#hausmannian building

[sheltiechicago]

Melting Building In Paris

The Hausmannian Building on Georges V Avenue in Paris, France has been referred to as the ‘melting building’. Referred to as trompe l’oeil (trick the eye), it’s actually a mural and an optical illusion that appeared in 2007. The old building needed restoration work but instead of contemplating the scaffold, a creative solution was found. Artist Pierre Delavie made pictures of the building in its original form, and then the images were distorted by a computer program and printed on large canvases, which completely shut down the facade of the house. Frederic Beaudoin pasted over the image of the foam cornices, and distinguishing reality from the picture has become very difficult, especially at a distance.

Melting building in Paris is actually a mural and an optical illusion referred to as trompe l’oeil

[sorrysomethingwentwrong]

"The Melting Building"

The Hausmannian Building on Georges V Avenue in Paris, France, is called the 'melting building.' Referred to as trompe l'oeil (trick the eye), it's a mural and an optical illusion that appeared in 2007.

The old building needed restoration work, but instead of contemplating the scaffold, a creative solution was found. Artist Pierre Delavie made pictures of the building in its original form. Then, the images were distorted by a computer program and printed on large canvases, which completely shut down the house's facade.

Frederic Beaudoin pasted over the image of the foam cornices, and distinguishing reality from the picture has become very difficult, especially at a distance.

[archdl]

Design proposal for a building of 44 social housing on rue de Tolbiac in Paris 13th - work by @lateliersenzu in collaboration with @h2o_architectes, @pluriellesarchitectes and @majma.eu "Different steps are designed to integrate plants and vegetation within the building and to create large private terraces. The “angle” treatment draws its inspiration from the different examples of the street : straight from modern building and chamfered from hausmannian building. The building anchors the project at the corner of rue de Tolbiac and rue du Moulin des Prés by offering a stone facade rotating on three sides." Visualization by @jeudi.wangv . ⭕ What do you think about this design and visualization? 🔻Tag your Architect Friends! . ❌Turn ON Post Notifications to see new Contents.❗ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Follow @archdlofficial for more! 🖤 (at Paris 13e) https://www.instagram.com/p/CohpcFEMYX_/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[saltine-kakyoin]

fellas i am about to 1v1 the corpse of georges-eugène haussmann

[ajeonginteriors]

ATTIC BATHROOM

The Attic Bathroom is an ode to Parisian attic rooms.

Formerly used as servant rooms, those small spaces had a view of the  rooftops of Paris. 

Nowadays, a lot of people are making this space a retreat to relax, where you can enjoy the view of the French capital, while feeling the history of the place.

Thankfully, the Hausmannian buildings found throughout Paris are usually of a good ceiling height. With that, even in an attic, you wouldn’t feel too cramped, and if you’re a dwarf, this would be the perfect size.

THE FLOOR PLAN

This original space was only about 10m² big, but the owner of the house wanted to make it bigger, so that they can fit a bath in it and still have space to move around the room.

They took up space on the corridor, and extended the sloped ceiling for a better effect.

The interior was designed around the old and the  new. A Scandinavian atsmosphere with the design bath, the design mirror, the numerous plants makes up the new while the wood panelling, the old brick, the busts and shelves take on the old memories.

The large window bring in enough light and privacy to be able to enjoy the rooftops of the romantic French capital.

[hiromisshi]

Bâtiment Hausmannien, Paris.

[evilbuildingsblog]

Hausmannian Building, Georges V Avenue, Paris

[nitsuki-baka]

Clichés

As Kaneki looked down at his map once more, he concluded that he was definitely lost. He cursed himself for not believing that he was already lost an hour ago, because now he was sure he had strayed off even further. 

He also cursed the taxi driver who had dropped him somewhere in the middle of a maze of meandering roads which half of it weren’t identified on the map Kaneki had bought at the airport. Ever since he landed in Paris, every investment seemed to be a waste of money. 

What was he thinking when agreeing upon a proposal from some foreign writer who asked if there was a possibility of them working together? In what state of mind was he when he thought traveling to an unfamiliar country would be a great idea? 

Kaneki’s knuckles turned white with the force he put in the grip on the handle of his small suitcase. He felt like crying, and almost felt pathetic for it. He was an adult for God’s sake! But Kaneki gave himself a little bit of mercy, standing in the middle of crisscrossing roads and people who he didn’t understand and who didn’t understand him. How loneliness could stab one so hard.

