tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72651317224427202182024-03-20T02:31:55.519-07:00The Sloth in Gay Paree!For any fans wanting to maintain contact with the Sloth's latest antics in France why not follow the diaries. They are in part a mini travelogue or travel guide with lots of useful information. Enjoy!Kiss My Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03008612333539756698noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7265131722442720218.post-55012202111175975582011-07-28T04:15:00.000-07:002011-11-27T14:15:38.256-08:00Nous sommes en Paris encore!!<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsrNJzW_R86i9hPMU8l0KQc2ZgDfjTW2C1rWdzo7EQYW0cVgoZpsZEvMQTiv8vSG52HwXujx2YSUa0cTDmg2gXS1L0gHUjXPsYCrihyphenhyphenWPeweWORxS7Xzx33z-z-kvqexdcmShpm-TJfuA/s1600/Montmarte2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634363529771529394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsrNJzW_R86i9hPMU8l0KQc2ZgDfjTW2C1rWdzo7EQYW0cVgoZpsZEvMQTiv8vSG52HwXujx2YSUa0cTDmg2gXS1L0gHUjXPsYCrihyphenhyphenWPeweWORxS7Xzx33z-z-kvqexdcmShpm-TJfuA/s1600/Montmarte2.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: large;">Thursday<br />
<br />
Well here we are again! Back in gay Paree. The bustle of Charles de Gaulle airport and the crowded Metro a distant memory. The rue Linois hasn't changed much in the year we've been away. Claude the dog is pleased to see us </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: large;">and bounds around us joyfully tryin</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: large;">g desperately to remember who we are. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">It's 7.30pm and the heat is still rising up from the streets. Tourists throng the tree lined boulevards listlessly or sit packed close together on the pavement cafe on the corner of rue Emile Zola.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
Here in the apartment the Sloth is slumps on a leather armchair with his bare feet up on the glass coffee table. Claude is thrusting his cold nose into the Sloth's hand which is his way of telling him that it's time for walkies.Sloth gets up reluctantly. He stretches and yawns hugely then takes the lead down from the ho</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">ok and dan</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">gles it in front of Claude's nose. The dog immediately leaps into the air then abruptly sits down obediently waiting for his lead to be attached then off they go. The apartment is quiet once m</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEG_L3-RG_3vvor4uovSUFMC0-CEhxvAdj9xG8UYdCDNT3G3m9qv-gPskQGcJ8OcLF9u17UgdyuzRKRpAIMERsRtJXrFWJzuYULzpbJFp8_Y8SxKXZ8_FyNNzzi2NF9tu-udT8nt7yqHE/s1600/Beau%2521.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634381087309996482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEG_L3-RG_3vvor4uovSUFMC0-CEhxvAdj9xG8UYdCDNT3G3m9qv-gPskQGcJ8OcLF9u17UgdyuzRKRpAIMERsRtJXrFWJzuYULzpbJFp8_Y8SxKXZ8_FyNNzzi2NF9tu-udT8nt7yqHE/s320/Beau%2521.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 294px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 220px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">ore and I go out on the balcony to sniff the Parisian evening air.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Friday</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
Cloudy and cool today. The Parisians have deserted in droves to the beaches of Brittany and the Cote d'Azur leaving the tourists to drift in a daze along the pavements with their noses buried in maps and travel guides . The queues at the Louvre and the Musee d'Orsay are as long as ever though. Claude is recovering from his morning walk and is spreadeagled on the rug under the dining room table. We decide to get out the trolley bag (Yes! I know! They're not just for old ladies you know!! It's a very Parisian thing!) and nip next door to the large Monoprix hypermarket for some provisions. It's on the Beau Grenelle in the 15th</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> arrondissement and is br</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">illiant for those of us who love the whole shopping experience.<br />
I always get distracted by the pretty flower stall situated at the entrance but the Sloth bounds up the steps completely ignores the tantalising scents wafting from the Boulangere and the </span><i><b>pâtisserie</b></i></span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> and heads purposefully for the Wines and Spirits section at the back of the store. Steeling myself to pass the dazzling array of cakes and pastries nestling on their shelves, glistening with honey glazes and oozing with cream I start piling my trolley with goodies. Creamy Brie, ripe Camembert, Roquefort, St Agur. Mmm! Yummy. The superior shopper of course takes the escalator to the upper floors to browse among the clothes, shoes and bags. Scented clouds of Dior and Chanel float over those unsuspecting shoppers searching in the book</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">s and CD section for that special souvenir d</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj819TfJoes-ouD9UvoEZEAKn-6Ng3lgUuSsk738yA8AYs2lmVmQPPSGrwWvptg6rONZMEDv0XO3cztg__mJVVGX7SKNtmUf-HIH_17U9Tp6FQHUt2fPXmmAgPeHkO-csoVtbuUGT431g/s1600/800-monoprix-beaugrenelle-1232735575.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="266" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634742901962440418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj819TfJoes-ouD9UvoEZEAKn-6Ng3lgUuSsk738yA8AYs2lmVmQPPSGrwWvptg6rONZMEDv0XO3cztg__mJVVGX7SKNtmUf-HIH_17U9Tp6FQHUt2fPXmmAgPeHkO-csoVtbuUGT431g/s400/800-monoprix-beaugrenelle-1232735575.jpg" style="float: left; height: 213px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" width="400" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">e Paris. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Yes, this Monoprix is a shopaholic's wet dream!!!!<br />
<br />
