paris libros, originalmente cargada por hirimotu. ]]> http://pointcommun.wordpress.com/?p=850 Wed, 15 Oct 2008 19:03:26 +0000 pointcommun http://pointcommun.pl.wordpress.com/2008/10/15/tricky-au-104-par-arthur-dressler/

Arthur Dressler - 06 83 71 79 39 - arthur-dressler.com

]]> http://owlpellets.wordpress.com/?p=877 Wed, 15 Oct 2008 17:34:58 +0000 lkorn http://owlpellets.pl.wordpress.com/2008/10/15/tell-no-one/

In trying to write a summary of Tell No One, I've decided, instead, to present the New York Times' review of it. (Sorry for my laziness...)

In the shortcut language of a movie pitch, Guillaume Canet’s delicious contemporary thriller “Tell No One” is “Vertigo” meets “The Fugitive”by way of “The Big Sleep.” That is meant as high praise.

This French adaptation of Harlan Coben’s 2001 best seller is the kind of conspiracy-minded mystery almost no one seems capable of creating anymore, except David Lynch in his surreal way. Watching it is like gorging on a hot- fudge sundae in the good old days when few worried about sugar and fat. There are no bogus geopolitics weighing it down with a spurious relevance. Beautifully written and acted, “Tell No One” is a labyrinth in which to get deliriously lost.

The story, which involves murder and depravity in high places, is so elaborately twisty that about halfway through the movie you stop trying to figure it out and let its polluted waters wash over you, trusting that the denouement will reveal all. It does and it doesn’t. When the truth spills out, and ugly revelations pile onto one another in an extended final confession, the puzzle pieces fit more snugly than those of “The Big Sleep,” the granddaddy of impenetrable noirs. But one of the pleasures of both films is surrendering to a vision of corruption and evil that resists tidy explanations.

The protagonist, Alex Beck (François Cluzet), is a kindhearted pediatrician in Paris who goes out of his way to help the poor in the clinic where he works. He is also a spiritual cousin of Scottie Ferguson from “Vertigo” in his obsession with a woman who may or may not be dead.

As the story begins, he and his wife, Margot (Marie-Josée Croze), are revisiting the remote country lake where they spent summers as children and became sweethearts who carved their initials on a tree. Blissfully married decades later, they return to swim nude in the moonlight, then sprawl on the offshore raft where they have a minor squabble about real estate. Margot abruptly departs and disappears into the woods. A minute later Alex hears a stifled cry. Scrambling to shore, he is struck on the head while pulling himself out of the water. He remains in a coma for three days.

While Alex, who was inexplicably pulled to shore, recuperates, Margot’s father, Jacques (André Dussollier), an imperious police inspector, identifies his daughter’s body in the woods. In the film’s most wrenching moment Alex comes apart in a drunken reverie remembering her cremation, as Jeff Buckley’s version of the early-’50s torch song “Lilac Wine” is heard on the soundtrack.

On the eighth anniversary of Margot’s death, Alex, still numb with grief, is interrogated by the police after two bodies are unearthed near the site of her murder, along with a key to a safe-deposit box that contains incriminating photos and a bloodstained weapon that connects him to Margot’s death.

Simultaneously, Alex begins receiving anonymous e-mail messages directing him to a Webcam video of a woman who appears to be Margot, gazing anxiously into a surveillance camera. An attached message warns: “Tell no one. They’re watching.” He begins a desperate undercover search for the woman, suddenly believing Margot may still be alive.

“Tell No One” is the second feature film directed by Mr. Canet, whose 2002 satire, “My Idol,” examined the warped mind of a sadistic producer of reality television. In that movie Mr. Canet played the producer’s aspiring young assistant forced to be his boss’s court jester (and his wife’s part-time lover) at a sinister country estate with a carnivorous aviary. Mr. Canet also appears briefly in “Tell No One” as the debauched son of Gilbert Neuville (Jean Rochefort), a billionaire politician and horse-racing magnate whose tentacles extend in every direction. In the film François Berléand, who played the producer in “My Idol,” portrays a sympathetic police investigator in charge of Alex’s case.

