Boulevard Clichy, 1950s

This painting of Paris, entitled “Boulevard Clichy, Paris,” hung in our house all of my childhood. To me, it was Paris – everything that Paris could and should be. The café –its servers and clients – the gendarme, the sailor, the Morris column (Colonne Morris) advertising the next Maurice Chevalier show, the flaneurs, the street signs. My parents acquired it, I think, during a trip through Europe in 1959 or 1960.  Hmm. Is it real or mythologized Paris of that era?

Gendarme

But it was always a bit in the background; that is, I never really studied it too closely, but rather soaked up its total Parisian-ness. Did this influence my Francophilia? No doubt. But mostly I remember wondering, at a tender age, why the words “Café- Billard-Chocolat” were backwards. And the epiphany: because we’re looking at the back side of the awning.  Brilliant young moi.

When I moved to my first apartment after college, my father gave me this painting to hang in the living room. It was an instant inspiration. I loved the frame, which is a distinctly French style that I can only liken to a mansard roof perhaps seen in some Madeline books?): the edges curve up toward the center. I loved the bustling street life of Paris. The Modiste, the Cinema, the Société Générale, everything.

By the time I moved to Paris for three years, I had carefully placed the painting in storage. It wasn't until after my return that I studied it anew. Wow. Some revelations.

1. First, it really is a kind of “Where’s Waldo?” (Ou est Charlie?) of Paris café/street life in the late 1950s. So many details to discover.

French sailor with red pompom hat

2. Second, the artist got a number of details wrong. I count at least three, and that’s without spending too much time on it. Can you spot them? (I don’t include sloppy painting details -- such as the man’s umbrella impaling that poor woman -- in this tally.) It makes me wonder if it was painted en plein air or from memory.  Zoom in and check them out and tel me what you think.

3. I have figured out (I think) that this was painted from under the canopy at the famous Wepler. It certainly had a café and billiards at the time.  Any thoughts?

4. The cocher (coachman) and horse were about to become extinct. The last horse-drawn carriage in Paris (from the original fiacres) was in 1965.  There have been some attempts at tourist-y revivals since then.

5. The man in sunglasses reading a newspaper entitled La Bourse Parisienne may have indeed been reading about the stock market, but there was no such newspaper, so maybe he was using that as a cover? On the other hand, the guy hawking Le Rire is valid; it was a satirical journal published in Paris through the late 1950s.

But some things never change.  I love this lady feeding her dog at the table.

I think I might make this the new banner for Polly-Vous Francais? Just because. What do you think?

A New Year's Eve a la Francaise

Rewind to a few decades ago.  A young-ish Polly-Vous, ever the francophile, had been invited to attend a coveted New Year's Eve reception for le Reveillon du Jour de l'An at the French Consulate in Boston, at 10 p.m.  Complete with an engraved carton d'invitation.  Ready to impress her new-ish Beau with that prized invitation, she invited him first for dinner at her Beacon Hill apartment.   Her roommates were away, and she was eager to demonstrate her nascent culinary skills for a divine and romantic repast.

She set to work for an entire day on her favorite recipes from her favorite French cookbook, the Tante Marie.  The Tante Marie was and is the French counterpart to the Joy of Cooking or Fanny Farmer's.  Unadorned, classic French cooking.

The Beau arrived at 7 p.m., and they had kirs and salted nuts.  Then, mussels for a first course. Polly had carefully debearded and scrubbed the mussels; then chopped shallots and sauteed them lightly in butter in a deep pan, added the mussels and a cup of Entre-Deux-Mers. When those wine-steamed blue-shell bivalves opened, Polly and her Beau devoured them, and mopped up the dripping, savory sauce with chunks of crusty baguette.

Already this was heaven.

Add to the scenario candlelight on silver candelabrae and a crisply ironed damask tablecloth and napkins, and Puccini soaring in the background.  Fire in the fireplace and quaint lights of Charles Street twinkling outside the window.  Magic, right?

Next, Polly prepared a filet of sole au gratin, with the slightest whisper of bread crumbs and butter, baked then lightly broiled.  Creamed spinach and parsleyed steamed potatoes.  A Sancerre to accompany.

For the pièce de résistance, she had whipped up choux à la crème -- because Tante Marie had taught her how easy it was to prepare.

By 10 p.m. mademoiselle Polly and her Beau were (to be stated undaintily) completely stuffed to the gills.  But they were rapturously happy, holding hands in the flickering silver candlelight.  With a slight moan and a forced heave-ho to get to their feet from the dinner table, Polly and Beau donned their overcoats and set out in the New England frosty air to conquer the six blocks to the French Consulate on Commonwealth Avenue.  Ready to hob-nob with the elite francophile crowd for an elegant glass of champagne and a festive midnight bisou.  Polly was confident that this would let her Beau appreciate her many, many merits, on oh-so-many, many levels.

The couple was greeted at the door by Abdel, the consul's major domo, and welcomed by Monsieur and Madame le Consul in the glittering and elegant Back Bay mansion that was home to the consulate.  Polly introduced the handsome Beau to Monsieur and Madame, and she politely shrugged off her overcoat to Abdel, to emerge in her shimmering dress.  She was ready to subtly demonstrate that, although an Americaine from Boston, she had the sophistication and social wherewithal (tra-la!) to know how to be a gracious guest at a diplomatic party a la francaise.

And then Polly saw it.

Gasp.

IT.

The most impressive array of the best and most exquisite French cuisine, spread out among many tables, as far as one could see.  Foie gras, glistening chilled oysters, smoked salmon, caviar, hams, roasts, cheeses, blinis, fruits, tarts, pastries, chocolates.

