* * *

Paris, 4 a.m.—A couple I met this July afternoon told me how disappointed they were with a “Paris By Night” driving tour that they’d taken the previous night.

“We saw the major monuments,” they said, “but we never saw them by night.”

Apparently, year-round, the company is offering an 8 p.m. Paris By Night Tour even though night doesn’t fully descend over Paris until after 10 p.m. from late May to late July.

“The driver was nice enough to extend the tour for 20 minutes because we felt cheated,” they continued, “but we never made it past twilight.”

Twilight is known in French as “the time between dog and wolf” (l’heure entre chien et loup). On the right evening and with the right company or mindset, there’s breathtaking seduction in its deepening blue. But this couple had been looking forward to encountering full, howling wolf.

I sympathized with them for being the victims of misleading advertising, or at least of static advertising since 8-10pm would indeed have a night component nine months of the year.

I suggest that they join me for a bike ride that night.

“What time?” they asked.

“Round midnight,” I said. “Or one a.m. or two, if you truly want to know Paris by night.”

They laughed, thinking I was joking.

“Seriously,” I said. “We’ll use Vélib, the public bike share system.”

“That’s too late for us,” they said. “We want to be at Versailles first thing in the morning.”

Wanting the butter and the money for the butter (vouloir le beurre et l’argent du beurre) is the French expression for having one’s cake and eating it too, or in this case of experiencing Paris by night in early July without being willing to stay out past one’s usual bedtime.

Travelers touring Paris on a working-day schedule certainly get to see the museums and the monuments. They get early restaurant reservations and make all the right pastry stops. But one of the best ways to experience Paris as a living city is by assuming a wobbly schedule whereby you:

• take the streets at least once by 7am so as to appreciate the opening of cafés, markets, gardens and parks while (re)discovering the aura of old monuments before they get poked by selfie sticks,

• and stay out past midnight at least once so as to truly appreciate after-hours in the city.

I understand that taking on such a schedule is disturbing to some. (Napping helps.) Between overcoming jet lag and maintaining one’s habitual rise, dine and sleep times, an untethered program can be troubling for some, and unadvisable when traveling with children.

But for me, one of the unsung pleasures of Paris is the midnight stroll or bike ride. Make that 2 a.m. on a warm summer night. In fact, “off-the-beaten track” in such as heavily visited city as Paris isn’t a place, it’s a time — especially that time in summer when most tourists are in bed dreaming of Paris. That’s when venturesome and sleepless travelers are out living their dream.

Sometime after midnight, heading out, or home, on foot or on bike (of not too much alcohol in the bloodstream), you’ll stand or sit or walk or ride by the river.

You’ll bathe in the diffuse yellow light of the streetlamps as it plays against sidewalk, street, stone buildings and the lower leaves of chestnut, linden and turkish filbert trees. You’ll listen to or take part in street conversations.

You’ll want to feel safe, of course. In certain quarters you might have to contend with or steer clear of alcohol-fueled night-folk. But Paris is a well-lit city. It is, after all, the City of Lights.

So I went out biking that night. I meandered along the boulevards and avenues and well-lit rues, through open squares and along the banks of the river and of the canal, rediscovering the true pleasure of Paris by night as I encountered:

Brazilian salsa dancing by the Arab Institute,

a friendly game of pétanque (bocce) by the river,

the intimate end of a long picnic,

a tête-à-tête with a view,

a headless martyr,

spiders over the Seine,

a heap of garbage beside City Hall.

silent cemetery walls.

and a dance of drunken seduction after a neighborhood bar has closed.

I could go on and on.

But it’s 4am. I’m going to bed.

Text and photos © 2015, Gary Lee Kraut, except for Va-nu-pieds’ photo of Notre-Dame in the morning.

Biking Paris after midnight is one way to travel in the spirit of France Revisited.

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* * *

There is general agreement among residents of Paris that love locks are a form of graffiti that defaces the beauty it is intended to glorify. It’s a form of graffiti that nevertheless attracts, fascinates and generally pleases visitors. Many a museum director would love to have their collections as well known to tourists as the collection of metal on what are now referred to as Lock Bridges.

For the administration of the City of Paris, love locks don’t raise esthetic questions as much as cost and security questions since the weighty accumulation of locks on the bridges of Paris damages the host structures and creates safety issues. According to City Hall, over the past few months alone more than 700,000 locks have been placed on Paris’s various lockable bridges, i.e. those with metal grating that serves as the base for the lock virus. Luckily, most of Paris’s central bridges have stone railings.