The characters encompass a wide swath of Parisian society. Alex’s confidante and best friend, Hélène (Kristin Scott Thomas), is the wealthy lover of his secretive younger sister, Anne (Marina Hands), a competitive equestrian. Through Hélène, Alex acquires a high-powered defense lawyer (Nathalie Baye), who begins to doubt Alex’s innocence after he flees the police.

Just as Alex is about to be taken into custody, a gangster (Gilles Lellouche), whose hemophiliac son’s life was saved by Alex in the clinic, rescues him and spirits him to a safe hiding place in a working-class suburb where young toughs delight in foiling the police. The rescue follows a thrilling chase sequence worthy of “North by Northwest.” Like that 1959 classic, “Tell No One” is about an innocent man on the run with nowhere to turn. Mr. Cluzet may not be Cary Grant, but he is a convincing Everyman with a heart and soul stretched to the breaking point.

“Tell No One” is pure, nasty fun. 

This movie was really enjoyable to watch... "Enjoyable" in the sense that I was constantly questioning what was happening and was left completely surprised and satisfied. A. 

Jacques Cagna restaurant

10th March 2007

That day, my travelmate and I decided to make a reservation in a gourmet restaurant in Paris. We had brought a list of michelin starred restaurant in that city and we wanted to find one who could satisfy our taste and our money availability.

After calling some unavailable restaurants we found Jacques Cagna and we booked a table for two.

In the evening, at about 9 pm, we were there.

14, Rue des Grands Augustins - Paris 6ème - +33 0143264939

We entered an old style room with many kind waiters attending upon us.

The wine waiter suggested us a Bordeaux, the only one we could afford, 30 euros for the small bottle, but it was worth tasting it.

Before starting with our menus the chef offered us a very good entrée, a fish sauce (maybe bisk sauce with cream) to eat with their homemade bread.

And now, here's what we ate.

Crisp Dublin Bay prawns, avocado purée, grapefruit sauce. The fish was so fresh, the mixed flavoures created an ecstatic, very expensive but delicious plate.

Another very good starter is snails in potatoes, with garlic and parsley butter sauce.

I'm keen about cheese (even if I'm lactose intolerant), that's why I suggest tasting the assortment of ripened cheese (from Dubois and sons'), salad, dried fruit (homemade) bread and fruit jams, I even corrupted (:-)) the waiter to know where they bought those wonderful milk miracles.

For those who are waiting for the dessert I suggest the wild strawberry millefeuille with light Bourbon vanilla cream, raspberry sorbet.

But I highly recommend the warm sliced apple with cinnamon ice-cream and caramel, the sliced apple formed a rose, what a romantic and inspiring moment!

I would thank everybody if they could read me now, I spend wonderful moments there.

The site of this restaurant www.jacquescagna.com shows the menu, you can still order every plate I suggested here.

The bill was about 100 euros per person, but you'll love every moment.

Série “Paris” ©Virginie de Galzain

Milan (Italy)

London (UK)

New York (US)

Paris (France)

Tokyo (Japan)

Well, having visited all these places in my time, i would hedge a bet and say that New York is probably the fashion capital of the world for me. The sheer number of fashion houses and stylish men and ladies parading the streets makes it quite special for me. However, this is a rather obvious choice and i do think all the above are pretty much on the same level, for different things.

In London, you get class combined with chic fashion and renowned UK designers make this one special place to be. My faves: Vivienne Westwood and Paul Smith.

In Paris, you get a much more effortlessly chic sense of style. The French fashions are often unique and it is the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré that shows us just what is so great about France. Luxury brands and neat stores makes this one my favourite locations.

For many, Milan is undoubtedly the fashion capital of the world. It has, for decades, been renowned for its stunning fashions and authentic brands. When you think of Gucci, you think of travelling to Milan and seeing the store in all its glory. The Italian ladies are, once again, stylish to the max and epitomise all that is on trend in the world of fashion. The Gucci store in Milan is the largest Gucci flagship store.

http://www.fashionwindows.com/boutiques/gucci/milan.asp

However, let us not forget about Tokyo. The Japanese are so on the pulse with their fashions, i believe this is a strong contender for fashion capital of the world. Japanese fashion makes the UK seem almost archaic in its approach to trends. Simply take a look at eBay and type in "Japanese dress" to see what i mean. You will often see the word "kawaii"  which means "cute" in Japanese, and this something that young Jaoanese girls like their look to be. Japanese fashion is quirky and most definitely unique. Just take a look at my findings below:

(Source: http://www.japaninc.com/mgz_may-jun_2008_lacking-in-style)

Take a look at the fur used here; not to my style, but very big in Japan.

