Love a la francaise

Chapter One: Polly Platt's new book, Love à la française


I want to be among the first to proudly announce the upcoming publication of Polly Platt's new book, Love à la française. Here is the review from Amazon.com:

"In her best-selling books French or Foe? and Savoir Flair!, Polly Platt handed foreigners the keys to delighting in a visit to France and handling encounters with the French. In Love à la française, she delves into the intimate lives of Anglo-Saxons who actually lived the dream and moved to Paris -- for good, for better or worse -- as wives of French men. Why? To live in the city that celebrates women, where they could discover the meaning of being women, and being completely themselves, whoever they might turn out to be. But French men with their thousand-year experience in enchanting French women are not always in tune with Anglo-Saxons and vice versa. Why do some American women in Paris fail while others bloom and thrive? And how do happy transplants manage their success? After dozens of interviews and in-depth case studies, Polly Platt reveals the secrets of Love à la française."


Chapter Two: Why I am not reviewing the book myself.


About a dozen years ago, when I was working at The French Library in Boston, an author came to give a talk about her recent book, French or Foe? I was curious, not only from the title, but because her name was also Polly: Polly Platt. I sat in the back of the crowded room, spellbound. So many undecipherable French incidents from my past suddenly became clear to me as she explained la French attitude.

As I listened, the mystery of a lifetime of French misunderstandings that had left me perplexed, dumbfounded, frustrated, but determined, was being unraveled. Explained lovingly by an American in Paris who had figured it out. She was elegant, refined, and understood the French. I had a new heroine.


I introduced myself after her talk, starting with the "Polly" connection. As it turned out, we had some family friends in common. One thing led to another, and she kindly offered, "Do look me up if you ever come to Paris."


The next year, when on a mother-daughter jaunt to Paris with 10-year-old Miss Bee, I did in fact give Polly a call. She graciously invited us for tea, with the caveat that she had to do some errands in the neighborhood first. "Feel free to follow along," she encouraged. What an opportunity, to experience the famous Polly Platt in action, using her tried-and-true methods for getting along well with the French! I trailed along with her as she made her neighborhood rounds from shop to shop for errands. She asked the owner of the papeterie his advice for mailing a package. "Do you think it needs string?' she queried, whereupon the owner and all the customers in the shop weighed in with their opinions. I was awestruck. Here I was traipsing through Paris with the doyenne of French-American cross-cultural learning! An NPR crew had just interviewed her a month earlier doing the same drill: following Polly Platt's daily routine.


Later that afternoon, back at their apartment for tea, Polly's most wonderful husband Ande spent an hour and a half charming my daughter, making her feel as though she were a regal princess instead of an awkward pre-teen. We simply floated out of the apartment.

Polly and I had kept in touch vaguely over the years since then, but eventually I lost track of her address. Then when I made the move to Paris I sent her an email saying I hoped we could get together. Friendship rekindled, and it turned out we were neighbors. I was heartbroken to learn that wonderful Ande had recently died, but heartened to know that Polly was "bien entourée" with friends and family in France.

When she casually mentioned that she needed help with updating the next edition of Savoir Flair! I volunteered readily, mostly because I love to proofread and edit copy, and I was eager to help. But also because I knew she had often relied on dear Ande for his critical eye and editorial input. As it turns out she was also in the middle of writing her next book, called Love à la française, a look at the joys and challenges experienced by American women married to French men. The next thing I knew we had agreed that I would help her edit that manuscript as well. And what a labor of "Love." I edited with fever and fervor through the penultimate drafts.


I know the book far too intimately to be objective. It is a delight and an eye-opener, though. Trust me.


Chapter Three: Love at your Doorstep

So, with utmost bias, admiration, and tender affection, I heartily recommend that men and women alike snatch a copy of Love à la française when it hits the bookstore shelves on July 1. There is so much to discover between its covers about love, relationships, and French women, in Polly Platt's beloved France.

