American letter No. 18: A stroll down Pig Alley

According to "Rick Steves' Paris 2008," American servicemen during World War II gave Paris' Pigalle district the nickname, "Pig Alley."

The city's red light district is "more shocking than dangerous" with "desperate barkers and fast-temptresses" lining the street. Unwary customers may quickly run up a tab for a 150-euro ($240 US) bottle of champagne. In Pigalle, as in the best underworld tradition, a fool and his money are soon parted.

From the art nouveau-style Pigalle Métro station, I headed toward the Moulin Rouge in plain daylight. Even at noon, the barkers and temptresses were out and about, along a boulevard of sleazy strip clubs and sex shops. Crudely painted and often in need of repainting, these portals to iniquity belonged more to the turn of the 20th century than the early 21st.

Less than a block away from the Moulin Rouge, a tall young woman in black slacks grabbed my arm and asked if I was an American. I answered only, "Non, non. Merci, quand même." This "quand même" can mean a number of things, depending on how far a problem escalates.

The first time I freed myself from the woman's wholehearted (and powerful) attempt to haul me into her place of business, "quand même" meant only "just the same" or "anyway." The meaning changed to "really, I mean it" on the second and third tries. On the fourth grab, however, I pulled away with a forward lurch, striding away with a "quand même" that told the woman "No, thanks, once and for all" in no uncertain terms.

My "quand mêmes" could also have been influenced by the everyday French of Beaufort Isere. According to the guidebook for the Beauforts Reunion, the locals use the expression in almost "half of their sentences." It has become something like the meaningless "you know" of our own American Beaufort County.

Like Lot's wife leaving Sodom and Gomorrah, I looked back at the poor temptress who had lost another big catch. Instead of salt, I turned into a pillar of bitters and sweets. It was easy to picture this sad woman in high-button shoes, an ankle-length skirt and an even more open blouse. And suddenly, I felt for all the world like some smug fin-de-siecle businessman in his respectable coat, vest, gray trousers and matching hat, an ostentatious walking cane in his right hand. It had been a ridiculous street scene, yet timeless and poignant. The mood was well captured by Emile Zola, De Maupassant and other gritty French writers of that earlier epoch.

Moulin Rouge is a red, red, red tourist attraction. Its transition from windmill to nightclub took place in 1899, when -- said Fodor's Paris 2006 -- "aristocrats, professionals and the working class came to watch the scandalous performers," including cancan dancers "who used to kick off their knickers while dancing." The notorious dancer "La Goulue" ("The Glutton") was so named for her habit of draining customers' drinks.

While the Moulin Rouge is famous for Henri Toulouse-Lautrec's posters and paintings, Auguste Renoir immortalized the less-known Moulin de la Galette night spot in a painting of his own. The actual mill (named for the cheap "gallettes," or biscuits made from flour swept up from the mill's floor) lies high up from its crimson rival on the Butte ("Mound") Montmartre. Nowadays, it is fenced in, neglected on uphill private property and half-visible through dense shrubbery.

Adding insult to obscurity, a "Moulin de Galette" restaurant shamelessly impersonates the original a few steps up the street, in the Montmartre district. Many who dine there may be none the wiser.