Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 3: "Mr. Low-key"

Waiting in a queue for a taxi on a Saturday night in Paris requires not only a great deal of patience, but stamina as well. Forget hailing one off the street Manhattan style - its not going to happen - especially after 2 a.m. But with good company, armed with a wine buzz and a full pack of smokes, it becomes an event! It was a beautiful, balmy summer night and the crowds that trawl the always hectic Quartier Latin were beginning to thin. "Low" and I made our way to the Boulevard St. Michel, and together with scores of drunken college kids and tourists located the taxi stand. It was to be a long wait as the fine weather had seduced us all into a state of euphoria, causing half of Paris to forget the metro closes at two. Not really wanting to go home but unable to escape the inevitable, we lined up and waited our turn for the next available cab. It had been an evening unexpected, serendipitous even. I had no idea that an afternoon of errands and a chance meeting on a terrace would turn into a very long walk and moments of sweet romance after midnight. But this being Paris, one must be prepared for anything! We had discovered we had much in common, the not least of which being our love of people watching. We were in prime location, a loud and lively group of "twenty-somethings" were laughing and flirting, taking us back to the day when our hearts were full of frivolity. A very elegant elderly couple strolled by arm in arm, he sporting a cravat, she perfectly coiffed and in pearls, reminding me of what I hoped to be one day. (Elegant that is.) The man next to us was attempting to bum a smoke, a national sport second only to a good manifestation. Low put his arms around me and we shared an embrace, more affectionate than crotch grinding. (5 bonus points) He gently rocked me as I snuggled my head into the nape of his neck, and suddenly everyone disappeared, fading into the night like ghosts. I shut my eyes and listened to the music of the city; cars passing by - some vibrating with the rhythmic beat of hip hop - the belaboured roar of the last city bus departing with it's late night cargo, silly young girls calling to cute boys from their fourth story balconies. In my reverie I hadn't noticed we were next in line for a taxi! Without breaking his embrace, Low kissed me lightly and pressed his forehead to mine. Looking downward, he asked me if I had plans for the next day. "I would love to take you to lunch" he suggested, "and walk around town a bit..." Fortuitously I had no pressing engagements for the following day, and I accepted his invitation. He told me to call his hotel in the morning, and we would plan to meet around noon. Just then a taxi pulled up. Low kissed me quickly goodnight, and opened the door for me. "I'll take the next one" he said, and the gentleman that he is, discreetly slipped 20 euro into my hand. "Will this be enough to get you home?" (another 5 points) I thanked him and he leaned in for one last kiss, lingering as we already staked out the cab. We looked deeply into each others eyes and smiled, and I cupped the side of his face gently with my hand. One more sweet kiss and he shut the door, I gave the driver my address, and with a wave I was on my way home. I leaned my head back and relaxed, gazing out the window at the lights reflecting off the Seine as we made our way to the peripherique and toward the banlieus (suburbs). The magnificent Grand Palais was glowing in the distance, magical and impressive. The french know how to light their monuments, their luminescence keeps the city alive long after her residents have gone to sleep. Mozart provided the perfect ambiance, and I rolled the window down to feel the air caress me as I floated home in my chariot. I had the feeling that tomorrow was going to be a very good day! But what was I going to wear? A little summer dress with strappy sandals? Jeans and sensible walking shoes? (He seemed to love walking). What the hell am I going to wear?! Find out all the juicy details of my sunday afternoon with "Low" next week on your "Friday night French Ro-Com". A bientot!

Excited about the Tour de France!

