Freak Show

The current exhibit in the grands salons of the Monnaie de Paris is a contemporary exposition entitled "The Freak Show." Inspired by the freak shows of American carnivals and circuses of the early twentieth century, the exhibit apparently features everyday objects transformed in grotesque or odd ways.

Apparently. Yes, this is bait-and-switch time! I didn't see the exhibit. Although I did actually poke my head in the door as the ticket-taker looked for some press info, I didn't have the time to tour the whole show.

But I don't mind. Even if you don't have time or inclination to see a Freak Show, it's worth the trip anyway. The grand and elegant interior of the Hôtel de la Monnaie is exquisite. To reach it, turn right just after entering the portals of the Monnaie building.

Climb the escalier d'honneur.

Admire the busts of Condorcet and friends in the hallway, and look out the windows at the Seine.


Imagine that you're attending a swish soirée in the salle de reception.



And while you're at it, look up at the fresco on the ceiling.

Then you arrive at the ticket desk outside the exhibit where you have to fork over your 6€ to get into the Freak Show. Up to that checkpoint the view is free. One of this month's better bargains in Paris.

The Monnaie de Paris is of course the Mint, where coins and medals are made. The grands salons are open to the public only when they are being rented for a special exhibit.

There is the Musée de la Monnaie, a favorite of mine and of all numismatists, at the end of the courtyard.

Freak Show

Through May 25

Monnaie de Paris

Quai de Conti

Tuesday through Sunday 11 am to 6 pm

French Poodles and Friends

Clomping along the sidewalk on boulevard Montparnasse, I happened upon this little TouTou standing guard at the shop door. Seeing it made me pause for thought. I realized that I rarely see French poodles here.

Paris is a dog-lovers city, no doubt, but in my experience the iconic poodle isn't that much in evidence. Apparently in all of France, poodles still top the list of most-popular purebreds at 9%, but that hardly qualifies them as being predominant as a stereotype.

But I do see lots of Jack Russells, a fair share of arthritic Labradors, plenty of frisky bouledogues, and many, many endearing mutts. But rarely a frou-frou Fifi of poodle-skirt fame.

I love watching dogs almost as much as I love watching people in Paris. Put them together, and it's a blast.

A while back, I witnessed an entertaining Parisian doggie interlude. A man was walking his Great Dane on a quiet street in the St. Paul area, and had taken the well-mannered dog off the leash, as dog-owners often do -- illegally.

A Norwich Terrier came prancing down the opposite sidewalk with a fussy lady at the other end of the leash. The terrier began yapping at the Great Dane, who started to lumber across the street for a friendly sniff.

"Mais monsieur," screeched the lady as her minuscule dog barked convulsively, "keep your dog on a leash!!"

"Don't worry, madame," joked the man with a shrug, unruffled. "He's already had breakfast."

Adieu, Madame

I am stunned. I feel as though a doctor has just informed me that I'll have to have an arm amputated.

Madame Tabac is selling.

I haven't written about her in a while, partly because I was embarrassed, perhaps, at my first profile of her. Since that time, she has truly become an ally, a camarade, a faithful friend in the neighborhood. A source of information, some juicy gossip -- and mostly updates, complete with photos, on her cherished grandson. She has a heart of gold. She is a genuine human being, not a character or caricature of some American blogger's perception.

Lately when I've stopped by to say hello, the shelves in the loto-tabac shop area of the café have been empty. "They won't deliver unless we pay in advance now," she has confided. Not stamps, or mobicartes or cigarettes or anything else furnished by the Régie. Without merchandise to sell, she's had more spare time on her hands. She and I have had long chats about the café, business, current events, government, the neighborhood, weather, the economy, Life.

So she's calling it quits and selling the Jean B. After 19 or 20 years as owner, 35 in the café-tabac business, she's hanging up her hat. "Oh, you know, it's sad, in a way. There are des gamins in the neighborhood who I've seen as newborns, now they're in université, grand comme ça!" she says. "It'll be different," she admits, "but quite frankly, I'm looking forward to not having to get up and work seven days a week. Sometimes I like just staying at home between four walls. You know what I mean?"

"Oui, oui, of course. But it just won't be the same without you," I lament. "You're the tradition of the neighborhood -- we all love you."

"Don't worry," she reassures me. "The new owners are nice. Ce sont des Auvergnats -- people from the Auvergne. They are sympa. Des gens bien. They'll be good workers, keep this a nice, friendly place."

I instantly regret all the time that I haven't spent at the Jean B in the past two years. Sure, it's kind of grungy, and certainly prior to January 1 it was thick with cigarette smoke. Now the same regulars are still at the bar having their café or their ballon de rouge, just more visible without the smoke. Madame knows them all by name, tutoies them as they arrive and depart. She knows what they want before they've pushed the door all the way in from the street corner.

"Oh I'm so, so desolée that you are leaving," I say. "But happy for you if that's what you want." Then I suggest brightly, "Maybe we'll have to have a fête d'adieu for you. All the neighborhood can come in to say good bye."

Her face lights up. "Pourquoi pas?"

