A weekend in Paris, by design.

Every now and then, a girl's got to try something a bit different.

I decided to impersonate an interior designer.  Well, not any one designer in particular.  I just needed to be one, for one weekend in Paris, so that I could attend one of the most important trade shows in Europe, Maison & Objet. I went with a couple of my favorite people, and once we got a sense of the scale of the expo, we realized that the two days we'd given ourselves to visit were far from enough. But we made the best of things...

I have been meaning to put these photos up for so long, it's embarassing.  The event occurred in January after all.  But having adored Jean Dujardin in the just-released silent film The Artist (definitely a must-see), I decided that perhaps here, too, fewer words can be more.  There are indeed stories behind these creators, and if you're interested in anything in particular, feel free to leave a question in the comments section...Enjoy!

I also made time to visit "365 Charming Everyday Things", a Japanese design exhibition highlighting the craft--and art--in Japanese products at the Bastille Design Center (itself a lovely industrial space that originally housed an ironmonger).  You can find out more about the individual products, their esthetics and the impetus behind the project here.  Look closely at the images to see the clever design twists and humor.

(Can't resist explaining that these little houses are air purifiers.  The roof element is carbon powder molded with holes to maximize air circulation...)

Makes me want to make my own stuff!

Kyrie eleison.

After a matter of days in Amsterdam, we had to return.  It's hard separating, whether from a person or a place.  You find yourself going back to that familiar beauty that drew you in the first place.

In stark contrast to the Amsterdam I've thus far experienced this year, Paris was at her seasonally appropriate best: 30 degrees celsius (86 degrees fahrenheit), long rows of tourists with their feet in the fountains, and city streets alight.  Top down, music playing, we were nevertheless in Paris for a seriously good reason: a friend's wedding.

The wedding was familiar and exotic all at once, being held in the Russian Orthodox tradition.  Imagine squadrons of Parisian and Russian women in over-the-top hats and perfectly fitted, fancy summer dresses--and sky-high heels.  Their companions faintly overwarm in their suits. And all of us standing for the full length of the service, which lasted an hour and a half.  There are no seats in a Russian Orthodox cathedral, and the Alexander Nevsky on rue Daru in the 8eme arrondissement granted no exception to this  rule.

The two priests, one old with solemn eyes and a full, square beard, one a strapping young tenor, chanted the entire service, in a sort of Gregorian manner.  They were draped from neck to ankle in heavy, golden vestments, absolutely covered with embroidered religious motifs.  They led the bride and groom's procession into the church, where the couple stood upon an immaculately white piece on cloth laid upon the Persian carpeted floor.  They held a golden chalice, from which the couple drank.  And then came the crowning, which involved eight male members of the wedding party.  Four men behind the bride, four behind the groom perspired in their morning coats while taking turns to hold the golden crowns a steady few inches above the heads of the bridal pair.  All this with song and prayer ringing in the air (the choir was hidden but sang in a sort of call and response throughout the prayers and crowning); the acoustics were powerful and somehow intimate.  And there was gold and intricate designs and carving everywhere.

The couple drove off in a wine-red 1950s convertible Dodge Coronet (with Washington state plates!) We cheered, and that evening, we drank an awful lot of Champagne. 

Just a little more dreaming of Paris.

While I do go on about life in the countryside, I'm actually at my happiest when I am able periodically take in the ebullient city as well. Best of both worlds, yadda yadda. Here are some more snaps from my latest visit to Paris. I was able to catch the Louvre's Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto show, which features some 85 canvases (a few gems by Battista Franco as well). Many of the tableaux are of breath-taking scale and refinement, and all are from Venice in the late 1500s. They will be exhibited until January 4, 2010; I strongly recommend buying tickets in advance, unless you enjoy excessive queuing; you won't have to specify the day or time you want to come, so your plans remain flexible.