On the Pont des Arts, the most famous of the lock bridges, a pedestrian bridge with an extraordinary view connecting the Right Bank at the Louvre with the Left Bank at the French Institute, 15 grating panels have already had to be removed for security reasons. The weight of 1100 pounds (500 kg) of locks on a single panel is four times the allowable weight limit for a portion of the railing.

Required to act, the City of Paris yesterday began experimenting with glass panels to replace some of the metal grating. Two have been placed on the Pont des Arts and others will follow.

“Paris is the capital of love, we’re very proud of that, but there are more beautiful ways to show that love then placing locks on a bridge,” said Bruno Julliard, deputy mayor and the official appointed to find what City Hall calls “artistic and ecological alternative solutions.”

The new glass panels are light enough to be supported by the bridge, and their transparency allows for a renewed view of the scenery that attracted people to place locks here in the first place.

It’s a clear reminder of how destructive and unappealing the lock virus has become over the years. Whether the glass panels can be spared more usual forms of graffiti remains to be seen.

“If this experiment proves to be conclusive we’ll extended it to other affected bridges,” said Julliard.

Since August, the City of Paris has also been inviting visitors to show and seal their union with a selfie rather than a lock through #LoveWithoutLocks in the hopes of making them aware of less destructive ways of demonstrating the affiliation between Paris and romance. A long kiss by the river might to do the trick as well.

– September 20, 2014

For a sweeter view of love locks, see this France Revisited video from 2012.

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You’ve read the articles, the books and the blogs telling you that you can be one with the City of Light by wearing the right shoes, by tying a scarf comme ça, by learning to choose a fresh baguette or a perfect pastry, by lunching at this restaurant and dining at that, by taking a seat here and a promenade there, by speaking a chirpy bonjour and a dainty s’il vous plaît?

Do that, they say, and Paris will accept you, Paris will embrace you, Paris will love you as much as you love Paris.

Yet, when all is said (in French) and done (with flair), what if your long-dreamt, blue-skied, night-sparkling love for Paris is unrequited?

What if Paris does not, cannot, will never love you?

You arrive—or stay far too long—pleading, “Paris, love me.”

And Paris replies…

[Readers are invited to note below the response that Paris makes to that plea for love.]

© 2014 Gary Lee Kraut

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It was early August. I rode to the Beaubourg quarter on a public bike and parked at the Velib station on rue Saint Merri. As I turned to walk up the street I was surprised to see that the entire wall of a 5-story building was covered with the image of a face of a man with a finger to its lips.

The man was calling for quiet: Shhhhh. He had Dali eyes.

I’d passed this way, by the Stravinksy Fountain and Saint Merri Church, hundreds of times since first lunching by the fountain over 20 years ago, but never noticed the mural before.

This disturbed me. As much as I enjoy coming upon a good surprise in this increasingly conventional city—an elephant walking down the street, say, or a boy playing Frisbee with a homeless man—I’m disturbed to discover something so clearly a part of the landscape that I’d never noticed before, such as the time that I realized that the trees on my street weren’t lindens after all.

I was headed in the direction of the mural to meet (or not) with Fred, and as I approached I saw that there was writing on the wall, which may or may not have been graffiti.

It wasn’t. It read:

Fresque réalisée / en juin 2011 /par Jef Aérosol [Mural created /in June 2011 / by Jef Aérosol]

So the mural was recent, painted earlier this summer, no reason to be disturbed, simply surprised.

Eh-oh, I heard a voice.

I didn’t see anyone around.

Tu peux me laisser tranquille là? [Would you mind leaving me alone?]

Strange, I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from.

I continued reading the writing on the wall.

Assisté de [With help from] / Ender, Asfalt,/ Joseph Loughborough / David Amar / Fradelrico, Sevan Ahsan

Eh-oh. Tu peux me laisser tranquille là? The voice, an angry whisper, asked again to be left alone, but still I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

Merci à l’ircam [With thanks to IRCAM, the Institute for Acoustic/Music Research and Coordination] / Et au Centre Pompidou [And to the Pompidou Center]

Eh-oh, tu peux pas me laisser pisser tranquillement là? It was a woman’s voice, now less of a whisper, more of a hiss.

