Daddy Doll Under the Bed

I rarely exit the American Library in Paris without a few more books under my arm. Not borrowed books, but bargain books from the 1€ for-sale shelves. Last week I picked up a copy of Erma Bombeck's collected columns. I realized, as I re-read her work, that in some ways her writing was a precursor to blogging.



In honor of Fathers' Day, in remembrance of all dads, I offer Erma Bombeck's "Daddy Doll Under the Bed."



When I was a little kid, a father was like the light in the refrigerator. Every house had one, but no one really knew what either of them did once the door was shut.

My dad left the house every morning and always seemed glad to see everyone at night.

He opened the jar of pickles when no one else could.

He was the only one in the house who wasn't afraid to go in the basement by himself.

He cut himself shaving, but no one kissed it or got excited about it. It was understood whenever it rained, he got the car and brought it around to the door. When anyone was sick, he went out to get the prescription filled.

He kept busy enough. He set mousetraps. He cut back the roses so the thorns wouldn't clip you when you came to the front door. He oiled my skates, and they went faster. When I got my bike, he ran alongside me for at least a thousand miles until I got the hang of it.

He signed all my report cards. He put me to bed early. He took a lot of pictures, but was never in them. He tightened up mother's sagging clothesline every week or so.

I was afraid of everyone else's father, but not my own. Once I made him tea. It was only sugar water, but he sat on a small chair and said it was delicious. He looked very uncomfortable.

Once I went fishing with him in a rowboat. I threw huge rocks in the water, and he threatened to throw me overboard. I wasn't sure he wouldn't, so I looked him in the eye. I finally decided he was bluffing and threw in one more. He was a bad poker player.

Whenever I played house, the mother doll had a lot to do. I never knew what to do with the daddy doll, so I had him say "I'm going off to work now" and threw him under the bed.

When I was nine years old, my father didn't get up one morning to go to work. He went to the hospital and died the next day.

There were a lot of people in the house who brought all kinds of good food and cakes. We never had so much company before.

I went to my room and felt under the bed for the father doll. When I found him, I dusted him off and put him on my bed.

He never did anything. I didn't know his leaving would hurt so much.

I still don't know why.

By Erma Bombeck, June 21, 1981

rue Victor Galland

To me, no matter where I live, whether in France or in the US, I find that it replenishes the soul to get out of the neighborhood from time to time. Explore unknown territory. Take a different route, both physically and mentally.

My peregrinations have lately been drawing me to the 14e and 15e arrondissements, on the edges of Paris intramuros.

When I discovered rue Victor Galland, I felt as though the sharp edges of Paris had vanished. Something joyful and willfully carefree about the painted houses struck a chord.

"I'd like to know these people," I thought.

Pigeon Stories

1. A Pigeon Apology

I have to apologize. I hereby humbly beg forgiveness from all you pleasant pigeons in the world. I recently stated that I hate pigeons. It was a cruel and unkind remark.

I do not hate all pigeons. In fact, I despise and wish to perform avicide on only one species of pigeon: rock pigeons, the flying rats, the scourge of cities, known in France as les bisets. (Way too nice a name for those nasty beasts.)

How have I reached this revelation, this distinction? A little bird told me.

Actually, a pair of rather large birds who have been frequenting my apartment clued me in. Two charming pigeons, if that's not an oxymoron. These lovey-doves are not the charcoal-grey flying vermin type, but in fact are wood pigeons, les pigeons ramiers. If you click here you can learn more about them, and especially, you can hear their roucoulement, which is my morning gentle wake-up call from their perch on the building's chimney. It pipes straight into my bedroom fireplace.

The first morning a few months ago when one sat on my ledge, I shooed it away without looking. Damn pigeons! I was muttering. I regretted my meanness as I saw it fly away with its partner, who had been down in the courtyard searching for greenery. They were -- dare I say? -- wholesome-looking.

Monday morning it was back, eyeing my new morning glories. (Warning: here's where the story starts sounding like I'm turning into one of those kooky pigeon ladies. I'm not, I promise. Read on.) The pigeon flapped up to the ledge outside the living room window. Being my new ornithologically-aware self, instead of chasing it away I said "Oh, hi," kind of casually to the beauty, and we had a brief eyeball-to-eyeball sideways staring contest. S/he was plump and more like a partridge than one of those disgusting urban winged poop-machines. Finally the partner flew up from the courtyard and the duo flapped away with a distinctive whirring sound.

This is where it gets strange. On the kitchen side of my apartment is an air well protected by bird netting. After the morning pause with my Columba palumbus pal, I'd gone back to my writing. About twenty minutes later I heard the same whirring sound from the opposite side of the building. There was the same wood pigeon, trying to wedge through the net to get to my apartment. And I swear to god, the pigeon was staring at me from the neighboring roof, imploring.

2. The Pigeon Man

Last week I was strolling down my street with my friend Maria. A stooping old guy in a faded brown suit was forging down the sidewalk in our direction. Out of nowhere, out of everywhere, hundreds of ratty pigeons began swarming toward him. The sky was blackened with pigeons swooping down from every rooftop in the neighborhood, heading right for him. And us.

