Bailey Alexander: The Europhile

Warhol's last gasp of cool and then China began to buy...

...alors, how time flies...Andy's dead and now our landlords prefer we no longer carry the power to print money.  Today, China suggests a new currency reserve, no more altering the value of their investment.  Mother is no longer happy with its greedy child.

Couldn't help but compare and contrast the present while viewing the past through Andy's lens.  The current collection at the Grand Palais left too few images for me to linger upon, wonder about. 

  

Wandering around, the series felt too well weathered, almost sour, past its expiration date. All those Polaroids and prints of beautiful people, most of which are dead or no longer beautiful, specially Jagger.  Two exceptions possibly; La Liz's light just won't go out until she's dead and Brooke Shields, she who defies nature...the layout of her entire face from brow to mouth is simply spectacular.

Andy Warhol's clever and contrived life, like his work, which was his life, was so deeply superficial, obviously, but what struck me were the two generic pieces; An American Man and An American Lady..  The former, the male blonde waspish figure, so familiar as this made up much of my childhood, has completely lost all perceived sense of authority, finally.

The latter, the American lady. Well, the women can still sport their clone blonde bobs over there, they can pretend they haven't aged, believe their lives and society are interesting. I knew and grew up amongst many of those kinds of clubs, still belong to some; their lives as boring and bland as their blonde bobs.

The surface, the image, the consumer.  Andy got the gig.  America as the little child that must be spoon fed its candy and sweets, producing nothing of substance nor value, unless you qualify fast food as something other than what it is....and now the parent, China, would like to  create a  global super currency reserve. Apparently the parent is no longer proud of its child, in fact, it's fed the monster and would gratefully trade it in for another country or continent if it could, but can't.

We shall wait and see until it digests that last waifer thin mint, when then, the dollar will literally implode.

Roberto Purvis, Pasolini, Garibaldi and political passions.

Dined w/Roberto Purvis, last time it was @ Chez Bay con mio marito on the left.

This week we dined downstairs.  I'd anticipated topics re his current passion, a documentary he's working on covering all things Italian, including terrorism and fascism for additional drama. I knew of just the place for such discourse.

This bistro, located near our flat, is surrounded by radicalism and confrontation.   

Weeks ago, I took a pic of the church next to the bistro, 'St. Nicholas Du Chardonnet'.  Just beyond the signage, you can see the genteel facade that, in fact, masks a truly unruly crowd of fundamentalist Catholics inside. On any given day one may find the priests, in full black frock garb punching one another out, literally....this place is wild.  The French like to get physical.

I do not exaggerate for there's no need in my life. On Sunday mornings you can hear the thunderous bells, beautifully competing w/Notre Dame down the street, while throngs of vigilant Parisians hold rear guard action against the modern and casual attitude towards religion in Paris. 

Caro Ianesco, who comments on my blog from time to time, knows the joint well, it's lock chock full of loonies. Enjoying a successful career in both writerly and painterly professions, Ianesco once took a detour along the studious and Priestly path in both Paris and Rome.  He is aware of this Church and its history.

I love the drama.  I've visited the place during the day, but unlike other churches that provide candles to light and meditation to occur, there is little peace, let alone candles to purchase. It possesses the eeriest energy. Makes me want to watch the Exorcist.  Again.

And then, just next door, lives this building, an official meeting place for political discourse and radical movement. While imbibing a petite glass of beer, one can practically hear the people screaming for Sarko's head.

What I find so fascinating is the juxtaposition of this rather sinister and radical petite space in Paris, co-existing quite nicely within the middle of such magical, peaceful energy that is the 5th arrondissement.

Partially due to it's close proximity to the Sorbonne, one sees enthusiastic students running down rue des ecoles, colliding and diving into diverse bookstores, restaurants, deeply ethnic environs exist everywhere...just downstairs along my street I have Tibet, Russian, Italian, French and South American cultural realities well represented.

So we enjoy our drinks and dinner, outside amongst the large round heaters.  My dear friend is both brilliant and beautiful, really. 

And, Roberto Purvis is politically passionate, very. John Hopkins, his alma mater, is sponsoring him to give a 3 day political seminar in Bologna, which io and mio marito will attend this April.  He's finished a well received short doc w/Norm Chomsky and currently, his doc is keeping focus Italian history circa the 60's and 70's, full of fascism, Catholicism and terrorism, which fits cozily where we sit....his doc also highlights the role the CIA played, controlling and terrorizing the Italians from voting Communist. Ironic as communism, or a form of, allows modern Bologna to thrive.

