Going Postal

The other day I finally broke down and went to La Poste www.laposte.fr to submit a change of address form, which I hadn't done since leaving my furnished apartment at the Madeleine several months ago. My Yankee (okay, cheap) sensibilities were offended by the notion that I would have to PAY to have my mail forwarded. Look, the guys at the US Post Office www.usps.com , bless their hearts, are forwarding my Massachusetts mail to me, via international airmail, for free. Zilch. With a click of the mouse, it's taken care of. So the very idea that I would have to pay 40 euros for a year of transferring my courrier from an arrondissement merely one digit away -- harrumph! More than I could bear. Thinking I was clever, I attempted to avoid the cost by simply notifying everyone of my change of address -- or at least I thought I did. After all, I had only been at the old apartment for 5 months.

But last week when a coveted invitation to a fancy reception didn't arrive, and didn't arrive, and didn't arrive, I realized I had only myself to blame. When will I learn to stop thinking outside the box here in France?

So -- god forbid I should miss out on any social events -- I realize that I have to bite the euro, and I head to my neighborhood Poste to fill out the forwarding card. I'm getting pretty good at dealing with bureaucratic procedures, I think, perhaps a little too smugly. I come armed with the ever-important justificatif de domicile (proof of residence) and my carnet de cheques for reluctantly paying the damned forwarding fee.

Arriving at the Poste on the rue de Sevres, I am greeted by a line at least 15 people long, snaking all the way to the entrance. There are a total of 2 workers in the guichets. Since the Poste is now "La Banque Postale", some customers are there to buy stamps and mail packages, others to fill out mortgage applications. No one has any simple business. Anyone with a basic matter to deal with has high-tailed it out of there at the first sight of that line.

From my view in the nosebleed section, transactions seem to take an average of 5 - 8 minutes. You do the math.

The woman in front of me, defying the explicit "pas de chiens" sign on the door, has her nervous little cocker spaniel on a leash. It is constantly twitching as if it really needs to pee, hopefully not on my feet. An older lady sits down to doze in the chairs the Poste so appropriately provides in the waiting line. She sporadically wakes and tries to "remember" where her spot in line was, always conveniently remembering a spot about three places ahead of where she should be. She is swiftly corrected each time by her neighbors-in-waiting. Three people hop out of line and head across the waiting room to try their luck at the "Espace Pro" station when they see the Pro lady step into her guichet. Espace Pro is basically an annual subscription service you can buy in order to not have to wait in line, supposedly for professionals who have to get back to the office. (I call it institutionalized bakshish, which by the way also exists for taxi service in Paris. You can have a taxi in a split second any time you call if you pay 250+ euros per year for priority service. But complaining about that un-democratic practice would require my writing a separate Victor Hugo-length essay, aptly titled "Les Miserables".)

Have I bored you yet? I'll go on longer, as I have time to muse on all these things and many more as I ponder life's issues -- from trivial to momentous -- while waiting in this line. Next, the defeated folks who had jumped out of line realize that they won't get service in the Pro express lane ("expressholes," we used to call them in Massachusetts) and they have the temerity -- the Gallic gall -- to simply reclaim their prior slots in the regular line. Our line. They don't even ask or apologize -- they just slip adamantly back where they left 5 minutes earlier as if it's their God-given right. I'm starting to simmer.

Are you? Are you annoyed yet that this is taking so long? I stand there watching the activities of the lucky ones who actually make it to the guichet. Suddenly tones are hushed, they lean conspiratorially in conversation with the window clerks. I start thinking seriously about what I will say to maximize efficiency and efficacy with the clerk once I actually reach a window somewhere in the year 2009.

If I simply say "I'd like a change-of-address card" in French, I know that something will go wrong. If I have learned any tricks in France, I have learned not to make cultural assumptions about what I need or want. Experience has taught me that if I were to ask for something specific like a "carte de changement d'adresse", which would be a literal translation but isn't the right name, I would simply be turned away. Point final. That would be assuming too much, and such an item doesn't exist at La Poste. Lesson: deconstruct, deconstruct.

Are you writhing with boredom yet? Sorry, but this is life in the sloooooooooow lane at La Poste. I'm still musing.

So rather than assume what I think I want from the Poste clerk, I boil my needs down to the essential facts: I have moved; I need to have my courrier sent to my new address; what should I do? Lesson: don't try to sound bright -- sound needy.

Now the dog in front of me is beginning to whimper and I'm getting nervous for my new boots, which haven't been waterproofed yet.

Are you getting itchy to move yet? Are you cranky? Sorry, this is the way life is and anyway, look how we've advanced. I think there are only seven or eight people in front of us. This is Progress.

Some time in the next century I finally find myself at the guichet. I find myself doing what everyone in front of me has done: slow down, transact business sotto voce, and above all, think of everything possible in the world I could ask this kind fellow before I have to move away. Efficiency? Efficacy? Not on your life. I can stay there for as long as I need to, a minute or an hour, and by God, I'm going to exercise that right. I've earned it. Mr. Guichetier doesn't care. His job is to care only about the person in front of him. Which right now is Moi.

We find out that what I need is no simple card -- it s a legal contract with La Poste: Le Contrat de Reexpedition ou de Garde du Courrier. My new Best Friend and I start filling out the contract together. He is so nice and gentle and helpful. The contract must be filled out in triplicate, initialed in five places in the margins. Oh, and I must show him my piece d'identite. No problem, I pull out my photo ID Massachusetts driver's license. His expression changes from puppy-sweet to apopletic-apologetic-comatose. He's not exactly sure why, but he knows that this won't work. "It must be issued by the government", he says.

"It is," I explain. "The state government."

"No, this must be a passport, " he says sadly. "There is only place on the Contrat de Reexpedition ou de Garde du Courrier for passport numbers. I could try to use this but then you might risk having the request for your Contrat de Reexpedition ou de Garde du Courrier not take effect."

Those billowing waves of optimism at having made it to the front of the line are now sinking into despair. I feel a lump forming in my throat, and bitterness in my heart. I have to get around this. I have to make a deal.

"Look, I live one block away," I lie. If I run back to my apartment and get my passport, can I finish this transaction without waiting in line again?"

Deal struck. I dash frantically back to my apartment building, a mere four blocks away. My gardienne is cleaning the lobby and I have to screech to a halt and chat nicely with her for a minute, or else. Then after a final "Bonne journee, madame," I step gingerly over the wet mosaic floor, walk through the glass corridor then scramble across the courtyard. Someone else is using the ascenseur so I run up the four flights to my apartment, grab my passport. Change heavy jacket because I'm overheated now. Back down to the vestibule. I see the nice pipe-smoking author neighbor whose windows are directly across from mine. Must stop and say "Bonjour, monsieur" to him for sure, exchange pleasantries. Finally back out to the street. Oh God, every neighbor I know in Paris seems to be out on this one-block stretch at this very moment and I know enough that I must not ignore them. The nice Lebanese boulanger. The cafe owner. The epicier. I can't simply streak by them like the madwoman of Chaillot. Bonjour, bonjour bonjour. Oui oui oui. Ca va ca va ca va. Bonne journee bonne journee bonne journee. This is unbelievable. The gods are clearly laughing at me.

Okay the coast is now clear and after walking calmly out of their sight I run down the street like a bat out of hell to get back to the Poste before my Best Buddy goes on coffee break. Sweaty and out of breath, I try to regain my composure as I enter the automatic doors of the Poste. There is still a line winding all the way to the door.

Confidently, I stride up to his guichet where he is in the middle of a transaction with another lady. I stand aside, waiting for them to complete their business, then step in to complete and pay for the Contrat. I can feel the evil stares of those angry souls standing in line, all the people who didn't see me in line before or don't recognize me in my different jacket. With their glares they are shooting nasty hateful daggers at my back. They think I am the worst of line jumpers. I keep my back turned to them to deflect their stinging poison-dart curses.

They think that I am an American expresshole.

The Girl with [one] Pearl Earring

My friend Betsy is visiting Paris this week, and was regaling me with stories of her job at an important Boston cultural organization. They had a recent visit from a famous Parisian artist who arrived with petite amie in tow. Said parisienne sported royal blue hair to match her royal blue sheepskin full length coat, with matching royal blue snakeskin cowboy boots.

Paris is so full of Fashion Statements like this. We who reside here mostly just observe and make a mental note when we are in the presence of such a phenemenon. We might coyly comment about it later to a friend, but would never say anything directly to the image-maker, such as, "Wow, I really like your all-blue get-up."

Which brings me to the pearl earring. Twice in the past month I have returned home from an important social event much chagrined to find that I was sporting only one pearl earring. This has not been intentional. I think with all the scarf-coiling and uncoiling that goes on, it's inevitable that one would lose an earring. I'm peeved because in both cases it was from a favorite one-of-a-kind pair.

