Le Carte Musee or How to be a Rockstar in Paris

Okay. So. Blogger is totally seeing IPhoto behind my back and they've decided since they can't be adults, they're going to ruin any attempt on my part at happiness by denying me the ability to post pictures. I really, really, really want to show you the pics from Wednesday, when we went power mad and visited 3 museums in one day. So I'm working on it. I'll be back soon...

Chinese Junk

So my photos of what we did Tuesday night were eaten by the Photo Gods who apparently were not pleased by our sudden veering off the beaten path twice in one day. C'est la vie. We'll just have to use our imaginations.

Paris is known as the City of Light, which implies that it is very beautiful when lit up. At. Night. It occurred to us in our second week here that we really hadn't seen any Light, save the ambient stuff glowing off the Omnisport complex across the street because we haven't really ventured out at night. Really. I know it might sound crazy, but I kid you not when I say we have logged some serious miles walking in this city for hours upon hours everyday. That makes you tired. You don't care that the city is made of light or stringcheese or somersaulting unicorns. You want a bed. My husband is taking a nap right now from our trek today, and he doesn't nap. So, Tuesday night we decided we needed to rally and actually venture out at night.

La Guingette Pirate is a Chinese junk or "jonque" as the French call it, both calling to mind a boat made out of recycled aluminum foil and trash cans. Happily La Guingette is a beautiful, fire-engine red wooden boat that serves dinner and hosts concerts. Tuesday night was their Django Reinhart/manouche gypsy night, so we were treated to a fantastic band who did a lot of Django covers. I was in heaven, minus the fact that the ship was quickly turning into a cigarette factory.

I'm fascinated by the French's fascination with cigarettes. They smoke as they talk. They smoke as they eat, drink, think, dance, second guess, shoplift, translate, fall in love, walk and listen to Django cover bands inside of a ship with Very Tiny Windows.

It was still a blast. As we left the junk, the moon shining into the Seine, I thought how truly beautiful Paris is at night. And then I immediately went back to worrying over how I was gonna get the smoke stench out of my good coat.

Tuesday

It's Saturday - I'm only on Tuesday in the blogosphere. I'm trying my hardest to play catch up, but I'm losing much of my enthusiasm to post after dealing with one camera/digital card reader/portable hard drive problem after another. But since I can't imagine anything more boring than reading about somebody's computer problems - and surely you have ones of your own: Tuesday. Fortunately, it was the coolest day of our trip so far.

My mom and sister were in LA right before Caleb and I left to come here, and my mom found this great parting gift for us - a deck of cards of sorts that detailed various treks and walk throughout the city. I noticed the one listed for our neighborhood - Bercy. It mentioned something about La Musee des Arts Forains - a carnival/fairground equipment museum. I considered it. It was off the beaten path yet right in our backyard and indescribably weird. Perfect! I exchanged a few emails/calls with "Joel" who warned me in his hesistant English that the tour would be conducted entirely French. Pas de probleme!

Bercy was once famous for being Europe's largest wine importer. The bottles were housed in vast stretches of brick warehouses that ultimately were abandoned, fell into disrepair and were rescued when Francois Mitterand was in the midst of creating his grand projet, the Bibliiotheque, which is French for very frightening post-modern jail/library, and turned the warehouses into a mall. On the opposite side of the mall, a few enterprising folks decided to turn their warehouses into something more unique. Because words can't describe how visually exciting and interesting the facility is (and because the tour was mostly in French until halfway through it some shy Americans who understood and spoke fairly fluent French piped up with translation) I'll let the photos do the talking.

Ummm. Blogger? Bonjour?

Is it something I said? I mean, you can tell me. We're both grownups. None of this not posting my pics and then sitting there in silence with that LOOK on your face. Just talk to me. We can work it out. I promise, with all those cherries and sprinkles on top. And if you dont' like cherries and sprinkles I'm totally flexible.

Bonjour?

Fine. Be that way.