I finally succumb to shopper's fatigue and go looking for the Sloth. Why am I not surprised to see him lounging nonchalantly against a case of wine engaged in an intimate conversation with a tall elegant French woman? There's a lot of flirty gesticulating on both sides. As I get closer I cock an ear and catch him giving her the benefit of his Viticultural expertise. This from a man who doctors his Beaujolais with orange juice!!! When he see me he gives me one his fatuous grins and introduces me to the formidable jolie madame. She gazed down curiously at me in a rather distan manner, like a Giraffe looking at a Gerbil and wondering what it was for. 'Bonjour Madame', I said politely. 'Bonjour' she replied in a husky voice Then tu</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS8bBjXa-ipR2CjTNcj_7m-05qa7n0WcqKaLB3rjOKcijIFVlTLZ0e2235tMs1bom4RFAA-0d6oTpOTL4aS9798rJvElaXYzRNhFeDlKbMCKI6pScF-H7cKypPVaiOfApwNsuS9TLn_0/s1600/flight+of+fancy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634769121666452898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS8bBjXa-ipR2CjTNcj_7m-05qa7n0WcqKaLB3rjOKcijIFVlTLZ0e2235tMs1bom4RFAA-0d6oTpOTL4aS9798rJvElaXYzRNhFeDlKbMCKI6pScF-H7cKypPVaiOfApwNsuS9TLn_0/s400/flight+of+fancy.jpg" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" width="400" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">rned to the Sloth and gabbled something in french and glided away down the ailse leaving a distinctive trail of Miss Dior in her wake. The Sloth busied himself making a space for three cases of wine his head down in the trolley. A well developed strategy that he uses in case of having to avoid flying missiles. I stare him down never-the-less. 'What!' he said raising his head.<br />
'So who was that then?'<br />
'Oh, just some woman asking my opinion about the wine'.<br />
'And your'e such an expert of course. I wonder what she'd think if she knew you put orange juice in your red wine and water in the white!.'<br />
'Every chef has his own recipe ma belle! Besides I felt it was my duty as a fellow feminist to give the lady the benefit of my experience with wine.' he said loftily<br />
'Well you're right there! After all, you must have drunk enough to fill a reservoir!'With that aside we trundled the trolley to the checkout.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Saturday</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_ot5ga5hFXReMum89KZsBMaqxYQFnNgH1ZA0q9Km8T1i4jvyfWs2Izbe7TIsoYH8FXwySYxEbMywihLmg4qNck_osDpQrQk7t4nJnUbSfsJH3EBEWBLCcXNg79kbzYTOjMEjA3_TN04/s1600/the+statue+of+liberty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_ot5ga5hFXReMum89KZsBMaqxYQFnNgH1ZA0q9Km8T1i4jvyfWs2Izbe7TIsoYH8FXwySYxEbMywihLmg4qNck_osDpQrQk7t4nJnUbSfsJH3EBEWBLCcXNg79kbzYTOjMEjA3_TN04/s640/the+statue+of+liberty.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I had no idea that the 15th, (where we are currently staying) is the largest arrondissement of central Paris, it remains heavily residential and up-market and there's not a great deal of obvious attractions for the traveller here. However, take the metro to Charles Michel and then stroll up the rue Linois , past the mighty Monoprix. and over the zebra crossing you'll find yourself on the bridge of the Pont Grenelle. Looking over the bridge you get a great view of the Tour Eiffel and if you cross over the road you can walk down the Ile des Cygnes (Isle of Swans) and see the Statue of Liberty. There she is, standing proudly on her little island all alone. The Ile des Cygnes is a favourite walk of Claude the dog.</span><span class="fbPhotoCaptionText" style="font-size: large;"> Lots of great smells down there and plenty of opportunities to meet attractive lady dogs. This statue is a miniature of her bigger sister in New York . In fact, it faces the same direction of her bigger sister <br />
(West). The Sloth took this photo from the quay of the Pont Grenelle roughly about 500 meteres from the apartment where we're staying on one of his dog walks. The best shots can be taken from the Bateaux Mouches going in the direction of La Tour Eiffel!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is a real Parisian district with a vibrant and lively atmosphere.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPd5hqWfpFgOEZVVNSijx-Z259Asc5sUMtrVKcHsDr6vLtQ6-jw7F6wKzo9c4C1sHJVZve5p8CTrlRHuNi7Fi2XRT8AqQD0711tBOFeba9Q38GVcoig7CXFXTGfNkXjkh1tImXEbyqVsA/s1600/rue+Linois.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPd5hqWfpFgOEZVVNSijx-Z259Asc5sUMtrVKcHsDr6vLtQ6-jw7F6wKzo9c4C1sHJVZve5p8CTrlRHuNi7Fi2XRT8AqQD0711tBOFeba9Q38GVcoig7CXFXTGfNkXjkh1tImXEbyqVsA/s640/rue+Linois.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's been very warm and humid today. Except for walking Claude we h mooch around the apartment reading, writing and generally chilling. This morning when I opene the volets and stepp out onto the balcony there is a flurry of activity in the street down below. A large white van is parked up on the pavement with its back doors open and two burly men are carrying large heavy boxes into the entrance. Looks like we're to have new neighbours. Then there is a lot of bumping and banging coming from above. Suddenly the whole apartment errupts to the sounds of Bon Jovi. Claude jumps down from his chair and starts barking up at the ceiling showing his disaproval. The whole apartment was vibrating to the cacophony coming from above. Triumphalist whooping, clapping and stamping can be heard. Logement is a big problem here in Paris. Rents are astronomical and some apartments are of desperately poor quality. There is a very real need here in the city for affordable apartments of a good standard but I don't think President Sarkozy sees this problem as of pressing importance! Perhaps our new neighbour is celebrating her good fortune to acquire a decent apartment. We stare at each other hoping if it isn't going to be like this for the duration of our stay. We decide to take a delighted Claude for a walk.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PoXfOvu_-p_4vbf_03j2gY4PSL-8S4Y5MHmmCs_qmB6d_oNqV4vNSCtf-gEY-R68tOHXTiNH2RFJzBEwRG4l5F4SZf3uAc4ftIPvBUzfhIHkeYNMtcK8k0AcVaWkFyDSBrURomrcAUY/s1600/waiting+beau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PoXfOvu_-p_4vbf_03j2gY4PSL-8S4Y5MHmmCs_qmB6d_oNqV4vNSCtf-gEY-R68tOHXTiNH2RFJzBEwRG4l5F4SZf3uAc4ftIPvBUzfhIHkeYNMtcK8k0AcVaWkFyDSBrURomrcAUY/s400/waiting+beau.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=7265131722442720218&postID=5501220211117597558" name="Get_in"></a></span><br />
<h2><span class="editsection" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></h2><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> <br />
<br />
<br />
