"Leche-vitrines" is what they call window-shopping in Paris. The sugary shine of the tartes in the patissier's display is a temptation to stop and lick the glass panes of the shop window. But they are not the only one: Chinese restaurants show mouth-watering imitation specialties, dessous are decorated with ripe oranges, jewelry with dolls, cosmetics with flowers. Nowhere else in the world is the good life quite as good as in Paris. And nowhere else in the world is window-shopping as much a part of that way of life as here. Parisian shopping streets do more than just advertise their wares -- and with good reason: they contain the narcissism of the passers-by, whose self-absorbed self-observation is mirrored with the reflection of the objects of their desire in the shop windows. What sort of world is it between the commercial interior on the one side and the pavement on the other? Perhaps the narrow room is the place whose name is embroidered on the cushions on display, an invitation to day-dream: "Paris -- C'est le Paradis".