PARIS TRIANGLE D'OR

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LÉCHE-VITRINE

/lɛʃ.vi.tʁin/

French phrase: translated as 'lick the windows'
Meaning: to go window shopping
Example: faire du lèche-vitrine

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The shop windows in the Triangle d'Or are astounding. Some are filled with scenes taken straight from my dreams: live butterflies flitting about in a forest of Hermes scarves; and giant dandelion puffs surrounding red cashmere sweaters.

These windows full of clothing have the passers by drooling just as much as those filled with chocolates and macarons. The French have made a real pastime of window shopping, calling it Léche Vitrine - to lick the windows.

I remember the first time I visited the Triangle d'Or. I was a pilgrim, on a break from my studies in fashion, accompanied by my very patient mother. I nearly cried when I had to leave behind the most sublime red coat in the Valentino store. 5,000 Euros for that slice of heaven, with its perfectly aligned seaming. I also spent an inordinate amount of time praying at the shrine of Chanel on the doorstep of 31 Rue Cambon, where the icon herself used to live and work in the apartment concealed above that famous mirrored staircase. 

Since that first time, I have made the pilgrimage out to the Triangle d'Or - that intersection of roads: Avenue Montaigne, Avenue George V and Rue Francois 1er - I have made that pilgrimage twice. And of course you can visit those well-known delights on the outer edges of the triangle, the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe, the Tuileries. But the real gold is located in the centre of the triangle. 

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...WINDOWS OF NOTE...

231 Rue St Honoré - Jean Paul Hévin.

In the window: chocolates. Some really great chocolates. 
An upscale patisserie and chocolatier, selling some of the most delicate chocolat chaud in the city. A cozy tea room is locate upstairs.

18 Rue Royale - Ladurée Royale 

In the window: pastel colours, ribbons, gold trim, and small pastries. A scene that would make Marie Antoinette smile.
This is a flagship store of a flagship French brand, specialising in macarons. Go just for the window displays, if not for the rosé macaron.

31 Rue Cambon - Chanel

In the window: mannequins dressed in smart black and white cigarette pants, and a glimpse of the famous mirror-paneled staircase.
While you may not be able to afford the incredibly high prices of the items behind the windows, it never hurts to look (or so they say). Just down the street, at 38 Rue Cambon, is the infamous site of Princess Diana's escape from paparazzi before her death.

Place de la Concorde - The Best View

The window: a place on the stone fence on the edge of the Tuileries. 
The view: A sparkling Eiffel Tower, every hour on the hour at night. 

Place de la Madeleine - L'église de la Madeleine

The window: a 18th century Roman Catholic temple, complete with painted ceilings.
The view: a classical concert, maybe Vivaldi, and an impression of the cosmos painted onto the eye of your mind by the violins.

LES ÎLES DE LA SEINE

Tourism. That sweet honey trap.

And, at the centre of the touristic world, glowing in its pre-imagined beauty: Paris.

The centre of Paris? Two small islands.

It is on one of these islands that we shall start our Parisian adventure, in three acts...

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ACT 1 - MEMORIES

A girl is sitting on a stony ledge beside the Seine, under a willow tree on the edge of a small verdant garden. The garden looks like the prow of a boat, slicing through the river with its pointed edge. She holds a notebook and a pencil, her feet and her gaze aimed at the barge opposite her. A scrawl of marks begins to form on the page - tufts of willow wands dancing in the breeze, and the lapping water at the edge of the barge. She shares a slice of coconut with a nearby duck, before putting away her drawing tools in a small rucksack with a broken strap, tied back on itself to hold it. She takes off through the garden gate.

Almost one hundred years before this scene...

Ernest Hemingway had sat in that same "small park at the water's edge with fine chestnut trees huge and spreading." There he read and drank wine and mused over the fisherman. 

They always caught some fish, and often they made excellent catches of the dace-like fish that were called goujon. They were plump and sweet-fleshed with a finer flavour than fresh sardines even, and were not at all oily, and we ate them bones and all.
- Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

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ACT 2 - THOUGHTS

I have spent a lot of time watching tourists.

