OMG! A post! (Which I just now edited to de-Frenchify it because some of the letters translate to garbage characters.  Sorry, French, I tried to use your diacriticals, I really did, but the fonts! They do nothing!)

I was thinking about my poor blog this morning.  I still have Paris to finish, now that it's not far from going on a year.  Let's see, we las left it on my birthday, at the Buddha Bar.  It was the first time I'd eaten there, and it was not bad.  I think I'd stick to the drinks, in the future.

The next day, Dr. Rogish's last, we went to the outdoor market at Bastille.  I'd say they easily live up to their reputations.  Delicacies, cheeses, meats, salts, ethnic food, breads, fruits, vegetables . . . Paris is great for window shopping for treats from those vendors luck enough to have a shop, and the bakeries and delis are a huge part of what I love about the city.  But the bustling, crowded, everyday-people markets are just as remarkable and dizzyingly immersive and dense with wonders. 

Ah, random street in Paris.  This one was taken close to the market in Bastille. 

In contrast to the high art and market culture, we decided to go to the Museum of Chocolate.  You're required to say this in Homer Simpsons voice. (OH! And speaking of the Simpsons, I did catch it in French at our hotel.  The voices are pretty dead on.  "Va te faire shampouiner!" Yeah, that's French-Bart's version of "Eat my shorts!"  It's "Go shampoo yourself," which, huh, idioms.)

Anyway, the chocolate museum was filled with chocolate parephenalia, history, biology, and oh! Look! Chocolate makes you fat!

I expected to see "Some pig" written in webbing above this bon-bon holder. 

Z-man really enjoyed this museum.

European-style hot chocolate was a huge part of salon culture during its colonial period.  There's plenty of information on its traditional presentation from the Americas, but ooo! Shiny!

Modern!

Good grief! Cleanse it with fire!!!!!

And of course, chocolate-inspired fashion, and fashion-inspired Z-man.  Told you he enjoyed it.

That was, sadly, where Dr. Rogish had to depart back for home.  I'll visit soon!

Now, although I've been to Paris a few times, this is the closest I'd ever gotten to the Arc de Triomphe.  In fact, I didn't know you could go up to the top!

La Defense, as seen from the top of the Arc.

I have a panoramic shot, but it doesn't go well on the blog.  But this gives you an idea of the spot.  The Arc is a hub for something like 12 streets that spoke outward from the circle.

Here's the Eiffel Tower, and I think the left street is part of the Champs-Elysees.  It might not be, it might be over to the left a click or two.

This is definitely the Louvre.  You can see the top of the Pyramid.

Ah, I can show off with  this one.  See that point on the center horizon...?

That's the Sacre-Coeur, basilica, atop the Montmartre.

Beneath the Arc is a memorial to French soldiers.  We caught part of some daily ceremony. 

Ah, this is the Egyptian Obelisk on the Place de la Concorde, aka the Place de la Revolution, aka the execution site of Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Robspierre, and many, many, many, many others on the bloodthirsty blade of Mme Guillotine during "the" French Revolution.

There's some debate about whether the obelisk, originally from the entrance to the pyramid at Luxor, was indeed a "gift" and not a "spoil."  There were two, and only one, this one, could be brought from Egypt.  Francois Mitterand "gave" the other one "back."

Apparently Act-Up once wrapped this rascal up in a giant pink condom.

This the tip of the Ile de la Cite where the oldest bridge in Paris, Pont Neuf, connects the right and left banks of the Seine.  The park is frequently filled with couples enjoying life on the Seine.  And snogging.

As we strolled back toward our hotel, night fell, and we passed by the Hotel de Ville, the current incarnation of the city hall and the mayor's office. It's been the site of city administration since the 1300s, but Paris being Paris, it's been burned down at various times.  It's now made of stone, which is easier to clean up, scorch-mark-wise.

More morbidity! I'd never also actually been to the Pere Lachaise cemetery.  It's enormous, much bigger than I expected it do be (I'd only every been to the one at Montparnasse, which is smaller and felt more canopied by the trees).

I was also struck at the diversity of graves. Jewish, Christian, Shinto . . . it was not at all a homogenous place. 

It's also the supposed resting place of Abelard and Heloise those famous, doomed lovers.  This is their tomb.

Jim Morrison's grave, duh.

Edith Piaf.

Lovely mosaic.

I was also taken aback by how many Holocaust memorials there were.  It was . . . unsettling, not because it was a reminder of the not-so-great behavior of the French Vichy government, but by how the monuments, at least one for every death camp, almost seemed to be in competition with each other.  I couldn't help but get a sense of palpable penitence from the way they vied for my attention.

The morbidity wasn't surprising.  Vanitas and Danse Macabre are longstanding features of the culture.  It was, however, very effective.

Ah, Oscar Wilde's tomb.  All the red you see is, I kid you not, lipstick.  There is a superstition that if you kiss his tomb, you'll find true love in Paris, or something like that.  It's like a gayer, more literary Marie Laveau.  Funny how these things seem to cling to French culture.

The columbarium was like nothing I'd experience before.  It's quite large, and I believe there's an actual, if not active crematorium on the premises.  But the scent of flowers as you walked throught the naturally lit halls was powerful indeed.

Balzac! (Tee-hee!)

That night, we made it to the Champ de Mars, the greensward that leads up to the Eiffel Tower.  I had intended for us to go up, but, vive la France, there was a bomb threat supposedly called in because of the impending no-veil law being debated.  Le sigh.  I couldn't help but wonder if there were people up there eating at the 5-star restaurant, though.  I'd like to believe that the French wouldn't let a little thing like a bomb scare spoil a good meal.

The next, and final day, I took us to the Montmartre, which still is a cozy, gorgeous, I-can't-believe-I'm-still-in-a-city neighborhood on the side of the hill.  I think the crepes Z-man is having below at the Maison Rouge (yes, the Pink House) is the Frenchiest thing we did the whole time.

The tragic, fabulous Dalida.

A Moulin, yes, but not rouge.

One of the genuine, remaining Art Nouveau Paris Metro stations designed by Guimard.

The basilica, this time close up, and once described as looking like "nipples for the angels on which to suck."  They have a point.

Heading downhill from the idealized Paris of your dreams, with the street artists and the mills and the ambling, quiet roads, you get back to the grittier urban world of Pigalle, titty bars, the Moulin Rouge, and the Musee de l'erotisme (yes, the Sex Museum, which is, actually, pretty great).  And now for something completely different, a kinky diorama!

And that brings us to our concluding night at Cabaret Michou (warning! site has automatically-playing, terrifying music), which I already posted a ton of pictures for (many of you are still recovering from them). "Moi, Michou!" (warning, again: different link, no music, but translated page)  I'll repost a couple, one for dear, departed Amy Winehouse.

And one more for the more-French (but actually Egyptian-Itlaian) Dalida.

So, finally! Almost my 41st birthday, but at least I did this.  Now I won't feel so guilty about posting other stuff.