Titles, Inc.

Paris 7. Finale (maybe)

Dan, the Chicago sculptor who is scouting New Zealand for a new place to call home, came to Paris for the Art Shay opening.  We were talking about his Paris plans and he told me about going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and visiting the Louvre, and that they had reservations on the dinner boat that sightsees on the Seine.  That one caught my attention.  I hope it was more than the word Dinner that piqued my interest.

"Sounds wonderful," I agreed, and he said, "I would love to have you all join us."  The date for that adventure was our last night in Paris.   I told him it was our only free night on our too brief calendar so I was happy to accept for Art and myself.  Jane would have returned home.  The (closed) boat would leave at 8PM and I agreed to meet them there at 7:30.  I supposed Art would be finished with all the adulation heaped on him by then. 

I was wrong.  He had a 6PM interview scheduled at the Galerie Albert Loeb, but he was sure he would be ready to leave at 7:15.  I entreated Albert and Sonia to watch the clock.  I know how interviewers can always think of one more question.  Albert, bless him, told them "15 minutes" and "5 minutes" and "the taxi is here."

The taxi ride is a sightseeing trip too.  I sighed to the driver, originally from Kiev, "Paris is beautiful."  He said, "Paris is a garbage dump."  We were shocked.  Art and he had an animated discussion about the Paris we don't see, while I sat stunned. 

We got to the dock, boarded the boat, checked in at reservations and were invited to have a drink at the bar.  We searched through the crowd but couldn't find our host.  We positioned ourselves near the doorway to watch.  Very soon after, the crowd was ushered across a small gangplank leading to The Dinner Boat alongside.   When I was ready to bite my nails (I never do), ah, here is Dan with his two lady companions.  We cross over and are lead to our table.  The tables line the sides of the boat - visibility for all. 

It was exciting.  It started with the inevitable champagne, with the wine glass and water glass waiting.  Since it was a two hour boat ride, the food came slowly, giving us plenty of time to exclaim over the magnificent structures we were passing.  Even the many bridges we passed under were interesting, each one so different from the others.  Other sightseeing boats passed us (not grand dinner boats like ours)  Funny - just as in the USA, the people waved.  Of course I waved back, but royally. 

It was light at 8 o'clock.  When the boat made its slow turn for the ride back, it was dark and all the lights were on.  That's when we saw the Eiffel Tower towering in its sparkling magnificence.  Our companions had gone to the top that morning and said the wind was frighteningly windy.  And biting cold. 

The food?   I remember the appetizer.  I chose duck.  How was it described?  It was highly spiced and the texture of leather.  Beef Jerky comes to mind.  The main dish was a problem.  Most of our party chose Smoked Bream, which is a fish.  I know Smoked Salmon becomes lox (formerly reserved for bagels heavily smeared with cream cheese, now appearing internationally as canapes), so I was hesitant about another smoked fish.  I chose the safety of vegetarian ravioli, which came drenched in a wonderful creamy sauce.  The bream looked like fish, and sampling Art's, it tasted like fish. Individual servings of cheese came next.  When we see the word chocolate on a dessert menu there is no contest. It was a great closer. The wine flowed freely throughout. 

I could not see the orchestra, but I was assured there were live men playing the rousing music.  We were the last ones off the boat. 

The very next morning, early, we were on a plane.  The party was over.

---Florence

Paris 6

More Paris? you ask.  Yes, I gleefully reply.  Telling it recaptures a bit of the past excitement for me.

Did you know Notre Dame is on an island in the Seine?  Yes, indeed, it was shown to me on a small map.  There it sits on a thin strip in the water.  Eva should know - she has an apartment around the corner.  This Chicago couple invited us to a delightful restaurant, Au Vieux Paris on rue Chanoinesse, in the neighborhood.  It merits a full page color picture in "Romantic Paris" by Thirza Vallois who tells us it is one of the island's two oldest houses, early 16th century.  When you look out the window, there is a sliver of Notre Dame. (Even a sliver of Notre Dame is magnificent.  In its entirety it is massive, stunning.  Astonishing.)

Eva and husband eat at this restaurant often enough to have been honored with knives that have their names engraved on them.  We started with a kir of champagne (the guide book refers to it as a kir), and then did some serious eating.  The small delicate pancakes were of whatever vegetables were in the house.  I could have easily consumed the platter full, but daintily took my share of two.  Salad.  After, Art had boeuf bourguignon which did not look like the dish I made in the days when I still cooked.  I ordered lamb stew which seemed a large portion until I found I was attacking some large bones (the kind you like to slurp on in the privacy of your own kitchen).  Bottles of fine wine on the table.  Dessert was an easy choice.  How can you resist "OoLaLa, a fondant au Chocolat brut", served hot.  The creme brulee looked yummy, but I did not yearn for Jane's fromage blanc. 

