Polly-Vous Francisco?

What, you call yourself a blogger? I say to myself in the morning as I peer bleary-eyed in the bathroom mirror. You haven't updated your blog in weeks! 

True, too true.

No excuses, but justifications aplenty.  I've been leading a rather nomadic life, not all the romance and adventure that some might imagine it to be. But I try to capture the day's fleeting joy wherever I am.

I do write constantly.  Really, I do!  Did you know, for example, that I still have a whole Longchamp-bagful of absolutely incredible prose that I produced in Paris which still hasn't found its way to this blog, or any other publication?  Well, I do, and here it is:

Observe it sitting coyly next to the Ed supermarket bag which I use for all my urgent correspondence.

But the real reason I haven't written much of late is that I am moving. I am moving to San Francisco. And believe me, if you can't be in Paris, there is virtually no more francophile city on the planet than San Francisco.  It is so verrrry French.

Well, I have to go pack (again!), but wanted to offer a little France-in-San-Fran photo essay from my most recent treks  -- the cafes, the Legion of Honor Museum, the boutiques, the pollarded trees, the government buildings.

Tempete de neige

SNOW!!

Well, it may be vaguely solipsistic (gee, I love to use the litterati words I learned in 20th-century French theatre class), but to me it sure seems as though it's snowing everywhere.  Snowing in Paris today.  Snowing in the Alps.  Snowing where I was just living (Virginia). Sure as heck snowing where I am living now (coastal New Jersey).

Being snowbound isn't all bad, even if there are power outages threatening like Damocles's sharp blade.

When there is a great gourmet store nearby, preparing for a blizzard can actually be a joy, don't you think? Indulging in some great French prepared food is the best revenge against that capricious Mother Nature.

Which is why this evening I am enjoying D'Artagnan Mousse au Poivre and a glass of red wine while the wild winds swirl outside, plastering snow against my windows.

My advice is to always prepare for a blizzard with the best possible ingredients.  Forget the mere bread-and-milk staples:  go for the finer cuisine. So you can make it into an event.  It's worth every penny.

As what's-her-name said, let them eat cake!




Merci to Little Shiva for the Paris video.

Americans in Paris during the Occupation

For someone like me who is fascinated with

1) day-to-day life of Parisians during the Occupation,

and

2) Americans in Paris ever since there have been Americans,

Americans in Paris: Life and Death Under Nazi Occupation 1940-44   by Charles Glass

is one I simply have to read right away.

Eiffel Tower for Sale

What?  Of course it's not the Eiffel Tower.  Though a piece of that did get sold at auction last month.

No, this Eiffel is 40 inches tall (48 including the flag), a cool wire sculpture.  There just won't be room for it in the storage containers;  and I'm downsizing anyway.

It's funny, when I was living in Paris I didn't have Eiffel-Tower objets or posters around the apartment, because I had the real razzle-dazzle deal in my arrondissement.

I'm reluctant to part with this, but practicality is outweighing sentiment this week!

What price tag should I put on it?

Demenagement

Well, I'm moving.  Again.  sigh

The last time I moved, in Paris, I was mostly focused on international shipping issues and the état des lieux. 

But we all really know that the most important part of moving any household is having enough boxes. 

Funny, I just got around to unpacking the last of my Paris boxes in September.  Something about those Parisian corrugated cartons made me so wistful.  (Yeah, I know, it doesn't take much!) 

To prepare for the move in Paris I had done the regular drill:  go to the neighborhood store and beg for discarded boxes.   My Shopi supermarket on rue de Sevres was a boon:  they kept a constant stack of cartons up front. No begging necessary!

And when the shipment finally arrived in the U.S., oh, about four months later, I felt pangs of nostalgia when I saw all those French grocery-store boxes.  The labels, the warnings, the descriptions on the boxes shouted "Paris!" to me. 

So of course I photographed them.

"Fears the heat and the humidity."  Sounds so poetic.

Joyeux Anniversaire, a la recherche du temps perdu.

