The Ganesh Pride Parade

I became aware of a parade that was to take place last Sunday afternoon that promised to be colorful and interesting - the "Fete de Ganesh". A Hindu Holy Day commemorating Sri Ganesh, the Destructor of Obstacles began with a service at the Temple of Ganesh, and culminated in a festive promenade on the edge of Monmarte. I skipped the service, (it being at 9 a.m. and me not being that curious) but who can argue with a parade? I donned my only tunic, topped it off with a flowing scarf, and camera in hand staked out my spot on the sidewalk. An elderly man selling garlands of jasmine approached me, and in the spirit of things I bought one and draped it around my neck. Families of East Indian descent were dressed in their "sunday best", the women in beautiful jewel toned saris, little boys in silken Nehru jackets, and little girls looking like princesses. Many had been to the Temple for the service and had smudges of ash on their foreheads. Vendors were selling baskets of bananas, coconuts, and incense to be offered to the Diety Sri Ganesh. Exotic music was wafting through the air from an apartment window high above the parade route. There was a sense of anticipation in the crowd as we waited for the parade to approach, and when it did WOW! Banners, paper maché elephants, peacock feathers and bananas were in abundance as were smudgepots, drums, and men in tiger suits. A fifty woman team pulled a sacred altar with heavy rope, chattering encouragement to one another as they moved through the streets with their precious cargo. Volunteers distributed aluminum take out containers of rice and curried vegetables to the crowd, and a european Hindu convert handed me a leaflet inviting me to visit the Temple. The symbolism of what I had just witnessed was lost on me, but intriguing. As I hopped the metro for home I made a note to self: Google Ganesh!

Fete de Ganesh

"Bonne Rentrée!"

It's on the lips of every parisian today, and will be for about a week. Rather like "Merry Christmas" or "Happy New Year", it rolls off the tongue by habit, and from what I have ascertained, it is considered etiquette obligatoire. I find it rather hilarious that there is a phrase in french that refers to returning home from vacation, but as I illiterated in "August: the Month that Time Forgot", life as one knows it ceases to exsist here for about six weeks in the summertime, beginning in mid-July. Shops close, and the streets are quiet save for a smattering of tourists. Gare Montparnasse, a major train station that is my main artery to and from the burbs is all but deserted until the last weekend of August, when just as suddenly as the exodous turned Paris into a ghost town, it is jammed with 14 million people all trying to get home at the same time! Being there is like negotiating through a war zone full of land mines in the form of suitcases on wheels and small dogs - the former smashing your toes and the latter tripping you. Not to mention the française who hold their ground and defer to no one. The worst time to be there is on Sunday anytime after 6 p.m. (until midnight) as the french stay on holiday until the last possible moment, opting to return a mere 8 hours before returning to work on Monday morning. Then it's "Bonne Rentrée!" all day long as colleagues and friends greet one another and share the details of their vacances'. The routine of daily life has been restored to normal once more, it is the official beginning of the New Year in France.

Romance on Friday, Church on Sunday!

I am not a particularly religious person, but for some reason I enjoy visiting the ancient churches of Europe. The architectural beauty of the Gothic cathedrals are especially breathtaking - the scale massive, and there is nothing like a flying buttress I always say! Of course the most famous and popular tourist destination is the Cathedral de Notre Dame, and for good reason. I never tire of gazing at her from the Petit Pont, the prime time being after dark when her face is artfully illuminated, and the moonlight is shimmering on the surface of the Seine. The Sacre Couer in Montmarte is spectacular as well, with her tableau of Jesus welcoming one to the heavens with open arms painted masterfully on the huge domed ceiling. But my favorite chappelle of all is St. Eustache, located in the Chatelet/Les Halles district. I stumbled upon her one day as I was searching for the metro. Formidable in size, and obviously hundreds of years old, she called to me and I answered! It was a sunday afternoon, long before the evening service, and I joined a handful of visitors inside. Serendipitously, someone began playing the huge pipe organ, and the sound stopped everyone in their tracks! Powerful, emotional, and breathtaking, the sound echoed through the cavernous space, bouncing off those buttressess and searing the soul. It was a truly unforgetable experience. So when I heard there was to be a free concert of inspirational and popular music sung by a choir of 300, I was in! From Cole Porter to Mozart, Rodgers and Hammerstein to Andrew Lloyd Weber, the choir from Leeds and Newcastle sang their hearts out, and when they performed "Over the Rainbow" there was no holding back the tears - that damn song does it to me every time! There is a wonderful ambience inside St. Eustache. She is peaceful and calm, unlike her sister Notre Dame - perhaps because fewer tourists pass through. Maybe it is the positive energy of all the prayer that has taken place throughout the centuries that lingers unperturbed by the masses of sightseers that flock to Paris. Whatever it is, I like it!

