Travelling to Paris?

Book into a Photographer’s Delight 

the Photography Themed Hôtel Déclic

By Steve Meltzer © 2017

I was planning a trip to Paris this spring for the publication of a book of my photographs and I was surfing the web looking accommodations when I came upon the Hôtel Déclic; a hotel that turns out to be a photographer’s wonderland dream wrapped up in elegant 4 star luxury. Crammed full of cameras and imagery Déclic was almost too good to be true. Even its name echoed its photographic ambiance; “déclic” is slang for a camera shutter release which is French « le déclencheur».

The Contact Sheet Suite

Checking it out, I discovered that the Hôtel Déclic was the creation of designer Sandrine Alouf of the company “Groupe Maranatha.” Alouf's vision was to create a unique hotel that surrounds its guests in a sumptuous photographic environment of images, nostalgia and deluxe furnishings. The hotel is located in Montmartre one of the city’s most romantic “quartiers.” Since the late 19^th century it has been known for its art and the artists who resided there; which includes everyone from Matisse to Picasso. As well as art this charming 18th arrondisement neighborhood exudes romance. Sensuality is in the air and Montmartre has been the setting for films like “Can-Can”, “Moulin Rouge” and “Amélie." The hotel itself is not too far from the famous “Folies Bergère.” 

The Photo Booth Room

From the street the hotel’s rather plain exterior belies the nearly hallucinogenic universe within. Entering the hotel you walk down corridors lined with cameras and hundreds of images. Checking in you discover rooms with names like the Reflex, the Contact Sheet and the Selfie. In fact all 18 rooms and 9 suites at Déclic are named for different photographic themes and decorated accordingly; often with tongue deeply in cheek. For a photographer it’s the perfect place to end a day after metro-schlepping across Paris taking photos.

The Reflex Room

In the Reflex Room for example you can stretch out on a bed shaped like a vintage interchangeable lens camera while in the Black & White room your bed’s headboard is a giant screen that projects a show of “retro” B/W images taken by anonymous photographers. As Sandrine Alouf charmingly puts it, “it captures the beauty of the art of photography, the taste of the image, and the joy of snapping”. It’s a room ready made for dreaming in black and white.

The Darkroom Suite 

Hotel Déclic blends sensuality and romance and it is nowhere more evident than in the “Darkroom Suite” (which is also known as the “Sexy Noire Suite.”) This room’s darkroom theme includes overhead ‘safelight’ illumination which will bring back fond memories to any analog era photographers. Having worked in a photo lab for 30 years myself I must say that this is the most deluxe darkroom I’ve ever been in. However the hotel frowns on actual darkroom work in suite as yellow fixer stains are impossible to get out of bed sheets and towels.

The Paparazzi Suite

Red is the color of passion and it dominates several rooms like the lusciously intense red décor of the “Paparazzi” suite. Fit for a visiting celebrity-- trying to avoid paparazzi-- it features a red carpet with a Hollywood gold star that leads to a sleek four poster bed. Looking up while in bed guests come face to face with a satiric pack of paparazzi armed with cameras staring down at them.

There’s also a "photo shoot" room for guests who want to sharpen their studio skills and the photographer Thierry Hugo is available through the hotel for classes and for private photo tours around the city.

The  Photo Studio Suite

Hôtel Déclic is an amazing place to stay. Comfort and luxury with prices that are quite in line with most 4 star Paris hotels (129-499€). You can find out more about Hôtel Déclic in my expanded article at

http://www.shutterbug.com/content/book-your-next-vacation-hotel-declic-fantastic-photography-themed-hotel-paris#adRmL3WECo84mDZb.97

For reservations or more information contact the hotel directly at  

http://declichotel.com/en/contact.html

(All photos abaca press courtesy Hôtel Déclic)   

Le Sud de France 6.4 : Journées Taurines, the Days of Bulls

The young men stood nervously rocking on the balls of their feet, waiting for the riders and horses. The long allée of plane trees leading into the heart of the village was full of people. New parents pushed strollers, old folks walked slowly with canes and teenagers gossiped ceaselessly on their mobiles. Every one of them passing easily through the tall red, steel barriers that had been erected along the allée. They chatted and laughed in the street, oblivious to the danger the young men next to them were anticipating.

