Valérie Trierweiler’s Brother Recounts the Break-Up with François Hollande

[Vanity Fair France has a great article about the Hollande-Trierweiler split, explained by a family member, which hasn't been published in the anglophone press. Since I am a professional translator, I whipped up a verbatim translation  (and sent it to Vanity Fair France, gratis, but didn't hear back from them.    The orginal is here.   So here you have it.]

“What François Hollande did was brutal;  it goes beyond mere betrayal,” he says in the Spanish edition of Vanity Fair, revealing new details about the break-up less than a month after the official announcement of the Hollande-Trierweiler split.

The oldest brother of Valérie Trierweiler, William Massonneau, has discussed the break-up of his sister and French President François Hollande, for the first time, in the February 20 issue of the Spanish edition of Vanity Fair.  The monthly’s cover story, The Secrets of the Valérie Affair, cites as sources a number of those close to the President’s former companion.  “What François Hollande did was brutal;  it goes beyond mere betrayal,” says Massonneau.

William Massonneau, a 50-year-old computer engineer, continues:  “The relationship between my sister and François Hollande was altered by political events.  They weren’t Valérie and François.  They were the President and the First Lady.”

On January 25, François Hollande announced to Agence France Presse that he was ending his eight-year relationship with Valérie Trierweiler.  Two weeks before, the magazine Closer had broken a story about the relationship between Hollande and actress Julie Gayet.

Massonneau  gives a harsh assessment of François Hollande’s behavior towards his sister.  “I have never behaved in such a way, and hope I would never do so,” he confides to Vanity Fair. “Hollande is a man with a lot of empathy.  But his capacity to lead parallel lives is unbelievable.  His powers of seduction are immense.”

Hollande « pleasant and congenial »

The article published by the Spanish magazine recounts the last few weeks of their life as a couple, including spending Christmas Eve with Valérie Trierweiler’s family.

“We had dinner at my house.  My mother, my brothers, some nephews, Valerie and François. We are a large and close-knit family,” he explains.  “The unemployment statistics were about to be published, and the news wasn’t good.  Hollande knew that it would affect his image, which was already very weak.   Despite all that, he was pleasant and congenial with everyone.”

Admission to hospital on advice of the Élysée

The article in Spanish Vanity Fair also supplies some new details about Trierweiler’s hospitalization following the break-up.  Relying on a source who claims to be a close friend of Valérie’s, the magazine explains that her admission to the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris was “advised by the doctor of the Élysée.”

According to this anonymous source, “Valérie Trierweiler was sedated for 48 hours…  When she woke up, she thought she had been asleep for a few hours, whereas it was actually almost two days.  She was under the effect of the tranquilizers.  She was feeling nauseated and had difficulty remembering what had just happened to her.  Her two cell phones had been taken away and no one could contact her.”

Valérie Trierweiler’s brother said he too visited her in the hospital, despite doctors’ orders.  “I realized that she could hardly put two words together.  She needed to get out of there as soon as possible to start to take charge of her life. » 

“Willing to forgive the infidelity.”

The two Spanish journalists who wrote the story explain that they obtained the information during a secret meeting in Paris with a close male friend of Valérie Trierweiler’s.  Hollande visited Trierweiler only once in the hospital, said the friend, and that the doctors wanted the visit to be brief, a maximum of six minutes, but that it lasted more than half an hour.

« Valérie was willing to forgive the infidelity, that’s certain.  But Hollande didn’t refer to the affair a single time.  He asked only about her health.  It was then that she fully understood that their eight-year relationship was over,” explains the anonymous friend, who says he was present at the pavillon de la Lanterne the day that François Hollande issued his statement to the press.

Tense exchange of text messages

The Spanish edition of Vanity Fair also published an exchange of text messages between Valérie Trierweiler and François Hollande, giving the timing  of January 25, a few hours prior to AFP’s 6:50 p.m. publication of the official press statement by Hollande.

François Hollande: “We should send a joint press statement.”

Valérie Trierweiler: “Out of the question.  It’s your responsibility.  You are the one who got into this mess and it’s up to you to set it straight.  I won’t sign any press statement.”

A 3 million euro settlement?