Romance on Friday, Church on Sunday!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 7: "Mr. Low-key"

The week passed quickly but without a peep from "Low", e-mail or otherwise. I wasn't too concerned, it was a busy week for me and my mind was occupied elsewhere. Yet I couldn't help hoping he would return for the weekend as planned, he was such fun to be with! In my quiet moments late at night in bed, I pictured his boyish smile and beautiful blue eyes. I wondered exactly what the project was he was working on so diligently in London - being the picture of discretion he wasn't offering any details - and I wasn't pushing. As long as it was legal, I really didn't care! By thursday however, I thought I would have heard from him. Was this a case of "he just isn't that into me"? Having been married all of my adult life, I was still navigating the treacherous waters of dating and trying to figure out how to use my compass. I was on the metro saturday morning when my phone rang. I am always amazed how parisians can carry on long phone conversations in the trains. Between the noise of the wheels as they scream down the tracks, the heavy metal doors slamming open and closed at each stop, and the gypsies torturing you with their violins accompanied by a pre-recorded rythym section, I don't know how they can hear a thing! I certainly can't, and this time was no exception. I caught a few words; "Hi", "sorry-busy week", something about tickets, and "Paris". Was he in Paris? It wasn't clear if he was able to get tickets to the show he had invited me to or not, or if he was even coming into town. "I'm sorry cherie, I can't hear you. I'm in the train! Are you in Paris?" Just then the call was dropped. Merde! The train pulled up to the next stop and I got off. I knew he would call back and it would be easier to hear on the platform as there were few people around. Sure enough, he redialed and I got the scoop - he wanted to know if I was still interested in seeing a matinée on sunday. He was still in London and would take the "Chunnel" first thing in the morning if I was. "After the show, maybe we could find someplace fabulous to eat and share a good bottle of wine?" he offered. "That sounds nice" I agreed, and we hammered out the details of our rendez vous. "See you tomorrow!" we said simultaneously, and with a chuckle we rang off. I was a happy camper as I boarded the next train and continued toward my destination. Low was as good as his word and making an effort to come back to Paris to take me out! I had always wanted to see the show he was taking me to, it was a ground breaking production that had earned Tony awards, praised by critics and audiences alike. And I was glad to be going with him. But there was quite a surprise in store for me the next day, and you could have knocked me over with a feather! Join me next friday for a little theatre and a big revelation!

August: The month that time forgot!

"FERMETURE ANNUELLE". It's as much a part of the landscape in France as the Tour d'Eiffel. Every year around May there is one question on the lips of every française, "Where do you take your vacances?" The exodus begins in July, and by mid August Paris is a ghost town. English becomes the predominant language heard on the street as tourists wander from the Louvre to Notre Dame. The streets are otherwise quiet, and there is an air of calm that is quite relaxing as parisians take their neurosis with them and head south for sunny weather and ocean breezes. The average française has six weeks of paid vacation a year, and they often take it all at once. "Juilletistes" prefer their holiday in July, getting a jump on the crowds that will inevitably invade the Cote d'Azur in August. The "Aoutiens" (ooh-she-ens) are strict traditionalists, vacationing the entire month of August as their ancestors have historically done since the Industrial Revolution when factories would shut their doors for summertime. It's a tradition difficult for my american capitalist mind to wrap around - we strive to keep our factories productive 12 months a year, our supermarkets open seven days a week, our C-stores distributing 24/7. Imagine shutting down General Motors for the month of August and all employees taking a paid vacation! Today it is the small businesses that close for weeks at a time. It is important to prepare for August if you are to remain at home - much like a survivalist prepares for nuclear war. I am careful to have my hair cut and colored before my coiffeur takes off for Spain or Corsica. I make sure to have any shoe repairs, dry cleaning, or alterations taken care of no later than July 15th. It is important to stock up on non-perishables such as booze and cigarettes, and to have your prescriptions for Prozac and Xanex topped off before your local pharmacist closes shop and hops the TGV for Bretagne. Life as you know it ceases to exist - the parks are silent, devoid of the laughter of children and controlled chaos of a friendly game of futbol. One walks twice as far to find a boulangerie to buy ones daily bread, or if you have a car, parking is a breeze. There is nobody around to battle for an available space! Forget having friends over for a summer BBQ - they all went to Provence. There is nothing to BBQ anyway, the boucheries and poissonniers are FERMER. Then September arrives, and on what americans celebrate as "Labor Day" marks the beginning of the French New Year. The mouthwatering aroma of rotisserie chicken wafts through the air, brought to you by the neighborhood butcher. Beautiful desserts are displayed in the windows of the patisseries, tempting the passerby. Once again, there is a long line that extends out the door of the boulangerie first thing in the morning, and the brasseries are crowded with "regulars" that drop by for a midday beer, a lotto ticket, and a lively political debate. It's as if Paris awakens from a collective slumber, and life begins as if it had never stopped - until next August!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 6: "Mr. Low-key"

