The Chateau in Fontainebleau is Truly Magnificient. But what Drama!

I had wanted to go to Fontainebleau for a while. For years actually. No, a decade. One of my former lovers studied there, at INSEAD, and he always talks about it as if its this huge, humongous deal. So I have had it etched in my mind for a while but the occasion never presented itself, until I presented the occasion for it by simply getting my behind on the R train out of Gare de Lyon.

The ride there was without incident and it is a lovely ride, I must say. The train was not crowded at all, and the view from the window was magnifique, especially around the area of Melun, another little town with a cute little river.

So, I got there and discovered that my phone was completely dead. I wasn't surprised because at Gare the Lyon, I had met this man from Martinique who volunteered his services to take a photo of me. I was busy snapping shots of the Gare and he said "c'est belle, eh?" and he offered to take my photo. So I acquiesced and of course after, he wanted my phone number and to have coffee and all of that and of course, I ran as quickly as I could away from him. Because I don't need headaches in my life. I value my tranquility and peace too much and I am not letting anybody in unless it is compelling and he for sure was not compelling.

Anyway, when he gave me the phone back, I noticed I was already at 40 percent so I knew that by the time I got to Fontainebleau, it would be done. Luckily, I was able to verbally muscle assistance from the front desk at the Chateau. He was giving me the usual "there is nothing I can do" speech and I was not having it. I let him know it's Christmas and I am a tourist and I came a long way and my phone is dead and I want it charged and so he can just stick it in his computer and juice it up for me and stop with the BS. (I just love how bold I am becoming as I age. I just say it as it is and I don't give a damn and it works!) So anyway, he obliged and we had a good talk while the phone charged for nearly 30 minutes. And, so, voilà.

The Chateau was off the hook. Gorgeous. Gorgeous! I did not see most of it of course because I had to get back to Paris for my afternoon appointments and of course, that is when the drama began because as I was leaving the guy at the front desk told me there was no train to Paris. Service had been suspended in both directions because someone had committed suicide by throwing themselves onto the tracks.

I couldn't believe at first, that someone could be so selfish as to kill themselves when I was stranded in Fontainebleau and had an appointment in Paris. I confess this was my first thought. "How incredibly selfish! How inconvenient! You can't kill yourself NOW! I have to get to Paris and I don't know my way around this town!!!"

And it was true. It WAS inconvenient. But how incredibly selfish of me to think first of myself in a situation like that. I confessed there and then and asked God's forgiveness. I thought about  life and how difficult it is. For many of us. Maybe for all of us. How do you survive this? How do you stay strong and get to the finish line without resorting to throwing yourself on the train tracks? During the holidays? You know? That is the question. Cause there but for the grace of God we all go. And this shit, this life, is really, really hard and tough and often cruel and uncaring. And some people can't cope. And it is sad. So I stood there wondering "God, where are you? Why don't you reveal yourself?" And it seemed like he said, "wherever you look, you can see me. Look at the stones, look at the clouds. I am here. Be strong."

OK. But I gotta get to Paris!  Everybody and their mother was piled at the bus stop because apparently, the way to Paris was to take a bus to Melun and then grab the RER D to Paris. How will I ever get on this bus with all these  people???

By the time I got on, there were two seats left. The bus in Fontainebleau does not move if people are standing. It's not like Paris. You have to have a seat, or get off. And this was where the drama started because I got one of the last two seats and then a bunch of people were standing and refused to get off the bus because they had been waiting for the bus for nearly one hour. It took the bus driver and the other passengers nearly a half hour to get them to sortir. Screams, shouts, orders, I mean, you name it. One guy told them he would get them off by "force!"  I was sitting there wishing I had a pen to write down what they were saying because it was like a movie. All this french flying around me, I can't keep up.

Eventually, we arrived in Melun, after a long drive through the forest. All the way there, I hoped I was on the right bus and was heading where I thought I was heading. And thank god, it worked out.