After this Sunday lunch we visited at their apartment.  No wonder they leave Chicago about five times during the year to visit Paris.  The apartment was delicious too.  That is, after you walked up four floors of stairs.  Shallow steps though, and easily negotiated in its spiral shape. The approach to the fourth floor got very narrow.  I wondered aloud how the furniture was brought up.  Mostly it was hauled up through the large center of the spiral, I was told.   

The apartment was beautiful, colorful. The company delightful. We were reluctant, when it was time, to leave the charm and hospitality.  An apartment with its own window view of Notre Dame.

---Florence

Paris 5

Random reminiscences out of context - because I do not remember the context.

Late in the afternoon I realized I would not be able to make it until the typical late night meal.  I left the hotel and wandered in a familiar direction looking for a cafe, making note of the turns and changes in direction the streets were taking me.  The map of Paris shows a meandering city.  No grids anywhere.  The streets progress casually.  Come to the end of the street - sometimes it goes straight ahead, but often it branches and after arbitrarily choosing a street, you cross another street that appears to be an alley because it is even narrower that the street you are on, but look, a few doors down you see a sign that says Miniatures so you digress and turn in.   

Still further down I found an attractive cafe, chose a seat at the window, and was eating a salad of bits of chicken, chopped tomatoes, a few slices of apples, some nuts when I heard a tapping on the window.  Looking out, I see - Jane!  Really now, that can't happen.  She got hungry at the same time and remembered a stall selling bread and cheese and was making her way back with her Parisian repast when she saw me in the window.  Put that in a movie, and I'd scoff, "Yeah, right." 

Another night, another eating adventure.  We asked my hotel clerk to recommend a local restaurant.  Passing Jane's hotel a few doors down, she suggested we ask for their preferences.  And a good thing too. We were told the one we were headed for had closed down, and were offered the names of two others.  Many blocks later it was apparent that the street we were looking for had disappeared.  We asked a man standing on a line that stretched out onto the street (an ice cream shop), and he told his wife he would be back.  He walked with us, heading us in the right direction.  We understood his instructions perfectly.  He was from New Jersey.  He assured us it was a wonderful restaurant.  It must have been.  Because as we stepped inside, we were told it was Reservations Only. 

Out in the drizzle again to the backup restaurant with Jane resolutely pressing ahead.  She found it down one of those street/alleys.  Fernand.  A tiny restaurant.  We were led to a tiny table just inside the door.  The waiter, noting my indecision, took us through this tiny room to another skinny room and into still another skinny room, all with stone walls.  There at a very long table a party of ladies were boisterously enjoying themselves, which didn't diminish the feeling of a dungeon atmosphere.  I decided the table inside the front door was perfect.  And it was.

We even found our way back to our hotels.  Not directly, of course.  A little backtracking here and there.  But by now we were as Parisians; we were learning to Walk.

---Florence

Paris 4

The media hovered over Art during most of the visit to Paris. He was the celebrity, the artist-photographer whose show was opening at the Galerie Albert Loeb on rue des Beaux Arts.  M. Loeb had seen the Art Shay show at the Chicago History Museum during its six months exhibition, and wanted to mount a show in his Paris gallery. 

We were pleased (jumping-up-and-down excited reflects my response more accurately.)  Galerie Loeb had represented every big-name 20th century artist, Picasso, Giacometti, etc., in their time so this was great.  How else would I ever get to Paris?

So there was Art being interviewed, now in front of the camera, for movies, videos, stills.  Constantly, before, during, and even days after the Opening.

Opening night was a smashing success.  Most impressive were the two guards.  Well, no, more impressive was the appearance of the former French Prime Minister Lionel Jospin.  Of course I wouldn't recognize him, but something happened to the energy of the gallery that made me turn around in wonder.

At first people held back, then they clustered to shake the hand of M. Jospin, exchanging greetings with him. That done, he walked around and looked carefully at each of the many photos on the walls with former constituents following.  He chatted with M. Loeb who is also one of his personal friends.  Yes, it confirmed that this was the social event to be at this Saturday night.

The wine and champagne flowed.  The waiters continuously circulated with trays of delicious hors d'oeuvres.  I ate from each tray as it passed.

Art sat autographing his latest book and chatted with the enamored buyers.  Even his NY publisher turned up for this opening.  Albert Loeb was doing his thing with the art.  I was talking to everybody who thought the artist's wife had some cred too.  Hey, I can be charming - try me. 