I was floating on Cloud 9 all the way home on the train. It felt good to be with "Low". He was smart, inquisitive, funny, and adorable! It had been difficult to leave him to sleep alone, but anticipation being the ultimate aphrodisiac I reluctantly tore myself out of his arms, gave him one final kiss and disappeared into the metro. I must have had a glow, or maybe it was the smile on my face that had every man on the train looking at me. If you go around smiling parisians assume you are completely crazy so perhaps it was the latter, but I didn't care. I was happy as a lark! Suddenly, my cellphone chirped - I had a text. "Thnx 4 2day" it read, "had a grt time! xoxo" "I had a gurt time 2" I replied, "sleep tight!" He said goodnight and as I put my phone in my purse I noticed a man sitting two rows away grinning at me. He winked as our eyes met, and I looked out the window nonchalantly. (The other thing french men assume is that if you smile at them in the train it means "Please follow me when I get off at my stop and let's go make love!" So I have learned to suppress my California attitude, and like any self respecting parisienne, snub them as if they are invisible.) I could see the Tour d'Eiffel twinkling in the distance, as it does every hour on the hour all night long. It's moments like these that remind me why I moved here in the first place, trading a life of security and comfort for the unknown. The next stop was mine, and as the train pulled into the station I made my way to the door. To my chagrin, Blinky did too. He hadn't stopped staring after my obvious F.U. and I made every effort not to make eye contact a second time. I hoped was getting off the train because he lived in my town, and in the opposite direction! I live near the gare, and I didn't want him to know where. I reached for my phone, and pretending to have a conversation with someone I mounted the stairs toward the exit. Blinky wasn't far behind, and I could feel his eyes burning a hole somewhere near my ass all the way up. Just then a young guy moved quickly between us to the top of the stairs, and as I pushed through the turnstile he created a welcome buffer. I wasn't obliged to hold the door for Blinky, and I breathed a little sigh of relief as he exited the door opposite from me and went on his way. Once inside the gate my thoughts returned to Low. As I climbed the stairs to my flat I wondered if he had already gone to bed. I imagined him there all naked and cosy, and me next to him! My mind running freely, I asked my self if he wore underwear to bed. Which led me to ponder if he was a boxer man or a tighty-whitey. Maybe he wore the kind that are like tight shorts - in red! I finally settled on banana hammock, also in fire engine red, who can argue with that? I switched on the television and found an opera on Arte, France's version of PBS. It was one of my favorites, "La Traviata", and the beautiful arias were the icing on the delicious cake that was the day. I showered off the dust of the city and settled into bed. The sheets felt cool and welcoming, and I sighed with contentment as I spooned up to my extra pillow to enjoy the finalé of a top notch production and reflect on the afternoon. I hoped Low was sincere about his theatre invitation and would really return the next weekend. My instincts told me he would, but in the dating game anything could happen! Join me next week and find out if a) Low returns to Paris just to see me, OR b) he totally stands me up!

