Errata

Parisians are chomping at the bait to see the opening of Pixar's Ratatouille in cinemas on August 1. Of course, Remy, the endearing hero of Ratatouille, isn't the first adorable rat to become popularized in contemporary culture. Remember dear Ratty and Mole in The Wind in the Willows?

It demonstrates that anthropomorphizing just about any rodent will make the audience coo. Think Pépé le Pieuw, Fievel, Mickey, Rocky, and Jerry (or was it Tom?).

And of course, lest we forget those handsome rogues in the Rat Pack, here are the bad-boy darlings of Hollywood and Vegas, who gave the rat a decidedly hip image in the 1960s.

So, of course, this got me thinking. Why did Pixar concentrate on a rat as the symbol of Paris for the film?

The answer, naturally, has been there all along. Ever-wacky, my mind turned to contemplating Real Rats in Paris.

Warning: Stop reading right here if you have a queasy stomach. See you at the movies August 1!

A bit of rat history. It is now famously known that flea-infested rats were the sneaky culprits of the Black Death in the 14th century. In Paris the plague killed about 800 people a day, ultimately reducing the city's population by about 50%.

What a difference five centuries can make. During the terrible winter of the Siege of Paris in 1871, food was in such shortage that desperate, starving citoyens killed and ate rats. Recipes for preparation of various tasty rat dishes abounded. Rat paté apparently became so popular on restaurant menus that even the price of rats skyrocketed.

Le vendeur des rats pendant le siege de Paris, at the Musee Carnavalet.

Just a year later, once the food shortage passed, carnivorous Parisians had presumably returned to consumption of more standard fare. Rats were happily repopulating Paris, notably the area around Les Halles. (All that excellent market garbage for them to feast on!) To provide Paris with a much-needed service for rat control, Maison Aurouze opened its doors on 8 rue des Halles.

I am morbidly fascinated with Aurouze. One of those "only-in-Paris" curiosities, Aurouze is, er.., thriving today, still located in the same building where the fledgling family-owned store began in 1872. The house speciality is still deratisation, but they are purveyors of all manner of contraptions to help Parisians get rid of any unwanted creatures, from moths to ... bigger furry pests. The vitrine of Aurouze is unlike anything I have seen in the western world. Neat, orderly rows of mummified 80 year-old rats hanging in formation.

Dusty but winsome taxidermied rats jitterbugging on the floor. Rats, rats, and more rats.

The first time I happened to pass the shop and spotted the window display, it stopped me dead in my tracks. Not as dead as those rats, of course.

Rat art. Only in Paris.

Transatlantic Travel News

Exciting news in long-distance air travel. Boeing has rolled out its new, "green" 787 Dreamliner. Hallelujah! Now, barf bags, noise-cancelling headphones, and the ever-so-charming recirculation of airborne germs will eventually be history.

Eventually.

The new jet, introduced out on the coy date July 8 (7-8-7) amid much fanfare, promises more head room, better humidity and larger windows, too. And even the toilets will flush quietly. But it will be quite a while before all flights have these 21st-century features, since airlines will be adding 787s to their existing fleets only as they need to replace worn-out behemoths.

And even then, we will still have to deal with some of the more pressing dilemmas in air travel:

1) how to get the best airfares

2) what to pack

3) how to avoid jet-lag

In that order, here are a few sites that have recently crossed my radar screen which are worth checking out.

1) Airfares and general travel suggestions: Jetsetters and Globetrotters: A Travel Blog

2) What to pack for traveling light: OneBag

3) Jet lag and in-flight comfort. Last month Parisian blogger David Lebovitz wrote a great post about Five Favorite Carry-On Items, with helpful suggestions in the reader comments, too.

I, The Old-Fashioned One, seem to be in the minority in being less than thrilled about the other recent air travel news: the new regulations (just in Europe, for now) permitting cell-phone use on board flights. I mean, who cares if the plane itself is whisper-quiet, if all the passengers are yakking up a storm?

Carte Verte

One of the daily ironies of being an American in France is being subjected to these French pop-up advertisements that appear on the computer screen when checking e-mail.

Art and Reality

It is raining again. A neighbor somewhere in my apartment building is playing the piano, a piece that I often hear him -- or her? -- practicing. Somehow I picture a lovelorn man poetically swaying over the keyboard, eyes closed, deep in remembrance and emotion. The music is lyrical and evocative. Ravel? Debussy? No, more recent, I think. I don't know my composers well enough to recognize it. Maybe it is his own composition, because usually he plays just the haunting refrain, which then fades as he strums softly on the keys trying to rework his effort. Then silence, drifting.

The lilting notes still echo through the courtyard, and I have the impression of having heard this very tune long ago, a score at the end of a black and white film, a French romance, with a failed love story. In it, the couple mournfully leaving each other, one descending stone steps under the pressing raindrops, the other gazing out the car or train window, pining, regretting what will never be. The camera fades. The credits roll.

So much of Paris often feels like the backdrop to a movie set: the architecture, the crowds, the sounds, the narrow streets. Scores of individuals in every quartier who could be from Central Casting.

The confusion of art and reality is never stronger than Paris on a cold and rainy afternoon.

Madame Tabac

I've finally done it. I've cracked Madame Tabac.

It all began a year ago when I moved into my new apartment. I needed to buy more minutes of credit for my pay-as-you-go cell phone. So I crossed the street to the Bar-Tabac Jean B to make the purchase.

Plowing through the smoke-filled café, I passed the men lined up at the zinc with their cafés serrés or their morning petit coup de rouge. I headed to the corner of the Tabac, where Loto tickets, cigarettes, stamps, and Hollywood chewing gum are sold and cell phone transactions take place. And there was Madame Tabac.

Haggard and stone-faced, clad in a sagging grey cardigan, Madame shuffled to the cash register in her pantoufles.

"Bonjour madame, I need to buy minutes for my cell phone," I chirped in well-rehearsed French.

