Bastille Day Doors

Bleu, Blank, Rouge

Side by side on boulevard Sebastapol

Bastille Day in Paris

I was awakened at 5:15 this morning by the only mosquito in the 7th arrondissement. It entered my bedroom window to persecute me, taunting, "Madame, in Paris we don't leave our windows open at night." Actually, I think it was still on a buzz from one of the bals polpulaires hosted last night at various casernes of the Pompiers de Paris until the wee hours. I wreaked my revenge, and suffice it to say that darling moustique will not be darting over the Champs Elysées today to view the annual 14 juillet parade.

Resigned to being wide awake, I decided to head over to the Champs myself to catch a glimpse of the preparations before the crowds arrived. I emerged from the métro at Champs-Elysées - Clemenceau at 6:45, and to my surprise crowds were already standing at the barriers to save their spots for viewing the parade.

Military marching music was pumping out of loudspeakers mounted on streetlamps, and the police covered every street corner, most of them relaxing a bit before the real work begins.

Paris really puts on a parade! There are deep rows of viewing seats -- the gendarme said they were places reservées (though he didn't specify for whom) -- lining the street from the Grand Palais to the Place de la Concorde. And, of course, the grand presidential viewing stand in the center.

It was interesting to note the behind-the-scenes aesthetics. TV camera stations (or security look-outs?) were draped with camouflage fabric to make them as unobtrusive as possible.

I'm not a fan of huge throngs -- and today's turnout is predicted to be larger than usual. Wandering off, I strolled over the Pont de La Concorde to head home. The Seine, so often a turbulent grey, was angelic, dressed in its finest for Bastille Day.

Mosquito or no mosquito, I'll have to remember to get up early more often, now that summer is here.

In an Old House in Paris

Walking around Paris, I often wonder about what gives me that comforting sense of famliarity, of feeling at home.

I realized that in part it comes from fond memories of great classic children's books.

These were (are) my favorites.

I can still recite most of Madeline by heart.

Nouvelles Chaussures

Good thing the forecast for Paris is calling for warm sunny weather this weekend. Otherwise we'd all be tempted to buy these shoes.

Merci a Florence pour la photo.

And the Winner Is...

At the Pavillon de l'Arsenal tonight the judges announced the winning design for the Concours International pour la Renovation des Halles. The laureats were Patrick Berger & Jacques Anziutti.

The ten top entries were on display.

(Is it just me or does this Berger/Anziutti tarpaulin design look like a giant raie, a skatefish?) The Maire Adjoint who gave the speech said, "...this is unlike anything else in Paris." Well, yes. (Click on the image to enlarge.)

The Pavillon is the Centre d'information, de documentation et d'exposition d'urbanisme et d'architecture for the City of Paris. A good place to visit if you are even vaguely interested in the urban planning in Paris' neighborhoods.

Plus there are some great architectural maquettes on display. While many of the video presentations were quite striking in their graphic design, I found that they flashed images so quickly it was hard to get a grip on the actual plan. Nevertheless, an intriguing exhibit center. Quirky, fun boutique.

Pavillon de l'Arsenal
21 bd. Morland
75004 http://www.pavillon-arsenal.com/

The Scoop on Velib

This afternoon at a spiffy station just off rue de Rennes, two cheerful Velib staffers were on hand to explain the system to curious passersby. Curious is my middle name, so I stopped for a chat.

Velib, of course, is the much-touted new "free" bicycle rental program putting thousands of bikes on the streets of Paris.

Here is the scoop. Sit down, put up your feet.

First, the bicycles are sturdy and attractive; and while I wouldn't go so far as to call them beautiful, it is a case of function defining a pleasing form. Except for their weight, they seem to be eminently practical bikes. Baskets, lights, locks, the whole package.

The preliminaries

In order to ride a Velib, you must be at least 14 years old. (No upper age limit. Whew!) Between 14 and 18 you must have parental (or equivalent) permission.

To sign up for the one-year subscription (29 euros), you have to fill in a form and have your Velib carte mailed to you. The form is available at http://www.velib.paris.fr/ and takes about 15 days.

