Today I went to Printemps department store, an icon of Belle Epoque Paris, to have a drink at Cafe Flo on the 6th floor. Stepping out of the elevator into women’s wear, I was perplexed by the almost grungy surroundings. Were they renovating? At any rate, the cafe itself resides under an immense jugendstijl stained glass dome - definitely a thing of beauty and splendour:

However, the service was a bit odd. As I waited in line to enter, the hostess asked me if I was alone, and when I said yes, told me I could sit at the round bar in the middle. Her manner was strangely distracted. “It’s a new concept,” she said. I had no idea what she meant. The bar itself? Single people sitting there (to encourage circular cluster-fucking for the unattached or unaccompanied)? The big pink balloon, obviously a female relative of Rover from The Prisoner? Anyway, I sat there under the superintending presence of Roverette, waiting to be enveloped, and ordered a hot chocolate, resigning myself to the E5.50 price as the cost of viewing the dome. But no, said madame behind the counter, I couldn’t just have a drink, I had to have a meal if I wanted to sit there. In that case, why hadn’t mademoiselle at the door asked whether I was dining or not? Yes, it’s only a small thing, but when you charge that much for a cup of cocoa it seems rather poor form to inconvenience a customer even ever so slightly. Madame directed me to a bar at the side, where I came face to face with an unsmiling woman who indicated a spot at the counter and told me to stand there. I went to sit on a bar stool next to the spot, but she shook her head and said “Vous restez ici” in a direly disapproving tone that reminded me of the Mother Russias at train stations in Romania. What the hell? Or was it for my own safety - did Roverette float over from time to time and devour seated guests? I looked around. The restaurant was reasonably full, but far from packed, yet the staff were rushing around looking grim and harried. Becoming more and more suspicous that something sinister was going on, I drank my chocolate quickly, took my photographs and got out, with a final glance at the mysterious pink balloon.

Next door, Galerie Lafayette also has a magnificent giant stained glass dome, rising above the large perfume department on the ground floor:

I tried a lot of perfumes in both stores today, as well as some in smaller boutiques I happened across. I was tempted by Molinard’s Habanita; created in 1921, I’ve heard this one is being rediscovered by young folks, and no wonder. I’ve never smelled a perfume that so instantly makes me want to fuck. There’s a beast in this one (civet?), lying in a bed of flowers and spices. And it didn’t turn into eau de litterbox, either. I can’t imagine wearing this anywhere except in bed, though. I also liked Stéphanie de Saint-Aignan’s Un Thé Au Sahara - just as the name suggests, tea in a Bedouin tent, spices, desert dust, and a whiff of goats. Weighing this one against Dzongkha, though, I’d choose Dzongkha, especially as an everyday perfume. I also put on some Bulgari Black, just to remind myself how much I like it. At home it’s considered unisex, but here they were rather adamant that it’s for men. It has never seemed like a manly smell to me, but then, my idea of a manly smell is my husband’s flannel shirts, so what do I know?

Drenched in scents and headachey, I went out down Boulevard Haussmann to discover some of Paris’ famous arcades - Passage Jouffroy, Passage Verdeau and Passage des Panoramas. Great places for flaneuring. One rather interesting shop was Galerie Segas in Passage Jouffroy, a velvet-hung boutique specialising exclusively in antique canes. My favourite was a simple black one with a pale opalescent green glass top. There was also a display case containing whips and the kind of canes you use for caning, accompanied by a short text explaining the pleasure of suffering, and, just in case you thought a walking cane was just for walking with, on top of the case was an explicit antique photo of a happy looking woman who seemed about to be penetrated by the cane in the hands of her paramour. There were also erotically carved canes, and an explanation of the difference between erotica and pornography was posted at the back of the shop. No, it wasn’t any clearer in French than in English.
I also liked Cabinet des Curieux, where items on display included an old book on demonology, a pickled snake, and a Turkish yataghan. This is the kind of sword Gwynn carries. I have a yataghan-shaped bayonet/sword at home, and it feels very whippy and aerodynamic. However, this thing felt much heavier and not all that comfortable to hold - but I suppose a man (or a woman with big muscles) would have less difficulty with it. Anyway, it was interesting just to pick it up and wave it around a little (carefully!).