Polly-Vous Francais?

Deux Mille Douce

2012-01-18T18:07:00.000-08:00

Bonne année to all!

One of the best trends of this new year (and I'm SO glad French tradition permits wishing Happy New Year for the whole month of January) is this phrase: deux mille douce.

Of course, in French, 2012 is deux mille douze.

Deux mille douce. Two-thousand and sweetness; two-thousand and softness.

I like it.

Wishing you all a deux mille douce.

Ceci n'est pas un blog

2011-12-03T18:49:00.000-08:00

Really, how dare I call this a weblog when I haven't posted in over a month? Ceci n'est pas un blog. Call me Mme Magritte, but please do forgive my dilatory epistolary something-or-other. Okay, it really is a blog, but it doesn't appear to be so at times when nothing has been posted. Right? It's so very Magritte of me, n'est-ce pas?

Nom d'une pipe! I've been on the move. Polly-Vous Francais is now an official denizen of -- ta-dah! -- the Big Apple. Stayed tuned for updates from the flaneuse of the streets of Manhattan.

image via wikipedia

Change the Clocks in France

2011-10-28T11:40:00.000-07:00

Remember that for one week, starting on Sunday October 30, France and the United States are just a bit closer.

Time-wise.

Yes, just my little public service announcement reminding you that residents of France will move their clocks back one hour on Sunday October 30 at 3 a.m. In the U.S., the "fall-back" will take place on Sunday November 6.

So for one week the time difference between East coast U.S. and France is 5 hours (8 hours for California).

You're welcome.

Living on a Houseboat

2011-10-10T19:57:00.000-07:00

All my francophile life, I've dreamed of living on a houseboat -- une peniche -- on the Seine. That desire was reinforced when I happily happened upon -- and devoured -- Mort Rosenblum's The Secret Life of the Seine.

"It is agreeable, as the French say, to take a candlelight cruise without leaving home. You can go away for a weekend and not pack. Your morning alarm is those ducks quacking. Friends visit without coaxing. [A visiting pal] dropped into a deck chair. When a bateau-mouche passed, she flung out her arms and yelled, ‘Envy me.’"

Precisely the emotion I was aiming for!

Rosenblum's tale of life on the Seine, and the history of the river, is a timeless classic: one to read ASAP. And re-read.

I may yet stay on the Seine some day -- I also have a friend who has lived on a houseboat in Neuilly for the past 30 years. So who knows?

Meanwhile, I have found the best possible alternative: a houseboat in Sausalito, California. My wonderful friend Stephanie, observing the somewhat hellish month of September I'd been experiencing, said "Why don't you stay on our houseboat for a while? We don't have any tenants right now, and --" I cut her off at the pass, and jumped at the opportunity.

So here I am, living the life on a glorious houseboat. It may not be the Seine, but Sausalito is a bit of heaven on earth. And this houseboat is, as Steph put it, "a temple." It floats my boat, that's for sure.

Luxurious and spacious, it offers more room than I need as a solo tenant, yet still feels cozy.

I spend my mornings at the dining room table, looking across the harbor to Tiburon and Belvedere, catching an occasional glimpse of a harbor seal; the sea gulls and the other ocean

birds being the only noisy neighbors. The tranquility is absolute tonic for the soul, and it's a great spot to write and get work done.

Then it's all I can do to pry myself from the steam shower: pick your favorite jet stream of water, overhead, sideways, and play favorite tunes on the radio shower while you're at it.

And discovering Sausalito has been such a blast. Next door is Le Garage, a fabulous French bistro that attracts customers from all over and has the best kirs this side of the Atlantic. To burn off all those delicious calories, within a five minute walk I can be at a small beach, a kayak rental place, a bike rental spot, or a center for open-water rowing. The oarsmen and oarswomen row by my bedroom window at an impressively early hour.

Sunsets are magical.

Sunrises, too.

This is the life. I don't ever want to leave. But real life beckons, and so fairly soon I'll pack my bags and go back to reality.

And this place is available for rent! Check out the listing at CHBO, property 7827. You can live the life, too.

French Phrase Books: Slang? Colloquial?

2011-08-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

Miss Bee, bless her darlin' heart, just spent an academic year -- or is that "academic" year? -- in France. I dare say her French got more fluent. She was a language assistant at a French lycée through the wonderful French Government program.

But as is the case with many young people who have fun carousing with their French peers, the language skills she acquired aren't necessarily 100% fit for polite company. The Berlitz-type phrase books didn't really give her a leg-up in conversing with other 20-somethings. On the other hand, the slang dictionaries didn't exactly help in terms of understanding the appropriateness of the language.

Her first adjunct phrase book, Dirty French, she purchased at Urban Outfitters. It is, she admits, "kind of raunchy," and doesn't give the reader any sense of the social context of when any of the phrases should be used. Witty and hip, perhaps, but "cool slang," "funny insults" and "raw swear words" were not exactly what an American in France needed for understanding colloquial French and, more particularly, for spouting them in la Belle France. (I remember a story told to me by a sweet American college student who, driving with her French beau and his parents to their weekend house, exclaimed, "Waouh, Christophe, t'a vraiment niquée, celle-la!" when he sped past a car on the narrow route nationale. His well-bred parents in the back seat were mortified at her foul mouth. She thought she was simply saying "Good job! You passed him!")

Recently, Miss Bee has acquired Merde! The Real French You Were Never Taught at School. This phrase book, she says, is imminently more practical and useful. It gives ratings as to appropriateness of all those phrases she learned and parroted back. Basically it gives you a rating scale of social context between being polite and bien élevé, a dweeb and having a gutter mouth: very important distinctions when conversing in France.

Good to know. Any other recommendations?

12 hours at CDG Airport

2011-08-21T17:51:00.000-07:00

Ah, the fates can be cruel.

I have an upcoming business trip to Europe which has me flying into Roissy -- aka CDG, Charles de Gaulle airport. And making a hasty connection to my final destination. (The good news is that I'm flying beloved Air France.)

That initial part I can deal with -- dashing from Terminal 1 to Terminal 2E in a window of 2 hours. God willin' and the crick don't rise, I'll make it.

But the return flight is what pains me. My flight arrives mid-evening into Roissy. The continuing leg to the U.S. departs the following morning, about 12 hours later.

That, to me, is sheer temptation. Sheer torture! How can I be in Paris and not be in Paris?? Could I navigate my way into Paris, arriving after the dinner hour, and (ignoring seeing friends, alas, which would give me no time in the city), stay in a little hotel and spend my evening walking around -- being my old flaneur self -- and get enough rest and time to rise, check out, find transport and reach the airport in time for the return flight by 11 a.m.?

I surveyed my friends -- their suggestions ranged from "stay at the SofitelCDG," to "stay in the 6e near the RER station," to "the Ibis CDG," to the myriad other hotels at Roissy.

First I opted for taking the Air France car to the Etoile, staying in a small 2-star hotel, and hitting the town. Then I got real. If I didn't arrive until 10 pm, lugged my luggage to the room and then went out wandering, it would be a rather stunted visit.

And forgive me, but I really despise traveling on the RER from CDG with luggage, so that option had already been nixed.

So, I have decided to do something I've never done before in my Paris excursion adventures: I'll stay at a chain hotel at CDG and explore the airport itself for, um, entertainment and edification.

Any recommendations? Where would you stay -- what would you do -- what would you like to know about -- with 12 hours to kill at Charles de Gaulle Airport? Dining, lodging, spa services, entertainment, budget ideas? I'll report back in a week or so.

Travel Stories

2011-08-14T23:16:00.000-07:00

These days we all have our travel horror stories: baggage lost, flights canceled, endless lines upon endless lines. Security itself is worth tomes.

A friend's recent saga reminded me of a most unusual moment in my early traveling days.

By the time I was 10, my parents were divorced and living in different states. We kids became troupers in air travel, shuttling from Tennessee to Pennsylvania without batting an eye. In the 1960s there was a cheap stand-by fare for the under 21 crowd, and we became pros at mastering the take-offs and arrivals. Getting adoring attention from the stewardesses.

One summer in the late 1960s, though, my sister and I had a most remarkable air travel experience.

I was 13, she was 17. We were flying one evening from Nashville to Philadelphia with a connection at National Airport in Washington. En route to D.C., we were in the middle of the most horrific thunderstorm I've ever experienced in the air, before or since. Huge thunderbolts striking down on all sides, and our prop plane was bouncing like a superball from one air pocket to the next. After a terrifying descent, when we finally made it to terra firma, I was happy to be alive.

Then, we were told that our flight to Philadelphia was cancelled. Due to our "youth stand-by" status, the airline wasn't required to give us lodging or any other compensation. We spent our coins in the pay phone to call our mother, who couldn't really help us much.

Yikes. Two young teen girls alone for a night at Washington National? That was almost more spooky to me than the turbulent flight. We went to the airport hotel, the Air Wayte. They were booked, of course. We pleaded with the front desk clerk. Clearly, here were two nice girls in their Villager outfits properly dressed for travel; surely they couldn't leave us unchaperoned to walk the halls of the airport -- or sleep unprotected! -- for a night. (Remember, this was before airport security or cell phones...) The manager was summoned.

He was scratching his head, trying to figure out how to help the stranded waifs. Finally, he said, "Well, okay. I guess I could put you girls up in the Towah Room." I heard "Tower Room" and naively envisioned bunking down on the sofas of a cushy top-floor lounge. Sounded good to me! My big sister accepted, so off we went. To.... the third floor linen closet. The Towel Room.

He wearily told us to make ourselves comfortable in the 4X6 foot space, and shut the door on us. Pioneers to the hilt, we padded the floor with every towel from the shelves, spread out clean cotton sheets on top, settled in; and ah, did we fall asleep?

No, we didn't.

No, because it was also the supply closet, and we found an ample repository of Air Wayte Hotel postcards and a few ball point pens, and so spent much of the night scribbling notes to our friends. "Guess where I am? I'm spending the night in the linen closet of this hotel!"

All in all, it was a heavenly evening (except for a few scurrying cockroaches) where we felt both totally safe and totally outrageous.

We left with great gratitude and an unnecessarily large amount of miniature bars of individually wrapped hotel soap.

Thanks, Mr. Air Wayte, wherever you are!

Postcard image via La Dolce Vintage.

A table!

2011-08-11T22:43:00.000-07:00

I just uncovered this quick ball-point sketch of me when I was about 13 or 14. It brings back such wonderful memories. I can't even remember the artist's name, yet he signed the sketch "I love you, Polly." What more could a teenager want?

Here is the scenario. I was the youngest of five children, and by the time I was a young teen, all of my siblings were off the social radar screen: Saturday night rolled around and they were away at boarding school or college or hanging out with the high school In-crowd in Philadelphia. Which left Polly and the parents. Social beings that they were, dinner parties were a frequent function. When those gatherings were chez nous, I was expected to join the adults at the table and be conversant, polite, and charming. I don't know how I measured up, but I know that it helped me learn to love dinner conversation, candlelight and starched damask napkins. The clink of silverware against china. Engaging in dialogue with adults, and having an opinion about current events.

I remember well the evening. My dinner partner -- a man my parents' age -- treated me as if I were a fascinating adult. I shared my naive views on politics and culture, and he responded with aplomb and appreciation. I blossomed. I was treated as a grown-up! Right there at the table, he asked, "May I sketch you?" And so we giggled conspiratorially and temporarily ignored the other guests for a few minutes while I found a Bic and some paper and he whipped up this sketch at the corner of the dinner table. Suddenly I no longer felt like the baby brat of the family, but a privileged participant in a grown-up world, even though I was wearing a cotton A-line skirt and a striped Skyr turtle-neck. I've kept the portrait to this day: an important reminder. I wish I could remember his name to thank him for the transformational moment.

So, what does this have to do with my love of France? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. I know that when I first spent time in France a few years later, it felt so natural, so elemental, to be reveling in dinner conversation. It still does. I don't know to what extent my own children have learned this joy of inter-generational socializing. In France -- at least among my French friends -- this still is the norm. All ages gather at the table and get along (or not!) with verve.

A few years ago I was sitting with a friend in Paris who was feeding her toddler in his high chair. She said, lovingly, "Tiens-toi comme il faut," and made sure he sat up straight, before giving him the next spoonful. He giggled and clowned and wiggled, then sat up tall for his next bite. Then smiled and batted his eyes at us.

Early dinner party training?

Le Sportscope

2011-08-09T19:27:00.000-07:00

1954. In the olden days, in order to see everything at a show -- whether the theater, opera, or a sporting event-- one needed to hold binoculars up to one's eyes. No more!

Give your wrists and elbows a rest. Just sport a dashing hands-free Sportscope (available at all the best Parisian opticians).

Contrary to what you might imagine, this advertisement wasn't on the back page of a Marvel comic book but in the uber-upscale magazine Plaisir de France.

Me want one.

U.S. Place Names in French

2011-07-28T19:37:00.000-07:00

As a lifelong student of the French language, I've always appreciated the French names of places in the United States. Some are better known than others, albeit with Americanized pronunciations. One of my favorites is Picketwire. From the French "Purgatoire," Purgatory.

Some other favorites (not including cities and towns named for famous Frenchmen or places in France):

Detroit. (Where the river narrows.)

Des Moines. (Of the monks)

Baton Rouge. (Red stick)

Havre de Grace. (Harbor of Grace)

Mount Desert Island and its sidecar, Isle au Haut. (Island of the deserted mountains; high island.)

And, so verrry French: The Grand Tetons.

Go ahead, take a look at the beauties in this photo and try to convince me that the mountain range was NOT named for the French phrase for large mammaries. Some claim that that interpretation of the origin of the name is "controversial." Too much tittering about it, I guess. I'm not fooled.

What are your favorite French place names in the U.S.?

P.S. By the way. Hey, Wyoming, you wonderful state: how about a little more blog-love? Je vous adore, and not just because I'm envious of the grands tétons.

Images via Wikipedia and Clustrmaps.

Plaisir d'été

2011-07-25T18:37:00.000-07:00

Plaisir d'été. One of life's simple pleasures. Summertime and a little apéro.

I was delighted to see that Marie Brizard, this anisette aperitif, still exists.

Since it's been around since 1755.

Pan Bagnat

2011-07-15T20:00:00.000-07:00

I am quite a regular at the local French take-out place next door to our school, Cafe La Tartine. Today I ordered one of my standards, "Half a Pan Bagnat, no onions, please."

The new counter person said, "Is THAT how you pronounce it? We're still trying to get that one right." (Long story about new owner and new help, not worth long explanation.)

Without being asked for elaboration, I of course offered it amply anyway. Hmm. Does my reputation precede me?

Pronunciation: pahhn ban-yah

Origin: Provence. I regaled them with stories of my junior year in Provence, and the way a pan bagnat was served there (not in a baguette, but in a big hollowed-out round of bread, pressed and sliced). Back then, it was a budget-minded student's dream come true for an all-in-one meal. Salade nicoise in a bun, kinda.

I found a great pan bagnat recipe in the New York Times. My favorite part?

"Put sandwich under a weight such as a cast-iron frying pan topped with a filled kettle, or have a child about 7 years old sit on it."

Perfect.

Bon appetit!

image via wikipedia

It's Bastille Day!

2011-07-14T01:22:00.000-07:00

"Happy July 14!"

That just doesn't sound like much in English, does it? So we francophiles toss around "Happy Bastille Day." That sounds festive.

Of course in French, one never says "Joyeux Jour de la Bastille," either. In France you celebrate le quatorze juillet because it's a national holiday and everything is closed (even hospitals, as my friend Mary Blake reminds me. Though I disagree with her: I don't think they throw out all the existing sick patients for the day, but they just don't admit any new patients except tres urgent. But I digress.)

One of my favorite parts of le 14 juillet in France is watching the défilé militaire down the Champs Elysees in Paris. I've never had the right connections to get a good parade-viewing seat, and so have always relied on watching it on television. How utterly different from an American July 4th parade, with the shiny old fire trucks and home-grown, home-town floats! The military splendor of soldiers marching, the overhead patrouille of aircraft. Two full hours of formal regalia. Thrilling to the bone.

One of the cultural ...um, adjustments I had to make when I lived in France was realizing that France doesn't celebrate July 4th with the same exuberance that the US celebrates Bastille Day. A few festive or commemorative gatherings here and there, to be sure. But, I wondered, do the French realize how much Bastille Day is a major party in the US? From Boston to New York to San Francisco to many towns and cities in between, Bastille Day is a major cause for celebration in the streets. Don't take my word for it: google it and find out for yourself.

And as much as I adore and admire David McCullough, I think he underestimates the American celebration of Bastille Day in today's New York Times column. Please read his wonderful The Greater Journey, the stories of some remarkable Americans in Paris in the 19th century. Totally engrossing and riveting: buy it today if you haven't already.

