Brilliant French Eye Drops: les Gouttes Bleues

There can be many signs that it's time for a return trip to Paris.

(One of the most cruel is that some prankster recently signed me up for email alerts to Météo-France, so every morning my email inbox lets me know the Paris daily weather forecast.  It actually says "Vos prévisions météo aujourd'hui" which to me officially translates as "Time to pack for France!")

Image via Innoxa

Another sure-fire indication is when my stock of only-in-France beauty supplies is depleted.  Now, my last drop of Gouttes Bleues -- French blue eye drops by Innoxa -- is gone.  Time to make the plane reservations.  Pronto.

You've never heard of les gouttes bleues?  Do you think it sounds weird to put blue drops in your eyes?  Won't it tint your vision?

I learned of les gouttes bleues the way I learned about most treasured classic French beauty regimens -- by seeing them on a friend's bathroom shelf, and asking nosy questions.  Voila!   Another secret of French beauty unveiled.  And so subtle.

Unlike Visine or other products that get the red out, les gouttes bleues are designed to make the whites whiter, much in the same way that laundresses of yore used bluing to make white cottons brilliant and white. (Actually it turns out that you still can find old-fashioned laundry bluing.)

It isn't weird or unusual -- you just drop a few soothing drops in the corner of your eye as you would with any eye-drop, only make sure you have some Kleenex for dabbing at the spillover, which is decidedly blue-tint.  It doesn't affect vision.  But it does improve others' vision of you.  Le look.  Le regard.

And it's an all-natural classic, having been around since 1950.

Eyes look brilliant, brighter and whiter -- which is what we want for the firing up when they see the whites of your eyes.  N'est-ce pas?

TV5 Monde to the rescue...

Here on the island of Manhattan we are gearing up and battening down in anticipation of the arrival of Hurricane Sandy.  Who knows what the storm will bring -- will it be Frankenstorm, the epic storm for the history books?  Will it be just a lot of water from all angles? Will we lose power?

Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, I am delighting in a little gift-bag goodie I received two weeks ago at the annual meeting of the Federation of Alliances Francaises in the U.S.  A number of corporate sponsors had interesting (or frivolous) logo-stamped tchochkes.


But none were more timely or more potentially helpful right now than TV5 Monde's gift of a solar-powered phone charger.  It's warming up by the window.

I adore watching French TV in the US via TV5, and this is another reason to love the company.

Merci, TV5!

Lafayette: the Lost Hero... et moi: the Lost Heroine

I'm often asked "What did you do when you lived in Paris?"

Ouf.  The answer is, to opt for an oft-used phrase, "It's complicated."

I did some free-lance consulting, editing and copy-editing, and of course I created and fed this blog, my third child.

But one of the most fun, intriguing, and personally fulfilling volunteer gigs I had in Paris was to be a part of the Lafayette 250th anniversary celebration a few years ago.  Bright lights!  Big city!  Cameras rolling!

It turned out that a big part of the Lafayette anniversary woop-de-doo was of serious interest to acclaimed American filmmaker Oren Jacoby.  How he and I initially connected is too long a story to be of interest (it has to do with librarians, historians, and archivists, so don't fall asleep).  But ultimately, I ended up as an enthusiastic, starry-eyed participant in Oren's great documentary about the Marquis de Lafayette and his involvement in the American Revolution:  Lafayette, the Lost Hero.

But.

There is always the but, right?  And biz being biz, after all those hours, I ended up on the cutting-room floor, so to speak. (Actually, I'm in the outtakes on the DVD, which you can purchase, or if you simply need to believe me.)

Such is life. But, seriously, I wouldn't have traded the learning-curve experience for anything. For example, for one memorable day, camera crews were rolling all day in my apartment in the 7e arrondissement (which I dubbed Studio 54, for the address.)

Bright lights at 54 rue Vaneau

Of course, there's zero stress in having your apartment filmed for posterity...

In Paris, I was filmed tootling around the Marché de Saxe on my bike, climbing the stairs at the French Senate (the Palais du Luxembourg) and at a gala at the Palais de Vincennes, interviewing the director of the Musée Carnavalet in  private tour of the museum's galleries, just to name a few segments.  My then-college-aged kids agreed to be filmed as I lectured them about the "Declaration des Droits de l'Homme" in the Concorde metro station. I counted among my Lafayette co-stars such journalistic luminaries as Michael Oreskes and Jim Gaines, plus the mayors of Lafayette cities in the US.