Also present were a Chicago sculptor/friend who had moved to New Zealand and flew up from there bringing with him two Chicago lady friends. A Chicago customer who keeps an apartment in Paris  chose that weekend to come with his wife.  Simone, who works in my shop, showed up with her son and friend.  I laughed and laughed to see all these Chicago people sipping champagne with me in Paris.

When everyone left and I could not eat one more hors d'oeuvre, our now-New Zealand friend took us all out to dinner.  I exercised caution.  I passed up the appetizer and ate only lamb chops and an apple tart.

---Florence

Paris 3

The invitation indicated that although it is a private club, strict formal wear such as black tie and long dresses was not required for the dinner.  But the caution was in place - look good!  The invitation was sent from a prestigious Paris law firm to my daughter, a partner in a prestigious LA law firm, when they heard she would be visiting Paris.  They graciously included us in the invitation.

We all packed our party clothes.  Only Jane's bag did not arrive with her.  It did show up the day before she left Paris.  I, on the other hand, had brought along two sets of fancy clothes.  One was a splendid jacket Jane had given me, so it seemed only right to lend it back.  Some quick shopping bought pants, tops, undies.  I still admire her calmness in dealing with the situation.  I think you would have heard me screaming back in America if my bag got lost.  Partly because I couldn't walk out with a pair of pants that fit in one try.

I won't mention that when we unpacked, I hung Art's pants in the closet with my clothes and forgot all about it.  I kindly did not berate him for not bringing dress pants when I saw him ready to leave in his jeans.  He looked handsome in his jacket, shirt and tie, a vision we seldom see.

We were picked up in a Bentley (the Peugeot just got a flat, the host later explained, apologizing for the ostentation.)  I loved it.  We were driven to the Cercle de l'Union Interalliee, next to the British Embassy.  Not a palace, exactly.  But I was sure glad I wore my pointy-toe shoes.

The others in the party were members of the Paris firm, all delightful, smart, witty and incidentally a good-looking bunch.  They treated Jane with such respect that I felt like the queen mother.

The food?  Appetizers with the drinks.  The only time I felt I must ask what it was I was eating was when I was dipping into this "shot glass" size crystal with a teeny spoon and licking at this delicious creamy something.  Foolish me, of course it was foie gras. 

After these pleasantries we went upstairs to the dining area for dinner.  Wait, I'm thinking, I'm thinking.  Nope I can't remember.  I was so enchanted by the ambiance, and so enjoying the moment that the minor details of what I was eating eludes me. 

We retired to another area for drinks, coffee, tea and dessert.  I got a tiny coughing fit that only water will allay, but there was no water on the table, so I retreated to cough out of earshot.  The attentive host asked whether he could help.  "Water," I murmured.  "Of course," he said and left quickly.  He came back to reassure me.  "They are opening the kitchen, and you will have water in a moment."  Opening the kitchen!  Before I could be mortified, here was the waiter with my water, and one sip assuaged the paroxysms.

Eventually the party was over.  Reluctantly I got up to leave.  Our host (a golden Prince Charming) was gracious to the end.

Ladies, picture all of the above with French accents. Ah, c'est vrai.  C'etait delicieux.  Je t'aime Paris.

---Florence

Paris 2

What did we eat?  It's a blur.  Mostly I didn't recognize it even though I ordered it.  The presentation was always decorative and deceptive.  I do remember lamb chops which tasted very American.  Where did I have monk fish?  I complained to Jane that I had to saw through it, and shouldn't it flake with the touch of a fork?  She told me monk fish has the same texture as lobster.  Knowing that, it tasted so much better.  I also remember a delicious lamb stew dipped up out of a small individual cauldron. 

The menus being in French had to be interpreted by non-English speaking waiters.  You had a vague idea of what to expect.  It didn't matter, it was all good. 

I was surprised though that the shopkeepers of small book stores, and salespersons in the large department stores did not speak any English.  I grumbled to Jane that one would expect that with the big tourist business they would know some English.  She said, "Like in New York, where they know how to speak Japanese?"  Point taken. 

We went to the huge department store, Le Printemps.  It is actually three buildings connected with a tube/bridge you access on the third floor.  Everything was made even more expensive by having to translate the euro into dollars - a bit more than the one and a half times the price indicated on the tag.  100? No, $159 American.  Ouch.

Galeries Lafayette, another large department store, had an entire floor of food.  I stared at the hooves tied to hooks, and I thought I might be able to identify the huge hanging hunks of meat, but all animal hooves look alike to me.  And cheeses!  Tables and counters and cases of cheese. 

