Remembering Paris

I've been thinking a lot about Paris lately.   Maybe it's because The Foodie and I recently feasted on Laduree macarons and Angelina hot chocolate.  Maybe it's because within the last few weeks I've watched Charade, De-Lovely, and Coco Before Chanel -- all of which are set at least partly in Paris.  Maybe it's because the other day I made a really delicious french country soup (you can read about it here).  Whatever the reason, I've been looking at pictures I took last year in Paris, and I thought I'd share a few.

Paris street scene

Notre Dame de Paris

The Seine

Musee National du Moyen Age

Another street scene

A park near our apartment

Chanel on Rue Cambon (a.k.a. "The Mothership")

Auntie Maria: International Woman of Mystery

Image: funnyordie.com

I have always thought of, and described, myself as an ordinary Portuguese girl from Portsmouth, Rhode Island. This is unfair to my mother, who brings English, French, and Belgian genes to the family stew. It might also be unfair to a possible German grandmother back in the swirling mists of time in Portugal, who bequeathed red hair to the family (even I have some of it). We’re not sure about her; she may be apocryphal.

In the past, I’ve had people guess that I’m Italian, Greek, Armenian, Black Irish, biracial, Spanish, Mexican, and I don’t know what all else. I’ve been asked about my background a lot over the years. People can’t seem to figure out what I am.


In general, I think this is pretty cool. I’m a citizen of the world! I’m a harbinger of a new millennium where we all live in a global village! I’m an auntie without borders! I’m every woman (it’s all in meeeee)!


I recently learned, however, that the TSA can’t figure out what I am, either. So they jump to the logical conclusion: that I am a terrorist. When I flew to Paris in March, the TSA not only got a good look at everything my mama gave me via their backscatter technology, they followed it up by detaining me for a couple of minutes, scaring the crap out of me, not allowing me to speak to the Foodie to let him know I’d be along shortly (apparently they assumed we belonged to the same terrorist cell; however, he got through the checkpoint with no problems), and then coming up behind me and groping my hair.


I had thought that when flying out of Boston, you had two choices: backscatter or groping. I stand corrected. People of indeterminate nationality apparently get the pleasure of both.


Why my hair? The Cop told me that Rastas sometimes hide drugs in their hair, but I wasn’t wearing dreads, my hair was in a braid.


In Paris, I got the full treatment – again, I was the only one of my group of four who did. I went through a regular metal detector, and then a very polite French lady felt me up. You’ll be glad to know that I not only was my hair drug-free, I wasn’t carrying any contraband between my boobs, in the waistband of my jeans, in my armpits or my socks. At least she was nice about it; in Boston they were as rude as the airport personnel in Boston always are – which is to say, very.


What I find really funny about the whole thing is that I as agents were feeling me up, they were also X-raying my bottle of medication, which is for depression and anxiety. I could be wrong, but I imagine that being a drug mule or a terrorist requires a bit more courage and steadiness in the nerve department than one might expect from an old maid with a cat and a bottle of Celexa.


A few people I’ve told about this have said “But that’s the whole point! You are the last person anyone would suspect, so you’d make the perfect criminal.” Sorry, but by that logic, Mrs. Gottbux in the next line over, with her bobbed blonde hair, Tod’s driving mocs, and Caribbean tan is an even less likely suspect than I am. Why isn’t anyone feeling her up?

Katie Goes To Paris (On A Steeek)

Katie At The Eiffel Tower

As I mentioned in a previous post, my niece Katie wanted me to bring something of hers with me to Paris -- specifically, a stuffed animal she's had since she was a baby. I didn't like that idea (suitcase space being at a premium) so I came up with Katie on a Steeek. I thought my gentle readers might enjoy a peek at a few of the pictures.

I spent quite a bit of time in the past couple of weeks putting together a scrapbook of all the pictures I took of Katie in Paris. I wrote a little story and drew cartoons and things to go along with the pictures. It took A LOT longer than I had anticipated, but it was fun and she loved it.

Katie Inspecting A Statue On The Pont des Invalides

Actually, in the interest of full disclosure and giving credit where it's due, I totally stole the idea from Monica of 5 Cats Shy, who takes pictures of Catwoman at different locations and posts them on Catwoman's facebook page.

Katie In The Garden At Chateau Versailles

This Katie On A Steeek is a picture of her in Halloween makeup. I thought it went really nicely with the flowers. She looks like she belongs there, doesn't she?

Katie Shoots A Cannon At the Musee de l'Armee

I even got The Foodie involved in taking some shots. He was a really good sport about it -- we got more than a few funny looks taking pictures like this all around Paris.