(Egad!!  This invitation had been for dinner?  At 10 p.m.?  Who knew?)

With a graceful flourish of the hand, Monsieur le Consul beckoned Polly and her Beau to dine at the buffet.

Oof.

Polly exhibited a wan, green-ish smile and, in an effort to not appear not worldly, carried a small empty plate across the stands of sumptuous offerings.  Handsome Beau heroically speared a slice of ham, which he then ignored for the duration of the evening.  They wandered under the crystal chandeliers of the salons, smiling and chatting with various VIPs Polly recognized, hoping to avoid the scrutiny of the multitudes of knowing invitees who had been starving themselves for 24 hours in anticipation of this astounding French culinary and social event.

And overstuffed as they were on Polly's beginner Tante Marie home cooking, neither of them could bear to eat one morsel of the exquisite French gastronomic feast.

This, my friends, is torture.

To top it off, when midnight tolled, Polly found herself not next to her Beau, but instead, elbow-to-elbow with her arch-nemesis, and was forced to give a saccharine, champagne-laced, Bonne- Annee cheek-kiss to that dowdy, powdery, simpering old lady.  Indignation meets indigestion.

A New Year's to beat all New Year's.  Unforgettable.

But always a great tale to tell!

And so, dear friends, here's wishing all of you a brilliant and shining 2013, with many French delights and memories to savor.




image via amazon.com.

Christmas letter from Beirut, 1959

Mini-me and mini-Christmas tree 1959

Christmas time is here.  And I found among family mementos a Christmas newsletter written by my mother in December 1959/January 1960, when our family had moved to Beirut, Lebanon, for a glorious year.   I post it not to detail the minutiae of our family life, but as an archive of life in that era, certainly the early era of the Christmas newsletter.  And also?  Where I first learned French.

Younger readers may scratch their heads at the notion of a mimeo stencil required to make multiple copies of a missive.  These days even photocopying a newsletter -- or a newsletter itself --  seems so outdated, n'est-ce pas?  (And these photos were certainly not a part of the original newsletter.)

When a family with five children ages 5 through 12 picks up and moves half way around the world, I would say that it calls for a newsletter. A chronicle of expat life.  Then I wonder:  is this subtly what gave me the urge to re-live an expat experience?  And to write about it?  

I love the 1960's social norm of not writing about misfortunes (oops --  neglected to mention little Polly's two weeks in the hospital in Rome with pneumonia!?) Oh how times have changed!   Here's the letter.

Dear Friends,

What started out being a Christmas letter has ended up being a belated New Year’s message, and for this we apologize. Actually, we did mimeo a Christmas letter, but yours were the 15 or 20 envelopes we put aside because we wanted to write messages on the letters. In our own inimitable way, before we realized it, the letters were consumed and we didn’t even have a copy to make another stencil. So be it! Enough of apologia. You will get the more up-to-date news anyway.

Dad and Polly on board

The past five months have been the “pinch yourself to make sure it’s true” type. This has been a marvelous experience for us all and certainly one that we’ll never forget. Starting with the boarding of the “Bergensfjord” on August 8th right through Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Austria, Italy, Greece, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt and Jordan we have been wide-eyed and incredulous, all the more so because we never dreamed this could happen to us. We only wish we could bottle all this and bring it home to share with you………..beautiful Scandinavia with its lovely countryside, handsome people, sumptuous meals, and abundance of flowers everywhere; Bavaria with Oberammergau….. the Passion Play anticipation shown on the bearded faces of the townsmen, the delicate woodcarvings, fairy tales painted in bold colors on the houses, and the magnificent rolling countryside; Austria with its unforgettable Tyrols right outside our window, folk dancing, The Achensee 3000 ft. up where we swam in 65 degree water, Peter in his leiderhosen and our girls in Tyrolean dresses………..; Italy, after a glorious trip over the Brenner Pass, with its host of churches, monuments, and fountains… plus the usual tourist attractions…. Not to mention “Chaiou, chaiou Bambino” played nightly outside our pensione windows….. sailing out to see the Straits of Messina go by. Greece was almost the high spot… a cloudless warm day with the Acropolis silhouetted against a deep blue sky…it was all we had anticipated and more…the Olympic Stadium, the King’s palace eve to seeing the changing of the guard….we hated to leave. A brief visit to Alexandria with the inevitable “Gullah-gullah” man on the dock to greet us… the museum, the catacombs, bazaars… and back to the ship.

And here we are in Beirut. Having just put down our roots, we will be loath to leave here in June, and hope to be able to return someday. This is a fascinating city and country…. A real meeting of Eastern and Western cultures. You can walk down any street and in one quick glance take in men in tarbushes and baggy pants…. Goat-herders with their flocks, a Cadillac or Chevrolet, veiled women… men with pushcarts of brioches or vegetables… women in mink stoles… and boys and girls alike dressed in their smocks with big white collars, on their way to school. The Lebanese people are kind, generous to a fault, volatile, argumentative, and the biggest bargainers in the world! The city with its souks (markets), mosques, flea-market, luxurious hotels, poverty, and beggars is one great conglomeration.  Beirut International Airport is the third largest in the world (next to New York and Frankfurt) and it is an exciting excursion to go out there and watch the big jets taking off for spots all over the world. The countryside here is incredibly beautiful! From our balcony we look out over the Mediterranean right across the street, and by turning our heads to the right we can see lovely snow-capped mountains. We haven’t yet been able to be really nonchalant about all this… and will miss it terribly.

