The owls, episode 3. In which hoots are heard from all over.

I didn't start out as an elementary Catholic school student who one day decided to become an owl collector. WeatherOwl and his bonus twin inhabited my childhood home and then my adult home for quite some time before announcing their desire for companionship.  Like most collections, you'll just know.  My lowly little childhood collectibles have made some wonderful friends over the years (decades!) since they first flew into my little hands back in the mid Seventies.  While owls were a popular decorating item during that groovy decade, they migrated away for quite a while before becoming cool again.  It's only been about five years now that the symmetrically friendly figure emerged resplendent from its formerly fashionable hibernation in a wide variety of decor-friendly forms, but I've managed (mostly) to restrict the collection to the floating shelf.
I admit there are a few (maybe more than a few) glass owl Christmas tree ornaments tucked away for an extended nocturnal (off-season) rest, but those don't really count, do they?

This little guy started out as a bulbous 2-inch gourd in Peru. Some clever local artisan saw promise in that pinguid shape and transformed the dried vegetable into the humble but delicately detailed beauty you see before you.  My little flightless FolkOwl has traveled many miles to join my collection.  From Paddington's Peru to the gift shop at New York's Museum of American Folk Art and then on to his permanent home in South Texas, FolkOwl has flown!

He started his crafty life as a Christmas ornament, but a simple untwisting of his temporary metal ornament cap has afforded FolkOwl freedom from holiday hibernation and I think we're both happy about that.

Similar in size and stature, my little Japanese owl crossed a different ocean to find his way into his South Texas home.  First, however, he made a quick stop at the museum gift shop at the Morikami Japanese Gardens in Delray Beach, Florida.

Polished to a bright golden glow, Mr. Fukurō reminds me daily of the universal appreciation for one of my favorite creatures and also reminds me of a beautiful and peaceful fall afternoon spent a few years ago walking the colorful and magnificently maintained grounds of the Morikami Museum.

Visit the inviting site.

morikami.org

An impromptu trip south of our local border released this festively colorful friend into my growing collection.  I'm intrigued especially by the simplicity of his shape.

It is really only the artist's imagination that created an owl from this simple form.  With little but mesmerizingly saucery dark eyes to give his simple round stoneware shape its unmistakable owl identity, my little Mexican owl holds his own among his more full-figured brethren.

Among the international brother- hood is this final owl treasure I wanted to share.  He makes his home with the myriad figures I have recollected from a wide variety of locations even though his figure shares only two dimensions with the others.

I wasn't looking to collect an owl plate and I'm not planning on it in the future, but something about this 3-inch diameter souvenir plate (you guessed it) caught my collector's gaze and just wouldn't let go.

Owls' big round eyes

are especially vulnerable

to collector's gaze.

The provenance of this bitty bird is also fairly stunning.  Made in Japan.  Sold (or a giveaway) by Owl's Nest Books in Calgary. Purchased by this New Yorker at the Wellington Goodwill Boutique near West Palm Beach for all of 99 cents.  And finally (you guessed it again!), migrated to South Texas in a simple little used and reused bubble wrap pouch.  I'm unclear about CalgaryOwl's past life for my two-dimensional friend has offered few fruitful clues since taking up residence over 2,000 miles away from his intended Canadian perch.  Multiple google searches since his last migration 10 years ago have revealed only a bookstore site, a beautiful bookstore site, actually, which has earned it a place on a work-in-progress travel list should a trip to Calgary or nearby Idaho-Montana ever materialize.

The tempting bookstore site boasts beautifully photographed owls.

owlsnestbooks.com

In the meantime, I am ever appreciative for that former Florida Snowbird with the discriminatingly wise good taste, and am ever overjoyed to take the treasured emblem under my wing.

More stories and secondhand travels next time. 

The Owls, episode 2. In which immigrant owls take flight.

When I was recently forced to pack up all the belongings in our kitchen and living room to prepare for a summer remodeling project, even I was surprised at how much "stuff" I had accumulated in the 24 and a half years that we've been living in our home.  It shouldn't have been that much of a surprise considering all the collections that have found their way into my life and considering the kitchen is primarily my domain, it's all actually my (fault) stuff.  When I finished packing the fourth Lowe's medium-size box full of cookbooks and was only about halfway done, I had concrete (almost as heavy) proof that my cookbook collection was out of oven-mitted hand.

During this summer that Mari and I have been squeezed into the back half of our house, spare bedrooms packed with furniture and boxes, I have had some time to consider my boxed and bubble-wrapped collections and do some mental organizing.  I know I should release some of my collectibles back into the wild and give others a chance to share in the joy they have brought me.  Eventually I will, of course.  An important yet difficult part of collecting is knowing when it is time to let things go.  Otherwise, those speed-dial presets for the hoarding authorities may actually get some use.