It was just before he gave in to the tears that threatened to fall that he felt someone lightly patting his shoulder. Quickly, he got himself together and turned around to see who had tried to get his attention. 

The first thing that Kaneki noticed was the messy head of badly bleached hair. In the sea of blonde hair, this guy still succeeded in standing out of the crowd. Next to him, the stranger had a bike that seemed to be on the brink of falling apart. 

‘‘Hey buddy, you seem a little lost. You need any help?’‘ 

Kaneki startled and panicked when he figured that the stranger was waiting for an answer. ‘’Uh, s-sorry... I can’t speak, uhm-’’

‘‘Wait, do you speak Japanese?’‘ And Kaneki could cry again, but this time out of relief, when he heard the other say something he could understand.

‘‘Yes. Please, could you help me?’‘ Kaneki showed the guy the small note with an address written on it. ‘‘Do you know where this is?’’ The other took the note and analyzed the address thoughtfully, and then laughed. 

‘‘What kind of map did you use man? We’re nowhere close.’‘ Kaneki felt a little ashamed, but he could sense that the guy only meant well. 

‘‘Sorry, navigating is not my strongest suit.’‘ He got another pat on his shoulder in return. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he asked himself if it was weird that he felt so safe with this stranger. 

‘‘Don’t worry about it. I know exactly where you need to go.’‘ The guy grabbed both of the handles of his bike and swung one leg over his bike. ‘‘I can take you there. It is faster going by bike anyway.’‘ 

It took some seconds for Kaneki to realise that the stranger was inviting him to tet on the carrier of his bike. 

‘‘W-what?’‘

‘‘Just hop on. I won’t bite, I promise.’‘

Feeling that he didn’t have any other choice, Kaneki slowly sat down on the carrier, taking his suitcase on his lap, wrapping one arm around it and holding the saddle with his other hand. 

‘‘You ready?’‘

Kaneki swallowed and went trough the possible situations he could have gotten himself in. 

‘‘I’m ready.’‘ 

It was terrifying when the guy started to paddle and made his way through the crowd with a speed that was too fast to be safe in Kaneki’s opinion. He held thightly on the saddle and his suitcase. 

‘‘My name’s Hide by the way,’‘ the other guy, Hide, shouted to him. As people, buildings, and canals flashed past, Kaneki felt remotely safer on the back of this bike that only needed this much to fall apart. And it was the voice in the back of his mind again that asked him if it was this Hide that made him feel like this. For a second, he had the urge to lean against the back of the other. 

‘‘I’m Kaneki Ken.’‘ 

He could have felt Hide hum if he had leaned in. He didn’t though, scared that it would maybe break the mood of the moment. 

‘‘Well Kaneki, you’re pretty lucky a cute guy like you got picked up by a nice guy like me and not some strange pervert.’‘

Kaneki wanted to laugh, but then choked on that laugh instead. ‘’Wait, what?’’ Had Hide just called him cute?

When they arrived at the destination Kaneki had been trying to find for hours, he felt a little disappointed and sad that he had to say goodbye to this guy already. Hide genuinely seemed like a nice guy, especially when all he had done was trying to help him. And he did. The Hausmannian-style appartment building in front of them suddenly looked so lonely. 

Kaneki hopped off the carrier and set down his suitcase. He hastily got his backpack from his back and searched for his wallet. ‘’Uh, just wait a second, I want to give you some money for taking me here and-’’ 

Hide heavily shook his head. ‘’No, I can’t take that.’’ 

Kaneki stood there awkwardly for a moment. ‘’B-but, you helped me and I can’t let you leave without giving you anything in return.’’ 

Hide set his bike against a tree and took his mobile phone out of the pocket of his jacket. 

‘‘Then give me your number instead.’‘ 

Kaneki didn’t know how to react to that. That’s not enough? Are you joking? Why would you want my number? Hide knew exactly what he was thinking, because he answered his questions before he could actually ask them.

‘‘Your number is enough, really,’‘ Hide scratched the back of his head. Was he embarrased? ‘‘I didn’t joke earlier when I said you were cute.’‘ 

Kaneki couldn’t help but blush when he took Hide’s phone and carefully typed his contact information. Hide grinned when Kaneki gave him his phone back. 

‘‘So, Kaneki Ken. I guess I’ll see again?’‘ Hide took his bike again and set one foot on the paddle. 