Her bulging eyelids closed into suspicious little slits. "On ne vend pas de minutes"-- we don't sell minutes.

"To make my cell phone work," I continued, smiling.

"Je ne comprends rien de ce que vous dites, madame," she growled, pushing back wisps of her greasy hair in frustration.

"Non non, excusez-moi madame," I pleaded, "I need to buy credit for my cell phone." I nodded earnestly.

"Du credit? On ne fait pas ça ici! " her snarling contempt was unrestrained.

OK. I knew this Tabac store was where I could pay money to give me more time on my cell phone. I paused, slowed my thoughts. The day's first lesson in humility -- admit language failure. Deconstruct my needs into tidy little word packets.

There was a small line of nicotine addicts forming behind me. Madame was getting impatient. I began anew. "Voici mon problème, madame. I have a cell phone. It is not a portable a abonnement. I have to pay money -- to be able to talk on the phone. I can pay money at a Tabac somehow so that I can buy a piece of paper that permits me to telephone on my cell phone. I do not know the word for it. Do you have what I might need?" How to be reduced to a third grader in two seconds flat.

"Oh, vous voulez un recharge Mobicarte, imbécile," (actually, she did call me madame, but I know she meant imbecile. But at that point I was willing to take whatever insults came my way.) "Combien d'euros?"

We finished the transaction and I scurried out, tail between my legs. As I headed back across the street, it dawned on me that this grizzly Jabba the Hutt was going to be a permanent fixture in my new life. First reaction -- dread. How could I face this grouch every time I needed a bus ticket or a Mobicarte recharge (the all-important phrase now permanently sealed in my lexicon). Next thought -- the Madame Project. I'll have to crack her, win her over to make her smile at me, if not be nice.

This has been no easy task.

A few days later, I returned for another Mobicarte. This time I rehearsed it to perfection.

"Bonjour, Madame," I sang. "Je voudrais un recharge Mobicarte, s'il vous plait."

"Déjà?" she snarled.

"Euh.. oui," I said with a sly grin. "I have been très bavarde" -- a real chatterbox.

"Il faut savoir se limiter, quand même, " she muttered, shaking her head. -- one should control oneself. But I did notice a supressed twitch in the corner of her mouth that, with months of therapy, could possibly have been turned into a smile.

Since then, with sporadic interactions, she has tolerated my presence in her little corner shop. I have wooed her with perfect change -- lots of it. I have commiserated on the blustery weather. I have agreed with her about idiotic customers. When I could extract conversation from her, it was usually deadpan and mostly monosyllabic.

Until this week.

I arrived in the usual grey morning haze of the Jean B, and perched in the corner was Madame Tabac, her straggly grey bun transformed into a brunette chin-length bob.

"Vous vous êtes changée de coiffure, Madame!" I remarked, not knowing the response it would elicit.

Suddenly she smiled, her broad yellow teeth sporting wide gaps.

"I am a grandmother now," she offered proudly. "Il faut changer d'allure."

"Cela vous va très bien," I complimented. "Et félicitations pour le petit enfant."

With customary merci-au-revoir-bonne journée, I left, dazed that I had finally gotten across the treacherous communication divide. But that was not all.

This morning I stopped in and there was Madame, new coif AND a choker of pearls and a clean navy-blue cardigan. She was looking positively radiant (for Madame).

After the usual preliminaries I ventured, "And how is the petit enfant?"

Madame now began to gush. "Ohhhh, qu'est-ce qu'il est mignon et adorable. Un vrai petit chéri. Qu'essss-ce qu'il est beau!"

I decided to push my luck. "I'd love to see a photo some day."

My new best friend, Madame said, "Oh, you'll see him soon enough here at the Jean B. He's only 10 days old so he's not here yet. Mais il grandit! He's growing. Qu'est-ce que ça pousse vite, les bébés. Yes, you'll have to come back to see him."

Me and Madame. Joined at the hip.

Bastille Day a l'Americaine

Allons enfants de la patrie!

While le 14 juillet is being feverishly planned in all parts of France, and the Place de la Concorde is a beehive of construction for the annual Bastille Day parade in Paris, don't forget that many cities in America toast the day as well.

Le Journal Francais d'Amerique publishes (in French) this preliminary listing of festive French activities in the U.S. in the upcoming week.

Enfin, Paris est a Nous!

Let's hope that when the buy-out of Hilton Hotels by the Blackstone Group goes through, they'll change the name. "Paris Pierre-Noire" has a nice ring to it.

Anything to spare the association with the Other Paris.

A Peek at Lalique

One of the current "must see" exhibits in Paris, before it ends on the 29th, is the René Lalique exposition at the Musée du Luxembourg, featuring the master jeweler-glassmaker's best bijoux. However, you can have access to a more permanent view of Lalique's oeuvre any day of the year, in the 8e arrondissement.

At 40 Cours Albert 1er this Art Nouveau building with a facade designed by Lalique is one that even many long-time Paris residents don't know much about. Unless you are walking to the nearby Embassies of the Congo or Brazil, you just might miss it.

In 1902 Rene Lalique married his second wife and designed this hotel particulier for his young family. He used it as a residence, a studio, and an exhibit space. Architects Louis-Eugene and Albert Feine designed the structure, but the decoration is pure Lalique. The pine motif begins in the thick glass panes in the wrought-iron door with bas-relief cones and branches. The sculptural detail continues from the door and seems to twine organically up the building's surface.

I was fortunate to be invited inside to see the handsome Lalique chandelier which anchors the central hall. Hmm, maybe they should change those light bulbs.

The mansion today serves as a private apartment building, its interior not open to the public. But just a peek at this Lalique architectural gem is worth a quick detour from the metro stop Alma-Marceau, just a block away.

Citizens Abroad

The capstone of this July Fourth Paris season for me was a red-white-and-blue gathering sponsored by AARO, the Association of Americans Resident Overseas. All current or future American expatriates, whether in Paris or in some remote corner of the planet, should familiarize themselves with this organization, and join it.

