Between the point and shoot and the DSLR are the "Prosumer" cameras. The ones with big zooms have the advantage of not having to change lenses, and their lenses tend to be lighter than the interchangeable ones that are used with DSLR cameras. I switched in 2008 from Canon SLR to a Panasonic DMC-FZ18 because it lightened up my load with little change in the quality of the pictures--at least not for the type of photography I do. The cost of a DSLR is still considerably higher than a "Prosumer" camera. With a single fixed focal length lens, the DSLR will cost about $500, and a good zoom will cost about as much. The new Canon S90 currently retails for $400 with a zoom that goes from 28mm to 520mm (approx.).

These pictures of Burgundy were taken mainly with a SLR camera, except for the Guedelon series which was taken with my Panasonic.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/...7622755059630/

It is time to go to the circus. I meet Sue and Moo outside and pick up our tickets in the lobby. We are sitting in the front row, inches from the circus ring. Ida and her three friends are two rows behind us. There is a cage set up just inside the ring. I do not remember this from my prior visit to the circus a few years ago. Sue and Moo say they find the bars between them and the action reassuring.

The first act is the lion tamer. As the first lion comes into the ring he calls out, “Assieds!” Really? That’s what you say to a lion? Sit? There are young circus employees crouched in the aisles, and I guess they are spotting, although I can’t imagine what they would do if anything happened. The young woman crouched next to me suddenly groans and makes a face. A few seconds later it is clear to me why- the lion on the stool right in front of us has farted. The smell soon reaches Sue and she also makes a face and groans.

Eventually the lions move on and the air clears. Then they take down the cage. Sue and Moo are looking apprehensive. I guess they felt safer being so close to the animals when they were behind bars. It wasn’t the animals they should have been afraid of.

One of the next acts is the llamas. They have sort of stupid looks on their faces as the lady with the whip has them jumping over things. I’m thinking as they run around the ring, “the one-L lama, he's a priest, the two-L llama, he's a beast, and I would bet a silk pyjama there isn't any three-L lllama.” I must be pretty distracted because I miss it when the llamas get out of sync and the llama lady loses control of her whip and it goes flying out of her hand.

At this point I am the one with the stupid look on my face. I don’t see the whip coming. It misses my face by inches and crashes into my seat. One of the circus guys is standing next to me. He grabs the whip and throws it back to the llama lady. He says to me, “Vous avez de la chance!” I’m lucky indeed. I’m still just laughing; I have no idea how close it came to my face.

At intermission, the llama lady comes rushing up to me and speaking so fast I can’t understand what she is saying. I say so and she switches to English, apologizing profusely. I don’t even recognize her at first, without her costume (and her whip). I reassure her that I am fine, that it was not serious, “pas grave”, and she looks relieved.

Meanwhile, one of the guys setting up the flying trapeze apparatus is chatting up Moo. “Where are you from?” “Rhode Island, where are you from?” “Oklahoma. They don’t have anything like this in the States,” he says. And then he disappears before Moo has a chance to ask him how he ended up in the circus in Paris.

The intermission ends, the band starts to play, and the dancers come down to the ring. “They realize their costumes don’t cover their butts, right?” Sue says. The master of ceremonies announces the flying trapeze act. It is the one hundred fiftieth anniversary of the creation of the art of the flying trapeze right in this building, by Jules Léotard, the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Out steps the current daring young man, in his spangles and handlebar moustache.

It’s Mr. Oklahoma.

We figure that’s why he was setting up the apparatus. You’d want to make sure it was done just right if you were going to do a triple leap into the arms of someone hanging upside down from it. The look on Moo’s face is priceless as he goes climbing up the ladder, which is essentially in my lap. “That’s him, that’s the guy I was talking to.”

There are all sorts of amazing acrobats in the circus. There is the woman who climbs the rope and has muscles that look like ropes all up her back. There are musical clowns who play everything from saxophones to toilet tanks.

When the quick-change artists come out, we keep thinking the woman has stripped down to an outfit that couldn’t possibly conceal anything else, but there are always more outfits. The couple promenade around the ring, and the man grabs my hand and plants a big wet kiss on it.

And then the circus is over. Ida and her friends loved it. They were far enough away so they didn’t smell the lion fart or get hit by any flying weapons.

We all walk to the brasserie Chez Jenny, near Place de la République, where I have reserved a table for the group. We are joined by two more women, the daughter and daughter’s friend of one of the older women, who have spent a day and a night with a friend in Alsace and are coming from the Gare de l’Est.

We are seated at a large table with nobody near us. I can’t say I blame them. The waitstaff are very helpful and even offer to give us all separate checks. There are oysters and choucroute and strudel, and everyone is in fine spirits. One of the ladies asks for whipped cream. I can’t remember the word for whipped cream. The waiter eventually asks, “Chantilly?” Yes, that’s it. He brings an enormous dish of it. Moo starts singing Chantilly Lace.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Aw, poor lion.