Charm School

I was in the Fnac looking for a DVD, and I noticed a category for one type of movie: Charme.

What kind of film is a "Charme?" I wondered. Sounds so beguiling and sweet.

Sometimes I'm so naive.

Upon closer inspection it was clear that these "charming" productions are the steamy X-rated variety. Puts a new twist to the meaning of "lucky."




I loved the euphemism, but I decided to move right along to another aisle.

I researched and found the vocab for other categories of films from my neighborhood video store. I can't figure out the difference between "humour" and "comédie." And "emotion" films are, ah, stories of true (or false) love.

Action/Aventure
Court-Metrage
Dessins animes/Famille
Comédie
Documentaire
Emotion
Fantastique/SF
Grands Classiques
Guerre
Horreur
Humour
Musique
Série TV
Sport
Theatre
Thriller/Policier
Western
Walt Disney

Reality

I woke up this morning wondering what I was going to wear to the wedding. A hat ...a very elegant outfit. It was going to be an important French wedding: my mother was marrying François Mitterand.

Oh, wait.

He's been dead for 12 years. And at 84, Mom is still quite a looker; and her French is pretty good. But I don't think they ever met. Zut, zut zut! For a brief sleepy moment I had been looking forward to dropping by the Elysée for daughterly visits.

And the only conclusion I could draw from that zany dream was that it was time for a major Nespresso-au-lait fix and dealing with reality.

Here's today's version of reality:

Yikes!

Yes, while every other sane Parisian and visitor has been out enjoying the long-overdue splendid Spring weather, I've been camped out on my living room floor surrounded by paperasse. I have some important archaeological information mining to accomplish, a looming deadline, and could no longer ignore the unwieldy stack of empty dossiers on, under, and around my desk. So I'm retrieving, organizing, and color coding the miscellanea of My French and American Life.

A life-long subscriber to the pile method, I like using the fold-over colored paper instead of manila folders, though I keep one hanging file. I guess that's part of what I like about France: stacking files horizontally is standard practice the offices I've visited. I feel organizationally so at home. So redeemed.

And today, unlike the rest of the folks who've been out soaking up those warm UV rays, no sunburned cheeks for this Sunday-stay-at-home workhorse (or maybe workpony).

Besides, now my desk is clutter-free:


Now back to reality.

Is it a drag to drague?

Do French men still have the knack? According to OnlyLady.fr, many French men claim that they don't know how to draguer les femmes any more. (Draguer means more than "pick up," not quite flirt or seduce or shmooze: kind of a blend à la française of all of those.)

The OnlyLady team hit the streets of Paris to ask men the burning question.


L'homme sait-il draguer ?

OnlyLady is a French-language blog by a bunch of bright and witty beauties who scour the City for the latest in fashion, well-being, high tech, culture and more.

The men interviewed in the video give hints on what works and, alas, what doesn't.

May 1968

May 3, 1968 was the beginning of the student demonstrations in France, following the closing of the campus at Nanterre.

I was just a carefree American kid at the time, unaware of the political and social upheaval in France. But later, as a French major in college, I read a gripping account of "les événements de mai soixante-huit" in a book whose author and title I have forgotten. With a plethora of information appearing this spring in the news and on the web, trying to find that book has been an exercise in frustration. Anyone who can help me?

In any case, the 40th anniversary has provoked a dizzying array of retrospectives, commemorative books, debates and exhibits.

The Conseil Regional de l'Ile de France is displaying a series of billboard-sized photographs of "Mai 68" on the façade of the building, across from the St. Francois Xavier metro station.

Here is a selection that I photographed.

Godard and Aragon

Barricade in the Quartier Latin

Strike in Asniere

"We're fed up" -- a worker on strike

Clamoring for the 40-hour work week and four weeks' paid vacation

Protest

Then after laboriously editing my photos, I found out that they are all viewable on the website of the Conseil Regional de l'Ile de France.

For a different view (highlighting the violence and destruction, fewer social and political reform images), check the New York Times slide show.

