Bateau Mouche

It's one of the classic tourist experiences in Paris:

You climb onto a long, flat boat that cruises up and down the Seine. During the cruise, a guide - and sometimes a recording - points out the incredible concentration of sights along the banks, translating each sentence into at least four langauges. During the hour-long cruise, you "see" most of what lures people to Paris: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, Place de la Concorde, the Palais de Justice, the Île-St.-Louis, the Hôtel de Ville, the Palais Chaillot at the Trocadero, the Grand Palais - just about the only thing you don't see is Montmartre.

On her jet-lagged and slightly disorienting first day in Paris, Dimi bravely stayed awake during a bateau mouche ride that we'd been saving just for her. Having already seen all the above sights from multiple angles on multiple occasions, Maggie and I weren't too impressed by the water-level views, but it was a good introduction to the city for Dimi. And there was one more redeeming factor: the bridges.


Yeah, it's bridge trivia time: the Pont des Arts (left) links the Institut de France (home of the Académie Française) with the central courtyard of the Louvre, which was called the "Palais des Arts" under Napoleon. The original bridge, constructed between 1802 and 1804, was the first metal bridge in Paris. Luckily an inspection revealed structural deficiencies in 1977, resulting in the bridge's "temporary" closing and preventing disaster when, two years later, a barge rammed it and 60 meters of the bridge collapsed into the river. An exact replica of the original bridge reopened in 1984, and is now covered in tiny locks that symbolize love or some such nonsense.

The Pont Neuf (center), literally "New Bridge," is the oldest bridge in Paris (figures, right?). Joining the left and right banks via the tip of the Île-de-la-Cité, the Pont Neuf was constructed by Henry IV between 1578-99 and had the distinction of being the first Parisian bridge not covered by houses. Rumor has it that the hundreds of sculpted faces lining the bridge (click on the picture for a close-up) were meant to mock Henry IV's enemies at the court; some common criminals were thrown in just to confuse things properly.

Finally, the Pont d'Alma (right) is best known today as the bridge right next to the eponymous tunnel where Princess Diana died in 1997. Before that, its landmark was the Zouave, the only remaining statue of four originals meant to commemorate France's victory in the Crimean war, which ended around the beginning of the bridge's initial construction in 1854-6. The Zouave has traditionally been used to measure the Seine's water levels, and in 1910 the water came up to his neck. Crazy! Oh, bridges, you fascinate me.

Of the 32 bridges crossing the Seine within the city of Paris, we floated under 22 during our cruise with Vedettes du Pont Neuf. And as much as I love some good bridge trivia, the real highlights of the tour were the parts of the bridges we never get to see - the undersides. Every bridge regaled us with different structural supports, construction materials, and patterns.


Based on our bateau mouche experience, Maggie and I agreed that the next time we come to Paris, we're living on a houseboat moored to the banks of the Seine. We'll support ourselves by selling a coffee table book called "Under the Bridge." Place your order now, supplies will be limited!

Musée Nissim de Camondo

To my map of Parisian Jewish geography I should probably add the Musée Nissim de Camondo. Unlike the other sites on that map, nothing about this extensive collection of 18th-century décor suggests any overt connection to Judaism or Jewish history. But the connection is there nonetheless, in the lives of the collection's founder and his family. Moïse de Camondo was born in Turkey, the scion of a wealthy Jewish family who owned one of the Ottoman Empire's largest bank. He immigrated to France at the age of 9 with his father and uncle, eventually taking over the family bank before retiring to pursue his real passion. Between 1911 and 1914, Moïse constructed a mansion on the family plot bordering the Parc Monceau; the mansion was specifically designed to accommodate his immense collection of French 18th-century furniture, objets d'art, rugs, books, dining services, light fixtures, and more.


In his will, he left his mansion and its contents to the French state, with the provision that it be opened to the public as a museum. Curated by the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, the museum (€7/€5) offers free audioguides with hours and hours of commentary on the provenance of various pieces, the techniques that went into their design and fabrication, and the ways in which Moïse's collection played a part in his everyday life.


As you can see, the museum is full of beautiful colors, textures, patterns, and shapes. There's an entire room full of porcelain dining-ware; another room whose octagonal shape accommodates an entire set of wall-panels taken from an old hôtel particulier slated for demolition; and tons of amazing ébonisterie, or artisan woodwork.


