Fini, les vacances

There is a tingle of anticipation when you wheel your suitcase to the quai of the Gare Montparnasse to head off for vacation. I adore Paris in August, but who am I to resist enticing invitations to head south?

On the one hand I find it so hard to leave this city. There is a sense of connection, of feeling the pulse of what is happening -- even in August.

Especially in August, I should say. At the drop of a hat I wax poetic about the joys of Paris in August, when the streets are empty. Paris the beauty, the magnificent sculptured jewel of a city, which is so much easier to experience first-hand when the daily commotion subsides. Like rediscovering your beloved when the kids are all packed off to summer camp. Ah -- alone at last! You and me, Paris.

And yet. And yet. The rest of France beckons.

Departing from Paris 12 short days ago, on the TGV heading south, the fields whirring past as I watch from my backwards-facing seat, I find that the need to feel Paris in my veins -- the daily fix -- slowly disappears during the three-hour ride. Then motoring south from La Rochelle through the countryside of the Poitou-Charentes, purposely avoiding the grandes autoroutes and traveling the backroads -- the routes départementales -- which take you through one little village after another. It doubled the travel time but more than tripled the enjoyment. Soaking up la belle France. Why not?

All the towns seem to have names that end in -ac. Segonzac, Cognac, Blanzac, Biberac, Bergerac, Issigeac. I privately wonder if there are also a Maniac, Cardiac, Cadillac. I am correct on the latter guess. Summer is time for celebrating everywhere in la France profonde. Each village celebrates with fetes, foires, concerts. I want to linger, but push onward.

And then after traveling a the more flat expanse of the Périgord, crossing the river and quietly experiencing the undulating hills of the Dordogne. Breathtaking is too forceful a word -- it is instantly pacifying. The tranquility is palpable. I drink in the peacefulness like a plant in need of watering.

I realize that when at home in my apartment in Paris, visually I am surrounded by a still-life tableau of furniture, molded ceilings, paintings and tall, curtained windows; but there is an overlay of noise from beyond-- the cranking of neighbors' shutters, footsteps in the apartment upstairs, incessant cooing of lovelorn pigeons, the hum of machines, the swishing of water through plumbing, bottles being deposited in the bin in the courtyard.

In the Dordogne countryside, it is the exact opposite. Outdoors, there is endless activity, but so much seems to happen in utter silence. The small white butterflies dancing low among the dry blades of grass and the foundation of the house. The green lizards darting on the ancient stone wall. Tides of ants on the wrought iron table under the walnut tree. A chestnut brown horse herding the cows as they munch, nodding, in the nearby pasture. Their tails swish, their ears twitch, but I hear nothing. Up the hill, across the road, a farmer is walking along the serrated edge of his fields to the opening in his barn. A hawk is tracing huge arcs under the puffs of clouds. A dragonfly stops to inspect my knee. This cotton-like silence is punctuated occasionally by the chirp of a gold finch or the cry of a distant field hawk. An errant fly drones past in doppler-effect. Paris seems a distant memory.

Then, wham! A switch from the Dordogne to the "in" summer resort of Ile de Ré is otherwordly. Instant immersion in the froth of La France en vacances. Parisians in summer homes or Parisians who have finally caved in to its charms and moved to the island year-round. A different social humming, of laid-back dinners starting at 9 or 9:30 and pots d'amis, dining outdoors, the cognescenti old-timers sporting about in their Citroen Meharis. Picture Martha's Vineyard or Nantucket drenched in French and you have a vision of Ile de Ré. Busy, buzz, bustle, bisous!

Quaint narrow streets lined with faded white stuccoed houses, stone walls, roses tremières. Fabulous beaches, lots of history and culture for the rainy days. Charming packed harbors with boutiques and outdoor dining. Donkeys, salt marshes, oyster farms. Campers, boaters, summer residents and jet-set cohabiting on a small slip of land. This island, hip enough for Le People, has plenty of new construction with whitewashed walls and red tile roofs, yet there is a neighboring rooster who lets us know that local farming is still key. There is simply nothing not to love about l'Ile de Ré, except for the August traffic clogging the main road. It's no wonder that the easiest way to get around the island is by bicycle.

Oh, and did I mention le Boucquingamp? That's where I discovered that although I can muster the energy to have fun finale at a boite de nuit until 3 a.m., my weary bones then need to take a vacation to recover from vacation.

On the return trip to Paris, the TGV ride seems to evaporate. Suddenly the announcement, "Mesdames et messieurs, we are arriving at the Gare Paris Montparnasse." How did it all go so swiftly? Was I really away for 12 days?

The cab driver, looking mournfully at the ever-present rain as he lugs my suitcase, asks the question du jour in Paris.

"Alors, fini, les vacances?"

13 details

I picked up a free copy of Marie France magazine the other day at the coiffeur. In this month's issue is a three-page Cosmo-like guide listing the female attributes that drive French men wild. "Les 13 détails qui les affolent". Written by Danièle Laufer with expert input from French psychiatrist Marc Adrien, and Philippe Brenot, author of Sexe et l'Amour. You can read the details in the magazine.

So ladies, read up. Here's the list. You men can go polish your golf clubs for a moment.

1. Curves. Les Rondeurs.

Stop obsessing about the scale. Really? Even in Paris?

2. Bedhead. Les cheveux en bataille.

It seems that men love hair that looks as if you've just gotten out of bed. So why was I at the coiffeur? Damn.

3. Short hair. Les cheveux courts.

As in short hair that men can run their fingers through. I remember something in Hemingway about this, too. Is Marie France trying to put coiffeurs out of business, I wonder?

4. A round derrière. La chute de reins bien cambrée.

This got me to thinking about phrases, actually. I wonder briefly why I never hear anyone in France refer to their posterior as their derrière; ironically, that term is mostly used in English. Also, "chute de reins" threw me for a loop. I'm finally figuring out that "les reins," in addition to meaning kidneys, also means "lower back". As in the brilliant movie Le Diner de cons where Thierry Lhermitte, who has thrown his back out, says he has a "tour de reins".