‘‘Maybe, but don’t think it’ll be anytime soon.’‘ Kaneki didn’t understand why he felt a bit down after realizing that he would probably be too busy the next days to meet up with Hide again. He barely knew this guy. 

‘‘Oh don’t worry. I’ll see you in my dreams tonight.’‘ And with that, Hide waved and cycled away. 

‘‘Bonne nuit, Kaneki Ken!’‘

As Kaneki stayed there on the pavement, he absentmindedly thought that this trip wasn’t going to be like he had expected.

[luxelegantopulence]

Melting Building in Paris France ..Hausmannian Building On Georges V Ave. .

[odi-et-amo85]

Not me immediately looking up “Hausmannian buildings” 🤓👩‍💻

SKAM FRANCE Episode3 Clip9 Translation

Wednesday - 20:43 - The future

Tiff: smile! yes! You see it’s the Pont-Neuf (means New Bridge) here, my favourite bridge.

Max: you have a favourite bridge?

Tiff: well yeah, it’s so majestic, it’s the oldest bridge in Paris. It was built in the 16th century. Its name really doesn’t do it justice, by the way.

Max: it’s kinda cute when you make corny history teacher jokes

Tiff: you know when I was younger, on the weekends my dad would take me to his job, he’s a real estate agent, and we would walk for hours in Paris and because he’s an architecture nerd, he taught me everyting about Haussmannian buildings, the balconies from the 20′s, bricks from the 50′s…anyway you can show me any building in Paris, I’ll be able to tell you the exact date it was built.

Max: nice power!

Tiff: yeah. and the river boats were our ritual on Sunday evenings. He would put me on his shoulders, and when we’d do under a bridge, we would scream and there was an echo and we thought it was really funny. Ever since then, I love bridges.

Max: you have a bridge kink uh. You’re actually the weirdest one out of all of us. 

Tiff: probably, because that’s what i want to do later: build bridges.

Max: seriously?

Tiff: yeah, and you, what do you want to do?

Max: I don’t know, maybe primary school teacher. I like kids and they’re not in the social game yet.

Tiff: and you, do you want children?

Max: i don’t know, yeah maybe. You’re right, being a teacher is good to practice being a father.

Tiff: I think it’s a brave job.

Max: it’s not as classy as building bridges, but it’s important. You would have loved the race tracks so much. It’s not the same style in terms of achitecture, but that was a really original place.

Tiff: yeah, it must’ve been so nice to party there. I would’ve loved to live this. It’s cool to talk to you. It’s raining way too much now, let’s go?

Max: yeah.

[afashionpoint]

15 Crazy Facts That Sound Fake But Are Actually True

Crazy Facts That Sound Fake But Are Actually True

Crazy Facts That Sound Fake: Have you at any point investigated an image and thought about whether it was real or not? We live in a period in which individuals can without much of a stretch control pictures with Photoshop and here and there, you need to think about whether there was a smidgen of PC virtuoso working out of sight.

15 Crazy Facts That Sound Fake But Are Actually True:

1# Salar De Uyuni, The World's Largest Salt Flat In Bolivia.

source 2# Zhangye Danxia Landform In Gansu, China.

source 3# Undulatus Asperatus.

source   4# Lenticular Clouds.

5# Dress Fashion

source 6# Burned-Out Utility Pole.

source 7# Australian Dust Storm.

source 8# A Pile Of Timber Reflecting In A Puddle.

source   9# Frozen Pond In Switzerland.

source 10# Sculpture In New Zealand.

source 11# You wouldn’t want to be in this 200-foot deep sinkhole in Guatemala City.

source 12# Hausmannian Building On Georges V Ave. In Paris.

source 13# It looks like a monster but it is Seaweed.

source 14# These trees have been pruned so perfectly they look fake.

source Related Poat: 10+ Most Weird And Hilarious Wedding Fails Photos 15 Best Funny Pictures of The Day The Most Powerful Photos Of The Year 2018 Most Accidentally Funny Photos That Have Ever Happened!  Read the full article

[songsofparis]

The First Suitcase

I packed my first suitcase for Paris in July of 1981.

It was time to spread my wings.  This time in a foreign country.  This time in France.

There were opportunities to travel in my teens to Europe or Israel but they held no interest for me.  I really wanted to move to New York or maybe Los Angeles. I wanted to study with voice teachers and stand in front of microphones on nightclub stages and recording studios and fill my lungs with air and produce sound.  So I did.

Air France, engines roaring the velocity of the plane speeding down the tarmac pushing my back against the seat, I was on the race track.  I loved speed.  I loved flying.