Rain, Rain Go Away in the Marais

Sunday was beautiful, the kind of day that prompts people to utter provocative statements like "We haven't had a bad day yet!" completely forgetting that the Vacation Gods lie in wait for such foolishness. Monday didn't start out badly, except for the constan drizzle. Not realizing the Musee D'Orsay was closed Mondays - like a multitude of others who just turned helpless circles or stared in the windows as if they stood there long enough, the management might be inclined to make an exception - We remembered we had beaucoup de days left and agreed that today would be a great day to shop for gifts. We went back to the Marais where I found 2 amazing boutiques - Sandro and Maje - and desperately tried to make this adorable green blouse fit. But no luck. Maje is gorgeous - the ceiling is covered by wooden beams from which hang morrocan lanterns; the floor has beautiful tile, but what pulled me in was this lush arrangement of greenery and flowers that are draped over the storefront window. The clothes themselves are so beautiful it almost seemed a bit redundant to have so much going on decoration-wise, but that's Paris. Gorgeous for the sake of being gorgeous. I returned to my favorite strip in the 4e - a row of paper shops and Japanese trinkets - where I picked up the most delicate fabric covered flowers earrings. They were beautiful, not crazy expensive, and I thought perfect for gifts for friends back home. So I bought a lot of them. We'll get back to that later.

Lunch was at L'As du Falafel, a famous falafel joint in the Jewish section of Paris where we ordered the special - falafel in a pita with cripsy fried eggplant. Delicious and cheap. Stopped in Cacao et Chocolat, a famous chocolatier, and picked up a South American cacao bar for dessert that night. I hard time deciding between the bar and the delicate macaroons and the adorable printed chocolates, and then I realized why can't all of life's decisions be this ridiculously fun? (Admiring the wares at Cacao et Chocolat)

The rain spat and drizzled and kindly stopped long enough for us to journey to the Latin Quarter, home of the Sorbonne and very yummy crepes. I ordered a banane/nutella crepe from Crepsecule and we did a few laps in vain around the Musee de Cluny to fnd an entrance to its lovely garden. Instead, we walked over to the medieval portion of the 5e and admired the old buildings before finding Shakespeare and Co., the most famous English language bookstore in Paris. It's crazy cluttered and old and romantic, and expats and French alike stuffed themselves into the tiny space to browse over Hurakami and travel books. The nearest cross street to the bookstore held the cutest restaurant we'd ever seen. It was closed with some guy sitting at a back table polishing silverware. Cream colored like a puff pastry with cartoon caricatures of a little boy, like something Edward Gorey would have drawn, adorning several of the walls. The name of the name of the restaurant looked as if it had been drawn by the little boy in question, bold red letters scrawled sideways and running down the length of the building. And then there was the menu, prix-fix at 25 euros. Not bad at all. What was the catch?

We had just enough time for Caleb to humor me and walk over to Les Halles, the old market district of Paris. I wanted to visit E. Dellerhin, one of the few survivng kitchen supply stores that remained after the markets moved around the city. It is absolutely zero frills and almost overwhelmingly stocked. I sifted through a drawer marked "couper frites" and I thought, Score! I'll being home a frite cutting tool. I plucked one out and made my way to the register when a helpful clerk noticed what I was about to do. In immaculate English, he asked if I planned to make frites. I replied with a confident Oui! He then asked if I had the machine for which the tool in my hand would be worthless without. I said, uhhhhhhh...He smirked and escorted me down on one of the store's narrow aisles until we came upon a gleaming stainless steel slicer. He took the frite couper from my hand and attached it, going so far as to move the lever back and forth to show that this is what people do who actually have frite machines and need frite coupers. We both stared at the machine for a bit. We both knew a frite couper was not going to fit in my suitcase.

We passed by the massive St. Eustache on the way home and made quick tour through its massive interior. Wilting peonies were tied to the aisles with ribbon, suggesting that a wedding had probably occurred the previous weekend. Caleb and I stood staring in awe at the massive altar, the soaring 40 ft. ceilings, the pipe organ that looked as if it could dwarf a small city, and we both agreed that it would take some serious matrimonial balls to say your I Dos in such an imposing setting. It's one thing to say your vows in a field in front of 300 friends, another matter entirely when pledging them with the extreme likelihood that God himself might ride down from the basilica on the back of a gargoyle to ask you to speak up, that he's having trouble hearing up in the rafters. We walked to the metro, and I think it was around then that I put down my shopping bag and forgot to pick it up.