5. Pouty lips. La bouche pulpeuse.

Don't worry, if you don't want to pay for pricey injections for the Angelina Jolie bee-stung-lips look, the shrinks claim that a bit of gloss and keeping your mouth slightly open will have the same effect.

6. Hairy underarms. Les aisselles non epilées.

Evidently it's an aphrodisiac/hormonal effect that drives men bonkers. So no need to go to the centre d'epilation and get your armpits waxed, which is usually so de rigueur these days. I'm still so American; I wince whenever I even think of that painful option.

7. A small, well proportioned chest. Une petite poitrine parfaitement assumée.

Whew.

8. A copiously endowed chest. Une poitrine généreuse.

I think it's safe to assume that men like numbers 7 and 8, and let's hope that the mid-sized model is okay too. Marie France does say that leaving a bit of mystery is the key here. Just show a little decolletage, enough to get a man's mind wandering and wondering. A note to August vacationers: MF says men are more attracted to boobs covered in a bathing suit than to the naked knobs sunny side up on the beach.

9. A thong. Le string.

Now is the time to get this nomenclature all settled. In the US, pleeez, let's use only the word flip-flops for those sandals we wear. Thong is now the term to use for the undergarment that divides and conquers. In France, un string is the undergarment. Les tongs are this summer's uber-tendance foot wear. Hear those tongs as they flip-flop all over town and resorts.

10. Old fashioned cotton briefs. La culotte un peu grand.

Reverts to childhood fantasies, apparently. As long as it's Petit Bateau.

11. Great gams. Les jambes fuselées.

Makes the eye go up. And up.

12. Garter belts. Le porte-jarretelles.

Need we say more?

13. Spike heels. Les talons aiguilles.

Not sure I buy the idea that it makes women as tall as their men for subliminally easier approach. What if you're already tall? But I agree it does give an appealing curve to the calf. And keeps the podiatrists happy and well-paid.

Well, I'm exhausted from the possibilities. Time to head south on the TGV for some R&R.

Bonnes vacances!

On the way to Le Bon Marché

Realizing that I had excluded my favorite exterior signage in my post on Le Bon Marché, I ambled down the block to snap this shot.

Out of nowhere, a dainty blonde on a Vélib came whooshing down the sidewalk. I was tempted to harrumph at her about reckless riding and the rules of the road for bicycles. She pedaled furiously in her leggings and ballerina flats, her pale ponytail fluttering. Encountering a knot of pedestrians, she skittered to a hasty stop, hopped off her bicycle, and still grasping the handlebars, dashed ahead on foot. "Oh, les jeunes," I grumbled inwardly, shaking my head.

Ten meters farther, she veered to the right, threw down her bike, and flung herself into the arms of a tall young guy waiting for her. Tears streaming down their cheeks, they began kissing frantically.

"Oh, les jeunes," I murmured, a lump rising in my throat.

Les bittes de trottoir

Those odd waist-high posts along the sidewalk. They seem to proliferate like bamboo in on every Paris curb. For over a year now, I've been wondering what they were called. Thanks to dipping into the first few pages of David Downie's book, Paris, Paris, I just discovered the answer: les bittes de trottoir. Mind you, the word bitte has two meanings: docking post (as on a wharf) or slang for penis. Reflecting on the chicken-or-egg etymology, I'm not sure which term is the original. Certainly the resemblance is not serendipitous.

As a pedestrian, I have a love/hate relationship with these bittes. On the one had, they do keep cars from parking on the sidewalk: hooray, more room for the rest of us. I had imagined that they might keep moving cars from navigating up and over the sidewalk, and therefore keep my life insurance policy renewable. Alas, two months ago I witnessed an accident on rue de Babylone where a wayward Twingo simply flattened a bitte in five seconds. The car was in rough shape, to be sure, but had there been a pieton on the sidewalk at that moment, she would've been flatter than a crepe. So much for a false sense of security.

The posts do provide a minor deterrent for all those impatient motorcyclists who don't want to wait in a bouchon (traffic jam) on a narrow street. Or a slalom challenge, depending on who's driving.

And, in their defense, the bittes do have a humanitarian function. I have observed them being used quite practically by tiny elderly ladies on their way to Sunday mass at St. Francois Xavier. Waiting at the cross walk, these powder-thin grandmères cling to the bittes with both hands lest they get swept in a powerful updraft when the winter wind whips down the boulevard.

But they can be annoying. When encountering another person on a narrow sidewalk, you have to step into the street to avoid the bitte, especially if you are carrying plastic sacks of groceries. Don't bash your precious bottles against those metal posts! They're not tall enough to be a useful hitching post to lock your bike on. But they're tall enough to really, really hurt when they impale you. Engrossed in conversation while strolling down a broad sidewalk, with a moment's lapse of forward-gazing attention you can suddenly find one of these charmers poking into your belly. Ouch.

Visually they are jarring. They do mar the streetscape, but not enough that their presence really drives me to distraction. I can live with it. Not so one exasperated Parisian, who is up in arms and for the past year has spearheaded an anti-bittes crusade. Benlem2's blog, http://benlem2.canalblog.com/ takes photos (as the one above) of offensive clusters of the sidewalk posts and photoshop-erases them for "before" pictures.

As Marianne magazine cautioned, take a look at Benlem2's website; but know that you'll never view the sidewalks of Paris in the same way again.

Le Bon Marché

The department store Le Bon Marché is a Left-Bank landmark and a point de repere when giving directions. It has a fascinating history. In some ways, you can see the story of its growth and change in the typeface used on its signage. Not in chronological order, but here's a little walking tour of the different lettering found on the exterior of the building.

This marquee-like sign atop the building shows the name in lights at night.

Some signage is more in the Art Deco style.

Many people refer to the store as Au Bon Marché, but it is my understanding that the correct store name is Le Bon Marché.

Hence the appellation "the stores of Le Bon Marché" becomes les Magasins du Bon Marché. End of grammar lesson for today.

Of course I heard one American wag brag, "Yeah, I hang out at The Bon a lot, " pronouncing it like bonne. Never heard that one before (or since).

In its heyday, the store branched out to a building across the street, which is now inhabited by Conran's.

And of course, today it has a chic, sleek look.