I made my appointment in the nick of a minute only to have the client tell me that the venue had changed and she had forgotten to tell me about it. So she wanted to put me in a UBER. I don't do UBER. I am a strange little creature who does not like to get into cars when I don't know the driver. She told me a car would come get me and I am standing out there waiting for a car and a bloody bus shows up with a man in it. He is waving at me to get in. I am looking at him like he is insane. I am NOT getting into a van with some guy I don't know!

Anyway. It worked out. I got through this crazy day. And I even have a few pictures of the Chateau for all my troubles.

Provins, a Medieval City 1,5 hours from Paris. Epic Christmas Market to boot

So on Sunday last, I visited Provins with a friend. It was a very interesting trip. Provins has been on my radar because I always like to look at houses and real estate and it is one of the places that consistently factors because of the inexpensive houses with fireplaces - one of my secret obsessions. So when I read online that it had this epic Christmas market, of course I put it on my to do list and I was able to convince this young lady friend of mine to tag along for the ride.

At first when we arrived, I was disappointed because there was this scant, meager little market with a few merchants and I could not believe I had ridden the trains such a long distance to see that. Then, there was the incident with my umbrella. What incident you ask? The one where my umbrella got stuck in the zipper of my much-loved red GUESS bag and would not dislodge itself no matter what I, or anyone else did. I had never seen anything like it. It actually seemed a little bit demonic. My travel companion tried her endeavor best (and what patience she had) and when we both failed, I commissioned a big, burly man standing next to us to help and when he too failed, I totally lost my temper. I mean, totally. I fell out. COMPLETELY. Because how can this be possible? How can this be normal?

What did I do, you ask? Well, the only thing left under those types of circumstances! I grabbed the bloody bag, plopped it on a table, while everyone watched stupe-fixed, and using both hands (and, as I said, a big, burly man failed to be able to dislodge this umbrella even after pulling at it till he shook) I just ripped that damn thing apart, I want to tell you.I just ripped it open and like magic, the umbrella dislodged and the zipper did not break. But I was very, very perturbed by this apparatus, this umbrella so I snatched it up and barged over the trash and flung its behind right into the garbage, while everyone looked on, stunned.

Then, I exhaled. I felt much better and lighter, and happy all of a sudden now that I had gotten rid of the darned umbrella (course, I don't have another one and have no idea what I will do when it rains).
My travel companion and I resumed walking up the hill and there, we found the most epic medieval Christmas market transpiring right before our eyes.

Provins is truly a medieval city and you can see it in the architecture and the fortresses and the thick, imposing walls. Would I want to live there? Um...maybe not only because it is too far from Paris and so I would not have been able to commute there to work. But insofar as finding a house with a fireplace and exposed brick and a certain ambiance? You can definitely find it in abundance in Provins. But it definitely is not the place where I will find my dream home, I don't think.

We took a lot of pictures and ate some french fries, and when night fell, we returned to Paris.

Saturday in Meaux

Meaux is a quaint little town just outside of Paris on the SNCF line...I have no idea which line it was. The one with destination Chateau Thierry. I find I like to head in that direction and have done so quite a bit to visit little towns like Nogent L'artaud and Ferte Le Jouarre (or something like that). I really love this region and the landscape from the train is breath-taking. I just always exhale once the train leaves the high-rises and all I can see is open prairie and rolling scenes of grass.

I wouldn't live in Meaux, though. If I move to this region, I would go further out. The houses are unbelievably cheap. And most have a fireplace which is a must have as far as I am concerned. But I would have to be married to do it. I would be too afraid to live out there by myself. I mean, what if the electricity goes out in the middle of the night or something? Giggle.