Folks, I only had to see The Birds once in my life, when I was ten, and most of that I watched between my fingers. That was enough. I have zero desire to play the role of Tippi Hedren. This pigeon-shrouded event was a totally creepy city moment. The Pigeon Man must appear every day at the same spot to feed them, because all those flying stinkpots knew exactly who he was, and they wanted to be first in line for the soup kitchen. Bread line. Whatever.

I couldn't duck away from him -- and them -- fast enough.

3. Homing Alone

When I was in my twenties I shared an apartment with three roommates in the top floors of a two-family house high on a hill outside Boston. One warm summer weekend I was Home Alone, which was eery after dark, but normally I would blare rock music and leave the lights on all night and watch Happy Movies on TV. And I was fine.

Until I heard a noise on the third floor.

Oh. My. God. My heart pounded. Edgar Allan Poe knew nothing about noises a heart could make compared to mine. I froze.

By the way, this was so long ago that it was even before cordless phones, much less cell phones. Reaching the wall phone in the kitchen to call for help would have meant moving from the sofa, no easy task when paralyzed with fear. Eventually, over the din of my cardiac timpani, I heard more clatter from upstairs. Cosmetics bottles knocking to the floor. Then, the unmistakable sound of wings flapping.

Oh, silly me, it was just a bird. Jeezus-H.-Christ. A Bird. At that point I would have preferred a burglar. My Tippi Hedren aversion kicked into overdrive with the adrenaline. What if the bird found its way downstairs? I knew I had to get it out of the apartment. Scared to have its claws caught in my flowing tresses, terrified to have it scratch at my eyes, disgusted at the thought of it pooping all over me, I got prepared for battle. One roommate's long galvanized rain slicker. Another roommate's ski goggles. My bouffant shower cap. Work gloves from the tool box. (It's such a pretty mental image of me, eh?) I inched up the stairs and flipped on the lights in the upstairs bedroom.

The damned terrified pigeon flew straight at me.

In my entire life, I have emitted only one bona fide, over-the-top blood curdling scream.

Over a pigeon.

Which is why, friends, I will never become one of those kooky pigeon ladies.

4. The Pigeon Stalker

Despite that history, here in Paris I was neverthless getting all tenderhearted about the wood pigeons who bill and coo on top of my chimney and visit my window ledge. They are the dignified, rarer breed. They are handsome. They are urbanely charming. They are imploring.

They are stalking me.

Do they think I am their mother?

They were back this morning. One of them was peeping into my apartment, watching me type. "We know whoo yooo are, we know where you live..." they are cooing suspiciously as they stare. No problem, for the most part, if the window is closed.

But then s/he decided to move in and snuggled into my lavender. Twice. The accomplice/lover looked on from the ledge below.

After scaring them away with my camera flash, I got out the pencil sharpener. There are now four pointy No.2 pencils poking up in the middle of the planter. I didn't mind a lower-ledge visit or two, but this is getting a little close for comfort.

Now I'm getting jittery Tippi-you-know-who syndrome again. What if I leave the window open for fresh air and the unthinkable happens?

I don't have a rain slicker or ski goggles in Paris.

Vendredi Treize

Tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth. Sounds prettier in French, of course. To my American ears, Vendredi Treize sounds as if it could be the name of a French movie starlet. Or a new perfume. Or both. "I always wear a dab of Vendredi Treize."

Vendredi treize isn't necessarily a portent of bad luck. Some folks think it's just the opposite, the way saying "merde" or "merde puissance 13" is actually for good luck, like "break a leg." Claude Lelouch named his three-masted yacht Vendredi 13. And there is a publishing company, Editions vendredi treize. Stumbling on their site was certainly a bit of luck for me.

It turns out that Editions vendredi treize publishes Urban Guides to Paris, including Balades en Bus, showing the best ways to see the sights of city on the RATP buses, my hands-down favorite pastime if not on foot.

Hmm. I had thought I was going to write that guide. Oh well. I guess I'll get out my Navigo and go go go.

To Have and to Hail

Today I am one happy, happy, happy, happy woman.

Cynics may scoff at how pathetically easy it is to make me happy. Romantics might say, "You have Paris, isn't that enough?"

Yes, in other ways, on other days, I might be a high-maintenance gal. And having Paris at my doorstep is certainly a blessing that brings endless joy.

But today, my friends, I am supremely happy. The price of this serendipitous elation was exactly twenty-nine euros.

I am the proud owner of my very own genuine Parisian Taxi rooftop sign.

I was riding the #94 bus to a meeting on boulevard Malesherbes when I spotted the small store. "Toutes Fournitures pour Taxis" said the shop sign. I bolted off the bus at the next stop and headed back down the street. Entering, I timidly asked the owner if I was allowed to purchase a rooftop sign if I wasn't a chauffeur de taxi.

"Mais bien sur!" he chortled. "You just can't buy the lighting system that goes with it."

The shop, Imagis Plus, is primarily where all taxi drivers go to get the auxiliary equipment for their taxis. Lights, signs, lots of street atlases, floor mats, and sundry manuals and roadside emergency kits.