Yesterday the Tour de France swept through my town and into Paris on the last leg of the race. It's a lot of hurry up and wait - first the publicity parade screams by, giant 6 packs of Heineken on wheels, enormous rounds of Breton cheese rolling down the street at 50 km. per hour music and horns blaring, projectiles of free stuff hurtle through the air at bystanders, offered by attractive teenagers belted onto the floats for safety. Then the press trickle by, every time a car approaches the air crackles with excitement - is the pelaton close behind? It's rather like waiting in line at Disneyland for the most popular ride on the busiest day of the year. Finally they arrive, and the athletes competing in this famous race are literally inches away - so close you could kiss them! In a blink of an eye they have passed, and after nearly three hours of waiting patiently the event is finished. But who can resist? It's one of those things you simply must do if given the chance. My proprietaire (landlord) is an interpeter by vocation, and was traveling with the tour working for France television. She promised press passes, so along with a few friends I jumped on the train to Paris and the Place du Concorde for the big finish. Thousands of people lined the Champs Elysées, the lucky ones in bleachers, others crowding every inch of sidewalk around Concorde to watch the pelaton circle around the obelisk toward victory. Try as we might to find Madame (and our passes), on foot, by phone, or by text it just wasn't happening. So we decided to take matters into our own hands, and as soon as security turned to ogle a beautiful girl in a miniskirt, we slipped by and into the inner sanctum of the tour. Huge buses that ferry team doctors, coaches, and champagne were parked haphazardly, girlfriends and family members offered hugs and kisses to men they haven't seen in a month, save on television. The seductive sound of cork popping from countless bottles filled the air, and the press jostled to interview the controversial Lance Armstrong. The top three finishers were celebrated at the podium, and after, the top 10 teams cycled lazily up the Champs Elysées one last time with cellphones recording the moment for posterity. Some stopped to sign autographs. Smiling and waving to an appreciative crowd, they were clearly enjoying themselves. Perhaps this is my favorite part of the tour, seeing the cyclists relaxed and happy, no head butting here! As the parade came to a close and the crowd began to disperse, we went again in search of Madame. Weaving through countless media trailers and trucks, careful not to trip over thousands of meters worth of cable, we saw the roadies packing up as they had every day for the last month, like a giant traveling circus. The circus that is the Tour de France!

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

His beautiful blue eyes searched mine as he took my hands and turned me to face him. I couldn't help but smile, he was adorable in a boyish kind of way and just a little shy. He lowered his gaze breaking eye contact, swinging our arms together nervously. I sensed he had a proposition but was fearful of rejection, haven't we all been there? I waited patiently. "Would you like to share a bottle of wine?" he ventured. "I know a place where they have a fabulous cellar. My favorite thing in the world is a good bottle of wine! Of course it is up to you-whatever you want to do...." he added, shyly looking away. Being a lover of the grape myself, I agreed. "That sounds really nice" I smiled. He looked like a boy at Christmas who just got a new bicycle. "Great! It's not far, are you okay to walk? If your feet hurt we can take a taxi" he offered. (5 bonus points) It was such a beautiful evening - the weather was fine, the moon reflecting off the Seine like a million stars twinkling, the imposing figure of Notre Dame luminescent and magical providing the ultimate backdrop for romance. I preferred to walk. We joined the tourists and lovers crowding the sidewalks along the Rive Gauche strolling parallel to the Seine, the bateaux in the water below ferrying crowds of visitors like giant snails moving toward the Ile St. Louis. Houseboats moored permanently to their docks lined the shoreline, many having been there for generations. Low offered his arm, and for a moment in time I felt as if we had joined the ranks of the amourous, Paris has a way of casting her spell! Parisians were dining on the terraces as we passed by, (the peak dinner hour being from 9:00-10:30) the cleverest having secured the best seats to enjoy the parade. Black vested waiters scurried about with plates of confit du canard and bottles of Badoit while a Jack Russell terrier enjoyed his own plate of steak tartar at the feet of his master. Low led me off the main drag to a quiet street with no traffic and few pedestrians into a tiny but quaint cave. The heady aroma of oak and fruit was sensual, it was dimly lit with votive candles and I was sure I detected the undertone of a good Cuban cigar. If he was trying to seduce me (and I was quite sure that he was), he was certainly doing a good job! The place was as unpretentious as he was, and as comfortable. "Do you prefer red wine or white?" he offered as he perused the list. We were in agreement, red is where it's at and he subtly ordered a bottle of Bordeaux that was older than I am. We chatted and sipped and laughed until the proprietaire asked us to leave, it was closing time and yet it seemed as if time had stood still, losing all motion, relinquishing her power over us. It was now after 2 a.m., long past the departure of the last train home. There was nothing to do but find the nearest taxi stand and brave the queue - getting a taxi after the metro shuts down for the night is about as easy as finding one in Manhattan on a rainy day! We made our way hand in hand, our heads buzzing from the wine, smiling sweetly at one another. I liked Low, he was a genuinely nice guy and so easy to be with. We took one last lingering look at Notre Dame and before we turned to enter the maze of streets which would lead us to available transportation, he tenderly cupped my face in his hands and kissed me sweetly. We were accompanied by the proverbial "elephant" to the taxi stand. Another question loomed before us. Did Low ask me: a) to go back to his hotel, b) for my phone number, or c) to meet the next day ? Find out next week on your Friday night French Ro-Com!