The difference? In the states, someone -- anyone -- would have noticed the single-earring deal, especially on some bourgeois babe like me, and warned me, "I think you've lost an earring," in the same way that anyone less than heartless would tell you if you have spinach between your front teeth.

Not so in Paris. I guess people think it's a weird, defiant fashion statement,on my part, much as the Blue Lady. Or else that I'm a clueless scatterbrain. (OK you may stop smirking now.) This also perhaps might explain why Parisian women seem to wear earrings less frequently than their foreign counterparts do. No cross-signals or gaffes on the fashion intentions. Or embarrassment at the end of the evening.

Drat. Maybe I should just wear the two non-matching pearls that remain. That would be a new fashion statement.

Don Giovanni at Opera Bastille

Just back from a superb production of Mozart's Don Giovanni at Opera Bastille. A friend had invited me so I didn't realize until after the performance was over that it was opening night. I love opera but am not enough of an opera scholar to make any real reviews. My humble opinion: it is a daring modern adaptation, with, I think, lots more bare flesh than Wolfgang ever imagined would be allowed to be shown on stage. Mostly brilliant contemporary metaphor, save a slightly unimaginative ending for what should be a dramatic deus ex machina finale. I didn't buy the program as it cost 10 euros. Grrr. Otherwise I could list cast names.

The performances were nothing short of spectacular, both in singing and acting. Brava and bravo!!

My coda to the event: taking the metro line 1 home afterwards was a whole new world for me. The station and subway cars, normally like a version of high-school study hall in their muted tones, were transformed. It sounded like a lively cocktail party. Groups of silk-clad middle-aged women; older folks, in twos and fours and sixes; and hip young couples were bubbling in post-opera buzz. The effervescence lasted at least as far as Louvre-Rivoli.

Lovez-Vous

Metro stations across Paris are emblazoned with the latest billboard ad from the Dunlopillo company, http://www.dunlopillo.fr/ for its "Lovez-Vous" Mattress. Check out their entertaining 50-year television advertising history, a nice glimpse of French histoire publicitaire.

In case you missed the message, the company's ad campaign is so very French. This is not the mattress THAT we love, it is the mattress WHERE we (make) love.

The slogan: "You'll sleep later."

Being Needy

Everybody was needy today. As I'm walking down the rue du Four it begins. A beggar with a cup, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, more plaintive than usual. "S'iiiiil vous plaaaaiit, madaaaame!" Only he is speaking to the nun in front of me. She quickens her pace and scurries ahead.

Sacre bleu, I think. If a NUN doesn't have to stop or at least have a speedbump of guilt about not stopping, I guess I don't. But I do. Feel guilty, that is -- not stop. Besides, I honestly don't have any cash on me. The phrase "I gave at the office" does cross my mind (thinking about the nun, not me). Then I feel like a heartless jerk. I hate feeling like this.

Right turn onto boulevard St. Germain, into the zone where I still get all the Saint-Something churches and eponymous streets confused. St. Germain, St. Sulpice, St. Severin, St. Michel.

No Saint Moi on this itinerary. Within short order I am accosted by an unshaven fortysomething artiste-type who grabs my elbow and requests, with an erudite accent, "Excusez moi, mademoiselle, vous n'auriez pas un euro soixante-quinze, s'il vous plait?" I have to give the guy credit for precision. I retrieve my elbow and use my tried and true ploy of replying in English. The jury is out as to whether he gets brownie points for calling me mademoiselle instead of madame.

At Odeon a nice young girl who looks like a university student approaches demurely, "Excusez moi, madame, vous n'auriez pas un ticket de metro, s'il vous plait?" This time, I answer politely, "Non je suis desolee, j'ai seulement mon passe Navigo."

Down boulevard St. Michel, two gitaines have the busy sidewalk mostly blocked. "Excusez moi, madame, pourriez vous nous aider s'il vous plait?" And I toss a non at her before she's even finished asking. "Ne dites pas 'non' madame, cela porte malheur, " she warns. Oooh, I'm getting a gypsy curse. But at this point I'm getting a little grumpy about all this begging. On the one hand, I am concerned for the plight of the needy. On the other hand, I don't expect Paris to be Calcutta-sur-Seine. I am grumpy because I feel guilty when I wish they just weren't there.

Then I escape the street and am blissfully ensconced in Gibert Jeune Bookstore. After having trekked through the layers of upper floors I linger on the main floor perusing all the guides on Paris. Jolted from my reverie, I hear a voice. A loud American voice. A glamorous, glossy, well-dressed twentysomething woman has planted herself in the center of the main floor and looks around, demanding in a clueless nasal voice, "Magazines? Magazines? MAGAZINES?!" I guess she needs her Cosmo or Vogue fix.

The sales clerk breezes by her and without even pausing he rebuffs her disdainfully, almost threateningly, "Not here".

I mean, she didn't even say 'please.'

President de la Republique

Sarkozy is in. What a dizzying 100 days we have ahead of us. Sarko? Sego? Chirac? Villepin?

This got me to thinking about the differences between France and the US in terms of political campaigning.

1. There are no bumper stickers on cars here. I also don't think that there are campaign buttons so that voters can proclaim their loyalty to a candidate. Sheesh, in the states we have had Presidential campaign buttons at least as far back as Abe Lincoln. But they are not very elegant, it's true. Not very French.

2. So how do political candidates get the word out? I can't imagine long television ads, either. Political debates and newspaper coverage? This will be fun.

3. Hmm. Exactly what is the nature of French presidential campaigns and campaign financing, if they're not spending moola on bumper stickers, pins and grossly expensive TV ads like in the US? This question led me to a tidy little website that explains, from the Elysee point of view at least, all about the Presidency.
http://www.presidence-de-la-republique.fr/elysee/elysee.fr/anglais/the_president/his_function/in_the_constitution/in_the_constitution.20028.html

It includes links to just about everything you've ever wanted to know, including all the jaw-dropping sumptuous residences that the next lucky guy or gal will get to live in, avec ou sans spouse. Francois Hollande apparently claimed that he wouldn't reside in the Elysee Palace if Sego gets elected. Mme Sarkozy prefers New York. But something tells me that, come moving day, those domestic partners will decide that the Elysee, Rambouillet, Marigny and Bregancon are not such awful places to hang your chapeau.

Frugal is such an ugly word

Anne Taintor makes all my favorite accessories. I wish they were available in France. http://www.annetaintor.com/

Huh?? Department

I know it's a cheap shot to make fun of poor translations, but when it's from an esteemed luxury store such as Hediard, you'd think they'd at least pay some translator to actually do a decent job. I had to look at the French version to understand what this all meant. Check for yourself at http://www.hediard.fr/eng/default.asp. Here it is, copied verbatim.

Located at the 21 place de la Madeleine in the 8th district of Paris, the Table of HEDIARD profits from an exceptional site.

Power station, its localization close to the rooms of spectacle and its proximity with the other Parisian districts make of it a perfect address for a business appointment or a gastronomical dinner between friends.

With the time refined and convivial, the Table of HEDIARD reflects excellence between tradition and discovered savours. It is inspired as much the market by the day as products of gastronomy resulting from the whole world and selected by HEDIARD.

From Monday to Friday: Reception from 8.30 AM to 10.00 PM Saturday and the public holidays: Reception from 12.00 AM to 10.30 PM

Advised reservation at the following phone number: 01.43.12.88.99
Carrying service.
A formula breakfast dresser is from now on at your disposal from Monday to Friday.
Price : 22 euros.
You can enjoy breakfast, lunch, tea or supper from Monday to Saturday midday.

I'm OK, You're...OK?

My friend Mirenchu is driving in from Boulogne to join me for dinner.
She calls me from her cell phone.
"Je suis OK," she says. "J'arrive dans 10 minutes."
"Okay," I reply. "T'es ou?"
"OK," she reiterates.
"Non, j'ai dit, 'ou es tu?'" I repeat.
"Oui, je suis OK." she says.
"Oh, aux quais. Okay!"

Who's on first?

Lucky Luke

Journal note: this afternoon I stood in line for eons at the Nespresso boutique on rue du Bac. There is a tall lanky guy who works there who is the spitting image of Lucky Luke.

Going once, going twice, SOLDES

Ever one to multitask, I combined my routine morning walk with checking out the Soldes, or Paris January sales, which began today. In addition to the usual hoopla about the arrival of the Soldes, this year there has been extra talk of some of the major stores going on strike because of them.

Ah, France is so consistent in its idiosyncrasies. I find this notion absolutely enchanting, But back to the important matters.

Virtually every grand magasin, every boutique is blazing "soldes soldes soldes" signs. If I thought Christmas in Paris was esthetic overload, I sure didn't know what was in store for January. Trying to clear through the visual, mental and financial clutter was too much for me, Ms. Bargain Hunter. (I think I must like to sniff out the hidden bargains, not have them pushed in my face.) So instead I wandered along the less crowded streets and did my number one favorite form of leche-vitrines (window shopping). I looked at all the real estate agencies' immobilier a louer et a vendre. No discounts available.

