Paris Diaries: One, La Maison du Chocolat

In Paris, on the left bank of the Seine, a short distance from Saint-Sulpice's Baroque facade and Saint-Germain's Gothic tower, where Boulevard Raspali intersects with Rue de Sevres, you'll find a little storefront marked La Maison du Chocolat. To get there, you can cross the river from Pont du Carrousel, the bridge named after the carousel at the end of the Louvre, then walk straight down Rue de Saint-Peres until you come across Rue de Sevres. It's a bad idea to use Pont Neuf (like I did), attempt to navigate your way out of the Latin Quarter's maze (where I got lost several times and you probably will too), saunter along the eternal length of Boulevard Saint-Germain to get to Rue de Four, then finally walk up to Rue de Sevres on a pair of swollen feet.

Either way, if you make it there, you'll find rows and rows of chocolates, some dusted in nutmeg powder, others coated in nuggets of dried peach and apricot, all boxed and stacked up like little snuff boxes and perfume bottles in an 18th Century Aristocrat's boudoir.

A blogger named Paige discovered those local delicacies long before I did. She was the one who suggested I ought to treat myself to a few pieces of them. Near the end of my stay, after I had checked off the Eiffel, the Nortre Dame, the Louvre, and the Musee d'Orsay from my list of destinations, I decided to go off the guidebook, to go on a quest for a different kind of landmark. It might as well be Paige's House of Chocolate, I thought.

My hasty Google search the night before yielded the address for La Maison du Chocolat: 19 Rue de Sevres. I charted my course, quite confident I could find my way around with the aid of a free map provided by the hotel.

While having lunch by the Seine, I tried to confirm my route with the help of my waitress, a Briton beauty with a touch of Mediterranean in her complexion.

"Could you show me where we are on the map, Mademoiselle?" I asked.
"We're ... here," she identified a spot by the riverbank, hunching over me, dangling her braided hair over my crepe au nutella.

"Where are you trying to go?" she asked.

I pointed at Rue de Sevres. She made a little farting sound by popping her tongue through her pursed lips. It was her way of saying, "You poor tourist, you're screwed."

"You should be on the other side," she said, pointing at the opposite bank.



Because I was too distracted by the postcards and the paperbacks inside the curbside vendors' booths along the riverbank, I had overshot the crossing point. I was now a couple of bridges too far from Pont du Carrousel. So I crossed the Seine at Pont Neuf (the Ninth Bridge), then disappeared into the Latin Quarter. The crisscrossing alleyways, courtyards, rues, and boulevards all seemed to conspire to keep one forever trapped within the six-block radius, further convoluted by shops and cafes spilling out onto the cobbled sidewalks.

I knew not how, but eventually I found myself with my back against the gate of Saint-Sulpice, its stony walls basking in the afternoon sun's glare. Reorienting myself, I marched along what I believed to be the right path. When I reached number 19, I found an unattended gate, opening into a private courtyard. No La Maison du Chocolat. How could this be? It was only 24 hours ago that I'd found them listed there on the Internet. Did they pack up and move away since then?

Then I noticed the blue-crested street sign. I was not on Rue de Sevres; I was on Rue de Seine. I retraced my steps back to Saint-Sulpice and started all over again.

Fifteen minutes later, I was somehow back in the heart of the Latin Quarter, struggling to keep the flimsy paper map from being blown away, repeatedly uttering "pardon" as I collided with shoppers.

I paused as I approach Rue Bonaparte. I had no desire to cross Napoleon. Not that I'd ever met the famous general, but I'd heard he had a temper shorter than his stature. Besides, the street named after him didn't appear on my planned route. (Actually, it did, but barely. I just didn't squint hard enough.) It was time to enlist local help.

I approached a woman crouching on a parked scooter under a tree. She was struggling to put on her motorcycle helmet, but her iPod earphone cords were getting in the way.

"Pardon Mademoiselle, Où est Rue de Sevres? (Miss, where's Rue de Sevres?)" I asked.

To prevent her from rattling off a series of complex instructions that I couldn't possibly understand, I shoved my map before her. My best hope was that she'd just trace a route for me with her gloved finger on the map.

She stared at the map with knitted brows, looking puzzled. Then she looked around for the street signs.

"Ah, C'est Boulevard Saint-Germain (this is Saint Germain Boulevard)," she pointed at the main road before us, still with uncertainty. That didn't improve my situation, as I'd already figured that out.

She rotated the map a few times to figure out our position, tilting her head to make sense. Then she gave up.

"Je suis désolé (I'm sorry)," she said, with a melted smile, then apologetically handed me back my map.

Then I spotted another young woman in a silk jacket, balancing bags of baguette breads in my slender arms. Since she was stocking up grocery, she must live nearby, I deduced. So I tried her with the same "Où est Rue de Sevres?" routine.

I spread the map against the antiquated facade of a nearby building, pinning it with my shoulder to keep it from fluttering. She leaned in to get a closer look, her hair brushing against my cheek. A whiff of her shampoo tickled my nose.

"Ah," she exclaimed, once the location was found. Then she delivered an impassioned oratory that could have easily passed for Joan de Arc's rousing soliloquy before the battle of Orléans. Fortunately, I caught the critical phrases:

"... pharmacie ... tourner à gauche ... tout droit (... pharmacy ... turn left ... straight ahead)."

My interpretation: See that pharmacy? Go there, then turn left, then keep walking straight. You can't miss it (that came across in her confident hand gesture, not in her words).

The baguette girl's directions were spot on. Five minutes later, I was standing at a certain section of Rue de Sevres, peering into the window of La Maison du Chocolat. The funny thing is, right then, at the end of my pilgrimage, I realized I didn't want any chocolate. I was craving one of those foot-long salami sandwiches (usually on baguette) I'd seen behind the glass counters in the cafes in the Latin Quarter.



Later, I learned that the famous chocolatier had sevral other retail locations, one on Boulevard Medeleine, merely a block away from my hotel. In Paris alone, there are seven places where I could have sampled and purchased the same velvety blocks of bliss. But I'm glad I didn't discover it in time. If I had, I wouldn't have had an excuse to get lost in the Latin Quarter (twice), to feel the walls of Saint-Sulpice that was crusted with history, to cross Rue Bonaparte into unknown territory, and to encounter the baguette girl with reassuring eyes.

I don't know if the place I found was the same place Paige found. Maybe we did discover the same thing, only at different times. Maybe we each discovered something different, but exactly what we needed to find at the time. Maybe it doesn't matter. Sometimes, the journey is more important than the destination. Sometimes, getting lost is the only way to find ourselves.