It’s that time of year now.  Tomorrow is December 1st, which means the Chrismukkah season is upon us (I am half Jewish, after all).  This, without a doubt, is my favorite time of the year.  Hands down.  I have fond memories of hanging out with my family, making caramel popcorn with mom, and decorating the tree with my sister, 10 years my junior.  Moreover, let’s just say my family throws kick*ss parties that no one forgets.

That said, I’m trying to not get depressed.  You might be asking, “How could one be so sad during such a joyous season?”  Well, it’s simple.  Last holiday season I was in Paris, where every window display was decorated as if the visual merchandiser was on crack–in a good way.  Galerie Lafayette and Bon Marché resembled the world of Wonka for the fashion obsessed, or anyone who likes sparkly and pretty things for that matter.

The outside of Galeries Lafayette

The best part, though, were the lines of lights that hung effortlessly and illuminated the Champs Elysée.

Looking down the Champs Elysée towards the Arc de Triomphe

To top it all off, the carousel at Concorde was up along with little Christmas shops up and down, where you could taste anything from all over the world.

The Ferris Wheel at Concorde

I’ll never forget the feeling of saundering up and down, tasting candies and eating fresh oysters from Normandie, holding hands with my (then) love.  The only word that even remotely comes close to that sense of euphoria: Magic.

Christmas Market

Needless to say, Boston is not Paris, and love and I are no longer together.  I’m still going to try and make the best of it.  For the first time I’m going to the Boston tree lighting ceremony.  It’s this Thursday and should be a good time, weather permitting.  If you see a girl spiking her Starbucks Peppermint Mocha with nips of Peppermint Schnapps, come over and introduce yourself.  My roomies and I are also throwing a Chrismukkah Party, complete with caramel popcorn, mistletoe, eggnog, Secret Santa (a personal fav), DVD’s that show a fire and play Christmas carols (we have no working fireplace so we had to make due), lights, and a menorah and cute little tree from Urban Outfitters.

Until then, I will continue to walk up and down Newbury hoping to catch some good deals before my New Year’s Eve excursion down to Miami. It might not be the boutiques in the Marais, but it has its own charm in itself.  Being away for so long has made me appreciate this city much more.  Wish me luck!

Santé.

Under Construction

Marin Marais (1656 – 1728)

Five Old French Dances

Originally for viol and basso continuo. Some of the dances were published into the fourth book of viol pieces.

More arrangements coming soon!

I. L’Agréable (Rondeau)

Treble | Bass

II. La Provençale

III. La Musette

IV. La Matelotte

V. Le Basque

Es wird mal wieder Zeit, die neusten Reiseplanentwicklungen zu beschreiben. Nächstes Jahr steht ja nun Paris an. Wir haben uns nun auf den 12. bis 17. Mai geeinigt und fangen an Nägel mit Köpfen zu machen. Das ist jedenfalls der Plan. Flüge beobachten wir zur Zeit noch, buchen wäre langsam aber auch mal eine hübsche Sache.

Shakespeare&Company

Das größte Fragezeichen schwirrt bisher aber noch über der Unterkunft. Von meinem letzten Besuch bin ich da ganz schön verwöhnt – hatten wir da doch ein ziemlich reizendes, besonderes Hotel an einem winzigen Platz im wunderbaren Viertel Marais in unmittelbarer Nachbarschaft zur Rue des Roisiers. Marais liegt mitten im Herzen von Paris, am rechten Seine-Ufer direkt gegenüber der Îles St-Louis.

Rue des Rosiers

Mein Credo für die Hotelsuche lautet also: Etwas zentrales, hübsches, an einem kleinen Platz – und wir müssen es uns leisten können. Beim letzten Punkt wird die Suche dann irgendwie ungemütlich. Paris ist nun beekanntlich schon an sich kein billiges Pflaster, mit meinen Eingaben bewegen wir uns an der Grenze zur Unmöglichkeit. Bei unserer Suche sind wir auf ein kleines Hotel gestoßen, welches tatsächlich in unserem finanziellen Rahmen passt und auf der Île de la Cité liegt. Kaum zu glauben? Finden wir auch. Die Zimmer sollen nicht die allerschönsten und besten sein, aber die Lage macht da natürlich alles wett. Eine andere Möglichkeit wäre natürlich ein Bed&Breakfast, vor allem interessant, da man so Paris noch einen Hauch näher kommt. Leider sind die B&B, die irgendwie zentral liegen auch dementsprechend teuer – teurer als die schon nicht günstigen Hotels. Ein kleines Highlight habe ich trotzdem ausgemacht. Ein schönes Zimmer, inklusive teils antiken Möbeln mit Panoramablick auf den Eifelturm. Das ganze für knapp 29€ pro Person. Nur leider ist das Haus in jeglicher Definition nicht zentral gelegen. Jetzt lautet die Frage also: zentral aber ranzig oder dezentral aber hübsch? 