The same shopping back that held gifts for the people reading this, the same bag with Julie's invaluable dining/outing guide and her amazing Access Paris guidebook. And my f-ing South American cacao bar. Gone. I came home and cried and cried. To make me feel better, Caleb took me to Relais d'entercote, a popular steakhouse that we quickly summed up as the Shonye's of Paris. They only serve steak frites witrh secret sauce. Our frazzled waitress leaned over our table with a deep sigh and said "Bonsoir, Q.................................................?" Caleb and I stared at each other in a panic. No menus. Not an American in site. But I had done some homework. I ventured forth ".........en point?" and was rewarded with a faint smile and a quick scribble on our paper tablecloth "en point." I had confirmed that we would be having our steak prepared medium. "What would you like to drink?" she then asked in perfect English.

There is really no use in trying to use French here. The second you open your mouth, the game's over. The all-familiar trace of pity, the smile, the flawless English that bats away every "Comment" or "Je voudrais" you offer up like pesky flies.

Back at home, I googled the adorable restaurant we found in the latin Quarter and ran a food review through google's translation. For 25 euros, we could get flesh of pig face mask or gelatinous hoof. I think I'll stick with the French Shoneys.

Vous etes ici

The weather was still a bit spotty Sunday but nevertheless we decided to trek over to the Bois de Vincennes, the second largest park in the city. It sustained a lot of damage from the 1999 windstorm, lost about 70,000 trees, but the park was still lush and lovely. Prepped for a romantic afternoon of canoodling under a willow tree, we were a bit surprised to be greeted by ear shattering French pop and screaming kids. The French have a County Fair! Ferris wheel, spin til you puke games, cotton candy, weird carnival barkers - all that was missing was "Round and Round by Ratt blaring from the speakers. To paraphrase Caleb, the French may be the high priests of culture, food and fashion, but that fact does nothing to diminish their love for all things Cheesy. I wanted to stroll through and get a French funnel cake but Caleb wasn't having it. The screaming and whooing and pop music made it a bit harder to enjoy our rowboat ride across the Lac Dausmenil. But we tried our best. We explored the manmade cave and strolled passed weeping willows and watched a group of men fuss over electronic boats that presumably were for racing across the lake, but we gave up watching them oil and tinker and buff. Then we got a bit lost. Caleb will deny this. He is wrong. We finally made it out to the major road and found a map. This one, like 99% of the other maps we've encountered, do not have a "Vous etes ici" universally red dot to let you know where you are. All I know of French bureaucracy is second hand and learned through stories, but I have to supsect that these city maps were put up a wee bit begrudgingly. It's like - Fine. You Want a Map? Here is a Map. What's that? You want to know where you are on the map? You mean the little squiggles that might represent tree - or is that pigeon crap- is that not helpful? Hmmm, well. Not my job. Bonne chance, sucker.

We did manage to find the zoo on the map. I had read about the zoo in one of the guide books, how it had the largest collection of Indian elephants and 2 pandas. French zoo sounded cool so we found our way to the entrance. In our collective French we were able to make out a couple of key facts. 1) This was indeed a zoo and 2) the elephants and pandas and cool things we had read about? No longer here. But the sign tried to win us over, claiming "singes" and "loups" (monkeys and wolves) so we paid the 5 euros to check it out.

It was a strange place. Most of the habitats were empty, and while the animals are not in cages, they didn't have a ton of room to move around. Caleb immediately began to get sad but perked up when we found the baboons. We never found the wolves but did find some strange, manmade Disneyesque tower that you could ride up to the top for a view of the city. We managed to get to the entrance as they were closing. 2 unsmiling, unfriendly guards stood at their post and watched as we tried to decipher the ride sign, watched us sit down on a bench across them, trying not to look as if we were still translating, and they stayed frozen, furtively watching us for about 5 minutes, until some imaginary bell tolled and they suddenly pulled a giant cage door close to barricade the entrance and disappeared.