Today is my birthday.  At least I think it is.  That is, I think today is today.  It all depends.

Yesterday morning I received a heartfelt "Happy Birthday!" on Facebook from a friend in New Zealand.  I thought she had the day wrong, but sure enough, it was already January 6 in Auckland.  I double-checked here, of course, because I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the International Date Line shenanigans.  Likewise, this morning I received a "belated happy birthday" wish from a friend in Tokyo.   But... but... it's still my birthday where I am.  So is it really my birthday? 

See what I mean?

Straddling just the simple 6-hour time difference between the U.S. East Coast and Paris is challenge enough for for some folks.  It can cause Parisian phones to ring in the wee hours with calls from otherwise considerate American friends who counted backwards instead of forwards. Or did they count forwards instead of backwards?  Never mind.  But that is why I installed the nifty clock on my blog that tells the current time in Paris. And for an added twist, there is the fact that the US and France spring forward and fall back at different times, so that for a few weeks each year there is only a 5-hour time spread.  Love that Daylight Saving; keeps me on my toes.

But it's nothing compared with mentally crossing the International Date Line.   I once asked an Australian reader of this blog what the time difference was between Sydney and Paris.  His response:  "I think it's, like, 27 hours."  Whoaaaaa.  Take that plan into orbit.  But he is not alone.  Take this excerpt from the Wikipedia entry on the International Date Line.

The International Date Line can cause confusion among airline travelers. The most troublesome situation usually occurs with short journeys from west to east. To travel from Tonga to Samoa by air, for example, takes approximately two hours but involves crossing the International Date Line, causing passengers to arrive the day before they left.

Whenever I try to keep the east-to-west, west-to-east notion straight, in my mind's eye I picture the globe slowly spinning at the opening of "As the World Turns." 

I'm not sure this is a help.  The show just got cancelled.

image via wikipedia

Just like Paris!

Baby, it's cold outside!  And the 3-bedroom farmhouse that I am renting in Virginia had a teensy little problem while I was away over Christmas. The furnace broke, and I won't bore you with the mechanical details but they're not pretty. Suffice it to say that I now find myself residing in the local Holiday Inn until the sweet adorable charming intelligent handsome heating contractors find the right part for the burner and restore toasty warmth to my below-freezing abode.

Reflecting on my 5 days of hotel-dwelling, I realized how Paris apartment living prepared me for this.

1. Space. Living in 26 square meters is No Big Deal. Granted, my Paris apartment was larger. But having  lived in a relatively small space for years, this is almost second nature.  I can pace around in my hotel room, talk on the phone, use the internet, and watch TV without getting antsy. Then I can exit quickly to forage for acceptable take-out food, do errands. Tres parisien.

2. Noisy neighbors. Ah, it's just like the good old times in Paris, where I knew exactly what my neighbors were up to. And when I cross paths with them in the hallway, being all grown-up, pretending not to acknowledge anything that I heard last night.

3. Hearing French on TV. Okay, this is a stretch. I'm watching HGTV on location in New Orleans and they are saying "parterre" "looks like Versaille" and "ooh la la magnifique." My ears perk up when I hear the TV host saying (no joke) "Polly-vous francais?" No, of course he wasn't referring to me -- he was attempting to speak French. Of course HGTV isn't quite the same caliber as Le Grand Journal. Or as much fun as those French home TV shows such as Recherche Apppartement ou Maison or C'est du Propre!

4. Riding the elevator. Yes, just like in Paris, I'm on the third floor and take the elevator to the lobby. Just like Paris, there is a lady on the ground floor who greets me and observes my comings and goings. The difference is that the hotel elevator is the size of some Parisian studettes.

5. Storage. A little closet with 8 hangers. Four bureau drawers. Just like Paris apartment living!

But there are significant differences between all-American Holiday Inn and living in a Parisian apartment. Unlike Parisian plumbing, the hotel shower is a dream. I could live in this shower.

