Home Improvement is not a Vacation

But Fun to Be Had Anyway

I am so thrilled to be back in Paris, if only for a short visit. I arrived on Thursday morning to rain and dark skies so I opted to again take the train into the city rather than taking my chances in a cab. These days a cab can be a recipe for frustration in bad weather combined with the increased traffic due to the mountain of tourists descending on Paris. It seems Paris is the place to be—the city is packed! Maybe everyone is trying to get a visit in before the Olympics. After deplaning, I stopped for a much-needed shot of caffeine to get me on my feet and headed for the train. In less than a hour--voilà—I was at my apartment and feeling pretty good.

No sooner did I let myself in, longing for a shower, than I encountered my housekeeper spraying what appeared to be lavender-scented air freshener all over the life-sized peacock who presides over our dining room. She was quite agitated and let me know that the peacock was being eaten alive by mites and she was relentlessly murdering them with what turned out to be “mite spray.” I was devastated and appalled to see that the peacock was going bald, his plumage eaten away by these disgusting creatures. I nearly cried at his appearance. How in the world did we get mites and why had no one told me! Images of the bedbugs we heard about last winter during fashion week began swirling in my head.

It has been a feast for the mites!

Not wanting to let another minute go by without addressing this horrible problem I changed clothes and ran straight to Deyrolle—the most famous taxidermy shop in Paris and the place from whence Mr. Peacock had been procured. As I explained the problem to the people at Deyrolle, they too were shocked, and suggested that I immediately confine the peacock to the freezer to kill the mites. Well, that was a puzzler. They are French, and they know what size freezers exist in French apartments and the peacock is about 7 feet tall— which they also had to have known as there are several other peacocks living at Deyrolle waiting to be adopted.

So as an alternative, I begged, very politely, that they come pick him up and replume him to his former grandeur, which, after some conversation, including the ubiquitous, “C’est impossible”, they reluctantly agreed and promised to send someone by next week. We will see. I have a feeling I will be spending more time following up with them than it will take to refeather my beloved peacock.

While there however, I did take a look around at the wonders contained in Deyrolle-there were lions and tigers and zebras gracing the floors. And giant African cockroaches and birds of every variety you can imagine. It is a little like going to a zoo—albeit nothing is alive.

Peacocks as they should be!

After leaving Deyrolle I decided to check out this flower/cum coffee shop owned by Cordelia de Castellane who is also the creative director for Maison Dior and the visionary behind the transformation of Maxim’s, which has been brought back to life and restored to it’s former 1970’s glory days. I am dying to go there and have a cocktail at the bar! Cordelia’s Flower Shop was a mash up of English garden meets flea market so I ordered a latte and some lemon poppyseed cake and took a look around. I eyed these beautiful miniature orange trees that I very much wanted to take home but decided against as I am not here enough and frankly, I can’t be responsible for the death of another thing in my apartment. But they were adorable.

By this point I was falling into a bit of a slump and decided to return home and regroup. As I was trying to check my email I realized that we had no internet service. This has been a continuing problem and has happened twice in the last week. I immediately went on line to our provider “Orange” (kind of reminds you of Apple right?) and scheduled an appointment for the following day.

On Friday morning at 8am the doorbell was ringing and “Ricky” (not his real name-it is something no one can pronounce) who is our maintenance man showed up to replace some lights I wanted changed, and while he was there I asked him if he could help remove the ugly black fireplace covers that are blocking all of our fireplaces. It is technically illegal to have a fire in your fireplace in Paris—I guess when central heating became a thing they tried to stop the pollution in Paris by banning the use of the indoor fireplace, and I am not even sure the flues vent to the rooftop. Still, it was a very dirty job getting rid of these metal covers and as Ricky was lying on his back inside the fireplace, reverse Santa-style, I was quite worried that that the screens—which are made of the thinnest, sharpest metal were going to fall down and chop his head off guillotine-style. Luckily, he came out with his head still attached to his body, triumphantly holding aloft the hideous cover while it emitted the plumes of a hundred years worth of dirt and grime. I may not be able to have a fire in the fireplaces, but at least now I can fill them with either candles or flowers or some other arty-intstallation that at least makes them look a little more welcoming.

