Lights are on at Deyrolle

I stopped by Deyrolle today. Phoenix-like, it has risen from the ashes. Yay! They've opened again, on a temporarily smaller scale, after suffering a terrible fire in early February. As you can see from the photograph, the lights are on in less than half of the former space; the more damaged area on the left, the locus of the fire, will have to undergo more extensive renovation. The current space was repainted, floors sanded, and it seems just like the old, beloved Deyrolle.

Many of the lions and pigs and birds were there; some of the larger beasts are still in taxidermy hospital. Virtually the entire butterfly collection was wiped out in the fire -- a terrible loss.

I finally got a close-up view of "Plumes," the scarf created by Hermès to help finance the reconstruction of Deyrolle. The scarf, 265€, will be available in September; and for now can be ordered only in France, apparently. Here is ordering information for those who love Hermès and Deyrolle -- two classic Paris institutions. A third venerable Paris institution, Editions Gallimard, has lent a hand, and published a book on the future of Deyrolle for 15€, if that is more in your budget.

Ile Seguin

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One hundred years ago, Ile Seguin, an island in the Seine just outside Paris, was quiet and verdant. In the late 1920s, Renault built a car manufacturing plant on the site, where over 30,000 workers were employed.

Until 1992, the factory was in full production, with a barge of 500 newly-minted Renaults departing twice daily from the island. After the factory closed down, a plan was in the works to create a museum to display the vast art collection of billionaire financier François Pinault. Pinault abandoned the project in 2005, citing bureaucratic difficulties, and moved his art collection to Venice.

Then other projects were in the works, including an artists' residence, a four-star hotel, the headquarters for the CNRS and France's National Cancer Institute, a campus for the American University of Paris. Now caught in political crossfire, the fate of the island is still up in the air. It seems as though the now-desolate island is like a child caught in a bitter and drawn-out custody battle: the one who suffers is the child. Will it be a sculpture garden? A battlestar galactica superbuilding dominating the riverfront? Only the politicians know for sure.

To see a slide show of the old factory in production, click here. Now there is virtually nothing on the languishing island but bare earth. Tabula rasa.


"Ile Seguin, derniers éclats," is a superb exhibit of photographs of the Renault factory before and during demolition that has just opened at the Galerie Christian Arnoux. Hubert Fanthomme, a photographer for Paris-Match, was one of two reporters allowed on the site to photograph the final days of the factory building over a three-year period. The photos are poignant still-lifes that tell a rich tale. A deeply detailed and evocative expression of faded industrial architecture.




Ile Seguin, derniers éclats
May 22 - June 29
Galerie Christian Arnoux
42, rue de Seine
75006 Paris
01 56 24 31 37

Versailles

I had lunch on a sunny terrace at the home of a new friend who lives in Versailles, not far from the Château. Versailles: the very name conjures up gilt moldings and grandiosity. Before I got there, I expected a frilly, fussy, stuffy house, kind of Louis-something. Was I in for a surprise.

The side street was narrow and inconspicuous. Except for the fact that there was hardly any room to park, it could have been in a village in Normandy. Entering the outer cobblestone courtyard, I already began to swoon.

The terrasse was picture perfect.

The garden made me long for my old garden in the States. Since I've been an urban dweller, I've persuaded myself that my garden had mostly been a chore; I haven't missed the weeding and composting. Right?

And then this. I think I want a garden in my future. With a humble stone fountain at the end, like this, pleasing the eye and ear.

But, mostly,

I want a bathroom with a crystal chandelier.

Sabrina

Paris isn't for changing planes. It's for changing your outlook! For throwing open the windows and letting in... letting in la vie en rose.

This memorable line is from one of my favorite movies of all time, a movie whose transformed heroine made me believe in the transformative powers of Paris, very early on in my life. Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Of course it's a 1950's Hollywood fairy tale, but there are elements about Paris that director Billy Wilder nailed perfectly.

Sabrina, a chauffeur's daughter, has gone to Paris to learn to cook, and to forget about an impossible relationship -- her crush on the wealthy playboy son of her father's employers, played by the dashing William Holden.



The wise cooking instructor tells her he can tell she is in love.

"A woman happily in love, she burns ze souffle. A woman unhappily in love, she forgets to turn on ze oven."

After two years in Paris, Sabrina is indeed transformed. She has found a new recipe ... for life. In her letter home she writes,

"It is late at night and someone across the way is playing La Vie en rose. It is the French way of saying 'I am looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses.' It says everything I feel. I have learned so many things, Father. Not just how to make vichyssoise or calf's head with sauce vinaigrette, but a much more important recipe. I have learned how to live, how to be in the world and of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never, never again run away from life, or from love, either."



Well, we'll all just have to run out and rent the DVD to watch the full Sabrina. I hardly need to, since I almost know it by heart.