For this American francophile, Bastille Day in the US means afternoon petanque in Golden Gate Park, and evening champagne with some French dignitaries, while the rest of San Francisco whoops it up into the wee hours with lively wine-filled festivities. We may not have the feu d'artifice, but man, we Americans DO celebrate July 14!

Vive la France!

image via wikipedia

Our Maids are Squeaky Clean

2011-07-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

This flyer just arrived in my mailbox from the folks at MaidPro.

Surely a coincidence (ha!) or surely NOT a coincidence in timing?

"The wrong maid is an accident waiting to happen."

"MaidPro -- We're squeaky clean."

And their other motto: "Talk dirty, live clean."

New Format

2011-07-08T22:00:00.002-07:00

Fresh new banner and font!

Bof. I was getting bored with the old one.

What do you think?

Dites-moi.

Who is the Parisian male?

2011-07-02T20:30:00.004-07:00

THE PARISIAN MALE…Who is he? Where does today’s Parisian man go for nightlife, to dine, for entertainment, or to shop for clothes?

Of course we are all salivating to know the answer to these burning and relevant questions. Aren't we?

Through its annual survey, Le Figaroscope a few months ago offered a quick sketch of the typical male denizen of Paris: "at once perfectible but seductive, snob yet distinguished, lighthearted yet erudite."

The survey had some interesting responses: the vote came in for the handsome and talented Edouard Baer as the icon of French male-ness. Can't argue with that. And details of his favorite haunts and habits are spelled out for you. Even if your French isn't le top, you can read the article here and find out the cool, hip places to be a man in Paris. And statistics about the runners-up.

Ah, then the tables turn! None other than Inès de la Fressange opines in the article, offering her view of the typical Parisian man. I didn't want anyone to miss this, so I translated it all for you.

According to Inès, the typical Parisian male

• takes his car to go exercise (e.g. jogging in the Luxembourg Garden) ;
• goes to cafés but only drinks coffee at the office;
• never wears brown suits;
• uses neither an umbrella nor a hat;
• buys his books in a local bookstore, even though he spends his life in front of the computer screen;
• has lunch on the Left Bank on weekends, but on the Right Bank during the week;
• reads the International Herald Tribune and subscribes to it when away at his vacation home;
• has a taxi-service subscription because he knows it’s delusional to think one can hail a taxi in the streets of Paris;
• drops his kids off at school but is never the one to pick them up;
• has two cars, including one Smart Car, but makes everyone think he arrived by Velib;
• votes in the countryside, where he has a second home: the only way to have his voice heard;
• skis in Megève, vacations on île de Ré or at Cap-Ferret, because there are plenty of Parisians there;
• makes snide comments about people whom he will then greet ceremoniously at Brasserie Lipp;
• is on a diet (he is a personal friend of Pierre Dukan);
• doesn’t manage to lose weight because the gym is under renovation, or too far away, or closed, or whatever…;
• loves going to London, IF it’s for work;
• doesn’t want to change residences, but his wife does;
• has a dog (more so than in any other city), but no place to walk it without a leash;
• wants to live in the 5th arrondissement in order to enroll his son in the Lycée Henri-IV (“you will be in the elite of the nation, my boy");
• “never goes” to the Marché aux Puces (« it’s too far, too expensive, no good finds») ;
• has furniture that comes exclusively from the Marché aux Puces;
• goes to Habitat to look like an American;
• buys his swim suits at Ralph Lauren, to look like Bobby Kennedy;
• “never” goes to the hairdresser (even though his hair is always short);
• doesn’t have a mistress, only « co-workers »;
• doesn’t have a guest bedroom;
• goes to bed early and gets up late, then is in meetings and unreachable;
• wasn’t born in Paris;
• starts out spearheading the search for child care for the new baby; and then, ultimately, asks his wife to figure it all out;
• doesn’t carry a plastic bag to pick up after his dog;
• never sees high chairs for the baby in restaurants; but since he isn’t Swedish it doesn’t surprise him.

Eh, oui, those fascinating, inscrutable Parisiens!

Edouard Baer image via Wikipedia

Bensimon Shoes!

2011-06-24T19:22:00.005-07:00

Bensimon shoes, to me, have always been the quintessential French laid-back summertime shoe.

Pronounced benn-see-mohn, the canvas shoes with rubber soles have long been an understated favorite of the sporty summer crowds in all the right French vacation spots.

They have always been cool. A French friend once clad all the young children in her daughter's seaside wedding (NDLR: no frou-frou grown-up bridezilla bridesmaids at French weddings, just adorable little kids!) in sailor suits and shod them in Bensimons. Of course it was totally perfect and chic in the most Côté Ouest kind of way. Can you imagine an American wedding filled with kids wearing, essentially, sneakers? Not on your life! This was totally charming and comme il faut.

I got my first pair of Bensimons on a summer vacation in France, on Île de Ré. So practical for toodling around the village, going to the marché, and oh, if you get invited to go boating, you're all set for maneuvering nimbly on deck. Then I brought them back to the U.S., and they seemed.... too casual. Frumpy, almost. There was zero recognition of their coolness. To some they looked like old-lady slip-on sneakers. But like my love affair with espadrilles, I ignored the social sartorial stigma and wore them with pride, knowing that I was in the know (shoe-wise) an ocean away.

Back in Paris, I became smitten with the Bensimon boutique in the Marais. Everything about it shouted "Ahoy, monsieur! Take me sailing in Brittany!" Rugged canvas jackets, khaki rubber-soled shoes, all with such clean, spare lines, You could practically smell the briny Atlantic air.

Fast forward to 2011. If you haven't heard, Bensimons are HOT-HOT-HOT fashion items these days. Darlin' Miss Bee brought a pair of pink lace-up Bensimons home from her year in France, and has been proudly wearing them around town. She is such a fashion trend-setter that I knew she was on to something.

Then while perusing the stacks of celebrity magazines at my dentist's office waiting room today, I came across two separate articles touting the glories of Bensimons. Yes, they are the rage with Hollywood stars.

Zut. I always liked being in a small group of fashion insiders. No more.

The good news is that Bensimons are available on line in the US via Bensimonusa.com And shipping is free. The price is a little more than you'd pay in France; but, factoring in the cost of a plane ticket that you don't have to buy, well worth the price.

And don't go for cheap imitations. The Bensimon cognoscenti will know the difference.

image via bensimonusa.com

Midnight in Paris

2011-06-05T19:12:00.004-07:00

I settled into my cinema seat and waited impatiently through the coming attractions for the feature film to begin. Ready for my Paris fix by watching the much-discussed Midnight in Paris. The film began, with the brassy, jazzy trumpet music playing over the familiar sights of my favorite city.

But… something was wrong.

The colors.

Everything seemed too yellow. “Woody Allen got it all wrong, “ I was thinking. I am way too possessive about my Paris knowledge. “Is he trying to make it look like Kodachrome or something?” I was fuming just a little. “The light in Paris is silvery, not gold. The buildings are soft grey, and he is trying to make the buildings look as if they are all made of sandstone.” Even the gold leaf on the fountain at the place de la Concorde was too shiny, and the verdigris was too green. The wet nighttime streets should be reflections of pewter and chrome, not glimmers of gold. It wasn’t MY Paris, in any case, I harrumphed inwardly. What was he thinking??

Nevertheless, thrilled with seeing familiar spots, I somehow managed to refrain from elbowing Miss Bee at recognition of every panorama, every street scene in the introduction. I just reveled in knowing virtually every locale. Miss Smuggy-pants. When Owen Wilson first walked into Le Bristol, I couldn’t resist and leaned over and whispered “That’s Le Bristol.”

It’s occasionally truly obnoxious to be in the role of “I used to live in Paris.” This was no exception. I tried hard to suppress my oh-so-superior knowledge of the settings. Especially since Woody had gone so overboard on the gold. His shots of the admittedly posh Le Bristol seemed over-the-top in the gilt and gold-plate department. I didn’t get it.

But soon enough I was ensconced in the plot, and the cinematographic details took a back seat.

I did, however, almost jump out of my seat and hissed loudly to Bee, “That’s DEYROLLE!” In the scene with the champagne-soaked party surrounded by taxidermied animals. “Drole?” she whispered back. “D-E-Y-R-O-L-L-E! Deyrolle, my favorite taxidermy store!” I was beside myself.

I hate people who talk in movies.

As the movie progressed all I could do was admire Woody Allen's brilliance. This film was a magical modern-day fantastic tale interwoven with "The Kugelmass Episode," Back to the Future, and Grimm's "The Twelve Dancing Princesses."

Then, at one point, Owen Wilson's and Marion Cotillard's characters were in deep conversation about what it means to live in a golden era. One's nostalgia for a more golden era is sometimes missing the point that the golden era is actually the present.

"Ah," I sank back in my seat.

The golden-yellow light of Paris was brilliant, Mr. Allen.

Maxime Le Forestier in San Francisco

2011-06-02T20:12:00.004-07:00

"C'est une maison bleue..."

Start singing those lyrics and a generation or two of French -- and francophiles --will sing along with you:

French singer Maxime Le Forestier perhaps singlehandedly put San Francisco on the French contemporary cultural map in 1973 with the recording of his wildly popular song "La Maison Bleue," known to most as simply "San Francisco," a tale of a summer spent in San Francisco in 1971 in the time of peace, love, and flower children.

Then, last September, an enterprising San Francisco/Parisian journalist who grew up "singing this song in the shower" tracked down the actual location of the Blue House.

And now, dear beloveds, Maxime Le Forestier is returning to San Francisco to sing for us all, on the 40th anniversary of that fateful summer in San Francisco. He will be performing on Friday June 24 at the Herbst Theatre. Ticket information is here.

I think the phrase "once in a lifetime" is not an exaggeration in this case. And needless to say, the SF French and francophile community is quivering in anticipation. Me included.

A few anticipatory participatory sing-alongs are planned. But of course!

First, a guitar rehearsal on June 17 at NPG studios on 18th street.

Then, for a broader sing-along audience, a French pique-nique potluck at Dolores Park, weather permitting, on June 22. Just to get in the spirit of things.

Rumors are swirling that M. Le Forestier might show up at one or both of these events. I can't confirm or deny -- so far they're just hopeful speculation. But, well...

For specifics on either of these, contact Christine at christine [at] appletopomme.com.

Of course, I'll report back about the actual concert. But you knew that.

UPDATE: concert canceled due to visa difficulties.

Paris Match, May 1950

2011-05-28T18:41:00.004-07:00

I recently came upon an issue of Paris Match from May 27, 1950, a yellowing 61-year-old chronicle of la vie Parisienne. Think about it: just 6 years after Paris was liberated.

When my scanner is back in order (long story), I'll include some of the great vintage ads and visuals. Meanwhile, I feel compelled to report on a Paris briefing found in the end of the magazine.

Entitled "Elles et Eux," written by Cecil Brunet, it is a compilation of tidbits: social, literary, political. Here are a few random selections (translations by me). A glimpse beyond the cliche-ridden images of Paris in the 1950s.

Bing Crosby, who had settled in to the Ritz upon arrival in Paris recently, found that hotel too noisy and left it to stay in the Lancaster. He then left the Lancaster, and found an apartment in Auteuil.

Paul Claudel, replying to an actor who was praising him for the dialogue in his work L'Otage, said, "Well, what do you expect? It's Claudel!"

Monsieur Pestche is very interested in the images of la Marianne proposed for the soon to be minted 10-franc coins. He says: I want a well-proportioned Marianne!" (bien fichue)

Charles Trenet will sing in Central Park in New York on May 20. When he enters the stage, 40 New York policemen will give him a grand salute. This idea amuses Trenet no end, as this will be the anniversary of his detention on Ellis Island.

Gaston Gallimard, looking at the crush of people gathered at his cocktail party, said "It's amazing how many friends I have!"

Sartre had written a letter to a judge in support of Boris Vian, to address the legal action between Vian and the Cartel d'action morale. The letter didn't arrive in time, and Vian was found guilty.

(image: Boris Vian, via Wikipedia)

Polly-Vous Francais on the Airwaves!

2011-05-20T17:59:00.006-07:00

Polly-Vous Francais is silent no more! If you'd like to hear my real voice live, tomorrow is your chance. On Saturday May 21, I will be the guest on the radio program "Franco Fun" on KUSF in Exile in San Francisco, at 5:00 p.m., Pacific time.

Every Saturday, DJ Fari provides a weekly francofix for Franciscans and francophiles around the world with the program Franco Fun, featuring music, lifestyle, culture, and interviews. And this week the feature is moi. Some in English, some in French. Tune in!

I was originally scheduled to be on air in January, but five days before show time, the University owners in a surprise move sold the station's air rights for a cool $3.75 million without any advance notice. (I always have impeccable timing, n'est-ce pas?) So KUSF is now live-streaming here.

If you have requests for music, let me know ASAP. Featured guests are asked to BYOM (bring your own music), and my CD collection of French music tends to the classic crooners: Maxime Le Forestier, Serge Gainsbourg, Georges Brassens, etc.

I could throw in a few brief comedy sketches like Franck Dubosc, Florence Floresti, and Sylvie Joly if there's time. An hour is pretty short, especially with all the yakking I'll be doing.

What music would you like to hear? What questions would you like DJ Fari to ask me? Any shout-outs (within reason)?

BTW, If you miss the show, you can always hear it on the archives

Murder in Paris: How About You?

2011-04-30T17:43:00.006-07:00

Have you always longed for a sliver of immortality? Do you especially dream of that immortality intersecting with Paris? Well, here is your chance.

Acclaimed author Cara Black, of the Murder in Paris series, has generously offered to name a minor character in her next novel -- for a good cause! The French American International School in San Francisco will offer to the winning bidder at the school's annual fund-raising auction on May 7 the chance to be a minor character in Cara's next Paris-based novel. The kind of immortality that normally one just can't buy. Interested parties who can't attend the event can bid by proxy.

The juicy details: the character might be murdered or maimed, or might be the snitch or the all-seeing neighborhood boulanger or concierge. The only disclaimer is that the name needs to be French or willing to get Gallicized. "John" would become "Jean," for example. "Polly" would be.. hmm. Pauline? Poulette? I'm working on it.

The fame, fun, and glory?

Priceless.

French Easter Bonnets, 1947

2011-04-22T20:18:00.006-07:00

From the magazine Plaisir de France, 1947.
A selection of French designers' (modistes) Easter hats.

From...
Legroux: a capeline (broad-brimmed hat) covered with irises.

Jane: a felt hat pierced by a stem of camelias.

Gilbert Orcel: a straw hat veiled in mousseline.

Rose Valois: a toque with multicolor flowers.

Schiaparelli: a bird's nest, a bouquet of sweet peas, and a straw hat decorated with poppies.

Joyeuses Pâques!

Paris Shoe Anxiety

2011-04-07T23:30:00.007-07:00

A new friend – someone I met at a dinner party a few weeks ago – emailed me the other day to follow up on our recent conversation. She and her husband are going to Paris next September, and I had offered to give them some ideas for their one-week stay in my Favorite City. Maybe it was because I was still nursing my first cup of coffee when I replied, or maybe it was – well, who knows? – but I found myself extending a bit of advice that I’ve never mentioned before.

Shoes.

“The most important advice I can give for right now is: find a pair or two of stylish shoes to wear that will be broken in but still attractive when you go to Paris. Because walking is the best way to see the city; and wearing nice shoes will garner you better treatment in cafes, stores, etc. And if you wear brand-new shoes and get blisters, it's just rotten.”

Weird advice, I know, but based on lots of experience. “It’s funny,” I continued, “people break in their hiking boots before climbing Kilimanjaro, but don't usually think about it for Paris!”

Ah, memories. I was so woefully shoe-inappropriate when I first moved to Paris. I cringe to think about it. On earlier extended visits before the Big Move, I had bought shoes in Paris, last minute, to try to blend in. I had such bad new-shoe blisters that I couldn’t shuffle across a street.

Then, idiotically, before moving to Paris, I got rid of the shoes I should have brought with me. Once I arrived I wore shoes that I thought were acceptable which got disdainful stares. Suffice it to say that I arrived in Paris laden with seven suitcases and a huge case of shoe anxiety.

It’s all relative. For example, within my first weeks living in Paris, I met up with an American pal, a friend from high school, who had been married to a Frenchman for 20 years. She was wearing running shoes and jeans when we met for dinner. I gasped. “But, M, that looks so… um... American!” I had said.

“I am American,” she quipped with total confidence, proudly displaying her Nikes and sports socks.

So, I initially tried a variation of her proud-to-be-an-American footwear bravado, sporting a pair of black Bally sneakers in my daily walks around the city. I found that the designer sneakers were vaguely acceptable (that is, they didn’t meet with open derision) if I kept walking; but if I stopped to have lunch or shop some place that was respectable, I instantly had a sense of fashion faux-pas. Shopkeepers addressing me in English, despite my perfected “Bonjour, Madame” greeting.