The gardiens are France's cowboys

In the distance, from the direction of the village recycling bins, came the clacking of hooves on hard asphalt. Within seconds, the young men could see the Camargue gardiens and their graceful white horses turning the corner and racing down towards them. The tightly packed horses surrounded something, something dark and foreboding. In a ghostlike blur, they flew passed the young men. Just visible between the horse’s flanks were two black bulls.

After several circuits of the village the bulls are tired and can be caught up with.

The youths took off after them, running as fast as they could. They tried to catch the bulls and a few got close enough to grab an animal’s tail for a few seconds, but most did not. In frustration, some of the young men shouted out at the rapidly disappearing animals.

“When I catch you, you lousy son-of–a-cow, I will turn into a McBurger!”

The young men show their cajones.

“Hola bull, I had your sister for dinner. Nice steaks, she tasted great! I’m waiting for you.”

Then, winded and sweating, the young men stopped and bent over to catch their breaths to the scattered applause of a few friends. For those who touched the bulls’ tails there was visible elation.

Welcome to our village’s “Journées Taurines” or “Days of Bulls.”

We are located in the Herault, halfway between Spain and the cattle ranches of the Camargue. Raising bulls and bullfighting is a tradition in the Languedoc and many cities have arenes (arenas). The larger venues, like Nîmes, Carcassone and Béziers, are part of the “corrida” circuit that the toreros travel each year. While bullfighting may be a controversial sport, with its ardent supporters and equally ardent detractors, the Journées Taurines is not a bullfight at worst it is bull annoyance.

The bull running began Saturday and continued on Sunday. The first year the event was held one of the organizers stepped out in front of a bull and taunted it. The taurine was not impressed and flung the man into the air, a moment immortalized on YouTube.

Thinking of breaking out?

Thereafter crowd control and public safety became a big concern. This year along the Avenue de la Gare, the tree lined road that leads into town, the village workers erected heavy, red steel barriers. About two meters tall, there was enough room between the bars to allow people to pass through them, but not enough space for a large animal. However, there was a glitch in this security arrangement. No one cared that you were supposed to stay behind the bars. People just passed through them and continued on their merry way, as though nothing were going on. The event announcer kept telling people to stay back behind the barriers but no one seemed to pay any attention to him except for the local band, Fanfare Banzai. They wisely sat well back from the barriers and played their music from the terrace of a nearby restaurant.

This old guy threw his hat at the bulls to get them to run faster.

The horses and bulls made a wide circuit down the allée and around through the fields. Each time they came down the Avenue, the crowd stepped aside to make room for them and cheered a little, then just as quickly stepped back out into the street.

As the village photojournalist, I loaded up my professional gear, long lenses and all and covered the “action.” And, there I stood out in the middle of the street, cameras at the ready, ignoring the taunts and the warnings of several British friends who shouted from behind the barriers.

Fanfare Banzai played from the safety of the restaurant.

Even Diane added to the chorus, begging me to come back to safety.

“No,” I said proudly, “I am a photojournalist and my job is to get the photos.”

My sang froid rising, I added, “I’ll be okay because I will stand next to this old lady and her two little granddaughters. Surely, not even an angry bull would harm a child or the photographer standing behind her.”

Then I heard the sounds of the approaching horses and I began to have some misgivings about my plan. Luckily, the little girl looked up at me and smiled.

The horses flew by us and I hurriedly snapped frame after frame. Most of these shots, of course, were photos of the rear ends of horses, young men, and bulls. No, Pulitzer there. Clearly this event would not rise to level of an Ernest Hemingway bullfight, there was not even going to be a broken arm much less a Death in this Afternoon.