SUNDAY</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">The sound of rushing water sucked me out of a detailed and confusing dream. I got out of bed and walked through the salon and opened the Volets. I stepped onto the balcony and leant on the rail. Down in the street below there was a hive of actvity. The street cleaners were out in force. Streams of water dashed down the gutters carrying away all the detritus of the night befoe. The electric street sweeper trundled along the deserted pavement sucking up the debris from MacDos (MacDonalds) across the road. Under the plane trees the sweepers plied their brooms and swept and scrubbed the cobble stones until they gleamed.. This cleansing ritual is applied daily. Paris must be one of the cleanest cities in the world. Later on I took Claude for his morning walk. The thing about dogs is that they are not as independant as cats. They don't usually use cat flaps, although the very small dogs can and do squeeze through those narrow apertures. We ambled along the rue Emile Zola (my favourite french author) nodding 'Bonjour' to the cleaners and the little groups of homeless people that sleep rough in the doorways of the expensive restaurants and chic boutiques. .Some of them gave Claude a friendly pat as we passed. There is a dark underbelly to La belle Paris. Tourists seduced by the romantic ideals of art and culture want to live the dream so they prefer to close their eyes to these social imperfections and fix their gaze firmly on La Tour Eiffel!</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLOsY8Kk7CW3i8oX2GGkPIpToNIWOQftY87Lq12N8PPe67Zs8SCo_kMuyxV3U-wmLnsE78l75xG-xJtfvorr8oauIUlyZ1s8_qHDwnjUqRyItSQwJ6yrVrdt8pprh_Vnvp_y__4qBgzSM/s1600/tour+eiffel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLOsY8Kk7CW3i8oX2GGkPIpToNIWOQftY87Lq12N8PPe67Zs8SCo_kMuyxV3U-wmLnsE78l75xG-xJtfvorr8oauIUlyZ1s8_qHDwnjUqRyItSQwJ6yrVrdt8pprh_Vnvp_y__4qBgzSM/s640/tour+eiffel2.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<h2><span style="font-size: large;">Albert Kahn Musée et Jardin in the Garden of Earthly Delights</span></h2><span class="author" style="font-size: large;">By <a href="http://www.bonjourparis.com/user/13635/">Rusty Woodward Gladdish</a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> <img alt="" height="300" src="http://www.bonjourparis.com/static/img/woodward-gladdish/atrium_small.jpg" style="float: left; margin-left: 6px; margin-right: 6px;" width="400" />Amongst all the wonderful parks to be found in Paris there is a little-known gem waiting for the discerning traveller at the end of the Boulogne-Billancourt métro. Beloved of gardeners and of those seeking a spiritual oasis, these delightful gardens and photography museum provide a gentle respite from the buzz and dynamism of central Paris.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The gardens and museum were originally created by Albert Kahn, a banker, philanthropist and inveterate world traveller. He believed that having an understanding and respect for other cultures could lead to peaceful co-existence throughout the world. He established his unique gardens in 1898 and continued to develop and design them, pouring the proceeds of his successful ventures into his project until he fell victim to the Wall Street crash during the Great Depression in 1929 and lost everything. The gardens were then taken over by the Prefecture of the Seine but Albert Kahn continued to live in the house and enjoy his gardens until 1940, when he died during the German occupation of France.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">During our three-month stay here in Paris we visited this beautiful garden and photography museum several times during the sultry summer months when the pavements of Paris sizzled like steak in a grill pan. We had seen the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcfour/documentaries/features/albert-kahn.shtml">BBC documentary <i>The Wonderful World of Albert Kahn</i></a> and felt that this would be the optimum moment to see it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" height="480" src="http://www.bonjourparis.com/static/img/woodward-gladdish/japanese_gardens_small.jpg" style="float: left; margin-left: 6px; margin-right: 6px;" width="640" />It is a perfect symbol of peace and harmony. In the Japanese garden, on hot summer days the sun filters through the fan-shaped leaves of the ginkgo-biloba trees that form a canopy over the sun-dappled paths and offer much-needed shade to the people strolling in the park. We often sat under the giant Linden trees chatting and snacking or merely watching the passersby. There were stressed-out office workers taking their lunch breaks and mothers pushing toddlers in their prams. The elderly sat gazing up at the birds flitting in and out of the branches above, silently leafing through their book of memories. It’s a wonderful place for reflection and meditation. Gold, orange and black-speckled koi carp performed a synchronised swim through the waters of the ornamental lake. They flashed under the brightly painted red bridges (echoes of Monet’s gardens in Giverny) and rushed to the edge of the lake, eyes rolling and mouths opening and closing hopefully.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The scent of roses perfumed the air and wafted up from the English and French gardens where the gardeners were busy tending the plants and we thought we were in heaven.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">One rainy afternoon in late August we visited the gardens for the last time before we left for our home in the UK. The great trees were shrouded in a grey mist and dripped mournfully onto the roof of the little museum. Once inside, however, our spirits were lifted by the collections of photographs with the theme of life in Brittany at the end of the 19th century arranged on the walls. Antique cameras and filming equipment were displayed in backlit showcases and huge wall-mounted screens showed archive film of life in Morocco, Algiers and rural France. There were interactive booths where one could sit at a computer and be taken on a digital journey depicting the life and achievements of Albert Kahn. We became completely absorbed in this and quite impervious to time. We were only sorry that we had not been able to visit the gardens during the blossom period from April to the end of May to see the azaleas, but the rose gardens are in full bloom from June until September. However, we felt immensely grateful to Albert Kahn for creating such a tranquil yet intriguing haven.