Paris Scoop

Ever optimistic, the Mairie de Paris is launching a new "Paris Propre" ad campaign this week, designed to cajole Parisians into keeping their city clean. Using humor instead of draconian threats, the message is designed to be "neither moralizing nor repressive." Its official goal is to recognize and showcase improvement and positive behaviors. Hmmm.

Mayor Delanoe's pooper-scooper edict in 2002 apparently has done less than hoped to improve the situation. The 183 euro fine has been largely ignored. Snickered at, perhaps? Pooh-poohed? The "J'aime mon quartier, Je Ramasse" signs have become faded or defaced.

I don't know if it's just my quirky powers of observation, but it often seems that Parisian pooches must do some arabesques or pirouettes while they are ... doing numero deux. They seem to plop their masterpieces on some pretty weird spots, like pedestals and flower pots. As if it's their special chef-d'oeuvre, dying to be on exhibition. Well, I guess if you're a dog, that is about your only artistic work. Quand meme... And their proud owners are just too enamored to get rid of their darlings' masterful creations.

But so many! According to the Mairie, some 150,000 Parisian Fidos deposit about 16 tons of crottes de chiens on the sidewalks annually.

That's a lotta lotta poop.

We'll see if the talking left shoe really convinces people to clean up after their canine cheris. It's a nice try, but I'm not holding my breath on this one -- except when I walk down the sidewalk.

Close but no Cigar

Accent aigu or accent grave? So hard to know, sometimes. And so many French words are so very close. In fact, the word for "close" is près. The word for "fields" is prés. It is confusing. They sound almost the same. But two very different words. Any French student worth his dictée score can tell you that.

Suffice it to say that the quartier of St. Germain-des-Prés (St. Germain-in-the-Fields) often has its name misspelled, with the accent grave mistakenly in the place of the aigu.

But even at the much heralded Café de Flore?

Yup. Little picky proofreading sleuth here had way too much time on her hands and actually read the wonderful round paper tablecloths that cover every little café table on the terrasse. They feature a watercolor by my favorite of favorite Parisian artists, Jean-Jacques Sempé (another knee-knockingly handsome gent). Nice to daydream about him for a while...

Oh wait -- back to the Flore. So go check it out for yourself. The gorgeous table covers say Café de Flore - Saint-Germain-des-Près.

Oops.

Did anyone else notice? Or is the place just so teeming with tourists that the owners figured no one would pick up on that typo? What about all those intello-literary habitués? This is the hangout where drinking an espresso is supposed to actually make you smarter. It's an institution, for God's sake.

I mean, what would Jean-Paul and Simone have said?

99.9% Fluent

I hurry out the door and hop into the waiting taxi. "Bonsoir, monsieur, " I greet the driver breathlessly as I plunk in the center of the back seat. "I'd like to go to the American Cathedral, 23 avenue George V, s'il vous plait."

The car pulls out and I start making my usual small talk with the chauffeur de taxi. "I hope there's not too much traffic tonight. I'm running late and I have a cancer, " I say in French.

The driver dons a worried expression and sits up in his seat. I fret that I have insulted him by saying that I'm in a hurry. I add more to my story. "Yes, and I have friends from the United States who are here to see me. They are here for the cancer. They are waiting at the church for me."

Now he's is looking bewildered and almost frightened. He thinks, perhaps, that they are preparing my funeral? A support group? And he's driving me there?

"Yes," I add, "and first we are having a rehearsal."

Mais ces Americains sont fous, he is thinking as he grips the steering wheel a bit tighter.

"And I'm worried because I have a sore throat," I babble.

That's the least of your worries at this point, lady, he is saying to himself. Le moindre de vos soucis.

"But perhaps it will be better by the time our chorus has its next cancer next week, " I continue.

"Oh, un concert, madame!" He exhales the world's largest sigh and sinks back into his seat as we drive silently through the dark together.

Limited Access

A Parisian hostess just sent out the following directions to a gathering at her apartment. What struck me was that this is so normal for denizens of our fair city. (Names changed to protect the beleaguered. ) This is just to get in the door.

"65 bis rue des Parisiens (corner of the rue des Vapes)
Code A 480
Enter courtyard, bear left. Under the arch there is an interphone with a list of names. Ring Doe and I will buzz you in. Then... go back into main courtyard where you came in and enter the big door with the 'escalier d'honneur'. Enter and walk past the escalier d'honneur (on your right) down to the end of the back hall where there is an elevator. It will come down automatically to pick you up. Press 4e etage and you will have arrived! If you get lost go back to interphone and tell me and I come down and get you. It sounds terribly complicated but is not really so!"

Idée Fixe

Tonight I went to the Théâtre Edouard VII to see the current production of Idée Fixe by Paul Valéry (1871-1945), a former member of the Académie Française. The play had received rave reviews from the press, and was also a heartwarming performance. Somehow I haven't been up for a melodrama; enough of my own to cope with. This was a perfect choice.

So Chu came in from the 'burbs and we had a gals' night out and went to the theatre. Great theatre. This was not mere entertainment; this was art. Superbly acted, powerful but simple decor. In the best French style, a moving 2-hour intellectual dialogue between the only two dramatis personae. Begins at sunrise, ends at sunset. As such conversations can go, the topics covered ran the gamut from gynecologists' after-hours activities to Einstein's theory of relativity. And this play was written back when Einstein was lecturing live. (I love the difference in pronunciation: in French it's pronounced Ein-shtein.) By the time the play was over you felt as though you'd spent a day with these two men and lived a great philosophical moment with them.

And I'm sure glad that it was all of those lofty things because initially I mostly went to get a real-live glimpse of heartthrob Pierre Arditi.

I was not disappointed.

Mots d'Heures: Gousses, Rames

One of my favorite laugh-out-loud French books, by Luis d'Antin van Rooten, is Mots d'Heures: Gousses, Rames. This delightful, funny collection of Mother Goose Stories needs to be read aloud. Several times, until you get it.

Here's a sample. It's not just for kids! (Actually not much for kiddos at all.) So uncork a bottle of wine with friends and share. The rules: please read it in your best French accent, and don't seek meaning.

Un petit d'un petit
S'étonne aux Halles.
Un petit d'un petit
Ah! degrés te fallent.

Indolent qui ne sort cesse
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu'importe un petit d'un petit
Tout Gai de Reguennes.

It is available at www.amazon.com , which amazingly has the title misspelled.

Imparfait

I hate to be so nit-picky. We all make mistakes. Typos are not such a big deal, fundamentally, right?

So why does it bother me so much? Perhaps it's because the location was so splendid, so perfect in its own right. The day was perfect, the way Paris has been lately. Crystal blue skies, embracing sunshine, delirious blossoms. Intoxicating, seductive Paris.

The building's lofty beauty was jaw-dropping. The exhibit masterful. The crowd almost non-existent, which allowed for close-up inspecting of the descriptive signs accompanying the paintings. Said information was very thoughtfully presented in French, Spanish, and English. Sounds perfect, no?

And there it was. At the entrance, the introduction to the exhibit. Just one little letter. In very large font. But really, really annoying.

"...the artist was invited to America by President Taff..."

Oh, come on. TAFF?? Did no one proofread the signage? It's one thing to have mistakes in personal documents -- but in large typeface for public viewing by thousands?

Naturally, once I found the one mistake (and it was consistent in all three languages), I was like a hound on the trail of foxblood. Typos jumped out at me on every bit of signage in the exhibit. "Mary Cassat" instead of "Cassatt". After that I found lots of spelling mistakes, but by then I had lost almost all of my respect for the curator(s) of the show. I was distracted and resentful.

Why bother to make an effort if you won't do it right? I wonder, would any French institution ever consider hiring an American proofreader to read over the copy to avoid the truly laughable obvious mistakes? And thus allow visitors to focus on what's important, like the actual exhibit.

