Journées du Patrimoine 2010: Le Musée de Moyen Age

Smack dab in the middle of the Quartier Latin on the corner of Boulevard St. Germain and Boulevard St. Michel, a mere block away from The Gap and Mickey D's, is one of Paris' oldest monuments; the Musée de Moyen Age. It's strong foundation dating back to the 1st century, it stands defiantly amidst modern Paris like an old man who refuses to use a computer. Parisians rush by on foot, car, and motorbikes daily, going about their business with barely a glance - it's human nature to take things for granted. But when the sun sets and the strategically placed floodlights illuminate the Gallo-Roman ruins, oh la la! It's difficult to ignore the beauty of this ancient place. On my "to do" list for years, I decided today was the day. It is the weekend of the "Journées du Patrimoine", France's "Heritage Days". For two days a year, hundreds of monuments across France are open to the public free of charge, including the Senate, National Assembly, and the Elysées Palace; home to President Sarkozy. The latter expecting some 20,000 visitors, I chose to visit the old man on the corner. It is difficult to wrap my mind around anything 2,000 years old, but I was visiting a place that once served as a thermal bathhouse - before France was France and Rome ruled Europe. 700 years ago it was occupied by the Abbots of Cluny, as is witnessed by the Gothic chapel inside. It was enlarged and occupied by the Cluny Order until after the Revolution, when the property became nationalized and home to the private collections of three privileged men. Today, it houses a stunning collection of tapisserie (tapestry), religious artifacts, stained glass, and statuary; all 500 to 1,000 years old. C'est magnifique! You can visit the Musée de Moyen Age (Musée Cluny) Tuesday through Sunday from 9h15 until 17h45 at 6 Place Painlevé, metro ligne 10 to Cluny-La Sorbonne. Tariff is 8.50, with the exception of the first Sunday of every month, which is free museum day. You can read more about the Journées du Patrimoine by accessing my blog archive from October 2009 (on the sidebar).

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 10: "Mr. Low-key"