My main objection to Meaux is that it is still too chargé. If I am going to do this life, I really want to do it. I want peace and quiet and I want a house that is not attached to anybody else's. But it was a very nice place to visit. The Marne River is lovely, and there is a marché on Saturdays that is quite interesting. There is also a cheese museum, and a very lovely museum in the converted Bishop's residence called the Musée Boussuet I believe. The Cathedrale was on lockdown when I visited but I am told it is really quite a feast for the eyes.  I didn't take a lot of pictures because my cellphone did not cooperate. I have no space left and it forced me to erase EVERYTHING to get some space and now I have lost vital data because I have no apps, messages or anything on the phone. Disaster.

But it was a nice weekend. This week is going to be very crazy and I expect a visitor as well so may god help me to get through it all with as much grace as possible. Oh, and I fell this weekend. On Friday. It was hilarious. I just took a spill near Rue Cherche Midi. No, I was not wearing heels thank god cause people would have thought I couldn't handle my shoes. I mean, I couldn't but not because the heels were too high. It was my ballet sling backs and the heel is flat as the road. But it has lost its grip as well and has become like ice skates and I was hurrying along and the next thing I knew I was splat on the ground and I looked up and people were looking at me like they thought I was on something because I had screamed as I was falling cause I was so shocked this was happening and then I said "fucking christ!" Then this guy came and asked "are you alright?" and I am thinking can you be a gentleman and offer me your hand, young man? But I said "yes, can you help me up?" and he pulled me to my feet. I said "thank you" and hurried off humiliated.

This is the first in my life I have fallen in public and I wondered to myself if it means I am getting old. Because, think about it. If I was stronger, and younger, even if the damn shoes were ice-skates, I would have had better balance. Right? OMG. Oh. My. God. I better start fixing my will, eh?

The Basquiat Exhibit at the Fondation Louis Vuitton in Neuilly

Yesterday, I visited the Louis Vuitton Foundation in Neuilly and it was daggone amazing! This has been on my to do list for years but I could never seem to come up with the admission fee. It's not a question of being cheap. It's a question of priorities. I could have gone but it would have meant giving up something else and I could never justify it until now.

But it so happens that one of my students is a VIP big shot at a major French company and she had a ticket just lying around that someone sent her, and as fate would have it, that ticket had my name on it, and she gave it to me, just like that. I was talking to her about my art and she got up and just gave me this ticket. It was unbelievable. I actually couldn't believe her generosity any more than I could believe I was actually going to finally get to go to the Louis Vuitton Fondation. The building alone is an architectural feast done by Frank Gehry, for crying out loud. OMG.

And so my first visit was for the Basquiat exhibit. I confess I had only heard his name, I never really knew anything about this young Hatian-American artist who died at only 27 years old from a heroin overdose in his studio in Manhattan. And the few excerpts I had seen of his work, I kind of just dismissed him as this messed up drug-addict who was given a "token" recognition in the art world.

Well, let me tell you something. Shame on me for not knowing more about this guy. This guy was a genius. The body work on display at the gallery in Neuilly was staggering and it did not even represent half of the stuff he did. Apparently he painted over 1500 artworks in his short career! 1500! OMG. But, even so, you can see in each and every one, a theme, a style, a look, an originality. You can identify a Basquiat without having to look for his signature. Drugs can't do this. At least, I don't think so. My sense of drugs is that it just creates chaos in the mind. There clearly was chaos in his mind but there was also total order. So he knew exactly what he was doing every single time he picked up a paintbrush. There was no schizophrenia there. There was no confusion.  There was only a man who knew his genius and just kept exploiting it on a canvass every chance he got.

But that was not all, because like me, he also painted banana. I was absolutely stunned to see this. And they are similar! And I had never, ever seen his work! But guess what? Our birthdays are a day apart. He is December 22 and I am Decembre 23. So…..

By Marion TD Lewis

By Basquiat

So, anyway, I LOVE the way he just painted on everything. I often have thought of that, like when I am walking on the street and I see a discarded door, for example. I have thought, "Why don't you pick that up and bring it home and paint over it?" But I have always stopped myself because I have always worried that maybe it was a little bit insane. Besides, can you imagine me packing up this over-stuffed studio with discarded doors and other garbage?? It IS insane.