And then, there's the ... the... the... hotel coffee.

At least they claim it's coffee.

Meilleurs Voeux

Joyeux Noel, Bonne Annee, Happy Holidays to all and best wishes for 2010! 

When I dust off the snow, I'll be back with my Top Ten Things I Can't Shake from Paris.

I promise.

A bientot!

When You Wish Upon a Star

On this day four years ago, I was having a hard time making sense of what I would do next in my life.  I had successfully finished the important project I'd been managing, so my job was sadly ending. The sale of our family house of 15 years was looming. My kids were away at school, and I didn't know where I was going to live next or what I was going to do when I got there.  A relationship had imploded.  All I could see metaphorically were a lot of doors closing, slamming, or gently clicking shut.

Quite honestly, 2005 had been a personal annis horibilis to beat the band. (And, trust me, some of the others had been doozies.)

December 14, 2005.  I rattled around in the quirky lovable shingled Victorian cottage by the sea, a place where I'd been living for months while I readied my own house for  sale.  I had planned to buy this charming vintage cottage;  it was a house that I had instantly fallen in love with, to the point of envisioning it filled with grandchildren in a few decades, a home to come home to.  However, I'd recently gotten word that the deal to purchase the house wouldn't work.  I was crushed.  Drained.  A zombie.

That evening I sank into the sofa, surrounded by darkness, staring into the orange flames of the wood-fire in the immense stone fireplace, contemplating nothing and everything.

Outside, the ink-blue night was still, dark, and clear.  Eventually I climbed the creaking stairs and crawled under my down comforter, ready to be lulled to sleep by the distant sound of waves washing over Singing Beach.

I awoke a few hours later with a brilliant full moon shining through the window to the right.  It was gazing straight at me, the beams falling on my pillow, poking me awake.  I sat bolt upright and rubbed my eyes and took a good look up at the moon.  A perfect orb, incandescent white, glowing high in the blue-black sky. I was spellbound.

Out of the corner of my left eye, through the window that looked out over the ocean, I caught a slight motion.  A small speck of light had just fallen down over the Atlantic.  Did I just see a satellite fall to the sea? A plane crash? I jumped out of bed and ran to the window.  In that dark glassy sky, I saw another chip of light, sizzling like a spent firecracker down toward the horizon.

Shooting stars!

I was awestruck.  A full moon beckoning in the south window, a meteor shower in the east window.  Surely this had to be a sign!  Well, okay, at least an inspiration.  I watched the extravaganza for about a half hour, rapt. As that long unhappy year was drawing to a close, I finally was looking outward, beyond my own house, to elements bigger, brighter, higher.

I finally settled back to sleep with a smile, refreshed and peaceful.

And in the morning when I got up to fix my coffee, for once I didn't ruminate about my gloomy present or past. They seemed not to exist.  I simply knew what my next step was, and that was to go to Paris.

Three months later, there I was, living in Paris.  Invariably, people would ask, "What brought you to Paris?"

I couldn't exactly say, "It was a full moon and a falling star," now, could I?

Most often I would quip, "I think it was a 747, ha-ha."

But in some ways it was the moon and the stars, and a lifelong desire. 

Sometimes looking out the window is all it takes.

photo credit: Examiner.com

Polly Goes to San Francisco

In my never-ending quest in search of francophile life in the universe, this week Polly-Vous Francais is heading west, to San Francisco.  I'm so accustomed to transatlantic jet-lag, it'll be fun (well, so to speak), to experience the transcontinental variety.

Mostly I'm looking forward to discovering the charms of the Bay Area and its many French cultural and culinary delights.

Suggestions?  Favorites?

Oh, and if this is one of your suggestions -- sorry, I'm not biting.

Image via curbed.com

Dear Abby: Should I go to France?

There's always a first time for everything.  Today I wrote to Dear Abby. 

No, no, no.  I didn't ask her how to solve any of my dilemmas (what? me worry?) but to commend her for a spot-on response to a college student's quandary.

