Paris Match, May 1950

I recently came upon an issue of Paris Match from May 27, 1950, a yellowing 61-year-old chronicle of la vie Parisienne. Think about it: just 6 years after Paris was liberated.

When my scanner is back in order (long story), I'll include some of the great vintage ads and visuals. Meanwhile, I feel compelled to report on a Paris briefing found in the end of the magazine.

Entitled "Elles et Eux," written by Cecil Brunet, it is a compilation of tidbits: social, literary, political. Here are a few random selections (translations by me). A glimpse beyond the cliche-ridden images of Paris in the 1950s.

Bing Crosby, who had settled in to the Ritz upon arrival in Paris recently, found that hotel too noisy and left it to stay in the Lancaster. He then left the Lancaster, and found an apartment in Auteuil.

Paul Claudel, replying to an actor who was praising him for the dialogue in his work L'Otage, said, "Well, what do you expect? It's Claudel!"

Monsieur Pestche is very interested in the images of la Marianne proposed for the soon to be minted 10-franc coins. He says: I want a well-proportioned Marianne!" (bien fichue)

Charles Trenet will sing in Central Park in New York on May 20. When he enters the stage, 40 New York policemen will give him a grand salute. This idea amuses Trenet no end, as this will be the anniversary of his detention on Ellis Island.

Gaston Gallimard, looking at the crush of people gathered at his cocktail party, said "It's amazing how many friends I have!"

Sartre had written a letter to a judge in support of Boris Vian, to address the legal action between Vian and the Cartel d'action morale. The letter didn't arrive in time, and Vian was found guilty.

(image: Boris Vian, via Wikipedia)

Polly-Vous Francais on the Airwaves!

Polly-Vous Francais is silent no more! If you'd like to hear my real voice live, tomorrow is your chance. On Saturday May 21, I will be the guest on the radio program "Franco Fun" on KUSF in Exile in San Francisco, at 5:00 p.m., Pacific time.

Every Saturday, DJ Fari provides a weekly francofix for Franciscans and francophiles around the world with the program Franco Fun, featuring music, lifestyle, culture, and interviews. And this week the feature is moi. Some in English, some in French. Tune in!

I was originally scheduled to be on air in January, but five days before show time, the University owners in a surprise move sold the station's air rights for a cool $3.75 million without any advance notice. (I always have impeccable timing, n'est-ce pas?) So KUSF is now live-streaming here.

If you have requests for music, let me know ASAP. Featured guests are asked to BYOM (bring your own music), and my CD collection of French music tends to the classic crooners: Maxime Le Forestier, Serge Gainsbourg, Georges Brassens, etc.

I could throw in a few brief comedy sketches like Franck Dubosc, Florence Floresti, and Sylvie Joly if there's time. An hour is pretty short, especially with all the yakking I'll be doing.

What music would you like to hear? What questions would you like DJ Fari to ask me? Any shout-outs (within reason)?

BTW, If you miss the show, you can always hear it on the archives

Murder in Paris: How About You?

Have you always longed for a sliver of immortality? Do you especially dream of that immortality intersecting with Paris? Well, here is your chance.

Acclaimed author Cara Black, of the Murder in Paris series, has generously offered to name a minor character in her next novel -- for a good cause! The French American International School in San Francisco will offer to the winning bidder at the school's annual fund-raising auction on May 7 the chance to be a minor character in Cara's next Paris-based novel. The kind of immortality that normally one just can't buy. Interested parties who can't attend the event can bid by proxy.

The juicy details: the character might be murdered or maimed, or might be the snitch or the all-seeing neighborhood boulanger or concierge. The only disclaimer is that the name needs to be French or willing to get Gallicized. "John" would become "Jean," for example. "Polly" would be.. hmm. Pauline? Poulette? I'm working on it.

The fame, fun, and glory?

Priceless.

French Easter Bonnets, 1947

From the magazine Plaisir de France, 1947.
A selection of French designers' (modistes) Easter hats.

From...
Legroux: a capeline (broad-brimmed hat) covered with irises.

Jane: a felt hat pierced by a stem of camelias.

Gilbert Orcel: a straw hat veiled in mousseline.

Rose Valois: a toque with multicolor flowers.

Schiaparelli: a bird's nest, a bouquet of sweet peas, and a straw hat decorated with poppies.