My parting line, another favorite piece of advice (except the umbrella), is Audrey Hepburn saying to Humphrey Bogart, the stodgy businessman workaholic brother,

"We can't have you walking up the Champs Elysées looking like a tourist undertaker! And another thing, never a briefcase in Paris and never an umbrella. There's a law!"

Carrie Bradshaw en francais

Whodathunkit. Sarah Jessica Parker speaks French! Well, at least 10 words.

"Bonjour, je vous aime, enchantée, merci, merci, merci, merci, merci!"


La belle SJP was in Paree at the Sephora on the Champs Elysées to launch her new perfume, Covet.

The throng of fans was not disappointed, apparently.





Watch the video here.

Love Me, Love My Blog

One of the charming thrills of living in Paris is occasionally rubbing elbows with -- and even getting to know well -- people who are in the upper echelons of the literary, journalistic, artistic, diplomatic or business worlds. You get accustomed to it -- at a sought-after gathering there's usually quite a mélange of guests. One person who was interviewed in the New York Times or the Economist the previous week, for example, and another who wrote the article. And then there's me. And a pale guy still hanging on the social coattails of his late mother's international fame. And a blonde who announces she can't stay at the party because she has to catch a plane to Cannes. That's just the day-to-day world in Paris. The mighty and the lowly, tossed together like a macédoine at any given social function.

Yes, the lowly -- such as the humble bloggers. Not the famous Paris blogger-authors like Clotilde or Petite or David. Just random bloggers like me who are having fun sharing their version of Paris with the gullible dozen or so readers who actually believe that I live here. (I'm really writing Polly-Vous Français from my garage office in the suburbs of Spokane.)

Ha-ha, naturellement, I'm kidding. But really. Being a blogger in Paris. It's often hard to get taken seriously in this city of people who wield their impressive talents and get paid for it.

Not enough of a self-promoter, I don't pimp my blog in casual conversation much, but sometimes I do get asked about it.

Typical scenario. I am at a large weekday conference-soirée milling around with friends and acquaintances. "How's the blogging going, Polly?" asks one pal, with the same ever-so-slight pause after the word blogging, the same intonation, as if he had asked "How are you enjoying clown school?" When American friends in Paris ask "How's the blog?" there is often a suppressed smirk accompanied by a benevolent closed-mouthed smile and a bemused twinkle in the eye. Oh, yes, a blog. They gleefully mime the twittering of fingers over a keyboard when they say it. I want to reply coquettishly, "Goodness me, why are you asking -- don't you read my column faithfully, mon cher?"

But gosh darn, no, I don't say that. I'm so eager to please. I just chirp, "It's great!" with my usual perky all-American smile, and then I spew out some fictional weekly statistic to prove how respectable I am. Actually, this blog does have about 3,500 individual hits per week, about 5,000 page loads. Those numbers never fail to either a) impress or b) make people want to hook me up to the nearest polygraph machine. "On your blog?" they ask incredulously. Well, sure. Of course, I don't reveal that 25% of my readers are Boomers reading my post on Morticia and Gomez, and another 25% are Estonians googling for pictures of French babes in lingerie.

Then there are chums who have the opposite reaction: embarrassed, they say nothing about my blog, pretending it doesn't exist. It's as if they don't want to have been caught reading it, as if knowing what I have written on my blog is tantamount to sneaking a peek at my intimate diary.

Don't worry, folks, I yearn to say. It's published on the World Wide Web, over 1.3 billion internauts served daily there. So go ahead, it's okay to read it. More than okay -- encouraged, actually. Please pass it on. Tell your friends about my blog. Especially any publisher friends looking to find the hidden talent in me and sign a six-figure book deal.

And, blessedly, there are the kindhearted journalists or editors who occasionally express admiration, real or pretend. "Oh, you write Polly-Vous Français? Love the blog!" It's happened -- exactly twice, which isn't quite putting me on the superhighway to a Pullitzer. Sure they love blogs. Blogs are, of course, an excellent source of initial field research for writers at many august dailies and glossies. A recent statistic claims that about 70% of all journalists skim blogs for information and timely topics. I don't mind doing the legwork for them for free, for the most part. It doesn't pay the rent, but, heck, I'm flattered whenever a story or idea of mine gets borrowed and rewritten and put into print... usually. Don't any of these print publications want to hire an in-house blogger? I'm available!

Ah, blogging in Paris. No fame, no glory, no income. Quand même, I love it. I'm accustomed to the reactions or lack thereof at parties. So these days I don't mind it when a charming rascal mimics that keyboard-typing gesture when mentioning my blog. It's kind of sweet.

But if ever -- ever -- some fellow dares to ask about my "blog" while using his fingers in little-rabbit-Foo-Foo "air quotation marks," I hope I'm wearing my pointiest stilettos.

There goes education

I just heard the most incredible news. So incredible that I didn't believe it until I came home and researched it and found out it's true.

The College Board, administrator of AP exams, SATs, and all the other (supposedly) important barometers of high-school ability for college placement, has made a decision to cancel the Advanced Placement exam in French Literature, effective in 2009.

