Learn the Geography of France

Geography is one of those subjects that I find difficult to learn just by staring at a map. There needs to be some way of integrating the knowledge: either by travelling through a place and studying the maps as you go, or else some sort of kinetic learning tool.

Learning the geography of France was the one area of French class where I performed less than spectacularly. Abject failure. Nothing stuck in my brain. How could I remember what's a département, what's a région, and what is no longer a région officially though it's still referred to that way? And it's difficult not having the French home-court advantage of recognizing cars' provenance by the last two digits of their license plate. Sure, the knowledge began seeping in a bit over the past three years; but for all intents and purposes, I'm a bona-fide French-geography ignoramus.

Ha! Well all that is about to change now that I have discovered Geographix, an educational internet game that tests your geography skills.

It's really fun, even though I failed 100% my first go-round, and the professor figure was making uglier and uglier grimaces at me. I stuck my tongue out at him and carried on. I'm allowed only 10 games per day, but in a year that would be 3,650 lessons. I should be golden by then. Give it a try. Anyone want to challenge me to a French geo-quiz in March 2010?

Autographs

A few autographs I've collected over the years, mostly in the form of book dedicaces. I'm so glad to have re-discovered them.

What I treasure most about the Jean-Jacques Sempé signature is, of course, the drawing. I wonder if he always signs autogaphs like this.

A while back I wrote about meeting Marguerite Yourcenar. But actually, when I met her she had already been elected to the Académie Française. I'll blame my ignorance on youth.

And Polly Platt's signing of French or Foe, the first time I ever met her some time in the 1990s. How prophetic; and little did either of us know that she was to become a good friend and part of my French dream-come-true.

Be Careful What You Wish For

The good news: the shipment of my stuff from Paris finally arrived today, after four months of anxious waiting. It was all in fine shape.

The bad news: in a totally fickle, very unexpected emotional about-face, I want to send it all back.

I'm not kidding.

There are two main factors at play here. Plus a third, more minor, reason.

1. The "Won't This Sombrero Look Great at the Neighborhood Pool Party, Honey?" syndrome.

We've all done it. You travel to a foreign land, and everyone there is wearing a sombrero with red tasseled fringe, or puka shell beads or embroidered peasant blouses, and you think, "Gee, Ima gonna get me one a them," and then you carefully select and purchase just the perfect sombrero or what-have-you. You jubilantly take it home, and upon arrival in Little Rock you shake your head in disbelief. What was I thinking? you ask, And why did I really fight to place that sombrero so carefully into the overhead bin of the plane? (Or gawd forbid, you even wore it at the airport.) It is culturally out of context in your native habitat, but your foreign eyes didn't let you see it.

Well, that's not true for all of the belongings that just arrived, but... well, let's see. That adorable confituriere from the flea market that was so, so charming in my old, tiled Paris kitchen? It looks like an uninvited floozy in my Virginia dining room. So I tried placing it in every room. It just looks cheap and embarrassing.

Ditto for some of the more avant-garde items of clothing I bought in Paris or Ile de Re. Gee, an item or two of something unusual or offbeat to perk up the Paris daily mainstay attire was de rigueur... in Paris. If I wear some of this stuff here I may never get invited anywhere.

Cleavage? Spiky heels? Don't get me started. It all seemed so ...normal in Paris.

2. The "I'm Not-Over-It-Yet" factor. It's a biggie.

It's a damn good thing I'm heading to Paris in a week, because when I opened some of the boxes and unearthed items from my Paris daily ritual, I had a really hard time. As in tears, and I don't mean happy tears of reuniting with long-lost favorites.

You know what I mean. Oh, you know. Say you've broken up with a boyfriend, for example, and you're not completely over him but you forge ahead and start a new relationship with some other guy; and while that new relationship is in its tender infancy, by some stroke of nauseating ill fate, up pops the Old Flame at a weekend house party. And you can try to tell yourself til you're blue in the face that it doesn't matter, that you've moved on, but all of a sudden inside your head Barbra Streisand is belting out "The Way We Were" even though you don't like her voice: "What's too painful to ree-meh-heh-em-bah, we simply choose too-wooo foh-or-get..."

Well, blow me down if I didn't have that reaction when I unwrapped, of all things, my coffee cups. Excuse me, but how pathetic is it to have a weird, soppy emotional melt-down over four pieces of bone china?

I felt as though I were acting in the middle of some Woody Allen movie talking to a shrink, "I'm sorry Dr. Proust, I don't know what came over me. I saw those cups and saucers, and all the memories of Paris Nespresso breakfasts came flooding back and I..., I..., I...., boo-hooo-ooo-waaaah." Heroine (me) bolts out of the shrink's office blowing her nose. She doesn't even shut the door behind her.

