Martin Bureau/Agence France-Presse

BETWEEN THE SEXES The actress Arielle Dombasle shows that sexiness is a lifetime calling.

1: Look in the Rear-View Mirror

To begin to understand France, you have to look back. The French are obsessed with history. Part of this feeling is a genuine affinity for the past, part a desire to cling to lost glory, part an insecurity that comes with a tepid economy and the struggle to integrate a growing Arab and African population.

Marie-Antoinette regularly makes the covers of magazines. So does Napoleon Bonaparte.

No anniversary is too minor to celebrate. In my time here, France has marked the 20th anniversary of France’s sinking of Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior, the 200th anniversary of the high school baccalaureate diploma, the 60th anniversary of the bikini and the 100th anniversary of the brassiere.

For the 100th anniversary of her birth in January, Simone de Beauvoir was celebrated with half a dozen biographies, a DVD series, a three-day scholarly symposium and a cover of the magazine Le Nouvel Observateur with a nude photo of her from the back.

2: An Interview Is Sometimes Not an Interview

Their love of history doesn’t mean the French always render it accurately. It has long been common practice for journalists in France to allow their interview subjects to edit their words. “Read and corrected,” the system is called.

I once took part in an interview with Jacques Chirac, when he was president, in which he said it would not be all that dangerous for Iran to have a nuclear weapon or two. That certainly was not French policy. So the official Élysée Palace transcript left out the line and replaced it with this: “I do not see what type of scenario could justify Iran’s recourse to an atomic bomb.”

The practice of doctoring the transcript has continued under President Nicolas Sarkozy.

Last month, the president lost his temper when a bystander refused to shake his hand at the annual agricultural fair. (A polite translation of what he said would be, “Get lost, you stupid jerk!”) The incident, captured on video, was seen by millions on the Internet.

According to the daily Le Parisien the next day, Mr. Sarkozy later expressed regret in an interview, saying, “It would have been better if I had not responded to him.” But the paper’s editor soon confessed that the words of regret were “never uttered.” They had been edited into the transcript by the Élysée Palace.

3: The Customer Is Always Wrong

It is hard for French merchants to admit they are wrong, and seemingly impossible for them to apologize. Instead, the trick is to somehow get the offended party to feel the mistake was his or her own. I’m convinced the practice was learned in the strict French educational system, in which teachers are allowed to tell pupils they are “zeros” in front of the entire class.

A doctor I know told me he once bought a coat at a small men’s boutique only to discover that it had a rip in the fabric. When he tried to return it, the shopkeeper gave him the address of a tailor who could repair it — for a large fee. They argued, and the doctor reminded the shopkeeper of the French saying, “The customer is king.”

“Sir,” the shopkeeper replied, “We no longer have a king in France.”

4: Make Friends With a Good Butcher

With food as important as it is here, one of the most important men in your life should be your butcher. Mine, Monsieur Yvon, is more than a cutter of meat. He is a playful spirit in a rather sober neighborhood — and the exception to the customer-is-always-wrong rule.

In his tiny shop on the Rue de Varenne, between the Luxembourg Gardens and Les Invalides in the Seventh Arrondissement, Monsieur Yvon has donned a necklace of his homemade sausages to get a conversation going. At Christmas, he and his team of butchers put on elves’ hats with blinking lights. He offers passers-by free charcuterie and glasses of Beaujolais nouveau every fall. He is so deeply trusted that when avian flu struck France, his poultry sales went up, not down.

Monsieur Yvon has cooked my Thanksgiving turkey when it was too big for my oven and taught me how to make the perfect pot-au-feu. I have watched him lovingly choose just the right pair of center-cut lamb chops for an elderly client. Were they to be cooked today or tomorrow? Grilled or sautéed?

Even when he bears bad news, his explanations are delicious. Once I ordered a 16-pound turkey and got an 11-pound bird instead.

“It was the fault of the foxes,” he said gravely.

“The foxes?” I asked.

“Yes, the foxes.” It seemed that the electric fence surrounding the turkey pen had shorted out and the foxes had had a field day.

“They only ate the big turkeys,” he explained.

5: Kiss, but Be Careful Whom You Hug

The French need no excuse to kiss. The first time I was kissed by a Frenchman was on July 20, 1969, the day a man landed on the moon. I was a student with a backpack, arriving at the Gare de Lyon. The newspaper seller kissed me on both cheeks because I was an American.