My home office owl shelf (pictured in last week's episode) has begun to bulge, too, but I think its denizens are all contentedly crowded.  There are a few strays that have wandered away from the floating collection and migrated to other perches around the house where they have more sensible homes.  There is an owl-shaped snuff bottle, for example, with the snuff bottle collection (you knew about that, right?) in the guest bath.  There is also a very helpful owl-shaped stoneware ginger grater in the kitchen whose sharply ridged belly has served me well on stir-fry nights.

No real owls have been injured (or sauteed) on stir-fry night.

Four owl-shaped ice cubes are also currently freezing away in their hot pink silicone tray in the mini-fridge that has been our main fridge since late May, awaiting the opportunity to luxuriate in another summer sweet tea.  

Okay, I know.

Call the authorities.

WeatherOwl has a few international friends which are among the most recent additions to my hovering hoard.

This slender and elegantly mosaiced Spanish gentleman caught my eye in a tiny touristy souvenir shop a few years ago as we strolled the tree-lined boulevard known as La Rambla in Barcelona in search of both shade and souvenirs. Señor Lechuza is about two and a half inches high and made of resin, but covered completely (except for the surprisingly sage saucer eyes) in a bright, multi-colored enamel mosaic treatment that serves brilliantly as his own feathered technicolor dreamcoat.  The bright colors and geometric shapes forever remind me of the eclectic retro-modern and bold architecture of the colorfully engaging city we enjoyed so much.  When a simple souvenir can evoke such wonderful memories, it deserves a place in your home.

This most recent owl travel souvenir made a brief appearance during my labored (but educational) lament about the nativity set that almost got away in Vienna (Vienna Markets, episode 3) where he was pictured still in the artisan's booth amongst his handicraft brethren.  Here he is today in his new home, getting his very own "glamour shot."

I loved being able to buy a hand-crafted, wooden owl directly from the craftsman.  It is an important memory for an amateur collector like myself, similar to having a book signed by a favorite author.  His deeply-set, perfectly round eyes are stained a little darker than the rest of the body, giving Herr Eule a certain air of mystery, like an international spy or a distant relative who has suddenly joined the family for an unexpected but welcome visit.

Time for one more traveler.

The smallest, but dearly treasured owl pictured here is actually a tiny (just barely an inch in diameter) brass hinged box from Portugal that has patinaed gracefully in the five years that he has been looking down on me.  Along with the majestically poised owl on its lid, Senhor Coruja is also adorned with two tiny owl siblings around its fruited and leaf-embossed outer rim.













I don't know if the gifter intended the symbolism of the two small owls protected by the larger owl from above, but I will never forget the thoughtfulness of this seemingly simple souvenir.

As with most collectibles, it is sentiment that often defines value.  As many of my friends would argue, I'm full of it, but my collections wouldn't have it any other way.

A final visit to the floating shelf next time.

The Owls, episode 1. In which parliament is in session.

I have mentioned it a few times now and among my beloved collection of owls lies a three-dollar childhood memento that is one of my most special possessions.

It need not be an object comprised of precious material that becomes the most precious to a collector.  The object need not have cost a precious amount of money.  It need not be precious to any other collector (or Tolkienian creature).  Sentiment will always allow a three-dollar porcelain import to emerge victorious.

Meet my oldest collectible:  a lowly weather owl, deemed so because when first introduced to me, its surface would change hue depending on the perceived humidity.  Today, there is a very slight variation if I take him out of doors and introduce him to the 100 degree daily sauna that currently engulfs deep South Texas, but his superficially magical effect has worn away with time. What has not worn away, however, is the smile that floods me when faced with his countenance as I sit down to my seven-year-old iMac, above which it hovers with its kinsmen on a floating shelf.

Although not the tallest, nor boldest, nor most colorful of my ever-expanding parliament of owls, WeatherOwl always greets me first when I sit to write, pay bills, or play online poker with fellow internet-addicted procrastinators.  Below is a panoramic glance at the full collection of his brethren.

A few of the others are now clamoring
for their own blog moment.

I'm not sure how or why it started, but I've always liked owls.  WeatherOwl found me in the mid 1970s when I was in elementary school at St. Teresa's in Sleepy Hollow (the town formerly known as North Tarrytown), New York.  He was part of an annual fundraising collection of sundries with which we student-salesmen were entrusted in a cardboard sample case, samples of orderables which we shared with family and neighbors who would (hopefully) order multiples to help us students meet our sales quota.  The Franciscan nuns of my childhood were nothing if not savvy marketers of Catholic faith and future relics.  I estimate it has been nearly 40 years since I paid three dollars for my painted porcelain prognosticator of old, a solid, if not sentimental childhood investment.

My memory for collectible sentiment is quite good (Mari would argue quite insanely good), but I do not remember how many of these little weather owls I ended up delivering door-to-door when the nun's orders were later fulfilled.  Among my boxes of wrapping paper, Christmas cards, costume jewelry, and other fund-raised tchotchke to be delivered that year were several (my nearly half-century-old memory cannot distinguish better than several) small identical white paperboard boxes, each containing an identical mystical meteorologist flown directly into my hands from the magical land of Taiwan.