The voice seemed close, but I still couldn’t see anyone.

I was standing by a rail to read the words on the mural and I now had the reflex to look over it. On the other side a woman was squatting down in the corner in a small dip in the pavement. She was right below me, looking up. Her jeans down to her knees and she was peeing. I could now hear the sound of her stream against the pavement.

Oh, I said.

Arrête de me matter. Je pisse. Dégage. [Stop checking me out. I’m peeing. Go away.]

Je suis venu regarder la fresque de près. Je ne t’ai même pas vu là. [I came for a look at the mural. I didn’t even see you were there.]

Arrête de me regarder alors. Matteur. Merde. Dégage. [Well stop looking at me then. Voyeur. Fuck. Go away.]

She finished peeing and stood up and awkwardly pulled her jeans over her hips. She was clearly drunk.

Ca t’a plu alors? she spat. [Like what you saw?]

Pas très beau, I said.  [Not very nice actually.]

La prochaine fois tu ne regarderas pas. [Then don’t look next time.]

Je voulais voir la fresque de près. C’est tout. Comment savoir qu’il y avait une pisseuse dans le coin.  [I just came to see the mural up close. How was I supposed to know there was a woman pissing over here.]

T’aurais préféré un pisseur? she laughed. [Would you rather it had been a man pissing?]

Peut-être qu’un mec serait plus gracieux. [Maybe a guy would have done it more gracefully.]

PD. [Fag.]

She started to leave her dip in the pavement then stopped to look up at the mural, which destabilized her, so she held onto the railing and looked up.

Pffff, she said. C’est d’la merde. [Bunch of shit.]

She pushed off from the rail and walked away in the direction of the Pompidou Center.

I sat by the fountain to write a draft of this story. I entitled the page “Merry” since I was facing Saint Merri Church, also written Merry. I thought of that as the girl’s name, though the saint was a man. His remains are in the crypt of the church.

I went to meet Fred at the bar. It was 11:45 when I arrived, maybe closer to midnight. He wasn’t there. Or I didn’t see him. Maybe he was in the john. I didn’t go looking.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

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You peruse the right magazines, or so they tell you.

You read the best travel sections, as though any of them knew what was going on in Paris.

You read the most up-to-date blogs, or so they want you to believe.

And still you don’t know that Le Comptoir Général, a bar and events space across the street from Canal Saint Martin, is among the hippest spaces in Paris this spring.

Not hip as in style or attitude, not age-related or attitude-bound or drug-induced. Commercial or non-commercial, doesn’t matter. This is the hip that money won’t buy and fashion won’t help you achieve. You’ve either got or you don’t.

By July it might still be a fine place to hang out for the evening but it’ll be old news, the kind you read about in those magazines and travel sections and blogs.

And please don’t expect me to actually describe the place to you or show pictures of what hip look like this spring or tell you what nights are best or take you by the hand to lead you down the dark alley that gets you there. Either you get or you don’t.

Either you’re in or you’re out.

Up to you.

Le Comptoir Général, 80 quai de Jemmapes, 10 arrondissement. Metro République or Jacques Bonsergent. http://www.lecomptoirgeneral.com/.

© 2011, Gary Lee Kraut

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The cusp of spring is prime time for skytrees, and the images below, taken in the third weeks of March, are prime examples of skytrees in Paris: Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame, Saint Sulpice and Montmartre/Sacré Coeur by nightfall.

My favorite early spring skytrees were noticed during a recent evening while wandering around Montmartre before meeting friends for dinner.

Dinner too was a treat. We dined at Le Grand 8, a highly recommendable moderately-priced restaurant just downhill from Sacré Coeur on its lesser visited eastern side. There, Kamel Tabti and Stéphane Tomeï and their staff amiably serve simply and well-prepared dishes and natural/organic wines. It’s at once urbane, rustic and homey.

Le Grand 8. 8 rue Lamarck, 18th arrondissement. Tel. 01 42 55 04 55. Metro Anvers. Open for lunch Sat. and Sun. noon-3pm, for dinner Wed-Sun. 7-11:30pm. Reservations are advisable. www.legrand8.fr

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In search for a reason for this decline, some will to point a finger at the 2008 smoking ban, as though it’s no fun meeting strangers unless you first spot them through a blue-gray haze. When that argument falls flat they will point not such much to the anti-libertarian non-smoking signs inside but to the signs outside inviting people to smoke quietly so as not to disturb the neighbors. Critics of a complacent night scene also cite the city’s attempts to starve the party beast with the enforcement of ordinances against drunken driving, amplified music floating up from cafes, drug use in clubs, and urinating in the street.