The ritual double “bisou” — the two-cheek kiss — takes some getting used to. There is nothing sexy about it, but it can be awkward, especially for my adolescent daughters when they are required to kiss strange men.

Mr. Chirac never seemed to relish the formal, jerky air kisses. He is more of a hand-kisser. He knows how to cradle a woman’s hand in his, raise the hand to chest level, bend over to meet it halfway and savor its feel and scent.

Mr. Sarkozy is unpredictable. When he’s in a bad mood, he might offer a curt “Bonjour” and a cold handshake. With those he likes, he gets really close and hugs. They sometimes hug back, as did Israel’s president, Shimon Peres, during a visit this month to the Élysée. But the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, has made it clear through her aides that she is not a hugger and needs her space.

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Aleberto Pizzoli/Agence France-Presse, top; Michael Urban/Agence France-Presse

Two ways of greeting Angela Merkel of Germany: Jacques Chirac, bottom; Nicolas Sarkozy, top.

6: Don’t Wear Jogging Clothes to Buy a Pound of Butter

Rules govern even the smallest activities. I was making chocolate chip cookies one Saturday afternoon and ran out of butter. Dusted with flour, still in my morning jogging clothes, I dashed out to the convenience store up the street. The problem was that it is not just any street. It’s the Rue du Bac, one of the most chic places to see and be seen on Saturdays. I heard my name called and turned to face a senior Foreign Ministry official, dressed in pressed jeans and a soft-as-butter leather jacket, wearing an amused look, and carrying a small Nespresso shopping bag.

We went to a corner cafe for a drink. The Swedish ambassador and his wife stopped as they were riding by on their bikes. Both were in tailored tweed blazers, slim pants and loafers. Then Robert M. Kimmitt, the deputy treasury secretary, walked by.

He and my foreign ministry friend joked that my style didn’t match the setting. I made the point that it was my neighborhood and I could dress however I wanted. But as my French women friends told me afterward, jogging clothes (shoes included) are to be removed as soon as one’s exercise is over.

7: Feeling Sexy Is a State of Mind, or: Buy Good Lingerie

In her close-fitting sweaters and pants and tailored leather jackets, Eliane Victor is both stylish and alluring. The retired author and journalist is in her late 80s.

For French women, being sexy has nothing to do with age and everything to do with attitude. Arielle Dombasle, the actress and cabaret singer married to the philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy, dared to expose her breasts on the cover of Paris Match and took off her clothes in a song-and-dance revue at Crazy Horse in Paris. Some people feel she tries too hard. But give the lady some credit. She’s turning 50 and has a Barbie-doll body.

A 600-page sociological study of sexuality in France released this month concluded that 9 out of 10 women over 50 are sexually active. The sexiest French women seem naturally skilled in the art of moving, smiling and flirting.

Chic French women prefer to peel and polish rather than paint their faces. Too much makeup, they say, makes a woman seem older, or worse, “vulgaire.” “The most beautiful makeup for a woman is passion,” Yves Saint Laurent once said. “But cosmetics are easier to buy.”

French women spend close to 20 percent of their clothing budgets on lingerie. But you also have to know how to wear it. When the Galeries Lafayette department store inaugurated its 28,000-square-foot lingerie shop in 2003, it offered free half-hour lessons by professional striptease artists.

8: When It Comes to Politesse, There Is No End to the Lessons

Never use the word “toilette” when asking a host for directions to the powder room; try to avoid going there at all. Never say “Bon appétit” at the start of a meal. Don’t talk loudly. Never discuss your religion or your money at dinner. Eat hamburgers, pizza, foie gras and sorbet with a fork. Always say “bonjour” to the bus driver, and to fellow passengers on elevators. “Pas mal” doesn’t necessarily mean “Not bad.” It can mean “Great!”

Bucolic bliss awards diners at Le Chalet des Îles, the reconstructed 19th-century Swiss chalet that reins over a tiny island in the Bois de Boulogne. A small boat takes visitors across the late to the family-friendly restaurant, where well-spaced tables on a flower-lined deck overlook the water. The menu offers such choices as filet mignon with béarnaise sauce and pommes dauphines for traditionalists. My husband and I went there when we were pregnant with our daughter and I’ve always loved returning there, though all the seasons.
Lac Inférieur au Bois de Boulogne; 42-88-04-69