My weekend of deliveries complete, my cardboard "Christmas Kit" emptied, and my collected cache of payments neatly stacked and sorted, I found myself staring into the bright and cheery eyes of WeatherOwl, perched ironically redundant atop his porcelain book pile while perched atop a short stack of my own books.

I also found myself staring into one of my earliest childhood ethical dilemmas as I gazed (the collector's gaze came to me early) into the eyes of a second owl, a surplus future dust-collector which had found its way (via clerical accounting error?) into my previously uncomplicated life.  There are times as an adult when I sometimes feel an echoing pang of guilt (thank you Catholic school!) as I look into the effusively open eyes of my redundant owl (I never decided which would bear that designation as they both seem to share the moral authority).  I was young and I felt guilty, but mostly I was too embarrassed to return the extra owl that had been packed into my fundraising kit.

Four decades later, one owl greets me daily as I sit down to my library office iMac, its twin welcoming me home evenings when I sit at the desk in my home library.  The weather owl memento brothers thus bookend my days and my thoughts, comforting me and decorating my memories as treasured collectibles should.

Dust and guilt be damned.

More flutterings from the past (and the shelf above the iMac) next time.

Paris, episode 10. In which we flea-flea and can-can.

One of my favorite books is Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club.  (No offense to purists, of which I purportedly profess to be one, but this is a rare occasion in which the film is even better.)  When I was teaching high school students reading and writing as an English teacher, I especially enjoyed the opportunity to share favorite books with students.  On one of our fleamarketing visits to New York, Mari and I found a nice Mahjong set in a Chinatown shop and I was later able to share the game with my classes while we read the book so they could get a little hands-on experience with a treasured bit of Jing-Mei's colorful family background.  I had never seen a set of Mahjong tiles other than the computerized tiles I often enjoy unstacking in colorfully addictive solitaire games.  It wasn't until we started fleamarketing that Mari and I discovered authentic (American) Mahjong sets, popular entertainment in the 1950s and 1960s, and resurrected decades later in craftily clever jewelry forms like the ring pictured here.

As you know (and I love) Mari is a fan of vintage jewelry, especially hand-crafted and clever reimaginations of found objects. Recycling at its couture best!

On Puces Saturday, Mari found this and another treasure (below) in a tiny glass-enclosed boutique in the antiques market featuring vintage designer clothing and jewelry.  A friendly and fashion savvy English-speaking proprietor greeted us warmly and encouraged Mari to browse and admire treasures recollected and carefully curated from collections and decades past that now adorned the French fashionista's sparkling miniature museum.

The Wicker Lounge was only a tad smaller at 84 square feet.

As you would expect in Paris, lots of Chanel, including jewelry made from vintage buttons as we had previously discovered in Chicago.
I had not yet procured my porcelain M&M sorter, so Mari made the first (and second) catch that morning.  From a small display on a small glass shelf in a small mirrored cabinet, the piercing ribbed eyes of a now favorite feline snatched Mari's collector's gaze.

The Lea Stein celluloid pin didn't have a chance with Mari out on fleamarket safari.

I'm glad my wife loves bold jewelry because I enjoy admiring it (and writing about it) nearly as much as she enjoys wearing it.

You can easily and happily enjoy an entire Saturday or Sunday meandering through the (curated or cluttered) past as you wend your way through colorful collections and connect with colorful characters who vend their way there.  Some times and some days there is a place for new fleamarketed goods and souvenirs, but a trip to Les Puces de Saint Ouen doesn't seem like that time.  There is too much of the past to explore here and tourists or foreigners especially will lend Les Puces a unique perspective as they rescue half-buried objets d'art long neglected by French browsers.  Leave the new fleamarketed goods to the locals and you might catch a glimpse of your own past (or of a favorite book or pet) in a forgotten forget-me-not that's been waiting all these lonely years to find your faraway home.

Before heading back to our own home (and feline) the following day (it's still just a weekend, remember?), I had one more surprise to bestow as I commemorated our special anniversary.  With the help of TripAdvisor's Viator website, I had been able to secure tickets (including transportation) to the Saturday evening dinner show at Le Moulin Rouge.

Visit the site to view a wide variety of excursions all over the world.

viator.com

Here we are closing down the famed colorful cabaret on our last Paris evening.  Be prepared for a touristically-appealing spectacular and a bit of a tight table squeeze not unlike the glittery costumes which barely adorn the French dancers in the energetic revue.

The can-can

did not-not disappoint.

We had a truly unforgettable time during our very limited time in one of our very favorite cities, celebrating a very special anniversary, but there are more surprises to plan (more lists to make!), more cities to sight, and more fleamarkets yet to flea.  More flea favorites next time.