Oh, by the way. It was the Sargent /Sorolla exhibit at the Petit Palais. Delightful. Otherwise, I mean.

Paris Blogue-t-il?

Just back from the Paris Blogue-t-il? www.parisbloguetil.com francophone bloggers' gathering at l'Entrepot in the 14e arrondissement. Lots of fun and some friends from our dear Paris Blog www.theparisblog.com.

More on this soon -- but meanwhile: every one can look forward to the time in the not-near-enough future (keep your fingers crossed for next week) when little boomer-blogger moi gets big-time geek lessons and learns the joys of hyperlinks, RSS, html, enabling comments and more. And a new format!

Thanks for your patience.

Meanwhile, ravie de faire votre connaissance, tous les blogue-t-il folks. A bientot.

Yes, I did my taxes.

Helpful Hint

It's tax day, so Uncle Sam beckons.

(Moi, procrastinate?? How do you spell T-U-R-B-O-T-A-X? And thank God midnight is 6 hours later in the US.)

Ergo, just time for a teensy helpful household hint, for what it's worth. Then I'll go back to my moutons.

Le voici:

I love the large format posters (100 cm X 150 cm or larger) available at many exhibits in Paris museums and elsewhere in France. Unfortunately they are a pain in terms of storing, shipping in the mail or taking back to the US on a plane. The standard cardboard tubes aren't long enough, which is frustrating. And a wrinkled poster -- well, just don't even think about it.

We came up with a good solution when Bee was here visiting in March.

Go to the basement of BHV and buy a 150 centimeter tube circulaire made out of PVC. At 11 euros it was cheaper than the fancier tubes up in the papeterie section. Then you can block off the ends as you like. Paper and duct tape, whatever.

I imagine this is a bit heavy for mailing (didn't check out that price), but easy to check as a second piece of luggage. Great for storing. Label well so it doesn't inadvertently get used for plumbing repairs.

Paris Biker Babe

I did it. I finally have a bicycle to ride in Paris. It's been on my to-do list for months, but somehow I just haven't had the nerve.

I have been observing, for a year now, those chic Parisiennes who maneuver their way through rush hour traffic, in high heels and stylish skirts. How could they be so oblivious to the dangers around them, I wondered. I envied their bravada. I envied their ability to look so glamorous and put themselves in the spotlight -- sitting so tall and gorgeous astride their velos, being admired by all the men in cars and buses.

But I wasn't ready. I needed time to understand the city, to get the flow of life here, to know others who rode their bicycles around. Even then, I just wasn't prepared to make the plunge. Why was I being so cautious? I wondered where I could I keep it. I asked my gardienne if I, too, would be allowed to park a bike in the courtyard, where there are already four in permanent residence. "Mais bien sur," she replied, "comme tous les autres locataires." Of course I had the same rights as the other tenants. Why was I being so anxious? Despite my happy-go-lucky exterior, I clearly am not as adventurous as I might appear.

Part of it was that I had heard how often bikes are stolen here. Or parts of bikes. Still, that's not a huge deal. Also I had seen how close the bus or other cars pass next to the cyclistes. The cyclistes don't flinch. Was I ready for a game of chicken? I also had heard from my friend Vincent that he had once gotten a ticket from the gendarmes for running a red light on his bicycle in Paris on a Sunday in August. August! A 300 euro fine, and they would take away his automobile driver's license if he didn't pay it. That story was scary, but I was hanging onto it simply for justifying my procrastination about getting a bike. I had written about Mayor Delanoe's new Velib program, where bikes will be available for daily rental next to nothing, starting this summer. Maybe I should wait and just rent a bike, to see how it goes. Oh, come on. I was stalling, and not happy with myself for doing so.

What was I waiting for?

Then Saturday I was heading home from Montmartre on the 12 Metro line and when we reached the Madeleine stop I knew it was now or never. I jumped off and prayed that Decathlon was still open. 19h30 and the store was open til 20h00. This is it.

I went straight to the bike section, which I had been perusing for months. To my surprise I beheld what looked like a bike parade. Dozens of people riding bikes in the aisles, examining accessories, discussing with the bike techs their various options. The fabulous staff were jovial and actually laughing, because it was such a madhouse.

"How many bikes have you sold today?" I asked. "C'est incroyable!"

"Trop!" they chorused.

But they were young, energetic and helpful, and cooperative with each other. A real travail d'equipe. Thierry (forgive me if I got your name wrong) was tremendously patient despite clearly having had a very very long day, eager to begin his Saturday evening. He recommended all the right locks. "This you attach to something tres solide," he warned, about the heavy-duty lock. "Then this cable you attach permanently to your seat (selle). The third lock is to attach to your front wheel, when you are parked for a long time. Les voleurs like to steal front wheels." He showed me how to shift the gears (it's a 7-speed), and other features my Decathlon City bike. It has a panier that removes in a click, a headlight that runs on a dynamo instead of a battery, and I learned the word for kick-stand, which is "la bequille" -- same as the word for "crutch".

Then he sent me along to the caisse and it was a done deal. Suddenly I felt kind of the way I had felt 20 years ago when taking my first newborn home from the hospital. "You mean they're letting me leave here with this without any further instruction or permission?"

And off I went. After carrying my bike up the stairs to the place de la Madeleine, I climbed on and started pedaling down the cobblestones of rue Royale, in Paris traffic. Me? Me.

A feeling of sheer exhilaration perfectly blended with blinding panic radiated from every pore. 'This is so cool!" I shouted to myself, "I can't believe I'm finally doing this!" as I reached the mayhem of place de la Concorde. I was so happy. I felt so free. So much a part of Paris. The wind flowing through my hair. Complete bliss, while gripping those handlebars with white-knuckled fear. I found a bike path (piste cyclable) and flew down the streets, and over the bridge.

Watch out, Paris. This crazy American lady has started singing while riding her bike. Somewhere near les Invalides I spontaneuosly began belting out "I have con-fi-dence in confidence a-lone!" a la Julie Andrews. Stay tuned.

Are We There Yet?

April in Paris is such a cliche. But what a great one. Today Paris was sublime, although really more like August: almost too hot to stand in the sun while waiting for the No. 69 bus. That glorious bus route is one of my favorites, mostly because you see so many different parts of Paris, lots of monuments and the Seine. It starts at the Eiffel Tower and winds up at Gambetta (where I was headed for lunch), next to Pere Lachaise. For 1.4 euros it's hands down one of the top sightseeing bargains in the City. And today's sights included the lilacs and spirea softly bursting into bloom in the parks.

So imagine my reaction when a whiny 7-year-old American mini-tourist was drooping upside down and backwards over the seat in front of me, complaining with the classic "Are we there yet?" to his mother. I wanted to straighten his little t-shirted shoulders and say, "Yes, we ARE there yet, junior -- we're in Paris. Look out the window!" But as the mother of a former 7-year-old boy, I knew better. I leaned over and said in a stage whisper, "You know, a really good trick while riding the bus or walking in Paris is to see how many lions you can count." OK, I have to pat myself on the back for that gem because immediately he and his older sister and their father were sitting up tall in their seats, craning their necks to find stone lions. "There are 4!!" they shouted at the Hotel de Ville. So until they got off the bus they were busy and happy campers.

Funny, I would have thought the parents might have nodded a knowing little "thank you" in my direction as they departed. But no. Oh well. I don't need the adulation, but appreciation is ... appreciated. After all, I not only was inventive but I also offered a helpful age-appropriate and instructive activity for the little whiner's scavenger hunt, on the spur of the moment.

I mean, there are other sculpture and bas-relief objects to search for on building facades and statues. Gargoyles or rams or fleur de lys and so forth. But also more PG-13-rated sculpted figures, like naked ladies. Of course I didn't suggest that theme to the little kid. Those folks are Americans. Nor, obviously, did I recommend another favorite, immortalized in a witty coffee-table book, Les Zizis de Paris, by Sergio-Neptunio Martin. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think there are many classical zizis on statues that are in the public view in the US.