As a lifelong student of French literature, knowing how much I learned from studying not just the language but also the literature, I am not only outraged but totally depressed at the political dumbing-down of American education, by people who ought to know better.

Please join me in writing the College Board to protest this stupid decision, which they claim is final. And pass the word along to all your Francophile friends.

Please send letters to:

Gaston Caperton

President

The College Board

45 Columbus Avenue

New York, NY 10023-6992

email: gcaperton@collegeboard.org

and

Lester Monts

University of Michigan

503 Thompson Street

Room 3084 Fleming Building

Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1340

email: lmonts@umich.edu

Understanding French Body Language

Glancing up at a sizable group gathered on a fifth-floor balcony in the 8e arrondissement the other day, I mumbled to myself, "Il y a du monde au balcon." Then I laughed, remembering what that phrase means. Then came the flashback. To a black-and-white photo in a book, of a man in a turtleneck, miming the phrase il y a du monde au balcon to indicate seeing a large-breasted woman.

The book is called Beaux Gestes, and it is the Rosetta stone for deciphering French body language. Gallic puffing-out of cheeks or the finger-pulling-the-lower-eyelid got you confused? You'll find the answers in Beaux Gestes. An entertaining, witty, loving look at French gestures by probably the most avid American Francophile of all time, the late Laurence Wylie. The online version of Beaux Gestes and an excellent biography of Professor Wylie are found at an informative website called FranceInfo US.

I first discovered Professor Wylie's work when I read A Village in the Vaucluse, the tale of Wylie's family life when he was a teacher in Rousillon in the early 1950s. It was a tremendous hit with Francophiles well before Peter Mayle ever dreamed of writing A Year In Provence. (If you read both A Village in the Vaucluse and Mayle's books, you'll see the differences in their approaches. Professor Wylie was a witty and eloquent esteemed Harvard social anthropologist, chair of the Department of French Civilization. Mayle's background was as an astute advertising exec.) I loved A Year in Provence, though in parts I found it a bit condescending to the villageois. Mostly I wished that Professor Wylie's books could have had the same best-seller accolades. They deserved it.

Lucky me to have been a French major: Beaux Gestes was required reading for a French civilization course. Some of us have to do the hard work!

Shooting Paris

Not a day goes without my thinking that Paris looks like a movie set. Every setting -- street, courtyard, bridge, café -- could be a backdrop for a film.

And apparently, it is. Filming is going on all over Paris.

In my early days here, I was awestruck one afternoon seeing the film crews in Montmartre shooting La Môme. "Ooh," I thought. "Maybe I'll see La Môme some day and say proudly, 'I saw that being filmed.'"

Well, I used to be wowed by manifs, too, and now they're just a ho-hum daily occurrence. (The first time I saw a Paris street demonstration, I was inside a store on rue de Rennes. I pointed to the crowds marching by and exclaimed excitedly to the shop owner, "Look, look, it's a manif!" I cringe with embarrassment now, thinking how idiotic that statement must have seemed to a Parisian.)

I don't mean to sound blasé, but it's starting to feel the same way with movies being filmed on location here. This morning at the bus stop bright and early, I saw camera crews setting up light tents and tripods to film inside the boulangerie across from the St. Francois Xavier métro station. The street was lined with trucks and the stars' trailers. I realized how my attitude has changed since the La Môme filming. I just thought, "Oh, yeah, another movie set."

As I rode by on the bus, I saw Jean Rochefort (I think) chatting with some friends outside his trailer.

My reaction?

He must be the only French movie star who isn't in Cannes right now.

Yes, it is.

Photo taken here.

French Magazines Available Online

When I was in the U.S. and longing to be in France instead, I used to throw myself a little pity party and blow a wad of cash on my favorite French magazines. I'd settle down with a glass of Sancerre and pretend I was on vacation in France, leafing through the pretty publications, savoring every article, every image. But it wasn't always easy to find the magazines I craved.

Now Relay.fr has a new service whereby you can download an unlimited number of French magazines for €17,90 per month (approximately $28 at today's exchange rate). In an effort to save the planet and cut down on paper consumption, this service is not only a boon to Mother Nature, but also a godsend to far-flung would-be readers who can't necessarily grab the latest copy of Paris Match, Le Nouvel Observateur, Elle, Cðte Ouest, and so forth at their local newsstand. If you prefer to give the subscription a trial first, you can subscribe to four magazines for one month for €9,90 (about $15.50). The subscription site, for now, is only in French, but I hope that in time and with enough demand there will be an English-language version.

In addition, from each €17,90 received, Relay will donate one euro to the World Wildlife Fund to protect the forests. Of course downloading is not the same as holding the colorful glossies in your hands, but I always collected way too many stacks of magazines anyway.

Relay is a mostly known as a magazine kiosque -- a familiar sight to all travelers in France. You find Relay in train stations and airports, chockablock full of all varieties of publications, books, and on-the-go nibblies.