Joyeuses Pâques!

Paris Shoe Anxiety

A new friend – someone I met at a dinner party a few weeks ago – emailed me the other day to follow up on our recent conversation. She and her husband are going to Paris next September, and I had offered to give them some ideas for their one-week stay in my Favorite City. Maybe it was because I was still nursing my first cup of coffee when I replied, or maybe it was – well, who knows? – but I found myself extending a bit of advice that I’ve never mentioned before.

Shoes.

“The most important advice I can give for right now is: find a pair or two of stylish shoes to wear that will be broken in but still attractive when you go to Paris. Because walking is the best way to see the city; and wearing nice shoes will garner you better treatment in cafes, stores, etc. And if you wear brand-new shoes and get blisters, it's just rotten.”

Weird advice, I know, but based on lots of experience. “It’s funny,” I continued, “people break in their hiking boots before climbing Kilimanjaro, but don't usually think about it for Paris!”

Ah, memories. I was so woefully shoe-inappropriate when I first moved to Paris. I cringe to think about it. On earlier extended visits before the Big Move, I had bought shoes in Paris, last minute, to try to blend in. I had such bad new-shoe blisters that I couldn’t shuffle across a street.

Then, idiotically, before moving to Paris, I got rid of the shoes I should have brought with me. Once I arrived I wore shoes that I thought were acceptable which got disdainful stares. Suffice it to say that I arrived in Paris laden with seven suitcases and a huge case of shoe anxiety.

It’s all relative. For example, within my first weeks living in Paris, I met up with an American pal, a friend from high school, who had been married to a Frenchman for 20 years. She was wearing running shoes and jeans when we met for dinner. I gasped. “But, M, that looks so… um... American!” I had said.

“I am American,” she quipped with total confidence, proudly displaying her Nikes and sports socks.

So, I initially tried a variation of her proud-to-be-an-American footwear bravado, sporting a pair of black Bally sneakers in my daily walks around the city. I found that the designer sneakers were vaguely acceptable (that is, they didn’t meet with open derision) if I kept walking; but if I stopped to have lunch or shop some place that was respectable, I instantly had a sense of fashion faux-pas. Shopkeepers addressing me in English, despite my perfected “Bonjour, Madame” greeting.

“Oh, pardonnez-moi, madame," the salesladies semi-apologized to me, "but you just seemed so americaine.” (In those silly shoes. )

I kept trying to learn.

You see lots of stylish French women in impossibly spiky stilettos or mile-high wedges gliding down the sidewalks of Paris, it's true. But I learned a trick from an uber-Parisienne colleague: two pairs. She wore her incredibly stylish but comfortable heels for hoofing it across the Seine. Then, just before the business meeting where she needed to charm the Big Guys, she stopped, sat down outside the building, and changed into her most dangerously feminine shoes or little wobbly bootlets, for maximum effect. It worked like a charm, every time. I was in awe.

Another time, I was determined to be a total Parisienne with my footwear. I bought a pair of Dior pumps because my glamorous friend, Marie, who is an honest-to-god French countess, had the same pair. She always looked chic and hip and wore her Dior pumps with blue jeans or a slim skirt or a dressy outfit. Would it transform me?

Guess what? I ended up wearing those expensive copy-cat Dior pumps exactly once. I later sold them at a US consignment shop to a former Miss France. Don't ask. Lesson learned.

As a casual visitor to Paris, of course you need not go to such extremes. But wearing shoes that are appropriately sophisticated will make you feel more at ease. For practical yet chic shoe staples, I eventually settled on a pair of black mid-heeled boots, some nice Italian leather ballerina flats, and a pair of loafers that could have been (but weren’t) Tods. Friends have also recommended Cole-Haan’s Nike Air-soled shoes.

Moral of story (if there is one): Paris is a sophisticated city. It is also a walking city. My advice: wear footwear that is sophisticated and comfortable for maximum enjoyment.

Poisson d'avril

Poisson d'avril, as you may know, is the French equivalent of "April Fools." While taping a paper fish to someone's back isn't the essence of hilarity, what the heck. But my favorite French funny-fish story bears re-posting. It actually took place at the plush Cercle de l'Union interalliée in Paris the last time I had lunch with the wonderful late Polly Platt. Polly had her back to the couple and missed all the action.