Why?

Because AARO is an advocacy group for the 4-5 million Americans residing worldwide outside the borders of the United States. Astonished by that figure? So was I.

Perhaps AARO's earnest mission is not as sexy-sounding to you as, say, simply showing up at meetings where you listen to a speaker and have a Sancerre-soaked luncheon with other expats (which are fun, I admit. Tons of fun. Let me tell you about that last lunch... )

But listen, my friends. AARO attends to the nuts and bolts of what it means to be a U.S. citizen abroad. Taxes? Voting? Health Care? Driver's License? Representation? If you think those issues don't matter to you because you're living the life in a fabulous foreign country, think again. AARO is a watchdog group that meets at least annually with YOUR representatives in Washington to advocate for your continued rights as an otherwise "out-of-sight-out-of mind" U.S. citizen living abroad. They keep their members informed about issues that affect them directly. Non-partisan, intelligent, clear information. Plus access to reasonable expat health care plan. Need I say more?

Besides, they throw a really great party, too. We do live in Paris, after all.

AARO

34 avenue de New York
Paris 75116

tel. +33 (0)1 47 20 24 15

Lafayette, We Were There

The Cimetière de Picpus has to be one of the most tranquil outdoor spaces in Paris. When strolling through the grounds, you have a sense of being transported in time to a small village far from any booming metropolis. Yet it is located a short walk from the Place de la Nation in the 12e arrondissement. The private cemetery encompasses a 19th-century Chapel, a large expanse of grass, fragrant boxwood, and a minuscule burial grounds (by Paris standards).

It is here that the Marquis de Lafayette is buried, in soil from Virginia that he brought to France after his final visit to the young United States in 1825. It is at Lafayette's grave that the American flag has flown uninterrupted in France, even during years of the Nazi occupation of Paris. It is here that General Pershing's assistant, Stanton, pronounced the famous "Lafayette, nous voilà!" on July 4, 1917, to proclaim the U.S. troops' arrival to support France in the throes of a terrible World War I. It is here that Lafayette's wife Adrienne was buried before him, in a spot chosen for its proximity to the mass grave where her immediate family had been "buried" with hundreds of other nobles beheaded in the French Revolution.

It is a cemetery to visit the next time you have the chance.

So it is fitting that each July 4 the American flag at Picpus Cemetery is renewed amid great solemn and moving ceremony. This morning at 11, dignitaries from the U.S. Embassy, the French Senate, the Mairie de Paris, the Society of the Cincinnati, the Sons of the American Revolution, and Friends of Lafayette and the general public -- both French and American -- gathered to pay tribute to this hero of two worlds.

A U.S. Military Color Guard stood at attention while the French Garde Nationale band played the "Star Spangled Banner." That alone was a touching moment of transatlantic honor and friendship. The Marseillaise followed, of course. In lieu of loud cheering, there was a wave of emotion that reverberated among the spectators. The crowd, already hushed, shared an official minute of silence. Brief speeches followed, with placing of flowers on Lafayette's grave site. The U.S. Ambassador, addressing the assembled group in French, was moved to tears as he spoke.

This is a momentous year in French-American relations, capped off by celebrations of the 250th Anniversary of Lafayette's birth. In France and in the U.S., he is a man to remember and revere. During all the political ups and downs of the nearly two and a half centuries of friendship between our two nations, we owe it to ourselves to remember that in the U.S. House of Representatives, there are two larger-than-life portraits flanking the speaker's podium: Washington and Lafayette.

Cimetière de Picpus: 35 rue de Picpus, 75012 Paris. Metro: Nation

Open to the public every day except Mondays and holidays from 2 pm to 6 pm. For information, contact the conservateur at 01.43.44.18.54 There may be a modest entrance fee. Email: picpuscime@yahoo.fr

La France et les Etats-Unis

When Americans and French put their spirit and spirits together to celebrate the best of our countries' long-entwined friendship, the results are formidable. Tonight the American Chamber of Commerce, the French-American Foundation and the American Club in Paris combined forces -- and guest lists -- to fête Independence Day à l'américaine at the Marriott Rive Gauche in the 14e arrondissement.

Champagne flowed. Très français.

Mini-"Big Macs" were a touching nod to American culture,

as were the other all-American dishes such as ribs and Southern barbecue served up in tiny hors-d'oeuvre-sized portions. Forgive my gushing, but they were just plain cute!

U.S. Ambassador Craig Stapleton gave a brief but encouraging talk. As I was holding a champagne flute instead of a pen, I don't have notes or (ahem) a good enough bubbly-induced memory to quote the specifics. So sue me because I was having fun. Suffice it to say that his speech was very upbeat, and we can look forward to continually strengthening relations -- especially business relations -- between France and the U.S.

And that's good news for everyone, in my world.

Diary of a Door Mat

We briefly interrupt our regularly-scheduled 4 juillet programming to bring you the Short and Happy Life of a Paillasson. This French doormat is typical of most Parisian apartment buildings. Nary a "Welcome" sign or cute daisies and such. Basic Door Mat. Classic. These are from various apartments in my building's stairwell. Made from coco fibers, they do tend to shred and shed.

The first one is brand new. No carbon dating was available for the last one, as no coco fibers remain, but the tenant has lived there for about 60 years. A long and happy life for that paillasson.

Expatriate Patriots?

I had a French friend in the States long ago who married an American and in due course, by choice, became a U.S. citizen. On the day of the citizenship swearing-in ceremony, she proudly made her vows to uphold the Constitution of the United States -- while her left hand was clutching a little French flag hidden inside her coat pocket!

I wonder sometimes if Americans abroad on the Fourth have the same sort of thought. We may totally love our adopted country, be completely immersed in its culture, but there are vestiges of American-ness that we cling to, especially during holidays like the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving which don't exist beyond the shores of America.

