LAST DAY IN PARIS (FOR AWHILE)

I haven't posted anything for over a month due to a number of guests coming through.  It was great to have Denise, Cathy, Helmut and Ingrid spend time with me here in Paris, but it left little time for reflection or writing.  I somehow got out of the habit of blogging and slipped into posting pictures and one liner's on Face Book.

So…today is my last day in Paris…and I'm filled with mixed emotions.  While I am ready to head home and reconnect with friends, family and work, I am genuinely sad to be leaving this magical place.  I have been walking the Right and Left Banks every day for thirteen weeks and have become very much at home in this environment.  I made a point of seeking out the less well-known spots in the city during my stay, but one cannot help pausing and gasping in awe as a well-known vista comes into view.  The trip was a mixture of nostalgia and discovery, and I will treasure every minute of this extended time in the City of Light.  (BTW:  This reference to Paris has nothing to do with "light" per se.  It goes back to the Enlightenment when Paris was the epicenter of education, political discourse, and social transformation.)


I feel grateful and very blessed to have been able to spend this time in Paris, and I hereby resolve to do it again on a regular basis.  Living here is quite different from just visiting for a few days…even if one does it frequently.   It has become my "other" home…the one where my heart and psyche (as well as all five senses) are totally engaged.  Don't get me wrong...I love the US.  I love Philly and the MidAtlantic region, San Francisco Bay Area, and the beautiful Pacific Northwest, too.  Although I have seriously considered buying a flat in Paris and settling here indefinitely,  such a move would deny the other half of my being…and the primary importance of being near family on a regular basis.  So I'm destined to be always torn between two "homes" and I am beginning to view that as a good thing…something that will always motivate me to explore, try new things, develop new skills, and expand my horizons.  As retirement looms, I am wary of slipping into familiar routine with an ever-shrinking world of experience.  I fear I might actually die of boredom if I were to let that happen!    ; >)

Last Christmas, as I was making plans to go to France, my daughter-in-law Angie asked me "What IS it about France that you love so much?"   An honest, sincere question…worthy of a response.  That question rings in my ears and I've spent several months trying to understand this city's hold on me.  I'm not sure it can be put into mere words ( "un certain je ne sais quoi?"), but I'll try.

In no particular order….here are my thoughts on why France, and Paris in particular, is so special:

1.  The language.  I love the richness of the French language…the way it can express things that can only be experienced through the  senses.  Sometimes, there is just no way to say it in English.  It has to be said in French because the very idea is French.  Evocative words.  Beautiful sounding words.  The music of the French phrase.  The gallic gestures.  The facial expressions born of the very muscles one uses to produce French sounds.  I can observe someone across a crowded room and know instinctively if they are speaking French or English without hearing a word.  To tune into a nearby conversation is a veritable verbal symphony for me that can be appreciated on multiple levels.  As I walk around the city, I find myself quietly reading signs aloud, just to hear the words and practice the sounds, feeling the rhythm, "singing the song" of French.   Just listen for a minute…you don't have to understand French to hear the music of the spoken word:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fxz7omg9pS8

2.  L'art et l'architecture.  In central Paris, great care has been taken to retain the essential character of the city as it has evolved through the centuries.  Some historians would probably argue with that statement, but few European cities have survived turbulent times over hundreds of years more or less intact.  The surviving medieval structures merge seamlessly with those of the Renaissance, the Empire Period, and later the Haussmann era buildings.  The unifying factor is the ubiquitous stone color that I call "Paris beige".  It comes in various tones of charcoal gray, taupe, beige and cream, depending on how recently the edifice was sand-blasted and relieved of its urban grime, but it is nonetheless the backdrop color of the city, regardless of the neighborhood or the season.

Although storefronts at ground level can be quite colorful, you won't find entire buildings in various colors in France's cities…and this phenomenon allows one to focus on the exquisite architecture and decorative arts that characterized centuries of urban development.  Designs reflect the historical evolution of styles, and showcase the skills of artisans throughout the ages.  The entire city is a veritable museum of western civilization.  You just have to walk down any street or duck into any public park to find it before your eyes.  You find yourself imagining the lives of people who walked these streets and paths decades and even centuries before you, and you can be transported back in time at the sound of a church bell or the clanking of an iron gate.

3.  La genie.  The French are renowned for their penchant for reason, rationality, and intellectualism.  Indeed, a "good ole boy" could never be elected president of the French Republic.  That is why the election and even more importantly, the re-election of George W remained such a mystery to them.   In contrast,  the US seems to be intimidated by (if not disdainful of) intellectual strength.  Therefore, I shall refer to this section as the "genius" of France.  Everywhere you look, you are reminded of the genius that characterizes French civilization throughout the ages.  From the imposing statue of Charlemagne in the parvis de Notre Dame to Victor Hugo's home in nearby Place des Vosges; and just across the river Seine, the Pantheon (the final resting place of philosophers, writers, artists, scientists, political leaders, and other heroes of French civilization on whose shoulders modern civilization was built).    The Curies, Louis Braille, Andre Malraux, Rousseau, Voltaire, Racine, Moliere, Soufflot, Jean Monnet, Sartre and de Beauvoir, the list of French genius goes on and on.  Their influence on art, music, philosophy, politics, and science was profound and resonates throughout the world to this day.  If you read David McCullough's The Greater Journey:  Americans in Paris

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/29/books/review/book-review-the-greater-journey-americans-in-paris-by-david-mccullough.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0)

you will be amazed at the direct and pervasive influence of the French that reverberates throughout American life.  Of course, we Americans like to take full credit for singlehandedly  "inventing" things like the telegraph or powered flight, our legal system, the treasures of our rich American literary and artistic traditions, and stunning architectural feats without a glance back to the cultural, political, and scientific roots that made them all possible.  It's as though these accomplishments leapt spontaneously from the soil in the US.  I love finding these connections (and by extension acknowledging other networks of Germans, Brits, Russians, Italians, and others around the globe who took what was "known" just one step (or a giant leap) forward.  It's the story of humankind…..and it is both fascinating and uplifting (for the most part).  And the French arguably contributed more than their share.

