Paris in Love (40 page)

In Bon Marché, I came across a display of spring shoes in pale yellow and melon. The best were tender pink boots with small silver buttons, and a pair of kitten heels by Sonia Rykiel that sported a glossy bunch of black grapes. They were utterly impractical, and utterly delicious. I wandered from shoes to clothes and stopped before a skirt, the kind that’s a bit stretchy. In a fit of spring fever, I decided to try it on—but in the dressing room, it hugged my bottom in a rather distressing fashion. The young salesgirl’s face fell when I asked her for a bigger size: “They don’t come any larger than that,” she said. I slunk out, feeling too bottom-heavy to live in Paris.

Marina called from Florence to report that Milo had suddenly toppled off the couch. After some consternation on the part of herself and all her neighbors, they determined that he had a digestive problem. Charcoal was suggested as a remedy. On the first attempt at administering it, via a prosciutto delivery system, Milo gobbled the prosciutto and spat out the hidden charcoal; ditto the second attempt. The third offering, however, was devoured whole. He hasn’t fallen off the couch since. Now you know what to do if you ever fall off the couch.

In the Métro this morning: two teenagers entwined behind a beverage dispenser. Anna turned around to ogle them as we walked by. “Their mouths are connected,” she hissed, “just like the way married people do.” A moment later she added: “Romantic. But disgusting.”

My friend Carrie and her daughter Charlotte bounded off the plane yesterday, and before I knew it, I was walking with them all the way up to Montmartre, the highest point in the city. I staggered up the last steps to find the Sacré-Coeur basilica’s dome gleaming in the sunlight, covered by rows of creamy scallops that reminded me of children’s drawings of ocean waves: very regular, quite fantastic.

When I left the States, stockings were out of style, so I was surprised to find French women sitting at cafés, their glossy legs looking quite fabulous. Carrie and I ventured into a hosiery store and were just informed that this year ladies are wearing “invisible” or “sand”-colored stockings. I find bare legs tiresome, so hallelujah!

Paging Dr. Freud: Me, at breakfast, to Alessandro: “The catacombs sound so interesting! In 1741, a man wandered off, and his body wasn’t found for nine years. Let’s take the children this afternoon.” Moment of silence … then gales of laughter. We’re going.

Back in 1786, the French emptied a few cemeteries into the catacombs under Paris, marking the entry with a macabre sign:
STOP! THIS IS THE EMPIRE OF DEATH
. In the catacombs, bones are set into the walls that line winding paths, with long bones and skulls arranged in pretty patterns. There’s even a romance writer’s
delight—a wall constructed of piled femurs interspersed with skulls in the shape of a heart.

The children loved the catacombs. What with squealing at water trickling from the ceiling (possibly French sewers dripping on their shiny hair) and shuddering if they’d accidentally brushed a bone, the subterranean burial site turned into a Parisian treat. Plus, a lively discussion of how one could steal a bone, if one were criminally minded, followed by speculation about lifelong haunting by a vengeful eighteenth-century ghost, cheered everyone to no end.

Carrie and I met a lovely group of French romance readers who showered us with gifts and then took us to a restaurant that had never seen a tourist. We were particularly fascinated, then, by a painting of a young lady wearing nothing but an apron, stockings, and a fetching little hat, and carrying a provocative duster—it was very interesting to see that the French-maid fantasy has the same naughty currency here as in the American male psyche.

Yesterday was a little rainy, and we were virtually alone in Fontainebleau, the hunting palace of French kings and Napoleon. I stood for a long time looking at Marie Antoinette’s gorgeous private boudoir, paneled with glossy, fantastic arabesques … at the splendid bed she ordered but never slept in, because the revolution commenced before the royal family returned to the palace. While Versailles is grand and remote, it had made me feel every
inch a Norwegian peasant. Fontainebleau, though, made me want to be a queen—though perhaps one with a longer life span than poor Marie.