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<h3><span style="font-size: large;">PRACTICAL INFORMATION</span></h3><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.albert-kahn.fr/english/">Albert-Kahn, museum and gardens</a></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tél: 01 55 19 28 00</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">10-14, <i>rue du Port, 92100 Boulogne-Billancourt</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Métro: 10, Boulogne – Pont de Saint-Cloud</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Bus: 52, 72, 126, 160, 175, 460, 467 (Rhin et Danube stop)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tram: Line T2, alight at Parc de Saint-Cloud stop.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Entry (2011) 3€ Adults; children free. Free for all visitors on the first Sunday of every month.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6rxZU6QSmHwZZ3UdI3wFQhbsL4WMM4PZyezh1dDvRmt8GAi4MaSm9UEUsyfc-TzOk9M6QYzYE2mqnJ8zH3iSnPgPw_mikQr1HL1DZtA8HJB-tR0Uv5N0_Th-rRa8SKgU9kb1vBfLwdk/s1600/The+metro+at+St+Cluny+La+Sorbonne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6rxZU6QSmHwZZ3UdI3wFQhbsL4WMM4PZyezh1dDvRmt8GAi4MaSm9UEUsyfc-TzOk9M6QYzYE2mqnJ8zH3iSnPgPw_mikQr1HL1DZtA8HJB-tR0Uv5N0_Th-rRa8SKgU9kb1vBfLwdk/s640/The+metro+at+St+Cluny+La+Sorbonne.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> There is a fresh cool breeze wafting down the rue Linois tonight blowing sprays of rain against the lighted shop windows. The streets are running with water and gold and red reflections shimmer in the puddles. The plane trees lining the verges are already turning russet and there's a slight melancholy air haunting the empty cafes.The beam from La Tour Eiffel strobes the balcony and invokes the feeling that I'm on the prow of a ship ploughing through the waves.Bedraggled tourists scurry back through the drizzle to their hotels and tiny studios. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Sloth and Claude] the dog returned from their walk by the Seine dripping wet. The smell of wet dog is in a class of it's own! After towelling them both dry I make Choclat chaud for the Sloth who sips it gratefully. Claude lays down beside his 'Master' and rests his nose on his paws. Sloth is in reflective mood and sits chin on hand that mirrors the pose of Rodin's 'The Thinker.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'You're looking very serious' </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Yes, sometimes life is a serious business.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Did something happen on your walk?'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Not to me personally, no but....' he trailed off.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'When we were here last year I noticed some tents grouped along the banks of the Seine. It was really hot if you remember and we couldn't sleep. Well one afternoon I was walking Claude along the Seine and we almost fell over this chap. He was stark naked and sunbathing outside his rag of a tent. He was filthy, with matted hair and a grey straggly beard. Old Claude was fascinated by him and sniffed him all over. He never moved though and just lay there displaying his charms to the world.No shame whatever. Well this evening I noticed a new and much larger group of tents under the first bridge along the ile de cygnes. They seemed to be mostly Tunisian refugees poor devils. It was pouring with rain too as you know. It made realise how bloody well off we are.' He fell into silent contemplation again.I spoke to him quietly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYsqYmzvuxq451LjPrvfa33wxVopomB3MY2FdfwIje2G1yy0jWAabnpaDRiPyB3rHdModYLP6h0TAHzjpIq6gpYOyRzDfGrtT3f9S8RFqLkZ_Tba6e73xx_Ywf7bP6worANYpiCd3NA1s/s1600/diners+at+the+Lutetia%25212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYsqYmzvuxq451LjPrvfa33wxVopomB3MY2FdfwIje2G1yy0jWAabnpaDRiPyB3rHdModYLP6h0TAHzjpIq6gpYOyRzDfGrtT3f9S8RFqLkZ_Tba6e73xx_Ywf7bP6worANYpiCd3NA1s/s640/diners+at+the+Lutetia%25212.jpg" width="640" /></a>'Yes, you're right. Under the glitter and glamour of the tourist's view of Paris is this dark underbelly that not many visitors see and lets face it, they don't want to see it. They want to 'live the dream' without having to feel guilty about things they believe they can't control.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Well you can't blame them can you. I must say I felt a real sense of powerlessness for a moment. Then I remembered I was coming home to you mon petite choux and things brightened up considerably.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Poor old Sloth, such a simple soul and quite kind really.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>WEDNESDAY</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Today dawned diamond bright and daisy fresh after the cool showery weather. Claude wakes up when the sun shines and becomes extra boisterous. Lethal in a modest two bedroom apartment even if it is in the centre of Paris! After walking his paws off down the Iles des Cygnes we left Claude sleeping off his lunch and took the 42 bus to the Champ de Mars. The sun had brought out the crowds and eager tourists queued patiently to test their nerve and go up to the top of La Tour Eiffel, but not yours truly or the Sloth who suffers from Vertigo. We have decided to mooch about on a Bateau Mouche on the Seine today. So we buy our tickets for 14 euros each! Ouch! We queue for about ten minutes with the sun beating down on our heads and finally board the glass topped boat and very soon we are gliding up the Seine with the breeze ruffling our hair. The Bateau makes several stops so you can hop on and off if you have the energy if not then you can get yourself comfortable and enjoy a leisurely hour taking in the sights of the right and left bank. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrilly life is but a dream!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvlRLIOGBCfeIzZx9ZqqG3TQ9nadY2YJ5sti1t_6J5Z6JeWq92GATiWkkeAe7IgDYKupdl2bRsIybuoJ25NROBdIhmbUzE95IwLYRV4RwQI_4ZbcOMt8HEWcq37pOEMtlD9MNyBze-2U/s1600/pleasureboat2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTvlRLIOGBCfeIzZx9ZqqG3TQ9nadY2YJ5sti1t_6J5Z6JeWq92GATiWkkeAe7IgDYKupdl2bRsIybuoJ25NROBdIhmbUzE95IwLYRV4RwQI_4ZbcOMt8HEWcq37pOEMtlD9MNyBze-2U/s640/pleasureboat2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgATRI0_W8dzL93oTXfUqLPLI5JIrjt287R5zpwSIFt7hTBEE5U75FPmnyiiTU8PsvEJmZJD-Z8ydXtRI9-1fz1ahM8VcKv0Q1LuwsKjzUbx2A65Nmq1JcQpwc62zy-Ah47ACDzAfXf594/s1600/bank+lady2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="443" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgATRI0_W8dzL93oTXfUqLPLI5JIrjt287R5zpwSIFt7hTBEE5U75FPmnyiiTU8PsvEJmZJD-Z8ydXtRI9-1fz1ahM8VcKv0Q1LuwsKjzUbx2A65Nmq1JcQpwc62zy-Ah47ACDzAfXf594/s640/bank+lady2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">One of the loveliest views is that of La Notre Dame Cathedral. A glorious piece of Gothic architecture.