My first birthday since moving to Paris was shaping up nicely. I had a rendez vous with a lovely man who planned to take me to dine at the french bistro equivalent of Studio 54 (if they decided to honor the reservation), I had someone fun to trawl the Fete de le Musique with, and it was a hot summer weekend. The weather here is something I still haven't acclimated to - cold and miserable the majority of the year, with a smattering of perfect days when Mother Nature takes pity on a soul. It was going to be a perfect evening for the citywide, night long street party, and I was looking forward to experiencing this mysterious restaurant Low had invited me to. He was staying at his preferred hotel at the Place de Vosges, and we met in the lobby. He was waiting for me ensconced in an oversized armchair, and he stood up to greet me with open arms. "Happy Birthday!" he smiled and hugged me. "Are you hungry?" I admitted that I was, and he said he hoped they wouldn't turn us away at l'Ami Louis. I hoped so too, more for his sake than for mine! I knew he would feel humiliated if they snubbed us. He had ordered a taxi, and we chatted about London, the fete, and how he managed to maneuver our dinner reservations as the driver wound through the streets, carefully avoiding the partying pedestrians that were beginning to spill off the sidewalks. We passed a four piece band that included a snare drum, a tuba, a trumpet, and a washboard making a racket as a small group of college students passed a bottle of cheap rum, laughing as one of them performed a jig. The driver turned into a quiet, deserted street and stopped the cab. It didn't appear as if anything was open, could he be mistaken? I saw nothing that indicated a restaurant, certainly not the obligatory bistro tables that occupy the narrow sidewalks here, nor any signage. Maybe it was one of those places where you knock three times and the doorman peers at you through a tiny opening, demanding a password! Low paid the driver, took my hand, and led us to the place. It was the Studio 54 moment of truth - I held my breath as we entered and approached the Maitre'd. Ignorant as to the protocol of acceptance, I hoped I had dressed appropriately. Fortunately Lady Luck was on our side, and with a sigh of relief on both our parts, we were seated. He was smiling as I took in our surroundings, which were suprisingly understated for a restaurant frequented by dignitaries such as the Clinton's. It was a small establishment, with two rows of tables lining the walls, which had been painted a matte black perhaps 50 years ago. The tables were covered by red and white checkered tablecloths, and were set with cutlery one would find in a down home diner. There were photographs on the wall of who I assumed was the owner, with various celebs and politicians, mostly European. It had a sort of old school mafia ambiance, and was famous for the foie gras and rotiserrie chicken. I ordered the former for starters, and Low chose the escargot. Now, I must admit, up until that night I had never tried escargot, nor had I ever desired to do so. But it was my birthday, and my blood was up! Low graciously offered me a taste, and I was a virgin no more. I was suprised at how much it reminded me of mussels, (which I quite like) and I was glad to check it off the list of things to do before I die. That said, one was enough, and I concentrated on the foie gras which was the best I have ever had! Warming up with a good bottle of wine, we amused ourselves by observing the waiters as they served up platter after platter of poulet accompanied by huge piles of shoestring potatoes, with the attitude that they would rather face a firing squad than look at another chicken. They were the quintessential clichés of the french waiter; condescending, arrogant, and sarcastic. We were in french heaven as we casually eavesdropped on the conversation of a big, fat, obviously rich old man who was in the process of seducing a young, blond, Italian social climber with huge ta ta's, collagen injected lips, and a deep tan. In fact, there seemed to be several tables occupied by men with the same goal in mind; to impress and seduce. All the waiters had a goal of their own, to make it through the night without slitting their wrists, and my goal? Birthday sex! Our waiter approached and provided what to this day is the most awesome moment in the history of dining out. "Dessert, madame?" he inquired. Just as I opened my mouth to say "Oui, le sorbet citron s'il vous plait" he dissed me by turning his back, nose in the air, looking across the room at nothing. My mouth was literally still open as I looked at Low in utter disbelief, and we started to laugh. Only in Paris, only in a restaurant that charges 22 euro for two itty bitty scoops of ice cream, and only from a waiter guaranteed 15% of a 300 euro dinner bill! Who could be angry? Ultimately he was obliged to take my order, thoughts of suicide dancing through his head. "That was fabulous" Low was laughing, and took my hand. "I can't believe it!" I exclaimed, "Can you imagine that happening in L.A.? They would never work in that town again!" We were still chuckling as our dessert arrived. The cool lemony concoction was the perfect finish to a delicious meal, and I was as content as a fat cat as we stepped out into the balmy night air and strolled arm in arm back toward Bastille. The mood on the street was festive, all of Paris it seemed was out and about; laughing, boozing, and kissing. Families strolled from concert to concert, fathers with young ones perched on their shoulders, bouncing gently to the rythym of the music. Groups of noisy teens flirted, the girls laughing just a little too loudly, the boys fueling the fire by offering alcohol and cigarettes. We stopped for a moment to listen to a french grunge band, somehow it didn't sound so grungey in française! There was a large crowd assembled around us; a girl with bright pink hair, a white dude with dredlocks and a nose ring, and an elderly french couple, all forgetting for an evening that smiling is strictly interdit in Paris! Over the grunge, we moved on and discovered an eclectic group of people drumming an ancient tribal beat, anyone with a bongo was welcome to join. It was peoplewatching at it's finest, and Low and I were taking full advantage of the opportunity. Always a gentleman, always discreet, and with the exception of a few affectionate pecks, Low gave me little indication of whether or not I was going to get that birthday sex I was talking about earlier. I couldn't think of a better way to end a perfect evening, but would Low a) once again send me home in a cab, b) take me to a Karaoke bar and sing "What's New, Pussycat?" or c) give it up? Join me next week for my big birthday suprise on Your Friday night French Ro-Com!

"The Grass is Always Greener..."