On the other side of the pond, too, I was there.  Back on home turf to see my son Harry, I plodded around the Bunker Hill monument in Boston in the rain, cameras running  as I chatted about Lafayette history.  In Charleston (while on a visit to Miss Bee in college), I learned a lot about South Carolina history as we focused on Lafayette's arrival there in  1777.   All for my hero, Lafayette.

And a plus:  I learned a lot of film lingo. Such as "sticks," and "wrap." You know, how cool am I?  Heady stuff.

Here I am with the great guys of the crew, South of Broad in Charleston.

Sometimes I felt like Snow White! 

But how do I put any of this on my resume?

I guess I don't.

Dreams of Owning a Tiny House in France

I am not alone, I think, in having the dream of someday owning a house in France. A small "pile of stones" that I can call my own.  Ah, yes, with a deux-chevaux parked outside, and morning baguettes from the local boulangerie.

a bergerie

Part one:  the history

My first infatuation with the notion of living in a small stone house in France came when I spent the summer between high school and college on Île de Ré.  The main house of the compound was a larger residence, but within the walls of "Les Bergeries" were many small stone outbuildings, which each of the grown siblings had adapted for individual families' summer living.  I was hooked.

A year or two later, I experienced the life of a young Frenchman's "second home" in Brittany, complete with the 2 CV. Primitive, but certainly doable.  And cheap!

Since then,  I have come so close -- SO close! -- more times than you can imagine,  to owning a small place in France.  First was the house in Theneuil, during a summer spent in the Touraine in the early 1990s.  I was within a hair's breadth of purchasing the crumbling small rectory next to this church, complete with outbuildings and gorgeous stone courtyard.  After lengthy discussions with the mayor of the village, I was not certain of the fate of  the property's ancient stone wall, possibly to be torn down for a road widening. I sadly, ultimately, backed down from making an offer.  The price at the time was 70,000 FF, about $14,000 at the time. Awful end of story:  I bought a used Saab instead.  To this day, of course, this missed opportunity will always be referred to as my "Saab story."

The Maison de Poupee in St Enogat

In 2006, I fell in love with another tiny house, in Dinard.  I was staying with my dear friends Isa and Jacques; and since I was always the early riser in the house, I would go on my habitual hour-long morning walks through the town just after dawn, and return with baguettes and croissants for the family breakfast.  One morning on my perambulations, I wandered through the area of Dinard called St. Enogat.  That particular day, a woman leaned out of her second floor window and remarked cheerily, "Vous etes matinale!"  ("You're up early!").  I waved and smiled and continued on my way. Shortly thereafter, I stumbled across a small side street with the charming name of Passage du Beausoleil. Ah. If I could ever find a place to live on a street like this, it would be perfect, I thought.  And 20 paces later, behold:  a For Sale sign on a perfect little house.  This time I meant business.  I was living in Paris and was looking for a permanent residence in France to own and call home.  I called the agent.  I viewed the maisonette.  I took Isa and Jacques to visit and offer their opinion.  I made an offer. Signed the papers.

I became known among the local friends as "the woman who went out for baguettes and came home with a house."  My kind of fame!

The view from the little house in St. Enogat

Well, a long story made short:  the owner died, the unhappy and unwilling tenant flaunted a scary machete in the kitchen.  The sale never took place. Expensive lesson learned:  purchasing real estate in France is not even vaguely similar to purchasing real estate in the U.S.  Even if you speak French fluently.  Even if you have friends in the neighborhood.

And yet the dream lives on.  Whenever I tootle around the back-roads of France I always experience real estate envy.

Part two:  real estate envy.

Sshhh.  Some of my friends call it real estate porn.  It is just as addictive, so, well, yeah.  Dreaming of that sexy place that isn't yours, well, not yours now, but maybe someday, or in your dreams, or.. . well, okay kind of that.  If you have that kind of real estate fixation in the U.S., for example, you know what sites you go to for your fix. If you have French real estate yearning, for a small pile of stones in the luscious French countryside, you know where to go, right?

Oh, you don't ?

Well, let me tell you:  you go to Explorimmo.  That's the simple part. Then you need to know some French and some French geography.  You need to pick a region that you are interested in.  And if you want a tiny house, enter an amount such as 100 m2 in the square meters part. Well, it's complicated.  But, trust me,  it's pure French real-estate gratification, right on the screen.  Does it for me every time!

Part three: driving around.

There is nothing I would rather spend my leisure hours doing than exploring the routes départementales, the windy back roads, in France, and then from there even the smaller back roads.   Sheer bliss.  Because if you use GPS and always get where you're going, you can often miss some of the most fabulous buildings around.  Driving around Provence, I spotted this wonderful place in a horse paddock in a field in a town not far from Salon de Provence.