But. I can tell you this:

the next time I see a door on the street, am bringing that puppy home and doing a paint job in it like Basquiat did. He was totally fearless with his art, clearly. I look around at the stuff I have painted and I'm just like OMG. How boring you are, Marion!  The thing is, even though I admire his genius, am awed by his talent, I don't want to paint like Basquiat, except insofar as I would like to be a bit more fearless. But I don't want to do that kind of bizarreness that he does so well because, well, the construction of my mind is just not that. You have to see the image, I think, before you can paint it. Which, I guess, is where the drugs came in with him. I think you have to be on a lot of fucking drugs to see those types of images, frankly. But I don't think the drugs are what made his art so amazing. I think first, his mind was amazing and then he took the drugs and it just expanded that to another level, and then he died.

Well, so that's it. I recommend this exhibit highly. It was bloody incredible.

How Often Can I Post to Instagram Without Being Annoying???

Giggle, giggle.

I am laughing as I write this because I am thinking of Tiphaine, one of my teenage students. When I arrived this afternoon to speak with her in English, she greeted me at the door and deadpanned: "Marion, we have to talk!" She was so serious and intense, I thought maybe the cat had died. But no. It was not the cat. It was my Instagram account. She wanted to know what the heck was I doing posting constantly like that. "Marion, you karn't!" she shrieked. "It is not possible! Stop! And I love you! But you have to stop! And victoire thinks the same!" (Victoire is her sister).

We both almost died laughing.

I mean, excuse me. EXCUSE ME. With all due respect. The way I feel about it is that at my age and with all I have been through in my life, now I have to ask permission to post my pictures on Instagram??? Are you serious? You are telling me there are rules with this and that I can only post a certain amount and no more? And how often is that? Tiphaine has hundreds of followers and she posts maybe like once per month or something. She does not post a lot but when she does post, people are there, panting for more.

I mean, I am not Tiphaine. She is a beautiful teenage french girl, okay? Her whole raison d'être, her whole agenda, her everything is totally different.

She posts socially. I mean, it is, after all "social media." Is that the part I missed? The "social" part? I am supposed to care if people get annoyed because I post too much and I post, like, three of the same shots from different angles and stuff like that? I am only allowed one shot??? How can this be possible? My Instagram is my album, my scrapbook, my memoirs. If I don't post these shots, who knows if I will ever find them again with all the crashes I have on my laptops and the closed email accounts and this, that and the other? I gotta put that stuff up on my Instagram. Plus, très franchement, I like to see myself. And I don't care if people don't think I'm cute or if I annoy them by posting too much. I think I'm cute! And if I am the only viewer on my Instagram because everybody else gets annoyed, so it shall be written and so it shall be done, darling!

But she made me laugh. She was literally having hysterics. My posting style is very unmillenial. These kids have these rules on these platforms, these unspoken rules. People get annoyed when you break these rules. But frankly, my dear, I am not trying to be "social."  I don't give a damn about that. I just straight up don't give a damn about these rules. I paid my dues to society.  Now I wanna see myself as much and as often as possible and if people don't like it, they don't have to look. OK? So, voilà.

What about you? You think I'm cute, don't you? :)

Ernest Hemingway and Chapter 8 of Camille

I am reading Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. It is a perfect segway after reading The Paris Wife which is the same story told from the perspective of his wife Hadley Richardson. I was a little bit emotional at the beginning. I felt very sad for how he and Hadley's marriage had ended after the arrival of Pauline. But, as I got into the book, I'm already up to page 116, I am a lot more forgiving of him. Life is messy, I guess. Relationships end sometimes. It doesn't make him a bad person. It's just life.

