Love a la francaise

Chapter One: Polly Platt's new book, Love à la française


I want to be among the first to proudly announce the upcoming publication of Polly Platt's new book, Love à la française. Here is the review from Amazon.com:

"In her best-selling books French or Foe? and Savoir Flair!, Polly Platt handed foreigners the keys to delighting in a visit to France and handling encounters with the French. In Love à la française, she delves into the intimate lives of Anglo-Saxons who actually lived the dream and moved to Paris -- for good, for better or worse -- as wives of French men. Why? To live in the city that celebrates women, where they could discover the meaning of being women, and being completely themselves, whoever they might turn out to be. But French men with their thousand-year experience in enchanting French women are not always in tune with Anglo-Saxons and vice versa. Why do some American women in Paris fail while others bloom and thrive? And how do happy transplants manage their success? After dozens of interviews and in-depth case studies, Polly Platt reveals the secrets of Love à la française."


Chapter Two: Why I am not reviewing the book myself.


About a dozen years ago, when I was working at The French Library in Boston, an author came to give a talk about her recent book, French or Foe? I was curious, not only from the title, but because her name was also Polly: Polly Platt. I sat in the back of the crowded room, spellbound. So many undecipherable French incidents from my past suddenly became clear to me as she explained la French attitude.

As I listened, the mystery of a lifetime of French misunderstandings that had left me perplexed, dumbfounded, frustrated, but determined, was being unraveled. Explained lovingly by an American in Paris who had figured it out. She was elegant, refined, and understood the French. I had a new heroine.


I introduced myself after her talk, starting with the "Polly" connection. As it turned out, we had some family friends in common. One thing led to another, and she kindly offered, "Do look me up if you ever come to Paris."


The next year, when on a mother-daughter jaunt to Paris with 10-year-old Miss Bee, I did in fact give Polly a call. She graciously invited us for tea, with the caveat that she had to do some errands in the neighborhood first. "Feel free to follow along," she encouraged. What an opportunity, to experience the famous Polly Platt in action, using her tried-and-true methods for getting along well with the French! I trailed along with her as she made her neighborhood rounds from shop to shop for errands. She asked the owner of the papeterie his advice for mailing a package. "Do you think it needs string?' she queried, whereupon the owner and all the customers in the shop weighed in with their opinions. I was awestruck. Here I was traipsing through Paris with the doyenne of French-American cross-cultural learning! An NPR crew had just interviewed her a month earlier doing the same drill: following Polly Platt's daily routine.


Later that afternoon, back at their apartment for tea, Polly's most wonderful husband Ande spent an hour and a half charming my daughter, making her feel as though she were a regal princess instead of an awkward pre-teen. We simply floated out of the apartment.

Polly and I had kept in touch vaguely over the years since then, but eventually I lost track of her address. Then when I made the move to Paris I sent her an email saying I hoped we could get together. Friendship rekindled, and it turned out we were neighbors. I was heartbroken to learn that wonderful Ande had recently died, but heartened to know that Polly was "bien entourée" with friends and family in France.

When she casually mentioned that she needed help with updating the next edition of Savoir Flair! I volunteered readily, mostly because I love to proofread and edit copy, and I was eager to help. But also because I knew she had often relied on dear Ande for his critical eye and editorial input. As it turns out she was also in the middle of writing her next book, called Love à la française, a look at the joys and challenges experienced by American women married to French men. The next thing I knew we had agreed that I would help her edit that manuscript as well. And what a labor of "Love." I edited with fever and fervor through the penultimate drafts.


I know the book far too intimately to be objective. It is a delight and an eye-opener, though. Trust me.


Chapter Three: Love at your Doorstep

So, with utmost bias, admiration, and tender affection, I heartily recommend that men and women alike snatch a copy of Love à la française when it hits the bookstore shelves on July 1. There is so much to discover between its covers about love, relationships, and French women, in Polly Platt's beloved France.

Polly-Who Francais?

A weird thing happened the other day during my apartment sale. A dozen or so strangers and friends were milling around; the atmosphere was convivial. They asked how the move was going, my reactions to leaving Paris and returning to the states; and in turn I asked what brought them to Paris, how long they planned to stay. It all sparked some lively conversations.

