The Poignancy of Paris

A small, French antique chain-mail coin purse, a recent purchase from Corey of Tongue in Cheek Antiques.

A page from an antique French dictionary, in which the tiny coin purse was wrapped for safe shipping.

On the Page Above:

French: Salpêtrière. Lieu où l'on fait le salpètre. À Paris, La Salpêtrière, Hôpital de femmes, qui était en même temps maison de correction, et qui est aujourd'hui un hospice pour la femme âgées et pour les femmes en démence.

English translation: Salpêtrière. Place where saltpeter [one of the ingredients for making gunpowder] is made. In Paris, Salpêtrière, Hospital for women, which was once a house of corrections, but is now a home for elderly women and women who are insane.

When little French antique treasures arrive from Tongue in Cheek Antiques, the pieces of old papers, in which they are wrapped, are often as precious as the treasures. When this tiny chain-mail coin purse arrived, it was wrapped up in a page from an antique French dictionary. The paper appeared to be from around the 1800's.

As I smoothed the page out, a definition immediately jumped out at me...Salpêtrière. I was stunned, for Salpêtrière is the Paris hospital where my daughter almost died, by her own hand, some years ago. I shall never forget the phone call from Paris, the flight...not knowing if she would be alive when I arrived. When I finally made my way to Salpêtrière and to her bedside in the cardiac ICU that August day, she lay barely alive, pale and naked under a sheet, with tubes running from her body to numerous electronic monitors. Grateful but terrified, I maneuvered through the tubes and plugs to take her hand, wondering why my daughter had decided she no longer wanted to live.

That was years ago and in spite of herself, she lived...she survived an unfaithful French lover. She vaguely remembers him now, and I often think how horrible it would be to kill oneself over a man who is not memorable.

Since Salpêtrière in Paris, there hadn't been a time that I didn't feel my heart sink when the phone rang, that I didn't awake, dreading that I would eventually loose my daughter. Then this little coin purse, wrapped in that old page from an antique French dictionary, was dropped through the mail slot, landing on the floor next to the old easy chair where I sat. As I mulled over the coincidence, I recalled that Corey, who had sent it, is a cancer survivor who had been saved by the French medical system. That same system had also saved my daughter. I choose to believe that the serendipity, of the coin purse and the ancient page with Salpêtrière printed on it, is a sign for me to forget the fear of that time in Paris...to remember only that my daughter survived. So, I shall wear the tiny purse around my neck on a chain and inside there will be a snippet of antique paper on which is printed the 1800's description of the Salpêtrière. And I'll toss in the old French francs that I saved from that poignant Paris trip. Peace of mind sometimes arrives in strange, unexpected packages.

Note: This Paris hospital is now known as Pitié-Salpêtrière and is a prestigious teaching hospital. You may know it as the hospital where Diana, Princess of Wales, died in August, 1997. Read about Salpêtrière's long and interesting history here.

A Clean Slate

I know very few adults who really like the Holidays because it's a time that is frequently fraught with family and cultural pressures that are not at all cheerful or of our choosing. But it's about to be January, the month when we get to clean our slates and start a fresh new year and it seems, a fresh new life. I love January. I've never made New Years resolutions, I just quietly start January early, cleaning out my nest; dreaming of plans; nothing drastic, as slow and steady does it. Life suddenly seems adventurous again, even mysterious; maybe even magic.

The story behind the Perrier bottle: One year, Tall Husband and I planned an escape from Christmas (I hope none of you has a relative who uses a holiday as an excuse to take over your life.) We fled to Paris. Christmas Eve was spent at Au Pied de Cochon, a wonderful restaurant that was a short stroll from our hotel. Every table that evening had a festive anniversary bottle of Perrier. We have kept our bottle because it reminds us of the most wonderful Christmas Eve we could remember in a while. That bottle gave us the good sense just to say "no" the next year when our relative called with her holiday marching orders.

The Magic French Feather

Children should be indulged and allowed to believe in things magical; and even older kids, like you and me, could do with finding a little magic in our lives.

Upon hearing that I would be going to Paris, a friend and co-worker, asked me to visit the Musée Rodin for him and tell him about it upon my return. He was an artist working with me at his day job and had only read of Paris. How sad, an artist who had never been to Paris.

