When I first studied French, way back in middle school, I was enchanted with the photos of Centre Pompidou in my text book. Such a fun word to say, Pompidou! Pomp-eee-dew! What would normally be the innards of a building were placed on the outside, spearheading contemporary architecture in Paris in 1977. The color-coded escalators (red), air ducts (blue), water pipes (green) and other bits run along the exterior. Located in one of Paris’ oldest neighborhoods, it’s wildly avant-garde. Like the Eiffel Tower before it, the center was controversial and maligned by Parisians. And like the Eiffel Tower, Centre Pompidou is one of Paris’ most beloved treasures.

Imagine the surprise on my first night in Paris when not three minutes outside my door I ran right into it! So incongruous, this city. Approaching my apartment I’m on a small alley from the middle ages. Turn the corner and wham! A giant museum complex. Paris, I want to put you in my pocket. Or climb inside yours.

The special exhibition at the Pompidou is a retrospective of Louise Bourgeois, a French artist (who has lived and worked in New York for much of her life) to whom my friend (the painter/absinthe maker/mad scientist) Jennifer first introduced me. This is her mixed-media piece of Bourgeois, you should buy it. How lucky I am to be here during this exhibit. I felt so calm surrounded by Bourgeois’ art. I can’t even go into it; read more here and here.

Today I’m sticking pretty close to home because I woke up at 2 p.m. Last night I had a hell of a time sleeping. I went to a rock show at La Mechanique. Upstairs it’s a crowded bar with “wild DJ’s” (according to the flyer). Downstairs, in some sort of ancient tunnel-cave, is the club. I saw a garage rock band called The Maggots. Their encore was “Louis, Louis.” Hearing the French people sing along was hilarious. I departed the bar while it was still crowded, telling new friends “Je suis fatigue” (I am tired). When I got home I was super-pooped. And awake until 7 a.m. Oy! If you’ve ever been unable to sleep after taking an Ambien, you will understand the state I was in. Le bull-sheet, as the French say.

Paris, today we are in love.

What a beautiful day, sunny and crisp. As I made my way down Avenue Montaigne, listening to Dimitri From Paris on my iPhone, I noticed a well-dressed older gentleman turn his head my way. We were waiting to cross the street and I smiled. He stepped toward me and said something I didn’t hear. I pulled out my headphones. “Excusez-moi madame, mais vous-êtes une femme très jolie!” (Excuse me madame, but you are a beautiful woman!) I thanked him and he said something I didn’t understand. “Je parle en peu de français ” (I speak a little French). He asked “Vous-êtes anglais?” (Are you English?). “Non, je suis américain.” He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. “Oh, américain! Oui!” The light changed and as I entered the crosswalk he called out “Jolie! Très belle!” I’d been feeling invisible and his compliment made the sun shine brighter.

It’s a funny little block where I’m staying. It’s located between two winding side streets and has lots of foot traffic. There’s a goth bar, a bear bar and a sushi joint that fills up with lesbians in the evenings. Late last night someone was cranking Barbra Streisand; I’m guessing it wasn’t the goths. As I write this opera drifts through the window and it’s twilight. I’m eating duck pâté and polishing off the rest of the yummy €4 Beaujolais. I wanted to taste the French version of inexpensive wine, and dear readers it blows most of the $15 corner-store California reds out of the barrel.

I’ve been eating well but rarely finishing my plate. Memorable comestibles thus far: the escargots and osso bucco of my first dinner in Paris; the croissants and espresso at the corner cafe; the Nutella crepe I devoured on my walk home from the Metro. I’ve received some wonderful recommendations and will start crossing them off toute suite.

I’m sure my written French is atrocious but I’m going for it anyway. À bientôt!

Wow, Paris. Le Gullywasher! After a series of missteps this morning, I set out once again for Musée Galliera. And I still didn’t find it! I was close, so close, walking down Champs Elysées with l’Arc de Triumphe at my back. I took the metro to the correct station, Frahnc-lynn Rooose-vel, as the recording said (that’s FDR to us ‘mericans). And then la pluie. Merde!

I got lost and totally soaked. I ran into all sorts of things that, in different weather, I would have been overjoyed to see. The Christian LaCroix boutique, the ridiculous window displays at Pierre Cardin, the Chloe office headquarters. But! The rain! I didn’t dare take out my camera. It was raining so hard I needed waders. I was using an umbrella and the ends of my hair got wet. I had to hold the umbrella low to keep somewhat dry, which made it hard to follow street signs. Which, by the way, are on the sides of buildings.

So tomorrow, dear readers, keep your paws crossed that the third time’s the charm for me and that damn museum. The fashion exhibit ends Sunday. I have a good map now (no thanks to you, iPhone) and my route is planned. If it’s still pouring tomorrow I’m going to buy a clear umbrella so I can see where I’m going.

Today was trying but I’m keeping my spirits up. Thanks, Beaujolais.

