A mosque in the 5th arrondissement

Americans are not very familiar with Arabs and Muslims, on the whole, and tend to regard them as foreign and possibly threatening. But that is not the case in France. For starters, there are lots of “Arabs” in France; ten percent of the population is Muslim, quite a few more than are Protestant (2%). Most of the picturesque little grocery shops like the one above are run by “Arabs” (actually in Paris they are usually North African Berbers, who do speak Arabic). They are open much longer hours than when they were run by French people, in my experience.

Detail of the Institut de Monde Arabe

Although there are many French Muslims, they are not yet completely Frenchified and are not seen as 100% French by large segments of the rest of the population. I would say they are in much the same situation in France that, for example, Italian-Americans were in the U.S. in the 1930s and 1940s.

As a result of the large Muslim(ish) population, French people do not find the Arab world as odd and threatening as Americans do. For one thing they are a lot closer to it and have often visited it. Morocco, Tunisia and Algeria are part of the family history of many French families; others just go there on holiday.

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I see him occasionally on my way home for work when the weather is decent enough for me to ride the Vélib bike home. So I stop and say bonjour. He has a lovely smile, and a soft approach to a hard life that I imagine took years to perfect.

One of the stories he told me was of how he became a bouquinist. He told me he had met a woman and fallen in love many years ago, and this girl’s dream was to be a librarian. She loved books. He said that at the time he had never considered such a type of endeavor as a dream in life. But it was hers. The woman did not remain in his life (he did not tell me how it ended) but she had planted within Alain a desire to be with books. And in a sort of homage to their love story he decided to be a bouquinist. And there he is at his post, caressing the covers of so many beautiful volumes as of they were long lost loves that had come back to him.

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When in Paris, go to Rome.

Say what?

Well, let me explain. France, like most of Europe, was once occupied a part of the Roman Empire. Though Paris seems thoroughly French today, there’s one amazing leftover from the time when Julius Caesar’s army ruled: Les Arènes de Lutèce. It’s one of my favorite Paris attractions.

Despite the name, it’s just one arena. And what an arena. Back in the day—that day being the first century A.D.— bloody gladiator games, circuses, and theatrical plays would take place for roaring crowds of up to 17,000. There are other Paris attractions that exhibit the time of Lutèce—such as the Notre Dame Crypt, and the Musee Cluny, which house architecture and artifacts from that ancient era.

Why is this my favorite attraction in Paris? It’s free. There’s never a line. It’s easy walking distance from Notre Dame and the Pantheon. You can bring a lunch, or a book, and enjoy an afternoon without bumping into tourists. You can comune with Paris of the past.

And it’s unsullied. Besides sign posted at the entrance explaining it origins, the arena is not “merchandised.” It was simply excavated (a convent and graveyard had been beuilt on the site) and opened as a public park in the late 1800s.

Today, old men will play petanque (the French version of bocce) while younger kids kick around soccer balls. The arena remains an area for leisurely enjoyment—but today, a less bloody kind.

Entrances on rue des Arenes, rue Monge and rue Navarre.

Complain all you will about the bureaucracy and weather in France. But you have to admit the country does right by its citizens (and visitors) culturally. As a result, the average French person is culturally sophisticated and curious.

The latest free treat for the eyes and ears: La Nuit Européenne des Musées. It takes place this Saturday, May 18. Scads of museums will be open late, and most, like the Maison de Victor Hugo, on Place des Vosges (pictured) for free.

Needless to say, there will be plenty of partying and flirting along with the art. You can download a PDF of the program here.

May is a great time in Paris, as it kicks off the free music season. It all begins with the annual Festival Jazz Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a fortnight-plus fiesta of all forms of the art from swing to gypsy to modern (“cool”) jazz in an assortment of concerts all over Paris (many of which are free). This year the festival starts today with concerts at the Luxembourg Gardens, at the Center for Irish Culture (a swing ball!), at the Oceanic Institute, at Starbucks, even at Orly airport. I will definitely dig the tributes to Sidney Bechet (Woody Allen’s favorite jazz artist) and Django Reinhardt. To see the festival’s entire lineup, head to the website and plan your jazz appreciation!