Concentré de culture

Ouh, il pleut! Ouh, il fait froid! Ouh, ça déprime! Moi, pas!

Je n’en peux plus d’entendre tout le monde se plaindre de la pluie, du vent, du froid… On est en novembre, bon sang, et à Paris! C’est pas la ville la plus réputée pour son taux d’ensoleillement à l’année! Et il a fait tellement beau avant, ce mois d’octobre magique…

Alain Gillot-Pétré, retourne te coucher. Tout ça pour dire que par ces frimas, il y a toujours des bonnes petites choses à faire; par exemple, les salons de thé!

Alors, oui, je sais, avant j’aurai fait une carte des meilleurs Mojitos fraise de Paris, ça viendra. Mais pour l’instant, grossesse oblige, on va rester sobre et se prendre un bon thé fumé Lapsang Souchong. Et où, s’il-vous-plaît? Dans le plus Bobo des salons de thé de la capitale

Le Loir dans la théière

Vous aurez reconnu le nom inspiré de Lewis Caroll et de son Alice!

Tea time oblige, un thé+ une part de leur délicieuse tarte: 10€

Leur tarte au citron est réputée dans tout Paris pour la taille de sa meringue.Les brunchs sont bons et copieux,bien qu’un peu cher (17,50€), mais oubliez la trop longue grasse matinée sinon, vous risquez de passer une heure debout à attendre une place!

Le loir dans la théière c’est au 3 rue des Rosiers, 4ème arrdt, métro Saint Paul, et c’est ouvert tous les jours!

love the shoes from marais usa! also the top in the last photo is too cute!

Like most daughters, my relationship with my mom has had its ups and downs with the usual refrain of “Please don’t let me turn into my mother!” Complicating matters is the fact that culturally we’re pretty different: I’m American; she’s Korean, and (shamefully) I don’t speak Korean well (read: hardly at all). She speaks Korean to me; I answer in English. Oh, and my parents live in Seoul so I see them at most once a year.

These are not the ingredients that make for a close mother-daughter relationship.

Now the birth of my own daughter meant that my mom was coming to help me out, which I dreaded. I witnessed how stressful these grandma visits were for my sister when she gave birth (four times!) I wanted to avoid that at all costs and quite frankly, I thought her visit would be more aggravating than helpful. But Dman insisted that she come and see her granddaughter and since he was leaving for three weeks, it was the perfect opportunity to get some needed help with my newborn.

Mom arrived and I tried to be positive. But as the week wore on, she wore on my nerves. Everything annoyed me. She couldn’t figure out how our lighting system works. She kept insisting the baby and I were cold and should cover up. She seemed afraid to go outside and see Paris. Most annoying of all, she left wadded-up, wet paper towels all over the kitchen so she could re-use them instead of chucking them out. (What was annoying was that I would do that, too, and Dman pointed it out to me once, saying, “What is up with these used paper towels? Just throw them out!” All I kept hearing was, “You’re turning into your mother!”)

Anyway, after the first week, we had a huge fight about just about everything and I was ready to send the woman packing on an earlier flight back to Seoul.

Once again, my mom didn’t get it, I thought. She wasn’t the mom I’d wanted her to be since I was a teenager. Back then, I thought my best friend Lisa’s mom was the coolest. She could talk to us about boys and let us go out clubbing on South Street. She also didn’t freak if we drank (alcohol, duh) and let me sleepover so that I could extend my ridiculous 10pm curfew. In high school, that is the epitome of cool. When I married Dman, I also got a formidable mother-in-law who’s a movie director, travels the world, speaks three languages and was a cougar before the term (or Demi and Ashton) ever existed. For an independent New Yorker like me, that was again the epitome of cool.

My mom? Not so cool. Her career as a piano teacher was intermittent. She’s been married, not always happily, to my father for almost 40 years. She’s traveled a little bit, but isn’t the kind of free-spirited adventurer that I admire. She can be awkwardly timid around non-Koreans, which frustrates me because she can speak English—but always preferred us kids speaking for her when she lived in the States. She’s modest in how she spends money and wears clothes. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard her utter a curse word in my life. Basically, she couldn’t be more different from me and I was highly, highly critical of that.

Right after our fight, we went for a walk around the Marais with my sister (who was also visiting) acting as a buffer. At one point, my mom leaned over the baby carriage to coo at my daughter and suddenly, all of my hard, resentful feelings disappeared. Her open love for my baby made me realize how much she loves me and in that instant, I saw my mom for everything she was instead of everything she wasn’t. She’s kind and caring; thoughtful and resourceful; sweet and generous. And a fantastic cook, on top of it all.