Lots of comings and goings. In the midst of it all, one unknown fellow turned and asked me obliquely, "Soooo, is Polly Platt moving back to the US too?" Puzzled by his Q, I didn't quite know how to give the A.

"Er... well, no, I don't think so," I shrugged. "She still has a pied-à-terre in Paris, and lives in the South of France the rest of the time."

Unh-hmmmm, he nodded, lips pursed, eyebrows slightly raised.

After the crowds left, I kept mulling his odd question and reaction. Did he think Polly Platt and I were related or something? Or (a lightbulb pops!) did he think that I was in reality THE French-or-Foe Polly Platt masquerading under the nom de plume of Polly-Vous Français?

Wow. A heady thought. I would adore being as wonderful as Polly Platt. There are many American women writing in Paris whose lives I envy deeply. I have often wanted to live in their skins -- to be them instead of me: Patricia Wells, Mary Blume, and Polly Platt, to name but three. They have well-respected careers as serious journalists. I'm just a piker blogger.

Are Polly Platt and I the only two Pollys in Paris? I doubt it.

Are we friends and colleagues? Yes, most definitely.

I know of at least one other Parisian Polly: the famous bar, Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo?

Now I wonder if that's partially a rhetorical question.

Polly Platt: in Memoriam

Polly Platt, August 2007, at her house in the Dordogne

Francophiles around the world will be saddened to learn that Polly Platt died on December 26 in Vienna.

It is a huge loss to the world and a tremendous personal loss. She was a dear friend and colleague, a mentor.

How can it be? I just had dinner with her before leaving Paris, with promises to see one another when I returned.

In true Polly kindness and enthusiasm, she wrote me to find out how I was adapting to the US, and to report back on the "I Married a Frenchman" event at the American Library early last month.

Hi Polly,

How have you landed? ... Really a shame you weren't at the library two nights ago. Never had such an enthusiastic crowd -- they choked the place, so many they were out in the hall. I had the luck to be the last of the four panelists to talk -- so the audience was all warmed up ready to go and I had the freedom to do what I wanted ... and they loved it. Amazing. It would have been good for your blog -- the way dozens of them came up to me afterwards and thanked me for coming. Really satisfying. Amazing.

It's dark and drizzly in Paris but Paris is Paris.

Do let know how you are.`
love, love, P

We always had schoolgirl fun when we got together, whether at her favorite Vietnamese restaurant in the 7e or at her beloved farmhouse in the Dordogne.

I will miss her lilting voice, her passion for all things French, her witty and wise inspiration, her warm and loyal friendship.

French Flirting

My friend Polly Platt, author of French or Foe and Savoir Flair, is soon to publish a third book on l'Amour a la Francaise. "Any thoughts?" she asked me. Although I'm a Polly too, I know precious little about "love" in France, I told her. I've only been here since March. But as a relative newcomer to Paris I have noticed how the preamble works.

The flirting -- it's everywhere!

One observation, initially, is that in France all flirtation skills get honed and ready for practice on a daily basis. Until last spring I had been living in frosty old New England for almost 30 years and not at all accustomed to it. But somehow being in France, if one is at all adept at joining the esprit of the repartee, the flirtation takes place.

One simple moment. Last month at the Carrefour at Auteuil, in the checkout lane for home delivery, in front of me was a tall, ruggedly handsome man, clearly just back from vacation. He was wearing Bermudas and topsiders, a polo shirt and a great tan. Tousled hair. I was doing my own "check out" by trying to determine his domestic status by analyzing what he was buying (a great game in any case). We were jostling and bumping a bit because of bulky items in our respective carts. Anyway, I did eventually notice a wedding ring on his finger, so he was off-limits, officially, at any rate. However, when it was my turn to go to from the cashier to the livraison a domicile desk, the clerk said, "What else can we do for you, madame? Vous etes avec le monsieur, n'est-ce pas?"

I replied, with my best stage sigh and engaging smile, "Non, hélas!"

Mr. Tousled Hair was flattered and amused, and gave me a glittering glance and complicitous nod as he headed out the door.

It was a great little moment of connecting. (I would NEVER have done that in puritanical Massachusetts, especially not as a divorced woman. Bad, bad, bad.) I guess part of it is that in France it feels as though it's your duty to show appreciation of beauty or something pleasing.