Real Americans in Paris is researching how American expats in France and around the world celebrate U.S. Independence Day -- or not. How do YOU say "Happy Birthday, America" when living in a land where it's just another Wednesday workday? Or do you simply go about your day with "business as usual" and ignore the date?

Meanwhile, for anyone needing all the information you'll ever need to know about past and present July Fourths, including a few in Paris, there is now a great reference tool, The Fourth of July Encyclopedia by James R. Heintze. Not only is it a great academic resource, but also perfect for those Fourth-of-July quizzes. Also check out Prof. Heintze's Fourth of July Celebration database.

Random thoughts on Beaumarchais

One important Frenchman during the American Revolution was Pierre Auguste Caron de Beaumarchais. Playwright and arms dealer, he had the tacit support of Louis XVI to found a company to supply weapons and other provisions to the Insurgents.

To students of French literature, of course, he is best known for his comic plays, Le Barbier de Seville and Le Mariage de Figaro. These are perhaps more familiar in their operatic forms, Rossini's Il Barbiere di Siviglia and Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro.

July beckons, so I won't go into a long-winded paean to Beaumarchais here. In Paris you can visit a statue of him in the Marais, or you can go hear Le Barbier de Seville in September at the Open Air Opera at Vaux-le-Vicomte.

Please bear with me here, for a huge mental leap across time zones. I have to admit that my first introduction to Beaumarchais came at a tender age, watching Bugs Bunny feud with Elmer Fudd. It made me the amateur melomane that I am today. And all the more a francophile.

If you don't remember it (or don't believe me), check out "The Rabbit of Seville". It is summertime, after all.

Paris: Birthplace of the U.S.A.

Today I went on a 3-hour walking tour of parts of Paris that I thought I already knew.

Wrong!

A group of three American guides from Lire et Partir, a literary tour group, led us on a ramble through the 7e and 6e arrondissements, from the new statue of Thomas Jefferson across from the Musée d'Orsay, along the Seine and down the rue Jacob and beyond, regaling us with stories of the Founding Fathers who made Paris their home in the 18th and early 19th centuries. Remarkably well researched, with enticing anecdotes and unexpected discoveries, the tour gets a hearty A- score for sheer enjoyment and informative fun. At 15 euros per person, it was a Great American 4th of July Bargain in Paris. And this was just their Left-Bank tour! Despite my earnest pleadings, they are not planning to offer a tour on Wednesday the 4th itself, but are instead having a repeat performance next Sunday, July 8, from 2 - 5. Reservations and info: 01.42.08.00.42, 06.22.50.71.29, lire.et.partir@wanadoo.fr.

If you can't make it to next Sunday's "Founding Fathers" tour, but are looking for a way to celebrate Independence Day in Paris, I recommend the following. Pick up a copy of Paris: Birthplace of the U.S.A. by Daniel and Alice Jouve. Currently available at Brentano's or the Musée Carnavalet, this history-packed guidebook lays out walking tours that cover all of the key sites in Paris where the fledgling American nation found its earliest wings, from the Hotel de Valentinois in the 16e arrondissement to the Cimitière de Picpus in the 12e, where LaFayette is buried.

In the book's foreword, former U.S. Ambassador to France Walter J. P. Curley reminds us,

France's prompt and generous support of the American Revolution -- with moral suasion, men, materiel, and money -- was a crucial factor in establishing my country's independence. Rochambeau, LaFayette, Washington, Franklin -- are names which are inter-related very early in the academic life of every American student.

Paris: Birthplace of the U.S.A is an excellent city guide for any day of the year. But this week, following its walks can be one small way to celebrate a Happy 231st Birthday abroad for our still rather youthful nation.

Fourth of July Memories

Growing up, I always loved the Fourth of July because it meant a time for family gatherings. I don't recollect specific events, but I know that it has left me with an abiding love for sparklers. Waving them around to spell letters in the cooled evening air, feeling content from a perfect meal of slightly blackened hot dogs drizzled with French's mustard from a pump jar. Chilled canned peaches on iceberg lettuce with a dollop of mayonnaise. Homemade ice cream more deliciously earned because you had to participate in cranking the ice cream maker, its wooden bucket crammed with ice and rock salt. Later, when the sparklers ran out, there were always glowing fireflies -- lightning bugs -- to catch in a jar with a few leaves and an aluminum-foil top punched with holes. Eventually pity forced us to release them, and they escaped into the velvet of a Tennessee summer's night sky. I wonder, sometimes, which of my hazy memories are of the Fourth itself, or simply other happy summer moments. I don't think it really matters.

In my teenage years, July 4th meant rising early to watch New England village "Horribles Parades" where hastily costumed children on beribboned bicycles and not-yet-grown-up adults straggled through the town center. Uniformed Cub Scout troops marched in vague formation, and local swells waved from the back of a borrowed convertible, Veteran's caps perched jauntily on their balding pates. Sometimes a homegrown Uncle Sam or a small marching band, or a few funny floats, the joke understood only if you lived in town. Being local felt comforting.

Later July Fourths witnessed my own toddlers and their little cousins as they swung plastic bats at wiffle balls on the broad lawn of the family place on the Massachusetts coast. By afternoon the "littlees," as they were called, invariably got splinters in toes or on knees as they scrambled on the wide weathered porch of the house, their chins stained purple from dripping popsicles. All generations of the womenfolk shelled fresh peas in the kitchen and every year discussed anew the best way to poach and serve so much salmon to feed the extended family. A faded, moth-eaten 10 foot by 12 foot American flag flapped gently against the grey shingles of the lumbering old Victorian, a perfect backdrop for what looked like the American Ideal. The years and years of the Annual Photo, with smiling faces of babies, aunts, in-laws, step-uncles, siblings, and grown cousins and their current roommates or best friends or loves or spouses, posed in the same place in the branches of the sprawling catalpa tree. Thinking about these July Fourths, I prefer to choose the happy appearance of those successive photographs as the memories to retain. Because by nighttime, when the menfolk scuffled to detonate contraband fireworks on the beach, with frantic dogs barking, mosquitoes swarming, and exhausted children cringeing or squealing, the darkened evenings of the Fourth had inevitably lost the joy that the day's anticipation and sunshine had brought.