Frédéric Gerschel, a journalist for Le Parisien and another a close friend of Valérie Trierweiler’s,  also spoke with Vanity Fair Spain. “François was prepared to listen to her and reassure her.  He knew that he needed to compensate her somehow for their eight years together.”  A contractual agreement in effect stipulates that the President give her financial support until the end of his term in office that would allow her to continue to live in apartment in the 15^th arrondissement of Paris, which they rented together up to the time of the break-up, as well as a monthly allowance to pay for the education of her three children (the total was rumored to be close to 3 million euros, for which Vanity Fair did not cite the sources.)

“Hollande is sad”

The article also quotes Julien Dray, regional counselor for the Île-de-France and a close friend of François Hollande’s. “For the President, it was very difficult to leave someone whom he had loved.  Hollande is sad.”

In the January 31^st Parisien Magazine Valérie Trierweiler was quoted as saying that she “hasn’t ruled out writing a book” after the break-up with Hollande.

Her brother does not deny that possibility.  “Until now, all the First Ladies who had been cheated on just accepted the situation.  They never spoke out… It is not normal that women remain silent.”

And, the magazine writes, based on confidential information from a friend of Valérie Trierweiler’s, that she warned Hollande “I’ll destroy you just as you have destroyed me!”

Jérémie Maire, Laure Cometti et Philippe Mathon

Translated from the French by Polly Lyman

Je refuse!

What do Louis Aragon, Albert Camus, Claude Monet, Hector Berlioz, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir and George Brassens all have in common?

Answer:  they all refused to be awarded the prestigious Medal of the Legion of Honor.

And, as of today, they are joined by famed cartoonist Jacques Tardi. "I learned, to my stupefaction, via the media on the evening of January 1, without having been informed in advance, that I was going to be decorated with the Legion d'honneur, " said Tardi.  Being "ferociously attached" to his freedom, he emphatically refuses the honor.

So.

What do Julia Child, Miles Davis, Walt Disney, Alan Greenspan, Jerry Lewis. Toni Morrison, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Sully Sullenberger, and Buce Willis have in common?

You guessed it!  They are all Americans who said "j'accepte" and got to wear the little rosette in their lapels for life.  And all these others, too.

photo via wikipedia

French Films with English Subtitles

As an ardent francophile, I've loved French movies since I can remember.  So I finally learned enough French to catch up and be able to understand French movies in French.

Alas, the same is not true for many English-speaking francophiles around the world whose French isn't quite up to the task of understanding a French film without subtitles.

Double-alas:  too many wonderful French films that don't reach the mass-distribution market abroad are missed by these francophiles because the films are rarely released with subtitles in English.  Even worse, they are not available in France to the non-francophone population.  Honestly?  I don't get it.  Why not share the culture even if others don't get the language?  Really, think of the scores of Amurican movies that are subtitled in French for French audiences each year.  Why not subtitle French movies for American/all-other-anglophone-audiences?  It might help to bridge the cultural gap!

Yet these French films, which convey the sauce and substance of daily French existence, and the comedy/tragedy therein, are virtually unavailable to those who do not speak the language.

With one exception, at least this week.

Enter In French With English Subtitles, a New York-based group that for the past several years has been offering a French film festival featuring some of the sweet and wonderful French films that don't hit the mass-market distribution cinemas in the U.S.

Tonight is opening night of the In French With English Subtitles festival.  Because I'm a procrastinator I've been crazy busy at work the festival is such a hit, I didn't get to score a ticket for tonight's opening Gala with Gad Elmaleh.

But there are lots more for New York-based audiences to view this weekend.  Some for the first time in the U.S.  And with four screenings each day on Saturday and Sunday, there are many great films to see.  I can't wait.

Get your tickets while they last!

All screenings are at the Florence Gould Hall of the French Institute Alliance Francaise, although the festival is not a part of FIAF programming (i.e. no reduction for FIAF members).

55 East 59th Street
Between Park and Madison Avenues
New York, NY 10022

Announcing David McCullough's Next Book: Americans in Paris, 20th Century

Breaking news!  This weekend, historian and author David McCullough announced  -- for the first time to the public -- the subject of of his next book:  Americans in Paris from the early 1900's to 1930.  The theme, though, will be fascinatingly different from all other tomes on those all-too-famous Yanks in the City of Light.  His will be a study how the nascent technology of aviation influenced their lives and vice versa.