Throughout the museum, visitors are reminded of the delicate balance pursued by Moïse in his collecting: while immersing himself in the aesthetics of 18th-century France, he never abandoned the creature comforts of the early 20th century. The building's façade (see below) may suggest textbook Classical architecture, but many interior touches suggest the influence of Art Nouveau. And in the most practical areas of the house - bathrooms, servants' quarters, and the kitchens - no expense was spared in creating state-of-the-art facilities.


Conspicuously absent in the museum are any references to Moïse's heritage or faith, and I would argue that this fact makes the museum just as important to understanding the Jewish legacy in Paris as the Museum of the History of Judaism or Paris' Holocaust Museum. Moïse de Camondo provides a textbook example of identity-effacing assimilation, exactly what the French have promoted for more than a century. Not only did Moïse become a pillar of the French economy, but he gave generously to the state, both in blood and treasure (his first son, for whom the museum is named, lost his life fighting for France in the First World War). His generous giving infused his daughter with confidence at the onset of the German occupation of France in World War Two - surely her family would be safe from deportation. But as visitors learn from a plaque as they enter the museum's courtyard, Moïse's daughter Béatrice, son-in-law Léon, granddaughter Fanny and grandson Bertrand were all arrested in December, 1942, and held at Drancy before being deported to Auschwitz, where they were killed.

The Musée Nissim de Camondo serves as a quiet reminder of the contributions that naturalized Jews made to their adopted country. But by no means should you feel like going there will be a downer. You won't be able to stop "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing over the building and its contents. Happily, the museum proves to be a cheaper and more effective introduction to 18th-century design than the Château de Versailles, whose fame attracts crowds that interfere with attempts to appreciate materials, artistry, and history.

With the Parc Monceau out back and the Musée Cernuschi right around the corner, it's easy to devote an entire day to this gorgeous corner of the 8th arrondissement. If you manage to absorb even a smidgen of Moïse de Camondo's generosity and refinement, it'll be a day well spent.

L'Arnacoeur

Here's a piece of vocabulary we learned the hard way: un arnaqueur is a swindler, a con man, a scam artist. L'Arnacoeur, the title of a recent French film, plays on this meaning to coin a term for a professional heartbreaker, someone who is paid to cause relationships to fall apart.

Maggie and I only made it to the movies four times in nine months, and this was our first fully-in-French foray (Inglourious Basterds doesn't count, even though the significant French-language portions of the film weren't subtitled.) Apparently our French comprehension was up to snuff because we thoroughly enjoyed it, and can't wait to get the few jokes we missed when it comes out on Netflix in the states. As l'arnacoeur, Romain Duris more than compensates for the film's predictable rom-com plot line with his dead-pan delivery and unbearably cute scruffiness. And the antics of François Damiens were knee-slappingly hilarious.

Here's the teaser plot, courtesy of allocine.fr, a great resource for finding what's playing in a French movie theater near you: "Is your daughter going out with a creep? Is your sister stuck in a dramatic and destructive relationship? Today's there's a radical solution to these problems, and his name is Alex. His role: professional break-up artist. His method: seduction. His mission: transform any boy- or girlfriend into an ex. Alex has one rule: he only breaks up couples in which the woman is unhappy. So why would he agree to break up an ecstatic couple of thirty-somethings who are set to marry in a week?"

Why, indeed. If you're in Paris, go see it, and if not, look for it out on DVD after August 24. L'Arnacoeur is seriously funny.

Homage

In our day-to-day lives, Notre Dame de Paris didn't have much of a presence. But as the central monument of the entire country - did you know that all distances in France are measured from Notre Dame? - no visitor escaped being brought there. Consequently we've amassed quite a collection of shots of the place, and it's high time we posted a few.

Putting the "Agog" in Synagogue

Places of worship in Paris include such architectural gems as Notre Dame de Paris; Sacré Coeur; La Madeleine; St. Chapelle; St. Eustache; St. Germain des Prés; St. Martin-des-Champs, St. Augustin, St. Alexandre-Nevsky, the American Church; get the idea? This is what happens when Catholic and Royal power is concentrated in a single city for 1,000+ years, and when ostentation is prized over efficiency. The synagogues of Paris show exactly the opposite, namely what happens when Jewish communities remain small, relatively poor, and intentionally discreet.