Ah, Paris. No fig leaves here -- just April leaves. And how.

Presigame

Are you feeling anxious about the upcoming French presidential elections? Do the shifting sands of statistics and polls have you worried? Are you concerned that 42% of French voters are still undecided?

We don't want the electorate to lose any sleep between now and the first round of voting April 22. So to take your mind off the unknown, the uncontrollable, we offer to you stress-reducing:

Presigame!

www.presigame.fr

Take matters into your own hands and decide the presidency in the comfort of your own abode. Like a combination of two of my favorite games (Pacman and dysfunctional family bingo), this jeu presidentiel will keep you from fretting about anything substantial. Of course, if you want to do that, just watch CNN or Fox. But you knew that.



Merci to Isa for sending this my way.

Shaken, not Stirred

During my summers as a kid in Tennessee we used to go over to my cousins' house and play with Aunt Betty's Vibrabelt. (Ahem, you wise guys: it's not that kind of vibrating thingy. Get your minds out of the gutter.) It was one of those contraptions for spot-reducing that, as its name suggests, had a vibrating belt that you looped around your derriere and let it shimmy away the fat. In theory.

We cousins mostly goofed around and set it on high to make our voices jiggle when we talked as we leaned our backsides into the wide shivering belt. Far from slimming myself in those chubby pre-teen days, the only result I noticed was a sudden urge to pee. Aunt Betty, on the other hand, was a true Vibrabelt devotee. I can see her now, hair perfectly coiffed, laughing in her luscious throaty Southern drawl and deeply inhaling her Salem menthols while her bum was shimmering away at 100 rpm. Oh, Aunt Betty. She was so glamorous. She had perfect nails and central air conditioning.

In a Proustian-madeleine-dunking way I conjured up vivid images of Aunt Betty today when I visited the newly opened Powea Power-Plate center http://www.powea.fr/ around the corner from me on rue Pierre Leroux. Power Plate is the buzz to beat all buzz, so tendance with the I-need-instant-fitness crowd. In fact, I'm still buzzing a bit from the experience, but more in a literal sense. Either you know all about Power Plate or you've never heard of it, apparently. I only knew what I had seen in a French chic flick and read in fashion magazines, so I was a wide-eyed novice.

Charming, effervescent Regine Petit, the coach who was running the sleek boutique, led me through the motions -- and quelle motions! -- on the big vibrating plate. Regine was delighted to find out I was American and begged to do the session in English. (I used to bristle at such efforts in my naive desire to masquerade as a Parisienne. Now I find I don't mind that sort of request any more -- I know I'll have ample time to practice my impeccable French.) So we swapped vocab while she coached me: you know, technical terms like buttocks and pelvic tilt. I stood on that big plate and held on for dear life while my eyeballs rattled and my thigh muscles really began to burn. And except for the fact that I tend to forget to breathe when exercising (a minor drawback leading to turning beet red) it was a pleasant experience.

According to Regine I accomplished 1-1/2 hours of exercise in the 30-minute session.
She explained that the machine also helps with stretching, improving circulation and lymphatic drainage, and bone density. My muscles feel as though I just trekked the Himalayas. If Powea's Power-Plate is everything they claim, I'll be as glamorous as Aunt Betty in no time. And maybe more svelte.

Free half-hour trial session by filling out this coupon and calling for a reservation.

Powea Power Plate
21 bis rue Pierre Leroux
75007 Paris
tel 01 56 58 23 10

Boston to Paris, compliments of Google

A little riff on the current blogging buzz going around.

Go to Google maps.

Type "Boston to Paris" in the space provided.

Lovely map.

Read item #9.

Get out your Speedo!

Pierre Cottontail?

Q. Why do French people think Easter is so great?

A. Because Easter -- C'est une Bunny Day!



Joyeuse Pacques a tous.

What's So Funny?

Being called away from Paris unexpectedly has been no laughing matter. First of all, I had to miss the entire First Annual Parisian Comedy Festival, which ended yesterday and no one even missed me.

Second of all, I am resorting to finding daily doses of humor in comparing American life to life in France. It's not always pretty.

For example, America is The Land of the Bumper Sticker. France is not. America puts its heart, soul, and just about everything else of a personal nature on its sleeve -- and on its bumper. The first prize for Bumper Sticker that You'd Never See in France goes to the following, on a white Dodge minivan:

"I'm Still Hot -- only Now it comes in Flashes"

The Second Prize in the "Only in America"category. It was at once touching and yet the sort of thing I find difficult to explain to anyone, let alone friends back in France. In a vast super-sized mall-world endless sea of cars somewhere outside Columbia, South Carolina, was a large yellow sign:

Sunrise Easter Service, 5 am

Wal-Mart Parking Lot

I think it's time for me to head home to Paris.

Customer Service

A few days before I left Paris (it feels like a decade ago but was just une dizaine de jours) I had a rather unsettling experience. It was happy and pleasant, which is what (being Paris) made me feel so odd.

First, a foray into my favorite of favorite spots, La Poste. Upon entering, I noticed a huge hand-scrawled sign actually informing clients that “due to two employee illnesses, there might be delays in service, and la direction apologizes for any inconvenience.”

Wow.

Since when did La Poste apologize, in advance, for making us wait? This was positively unfathomable.

Then, the line actually moved more rapidly than usual. When one guichetier asked if anyone was there to retrieve a package or letter, I raised my hand and said “Moi!”

Motioning me to her desk, she sang merrily, "Moi, moi, toujours moi!” And she proceeded to transact our little business with wisecracking humor and – dare I say – frivolity? Before I left, she cajoled, “Please consider opening a bank account with us. It bums me out (“cela me rend malade”) to see you having to pick up your bank checks here.”

And she shooed me along with a jovial “A bientot!”. I went on my merry way, shaking my head over the gaiety of it all.

I had this unnerving little feeling in my gut. What is happening to the drama of “terrible customer service” that expats love to moan about? What if the French are actually listening to all those complaints and start to become friendly all the time? No, no, I assured myself, this is just an isolated incident.

I then entered the pedestrian tunnel to take the Metro at Duroc station, and something looked out of kilter. Peering around, I noticed a bright, open office where the dark ticket window had once existed. The impenetrable hazy glass where often you couldn’t see if the RATP agent was actually there, and if he was you had better ask nicely and only one question at a time, s’il vous plait. And he would shove your tickets and change back through the little mousehole.

Now that was all changed. It looked positively glitzy. A broad, open window. A shiny-faced smiling young woman with strawberry blond hair in a fresh new uniform. Thunderstruck, I simply had to ask what on earth was happening. “They took away the vitrine?” I asked. “And the little window to pass through the money?”

“Ah, oui,’ she responded, smiling. “No more money here, so no little window. All tickets get bought at the machine,” she gestured. “We are now le service clients.” So the employees at the Metro stations no longer handle any money and are simply there – drumroll please – to be helpful?

My unsettling feeling was now growing into a full-fledged conviction. I had just discovered the largest contemporary cultural revolution in France and no one was talking about it. France has become a customer-friendly nation right before our very eyes and nobody realizes it. This is so subversive! I ran through my mental rolodex of recent interactions as a customer. Yes, yes... The waiter in that café asked if I wanted milk with my express (horrors). Now it’s all coming to me -- he was not being snide, he was being F-R-I-E-N-D-L-Y. But what will become of France if this continues? This slight edge, this keeping on your toes, is what constitutes the daily drama in life here in Paris! This is what living here is about – triumphing over the potential displeasure of an agent, a bus driver, a store clerk. Living here well means “getting it” in terms of how to deal with being a customer always at the mercy of the clerk’s or waiter’s mood.

This could mean then end of “life in France as I know it.”