It’s true that a night of partying is much less fun if you have to think of designated drivers, acoustic guitars, rest rooms without drug dealers, and restricted outdoor peeing. In the latter case it’s worth noting out that the city began installing free, self-cleaning (itself not yourself) toilets this summer… and that few of them work.

What the critics fail to note is that Paris is increasingly a bourgeois living room of a city, so partying is not on the weekly agenda for the vast majority of Parisians. Furthermore, the increasing disposable income of typical Parisians means that they can afford to go away for the weekend. Basically, Parisians aren’t big partiers.

Still, the critics are wrong to say that nightlife has disappeared. While big 80s and 90s style clubs are no longer the attraction, Paris, the city of cafés, is now chock full of bars and pubs, or at least cafés that in the evening act as bars and pubs—i.e. friendly gathering places—as we might think of them. There are of course the ubiquitous Irish pubs, but more significantly there are now tons of cafés with music some evenings and café-bars. Most of these in the eastern and northern arrondissements (3rd, 10th, 11th, 18th, 19th, and 20th ). Jazz clubs still exist in the center of the Left and Right Banks.

Admitted, the economics of dealing in a bar that attracts 30 people on a given evening is not the same as in a club that attracts 500, and what fun is it to drink, even illegally, in the street if you can’t then break the bottle in the gutter? There’s also clearly something Big Brotherish about a city that requests people to smoke quietly, pee discreetly, and wear condoms, but at least this isn’t London, where every pub- and party-goer is filmed in the street to make sure that he or she vomits only in the gutter.

I’ve chosen this moment to explain all this because the City Hall, having taken the criticism to heart, or at least to its tech department, and has just launched a website to list the (legal) possibilities of enjoying Paris after dark.

The site is called Paris Nightlife and is in English because no Parisian would think it the least bit cool if the title were in French. But since some of them still have problem reading English the site is also in French.

The site is in its infancy so there aren’t yet many venues listed, but this will presumably increase as businesses sign up to be listed. The City of Paris also invites them to sign a charter called “Fêtez Clairs” or “Clear Partying,” whereby they are expected to “create a healthy environment, prevent risky behaviors and reduce harms, [and] manage illegal behaviors”—so it might more appropriately be called Stay Clear of Partying.

Nevertheless, there are things to do after leaving a restaurant other than return to the 2×4 of your hotel or apartment.

Searches on Paris Nightlife can be made by arrondissement, by date or period, by type of venue, by type of music, and by type of audience. Among the types of audience (20-30 years old, 30+, 45+, etc.) it’s odd to find “business clientele” and “foreign visitors” listed, which is like finding a listing in Chicago indicating that certain bars are especially intended for New Yorkers or Texans.

In any case, Paris Nightlife can’t possibly be dead… City Hall just launched it: http://www.parisnightlife.fr

© 2009, Gary Lee Kraut

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Instead, Zorro arrived (though June 30, 2010).

Zorro is the stuff of dreams. He spends less time in the gym than Superman, he’s less closeted than Batman, he’s more seductive than Robin Hood. He’s got wit, he’s got talent. He’s lived in California, he’s live in Spain. He speaks both English and Spanish, and now he speaks French too!

Too bad he was doing all that while confined to Zorro, Le Musical.

Zorro, in this incarnation inspired by a novel by Isabel Allende, is seeking his path in life, feeling that he can’t live up to his father’s hopes to turn him into a leader. He gets kicked out of military school for being footloose despite his talents with a sword, makes friends with gypsies, takes on the persona of Zorro, rescues the poor people of California from repression, returns to Spain with his gypsy friends, meets up with his childhood girlfriend, discovers that his older brother is a tyrant who has deposed their father (apparently the older brother became a tyrant to get back at Zorro for being his father’s favorite). Zorro with the slashing Z to the rescue.