Soiree with the Authors

There are American writers who write about Paris. There are Parisian writers who write about America. There are writers who have simply been inspired by Paris. The list of award-winning authors falling into all these categories is long and impressive.

So it is wild -- almost unfathomable to me -- to imagine having dinner with about ten of them in one night. But in less than two weeks, on May 27th, that's just what I'm going to do.

At its annual fundraiser, the American Library in Paris invites a renowned author to speak. This year, the all-hailed Prince of Paris, none other than Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon, will return to Paris to be the featured guest speaker. But the organizers of the Gala came up with a 'novel' spin on the always sparkling event: this year they have also invited a group of literary luminaries to create an unprecedented event in recent Paris literary history. It is a Francophile bibliophile's dream come true.

Warning: name dropping ahead!

In addition to the hallowed Mr. Gopnik as honored guest, also in attendance at the soirée will be authors Diane Johnson, C.K. Williams, Jake Lamar, Alan Riding, John Baxter, Alice Kaplan, Lily Tuck, and the doyenne of American literary Paris, Mavis Gallant. And, none other than BHL himself, Bernard-Henri Lévy and his luminous wife Arielle Dombasle.

I admit, I'm sometimes tongue-tied when around famous people. So I'm nervous about the nature of idle chit-chat or intense conversations with these acclaimed authors as we swill our champagne or tuck into our four-course dinners. Gushing "I loved your book" is such a -- cliché. To avoid the brainless banalities, I'm trying to think up a few 'impromptu' conversation topics.

Any ideas? Please chime in! If you have a question you'd like me to ask, let me know, because I'm spending the whole evening with these glitterati, from hors d'oeuvres to après-diner chocolates. Now is your chance, so please send me any questions you'd like to ask these literary greats. I'll report back on all the answers, I promise! And photos, too.

But, wait! Are you jealous? No need to be. Here's the good news: you can come, too. If you're going to be in Paris on May 27, it's not too late to don your best evening attire and attend the dinner. I called the American Library today, and the staff said that they can actually take reservations -- if fully paid -- through next Tuesday, May 20. They are expecting an intimate, sold-out crowd of about 200 for cocktails and dinner at the elegant and private Cercle de l'Union Interalliée on the Faubourg St. Honoré.

It is a fundraiser, of course, so the price for a swish evening with the authors is €300 per person, and all proceeds benefit this most venerable of American non-profits in Paris. Call me star-struck, but I like to think of it this way: 300€ divided by 10 authors equals about 30€ each. In my book, that's mere peanuts for spending an evening in the company of so many fascinating people you might never have the chance to have meaningful conversation with otherwise.

And companies such as Air France, Chanel, the International Herald Tribune and the fabulous Hotel Pont Royal -- the literary hotel of Paris -- all think it's a cause worthy of their support.

Who am I to say no? But ... what am I going to wear?

For more information, contact gala@americanlibraryinparis.org 01 53 59 12 67

Les Parisiennes

Tonight was the preview of the exhibit "Les Parisiennes," a retrospective of works by Edmond Kiraz at the Musée Carnavalet. These perky Parisian Barbie Dolls so dear to the artist's twinkling eye are shown in stylish skimpy outfits in amusing vignettes, doing what some Parisiennes do best: sipping coffee, shopping, bicycling, suffering through a boring dinner with maman and papa. Checking out the guys. And carrying weightless shopping bags, pocketbooks and birdcages: lightweight is a key theme.

It's a fun exhibit, frivolous and frothy as the frill on the lingerie of the subjects. As sweet and lo-cal as Candarel (the French version of Splenda), the ads of which are also on display. Ditto for the Kiraz Perrier ads and the lasses depicted therein -- effervescent and bubbly.

Many of the original gouaches have witty captions underneath (in French). A classic in any country: "My closet is overflowing and I don't have a thing to wear. Try explaining that to a man."

But my favorite quintessentially parisienne of the cute, silly captions was a young beauty saying hastily to a perfume-store sales clerk: "Don't bother wrapping it; it's for seducing someone right away." Looking beyond the store window in the painting, you see a policeman ticketing the young mademoiselle's car.

Of course one of the joys is of visiting this exhibit is simply being at the Musée Carnavalet itself -- the museum of the city of Paris. The Kiraz retrospective is certainly worth a detour, if only for tasting a fluffy slice of recent contemporary culture. The Parisiennes in this exhibit are not exactly reading Nietzsche or discussing globalization or analyzing Proust. So the girls who populate Kiraz's world, while appealing in their own right, really only represent one small sliver -- albeit a delicious sliver -- of the Parisienne population. Hmmm. Maybe in that case they ought to change the title to "Des Parisiennes."