After a lot of taunting this taurine chased a kid across the arena. 

Then I realized what the village’s little secret was. These bulls were rather young. Imagine if you will as one year old, sweet, and gentle Ferdinand the Bulls, rather than some sort of steamrollers of death. As herd animals they ran, dare I say, happily in the safety of the horses? 

Notice how small the bull is.

Moreover, unlike Pamplona where the bulls chase the people, in Tourbes people chase the bulls and try to catch up with them. Sure, these frisky steers could hurt you but you literally have to get in their faces to do it, as that event organizer did in that first running. Cattle are nearsighted, that is why toreros use red capes to get their attention, to get hurt you have to get in their way.

A log day of running bulls draws to a close.

“Gardiens,” the cattle ranchers from the Camargue marshes of the Rhone, operate these bull runnings all around the region. They are in control of the animals and having raised them are aware of each one’s mood and attitude. I’ve written about the gardiens before. These are the French cowboys who at the turn of the 19^th century hosted Buffalo Bill Cody and his Wild West Show when they were forced by bad weather to spend a winter camped in the Camargue. The gardiens learned a lot about riding and roping from the cowboys and adopted both American style saddles and clothing.

People without barriers watch the loose bulls.

Although the weekend went well and there were only minor injuries, some question remains about whether or not there will be a Journées Taurines next year. While the bulls were well behaved, the people were not. With dozens of people milling about oblivious to the bulls, horses and men racing by, it was an injury lawyer’s dream and an insurer’s nightmare.

Most people totally ignored the barriers. The bulls, on the other hand, recognizing the danger these people posed, wisely sought shelter with the riders and horses. Facing the horde of reckless moms, wandering children and incautious grannies, that was the smart thing to do. In their hooves, I would have done the same.

Sud de France 1.3 : Mr. Scaramouche Goes To France

He’s young, he’s big and a total pussy. Yup, our cat Scaramouche, known familiarly as Mouche or at time “Doodles” is one big tough young cat who jumps at every loud noise and hides from newcomers.

In deciding to move we had to figure out his future. Should we haul him to France or leave him with friends. That was a no brainer and so he’s packed and ready to fly--sort of. 

Many countries and several US states have long animal quarantines and even if Mr. M was up to date on his shots, he’d be sent to the cold, gray kennel in some airport hanger, an animal Stalag 13. Had we faced a multi-month quarantine, Mr. M would not have been able to be with us.

But France recently dropped its quarantine and so he’s coming along. Yeah there will be one long lousy day of travel but it will be followed by years of basking in the Mediterranean sunshine nibbling baguettes and croissants.

Our visit to the vet was momentous. Mr. M is a house cat in the truest sense of the word. He never leaves  the house. Open a door and he watches to see what comes in but will not venture over the threshold to go out. So when it came time to go to the vet he was experiencing one of his first trips into the big, bad world. 

After an obligatory 30 second freak out over being confined and a lot of kitty cursing, he settled down. By the time we got to the vet he was very Stoic. Cool and calm, no hissing or fighting. What a guy. Didn’t flinch when his microchip ID went in--now he’s a cat with a record and a number!  He was weighed and in his bare paws topped the scale at 14.3 pounds. That’s well over the 6 kilo (13.2lb) limit for cabin flying so he is going to have to go cargo. Er… below deck with all the other pirate pet animals. 

After a moment of panic at the idea of our baby being in a cold dark cargo hold, we realized that it would be best and Air France seemed very concerned about his welfare. Also we thought that stuck under a cabin seat he wouldn’t be able to move and that would be cruel. At least in his high end International Airline approved carrier he has room to stand up and move about, play solitaire and check his email.

There’s always a question about drugs and animals in transit. After talking to a lot of people and our vet we decided to give Mouche a little dose of sleepy-time powder. It won’t put him out it will just make it easier for him to sleep.