Dear Abby:
I'm a college freshman, majoring in French but taking other languages as well. I don't know what I want to do with my life, but I know that I love learning languages.  My friend, "Lacey," has offered me the chance to stay with her family in France during our next summer break...

You can read the rest here (after the grandma's grooming query). 

I'd been out of the Dear Abby habit for a long time, until recently when I subscribed to our local daily as an implusive gesture of solidarity for the print industry.  (The recycling bin is taking a hit, though, as is my green-er social conscience.)

I whip through the news section (I've already read most of it online), and settle in on local events, comics, Eugenia Last's eerily accurate horoscopes, and then dear Dear Abby.  Cover to cover, about four minutes.  It takes me longer to walk down the hill to fetch it than to actually read the thing.  So I do have a quandary:

Dear Abby:

Should I cancel my newspaper subscription?

Save the Polly Waffle

Sometimes a news item comes across ye radar screene that has little to do with the general thrust of this blog.  And such was the case today.  I learned, to my utter dismay, that an Australian chocolate bar with the delicious name of  "Polly Waffle" is about to be given the axe by the Nestle chocolate company.

Really.  How dare they?  Just in time for the holidays, and Polly gets a pink slip.  So heartless. Honestly, corporate HQ, what were you thinking?

Polly Waffle has been around for 62 years, way longer than yours truly.  Surely it's not age discrimination?  In any case, the name is so... catchy!  There is even a Facebook group to save the Polly Waffle.


Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I'm compiling my next post about the top ten things I still haven't adjusted to one year after my departure from Paris.  Stay tuned.

Inky, Dinky Polly Vous

In honor of Armistice Day -- Veterans' Day in the U.S. -- I've been thinking about Dough Boys, anciens combattants and old soldiers' drinking songs.  Mademoiselle from Armentieres specifically.  I'm sure I heard it while watching any number of old black and white movies about World War I, but never really retained much of the lyrics except the refrain, "Hinky-dinky parlez-vous."  Which of course I used to think was... by George you've got it! 

Now that I have found out what some of the lyrics really are, I think it best if the bulk of the bawdy lyrics remain mumbled, kind of beer-sloshed as in this clip.






Related posts:

Chez les Rougier

In Flanders Fields

Buy a Piece of Paris

Only 46 shopping days until Christmas, mes amis!  If you've been fretting over what tender je ne sais quoi to put under the tree for that special francophile on your list, I have an idea for you.

How about a piece of Paris?

On Monday, December 14, famed Parisian auction house Drouot will auction off over 300 iconic pieces of Paris.  Entitled "Paris Mon Amour," the sale will feature classic Parisian elements:  a Belle Epoque newspaper kiosque, a metro ticket-punch machine, a Second Empire vespasienne (the street urinals of yore and lore).  Old city benches (so romantic!).  Ancient photos. 

But the pièce de résistance will be the sale of a 26-foot tall section of a wrought-iron spiral staircase from the Eiffel Tower.  The 40-step staircase, one of the largest items ever on the block at Drouot, is expected to fetch between 60,000 and 80,000 euros.

As you might imagine, Paris nostalgia buffs are expected to turn out in droves for the event.

Bidding starts at 2 pm on December 14, Drouot Richelieu, 9 rue Drouot in the 9th arrondissement.  Preview is Saturday December 12 from 11 am to 6 pm.

Oh... thank you for asking.  Yes, I'd like the kiosque, not the vespasienne.

Images from wikipeda and Drouot.

Mutual Admiration Society Film Festival?

Let's face it, folks.  We really do love each other, the U.S. and France.  Or at least we are endlessly fascinated with each other.  And there's no sign of this mutual admiration's waning.  Au contraire.

Here's a bit of culture news that caught my eye.  Opening this week  in New York is American filmmaker Frederick Wiseman's documentary of the ballet at the Palais Garnier. La Danse: the Paris Opera Ballet promises to be a fascinating glimpse behind the scenes at that elegant institution.