This is my new object of desire, the tiny house that I would love to live in in France.

I want to live in this house, or I want to replicate it exactly.  No more, no less.  My dream.

End of story. Mine, at least.  Where would you like to live your small-house fantasy in France?

Ceci n'est pas un blog

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

Living on a Houseboat

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.

Pauline's Breast at Odiot

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

Grocery store confusion

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.

Polly-Vous Francisco?

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.

Eiffel Tower for Sale

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?

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

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.

Why didn't I notice this in France?

Aarrgh.

In my shipment of household belongings from Paris was my much-used, much-loved Laguiole cutlery. Perfect for casual entertaining.

On Easter weekend I set five places at the breakfast table. Something was really wrong.

The handles didn't all go in the same direction. My ingrained etiquette dictated that the knife blade face the plate, of course. But in doing so, the fork and spoon handles faced away from the knife. The visual disarray made me seasick.

How could Laguiole POSSIBLY make a cutlery set that didn't match? (Sure, I bought it at a discount at Carrefour, but even so...) I fumed.

And why hadn't I noticed this in Paris?

Oh. Lightbulb pops.

In France the forks and spoons are placed on the table face down. See how they line up all pretty like sloops in a harbor?

I guess I'll have to carry on the French method of table setting here in the U.S., because I simply can't abide the visual disharmony of wayward flatware.

Parisian Chandelier Makeover

Paris is my mecca for inspired home decor on the cheap.  I wasn't disappointed this time.

Here's the skinny.  

In the dining room of the Virginia house I'm renting, there is a black colonial wrought-iron chandelier.  In and of itself, not a bad lighting fixture.  But to my eyes it was too austere for the room, and the pseudo-Provencal lampshades didn't go with the rest of the Polly look or color scheme.  And besides, my Parisian sensibilities called for something a bit softer, more feminine. I hung some pearl Christmas strands to soften it, but it still needed more. 

I found the remedy in Paris -- where else?

While out shopping last week, a few blocks down from BHV on rue de Rivoli, I stumbled upon one of those Paris-Affaires shops, kind of like Dollar Stores in the US.  They had bunches and bunches of the prettiest fake flowers I've seen in a long time.  I scooped up 3 bottes, 3€50 each.

Saturday at the Marche aux Puces in Vanves, I was actually looking for some Luneville plates.  No luck.  But I did spot some wacky crystal bobeches in a variety of pastel colors.  A few were missing a hanging crystal or two, and the owner was clearly eager to get rid of them to this ignorant American lady.  I smiled all the way home, having purchased 6 bobeches for 15€.

I haven't even finished unpacking my suitcase, but I couldn't suppress my urge to re-look my chandelier.

Should I keep the bobeches?  (Final photo)

 

 

 

 

Should I entwine the pearls?  The photos don’t really do it justice.

Be Careful What You Wish For

The good news: the shipment of my stuff from Paris finally arrived today, after four months of anxious waiting. It was all in fine shape.

The bad news: in a totally fickle, very unexpected emotional about-face, I want to send it all back.

I'm not kidding.

There are two main factors at play here. Plus a third, more minor, reason.

1. The "Won't This Sombrero Look Great at the Neighborhood Pool Party, Honey?" syndrome.

We've all done it. You travel to a foreign land, and everyone there is wearing a sombrero with red tasseled fringe, or puka shell beads or embroidered peasant blouses, and you think, "Gee, Ima gonna get me one a them," and then you carefully select and purchase just the perfect sombrero or what-have-you. You jubilantly take it home, and upon arrival in Little Rock you shake your head in disbelief. What was I thinking? you ask, And why did I really fight to place that sombrero so carefully into the overhead bin of the plane? (Or gawd forbid, you even wore it at the airport.) It is culturally out of context in your native habitat, but your foreign eyes didn't let you see it.

Well, that's not true for all of the belongings that just arrived, but... well, let's see. That adorable confituriere from the flea market that was so, so charming in my old, tiled Paris kitchen? It looks like an uninvited floozy in my Virginia dining room. So I tried placing it in every room. It just looks cheap and embarrassing.

Ditto for some of the more avant-garde items of clothing I bought in Paris or Ile de Re. Gee, an item or two of something unusual or offbeat to perk up the Paris daily mainstay attire was de rigueur... in Paris. If I wear some of this stuff here I may never get invited anywhere.

Cleavage? Spiky heels? Don't get me started. It all seemed so ...normal in Paris.

2. The "I'm Not-Over-It-Yet" factor. It's a biggie.

It's a damn good thing I'm heading to Paris in a week, because when I opened some of the boxes and unearthed items from my Paris daily ritual, I had a really hard time. As in tears, and I don't mean happy tears of reuniting with long-lost favorites.

