In which we discover the palace of discovery

"You went," you say to us, "to a science museum two weeks ago. You are," you continue, "in a city that is famous for art, and you have yet to write about the art museums that you've gone to." (There's a reason for that.) "You are telling us about some other science museum? Nobody goes to Paris to see science museums!"

To which I reply by pointing out that there were no art museums on the must see lists of any of my kids and that Paris has lots of cool science-type museums, and that, while we have seen most of the big art museums (we've been in Paris a lot), we haven't  seen all of the science museums, and that exuberant children get far fewer dirty looks at science museums than they do at art museums, all of which is by way of explaining why it is that we ended up at the Palais de la Découverte, which is the second of the really big Paris science museums. And, better yet, we even managed to drag Blaise with us. On a Friday. I think that maybe he was feeling guilty about abandoning us to go to Pisa.

What was cool about the Palais:

1. It has a lot of demonstrations and classes taking place in all of the different sections of the museum: physics, biology, mathematics, etc. Alas, they were all in French, and so we didn't participate, but it was cool, nonetheless.

2. The mathematics section was very well done. We watched part of a video explaining homotopy classes using manipulatives (there were no coffee mugs or donuts involved) and discussed what the mathematicians listed around around the top of the atrium had accomplished. And we talked about the fact that Emmy Noether was not on the list (nor were any other female mathematicians).

3. There was an interesting temporary exhibition about animals and sex, which I walked through with a rather embarrassed almost 13 year old girl. 

In which we seek the past

It occurs to me that we have only three more days in Paris before we leave for Nice, and that, furthermore, I am a full week behind on my blog, which means that I probably need to write a lot of posts in the next few days, especially as I am not completely confident that we will have internet at our apartment in Nice. (Though I should be able to use my iPhone to set up a hotspot and run things that way, at least a little bit.)

On Sunday, when we were trudging to the RER station at Notre Dame-Saint Michael, enroute to the Musée de l'Air et de l'Espace, Ezio suddenly stopped in front of the Notre Dame Crypt and said, "There's an archeology museum in Paris? Do they have Roman stuff there? I want to go." And so on Thursday we found ourselves traipsing back over toward the RER station to head underground to the Crypte archéologique du Paris and check out the Roman ruins, as well as ruins of early and medieval French buildings, most of them still in their original locations under the Parvis de Notre Dame (the big open space in front of the Cathedral). The crypt is for me one of the more interesting places to visit, because, in comparison with many of the museums in Paris it is fairly new (opened in 1980) and because we have gone to it every time we have been in Paris (1999, 2007, 2010, 2013) and every time we go the museum has been improved in some significant way. The first time we went, there were just ruins to look at with brief descriptions. In 2007 they had added artists' interpretations of how some of the buildings had looked when they were in use. By 2010 there was something about the history of Paris, and the way in which the population had moved from the left bank, to the Île-de-la-Cité, to the right bank, before eventually spreading over all of what is currently Paris. And this time, best of all, they had added this, a 3D exploration of the Roman baths and another of Notre Dame (and the website has many more:  the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Bastille, etc.). I highly (highly, highly) recommend that you check out the page, and scroll down to see all of the cool stuff on it (you'll want to be on a fast web connection to do so, since it's pretty graphics intensive).

On the way home afterward, we walked through the park behind Notre Dame and over to the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation, which commemorates the 200,000 men, women, and children who were deported from France and died in Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War. It was a moving and somewhat eerie experience, and even the kids came up feeling somewhat subdued. That lasted, naturally, for at least 5 seconds, but at least we managed to get away from the entrance to the memorial before the questions started flying.

Best of all though, Blaise flew back from Pisa, and then went straight to a talk, without even stopping by the apartment to see us. But, he texted us once the talk was over, and we met at L'As du Fallafel, which is about a 20 minute walk from our apartment, for dinner.

In which we search for a hidden river

Everyone knows that there is a river flowing through Paris, the Seine, which divides the city into two halves, the left bank to the south of the river, and the right bank to the north. There is another river that flows through Paris, though, hidden beneath buildings and slabs of concrete on its way to the banks of the Seine. The river Bièvre still flows freely at its source in Yvelines, some 20 miles from where it flows into the Seine, but the river has been covered along its entire length inside the city of Paris since the beginning of the 20th century, when the last stretch of the river was covered up. It had been a useful river, especially within the city, lined with tanneries and dyers, shoemakers and laundries, providing power to run mills and the spinning wheels and looms of the famous Gobelins (and another), diverted from its original channel, which flowed into the Seine near what is now the Gare d'Austerlitz, in the 12th century to power the Abbey de Saint-Victor, so that it entered the Seine near the end of what is now the Rue de Bièvre. Alas, all of this choked the little river, turning the River Bièvre into little more than conveyer of sewage to the Seine, until Baron Haussmann, in his redesign of the city of Paris, began the process of covering the river, consigning it to run underground through the city. Now it no longer empties into the Seine, but into the sewers of Paris, where the water can be treated before it is released. Recently, the possibility of restoring the river along some of the stretches where it runs through the city were explored, but the estimated cost proved prohibitive, and so the city contented itself with marking in various places and and various ways the course(s) that the river had followed during its travel through the city.

