April in Paris (plagarism)

Photos by H. Darr Beiser

More tulips than Amsterdam

It is very hard to have or write an original thought about Paris. So I am “borrowing liberally,” or if you want to get all legal about it, plagiarizing for this post.

But really, I’ve never known the joy of spring, never felt its warm embrace (Harburg/Duke) until this trip.

Why, oh why do I love Paris? (Cole Porter)

Well, for one, there is unceasing chic. Relentless beauty. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about the women. The waitress the first night was among the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen. She wore Paris-chick red lipstick, and the color stay was incredible, no fade, no disruption to the perfect lines.   Even young girls chose to cover bare legs with stockings.  Just because it's a more finished look. 

Un homme Parisienne

I love Paris in the springtime! (Cole Porter)

Dimanche in the park

We spent a Sunday afternoon in the Luxembourg Garden along with the rest of Paris. Every square inch of grass was covered in Parisiennes, reading, picknicing, sleeping, making out, holding intellectual salons.  And there we witnessed what must be the world’s most awful job—the man who had to tell people to get off the grass.

Hotel St. Dominique—The chambre was a little too petite in my book.  But it was tres modern, the bathroom was great, they stocked the free minibar with my staples, water and orange juice. The Eiffel Tower appeared to be just down our street and it was in the 7^th arrondissement, Left Bank, easy neighborhood and easy access.

Just down the street from our hotel

The chief danger about Paris is that it is such a strong stimulant (TS Eliot).

In fact, on an after-dinner stroll I was so taken by the Eiffel Tower that I decided to brave the lines at 9:30 p.m., a time that often finds me in bed in the US.  The lines were long, long, long, snaky, windy and painful. Patiently we waited, and were just shy of the ticket office when a lovely gendarme of sorts came out to tell everyone that the ascenseur on our side was broken and stuck and it was unclear when it would be fixed. That was the out I needed to bolt, however, please take note of my willingness.

Let's go!

Because we had seen the primary Parisian highlights on a previous trip, this time we went to less obvious places, which we were alerted to by our friend, Acey Harper, who lives there. He steered us to the flower market on the Ile de la Cite, which on Sunday becomes the Marche aux Oiseaux. They  sell birds, yes birds. There are even little cartons, akin to doggie bags, in which to carry your purchase home. And some fish and some furry creatures. Nothing as mundane as dogs and cats. Mon Dieu! This was pretty wack.

Bird Market

As was Deyrolle, the taxidermy store and museum founded in 1831. In the main room you find yourself face to face with a stuffed tiger, giraffe and bull, I told Acey it was like walking into FAO Schwartz on Fifth Avenue, but these suckers are real, a pheasant here, an ostrich there, and plenty of crocodile cranium. And drawer after drawer of butterflies and beetles. Artists should come here just to see the most spectacular colors nature has to offer.

Deyrolle, with Acey

Acey guided us to his favorite lunch spot in Paris, L’As dy Fallafel. But we were in the Pletzl, Jewish district, on Passover.  Closed. Oh well, I had never tasted a falafel before so as far as I was concerned, Mi Va Mi, across the street, seemed plenty good. We got to walk around the wonderful Marais neighborhood, where I found dress shops with French labels. I have never understood the attraction of buying a Louis Vuitton purse or Hermes scarf in Paris, an item that I could buy at a mall in suburban Maryland. And Acey did a good job of “man-sitting” so that I could shop.

Fallafel

When spring comes to Paris, the humblest man alive feel that he dwells in paradise. (Henry Miller)

We spent the first night on St. Germaine des Pres, wicked hip and happening and everyone sitting outside smoking, drinking, eating French food, or as they call it there, food. And had our best meal, at Fish La Boissonnerie an entrée of a stuffed asparagus spear, yes, just a single asparagus that they somehow “flavor blasted” as we say here.  Followed by heavenly fish, a fish I can’t name, that was transformed into something so wonderful. And bread. And butter.

Also went for the first time to Musee d’Orsay, or as they have cutely branded it M 'O. What a freaking spectacular space a converted train station now filled with the wonderment of sculpture, and room after room of impressive impressionists Manet, Monet, Pissarro, Cassatt, Renoir.

View from M' O

I won’t go on and on about how great Paris is and how wide the boulevards, and perfect the city planning and how gorgeous the architecture, and sweet the air and sparkly the fountains. Nor will I comment on the obvious grandeur of Les Invalides, the Egyptian obelisk, nor tell you that we happened on the Republican Guard out for a procession for a visiting head of state, nor remind you that it is impossible, no matter which café you stop in, to get a bad espresso nor a bad baguette. Acey calls the bakeries the purveyors of legal drugs.

Republican Guard

So I am glad we save the best for last, London and Hamsterdam were fun, but Paris just makes every place on earth pale in comparison. Because it is the most magical, charming place in the monde. (Original. But not very.)

Photographer, writer