Once I stopped acting like an adolescent whining about wanting a “cool mom,” I got my cool mom. I just had to give her a chance to show me or, more likely, I needed to grow up a little lot.

Mom cooked and cleaned for me everyday and took care of the baby so I could take care of myself for a change. She started telling me stories about her life in Korea when she was a young piano teacher (and mother) traveling between Pusan and Seoul to work when my father got laid off from his job. (I gathered that he was the stay-at-home dad, while she brought home the bacon.) She wound up giving a Korean cooking lesson to my chef sister-in-law and me—as well as making a Korean feast for my impressed in-laws. She even went out in Paris alone, doing the shopping because it was raining and she didn’t want me and the baby to go outside in the wet.

As for those wadded-up paper towels? The woman is totally green. She doesn’t waste a single thing. You should see how she peels and cuts up a mango—not a single piece of pulp left on the seed. Pretty amazing. What I used to see as parsimonious is actually pretty damn ecological. And yes, really cool.

So what’s my cool mom doing now? Heading to Phuket with her girlfriends for four days of beach and massage.

Mom, can I be more like you now?

P.S. I’ll be sharing her easy kimchi recipe in a post to come. It’s taken me moving to Paris and having a baby to finally learn the recipe!

Big day. My first venture into Paris to meet my friend, Alan who is taking the bullet train down from Brussels.

This is huge. I’ve got train schedules, maps and metro paths to figure out. Naturally, I am frightened. His train gets in at 11:35 at Gard du Nord and I have a vague idea of how to get there and an even vaguer idea of where to meet him.

I studied the transillien schedules for hours last night, trying to figure out the right connections into Paris. I’ve been told it’s Auvers to Pontoise and then from Pontoise into Gare du Nord. But the times just aren’t meshing. The train from Auvers to Pontoise gets in two minutes after the train from Pontoise to Paris leaves which means I’d have to spend 45 minutes in Pontoise waiting for the next train. But at closer glance, I notice that if I get off one stop before Pontoise in Saint Ouen, where the train to Paris also stops, the timing would be perfect…6 minutes between trains. I’m  hesitant to try it because everyone told me the point of transfer is Pontoise, and who am I to deviate from the advice of people who know better? And what if Saint Ouen is as confusing as Pontoise and it takes me longer than 6 minutes to find the train to Paris?   But it has to be done, because I sure as heck don’t want to spend another 45 minutes at the Pontoise station.

The lady at the Auvers station confirmed my decision by drawing a picture because I kept looking at her blankly when she spoke. So off I went.

The connection works perfectly and I spend the 45 minute train ride watching a baby in a stroller sucking on a pacifier (much more enjoyable than watching grungy teenaged boys sucking on a joint). Every time the father takes the pacifier out of the baby’s mouth, tthe baby breaks into a huge grin and yelps joyfully. It’s almost like uncorking a bottle of champagne, without the foam, (thank goodness).

As we pass Sacre Couer perched majestically on the hill, I start to get nervous again. Gare du Nord is huge. A city unto itself. I’m to meet Alan at the gate where his train arrives, wherever that is. I left myself enough time to get lost, and promptly do so. It seems the only way I can meet Alan at his gate is to pay for a train ticket, which I don’t want to do. I consider fleeing, but decide that a better course of action is to ask a woman behind the ticket counter. She kindly buzzes me in.

I arrive five minutes before Alan’s train pulls in. When Alan appears I’m faced with the next daunting task of the day…figuring out where exactly Gare du Nord is in relation to the rest of Paris. Since Alan has no particular thoughts on what he’d like to see in Paris, I wing it and we start walking.

As long as a city is on a grid system, I’m fine. Unfortunately, Paris is not. Every time I think I knew where we are, another diagonal street intersects up and confuses me all over again. We wind up in Les Halles, which isn’t my favorite part of Paris, so we head towards the left bank. Or so I think. I start to feel as though we are walking in circles and the only thing that tips me off that we aren’t is the fact that the naked mannequins in the store window here have nipples while the ones we saw earlier didn’t. The nipples hearten me.

We wind up at the Pompidou center, which has the longest line I’ve ever seen (damn tourists!). Alan knows nothing about Paris, and being the creative person I am,, I tell him that the Pompidou center is a large public toilet. He wants to go in until I tell him that it’s really just a museum.

From there we head over to the Left Bank, but quickly cross back to the Il Saint Louis because Alan HAD to have crepes, and there’s a great crepe place there.

After lunch we wander through the Latin quarter (or maybe it’s Rome), checking out all the food on display on the narrow streets. It’s almost enough to make me hungry again.

We consider going to the Louvre, but decide since I can’t find my way around Paris, the Louvre would be an inescapable nightmare. They would probably find our bones in some obscure, dusty corner years from now.