Another little moment: One Sunday after church at the American Cathedral a small group (4 women, one man) decided to have lunch. As we were exiting the church building, the sexton gave us beautiful flowers left over from a Saturday wedding. When we entered the cafe on avenue George V, the waiter asked what the flowers were for (we all had identical bouquets of antique roses). Quick to rise to the opportunity, I quipped. "Aujourd'hui on les offrait aux plus belles femmes du quartier." (They were giving them to the prettiest ladies in the neighborhood.) The handsome waiter, just as quick in his French flirtation skills, replied with a smile, "Ils n'avaient pas tort!"

Paris just brings this out in people. And this is only the lighthearted banter. There is, for those who can handle it, a little teasing that goes on that creates a positive (magnetic?) tension between men and women. It leaves the door wide open for the next step and the next step.

Moment number 3. I arrived for a business meeting in the entrance to a gorgeous Haussmanien building. One attractive Parisian businessman whom I'd met previously was there already, and he greeted me and we chatted aimiably in the grand courtyard. A beautiful setting for any encounter. After about 15 minutes when my French colleague hadn't shown up yet, Mr. Big Business and I decided it was best to give her a call. He teasingly said to her into the phone, "Yes, Polly and I have been here for a while, but I won't tell you what we've been up to." I giggled (not very French?) and maybe blushed. Hanging up, he gave me one of those very French looks and offered a coy apology, saying, "Alors, I hope I didn't shock you?"

"Mais non, I was actually flattered..." I warbled.

(Is it really me saying things like this? Polly-who-stammers-at-the-slightest-crush? Where do these words come from? Is it because I'm speaking another language? Or is it just Paris?)

So, ladies and gentlemen, the next step is --- ??

My guess is that 99% of the time the "next step" doesn't take place. But then at least everyone continues on their day, slightly more charged than before.

Polly's Summer Vacation

Alors, it's almost August 1, and you know what that means. Time for a petit break in the action. Not that I'm departing to loll around the Riviera reading Gala and Paris Match. Vacation is a relative term.

I'll be back in the saddle posting again in a week or so. But so that no one goes into Polly-Vous Francais withdrawal (how I delude myself!) here are a few oldies from the past year that you might enjoy re-reading. Or not.

1. Why did the chicken cross the road?

2. Have you ever eaten anything so disgusting-looking but delicious?

3. Jer vay pawlez fransayz cawm sah.

4. Because it really did change my life.

5. Getting my teeth cleaned in Paris. No sedation necessary!

6. The shrieks from my apartment were innocent... really.

7. Classic French footwear: espadrilles!

8. French fashion advice from men.

9. An incredible place to stay on the Loire Valley... and the most incredible coincidence of my life, so far.

10. Fun times at the Marche aux Puces. My stats tell me that there's a, um, um, community out there that really digs these gals. Who knew?

11. We're still working on the book. Sorta.

12. I am kind about all other varieties of birds. Not pigeons.

13. Love a la Francaise. How I miss Polly Platt. Every day.

14. Do you remember Fractured French?

15. Will anyone ever stop speculating about bidets?

16. I'm still hoping for French movies subtitled in English in Paris.

17. As you read this blog you're reading the results of what I did with my French major.

18. And despite the French major and an M.A., I still goof up, royally.

19. I think that's enough, don't you? If you haven't yet, you can read the "best of" from 2006-2007.

20. Or simply look at views of Paris.

Bonnes vacances!

Who put the 'cozy' in Sarkozy?

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.

Poisson d'avril

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.)

Autographs

A few autographs I've collected over the years, mostly in the form of book dedicaces. I'm so glad to have re-discovered them.

What I treasure most about the Jean-Jacques Sempé signature is, of course, the drawing. I wonder if he always signs autogaphs like this.

A while back I wrote about meeting Marguerite Yourcenar. But actually, when I met her she had already been elected to the Académie Française. I'll blame my ignorance on youth.

And Polly Platt's signing of French or Foe, the first time I ever met her some time in the 1990s. How prophetic; and little did either of us know that she was to become a good friend and part of my French dream-come-true.