The avuncular shop owner was the funniest and friendliest I've met in a long time, and he regaled me with lots of great customer stories.

I'm so excited about my heavy-duty plastic Taxi Parisien sign. I might make it into a lamp (there are already holes on the sides). Or maybe I'll wire it to the rear fender of my bike.

The shop owner didn't have a bag, so I carried the sign in my hand as I walked to the bus stop.

Cost of the sign: 29 euros.
Smile on the bus driver's face when I placed it on his dashboard: priceless.

Imagis Plus

60 boulevard Malesherbes

75008 Paris

01 43 87 63 73

imagisplus@wanadoo.fr

Ceci est juste un cadeau

Yesterday, spotted on rue Mazarin in the 6e.



The sign taped to the back fender of the creation


It says "Ceci est juste un cadeau. C'est du grand art. Bravo."

Saying 'hello' is optional?

When I made my first forays into apartment living in France, I used to have grocery store anxiety. Would I do all the right things, remember the steps to the French cash-register dance? Say "Bonjour, madame," then scurry to the end of the caisse to start filling my grocery bags. Wait to pay the cashier until I was mostly through loading the bags. (Otherwise, as soon as I'd paid up, the caissière would begin processing the next customer's items.) Then no matter what, saying "Au revoir, madame," and perhaps, "Bonne journée."

Now I've got the choreography figured out at Shopi or Monoprix or Carrefour. Then I return to the US, where the pas de deux is different. Last month when I was in the States I automatically started loading my groceries into the bags at the Piggly Wiggly, and the cashier looked insulted, as if I were implying she didn't know how to do her job. I quickly thrust my hands to my side and to avoid the misunderstanding. She filled the sacks -- didn't ask "paper or plastic," but did ask if I wanted a helper to take the bags to my car. Talk about culture shock.

We sometimes forget how much these day-to-day transactions are very much the fabric of daily life, wherever we are.

Here in France, a blogger has been chronicling her life at the cash register at a grand surface, a huge supermarket. Caissière No Futur is a blog in French by a former supermarket cashier, 28-year-old Anna Sam. Seven years ago she began working as a cassière to help support herself and pay for her studies. After a few years on the job, she began chronicling the life behind the cash register on her blog. I find it to be gripping sociological drama. She also encourages submissions of supermarket anecdotes from both cashiers' and customers' views in addition to publishing her own observations. Anna has become somewhat of a media celebrity, appearing on French television, and her book Les Tribulations d'une caissière was just released this week.

Intrigued about a fellow blogger in France, I contacted Anna to ask if I might write a little article for anglophone readers. I ventured, apologetically, that some of her seemingly "rude customers" might sometimes be well-intentioned Americans in France, who unwittingly neglect to say "Bonjour" and "Au revoir" at the cash register because it's not always done in US supermarkets.

"In the US, saying 'hello' is optional?" she wrote back, incredulous.

I wish I could translate her blog for everyone-- there are so many great stories, some wonderful eye-openers. I look forward to reading the book.

And I wonder if she has an American counterpart, who blogs about life at the Stop & Shop, or Winn-Dixie, or Kroger, or Wal-Mart.

Ahoy!

If you are vaguely lost while wandering through uncharted territory, there's nothing like a light house to help you get your bearings.

Even in Paris, it seems.

I embarked on an afternoon walk, sans map of Paris, determined to get lost. (No challenge for me in that department.) I love getting "lost" in Paris. The adventure of chucking the known and the safe forces you to open your eyes, gets you out of your routine. I did an excellent job of it. Totally clueless as to my GPS or other location.

And then, out of nowhere: Ahoy, there, mateys! Somewhere in the 15e arrondissement I spotted the lighthouse and the shipwreck, its tricolore waved by the sailor-stiff at the bow. The graffiti hinted reassuringly that I was indeed still on dry land. Sort of.

I had stumbled upon the Criée du Phare, a seafood emporium which apparently boasts the largest retail selection of fish in Paris, at the most tempting prices.

Being after lunchtime on Sunday, it was empty inside. So the congenial fishmongers gave me the royal treatment. "Bonjour, belle dame!" greeted a smiling scruffy guy with an impressive beard. One after another, and sometimes together with their buddies, they proudly described the seafood they were selling. "We have the best selection! The largest choice! You should see this place on Saturdays -- the crowds are incredible!" They were so earnest and convivial, and the fish smelled so sweet. A worker hosed down the ice every few minutes to keep it chilled and fresh.

"Just look at these live shrimp," said my bearded friend as he placed two beasts on the back of his hand. I reached out to touch them. "Watch out! They pinch!" he joked. He wasn't kidding.

"I've never seen a live shrimp like that before," I admitted. "Are they from France?"

The boys got a tad mournful.

"Ah, non, shrimps can still be found in France, in the Loire and maybe elsewhere, but no one is allowed to fish them," they chimed in. "These shrimp are from Turkey. Even les grenouilles -- ah, don't we all love les cuisses de grenouille -- come from elsewhere, around Armenia."

