Visiting the Louvre's Carousel – finding the "Three Graces"

On my third day in Paris, which was Friday, I decided to spend the whole day at the Louvre.

Fridays are "nocturne," meaning the museum is open until late at night. I had planned to be at the museum by 10:30 a.m., to take the eleven o'clock group tour. After a few mishaps on the way and in the metro, I made it to the Louvre at ten minutes to eleven.

If I didn't take the 11 o'clock then I had to wait until 2p.m.  Fortunately, I already knew my way around, because I had spent the last two days at the "Carousel" — the shopping center connected to the entrance of the Louvre in the basement.

The main reason for my visits to Louvre's Carousel was appointments at its Apple store. I had bought an iPad right before I left for Paris and I needed to learn how to use it. I've taken advantage of Apple store training sessions for the past two years, and I'm blown away by the depth of knowledge one acquires from the private or group sessions offered at the stores. You may walk into any Apple store anywhere in the world and receive the same courteous treatment.

The Apple store at the Louvre Carousel was as I had expected. I had already made an appointment from home for my first day in Paris. As I entered the store, one of the trained techs wearing their signature blue T-shirt welcomed me. "Bonjour madame." I responded in English, "Bonjour. I have an appointment for a 'One to One' session." He directed me upstairs.

Everything seemed so familiar — same ambiance, same interior design, same crowd. I took the glass staircase to the mezzanine. My instructor was Damien, who spoke English. When I told him I was Armenian and from Glendale, he said that he had Armenian friends in Glendale. WHAT?

In one of my previous blogs, I have already indicated my admiration for the Apple stores tutorials and the way the trained technicians welcome customers and solve their problems. You may want to read my entry on my blog under the title of: "Heaven should be like an Apple Store."

*   *    *    *

Enough about the Apple Stores; now back to the Louvre. When I exited the metro at the Palais Royal station, I had to run to be able to make it to the tour. All too often I forget that I'm no longer a 25-year-old agile young woman.

I ran passed the glass pyramids, in front of the Louvre. I passed young African peddlers that were trying to sell me little souvenirs. Then I took the stairs down to the entrance of the museum at the Carousel. As I arrived at the entrance to the Louvre, there was a big line for the security check. I thought I would be late for the tour, but I was wrong. I passed the security check just in time and was able to purchase a ticket and join the group.

The one-and-a-half-hour guided tour covered the history and origin of the Louvre and a brief history of the arts. Our guide took us into galleries with awe-inspiring ornate walls and ceilings, and showed us the most important paintings and sculptures in the museum. Among them were Venus of the Milo, the Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, and two crowns — one was Napoleon's coronation crown and the other was the only preserved crown from before the Revolution with 140 carats worth of diamonds.



After one hour of the walking tour, I was exhausted. Again I felt my age. To rest, I went to one of the museum's cafés and had a sandwich. Then I went back again to the Apple store for another half-hour appointment of "One to One" In the afternoon, after having a café-aux-lait at Starbucks, I headed back to the Louvre.

This time, I explored the Richelieu wing, where Mesopotamian art and a huge collection of marble statues from more recent times are housed. I was on a mission. First, I wanted to see architectural pieces from the ancient Achaemenid civilization in Iran; next, I wanted to find the marble statue of the "Three Graces" of more recent times, which held the heart of Henry II, the French king.

I knew that Louvre had a great collection of Persian art from Achaemenid Empire dating back to 500 B.C. But I never had before seen them. Without much trouble, I found the gallery where the Persian art was housed. Unfortunately, there was not a whole lot available to see. Only two galleries were dedicated to the ancient Persian art.

The first gallery showcased smaller artifacts and tools; I was not much interested in these. The second one housed an imposing capital of a column from Apadana Palace, and although it was just one object, by itself it was worth my whole trip to Paris.

My words will fall short in describing the monumental and massive bull-head capital which was as tall as a two-story building. This architectural piece was one style of capital that ornamented the many pillars erected inside of the palace built by Darius the king. I feel lucky that while I was in Iran I had the opportunity to visit the ruins of the Persepolis. Apadana Palace had 72 columns, each about 60 feet (19 meters) tall. It is mind boggling that so many years ago people could built such colossal edifices.