Katie And Auntie Figure Out The Metro Map

The Foodie took this one as well. It gives you a good look at how complicated the Paris Metro system is, how freakishly long my fingers are, and the feature that makes the TSA suspect me of terrorism (hint: it grows out of my head in curly abundance and draws latex-gloved hands like a magnet).

Katie With Mysterious Costume and Instrument

This one is my favorite. The Foodie and I came across this pile of pink satin and gold lame one afternoon in the Marais. There seemed to be no explanation for it. It was like a drag queen had suddenly disappeared in a puff of fabulousness, leaving behind only a costume and a ukelele.

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

The Pere Lachaise Cemetery is famous for having a lot of famous people buried in it. For most Americans of my age group, however, its famous for being the final resting place of Jim Morrison. It is also the final destination of Edith Piaf, Colette (she wrote Gigi, which became the movie musical with the most disturbing opening song ever), Sarah Bernhardt, Stephane Grappelli, Isadora Duncan, Getrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Marcel Proust, and many others.

Marcel Marceau is buried here. Whether or not he is doing "I'm stuck in a box" for all eternity is unknown.

This is the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, covered in graffiti and lipstick kisses. I hate that he died at the age of 46 due to ill health and alcoholism caused, at least in part, by having been imprisoned from 1895-1897 for homosexual behavior. I love that among his last recorded words is the statement "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go."

Victor Noir is another famous person, but he is famous more for the manner of his death (he was shot by the great-nephew of the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte) and the fact that after his death, his tomb became a fertility symbol because of the way the sculptor of his statue depicted his genital area. Apparently, women believe that by leaving flowers in his hat, kissing him on the lips, and rubbing his "business," they will be ensured fertility. That's why part of the statue is shiny and the rest has a patina.


I took a picture of this guy because he looked like he would have been a fun person to know. As it turns out, after a little research (I love Wikipedia) I discovered I was right. This is Leon Thery, who was a famous French race car driver at the turn of the 20th century. He drove his first race from Paris to Bordeaux in 1899 at the breakneck speed of 19 miles per hour.


The cemetery is huge, with boulevards and lanes cutting through its 118 acres. Even so, you are pretty much guaranteed to get lost.


It's also easy to wander off the designated paths. At least, that's the excuse I gave when my map-reading skills caused us to walk all over the place.

I was glad to see that Portuguese people were well represented, displaying the quiet good taste for which Portugal is renowned.

I did not break into this little prayer chapel, I just took a picture of what was inside: a picture of someone's grandma and a little plaque with a remembrance poem on it.

The Foodie found my interest in the insides of the chapels creepy, but I thought this one was lovely.




Speaking of creepy, The Cop drew my attention to this grave. I get that the couple is supposed to be together forever, but hands popping out of the top of a coffin are a bit much. Also, she's wearing a watch. Why? Does she have an appointment?

I thought this particular spot looked like a little patch of heaven. Not a bad place to spend eternity.

Jardins Tuileries and the Louvre

Gentle readers, are you bored with Paris yet?

When I left new England, rain and snow were pelting down at me out of a gray sky. I woke up on my first day in Paris to sunshine, warm weather, and flowers in bloom all over the place. It was lovely. We took a walk to Les Invalides, across the Pont des Invalides, and then over to the Jardins Tuileries.

Nobody has been able to explain to me why the weather is milder in Paris than it is in Rhode Island even though Paris is approximately seven degrees north of us. Someone said something about the Gulf Stream warming things up over there, but the Gulf Stream flows right past us too so I'm thinking that can't be it. Must remember to ask The Fisherman.


Whatever the reason, we thoroughly enjoyed walking in the sunshine. We stopped for lunch at an outdoor cafe right in the gardens.

Seeing kids sail boats on this little pond made me want to be a kid again -- or at least borrow one so I could sail a boat and pretend it was all for the kid's benefit.

At the end of the gardens is I.M. Pei's Pyramide du Louvre, and the Louvre itself. You already know about the Louvre, don't you? Of course you do. You read about it in The Da Vinci Code.

Okay, fine. The Louvre massive, and it's gorgeous. The building we see today was completed during the reigns of Louis XIV and Louis XV, two guys who were not known for restraint in design. There are what I came to call "Harry Potter stairs" all over the place -- meaning that when you go up or down a flight, you don't always end up where you expect.