The sound of French in the aisles, the chic flight attendants, the announcements in a language new to me.  The first border I would cross into a culture, feeling I was on the outside looking in, a foreigner.

There was parfum in the restroom.  Nocturnes de Caron for women, Pour un Homme for men.  Shalimar was my mother’s fragrance, my youth, but Caron would be the scent of my baptism to France.  Deep, warm, seductive.

I slept on the plane and woke up to the aroma of coffee.  A French roast, long before the days of baristas and great coffee on every corner in America. It was perfection.  

As the plane descended over the fields near Roissy the dense green blades of overgrown grass parted from the power of the engines.  The earth was rich, lush.  I couldn’t help but think of Wisconsin.  Was I wrong?  It was the earth of agriculture.  The earth of grass fed livestock.  Earth that fed cows and sheep and goats.  Something would be waiting for me to taste.  Artfully cultivated fromage and vin rouge,  The bon mariage.

My producer’s girlfriend met me at the airport.  The tiny Autobianchi carried my suitcase down the autoroute into the city until we reached the narrow tree lined streets and Hausmannian architecture in the center of Paris.  It was beautiful.

I would enter the apartment building on the rue Pelouze in the huitieme arrondissement to a damp distinctive smell but not unpleasant.  Humidity mixed with stone of a certain age that belonged to that building.  I took the recently installed elevator to the top floor.  A former cage fit for a sardine.  It was tight.

The apartment was open and comfortable.  Filled with antiques but not heavy.  An old bar cart suggested a gracious style of living. L’art de la vie. The art of living.  I was offered an aperitif and sipped my first Pastis.  I was hooked on the spot.

That night I was taken on a tour of the monuments.  Jet lag or not, my eyes were open wide.  Arch du Triomphe,  Champs Elysees, St. Germain des Pres, Tour Eiffel.  I was so exhausted when I arrived at Notre Dame I thought I had a sense of Deja Vu.  it was overwhelming.

We walked the rue de Levis the next day, a market street with rabbits hanging upside down,  the odor of singed chicken feathers from a tiny torch used by the butcher for a final cleaning before wrapping the bird in paper.  The rosy cheeked  boucher frowned when I told him I didn’t speak French. I could only smile and shrug my shoulders apologetically.

I sat in my first cafe, the scent of pungent Gitanes, cigarettes of cured tobacco mixed with the roasted beans of coffee. So intense.  So Parisian.

I set out on my own to Metro Villier, my first metro stop.  I said thank you to the subways of New York and thank you to my father for teaching me a sense of direction.  I could explore without fear, trust I could find my way.

There were two classes of tickets to choose from.  Premiere or deuxieme.  The first class car arrived as I stood at the center of the platform.  The sound of the signal to announce the door closing was a flat horn like monotone. I carried my plan du Paris, a little book with a map of the streets.  It was bordeaux in color.

I took my first walk on the Champs Elysees.  it was narrow then.  A sunny day.  I walked to Rond Point.  A handsome young man with rich dark hair smiled at me.  He made me feel welcome.

The shop fronts belonged to old Paris, the awnings, the windows of another century, before the sidewalks were widened and the intimacy was lost.  The image remained in my memory and I could revisit it in films like Breathless of The 400 Coups.  

I returned late to the rue Pelouze.  Days in July lasted into the night, sunset between nine and ten o’clock.  The warm summer breeze was intoxicating.  I looked out from the terrace to the neighboring buildings on the street.  An ambulance echoed in the distance, a sound I recognized from films, but this was the first time I was hearing the siren for myself.  I wasn’t watching a movie.

Later I filled a tub with an ink blue elixir and soaked my tired body in a hot bubble bath.

My dreams would be rich that night.  Images of a new palette.  The palette of Paris.  

Some time would pass and many dreams would follow until one morning I woke up smiling.  And the reason I was smiling was because I realized I had been dreaming... in French.

[siobhanoleary-blog]

interning in another language; my thoughts after my first three months

I’m an intern, and it’s a hot Friday in July, which in French workplaces means that you’re either in your car on the way to your family country home, or you’re at work wondering why you’re not.

My office is Parisian perfection.