I won!

Exciting news! I just got unsolicited email from Micro Soft telling me that I win Prize for best Blog title. It from Madrid, so I really do not understand that but I so thrilled. They want to know all about me -- my full name, adress, phone numbers and so and forth. I guess since it a European award they did not ask for Social Security number, since they do not have those here. All they need are totally detail of bank account here so that can Transfer Money to Account! I am so excite that I didnot read all details yet but they probably want me to send little credit cards secret code number, too, just make sure that it really me and not imposter. Wow. I may never have to work again if winnings are what claim.

Do You Muji?

There are house guests and there are houseguests. Honor, my good friend from college days, was just here for a way-too-short 5 day visit. Besides the fact that we get along so well and have a blast just yukking it up together, she was a French major who spent her junior year in Paris. She was thus delightfully independent and yet we met up and did lots of fun stuff together too. Perfect balance of time spent. Plus she got rechargeable batteries for my mouse. Merci, ma chere! A good houseguest, whether or not she or he knows the city well, also ideally gets you to see Paris in ways you've not yet experienced. Honor introduced me to Muji.

How could I have not known about this place before? Muji www.muji.fr is a zen little clothing/papergoods/household goods store chain that looks expensive but isn't. Ingenious little inventions, clothing with nice clean lines, sleek dishware. Starting today at 70% off, it'll be bargain city.

Shopping at Muji gives you the same I-can-be-good-clean-and-organized New-Year's -resolution feeling that IKEA does, without having to rent a car or eat Swedish meatballs.

Le Garde-Manger

The kitchens in my apartment building all come equipped with a garde-manger, or cold closet, just like mine. This little bump-out cupboard was built into or added onto many Parisian apartments prior to the advent of refrigerators. Essentially it allows the cool air to circulate in the box through a set of slats. One can adjust the temperature of the garde-manger by a little louvered vent in the kitchen side of the cupboard doors, allowing apartment heat to escape and thus moderate chill of the food inside.

Super. Environmentally friendly, in theory. Unfortunately, what I need is its usable storage space, but not the knee-biting wind that whips into the kitchen in the morning through its doors, even when little louver is shut tight. Essentially it's like having a window open a crack 24/7. At the prices we pay for heat, this matinal mistral has gotta go!

Add one new vocabulary word for BHV shopping list: isolation thermique.

It Ain't Me, Babe

Details, schmetails...what a difference a dot makes. And is my -- face -- red!

In the states the phrase dot-com needs no explanation. Many French websites also use this -- called "point-com" -- many also use the "point-fr".

So yesterday when I scribbled my little blog post touting my 15 Nanoseconds of Fame on French TV, I inadvertantly linked to France2 point-com, which turns out to be a juicy little woo-hoo website that has nothing to do with current affairs, at least not in the traditional sense.

Fortunately, a friend alerted me to the error, and I quickly changed the link to point-fr. He recognized that the graphic was not a photo of me; that young woman doesn't have auburn hair!

She was clad in only un string no bigger than a nanosecond. I don't even own un string, yet.

15 Nanoseconds of Fame

Well, beyond the basic internet blog celebrity in which we self-absorbed bloggers all gloriously bask-- ahem -- last week I had some genuine public visibility on French television. Not a huge deal, but fun for me to have my mini claim to fame, as it were. France 2, Journal de 13h, le feuilleton sur "la code de la conduite" The links don't always work correctly, but give it a shot if you'd like.

www.france2.fr Click on Journal de 13 heures, then seances precedents for mardi 2 janvier, mercredi 3 janvier and vendredi 5 janvier.

I'm the American named Polly, duh. What a (non)star. But I managed to communicate in French! See if you can find me, like "Where's Waldo?"

Kickin' up my heels

Yesterday was a red-letter day -- my birthday. Here's what I did.

1. My hair is now a bit more auburn than it used to be. Okay, a LOT more auburn. It washes out over 6 weeks, so why not? Very glossy. I don't recognize myself in the morning. Hey, it's like having a new roommate.

2. I bought a pair of cowboy boots. Very IN in Paris, although these are not at all what I wanted. (Last month I had coveted a pair of black alligator boots at Edith Mercer on rue de Sevres. The vendeuse had praised me for having excellent taste, as the boots fetched the princely sum of 1500 euros, the most expensive item in the store. Erp, not in my budget. We all chuckled; I had hoped they were faux croco. Mais non.) So yesterday, at a much more down-scale old-lady boutique farther down rue de Sevres, way in the back where the vieilles dames never venture were these seriously marked-down fantaisie boots. "Je vous ferai un prix," whispered the nice vendeuse, and since she had my pointure, off I sashayed with these. Black leather with fancy pink and magenta stitching, a real caprice -- my little birthday present to myself, for the fabulous sum of 39 euros. Wheee.

3. Dinner at Les Editeurs. www.lesediteurs.com. Charming resturant at Odeon filled with books magazines and warm inviting ambiance. Best way to toast in a new year. Birth year.

4. Lots of Skype birthday calls from the states on my skype-in number. I love Skype. www.skype.com. Skype is life.

5. I ran into two people that I know on the streets of Paris. Makes me feel like a native. Only problem is that I didn't recognize one person, a very sweet French guy -- at all -- whom I see every week. Out of context, yeah, but he had to jump up and down in front of me and tell me who he was, and how he knew me. Very understanding. Soo embarrassing.

I can pretend to be oh-so-young, what with new technology and cowboy boots and a shiny mane, but the memoire agee will give me away every time.

Toi et moi

What's the matter?

Don't make such awful noises.

I know I put the thing in right.

What do you need -- some water?

Stop doing that!

Why aren't you doing this right?


--- Oh, god, but you're good.


Yes, I do find myself talking to my Nespresso coffeemaker in the morning.

Up in the Air

My eyes wedge partially open as I hazily awake. Before me I see a host of willowy phantoms looming in the grey predawn light. Large amorphous blobs float in the corners of my bedroom. Ghosts walking across the windows startle me to consciousness. Sitting up, I stare harder. Groggily I rub my eyes in disbelief. What IS this?

Oh. Yeah. That's right-- now I remember. Yesterday was laundry day. The billowing sheets and stiff-dry jeans are draped on opened doors and festooned in garlands across the room, hopefully air-dried by morning.

For the lucky among us, Parisian apartments are equipped with at best a lave-linge, or washing machine, but rarely with a clothes dryer. After a month or so of this existence, it becomes second nature to dry laundry indoors.

The contraptions available to aid in the clothes-drying process are truly ingenious and worthy of Nobel Prizes. (My personal favorite is a collapsible over-the-door rack that holds an entire tubful.) I am now so enamored of line-drying that I truly disdain tumble drying when I am back in the States. My god, what do you think all that LINT is in the lint-trap of your American dryer? It's pieces of your clothing being gradually eaten up.

One generation ago there were few or no clothes dryers in the US. My mother, who had five kids in seven years, bless her, always told me stories of drying cloth diapers on the radiators back in the days when my father was in grad school. Curiously, the notion of a tumbling electric- or gas-powered clothes dryer is now apparently so embedded in the American culture that lack of a such an appliance figures as an important element in the US Census Bureau's measure of poverty in America.

By contrast, today, a mere 30% of French households have a clothes dryer, a fact that I find startling because the percentage is so high. I would've guessed about 15%.

Here's my take on it: Slow down. Own fewer clothes. Take time to plan your day, your week, so that the clothes will dry and be ironed in time and you can still entertain without having your just-luxed lovelies fluttering about air-drying in the salon. Save energy and the planet.

Learn, baby, learn

The Assocation of Amercian Wives of Europeans http://www.aaweparis.org/ has recently published its seventh edition of Guide to Education in France: a comprehensive guide to educating English speaking children in France.

Emphasis on comprehensive. Wow. This book is a must-read, even if you do not have to navigate the bewildering labyrinth of the French educational system for your own kids. It has it all, as far as I can tell: from a clear diagram explaining the paths of the school system in France (from potty-training to Polytechnique) to spilling out the alphabet soup of acronyms for French degrees, programs, associations and government agencies. But above all, this 308-page manual is clearly lovingly edited to really be helpful and explain how things work. Not always a given here, I must admit.

And education doesn't stop at childhood nor at the school room door, of course, so there is an informative section on continuing ed programs for adults. Info on where to get English language videos, books, and magazines. Where to find the Girl Scouts, play groups, and SAT prep. Where to go for more information. See what I mean?

I sing soprano in the upstairs choir

Last fall I nervously auditioned for and was happily accepted to the Paris Choral Society www.parischoralsociety.org. My friend Nancy, one of its founders 13 years ago, sold me on it, explaining that it was a great experience, mostly requiring decent sight-reading skills, dedication and, of course, a good voice. Having done a lot of choral singing in the past, I was accustomed to the level of commitment and training required. What a thrill it was to belong to such a renowned group, especially after such a short time in Paris.