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It is the law in France that no street, square, or building may be named after a living person.

Mrs, Thatcher having passed away, a UMP – Union pour un Movement Populaire – councillor, Jérôme Dubus, motioned at a Paris municipal meeting that a street or square in Paris should be named after her: Rue or Avenue or Boulevard, or Place Margaret Thatcher. UMP is on the right, and it is the Party of former President Nicolas Sarkozy. It is no longer in power.

Immediately a FG – Front de Gauche – councillor, Aline Arrouze, made a counter proposal.

She wanted a street named after Bobby Sands, of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, who died in 1981 while being held in Her Majesty’s prison Maze. He died after a 66-day hunger strike over prison conditions and the removal of the ‘Special Category Status’ IRA prisoners had held. Mrs. Thatcher had refused to allow him to be force fed. The FG is, of course, on the left.

Said Deputy Mayor of Paris Pierre Schapira, who is a member of the Socialist Party, at the council meeting: “Bobby Sands died from a hunger strike that he made to denounce his imprisonment in the terrible conditions that Irish detainees faced, in which torture was regularly carried out by the British police. It was a hunger strike that Mrs Thatcher did not wish to bring to an end.”

The Socialist Party is in power in France, and also holds Paris City Hall. But Pierre Schapira, Deputy Mayor of Paris and a member of the Socialist Party, did not want to hear about a rue Bobby Sands.

“Every month there is something new. The last time it was the pope, and then Chavez,” he said, adding that France’s councillors must stop “using the dead for political ends.”

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The menu at L’Ecailler Du Bistrot is all seafood and it is decorated like a boathouse, with wooden boats and painted murals of shellfish. The chalkboard menu features daily catches and is loaded with a large selection of different oysters. In fact, one thing to know is that the French love oysters — they are as plentiful and taken as seriously as the baguette. You order oysters by the number, which represents the size of the oyster (No. 1, 2, 3, and 4) and the beach (e.g., Utah Beach).

As you walk into L’Ecailler, there will be a person on your left, working behind a sink and counter to prepare large plateaux (platters) of shellfish made to order. Some platters are so large that they take up whole table — a table of two next to us ordered a platter of 36 different oysters. This was their entire dinner. The platter was the size of a small car tire. I ordered a platter of different oysters, including Utah Beach vert (green), and some (crevettes rose) pink shrimp. Served on a platter of ice and fresh seaweed (for decoration), the oysters are so good they don’t need to be served with red vinegar or shallots — you eat them plain (or with a sprinkle of lemon, which is unnecessary). The Utah Beach vert oysters were particularly good, slightly briny but plain delicious, an excellent way to start a meal.

My wife, meanwhile, tried an appetizer of cold nems (these are similar to Asian eggrolls, but very light), stuffed with fresh crab (torteau). The crab was fresh and delicious – and a great light way to begin.

For our main dishes, I had scallops (coquille st. jacques), cooked in the shell, and topped with a little caviar. They were not browned at all, which I thought would be disappointing, but the fresh flavor of the scallops shined through. They came with pomme purée (buttered mashed potatoes), which were without a doubt some of the very best buttered mashed potatoes I have had in Paris, and anywhere — light, fluffy, but rich and buttery with a wonderful sprinkle of fresh ground pepper and fleur de sel (sea salt), that was simply divine.