It's true that when one lives in the city, one can't wait to get out to the country for a bit of quiet and relaxation. And vice-versa, when you are a country girl you love going to the city where the action is! That's where the suburbs come in. With their proximity to the hub, it takes very little effort to enjoy a night out at the theatre, a romantic dinner at the latest trendy eatery, or a major sports event, and return home to a less frenetic atmosphere. There are many "burbs" surrounding Paris, the line of deliniation often vague. One simply crosses the street and is no longer in Paris proper, the change in ambiance not as noticable as when you are further out. I personally chose to live in a suburb just south of the City of Lights, in a quiet yet elegant ville that affords me the best of both worlds. I can be in Paris in a mere ten minutes, I have a spectacular view of le Sacre Couer in Monmarte as well as the golden dome of Les Invalides, and there is little here to distract me from my writing. So naturally I like to go into the city for a change of pace! King Louis IVX had chateaus in Versailles and St. Germain des Prés to escape the oppresive heat and stench of Paris, as did anyone who was anyone. Today one can hop on the RER at St. Michel, and in a matter of minutes visit any number of historic and breathtakingly beautiful domaines in the 'burbs. Residing in one of most expensive cities in the world on a budget quite a bit lower than I enjoyed in married life, I have made a game of finding interesting places and events to enjoy free of charge - or nearly. It was on this search I discovered the Parc de Sceaux (pronounced "sews"). When I learned a free guided tour (albeit in french) was being offered of the castle and museum collections, I was all in. It was a perfect fall day, sunny and mild as I arrived in the suburb of Sceaux and followed the small crowd from the train station through residential streets toward the parc. It is an affluent ville with large, well manicured homes that frame quiet winding roads. I could hear nothing but birds chirping in the lush green trees that lined the streets, life was good here! A pleasant 15 minute walk lead me to a place I never could have expected, a vast and wonderous parc carved out of the forest centuries ago. The Chateau itself is a gem, with marketry floors, crystal chandeliers and mirrored shutters that protect ones furnishings from the damaging effects of the sun, whilst preserving a sense of light and space. Originally inhabited by Jean-Baptiste Colbert from 1670-1683, today it is home to an impressive collection of paintings, sculpture, and porcelein. Furniture crafted by cabinetmaker Pierre-Benoit Marcion, offered by Napoleon to the duc and duchesse de Trévise (occupants of the estate from 1829-1871), graces a small salon with an intricately inlaid floor. But as lovely as the chateau is, it's the grounds that knock your socks off! A jardin out back is defined by rows of cypress sculpted into cones, placed in perfect symmetry. A long strip of grass extends as far as the eye can see, and colorful wildflowers punctuate the landscape. To the left, a distant fountain shoots a steady stream of water towards the heavens, a subtle rainbow appearing out of the arc. I was drawn toward the beauty of it, I love me a fountain! I descended the terraced walkway, flanked by the soothing music of a waterfall on my left, a mysterious forested trail to my right. I soon realized this was a space that demanded a bicycle, the waterfall led to a large pond, which led to a lake, which led into the forest....even with all the joggers, lovers, and cyclists one can find solitude and bask in the glory of nature undisturbed. Like the Smithsonian, too big to see all in one day, I made a note to self: Return soon, with a bicycle, a picnic, and some friends! To find out more about the Chateau and Parc de Sceaux, go to: www.domaine-de-sceaux.fr/

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 9: "Mr. Low-key"

