Paris has wonderful museums, they are all so very famous, the Louvre, the d’Orsay, the Centre Pompidou, and they’re all situated in such famous buildings with outstanding architecture, all these well known façades, they’re all sights for themselves, you get them depicted on postcards, in colour or black and white, just pick your favourite angle, even when you’ve left their art collection to the others there should be enough to write home about, although it’s a lost art somehow, I haven’t written one in years, I hate looking for post offices for the stamps, it takes you years and always in the opposite direction, but I digress, anyway, the Musée Bourdelle is no such museum, no pillars, no fame, no splendour, it’s situated off the tracks, I have never been in the area before, it’s somewhere in Montparnasse, in the 15th arrondissement, there’s a métro-station nearby, Falguière, quite unimpressive a street takes you to a building that looks like, well, a building, but definitely not like a museum, tiny entrance, no visitors, you enter and find yourself in a courtyard that looks like the industrial leftovers from a time when the socialist party had just been founded and this was a place where they might look for new members, it’s nothing but rust and bricks and dusty windows, the plants and flowers seem to have spread by themselves, and if it weren’t for Bourdelle’s works of art that you see everywhere, you might ask for directions in case there was a complete misunderstanding about it all. And then, once your brain rearranges its set of expectations forever, you cannot help but feel happy. It’s a wonderful place. I sat there in the drizzling rain, smoked a cigarette or two, and declared it my favourite museum ever.