​This trip is to be unlike previous trips to Rome when we spent a lot of time visiting heavyweight attractions like the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, the Colosseum, etc. This trip will be more laid-back, focusing on neighborhoods, some churches and museums, and (perhaps mostly) food. As for the latter, I normally scout restaurants and local specialties. This time, we are gung-ho for gelato, pizza and pasta. Much of the excitement in travel is in the anticipation and planning but much is also in eating. Here’s what I learned about gelato.

​The evolution of frozen delicacies progressed over centuries through experimentation with various ingredients and techniques. A blend of fact, legend and myth provides a rich back-story for gelato. The harvest and storage of ice in pits and houses (called Yakhchāl) goes back thousands of years in Mesopotamia and China. ​

​At some point in history, people learned that adding salt to ice both melts the ice and lowers its freezing point below 0 C (“freezing point depression”), thereby sucking heat away from and freezing objects that it surrounds. The earliest examples in Asian and Arab lands were products analogous to granita and sorbetto/sorbet/sherbet (from the Arabic word scharbat). These practices were transplanted to Sicily by Moorish overlords during the golden years of their occupation of the island between the 9th and 11th centuries. ​

​Nivaroli were persons who stored snow from Mount Etna, the Madonie mountains and elsewhere in ice houses resembling stone igloos and called neviere (“snow houses”). The Via del Ghiaccio (“Ice Road”) at Monte Cammarata in Agrigento features 15th century neviere built for snow conservation. The gathering, preservation and transport of snow (the “snow trade”) comprised a significant set of economic activities such that a common saying was: “A good snowfall saves the year.” 

​Nivaroli used snow or ice with salt to freeze a combination of water, honey, fruit or flowers. In the 16thcentury, Sicilian invention of the sherbet-maker (pozzetto) allowed separation of the ice from the sherbet base. The pozzetto was a wooden barrel with a zinc container and hand-cranked blades to freeze and texture the dessert base. Sugar eventually replaced honey as a sweetener and had other advantages as well. Egg added richness and served as an emulsifier to bind the fat and water, with the eventual inclusion of dairy with milk and cream. Ecco gelato!

​The outlines of contemporary gelato emerged during the Renaissance in Florence. Cosimo Ruggieri (died 1615), an Italian astrologer, alchemist and practitioner of occult arts, was an influential advisor to Catherine de Medici. He produced an early Fior di Latte (“flower of milk”) flavor using only milk, cream and sugar. 

​​Florentine Bernardo Buontalenti (1531-1608), an architect at the Medici court and engineer who acquired a monopoly on the import of ice and snow to Florence, advanced the gelato project further and created an egg-cream version in the mid-16th century. 

​​Catherine de’ Medici’s (1519-1589) marriage in 1533 to Henry of Orleans, the future King Henry II, ensured its presence in France. 

​Access to such delicate treats was generally limited to the wealthy. The historical record indicates the first appearance of commercially available gelato in Paris in the 17th century. Sicilian immigrant Francesco Procopio Cutò (aka Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli) introduced it in 1686 at his café Le Procope. This became a famous literary coffeehouse that today remains the oldest existing café in Paris. It was frequented by luminaries like Diderot, Montesquieu, Verlaine, & Voltaire. Cutò’s grandfather had invented a machine to produce sorbet using snow or ice and salt and Procopio adapted it for his own purposes. As a result of his marketing success, many have cited Procopio as the “Father of Italian gelato.”

Many people are unfamiliar with specific differences between Italian gelato and the ice cream that is popular in the US and other countries. While both products are frozen and dairy-based, in Italy gelato is not merely an Italian name for the same ice cream that is popular in the US. In Italy, it refers to a product with specific characteristics that owns the Italian market. The word itself, however, only means “frozen” and one can often find other “frozen” products like sorbetto and granita in the same gelateria. Italian law, however, does not protect or regulate use of the term gelato. Custom, though, can be even stronger than law. That is why the title of this post adopts “the way of” idiom to describe Italian gelato as a frozen dairy product with Italian characteristics. It is an expression borrowed from the Japanese concept of Bushido, which refers to informal (but binding) virtues and codes that apply to a specific role in life.
 
In the US, on the other hand, gelato can indeed be ice cream by another name. There are no US rules about gelato, but the FDA does have rules about ice cream that mandate minimum levels of milkfat (10%) and milk solids (20%). Since Italian gelato has 4-9% milkfat, in the US it would fall in the same category as Dairy Queen’s “soft serve” (5%). In both countries, analysis is confused by the frequent use of empty marketing terms like artigianale, naturale, produzione propria, or fatto à mano.

​To a great extent, American confusion about gelato and ice cream arises from the fact that the typical American experience with gelato is mainly with American grocery store products whereas in Italy it comes via bona fide gelaterie that dot the cityscape. In the US, the distribution system rules the roost. Gelato products sold in American grocery stores are formulated for American tastes and are held in freezers that must be kept colder than 0F (-18C). Italian gelato is best stored at 5-14F. Therefore, most US gelato is formulated so it doesn’t become a brick of ice overnight. As it undergoes this transition, it becomes similar to ice cream. American consumers also appreciate the taste and texture of high levels of milkfat from cream. 

​Consequently, gelato sold at groceries in America is not sufficiently unlike American ice cream to achieve true differentiation. It cannot replicate Italian gelato which consists only of milk, some cream, sugar and flavorings like vanilla bean, nuts, fruit and chocolate. Talenti, which is now owned by Unilever, includes ingredients that vary with the flavor but typically include dextrose, carob gum, guar gum, lecithin, natural flavor, egg yolks and egg. Some of their more complicated versions like “raspberry cheesecake,” “coffee chocolate chip” and “caramel cookie crunch” have ingredient lists as long as your arm. Even the product that Forbes magazine hailed in 2011 as the “best gelato in America” (Morano Gelato in Hanover, New Hampshire) included corn syrup, tapioca starch, and powdered milk. Another trendy operation, An’s Hatmakers in San Diego, receives attention for its far-out flavors and “from scratch” production but it is unclear how close the product is to the genuine gelato formula. One suspects, overall, that in the US the name gelato is often appropriated as marketing hype for products that approximate ice cream or other “frozen desserts.” No U.S. rules prevent it.