Speaking at the annual meeting of the Federation of Alliances Francaises in Providence, where he was receiving the coveted Prix Charbonnier for his most recent work on Americans in Paris, The Greater Journey, Mr. McCullough unveiled his latest project.  Realizing, in Paris during a 4-day taping for 60 Minutes, that writing about Paris was in his heart, he knew his next book also had to be about  Americans in Paris in the 20th century.  "But," he said, "I was faced with the problem of 'How can I make it different from so much that has been written?  I cannot go down the same old path about Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein, etc. etc.'   I knew it could be done and I knew that there were so many more people than those clichés that they had become, alas.  But what would make it work?  And inform?  What was the perspective or lens through which I could look at this period that would be different?  And then, one day, came one of those moments where suddenly it hit me.  And, honestly, it just lifted me out of my chair.  And that is: aviation.  The advent of flight.  The advent of the airplane.  The most emblematic development of the 20th century."

Here is a brief glimpse of him reading the first page of his new book, describing Edith Wharton in Paris as she witnessed the first airplane to ever fly over Paris,on Monday, October 18,1909.

The video is truncated, alas.  I had to focus on the talk.  Page one had me completely spellbound.  Afterwards, Mr. McCullough said to me, "Well, Polly, if your face was an indication, I guess it will be a hit."

Darling, je vous aime beaucoup

"Darling, je vous aime beaucoup" was a song which I associate with one of my favorite crooners ever, Nat King Cole.

I'd always assumed it was written for Nat in the 50's, but it turns out it was written for a cabaret singer named Hildegarde in the 30s.

Then, 50 years ago, Dean Martin, looking rather silly,  donned a beret and chomped a cigarette holder and produced this album, "French Style," which included "Darling" and a variety of other French-ish tunes.

My question is: why?  Was America's francophilia at such a fever pitch in the early 60's that any popular singer could cash in just by making a French album?

I've often pondered over the influence of francophilia in American culture and its ebbs and flows over the course of the decades.  From Dean to Soeur Sourire the Beatles' "Michelle, Ma Belle," to Morticia and Gomez to Freedom Fries to French Women Don't Get Fat.  It's a socio-cultural roller coaster ride.  I'm in it for the long haul.

How about you?

image via wikipedia

Every Frenchman Has One

Fifty years ago, Olivia de Havilland, a classic in her own right, wrote a classic about being an American in France. I don't have sales statistics on her memoir Every Frenchman Has One, but I hope it was a best-seller.  She wrote it about the challenges of adjusting to life in France, married to the dashing author Pierre Galante. It still resonates today.

Miss de Havilland is still living in Paris and is as gorgeous and gracious as ever at age 94.  A few years back, at the American Cathedral, I had the delight of talking with her about her book after a service. After some introductory conversation and enthusiasm,  I begged her to re-issue her fabulous and funny book.  It would be an instant "re-born" classic! "Oh, yes, I should do that," she replied in her lilting and charming voice. "I think they still have the plates somewhere."


Oh, and what does every Frenchman have, according to Miss de Havilland?

Ha.  Not so fast, and get your minds out of the gutter.

Every Frenchman has a liver.

Our Maids are Squeaky Clean

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."

The French Open vs. les Serres d'Auteuil

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.

Meeting Ella Fitzgerald, part 2

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

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

Julia Child and the Purple Coat

Many of us mere mortals have a story to tell about meeting Julia Child. No doubt the much-anticipated August release of the film Julie & Julia is prompting even more reminiscences. The memory of my Julia moment, however, was sparked last month when I unearthed a purple coat. Here's why.

After graduating from college in the 1970s, I lived and worked in Harvard Square. It was urban enough, hip, and had sufficient international flair to placate a French major like me with no foreign place to go (Paris was out of the question, financially).

One wintry day at lunch break I was combing the aisles of Sage's, the local gourmet store. In the corner of my eye I spotted an apparition -- a 3/4 length grape-purple mohair coat with elbow-length sleeves, seeming to float in midair. I squinted and looked again. There She was. Familiar and unmistakable. A tall, imposing woman tilting her head over the Camemberts and Saint Andrés. I was in awe. It was ... Julia.

Rapt (and shy), I simply stared, mouth agape. I knew Julia lived in Cambridge, and even knew people who knew her. But here stood the real Julia, larger than life, ogling the Tome de Savoie.