Over coffee cups?

3. Minor factor: too much stuff. Must make placement decisions. Not easy to cope with any decision-making until factors #1 and #2 take a back seat.

Six Days in Paris

Before I moved to Paris, I used to visit as often as time and budget would allow. When it came time to leave, I always found myself sobbing in my seat as the plane taxied for take-off on the runway at Charles de Gaulle.

I know that's not exactly a sound reason for moving to Paris. On the other hand, life is short; so I guess it wasn't such a bad reason, either. I would have stayed forever. But life is life.

Now. Ta-dah! After three months of serious Paris jonesing, I am finally going back, for une petite semaine. Six days in Paris. T minus ten days and counting.

There's so much to do and so little time. Research, interviews, plus tedious banking and administrative details to settle. I can't possibly see all the friends I want to see, nor make the rounds of all the favorite haunts. If I stop by my old neighborhood (which I must) that will take at least half a day of catching up.

Oh joy, oh rapture! I can't wait.

I tried to be so very blasé and sophisticated about this return trip. But I will admit it: once my flight was booked I did jump up and down in the front hallway, cooing with glee, for three minutes. No one was looking.

Okay, maybe four minutes.

Paris!

Happy Birthday, Les Guignols!

"Les Guignols de l'info" are all grown up!

Tomorrow the famous French latex puppets of satire celebrate their 20th anniversary on TV.

Canal+ is throwing them a party on Monday entitled "Putain, 20 ans!" Residents of France can watch the hour-long celebration on Le Grand Journal starting at 7:55 pm Paris time. The rest of us can see the party on line.

As a special feature, some of the infamously spoofed political and media celebrities will appear in person. However, Jacques Chirac, pictured at left as "Super Liar," has said that he won't show up, but sends his best wishes.

I adore les Guignols... except for the weird blob-eyeball-ectoplasm deal in the intro, which always gives me the creeps.

Shipping Nuisance

It's a good thing I paid megabucks to haul seven suitcases of my belongings with me when I flew to the US from Paris in November. Why? Because the moving company who crated up the rest of my stuff has not exactly kept up their side of the deal. They were kind and courteous and packed everything so carefully in mid-November. They anticipated delivery of the shipment by December 30.

I haven't seen it yet. They claimed a few months ago that the shipment cleared customs and is waiting to find space on a truck that is coming my way. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, they promise.

And trust me, the milk of human kindness is no longer flowing in my veins.

But I'm not writing this to kvetch (okay, well, a little).

It's just stuff, I know. However, that small crate of Paris stuff represents 95% of memories of my surroundings and activities from My Life in Paris. After a while it starts feeling as though Paris was but a dream. Didn't I have some interesting furniture from the Marche aux Puces at Vanves?

Didn't I use to write at my faux-Louis-something desk?

And where is Hubert, my beloved Omersa leather hippo footstool?

Is it asking too much to have at least a few of the reminders of the life I had in Paris? The shipping company seems indifferent. Now they are not returning my calls or emails. I'm starting to worry.

Fortunately, I brought the most precious lightweight flat objects with me. Prints and small paintings and such.

Yesterday I picked up my favorite item from the frame shop. "Sommelier," a drawing by my friend Mary Blake.

It now has a Bordeaux-red matte and a black frame.

I feel more at home now. I have a small piece of My Life in Paris.

But I still want my stuff.

Win a DVD from France Today

If you act fast and respond by today, you could win a DVD of the critically acclaimed 2008 French film I've Loved You So Long (Il y a longtemps que je t'aime), starring Kristin Scott Thomas, in France Today's contest for online readers. To enter the contest, just send an email to info@francetoday.com with your email address and the email addresses of five friends you think would enjoy the weekly newsletter, Le Petit Journal. Put DVD CONTEST in the subject line.

If you're not already familiar with it, Le Petit Journal is the e-newsletter of France Today and France-Amerique. I was a long-time subscriber to the paper version of both before moving to Paris. Being transatlantic, I quickly became enamored of the online versions. And now France Today has revamped its website and is even more luscious than before. Great writing, photos, and insider tips: I think they mentioned my blog once.

My quandary: back in the US I rediscovered my carefully saved, much beloved back issues of France Today. There is even more in the paper edition, more time to savor each article. Should I subscribe again? There is something so comforting about reviewing old issues. But so much paper. Oh well. I guess there's room for both.