​The differences between real Italian gelato and US ice cream arise mainly from the nature and ratios of their ingredients and from processes that result in different taste profiles, texture, mouthfeel and health implications (fat and calories). A succinct comparison of gelato with ice cream is: gelato uses more milk than cream (a common ratio is 2:1) and therefore has less fat. Gelato may have a little more sugar and only occasionally egg. Gelato incorporates less air (called “overrun”), and is stored and served at a warmer temperature. In the US, many people make their own ice cream and there is tremendous variation in recipes but, in general, cream has a predominant role (and heavy cream at that, which at a minimum of 36% has twice the fat of regular cream) and egg yolks are common. 

​The lower fat content of gelato (4-9%) versus ice cream’s 14%-25% (and up) is due to its greater use of milk than cream and its infrequent use of eggs. The fat in US ice cream imparts richness and smoothness but coats the tongue and blurs the intensity of flavor on the palate.

​The higher fat content in ice cream makes it easier to whip at high speeds to incorporate air. Gelato is churned more slowly, resulting in less air incorporation (20-25%) than ice cream (50%+). Air gives ice cream a much larger volume and a creamy texture that ranges from dense and creamy (low air) to light and fluffy (high air). Lacking as much air, gelato is denser and heavier per unit of volume. Air is free, so ice cream with a lot of air is less expensive to make and is usually produced in large volumes that also carry economies of scale. With less air, less fat, and fewer other ingredients, gelato has a higher density of components that produce a more intense and vibrant flavor and a silky texture. It also accelerates gelato’s melting time while ice cream’s air and fat provide insulation for its other ingredients.

​The slightly higher sugar content in gelato (normally 15-20%) has several purposes. Different types of sugars (sucrose, glucose, dextrose, fructose, lactose) have different effects and they may be used in combination. Sugar’s sweetness enhances flavors. Sugar compensates for gelato’s lower fat, preventing formation of large ice crystals and achieving a soft texture. It acts as an anti-freeze, allowing gelato to be kept at a lower temperature.

​Gelato is stored and served warmer (5F to 14F) (-15C to -10C) than ice cream (less than 0F or -18C). Their respective serving tools reflect this difference: a scoop works best for colder and harder ice cream, while softer gelato can be sculpted and delivered with a spatula-like paddle (spatola). 

​Gelaterie sometimes leverage this pliable quality of gelato with showman-like presentations of molded display-case product, but one must beware such excessive displays that depend on additives. Since it’s warmer when served, gelato melts more quickly in the mouth, flooding the mouth’s taste-buds faster with flavor. Ice cream’s coldness numbs the taste buds and its fat coats the tongue, so its flavors take longer to register and are more subdued.

​As for the consumer, gelato in cups is traditionally served with a brightly colored, small plastic shovel, the cucchiaino. These are also useful for gelato in a cone, because the warmth of a tongue licking gelato in a cone will melt it even more quickly. Some gelaterie disavow the use of cones altogether in the belief they distort the flavors of gelato.

​The list of flavors in gelato stretches long but most are traditional. Fiordilatte is the plainest flavor (no eggs or vanilla, just milk). There is also crema (cream), cioccolato (chocolate), pistachio (pistachio), limone (lemon), fico (fig), nocciola (hazelnut), stracciatella (chocolate chip), and zabaglione (egg yolk, sugar, sweet wine). On the other hand, some shops are known for inventive flavors and combinations. The flavor scale for American ice cream sometimes strays into cartoon dimensions like Rocky Road and Moose Tracks.

​​That said, Italian food is regional and there are regional differences in the composition of gelato. For example, Sicilian gelato is often thickened with cornstarch. There is no regulation regarding the identity or proportion of ingredients. Even if the ratio of ingredients were identical, their origin and quality may vary and can deliver distinctive characteristics, viz: biodynamic eggs from Germany; Cinnamon from Ceylon; Piedmontese milk; Maltese goat milk; Madagascar vanilla; Vahlrona or Amedei chocolate; Pistachio from Bronte, Sicily; Almonds from Bari; and so on. Such precious ingredients and identities testify to a proprietor’s dedication and are often displayed in the shop. 

​Actually, however, many gelato shops in Italy lower the bar and mix commercially-made powder bases with water, jam and other additives, spinning the mixture in an ice cream maker. Some detection tips are useful to the consumer in evaluating the prospects of a gelateria. A visual tip-off of ersatz gelato is eye-popping neon colors that have no place in nature. Real pistachios are brown not bright green and bananas are off-white, not bright yellow. Vanilla without flecks is vanilla using vanillin instead of pods. Puffy mountains of product overflowing containers are impressive but likely contain additives since pure gelato collapses quickly and sits flat in its carapine (covered metal container). Fruit gelato that is not in season suggests the presence of artificial flavors (Gelateria I Caruso posts a seasonal “calendario gusti” on the wall). Decorative syrups or solids sprinkled over gelato like Christmas cookies are puffery that disguise inferior products. The number of flavors can also be a concern. A shop with 30 flavors needs a sufficient turnover to ensure that the product remains fresh during optimal storage no longer than 48 hours. Another tip is the serving tool. Shops using scoops may be selling lesser products that are harder and require a scoop or are trying to control the size of the servings. The spatola (spade) dramatically and generously slathers soft, silky gelato into cups or cones. Finally, a good gelateria will have a waiting line with mostly Italians in it.