Julia Child! Her name to me was like the name of a goddess who represented everything a francophile like me could love about France and the French: joie de vivre, good cuisine and happiness at table, a hearty "Bon appétit!" She understood the French from the inside out.

I wanted to say something, utter a sliver of a phrase to express my ardent admiration and shared francophile life. But no. I remained mute, slyly trailing her sideways as she maneuvered among the leeks and shallots and filet mignons. I kept enough of a distance to not be too obvious -- but close enough, I hoped, for osmosis.

I savored that moment, and rued it too, wishing I'd had the courage to spout a clever bon mot. In retrospect I justified my silence by convincing myself that surely the hallowed Julia needed to be able to venture on home turf without being approached by French Chef groupies every day. Ah, I felt noble in protecting her from intrusion of fans like me. And if she noticed my semi-stalking, she never let on.

Besides, how cool was she? A purple coat? I absorbed her brilliant inspiration: if you're a nationally famous 6'2" redheaded woman, there's no point trying to disguise yourself in a somber brown cloak when in public. So why not do it with purple panache? Ah, a Julia moment.

A few years later I was working in the public affairs office of the Quebec Government's New England office. One spring, our project was to promote lobsters from the Magdalen Islands, purported to be the tastiest crustaceans in North America because of the extreme cold of the water where they grew. "Why not take some to Julia Child?" I ventured at a brainstorming session. "Who better to appreciate the quality of excellent lobster than America's favorite French Chef?"

Pourqoui pas? With a few phone calls, I had arranged to deliver two dozen lobsters to Julia and her staff, who were taping a video at her home in Cambridge. At 10 a.m. on the appointed day I pulled up to her rambling house in my dilapidated Mercedes.

Toting two large cases of wriggling lobsters, I crossed the wide porch and elbowed the doorbell. I was greeted by one of multiple public TV assistants buzzing around the ground floor. Cables snaked all over the floors, taped in place. Lights beamed in the kitchen and big black control boxes hid in the shadows. I was ushered in the foyer to meet Julia, to hold up my cold blue live offerings to the high priestess of Food and France. She approached with a smile and a hearty greeting, and I felt as though I'd just stopped by to visit Aunt Ruthie, not a celebrity. Not a hint of diva-persona: just genuine warmth and charm. Hundred percent grande dame with zero percent attitude. And that lilting voice. "Thank you so much. Isn't this super? We'll cook them for lunch! I'm sure we'll eat them with gusto."

I would have lingered forever, but I backed discreetly out the door with an I'll-never-wash that-hand-again glow. A few days later her assistant called to pronounce the lobsters indeed tasty and to thank us for the gift. Lesson from Julia moment number 2: always be yourself while being generous with kindness, no matter what your VIP status.

After these Julia moments, I often wondered how I might pattern my life after hers. From watching her on The French Chef and glimpsing her twice, I knew this much. She recognized her life's passion and pursued it with unbridled enthusiasm. And she won the hearts of millions by just being herself. I never dreamed of winning the hearts of millions, but I knew that her approach to life was one I hoped to mirror.

A decade later, woe was me: I had hit the big Four-Oh. As I pondered about Life on that miserable January birthday I still wasn't sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. Agony & angst, ready for a pity-party. Shopping therapy was definitely in order. At the dreaded mall, I stumbled into a store that catered to the WASPy mother's crowd. "Finest ladies' togs," was their motto. I was doomed anyway; at 40, my now-matronly fate was sealed, I figured, so I might as well start dressing the part, right? I cringed and entered. There on the sale rack was a floating apparition. A periwinkle-purple full-length mohair coat. I knew at once this was a harbinger, a sign. What Would Julia Do?

I bought it. Haven't looked back.

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.

Studio 54?

Q: Who is humming "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm fifty-four" today?

A: Nicolas Paul Stéphane Sarközy de Nagy-Bocsa.

My little birthday offering: a French house-number image (as a topping for the birthday cake)?

Carla Bruni on the Today Show

Première Dame Carla Bruni-Sarkozy charmed host Matt Lauer on the Today Show this morning.

"Call me Carla," she smiled. Watch Matt swoon.

On tour in the U.S. to promote her new album, Comme si de rien n'était, she was an instant hit with her winning smile and gentle, self-effacing diplomacy. You can see the entire segment here.