As I recited this long plaintive narrative to myself, the metro moved to Invalides, where I had to make a connection.. I thought to myself, I have to get a photo of one of these new friendly “Customer Service” desks. Why didn’t I think to get one at Duroc?

At the Invalides station I trudged up the stairs and searched glumly for a dazzling new “Service Clients” window, to snap a photo for posterity.

I found it. But the shiny new window was pulled shut. Behind it, brilliantly illuminated by new halogen lighting, a sullen unshaven twentysomething fellow slouched in his chair, mute behind the huge pane of glass. He had grumpily taped a hand-scrawled sign on the new window. “Tickets a la machine seulement”

Whew.

Being Transatlantic

Be forewarned. Nothing prepares your for the phone call. The unimaginable, the unspeakably awful happens, and the phone call comes at an odd hour from an unidentified number, un appel secret.

You're in the middle of being witty on the phone, at the dinner table, or in writing. Carefree. You're juggling social plans. And then this. This is your children's life calling, some kind but anonymous official calling to let you know that your family will be forever altered. You spend until 4 in the morning on Skype making new plane reservations, cancelling other plans, and calling stateside family and ex-family in hospital waiting rooms and undisclosed cell phone locations. You contact all your friends and try to find some sort of logical thread in the surreal. You try to make sense of it all, figure out what all your Paris promises are that you have to break. Now more than ever you are acutely aware of the transatlantic time difference, in minutes.

You call the gardienne to ask her to keep your mail. "For how long?" she asks.

"Je ne sais pas. Une semaine ou deux," you say.

You call the taxi to come first thing in the morning.

"I need you to come, but I don't want to interrupt your life," says your daughter.

"You are my life," you say.

I'm Ready for my Close-Up, Mr. DeMille

Do dreams of fame and glory haunt you at night? Do you think you've Got What it Takes to be a star?

For any Paris-area Audrey Tautou wannabes or kids who think they are the next Jean-Baptiste Meunier (France's talented answer to Macaulay Culkin), you can check TF1's casting website.
http://etoilecasting.tf1.fr/casting-cinema-page1.htm.

Or even if you have too much time on your hands and want to find something different to while away the days.

Les castings can run the gamut from being an extra in a movie (long metrage) to auditioning for the Really Big Shoe, Star Ac.

Norma Desmond and I are signing up after tea-time today, though I was going to boycott TF1 since they somehow forgot to include me in the lineup for last weekend's show "La Femme la Plus Sexy du Monde".

I hope you don't need this map

If you anticipate finding yourself behind the steering wheel of a car in Paris, here is a handy reference map to study before you leave the safe, stress-free comfort of your armchair. It indicates the most accident-prone streets and intersections. http://www.prefecture-police-paris.interieur.gouv.fr/circuler/carte_accident/carte_accident.htm .

You can also target the riskiest accident locales in your own arrondissement.

The Streets of Paris

I confess. I am addicted to Google Earth. And even more to the aerial view section of the Pages Jaunes www.pagesjaunes.fr .

Here's what I do: to see a location in satellite image, I simply click on pages jaunes (or its cousin on the next tab, the pages blanches), plug in the Paris address I want to see and, then "vue aerienne". Voila! If I zoom in well, I can practically see what kind of cars are parked in the neighborhood. Great for rainy days when I can't get out for a good long walk. And for getting a sense of where I'm going for a dinner party. (I am very very directionally challenged.)

Then to get a street level image, chances are I can find a 360-degree panoramic view, at least of the quartier, here http://www.insecula.com/zone/Z0007363.html.

For the incurably curious among us, or who haven't got a plane ticket here yet, this is Paris-peeping at its best.

A Park in Search of Identity

I don't know much about people with multiple personality disorders. Maybe it's denial, but as far as I know the only person I've encountered with many characters inhabiting one so-called body was a certifiable boss I had about 15 years ago. It was fun; we never knew which one of her was going to show up for staff meetings.

It can be fun, too, when a place has multiple personalities. But like my former wacko boss, it can be a bit disconcerting, too. Paris places, like Parisian everything, are usually so "pulled together". That's why my trip to the Parc Georges Brassens was so unsettling today. It takes the word multi-tasking, multi-function -- multi-everything-- to new levels. For Paris.

In fact, the literature about the park touts its multi-level diversity. And diverse it is. In a small space there are vineyards and bee hives up on a hill, fake donkeys on a grand staircase, real ponies, a waterfall, a hideous giant modern tee pee building which wins my March award for RBA (Really Bad Architecture). On another level, a bland petanques courtyard, a covered outdoor market. Across the park, a fake cliff, the obligatory manege, lots of climbing structures, a huge odd shaped pond and and and and and.

But none of it holdstogether esthetically. The handsome bulls at the park's entrance, and the somewhat classical tower overlooking the empty pond seem to announce a traditional (read: pleasing) gathering. Instead of having one pleasiant surprise after another (the case with most Parisian parks), the visitor has instead one minor disappointment after another. Paths wind and snake around the park, but nothing is really mysterious or hidden. Closer inspection of things seen in the distance leads to disappointment. Nothing serious, but vaguely annoying. Craving something else.

To be sure, it is a pleasant place for families to gather. Lots of happy shouting kids. Learning opportunities abound in the apiary and the vineyard, when they're not chained shut. Patches of colorful flowers. Such variety of activities assures that there is something for everyone. A little potager, a vegetable garden, at the entrance proudly announces that it is maintained solely by a local elementary school and the gardeners of the city of Paris. A quaint little patchwork-quilt touch. The rest of it, rather than being charmingly patchwork, felt just patchy and disjointed. I really wanted to like the Parc. I loved Georges Brassens; his music helped me love French even more all those years of serious study.

But today's Saturday in the Parc with Georges was discordant. Not even fun, like those old staff meetings.

But No Baked Beans...

If you've been in Paris for a while and are longing for a good old-fashioned church fair, get out of your chair tout de suite and head up the hill to avenue George V. The Junior Guild of the American Cathedral is sponsoring its annual BBB&B sale today and tomorrow.

That's Books, Begonias, Baked Goods and Bric-a-Brac. Did I miss a few Bs in there?

Delicious home-made goodies, good buys on used books, and -- well the usual, But Better!

Today, 10 am to 4 pm. Sunday noon to 3 pm.

American Cathedral

23 avenue George V

75008 Paris

Metro: George V or Alma-Marceau

Toy Boat Toy Boat Toy Boat

I just love tongue-twisters, and this one's a favorite: I challenge you to say "toy boat" five times in a row, fast.

Okay, time's up! The only reason I thought of that wacky little exercise was the upcoming exhibit at the Musee de La Marine, Bateaux Jouets. Whew. Much easier to say, and it promises to be a delight to see as well.

Opening next Wednesday, the exhibit displays 100 years' worth of toy boats, from 1850 - 1950. Conjures up images of children in sailor suits at the pond at the Jardin du Luxembourg http://clubnautiqueduluco.free.fr/, and E.B. White's Stuart Little (not the awful Hollywood version.) The Lilliputian flotilla includes everything from antique toy submarines to miniature cruise ships, and images of the people who played with them.

Now where can I find the next exhibit on... wristwatches? (You know, wristwatch wristwatch wristwatch...)

Musée national de la Marine
Palais de Chaillot
17 place du Trocadéro
75116 PARIS

Téléphone : 33 (0)1 53 65 69 69

Métro : Trocadéro
Bus : 22, 30, 32, 63, 72, 82
Batobus : Tour Eiffel

Open daily from 10 am to 6 pm. Closed Tuesdays. www.musee-marine.fr

Mr. Handsome Goes to Harvard

Well, it'll be quiet in the neighborhood this week. Mr. Handsome is away, giving a talk tomorrow at Harvard's Center for European Studies http://www.ces.fas.harvard.edu/. Co-sponsored by the Kennedy School of Government, the talk, which he will deliver in English, is being touted in Beantown as what will "likely be one of the last major public addresses by de Villepin in his role as Prime Minister."

