Best-laid plans

"I have been to hell and back. And let me tell you, it was wonderful." Louise Bourgeois, 1996, embroidered on a handkerchief--and reproduced on a postcard I bought at the Jeu de Paume this afternoon. Where I had no notion whatever of being when I set out today.

I'd planned to visit the Centre Georges Pompidou, on this most consistently chilly and gray, from time to time drizzly, day yet, and that's where I went. It did seem awfully quiet in the square, but I'd never been, and it was midday by then, so what did I know? But it was completely closed for the day for some special--function? guest? So I thought, why not the Tuileries, where I'd never been, either? And proceeded to stroll at a deliberate pace, past La Samaritaine, through the Louvre courtyards (where several workers were dangling on cables on the faces of the Grand Pyramid, cleaning? repairing? looking startlingly tiny against it), and into the gardens.

The beautiful gardens: whoever designs the annual plantings certainly has an artist's eye for color, all deep reds and russets and various shades of blue and purple, accented here and there by a bit of yellow or white. To someone who struggles just to keep flowers alive through the inferno of summer, it was a glorious sight, all familiar plants, used in such a mouthwatering palette. And, then, there are all the lovely and thought-provoking sculptures, the pools, the walks--and the magnificent allées of chestnut trees, turning gold and russet themselves, the ground littered everywhere with chestnuts (I resisted as long as I could, but finally picked up a few and dropped them in my purse, to bring home to keep the one I'd picked up outside the medieval garden Sunday company--in the oven). I'd started about three days ago seeing the chestnut-roasters, and as I was coming down off the Pont des Arts saw two teenagers carrying bags of them gathered apparently along the edges of the gardens, I assume to sell.

I poked my head (well, and body, too) into the Jeu de Paume, though I didn't stay to go through this time. And, finally, bought an ice-cream cone from a stand (Damman, a Left Bank alternative to Berthillon--surprised and pleased to find them there!) by the large pool near the Place de la Concorde, then sat by the pool looking through the Place up the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe to eat it like a proper tourist. A stiff wind was blowing, and a band of darker clouds appeared to be moving in from the northwest. One beady-eyed pigeon, not the largest or sleekest, I'm guessing a grande dame, kept pacing back and forth in front of me eying me, and as I got near the end, I started dropping little bits of cone. You know the rest: in no time more and more came, then finally even one of the mallards in the pond noticed the gathering and glided over . . . Well. I wish I'd had more. I miss my animals.

Then walked back, taking a few minutes to go back up on the Pont des Arts because I love it, and it had been so long, past all the ritzy hotels along the Palais Royal, the relentless souvenir shops, and home with flan-in-a-crust--flan pie? To find the policemen, who had been all in dress blues this morning, seemed to be going back to routine, most of the official cycles put back wherever they normally stay, and the black and blue and red personal ones beginning to be lined along the curb as usual.