You know what I mean. Oh, you know. Say you've broken up with a boyfriend, for example, and you're not completely over him but you forge ahead and start a new relationship with some other guy; and while that new relationship is in its tender infancy, by some stroke of nauseating ill fate, up pops the Old Flame at a weekend house party. And you can try to tell yourself til you're blue in the face that it doesn't matter, that you've moved on, but all of a sudden inside your head Barbra Streisand is belting out "The Way We Were" even though you don't like her voice: "What's too painful to ree-meh-heh-em-bah, we simply choose too-wooo foh-or-get..."

Well, blow me down if I didn't have that reaction when I unwrapped, of all things, my coffee cups. Excuse me, but how pathetic is it to have a weird, soppy emotional melt-down over four pieces of bone china?

I felt as though I were acting in the middle of some Woody Allen movie talking to a shrink, "I'm sorry Dr. Proust, I don't know what came over me. I saw those cups and saucers, and all the memories of Paris Nespresso breakfasts came flooding back and I..., I..., I...., boo-hooo-ooo-waaaah." Heroine (me) bolts out of the shrink's office blowing her nose. She doesn't even shut the door behind her.

Over coffee cups?

3. Minor factor: too much stuff. Must make placement decisions. Not easy to cope with any decision-making until factors #1 and #2 take a back seat.

Shipping Nuisance

It's a good thing I paid megabucks to haul seven suitcases of my belongings with me when I flew to the US from Paris in November. Why? Because the moving company who crated up the rest of my stuff has not exactly kept up their side of the deal. They were kind and courteous and packed everything so carefully in mid-November. They anticipated delivery of the shipment by December 30.

I haven't seen it yet. They claimed a few months ago that the shipment cleared customs and is waiting to find space on a truck that is coming my way. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, they promise.

And trust me, the milk of human kindness is no longer flowing in my veins.

But I'm not writing this to kvetch (okay, well, a little).

It's just stuff, I know. However, that small crate of Paris stuff represents 95% of memories of my surroundings and activities from My Life in Paris. After a while it starts feeling as though Paris was but a dream. Didn't I have some interesting furniture from the Marche aux Puces at Vanves?

Didn't I use to write at my faux-Louis-something desk?

And where is Hubert, my beloved Omersa leather hippo footstool?

Is it asking too much to have at least a few of the reminders of the life I had in Paris? The shipping company seems indifferent. Now they are not returning my calls or emails. I'm starting to worry.

Fortunately, I brought the most precious lightweight flat objects with me. Prints and small paintings and such.

Yesterday I picked up my favorite item from the frame shop. "Sommelier," a drawing by my friend Mary Blake.

It now has a Bordeaux-red matte and a black frame.

I feel more at home now. I have a small piece of My Life in Paris.

But I still want my stuff.

My Neighbors are Real Asses

In Paris, there is a tendency -- especially for those new to the city -- to decry the proliferation of sidewalk droppings from Parisian pooches.

I have to admit that in three years of living in Paris I never -- never! -- stepped in dog poop. Though I saw a bunch of real doozies on the sidewalk and curbs, especially in the morning when they were fresh. Eventually, though, it all becomes second nature.

Ah, how things change when one returns to the US.

I've just moved to a delightful white farmhouse on a hill in Virginia. So lovely and bucolic. So serene. The most noise is the occasional quite romantic sounding of the train's horn as it passes at the railroad crossing at the bottom of the hill.

And in the pasture just across the fence are two horses and two donkeys. Oh, how they add to the lore of the place. They silently roam the field by day, munching the grass.

But when nighttime falls, and the horses settle into the barn, the damn donkeys slip through some section of unguarded fence and wander into my yard.

When heading up the driveway one evening, through the car's headlights I thought I spotted the world's largest, homeliest deer grazing in my yard. Au contraire. It was Eeyore, and his pal, chowing down on my lawn and leaving his calling card here, there, and everywhere.

Don't lose your appetites, folks, but it looks -- at best -- like huge glistening pyramids of brown charcoal briquettes randomly scattered outside.

Apparently this has been happening for a while prior to my arrival here, so the donkey doo-doo is a bit overwhelming.

And -- well -- all I can say is, in terms of animal droppings, I'd prefer the Parisian sidewalks any day. At least they're cleaned up once a day. So I don't want to hear anyone complaining about les crottes de chiens in Paris.

Deal?

Demenagement

Oh, if only moving were this simple...

"How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm...

...After they've seen Paree?"

