Paris Werewolves

"Nest in Liaigre" (2023), Tadashi Kawamata, 8th Arr. What more can you say? Curiously, though just a block away from the frou-frou shops of the Champs-Elysées, no one else seemed interested enough at that moment to snap a photo.  Or maybe because it's just a block away from the frou-frou shops of the Champs-Elysées.

The posing tourists and glamour girls are gone. All that's left on the Champ de Mars is fog, drizzling rain and mud. Out of sight are a handful of the usual guys who hang around trying to sell cheap, tower-shaped trinkets and twinkling tchotchkes to the thousands of picnickers who crowd the lawns every day and night, all summer long. Today they have added umbrellas to their inventory. There are not many customers.  In Paris, where there are always lots of people everywhere, all the time, dozens of people would be the same as none. On the Champ de Mars, hundreds is the same as none. Elsewhere in Paris, it was Toussaint , a national holiday coinciding with the Catholic Feast of All Saints. Traditionally, French people visit cemeteries on Toussaint, sprucing up the resting places of their deceased loved ones and ancestors--in a way, getting out in front of All Souls a day early. Or you could do what I did: brave the throngs of tourists up the Buttes de Montmartre and wait in line for ...

Reproduction of Ligier Richer's "Transi de René de Chalon" (1547), La Cité de l’Architecture et du Patrimoine, 16th Arr.  During the Renaissance period, transis --so-named because they showed the transition of mortal remains in the process of decomposition--became a fashion in burial art. One of the most evocative is the transi of René de Chalon, Prince of Orange, who was mortally wounded during the defense of Saint-Dizier (now part of the Haute-Marne department) in 1544, and who died soon after at age 25. Rather than opt for a heroic memorial, the Prince requested to be represented as a cadaver, in the same manner as his father and uncle who held the title before him. Originally, the cadaver's left hand held aloft the Prince's desiccated heart. At the time, burying nobles' body parts in separate places was a common practice, to better distribute the great person's glory. However, at some point, the heart went missing. The theft was blamed on that traditio...

"Le Martyre de Saint Denis" by Léon Bonnat (1880), Pantheon, 5th Arr. Saint-Denis was the first Bishop of Lutece (now Paris), sent by Pope Fabian to convert the Gauls to Christianity in the 3rd century BCE. His efforts apparently annoyed some of the local pagan clergy, who complained to the Roman governor, who was already dealing with an ambiguous edict from Emperor Decisus regarding the status of non-ancestral Roman deities. Maybe it was all just a big misunderstanding, but it resulted in Denis and two companions getting dragged up to the highest hill in town and beheaded. That hill is now named Montmartre, a portmanteau for "martyr's mountain." What happened next must certainly have annoyed the original plaintiffs: Denis picked up his head, cradling it in his arms while preaching a sermon on his way back down the hill. The spot where he finished is now the site of Basilique Cathédrale de Saint-Denis . Saint-Denis, exterior of Cathédrale Notre-Dame, Reims Catho...

The baptism chapel of Église Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, 9th Arr. If you've attended (or participated in) a baptism that welcomes a baby into the Catholic church, you will have noticed that the priest's language explicitly rebukes Satan, asks the child's parents and godparents to do the same, and offers prayers that the child can be freed from original sin. This is in fact a ritual of exorcism. But don't expect the spookshow popularized by William Peter Blatty's 1971 novel The Exorcist , and reinforced by countless derivative (mostly bad) films, books, TV shows, and sham documentaries. No levitating babies with spinning heads or speaking backwards in ancient Aramaic--just a mass celebrated with family and their friends. If you do experience otherwise, I don't need to advise you to contact a young priest and an old priest. You've seen the movies. You know the routine. Even knowing that baptism is a lower-case exorcism, the upper-case Exorcist book and movie casts...

"Cavalier fantôme," Coulée Verte René-Dumont, 12th Arr. Along the Coulée Verte René-Dumont in Paris' 12th Arr., the concrete dividers separating the bike and pedestrian lanes have been given over to street art. The coulée's gardens and path run along the lines of a decommissioned freight railroad. It's not clear if the barriers are part of the city's public art plan for the park, or if they were simply an irresistible canvas for local artists. Some works seem commissioned, others seem renegade. You be the judge. "Faire pipi," Coulée Verte René-Dumont "Les robots sont partout," Coulée Verte René-Dumont Any road barrier in France is a potential masterpiece. Bordeaux.

La Crêperie des Lutins, Saint-Malo, Bretagne Maybe it's Bretagne's Celtic heritage, but La Crêperie des Lutins ("the elves' creperie") seemed to have a strong American Halloween motif going. There's the pumpkin sign hanging above the door, with an elf dressed as a pirate. We know that it's a pirate costume because, of course, Saint-Malo had no pirates, just corsairs . Inside the restaurant was a mural of fairies, elves and other forest spirits, and small figurines of pointy-hatted witches were sprinkled throughout the place. In spite of all this kitsch, it was a good place to eat, with bowls of locally made cider and crispy galettes (savory crêpes stuffed with ingredients such as cheese, ham, onions and mushrooms; basically omelettes wrapped in wafer-thin buckwheat pancakes instead of eggs). This was pretty much the menu of 90% of the restaurants inside the walls of Intra-Muros, Saint-Malo's old town. But visitors to Bretagne expect crêpes, cider, oyst...