In a parka do bun do?

"In a parka do bun do, in a parka do bun doooo...."

Well, at least that's how I first understood the lyrics to "Dominique," the wildly popular song in the early 1960s.  You remember, Dominique-nique-nique?  Sung by the Singing Nun, aka Soeur Sourire, it was already a hit when she made her debut on the Ed Sullivan show.



My family owned the LP back in those school-girl days before I knew any French.  So I used to spend hours curled up on the sofa listening to "Dominique" over and over, trying to decipher "onto shemay altude you, in a parka do bun do."

Then I found the lyrics printed on the album cover.

Dominique -nique -nique s'en allait tout simplement,
Routier, pauvre et chantant.
En tous chemins, en tous lieux,'
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu,
Il ne parle que du Bon Dieu.

I must have worn a groove in the vinyl as I repeated the torture until not only could I match each written word to the sung French but  --  at long last  -- was actually able to repeat it.

It's still incredible to me to think that a French song about a saint could have topped the charts on American pop radio.  Soeur Sourire eventually disappeared from view, and I despised the saccharin Debbie Reynolds film version of her.

I'd forgotten about her over the years.

Then on last Sunday's episode of Mad Men, what comes filtering out of Miss Farrell's apartment when she opens the door?  Yup.  Domnique -nique -nique.

And now in a parka do bun do is stuck in my brain.

Opinel Knives in the U.S.

Opinel.  For those who know it, the very name conjures up impromptu picnics in the French countryside.  Relaxed on a blanket in the shade, using your folding Opinel knife to cut a slender wedge of brie or saucisson, slicing a piece of crisp apple or juicy pear.  To me, anyway, an Opinel knife equals quintessential, classic France. Simple and perfect.

An Opinel was always a perfect inexpensive gift to bring home from France (tucked securely in checked luggage!) because, after all, Opinel knives aren't available in the U.S.  Right?

Wrong!  Opinel knives are now sold online through Opiknife.com.  Every kind of Opinel imaginable, it seems, from the blunter Opinel Jr. to more serious stainless steel folding knives to last a lifetime.

I spoke with Frederic, the owner/distributor of Opinel USA. "I had my first knife when I was about ten," he said.  "It seems most Americans don't give their kids knives to learn how to use them any more."  We agreed that this was a shame:  the joys of whittling and proper knife usage seem to be largely ignored.  On the other hand, maybe I just haven't met the right American kids.  Maybe they do still teach proper knife usage in the Boy Scouts?

But here's the extra-cool part, and the reason that I discovered Opinel in America in the first place.  Opinel France has made limited edition Lafayette-Hermione folding knives from the excess wood of the reconstruction of Lafayette's boat l'Hermione.  And the handle is stamped with the name.  Opinel is donating a percentage of the proceeds to helping l'Hermione make her voyage to the east coast of the U.S. in 2012.

Blog Action Day 2009

Today is Global Blog Action Day.  When I was first asked to participate, I knew immediately what I wanted to write about.

If you have an hour and a half to spare for the planet, I highly recommend French photographer and environmentalist Yann Arthus-Bertrand's exquisite 90-minute documentary Home, produced by Luc Besson.  The photography is breathtaking and the message is compelling.  Earth is our fragile island home -- the only home we have.  Our challenges in taking care of our home today and in the future are complex.

Arthus-Bertrand, perhaps best known for his documentary and book Earth from Above (La Terre vue du ciel) has given up author's rights to Home so that all may see it on the web.  You'll be glad you did.

For more information check out his website GoodPlanet.

Inside the Embassies of Paris

Paris, as a capital city, is host to hundreds of embassies, many in sumptuous palaces. But the grand architecture we now associate with the missions of the foreign countries wasn't always the case.

During the Ancien Regime, most foreign emissaries to Paris were housed wherever appropriate lodging could be found -- and often according to the value of their good graces to the Court and a complex hierarchy of precedence.

But in the 19th century, with increased international relations, came the necessity of finding permanent dwellings for these foreign ministries. The opportunity for housing befitting a nation presented itself in the wake of the French Revolution. Many grand mansions of the aristocracy, now vacant, were acquired for the diplomatic missions.

Each of these beautiful hôtels in the "noble faubourgs" of Saint Germain and Saint-Honoré, and the rococo palaces near the Parc Monceau, is now a small island of homeland of the country it represents. As such, they are not normally open to the general public (although a few might fling open their doors briefly on les Journees du Patrimoine.)

We thus too seldom have a chance to view their lush, gilt interiors, their art treasures and ornate carved panelling. These chancelleries and embassies remain as mysterious to us as the intricate codes of diplomacy.

Now we have the good fortune -- at least in book form -- to peek inside for the first time.  In Ambassades à Paris, author and historian Elisabeth Martin de Clausonne and photographer Hermine Cleret take us inside for a tour of these magnificent buildings. Text is in French, but the photos speak for themselves.

"French Taxes" Phishing Scam

I'm such a sucker when it comes to authority.  Especially when the authority is French and I'm not sure if I've done something wrong. I wilt with guilt, while hastily trying to figure out how to excuse/charm my way out of it.

But today, in my email inbox was a new challenge.  A notice from impots.gouv.fr informing me that I was eligible for a tax rebate.

Après les derniers calculs annuels de l'exercice de votre activité, nous avons déterminé que vous êtes admissible à recevoir un remboursement d'impôt de € 178,80.

 S'il vous plaît soumettre la demande de remboursement d'impôt et nous permettre de 10 jours ouvrables pour le traitement.

Pour accéder au formulaire pour votre remboursement d'impôt, cliquez ici


Un remboursement peut être retardé pour diverses raisons. Par exemple la soumission des dossiers non valides ou inscrivez après la date limite.

I ran through my mental rolodex of taxes duly paid. Taxe d'habitation? Check.  Redevance audiovisuelle?   Check.   Taxe... well, check, check, and check.  But something didn't ring right -- ca ne clochait pas.  I had never given the Fisc my blog email address.

