Romance Literature

At a fabulous antiques sale/flea market today, I found not only a bolt of delectable brocade for an outstanding bargain, but also a collection of books. The sign over the collection read “Fine Literature",” and I realized upon examining the titles that the store owner had my kinda warped humor. I skipped lunch and bought the books.

So here are a few steamy titles to add to your summer beach bag reading list, now that the season is upon us. All date from the 1930s and 40s and were previously owned by a woman named Myrtle.

The characters have great period names like Rex Brandon, Miss Thayle, Roderick Tresmond, Ruth Robbins, with unimaginable lines such as: “’My darling,’ he said, ‘if you were one of those women you would not slap my face, you would get up and kiss me.’”

You catch the drift. Enjoy!

The subtitle for “Impatient Virgin” is You’ll Have to Admit She’s Good Company!

Les routiers sont sympa

Les routiers sont sympa = "Truck drivers are nice." A thought which has crossed my mind, yea and nay, in the fast lane of the 3500 miles I've chalked up on U.S. interstates in the past 10 days as I ricocheted from one ceremony to another, from South Carolina to Massachusetts to Virginia. I'm so tired I can hardly type!

But it made me think of this bumper sticker, which was a familiar sight on French autoroutes in the 70s and 80s; and the slogan was adopted in a French cartoon TV show featuring the classic character Titeuf.

But is it les routiers sont sympa or sympas in the plural?

I still am stumped.

Happy Bloggiversary to Moi

May 2006. I'd been in Paris for two months, writing up almost daily accounts of funny/exciting/extraordinary happenings, and emailing the stories to my friends and family.

At dinner one evening my friend Ariane said politely, "You ought to write a blog."

"Oh, gawd, I wouldn't know how to start a blog if it hit me over the head," was my brilliant technologically-challenged answer. I was handy enough with a computer, a master at googling, for example; but for cripe's sake, I still didn't know how to work my digital camera.

"Well, if you did have a blog, what would you name it?" sly girl asked.

"Polly-Vous Francais, of course," I answered without missing a beat. It had been my lifelong mantra.

The next morning I had an email from Ariane. "Dinner was fun. Oh, and Polly-Vous Francais is up and running. Here's your password. Start posting."

Ulp.

Thus it began. Here's the first post. And here's to many more! And thank you to all you lovely readers -- you are so much more than just little red dots in the map.

Last but not least, in honor of President Obama's preference for dijon mustard, here's my tale of being a lifelong mustard aficionado. "Looking back, I think this culinary discovery weighed heavily in my becoming such an ardent Francophile. Any country that truly understood and adored mustard the way I did simply had to have a permanent and central place in my life."

Hmm. Maybe he should consider me for that ambassador position.

Roast that French!

Oh, brother. Do we not even know how to pronounce the word café in this country?
Apparently McDo doesn’t think so. Check out the latest McDonald's ad touting the new McCafé.  Pronunciation lessons?

Lame attempts at Frenchifying ordinary workaday words is bad enough (commu-tay, cubi-clay?) Trying to make it seem “French” to be sipping a whipped-cream-topped iced mocha on the way to work is… a stretch. 

But must McDonald's really massacre the poor, unsuspecting, much-misunderstood accent aigu?

Deferred Maintenance

This house was simply too remarkable not to share.

I passed it in Chatham, Virginia, as I was on the home stretch of a long road trip. And it got me philosophizing as I wove my way down the ribbon of highway.

Kudzu: it's kind of like aging, or bills, or any of life's inexorable trials or tasks. Once you stop paying attention to the details, you're in deep doo-doo.

There certainly must be a tale to tell about this place. I'd love to know what it is. But I can't imagine that the owners ever expected that their once-lovely cottage would end up looking like a cross between the cottage of Blanche Neige and the castle of La Belle au Bois Dormant.

Air France Menu, 1973

This is where it all began, in a way. 

June 1973, flight from New York to Paris. My first trip to France.

I’ve saved this menu ever since.  The drawing is No. 4 extrait de la serie “Croquis de Voyages” by Florent Margaritis.

Not to be passéiste, but how wistful to think of the days when even flying in coach on Air France, passengers were fed well and given a menu (in French and English) of the in-flight meal.  Cloth napkins, real glasses and cutlery. Wine included with the meal, of course.

That dinner:

“Barquette of Shrimps à la Parisienne .