But so now I am working on Camille a little bit today. In fact, I think the book is pretty much done but I am going back in and filling in some gaps, and polishing some stuff. I sent out a bunch of query letters to some agents to see if anybody would represent me to get it published and I already have two rejection letters in my coffers. Giggle, giggle. Rejection is my middle Name. Just call me "Marion TD Rejection Lewis." But I don't care. I am still writing and I know I will find an agent one day and it will be published. So, it's their loss for not knowing genius when they see it. Voilà.  So below, I give you Chapter 8 which introduces the character named Gabe. What do you think?:

Chapter 8

About a week later, Camille met Gabe at the Franprix across the street. He was a tall, slim guy with curly black hair and a hard, muscled body. A bit of a pretty boy if you really must know, and she was not the type of girl who usually went for the pretty boy type.

He had come to reach a box of cereal after she had knocked over a few others in trying to reach the one she had wanted. Gabe was immediately attracted to Camille. He began to chat her up and when he discovered she was American and from New York, he was intrigued and wanted to get to know her better. He invited her to coffee that evening, after his shift, but she had refused saying that she had other plans. She offered to meet up with him another time.

 In the end, she met him for coffee at a little café on Boulevard Brune days after they first met at the Franprix. He had texted her after his shift, around 8:00 p.m. to invite her out again after she turned him down the first time. Turns out that Gabe was quite an entertaining guy and made her laugh constantly. He asked all the usual questions: what was she doing in Paris? Which school was she studying at? Where did she live? Did she live alone? Somehow the conversation turned to her roommate and it turned out that Gabe knew Olga pretty well. She often bought alcohol at the Franprix and he had on occasion seen her intoxicated. He told Camille this story as if it was funny about the time Olga walked into the Franprix dressed only in her culottes and a tee-shirt, trying to buy a carton of beer. It seemed she was well known in the neighborhood for her excess drinking. Although when she cleaned up, she was quite a fine dame.

Camille did not feel a love connection or even a physical attraction to Gabe. She thought he was a very cute fella with a nice body but he was very young and boyish and she did not think that that was what she needed in a love interest. She wanted an older man who was already established and with whom she could settle down and have a family. This guy seemed barely out of his adolescence with a lot more wild oats to sow and this was not what Camille was after. But he seemed like he could be a good friend. He lived in Montmartre, a world away from the 14^th, and was trying to save up enough money to move to Reunion with a bunch of his friends and open a fast food restaurant. The Franprix where he worked was owned by a distant relative and he was a manager of sorts there.

That night of their first encounter was an especially beautiful night. As the night fell, and the full moon appeared, Paris started to peacock right before Camille’s eyes. It seemed impossibly romantic all of a sudden and she could not contain her excitement. “I love this time of the day! She cried. “Paris looks like the City of Lights of centuries ago!”

 “Yea, Paris at night, nothing like it, c’est vrai!” replied Gabe. “You haven’t lived till you’ve seen Paris at night. Uncroyable!”

The both giggled.

Gabe asked if she would be interested in going to the Eiffel Tower for an evening picnic. She had nothing better to do and said yes. He had a red Vespar and offered to take her for a ride to the tower on it. Camille would normally not go on a  motorcycle but it seemed to be the transportation of choice for Parisians first of all and second of all, she didn’t want to seem old and boring by saying she was afraid of riding on a Vespar. They walked back to the Franprix and while Camille waited outside, Gabe used his key to go inside, returning minutes later with a sac of groceries. His Vespar was parked right outside and they jumped on it, put on their helmets and were off on their first adventure. They sped along the Periphérique to Quai d'Issy-les-Moulineaux and headed East on Boulevard des Maréchaux. Several turns and traffic lights later, they were Avenue Maurice d’Ocagne, and then Pont Garigliano. Camille clung tighter and tighter onto Gabe. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying to be going so fast, with everything whizzing by at the speed of light and she did not want to fall off and get herself killed. They were now at Quai D’issy-les-Moulineaux. Gabe was asking her if she was “alright back there,” and she said yes, but did not want to talk too much as she wanted to stay focused so that they would get there safely. Tunnel Citroen-Cévennes, Quai André Citroen, Quai de Grenelle. Camille registered each and every street, tunnel, quai, boulevard and rue while she clung on to Gabe for dear life. She had never been so petrified or excited in her life. When they finally pulled up to the Eiffel Tower, she thought maybe she had died and gone to heaven.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “That was amazing!”