In a large sky-blue dining room with 25-foot ceilings and a hushed atmosphere, a kindly American couple sits primly at the elegant table nearby, scanning their large white menus through their reading glasses. The waiter returns to their side, and with a short bow he flourishes the answer to the question they had asked which had sent him scurrying. "Eet is 'goldfish'," he announces.

"Goldfish?" Startled, the husband and wife look at each other in disbelief. They shake their heads and hastily dive back into their menus to find another selection. I return to my menu to make my choice for lunch. The poisson du jour is rouget.

("Rouget" is red mullet -- delicious. "Poisson rouge" is goldfish.)

Suite francaise

I awake in the pre-dawn hours, befuddled and anxious.

Will our family have enough to eat? I wonder.

Will we reach Tours? Will it be safe when we get there?

Then, slowly I awake. I rub my eyes and realize it is 2011. I am safe in my comfortable American bed. Breakfast awaits.

As I gaze sleepily around the room, I remember that I am reading, and totally absorbed by, Suite française, by Irène Némirovsky.

Published in 2006, it's one of those books I'd been "meaning to read" and couldn't decide whether to read it in French or English. If it's one of those books that you have been "meaning to read," please do so. I'm reading the English edition, exquisitely translated by Sandra Smith.

Universal Studios apparently bought the movie rights in 2006. I don't usually clamor for a great novel's film version, but this is one that I can't wait to see.

It is also one of those books that I want to know the ending of but that I don't ever want to end.

Have you read it?

Dictee de la Baie

Does anyone else besides me remember the names of every French teacher they ever had? I recall each one: Madame Rhodes, Mademoiselle de Mauduit, Madame Lambert -- too many to list -- all the way through college.

And believe me, their names and voices and red-pen marks came rushing back to memory today as I climbed into the seat to compete in this year's Dictée de la Baie, more or less the French/francophone version of a spelling bee. There were 150 contestants from the Bay Area, ranging in age from 6 to over 60.

In the category Adult Francophiles, there were about 20-25 of us gathered in the schoolroom, fidgeting, joking nervously, jovially eyeing the competition. Lining up our papers and pencils.

Muriel, the dictant, began:

"Les vieilles femmes qui avaient eu la lourde responsabilité d’habiller la jeune fille pour son repos éternel avaient scrupuleusement respecté les coutumes mortuaires. Une icône de la vierge était placé sur sa poitrine, bien calée entre ses bras en croix. Au-dessus de sa tête, un petit miroir devait chasser les démons tentés de s’approcher du cadavre..."

...and on to the the end of a long passage. Then, sentence by sentence, she repeated the passage*, and we scribbled ferociously. One more time all the way through. But I could hardly bear to look at what I'd written: I knew I'd start second-guessing myself and thus had to rely mostly on first impulse. A quick review for egregious errors and I flipped it over. Done. Palms a little sweaty and the pencil worn down.

Then we swapped our dictées with our neighbors, corrected the dictée per the passage projected on the large screen at the front of the class. I thought I had done pretty well, but couldn't remember if I'd flubbed a few accents. Muriel gathered the corrected the dictées and announced the results.

First place, with 1 mistake: Polly.

I was both thrilled and supremely embarrassed. Can't explain it: I didn't anticipate that reaction because I didn't anticipate winning.

At the awards ceremony, I got a book, a certificate, and congratulatory cheek bisous from Corinne Pereira, the French Deputy Consul General.



But the biggest prize was rising to a personal challenge.


So, mes amis, on days when I think my foggy boomer-brain has turned to mush, I can at least pat myself on the back reassuringly and say, "Ah, but Polly, you sure do great accents aigus."




* passage by Romanian author Liliana Lazar, I found out afterwards.

It's Green in Paris

St. Patrick's Day, and even Paris is going green. Yes, the famed Moulin Rouge, for the next two days, will be the Moulin Vert.

Okaaay.

But I like to reflect on some of the other greened spaces in Paris. The Jardin Atlantique is a favorite example: a space created above the steelyard of train tracks outside the Gare Montparnasse in 1994, which has been converted to a green-space for all to enjoy. Plants, trees, and outdoor spaces, all at the doorstep of a major train station.

Ah, a fine sampling of lush green grass to enjoy at le Jardin Atlantique while waiting for the TGV... er, when it is not the season of pelouses interdites.