And so the river has passed even from the memories of most people in Paris, because only the very oldest Parisians would have been born at the time when the last of the stretches of river were covered up. Recently though, there has been a move to commemorate the river through the use of parks and fountains and brass plaques on buildings and set into the pavement, and a stretch has been added to one of the Île-de-France hikes which follows the course of the River Bièvre through Paris.

At this point you are probably thinking that this is all very interesting, but that it doesn't really seem to have much relevance to our lives. But, you see, the street that we are living on here in Paris is called the Rue de Bièvre, or street of Bièvre, and several days ago Cherry found a brass plaque set into a wall at the end of the street (on the side of a restaurant called Tournebièvre, or roughly, turn of the Bièvre) which referred to the River Bièvre, and so our interest was piqued.

I spent the next several evenings trying to figure out where exactly the river had gone, which turned out to be surprisingly difficult. It was easy to find that it had gone past the Gobelins, and that it had run into the Seine at the foot of our street, but as to what it did in between, or on the other side of the Gobelins, well, that was a bit more opaque. The website of an annual art show called Lezarts de la Bièvre provided some information, and the discovery the route had been added to an official French hike was exciting until I discovered that the route was available only though purchasing a book, and not yet online. Finally I came across a Google maps document that traced out the route of the river, including both the original channel, and the Canal des Victorins, which had passed almost under our building, and another showing where at least some of the larger plaques were located, and so on Wednesday, since the weather promised to be mostly dry in the middle of the day, we set out in search of the river.

We started at the Seine at the end of the street, hoping for some evidence of where the river (or to be entirely accurate, the canal) had entered the Seine, but we were unsuccessful. No matter, we would forge ahead, accompanied by our map of the river, to trace it further. Up the Rue des Bernadins we went, scouting the pavement and walls for signs of the river. We found none. We followed Rue Jussieu (which was supposed to be more or less directly above the canal) to the Jardin des Plantes. Nothing. At this point we had covered nearly a mile and a half, and had seen no sign of the river, other than the plaque at the end of our street. Cherry was ready to give up. Sapphire was ready to give up. Ezio thought we should try going a little bit further, and so we walked the rest of the way through the park, and out, following what was more or less the path of the river. And then, walking along Rue Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, I heard a shriek. Cherry had found the first of what would turn out to be many pavement markings on the rest of the route. By the time we decided that we had had enough, somewhere around Glacière we had found 40 round river markers

 and 4 of the 7 square plaques which commemorated special points along the river, not to mention horrified the Parisians who witnessed my children tearing along the street in their attempts to be the first to find the next marker. There is a 5th plaque at Quai d'Austerlitz, which we missed because we were starting along the Canal des Victorins, and the others, I think were further along our path. Cherry wants to go back and follow the rest of the river, but I think that will have to wait for the next time that we spend a month in Paris.

In which we dream of flying

Paris, as everyone knows, is served by the Aeroport Charles de Gaulle, a massive airport over to the northeast of the city, and also by Orly, which is in the south of the city. But both of these airports are relatively new, and it you have read French fiction of the appropriate era, you have perhaps noticed that the airport that is referred to is not either of these, but rather Le Bourget. Le Bourget is no longer used for commercial flights, but has, instead, been converted into a museum, the Musée de l'Air et de l'Espace, which is, alas, located well outside the limits of the city, a train and bus ride away from our apartment. But, since Blaise was in Pisa, and since Ezio and Cherry had fond memories of our trip there three years ago, and since Sapphire had never been (she was at camp the last time we were there), we decided to head up to the "Airplane Museum," as Cherry called it, for the day.

One of the things that has amazed me on both of our treks to the museum is how empty it is. Not, mind you, empty of things that fly, of which there are many, from hot air balloons (used during the Siege of Paris in 1871) and dirigibles (admittedly scale models) and early gliders, including those of Otto Lilienthal, to Concordes (plural) and rockets and fighter jets and helicopters; but empty of people. The museum is enormous, hangers and hangers of airplanes of all eras, and yet strangely quiet, with few people wandering through its massive rooms, despite the fact that the museum is free, unless of course you want to actually go into some of the airplanes, or see a planetarium show or something like that.