(Source: http://www.xanga.com/Colour_In_My_Quotes_x3/676912727/japanese-fashion.html)

The image above shows some rather unsual examples of Japanese fashion. Naturally, this isnt regular attire, but just look at the facial decorations; even these are stylish and quirky! Anyone walking down the street in the UK with these would look ridiculous, mind.

For more examples of unique Japanese fashion, and why i think they could quite possibly be the fashion capital of the world, or at least the most unique fashion capital of the world, then check the link below:

http://www.xanga.com/Colour_In_My_Quotes_x3/676912727/japanese-fashion.html

Elle ne veut pas revenir à la vie politique.  Elle était candidate aux présidentielles avant d'être kidnappée par les FARC, et déclare qu'elle a souvent pensé au suicide pendant sa vie de captive.  Elle compte maintenant créer une fondation pour défendre les droits de l'homme et de la nature.

Serait-ce sa manière de montrer son soutien aux  FARC?

Dans la forêt, elle a perdu l'enfance de ses enfants ainsi que beaucoup d'autres choses comme des petites choses personnelles sans importance. Mais  c'est surtout  son impatience qu'elle y a laissée.  En revanche, elle a acquis beaucoup d'humilité et beaucoup d'amour à donner à tout le monde.

Ça n'a pas toujours été facile depuis sa libération mais elle est intelligente et a de nombreux amis importants et beaucoup d'appui politique. Elle est très occupée entre les réeunions avec M. Sarkozy, le secrétaire générale des Nations Unies, M. Jacques Chirac et une prise de parole à L'Assemblée Nationale.

A-t-elle vraiment essayé de s'évader, a-t-elle été malade comme le montrent les fameuses photos ?  Un tas de questions que se posent journalistes et citoyens ?

Qu'en pensez-vous ?

Ecrit par John Luce

A fourth year student at Northeastern in Boston, I chose to leave for a year abroad in Paris. I left because I was overwhelmed and saddened with the direction America had been going. At the American University of Paris, my host university, it seems a lot of the students of American citizenship who attend full-time feel the same way. With them, I am not alone. As expats, we've spent countless hours upon days arguing and debating not only about politics, but how to help America while we remain geographically seperated.

Without them, though, being an American in Paris is an uphill battle—I even speak French pretty well. From the moment I touched down at Charles de Gaulle, politics have remained the focal point of almost every discussion. With three suitcases in tow, my cab driver asked the address of my destination, and after hearing my accent, asked of my origin. After stating, "Etat-Unis", a glimmer appeared in his eye in the rearview mirror. No questions on "what brings you to Paris" or "How long are you going to be here". His words were simple, "Obama où McCain?"

This scene has been played repeatedly with most interactions between the French and I. Once they know you are American, the only issue of concern becomes the election and the reasoning behind your choice. I already voted for Obama on my absentee ballot (for my own reasons), and after reading a poll that stated around 86% of Europeans want Obama in office, it's no wonder I receive such friendly conversation about my choice.

Politics are everywhere though. I've seen Obama ads near metro stops, campaign pins on backpacks, even a temporary art exhibit dedicated to the democratic candidate near the Bastille; so much political awareness from a country that cannot vote in this election. One particular night, my friends and I went to an upscale club called Showcase, which we have been told is pretty hard to get into by locals. Being so private and renowned, the last thing I thought I would do was debate politics with a 23-year-old computer engineer from Paris. But there we were, Yohann and I, in a heated argument over the USA while the rest of the crowd was dancing on tables in their Givenchy frocks. Not I, it became my mission to try and explain to Yohann that America is essentially six or so countries under one big umbrella country—the Northeast, the West Coast, Bible Belt, the South, etc—each one holding starkly contrasting flavors and viewpoints. I tried to explain how it was possible for a president to be voted into office when only half of the country supported him and his administration. 