It was around 6. We were ready to get home, and all we had to do was find the metro. Easier said than done. A very long walk unexpectedly took us through a beautiful suburb of Paris - St.Maide-Tourelle. The kind of town with beautiful parks, gorgeous stone buildings and an American once ever 10 years. Strange looks from the locals - and by locals I mean lots and lots of surly teenagers. I started to feel like we had stumbled into a Twilight Zone episode. A town populated by nothing but nasty 15 year olds who perhaps rounded up the adults and kept them in the basement of the Eglise St. Maide . A group of them - do they exist if not in a pack? - starting talking about us and laughing as we passed. It's bad enough when people are clearly saying unkind things about you in your own native tongue, but here we were helpless to endure whatever insult was tossed our way. And then I remembered they were teenagers, on the cusp of shattered hearts, uncaring hormones, brutal disappointment and acne. And I felt better.

Pics coming whenever blogger feels like letting me...

Food and Flea Markets

As much as I want to wax rhapsodic about our Saturday, I'm gonna keep it brief in the hope that I will finally be caught up and not trying to wrack my brain for details on what we did 4 days ago.

Our splurge day behind us, Caleb and I munched on some granola at home and took the train to the Marches des Barbes, an insanely crowded weekly market not for the faint hearted.


A bit overwhelmed by the crowds and shouting and haggling and the considerable rain, we got back on the train and headed to the end of the line, Clignancourt, for the most famous flea market in Europe - the Marche des Puces in St. Ouen. Walking through the stalls we were increasingly confused. Cheap shoes, Bob Marley t-shirts and knockoff D&G belts was what had all of Europe talking? This looked to be on par with Santee Alley in Los Angeles. A last minute call to our new friend Leslie saved our asses before we boarded the train home. Aha! The market was beyond the imposter one! We slogged through the rain and I'm so grateful we did. The market is building after building of the strange, the unusual, the staggeringly expensive. A blue, child-sized ornately carved crib. Antique stamps. A 100 year old jewelry box inlaid with abelone. Human skulls. We wandered the stalls for a couple hours before finally grabbing Croque Monsieurs at the cute Cafe Loom inside the Antiques Mall.



We decided to cook in for dinner, and the shopping experience was unbelievable. I know I've been going on ad nauseum about how fabulous the French and Paris are and blah blah Le Perfect, but here they truly do something right. The mom and pop specialty stores are still king. For our roast chicken, we visted a mother and daughter charcuterie where they were busy butchering lamb while ringing up purchases. Next door was the wine shop where we selected a 2004 Macon for 6 Euros. Next to that was the boulangerie where 2 young French girls politely acknowledged our broken French and pantomime to reward us with a baguette. We skipped the fromagerie for the cheese and the patisserie for our chocolate, but we didn't have to! Who needs one-stop shopping when the rewards of expertise and quality are so huge?. I was grinning like an idiot when we got home, because who knew grocery shopping could be so damn adorable?

Our Sunday: Rowing a boat at the Bois de Vincennes and very mean French teenagers