The Enigmatic French

France is a land full of paradox and contradiction - illogical yet obsessed with intelligence, beauty and bad taste somehow coexisting, freedom of expression and the fear of it a constant undercurrent of daily life. Allow me to elaborate. When I arrived for my first visit to Paris 12 years ago, my foremost impression was that art was what the city was all about. With countless museums, sculpture everywhere in the parks and on the street, exhibitions advertised by the score in the metro, and edgy window displays, it is art and more art everywhere you look! Parisians eat it up like stinky cheese, yet historically they have resisted the shocking - from the Tour d'Eiffel (once considered hideously ugly) to the Pyramid designed by I.M. Pei in front of the Louvre (also considered hideous). But given 20 years or so these new concepts are accepted and embraced. Paris is known as "the fashion capital of the world", yet there is little that is fashion forward here. Unless you consider shorts with black tights and boots in the dead of winter forward thinking, I see nothing on the streets to back up this claim. I'm not saying that french women don't have a certain je ne sais quoi, they most certainly do! But if you dare wear boots instead of ballet flats after a certain day in March you'll get the stinkeye for sure. The french love technology, and gadgets. Everyone had an IPOD here years before americans caught on, yet the french aren't very comfortable with e-commerce. It is just starting to take hold, and the average frenchman is still not aware of Craigslist. Food plays a huge role in the lifestyle here - the average dinner party lasts for a minimum of three hours, with as many courses. Yet they have no idea how to properly grill a steak! The french are known for their sexual prowess, and yet they are repressed and often quite shy. They are obsessed with rules, and like nothing more than to break them. Just when I think I get it, I realize I don't - in fact I feel like I understand the french mind less now than I did when I arrived three years ago!

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 5: "Mr. Low-key"

What could be more romantic than sitting on the steps of the Palais Garnier alongside teenagers, tourists, and pigeons (the latter trawling for snacks), on a beautiful sunday afternoon engaged in blatant PDA ? It's an experience - uniquely french - that everyone should have at least once a lifetime. I was vaguely aware of a middle aged couple from America smiling at us, he raising his camera to capture the quintessential parisian moment, and we gave him the money shot! Smiling into each others eyes, Low pulled me into a warm embrace, and I nestled into his shoulder. A toddler chased a trio of pigeons away from a half eaten cookie, and he knelt down and sampled it for himself before his mother (who was horrified) could head him off at the pass. We laughed as he cried during the vigorous decontamination of his tongue....life was good. "Are you hungry?" inquired my date. "I'm famished!" I exclaimed, "I think I ran out of gas about a half hour ago". "What do you feel like having for dinner?" Low asked, "Since you live here, I'll let you choose. Do you have a favorite restaurant?" (a whopping 10 bonus points!) "Oooh, I know just the place, Chéz Janou!" I suggested, "it's a bit of a zoo, in the sense that it is always very busy, but that's because the food is so good. But it's very unpretentious, and the wait staff is friendly. The moules gratinée is to die!" "Fabulous" said Low, "Where is it? Should we get a cab?" "We can take the metro right here, line 8 will take us to Bastille, et voila!" I offered. I am so accustomed to using public transportation, it's so easy (and above all cheap), I don't even give it a second thought. "No, I don't feel like taking the metro, we'll catch a taxi" he insisted. I didn't argue, and we walked hand in hand toward the nearest taxi stand to queue up and hope a few extra drivers were on duty - Sunday being one of those days it is next to impossible to find a cab. But when you have a hot date like Low, it's a pleasure to wait! Chéz Janou was crowded as usual when we arrived. (Note to self: enter their phone number into cell for reservations on the fly.) We had only 10 minutes to wait, and Low snagged the one remaining barstool and offered it up (5 points). Chéz Janou has inarguabley the best olives in the universe, and we munched contentedly on this perfect appetizer before being shown to our table. We shared the moules, a delicious spinach salad with goat cheese and grapefruit, (salade epinard avec pamplemousse et chévre), and for dessert a generous serving of their famous house mousse au chocolat. OMG! The waiter brings a giant bowl of chocolate heaven - big enough to swim in - offers you a sizeable platter and a huge spoon with which to take as much as you desire.....stick a fork in me - I'm done! Joking, I asked the waiter to just leave the bowl, and he did! Low laughed as the waiter walked away, playing along with my farce. "Are you going to eat all of that?" he grinned. "No, you're going to help" I said, and with a straight face, dished him up a teeny tiny portion. "Thanks, it's so good of you to share!" He took the plate I offered, and with his pinky scooped the mousse off the plate and into his mouth. "Hmmmm, delicious! Waiter, check please!" We laughed and I dove into the bowl, serving a generous portion for us to share as we chatted and took in the chaos that is Chéz Janou. It had been a great day, and I was looking forward to going to the theatre with him the next weekend. But the way he was looking into my eyes, I knew there was a decision looming before us - and it was all mine. Low was staying in a hotel at Place du Vosges, just two blocks away. I was either going to get on the metro after dinner, or not. Did I want to stay? Oh yes! I felt comfortable with Low, he was easy to talk to and funny - and adorable. But most of all, a gentleman. I faced the cunundrum every woman has; to play by the "rules" and wait (for date number six? marraige? a ring on it?) or succumb to the pleasures of the flesh and "cowgirl up"! Not helping matters was the mélange of boyish charm, Bordeaux, and a huge bowl of chocolate mousse. Add the fact that I am not looking for a husband, and you have devils brew! Oh la la. I knew deep down Low would have more respect for me if we waited, plus a little anticipation goes a long way......on the other hand I didn't want to leave him, I wanted to lie in his arms all night. We strolled slowly toward our final destination, not wanting the night to end. As we neared the moment when we must decide whether to zig toward Place du Vosges or zag toward the metro, my heart was pounding furiously. Did I a.) demurely kiss Low goodnight and get on the metro, b.) go with him to his hotel and ride him like the wild stallion he is, OR c.) this is way TMI - Too Much Information Find out next week on your Friday night French Ro-Com, right here at Bonbon de Paris!