​The challenge is to find gelaterie that source quality ingredients with inventive flavor combinations, good service and nice locations. Besides visual clues like those above, a savvy approach is to rely on the recommendations of experienced and trusted intermediaries like Katie Parla and Elizabeth Minchilli. They and others heartily recommend such gelaterie (in random order) as Giolitti, Gracchi, Neve di Latte, Fior di Luna, Fatamorgana, Gunther Rohregger, Otaleg, Del Teatro, Come Il Latte, I Caruso, and Frigidarium.

​After breakfast at 8 a.m., we bade farewell to our host Arnaud at the Hotel/Ferme Lamy in Périgord. We left the Sarlat region in good spirits, but they soon dissipated. It took 3 hours to get to the Bordeaux airport because traffic issues forced us through the center of town. Return of the car went quickly but our Air France (AF) flight to Paris was delayed from 2:30 to 4:00.
 
The flight delay led to chaotic final boarding in the rush to make up lost time. It resembled an evacuation. People seated in the front of the plane were instructed to enter via the normal passageway from the terminal, while those of us in the rear half of the plane were directed down two flights of stairs, across the tarmac in 90-degree heat, and up the staircase into the rear of the plane.
 
I lugged carry-on bags (each about 25 pounds) for 2 people plus a 20-pound backpack strapped to my back down two flights of stairs, across the tarmac in the heat and then stumbled up the stairway to the plane with no hands free to grab a railing. I dragged the bags up the aisle and hoisted them into bins. After collapsing in my seat, I wondered how comedic it must have seemed to the onlooking AF staff. As a passenger tasting the fruits of disorganization, though, it was less amusing.
 
The flight to Paris was surprisingly short, and scarce Sunday afternoon traffic eased our taxi into the city. Our Airbnb at the foot of Montmartre fell short of expectations from its posted images and description. The building was a typical 19th century Haussmann-style structure that combined considerable exterior aesthetic appeal with some interior awkwardness (e.g. small elevator, kitchen, etc.) that was undoubtedly aggravated over the years by apartment subdivisions and realignments. We settled in, did some quick shopping, and spent the evening with a Salade Césare and wine on the terrace of a local brasserie.

Monday is often a “lost” day in Paris since many shops and museums close for the weekly day of rest, so it’s a good opportunity to recuperate from travel and gather provisions. We generally frequent small “supermarkets” early mornings or evenings for things like water, coffee, bread, wine, and cheese. I take my backpack and stuff it with the “heavies” and we take handbags as well. It doesn’t cool off much in Paris during a heat wave (“canicule”), and in mid-summer it stays light until after 10, but it’s too hot mid-day to lug groceries. We went on our typical first-morning excursion to the local Casino market to collect basics.
 
Later, we walked to the nearby Rue des Martyrs. Elaine Sciolino depicts this famous shopping street in her book “The Only Street in Paris.” It stretches from the Boulevard de Clichy in the north to the church Notre Dame de Lorette in the south. It is one of many marvelous Paris market streets like Rue Clerc, Rue Mouffetard, Rue de Lévis, Rue Daguerre and Rue Montorgeuil. Proximity to such streets is always a criterion in our choice of location on visits to Paris. Many shops were closed, however, on the traditional Monday respite.
 
It was nice to encounter the diminutive but cute carrousel at the head of the street, although it too was silent for the day. It is fondly known to locals by the name “Le Lutin” (“The Elf”). Historically, carrousels evolved in tandem with social and technological developments. They developed as a medieval training device for knights on horseback, tossing balls and spearing rings with their lances. Eventually, they became equestrian displays like knightly parades and jousting competitions in the days of Louis XIV. Over the years, with the advent of steam power, electricity and amusement parks, carrousels became a meme of Paris with elaborate displays and carvings. Today, some 20 carrousels of both antique and modern design are scattered in various parts of Paris, often at strategic locations like the Eiffel Tower, Sacré Coeur, or the Tuileries gardens.

As we walked along the Avenue Trudaine, I was startled to snatch an unexpected and nicely-framed view of the Basilique du Sacré Coeur rising at a distance on the summit of Montmartre over a playground between the trees.

​Not only was it Monday, but it was hot and getting hotter, though mercifully not oppressively humid as it can be in Paris. We put in almost 5K steps and returned home drenched in sweat. There is nothing better to clear that away than putting your head under an overhead shower and turning the water on cold. We slugged our way through the rest of the day, cat-napping here and there, eating melon and cherries found at the market.
 
The view from our couch as I sat writing led me to appreciate that an exterior wrought-iron balcony with French doors is a feature that really “makes” a Paris apartment.

​
By mid-19th century, Paris was a crowded, fetid jumble of poor people subject to recurrent epidemics and buildings lacking running water, sewers or lighting. Twisted, narrow streets were ill-suited for carriages or wagons. Unhappy residents joined frequently in revolt.

At the time, Napoleon-Bonaparte’s nephew Louis-Napoleon III, who became the first elected president and then Emperor, decided to tear it all down, inspired by his familiarity and sense of rivalry with London and other European cities. In 1953, he assigned a mid-level civil servant, Georges-Eugène Haussmann, to carry it out and start anew. During the following 17 years, 20,000 buildings were demolished and Paris became the city we know with its wide boulevards, large roundabouts, beautiful bridges, parks, civic buildings and housing.