Wait. So French Frogs don't even come from here any more?

Now I do need to get my bearings. In any case, I'll be back to La Criée soon.

La Criée du Phare
69 rue de Castagnary
75015
01 45 31 15 00

Open seven days a week, mostly in the morning when fish are fresh. Call for other hours.

Weather Lady Forgets to take the Temperature

Le Grand Journal on Canal + is a great prime-time TV show, one of my favorites. A blend of entertainment and political interview and commentary. I usually like all of the regular panel. The ever-popular Louise Bourgoin, "Miss Meteo" is gorgeous, sexy and witty; her gags are sometimes fun, almost always wacky.

Until yesterday, when she made an utterly tasteless comment.

As often happens on the show, the cast gives thumbnail reviews of selected books that they then distribute to the guests. Last night, after her usual twenty-second lightning-speed weather forecast, Louise was giving a report, suggesting books that might be appropriate to give to various famous people. The premise of her gag was basing her recommendations simply on the book's title, claiming she didn't have time to read. In general, the tone was sarcastic but funny. I don't remember the other titles, but the angle was along the lines of: "Walking Tall, our gift to Nicolas Sarkozy. " Nyuk nyuk.

Then she said, "And this book, Du Plomb dans la tete [Lead in the Head] we offer to John Kennedy."

There was an audible gasp -- perhaps from Michel Denisot or Ariane Massenet. Perhaps it was from me. How rude and tasteless. How juvenile and inane. She tried to segue into the next title, but listeners were stunned.

Louise, I usually love ya, but you blew it. The mercury just went way, way down in my Louise-o-Meter. Being cocky and flip is one thing -- making a bad joke about an assassinated President is another.

Anyway, rumor has it that she's leaving her position at Le Grand Journal to work full time in the movies, and Canal + is looking for a replacement. Maybe that's why she didn't have to worry about getting fired for such crass commentary. Or maybe as an aspiring starlet was she trying to make more of a name for herself by attempting to copycat Sharon Stone? At least Sharon Stone's thoughtless 'karma' remark offending a whole nation was off the cuff.

(The video clip above is not of last night's show. Canal+ is only posting excerpts and has none of Louise's appearance on line.)

Die-hard Bourgoin fans (especially the testosterone-infused variety) can look forward to seeing Louise in a steamy movie this summer called La Fille de Monaco, about a beautiful Miss Meteo who leaves her job to become an actress...

Why we love Paris

Embarking on the second week in June and the weather lingers grey and cold, it's good to remember why we love Paris.

First off, when your name is Polly, you simply have to stop by this street.

Then there are other reasons, like indulging in this charming and inexpensive African restaurant that just opened in my neighborhood in the 7e arrondissement. With a quiet terrace in the back. Lilting music, excellent, simple cuisine. The warmest greeting of any restaurant in Paris. Add the house Ginger Drink and it's simply exotic. It'll warm you up until the nice spring weather returns. Especially if you add rum.

Déjà vu all over again. Has anyone else watching the French Open had the same impression? Something about the Roland Garros logo, which we've been seeing non-stop for the past few weeks, seems so familiar. Oh, right! That ubiquitous Starbucks logo...

My favorite way to see the sites of Paris by boat. I think I'll get the annual pass for €55. Heaven, when the sun is out.

The second annual PPP: Parcours Parisien de la Photographie June 10 - 30. So many vernissages... so little time.

And, finally, I love the Eiffel Tower, too, but...this?

10 Blue Doors

Watch Your Bag

This evening I was meeting a friend at one of the cineplexes on the Champs-Elysées to see Sex and the City. I didn't have too long a wait in line, thankfully. But just as I reached the ticket desk, a French woman with two young boys stopped by the side of the desk. I was worried at first that she was a line-jumper. Unfortunately not. "Excusez-moi," she asked the attendant, "but did anyone by chance find a cell phone in Salle 1? I was just watching a movie there and now my cell phone is missing."

The expected flurry of activity and exchanges took place. Did you go back to look for it? Are you sure you left it there, madame, etc etc. The mother replied "I turned off my cell phone as the movie was beginning and put it in my pocketbook. Then as we were leaving I went to retrieve it to turn it back on, and it wasn't in my bag. We returned to where were had been sitting but the phone wasn't anywhere."

Uh-oh. It reminded me that in some movie theaters an announcement comes on the screen prior to the featured film to warn theater-goers to keep their personal belongings on their lap.

I have a friend, a lifelong Parisian, who was at the movies this winter and absentmindedly set her firmly buckled pocketbook on the floor by her feet. When she left the cinema with her husband, she went to pay for the parking and pulled out her wallet. There wasn't a cent in it. She had bought the tickets earlier, and knew she had had at least 50 euros in her wallet. During the movie someone had sneaked under her seat, removed the wallet, taken the money, and replaced the wallet! Sadly, it's not an uncommon tale, but it leaves me baffled.

Do these thieves wear night goggles or something? How do they do it? How do they crawl so stealthily under the seats and not get noticed?