We, of course, sprang for the airplane ticket, and so we started our exploration by going onto a massive Boeing 747 and heading up to the lounge area at the top of the plane. ("Wouldn't that have been a dangerous place to ride?" wondered Cherry, "There aren't any seat belts up here." Well, yes, it would have been somewhat more dangerous, but I doubt that anyone was allowed up there for takeoff and landing, given the lack of seat belts.) Then down, through the middle part of the plane, where the kids got to test out the airplane seats, and noted that the little cup holders that folded off the back of the tray tables were very convenient. Past where we could see the different layers of an airplane seat. Down the stairs (which are not, I think, a part of active 747s) and into the cargo bay where we saw suitcases and pet carriers and a car, because really the only way to appreciate the size of these things is by seeing a car trussed up for transport in the cargo hold.

We climbed aboard a Dakota and pretended we were going to parachute out. We walked through two Concordes, placed end to end, and noticed how very cramped they seemed to be. We explored a hall of helicopters and autogyros. We learned about the French nuclear weapon program. We saw the airplanes of WWI ace pilots and marveled that anyone would have been willing to go up in them. We did not, alas, get to see the Olympic gliders (yes, gliding was an exhibition sport in 1936) from the era between the world wars because the room was closed for renovation. I'm not sure that Sapphire believes that such a sport actually existed, but no matter.

Eventually, we realized that if we were going to make it back to Paris for 6:30 mass, we should probably move on, and so we headed out of the museum. As we were crossing the street to the bus stop, we heard a roar, which got louder and louder and louder until an airplane shot straight up from behind the museum and raced into the the sky, and so we stood there and watched the pilot practicing for the Paris Air Show, which is being held this week, until it became clear that if we didn't leave then we would definitely be late for mass, and so we hurried to catch the bus and headed back to Paris.

In which there isn't much to say

I confess that there are a few missing posts here, posts about days where we did things of significance, activities where there is backstory and history and other interesting stuff to talk about. But there have also been days where it seems that short of an extremely detailed (and deadly dull) explanation of our activities (and then I swung my left leg forward and put my foot down, and then I picked up my right foot and swung it forward and put it down, etc) the activities of the day hardly deserve an entire blog post. But then I feel guilty about not writing a blog post, not to mention guilty about the fact that I'm almost a week behind. And so (said the Cat in the Hat, so, so, so), what follows is a summary of the highlights of the last week or so.

Saturday, June 15

We are in Paris, yet again, because of the philosophy of mathematics. Now, this is not the reason that everyone goes to Paris. This is not even the reason that most people go to Paris. In fact, I dare say that the people who go to Paris each year because of the philosophy of mathematics could probably fit quite comfortably on a Metro train. Nevertheless, this is why we are here, and so on Saturday we met up with a gaggle of other philosophers of mathematics and their families for a picnic at Parc Buttes-Chaumont and, well, it was very nice, but there isn't really anything very exciting to post about it. There was food, and a hill that the kids rolled down, and a baby who entertained my kids.

Sunday, June 16

This day gets its own post.

Monday, June 17

Would you believe that we

• walked to the Monoprix for food (and toilet paper)
• ate lunch in the gardens of the Hôtel de Cluny
• walked to an Orange to pay for two more weeks of mobile internet
• spent 20 minutes walking through the Église Saint-Séverin
• and then went home

all in the course of about 2 hours? Other than that, there was a lot of video gaming. Oh, and sweeping of floors and washing of dishes and folding of laundry. 

Tuesday, June 18

Ah yes, this was the day that we went swimsuit shopping (and shoe shopping for the younger two) at the Decathlon. I shan't bore you with the details. I will observe that I realized, as Sapphire tried on approximately 1.7 billion suits, that I will be dealing with having an adolescent daughter for the next 12 years straight. I am not at all sure that I am ready for this. We did, however, end up with four swimsuits, one for each person, and three pairs of shoes, two for Cherry and one for Ezio.

Wednesday, June 19

Another day that gets its own post. . ..

In which we should have called ahead

Today was a two part day. In the morning, Sapphire and I went shopping. 

After lunch, we stuck a couple of packages of Speculoos cookies in my new purse, along with a water bottle, and headed off for the Jardin du Luxembourg, where we intended to spend the balance of the afternoon playing at the massive playground at the park. At around a mile walk, the playground is close enough to our apartment to make paying for the train or bus seem a bit silly, but far enough away to represent somewhat of a commitment when traveling there on foot. And so, when we arrived at the playground and discovered the entire thing wrapped in yellow caution tape and crawling with men tightening bolts, trimming tree branches, painting equipment, etc. and a sign announcing that the play area would be closed on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday of that week (Wednesday is a no school day, so the playground was open that day), well, there was nothing to do for it but to break open and polish off the package of cookies before we regrouped and figured out what else we might do. 