I'm just glad that they haven't eradicated the older signage. It's so evocative. This doorway mosaic says Toile (cloth) and Rideaux (curtains), with the date 1876 at the bottom.

There are laws that protect building signage in Paris. I wish someone would protect the mosaics on this gorgeous sign. Many have been picked off or fallen.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Two nights ago, while I was in the midst of writing -- I'm sure it was a terribly witty and engaging piece -- an alien space ship hovered over my apartment and zapped my brain, simple as that.

In a flash I could feel all thought draining from my head, all energy sapped from my body. I crawled across the floor and slithered onto my bed.

Delirious Drama Queen lay on top of the covers, limply moaning for hours, realizing that it's August in Paris. Not only are my neighbors and the gardienne gone, but also any good Samaritan pals who could normally help revive me were, in fact, sunning on some distant shore. Anyway, I couldn't have reached the phone if I tried.

And by the time the cleaning guy would arrive next week, he would stumble upon my unrecognizable, dessicated corpse and sweep it into la poubelle.

Shivering, feverish, I spent the night planning my wretched funeral. Should the notices be posted on the blog? Who would inform my kids? Pine or fancy box?

Miraculously, I awoke in the morning. Several times. I was going to survive. But the aliens did run over me with a steam roller while I slept, just for good measure. My toes don't ache, though.

So maybe it wasn't aliens, but that other sinister invader, the summer stomach bug. Or "something I ate." Both Americanisms that aren't bandied about much in France when discussing digestion ailments.

On a need-to-know basis, not much you need to know. Suffice it to say that my grocery bill has plummeted, and my friends who have just paid to trot off for a week at a fancy "fasting spa" should have just stopped by chez moi and let me breathe on them instead. Not highly recommended, but a cheaper way to lose a dress size.

I'm delaying the decision to hobble over to the pharmacie at the corner, where I know they'll try to convince me oh-so-kindly that it's a crise de foie. But I know of other people who have this thing, and last I heard, a crise de foie wasn't contagious, nor does it last for three days.

Besides, I'm not venturing too far from home. I'm just glad I wasn't supposed to be flying to some glamorous vacation spot. Like Wolfeboro.

From the department of insignificant details

One of life's trivial details that I hadn't noticed until finally getting my tottering stacks of books organized this afternoon.

Titles on the spines of American books are printed from top to bottom.

For the most part, French books are the opposite, with titles reading from bottom to top.

So this means that in a French book store, you get neck-crick on your left side from examining the selection of titles on the shelves. In an English-language bookstore, stiff neck will be on the right. Mixing them up on the bookshelf at home is a sure-fire way to get dizzy.

The Language of Dying

A thought-provoking post by une nouvelle vie de boheme yesterday about the perils of translation in Camus brought back memories. Aching personal memories of describing death in two languages.

My oldest brother, J, was my idol. I hero-worshiped him. Tall, angularly handsome, he was brilliant, artistic, and funny -- full of mischief -- well, everything you could want in an older brother. He took me for rides in his red Triumph Spitfire when I was a pre-teen. He surprised me one Christmas when he said he couldn't come home for the holidays, then he sprang through the front door on Christmas Eve singing "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!" That kind of a big brother.

When J was in his thirties he developed a serious medical condition that put him through a torturous hospital time, keeping him alive on machines until there weren't enough machines to function for his body. When I visited him in the ICU with all the charts and beeps and wires and tubes, he couldn't speak. But he repeatedly traced the letters D-I-E in the palm of my hand. He wanted to go, to exit the nightmare. "No, no, you'll get better," I reassured him. But I wasn't reassured myself.

Weeks later, one evening I was at home having dinner with friends. The phone rang. It was my sister. "J died," she told me, along with the details which I didn't really hear as my thoughts blurred. I let out a soft sigh of relief -- he was out of his terrible misery. "Died," a verb, to me indicating that he moved on, as he had wanted. He was freed from the mechanical torture of articificial life. I was numbed, but I didn't even cry. Instead, I felt an unusual serenity knowing that all those tubes, that terrified look on his face, would no longer be there.

The next morning I got up and, trance-like, went to work, at a French organization in Boston. I had to inform my boss that my brother died and I'd be leaving town to go to the funeral. "Mon frère est mort," I announced, using the passé composé of mourir.

Suddenly grief exploded from me like a bomb. I had just said, for the first time, the permanent words "My brother is dead."

La Marche Funèbre d'une Marionette

Rain is splattering on the windowsills. I sit in the twilight grey of late evening in my apartment, trying in vain to write. Radio Classique is my companion tonight.

New strains of music begin, a strangely familiar melody. Instantly it summons the image of that dark silhouette, the unmistakable profile and paunch sliding into place. I am transported to childhood. I am 9 or 10 years old; the TV room is dark and my older siblings are trying to spook me. I expect the frisson and to hear his ghostly British voice, "Goood Eeeevning."

The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. Source of endless can't-miss creepy moments and fretful bedtimes. Brilliant series; but I knew only the introductory music to the popular show. Tonight Radio Classique plays the entire piece.

Apparently in France this tune -- immediately recognizable to a generation of Americans as the famous Hitchcock theme song -- is merely known here as "La Marche funèbre d'une marionette" by Charles Gounod. No references made or connotations alluded to popular culture. Just a famous 19th century French composer.

The Men of August

August is officially here, and already Paris has a different look. Not just fewer cars. It looks like there are about 50% fewer women. Men seem to be coming out of the woodwork. Traditionally and anecdotally, a majority of the wives disappear to the provinces with the kids, and the husbands stay behind, working and ... apparently roaming the streets in their spare time.

Is it my imagination, or do men in Paris change their demeanor in August? They seem more open, more friendly, more je ne sais quoi. Available? Depends on how you define the word. Yours truly had a few dinners with "separated" rascals last August. I soon learned to ask "separated for how long?"

I mention this singular observation to my friend Isabelle who lives in Brittany. "Oh, oui, it's a known phenomenon," she fills in immediately. "We locals call the summer train that arrives on Friday night from Paris le train des cocus (the train of the cuckolds). The women are here with the kids, their husbands have to stay in Paris for work. According to legend, spouses on both ends of the TGV are going about their merry way in private."