Can't stop to think on it too much. Must go enter that contest.

A+

Monday Morning News Mini-Roundup

1. Who knew there was a Little Paris -- 20,000 strong-- in Brooklyn? "When they order French cheese, they pronounce it the right way... They do eat a lot of cheese." Read the story here.

2. What Frenchman holds the record for writing the longest sentence?

Wrong: it's not Proust!

It's Mathias Enard, in his novel, Zone. 150,000 words. One sentence. A lotta lotta commas.

3. Dinard, in Brittany, is a favorite spot of mine. And yes, I always do breathe better when I'm there. But whodathunk its salty waters were bottled into Afrin Nasal Spray? Well, it's actually a rinse.

4. France 24 TV news broadcasts are now available on your iPhone, live, in English, French, or Arabic. The app is a free download.

Now all I need is an iPhone.

5. If you haven't read it yet, HuffPo's article on "What We Can Learn From French Women." I have now realized that there will never, ever be enough written about the allure and the habits of French women. The world has an insatiable appetite for their secrets to success. Keep reading!

*** Update: I had to add one more news item by Charles Bremner. Apparently the funny/whiney French web site Vie de Merde is now available in Amurikan. A vos plumes!

We're Not in Kansas Any More

Three years ago yesterday I arrived in Paris.

I was exhausted from a cyclonic effort to pack up my decades of adult American family life and organize it into storage bins. And downsizing to the the absolute essentials in five overstuffed suitcases to bring to my furnished Paris flat.

My landlady -- soon to become a good friend -- had emailed me photos of the apartment, and said, "Everything's ready for you -- sheets on the bed and a bottle of wine waiting. Do you drink coffee or tea in the morning? Your phone and TV are all set. Can't wait to meet you!"

All I had to do was arrive and collapse. Which I did.

I had a vague notion of where the apartment was, on place de la Madeleine. Despite many previous trips to Paris, I was clueless about the prestige of the location, and was thus comforted by Francophile friends' instant enthusiasm for and approval of such a great address.

Then that day in March I arrived raggedly and blearily from Charles de Gaulle airport, with deep circles under my eyes, lips chapped from a frigid New England winter. I lugged my five suitcases in sequence up the antique wrought-iron elevator, up the stairs to the top floor. And I collapsed on the exquisite fresh sheets.

I was in Paris!

Jet lag mildly abated after a nap, I leaned on the windowsill, soaking in the view from my perch. I was awestruck. I could almost reach out the window and touch the Eglise de la Madeleine. Everything seemed otherworldly from this vantage point. So I ventured down to explore the neighborhood. At the ground floor of the building was a discount textile store called Toto.

I laughed, giddily, helplessly.

But I was in France now. Would anyone understand the joke?

Yes We Can Opener

This weekend I was serving some roasted chicken which called for a bit of zing. Remembering that I had purchased cranberry sauce as one of my I'm-back-in-the-US milestones, I retrieved the can from the cupboard.

One small problem. I had no can opener.

Here I am in the land of Yes We Can; but No I Couldn't.

I had made the requisite trips to Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond to properly outfit my batterie de cuisine, but a can opener was completely off my radar screen.

Why?

When I first moved to Paris and set up housekeeping in my apartment, I acquired all the kitchen utensils I thought I'd need, including a can-opener [ouvre-boite]. That scrawny metal can opener hung forlorn in my utensil holder for the entire three years that I lived in Paris. Never once did I have to crank that knuckle-numbing knob: every can in France that I ever bought -- tuna or soup or marrons glacés -- had a pull-tab to open it. The can-opener, happily, was de trop.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I guess I assumed that this simply reflected an advance in canning technology and that now all cans worldwide had the same pull tab (and a much less scary edge when opened). Mais non.

What, I ask, could be so difficult about installing pull-tabs on all aluminum and metal cans? Why isn't it a standard practice in the US?

I can. You can. We can.

Hmm. Maybe in France the catch phrase should be "Yes we can can" and in the US "No we can't can."

Get Thee to Paris

I may just do this.

In my email inbox today was a message from Air France promoting round-trip airfares from New York to Paris hovering at the $420 mark. Even adding in the security taxes and surcharges, it's still about the cheapest transatlantic price I've seen in over three years. Tickets must be booked impulsively, i.e. before February 28. Let's give a cheer for rash decisions!

And besides (in case you hadn't noticed my new, lovely blog ads) you can quickly book your tickets by clicking on the thoughtfully furnished Air France link at the top of the right-hand column of this page.

This could be the cure for my three-month Paris jones.