The posters from the era are striking as well.

Saint Nobody

It was a blustery Sunday morning and I kept out of the wind waiting on the bench at the bus stop. Across the boulevard des Invalides, windswept parishioners were filing into the doorway of St. François Xavier. Directly across the street from me, a minuscule old lady dressed in her Sunday best clung to the post at the corner, terrified to cross the quiet side street -- apparently fearing that she would fall down or get knocked over by the powerful gusts.

Lumbering slowly down the broad sidewalk nearby were a middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket and his ancient, arthritic yellow lab. I winced at the poor beast's painful hobbling: it was barely able to lift a leg when the smell was right. Monsieur eventually looked ahead of him and, noticing the lady frozen with fear at the curb, he tugged the leash and slowly ambled over to rescue la vieille dame. Gallantly, he offered her his elbow.

Oh, I was so moved. I felt a lump rising in my throat, tears almost welling up in my eyes as I observed the quirky trio inching their way across to the next sidewalk. A Hallmark moment, a warm and fuzzy silent commercial -- it lacked only violins.

The endearing blog post was already writing itself.

The threesome edged through the iron gates of St. François Xavier and tottered painstakingly up the stone steps. I held my breath for the sweet and tender finale, the adieu as they reached the doors of the church.

I couldn't hear their conversation, of course. But suddenly I saw the man thrust the palms of both hands skyward with contempt, shaking his head violently at the old lady, pounding his index finger at his chest. He spun around and stormed down the stairs, dragging the dog behind him like a laundry bag, bumpa-bumpa-bump down the hard steps.

My bus arrived -- the damned deus ex machina!

I hopped on board, dazed and confused.

Busy at l'Hotel de Ville

Probably one of the most famous photos of Paris is Robert Doisneau's "Baiser de l'Hôtel de Ville" (Kiss at City Hall).

Crossing the plaza (le parvis) of the Hôtel de Ville the other day, I noticed that for once it had the same look of the Doisneau photograph. Most of the time there are igloos or skating rinks or volleyball beaches covering the square.



I prefer the plaza uncluttered like this.

I don't think this couple was about to make out or anything. I could have asked them to embrace for the camera, I guess.


Nah.

Traces of a bygone America -- in Paris

If you live in Paris and don't recognize this photo, you are either wearing sunglasses too much, or are a hermit, or were away on a sunny vacation all winter. But did you know the photo was snapped by an American in Chicago 56 years ago? Art Shay's most infamous photo of the naked fesses of Simone de Beauvoir created a stir in Paris when published on the cover of Le Nouvel Observateur, and every newsstand's promotional billboards, in January. But his photographic oeuvre work goes well beyond the so-called "scandalous" photo. (Unfazed, Beauvoir had apparently turned around and said "You're a bad boy!" when she heard the young Shay snap the picture, but she didn't shut the door of her lover's bathroom.)

A retrospective of Art Shay's photographs, "Traces of a bygone America," opened at the Galerie Albert Loeb in mid-April. I am brokenhearted to have missed the opening and especially sorry not to have met the talented Mr. Shay, 86, who was in town for a week for the event. But those who are in Paris between now and May 24 still have a chance to see his work. The photos in this show are remarkable. Poignant, gritty, witty, sublime, all in Chicago from the 1940s to the 1980s. A mix of celebrities (including Brando, Hemingway, Hefner, Mahalia Jackson, and Marcel Marceau, just to give a sample) and anonymous subjects, they express tenderness, humor, and daily urban life. The images are never complacent or banal: he captures the beauty of humanity in every shot.

Somehow Paris -- home of Ronis, Zucca, Doisneau, Brassai, Boubat et al -- is the perfect setting and juxtaposition for this exhibit.

Do yourself a favor and go see this show.

Galerie Albert Loeb is open to the public Tuesday through Saturday from 10 am to 1 pm and from 2 pm to 7 pm. It is located at 12, rues des Beaux-Arts in the 6e arrondissement.

