28 September 2012

I Speak Chicken, You Know

We are (as one or two of you may be aware) in Paris this weekend, waiting for Zena and Holly to return from their cycling tour of the Loire valley so we can, er, "pal around together" for a few days (or, rather, so I can impose, Attila-like, my rigidly-crafted by-the-book hup-two-three-four sightseeing programme on them. Gotta educate these guys in the finer points of La Belle Epoque architectural style, donchano).

Today, however, Judith and I went west, to the Bois de Boulogne -- because we hadn't been there before -- and rapidly got lost because we had no compass, the paths on the map did not match the reality on the ground, the sun was in the wrong place in the sky, the "working girls" who decorate the paths alongside the roads through the park weren't in the same place every time we doubled back past them, und so weiter. In the end, however, we made it to our intended destination, the Jardin d'Acclimatation, a combination kiddie playground/funfair/small farm area at the entrance to which we offered the full price (€3) and were asked if we qualified for the over-60 reduced rate. (Not quite yet, alas.) We then spent a pleasant hour ambling about meeting the animals, some kept in enclosures or cages and some not, before departing for the Musee Marmottan Monet just outside the eastern boundaries of the Bois de Boulogne, an art gallery with a remarkable collection of late Impressionist works by Claude Monet, most donated by his daughter shortly before her death in the mid-1960s. The First Empire collection, of paintings and porcelain from the Napoleonic period, is also of interest, but much less impressive (although the collection does include Napoleon's bed, which is remarkably short -- I didn't (couldn't) measure it, but I'm sure that he would have been able to sleep in it only if he laid himself down diagonally and didn't turn over during the night).

In the meantime, here's a picture of Judith and the black rooster which accosted her at one point in the Bois de Boulogne, clearly expecting some sort of hand-out. She responded to its overtures with a series of clucking noises which either baffled it completely or drove it mad with rage. We could not tell which: it's a brainless chicken, after all.



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