Most notably, when asked what advice she might have for Michelle Obama about raising children in the spotlight of the presidency, she replied, "Well, I think it would be better for me to get advice from her."


Update: via SuperFrenchie. She was also on the Letterman show last night.



Trivia: the cover of her album was shot at the Parc de St. Cloud.

The French New Wave

Contemporary French culture in the performing arts is not only thriving, but has an exciting future, according to a photo-essay in the New York Times T magazine.

"Oh-la-la!" crows the writer. "Not since the fabulous Josephine has a French first lady been so entertaining. But Madame Sarkozy is only one of the adventurous, unconventional multi-culti talents coming your way."

Check out "The French New Wave." which naturally features first lady Carla Bruni, but also a dozen other rising French stars. Guillaume Canet. Eva Green. Aïssa Maïga. And the cast of award-winning "Entre les murs."

Weather Lady Forgets to take the Temperature

Le Grand Journal on Canal + is a great prime-time TV show, one of my favorites. A blend of entertainment and political interview and commentary. I usually like all of the regular panel. The ever-popular Louise Bourgoin, "Miss Meteo" is gorgeous, sexy and witty; her gags are sometimes fun, almost always wacky.

Until yesterday, when she made an utterly tasteless comment.

As often happens on the show, the cast gives thumbnail reviews of selected books that they then distribute to the guests. Last night, after her usual twenty-second lightning-speed weather forecast, Louise was giving a report, suggesting books that might be appropriate to give to various famous people. The premise of her gag was basing her recommendations simply on the book's title, claiming she didn't have time to read. In general, the tone was sarcastic but funny. I don't remember the other titles, but the angle was along the lines of: "Walking Tall, our gift to Nicolas Sarkozy. " Nyuk nyuk.

Then she said, "And this book, Du Plomb dans la tete [Lead in the Head] we offer to John Kennedy."

There was an audible gasp -- perhaps from Michel Denisot or Ariane Massenet. Perhaps it was from me. How rude and tasteless. How juvenile and inane. She tried to segue into the next title, but listeners were stunned.

Louise, I usually love ya, but you blew it. The mercury just went way, way down in my Louise-o-Meter. Being cocky and flip is one thing -- making a bad joke about an assassinated President is another.

Anyway, rumor has it that she's leaving her position at Le Grand Journal to work full time in the movies, and Canal + is looking for a replacement. Maybe that's why she didn't have to worry about getting fired for such crass commentary. Or maybe as an aspiring starlet was she trying to make more of a name for herself by attempting to copycat Sharon Stone? At least Sharon Stone's thoughtless 'karma' remark offending a whole nation was off the cuff.

(The video clip above is not of last night's show. Canal+ is only posting excerpts and has none of Louise's appearance on line.)

Die-hard Bourgoin fans (especially the testosterone-infused variety) can look forward to seeing Louise in a steamy movie this summer called La Fille de Monaco, about a beautiful Miss Meteo who leaves her job to become an actress...

George et moi -- What Else?

Wow. I can't wait to fly to Milan to shoot the next Nespresso commercial with George Clooney. Oh, I know they're having a casting call and maybe -- just maybe -- a handful of other women will sign up for the contest. But George and me -- it was meant to be! This time, they'll want to cast a woman closer to George's age instead of those gorgeous, svelte twentysomethings, n'est-ce pas?

Besides, I invented the term Nespressoholic. Don't I deserve to be The Chosen One?

Honestly, I promise not to sign up at the web site more than once... per hour.

If you think you even have a snowball's chance en enfer, here's how to participate.

First, you have to be a Nespresso Club member. I used to scoff at that notion, every time I buy my little coffee capsules, but now I'm sure glad I am part of that elite group.

In 150 words or less tell them why they should choose you and not me.

Give them your best glamour mug shots -- a full-length photo and a head shot.

Cross your fingers and wait for the decision on June 10 -- What Else?

Carrie Bradshaw en francais

Whodathunkit. Sarah Jessica Parker speaks French! Well, at least 10 words.

"Bonjour, je vous aime, enchantée, merci, merci, merci, merci, merci!"


La belle SJP was in Paree at the Sephora on the Champs Elysées to launch her new perfume, Covet.

The throng of fans was not disappointed, apparently.