How can I arrange this? She's leaving in three weeks.

Poster-Boy

French author, literary critic, talk-show guest and man-about-town Frédéric Beidbeger is even more of a man-about-town these days.


Larger-than-life photos of his naked upper torso are plastered on billboards in virtually every métro station, publicizing Galeries Lafayette Homme, the men's store. He's reading a book, bien sûr.

Giving Blood, Paris Style

Forget the peanut-butter Ritz-bits and apple juice, the soggy tuna sandwiches on white bread.

Those who donate blood in Paris today will be treated to a meal prepared by Laurent Delarbre, Executive Chef at the Café de la Paix.

The blood drive, being organized by the Etablissement français du sang, takes place today from noon until 6 pm, on the plaza between the Tour Montparnasse and the Gare Montparnasse. The collecte du sang will continue through April 26, though the fine cuisine from Café de la Paix might not.

The tent may not be as plush as the decor at the Café de la Paix, but the cause is worthwhile.

Vie de merde!

Vie de merde is a French hit blog with millions of visitors daily. The founders of the blog, Maxime Valette and Antoine Descamps, started it kind of as a joke but it took off.

Roughly translated as "Life's a Bitch," the site receives over 1000 mini-anecdotes daily of pain-in-the-arse everyday events that people want to bitch about.

The blog has become such a hit that the acronym VDM has become a part of colloquial language in a large segment of the population.

Here's an example of one VDM:

"Aujourd'hui, j'ai reçu 2 sms de ma copine. Le premier pour me dire que tout était fini, le second pour me dire qu'elle s'était trompée de destinataire. VDM"

"Today, I received two text messages from my girlfriend. The first to say that she was breaking up with me. The second to tell me that she had sent the first text message to the wrong person. VDM"

So if you want to be really hip when speaking French, you can now use, "VDM" (vay-day-em) as a tag line when referring to one of life's little aggravations.

Illustration by Maud Gironnay.

A College Student's View of France

I'm swamped with other work and unfinished writing, so I will offer this tidbit.

Lynsi Burton, a college senior from Washington State University studying in Bordeaux, has written a series of columns for the Daily Evergreen, the college newspaper. Do yourself a favor and read them here.

A sampling: in today's column, she observes French women

From the adolescent in the leather jacket to the mom pushing a stroller to the old woman speeding by on her bike in a fur coat and spike heels, I admire them all. To the untrained eye, it may seem as though many of these primped women wearing expensive jackets and shoes are trying too hard. Maybe they’re a little vain.

But the truth is these women know who they are. They show it to the world with pride and without apology.

Or from last week's column:

Before coming to France, I got contradicting advice about men. “Avoid eye contact, they’ll pounce on you,” or “Don’t flatter yourself, they’re not really hitting on you.” Relationships in France are a thought-provoking subject. How do people go from being strangers to sucking face in front of me on the tram? I have a boyfriend in Pullman I’m interested in keeping, putting participatory journalism out of the question. But my friends and I have had enough experiences to give me some insight into the differences and similarities between American and French dating.

Enjoy the read.

Un Deux Trois Quatre

1) Yesterday I saw Passe-Passe, a just-released comedy starring Natalie Baye and Edouard Baer. Great fun, light and entertaining! Will be titled Off and Running in English.




2) A thoughtful article about Juliette Binoche's career here. Except he didn't mention Klapisch's Paris.

3) To say Bon Appétit or no? The debate continues. But she heard it here first when she interviewed my friend Marie de Tilly. Watch Marie and me in action on French TV last winter! And we have a new project in the works.

4) Paris as a movie set. What's being filmed in the Ile de France these days. The site, however, deserves a mise à jour, I think. I know there are more tournages than they've listed.

Now I'm off and running -- to go chase pigeons in the park.

Fractured French

When I was growing up, I think I just assumed that all adults had studied French in high school. All my parents' friends seemed to speak at least a smidgen of French. They knew how to pronounce French -- not in a perfect Parisian accent, but in more of the phrase-book phonetic accent. Mare-see boh-coo. Jeuh-neuh-say-kwah. Fill-ay meen-yon.

And my stepfather was a master at that. He had a wickedly funny sense of humor, but I never saw him guffaw or laugh out loud. Instead, when some turn of phrase or wacky joke hit his funny bone, he pressed his lips together and the laughter emerged through the corners of his eyes, tears of mirth streaming down his reddening cheeks as his upper torso shook. It was really fun to watch him laugh, although one summer day when we were packed in the car on a 10-hour drive and we were reading Mad Magazine aloud for family entertainment, he had to pull the car over because he couldn't see the road any more from laughing.

One of his favorite jokes, which he could repeat and get the same teary-eyed kick out of, was, "What do the French say when the light's out in the bathroom?"

"Jeanne d'Arc." He delivered his own punch line before anyone could beat him to it. Pronounced, of course, in his perfect anglo-american accent. Then, if he had elicited sufficient appreciation from his listener, he would continue.

"What's the French word for 'lawn mower'?"