Haussmann’s buildings incorporated a built-in class structure. The ground floors were reserved for shops, restaurants and commercial activities. First floor apartments were for shop storage or shopkeeper residences. The second floor was the “noble” floor for wealthy, aristocratic tenants and had higher interior ceilings, exterior balconies and molded window decorations. The third and fourth floors were for civil servants, middle class and employees. The fifth floor, a hefty climb in a building without elevators, was less desirable but often carried long balconies for esthetic purposes. The stuffy top floors beneath the zinc Mansard roofs were reserved for household staff, without kitchens or bathrooms.

Haussmann knew what he was doing by installing the balconies that appear especially on the second (“étage noble”) and fifth floors of these buildings. They were a vital component of the distinctive and uniform Haussmann formula of buildings with 5 or 6 stories, cream-colored limestone facades, 45-degree Mansard roofs, large windows, and intricate balconies of varied design. Some “balconies” (“Juliette balcony,” porte-fenêtre or railing) face a single window and are not accessible. “Walkout” balconies like ours extend between 2 or more windows with a narrow platform that can accommodate a small table and few chairs. It provides a limited but invigorating passage outdoors.

We had an early dinner at a local Portuguese roast chicken joint named “Churrasqueira Galo” that some years ago received positive reviews. This time was disappointing, however. The early hour was probably a mistake, since the chicken was dry and tough, leading us to surmise it may have been left over from lunchtime.

​I concluded that Tuesday must be garbage day, since the garbage trucks were growling in the street below since the time I got up at 5:55. “What?” you might ask. Well, I was up that early to snag a couple of tickets to visit Notre Dame cathedral.
 
Yes, that’s right. Now you need tickets to go to church, and you can only get them 1 or 2 days in advance online, but at least they’re free. That’s because it’s the big “reveal” of ND’s facelift since the conflagration. That disaster in 2019 is one of the few “I remember what I was doing” incidents in recent years/decades, like when the Twin Towers came down in 2001. So, we got tickets to view ND this morning at 9:45 a.m. and, afterwards, we had tickets to the Musée d’Orsay at 10:30.
 
Fortunately, everything went like clockwork. We fired up our Navigo (transport) cards and took the metro south to Saint Michel station, arriving just before our scheduled entry time at Notre Dame, where the saints awaited us.

After the show, we rolled on the RER back to Place St. Michel and walked to Little Breizh Café on Rue Grégoire de Tours for a galette and refreshing, cool apple cider. In principle, that fare was a bit heavy for the hot weather, but it fueled us through the rest of the day.  

Many crèperies cropped up in Paris around the end of the 19th century when the Paris-Brest rail line fostered domestic migration from Brittany. They clustered around the Gare Montparnasse where breton migrants landed on arrival  in Paris. 

Little Breizh is a convenient and cozy spot in the vicinity of St. Germain with a different story. Breizh is the breton word for Brittany and breton chef Bertrand Larcher went to Japan in 1995, married a Japanese woman and leveraged the Japanese culture of buckwheat (soba) to open the first Breizh Café in Tokyo with offerings of galettes (buckwheat), crèpes(wheat), and seafood. The Japanese sensibility carries a substantial but subtle influence on the food and presentation of the cafés, leading to the Breizh motto: “la crèpe autrement.” (“crèpes differently”). Larcher pays particular attention to organic and local ingredients, whether flour, honey, chocolate, apples, cheese or butter, many of which Breizh and its partners grow and produce at their own farms and orchards. There are also Japanese touches in ingredients and culinary technique. Little Breizh is now just a small outpost of a much larger international operation (Breizh Café) with several locations in Paris, Tokyo and elsewhere as well as a farm, hotel, cider bars and a professional crêpe school. Our two "menu tradition" set us back 29 euros.

The temperature hit 95 degrees while we were sitting at a café having iced coffee (“café glacé avec lait et sucre”) about 2 pm, and it reached 98 at 4:45. It peaked at 40 celsius (104F) according to météo-France. The EU climate moderator Copernicus later reported that June 2025 was the second hottest June on record since 1900 and a study in The Lancet Planet Health reported that Paris is the deadliest European city in cases of heat waves. We found it amusing that the word “canicule” (“heat wave”) is one we never even learned back in the day when we were studying French. Today was a “red alert,” when heat closed the Eiffel Tower to tourists and 2000 French schools closed at mid-day. Tourists were out in strength, nevertheless—what else could they do? After we cooled off with the café glacé, we headed home on the métro.

Unfortunately, in leaving the métro at the Barbès-Rochechouart station, we turned the wrong way and headed east along the Blvd de Chapelle in the southern part of the 18th arrondissement. This provided an unplanned but valuable lesson in Parisian demographics. We were greeted upon emerging from the métro by a band of shouting men in tee-shirts and a clutter of discarded refuse on the ground. Although we are seasoned travelers and repeat visitors to Paris, this was a section of the city we had never seen up close. It’s a different world and a misstep that we took care not to repeat. It was a far cry from the polished city center and a spotlight on the downside of demographic changes in much of Paris. Although it is sometimes referred to politely as a “multicultural” area with colorful features that we normally enjoy, post-visit research and our own experience depict it in starkly different terms. We did an about-face and, walking quickly, found our way home.
 
We had fortuitously closed the metal shutters to the apartment, so we found a civilly cool temperature upon arrival. We also got a fan from our hosts, so we could bathe in the hot “courants d’air.” We decided to stay in for dinner. Neither of us was very hungry after our substantial lunch and the jugs of beverages we consumed all day, and we had an adequate supply of provisions. These included delicious melon, fresh “baguette tradition,” “crotin de chevre” cheese, and our new fave “Rocamadour” goat cheese. Plus, ample rosé wine.