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisN39d-uJ6tL8ai4YDNp58LwVYj0XQ3dC8UTTADdKvUjSulC2oE2YsrLb3bVfaxib_gCeDtATPNp5WEGQDCexGSDjQBROAdW_YPwlMnNH0DZ5GLh5xPo6UI-QKEQT3PZUc4zLxm7MSoZ8/s1600/Pilot%2527s+cabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisN39d-uJ6tL8ai4YDNp58LwVYj0XQ3dC8UTTADdKvUjSulC2oE2YsrLb3bVfaxib_gCeDtATPNp5WEGQDCexGSDjQBROAdW_YPwlMnNH0DZ5GLh5xPo6UI-QKEQT3PZUc4zLxm7MSoZ8/s640/Pilot%2527s+cabin.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">The Pilot's Cabin </span><span style="font-size: large;">on the Bateau Mouche</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">FRIDAY</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Paris in August is the time when the tourists have her virtually all to themselves. This year the combination of the financial crises and the unseasonably cool weather has meant more managable queues at the famous sites and instead of being packed in like sardines the </span> </span>Metro is almost a haven of tranquility. I say almost because when we got on at Charles Michel and took our seats the ensuing incident took both of us by surprise.The Sloth was sitting facing me and had his back to a gipsy family who sat on the seats behind. They were dark and raggedy and were holding onto a huge mysterious looking bundle balanced precariously on an old shopping trolley. A little girl of about 7 years old sat quietly next her mother and older brother whilst the father stood leaning against the door. I watched them curiously and noticed the mother incline her head to the little girl and whisper something in her ear. The child then got up obediently and silently moved down the aisle with her little hand outstretched to the impervious passengers who turned their heads away from her and gazed studiously out of the window at the blank walls passing outside. She stopped at one tall, shaggy man and shyly held out her hand. He brushed her hand away roughly and then began to yell abuse at the child who took fright and scuttled back to her mother' side. 'You're nothing but scum' he roared. You should be ashamed of yourself teaching your kids to beg. Get a job like the rest of us. Get back to Romania you vermin!!' The mother, a tiny, scrawny figure , not much bigger than her child leaped up and immediatey began yelling at him in a mixture of Romanian and French. 'You're a disgrace to the human race you are.They must have missed you lot when they put the gippos on the plane back to bloody Romania!!' The gipsy began making cut throat gestures, drawing her finger across her neck.The little girl began to whimper and cowered down in her seat. The father remained aloof, not wanting to draw attention to himself and left his wife to deal with the violent outburst. Luckily, just as it seemed blows would be exchanged the argument was brought to a merciful end when the train stopped and the man got out, shaking his fist at the gipsy family from the platform. The mother rushed to the window to give him the gipy's curse and when she turned from the window she had a grim smile on her dark face. Before they got off at the next stop I pressed a euro into the child's hand and was rewarded with smiles and waves and 'Thank you very much lady!!'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Rightly or wrongly, no one wanted to get involved. It's true the gipsies are a nuisance. They refuse to conform, they are dirty and leave litter and beg rather than try to find work and the children rarely go to school. It was alarming however to see them being abused and treated so badly. That they had little value as human beings and how quickly they had become easy targets for persecution just like the Jews in the Pogroms of the second world war. People turned their heads away then as children (exactly like their own) were loaded onto the cattle trucks. In those dreadful days it was fear that drove people to ignore the plight of their neighbours. How much better it would have been if the enraged man coud have simply placed a coin in the child's hand and shrugged. How much better if he could have remembered his humanity!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UmO1BsolJu8M0OtSYgrJkoeuHH45X1pjROhkqRQIQOjzNRJ1xNfzWRbJ0J145oLLnbc-TXrmqkJMrpzMZPRoU8uPAMgQN4v78eP9ceLapQNi_t-nElCT1hOmrXKu_C65wPGRSh-48Ig/s1600/Splash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UmO1BsolJu8M0OtSYgrJkoeuHH45X1pjROhkqRQIQOjzNRJ1xNfzWRbJ0J145oLLnbc-TXrmqkJMrpzMZPRoU8uPAMgQN4v78eP9ceLapQNi_t-nElCT1hOmrXKu_C65wPGRSh-48Ig/s640/Splash.jpg" width="494" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYy08sPnCNB6oeHJiKPhixZGvpoPjgPngF6-FyKMmXpcJf_HPYtBgmYJ5apgcxUTeOPt1qkgfv7KUzeQcZYpum8sXJgFcEKCIvNydag4knA3GeO4TVJWwDvkZH9dhdrG6QfGYAWKPFnA/s1600/Splash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">It's official! A Canicule (heatwave) has been officially declared. The hot weather has brought out the crowds. The Champs de Mars is littered with oily bodies sunning themselves and enjoying sophisticated picnics.Children are racing in and out of the spumes of water thrown up by the fountain and cavorting about on the grass. In spite of his distinctive coppery colouring The Sloth is a sun worshipper. He is often to be found wandering around bare headed or laid out on a beach somewhere hot under a blistering sun; snapping his fingers to get the attention of the boy who brings the beers round in his little refrigerated bag!! According to La Meteo on TV the Canicule is spreading stealthily over France, moving up from the Cote D'azur until its molten fingers have Paris in its fiery grip! But the Sloth is slumped in the most comfortable armchair in the apartment with his feet firmly planted in a bowl of water and engossed in a Raymond Chandler novel. It's so hot in the apartment today that the pages are sticking together. Claude is slumped on the cool tiles in the bathroom. The volets are closed but the apartment is like a Sauna. Down in the street people wander listlessly along , forgetting what they came out for but the elderly are delighted. Two ladies and a gentleman sit on the bench under the plane trees absorbed in an animated conversation. Last night I slept on the sofa in the salon with the french doors and the Volets wide open just to get some air. The Sloth and Claude the dog share a universal male proclivity! They both snore!