Telephone 01 46 33 06 87 http://www.galerieloeb.com/

There is also a blog dedicated to Art Shay's work written and maintained by his family in the U.S.

Sundays with Richard and Polly

1. Prologue

A new Paris tradition has been born. Hard to tell what the baby is going to look like at this early stage, but consider this the birth announcement: Sundays with Richard and Polly is off and running.

If the blog-gods are willing and the crick don't rise, one Sunday per month Richard of Eye Prefer Paris and I will head to a destination in Paris, then without consulting each other will each describe our own version of the afternoon. And we'll post it at a synchronized hour a few days later. Which, in this case, is now.

When planning our Sunday folly, Richard mentioned that his boyfriend Vincent might videotape our outings. "Wow," I mused to Richard. "You know, maybe we can be like Shana Alexander and Jim Kilpatrick in Point/Counterpoint-- or the Dan Aykroyd and Jane Curtin version."

"Oh, that Saturday Night Live skit when he says 'Jane, you ignorant slut'?" asked Richard. "I loved that!"

"Fine," I said. "Just don't call me ignorant."

2. The outing.

This time Richard chose the cultural venue: the Pierre Paulin exhibit "Le Design au pouvoir" at the Galerie des Gobelins, which recently re-opened after being closed for thirty years. First, I was glad to get out of my usual trajectory and spend the afternoon in relatively unfamiliar Parisian territory. The 13e arrondissement has some great sights, plus wide-open boulevards and broad sidewalks for strolling. Second, I'm far too young to have seen Les Gobelins thirty years ago. Right?

Without going into a long history, this quartier is where France's official furniture was made, tapestries for chateaux were woven -- and where subsequent ruling heads of state have stored the furniture when it didn't suit their needs of state -- or taste. The nearby Mobilier National warehouse, a rather barren-looking fortress, is where all the out-of-vogue or unneeded state furniture is stored.

Entering the Gobelins Galerie, however, is like stepping back in time, until you reach the ultra-modern decor inside the massive stone edifice. And if you ignore the parked cars in the ancient and aristocratic courtyard. That's a statue of Colbert in the center.

Having left my reading specs at home, I was unable to read the signage for any of the displays. But I didn't mind; I simply meandered around the exhibit hall. The light patterns, shapes, shadows and reflections were mesmerizing.

Sunshine streaming through traces of history.

In the main gallery space the mirrored ceilings and display areas gave an out-of-body experience when looking down at the floor. I could see the top of Vincent's head (he was standing next to me) when I peered over the reflecting floor of one exhibit and gazed down at what appeared to be a display on the floor below. "Have you ever seen the movie Ghosts?" I whispered to him. It was that much out of body.

The furniture on exhibit was mostly exquisite chairs and cleverly designed furniture; including a desk that had belonged to François Mitterand, and other enticing designs created for the Republique française.

One of the last furniture pieces in the exhibit was my favorite: a curvy lounging chair, similar to the one pictured below in yellow, though the exhibited chair was a luscious beige.. The shape and texture were so -- inviting.

I wanted to run my hand along it -- but of course this exhibit 100% no-touching-allowed. Stifling a fit of giggles, I realized why it seemed so familiar. It looked just like the Tantra Chair I had just seen and read about in a very witty issue of Apartment Therapy. Hmm... was this tantric design created for some government official, I wondered?

Enough about recliners. As we left the gallery, I spied a tapestry that I coveted. I usually play the "what would I want in my house?" game with any art exhibit. The greens in this tapestry won that prize. It simply moved me, and made me all the more anxious for discovering our next stop, the very green Parc René le Gall around the corner.

Wedged into a mish-mash of modern and old residential architecture, the park was an unexpected delight that kept unfurling beyond each bend in the path. At the end, I was taken aback by the sheer lushness of the vegetation.

All this, in a densely populated arrondissement of Paris. It made me realize how much more there is to discover. Every day.