Your french humour for the day

I happened upon a very amusing article from a blog today entitled "20 phrases never to say to your wife when you get home from work." (I am particularly fond of #3) From the blog "Maman Travaille" (Working Mom), here is a look inside the french mind;

You have your little habits , go , talk, throw general truths or just chat . But do you know that among all that you say, you are certain phrases lose 10 points from coast to return the love and conjugal duty next month ? Here are 20 sentences to never tell your wife home from work ... or elsewhere.
1. I have a new intern ... She is fresh , funny , cool: looks like you ten years ago ! Besides, she was born in 1992 . Funny no?
2 . Oh no thank you , it's cute to have taken a osso bucco for tonight but was sprayed on the departure of Jean - Mi, I drank like ten whiskey I can not swallow anything .
3. My colleague had brought a chocolate mousse , hmm , the best I've ever eaten in my life! Uh ... yes yes , take apart the course ...
4. I 'm beat. You can not understand me, stress the responsibilities ...

5 . You could have folded the laundry anyway ! It is a ball
6. I get out , I 'll see a game ... Our what? anniversary ? Uh ... we will celebrate tomorrow ?
7 . Have not you grown a bit in recent time?
8. At noon I had lunch with Marie - Christine . In head - to-head .
9 . Pasta, yet ?
10 . Why children are not lying ? It 's late! I have not the strength to take care
11 . Why do children lie ? It is early! I wanted to see
12. Oh no , you have taken Heineken , yet you know that my friends drink Grimbergen . Sigh ...
13 . I do not ask you how was your day , it could not be worse than mine.
14 . Hmm? No I was not listening , sorry darling but you know me, stories about girls ... (When you were talking about your new big customer )
15. This afternoon I asked the team in a great restaurant , so this week we'll go easy on spending.
16. Oh unusually late tomorrow I'll finish . Like today and yesterday. And last week .
17. I travel all because my colleagues , the poor , have young children ages. How? I too have the two babies ? Yes but I am a man, it's different ...
18 . I resigned
19 . I accepted a position at Tulsa . Happy?
20 . What's for dinner?

Paris Plages

Every summer a boardwalk is installed along the banks of the Seine between Pont Neuf and the Pont des Arts. Potted palms, cabanas, and ice cream vendors line the riverbank, sunbathers take full advantage of the opportunity, and crowds of people flock for the great parisian pastime: peoplewatching! Children scream with delight as they play under the cool mist emanating from large metal umbrellas. Street musicians strum their guitars and sing, the bateux lumber by ferrying loads of tourists, and college students gather on the Pont des Arts to have a smoke, a bottle of wine, and to perhaps sell a watercolour or some homemade jewelry. The location is prime, across the river is the Conciergerie where Marie Antoinette was held prisoner before her execution. Standing on the Pont des Arts one has a perfect view of the Ilse St. Louis, Notre Dame, and the steeple of St. Chappelle-considered to be the greatest treasure of Gothic architecture in Paris. It is amazing to realize that this tiny island, created by a fork in the Seine, was the kingdom of France in its entirety 900 years ago! The land which today forms the republic of France was divided into duchys and controlled by feudal families in medeival times. The deep bellow of a ships horn sounds an alarm and brings me immediately out of my daydream......tourists on the Bateaux Mouches are shouting and waving to the crowds on the bridge as they pass underneath, photographs are being snapped hurriedly, and everyone is smiling. It's just another beautiful summer day on the Plages de Paris!

Vrai ou Faux: "French women never get fat"

There are many cultural myths that exist throughout the world today. "French men are the best lovers", "hot Russian women are spies", and my personal favorite: "Black men are hung like horses". Myths of this type have often begun as seedlings of personal experience nurtured into generalities (as in the latter example). I remember seeing a report on 60 Minutes years ago about the stunning lack of heart disease in France - considering all the consumption of cheese, butter, and cigarettes that is at the core of french culture. Scientists were just beginning to study this phenomenon, one hypothesis being that red wine was acting as a counterbalance to the high cholesterol in their beloved frommage. Yet, when I arrived in France three years ago and settled in, I noticed publicité around town regarding the issue of heart disease in France. It seems 1 in 3 french citizens will die from this malade, and we Americans were believing just the opposite! The myth that french women don't get fat may be fun to perpetuate, but the real truth is this: obesity is on the rise in France. The reasons are many, a mélange of the introduction of processed foods in to the french diet, (bread, pasta, and potato consumption is down, while processed pastry desserts and high fat quick meals are up). Depression is cited as a cause, which runs high here. I have noticed adults smoke less, which could also be a factor. Personally, I blame the craving for American style junk food for the current trend, in 2008 KFC infiltrated Paris (which can only add to the problem), and I have seen parisians line up outside the door for a Big Mac! It's easy to see the difference in the french silhouette since I first came here as a tourist in 1998. As they absorb American culture into their psyche, blue jeans, hip hop style, McDonalds and Pizza Hut, the french are also beginning to sport muffin tops and pop Lipitor. It's a slow and steady gain; according to researchers the number of overweight people in France has risen 6% in 12 years. So, the answer to the question "True or False, French women never get fat" is this: False! Thank you for participating in the poll. I have pretty savvy readers, 62% of you voted "false", while 37% bought the myth and voted "true".