5.  L'art de vivre.  

No one can deny that the French have a well developed sense of style.

indeed, the French may well have invented the art of living well.  This is not to be confused with a life of wealth or privilege because it exists in far more humble social environments.  It is rooted in core values that dictate that anything worth doing is worth doing well.  (Was Marge Switzer French?  I think that was her mantra.)

Doing something well.  Not faster.  Not cheaper.  Not bigger.  This concept seems to pervade French culture in a hundred different ways.  Take for instance "L'art de la table" (and the example at left is admittedly a bit "over the top" with the crystal candelabra!).  It is a approach to entertaining that honors family and friends….those who might be invited to share a meal at one's table.  The 3-7 course meal is an art unto itself.  The setting of a beautiful table is as important as the food.  The accompanying wine to complement the food is also an important element…as is the assemblage of guests around the table who are expected to contribute to a lively and interesting conversation that may well last for hours (with no television blaring in the background and competing for attention).  If you have ever participated in such an event, you know how special and memorable it can be…whether it was an elegant dinner or a lovely picnic.  Indeed, there is a gaping chasm between pretentiousness designed to impress and thoughtful hospitality, and the French know the difference.

Likewise, the design of home furnishings, clothing, utilitarian objects such as linens, handbags and luggage, even cookware, all benefit from this artful eye and an unwavering commitment to quality.  Creating a beautiful environment is an everyday expression of art.  It is also a way of honoring those around us by taking the time to make those occasions when we gather very special.  I love this attention to the artful detail as a civilizing influence on today's hectic, haphazard (otherwise euphemistically called "informal") world.  The "art of living" slows things down and asks that we recognize and appreciate the beauty around us as well as the people who are important to us.   Closely akin to la joie de vivre, l'art de vivre is based on having one's priorities straight... in order to enjoy life to the fullest.  I love this about the French way of life even though it is increasingly jeopardized by the insidious globalization of lifestyles in general.

5.  La Patrie.  I also love the French sense of national pride that allows them to thumb their collective noses at the world's most powerful nation if they don't happen to agree with the latest policy out of Washington.  I'm not saying they are right; I'm just saying I admire their chutzpah and solid sense of identity in the face of such power.  Such resistance provides a leavening effect on unrestrained power and requires a second thought on occasion before the US moves forward unilaterally with policies that affect people well beyond our borders who don't get to vote for those making the decisions.  I love the way the French shake their heads and treat us like a younger sibling who is impetuous, naive, and perhaps a bit immature.  They are so world-weary and wise from centuries of experience…and so tolerant of our shortcomings.  They quietly bite their tongues. They marvel at our inconsistencies; but I think they also secretly envy our "can do" approach to innovation and change while they feel mired in bureaucracy and tradition.  They love to visit the US; but most don't long to live among us.  (And I can appreciate that, too!).

I love seeing the French flag that is anchored to public buildings with a plaque proclaiming "liberte, egalite, fraternite" even though such ideals are imperfectly implemented.  And I loved the Bastille Day parade when the troops from Mali were invited to participate this year in recognition of the French commitment to resolving that crisis with little if any help from the other great powers.  The pride of the French people was palpable.  They may not be the world's greatest military power any longer, but they are a very important player and have much to offer in terms of collective efforts in the future.  Although irritating and sometimes infuriating, the French penchant for reason and rationality serves as an important check to our national tendency toward wanting impetuous, definitive, and immediate response to literally everything.  I think we complement and balance each other out quite nicely!

France is far from perfect.  (Csn we name a country that is?)  My affection for France is obviously weighted toward the positive since I am not directly affected by its economic and social policies, its taxes, and other issues that the citizens here complain about ad nauseam.  I am an outsider who can appreciate the good, ignore the bad, and go home any time I choose.  Guilty as charged.

If France were just like the US, I would have no reason to come here…this whole exercise would be rendered meaningless.  But France is home to my alter-ego, and spending time here feeds an important part of my soul.  I feel replenished and refreshed, happy to know that France will always be here…constant and timeless…as a counter weight to the high octane, at times superficial, often parochial, and occasionally myopic US culture.

After thirteen weeks of re-acquainting myself with this beautiful city and the French way of life, tomorrow I say "au revoir" and "a bientot" because I will be back again…and soon.

But now it's time to go for a walk around the neighborhood, to bid goodbye to the garrulous grocer  on the corner who loves to practice his fractured English with me, and to have one last dinner Au Petit Fer a Cheval in the Marais.

A la prochaine fois….(until next time)…Thanks for joining me on this odyssey.  I hope you enjoyed seeing it through my eyes, and that you will have the opportunity to do something similar someday.

Viaduc des Arts and the Promenade Plantee

Viaduc des Arts and the Promenade Plantee

A few days ago, I tried for the umpteenth time to find the Promenade Plantee, an elevated park that was created in the early '90s and serves as a green space in the city.  It runs about 3 miles from the Bastille to the Bois de Vincennes on the eastern outskirts of Paris.  I had read about this park, and it is mentioned in a number of guide books as being "next to" the Bastille Opera House.  On evening walks in the neighborhood, I would circle the Bastille, examining every street emanating from this circular hub, but was never able to find any directional sign or evidence of the park.  I finally went online to see if there were any more specific access instructions and found the park was built upon the old train viaduct that has recently become a center for the creative arts in Paris. 

The Viaduc des Arts was a bit easier to find.  Located just to the east of the opera house, the viaduct is an unmistakeable succession of red brick arches that once supported a railroad line that fell into disuse when the Bastille train stain was torn down to make way for the Opera House.  The arches now house shops, ateliers, boutiques and workshops of artisans and craftsmen who carry on the long tradition of Paris as a world class artistic center.  The viaduct also supports the Promenade which is built atop the structure.

Looking up, I could see the Promenade Plantee on the "roof" of the shops but the point of access remained a mystery.   So I continued walking and peering in the windows or poking about the shops along the way.  There were violin and guitar makers, sculptors, wood working shops making custom furniture, jewelry workshops, a sewing and embroidery shop, and many more.  Shopkeepers and artisans would welcome you into their showrooms and let you peer into production space as they proudly showed off their creations.