My husband knows this history well, as it's embedded deep into the fabric of Northern Italy. 

Sig. Purvis delves into the famous Italian poet/intellectual/film director Pier Paolo Pasolini.  Pasolini's film '120 days of Sodom' transposed De Sade’s tale of decadence and debauchery from 18th Century France to the last days of Mussolini’s regime in the republic of Salò.  It's all so terrifically complicated, as is Italy, reflecting while forming its 's cynical political ways, how consumerism is complicit to themes...

and always, our CIA...sigh..our interventions...

Prior to our dinner, Roberto wants to check out a building nearby that once houses the Red Brigade, the terrorists that assisted the CIA. We walk along the Seine and find it, entering the courtyard, wondering about the past as it lives and incites my companion's mind.

I think about this later, while knitting, where I can meditate on work and writing.   Passions.

I haven't knitted for years but the cold has entered la ville lumiere just as the light has left, albeit temporarily.

I take some pics for my galpal Joni, for she inspired me to pick up the needles in the first place and notice a rather grand pic of Garibaldi in the background. 

Mio marito is most passionate about Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Father of Italy, the fierce fighter that inspired the country to unite, way back when.  Imagine.

Brasserie Lipp and Gay Pride in Paree

Apres week of intense business particulars, revolving dates surrounding biz trips to Seattle and Dubai, scheduling meetings, discussing messaging about mio marito's company, my own co., how the two meet, we're tired. 

Just in time, the 6th and most gentle day of the week arrives, we greet it gratefully for we need to get away, if only from our laptops, the flat, for a sec.

Moi et mon mari saunter down the street to Brasserie Lipp for luxurious lunch, then wrap over to the right bank to walk it off at Princess Grace exhibit at Hotel de Ville.  Finally, after enough spent exploring such a city, we pine for our quiet home, alas, we've forgotten, it's Gay Pride Day.  To think my friends in Seattle suggested I'd miss gay pride in Seattle.

Barely.  A cacophony of craziness weaves its way, music thumping atop, within, alongside lorries the size of a city block, music is beating down Boulevard St. Germain, greeting us, exchanging Woodstock for all musical matters disco; Michael Shrieves is so '69, cuz it's 2008, la ville lumiere and the joint is hopping.

Gay Pride has arrived in Paris.  It's gorgeous.

Here's pics from our window, love the balloons....

I zoom in on the Banana Cafe Sponsor as one should....

It lasts for another hour, then it turns 6ish, and me and thuh muffins walk back downstairs and find the end, literally, as it's winding down towards the Arab Institute where it shall enter Bastille land.

 

Solstice + Paris = Woodstock and Ladies who still Lunch at Chez Bay

Chic house guest Gail arrives with enough Tumi luggage to keep her chic for weeks, however, you too would comb your closet carefully if your business itinerary included meetings with CEO's of BHV and Gallerie Lafayette.

Entire days spent at two of the largest department stores in Paris, each exhibiting a panoramic reflection of a country committed to fashion; frenchiness seeps through their respective escalators as recklessly as the calcium through our petite pipes in la ville lumiere. 

Gail came and conquered, or, rather, did her marvel best in sharing the mode of customer service that made Nordstrom such a class act. 

And so is she, my galpal Gail, an adroit composite of a kind, an American, a gal that inspires one to aspire...we can agree to disagree, we can have opinions so diverse and perceptions so staked within dissimilar experiences....yet our travels and deep desire to keep it decent make the company just lovely.

She's traveled the globe on behalf of Nordstrom, working with men that weren't accustomed to working with sr exec femmes, she's played out her competent nature beyond belief and yet still finds the time to commit to the non profit way, a philanthropic soul making sure she helps women less lucky than she, and to top it all off, she talks of her guy with devotion and good humour...he's a good egg, the last time he was here, he passed the test of great guest. D'accord.

I shared mon ami's mission for 'customer service' in the land of 'bitchiness' avec mio marito and he laughed...'Bon Chance!'  Of course, as he's taking his motorcycle from Malta to me, via 26hr baot trip to Genoa, I say to mio marito "Bon Chance!" 

In a way, I'm somewhat ambivalent.  I'm supportive of her endeavors but I quite like being left alone while I shop, which I rarely do, as the desire to acquire diminishes with contentment.  Not to mention the value of a greenback, certo.  But the concept means oh so much more, doesn't it.