That's really what I have been doing a lot of here—explaining. After countless discussions with foreigners on politics, in my classes or in the streets of Paris, it is clear that in order to understand the complexities of the U.S. and how it works, you need to experience it yourself. These people weren't aware of the difference in education and culture, race and religion amongst regions. The Electoral College process was even harder to comprehend for them in one sitting. 

Though constantly being on the defense, there are two moments where there was a light of hope. The first was at a bar in the fifth arrondisement called the Hideout. A group of guys joined our table and I started talking to one who moved from Morocco to the U.S. in 2000. In 2007 he became a citizen and is registered to vote in the oh-so-important-swing-state of Virginia. After telling me his vote was for McCain-Palin, I quickly went on the rebound. About 60 minutes later he changed his mind, and said I had convinced him that an Obama-Biden ticket was more beneficial to not only the nation, but to the world. That's never happened before. When battling Republicans in the States, no one ever seems to budge. But maybe because it's Paris, all pretenses were let down and we could engage discursively.

The next moment I experienced mental clarity was the night of the Vice Presidential debates. By night, I mean really early Friday morning. Young Democrats Abroad hosted a debate watching party at Carr's pub in the first arrondisement. CNN was being projected live and the debates came on at 3:00 am. The room was packed by 1:00 am. For the first time in Paris I found a sense of unity. It was a gulp of fresh air to have young Americans, the so-called stereotypical apathetic 18-26 demographic, all together in one room. In a city like Paris where they could be doing anything else in the world, it was refreshing to see that the youth abroad passionately cared about where this country is heading.

Sitting in that room, it really clicked how engaged the French are in politics, and how strongly it affects living in Paris. Again, after I meet Parisians and they ask me my name and where I'm from, they hear my accent and 99.5% of the time ask "Obama où McCain". The student body at American University of Paris represents over 100 countries from around the world. The non-Americans, though most have never been, tend to make bold, condescending accusations about America. I feel as if I am always constantly trying to defend my country, which truly is a hard thing to do when the majority of things I see are distasteful. My goal has been, and remains, to try and show where we as Americans are coming from, highlighting the culture and the diversity within the U.S., coupled with what is considered in Europe a highly controversial war and moreover administration. I've hoped that explaining it in this way might give some perspective to why all the media received in France does not necessarily reflect everything in the States; and, that this is a result of the past 20 years and the culture of the American people. 

But that night, none of it mattered. Expats from all over the US were sitting around tables watching and discussing the debates. True, the majority of them were liberal democrats so there was a consensus and common idea of what needs to be accomplished. But, it was refreshing to speak with people who were also educated in how things are "done in America", be it the way the media chooses to spins stories or traditional party viewpoints. The most comforting thing though, was to be conversing in all of these discussions in English. The crowd knew the facts, and was also aware of the consequences at hand.

I left Carr's that night more confused than ever. I found myself at a crossroads; what do I do from here? I love France, and can genuinely see myself living in Paris one day after graduation. Moreover, I have never realized how much I truly love America. I love the vibrancy of New York, the pulse of Fenway Park, and the sound of the waves crashing along the shores of Philbin Beach where my father grew up. But what do I do now? So many expats fled the States to live in Paris, such as Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, and Miller, when they became upset with the American state of affairs. Are we bound to become the next Lost Generation, or are we, the youth of America residing abroad, destined to become something more? Is it our responsibility to stay in Europe in an attempt to approve relations abroad, or are we to come home and share our new knowledge and experiences because there is domestically too much at stake? 

Unfortunately, the answers to these questions can only come with time. However until that day, as I remain here in Paris with less than a month away from the election, I will continue to read and stay up to date with current affairs. Though six hours ahead and 5545 kilometers (3446 miles) away from home, I feel it is my patriotic duty to be an intermediator, the interpreter of cultures during such a strenuous time in foreign relations. And with each upcoming question I am bound to face regarding "Obama où McCain," I'll smile and answer, praying that this one conversation might have a domino effect—however slight it may be—so that America can regain the prestige and respect abroad she once had.