So I google-checked it, and sure enough, on the Fisc website there is a current  warning of a phishing scam.

Just so you know.

Polly Goes to Paris

Fabric is so cool.  Have I mentioned my love affair with fabric?  Oh, yes I have.

So I was naturally ,er, ego-pleased to see this sweet Paris-icon fabric called "Polly Goes to Paris."  Zee poodles!  Zee Eiffel Tower!  Zee bicyclettes! Zee cafes!

A-do-rable!

Paris Notes

It is with great sadness that I learned today that Paris Notes, a venerable insider's guide to the BEST of everything Paris, is ceasing publication.   For so many years before I lived in Paris, it was my umbilical cord to France when I was longing to live there; and it was a source of irreplaceable information and tips even when I was a denizen of the City of Light.

Editor Mark Eversman reports:

During the past 17 years it has been our distinct privilege to provide you with passionate, reliable, quality Paris information. We've visited every corner of the city, dined in hundreds of restaurants, checked out countless hotel rooms, had more than a few coffees in a multitude of cafés, ogled art and artifacts in every single museum in the city, walked hundreds of blister-prone miles of Paris sidewalks, interviewed luminaries and lightweights alike, endured weather of all extremes, and kept a daily vigil for even the smallest shred of information that would be of interest to you, the Paris Notes reader.

Good news for those who love Paris is that the last 50 issues of Paris Notes are now available for free to read and save -- and savor.  Should be bound -- enshrined --  in book form, in my estimation.

When a door is shut, a window is opened, I guess,  So fabulous France Today magazine has agreed to meet the needs of current Paris Notes subscribers for the remainder of their subscriptions.

Happy reading to all, and best wishes for future endeavors to all who contributed to almost two decades of such a wonderful publication.

Curious (non) connections?

This photo just appeared in the Huffington Post's "Funniest Protest Signs of 2009," which admittedly has some real doozies.  Check 'em out.

But curiously, the HuffPo caption for the photo was "Polly Vous Francais?"

Trust me, HuffPo, I didn't submit that.

Here, have some Chocolate

"Tell us that chocolate story, Mommy!" my kids would beg when they were little. "Pleeez?!"

So I would once again tell them about visiting my friend Isa in France. At about 5 pm, when we were in initial preparation for dinner, her kids were hanging out in the kitchen. They started pulling grapes from the fruit basket and popping them in their mouths. Isa reprimanded them. "Stop eating all that fruit. You'll ruin your appetite. Here, have some chocolate instead." She handed them a tablette of dark chocolate. They each took a square or two.

At each telling, my kids would giggle anew with delight; and that anecdote became a staple in the family repertoire of Why We Like France: chocolate instead of fruit before dinner??!!

When I lived in Paris, I lost any sweet tooth I may have had. Lunches or dinners were rarely followed by dessert, but I almost always had a little espresso and a square of dark chocolate. I'm not much of a chocolate connoisseur, but I found that even the thin Nestle or Cote d'Or square were silky and had just enough bite to make them interesting.

Here in the US, it's been a challenge to find the proper chocolate replacement. Lindt hasn't done the trick. I can't remember all the varieties I've tried, but I have thrown out many big bars of unacceptable chocolate. It's as if the manufacturers think that it has to be bitter or sweet. Besides, the bars are all too thick for my taste.

Yesterday at the local gourmet foods grocery store, at long last I found Ghiradelli chocolate in individually-wrapped thin squares. Yesss! I was thinking. The perfect dessert. I was recapturing, I hoped, a bit of Parisian life.

Then, at the check-out. The courteous cashier rang up the salmon, the cous-cous, the wine, the grapes. She held the chocolate out to me. "Did you want to keep the candy in your handbag, ma'am?"



Update:  this photo (via Nestle)  is of the chocolate that kept me happy in Paris.  Chocolate with bits of cocoa bean.  That's not candy, it's cuisine!

What French Women Know, Part 2

What do you get when you cross a francophile and a bibliophile? 

This:

A lot of great books have been written by women attempting to explain the French mystique.  These are just the ones that I own, that I could find quickly. They are piled up in no particular order.  All but one written by non-French women.  All worth a read.  (Yes, that is Olivia deHavilland's book you see in the middle.  Written in the 1950s and still timely!)

It's not an exhaustive collection; and feel free to suggest your favorites if not included in the photo.  Off the top of my head, most notably missing are books I've lent to friends, such as Petite Anglaise, Paris Hangover, and everything by Diane Johnson.

Making any list is terrible because there will be unforgivable omissions.  I humbly apologize in advance (like fraulein Maria kissing the ground before the nuns walk by). 

Please go out to your local bookstore or library or favorite online book source, and enjoy these.

As I said, I'm a francophile and a bibliophile.  I wanted to pay tribute to an incredible posse of writers describing what French women know. 

All that glitters isn't goldfish. Or is it?

It's time for a break in the action. Definitely.

And as long as I'm living my life in a fishbowl these days, I figured it was about time to have a Special Someone in my life to share it with. My last Special Someone, alas, is still in Paris, hanging out with a woman named Sofia.

And since companionship-seeking is not the kind of activity I feel comfortable doing on line, I'm heading to town for some action.

Yup, I'm a-goin' to the pet store to buy me a goldfish.


You may remember my tales of Lou-Lou in Paris. I sadly bid her adieu when she was adopted during my final days in Paris by some lovely people. Afterward they emailed me periodic updates as to her health and general happiness. We've lost touch a bit, though. I don't know how Lou-Lou is these days. Or if Lou-Lou is these days.

But to paraphrase Camus, il faut imaginer Lou-Lou heureux.


Poisson rouge# 1 was Matisse. Poisson rouge #2 was Lou-Lou (named for Louise de Vilmorin).

Poisson rouge # 3 is yet to be named, and I am taking suggestions.