In the lovely, leafy 17th-century Place des Vosges, André Terail, the twenty-seven-old son of the late, legendary Claude, has given a youthful touch to the family’s Guirlande de Julie, part of the Tour d’Argent empire. In the evening, tables set out under the graceful arcades regain their Parisian clientele after the daytime hurly-burly of tourists has subsided. Enjoy the venerable restaurant’s new-look classics, including shrimp with refreshing guacamole-and-cucumber sauce and lemon tart with vodka sorbet.
25 Place des Vosges, 48-87-94-07

Fantastic with children on a beautiful day, but otherwise filled with Hermés handbag, Louboutin shoes ladies crunching across the gravel, the outdoor restaurant of thearamasalata Musée des Arts Décoratifs, le tout Paris has colonized Le Saut du Loup. The place has a distant panorama of the Eiffel Tower, as well as a view across the greenery of the Tuileries garden. One side of the umbrella-studded installation is a café, the other a full-fledged restaurant, but many dishes are same. There’s a taramasalata starter, melon soup with a Technicolor mint foam, warm foie gras with aniseed sauce and celery confit, and freshly chopped steak tartare.
107 Rue de Rivoli, 42-25-49-55

Colette called the Palais-Royal gardens “ma province à Paris.” It is the most luxurious space in Paris. Right under the writer’s former apartment windows, in this traffic-free, regal quadrangle built by the Duke of Orléans in the 1780s, the Restaurant du Palais Royal offers some of the most enchanting plein-air tables in town. Such dishes as crunchy crab with Thai spices, sea bass with olive oil-potato purée and sole cooked in lightly salted butter are beguiling.
110 Galerie de Valois; 40-22-00-27

Technorati Tags: food, Restaurants

SUPERB SPECIALTY SHOPS

Pâtisserie Sadaharu Aoki (literally a stone throw from our apartment
Sadaharu Aoki’s talent is huge, but his pristine white shop is the size of a cream puff (he has two other locations in Paris; this is my favorite branch). Sada, a hero in his native Japan, is one of the most creative pastry chefs working in Paris, where he was trained. While his black sesame éclairs rightly have a cult following, I can’t get enough of the Bamboo, a slender chocolate cake with a green tea filling. Ditto the Brooklyn, an über-classy cheesecake.
35 rue de Vaugirard, 6th; 011-33-1-45-44-48-90; sadaharuaoki.com

Da Rosa Épicerie-Cantine
When José Da Rosa set up shop five years ago, I couldn’t believe my luck. At last, we ordinary mortals could buy the same Spanish hams, mustards, and fine oils that Michelin chefs trusted him to supply. Now life is even sweeter — there’s the cantine, where we can nibble foie gras, great cheeses, a few hot dishes (try the risotto), and wines, too. And don’t leave without a sack of chocolate-coated Sauternes-soaked raisins. I’d call them Raisinets, but they’re in their own universe of wonderfulness.
62 rue de Seine, 6th; 011-33-1-40-51-00-09

Pierre Hermé
Pierre Hermé is widely considered the greatest pastry chef in the world, and has some of the most interesting chocolate in town. Mostly, his shoe box jewel of a store on Rue Bonaparte is exquisite and has people lined up around the corner at all hours. His chocolate provoke, and though his provocations don’t always hit the mark, his work is always interesting. The combination of lavender and Chinese tea, chocolate with yuzu, the fragrant Japanese citrus, make it always an interesting event to experience his brand of gourmandise.
72, rue de Bonaparte, 6th; 011-33-1-43-54-47-77, www.pierreherme.com

Christian Constant
37 rue d’Assas, 6th; 011-33-1-53-63-15-15
Another place in the neighborhood, and not to be confused with the chef of Violon d’Ingres. This is the chocolate shop. Opened in 1970, Christian Constant sells some of Paris’s most delectable chocolates by the kilo. Each is a blend of ingredients from Ecuador, Colombia, or Venezuela, usually mingled with scents of spices and flowers like orange blossoms, jasmine, the Asian blossom ylang, and vetiver and verveine (herbs usually used to brew tea).