"Coup de grace." Pronouncing the 'p' of course.

I always imagined that these were the witty one-line stories that all grown-ups shared with each other at cocktail parties. And in a way, they were. The series of English-French puns, it turns out, came from a collection by F.S. Pearson called Fractured French, wildly popular in the 1950s. So popular, in fact, that the cartoons accompanying them were made into cocktail napkins and hors-d'oeuvre plates.

Here are a few more...

What do you call a timid beauty?

"Une pièce de résistance."

How do you say, "There are mice in the river?"

"Mise en scène."

What is a French father of twins?

"Pas du tout."

Okay, I'll stop now, lest I drive off the road and into a cornfield.

(P.S. Just updated, with illustration, more of which are here.)

Just My Type

Typeface. For me, it's one of those nit-picky things. Years ago -- egad, it must have been during the Carter administration -- I was trained as a legal proofreader. We corrected copy that had been set by Linotype. Sometimes the font was very very small, otherwise known as "reading the fine print." Often, in addition to catching spelling and grammar errors, we had to send the page back to the printers to be re-set if the lead type-slug was out of line (or sometimes even upside down). Ah, the old-fashioned days before computer-generated printing. I spent two squinting years relentlessly red-penciling wayward type.

So, my urge to straighten out lines of type is strong -- beyond my control, actually.

And now, every day as I spend hours typing at my Yahoo screen, I see this:

Do you see it? Where it says Copyright/IP Policy? It's just an optical illusion, of course. The type is all in a level line. But it nags at me from the bottom of my screen all day, looking to me as if it's a wavy line of type, begging to get smoothed into place.

Reminds me of one of my favorite métro stations.

Mr. Martinon Goes to LA

Former Elysée spokesman David Martinon has just been named as French Consul in Los Angeles. Hey, nice job!

So, it looks like sunnier days ahead, both literally and figuratively, for him.

It's been blustery here, literally and figuratively, I guess.




I wouldn't mind a dose of warm sunshine myself.

Crocs: Fashion Forecast

Good news, bad news. You decide which is which.

Crocs sales are slumping in the US, according to the Colorado-based company. And they just shut down their Canadian factory.

But never fear, Parisian foot-fashion hounds. Crocs just opened its first boutique in Paris last week.

European sales are expected to increase 90%.

Oh joy.

Merci to Threadtrend.

Bunches of Flowers

Sometimes a girl just needs flowers.

Sometimes her budget is a bit constrained: the dollar-euro exchange just gives the girl a bland no-frills lifestyle.

Sometimes, when spring hasn't quite sprung, the girl heads to Bunches on boulevard Raspail and buys some bargain flowers, just because.

She selects from all the choices -- there is a nice selection -- knowing that it's not only a little treat, but that she's being frugal as well.

Sometimes, the girl fibs just a little bit to the sweet, friendly fleuristes and says, "C'est pour offrir," so they'll create one of their beautiful bouquets, when really the roses are to take back to her apartment. Which needs a little boost.

Sometimes the girl smiles for the ten-block walk home with the bouquet tucked under her left arm, knowing she bought five big bunches of flowers for 10€.

Prenez Soin de Vous/Take Care of Yourself

Yesterday I -- okay, the proper verbs are failing me -- what did I do? I visited, experienced, participated in, reveled in, absorbed, saw, adored... Aw, heck: I went to the Sophie Calle exhibit "Prenez Soin de Vous" at the Bibliotheque nationale on rue de Richelieu.

It was brilliant. I had grave reservations about it as we entered the doors of the magnificent, elegant reading room and I heard the cacophony in the normally hushed vaulted space. This is an art exhibit? I was wondering. (I'm no art critic, as you may have guessed. I simply record my reactions, talk about what resonates.)

I knew that the premise of the exhibit was that an artist, Sophie Calle, has received a siyonara letter from her hitherto loving sweetheart, which was filled with lame excuses and a final phrase, "Prenez soin de vous:" Take Care of Yourself. I knew that Calle had then taken that letter to 107 women (no idea how that number was chosen) and had them interpret, dissect, enact, react to the letter. The exhibit was a smash hit at the Venice Biennale des Arts last fall.

So I decided to be more avant-garde and hip than my usual mundane self, and check out the exhibit, mostly because I love the Bibilotheque Richelieu, and also because I see so much "old art" in Paris, I decided it was time for me to get more contemporary.

It was brilliant. Did I say that already? It was brilliant, not only as a work of conceptual art, but as a social force. The reactions of 107 females, aged 9 to 90, (that's my guess) slashing their way through this letter. Deconstructing it. Whether it's a work of fiction or reality doesn't even matter.

Imagine printing up a copy of a hi-oh-and-by-the-way-I'm-dumping-you-goodbye letter from your beloved, and having it read and interpreted by, among others, a lawyer, a clown, a young teen, a police commissioner, a singer, an actress, a cartoonist, a comedian (with inflatable dolls and other paraphernalia), a professor, a dancer, a proofreader... well, it goes on. All recorded on video, audio, origami, opera, ink, whatever medium. Not only is it wonderful performance and visual art, it is the best possible sweet revenge imaginable. You know what I mean.