The train des cocus terminus isn't limited to Brittany. Apparently it journeys to just about any summer resort that separates husband and wife during vacation periods. Not restricted to married couples, either.

Ratatouille est ici!

Rémy has finally arrived home.

Ratatouille opened today in cinemas in Paris -- what a classic. I tried to be as critical as possible but couldn't do anything but love that film. I gasped when I saw that an animation version of Maison Aurouze was actually in the film. I had no idea!

I can't wait to go see it again. So many double entendres, such great views of Paris. So much to simply adore about this movie. What a feast!

You have to pick a pocket or two

Yesterday's post about pickpocketing has generated a flurry of reactions. So I thought I might add a few thoughts and my one-sided ounce-of-prevention ideas for possibly reducing chances of getting your wallet pinched in this fair city.

1. I never take the RER in from Charles de Gaulle. Never. I don't allow anyone I like to take the RER in from Charles de Gaulle. That RER is where the rookie pocket-pickers attend on-the-job training. Such easy prey: sleep-deprived, luggage-toting newcomers fresh from the airport ATM.

My answer is spelled R-O-I-S-S-Y-B-U-S.

2. The metro. I am fortunate enough that I don't have to ride the metro during rush hour. If you don't have to commute, I recommend not doing it either. One summer when I was 19 I wedged into a packed metro car at 18h00, and nothing got taken, but thanks to a frotteur ... oh never mind. Never again. I just don't do crowded metro cars unless under duress and I'm wearing plated armor. Or I'll wait until the next car comes along, usually emptier. This is Paris; it's okay to be a bit late.

I avoid the Chatelet metro station at all costs. Even if it's raining rats and frogs outside, I prefer to walk from the next stop (whichever line) than to troll my sorry behind through Chatelet. It gives me the creeps.

My answer: learn the bus routes.

3. I try to dress the part. These are the streets, after all. I try not to have my outfit scream "American!" But not like I emerged from a relooking shopping spree on avenue Montaigne, either. If you're going someplace that requires you to wear expensive designer clothes and carry a Gucci bag, best to take a taxi. If you're going to these places it means you can afford to take a taxi, right?

4. This is the toughest part to admit. In Paris I have learned to walk outdoors stone-faced, purposeful, and unhelpful, especially when in heavily-traveled tourist areas. I'm still having tons o' fun as I breeze through the streets -- I just don't show it. Why? The pickpockets are clever, cheeky tricksters who can read a softy at 100 meters. That's why usually I don't dawdle anywhere with a camera or map in hand, either. I am hopelessly lost anywhere, be it village or city, until I know a place by heart, so here I stash a small Plan de Paris book. When possible, I usually back up to a friendly-looking store doorway or window to consult it, along with a trusty midget compass I keep on hand. (Like I said, I am really, really directionally challenged). Unwitting visitors who block the middle of the sidewalk as they plaster thin air with a huge unfolded map are easy targets. They may as well be posting a "help wanted: pickpocketers" notice. Especially when conferring with each other at decibels above the rest of the crowd.

Of course adopting a cool and unapproachable demeanor can catch up with you. One day I was doing my Easter-Island-face don't-mess-with-me routine as I paced down rue St. Antoine; then a guy from my singing group crossed my path with chirpy "bonjour!" Not recognizing him out of context, I ignored him until he jumped up and down, insisting, "It's me! Victor! I'm a tenor!"

Oops.

On the Streets of Paris

Fais attention à ton sac! That was one of the first tidbits of advice from a non-Parisian French friend prior to my move to Paris: beware of pickpockets. In my first months here the imprint of my pocketbook made a permanent crease on the skin of my inner elbow, so tightly did I squeeze the precious bag each time I ventured onto the streets.

Maybe nobody likes me, or maybe I don't look like an apt target, or maybe I'm lucky. In a year and a half in Paris, I've been begged at, I've been scammed by gypsies, but not p**kpock**ed. (I'm too superstitious to say it.) Maybe Paris' petty-thievery reputation is overblown. The only time I've had to foil an attempted purse-snatching was in broad daylight in Brussels. Don't ask.

I've been told that those pesky individuals loitering at place de la Concorde and other tourist locales pleading "Do you speak English?" are out to pickpocket, but I haven't read any statistics. (Ha! Here's an idea. Maybe next time one of them accosts me, instead of ritually ignoring her I'll stop and give a smiley thumbs up and answer,"Yes! I speak Wall Street English!")

Here is what happens most frequently: if I am leaving a shop and haven't yet zipped or buckled my purse post-purchase, the store owner thoughtfully reprimands, "N'oubliez pas de fermer votre sac, Madame." I have overheard total strangers dole out this advice to forgetful fellow passengers on the metro as well.

On Bastille Day morning, when at the Champs Elysées to do some scoop reporting for this here blog, I crossed the broad expanse of cobblestones on avenue Winston Churchill, snapping behind-the-scenes pre-parade shots with my digital camera. A police officer at the barricade beckoned to me. "Madame, votre appareil!" he warned.

Uh-oh. I'm in trouble now, I worried. Something I'm not supposed to be taking pictures of, some French photojournalistic rule I'm unaware of.

The avuncular gendarme smiled as I approached. "S'il vous plait, put your hand through the camera strap. C'est dommage, but in large crowds like this there are des personnes malintentionnées who will try to steal it from you."

I obeyed like a well-trained spaniel. He was so kind. I felt so protected.

Sigh. See why I love Paris?

Le Bon Mot

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Especially when living in a country where you think you know the language. And especially when you think you know the local argot.

Ensconced in the beautician's chair, listening as my cheery young coiffeuse regales me with stories of her sleep-deprived evening, initially I am mildly taken aback. I am not so sure that I want a woman who is functioning on double-espressos and three hours' sleep to be making major decisions about the length and long-term sculptural quality of my hair. But I can live with that. Valerie is so talented.

Lithe and exposing just a hint of tattoo on her flat midrift (which is right at my eye level), she prances around the swivel chair, laughing as she launches in on the reasons for her lack of sleep. "My husband and I got home from a dinner at midnight and started to papoter, papoter papoter, and the next thing we knew it was 5 am and we hadn't had a wink of sleep."