So why did I laugh when I read the review?  It had nothing to do with Wiseman's film per se.  There was just a bit of ironic timing.  A cultural juxtaposition, the kind that always hits my funny bone.

This week at the Virginia Film Festival, French cineaste Claude Miller will be screening the American debut of Marching Band.

Both of these documentaries are appealing.  I can't wait to see them.  But it tickled me to realize that this week in film news, France sees American culture through the lens of two southern university marching bands, whereas America views French culture as quintessentially elegant ballet.

Anyway, I was thinking how fun it would be to screen those two movies together. Because, really, we do love each other, we French and Americans. Are we drawn to what we find most exotic in the other culture?

So my morning java-inspired idea began evolving.  There are already a host of excellent French Film festivals in the US each year.  And of course the Deauville American Film Festival in France.  But how about creating an annual French/American film festival, to be held on both sides of the Atlantic?  It would feature, side by side, French documentaries about the US and American documentaries about France.  In France the screenings would no doubt be accompanied by débats philosophiques sprinkled with the phrase regards croisés. Maybe a flute of champagne.  In America they would probably be accompanied by hot dogs and apple pie, plus brie and baguettes. Right?

Just an idea.

image from Virginia Film Festival

Shopping for American Groceries in France

When I first moved to Paris, I scoffed at the notion of even being within sniffing distance of American food.  Bah!  Truth be told, it took a long while before I even deigned to go out for sushi or Italian food.  I was in PARIS, for cripe's sake. I was there for the cuisine.   I couldn't believe the tales of Americans flocking to McDo's for a Big Mac fix, or heading to The Real McCoy on rue de Grenelle in Paris to buy a bottle of maple syrup. 

But then, after a year or so, life kind of... normalized. I disovered the occasional joys of hamburgers in Paradise:  Paris.  The best I've ever had.

I travelled to the States often enough to bring back suitcases filled with Red Rose tea, Clif bars,  and various and sundry American food-craving fare for those cold autumn evenings when nothing else would do.  Unlike some of my ex-pat friends, there were some food items that I never missed, though.  Peanut butter, for example.  Toll house cookies.

Recently I discovered a site which is a boon to residents of France who, in between feasting on foie gras or poulet fermier, simply have to have their PB&J or Tex-Mex chili or pumpkin pie:  My American Market, an online grocery store for American food in France.  So important this time of year, too, when you just gotta have that candy corn or cranberry sauce!

When I first heard about it, I assumed it was a start-up by some enterprising American expats in France.  Mais non!  It was launched a few months ago by Anne-Claire Bocage, a French woman who had spent a few years in the U.S.  Upon returning to France, she had a few cravings of her own, and  --voila! -- a business was born.

Intrigued, I contacted Anne-Claire to ask a few questions. 

(Full disclosure: no goods, services or funds were paid for this article.  I'm now living in the land of  Kroger and Food Lion, so I've got all the American food I can handle...)
1. How did you come up with the idea? Was it just inspiration? Frustration?

My American Market’s adventure all started because of a ranch dressing craving (big things can happen because of cravings, so don’t rebuff them!).

Back living in France after several years in the States, I was dealing with a lot of cravings. Besides, I wanted to share with my entourage some American recipes with the right ingredients. I tried different options to get my favorite American treats and none were completely satisfying to me. Therefore I came up with this idea of a service that could satisfy most common US food cravings at anytime of the day or night.


2. Where do you get your ideas for products to offer? Do you have a suggestion box for Americans who are craving certain products?

I did an extensive market study before launching;  I looked at what other European stores were offering. I also polled potential customers through an online survey. I am very grateful over 300 people took the time to respond. Now that the website is up and running, I am getting a better feel of what is popular. I also get a lot of product suggestions that I take into account for expanding my selection.


