Many of the shops in Paris all but disappear when closed, leaving little or no trace of what lies behind the shutters. No opening hours, often, not even the name of the shop. It’s hard to know if the store is closed for lunch, for the day, or forever. This approach reminds me of what is said about prices in fancy boutiques: if you have to ask you can’t afford it. In this case, if you don’t magically know the store’s hours you certainly don’t deserve the wonders within. That sounds more bitter than it’s meant to. I actually find the battening down of the hatches oddly endearing.