Entitled " The United States and France: How Can We Face the Changing World Order?” the talk will begin at 4 p.m. EST (21h00 in France) at the John F. Kennedy Jr. Forum, 79 JFK Street, Cambridge. Expect standing room only.

If, like me, you find yourself on the other side of the Puddle that day, or even on the other side of the Charles, the talk will be web-streamed live:

http://www.iop.harvard.edu/events_forum.html

Velib': Bikes for Everyone

The Baby isn't born yet, but Mayor Delanoe has announced its name: Velib'.

The much anticipated new bicycle lending program for the city of Paris www.paris.fr has been officially baptized. A raccourci of velo and liberte, the monniker seems a little forced now but I'm sure it will soon be rolling off our tongues.

At these prices, we simply have to love it:

1 euro for one day

5 euros for a week

29 euros for an annual rental fee.

Bikes are sturdy and have ample baskets. They should be in place during the course of this summer.

Gazing Upward

I've been thinking a lot about meteors and meteorites lately. Lord knows why, just cosmic musing about falling stars, plus a few odd news stories. I have learned that when humans witness a meteorite streaking to earth and find the sizzling chunk of sky and its terrestrial impact, the technical term is a "meteorite fall."

Extrapolating, as I tend to, my thoughts took a Newtonian tangent. If all force has an equal and opposite reaction, then what would be the reverse of a meteorite fall? What, I wondered, is the official term for observing a phenomenon that has a reverberating impact on earth and then heralding its dazzling return to the celestial firmament?

I found out the answer last night. It's called "A Tribute to Art Buchwald."

Last evening I had the great good fortune to attend the Paris Tribute to Art Buchwald, who died in January. Held in a standing-room only crowd in a grand salon at the Traveller's Club, the reception could as easily have been held on Mt. Olympus as far as I was concerned. Many of the Olympian gods and goddesses of Paris in my book of myths were there, from Hollywood to journalism to gastronomy. Names jumped off the byline or masthead or silver screen or TV screen, and became real people as I was introduced to them, champagne glass in hand. These were Art's friends and family, who knew him well, including Olivia de Havilland, Ward Just, Joel Buchwald, Jim Bittermann, Philippe Labro, Nicole Salinger, Michael Oreskes, Lee Huebner, and the owner of L'Ami Louis. And then there were people like me who had never met Art at all him, who simply loved him through his writing.

All evening long, people repeated, "Art would have loved this."

With fanfare and video clips of Art, hilarity resounded. A remembrance by his former Herald Tribune assistant: "When he hired me he didn't know I couldn't type. He never asked. He hired me because his column made me laugh."

Or Nicole Salinger telling Art's tale of "The Six-Minute Louvre" http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/01/18/AR2007011801620.html

Jim Bitterman's tale of sneaking a Camembert into Art's hospice room, asking Art if his doctors allowed him to eat such rich food. Art's reply, of course, was "Jeez, I'm dying -- I can eat whatever the hell I want!"

The stories could go on forever, indeed will go on forever.

For Art's resonating impact is still reverberating on this earthly coil, as it did yesterday, with rounds of laughter and hilarity, from the meek (me) to the mighty. Last night I felt very very very tiny in that crowd of Greats. Humble and incredibly happy, but existentially infinitesimal. Wishing upon a twinkling star up there.

But the evening wasn't about star-gazing. It was about reveling in the wonder of the man who never ceased to make us think while laughing, who has found a new desk with a Better View. We know he's still joking up there. Kind of makes you look forward to the trip.

Merci, Art.




http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/linkset/2005/03/25/LI2005032501829.html

Is it Live or is it Jean-Luc Delarue?

By now you've all heard the high-flying scandal about popular French TV talk-show host Jean-Luc Delarue. The man who takes Fear of Flying to the extreme. Last month he apparently popped a gasket on board an Air France flight after mixing pills and alcohol to "calm his nerves" before flying. And while flying. Result: he fondled a fellow passenger, attacked some flight staff... the usual in-flight no-nos. Had to be strapped into his seat for the rest of the flight.

All of France was tittering about it for weeks.

Now a fake "cell phone" video, a parody of the bizarre bagarre, created by the weekly mag Choc, is all the buzz.

http://www.choc.fr/mordus/

The tag line: "If it were real, it would be in Choc."

Free Parking in Paris Tomorrow March 13

This is not a Poisson d'Avril (April Fool's joke).

And it's no laughing matter, actually. The mayor's office has just issued a press release stating that residents will be able to park for free in Paris tomorrow.

The air quality as reported by AIRPARIF http://www.airparif.asso.fr/index.php?setlang=en is expected to be so bad that City Hall wants everyone to avoid driving if possible, to not contribute to the problem.


Here's the full statement:

» 12/03/2007 Le stationnement résidentiel gratuit demain dans Paris
Par M. Bertrand DELANOË

Les prévisions relatives à la qualité de l'air réalisées aujourd'hui par AIRPARIF sur la base des estimations de Météo-France font craindre le dépassement du niveau de pollution nécessitant l'information du public pour le dioxyde d’azote demain mardi 13 mars 2007.
Cette situation confirme la nécessité de lutter énergiquement contre ce fléau qui constitue un grave problème de santé publique. C’est bien le sens de la politique de la municipalité parisienne qui vise à diminuer la circulation automobile au bénéfice des transports collectifs et des modes de circulation douce.
Face au risque d’un nouvel épisode de pollution, Bertrand Delanoë, maire de Paris, a décidé, à titre préventif, de rendre gratuit demain le stationnement résidentiel dans la capitale.
Le maire invite également les Parisiens à éviter si possible les déplacements en transports motorisés, à préférer les transports en commun ou les moyens de circulation doux, et pour les automobilistes, à adopter une conduite souple, économique, sans à coup et à réduire la vitesse de circulation. www.paris.fr

New Hampshire?

As a kid my family moved around a fair amount -- teachers always asked me if my father was in the military or the diplomatic service. (Nope.) Mostly it was that secretly, I believe, my mother must have gypsy blood in her veins. I like to imagine the circumstances. So exciting!

But for explaining why I attended so many schools: a problem. I was in fact a good girl and a very strong student. We just ... moved a lot. Mine was not to reason why. Mine was but to do, or else.

But.

When I was in seventh grade, at my Next New School (a perfectly lovely Quaker school in Philadelphia), I was yet again the New Girl in the class. New Girls were inevitably assigned to a Teacher's Pet (the most popular, smartest, prettiest girl) to be given orientation. Don't ask, it's just how things went.

So the pudgy but otherwise intelligent pre-teen Polly fell under the power of "Mimi," this SuperGirl. Suffice it to say I never made the grade socially (oh god, middle school), and was assured of many years of presumed and justified inadequacy anywhere within in a 50-mile radius of this cool, lithe, 13-year-old blonde success story. The Girl You Love To Hate.

Fast forward 30 years. I bump into Mimi's brother at a noisy New England fundraiser. "What's your sister up to these days?" I query.

In the hubbub of the crowd, I think that I hear him say, "blah blah blah....in New Hampshire..."

Heh heh heh.

Soooo, I think. The former blonde vixen is now living in New Hampshire. Justified or not, Bostonians delight in forging crass, unsophisticated images of New Hampshirites. I thus conjure up, with vengeful glee, the mental portrait of a Mimi transformed into a manure-shovelling unshaven backwoods hippie. I revel in picturing her with swarms of unkempt children fighting over who has to bring in the firewood. Dirty fingernails and bad grammar. Walmart clothes. Ah. I feel relieved, redeemed.

"Where in New Hampshire?" I ask coyly.

"No, no, it's Amsterdam. And Paris," he corrects me. "She has an international interior design firm. It was on the cover of Architectural Digest last month."

