We sampled chocolates everywhere we could.  We bought truffles in shops on St. Germain and thoroughly enjoyed them all.  Then we went to Josephine Vannier’s artisanal chocolate shop in Marais, just a block or two from the Place de Vosges. At first, I thought we were passing a curio shop.  There was a guitar in the window and a saxophone.  Fertility dolls and what appeared to be some African masks, and elaborately covered books.  Then we realized the shop windows were filled with chocolate sculptures.    Inside we discovered even more goodies.

I did a double take when I saw a display of  chocolate dildos, which coincidentally had been reduced 50%, but Dean said no.   All I can say — chocolate is chocolate.  [In hindsight, I should have bought all of them.  I could have had a party and cut all of them up (but one) into individual bite sizes (no pun intended) and served them up to my guests — then held up the lone, in-tact dildo.  I really missed the boat on that one.]

Art and chocolate at the same time.  Had a car hit me just seconds earlier, and by some miracle, I actually went to heaven after all?  Here’s there link.  chocolate and art.  Go to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dome, walk the Seine and get chocolates at Josephine Vannier’s.  Go just to see their window shop display.

I don’t know who Josephine Vannier is but I wish we were close relatives. 

 Located on 4 Rue du Pas de la Mule

Watch how many people press their noses to the window.  The sales people should take photos of what we all look like as we admire their artful play on delectable chocolates.

For years, we have been going to the beloved taxidermy place called Deyrolle, located on the fashionable Rue de Bac off of St. Germain.    Deyrolle Exhibits

I say beloved because several years ago when a fire devastated this stuffed menagerie, Parisians came out in droves to help.  Afterwards, the army offered to house anything salvageable.  The renown auction house, Christie’s set up a foundation to raise funds through an auction.   Hermes created  a scarf to raise funds, and animals from other countries were donated.  All for a taxidermy place, you say?  Go there.

Deyrolle is a magical place.  Sometimes, you are looking at creatures that no longer exist.  The wood floors have signs of fire and the orangutan that I “talked to” last visit is gone.  The back room is still full of preserved butterflies and insects from places like Madagascar,  a place I probably will never see.  There are shells so outrageous that only God could have thought them up.  You are looking at beauty, never beasts even if they once could have snapped your head off.   

As we left, I spotted a side office.  A woman was working at her computer.  On her desk was a stuffed monkey and a large, regal bird.  There were other creatures scattered around her office like the rest of us stack folders and arrange photos of family.  It all made perfect sense.

Then there is  Auruoze, the pest exterminator shop on Rue des Halles, where you buy poisons to kill rats and other city vermin.   You are asking yourself.  Why does one frequent places like this as?  First of all, we stumbled on the place decades ago while  looking for a car model shop, which turns out to be next door.  It’s the window front display that grabs your attention.  Stuffed rats dancing in a circle with several other rats hanging from traps above, their necks clearly broken.

In the past we’ve always just taken photos and went next door, but this time, I ventured inside and purchased some of the old fashioned mouse traps called Lucifer.  I just know they will come in handy for an art project.  I’m thinking some kind of political satire about Congress.  Stay tuned.

Paris has flown by. Tomorrow we head home.  I will hopefully be able to work on my Paris postings during the return flight and wrap up this trip sometime next week when I am working with a real computer.

The apartment worked out beautifully, although the master bathroom was weird.  The design was so awkward.  I won’t even try to explain except to say it would bring tears of joy to an American liability attorney.  You basically take a cat walk on polished granite tiles to get to the deep, sunken tub/shower.  Getting in or out is challenging especially when the wet tiles turn the floor into an ice rink.  I think a breathalyzer test should be a requirement before venturing near that tub.  Thank God there is a powder room for answering the calls of nature in the middle of the night, because to get to the master toilet, you must use that same cat walk.

Actually, having a big tub in a Paris apartment is uncommon, and I probably wouldn’t have been such a wuz if I hadn’t fallen on my knee on the second day of our trip.  When one knee is giving you trouble, you can be guaranteed that some other body part will get jealous and retaliate, like the other knee.

We’ve eaten fresh croissants every morning.  Our white-tiled kitchen floor has drifts of flaky croissant crumbs piled in corners and under the table. A broom is in order before we turn in our keys.

101 Public Toilets.  Flushing a toilet can be a hide-and-seek game at times.  If it isn’t obvious, just stand back and look around.  It can be a  lone button on the wall, maybe plastic or an antique brass looking thing that you might pick up in a flea market and wonder what it was for.  It can be a chain hanging from the ceiling, a foot pedal, a sleek plastic, flush surfaced button that isn’t even noticeable at first glance.  Like I said, just keep looking around and you’ll figure it out. Years ago in Madrid, I went into a restaurant bathroom, a cavernous room with a lone toilet.  A light switch turned on automatically when I opened the door.  I sat down and in only enough time to say out loud, I wish I had eaten some prunes, a timer turned off the light and I was thrown into total darkness.  I spent the next few minutes feeling walls trying to find a light switch.

It’s all in the name.  Or at least one must wonder why a group of ancient people named their town Bastardo. We passed the sign on one of our road trips, which started a slew of questions. What do you call someone from Bastardo?  Bastardos or Bastardas? What do they call the mascot of their soccer team?  Sons of bitches?  Do they skip over the security question “what city were you born?”, simply because it causes too many problems?  Of course, none of these questions were obviously important enough for us to turn around and check out the town of Bastardo.

A gorgeous drive.  Originally, we were going to drive to nearby Todi, another charming hill town close to Orvieto.  Along the way, we decided to pass on Todi and head over to Spoleto to a restaurant specializing in truffle dishes.  The drive through the Martani Mountains, with occasional glimpses of a meandering river,  was inspiring. We took turns driving so we each had a chance to gaze out the window and enjoy the scenery.  The road is as curly and winding as my hair on a humid day but we both enjoyed ourselves tremendously, despite the tendency for Italian drivers to have issues with space.  Specifically, wanting to be in our space.

On the way back, we stopped at a typical country restaurant that had a view of the river and vineyards below.  We were the only tourists there.  Loved that little place.  I got a bottle of Prosecco that cost what a glass of same costs in the States.  

Oh, and one other obscure little thing that puzzles me.  There isn’t a word in the Italian language for “hangover”.  The closest thing they have is “postumi di sbornia”, which means the aftermath of drunkenness.  Doesn’t that seem odd to you?  I will admit I never saw anyone drunk in Italy, but there must have been a tourist somewhere on a beach nursing a splitting head, cursing the light of day, and swearing off grappa for the rest of their life, or at least until happy hour.  In spite of all the wonderful wine (and beer)  Dean and I sampled, I am happy to report that during our entire trip, we never had a postumi di sbornia.