Musée du Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris

When my sister came to Paris for Christmas last year, she wanted to visit "the modern art museum", having seen images of it on a travel show before she arrived. Mistakenly, I took her to the Centre Pompidou. Where she had really wanted to go was the Musée du Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, one of the museums always free to the public. (my bad!) Located at the Palais du Tokyo, across the river from the Tour d'Eiffel near Pont d'Alma, it is full of delightful surprises. Sculpture, ceramics, paintings, and the coolest furniture I have ever seen is arranged in minimalist fashion, the space open and uncrowded. The permanent collection is impressive without overwhelming the senses, and you can get your museum "fix" without a day long commitment or fighting crowds of tourists. For a lovely afternoon in Paris on a dime, allow me to suggest a visit to the Musée du Art Moderne followed by a stroll along the Seine and across the river toward the Tour d'Eiffel. A walk through the Jardin du Musée Quai Branly is always free, and great place to feel removed from the pace of the city while still being in the middle of it! A picnic on the Champs de Mars in the shadow of the Tower offers an ambiance that's unparalleled, and fortified by a baguette and cheese, fresh fruit and a beer, you have lived like a true parisian (for 10 euro or less)! Visit the "MAMVP" Tuesday-Sunday from 10h-18h at 11 avenue President Wilson, metro ligne 9 to Alma-Marceau. Closed Mondays and holidays.

The Pied Pipers of Parc de le Villette

There were many cultural events to choose from last weekend, from an organ audition at the Cathedral de Notre Dame to Chopin at Parc Floral and everything in between. I chose an "ambulation" at Parc de le Villette, Paris' largest park. The program promised "25 French musicians who love South American music", and I visualized doing the conga through the trees accompanied by other free thinking parisians ready to blow off a little steam and shake their bootays. I had never been to the PdV, and hoped it wouldn't be too difficult to find the concert, but I had nothing to fear. As soon as I exited the metro I could hear the rythmic beat of a bass drum and strains of a melody wafting gently through the air, drawing Sunday afternoon strollers toward it hypnotically. I followed my ear toward a grassy field where a small crowd encircled a lively band of musicians. Their costumes reminded me of vaqueros, Argentine cowboys with a dash of fancy thrown in for good measure, and they were performing an authentic choreographed routine as they blew their horns like a marching band at a high school football game. Their obvious joy was contagious as they moved through the trees toward a piazza. Everyone followed, mesmerized, just like in the old fable! Not as much in a conga line as a zombie line - those who dared danced a bit - but everyone clapped and smiled and came together for a moment in time. The group is "La Belle Image", raucous and hilarious, and fun.

