Most people come to visit Paris with glamour and romance in mind. They come for the culture, the beauty, and the undisputed charm of the world’s number one urban tourist destination. For these visitors, even when it rains in Paris, no matter where they find themselves in the city, it is as romantic a scene as seeing a sopping wet Gene Kelly singing and dancing around like a nincompoop in the streets of Paris. Not one of these starry eyed visitors stops to consider that Gene could become deathly ill if he stays out there dancing around like that. Such is the lovely vision presented by rose tinted tourist glasses…

Yes, the vast majority of these short term visitors and tourists prefer seeing only the superficial beauty of Paris. They come to Paris from all corners of the earth to escape their humdrum daily routines if not the horrors of the world. To be sure, for stays of such short duration, these visitors barely even have time to commune with Mona and they clearly do not have time to think of what makes this city tick, to say nothing of taking notice of the seamy underside of her soft underbelly (except, or course, for those who intentionally come to seek out Pig Alley); but just below the surface charm of Paris, their lies a nebulous underworld of street people: pickpockets, marauders, panhandlers, streetwalkers, and scavengers. I fall into this later category (which is, by the way, the high end of the bas-fonds hierarchy), a category better known as ‘The Parisian Scavenger Club’, of which I am the founder and presently, the only dues paying member. This group is generally composed of psychologically stable, well balanced individuals who have ordinary lives and who are not criminals; yet they often remain somewhat discontent with constantly keeping their hands clean, so they do a little scavenging on the side. Besides, they cannot help themselves for what appears to be something akin to a disease when it comes to salvaging refuse from ruin.

Just imagine a group of those starry eyed tourists on their way to see the treasures in the Louvre, walking past a man in a dumpster who is fiendishly sifting through the layers of trash in search of lesser treasures that will never make it to a museum. You might ask yourself, who is doing more for the betterment of mankind…the lazy tourist spending money…or the hard working Parisian Scavenger who is doing his utmost to rejuvenate ancient items that are destined for destruction? If you do not know what the difference is, then I suggest you head for I.M. Pei’s glass pyramid and leave me be.

Without a doubt, I will never even be able to put my hands on any of the items in the Louvre Museum; but I can still dig out antique treasures from a bin or on a sidewalk in Paris just a few blocks away from that illustrious royal palace…items that many well-heeled folks would be proud to own, provided that they don’t have to dig them out themselves. Darwinian theory says something about starting at the bottom of the food chain and bootstrapping yourself up as dog eats dog (not his exact words). This is what I have done for years and what I am still doing today. One day, when all is said and done, when I have hung up my Parisian Scavenger suit for good, I will look around at my domestic surroundings and say in satisfaction, “A scavenger’s home is his low cost, treasure filled castle.”

The tourists can have the Louvre, I will be content to stay with my more humble, sweat equity estate. In a way, my home is a modest museum of my life: full of my creations, my children, and my legitimately scavenged loot (the children are legitimate as well, by the way).