It just occurred to me that I talk about Paris a lot here.  It’s kind of funny, actually, as I’ve only been there twice. But the references abound. Might be my affinity for macarons and Oscar Wilde.

This photo was from my very first trip there. We watched skateboarders at le Palais de Tokyo. As tourists wielding cameras unabashedly, I snapped photos of the kids doing tricks and documented the grafitti like an urban anthropoligst. (How cliche, right? Little did I know, I was only just getting started on my grafitti safari.) Visually, this isn’t the most striking street art, but I love the expression. Google tells me it’s French translation of a film called Now You See Him, Now You Don’t. Seems quite apt.

I wonder if it was one of tho who created this grafitti (our entree into the world of Euro street art). Translated

Maybe that’s where the (hopelessly trite?) obsession began.

During our August visit to Paris two years ago, we didn’t visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower or really any tourist destinations. We were jet-lagged and crabby, and the weather was unseasonably cold. In August. And yet, we had no trouble finding our own version of the city’s charms; we dragged  heavy feet to taste mud-thick hot chocolate at Angelina, out-of-this-world falafel at Kiki et Mimi and delightful (adorable even) verrine at Cafe Constant. As many do, we ate our way through Paris. Earlier, at Jardin des Tuileries, we were glued to these two hypnotic dancers. Outside, it was gray, brisk and mostly empty in the park. All of Paris was on holiday. Wrapped in scarves and wandering aimlessly (we didn’t have a plan for the afternoon,  much less for the year abroad), we lingered, crepes in hand, to take in this private show. Minutes later, I would throw my hat in the air, Mary Tyler Moore style, in front of the Louvre. Don’t ask me why I did this; the trip had been absolutely rife with comedy-of-errors scenarios. But I know I felt ridiculously free and enthralled by the wide-open stretch of possibility in front of me. Seeing these photos reminds me of that feeling.

Having just read Flannery O’Connor’s “Wise Blood,” the deeply disturbing Southern Gothic story of sin and redemption (to boil the baffling “plot” into just a few words), this photo seems now more unsettling than, well, kitsh-tastic. A stand filled with Jesus and Mary in every incarnation easily borders on creepy.

I remember stepping off the Porte de Clignancourt metro into a new Paris I hadn’t seen–the 18th arrondissement, not far from where we were staying in Montmartre, but a world away. (It’s that variation between neighborhoods that I appreciate so much about Paris.)

Les Puces de Saint-Ouen was everything I had hoped for: shaded, winding corridors of stands with every imaginable treasure–things exotic and seemingly important enough to make me pause, from vintage couture to a slightly rusted gnome Christmas tree stand, perhaps the only thing I seriously considered buying there.

The place oozed both casual self-importance and charm—those things that people tend to love, hate (or love/hate) about Paris. I felt special just perusing the stands, just being there (even if I couldn’t afford a thing and harbored a pulsating envy for the effortlessly chic Parisian women around me). But it was that kind of a place.

Who else would take pictures of such a bizarre display but a tourist? But come on, a stand full of Jesuses and Marys in every incarnation? How could you not?

I have not read The Picture of Dorian Gray (nor The Importance of Being Earnest), and when I visited the Père Lachaise Cemetery last winter (low afternoon sun illuminating crumbling stone graves; raw, pink fingers), I beelined for Morrison’s grave, not Wilde’s. (Morrison’s, incidentally, was mobbed and eluded the perfect camera angle.)

Since discovering the quotable writer’s witticims, I’m hooked. I love his charisma, strong opinions and love of stylish things. To quote Biography, as part of the Aesthetic movement, Wilde “embraced an attitude that the sheer beauty of objects would improve one’s quality of life.”

While I lack his humor, way with words and ability to work a party, I can relate to how he responds to, well, stuff. For him it was his blue china and peacock feathers. For me, it’s old magazines; 1970s Czech film posters; bowls of cherries; the perfect lighting (underestimated in its value); band names like the sea and cake (forget about the music, it’s all about the name); printed silk dresses; champagne coupes—and, of course, the pursuit of new beautiful objects to covet.

amusez-vous bien

in Paris, at Jardin des Tuileries.