“Never been on a Vespar before?”

“No, not really. Not like that. I mean, everything was whizzing so fast! It’s like a huge adrenaline rush! And now this! Oh my God! I think I have never seen it look so beautiful.”

“You mean the tower? You’ve have never seen it at night?” asked Gabe incredulously.

She shook her head. “No. Never. I have only come during the day. It is totally different at night.”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Those are not even the words! It’s just….I’m speechless! OMG. Wow. I can’t believe how sheltered I’ve been and what I’ve been missing. Thank you for giving me this bit of pleasure, Gabe. I would not have wanted to die and not seen this sight!”

 Gabe parked the Vespar. He had brought crackers, cheese, wine, grapes, celery, paté and créme fraiche from the Franprix. They spread themselves on the grass directly underneath the Eiffel Tower talking and laughing and people-watching till nearly midnight, with the iconic monument, and the stars for a picture-perfect backdrop.

The Art of Living a Beautiful Life

Some people think it takes a lot of money to have a "beautiful life." I admit that even I fantasize about becoming a billionaire or even marrying one (giggle, giggle). But will that necessarily result in a life more beautiful? I don't know. I don't think so.

I think that right now, my life is very beautiful. And I could not be much poorer than I am right now without needing intervention from the authorities. Yet, I think I live a life that is very, very beautiful in my view. How come? Well, it is attitude more than anything. It is a decision I make each day. To make the most of each day. To get the most good out of it.

 Any day I don't decide that it will be a beautiful day, it never is because there are so many moving elements that can just set you back, make you unhappy. So it is constant work. And it is constant making of choices. It definitely is not money, although, sometimes just having ten euros can make a difference because with that, you can bring home maybe a bouquet of flowers, or a new little white tea cup, or a tin can of hot chocolate mix, or a bunch of grapes, or a new coffee table book that you pick up for three euros, or something simple like that. And that can transform a day into something so beautiful and exquisite.

A beautiful life is not a right. Rather, it is hard work that never stops needing to be redone. It is hard work that first begins with making hard choices. Who are you going to be? What are you going to do? How are you going to feel? When will your beautiful life begin?

Who are you going to be is not as easy as it seems. There are so many different aspects to each of us. We are daughter, sister, friend, mother, father, brother, lover, employee, commuter, neighbor, so many things on any given day and each of those things can have an impact on our state of mind at any given moment. And then you have the critics, the third party observers and others who don't know you from Adam but think they have a right to brand you and tell you who you are. Invariably, they are not going to brand you as your best self. They are going to make sure that you are somewhere way below them. So you listen to them at your own peril and you listen to them and before you know it your life is not so beautiful.

So that is just one aspect.  Deciding for yourself who you are going to be. There are all those others, the whats, hows, whens and so forth. All of these can have such a huge impact on the quality of your life, which is really nothing more than an accumulation of days. So it is the quality of each day that summarize and comprise your life. What do you make of each of these days? That is the question.


A lot of the time, I think our lives are less than beautiful to us because we let ourselves be bothered by what everybody else says or does. Some of these people, we don't even know them from Adam and they don't know us. But their opinons can have such a huge impact on how we feel about ourselves. They can just "fuck up" our day with just a sniff of their haughty, mean, little nostrils. As they intended because we give them so much power, so much relevance.  But if we decide that hey, I don't care. I don't care about anybody's opinion of me. I don't care what this total stranger thinks of me. I am not going to let myself feel badly about someone else's words and actions and omissions or whatever. I am not going to let people put me in a box and tell me how to do me.

I decide how to be me. Nobody tells me how to be me.

I am going to CHOOSE to be happy and I am going to choose a beautiful life for myself.