What I hadn't anticipated was how much FUN it is. The PCS, as it is called, is a multi-age, multi-nationality group -- a choristers' United Nations, of sorts. Our hallowed and witty director Ned Tipton conducts the rehearsals in both French and his native English.

I can't say that joie de vivre is a requirement in order to join, but it sure is contagious once you are there. Rehearsals, every Monday night, are punctuated by a half-hour "pause" with wine, cheese, pate -- whatever is supplied by that night's section as refreshments. Conviviality and I daresay improved singing in the second half of rehearsal are the results of a plastic glassful of bordeaux and some quiche, and lots of conversation. The members are mixed with a group of folks from all walks of life -- from students to corporate bigwigs. Gathering around the long table at our break, we basically have a little party every week. Such a life!

If you are tempted, the Paris Choral Society is auditioning choristers for all voice parts on Saturday January 13th.

Please call Nancy Brune 06 72 01 31 61 for more information.

Tell 'em Polly sent you.

Ces petits riens parisiens

This is a funny little website by Parisian author Stephane Rubin. All the little pet peeves of living in Paris, illustrated wittily.

N.B. The French in these sketches is pretty colloquial, but a good way to practice contemporary language skills, if your French needs upgrading.

They make me laugh and laugh. Grrrrr!

http://www.petitsriens.com/bonus.html#

Bonne Annee

Bonne Annee!

These piccolo champagne bottles, from Champagne Pommery, available at the check-out counter of my local Shopi Supermarche in the 7th arrondissement, are all the rage. Most fascinating is the fact that they come with free sipping straws. (God forbid anyone should be seen drinking directly from a bottle.) At 10 euros a pop, these are not for mass consumption.

Anyway, reflecting on their tiny size, I thought it might be an appropriate seasonal moment to rehash the various sizes of champagne bottles:

Piccolo : from 0.187 L to 0.2 L
Split: 0.375 L
Standard bottle 0.75 L
Magnum: 1.5 L
Jeroboam: 3 L
Rehoboam: 4.5 L
Methuselah: 6 L
Salmanazar: 9 L
Balthazar: 12 L
Nebuchadnezzar: 15 L
Melchior (also called Solomon): 18 L
Sovereign: 25 L
Primat: 27 L
Melchizedek: 30 L

Here's wishing everyone a New Year filled with a Melchizedek of joy, prosperity, happiness and good cheer.

A votre sante!!

New Year's Resolutions

While my darling jet-lagged adolescent chickadees continue to sleep, I have ample time to reflect on the cliche of resolutions for the new year. I think, perhaps, this is more an American phenomenon and tradition; intuition tells me that the French make their resolutions at la rentree in September. Voici les miens:


1. I will finish assembly of the IKEA desk that I bought last May, once customer service sends me the right parts.
2. I will overcome my fear of going into my cave and put away the fans I bought during the canicule last July.
3. I will limit my internet Scrabble addiction to one game per day.
4. I will not set foot in La Piscine or Le Mouton a Cinq Pattes. Or if I cannot restrain myself, I will leave my wallet at home. (Apparently I am genetically incapable of exiting from those discount boutiques without a coup de coeur purchase in a bag.)
5. I will read a French newspaper every day.
6. I will clear an entire day in my calendar for dealing with France Telecom so that I can actually watch the cable television I've been paying for since August.
7. I will entertain at least once a week, thereby overcoming my natural laziness, angst about cooking poorly in France, and embarrassment of not having my "real" furniture in Paris -- yet.
8. I will learn how to execute all manner of technical procedures: using my digital camera's various functions, backing up my computer, transferring Outlook accounts, using French accents on my keyboard, switching Blog serivce providers, understanding URLs, RSS, feeds, hyperlinks and so forth and then REMEMBERING how to deal with them. If I'm on a roll I might even learn Excel.
9. I will practice, practice, practice writing down French phone numbers as I hear them on voice mail so that everything over 70 will be properly transcribed. My friend Isabelle promises (threatens) to give me little dictees, just for good measure.
10. I will enter all my Parisian friends' digicodes on my portable. Actually, make this #1 on my list. It's too cold outside these days.

City of Light

For anyone who thought my "Christmas Rant" post about muzak, tinsel and lights was too harsh, too critical, too grumpy -- I humbly apologize.

For everyone who nodded in agreement -- you're invited for dinner any time. To set the record straight:

I love Christmas.

I love Paris.

Now, please read this New York Times article by Elaine Sciolino, about a Frenchman who really speaks my language in terms of tacky lighting in Paris: "It's so Las Vegas," he says.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/23/world/europe/23jousse.html?ref=travel

Bonne Annee!


P.S. When I can figure out how to get comments, feeds, and all other technical matters working in this blog, I'll be one happy, techno-savvy woman. Meanwhile, email me at pollyvousfrancais@yahoo.com.

Try Me!

Santa -- I mean Pere Noel -- also got me this "Talking Polly" annoying play-back toy which is actually kind of a hoot. The funny thing is, Pere Noel explained to me, that none of the French elves in Jouet-land could figure out what was so amusing about this battery-operated squawker. "Did you explain to them that all parrots are called 'Polly'?" I asked.

"Mais non," said Pere Noel. "En France tous les perroquets s'appellent 'Coco'."

Maybe that's why I love France so much - no pollywannacracker jokes.

email me: pollyvousfrancais@yahoo.com

Joyeux Noel

Here's what I started to write:

Pere Noel was very kind to me and left an antique Citroen 2CV toy car under the tree to add to my collection.

Papa Noel's TRUE present(s) will arrive at CDG on Wednesday morning in the form of two beautiful offspring (mine!), Bee (20) and Harry (18), arriving from Boston. It just hasn't been Christmas without them.

Instead, here's the email I just wrote this morning (after indulging in hot tears for 5 minutes):

Dear Bee,

How awful about forgetting your passport in South Carolina! I got your phone message when I woke up this morning. It's terrible that you just discovered this last night and didn't check when you got to Massachusetts a week ago. Anyway, call me immediately when you get up.

Meanwhile -- in writing:

1. In the morning first thing you MUST go to Fedex office to retrieve the airline tickets that I sent last week.

2. Armed with tix, you must call Virgin Atlantic to see what you should do in case of "no passport" but you will have it by the next day. Find out the following: can they accommodate you on another flight? How much more will it cost? If you take a different airline just to get over to Paris/London, would you be able to use the return portion of the ticket? (Many airlines don't allow you to use the return part if you haven't used the part to get there.) The same will need to be done for British Midlands, London - Paris, once you have the answer from Virgin Atlantic.

3. Delta has a one way ticket from Boston to CDG for $346 for Dec 27 or 28. Can you scrape together the money for that, assuming of course that Virgin will let you use the return portion of the ticket?

4. I can't do any better than this to help you, sweetie. This was already really stretching it for me-- I paid for your tickets out of savings because I want so dearly to see you at Christmas. I can't do more. I wish I could. Let me know what phone calls I can make, if any. I'll be running errands etc. getting things done for Harry's arrival, and hopefully yours the next day.

5. Do you know where your passport is at your apartment and will your boyfriend be able to break in and find it and Fedex it in time for a next-day flight? Will someone be at Dad's when the passport gets Fedexed so that you don't have the same runaround with Fedex again?

I hope we'll still be able to have a merry Christmas together. No time for lecturing now -- we already know all that would be said. Time and money are finite and precious commodities, time together being the most precious of all.

Love,

Mom

pollyvousfrancais@yahoo.com

Do Not Adjust the Knobs on Your Set

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Don't attempt to adjust your knobs on the television. The images that you see are real. It is not a fun-house mirror. You are not in The Twilight Zone.

You are on avenue George V, one block from the Champs Elysees.

Paris is so creative with scaffolding covers. This one's over the top.

O Beau $apin

Ho Ho oh la la. My fir$t ever Chri$tmas tree in Pari$. I picked it up around the corner at Monceau Fleur$ and carried it home my$elf. 46 euro$ for a tree that i$ $horter than I am. That'$ about 62 dollar$ at the current exchange rate. I gue$$ we pay extra for the tree $tand -- half a yule log with a hole drilled in it.

I am agha$t. Pere Noel need$ to lighten up on u$. Now I under$tand why many of my friend$ here buy a fake tree.

$hee$h!!

