Emilia and I got their around noon-ish, and then stood in line for ages to get our tickets. Tickets procured, husband/dada procured (Michael walked the couple of blocks from his office to meet us), we went up the escalator and were on our merry way. Well, not to see Picasso yet. We had to wait an hour and then get in another line for that. So instead, we busied ourselves looking at the scary mouse again, the Italian Room, an awesome drawing of Leda and the Swan, the African dancing/war masks, and so on.
Just as Emilia started complaining that it was time to go home and that she needed her lunch, it was time to queue up for the exhibit. Right as we made it past the ticket check-point, some old lady right behind us says, quite loudly, I might add, 'Are we going to be stuck behind all this baby stuff the whole time!' What a grumpy old coot. Then she immediately shuffled past, with her surly friend in tow, making her way to a different section of the exhibit -- you know, basically any part that we were not currently occupying. Give me a break, since when does an umbrella stroller count as annoying baby stuff. Anyway, I told Michael to run up and shout behind the old coot's ear, 'Must we really be trapped behind these hideously old people all day!' He tried, but she must have spotted him and moved quickly on. Sprightly for being so old and grumpy, don't you think?
Anyway, we saw what we came to see: all the paintings in Emilia's book Painting with Picasso
. And as we found each one, both Michael and I recited the corresponding rhyme from the book. Emilia was quite impressed. However, what she really really liked was the electronic-tour-thingy that they let you listen to as you walk around. She kept shouting, 'Look mama, it like a phone!' And she only reluctantly gave it up when it was time to go.The exhibit does not allow cameras of any kind. I asked if I could take a picture of something, and the security guard said no way. I had assumed it was because of the flash, but he corrected me saying that it was because France had the rights to the pictures, and did not want any uncultured or uncivilized Americans taking pictures of their stuff. And when I said they were a bunch of Fancy French Grinches, he whole-heartedly agreed. I suppose it is for the best, though, as all the pictures I would have gotten would probably have included some cantankerous old lady, squawking and scowling in the background, because we had the audacity to bring a child and a stroller to put her in.
You do see odd people at the museum, though. Another lady kept exclaiming that she did not understand why the tour was not conducted solely in French. (She, by the way, was clearly not French. In fact, I'll bet she just finished some silly immersion course, and is now deeming herself a bit of a frenchy-fancy-pants. Her daughter said, 'Everything does not need to be in French now, Mom!'
Anyway, despite the long lines, the cranky old lady and her surly friend, the snooty and elitist French attitude prohibiting my uncivilized self from taking any pictures, and a funny French wannabe, we had a great time. Afterward, Michael walked back to his office to have his lunch, I gave Emilia a quick lunch in the car, and we made it home in lightening speed, singing all the while, 'Angels we have heard on high sweetly singing o'er the plains...Glo-O-o-O-o-O-o-ria...' at the top of our lungs, for naptime.
As we sat in the big green chair reading before her nap, we pulled out her Picasso book. Emilia pointed out all the paintings that we saw today, 'We saw that at the art museum!' She has no idea what it means to see the original artwork at a museum, but she does know that it is a lot of fun doing it.
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