Hey, it's important to remain flexible, as you never know when you will happen upon a lovely Left Bank street filled with quirky shop windows at which you simply must linger. Or when you might stumble upon an open-air organic market filled with the best of the season, like these pristine cèpes (referred to as eekhoorntjesbrood, or 'squirrel bread', by the Dutch, porcini by the Italians, and boletus edulis in Latin). How lovely to see that virginal interior laid bare, especially since my last foray into cèpes-buying resulted in a butcher's block full of just-sliced mushrooms--heavily infested with squirmy white larvae as it turned out. The additional protein made for a gross-out face, muffled curses and last-minute improvisation. From now on I will ask them to first slice open these nutty, "meaty" tasting fungi. Any eye-rolling notwithstanding, it's worth it; these mushrooms aren't given away.

Flexibility in Paris is also highly practical simply given the number of cafes, terraces and patisseries, and the high probability of a sweet tooth combined with sore feet. Even though she has become disturbingly omnipresent the last few years (now to be found in Tokyo, Dublin, Geneva, London--and at Charles de Gaulle airport, for crying out loud), Ladurée remains the 150-some year old grande doyenne of the patisseries, chiefly for the must-do tea-room (even if you only peep through the window at the rococo interior). You go to her, above all, for her divine macarons, which are essentially little sandwiches composed of two almond meringue cookies between which there is a creamy ganache filling. Let's not forget that circa the 1880s Ladurée actually developed the intensely airy and flavorfully filled permutation of the macaron we know today (which is a completely different entity from the also delicious but dense Anglo-Saxon coconut macaroon). Given Ladurée's 150-some years in existence, Pierre Herme has to aim for wild audacity in flavor combinations for his versions to compete. And he doesn't always succeed, I am told.

Leaving room for the unexpected means being able to slow down and have a chat, perhaps as I did, with this artisan sign-painter, standing by his palette on wheels. And they say Parisians are cold. As with any world city, there are dreadful inequities and the accumulated weight of small, everyday outrages. In any season, however, she remains a grand city.

Mozart redux and other citified stuff.

What is there to do in Paris on any given evening, besides eating as well as a god might and paying as lavishly as a king can? There's Mozart, for one. I'm not referring to the airy, refined sort of work one might listen to at the Palais Garnier, also known as l'Opéra de Paris. Anything there is sold out months in advance, well beyond my normal capacity for planning.
For Mozart in full technicolor version 2009, you take the Métro line 12 to the Palais des Sports, a much more modest Palais that clings to the edge of the Péripherique (Paris' beltway/ringroad, a highway that circles the sprawling city). There, surrounded by the mostly very young (read: pre-adolescents and teenagers), you'll find yourself carried away on a frothy, occasionally bombastic, musical tale of Mozart the composer. Do not expect much in the way of historical accuracy or his own indelible, influential music. Imagine instead a show that inhabits the space between the 1980s hit Rock Me Amadeus of German group Falco (don't pretend you don't remember; for a refresher, pop into YouTube) and Tom Hulce's prancing, bravura performance in the film Amadeus.
The musical's audience anticipated many of the songs performed, and flipped on their cameras for their favorite parts which, while anthropologically mildly interesting, was somewhat horrifying, as occasionally, the darkness was lit by a veritable sea of small glowing rectangles. They were busy recording instead of experiencing...Judging by the applause and raising of cameras, the darker musical performance of the actor portraying Salieri, the Viennese rival to Mozart, was actually somewhat favored over the lead of the eponymous show. He did seem to display somewhat greater range and vocal fortitude (and he is performing in the video above). All in all, a few catchy numbers and a fun evening. It is now being performed in Paris but will also be touring the rest of the country; for more information click here.
As for other ongoing shows, the Musée du Luxembourg, just off the charming Place St. Sulpice, is exhibiting Tiffany (the glassware, not the jewelry beloved of Audrey Hepburn). American artisan, yes, but well-respected by the French, and executed with more virtuosity than I had previously realized. The small but interesting show runs through January 2010.Doesn't that sound a decade or so away? It isn't.
But the best show of all isn't going anywhere: the endless, endlessly changing Parisian array of small shop-windows, streets, galleries and squares are just made for extensive exploring, and you can easily break from the milling hordes of tourists by taking a side-street or two--or better yet a bike.Even the locals are resorting to them (in the form of the sturdy-looking low-cost, pay as you go Velib') in greater and greater numbers, as navigating the city by car becomes ever more wearisome.