French Women don't Get Fat but Americans Do

Okay, I admit it. Since arriving in Paris last March I have experienced the newcomer's equivalent of new college co-ed's "Freshman 15" -- gaining the dreaded transitional weight. Fortunately, the "French-man 15" I had gained was calculated in kilos (whew -- divide by 2.2, so it seems better!!) and not nearly the prototypical avoirdupoids amount-- probably about 4 kilos. Too much delicious food and wine, and justifying every bite with "I didn't move to France to eat Clif bars." However, when my "fat" jeans couldn't close any more without pinching flesh in the zipper, AND the dollar/euro exchange rate made acquiring a new wardrobe not only depressing but usurious, I decided that it was time to fight back.

In the States I often would forget to eat a meal, too preoccupied with work or gardening or other projects. Really-- two years ago I was referred to in a Boston gossip column as "she with the chiseled features." Now here I am in Paris, of all places, feeling like "she with the camel features" -- too many bumps and lumps, in the wrong locations.

Oh, don't even ask. I've been practicing what all the "find your inner French woman" books recommend, and in fact had already living that way that for years without reading their ideas. You know: walk walk walk, take the stairs not the escalator or elevator, don't eat lots of bread, no snacking between meals, yadda yadda yadda. To no avail. How DO these Parisian women do it, I wondered?

Then I took a poll of my French female friends. They ALL go to the gym.

So, girding myself for that experience, I walked -- briskly of course -- over to the Club Med Gym on the rue de Rennes. The Paris Club Med Gym chain www.clubmedgym.com/ is just about the only game in town, as far as I can see, with the exception of private clubs or the uber-expensive Ritz or Meurice spas. (And one other terrifyingly hip all-chrome-and-glass place near the Opera.) Club Med is your basic pay-as-you go American-style gym. After entering the big 19th century cobblestone courtyard, I walked through the door and found a pleasant and run-of-the-mill modern facility. Vincent, or Benoit, or whatever the nice young man's name was, showed me around; and then I saw, to my horror, some Parisian ladies about my age looking drop-dead gorgeous and totally toned in their calecons and debardeurs as they leaned against the elliptical machines, subtly preening in full view of the men on the rowing machines. Damn. How could I even show up with my American corporeal baggage, love handles and all?

Well, that panicked moment was 10 days ago. I have since then been doing the body-fitness equivalent of "cleaning up the house before the house cleaner arrives," i.e. getting in shape BEFORE I set one little pied in the gym, just to save -- um, face?

Clad in my sporty new gym clothes from Decathlon http://www.decathlon.fr/, I'm now almost ready to face the treadmill, the abdo-fessier lessons, the hammam. I've got a long way to go. But watch out, you gorgeous Parisiennes, me voila! Let somebody else eat cake.

Stop the Muzak, Turn Down the Lights

Will someone please tell owners/managers/clerks/emcees of Parisian retail establishments to please turn off the tacky music?

Especially the annoying American music.

Every time I hear "Santa Baby" over various stores' airwaves -- and that's a LOT -- I want to scream and tell them that do they know what terrible images of overweight Kirstie Alley it conjures up?

It's not just Christmas music, either. Oftentimes it's the top-40 most irritating pop songs from the 60s and 70s, such as the all-time worst "I Started to Cry" and other grating tunes. Not what you want to having ringing in your ears. (What was wrong with that guy's voice, anyway? Was he down a well?)

I don't know which Parisians decide that this is cool or even vaguely appealing.

Ditto for the hard core rap songs that blare in the Biguine hair salons (and most of the others too). Hey guys, look around at your client base -- not a soul under 40 most days, median age probably 55. But I digress.

Okay and here's my final Bah-Humbug. Did anyone ever explain the concept of "less is more" to the Parisian holiday light & decoration brigade?

I absolutely adore some of the Christmas lights that make the city sparkle. And some big store holiday displays are simply spectacular. But many of them are simply gaudy, gilding the lily at best. And please, let's go easy on the tinsel. Paris is a beautiful city, as everyone knows so well. If you are an elegant Grande Dame, you don't need to over-dress in too much blue eyeshadow and cheap paste jewelry, just because it's the holidays.

Checking 'em Out at the Check-Out

Is it me, or does the check-out line at the home delivery section of Carrefour tend to be a flirting magnet? First there was Mr. Tousled Hair . Then last week, a new round.

In the livraison a domicile line in front of me was an attractive grey-haired man. Nice Italian loafers, crisp blue button-down shirt and jeans -- an air and slight paunch of healthy affluence and joie de vivre. No wedding band! He was pushing a tottering pile of party food in his cart. Shrimps and patés and crackers, chocolates, heads of lettuce, hams, pickles, sparkling water, cheeses. Cases of champagne and bordeaux and Kronenburg trailing behind on the floor, unable to fit safely in the oversized grocery caddie. As there was another full cart ahead of him, Mr. Party disappeared into the depths of the store to retrieve a few last-minute items. He returned five minutes later with four roasting chickens. With a winning smile he apologized for abandoning the line. After he inched his groaning cart forward, we exchanged some witty pleasantries about where to find a certain items in his pile. "I sell eet to you for a price!" he teased me charmingly as he disappeared again to get some thing else. More chickens, I wondered?

Another eight minutes later the young couple at the head of the line finished transacting all of their business. Mr. Party was no where to be seen. The cashier was waiting, I wouldn't have moved in front of Mr. P's cart, but I literally couldn't anyway, because his beer and wine cases on the floor were too heavy for me to maneuver. So, in order to get the process going, I simply began unloading his items onto the conveyor belt. The clerk and I were doing our female-bonding tut-tutting about men and grocery shopping as I uncovered squashed tomatoes (under wine bottles!). Finally Mr. P returned, really apologetic and funnier than ever, thanking me profusely. He eventually got to the bottom of his cart, where a case of eggs 100% broken was oozing yolks all over the floor. More jokes, shrugging shoulders. Would we wait while he returned to get a new flat of eggs?

Why not? At this point the party was happening right there at the caisse. He thoughtfully offered to leave a check and his carte de visite (we laughed about this too -- he meant to say carte d'identité) with the cashier so the order could get processed. I peeked at the carte. He was Belgian. But darn -- I couldn't find the age or name without my reading glasses.

Eggs returned. He then disappeared yet again to get a discount card, but as he was mostly finished the cashier was able to begin processing my order. I didn't have my discount card with me, I explained to her, thinking that since I had been so nice and helpful and we had "bonded", she would give me the discount anyway, like at Stop & Shop in the states. No way.

Just then the prodigal Mr. P returned, and, smiling broadly, offered "Why don't you use MY discount card? It's the least I can do."

"Ah-ah-ah," said the cashier, "you can't do that. Madame here has already explained that you two are not together."

"Ah, but we are," he protested, eyes twinkling. "For several months now, we are together. Un vrai couple! Actually, I must admit, it's quite longer than that. Madame and I and I actually have three children together," he added with a concupiscient nod in my direction.

"Oh, oui," I chimed. " It's just that the children are not au courant about the matter."

That totally won Mr. P. We had successfully out-charmed each other in this little encounter, so now, alas, it was time to leave. In a flurry of goodbyes and thank yous, he dashed off to his next errand.

"Don't forget to mail my invitation!" I laughed, only half kidding.

Nevah Weah Leopard before Noon

"Dahling, nevah weah Leopahd before noon!" was a punch line many moons ago from a great "ladies in leopard" anecdote by my Massachusetts friend Cee-Cee. Leopard just wasn't very New England. My gal pals and I used to snicker about such things.

Before I left my prim coastal community last winter I had to de-accession clothing that I presumed would be inappropriate for my new life and closet space in Paris. So, sadly I sent my unworn Ferragamo leopard flats up for adoption at the local consignment store. I really grieved, if it's possible to grieve for a pair of shoes. (Some of you will understand this. Others will think I'm nuts. Both are correct.)

They had been such a find -- in my hard-to-find size in Filene's Basement, gorgeous leopard-print suede ballerina flats, for an unbelievable bargain of $49. Honest-to-god brand-new Ferragamos. I had bought them on a whim two years before, and then rarely had the chance or gumption to wear them in Boston, what with the noon rule and all. Besides -- a divorced woman, in leopard, in Boston? Dahling, puhleez.

So imagine my utter extreme terrible heartbroken dismay to discover that this year in Paris, leopard is not merely acceptable, it is all the rage, 24/7. De rigueur. Fashion note: just one article of leopard at a time, s'il vous plait.

If they even made that style this year, a pair of those shoes would fetch about 275 euros at the Ferragamo boutique on rue du Faubourg St. Honore.

Do you think I could get that consignment shop to return those flats to their birth mother?

For Political Parties??

Quick! When you think of French bureaucrats, politicians, elected officials, what comes to mind? I bet the words "humor", "witty" "clever" were not first on your mind.

Well, think again.

At the new and newly stocked Boutique of the Assemblee Nationale, there is a myriad of delightfully funny gift items, perfect for the avid politics-lover (or hater!) on your holiday gift list.