Hmmm. Papoter. Under my furrowing brow, my brain races through my mental French glossary. This is a relatively new word. Not one I learned in French class decades ago. I conjure up the mildest acceptable definition: to tap or strum lightly. I've read it in cosmetics information: e.g. to tap the face with your fingers. But it doesn't seem to fit - they tapped each other lightly with their fingers all night? Don't think so...

Then I scrape the recesses of my "I've- heard-this-somewhere" contextual language memory and come up with a similar sounding word, but I think it means, er, to caress erotically.

I nod and chuckle amicalement. She is a bit of a wild character, that Valerie, but I love her. Always le bon mot. The stand-up comic of the salon. But would she really be confiding in me that she and her husband were in the midst of conjugal groping all night and that's why she's so exhausted? I wonder, I fret, I ignore, I give a little Americo-Gallic shrug and keep smiling.

Haircut gloriously finished, generous tip to Valerie plunked down, I wend my way home.

I head straight to the bookshelf to look up the answer in Le Petit Robert. Whew. Papoter means to chat. They were up gabbing all night!

Tapoter means to tap. Se tripoter means...yeah, that.

Sunday July 29

I just got back from the Tour de France finale on the Champs Elysées. I didn't see a thing. Well, nothing except T-shirt booths, massive crowds of eager viewers eating saucisses from the snack stands and trying on their new Tour de France T-shirts. American high-school girls flirting with French policemen, the teacher chaperone looking on assuming it was a good language learning experience. Kids on their fathers' shoulders waving large green sponge hands. The sidewalks were so packed I could barely see the barricades. All I needed was a "please pickpocket me" sign taped to my back, and the scene would have been perfect.

Sorry, I'm not a crowd person. So I strolled back home to watch the exciting finish on TV. From the Invalides I walked over to rue de Bourgogne. Utter silence. It was as if a neutron bomb had gone off in the 7e arrondissement: not a soul on the sidewalks, not a car in motion. Down rue Barbet de Jouy. Ditto. The only occasional noise was the muffled sound of silverware clinking against china, wafting from open windows. Virtually any Parisian who didn't leave town Friday or Saturday for vacation was eating Sunday lunch with la famille, and/or waiting to watch the final 100 kilometers on la télé.

Or maybe at the Champs Elysées, but I doubt it.

Summer Reading

Paris is emptying out for August. In the cheerful bookshop on rue St. Dominique, the narrow aisles were abuzz with departing vacationers looking for summer reading. The affable owner alternately greeted, rang up sales, and squeezed through the convivial clusters of her browsing guests. On the tables in center of the main room, her pride and joy: orderly piles of books that she has read and likes. The top book of each stack sported a handwritten post-it note with her personal recommendation. "I never read reviews," she beamed. "It must be a book that reaches my soul."

Darting through the crowd, she accompanied customers to this spot or that, pointing out books that she thought they'd enjoy. "Here, monsieur, this one is a touching love story," she suggested to one ruggedly handsome fellow.

"Ah, excellent," he nodded appreciatively. Then a pause. "But, then one wants a love like that in real life," he sighed. "It doesn't always turn out so well."

Mikado

There is Mikado, the French version of the classic game of pick-up sticks.


There is The Mikado, one of the best-loved Gilbert & Sullivan operas. (And the 1999 movie, Topsy-Turvy, if you haven't ever seen it.)


And then there are Mikado.

The yummiest skinniest chocolate-dipped cookie sticks, which I have grown rawther fond of. If you are new to Mikado, think of a chocolate covered pretzel, untie it, take away the salt and straighten the twist. And make the chocolate darn good for something you find in the grocery store aisles. Then imagine it about three times better than that. Good, you've got a Mikado.

After dinner, who needs a filling dessert when you can have -- oh let's say -- three or four Mikados? At 11 calories apiece, it's all you need and they really hit the spot. Maybe this is how French women "don't get fat.."

Sweet tooth crying out in the mid-afternoon? Yup. A café and a Mikado or two. Perfect. In my inimitable way I assumed that I had made a brilliant "secret'" discovery of these, but it turns out there's already a highly populated Mikado fan club.

The Lu Company should pay me for all the promoting I do for them. I sing high praises of Mikado from the mountaintops of Paris. Oh, but Mikado already has a witty ad campaign.

Hey, but it's no fair for people who don't live in France who can't buy them, right? Mais pas du tout!

In a Mikado-induced frenzy, I stumbled upon an American French-food-lover's dream come true. French Feast is a NewYork-based shipper/purveyor of all-time favorites in French foods, from foie gras to Hollywood chewing gum. Madeleines, morels, moutarde, miel, marrons glacés -- well, you name it, they've got it. Remember all those foodstuffs you've stuffed into your suitcase before departing for your flight from Charles de Gaulle back to the U.S.? No need to anymore. French Feast ships anywhere in the U.S. for a flat $8 rate.

Except you'll have to wait a bit for your Mikados. They don't ship chocolate in the summer.

French Feast
contact@frenchfeast.com
fax: (212) 202-7512
phone: (212) 860-7716
"escargot mail": 214 East 89th Street, Suite 5E, New York, NY 10128

A la Recherche de Périlhou

Albert Périlhou (1846-1936) was a French composer and the organist at the Eglise St. Severin for some 25 years. I've been trying to find out more about him as I do research for a non-musical human-interest article I'm writing for an organization dear to my heart.

Biographical information on this revered Frenchman is frustratingly scant. Tracking it down -- and I am pretty resourceful -- is, thus far, an exercise in walking briskly down short dead-end streets, les impasses. Yet this musician was a great friend of Fauré and Saint-Saens. His ballades and chansons are played today in concert halls around the world. There must be some information about him somewhere!

Perhaps if I were a musicologist I would have better knowledge of composer databases to peek in. At least the process has been a learning experience for me. I've discovered great resources in Paris, both on line and on foot, worth exploring for anyone attempting to conduct research beyond Google.

Les Archives nationales on 60 rue des Francs Bourgeois in the 3e arrondissement.