History has it that in 301 B.C., Alexander the Great ransacked the Persepolis and his troops burnt the structures. I should add that the Achaemenid kings are prominent in history for the humanitarian way of treating their subjects. It is said the first Human Rights Declaration was made by Cyrus the Great, an Achaemenid king.

In 1947, the United Nations adopted the principles of Cyrus' declaration, which was originally written in cuneiform alphabets on a cylinder. A replica of the cylinder is showcased at the U.N. headquarters in New York City. Throughout ancient history, and also documented in Old Testament, Cyrus the Great and his descendants had the reputation of being fair kings.

In history books, there isn't much reference to Achaemenid culture, but without doubt, it can be considered one of the most important pillars of civilization.

 *     *    *    *

After accomplishing my first mission, I headed to find the marble statue that I was looking for. The statue was completed by a famous French sculptor as a monument to Henry II, the king of France, who died during a jousting game in 1560. In those days it was a practice to enclose the heart of the king in an urn. The original bronze urn that the "Three Graces" held on their head was removed and destroyed during the French Revolution; its metal was used to make weapons.

We own a replica of the statue at home. I wanted to have an updated photograph of myself next to the statue. In 1997 when I was in Paris, I got a photo of myself alongside the Graces. It was time, I thought, to do this again.

First, I wandered randomly around and into different galleries that housed all the marble statues. I didn't see it. Then I asked a few docents, and they gave me wrong directions. I went up and down flights of stairs in the vast expanse of Louvre. Tired and frustrated, I was about to give up when I realized there was one more gallery that I had not checked. I asked another docent and she said that she was pretty sure the statue was in the last gallery.

Mission accomplished! I found the Three Graces and got my picture. That night as I slept all the historical characters from Cyrus the great to Henry II, were dancing in my head.

“Writing has to be a passion and writing is all about love." --Ray Bradbury

Two Guest Bloggers Sylvia Cary and Nancy Klann, Remember Ray Bradbury.  Read both stories:

Ray Bradbury signs one of his books after a giving a talk for the L.A. Scriptwriter's Network at the Glendale Public Library on February 10th, 2007. Photo Credit: Sylvia Cary .

Ray Bradbury signs one of his books after a giving a talk for the L.A. Scriptwriter's Network at the Glendale Public Library on February 10th, 2007. Photo Credit: Sylvia Cary .

Ray Bradbury signs one of his books after a giving a talk for the L.A. Scriptwriter's Network at the Glendale Public Library on February 10th, 2007. Photo Credit: Sylvia Cary .

Ray Bradbury signs one of his books after a giving a talk for the L.A. Scriptwriter's Network at the Glendale Public Library on February 10th, 2007. Photo Credit: Sylvia Cary .

Ray Bradbury signs one of his books after a giving a talk for the L.A. Scriptwriter's Network at the Glendale Public Library on February 10th, 2007. Photo Credit: Sylvia Cary .

Ray Bradbury signs one of his books after a giving a talk for the L.A. Scriptwriter's Network at the Glendale Public Library on February 10th, 2007. Photo Credit: Sylvia Cary .

“Writing has to be a passion and writing is all about love." --Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury died last week at the age of 91. When a man lives that long and is that famous, a lot of people get to meet him. I was one of them. He came to speak for the Scriptwriter's Network in 2007. At the time I was Director of Marketing and in change of doing the speaker write-ups for the Scriptwriter's Network newsletter.  I wrote up his talk that day and am reprinting it here as my tribute to an amazing writer:

“Writing has to be a passion and writing is all about love,” Ray Bradbury, the prolific, legendary author told the Scriptwriters Network audience in the Glendale Public Library auditorium on February 10, 2007.  “I love movies! When I was three years old, I saw my first film The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and I fell in love.  Then I saw a dinosaur movie, and I fell in love with dinosaurs. I loved movies so much that I saw as many as nine a week, double features, good and bad.”