Les Parisiennes de Kiraz
May 14 - September 21, 2008
Musée Carnavalet
23 rue de Sevigné
75003 Paris
Tuesdays through Sundays, 10 am to 6 pm
€5/€3,50/€2,50

Velib by the Numbers

The City of Paris has just conducted a customer satisfaction survey about the Velib bicycle program. Here are some of the results:

94% are satisfied with the service
97% would recommend it to a friend

20 million Velib rentals to date (since the program began last July)

190,000 subscribers

18 minutes average length of use

39% of Velib users are between 25 and 35 years old
33% of the users come from the suburbs

58% of long-term subscribers are men
65% of short-term subscribers are women

19% of riders say they have used a Velib for a trip that they wouldn't have taken if Velib weren't available.

61% of long-term subscribers use Velib to commute to school or work.

96% say it gives a positive image of Paris
94% say it makes Paris more pleasant

88% say it's good for their health

No official mention of Velib stations' reputation for being good for your love life --a great place to pick up a potential date.

Read more here.

Wine. Teeth. Whatever.

Some days I just notice things more than others. Here was a small shop that I pass several times a day on rue de Sevres in the 6e arrondissement. Clickity-clack going down the street, minding my own business, and then I had one of those gasp-out-loud-clamp-my-hand-over-mouth moments. After continuing along, startled, on the sidewalk for ten more paces, I did a volte-face and returned to take a photo.

This is a shop, not uncommon in Paris, that purchases jewelry and gold from individuals. Discretion guaranteed. Immediate payment. Watches, lingots, diamonds, coins, andandand... dental gold?

I saw this and immediately felt a throbbing, possessive ache in my molars. No, no -- not my crowns! More reason to fear the dentist.

And then thanks to a tip from my pal Going Like Sixty, here's a fascinating and timely companion article by Geraldine Baum on the Credit Municipal de Paris -- the Fort Knox of all pawn shops, euphemistically referred to as "chez ma tante."

Apparently you can pawn anything at the Credit Municipal -- even bottles of wine.

Mother's Day

When May rolls around the urge to garden is strong. Apartment-dwelling and gardening aren't always a match made in heaven, but I do what I can.

Usually if I'm potting a plant (because the previous specimen died from severe travel neglect) I spread out newspapers and have a go at it. But I've been too assiduous about daily recycling, so I found myself sans papiers and avec a mess of flowers to plant as my Mother's Day treat to myself. The sign at the fleuriste on the quai de la Megisserie said "les geraniums -- le roi du balcon!" I just needed something perky that wouldn't die over the summer. I admit to agonizing a long time over the proper hue of salmon-pink to complement the kitchen.

After an initial attempt at taming the potting-soil monster and keeping my fingernails clean working in the cramped sink space, I threw in the towel and let the dirt fly.

I decided to put these geraniums on top of my garde-manger that's in a back air well. The tin roof of the garde manger slants to allow rainwater to drain off. Uh-oh. The planters looked as though they might slide off.

Necessity is the Mother of invention, and not just on Mother's Day. Mon astuce: old wine corks, sliced to perfection, are very handy for remedying the slant and keeping the window box level.

And voilà! Now when in the kitchen I can focus on the peachy geraniums in the window instead of the streaks on the stuccoed wall behind, which look like a blonde with her mascara running.
Happy Mother's Day to everyone who's celebrating it today, and especially to my Mom, who has recently begun to experience the joys of apartment life herself.

I'll plant some more window boxes in two weeks, when France celebrates Mother's Day. I'm contemplating morning glories.

A visit to St. Francois Xavier

One of the minor perils of the routine of daily life anywhere on the planet is taking your surroundings for granted. Yes, even in Paris.

And one of the easiest sights to ignore is the spot where you begin and end a day's journey. When you're embarking on your travels, your mind is focused on reaching your destination (late again!). And on the return trip thoughts turn to getting home and slipping into -- comfortable shoes.

The other day I went to my neighborhood metro stop, St. Francois Xavier. It was the destination, not the starting point. And I appreciated it with new eyes.

Click on the photo below to enlarge it. Take a peek at this one glimpse, what you see upon exiting the metro station stairs. How many visual clues saying "I'm in Paris" are there in just one view?

1. The curved bench & cobblestones

2. The historic plaque

3. The garden hoops

4. The graffiti

5. The walk sign

6. The Hotel des Invalides (do you see it peeking out to the left of the building in the foreground?)

7. The yellow mailboxes

8. The newsstand

9. Monceau Fleurs (open 7j/7, seven days a week)

10. The traffic lights

And of course the building's architecture itself. And this is just the metro entrance! Then cross the boulvevard des Invalides to another park, le Parc Pierre de Gaulle.

Tidily raked gravel. Outdoor ping-pong tables. I've never played ping-pong next to a flowering shrub before. I purchased some paddles and day-glo outdoor ping-pong balls. If anyone wants to challenge me to a game, I'm ready. I've never had very good hand-eye coordination, so I actually stink at playing ping-pong. I don't care if I lose. I love the idea.

"Ping-Pong in Paris." Has a nice ring to it.