Here are just a few:

 One-of-a-kind table-- metal branch base with glass top

One piece of teak shaped into a shelf/wall decor extending the entire length of the sofa.  Pretty spiffy way to display books and knick knacks!

A designer umbrella and walking stick company.  Extraordinary range of choices!

Stone bath fixtures.  This is a slanted piece of granite forming a sink (see the faucets?)  The drain is the slit where the tilted piece tips downward toward the faucets.  Ultimate in uber-modern design!

What creative minds and talented artists!  A real treat to see it all concentrated in one long street.

As I moved down the street examining block after block of shops, I saw a woman descending a narrow staircase with a baby in a stroller.  I asked if this was the access to the Promenade and she said yes.  EUREKA!  The obscure staircase had no sign, and I would have missed it entirely if she hadn't been struggling with a stroller.

So I went up to the Promenade and began a fairly long stroll through the lovely plantings, gardens, and small ponds, with park benches placed strategically along the way.  There were runners, gossiping grandmothers, retirees reading the newspaper, workers on their lunch hour eating a sandwich, teenagers on cell phones, and couples deep in conversation or just strolling hand in hand.  

Unfortunately, there is one section that had been hit by graffiti and I found it sad (to say the least) that anyone would want to mar such a beautiful place with spray paint!  Overall, it was a peaceful, quiet green space in the heart of the city and a brilliant idea for urban development.  Apparently New York City's High Line was inspired by the Promenade Plantee and other cities around the world have began to experiment with the idea as part of urban renewal projects.

I love how Paris continues to evolve…. but always in its own special, distinctive way.

[WO]MAN AGAINST MACHINE

One of the challenges of daily life in a new environment is adapting to new appliances.  This is especially true if it involves a second language.  As many of you know, I spent the first ten days without a functioning refrigerator.  It was replaced with a new one, and is humming along fine (knock on wood!).  However, the kitchen has been the source of continuing grief…so I thought I would document this saga.

Let's start with the dishwasher.  Upon my arrival, Jeanne spent considerable time showing me how to select cycles, clean various filters and fill reservoirs with both detergent and rinse agents.  Duly noted…nothing particularly different here although a bit more labor intensive.  However, no matter how I load the dishes, I find lots of dishes and glassware that have somehow escaped the spray.  I"ve given up, and I am quite happy using the sink and dish rack for the few pots, pans, glasses and dishes that I produce each day.

Somewhat more problematic is the stove.  The four gas burners remain a mystery in spite of simple directions that clearly mark the dial for pilot light and then low to full flame.  I invariably need to try all four burners before I can get a pilot light on one of them to actually light the burner and remain aflame once I let go of the dial.  As long as I can get ONE burner…I guess I'm happy.

Moving on to the oven…I present Exhibit A.  Look at this dial and tell me what language it is speaking?  Add to this the temperature gauge in Celsius, and I'm sure you can see why I prefer a microwave!

Well, maybe the microwave isn't totally without its own anomalies.  As you can see the there is precious little explanation of how to operate this device.  It took me awhile to figure out how to set the timer and get this baby operational, so it isn't intuitive.  I still don't know what the first knob does if you turn it to the LEFT.  (Maybe it sets a clock?)  Turn it to the right and you can set the time for heating.  It starts automatically.

OK, let's continue our tour in the utility room.  Witness the dial for all the various types of cycles  on the washer.  I need to keep an English/French dictionary here in order to look up all of these options.  (Actually, I just wash everything on Cycle 2.)

Same for the dryer!

The dryer has a tray underneath that apparently collects water.  Recently, I tried to use the dryer and a red light informed me that I needed to clear the filter.  I had cleaned the LINT filter, but apparently there is one more step.  That green tray was full of water (extracted from the wet laundry?) and needed to be emptied.  Who knew?

There was some real drama yesterday when I was using a flat iron on my hair in the bathroom.  Normally, European hotel bathrooms don't allow you to plug in hair dryers, flat irons, etc. (only electric razors for some reason).  I've always found this annoying and an insult to my intelligence…until yesterday when the flat iron got knocked into the toilet.  There it was….plugged into a wall outlet with a whopping 220 volts of electricity flowing through it…and swimming in the toilet.  Fortunately, I had just been reminded of the danger of this situation having read about singer Claude Francois meeting an untimely demise by being electrocuted in his bathroom while trying to fix a loose light bulb!!!

I went to the electrical box to turn off the current and this is what I found.

None of the individual switches were labeled, so I flipped what I judged to the the master switch.  But then there was the question of what the hell that top box was all about.  I decided that, even though no light or appliance in the apartment was getting power with the "master switch" flipped, I was still not willing to bet my life on having cut the power to that particular socket.  So I got dressed and went in search of Cedric (the gardien of the building).  He was out, but a workman was hanging around and he agreed to come sort it out for me.  He flipped EVERY switch in the box and then went to the bathroom and removed the flat iron plug from the wall outlet…with a withering gaze and a few choice (and well-deserved) words about being so careless.

After this "near death" experience, I wonder if I just can't learn to live with summertime frizz?

Among all of these mechanical challenges, though, there has been one bright spot.  The apparatus below seems to have the requisite instructions clearly marked.  So far, no problem with the toaster!!!

The Soundtracks of Our Lives

Over thé years, I have collected CDs as diverse as Brazilian samba music, Argentine tangos, South African jazz, Caribbean reggae and steel drum, Mexican mariachi bands, Gregorian chant, Polish and German volkmusik, as well as Tchaikovsky, Mozart, and Beethoven.  I love Korean and Japanese pop (so kitschy and fun), as well as Thai classical music.  And French traditional music (les chansons de France), often with an accordian in the background, will always  evoke the essential spirit of France for me.  I love it when I have a seat in a sidewalk cafe within hearing range of a street musician with an accordian.  It just complètes the picture and creates the "magic" of Paris.

As a student in France at the peak of thé Beatles/Stones-led "British invasion" of the rock scene, I remember dismissing French attempts to develop their own version of rock music in their own language.  Such efforts were nearly always judged a woefully inadéquate "wannabe" version of the "réal" thing by those of us who smugly claimed this genre as our own, as though the English language were a prerequisite for producing a good rock song.