"Do you have a reservation?" inquired the lovely Madame. It being a last minute decision to dine at this particular place, we were forced to admit that no, we did not. She glanced around the room with in a way that was not at all encouraging, having mastered perfectly the facial expression I like to call "the french furrow" before seating us at an open table right next to where we were standing. Happily demonstrating her knowledge of english, she inquired if we wanted an aperitif. Anticipating the bottle of wine Low was sure to order, I opted for a Badoit. "What a charming little place" Low smiled as we relaxed and perused the room. The small dining room had an elegant yet understated ambiance, a rustic country french feel. Large slate boards on the walls served as menus, with tonights fare written in chalk. An antique sideboard rested at one end of the room, supporting a large vase of fresh flowers. "You are going to love the food" I promised. Madame approached with our water and asked us what we would like for a starter. In France it is customary to have an entrée, followed by a main course (plat), then dessert (which can be cheese or preceded by cheese), followed by a teeny tiny cup of liquid nitrogen (coffee). An typical entrée is usually foie gras, smoked salmon, escargot, or something avocado. Low ordered foie gras with figs, I went for the avocado and tomato salade. Accompanied by a lovely Bordeaux recommended by Madame, we were in foodie heaven! But there was an elephant dining with us - Low was still vexed by the slap in the face he had received from his former partner. "I'm sorry I have been in a bad mood" he apologized with a sigh. He was looking deep into my eyes as was his way. I reached across and put my hand on top of his, and with a squeeze I hoped was reassuring I told him not to worry. I understood completely! But I wasn't too happy with the guy that killed the romance for the day. "Do you know what you are going to do?" I asked, as Low spread a shmere of goose liver on a piece of toast and offered it to me. "Here" he said, "try this. It's fabulous!" (It was.) "Yes, but right now I want to concentrate on you, the wine, and this incredible foie gras. Cheers!" He raised his glass and I met his toast, making a point to look at him in the eye (embracing the french superstition that lack of eye contact during a toast results in 10 years of bad sex). "I was thinking of coming back for the weekend around the 20th" he hinted, "would you like to have dinner?" "The 21st is the "Fete de le Musique!" I exclaimed, "All night long there are bands of every genre in the streets all over Paris, it is one of two nights a year that the metro runs all night without stopping, and parisians wander the streets with bottles of whiskey and wine! You see families, and groups of college kids brazenly smoking reefers, and dixieland jazz, hip hop, and grunge bands side by side on the same block. You would love it!" Low's face lit up with the prospect of peoplewatching, one of his favorite pastimes - and mine. "I have made it a tradition to kick off my birthday with the Fete de le Musique" I said. "It's your birthday that weekend?" he asked excitedly, "Then I am going to take you to dinner at l'Ami Louis! That is, if we can get reservations. It is impossible, and even when you have one, they may not honor it once you have arrived! I am going to try though. You will love it, it's fabulous!" Smiling, he raised his glass once again, and I basked in the glow of a promising birthday. "And you will love the fete" I said, "It's one of the few times you will see parisians display a sense of collective joy!" The figurative elephant had wandered away, and we laughed and drank, and shared death by chocolate for dessert. It was nice to spend time with someone who seemed to genuinely enjoy my company, without the pressure of "should I" or "shouldn't I". I knew we would get there in good time. Despite the issue with his business partner, it had been a good day. The matinée had been spectacular, dinner was ecstacy, and it was comfortable walking arm in arm under the stars after dinner. We found a taxi, and giving me a long, sweet kiss full of promise Low said goodnight. He had a scathing letter to write! Join me next week for the "Fete de le Musique", dinner at a very exclusive restaurant, and a hot summer night with Low on "Your Friday night French Ro-Com". A bientot!

"The King is dead, Long live the King!"