Mariage Freres Salon de Thé
13, Rue Grands Augustins, 6th; 011-33-1-40-51-82-50
My all time favourite place to spend time in the neighborhood. Actually, in Paris. Sitting and sipping tea at this jewel box of a tea salon, along with a Comptoir du Thé where its virtually a museum to the art of tea. It’s hidden in an alley way, tucked in a wonderful section of our neighborhood. This elegant salon de thé serves 500 kinds of tea, along with delicious tarts and cakes. In the upstairs salon, you’re transported back to a Chinese pagoda environ, with waiters dressed in elegant Chinoise uniform with beautiful Mandarin chairs and decor. On the main floor, one feels like you’ve stepped into a Chinese tea master’s apothecary with floor to ceiling tea cans and glass cases showcasing the most beautiful iron teapots and accoutrements for sale. They have another Salon in the Marais. www.mariagefreres.com

LADURÉE
21 rue Bonaparte, Paris, 6th; 33 (0)1 44 07 64 87
They say the history of Parisian tea salons is intimately tied to the history of the Ladurée family. Well, this Salon was reinvented in 1997, though you think it’s been there for centuries. This is my daughter’s favorite afternoon treat. The place is so special. They invented macaroons. Pistachio, Rose, Orange Blossoms, Lemon, Mint, in addition to the traditional Chocolate, Vanilla, Raspberry and so forth. The menu goes on for 24 pages with Petit Dejeuner, Salades, Les Viennoiserie, et al. The salon is exquisitely decorated to transport you back to some kinds of an exotic, exquisite luxurious, Oriental tent atmosphere, with requisite tromp l’oeil paintings of wild animals and flora. www.laduree.fr

STLYISH BARS, PERFECT BISTROS, GORGEOUS RESTAURANT

The Restaurant at L’Hotel
L’Hotel, where Oscar Wilde died “above his means,” is one of the coziest settings in Paris. Enter, walk past the small sitting room and the intimate bar, and you’ll reach the restaurant, formerly known as Le Bélier, which is like a luxurious salon, with silks, swags, sofas, and throw pillows, a setting so relaxing it clears your mind of everything but thoughts of a fine meal — which you’ll get here. The food is modern, refined, and beautifully presented (you must have the chocolate dessert plate), and the service cossets as much as all those pillows.
13 rue des Beaux-Arts, 6th; 011-33-1-44-41-99-00; l-hotel.com

Technorati Tags: food, Restaurants

By MARK BITTMAN
Published: June 24, 2007

A one-dish restaurant as fun and unusual as Huîtrerie Régis is rare, so it figures you’d find it in Paris, but only if you’re steered there. (I was escorted by my friend, the food writer Dorie Greenspan, who divides her time between Paris and New York.) The tiny place — maybe 20 people could crowd in — is in the Sixth Arrondissement, just off Boulevard St.-Germain.

A huîtrerie is an oyster bar, and Paris is a town that loves its huîtres; most of them come from not-too-far-away Brittany. That’s what you get in this white, clean, pleasantly lighted place: fresh-shucked raw oysters. (Poached shrimp is on the menu as well, but no one goes there for shrimp; it’s on the menu, I would guess, for non-oyster eaters who are dragged along by friends.) The oysters are served with appropriate wines: Sancerre, Muscadet, Pouilly-Fumé, Chablis, a couple of rosés and light reds and more. There is real service, real silverware, plenty of ice (and seaweed), dark bread with very good butter and mignonette sauce.

The sauce is overkill; even lemon is more than enough because the oysters have so much flavor. There are usually two or three sizes of four varieties, one of which is the increasingly rare belon (and expensive, too; these top out at 30 euros a dozen, almost $3.50 each at $1.36 to the euro). They are coppery tasting (really), large and flat. The remaining oysters, on my visit, were classified as fines de claires, spéciales de claires and pousse en claires, whose names describe the amount of time each spends growing out in a cleansing pond and the amount of space each is given.

Fines de claires, the least expensive (as little as 10 euros a dozen), spend about a month in the pond, with 20 oysters per square meter (about 11 square feet), which sounds pretty roomy to me; but the pousse en claires can be limited to three per square meter and continue to grow for up to six months. These are so good that for the first time in my life the belons were not my favorite oysters on the table.

To specialize, Huîtrerie Régis really must sell the best oysters possible and charge whatever makes sense, assuming people will bear the cost. And they do. The place is often packed. And the oysters are spectacular.

Huîtrerie Régis, 3 rue de Montfaucon; (33-1) 44-41-10-07.

Technorati Tags: food, Restaurants

“This is Paris (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

“This is Rome (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

“This is London (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

Well, what do you know? As I’m searching for the links, I’m founding out that during the past couple of years, the publishers of Sasek book has figured out the same thing that I have, and have extended the series, using new editors, to create books for other cities, around the world. In fact, there is now, ‘This is Hong Kong!’ and Texas, for goodness sakes! As Paul always says, we’re always about two weeks ahead of the latest trend insight from NY Times!