“Oh, pardonnez-moi, madame," the salesladies semi-apologized to me, "but you just seemed so americaine.” (In those silly shoes. )

I kept trying to learn.

You see lots of stylish French women in impossibly spiky stilettos or mile-high wedges gliding down the sidewalks of Paris, it's true. But I learned a trick from an uber-Parisienne colleague: two pairs. She wore her incredibly stylish but comfortable heels for hoofing it across the Seine. Then, just before the business meeting where she needed to charm the Big Guys, she stopped, sat down outside the building, and changed into her most dangerously feminine shoes or little wobbly bootlets, for maximum effect. It worked like a charm, every time. I was in awe.

Another time, I was determined to be a total Parisienne with my footwear. I bought a pair of Dior pumps because my glamorous friend, Marie, who is an honest-to-god French countess, had the same pair. She always looked chic and hip and wore her Dior pumps with blue jeans or a slim skirt or a dressy outfit. Would it transform me?

Guess what? I ended up wearing those expensive copy-cat Dior pumps exactly once. I later sold them at a US consignment shop to a former Miss France. Don't ask. Lesson learned.

As a casual visitor to Paris, of course you need not go to such extremes. But wearing shoes that are appropriately sophisticated will make you feel more at ease. For practical yet chic shoe staples, I eventually settled on a pair of black mid-heeled boots, some nice Italian leather ballerina flats, and a pair of loafers that could have been (but weren’t) Tods. Friends have also recommended Cole-Haan’s Nike Air-soled shoes.

Moral of story (if there is one): Paris is a sophisticated city. It is also a walking city. My advice: wear footwear that is sophisticated and comfortable for maximum enjoyment.

Poisson d'avril

2011-04-01T01:10:00.002-07:00

Poisson d'avril, as you may know, is the French equivalent of "April Fools." While taping a paper fish to someone's back isn't the essence of hilarity, what the heck. But my favorite French funny-fish story bears re-posting. It actually took place at the plush Cercle de l'Union interalliée in Paris the last time I had lunch with the wonderful late Polly Platt. Polly had her back to the couple and missed all the action.

In a large sky-blue dining room with 25-foot ceilings and a hushed atmosphere, a kindly American couple sits primly at the elegant table nearby, scanning their large white menus through their reading glasses. The waiter returns to their side, and with a short bow he flourishes the answer to the question they had asked which had sent him scurrying. "Eet is 'goldfish'," he announces.

"Goldfish?" Startled, the husband and wife look at each other in disbelief. They shake their heads and hastily dive back into their menus to find another selection. I return to my menu to make my choice for lunch. The poisson du jour is rouget.

("Rouget" is red mullet -- delicious. "Poisson rouge" is goldfish.)

Suite francaise

2011-03-29T19:48:00.004-07:00

I awake in the pre-dawn hours, befuddled and anxious.

Will our family have enough to eat? I wonder.

Will we reach Tours? Will it be safe when we get there?

Then, slowly I awake. I rub my eyes and realize it is 2011. I am safe in my comfortable American bed. Breakfast awaits.

As I gaze sleepily around the room, I remember that I am reading, and totally absorbed by, Suite française, by Irène Némirovsky.

Published in 2006, it's one of those books I'd been "meaning to read" and couldn't decide whether to read it in French or English. If it's one of those books that you have been "meaning to read," please do so. I'm reading the English edition, exquisitely translated by Sandra Smith.

Universal Studios apparently bought the movie rights in 2006. I don't usually clamor for a great novel's film version, but this is one that I can't wait to see.

It is also one of those books that I want to know the ending of but that I don't ever want to end.

Have you read it?

Dictee de la Baie

2011-03-19T16:38:00.008-07:00

Does anyone else besides me remember the names of every French teacher they ever had? I recall each one: Madame Rhodes, Mademoiselle de Mauduit, Madame Lambert -- too many to list -- all the way through college.

And believe me, their names and voices and red-pen marks came rushing back to memory today as I climbed into the seat to compete in this year's Dictée de la Baie, more or less the French/francophone version of a spelling bee. There were 150 contestants from the Bay Area, ranging in age from 6 to over 60.

In the category Adult Francophiles, there were about 20-25 of us gathered in the schoolroom, fidgeting, joking nervously, jovially eyeing the competition. Lining up our papers and pencils.

Muriel, the dictant, began:

"Les vieilles femmes qui avaient eu la lourde responsabilité d’habiller la jeune fille pour son repos éternel avaient scrupuleusement respecté les coutumes mortuaires. Une icône de la vierge était placé sur sa poitrine, bien calée entre ses bras en croix. Au-dessus de sa tête, un petit miroir devait chasser les démons tentés de s’approcher du cadavre..."

...and on to the the end of a long passage. Then, sentence by sentence, she repeated the passage*, and we scribbled ferociously. One more time all the way through. But I could hardly bear to look at what I'd written: I knew I'd start second-guessing myself and thus had to rely mostly on first impulse. A quick review for egregious errors and I flipped it over. Done. Palms a little sweaty and the pencil worn down.

Then we swapped our dictées with our neighbors, corrected the dictée per the passage projected on the large screen at the front of the class. I thought I had done pretty well, but couldn't remember if I'd flubbed a few accents. Muriel gathered the corrected the dictées and announced the results.

First place, with 1 mistake: Polly.

I was both thrilled and supremely embarrassed. Can't explain it: I didn't anticipate that reaction because I didn't anticipate winning.

At the awards ceremony, I got a book, a certificate, and congratulatory cheek bisous from Corinne Pereira, the French Deputy Consul General.

But the biggest prize was rising to a personal challenge.

So, mes amis, on days when I think my foggy boomer-brain has turned to mush, I can at least pat myself on the back reassuringly and say, "Ah, but Polly, you sure do great accents aigus."

* passage by Romanian author Liliana Lazar, I found out afterwards.

It's Green in Paris

2011-03-17T00:05:00.007-07:00

St. Patrick's Day, and even Paris is going green. Yes, the famed Moulin Rouge, for the next two days, will be the Moulin Vert.

Okaaay.

But I like to reflect on some of the other greened spaces in Paris. The Jardin Atlantique is a favorite example: a space created above the steelyard of train tracks outside the Gare Montparnasse in 1994, which has been converted to a green-space for all to enjoy. Plants, trees, and outdoor spaces, all at the doorstep of a major train station.

Ah, a fine sampling of lush green grass to enjoy at le Jardin Atlantique while waiting for the TGV... er, when it is not the season of pelouses interdites.

To Laugh

2011-02-16T21:27:00.003-08:00

I loved this witty display of antique advertising lettering at an antiquaire in l'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. Fabulous antiques mecca in the south of France.

It successfully produced one of two desired effects: made me laugh.

Alas, didn't make me buy. Suitcase constraints.

Pauline's Breast at Odiot

2011-02-11T21:07:00.008-08:00

For ultimate luxury shopping in Paris, nothing beats Odiot. Luxury in its finest sense, because there is nothing in Odiot that one needs. But perhaps -- oh yes indeed -- there are many, many items that one wants. Covets. All that glitters is gold, vermeil, and silver. [Image via Odiot.com]

Odiot. [oh-dee-oh]

Odiot.

For the uninitiated, let me just say that it is the highest of high-end orfèvrerie (goldsmith/silversmith) with an unparalleled Parisian pedigree.

For the cognoscenti, it is, of course, the home of “le sein de Pauline,” a.k.a. Pauline’s breast. Yes, chez Odiot you can purchase for your little coffee table a charming bibelot – a gold cup molded from the breast of Napoleon’s sister Pauline Borghese.

Her racy life story is more than I have space to indulge in here, so best to read a few links or buy the biography. (Now there’s a biopic waiting to be made!)

Sometimes the “sein de Pauline” is featured in Odiot’s glam-but-chicly-restrained store window. Other times you’ll simply have to stop in and ask to see it.

Spoiled moi, my first apartment in Paris was six storeys up on place de la Madeleine, whence I could gaze down on the Odiot shop window. And press my nose against the Odiot vitrine in a trance as I gawked at the shiny splendor inside. I had no choice but to pass by Odiot every time I left the apartment; and, trust me, I was never disappointed. Somehow there is something comforting in viewing sheer lavishness, just knowing that it exists because it is a fine art. And, curiously, the coveting diminishes as the appreciation increases. It was like walking past a museum display.

Ah, the days of my daily Odiot fix!

Do yourself a favor and stop by the storefront of Odiot for a great view of gilded Parisian splendor. Enter and look at the incredible offerings. But consider yourself forewarned! Odiot is powerfully appealing. You start nosing around for the least expensive item, just to be able to take something home. Like a breast of Pauline with a cute little butterfly.

Odiot

7, place de la Madeleine

75008 Paris

Your Valentine's Name in Lights in Paris!

2011-01-31T22:02:00.004-08:00

You are my Valentine, my funny valentine....

The City of Paris is sponsoring a program that will allow you to submit your expressions of love, passion and/or marriage proposals for Valentine's Day. And the winners' professions of ardor will be displayed on 170 electronic billboards throughout the city on Valentine's Day. Maximum 160 characters (ergo, 20 more than a tweet.)

Details [in French] are here.

Go for it!

My first stab at it was a lame 11-character "J'aime Paris." So I did this instead:

Anniversary of the Death of Louis XVI

2011-01-20T18:42:00.006-08:00

January 21 marks the anniversary of the execution of Louis XVI at the place de la Concorde in Paris.

His final words were, "Peuple, je meurs innocent! Je pardonne aux auteurs de ma mort! Je prie Dieu que mon sang ne retombe pas sur la France!"

A notable occasion in history. A notable occasion in my personal history for the major social boo-boo(s) I made when I first learned of the importance of this occasion from someone who takes it very, very seriously.

Read it and weep here.

p.s. No, he never called back.

image via wikipedia

The French Open vs. les Serres d'Auteuil

2011-01-18T19:35:00.007-08:00

If you've never visited le Jardin des Serres d'Auteuil, you are missing out on a sublime, tranquil bit of Paris. It is the Botanical Garden of Paris, with a magnificent 19th-century greenhouse and acres of lush greenery, statues and endless moments for quiet reflection, located in the 16e arrondissement.

How could I not fall in love with this place the first time I saw it?

I discovered the garden one day when scouting out its neighbor, the Roland Garros stadium, home of the French Open -- what we anglophones call the French Open, that is. In France, the annual June world tennis championship is simply called le Roland Garros. I've been reading news bits here and there that the Federation of French Tennis has been complaining that the mega-event is outgrowing its current home, and has been contemplating a move. Harrumph, I thought. How can you have the Roland Garros if it's not at le stade Roland Garros?

Ha. At least, that was my opinion until I learned of the New! Exciting! way to save the Roland Garros/French Open and keep it at its current location: expand it by taking over a section of the Jardin des serres d'Auteuil.

Nooooooooo-o-o!

(I actually shouted this at my computer when I read the news.)

The Jardin des Serres d'Auteuil is a gem, every square centimeter of it. But the Mairie de Paris is apparently gung-ho on plans to let the Federation take over what it calls the "ugly part" of the Garden. The plans are to keep the antique greenhouse for show space but to remove the actual function of growing flowers.

Le projet d'extension de Roland Garros
Via the mairiedeparis. -

It's turning into a hot political issue. Tens of thousands of citizens have signed a petition protesting the loss of precious areas of the Jardin. Famed singer Françoise Hardy has taken on the protest as her cause célèbre.

The Federation of French Tennis will decide on February 13.

Paris Lampshades

2011-01-13T21:20:00.004-08:00

This storefront window got me thinking about lampshades. Les abat-jours. (Hmm, or should it be abats-jour? Abats-jours?) Figuring out French plurals of compound words always gives me a headache. I learned the rules way back, but I'm still flummoxed all the time.

Anyway, these charming lampshades let me momentarily forget all the grammatical shenanigans. They were just delightful!

Régifilm: Authentic Paris Movie Props

2011-01-10T19:12:00.010-08:00

We were wandering through the 11e arrondissement, doing what I like to do best: discovering side streets I've never traveled before.

Oh, I was not disappointed.

.

We happened upon Regifilm on rue Amelot.

My idea of Paris heaven. It was better than a salvage shop or a marché aux puces.

What is it? Apparently, it's an agency that rents props and costumes for period films. We wandered in the jumbled, crowded entrance way -- it wasn't really clear if there was an accueil anywhere, and no one seemed to mind our prowling around, so we just kept wandering further and further into the depths. A murky maze of antique splendor.

So much cool stuff.

Vintage lampposts, mailboxes, street signs, fountains, barrels, lighting, kitchen appliances, mannequins. You name it.

Think of any period Paris movie you've seen, and you can imagine the stock at Régifilm.

The Rooftops of Paris

2011-01-08T16:58:00.009-08:00

1) I'm amazed that in my three years of living in Paris and countless visits, I have a) never stepped in dog-deposits on sidewalks and b) almost never injured myself while strolling through the city. (There was one painful and embarrassing encounter with a bitte de trottoir which I'd rather forget.)

Why should I have expected to have more pedestrian accidents?

Because, try as I might to be mindful of the sidewalk in front of me, I find myself constantly looking up. Paris buildings above the second-story level provide an endless and rich source of architectural surprises or day-to-day drama.

Architectural surprises often come in the form of mosaics or mythological characters as friezes. Day-to-day drama can be on balconies, windows, or roofs. (Once, riding on the 92 bus on upscale avenue de Villars one early morning, I spied a pair of expensive -- Christian Louboutin? -- spike heels perched on a second-story window ledge, shutters closed. The story of how and why they were there wrote itself in an instant in my mind.)

But for real drama, last week I was wandering up a narrow sidewalk in the 9th arrondissement when a flicker of movement on a rooftop caught my eye.

A worker, maybe a ramoneur (chimney sweep), was walking blithely along the 8th-story edge of the mansard. My heart leapt into my throat as I watched him casually amble along the slippery tin roofline, occasionally peering over. He stopped, wrote something on a clipboard, pirouetted to another spot, leaned over. The vertigo in me was suffering vicariously, but clearly this guy was sure-footed and confident. I heaved a sigh of relief when he disappeared over the other side of the roof ridge. Not that he was any safer, mind you, but at least I knew I wasn't going to witness his untimely demise. Out of sight, out of mind.

2) There are times when, eye-level viewing of the rooftops of Paris is somehow comforting and embracing. I was staying in an apartment in the 16e near place Victor Hugo, and the view from the 4th-floor balcony made me feel grounded and connected to the city.

A few streets over, the curtained rounded windows; others shuttered for vacation.

The chambres de bonne on the top floor: how many students living in those cramped and underheated garrett rooms?

In the mid-ground, a trio of church bells.

And in the foreground, an up-close view of the grey metal ridges typical of almost every Parisian mansard roof.

3) Then sometimes there are the spectacular views of the roofs of Paris. A friend loaned me her Paris studio in the 15e arrondissement for my last 2 days in Paris.

Wow. Paris from the 23rd floor is another story (pardon zee pun). These are views of the 15e and the broad expanse of the suburbs to the west. Mostly flat, modern roofs.

Bonus: do you spot the hot-air balloon from the Parc André Citroën (both photos)?

New Year's Day, Paris

2011-01-01T15:21:00.001-08:00

There's a kind of hush.

Paris, the morning after.

I expected it at 9 am on New Year's Day. Everyone sleeping in after all that champagne. But even by almost noon, the streets were still silent. I walked to the Boissiere metro stop, and could have used the street instead of the sidewalk: not a car in sight. On a Saturday morning!

The metro was free until noon. Even so, only a handful of passengers.

At 2:00 p.m., our almost-empty cross-town bus from the 16e to the place de l'Opera sped through intersections and stops in record time.

But by 4:30 p.m., the return trip to the 16e found the streets 100% clogged with honking traffic. Normal, quoi.

Ah, Paris the mystery is always unfolding!

Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noel. Joyeuses Fetes

2010-12-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

Ah, itis so delightful spending Christmas in France with friends and family. Finally.

After the pagaille with all the snow at Charles de Gaulle (Roissy) airport, so many friends stranded or blocked on one side of the Atlantic or the other as they attempted to travel, I am blessed to be here in France, finally (after a 3-day cancellation), with both kids, for Christmas eve.

Whew!

Wishing all a peaceful and joyful holiday season.

The lights in Aix-en-Provence on the Cours Mirabeau certainly got me in the spirit!

Packing for Paris

2010-12-17T21:53:00.000-08:00

Before I lived in Paris, I had total packing-for-Paris anxiety. And invariably, I packed too much clothing -- inappropriate clothing -- and wore less than half of what I packed. Visions of needing endless dressy outfits for impromptu dinner parties in gilded salons: that measure of inappropriate.