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to write about Zorro, Le Musical since I would only do so if I found it more or less recommendable. Allow me to explain my mixed feeling:
Music: one thumb up for the dancing and the Gypsy Kings’ gypsy and flamenco music, one thumb down for the Gypsy Kings’ other songs.
Staging: one thumb up for use of the theater, one thumb down for being so cartoonish.
Singing: One thumb up for the voices, one thumb down because nothing can be done to help those other Gypsy Kings songs.
Storyline: One thumb up (for visiting English-speakers) because it’s simple enough to understand it in French; one larger thumb down because Zorro deserves a better vehicle than this is a psychodrama without .
The theater: two thumbs up for the Folies Bergère.

Two months after it opened I was still hesitant or perhaps lazy, but then I attended the press opening for Roméo & Juliette, a French musical showing at the Palais des Congres until April 4, and that show was so dreadful—from concept to music to décor (admittedly I only saw the first half before quitting the theater)—that I realized that Zorro, the Musical did make for a decent evening of family entertainment in Paris.

* * *

Musicals in Paris

Zorro, Le Musical at the Folies Bergère until June 30, 2010. Another thumb up on pricing since tickets are currently available at two for the price of one. Inquire about 2 for 1 possibilities when reserving.

Roméo et Juliette at the Palais des Congrès until April 4, 2010.

Le Roi Lion (The Lion King) at the Théâtre Mogador until July 25, 2010.

Violin sur le Toit (Fiddler on the Roof) at Le Palace until July 31, 2010.

Coming in spring: Les Misérables at Théâtre du Châtelet May 26-July 4, 2010.

© 2010, Gary Lee Kraut

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Paris, July 3, 2009—Last night, expectations low, I attended Swinging Life, a musical revue of soul, jazz, gospel, and blues songs that have been heard on Broadway, playing through July 31 at the Alhambra, a 600-seat theater in the Canal Saint Martin Quarter. I went to Swinging Life because the PR rep offered me a ticket and because the theater is 300 yards from my apartment, certainly not because I thought I was in for an entertaining evening.

Paris may have an impressive record of playing adoring host to African-American music and musicians, but it also has an underwhelming reputation when it comes to Broadway. There’s a tendency for small productions, and sometimes large, to try to ride high on great songs without the voices, the musicians, the acting, or the choreography to adequately back them up.

Case in point earlier this year was Hair, which set out from January through March to show how meaningful that tale of peace, love, and freedom can be 40+ years down the road, only to reveal how little the producers and the director knew about musical comedy.

In 2007 I wrote for an American theater magazine an article about how national and international theater producers were becoming increasingly tempted by the adventure and finances of bringing Broadway to the City of Lights. Two years later Broadway-sur-Seine—or West End on the Right Bank, if you prefer—is definitely on the up-and-up.

Case in point, Swinging Life.

Swinging Life is not a musical per say but rather a four-act assembly of choice soul, jazz, gospel, and blues tunes previously heard on Broadway (Broadway opening year in parenthesis): Play On (1997), Blues in the Night (1982), The Life (1987), The Color Purple(Broadway, 2005), Smokey Joe’s Café (1995), Dreamgirls (1982). All of the songs are sung here in English with only an occasional line of French dialogue between songs, so the show if fully accessible to non-French-speakers.

What surprised me last night was how proficient and professional the show was, especially considering the ticket price: 30€ for 1, 45€ for 2; 15€ for students.

Only in the past few years has Paris has truly begun to renew with the tradition of the actor-singer-dancer that is so familiar in the United States and England. With a dearth of opportunities until recently, it’s understandable that there hasn’t been a huge pool of well-rounded talent the strength in all three areas. Things are apparently now swinging in the right direction.

Swinging Life may not have Broadway/West End-quality singer-actor-dancers through and through, but the eight performers in Swinging Life maintain the rhythm, movement and voice of the show at a consistently good level, with notable performances by Germaine Depry, Anandha Seethanen, and Mélina Mariale. Significantly, all but one of the eight had a role (mostly minor) in Paris’s recent production of Le Roi Lion (The Lion King), which to me is a sign that the actor-singer-dancer talent pool in France, while still shallow compared with the U.S. and the U.K., is deepening.

Here’s a video of one of their voice rehearsals that will at least give you a sense of the spirit of the show.

The adept orchestra led by Jan Stumke, the arranger, on piano, reinforces the fine professionalism of the show. And I was especially surprised by the quality of the direction and choreography since that’s where I’ve learned to keep my expectations especially low in Paris for musical revues. Though the emphasis in Swinging Life is more on singing than dancing, Jean-Michel Fournereau’s direction is both efficient and energetic, with wise use of the limited stage space and only a few what-the-hell-was-that-all-about distractions.