That classic Fourth-of-July house now belongs to some other family, to create their own American Dreams. And I live in Paris now, to create mine.

Founding Fathers Walks in Paris

This from FUSAC:

FOUNDING FATHERS IN PARIS: Literary walking tour, in the footsteps of Jefferson, Franklin, Adams ... and in their own words!

Sundays July 1 and 8, 2-5pm.

Reservations and info: 01.42.08.00.42, 06.22.50.71.29, lire.et.partir@wanadoo.fr.

Le 4 juillet kick-off

Being in Paris around the Fourth of July means no hometown parades with clanging fire trucks, no fireworks, and no Boston Pops playing the Star-Spangled Banner. But Americans in Paris have learned that being an expatriate doesn't mean being an ex-patriot.




A number of American groups organize special Independence Day festivities. Most are for members and their guests. A source of inspiration for the guesstimated 100,000 - 200,000 Americans living in the Ile-de-France.

Today the American Club hosted a Fete Champetre at a member's house near Giverny, a 40-minute ride from Paris. So worth the trip! Mother Nature was kind,and the group of 60 or so French and Americans had some good old US-of-A fun and food and even a spot or two of sunshine.




It's so uplifting to blend the Gallic and the Yankee traditions: for example, we never served excellent Bordeaux at any childhood July 4th barbecues that I can remember. It definitely should become a new tradition, y'all. The All-American recipes were prepared by a French chef from the nearby village, and let me tell you, he makes one mean potato salad. Delish! Hamburgers, barbecued chicken, brownies -- the whole enchilada (well, no enchiladas, actually).




It was particularly amusant to explain the notion of a silent auction to the French attendees. And the Presidential Quiz! I won't mention names, but one enterprising lady spent 14 minutes on her cell phone with her daughter, who googled all the answers. That's what I call ingenuity.

All ages, lots of activities, GREAT music. And a tombola (raffle). Lucky me -- I got Carlton Moody's fabulous CD, "Meet me in Paris Tennessee," a perfect reward for a splendid Franco-American Fourth.

More celebrations and outings tomorrow!

Mickey Murder Mystery

I swear, I had nothing to do with it.

I posted this on my blog before Associated Press broke the story.

You may call me Scoop from now on.

Murder on the Rue Vaneau?

This morning when I went down to deposit my recycling in the dark stairway off the courtyard, I came upon this grisly scene. Postively Poe-esque. The bac à bouteilles was overflowing, and next to it, this abandoned body, face down.

Things must be pretty rough out at EuroDisney. Poor Mee-kay.

Topinambours: Blog Love

Oh my.

I just stumbled on a tumblelog, Topinambours. Rapidly becoming addicted. I've gone speechless. From Perec to dingbats to Charles Ives in Paris to ... oh, never mind. Just check it out.

And don't miss Topinambours' link to the Tour de France 2007 on Google Earth. My other not-so-secret addiction.

Treasure Hunt in Paris

Lace up your baskets and get ready to go!

The Mairie de Paris is sponsoring the Second Annual Chasse aux Tresors (Treasure Hunt) on Saturday, July 7. Open to Parisians and non-residents alike, the hunt is ideal for energetic adventurers with a sense of curiosity and esprit de corps.

Alone or in teams, on foot or on public transport, participants will go from site to site finding "clues" to the final treasure. Hunters will roam the winding streets and discover some of the lesser-known parts of Paris. Last year some 9,000 participants joined in the quest for "gold".

The gold, in this case, comes in the form of prizes offered by the sponsors of the event, including Michelin and Gallimard.

The quest begins at 10 am in front of the mairies of the 3e, 6e, 13e, 18e and 19e arrondissements and continues until 1 pm. Award time in front of each of the mairies is at 3:30 pm.

Participation is free and open to all. Sign up at http://www.tresorsdeparis.fr/ or simply show up at one of the above mairies in advance of starting time.

Paris When It Drizzles

Remember April? April in Paris?

That glorious month of azure skies and balmy weather just weeks ago, when Parisians were tsk-tsking with worry about abnormally high temperatures and what-will-we-do-if-this-heat-continues?

It's been all downhill since then. The month of June has been significantly cooler, blustery and raw. Sure, we've gotten some much-needed rain, perhaps, but enough already! And what has happened to all the happy springtime attire? Instead of gauzy linen and school's-out frivolous fashion, many Paris denizens are back in light winter jackets (in the morning at least), scarves coiled around necks, and in general the layered look to adjust to the mood swings of la météo.

Tired of shivering, surrendering to defeat, I finally turned the heat back on in my apartment yesterday. C'est un temps de novembre is the word on the streets. Let's hope Mother Nature is fickle and surprises us in a day or two with some good news.

Your umbrella: don't leave home without it.

Not your average Tom, Dick and Harry

Taking time out to devour the weekend edition of Le Figaro is a special treat. After dutifully digesting the political news and analysis, I turn to my favorite section. Le Carnet du Jour gives readers the chance to take stock of the current trends in French baby names in "Naissances", and to mourn the passing of the old guard in the "Deuils". What a difference a few generations make in the first names.

Here's a sampling from this week's baby announcements, including first names of young siblings. In some cases it wasn't clear whether the name was male or female.

Filles
Margaux
Tatiana
Mathilde
Héloïse
Olivia
Rose
Agathe
Anaïs
Elisabeth
Clara
Emilie
Louise
Anne-Florence
Apolline
Aliénor
Josephine
Colombe
Béatrix
Hermine
Quitterie
Arielle
Irène
Clémence
Noémie
Violaine
Constance

Garcons
Vladimir
Louis
Hugo
Martin
Aurèle
Foucauld
Hipployte
Lancelot
Guillaume
Antoine
Alix
Mathis
Cyprian
Anselme
Edouard
Timothée
Théodore
Victor
Gauthier
Amaury

Now from the death announcements, a different era of French names. Average age is a remarkable 92, out of the ages announced.

