99.9% Fluent

I hurry out the door and hop into the waiting taxi. "Bonsoir, monsieur, " I greet the driver breathlessly as I plunk in the center of the back seat. "I'd like to go to the American Cathedral, 23 avenue George V, s'il vous plait."

The car pulls out and I start making my usual small talk with the chauffeur de taxi. "I hope there's not too much traffic tonight. I'm running late and I have a cancer, " I say in French.

The driver dons a worried expression and sits up in his seat. I fret that I have insulted him by saying that I'm in a hurry. I add more to my story. "Yes, and I have friends from the United States who are here to see me. They are here for the cancer. They are waiting at the church for me."

Now he's is looking bewildered and almost frightened. He thinks, perhaps, that they are preparing my funeral? A support group? And he's driving me there?

"Yes," I add, "and first we are having a rehearsal."

Mais ces Americains sont fous, he is thinking as he grips the steering wheel a bit tighter.

"And I'm worried because I have a sore throat," I babble.

That's the least of your worries at this point, lady, he is saying to himself. Le moindre de vos soucis.

"But perhaps it will be better by the time our chorus has its next cancer next week, " I continue.

"Oh, un concert, madame!" He exhales the world's largest sigh and sinks back into his seat as we drive silently through the dark together.

Limited Access

A Parisian hostess just sent out the following directions to a gathering at her apartment. What struck me was that this is so normal for denizens of our fair city. (Names changed to protect the beleaguered. ) This is just to get in the door.

"65 bis rue des Parisiens (corner of the rue des Vapes)
Code A 480
Enter courtyard, bear left. Under the arch there is an interphone with a list of names. Ring Doe and I will buzz you in. Then... go back into main courtyard where you came in and enter the big door with the 'escalier d'honneur'. Enter and walk past the escalier d'honneur (on your right) down to the end of the back hall where there is an elevator. It will come down automatically to pick you up. Press 4e etage and you will have arrived! If you get lost go back to interphone and tell me and I come down and get you. It sounds terribly complicated but is not really so!"

Idée Fixe

Tonight I went to the Théâtre Edouard VII to see the current production of Idée Fixe by Paul Valéry (1871-1945), a former member of the Académie Française. The play had received rave reviews from the press, and was also a heartwarming performance. Somehow I haven't been up for a melodrama; enough of my own to cope with. This was a perfect choice.

So Chu came in from the 'burbs and we had a gals' night out and went to the theatre. Great theatre. This was not mere entertainment; this was art. Superbly acted, powerful but simple decor. In the best French style, a moving 2-hour intellectual dialogue between the only two dramatis personae. Begins at sunrise, ends at sunset. As such conversations can go, the topics covered ran the gamut from gynecologists' after-hours activities to Einstein's theory of relativity. And this play was written back when Einstein was lecturing live. (I love the difference in pronunciation: in French it's pronounced Ein-shtein.) By the time the play was over you felt as though you'd spent a day with these two men and lived a great philosophical moment with them.

And I'm sure glad that it was all of those lofty things because initially I mostly went to get a real-live glimpse of heartthrob Pierre Arditi.

I was not disappointed.

Mots d'Heures: Gousses, Rames

One of my favorite laugh-out-loud French books, by Luis d'Antin van Rooten, is Mots d'Heures: Gousses, Rames. This delightful, funny collection of Mother Goose Stories needs to be read aloud. Several times, until you get it.

Here's a sample. It's not just for kids! (Actually not much for kiddos at all.) So uncork a bottle of wine with friends and share. The rules: please read it in your best French accent, and don't seek meaning.

Un petit d'un petit
S'étonne aux Halles.
Un petit d'un petit
Ah! degrés te fallent.

Indolent qui ne sort cesse
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu'importe un petit d'un petit
Tout Gai de Reguennes.

It is available at www.amazon.com , which amazingly has the title misspelled.

Imparfait

I hate to be so nit-picky. We all make mistakes. Typos are not such a big deal, fundamentally, right?

So why does it bother me so much? Perhaps it's because the location was so splendid, so perfect in its own right. The day was perfect, the way Paris has been lately. Crystal blue skies, embracing sunshine, delirious blossoms. Intoxicating, seductive Paris.

The building's lofty beauty was jaw-dropping. The exhibit masterful. The crowd almost non-existent, which allowed for close-up inspecting of the descriptive signs accompanying the paintings. Said information was very thoughtfully presented in French, Spanish, and English. Sounds perfect, no?