3. Next stop, next month

Who knows? In Sundays with Richard and Polly we'll aim for uncharted territory -- or maybe territory so familiar that you think you know it well. The goal, in my view, is to show that everyone's view of Paris is a deeply personal revelation. You can wander the streets of Paris a thousand days and still not see the same thing. Enjoy the trip -- avec Richard et Polly! Now I can't wait to go read Richard's post !

Le Premier Mai

Thursday is May First -- le premier mai -- which is a national holiday in France (essentially the equivalent of Labor Day in the U.S., to make a long story short). It's also traditionally when you offer a bunch -- or even just of stem-- of lilies-of-the-valley (les muguets) to those you are fond of. It's supposed to bring happiness and good luck. And the French government is said to allow (tolérer) individuals and organizations to sell muguets on May 1 without a permit or having to pay sales tax, which I guess is why you see the vendors on the streets of Paris.

But the florists do a brisk business, too -- and so elegantly. This display is in the vitrine of Baptiste, one of the greatest fleuristes in the 7e arrondissement. I took the photo at night as I passed by. Not too bright a picture, but it brightened my evening!

Life being what it is, websites have sprouted, as fast as springtime bulbs, that allow you to send a virtual muguet -- en français. Not the same scent. Not the same effort.

Not the same, period.

Paris Stories

"In his experience, love affairs and marriages perished between seven and eight o'clock, the hour of rain and no taxis. All over Paris couples must be parting forever, leaving like debris along the curbs the shreds of canceled restaurant dates, useless ballet tickets, hopeless explanations, and scraps of pride; and toward each of these disasters a taxi was pulling in, the only taxi for miles, the light on its roof already dimmed in anticipation to the twin dots that in Paris mean 'occupied.' But occupied by whom?"

--- Mavis Gallant, "Speck's Idea," in Paris Stories.

John Malkovich wins Moliere Award

Tonight is a good night for being John Malkovich. His has won Emmy Awards and has been nominated for Oscars for his acting, and is an accomplished director, writer, and producer.

But tonight he won the coveted Molière Award, France's equivalent of the Tony Award, for best director for the play Good Canary. Quite an accomplishment for an American in the glorious world of French Theatre.

And his acceptance speech was in charmingly imperfect French.

Fluctuat nec mergitur

I saw this coat of arms of the city of Paris over a school doorway in the 14e arrondissement.

Fluctuat nec mergitur. Ye motto of ye city of Paris. The tall-masted ship made me wonder when and how the motto came about -- obviously from the maritime trade that reached Paris via the Seine. But how would a boat with masts make it past all the bridges of Paris?

A few light bulbs glimmer in the attic. Duh. When the blason was adopted, there weren't all the bridges. I'm pretty sure I learned about this a decade ago when I read Mort Rosenblum's irresistible The Secret Life of the Seine.

Fluctuat nec mergitur -- or FLVCTVAT NEC MERGITVR when chiseled in stone -- means "She is tossed by the waves yet does not sink."

More modern translation: think of the Timex watch commercials "It takes a licking and keeps on ticking!"

China's Eiffel Tower, Part 2

Random thought for the day...

With the current political tensions between France and China, I wonder what's happening with that new Eiffel Tower in Hangzhou. The luxurious Champs Elysées real estate, the French vineyards. View more pictures of it here.

Photo by damnfunnypictures.com

Parisians Under the Occupation, Part 2

I never imagined the night I attended the opening of Les Parisiens sous l'Occupation that there would be such a brouhaha about the exhibit. (Oh, pardon me. It is now called "Des Parisiens Sous l'Occupation." Some of the Parisians, not just Parisians. )

It was abundantly clear to me, an average American, that the backdrop of the photos was Occupied France. That's the title, no? I had long wondered what daily life was like for the non-heros who survived four years of Nazi-controlled Paris.

Critics and detractors try to claim that it gives a glamorous view of a decidedly non-glamorous time in this city.