Paris, episode 9. In which we French flea.

Once again, I am reminded of my mom.  She would have loved this beautifully hand-detailed soup set. It's completely impractical and that's one of the reasons why I love it.  When you fleamarket, you sometimes need to leave logic behind no matter what that little voice of reason (or your spouse) screams at you. The porcelain Limoges tray is about the size of a sheet of letterhead, with each covered bowl standing 3 inches high.  When Mari saw my intense look of joy set even my bald spot aglow, she tried her best to introduce me to the voice of reason, but it was far too late for practicality.  When she asked me how often I expected to serve soup in these delicate, gold-rimmed beauties as I was already reaching for the euros in my secret pocket, I insisted I would put them to appropriate party use at our next gathering even if only to sort M&Ms by hue.  The former French fleamarket (and formerly intensely bubble-wrapped) M&M sorter is currently on display in a lighted kitchen curio cabinet, as yet to be called into impractical candy-sorting or practical soup-appetizer service.

Saturday morning, souvenir 58 Tour Eiffel red rose abloom in a water glass on the nightstand, foie gras (mostly) digested, digital camera charged, and fleamarket shopping tote at the ready!  Aside from touring touristy tourist spots when we travel and celebrating life (and each other) to the fullest, Mari and I are serious about fleamarket shopping.  We plan entire trips around special events like the 127sale and we plan detours and layovers to shop at favorite fleamarkets.  This Valentine's weekend in Paris was no different and Valentine's Saturday was all about returning to Les Puces de Saint-Ouen.

Once you leave the metro station at the Porte de Clignancourt (still puts me on the lookout for French Klingons), you will immediately see signs pointing you in the right (flea) direction.  You'll cross a busy intersection just outside the station and head north a short block on the Avenue Michelet before you start seeing market stalls on your left.  There are a handful of aggressive street vendors scattered under the large overpass whom you will want to avoid as you make your way to the market entrance.

Aggressive is never okay, even in Paris.

Upon first approach, the market will open up to fleamarket stalls familiar with a nice variety of (mostly new) personal goods like clothing, shoes, purses, and ever-ubiquitous phone cases, as well as new housewares and home goods like vases and cookware and sheets and comforters.  A few vendors in this first marketplace also sell a variety of secondhand housewares and knickknacks.  Mari and I were on a mission, however.  No time for knickknack nonsense at the market entrance.  We headed straight back to the antiques market where we had remembered (and longed to return to) chaotically charming scenes like the one pictured below.

Mari browses a discount table outside one of the crowded-with-the-past stalls.  Stepping into one of these seemingly unbalanced shops can be a little daunting at first, but investigate you must!  You will never otherwise know the waiting-to-be-treasured treasure (candy-sorter) that awaits!

Waiting for a savvy negotiator to free them from years (decades?!) of clutter, very few items are priced, so you will need your best French (or French-speaking companion) on hand.  Remember, a smile goes a long way to breaking the ice and learning a foreign phrase or two isn't going to hurt, either.  I never like to start a conversation or negotiation by asking about price, anyway, regardless of the language.  If I had my druthers (almost 50 and still don't have them!) I would smile, pick up a pick, hand over what I considered to be a reasonable amount, and walk away.

Anyone know a good

non-verbal fleamarket?

Here's a good (as I can get) look inside Mari's stall above.  Looking at this picture again makes me want to go back and look behind that trio of ducks smirking at me in French from the top shelf.  I just know they're hiding more than foie gras.

We were surprised on this particular visit to meet a recent émigré from Australia, an energetic young woman whose lovely accent startled us that Saturday morning as we browsed the very orderly rows of glass bottles and heavenly-scented homemade elixirs in her booth.  Of course, she fell prey to our story of romantic fleamarketing adventures and I felt naturally and happily obliged to add a little sandblasted bottle to my home apothecary in reciprocation.

You never know who or what (or when!) you will find at a fleamarket.  Mari had hoped to return to her expert jewelry collector from our previous visit, but good luck finding the same vendor in this French maze! Fortunately, there were plenty of antiques market booths boasting vintage jewelry.  Mari's collection would not be forgotten.

More on her captured treasures next time.

Paris, episode 8. In which I surprise Mari again.

Some of you may remember that I'm an old bottle collector (remember friends and grammarians, it's still the bottles that are old) from previous posts.  After those first two collected for my college apartment and thereafter migrated to South Texas, there was this very special trio that found its way into my collection.  This was one of the first (and last--more on that another blog day) Christmas presents ever given to me by my wife.  It's one of my favorite presents.  Ever.  I'm not quite sure how old the glass perfume bottles are, but they have been part of my life nearly 25 years and they were already old when they joined my barely-a-collection collection.  Most couples exchange much perfume and cologne over their happily married years, but I assure you not many husbands would be as thrilled to receive old empty French perfume bottles as this old bottle collector was.

