Post by Deleted on Jul 8, 2014 17:28:55 GMT -8
“ A man travels the world over in search of what he needs
and returns home to find it. ”
- George Moore
and returns home to find it. ”
- George Moore
Ah, Paris. It had been more than two decades since Ollivander set foot in the City of Light, and he was glad to see her as grand and splendid as he remembered. It had been half as long since he had taken any vacation, and Paris had proved to be the perfect place to go. The streets were full of laughter and music. At night the lamps glowed soft, and electric 'fairy lights' glittered all around. Everything seemed to sparkle and shine. Even the the faces of the passers-by were alight with joie de vivre. Everyone wanted to see and be seen, as though they were all spectacles in an elegant parade. Garrick, strolling down the lanes wearing his finest three-piece suits, was hardly amiss. Even in these modern times, this city maintained an appreciation for confidant style. He was not the only dapper gentleman to be found, though he was certainly the most British. At least his French was good enough not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the local Parisians. He could speak with them at ease in their native tongue, even if he could not fool them into believing he was their countryman.
The first day of his vacation was spent seeing some of the Muggle slice of life. He visited their shops, their bakeries and art galleries; finding himself surprisingly delighted by every stop. Their art was particularly fascinating. Where wizards had not progressed from the styles of foregone centuries, Muggle art had gone forward by leaps and bounds. Many of the painters in Garrick's lifetime made an attempt to overcome the static nature of their magic-less medium. Where a wizarding portrait could walk and talk, these eccentric Muggle works conveyed motion by breaking from realism; using fantastical brushwork and finding impossible angles for their subjects. It was fascinating. But by contrast, his second day had been devoted to the Parisian wizarding world. There was far too much there to take in on a single run through, but he had made his first stop to be that of his French colleagues and competitors. They were more than a little surprised (and, he took great pleasure to notice, intimidated) to find none other than Mr Ollivander enter their shops. He talked trade with them a little, but found their ideas to be far inferior to his own. 'Pretension' was the word that sprung into his mind to sum them up. The experience was both bolstering to his ego and disappointing to his intellectual enthusiasm. The last twenty years had done nothing to improve their work or their attitudes toward wandlore. He remained alone at the zenith of his craft... But, then, what else had he expected?
On the whole, his trip was going swimmingly. With just one snag. He had come here with his wife. When he had proposed that she accompany him to Paris, he had not known exactly what to expect. He felt that it would have been a disservice to leave her behind, but he had never intended to actually spend the vacation with her. They were rarely in one another's company even at home, and he did not see why that should change just because they were staying in a foreign place. These last two days, Garrick had brushed off her attempts to rope him into her plans. He had gone out and returned very much alone. As far as he was concerned, she was making herself busy and enjoying the get-away every bit as much as him. So it was with no sense of guilt or regret that he returned to the small apartment which he had rented just off the Champs-Élysées. On his way, he had doubled back to one of the Muggle art galleries, picking up an imaginative and colorful still-life of a violin. As he entered the apartment, the painting was tucked carefully under his arm. He had expected to find the flat empty, but his wife was waiting for him inside. "Ah, good evening my dear. Had an enjoyable day, I hope?" he greeted her, a little distracted as he found a place to set down his purchase.
The first day of his vacation was spent seeing some of the Muggle slice of life. He visited their shops, their bakeries and art galleries; finding himself surprisingly delighted by every stop. Their art was particularly fascinating. Where wizards had not progressed from the styles of foregone centuries, Muggle art had gone forward by leaps and bounds. Many of the painters in Garrick's lifetime made an attempt to overcome the static nature of their magic-less medium. Where a wizarding portrait could walk and talk, these eccentric Muggle works conveyed motion by breaking from realism; using fantastical brushwork and finding impossible angles for their subjects. It was fascinating. But by contrast, his second day had been devoted to the Parisian wizarding world. There was far too much there to take in on a single run through, but he had made his first stop to be that of his French colleagues and competitors. They were more than a little surprised (and, he took great pleasure to notice, intimidated) to find none other than Mr Ollivander enter their shops. He talked trade with them a little, but found their ideas to be far inferior to his own. 'Pretension' was the word that sprung into his mind to sum them up. The experience was both bolstering to his ego and disappointing to his intellectual enthusiasm. The last twenty years had done nothing to improve their work or their attitudes toward wandlore. He remained alone at the zenith of his craft... But, then, what else had he expected?
On the whole, his trip was going swimmingly. With just one snag. He had come here with his wife. When he had proposed that she accompany him to Paris, he had not known exactly what to expect. He felt that it would have been a disservice to leave her behind, but he had never intended to actually spend the vacation with her. They were rarely in one another's company even at home, and he did not see why that should change just because they were staying in a foreign place. These last two days, Garrick had brushed off her attempts to rope him into her plans. He had gone out and returned very much alone. As far as he was concerned, she was making herself busy and enjoying the get-away every bit as much as him. So it was with no sense of guilt or regret that he returned to the small apartment which he had rented just off the Champs-Élysées. On his way, he had doubled back to one of the Muggle art galleries, picking up an imaginative and colorful still-life of a violin. As he entered the apartment, the painting was tucked carefully under his arm. He had expected to find the flat empty, but his wife was waiting for him inside. "Ah, good evening my dear. Had an enjoyable day, I hope?" he greeted her, a little distracted as he found a place to set down his purchase.
TAG @pru