I didn't take any pictures of paintings for one simple reason: I saw the Mona Lisa. I've probably seen hundreds, maybe even thousands of images of that painting in my lifetime and not one of them ever did it justice. I figured, if professionals with fancy equipment can't really capture paintings, how can I do it with my cute little point-and-shoot camera? So I didn't even try.

I got a couple of nice shots in the sculpture gallery, however, and I am happy with that.

The Foodie and I ended our tour with a look at Napoleon's apartments. Napoleon was another guy whose tastes ran to the opulent. I also got a good look at the crown jewels of France, which were awfully pretty. One crown that I really loved was surprisingly simple and elegant, decorated with pearls and diamonds.

I had to push my way through a big crowd to get to see the bijoux, but get through it I did. It's not for nothing that The Foodie refers to me as The Magpie.

The Seine

These are for you, Mom.

On my first full day in Paris, our group (consisting of The Foodie, The Cop, The Former Farmer, and me) took a walk along the Seine. I kept looking around in a daze and saying "This is so awesome. I can't believe I'm here."

The Seine is truly the heart of Paris. Fun fact: the distances shown to various major European cities on all the signs in Paris are measured from a certain spot at Notre Dame cathedral, which is on Ile de la Cite in the middle of the Seine. (Thanks to Emily of Tomato Kumato for that fun fact.)

My mom wanted to see pictures of the Seine and advised me to pick out my favorite bridge. Here it is: Pont Des Invalides. I like it because it's fancy, obviously.

I mean, it's really fancy. I has gilded sculptures in the middle and gilded monuments at each end.

There were pretty vistas everywhere I looked.

Not to mention interesting people-watching opportunities.

The Pont des Arts is the place to go in Paris if you're in love. Couples attach locks with their names on them to the ironwork on the bridge. These locks are conveniently sold in the little kiosk shops along the Seine.

It makes me wonder if Parisians threaten each other with bolt cutters instead of divorce. (Hopeless romantic, that's me.)

On our last night in Paris, we rode up and down the Seine on one of the Bateaux Mouches. Paris is lovely during the day; at night, it sparkles.

It's Hard To Keep Them Down On The Farm

Just outside the front door where I was staying in Paris

I know that my gentle readers have been patiently waiting for details on my recent trip to Paris, but this week, I have found myself in kind of a funk.

The view from the end of the street

I had a wonderful time in Paris. How could I not? We had perfect, sunny, warm weather almost every day. The one day that it did rain was perfect in its own way because the umbrellas and the puddles provided atmosphere.

The park at the Place des Vosges

While I was in Paris, it was easy (well, relatively easy) not to think about life back home -- about dealing with Unemployment Insurance and finding a job. Now that I'm home, I'm a like a little kid who came home from a party hopped up on sugar and wanting to sleep in her party dress and patent-leather shoes.

The dining room at the apartment in the 7th arrondissement

It probably doesn't help that I went to Walmart two days after I returned. It was, in retrospect, a stupendously bad idea, but I needed cat food and paper towels. So I went. And if that didn't convince me I was home, dealing with the Rhode Island Department of Labor and realizing I'd found it easier to communicate with people in Paris using my limited French certainly did. So where does this leave me?

Paris was awesome, and I realize that a steady diet of awesome -- like a steady diet of birthday cake -- is probably not healthy for me. And my life here is good, it really is. But "good" has come with a price, and I guess my point is, if I'm going to pay a price anyway I'd like a little more awesome, s'il vous plait.

I Heart Paris

I got back on Sunday from a 10-day trip to Paris (yes, the one in France). It was a wonderful trip and I had an awesome time.

Part of what made the trip so wonderful is that the people of Paris are so nice. Really, they are. Forget everything you've heard about them hating Americans; it's just not true. Or at least, that was not my experience.

If you walk into a shop that sells clothing or fine linens while you are carrying a cup of coffee from Starbucks (yes, it's available), you don't say "Bonjour" to anyone, and you begin to demand immediate attention, you will get the stink eye. And you should. In America, where the customer is always right and the shops are staffed by people who are often trained only to use the register, that behavior is tolerated. (It's still horribly impolite, however, and please note that if I am in the shop at that time, I am judging you.) In France, where shopkeeping and waiting tables are professions, and people are proud to do an excellent job, it is not.

I found that making an effort to speak French (and my French is very, very limited) was appreciated. Most people switched to English immediately and seemed happy to do so. Maybe they wanted to practice their English, maybe they wanted to make things easier -- or maybe they just couldn't stand to hear me butcher their beautiful language. But they were polite and friendly about it, and I appreciated it.

Bottom line: in this, as in so many other things, your mother was right. Manners count.