But back when Bradbury was growing up, there weren’t that many places to go to see movies, which made Bradbury mad – so mad, in fact, that in 1961 he started a Film Society just so people could see lots of movies.  Within a short time nearly 2000 people joined this Film Society.  “We bought a theater and showed films there to educate writers.  And I did that 45 years ago because I was so goddamn mad that there just wasn’t a place to see enough movies. I love movies!”

In Love with the Glendale Library

The Glendale Public Library is another of Bradbury’s loves. “I didn’t go to college.  I went to the library.  The library is where I grew up and why I came here today to speak. I love this library and I love this city.   The library taught me to write.  I used to drown myself in books here and when I had a newspaper route as a kid and got $10 together, I bought even more books. When people asked me, ‘What are you doing?’ I said, ‘I’m becoming a writer.’  I love books, cartoons, comic books, movies, plays, and I love the future.  I fell in love with the future during the Chicago World’s fair.  It was the future!”

Bradbury began writing stories at age 12. “I wrote stories all the time. I sold my first story for $15 to Weird Tales Magazine.  When I was 13 years old I read about the great library of Alexandria and how it got burned, and the how Hitler burned books, and how Stalin burned books, and that’s what I had in mind years later when I wrote Fahrenheit 451 – to make sure books still existed.  I literally wrote Fahrenheit 451 in the library with dimes – 10 cents per half hour to rent a typewriter.”

Once Bradbury got published, it led to other things. “When one of my $15 stories got rejected, I turned around and sold it to Mademoiselle Magazine for $300.”  Later, because of a tear sheet from Weird Tales, Bradbury ended up being hired by writer/producer, Norman Corwin of CBS Radio. Radio was another of Bradbury’s loves, “I fell in love with radio when I was nineteen years old.”

Financial success, however, took a while: “When I married my wife I had $10 in my pocket,” Bradbury said. “I gave $5 to the minister, but he gave it back to me and said, ‘You’re going to need it.’” When Bradbury’s wife got pregnant, Corwin advised him to go to New York and visit publishers. The publishers kept asking him if he had written a novel, and Bradbury kept saying no -- until one of them suggested that he weave all his stories together into one book. And this is what he did, and the finished product became The Martian Chronicles. “I’d written a book and I didn’t know it.” The publisher gave him $700 – and then they asked him for another idea.”  And he was on his way.

Love and Moby Dick

“If you want to be a writer, you’ve got to be obsessed; you have to have passion, and passion is a loving combination of many things,” Bradbury said.  Because he loved dinosaurs when he was six years old; and because he wrote a dinosaur story; one day John Huston came into his life. “And I loved John Huston.  He had read one of my dinosaur stories and ended up getting in touch with me.  He asked me if I’d like to write the screenplay of Moby Dick.  I said, ‘Jesus Christ, I can’t even read that damn thing.  I’ve had it in the house for years.’  Huston told me to go home and read as much of it as I could. So I went home and I told my wife, ‘I have to read a book tonight and turn in a book report tomorrow.’  But, once again, love saved me. I had always loved Shakespeare, and because of Shakespeare’s influence on Moby Dick, I was able to read the book and I took the job of writing the screenplay.  I read and re-read that book until it was in my blood and I became Herman Melville. I wrote the last 30 pages of the script as Herman Melville!”

In Love with Ireland

Bradbury also loves travel, and his travels took him to Ireland – and he fell in love with Ireland.  “I ended up writing three plays about Ireland – out of love.” He did staged readings of his plays while he was there, and “I realized that my plays were good.” And it satisfied another of his loves – acting.

Multiple Loves All Roll into One

Bradbury ended his talk with this:  “Love is at the center of everything.  All my multiple loves from all the times in my life have rolled over into what I’m doing now. To be a writer is to be a lover,” he said looking out over the audience. “So you are all lovers, too.

Copyright (c) Sylvia Cary, LMFT. Article originally published in the Scriptwriters Network newsletter in 2007.


Inspiration by Nancy Klann:

“Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for.”  Ray Bradbury

The ultimate reference book sits on my desk, within reach, as I work to better my writing each day.  It weighs two and a half pounds, and it has 1,059 pages.  A dictionary, you might guess.  Thesaurus?  An out-of-print Columbia Encyclopedia?   No, no, and no.