What French Women Know: Part One

Wow. French epistolary literature is beginning a new era. I bring you the first chapter: What French Women Know.
_______________________


August 14, 2009

Dear Polly,

I finally found you! I'm an author with a new book coming out next month about French women ("What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind"). A few years ago, while I was writing the book and talking to countless French women, someone sent me a copy of a blog post about flirting in France. It was a personal anecdote. The post didn't have a source. I thought it was a perfect representation of a fleeting moment of French flirtation (experienced by an American), and I quoted it in my manuscript. When it got time for serious copy-editing, no one (not me, not my editor) could find the source of the anecdote, and it was deemed officially off-line. (This is a windy road getting to my point...bear w/me!) Then just last month I was in Paris, met [name of Parisian blogger], she sent me a post she'd written about lingerie, which had a reference to a piece you'd written, which lead me to your blog, which led me to... the anecdote above.

All this to say, first, bonjour. Am very glad to have finally "met/found" you. I'd love to send you a galley of my new book, and also tip my hat to you in my blog. I finally got a new web site up (www.whatfrenchwomenknow.com) which will soon have a blog, though -- full disclosure -- I'm not much of a blogger. It will probably be more random/impressionistic than journal-ish. Still, I'll find a place to salute you.

If you sent me your snail mail address, I'll make sure you get a galley asap. In the meantime, hope you're doing well wherever you are. Perhaps one day our paths will cross in France.

Best,

Debra (Ollivier)

Same day, reply. Blogger fawning over published author:

Hi Debra!

So good to hear from you. Your first book was kind of a bible of mine, so I may be a little biased when I read the next one. I think you won't mind... Sorry I never wrote you any fan mail -- I may have mentioned it in the blog.

I would love to read a galley proof of your book. So happy you have another one soon to be published. [here I inserted my snail mail address].

And let me know if you need any help with your blog. They're not obvious, and I spent my first two years in Paris going from zero to sixty on the blog learning-curve. At least I now have an extra transferable skill.

Keep in touch.

Best,
Polly


A full two weeks later. Too late to correct galleys? Bound book (not galleys) received chez moi August 27, with concomitant outraged What?! You Forgot to Credit my Blog!? post published. After twenty-four hours attempting to calm my rattled nerves, I wrote this:

August 28, 2009:

Dear Victoria [publicist at G.P. Putnam; cc'd to Debra Ollivier]

Yesterday I received an advance copy of "What French Women Know," published by G.P. Putnam and with an anticipated sale date of September 3, 2009.

And while I was pleased to start reading it and found the book had great merit, I was startled and upset to find that a long passage of my original work was printed therein without permission or attribution. I am the proprietor of all copyright in a literary/artistic work entitled "Polly-Vous Francais?" http://pollyvousfrancais.blogspot.com, which I began writing in May 2006.

The text on pages 25-26 of "What French Women Know" is identical to my copyrighted work. Since permission to use my work was not granted it therefore legally constitutes infringement of my rights.

In normal circumstances, an infringement of copyrighted material would bring demand that you immediately do one or more of the following.
1. remove all infringing content and notify me in writing that you have done so;
2. credit all infringing content to myself in a manner to be deemed appropriate;
3. immediately cease the use and distribution of copyrighted material;
4. undertake in writing to desist from using any of my copyrighted Work in future without prior written authority from me.

Not being litigious by nature, however, I would prefer as a first step to discuss with you and the editorial department at G.P. Putnam some positive and appropriate way to correct this ethical and legal wrong.

I await to hear from you at your earliest convenience, but by no later than close of business on Tuesday September 1, 2009.


Yours truly,

[Polly etc.]

Received Tuesday evening, September 1

Dear [Polly-Vous Francais]

I received your e-mail last Friday, August 28. It was my intention from the start to fully credit the passage that I used from your blog; as you know, I was unsuccessful at locating your blog in order to specifically attribute the passage at the time I was writing the book. I am pleased that I now have the opportunity to do so.

I have spoken with my publisher and they will include the name of your blog in future reprints of my book as well as in the paperback edition. So please let me know how you would like your blog credited; I will then pass that information on to my publisher. Thanks very much.

Sincerely,

Debra Ollivier
________________________________________

Hmm. Of course, reprints and paperback rights are an interesting offer, assuming the book gets to that point. But what about the current audio-book versions, e-book versions, and foreign rights, such as China? Methinks we need to reconsider.

I've been so touched that friends, colleagues, and peers -- including my wonderful readers -- have sent kind words of support. Some have sent reviews to Amazon mentioning the copyright flap. Curiously, all of those reviews seem to have been yanked by unknown powers. Keep trying!

Meanwhile I find myself in a bizarre David vs. Goliath pseudo-battle that I never wanted or anticipated.

My question is now: am I sabotaging my own efforts to some day get my own book published if I make a stink out of this? If so, that's my loss, I guess. But I believe it's the right thing to do.

I'm no Donna Quixote, but I just call it as I see it.

Top Ten Expat Blogs about Paris

This brightened my day! This week Polly-Vous Francais was named one of the top ten expat blogs about Paris in Arthur Frommer's online Budget Travel.

Budget Travel has always been one of my favorite resources. Now it is my number one!

Obsessed about Paris? Um, actually, I guess I am.



Un grand merci to Budget Travel -- and kudos to all on the list. There are so many great Paris blogs.

Please don't pick the flowers

In my recent peregrinations on the East Coast of the U.S., I came across this sign.

It struck me as funny. Because in the multitudes of delightful flowering gardens both public and private in Paris, I never saw signs admonishing passersby not to pick flowers. I guess it's simply understood: if the beauty of the landscape is there for all to admire, you just don't snap off a blossom to take home for your personal use.

Which brings me to a delicate confession. Perhaps an analogy? Or just a story.

A few years ago a Certain College Student Who Shall Remain Nameless had come home to Paris on summer break, with one of his pals from school. One morning, after the gents had spent the previous evening acquainting themselves with Parisian nightlife, I found near their sleeping quarters an exquisite, huge rose. Pale salmon, petals edged with deep pink. A prizewinning bloom.

When they finally awoke, I asked about the rose.