Nevertheless, I purchased a number of LPs, cassettes, and CDs by various French artists like Johnny Hallyday ("the French Elvis"), Serge Gainsbourg (whose Je t'aime….moi non plus was banned in the US as "too sexy"!), Claude Francois, Francoise Hardy, Mireille Mathieu, and others of that era.  Later I developed a "rétro" interest in old classics by Edith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Charles Trenet, and Yves Montand (contemporaries of Sinatra).  Along the way, I added Michel Sardou, Patricia Kaas, and even Carla Bruni.

I love thèse singers because they bring a distinctive FRENCH vibe to popular music, yet that "vibe" has always been difficult for me to define....or at least put into words.  Obviously, understanding the French lyrics was vital to appreciating the message of the song, but it entails far more than that.    It is the "je ne sais quoi" of the mélodies, the instrumentation, the vocal styles, thé subject matter, the sentimentality.  The music itself is distinctive (to my ears) and unmistakeably French.

Michel Sardou was at the Olympia (the big "spectacle" venue in Paris) this past weekend and I purchased a ticket for his "Greatest Hits Tour".  I've followed his music for nearly four decades and his CDs chronicle my sporadic visits to France.  Even though the years are showing, he is still the quintessential French chansonnier and I thoroughly enjoyed this two hour retrospective of his music.  I may have been the only "ricaine" in the audience Sunday night since nearly everyone else clearly knew the words to all of his songs!.

Sardou wrote the song in the video below "Comme d"habitude" which is a wonderful love song..  If it sounds familiar, it's because Paul Anka later wrote the English lyrics and both he and Sinatra recorded it as "My Way," a hymn to egotism!

Just as a whiff of a familiar scent can evoke vivid memories, I can often remember in great detail a moment, a period of time, an event just by hearing a song associated with it.  Indeed, a few bars of Francoise Hardy singing "Voila" takes me straight back to 1968 and I'm twenty years old once again.

The Greatest Generation [Version Francaise]

You may remember Tom Brokaw published a book entitled The Greatesst Generation several years ago honoring the génération of Americans who struggled through the Great Depression and then immediately took on World War II in both Europe and the Pacific.  This was my parents' generation and I know how thèse two events literally defined their lives in young adulthood.

Not surprisingly, that generation in thé US has a French counterpart, and I've spent thé last week reading about them and retracing some of the events that shaped their lives during the occupation and liberation of Paris during World War II.

Over the past few weeks, I had noticed a number of mémorial plaques on walls and buildings around thé city that honor many of those who served in the Resistance during the German occupation as well  as those who lost their lives in the libération of the city four years later.  The memorial above was dedicated to six women of the Resistance, four of whom were killed (in their 20s and 30s) as a result of their involvement in clandestine activities.   Other memorials similar to the one below are for ordinary citizens, soldiers, and policemen who sacrificed their lives in late August of 1944 during thé bloody insurrection that led to the liberation of the city and the surrender of German forces in Paris.

Translation:  Died for France, hère Henri Jean Pilot, law student, fell heroically at the age of 23 on thé 20th of August 1944 during the liberation of Paris.

As I stood on thé very spot where some of thèse people gave their lives in their struggle for freedom from German occupation, I was moved by how young so many of them were.  The bravest of the brave appeared to be those under 35, many just barely college âge students like the law student noted above.  The chances they took during those years and the price many of them paid makes you wonder what you might have done in the face of such treachery when life could literally hang by a thread.

When browsing in Shakespeare and Company for something to read last week, I picked up Is Paris Burning? by Larry Colins and Dominique LaPierre.  Written by two journalists (not historians), and published in the 1960's, it was made into a film that I had seen during my summer in Paris in 1969 when the city was celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Liberation.  The book is far more detailed about the évents that, along with the D-Day invasion, were among the most memorable of the war in Europe.  It reads like a modern day thriller, with heros and villains in a race against time with the fate of the world's most beautiful city hanging in the balance.  It is replète with egotistical power brokers, self-effacing patriots, strong women, poignant love stories, riveting drama, and one very conflicted German général whose life centered on following orders...but who just couldn't bring himself to follow this last direct order from Hitler.

The book underscores how close the world came to losing this treasured city during those few critical days.  As Hitler began to lose his grip on Europe after D-Day, he became fixated on holding Paris at any cost.  If he couldn't stop the Allies, then he vowed to leave Paris as a scorched pile of rubble as his troops retreated in a final defense of Germany.

Every one of thé 45 bridges over the Seine and all of the city's major landmarks (the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Luxembourg Palace, the Arc de Triomphe, the Opera, the Louvre, the Madeleine, etc.) had already been laced with explosives and were literally ticking bombs.  German pilots awaited word at LeBourget airport to begin fire-bombing the city, and Paris was literally hours away from becoming rubble and ash.  Hundreds of thousands would have almost certainly died in this planned catastrophe.  Hitler's direct orders to destroy Paris were never passed on to thé troops by Dietrich von Choltitz, the general who held Paris' destiny in his hands.   ["Is Paris Burning?" refers to the hysteriacal words Hitler screamed into the phone at von Choltitz as time was running out and the Allies approached to liberate Paris.]  A complex web of évents, personalities, coïncidence, and pure heroism conspired to deliver a joyous end to four long years of captivity.  When I think how close we came to a totally different conclusion, I can scarcely imagine the dévastation that was barely averted.

I'll spare you the pictures of bloody street battles, but do click on the YouTube link below to witness the pure joy of the citizens of Paris as they welcomed French and American troops into the city on that fateful day:

I took the book with me everywhere this week and read in cafés and parks whenever my nose wasn't buried in it at home.  I searched out the sites mentioned in the book where significant events transpired and tried to imagine what those grim and gripping days must have been like for those who lived through it.  An ever-dwindling nimber of this "greatest generation" of Parisians remains alive, but the vestiges of those crucial days in the history of this city are still apparent if you know where to look and know the incredible story of what transpired on these streets during those dark days.