The one failing of the show is that on several occasions the performers were unable to capture the emotion of the song, particularly in the first and third of the four acts, due in part to the absence of a storyline in which to embed the emotion of the song. Nevertheless, Swinging Time is well worth considering for English-speaking travelers and residents in Paris this month.

A further attraction is the fact that the Alhambra is in the canal quarter, an ever-so-pleasant area for an evening stroll, with plenty of laid-back, non-pricey cafés-restaurants to choose from within a two-minute radius of the theater. The show ends shortly before 11 p.m., when most places in the area stop serving food, other than salads, so you might come at around 7/7:30 for an early dinner before the show. Afterwards take a romantic walk along the canal, perhaps stop into a café to prolong the evening, as everyone else will seem to be doing. Altogether an enjoyable evening for a couple or a family, without New York or London prices.

Swinging Life, Tues.-Sat., July 2-31, 2009, at 8:30 p.m. at L’Alhambra, 21 rue Yves Toudic, 10 arrondissement, Metro République or Jacques Bonsergent. The show lasts two hours, plus a 20-minute intermission. Reservations: 01 40 20 40 25. Tickets: 30€ for 1, 45€ for 2; 15€ for students. Since the Alhambra has open seating and is unlikely to fill in summer, I suspect that little to no advance reservation is necessary. Dress lightly, the theater can be warm in summer. For more information seewww.myspace.com/swinginglifemusical.

The Alhambra, a 600-seat theater in the Canal Saint Martin Quarter, is largely devoted to concerts by contemporary artists (hip-hop, jazz, rock, pop, etc.). For a schedule of concerts see www.alhambra-paris.com.

© 2009, Gary Lee Kraut

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I quickly found six eager women—women of class and beauty and culture and career success.

As for the men… what men? Those I told about the tour said they’d already been to Paris with their first wives.

Turns out a man needs to be in love in order to think of the French capital as a romantic or sexy destination whereas a woman need only hear the word “Paris.”

Another word that’s sure to get a woman packing is “naughty.” It’s a term that conveys stolen moments of all that is playful, sexy, sexual, risqué but not crude, and either pricey or furtively free.

A man uses the word “naughty” when telling a 6-year-old girl not to hit her younger brother. But for a woman “naughty” also calls to mind a knowing smile, a short skirt, some optimistic lingerie, a come-hither pair of high heels, a chocolate éclair in the afternoon, sex-toy shopping, an extra glass of champagne, a pole dancing class, a devil-may-care flirt, a knowing tease, curiosity about libertine clubs, and much else if only someone in the know would only tell her the address.

Put “naughty” and “Paris” together and you get Naughty Paris: A Lady’s Guide to the Sexy City, Heather Stimmler-Hall’s glossy, snappy, highly informed “menu of the many sensual delights Paris has to offer to discerning ladies.”

Heather Stimmler-Hall sets out to “awaken your inner femme fatale.” But first the reader is invited to gaze upon and to admire the ageless Parisienne, that fantasy Frenchwoman of mystery, confidence, and femininity, a lady bearing weapons of mass seduction, one who’s not necessarily beautiful but, with the throw of a scarf, knows how to use what she’s got.

“One of the most captivating qualities of Parisian women is their self confidence,” writes Ms. Stimmler-Hall.

This may well be true, yet it’s worth noting that Frenchwomen think the same thing of their American idols. As my Parisian friend L. explains, she and her seemingly confident friends actually dream of adding some femme fatale à l’Américaine to their repertoire so as to channel their inner Carrie or Bree. While the American woman arrives in Paris afraid to be seen as a season or two behind the fashion curve, the Frenchwoman lands in New York aware that she’s a season or two behind the story arch of her favorite TV shows. Yet it appears that women on both sides of the Atlantic pack their Desperate Sex and the City fantasies when traveling abroad.

But what are the men in Paris packing? Though Ms. Stimmler-Hall has no pretensions of providing in-depth analysis of her readers’ potential Parisian suitors’ arms of seduction she does note some essential cross-cultural fusion material that will allow them to flirt wisely. Among her pearls:

“In America, ‘No means No.’ In France, no means ‘I’m not convinced.’”

“Don’t assume your suitor is single. He won’t assume you are – or care either way.”