Breast of Chicken Cordon Bleu

Printanière of Small Vegetables

Salad of Season

Cheese

Pastry

Café de Colombie

For alcoholic drinks that are not served free of charge in Economy class, and other products on sale aboard, please kindly refer to the bar list which is at your disposition.”

Although I don’t have its menu, I also remember the August return flight vividly.  I had spent two months living with a family in France.  One of my favorite dishes that summer had been cervelle.  Although I had no idea what it was, I always consumed it with gusto.  So tender!  So delish!  It looked kind of like cauliflower, but the taste was delicate and exquisite. I never asked.

On the sad departing flight from France, my newly-found home, the Air France stewardess distributed the menus. Main course, as listed on the French left-hand side of the menu:  cervelle d’agneau.  “Oh, goody, cervelle, one last time!” I rejoiced. 

Then I looked at the English translation on the right-hand side of the menu. 

“Braised lambs’ brains.”

Ulp. I’d been eating that all summer?

It was at that precise moment that I decided never to judge a culinary book by its cover.  To enjoy and savor what appeals and delights, and not to worry about one’s culturally preconceived notions about food.

I’d still eat cervelle again, though I don’t think I have.  But it opened my eyes. 

I’m sure other folks have similar culinary-surprise tales to tell. I’d love to hear them. 

And then some time I’ll tell you about the saucisson-lookalike that we foisted on my daughter in Paris.

Heh.

Sleeping and Eating: the French Do it Best

Society at a Glance, a fascinating report just released by the OECD, reveals some fun information. Not only do the French sleep longer than citizens of other countries, but they spend more time eating, too. Over two hours a day, almost twice as much time a table as their American counterparts.

And then, with fewer waking hours remaining, they still get those 38 days of vacation.

Sigh.

May Day

Take a look at this depiction of le premier mai by La Perriere. A youthful figure constructed from stems of lily-of-the-valley, also carrying a pot of muguets to offer to a special friend, as is the tradition, on the first of May.

But look more closely at the ground beneath his feet.

Do you see the factories in the distance billowing smoke?

This May Day painting has the double message of sweet fragrant flowers and the toiling of the masses. For a bit of history of May Day in France, read here.

Forecast in France for Friday, May 1: protests. And the beginning of a long weekend.

The other French connection with May Day has nothing to do with lilies-of-the-valley or workers' unions. The international distress call, "Mayday, mayday" comes from the French m'aider. But you knew that already.

Related post: Le premier mai.

Remember to Breathe

It was a long winter, I guess.  Not harsh, but by April it was certainly time to exit hibernating mode.  First order of business:  membership in a sports club.

Duly attired in my suburban athletic garb, I arrived at the gym for the complimentary session with a personal fitness trainer.  Adriana was young, kind, and pretty, with the perfect All-American sculpted features one would expect of a Pilates pro.  In between the instruction for the postural improvement exercises --“pinch the scapulae in a V”  “balance on one foot on the foam block” “don’t forget to exhale!” – we chatted.  When I told her I’d just moved from Paris, her eyes lit up.  Or … were they actually catching the light as they rolled just a bit toward her raised eyebrows?

“Oh, that must have been interesting,” she offered with a warm smile. “How long were you there?”

“Three years,” I replied, pumping the 6-lb dumbbells from the waist, trying to remember to breathe.

“You know,” she continued, shaking her head a bit, “when I was in college one of my sorority sisters spent a year studying in Paris. When she came back, she was so… different.  She had all this French stuff decorating her room, she missed her life there.  She got kind of depressed.  And she gained weight and complained about it. About driving and American eating habits.  She kept saying, ‘But in Paris we walked everywhere!’ She still wanted to do things the French way.” Adriana shrugged.

“Yeah,” I said.

Rendezvous in Paris, 1976

Click here to start an amazing video.

My son just skyped me. “Hey, Mom, have you seen Rendezvous in Paris?” with a link to this 10-minute video. Watch it if you have the time!
Incredible footage. From the You Tube site:

On an August morning in 1976, French filmmaker Claude Lelouch mounted a gyro-stabilized camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and had a friend, a professional Formula 1 racer, drive at breakneck speed through the heart of Paris early in the morning . The film was limited for technical reasons to 10 minutes; the course was from Porte Dauphine , through the Louvre, to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur.
The driver completed the course in about 9 minutes, reaching nearly 140 MPH in some stretches. The footage reveals him running real red lights, nearly hitting real pedestrians, and driving the wrong way up real one-way streets.
Upon showing the film in public for the first time, Lelouch was arrested. He has never revealed the identity of the driver, and the film went underground

While watching, I thought “Of course this could only take place in August, when the streets are deserted. And early enough so that most people are still asleep. Probably a Sunday?”
And, on a nostalgic note, Paris has, euh…, changed a bit in 31 years. Look at all those 2 chevaux, for one thing.