Tomorrow I head to Paris, and I dunno, what the heck. I'll have whatever is necessary and if I don't, I'll wear a lot of att-i-tude. But the recent spate of cold weather and snow in France does have me a bit flummoxed. Comfort and warmth versus chic-enough? But what I've learned is that it really doesn't matter... within parameters.

Footwear is always the most perplexing. And given the cost and trouble of extra check-in luggage, I am determined to take only one suitcase for 2 weeks; so, lots of boots and shoes are not in the cards. This despite the Christmas stockings, and presents for Miss Bee and Harry when we all reunite in Provence. (I'm letting Harry transport the Nestle's chocolate chips and Skippy peanut butter for his sister. I'm bringing the stack of New Yorkers and her forgotten clothing items.)

Ah. Footwear. Paris. Anxiety. Should I take (a) brown shearling-lined matronly, totally warm suede boots, (b) my tall black-leather equestrian boots, or (c) my favorite new over-the-knee grey suede Stuart Weitzman zingy-make-me-feel-hip boots?

Answer is: middle-of-the road (b). Waterproof enough, not the warmest, but I'll stop at the basement of BHV and get shearling slip-in soles to keep my tootsies insulated from the French chill.

What else am I packing for 2 weeks in France? Not that you asked, but here goes:

1) a few pairs of straight-legged black jeans and one pair of blue jeans.
2) one all-purpose dress that will work for both Christmas Lessons and Carols at the American Cathedral and zippity-splashy for New Year's eve (I learned the hard -embarrassing - way that that le Reveillon is the one event that is never casual in Paris.)
3) a few cashmere v-necks, to be worn over scoop-necked or v-neck T-shirts.
4) whatever pjs I take, There Will Be Slippers.
5) a variety of warm shawls for wrapping around the neck
6) my shearling jacket from Peau d'Eve
7) accessories: so lightweight and filled with variety
8) the earth's smallest folding umbrella
9) wearing the boots, taking a pair of black loafers and a pair of black ballerina flats.(Egad, no heels. Will I regret it?)
10) a collapsible Longchamp bag for the return trip. I always bring back more than I take!

Inflight, I'll keep it to the minimum:

1. All the technical requisites (laptop, Droid, noise-cancelling headphones, Canon Power shot, and their many cables and European adapters which still confuse me)
2. Flight spray (can't live without it)
3. Unisom sleeping gels
4. Toss-away cotton crew socks
5) mini-portions of mouthwash, hand lotion, and lip gloss. No more. Who am I kidding? Full trousse de maquillage definitely not needed on board. I'm not going to meet the bachelor cousin of the King of Spain in flight or anything. Even if I wear pearls and try to get upgraded to business class. Hah. It ain't the same as the olden days.
6) my leftover euros and RATP tickets, for quick exit after clearing customs.

Have I forgotten anything?

Paris is for walking... and for sitting

2010-12-13T22:20:00.001-08:00

Paris is for walking.

Then after all that walking, it's time to take a rest.

I love the benches and other seats in Paris. The chairs scattered in the Tuileries or the Jardin du Luxembourg. And the benches just about everywhere.

Some favorites:

Sunday in the garden of the Jardin des Plantes in the 5e

Square Ozanam in the 6e

Les jardins des Serres d'Auteuil in the 16e

Sitting is an art, of course.

In Paris, anyway.

Doorway with identity crisis

2010-12-12T05:34:00.000-08:00

Christmas in Provence

2010-12-04T19:47:00.000-08:00

My eyes are getting a bit rectangular these days as I scour the computer screen for hours, looking at on-line listings of vacation rentals in Provence. Vacation rentals that will start in a little more than two weeks, mind you. Eek.

Yeah, yeah, I should have booked this months ago. But coordinating a family vacation when one person (moi, the coordinator) is living and working in U.S. Pacific time, one (Harry) is studying on U.S. East Coast time, and the other (Miss Bee) is teaching on Provence time, it just ain't as simple as it might seem. Plus, the family ideas seem to ... ahem, evolve. At first it was all Riviera-Cote-d'Azur-I've-never-been-to-Monaco, then it became all let's-visit-charming-provencal-villages, then there was the maybe-we-could-spend-New-Year's-in-Paris. And so it goes. We're an adventurous, spontaneous trio, and I have no doubts that we'll have a jolly time. And we'll never have enough days to see all the family friends in various provinces of France, because most are travelling away from home during the vacances scolaires.

So-- I'm excited about returning to Provence, which, despite three years in Paris, I haven't re-visited since I was a student there three decades ago. Christmas in Provence is a very special time, laden with special lore, including the Santons de Provence (um, I'm still working on appreciating them) and a whole tradition which is very provencal and not very much parisien.

And, by the way, I have to disabuse the knowledge of friends who say, "oooh -- the South of France!" and picture us sunning by the pool for this vacation. Today's top temperature in Aix was a frosty 8 degrees celsius. Packing my woolies!

Here is my must-see list for my kiddos when we're in Provence:
Aix, Marseille, Cassis, Lourmarin, Les Baux, Manosque, Gordes, Arles, Avignon.

Any suggestions?

Photo via Avignon et Provence

Et avec cela?

2010-12-02T20:30:00.002-08:00

In conjunction with World AIDS awareness day this week, some 200 cafés across Paris are participating in the "Paris Capote" initiative, offering a condom with every coffee ordered from December 1 - 5.

The program, sponsored by the Mairie de Paris, has a simple driving principle: for every café purchased, a condom (préservatif) is offered on the side. The goal is to increase awareness of the health benefits of safe sex and to make condoms a more familiar and normal presence: less [my words] ooh-la-la, and more a matter-of-fact part of everyday life.

Reactions?

"Au début les clients sont surpris et ça les fait plutôt rire, mais au final je pense que cela les fait réfléchir."

["At first customers were surprised, and most were laughing about it, but ultimately I think it made them stop and think about it."]

Photo via paris.fr

School Vacations in France

2010-11-30T22:31:00.000-08:00

If you live in France, you pretty much live by the calendar of school vacations -- vacances scolaires -- or ignore it at your peril.

But even as a some-time traveler to France, it's helpful to know when a given area will be on vacation.

Vacation times can affect everything from hotel/apartment rental prices to when you might be able to get together with friends who live in France. From experience, I can say that a majority are not at home when it is school vacation!

Divided into Zones A, B, and C, the school vacations are designed so that not all of France is on vacation at the same time. Paris/Ile de France, for example, is Zone C (purple), with winter break February 12- 28. Zone A (yellow), including Brittany and much of south-central France, will have its winter break February 26 - March 14. And so on.

So check the handy map and plan accordingly.

The Future of La Samaritaine

2010-11-26T20:00:00.000-08:00

photo via Wikipedia

More updates on Paris real estate news.

Famed Paris department store La Samaritaine is now 100% owned by luxury goods conglomerate LVMH (Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessy), which this week bought out the 40.1% ownership that had been retained by the Fondation Cognacq-Jay, according to an article in Le Nouvel Observateur. So that last speed-bump in the path of its renovation is out of the way, and plans will move forward.

I wrote earlier that the beloved department store was shuttered abruptly about five years ago by LVMH. The website and signs on the building's exterior enigmatically announce "Department store closed due to works for the purpose of security." It has been sitting vacant since 2005 (always a disappointing surprise to past travellers to Paris who haven't been in the city recently). The building apparently will be transformed into a mixed-use complex: a luxury hotel filling out the historic facade with the fabulous view of the Seine, retail space on rue de Rivoli, offices and mixed-income housing, and a day-care center (“une crèche”). The renovations will be designed by the Japanese architectural firm Sanaa.

Shovels will go in the ground in late 2011, with a planned opening of the newly configurated spaces at the end of 2013.

I understand now how the building will be re-purposed-- but will the department store as an entity be resurrected?

There Goes the Neighborhood

2010-11-22T20:42:00.000-08:00

I used to have a love/hate relationship with fashion shopping my Paris neighborhood. I loved it of course because Le Bon Marché was there, but more importantly because there were two tres tres cool designer discount shops nestled in among some of the more mémé (matronly) shops. One, Le Mouton à Cinq Pattes on rue St. Placide, was so incredibly inexpensive that I bought (among many other items) a Jean-Paul Gaultier blouse that didn't fit "but might someday," so I simply had to take it home.

Enter the "hate" part. The thing hung in my closet, tags on, until I packed it up and took it with me to the States, and sold it at a US consignment shop for way more than I had paid for it. "Hate" because I couldn't go into the shop without parting with my dwindling savings, which had been budgeted in les dollars. Yes, it was that wonderful.

Moreover, there was La Piscine on rue de Sevres, incredible discount designer clothing and shoes in an old indoor hotel pool (drained of water, but with sand and fake palm trees, fabulous mosaic of tiny original turquoise tiles, and, well, just so cool and so very French.) Rows and rows of marques degriffees arranged by color. A few white wicker folding screens that served as dressing rooms. I dropped some major euros at La Piscine, but it was a key spot in helping me shed my New England wardrobe for a more Parisienne look. I'm just a girl who can't say no... to a fashion bargain.

Finally, in an extreme fiscal move, I forbade myself from entering either beloved shop. It simply was too much of a hit on my wallet, you know, "saving" all that money on bargains. But when I walked down rue de Sevres, I would often gaze longingly at the entrances, imagining the enticing discounts beckoning me from within.

Then, one day I walked by La Piscine , and *poof* -- it had disappeared. Boarded up, just like that. La Mosaique next door had its windows soaped over. I mourned, I asked the nearby shopkeepers, but no one seemed to know the fate of the store. I imagined with horror that some luxe developer was going to turn it into a luxe spa. The sign on the door invited customers to visit another "La Piscine" location. But I knew that wherever the location was, it didn't have a swimming pool and palm trees. I wanted my bargain-basement-swimming-pool in my neighborhood, even if I wasn't buying!

Now. Guess what? The La Piscine space on rue de Sevres has just been resurrected, but don't go looking for bargains. It is none other than the brand-new chic left-bank flagship store for Hermès.

I love Hermès. The rive droite side of me loves Hermès, but it seems that there is less and less of a distinction between the right and left banks these days. Hmm -- the 7e and 8e arrondissements are becoming the 7.5e arrondissement??

Coca Light

2010-11-19T23:02:00.000-08:00

Here: a can of Diet Coke snatched from the fridge at the local convenience store or kebab take-out spot.

Paris: a Coca Light savored at at the Nemrod on rue du Cherche Midi. Not just oceans apart, worlds apart. Light years. Universes.

A cube or two of ice, a wedge of lemon, a long spoon. Not to mention a completely different recipe for the beverage itself. Not to mention the setting, people watching, and scanning le Pariscope for movies.

Oh yeah, not to mention price.

Worth it. Every sip.

Who put the 'cozy' in Sarkozy?

2010-11-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

France24 is a great news source for just about everything having to do with France, or world news from a French perspective. Frankly, since I'm not in Paris I'm somewhat rabid about keeping up with French news, cruising the French dailies' websites, trying to keep au courant.

Yet I fail. Why, you ask? Well, partially because when I start watching half-hour panel discussions such as last week's France 24 roundtable with top Anglophone journalists in Paris, I get... distracted.

I know, I know. I should be following the substance of the discussion, and ... yet... in the mean time I am swept away by one persistent thought: Why does Alison Smale of the IHT refer to the president as sar-koh-ZEE while Mark Deen of Bloomberg refers to him as sar-KOH-zee? Didn't they referee the Proper Presidential Pronunciation before going on air?

And secretly, I am delighted. I love pronunciation battles, and this one is ripe.

On the one hand, of course, in French no syllables are accented. So officially it's pronounced sar-koh-zee, equal emphasis on all syllables; but in reality it ends up sounding a bit more like sar-koh-ZEE. Americans, on the other hand, need to find a syllable to stress in English, and somehow in popular US media, it's most often pronounced à l'américaine, sar-KOH-zee.

I still recall the mild sting of being reprimanded by my dear late friend Polly Platt for saying 'sar-KOH-zee' in mid-sentence. "But, Polly," I pleaded, "I'm speaking in English right now. When I'm talking in English, for example, I don't say 'Paree,' I say 'Pariss.' So in English I should say 'sar-KOH-zee,' as Americans do."

She didn't buy that defense, and told me it sounded ill-informed. Since I deeply admired her, in all subsequent conversations with Polly I was on my sar-koh-ZEE best.

But otherwise, I was cozy with sar-KOH-zee.

Then. The ultimate revelation: French newscasters pronounce our president's name oh-ba-MAH when discoursing in French.

But of course they should.

You say 'to-MAY-toh.' I say 'to-MAH-to.'

Let's not call the whole thing off.

Hallucinoscope at the Eiffel Tower

2010-10-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

What, the Eiffel Tower isn't enough of an eyeful already? It certainly blows me away every time I see it even from a distance, much less up close and personal. Never fails to take my breath away.

Be that as it may, for those who might have a jaded, been-there-done-that feeling about la Tour Eiffel, there is a new way of experiencing its majesty between now and the end of November: Hallucinoscope!

Hallucinoscope is a new virtual-reality experience, created by magicien Gerard Majax, available (to anyone over 6 years old) on the 1er etage of the Eiffel Tower. Equipped with a low-tech helmet and a mirror, apparently you get the illusion that you are walking upside down on the beams and arches of the tower.

The hallucination-moment is free -- but of course you have to pay the 20€ to get to the first level.

Methinks I'll stick with the view from the Trocadero.

The Winter Hour

2010-10-29T19:25:00.000-07:00

This weekend -- Sunday, to be precise -- is when France changes its clocks for the transition from what the US calls Daylight Saving. In other words, France will "fall back" -- move the clocks back one hour -- on Saturday night. Passage a l'heure d'hiver, it is called.

In France, most of the population is on vacances de la Toussaint. Time to be away on school holiday, or to visit the cemeteries with chrysanthemums for the graves of the departed.

In the States this weekend, focus is on Hallowe'en and the World Series. We'll move our clocks back next week, on November 7.

So for this week, as every year, the time difference between France and the US East Coast will be 5 hours instead of the usual 6. Just to keep us all on our toes!

Photo: Le defenseur du temps, via Flickr.

The Circus at Ile Seguin

2010-10-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

Ile Seguin has always been a source of fascination to me. Located in the Seine next to Paris, just off of Boulogne-Billancourt, it was known for years as the location of the iconic Renault factory.

Then the factory was demolished, and there was talk of Francois Pinault establishing a museum there (fell through) then of relocating the American University of Paris to part of the island, to consolidate its campus, with urban housing. Then, in an about-face, it seemed decided that it would become a cultural center.

Latest news is that the Cirque du Soleil will make its home on the island, along with a 15-hall Pathé multiplex cinema.

Such a dynamic and prime location. Can't wait to see what finally unfolds.

Protests in France

2010-10-19T22:11:00.000-07:00

1. Certainly no one has missed news of the current strikes and protests in France over pension reform. Make no mistake about it -- the massive protests are real. In a few locations, cars have been overturned. One lycée torched, and burned to the ground. All this makes for tremendous and powerful headline news.

And yet. Life goes on. It is a major upheaval, and travelers' plans cannot be 100% certain. The disruption of daily life certainly can't be underestimated. But it is unclear to me whether any of the limited violent activity at the schools originates with the students or with others who are simply hell-bent on joining in any protests: les casseurs.

One thing is for sure. Business people -- heck, everyday people -- are being inconvenienced. But, honestly, police barricades are a norm of Paris life, for whatever reason. So, c'mon, folks: this ain't French Armageddon.

In Paris, the RATP forecasts normal service. The SNCF and the airports have traffic reduced by about 25%. There are potential gasoline shortages, etc. Annoyance, yes. Inconvenience, yes. Life goes on anyway, yes.

2. Concerned about some alarming news reports yesterday, I called my daughter, who is working as a language assistant in a lycée in Provence. "How's it going?" I asked, unnerved. No big news -- she mostly detailed her efforts to get internet service at her shared apartment inside the lycée. Bureaucracy and telecommunications woes. The regular. "But -- how about the protests?" I pressed.

"Yeah, there were some blockades last week -- they blocked the entrance to the school with dumpsters. And it's been weird, with I-don't-know-who setting off Molotov cocktails sometimes. Bizarre. Oh gawd, there's one exploding now. Well, Mom, I gotta run -- have to make a presentation for my class."

To me, this says it all. Protests are happening. Noise is happening. Noise. Sure, things aren't as smooth as might be hoped, but life goes on. Work goes on. Classes to attend. Dinners to prepare. Vernissages, movies, activities to enjoy. Everyone makes do. But that angle doesn't make headline news, does it?

