Souvenirs III

Our next sentimental purchase was more ornamental than practical. We'd seen dry goods canisters at restaurants, museums, and in friends' kitchens, but never realized the amazing diversity of styles and shapes until we started visiting antique stores (more on that in another post). Eventually we stumbled upon this set of Art Deco canisters from the 1930s.

They're ceramic and quite heavy, so we had the antiques dealer ship them to us. Good thing he did the packaging, since another box we shipped (with books and miscellaneous stuff) eventually showed up in Somerville looking like it'd gotten in a fight with a customs official:

We're grateful our canisters arrived in perfect condition, but slightly sad since we realized that it's probably not safe to actually use them to store tea, coffee, flour, and spices (as the stenciled words on each instruct). We figured out that these canisters were probably decorated with all manner of lead paint and other toxic substances, so despite our ambition that most of our souvenirs would be useful, these particular pieces will have to remain purely decorative.

Well, almost purely decorative. Even if they don't hold tea, coffee, flour, or spices, they still contain a tasty melange of memories - the very definition of a souvenir.

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.

The Shield

If you ever find yourself at the Hôtel de Ville métro station, waiting for the Ligne 1 to take you in the direction of La Défense, you might notice this mosaic on the wall.

Ok, it's a coat of arms thingy, the medieval shield of some noble family. You take a picture of it, thinking it's kind of cool, and you move on. End of story.

Except then you start seeing the shield everywhere, in different materials, colors, historical styles, and designs.

You see it on the Vélib' stations, on the Mairie of the 2e arrondissement, and on an awesome Art Deco school in the 11th.


You see one-sail, two-sail, red-sail, blue-sail versions - used as a distinctive logo for elementary schools, and on the guardian's building at the entrance to the Parc des Buttes Chaumont that you took a dozen pictures of over the course of the year. (How did you not notice this before??)


This thing is literally everywhere, especially in its present-day iteration, a simple, curved, diamond-shaped sail on a crescent-shaped boat. You see this boat on all park signs, on the backs of public toilets, and on trash and recycling bins.


When you look it up on Wikipedia, you learn lots of interesting things. The boat symbol on the city's coat of arms dates from around 1190 but was made official in 1358 by King Charles V (who also completed and lived in the donjon at the Château de Vincennes). The boat looks good on the entrance gate to the Parc Monceau, and on the centerpiece of the Pont Alexandre III (an epic bridge).


In its pure form (best represented by the mosaic at the Hôtel de Ville métro station), a single-sail, white boat floats on water within a field of red. Above, yellow fleurs-de-lys suspended in a blue field represent French royal power, and specifically that of the Bourbon royal line. The blue and red in the coat-of-arms represent the Paris Commune, a revolutionary body that provided the same colors to the tricolor French flag we know today. But even uncolored it gets its point across, like when it's tacked onto an electricity meter, or yet another school in the 20th, or a "Theatres of Paris" cylindrical billboard.


The ship and the motto, "Fluctuat nec mergitur," or "It is beaten by the waves without being submerged," pay hommage both to the city's resilience in the face of millenia of attacks and to the power of the medieval shipping guilds. I wonder how those medieval dudes would have felt about having a symbol of their power sculpted in iron on a fence outside a park, or on yet another school.


Clearly, this city has some kind of complex. Or a very, very savvy and consistent marketing campaign aimed at subtly marking the city's influence on everyday life. Whatever they're doing, I'm hooked on finding more of these. At least until another of Paris's many open but overlooked secrets catches my eye . . .