We walked into the front room of Musee Carnavalat, the Paris history museum, the Gallery of Signs, where old wrought iron signs advertising shop wares for a partially illiterate population by depicting what was for sale, hung from the ceiling and walls. Â The museum is free, and no tickets are needed, which isn’t true of all the free museums in Paris. Â At the Musee de la Vie Romantique, we’d walked in the front door and were met by a ticket taker, who sent us back to the office to get our free tickets. Â Which were then torn along the narrow perforated edge and handed back to us. Â The tickets to the Museums of the City of Paris all have images on the back — a pot of tea by a stack of books with writing papers, a view of a columned building, a photograph of a woman from what looks like the 40’s, sitting facing backwards in a chair, her elbow leaning on the chair back with her chin on her hand, flouncy blouse sleeves billowing around her shoulders. Â Perhaps the point of the tickets is the images.
At the Musee Carnavalet, we were told no tickets were needed, but there was a long line of people at the front of the gallery.  I heard a couple talking in the line, clearly from the U.S., and asked them, “Do you know what this line is for?”  We started talking and figured out it was a line for the audio guide.  As we were getting ready to start into the museum, the woman asked, “Where are you from?”, we answered, and ended up in a 20 minute conversation that concluded with an invitation to have dinner, their treat, with the couple.  “We’re staying at the Crillon,” the man said.  “Meet us at 8:00.”  David had been looking the Hotel Crillon online a few nights before, researching the names of people he’d seen on stones by the Place de Concorde, and we’d been laughing at what it would be like to stay at a hotel where room prices start at 450 Euros and a suite can cost up to 1,000.
The couple was friendly, generous, and clearly delighted to have us join them. Â “Thank you so much for inviting us,” we said as we all sat down to dinner in the elegant dining room, wait staff buzzing around us. Â “It’s our pleasure,” they said. Â “We have no social life.” Â They laughed. Â They live in the U.S., have apartments in London (he works a good bit in the UK), Bermuda and Florida (“but they’re all very small,” she said), and were in Paris for the weekend. Â We believed them, that it was a treat to have another couple to talk with at dinner, and though there was a pretty vast difference in economic situations, and some clear political differences between us, we had a lively conversation, along with excellent food and two bottles of a 1988 red wine, which neither David or I came remember the name of, but recognized as outstanding.
On the list of things to do in Paris that I’d made earlier in the week was having a drink at the Hotel Meurice, a suggestion from a friend for a way to experience the opulence of a top end hotel in Paris. So after our unexpected dinner at the Crillon, we stopped at the Meurice, Â just up the street from the Crillon, on our way back to the apartment. Â We ordered drinks and soaked up the extravagantly decorative surroundings, as the soft tones of the piano and bass jazz being played filled the room. Â David drank his Abelour and I drank my mint tea, and we thought about how lucky we are.