ambulation avec "La Belle Image"

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 4: "Mr. Low-key"

I awoke to a beautiful cloudless summer morning, and as I gazed out the window at the gold dome of Les Invalides gleaming in the sunlight I was still pondering what to wear on my first "official" date with Low. I knew he had a penchant for walking, so the most comfortable shoes possible were in order. Trouble is, the most comfortable shoes aren't often the cutest, in fact when one can accomplish being extremely comfortable and ultra chic at the same time it is a coup d'éclat - right girls? Plus, in Paris anything can happen weather wise. It can be bright and sunny one moment and before you know it, gale force winds are blowing rainclouds your way! Tropical style thunderstorms are not at all unusual in summer, so I had to be prepared for anything while remaining stylish and comfortable. Oh la la! I decided to phone him to see what he had in mind for the day before making my decision. "Good morning cherie, did you sleep well?" Low sounded cheerful and ready to take on the day. "Do you still want to meet for lunch?" he queried, "and maybe a little walk around town?" (I knew it! The scales were tipping toward jeans and tennies). "I'd like that" I purred, "where shall we meet?" As it happened he was staying near Bastille, not far from where we had our chance encounter the night before. "There is a great little café called "Les Pharohes" at the Place de Bastille" he suggested, "they have the best jambon et frommage sandwiches, my favorite! I love a cup of coffee with ham and cheese on a baguette, it's fabulous!" I happen to agree, (if you switch the coffee for a cola) so we firmed up our plans and rang off. Our conversation did little to resolve my wardrobe crisis however, but first things first - time for a shower and a "brazilian"! The Place de Bastille is quite large, with several sorties in the metro to choose from. The circumference around the Rond Point can take 10 minutes or more to traverse on foot, and I hoped the "meeney-miney-moe" method was on my side as I made my choice. I was already a little late. As luck would have it, "moe" came through and I found the café easily, and as I approached I could see by the smile on Low's face my tardiness was still within the realm of the adorable. He stood to greet me (5 bonus points) and we kissed cheek to cheek, the typical french hello. He was savvy, he had arrived early enough to choose the best table complete with an excellent view, just enough shade, as well as potted plants nearby acting as a buffer from the crowded sidewalk. The lunch crowd was just beginning to arrive as we ordered our sandwiches, and we chatted easily as we watched the "Bou-bo" work the pavement. Noon on Sunday at Bastille is a sight to behold. Young, muscular boys in skin tight tees and a 3 day beard swagger confidently like cocks in a hen house. Beautiful, tanned women in casual chic and the right sunglasses run their fingers through perfectly tousled hair as they smoke a cigarette and command complete attention. Forget poodles - Jack Russell terriers are the dog du jour! You can literally smell the money in the air as the scene plays out before your eyes. Fortified by lunch and a healthy dose of people watching we began a leisurely stroll through the streets of the Marais. One of the only neighborhoods whose shopkeepers open on Sunday, we explored a few galleries and boutiques, and shared a delicious piece of baklava from one of many traditional Jewish delicatessens. "I have to go to London tomorrow" Low announced, quite out of the blue. "I'm working on a project there." He explained he was directing a stage production, but true to his nature was very "low key" about it, and didn't offer too many details. "Do you like musicals?" he asked. Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope... (well you know). "Of course! I love musicals!" "Would you like to go to the theatre next sunday?" he offered, "I thought I would come back to Paris for the weekend and take you to a matinée." It was a show I had always wanted to see, and I didn't hesitate to accept his invitation. Smiling, he gave me a little kiss and we continued our walk through Paris hand in hand, ending up at the Opera Garnier somehow. Low bought two bottles of cold water from an (unlicensed) street vendor and we sat on the steps of the opera house with the tourists and the teenagers to rest our feet and watch the world go by, in true french style! We kissed on the steps as huge double decker tour buses ambled by and amateur photographers on vacation captured our PDA for posterity. I felt like a real parisienne that day, being kissed openly by one's lover in Paris is a rite of passage! But our date wasn't over yet.....join me next week for your Friday night French Ro-Com and see what happened next!