To Laugh

I loved this witty display of antique advertising lettering at an antiquaire in l'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. Fabulous antiques mecca in the south of France.

It successfully produced one of two desired effects: made me laugh.

Alas, didn't make me buy. Suitcase constraints.

Pauline's Breast at Odiot

For ultimate luxury shopping in Paris, nothing beats Odiot. Luxury in its finest sense, because there is nothing in Odiot that one needs. But perhaps -- oh yes indeed -- there are many, many items that one wants. Covets. All that glitters is gold, vermeil, and silver. [Image via Odiot.com]

Odiot. [oh-dee-oh]

Odiot.

For the uninitiated, let me just say that it is the highest of high-end orfèvrerie (goldsmith/silversmith) with an unparalleled Parisian pedigree.

For the cognoscenti, it is, of course, the home of “le sein de Pauline,” a.k.a. Pauline’s breast. Yes, chez Odiot you can purchase for your little coffee table a charming bibelot – a gold cup molded from the breast of Napoleon’s sister Pauline Borghese.

Her racy life story is more than I have space to indulge in here, so best to read a few links or buy the biography. (Now there’s a biopic waiting to be made!)

Sometimes the “sein de Pauline” is featured in Odiot’s glam-but-chicly-restrained store window. Other times you’ll simply have to stop in and ask to see it.

Spoiled moi, my first apartment in Paris was six storeys up on place de la Madeleine, whence I could gaze down on the Odiot shop window. And press my nose against the Odiot vitrine in a trance as I gawked at the shiny splendor inside. I had no choice but to pass by Odiot every time I left the apartment; and, trust me, I was never disappointed. Somehow there is something comforting in viewing sheer lavishness, just knowing that it exists because it is a fine art. And, curiously, the coveting diminishes as the appreciation increases. It was like walking past a museum display.

Ah, the days of my daily Odiot fix!

Do yourself a favor and stop by the storefront of Odiot for a great view of gilded Parisian splendor. Enter and look at the incredible offerings. But consider yourself forewarned! Odiot is powerfully appealing. You start nosing around for the least expensive item, just to be able to take something home. Like a breast of Pauline with a cute little butterfly.

Odiot

7, place de la Madeleine

75008 Paris

Your Valentine's Name in Lights in Paris!

You are my Valentine, my funny valentine....

The City of Paris is sponsoring a program that will allow you to submit your expressions of love, passion and/or marriage proposals for Valentine's Day. And the winners' professions of ardor will be displayed on 170 electronic billboards throughout the city on Valentine's Day. Maximum 160 characters (ergo, 20 more than a tweet.)

Details [in French] are here.

Go for it!

My first stab at it was a lame 11-character "J'aime Paris." So I did this instead:

Anniversary of the Death of Louis XVI

January 21 marks the anniversary of the execution of Louis XVI at the place de la Concorde in Paris.

His final words were, "Peuple, je meurs innocent! Je pardonne aux auteurs de ma mort! Je prie Dieu que mon sang ne retombe pas sur la France!"

A notable occasion in history. A notable occasion in my personal history for the major social boo-boo(s) I made when I first learned of the importance of this occasion from someone who takes it very, very seriously.

Read it and weep here.

p.s. No, he never called back.



image via wikipedia

The French Open vs. les Serres d'Auteuil

If you've never visited le Jardin des Serres d'Auteuil, you are missing out on a sublime, tranquil bit of Paris. It is the Botanical Garden of Paris, with a magnificent 19th-century greenhouse and acres of lush greenery, statues and endless moments for quiet reflection, located in the 16e arrondissement.

How could I not fall in love with this place the first time I saw it?

I discovered the garden one day when scouting out its neighbor, the Roland Garros stadium, home of the French Open -- what we anglophones call the French Open, that is. In France, the annual June world tennis championship is simply called le Roland Garros. I've been reading news bits here and there that the Federation of French Tennis has been complaining that the mega-event is outgrowing its current home, and has been contemplating a move. Harrumph, I thought. How can you have the Roland Garros if it's not at le stade Roland Garros?

Ha. At least, that was my opinion until I learned of the New! Exciting! way to save the Roland Garros/French Open and keep it at its current location: expand it by taking over a section of the Jardin des serres d'Auteuil.

Nooooooooo-o-o!

(I actually shouted this at my computer when I read the news.)