The park also has the requisite green benches in sun and shade and playground equipment at the far end. One Sunday morning in this park I saw a young Miss Clavel in jeans and boots (who'd have thought she was so hip without her habit?) accompanied by twelve little girls in two straight lines. I'm not making this up! And the petite filles were sporting broad-brimmed beribboned hats, prim blouses with peter-pan collars and long blue pinafore uniforms just like Madeline, too. I kept rubbing my eyes, convinced I hadn't woken up yet. Miss Clavel and the girls tossed a ball in a circle; the girls were allowed to toss their chapeaux gaily in the air once or twice for recreation, then skipped and clapped happily around. The whole scene was unbelievably storybook-perfect. Except for Miss Clavel's habit, of course.

Paris Apartment Living

Today as I left my apartment, I was confronted with this missive, taped prominently to the glass door of the vestibule of the building. It was next to the announcement for the annual Reunion du Syndic -- basically a co-op or condo-owners' meeting -- next week, to which I'm not invited, as a mere locataire (renter) not a proprietaire (owner).

Translation:

"Hello! Good Evening!

A CURIOUS THING SINCE THE NICE WARM WEATHER HAS ARRIVED

We have a delicious noise of a motor blowing and a cool draft, coming from the chimney conduit of our living room, accompanied by falling soot and dust....

We have deduced that it is from an air conditioner connected into our chimney conduit...

This is very unpleasant and probably not within the art or science of the laws of installation...

What should we do?

THANK YOU to those who might feel a little bit concerned, and who might contact us, to recognize and stop the problem.

The XX Family"

Yankee-Protestant-guilt-ridden that I am, I immediately worried that they were referring to me, the token American -- Lord knows why, since I don't even own an air conditioner.

Then I took a deep breath and assumed my newly-acquired Gallic shrug -- and headed out to enjoy the day.

I've since decided that the "Gallic shrug" must be the original version of "WTF."

Chimneys of Paris

Walking in the Chaillot quartier earlier this week, I was amazed by the design made by these chimney flues. Ramonage -- sweeping of the chimney -- is a requirement for having apartment insurance. The ramoneurs sure have their work cut out for them.

But it reminded me of a story told to me by a friend who lives not far from the Assemblée Nationale -- a very swish neighborhood of Paris. A wealthy man who lives on the top floor in the building across the street from her has purchased all the roof chimneys of the residents of his building. No mean feat, and for a princely sum, to be sure. He will cap off the chimneys and install a rooftop garden, so in vogue in Paris these days.

Plus c'est la meme chose...

My petit quiz for the day for non-Parisians -- what do the following names have in common: Marceau, Iéna, Kléber, Victor Hugo, Foch, Grande Armée, Carnot, Mac-Mahon, Wagram, Hoche, Friedland, Champs-Elysées?

Here's a hint. (Nice photo, n'est-ce pas? I'm rather proud of it.)

Answer: Yep, these are, clockwise, the twelve avenues that radiate from the Place de l'Etoile. After two years in Paris, I almost know them by heart -- in order, no less. Hmmm... next if I can memorize the names of the bridges of Paris, I'll be ready to win (or not lose too badly) the next nail-biting round of Trivial Pursuit Paris.

Today being a holiday, I decided to take an urban trek in this oh-so-familiar territory, and found myself walking in circles -- literally. I've long been intrigued by the Neoclassical buildings that ring the Arc de Triomphe, and the circular street behind them: rue de Tilsitt and rue Presbourg. For an aerial view, click here.

When they were designed in 1854 by Haussmann's architect, Hittorff, the mandate was to create twelve uniform hôtels particuliers (private homes) that would be an appropriate backdrop to Napoleon's majestic triumphal arch.

Evidently Hittorff did too good a job in the uniformity department -- Haussmann proclaimed the facades to be too ugly and too short, and ordered trees to be planted in front to obscure the view.

Today, each has its own personality. Some of the "backsides" of the buildings have been filled in or renovated, like this art nouveau entrance.

Mostly, however, I have been wondering about the urns perched on the Mansarded eaves of these buildings. Next time you're visitng the Arc de Triomphe, check them out.

Some urns have disappeared. But who got rid of them? Did they sell them to some architectural salvage company? Weren't those urns protected as architectural elements by historic preservation covenants? Were they ever planted with flowers, or were they always strictly ornamental? (I suspect the latter.) Ah, the mystery of the urns.

In any case, somewhere in the timeline of the past 150 years the uniformity seems to have been abandoned. Some of Hittorff's dozen buildings are now fancy corporate headquarters, and a few remain residential. You can't improve on real estate location-location-location than this address. And the view of the illuminated Arc de Triomphe from the windows is breathtaking at night.

To see how much change has taken place, compare some of the windows that used to be exactly the same, all on different buildings. Plus c'est la même chose, plus ça change?

.