And then, yes! the display dedicated to the tourist.  Candy.  In attractive packaging, flat enough to slip into your luggage.  I bought several tins to bring home to friends.  I love a beautifully painted tin box.  It's the sort of container you don't throw out, certain that you will find something to store in it, but never do.  At the airport, the packaging was blatantly commercial.  I bought a large glass Eiffel Tower filled with small colorful candy.  I did hesitate before one filled with the more useful olive oil, but thought it invited disaster, so I chose the candy.  Just as well.  Ready to embark the plane, the inevitable question: Do you have any liquids?  I would have had to dump the purchase made only minutes before.

And of course I bought books to bring back to my own shop.  Now can I deduct those Parisian expenses?

---Florence

Paris 1

I ate too much.  But it was Paris after all.

Paris is as beautiful as its reputation.  The monuments are monumental.  We've all seen pictures of the structures in Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame.  You can't imagine.  Not from pictures.  You recognize them, but you gasp at their overwhelmingly gigantic size.  Astonishing.

The hotel we stayed at was charming.  A courtyard approach, a tiny foyer, little reception desk, small lounge.  An elevator large enough for only two.  Three of us squeezed in so the luggage was brought up separately.  From images I've seen on the Internet, this was a larger room.  Fourth floor (the top floor) with its huge canted window so that pigeons flying to the roof appear to be headed for you as you stand looking out at the roof tops with all the chimney pots, the huge church steeple at eye level with its shabby shutters covering the bells which bonged lengthily at 10:15 AM and 4:15 when I was in the room to hear it.  I forgot to ask why it rang at a quarter after the hour.  We expect things to have a symmetry, the hour, the half hour, and yet -

At five minutes after the hour, at night, the Eiffel Tower lights up with wildly sparkling lights flashing all over the structure.  It lasts ten minutes.  I just checked two of my guide books to find out how long through the night it lights up, but only one mentions the gold-toned lights, and mistakenly says it lights up on the hour.

Oh for heaven's sakes, this same guide book says in its first sentence: "...at the corner cafe on rue Bonaparte and rue Jacob in St-Germain-des-Pres (the very Pre aux Clercs where Hemingway dined with Hadley back in 1921...)"  That's my corner!  That's where we ate several times!  Our hotel was just down the block!  But I think one is supposed to read the guide book before the trip. 

If you tell the taxi driver, rue Jacob, he looks puzzled.  So you remember to say rue Djah-CUB, and he says Ah Oui.  The streets are one way and narrow.  One time the taxi was driving us in circles, Jane and I began to recognize the same shops.  I don't think it was deliberate; he couldn't figure out how to find the right approach.  It happened when our host came to get us at the airport.  Albert (Al-bair) was arguing with the taxi driver.  I could tell from the driver's voice it was a lost cause, but Albert persisted gently, Mais... and the driver barked back.   Eventually Albert asked whether we would mind walking just a few blocks.  Not at all, I told him, our small luggage was on wheels, easily done.  So he told the driver to let us off so that we could walk across the few blocks to the hotel.  The argument, which had been lost, was to tell the stubborn driver the right direction to take to get to our one-way street.  So instead of circling the area even again, we walked.  And walked.  And walked.  This is what they do in Paris.  They walk.  Albert looked back at us apologetically as he notice us lagging on the last approach.

Boy, was I glad I had those great shoes.  They passed the ultimate test.

---Florence

Up Up and Away - Almost

A couple we met for dinner tonight had just returned from Morocco with a photo album of exquisite pictures.  I loved looking at the pictures; I have no desire to go to Morocco.  The trip to Paris is looming.  In three days we board.  How do people go to Morocco, go to Prague, go to Dubai just to mention a few that I've heard about just this past week. 

If I were given to biting nails, this would be the week.  What to pack?  What's the weather?  OK, just heard it will be rainy and chilly.  Great.  I have to go to Paris in April for weather I can get in Chicago?  They wrote a song about April in Paris.  I bet the sun was shining and it felt like spring.  Otherwise why write about it? 

And I can't staff the store while I'm gone so it will be closed all week.  That's a first.  I don't even know how to make a computer sign to hang on the door. 

We have four Paris dinner dates already set up.  One is a young man coming from New Zealand just for Art's photo opening (Galerie Albert Loeb).  Shouldn't  I be excited and loving this?  Someone said Are you going to the museums?  Someone said Don't miss the flea markets.

Oh, I'd better plan on taking enough paper backs to keep me reading for the 17 hours of round trip flying.  No, I will be sleeping.  Sitting up and sleeping.  I can do that. 

I do not intend to write another word to you all until I'm back. 

One good thing.  Those shoes I bought for Paris?  I wore them all day today, and they feel great.

---Florence