3. This all reminded me of my arrival in Paris in 2006. There were protests then, too. This blog was only a twinkle in my eye at the time, but here is the missive I wrote about those supposed "riots" which led me to create this here blog:

April 1, 2006-- Last night I was dining at the Cafe de la Paix (how ironic), when suddenly dozens of police squads showed up, flashing blue lights, guys with helmets and plastic shields. No, they weren't there to take me away(!), but instead to barricade the boulevard des Capucines so that the soon-to-be arriving protesters could march down the street. It was about 10:30 or 11 pm, so fortunately we were through dining. Because of the manif (protest), my dinner companion was not able to take a cab back to Ile St. Louis, and so -- horrors!-- had to take the metro.

The gendarmes wouldn't let me enter the street there at place de l'Opera (silly -- so I just walked around the corner and got in that way). And then I strolled home happily down the center of a very quiet boulevard with no traffic.)

Then I got back to my cozy pied a terre and kicked off my high heels. About five minutes later I heard the approaching crowds chanting and shouting. Peering out my kitchen window, I saw the throngs marching down boulevard de la Madeleine, filling a whole city block or two (or more?) streaming past my front door at place de la Madeleine. The feeling was one of momentum and energy and not at all of anger or fear. They were waving banners and shouting as they headed around the corner to the Elysee Palace. I would have gone down to the street to watch, but actually had a better view from my lofty perch. Mostly I didn't budge from the fear that, if I left my 7th floor apartment, by the time I got to street level the action might have all passed me by. It felt like being part of a Victor Hugo script. Huge adrenaline rush!

(Anway, the most angry mob of Parisians I've seen all week was the thousands of cars backed up at place de la Madeleine at rush hour on Wednesday... because the cops blocked the roads for -- ta-dah! -- Condoleeza Rice to get to the Elysee Palace for her nanosecond visit with Chirac. You've never heard such klaxons, such muttering later in the supermarches ("Yeah, I hear she even traveled from the airport in an American car..." "I bet it was 'super-blindee' [armored vehicle] -- she'll need it after making everyone so pissed...")
I bet somehow the American press didn't pick up on THAT little Parisian police barricade!)

I remember distinctly at the time receiving worried emails from family and friends asking if I was all right, if I was safe. The media was reporting calamitous activity! I couldn't afford to actually laugh at their worries, but tried nevertheless to reassure them that life in France did not equal what they saw or read in the news.

4. Not currently in France, I don't have eyewitness observations about the reform protests and their ramifications. But I do check my Facebook page, check status of my friends in France, skype with them. Most are at max griping about transportation, either slow-downs in public transport, lines at the gas station, or worries about being able to leave on vacation as scheduled. Hmmm, not exactly what I would call The End of Life as We Know It.

School vacations for la Toussaint in France begin this Friday. I'm waiting to see how that affects the protest activity.

France-Shaped Cheese Board

2010-10-10T09:39:00.001-07:00

Why didn't I think of this? I spotted one of these France-shaped cheese boards in the museum shop yesterday. Naturally it's by Laguiole, one of my favorite French cutlery companies. (Opinel being the only other French cutlery company I know off hand. Are there others?) Not only is it shaped like la Belle France, but it also has the names of some of the more famous cheeses carved in their respective regions on the map.

Laguiole is sooo very French, as I discovered at home.

But did you know that the company also sells champagne sabers? Yours for only 290 euros. Now there's a niche market.

If you're not the saber-rattling type, how about a Johnny Hallyday knife?

Never too soon to start holiday shopping!

'French in Action' - 25 years later

2010-09-21T20:41:00.003-07:00

Boule-dogue, boule-dogue, waouh, waouh, waouh!?

I've always known that Yale has some great reunions. Been to one or two myself, and had a rollicking good time.

But here's the Yale reunion to beat all reunions, in my book: The 25th Anniversary of "French in Action", slated for October 30-31 in New Haven.

Either you know and remember all about French in Action, or it doesn't ring a bell. A revered French-language program aired on PBS and in classrooms across America, its language and cultural sequences are seared in the minds of devotees ...and less-than devotees, also, I dare say. I know students of the show who can still recite entire episodes.

Pierre Capretz will be on hand for the reunion, as will be the lovely Mireille. I was and am a big fan, and wish I could be there for the shindig!

Just remember, time doesn't stand still.

But for those who remember the antics of Robert and Mireille, the Man in Black, and Pierre Capretz giving the language lesson, you can join the reunion and rekindle all those fond memories.

Update: see photos of the reunion here.

Salon de Provence!

2010-09-13T22:14:00.000-07:00

Wow. Some people have all the luck, and get to spend a year in Provence.

One such person is my darling daughter. Yes, at the end of September the lucky college grad is heading off to lovely Salon-de-Provence to be an English teaching assistant.

Not that I am living vicariously or anything. Qui, moi?

So, heck, what good is a francophile blogger maman if she can't post a notice?:

Lodging needed!

If you know of anyone in Salon-de-Provence with a chambre de bonne to rent, seeking a roommate, or other accommodation possibilities at grad student rates from October to May, please contact me asap at pollyvousfrancais [at] yahoo.

Pollyvous et famille will be eternally grateful!

Summertime in Paris

2010-08-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd post a few photos of Paris in the summer.

The Seine can be cold and grey or serene and sunny. Lately it's been the former. Ugh.

Paris closes down for vacation in August.

Place de la Concorde. Some of these doors go to underground parking garages.

Tabac sign with geraniums. I wonder if these will disappear some day.

I never tire of blue doors.

But I am fed up with Blogger "improvements"! I may be switching to a new blog platform. This format is awful!!

Stay tuned.

Paris vu du Ciel

2010-08-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

Oh my.

If you're jonesing for Paris like me, take 15 minutes and watch this splendid video, Paris vu du Ciel, by Yann Arthus-Bertrand.

Paris vu du Ciel de Yann Arthus-Bertrand
Uploaded by mairiedeparis. - News videos from around the world.

On the downside, it doesn't cure the itch.

Not one bit.

Cultural Tidbits from and about France

2010-07-21T19:25:00.001-07:00

It's summertime. Ah, and I'm feeling weary, mes amis. Weary of contemplating the iPhone4, of finding the Next Best Thing, of being cutting-edge and hip (or vaguely trying). Yes, I think a little nostalgia is in order.

So here are a few new-but-old happenings from the French cultural scene. Or are they old-but-new?

1. Step back in time and visit Jean Cocteau's house in Milly-la-Foret. which is now open to the public.

2. Every Sunday evening through August 8, you can (re)discover the tradtional guinguette -- bal populaire -- on the Canal d'Ourcq. Dance the night away!

3. If you're inspired by the breathtaking television views of ancient architecture as the cyclists from the Tour de France speed by on the country lanes, well, you can dream of buying a chateau yourself.

4. Remember the days of classic French cuisine without the guilt? Remember the days of dining with silver and crisply-ironed damask napkins (or at least seeing photos of glamorous celebrities doing so)? Do the names Elizabeth Arden, Tallulah Bankhead, and Emily Post ring a bell? Would you like to know their favorite recipes?

You can re-kindle the flames of celebrity gastronomy of yore by picking up a copy of the recently re-published Spécialités de la Maison. Originally published in 1940 by the American Friends of France (founded by heiress Anne Morgan), the book is now available in a new edition, with a foreword by VF editor Graydon Carter. Still the same wonderful drawings by Clement Hurd and others. Still the same old-fashioned recipes that we forgot we needed so desperately. I drool: Cold Roquefort Souffle (Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt); Filet of Sole Veronique (Vivien Leigh); Mrs. George Washington's Crab Soup (Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, The White House). And on it goes.

You need this cookbook. You know you do.

24 Hours in Paris

2010-07-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

So many times when my circadian cycle was off-kilter with the "regular" hourly schedule of my fellow Parisians, I longed for an hour-by-hour guide that might tell me where I could be amused or consume lovely French fare while the rest of Paris slept or ate breakfast or was busy with their charming cinq-a-septs. To no avail. "Ah, there's a book waiting to be written," I thought.

Well, wait no more: 24 hours in Paris is here!

I could wax poetic about Marsha Moore's quirky and lovable new round-the-clock guide to La ville lumiere. But instead, I'll simply offer you 24 reasons why I love 24 Hours in Paris:

24. A turkish bath where you can order dinner

23. La Chapelle Expiatoire

22. Unmentionable!

21. She loves Deyrolle as much as I do.

20. Metro line 14

19. Chapelle de la Medaille Miraculeuse
18. O Chateau -- we love Olivier!
17. The Dog Cemetery
16. Merci

15. Fabulous factoids. "It would take 24 days, using every hour in the day, to briefly view all the exhibits in the Louvre."

14. Drouot

13. Drouot again.

12. Drouot again.

11. A bar that is open from 9h to 7h. That is not a typo.

10. Midnight movies followed by breakfast.

9. Going to see "Auntie."

8. Berthillon (I drool!)

7. "24 hours with the kids."

6. Cimetiere de Montparnasse

5. Polly Maggoo. Because there's more than one Polly in Paris.

4. Eternal favorite Shakespeare & Company

3. La tour Montparnasse

2. Stripper School. Non, pas wallpaper: oui, va-va-va-voom!

And -- drumroll please: numero un is

1. Cafe de la Mairie (a fave): Marsha spells it correctly. Not Cafe de la "Marie," people!

Great book, a must-have for anyone who loves and frequents Paris.

Le quatorze juillet

2010-07-14T10:27:00.000-07:00

Happy Bastille Day!

By the way, no one in France calls it Bastille Day. Or even Jour de la Bastille. Just le quatorze juillet or maybe la fete nationale. And of course, you know the proper way to say "Yay France!" in French.

Since I have the day off, I think I'll pick up a copy of France Today and dream of being in France today. Or better yet, I'll just subscribe so I have a chance to win a fabulous luxurious trip to France. (But shhhh -- don't tell anyone, because I want to improve my odds of winning.)

Then maybe I'll order some French goodies from French Feast.

And I'll finish the day singing La Marseillaise somewhere.

Meeting Ella Fitzgerald, part 2

2010-07-09T21:54:00.002-07:00

So I ended up at an Ella Fitzgerald concert, totally, totally inappropriately dressed. Read part one here.

I was entranced, thrilled, watching and listening to every Ella move, every note. Thankful that the sun was setting, all eyes were focused on Ella on stage and hoping no one could see me in my grungy get-up. Ella sang all the familiar favorites, and it really was a dream come true. About 20 feet away from my idol.

K no doubt noticed that I knew every tune by heart. To her, Ella was someone famous that her father knew, but she clearly wasn't in the die-hard fan group with me.

Then. Intermission.

All I wanted to do was cower in my seat, arms crossing over my lap. I spotted the Deputy Mayor of Boston, a few other luminaries whom I knew vaguely and I just wanted to don the cloak of invisibility. You have to understand, I looked totally gross and shabby: windblown, unshowered, salty, sandy, wild mane of hair. Everything unkempt one can look like at the end of a day at the beach.

Intermission.

"Let's go backstage!" says K. "With my VIP pass we can go back there, no problem! You're such a fan, you can meet Ella."

Daggers of pain, angst. "No, I can't possibly -- look at me!"

"Jeeeez, Polly, when will you ever have this chance again? Don't be ridiculous. Who cares?"

"I care." Talk about being torn in two. No. No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But I bit the bullet. I rose from my seat, followed K past the "No admission" sign to the back of the stage, and after we waited outside the makeshift dressing room for a few minutes, out came Ella. Elegant and larger than life in her long shining satin dress. I think it was purple. Was it my imagination, or was there a halo-like aura about her?

I stammered. What can you say to Ella Fitzgerald that isn't a cliche? What can you say to explain meeting her while looking like a bum? Nothing. I shook her hand. And I said, "Miss Fitzgerald, you have been my idol since I was 12. This is the greatest moment for me."

She smiled kindly and looked a little tired. I think she pretended not to notice my insultingly slapdash appearance. "Why, thank you, dear." At least I think that's what she said. My ears felt filled with cotton. My brain was in another planet.

"Could I have your .... signature?" I had never asked for an autograph before. Damn, that was the word I meant to say: autograph.

"Of course." She signed my program. I think K winked at her or gave some other inside signal, and we left.

My heart was pounding, and to this day, I don't know whether it was because I was actually meeting Miss Ella Fitzgerald, at long last. Or whether it was from sheer embarrassment.

Meeting Miss Ella Fitzgerald

2010-06-25T19:20:00.001-07:00

Starting a new series of summer posts.
Boston, 1982.

It is a steamy Massachusetts August evening, and I've just returned to my Beacon Hill apartment after a long weekend at the shore. The phone rings. It is my energetic and fun-filled friend, K.

"Hi, Poll. What are you doing tonight? Are you free?"

I'm always a sucker when questions are phrased this way. I forget to ask "Hmm, what did you have in mind?" Instead, I quickly mentally prioritize the probabilities and give a hasty yay or nay.

"Oh, K, I'm just exhausted. I was with [new beau] at the beach house all weekend. And I simply have to go to Lewando's and do my laundry. Can we get together some other night?"

Then the killer.

"Oh... sure," says K. Then, slyly, "It's just that I have two free tickets to Concerts on the Common, and Ella Fitzgerald is singing." Pause. "Do you like Ella Fitzgerald?"

My heart hurtles out of my forehead or somewhere, and my voice catapults from exhausted to panicked. "OH-GOD-OH-GOD!! I'd love to see Ella Fitzgerald in person! Forget laundry and everything else, this is a dream come true!" After all, I'd been faux-scat singing along with Ella at least since I was 12. I knew all of her songs. I owned most of her Verve records on vinyl. She was my idol.

K sighs or snickers or harrumphs faintly on the other end of the line, I think. Like, "Oh thanks, you wouldn't want to get together if it was just me, but you will if it's Ella Fitzgerald?"

But wouldn't you?

So we hastily arrange to meet in half an hour in the middle of the Boston Common, outside the enclosed area for the concert.

"Concerts on the Common," to me, sounds like a picnic-and-blanket affair, so I stuff my red canvas LL Bean rucksack with an old tablecloth, some Triscuits and cheese, a swiss army knife and a bottle of wine, and climb up the hill to the concert area, wearing tennis shoes, ragged old shorts, and a faded polo shirt, my salty hair pulled quickly into a high pony tail to keep cool in the hot summer evening.

I circle around the chain link fence, looking for K. Finally I spot her, outside a gate marked "VIP entrance." She is bubbly and blonde and wearing chic summer whites. "C'mon," she admonishes, "we're the last to arrive."

She steers me over to the rows of seats (seats?? where on earth are our fellow picnickers and blankets? I'm wondering.)

But no. Are we to be sitting in an anonymous 18th-row seat where my abominable outfit will go unnoticed?

No, we are not.

Are we on the fourth or fifth row where I could at least attempt to hide my grungy get-up? No, we are not.

Are we in the second row of the VIP section, with the silk-and-linen-clad dignitaries from the City of Boston? Yes, we are.

Is it dark enough so that no one can see me? No, it is not.

Can I hide under a rock?

Not if I want to see and hear Ella.

K, um, has neglected to tell me that her father is Ella's Boston PR agent. There is no escaping.

I try to sit demurely on the folding chair and be incognito until the concert begins. Covering myself with the vintage tablecloth is a fleeting option that I quickly abandon. Blessedly soon, the lights go on, and the show cranks up. Oscar Peterson warms up the crowd, then Ella -- MY Ella -- arrives on stage. I am in heaven. She is dazzling, warm, fabulous.

-- to be continued

French Grocery List

2010-05-28T20:19:00.000-07:00

In the French-American school where I work, lunchtime conversation in the faculty kitchen is invariably lively and spiced with the latest French news, gossip, and debate. The dry-erase board's grocery list, however, is usually rather bland and limited to all-American staples such as sugar packets and disposable wooden coffee-stirrers.

Ah, but the end of the school year is upon us, and the crowds are clearly craving more adventurous fare, from all corners of the Hexagone. I spied this list today:

1. Piment d'espelette, a spicy pepper from the Basque region.

2. Champagne. Needs no intro, but hails from, duh, the Champagne region of France.

3. Chocolate cake. Universal. Many of my French friends have a special family chocolate-cake recipe which they will never divulge. Ever. The "I-love-this-cake-can-I-have-the-recipe" ploy falls on deaf ears.

4. Calvados. Ahh, Calva! Now we've got northern France covered in this list.

5. Pineau des Charentes. A personal favorite. Try it some time in a sweet, tiny half-canteloupe as a first course. From my beloved Ile de Re.

Glad I've got my shopping list. Now I'm ready for the long weekend!

Grocery store confusion

2010-05-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

Can you blame me for loading up on too much PT and not enough TP at times in Paris?

(Hint: TP on the left, PT on the right). I'm too accustomed to American branding!
Henceforth I will always be Cartesian and look at numbers on packaging.