They are the ones who make a beeline to each and every famous site that is known to all the world, knowing exactly what to expect from their encounter but wanting to have their moment in front of it anyway, preferably caught on camera. 

They are the ones who make lists with checkmarks, wanting to see only those places they have heard of, or read about. They walk with purpose to each destination: a to b. They keep time, they get a little mad when the weather does not cooperate. 

They spend more time with their nose in the map, in the guidebook, up against the plaque with the small script on the wall of the museum, that they sometimes forget to look, look, look! at the world in front of them.

They are a little afraid of the world, and opt to take a tour with a certified guide, who can reveal 'secrets' to them in a neat and safe form. They will peer into a beautiful alley courtyard, but will not take one step inside. 

They are looking in at the world, as if it were behind a glass screen.

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ACT 3 - THE NOW

Everyone wants to come to Paris and have their own Woody Allen Midnight in Paris moment, yet they are so caught up in major sites and to-do lists, that they never take the time to actually experience the place and just BE in it!

Don't look in from the outside, instead become a part of those places you visit. 

So, when you do visit that postcard-perfect-cultural-disneyland that is the Îles de la Seine, maybe take your time, let the day unfold as it will, focus on that very moment, luxuriate in it. Spend some time just sitting by the quais in the Parc Vert Galant watching the world go by.

 

BEAUTIFUL MOMENTS ON LES ÎLES:

Cooing at the twittering birds and gazing at purple orchids at the ancient Sunday markets on the Île de la Cité.

Walking to Berthillon, fingers crossed that it will be open, and finding that sign out the front detailing the specialty ice creams of the day. Then taking your prune flavoured ice cream and languidly walking it down to the small park at the end of Île St Louis where it will be enjoyed best.

Side-skipping the hoards of tourists to walk down the smaller side streets, and discovering each plaque, in French, dedicated to a moment in history. The best being the medieval house of Héloïse d'Abelard, of course.

Hanging about Notre Dame at night when the day trippers have left, and talking with the fire eating performers there.

Walking everywhere with no actual purpose.

Spending far too long browsing the Bouquinistes for 19th century books on flower illustrations.

Running your fingers through the evergreen hedges on the Île St Louis.

Drinking yet another coffee at a tiny wicker table set on the footpath where every passer by can trip over the dog at the table next to yours. 

Grabbing a bottle of wine and a morsel of food to take to the Parc Vert Galant at dusk, to sit with the other Parisians who are more than a little drunk.

Or stopping by one of the free Summer dance lessons on the quai-side, to learn the tango.

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“I have learned how to live... how to be in the world, and of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch.”

— Audrey Hepburn, Sabrina

THE LYON OF CONTRASTS

GRAFFITI ON MANSARD ROOFS

If you take the stairs up to the Croix Rousse area of Lyon, chances are you will happen upon a group of young punks who hang out at a cafe in a courtyard beside the Scientology centre. Moments ago, you were standing in front of a the Bartholdi fountain, carved by none other than the creator of the Statue of Liberty. Looking in the other direction, you are struck by the Museé des Beaux Arts, and the Hôtel de Ville. In other words, the square with the fountain is an epicenter of history and culture. But venture up a little and you are surrounded by new age enthusiasts, and modern art boutiques.

This city is full of such contrasts - of old and young. The old refuse to learn English, in fear of tainting their own language. The young of Lyon yearn for the glamour of a perceived New York, chatting about American movies as they gather in Macdonalds. The old buildings and apartments of the Croix Rousse are decked with graffiti. 

Some people would see this and begin a conversation about the loss of culture, of language, of morals and values. But what I saw, instead, was a symptom of every generation: the continual changes of the world creating a film of nostalgia over the monuments of the past, a 'Golden Age,' while the young look to the future. They say the grass is always greener on the other side. Which other side? Who's other side? Those romantics that look at the stone buildings and see greener pastures simply have a different 'side' than those that look to New York and the contemporary. 

But here in the present moment, with the old walls and the graffiti and the fountains and the punks with the large green mohawks, this is a wonderful moment. This is the moment where all other moments have converged.