Making the most of the marché aux puces

Every weekend, within walking distance of our apartment, the world’s largest flea market (marché aux puces, pronounced marshay-oh-poos) takes place near the Porte de Clingancourt metro, in the area known as Saint-Ouen. (Puce is French for flea, and is also what they call they chips in their chip-and-pin credit cards.) There are more than 2,000 vendors, and their stalls stretch for blocks.

According to Wikipedia , the market began in 1885, but even in the Middle Ages, ragpickers were selling old clothes in Paris, which were probably full of fleas, and hence the name! Today the Saint-Ouen event includes several markets, each with its own special flavor. 

Outside of the main section, vendors ply their trade with colorful stands featuring everything from African carvings to jewelry and candy. This is really the most interesting part of the market, which is teeming with people.  When Tricia and Jim went with us, we held on tight to our purses and wallets and did not take much of value with us, because the market is a known site for pickpockets.

A food market we passed on the way to the flea market.

Need any clothes?

The candy prices look good.

You can even shop for underwear.

Just one lane in a huge marketplace.

Tricia bargains for a deal. ("Special price--just for you.")

Outside a Senegalese cafe where we had a good lunch.

Of course the dog's owner has him sleep there, so people will stop.

There's something for everyone.

Fatou, a friendly local whom we met at the market.

Now, contrast this market area with the more elegant one pictured. The stands in that section are permanent, the equivalent of nice stores. Antiques abound, but no bargains!

Stunning items with prices to match.

I love this wallpaper! I suppose it's a wee bit too formal for our condo?

Although the market is only open to the public on the weekend, Monday is a day for dealers and collectors who can meet with the vendors by appointment. Having struck up a conversation with one of the sellers of antique Chinese porcelain, Kevin decided to go back on Monday, just to chat. (Antique Asian porcelain is Kevin's passion, although one he can't indulge in too often.) Guess what? The merchant had to run a quick errand and asked Kevin if he'd mind the store for him.  Can you believe it?  He left him there with all of his expensive porcelain, and to top it off, Kevin doesn't speak French! Fortunately, no one came in while he was there, but we are still dumbfounded that the owner would put such trust in him. He must have a honest face.

More of Paris with Tricia & Jim

Sightseeing with Tricia and Jim brought back good memories of our first trip to Paris and helped us see the city with fresh eyes. (Not that we've become jaded yet.)

A special treat was a retrospective at the Pompidou Centre featuring the remarkable photographs of Henri Cartier-Bresson. Considered the father of photojournalism, he did everything from art shots to street photography, as well as taking on assignments for Life magazine and others. The breadth of this exhibit was as stunning as the work.  Jim is a professional photographer, so this event was a must-see on his list, and we all felt it was well worth it.

We took them to the Louvre too, though not on the same day. (Kevin and I have been visiting on Wednesday and Friday evenings when there aren't as many people, but that didn't work out for Jim and Tricia's stay.) Thanks to our "magic passes," we can go as often as we like.*

Woman entranced at Cartier-Bresson exhibit.

Poor Jim and Tricia! The guided tour  in English was cancelled that day, so they had to rely on us
to give them an introduction to the Louvre's masterpieces.

We explored the cafe scene, stopping often for coffee.

Dogs love the cafe life--at least their owners think so.  

She was sitting near us at a sidewalk cafe. She looks very French, but who knows?

We took advantage of more dining opportunities, thanks to our friends. We discovered a fine Moroccan restaurant not far from our apartment.

Both the ambiance and the food were first rate. 

Some satisfied diners! Tricia said her mango sorbet was the best she had tasted. Kevin's chocolate ice cream was good too. Unfortunately, he spilled a little on his shirt--hence the spot.  It's OK, Kevin! I do that all the time.

Friends, food, and Paris—what more could you want?

Savoring Paris with friends

Our friends Jim and Tricia arrived on the Eurostar from London last week, where they had spent the first several days of their vacation.  Jim and Tricia are also from Seattle and own property at Lake Wenatchee near the site of our former cabin.  It was great fun introducing them to Paris!

The first morning of their visit, we took the metro to Notre Dame.  It was rainy, so we retreated to a nearby barge on the Seine for some delicious coffee.

Even though the sky is washed out, I like this moody shot taken from the barge

where we had coffee that day.

Jim and Tricia at the cafe with Notre Dame in background.

The queue for Notre Dame was quite long, so we returned a few days later to visit the cathedral, which was begun in 1163 and completed in 1250. It is one off the finest examples of French Gothic architecture, and one of the first buildings to use flying buttresses for support. 

The serenity of the cathedral is unbroken, even with crowds of people inside. My photo of the rose window doesn't do it justice.