In my mind, this entire city is a living monument to the heroism of countless ordinary citizens who absolutely refused to be conquered.   Outnumbered by a well-disciplined and well-provisioned army, a ragtag band of resistors fought to protect this beautiful city, and their courage, ingénuity, ténacity, and patriotism will continue to inspire generations to come.... but only if we remember what they did and ensure that legacy is never forgotten.

.  

Expecting the Unexpected

Note to readers:  I'm experiencing a temporary technical challenge with my computer.  Tired of not being able to spell French words correctly (with accents and other diacritical markings), I started messing with the settings on my Mac and somehow have made French my "préférence".  This results in spell check signaling every English word as a possible misspelling, and thé auto correct feature turning any word with a French counterpart into the FRENCH version.  Thus, when I write the article thé, it often (although not always) gets an accent mark because it assumes I want to write the French word for TEA which is thé.  Bear with me until I can find a way to un-do this setting.  So far, I'm not having much luck!!!

This summer in France has so far been devoted to exploring all thé things I've by-passed on countless previous trips to Paris.  Hence, more than three weeks into this trip, I have yet to go anywhere near the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Quai d'Orsay, or the Champs Elysees.

I'm not sure why I have never ventured into the Pompidou Center, the Cluny Museum, the Museum of Decorative Arts, or even taken the tour of the inside of the Opera Garnier or thé sewers of Paris.  Maybe it is because I THINK I know what lies therein, and just haven't been interested enough to invest limited time in exploring them further.  It is precisely that hubris and limited focus that keeps one from discovering some very interesting things.  Indeed, every time I am able to break through that wall of indifférence, I nearly always find a hidden gem.  Today was another one of those days.

This morning, I decided to remedy the decades-long omission of the Cluny Museum, a former abbey now dedicated to thé arts and culture of the Middle Ages and housing thermal baths from Roman times.  (OK..I heard you yawn!  Stick with me on this.  It is, after all, the home of one of the greatest works of Medieval art in existence--the Lady and thé Unicorn series of tapestries.) 

Unfortunately, as I approached thé ticket counter, I noticed a sign saying that the tapestries are now touring in Tokyo and Osaka!  [What??  I finally decided to come see these masterpieces, and they aren't even hère?]  It seems these very fragile relics are not faring well in the cold and damp old abbey, so they have gone on tour while their display room is undergoing massive renovation in order to protect thèse treasures for future générations.  Oh well, I picked up my audio-tour anyway, determined to at least mark the Cluny off my list today.  So...Let's go learn about the Middle Ages!  

Actually the museum is relatively small by Paris standards.  It is the sheer âge and quality of things contained within its walls that is so impressive....stained glass, other tapestries, statuary, tombs....mostly from the 11th to the 13th centuries.  Kings and dukes with evocative names like Jean Sans Peur (John the Fearless),  Charles le Temeraire (Charles the Bold), and Jean le Bon commissioned much of this work in an age of religious mysticisme, the Black Plague, and seemingly endless wars.

In the absence of the famed tapestries, the featured exhibit now is a room ringed with alabaster statues commissioned by Jean le Bon for his own funeral and interment.

All the figures are different and form a long procession of grief-stricken "subjects" mourning the death of this powerful man.  They remind me (on a much smaller scale) of the army of thousands of terra cotta soldiers of China, all different in facial expression, clothing and pose, who stood guard over Emperor Qin's final resting place near Xian.  Obviously, one's royal legacy was often measured in the size and intricacy of one's funeral ceremony and burial grounds.

However, the réal surprise for me in this ancient abbey was the room full of lifesize statues of medieval kings.  Originally, thèse statues (nearly all seriously damaged and with the heads separated from their bodies) once adorned the facade of Notre Dame de Paris.  They were actual likenesses of kings and other rulers of thé era who were honored by théir inclusion on the facade of the cathedral.  Their faces were originally painted and their robes vividly colored, so the facade of Notre Dame must have looked much different in its earlier days.  Those colors are now faded and barely discernable in these orignal statues that no longer encircle thé cathedral.

So...what happened?  How did théy get here?  I've never noticed any damage to the facade of Notre Dame (above).  However, if I had taken a guided tour ta some point, I would have learned that the cathedral was once the focus of mob rage during the French révolution.  These statues, symbols of the aristocracy of Europe, were among the first images to be destroyed (symbolically beheaded) as Marie Antoinette languished in her cell just downriver at the Conciergerie awaiting a similar fate.  The statues were ripped from their perches high above Ile de la Cite and the "rubble" trundled off to an unknown dumping ground.  Years later, of course, the facade of the cathedral was restored by a different génération of sculptors and artisans.  Miraculously, in thé early '70s, an archeological dig in the basement of an ancient bank revealed this buried treasure of the original statues that had been created by artisans many centuries earlier for this iconic édifice.  This is widely viewed as one of the most significant discoveries in modern day archeology and the "roughed up" kings now have a permanent home in the heart of Paris...at the Cluny Museum.

So, in thé end, I'm glad thé tapestries weren't thère and that it will require another visit to the Cluny to see them in the future.  Had they been thère, I might have spent my entire time concentrating on them and I probably would have missed this room containing the "Kings of Notre Dame".

Going forward, I will approach my other "B-list" sites with a bit more excitement about what unexpected révélations may lie within!  I am beginning to find that I am rarely disappointed.


[Anyone interested in seeing more pictures can find them on thé English website at:
http://www.musee-moyenage.fr/ang/homes/home_id20392_u1l2.htm]

Rainy Day in Paris

I woke up to a steady drizzle this morning and after waiting a couple of hours, I decided it wasn't going to improve.  Considering my "indoor" options, I rejected both the Louvre and the Quai d'Orsay, knowing that both would be overrun by tourists seeking shelter from the rain.  Then I remembered a previous encounter with a neighborhood museum that was closed when I first passed by...the Shoah Museum here in the Marais.   The Shoah Museum is dedicated to the memory of nearly 80,000 French citizens who were victims of the Holocaust...11,000 of them children under the age of 16.

I had noticed a lot of primary and elementary schools in the neighborhood with this plaque posted prominently at their front doors.

