I forgot an FO in my last post: Fetching:
It has been really chilly here in London, but I don’t need to wear them yet. They’re made of a strand of worsted-weight Plymouth alpaca and a strand of alpaca laceweight (KnitPicks, I think). Should be good for digging my Oyster card out of my bag on a cold morning.
To say Saturday was a beautiful day is a woeful understatement. Here’s how blue the sky in Paris was:
After breakfast, I walked to La Droguerie because I had to visit a yarn store. It was in the same general area as the hotel, and it sounded more interesting than visiting a department store. Droguerie means “drug store,” and I assume it got its name from having been set up in an old drug store—it has old wooden shelving, beads in jars as if they were old apothecary supplies—but maybe it’s because it caters to addicts. Sigh. I wish I had been able to go there on a weekday. On a fine Saturday morning, it was crammed full of Parisians. The yarn was gorgeous. There were dozens and dozens of buttons I wanted to take home with me. But I didn’t NEED any of it enough to make it worthwhile to stand on a very long line to be helped by someone who might or might not have the patience to deal with my nasty French. So after touching many hanks of alpaca, I set off for L’Orangerie in the Tuileries.
The original orangerie was a building constructed to protect the king’s orange trees from the cold. It’s been rebuilt a few times, and it has been since 1927 the home of Monet’s ultimate waterlily canvases, Les Nymphéas. When I was last in Paris, it was closed for reconstruction. I’m something of a Monet freak, so I felt like I’d been waiting for my whole life to see these—perhaps since I first encountered the waterlilies owned by MOMA in New York as a teenager and fell in love. Here are some little snippets that I chose mainly because of the palette. I want to knit these colors:
While I was working on Friday, I interviewed a young woman. She was Italian by birth, spoke fluent French, and spoke enough English to make it through a job interview with a great deal of poise. These trips to the Continent are making me more and more aware of how hard other people work to communicate with me. Yet mostly I won’t even attempt the little French, Italian, or Spanish I know—I’m painfully aware of how bad it is, but that’s no excuse for not trying. At one point on Friday I was forced to ask a woman on the street to help me with directions, and I simply had to attempt to interact with her French. I didn’t do that badly, actually. So I’ve resolved to break out the language tapes, starting with French and Italian, and at least get back what I once had—and to actually make the effort to practice when I go to visit. I can listen to the tapes while I knit!