(Sunny維持我一貫save the best to the last的習慣，最後寫橘園)
The Musée de l'Orangerie, situated in the Tuileries Palace, is an art gallery dedicated to the Impressionism and the Post Impressionism paintings. Among the collections, the most important, stunning, amazing ones are, no doubt, the large scale water-lily and willow paintings of Monet.
The ground floor of the Musée de l'Orangerie consists two oval shaped rooms, each showcases four Monet paintings. Monet donated those paintings to the French state before he died and specifically requested such paintings be exhibited in such oval-shaped rooms. Thus, the Musée de l'Orangerie was built under such specification.
By paying the visit to the museum, it is not hard to understand why Monet would so request. When sitting on the bench right at the heart of each room, I was surrounded by the paintings. For a while, it almost feels like I was sitting in Monet's garden feeling the sun, the breeze, the pond, the quietness and the peace. It was a very touching moment for me. Sitting there, I could feel my eyes getting moist.
While Mr. T explored the Army Museum at the Invalides, I took my time to immerse myself in this Monet-esque moment, sitting quietly listening to the audio guide.
The gentleman working at the museum was so attentive to find that I was the only person strolling around the museum alone, and offered to help me take a photo with the paintings.
Other than Monet's paintings, the museum also exhibits an huge collection of the Impressionism and Post Impressionism paintings, including artworks of Renoir, Cézanne, Picasso, Matisse and others.
(Renoir's Young Girls at the Piano. He painted this same image over and over. The one at the Musée de l'Orangerie is an unfinished copy. The well-known finished version is own by the Musée d'Orsay.)
(Cézanne's painting of his wife)
The Musée de l'Orangerie is definitely the highlight of my trip to Paris. Even until now, I could still feel how deeply moved I was when seeing Monet's paintings there.
Later that night, I had a nightmare, in which I was not myself, but a Caucasian girl experiencing the death of the mother. Through out the whole time, even at the funeral, I did not shred a tear until I ran into a painting of Monet's. Then I started to cry and realized that the reason I hadn't cried earlier was because I had been in denial.
I remember waking up in tears, I kept sobbing and sobbing, feeling this enormous sorrow at heart and just could stop myself from crying.
Later, Mr. T joked that maybe I was a French girl in my previous life and I was just dreaming about it. But I had a more gruesome theory to it which I'd rather not to further illustrate...