Loosely translated:

In memory of the students of this school who were deported between 1942 and 1944 because they had been born Jewish.  They were victims of Nazi barbarism with the active complicity of the Vichy government.  They were exterminated in the death camps.  Let us never forget them.

As you can see, people still leave flowers at these memorials, and I find them heartbreaking.

So I went to the Shoah (Catastrophe or Holocaust) Museum that tells the story of what happened in France during this ghastly time in history.  Upon entering you see literally wall upon wall of tiny print that lists the nearly 80,000 victims by name (below).  I noted a few Schweitzers among the victims (no doubt the original spelling of my maiden name).  I'm unaware of any Jewish ancestors, but must admit I've done very little in the way of genealogy.  Places like this make me want to learn more.

Within the museum itself, there was the expected chronological detailing of how events unfolded and the particular context in which it occurred here in France.  The story includes the complicity of the Vichy government, and the failure (or refusal) of the rest of the world to intervene.  One room is completely devoted to pictures of some of the 11,000 children who fell victim to this brutality, and I was brought to tears reading their heart-breaking letters to their parents (who were almost certainly already dead.)

I have visited the death camps at Dachau and Mauthausen...and have visited various Holocaust Museums including Yad Vashem in Israel.  They are all very moving experiences, but I can never quite assimilate how human beings can be so ruthless and cruel to one another.  And when innocent children are the victims, I am rendered speechless by the depths of human depravity.  

Upon leaving the museum, though, one is uplifted by the wall dedicated to the names of the "Righteous"...the non-Jews who risked their own lives to help their Jewish friends and neighbors....some of whom temporarily "adopted" Jewish children and provided them with fake documents attesting to the fact that they were not Jewish.  Hiding Jewish families in private homes, and providing transport to those trying to escape were crimes punishable by death, and there was no shortage of "examples" held up to the general public to discourage them from helping their Jewish friends and neighbors.  These were extraordinary times confronting very ordinary people, but many rose to the challenge and became true heroes.  Their names are inscribed on this wall for all to see... for all to honor....and for all to emulate if the occasion ever were to arise again.

And now....the rest of the story

The divorce from Pierre Frottier concluded, Madame also eventually parted ways with the handsome Gianni Tosetti.  Some years later, she met and married Sheldon Reynolds, an American television producer best known for his involvement in the Sherlock Holmes franchise, and may have moved to New York City shortly thereafter, thus explaining Caroline’s high school years at the Lycee Francaise in New York.

In the ‘80’s, Andrea Reynolds life took a dramatic turn as she became embroiled in one of the most highly publicized murder trials of recent memory.  Arguably the first murder trial to be breathlessly recounted daily on American television, the case against wealthy socialite Claus von Bulow for allegedly murdering his heiress wife Sunny brought Andrea Milos Frottier Reynolds onto center stage of the global media maelstrom.

I remember this seemingly endless trial and its colorful cast of characters, but I never once connected Andrea Reynolds (who became von Bulow’s girlfriend during his subsequent re-trials) as the former “Madame” of Villa Said in Paris.  One London newspaper account in 2009 summarized the events as follows:   [She is referred to as both Andrea Reynolds and Andrea Plunket throughout the accounts.]

By Terry Kirby

The Standard

26 August 2009

The trials of London socialite Claus von Bülow - convicted then acquitted of attempting to murder his wife - have been a source of fascination for more than two decades.

One of the central figures of the affair, Andrea Reynolds, von Bülow's former lover, is breaking her silence on the events with a book promising revelations of sex and betrayal among the super-rich.   Married for the fourth time to Shaun Plunket, the heir to an Irish peerage, Mrs Plunket, 71, has written the inside story of her four-year relationship with von Bülow.  Mrs Plunket, a Hungarian-born socialite and freelance journalist, met von Bülow in the Sixties. They began an affair after his 1982 conviction for the attempted murder of Sunny von Bülow with an insulin overdose, for which he received a 30-year sentence.

After von Bülow's appeal, she helped with his case and gave evidence on his behalf at his second trial in 1985, when he was acquitted. Mrs von Bülow remained in a coma for 28 years, dying last December.  Mrs Plunket wrote the memoir of her affair with von Bülow in New York state's Catskill Mountains, where she runs a bed and breakfast with her husband.  

Her literary agent, David Kuhn, said: "I would describe it as a memoir that is part love story and part detective story which looks at an iconic trial from an insider's perspective."  He said the book was being circulated among leading publishers.  [JM note:  This manuscript was never picked up by any publisher.]

A source close to the book said: "It will shake up American society. It is about love, sex, intrigue, betrayal and contains graphic details of the self-indulgent rich and famous of the Eighties. It might shake-up Claus von Bülow as well."  The book is not said to raise any questions about von Bülow's innocence, which Mrs Plunket has always supported.

She and von Bülow parted in 1987 and she married Shaun Plunket [distant cousin of Queen Elizabeth and the youngest son of an Irish peer] in 1989.   In 1990, she was portrayed by Christine Baranski in the film Reversal of Fortune, for which Jeremy Irons won an Oscar as von Bülow. The following year she was in the spotlight for securing an interview for Tatler with Saddam Hussein before the first Gulf War.

Von Bülow, 83, is from a wealthy Danish family. He attended Cambridge at the age of 16 and was a barrister in London before becoming an assistant to billionaire J Paul Getty.  He married Sunny, an American heiress, in 1970 and the couple lived in Rhode Island.  After his acquittal, von Bülow returned to London, living in Knightsbridge close to his and Sunny's daughter, Cosima, and two grandchildren. He is legally prevented from talking about the case due to the civil suit settlement involving his ex-wife's two other children….

.

Insulin mystery of wife left in coma for 28 years

On 21 December 1980, Sunny von Bülow was found in an irreversible coma on the marble floor of her bathroom in Rhode Island. Her husband Claus was indicted on two counts of attempted murder by insulin injection.

His case, the first major criminal trial to be televised in the US, attracted huge interest. Prosecutors claimed he stood to gain £14 million from his wife's will, and her death would have left him free to marry his mistress at the time, actress Alexandra Isles. The defence said the coma was self-induced by a binge of drugs, sweets and alcohol.