Are you a fan of architecture? Is geneology your passion, or history, or perhaps funereal art? The Basilique St. Denis has you covered! Built in the 5th century, rennovated in the 12th, looted by revolutionaries in the 18th, and restored in the 19th, it was one of the most powerful Benedictine Abbeys in the Middle Ages. Cavernous and quiet, it's ambience is more one of a necropolis than a place of worship, having hosted the tombs of 42 kings, 32 queens, 63 princes and princesses - from Dagobert in the 7th century to Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, whose remains were finally exhumed from their paupers grave and interred here. I toured this incredible place today with Madame M, who generously offered some delicious tidbits of history; pointing out the recumbant statues of Pepin the Short and his wife Berthe Big Feet. I kid you not, they called the queen of France "Berthe Big Feet"! There was also a "Charles the Crazy" and a "Henry the Huge" (apparantly he was well hung). We laughed as I explained that in America we had "Tricky Dicky" and "Slick Willy", the latter being an excellent double entendre. I was moved by the story of her favorite king Henry IV, who was assassinated in the streets of the Marais while riding in his coach, on the way to a meeting with his top advisor, Sully. In a twist of fate his coach ended up in a traffic jam, blocked by a delivery wagon of wine. His assassin seized the opportunity, and jumping into the coach fatally stabbed the King of France. Immediately following the Revolution, Henry's well preserved remains were seized by looters, unceremoniously thrown into a vat of lime and destroyed. The remains of most of the monarchs of France suffered a similar fate, their artfully sculpted tombs smashed to bits as revolutionaries attempted to obliterate all memory of their oppressors. 51 corpses were destroyed in two days in August, 1793. Despite all the carnage, the Basilica is home to over 70 recumbant statues and tombs, a collection truly unique to Europe. I am always fascinated how a talented sculpteur can capture the essence of a human soul in stone; her emotion, his tenderness, arrogance or piety. C'est magnifique! You can visit the Basilique St. Denis Tuesday through Sunday from 10h-18h. Tariff for viewing the necropolis and crypt is 7 euro. Take Metro ligne 13 to Basilique St. Denis and follow the signs.

Le Musée Rodin

In the shadow of Les Invalides and under the watchful eye of Le Tour d'Eiffel is a beautiful place not to be missed; the Musée Rodin. With her sprawling gardens overflowing with hydrangea and rosebushes punctuated by the works of master sculpteur Auguste Rodin, it is a great pleasure to visit, especially on a sunny Indian summer afternoon! It was such a day yesterday, the sun bright and the air mild as I packed my satchel with a sketch pad, charcoals, and chocolate (in case of an emergency). Being the first Sunday of the month it was "Free Museum Day", a privilege I always make a point to take advantage of. I am not alone; parisians are passionate about art, and when it is free they are attracted like bees to honey. The layout of the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, combined with their popularity, makes for a rather unpleasant experience however, so I usually opt for a more open space. The sculpture garden at the Rodin is perfect, (even if the available seating is somewhat limited). I found a space on the cool green grass, took my shoes off and picked up my pencil, intending to sketch my dubious version of a Rodin nude. There were others nearby, concentrating on their own masterpieces, and I found them far more interesting. My pencil became like the compass on a Ouija board, leading me where it wanted to go, and I found myself cartooning a lady with bright orange hair cut in a 70's style wedge. Followed by a little old man with a sport coat, cravat, and english driving cap who was reading the Sunday paper, having staked out his place on a shaded bench hours earlier. The beautiful gold dome of Les Invalides - literally next door - was gleaming in the sun. Lovers strolled hand in hand, a young woman was cat napping on the grass contentedly. The more original visitors sat at the base of "Le Penser", striking his famous pose for the camera before wandering away without giving a second glance to this great work of art. It's a pity, as no cheap copies come close to the original. It is the same with "The Kiss", a fixture in every swingin' bachelor pad during the sexual revolution; when you see the real thing, it takes your breath away! You can visit the Musée Rodin Tuesday through Sunday from 10h-18h (closed Mondays and certain holidays). 79 rue de Varenne, metro ligne 13 to Varenne or Invalides, or RER C to Invalides. For more information including tariffs, go to: www.musée-rodin.fr/welcome.htm

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 8: "Mr. Low-key"