Alas, if anyone can spread the philosophy of Nordstrom, it would be Gail......and it made me reminisce about the moment we Seattleites all dressed up in Nordstrom apparel, several decades ago, some friends grateful to wear and take back the next day.  I never did, but boy, did they.

I can recall the second Seattle shifted from Frederick and Nelson to Nordstrom, so obvious and immediate.  I was 15 years old, younger, maybe.  Improvisemente!  And then Nordstrom moved merrily along to conquer the rest of the world...but Seattle, creating some 40% of America's exports, conveying the entrepreneurial spirit more than most cities, for we never had powerful families in possession of overwhelming personalities, sososo quiet and understated, the moss grew under our feet; Volvo's and flannel forever.......you'd barely know it was there, so far away from the rest of the world.

Gail, ex Nordy doyenne, one of my uber-idols, sans mari, regals the ladies at the luncheon with tales of being just 22, a kid from a small town, staying at the Ritz, a representative of the service oriented department store, terrified, but not for long, as she would become their first female Prez.

Snap.

Indeed.

And hey, the other ladies at the luncheon were swell as well, one beautiful guest, an 89 year old french women named Louisette,  shared her first missions on behalf of the UN in '46 and another guest, the daughter of Louisette, my dearest galpal in Paris, a do gooder that travels the globe in a much different, less corporate fashion than Gail, as diversity is key, for me, it's all such a gas, this soiree and esprit, enjoyed by all.  I'm a lucky kid and I know it.

Luckier than most, with perception in play.  Per sempio. I met Gail while volunteering for New Beginnings, the shelter and program to eliminate Domestic Violence, and though I've long stepped down from the board and crossed the pond, Gail continues to persuade the power brokers of Seattle to fork over the dough for a most serious disease that will never invade mainstream topic.  Such is the state of our humanity. 

But let's dream backwards to my beautiful drummer boy, as all roads lead to Sig. Michael Shrieves, at least for one more day until mio marito arrives to distract me his way.  While imbibing espresso at chez Bay one morn I share my recent obsession for M. Shrieves, at least for when he was 19, at Woodstock, and Gail airily replies, "Oh I know him he lives in Seattle, or did."  BOH! 

And so it goes, the luncheons, the window shopping, the conversations down memory lane, about Seattle personalities I hadn't thought about for a decade.  Timely, as Seattle biz trip is imminent, I'm already planting the seeds for mayhem and mischief in the Emerald City, but that is for a future post.

Back to present, circa Gail's last night, I'd completely forgotten about Summer Solstice in Paris!  Such is my obsession! for note bene, the world will almost always conspire to one's fantasy by way of key cliche 'be careful what you wish for'....

BRING OUT THE EARPLUGS for the longest day in Paris happens to be the most surreal, not to mention the noisiest on the planet. 

It's a peculiarly wonderful/horrible experience for all.  Every three feet, along Boulevard St. Germain, Gail and I navigate our way back from the last supper at Balzar Brasserie.  We giggle and guffaw as we listen and sidestep the annual, albeit bizarre event, tripping along several drummers, all Michael Shrieves wannabes, surrounded by bad bassists, and singers belting out classics or worse yet, homegrown tunes. 

Each and every block is covered, from early evening to morn following, petite bands screaming and screeching their musical aspirations throughout several arrondissements...this city gets very silly, sillier than most during the silly season.

And now Euro soccer 2008 makes every night a footballer's dream...

So gratefully, I shall soon state to the city of Seattle, can't wait....

"I'm baaaaack"

 

 

La Misanthrope or How I Was Deflowered by Moliere

Not quite sure, but think somewhere in the middle of Act III, amongst the tease and menace of Marquis Clitandre and Acaste, I was deflowered, by Moliere, at Comedie Francaise, La Maison de Moliere.

So....No longer a virgin of French theatre, my carnal knowledge suggests Jean-Baptist Poquelin's prolific ghost is alive, breathing dialogue and life into our modern, world weary souls..

Such theatrical affectations!

Such effeminate gestures!

Then the women...

so delightfully devious, emotions so raw, gawd, even the French audience felt some form of exhaustion towards Act V.

Chatty, catty French at full throttle, sexual innuendo a thing of the past, men violently kissing men, mademoiselles making far more provocative gestures onto one another, once, twice, thrice.

I was enthralled, overwhelmed.  I knew the play so well the language proved no barrier, I GOT IT ALL and then some, mon dieu!!!.