Needless to say, watching Sex and the City and all the Louis Vuitton pocketbooks and designer accessories it featured, I sat in my darkened cinema seat for two hours clutching my hum-drum pocketbook on my knees as if it were as precious as ... a diamond ring.

Up, Up and Away

I love Google for many reasons. But today when I opened my Google home page, I beamed.

Google's special logo is of a ballon Montgolfière. So very French!

Mais pourquoi a balloon today? I wondered. Turns out that today is the anniversary of the first successful attempt of the Montgolfier brothers to fly a hot-air balloon, in France, in 1783. Read more about it here.

Hot-air ballooning is of course popular worldwide, but to me it still has special appeal in France, where it was invented.

I've always longed to go on one of Buddy Bombard's fabulous balloon tours of France. He hasn't invited me on a press junket, yet. I'm still hoping.

Meanwhile, I guess I'll have to settle for a quick ride 500 feet up at the Parc André Citroën.

Saint-Pierre de Chaillot

The history of Paris is intimately linked to its churches. Notre Dame, la Sainte Chapelle, Sacre Coeur... the list of ecclesiastical sight-seeing spots is well known. Visiting the churches of Paris is one of the best budget tours around.

One lesser-known edifice, one of my favorites, is Saint-Pierre de Chaillot. Unlike its Gothic, neo-classical or Romanesque sisters in Paris, it was built in the 1930s. Designed by Emile Bois and constructed from 1931-1938, its descriptions mostly say it is in a Romanesque Revival style, but I lean a bit more toward the Art Deco attribution. A bit of an amalgam of the two, perhaps. Certainly worth a visit when you explore the Chaillot quartier in the 16e arrondissement (on the edge of the 8e).

It must be a real beauty when it's clean. I don't understand the whole legal aspect of what buildings are required to have their ravalement every ten years, but St. Pierre de Chaillot needs to have someone wash the city grime from its majestic face. The 1905 French law separating church and state returned the ownership of the churches to the Diocese of Paris, but apparently their upkeep as historic monuments still falls under the budget of the city or national government -- that is, for any church built prior to 1905 when the law was enacted.

Sadly, exquisite St. Pierre seems to get grimier by the day. They have clearly done some tests to see what it would look like all cleaned up. Just look at the difference!

Oh, if I were a paid journalist instead of a time-strapped madwoman-of-Chaillot blogger, of course I'd make phone calls and interview the powers that be (terrestrial ones, not The Big Guy) to find out why. Meanwhile, all I can do is share some photos, which I took before the trees were leafed out so you could see the structure.

Saint-Pierre de Chaillot

31 avenue Marceau

metro: Alma-Marceau

Family

Leaving dinner at a friend's spacious apartment at Denfert-Rochereau tonight, I missed the last # 68 bus by a hair. There's a taxi stand next door, so I opted for a comfortable and swift ride home rather than attempting the circuitous two-transfer (correspondance) possibility on the métro. In the evening I try to never make a trip on the métro involving more than one connection -- my personal Parisian peeve.

It was raining, and I scurried across the cobblestones to the taxi stand where a car was idling. As I hopped in the cab on the street side, a Street Fellow in a frayed tweed jacket, bobbing on the sidewalk as he chatted with the cab driver, teased me tipsily, "Oh, you -- you're taking away my friend. We were having an important discussion. But that's okay, you're pretty enough. My name is Didi. What's your name?"

"Moi? Je m'appelle Madame Qui-Est-Fatiguée," I responded jovially but curtly. "Bonsoir!" The taxi driver rolled up his window, put the car in gear, and we scuttled off down boulevard Raspail.

The chauffeur gave me some background on the guy. "He's not a bad type, you know," he said. "He would be a regular person, but he's like this because had some problems with family inheritance He let his stepfather take everything when his mother died, and now he's a clodo (a bum). He leaves Paris for a few months to do travaille saisonnière, like the vendange. The rest of the time he pisses away his days in Paris, panhandling and drinking 50-cent beers all day long. It's a shame. But, you know, he doesn't look too bad for someone who has no roof over his head -- he's only 52, and he looks better than I do, and I'm 56 with a steady job. Every night the police cars come around to collect all the homeless and take them to shelters to sleep. Then in the morning, these guys all return to their regular spots -- we people in the neighborhood are like family to them."

You Say Tomato

I was just about to pop a few of these juicy cherry tomatoes in my mouth. As I opened the charming heart-shaped plastic package, I noticed the name. "Les Coeurs-de-Pigeon."

Pigeon Hearts?

"Crunchy, slightly sweet. Do not refrigerate."

My immediate reaction was a slight gag reflex.

Then my machiavellian pigeon-hating side took over.

Look at the sadistic smiling bird holding his cousin's heart in his beak.

Heh-heh. Pigeon hearts....

Dip them one by one by one in a little fleur de sel.

Yes, indeed.

Bon appétit!

Painting Paris

Finally.

After lengthy discussions, my friend Mary Blake has finally started a blog. It's called Painting Paris, which is what she does. Mary lives in Montmartre and takes her easel to the street every day to paint an outdoor scene of Paris. And does she have tales to tell!