And there it was. At the entrance, the introduction to the exhibit. Just one little letter. In very large font. But really, really annoying.

"...the artist was invited to America by President Taff..."

Oh, come on. TAFF?? Did no one proofread the signage? It's one thing to have mistakes in personal documents -- but in large typeface for public viewing by thousands?

Naturally, once I found the one mistake (and it was consistent in all three languages), I was like a hound on the trail of foxblood. Typos jumped out at me on every bit of signage in the exhibit. "Mary Cassat" instead of "Cassatt". After that I found lots of spelling mistakes, but by then I had lost almost all of my respect for the curator(s) of the show. I was distracted and resentful.

Why bother to make an effort if you won't do it right? I wonder, would any French institution ever consider hiring an American proofreader to read over the copy to avoid the truly laughable obvious mistakes? And thus allow visitors to focus on what's important, like the actual exhibit.

Oh, by the way. It was the Sargent /Sorolla exhibit at the Petit Palais. Delightful. Otherwise, I mean.

Paris Blogue-t-il?

Just back from the Paris Blogue-t-il? www.parisbloguetil.com francophone bloggers' gathering at l'Entrepot in the 14e arrondissement. Lots of fun and some friends from our dear Paris Blog www.theparisblog.com.

More on this soon -- but meanwhile: every one can look forward to the time in the not-near-enough future (keep your fingers crossed for next week) when little boomer-blogger moi gets big-time geek lessons and learns the joys of hyperlinks, RSS, html, enabling comments and more. And a new format!

Thanks for your patience.

Meanwhile, ravie de faire votre connaissance, tous les blogue-t-il folks. A bientot.

Yes, I did my taxes.

Helpful Hint

It's tax day, so Uncle Sam beckons.

(Moi, procrastinate?? How do you spell T-U-R-B-O-T-A-X? And thank God midnight is 6 hours later in the US.)

Ergo, just time for a teensy helpful household hint, for what it's worth. Then I'll go back to my moutons.

Le voici:

I love the large format posters (100 cm X 150 cm or larger) available at many exhibits in Paris museums and elsewhere in France. Unfortunately they are a pain in terms of storing, shipping in the mail or taking back to the US on a plane. The standard cardboard tubes aren't long enough, which is frustrating. And a wrinkled poster -- well, just don't even think about it.

We came up with a good solution when Bee was here visiting in March.

Go to the basement of BHV and buy a 150 centimeter tube circulaire made out of PVC. At 11 euros it was cheaper than the fancier tubes up in the papeterie section. Then you can block off the ends as you like. Paper and duct tape, whatever.

I imagine this is a bit heavy for mailing (didn't check out that price), but easy to check as a second piece of luggage. Great for storing. Label well so it doesn't inadvertently get used for plumbing repairs.

Paris Biker Babe

I did it. I finally have a bicycle to ride in Paris. It's been on my to-do list for months, but somehow I just haven't had the nerve.

I have been observing, for a year now, those chic Parisiennes who maneuver their way through rush hour traffic, in high heels and stylish skirts. How could they be so oblivious to the dangers around them, I wondered. I envied their bravada. I envied their ability to look so glamorous and put themselves in the spotlight -- sitting so tall and gorgeous astride their velos, being admired by all the men in cars and buses.

But I wasn't ready. I needed time to understand the city, to get the flow of life here, to know others who rode their bicycles around. Even then, I just wasn't prepared to make the plunge. Why was I being so cautious? I wondered where I could I keep it. I asked my gardienne if I, too, would be allowed to park a bike in the courtyard, where there are already four in permanent residence. "Mais bien sur," she replied, "comme tous les autres locataires." Of course I had the same rights as the other tenants. Why was I being so anxious? Despite my happy-go-lucky exterior, I clearly am not as adventurous as I might appear.

Part of it was that I had heard how often bikes are stolen here. Or parts of bikes. Still, that's not a huge deal. Also I had seen how close the bus or other cars pass next to the cyclistes. The cyclistes don't flinch. Was I ready for a game of chicken? I also had heard from my friend Vincent that he had once gotten a ticket from the gendarmes for running a red light on his bicycle in Paris on a Sunday in August. August! A 300 euro fine, and they would take away his automobile driver's license if he didn't pay it. That story was scary, but I was hanging onto it simply for justifying my procrastination about getting a bike. I had written about Mayor Delanoe's new Velib program, where bikes will be available for daily rental next to nothing, starting this summer. Maybe I should wait and just rent a bike, to see how it goes. Oh, come on. I was stalling, and not happy with myself for doing so.