Love a la francaise

Chapter One: Polly Platt's new book, Love à la française


I want to be among the first to proudly announce the upcoming publication of Polly Platt's new book, Love à la française. Here is the review from Amazon.com:

"In her best-selling books French or Foe? and Savoir Flair!, Polly Platt handed foreigners the keys to delighting in a visit to France and handling encounters with the French. In Love à la française, she delves into the intimate lives of Anglo-Saxons who actually lived the dream and moved to Paris -- for good, for better or worse -- as wives of French men. Why? To live in the city that celebrates women, where they could discover the meaning of being women, and being completely themselves, whoever they might turn out to be. But French men with their thousand-year experience in enchanting French women are not always in tune with Anglo-Saxons and vice versa. Why do some American women in Paris fail while others bloom and thrive? And how do happy transplants manage their success? After dozens of interviews and in-depth case studies, Polly Platt reveals the secrets of Love à la française."


Chapter Two: Why I am not reviewing the book myself.


About a dozen years ago, when I was working at The French Library in Boston, an author came to give a talk about her recent book, French or Foe? I was curious, not only from the title, but because her name was also Polly: Polly Platt. I sat in the back of the crowded room, spellbound. So many undecipherable French incidents from my past suddenly became clear to me as she explained la French attitude.

As I listened, the mystery of a lifetime of French misunderstandings that had left me perplexed, dumbfounded, frustrated, but determined, was being unraveled. Explained lovingly by an American in Paris who had figured it out. She was elegant, refined, and understood the French. I had a new heroine.


I introduced myself after her talk, starting with the "Polly" connection. As it turned out, we had some family friends in common. One thing led to another, and she kindly offered, "Do look me up if you ever come to Paris."


The next year, when on a mother-daughter jaunt to Paris with 10-year-old Miss Bee, I did in fact give Polly a call. She graciously invited us for tea, with the caveat that she had to do some errands in the neighborhood first. "Feel free to follow along," she encouraged. What an opportunity, to experience the famous Polly Platt in action, using her tried-and-true methods for getting along well with the French! I trailed along with her as she made her neighborhood rounds from shop to shop for errands. She asked the owner of the papeterie his advice for mailing a package. "Do you think it needs string?' she queried, whereupon the owner and all the customers in the shop weighed in with their opinions. I was awestruck. Here I was traipsing through Paris with the doyenne of French-American cross-cultural learning! An NPR crew had just interviewed her a month earlier doing the same drill: following Polly Platt's daily routine.


Later that afternoon, back at their apartment for tea, Polly's most wonderful husband Ande spent an hour and a half charming my daughter, making her feel as though she were a regal princess instead of an awkward pre-teen. We simply floated out of the apartment.

Polly and I had kept in touch vaguely over the years since then, but eventually I lost track of her address. Then when I made the move to Paris I sent her an email saying I hoped we could get together. Friendship rekindled, and it turned out we were neighbors. I was heartbroken to learn that wonderful Ande had recently died, but heartened to know that Polly was "bien entourée" with friends and family in France.

When she casually mentioned that she needed help with updating the next edition of Savoir Flair! I volunteered readily, mostly because I love to proofread and edit copy, and I was eager to help. But also because I knew she had often relied on dear Ande for his critical eye and editorial input. As it turns out she was also in the middle of writing her next book, called Love à la française, a look at the joys and challenges experienced by American women married to French men. The next thing I knew we had agreed that I would help her edit that manuscript as well. And what a labor of "Love." I edited with fever and fervor through the penultimate drafts.


I know the book far too intimately to be objective. It is a delight and an eye-opener, though. Trust me.


Chapter Three: Love at your Doorstep

So, with utmost bias, admiration, and tender affection, I heartily recommend that men and women alike snatch a copy of Love à la française when it hits the bookstore shelves on July 1. There is so much to discover between its covers about love, relationships, and French women, in Polly Platt's beloved France.

Charm School

I was in the Fnac looking for a DVD, and I noticed a category for one type of movie: Charme.

What kind of film is a "Charme?" I wondered. Sounds so beguiling and sweet.

Sometimes I'm so naive.

Upon closer inspection it was clear that these "charming" productions are the steamy X-rated variety. Puts a new twist to the meaning of "lucky."




I loved the euphemism, but I decided to move right along to another aisle.

I researched and found the vocab for other categories of films from my neighborhood video store. I can't figure out the difference between "humour" and "comédie." And "emotion" films are, ah, stories of true (or false) love.

Action/Aventure
Court-Metrage
Dessins animes/Famille
Comédie
Documentaire
Emotion
Fantastique/SF
Grands Classiques
Guerre
Horreur
Humour
Musique
Série TV
Sport
Theatre
Thriller/Policier
Western
Walt Disney

Reality

I woke up this morning wondering what I was going to wear to the wedding. A hat ...a very elegant outfit. It was going to be an important French wedding: my mother was marrying François Mitterand.

Oh, wait.

He's been dead for 12 years. And at 84, Mom is still quite a looker; and her French is pretty good. But I don't think they ever met. Zut, zut zut! For a brief sleepy moment I had been looking forward to dropping by the Elysée for daughterly visits.