Thought for Today

Happy Valentine's Day.

I have to say, romance does sound better in French.

My Neighbors are Real Asses

In Paris, there is a tendency -- especially for those new to the city -- to decry the proliferation of sidewalk droppings from Parisian pooches.

I have to admit that in three years of living in Paris I never -- never! -- stepped in dog poop. Though I saw a bunch of real doozies on the sidewalk and curbs, especially in the morning when they were fresh. Eventually, though, it all becomes second nature.

Ah, how things change when one returns to the US.

I've just moved to a delightful white farmhouse on a hill in Virginia. So lovely and bucolic. So serene. The most noise is the occasional quite romantic sounding of the train's horn as it passes at the railroad crossing at the bottom of the hill.

And in the pasture just across the fence are two horses and two donkeys. Oh, how they add to the lore of the place. They silently roam the field by day, munching the grass.

But when nighttime falls, and the horses settle into the barn, the damn donkeys slip through some section of unguarded fence and wander into my yard.

When heading up the driveway one evening, through the car's headlights I thought I spotted the world's largest, homeliest deer grazing in my yard. Au contraire. It was Eeyore, and his pal, chowing down on my lawn and leaving his calling card here, there, and everywhere.

Don't lose your appetites, folks, but it looks -- at best -- like huge glistening pyramids of brown charcoal briquettes randomly scattered outside.

Apparently this has been happening for a while prior to my arrival here, so the donkey doo-doo is a bit overwhelming.

And -- well -- all I can say is, in terms of animal droppings, I'd prefer the Parisian sidewalks any day. At least they're cleaned up once a day. So I don't want to hear anyone complaining about les crottes de chiens in Paris.

Deal?

Studio 54?

Q: Who is humming "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm fifty-four" today?

A: Nicolas Paul Stéphane Sarközy de Nagy-Bocsa.

My little birthday offering: a French house-number image (as a topping for the birthday cake)?

Zero-six or zero-sept?

The end of an era is upon us.

Starting in 2010, French cell phones numbers will also begin with 07.

Unlike in the US, where cell phones can have any area code (and often the same area code as the owner's home region), in France, no matter what the region, all 10-digit cell phone numbers begin with 06. Evidently those 999,999,999 available mobile telephone numbers are about to be exhausted. That's a lot of cell phones, non?

But.

Since all the 01, 02, 03, 04, and 05 numbers are taken by numeros fixes [land lines], and 08 prefixes are special (often toll-free) numbers, and 09 are telephony/VoIP/internet numbers, that means that the next step is -- egad-- 07.

Awakening

In the inky darkness of my Virginia farm cottage, I am nudged awake by a distant groan. Is it a moan? The room is black and still, and I groggily raise my head up, straining to hear the noise again.

It sounds like a dying furnace, or a car transmission heaving a final shudder as it fails. I listen harder.

The sound is ... cows mooing in a nearby field.

It is 4:15 a.m. Is mooing legal at that hour?

Why are cows mooing in the dark? Is this normal? I wonder. Cows mooing by daylight are cute. Mooing under cover of darkness seems abnormal and almost eery. “The cattle are lowing,” I tell the walls. Hmm. What time of day is being referred to in that Christmas carol? First my thoughts race: worries of danger. Why would the cows (or cattle or whatever I should properly call them) be bellowing at a pre-dawn hour? As in pre-pre-pre-dawn.

COWS IN DANGER. Are they being attacked by a coyote? Nah. They outweigh those wily critters. It must be a bear! I’ve heard there are black bears around here. I am not quite awake but am fretting about these cows – they must be terrified.

I realize that I’m too much of an urbanite/suburbanite, and I don’t know diddly about bovine behavior. All I know is that these poor beasts must need to be saved. But it ain’t gonna be me. Not if there is some real or imagined black bear on the prowl.

So now it is the indulgingly late hour of 4:45 and I decide throw in the sponge and get up.

I toss on an oversized flannel shirt and jeans. I brew the coffee and stoke up the laptop for today’s online headline news.

In the dim of the first morning light I am distracted by the Hatfield and McCoy scenario at the birdfeeder, the purple finches versus the goldfinches. God, they’re up early, too. What is it with all these animals? Oh, early-bird. Got the etymology.

Properly fortified and caffeinated, I slip on mud boots and clomp across my hilltop to take a peek at the Angus herd. They are just lumbering in the field, chewing and mooing, on a neighboring hill. Just being cows. I sigh and turn around to head home. Hawks are having a field day overhead. A lone car passes by on the two-lane road.