What was I waiting for?

Then Saturday I was heading home from Montmartre on the 12 Metro line and when we reached the Madeleine stop I knew it was now or never. I jumped off and prayed that Decathlon was still open. 19h30 and the store was open til 20h00. This is it.

I went straight to the bike section, which I had been perusing for months. To my surprise I beheld what looked like a bike parade. Dozens of people riding bikes in the aisles, examining accessories, discussing with the bike techs their various options. The fabulous staff were jovial and actually laughing, because it was such a madhouse.

"How many bikes have you sold today?" I asked. "C'est incroyable!"

"Trop!" they chorused.

But they were young, energetic and helpful, and cooperative with each other. A real travail d'equipe. Thierry (forgive me if I got your name wrong) was tremendously patient despite clearly having had a very very long day, eager to begin his Saturday evening. He recommended all the right locks. "This you attach to something tres solide," he warned, about the heavy-duty lock. "Then this cable you attach permanently to your seat (selle). The third lock is to attach to your front wheel, when you are parked for a long time. Les voleurs like to steal front wheels." He showed me how to shift the gears (it's a 7-speed), and other features my Decathlon City bike. It has a panier that removes in a click, a headlight that runs on a dynamo instead of a battery, and I learned the word for kick-stand, which is "la bequille" -- same as the word for "crutch".

Then he sent me along to the caisse and it was a done deal. Suddenly I felt kind of the way I had felt 20 years ago when taking my first newborn home from the hospital. "You mean they're letting me leave here with this without any further instruction or permission?"

And off I went. After carrying my bike up the stairs to the place de la Madeleine, I climbed on and started pedaling down the cobblestones of rue Royale, in Paris traffic. Me? Me.

A feeling of sheer exhilaration perfectly blended with blinding panic radiated from every pore. 'This is so cool!" I shouted to myself, "I can't believe I'm finally doing this!" as I reached the mayhem of place de la Concorde. I was so happy. I felt so free. So much a part of Paris. The wind flowing through my hair. Complete bliss, while gripping those handlebars with white-knuckled fear. I found a bike path (piste cyclable) and flew down the streets, and over the bridge.

Watch out, Paris. This crazy American lady has started singing while riding her bike. Somewhere near les Invalides I spontaneuosly began belting out "I have con-fi-dence in confidence a-lone!" a la Julie Andrews. Stay tuned.

Are We There Yet?

April in Paris is such a cliche. But what a great one. Today Paris was sublime, although really more like August: almost too hot to stand in the sun while waiting for the No. 69 bus. That glorious bus route is one of my favorites, mostly because you see so many different parts of Paris, lots of monuments and the Seine. It starts at the Eiffel Tower and winds up at Gambetta (where I was headed for lunch), next to Pere Lachaise. For 1.4 euros it's hands down one of the top sightseeing bargains in the City. And today's sights included the lilacs and spirea softly bursting into bloom in the parks.

So imagine my reaction when a whiny 7-year-old American mini-tourist was drooping upside down and backwards over the seat in front of me, complaining with the classic "Are we there yet?" to his mother. I wanted to straighten his little t-shirted shoulders and say, "Yes, we ARE there yet, junior -- we're in Paris. Look out the window!" But as the mother of a former 7-year-old boy, I knew better. I leaned over and said in a stage whisper, "You know, a really good trick while riding the bus or walking in Paris is to see how many lions you can count." OK, I have to pat myself on the back for that gem because immediately he and his older sister and their father were sitting up tall in their seats, craning their necks to find stone lions. "There are 4!!" they shouted at the Hotel de Ville. So until they got off the bus they were busy and happy campers.

Funny, I would have thought the parents might have nodded a knowing little "thank you" in my direction as they departed. But no. Oh well. I don't need the adulation, but appreciation is ... appreciated. After all, I not only was inventive but I also offered a helpful age-appropriate and instructive activity for the little whiner's scavenger hunt, on the spur of the moment.

I mean, there are other sculpture and bas-relief objects to search for on building facades and statues. Gargoyles or rams or fleur de lys and so forth. But also more PG-13-rated sculpted figures, like naked ladies. Of course I didn't suggest that theme to the little kid. Those folks are Americans. Nor, obviously, did I recommend another favorite, immortalized in a witty coffee-table book, Les Zizis de Paris, by Sergio-Neptunio Martin. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think there are many classical zizis on statues that are in the public view in the US.

Ah, Paris. No fig leaves here -- just April leaves. And how.