Mary has been calling me for occasional help with Blogger, which is weirdly difficult. Two Americans in Paris, one with a Mac, the other with a PC. One with Blogger in French, the other with Blogger in English. I can't explain to her on the phone how to perform a simple task like dragging an image down on her compose screen. We might as well be in different continents, talking in tongues-via-Skype to each other. "What, a Mac doesn't have a left-click?" I ask.

But, oh, we have belly-laughs about daily street-happenings as she paints. "The question jar!" I hoot. "Put that tale in your blog, verbatim, exactly the way you just told me! Please, please, just do it!"

She demures. Each blog is a personal creation-- and Mary is carefully crafting hers to be just what she wants. I can respect that. I have to. I may have two years' blogging seniority over her, which is worth about 25 American cents. She's got the vision for her own blog.

I'd forgotten what a learning curve blogging had been, after that first morning two years ago when I got an email from my dear friend Ariane announcing to me, "Your blog Polly-Vous Francais is up and running. Here are your address and your password. Start posting!" Sheer panic set it, but I have to admit that I loved it. It took me almost a year before I figured out how to put a stat counter on the blog. Almost 1-1/2 years before I got comments enabled. Shoulda gone to blogger-behavior school, I guess. Or bought a copy of Blogging for Dummies a bit sooner. But to me, there's a certain poetry and choreography to singlehandedly surmounting the blogging technological head-scratchers. I still have a long way to go.

Looking back, it made me realize that I'd missed my two-year bloggiversary a few weeks back. Really? Five hundred and eighty-seven posts?

Gawd, what a blabbermouth.

What's the Story, Morning Glory?

Last Sunday was Mother's Day in France. As promised, I bought flowers for my window box. In my mind's eye I've pictured for two years the floral composition I wanted, but it took a while before I could figure out how to execute the master plan.

This is the only single-casement window in the apartment, at the entrance, and I envisioned morning glories recklessly scrambling up the wall on both sides during the summer months. The maverick in me loves a bit of untamed countryside in the middle of the structure of the city.

First challenge. The window box. There is a metal-covered sill just below the ornate grill work, but no obvious way to safely perch a window box on top of said sill, lest it topple to the courtyard below in the first gust. (I wanted the flowers at the bottom of the window, rather than on a hanging balcony-basket, which would block the view in the middle).

I finally devised a scheme. With my handy cordless screwdriver/drill (purchased long ago to assemble all those IKEA DIY furnishings), I drilled two holes in the top of the planter, then strung heavy-duty wire through them for fastening the box to the grill work.

Second challenge. How to lace up the strings for the morning glories to twine around and climb upwards? The apartment building is stucco-covered stone, so hammering little nails into the casement wasn't an option. Brilliantissimo! I figured that a tension-sprung curtain rod would do the trick. But installing the rod nine feet up in a wide open window was no mean feat for even the deftest of individuals, let alone for a somewhat uncoordinated, artistic type like me with terminal vertigo. I was terrified but determined. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to attach the strings to the rod first. Then I tied them to the railing.

Third challenge. Ever-present: Sacks and the City. Sacks of potting soil, that is. This time rather than spending days cleaning up the dirt in the cracks in my kitchen counter, as I did after my most recent urban gardening adventure, I simply spread out an old table cloth on the floor and transplanted the lavender, lobelia, and morning glories into the window box. Then I hoisted the box into place in the window, twisted the wires to the wrought iron. Done!

After just a few hours the tendrils are already curling around the strings, eager to have a destination. The lavender, warmed by the afternoon sun, sends wafts of Provençal fragrance into the apartment.

Urban dwelling.

I can live with this.

Taxi!

The good news: there will be increase of almost 5,000 more taxis on the streets of Paris.

The (kind of) bad news: you'll have to wait two more years to reach the full increase.

It seems that everyone has a Paris couldn't-get-a-taxi tale of woe to tell. The government has been trying to find a solution for a while. Finally, yesterday, an agreement was signed between the Ministry of the Interior and the FNAT (Federation National des artisans taxis), the independent taxi-drivers association.

Currently there are 15,600 taxis circulating in Paris. That equals 2.9 taxis per 1000 residents, compared with 7.2 in New York. The agreement calls for an extra 1200 cabs to hit the streets this year, and the total numbers of taxis in service by 2010 will be 20,000.

There is discussion afoot also about possibly changing taxis' rooftop lights to indicate more clearly if they are available or busy. (Red and green lights? Say it ain't so!) That particular change does not get my vote, but I won't complain as long as there are taxis when I need them.

More taxis! That's news worth hailing.

George et moi -- What Else?

Wow. I can't wait to fly to Milan to shoot the next Nespresso commercial with George Clooney. Oh, I know they're having a casting call and maybe -- just maybe -- a handful of other women will sign up for the contest. But George and me -- it was meant to be! This time, they'll want to cast a woman closer to George's age instead of those gorgeous, svelte twentysomethings, n'est-ce pas?

Besides, I invented the term Nespressoholic. Don't I deserve to be The Chosen One?