Watch the video here.

Shooting Paris

Not a day goes without my thinking that Paris looks like a movie set. Every setting -- street, courtyard, bridge, café -- could be a backdrop for a film.

And apparently, it is. Filming is going on all over Paris.

In my early days here, I was awestruck one afternoon seeing the film crews in Montmartre shooting La Môme. "Ooh," I thought. "Maybe I'll see La Môme some day and say proudly, 'I saw that being filmed.'"

Well, I used to be wowed by manifs, too, and now they're just a ho-hum daily occurrence. (The first time I saw a Paris street demonstration, I was inside a store on rue de Rennes. I pointed to the crowds marching by and exclaimed excitedly to the shop owner, "Look, look, it's a manif!" I cringe with embarrassment now, thinking how idiotic that statement must have seemed to a Parisian.)

I don't mean to sound blasé, but it's starting to feel the same way with movies being filmed on location here. This morning at the bus stop bright and early, I saw camera crews setting up light tents and tripods to film inside the boulangerie across from the St. Francois Xavier métro station. The street was lined with trucks and the stars' trailers. I realized how my attitude has changed since the La Môme filming. I just thought, "Oh, yeah, another movie set."

As I rode by on the bus, I saw Jean Rochefort (I think) chatting with some friends outside his trailer.

My reaction?

He must be the only French movie star who isn't in Cannes right now.

Soiree with the Authors

There are American writers who write about Paris. There are Parisian writers who write about America. There are writers who have simply been inspired by Paris. The list of award-winning authors falling into all these categories is long and impressive.

So it is wild -- almost unfathomable to me -- to imagine having dinner with about ten of them in one night. But in less than two weeks, on May 27th, that's just what I'm going to do.

At its annual fundraiser, the American Library in Paris invites a renowned author to speak. This year, the all-hailed Prince of Paris, none other than Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon, will return to Paris to be the featured guest speaker. But the organizers of the Gala came up with a 'novel' spin on the always sparkling event: this year they have also invited a group of literary luminaries to create an unprecedented event in recent Paris literary history. It is a Francophile bibliophile's dream come true.

Warning: name dropping ahead!

In addition to the hallowed Mr. Gopnik as honored guest, also in attendance at the soirée will be authors Diane Johnson, C.K. Williams, Jake Lamar, Alan Riding, John Baxter, Alice Kaplan, Lily Tuck, and the doyenne of American literary Paris, Mavis Gallant. And, none other than BHL himself, Bernard-Henri Lévy and his luminous wife Arielle Dombasle.

I admit, I'm sometimes tongue-tied when around famous people. So I'm nervous about the nature of idle chit-chat or intense conversations with these acclaimed authors as we swill our champagne or tuck into our four-course dinners. Gushing "I loved your book" is such a -- cliché. To avoid the brainless banalities, I'm trying to think up a few 'impromptu' conversation topics.

Any ideas? Please chime in! If you have a question you'd like me to ask, let me know, because I'm spending the whole evening with these glitterati, from hors d'oeuvres to après-diner chocolates. Now is your chance, so please send me any questions you'd like to ask these literary greats. I'll report back on all the answers, I promise! And photos, too.

But, wait! Are you jealous? No need to be. Here's the good news: you can come, too. If you're going to be in Paris on May 27, it's not too late to don your best evening attire and attend the dinner. I called the American Library today, and the staff said that they can actually take reservations -- if fully paid -- through next Tuesday, May 20. They are expecting an intimate, sold-out crowd of about 200 for cocktails and dinner at the elegant and private Cercle de l'Union Interalliée on the Faubourg St. Honoré.

It is a fundraiser, of course, so the price for a swish evening with the authors is €300 per person, and all proceeds benefit this most venerable of American non-profits in Paris. Call me star-struck, but I like to think of it this way: 300€ divided by 10 authors equals about 30€ each. In my book, that's mere peanuts for spending an evening in the company of so many fascinating people you might never have the chance to have meaningful conversation with otherwise.

And companies such as Air France, Chanel, the International Herald Tribune and the fabulous Hotel Pont Royal -- the literary hotel of Paris -- all think it's a cause worthy of their support.

Who am I to say no? But ... what am I going to wear?

For more information, contact gala@americanlibraryinparis.org 01 53 59 12 67