I stop in my tracks as a vague panicky sensation creeps over me. Oh no. What has happened to me? I'm watching cows and birds. Am I at risk of becoming a rural dullard? Wait a second! Didn’t I recently live in Paris, with all the sophisticated, dazzling excitement at my doorstep, with cafes and people-watching in a daily life that seems derived from Central Casting? How can I have already adjusted to an environment where the biggest adrenaline buzz of the day is gawking at a pelican-sized Northern Flicker as it flaps away from its hammering on my rooftop? A place where the juiciest gossip among the neighbors is “how tall will they build that burn pile of brush before they actually torch it?”

Wait a minute! Didn’t I just live in Paris? Where I would never venture from my apartment without stylish leather boots and at least a passing attempt at make-up? Now I’m listening to cows moo in the night, and don’t attempt to scrape the mud off my boots any more. My biggest fashion concern in the countryside is whether I should go walking outdoors without my neon-orange polar fleece cap, lest a hunter take aim in my direction. Where are the Parisian thrill and the bling-bling of yesteryear? Am I being lulled into a bucolic stupor?

Then I pause and take in the view. That edge of blue. These days the skyline of the Blue Ridge Mountains has the same effect on me that the Eiffel Tower did in Paris. Every time it catches me off guard in awe, takes my breath away.

The mountains and the sky.

And I have traded the sparkling glitter of Paris at night for the drama of the Big Dipper twinkling in the blue-black Virginia night sky. In Paris I saw Stars. Here, I see stars.


But, still. When I get back to my cozy cottage, just to make sure I don’t lose touch with my inner Parisian, I rush to my laptop to search for the latest in Paris news: politics, fashion, celebrities, culture, gossip.

Whew. I get all the Paris I need this morning in one fell swoop, just reading about Rachida Dati.

Demenagement

Oh, if only moving were this simple...

Fly Free to France in Jet-Lag Gig

Hey! Would you like to travel to France for free?

If you have some spare time on your hands, a research firm wants to fly you to France and study your jet-lagged brain cells. Sounds intriguing, n'est-ce pas?

View the entire announcement here.

Hmmm. Do they allow layovers in Paris?

Check out their website for more information.

info via Gadling

Velib Hits the 'Burbs

Good news for denizens of greater Paris: Vélib is heading to the 'burbs. The ever-popular bicycle program, inaugurated in July 2007, has been comprised of 20,000 bikes circulating in Paris intramuros. That is all about to change.

Soon residents and commuters to or from the 30 communities peripheral to Paris will be able to avail themselves of the bikes as well. Work begins tomorrow on Vélib stations in Boulogne-Billancourt, and is expected to finish within about four weeks. Next will be Les Lilas, Gentilly, Issy-les-Moulineaux, Vincennes, Suresnes, Vanves, Saint-Ouen, and Pantin. By the end of 2009, some 300 new Vélib stations (about 10 per city) will have been constructed, all within 1500 meters of Paris city limits, adding 3,300 bikes to the current total.

View Larger Map

Inaugurated in Paris in July 2007, the Vélib program has logged an astounding 41 million rides.

For more posts about Velib, click here.

Monsieur Jacques a Dit?

Ooh, I love to read supposedly scathing articles about the French in the New York Times. So provocative. But, um, not really. Today there was a great slice-and-dice piece about food critic François Simon, perhaps more popularly recognized outside gastronomic circles as the ultimately-redeemed villain Anton Ego in Ratatouille.

I can't presume to judge the culinary dialectic. But I do have another bone to pick. For, although the NYT article refers to his Monsieur Simon's two food blogs, as a blogger I was disappointed that it contained no hyperlink to either the French- or English-language versions of "Simon Says!" Seems a disservice to their readers. So I'm glad to oblige.

Well, even if Simon is sometimes a demanding, dismissive restaurant critic and occasionally a biting cynic, his image was measurably softened in the film version by Peter O'Toole's sentimental portrayal of a character with an artichoke hide and a mousse center. And a lover of the genuine article.

Paris in the Snow

Darn. After three years, just my luck to miss out on the magic of Paris in the snow.


I mean, sno-globes, even shaken vigorously, just don't have the same effect.





That bone-chilling frigid weather. The complaints about traffic. Br-r-rrr. But I still wish I were there to experience it. I saw about three flocons de neige the entire time I lived in Paris.


In any case, Paris Sous la Neige has certainly been newsworthy recently.

10 More Blue Doors

Why do I love the blue doors in Paris so much?

To see the others that I posted previously, click here. And now ten more, mostly from the 14e and 15e arrondissements.

