Saturday, August 06, 2011
I thought I'd just copy here my journal entry from yesterday afternoon:
August 5, 4:45
I've been wandering the Marais area all afternoon. I wound up continuing to shop--buying some old paper and an embroidery stamp at an antique shop in the Village St. Paul area which was, the shop I mean, stuffed to the brim with small items--sewing supplies, linens, buttons, items for school kids of earlier years, etc. While I was in the coffee house earlier, I had read through a picture book about the author's school days in the 50's and many of the things he mentioned were for sale there in the shop. I then found a "vintage", ie used, clothing store. I've been in search of a skirt as I overpacked shirts but found one pair of jeans, one pair shorts (not appropriate for Paris) and one dress wasn't quite the right mix of clothes. I didn't find a skirt that fit in the store but I got three great floral short sleeved blouses--one by Cacharel--probably from the 80's. I'm happy. While waiting for the changing room, I watched some French ladies browsing through the dresses--they favored red ones-- and some Asian (probably Japanese) girls trying on shorts. They were giggling in the dressing room for the longest time and left an enormous mess of empty hangers. I asked the sales girl and she said they did spend a fair bit which I hope justified the extra work they left her.
I was also able to visit a real antique store, mostly carrying iron work. The owner kindly educated me about "les heurtoirs"--door knockers but I couldn't afford the lovely item he showed me--a 17th century piece priced at 1700 Euros or so. It would have been so nice on my door too. He showed me one in a Druot catalog (like Sotheby's) of a hand shaped knocker--also 17th Century)--beautifully done with veins and finger nails evident on the iron hand. That went for 15,000 Euros. I still want a hand door knocker but I'll have to look for a "cheap" 19th Century one. As for now I only have a collection of pictures of them--I still find them quaint.
This journal entry was written while drinking Perrier in a Scottish pub. The bar man turns out to have been English not Scottish but after more than a week in France he felt like a compatriot. Sometimes my brain feels tired from straining to think in French. BTW the music in the bar was Dylan. It is rare to hear French music playing in a shop or cafe.