Yes, it does. That is precisely the poetic, chilling impact of the exhibit. I'm not a historian. But if you have an iota of historic background about the Occupation, you understand immediately -- and the signage accompanying the exhibit attests to it -- that these were photos taken for a Nazi propaganda magazine. (And it was crowded on opening night, so I actually viewed the exhibit in reverse, a neat trick I learned from the couple ahead of me in line. I still got the impact of the series of propaganda photos.)

The public (pardon me -- some of the public ) has apparently gotten its knickers in a twist because each photo doesn't have a caption underneath explicitly telling the horrors of the millions of people you don't see in the photo.

That's the point. The literature and signage accompanying the exhibit state that of course since Zucca worked for Signal, the Nazi propaganda magazine, there are no people wearing Yellow Stars, no images of deportees and work camps. That is precisely the haunting effect of the exhibit. I was so profoundly moved by it that the next day I went to the Musée Jean Moulin, the Museum of the Liberation of Paris.

The Mayor of Paris has taken steps to calm the tempest. An upcoming series of debates and symposia have been organized, such as "What is a photograph?" "Is the photograph a good witness to history?" "How to exhibit photography."

In my opinion the only fair criticism to launch at the curators of this exhibit, in light of all this ado: they aimed too high in assuming the intelligence of the viewers. They neglected to place warning signs at the entrance saying "Caution: do not view this exhibit if you're going to believe what you see." Or perhaps bold labels under each photo: "P-R-O-P-A-G-A-N-D-A. " Or how about, "Do not view if you have left your brain at home."

And that is more or less what has been done. New explanatory entrance signs, simplified introductory text. The good news is that the information has been translated into English, German, Italian, and Spanish, in light of the increased attention to the exhibit.

There, is that better?

Hollywood on France, Part 2

Welcome to "Chapter Two Week," my week of part-two follow ups to recent posts.

Ladies and gentlemen, warm up your DVD players, pop the popcorn, and settle down to a year's worth of films filmed in France.

France Today of course recently offered an excellent editor's top picks of Hollywood film versions of France. Then I discovered the mother lode: the U.S. Embassy in France website provides a list spanning a hundred years of American movies filmed in whole or in part in France. The films run the gamut from black-and-white silent films to most recent Tinseltown releases. Me? I'd like to get started with the thirty classic movies from the 1950s.

The Embassy web site also encourages cinephiles to submit any additional titles not yet found on the list.

Naturally the film version of A Tale of Two Cities is on the list. The most-recycled title in the English language, I think. But FYI, Dickens' novel has now been turned into a Les Miz-type musical, which will open on Broadway in the fall.

My French Horoscope

I'm devoted to the daily news. The hard news, the real stuff. I try to read a round-robin of different French viewpoints, Le Figaro, Le Monde, le Parisien, le Canard Enchainé. But ... whenever I have the free time and a few spare euros(both rare commodities these days), I indulge in a French women's magazine: Elle, Marie-Claire, Madame Figaro, Marie-Claire Idées. I devour them cover to cover. Not so much that I take the advice as gospel; but the editorial perspective seems to help me understand French culture better, from a female expat point of view. Beauty advice, how to manage your vie de couple, fashion bargains, insider's tips (les astuces), décor and cuisine ideas, and finally, my favorite part, always at the end, the horoscope and numérologie.

I'm not a daily-horoscope junkie, but from time to time I like to check in and see if the astral powers-that-be have got my life nailed correctly. I'm not sure why, but I've always assumed that horoscopes ought to be slightly different depending on your time zone, so I figured I should check mine in France.

My first prize for French mass-media horoscope reporting goes to Elle Magazine, just because it somehow seems less hokey than others. The on-line version is interactive and as exhaustive as you could want, if your French language skills are up to the task. I found one section where you enter your first name (prénom) and it gives your personality profile. Yeah, right, I thought. Gimme a break. How could one's name possibly influence one's character? But just for fun, of course, I entered my name. (I assumed it wouldn't be on the list since it's an Anglophone name.) It was there. Ulp, it was spot-on. Uncle!