I am Alceste in esprit though I fell in love w/Philinte and his cane..only a French actor could do what he did with that prop, their fingers so long and elegant, completely in control.

Their language, so uniquely lovely, like the Italians, but they do drama more to my taste. Yes, they borrowed from comedia, much they have borrowed from the Italians, but they take themselves so much more seriously!

When the marquis suddenly appeared, elegant, grand wigs full of meters of curl, one so blonde and the other so silky grey, faces painted oh so white with moles here and there and everywhere, you could feel the French audience sit up, anticipate that which they do better than anyone. 

The back lighting was so sinister, gorgeous, the actors playing with the audience as much as one another.  The tears!  They flowed, so much bitterness, bitchiness, and this between men.  The women, so cruel and competitive, the men, vulnerable to their every whim, but thankfully enough, the kind Eliante and Philinte, the underdogs, ended up happily ever after.  But until then..

Mockery as a societal construct. 

Deceit as necessary as tact and discretion. 

 

The French take this argument to another level, but Molier's misanthrope focuses on morality (honesty) vs rationale. 

Even the audience had its own drama.  I was in the orchestra section and to my right a group of Algerians, maybe 9, was reacting to the drama in a fashion that was not pleasing to the white French men seated to my right, left and in front and behind.  Several times they shushed them or waved their white programs, demanding they assimilate and digest and regurgitate the drama as was custom.  One does not react emotionally to, nor vocally, for this sort of scene requires one watch and wait until the truly witty aside comes along, and then, and only then, can they react. 

Of course, one must stay silent but they can react physically, as long as they have their own box, apparently.

One box contained a family, husband and wife, two small children and another woman.  The two kids, placed up front were practically dripping over the 400 yr old balconies for much of the performance.

The one woman stood up whenever the drama heated up, which was often.. even the barely beyond toddler sprang out of his seat as Alceste threw himself across the stage for the umpteenth time.  These people learn young, it is in the blood.  The drama of l'affaire..

The mis en scene was simple, French and elegant eggshell, what else.  The idea was to convey the idea of a drawing room without any furniture.  The only props were one cane, two ottomans and three letters.  There was never one misstep, one moment of awkwardness, just a great deal of dramatic, neurotic, chatty conversation.

Sigh.

Hey, what say, I'm going back tomorrow!!!

Spring has Sprung at Chez Bay

Cousin Marie just flew in from San Fran.  Post Spain excursion, prior to attending classed at Oxford, she skids into Chez Bay.   

Also, occupying two other seats, we have Sir Hillary Fusspot to my right, then Marie's husband, Leonard, to my left, another Capital C type Conservative via William F. Buckley, quintessential, slightly strident, almost kind in retrospect to today's neocon.

Two men, so complacent, comfortable. Hillary with his Harvard, then his father's Harvard  to re enforce his own.  But some gentle Okie southern root, via boarding school to soothe Hillary's conservative corners, then moi, your resident pragmatic hedonistic anarchist seated directly across from uber idol Marie.

Had more blanc de blancs Ruinart, no small feat to locate on a Monday morn in the city of light...

Cousin Marie is most unique.  She was appointed by Reagan, bypassing all reality, the 'TYPE AND TEACH' reality, the only one reality available for females circa 1952 San Fran.  I have Muv, Marie, Betty, Mama.  i have no excuse.

Back then, San Fran, a city still loving of deep formality, more than the most cities in the States, mid or other...always fresh food, long before others, fantastic cuisine that my city, her little sister, Seattle, benefited gratefully from..........

San Fran, a unique city with neighborhoods as deep and authentic as any found in New York, informing my muv and cuz marie...My grandfather Walter designed parts of Presidio...so nice to sit at my table, with hand painted tablecloth, designed for Muv, a product of said grandfather, lover of all little yellow birds.....the gal that painted the piece of linen, and she got color, hence a most specific treasure inspired by muv...

Marie got it, early on. Marie became the first female Superior court judge in her very large part of the world, Alameda specifically, in spite of it all.

Marie and I sit across from another, ignoring, or trying, but respectful of Capital C types, as we are part of the past, of an America that could argue towards the middle.  We were just happy to be together, talk about Muv and her sister's health aside, we're in Paris, in spite of it all.  Nothing else matters, today.  Manners.