Even our “routine” life isn’t routine here. Having to speak French to “Information” to get a telephone number; speaking spotty Arabic with our wonderful maid, Hania; eating new foods; getting the “bukra” attitude toward life (“bukra” means tomorrow!); and living in a wonderful apartment on the sea…. Now does this sound routine? The more mundane things include the children loving the American Community School; L enjoying his teaching and research; A tutoring 4 hours a day; the usual Brownies and Boy Scouts, etc., but life will never be the same again!

Skiing in Lebanon, 1960

We have crossed the mountains into Syria for a wonderful trip to Damascus where we saw so many things we have all read about since we were children… the “Street called Strait”…the window where St. Paul escaped… the Omayed Mosque… and many others. We came home laden with lovely silk [illegible] . We plan another trip In the spring.

Shawl made of Damascus silk, seen in photo at bottom

L has had a fascinating trip to Jordan. He saw Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, and Amman, staying in the latter for 4 days with a Christian Arab family which made his trip. He even had an audience with King Hussein and has pictures to prove it! We plan to take the children to Jerusalem at Easter when it is a bit warmer.

We still have much of Lebanon to see. So far we have been to Byblos and to Baalbek, plus many lesser places close by, but are very anxious to get to Tripoli, Sidon, and Tyre. L also plans a trip to Ankarra, Turkey in the very near future. We have the traveling bug but good!

Our best trip so far, though, started on December 19th when we boarded a Viscount for a flight to Cairo. Exactly 1 hour and 15 min. later we landed at the Cairo Airport! We had an unbelievably good time there and could have easily stayed another week. Cairo was very reasonable… we seven stayed at a nice pension hotel for the equivalent of $11 a day, room and board, and the food was excellent and excellently served by a team of Sudanese in their red tarbushes and long white gallebeyas with the red cummerbunds. It was quite an experience. Of course, we had the customary camel rides at the Pyramids of Giza, saw the Sphinx, the Tomb of the Bulls at Sakarrah, the second Sphinx at Memphis, all of the lovely mosques, the Egyptian museum with all the contents of King Tut’s tomb, the Mousky bazaars, a boat trip around Gezirah Island in the Nile, and two visits with Egyptian friends in their homes which was great fun. The children were determined to get home for Christmas so we arrived back in Beirut on Christmas Eve and even had a big Christmas dinner for 14 the next day!

Expat night club life in Beirut, 1960

You can see that we are enjoying ourselves to the fullest. We have made many friends, both Lebanese and American, and it will be hard to leave them, too. We have even done quite a bit of night-clubbing which is most unusual for us… plus seeing an excellent “belly-dancer” just the other night who was a real artist.

All this description has been most inadequate but we hope we have conveyed some of our feeling and impression about this wonderful year. Our only regret is that all of you couldn’t have enjoyed it with us. We will most likely be unbearable to live with when we get back with our many slides and stories! Until then, we send you belated wishes for a very Happy New Year.  Inchallah! (God willing!)

Polly, Peter, Meg, Suzie, Johnny, L and A

. . . .

This post dedicated, with love, to the memory of my mother. (November 1923 - February 2012).  She's the beauty in the foreground of the nightclub photo.

p.s. And I was so glad to be able to re-visit my childhood memories a few years ago.

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.

The Charm of Paris

Today I did something I've never done before.  I bought a charm for a charm bracelet.  Not just any charm, but a silver miniature Eiffel Tower.

I found it in a bowlful of charms for sale at an Upper East Side rummage sale, and it was perfect inspiration for a project that has long been on the back burner: to transform my childhood charm bracelet, and update it into a necklace.

When I was 12 or 13, my father gave me this sweet silver charm bracelet.

A horseshoe, for good luck, with my birthstone, a garnet, which has long been missing.  The great state of Tennessee, where I spent my early childhood.  A cruise ship, for the transatlantic trip our family took when I was five, ultimately arriving in Beirut to spend a year in Lebanon, where I learned my first French.  An airplane (don't you love the propellers?!) for all the shuttling back and forth between parents that made me an ace traveler at an early age.

This bracelet has been relegated to my keep-forever jewelry box, but never worn in many, many decades.  I don't really wear much silver jewelry, and noisy tinkling bracelets on my arm are so distracting.

BUT.  I've seen a few charm-bracelet necklaces with mixed gold and sterling charms and found them to be  ... charming!

So next all I need to do is to find a gold (fill?) chain like this at an appropriate length, and then add  meaningful charms as I find them.  I've already decided not to use any charms with enameled color, but to stick with gold and silver.

And now I have my Paris charm -- the Eiffel Tower.  Yes, a cliche, but so much more delicate than the Arc de Triomphe. Right?

What do you think?  Any advice?  I don't even know how to remove and add the charms.  I am a total novice in the jewelry-making hobby.

I need help for charm school!

Bringing Up Bebe: A Conversation with Pamela Druckerman

Like many Americans who move to France, I have always been surprised to observe the differences in behavior between French and American kids. Seeing a 9-year-old confidently take the RATP bus alone to her music lesson. A 4 year old patiently guarding her baby brother in the stroller at the front of the store while their mom dashed for once forgotten item at the back of the Monoprix. Kids sitting at dinner tables, engaging in conversation.

So you can imagine my delight when I saw that Bringing Up Bébé had just been published. I had met author Pamela Druckerman at the American Library in Paris a few years ago. And we've kept up a bit since then. I was delighted when she was able find time for me to interview her. I just had to know more about the creation of this latest tour de force in deciphering the differences between French and American cultures.




Polly-Vous Francais: You write about so many wonderful epiphanies in Bringing Up Bébé. Was there one "aha!" moment in particular that stands out? A personal favorite?