Presigame

Are you feeling anxious about the upcoming French presidential elections? Do the shifting sands of statistics and polls have you worried? Are you concerned that 42% of French voters are still undecided?

We don't want the electorate to lose any sleep between now and the first round of voting April 22. So to take your mind off the unknown, the uncontrollable, we offer to you stress-reducing:

Presigame!

www.presigame.fr

Take matters into your own hands and decide the presidency in the comfort of your own abode. Like a combination of two of my favorite games (Pacman and dysfunctional family bingo), this jeu presidentiel will keep you from fretting about anything substantial. Of course, if you want to do that, just watch CNN or Fox. But you knew that.



Merci to Isa for sending this my way.

Shaken, not Stirred

During my summers as a kid in Tennessee we used to go over to my cousins' house and play with Aunt Betty's Vibrabelt. (Ahem, you wise guys: it's not that kind of vibrating thingy. Get your minds out of the gutter.) It was one of those contraptions for spot-reducing that, as its name suggests, had a vibrating belt that you looped around your derriere and let it shimmy away the fat. In theory.

We cousins mostly goofed around and set it on high to make our voices jiggle when we talked as we leaned our backsides into the wide shivering belt. Far from slimming myself in those chubby pre-teen days, the only result I noticed was a sudden urge to pee. Aunt Betty, on the other hand, was a true Vibrabelt devotee. I can see her now, hair perfectly coiffed, laughing in her luscious throaty Southern drawl and deeply inhaling her Salem menthols while her bum was shimmering away at 100 rpm. Oh, Aunt Betty. She was so glamorous. She had perfect nails and central air conditioning.

In a Proustian-madeleine-dunking way I conjured up vivid images of Aunt Betty today when I visited the newly opened Powea Power-Plate center http://www.powea.fr/ around the corner from me on rue Pierre Leroux. Power Plate is the buzz to beat all buzz, so tendance with the I-need-instant-fitness crowd. In fact, I'm still buzzing a bit from the experience, but more in a literal sense. Either you know all about Power Plate or you've never heard of it, apparently. I only knew what I had seen in a French chic flick and read in fashion magazines, so I was a wide-eyed novice.

Charming, effervescent Regine Petit, the coach who was running the sleek boutique, led me through the motions -- and quelle motions! -- on the big vibrating plate. Regine was delighted to find out I was American and begged to do the session in English. (I used to bristle at such efforts in my naive desire to masquerade as a Parisienne. Now I find I don't mind that sort of request any more -- I know I'll have ample time to practice my impeccable French.) So we swapped vocab while she coached me: you know, technical terms like buttocks and pelvic tilt. I stood on that big plate and held on for dear life while my eyeballs rattled and my thigh muscles really began to burn. And except for the fact that I tend to forget to breathe when exercising (a minor drawback leading to turning beet red) it was a pleasant experience.

According to Regine I accomplished 1-1/2 hours of exercise in the 30-minute session.
She explained that the machine also helps with stretching, improving circulation and lymphatic drainage, and bone density. My muscles feel as though I just trekked the Himalayas. If Powea's Power-Plate is everything they claim, I'll be as glamorous as Aunt Betty in no time. And maybe more svelte.

Free half-hour trial session by filling out this coupon and calling for a reservation.

Powea Power Plate
21 bis rue Pierre Leroux
75007 Paris
tel 01 56 58 23 10

Boston to Paris, compliments of Google

A little riff on the current blogging buzz going around.

Go to Google maps.

Type "Boston to Paris" in the space provided.

Lovely map.

Read item #9.

Get out your Speedo!

Pierre Cottontail?

Q. Why do French people think Easter is so great?

A. Because Easter -- C'est une Bunny Day!



Joyeuse Pacques a tous.

What's So Funny?

Being called away from Paris unexpectedly has been no laughing matter. First of all, I had to miss the entire First Annual Parisian Comedy Festival, which ended yesterday and no one even missed me.

Second of all, I am resorting to finding daily doses of humor in comparing American life to life in France. It's not always pretty.

For example, America is The Land of the Bumper Sticker. France is not. America puts its heart, soul, and just about everything else of a personal nature on its sleeve -- and on its bumper. The first prize for Bumper Sticker that You'd Never See in France goes to the following, on a white Dodge minivan:

"I'm Still Hot -- only Now it comes in Flashes"

The Second Prize in the "Only in America"category. It was at once touching and yet the sort of thing I find difficult to explain to anyone, let alone friends back in France. In a vast super-sized mall-world endless sea of cars somewhere outside Columbia, South Carolina, was a large yellow sign:

Sunrise Easter Service, 5 am

Wal-Mart Parking Lot

I think it's time for me to head home to Paris.