It’s my go-to book for inspiration. It’s titled, The Stories of Ray Bradbury, and it contains one-hundred stories penned by the ultimate dream-catcher.  I like to start my day with a cup coffee and a page of Bradbury ―just one of each―enough to charge my creative batteries.  One day I can read about a giant sea creature who falls in love with a lighthouse, the next day a “wonderful white ice cream summer suit!  White, white as the August moon!”

Yes, he inspires me.  So much so, that when asked in a recent interview, “If you could ask your favorite author one question, who would it be and what would you ask?”  My answer came fast, without any thought.  “Ray Bradbury,” I said.  “I would ask him to come back to us and grace us with more of his brilliance.”

The first time I had the pleasure of seeing the man whose prose read like poetry, was 1997, when he opened the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.  He stood before us, bouncing with enthusiasm as he shared precious gems of encouragement with seasoned and novice writer’s alike―each one of us hungry to learn his secrets.  I went back many more years, heard him speak again and again, and each time walked away touched by his brilliance, and his love of life.

“The great fun in my life has been getting up every morning and rushing to the typewriter because some new idea has hit me. The feeling I have every day is very much the same as it was when I was twelve. In any event, here I am, eighty years old, feeling no different, full of a great sense of joy, and glad for the long life that has been allowed me. I have good plans for the next ten or twenty years, and I hope you’ll come along.”  Written by Ray Bradbury on his 80^th birthday.

Thinking about the ways this man has sparked my creativity, I began to wonder about the writers that have touched others in the same way.  I’d love to know what authors inspire you.

The Naked 9-year-old Vietnamese Girl – A Pulitzer Winning photograph

This iconic picture taken June 8, 1972, exactly 40 years ago, communicates without words the horrors of the Vietnam War.  The naked 9-year-old Kim Phuc, center, runs down from an explosion in her village, during the tail end of the Vietnam War. 


Read the whole story below.  Learn how the Associated Press photographer "Nick" Ut snapped the iconic image and saved the life of the little girl.  

In the picture, the girl will always be 9 years old and wailing "Too hot! Too hot!" as she runs down the road away from her burning Vietnamese village. She will always be naked after blobs of sticky napalm melted through her clothes and layers of skin like jellied lava. She will always be a victim without a name.

It only took a second for Associated Press photographer Huynh Cong "Nick" Ut to snap the iconic black-and-white image 40 years ago. It communicated the horrors of the Vietnam War in a way words could never describe, helping to end one of the most divisive wars in American history.

But beneath the photo lies a lesser-known story. It's the tale of a dying child brought together by chance with a young photographer. A moment captured in the chaos of war that would be both her savior and her curse on a journey to understand life's plan for her.

"I really wanted to escape from that little girl," says Kim Phuc, now 49. "But it seems to me that the picture didn't let me go."

It was June 8, 1972, when Phuc heard the soldier's scream: "We have to run out of this place! They will bomb here, and we will be dead!" Seconds later, she saw the tails of yellow and purple smoke bombs curling around the Cao Dai temple where her family had sheltered for three days, as north and south Vietnamese forces fought for control of their village.

The little girl heard a roar overhead and twisted her neck to look up. As the South Vietnamese Skyraider plane grew fatter and louder, it swooped down toward her, dropping canisters like tumbling eggs flipping end over end. "Ba-boom! Ba-boom!" The ground rocked. Then the heat of a hundred furnaces exploded as orange flames spit in all directions.

Fire danced up Phuc's left arm. The threads of her cotton clothes evaporated on contact. Trees became angry torches. Searing pain bit through skin and muscle. In shock, she sprinted down Highway 1 behind her older brother. She didn't see the foreign journalists gathered as she ran toward them, screaming. Then, she lost consciousness.

 * * * *

Ut, the 21-year-old Vietnamese photographer who took the picture, drove Phuc to a small hospital. There, he was told the child was too far gone to help. But he flashed his American press badge, demanded that doctors treat the girl and left assured that she would not be forgotten.

"I cried when I saw her running," said Ut, whose older brother was killed on assignment with the AP in the southern Mekong Delta. "If I don't help her – if something happened and she died – I think I'd kill myself after that."

