Nothing about the innocuous building suggests the kind of luxury to be tiptoed over inside. The staircase up to the fourth floor (third European, though I refuse to concede the logic) is in need of refinishing, the wood starting to show gaps. I know because I clung to the banister as we inched up the stairs. Mathieu had some apologizing to do. At every stair, and landing. When Mathieu opens the door with his key, I gasp. The apartment is sumptuous. I wish I could do it justice, but I have no vocabulary for these opulent objects. French furniture is particularly tied to its history, and I have no method for discriminating between a Louis the Something-or-Other chaise and a Third Republic one. They all look like something you shouldn’t sit on. If forced to make a stab, I would say that this place sings of the Belle Époque, with mismatched, eccentric bric-a-brac punctuating more elegant showpieces. There are elaborate moldings, Oriental carpets, crystal chandeliers, and gold-gilt mirrors stretching the length of walls.
What do You think about Plum Blossoms In Paris (2010)?