Oh.

Guess who I haven't looked up in Paris?

Saturday in the Park with...Tout Paris

I am accustomed to visiting the Jardin du Luxembourg in the grey morning mists. On a good day I'm there early, even before they open the gates and let the few dozen joggers (or walkers, like me) into the the gardens. It's an enchanting, meditative place on weekday mornings.

Imagine my surprise when I headed there Saturday afternoon for a leisurely stroll. I felt as though I were trespassing inside a "Where's Waldo?" book.

My initial reaction: if there are so many people here today, who on earth were in all those cars jamming the roads for the ritual Friday afternoon exodus from the city? I can't do the math on that enigma.

Newsworthy

I can just see the screaming tabloid headlines now:

One Full Year Living in Paris,

Woman Doesn't Tread Once in Dog Poop!!!

It's actually true. Must be some sort of Guinness record.

Happy Anniversary, moi.

Transported

Back when I lived in Boston, one of my French friends at the Alliance Francaise used to love to spout comedienne Sylvie Joly's sketches. One of my favorite lines was her portraying a very aristo-bourgeoise Parisienne, saying, "Ma chere, mon Jag-u-ar est en panne, figure toi. Donc j'ai pris le metro. Tu connais?"

Translation: "Well, my dear, my Jag is in the shop. Sooo, I had to take the subway to get here. Ever heard of it?"

Unlike Sylvie Joly's character, I frequent Paris public transportation, with delight. It is not only a favorite but also a source of constant awe and inspiration. Paris RATP www.ratp.fr rides run the gamut from fast and efficient to majestic and noteworthy. I like them all, for the most part. But what I really adore is the adrenaline rush that one can get in various circumstances. I have a bit o' the ADD in me and we attention-deficit types rely on adrenaline rushes where chemical ones have been shunned.

Here are my favorite rides to date in Paris:

1. Metro # 14 The newest line. Get on the front car and sit where there would normally be a driver (machiniste) and watch through the windshield as the train rockets through the tunnels. Better than Space Mountain.

2. Ride the #69 bus as it enters the impossibly tight arch under the Louvre between rue de Rivoli and the courtyard of the Louvre. Every time I'm convinced that the bus just won't fit. Every time it squeezes through. Wild.

3. On the # 10 line to Boulogne, at the Mirabeau station there is a wonderful out-of-body experience. As the westbound train track rises up as you leave the station, you feel as though you are floating above yourself and looking down upon the passengers waiting at the opposite platform below.

4. The absolute adrenaline rush of hearing the blaring of the bells sounding the imminent closing of the doors of the metro -- any line -- and clackclackclack running through the station and jumping inside the car just as the doors are closing. Life just doesn't get much more thrilling. Of course, I never was one for roller coaster rides. So maybe i don't know the true meaning of thrill. This does it for me.

Black Umbrella with a Pink Ruffle

Tuesday night it was pouring, and I was rushing across town to meet up with the girls and our friend Ariane for dinner at Le Grand Colbert. Miss Bee had borrowed one of my larger umbrellas, and since it was really blowing up a storm, I used my other good folding umbrella, a black one with a slender fuchsia ruffle around the edge. It always cheers me up when I use it.

This is my all-time favorite umbrella. It's even more dear to me because I got it for a song at TJMaxx or Filene's Basement in Boston. Then, last week when I popped into Madeleine Gely's fabulous umbrella boutique on boulevard St. Germain, I spied very similar umbrellas for the gobsmacking price of 130 euros. A gentleman with his 9 year old daughter was purchasing two of them. Blow me away. Anyway, I was thrilled to already own one -- though not an authentic Madeleine Gely parapluie --- and proud that I had had the vision to pluck it from a pile at a discount store.

I do tend to lose umbrellas, and since they are de rigueur here in Paris I have amassed a little collection. I never leave the apartment without one, even if it's a sunny day. So whenever I see a cheap folding umbrella, I tend to buy it to have in reserves. Some are Totes brand umbrellas, from the States. Some are little touristy French parapluies (with images of French newspaper mastheads as a design motif). A plaid one, a bright yellow one. A burnt orange one that required lots of input from sales staff at the little shop on rue la Boetie last spring (a fun event where all were deciding on the right color: "This goes well with your hair, madame; that one goes well with your Longchamp bag", etc etc.). But this special dainty-but-strong black umbrella with the pleated pink ruffle -- well, I have held on to that. It somehow makes me feel very Parisienne in a Gigi sort of way.

Tuesday evening, entering Le Grand Colbert in a wet gust of wind, I did what everyone does, and put my dripping umbrella at the front door with all the others. I saw Bee's umbrella already there, so stashed my precious brolly behind hers.

We had a jolly dinner, and it was fun to show Bee's friend Jessica the "typical Parisian restaurant" now of movie fame (Something's Gotta Give). Oddly, they have now put up posters of that film in the entrance, which is a little tacky, I think. Then, at the end of the evening, we were leaving and MY UMBRELLA WAS NOT THERE. I got in a complete swivet. "Where is MY, umbrella, monsieur?" I asked the doorman.

Totally unfriendly, totally uncooperative, this toad in the fancy schmancy uniform postured, "If you wanted to keep your umbrella, you shouldn't have left it at the door."

I have been in France long enough to know that any time you try to take a soaking wet umbrella into a nice establishment you are immediately and disapprovingly asked to put it away from other clients and staff, at the umbrella stand at the door. However, this fact was clearly not going to enter into the logic of the little Cerberus’s haughty response. He proffered, "Here, madame-- you want a black umbrella? I give you this, “and flourished a cheap Tati umbrella in my face.

"Je ne veux pas de votre parapluie, monsieur," I snarled back. By now it was no longer raining and the only storm in the 2e arrondissement was me storming out of that restaurant. I always get slightly nauseous indigestion after dining at Le Grand Colbert. This time it was heading toward an ulcer. Now I have a real excuse not to ever go back.

So friends, the next time it rains, if you see anyone walking the streets of Paris sporting a black umbrella with a very lovely hot-pink ruffle around the edge, please tap her on the shoulder and tell her to return it to me.

With this Ring I Thee Scam

Scam alert!!

Twice in the past two weeks I have fallen prey to a little swindlers' trick. Maybe it's an old ploy and I'm just a rookie here. I fell for it the first time.

Breezing down a quiet residential street near Bon Marche, I was stopped by a man ahead of me on the sidewalk who had leaned over to pick up an object by the curb. He approached, saying, "Excusez moi, madame, but I have found this wedding ring. Look, it has inscriptions on the inside." The point is to get the target (me) engaged in dialogue and a small level of trust. Foolishly I fell for it -- he wanted me to return the ring to the police. Then he asked for lunch money. He had me right up until then. I offered him one euro.

The guy then said, sneeringly, "I can't buy lunch for that much! I need more money!" and he re-pocketed the ring.

Then my smart brain kicked in and I realized that he was just a con artist.

"A simple thank you would suffice, cretin," I said as I stormed off, totally pissed that I had given him a euro. How stupid of me.

So yesterday when a different guy tried the same trick (same ring! fat gold band) -- right outside a friend's apartment building on avenue de Tourville, I told him to get lost in a most unhesitatingly crude way. Sometimes I just love knowing French mots grossiers.

Body Language

Most pedestrian stoplights in Paris are like this. A somewhat benign, passive, stay-put message.

But then I noticed that some are more adamant don't-you-DARE-move messages, hands on the hips and all. Perhaps part of Mayor Delanoe's new Paris Dit Stop safety program? www.deplacements.paris.fr

You go, Guy!

"We've got the Green guy -- let's go!"

Green Guy, Green Man -- what do YOU call the Paris pedestrian walk light figure? If anything.