I went to Whitstable this weekend, which is the nearest beach to Canterbury. It's about a 15 to 20 minute bus ride directly from campus. It's a stony sort of beach, and when we went on Sunday, it was pretty crowded. There are lots of cool shops and stuff around it. I still haven't been to Dover yet. I heard recently that it wasn't worth the 2 hour bus ride, and I should go to Whitstable instead (which I did). I'm not sure if the bus ride is really two hours, in fact I can't imagine that it really is, but I think I'd enjoy Dover regardless. Theo's friend Jack said yesterday that Canterbury has the highest ratio of pubs per square mile than any other city in England. I don't know if that's true either, but it certainly gives an approximation of (my perceived) priority of interest for most students here.

Yesterday I went the climbing club's trip to a climbing wall at a independently owned sports center outside Canterbury. They have these older guys come and teach the novices (like myself) who they refer to as "old gits." I learned how to do two simple knots, and basic climbing technique (which I sort of remembered from climbing a long time ago) like how to descend and belay. I bouldered a bit more too, and my wrists and fingers still hurt from that a little. Tonight is the next trampoline society.

Last night I went to the Film Society social and met some folks that are knowledgeable about films (and are happy to prove it). It was pretty cool, and I met lot's of folks that were on the administrative council of directors for the various internal programs (big lense film magazine, production department, screening department). The words I used may have made it sound like more complex of a society than it actually is.

There's talk of a trip to London this weekend, and a week from this Friday I'm planning on going on a mountaineering trip. Two weeks from today I will be in Paris with Monica. I can't wait!

Frankfurt Book Fair

For all book lovers Frankfurt is a place to be in middle October. Frankfurt Book Festival is the largest of its kind in the world with a few hundred thousand visitors in just days. This is the 60th year of the popular event that takes place from October 15-19, 2008. Fair covers all topics and genres; from antiquarian books, fiction, non-fiction, scientific books, comics, children's books to audio books, film and TV, translations etc. Key focus is put on education and its development for the future.

Every year a Guest of Honour is introduced. For 2008 it is Turkey who takes the role. That's the opportunity to present its literature, culture and history. This always goes beyond the Book Fair, other events like theater performances, readings, exhibitions, music events and educational courses take place around this time. One day ticket is €18 for students, every day. On special days (Oct 18-19), public visitor's ticket is €12.

FIAC La Foire Internationale d’Art Contemporain = International Exhibition of Contemporary Art, Paris

This event gathers 180 international galleries on three exhibition places in Rive Droite of Paris. Le Grand Palais which is dedicated to modern and contemporary art and design, La Cour Carrée du Louvre gathers artists of tomorrow and new tendencies, and le Jardin des Tuileries imagined as an open exhibition space for sculptures and installations.

Except this interesting exhibitions, this event lately introduces different performances influenced by theater, dance and music. Programs are held in different places around Paris.

Venice Biennale Architecture

This Biennale is held every two years and lasts for about two months. This year it's held from September 14 to November 23. Every biennale has a theme for which architecture studios around the world design their projects from biennale to biennale and enter a competition. The award ceremony takes place at the beginning of the event and 10 winning projects + 40 honorable mentions from around the world are displayed as a part of exhibition gathered around one theme; this year's theme is "Out there, Architecture beyond building". Visitors can also see various installations, experimental work of numerous international firms.

Biennale encompases a variety of other topics that are presented throught national pavilions. You can take educational guides or participate in concurrent events. Ticket price is €15, for students €6; it is higher only if you incorporate passes for other events.

www.myspace.com/qtip

PARIS - Don't Stop The Movement

www.myspace.com/guerrillaparis  

www.guerrillafunk.com/

It now means that you can view landmarks like these...

...without leaving your computer. I'm still trying to see what the real beneifits of Street View are (apart from just nosing about) but I suppose it can be handy for people wanting to visit said French cities who want to know how to get to the major landmarks, or want to discover nice little areas.

France now joins America, Japan and Australia in being opened up to Street View. Britain (or England) can't be that far away. Many people have noted that they have seen the Google Van in their area with its roof-mounted, rotating camera. I personally cannot wait.