Eiffel Tower, the documentary

2010-04-07T21:59:00.001-07:00

Hoping for a little cultural edification tonight, I watched Modern Marvels: the Eiffel Tower on Netflix instant play. Granted, it was produced in 1994, so the documentary techniques seemed a bit outdated.

But what the heck. I was enjoying seeing footage of the Tower under construction in the late 1880s, the tower during the two World Wars, and so I even swallowed some of the rosy prose. I love the Eiffel Tower, and this slightly geeky documentary was giving me some entertaining and informative background. Interviews with Eiffel's great-great-granddaughter. Shots and engineering explanations of the underpinnings of the structure as it was being built. Visits to the bowels of the tower, where the engineer showed that animal fat and leather were still used to operate the elevator machinery.

Everything was just peachy, and I bought the whole story, until they interviewed the electrical workers who spend all their days prowling the structure and repairing the lighting systems.

These guys gushed to the camera, "I love my job, working outdoors every day, on this wonderful monument."

Okay, fine, I can buy that.

But then they started waxing about les oiseaux charmants who sometimes build their nests in the framework of the Eiffel Tower. "It's so great to observe pigeons making a home here. These days, it's so unusual to see pigeons in Paris."

N'importe quoi.

Champagne Corks

2010-03-26T22:01:00.000-07:00

I was wandering around the French American school where I am now employed, looking for inspiration. And it never takes me more than a few footsteps before I find it.

There is always something that stops me in my tracks, and this was no exception. The second or third grade art class had been given the assignment of making works of art from des bouchons de champagne. Finding the raw materials at home was no object, I guess.

But -- waah.

By the time I returned to my office, dealt with administrative stuff, retrieved my camera, and returned to take some photos, most of the art project had been dismantled. Dang! Being a newbie, I had missed the exhibit, which had been on display for a few weeks. I quickly snapped these photos of the remaining chefs d'oeuvre before the whole exhibit was taken down.

Anyway, it's great inspiration. Time to celebrate springtime with some good bubbly and create a bit of art in the process. N'est-ce pas?

Polly-Vous Francisco?

2010-03-02T17:55:00.000-08:00

What, you call yourself a blogger? I say to myself in the morning as I peer bleary-eyed in the bathroom mirror. You haven't updated your blog in weeks!

True, too true.

No excuses, but justifications aplenty. I've been leading a rather nomadic life, not all the romance and adventure that some might imagine it to be. But I try to capture the day's fleeting joy wherever I am.

I do write constantly. Really, I do! Did you know, for example, that I still have a whole Longchamp-bagful of absolutely incredible prose that I produced in Paris which still hasn't found its way to this blog, or any other publication? Well, I do, and here it is:

Observe it sitting coyly next to the Ed supermarket bag which I use for all my urgent correspondence.

But the real reason I haven't written much of late is that I am moving. I am moving to San Francisco. And believe me, if you can't be in Paris, there is virtually no more francophile city on the planet than San Francisco. It is so verrrry French.

Well, I have to go pack (again!), but wanted to offer a little France-in-San-Fran photo essay from my most recent treks -- the cafes, the Legion of Honor Museum, the boutiques, the pollarded trees, the government buildings.

Tempete de neige

2010-02-10T16:43:00.001-08:00

SNOW!!

Well, it may be vaguely solipsistic (gee, I love to use the litterati words I learned in 20th-century French theatre class), but to me it sure seems as though it's snowing everywhere. Snowing in Paris today. Snowing in the Alps. Snowing where I was just living (Virginia). Sure as heck snowing where I am living now (coastal New Jersey).

Being snowbound isn't all bad, even if there are power outages threatening like Damocles's sharp blade.

When there is a great gourmet store nearby, preparing for a blizzard can actually be a joy, don't you think? Indulging in some great French prepared food is the best revenge against that capricious Mother Nature.

Which is why this evening I am enjoying D'Artagnan Mousse au Poivre and a glass of red wine while the wild winds swirl outside, plastering snow against my windows.

My advice is to always prepare for a blizzard with the best possible ingredients. Forget the mere bread-and-milk staples: go for the finer cuisine. So you can make it into an event. It's worth every penny.

As what's-her-name said, let them eat cake!

Merci to Little Shiva for the Paris video.

Americans in Paris during the Occupation

2010-01-31T04:16:00.000-08:00

For someone like me who is fascinated with

1) day-to-day life of Parisians during the Occupation,

and

2) Americans in Paris ever since there have been Americans,

Americans in Paris: Life and Death Under Nazi Occupation 1940-44 by Charles Glass

is one I simply have to read right away.

Eiffel Tower for Sale

2010-01-26T10:43:00.000-08:00

What? Of course it's not the Eiffel Tower. Though a piece of that did get sold at auction last month.

No, this Eiffel is 40 inches tall (48 including the flag), a cool wire sculpture. There just won't be room for it in the storage containers; and I'm downsizing anyway.

It's funny, when I was living in Paris I didn't have Eiffel-Tower objets or posters around the apartment, because I had the real razzle-dazzle deal in my arrondissement.

I'm reluctant to part with this, but practicality is outweighing sentiment this week!

What price tag should I put on it?

Demenagement

2010-01-23T18:01:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm moving. Again. sigh

The last time I moved, in Paris, I was mostly focused on international shipping issues and the état des lieux.

But we all really know that the most important part of moving any household is having enough boxes.

Funny, I just got around to unpacking the last of my Paris boxes in September. Something about those Parisian corrugated cartons made me so wistful. (Yeah, I know, it doesn't take much!)

To prepare for the move in Paris I had done the regular drill: go to the neighborhood store and beg for discarded boxes. My Shopi supermarket on rue de Sevres was a boon: they kept a constant stack of cartons up front. No begging necessary!

And when the shipment finally arrived in the U.S., oh, about four months later, I felt pangs of nostalgia when I saw all those French grocery-store boxes. The labels, the warnings, the descriptions on the boxes shouted "Paris!" to me.

So of course I photographed them.

"Fears the heat and the humidity." Sounds so poetic.

Joyeux Anniversaire, a la recherche du temps perdu.

2010-01-06T07:38:00.000-08:00

Today is my birthday. At least I think it is. That is, I think today is today. It all depends.

Yesterday morning I received a heartfelt "Happy Birthday!" on Facebook from a friend in New Zealand. I thought she had the day wrong, but sure enough, it was already January 6 in Auckland. I double-checked here, of course, because I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the International Date Line shenanigans. Likewise, this morning I received a "belated happy birthday" wish from a friend in Tokyo.   But... but... it's still my birthday where I am. So is it really my birthday?

See what I mean?

Straddling just the simple 6-hour time difference between the U.S. East Coast and Paris is challenge enough for for some folks.  It can cause Parisian phones to ring in the wee hours with calls from otherwise considerate American friends who counted backwards instead of forwards. Or did they count forwards instead of backwards? Never mind. But that is why I installed the nifty clock on my blog that tells the current time in Paris. And for an added twist, there is the fact that the US and France spring forward and fall back at different times, so that for a few weeks each year there is only a 5-hour time spread. Love that Daylight Saving; keeps me on my toes.

But it's nothing compared with mentally crossing the International Date Line.   I once asked an Australian reader of this blog what the time difference was between Sydney and Paris. His response: "I think it's, like, 27 hours." Whoaaaaa. Take that plan into orbit. But he is not alone. Take this excerpt from the Wikipedia entry on the International Date Line.

The International Date Line can cause confusion among airline travelers. The most troublesome situation usually occurs with short journeys from west to east. To travel from Tonga to Samoa by air, for example, takes approximately two hours but involves crossing the International Date Line, causing passengers to arrive the day before they left.

Whenever I try to keep the east-to-west, west-to-east notion straight, in my mind's eye I picture the globe slowly spinning at the opening of "As the World Turns."

I'm not sure this is a help. The show just got cancelled.

image via wikipedia

Just like Paris!

2010-01-03T06:33:00.000-08:00

Baby, it's cold outside! And the 3-bedroom farmhouse that I am renting in Virginia had a teensy little problem while I was away over Christmas. The furnace broke, and I won't bore you with the mechanical details but they're not pretty. Suffice it to say that I now find myself residing in the local Holiday Inn until the sweet adorable charming intelligent handsome heating contractors find the right part for the burner and restore toasty warmth to my below-freezing abode.

Reflecting on my 5 days of hotel-dwelling, I realized how Paris apartment living prepared me for this.

1. Space. Living in 26 square meters is No Big Deal. Granted, my Paris apartment was larger. But having lived in a relatively small space for years, this is almost second nature. I can pace around in my hotel room, talk on the phone, use the internet, and watch TV without getting antsy. Then I can exit quickly to forage for acceptable take-out food, do errands. Tres parisien.

2. Noisy neighbors. Ah, it's just like the good old times in Paris, where I knew exactly what my neighbors were up to. And when I cross paths with them in the hallway, being all grown-up, pretending not to acknowledge anything that I heard last night.

3. Hearing French on TV. Okay, this is a stretch. I'm watching HGTV on location in New Orleans and they are saying "parterre" "looks like Versaille" and "ooh la la magnifique." My ears perk up when I hear the TV host saying (no joke) "Polly-vous francais?" No, of course he wasn't referring to me -- he was attempting to speak French. Of course HGTV isn't quite the same caliber as Le Grand Journal. Or as much fun as those French home TV shows such as Recherche Apppartement ou Maison or C'est du Propre!

4. Riding the elevator. Yes, just like in Paris, I'm on the third floor and take the elevator to the lobby. Just like Paris, there is a lady on the ground floor who greets me and observes my comings and goings. The difference is that the hotel elevator is the size of some Parisian studettes.

5. Storage. A little closet with 8 hangers. Four bureau drawers. Just like Paris apartment living!

But there are significant differences between all-American Holiday Inn and living in a Parisian apartment. Unlike Parisian plumbing, the hotel shower is a dream. I could live in this shower.

And then, there's the ... the... the... hotel coffee.

At least they claim it's coffee.

Meilleurs Voeux

2009-12-26T17:25:00.000-08:00

Joyeux Noel, Bonne Annee, Happy Holidays to all and best wishes for 2010!

When I dust off the snow, I'll be back with my Top Ten Things I Can't Shake from Paris.

I promise.

A bientot!

When You Wish Upon a Star

2009-12-14T16:37:00.004-08:00

On this day four years ago, I was having a hard time making sense of what I would do next in my life. I had successfully finished the important project I'd been managing, so my job was sadly ending. The sale of our family house of 15 years was looming. My kids were away at school, and I didn't know where I was going to live next or what I was going to do when I got there. A relationship had imploded. All I could see metaphorically were a lot of doors closing, slamming, or gently clicking shut.

Quite honestly, 2005 had been a personal annis horibilis to beat the band. (And, trust me, some of the others had been doozies.)

December 14, 2005. I rattled around in the quirky lovable shingled Victorian cottage by the sea, a place where I'd been living for months while I readied my own house for sale. I had planned to buy this charming vintage cottage; it was a house that I had instantly fallen in love with, to the point of envisioning it filled with grandchildren in a few decades, a home to come home to. However, I'd recently gotten word that the deal to purchase the house wouldn't work. I was crushed. Drained. A zombie.

That evening I sank into the sofa, surrounded by darkness, staring into the orange flames of the wood-fire in the immense stone fireplace, contemplating nothing and everything.

Outside, the ink-blue night was still, dark, and clear. Eventually I climbed the creaking stairs and crawled under my down comforter, ready to be lulled to sleep by the distant sound of waves washing over Singing Beach.

I awoke a few hours later with a brilliant full moon shining through the window to the right. It was gazing straight at me, the beams falling on my pillow, poking me awake. I sat bolt upright and rubbed my eyes and took a good look up at the moon. A perfect orb, incandescent white, glowing high in the blue-black sky. I was spellbound.

Out of the corner of my left eye, through the window that looked out over the ocean, I caught a slight motion. A small speck of light had just fallen down over the Atlantic. Did I just see a satellite fall to the sea? A plane crash? I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. In that dark glassy sky, I saw another chip of light, sizzling like a spent firecracker down toward the horizon.

Shooting stars!

I was awestruck. A full moon beckoning in the south window, a meteor shower in the east window. Surely this had to be a sign! Well, okay, at least an inspiration. I watched the extravaganza for about a half hour, rapt. As that long unhappy year was drawing to a close, I finally was looking outward, beyond my own house, to elements bigger, brighter, higher.

I finally settled back to sleep with a smile, refreshed and peaceful.

And in the morning when I got up to fix my coffee, for once I didn't ruminate about my gloomy present or past. They seemed not to exist. I simply knew what my next step was, and that was to go to Paris.

Three months later, there I was, living in Paris. Invariably, people would ask, "What brought you to Paris?"

I couldn't exactly say, "It was a full moon and a falling star," now, could I?

Most often I would quip, "I think it was a 747, ha-ha."

But in some ways it was the moon and the stars, and a lifelong desire.

Sometimes looking out the window is all it takes.

photo credit: Examiner.com

Polly Goes to San Francisco

2009-11-29T19:02:00.000-08:00

In my never-ending quest in search of francophile life in the universe, this week Polly-Vous Francais is heading west, to San Francisco. I'm so accustomed to transatlantic jet-lag, it'll be fun (well, so to speak), to experience the transcontinental variety.

Mostly I'm looking forward to discovering the charms of the Bay Area and its many French cultural and culinary delights.

Suggestions? Favorites?

Oh, and if this is one of your suggestions -- sorry, I'm not biting.

Image via curbed.com

Dear Abby: Should I go to France?

2009-11-28T15:09:00.000-08:00

There's always a first time for everything. Today I wrote to Dear Abby.

No, no, no. I didn't ask her how to solve any of my dilemmas (what? me worry?) but to commend her for a spot-on response to a college student's quandary.

Dear Abby:
I'm a college freshman, majoring in French but taking other languages as well. I don't know what I want to do with my life, but I know that I love learning languages. My friend, "Lacey," has offered me the chance to stay with her family in France during our next summer break...

You can read the rest here (after the grandma's grooming query).

I'd been out of the Dear Abby habit for a long time, until recently when I subscribed to our local daily as an implusive gesture of solidarity for the print industry. (The recycling bin is taking a hit, though, as is my green-er social conscience.)

I whip through the news section (I've already read most of it online), and settle in on local events, comics, Eugenia Last's eerily accurate horoscopes, and then dear Dear Abby. Cover to cover, about four minutes. It takes me longer to walk down the hill to fetch it than to actually read the thing. So I do have a quandary:

Dear Abby:

Should I cancel my newspaper subscription?

Save the Polly Waffle

2009-11-27T18:46:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a news item comes across ye radar screene that has little to do with the general thrust of this blog. And such was the case today. I learned, to my utter dismay, that an Australian chocolate bar with the delicious name of "Polly Waffle" is about to be given the axe by the Nestle chocolate company.

Really. How dare they? Just in time for the holidays, and Polly gets a pink slip. So heartless. Honestly, corporate HQ, what were you thinking?

Polly Waffle has been around for 62 years, way longer than yours truly. Surely it's not age discrimination? In any case, the name is so... catchy! There is even a Facebook group to save the Polly Waffle.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I'm compiling my next post about the top ten things I still haven't adjusted to one year after my departure from Paris. Stay tuned.

Inky, Dinky Polly Vous

2009-11-11T15:30:00.002-08:00

In honor of Armistice Day -- Veterans' Day in the U.S. -- I've been thinking about Dough Boys, anciens combattants and old soldiers' drinking songs. Mademoiselle from Armentieres specifically. I'm sure I heard it while watching any number of old black and white movies about World War I, but never really retained much of the lyrics except the refrain, "Hinky-dinky parlez-vous." Which of course I used to think was... by George you've got it!

Now that I have found out what some of the lyrics really are, I think it best if the bulk of the bawdy lyrics remain mumbled, kind of beer-sloshed as in this clip.

Related posts:

Chez les Rougier

In Flanders Fields

Buy a Piece of Paris

2009-11-08T15:40:00.001-08:00

Only 46 shopping days until Christmas, mes amis! If you've been fretting over what tender je ne sais quoi to put under the tree for that special francophile on your list, I have an idea for you.

How about a piece of Paris?

On Monday, December 14, famed Parisian auction house Drouot will auction off over 300 iconic pieces of Paris. Entitled "Paris Mon Amour," the sale will feature classic Parisian elements: a Belle Epoque newspaper kiosque, a metro ticket-punch machine, a Second Empire vespasienne (the street urinals of yore and lore). Old city benches (so romantic!). Ancient photos.

But the pièce de résistance will be the sale of a 26-foot tall section of a wrought-iron spiral staircase from the Eiffel Tower. The 40-step staircase, one of the largest items ever on the block at Drouot, is expected to fetch between 60,000 and 80,000 euros.