Dames
Marie
Andrée
Huguette
Marguerite
Gladys
Jacqueline
Jeanne
Gilberte
Michèle
Denise

Messieurs
Pierre
Jacques
Jean
Yves
Roger
Vincent
Emile
Albert
Gabriel
Paul

And if you'd like to compare them to US first-name trends, check out the Social Security Administration's website, which lets you query popular baby names by year and state. Or a similar French site. A (fun) major time vacuum.

French Chef in the States is Fed Up

A devoted reader in Charlottesville, VA (okay, it's my sister, Suzie-Vous Francais) sent this rant from the owner of La Ciboulette. He posted the note on the restaurant door this spring.

If only he could see the noon-time hordes of Parisians queuing up outside the doors of boulangeries to buy their... sandwiches! He's got a point about ice in the Sancerre, though.

Click on the image to read.

Read the controversy in the Cvillain.

Dollars to Donuts ...to Croissants?

When I finally made the Big Decision to move to Paris, it was January of 2006. Budgets were calculated, and financial planning -- already not my forte, I admit -- was loosely based on a "slightly-more-than-a dollar" figure for calculating the exchange rate with the euro. Ulp.






But, as with all dollar-based Americans who choose to make this incredible place their adoptive city -- because there just isn't any place else that compares -- the ever-slipping dollar simply means readjusting bigger plans. Frankly, it's worth every centime. Quand même...

I keep wondering. Where is that crystal ball when I need it?
That international-monetary crystal ball, I mean.

Real American Boy

That's my boy.

Proud maman that I am, I just had to show this aeronautic feat.

Le Bourget may have John Travolta at the Paris Air Show. But in my biased maternal view, neither Travolta nor the new Boeing 787 can compare to this handsome frisbee-catching wonder.

Photo courtesy of Hyemi Joo.

Cell Phones on Planes

Is any one else besides me clapping with one hand about the news that regulators have cleared European airlines for take-off to allow in-flight phoning? My other hand, of course, is clutched firmly on my cell phone.

This is not my idea of progress. Now airline passengers will be subjected to endless jabberings of their seat-mates: paramours and corporate wannabes, and anyone else who thinks they absolutely MUST connect to terra firma or else be doomed to withering on the vine. Or crying young lasses, weeping into phones over the break-up at the airport.

In fact, what will happen to all those lovely, romantic Hollywood-style good-bye airport scenes? If the conversation can continue while the plane is bumping through the atmosphere at 10,000 feet over the Dolomites, then instead of the tender kiss, the teary departure at the security checkpoint, it will simply be "Call me from the plane."

Will there soon need to be "Vols Silence" like the "Voitures Silence" on the SNCF, which brook no cell phone usage, no shrieking little darlings? Can we beg them to limit the in-flight service to just quiet text-messaging?

To be sure, there are times when I wish I could make a call in flight (Did I leave the tea kettle blistering on the stove? Did you remember to transfer the embezzled funds to that Swiss bank account?), but in general I find it unnecessary. Even more unnerving is the notion of plane-to-plane phoning, which is next: "My flight's almost empty -- I got three bulkhead seats. Cute attendant. How's yours?"

While the owners of the OnAir, the satellite service, claim that in-flight phoning rates will be expensive enough ($2.50 per minute) so that no one will likely spend a long time on the phone, I'm not holding my breath on that assumption. And I doubt that future flying phoners will hold their breath, either.

Americans in Paris

Well, naturally, any headline that shouts "Americans in Paris" is going to grab my attention. When a friend forwarded me the news from the New York Social Diary about Saturday's American Friends of Versailles gala, I couldn't help but be green with envy. Le Bal Marie Antoinette: a great party, at Versailles, with grandees to beat the band? And all in the name of French-American friendship... and Versailles, of course. Quite the soirée, it seems.

Alas, Cinderella here didn't even get invited. Sniff. Not that I had the mega-euros to cough up for a swish fundraiser of that grandeur, of course. Or the pumpkin.

Photo from the New York Social Diary

A moment on the bus

On the Number 70 bus, heading back from Hotel de Ville, I was happy to find a seat. Actually, I sat in a place prioritaire, to be ceded to personnes agées or mamans avec enfants. Fortunately for my tired feet, no senior citizens or young mothers were on board, so I reveled briefly in my good luck. A young woman sitting across from me was engrossed in a phone conversation and I stared blankly out the window.

Suddenly my fellow passenger jerked her head back, startled, and I saw why. Dancing down the inside of the window between us was a one-inch wasp, looking for lunch. Not wanting to be any guêpe's pincushion, I sprang into action. In very unladylike fashion I removed my ballerina flat from my right foot and -- thwack! -- the nasty little critter was history.

Incredulous, my bus-mate stopped her phone conversation for a moment and gave a smiling thumbs up. Then she resumed again, explaining, "Non, non, ça va. I was just witnessing un crime. Un crime de guêpe." (A pun on "un crime de guerre," a war crime.)

I added, "Oui, un guêpicide?"

A round of muffled guffaws rose from the supposedly non-eavesdropping fellow passengers who were packed around us.

Visiting Normandy

One of the decided advantages of living in Paris, besides living in Paris, is the ability to explore the countryside on the weekend. This weekend I had the opportunity to take a quick trip to Normandy.

Some American friends invited me to visit, at the chaumiere that their family has owned for 40 years. For them, a place of fond memories of childhood summers spent lovingly restoring and furnishing a beautiful but once-ramshackle compound of buildings. For me, a chance to escape the "golden prison" of Paris and marvel at huge trees bending in the breeze, smell freshly-mown grass, and to wake up with the cows and an explosion of birdsong.