22 Rue Paul Bert, 75011, (33) 01 43 72 76 77. Lunch and dinner, Tues. – Sat.

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Today, as usual, the market was full of foreign tourists gawking at the lovely food and product displays. As the vendeuse was cutting the stems and wrapping up the flowers (she gave me some foliage for free), I saw out of the corner of my eye a tall, impatient American man, identifable by his khaki pants and button-down shirt, but also by his attitude. While the florist was taking care of me, he had gotten more and more annoyed. The florist was aware of his annoyance but not of its cause and looked puzzled. Finally he just laid down his money, pointed at the lilies of the valley in his hand and said, “Pour les fleurs,” and flounced off.Enfin, he would have if he’d had flounces. The florist made big eyes at me and said, “What’s wrong with him?” and then shrugged her shoulders.

What was wrong? He didn’t know the rules of the marché. I didn’t either when I first came to France. So, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few!

At the height of the market, it will be crowded and you will have to wait your turn at popular, high-quality stands. If you are a customer, make a signal if the vendor doesn’t realize you’re not just a tourist staring. Then wait your turn. There may not seem to be a line, but there is. The French don’t love orderly queues. But the vendor notices who’s first, second and so on. If they make a mistake, it’s not usually out of malice toward tourists but because too many people are waiting. Sometimes there’s a long wait, that’s just how it is. When it’s your turn next, make a little signal with your hand. Whatever you do, don’t lose your temper. And remember to begin with Bonjour! and finish with Merci! Au revoir!

While you are waiting for your turn, don’t expect the merchant to pay you the least bit of attention. This is the problem my American man, at the beginning of this post, must have had. The vendeuse was completely ignoring him to focus on me– this is the polite, correct way for a vendor to behave in France. The American was expecting her to acknowledge him and in some way say “Don’t worry, you’re next,” or “I’ll be right with you.” But to the vendeuse, that would be rude to me.

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The multi-screen cineplex MK2 Bibliothèque (128 ave de France, 75013) now has a special “daycare” space Mon Petit MK2 for kids aged 4-10 years, with supervised play and workshops while parents are at the movies. It’ operated Saturdays, Sundays and holidays from 9:30am-1:30pm (yeah, it’s a morning thing), and costs €25 per child for 4 hours (parents get half off their movie tickets, too, just €4.90). Reserve in advance at monpetitmk2@mk2.com or 01 44 67 30 88.

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The recent release of two films starring Vincent Cassel about the notorious French killer, kidnapper, and bank robber Jacques Mesrine plunged me into an obsession for French criminals. So the timing was perfect (for me, at least) for Ravencrest Books to release Die in Paris: The True Story of France’s Most Notorious Serial Killer. (Full disclosure: Its author, Marilyn Z. Tomlins, contributes to this blog.) The 420-page true story did more than satisfy my blood lust; it gave me a deeper understanding of the horrors France suffered during the German Occupation of the early 1940s.

Marcel Petiot, a doctor who sold heroin and cocaine prescriptions on the side, padded his income by selling safe escape to South America to Jews fleeing Nazis. But, like the crooked lawyer in Paul Verhoeven’s 2006 film Black Book, Petiot was setting up his “clients,” pocketing not only the steep fee they paid for passage, but also the cash and jewels they took with them. He did this by killing them before any ship set sail.

Die in Paris begins with a gruesome discovery in the 16th arrondissement: some 60 bodies in various states of decomposition. The chop shop was a true chamber of horrors, with a stove specifically for burning corpses, and walls designed to accommodate syringes laden with deadly poison. I won’t reveal any more of the gory details, but will say only that Tomlins did extensive research to present a photographic depiction of Paris in the 1940s, and a man deeply disturbed from childhood on.

Like all too many police procedurals, the one involving Petiot suffered from bureaucratic hurdles. French cops had to run everything by their German oppressors, and even before they got wind of the murders, French citizens were reluctant to blow the whistle because Petiot was rumored to be killing Nazis and collaborators. Or runmored to be allied with the Germans. Either way, no one wanted to be involved, and so a shocking number of people knew about the fleshy pile-up in the tony 16th.

Die in Paris is every bit as luridly fascinating as the Mesrine double bill….except nothing here has been altered for the purposes of entertainment. It didn’t have to be.