Polly Platt: in Memoriam

Polly Platt, August 2007, at her house in the Dordogne

Francophiles around the world will be saddened to learn that Polly Platt died on December 26 in Vienna.

It is a huge loss to the world and a tremendous personal loss. She was a dear friend and colleague, a mentor.

How can it be? I just had dinner with her before leaving Paris, with promises to see one another when I returned.

In true Polly kindness and enthusiasm, she wrote me to find out how I was adapting to the US, and to report back on the "I Married a Frenchman" event at the American Library early last month.

Hi Polly,

How have you landed? ... Really a shame you weren't at the library two nights ago. Never had such an enthusiastic crowd -- they choked the place, so many they were out in the hall. I had the luck to be the last of the four panelists to talk -- so the audience was all warmed up ready to go and I had the freedom to do what I wanted ... and they loved it. Amazing. It would have been good for your blog -- the way dozens of them came up to me afterwards and thanked me for coming. Really satisfying. Amazing.

It's dark and drizzly in Paris but Paris is Paris.

Do let know how you are.`
love, love, P

We always had schoolgirl fun when we got together, whether at her favorite Vietnamese restaurant in the 7e or at her beloved farmhouse in the Dordogne.

I will miss her lilting voice, her passion for all things French, her witty and wise inspiration, her warm and loyal friendship.

License Plates

Having been carefree and car-free in Paris for three years, I now find myself in need of acquiring an automobile in Virginia. Pronto.

And as I drive my rental car (and boy-o-boy, am I getting accustomed to the constant driving), I've noticed that lots of the vehicles here have vanity plates. I used to scoff at the notion of specialized plates, but they are such a way of life here, and there are so many witty ones.

I saw an old Volvo parked in town the other day with the license plate MON CUL.

The car disappeared before I could track down the owner. Damn. What fun! Who IS that person? And did the DMV know what that meant when they issued the plate?

Of course in France there are no specialized vanity plates, but rather the fierce loyalty of one's département indicated by the last two digits of your license plates. I was not alone in heaving sigh of relief when government efforts to eliminate the département from auto license plates was finally shot down.

It's all a matter of identity, I guess.

In France, one can proclaim one's vehicular identity by one's département on the plaques d'immatriculation.

In the US, your license plate can be an extension of your personality -- or maybe your projected persona. I spied one Virginia vanity plate on a spiffy BMW convertible that read UVA MBA. Gotcha. 'Nuff said. There are also lots of down-home and witty examples too numerous to cite. It is definitely a way of life.

So -- should I fork over the extra $10 annually and get a vanity plate that reflects my Francophile persona? As I drive around and wait at traffic lights I daydream about all sorts of catchy bite-sized logos that I could incorporate into a 6-character license plate. Then, after I've come up with the "perfect" plate, I abandon the idea as vain and frivolous. I don't really need to tout myself, right?

And yet, and yet. I am so tempted. Besides, it's fun to check out what they would look like on the DMV website.

Here are a few ideas I've come up with. Maximum 6 characters.

75007P

QUOI29 (Inspired by my blogging friend Cécile Quoi de 9)

7IEME

PAS MOI

YVOUSF

Okay, folks: any other ideas?

Update: check out Olivier Magny's take on French license plates in Stuff Parisians Like.

Growing Old in Paris

Some thoughts bear repeating.

I mentioned to my family this Christmas that although I am delighted to be back in the U.S., I ultimately want to spend my dotage in Paris. Yup. It's a long way off (hey, in my mind I'm still quite the spring chicken), but now's the time to plan! When and if I have to grow old, for umpteen thousand reasons I'd prefer to do it in Paris. And preferably sooner rather than later. (The Paris part, not the aging part.) Hmm. More reflections on that reasoning for a later post. Meanwhile, it reminded me of something I wrote this time last year, which I offer here, slightly edited, for cheap regifting appeal. 'Tis the season.

Excusez-Moi, Madame

This has now happened to me three times in the past year. I'm striding down the sidewalk, high-heel boots clicking confidently as I bob and weave through the tangle of pedestrians. I'm concentrating on my next destination -- métro, bus stop, café, or wherever. Then, from nowhere a sweet, quavering voice calls out, "Excusez-moi, madame." I slow down and turn to see a diminutive dame d'un certain age, elegant wool coat buttoned against the cold, silk scarf neatly knotted, gripping the knob of her cane as she inches in baby steps toward the curb. "Est-ce que je pourrais vous demander de me rendre un service et de m'accompagner à traverser la rue?" she asks. ["Can you help me cross the street?"]