An hour later, after Sir Hillary Fusspot and Capital C have departed, long after Marie has left the building, Godot and I sit and think about our uber idol.  Someone relayed their take on the competent quadrant notion to me on my last trip to London;  2% of all people do stuff.  8 % try and screw those that are doing the stuff (litigious disease,in part), and 90% do nothing at all.

Marie gets it, I think I do, sadly enough....

Godot, my little one, agrees........

Table, B, C n G await for NY crew to drop by Chez Bay on Wednesday......

 

Prior to the  arrival of imminent and impressive guests , I tap into my creative skills to enable the table to impress as well.  I know the conversation may be in danger of too much French for my beginner status, so possibly I am partially intent upon creating enough diversion to compensate for barely conversational French speaking skill along with the fact one of the very reasons I throw a dinner gig is to set a table well.  It allows a creative process to complete itself, something my novel writing rarely provides.  I can start a creative process, prepare a lovely meal, set a gorgeous table, enjoy old and new friends and as the last dish is placed back in the cabinet I have brought the entire process full circle. 

Next.

But prior to absorbing my own sense of accomplishment I have to begin the process.

Many years ago, a friend, a rather talented artist painted a piece of linen for my mother, who happens to be an avid bird watcher and Audubon society enthusiast.  As a kind gesture, Muv sent it to me last year as we both agreed it should live in Paris rather Seattle.  She's beyond her dinner party days and I am not.  So the daughter takes the torch, proudly and brings out the matching napkins, each with their own colored bird amidst green branch.  I find some live flowers to compete with the table, some candles to create more aesthetically pleasing chaos and voila, dinner at Chez Bay is about to commence.                                                                                                                                                                                                               

But before the conversation can start, the menu must be reviewed and the wine determined.  I know I want to stay with white as red is too difficult for my tablecloth.  White linen is always easy and can come clean, but not with this mini-masterpiece.  It's best to avoid or anticipate the first inevitable spillage. 

I'm serving my staple, eggplant bundles, a lovely concoction of eggplant, tomato, Parmesan, mozzarella, parsley, basil, garlic and have decided on tuna steaks for the second course so a bottle of Chateau Simone 2003 will see us through my gorgeous pastry presentation avec elegant and edible long chives tied adroitly into a lovely little bow. 

At 8:30 the guests arrive, the Ruinart Champagne creates the mood, the candles almost everywhere and trio of orchards here and there assist our environs and the emotional climes just begin to move as they will.  I love to entertain.  I love to spread good karma, avoid the tedious particulars of our lives as my husband is down south with his parents near Nice, far enough away for me to enjoy the collision of diverse personality and let it happen as it will. 

The dinner is intimate.  Linda, la countess, or rather fellow Seattlelite that happened to marry into a prominent french family knows just about everyone and gives me the gift and shares her little black book every now and then.  Actually, I prefer, and request it only now and then, it makes it more meaningful and fulfilling.

Two of the guests, Catherine and Florence are particularly interesting.   Catherine, from a family that owns a bank in Switzerland, had a salon in Paris for years and continues to share her diverse passions with many and Florence owns many Flemish paintings and not just a few Brueghel's.  her passion is more concise but similarly interesting.  Florence is less than comfortable speaking English so French is the main mode of communication, therefore I must practice the art of listening and engage when I can.  Always a good exercise, even in one's mother tongue, n'est pas? 

    

The dinner goes well, politics, art and all the usual suspects are covered.Marie Antoinette is prominent, American policy, fortunately enough, less so.

The bottles of Rully keep steady even as Bernard deviates and gives more than just a little respect to my bottle of Chivas at the bar.  We finally wrap up and decide it's time to call it a day as it is has become another well past midnite.

I'm just grateful to imbibe.   One may perceive such flights of fancy as too indulgent in these dark times.  But hey, what say, what's wrong with a bit of hedonistic pleasure.  Rien.  For this is highbrow at its best.   

And, it all goes by, like life, in a flash from a digital....   

Who's next....                           

From Modern American Priest to 19th century Frenchman

Of course, one of the benefits of being a Europhile and living in La Ville Lumiere is that Monday lunch may find me in the company of a modern day Priest on sabbatical from Chicago, just having spent 8 months at the Vatican hanging out with the new Pope and just two days later the same time of day will be spent with a 19th century Frenchman eating lunch while being served by a maid in black dress and white apron, surrounded by items that illustrate why my host is being actively and aggressively courted by both the Louvre and Musee D’Orsay.