Nikki...what a sweet surprise to tune in and get your lively report AND to see Rue Mornay is still its enchanting self. Love your pictures and your prose. I shall savor your report in depth. BTW you can see the stables from the bedroom of Mme. P.'s flat, and we often heard them neighing. What a wonderful neighborhood...and what a wonderful report by you. Merci, Sue....we stayed there in April 2008

Oh no, the circus. I'm going to have nightmares about it tonight.

Thursday morning I head to the Collège de France for a course entitled “What is a book?” I have trouble following the lecture, which is much less well attended than the previous one. The professor starts out by talking about literary theories of Michel Foucault, which I am sort of following because of a literary theory class I have been listening to on podcasts. But then we are in the fifteenth century and talking about medieval archives and I am lost.

I have lunch at the little restaurant next to the apartment, Au Vieux Paris, 6 rue Mornay. It is bustling with people in business attire. There is a formule for eleven euros. Museau in vinaigrette, tomates farcies. The cooking is plain and home-like. This is the first place I have eaten where one retains one’s silverware between courses. Almost everybody is paying for their lunch with meal vouchers. I do a little research and learn that many French employers give workers vouchers for lunch as part of their employment benefits.

After lunch I check out the Pavillon de l’Arsenal nearby on boulevard Morland. This is an exhibit space featuring the history of urban planning and architecture in Paris. Admission is free. There are scale models of the city and explanations on wall panels. The exhibits are minimal and the seating consists of small beanbag chairs by the exhibits, which leads me to believe that the space is used for speaking to school groups. With Google Earth in my own room, the scale models are less interesting than they might have been and I do not spend much time here.

I meet Sue, Moo, and Ida for dinner at Le Pamphlet, 38 rue Debelleyme, in the third arrondissement. I have been here twice before on previous visits and really liked it. There is a menu for 35 euros, which includes appetizers, main courses, desserts, and complimentary small items. The amuse bouche tonight is goose paté. Then there is a small cup of split pea soup. My appetizer is a crispy, melty, warm camembert salad with duck gizzards. It is very good, but Sue’s house-smoked salmon on a potato crust is better. I follow up with quail on mushroom stuffing and a citrus tart with chocolate ice cream. Then they bring around intense chocolate truffles and even more intense preserved passion fruit. Everybody is happy. Moo is threatening to sing again.

I learn that the rest of the group of ten women is having trouble finding food they like. I am puzzled as to how this is possible in Paris. Evidently they have been eating when and where they get tired or hungry without any research, and they have been ending up in disappointing places and are not really satisfied with the Paris dining experience. I find this sad.

I take a taxi home from the restaurant. The driver speaks a few words to me and then heads off. I hear him speaking again: “Je t’embrasse.” I notice he has one of those things in his ear that makes people look like the Borg from Star Trek. “You’re not talking to me, right?” He looks startled. “Oh no, I wouldn’t presume!” Then realizes I am joking with him. We start to talk. He was on the phone with his girlfriend, whom he has only known for two months. He asks where I am from and I tell him Boston. Am I married? Yes, thirty years. Time for a new model then. Does he have any candidates? “Oui, moi!” “What about your nouvel amour?” Gallic shrug and a laugh. “Call me when you come to Boston.” “But I don’t have your telephone, is that what you say in English?” C’est la vie.

Friday the thirteenth, I am back at the Collège de France for a course in art history. The older lady in the elevator asks whether I attended last week’s lecture. I tell her I didn’t, that I am a tourist. She tells me she is a tourist too, but she is in Paris for a month. I don’t ask where she lives, but she is almost certainly French.

The audio/visual guy is setting up the laptop computer for the lecture and checking the microphone with someone at the back of the hall. They do a very good job here of using media. The entire building was recently renovated. This excellent large amphitheater was installed underneath the courtyard. And there is a staff to operate the electronics. The Collège de France does one of the best jobs of creating podcasts and on line courses of all the institutions I have discovered.

The room is filling. Not standing room only, but more than yesterday’s class. The first hour is devoted to written theories of art in Renaissance Florence, and the second hour is devoted to examining paintings by Giotto and two followers of Giotto’s style. I enjoy this class very much and am sorry that I will be leaving Paris the day of the next session.

Lunch is at Le Temps des Cerises at 31 rue de la Cerisae, in the fourth arrondissement not too far from my apartment. This is a tiny neighborhood corner restaurant with charming atmosphere, serving weekday lunch only. Like the restaurant I visited for lunch yesterday, it operates as a wine bar until some time in the evening and appears to attract a crowd of regulars. There is a formule for 13.50 for two courses and 15.50 for three courses. I have the paté de campagne, followed by sautéed duck with plum sauce. It is good, plain cooking. I am put off though by the uncomfortable banquette and the fact that I am sharing a table with a solitary male diner in awkward silence. Like the place next to my apartment, the silverware is kept for the second course. I hear some English here. There have been write-ups about this restaurant on English language food websites, which is how I heard about it.