Back at the office in what was then U.S.-backed Saigon, he developed his film. When the image of the naked little girl emerged, everyone feared it would be rejected because of the news agency's strict policy against nudity.

But veteran Vietnam photo editor Horst Faas took one look and knew it was a shot made to break the rules. He argued the photo's news value far outweighed any other concerns, and he won.

A couple of days after the image shocked the world, another journalist found out the little girl had somehow survived the attack. Christopher Wain, a correspondent for the British Independent Television Network who had given Phuc water from his canteen and drizzled it down her burning back at the scene, fought to have her transferred to the American-run Barsky unit. It was the only facility in Saigon equipped to deal with her severe injuries.

"I had no idea where I was or what happened to me," she said. "I woke up and I was in the hospital with so much pain, and then the nurses were around me. I woke up with a terrible fear."

Thirty percent of Phuc's tiny body was scorched raw by third-degree burns, though her face somehow remained untouched. Over time, her melted flesh began to heal.

"Every morning at 8 o'clock, the nurses put me in the burn bath to cut all my dead skin off," she said. "I just cried and when I could not stand it any longer, I just passed out."

After multiple skin grafts and surgeries, Phuc was finally allowed to leave, 13 months after the bombing. She had seen Ut's photo, which by then had won the Pulitzer Prize, but she was still unaware of its reach and power.

She just wanted to go home and be a child again.

* * * * * 

For a while, life did go somewhat back to normal. The photo was famous, but Phuc largely remained unknown except to those living in her tiny village near the Cambodian border. Ut and a few other journalists sometimes visited her, but that stopped after northern communist forces seized control of South Vietnam on April 30, 1975, ending the war.

Life under the new regime became tough. Medical treatment and painkillers were expensive and hard to find for the teenager, who still suffered extreme headaches and pain. She worked hard and was accepted into medical school to pursue her dream of becoming a doctor. But all that ended once the new communist leaders realized the propaganda value of the `napalm girl' in the photo.

She was forced to quit college and return to her home province, where she was trotted out to meet foreign journalists. The visits were monitored and controlled, her words scripted. She smiled and played her role, but the rage inside began to build and consume her.

"I wanted to escape that picture," she said. "I got burned by napalm, and I became a victim of war ... but growing up then, I became another kind of victim." She turned to Cao Dai, her Vietnamese religion, for answers. But they didn't come.

"My heart was exactly like a black coffee cup," she said. "I wished I died in that attack with my cousin, with my south Vietnamese soldiers. I wish I died at that time so I won't suffer like that anymore ... it was so hard for me to carry all that burden with that hatred, with that anger and bitterness."

One day, while visiting a library, Phuc found a Bible. For the first time, she started believing her life had a plan.

Then suddenly, once again, the photo that had given her unwanted fame brought opportunity.

She traveled to West Germany in 1982 for medical care with the help of a foreign journalist. Later, Vietnam's prime minister, also touched by her story, made arrangements for her to study in Cuba.

She was finally free from the minders and reporters hounding her at home, but her life was far from normal. Ut, then working at the AP in Los Angeles, traveled to meet her in 1989, but they never had a moment alone. There was no way for him to know she desperately wanted his help again.

"I knew in my dream that one day Uncle Ut could help me to have freedom," said Phuc, referring to him by an affectionate Vietnamese term. "But I was in Cuba. I was really disappointed because I couldn't contact with him. I couldn't do anything."

* * * * * 

While at school, Phuc met a young Vietnamese man. She had never believed anyone would ever want her because of the ugly patchwork of scars that banded across her back and pitted her arm, but Bui Huy Toan seemed to love her more because of them.

The two decided to marry in 1992 and honeymoon in Moscow. On the flight back to Cuba, the newlyweds defected during a refueling stop in Canada. She was free. Phuc contacted Ut to share the news, and he encouraged her to tell her story to the world. But she was done giving interviews and posing for photos.

"I have a husband and a new life and want to be normal like everyone else," she said.