The Jardin des Serres d'Auteuil is a gem, every square centimeter of it. But the Mairie de Paris is apparently gung-ho on plans to let the Federation take over what it calls the "ugly part" of the Garden. The plans are to keep the antique greenhouse for show space but to remove the actual function of growing flowers.

Le projet d'extension de Roland Garros
Via the mairiedeparis. -

It's turning into a hot political issue. Tens of thousands of citizens have signed a petition protesting the loss of precious areas of the Jardin. Famed singer Françoise Hardy has taken on the protest as her cause célèbre.

The Federation of French Tennis will decide on February 13.

Paris Lampshades

This storefront window got me thinking about lampshades. Les abat-jours. (Hmm, or should it be abats-jour? Abats-jours?) Figuring out French plurals of compound words always gives me a headache. I learned the rules way back, but I'm still flummoxed all the time.

Anyway, these charming lampshades let me momentarily forget all the grammatical shenanigans. They were just delightful!

Régifilm: Authentic Paris Movie Props

We were wandering through the 11e arrondissement, doing what I like to do best: discovering side streets I've never traveled before.

Oh, I was not disappointed.

.

We happened upon Regifilm on rue Amelot.

My idea of Paris heaven. It was better than a salvage shop or a marché aux puces.

What is it? Apparently, it's an agency that rents props and costumes for period films. We wandered in the jumbled, crowded entrance way -- it wasn't really clear if there was an accueil anywhere, and no one seemed to mind our prowling around, so we just kept wandering further and further into the depths. A murky maze of antique splendor.

So much cool stuff.

Vintage lampposts, mailboxes, street signs, fountains, barrels, lighting, kitchen appliances, mannequins. You name it.

Think of any period Paris movie you've seen, and you can imagine the stock at Régifilm.

The Rooftops of Paris

1) I'm amazed that in my three years of living in Paris and countless visits, I have a) never stepped in dog-deposits on sidewalks and b) almost never injured myself while strolling through the city. (There was one painful and embarrassing encounter with a bitte de trottoir which I'd rather forget.)

Why should I have expected to have more pedestrian accidents?

Because, try as I might to be mindful of the sidewalk in front of me, I find myself constantly looking up. Paris buildings above the second-story level provide an endless and rich source of architectural surprises or day-to-day drama.

Architectural surprises often come in the form of mosaics or mythological characters as friezes. Day-to-day drama can be on balconies, windows, or roofs. (Once, riding on the 92 bus on upscale avenue de Villars one early morning, I spied a pair of expensive -- Christian Louboutin? -- spike heels perched on a second-story window ledge, shutters closed. The story of how and why they were there wrote itself in an instant in my mind.)

But for real drama, last week I was wandering up a narrow sidewalk in the 9th arrondissement when a flicker of movement on a rooftop caught my eye.

A worker, maybe a ramoneur (chimney sweep), was walking blithely along the 8th-story edge of the mansard. My heart leapt into my throat as I watched him casually amble along the slippery tin roofline, occasionally peering over. He stopped, wrote something on a clipboard, pirouetted to another spot, leaned over. The vertigo in me was suffering vicariously, but clearly this guy was sure-footed and confident. I heaved a sigh of relief when he disappeared over the other side of the roof ridge. Not that he was any safer, mind you, but at least I knew I wasn't going to witness his untimely demise. Out of sight, out of mind.

2) There are times when, eye-level viewing of the rooftops of Paris is somehow comforting and embracing. I was staying in an apartment in the 16e near place Victor Hugo, and the view from the 4th-floor balcony made me feel grounded and connected to the city.

A few streets over, the curtained rounded windows; others shuttered for vacation.

The chambres de bonne on the top floor: how many students living in those cramped and underheated garrett rooms?

In the mid-ground, a trio of church bells.

And in the foreground, an up-close view of the grey metal ridges typical of almost every Parisian mansard roof.

3) Then sometimes there are the spectacular views of the roofs of Paris. A friend loaned me her Paris studio in the 15e arrondissement for my last 2 days in Paris.

Wow. Paris from the 23rd floor is another story (pardon zee pun). These are views of the 15e and the broad expanse of the suburbs to the west. Mostly flat, modern roofs.

Bonus: do you spot the hot-air balloon from the Parc André Citroën (both photos)?

New Year's Day, Paris

There's a kind of hush.