Each time this happens, I positively melt. MELT! I'm not quite sure why. First off, I'm honored that from a quick glance she has deemed me trustworthy enough to ferry her across a treacherous passage. The high curbs, you know; and the cobblestones are so uneven and the traffic so aggressive. I'm also pleased that she addresses me in French. And finally, of course, I do sincerely like to help; and this has never happened to me in the States.

I offer my elbow, and we begin five minutes of exchanging pleasantries. "Oui, oui," I nod, "it's not so easy crossing the streets these days. Oui, je comprends. Non non, madame, cela ne me dérange pas du tout -- it's my pleasure." We wait for the walk light to change as she clutches the crook of my arm; then we inch slowly across while she looks up at me, chatting in genteel appreciation. As we reach the safety of the next curb, she offers her most winning smile and heartfelt merci. Then our mutual au revoir et bonne journée, and we part company. I pick up the pace and continue on my route, this time with more of a spring in my step.

Every time this scenario happens, I get a lump in my throat.

Why?

Perhaps because I have an 85-year-old mother. Perhaps because I recognize my own future.

I deeply hope that some day, thirty-plus years from now, I'll be tottering down the streets of Paris, coat buttoned against the winter winds, hesitantly approaching a curb and eyeing the passersby to nab a younger woman whom I can stop and ask,

"Excusez moi, madame, est-ce que je pourrais vous demander de me rendre un service et de m'aider a traverser la rue?"

Joyeux Noel 2008

This is a vintage card from the 30s or 40s that I found at the Marché aux Puces de Vanves. At first glance there appeared to be no inscription inside. But when I unfolded the card, in the interior was a lengthy love letter penned by a forlorn Frenchman to his future bride. So sweet.

I hope this Christmas, wherever you are in the world -- whether you have the gleaming snow or not -- brings as much cheer as that little bird and as much warmth as the yellow light shining from the cottage.


Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année, y'all!

"How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm...

...After they've seen Paree?"

It's a song that rings through my head daily.

Here's my version of the farm, where I am living in Virginia.

And the view..

And the neighbor, my new best friend.

It's hard for me to imagine that three short weeks ago I was an urban dweller, a resident of Paris. I am now surrounded by hawks and fields and rolling hills; Paris is a world away.

At the same time, it's hard for me to believe that I am not still in Paris. I meet other Americans here who have lived in France. We talk of the urge, the need to return. Or some who claim that "you can't go home again."

Home meaning Paris.

I'll keep writing about Paris and France and the French connection as I settle into my new life (when current spotty Internet connections permit..) I've realized that Paris is in my bones, no matter where on earth I am.

Etat des lieux

Etat des lieux.

The very phrase strikes fear in the heart of those who rent apartments in Paris.

"The state of the place." It is the official walk-through of the apartment chronicled in a boilerplate tri-fold document which will ultimately decide, when you exit your apartment, whether your caution [security deposit] is refunded in full, in part, or not at all. There is 1) the état des lieux d'entree and 2) the état des lieux du depart, and if there is any difference between Thing One and Thing Two, you might be out a euro or two -- or thousand.

For my moving-in état des lieux three years ago I was all Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, so thrilled to have my dream apartment that I hadn't wanted to fuss about minor paint issues or sticking doors. The very next day a seasoned Paris expat reacted in complete horror when I told her how trusting I'd been in the walk-through with the landlady and the management company.

"Oh My God," she'd said. "You should have checked every prise [electrical outlet] to make sure they work, checked every tiny little detail and written it down on the damned document. Otherwise, when you move out they'll blame it all on you. Trust me. I've done it a dozen times."

Oh, great. Typical Polly naiveté. So ever since I'd been living with this dread, this sword of Damocles over my head: that I had been a trusting fool to have been so agreeable and say the apartment was mostly in fine shape when I moved in. The Seasoned Expat had told me tragic tales of woe about persnickety, tightwad apartment-owners who withheld the lion's share of the deposit due to trivial blemishes that most of us would consider normal wear and tear.

As my état des lieux du depart approached, I tried to reassure myself that I'd been a model tenant for 2-1/2 years. Nevertheless, I was scared spitless. I had made only three nail holes in the entire apartment, having mostly hung large-format posters with scotch tape. I had improved much of the apartment, polished all the brass fixtures. I had covered the parquet floors with rugs.

But, paranoid to the hilt, prior to the final état des lieux I had nightmares akin to Tom Hanks' antics in The Money Pit. In my bad dreams, my feeble attempts to patch plaster pin-holes resulted instead in gaping three-foot holes between the studs, with the landlady peering at me from the other side.

