France

Theo: today I saw the Mediterranean for the first time; it looked like a Cartoon or a film because it had palm trees and beaches in front. In Florence in a art gallery called Cézanne we had head phones I tried all the numbers on it and it went up to 44 different paintings with commentaries. In 2 days time we are going to Dordogne and hopefully getting the internet!

OK: Memories of Nice biscuits when small and various post-impressionists being bohemian. A good city but underdone by the rain, rain, rain. And closure of galleries for repair (that 35 hour week thing again? Surely not all can have crumbled at the same time?). Thus, we trog to the Musee des Beaux-Arts, on the back of a poem and a prayer, hoping for something amazing and - finding the biggest load of kitsche (and an amusing plaster cast of The Kiss, being snapped and papped) - enjoyed just a few good post-impressionists and some big breasted 18th saints (T's flesh for the day). So, in view of the rain, St. Dufy gives you the best impression of the view from our hotel:

Waking on Sunday, I once again chastised T for not purchasing that invaluable Leonardo de Vinci umbrella when in Rome; honestly - would have been best friend all the way. Imagine, therefore, schadenfreud when T found umbrella shop open this Sunday am in the flower market. Lucas and Caillebotte battled against the rain all morning:

Tony: Dufy or not Dufy, that is the question. In Nice, bien sur and a reminder of sunshine. Lunch was magnificent. The torteau died with a smile on its face [what's he eating tortoises for eh?] and was followed by Lorenzo the magnificent Lobster swimming in saffron bouillabaise with squid, bream, and soft shelled crabs that the waiter had to explain how (and why) to eat. The Sancerre was cold and cutting. Then to the beach for the five minutes of blue that Englishmen call the summer. Suddenly all Nice was out and about, lounging on deathly cold pebbles and sighing at the sea. The concert was disappointing. Much as we like a good requiem, this one had a death wish. [Well, it needs a big organ, honey].
Lucas:Well, when we went to The "Hotel Meridien"there was a TV in our room. Dad ordered room service to bring up bottle of wine, next at 4:00pm dad wanted to watch a concert, we did but when it finished we all thought it was a load of crap! I was about to write bollox but the spell check didn’t tell me how to write, that is why we hurried home quickly to write how crap the concert was!

But I really, trully think this is summer on the way. Damn the brolly...

Arrival Paris. MORNING: Grim weather and no thermals but determined to conduct worthly tour including homage to old home on Isle St Louis.
Lucas: well i couldn't believe my eyes when i saw the hotel bath it was the tiniest smallest puniest bath i have ever seen in the world and when I tried getting in only my head didn’t fit in it was so small and I’m telling the truth “Honest”! The room was tiny too but we have BBC prime and i caught Theo watching big chef little chef.

AFTERNOON: Like a wrinkle in time, we were standing outside our old home on Quay de Bethune and Madame the concierge came out. She looked exactly the same and I still don't know her real name.
Louvre unaccountably closed on Tuesday which is weird for capital city but they do have this 35 hour week thing to contend with. However, the most important (for me) place was the least known - the memorial to the French deportees, 200,000 of them, at the tip of the Isle de la Cite just by Notre Dame. This is not flagged in many guides and is the most moving, appropriate piece of architecture (opened 1961) that evokes powerful emotions. The centre installation, a long corridor lit by a single light, is lined with 200,000 glass beads or lights, each one a soul killed in deporation camps during the war. Impossibly not to be moved to tears - thus no photos as mascara not holding up. A stark contrast to Notre Dame, where we herded around with thousands of tourists (the Russians being best dressed for this weather). Suddenly realised this was down to Mr Dan Brown and secretly cursed. Taxi driver on way home will vote Segolene Royale...we will conduct straw pole (we're coming out as covert Sarkozies but strangely are keeping quite on this, not sure why).

Tony: Sitting in Jean Paul's favourite seat and trying to compose a sequel to 'L'etranger' involving the post modern irony of Paris on a rainy day with children, I was affronted to be photographed by a tourist who did not even ask for my signature.