La Bibliotheque nationale de France, (with Paris locations at Francois Mitterand, Opéra, Arsenal, and Louvois). The website has interesting information about a joint project with the Library of congress called France in America.

And all of the other wonderful small special-interest libraries of the city of Paris.

But virtually no Périlhou! Here's what I know about him: born in Daumazan, in the Ariege, in 1846. Worked at Erard Piano Manufacturers. Became organist at St. Severin in 1895. Was a member of the Conservatory of Paris. Died in 1936, not certain where. He had children.

Here's my plea, my challenge: if you know anyone who knows anyone who knows music, composers, organists, who has any information about Monsieur Perilhou, it would be greatly appreciated and acknowledged.

Mamita

From my first "Polly-vous francais" moment as a child to current French friends, I've been blessed to know patient people who teach me a great deal about practical French, languages, systems and cultural codes. One mentor who had an enduring influence on me is Mamita.

I met Mamita the summer before college when I first set foot in France. Spending July and August with an extended Parisian family who were friends of friends of friends, officially I was an "au pair" in the old-fashioned sense. It was not a paid job at all; rather, I was part of an adopted host family for the summer.

The family consisted of a widowed great-grandmother, Loma, less than five feet tall and clad head to toe in black; the grandparents, Mamita and Dady, a welcoming, erudite couple retired from UNESCO and international affairs. Their three daughters, Martine, Chu, and Domino, were svelte and gorgeous twenty-something sisters, the elder two accompanied by dashing husbands and towheaded toddlers. My role was to be the "extra" youngest sister, helping out where needed, an integral part of the family in the French hierarchical sense. I arrived on July 14, an auspicious date, a turning point in my life.

Their summer house was a rustic but exquisitely renovated stone compound --a former sheep farm on Ile de Ré, off the Atlantic Coast. This was Ile de Ré before the bridge, before movie stars and le Tout Paris. Ile de Ré where summer days were spent picnicking in the shade of the pines on the beach at Trousse Chemise. Evenings dancing at boites de nuit with the young couples after the children were tucked in bed and the grandparents read by the fireplace. I spent six weeks in the heart of this family, not speaking a word of English.

Usually I spent mornings back at the house with Mamita, a bright, energetic woman in her 60s, helping her with les petites while the young mothers escaped for a game of tennis or errands. Mamita showed me how to select perfectly ripe plums and mirabelles from the fruit trees in the garden. I learned how to make jam. I observed Mamita as she trained her three cherubic granddaughters in all the proper ways of being good little French girls, bien elevées. Mamita knew how to speak perfect Oxford English, but since I was there to absorb French language and culture, she genteelly refrained from uttering a word of English all summer.

While the little ones were napping and she and I had a break, we would retreat to the shade of the garden and play French scrabble -- and oh, how gracious she was. We took Scrabble to the beach, too, and Mamita kept the tiles in an old purple velvet Seagram's drawstring bag -- such an elegant touch and yet so frugal. She never actually let me win a game, but she gave ample hints, her eyes sparkling with delight if I made a good play.

Mamita specialized in the art of hints. Since that summer I was an American teenager and it was the 1970s, I was naturally inclined to run around barefoot. Long hair and a flowing India print dress were my uniform. Island weather was hot and sunny, and the transition from house to courtyard to yard seemed seamless to me. One August day, Mamita asked me with a wise, warm smile, "Polly, tu n'as pas froid aux pieds?" ("Aren't your feet cold?") "Non," I replied merrily. "Ca va!" The next day was another scorcher. Again barefoot, I lolled around the house and terrasse. Mamita, once again, "Dis, Polly, tu n'as pas froid aux pieds?" Again I blithely replied that no, I was accustomed to the.... oh. Ohh.

Cultural light bulb popped. Mamita, in her elegant, kind manner, was letting me know that it would be better if I wore shoes. Without another word, I slipped on a pair of espadrilles and wore them daily for the rest of the summer.

My French summer was filled with subtle epiphanies like that -- not just that French people from "nice" families disapproved of grown young women going barefoot, but also that she would never have affronted me by complaining or directly instructing me to don shoes. Lessons in nuance that can't be taught, but can be gleaned if you just pay careful attention. Mamita taught me by inference, to listen, observe, to be a jeune fille bien elevée. Following Mamita's gentle lead, I learned more about being French than any textbook or etiquette class could have dreamt of drilling into me. The memories stayed with me, and have been recalled fondly with her when I've had the chance to visit Mamita over the years. She continued to be so gracious and hospitable to visitors, though frail and having difficulty finding her breath to speak.

Yesterday evening in her beloved stone house on Ile de Ré, Mamita died, just before bedtime. She would have been 95 this November.

Merci, Mamita.

Information, Please

One day last summer I was in the car with my friend Marie Noelle, returning from a morning spree at IKEA. We were stuck in midday peripherique traffic and I needed to phone to cancel a 1:30 appointment, but I didn't have the number. "How do I dial Information?" I asked. She wasn't sure; it had changed. Something about there being one number to call from a portable, one from a ligne fixe.

(I can't believe I'm in a country where there isn't a simple 411, I was thinking.)

So she called home to ask her 20-year-old son how to call les renseignements. He had no clue.

Next, while deftly shifting gears and flicking cigarette ashes out the window, she called her sister in Aix-en-Provence. Still no clue.



Whoa. We were phoning the other side of France to find out how to dial Information. From the highway. And came up with No Answer. How's that for technological irony?

It was "stump the chumps" time. We didn't get the number that day. I never did cancel the appointment. Instead, I had to call from home the next day and lie, lie, lie.

I now have 118 008 programmed into speed-dial.

Brittany

It just wouldn't be a weekend in Brittany without friends and mussels. Les amis. Les moules. A winning combo.

The recipe is simple.

Walk to marché down the street for ingredients.

Check out rainbow on grey cloudy horizon.

Gather friends.

Get biggest pot available.

Sauté chopped shallots in life-altering-palate-inspiring local butter from la crèmerie, toss in some Muscadet, add mussels fresh from the fishmonger at the market. Stir. Remuer.

When the shells are open, add a carton of crème fraiche. Stir again.