If you already own a Navigo pass, you can have the 29 euros charged to that and can swipe it as you would you Velib carte, at the electronic docking stations.

In order to sign up for Velib for a one-week (5 euros) or one-day (1 euro) pass, you have to have a credit card. You get this pass at the "borne" -- a kind of tall freestanding ATM found at each station. I'm embarrassed to admit that I forgot to ask if foreign credit cards will work (the ones that are sans puce, without a little microchip). This could be critical.

Enrollment requires a deposit of 150 euros, none of which is removed from your account unless you fail to return your Velib at the appropriate time. The borne will issue you a magnetic Velib Ticket which you swipe at the Velib electronic post (point d'attache) in order to unlock your bike.

This gives you unlimited use of the Velib for precisely 30 minutes, at which time, in order not to be charged more, you must either

1) return it to any Velib station in the city,
2) swap it for another Velib at any station in the city,
3) return it to a Velib station for 2 minutes (connect it to its electronic stand) and then take it again, or
4) get charged for the additional minutes.

The specifics

The additional minutes are the key part to this program.

First half hour over your free initial 30 minutes: 1 euro
Second half hour after that: 2 euros
Third half hour beyond that: 4 euros

Better get that bike back on time! The point of the program, they explained, is for Velib to be an alternative to public transportation or walking. It is not "un velo a balade" -- not for leisurely day-long bike rides. That helped calm my concern about all the wonderful bike rental shops and bike tours in Paris which already do such a great job.

The Velib has a small electronic dashboard which tells you the status of your available minutes. Kind of like being on the bicycle machine at the gym, but this time you're actually going somewhere.

Locks and Security

Since you won't be keeping your bike idle for very long, the lock system won't be that necessary. But it is practical. The temporary lock is permanently attached to the bike.

So if you, for example, are just stopping by the boulangerie for a baguette, you simply flip down the kickstand (kind of like a motorcycle kickstand) and attach the lock around the nearest pole. The lock key is released once the lock is well attached. Don't lose the key! And you'll hope that the boulanger is speedy, because the minutes are ticking away one your dashboard minuterie.

Next scenario. Your 30 minutes are up and you've duly arrived at the nearest Velib station to dock your bike. But wait -- the Velib station has no free space! What to do without getting nailed for the charge for the extra 1/2 hour? Aha! They have anticipated that. The all-knowing borne knows when its station is full, so you go up to it and in Oz-like fashion ask for mercy. It grants you a 15-minute reprieve and also tells you where the nearest empty Velib station is located.

Rules of the road

They didn't have any information in English, but siad there will be some on the website and perhaps at the big official launch on July 15.

Meanwhile, there will be Velib helpers every day (except July 14) at various stations around town to explain the rules and how Velib works.

Voila. Have I confused you enough?

P.S. I asked the young staffers if the sporty Velib-logo Tshirts they were wearing would be for sale anywhere. "Euh..non, " they said with a grin. "In fact, we have to return them at the end of the day."

http://www.velib.paris.fr/

The French Journal

One of my favorite US-based France blogs that I read without fail is the fabulous The French Journal. Not only does blogger Chris Late hail from Beantown, like me (all bloggatics is local?), but he's always on top of the freshest news imaginable about France and the US. And presents it in user-friendly format.

When I was in the States last month, Chris and I had a very merry time over a couple of cuppas at a cafe in Boston's Back Bay. Two hours have never flown by so fast. There we sat, alternating being preacher and choir, swapping dontcha-just-love-France stories faster than kids in a revolving door. "Did you know this francophile anecdote?" "Have you ever been to this place?" "Can you believe that so-and-so did such-and-such?" Nodding and laughing so much that it felt as though we'd know each other for years.

I could have danced all night. Way too short a visit.

The French Journal just posted a great story on another July 4 event in France, which I would be remiss not to include in this year's round-up. A group called "France Will Never Forget" spelled out "Thank You America" in a human chain on Omaha Beach, to thank American GIs from both World Wars for their efforts in saving France. I was pleased to hear about it, not only for the French-American friendship that seems to be getting mended at every turn, but also because I've always loved the idea of saying thank you in a human chain. I'm glad theirs was such a success. Wish I'd been there!

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.