Me, You and Andy Wahloo

Julie, the woman whose place we're "sitting," is clearly an old hand at the housesitting order of business judging by her copious notes and instructions, all of which have been extremely helpful and informative in helping us get around her apartment and the city. Best is the sheaf of papers that details by arrondissement the best restaurants for us to visit. She includes her own insider tips: "great service IF you are polite to the waiters" and "fun scene, great for a glass of wine, except one of the waitresses is a bitch." Forget the massive powers of concentration required to assemble a sublime creme brulee; in Paris, ordering is a delicate art in itself. What immediately jumped out at me was a listing called "404" located in the 3eme - a Moroccan joint that she raved about in her notes. I love food, and when someone who moved here from San Francisco claims its the best they've ever had, I pay attention. In her notes, she also made a point of mentioning that needing reservations is pretty standard but we could show up early and just hope for the best. With hope in our hearts, we took the metro over to the 3eme where we passed a South American concert in Chinatown, the storefront for L'Atelier de Fred, an adorable cooking store that literally is comprised solely of a tiny kitchen where Fred holds classes and finally 404. Stumbling through a tiny alley, we tentatively pushed our way inside. The restaurant was dark, festooned with silk pillows and candlelight, exactly what would come to mind when dreaming of a casbah that serves delicious couscous. Except there were no people. It was 7 PM, Friday night and apparently too early. I keep forgetting that the French have Le Cocktail at least until 8. Paris is on the same meridian as Newfoundland which keeps the light in the sky until nearly 10 PM, so sunset cocktails make for much later suppers. The manager/owner politely informed us that dinner service began at 8 and booked a spot for us. He asked us to call if there were any problems and handed us their business card.

Back out in the alley we had an hour to kill, and fortunately for us, there was a bar right next door. Andy Wahloo is owned by the 404 folks and apparently since they clearly had the sexy romance thing conquered, they embraced kitcsh with equal passion. It's primarily a hookah bar, mixing Moroccan decor with Andy Warhol pop art. In Arabic, Andy Wahloo means "I have nothing," so we found ourselves a rundown, spongey couch on their lovely terrace to contemplate that. Mojitos and Jack Daniels eased us into Le Cocktail Hour and complimentary marinated olives helped quell the hunger. Speaking of, we had no idea what time it was since neither of us had a watch and our waitress offered a curt "Je ne sais pas," when asked before hustling back to the bar. Caleb took out the business card. It was then that we noticed the picture of man's half naked torso printed on the card - that was shaped liked a penis head. One drawn by Andy warhol perhaps with little flippy "wings", but definitely a penis head. Caleb turned it on its side. Hey - it's That Girl. Upright, no, it's a penis head. Interestingly the 404's other literature, a postcard printed with their info, features a tableau of venerable Moroccan males. Not a one resembled Mary Tyler Moore.

I walked next door to the 404 and saw that a few people had showed up to eat. I told the maitre'd in my hackneyed french we'd lost track of the time, that we were on the patio having a "boisson." I did the universal motion for drinking. His face wrinkled in confusion. My brain quickly reviewed what I'd said, wondering if "boisson" had sounded more like "poisson." That would explain his face, my being next door "drinking a fish." What is it with me and fish on this trip?

We were seated at a community table and found to our mild horror that - surprise - it was all famished, Le Cocktail be damned Americans. So be it. In due time, the restaurants was packed, Moroccan drums played on the soundtrack and I experienced my first tagine - chicken, oranges, potatoes and spices fired in a clay pot. Heavenly. Caleb ordered a giant bowl of couscous that was soaked in extra virgin olive oil. Definitely a worthy splurge for the week!

Intoxicated by tagines

Le weekend

The weather has been kinda spotty with showers and knock-you over gusts of wind, yet the past 2 days have been positively lovely. I think that now we've hit the one week mark I've finally given myself permission to slow down and just take the city in - that, and the threats from Caleb that we will never ever come back if we keep treating the city like a Formula One race track. I tried to explain it - I view this city as having an embarrassment of riches and I want to take as much of it in before we leave. I look at people we pass on the street, the obvious locals, and I want to ask them- do they wake up and do a little dance of joy because they live in Paris? Of course the locals can be snobby - they live in Paris! They have a gazillion parks and art nouveau buildings and chocolate that tastes like the best dream you ever had and an excellent metro and magnificent cathedrals and the Seine and crepe stands and Django and free health care and 20 year old Brits who talk about where they used to go riding in ridiculously posh accents, but I forgive Paris for that last one. Even the silly posh Brits are welcome here, too.