Other landmarks for the effort-conscious of you out there:

• Eiffel Tower [Paris]
  
• Champs Élysées [Paris]
  
• The Moulin Rouge [Paris]
  
• Notre Dame de la Garde [Marseille]
• Place de Saint-Nizier [Lyon]
  

Du 17 octobre au 23 novembre, 18 villes de Seine-Saint-Denis et Paris (18ème) se transforment en Villes des Musiques du Monde aux rythmes des concerts, créations, rencontres autour d'un repas, d'un stage ou d'un film... Au total, 5 semaines de festival, + de 50 concerts, 38 lieux d'accueil, 19 villes associées...
« Villes des Musiques du Monde » est un festival hors normes, convivial, qui n’hésite pas à croiser les genres et les itininéraires musicaux pour faire de chaque rendez-vous une invitation au voyage ! Avec : Aït Menguellet, Buika, Juan Carlos Caceres, Frank London, Calypso Rose, les Amazones de Guinée, Tony Allen, Nawal, Ba Cissoko, Ibrahim Maalouf, Raul Paz, Bratsch...
Pour en savoir plus
Le programme

Le groupe revisite les standards de JIM MORRISON dans un registre très personnel mêlant jazz et blues.

Jeudi 23 octobre à 20h30. Entrée libre.
The Box in Paris - 6 cité du Midi - métro Blanche / Pigalle.

DELBI, en solo (voix, guitares, basse, percussions, accordéon), armé de divers bidouillages techniques, instruments variés, voix troublante et troublée, il compose en live un univers folk aux accents blues. Les ballades douces et ardentes virent au rock teinté de groove, puissant et sans concession ! 
http://www.myspace.com/delbimusic 

Les 15,22 et 29 octobre à La Bellevilloise 19-21, rue Boyer, PARIS 20ème, métro Ménilmontant

October 18th —November15th , 2008
Opening Reception: Saturday, October 18th, 7pm—9pm

Blek le Rat
Paris-New York, New York-Paris
Solo Exhibition

October 18th—November 15th, 2008
Opening Reception: Saturday, October 18th, 7pm—9pm

Learn more about both Doze Green and Blek le Rat at The Jonathan LeVine Gallery.

529 West 20th Street, 9th Floor, New York, NY

Und zweitens muss ich noch was erzählen. Denn ich hatte gestern mal wieder eines dieser Pariserinnen-Erlebnisse. Bei einem Interview mit einem Parfumeur hatte ich gestern die oberste Marketing-Chefin eines sehr großen Kosmetikkonzerns in Begleitung. Was die anhatte muss ich beschreiben, denn ich konnte sie nicht knipsen, weil ich die Kamera vergessen hatte.

Also: Sie trug erstmal einen Herrenhut, darunter eine gesteppte Motorradähnliche Jacke zu einem sehr kurzen feuerroten Schottenmini, der eigentlich ein um die Hüfte geschwungenes Tuch war. Darunter Seidenstrümpfe und darüber gestrickte Overknees mit einem Schmuckstück am Knie. Die Schuhe dazu: hohe Ankleboots. Das sah ungefähr so aus: Nehmt diese beiden Bilder zusammen, dann habt ihr es. Bitte noch den Schottenmini und die Motorradjacke dazudenken: 

  +  

So und nun die Frage: Würde in Deutschland so eine Marketingchefin rumlaufen?

Fotos: modepilot/parisoffice

Bueno, pues después de cierto tiempo de espera (ya era más que justo) llegan las versiones para la TV de la mano de Minivegas, una sensacional productora con base en Londres y mucha experiencia, que capturó de manera perfecta el hilarante mundo en el que los protagonistas de la campaña exploran y se dejan llevar, bajo el acierto de mantener al máximo posible la originalidad de las ilustraciones que la campaña de impresos presumía, pero agregándoles a ambas versiones un toque de movimiento exquisito (keyword: exquisito) y muy sugestivo.

De principio a fin son un deleite. Primero Boy y luego Girl:

[dailymotion id=x72z1g]

[dailymotion id=x72zdi]

La campaña evidentemente contó con la supervisión de Erik Vervroegen y la gente de TBWA París, y será vista en el viejo continente en las próximas semanas pautado por fin en TV.