Open another bottle of Muscadet.

The Unfree French

Over the weekend I rode the TGV to and from Brittany. I have no witty vignettes of fellow passengers to relate. No stories of missed connections or bucolic countryside as it blurred past the train window. Unaware of my surroundings, I travelled to another place during the three-hour ride each way. I journeyed through France in the early 1940s, immersed in reading The Unfree French: Life under the Occupation by Richard Vinen.

The Unfree French is a densely written, engrossing study of everyday life in France from May 1940 until the Liberation of Paris in August 1944. To describe this book as a mere eye-opener is understatement. From the exode, when millions of panicked families fled to the countryside, to the Service de Travail Obligatoire (STO) when French civilians were sent to Germany to work, the book traces a complex history of the lives of "...human beings [who] struggle to survive by any method." Page after page of intense historical information peppered with astonishing anecdotes.

Think about this: today, virtually any French person over the age of 65 has a memory of Occupied France. These are people you encounter daily. I've long had an unquenchable desire to know more about this era, about the lives of real people whom I've met and how they might have lived. There's no one simplified story to tell. The Unfree French brings it all to life.

Then, on page 110, one of the most amazing tales, albeit not about an everyday individual: Adolf Hitler (bold-face emphasis is mine).

"Paris was ..used as a centre of recreation for German troops who were brought to the city under the 'Jeder einmal nach Paris' (everyone to Paris once) programme, which subjected them to a brief tourist visit that included standard attractions (a ride on a bateau-mouche, climbing the Eiffel Tower). Hitler himself had set the tone of such visits when, on June 23, 1940, he spent two and a half hours in Paris (the only visit of his life). He arrived at Le Bourget Airport at five in the morning, accompanied by Albert Speer and the sculptor Arno Brecker; he hoped that the visit would provide ideas about how German cities might be rebuilt on a grander scale. He began by visiting the Opera at six in the morning before moving on to the Arc de Triomphe. He saw the Place de la Concorde.... The tour finished with a visit to the Sacre Coeur, and Hitler flew out of Le Bourget at half past eight the same morning. Hitler did not speak to a French person during his visit and indeed saw almost no one except a few policemen and a terrified concierge at the Opera who refused to take a tip from Speer."

I'm not sure why I'm so flabbergasted at this story. That, for all the years of Nazi occupation of Paris, Hitler spent less time here than any other tourist known to mankind? Or was it the sheer speed in which his whirlwind visit was able to be accomplished? Or that I naively hadn't known this before? I found the account disturbing.

But The Unfree French is more than stories of Hitler or the Nazis, or of Vichy, Petain or Laval. It is gripping social history of real people of all classes and how they coped or collapsed under the desperate years of the Occupation. Unsettling, enlightening, but fascinating at every page.

Today, anyone walking through the streets of Paris can sense its history -- reaching much further back than the Occupation -- echoing from every stone. But reading The Unfree French helps you understand the more recent history of a current generation. It is a history that still lives, etched in the faces and comportments of its inhabitants.

An Asset is the Abbey

The Abbey Bookshop is not a place for the claustrophobic. Nor is it a shop for giraffe-like book-lovers. More importantly, for those (like me) blessed with permanent ADD, this shop is an absolute focusing nightmare.

I loved it.

There are so many places in Paris I have been meaning to stop in, having read about in one guidebook or another. But yesterday, after stumbling out of the Eglise St. Severin, I literally stumbled upon the Abbey Bookshop.

The very kind and not-at-all-unhandsome Canadian owner offered me a coffee, and returned to festooning the store for tonight's Harry Potter party, launching the umpteenth book of now billionairess J.K. Rowling. Brian (?) the owner, assured me that J.K. would be on hand for the party, only she would be wearing her invisible cloak. There will also be a host of sorcerers and other gobbledygook HP characters.

Let me confess. I am not Wild About Harry. I am certainly very happy for the throngs of HP fanatics worldwide, but I just don't happen to be one of them.

When the first Harry Potter book was published, I read a few pages, and secretly found it to be patronizing and inane. But I forced myself to be cheerful when reading it aloud to my then-school-age offspring. Finally, at around page 40, my daughter begged most politely, "Mom...can we read something else?"

I never picked up a Harry Potter tome again. Trying to remain au courant, nevertheless, I took my kids to the first HP movie. I fell asleep and I gather they fidgeted throughout. Not a hit.

So whenever HP mania struck town in one form or another -- lest I get stoned by angry villagers for my HP heresy -- I simply smiled benignly with an unemphatic "Great!" when they regaled me with the Boy's latest antics at Hogwarts. A special art, learning to under-exclaim diplomatically.

Oh wait, I was talking about the Abbey Bookshop. The ADD kicks in from time to time. Mes apologies.

On paper, the Abbey Bookshop might seem to be a place I should avoid, but in fact I am mesmerized by it. It oozes literature and genuine charm, HP notwithstanding.

It smells like books. It's got an authentic book-love aura that clings to your trousers when you exit. Rows and rows of books, sliding shelves of floor-to-ceiling hardbacks, paperbacks, best sellers and long-forgotten classics. No attitude. Steep, narrow stairs, littered with fallen books, lead to the ancient stone vaulted-ceiling basement, crammed with -- more books, of course. A bibliophile's dream come true.

Wait, it's only 11:30 pm. I still have time to head over to their Harry Potter Party, tonight from 10 pm to 1:30 am.

Gotta go.

The Abbey Bookshop
29 rue de la Parcheminerie
75005 Paris
http://www.abbeybookshop.net/
Open Monday to Saturday 10 am to 7 pm

Jav Cafe

48 hours. Not much -- two days. But when France Telecom tells you that you have a probleme de reseau (network) and it will take up to 48 hours to repair your internet connection, the cyber void looms like a cloud. How can I cope? I tried to find the free wifi in parks promised by the Mairie de Paris, but nothing in my neck of the 7e arrondissement. Yet.

So I find myself sitting in the Cafe Jav -- un bistro Wifi -- on rue de Sevres, feverishly checking and answering emails for the two hours that my laptop battery lasts.