"Um, I don't remember exactly where we got it," said my darling miscreant. "I think it was some garden near the Eiffel Tower."

Aghast. I was aghast. But I held my composure. "Sweetie, I said, "there are so many gorgeous flowers growing all over Paris. No one picks the flowers. It's just not done."

"But it was in a spot where no one would really notice," he said. "I didn't think anyone would mind. It was just one flower, and it smelled great!"

"I know," I replied. "But that's not the point. I don't even need to say the classic 'if everyone did this' what the consequences would be. The point is that someone else -- whether a professional gardener or some little old lady -- spent a lot of time cultivating that rose. It belongs to that person, who lovingly grew that flower so that the the rest of the world could enjoy it."

"So," I concluded my sermon, "I know you won't ever EVER do this again. But if some time you lose your senses and commit such an egregious mistake again, please do me one favor."


"Okay," he said. He seemed genuinely contrite.

"Please promise me that if someone ever catches you in the unforgivable act of snatching a flower from a garden, you'll make up a really convincing Parisian-style story. Fabricate a clever story and tell them you simply had to have it to win the heart of a beautiful girl you were in love with. Anything. Just don't try to defend your right to take a flower because you thought no one would notice or care."


I turned and walked away to fix some coffee, shaking my head at how much I'd learned in Paris.

What!? You Forgot to Credit My Blog!?

Dearest, darlingest, G.P. Putnam,

Right now I am so upset that my hands are shaking. My mind is racing, my heart is pounding. I can hardly type.

On the one hand, I am flattered, G.P.! Flattered that Debra Ollivier chose to excerpt my blog in her soon-to-be published-by-you book What French Women Know. On the other hand I am having a heck of a time calming myself down. Pacing. Rattled. Why? You may have guessed. She didn't attribute a full page of well-crafted prose to me.

Nope, she instead simply said "Take this typical blog posted by an American woman in a Parisian grocery store," then proceeded to quote one of my most popular blog posts on French Flirting.

How popular is that post, you ask? Excellent question, G.P. Putnam. It is very, very popular. You know how to Google, don't you, G.P.? Try googling the phrase "French Flirting" and see what pops up first. Not merely on the first page of Google hits, but THE number one. Why, goodness me, that's the very post she used in her book. Look, look, G.P.!

A bit of history. A few weeks ago I was flattered to receive an email from Debra Ollivier, asking me to review a galley proof of her book, and to apologize for inadvertently failing to attribute a quote from my blog. "At last I found you!" she said, with a drawn-out story about how it had been too difficult to track down and credit the source. Neither she nor her editor (your editor) had been able to find me! Pourtant, G.P. Putnam, I am no shrinking violet. No Writing Wallflower! Polly-Vous Francais is anything but anonymous.

At the time I assumed that she had perhaps made a vague reference to one of many insightful posts on my blog. Debra promised to "make up for it" by mentioning me in her blog. (Naive moi, I even responded by offering to HELP her with her blog. You know, we writers lending a hand to each other and all. Ha!)

O excuse me, G.P. Putnam, but Debra's blog gets how many hits? And tell me, G.P., is that how publishers and authors make amends these days for failing to give proper credit to a source? By a follow-up mention in their blog? (FWIW, G.P. Putnam, my blog gets a quarter of a million page pageloads annually.)

And here is my quandary, G. P. Putnam. As soon as FedEx delivered the book today, I kicked off my shoes, got my reading glasses, and guiltily ignored the pressing need to send out more job applications. I wanted to dive right into the book; I knew it would be a tour de force. I had actually forgotten about the pesky attribution issue Debra had mentioned weeks earlier. "Hmm, this book is really, really good," I was thinking to myself as I read. "So intelligent. So well written." Then I reached page 25, and saw the quoted text. "Oh goodie, this is me!" was my first reaction. Yes, she had quoted it properly, precisely. The section of my blog post (the original is here) continued on page 26, taking up a full page of her book. "Wee! She likes me!" I first thought, glowing with pride. I continued reading for a bit, but a nasty feeling started creeping over me. Wait a sec. Wait a sec. This isn't RIGHT!

And that, G.P. Putnam, is when I started shaking in anger. This wasn't just a little blurb. It was a full page! Dear, dear, G. P., I think you must have copy editors who know how to check quoted text by inserting it into a Google search and seeing what pops up. And then to give FULL CREDIT to the writer. Don't you?

Alors, now what, G.P. Putnam? Do I keep blogging away, unpaid, my work unattributed in your book? Do I jump up and down and scream and say "How about me? How about MY writing?" for a while? Do I point out the little copyright sign at the bottom of my blog and start calling dial-a-lawyer?

I don't know.

But I'm not going to take this lying down.

The Liberation of Paris

Today marks the 65th anniversary of the Liberation of Paris.

All around Paris there are daily reminders of the Liberation, such as this plaque. Read more here.

Starting at 4:45 pm today there will be an official ceremony at the Hotel de Ville in Paris, including une Evocation Historique en 5 Actes.

Additionally, a smaller ceremony at the Mairie of the 7e arrondissement will take place at noon. Rachida Dati, other elected officials, and Anciens combattants will commemorate the anniversary. 116 rue de Grenelle.

If you are not in Paris, but have a half hour to spare, do yourself a favor and watch this documentary, filmed in secret during those weeks in August -- from the first insurrections in mid-August to the victory parade with the 2nd French Armored and 4th US Division. It includes General De Gaulle's famous "Paris brisé! Paris martyrisé! Mais Paris libéré!" speech. It's all in French, but you'll understand.

Click here to watch the film.

Paris in August is ...

Paris in August. Paris au mois d'août.

It is decidedly not like the other eleven months.

What do you think of Paris in August?

Charles Aznavour had his opinion.



There are juillettistes who prefer to take vacation in July. And aoûtiens who prefer to be away in August. I've offered a few reflections of my own from time to time. Peacefulness. Parking. Men. In no particular order. And don't get me started on the OO vs. OOT pronunciation.