Customer Service

A few days before I left Paris (it feels like a decade ago but was just une dizaine de jours) I had a rather unsettling experience. It was happy and pleasant, which is what (being Paris) made me feel so odd.

First, a foray into my favorite of favorite spots, La Poste. Upon entering, I noticed a huge hand-scrawled sign actually informing clients that “due to two employee illnesses, there might be delays in service, and la direction apologizes for any inconvenience.”

Wow.

Since when did La Poste apologize, in advance, for making us wait? This was positively unfathomable.

Then, the line actually moved more rapidly than usual. When one guichetier asked if anyone was there to retrieve a package or letter, I raised my hand and said “Moi!”

Motioning me to her desk, she sang merrily, "Moi, moi, toujours moi!” And she proceeded to transact our little business with wisecracking humor and – dare I say – frivolity? Before I left, she cajoled, “Please consider opening a bank account with us. It bums me out (“cela me rend malade”) to see you having to pick up your bank checks here.”

And she shooed me along with a jovial “A bientot!”. I went on my merry way, shaking my head over the gaiety of it all.

I had this unnerving little feeling in my gut. What is happening to the drama of “terrible customer service” that expats love to moan about? What if the French are actually listening to all those complaints and start to become friendly all the time? No, no, I assured myself, this is just an isolated incident.

I then entered the pedestrian tunnel to take the Metro at Duroc station, and something looked out of kilter. Peering around, I noticed a bright, open office where the dark ticket window had once existed. The impenetrable hazy glass where often you couldn’t see if the RATP agent was actually there, and if he was you had better ask nicely and only one question at a time, s’il vous plait. And he would shove your tickets and change back through the little mousehole.

Now that was all changed. It looked positively glitzy. A broad, open window. A shiny-faced smiling young woman with strawberry blond hair in a fresh new uniform. Thunderstruck, I simply had to ask what on earth was happening. “They took away the vitrine?” I asked. “And the little window to pass through the money?”

“Ah, oui,’ she responded, smiling. “No more money here, so no little window. All tickets get bought at the machine,” she gestured. “We are now le service clients.” So the employees at the Metro stations no longer handle any money and are simply there – drumroll please – to be helpful?

My unsettling feeling was now growing into a full-fledged conviction. I had just discovered the largest contemporary cultural revolution in France and no one was talking about it. France has become a customer-friendly nation right before our very eyes and nobody realizes it. This is so subversive! I ran through my mental rolodex of recent interactions as a customer. Yes, yes... The waiter in that café asked if I wanted milk with my express (horrors). Now it’s all coming to me -- he was not being snide, he was being F-R-I-E-N-D-L-Y. But what will become of France if this continues? This slight edge, this keeping on your toes, is what constitutes the daily drama in life here in Paris! This is what living here is about – triumphing over the potential displeasure of an agent, a bus driver, a store clerk. Living here well means “getting it” in terms of how to deal with being a customer always at the mercy of the clerk’s or waiter’s mood.

This could mean then end of “life in France as I know it.”

As I recited this long plaintive narrative to myself, the metro moved to Invalides, where I had to make a connection.. I thought to myself, I have to get a photo of one of these new friendly “Customer Service” desks. Why didn’t I think to get one at Duroc?

At the Invalides station I trudged up the stairs and searched glumly for a dazzling new “Service Clients” window, to snap a photo for posterity.

I found it. But the shiny new window was pulled shut. Behind it, brilliantly illuminated by new halogen lighting, a sullen unshaven twentysomething fellow slouched in his chair, mute behind the huge pane of glass. He had grumpily taped a hand-scrawled sign on the new window. “Tickets a la machine seulement”

Whew.

Being Transatlantic

Be forewarned. Nothing prepares your for the phone call. The unimaginable, the unspeakably awful happens, and the phone call comes at an odd hour from an unidentified number, un appel secret.

You're in the middle of being witty on the phone, at the dinner table, or in writing. Carefree. You're juggling social plans. And then this. This is your children's life calling, some kind but anonymous official calling to let you know that your family will be forever altered. You spend until 4 in the morning on Skype making new plane reservations, cancelling other plans, and calling stateside family and ex-family in hospital waiting rooms and undisclosed cell phone locations. You contact all your friends and try to find some sort of logical thread in the surreal. You try to make sense of it all, figure out what all your Paris promises are that you have to break. Now more than ever you are acutely aware of the transatlantic time difference, in minutes.