In order to check other astrology signs I had to learn the names:

Capricorn = le Capricorne
Aquarius = le Verseau
Pisces = les Poissons
Aries = le Bélier
Taurus = le Taureau
Gemini = les Gémeaux
Cancer = le Cancer
Leo = le Lion
Virgo = la Vierge
Libra = la Balance
Scorpio = le Scorpion
Sagittarius = le Sagittaire

Astrology information is pretty ubiquitous in France, and horoscopes in print and on-line are readily available. I have also found a site called Astrofred; there are many more.

But the jury is still out on the numerology. Somehow, for me, it doesn't add up.

Guess who is gonna be dessert?

Isn't it the height of nonchalance
Furnishing a bed in restaurants?

Well, a little dinner never hurt.
But guess who is gonna be dessert?

I haven't seen the musical comedy Funny Girl in years. But I can still sing along with the lyrics as if it were yesterday. The naive Fanny Brice and the oh-so-suave Nicky Arnstein singing "You are Woman, I am Man." Not exactly A Man and a Woman, but the passion potential is still so very French.

I thought of Funny Girl as I passed by the famed restaurant Lapérouse today, knowing of its reputation for offering romantic private dining rooms complete with chaise longue and discreet wait staff.

I wonder if Laperouse could have been the inspiration for the restaurant in that fabulous seduction scene with Barbra Streisand and Omar Sharif.

--A bit of paté?

-- I drink it all day...


Restaurant Lapérouse
51 quai des Grands Augustins
75006 Paris
01 43 26 68 04

L'Air du Printemps

Ah, the air in Paris this morning.

I dawdled on my return trip home from an early business meeting near the pont St. Michel, because I just couldn't help it. I simply had to be outside. Heavenly.

A soft breeze was blowing, and the air everywhere was scented with flowers. Lightly fragrant, almost imperciptible, but it was there. Even on the broad boulevards buzzing with traffic, the perfume of springtime blossoms swirled around.

Aha!-- I found one source, at least. The flowering trees in the Square Gabriel Pierné. If only I had brought a book to read on these charming book-benches, strewn with petals like confetti.

Or if I only had the time to relax on them and gaze up at the gold-leafed cupola of the Institut de France.

The aromatherapy of the spring air was working its magic: the woman begging outside the gate very kindly moved out of the way so I could take a photo of the park sign.

Freak Show

The current exhibit in the grands salons of the Monnaie de Paris is a contemporary exposition entitled "The Freak Show." Inspired by the freak shows of American carnivals and circuses of the early twentieth century, the exhibit apparently features everyday objects transformed in grotesque or odd ways.

Apparently. Yes, this is bait-and-switch time! I didn't see the exhibit. Although I did actually poke my head in the door as the ticket-taker looked for some press info, I didn't have the time to tour the whole show.

But I don't mind. Even if you don't have time or inclination to see a Freak Show, it's worth the trip anyway. The grand and elegant interior of the Hôtel de la Monnaie is exquisite. To reach it, turn right just after entering the portals of the Monnaie building.

Climb the escalier d'honneur.

Admire the busts of Condorcet and friends in the hallway, and look out the windows at the Seine.


Imagine that you're attending a swish soirée in the salle de reception.



And while you're at it, look up at the fresco on the ceiling.

Then you arrive at the ticket desk outside the exhibit where you have to fork over your 6€ to get into the Freak Show. Up to that checkpoint the view is free. One of this month's better bargains in Paris.

The Monnaie de Paris is of course the Mint, where coins and medals are made. The grands salons are open to the public only when they are being rented for a special exhibit.

There is the Musée de la Monnaie, a favorite of mine and of all numismatists, at the end of the courtyard.

Freak Show

Through May 25

Monnaie de Paris

Quai de Conti

Tuesday through Sunday 11 am to 6 pm