It's a new experience for me, sitting here with as late-morning cafe-creme as the day merges into to lunch time. The habitues arrive at noon, always entering the cafe with a bonjour and a handshake for the bartender and other customers. The bartender offers them their regular apero-- un Calva, un ballon de rouge, un Coca, une demie pression. Carpenters and businessmen and postal employees chatting at the counter, an elderly lady in a wheelchair with her companion at a sidewalk table. Adolescent couples demeurely sequestered in the corner. Three bearded men about my age, in tweed jackets, grouped around a table checking out the babes parading by on the sidewalk in their lightweight summer outfits. After pontificating on the morning's events, the buddies at the counter swig the last of their drinks and depart with the understanding they they don't pay. I wonder if they have a tab or if the drinks are on the house. More customers arrive to replace them, sharing sections of l'Equipe, the sports newspaper, for lack of a listener. More local news, more gossip which I don't catch the gist of. One guy on a stool announces to the group "je suis amoureux." I order lunch, a tartine Norvegienne. An australian man slides into the table next to mine and asks in French if there is Wifi here. His internet is down too.

The young American couple across from me asks where to find Vegan restaurants in Paris. I'm stumped, but recommend Lebanese or Sri Lankan places. The buzz of camaraderie is contagious. I am lounging in my seat, sipping my after-lunch cafe.

The floor-to-ceiling windows are open on two sides, a breeze flows through the room. summertime, in a cafe, in Paris. Now there is salsa music playing. I linger. Oh, maybe France Telecom will fix that internet connection at home. I don't care so much any more.

Unlocking the French "R"

Serrurerie. A locksmith's shop. I pass it every day. I can say the word locksmith just fine...in English, that is. En francais, I'm fluent enough that I can even pronounce the word serrure ("lock") using my hard-earned correct French r. But to say serrurerie? Forget it. It is not happening. It requires too many mellifluous, throaty French r's in too short a time frame. I practice pronouncing it smoothly. Serru-re-rie. To no avail: every time I try, I find that I've barely recuperated from rolling out the first r when the next r and the next r need to come flying out of my tonsils.

I discover this dilemma when innocently asking my proprietaire if there is a locksmith who can make a copy of a key. "Madame, est-ce qu'il y a une serruheuh-hlerie...," I end up gargling, the pitch of my voice sliding from its habitual soprano to a gutteral baritone in the space of five words.

Apparently I am not alone in this; many Anglophones with decades of practice in phonetics classes, language labs, and even living extensively in France, have triumphantly mastered the French r, but their exhausted epiglottis just comes to a dead halt on serrurerie. Conquering just one French r, of course, is the bête noire of French majors and their long-suffering professors -- so learning to say it three times in rapid succession is the Final Frontier. I am not even near the edge.

A while ago, when I was a French teacher, I remember trying to train my students to pronounce the French r, using a clever method I'd just read about in a language journal. It went something like this. First say, a-ab. Repeat that several times. A--AB ... A-AB... A-AB. Then a-hab. A--HAB, A-HAB, A-HAB. Then while your throat is thus warmed up and newly phlegm-free, you take the plunge. You cough out, a-hrab. A--HRAB... A-HRAB... A-HRAB. In theory, with time, the r should be forthcoming. Nice idea, but it was a total flop in my class of 8th-graders. "But Mrs. L," they insisted, "like, why are you trying to get us to say, like, Arab?"

It was futile. I made no more Henry-Higginsesque efforts in French elocution.

My own acquisition of the "proper" French r came quite by surprise. The summer before entering college, I was an au pair in France, and one of my young charges was named Corinne. I stumbled along for the first month of vacation calling her something that vaguely resembled Co-heen. Then one August evening I was calling her à table, and I yodelled, "Corrrrine!" Out flew that French r like a lark rising to the treetops. Startled, pleased... thrilled, I wandered around the garden repeating "Corinne, Corinne, Corinne," like a singsong lunatic, afraid that the this had been a one-shot deal. But it stuck with me, that French r. At dinner that night, no one else in the French family noticed that suddenly, magically, I had IT! It was my happy secret, like losing my no-French-r virginity. In an instant, I had become a different person.

But that summer I had no need of a locksmith. In all the years of subsequent French speaking, reading, and writing, I never found the need to croak out the word serrurerie. But if you live in Paris and you have keys, chances are that someday you will have to face the serrurerie-pronunciation beast. You must do so at your own risk. If you insert three plain-ruh-ruh American r's in the word, you sound like Lucy drunk on Vitameatavegamin: suh-roo-roo-ree. Try to trill it correctly with the French r and your poor uvula gets chafed with a bad case of friction burn (diction burn?).

Here, take the keys. Go ahead and give serrurerie a try. Then spritz a little Chloraseptic and call me in the morning.

Just a Slice

Stretch your arms out wide, and you are measuring a distance of about five to six feet. Shrink them in a smidge, and you're at four feet. Four feet is either plenty wide or very narrow. In Paris, there are a variety of things to see that are about four feet in width.

A garde-manger.

A cheminee.

A full/double bed.

A classic French door mat.

Or the narrowest house in Paris, 39 rue du Chateau d'Eau in the 10th arrondissement

Such Friendly Parisians!

Gee, I don't know who keeps claiming that Parisians aren't friendly. Why, just this very afternoon, there I was, just looking at my guide book, trying to find the covered passages it recommended. I was aimlessly strolling down rue St. Denis in the 2e arrondissement. And whaddaya know? All along one block there were dozens and dozens of gals, you know, just hanging out, trying to make friends. On their front stoops. Dressed up so special, too.

They didn't really seem to be chatting with each other much, though. But, golly, they were just as friendly as can be to strangers passing by!! 'Specially to the guys.

Then, these two neighbors were having quite a heated conversation, until this gent walked by. The lady on the left was wearing lamé-and-leopard business attire. Poor thing must have gotten so hot in the sun earlier, 'cause it looked as though she'd taken off most of the rest of the outfit.

I apologize -- this photo was taken in a hurry because I didn't think it was a good idea for me to stop in a doorway to snap a photo. Not that there were many unoccupied doorways. Gosh! Such outgoing people in this neighborhood!

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!