Imagine how surprised and thrilled we both were, then, as we walked past a small, but incredibly fragrant shop just a few blocks away from our hotel on the Champs-Élysées and spied a hundred nearly identical bottles on display!  Sparkling brilliantly on glass shelves at the entrance to Guerlain and overflowing with floral fluidity from within, the new, sleeker (unlike me, the bottles were now less rotund than 25 years ago) bottles, still embellished with embossed bees and topped with that familiar etched round orb, beckoned us in for an olfactory treat.  After a bubble-wrapped transatlantic journey within the folds of my weekend laundry, a small bumble-bee-emblazoned bottle bearing a sufficiently masculine albeit herby fragrance has now joined its ancestral brethren, an ever-fragrant souvenir of our Valentine stroll.

After enjoying our confectious (go with it) treats that afternoon and leaving Laduree with a souvenir box of the beautiful Marie Antoinette tea (honey-citrus-rose petal) we had just enjoyed, Mari and I indulged in a little window shopping at the festively decorated gourmet shops of the Madeleine district, including this vivacious Valentine's display at Fauchon, a gorgeously bright deli and cake shop decked out for sentimental romantics and cheese fanciers alike.  Without a heart-shaped brie on hand to gift her romantic gastronome trip-planner, Mari settled for a ceramic (TSA-friendly) crock of Dijon mustard, knowing full well that any box of chocolates would have paled in comparison.

Visit the tempting site if you dare.

fauchon.com/en

It's still Friday, not quite fleamarket day, and we have one last stop.  I did keep a few surprises from my ever-supportive and always deserving wife and both would be found on Valentine's evening at the top of the Eiffel Tower (or as close to the top as we could reasonably afford).  For the insanely romantic (thank you, I resemble that remark) dinner at the Eiffel Tower on Valentine's Day is a foregone conclusion.  As Mari has said, I'm ridiculous, and I admit it!  I'm not LeJulesVerne (upper level) ridiculous, however, but I am 58 Tour Eiffel (lower level) ridiculous.  

Visit the Eiffel Tower restaurants site for helpful planning information and sample menus.

restaurants-toureiffel.com/index.cfm/page/lid/2/rid/2666

Surrounded by a beautiful evening view of the glimmering city bursting with historic buildings and bustling population, Mari and I relaxed for a few hours, contemplating our surroundings and our blessings.  When a photographer landed at our table and asked if we'd like a souvenir photo, I jumped at the chance to surprise my wife once more.  She wasn't my wife the first time I proposed, but she was now and this time I knew she'd accept.

Would have been an awkward trip

back to Texas if she had not.

I stood up to stand at Mari's side for the souvenir photo and motioned to the photographer with my best French pantomime that I had a surprise.  As he focused, I knelt by Mari and proffered the ring that had been burning a hole in my pocket since I had discovered it about 5 months prior. A bright round moonstone glowed back at me from her finger as I reclaimed the seat across from my wife, brighter than any moon that had ever favored us with its evening dazzle.

That's two surprise proposals now, if you are keeping count.

All romantic nonsense aside, Mari and I have come to the non-romantic revelatory but perfectly happy (and sane) realization that dining out, especially dinner, on Valentine's Day is not worth the hype (or wait).  The food (special menu) and service was excellent at 58 Tour Eiffel and the views and experience unforgettable, but like our previous holiday dining (Thanksgiving Day) experience at Tavern on the Green (NYC, episode 4) we were left somewhat deflated.  You can have a romantic dinner at Wienerschnitzel as long as you are with the right person and as long as she doesn't mind a little mustard with her moonstone.

I promise we'll get to Les Puces next time.  I keep getting sidetracked by silly things like love and mustard, but I've got some fabulous French fleamarketed finds to show you!

Paris, episode 7. In which I'm that guy.

I'm the husband who took his wife to Paris for Valentine's Day.  For the weekend.  Yes, I'm that guy.  In my defense, Valentine's Day is a momentous occasion in our life together and 2014 was a particularly special Valentine's weekend, so settle in for another flashback.

I'm a romantic, in case you haven't been reading between the lines (and within the parentheticals). When Mari and I re-met during that college summer in 1988, I knew after our long drive to Fort Wayne for our NTE exams that I had met the woman I would marry.  Unfortunately, Mari was not in on my little secret.  I told my friends when they returned to school in August for our final year and they were fairly shocked since they had not yet met Mari, but I think they believed my sincerity.  Even after I gave Mari a very un-subtle heart-shaped gold locket (with tiny little inscription I still can't believe the artisan at Things Remembered at University Park Mall was able to script on the back!) for Christmas, she was still lovingly clueless.