Of course, you are familiar with Victor Hugo's classic, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. When we were here 32 years ago, our son Aaron was 12, and we took a photo of him posing as Quasimodo at this cafe.  We repeated the shot with Kevin.

On this showery day, we strolled through the Île de la Cité

and the Marais. (The name "Marais means swamp.) The area is far from swampy now, though.

However, we were a little damp from the spring showers, so we took refuge in a small cafe.

The rain lifted as we walked on through one of my favorite Parisian squares, the Place des Vosges.  It was constructed in the 17th Century and became a model for future city squares. Victor Hugo lived there, and his house is now a museum.  I've promised myself every time I've been there that I'd return to view it, but I haven't yet. If I were as rich as Bill Gates, I'd have a home there.

I hope Tricia and Jim enjoyed their introduction to Paris.  I know Kevin and I did!

Thoughts in Montmartre Cemetery

Many famous people are buried in Montmartre Cemetery, just off the Avenue Rachel (pronounced "Ra-shel").  A slightly haunting place with meandering cats, jumbled tombs, and tree-lined paths of dappled shade, it’s an intriguing place to spend an afternoon. As we searched among the graves, I was inspired to write a few lines about the other people buried there, whose tombs I only encountered  while seeking out the famous. Maybe one day I will refine this half-formed poem.

The Accidental Visitor
You reproach me, Henriette, Marie, and Jean,
Cold now as your tombs.
You sleep with those renowned or wise,
Your address shared with those whose laurels,
However fine, can never free them from your fate.
But you reproach me, Antoinette, Henri, Eugene,
The accidental visitor to your grave, and well you should.
For I stand here before your tomb—you whom I never knew—
While I neglect the graves of those I loved, whose laughter echoes still.
They are the ones who held me close,
Or whom I held (the one whose sweet, soft, downy nape I used to kiss).
If I should have a marker carved with names and dates,
What accidental guest will find my resting place?
Will someone wonder then who once I was, or whom I loved,
Or will he simply pass on by, absorbed in other thoughts?

Among the 20,000 people buried in Montmartre cemetery are Adolphe Sax, inventor of the saxophone; Alexander Dumas (the son); Stendhal; Emile Zola; Hector Berlioz; Edgar Degas; Jacques Offenbach; Vaslav Nijinsky; and François Truffaut.

©Kevin Imper. Published with permission.

©Jim Coley. Published with permission.

A perfect Paris weekend

We plan to spend more time here this summer on the rooftop of the Terrass Hotel.

We capped the last night of Shirley's visit at the rooftop bar of the Terrass Hotel in Montmartre , nursing our expensive drinks while we waited for the Eiffel Tower's light show.  

It was really the perfect ending to a weekend, which included a visit to the Musée Marmottan Monet. That museum not only offers the largest collection of works by Monet and Morisot, it is also currently featuring a special

exhibit through July 6, 2014, called "The Impressionists in Private," with 100 artworks from private collections all over the world (80 paintings and 20 graphic works) so we enjoyed a rare treat.

That night, as we walked home, we passed a small cafe where a group of mostly young people were dancing with abandon as a jazz guitarist played.  The window was open and they beckoned us in. If we had not been so tired, we would have joined them, but we did stay and listen for several minutes, until the last note faded away.

Je suis un beauf! (I am a beauf!)

What’s a beauf?  According to a book that was left in our apartment, Stuff Parisians Like, to someone in France, “a beauf (pronounced boh-f) is someone who drinks beer, watches soccer all the time, and vacations in a trailer. (I don't know if a female is une beauf, or if, because the term is masculine, it is un beauf for both?)

However, in Paris a beauf is anyone whom someone doesn’t know and would like to put down. While in most of France (at least as I understand it), a beauf might be more of a hick, Parisians get their kicks from calling even upper-class people beaufs.  (“Did he really spend the weekend in Deauville? Quel beauf!”) 

When I found out it was obviously beauf to wear white socks, I pushed them to the back of my drawer.  But I suspect all Americans are beaufs, by definition. So I was especially pleased when one day, I had two separate men approach me and ask me for directions in French. Of course, my pleasure was short-lived.  As soon as I began to apologize for speaking so little of the language, they immediately smiled and walked on.

I decided they stopped to ask me because:

• I was wearing black.  (Now that it’s getting warmer, we’re seeing women in brighter colors, but early in our stay, they were all wearing black.)
•  I had on flat shoes. (Parisian women rarely wear heels. Ballerina flats are quite popular, as are ankle boots.)
• I was wearing a scarf.  (A Parisian must!)

However, the real reason they approached me may be much simpler than that. They were probably from someplace like Corsica or Calais.  They were beaufs—just like me!