“This is Hong Kong (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

“This Is Edinburgh (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

“This is New York (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

“This is San Francisco (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

“This Is Ireland” (M. Sasek)

“This Is Texas (This is . . .)” (Miroslav Sasek)

Remember. Travel is not reward for living, but homework for living….

I remember taking her to get her passport photos when she was about a month old. My first business trip back after my maternity leave was to Toronto, Canada, and I had to figure out quickly, all of the tricks of traveling around the world with a little baby. Don’t forget, to get a passport for your kid the minute she/he is born. Better to do this when you can still hold and control them on your lap! And even more urgent, now post 9/11 with all of the new requirements for traveling abroad. Remember, all kids under 14 years of age must apply in person.

This list courtesy of Food & Wine:

VANILLA SUGAR - Packets of this French housewife’s staple
can be found in the baking section of the supermarket. It’s
great sprinkled on French toast, over fruit tarts, or in cafe au lait.
PEPPERCORNS – French supermarkets sell white and mixed
(pink, green, white and black) peppercorns in disposable mills.
LENTILLES DUPUY  -  I love these tiny green lentils from the
remote Auvergne because they keep their shape when cooked.
They are especially good simmered in wine with garlic sausage.
FLAGEOLETS - These pale green dried beans shaped like a
fingernail go with roast lamb like jelly goes with peanut butter.
DIJON MUSTARD -  The mustard made for the U.S. market
lacks the nose-assaulting bite of the stuff sold in France.
MAYONNAISE – French mayonnaise often comes in tubes; it’s not
sweet like the American version and tastes more like homemade.
BOUQUETS GARNIS  – The herbs essential
for pot au-feu and boeuf bourguignon (parsley,
bay leaf and thyme) come dried in sachets that
look like tea bags, so they’re easy to remove.
HERBES DE PROVENCE  – This blend of
dried thyme, rosemary, summer savory and bay
leaves is used in Provenqal stews and grilled
foods. It’s amazingly hard to find in the U.S.
HERB AND TEAS Some of my favorites are
verveine (verbena), tilleul (linden blossom) and
fraise-cassis (strawberry and black currant).

Bon appetit!

(05-13) 04:00 PDT Paris — My date at the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower
is making a crayfish dance on the edge of his platter of seafood. He
wiggles a little pair of orange claws at me. I smile and tenderly touch
his cheek. Then we gaze out past the filigree struts of the tower to the
lights of Paris glittering in the night sky.
“Always see Paris with someone you love.” The first man who took me to
Paris gave me this advice. I was in my 20s, and was certainly in love with
him.
We stayed in a little hotel above a 24-hour Vietnamese takeout restaurant
and spent hours strolling beside the Seine. Each time we passed beneath a
bridge I kissed him.
Now, nearly 20 years later, I’m sitting in Altitude 95, the restaurant
halfway up the Eiffel Tower, watching someone I love make a crayfish
dance. Someone who earlier this evening dropped a crayon into my white
wine: my 5- year-old son, Alex.