We’ve got a couple of small cans of food in our luggage and we’ll get kitty litter at the first Intermarche supermarket we see.

That should get us through that travel day and help him get settled in.

Then best of all we have to go to the local prefecture (mayor/police station) and get him a passport. Yup, a kitty passport so that he when he’s caught in some police raid of the local salmon bistro he can show his papers and be sent home with only a reprimand. 

Photos and text © 2010 Steve Meltzer

Sud de France 1.0

Introduction:

In June of 2010 my wife Diane and I decided to pack up our lives and our cat and move to the South of France. I'm a writer and photographer and so I can do my work from anywhere. Then soon after we decided to move, in the middle of our packing, up an exciting new website started www.PIXIQ.com and I was asked become one of their contributors.

Although I've been a writer for over thirty years I've been reluctant to blog but when friends suggested I write about moving to France I realized that actually what we are doing is perhaps as the expression goes “ahead of the curve. Many of the issues we're dealing with will soon be the very ones that my younger boomer compatriots will be facing.

So sharing about our move and our new life made sense. These blogs will be a diary of our changes seen through a photographer's. And I’ll be posting lots of images so you'll be able to see the world we are going to. 

“Sud de France” is the new name the French tourism agency has given the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France because they think it is easier for English speakers, i.e. Americans, to remember. The region sits on the Mediterranean coast and has a warm climate with they say, about 300 days of sunshine a year. Although not as well known as Bordeaux and Burgundy it is one of the world’s largest wine producing regions. That’s our destination. 

1.0 --The beginning:  Paper, paper, and well, more paper.


Bureaucracy is a French word and going to France you need to understand it and learn to overwhelm it. To stay in France for any length of time you need a Long Stay Visa which gives one permission to remain in the country. To get one you need to provide the nearest French consulate with lots of paper. Proof of birth, marriage, citizenship and so on and on. Most importantly you need proof that you have enough money to help France overcome its economic woes.
Besides the Long Stay Visa I also wanted a Talent et Competences card which would let me legal sort of work in France. Note however that if you moved to someplace like Paris where you didn't have a car and you rented an apartment you might never ever have to show anyone a document much less a Long Stay Visa--no matter how long you lived there. 

But heading for the lovely small towns of the South we decided that 'rules is rules' and we would do our best to follow them, just to be on the safe side.
So we went down to San Francisco carrying five thick stacks of papers. Each was in a color coded folder and had a large ribbon holding it together. Diane put the ribbons on as a little French flourish.

We had rehearsed our presentation to the officials. I had a huge portfolio of photos and copies of books to amaze them with. We were ready for our close-ups!

But when we arrived at the Consulate we entered a small room with a dozen chairs and a long glass window behind which two guys were sitting. A TV in the room was set to TV5Monde and a show about Finnish deer roundups. The place felt like a dentist's waiting room more than the setting for an interrogation.
We sat down and waited nervously, keyed up after weeks of organizing and copying papers. Finally we were called we handed the guy behind the glass our papers. He looked them over and without saying much told us to put our fingers on the digital fingerprint device. Next to us a college age young woman was going through the same procedure and when asked to put her fingers on the device winced and said, "Ohhhh, eeecckkk, can I get a tissue to clean this?"
The room filled with gentle laughter. She cleaned the screen and then after getting her fingerprints taken we did ours. 


Then the guy behind the glass asked us the most important question of the day, "Visa or Mastercard?"


We flew back home later that day (the photo above is of Puget Sound where we live). A week later Fedex brought our Visas and a letter saying that I would be granted my Talent card and be an official "artist."

Of course there was one hitch to the card and that was that when we arrive I have to go to the Police for the card. I have to have a blood test to prove that I am not one of those disease ridden "La Boheme/Rent" artists.

And after the blood test I am sure that they will ask me that most important question for any visiting artist.

"Visa or Mastercard to pay the 275 Euros for the card?"

Photos and text © 2010 Steve Meltzer