But being ever so open-minded, I value others' opinions. So, the Polly-Vous Francais Homegrown INSEE/Gallup Poll is asking you to fill in the blank.

Paris in August is _________________________.

Paris Trees

I pine for Paris all the time. But nothing makes me miss Paris more than a nice long chat with Mary Blake on Skype. We gossip, we laugh, we share secrets (heh heh). We critique and compliment. She's in her atelier in Montmartre, her cat Lucie climbing across the computer keyboard. Her cobblestone courtyard outside the door. Sacre Coeur just up the hill. I'm in Virginia. Well, I'm in Virginia. Trees, hills, deer, fireflies: verdant bucolic splendor.

After an hour or so of talking at each other's screen faces (wearing the same reading glasses from Pylones, it turns out), when we hang up I'm always good for a 15-minute self-pity sobfest. I love my life here, but I want to be in Paris!

Yes, I have lush greenery, but Mary Blake also has trees. Her most recent works focus on the trees of Paris. Check out her entire blog, Painting Paris. Her trees are sheer poetry.

Image: copyright Mary Blake 2009.

Polly's Summer Vacation

Alors, it's almost August 1, and you know what that means. Time for a petit break in the action. Not that I'm departing to loll around the Riviera reading Gala and Paris Match. Vacation is a relative term.

I'll be back in the saddle posting again in a week or so. But so that no one goes into Polly-Vous Francais withdrawal (how I delude myself!) here are a few oldies from the past year that you might enjoy re-reading. Or not.

1. Why did the chicken cross the road?

2. Have you ever eaten anything so disgusting-looking but delicious?

3. Jer vay pawlez fransayz cawm sah.

4. Because it really did change my life.

5. Getting my teeth cleaned in Paris. No sedation necessary!

6. The shrieks from my apartment were innocent... really.

7. Classic French footwear: espadrilles!

8. French fashion advice from men.

9. An incredible place to stay on the Loire Valley... and the most incredible coincidence of my life, so far.

10. Fun times at the Marche aux Puces. My stats tell me that there's a, um, um, community out there that really digs these gals. Who knew?

11. We're still working on the book. Sorta.

12. I am kind about all other varieties of birds. Not pigeons.

13. Love a la Francaise. How I miss Polly Platt. Every day.

14. Do you remember Fractured French?

15. Will anyone ever stop speculating about bidets?

16. I'm still hoping for French movies subtitled in English in Paris.

17. As you read this blog you're reading the results of what I did with my French major.

18. And despite the French major and an M.A., I still goof up, royally.

19. I think that's enough, don't you? If you haven't yet, you can read the "best of" from 2006-2007.

20. Or simply look at views of Paris.

Bonnes vacances!

Skip the Louvre, My Darlin'

Don't get me wrong.

I love the Louvre. When I was in Paris, I joined Les Amis du Louvre, which is a must for anyone who spends time in the great city. And such a bargain, because for a 60-euro annual membership, it gives you unlimited access to the museum (through the Richelieu entrance away from the tourist entrance at the Pyramide) , regular bulletins, other discounts. And that opens the door for so much more.

But, horror of horrors -- how did I use it most? Well, when the weather was bad and I wanted to get my morning constitutional in, I simply slipped into the hallowed halls and walked for an hour. Boy, I caught a lot of grief from art lovers when I told them this. Mall-walking in the Louvre? How crass! But I still contend that it's a lot better than mall-walking in a mall. Hey, I got cultural edification. I was always fashionably attired, and didn't power-walk or elbow unsuspecting camera-toting tourists out of the way or anything. Just cruised through as many galleries as I could, absorbing the magnificence of it all, got 100% lost every time, eventually found my way out. Good old Yankee efficiency. Heck, lots of my U.S. pals pound the treadmill while watching CNN for their exercise, and I challenge any of them to say they are better off than I was scrambling along the echoing halls of the Louvre.

Besides (okay, this is really my little secret) if you have unlimited admission to the Louvre and you happened to be in the neighborhood and need a leetle pipibreak, well, you breeze right on in and use the facilities. Not many other places in the quartier where you have such nice powder rooms. So if you are an Ami of the Louvre, it's like having your own private club to pop in to.

Call me a cultural heretic -- go ahead -- but I paid my dues. For three years. I encourage all to do the same.

Now.

On the other hand, when I had friends visiting me in Paris who had only 4-5 days to see as much of the city as possible, I beggggged them to not spend it at the Louvre. Others agree with me.

Why? Well, there is so much of Paris to see, and we all know what those hours-long snaking lines are like to enter into the Louvre. And shuffling through to see La Joconde, the Plymouth Rock of Paree. No, when I had company in Paris I let them stop outside for exterior photo ops of the Louvre, then we breezed on our way for a fabulous walking tour of the rest of the city.

The Louvre is too brilliant a place to be reduced to a cultural sound-bite if you're in Paris for only a short stay. If you have really deep pockets you can join the American Friends of the Louvre and get invited to some extravagant behind-the-scenes visits. Or join Les Amis du Louvre and have the museum be your home away from home. But no point in doing the Six-Minute Louvre when you have limited time in the most beautiful city in the world.

Julia Child and the Purple Coat

Many of us mere mortals have a story to tell about meeting Julia Child. No doubt the much-anticipated August release of the film Julie & Julia is prompting even more reminiscences. The memory of my Julia moment, however, was sparked last month when I unearthed a purple coat. Here's why.

After graduating from college in the 1970s, I lived and worked in Harvard Square. It was urban enough, hip, and had sufficient international flair to placate a French major like me with no foreign place to go (Paris was out of the question, financially).

One wintry day at lunch break I was combing the aisles of Sage's, the local gourmet store. In the corner of my eye I spotted an apparition -- a 3/4 length grape-purple mohair coat with elbow-length sleeves, seeming to float in midair. I squinted and looked again. There She was. Familiar and unmistakable. A tall, imposing woman tilting her head over the Camemberts and Saint Andrés. I was in awe. It was ... Julia.