The other person I love – my husband – is also here, sitting across from
us and pointing his Leica at a middle-aged French couple sucking oysters.
Something happens to my generally romantic husband when he comes to Paris.
The moment he steps off the plane at Charles De Gaulle, he becomes another
person -
specifically, Henri Cartier Bresson, the French photographer who redefined
black-and-white photography. The result is that for our entire stay in the
City of Light, I never see him without a camera stuck to his face.
So on this trip, I’m counting on Alex to provide the proper emotional
backdrop for Paris, even if he is given to animating portions of his
dinner.
There is of course, an element of risk to this plan. Paris is not
generally thought of as a child-friendly destination. Which is not
surprising, since so many Parisian pursuits involve substantial amounts of
cigarette smoking, wine drinking and impassioned groping in darkened
cafes. But I have decided to trust Cadogan Guide’s “Take the Kids: Paris,”
which lists the best place to buy TinTin comics (L’Oiseau de Paradis); a
museum that contains a pickled, one- eyed cat (Musee National d’Histoire
Naturelle) and a Parisian park that features a petting zoo, a steam train,
an archery range and a bowling alley (Jardin d’Acclimatation). All of
which promises parents a new, PG-rated look at Paris – and life beyond
EuroDisney.
Inside Altitude 95, it’s all brushed metal and steel girders, silver beams
that slant across the ceiling. Outside Altitude 95 is all of Paris. The
three of us work our way through an enormous platter of oysters and clams
and steamed sea snails, stopping only to lick our fingers and admire the
view.
After dinner we walk around the tower, pointing out Parisian landmarks to
each other. From up here, the barges that chug up and down the Seine look
like boats in a bathtub, the lighted Palais de Chaillot like a dollhouse
for rich kids.
“The ice cream place is still open!” shouts Alex, looking down at a tiny
lighted building near the gardens of the Champ de Mars. He makes a run for
the elevator.
Alex and I walk back to our hotel through the narrow streets of the 7th
arrondissement, holding hands and eating ice cream. My husband wanders
along behind us, taking pictures of French people smoking in cafes.
Spinning, rolling and riding
The next day we visit the Jardin des Tuileries, the formal gardens between
the Place de la Concorde and the Louvre. In summer these gardens are
filled with carnival rides – spinning tea cups and dragon rollercoasters -
that make the place feel like Versailles-meets-Coney Island.
Alex runs to an old carousel and climbs onto a painted horse named Yent’l.
The carousel has no music and, as it spins, it creaks like the hull of an
ancient wooden ship. Each time Alex whirls past me we wave at each other
like long lost friends.
“Let’s go on the Ferris wheel!” Alex says, dragging me into an open car.
I’m so captivated by his excited face I forget until we are 250 feet above
the ground that I’m terrified of heights. Our car stops at the top, where
we can see the white domes of Sacre Coeur, the golden cupola of Les
Invalides, and the ground, very, very far below us. My husband, who is
down there photographing a group of screaming children on the
Tilt-a-Whirl, looks like an ant with a camera.
“Mom,” says Alex, “you’re squeezing my hand.”
When at last we get back on the ground, the three of us walk along the
garden’s gravel paths toward the glass pyramid of the Louvre. The Louvre
is so overwhelming, the only strategy for seeing it with a child is to
pick just one thing and then try to find it. Alex and I walk through the
museum’s echoey marble halls, taking turns asking the guards for “Les
mommies,” (the mummies), which are our favorite things.
It takes a half hour before we find them – mummified cats and dogs and
even a fish. Alex is fascinated by the mummified crocodile. I like the
mummy of a man, wrapped with his hands crossed on his chest, the perfect
personification of a dead person. It takes another half hour to find our
way to the exit.
Afterward, we walk along the Seine, passing little stands that sell
postcards and prints of famous paintings in the Louvre. My husband takes
several photographs of tourists in the decisive moment of buying miniature
copies of the Mona Lisa.
Parisian park pool
The following morning, we head over to the Latin Quarter and the Jardin du
Luxembourg. This Parisian park, with its neat rows of flowers and palm
trees planted in green tubs, reminds me so much of Celesteville, the town
the elephants built in Alex’s “Babar the King” book, that I half expect to
see the green-suited elephant relaxing on one of the wooden benches. Near
a big hexagonal pool, my husband rents Alex a long bamboo pole from a man
who is actually wearing a beret.
“Cent!” shouts the man in the beret. And the three of us run to the pool,
searching for the little wooden sailboat with the number 100 painted onto
its sail.
Alex uses the pole to push his boat across the water, chasing it from side
to side. After a while, a small boy shows up with a powered,
remote-control Miami Vice yacht. The little motorized boat buzzes around
the fountain, skimming the surface of the water and scaring the pigeons.
Alex and the other children watch, their bamboo poles drooping on the
ground, their forgotten sailboats crashing into the little duck house in
the center of the pool.
Later, we walk to the Theatre du Luxembourg, where every day in summer
puppet shows are performed. Today’s performance is called “Voyage to the
North Pole” and features several polar bears and a penguin with a nose
that resembles a large salami. The main thrust of the story appears to
focus on the theft of the captain’s private stash of sausages and
Camembert cheese.