We pass through the Louvre courtyard, which is impressive in itself and continue to the Palais Royal and Rue St Honore. We take a right because neither of us can afford to even look in the store windows.

At this point we hear sirens approaching and my visceral reaction is to hide, as I’m sure they’re coming to get me for some NY rent violation, but they pass. Dozens of police cars head in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. My second visceral reaction is to find a spot where we can check and make sure that the landmark is not a smouldering pile of ashes. It’s still there. We decide to celebrate by having drinks in the Marais. We find a nice spot under the eaves of the Place du Vosges, which is one of my favorite spots in Paris. I tell Alan a little history of the area (this time the truth…I think). It’s lovely and peaceful until a batch of teenaged girls come screeching through, as loud and obnoxious as any American teenagers.

At this point, I’m starting to get a little nervous that we won’t find the Gare du Nord in time to catch the train back to Auvers. So we pay and head off at about 5:30. I believe I stopped people to ask directions approximately seven times between the Marais and the Gare de l’est. And another four between the Gare de l’est and Gare du Nord, which are about 3 blocks apart. Everyone was very friendly and helpful.

We arrive at Gare du Nord at about seven. And this is the only time I start to feel like I’m in New York. There’s a huge line for tickets and only two people manning the booth. Further, the machines that dispense tickets aren’t working. Alan just follows me mutely as I storm back and forth between the two, my head about to explode in rage.

The line moves fairly quickly and we make the train with a few minutes to spare.

We make it back to Auvers without a hitch.

In all, I ‘m sure we must have walked 26 miles and asked approximately 30 people for directions (that’s a little more than one person per mile, which doesn’t sound nearly so bad). I’m not sure what Alan got out of the experience, except that Paris is beautiful, French people aren’t rude as legend has it, citron crepes are delicious, Victor Hugo lived in the Place de Vosges, the Pompidou center isn’t a public toilet and that mannequin nipples are almost as good as a compass when it comes to finding one’s direction.

I’m very happy to have contributed something valuable to his cultural experience.

See my Paris picture gallery.

Eating well (and affordably) in Paris, contrary to popular opinion, takes a certain amount of skill. It is also extraordinarily helpful to have a current Michelin Guide, and worth every centime. To the American eye, many of the bistrots and cafés look alike. It can also be prohibitively expensive, especially with the current exchange rate. So, we students eat quite a bit of pizza, crêpes, lebanese sandwiches, corner-stand panini, and, best of all, falafel!

The best street for this is in the heart of the Marais, the Rue des Rosiers. On any day of the week, the lines at l’As du Fallafel and its competition, just across the street, will be ten people deep. On Sunday, the lines extend halfway down the block, and the falafel hawkers are louder and more aggressive than usual. I find it somewhat stressful, as the street is packed with tourists, locals, and Orthodox jews anyway, all jockeying for a place on the cobblestones. But it is worth it. Hot fallafel pucks drowing in sesame sauce on a bed of carrot and cabbage slaw. You have to take the famous cheesesteak posture, just as if you were standing outside of Geno’s in Philadelphia. Legs wide apart, head down, stray drips of sauce and slaw dropping to the littered sidewalk. Not as messy as jets of melted CheezWhiz, but pretty intense nonetheless.

It is even sweeter, although significantly more expensive, to sit down at Chez H’Anna or Chez Marianne. Chez Marianne (click link to see photos) is by far my favorite – a ten table outfit in a tiny two-story house. You can order a variety plate. Caviar d’aubergines (eggplant caviar), hummus, garlic mushrooms, the Middle Eastern equivalent of salsa, olives, falafel – all scooped up with black bread and pita. Amazing, and the plate never seems to get empty, until your belly is sticking out and you have developed a serious case of food baby. (My friend Benjamin’s favorite English expression, apparently without equivalent in his native French.)

Entre La Baule et l’océan, un polar plein de suspense et d’aventure  à découvrir d’urgence.

INTERVIEW DE L’AUTEUR, ROGER COUPANNEC

“J’avoue que j’ai une préférence pour l’assassin.”

Qui êtes-vous, Roger Coupannec ?

— Un jeune auteur puisque « Pot-pourri à la fleur de sel » est mon premier roman publié.  J’ai exercé pour l’Education Nationale en France et à l’étranger dans l’enseignement et dans l’administration. Ecrire est un exercice aussi tonique pour l’esprit que le sport pour le corps. Le long cheminement qui vous mène en dix approximations et  vingt ratures à l’expression jugée satisfaisante est ardu, certes, mais une phrase bien rythmée donne autant de plaisir qu’un swing réussi au golf.

Votre narrateur est journaliste. L’avez-vous-même été vous-même ?