"... thy heart lies open unto me."

from a Tennyson sonnet, if you must know

My fault.  I didn't wear my heart on my sleeve in the 80s, just my Izod collars turned up.  So when Valentine's Day 1989 rolled around and we had dinner at the one and only table for two in front of the fireplace at a romantic Italian restaurant, and we watched my favorite romantic movie (Somewhere in Time--don't even get me started), and I got on ever-romantic bended knee and proposed marriage, I think I jolted that temporary discombobulation out of Mari for good.

When the 25th anniversary of this most special occasion approached, I began trip planning and list making in deepest romantic earnest.  My initial plan was to surprise Mari with a weekend at Notre Dame and a repeat fireside dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant in Mishawaka, Indiana. Unfortunately, our romantic restaurant had closed and that Midwest winter of 2013-2014 was proving to be ridiculously cold with daily high temperatures in the region barely above 5 degrees.  Undaunted, I refused to deprive my wife of an over-the-top decadent romantic surprise.  Several days of exhaustive internet searches and transactions later confirmed that I was ridiculous (Mari's word), that I was more in love than ever, and that I would have almost as good a surprise for Mari as I had 25 years prior.

It's tough to beat a

surprise proposal.

I was able to keep my surprise until a few days before our scheduled departure.  I have trouble keeping secrets from Mari (I guess that's a good thing?) and when it started getting to the point that I was bending the truth about details of our trip to her and her parents, I had to come clean.
I also didn't want Mari to pack for 5 degree weather when the weather at our actual location was about 50 degrees.  So I confessed one evening after dinner with her parents (during which I had promised to buy something for them at the campus bookstore) that I was taking her to Notre Dame for the anniversary of our proposal, but not the Notre Dame she was expecting.

A few days later we were on the Pont des Arts pedestrian bridge after (finally!) an in-depth tour inside Notre Dame.  At top, we are attaching our inscribed souvenir "love lock" to the railing like a couple of silly teenagers in love.  Gotta do it.  It's so amazing to be connected for so long to someone who shares my love and passion for so many things, especially travel.

Our 25th engagement anniversary included another walking tour, albeit shorter and less meandering than our initial visit to Paris together. Above are a few more photos of our Valentine's Friday.

At The Louvre, lots of red heart-shaped balloons were passed out to visitors waiting in line on that drizzly Friday.  Mari and I decided to forgo another abbreviated two-hour tour and instead ventured out to have some tea and treats at a beautiful Ladurée location in the Madeleine shopping district just north of the Place de la Concorde.  We had discovered the artfully sweet confections of Ladurée, a colorfully charming pastry shop, during our previous Paris weekend visit near our hotel, and had planned on warming (and sweetening) up at the Madeleine location before continuing on our way.  Not pictured are the mini tarte tatin, pistachio eclair, and multicolored macarons that temporarily graced our tea table.

If you visit the exquisitely beautiful site

laduree.com/en_int/#

you may just be tempted to make a weekend visit yourself.

More romantic treats (including another surprise proposal) next time.

Paris, episode 6. In which Les Puces' the thing.

I blame a lot of my eccentricities on my mom, including those that have to do with her (my) collecting (hoarding) habits.  I'm also eternally thankful for her dedication to and appreciation for good taste and fine quality.  I wish I had inherited her gene for obsessive housekeeping, but I will forever have fond memories of "helping" my mom dust her treasured dust-collectors and polish our rarely-used dining furniture on Saturdays.  From my adult perspective I'm not so sure I was helping as much as staying out of her way, but I did keep the collectibles and the cabinets that housed them polished to a fine lemony glow.  The living and dining room cabinets and tables were off limits except for "company" and for those Saturday mornings when Mom and I attacked the dust that dared gather since our last weekly barrage.

I think my mom would have liked this first piece I purchased at the
Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen back in July of 2012.  I don't (exactly) have a mortar and pestle collection, but I do use a mortar and pestle in the kitchen regularly for grinding spices and blending herbs.  That one is nice, too, but definitely not freakin' French floral fancy!  We'll speak more about my kitchen collectibles another time as soon as the dream kitchen emerges from the three-month cloud of construction dream dust.

Okay, gotta fess up.

I confess that there is actually another decorative mortar and pestle on a bathroom shelf that holds Q-tips and a styptic pencil that is used when I'm in a hurry to shave on work mornings (on days when I wake up realistically too late to shave but realize I may be mistaken for an escaped convict if I don't). Three does not a collection make.  (Does it?!)  Regardless of its place in the larger scheme, this 3" diameter French hand-made and hand-painted mortar with matching pestle has been a favorite of mine since first sighting on a crowded table outside one of the most crowded fleamarket stalls I had ever seen.  Don't know how it reached my collector's gaze through all that knickknack haze, but it did and it was a perfect picked souvenir that Saturday morning.  Even more than its colorful detail and gilded embellishments, I like its heft and its promise:  the wide rim and pour spout inviting regular use by a more experienced and willing hand than mine, but satisfied to lie beautifully in wait until its utility is appreciated as much as its beauty.

