Highlights of Paris.

OK, I know I'm a jammy sod, having a whole week in Paris, and I completely enjoyed it! So what were the highlights? Well, for one thing, the clothing stores and boutiques. Absolutely wonderful. But I'm warning you right now-don't risk shopping in Paris unless you have vast reserves of either cash or steely resolve. I am hardly known as a fashion fiend, but I'll tell you, when I got home I wanted to burn my entire wardrobe.








Galaries Lafayette is the ultimate temple of retail; to call it a shop would be on a par with referring to Westminster Abbey as a church. It's grand. It's beautiful. It's immense. And it has every fashion house known to man (or should that be 'woman'?) under it's gorgeous glass domed roof.





I was completely lost in there, in every sense, bedazzled by the Tiffany diamonds, lured by the luscious leather goods and generally reduced to drooling. It is magnificent, makes Selfridge's look like Sainsbury's. I was so overwhelmed, I couldn't even find my way out.

Luckily, I found the Ruinart champagne bar! Convenient, no? However I was very good and only had the one wonderful glass. Would have had more ( the whole bottle) but thought I had better remain sober. And also at least a bit solvent. So I'm not saying how much it cost; my DOH might read this. But it was really, really good champagne.




Because we were staying in an apartment rather than a hotel, we got to know some of the local shops, too. The fruit and veg guy always greeted us with a friendly 'Bonjour'- he was probably planning to pay off his mortgage with the proceeds from the armloads of fat, white asparagus spears I carted away every day.



I am sure the nice lady in le Boucherie (butcher's shop) still remembers us after I tried to ask if my DOH had already been in one day. In a sad attempt to describe him, I forgot that in French, the word for 'hair' is very similar to the word for 'horse'. I wondered why she looked so worried. I bet she's still laughing about the man wearing a long, silver-grey stallion on his head.


And the people at the Patisserie will certainly be wondering where I am. Ahem. That's enough said about that, I think.










I heard some truly great music while I was there, including buskers in the Metro, but the best place was at Les Abessess square. I mentioned the jazz band, led by an exile from Texas, in a previous post. They were so good, we stopped to listen to them a couple of times. On another day there was a superb clarinet player, together with a pianist. He sounded like he'd just come from some seedy, smoky bar somewhere. Wish I'd bought his CD, but there were shoes to be had, and you already know about that; shoes win. Every time. Always.


Most evenings we went to Sacre Couer- it was the only place we could visit that didn't involve climbing up a hill to get home afterwards. At night the steps turn into a kind of amphitheatre, with guitar players, jugglers and lots of African men selling more copies of the Eiffel tower than you can ever imagine anyone buying; available in silver, gold, bronze- or how about the deluxe model which lights up? No? Me neither.




We did all the tourist stuff- visited Notre Dame (if you're going there, the back is far superior to the front, but, oh the shame, how did I let it happen, my camera battery died) so I have no photos. Just trust me. Really. Stop laughing.

We walked around a lot, past Moulin Rouge and all the seedy sex shops- tried hard to see inside, as you do.
















If you're wondering about the Eiffel Tower- well, here it is, as seen from the Louvre. We didn't go there. It doesn't 'turn my crank'. It just looks like some monstrous Mechanno toy to me. John agreed. It's pretty at night though, when it's all lit up. Then it's like Mechanno with lights!








This is the entrance to a Metro station. I included it because I liked it, no other reason.















So that's about it. There's lots more I could waffle on about but I don't want to induce any coma's. I'm already plotting a return to Paris, the City of Light. I'll rent another apartment, too. But I'll be asking detailed and intense questions about exactly where the apartment is; and if there's an elevator!

Arc de Triomphe (Paris)

One thing I really like about France is how their veterans are honoured and not forgotten. The memories are kept alive all year round, not just on special days. The flame at the tomb of the unknown soldier burns 24/7. The flower tributes are always fresh. The bouquet below had just been delivered when we were there.

And around the city there are engraved stones which have been set into the walls of ordinary buildings where individuals who were victims of the Nazis lived. The stones tell of what happened to those people.



I'm sorry I don't have any photographs to show you, but if you're in Paris, as you're walking around, just look up every now and again and you'll probably spot one. They're written in French (of course) but you don't have to be able to speak the language to understand them; I think everyone knows what 'Gestapo' and 'Auschwitz' mean.


There are people in this world who would have us believe that the holocaust never occurred; well, Paris is one place that's not going to let that happen.

The Three Parisiennes.

Enough about the culture- on to more important matters; like shoes! If, like me, you have a serious Imelda Marcos problem, then Paris may be Heaven or Hell, depending on the state of your finances. There's a LOT of shoes for sale. In the famous store Galaries Lafayette there's a whole floor devoted entirely to footwear, everything from Jimmy Choos to Rockport's, all set in delicious little boutiques.

















Nearly every street has at least one shoe shop. Wherever you look there are darling shoes in almost every colour and style. And there was a shop near our apartment which sold can-can shoes and boots. Our helpful landlady left directions on how to find it, along with the cheerful comment that she owns a pair in at least half the colours available. John read it and groaned.

















I visited the shop every day, pressing my nose up against the window, making important choices. Which style? What colour?

How many?







The day came when I finally squeezed myself through the door. I say 'squeezed' because the shop is tiny and it was already crowded with a trio of smart Frenchwomen. They were friends who were out together, choosing what to buy. All available styles had to be examined, every colour considered; opinions offered and suggestions made. Boxes and shoes littered the entire floor.




When my turn came I asked to see some red shoes that had caught my eye. There were two shades of red available, one plain and one pearlized. The pearlized ones were especially pretty and my gasp of delight caused a ripple of sisterly laughter in the shop; every woman in there understood the joy that only a new pair of shoes can bring.




But once I was actually wearing the coveted shoes - I was not so sure of my choice. I gazed at the mirror. I studied my feet. I wished I had someone to ask, but my grasp of French is not that good. The Frenchwomen said nothing and continued their own search for the perfect pair of shoes.




Then I asked to see the same style in grey. I put them on. Three immaculately coiffured heads turned. They nodded enthusiastically. Words I could recognize filled the air: "Bon!" "Chic." "Tres elegante!". Well, when three classy Parissiennes look at your shod feet and indicate approval, you don't argue. You buy the shoes.



And with splendid disregard for the English language: This is they!