In the evening I attend the Purcell opera Dido and Aeneas at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées with Ida. When she agreed to come with me to the opera in Paris, she was picturing a staged opera at the Palais Garnier, and she is a bit disappointed, I believe, to learn that it is a concert version at a different theater. But we are sitting in wonderful seats just above the stage where we can see the entire orchestra as well as the conductor’s face. I tell her about the history of the theater, in which Stravinsky premiered The Rite of Spring, which was met with riots among the audience. We both end up thoroughly enjoying the evening.

The orchestra is composed of original instruments, including what appears to be a tremendous lute. Since Dido is a short work, it is preceded by another Purcell piece for orchestra and voices, Amphitryon. After the intermission, an announcer comes out to say that the singer scheduled to sing the role of Dido has become ill backstage, and the soprano from Amphitryon will sing in her place. She does an admirable job in this “star is born” moment. But for me the show is stolen by an astounding young countertenor as a sinister spirit.

As we are getting ready to leave, a woman behind us asks whether English is our first language and tells us she thought only one of the singers did a good job of enunciating the English lyrics. She wonders whether we agree. I tell her I always have trouble understanding lyrics in any language, and in fact I had been watching the French surtitles to understand the content.

Ida and I walk to the taxi stand around the corner from the theater and get into two taxis. My driver asks me whether I attended the opera and tells me that he did also. How is that possible, it ended five minutes ago? He tells me he left before the applause. He must have had the cab stashed away somewhere nearby. We spend the ride home discussing the performance. The driver asks me whether I could understand the English lyrics easily, and I tell him the same thing I told the woman at the theater. We discuss the great performance by the countertenor and talk about music in general. I mention that I play in a community orchestra. “Where? I’ll come hear you play.”

It appears there is going to be a Parisian taxi drivers’ convention in Boston.

Just delightful, Nikki. This is a wonderful report. Merci, EJ

<i>It appears there is going to be a Parisian taxi drivers’ convention in Boston.</i>

Let me know when that takes place!

Thanks for all the continuing comments.

Anselm, I am really sorry to have missed you in Paris and hope you are having a great stay. I loved that neighborhood in the Batignolles.

Sue, so what you are saying is instead of researching the stables I should have just looked out the window. Such is life in the information age.

Saturday afternoon I take the bus to the opera house to see the ballet. An old woman with a shopping cart on the bus asks me whether it is Saturday. She looks reassured when I say it is.

I am seeing Amoveo/Répliques/Genus, a program of three contemporary dances set to contemporary scores. I can’t keep myself from thinking about the TV show “So You Think You Can Dance” and wondering what the judges would say.

This is ordinarily the kind of dance I prefer, non-programmatic and abstract. I like the first one, Amoveo, which is set to a minimalist score by Philip Glass. Minimalist music reminds me of the continuous loop playing inside my head. My husband says it gives him a headache. Welcome to my world. The second dance, Répliques, leaves me cold. I hate to think that it is because the scenery and costumes for the first dance were in bright primary colors and that the second one was pretty much all beige, but that is how I think of the dance as well.

I am not alone. After the second dance there is an intermission and the American family with a teenage girl seated in front of me looks startled to find that there is more to the program; they are ready to go home. This is possibly in part because one usher handed out the wrong programs to everyone he seated, and he goes around during intermission exchanging them for the correct programs. I make a comment. “Not a fan of minimalism?” The teenage girl looks embarrassed and I say, “Don’t worry, it wasn’t an insult.” Now the whole family is giggling like teenagers and nobody answers me. I begin to wonder how out of line I was to talk to them. Now I am the one who is embarrassed. They tell the daughter they are just going out to the corridor for intermission and the three of them leave but do not return.

I overhear another American family in the row in front of the first family discussing what the daughter’s dance teacher would have thought of the performances. Not positive, I gather. But I don’t dare say anything to anyone else.

The third work, Genus, after the intermission, is the longest, and I remember enjoying that one. I have a nice clear view of it too, with the family in front of me gone. Maybe I should chase people away at the theater more often.

For dinner tonight I meet one of my internet friends, who posts on Fodors under the name of Seafox. We corresponded several years ago about the first apartment I had rented in Paris, which he was considering. When he got there, he saw my name in the guest book and realized that we lived twenty minutes apart in Massachusetts. Soon after, he organized a get-together for other Fodors posters in Cambridge, and we drove to the event together. I had to tell my then-teenage daughters it was OK for me to drive to Cambridge with a man I only knew from the internet but that they should never do that. We decided in the car that we would leave if the event turned out to be a bore, but it was instead great fun, and we have met at several such events since then.

