Oh those large carriage entrance doors, well at least some of them were. How beautiful they are. But then what in Paris doesn't inspire?
An elegant antique shop around the corner. That never seems to be open. Or maybe when it sees me coming it hides the key. The big picture windows tell a story of the things inside.
Only a story since I cannot get inside.
A box outside a restaurant held empty champagne bottles.
It was only eleven in the morning.
Mimosa... memories of 1925 Ritz Carlton.
My friend Denise is back from Canada. We went to Paris for the weekend. We went in search of a Croque Monsieur.
Montmarte side street.
The best Croque Madame (toss in a egg, and I requested sans jambon.) Delicious. I am dreaming of it still. Simple fare, utterly delicious. It made up for the antique store that is never opened.
Once home I realized that I had not taken the receipt nor a business card. Denise and I might have to take another trek back to Montmarte... Saint Pierre is calling us too.
Close to where our apartment is in Paris there is a bookstore that tempts ones level of frustration to soar. One must have patience when asking Leo, for a book and courage to walk down the narrow canyon book wall.
Leo has had his bookstore for over thirty years, speaks English and can tell you in a flash if he has the book you are looking for. His collection reaches to the ceiling, and has one narrow path leading in.
Feels like finding a needle in a haystack.
Every Sunday the brocanteur who sets up on the corner takes out his wares: Theatrical costumes from the 1800 to 1900s. He bought the entire collection from a person who use to travel from opera house, to theatre, to concert hall... offering his collection of costumes to whatever theatrical play or opera that might need them.
I have seen his array of costumes hanging outside his truck for months, never giving them a second thought. Bright colors, garish, wrinkly, which made me think, "What would I do with those?"
Until last weekend when he unloaded the Don Juan collection in antique brocade silk and bullfighter's vest and cape. The workmanship, the quality of fabric used made me take a deeper look.
The gold metal embellishments at the end of the pale blue silk ribbons...
The name tag in the jacket: Don Juan, it came home with me.
After the brocante in Carpentras, Chez Serge is a must.
The most simply elegant delightful Sunday afternoon:
Brocante, Chez Serge with the cigalles in the background.
Cod with mashed potatoes in a delicate sauce.
After the private brocante for the French Muse Experience, at the home of a 18th century textile dealer, they served us lunch in the garden.
In a garden where irises, roses, and an 150 year old linden tree stood, we went to a private brocante set up just for us.
Table after table of French antique textiles.
Altar silk cloth....
Layers upon layers of textured history.
In French the word ice cream "scoops" is "boules" which means
In France when one is ordering ice cream from a man, one should not say:
"Are your boules big?"
Otherwise you might be as red as strawberry ice cream.
Glacier Arelatis 8 place du Forum, 13200 Arles, France