At the 1982 trial, Sunny's maid Maria Schrallhammer said she found a bag belonging to Claus containing a hypodermic needle encrusted with insulin and a bottle marked "insulin". Von Bülow was found guilty and jailed for 30 years. But the conviction was overturned on appeal on the grounds that key pieces of evidence, including the bag, were inadmissible.

At a retrial in 1985, experts testified that Sunny had not been injected with insulin and her coma was caused by factors including alcohol, barbiturates, beta-blockers, hypothermia and aspirin. Claus was acquitted. The marriage was dissolved and he abandoned all claims to her fortune.  [end of article]

Andrea Reynolds attracted so much attention during the subsequent re-trials that famous celebrity journalist Dominic Dunne of Vanity Fair wrote an in depth article about her and von Bulow in a 1985 feature article.  I read the entire article at

http://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/archive/1985/08/vonbulow198508

and I have to say, Dunne captured her brilliantly.  This was the Andrea Milos Frottier that I knew, and it had the ring of truth.  

As a result of this research, I also learned that Caroline attended veterinary school at the University of Pennsylvania (possibly related to her passion for horses which was evident even as a child), but she was there much earlier than my tenure at that institution.  I found no record of a FIFTH marriage (Plunket died several years ago), and found a Facebook page that says she was living in London in 2010.  She has at least one grown grandchild and she is now approximately 75 years old.   If the FB picture is any indication, she is looking pretty good for 75!

So.... when people ask me "Whatever became of the French family that you worked for in Paris in 1969?"  I now have an answer....and much more than anyone bargained for!

Life Among the Super Rich

As I mentioned in an earlier blog post, I lived in Paris during the summer of 1969, just after graduating from college.  I put an ad in the International Herald Tribune seeking an au pair position as a first step toward finding a "real" job once I got to Paris.  I received about a dozen responses to my ad...some from American families (business and government ex-patriates and military families), as well as a number of French families.  I surveyed the options, and chose the family with the best address, the fewest children to look after, and the highest salary!  This eventually brought me to the doorstep of Mme Andrea Milos Frottier, 5 Villa Said (on the Avenue Foch), and her 10 year old daughter Caroline in early June.

I had made my way from the airport to the 16e arrondissement of Paris, a beautiful and very high class residential part of the city.  Avenue Foch is a grand boulevard which emanates from the Place de l'Etoile (l'Arc de Triomphe) and is lined with Haussmanian edifices that housed, among others, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Princesse Caroline of Monaco.  

As I entered the gates of a cul de sac named Villa Said, I looked for #5 and found it quickly.  Above the double door, an official sign from the Paris historical society noted that this had once been the residence of Anatole France, a noted novelist of the 19th century.

I rang the doorbell, and soon the small door at the side (a service entrance) opened.  A Portuguese house maid and a very large dog greeted me.  In heavily accented French, she invited me into the ground level of what turned out to be a 5 story town house (with an elevator, thank goodness).  Maria told me that Madame and Monsieur were in London and would return the next day.  Caroline was still at school.  Meanwhile, my predecessor, a German girl, seemed to be in a hurry to leave.  Eager to learn more about this family, I persuaded her to first brief me on the family before heading for the train station.  

Apparently Madame was Hungarian nobility, her family having escaped from Budapest during the Revolution of 1956 with little more than the family jewels.  She lived for a time in Switzerland, briefly married, divorced, and married again to Pierre Frottier and moved to Paris.  They had a 10 year old daughter Caroline, but were in the midst of a messy divorce.  Meanwhile, a handsome Italian playboy Gianni Tosetti had moved in to the townhouse in the Villa Said.  

Sound like a soap opera?  Just wait.  It gets better (or rather worse)!

Unfortunately my pictures of this "family' are packed away in my stored belongings but I was able to locate a picture of Mr. Tosetti on the internet with his pal the Italian Duc d'Aoste.  Tosetti is on the left.

Caroline was the quintessential "poor little rich girl," neglected by her socialite mother and raised by a succession of nannies, governesses, and au pairs.  Starved for affection, she proved problematic from the first moment we met.  I took a brief nap before her return from school and was awakened by the double doors to a guest room bursting open.  The ten year old, hands on hips, stared at me.  I struggled to my feet, introduced myself in French, to which she replied "Oh don't bother....I speak perfectly good English (delivered with a British accent, no less!)."

The evening went downhill from there as I tried to establish some sort of rapport with her.  House rules, communicated to me by the German au pair, dictated a bath and bedtime by 9 pm.  Madame's bathroom was off limits since Caroline had her own.  However, I lost the first battle of wills as she ran and locked herself in her mother's bathroom and turned on the water.  Minutes later she burst into the salon, holding a faucet knob in her hand and wailing that the tub was overflowing.  I plunged my arm into the water, releasing the plug, and screwed the faucet back on the wall and turned off the water, but not before the pink carpet was soaked.  Thus began my tenure chez la famille Frottier.

The following day, Madame (Frottier) and Monsieur (Tosetti) returned from London and the four of us had dinner in the dining room.  The Portuguese maid, cook, and driver took their meals in the kitchen.

During the course of that dinner, Madame asked if I had a driver's license which of course I did.  Apparently, in addition to the Bentley, the family kept a small Fiat as a vehicle to get Caroline from school to her various lessons.  Unfortunately, it was a standard transmission and I did not know how to drive such a car.  No problem, said Mr. Tosetti, I'll teach you.

So at 9:30 at night, I climbed into the tiniest car I had ever seen with an Italian guy whose French was no better than mine.  Unfortunately, my vocabulary didn't include the words for ignition, steering wheel, shift, brakes, gears, clutch, etc.  The next fifteen minutes in Paris traffic were enough to convince Monsieur and Madame that perhaps Caroline could be shuttled about the city via Metro.  

