Curious Ralph in France: The Museum of Smoking
Every trip Ralph had taken to Paris in the past eight years had taken assiduous planning on his part. It was a compulsive form of vicarious pleasure. For months before any trip, he would surf the Internet looking for quirky things to do in Paris and would follow links upon links upon links to lead him into deeper esoterica. The obscure brought him unbridled pleasure; he would wallow in his own ingenuity and his narcissism quotient increased with each novel find.
A week before the trip he would review his spoils. Usually Ralph had gathered an inch and one-half thick stash of computer printouts and would sort them into categories before leaving the states: history, exhibits, shopping, entertainment, and the purely odd. This latter category pleased him the most because these were unequivocally and stolidly French: like the exhibit he found at the Musée du Fumeur of fifty years of women smokers.
Ralph looked forward to taking his friends to this out of the way museum and looking at etchings of Georges Sand smoking cigars and pipes. He was sure his compatriots would appreciate his Francophilic diligence.
Aside from the discovery of yet another eclectic Parisian museum Ralph planned to change his modus operandi for his upcoming trip. He would make no plans and just let Paris happen. This trip would be a bit different anyhow since he and Jo would be meeting friends for the first five days of the trip and another friend would be coming up from Provence to join them making a gregarious and noisy group of five.
The group gathered from various parts of the city at the Northeast corner of the Pont Neuf at noon on an overcast Monday. Everyone was layered and bundled to deal with a walk in 0 degrees Centigrade. The decision was made to traipse to the Place des Vosges and stop for lunch. Ralph had recalled eating spicy steak tartare at a restaurant there several years ago and he was craving raw meat. He’d been in Paris less than twenty-four hours.
The discussion swirled around the table. Everyone was excited to be in Paris and together and no one had any plans about anything, except Ralph. He had been watching Portuguese woman at a neighboring table with augmented lips and breasts (they simply looked too perky) and was intrigued when she threw three handfuls of salt over her left shoulder. Had she spilled salt and was trying to rectify her error? Or was there something more sinister at hand? Did she actually think she could blind the devil sitting on her left shoulder?
Ralph stopped his quizzical reverie long enough to hear someone say, "Where to now?"
"We could meander around the Place des Vosges for a while and then checkout this exhibit at the Musee du Fumeur," Ralph suggested. He took a folded sheet of computer paper out of his pocket and showed everyone the vermillion Art Nouveau poster of the exhibit. "Fifty years of photos of women smoking. Even Georges Sand."
There was no discussion, just cautious agreement.
Ralph consulted his brand new Paris Par Arrondissement purchased at a tabac within half an hour of arriving at his rented apartment. Jo said "he liked to have all of his ducks in a row." His old version of PPA an inch thick with tiny print had been given to him by friends who had found it at, perish the thought, Restoration Hardware. Ralph thought it suspect at first since it had not been purchased on the streets of Paris but upon inspection it seemed to have all the tiny streets the city was famous for. But this year he noticed he had to use a magnifying glass to read the maps. The new version was sleeker with larger print and fit comfortably without a bulge in any pocket.
In a few minutes they found themselves wandering down a street they later unenthusiastically termed The Garment District. It was a dull street by Parisian standards, with storefront after storefront of racks of nondescript clothing. Ralph, on the other hand, felt strangely at home: his grandfather had been in the children’s’ dress business on the lower east side of Manhattan. It was as if he was revisiting his roots en route to the Musée du Fumeur.
As they neared rue Pache his troops became restive.
"That was really beautiful Ralph, really beautiful," said Jo, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where is this museum?"
Ralph consulted the map. "Just a little further, this way."
The group traipsed on not at all reassured. Ten minutes later Ralph announced, "See that little street to the left? It’s there."
"Wait a second," said Jo while they were waiting to cross a busy intersection. "Does that say Père Lachaise? What are we doing way out here?"
"We could go see Jim Morrison’s grave now that we are here," Larry suggested.
Ralph was getting nervous. His plans were beginning to unravel. He was beginning to feel as if the trek to the Musée du Fumeur might have been a mistake.
"The museum is just around that corner," he pointed and added, "Père Lachaise is still a ways a way and it is going to get dark in about an hour." Ralph had never liked walking in the dark; at home he liked to be safely ensconced in his living room with a gas fire and a book as soon as the sun had set. It was not like he was afraid of the dark; he just liked the idea of nocturnal comfort.
"I can’t believe you made us walk all the way," said Jo. There was nothing more to say. Ralph began walking very slowly. As they rounded the corner the Musée du Fumeurs came into view. It was tiny, a storefront with hookahs in the window.
The group crowded into the museum, joining ten other patrons. It was a bizarre place and definitely a tight fit. A central terrarium contained various kinds of tobacco as well as a marijuana plant. There was a small teashop in the rear with one empty table.
"We could have a cup of tea," Ralph proffered but no one seemed enthused.
"I have to use the bathroom," Georgia said. The unisex toilette was near the tea room. "I think the exhibit is in there," she chortled when she came out.
"Must be," said Ralph. "I can’t find it out here."
Suddenly everyone in the group had to use the facilities and took a bit extra time perusing the windowless room. Ralph took his turn, trying to eke some self-respect from the venture.
When he’d finished, his compatriots were waiting for him near the door. Collectively their expressions said, "Typical Ralph…he led us on an earnest goose chase."
Jo was used to this, the others weren’t. An inveterate bulletin board reader from childhood and now an intermittent surfer of the Internet he was used to assimilating more information than he knew what to do with. His friends saw him as a fount of cultural knowledge and relied on his suggestions for adventures. Occasionally he was wrong and would send a friend off to a blues concert which had been cancelled (without, of course, notifying Ralph) or an art exhibit that simply was not happening. Mostly, though, Ralph’s information was reliable.
What he got out of it was both the joy of assimilating esoteric information and an intense vicarious pleasure from his friends’ appreciation of an event he could not attend.
Their incredulity at his informational abilities was another matter altogether.
But the Musée du Fumeurs had developed in an egregious and now embarrassing blunder. Not only had he led them on a boring walk (difficult to do in Paris), the end point had been disappointing. Jo claimed that the rue Pas de la Mule was "really interesting". She said all the clothing factories they passed were making mass produced polyester pants, dresses etc.
"No way," said Ralph. "They don’t know from polyester in France. I don’t believe it."
The disgruntled group headed back towards the Bastille, stopping to placate their disappointment at a crepe stand. Ralph was thinking all the way about how to salvage his reputation. There probably was no way since events like this had been part of his legacy for a long time.
Back at the rental apartment he got on the Internet and immediately went to the website of la Musée du Fumeur. He clicked on Femmes et Fumées, a picture of an Edwardian woman smoking a long cigar, and pulled up the exhibit he had been unable to appreciate. It was better on his computer screen than in real life. Well, what the hell, he thought, a bad afternoon in Paris is still better than a good afternoon anywhere else.
Ralph pushed the Tools menu on the Windows Explorer toolbar, clicked Mail and News and then Send Page. He entered the email addresses of everyone in the group and pushed the Send Mail key smiling at the thought of what awaited them when they returned home from Paris.
Louis Borgenicht is a pediatrician/writer living in SLC, Utah. He's the co-author, with his son Joe, of The Baby Owner's Manual: Operating Instructions, Trouble-Shooting Tips, and Advice on First-Year Maintenance.