Fact and fiction on the fabled Orient Express

While Shirley was here, we attended a special exhibit on the Orient Express at the Institut du Monde Arabe (Institute of the Arab World). The exhibit was great fun, featuring little vignettes of authors and fictional characters who traveled on the storied train, which once traveled from Paris to Istanbul. 

One display showed a typewriter, along with other artifacts of the time, to depict the author Graham Greene and his novel Stamboul Train, while another showed a sleeping car for James Bond—a reference to Ian Fleming's From Russia with Love and the movie of the same name, which was partly filmed on the Orient Express.

The Graham Greene display.

Warned by our “conductor” that the next scene was a bit grisly, we laughed to see the sleeping car of Mr. Ratchett’s demise from Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express.

Murder on the Orient Express! Do you remember who did it?

Mostly, we just enjoyed the ambiance of the luxurious rail cars. The interiors with their rich mahogany panels and art-deco glass were designed by René Lalique. I was somewhat surprised, however, by the muted brown-and-gold upholstery, having expected a rich, velvety red or something similar. (I guess I didn’t pay much attention to the upholstery when watching those popular films.)

Taking Tea at the Jacquemart Andrè

One of the lesser-known gems of Paris is the Jacquemart André Museum. The museum was the home of a banker (Édouard André) and his wife (Nélie Jacquemart), a society painter. Their home was completed in 1875, and together they built an impressive collection of art to fill it.

Listing the artists in the collection would take half a page—and, to think, I would settle for one Botticelli—but the house itself is also a work of art.  We visited the museum with our friend Shirley, and savored both the artwork and the food (quiche, salad, and desserts) in the museum’s café beneath a Tiepolo ceiling. (Édouard and Nélie imported the ceiling fresco from Italy.)

The ceiling in the tearoom.

Kevin, Shirley, and I soaked up the atmosphere.

The cafe/tearoom at the museum.

The tourists and the tower

“Would you please take our photo?” That’s the most common question at the Place du Trocadéro in the early evening, as tourists from all over the world gather to watch the light show on the Eiffel Tower. Although the light show lasts only five minutes, it's repeated every hour on the hour.

We helped several people capture “their moment” as they posed in front of the tower. Finally, at 10 p.m. it was dark enough for the display. As the lights began to dance all around the framework, the tourists let out a collective “Aaah.”  We joined them.

(The blog contained a video of the tower with lights flashing.)

A night to remember at the Opéra Garnier

Our friend Shirley arrived from London on the Eurostar last Friday for the weekend. We had tickets for the ballet-opera, “Orphèe et Eurydice” (Orpheus and Eurydice) that I had booked months ago.  We almost didn’t care what was playing there, because we simply wanted to attend a performance at that grand, historic opera hall.

Ceiling near entry.

Built between 1861–1875 for the Paris Opera, the building is officially the Palais Garnier. Today, it is mostly used for ballet performances. It is also the legendary home of the Phantom of the Opera, the character created by Gaston Leroux in 1910, whose story was the basis of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.

Standing before the grand staircase.

We did not glimpse the Phantom that night, but I think I sensed his presence.  I’ve read, but could not verify, that Box Five is always reserved for him. And while there is no lake in the basement of the building, there is a pool.  Paris firemen practice rescue techniques there.

The inglorious truth is that our tickets were, as the British say, “in the gods,” at the very top of the theater. The view of the stage was unobstructed, but that was not the case with our knees, which were unavoidably pressed tight against the backs of the people in the next row. (I’m not sure the woman in front of me understood that, given the looks back over her shoulder.) We were tucked up under an overhanging arch and couldn’t even see the Chagall ceiling.

Not much room--and very steep! I'm in the black dress with my knees against 

the seat of the woman in white.

I was willing to spend more for good seats, but unfortunately “pride goeth before a fall.” I was feeling rather smug last February, because I had researched the ticketing process and thought I knew what I was doing.  But I missed the part about logging on to an online waiting room 15 minutes ahead of time.  As a result, although I logged on precisely when the online box office opened, by the time I was served, few tickets were left.

Poor Kevin, at six feet tall, could not tolerate his seat.  Because we were in the back row, he was able to stand, but he soon felt the rising heat and had to leave.  Fortunately, an usher found him a seat a few rows below that was cooler and had more leg room.  The view wasn’t as good, but he did get to see the performance—which was achingly beautiful. 

The stunning Chagall ceiling with motifs from several operas.

The Paris Opera version of “Orphèe et Eurydice” incorporates Gluck’s music with a modern-dance ballet by choreographer Pina Bausch, staged on spare sets.  In this version, Orpheus does not rescue Eurydice from Hades, so art and love do not conquer death—a bleak interpretation, but still moving. (The first set of images shown here are from the Paris Opera production.)

Shirley and I at the performance.

Even with the cramps in our legs, we were glad we went. And to think, all that leg room in Box Five is wasted on the Phantom.