Pamela Druckerman: I think it was the moment when a French girlfriend of mine saw my daughter, who couldn’t even stand up on her own at the time, pulling books off our bookshelves (for some reason she always pulled down the travel books - go figure). I hadn’t thought there was anything I could do about this irritating habit of my daughter’s. She couldn’t even talk! But my friend got down on the carpet with my daughter and said, very gently: We don’t do that. We leave the books on the shelves. Then she showed my daughter how to push them back in. To my surprise, my daughter never pulled the books down again. After that, I realized that I could teach my daughter things like that, and she could integrate them. It was a revelation.

PVF: How did you settle on the title? Were there other contenders for the title?

PD: I wanted to call the book Paris is Burping. My editor said what editors say when they are trying to be polite: "Let’s make it a chapter title."

PVF: Nice! I like that one. [Thinking how to translate that title...] And will the book be translated into French? Would you consider returning as a guest on (my favorite French TV show) Le Grand Journal to discuss the differences between French and American parenting?

PD: Yes, the French edition is scheduled for January 2013. Title TBD. Do you handle bookings for Le Grand Journal? :)

PVF: No, but I sat in the audience once. I hope they invite you back for a debate about French/American parenting styles. That would be an entertaining conversation! For example, which of the French parenting methods do you think you've had the hardest time accepting or adopting?

PD: I can't get used to the 5-day field trips for first graders. But I'm going to have to. My daughter starts primaire next year. And though I say “It’s me who decides,” I don’t always automatically believe it. I have to sort of rev up my inner CEO. I’m naturally picky, but I’m not naturally bossy.

PVF: Which was the easiest?

PD: It was cutting out snacks, except for the one in the afternoon. It made the rest of the day flow better. Now when my kids sit down to eat, they're actually hungry.

PVF: Do you think there is a difference between French and American attachment objects (infamous doudous in France, in U.S., blankies or what-have-you)?

PD: I'm not sure. French parents do tend to have long Freudian explanations for why their kids have attachment objects. Whereas American parents would just say the blanket or the stuffed animal is comforting.

PVF: Okay, what about French children and correct posture? Any observations? How about faire la bise?

PD: I didn't look at posture at all (though I’m sitting up straighter as I write this). Please do tell, and I'll get that into the paperback! As for "faire la bise," I probably should have mentioned that too. What are your views?

PVF: Well, I once observed a French friend feeding her 18-month-old in his highchair. She simply cooed "Tiens-toi comme il faut, mon trésor" ("sit up straight, sweetheart") before she would give him the next bite, and it worked like a charm. La bise, of course, will take a whole chapter to discuss: up to what age a child must give a cheek kiss to a visitor, etc. So much to think about! All things considered, if you could start out your own childhood again, would you rather be raised à la française?

PD: I would change nothing at all about my own childhood. And I'm not just saying that because my mother is probably reading this.

Seriously, I think like many American women I wish I had developed a healthier relationship to food early on, instead of a guilt-based one. I wish I had learned how to savor one cookie, instead of needing to eat all eight of them.

PVF: Are there any French movies that might have some examples that illustrate the difference between French and American childhoods? (The Elegance of the Hedgehog comes to mind, but perhaps others)?

PD: On a recent flight to America I watched a wonderful French film called Un Heureux événement about a French couple that meets and has a baby, and how this affects their relationship. At one point during the mother’s pregnancy, she asks the doctor whether it’s okay to swallow semen. The doctor replies: Yes, it’s very nutritious. But of course it shouldn’t be the baby’s only food!

PVF: Hahhaha! Excellent. Okay, er, switching gears here, tell me, where do you write in Paris? Favorite spots? Favorite parks to go avec enfants?

PD: I write at home or at an office that I share with seven French journalists. I'm their token foreigner. I also write in cafes sometimes, though it’s hard to find one with the right combination of laptop friendliness, good coffee, good writing vibe, and a power outlet.

With kids, I love the Tuilleries, which has in-ground trampolines and a very imaginative, sculptural playground. One of the great things about Paris is that there are playgrounds all over the place. There’s usually at least one within walking distance. And there are wonderful film festivals just for kids.

PVF: Do you think that WWAFMD* will become a household mantra?

PD: Well since I had to read that acronym five times before I figured out what it stood for, probably not! I do think a new conventional wisdom about parenting is gradually emerging in America, and that it overlaps in some ways with the French style (date nights, having kids eat more interesting foods, teaching patience…). But whatever the next phase is in America, it's not going to be a carbon copy of French or Chinese or Eskimo parenting. It will be its own house blend.

PVF: Pamela, thanks so much for taking the time to chat. This might seem totally random as a closing question, but I personally think it's related: Do you think French dogs are exceptionally well behaved, too?

PD: How did you know? That's my next book! Though if French dogs were really were so well behaved, they wouldn't leave their poop on the sidewalk.




*What Would A French Mother Do?

Travel Stories

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!

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?

Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noel. Joyeuses Fetes

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!

Salon de Provence!

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!

One of these Things Is Not Like the Other

Go ahead and laugh. Laugh yourselves silly. Hahaha. What do I care?

We all did. How I remember tears streaming down our young cheeks, holding our sides because howling with glee for so long made our bellies hurt. Just hearing the tale of our grandmother inadvertently brushing her teeth with a dab of pale blue Head & Shoulders because it was in a toothpaste-shaped tube. Our unbridled hilarity about materfamilias misfortune. (Because she wasn’t the Fun Grandmother, she was the Other Grandmother.) Imagine, she washed her own mouth out with soap! We kids were thrilled.

So, like I said, go ahead and laugh at me.

Is it my fault if French cosmetics come in deceptively-shaped packages? Is it my fault that I don’t always wear my reading glasses in the bathroom because I’m trying to remove mascara?