The media eventually found Phuc living near Toronto, and she decided she needed to take control of her story. A book was written in 1999 and a documentary came out, at last the way she wanted it told. She was asked to become a U.N. Goodwill Ambassador to help victims of war. She and Ut have since reunited many times to tell their story, even traveling to London to meet the Queen.

"Today, I'm so happy I helped Kim," said Ut, who still works for AP and recently returned to Trang Bang village. "I call her my daughter."

After four decades, Phuc, now a mother of two sons, can finally look at the picture of herself running naked and understand why it remains so powerful. It had saved her, tested her and ultimately freed her.

"Most of the people, they know my picture but there's very few that know about my life," she said. "I'm so thankful that ... I can accept the picture as a powerful gift. Then it is my choice. Then I can work with it for peace."
(Adapted from Huff Post...)

Phuc, now is a mother of two sons.

Some Like it COLD – A visit to North Pole

Here is a Page from Odette Ricasa's travel Journal 

May 13 - Am now in Svalbard, an archipelago in the Arctic Circle.
We are about  800 miles to the myth called North Pole. I flew from Oslo, Norway. 

It  is 9 degrees outside brrr.rr..rr but I keep walking on the streets to keep body heat..
I am wrapped in thick clothes, 4 pants 4 undershirts, 2 sweaters, a heavy jacket, wool scarf, hard and heavy to walk ;). the cold is ok  It is the violent gusts of wind that  makes my nose numb but I am surviving.

I woke up at 1:00 AM, the sun was as brilliant.  Twenty four hours of day light, no dark nights. The sun never set during my entire trip.  I had to use an eye mask to sleep.  This must be the reason the Arctic regions is drawn on the globe in color white. 

Serenity moved along the long white ragged lines that lead to the coal mines, the snow whispering and hushing, making little triangles of white, seething a little when the wind blew them on the ground, getting deeper and deeper as if everything has been insulated by snow. The fierce sun and snow smooth as cake frosting covered the roofs, the streets and the mountains.

A secret of snow now, between the world and me.

The presence of snow sounds clearer here at the North Pole a few steps beyond speech, beyond thought.  Mist of snow softly and steadily float in the bright sunlight turning and pausing.  With one hand lifted to shade my eyes against the snow sun. I felt at ease and peace, the whole world a vast moving screen of snow. 

It is the time for midnight sun.  It really gets my adrenaline rushing and my not so young heart pumping. Sometimes I think I am invincible, but life shows me I am not.  I took clumsy steps, my boots down the powdered snow, noiseless dropped down like a bird, then Oouuchh!!!    I slid on the snow and fell flat on my butt J.

Our taxi driver’s name  is Som.  He is from Iran.   He has lived here for fourteen years, loves it and would not live anywhere else in the world.   His eye swim very brightly like little cat. He explains the seven coal mines, Santa Claus sleeps in one of the coal mines..he..he..he and an educational surprise = the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, a facility that preserves a wide variety of plant seeds around the world in an underground cavern with DNA testing to prevent plants from  being extinct. We learn something new everyday.

It is the celebration of National Flag Day for Norway.  Locals proudly parade in their brightly hand embroidered traditional costumes.  Waving the Norwegian flag, they sung, cheered and hooted with the band. 

There are about 30 Filipinos who live here. They invited me for noodles and rice cake. Nice! I was surprised to find them here. Seems like everywhere I go I meet Filipinos. They are also surprised to find me here, asking why I am here. I told them I am a writer J.

Mode of transportation: snow mobiles or dog sled :).

A private pristine setting the most majestic sight of mother nature that dazzles the senses step foot on a glacier travel by snow mobile and sports by dog sledding, the maddest, most marvelous site.

I am sitting by the window of the Spitsbergen Guest House filled with admiration. For the midnight song seem to feel the snow powder, soundless except for the cruel wind that blows through the Flower Valley, Iced fjords, Polygonson Kvndehukslette, Braggerhalveya, more and more glaciers. .

One thing I am waiting for … the sign of a WHITE polar bear

Odette Ricasa - has traveled to 232 countries.  She is heading a travel club that meets every month at different restaurants.  

E-mail: Odette25@aol.com 

author of FOUR (4) books www.authorhouse.com search: RICASA
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