Street Art

Human beings are creatures of habit. We drive the same route to and from work, day after day, week after week. We frequent the same restaurants, order our favorite dish from the menu, in fact we are on auto-pilot much of our lives. I am no different - each day I walk the same path to the boulangerie and I buy the same thing: "un pain au chocolat et une demi baguette s'il vous plait"! Every once in a while we rebel against ourselves, and in a fit of picqué decide to take Main Street to the fork in the road instead of Lincoln Heights directly to the autoroute. It was on one of these days that I happened upon a magical place - a place that exsisted right under my nose yet remained hidden, like the world beyond the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. Feeling rebellious, my blood was up and I zigged instead of zagged - not once but twice! (Did I mention my blood was up?) On the second zag I was stopped short by a "sentier", a gaily painted totem indicating this was no ordinary rue, this was a place where thinking is a little out of the box. A place where artists are free to decorate their neighbors homes with splashes of colour, a place that possessed a magical ambiance, an unexpected oasis in the suburbs. As I continued, I noticed tableaus of flowers, butterflies, and ladybugs attached to fences willy-nilly, as if the Easter Bunny had attacked the neighborhood covertly one night with a paintbrush. The lamposts were beautifully decorated, there were expressions of love on a cement foundation ( P + C ), a garbage bin even joined the party! As did Alice, I encountered a freakishly large and rather smug cat, purring contentedly at his guardpost near the opposite entrance - my journey was over in the blink of an eye. With one quick zig, I was back in the "real world". This happy little place is my new habitude as I take my daily trip to the bakery for my pain au chocolat. I wonder what other little gems lie hidden right under my nose? I guess I'll never know unless I zig!

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

I must admit, after my marraige of 30 years ended and I moved to Paris I wasn't at all interested in cooking. Living within the framework of traditional roles, it had been my responsibility to get dinner on the table each night - that combined with the simple truth that it isn't very interesting to cook for oneself led me to dine out regularly my first two years in the city. It was at one of these early (by french standards) dinners that I met Mr. "Low-key". It had been a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I found myself in the Marais, at the Place de le Bastille. There are any number of cafés surrounding the Rond Point, and it's a great pleasure to sit on a terrace to watch the show while enjoying a plat of typical french cuisine. A beautiful monument to the French Revolution is center stage, the gilded sculpture perched atop a giant column glowing in the sun. Traffic circles frenetically, weaving around each other as they aim for one of 7 exits on the "etoile". Crowds of tourists wander cluelessly searching for the Place du Vosges, while ultra trendy, affluent bohemians ("Les Beaubo") stroll with purpose - they are there to be seen! It's a noisy, smelly, fabulously french place to be. I carefully selected the best location possible (in the french tradition of the game); on the terrace, sun to the back, with just enough shade to make it comfortable, with a view of the action and no obvious smokers nearby. Famished, I ordered steak and frites and sipped on a coke as I marveled at a daring scooter boy escape almost certain death by city bus. The gentleman sitting next to me witnessed the same daredevil maneuver, and we both gasped in unison. "I can't believe he just did that!" I exclaimed, laughing. "I love it" he smiled, "Where are you from?" "I'm from California originally, but I live here now." "FABULOUS!" he cried, "I am in Europe for about 6 months. I've just been in Italy for awhile trying to learn Italian." He explained he was from California, dividing his time between L.A. and New York City. He was a pleasant conversationalist so I invited him to join me at my little bistro table. He was intriguing, he downplayed his work saying he "played in the theatre a little-it's not really work". Possesed with insatiable curiosity he preferred to ask the questions, deflecting attention from himself. We went deep, it was the eve of an historic presidential election. He was an Obama man, and I was still clinging to Hillary - even though it was obviously over for her. As we were debating the finer points of the Obama campaign a beautiful olive-skinned young french girl on a vélo, (not to be outdone by the daring scooter boy) sporting the lowest of low-cut jeans and two inches of coin slot executed a triple serpentine voiture bypass with an opposite flow poulet fry. All thoughts of politics disappeared as the most daring feat of stunt-biking took place right before our eyes! I think we were both a little turned on. Beautiful, totally fearless, with casually tousseled hair and cleavage 360°, she took on 2 Mercedes taxi's, a city bus, three motorcycles and a Renault. On a bicycle, with no helmet! "Low" and I locked eyes. "THIS is why I love Paris" I said with stars in my eyes. He gently took my hand. "Would you like to go for a walk?" Being the spontaneous woman that I am, naturally I agreed. We headed arm in arm toward the Seine for nowhere in particular, exploring Paris off the beaten path. Not far from the hustle and bustle were quiet residential streets, peppered with tiny bistros, shops full of antique books for collectors, and boutiques whose window displays promised one of a kind fashions (closed, of course!) We walked together easily and chatted about everything-and nothing. Before I knew it we had made our way to Notre Dame, the sun was setting, and Low had another invitation. He turned me to face him, looked deep into my eyes and popped the question. Did he invite me to: a) Go back to his hotel b) Go to the theatre to see a musical or c) share a bottle of really good wine? Find out next week on your "Friday night French Ro-Com"! (All stories based on true events. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.)