Included are items such as the Gauche and Droite oven mitts pictured here , which I bought for my friend the journalist who has to dwell deep in Sarko-Segoland every day. These are also available in socks for men and children, cufflinks, mugs, and more. There are T'shirts reading "100% Pour" or "100% Contre". You get the idea. Self-effacing and funny. And most are at stocking-stuffer prices. Erasers shaped like Marianne, for 1 euro. And more mundane products, for sure, reflecting the sobriety and importance of the institution.

No, they weren't drinking bourbon at the Palais Bourbon when they came up with some of these, but a number of them were conceved by senateurs or deputes with esprit.

Among my favorites: his-and-hers director's chairs labeled Depute and Deputee, and a book of "perles" which are actually malapropisms excerpted from real discours in the Assemblee.

And they gift wrap for free, cheerfully.

www.assemblee-nationale.fr 7 rue Aristide Briand in the 7th arrondissement. Open Monday - Saturday 10 am to 7 pm.

Mysteries of French Washing Machines

I got back to Paris after a 10-day trip with lots of laundry to do. When I went to the kitchen to start a load, to my utter dismay I discovered that a previous load of clothes had been washed but never removed, and so had sat in the machine for the entire period without hanging up to dry.

I admit that I am sometimes laundrily-challenged in that way. In my Massachusetts laundry days, such a lapsus would have meant a tub full of sour, mildewing laundry requiring pints of Clorox and several subsequent washes and rinses. A drill I know all too well.

Not so with my weird little French lave linge. The clothes had been spun almost completely dry, and smelled lavendar-lovely. After 10 days! I'm not even going to try to figure that one out, and just be glad that I have something to wear.

France 24

M. Alain de Pouzilhac
President and Directeur General
France 24
Issy-les-Moulineaux, France

Dear Monsieur de Pouzilhac,

It is with delight and eager anticipation that we await the initial broadcast of France 24 on December 6. This exciting venture, which will give France a competitive edge on Fox News and CNN, is certain to put France in the forefront of the global telecommunications scene.

I understand that you have invited 12 bloggers from around the world to attend the launch and visit the studios. There are a number of bloggers right here in Paris who would be glad to join them, and no need to buy an airline ticket! When people worldwide want to know what's really happening in France, they look to The Paris Blog to get the inside scoop. So we are a natural partner for France 24.

Wishing you the very best in your new endeavour, monsieur, please accept the expression of my most distinguished salutations,

Polly
Polly Vous Francais

p.s. resume enclosed

Information, please

Here are some of my favorite reources for making life in Paris go a little more smoothly.

1. www.pagesjaunes.fr Obvious for a number of reasons, including the predictably useful pagesblanches tab. Extra astuce: if you can't remember the name of the place, just plug in the street name and browse through the listings. Also excellent for looking at aerial views of where you and all of your pals live. And webcams of various parts of Paris. Great map feature.

2. www.ratp.fr I can't live without this. Best ways to get across Paris by public transportation. Plug in your destination and preferences (mode, fewest connections, fastest, least foot travel, etc.). Voila!

3. www.mappy.fr This of course is the French equivalent to MapQuest, but I find it much more user-friendly. Great for those of us who like to get around on foot, but equally good for getting yourself out of town by car.

4. http://www.prefecture-police-paris.interieur.gouv.fr/circuler/MenuTheme.htm
This site from the Prefecture de Police of Paris will tell you which of the above transportation routes are disrupted this week by local manifs, defiles, visites d'etat, and so on.

5. http://www.paris.fr/portail/marches_parisiens/Portal.lut?page_id=5675&document_type_id=5&document_id=10926&portlet_id=12148
This tells where all the outdoor markets are, by arrondissement. Basically, getting to know the www.paris.fr website is the most bountiful resource of all.

Hallelujah!

If you feel like getting in the holdiay spirit and belting out some fine music, now is your chance. Join the Paris Choral Society this Sunday, December 3 for its popular annual Handel's Messiah Sing-Along (Christmas portion + Hallelujah Chorus).

No auditions.
No experience.
No commitment.
Enthusiasm helpful.
Festive occasion assured!

Best to arrive early for good seats. Concert begins at 4 pm. 10/15 euros. American Cathedral, 23 av. George V http://www.parischoralsociety.org/

Reading Balzac in Paris

Okay boys and girls, sharpen your pencils and pay attention. This is a multiple-choice test.

Please answer the following question. Why did Polly buy a copy of Le pere Goriot by Honore de Balzac last week?

( ) A. She analyzed the list of books in her blog post and was embarrassed by how vapid it seemed

( ) B. She is having lunch with her former 19th-century French literature professor next week and wanted to be au courant.

( ) C. Blessed with an aging memory, she can re-read it without remembering the plot.

( ) D. She was leaving on vacation and wanted a good read that looked vaguely intellectual while on public transportation.

( ) E. Everyone who moves to Paris must read this book.

( ) F. All of the above.

Of course the correct answer is F, you sillies. You knew that all along, so you get an A+.

Answer explanations.

A. The books weren't all vapid, but mostly lightweight. The most intellectual book in the List was Les Cent-Jours by Dominique de Villepin and I couldn't really make my way through all the footnotes (is he like that in real life, qualifying every statement with someone else's opinion?). In all honesty, I had only bought his book because I actually encountered the Premier Ministre walking home one day (he lives in my neighborhood), and hoo-boy, is he handsome! He even nodded "Bonjour" to me with a slight smile. So, I reasoned, if I ever saw him again I wanted to have something to mention other than French politics while my knees wobbled in appreciation. Such as gushing, "I loved your book." Otherwise I'm actually quite shy and don't know what to say to famous people. Or any people.

B. Ten years ago I got a Master's degree in French literature. One of my dear professors is in town right now, staying at her little pied-a-terre on rue du Bac. I remember 10 years ago in class listening enviously to references to her Paris flat and drooling just thinking how lucky she was. Now I'm living the dream, around the corner in the 7e, to boot. We're meeting next week, and our conversation is sure to be peppered with lofty literary references. So I don't want to blow it by sounding like a dunce and make her wish they'd never given me that full scholarship.

C. I've read Le pere Goriot several times over the past 30 years. Who said aging isn't fun? You can hear jokes, read entire novels, over and over, each time with virginal enthusiasm. No plot spoilers here! What could be better? I've just read the same page 3 times without realizing it until I'm half way through. The fog in Paris isn't only in the air.

D. Okay, c'mon everyone, admit it. You don't want to be seen everywhere reading Gala magazine all the time, do you? Right. So if I want to project the intello-feminine image, Le pere Goriot is fine, and so ...non-threatening. Plus, it fits easily into carry-on luggage. It isn't quite the calibre or heft of, say, War and Peace, but I also have a hard time wading my way through more contemporary authors like Yourcenar. And Proust is fabulous but definitely not airplane reading.

E. If you haven't read Le pere Goriot ever or even in the past 10 years, and you live in Paris or simply dream of living in Paris, you must read this novel. Why? Because in my book, it's as relevant today to the get-to-know-Paris learning curve as it was in 1835 when it was written.

F. So kiddos, stop reading this little blog post right now and go to your nearest bibliotheque or librairie or Brentano's or Smith's or the American Library in Paris and get a copy of Le pere Goriot in whatever language you read best. Here's just a taste:

"Paris is in truth an ocean that no line can plumb. You may survey its surface and describe it; but no matter how numerous and painstaking the toilers in this sea, there will always be lonely and unexplored regions in its depths, caverns unknown, flowers and pearls and monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by the divers of literature."

Scram -- va-t'en! Start reading.

You can thank me when you've finished the last page and you decide to name your poodle Rastignac.

Noisy Neighbors, part I

A visitor from the States swung by my apartment the other day to help me load my suitcase into a waiting taxi. He lugged the luggage to the building courtyard while I closed up the apartment. When I got down to the front door I found him ambushed by my first-floor neighbor, an otherwise sweet but old-fashioned and very fussy octogenarian, who was berating him for making too much noise in the evenings. She mistakenly thought he was the new tenant in the apartment above her on the 2e etage.

My pal just kept smiling and nodding his head, having little understanding of what she was saying, and even less knowledge of what to reply. Here's what he heard: "monsieur...s'il vous plait... pantoufles .... bruit.... plafond.... porte ...dormir...." Most of the vocabulary and verbs sailed past him. Not that he had a chance to get a word in.

As we hopped into the cab the lady must have felt a huge sense of relief having gotten all that off her chest. And is expecting improved behavior.

It reminded me of this Far Side cartoon: What We Say to Dogs/What Dogs Hear.

I swear!

I've been finding that I talk to myself a lot lately. Certainly something to do with age, with living alone.

The good news is that I'm muttering in French. "Ou est-ce que j'ai mis mes lunettes -- encore? " and "Je ne vois pas du TOUT ou est l'arret de l'autobus dans ce quartier." Things like that. (Don't worry about translations. It's just mumbling.)