3.  What are your most popular items?

Here are my top 10 bestsellers after operating for three months:

1. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese
2. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
3. Pepperidge Farm Cheddar Goldfish
4. A&W Root Beer
5. Little Becky’s Marshmallows
6. Aunt Jemima’s Cornbread Mix
7. Dr Pepper
8. Reese’s Pieces
9. Aunt Jemima Pancake Syrup
10. Jif Peanut Butter


4.  Do you have many French customers, or are they mostly American? Other nationalities?

Well, I don’t check IDs when customers are placing an order! But I am getting a sense that I am mostly serving Americans, or French people who have lived in the States for several years. Sometimes when promoting my service, it has been a challenge to deal with negative stereotypes French people carry about American food and cuisine. But I consider this is one of my missions as an “épicerie américaine!” Read more about it on my blog.


5.  What is the reaction of French people when you tell them about your business?

I often hear "Why on earth would you want to sell unhealthy American food when you live in a country with such sophisticated and savory cuisine?"

Well, don’t get me wrong: I love living in France and I am not complaining about the eating part either! Yet, I really enjoy American food for several main reasons:

- It reminds me of my “American home”
- I like the taste of it! Nothing can beat beef jerky as a snack to me. I know some of you would travel very far for a peanut butter cup. There are no substitutes here in grocery stores for cooking a decent pumpkin pie or spicing up your homemade chili.
- I love spreading American tastes. It makes me feel like I am contributing to fighting stereotypes or short-mindedness.

6.  Are there any other services like yours in France?

Yes. There are a couple of stores in Paris that carry an equivalent selection of American food products. Yet, My American Market’s way of doing business is dramatically different.

First, it’s an online store. Not everyone in France lives in Paris!  And even in Paris, it can be a hassle to get stuck in traffic, fight for a parking spot, carry heavy grocery bags around. It was important to me to offer a fast and convenient service for anyone to shop whenever the cravings get them and to have the products be delivered right to their door, wherever that front door might be located!

Second, I am building a business that is more than just a regular “Epicerie Américaine.”  It is a place with a sense of community, the American way! I use Web 2.0 tools and create a platform with many possibilities to communicate, exchange, network, cooperate, play and have fun with other members of the American community and friends. I’d like everyone to take part in the process if they wish, so My American Market becomes everyone’s contribution. If anyone would like to get a better feel of what I am doing, please become fan of My American Market on Facebook.


7. Do you have an estimate of how many American expat households there are in France? [I know there are official numbers, and some unofficial numbers.] Or semi-American, i.e. an American/French couple.

It is very hard to know how many Americans are currently living in France. I estimate there are 100,000+ citizens: 50% in Paris and its suburb, 50% in the rest of France.

8. Any good customer quotes?

Here is a small selection of client testimonials that I have received:

"I just love My American Market! Since I can't go to the States that often, I now have a super solution for getting my Reese’s candies, non-Canadian pancake syrup, Pam cooking spray and whatever else I feel like at the moment. American airport customs love to tear apart suitcases for pancake syrup, so now I don't have to worry about whether they can get my suitcase closed again or not. So when I do go to the States, I can just concentrate on leaving room in my suitcases for things that won't melt, leak or get smashed. With such excellent service and fast delivery, I'm thrilled!" Jenny from Merville (31)

"I am an American (originally from the Colorado area) currently living in Marseille with my (French) wife and our 4 year old son. We moved here last summer. I am often in search of products here and have to keep asking my mom to send them, so this is great!" Sean from Nice (06)

"I am married to a French man and have been living in the French culture for 25 years. But it is still important for me to celebrate American holidays. Now I know where to shop for next Thanksgiving." Susan from Neuilly sur Seine (92)

9.  Of course, this time of year is big for Americans and their food cravings. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Do you stock special seasonal items for the American holidays?
I'm thinking candy corn, cranberry sauce, canned pumpkin pie, mint jelly, candy canes, etc.

Of course, we do carry seasonal products and the Holiday season should be our busiest time of the year. Our Thanksgiving and Christmas products can be found in the seasonal products category.

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.