Rapt (and shy), I simply stared, mouth agape. I knew Julia lived in Cambridge, and even knew people who knew her. But here stood the real Julia, larger than life, ogling the Tome de Savoie.

Julia Child! Her name to me was like the name of a goddess who represented everything a francophile like me could love about France and the French: joie de vivre, good cuisine and happiness at table, a hearty "Bon appétit!" She understood the French from the inside out.

I wanted to say something, utter a sliver of a phrase to express my ardent admiration and shared francophile life. But no. I remained mute, slyly trailing her sideways as she maneuvered among the leeks and shallots and filet mignons. I kept enough of a distance to not be too obvious -- but close enough, I hoped, for osmosis.

I savored that moment, and rued it too, wishing I'd had the courage to spout a clever bon mot. In retrospect I justified my silence by convincing myself that surely the hallowed Julia needed to be able to venture on home turf without being approached by French Chef groupies every day. Ah, I felt noble in protecting her from intrusion of fans like me. And if she noticed my semi-stalking, she never let on.

Besides, how cool was she? A purple coat? I absorbed her brilliant inspiration: if you're a nationally famous 6'2" redheaded woman, there's no point trying to disguise yourself in a somber brown cloak when in public. So why not do it with purple panache? Ah, a Julia moment.

A few years later I was working in the public affairs office of the Quebec Government's New England office. One spring, our project was to promote lobsters from the Magdalen Islands, purported to be the tastiest crustaceans in North America because of the extreme cold of the water where they grew. "Why not take some to Julia Child?" I ventured at a brainstorming session. "Who better to appreciate the quality of excellent lobster than America's favorite French Chef?"

Pourqoui pas? With a few phone calls, I had arranged to deliver two dozen lobsters to Julia and her staff, who were taping a video at her home in Cambridge. At 10 a.m. on the appointed day I pulled up to her rambling house in my dilapidated Mercedes.

Toting two large cases of wriggling lobsters, I crossed the wide porch and elbowed the doorbell. I was greeted by one of multiple public TV assistants buzzing around the ground floor. Cables snaked all over the floors, taped in place. Lights beamed in the kitchen and big black control boxes hid in the shadows. I was ushered in the foyer to meet Julia, to hold up my cold blue live offerings to the high priestess of Food and France. She approached with a smile and a hearty greeting, and I felt as though I'd just stopped by to visit Aunt Ruthie, not a celebrity. Not a hint of diva-persona: just genuine warmth and charm. Hundred percent grande dame with zero percent attitude. And that lilting voice. "Thank you so much. Isn't this super? We'll cook them for lunch! I'm sure we'll eat them with gusto."

I would have lingered forever, but I backed discreetly out the door with an I'll-never-wash that-hand-again glow. A few days later her assistant called to pronounce the lobsters indeed tasty and to thank us for the gift. Lesson from Julia moment number 2: always be yourself while being generous with kindness, no matter what your VIP status.

After these Julia moments, I often wondered how I might pattern my life after hers. From watching her on The French Chef and glimpsing her twice, I knew this much. She recognized her life's passion and pursued it with unbridled enthusiasm. And she won the hearts of millions by just being herself. I never dreamed of winning the hearts of millions, but I knew that her approach to life was one I hoped to mirror.

A decade later, woe was me: I had hit the big Four-Oh. As I pondered about Life on that miserable January birthday I still wasn't sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. Agony & angst, ready for a pity-party. Shopping therapy was definitely in order. At the dreaded mall, I stumbled into a store that catered to the WASPy mother's crowd. "Finest ladies' togs," was their motto. I was doomed anyway; at 40, my now-matronly fate was sealed, I figured, so I might as well start dressing the part, right? I cringed and entered. There on the sale rack was a floating apparition. A periwinkle-purple full-length mohair coat. I knew at once this was a harbinger, a sign. What Would Julia Do?

I bought it. Haven't looked back.

It's Sum-sum-summertime!

Ah, summertime.

One news item we can always depend on in late July: where French politicians will be spending their 3-week vacations. Here it is, complete with a map.

Man's Best Friend

In la Capitale, a new publicity campaign to prevent the spread of AIDS is under way. Indeed it's important political action to take. And of course emphasizing the use of condoms as "man's best friend" and "woman's best friend" is a smart slogan.

AIDS prevention is a serious matter. But I dunno. Somehow the leash and collar give it a certain je ne sais quoi.

"New Life" for La Samaritaine

Landmark Paris department store La Samaritaine, which closed abruptly in 2005, will rise from the ashes. But,alas, not as a department store.


The famous Art Deco building overlooking the Seine will be reborn as a 100-room luxury hotel. In a compromise with the City of Paris department of urban planning and the owners, Moet-Hennessy Louis Vuitton, the building will also house a conference center, commercial space including offices and daycare, and some residences.

No specifics were available about the future of Le Toupary, the restaurant on the top floor with unrivalled views of the Seine. (The name, of course is a variant on le tout Paris, a wink at the real or anticipated clientele of the hot-spot.)

photo via Wikipedia

Bastille Day 2009

Happy Bastille Day!

It's still a source of happy amazement to me how much the US celebrates Bastille Day. And though le quatorze juillet is over in France, the Bastille Day celebrations continue all week here. I'm attending my local Alliance Française event on Saturday July 18 at a nearby vineyard.

But today our Cercle Français had our own fete, a pot-luck luncheon. Er, a little admission: I get cuisine anxiety when cooking for French people, even if they're dear friends. Today was no exception. But after a morning fraught with missteps and not-so-silent oaths to kitchen gods and Julia Child, I managed to pull together a respectable Salade Niçoise. So who cares if the vinaigrette landed in the bottom of the plastic grocery bag? I poured it on anyway. Here's the final result.

43. I can deal with that.

Woo-hoo!

Break out the (cheap) champagne -- méthode champenoise. I just found out that Polly-Vous Francais? ranks #43 in all France-related blogs worldwide. I'm in some pretty esteemed company. See the list here, and discover some great blogs that you might not already know.