So I said I was gonna write about St. Chapelle and the Conciergerie and the Eiffel Tower. But what to say about each that hasn't been discussed a million times before? St. Chapelle - the effect was ruined a bit by the American college girls in the matching skirts and cardigans and flip flops and hangbags and haircuts and the hordes that ignored the Silence! signs. But the chapel is beautiful - wall to wall stained glass built by Louis the Something or Other not to commemmorate God so much as to give the finger to the feudal lords who wanted to usurp his power. I guess it worked. They offer concerts at night and we actually attempted to see one tonight - American gospel in a church built in the 1300s by candlelight. Somehow we got off the metro and ended up in a mall instead. But when we finally found our way out, we discovered we were in Les Halles, the old market district that has a breathtakingly beautiful park with a mini labyrinth that mirrors the one in the giant gothic cathedral across it. We wandered our way through the neighborhood and found our way to Le Fumoir and ordered cafe creme and gateau de chocolat across from the Louvre. So not bad for getting lost.
Looking up from the female prisoner's courtyard
The Conciergerie is next to Saint Chapelle and was the prison where traitors to France were kept before being led to the guillotine. We checked out Marie Antionette's cell - I wonder if it'll be featured in Sofia Coppola's version with Kirsten Dunst. Yes, the movie is partly the reason I wanted to see it. At least we haven't gone out of our minds and done the DaVinci Code tour of Paris. Yet.

That afternoon we met up with a friend of our friend Liz (God bless friends of friends, by the way) and spent a very enjoyable coffee break with Leslie and her cute as a button baby Jack in the 8eme. She and her diplomat husband also have a dog named Murphy, so we knew it would be a perfect match. She saved our asses today when we had just about given up on finding the real Clignancourt flea market, so thank you again, Leslie, if you ever read this! We also stumbled onto a giant artsinal breadmaking class for kids that afternoon across from Notre Dame. Too cute. Future croissant makers of Paris:

Friday was a botched attempt at visiting the Musee D'Orsay - the rain and the crowds convinced us we need to buy the Musee Pass that lets you bypass the lines. We ended up strolling through the Tulieries and ultimately hit Rue du Rivoli for some shopping: a pink scarf and an umbrella at H&M; a messenger bag at Etam after my gorgeous, completely impractical Veronica M bag broke. Oh! And how could I forget - we stumbled into the paper district. I was drooling over handmade Italian notecards and watermarked Art Nouveau sheets of paper with peacocks and gift tags. I brought home a few goodies.

It has to be obvious by now. I never ever ever want to leave. And what we did Friday night and Saturday just tweaked that fantasy from irrational levels to modestly insane ones. A photo clue before I'm off to bed...

Asshole, Thy Name is Brabble

Don't get me wrong, Brabble. Yes, you are ancient, and in your advancing years, you are entitled to special requests and treatment for the grande dame that you are. Let us discuss said treatment, d'accord? Somewhere you decided drinking from a bowl was not good enough for you and you trained you owners to offer you a drink in a proper glass. That was fun, n'est-ce pas? Only it was shortlived, because now you have decided only the tub is good enough for you. Nevermind the question of hair in the drain and general hygeine, only the tub for Madame! Let’s not forget that you are physically incapable of getting into the tub by yourself. I appreciate the howl that lets me know it's my turn to lift you into the tub, and yes, it’s a dreadful shame you have not yet sprouted opposable thumbs that would allow you to turn off the tap so I wouldn’t have to stand and watch you while you lick the drain, but I bet that wouldn’t be as much fun. So I’m guessing you’re not liking the fact that Caleb and I have decided not to put you in the tub anymore, no matter how much you howl like a mythological Irish banshee on fire. I loved that trick where you knocked over the water glass we filled for you in the bathroom and I totally stepped in water and kitty litter? Tres subtle, Brabble. What about this morning at 3 AM when I thought the sounds coming out of you might mean you were possibly dying and Caleb rushed to your rescue only to find that yep – you were thirsty. And one hour later you yowled and I turned over and you were 2 inches from my face and I stifled a yell and it took me 45 minutes to go back to sleep? Yeah, that was a good one.

Bitch, don’t think I didn’t see you drink out the bowl next to the tub. The charade is over!