In any case, if you are in Paris, and you have the chance to visit this exhibit, GO. And it's not just because it's an exhibit that you can look at blessedly sitting down occasionally (watching the videos on the reading desks). It's also for the experience of the other people around you. Some people laughed teary-eyed at parts I thought were bland. Other parts I hooted at hysterically, which other people had moved on from, unmoved. Much is in French, but after viewing a few of the English-language versions, you'll understand the whole work of art more fully.

I am not an art critic , because I find the ineffable just that -- ineffable. In terms of recommendations, I usually simply want to slap someone hastily across the cheek and say, "Don't ask; I can't tell you why you should go, just GO!" Not very delicate or ladylike or descriptive of me. And I've never slapped anyone in my life, so please do me a favor, and just GO! Go see this exhibit. If you don't like it, I don't want to hear about it.

A book version exists of "Prenez Soin de Vous" as well. But the only medium I haven't seen used to interpret The Letter is the internet.

So, maybe ... should this exhibit get launched on a virtual extension not yet undertaken by Sophie Calle? As I wandered through, awestruck, I thought -- what if I took a picture of me reading The Letter in front of a performer reading the letter, and posted it on my blog? A mise en abyme of the event itself. Or -- what if the internet took on this art and turned it into another art? Turned the letter into a sort of tag or meme and thousands of internauts re-interpreted the letter too? Ah, I can dream.

If Sophie Calle had asked me to do an artistique interpretation of such a letter (and I won't take it personally that she didn't, for now), I would have re-intrpreted it as a disposable toilet-seat cover, or a new designer Band-Aid strip -- or a barf-bag on a very, very turbulent flight. So what if I'm an artistic simpleton? It was that brilliant, that inspiring.

How would you artistically interpret such a letter? Here it is, in English.

Pass it on.

Guest Blogger

A Sunday stroll in the park, and whom did I meet? The outgoing, charming and talented Gisèle, who is five --but will be six, "après Noël."

She and her brothers came running over to the gate where I was photographing. Hearing me speak in English, she questioned me in French as she concentrated on tying a piece of string around the iron gate post.

"Are you English?" she asked.

"No, I'm American."

"Oh, so you're kind of American/English/French?" she asked.

"No, I'm just American, but I speak French," I explained.

"What are you taking pictures of?"

"Oh, anything, n'importe quoi," I replied. She was eyeing my camera keenly. I asked her, "Do you want to take a picture with it?"

Gisèle nodded and grinned, "Oui!" And in no time she had her technique mastered. "You have to press the button when what you want is in the square?" she asked. And, click -- voila! --a future photojournalist was born. Here are some of Gisèle's masterpieces, taken in the Square Louvois.

Her little brother, with maman and papa looking on from the bench.

Her brothers playing ball in the park.

Richard Nahem, of Eye Prefer Paris. We never knew until today that he was as tall as a skyscraper!

And here's the photo I took, a portrait of the young artist. Merci, Gisèle!

Vaugirard

It all started with the lilacs.

As I crossed rue de Vaugirard today, heading to the Fnac, the lilacs beckoned to me. I haven't seen many lilacs in the city, so I stopped to snap a picture. Then I took a closer look at the building adjacent to the yard where lilacs in the backyard bloom'd.

The shopworn facade and the posture of the building had such dignity and presence; they seemed so rich with history. Sometimes, old buildings just seem to talk, yearning to tell their stories to curious passersby who pause to admire the stone or wonder at the bas-relief. Although now somewhat neglected in appearance, the structure seemed to have a compelling history.

Doing a bit of research, I found out that this building does indeed have a rich cultural past. It was the home since the 1920s to the prestigious Ecole Louis Lumière, and alma mater to many famous photographers and filmmakers. It is fondly remembered by its alumni as simply "Vaugirard."

The Ecole Louis Lumière moved, bit by bit, from this building to other locations, then finally to a fancy modern structure outside Paris in 1985.

As an urban dweller I always wish that the stones of city dwellings could speak and tell their early stories. Now I'll know about this one at least, each time I pass by.

And it all began, today, with a glimpse of some blooming lilacs.

Desire to Please

Desir de plaire -- desire to please. Of course the -- uh -- words weren't what caught my eye as I headed down the sidewalk. Always checking for new windshield flyers for Pare-Brise du Jour, naturally I spotted this one. But believe me, anyone would have noticed her.

I've been in France for a while and really don't find pictures of nudity in public places startling or offensive in any way. So I don't know why I was so taken aback by this brochure. I guess the notion of its headline being "Desire to Please," and then it's clear that this woman's left hand is doing just that. It's not modesty that she's going for in this pose.

And anyone who says that the 7e arrondissement is stodgy and boring just needs to come on a stroll down the street with moi. Every car, up and down the street, with pictures of jaunty mademoiselle here having a good time underneath the windshield wiper. Flapping in the breeze.

This being a PG-13 family-style blog, I of course pasted rectangular virtual fig leaves over the racy bits. I hope it is appreciated that I color-coordinated with the text, at least!