You can get to Heaven. It takes only 1-1/2 hours on A-13.

Directions to get to the house were so delightfully country-esque. "Go past three fields, take a left at the white house, go past the manoir that you can't see any more; then the road takes a dip, and go right at the allee of trees. If you reach the forest, you've gone too far." I missed the turn and, ending up in the village by mistake, waited to be retrieved by my hosts. I parked between the local restaurant (which serves up intoxicatingly delicious 5-course meals for about 16 euros) and the small chapel.

Villages in Normandy seem so magical, and yet there is a deja-vu familiar quality to them. I finally realized that it came from having watched so many World War II movies and television shows in my youth. Driving through Normandy, I think I subconsciously expected American "soldiers" such as Vic Morrow or Lee Marvin, in Army uniform, to spring out from behind a grey stone building to surprise the enemy and save the day.

I don't know about other girls my age, but when I was in grade school I was a die-hard Combat! fan every Tuesday night (I think I can still hum the theme song) and thought that The Dirty Dozen was one of the most romantic films of all time. Not for any love scenes -- I don't remember any -- but for the thrilling romance of bravery, valor, and ... all those men in uniform. When I watched those action-packed dramas, and Good triumphed over Bad, I felt that all was right with the world.

In Normandy, it still feels that way.

BHV

Clearly, I haven't been frequenting the be-all-and-end-all of my favorite Paris stores, BHV (bay-osh-vay) often enough. I passed by today as I headed to rue Vieille du Temple, and there were so many more outlets than I remembered last time, just a few months ago. One store for pets, one for men (what's the diff?), plus the usual tile, plumbing and other extensions of the main store. Do we hear a major real-estate-vacuum whoosh going on as the store expands in the Hotel de Ville area north of rue de Rivoli?

Since its humble origins in 1901, it seems that the BHV (Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville) has apparently never stopped expanding to meet the needs of its clientele. For years when I was a mere touriste in Paris, I did all my souvenir shopping in the sous-sol of BHV: house-number signs, "Essuyez Vos Pieds" signs for my back door, little hardware gadgets that you can't find elsewhere, and especially the old-fashioned corkscrews made from fantastic gnarled sections of grape vine. All the items that I thought (and still do think) were quintessentially French.

BHV has entered the 21st century with aplomb and clearly a good, albeit agressive, marketing plan. Even on this little side street just behind the main store, there is a fabulous mur vegetal, like the one at the Musee du Quai Branly. Adds much-needed greenery and a lot of visual appeal to an otherwise bland commercial setting.

Voice Mail

When -- when -- I remember to check my phone messages, this is what I do.

I get out my bloc-notes. I get a pen. I sit down. I brace myself mentally. I dial 3103. The familiar friendly-but-no-nonsense female voice chimes mechanically:

"Bonjour. Vous avez .. Deux .. nouveaux messages. Appel du.. zero un quatrevingtquinze..."

Uh oh -- how much is that? My mind races as I do the mental math and try to listen to the next numbers. I scribble 01 85, cross out 85, write 95.

"...soixantequatorzedixneufcinquante."

I write down 14 because that's all I heard. Or was it 14, then 79, then 50?

How can it be that learning numbers in French was the very first lesson way back in French I umpteen light years ago, but now conjuring them up is the very last skill to come automatically? Transcribing any number up to 69, I'm golden. When I have to start the add-ons, the compound numbers, like sixty-twelve or four-twenties-eighteen, I'm sunk unless there is that extra split second to absorb it. Nary a nanosecond of mercy in between the chiffres when you listen to France Telecom voicemail.

Don't even get me started about trying to understand business people's gurgling voice messages on my portable (cell phone). I don't even try. A rushing river of numbers that I try to retain while walking down the street? Forget it.

The solution? Defeated, I hit the trusty save button, "Pour conserver votre message, appuyer sur 2."

Deux. A nice easy number. Got that.

Les Sapeurs Pompiers

Today I was taking a much-needed break at a café on the rue de Sevres. Sitting on the terrasse sipping my Coca Light, relaxing. Suddenly a big red Parisian fire truck, les Sapeurs Pompiers, pulled up across the street. The café owner ran out and motioned to the Sapeurs where to come in. I hadn't smelled any smoke, and didn't think there was a fire back in the kitchen. Next one, then two, then three of the Sapeurs in their nice blue outfits came into the café. "Voilà, il est là," gestured the owner.

Evidently a man had fainted in the back, and the Sapeurs were there in their function as EMTs. I was impressed with the non-rubbernecking of the clients in the café. They all went about their business, because whatever had happened to that poor man was not their business.

Then a curious thing happened. The Sapeur who was waiting on the street -- by now the truck was parked out front with orange traffic cones -- took his long folding wrench and opened a valve under the manhole cover and water flowed along the curb into the street, the way it does for the Green Men who are cleaning the gutters.

Then it dawned on me. There are no fire hydrants in Paris. None. I've always been a fan of the quirky sculptural quality of fire hydrants in the US. They simply don't exist in Paris; perhaps they did once, but no more.

As I was leaving the café, I asked the handsome Sapeur (meanwhile wondering if good looks are part of the job description) about my revelation. Yes, he confirmed, "tous les postes d'eau à Paris sont souterrains" -- all water outlets for firefighting in Paris are underground.

Funny, I thought to myself, no fire hydrants in a city that loves dogs so much...

Blogging Issues

Chewing on a lot of blogging issues right now. I'm not a happy camper. Dazed and confused.

I'm outraged at the thief who so blatantly stole Chez Pim's posts, more outraged that his blog is gaining in popularity from all the flap.

I'm thankful to Sam, who posted a helpful comment at Chez Pim about Creative Commons, a licensing organization for the web.