If the thought of all this walking, riding and exploring makes you hungry (or am I the only one?), I have a excellent antidote to weighty bistro food: authentically bright, fresh Italian. At lunch hour, head to moderately-priced Alfredo Positano located at 9, rue Guisarde (just off Place St. Sulpice again) where you'll find yourself in the lively company of more than a few Italians with their kids, and well-heeled local suits (the Sénat is on the other side of the St. Sulpice church). The restaurant bustles, the staff is animated and jovial. There are a lot of regulars. I was in heaven, between the steak-like slices of porcini mushrooms and generous shavings of Elba white truffle, both of which are now in season. Heaven!They also serve pizzas with great toppings and fabulous crunch here, if that's what you're craving, but for a near-religious experience, order a simple caprese salad with bufala mozzarella, underpinned with peppery arugula--and a side order of unforgettable (really, I swear) foccacia. You don't go for the decor, you go for the buzz, and the sway of spoken Italian. You go, above all, for the food. And then it's out the door, back to all things Parisian.

Bonjour de Paris.

Say you have a few days of perfect fall weather, some time off, a little bit of money to burn. And a ticket to Paris (by train, plane, whatever). Where do you set down your bag? There's a strong argument to be made for the quieter bits of the Latin Quarter/Left Bank, specifically in the sixth arondissement, or district, around the ample charms of the intimate Place Saint Sulpice neighborhood. There, you will find the 24-room boutique Hotel Recamier, which just opened in July after a sumptuous renovation led by Jean-Louis Deniot. (Book through one of the online agencies for the best rates, as I did.)

The hotel is across from the St. Sulpice church, which is perpetually undergoing renovation (it seems) but manages to maintain its serene grace even with partial scaffolding and a big yellow crane. Beyond the notoriety brought on by Dan Brown's rather liberally innaccurate Da Vinci Code thriller (and the fact that the Marquis de Sade was baptized there...), the church features a lovely fountain in front and serves as a local meeting point. In the morning, the street cleaners stride with purpose and seeming good cheer, sweeping up stray leaves and litter. The professionals clutch their dose of expresse and the paper, and resignedly wait for the bus. True to pre-conceived notions, the women inevitably wear immaculate heels. Lovers twine hands and hair and doze in the slanting afternoon sun, and teenaged boys start up lively ad-hoc street soccer in the early evenings. Those of us with time and patience queue just up the street for Pierre Hermé's remarkable macarons. It really doesn't matter what time you come--even twenty minutes before the shop opens. There's always a queue. Believe me.Bring that copy of War and Peace you always meant to finish. And get an extra box for me, because for once I just couldn't be bothered, and instead set off to explore the rest of Paris, sans Pierre Hermé. I know, I know, his pastries qualify him as one of the leading lights of French cuisine, and I do regret not waiting. But Paris was calling.

The painter Marc Chagall was invited to design his own edition of Vogue magazine in 1977. He opened the issue with a poem of his own:

Je marche sur ton âme, sur ton ventre, je bois le restant de tes années, j'ai avalé ta lune, le rêve de ton innocence, pour devenir ton ange et te proteger à nouveau.

I step on your soul, on your belly, I drink the rest of your years, I've swallowed your moon, the dream of your innocence, to become your angel and to protect you once again.

I am fairly certain he was describing what Paris can do to you.

Update:

The December 2009 issue of the French edition of Elle Decoration has a six page piece on the Hotel Recamier, pretty pictures galore.