And the only conclusion I could draw from that zany dream was that it was time for a major Nespresso-au-lait fix and dealing with reality.

Here's today's version of reality:

Yikes!

Yes, while every other sane Parisian and visitor has been out enjoying the long-overdue splendid Spring weather, I've been camped out on my living room floor surrounded by paperasse. I have some important archaeological information mining to accomplish, a looming deadline, and could no longer ignore the unwieldy stack of empty dossiers on, under, and around my desk. So I'm retrieving, organizing, and color coding the miscellanea of My French and American Life.

A life-long subscriber to the pile method, I like using the fold-over colored paper instead of manila folders, though I keep one hanging file. I guess that's part of what I like about France: stacking files horizontally is standard practice the offices I've visited. I feel organizationally so at home. So redeemed.

And today, unlike the rest of the folks who've been out soaking up those warm UV rays, no sunburned cheeks for this Sunday-stay-at-home workhorse (or maybe workpony).

Besides, now my desk is clutter-free:


Now back to reality.

Is it a drag to drague?

Do French men still have the knack? According to OnlyLady.fr, many French men claim that they don't know how to draguer les femmes any more. (Draguer means more than "pick up," not quite flirt or seduce or shmooze: kind of a blend à la française of all of those.)

The OnlyLady team hit the streets of Paris to ask men the burning question.


L'homme sait-il draguer ?

OnlyLady is a French-language blog by a bunch of bright and witty beauties who scour the City for the latest in fashion, well-being, high tech, culture and more.

The men interviewed in the video give hints on what works and, alas, what doesn't.

May 1968

May 3, 1968 was the beginning of the student demonstrations in France, following the closing of the campus at Nanterre.

I was just a carefree American kid at the time, unaware of the political and social upheaval in France. But later, as a French major in college, I read a gripping account of "les événements de mai soixante-huit" in a book whose author and title I have forgotten. With a plethora of information appearing this spring in the news and on the web, trying to find that book has been an exercise in frustration. Anyone who can help me?

In any case, the 40th anniversary has provoked a dizzying array of retrospectives, commemorative books, debates and exhibits.

The Conseil Regional de l'Ile de France is displaying a series of billboard-sized photographs of "Mai 68" on the façade of the building, across from the St. Francois Xavier metro station.

Here is a selection that I photographed.

Godard and Aragon

Barricade in the Quartier Latin

Strike in Asniere

"We're fed up" -- a worker on strike

Clamoring for the 40-hour work week and four weeks' paid vacation

Protest

Then after laboriously editing my photos, I found out that they are all viewable on the website of the Conseil Regional de l'Ile de France.

For a different view (highlighting the violence and destruction, fewer social and political reform images), check the New York Times slide show.

The posters from the era are striking as well.

Saint Nobody

It was a blustery Sunday morning and I kept out of the wind waiting on the bench at the bus stop. Across the boulevard des Invalides, windswept parishioners were filing into the doorway of St. François Xavier. Directly across the street from me, a minuscule old lady dressed in her Sunday best clung to the post at the corner, terrified to cross the quiet side street -- apparently fearing that she would fall down or get knocked over by the powerful gusts.

Lumbering slowly down the broad sidewalk nearby were a middle-aged man in a Barbour jacket and his ancient, arthritic yellow lab. I winced at the poor beast's painful hobbling: it was barely able to lift a leg when the smell was right. Monsieur eventually looked ahead of him and, noticing the lady frozen with fear at the curb, he tugged the leash and slowly ambled over to rescue la vieille dame. Gallantly, he offered her his elbow.

Oh, I was so moved. I felt a lump rising in my throat, tears almost welling up in my eyes as I observed the quirky trio inching their way across to the next sidewalk. A Hallmark moment, a warm and fuzzy silent commercial -- it lacked only violins.

The endearing blog post was already writing itself.

The threesome edged through the iron gates of St. François Xavier and tottered painstakingly up the stone steps. I held my breath for the sweet and tender finale, the adieu as they reached the doors of the church.

I couldn't hear their conversation, of course. But suddenly I saw the man thrust the palms of both hands skyward with contempt, shaking his head violently at the old lady, pounding his index finger at his chest. He spun around and stormed down the stairs, dragging the dog behind him like a laundry bag, bumpa-bumpa-bump down the hard steps.

My bus arrived -- the damned deus ex machina!

I hopped on board, dazed and confused.

Busy at l'Hotel de Ville

Probably one of the most famous photos of Paris is Robert Doisneau's "Baiser de l'Hôtel de Ville" (Kiss at City Hall).

Crossing the plaza (le parvis) of the Hôtel de Ville the other day, I noticed that for once it had the same look of the Doisneau photograph. Most of the time there are igloos or skating rinks or volleyball beaches covering the square.



I prefer the plaza uncluttered like this.

I don't think this couple was about to make out or anything. I could have asked them to embrace for the camera, I guess.


Nah.