This was Mari's first piece picked at Les Puces.  If you recall, it's not her first Lea Stein pin and it's not the first cat pin, either.  I still haven't retraced our steps back to that first one, but some day, dear reader, some day.

This was an easy pick for Mari for the designer, colors, subject, and especially because this delicate 3" by 2" hand-crafted creature looks so much like our sweet Mamita who we always imagine curled up so in repose on a favorite (down-filled) cushion while we travel the world in search of more collectibles for her to investigate (and terrorize) upon our return.

Below, Mari is patrolling the colorful rows of the antiques market on that spectacular sunny Paris Saturday.  Note the market map (previously pictured) posted at left, one of many triangulated intersections leading the way to more treasured temptations.

We felt a bit intimidated on this first visit, of course.  It's Paris, after all, and it's purportedly the largest antiques fleamarket in the world. All that and we're ultimately just tourists.  Mari's French was helpful in making contact and initiating negotiations, but many dealers speak English and there is always someone available shopping or selling nearby who is able and willing to translate.

I can't remind you enough that the world is full of friendly people.  A simple greeting to a weary vendor who has waited all morning for the right collector to wander by opens doors of communication you can't begin to imagine.  Enjoy the flea experience as much as you enjoy the collecting and that picked porcelain mortar and pestle or celluloid crouching cat will mean the world to you even if you didn't travel the world to find them.  (It's even more fun if you did, though.)

We're not going to leave Les Puces just yet.  This second visit to Paris was a three-night visit which was purposely planned to coincide with the flea.  We weren't just all about the flea, however.  Mari wanted to take me to Versailles which she had visited during her high school trip.  Here we are out back looking like we own the place.

We don't own the place.

One of my favorite travel photos. Thanks again to all the fellow tourists who have exchanged cameras with us!

On this visit we also spent a relaxing early evening on a narrated cruise tour which departs from the Eiffel Tower and highlights over a dozen Paris monuments and locations.  We especially enjoyed cruising at sunset when the temperatures were a bit cooler and the lights were beginning to come up over the City of Lights as we made our way back to a twinkling Eiffel Tower an hour later.

Visit the site for details on a variety of itineraries and lots of helpful information, including downloadable brochures.

bateauxparisiens.com/english.html

We return to Paris de nouveau for a stereotypically-touristy (and fleamarkety!) Valentine's weekend next time.

Paris, episode 5. In which we make an Olympic return to the city of lights.

After that first walk through Paris together, Mari and I knew we would return.  At least we hoped we'd have another opportunity to visit Paris and definitely hoped that it would last long enough to pack a change of clothes.  Such an opportunity unexpectedly presented itself as I planned our mad-capped Olympics adventure for London2012.  In a previous post (May 2, 2015, Olympics) I attempted to translate into words my exasperated disappointment when I received tickets to only two events after my initial ticket request from CoSport.  Even after we eventually accumulated tickets to additional events, it became clear that there would be a large gap in our planned (painstakingly precisely planned!) two-week itinerary.  With event tickets only available during the second week of the Olympics, what was a slightly (slightly is what I tell the authorities) obsessive list-maker slash travel-planner to do?  Not what I expected, either, because I took our initial two-week London itinerary and turned it into a three-week UK-Ireland-Paris itinerary.  Not one to dwell on disappointment or half-empty glasses of water, I looked upon this once-in-a-lifetime trip across the pond to fulfill a childhood dream as an opportunity to explore even more dreams.

More on our UK-Ireland tour and week at London2012

(including fleamarketing!) in upcoming posts, I promise.

I know.  I know how incredible it was to have this "problem" to solve.  Nothing is ever taken for granted, trust me.  That's exactly why I embraced the opportunity to visit more of the United Kingdom (and Ireland!) and embraced even harder the chance to revisit Paris which, if you recall, is a mere two-and-a-half hour Chunnel ride away.  Also, if you recall, Les Puces de Saint Ouen is a weekend fleamarket, so we made it a peremptory point to be in Paris on our first full weekend.  

We're nothing if not very serious about fleamarket travels.

Our second visit to Paris together may have begun with a partially-submerged train again, but instead of a wearying wend through ancient avenues with a small backpack and borrowed souvenir map, Mari and I found ourselves wheeling ginormous (American abroad alert!) luggage laden with a three-week supply of (mostly wrinkled) creature comforts.  Of those three weeks, however, there would be three weekend nights in Paris and weekend means fleamarket.

During this first weekend trip to Paris, Mari and I (of course) visited the Eiffel Tower again, took an evening sightseeing cruise along the Seine, visited Versailles (a revisit for Mari), and (best for last?) experienced Les Puces for the first time.