Así como yo, habíamos varios esperando la versión animada de esta gran campaña que por fin llegó.

Urban street markets seem much the same the world over. There's a festive feeling naturally generated by such familiar activity, which explains why I felt at home the instant I stepped onto the cobbled Rue Mouffetard pavement in Paris. Emotionally, I might just as well have been in Cross Street Market in 1950s Baltimore, a boy of eleven or twelve, enthralled by the block party atmosphere of people going about their daily routine of buying, selling, socializing and just hanging out.

Rue Mouffetard is a remnant of an old Roman road. Some buildings there date from the 12th century, and in a sense the street represents the history of the city. Crowds of shoppers fill its lower half every morning, and its vitality is reminiscent of a scene from the Middle Ages. On my first morning in Paris, in August, 1973, my new girlfriend and I were still getting re-acquainted after my flight from Baltimore the previous afternoon. She had been living for a month with her sister and her sister's boyfriend in a one room apartment. I had known her only two months when she left to begin her annual summer teaching break tour of Europe, so we were still passionate strangers. She had found a private space for us in a small, inexpensive "mom and pop" hotel near the market. Our shy reunion, at first a bit awkward, had gone pretty well—but now we were both happy to be out and about, beginning our mutual Paris experience.

And the first order of business was lunch. In the early 1970s few Americans knew much about France, and fewer still knew anything about French food. Growing up, my midday meals had been pallid sandwiches of ham and American cheese, slathered with mayo and stuck between slices of soft white bread. Part of my new girlfriend's plan, she later told me, was to introduce more sophisticated foods into my diet. My first lesson came that morning as we shopped in Rue Mouffetard. My girlfriend, using her ragged high school French, bought bottled water, a round of soft cheese, and a loaf of naked bread (no wrapper, no bag). She selected fruit for dessert from her favorite stand, which was manned by a handsome young Frenchman. We ate while seated on a bench in a nearby park. a spot which became our personal picnic area on most of the twelve days we toured Paris. The following excerpt from a "Hemingway-esque" short story I later wrote sums up the routine during our stay in the city.

"They took a room in a small hotel in Rue Pascal and settled in to stay until fall. Mornings, they strolled the Latin Quarter, bought food at the market in Rue Moufftard, and lunched on a bench or under a tree in the Jardin des Plants. Afternoons were reserved for making love and a nap in their tiny room. Evenings, they dined with friends near the Sorbonne; then, most nights, they would take the Metro to the Champs-Elysées and either walk the boulevard, people-watch from a sidewalk cafe, or attend an American movie. Or perhaps all three. It was wonderfully romantic, they thought, as if they were living in a Hemingway novel."

The guy in my unpublished short story is a moody character, not unlike me at that stage of my life. But the present day me, older and somewhat wiser, will always remember those Paris experiences—even the negative parts—fondly. After all, that is where I had my first crunchy bite of crusty French bread, fresh from the bakery and topped with delightfully pungent cheese. It was love at first bite—a life changing episode—and in that instant I realized I could never again be satisfied with tasteless yellow cheese on Wonder Bread.

The relationship between me and my new girlfriend did not always go well—either in Paris or later, when we returned home. In fact, the affair was completely over after only a few years. Without going into the sad details, I can say that the problems we had were mostly my fault. In those days I was neurotic, still depressed about the failure of my marriage, feeling great guilt about leaving my young family, personally insecure, and extremely jealous of my beautiful new girlfriend. (The fact that she was twelve years younger and eager—at the prodding of her mother—to start a family, didn't help.) Two examples of my jealousy will suffice. I was convinced that she was attracted to that handsome and bearded blond produce clerk in Rue Mouffetard, and that she shopped with him each morning not just because his goods were fresher and more reasonably priced. I never saw them exchange a smile or a nod (I watched closely, pretending to be interested only in my photography), but they appeared to ignore each other completely, which somehow make me even more suspicious. (Obsessive jealousy requires no proof.) And there was another young man at a sidewalk café who lit her cigarette. All very innocent in retrospect, I know, but at the time I berated her for allowing him to do so. (Jealousy makes no rational sense.) Meanwhile, I was photographing every beautiful woman I saw, and secretly falling in love with each one. But in my warped view at the time that was perfectly okay. (Jealousy isn't fair.) For instance, I justified the images of the young woman pictured here sniffing melons in Rue Mouffetard as a "visual narrative;" and that by moving closer with each click of the camera I was only following a "golden rule" of photography which goes: "If your images are not good, you're not close enough."