But then the question is, what is a beautiful life? How much does it cost? I think, personally, that it depends on your own definition. For me, a beautiful life does not cost very much. A beautiful life is a life of peacefulness and tranquility. It is a nice cup of tea in a beautiful tea cup. It is a long walk in the rain. It's some jazz music when I want it and silence when I don't. It is freedom to come and go as I please. It is an orderly existence and environment. It is good health (which is my job to maintain), it is healthy relationships of all genres, it's cleanliness, and it is the ability and desire to smile more often than I frown. This is a beautiful life to me. It is one that has to be created each day by me as no one else will hand it to me on a silver platter. Is this "art"? I don't know. I think maybe it is. Because you create art. Just like you create a beautiful life for yourself.

For me, the art of living a  beautiful life is very simple. Be who you are. Define yourself. Do what you want (and do it your way like Frank Sinatra said) and decide not to let it matter. Don't ask permission whether expressly or implicitly. No one is going to give you permission to have a beautiful life. Give yourself permission.

When should your beautiful life begin? Right now, I think. Darling, what are you waiting for?!

59 Rue Rivoli and the Art of the Artgasm

59 Rue Rivoli is Truly the Ultimate Contemporary Art Space in Paris

I had never heard the expression "artgasm" before today. Indeed, I thought I was the first one to come up with it. I only went to Google it because I wanted to be absolutely pleased with myself that I am so original and I am so smart. I wanted to start this post like this: "Today, I had an artgasm." So I thought I should look it up and behold, I am not the first person to think that art can bring on some very intense emotions. What a downer! But what an upper to have found such an amazing place of pleasure!

Well, so which art brought on my first artgasm? Well, it wasn't any one particular piece. It was really the full experience. We went to this gallery after work called 59 Rivoli. It is located at 59 Rue Rivoli in Paris in a building owned by the Mairie of Paris. 

And let me tell you, this is a cool gallery. This is one of the coolest places I have ever been to in Paris. I am not exaggerating. I LOVED this place. My whole reaction to the whole thing can only described as "gasmic." And I am not a girl who is big time gasmic-prone. But this was definitely gasmic. OO la la.

There was an exhibit going on downstairs at the street level but the real charm, the real art, the real gasms are to be had upstairs. There are, in all, 3 floors to this place and each on (including the ground floor) is magnifique!  And they welcome people. They are not snobs like the ones up at Galerie Castiglione and places like that.

Turns out that for about 150 euros per month, artists can basically rent a spot in this galerie where they can work alongside other artists. I love this idea and would have done it if I were a different type of a girl. I need the solitude of a hidden little place all of my own to do my painting, I think. I would not thrive at all in this very public place where everyone can come and look at what I am doing while I am doing it. I like to have my gasms in private :)

But other than that, I can't say enough about how this place turned me on. I mean, yea. Art is sexy.

………..so what did I wear today? Nothing overly exciting. I wore this bracelet I've had since a
I was a teenager. My father bought it for me in Italy of all places, on his first and only trip to that country many years ago and I kept it all these years.

I only remembered it because last night I met up with my Italian student (he's a young engineer who wants to improve his English, giggle, giggle)  who happens to have a keen interest in art. And so this morning I thought of Italy and I thought of this bracelet, so I wore it. Everything else that I wore was just basic and boring, including black corduroys (I wore these on Sunday too when I met with Alexandre for his first English lesson), grey Uggs (it is cold and rainy) and a navy sweater. Nothing too exciting in the sartorial department but hey? I am not a fashion blogger after all.

So yea. It's good. I feel good. I bought a couple of coffee table books today as well and my collection of those is growing by leaps and bounds. I love big coffee table books but I don't really have any space to add more so hopefully I am not going to be bringing home a lot more of these. And that's it in a nutshell. My beautiful day.

And you, darling? How was your day? I hope you found at least one little thing that you felt excited and happy about even if it was just that you are breathing.

Talk soon!