I tried "Gringo" for a while but a date with no sense of figurative speech kept saying, "No, a gringo is what Mexicans call white Americans." Duh. Anyway that kind of spoiled that pun for me.

Then I tried calling him "Vertigo," for Vert (green) I Go, but that was too obtuse.

If you have any other ideas or pet names for this guy, let me know at yahoo.com, pollyvousfrancais.

More about his evil twin, the Red Man, tomorrow.

Ouch! My Back Hurts

It's spring break for US colleges and universities, so happily my daughter and a friend are here for a whirlwind Paris visit this week.

By popular demand, we had dinner at the legendary Bouillon Chartier this evening, with delightfully old-fashioned service, and waiters in traditional black with white-waisted-tablecloth attire. As luck would have it, we got one of the kinder waiters, a truly charming grandfatherly type. He was so sweet and tender, I wanted to take HIM home in a doggy bag.

Not so for the rest of the dinner. Unfortunately I have such a backache from 30 minutes of sawing through all the gristle in my gigot d'agneau that my shoulder blades may never be the same. Granted, I saved a few euros by going for a place where cheap means cheeeeeap. But the savings will have to be spent relaxing in a hammam tomorrow just to unknot the muscles and regain my upper back strength.

Restaurant Chartier
7 Rue du Faubourg Montmartre 75009 PARIS
01 47 70 86 29
www.restaurant-chartier.com

Haute Couture or Pret-a-Porter?

Decisions, decisions. For all you fashionistas, here is Parisian chic at its finest.

Flowers that Bloom in the Spring, Tra-La

Spring is definitely arriving en pleine force in Paris. It's March, so why not?

But many Parisians and provincial denizens are worried about the printemps precoce, worried that it's too early and we'll get a bad freeze later which will kill off all the blooms and their fruit. Ce n'est pas normal, they say.

I hope this doesn't happen. Meanwhile, this proud gardener from Parcs and Jardins of Paris agreed with me that Paris has the most beautiful gardens in the world. It seems that every little patch of green in the city is in full technicolor these days.

Card-Carrying Genius

Guess what? I'm a genius. I have a card to prove it. So what if I had to pay for it?

No, it has nothing to do with self-congratulatory groups like MENSA. (I coulda been a contender anyway.) This Genius card is offered by none other than my favorite place in town, La Poste. Which is now La Banque Postale. And while they're at it, in addition to being a post office and a bank, they're now acting as a temp agency www.genius-laposte.fr as well. I couldn't believe it either, but it's true. So of course I signed on the dotted line. Not to be a genius, actually, but to hire one.

It all began this morning when I practiced my weekly self-flagellation of standing in line at the Poste. Actually I have grown to love this special drama, so the waiting room at La Poste draws me like a magnet. Good thing I get some inspiring plot-lines somewhere, since my France Telecom TV service still isn't working and it gets expensive renting videos every night that I'm home. But, as usual, I digress.

So today as I am entering the tail end of the line at the Poste to buy my enveloppes déjà timbrés there are three very smiling young faces greeting me -- Julien, Elise and Magali. They tell me that they are Geniuses and want to "simplify my life". Oh wow, this doesn't get any better. Unfortunately, this happy trio is made out of cardboard. Life-sized and handsome, but mute cardboard nevertheless. So like the rest of my compadres I must wait in line on tenterhooks until I can quiz the the lady at the guichet, "How can these Geniuses de-stress my life?"

And so here's the deal: for just under 10 € annually, you can buy a Genius card. This gives you access to all sorts of temporary "personal help" from agencies screened by La Poste.

Need a babysitter so you can escape your little mophead for the evening? Call a Genius.

Fido or Cesar desperately needs walking while you're at work? Call a Genius.

An extra pair of hands is essential for hanging those curtains or preparing for that dinner party? Call a Genius.

The laundry is piling up and you're just too busy to iron? Or wash. Call a Genius.

Mamie needs someone to help her with her computer or paperwork? Call a Genius.

Your teenager is flunking and desperately needs tutoring? Call a Genius.

You need someone to pick up your dry cleaning and run other errands? Call a Genius.

You get the picture. Genius gives you access to all sorts of personal helpers, at basic market rates, screened by a known entity.

So, let me see. If I have this right, I could hire a Genius helper to ....go stand in line for me at La Poste?

Surreal.

If a Tree Fell in the Forest...

I have walked past this tree in the Tuileries countless times, and silly moi, I always assumed that it was real, like the decomposing fallen oaks in New England woodlands. Mais non! Yesterday I took a closer look. We are in Paris, of course, and this is in fact a bronze sculpture, by Giuseppe Penone. Arbre des Voyelles is the title; I'm not quite sure why.

The Other Woman for President

Nom d'une pipe! She's at it again. Va-va-va-voom French presidential candidate Cindy Lee is scouring the French countryside to try to get the required 500 mayoral signatures to secure a spot for her Parti du plaisir http://www.parti-du-plaisir.com/ on the ballot for the first round of voting in April.

With only 50 signatures so far, she has a lot of work to do. I bet there are a lot of village mayors who will be happy to curry her favor(s).

Year of the Monkey

Oh, don't be so quick to correct me. I may be jet-lagged, but, yes I KNOW that this is the Year of the Pig.

But we might just have to shuffle animals around a bit, now that I have heard this fabulous just-released song by Paris resident Rhoderic Land. It should be christened the Year of the Giant Monkey. King Kong has never been more ooh-la-la. Or more fun.

http://www.myspace.com/RhodericLand

Transatlantic

As much as I love Paris, it is a good thing once in a while to get out of town. "Escape the golden prison," as they say. Also a brief respite from Parisian pigeons and sidewalk doggy-do is always welcome. So this week I found myself jackknife-folded into seat 22A on Air France to Miami.

A very kind but somewhat super-sized German couple were in B and C, merrily drinking their way across the Atlantic. Although they spoke virtually no English or French, they made do quite well using grunts and sign language with the flight attendants and managed to get refill after refill of Bordeaux, cognac, pear brandy, or whatever was being offered or not at the time. Fortunately it meant that I didn't have to attempt to engage in any meaningless chit chat with them. Herr Trinker, however, did keep trying to raise the armrest so he could spread over into 22A. I smiled sweetly and motioned that I needed to have access to the entertainment buttons. Fortunately, all that liquor also made Herr und Frau quite sleepy. They nuzzled bloatedly for the remainder of the trip. Meanwhile, I guzzled Evian in a vain attempt to stave off puffy ankles and jet lag. Ha ha ha.

Ten hours and 2 liters of water later we landed in Miami International. At the luggage carousel, three massively beefy airport workers hauled the bags off the conveyor belt to make more room. After standing there together for a while, I finally decided to break the ice and chat them up a bit, in the vague hope that they might help me when my suitcase came along. "So I guess you boys don't have to head to the gym after work," I joked (or some such inane comment). The only guy who responded to me turned and said "Valisas esta aqui" or some such thing in Spanish. Foiled again.

When will I actually get to speak English in the good ole US of A?

Bienvenue en Floride

Ah, Florida.

Swaying palm trees.
Sunny skies.
Salty sand.
Tropical wildlife.

Today on my morning walk, I spied a huge flock of snowy white egrets.

They were huddled together, pecking holes in filled plastic garbage bags in the dumpster behind the CVS.

I [heart] La Poste

I love stamps. I gleefully giggle when sending letters to the US with Cezanne stamps featuring lots of nudes. So I was worried when I noticed that La Poste is sporting new signs in many locations, with its new name, "La Banque Postale". Would it mean doom to the philatelists who love adorning their envelopes with beautiful artwork? Somehow I pictured the newly formed agency declining in creative energy and resorting to using only Pitney-Bowes type stamping machines. Ugh.

But not to worry! La Poste -- er, I mean La Banque Postale -- is still a great provider of stamps and packages. Avoid lines and shop by internet.

http://timbres.laposte.fr/blocs-timbres-collection/

Not a Sign of Spring, Necessarily

One little detail that most people forget to mention.