Needless to say, the advertisement is for a "lose-two sizes-now-without-dieting" beauty center. "The liposuction alternative!" it crows.

So you can please someone else, en principe?

Needing Therapy

I need help.

No, not that kind of therapy. I need apartment therapy. I just came across this photo of a kitchen.

photo by Lisa Neimeth

I found it in Apartment Therapy, which, for a neo-apartment-dweller like me, has been an online godsend. For almost two years I've been installed in my Parisian pied-a-terre, having downsized from a rambling 6-bedroom Greek Revival in New England. Until Paris, I hadn't lived in an apartment since post-college days. At 70 square meters (+/- 700 s.f.) my Parisian nest is either tiny and cozy or vast and empty, depending on who you're talking to. But I realize now that I have decorated in such a provisoire fashion. Now I'm realizing that two years just ain't temporary any more. It needs help, pronto.

After signing the lease and embarking on an initial minimal decorating frenzy to make it a livable and presentable, I've kind of let things slide. Comfortable, functional, with an element of Parisian chic was what I had in mind. But, um, I haven't even decorated the walls yet.

The kitchen came with some decrepit appliances, which the landlord didn't even mention as "included" in the lease. Yup, they were that bad: a waist-high fridge with lots of brown mold. A scary white stove whose door was grunged shut. My friend Chu took me to her secret bargain place, the Usines Center, in the suburbs of Paris. There I found my shiny new refrigerator -- oops, I didn't measure properly; I think it's the tallest fridge ever sold in France. Everyone comments on it! I also a acquired a too-short stainless steel (inox) stove, and decided I could live with the washing machine. Then an expat returning to the states sold me an almost new skinny Miele dishwasher. Hmm, my little cuisine was equipped and looking decent, I thought. I had fallen in love with its old tile floors and tall casement window that goes to the ceiling.

Along with the new appliances came a huge dose of reality, which of course has free delivery and installation. There is a severe lack of counter space. How was I to whip up those fabulous gourmet dinners for 16 that I'm so famous for? (ha!) Then I found an antique chestnut confiturier (jam cabinet) at the Marche aux Puces at Vanves, which provided a touch of "country" look, fit perfectly, and gave a smidge more counter-top space.

Then I did nothing else. Maybe it's the grey weather, maybe it's then end of the two-year honeymoon period, but right now I'm feeling that the apartment is lackluster. The colors -- ugh. I need a lift.

So I started thinking -- if you mentally overdosed my kitchen on megavitamins and steroids, it could start looking like that Apartment Therapy photo. Maybe there is hope!

So here's my quandary. Should I be a copy-cat and paint the kitchen a calm, pale green like that photo? It's so tiny, it would take about three hours to accomplish; I'd paint the walls (not the cabinets, which are plastic IKEA laminate). Then maybe I'd get around to refinishing the butcher-block countertop. And installing more shelves, and... and... and...

Musee de la Vie romantique

Question: What do the Musée de la Vie romantique and the U.S. House of Representatives have in common?

(Hints: It has nothing to do with congressional sex scandals, past or present. It's not about Valentines. The word "Romantique" refers not to romance, of course, but to Romanticism in France.)

Give up?

Answer: Ary Scheffer is the link. The Musée is the former home and atelier of artist Ary Scheffer (1795-1858). Scheffer is most famous in the U.S. for the portrait of his friend the Marquis de Lafayette. The full-length Lafayette portrait has been proudly hanging to the right of the rostrum of the Speaker of the House for almost 170 years, the companion to Washington's portrait.

Think of it this way: for almost two centuries, every lawmaker in the House has contemplated Scheffer's Lafayette portrait while debating and voting on legislation; Lafayette has gazed benevolently at the Senators and Representatives sitting in the House for each State of the Union address.

But even if the French-American connection doesn't sway you, the Musée de la Vie romantique is well worth a visit in its own right. Tucked away on rue Chaptal in the 9e arrondissement, it houses a splendid collection of paintings, furniture and memorabilia from the Romantic era, including a sizable collection of George Sand objets. The house's period interior, decorated by Jacques Garcia, is richly evocative of that era. As part of the Musées de la Ville de Paris network, the museum offers free admission to its permanent collection. In addition, for a few euros you can view the temporary exhibits in the atelier. A highly acclaimed exhibit of the golden Age of German Romantic Art is on display there now.

And once the Paris weather becomes springlike -- which I dearly hope is soon -- I look forward to returning to the Museum's enchanting garden terrace cafe. For lunch, brunch, or tea, it's one of my Parisian outdoor favorites: fragrant, quiet, charming, inexpensive.

Musée de la Vie romantique
Hôtel Scheffer-Renan

16 rue Chaptal
75009 Paris

tél. : 01 55 31 95 67
Métro Saint-Georges, Pigalle, Blanche, Liège

Bus 67, 68, 74

Open Tuesday - Sunday 10 am to 6 pm.

Bonjour, Charleston!

A hearty bonjour to readers in Charleston, South Carolina (including my beautiful daughter).