Madame was 32 years old and quite beautiful in an aristocratic and very unapproachable way.  The word "imperious" comes to mind.  She told me she was an editor for Vogue but she did not seem to hold a real job in the sense of going to work from 9 to 5.  Instead she and Mr. Tosetti were dressed in designer gown and tux nearly every evening of the week, disappearing around 9 pm and returning in the wee hours.  (No wonder they needed an au pair!)  They were clearly part of Paris society and were out "being seen" every night, which is arguably one of the obligations of those in the haute couture fashion industry.  They often hosted dinners at home, welcoming well known names such as writer Francoise Sagan and the Rothschild's.  I wasn't included in these soirees of course.  My role was merely to keep Caroline out of the way and entertained.  

To say the least, Madame was unlike anyone I had ever met in my life and I observed her with fascination, if not an element of fear.  Indeed this Devil didn't wear Prada....but she did wear Marc Bohan and Nina Ricci.

By the end of the summer, I had given up on ever landing a "real" job in Paris.  I didn't have a work visa, and had no appreciable professional skills that were currently in demand.  Since I certainly didn't aspire to a career as an au pair,  I headed back to the US.  I reflected on this experience many times over the years, and was grateful for this glimpse into a world I might never have otherwise experienced.  However, I never once envied the wealth and excess that I witnessed over those months.  The image that stuck with me was that of emptiness,  loneliness, and total lack of purpose to their glamorous lives...not to mention the inevitable collateral damage of parental indifference to little Caroline.  

People often ask if I stayed in touch with Madame or Caroline.  No, that was not going to happen.  I was just another in a long line of household help with no special status or place in their lives.  However a few years ago, I googled Caroline Frottier on the internet and found that she had graduated from the Lycee Francaise in New York City.  I don't know how she got there or where she is now (now 54 years old!), but found that bit of information quite interesting.

It prompted me to begin researching what happened to Madame this past week...and I am still reeling from the shocking turns her life took over the years that followed my departure from Paris.  Love affairs, multiple marriages, scandals, and even a world famous murder trial marked this woman's extraordinary yet sad life.  

Stay tuned for the next installment:  Whatever Happened to Andrea Milos Frottier?  You will be amazed!

LESSONS LEARNED

So....I've been in Paris a bit over two weeks now.  I turned off my US iPhone upon arrival in France due to the exorbitant charges from AT&T for international roaming, and I decided to just get by with the phone in the apartment.  Indeed I can make unlimited calls to the US for no charge.  I'm out all day nearly every day, and family and friends in the US are asleep during half that time, so I thought a European cell phone would be a waste of time and money.  Just another thing to cram into my already overstuffed purse.  The phone in the apartment should be all I need.

WRONG!

Today, I had a long list of plans and bolted out the door around noon.  Immediately as the self-locking door closed, I realized BOTH sets of keys were on the dining room table.  [Expletives deleted.]

What to do?  OK...Let's review.  I have no phone.  I have no access to a computer.  I don't have Jeanne's phone number.  I have not seen an internet cafe anywhere in Paris (apparently all have been run out of business by smart phones and iPads).  I haven't even seen a public phone booth since leaving the airport!  And I certainly had not seen any locksmith shops.  

So...resigned to spending the remainder of the day paying for my stupidity, I headed for the main drag, the rue de Rivoli.  

Almost immediately, my spirits lifted as I found a shop that specialized in keys....but it was closed until 3pm.  I strongly suspected he only MAKES duplicate keys and doesn't make house calls, so I didn't want to gamble on waiting for his return at 3 pm.  Finally, I decided to go into a nearby hotel to see if I could get computer access so that I could either get Jeanne's phone number from my gmail or the phone number of a nearby locksmith.  The desk clerk obligingly googled a locksmith for me, dialed the number,  handed me the phone, and I set up an appointment for 2:00 pm.  They quoted me a price of 53 euros,  and the desk clerk and I agreed that it was a very reasonable price.  (Too good to be true?)   At 3:30, he finally showed up...only 90 minutes late....and then the fun began.

After his abject apologies for being late (but he couldn't call me to tell me he had been delayed because I had no cell phone....so it's my fault).  He surveyed my door and lock.  "Oh, madam.  This is going to be quite difficult.  You see, you have a security door.  It is not a simple process of just opening the lock.  I will have to destroy the lock and then we will have to replace the entire mechanism. "  "How much will that cost?"  Well, madam, this is a very special locking system.  It could cost as much as 1,500 euros [$1938....yes, nearly two thousand dollars!] depending on the lock you choose."

Huh?  1500 euros?  To unlock a door?  My French must be more deficient than I thought.  How many ways are there to say 1500 euros in the French language?  "Monsieur, vous avez dit QUINZE CENT EUROS?  MILLE CINQ CENT EUROS?  Un, cinq, zero, zero....EUROS???? " 

I wrote it down.   1500 euros.   "Oui, madam."   

You must be joking!

"Mais, non, madame.  Voyez, ce n'est pas MOI qui détermine le prix!  C'est la compagnie."  Yeah, right.

As I contemplated this "mugging," I suddenly remembered I DID have Jeanne's phone number in my wallet.    On a small piece of paper, I had written in French "In case of emergency, please call Jeanne Chabaane, tel.  XXXX....(Hey!  You never know when you will get hit by a bus and rendered unconscious!)

I asked the young man to call her "for authorization" of the charges.  When she learned the situation, she immediately sprang into action.  Within minutes, a young man from around the corner named Cedric, bounded up the stairs and literally threw himself between the locksmith and the door.  He instructed me to pay the guy the 53 euros ($68) I had been quoted on the phone (which was merely for his "house call" and nothing else) and then sent him packing.  

In the meantime, Jeanne was speeding across Paris with her master key....and she let me in.  Both she and Cedric were appalled at the audacity of this locksmith and underscored that I should always, ALWAYS call one of them first with any similar problem.  

So, what did I learn from this?

1. Be absolutely paranoid about having my keys in my hand as I leave the apartment.
2. Do not hesitate to ask Jeanne or Cedric for help.  They know this city.  They can recognize a scam when they see one.
3. Keep a few more phone numbers in my wallet that Jeanne gave me (in case she is out of town and Cedric is not available.)
4. Buy a damn cell phone.

Obviously, I did nothing else of consequence today.  It was raining pitchforks most of the afternoon while I was resolving my problem, so I'm drying out this evening, and planning for a better day tomorrow!

Now.....What did I do with that corkscrew.........?