Yeah, yeah, I'm promoting the competition, but when we're writing about France, it's all friendly competition, right?

Bonne lecture!

Merci to Art Goldhammer at French Politics for the tip.

"Vive" (not "Viva") la France!

Le quatorze juillet is approaching. Many towns in America really go all-out for Bastille Day, which is heartwarming. Lately I've seen many ads touting some all-French event, with a heartfelt "Viva la France!" tacked at the end.

Folks, please humor me; I applaud your francophilia! But please -- s'il vous plait -- if you're celebrating France, the proper phrase is "Vive la France," not "Viva la France." Viva is a brand of paper towels. (Maybe it's also Italian or Spanish. Not my bailiwick.)

Don't worry. I understand the confusion. It's pronounced veev-uh, almost. But it's the subjunctive ("Long live France!"); and, apparently no one understands the subjunctive in any language any more except a handful of us die-hards. Happily, I am not going to bore you with a lengthy French verb conjugaison lesson right now. So unless you're a grammar junkie you'll just have to believe me.

It's Vive la France!

Merci.

"Tell her not to talk to any French boys"

Summertime. I'm lounging poolside, reading a book. A quartet of ladies is bobbing in the shallow end, chatting. One remarks, "My 16-year-old niece is going to Paris tomorrow -- she's flying by herself." Evidently the girl in question was going to stay with some friends of the family.

"Oh My God," booms one bouncing voice. "Tell her not to talk to any French boys! Have you seen that movie, Taken?" She continues, explaining the plot in terrifying detail, about a 17-year-old who goes to Paris one summer and ends up getting kidnapped into white slavery. (Plot synopsis here.)

I don't budge, but I do twitch for a moment. I am torn. I really want to go cannonball them and say, "Come on, ladies, that's just a contrived thriller plot, total fiction," and enlighten them (har!) with my monologue about how it's so safe in France, how I just lived in Paris for three years, yadda yadda yadda.

But instead I laze there like a lizard in the sun, wondering how much damage that movie has done.

Choo-choo choosy

I vowed when I left Paris to do my best not to compare and complain about the differences between life in France and in the U.S. Each has its highs and lows, pluses and minuses. I try to just go about my day being all Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and make the most of whatever side of the Atlantic I am on.

And then. Sometimes, I am gobsmacked. And I have to express my, er, astonishment.

Next week I have to go to our nation's capital and decided to hop on a train instead of battling the beltway. It's additionally a romantic notion because the train runs by my field, wailing its whistle at the crossing down the road. Makes my heart soar every time I hear it. So why not take the train? Why not, indeed.

The distance between here and Washington DC is about the same as the distance between Tours and Paris, about 2hours 20 minutes by car. I bought my ticket for "The Cardinal," with the scheduled time of 2 hours and 50 minutes station to station.

Okay, I can deal with that. Much as I lament it, I know that the US has no equivalent to the TGV, which can whisk passengers from Tours to Paris in just over one hour.

But when I was picking up my ticket at the station the kind agent warned me (after I had paid), "Be sure to call this 800 number before you head to the station. The train is always late. Could be 15 minutes, could be three hours late, but it's always late."

(Sound of Polly gnashing her teeth.)

Thousands of diners take over Place de la Concorde

This is my kind of party.

In true Parisian fashion, a group of almost 10,000 swells took over the place de la Concorde on Thursday evening at 9:30, in an annual event known simply as Le Diner blanc, reports Le Parisien.

Clad elegantly in all-white, the crowd assembled at the last minute (the place being revealed by text message), set up tables and chairs, sipped champagne, and feasted on their impromptu picnics, all without interrupting traffic. And they cleaned up without leaving a trace.

Here is a clip from last year's Diner blanc on the Champs-Elysees.

Dîner blanc aux Champs Elysées ! REPORTAGE
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Top photo from Le Parisien

Let them eat gazpacho

The days are getting longer, and summer is almost here. And my thoughts turn to... gazpacho. I pine for it. Yes, yes, I could make it myself if I hadn't given away my blender before I moved to Paris. But why make it when it's so easy to buy, already chilled, on the grocery-store shelf?

Oh, the grocery store shelf in France, that is.

This gazpacho by Alvalle is from the Tropicana Company in Europe. And it is delicious!



So, come on, Tropicana USA! Get rid of your ugly new container packaging and design (which makes OJ bottles look like Clorox) and do something consumers would really love: sell gazpacho.

I'd venture to say that this gazpacho is ubiquitous at summer dinner parties in France. Wrap an ultra-thin slice of jambon de parme around a breadstick, place across the soup-plate of store-bought gazpacho, and voila! A perfect first course.

I found a website that offers Alvalle gazpacho to US customers for something like $25 a carton. Um, it's really good, but it's not that good.

Please, Tropicana? Please? Help Americans with lighter fare in the summer. Let them eat gazpacho.

The Sweet Life in Paris

What to do when I'm wishing I were back in Paris and longing for some good French cuisine?

Why, I shop, of course! But lacking the requisite French culinary skills, I don't shop for groceries; I head straight to the book store.

And today I found the perfect remedy for what ailed me. I purchased a copy of David Lebovitz's The Sweet Life in Paris, a fabulous collection of anecdotes about his life in the City of deLights. I'd been meaning to read it since it first appeared last month.

From the introduction to the final page, the book reads the same way you would relish a French feast. Each chapter is like a dish to be savored. Delightful to the senses, pleasing array of perfectly-timed morsels. One course to the next sauced with David's tangy, well-honed humor. And punctuated by his best recipes (so tempting that even I might try them, kitchen flunkie though I may be). And, like a proper diner of an exquisite French meal, I devoured it appreciatively from cover to cover in one sitting.

So if you, too, would rather be in Paris, treat yourself to The Sweet Life in Paris. The next best thing to being there.

Yum!

D-Day Commemoration in Colleville

Here is the invitation, which arrived in my inbox last week. Fulfilling a lifelong dream! I was geared up, all systems go.

Long story made short: it is almost 3 p.m. in Colleville-sur-Mer. I am watching the ceremony on TV from home.