I thought you'd like to know that your fair city was immortalized on French TV this evening. Yes, you looked très chic, which is why Le Grand Journal on Canal+ showed a clip of Charleston, bien sûr. On the other hand, they showed the mishap at the fashion show during Fashion Week. Ouch.

I hope the lovely mannequin in the yellow dress is recovering okay; please know that you were in excellent company; other honored guests were Jody Foster and Jean Sarkozy (son of President Nicolas Sarkozy).

The 82

Monday. Paris was like an ant-hill that someone poked with a stick.

The Olympic Torch was trying to pass through Paris this afternoon, and the anticipated pro-Tibet demonstrations forced the cancellation of the procession. It would have been busy enough if there had been no political repercussions.

I witnessed only the ripple effect of the protests.

I had an afternoon appointment at the American Hospital in Paris, and although I knew vaguely that protests were in the works (I've been diligently working, alas not reading much news), I know the route of the #82 bus from St. Francois Xavier to to Neuilly, and assumed it would skirt the manifs.

Wrong-o. Instead, the 82 seemed to be driving into the epicenter of activity, or at least following closely behind. There was certainly an element of mayhem and congestion in surface transportation in the middle of the city. I could hear the RATP dispatcher constantly updating the bus driver on the best detours to take. In our case, however, the dispatcher sent us straight into the action. Which meant, for us, No Action.

At the beginning, I was engrossed in a book, a luxury I could afford since I knew I was staying on the bus until it reached its terminus. Then, haphazardly, I looked up and realized that instead of crossing the Seine in front of the Eiffel Tower, we were in front of the Musée du Quai Branly, at a dead standstill.

That's OK, I thought. I had allowed plenty of extra time to reach my meeting. I stuck my nose back in the novel, and decided to be zen about something I could do nothing about. I paid little attention to where we were heading, but figured we'd soon be in the 16e arondissement heading for Neuilly.

Much time elapsed, and I finally looked up to see where we were. CRS vans seemed to line every street. (Crawling along so slowly gave me ample time to study the CRS officers' uniforms. The plastic sleeves look like skinny black armadillos. Ah -- armadillos: armada. Got it.) I didn't recognize our location until we reached the next intersection. What?? Avenue George V? Oh no, we were in total retrograde, and I'd been on the bus... how long? I looked at my cell phone for the time. Damn, I was already late for the appointment. I'd already been on the bus for an hour to reach a place that I reach on foot in under thirty minutes, and nowhere near my destination. I called to report that I was running late.

Finally we inched our way to the Arc de Triomphe. There were tired protesters holding Tibetan flags, crossing the street. The CRS vans raced ahead of us, on to their next destination. I felt weird, as though I should be having concerns other than getting to my appointment on time. Concerns about Tibet; concerns about the tradition of the Olympics. But, I justified to myself, this is Paris; if one stopped for every cause that was being protested, nothing would ever be accomplished.

Some passengers had asked to get off the bus so they could try swifter means of transportation. But police were blocking some streets and sidewalks even to pedestrians. And if I know anything about my life, I know that Murphy's Law is the ruling constitution; so I decided to stick it out on a bus that, come hell or high water, was going to end up at the American Hospital.

The gods said, Ha!

After heading all the way back to the Seine (which we'd crossed a half hour earlier) and then finally picking up the regular #82 bus route, the bus' PA system made a weird pre-recorded announcement. "This bus has for a terminus Vauban-Hotel des Invalides." Whoa, wait a sec, that's where I got on! I ignored the message, assuming that it was a technological error.

But then, we arrived at the stop at the Palais des Congres and the bus auto-announcement came on: " Terminus -- all passengers are invited to get off."

Wee-mahk-a-bull! The other passengers who had stuck it out with me were fuming. We had to get off and wait for the next bus, five minutes later. This is no small sacrifice when you have snagged and settled into a comfy, non-priority-for-others forward-facing seat with a good book.

Resigned, we stood in the brisk afternoon breeze, complaining aloud. Finally the next #82 arrived; we boarded and barely mumbled 'bonjour' and didn't offer to show our tickets to the bus driver; he KNEW that we were pissed.

Then the bus crossed over into the leafy lanes of Neuilly, and Paris seemed a distant memory.

At my appointment, the amazing part was how understanding they were that I arrived an hour and fifteen minute late. "Ca va se calmer, sans doute," they said when I offered my profuse apologies.

Later, heading back home on the #82, the bus once again made a slight deviation in the route, this time offering passengers the option to disembark and choose another means of transport. I stayed on board.

On avenue Bosquet, stalled now in regular rush-hour traffic, the oncoming bus stopped in the lane next to ours, The two drivers chatted briefly through the drivers' windows. The male chauffeur in the opposite bus was holding a Chupas lollipop in his hand. "Oh, is that for me?" asked our female driver coyly.

He handed it to her through the open window, and drove on.

Just like passing on an Olympic torch, I thought. We made it.

Yellow shows the regular bus 25-minute route.

Green shows our torturous route throught the epicenter of the protests.