Case in point: the synagogue at 75 Rue Julien Lacroix in the 20th arrondissement, on the path from our apartment to Panda's nightly pee spot.

There are two ways you know this is a synagogue: first, the two tablets over the entrance (left); second, the presence of security guards during holiday services. Like other synagogues in Belleville (there are quite a few), this one serves the Orthodox Sephardic community, many of whose members immigrated to Paris from North Africa over the last half-century.

Another example of a nearly-invisible synagogue is one you can find in a well-traveled place, specifically the Place des Vosges.


It looks just like every other part of the Place des Vosges, which was built as a new royal residence by Henry IV in the late 16th century and which prompted the French aristocracy to move en masse to majestic hôtels particuliers in the Marais, many of which are now state-run museums. I went inside this "Temple des Vosges" when choosing a synagogue for the High Holidays and it's quite beautiful inside. Too bad they don't really encourage visitors.

Compare the Temple des Vosges with the following two synagogues, the first located on the Boulevard de Belleville in the 20th arrondissement just a few blocks from the Rue Julien Lacroix synagogue; the second located on the Rue Pavée, just a few blocks from Temple des Vosges in the 4th arrondissement.


Here are two synagogues that aren't afraid to advertise. Michkenot Yaacov, I know nothing about. The Synagogue de la Rue Pavée is famous-ish for having been designed by your favorite Art Nouveau architect and mine, Hector Guimard, who was also responsible for the Métro entrances we posted about recently. Unfortunately, this synagogue is not open for tours, but at least it's possible to get a good shot of its exterior.

I can't say as much for one of the next two synagogues we attempted to photograph.

On the left you see the Communauté Liberale Juive, located on Rue Moufle in the 11th arrondissement. (This is where Adam, Rachel, and I went for Simchat Torah services.) By now you've probably noticed the fences in front of most Parisian synagogues. This is the only evidence of anti-Semitism I've ever seen in France, and it's more evidence of the fear of anti-Semitism than the thing itself. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

To finish up, the synagogue on the right belongs to an affluent community in the 16th arrondissement (affluent and 16th are basically synonymous) and is mostly remarkable for its heavy, pseudo-Art Déco architecture that seems to cry out, "The power of the Star of David compels you! Enter!" Other Parisian synagogues could take a hint from this one - unless, that is, they prefer to remain the humble, self-effacing step-siblings of all those magnificent churches.

Last Research Adventure

With two weeks to go before our departure, I had pretty much written off any more research. I felt like I had a solid amount of material and thought that I had exhausted most of the relevant leads that had come up during the year. I thought wrong. When I was least expecting it, a research opportunity came up that I couldn't ignore, and so it was back to the archives for Louis.

Behold the headquarters of the Société d'Auteurs, Compositeurs, et Editeurs de Musique (SACEM) - basically the organization responsible for collecting royalties from the performances of works by its members. The group is over a century old, and played a role in the finances of the composers I'm studying. (Today, they still hand out royalties, but less to art music composers and more to pop stars like Carla Bruni, Charlotte Gainsbourg, and Camille.) After meeting with the head of SACEM's archives and learning that most archival materials weren't on site, I didn't have much hope for gaining access to them. But lo and behold, the guy I met arranged for stuff to be sent to SACEM headquarters, and when I got the call, I briefly forgot about my last two weeks of relaxation, put down my wine glass, and went back to research.

I hoped to find some useful info on composers' income from royalties, but the documents to which I was given access had more to do with the lines of succession for each composer. Ravel's proved to be a particularly interesting case. When he died in 1937, he was fairly wealthy, thanks to the runaway success of Boléro (1928). As he had no children, his brother Edouard inherited the rights to his royalties. When Edouard passed away in 1960, he left the rights to the nurse who had cared for him during his last years. She got sued by Edouard's nephew and niece, died, and won the lawsuit (in that order). Her widow - a hairdresser from (oddly enough) the same town Ravel was born in - inherited her rights, and passed it on to his second wife, who's still living, and who shares the rights with her daughter and with a Dutch bank. Got it? Me neither.

Visiting SACEM wasn't as productive as I had hoped, but I established a good contact who may ultimately give me greater access to the financial records that could make my dissertation way more interesting. And I got to enjoy a nifty, post-war building whose location (in Neuilly, on the Seine) and design (see below) reflect the affluence of an institution that's raking in the dough - in part thanks to Ravel's Boléro.