Whine whine whine

New Ambassador to France?

The Obamas are in Paris, staying at the Ambassador's residence on rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. Although the hotel particulier is gracious and oh-so-spacious anyway, there's extra room there right now, since the recent nominee for U.S. Ambassador to France, Charles Rivkin, still must be confirmed by the Senate.

Mr. Rivkin's father was an Ambassador, so he has personal experience of expat life in the Foreign Service. And word has it that Mr. Rivkin does indeed speak French.

More interesting to generations of popular-culture aficionados is perhaps the fact that Mr. Rivkin was the CEO of The Jim Henson Company. Hmm. The Muppets Take Paris has a zingy ring to it, n'est-ce pas?

Maybe they just need to play this video at Mr. Rivkin's Senate confirmation hearing, and he'll be in like Flynn.

The Tipping Point

1. Oy. Aie. Just when I think French-American fraternité seems to be getting back on an even keel, I stumble across this tidbit in the Love/Hate section of this week's Charleston City Paper. (The link is here.)

Poor waitperson. S/he deserves not only a hefty tip, but also a consoling pat on the back. We can only hope that the French tourists in question were freshly arrived on our shores, where (ahem) tipping in restaurants is de rigueur. Especially when the waitperson has been so helpful. We hope that someone will advise them that in the US, le service n’est pas compris, before they create a mini-international diplomatic rift.

Oh, the tipping conundrum! In France it’s never required, of course, since it’s included in the TVA/service compris. It is hard to shake the mindset sometimes, especially when you’ve just arrived on one side or the other of the Atlantic.

So, for what it's worth, here’s a brief guide to tipping in France.

I wonder if the French guys just couldn’t believe that American restaurants don’t use those handheld credit card machines.

2. Random observation having nothing to do with pourboires.

I love the fact that a “French tip” manicure didn’t really originate in France, so if you want that white-nailtip look from a nail salon in France you have to request “une French.”

One of these Things Is Not Like the Other

Go ahead and laugh. Laugh yourselves silly. Hahaha. What do I care?

We all did. How I remember tears streaming down our young cheeks, holding our sides because howling with glee for so long made our bellies hurt. Just hearing the tale of our grandmother inadvertently brushing her teeth with a dab of pale blue Head & Shoulders because it was in a toothpaste-shaped tube. Our unbridled hilarity about materfamilias misfortune. (Because she wasn’t the Fun Grandmother, she was the Other Grandmother.) Imagine, she washed her own mouth out with soap! We kids were thrilled.

So, like I said, go ahead and laugh at me.

Is it my fault if French cosmetics come in deceptively-shaped packages? Is it my fault that I don’t always wear my reading glasses in the bathroom because I’m trying to remove mascara?

Have you guessed which one is not like the other?

It’s the bottle of skin lotion in the middle. The other two are nail-polish remover.

Marseille Goes Hollywood?

Should Marseille try to mimic Hollywood?

The city of Marseille is all a-twist over the proposed project of artist Christophe Fort to spell out M-A-R-S-E-I-L-L-E à la Hollywood on the Pic de l'Etoile, a mountaintop north of the port city.

His idea: have a donor sponsor each of the letters to raise money for cancer research.

Here's what it looks like today, sans the Tinseltown addition.

It is gross understatement to say that the citizenry is divided over the issue. This is Marcel Pagnol country, after all. Of course, there is already a TV tower on the top.

Quand même...

Coca Light

Sometimes, when I'm really jonesing for Paris, it's lingering moments like this that I miss the most.

Relaxing over a Coca-Light at Le Nemrod. Only an ice cube or two in the glass. Always a wedge of lemon, and a tall spoon.

Paris Patterns #1

Paris outdoors delights with its patterns. From threads in a bin at the Marche aux puces at Vanves to manhole covers to building decoration in the 14th arrondissement. J'adore!
First installment: round patterns.

"The French will never forget"

Memorial Day poppies blooming in my field this morning.

Question: what do you get when you cross a francophile, an American patriot, and a sappy sentimentalist?

Answer: Polly-Vous Français, for one. And there were many others.

Last week, on the occasion of Lafayette Day, four WWII Veterans were awarded the French Legion d'Honneur for their service and bravery in France, mostly in 1944. The ceremony at the State House in Boston included school children singing "La Marseillaise" and "The Star-Spangled Banner." The Presentation of the Colors by the Ancient and Honorable Artillery. Young students eagerly waving their hands to ask the Marquis de Lafayette [actor] questions about his life.

Presenting the medals to the honorees, French Consul General François Gauthier remarked, "The French will never forget" the courage and help of the Americans. If there were dry eyes in the house as the citations were announced, they were few. Almost every speaker ended his talk with a solemn, heartfelt "Vive la France and God Bless America!"

Legion d'honneur recipients flank Consul General François Gauthier. Lafayette, portrayed by Loic Barnieu, on the right.

Trust me, I'm not a knee-jerk, rah-rah, flag-waving-in-your-face kind of patriot. (And I was a terrible history student.) But for one thing, the honorees were all about the same age that my late father and step-father would have been. Both served in WWII.

And all my life I have been unable to sing the words O beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife without my voice wobbling, cracking, and disappearing to a hush. (And FWIW I still think it should be our national anthem.)

At lunch after the Legion d'Honneur ceremony, I sought out each of the honorees to express my appreciation. I shook their hands and said, "Thank you for...." Unable to finish, I had to swallow hard and just utter a second, faltering "Thank you."

Fun with Fred’s French Toast

What’s not to love about this playful “French Toast” stamp from Fred & Friends?

I love a touch of whimsy here and there. (Er, I’m careful not to overdo it, though. The key to frivolity is in the timing.)

But just as I love Pylones in Paris, the wacky fun of Fred’s products is perfect for joie de vivre, American-style.

This would be great not only for toast or French toast, but also for grilled cheese and all those Elvis Specials that my son so dearly loves. Gotta get me one.

Un grand merci to Harriet for the info!