— Pas plus que lui. J’ai été correspondant de presse pendant plusieurs années. J’en ai retiré je crois quelque chose. D’abord les faits divers, les « chiens écrasés », recèlent tous une dose d’humanité. De plus vous rencontrez des gens qui à leur échelle vivent parfois de vrais romans, pas tous drôles d’ailleurs. Enfin pour ce qui est de l’écriture, lorsqu’on vous demande par exemple un article de 1200 caractères, ce n’est pas 1500 ! C’est une excellente discipline pour éviter les bavardages inutiles. Au lecteur de dire si j’y ai réussi, bien sûr.

Vous situez votre histoire en presqu’île guérandaise. Vous inspirez-vous de la réalité ?

— Pas des faits divers en tous cas. Cette histoire est inventée de toutes pièces. Il lui fallait un cadre et je me suis librement inspiré de l’environnement que je connais, la presqu’île guérandaise si variée du Croisic à Herbignac, avec ses ports, ses plages, ses marais salants mais avec aussi dans l’arrière-pays la Brière si secrète. De plus  le contexte social charpente un peu le récit. J’évoque par exemple la marée noire, les élevages intensifs, la drogue, les sectes, le fichage généralisé des individus. Le personnage principal, Jo Morel, ce pourrait être vous ou moi, un brave type curieux qui n’aime pas se laisser manipuler. Les ados je les ai côtoyés dans mon métier, directs, assoiffés de justice.  Les beaux-parleurs, les faux-jetons, les crapules on en croise tous les jours. C’est le privilège de l’auteur de faire naître, vivre et mourir qui il veut en quelques pages. J’avoue que j’ai une préférence pour l’assassin. Je ne me place pas évidemment dans un jugement de valeur morale. J’avais du plaisir à le suivre dans ses manigances.

Vous rattachez-vous à une école d’écriture ?

— Le monde que j’invente abrite des salauds, pas toujours punis d’ailleurs. Mais on y trouve aussi de la tendresse et surtout, si j’ai réussi, de l’humour qui rend la vie plus supportable…et, je l’espère, la lecture plus agréable. J’ai toujours lu avec plaisir les romans d’Exbrayat et si j’ai un regret c’est de ne pas avoir écrit les romans de Léo Malet avant lui !

Pourquoi une grille de mots croisés au milieu du livre ?

— Qu’un assassin se croie invincible au point de narguer l’intelligence des enquêteurs ou du public, cela s’est déjà vu hélas dans la réalité. J’ai voulu être original en utilisant une grille de mots croisés en guise de message caché. A ma connaissance le procédé était neuf et je le trouve piquant. On le sait, les mots muent et les mots ruent. Ici les mots tuent…

Pourquoi le titre de « Pot-pourri à la fleur de sel » ?

— On a un peu oublié qu’un pot-pourri, qui désigne aujourd’hui une compilation musicale d’airs variés ou une composition florale parfumée était à l’origine, chez Rabelais par exemple, une espèce de ragoût où cuisaient à petit feu diverses viandes. La vie elle-même nous mitonne souvent un joli pot-pourri : elle nous broie, nous malaxe et nous assaisonne parfois si bien qu’on se demande à quelle sauce on va être mangé.  J’ai fait mijoter ensemble des personnages que rien ne rassemblait à première vue. Une touche d’amitié, deux brins d’amour, une louche de vanité quelques crimes pimentent le tout. Ajoutons la fleur de sel qui est pour le paludier sa réussite, le meilleur de sa récolte.  On comprendra j’espère l’allusion ironique à la fine fleur de la société  qui se croit dans ce roman supérieur aux lois ordinaires.

L’AUTEUR

Roger Coupannec vit au Pouliguen, près du Croisic, entre mer et marais. Après une carrière d’enseignant, il a travaillé comme correspondant de presse. Son expérience a nourri l’enquête qu’il raconte ici avec talent dans son premier roman.

A découvrir ou à commander chez votre libraire

Policier série Carbone.    ISBN 978-2-84238-114-1   15 euros

Diffusion-distribution Pollen-Littéral Paris

Comptoir de vente Soleils diffusion Paris

www.dorbestier. com

Following their temporary sportswear shops in Berlin, Toyko, etc., Nike has just opened their latets installation in the Marais, Paris.  From Hypebeast, “Located in a former bookstore, much of the original details of the three-storey building’s façade and interior have been retained. The interior has however been somewhat enhanced with graphics by French illustrators Antoine & Manuel who created designs for not only for murals, but also wallpaper and the store’s carpet. As per all Nike Sportswear stores, the outlet carries Tier Zero apparel and footwear. The store also features an ID studio, allowing customers to designer their own Sneaker colourways of Nike models.”