The next day Alex wants to see Napoleon’s tomb, so my husband and I take
him to the shrine at Les Invalides. In the center of a great marble hall,
Napoleon’s body rests inside a blood-red sarcophagus big enough to hold
several defensive linebackers. Within the sarcophagus are six more coffins
made of mahogany, tin and lead. Surrounding Napoleon’s well-protected
remains are several 15-foot-tall carved angels, which Alex keeps referring
to as “fairies.”
“Was Napoleon famous?” he asks me.
Midway through telling him the story of the power-mad emperor, I discover
just how little I know about French history.
“So Napoleon wanted to be boss of the world?” asks Alex when I can’t
remember precisely which countries Napoleon invaded.
“Exactly.”
The sprawling building next to Napoleon’s tomb houses the Museum of the
Army – nirvana for a 5-year-old boy. Alex climbs on all the cannons in the
courtyard, and then we go inside to view more rooms of medieval armor than
any grown-up should be required to endure. Alex is intrigued by a
scalloped-edge sword designed to inflict wounds that won’t heal. My
husband photographs two Italian ladies trying to peek under a knight’s
armor-plated codpiece.
“Peter Max does The Flintstones’
Later that afternoon we take Alex to the Pompidou Centre, Paris’ modern
art museum in the inside-out building. In the courtyard in front of the
museum we follow the fat, blue-and-white ventilation pipes that snake
across the outside walls. Behind us, in the center of a fountain, water
gushes from a mermaid’s breasts. We take an escalator enclosed in a clear
tube to the fourth level, where the museum keeps its most current
collections.
“Look what this artist invented.” Alex points to an installation that
consists of several pink buttocks poking through flowered wallpaper. We
examine a sculpture of a naked woman made from old baby dolls. There are
curlers in her black-yarn pubic hair.
“Did somebody make this all by himself?” Alex asks.
“Art is a solitary pursuit,” my husband tells him. Then the two of them
disappear into a modernist cave done in graphic black and white.
“It’s a little like “Peter Max does the Flintstones,’ ” says my husband,
poking his head out.
Later, beneath a Mondrian, Alex gets out his magic markers and sketches in
a little pad. There’s so much untapped artistic potential in his drawing
of Spiderman that I am tempted to take it directly to the curator.
The following day we walk over to the Ile de la Cite, the small island in
the middle of the Seine that is the home of Notre Dame. Our plan is to
climb the 238 steps to the top and see the rooftop gargoyles face to face.
Because only 50 people are allowed to go up Notre Dame at any one time,
there’s a long line outside the cathedral. Leaving my husband in the line,
where he can occupy himself photographing the tourists buying plastic
figures of the Disney version of Quasimodo, Alex and I go exploring in
Notre Dame’s chapel. Inside, the walls are covered with paintings
depicting the lives of Joan of Arc and Jesus – both of whom appear to have
come to some pretty gruesome ends.
“If Jesus was such a good guy,” Alex asks, “why did they kill him?”
I am no better at explaining this than I was at explaining the life of
Napoleon.
Worn smooth by time
After an hour or so, we get to the front of the line and it’s our turn to
climb Notre Dame. The 238 stone steps are curved and worn smooth by time.
When Victor Hugo wrote “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” the cathedral was
already 700 years old.
We reach the top and step outside, looking over the rooftops of Paris in
the company of stone creatures with curling horns and bulging eyes. They
resemble less-affable versions of the monsters in “Where the Wild Things
Are.”
According to my guidebook, the creatures whose incisor-filled mouths are
used to drain rainwater are gargoyles, and the purely decorative creatures
who sit on the building’s spires and stare at the city are chimera.
“Oh my God,” whispers my husband. “It’s the Stryga.” He stands reverently
beside a chimera with a face that resembles a cross between a goat and an
unattractive dog. I recognize the creature from a famous photograph by
Bresson.
Standing there, my husband’s face reminds me of Alex’s the day we rode up
the Macy’s elevator with one of Santa’s elves. I kiss the part of my
husband’s cheek that doesn’t have a camera pressed against it, and take
Alex off to see the saints and apostles perched on the cathedral’s spires
- holy men who gaze upward, as if considering whether to ascend into
heaven.
When we return, my husband hasn’t budged from the Stryga. So, leaving him
with old goatface, Alex and I head off to the bell tower to look for “that
hunchback guy.”
On our last night in Paris, Alex wants to ride on a Bateaux Mouches, one
of the sightseeing boats that travel up and down the Seine from the Pont
de L’Alma. It’s a hot night, and all along the stone embankments Parisians
sit on blankets drinking white wine and eating baguette sandwiches wrapped
in brown paper. A salsa band has set up on the banks of the Ile St. Louis,
and couples dance at the water’s edge, the women twirling their skirts to
cool off their legs.
On the boat, Alex and I run from side to side so we don’t miss any of the
sights the recorded voice is pointing out in four languages: the Musee
d’Orsay,
the Obelisque, the Conciergerie – the prison where Marie Antoinette waited
to have her head chopped off. My husband leans out over the bow to
photograph the houseboats that line the Left Bank, old wooden barges that
have been outfitted with pots of geraniums and American patio furniture.
As we float down the Seine in the warm summer air, I lift Alex up so he
won’t miss anything. And each time we pass beneath a bridge, I kiss him.