It takes up a floor of a Hausmannian building just by Place Vendome. Dark, almost black floorboards contrast with white painted walls. The desks are white and are pushed together to create a semi-communal workspace. My section of the floor has another secondary office with clear glass sliding doors which separate us. At the end of the office, right next to where I am sitting, is a wall lined with windows that lead onto a balcony which overlooks the Rue de la Paix. If I step out onto the balcony - as I often do in the mornings with an espresso -  I can see the Vendôme column to my left, Palais Garnier to my right, and if I look straight ahead, the top of the Eiffel Tower that pokes out above the Hotel Mansart.

As I write this, there is a wealth of conversations happening around me. Here, it’s a constant hum of stylish and attractive french people passionately taking phone calls and delivering high speed “qu’est ce qui a?”’s to each other, yet I can’t understand most of it. That’s because I’m an 18 year old Australian currently interning at a prestigious French film production company in Paris, yet I don’t have any experience in the film industry, nor know anyone who works in it, don’t study film production (or anything at all for that matter), and I don’t speak French… I never really considered that I might work somewhere where learning on the job would encompass so much more than just the work itself. What am I doing here, you (or we all) might ask?

When I arrived in Paris I was just an eighteen year old, who really knew nothing of the world, and who had no idea what she wanted to do with it. Only two of those things have changed since then and one of them is that I am now nineteen. In fact I actually never seriously considered working in the film industry until… well… until I realised it was the perfect hybrid of creation and intellectualism. At the time, I was telling my friend that I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, she then gave me a great quip of advice; ‘Find someone who has the life that you want, and do what they do’. French directors have cool lives, take it from me.

I’ve always been an avid watcher of films, and always had a creative side that I wasn’t willing to forfeit for the wholly academic careers I knew I could pursue. Directing to me seemed a really fantastic amalgamation of the two.

When my 3 month french course was starting to draw to a close I got worried. I was going to run out of money, and would need to be employed as soon as I finished the course or risk having to go back to Australia with my tail between my legs. After the horror of the incessant hospitality work that I did before I moved over here, I felt almost sick at the thought of having to make coffee and clean for hours on end again.

In Australia, there isn’t really an internship culture. You don’t hear of people as interns like you do in Paris. The idea of interning was not on my radar at all before moving here, and I always thought that really it meant collecting coffees with no pay. To my surprise, in Paris usually only one of those things is true. There is a massive intern culture; it’s a requirement of many university courses to complete one ranging anywhere between 3-6 months, and its French law that you have to be paid. After I found out about this wonderful, life changing world of the intern, I began to email a copy of my CV and a lengthy, passionate and unnecessarily emotive cover letter to every film production company in Paris that I could find from a google search. I think in total I emailed over thirty companies.

I got no response from most of them. Some of them replied saying they already had an intern, and others asked me if I spoke french to which I decided not to reply at all in an attempt to not affect my very volatile, very important mental state; wherein I was convincing myself that I was wholly capable of doing what I wanted to do. Then, one day, I received a response from a producer working at a company that I thought was far too established and professional to take on a monolingual teenager for no apparent reason. She requested an interview with me.

The day of the interview I was shitting bricks. I had about a month left of my course, with no guarantee that I was going to be able to survive in the city after its end. Unsurprisingly, my money was going down faster than I had anticipated, and I was having panic attacks that would wake me from my sleep with such an intense feeling of dread that I thought I was dying. My dad is a doctor, and I actually asked him if he thought it was possible that I could have a brain tumour. I would be sound asleep, dreaming, when all of a sudden everything would become corrupted, and I would wake up, desperately looking around my studio trying to figure out what exactly I was so afraid of. There was nothing there, of course, just the sound of my exasperated breath.

I was totally taken aback when I arrived at the office. It seemed unreal. I thought how I could ever be so blessed as to be able to go to this incredible place every day, and belong there. Everyone there would know I belonged there because I was employed there just like they were employed there. If I saw one of them on the street outside of work, we might say hello to each other. Maybe they’d be with someone who would ask who I was and they’d say ‘oh she’s from work’, and that would be a sufficient explanation. I could not conceive of it.

The interview was surprisingly relaxed and went well. The producer was young, and lovely, and basically said to me that she was happy to take me on and didn’t see why not. There were a lot of why nots, however, but we didn’t really consider them at the time.

Later that day, after I had called both of my parents in an unprecedented state of glee whilst strolling through the glory of the second arrondissement, high on life thinking I was some kind of prodigy, I received a follow up email.

The email stated that I would have to prove that I can understand and work in french before they would accept me. I would be given a month to improve before meeting with the production coordinator alone, where the secondary interview would be conducted in french. Fuck. To be perfectly honest I couldn’t speak an eloquent word in french.

