In the Orsay Museum you can find a cut away of a model of the Garnier Opera House and then underneath a glass floor a model of the whole area around it.

The cut away of the opera house showing all of the incredible detail that Garnier designed and built.

The opera house under the glass floor.

A view of the opera house and the neighborhood around it. Can you see the road leading up to it? It is the only street in Paris that doesn’t have trees on it so that the view of the Garnier Opera House won’t be obstructed.

I’ve been looking into shop windows in Paris checking for Christmas decorations. I’m not sure how many are actually out but it’s starting. I always take a look in the windows of Laduree, the famous pastry and tea shop, and they didn’t look particularly Christmasy to me but, as always, they were great.

The front door has Christmas decorations.

A view of one of the windows.

I love these boxes.

These macarons are covered with gold leaf. Isn’t that little container fabulous?

The American was only half listening as her husband talked with his three relatives. She suddenly realized that he was talking about Thanksgiving in America and how unique the meal was. Then he suddenly said, “Why don’t we invite them for Thanksgiving?” And so, it was arranged.
She didn’t think the turkey would be strange to them having had them before in France. In fact, she bought one already prepared and stuffed from Picard, the frozen food geniuses of France, which she had had before. The bones are removed from the carcass so it makes easy carving when the time comes. She had never had chestnut stuffing before but liked it.
Now, what for the side dishes? She decided she had to make stuffing southern style with corn bread. There was a slight glitch when her husband asked for a piece after she had baked the corn bread and told her that is tasted like soap. She had made it from a box of Jiffy mix that she had brought from the States. It did have a strange taste but with the addition of white bread, onion, celery, lots of butter, sage and chicken broth it tasted fine. She also made creamed spinach which, in reality, she had never made for Thanksgiving before but had eaten at someone else’s Thanksgiving meal. She thought about making sweet potatoes and even adding marshmellows on top but knew the French guests wouldn’t like it. Mashed potatoes were a given, as well as some gravy. She even made a cranberry chutney, so lovely and red. And, since there were French, there had to be a salad. She made a pumpkin pie even though she had seen some sceptical faces when it was mentioned.

She had hoped to have the meal on Thanksgiving but it turned out to be a bad day so it had to be moved to Saturday. Being American, this didn’t seemed to be right but, really, why should it matter? Why did Thanksgiving have such emotional ties to it? Her first few Thanksgivings in France had been especially hard as it is such an American holiday and involves family. She had several meals with other Americans but slowly it stopped being such a necessity. She used to get a little cloud of depression as the holiday approached but finally decided to get over it and to count her blessings and the happiness she had in France with her French husband.
So the three relatives plus the French husband’s son arrived and they liked everything, even the stuffing. The only dish that got a so-so reaction was the pumpkin pie, being to sweet for French tastes and, to tell the truth, the American found it too sweet as well. Maybe her tastes had changed in her time in France.

Lunch was finished with a digestif, a liquor that the French say helps digestion. The American had never found this to be true but that didn’t stop her from having some. One of the French had brought a gift of a bottle of liquor called Mandrian Napoleon, a really great drink made of madrians along with some sugar. Maybe she should try some it in the next pumpkin pie that she made.

I just read an interesting novel called The World Beneath by Sue Miller. It’s one of those books set in two time periods, one of the grandmother and the other of the granddaughter. What I found especially interesting about it was the story of the grandmother’s time in a tuberculousis sanatarium as opposed to a sanitarium which is more like a spa. Before the advent of antibiotics the only treatment was isolating the patient in a sanatarium on strict rest, lots of fresh air and good food. In the book, the grandmother is sent to a sanatarium at a young age where she has to rest in bed, day and night, with no talking, reading or activity of any kind for three weeks. Can you imagine that? Eventually, she is allowed up, sits in the sun, eats nutritious meals and gets to know the other patients.

Besides being a good story, why I found this so riviting is that my grandfather was sent to a sanatarium for TB. He was an adult, married with children, and his doctor told him if he didn’t get to a clean, dry climate, he would die. I guess that’s why he didn’t end up in the well known sanatorium in Kentucky where he lived, but in Silver City, New Mexico. I knew this growing up but it wasn’t until a family reunion in Silver City that I learned more of the story. The sanatorium was called Cottage Sans for some reason. I never thought twice about the rather strange name-was Sans short for sanatorium? I always thought it was Cottage Sands instead.

My grandfather was quite the business man and after he moved his family to Silver City, he ended up buying Cottage Sans which was a totally self contained place with its own farm and dairy. It is a housing development now. I don’t know if my grandfather had to spend days or weeks in bed although I suspect so. What is ironic is that years later they discovered a needle in my grandfather’s lung which caused the TB symtoms. How it got there is a mystery. In any case, that’s how my family ended up in the Southwest instead of Kentucky. I was raised in Silver City until we moved in the sixth grade. A cousin told me that my grandfather ran for mayor of Silver city and won on the basis of saying he would close the local house of prostitution if elected. My cousin also said that the story, “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” was based on the same place although it’s not in New Mexico. I’ve never researched it but it sounds good on paper.

(All photos taken in Provence reminding me of clear, pure air.)

For Autumn, my favorite garden is the Luxembourg Garden. The urns overspill with mums and there are yellow leaves everywhere. I was almost too late to find any left on the trees but found a few.

A view of a curved lineup of mums in urns.

The mums don’t tumble out of the urns naturally in this fashion-there are wire frames underneath.

Alone.

This lady doing some sketching in the garden caught my eye as her jacket matched the Fall leaves.

And here she goes heading out of the park. I guess I was sort of stalking her, mainly because she was carrying some yellow flowers but she was moving too fast and at one point turned around to look at something.

Falling Autumn leaves can be seen all over Paris. I think the best place to find the beauty of Fall is in one of the large gardens of Paris, in this case the Tuleries Garden.

A look at how the trees are trimmed in military lines. The Tuleries garden doesn’t have as many trees as the Luxembourg Garden. There’s a big wide area in the middle of the garden and they were doing some paving there.

They put up a ferris wheel once a year in this area.

Some art in the fountain in the Tuleries. It looks like drum cymbals to me, being unschooled in modern art. I had gone to the Tuleries to look for some statues there but they were already gone.

Seagulls-I guess they come up the river from the ocean-taking advantage of a place to rest.

I don’t know if this man fell asleep this way or was just trying to get a tan on his throat but it looked uncomfortable.