​Today’s agenda included the Louvre in the a.m., then lunch, and the Musée Carnavalet in the Marais for an Agnès Varda show. But first--what was that lingering scent that wafted through our curtained French doors after I opened them to let in the breeze and the early morning sun? It could have been bread, but I knew it was patisserie of more delicate and sweeter nature like a croissant or pain au chocolat. I thought back to yesterday evening when I dropped down below to get the day’s last baguette at the boulangerie directly below our apartment. What a lovely assortment of pastries!

The shop had been closed both Sunday and Monday when we arrived, but here it was, our own personal boulangerie/patisserie at our feet and delivering a gentle but insistent morning wake-up call with the sun barely peeking over roof-top chimney pots.
 
The day started well. It was 10 degrees cooler than yesterday. We headed toward the Métro for a trip to the Louvre and arrived there about 9:30. At the entryway in the Cour Carrée, the “Paris Cauldron” silver sphere from the 2024 Olympic Games was visible over the trees in the Jardin des Tuileries. The high-tech Cauldron was designer Mathieu Lehanneur’s inventive allusion to the Montgolfier brothers’ first piloted hot air balloon in 1783. It had been reinstalled in the Tuileries just a few days earlier to preserve the spirit of the Olympics in Paris. Plans were to lift the helium balloon to the sky each evening between June 21 and September 14 until the 2028 LA Olympics. In bright lights and mist resembling fire, it would kick off the nationwide Fête de la Musique (“World Music Day”) each year.
 
Just standing there at 09:30 in the morning was an arresting moment-in-time view, like one of the “unanticipated encounters” that French Surrealist André Breton explored in his novel Nadja and other works. Breton was captivated by the notion that unexpected chance encounters could serve as a portal to the unconscious, much in the way that creative insights coalesce from random collisions in the dreamlike state of early morning wakening. The Surrealists elaborated the notion of meaningful experiences that arise from mundane chance encounters and coincidences. They even made “walking around” a protocol of their project, as in a famous walking expedition from the town of Blois undertaken in early May 1924 by André Breton, Louis Aragon, Max Morise, and Roger Vitrac.

In our case in Paris, the “aha” experience was the momentary visual assemblage of I.M. Pei’s glass and metal Pyramid du Louvre, the spherical Paris Cauldron, the Tour Eiffel and the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, all visible with one turn of the head. Not to mention the Louvre itself. It conveyed an intangible sense of the city’s diverse, inestimable heritage.

​We were amazed that the museum seemed so empty. We concluded that perhaps it was the early hour but maybe also the sections of the museum we had decided to see. We had figured that the way to survive a trip to the Louvre in summer was a highly targeted visit to sections less likely to be mobbed. We were right.
 
We started at the special show “Louvre Couture: Art and Fashion,” which was a knockout. For the “Couture” exhibition, the Louvre had arranged with top couture houses to search their archives for 100 couture designs to display “here and there” in the museum. They were paired with matching selected displays from the vast regular holdings in the Department of Decorative Arts that range from Byzantine to the Renaissance. It involved top names in 45 fashion houses: Dior, St. Laurent, Lagerfeld, Dolce & Gabbana, Hermès and many others. Altogether there were 99 objects on display spread throughout exhibits from many eras. Some were incredible in their detail and in their affinity with the museum holdings that ranged from small, carved ivory to huge wall-hung tapestries. It was like a treasure hunt to walk through the galleries and spot a fashion gem displayed with the museum objects and discern how they echoed the adjacent historic pieces.

​We followed that experience with a short visit to favorite early paintings.

Through the many galleries that we walked, we continued to wonder where all the crowds were. There was plenty of room in all the galleries to stand, sit or walk. Then, upon exiting from the museum we found them. There they were, massed in lines and packed around popular pieces like the Hellenistic “Winged Victory of Samothrace” (below) atop the monumental entry staircase. Our strategically-chosen exhibits had indeed been islands of peace. We couldn’t wait to escape.

I had planned lunch at a small restaurant called “La Fresque” near “Les Halles” and the Pompidou Center. We walked there in the heat and fortunately found a “climatisé” (air-conditioned) room in the back where we parked ourselves. We each had a 20-euro lunch menu of “plat + dessert.” Usually, luncheon offerings provide a choice of “entrée + plat” or “plat + dessert” for the same price, or else a three-fer of “entrée+plat+dessert” for a little bit more (in this case 25 euro). That represents a 50% discount on the third item. We each chose a “plat” of “vitello tonnato,” which is thin-sliced veal with a tuna-cream sauce, and potato and salad. It used to be a favorite when we lived in Italy and I have made a version at home on several non-recent occasions. Dessert included rice pudding in honor of a Greek grandmother and, lacking any familial consideration, I happily chose a pear braised in white wine with whipped cream.
 
After lunch, we walked along the Rue des francs bourgeois.” This is a major shopping street in the Marais, where we had lived for a year as graduate students in 1969-70 on the Rue du Temple before the area’s gentrification. I pointed out all the summer sales in the windows. In France, “soldes” (“sales”) occur at designated times only twice each year, in January and June/July. They are regulated by law, with prices reduced progressively over 4 weeks as the inventory shrinks.
 
Our destination was the Musée Carnavalet exhibit on Agnès Varda, a French photographer and film-maker in the 1950s and 60s. The Carnavalet focuses on the history of Paris, and it was good to see a show centered on a quixotic artist with strong connections to the city and its community. She was a strange bird, to say the least, but she was an early key player in French photography and film. Varda established herself in a studio on the Rue Daguerre in Montparnasse, not far from where we stayed for a couple of weeks several years ago. In her photography, she made the city of Paris her backdrop and enlisted prominent artists as her subjects. She also directed the movie “Cleo from 5 to 7” and a number of documentary short films. Afterwards, we sat in the museum garden sipping a drink when an abrupt wind storm came along and toppled umbrellas. It sent guests scattering in an image that Varda would have been pleased to photograph.