“With the inherent language barriers and the French male tendency to act first and apologize later, you may find yourself at the receiving end of an unauthorized rear entry.”

That last observation clearly goes well beyond flirting—and so does Naughty Paris.

No, Naughty Paris is not a sex guide. Ms. Stimmler-Hall even makes a point in the introduction of declaring, “This is not a manual for getting lucky.” Nevertheless, she does her best to get her readers primped and prepped enough to attract good fortune. And with the final chapter’s thorough advice and choice addresses regarding fetish parties and libertine soirées, she is fully prepared to show readers how to force destiny.

Having gotten readers into the mind-set that Paris is their temporary playground, the author proceeds to advise them on the various activities of pampering and seduction that may be enjoyed out in the field, from hotel to spa, from lingerie to shoes, dinner to nightclub, from make-up to make out.

I was hoping for some curious sightseeing along the way, but despite the presence of the Eiffel Tower on the cover poking above the title as phallus dei, sightseeing in Naughty Paris is limited to mention of some naked masterpieces and of Frenchmen offering naughty art tours.

Nevertheless, the enticing mix of advice, “naughty tips,” snappy commentary and addresses for boutiques, spas, unmarked doors, romantic venues, dance clubs, and sex clubs, with a few notable films and works of art thrown in for good measure, make this the Cosmo of cosmopolitan guidebooks and a seductive addition to an otherwise stagnant genre.

Most guidebooks settle for regurgitated information with a bit of attitude du jour and some save-or-spend advice. They are largely the work of publishers and editors, not writers or travel journalists. But Heather Stimmler-Hall’s wit, observations, and thorough research shine through here. Naughty Paris is indeed the work of a travel journalist.

After fielding many “discreet inquiries” during those tours, she says, she realized there was a gap in the guidebook market and so set about to write Naughty Paris.

Beyond its introductory insights, the essence of Naughty Paris is its choice addresses and perceptive commentary. Chapters progress with increasing naughtiness: a selection of hotels, spas, and cosmetic and clothing boutiques… snippets of sexy culture… mid- and high-style sex toy shops… pole dancing classes… bars and dance clubs… libertine/swingers clubs and fetish venues. You go girl!

Whether advising readers about high heels or low whispers, the author’s tone is always playful, polished, and informed—and sometimes cautionary.

Throughout, Ms. Stimmler-Hall lets you know that this naughtiness is all just a game, that romance, seduction, and pleasure are all about being confident enough to be yourself (well, maybe not too much yourself), that having the right attitude goes far, that having the right addresses goes further, that having the right bank account can help, and that the best thing about being abroad is not being judged by anyone at home, even yourself.

The lure of the text sometimes drowns in the gloss of the images. While there is indeed much gloss to Ms. Stimmler-Hall’s writing, it’s the gloss of a journalist with a good eye, a wide smile, and a clear marketing niche. Unfortunately, the photographer failed to grasp that there’s a difference between a marketing niche and advertising copy.

The ad-like quality of Kirsten Loop’s photography does a disservice to Naughty Paris by making the author’s discretion, insights, and wink-wink commentary appear on the page as little more than an ad for spas, beauty products, and sex toys. The result is that the book looks too like a catalogue, with the same sexy, full-lipped model presenting all the wares.

Discerning ladies accustomed to high-gloss magazines will likely be more forgiving of the book’s cosmetics than this male reviewer, as they will of the books sticker price of 25€ or $39 (possibly less from online booksellers).

For such discerning ladies, Naughty Paris is your little black book to go with your little black skirt, your little black purse, and your universal weapons of mass seduction.

For men who would like to meet such ladies, you ought to consider joining on my singles tour.

© 2008, Gary Lee Kraut

Also read France Revisited’s interview with Heather Stimmler-Hall.

Naughty Paris: A Lady’s Guide to the Sexy City by Heather Stimmler-Hall. Photos by Look Photography. Published in France by Fleur-de-Lire Press, September 2008. 296 pages. Retail price: 25€/$39. Available in or orderable through bookstores in the U.S. as well as from major online booksellers. Available in the UK through Amazon.co.uk and from www.naughtyparisguide.com.

Disclaimer: Heather Stimmler-Hall and I have raised a few toasts to her Naughty Paris project over the past two years, which has somehow earned me thanks on the book’s Merci! page.

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