Searching for an answer to the age old question, "What am I going to wear?" I emptied half of my closet and had clothes strewn all over the bed. Mother Nature had been fickle all weekend, in a sunny mood one moment and threatening to cry tears of rain in the next. I wonder if men go through the same agonizing process before a date? I decided on a wild pair of Cavalli pants and 4 inch heels, praying for enough rain to nix a long walk around town after the matinée. I was excited to see the show, and excited to see "Low"! I was hoping to keep my emotions at bay however during the performance. I always get all weepy at the theatre when the lights dim, the curtain rises, and the overture begins to play - who knows why? Plus, the score we would be hearing is very moving and always makes me cry (in a good way). I hate crying in front of anyone, I just hoped I wouldn't make any weird snuffling noises in front of Low! This was only our second "official" date after all. I made sure to put a mini pack of mouchoirs in my purse and caught the 13:05 to Paris. "Wow, fabulous pants!" Low praised my fashion choices appreciatively. "You look great." He welcomed me with a light kiss on the lips and offered his arm. "Shall we go?" We strolled arm in arm past Galeries Lafayette, pausing to admire the unique window displays of this famous department store. The streets were completely deserted, all the shops in the neighborhood being closed on Sundays and its residents indoors having dejeuner (lunch) with family. On Monday morning the streets and sidewalks would be teeming with activity, but for now we had the city to ourselves as we zigzagged our way toward the theatre Mogador, catching up on the weeks activities. "I had a good meeting with our backer" Low told me, "and we begin casting next week!" His London project was taking shape and he was obviously excited. "Excuse me" Low went to will call and picked up our tickets. "Would you like a program?" (5 bonus points) Souvenir in hand, we made our way to our seats. "Here, you should sit on the aisle" he offered generously. I knew the cast would enter through the aisles of the theatre so I awarded Low another 5 points for his thoughtfulness. I was already feeling little goosebumps of anticipation, not unlike the feelings I knew the actors were experiencing as they do before every performance. We settled in and looked around the theatre as the audience tricked in and took their seats. Low was perusing the program, paying special attention to the page of credits devoted to the production; director, choreographer, etc. "Huh" he grunted. "Did you find your name?" I asked naively, half joking. "No, it's been removed" he answered quietly. My eyebrows shot upward off my head. "So, you had something to do with this show?" It was beginning to dawn on me that Mr. Low-key was Mr. Big Time. "I produced it with my partner" he confessed. "And for some reason, he has taken my name off the credits". He was obviously pissed off. Just then the lights dimmed and the show began. I choked up as usual, tears welling in my eyes. I turned my head away from Low hoping he wouldn't notice, under the pretext of watching the cast move down the aisle toward the stage. The music was strong and beautiful, it was a brilliantly conceived entrance to an impressive production. And my date was one of the geniuses who had made all it happen years before! I was doubly impressed by how modest he was, all things considered. I remembered how he said "I play in the theatre a little, it's not really work" the first night I met him. He did more than play, I call tell you that! Soon it was intermission, and as we moved toward the lobby he offered me a drink. Always the gentleman he was going through the motions, but I could see he was very unhappy. "Are you enjoying the show?" he wanted to know. "It's an incredible production" I gushed, "the staging is nothing less than brilliant!" It was true - there hadn't been anything quite like it before or since. Low agreed. "I'm glad you're enjoying it" he smiled, but I could tell he was putting on a brave face. He had more important things on his mind- like the scathing letter he would send to his former partner. "Are you okay?" I asked sympathetically. I was feeling his pain. He nodded and offered a weak smile. "Let's go back in" he said as he took my arm and guided us back to our seats. I could hear the gears spinning in his head over the music as he mentally prepared to confront the offending party. We held hands during the second act, and I tried cheering him up with a charming smile now and then, but I could sense he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there and put his blackberry to work. Who could blame him? The show was incredible though, and ended with a standing ovation. "You should be very proud" I told Low, "This was really a stroke of genius!" His vexation aside for a moment, he deservedly basked in the glow of the applause of an appreciative audience, this was his baby! We exited the theatre, and as we strolled along enjoying the fresh air he told me the backstory of how this production came to be. "Are you hungry?" he asked, "let's find a fabulous place and have a really good bottle of wine." "I know just the place" I said, "I just have to figure out how to get there from here!" I had a charming, quiet little bistro in mind, and I knew the food would cheer him up. Join us for dinner next friday and find out if a) the cuisine at Le Petit Pontoise makes everything all better, b) Low gets smashed and drunk dials his partner, or c) the kitchen catches on fire and we are forced to evacuate the restaurant!