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Brocante </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT0J2bBA-1K_KKQ03RgsV2rHQIcpibltPH61rCVgPTVSeSk7OEYVxRkBpMaDvH2x-uH2dvjGjl_iQ1ejlgiCEso_EYaId_lcCeKnibzHDTH5TVehFNFDcAT6b4bLYqIE1m-xdFPXciN2Q/s1600/rue+Linois+Brocante.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT0J2bBA-1K_KKQ03RgsV2rHQIcpibltPH61rCVgPTVSeSk7OEYVxRkBpMaDvH2x-uH2dvjGjl_iQ1ejlgiCEso_EYaId_lcCeKnibzHDTH5TVehFNFDcAT6b4bLYqIE1m-xdFPXciN2Q/s640/rue+Linois+Brocante.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitB4mdralnmoBIEum2ifhzS0R0zVKDOPVanmb_YREK50K8aHYpzWR7ONFiUTTNjPteOkmrqD2YbJMC4sZdyExHbf-OONHU0hjLVpcAhiL-Zx7LFIw6mIw1__QJN8tklqy_NIb6vrlD1Hs/s1600/Stalls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitB4mdralnmoBIEum2ifhzS0R0zVKDOPVanmb_YREK50K8aHYpzWR7ONFiUTTNjPteOkmrqD2YbJMC4sZdyExHbf-OONHU0hjLVpcAhiL-Zx7LFIw6mIw1__QJN8tklqy_NIb6vrlD1Hs/s640/Stalls.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">When I threw back the Volets and stepped out onto the balcony this morning at the ungodly hour of 7am the rue Linois was humming with activity. All along the street a line of covered stalls had mushroomed during the night and now each one was being set out with some very interesting things. Stall holders were unloading their vehicles parked nearby and laying their precious objet d'art carefully on the trestle tables inside their little tents. The sun was shining but the air was cool, fresh and distinctly Autumnal. A little later, after the Sloth had returned from taking Claude for his second morning walk down by the Seine I decided to take turn round the Brocante to see if I could pick up a bargain. The stalls were ideally positioned to capture their audience as they faced a large MacDonald's (MacDo) and a very busy Sushi bar. People were starting to cluster round the stalls, milling about and trying to beat the Brocanteurs down to a special price. I love these fairs because you never know what you might find. You could find an original painting all dirty and neglected in a corner or a reject thrown out by Rodin!!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxJNFwSaeEaIRTorXZX6JBUfk0Cg5gKaP5QdWyK3MT5XTl0rRPWOJpXK_OVleKNo7Oo3VN9yxHCMEtU6kBKQv4XFWIPJRUp73Gc_yumGR1T89XYxDAbLBksDYTyq1zhBU0_qcqOrdCHs/s1600/brocante2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxJNFwSaeEaIRTorXZX6JBUfk0Cg5gKaP5QdWyK3MT5XTl0rRPWOJpXK_OVleKNo7Oo3VN9yxHCMEtU6kBKQv4XFWIPJRUp73Gc_yumGR1T89XYxDAbLBksDYTyq1zhBU0_qcqOrdCHs/s640/brocante2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">A stall covered with brightly coloured paintings caught my eye. They were very pretty in a Gustav Klimt kind of way. The Brocanteur had gone for lunch at the Sushi bar so I looked at the other stalls and was poring over a superb little sculpture of Napoelon in marble and mounted on a wooden plinth about 8ins high when he returned to his stall smiling and bowing and waving a polystyrene box containing meatballs and noodles. We talked for a while in my terrible French. The little paintings were only 22euros each and I wanted to buy two but only had 40euros. I tried to get him to sell me the two for 40 euros but he would have none of it. We negotiated for twenty minutes but he stuck to his guns and finally I reluctantly bought the one for 22euros. Although I was pleased with my purchase I thought he was a bad businessman not to take 40euros for the two. Another example of French perversity!!!!The rest of the day whenever I looked down at his stall he was still sitting there and people were passing him by without even looking at his beautiful paintings. Then , in the late afternoon a heavy rain set in and the rue was a bobbing mass of umbrellas of every colour. When I looked again the light was fading. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The stall holders had zipped up their tents and got into their cars and had gone for supper in the Japanese Sushi bar or over to the Latin Quartier for a plate of spaghetti and a glass of red wine. The painting stall had disappeared completely. I hadn't even seen him packing up. I wonder if he'll be back tomorrow!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJiZT6AgIt8L4pYEzK-TgFqf77_O4zRL74nwrMsnGQX65ukiRbJSBf8uhPLpLYBSgtXHh80EW65QbON4iGjeDmUYAtcq_z-kjQv4nxKHm-O13ipMZy5hk8WFqFQBhMeT9gb42y5jEXo8/s1600/carpet+stall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJiZT6AgIt8L4pYEzK-TgFqf77_O4zRL74nwrMsnGQX65ukiRbJSBf8uhPLpLYBSgtXHh80EW65QbON4iGjeDmUYAtcq_z-kjQv4nxKHm-O13ipMZy5hk8WFqFQBhMeT9gb42y5jEXo8/s640/carpet+stall.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">September</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's been raining all night. Every time I turned over I could hear it pattering on the canopies and balconies of the apartments below. I love the sound of the rain when I'm lying in bed. It's stopped now though and the pavements of the rue Linois are wet and gleaming in the morning sunshine. Piles of bronze and stippled yellow leaves are lying in the gutters. A warm breeze is blowing through the plane trees scattering the autumn leaves and sending them high into the air. They flutter down like so many gilded birds and land on the windscreens of the parked cars. The pretty Japanese waitress who works at the Sushi restaurant and take -away opposite our apartment is putting the red tabes and chairs out on the pavement ready for the lunchtime rush.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJf3NLr7HHOyC_lgAoULdRkb0lPXYwoG0RiJGoIFOJxYMnznc2pQxYBvLCJY1NmpTdDuxNatNMDpsXN3IJCeNhCtf__7Yg8ICYQicOr-db7pgNsPdRy5fHub-WGNnZp54mPf_TdyiZnk8/s1600/autumn+leaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJf3NLr7HHOyC_lgAoULdRkb0lPXYwoG0RiJGoIFOJxYMnznc2pQxYBvLCJY1NmpTdDuxNatNMDpsXN3IJCeNhCtf__7Yg8ICYQicOr-db7pgNsPdRy5fHub-WGNnZp54mPf_TdyiZnk8/s640/autumn+leaves.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> I lean on the balcony and look up the rue towards the Pont Grenelle and in the distance I can see the Sloth ambling along over the bridge with Claude out in front pulling gently on his chain. A sure sign he's hungry and ready for his breakfast.