As you might imagine, Paris nostalgia buffs are expected to turn out in droves for the event.

Bidding starts at 2 pm on December 14, Drouot Richelieu, 9 rue Drouot in the 9th arrondissement. Preview is Saturday December 12 from 11 am to 6 pm.

Oh... thank you for asking. Yes, I'd like the kiosque, not the vespasienne.

Images from wikipeda and Drouot.

Mutual Admiration Society Film Festival?

2009-11-04T05:48:00.000-08:00

Let's face it, folks. We really do love each other, the U.S. and France. Or at least we are endlessly fascinated with each other. And there's no sign of this mutual admiration's waning. Au contraire.

Here's a bit of culture news that caught my eye. Opening this week in New York is American filmmaker Frederick Wiseman's documentary of the ballet at the Palais Garnier. La Danse: the Paris Opera Ballet promises to be a fascinating glimpse behind the scenes at that elegant institution.

So why did I laugh when I read the review? It had nothing to do with Wiseman's film per se. There was just a bit of ironic timing. A cultural juxtaposition, the kind that always hits my funny bone.

This week at the Virginia Film Festival, French cineaste Claude Miller will be screening the American debut of Marching Band.

Both of these documentaries are appealing. I can't wait to see them. But it tickled me to realize that this week in film news, France sees American culture through the lens of two southern university marching bands, whereas America views French culture as quintessentially elegant ballet.

Anyway, I was thinking how fun it would be to screen those two movies together. Because, really, we do love each other, we French and Americans. Are we drawn to what we find most exotic in the other culture?

So my morning java-inspired idea began evolving. There are already a host of excellent French Film festivals in the US each year. And of course the Deauville American Film Festival in France. But how about creating an annual French/American film festival, to be held on both sides of the Atlantic? It would feature, side by side, French documentaries about the US and American documentaries about France. In France the screenings would no doubt be accompanied by débats philosophiques sprinkled with the phrase regards croisés. Maybe a flute of champagne. In America they would probably be accompanied by hot dogs and apple pie, plus brie and baguettes. Right?

Just an idea.

image from Virginia Film Festival

Shopping for American Groceries in France

2009-10-28T17:56:00.002-07:00

When I first moved to Paris, I scoffed at the notion of even being within sniffing distance of American food. Bah! Truth be told, it took a long while before I even deigned to go out for sushi or Italian food. I was in PARIS, for cripe's sake. I was there for the cuisine. I couldn't believe the tales of Americans flocking to McDo's for a Big Mac fix, or heading to The Real McCoy on rue de Grenelle in Paris to buy a bottle of maple syrup.

But then, after a year or so, life kind of... normalized. I disovered the occasional joys of hamburgers in Paradise: Paris. The best I've ever had.

I travelled to the States often enough to bring back suitcases filled with Red Rose tea, Clif bars, and various and sundry American food-craving fare for those cold autumn evenings when nothing else would do. Unlike some of my ex-pat friends, there were some food items that I never missed, though. Peanut butter, for example. Toll house cookies.

Recently I discovered a site which is a boon to residents of France who, in between feasting on foie gras or poulet fermier, simply have to have their PB&J or Tex-Mex chili or pumpkin pie: My American Market, an online grocery store for American food in France. So important this time of year, too, when you just gotta have that candy corn or cranberry sauce!

When I first heard about it, I assumed it was a start-up by some enterprising American expats in France. Mais non! It was launched a few months ago by Anne-Claire Bocage, a French woman who had spent a few years in the U.S. Upon returning to France, she had a few cravings of her own, and --voila! -- a business was born.

Intrigued, I contacted Anne-Claire to ask a few questions.

(Full disclosure: no goods, services or funds were paid for this article. I'm now living in the land of Kroger and Food Lion, so I've got all the American food I can handle...)
1. How did you come up with the idea? Was it just inspiration? Frustration?

My American Market’s adventure all started because of a ranch dressing craving (big things can happen because of cravings, so don’t rebuff them!).

Back living in France after several years in the States, I was dealing with a lot of cravings. Besides, I wanted to share with my entourage some American recipes with the right ingredients. I tried different options to get my favorite American treats and none were completely satisfying to me. Therefore I came up with this idea of a service that could satisfy most common US food cravings at anytime of the day or night.

2. Where do you get your ideas for products to offer? Do you have a suggestion box for Americans who are craving certain products?

I did an extensive market study before launching; I looked at what other European stores were offering. I also polled potential customers through an online survey. I am very grateful over 300 people took the time to respond. Now that the website is up and running, I am getting a better feel of what is popular. I also get a lot of product suggestions that I take into account for expanding my selection.

3. What are your most popular items?

Here are my top 10 bestsellers after operating for three months:

1. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese
2. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
3. Pepperidge Farm Cheddar Goldfish
4. A&W Root Beer
5. Little Becky’s Marshmallows
6. Aunt Jemima’s Cornbread Mix
7. Dr Pepper
8. Reese’s Pieces
9. Aunt Jemima Pancake Syrup
10. Jif Peanut Butter

4. Do you have many French customers, or are they mostly American? Other nationalities?

Well, I don’t check IDs when customers are placing an order! But I am getting a sense that I am mostly serving Americans, or French people who have lived in the States for several years. Sometimes when promoting my service, it has been a challenge to deal with negative stereotypes French people carry about American food and cuisine. But I consider this is one of my missions as an “épicerie américaine!” Read more about it on my blog.

5. What is the reaction of French people when you tell them about your business?

I often hear "Why on earth would you want to sell unhealthy American food when you live in a country with such sophisticated and savory cuisine?"

Well, don’t get me wrong: I love living in France and I am not complaining about the eating part either! Yet, I really enjoy American food for several main reasons:

- It reminds me of my “American home”
- I like the taste of it! Nothing can beat beef jerky as a snack to me. I know some of you would travel very far for a peanut butter cup. There are no substitutes here in grocery stores for cooking a decent pumpkin pie or spicing up your homemade chili.
- I love spreading American tastes. It makes me feel like I am contributing to fighting stereotypes or short-mindedness.

6. Are there any other services like yours in France?

Yes. There are a couple of stores in Paris that carry an equivalent selection of American food products. Yet, My American Market’s way of doing business is dramatically different.

First, it’s an online store. Not everyone in France lives in Paris! And even in Paris, it can be a hassle to get stuck in traffic, fight for a parking spot, carry heavy grocery bags around. It was important to me to offer a fast and convenient service for anyone to shop whenever the cravings get them and to have the products be delivered right to their door, wherever that front door might be located!

Second, I am building a business that is more than just a regular “Epicerie Américaine.” It is a place with a sense of community, the American way! I use Web 2.0 tools and create a platform with many possibilities to communicate, exchange, network, cooperate, play and have fun with other members of the American community and friends. I’d like everyone to take part in the process if they wish, so My American Market becomes everyone’s contribution. If anyone would like to get a better feel of what I am doing, please become fan of My American Market on Facebook.

7. Do you have an estimate of how many American expat households there are in France? [I know there are official numbers, and some unofficial numbers.] Or semi-American, i.e. an American/French couple.

It is very hard to know how many Americans are currently living in France. I estimate there are 100,000+ citizens: 50% in Paris and its suburb, 50% in the rest of France.

8. Any good customer quotes?

Here is a small selection of client testimonials that I have received:

"I just love My American Market! Since I can't go to the States that often, I now have a super solution for getting my Reese’s candies, non-Canadian pancake syrup, Pam cooking spray and whatever else I feel like at the moment. American airport customs love to tear apart suitcases for pancake syrup, so now I don't have to worry about whether they can get my suitcase closed again or not. So when I do go to the States, I can just concentrate on leaving room in my suitcases for things that won't melt, leak or get smashed. With such excellent service and fast delivery, I'm thrilled!" Jenny from Merville (31)

"I am an American (originally from the Colorado area) currently living in Marseille with my (French) wife and our 4 year old son. We moved here last summer. I am often in search of products here and have to keep asking my mom to send them, so this is great!" Sean from Nice (06)

"I am married to a French man and have been living in the French culture for 25 years. But it is still important for me to celebrate American holidays. Now I know where to shop for next Thanksgiving." Susan from Neuilly sur Seine (92)

9. Of course, this time of year is big for Americans and their food cravings. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Do you stock special seasonal items for the American holidays?
I'm thinking candy corn, cranberry sauce, canned pumpkin pie, mint jelly, candy canes, etc.

Of course, we do carry seasonal products and the Holiday season should be our busiest time of the year. Our Thanksgiving and Christmas products can be found in the seasonal products category.

In a parka do bun do?

2009-10-23T12:33:00.000-07:00

"In a parka do bun do, in a parka do bun doooo...."

Well, at least that's how I first understood the lyrics to "Dominique," the wildly popular song in the early 1960s. You remember, Dominique-nique-nique? Sung by the Singing Nun, aka Soeur Sourire, it was already a hit when she made her debut on the Ed Sullivan show.

My family owned the LP back in those school-girl days before I knew any French. So I used to spend hours curled up on the sofa listening to "Dominique" over and over, trying to decipher "onto shemay altude you, in a parka do bun do."

Then I found the lyrics printed on the album cover.

Dominique -nique -nique s'en allait tout simplement,
Routier, pauvre et chantant.
En tous chemins, en tous lieux,'
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu.

I must have worn a groove in the vinyl as I repeated the torture until not only could I match each written word to the sung French but -- at long last -- was actually able to repeat it.

It's still incredible to me to think that a French song about a saint could have topped the charts on American pop radio. Soeur Sourire eventually disappeared from view, and I despised the saccharin Debbie Reynolds film version of her.

I'd forgotten about her over the years.

Then on last Sunday's episode of Mad Men, what comes filtering out of Miss Farrell's apartment when she opens the door? Yup. Domnique -nique -nique.

And now in a parka do bun do is stuck in my brain.

Opinel Knives in the U.S.

2009-10-17T12:35:00.001-07:00

Opinel. For those who know it, the very name conjures up impromptu picnics in the French countryside. Relaxed on a blanket in the shade, using your folding Opinel knife to cut a slender wedge of brie or saucisson, slicing a piece of crisp apple or juicy pear. To me, anyway, an Opinel knife equals quintessential, classic France. Simple and perfect.

An Opinel was always a perfect inexpensive gift to bring home from France (tucked securely in checked luggage!) because, after all, Opinel knives aren't available in the U.S. Right?

Wrong! Opinel knives are now sold online through Opiknife.com. Every kind of Opinel imaginable, it seems, from the blunter Opinel Jr. to more serious stainless steel folding knives to last a lifetime.

I spoke with Frederic, the owner/distributor of Opinel USA. "I had my first knife when I was about ten," he said. "It seems most Americans don't give their kids knives to learn how to use them any more." We agreed that this was a shame: the joys of whittling and proper knife usage seem to be largely ignored. On the other hand, maybe I just haven't met the right American kids. Maybe they do still teach proper knife usage in the Boy Scouts?

But here's the extra-cool part, and the reason that I discovered Opinel in America in the first place. Opinel France has made limited edition Lafayette-Hermione folding knives from the excess wood of the reconstruction of Lafayette's boat l'Hermione. And the handle is stamped with the name. Opinel is donating a percentage of the proceeds to helping l'Hermione make her voyage to the east coast of the U.S. in 2012.

Blog Action Day 2009

2009-10-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

Today is Global Blog Action Day. When I was first asked to participate, I knew immediately what I wanted to write about.

If you have an hour and a half to spare for the planet, I highly recommend French photographer and environmentalist Yann Arthus-Bertrand's exquisite 90-minute documentary Home, produced by Luc Besson. The photography is breathtaking and the message is compelling. Earth is our fragile island home -- the only home we have. Our challenges in taking care of our home today and in the future are complex.

Arthus-Bertrand, perhaps best known for his documentary and book Earth from Above (La Terre vue du ciel) has given up author's rights to Home so that all may see it on the web. You'll be glad you did.

For more information check out his website GoodPlanet.

Inside the Embassies of Paris

2009-10-12T04:54:00.002-07:00

Paris, as a capital city, is host to hundreds of embassies, many in sumptuous palaces. But the grand architecture we now associate with the missions of the foreign countries wasn't always the case.

During the Ancien Regime, most foreign emissaries to Paris were housed wherever appropriate lodging could be found -- and often according to the value of their good graces to the Court and a complex hierarchy of precedence.

But in the 19th century, with increased international relations, came the necessity of finding permanent dwellings for these foreign ministries. The opportunity for housing befitting a nation presented itself in the wake of the French Revolution. Many grand mansions of the aristocracy, now vacant, were acquired for the diplomatic missions.

Each of these beautiful hôtels in the "noble faubourgs" of Saint Germain and Saint-Honoré, and the rococo palaces near the Parc Monceau, is now a small island of homeland of the country it represents. As such, they are not normally open to the general public (although a few might fling open their doors briefly on les Journees du Patrimoine.)

We thus too seldom have a chance to view their lush, gilt interiors, their art treasures and ornate carved panelling. These chancelleries and embassies remain as mysterious to us as the intricate codes of diplomacy.

Now we have the good fortune -- at least in book form -- to peek inside for the first time. In Ambassades à Paris, author and historian Elisabeth Martin de Clausonne and photographer Hermine Cleret take us inside for a tour of these magnificent buildings. Text is in French, but the photos speak for themselves.

"French Taxes" Phishing Scam

2009-10-08T17:10:00.000-07:00

I'm such a sucker when it comes to authority. Especially when the authority is French and I'm not sure if I've done something wrong. I wilt with guilt, while hastily trying to figure out how to excuse/charm my way out of it.

But today, in my email inbox was a new challenge. A notice from impots.gouv.fr informing me that I was eligible for a tax rebate.

Après les derniers calculs annuels de l'exercice de votre activité, nous avons déterminé que vous êtes admissible à recevoir un remboursement d'impôt de € 178,80.

S'il vous plaît soumettre la demande de remboursement d'impôt et nous permettre de 10 jours ouvrables pour le traitement.

Pour accéder au formulaire pour votre remboursement d'impôt, cliquez ici

Un remboursement peut être retardé pour diverses raisons. Par exemple la soumission des dossiers non valides ou inscrivez après la date limite.

I ran through my mental rolodex of taxes duly paid. Taxe d'habitation? Check. Redevance audiovisuelle? Check. Taxe... well, check, check, and check. But something didn't ring right -- ca ne clochait pas. I had never given the Fisc my blog email address.

So I google-checked it, and sure enough, on the Fisc website there is a current warning of a phishing scam.

Just so you know.

Polly Goes to Paris

2009-10-04T18:59:00.000-07:00

Fabric is so cool. Have I mentioned my love affair with fabric? Oh, yes I have.

So I was naturally ,er, ego-pleased to see this sweet Paris-icon fabric called "Polly Goes to Paris." Zee poodles! Zee Eiffel Tower! Zee bicyclettes! Zee cafes!

A-do-rable!

Paris Notes

2009-09-25T17:40:00.000-07:00

It is with great sadness that I learned today that Paris Notes, a venerable insider's guide to the BEST of everything Paris, is ceasing publication. For so many years before I lived in Paris, it was my umbilical cord to France when I was longing to live there; and it was a source of irreplaceable information and tips even when I was a denizen of the City of Light.

Editor Mark Eversman reports:

During the past 17 years it has been our distinct privilege to provide you with passionate, reliable, quality Paris information. We've visited every corner of the city, dined in hundreds of restaurants, checked out countless hotel rooms, had more than a few coffees in a multitude of cafés, ogled art and artifacts in every single museum in the city, walked hundreds of blister-prone miles of Paris sidewalks, interviewed luminaries and lightweights alike, endured weather of all extremes, and kept a daily vigil for even the smallest shred of information that would be of interest to you, the Paris Notes reader.

Good news for those who love Paris is that the last 50 issues of Paris Notes are now available for free to read and save -- and savor. Should be bound -- enshrined -- in book form, in my estimation.

When a door is shut, a window is opened, I guess, So fabulous France Today magazine has agreed to meet the needs of current Paris Notes subscribers for the remainder of their subscriptions.

Happy reading to all, and best wishes for future endeavors to all who contributed to almost two decades of such a wonderful publication.

Curious (non) connections?

2009-09-22T19:07:00.000-07:00

This photo just appeared in the Huffington Post's "Funniest Protest Signs of 2009," which admittedly has some real doozies. Check 'em out.

But curiously, the HuffPo caption for the photo was "Polly Vous Francais?"

Trust me, HuffPo, I didn't submit that.

Here, have some Chocolate

2009-09-19T05:23:00.003-07:00

"Tell us that chocolate story, Mommy!" my kids would beg when they were little. "Pleeez?!"