Then there was the matter of getting home. It’s always a challenge to get from here to there in Paris, between walking, metro, buses, or a default taxi depending on where you are. The Marais area is a bit of a transportation desert and our apartment wasn’t much better. As we soon discovered by trial and error, French labor unions had decided to maximize their nuisance value today by discontinuing service on certain bus and metro lines in the midst of the ongoing “canicule” (heat wave). So, we negotiated a circuitous route home that eventually topped our steps for the day at 12,667 and 5.5 miles, with stair-flights climbed hitting 9 floors. We didn’t get back to the apartment until about 5 pm, representing a long 8-hour day.

It was actually cool this morning, with the French doors opened wide to the balcony. The garbage trucks had come and gone, but police or ambulance sirens wailed in the distance. It was still, with little breeze, giving people-sounds some purchase on the ear, like talking, banging and honking.
 
This was David Hockney day, and our only scheduled event at 13:30 was his blockbuster show “David Hockney 25” at the Louis Vuitton Foundation (LVMH) in the Bois de Boulogne, celebrating the last 25 years of his 70-year career.

​We sallied forth early in the day, slightly before 10:00 with the intent of walking over to the Rue des martyrs for a little window shopping and perhaps lunch. The former panned out to a certain extent but many stores were still closed at that time of day even though it was no longer Monday. It takes the French a little time to stoke the fire and get going each day. So, we headed back to the apartment for a small lunch and to rest up for the rest of the day.
 
At the appointed time we took the metro to Étoile to wait for the “navette” (shuttle bus) that LVMH provides ticket holders to get from the city to the museum in the Bois de Boulogne. The Hockney show is mind-bending in its scope and size, as have been others that we have been privileged to see at LVMH in recent years, including the Morozov Collection of French modern art in 2021, Basquiat/Warhol (“Painting Four Hands”) in 2023, though we missed Mark Rothko last year. Like many Gehry buildings, it is always a pleasure to view the LVMH, shown below, this time with Hockney’s words blazoned in red: “Do remember they cannot cancel the spring.” He composed this message of hope and resilience in Spring 2020 to title an iPad painting of daffodils at his retreat in Normandy, thumbing his nose at the Covid lockdowns.

LVMH cleared the decks and devoted its entire space to the massive show, as only it can do. The size of many of the works is monumental as is their composition of disparate parts. The Hockney exhibition was a revelation about his evolution as an artist. He’s in his mid-80s and wheelchair-bound, but he keeps going and going.

Hockney has made leaps into technology-driven art that are visionary. To make that point, the last part of the show displayed recent digital set designs for opera performances. It was in a room with large pillows for people to recline, some seated, but most standing. The set designs were animated digital artwork projected on 3 walls and the ceiling, accompanied by classical opera music at high volume. It was an event that has to be experienced to be believed or evaluated, but it was amazing. I began to imagine my own personal listening room with super hi-fi sound and surrounding digital images and “chanson” blaring from all corners.
 
Hockney’s iPad art is equally absorbing. There were framed presentations of the composition of a portrait with the drawings emerging compressed in time on the iPad from first stroke to last. Everything was compressed into a few minutes, but in reality it probably occurred over hours and days. It’s as though somehow it had been possible to record each stroke as Picasso (or some other artist) first applied paint and made changes over time. Or perhaps James Joyce writing Ulysses? Every modification, correction or addition was recorded as made and subsequently telescoped in time. Such insight into the artistic process!
 
After the Hockney show we shuttled back to town and took a “bateau mouche” ride on a river boat along the Seine. It provided an unaccustomed view on a cloudless day of the parade of old friends standing on shore saluting our waterborne passage: Hello, Tour Eiffel, bonjour Notre Dame, salut Gare d’Orsay...

These “bateaux-mouches” evolved over 200 years from a convenient means of river transportation for people and goods to their current status as a prime tourist attraction and cultural icon of Paris. Paris had a long history of commercial river navigation dating from a 1170 royal decree founding the “marchands de l’eau” river guild.  The city’s official coat of arms adopted around 1358 depicts a sailing vessel that was later amplified in 1853 by a Latin motto “Fluctuat nec mergitur” (“tossed by waves but does not sink”).
 
Although the specific name bateaux-mouches translates literally as “fly-boat,” it expresses the boats’ geographic origin in Lyon’s marshy Mouche district where flies and other insects likely proliferated. The 1867 World’s Fair in Paris provided an opportunity to introduce the boats to Paris as transport for visitors like Russian Tsar Alexander II and his entourage to the exhibitions on the “Champ de Mars.” The boats flourished there until 1900 when the Paris Métro Line 1 opened along the Seine and rendered their transport function obsolete. After WWII, Jean Bruel trademarked the name “Compagnie des Bateaux-mouches” and re-purposed the boats for tourist cruises to view the monuments conveniently arrayed along the river Seine. The name itself has since become a generic reference for all Seine-based tourist craft.
 
Returning to our residence after the cruise, we walked in the heat along the Seine from the Pont Alma to the Place de la Concorde. “Crossing Concorde” on foot stands as a heroic but desperate challenge. It was like playing pinball with cars, buses, bicycles. The entire square was dismantled in preparation for July 14 festivities and it was almost impassable. We finally found the Métro in a hidden corner of the Jardin des Tuileries and made it to Pigalle in a rush-hour, packed-full Métro car. We finally walked from Pigalle to our abode.

After showering and resting, we pulled ourselves together and walked to dinner at nearby Bouillon Pigalle. The “bouillon” is a category of dining facility that arose in the 19th century to provide inexpensive meals for the French working class. To be specific, in 1855 a Parisian butcher named Pierre-Louis Duval expanded his existing bourgeois clientele by using leftovers from their precious cuts of tenderloin to open a canteen for workers at the nearby Les Halles market. The main attraction was boiled beef with vegetables. By 1900, the number of “bouillons” in Paris reached 250 in an early manifestation of the chain restaurant. Their touchstones were: simple versions, classic French menu items, high volume driven by fast service, and low price.
 