We considered a trip to the Parc Floral, but by the time we took the bus there it would have been past 4:00, and as the Parc Floral was closed and locked at 5:00, that hardly seemed worth the time. Some research (the French SIM card and internet plan again prove invaluable)  revealed that the Jardin des Tuileries was supposed to have a good playground, and so we headed off in that direction. Alas, we had not gone very far before Ezio started to complain that his ankles and calves, and so, while the kids sat in the window of a store front, I once again pulled up the map of the area and looked for somewhere to go. We were close to Sèvres-Babylone, and there was, if I remembered correctly, a decent playground in the little park right there at the metro stop. We could go to the park, the kids could play for a while, and then we could hop the train right there and take it the few stops back home. 

Away to Sèvres-Babylone we went, the kids' spirits lifted by the prospect of a decent playground as a reward for all of the trudging that we had done. The entrance to the park was much as I had remembered it, other than the fact that it appeared that all of the lawns were now open to traffic, and the playground was just around the corner. And the playground was wonderful, as long as all of your kids were under the age of seven, which is exactly what my kids were the last time we were at that park. We chalked it up as a failed excursion, bought metro tickets, and headed for home.

In which Rebekah goes shopping

On the list of activities that I try to avoid whenever possible, one can find such things as

• cleaning toilets,
• submitting to blood draws, and
• walking down open staircases

but I would rather do almost any of these things than go shopping. Actually, that statement is too strong—I'll happily go shopping for food or toilet paper or pens or anything else of that ilk, since it doesn't generally seem like much of a commitment—it's the other sort of thing—clothing, stoves, houses—that invariable causes great stress. But I definitely didn't want to repeat the money belt stunt and I didn't want to keep borrowing Sapphire's purse, which is very cute for a twelve year old, but perhaps a bit off for a 39 year old with grey hair, nor did I want to be condemned to wearing the same pair of grey slacks for our two months in Europe. Besides, the purse that I had left in Illinois was rather the worse for wear, and I would certainly need to be replacing it soon in any case, and thus it was that on Friday morning I set out with Sapphire for the neighborhood of Saint-Germain-des-Prés to search for what I hoped would be a purse that would make it unnecessary to repeat the expedition for many years. 

We agreed that we would start by looking at purses in at least a half dozen shops before making any decisions, in order to ensure that we ended up with something that I really liked. So we walked down the Boulevard Saint Germain, looking for shops with purses in them. We decided that we could probably eliminate from consideration any shop that sold primarily clothing, since the purses that they had on display seemed to be primarily designed to match the clothing they sold, and I was fairly certain that I wasn't going to want to be carrying a pale coral purse in five years. We eliminated any store where the purses in the windows looked like they might be made of high class plastic. And we eliminated the shop called "TeenMode" on the grounds that I haven't been a teen for a number of years. That left us with surprisingly few shops to try, but try them we did. 

There was only one shop where I found that I really liked the purses, and there we had a bit of a problem, because I suddenly realized that I hadn't really talked about cost with Blaise, and I was thinking about dropping a not insubstantial amount of credit card. (No, we're not talking about four figures here, or even the high three figures, but enough so that I could have bought a year's worth of Nutella, even at the rate that my kids go through it.) Fortunately, both of us sprang for French SIM cards for our iPhones when we got here (the perks of having an unlocked Verizon phone) and so I texted him and asked what he thought my budget should be. 

"Dunno." Well, that wasn't very helpful, so I persisted. 

"Whatever you feel comfortable with." Given how much I hate shopping, and how much my budgetary instincts are still tied to assistant professor of philosophy salaries at Kansas State, that would be about 10€, and I might feel guilty about that, given that I have a functional, if rather crappy looking, purse sitting on the counter at home. I mean, I could just color the parts where the fake leather has peeled away from its fabric backing with black sharpie, and use it for another couple of years. I point out that I could easily be talking about 300€ or more. More texts come in.

"I spent $200+ on my shoes." That's better, since it gives me some sort of pricing idea.

"If you get one that's well made and that you like, you'll use it every day for probably ten years. Maybe more." He has a point.

"The purse you got with my mom when you were pregnant with Sapphire was $80, and it was tiny and it still lasted you better than a decade." I had forgotten about that. 

I was feeling somewhat better about buying a purse now, and so we headed back into the store and began to look more closely at the purses. There was one that I really liked the style of, but it was burnt orange, and another that Sapphire really liked, but I thought that white with gold embellishments might not be good in the winter. And then we saw, over on the other side of the store, the purse that I had liked, but in black rather than burnt orange. We headed over and I picked it up. The leather was butter soft; the purse was simple. I liked it. I took it over to the window to see it better. I liked it better. I looked at the price tag. It was better than I had feared it might be. And so I took a deep breath, and bought it, which means that I am now the proud owner of an Italian leather handbag, which, I might add, has proved large enough to carry a picnic for four to the museum, at least if everyone carries his or her own water bottle!