Je Suis Fatiguee

How do you say "meltdown" en francais? The past 3 days have been a blur of walking, museums, cafes, metro stops, side streets, boutiques and beaucoup d'exhaustion. So it had to happen. The storm clouds started gathering yesterday after another afternoon of wandering aimlessly and me carrying 85 lbs of stuff in my purse but failing to bring Julie's notes on where to shop or eat or a jacket an suddenly it's 7 and we're across town from home and Caleb had HAD. IT. I'd like to add another mythbuster to the list:

1) One cannot always be en amour 24/7 in Paris. We tried. Ending the afternoon by doing laps in the BHV mall is one way to test the theory.

But what is a quick patch up job for romance gone wonky? This is exactly why Paris is the city for lovers - FOOD! After arguing over if we were going to leave for dinner we finally agreed to go and once again left the map and city notes behind. We took the metro to the 10th and got out at Republique, spun a little circle and started walking. And kept walking. And found a side street. And went down that way and found an ENTIRE ALLEYWAY comprised of Indian restaurants. Score! The passage to India as it will now forever be known led us to a lovely place called The Route to Kashmir and while it wasn't the best we've ever had, it did the trick. Caleb was holding my hand when the check came.

Highlights from the past 3 days:

The Musee du Pompidou - very fun modern art museum in a very touristy part of town that is coincidentally showing an avant garde collection of 1970s Los Angeles memorabilia - photos, installations, films - my favorite was a film about a drag queen taking his naive straight "lover" to party with an indie rock band that could be playing today and Godzilla destroys them all when he stomps on Capitol Records.

Caron - a parfumierie that looks built for lovers - of the mistress kind. It's a tiny boutique in the 1st arrondissement that sparkles like you're inside of crystal wine glass. A chandelier hangs over a table that is supported by gilded lions heads attached to clawfoot pedestals. On top of the table are cylinders containing what looks like amber and liquid gold perfume - parfum for the rich and those sleeping with them. I asked Caleb if I could be his mistress. He said only if he could complain bitterly about his wife.


La Tartine - the aforementioned cafe in the Marais close to cheap shopping (H&M) and cute fromageriers and wine shops. It still has the original 1900 decor and amazing peach tea and apple tarts with la glace.

The jambon and fromage crepe I ate today while sitting in the parc outside Notre Dame.

Etam - the French equivalent of H&M where I bought adorable, cheap black closed toe espadrilles

Deyrolle - this is the most amazing boutique I've ever seen, if not the most original. The sell gardening tools...and taxidermy. The shops - 3 levels are open to the public, has been open for almost 200 years and one can purchase really cool faux vintage posters on "alcoholisme" by country or a bunny skeleton or a shadowbox of exotic Indian beetles or a stuffed lion. They don't let you take pictures, and I know my words don't do it justice. So visit the website http://www.deyrolle.fr/
It's worth the look.

Tomorrow - what we did today : St. Chappelle, La Conciergerie, coffee with an American diplomat's wife and baby, and The Eiffel Tower!

MythBusters en Francais

Cliched but true factoids about the French:

1) The French carry baguettes with them and munch as they go. I thought this was an invention of American film. But then I tasted the bread. I get it.

2) They walk poodles. They also walk French bulldogs and spaniels and labs. I saw one woman in a park with a turtle and a cat.

3) They are not fat. This is because they walk about 50 miles a day up and down a gazillion flights of metro stairs. Now I see how the baguette plays a crucial role - carbo loading!

4) They have fabulous shoes. Even on their 50 mile commutes, they look amazing. I broke down and wore running shoes and actually could FEEL disdain emanating from the women across me on the Metro.

Surprising truths about the French:

1) They love McDonalds. Pourquoi, France?

2) They are lovely and kind patient people. I know this shouldn't be surprising, because I think I would hate me after hearing me ask for the equivalent of, I don't know...fish ice cream at La Tartine the other day, but they are very, very patient. It must be the parks located every 15 ft. It'd be hard to hate with all that greenery around.

3) They love American culture. At least, that's what I'm led to believe after hearing American pop everywhere - in its bistros, on the Eiffel Tower, in the malls. You only thought Cher retired. She is alive and well in the BHV.