Over time, these qualities were sidelined by the rise of brasseries and fast-food until, by the early 2000s, only the Bouillon Chartier remained. New entrants soon appeared that revived the entire category. Today, there are “bouillons” in Paris that occupy some of the most fabulous “Belle Époque” architectural treasures in the city. The leading “bouillons” are Chartier, Julien, République, Pigalle, Racine and Petit Pharamond.
 
We have eaten at many bouillons in Paris, but this was the first time in Pigalle. The restaurant lacks the historic and aesthetic charm of the art deco palaces that bouillons occupy elsewhere, but it matches their energy in the drive to feed thousands of people packed side by side and served by twirling dervishes of wait staff hoisting mountainous platters of classic French cuisine.

The escargots were just right, if difficult to coax from hiding in their winding shells. As expected, the steak au poivre was an abomination of tough gristle, but had flavorful punch from its pepper sauce, and the pommes frites were border-line acceptable. The tarte tatin came well-disguised as a puddle of caramelized apples and crust, but rose to the occasion in flavor.
 
The day had been a beast in transportation, bringing our daily total to 14K steps and 5.9 miles. It was definitely historic mileage for our rubbery legs. I hate to even think about the number of stair flights we climbed, thanks to the Métro’s lack of escalators.

Like death and taxes, the final day arrived—we left it a “blank canvas” for a final inspection to detect and fill any holes left wanting in the itinerary. We went out and played hooky from serious pursuits, stopping by the Samaritaine department store. Then we walked across the Pont Neuf bridge to the Quartier Latin for lunch at the Brasserie Le Nesle on rue Dauphine. We had deep-fried French fish tacos, if you can wrap your minds around that one. They were quite good.

This day was capped by dinner at “Les Papilles” (“taste buds”) in the Latin Quarter, our go-to “chef’s choice” bistro that offers a set “take it or leave it” menu at a fixed price (45 euro). It is sited on the Rue Gay Lussac near the Jardin du Luxembourg and owned by former rugby player Bertrand Bluy. We first went there some 15 years ago. It became a mandatory stop on each following visit to Paris. This night’s fare included cauliflower velouté, fall-apart braised beef, cheese tray (“Forme d’Ambert”) and dessert.

​Final days prompt reflection. This trip’s events had been considerable and diverse. We detached from modernity for a week to explore pre-history’s sketchings of cave art in the Périgord, and then fell headlong into 19th century French Poster Art (“L’Art est dans la rue” or “Street Art”) at the Musée d’Orsay. At the Musée Carnavalet, we sampled Agnès Varda’s quirky (“de-ci, de-là” or “here and there”) vision of photography, film and life in Paris that she pursued at her studio on the Rue Daguerre in Montparnasse. We were wowed by the Louvre’s intimate and revealing relationship with “haute couture,” and by LVMH’s encyclopedic examination of David Hockney. Culinary excursions ranged from mundane to magnificent. And we knocked out many thousands steps along the way. As daylight waned and the sun set, we headed towards the Saint Michel Métro, somehow confident that it would not prove our last visit to Paris.

NB: If you like France, visit my website on classic French "chansons."

​Sunday 22 June: Sarlat-La-Canéda

​The elevator operator also serves as a guide who narrates bits of history about the town and various sights. There were 6 of us on the 12-minute excursion. It was much better than climbing stairs, which we would not have done anyway. I loved the jumble of rooftops arrayed in the town below.
 
We walked through a covered market with regional food stalls. The culinary offerings of this region include various types of paté and terrine, a wide assortment of mushrooms, walnuts, duck and goose products. We purchased a little tug of duck paté to eat later. Those products represent a “heavy” set of foods, which aren’t as appealing in summer’s intense heat as they might be in winter, leading us on this trip to lean in the direction of salads for dinner.
 
Our first stop on the road was at the river (Dordogne) town of La Roque-Gageac, where we boarded the Gabarre Norbert for an hour trip on the river. A gabarre is a wide-hulled, flat-bottomed river barge that evolved historically from transporting things like wine barrels into its modern-day version of a tourist expedition for viewing the beautiful towns along the river.

Tuesday, 24 June: Lascaux

Today, our main touristic menu was--Lascaux…Lascaux. No, that’s not a typo, a re-do, or a variety of lasagna…It’s because there are 2 Lascaux available to visit. Those are Lascaux II and Lascaux IV. We went to both. So, what happened to Lascaux I and Lascaux III?
 
Lascaux I was accidentally discovered in the 1940s by 4 teenagers searching for their runaway dog. It is a cave in the Vézère river valley in Périgord that long-ago Cro-Magnon ancestors (17,000 years ago) used as some sort of refuge and decorated with their “troglo” (meaning “cave”)-art of animal paintings, like a “pre-historic Sistine Ceiling.” In 1868, the first remains of Cro-Magnon man had been discovered in the nearby town of Les Eyzies-de-Tayac. The revelation of Lascaux’s cave paintings in the 1940s added to the pre-historic mythology of the region such that it became a tourist destination.
 
The cave was opened to the public in 1948 and quickly became over-touristed with heavy-breathing humanoids that brought excessive humidity, leading to algae and mold. It was permanently closed in 1963. Lascaux II was then created nearby as a replica that remains visitable, and Lascaux IV was created in 2016 as a high-tech reproduction. Finally, Lascaux III is a traveling exhibition. Such is the march of history and the story of the Lascaux family of exhibits.
 
