Walking and Modern Art

Bon jour, mes amies,
You know if Crazy Guy wants to hang out below my window--as long as he's quiet--I do not care. The place has some significance for him, which has nothing to do with me as I am certain he does not know I'm here.  He spread some flowers over the grate in the enclosure he likes to frequent.  He has some friends, too, that come to talk to him.  Fine.  Not my business.  Stay quiet, Crazy Guy.
I had some time to kill this morning as the Pompidou Centre opens at 11.  I went out to recycle bottles and toss trash--only to discover that like other Citadines, this one has trash disposal, etc. on each floor.
Then I walked up to Butte de Cailles because I'd noticed a bakery up the street I wanted to try.  Only I forgot which street it was up--typical Pil--and went in a circle--but found it eventually.  I bought fresh croissants for the weekend.  Now, of course, one can go out and actually get them fresh on the day, but I don't like having to get dressed for breakfast.  So said croissants are sitting in my freezer.  The bakery I thought would be cool, featured croissants in a crescent shape, which is a clear sign of--ugh---margarine and its attendant transfat.  The bakery also had croissant de beurre, which I purchased, but I won't be going back there.
I visited the grocery store and as usual got hung up just wandering around looking.  I thought I'd do an experiment by buying the grocery store high-end butter--i.e. everything that Bordier is except pasteurized, and some of the grocery store fancy cheese.  Results later.
Also I'd run out of toilet paper.  Now theoretically one swipes one's magic entry card on the storeroom door and gets what one wants.  Only the storeroom is not stocked regularly, so--no toilet paper.  Getting some--and truly I had none at all left--turned out to be a bigger deal than I anticipated, but one of the managers graciously delivered a roll to my very door.
I also came across an open Post Office and trespassed on the patience of a kindly clerk with my--oh dear, dreadful doesn't even begin to describe French--when I wanted to buy stamps for postcards.  I have said it before.  I'll keep saying it.  The French are lovely to foreigners without attitude.
On the other hand postcards are hideously expensive.  I spent much of the day pricing them because I have obligations to some relatives and non-blog reading friends.
I walked and walked.  I thought it would be fun to stop into Notre Dame de Paris on my way--until I saw the epic line.  Ok.  I'd  like to revisit the cathedral, but I need to get there EARLY.
I crossed the bridge from the Ile de la Cite to Ile St. Louis and mouched around and then sought out the Centre Pompidou.  This was quite a walk, and by the time I got there I was already tired.  Nevertheless, I enjoyed a good dose of Modern Art.  I'll have to go back though.  But I like the Fauvres, especially Matisse and Derain and most of Cubism (although George Braque makes a much better Fauve than Cubist just saying) and I found a lot of the Contemporary installations powerful.
But I am in my sixties, and my feet fail me after three hours, so I went and had some Amorino on Place Beaubourg.  The flavors were caramel sale, amarena, which is cherry and vanilla, and single source chocolate.  I sat on the terrance and did not suffer cigarette smoke and watched Paris walk by.
Now this is my old neighborhood from my last trip, so I decided to visit Rue Montorguil.  The modernist-shopping center-gone-wrong, Les Halles, is thankfully under reconstruction, so I did not bother with it, but enjoyed the pedestrianized streets in the vicinity.  Then it got hot, and my feet gave up, so I got on the metro for home and the Tour de France.
The yellow jersey has brought bad luck so far.  Two of its bearers have crashed out.
So the verdict--grocery store butter from pasteurized milk--I cannot tell the difference in taste.  The raw milk butter has a softer texture I find appealing.  But the grocery store provides fabulous butter.  The grocery store cows milk cheese?  Meh.  Bland.  I need the fancy cheese stores, after all.
A demain.