Despite being askance that there's no accompanying Musee de la Femme, I took the Metro over to Trocadero to see this museum. My guidebook had promised an anthropological extravaganza, with dioramas a plenty, and an interesting survey of the history of medicine. It also warned to go soon, because the museum might close and its contents distributed to other museums.
Well... maybe I was too late. The majority of its exhibits had closed, and they were only offering three measly exhibits with amorphous names like "Night of Man" and "All Parents, All Different." There was absolutely no information about what these exhibits might entail, and the woman at the counter was an abject diorama herself. She looked like she'd rather shoot me than tell me what those three exhibits were.
(And remember, I'm always trying my French here, so this wasn't a case of Disdain for Those who Won't Speak French.)
I took a cue from her miserableness and decided to give the museum a miss.
So let's recount:
Sewer museum makes me nearly lose my cookies, and I beat a hasty retreat.
Musee de l'Homme is a ghosttown guarded by a meanie.
What should any self-respecting traveler do but... shop? I had a great time clothes shopping. I bought three shirts, a dress and two naughty sets of gartered hose. I felt bad Kirsten was missing it -- she is really way more of a shopper than me, but she got a cute shirt and jacket in the short time she was here.
Maybe a clothing store is the equivalent of the Musee de la Femme.