Update 2010: apparently this You Tube video has been removed from all sites. Not sure why. So worth watching. Perhaps some copyright issues?

2011: It was 1976, not 1978, and I'm trying to add the video again. Fingers crossed

L'Homme bien bati, la femme bien faite

Somehow I always imagined that the Charles Atlas-type I-was-a-97-lb-weakling ads were an American phenomenon, limited to the front and back pages of the Archie & Veronica or Superman comic books of my youth.

But here's an ad that I found from a 1954 issue of Realites magazine.

"Here are, FREE, are the secrets of
The well built man ... and virile
The well-made woman ... and seductive.



What's more, this was not merely a 50s trend: the exercise company had been in existence in Paris for about 25 years.
And I thought working out in France was a new concept! Silly me.

Mostly, though, I have pondered and pondered the semantics and linguistics of this ad, and of the phrases in general. In French, a man with a good body is well built, while a woman is well made.

Enlighten me, someone.


Related post: French Women Don't Get Fat but Americans Do

Schiaparelli, 1949

An intriguging item of beachwear design by Schiaparelli 60 years ago.

Hmm. For you fashionistas reluctant to give up your Snuggies in the warmer months, I guess there's hope.

Plus ca change...

Poodles on Parade

Omidog. Sometimes I just love American life.

The French may have invented joie de vivre, but we Americans act it out in such a fun and frolicking fabulous frou-frou fashion:

I have just gotten word of the Annual French Poodle Parade in Santa Barbara, California, part of French week celebrating Bastille Day. This year the festivities for fluffy canines with a certain je ne sais quoi will be held on July 12. If we're lucky there might be an appearance by Mademoiselle Pseudo-Poodle, a Great Dane with crepe paper-puffs.

So that gives me less than three months to a) buy or borrow a poodle and b) get a ticket to Santa Barbara, or c) start a copy-cat (copy-dog?) Poodle Parade here on the East Coast.

French Club, 1973

I don't really remember what we did in French Club, except hang out and try to speak in French. A few dozen high-school girls who loved French and France. Did we just love the language or was it the overall allure?

Francophile that I was, I continued with French Club (co-ed!) in college, then moved on to membership in one Alliance Francaise or another as an adult. Recently I joined another French conversation group; we gather once a week for tea and chatter away en francais like schoolgirls. Er, I'm the second-youngest member, though. You do the math.

If you want to be in a French Club, but there isn't one around, you can always start one yourself, of course.

p.s. I'm on the lower right of the photo

Why didn't I notice this in France?

Aarrgh.

In my shipment of household belongings from Paris was my much-used, much-loved Laguiole cutlery. Perfect for casual entertaining.

On Easter weekend I set five places at the breakfast table. Something was really wrong.

The handles didn't all go in the same direction. My ingrained etiquette dictated that the knife blade face the plate, of course. But in doing so, the fork and spoon handles faced away from the knife. The visual disarray made me seasick.

How could Laguiole POSSIBLY make a cutlery set that didn't match? (Sure, I bought it at a discount at Carrefour, but even so...) I fumed.

And why hadn't I noticed this in Paris?

Oh. Lightbulb pops.

In France the forks and spoons are placed on the table face down. See how they line up all pretty like sloops in a harbor?

I guess I'll have to carry on the French method of table setting here in the U.S., because I simply can't abide the visual disharmony of wayward flatware.

Footsie

Under the table:

Slim feet touching tentatively.

A tangle of legs delicately entwined.

Around the table:

Fragile hearts holding back.

Arms artfully posed.

I just love French patio furniture.

Joyeuses Paques

Caught in a downpour when visiting the Marche aux Timbres last week, I lingered a while under the plastic tenting and perused the collections of stamps and cartes postales.  (I love stamps, in case no one has noticed.  Never have been any good at organizing them in a proper philatelic fashion; but the colors and designs are so appealing. Each one a miniature work of art.)

After purchasing a few packets of stamps, I found this adorable Happy Easter card.

Whenever I acquire an old letter, I have a ‘satiable curiosity to learn more about Google its original owner.  Surely there is a human-interest story in any document treasured for so many years, then disposed of.