Paris, the morning after.

I expected it at 9 am on New Year's Day.  Everyone sleeping in after all that champagne.  But even by almost noon, the streets were still silent.  I walked to the Boissiere metro stop, and could have used the street instead of the sidewalk:  not a car in sight. On a Saturday morning!

The metro was free until noon.  Even so, only a handful of passengers.

At 2:00 p.m., our almost-empty cross-town bus from the 16e to the place de l'Opera sped through intersections and stops in record time. 

But by 4:30 p.m., the return trip to the 16e found the streets 100% clogged with honking traffic.  Normal, quoi.

Ah, Paris the mystery is always unfolding!

Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noel. Joyeuses Fetes

Ah, itis so delightful spending Christmas in France with friends and family.  Finally. 

After the pagaille with all the snow at Charles de Gaulle (Roissy) airport, so many friends stranded or blocked on one side of the Atlantic or the other as they attempted to travel, I am blessed to be here in France, finally (after a 3-day cancellation), with both kids, for Christmas eve. 

Whew!

Wishing all a peaceful and joyful holiday season. 

The lights in Aix-en-Provence on the Cours Mirabeau certainly got me in the spirit!

Packing for Paris

Before I lived in Paris, I had total packing-for-Paris anxiety. And invariably, I packed too much clothing -- inappropriate clothing  -- and wore less than half of what I packed.  Visions of needing endless dressy outfits for impromptu dinner parties in gilded salons: that measure of inappropriate.

Tomorrow I head to Paris, and I dunno, what the heck. I'll have whatever is necessary and if I don't, I'll wear a lot of att-i-tude.  But the recent spate of cold weather and snow in France does have me a bit flummoxed.   Comfort and warmth versus chic-enough?  But what I've learned is that it really doesn't matter... within parameters. 

Footwear is always the most perplexing. And given the cost and trouble of extra check-in luggage, I am determined to take only one suitcase for 2 weeks; so, lots of boots and shoes are not in the cards.  This despite the Christmas stockings, and presents for Miss Bee and Harry when we all reunite in Provence. (I'm letting Harry transport the Nestle's chocolate chips and Skippy peanut butter for his sister.  I'm bringing the stack of New Yorkers and her forgotten clothing items.)

Ah. Footwear. Paris. Anxiety.  Should I take (a) brown shearling-lined matronly, totally warm suede boots, (b) my tall black-leather equestrian boots, or (c) my favorite new over-the-knee grey suede Stuart Weitzman zingy-make-me-feel-hip boots?

Answer is: middle-of-the road (b).  Waterproof enough, not the warmest, but I'll stop at the basement of BHV and get shearling slip-in soles to keep my tootsies insulated from the French chill.

What else am I packing for 2 weeks in France?  Not that you asked, but here goes:

1) a few pairs of straight-legged black jeans and one pair of blue jeans.
2) one all-purpose dress that will work for both Christmas Lessons and Carols at the American Cathedral and zippity-splashy for New Year's eve (I learned the hard -embarrassing - way that that le Reveillon is the one event that is never casual in Paris.)
3) a few cashmere v-necks, to be worn over scoop-necked or v-neck T-shirts.
4) whatever pjs I take, There Will Be Slippers.
5) a variety of warm shawls for wrapping around the neck
6) my shearling jacket from Peau d'Eve
7) accessories: so lightweight and filled with variety
8) the earth's smallest folding umbrella
9) wearing the boots, taking a pair of black loafers and a pair of black ballerina flats.(Egad, no heels.  Will I regret it?)
10) a collapsible Longchamp bag for the return trip.  I always bring back more than I take!

Inflight, I'll keep it to the minimum:

1. All the technical requisites (laptop, Droid, noise-cancelling headphones, Canon Power shot, and their many cables and European adapters which still confuse me)
2. Flight spray (can't live without it)
3. Unisom sleeping gels
4. Toss-away cotton crew socks
5) mini-portions of mouthwash, hand lotion, and lip gloss.  No more.  Who am I kidding?  Full trousse de maquillage definitely not needed on board. I'm not going to meet the bachelor cousin of the King of Spain in flight or anything. Even if I wear pearls and try to get upgraded to business class. Hah. It ain't the same as the olden days.
6) my leftover euros and RATP tickets, for quick exit after clearing customs.

Have I forgotten anything?