My name is Della and I’m a people watcher.
(You’re supposed to say, “Hi, Della!)
I think I’ve always struggled with this addiction! When I was young my grandmother, Mimi, also a gazer of faces (we must share the gene of population intrigue), would sometimes drive me to the huge airport, DFW, and we would just sit and watch travelers, and, wonder about their stories.
People are so interesting. Everyone has a tale to tell.
I’ve gleaned a few (not so great) photos to share from our recent trip to Paris. We spent time on the subways, so much that the kids could probably navigate for themselves. And usually, there was music to fill the void. Live music mind you, from all sorts of instruments. My favorite was this man with the sweet smile. He filled some of my first moments in Paris with the stereotypical ‘squeeze box’ music you think of when ‘gay Paree’ comes to mind.
We happily stumbled upon street musicians everywhere.
Here was another fun group that I wished I had had more time to enjoy. The gal in front was dancing! She was also part of the show, I’m assuming, married to one of the handsome men playing the instruments. (I’m smiling even now!) There were singing in English what sounded like Bayou jazz, tunes straight from New Orleans.
Paris in July……unavoidably fraught with crowds. Despite dodging strangers, we made a very brief run through of the Louvre. Mainly saw the high points, of which the Mona Lisa was one. This group was taking in, photographing, her. Interesting watching souls internalizing art, especially famous art. To actually see a work that has before only been in a book, can bring unexpected reactions. I’m not sure what I expected from the Mona Lisa. Honestly, it really didn’t move me. But it did cause me to wonder…..And maybe that’s what was intended by Senor DaVinci.
This photo has no significance except, that the lady with the flower is a random tour guide leading maybe 40 people. Tons of tours everywhere you looked. But the flower was too funny. I kept telling the hubby that I needed to get him a flower. He usually took up the leadership position with me bringing up the rear, making sure we had no stragglers in our group of 6.
The game is called Boules. I learned about it 25 years ago from Madame Lauger, my French teacher in high school. I remember her talking about the older men that would show up in the park and play this game. They throw these metal balls, and, I think, score points by getting close, and knocking each other’s balls out of the way, to a set target. The Eiffel Tower was 30 seconds walk away, and we were picnicking in the grass to the left. We tried to interpret the rules as they played. I think it’s a big game of marbles.
A few minutes rest as we listened to a band in the park. Isn’t this soooo Paris? Exactly what I imagined!
Our eldest’s dream job. Police on horseback ‘fighting crime’ in the famed Jardin des Tuileries.
I ended up in love with the French people. Not sure where their reputation for pushy rudeness comes from. The kind, and gracious faces that listened to me butcher their language were larger than life.
I could so live there.