ever, sit in your plush velvet seat and wait. The sublime overture to Don Giovanni begins. Then the curtain rises. The powers that be in the Paris opera decided, in their wisdom, to set the opera in a locale that resembled the office set of Murphy Brown. Most of the characters were Janitors. Don Giovanni looked like a security guard. Needless to say, I was glad I had a shitty seat so I couldn't see most of the time.
Before that, I bought whole candied clementines at a pastry shop that has existed continuosly since 1761. Of course, I stumbled upon it. Note to self: large quantities of syrup-preserved fruit does not a good dinner make. I was feeling sick around hour 5 of Don Giovanni. The French like to take 30 minute intermissions so they can touch each other's scarves and smoke. Note: Only straight French man wear scarves. If you see a man in Paris wearing a bright pink ascot and carrying a man purse, he is probably straight. If you see a man wearing tight jeans and a parka, with spiky hair, he is probably gay. Yes, Paris is different... I bought a 'baba au rhum' today, which is basically a donut soaked in rum until it is squishy. Very nice. When they serve it to you, they annoint it with more rum from a crystal atomizer. I made the mistake of carrying it at an angle, thereby spilling syrup all over the patisserie floor. The proprietress looked at me and said 'monsieur! Votre baba!'... in a way that simultaneously said 'you are wasting precious syrup... the product of my toil', but also 'silly but cute foreigner, how amusing of you do this, yet still annoying' and 'I am in a state of shock because of your lack of manners'. Then she winked at me and took a puff of her cigarette. How nuanced. How oblique. How French.