Have you guessed which one is not like the other?

It’s the bottle of skin lotion in the middle. The other two are nail-polish remover.

Fermeture Annuelle

I'm taking the TGV south, heading to sunny Ile de Ré for a wee vacation. Don't hate me. I've earned this R&R, by gum, and I'm planning to enjoy it. While Polly-Vous Français is on break, here are some random links for your reading pleasure.

1. This summer the US is a popular tourist destination for the French. And, although the stats have slipped a bit, Americans still lead the pack for sheer numbers of tourists in France. Hey! Why don't we all just swap houses for a while? It's a great way to get to know another country and another culture.

2. Gourmet's September 2008 issue has just hit the newsstands in the states, and it's all about Paris. Which reminds me, if you haven't read editor Ruth Reichl's memoir Tender at the Bone, do yourself a favor. I laughed myself silly. And I'll never look at leftovers, or my mother's Chicken Fitchburg recipe, the same way again. Ever.

3. Here's a cute audio book for teaching your baby French (be sure to listen to the excerpt). I wish this had been around when my kids were little. Hmm, maybe they don't. But it might have saved us from that disastrous French au pair in 1993. All's well that ends well, though. Angie, our witty, saxophone-playing English au pair, won the prize. We still miss her.

4. Uh-oh. Everyone loved French Women Don't Get Fat, right? (Except me. Sorry. I gained 10 lbs. and almost went broke after reading it. All those leeks, all that champagne...) Now it's going to be a movie?

5. Do you like Art Deco? Have you dreamed of owning an apartment in Paris? Check out Paris 1930. Stay tuned for a full article on the fabulous opportunities and the benefits of owning more modern real estate in Paris. I interviewed Gonzague Feltz, founder of Paris 1930 real estate services, a few months back. It's a great niche market, and "Zack" is smart, suave, knowledgeable -- and, um, quite handsome.

6. What? You're kidding me. You haven't read Stuff Parisians Like yet?

7. Did you know that for the cost of a métro ticket (free if you have a Navigo pass or Carte Orange) you can take a boat ride on the Seine?

Of course, if the above aren't enough entertainment for you, you can re-read the overstuffed 600+ Polly-Vous Français archives or this best-of cheat sheet if you want. Guaranteed to outdo Ambien (Stilnox en français) for putting you to sleep.

Sweet dreams and bonnes vacances!

Vive les Maries

Aunt Polly here is frantically flinging virtual rose petals, transatlantically, today.

And quietly sobbing happily, oh-so-sentimentally, into her mouchoir. Yes, I'm a hopeless romantic who believes in True Love, especially because

All School Chorus and The Beiderbecke Affair tied the knot today!

The joyous celebration begins today, but the actual (raucous?) party will be in a couple of months or so. I'll be there.

Vive l'amour, vive les mariés, and félicitations and bisous from France to the happy couple from a loving aunt.

So the years spin by

Long ago

Two decades ago today, I went to the hospital in the morning, and in the afternoon I had a sweet new nine-pound baby boy in my arms.

Later in the day my first-born, Miss Bee, came to meet her little brother. Up to then, Bee was my Tiny One: she had always seemed so cuddly and small when I held her, my adorable little 22-month-old towhead.

Someone must have added growth pills to Bee's PB&J at lunch that day, because when she came toddling in the hospital room and climbed on my bed to snuggle and to bestow her first sisterly kiss upon Harry, she suddenly seemed to be the lumbering size of a teenager by comparison. Gargantuan.

How time flies warpedly, I thought at the time. How quickly they grow before your eyes and you don't notice the increments. "The days are long and the years are short," advised Harry's godmother. It was true. Before I knew it Harry himself was toddling in his yellow Hanna Andersson overalls (in the photo above) just as his sister had the day he was born.

Now here we are, two decades later. As of today, I am no longer the mother of a teenager. Today Harry is twenty. How can that be?

To Harry: believe it or not, I remember turning twenty myself and thinking "Aagh, this is the end of the world as I know it." And it is, in a way, kiddo, but you deal with it. And it's not all bad.

Far away

From my perspective, the only better place in the world than Paris is wherever your sweetheart is. And today my Sweet Heart, my baby boy-ee is on the other side of the Atlantic celebrating this milestone without me.

I have lots of photos of both kids in my apartment to keep me company.

I have his self-portrait, painted his senior year in high school, as an award-winning souvenir hanging on my apartment wall in Paris. (Such talent!)

We can Skype and e-mail and all that. But it ain't the same. Transatlantic momma aches to be with her youngest as he crosses the threshold to his third decade.


Happy Birthday, Harry!

Daddy Doll Under the Bed

I rarely exit the American Library in Paris without a few more books under my arm. Not borrowed books, but bargain books from the 1€ for-sale shelves. Last week I picked up a copy of Erma Bombeck's collected columns. I realized, as I re-read her work, that in some ways her writing was a precursor to blogging.



In honor of Fathers' Day, in remembrance of all dads, I offer Erma Bombeck's "Daddy Doll Under the Bed."



When I was a little kid, a father was like the light in the refrigerator. Every house had one, but no one really knew what either of them did once the door was shut.

My dad left the house every morning and always seemed glad to see everyone at night.

He opened the jar of pickles when no one else could.

He was the only one in the house who wasn't afraid to go in the basement by himself.

He cut himself shaving, but no one kissed it or got excited about it. It was understood whenever it rained, he got the car and brought it around to the door. When anyone was sick, he went out to get the prescription filled.