Busted cork in Quincampoix, waitin’ for the heat / Feelin’ near as faded as my jeans…

Bon soir, mon chers! Day deux in Paris was fun. After flooding my bathroom and fighting back a militant indoor pigeon at the cafe I set out for an exhibit of 1919-1929 fashion at the Musée Galliera. Which I did not find. I ended up at the Louvre, happy as a pig in poop. I saw Mona Lisa, who is tiny (on account of being cut out of her frame by art thieves through the years) and behind glass and quarantined from the masses. Seeing The Young Martyr was fantastic. She may be my favorite painting of all time, on that list of favorite paintings with 20 works tied for the No. 1 slot. I hear she looks like me.

After a few hours at the Louvre I deftly avoided getting museum-head and set out for more adventure. I walked along the Seine River, then I crossed it. I pondered the beheading of Marie Antoinette and stood frozen when I saw the golden statues on the Pont de Alexandre III. I ducked into a cafe to get out of the rain and ate some dee-vine oysters. Oh my stars, they were so delicious and unlike the kind we have in Northern California. And my waiter, he loves San Francisco — or as he said, “Freeeesco!”

My apartment is tres mignon. It’s in a 16th century building which explains why the light switches are in the most nonsensical places. They just didn’t think things through back then. Looking to turn off the light in over the couch? The switch is in the foyer. The switch near the couch? That turns on the light in the kitchen. The apartment is on the fifth floor so thank dog there is an elevator. Just don’t try to turn around in there because you will get stuck. And speaking of the common areas of this building, the lights are usually off. There are lit switches in the hallways but don’t press those — they’re doorbells. If you ring one you’ll find yourself hurtling down the stairs like Helen Keller trying to get away from possible angry neighbors. If you’re looking for light try the switches that do not light up. And the stairs, lawsy, the stairs. I will take photos for you because you will not believe me. They were designed by Picasso during his Cubist period.

Things I have learned about myself:
* My body does not register hunger when I’m jet-lagged.
* I lose all ability to speak any semblance of French when I’m hungry (”Je voudrais uhhhh table for one please, merci duh”).
* The riot police in France look like models. There was some sort of protest today, it made me feel like I was home.
* Blood sausage is not that bad; it’s kind of good if you don’t look at it when you chew.
* I sure am glad the restaurant ran out of the deer mousse before I arrived; I thought I was ordering fish. Praise Jesus for that food shortage.
* If you think you’re going to break the cork off into the wine bottle when you’re unscrewing it, you will. Guar-an-tee.

And special big thanks to the guard at the Louvre who let me stand off to the side and take the self-portrait with my girl Mona Lisa. He denied a bunch of peeps but let me by. Thanks, bro!

This is the facade of my building on Rue Quincampoix. I arrived in Paris this morning. I wandered a bit today, staying in Le Marais district. I’m kind of tired and the clock says it’s dinner time. More tomorrow, dear readers.

For those who wonder what it’s like behind the scenes here at Chez Rheinmore or questioned our formula for domestic success, it’s mostly about fried chicken and dogs. Starring me and Moxie and our friend Lucy, the Basset Hound. Narrated by Ted. Camera work by Ted. First Grip, Ted.

Remember back in middle school those students who pretended to have read the book but didn’t and went ahead with their oral reports anyway? Remember how embarrassing it was to hear their five-minute summary of the first chapter as though it was the entire plot line? Yeah. That’s how I feel hearing President Bush talk about the war in Iraq. He didn’t read the book.

Also, in case you forgot, the U.S. is involved in two wars: Iraq and Afghanistan. Some folks consider both battles to fall into The War On Terror banner, despite the fact that Iraq and Afghanistan are separate countries and the wars started at different times (Afganistan: First!). Fun fact: Iraq and Afghanistan do no share any borders; they are separated by possible War On Terror recruit Iran. At least, I think that’s what the Cliffs Notes says.

1. Devising a bed for Moxie that looks like she’s sleeping in a matchbox. The other night I covered Moxie with a dinner napkin, prompting Ted to say it was similar to wee cartoon creatures sleeping in a matchbox.

2. Sewing a week’s worth of wide-legged resort pants, made of lightweight linen or seersucker, to wear on tropical vacations. Imagine the sun and humidity without the exposure or thigh-chafing!

3. An organizational system for the linen closet. I can’t say much about the closet other than it’s funny-shaped, contains piles, and sometimes I have to stand inside a box to reach something from the back shelves.

4. Pillows for the couch, all covered in cotton barkcloth featuring different botanical prints.

5. Daily sit-ups and push-ups. It’s not that I don’t do them, it’s just that I forget to do them.

6. Overalls for Moxie with four rolled-up pant legs and a cut-out for her tail. Refer also to No. 1.

Do you have any Parisian recommendations? Spill it.

I know to stretch my trip to the Lourvre during the course of a few days. I’ve been tipped off that the Picasso and Rodin museums are not to be missed. I bought a fantastic book about the markets of Paris and Polly gave me a dee-vine book about Parisian walks. I want to check out the catacombs and eat escargot. I will shop at Colette and seek out l’histoire de couture. I may hop a train to Nantes and see the Extra Action Marching Band at the IDEAL Music Festival.

So, dear readers, what do you know? I’m going to keep a travelogue here; check in and follow along won’t you?

Madonna is in the Rock’n’ Roll Hall Of Fame. That’ll make you feel old.