The flipside of the postcard reads:

“to my little friend Madeleine; best regards to her maman; big kiss to her”

My mind conjures up all sorts of scenarios. To get a bit of context, I Google-mapped the address.  It no longer exists.  The building where this little girl Madeleine lived with her mother was apparently razed a while ago.  What is there now is the gaping Place de Catalogne, a magnificent but over-sized and inhospitable circle of buildings near the gare Montparnasse.

I wonder what ever became of Madeleine and her maman. 

Vent or ventilate?

Very soon, at Charles de Gaulle Airport, indoor smokers’ cabins will be installed in each wing of the Galerie Parisienne, and also in the corridors between Terminals 2D, 2F, and 2E. Overlooking the runways, each transparent Plexiglas cabin will accommodate up to 15 smokers at a time. Orly, on the other hand, will still restrict smoking to designated outdoor areas.

I gleaned this intriguing tidbit of information from the Aeroports de Paris magazine.

Here are a few interesting comments I’ve translated from the website of ExpairSystem, the manufacturer of the Smokers’ Cabins. Interesting, because in my mind it illustrates a difference between French and American views of smokers. In America, I think we tend to say “Just say NO to smoking!” Read on.

"Why Install a Space for Smokers?

Smokers’ cabins benefit everyone, both smokers and non-smokers.

They take into consideration both the respect for all those around us and the laws protecting all from second-hand smoke.

They protect non-smokers from secondhand smoke but also respect smokers in light of their tobacco dependence.

According to statistics, smokers still comprise 30% of the French population. They have rights to equal treatment. For some, cigarettes are a drug.

Being prevented from smoking can cause, in some cases, behavior that is aggressive and sometimes uncontrollable and stupid.

Because for these people, it's not easy to find a substitute for a cigarette.

Because it's not always easy to manage stress. So, what is the least harmful solution for their health: light up a cigarette or be prescribed antidepressants?

Because the absence of special smoking places can produce impolite behavior or improper behavior, potential risks of accidents (smoking in bathrooms, smoking in dangerous but hidden locations, hiding butts in seat cushions etc., which cause fires). Installation of smokers' cabins assures a plan based on practical solutions of managing smoking risks.

Because it can help your business -- you will not lose clients just because they can no longer smoke inside your establishment. In addition, non-smokers can visit your premises in total peace and enjoyment."

I saw one of these cabins (website http://www.expairsystem.com/) in use in a private club in Paris on rue de Rivoli last winter. I have to say it was pretty cool. The smoker was on the inside, leaning on the mini-zinc having a glass of wine and a cigarette, and he could still see and converse with his non-smoking friends outside the Plexiglas, through the ventilation holes. Not a whiff of smoke outside the cabin. And not that horrible stale tobacco odor lingering on the clothing of the smoker who's just come in from the cold, because in the cabin the smoke gets pulled away immediately.

I wonder. Only 20% or so of Americans smoke cigarettes, last I heard. Would we be this pragmatic? Should we vent about smokers or ventilate them?

Paris Celebrates Americans

Why does the Statue of Liberty stand in New York Harbor?

Nyuk-nyuk. We know the snappy answer.

Ah, but why does the Statue of Liberty travel across Paris?

This is for real. Joggers in the Jardin du Luxembourg who are accustomed to seeing the diminutive version of Bartholdi’s Lady Liberty (Liberte eclairant le monde) need not be alarmed at her absence. Today she embarked on a trip across Paris and has ended up in the Jardin d’Acclimatation to participate in a month-long exhibit about Americans in Paris.

She will be accompanied by other icons of American culture, including some classic cars, and baseball demonstrations. Will there be hot dogs and apple pie, too? There will be weekend parades featuring American-style cheerleaders and “super dunks". (?). Also jazz and gospel music, movies, and more.

The Jardin d’Acclimatation (and even my French friends stumble when saying it) is a children’s park in the Bois de Boulogne in the 16e arrondissemment. Check out the Jardin’s website here, though be warned that when I checked the English version wouldn’t pop up.

April 10 – May 11

10 am to 6 pm (7 pm in May)

Entrance fee adults and children: 2€70

Jardin d’Acclimataion – metro Les Sablons

Parisian Chandelier Makeover

Paris is my mecca for inspired home decor on the cheap.  I wasn't disappointed this time.

Here's the skinny.  