This was painted after many reference pics and lots of visits – which meant cafe au lait from all angles. Being in the Marais I passed here every day on my way home. This corner had it all. At least as a painter, I like seeing what seems to capture the essence of ‘French.’ Oh you know, the baguettes, velibs, poodles,  the sounds of language spoken and the certainty with which the Parisians go about their business, including the art of being in a cafe.

Abaixo, coloco algumas sugestões pessoais de hotéis bons e com ótimo preço em Paris! A localização fica a seu critério. Algumas pessoas estarão pela primeira vez em Paris e com certeza vão preferir uma localização de mais fácil acesso às principais atrações. Outras, já estiveram várias vezes, e talvez prefiram tentar bairros mais charmosos!

- Mama Shelter: Hotel Boutique 3 estrelas com design arrojado de Philippe  Starck. Os apartamentos mais simples medem a partir de 18m2 mas existem opções mais amplas. O Hotel tem localização bem inovadora: para quem não sai do centro, visitar o 20ème  arrondissement é uma oportunidade para conhecer um bairro nada turístico mas que tem sido cada vez mais procurado pelos descolados viajantes. www.mamashelter.com

- Hotel Jeanne D’Arc: Recentemente renovado, o Hotel oferece ambientes clássicos e muito aconchegante. Localizado no bairro de Marais, ao lado de uma pracinha super gostosa, o hotel conta com apartamentos confortáveis,  atendimento atencioso e ótimos preços. Vale a pena!  www.hoteljeannedarc.com

- Murano Urban Resort: Aqui o design é evidente! Hotel de ar futurístico, muito moderno com ótimo serviço. Localizado no bairro de Marais, zona historicamente fashion da cidade. O hotel oferece apartamentos amplos, coloridos e modernos, bar lounge, restaurante com comida saudável e um tipo de spa com tratamentos de cromaterapia. www.muranoresort.com

- Timhotel Le Louvre: Hotel simples, bem mantido, com apartamentos pequenos, porém ótima localização: próximo ao Museu do Louvre e Metrô Palais Royal. www.timhotel.com

- Bel Ami Hotel: Localizado em St. Germain, este hotel é muito agradável a acolhedor. Possui apartamentos diferentes um dos outros, ambientes claros e decoração contemporânea. Considerada uma das melhores opções do bairro. www.hotel-bel-ami.com 

- Le Lotti Hotel: hotel luxuoso e agrádavel, com 162 apartamentos confortáveis e uma localização espetacular: entre a Place Vendome e suas refinadas lojas e o Jardin de Tuileries. Próximo ao Museu do Louvre e da Opera. www.hotel-lotti-paris.com

Ich habe endlich meine neue Vintage-Brille, die ich im Marais in Paris bei ‘Les lunettes d’also’ erstanden habe, mit Gläsern ausgestattet. Ungewohnt aber mutig trage ich ab heute öfter mal Brille, was ich mich vorher kaum getraut habe. Doch die schlichte Brille, die eine Kombination aus Wayfarer und Adrian-aus-Rocky-Brille ist, suchte ich schon ewig. Da sah ich auch über den Preis hinweg, der für einen bislang nur praktischen Gegenstand zum Lesen und Filmeschauen doch schockierend hoch war. Deshalb wird diese Brille ihr Dasein nicht, wie alle Vorgängerinnen, in der Schachtel fristen, nein, sie wird ausgeführt: Heute kombiniere ich sie mit meinem Acne Lauren Angora Pullover, Hope Hose und den aus den Tiefen des  Schuhschranks ausgekramten United Nude Schuhen Eames, die ihren Namen aufgrund meines Lieblingsstuhles erhielten.

Today we headed to the ritziest part of town.  I put my best, Chanel shod foot forward onto Rue Fauburg St Honore – the fanciest shopping street in Paris.

In today’s day and age,  actually,  globalization took some fun out of shopping.  No matter where you go, the shops are mostly the same.   There are some gems, however, like the famous Collette, an institution more than a shop.  The clothes here are presented on mannequins rather than the racks.  Almost no racks are to be found – just the artfully  outfitted mannequins.  The featured designers that attracted my attention were Comme des Garcons, ever avant-garde,  and very cool outfits by YSL , which warrants a trip to Woodbury Commons.

Another highlight was a visit to a miniature mall featuring meticulously restored antiques from the Louis XIX period through Art Nouveau and Art Deco – my personal favorites.   This place was like a museum of decorative arts, only everything was for sale.  That made it more exciting than a museum – the fact that all those treasures could be had if you had enough money.

Well, the antiques were out of our price range, so we walked to Fouchon  where I bought and consumed a piece of art of a cake whose  taste matched its looks.  It consisted of a caramel and meringue heart surrounded by a perfect semi-globe of chocolate sprinkled with some gold powder for the full measure.

From there we walked to Le Marais for another falafel and, I couldn’t resist, some Middle Eastern type of sugar-covered zeppole that called my name out of another amazing pastry shop painted with frescoes.

