Monday, August 12, 2013

Only Paris

In Israel, they say rak b’Yisrael for one of those holy, or unholy, moments that could only happen in the Holy Land.  A bit of holy serendipity.

T.I.A.  This is Africa.  I have enough friends who know that moment when you know Mama Afrika is always ephemerally in charge.

In India, such moments exist somewhere at the intersection of karma and dharma.

But my “Only Paris” moment of the day came as I left the immaculate Musèe Jacquemart Andrè, and was walking down the grand Boulevard Haussmann, on my way to the the gilded Printemps to camp out on its roof.  I walked by a glass windowfront, and saw a row of Degas.  I stopped in my tracks.  I slowly backed up and pushed open the heavy door.

Inside was a world of Degas statues, displayed on barren white walls.  My eyes widened.  I asked the woman at the desk, “De Degas?”  Oui.

I walked slowly through this room of Degas, a little stunned at the vast collection of Degas in front of me.  I slowly walked downstairs to an empty room filled with Degas statues in the barren whiteland.  I had to touch one to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.


I slowly made my way back upstairs, and with a wide-eyed look, asked the woman behind the desk what this place was.  A private collection of the GalerieGoldenberg.  I walked out slowly, filled with the delight of one of those “only Paris” moments.  

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