Tall Husband and I were strolling through the gardens of Musée Rodin, having just toured the beautiful 18th century Hôtel Biron, the house where the sculptor Rodin had been allowed by the French Government to live out his life, under the condition that he leave his works to the state upon his death. I was memorizing all that I saw so that I could report back to my friend, since I never traveled with a camera in those days. As I looked at the sculptures, I anguished over the paucity of items at the museum's gift shop. Plus, nothing they had compared with the importance this place held for my friend. I said aloud, more to myself than to Tall Husband, "What could I possibly take back to Jim?" With that, a pigeon feather drifted from the sky, brushed my nose then landed in my gesturing hand.

When I returned to work, I gave the feather to Jim, telling him that it was magic and he was to make a secret wish while holding it. He put the feather over his desk and never mentioned if he had made a wish or not.

A short time later, Jim came into my therapy room with a big smile on his face and an old French grammar book in his hand. "I have a gift for you," he announced and handed the book to me. "You see, I made a wish on your French feather; I wished that my wife and I could be in Paris. The feather worked! Yesterday I was awarded a commission to do a large religious sculpture for a local church. The money I'll earn from that piece will make my wish come true. Thank you!"

So my artist friend and his wife went off to Paris that summer and came back with their own magical stories.


Another coincidence: The author of the book that Jim had given me was a Professor of Romance Languages and Head of the Department, in the early 1900's, at the University of Minnesota. This is the university where my daughter was later accepted for work on graduate degrees in French, and my son-in-law was accepted for law school. They both have doctorates from the University of Minnesota. So Jim, was your little antique book also magic?

Stolen Identity

This is my old electronic ticket to Musee Maillol in Paris, purchased the day we discovered that Lucian Freud had stolen Tall Husband's likeness.

Back a few years, Tall Husband and I were walking down the rue de Bac in Paris, when we spotted a discreet sign pointing the way to Musee Maillol, a small art museum/gallery that we like to visit when we are in Paris. At that moment, I remembered reading that Maillol was having an exhibit of British artists, including the big hitters, Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon.

We usually have this small, out-of-the-way museum to ourselves, however, it was crowded with Brits and Frenchmen this day. We strolled through the main exhibit hall, looking slowly and carefully at the paintings. Then suddenly, there loomed before us the life-size painting by Lucian Freud, "Painter and Model." If you have never seen Freud's paintings, suffice it to say that they are realistic to the point of brutality. In spite of this fact, critics term his approach "traditional representational style." The model in this painting was a nude male, reclining immodestly on an ancient, brown leather sofa. It wasn't his pose that made me gasp audibly. No, the model in the painting was Tall Husband! Though brutally executed, the painting captured Tall Husband's every feature. I was without words and could not take my eyes away from the uncanny likeness. I calmed myself by thinking that Tall Husband would not notice the resemblance.

Then he quietly but firmly said, "We have to leave. Everyone is staring at me." I looked away from the painting and around the room; sure enough, every pair of eyes was fixed on Tall Husband. And in their faces, I saw expressions of disapproval or worse, morbid curiosity.

Now, I have not placed a photo of the offending painting within this post for two reasons: first I do not have permission to use the image and second, Tall Husband would not want you to be shown a nude picture of him. But if you click here on "Painter and Model," you can find the image of the painting. And I haven't really shown it to you, have I!?

Tintin in Texas

My old Tintin Watch

Tintin and Milou Napkins

I adore Tintin and his sidekick, Milou. Oh, I know that Milou is known as Snowy in the English translations, but my grandson Alexander, who grew up in France, first introduced him as Milou, so Milou he shall remain. From my small collection, the above are two of my favorites: a watch that Tall Husband bought me when we were in Paris and a set of gray linen napkins we found in Brussels while visiting my daughter and her family. Brussels is Tintin central.

Tintin.com is a favorite site. According to the bio there, Tintin and Milou will be 80 years old next year, as the renowned reporter and his sidekick dog, Milou set out on their first adventure to Russia on January 10, 1929. Their adventures have been translated into more than 80 languages.

Here's a secret: Tall Husband looks like Tintin, especially in the morning when he first gets out of bed with his hair sticking up into that Tintin point in the middle of his head. So adorable!

See also: store.tintin.com