Seafox, a friend of his, and I meet at the Bistrot du Peintre. I order the os a moelle again, then the daily special of roast veal. One orange tart and three spoons please. The bartender is shadow boxing behind the bar. The evening is full of talk and laughter and we leave with the hopes of getting together again closer to home. This is my last social evening of the trip. I will be dining alone for my second week. As much as I am enjoying my alone time and the flexibility of choosing all my own activities and pacing myself according to my own schedule, I will miss the evenings out with friends.

I too like to initiate conversations (at shows/performances/concerts) with random neighbors when I'm traveling solo. Heck, I even do that here in Boston if I'm seeing something by myself. 99.9% of the time, we end up having a good conversation. It's fun to discuss the performance with others - and you never know whom you're going to get. He/She could be first-time concert goer, or veteran opera lover, or musician... I always enjoy hearing others' opinion of the show.

My husband, OTOH, finds my behavior really odd. "You talked to other people?!?!" is what he says to me after I come home and recount the performance.

What a lovely trip report. I haven't visited the Europe forum in ages and I am so happy that I found this first thing. Unfortunately, I am at work so the pictures will have to wait till later.

You're inspiring me to re-start my attemps to learn French. I'd love to go to lectures when in Paris. I'm sure I would have really enjoyed the Giotto lecture.

A question regarding the apartment:

The website says it sleeps 2-4, but has no mention of a bed other than the queen in the bedroom. Does the sofa convert to a bed or does it really not accommodate more than 2 persons?

The sofa does convert to a bed. When I stayed there before, my friend used it.

Sunday morning I finish rereading L’Avare (The Miser) by Molière. I am seeing this play at the Comédie Française this afternoon. I read it at home, but I didn’t bring it with me. The apartment has an interesting library, including a complete set of Molière, so I am reviewing it before I leave.

I take the métro to the theater. There is no music as I ascend the staircase today to the Place Colette in front of the theater. But as I sit outside and wait for the theater to open, the street musicians start to arrive.

There is still half an hour before the performance, so I walk to the Louvre courtyard for photos. As I walk back toward the Place Colette, I hear the Pachelbel Canon. Good, it's still not my funeral.

As I watch the performance, I am glad I reread the play. I would never have done that in college. I am beginning to recognize some of the actors in the troupe- some from the play last week and some from last year. Two of the actors playing major roles today had major roles in last week’s play as well. That seems like a hard thing to do. The plays are being produced in repertory, with showings of several different plays each week. I had assumed there would be different casts, but evidently there is some overlap. I note that several of the actors have very different takes on their characters than I had while reading.

After the play I walk to the gardens of the Palais Royal but they are boarded up for construction. As I pass the orchestra outside, they are back to Pachelbel. That decides it; I am not going to run away to Paris and play music in the street. I go back to the Louvre courtyard for some more photos, this time at dusk with the lights coming on in the pyramid.

Back in my neighborhood, I know that Chez Margot is open on Sundays, so I head there. I get there before they are serving dinner but decide to wait and have a drink on the heated terrace. A guy sitting next to me, also alone, starts to talk to me. I have dropped my silverware on the floor. He drops his lighter. “See, everyone drops things,” he tells me. He talks about the time he spent living in Virginia. We talk about flu vaccinations, the weather, and the Garde Républicaine across the street. He has friends in the Garde and says the inside of the building is beautiful; it is too bad there are no tours for visitors.

A group comes and sits on the other side of me, and a woman in the group greets my companion and has a beer sent to his table. He tells me she runs a neighborhood café around the corner. She has a little dog who is running in and out of the café. I start talking to her. It is her night off so she has come to this café for a drink with friends. I ask if she brings her dog to her own café. Of course she does, but the dog is not allowed in the kitchen. She speaks excellent English with an English accent, and I tell her I wouldn’t have known she was French. “Best compliment ever!” she exclaims, then asks if I am a French teacher. That is a pretty good compliment too. Before she leaves, she writes down the name of her café for me and I tell her I will stop by.

Everybody leaves just as I am getting my dinner. I have a smoked salmon platter and then calves’ liver before heading home for the night.

Oh, Dido and Aeneas is one of my favourite operas. I'm totally jealous AND in awe of you for attending all those lectures!

Do you know who the lead dancers were the day you went to the ballet? As an aside I have just been watching a great clip of Nicholas La Rich and Aurelie Dupont doing a pas de deux from Amoveo up on youtube (from 2006 in old costumes I think)

Wow-- Letestu, Gillot, Pech, and Gilbert all in one piece-- I'm so jealous.

Nikki and Michael,
Thanks for the camera tips--I appreciate them.

And Nikki, continuing thanks for your continuing report.