Since I decided to take a summer break from the French classes, I was very happily busy this week visiting some really interesting museums. Three of the most beautiful were located in mansions that were built or bought by the aristocracy during the 1800’s to house their magnificent art collections of mostly 17th and 18th century art. Once again, so much of Paris is about the pendulum swing between the aristocratic class of kings, noblemen and financiers that amassed such great wealth that money was no object and created the most beautiful and stupendous architecture, both hard and landscaped; then the pendulum swung back during the revolutions of the masses, and suddenly it all belonged to everyone.

The particular mansions and collections that I visited --- the Jacquesmart-Andre, the Marmottan (with the largest collection of Monet in the world --- that I could have stared at all day) and the Nissim de Camondo were all bequeathed to the Union Centrale des Arts Decoratifs(Central Union of Decorative Arts). What a beautiful experience --- to actually get to walk through the “house” practically exactly as it looked --- with all of the furniture, artwork and gardens intact.

Yet with all the beauty, there was a sadness at the Nissim de Camondo museum. It was the story of a wealthy Jewish family, originally from Constantinople, that came and created an unbelievably opulent life in Paris on the Park Monceau as the first generation; the third generation’s head of the family was Moise (Moses) who built out the mansion and collected the art. After his short lived marriage to Irene, who left him for an Italian Count (the drama of the royal romantic entanglements here in French history really put People magazine to shame ---it’s not surprising with their history, that the French think it absolutely ludicrous that what went on between Clinton and Monica Lewinsky is a reason to impeach a President,Moise was left to raise his two children Nissim and Beatrice. As a young twenty something Nissim died in combat during WWI; Beatrice who married and had two children moved from the mansion, where Moise then lived a very grief-stricken lonely life until he died in 1935.

In 1944, during the German occupation, Beatrice and her family were deported by the more than willing French police to Drancy, with a reputation as one of the worst internment sites, and later died in Auschwitz. How sad it is that the family only enjoyed the mansion for barely three generations, and then they were all gone.

By a really weird coincidence, on the way to the Marmottan museum, I was reading a book on the subway about the history of Paris. I was on the chapter about the Jewish deportations when I read that the first stop for them was a city outside of Paris, named the Cite de la Muette (the Quiet City). It was a complex that was half built before the German occupation, meant to be a model Parisian suburb. Instead, for several months it became an internment site with over 7000 people living there, in a space meant for 700. In any case, I realized at that moment that La Muette was the subway stop to get off for the museum. As I walked out of the subway and through a gorgeous park, a chill ran up my spine. I flashed on a train station in Prague that Maury and I had visited some years ago, and the guide, very innocently saying, that as a child he had watched from a platform above, the trains filled with Jews being deported to the camps. Oh my God, I thought, chances are they used this subway for transporting the Jews as well. As I dug deeper, it turns out that the place that the Jews were taken to, eventually leading to 25% of French Jewry being killed, was not the La Muette subway station, but the complex by the same name. In any case, it was real reality check on just how tenuous one’s life and one’s possessions can be. In the most beautiful of places, where one feels as safe as can be, the most horrible things can happen.

For some reason the past week, other subway experiences jumped out at me as well. The homeless, who can be found on subway benches sleeping facing the wall with their back turned to the platform, are virtually ignored. There are also gypsy women who are dressed all in black shrouds, who literally prostrate themselves face down on the pavement for hours with a little Dixie size cup in front of them (when I first saw them, I thought it was a pile of black drop clothes) that people glance at and walk by -- I’ve never seen one cent in the cups; the wandering musicians that step into the subway car schleping their amplifier and microphone and give a heart filled howl of a song, and when finished, walking up and down the car with an open hand are met with stone filled, silent expressions; and the musicians that are really good, like the seven piece band & vocalists that are belting out Russian songs (one of which was part of the hora music mix at my son Max’s wedding) in the subway tunnel leading from one station to another, don’t even get the time of day from anyone. Talk about no guilt about not taking “care” of the street people. I guess that’s how the Paris populous is “taught” had to deal with them --- just completely ignore them and pretend that they’re not there.

Also, having heard for the 100th time about pickpockets on the subway, especially teenage kids under the age of 14, that for some reason, it is nearly impossible to prosecute here, all teenager are now suspect. I’m holding onto my purse across my chest for dear life!

We also went to a couple of French movies this week, in a beautiful theater called La Pagode (the Pagoda). It was a great way to practice our French sitting in a theater that is part of a rather huge Pagoda that dates back to the 19th century when it was bought, deconstructed and brought back to France by Monsieur Morin, a director of Bon Marche ( a beautiful department store here), as a gift to his wife. Now that is what I consider a great gift to show ones love and affection! And I’m sure it won’t surprise you that there was no snack bar at the theater, so nobody eating or drinking inside, except for Maury and I with our few dry roasted Trader Joe almonds --- non, non, non (as opposed to oui, oui, oui) as they say here in France, people had their expressos or little glass of mineral water before the film, in the beautiful attached garden to the theater.

I have also had a lot of fun this week doing my own investigation of French cheeses, which number here anywhere from 250-500, depending on who you ask! French cheese production is classified under four categories, fermier (single farmhouse cheese), artisanal (cheese produced in small quantities combining milk from local farms), cooperative (local milk producers joining together to produce big quantities of cheese) and Industriel (using milk from all over France making cheese factory style. Once processed, they are fresh (not aged), soft with a natural rind, soft with a washed rind, pressed, pressed and cooked, goat, blue and processed (blended). You get the idea, it’s terrifically complicated.

Fifty six cheeses are classified, protected, and regulated under French law.

So with my checklist of 56 in hand, telling me what region it came from, what type (cow, goat or sheep) --- sometimes, of course from only a specific type of cow, goat or sheep) I went to a nearby "fromagerie" to see how many I could identify. Thank goodness it was really crowded so no one really noticed me lurking around staring intently at this beatifically displayed case. It didn’t me long to realize the chunks of Monterey Jack, Chedder and Swiss that we have eaten such copious amounts of, probably don’t even qualify for last on the list of the Industrial category!

I was never much of a cheese eater, but I certainly am now as Maury and I sample through cheese from the different regions of France. And I certainly have a better appreciation of the cheese plate at the end of a fine meal here, which is a course all on its own, complete with the pairing of the best wine and bread to bring out the taste of all three.

Stay tuned! Chocolate is next on my list of delicious ways to spend the afternoon in Paris!