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday, on the way back from the post office, I passed the little carousel on the corner of rue Emile Zola next to the glossy new entrance to MacDonalds. All through July and August it whirls round like a spinning top as tiny children cling to the horses and shout and laugh to their parents looking fondly on. Now it's silent and rather folorn and the painted horses are still. Abandoned for the rentree, the children have returned to school and L'ecole Maternelle (nursery school.) The rue has a melancholy autumnal air or perhaps it's just the mood I'm in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEA2YA3ymwIky-dfgXfXywUNUQy7m5C82axqxZBURpLUfLyA4VHoHYLkxlPu-K-JGJJhJzsPZ-DEcu9pMYoA3lBMbLvJAcNmMH2xcJ8W8nSkeftFwLhlDbc7nDIGiHhqXEM7lNpxeMhiM/s1600/The+street+of+Balzac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEA2YA3ymwIky-dfgXfXywUNUQy7m5C82axqxZBURpLUfLyA4VHoHYLkxlPu-K-JGJJhJzsPZ-DEcu9pMYoA3lBMbLvJAcNmMH2xcJ8W8nSkeftFwLhlDbc7nDIGiHhqXEM7lNpxeMhiM/s640/The+street+of+Balzac.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">We have decided to visit Honore de Balzac's house and museum in Passy today. It's in the 16th arrondissment in the Rue Raynouard and is quite near to us over here in the 15th. A journey on the Metro of a mere 25 minutes in all and a ten minute walk took us to the little museum and gardens. Passy is a very elegant district with beautiful architecture. There were some stunning apartments with gated gardens behind which turquoise swimming pools surrounded by palm trees glistened in the morning sun. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDRXh6u_zSzUGZm_tTG_PI5goHTUohZ62zAJnb6tXmCBNnmRwwv3OA5ezE5iD5puoQ5FxcN8NXeSv4uLvSlzu7fk8XrTJAy9tdiZ2rmTtpeqEZCLv3Mwxtm3fMQvRNF9JATQZZJ-B7HQ/s1600/Passy+apartments.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDRXh6u_zSzUGZm_tTG_PI5goHTUohZ62zAJnb6tXmCBNnmRwwv3OA5ezE5iD5puoQ5FxcN8NXeSv4uLvSlzu7fk8XrTJAy9tdiZ2rmTtpeqEZCLv3Mwxtm3fMQvRNF9JATQZZJ-B7HQ/s640/Passy+apartments.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">On the ground floor gardens were laid out to mimic the great Italian gardens with manicured lawns and tall Cypress trees. Everywhere there was beauty and order. Not a scrap of litter soiled the ancient cobble stones. We walked along craning our necks to look up at the wrought iron balconies crammed with scarlet Geraniums. Except for a few nannies wheeling out their charges and housekeepers on their way to the market clutching their shopping bags it was quiet at this time of the day. A cleaning woman with a hose pipe was washing the front of an apartment block. As we walked towards her she suddenly turned the hose in our direction and aimed it at the feet of the Sloth. He did a little Irish jig but he's no Michael Flatley and wasn't quite nimble enough to put himself out of reach and got his feet soaking wet, much to the malicious delight of the cleaner!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CVWGtKHSzxQgpgYbIyG9Jelzlh-lnu4QIcDgqLvNaXf6mmqUFZOpql_s2gBt4AFHWAhDViUkAAP_cjZnBDMCcnGvOEUFroFbxty4hsF107nqXZnEhPKWJd8OQDS03d5SU1qQpCiMa1A/s1600/street+charm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CVWGtKHSzxQgpgYbIyG9Jelzlh-lnu4QIcDgqLvNaXf6mmqUFZOpql_s2gBt4AFHWAhDViUkAAP_cjZnBDMCcnGvOEUFroFbxty4hsF107nqXZnEhPKWJd8OQDS03d5SU1qQpCiMa1A/s640/street+charm.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> You can see La Tour Eiffel over the roof tops. A reminder of the thronging crowds of tourists and traffcic jams but here in the Rue Raynouard the entire street has an air of somewhat eerie tranquility.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEH2MldaHegkhwByEoVpg421OK5eG0hDx4_yMt-w3ohokJg2xzQ8AN9KvXAJJmKb3RwA-NF2ltsJM3SGDW-XCKfbz2DrlhV_D8y40vct9gg6g4-4yjdiR1IDcVd8cz-osmKPtvAY3ZE70/s1600/rue+Raynouard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEH2MldaHegkhwByEoVpg421OK5eG0hDx4_yMt-w3ohokJg2xzQ8AN9KvXAJJmKb3RwA-NF2ltsJM3SGDW-XCKfbz2DrlhV_D8y40vct9gg6g4-4yjdiR1IDcVd8cz-osmKPtvAY3ZE70/s640/rue+Raynouard.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">The house of Honore de Balzac nestles in a small, pretty garden with views over the Seine towards the Eiffel Tower. It's positioned high up on a hill in the Rue Raynouard and is reached by a flight of stone steps which go down into the garden completely out of sight of the road. Perfectly secluded and invisible to his creditors from whom he had fled after a few failed business deals. Some things never change!! Changing his name to </span><span style="font-size: large;">Monsieur de Breugno he lived without fear of discovery for some years. The house is arranged on three floors and is an absolute rabbit warren of rooms and corridors. It was here that Balzac edited his most famous work, a series of novels and short stories called 'The Human Comedy'. He wined and dined his good friend the sculptor Rodin who carved some wonderful busts of Balzac.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6guB-pDoeoMgxHfBA2ntivXi9_9enIaiVsWbKxIomHZEJW8-0F8B4szp0g6Lsm8WhW62ULUXhNxe8N8HXQ5yxx-B_miiYg1PLb6xiCeVsGJAuXJnm_ACHXgwHPy1YxQRukOYaTwTzKRs/s1600/The+Balzac+Museum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6guB-pDoeoMgxHfBA2ntivXi9_9enIaiVsWbKxIomHZEJW8-0F8B4szp0g6Lsm8WhW62ULUXhNxe8N8HXQ5yxx-B_miiYg1PLb6xiCeVsGJAuXJnm_ACHXgwHPy1YxQRukOYaTwTzKRs/s640/The+Balzac+Museum2.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: large;">This is a view of the house from the top of the steps at the Rue Raynouard entrance.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYmhsGuvVlzKOaffOkHaFYNCKvyrvDtUhtFouSide_fx1EyH8sLz0G9KqQH4k1d1MicuQwnQ6PhUFFsgfrFB80tZqhF86iwAcOFJSY8ZUq3lExOGhZke5N5IiO7LsEei3ANeUMS3dtRdY/s1600/Balzac%2527s+writing+table+and+chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYmhsGuvVlzKOaffOkHaFYNCKvyrvDtUhtFouSide_fx1EyH8sLz0G9KqQH4k1d1MicuQwnQ6PhUFFsgfrFB80tZqhF86iwAcOFJSY8ZUq3lExOGhZke5N5IiO7LsEei3ANeUMS3dtRdY/s640/Balzac%2527s+writing+table+and+chair.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">The writing room and table of Balzac where he wrote 170 novels! There's a dent worn into the wood by the movement of his elbow. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcTfTGbVhCgNX9TsTsJp5KkCVtD7L098Oc-ZFdtkPOH_mgudPbKXU4qcm_YLqf9jb07kKeHwbLySWXCPzwzbFxwblrCfeaAc7A9563POUAcDr9pZ4FFX8hCSe9OFEix-AUbectR2n1AM/s1600/Balzac%2527s+proofs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigcTfTGbVhCgNX9TsTsJp5KkCVtD7L098Oc-ZFdtkPOH_mgudPbKXU4qcm_YLqf9jb07kKeHwbLySWXCPzwzbFxwblrCfeaAc7A9563POUAcDr9pZ4FFX8hCSe9OFEix-AUbectR2n1AM/s640/Balzac%2527s+proofs.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The edited proofs of Balzac's work!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJClPMyTcUfbIduvS_-IxaYSfTXC5FlAmbzL5emYnCw-ZwkKFFweA9WrUexwXPGqcfaJFfWWisSQF9Ww975do6w_7FeyGSyAK7skaz-X7mMipUBQ87YFzHu_TdIMloaAiUdlcK8tes6LQ/s1600/balzac+in+the+garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJClPMyTcUfbIduvS_-IxaYSfTXC5FlAmbzL5emYnCw-ZwkKFFweA9WrUexwXPGqcfaJFfWWisSQF9Ww975do6w_7FeyGSyAK7skaz-X7mMipUBQ87YFzHu_TdIMloaAiUdlcK8tes6LQ/s640/balzac+in+the+garden.jpg" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A bust of Balzac by Rodin in the garden.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Even if you've never read the novels of the great Balzac the museum is well worth a visit. Admision is free and the people who manage it are pleasant and helpful. The care takers may look a bit stern but if you speak good french they'll talk till the cows come home.</span><br />