In the dining room of the Virginia house I'm renting, there is a black colonial wrought-iron chandelier.  In and of itself, not a bad lighting fixture.  But to my eyes it was too austere for the room, and the pseudo-Provencal lampshades didn't go with the rest of the Polly look or color scheme.  And besides, my Parisian sensibilities called for something a bit softer, more feminine. I hung some pearl Christmas strands to soften it, but it still needed more. 

I found the remedy in Paris -- where else?

While out shopping last week, a few blocks down from BHV on rue de Rivoli, I stumbled upon one of those Paris-Affaires shops, kind of like Dollar Stores in the US.  They had bunches and bunches of the prettiest fake flowers I've seen in a long time.  I scooped up 3 bottes, 3€50 each.

Saturday at the Marche aux Puces in Vanves, I was actually looking for some Luneville plates.  No luck.  But I did spot some wacky crystal bobeches in a variety of pastel colors.  A few were missing a hanging crystal or two, and the owner was clearly eager to get rid of them to this ignorant American lady.  I smiled all the way home, having purchased 6 bobeches for 15€.

I haven't even finished unpacking my suitcase, but I couldn't suppress my urge to re-look my chandelier.

Should I keep the bobeches?  (Final photo)

 

 

 

 

Should I entwine the pearls?  The photos don’t really do it justice.

Glimpses of Paris

Paris is full of arches.
Not just the Arc de Triomphe. Here are three I happened upon.


The lacy iron gate at the rear entrance to the Elysee Palace on avenue Gabriel. Not your average backyard fence!



A hidden courtyard near the Bastille. Oh, wow: I want to live here.

This sumptuous Sleeping-Beauty bed in Merci, a cool, ultra-hip new store on boulevard Beaumarchais.

Paris Wows with Colors??

Usually I find it's pretty predictable to figure out what the 'it' color will be in Paris by spotting a glimpse of a certain hue a few times on the street. Well, I was stumped this time -- the only exceptional color I noticed parading along on the Parisian sidewalks was a fair amount of fuchsia-colored scarves. Surely that's not the new trend, I thought.

If only.

Looking for a fashion weather vane, I poked around to see what was being promoted in the store windows. Get ready, folks. Think no further than your Easter-egg dyeing kit, or your bag of Skittles, because this season's hot colors are apparently all variations on sweet candy.

Bubble-gum pink, apple green and an electric blue ...best left undescribed.

For those who can't stomach the brightest of brights, a creamier, paler pastel version is also acceptable.

OK fashion gods, have at it: Paris has gone 60's preppy. Neo-preppy? Neon-preppy? Who knows?

The BCBG window says it all.

But also home decor, this at Madura. Get me my PAAS egg-dyeing kit! Vinegar and those little metal hoops for holding the eggs.

And you men can stop hiding in your navy, forest green and cognac-colored duds. Oh, no, you are not spared. PINK is all over men's apparel.

Uh, right down to the unmentionables. No more tighty-whiteys -- now the nec plus ultra is -- what? -- slinky-pinkies?

Last spring I spotted a few street glimpses of this color trend, and photographed samples at Calypso, a chic boutique in the 16e; but, then, as far as I could see it never really panned out. Yes, one year ago, no kidding: I was all ready to contact Lilly Pulitzer and convince the owner to open a boutique in Paris (with me as marketing consultant?) to capture the magic of the fashion moment. But I figured it was just a flash in the pan.

Dang.

Coulda woulda shoulda.

Update: I wanted to include the photo taken last year at Calypso, just to make me an honest woman. Here it is:

O QWERTY, Where Art Thou?

Zell here I q, in Pqris hqving q greqt ti,e except the zifi connection qt ,y hostùs house isnùt zorking so I hqvr ot use the French keyboqrd zhen the co,puter is qvqilqble for ,e to use:

This is not q poisson dùqvril1:

Dpnùt zorry; Iùll upsqte zith so,e reql English once I cqn get ,y hqnds pp or shuld I sqy ,y fingers pp on qn Q,ericqn keyboqrd once qgqin:

Qnd Iùll include lots of photos fro, ,y trqvels: It is zonderful to be bqck; even for q short zeek; qnd nqturqlly Iùve spent ,ore ti,e visitng friends qnd the city qnd not so ,uch ti,e leqrning to use azerty:

So,eone else cqn trqslqte in the co,,ents if you cqnùt figure out thie gibberish: ?es Qpologies1

Q bientot1

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?