It’s actually really difficult to gage someones proficiency in a language properly, and I seemed to have inflated my own in my head. I could say the basics, and had broken knowledge of certain aspects, but certainly nothing that would allow me to work in a french only workplace.

I passed that month in a near constant state of stress. I was at a flatline state of feeling like I’d left my phone on the metro. It was terrible. Well, that’s a bit much actually in the meantime I was enjoying Paris if you get my gist.

When the day of the interview arrived I had no more stress to give. Until I was just outside the door, knocking. The longer it took for someone to answer the more time I had to realise what was about to happen. It reminded me of when my dad told me about his medical final. Everyone was waiting outside the locked doors of the exam auditorium, and as the minutes continued to tick on he yelled ‘LET US IN! EVERY SECOND A VITAL PIECE OF INFORMATION SLIPS OUT OF MY BRAIN!'

From the moment she opened the door I really realised the voracity of my global move. I could understand maybe every 10th or 20th word she said. I was in a state of complete absorption, willing my ears and my brain to pull it together for the team, cos we don’t have another plan. By the end of it, I had grasped the most important thing: she basically said ‘why not?’ and that we would have a trial period and see how it goes. How long would the trial period be? No clue. Would I get paid? No idea. How much? Je ne sais pas du tout. All these questions and I didn’t want to even try to ask one, fearing that it might be the rectangle of wood that pulls the whole jenga tower down.

That was nearly three months ago now. I could tell you that its all been fine and dandy, because I’m still here, but the reality is that it has been really, really, really hard. I actually had been offered an english speaking internship with an art gallery at the same time, that I turned down for this position. So when things were getting really tough - namely when I was pulled aside and told I was really ‘timide’, which I found a little frustrating seeing that in order for me to be outgoing without speaking french I’d have to seem like a mute and, I guess, use extreme facial expressions or something - I wondered why the fuck I’d decided to make things so hard for myself. I have an amazing law and politics degree waiting for me in Australia, in a language I really love and have the hang of. And yet no, I decided to come here, and struggle, with all my knowledge and opinions tucked away under this disability of not being bilingual.  

I have had many moments of being on the verge of tears. It’s incredibly difficult - and humbling, I might add - to go from an environment (high school, in my case), where you thrived because of your academic ability to one where you can barely ask for the time. And where no one would bother to ask you for it, knowing the difficulty and awkwardness that might arise from you not being able to understand.

No one wanted to talk to me, and I actually found myself hoping that they wouldn’t. I was scared to even make eye contact, fearing that if I did, someone might actually try to engage with me. Breaking into the social scene of a new work place is hard enough, and I have found it nearly impossible in another language. This is not to say that my employers and fellow employees have not been accommodating, truly it is far from that. My own lack of self confidence and insecurity, my own fear of seeming dumb and incapable, is what has disabled me the most.

Only now do I find myself increasingly able to laugh at the office jokes, answer questions, and engage in French. Sometimes I feel despondent that maybe it’s become too late for me in this work place to make up for what my estimation became after my first few weeks. Too late for me to finally be able to inquire about other aspects of the company and work that I am interested in. Too late for me to ask more questions. But I have to force myself not to think like this.

This experience has been the hardest, yet most rewarding of any experience in my life so far. The personal growth I have experienced cannot be underestimated, but I do have a long way to go. But I think that is a good thing.

If I had no where to go, well then I’d just be nowhere.

[victorcenteno]

February 2017. The building where Jim Morrison was found dead, third floor on July 3, 1971. Located at 17 rue Beautreillis, the Hausmannian-style apartment facade stands out amidst the the buildings on this street, which date from an earlier time period. Morrison shared the third floor apartment (American 4th floor) with his girlfriend Pamela Courson, whose official police report of the evening had them going to the movies and returning home. It was so easy to reach this place in Pris actually everything seemed quite normal. #rip #americanpoet #jimmorrison #backpacker (presso Paris, France)

[konbini]

Paris, Without The Parisian Clichés

Ahhh, Paris. Home to Hausmannian buildings, picturesque cafés, an abundance of museums and breathtaking monuments, and the world’s most elegant women… Well, that plus rude waiters, sulky Parisians and shopkeepers who don’t speak a word of Engl... Read more

[garmoyleroad-blog]

A picture I took in March 2012 from the rooftop of a somptuous hausmannian building in Passy (Paris).