Paris Nonsense, Part IV

Liseurs et liseuses:

You may find it hard to believe, but the French are nothing if not practical, especially when it comes to museum design. The Paris sewer museum has a display showing the history of the sewer system that is built over a steel-grate floor, beneath which rush the turds of two million Parisians. Where else do you know a people to have devised a display that allows museum-goers sickened by the stench of an exhibit to vomit right where they stand and have it end up, no muss no fuss, exactly where it should? One of the other Americans who attended the museum with us spent almost her entire time underground with the sleeve of her sweater held unstylishly across her nose (I must admit to doing the same a bit after my mouth became dry from breathing through it), and it occurred to me that a nice touch would be if they had officials standing by with some especially ripe cheeses to wave under noses and revive visitors who fainted from the sewers' aroma.

Before we left the U.S., Rhonda had confessed a bit of insecurity concerning her wardrobe, having heard that Parisian women all dressed so chic. Amy (mentioned earlier) had thrown out a helpful suggestion, having recently returned from Paris with a suitcase full of scarves. "Just tell Rhonda to bring some scarves." Amy told me. "In Paris, it's all about scarves." I passed this advice on to Rhonda despite the fact that I have never seen her wear a scarf, could not imagine her wearing a scarf, and in fact, don't think she has ever even owned a scarf. Rhonda, as expected, scoffed at the scarves, but after about 15 minutes in the Paris sewers, watching everyone grasping at any available fabric to cover their faces, she did sheepishly admit to me, "Well, I guess Amy was right. It is all about scarves."

A delightful young German woman who is spending the month leading groups gagging and retching through these subterranean tunnels loaded us down with all sorts of fun facts, like that rats can sense a coming flash flood of effluence faster than humans, so if you see a bunch of rats running through the sewer, you should run too. Rats are smart, too, she told us. The sewermen used to use a quick poison to control the rat population, but some of the more wily rats pointed out to their friends the ominous brevity between snacktime and death, so they decided to stand around in groups and watch while one rodent ate the bonbons. If the sated rodent dropped dead, none of his pals would partake. Now the sewermen use slower-acting stuff, presuming that these furry little guys may be smart, but that hunger and patience have their limits.

*****

Yesterday, I called a friend of my mother's, Jacqueline, to introduce myself and invite her on Saturday when Rhonda and I plan to rent a car and drive off to Maison Picasiette, a house in Chartres whose owner completely covered it, inside and out including the furniture, in ornate mosaics. It is possible to believe that, because he seemed to have tiled everything on his property except his wife, that the vast amounts of broken crockery he used was produced by his wife throwing dishes at him in a perpetual state of rage. While at first enthusiastic about this junket, Jacqueline then hesitated. "Umm, there's just one thing I have to warn you about" she told me. "This is kind of personal." I thought she was going to tell me she had some form of disability that would require me to carry her to the car, or empty her colostomy bag, and I asked her the problem. "Well, I just want you to know that if I have to, I can hold off for a while but ... I'm a smoker."

When she found out that Rhonda and I smoked, too, her relief was palpable and her excitement about seeing Maison Picasiette returned. "Thank God!" she told me. "You know I have some of that gum, but I don't really like it. I just keep it around for when friends visit from the States and get so upset." All the pharmacies here have huge posters in their windows advertising Nicorette gum and standing in front of them you will invariably find one or more Parisians puffing away. The posters all have photos of sexy young people billowing smoke from their mouths and nostrils with no text of explanation save for the gum's brand name. Now I understand that Nicorette may never make it here as a cessation aid, but is catching on big time as another way for the French to cope with the insufferable American tourist.

Day Nine Statistics:
Cheeses tasted: 22
Cheeses to go: 224
Paris Nonsense continues...