Screen successfully removed but desperately needs a paint job before I can redecorate.

As Ricky was leaving, the doorbell rang again and it was the guy from Orange. I explained our problem and he trucked on down to the “cave” or basement of the building to check out the internet issue. Ana Rosa went with him to hold the flashlight but I couldn’t go. I am terrified of the “cave” and never go down there. It is accessible only by a tiny service elevator with no windows that takes you down to a basement with a dirt floor that is so filthy and creepy—it evokes my horror film/claustrophobia fears and I just can’t do it. Upon their return from the bowels of the building, I received the most disturbing news. Apparently, though all the people in the building have internet service through Orange, there are not enough wires to accommodate every apartment. Meaning “someone” has been going down there and just unplugging our service and plugging in theirs! I was incensed. We have been here for six years and have to be one of the longest tenants in the building. The Orange repairman and Ana Rosa suspect it is someone from the fourth floor above us who is doing this and don’t you just wonder if it isn’t the hateful neighbors who always yell at us for playing music at night when our dance party is in full swing.

Our man from Orange promised that he hid our connection wire as best he could. Hopefully no one will find it and unplug us again anytime soon, but this situation needs a permanent resolution. Ana Rosa called the landlord and demanded an upgrade so that everyone can have their own connection. I adore her—she is like a walking poster for Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité. But, this is France and nothing happens very quickly so we shall see —maybe we need to install a camera to see who is sneaking into the cave and unplugging our wires.

After all the home improvement drama Friday morning I scooted off to the Musee d’Orsay where I was meeting two friends who work there and who had promised me a tour of the new Inventing Impressionism exhibit. We had a delightful lunch in the restaurant at the d’Orsay and the curated tour made the exhibit really come alive for me. It was also a great history lesson about what was going in late 19th century France. The Impressionists were definitely the outcasts of the artist community at this time and as odd as it seems now, their art was considered quite lowbrow and our beloved Monet, Degas, Caillebotte, etc., could not sell any paintings to anyone. Oh, how time and taste change things. The paintings that were actually esteemed at that time you would not hang in your home if someone gave them to you. Really terrible stuff. It was super interesting to see it juxtaposed in the exhibit, and illustrated how history is not really accurate—as the years go by the actuality of the time gets morphed into something entirely different. Now the Impressionists are revered as visionaries, ushering in the modern age of painting and completely changing the landscape of art for the 20th century.

This is the painting that won the competition the year the Impressionists debuted. Not really what you might want today!

As opposed to this Monet masterpiece for which Impressionism is named

After spending nearly five hours at the d’Orsay I realized I was almost out of time to make it to Christie’s before it closed and where I needed to pickup some items I had bought at auction as an anniversary gift for my husband. No more information on that at present as he does not know yet what I bought—so keep it under your hat. By this time it was nearly 6pm and I was meeting a friend from LCB for dinner at Benjamin Schmitt, a new-ish restaurant in the 9th arrondisement that I had read about in a food blog I follow. I decided to walk since I felt like had not seen any of Paris since my arrival, and as always, a picture from the Pont Neuf inspires.

As always, it takes my breath away

The restaurant was tiny and quaint-a perfect setting to catch up and get all the gossip from LCB. It didn’t hurt that I ordered the cassoulet which was the best I have had in along while. To top off the experience, the restaurant is still old-syle French where there is only one table seating for the evening. When you arrive—no matter your reservation time-the table never turns over and it is super leisurely. At the end of the evening the chef comes out to speak with all the patrons and discusses the meal— a very personal touch which I adore.

Really outstanding cassoulet!

This appears to be a chocolate mousse but underneath there was a yummy coffee and vanilla base that was delicious!

My girlfriend, was of course heading out afterward to meet our other LCB friends for an evening “clubbing”— remember they are all about 22 years old, but I, the old lady of the group, headed home exhausted. It had been a long day for me. As I closed my eyes with the bedroom window open, the ever-present sound of police sirens and revelry from The Highlander put me right to sleep.