Music: Jean Pierre Rebillard, Musician and Composer

Armed with an impressive repetoire, contrebasse in hand, Jean Pierre Rebillard travels France in the tradition of the troubador, bringing with him rythym and cool, effortless improvisation, and his own joyful take on the classics. He has been master of the upright bass for some 30 years, a serendipitous twist of fate. "I was in a rock band, playing lead guitar" Rebillard explains. "But I couldn't play "Jumpin' Jack Flash" so the leader of the band switched me to bass". Having earned a teaching degree in music but feeling unfullfilled in this role, he changed direction and never looked back. In Lille one day and Normandy the next, playing for the hep cats dancing rock 'n roll at the famous Caveau de la Huchette in Paris to composing a romantic tribute, Rebillard's goal is to keep growing. He released his latest CD "Histoires 2", a compilation of original duets and standards with guitarist Serge Merlaud in November of 2009, and he has recently become a student of classical cello. The cd goes down as smooth as a very expensive Armagnac, perfect for a romantic dinner or getting your tantric groove on. Merlaud plays guitar with sensitivity and nuance, together they create magic! 15 euro available at FNAC Montparnasse, Les Halles, and Les Ternes, also Paris Jazz Corner.

Happy "Quatorze de Juillet"!

Today the french mark the anniversary of a violent uprising by a grass roots organization, the storming of an infamous prison (and subsequent release of inmate Marquis de Sade); the start of the French Revolution of 1780. It is similar to the 4th of July in America in many ways, there are fireworks (feu d'artifice), picnics, and parades. Families and friends gather until late in the night, drinking beer and having a few laughs. There are free open air concerts, and a military air show complete with paratroopers who glide gracefully over the Champs Elysées to land at the feet of Carla Bruni, presenting her on bended knee with a red rose. I began this years celebration with dinner in the garden followed by a spectacular fireworks exhibition viewed from my front window. It is customary in the banlieus (suburbs) of Paris to have fireworks on the 13th, and we counted 8 displays taking place at once! It was balmy and clear, with a delicious breeze that made the evening perfect. As we ate apricot crumble and waited for the show to begin, Madame V explained how historically France has seen the United States as a model. Having fought alongside colonists for independance from British rule, french veterans of the American Revolution were inspired to dream big. Paris being the undisputed cultural capital of the world at that time, Franklin and Jefferson spent much time here and brainstormed with the top minds of the day. Three bloody revolutions, two empires and a restoration later, Marianne reigns supreme and the blue-white-and-red tricolour banner of Liberté Egalité and Fraternité trumps the fleur-des-lys! For over two centuries America and France have struggled together, grown together, and shared the best of each culture. It is in this spirit I wish all my friends here a Bonne Quatorze de Juillet!