So I would once again tell them about visiting my friend Isa in France. At about 5 pm, when we were in initial preparation for dinner, her kids were hanging out in the kitchen. They started pulling grapes from the fruit basket and popping them in their mouths. Isa reprimanded them. "Stop eating all that fruit. You'll ruin your appetite. Here, have some chocolate instead." She handed them a tablette of dark chocolate. They each took a square or two.

At each telling, my kids would giggle anew with delight; and that anecdote became a staple in the family repertoire of Why We Like France: chocolate instead of fruit before dinner??!!

When I lived in Paris, I lost any sweet tooth I may have had. Lunches or dinners were rarely followed by dessert, but I almost always had a little espresso and a square of dark chocolate. I'm not much of a chocolate connoisseur, but I found that even the thin Nestle or Cote d'Or square were silky and had just enough bite to make them interesting.

Here in the US, it's been a challenge to find the proper chocolate replacement. Lindt hasn't done the trick. I can't remember all the varieties I've tried, but I have thrown out many big bars of unacceptable chocolate. It's as if the manufacturers think that it has to be bitter or sweet. Besides, the bars are all too thick for my taste.

Yesterday at the local gourmet foods grocery store, at long last I found Ghiradelli chocolate in individually-wrapped thin squares. Yesss! I was thinking. The perfect dessert. I was recapturing, I hoped, a bit of Parisian life.

Then, at the check-out. The courteous cashier rang up the salmon, the cous-cous, the wine, the grapes. She held the chocolate out to me. "Did you want to keep the candy in your handbag, ma'am?"

Update: this photo (via Nestle) is of the chocolate that kept me happy in Paris. Chocolate with bits of cocoa bean. That's not candy, it's cuisine!

What French Women Know, Part 2

2009-09-16T16:37:00.001-07:00

What do you get when you cross a francophile and a bibliophile?

This:

A lot of great books have been written by women attempting to explain the French mystique. These are just the ones that I own, that I could find quickly. They are piled up in no particular order. All but one written by non-French women. All worth a read. (Yes, that is Olivia deHavilland's book you see in the middle. Written in the 1950s and still timely!)

It's not an exhaustive collection; and feel free to suggest your favorites if not included in the photo. Off the top of my head, most notably missing are books I've lent to friends, such as Petite Anglaise, Paris Hangover, and everything by Diane Johnson.

Making any list is terrible because there will be unforgivable omissions. I humbly apologize in advance (like fraulein Maria kissing the ground before the nuns walk by).

Please go out to your local bookstore or library or favorite online book source, and enjoy these.

As I said, I'm a francophile and a bibliophile. I wanted to pay tribute to an incredible posse of writers describing what French women know.

All that glitters isn't goldfish. Or is it?

2009-09-11T11:36:00.006-07:00

It's time for a break in the action. Definitely.

And as long as I'm living my life in a fishbowl these days, I figured it was about time to have a Special Someone in my life to share it with. My last Special Someone, alas, is still in Paris, hanging out with a woman named Sofia.

And since companionship-seeking is not the kind of activity I feel comfortable doing on line, I'm heading to town for some action.

Yup, I'm a-goin' to the pet store to buy me a goldfish.

You may remember my tales of Lou-Lou in Paris. I sadly bid her adieu when she was adopted during my final days in Paris by some lovely people. Afterward they emailed me periodic updates as to her health and general happiness. We've lost touch a bit, though. I don't know how Lou-Lou is these days. Or if Lou-Lou is these days.

But to paraphrase Camus, il faut imaginer Lou-Lou heureux.

Poisson rouge# 1 was Matisse. Poisson rouge #2 was Lou-Lou (named for Louise de Vilmorin).

Poisson rouge # 3 is yet to be named, and I am taking suggestions.

What French Women Know: Part One

2009-09-06T15:01:00.005-07:00

Wow. French epistolary literature is beginning a new era. I bring you the first chapter: What French Women Know.
_______________________

August 14, 2009

Dear Polly,

I finally found you! I'm an author with a new book coming out next month about French women ("What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind"). A few years ago, while I was writing the book and talking to countless French women, someone sent me a copy of a blog post about flirting in France. It was a personal anecdote. The post didn't have a source. I thought it was a perfect representation of a fleeting moment of French flirtation (experienced by an American), and I quoted it in my manuscript. When it got time for serious copy-editing, no one (not me, not my editor) could find the source of the anecdote, and it was deemed officially off-line. (This is a windy road getting to my point...bear w/me!) Then just last month I was in Paris, met [name of Parisian blogger], she sent me a post she'd written about lingerie, which had a reference to a piece you'd written, which lead me to your blog, which led me to... the anecdote above.

All this to say, first, bonjour. Am very glad to have finally "met/found" you. I'd love to send you a galley of my new book, and also tip my hat to you in my blog. I finally got a new web site up (www.whatfrenchwomenknow.com) which will soon have a blog, though -- full disclosure -- I'm not much of a blogger. It will probably be more random/impressionistic than journal-ish. Still, I'll find a place to salute you.

If you sent me your snail mail address, I'll make sure you get a galley asap. In the meantime, hope you're doing well wherever you are. Perhaps one day our paths will cross in France.

Best,

Debra (Ollivier)

Same day, reply. Blogger fawning over published author:

Hi Debra!

So good to hear from you. Your first book was kind of a bible of mine, so I may be a little biased when I read the next one. I think you won't mind... Sorry I never wrote you any fan mail -- I may have mentioned it in the blog.

I would love to read a galley proof of your book. So happy you have another one soon to be published. [here I inserted my snail mail address].

And let me know if you need any help with your blog. They're not obvious, and I spent my first two years in Paris going from zero to sixty on the blog learning-curve. At least I now have an extra transferable skill.

Keep in touch.

Best,
Polly

A full two weeks later. Too late to correct galleys? Bound book (not galleys) received chez moi August 27, with concomitant outraged What?! You Forgot to Credit my Blog!? post published. After twenty-four hours attempting to calm my rattled nerves, I wrote this:

August 28, 2009:

Dear Victoria [publicist at G.P. Putnam; cc'd to Debra Ollivier]

Yesterday I received an advance copy of "What French Women Know," published by G.P. Putnam and with an anticipated sale date of September 3, 2009.

And while I was pleased to start reading it and found the book had great merit, I was startled and upset to find that a long passage of my original work was printed therein without permission or attribution. I am the proprietor of all copyright in a literary/artistic work entitled "Polly-Vous Francais?" http://pollyvousfrancais.blogspot.com, which I began writing in May 2006.

The text on pages 25-26 of "What French Women Know" is identical to my copyrighted work. Since permission to use my work was not granted it therefore legally constitutes infringement of my rights.

In normal circumstances, an infringement of copyrighted material would bring demand that you immediately do one or more of the following.
1. remove all infringing content and notify me in writing that you have done so;
2. credit all infringing content to myself in a manner to be deemed appropriate;
3. immediately cease the use and distribution of copyrighted material;
4. undertake in writing to desist from using any of my copyrighted Work in future without prior written authority from me.

Not being litigious by nature, however, I would prefer as a first step to discuss with you and the editorial department at G.P. Putnam some positive and appropriate way to correct this ethical and legal wrong.

I await to hear from you at your earliest convenience, but by no later than close of business on Tuesday September 1, 2009.

Yours truly,

[Polly etc.]

Received Tuesday evening, September 1

Dear [Polly-Vous Francais]

I received your e-mail last Friday, August 28. It was my intention from the start to fully credit the passage that I used from your blog; as you know, I was unsuccessful at locating your blog in order to specifically attribute the passage at the time I was writing the book. I am pleased that I now have the opportunity to do so.

I have spoken with my publisher and they will include the name of your blog in future reprints of my book as well as in the paperback edition. So please let me know how you would like your blog credited; I will then pass that information on to my publisher. Thanks very much.

Sincerely,

Debra Ollivier
________________________________________

Hmm. Of course, reprints and paperback rights are an interesting offer, assuming the book gets to that point. But what about the current audio-book versions, e-book versions, and foreign rights, such as China? Methinks we need to reconsider.

I've been so touched that friends, colleagues, and peers -- including my wonderful readers -- have sent kind words of support. Some have sent reviews to Amazon mentioning the copyright flap. Curiously, all of those reviews seem to have been yanked by unknown powers. Keep trying!

Meanwhile I find myself in a bizarre David vs. Goliath pseudo-battle that I never wanted or anticipated.

My question is now: am I sabotaging my own efforts to some day get my own book published if I make a stink out of this? If so, that's my loss, I guess. But I believe it's the right thing to do.

I'm no Donna Quixote, but I just call it as I see it.

Top Ten Expat Blogs about Paris

2009-09-05T09:13:00.003-07:00

This brightened my day! This week Polly-Vous Francais was named one of the top ten expat blogs about Paris in Arthur Frommer's online Budget Travel.

Budget Travel has always been one of my favorite resources. Now it is my number one!

Obsessed about Paris? Um, actually, I guess I am.

Un grand merci to Budget Travel -- and kudos to all on the list. There are so many great Paris blogs.

Please don't pick the flowers

2009-09-02T07:24:00.005-07:00

In my recent peregrinations on the East Coast of the U.S., I came across this sign.

It struck me as funny. Because in the multitudes of delightful flowering gardens both public and private in Paris, I never saw signs admonishing passersby not to pick flowers. I guess it's simply understood: if the beauty of the landscape is there for all to admire, you just don't snap off a blossom to take home for your personal use.

Which brings me to a delicate confession. Perhaps an analogy? Or just a story.

A few years ago a Certain College Student Who Shall Remain Nameless had come home to Paris on summer break, with one of his pals from school. One morning, after the gents had spent the previous evening acquainting themselves with Parisian nightlife, I found near their sleeping quarters an exquisite, huge rose. Pale salmon, petals edged with deep pink. A prizewinning bloom.

When they finally awoke, I asked about the rose.

"Um, I don't remember exactly where we got it," said my darling miscreant. "I think it was some garden near the Eiffel Tower."

Aghast. I was aghast. But I held my composure. "Sweetie, I said, "there are so many gorgeous flowers growing all over Paris. No one picks the flowers. It's just not done."

"But it was in a spot where no one would really notice," he said. "I didn't think anyone would mind. It was just one flower, and it smelled great!"

"I know," I replied. "But that's not the point. I don't even need to say the classic 'if everyone did this' what the consequences would be. The point is that someone else -- whether a professional gardener or some little old lady -- spent a lot of time cultivating that rose. It belongs to that person, who lovingly grew that flower so that the the rest of the world could enjoy it."

"So," I concluded my sermon, "I know you won't ever EVER do this again. But if some time you lose your senses and commit such an egregious mistake again, please do me one favor."

"Okay," he said. He seemed genuinely contrite.

"Please promise me that if someone ever catches you in the unforgivable act of snatching a flower from a garden, you'll make up a really convincing Parisian-style story. Fabricate a clever story and tell them you simply had to have it to win the heart of a beautiful girl you were in love with. Anything. Just don't try to defend your right to take a flower because you thought no one would notice or care."

I turned and walked away to fix some coffee, shaking my head at how much I'd learned in Paris.

What!? You Forgot to Credit My Blog!?

2009-08-27T12:59:00.005-07:00

Dearest, darlingest, G.P. Putnam,

Right now I am so upset that my hands are shaking. My mind is racing, my heart is pounding. I can hardly type.

On the one hand, I am flattered, G.P.! Flattered that Debra Ollivier chose to excerpt my blog in her soon-to-be published-by-you book What French Women Know. On the other hand I am having a heck of a time calming myself down. Pacing. Rattled. Why? You may have guessed. She didn't attribute a full page of well-crafted prose to me.

Nope, she instead simply said "Take this typical blog posted by an American woman in a Parisian grocery store," then proceeded to quote one of my most popular blog posts on French Flirting.

How popular is that post, you ask? Excellent question, G.P. Putnam. It is very, very popular. You know how to Google, don't you, G.P.? Try googling the phrase "French Flirting" and see what pops up first. Not merely on the first page of Google hits, but THE number one. Why, goodness me, that's the very post she used in her book. Look, look, G.P.!

A bit of history. A few weeks ago I was flattered to receive an email from Debra Ollivier, asking me to review a galley proof of her book, and to apologize for inadvertently failing to attribute a quote from my blog. "At last I found you!" she said, with a drawn-out story about how it had been too difficult to track down and credit the source. Neither she nor her editor (your editor) had been able to find me! Pourtant, G.P. Putnam, I am no shrinking violet. No Writing Wallflower! Polly-Vous Francais is anything but anonymous.

At the time I assumed that she had perhaps made a vague reference to one of many insightful posts on my blog. Debra promised to "make up for it" by mentioning me in her blog. (Naive moi, I even responded by offering to HELP her with her blog. You know, we writers lending a hand to each other and all. Ha!)

O excuse me, G.P. Putnam, but Debra's blog gets how many hits? And tell me, G.P., is that how publishers and authors make amends these days for failing to give proper credit to a source? By a follow-up mention in their blog? (FWIW, G.P. Putnam, my blog gets a quarter of a million page pageloads annually.)

And here is my quandary, G. P. Putnam. As soon as FedEx delivered the book today, I kicked off my shoes, got my reading glasses, and guiltily ignored the pressing need to send out more job applications. I wanted to dive right into the book; I knew it would be a tour de force. I had actually forgotten about the pesky attribution issue Debra had mentioned weeks earlier. "Hmm, this book is really, really good," I was thinking to myself as I read. "So intelligent. So well written." Then I reached page 25, and saw the quoted text. "Oh goodie, this is me!" was my first reaction. Yes, she had quoted it properly, precisely. The section of my blog post (the original is here) continued on page 26, taking up a full page of her book. "Wee! She likes me!" I first thought, glowing with pride. I continued reading for a bit, but a nasty feeling started creeping over me. Wait a sec. Wait a sec. This isn't RIGHT!

And that, G.P. Putnam, is when I started shaking in anger. This wasn't just a little blurb. It was a full page! Dear, dear, G. P., I think you must have copy editors who know how to check quoted text by inserting it into a Google search and seeing what pops up. And then to give FULL CREDIT to the writer. Don't you?

Alors, now what, G.P. Putnam? Do I keep blogging away, unpaid, my work unattributed in your book? Do I jump up and down and scream and say "How about me? How about MY writing?" for a while? Do I point out the little copyright sign at the bottom of my blog and start calling dial-a-lawyer?

I don't know.

But I'm not going to take this lying down.

The Liberation of Paris

2009-08-25T00:52:00.007-07:00

Today marks the 65th anniversary of the Liberation of Paris.

All around Paris there are daily reminders of the Liberation, such as this plaque. Read more here.

Starting at 4:45 pm today there will be an official ceremony at the Hotel de Ville in Paris, including une Evocation Historique en 5 Actes.

Additionally, a smaller ceremony at the Mairie of the 7e arrondissement will take place at noon. Rachida Dati, other elected officials, and Anciens combattants will commemorate the anniversary. 116 rue de Grenelle.

If you are not in Paris, but have a half hour to spare, do yourself a favor and watch this documentary, filmed in secret during those weeks in August -- from the first insurrections in mid-August to the victory parade with the 2nd French Armored and 4th US Division. It includes General De Gaulle's famous "Paris brisé! Paris martyrisé! Mais Paris libéré!" speech. It's all in French, but you'll understand.

Click here to watch the film.

Paris in August is ...

2009-08-17T05:23:00.003-07:00

Paris in August. Paris au mois d'août.

It is decidedly not like the other eleven months.

What do you think of Paris in August?

Charles Aznavour had his opinion.

There are juillettistes who prefer to take vacation in July. And aoûtiens who prefer to be away in August. I've offered a few reflections of my own from time to time. Peacefulness. Parking. Men. In no particular order. And don't get me started on the OO vs. OOT pronunciation.

But being ever so open-minded, I value others' opinions. So, the Polly-Vous Francais Homegrown INSEE/Gallup Poll is asking you to fill in the blank.

Paris in August is _________________________.

Paris Trees

2009-08-14T17:34:00.003-07:00

I pine for Paris all the time. But nothing makes me miss Paris more than a nice long chat with Mary Blake on Skype. We gossip, we laugh, we share secrets (heh heh). We critique and compliment. She's in her atelier in Montmartre, her cat Lucie climbing across the computer keyboard. Her cobblestone courtyard outside the door. Sacre Coeur just up the hill. I'm in Virginia. Well, I'm in Virginia. Trees, hills, deer, fireflies: verdant bucolic splendor.

After an hour or so of talking at each other's screen faces (wearing the same reading glasses from Pylones, it turns out), when we hang up I'm always good for a 15-minute self-pity sobfest. I love my life here, but I want to be in Paris!

Yes, I have lush greenery, but Mary Blake also has trees. Her most recent works focus on the trees of Paris. Check out her entire blog, Painting Paris. Her trees are sheer poetry.

Image: copyright Mary Blake 2009.