<div class="bloc_contact"><h2><span style="font-size: large;">Contact:</span></h2><ul class="contactList"><li class="web"> <span class="content" style="font-size: large;"> Website : </span> <span class="content" style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.balzac.paris.fr/" target="_blank">http://www.balzac.paris.fr</a> </span> </li>
<li class="mail"><span class="content" style="font-size: large;">Email : </span><span class="content" style="font-size: large;"><a href="mailto:lina.cesaire@paris.fr">lina.cesaire@paris.fr</a></span></li>
<li class="tel"> <span class="content" style="font-size: large;"> telephone number : 01 55 74 41 80<br />
fax : 01 45 25 19 22 </span> </li>
</ul></div><h2><span style="font-size: large;">Access:</span></h2><div class="bloc_adresse"><span style="font-size: large;">47, rue Raynouard</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">75016 PARIS</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>District :</b> Passy / Bois de Boulogne</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><ul class="transport"><li class="metro" title="Metro"> <span class="content" style="font-size: large;"> Passy </span> </li>
<li class="rer"> <span class="content" style="font-size: large;">RER : Boulainvilliers </span> </li>
<li class="bus"><span class="content" style="font-size: large;">Bus : 52, 70, 72 </span> </li>
</ul><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">NOVEMBER</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6skpbrdd2rJSETdrucrh2ZvU9Ff5z6AMIuAs9RFoeOxkgTFvaZFYiDNZZtTwjdHESkD41AgOtISFf_wRW2F4TyQZpDZ7r_PX6eGWk5goCr-i4i2wJvno4hJTVUEaNTW2Mpohl7KXNPg/s1600/french+waiter+on+a+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6skpbrdd2rJSETdrucrh2ZvU9Ff5z6AMIuAs9RFoeOxkgTFvaZFYiDNZZtTwjdHESkD41AgOtISFf_wRW2F4TyQZpDZ7r_PX6eGWk5goCr-i4i2wJvno4hJTVUEaNTW2Mpohl7KXNPg/s640/french+waiter+on+a+bike.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Autumn Friday</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The nights are drawing in and darkness comes swiftly. The shop windows are shining like beacons and les dames are strolling about in their foxy fur coats. The Sloth is not far behind , mainly due to Claude pulling him along rue Emile Zola. The Sloth is becoming light headed, stoned on the intoxicating perfumes of les jolies medames and Claude's nostrils are twitching with the tempting scents al those lady dogs! Both of them seem to be in an altered state so it's not surprising that the Sloth doesn't see the large, squishy turd lurking in his path. And, as cruel fate would have it, at that very moment a jolie madamemoiselle appears seemingly from nowhere. The Sloth is so engrossed in the gruesome task of cleaning sticky dog poo from his trainers that hasn't noticed the young lady but Claude, always keen to make new friends leaps up and puts his paws on her shoulders and gives her his version of a French kisss. She gives a blood curdling screech that reverberates round the rue and sets the pigeons on a vertical take off scattering feathers and droppings everywhere. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The Sloth looks up just in time to see the young woman approaching him shaking her fist and yelling at the top of her voice. He couldn't help but notice that she was tall for a woman and now she towers over him. A real Amazon! He smiles up at her weakly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 'Vous cette un monstre' she snarls.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Qui? Moi?' he stands up but he's still looking up at her .</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Le Chien c'est tres, tres dangereuse!'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Ne dis pas des betises ' the Sloth is getting red in the face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'You are Americaine non?' she frowns, her large brown eyes flashing under her black brows.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Non! I'm English!' said the Sloth drawing himself up to his full 5'11</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Madamoiselle drew back wrinkling her nose, '</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large;">'What iz zat 'orrible smell</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">?'</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">'<span style="font-size: large;">Well I was just trying to clean my trainers when you.......'</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Madamemoiselle steps forward threateningly, brandishing a rolled up umbrella in the Sloth's face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Euwww!! Merde! Merde!!' she shrieks as her Jimmy Choos make contact with the sticky poos.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then as if by magic two gendarme suddenly appear from behind the trees, clearly attracted by the high pitched cries of a damsel in distress. Claude, as if sensing yet another debacle slinks off in the direction of home and leaves the Sloth embroiled in a french farce of gargantuan proportions as he tries to explain feebly, that it wasn;'t his dog that fouled the pavement. All to no avail. Poor old Sloth!! </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKg8muaHulwZ5OPQvwT36V-M0rGuOg0c8dN7S4SBCERiZ1N3zLT_lQc3_pR_QhcpYZ-n1fH1oKNCPXQiTUuUitqRsb3RXHlZLUNqsNXHDDqNeQ4gYKLRHhPaRkQDZOlZ1HdsKo5uUgh8/s1600/doggy+poos+in+paree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKg8muaHulwZ5OPQvwT36V-M0rGuOg0c8dN7S4SBCERiZ1N3zLT_lQc3_pR_QhcpYZ-n1fH1oKNCPXQiTUuUitqRsb3RXHlZLUNqsNXHDDqNeQ4gYKLRHhPaRkQDZOlZ1HdsKo5uUgh8/s640/doggy+poos+in+paree.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span>Kiss My Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03008612333539756698noreply@blogger.com0