He kept busy enough. He set mousetraps. He cut back the roses so the thorns wouldn't clip you when you came to the front door. He oiled my skates, and they went faster. When I got my bike, he ran alongside me for at least a thousand miles until I got the hang of it.

He signed all my report cards. He put me to bed early. He took a lot of pictures, but was never in them. He tightened up mother's sagging clothesline every week or so.

I was afraid of everyone else's father, but not my own. Once I made him tea. It was only sugar water, but he sat on a small chair and said it was delicious. He looked very uncomfortable.

Once I went fishing with him in a rowboat. I threw huge rocks in the water, and he threatened to throw me overboard. I wasn't sure he wouldn't, so I looked him in the eye. I finally decided he was bluffing and threw in one more. He was a bad poker player.

Whenever I played house, the mother doll had a lot to do. I never knew what to do with the daddy doll, so I had him say "I'm going off to work now" and threw him under the bed.

When I was nine years old, my father didn't get up one morning to go to work. He went to the hospital and died the next day.

There were a lot of people in the house who brought all kinds of good food and cakes. We never had so much company before.

I went to my room and felt under the bed for the father doll. When I found him, I dusted him off and put him on my bed.

He never did anything. I didn't know his leaving would hurt so much.

I still don't know why.

By Erma Bombeck, June 21, 1981

Love

It is 7 o'clock and my mother's house is still, as always, this morning. I step softly down the white wall-to-wall carpeting, past her beloved antiques and books that shaped my life. Ernest Hemingway: a Life Story. Of Diamonds and Diplomats. The Best and the Brightest. Friendly Adventurers. Our Hearts were Young and Gay. The Oxford Book of English Verse. Their Finest Hour.

Before I tiptoe out the door, I leave a scribbled note for my mother on the breakfast table, so she won't worry.

"Good morning Mom! I'm at Starbucks checking my email. I'll be back by 9:30"

I steer the car automatically down the lane, at the required snail's pace, past the white mail boxes and carefully trimmed juniper and saw palms on each lawn.

Out to the main highway, I accelerate to a whopping 35 mph to speed to the local Starbucks. I settle at the corner table with my mug of latte, log on to the Wifi and tackle the electronic onslaught. 99 unread emails in one account. 52 emails in the other account. This must be a joke! 90 percent of them relate to life in Paris. Racing to process is all. To retain some of it.

Two and a half hours. Starbucks is buzzing, the regulars gathering in the velvet armchairs, catching up with each other's news of the past 24 hours. In between attempts at focused responses to emails and calendar updates, I manage a sliver of new thought. I wonder if Hemingway's life in Paris was like this at La Closerie des Lilas? I wonder how writers ever write or wrote at cafés. The Starbucks crowd here is a back-slapping fun-loving bunch. Buddy Holly is blaring from the sound system. The barista stops by with free samples of coffeecake. So much distraction.

Nevertheless, at Starbucks I have the ability to check out Google.fr Actualités, and to find out what has been happening in France. I realize how tethered one is to the internet for access to foreign news. Starbucks is my haven for connection to the world outside this suburban island. News from France, emails from business and friends in Paris. How ironic that I never grace the doors of Starbucks in Paris. Here in my mother's town, Starbucks is Life.

Time's up. Mom will get anxious if I'm not back at the appointed hour. I whisk back down the highway, wave to the guard at the gate with her shining face, slow to a crawl as I drive past the turtles sunning on the mulched banks of the pond.

I sidle into my mother's house, hoping she's not up yet. She arrives in the kitchen in her plaid LLBean nightgown. "Where were you?" she questions hazily.

"At Starbucks." I reply cheerfully, as I have every morning. "Checking my email. Did you see my note?"

She wanders off to get dressed before breakfast.

Then, "What would you like for breakfast?" she asks, as always, carefully setting the table.

"Oh, I'm fine, thanks. I had breakfast at Starbucks," I reply.

"Mmmh." She looks perplexed, almost peeved, quizzical.

"Polly," she insists in her husky dulcet voice as she gazes at me. "What ARE star-bucks?"

Aunt Polly

It's such fun to appear to travel in the fast lane -- writing about living the woo-hoo single-again femme-fatale life in Paris. So glamorous, so wow-wish-I-could-do-that. I do try to keep up appearances.

Then. I've been "outed," in a way, as being an "Aunt Polly." AUNT Polly! Sounds like I should be flipping griddlecakes in my gingham apron. Serving up steaming wedges of flaky-fresh blueberry pie à la mode. Yikes. So un-Parisienne! But nepotism being what it is, I proudly salute Molly-Vous Français and her charming consort Monsieur Beiderbecke Affair, and have added them to my links. Molly-Vous isn't a mere niece; she was my first shot at substitute parenting before I married and became a mother myself.

I craved motherhood in my twenties, and so offered to babysit and take her for wacky jaunts into town. Of course, I would have done so under any circumstances, such a charming toddler was she. At age three Molly-Vous scooted around Boston with me, proudly mugging for photo-booth photos with her new deely-boppers, much to her delight and to her grandmother's dismay. She bravely took field trips at an early age in my extremely rusted and unsafe, but much beloved and way-cool antique 1961 Mercedes (the first car I ever owned) when she was a wee lass in the 1980s. She didn't snitch and tell her mom that the seat belts didn't function.

Molly is now about the same age I was when I took her on those first field trips. But that's as far as the auntly influence goes. She is far a better writer than I. Check out her blog, All School Chorus, and I'm sure you'll agree. It offers much literary promise, as does the well-established Beiderbecke Affair.

I, the Unemployed Ancient One, have more free time to ramble on, unedited, in my posts. They, the Writing-Degree-Bearing/Worker-Bee Bloggers, put me to shame.