OBJECTIVE: Paris Fashion Week

Ever since I was a little girl I have loved fashion. I used to spend hours drawing, creating catalogs complete with wigs, shoes, and jewelry-all the necessary accessories to complete each outfit I had dreamed up. In high school I had one of a kind pieces that my friends actually gave names to, such as the "Carmen Miranda" and the "Tomato worm dress". (I know what you're thinking. I prefer to think of it as "cutting edge".) There is nothing more fun than a fashion show, except perhaps windowshopping the Lacroix boutique on the Rue St. Honoré. Imagine having a seat at Paris Fashion Week! Every time it rolls around I read about it with envy. How could I get in to a show? Any show, of course Dior or Chanel would be baby bear. I could even deal with YSL! The next round begins September 29th, running through October 7th with ready to wear for spring/summer 2011, and getting there is my goal. Can I do it? I imagine it will be a little more difficult than crashing a wedding at Les Invalides! I'll keep you posted.....

Vrai ou Faux?

Upfront: All opinions expressed in the following text are based on my experiences as an American expat living in Paris during the last 3 years, as well as observations and opinions offered by my French friends. Of course, these are generalities, as exsist in every culture, and there are exceptions to every rule! That being said, let's play a little True or False. True or False: The French hate Americans. False! This myth is based in part on the aloof attitude of Parisians the average tourist encounters while on vacation abroad. Parisians are uptight to begin with, a bit neurotic and highly judgemental. When they stare you down with those furrowed brows and icy glare don't take it personal. It's them, not you. On the flip side, the french have an acute sense of american lust for consumption, waste, and how our policies affect the entire planet. But I haven't met a frenchman yet who doesn't dream of getting his kicks on Route 66! True or False: French women don't shave under their arms. Mostly False! Citing the exceptions to every rule clause, I will say that it is the norm for les française to defoliate the armpit area. This has been so since the 1960's. True or False: French men are the worlds best lovers. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha-excuse me-ha ha ha ha, False. True or False: The french produce the worlds best wine. True! (And I should know, I've tasted enough of it!) True or False: The french are lovers not fighters. False. Have you ever been in a queue with a parisian? But seriously, this perception was fomented during the occupation of France by Germany in the early 1940's. French soldiers have fought valiantly throughout centuries, whether it was for their King and Cross in a medieval Holy War, with the rebels in the New World against the tyranny of the English crown, or in WWI, which decimated french resources as well as the population. When Marshal Pétain signed the armistice with Germany in Vichy, it became an act of treason against France to join any army or orgainzed force of resistance against the occupation. Yet many defiant and courageous frenchmen and women joined General deGaulles Free France army, as well as any number of underground resistance organizations knowing full well that they were now traitors under the law, subject to torture and death. You can read the reactions of the french to Pétains folly on my blog entitled "l'Appel du 18 Juin" (the slideshow). Don't forget to vote on this weeks question: Do french women get fat? Vote in sidebar, find out the real truth next sunday!

Willy Ronis: Famous French Fotog

I hadn't seen Madame M since before I left for Bretagne, so when she telephoned and proposed we meet for the Willy Ronis exhibition today I readily agreed. Summer is in full swing, and the hot sun showed no mercy as I weaved my way through straggling tourists on the Pont Neuf, over the Seine to the Monnaie de Paris. Formerly the French Mint, it houses an exhibition hall, a museum dedicated to the minting of the centime (french coinage), and a boutique for coin collectors. There is even a little jewelry shop! But I digress.....we climbed an elegant if not well worn staircase (that wore the obligatory 19th century candelabra lamps like earrings on the rez-de-chaussée) and entered the world of Willy Ronis. A contemporary of Izis, (see my blog entitled "Izis: Photographer Extraordinaire") and Robert Doiseneau, he embraced Realism and had an affection for "le grève", (the strike!) and the working class. This is reflected in a series of photographs of people at work in the factories of Paris, women at the mills turning individual threads into fabric, men in the sweltering heat of the glass factories. There is a dignity and tenderness in his work; a group assembles to form a union, a fisherman kisses his wife and baby goodbye before embarking on the "Deadliest Catch". His nudes are famous, in fact women used to approach him and request he shoot them au naturale! Contributing volumes of work during his career in the mid 1900's to popular french magazines (as did his contemporary, Izis) Ronis made the kind of name for himself that afforded him the luxury of beautiful women begging to take their clothes off for him and his Pentax. He photograped his last nude at the age of 90, when his body got the best of him. Feeling too wobbly when he positioned himself for a shot and refusing to use a tripod, (a lifelong quirk) he started turning 'em down. Realist, Humanist, and most assuredly a Communist, you can visit the work of Willy Ronis until August 22nd, tuesdays through sundays from 11 am until 7 pm at the Monnaie de Paris, 11 Quai de Conti, metro ligne 7 sortie: Pont Neuf. Adults pay 7 euro.