IF YOU GO
– WHERE TO STAY: Paris is filled with inexpensive, small hotels. The
trick when traveling with kids is finding one with a room big enough to
squeeze a rollaway into. The Hotel Saint Dominique (62 rue
Saint-Dominique; phone: 011- 33-1-47-05-51-44; fax: 01-47-05-81-28;
e-mail: hotel.saint.dominique@wanadoo. fr), has a few rooms that will work
for families. Rates for double rooms with rollaways are 850 francs ($116)
a night, and include breakfast. Best bet is to ask for one of the rooms
that face the courtyard; they’re much quieter. The Hotel Le Pavillon
(nearby at 54 rue Saint-Dominique; phone: 011-33-1-45-51-42- 87; fax:
011-33-1-45-51-32-79; e-mail patrickpavillon@aol.com) also has a couple of
rooms big enough to accommodate families. Rates are 575 francs ($79) per
night. The Hotel Le Pavillon has no elevator, so be prepared to lug your
suitcases up a few flights. Both of these hotels are within easy walking
distance of the Eiffel Tower, Les Invalides and the Bateaux Mouches.
WHAT TO SEE: The Eiffel Tower is open daily from 9 a.m. to midnight June
to August; from 9 a.m. until 11 p.m. September-May. Tickets for the
elevator to the top are 59 francs ($8) for adults, 30 francs ($4) for
children under 12. There is nearly always a long line for the elevator.
One way to beat this is to make reservations for Altitude 95, the
restaurant on the first level of the tower. Then you can use the private
elevator, and won’t have to stand in any lines. Altitude 95 has a fixed
price menu ranging from 98 francs ($13.50) to 250 francs ($34). There’s
also a children’s menu at 46 francs ($6.30). Call for reservations
(011-33-1-45-55-20-04; Web: www.tour-eiffel.fr) at least a day in advance.
The Louvre (011-33-1-40-20-51-51; Web: www.louvre.fr) is open 9 a.m. to 6
p.m. (Wednesday until 9:45 p.m.) everyday except Tuesday. Adult admission
is 45 francs ($6.15); children are free. There’s a reduced adult admission
of 26 francs ($3.50) after 3 p.m. and all day Sunday. Everyone gets in
free on the first Sunday of every month. To find out when the puppets are
performing in the Theatre du Luxembourg, call 011-33-1-46-63-08-09. The
cost is 24 francs ($3.29), and the shows run about 45 minutes. Les
Invalides and the Museum of the Army (011-33-1-44-42-37-72) are open daily
in summer from 10 a.m. until 5:45 p.m., in winter from 10 a.m. until 4:45
p.m. Napoleon’s Tomb is open in summer until 7 p.m. Admission for adults
is 37 francs ($5); children under 12 are free. The Pompidou Centre
(011-33-1-44-78-12-33) is open every day except Tuesday from 11 a.m. until
9 p.m. Adults will pay 30 francs ($4.10) to get in; everyone under 18 get
in free. Visiting the cathedral of Notre Dame (011-33-1-42-34-56-10) is
free; the privilege of climbing the 238 stairs will cost adults over 25
years 35 francs ($4.80); under 25 is 25 francs ($3.40) (possibly because
they’ll climb faster); under 18 is 15 francs ($2), and under 12 is free.
Notre Dame is open daily from 8 a.m. until 6:45 p.m. Expect to wait at
least an hour to make the climb to the tower. The Bateaux Mouches
(011-33-1-42-25-96-10) sail from Pont de l’Alma near the Eiffel Tower
every 30 minutes in summer from 10 a.m. until 11 p.m., in winter every
hour from 11 a.m. until 9 p.m. The fare for adults is 40 francs ($5.50);
under 15 is 20 francs ($2.25); under 5 is free. The tour lasts about an
hour.
AN EXTRA SIGHT: If you find yourself walking in the Left Bank, stop in at
Deyrolle (46 rue du Bac; 011-33-1-42-22-30-07). This taxidermy shop, with
its stuffed kangaroos, zebras, lions and gorillas, is a big hit with kids.
FURTHER READING: Cadogan’s “Take the Kids, Paris” ($16.95) is an excellent
guidebook. It even has a special section on visiting the dreaded
EuroDisney.

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2001/05/13/TR35749.DTL

Janis Cooke Newman and Ken Newman last collaborated for the Travel Section
on a story about eco-travel in Costa Rica. Janis’ book about adopting her
son Alex, “The Russian Word for Snow,” was recently published by St.
Martin’s Press.