But fambly is fambly.

Technology

Part One. Sometime in the early 1960s, when I was around 6 or 7, my grandmother was driving a gaggle of us young cousins home from a day spent at great-Aunt Lizzie's house, a grand old estate called Beaver Dam, in Middle Tennessee. Our simple pleasures of the day had been searching for geodes in the creek and cracking them open, sifting for fossils we called "Indian money," busily building and knocking down our own little dams, and later, wandering around the vast rooms of the antique house on the hill.

Heading home under the velvet sky of a late Tennessee evening, Grandma steered her beloved 1949 Plymouth cautiously as always, peering intently over the dashboard. The 20-mile drive home to Murfreesboro was a familiar one, along Woodbury Pike, a solitary two-lane highway. Somewhere after leaving the driveway of Beaver Dam, my grandmother made a startled gasp. She had suddenly noticed the odometer reading was 99,995 miles. She worried aloud to us what would happen when there were no more numbers left for the odometer.

99,996. Often quite a girlish prankster, Grandma was known to be theatrical; but this time she wasn't joking. She was really, really nervous. The sleepy cousins were all wide awake now and in a state of alarm. Grandma's fingers were anxiously gripping the wide steering wheel and her normally cheerful voice had an uncharacteristically frantic edge. We were doomed.

99,997. She always drove with her face over the dashboard, but now she was really intent, hunched forward.

99,998. We were heading towards Peak's Hill, at about 30 or 40 miles per hour. She slowed down to a crawl. When the odometer reached its limit, would the car stop, fall apart, all the screws and fan belts and complicated gizmos simply fly through the air? Was that the end of the life of the car? I imagined the group of us, sitting in bare car seats in the middle of the dark road, with an undone automobile collapsed in pieces around us, Grandma still holding the disconnected steering wheel.

99,999. The car crept to the top of Peak's Hill. I couldn't bear to look at the odometer and witness the certain, untimely death of the precious Plymouth. And where would we spend the night? So I glued my eyes to the dotted line in the road, watching each stripe arrive as if it were ticking away at our lives. One more line, one more line -- then what would happen to us? I thought that if I just fixed my eyes on the macadam, on the road that lay ahead, maybe we'd make it home before the dreaded End.

As we reached the peak of Peak's Hill, cousins in the back seat were standing up, peering over the driver's seat. All eyes were now riveted on the dashboard. We clutched each other and held our breath and watched as all five digits of the odometer flipped to zero. Nothing happened. Nothing. No boings, no popping springs, no tires fell off, not a hiccup in the motor. We cheered exuberantly, and Grandma shifted into third gear and headed for home.

00,001 ... 00,002....

Part Two. Somehow my grandmother's particular blend of admiration of and superstition about new technology hasn't fallen too far from the tree. These days I'm whipping through technology my grandmother never dreamed of when she died two decades ago; yet for all intents and purposes I might as well be driving that 1949 Plymouth on the internet highway.

When I decided to switch my blog template, solo, I suddenly felt that I was 6 years old again, right back at Peak's Hill. Would my blog just go BOINK and disappear, I worried?

Well, some of the elements have disappeared. I hope most will return. But I mostly hope that when I push that "publish now" button, comments will be magically enabled.

00,003 ... 00,004.....

BINGO! I have comments!

Replacing Matisse

Once upon a time, when we lived in a rambling 19th century New England clapboard house, we had the requisite suburban-family pets: a black lab and a tiger-striped cat.

Let me be more precise. We had Blackberry, an aging, winsome chow-hound whose life-list of Things I Have Eaten included an oil painting, a cord of firewood, and the contents of my son's sacks of Halloween candy, every year of elementary school. A paragon of good manners, however, she always discarded the Snickers and Twix wrappers, and anything with licorice, into a delicate pile. Blackberry's special skill was artfully worrying her eyebrows, with an anxious sideways glance at her bowl, to convince the next sucker arriving in the kitchen that she hadn't been fed dinner yet.

We had Cleo, the bulimic, bi-polar feral feline from Hell, whose goals in life were to pee on freshly folded stacks of laundry and to puke behind the sofa. Her only sliver of endearment in the bosom of our family was strictly for the theatrics. When evicted from the house for misbehavior, which was often, she slunk to the side yard. There she would play dead out on the lawn, waiting for the neighborhood mockingbirds to dive-bomb her lifeless body, whereupon she sprang up to maul them in a most unappetizing fashion. Cleo was pure Hitchcock and Hollywood. Blackberry was purebred Merchant Ivory, zapped by Comedy Central.

Blackberry and Cleo arrived in our household as puppy and kitten, within weeks of each other. Every day of her happy-go-lucky Labrador life, Blackberry, wagging and wiggling, would nuzzle hopefully toward Cleo with a friendly wet nose and a goofy doggy-smile. Every single day for 14 years, Cleo would sharpen her claws in anticipation of this ritual, then with electric fur arch her back and hiss and swat as if Blackberry were some unknown Pitbull looking for lunch.

After Blackberry's tail thumped its last sweet thump, we mourned tearfully. Cleo was subsequently outsourced to live in a barn where she could chase mice and pee at will. We were petless. Almost.

We had acquired, in the meantime, a fantail goldfish. He was christened "Matisse," as a nod to the artist's painting of "Les Poissons Rouges." When Blackberry and Cleo were still around, Matisse had served mostly as a decorative object. On the kitchen counter in a tall jar (to save him from angling kitty paws), he swam around a slender plant and didn't ask for much. An occasional sprinkle of food and change of the water were all the attention he needed. Or got.