Pink shows the route after we were dumped at the Palais des Congres.

Une dame qui ne repondait pas

Off doing some errands in the nearby neighborhood, I spotted fire trucks rounding the bend, sirens wailing their do-sol-do-sol plaintive tones, lights flashing. Ever curious, I strode up the side street to see where the emergency was. I didn't smell any smoke, didn't see any panicked crowds of residents escaping to the street.

I edged my way farther down the street, trying not to be too nosy but still wondering why the firemen had been beckoned. A beefy man was standing watching the whole scenario, smoking a cigar, shaking hands with and commenting to his neighbors one by one as they passed by and/or stopped to join the gawking. I endeavored to make myself part of the group. "Alors, what is happening, do you think?" I asked. "I haven't seen any smoke -- Est-ce que il y a une incendie?" [Is there a fire?]

"Comment?" was their bemused reaction.

"Un feu-- une incendie?" I repeated.

"Oh, mais non, je ne crois pas," the guy replied. "Seulement une vieille dame qui ne repondait pas." An old lady who didn't answer her phone or the gardienne's knocks on the door.

A group of pompiers were leaning out of the windows of the apartment on the right-hand side of the building, shouting instructions to the pompier who was maneuvering the ladder. He lined it up to the shutters of the apartment on the left, then donned a shiny chrome hard-hat and scrambled up the ladder. He pushed in the shutters and the windows of the old lady's apartment. A brightly dressed woman on the floor above, pretending to water her flowers, was peering down to observe the scene.

I shuddered to imagine the sad scenario he was going to find inside: a frail old woman, collapsed or even dead on the floor of her darkened apartment. I felt so sad, and yet so heartened that neighbors were clearly looking out for her that when she hadn't answered, they called the authorities.

Then all faces disappeared from the windows. Next the chrome-helmeted fireman exited the building from the ground floor, with a sheepish expression. He spoke briefly to the gardienne who was waiting outside. "No one was home," he said.

Titi et Grosminet

A post by Why Travel to France reminded me about my love of Tweetie Bird and Sylvester. I was a Saturday morning cartoon addict for the first few decades of my life. And then I discovered that Titi and Grosminet were popular in France, too. Carole, a long-ago French co-worker, used to do a perfect Titi imitation from her cubicle, just to make me laugh.

"I tawt I saw a puddy-tat" in French, is "Je crois que j'ai vu un gros minet," complete with lisp.

It still makes me laugh. And I'm how old?

And here's another Samedi morning cartoon to watch.

If the shoe fits

Pointure à la ligne! In this month’s Marie Claire, French journalist David Abiker reflects on his wife’s wall of shoes. And on French men’s and women’s relationships with women’s shoes.

I realize as I'm reading his column that in English we don’t have an equivalent verb for chausser, to put on or wear shoes. Shod, which is more befitting of a horse, doesn’t even come close. We don’t have a separate word for “shoe size,” which is pointure in French. The French relationship with shoes, according to Abiker, is another world.

So before you slip on your Birkenstocks or head to your Imelda Closet of Shame, here are a few of the salient points of his essay to ponder.

1. His wife’s wall of shoes is the architecture of her life, in a way. French women don’t buy just a shoe, he claims. They “put their foot in a parallel universe,” a life in color, to create a story, paint a picture. A woman's shoe is an intimate reflection of her femininity.

2. According to his brief survey, French men like on women:
1) high heels 2) tall boots 3) high heels. Period.

Why? It rounds the curve of the derrière, emphasizes the chest.

3. He says, “For girl-watching in the streets, all I have to do is follow a shoe. The other day I was awestruck by a high-heeled boot that I saw emerging from a big leather Gestapo-style trench coat. I didn’t even see her face. Didn’t even see the boot. I saw a movement and the drape of fabric on an insolent calf, heading across the crosswalk. Sometimes just a brief nothing is enough to drive me wild.”

Speculating on what other men are thinking of his wife while she’s at work, he muses, “Is that colleague watching her cross her legs and eyeing all the way to the tip of her shoe? Bastard!”

4. Abiker admits that sometimes he’d like to see his wife wear a pair of fire-engine-red patent-leather hooker heels, rather than the latest trendy pair of sober grey strappy pumps. But its more important for her to love the shoes she’s wearing. It affects – creates -- her mood, her allure.

5. He says “I can’t conceive of a woman being mal chaussée.” In general, worn or damaged shoes are simply unappealing. “It pains me,” he says, “ to see a woman wearing shoes that aren’t pretty. In every Frenchman there lies a Prince Charming waiting to help Cinderella find her perfect shoe.”

6. Ballerina flats: “Though I realize they are the latest fashion, at first I didn’t like them: no curves, no legs, no breasts.” Ditto for fat furry boots. But he says part of the appeal of any woman is when she knows she’s looking good. Makes the men want to run after her!

7. Simply put, the shoe makes the leg. And a François Truffaut line from The Man Who Loved Women:

“Les jambes des femmes sont des compas qui arpentent le globe terrestre en tous sens, lui donnant son équilibre et sont harmonie.”