But enough said of the gluttonous delights.  My soul needed some nourishment too.  That was provided by a visit to the Opera Bastille for the performance of L; Elixir d’Amour with the glorious Anna Netrebko in title role.   Her tenor-counterpart,  however, was not on par.  He screwed up Una Furtima Lacrima, not hitting any of the high C’s and even, to my ear, taking a wrong note.  But everyone else was wonderful, the production was very nice, rivaling that at the Met in the inclusion of moving vehicles and one live dog.  The opera house is modern, minimalist, even austere, but pleasantly unobtrusive, and the acoustics was superb.  Even in our nosebleed section, third row from the back,  the sound was perfect and the view unobstructed.

Another great day in this great city.

by Isaure Cointreau

When I come back to Paris the first thing I regularly do is buy the local newspaper on my way to the boulangerie. This time as I was settling to drink my coffee with an unmistakable French croissant, my sight got caught on the front page of the cultural section of “Le Figaro”. Ines de la Fressange was crowned icon of Parisian style. This ex-model and muse for Chanel has always represented classic French chic all over the nation for her excellent taste and perfect figure along with being wonderfully cultivated. Although I couldn’t disagree with her coronation by the “Figaro” readers, my question remained. Who is the Parisienne?

If some are tempted to answer that she is a women living in the capital of France, I would have to challenge their response to another level. To be a Parisian is not only proved by your address, it is about whether you are able to feel, understand and embody the city to its very essence. This translates by where you go, what you think and how you dress.  She is Charlotte Gainsbourg or Brigitte Bardot.

I left Paris for London at a young age and therefore am an alien in my very hometown. However, every time I come back to the capital I feel home. Although I reconnect with old habits going back to the places I love, I keep on discovering others. It then feels as if the possibilities of a Parisian week-end were endless, and when leaving again only pictures remain to make me remember this once upon a dream. Carrying my camera is a duty I impose on my bag wherever I go when travelling, however when I am in Paris it is furthermore important as it will be in the end the only way that’ll allow me to keep track of its sights when afar.

The Parisienne is an accomplished woman. Poised though a little rock and roll at times, she embodies polyvalence and contradiction. Style has no secrets for her and whether she shops at Zara or Chanel, she never goes by the total look and loves to mix and match designer clothes with High street chiffon. However “la parisienne” does not look cheap and is the only one who could pull it off going in jeans to a business meeting.

Her interests in fashion should not shade her passion for politics, culture and art. Whether she looks up for info on blogs or specified websites, she always carries a book or a magazine in her bag. I’ll give you my word for it, and you can check only by mentioning what is her recollection of what is going on these days in the city. She will always answer with a list.

Going for tea at Angelina on the rue de Rivoli, or vintage shopping in the Marais area after having enjoyed a stroll at the Grand Palais, Musee Carnavalet or the Beaubourg center, she can’t go by a day without her booked agenda.  Of course  she also appreciates fooding and gastronomy, however shehas no problem into fitting a size 10. Does these characteristics seem cliché to you? Truth is always relative, however if it does not apply to every one it does to many of them.

Although I have to admit cities such as London, Madrid or New York are enchanting I can’t seem to find a rival to compete with these Parisian sights. It is an ensemble. Starting from how the people dress and behave, to the cafés and museums one goes to, its home’s interior décor, style and atmosphere are what makes of Paris a great place to live.

However is it importable? I believe not, what Paris is stays in Paris.

This morning we were woken by voices outside our window.  It turned out that there was a communal garage sale (known here as “attic sale”) going on.  So we walked up and down the street surveying the French junk, not much different from the American junk.  Then we decided to continue our off-the beaten-track Parisian tour and walk from our very residential and nondescript area toward the old town.  We headed for Marais, it is being a Jewish neighborhood, open on Sunday.  The walk was long and non-eventful.  We passed nothing exciting to report.  It turned out much farther than I anticipated and some hours later we finally crossed the Seine and walked into le Marais.  Boy oh boy!  The neighborhood has changed since I last visited.  Where it was dull and sleepy then, today it is full of life.  It was totally hopping.  Mobs of people were walking the beautiful streets, sitting in luxury cafes and walking in and out of boutiques.  The mood and feel was that of the Village and the look unmistakably Parisian.  We walked to Place des Vosges that years ago was a remnant of its former grandeur – an empty square amidst a perfect architectural ensemble of dilapidated buildings with fading and peeling paint.  I remember rueing about this amazing piece of real estate having gone to seed along with the neighborhood.  Not today.  The square and the whole surrounding area are restored to their former glory.   The buildings boast fresh paint, the covered arcade at their base hosts cafes and shops, and the park in the middle is full of beautiful people hanging out to see and be seen.  We walked the restored streets to the heart of the Jewish Marais, Rue des Rosiers.  Another surprise – the street is not the sleepy provincial street of yore.  Still very Jewish, its restaurants reflecting that, it was bustling with young people, the store widows were amazing, and the falafel we sampled was the best.  So was the pastry from a local patisserie.  This neighborhood once was home to an Ashkenazi community most of which perished in the Holocaust.  It was repopulated in the 1950’s with Sephardic Jews fleeing the wrath of Arabs in Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia.  The restaurants and bakeries therefore are mostly Middle Eastern.  Unfortunately, we had to leave this wonderful neighborhood and run to the Latin Quarter where we had reserved tickets for a classical guitar concert at the Syrian Orthodox church of St. Ephrem.

