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!

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.

Reward

At the end of a long afternoon spent exploring large swaths of the 16th arrondissement, this was the icing on the cake:

It's the only remaining original "bouche de métro" (metro entrance) designed by Hector Guimard, the famed Art Nouveau architect!


There's so much detail to take in, I just had to approach slowly and take a picture every few feet. Finally, when I got up close to those brown-and-green interior panels, I weirded out all the people coming out of the métro while I waited, camera to the ready, for the perfect shot.

Well, maybe not perfect. But how ridiculous is this? We heart Art Nouveau. And strongly believe that whoever tore down or partially dismantled the other Guimard stations should be prosecuted, even posthumously.

You'll find this turn-of-the-century gem at Porte Dauphine, terminus of Ligne 2, 16th arrondissement. Recommended approach: start at the Arc de Triomphe and walk all the way down Avenue Foch. Just don't do it at night.

Winter = Architecture Funtimes

Whenever the drab skies and non-stop rain of Parisian winter threaten to bring me down, I go out of my way to find the silver lining in all the gray. One example: with all the leaves off the trees, you get unfettered views of lots of interesting architecture. Which gets you (meaning me) thinking about the two architectural faces of Paris.

The first face is the obvious one: Second Empire, Haussmanian, and belle époque buildings with iron-lattice railings, turrets, and/or a curved slate roof over a uniform concrete façade. There's a typical one-family mansion in the richer areas of the city, and of course Paris is famous for the way its uniformly proportioned boulevards lead the eye towards landmarks.


But there's also a post-war, high-modernist strain in Parisian architecture, especially in the traditionally poorer areas of the city that have seen the least preservation, the most reconstruction, and the most government (rather than private) involvement in architectural decisions. Belleville provides lots of great examples of this second strain, which touches churches (top and bottom left), businesses (top right), and homes (bottom right).


We could argue about how interesting, impressive, useful, or ugly we find these buildings. Some clearly respond to formal and functional requirements better than others. I find the two buildings below to be particularly lacking in foresight, although I have to admit that in a different context, the one on the right could be really cool.


There are also some really great examples of (what I consider) successful contemporary architecture in Belleville. The building below on the left is a day-care/community center, and the one on the right is some kind of insurance company. Both use glass in a way that helps them reflect (and therefore blend in with) the sky. And the insurance building, which anchors the Boulevard de Belleville/Rue de Belleville intersection, still manages to evoke the color of more traditional Parisian buildings. As you walk by, you might not notice that it's brand-spanking new, and that seems to be a cherished principal in Parisian architecture.


Even when you think you've found an exception to Parisian preferences for architecture uniformity and adherence to century-old standards, it turns out you haven't. Consider the Ministry of Culture and Communication, below. The building on the left is a typical, late-19th-century structure that's been covered with a stainless steel screen, which helps unify the building with a 2004 addition (on the right) by Francis Soler.

This daring integration of old and new seems to be Paris's best bet going forward, and I'm hoping the architect designing the building to fill the empty space right across the street from us does something similar!