It's a song that rings through my head daily.

Here's my version of the farm, where I am living in Virginia.

And the view..

And the neighbor, my new best friend.

It's hard for me to imagine that three short weeks ago I was an urban dweller, a resident of Paris. I am now surrounded by hawks and fields and rolling hills; Paris is a world away.

At the same time, it's hard for me to believe that I am not still in Paris. I meet other Americans here who have lived in France. We talk of the urge, the need to return. Or some who claim that "you can't go home again."

Home meaning Paris.

I'll keep writing about Paris and France and the French connection as I settle into my new life (when current spotty Internet connections permit..) I've realized that Paris is in my bones, no matter where on earth I am.

Etat des lieux

Etat des lieux.

The very phrase strikes fear in the heart of those who rent apartments in Paris.

"The state of the place." It is the official walk-through of the apartment chronicled in a boilerplate tri-fold document which will ultimately decide, when you exit your apartment, whether your caution [security deposit] is refunded in full, in part, or not at all. There is 1) the état des lieux d'entree and 2) the état des lieux du depart, and if there is any difference between Thing One and Thing Two, you might be out a euro or two -- or thousand.

For my moving-in état des lieux three years ago I was all Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, so thrilled to have my dream apartment that I hadn't wanted to fuss about minor paint issues or sticking doors. The very next day a seasoned Paris expat reacted in complete horror when I told her how trusting I'd been in the walk-through with the landlady and the management company.

"Oh My God," she'd said. "You should have checked every prise [electrical outlet] to make sure they work, checked every tiny little detail and written it down on the damned document. Otherwise, when you move out they'll blame it all on you. Trust me. I've done it a dozen times."

Oh, great. Typical Polly naiveté. So ever since I'd been living with this dread, this sword of Damocles over my head: that I had been a trusting fool to have been so agreeable and say the apartment was mostly in fine shape when I moved in. The Seasoned Expat had told me tragic tales of woe about persnickety, tightwad apartment-owners who withheld the lion's share of the deposit due to trivial blemishes that most of us would consider normal wear and tear.

As my état des lieux du depart approached, I tried to reassure myself that I'd been a model tenant for 2-1/2 years. Nevertheless, I was scared spitless. I had made only three nail holes in the entire apartment, having mostly hung large-format posters with scotch tape. I had improved much of the apartment, polished all the brass fixtures. I had covered the parquet floors with rugs.

But, paranoid to the hilt, prior to the final état des lieux I had nightmares akin to Tom Hanks' antics in The Money Pit. In my bad dreams, my feeble attempts to patch plaster pin-holes resulted instead in gaping three-foot holes between the studs, with the landlady peering at me from the other side.

In preparation for filling my three minuscule nail-holes, I had gone to the trusty neighborhood bricolage/quincaillerie to fetch an equivalent to Spackle. Ah, Spackle: another brand-name product for which I didn't know the proper word in French. "Bonjour, Monsieur. I need the product for filling in nail holes before un état des lieux," I asked, hoping for his complicity and understanding of my predicament. I was not disappointed.

"Oh, vous voulez de l'enduit," he said, pointing to a 5€ tube of white stuff.

Hurrah. I learned yet another French household term just prior to the moment where I wouldn't ever need it again. Of course, my friends had recommended using tried-and-true toothpaste to fill plaster holes. But I happened to possess only a tube of inappropriately bubble-gum pink Irish toothpaste, which wouldn't do. I came home and applied the enduit, with only three hours to spare before the troops arrived for inspection.

The real estate guy showed up first. Then my landlady arrived. With a hint of forced cheeriness in my voice, I greeted them in the echoing apartment, and realized that -- heh, heh -- it was dark outside and there were only a few overhead lights.

We chatted amiably, took a spin around the apartment. The real estate man asked, "Do you have anything to point out?" "Non, rien," I replied in all honesty, "though you might want to fix the shower before the new tenant moves in next week."

They looked around, smiled, and said, "You have really maintained this apartment so well. It's been such a pleasure to have you here and we're so sorry to see you go." I nearly fainted.

Without blinking, my landlady wrote me a check for the full caution, and added, "I may owe you more; let me know. " Something to do with extra rent from moving in late and leaving early. We both signed the tri-fold déclaration d'état des lieux, and she laughed, "How lucky we are that it's so simple in France. When I lived in Belgium, the état des lieux form was a 20-page tome and the landlord inspected every square centimeter with a magnifying glass! It was awful!"

We laughed again and said au revoir; and for the first time since I'd known her, we exchanged bisous.

"And keep in touch when you come back to Paris," she said. She really meant it.