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I hadn't planned to spend time in this Place de Clichy cineplex, where "Time Regained" is playing alongside the latest American blockbusters. But I'm locked out of my friend's Montmartre apartment, and this is one place I can await her return in air-conditioned comfort. Besides, entering Proust's world jibes perfectly with my own voyeuristic purposes. I want to experience Paris as my fictional characters might have experienced it in But can I really recapture that lost time in a mere 10 days, or is my quest as shaky as Proust's chair?
And its appearance has barely changed since the early 's. I tromp up several flights of stairs and along tree-shaded, cobblestoned walkways until I reach Proust's granite tomb, where a visitor has left a single pink rose. Proust's lover, Reynaldo Hahn, a composer, is supposed to be nearby, but despite a half-hour search, he remains discreetly hidden.
On the outside, the Comique resembles an Italianate palace; inside I find myself in a fairy-tale land of marble steps, ornate gold railings, dazzling mosaic floors and pastel-colored allegorical frescoes.
From a child-sized but plushly upholstered chair in my second-tier box, I have a good view of the stage and of the conductor's head in the tiny orchestra pit. There's nothing but gold and scarlet as far as the eye can see -- until the house lights go down. Then, for a moment, blue light filters through the small rectangular tinted windows that line the walls, bathing the hall in shades of cerulean and indigo. The worker offers a Gallic shrug.
I can only agree. A few blocks away, at the hub of six prestigious avenues, sits the Palais Garnier -- an unapologetically ostentatious, glittering jewel in the heart of the city.