Here's another excerpt from my short story, which I think captures my own rueful mood soon after we finally broke up. The scene is in a bar where the two fictional characters have met for a drink, the man still harboring a small hope that they might reunite.

"'I haven't forgotten,' the man said. The woman was very tan, she had been beautifully pale in Paris. 'A dry Rob Roy, correct?' She nodded and he ordered. 'It's funny,' he went on, 'I thought now—after all this time—seeing you would be different, but it's not. When you walked in that door I felt a tingle like the old days. That sort of thing must die hard.'

'Maybe it never dies,' she said.

'Three years ago, in Paris,' he said. 'I never want to forget how that felt.' She smiled, her eyes downcast, saying nothing. She remembered how happy she had been with him in France—despite their troubles—how well-matched they seemed to be, how much in love she thought they were. The man continued. 'But when I think about those days I get a little sad, a little afraid. The fear comes when I realize that it may never happen again for me.'

'Oh, it will,' the woman said. 'It just takes time.' She was looking at him now. 'Anyway, you're forgetting the bad stuff—all the arguments we had driving to and from Lyon.'

'You must mean, Ms. Navigator, the times you got us lost,' he said, and forced a smile.

'You blamed me for it, yes.'

'Well, you do have a lousy sense of direction—right?'

Again the woman did not reply. She had come to realize that the miscues between them in France amounted to an early warning system, one that she had willfully ignored. He had been unfair, blaming her for all that went wrong—on the road, at hotels and restaurants—and at the time she had begun to hate him for it. But even so, she had convinced herself that it was normal for two people in the early stages of a love affair to experience problems that could be worked out over time. For his part, the man remembered the anger he felt then, the frustrations about where to eat, which way to turn at a crossroads, where to stop for the night; how he had to depend on her to read menus and tell him where the bathrooms were. Being in love and in a foreign country was overwhelming. He felt helpless and—fair or not—he had resented her for it."

Well, that's the end of this story, or at least all of it I can manage to tell in a short essay. The relationship ended badly, as I said—but I have no regrets. I'll always have Paris, and Rue Mouffetard, where I fell in love with love over and over again; and—for the first time in my life—I also fell in love with soft cheese and fresh-baked baguettes.

"Rue Mouffetard: A Romance" is the second in a series of travel-photo essays which will post on this blog from time-to-time. (Click images for larger views.)

As to why the colour of the wallpaper is so close to the colour of a nicotine stain. Perhaps it was consciously chosen to prolong the life of the wallpaper, as the actual nicotine stains would be indistinguishable from the original colour scheme, or perhaps it was just coincidental. Whatever the truth, it is an interesting piece of design that sums up a small period in popular American culture.

Autumn has not yet found its way to this part of the world, but the air is mild and drier than most. And it triggers thoughts of hot chocolate. Not just any hot chocolate, but Parisian hot chocolate. In a cozy cafe, of course.

According to the chef, David Lebovitz in his blog about living in Paris, Parisians use milk, not cream, and the most important ingredient is the chocolate. He also recommends you allow it to sit for a few hours before rewarming and drinking.

He is his recipe:

2 cups (60 cl) whole milk

5 ounces (130 gr) bittersweet chocolate (with at least 70% cacao solids), finely chopped. Optional: 2 tablespoons light brown sugar

Heat the milk in a medium-sized saucepan

Once the milk is warm, whisk in the chocolate, stirring until melted and steaming hot. For a thick hot chocolate, cook at a very low boil for about 3 minutes, whisking frequently. (Be careful and keep an eye on the mixture, as it may boil up a bit during the first moments)

Taste, and add brown sugar if desired.

Serve warm in small, demitasse cups.

Makes 4 "Parisian-sized" servings.

I'll delve into French life later, but until then I'll have to settle for hot chocolate.

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