And even when there is something that annoys me, like bumping into a protruding table leg or finding a hole in a sweater, I'll utter a little "aie!" or "merde!". So very French I am becoming, n'est-ce pas?

So, for example if I am skittering down to the subway to do some Paris exploring and just miss the subway car, I might puff out my cheeks and whoosh an "Ah, merde!" to myself. And wait for the next car.

On the other hand, if I am sitting in my pajamas in my apartment drinking cafe au lait and the phone rings at 9h45 and it's my French colleague saying "Where ARE you the meeting started 15 minutes ago" and I mistakenly thought her changement about the meeting was moving the time to 2 and it was moving the address to a 2 and I had been hoping to impress Mr. Big Businessman by being so Audrey-Hepburn-elegant and professional and so I lie and promise to be there in half an hour and I take the world's quickest shower and slap on Hermes body lotion and face brightener and guzzle mouthwash and verrrry carefully put on mascara and blush and throw on clothes that should have been ironed and rush out the door and stampede through the street and down the stairs of the metro station and accidentally stomp on the ankle of the kneeling woman with the "S.V.P. aidez moi" cardboard sign and toss out a "pardonnez-moi madame!" and then wonder if beggars are supposed to be addressed as Madame and dash down the smelly corridor as I hear the train's doors squealing as I run run run to the platform and the doors slam shut in my nose,

then I shout, "F*CK!!!"

Actually, since I have read Kirsten Lobe's delicious novel, "Paris Hangover," I now say, "f*ckityf*ckf*ck" which actually may sound a bit more ladylike and delicat. It sure feels better.

I don't think Audrey Hepburn ever said the f-word. Now that I'm living in Paris I'm trying SO hard -- really, I am -- to be more poised, more sophisticated, more civilized; and somehow, when I am speaking in French, I can do this. It's a different me, in a way. So, what language I speak makes a difference in who I am. In French I am more French, if that makes sense.

But it is so funny, how emotional peaks and valleys can elicit responses only in one's native tongue. Walking across the Pont de la Concorde one afternoon last week and seeing the western Paris sky at sunset, vermillion, salmon, rose, lavender, gold -- I unexpectedly belt out "Oh WOW!" and then catch myself and return to my adopted "refined" French comportement. There are, er, other times, too, when dialogue is flowing and engaged and in French, but in the heat of the moment suddenly arrives there just aren't words to automatically express that particular intense emotion en francais.

And last summer, wandering through BHV with my daughter, we hear the usual announcements over the department store public address system. Then we turn to see the hair-gelled, smiling man next to us crooning "Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs" into a cordless mike, and it is HE who is making the store announcements, live. I burst an American style (almost hyena) guffaw and screech, "Omigod look -- it's him!" Yes, customers on all 5 floors of BHV heard Polly's so un-French comment broadcast by that live mike.

In Paris, I try to channel Audrey Hepburn, but sometimes Lucille Ball unexpectedly puts in a suprise showing.

Visitor from the Black Lagoon

I am learning (from my French and American friends in Paris) the perils of having all the people who were never nice to you in the US suddenly being your best friend when they think it means a free place to stay in Paris. Real estate is very expensive in this city, and people rent/own just what they can afford. Almost no one keeps an empty guest room - that's not only wasteful, but I’ve just learned that we all must pay a taxe d'habitation based on the square metres of space occupied divided by the number of people living there. So it’s no surprise that residences tend to be small.

Then of course there are your truly dear friends from “home” who would love to come to Paris (and whom you would GLADLY lodge on the sofa for months for the mere pleasure and delight of their company) who, because they are so thoughtful and sensitive, don't even ask to come because they wouldn't want to inconvenience you. What terrible irony! These are the ones you truly want and need.

Evidently everyone falls into this when they first move to Paris and then they learn.... about the evil houseguest. My learning saga:

First, I hardly know him. I'll call him "Sam". We had a couple of dates in New York before I moved to Paris, dates at his brownstone in Brooklyn that were okay but basically went nowhere. Highly opinionated, self absorbed yet thinks he's helpful in his critiques and observations, he can't understand why he has a hard time getting along with his children. I hadn't heard a word from him in a year. Or cared to. Then suddenly when I was back in New York last month I got an email from him saying that he’dl be in Paris in November and he'd "love to see me" -- he would be staying with old friends in the Marais.

Now to be fair, at the moment I had some other romantic prospects here in Paris, and so I naively thought it would at least be good to parade around some American "competition" to get the message delivered, testosterone jump-started, etc. I don't usually do this, but it was all to bolster my self-esteem, which was flagging at the moment. I thus forgave myself for any extent to which I may have been shamelessly exploiting Sam's interest in me.

So I accepted to see Sam when he was in Paris-- he very specifically asked me to block out Saturday evening and Sunday. Sounds like a date to me, with a D majuscule.

Said Saturday rolls around and he is no where to be seen at the appointed hour-- I had given him digicode, interphone, etc., all the instructions for getting to my place. As agreed, once he is 15 minutes late, I will go down to the street to look for him, in case he has digicode difficulties, a known phenomenon in Paris. Every 10 minutes I head down to the street -- no Sam. Finally after 40 minutes have elapsed I go back to the street and see him walking down the street away from my building -- he thought my address was a different number, and hadn't brought it with him.

Is it me, or have I gotten impatient with people who don't understand about the importance of planning ahead, keeping all the info that you have told them is VERY important to keep? Visiting Americans who think they know better than you in Paris are exhausting.

Exasperated, Sam complains that it was impossible to find any subway entrances in the 4th arrondissement, so had to walk 45 minutes across the Seine etc,. to get here, got lost, very very VERY sweaty and so asks immediately if he could remove his shirt (strip down to sweaty yellow mildewed Tshirt - ugh) because he had thought he should bring a wool jacket and a rain jacket, and wore them both while speed-walking the wrong way through Paris.

OK so already things are not going so well.

He looks at my apartment and laughs and says, "You're living in a college student's apartment" and laughs at about everything else I'm doing. I graciously chalk it up to nervousness on his part. Then after drinking a few of my beers he says, wherever you'd like to go for dinner is fine with me. So I obligingly take him to my favorite neighborhood resto, Au Pied de Fouet, where I am known and almost ready to be a neighborhood habituee. Very cheap and boisterous and good food. Very tiny, Parisian and old fashioned. A delightful gem.

At the end of the remarkably inexpensive meal, he leans in toward me and semi-seductively says, "Polly, it would be my great honor if you'd let me pay for this meal." Like it was f*cking Taillevent or something and he was putting down a purple velvet cape for me to walk in the door. Puhleeeez.

But I'm too nice. So I thank him profusely, we go for a spin on foot around the neighborhood and wind up back at my apartment door. I’m ready to call it a night and bid him goodbye. Then-- he asks that I accompany him to the subway station, three blocks away, so he won't get lost again.

Okay, I guess I've become too Parisian in my sensibilities, but that was such an un-macho move. Gross. A real turn-off.

So let's do the addition. Sweat, bad manners, correcting me (did I mention that?) about my knowledge of French, being conveniently feminist/new-age when it comes to paying for meals, complaining about Paris, bashing my computer, more sweat, ridiculing my lifestyle, being a sissy about going to the Metro. Oh and I forgot to mention stray nose hair and how he totally befouled the bathroom, right after stripping down to his T shirt, moments after arriving. The spray can of Air Wick lavande is there for a reason, Mister. Ditto the ventilator fan.

Why oh why did I even agree to meet him the next day? I guess from boredom, and because I had said I would, and we have friends in common in the US, he's intelligent enough and likes French literature and we can have decent conversations. And I think it's sometimes more fun to be out and about in Paris with a member of the opposite sex, when there is the opportunity. And he’s not ugly or even plain.

So Sunday we meet -- of course I couldn't get him to even try to travel to any place new to meet, since now all he knows is my apartment. So I head back across the Seine from church, in the 8th, to meet him at my apartment in the 7th, then we head back to the 8th to the Parc Monceau. A colossal waste of time, all that back and forth We have a so-so lunch in a gorgeous setting; my fault for picking that restaurant? At the end of which Sam says, "Let's just split it 50/50." I am definitely not accustomed to this from a 60-year-old man. Then he gives me 20€ for his half of a 46€ bill and figures that's even. I am in shock.

I spend the afternoon showing him all the great lesser-known sites of the 8e and 7e arrondissements. Then, walking back to my apartment along the esplanade of the Invalides he pops the question. "This is awkward, I don't know how to ask this..." Finally getting around to some sob story that he has to leave his hosts' place Monday but doesn't have to be in London until Tuesday, so maybe -- well who knows how things will evolve, he says, but could he sleep at my place Monday night? "I'm happy to be chaste," he says.

"Spell that, please, " I retort.

So at a weak moment I agree -- I had no plans for Monday evening, so what the hell. Someone to take me to dinner, how bad could that be?