Monday morning I received a call from the priest as I suggested during our trip to the Louvre that when Dr. Goldschmidt, or rather to whom I always refer to as Pablo the Provocateur allowed him a reprieve I would luv to have him over for lunch. Pablo the provocateur did and so I received a spontaneous call that morning.

I suggested 1pm as I knew most of the stores would be closed so, invariably a quick taxi trip to the luxurious shopping experience that is the Grand Epicerie behind Bon Marche would be on the agenda. If anything, Paris provides the best ingredients and this store is case in point, all distinctly French, certo.

As I said, one of the peculiar perks of being a Europhile is that I can fully embrace, unlike most other cities and social circles a most unique collision course of diverse personalities and extraordinary invitations. The conversation with James was lively, dynamic and combative, in stark contrast to the lunch with Monsieur D., as his company dictated the behavior stay as subtle as the slate blue fabric lined walls and muted tones that surrounded the Museum quality art, not to mention a comprehensive collection of Jade from Asia. Sculptures and installations from Egypt and such were positioned here and there for our pleasure, well preserved as some were over 2000 years old.

Whereas James and I could discuss or debate how much of the bible is fiction and I could be educated on the bold and sometimes brutal politics behind the Archdiocese in Chicago, as well as the rich texture and meaning behind being pastor at a black parish, Monsieur D. quietly discussed which pieces would be loaned for this exhibit on whichever continent, would softly inquire whether I preferred Handle or Mozart for background music over espresso after lunch and then take me for a stroll around the gardens of his penthouse. This was a relaxing waltz as it allowed the eye to slowly and meditatively take in a full view of the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coure and just about everything else.

Both lunch dates were as luxurious as any dinner, the first lasted for hours and could not have been more fun and engaging whereas the second, formal and proper was not to exceed exactly two hours within the mannered environs of Neuilly.

E told me Monsieur D. would be a memorable event, and it was. The art was frameless and beyond all expectation, as there is no sensation like sitting comfortably ensconced in their presence while drinking a soft white port. I have seen private collections of one or two masters in personal setting but never quite like Monsieur D.’s home. Sometimes I go through the machinations of pretending to find the modern art collection of a friend or acquaintance more interesting than it actually is, if only to express response which is what the large pieces demand. Nothing needed to be said about Monsieur D’s collection. It was what it was. And how it was presented was as deeply thoughtful as the some of the pieces that lived there.

He is an architect, engineer and artist and I don’t think I have never before sat in a home with such perfect taste. As a guest I felt transported back into the 19th century, into another world, albeit one full of modern, adroitly situated buttons and volume controls, the most difficult one to notice was the gadget that quietly lives beneath his left foot at the dining room table. So that is how the maid knew just exactly when to bring on the next course!

The phrase understated elegance defines this home. Nothing neither too overwhelming nor too taxing, everything so tranquil with each item perfectly and lovingly placed in a sea of beige, slate blue and grey green. Every wall lives comfortably, differently to the next, dark grey mirrors move onto soft stone, sitting behind several long, low couches in soft velour, their colors changing from blue to green slowly, matching some of the walls that do the same, that hang another little treasure, unframed, beautiful lit; Frank Lloyd Wright meets perfection.

It was designed by a gentleman with perfect taste, period, the end. Many of the walls could slide and provide another view of the rich woods of Bois de Boulogne or maybe another wall could be manipulated to simply provide the eye with more priceless art. The host was so subtle the afternoon felt lived within a dream like state.

It’s simply a gift to be able to shift from James the Priest, a lovely, authentic being, truly intent on enriching this world as best he can in one fashion while on the other hand, Monsieur D. proper and dignified, lives to enhance the world with sensual pleasure and magnificent social etiquette. Both men, mannered, kind, one leans towards the spiritual, the other, materialistic, but both exist to fulfill their own missions. I think they collide in attitude for they both enjoy company and the effect of their efforts.

I’m simply grateful to move from one approach to the other. And, I’m also quite relieved my personalized stationary was ready at Cassegrain. When E. brought another guest long ago she sent a postcard thanking him for the opportunity to see his collection…on a postcard! with his address! mon dieux…I won’t be so gauche…although I wouldn’t mind another invite and wouldn’t be surprised if I get one as I did get a nod of approval, in the quietest fashion, to be sure…but quite honestly, one visit is quite enough as the mind lingers for a long time after visiting Monsieur D’s home……after all, Paris simply has so many more surprises and being the Europhile that I am, I am just as open to the next surprise that lives around the next corner in La Ville Lumiere…