Eventually, though, with the furry pets departed to their respective greener pastures, and the kids living away at school, before I knew it Matisse had taken on new importance in my solitary life. When I ambled downstairs in the morning in that big empty house, I had someone to talk to. Somehow we started a quirky little duet. I approached his jar, he swam to the glass and made kissy-faces at me until I got out the little red box of fish food. Seeing the famliar red, he would dart excitedly through the plant, then race to the surface to wait for his little flakes, smooching tiny air bubbles until he was fed.

Yeah, right. I know you don't believe me. None of my friends did either, until they saw it in person. This was a goldfish with Personality!

I started calling him by ridiculous little nicknames (which, of course, he couldn't even hear). Ti-ti, Teetles. "How's my little Teetlebaum today?" I would inquire. Egad, what was coming over me? I had never used cutesy love-names like that even for my own children, so why was I suddenly bestowing terms of endearment on a slimy 79-cent purchase from Petco? Thank God no one was within earshot. I embarrassed myself.

When the time came to leave that big old house and pack up a lifetime of memories, I was heartened to think of Matisse as my companion for the transition. Then, when the sudden decision came for a preliminary move to Paris, I became determined to take Matisse with me. Okay, obsessed is a better word.

I fretted about how to transport him, and the water he would need to travel in (this was before the 3-ounce carry-on fluid limits). After much searching, I found a gallon-sized neoprene jar with a handle to take on-board for the flight. I envisioned Matisse in coach class, under my seat, where I could open the lid and reassuringly feed him little nibbles.

Then I became worried whether a fish could physically sustain cabin pressure at cruising altitudes of 30,000 feet. I scoured Google. I called vets and pet shops for solutions. No one could answer my queries. Did I detect muffled snickering as they hung up the phone?

I wanted to find out about airline pet transport regulations. I swam through the maze of passenger service, cargo, and myriad customer service agents at Air France. They were polite and attentive, and said they'd look into my request. Finally, someone was listening! The agent got back on the phone after checking with his supervisor. "I am sorry, Madame, but we have no regulations concerning carrying a live fish on board Air France," he said with utmost civility. "You see, no one has ever asked to do so before." I felt sheepish, but somewhat of a pioneer.

Finally, pragmatics prevailed. I simply had too much luggage to allow me to bring Matisse to Paris. My wise friend Sheila, who had coached and aided me through the whirlwind packing-for-Paris ordeal, generously offered to care for Matisse until I could come back to fetch him. I knew he was in good hands.

When I returned to the States to touch base several months later, I had, I'm ashamed to admit, all but forgotten about Matisse. Paris had been so thrilling, such a cultural learning curve, that I'd had precious little time to think about a piscine pipsqueak in a tall jar in Massachusetts. Paris does tend to put elements of your life in perspective.

I called Sheila to catch up for lunch. "I have some bad news for you," she offered solemnly after a long silence. "Matisse died a month ago."

"Oh -- Matisse?" I said blithely. "Well, he was sweet, but after all, he was JUST a goldfish. I hope you said a 'praise be to Allah' before you flushed him down the loo!" Sheila, who had witnessed my Matisse obsession first hand, didn't know whether to be relieved or furious, I think.

Since then, I've been truly petless. I'd love to have a dog in Paris, but time and money budgets just don't allow it. And after 14 years of Cleo, I no longer fancy owning a cat.

Last Friday, after my kids had returned to the States, I knew it was time. First, I found a sack of marbles for €1 at the marché in Belleville. Then a large vase at Monceau Fleurs. A quick visit to Vilmorin Animalerie on quai de la Mégisserie, and I found her.

She was swimming, ballerina-style, unlike the hundred other clumsy poissons rouges in the tank. "Celui-là," I pointed her out to the attendant. He had a tough time catching her in his net, but I wasn't going to adopt just any goldfish.

Before I had left the store, I had instantly given her a name. "Louise," a nod to one of my favorite French authors, Louise de Vilmorin, whose ancestors started the Vilmorin seed and plant company.

Ah, you should meet my little Louisette. My Lou-Lou. Ma petite Lou-Lita-la-Belle. We already love our little morning chats, we two.

Paris Like Home

When the chillun' are chillin' in Paris for college break, we usually have a couple of modes for lodging. If it's just the two of them, they can camp out at my one-bedroom apartment, as I have two (count 'em!) sleep sofas in the living room. Granted, it gets a little dicey stepping over suitcases. And maneuvering in the one tiny bathroom (accessed via my bedroom) is another challenge: it is a salle de bains and a WC, a combination practically unheard of a decade a go in Paris, but increasingly common in apartment rehabs these days. But we're family; we can deal with close encounters and personal idiosyncrasies.

However, when the kids want to bring some friends for a visit, or plan to do a lot of Paris socializing, my apartment (and my middle-aged nerves) just can't absorb the tsunami of extra adolescent bodies and concomitant belongings. Last year I was fortunate to find a weekly rental apartment a few blocks away, overlooking the dome of Les Invalides. There they can hang out sleep until noon, have some independence, and still head home to my place for meals, laundry, and all the other creature comforts that a Mom provides. A great solution, and cheaper than renting more square meters than I need the other 340 days a year.

Jean-Patrick, the easygoing, affable owner of the apartment, showed me some of the other flats that he rents. I've been recommending them to my friends ever since. Now -- a boon to all travelers -- he has a website and an official name for his short-term apartment-rental business, "Paris Like Home."

In fact, I like the apartments so much I was torn over even writing about them, for fear that our favorite wouldn't be available next time the kids are here. But Jean-Patrick is such a great guy, so cheerful and accommodating (and speaks perfect English). So I just had to pass along the tip. But we get first dibs for next Christmas, I hope.