Something about the people: once again I found the French very nice and hospitable.  I never had problems with any of them and feel that they did not deserve their bad reputation.  As a matter of fact, they are very accepting.  Yesterday, when we sat in a restaurant at lunch, a gypsy women strolled in and walked around offering to read the patrons’ palms, nobody objected.  Then, an elderly African man walked in and tried to sell a tribal necklace.  Lo and behold, a couple next to us engaged in a lively conversation with him and ended up buying the necklace.  Not to mention the fact that they let dogs in the restaurants.  As to the eating habits, we all know that the French live to eat.  Yesterday, at the antique flea market, where American merchants would grab a sandwich on the run, the French set up folding tables and chairs COVERED WITH table clothes and laid out Babette’s feasts of steaming platters and the obligatory wine.

Yes, the French like their basic comforts.  Today in Marais we passed a homeless man’s lair – a  mattress with pillows, blankets, sheets, and a tied up cat.

So we had had enough of the alternative Paris and as of tomorrow we are going to revisit all touristy neighborhoods  because, my dear friends, they are touristy for a reason.

mercredi 14 octobre

16h30   les Passages couverts du Palais royal aux grands boulevards, rdv devant la grille du conseil d’Etat, métro palais royal (ligne 1 et 7). Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

jeudi 15 octobre

16h30   les Passages couverts du Palais Royal aux grands boulevards, rdv devant les grilles du conseil d’Etat, métro palais royal (ligne 1 et 7). Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

samedi 17 octobre

14h00   promenade architecturale dans le Marais, les fameux hôtels particuliers et leurs habitants. Rdv métro chemin vert sortie place des Vosges. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

16h30   les luxueuses verrières des Passages Couverts, du Palais royal aux grands boulevards, rdv devant les grilles du conseil d’Etat, métro palais royal. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

jeudi 22 octobre

16h30   les Passages couverts, du palais royal aux grands boulevards, rdv devant les grilles du conseil d’Etat, métro palais royal. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

samedi 24 octobre

15h00   la Défense, le 21ème arrondissement de Paris, rdv m° esplanade de la Défense (ligne 1) sortie 2, devant le bassin Takis. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

mercredi 28 octobre

16h30   le Paris des expositions universelles entre restes et disparitions, rdv à côté du kiosque à la sortie du RER C pont de l’Alma. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

jeudi 29 octobre

16h30   le Paris des expositions universelles entre restes et disparitions, rdv à côté du kiosque à la sortie du RER C pont de l’Alma. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

samedi 31 octobre

10h30 et 15h les Passages couverts, rdv devant les grilles du conseil d’Etat, métro palais Royal. Px 10e (durée environ deux heures)

La tendance galerie de cette semaine commence par une jeune artiste qui nous offre quelque chose de simple et frais.

C’est au Resto-Bar YONO que je me suis rendue au vernissage de Caroline Keî. Cette jeune femme y présentait ses dernières compositions photos et vidéos.

C’est dans un cadre très sympathique et vivant que l’artiste nous accueille, ponch à la main. Le côté informel de l’exposition est très apaisant. En effet, il s’agit avant tout d’un établissement de restauration, accueillant une exposition temporaire. La clientèle est donc mêlée au public ce qui aboutit à un mix très cosmopolite.

Les tableaux sont répartis sur deux  étages et la vidéo est projetée sur un mur de briques qui malheureusement ne rend pas du tout l’image. Il sera donc impossible de connaître le contenu de la projection.

Les compositions photographiques sont en fait des superpositions de négatifs. Comme cela arrive parfois, Caroline a fait une expérience photographique par accident : En oubliant de changer le film de son appareil argentique elle a, sans le vouloir, créé une double image… C’est ainsi qu’est né son projet, un hasard qui devient un travail sur la superposition d’image, la transparence et l’intensité des couleurs. Cela donne un résultat plutôt poétique et doux. Les fleurs se mêlent aux immeubles, la nature s’imbrique avec l’urbanisme, tout cela par jeu de transparence.