One might wonder why those “troglos” gathered in Périgord in the first place. It has the merit of being a hilly and heavily forested part of France that provided habitability and security. Naturally hollow limestone hillsides provided accessible and affordable dwellings in caves before the advent of the construction industry. Food of various kinds existed, albeit not yet paté, terrine or confit de canard. Nuts, berries and ‘shrooms proliferated, and ducks were easy prey. Not that there weren’t predators. Bones of mammoths and other beasties have been found as well. For Cro-Magnon man, who migrated from the steppes of Asia, it might have seemed like a garden of Eden. They innovated for protection and survived. And it was good.
 
We went first to Lascaux II, which is an underground replica of the original cave (Lascaux I) that is now closed and used for research. Lascaux II is situated in a lovely and peaceful grove not far from the original cave. We had a guided tour in French with about 25 people. Our French guide was articulate, instructive and amusing. Most important, this tour conveyed a sense of the physical experience of what being in the cave was like (see below). It also leaves the impression that the cave was unlikely to have been a dwelling. It just wasn’t a very attractive place to spend a lot of time. It’s totally dark though they had grease-based candles, but the seating isn’t very convenient and one hesitates to contemplate sleeping or eating. It probably had some sort of communal function. Maybe even education, transmitting knowledge to youth about the natural world and impressing them with the heroic exploits of their elders.

Wednesday, 25 June: Vézère Valley, Rouffignac

Today’s itinerary featured a short trip up the Vézère Valley. It was, well, a spotty day. The road initially provided a lovely, verdant drive west. The Vézère valley above the town of Les Eyzies, however, is VERY winding and hilly in its earliest segment and for a while I thought we had gone astray.
 
Our first stop was the former “troglodyte” (cave-dwelling) encampment of La Madeleine (below)  which gave its name to an entire 3000-year era around 17,000 years ago. It was a functioning village on a cliffside overlooking the Vézère river and is now a farm and tourist attraction. We were the first arrivals at about 9:50, even before the surly French gatekeepers. So, we waited and watched them do their opening-up chores. The visit was interesting to see how the troglos had arranged their habitations and business activities along the one-lane cliffside atop the river.

Font de Gaume, thank god, was the last of our cave/grotto experiences. It was just outside the town of Les Eyzies, but unfortunately the cave opening was up a hill half-a-kilometer away, leading to more steps and significant puffing. There was an interesting tour guide and cave but the images were barely visible in the dark.
 
We move tomorrow from Sarlat to a small hotel/farm where we plan to stay a couple of nights before flying to Paris on Sunday. Otherwise, our schedule was entirely free for the next two days. Since we had a substantial lunch, we went into town this evening for a light supper at the restaurant Le Regent on the Place de la Liberté.  We sat outside on a large piazza packed with people, their dogs and children. We both chose a Caesar Salad and one of us added a Fraise Melba to sweeten life. It was a lovely place and evening and the Regent charged us 57 euros.

​Friday, 27 June: Ferme Lamy, Auberge Layotte

How can one move out of an apartment (Dandelion Cordelier, Sarlat), transfer baggage to another place, Hotel/Ferme Lamy, and still make the rest of the day something to remember?  All it takes is lunch at Auberge Layotte, tucked away in the woods on a dirt road above the Vézère Valley in the French region of Périgord Noir.

First, though, we cleaned and exited our apartment at Dandelion Cordelier and stopped at the local poubelles to deposit our ordures. Then we made a 20-minute drive to Hotel/Ferme Lamy in Meyrals to deposit our suitcases until check-in later in the day. Our lunch at the Auberge was not until noon, so we lingered a bit chez Lamy, inhaling the aroma of fresh-cut hay.
 
The Auberge Layotte is run by chef Régis Gagnadre and is open only from March to November, with reservations available only by telephone. This is farm-to-table, for sure. Chef Régis was there to welcome us on arrival and pretty much throughout the meal, which was all pre-cooked.
 
The all-inclusive, fixed-price menu (45E) follows the seasons and includes aperitif, wine, soup (nettle), 3 hors d’oeuvres (jambon, terrine, lentils), 2 meats (canard, beef cheeks cooked 12 hours), vegetable (potato), 4-cheese platter, dessert (gateau de noix), coffee and digestif. This is the Périgord version of la grande bouffe.

Saturday, 28 June: Ferme Lamy

We took a late-ish (9-10 am) and leisurely breakfast in the shade on the terrace overlooking the pool and hayfield. Yesterday’s evening breezes were diminished and the lush foliage on the trees hung still. Swallows flew in wide arcs dipping briefly in the pool water for either a sip of H2O or a floundering bug. Breakfast included fresh pain and farm confiture, oeufs durs, fromages of Brie and Tomme de Savoie, assorted pastries of croissant, pain au chocolat, and café of cappuccino and double express.
 
Ferme Lamy seems to be run by a youngish couple with monsieur doing the visible work, like receptionist, cook, dishwasher, shopping and the rest. Fortunately for him, it’s a small place with perhaps 8 rooms. We did see madame momentarily yesterday when she arrived with her two young children. The littlest, about 2-3 years old, pattered about this morning halfway nude on the terrace. We booked the Ferme on Expedia.
 
We had a nice room in a small single-story stone building, with exposed ceiling beams of roughly hewn dark wood. A beautiful antique door salvaged from some abandoned armoire was inserted as the door to a corner closet.
 
We are slowly adjusting to countryside tranquility where eyesight ends at the tree-line canopy beyond the hayfield and infinity pool, and one stretches an ear to hear anything but birds chirping and bees buzzing. Occasionally, tires crunch on gravel in the nearby carpark or a dropped spoon clinks in the kitchen. Not so bad once you get used to it.

NB: If you like France, see my website on classic French "chansons."