Paris window-boxes like this one are filled with flowers all year round. Yes, even in February, even when the month isn't as mild as 2007 has been.

Evidently there is never enough of a hard frost to kill off the hardier potted flowering geraniums, cyclamen, etc. And with the ambiant heat from the vast single-glazed window panes, it's a virtual greenhouse.

Ici est Tombé

Paris immeuble walls are plastered with a multitude of plaques commemorating where this illustrious author lived or that famous painter spent his final days. Living history. Fabulous.

Then there are these plaques, sober souvenirs dedicated to the mostly anonymous or unknown Resistance fighters who died for their patrie during the Liberation of Paris in August 1944. Each plaque has a little ring at the bottom. This is to hold a bouquet of flowers placed there on various State holidays in tribute to these heroes of modern France. They are honored and remembered, with flowers and a ceremony, many times in the year.

This plaque, near the Ecole Militaire, is for a man who was 40 years old when he died for his country.

Poem

I didn't think I'd ever see

A death announcement for a tree.

Lovers' Quarrel?

These two ducks in the Parc Andre Citroen are clearly not on speaking terms today.

No little nuzzles or quoin-quoins d'amour on this pond.

Perhaps one of them just finished reading Cecile Slanka's book, a potent little collection of "Dear John" letters, Comment lui dire adieu.

Signs of Spring

My morning walk led me to the magical Parc Andre Citroen. Spring is arriving.

Let's Be Franc

Torchlit anti-euro manif on Saturday. Sounds positively Hugoesque.

I'll be out of town, so will have to miss this one.

As a foreigner, watching manifs is incredible to me. I'm also fascinated by the secondary demonstration-related businesses that have emerged, from Manif-burger stands to chartered suburban transportation. All for the cause, of course.

The Power of Seduction

A picture is worth a thousand.....

This one is just in time for Valentine's Day. Paris is all about l'art de seduire.

The above vitrine is at the Isabelle Marant boutique on rue Jacob.

Honestly, I keep intending to venture regularly into museums and see exhibits; but I find I'm so seduced by Parisian exteriors: playful store windows, the bas-relief of building facades, inventive scaffolding covers. Only in Paris!

This one I captured on the spur of the moment.

Don't Steal the Ashtrays

Cafe de Flore, Cafe de Flore. We just can't get enough of it. It has possibly surpassed its neighbor Les Deux Magots as the enduring Left-Bank icon of literary/philosphical cafe celebrity. But please, don't steal the ashtrays.

Anyway, there is no need to. Just around the corner from the cafe (it would be decidedly un-hip and impractical to do otherwise) there is a nifty little shop selling vintage and replica Cafe de Flore EVERYTHING, bearing the Flore logo. Ashtrays, bien sur. But smoking is sooo last year, n'est-ce pas? So how about some authentic little white cups for your cafe serre, tea pots, wine glasses, or any of dozens of other items that one might have actually used there. Plus aprons, tea cosies, dishtowels, and more and more.

Bernard Felix, the very friendly owner, explained that they ship all over the world. He also confided that Cafe de Flore has opened branches in Japan, which have met with huge success. (Hmmm, I am thinking, if an august French institution like Cafe de Flore can open succursales around the world, what's the big stink about the new Louvre in Abu Dhabi?)

Americans have discovered M. Felix's boutique and are happy customers. "Today I'm shipping a table and two chairs -- the same ones that you would sit at on the terrasse -- to a gentleman in San Francisco," he announced proudly.

Moral of the story: if you want to be sure of having a table at the bustling Cafe de Flore, maybe it's better to purchase one. Cafe de Flore -- to go!

Cafe de Flore Boutique
26, rue Saint-Benoit
75006 Paris
01 45 44 33 09
www.cafe-de-flore.com

Meet the Parisians at Work

The Paris Tourism Bureau has a cool program called "Meet the Parisians at Work" http://en.parisinfo.com/paris_sightseeing/rub7865.html that allows any Guy (or Gal) Average step in and observe -- ta-da! -- Parisians at work. A kind of homosapiens twist to ecotourism, if you know what I mean. Live! Real Parisians! Doing very Parisian jobs!

Kidding aside, it sounds like a fun way to see a bit of insider's Paris, for either the newly arrived or the jaded-seen-it-all crowd. If you’re intrigued to learn more about real Parisians whom you might not otherwise meet, and chat with them in situ about their professional life, then check out this program of visits.

Activities and professions run the gamut: from guide dog trainers to chocolatiers, bookbinders, dockmasters, Poilane bread bakery, and lots of behind-the-scenes visits, from mundane to luxurious. Most are available in English. In case a great activity catches your fancy but requires a group tour, grab a bunch or your friends and go!.

La Tour Montparnasse

It was a full moon this weekend so I really have to factor that into any feelings that I have. And on a whim, I put myself just that much farther into the moon's magnetic pull by travelling to one of the highest spots in Paris, the top of the Tour Montparnasse http://www.tourmontparnasse56.com/

I was out on my morning walk and decided to hop up -- way up -- for a view. For 9 euros, the elevator takes you from 0 to 56 floors in 30 seconds, a nice little ear-popping rate, with a video showing you your virutal view as you go. Nice touch for the claustrophobics on the lift. However, this is not a place for phobics of any sort, especially not acrophobics. A dizzying panorama of Paris at the top. Unlike the view from the Eye-full, which I don't really like (it's like trying to count the ears when you're in the middle of the cornfield. And too many tourists.) Funny, from the Montparnasse, the Eiffel looks like a tinker-toy plunked down on a game board. Or like a souvenir of itself. Beautiful but wiry and lightweight.

At the top of the Montparnasse, you feel as though you are the artist of a birds-eye lithograph of Paris, a little bit on an angle and able to see into eveyone's windows. It's infinitely better than Google earth or Pages Jaunes aerial views. You can scrutinize an area at a time, get the larger picture, and make sense of all the puzzle pieces of streets that you've been walking down lo these many months. What's more, you can practically see what Mr. Handsome is being served for lunch on his terrace at the Hotel Matignon, and admire his humongous adjoining garden, surely the largest private garden on the Left Bank.

Which brings me to the first drawback. Montparnasse is great for views of the Left Bank only. Even on a crystal-clear day, the Right Bank is just a little blur of slabs except a few stand-outs such at the Madeleine, Beaubourg, and of course, Sacre Coeur. You can only surmise where the Seine is. But for Rive Gauche accros like me, this top is top-top.

I was there on a breezy, clear Saturday morning. It would be scintillating at night, with all the lights of the city to see. It gets my vote hands down for a great cheap date spot -- perfect for leaning together and looking at all the sights.

As I climbed the three flights to the rooftop, the musak was playing Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely?" Did they plan that? She is so beautiful, our Paris. The windswept terrace on the 59th floor is a spectacular. You could imagine a 21st century Doisneau couple embracing there in the middle of the helipad, with la belle Paris below as a backdrop.

But I was there solo, which brings me to the next drawback. I don't recommend going to the top of the Montparnasse toute seule. Somehow when I am savoring being a flaneur in the streets of Paris, I feel embraced by the architecure. At ground level there exists a more intimate relationship with my beloved city. Maybe this explain some but not all of these full-moon woe-is-me feelings when looking at the most specatcular bien aimee from on high. Maybe I didn't like sharing my Paris with the rest of the world. Being up there made me feel tiny and alone.

But the the best thing about being at the top of the Tour Montparnasse? As the saying goes, the good news is that when you're on top of it, you don't have to look AT it.

Moliere

The new movie. Just out yesterday.

Go see it right now. If you don't speak French well enough, go see it anyway. It will inspire you to improve your French. More about that later.

Here's a trailer

http://fr.video.aol.com/video.full.adp?pmmsid=1802850