"Women’s legs are like compass points, circling the globe in every sense and giving it its balance and harmony."

illustration from Marie Claire

Saran Wrap

A trip to the supermarket in Paris is always a lesson in linguistics. It's then that I realize how many words aren't necessarily to be found in the standard French-English dictionary.

Classic Film.... what we would call "Saran Wrap." Gee, I would call "Gone With the Wind" a classic film.

(One of my favorite brand-name untranslatables a while back was a French powdered milk called "Quick Lait.")

But I started thinking about all the brand-name household items that have a very different name in France. The proper word apparently is "Genericized Trademarks". Here, compiled from Wikipedia and a few from my own collections, are such words and their French counterparts where I could find them, or think of them off the top of my head. Suggestions, definitions, and corrections welcome.

Bandaid - un sparadrap
Bubble-wrap - papier bulles ( but this also means manilla folder paper?)
Frisbee -
Hi-liter - un surligneur
Jell-O - gelee
Kleenex - mouchoir en papier
Muzak - musique de fond
Post-it Note
Q-Tips - coton tige
Rollerblades - rollers
Rolodex -
Scotch tape - le scotch
Saran Wrap - film alimentaire, film plastique
Sheetrock -
Styrofoam - polystyrene
Tampax - tampon hygienique
Thermos -thermos
Twist-tie -
Velcro -Velcro
Wite-out - Tipp-Ex
Xerox - photocopier
Ziploc bag -

It Begins with Bonjour

The Alliance Française, in whatever town or city in the globe, has always been an institution near and dear to my heart.

The Alliance in Boston, which is part of the French Library there, has always held a special spot for me. I love their new slogan for French courses, "It begins with bonjour!" (And the bee-stung pouty lips are pretty alluring/inspiring, too.)

In my humble but experience-laden opinion, merely spouting French words is worthless -- well, almost -- unless you try to grasp the socio-cultural part of the conversation. Tourist guide books giving you pat phrases can unwittingly leave out the most important part of the transaction/conversation -- the Bonjour!

As far as I can tell, every single phrase in an English-French phrase book for travelers should start "Bonjour, madame/monsieur" and then -- and only then-- the "OO AY LAH GAHR MON-PAR-NASS," or whatever you're trying to find.

You can get by in metropolitan areas of France without knowing a lot of French. But you won't have as much fun unless you learn the two basics, "Bonjour" and "Merci," and use them with abandon.

And before you go, visit the nearest Alliance to practice your fancy French knowledge, or learn a little more.

Merci, chère Alliance Française! (pronounced al-yonce fron-sezz, more or less...)

Tinseltown's France

Like it or not, my friends and family who come to visit in Paris are not all 100% fluent in French. When, exhausted from sightseeing, we want to spend an evening chilling out in front of the tube, watching French TV can be a linguistic strain. For a great antidote to this, while still giving some French/Paris flavor to the visit, I pop over to PrimeTime Video, in the 6e arrondissement, and pick up an English-language movie set in France. I usually choose randomly from my mental fact-file; the IMDB list was long, and hard work to sift through.

Now, fortunately, the wonderful France Today magazine editors have come up with a list of the top five Hollywood versions of France, plus other recommendations.

So even if you can't make it to Paris - yet - here are some fun films, past and present, that will kindle the urge.

And look for France Today's next issue, all about Paris.

Rotten Tomatoes

I was dashing through the produce section of a well-known local supermarché. Running late, I needed to grab a few fresh vegetables to perk up the leftover ratatouille awaiting in the fridge.

There I spied mounds of tomatoes, many varieties, all perky and red. I quickly squeezed three, and they seemed ripe --not too hard -- so I scooped them up and approached the vegetable-weighing station. I handed them to the produce lady for pricing.

"Mais, madame, vos tomates sont pourries," she warned charitably. Your tomatoes are rotten.

"Oh," I apologized -- embarrassed Yankee food ignoramus to the core. "Je n'ai pas fait attention. I'll get some others." How nice of her to let me know, I was thinking. So I made a bee-line back to the tomato bin and chose some firmer specimens, then placed them on her scale.

She weighed my new selection, put the price label on the plastic bag and handed it to me with a smile. I thanked her profusely. "Merci, madame...."

Then, perfunctorily, elegantly, she returned the rotten tomatoes to the top of the tomato display.

Poissons d'avril

April 1 is the traditional Poisson d'avril day in France, similar to April Fool's Day in the US, though I don't know if the hijinx get into full gear as much. In the States, I liked celebrating April Fool's Day almost as much as Christmas. Okay, more than Christmas.

If you want to tape a fish to someone's back today, just here are some fishy illustrations for you.

And so, in honor of the day, I reflected upon fish. Before living in Paris, I had no idea how many types of fish there could be on a menu. So voici ma petite contribution du jour. A glossary of fish (poisson) terms in English with translations in French and other languages. Hurrah -- now I can really read the menu without translating everything as "some white fish or other."

And, of course, Lou-Lou sends her very best. No kidding!