In preparation for filling my three minuscule nail-holes, I had gone to the trusty neighborhood bricolage/quincaillerie to fetch an equivalent to Spackle. Ah, Spackle: another brand-name product for which I didn't know the proper word in French. "Bonjour, Monsieur. I need the product for filling in nail holes before un état des lieux," I asked, hoping for his complicity and understanding of my predicament. I was not disappointed.

"Oh, vous voulez de l'enduit," he said, pointing to a 5€ tube of white stuff.

Hurrah. I learned yet another French household term just prior to the moment where I wouldn't ever need it again. Of course, my friends had recommended using tried-and-true toothpaste to fill plaster holes. But I happened to possess only a tube of inappropriately bubble-gum pink Irish toothpaste, which wouldn't do. I came home and applied the enduit, with only three hours to spare before the troops arrived for inspection.

The real estate guy showed up first. Then my landlady arrived. With a hint of forced cheeriness in my voice, I greeted them in the echoing apartment, and realized that -- heh, heh -- it was dark outside and there were only a few overhead lights.

We chatted amiably, took a spin around the apartment. The real estate man asked, "Do you have anything to point out?" "Non, rien," I replied in all honesty, "though you might want to fix the shower before the new tenant moves in next week."

They looked around, smiled, and said, "You have really maintained this apartment so well. It's been such a pleasure to have you here and we're so sorry to see you go." I nearly fainted.

Without blinking, my landlady wrote me a check for the full caution, and added, "I may owe you more; let me know. " Something to do with extra rent from moving in late and leaving early. We both signed the tri-fold déclaration d'état des lieux, and she laughed, "How lucky we are that it's so simple in France. When I lived in Belgium, the état des lieux form was a 20-page tome and the landlord inspected every square centimeter with a magnifying glass! It was awful!"

We laughed again and said au revoir; and for the first time since I'd known her, we exchanged bisous.

"And keep in touch when you come back to Paris," she said. She really meant it.

Jewelry Heist of the Century in Paris

Definitely naughty, not at all nice.

Some thieves did some early holiday shop(lift)ing in Paris on Thursday.

To the tune of $100 million.

Dressed as women, the jewel-hungry villains robbed the Harry Winston boutique on avenue Montaigne at gunpoint in "the Heist of the Century," snatching diamonds, watches, and other jewelry.

Pere Noel will be depositing a lump of unrefined coal in their stockings this year. If he can find them, of course.

Cast-Offs

Walking around Paris, I never lack for visual surprises. Some -- most -- are splendid and architectural.

Others are subtle and enigmatic. For example, this pair of trousers splayed in the middle of the sidewalk off avenue Daumesnil in the 12th. They seem to be rather successfully running away from their owner.

A few days later, I spied the foot-weary partners, perhaps. They'd made it as far as boulevard Montparnasse.

Let me know if you find the rest of the outfit.

Echoes

It is after midnight.

I am riding home in a taxi from a farewell dinner. "Brrr. Il fait froid," says the driver. "Moins 2"

We make pleasant chit-chat and I note with irony that just as I'm leaving Paris I'm beginning to recognize the Celsius temperature readings without a mad mental scramble to do the math.

The car slides silently along the quai, past the Statue of Liberty on Ile de la Cygne, past the high-rise apartments across the Seine in the 15th. "How can I ever replace this?" I wonder. Even the mundane modern buildings take on importance. Suddenly the Eiffel Tower surges into sight; its brilliant blue lighting is breathtaking. For a brief moment I consider asking the driver to stop so I can take a photo, but it's too cold, I'm too tired, and I would have no way to upload it when I get home, because there is nothing left in the apartment.

Well, nothing but seven suitcases and a bed.

Entering the apartment, I feel like Audrey Hepburn's character in Charade, opening the door of her Parisian apartment to find it stripped bare. Mine lacks the gilt and the Givenchy of the Hollywood scenario; but the emptiness of a tall-ceilinged Parisian apartment is dramatic. In addition to the echoing from the parquet to the moldings, there is the stark blackness: I have no more lamps.

In the kitchen, one of two rooms with recessed ceiling lights, I sit at my improvised desk -- the rejected ironing board lowered to 3-feet tall -- and sit on a tiny metal sidetable, also a tag-sale reject.

Is this any way to spend the last night at my home in Paris?

It's odd. In every other house I've lived in I've felt a deep sense of sadness leaving the actual dwelling. Although I adore this apartment, I'm not emotionally attached to it. The sense of place and home, and the angst at leaving, is more about this big engulfing city.