Little Gems: Le Petit Palais

I have walked past her countless times, admiring her beauty with a fleeting glance before continuing on my way, never taking the time to discover what she is like on the inside. What a fool I have been! For her inner beauty outshines her exterior hundred-fold....I am speaking of le Petit Palais. You'll find her at east end of the Champs Elysées, near Place du Concorde, facing her big sister Le Grand Palais. Calm and serene, light and airy, she boasts an eclectic collection of sculpture, paintings, and ceramics, as well as tapestry and furnishings. From neoclassical to realism, modernism to impressionism, (with a little Louis thrown in for good measure), she has something to offer everyone! A graceful escalier beckons one to discover the treasures she is willing to share so generously with anyone who knocks at her door - and unlike her cousin the Louvre, she is discreet - a gentle unassuming beauty so very easy to spend time with. And she asks nothing in return, you can visit the permanent exhibition free of charge Tuesday-Sunday from 10h-18h. If you are hungry, a café overlooking her beautiful jardin is just the thing! Take metro ligne 1 to Champs Elysées-Clemenceau.

Le Tour d'Eiffel: Masculine or Feminine?

I was strolling Quai Branly with Madame V the other day which naturally lead us past the "Big Kahuna" of french monuments, le Tour d'Eiffel. A marvel of engineering, it loses any and all cliché when you stand in it's shadow and study the design and construction. I never tire of it, when I take the Metro (line 6) the elevated tracks cross over the Seine offering passengers a perfect view, inspiring even the most dedicated parisian grinch to smile. A magical energy exisits for a 100 meter radius that is palpable - the air fairly crackles with excitement as one approaches it's domain. "She eez beeyouteefool, non?" V asked (rhetorically). "Ahh oui" I nodded, "but tu penser elle est une femme? Toujours, j'penser c'etait masculine, comme un grand penis!" (I think you get my drift). I was suprised to hear V saw this structure as feminine as I had never looked at it in that way. In my eye it has always seemed a masculine object, it's strong shaft jutting into the sky adamantly against the wind. "She eez strong like a woman" V explained, "and gracefool". I cocked my head to one side and regarded the tower thoughtfully. I could see V's point, there is a definite grace to the shape of her legs, her slender waistline, her swan like neck. I guess it's all the way you look at it - like a giant Rorshach test! As we discussed the finer points of it's gender we meandered toward it, drawn in by the seductive magnetism that exudes - yes, like a beautiful woman - from it's core. Suddenly, as we walked between "her" legs and underneath her "skirt" I felt I shouldn't look upward, it would be rude! Later that evening, I broached the subject of "masculine v. feminine" with friends over dinner. The opinion of the room was divided pretty much 50/50, interestingly enough the men in the room saw the tower as masculine, while the women had decided it projected femininity. We spent 20 minutes engaged in passionate pseudo-intellectual debate (as the french are wont to do), when the brilliant Jean-Claude declared, "It's metro-sexual!" Touché Jean-Claude.

The best things in life are free: Musée Cognacq-Jay

Discreetly tucked away on a quiet street in the Marais is a delightful little museum, home to an impressive array of art and furnishings once the private collection of Ernest Cognacq and his wife, Marie-Louise Jay. Founders of the famous department store Samaritaine, the Cognacq-Jays' were philanthropists, collectors, and patrons of the arts. It is a lovely space, housed in the Hotel Donon, a typical 18th century structure replete with grand salons, detailed paneling, and parquet floorboards that groan beneath your feet. Not at all as popular as some of the more well known museums in town, it is nonetheless enjoyable as one moves through the space with ease, taking in the beauty of paintings by Boucher and Fragonard, sculpture by Pincet, Dresden miniatures, and furnishings constructed by master craftsmen. Bequeathed to the City of Paris many years ago it is a dream collection, offering the visitor an inside look at french style and taste from an era bygone. Serving up just enough to satisfy your craving for eye candy without being indigestable, the Musée Cognacq-Jay is a gem in the crown of Paris, well worth taking an hour out of your day to enjoy. Located at 8 rue Elzevir, the permanent collection is always free to the public from Tuesday through Sunday, 10h-18h. Take Metro ligne 1 to St. Paul.