Honestly, I promise not to sign up at the web site more than once... per hour.

If you think you even have a snowball's chance en enfer, here's how to participate.

First, you have to be a Nespresso Club member. I used to scoff at that notion, every time I buy my little coffee capsules, but now I'm sure glad I am part of that elite group.

In 150 words or less tell them why they should choose you and not me.

Give them your best glamour mug shots -- a full-length photo and a head shot.

Cross your fingers and wait for the decision on June 10 -- What Else?

A French Goddess

Isn't she a beauty? And she is indeed a French goddess -- une Déesse, the nickname for the Citroen DS (pronounced day-ess). I found her rear end -- excuse me, but I'm serious -- on one of my favorite Paris photo blogs, Un Jour à Paris. Enthralled, I wrote Cil at Un Jour à Paris, and he sent me the entire photo -- a Polly-Vous Francais exclusive. Everyone else gets to see this Venus dramatically divided in part 1 and part 2.

Un Jour à Paris is a daily photo blog with unexpected glimpses of daily life in Paris. It's one of my daily reads, and I highly recommend it.

The Déesse caught my eye because a decade ago I had the wild experience of driving one for a whole month. We did a summer house swap with a family in the Loire Valley when my kids we in grade school. As was the fashion, we swapped not only houses, but also, cars, pet care, garden watering chores -- the whole enchilada -- through a great home exchange organization called Intervac.
Without a lot of explanation, our French host Maurice gave me the keys to his Déesse, and then he hopped on the plane for our place in Boston. While living in our house in New England, he drove a prosaic Volvo wagon for the month (automatic shift). All I knew was that I had a quintessentially standard-shift French car to drive. Little did I know that it was legendary. What a classic I was driving!

But imagine my surprise and consternation when on my first outing, stopped at a red light, the car lowered to the ground. Panicked, I thought something was amiss, and tried to pull over to the side of the road to see what had happened. Had the air gone out of the tires? But when I put her in gear, she rose back up like a mushroom cloud. Maurice hadn't warned me about the hydro-pneumatic suspension system. Once I figured out that it was a normal occurrence, the Déesse and I got along like soul sisters. She purred like a kitten down the autoroutes or départementales as we scoured the French countryside.

Now, that summer seems like an ancient dream.

It's rare to see a Déesse roaming the streets in Paris; I'm not sure why. Too valuable -- too much a collector's item -- to risk getting in a fender-bender, perhaps?

With the advent of spring weather, though, the Men In Convertibles seem to proliferate in Paris, cruising for love or some facsimile thereof down the boulevards. I am unswayed by the Mazzeratis, the Porsches, the various open-air décapotables that zoom past on the boulevard des Invalides with a solo male driver checking out the female scenery.

Then, one day -- a thrill. I spot a Déesse approaching, driven by a handsome man about my age. Ah, now there's someone I could relate to, I think. The car nears, and as it slithers around the corner, I notice a child seat in the rear.

I instantly hoped it was for his grandchild.

Probably not.

Sundays with Richard and Polly -- May

The first time I ever visited the Parc de Bagatelle, over a year ago, I had ventured out on a self-imposed solitary expedition. Meandering among the the grottoes, the follies, the winding paths, the Orangerie, oohing and aahing over the strutting peacocks, I was transported. It was sublime, everything I'd ever wanted in a French park. Or any park. My garden-induced rapture was jolted by the ringing of my cell phone. It was the friend I was meeting for lunch nearby in the 16e arrondissement.

"Where are you?" he inquired.

"Uhh, I'm not sure," I replied breathlessly. "But I do I think I've died and gone to heaven."


So it's easy to imagine how much I was looking forward to returning to the Parc de Bagatelle for the monthly adventure of "Sundays with Richard and Polly." We'd had the plans lined up for weeks. Directions to the Parc, decisions about picnics on the lush lawns. I was burning to get back to that little bit o' heaven in the Bois de Boulogne on a lovely May afternoon.

Then SNAFUs struck. Logistical challenges, out-of-town guests, the usual Paris glitches. So at the eleventh hour, Richard and I decided to stay in the center of town and go to the Sainte-Chapelle for our monthly outing instead.

Bagatelle?
Logistical hell.
Oh well,
Sainte-Chapelle

Crossing the bridge from St Germain, I arrived first , and a sizable line confronted me outside the entrance. There is a security check to get into the Sainte-Chapelle and the Conciergerie because they are both located within the walls of the Palais de Justice, more or less France's equivalent to the Supreme Court. Patience is a virtue and a learned skill in trying to visit popular Paris spots.

Waiting for Richard and Vincent, I struck up a conversation with the couple behind me. Actually, they struck up the conversation: "Excusez-moi, parlez-vous Anglais?" asked the lady in a lovely Aussie accent. I gave her my basic I'm-an-American-living-in-Paris spiel.

Relieved, she sighed, "Can ya tell me, then, what IS it exactly that we're standing in line for?"