You call the gardienne to ask her to keep your mail. "For how long?" she asks.

"Je ne sais pas. Une semaine ou deux," you say.

You call the taxi to come first thing in the morning.

"I need you to come, but I don't want to interrupt your life," says your daughter.

"You are my life," you say.

I'm Ready for my Close-Up, Mr. DeMille

Do dreams of fame and glory haunt you at night? Do you think you've Got What it Takes to be a star?

For any Paris-area Audrey Tautou wannabes or kids who think they are the next Jean-Baptiste Meunier (France's talented answer to Macaulay Culkin), you can check TF1's casting website.
http://etoilecasting.tf1.fr/casting-cinema-page1.htm.

Or even if you have too much time on your hands and want to find something different to while away the days.

Les castings can run the gamut from being an extra in a movie (long metrage) to auditioning for the Really Big Shoe, Star Ac.

Norma Desmond and I are signing up after tea-time today, though I was going to boycott TF1 since they somehow forgot to include me in the lineup for last weekend's show "La Femme la Plus Sexy du Monde".

I hope you don't need this map

If you anticipate finding yourself behind the steering wheel of a car in Paris, here is a handy reference map to study before you leave the safe, stress-free comfort of your armchair. It indicates the most accident-prone streets and intersections. http://www.prefecture-police-paris.interieur.gouv.fr/circuler/carte_accident/carte_accident.htm .

You can also target the riskiest accident locales in your own arrondissement.

The Streets of Paris

I confess. I am addicted to Google Earth. And even more to the aerial view section of the Pages Jaunes www.pagesjaunes.fr .

Here's what I do: to see a location in satellite image, I simply click on pages jaunes (or its cousin on the next tab, the pages blanches), plug in the Paris address I want to see and, then "vue aerienne". Voila! If I zoom in well, I can practically see what kind of cars are parked in the neighborhood. Great for rainy days when I can't get out for a good long walk. And for getting a sense of where I'm going for a dinner party. (I am very very directionally challenged.)

Then to get a street level image, chances are I can find a 360-degree panoramic view, at least of the quartier, here http://www.insecula.com/zone/Z0007363.html.

For the incurably curious among us, or who haven't got a plane ticket here yet, this is Paris-peeping at its best.

A Park in Search of Identity

I don't know much about people with multiple personality disorders. Maybe it's denial, but as far as I know the only person I've encountered with many characters inhabiting one so-called body was a certifiable boss I had about 15 years ago. It was fun; we never knew which one of her was going to show up for staff meetings.

It can be fun, too, when a place has multiple personalities. But like my former wacko boss, it can be a bit disconcerting, too. Paris places, like Parisian everything, are usually so "pulled together". That's why my trip to the Parc Georges Brassens was so unsettling today. It takes the word multi-tasking, multi-function -- multi-everything-- to new levels. For Paris.

In fact, the literature about the park touts its multi-level diversity. And diverse it is. In a small space there are vineyards and bee hives up on a hill, fake donkeys on a grand staircase, real ponies, a waterfall, a hideous giant modern tee pee building which wins my March award for RBA (Really Bad Architecture). On another level, a bland petanques courtyard, a covered outdoor market. Across the park, a fake cliff, the obligatory manege, lots of climbing structures, a huge odd shaped pond and and and and and.

But none of it holdstogether esthetically. The handsome bulls at the park's entrance, and the somewhat classical tower overlooking the empty pond seem to announce a traditional (read: pleasing) gathering. Instead of having one pleasiant surprise after another (the case with most Parisian parks), the visitor has instead one minor disappointment after another. Paths wind and snake around the park, but nothing is really mysterious or hidden. Closer inspection of things seen in the distance leads to disappointment. Nothing serious, but vaguely annoying. Craving something else.

To be sure, it is a pleasant place for families to gather. Lots of happy shouting kids. Learning opportunities abound in the apiary and the vineyard, when they're not chained shut. Patches of colorful flowers. Such variety of activities assures that there is something for everyone. A little potager, a vegetable garden, at the entrance proudly announces that it is maintained solely by a local elementary school and the gardeners of the city of Paris. A quaint little patchwork-quilt touch. The rest of it, rather than being charmingly patchwork, felt just patchy and disjointed. I really wanted to like the Parc. I loved Georges Brassens; his music helped me love French even more all those years of serious study.

But today's Saturday in the Parc with Georges was discordant. Not even fun, like those old staff meetings.