Then he departs to his hosts' house to go to a dinner party being held in his honor. Oh, really? So I'm so irrelevant in his Paris visit that he couldn't even lightly suggest to his hosts that they invite me, for example? Not that I really wanted to go, but at this point I'm feeling mightily used. Only relevant enough to be tour guide and lodging provider. (Serve 'em up, Polly.) Bon appetit, Sam. Have a great party.

The next day he rings the bell at my apartment at 6:01 pm, suitcase in tow. Immediately asks for a beer (before I could even offer one). Relaxes with his feet up on my beige couch, shoes ON. I am busy finishing some correspondence on my computer. Then he asks if he could check his email when I'm through. No prob. I'll be glad for him to get his shoes off my sofa.

Sam then proceeds to write many lengthy, lengthy emails to lord knows who using the "I am an angry cub reporter typing on a Corona manual typewriter" approach on my slim new laptop. He is heaving big sighs, wiping his dripping brow with the back of his hand, and smashing the keys with mach force. From the other room I can hear the keyboard being furiously bashed. I am cringeing. This delicate keyboard already has some issues. "What kind of computer do you have at home?" I venture. "Does it have an old, sticky keyboard? Is that why you crunch the keys so ...adamantly?" Clueless, self-absorbed, he doesn't answer.

"You know, this keyboard of mine is SOO incredible," I offer, "All you have to do is lightly tap the keys and it goes even faster. Very sensitive to the touch."

"Naw," he starts complaining, "I just can't deal with this -- this PC. I have a Mac at home. Much better configuration."

Then after "checking " his email by brutalizing my laptop for another 45 minutes, he mercifully stops what he's doing, stands up and says, "OK, I'm ready for dinner," as if he expects me to have been Domestic Diva whipping up a five-course meal while he was waiting.

"There's a nice little restaurant down the street, a little more upscale, if that meets your budget," I offer. So we head down to rue de Sevres to delightful Le Petit Lutece, and things seem a little better. Sam at least has enough savoir faire to order some interesting menu items like civet de singlier, and I order the brandade de morue. Musing over what wine to choose, Sam puffs up and "gallantly" says, "Polly, you can choose the more expensive wine (24 euros!) -- I'll pay for the wine and we can split the rest of the bill."

Oh man, he's just killing me with the chivalry -- not only as a guy but as a guest! How much would a hotel room have cost him? Jesus, if he thinks he's going to get free bed AND get lucky tonight, NFW. He's just slapped a soaking-wet duvet on any faint sparks that might have been lurking around.

Then the wine comes and the waiter pours a little into Sam's glass, and instead of tasting it he just SMELLS the wine and nods that it's fine. Excellent wine, that Chateau de Cretin. I wonder if he would have nibbled the cork. The excellent dinner arrives and he insists that we share tastes and proceeds to jab at food on my plate with his fork. Good thing none of the food falls in his lap, because his napkin is still very nicely folded next to his plate. I'm starting to lose my appetite, and desperately hope that the waiters aren't smirking too much.

I am at a loss for words to dissuade him from any of these behaviors. I simply talk more about my new business project I’m working on with my friend Marie: a course to help American women learn French etiquette, fashion, and comportment. Tonight this gives me a venue to discuss charming anecdotes of good and bad manners from both cultures. I guess I have become too Frenchified -- or else too stunned -- to outright criticize what he is doing, as he is neither a stranger nor a member of the family. Some story I mention must finally resonate. He eventually catches on a bit, and says, "I am probably a transgressor in many of those areas."

"Don't worry, you can learn," I suggest.

Then, joy of joys, time to come home and make up the guest bed in the pull-out sofa. Yes indeedy. It would have been the biggest leap from zero to supersonic speed, dating-wise, to have any other sleeping arrangements. Trust me.

Whew. I'm home-free, I think. But no, the final coup. Sam announces, as if this were already a given and no problemo, "Well, I guess it is best to head to bed now, as I have to be at Gare du Nord at 6:30 tomorrow morning. Don't worry, I don't expect you to take me to the station."

Excuse me??? So I have to get up at 5:45 to make sure he's actually gone in time? And I'm supposed to be happy to be relieved of dropping him at the station? I don't even own a car.

I am either too gracious a hostess or too much of a sucker, and so the next morning I actually arise and fix breakfast to send him on his way.

As he's wheeling his suitcase toward the door, he says, "You know, Polly, if you weren't living in Paris I would really want to pursue a relationship with you. You are a fascinating creature."

I smile generously as I nudge him into the elevator cage, "Oh, I'm sure you would. But I AM living in Paris. So – well, c'est la vie. Bon voyage, Sam."

Watching that elevator descend out of sight I dance a little jig.

And dash to my computer to write a blog post.

Paris Choral Society

November 11

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.
Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

According to wikipedia, in World War I there were
1,375,800 French military casualties and
40,000 civilians, for a total of
1,415,800 French lives lost between 1914-1918

An American Manif?

I woke up this morning with a crazy idea (this happens) and said "I just have to do this. For Art!"

And I mean Art Buchwald.

After seeing that CNN interview and writing the post for the blog yesterday, I knew I had to do something else. This will probably be his last Thanksgiving.

So my wild idea was to gather a huge crowd (hundreds -- thousands?) of humans - expats, French, whatever --to spell out

"merci, Art!"

in some obvious Parisian place and have it photographed or videoed and sent to or broadcast for him for Thanksgiving.

He has done so much to help Americans think of the French at Thanksgiving, with his tale of Le Jour de Merci Donnant and his many years in Paris with the International Herald Tribune, the "only newspaper he ever loved."

So mostly I need to find someone who has done large-space spelling so that we could do this and have people line up to spell the phrase, plus some coordinators for crowd & artistic management. I think that with blog power and other (lots of expat orgnaizations) we could gather a huge crowd -- for example on Sunday afternoon.

And someone to help deal with the tangle of Prefecture de Police regulations, which could be the biggest wet blanket of all unless someone has a piston. OK, in my really wildest dreams maybe Yann Arthur-Bertrand (Paris Vu du Ciel) would photograph it! I've cold-contacted a few sources, so we'll have to see what pans out, if anything.

I hope this can move forward; it'll be too late next year (unless Art pulls a great stunt!). Any thoughts and ideas and contacts are welcome.

Art Buchwald

Art Buchwald, the U.S. journalist and humorist, gave the world the classic column entitled "How to Explain Thanksgiving to the French", which has been a staple at our family Thanksgivings for years. His memoir of Paris, "Don't Forget to Write," has been comic inspiration for many Francophiles, including moi.

Now , at age 80, battling a host of illnesses, Art is flunking hospice by outliving his doctor's estimate of "three weeks to live" 8 months ago.

So this November, as a tribute to Art Buchwald, I hope that we will all read aloud his tale of Kilometres Deboutish and toast this great friend of France and expats in France.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/23/AR2005112302056.html

Kyra Phillips of CNN just interviewed Art. The piece is linked below.

(Cut and paste this into your web browser):

http://www.cnn.com/video/partners/clickability/index.html?url=/video/showbiz/2006/11/04/phillips.art.buchwald.hospice.cnn

A Tree Grows in Paris

Eight months ago, March 3, I arrived in Paris to "turn the page," as the French would say, on a new life. In order to mark the passage of my time in Paris, I started to grow an avocado pit during my first week in my gorgeous furnished flat on the place de la Madeleine.

Stubbornly, that pit sat impaled by three toohpicks in a glass of water for months and didn't budge. Then finally, the pit cracked and and sprouted roots and leaves, and I duly planted it in some potting soil purchased at BHV. (I won't read too much into the "stubborn pit" part, but it just might correspond to my initial HUGE learning curve in Paris, despite being relatively fluent in French-Literature French; B.A. and M.A. degrees just don't teach about RIBs, releves and all other manner of French day-to-day lessons.)

Here is a photo of my avocado tree -- perhaps a symbol of my life in Paris. Who knows?

It could just be a tree. But as long as it thrives, it will be a monthly feature, a reminder of how to grow and prosper in this city of light. This photo was taken three weeks ago. It, and I, have grown even more ("not sideways, I hope!" to paraphrase Lewis Carroll.)

How many Expats does it Take to screw in a French Light Bulb?

One to go back to BHV to get the right kind of bulb.
One to call EDF.
One to fax the justificatif de domicile, passport, college diplomas, tax returns and two photos to EDF to get the account working again.
One to call the proprietaire to complain.
One to call the gardienne and ask her very very sweetly if she by any chance knows why there's no light, and leave her a tip and a bouquet of roses for answering the question.
One to go back to BHV again to get the right kind of rallonge.
One to go to the bank for cash to pay for .345 euro-per minute phone calls to EDF because the first one is still on hold.
One to track down the first-born child because evidently that's part of the payment plan.
And 85 bloggers to write about it!

Trying to Deal with France Telecom