Me and My Granddaughters Invade France: The girls call it the Day of Long Lines, aka Tour Eiffel, Centre Pompidou

You gotta love it. Rising so serenely above the cocophony of roofs, a rail line to heaven, on steel parisian lace. Our turn to take the ride.
Up and out, never an easy thing, but easier with our cache of croissants, to go with hot milk, juice, Nestle's version of cocoa puffs and rice pudding. We're hurried out without even rinsing the dishes. The earlier we get there the shorter the line!

I don't know where Khaldia got that information.

Perhaps the source considered 7 early, not 10.30 hr. 10.30 hr, I woud venture to guess, is on the late side. For us it is as close to the crack of dawn as we ever get. She packs the lunch bag with lots of water, lots of croissants, chocolate, baggetes, fromage, and salmon slices quickly chosen from the cornerstore fridge, and of course cookies. Just so we're not starved for sweets.

We approach the same sweet direction as before, EN holding her hand over my eyes again, until the whole beautiful scene rose before me, the fountains, the grasslands, the tower, a sea of humanity at its feet. We studied that awhile. Not so bad, said Khaldia. Umhhum. Time to run down the steps, across the bridge and into waiting, waiting crowd.

Right. Choose your line. One for walking up. Um, nope. One for the North tower. Which elevator came most often? They appeared to come once every ten minutes. Do the calculations. We chose up. No other choice but patience. Take turns sitting on benches. Observe pigeons, chase them. Avoid the gypsy women with their sorrowful eyes and their worn papers describing tragic predicaments. "Speak English?" "Speak English?" Shake our heads. It takes only a few to make you realize they're on the same quest as the Africans weilding huge rings of gold, brass or silver eiffel tower keyrings and boxed lit glass versions. We befriend some college students from Vancouver.

There's always more pigeons to chase, photos to take.

Past one now, edging closer.

Ah, we get to the gate! where we wind around more gates to the ticket windows. Getting excited now. In the US, I think they would have suggested leaving strollers behind. But this is France. Se la vie.

Our elevator, arrives, doors of glass!

And the view. a woman leans over and says, 'Take the stairs!' We elbow through the crowd and find the stairs, and freedom from the grid.

an unobstructed view.

And Japanese students. Follow the signs to the elevator to the top.

find our way to the end of the next long line. But lots of time to enjoy the view.

Facing est.

Looking up.

Glancing down again, the Seine.

Finally make it! What now? what do you think? Find a place to sit. Find a place to open the lunch bag and break open the bagettes and the fromage and the salmon. . .

And eat at the top of the world.

Munching away, gazing at the most beautiful city in the world. Or at what? What are those windows? It's a room! With people inside. Wax people. Grandma, look! Tata! Look!

It's Eiffel himself, having a nice afternoon chat with his friend Mr. Edison, or Morse, or someone, his wife asking if they'd like tea. it seems. It seems that for years Eiffel had his office here where he hosted fellow illluminaries. I know for a fact because the sign is in English.

Mrs. Eiffel is behind the victrola. Wonder what it was like in a storm.

It's exhilarating just to be up there. Let's take pictures.

Khaldia takes this one.

I take this one.

Then hold up everyone, while I wait for the crowd to clear on the way to the elevator down, because I want you to see exactly where I was (just walking around from behind that right temple at the end of the colonade) when EN held my eyes closed.

The line to the elevator down to the next level is not so long. They don't let you use the stairs, shuckipoo, according to EN. What fun is that? But the thought of walking down steps from that heights gives even this cliff-lover the jitters. I'm very grateful to the powers that be.

I mean, how would you like to be walking down steps with the wind blowing around you and this view at your feet? But once on the next level, the stairs are open, and EN and I take off, while K and A take the elevator. Race!

Scarey enough!

landing to landing we go, round and round, but the crowd doesn't let us fly the way we'd like. still, . . .

What a view! A little park. . .

A landing, with refreshments, if you like. No time! Find the steps. . .

down and down and down and down we go. . .

there's the line. Look how much shorter! down and down and down. . .

And there's Khaldia and Aicha waiting! Ah, we didn't win. Well we would have, if we weren't clogged by the danged tourists. Got to take a break.

It's after five.

"I think," says Khaldia, "Kandinsky tomorrow?" My heart sinks. No! there is no tomorrow. It ends today." Dear patient soul that she is, weary, weary feet that she has, she gives in.

Note: There are no ads in French subway cars. No noise, no ads. Only the most helpful of electornic directions and maps. But in the stations,-- (why didn't I photo them?? we spent so much time there!) great arching halls edged with cement seats and colorful plastic legless seats at intervals, --the children of Toulous Lautrec loom huge and numerous, poster afte monumental poster line the walls, Disney events, movie posters, (an unappealing 'bruno' in the near buff on daisies was popular) and, to get to the point, museum shows. There was a show of Utrillo's work. Khaldia shook her head in response to my hound dog gaze. Too far. But Kadinsky! The exhibit was still on. The Pompidu Center. A possibility. Not closed on Monday? Most museum close on Monday. No. I looked it up online as soon as I got home. Open Monday. Last day Monday. I did not get the heurs.

So we race for a taxi, which I gladly pay for.

such a castle, from the taxi windows. Paris is Washington DC, too, I learn and this is a government building.

Another cathedral? Ah, here we are. Right away we notice two things. Can you see them?

One: Kandinsky. FERMATURE A 23 H.

Do you know what that means. Khaldia laughs. Closed at 11pm.

Two: Line. Long line.

Now, you notice the people lounging on the cement? That's because the whole plaza is sloped. Give people a sloped surface, and they immediately think, 'lounger'. We didn't. We thought, how will my feet survive another hour of this? Khaldia wanted to know who this Kandinsky is.

I try to explain his place in modern art, his journey from images of villages to images of music, where the lines and colors sang in harmony and rhythm. Suddenly a uniformed man pulls us out of the line and into a side door. Enfant! Enfant! Children get special treatment, they do not wait in line. They do not pay. Anything. God bless our Enfants! But lets have a little juice or cafe. Let's rest our feet for a moment.

Now, where is the Kandinsky show? Up the escalator.

the outside escalator! unairconditioned on this warm day, . . .

except by open windows, blowing cool breezes from the plaza.

Look!

The Eiffel tower!

I wanted to get Aicha earphones. Khaldia got them for us, so she makes sure we get English, and one for EN, too. ANOTHER line.

We shared. No pictures allowed inside. But it was a wonderful show. At one point the voice said that Kandinsky saw across his studio the most magical painting, of wonderful dancing shapes, it gave him incredible joy, this new painting. Where did it come from? he went closer. Ah! It was one of his own, upside down! thus abstract art was born. Well, not really. Close enough. Isn't that a great story EN? don't you like them? Yeah. Sort of. She'd looked carefully at many, as did Aicha. I love taking them to museums. All that intelligence focused, thinking. She nodded. "They're still weird, Grandma."

The thing is, half the pictures were from the Guggenheim. The best half. Good eye, Guggenheim. Well, it gives you an appreciation, you know? Of what you have? Back outside, back to the metro stop, we wait for Khaldia. the famous free bikes.

EN tries one. If only Khaldia could ride. . .

It's ok. She cooks better than I can ride.

It's only now, studying this photo, that I realize that these are plaster sculptures of us, tourists. We pass them on the way to the metro, and have to take a picture. Look. Look at Paris. Stand in awe.