I was hanging about halfway out our hotel window to capture this shot of my favorite Paris landmark, but what a view!  I'm going to go out on another limb and highly recommend the Fraser Suites Claridge, too, for its unbelievably scenic central location and thoroughly accommodating service. July 2012 was the first of two weekend stays for us at this beautifully restored and maintained hotel; its luscious location, abundant amenities, and solicitous staff all first-rate reasons for repeat visits.  The full kitchen with dining area (and nearby grocery) were helpful in controlling our budget, but this was definitely a splurge.

Visit the site for temptingly beautiful photos and to sign up for special offers.

paris-claridge.frasershospitality.com/en

Before I get too far ahead of myself (or is it too far behind if this is a flashback?) or too wrapped up in details (I know, I like details), let me share with you our first Paris flea photo.

Yes, really.

I may be un peu (okay, maybe a lot more than un peu) sentimental, but this photo really captures for me the essence, not only of the antiques market at Les Puces, but fleamarket essence itself.  It's not shiny and new.  It's not pristinely sorted and organized.  It is, however, overflowing with the past. It is casually cluttered with well-worn and well-loved second and thirdhand goods of all tempting types and from all groovy and non-groovy eras.  Just makes me want to dive in (or at least belly flop)!

The far north end of Les Puces de Saint Ouen, which houses the meanderingly browsable network of antiques merchants, is a fleamarketer's and antiques lover's dream.  It is impossible to completely cover this shopping mecca in one visit (or one blog post), so I will return with you next time when Mari and I will share with you our first purchases at the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen.

Paris, episode 4. In which we walk no more.

I usually spend much of our travels not with fleamarketing tote in hand, but with trusty video camera strapped to my right hand.  Sometimes I forget it's there and that makes for some interesting "raw" footage when I'm downloading and editing back home.  Our walking tour of Paris was the first iMovie project I completed (and certainly not the last!) and was also the first I shared with students.  I had one particular class that 2006-2007 school year that was absolutely fascinated that I was traveling abroad during Spring Break, especially that I was spending "just" a day in Paris.  The boys wanted proof when I returned and the girls demanded pictures.  About two weeks of editing and tinkering (and a little bit of fussin' and cussin' at the computer) later I was able to meet the demands of that smallish (about 15) lunch-hour class, which had become one of my most favorites after 17 years of teaching, with my 20 minutes of Paris iMovie fame.

Even when Mari and I are fleamarketing, as you are (visually) well aware, I still have one hand strapped to a camera most of the time.  Unfortunately, there was no time for fleamarketing on this first Paris adventure, but there was plenty of browsing, especially during that stretch of the Champs-Elysees beginning at the Arc de Triomphe.

With limited time, Mari and I knew we weren't in Paris that day to shop, but souvenirs still somehow found us along the way of our pedestrian antics.  We don't typically buy souvenirs that mark our travel territory by proclaiming our love for cities or miniaturized memento monuments (with or without simulated swirling snowflakes), but instead try to return home with items unique to our traveled location. Typically, I like to buy a piece of art which will eventually find a place on the "travel gallery" wall in our home's entryway.  While a Monet or Matisse would have made a very lovely addition to the travel wall, I wasn't going to risk a life sentence (or two!) in a French prison for the sake of sentimental home decor.

Mon Dieu!

Instead, Mari and I were excited to find local vendors, craftspeople, and artists selling a wide array of souvenirs (and books!) along the Right Bank of the Seine as we completed the final mile of our walking tour.  I was also thrilled to find this colorful 9" x 12" print for all of 3 euro (I purchased a twin souvenir for my map-lender colleague, completing a deux-for-cinq euro bargain in the process).  Although not a Louvre masterpiece, our (now) matted and framed albeit inexpensive souvenir displays proudly, a colorful reminder of an equally vivid day.

Upon exiting the Louvre, we made our way along the Seine this last mile to the final stop on our 10-hour tour, La Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris, previously pictured (episode 1) by way of a vacationing Kentucky couple.  At right is a final parting shot as the sun set serenely on our (very long) day.


An unfavorable alignment of church services, interior repairs, and limited time kept us from venturing much further into the cathedral than barely beyond the foyer, but the comforting reassurances of the cathedral's six plus centuries more than mollified any anticlimax I may have felt.

I also knew we'd be back some day.

For the present, I had discovered another city that doesn't sleep although this travel documentarian was ready for a two-and-a-half hour Chunnel-lulled nap.  After digitally immortalizing a few final views of our beloved Notre Dame, Mari and I straggled to a nearby metro stop and back to the Eurostar station at Gare du Nord.  Still, we couldn't help but capture this exquisitely detailed lamp post above the street entrance to the metro.

I rather like this final photo I took at the station while we waited, crispy (tuna and tomato stuffed) baguette lying in wait for train sustenance.  Like I said, no time for fine dining during a 10-hour tour of Paris, but our taste buds (and shopping buds!) would eventually have their day.

Our first weekend...

weekend = fleamarketing!

...in Paris next time.