I'm sheepish about some of my earliest blog posts where I did use illustrations from the web that I in my naivete did not attribute, mostly for lack of graphics savoir faire in posting. I hope it wasn't too evil of me. I hope that those transgressions are somewhat absolved by the fact that I don't make any money from my blog -- not even any little "donate" widgets.

I'm concerned because I just heard of someone (not a blogger) who apparently is making the rounds of Paris starting a work like my Real Americans in Paris project. I start worrying, wondering if I should just keep my mouth shut, stop blogging, and get back to throwing my heart, soul and time into paid writing projects.

I had fretted about whether to post the announcement of Real Americans in Paris when I first began, but figured that it would lend more legitimacy to the project, and help publicize the casting call for interviewees. It has. But if it's true that another Paris expat has taken the idea and is running with it, where does that leave me? Do I get to say "I have dibs on that idea?" Or is it a question of running faster than the next guy to get the Big Project out there.


A reader asked me if I was inspired by the film Paris je t'aime, and although I loved the movie, it's very different from my project. I've been studying the relationship of Americans to France for decades. I originally also had a proposal for interviewing "everyday" Parisians, but found that Run Around Paris does an excellent job of that. Real Americans in Paris is looking at the relationship between contemporary Americans in Paris and their adopted city.

So here's what I'm chewing on. Do bloggers merely serve as a free source of information for those who are set to capitalize on their ideas and knowledge?

Stretch Limos in Paris?

Last night having a quick after-theatre bite to eat on boulevard de la Madeleine, I did a double take. Sure enough, slinking down the street at about 11:30 pm. there it was. A white stretch limo. License plate: LIMO 7.

You can hang me by my thumbnails and torture me for days, but I will not renounce my opinion that stretch limos are tacky. There. I said it. White stretch limos are even worse. Somehow they are becoming so accepted, practically de rigueur in the US, as seen by this photo: of one of several stretch limos hired by kids for my son's Senior Prom last month in Massachusetts. So, yes, now I am resigned to the fact that limos are now mainstream in American culture. I said American culture.

But stretch limos, in France? Oh, please. This is a place where aesthetics and substance are supposed to reign. Chic and glamour, not showy glitz. My friend said "C'est rare de voir cela." (It's rare to see that.) Gee, I sure hope so.

Fragile(s): Movie Pre-Screening Invitation

You are cordially invited to attend a pre-screening of a the film Fragile(s) by Martin Valente, starring Marie Gillain, François Berléand, Caroline Cellier, Jean-Pierre Darroussin, Jacques Gamblin and Sara Martins.

The screening will take place Wednesday, June 13 at 8 pm at l'Entrepot in the 14e. A talk with the film crew will take place after the film.

The film is, needless to say, in French, as will be the discussions. Places for the screening are on a first-come first-served basis only by reserving online at http://www.avant-premieres.net.

Preview: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x24v6y_fragilesbandeannonce

J-1: Paris Bloggers' Picnic

The meteo doesn't look too promising, but I'm getting a good night's sleep tonight anyway so I'll be fresh as a daisy for the Paris Bloggers' Picnic tomorrow. And still be alive enough to go to the theatre later without falling asleep.

Fortunately my friend Carole brought me this witty T-shirt (whatever could have inspired that?) last winter. So at least I don't have to spend the usual hours deciding what to wear.

Wi-Fi a Paris

Now here's something to celebrate. No longer will you need to suffer the humiliation (or calories) of hauling your laptop to McDo to get wireless internet service when your paid Neuf or Free internet service is down -- or if you're just visiting and need your daily email fix.

Free Paree Wee-Fee is about to arrive.

The long anticipated Wi-Fi Paris project is set to start in mid-June, which by my calendar means sometime in the next week. The Mairie de Paris has published an on-line map, by arrondissement, of over 400 locations where free wi-fi will be accessible, from 7 am to 11 pm, in libraries, museums, parks, mairies, and more.

Images of Audrey

Just when you thought you'd seen it all -- miracle images of Mother Teresa in a cinnamon bun, the Madonna on the Freeway. And my small contribution, a curiously persistent stain resembling Jesus, on my left leather boot last winter, which Some People Thought I Was Tetched in the Head about. You know who you are.

Now we have --ta-da !-- Holly Golightly on the sidewalk of Paris. Yes, none other than the fetching Audrey Hepburn fading away underfoot somewhere on the boulevard St. Germain. Ghostly, n'est-ce pas? Do we think those other cigarette butts are hers?

Many thanks to Rose, a dear reader from the States whom I met in Paris last month, for sending this to me. All rights to the photo are hers.

Les Baskets

Ah, it's good to be home in Paris, land of les baskets. Unless your head is totally in the clouds, for a long time now you can see on the streets Parisians of all ages and arrondissements sporting les baskets. Is it just my bias, or is it true that only Parisians could make Converse all stars a fashion statement, wearing hi-tops or lo-tops with such panache. There are les baskets worn with les slim (usually skinny black pants), with jeans or even, as I spotted at the opera, a lady wearing them with a tony linen suit. Les baskets avec tout?

But it goes beyond fashion. Les baskets are so ubiquitous that the phrase has taken on new meaning. The word, of course, comes from basketball, le basket. Les baskets are the shoes. So the phrase "il est bien dans ses baskets" has come to be the equivalent of "il est bien dans sa peau," meaning "he feels good about himself."

But there's more. I spotted in Le Canard Enchainé on May 23 "Le PS est à côté de ses baskets, sans ligne ni tete." ("The Socialist Party is out of sorts, out of kilter, no line and no leader.")

Other uses:

"J'en ai plein les baskets" = "j'en ai marre" "J'en ai plein les baskets avec le boulot." (I've had it up to here, I'm fed up.)

"Lache-moi les baskets" = "laissez moi tranquille" (Give me a break.)

"Avoir le moral dans les baskets" means to be a little depressed. But not me. I'm fresh off the plane, back home in my little parquet-moulures-cheminées in the 7th arrondissement.

I am happy to be back, and bien dans mes baskets.