Ahem. I know I usually think I've heard everything in Paris, but this was a new one. She and her darling husband were obligingly standing in a long line of tourists -- let me get this straight -- because they saw a bunch of other tourists and figured it had to be a Worthwhile Thing to See? But they had no idea what? I sputtered as I sought a reply. Then I realized, hey -- come to think of it, maybe that's not such a bad tourism tactic after all. Ditch the guide books, and follow the crowds. Ask a knowledgeable person -- and presto! -- you've seen Paris.

Anyway, Richard and Vincent lucked out because by the time they arrived I had advanced our spot in line close to the front. We both admitted that we hadn't visited the Sainte-Chapelle since we'd been here, an embarrassment somewhat mitigated by the fact that the church had been closed for renovation for a while a few years ago. We chatted about our Hall of Shame -- the must-see Paris sites that we haven't visited yet.

We finally made it through the metal detector and experienced the mini-frisson of being frisked by the handsomest of the two gendarme security guards. At least one of us wanted to return for a repeat performance. I'm not telling who.

When you enter the ground-floor level of the Sainte-Chapelle, the first inclination is to hum along with Peggy Lee in "Is That All There Is?" The vaulted ceilings and the boutique are pretty, to be sure, and the medallion-maker tempting and very busy, but there isn't an automatically-revealed sense of some other incredible space to visit beyond the low-ceilinged chamber, with its enticing polychrome frescoes that look like like rich tapestries. Knowing the glorious stained glass windows of the Sainte-Chapelle from Art History class eons ago, I knew we had to figure out how to get to see them somewhere in the building. We spotted an inconspicuous narrow stairway in the corner, and made the climb to the upper level.

Have you ever imagined what it is like to be inside the tumbler of an exquisite kaleidoscope? I hadn't. But that is precisely the whirling visual impression I got upon entering the chapel. There are practically no walls above about eight feet -- just stained glass. A myriad of jeweled glass designs and biblical stories far too detailed to write about here. I spun around and walked around and gazed upward until finally Richard urged, "Come, sit." I sat, in one of the chairs lining the length of sanctuary. A wise decision.

Please, if you visit the Sainte-Chapelle, do yourself a favor and take time to plunk down and simply stare at the glass. For a good long while. You'll see much more than if you snap away for photos of the stained glass with your digital camera. Slow down and absorb all the intense visual stimulus. There is no book, no slide show, no video tour that could replace the first-hand experience. Sainte-Chapelle was a good decision. I'm happy, in a way, that my photos of the stained glass didn't turn out well, because nothing can attempt to capture being there. I took close-ups instead of the fleur-de lys patterns and angels.

Finally oxygen depletion and sensory satiation forced us to reach the departure-decision. This meant descending the treacherous stairs opposite the ones we had climbed. So worth it, despite the vertigo.

Sainte-Chapelle was by no means an "oh-well" destination, it turns out. I realized why it's on the must-do lists of sites in Paris. So I'm now inspired to go to visit all the other sites on my Hall of Shame... after I take a quick jaunt to Bagatelle, of course.

Now, let's go see what Richard wrote about our Sunday.

Regard sur les Etats-Unis

I like to read the news. Online, I usually read the news about France in French, and then I read Art Goldhammer's French Politics for the timely analysis. To get the U.S. and world news I scan all my favorites: the New York Times, the International Herald Tribune, any other on-line news source that lets me read for free.

Lately when I log into my Yahoo! account the Yahoo! News page pops up as Yahoo.fr. Yahoo! France is not merely Yahoo! US translated in French, of course. It's news deemed of interest to a French readership. Its tone and content lack the gravitas of regular French newspapers, somehow. I think it's! the! exclamation! point! I really miss all the major, life-altering headline stories on English-language Yahoo!, like Lindsay Lohan's missing mascara, or how to make perfect scrambled eggs.

But, in all earnest, one interesting feature of Yahoo! France is a great blog called Regard sur les Etats Unis, A Look at the United States from a French view. In my lifelong learning curve about France, I find it helpful in general to look at my own culture from a foreigner's perspective. And REU has news and commentary, as well as some interesting blogs on its blogroll -- French expatriates in the US writing about the American cultural and political scene from their viewpoint.

I applaud REU's effort to include an English version on their site. It's a noble effort, brought to you by Google translate. But try reading this English version of the latest Clinton/Obama story, where the possessive pronoun his or its is constantly applied to Hillary.

"The awkwardness of Hillary Clinton unworthy democrats

This is the latest controversy to date, across the Atlantic. Hillary Clinton has committed the blunder to justify its continuation in the race for the Democratic nomination through rapprochement with the assassination of Robert Kennedy.

The candidate wanted to make it clear that the Democratic campaign could be extended and that everything could still happen.

The problem is that his opponent, Barack Obama, is regularly subjected to death threats and is constantly under protection of U.S.
secret services.

As for Democrats is consternation. Even if the candidate has made his apology, particularly with respect to the Kennedy family (which also makes the headlines as a result of the hospitalisation of Edward
Kennedy), everyone's attaches to say that fatigue does not justify
everything.

This controversy is further proof that the campaign has gone on too long term."

Who needs Comedy Central when you've got automated translating?