Strawberries

Strawberry season is here. Dessert at its best.

Chez Francoise

www.chezfrancoise.com

I'll be good

Well I had better be a Really Good Girl from now on, because if I'm bad, when I die and they turn me away from the Pearly Gates, Hell is bound to be a place where a) there are bugs that make you itch and/or b) you have to do international banking transactions. And Tantalus will be there, exacting revenge, laughing and dangling reading glasses just out of reach.

Oh, dealing with bank accounts. And transatlantic bank accounts. Ugh. I admit that I am not the most organized when it comes to paperwork and finances -- it's that oh-so-artistic ADD streak in me. Deadlines? Why yes, I love them. In fact I cling to them like a life buoy. Need an adrenaline rush to get focused? Well, sure, so wait until the VERY LAST MINUTE of that deadline to assure total panic -- the more panic, the more adrenaline.

So I'm in adrenaline up to my scalp follicles right now.

I have to call Major Financial Institution in US this afternoon to wire transfer a small amount because I've overlooked a teensy little health insurance issue which will expire today if I don't get it done. Another reason to be good. And healthy. We love insurance, yes we do.

So I get on Skype, call the MFI at some amorphous location and go through the voice mail steps, shouting IDs, PINS, my mother's maiden name, everything but my dress size into the Skype headset. The cloying female recorded voice says, "I'm sorry; I didn't get that." Again. And again. Finally I break on through to a human being.

A young account rep (his voice hasn't even changed yet) named Gary tells me how to request the transfer. Patronizing and silly, he ends every statement, "'kay?" and jabbers on with queries about life in Paris. After endless inane chats while we're on hold with his supervisor (who was busy with college applications, I think) he informs me that --oops, his mistake! --in fact I have to send a fax, that it can't be done on line. Thanks a pantload, junior.

I look at the clock. Oh, god. It's now 8 pm Paris time and my beloved copy/fax store around the corner is closed.

Desperate, I search on line for other fax places in Paris. Les pages jaunes -- no help. Finally I Google it and find out that the Poste at the rue du Louvre (the one that's open 24 hours) has fax service. God, okay. I grit my teeth, jam the papers in my bag, grab my Navigo pass and am about to head out the door when the phone rings. I almost don't answer it. But I think maybe it's MFI changing their minds.

It's my friend Mary, calling from Montmartre.

After exchanging pleasantries I explain my quandary. Mary, who knows all things Paris, muses, "Don't most cyber cafes have a fax service?" (This is why God blesses us with friends. This is why God sends a little voice to answer that telephone call even though we're in a tearing hurry. Right now I love Mary so much -- she has saved me from a premature hours-plus journey to postal purgatory.)

Bingo. There is that B@byconnect internet center around the corner, where all the kids hang out to play video games. Worth a try.

I hang up and barrel out the door. Round the corner. B@byconnect is open! My saviour.

The very friendly attendant seems relieved to have someone over the age of 15 to talk to. She tries sending the fax. No go. Tries again. No go. Needs me to come listen to what the voice is repeating on the other line. Ah, familiar English: "Your call did not go through..."

Grabbing my belongings, I storm back to the apartment in order to call baby Gary and give him a scolding and to get a fax number that works from abroad. I reach the corner, rummaging for my keys. I left them, of course, at B@byconnect. Swing sheepishly by to scoop them up, then back to the apartment. It is now raining and gusting, blowing my umbrella inside out. By God, I'm taking the elevator up to the flat. No self-righteous keep-fit stair-climbing in this saga.

I clamp on the headset and call MFI again. Same log in, IDs, PINs, voice-recognition misunderstandings. Only this time the machine asks for my account number, too, and the date that I opened the account. This time I get Indira in India. She is sweet but vaguely unintelligible, and totally unsure of call-center protocol. Next we mercifully switch to a worker-bee apparently in the US: Clark. He's much more senior, must have graduated early this year.

Another fax number. Another reference number scribbled down. Back to B@byconnect. They are warm and welcoming. They are quick, efficient, saints. Please, someone: canonize them tomorrow. The fax goes through. Cost: 3 euros. Sympathetically she offers that they are open until 1 am tonight. God, so if all else falls into the money merde, I can always go back? And back. All is done. It is now 10 pm and I can come home and rest. Oh, and fix dinner.

So from now on I'll be Really Good. I promise. I have seen a glimpse of where Bad People go, and I don't like it one bit.

A Blog is Born

When I moved to Paris, I thought I would immerse myself totally in French life with my French friends. While this has been important, what has been equally important is getting to know other Americans who are flourishing here. Or languishing here. Some have been here for decades, some for a year or two. So I've been making the rounds of my American friends and acquaintances, and their friends and acquaintances: famous, not-yet-famous, unknown, anonymous or just plain fun. The project? I have started a new blog-to-book project devoted to showcasing their fascinating lives here in the City of Light, called Real Americans in Paris.

Criteria for being "Real Americans in Paris" are somewhat arbitrary: no French mother or father, and not having spent one's childhood or part thereof in Paris. Each interviewee will get a Proust-type questionnaire in advance, and we'll meet for an interview, in the interviewee's favorite Paris location for photo-op. With a few exceptions, in general it won't include many wonderful folks who have already written about their Parisian lives.

Literary agents are twitching in anticipation.

As the World Churns

Hello, world.

Well blow me away. I finally figured out how to put in a site meter to see if I was just blabbing away in the great cyber void or if anyone really cared. Oh, I have some dedicated readers who email me and all. Still, I wanted to know.

But I didn't expect this. Now I'm so absorbed with my Clustr Map that I have to put a Band-Aid over the bottom right corner of my computer screen so I don't obsess. It's so exciting, I think to myself. Two thousand visitors in 10 days? Wow. Yow!

Then in a blogger's nanosecond I grasp that half-empty glass. I start griping, "Hey, Africa, wake up, will ya?" "Yo, Russia! Hellooooo??"

Metro Stop

Ever searching for the perfect housegifts or souvenirs to take to friends in the States this month, it's a challenge in these days of globalization to find a little present that is a) affordable, b) not available in their own hometown, and c) packable.

When you add in a heavy factor of loving maps as design, well, the RATP boutique is just the spot! All the items in the shop are of course based on the RATP theme -- bus, metro, getting around on public transport.

The mug above looks as though it could be right out of Polly Vous Francais, don't you think?

In fact, I have observed that many bloggers hawk mugs and other products based on the graphic of their site. So that got me thinking. Hmmm.... mugs, t-shirts, why even these lovely boxers:


Hey! Great idea! Maybe I should get some printed up.
Hmm. Where would that put the Polly Vous Francais stop?

Safety

It is ironic, in a way, to get nervous inquiries from State-side good citizens fretting about "riots" in France they read about.

I have never felt more safe anywhere than I do in Paris. Every day, every hour. I can walk home solo from a dinner late at night in the echoing loveliness of the streets and feel totally secure. Most single women I know in Paris feel the same. That is a priceless part of life here. In fact, a long stroll home is one of my favorite activities: a good way to clear the head from the evening's buzz, get some unwinding before heading home to faire do-do.

So when I think that Americans are getting all worried about "safety" here in France, I get defensive. Annoyed at overblown press reports. In lovely Charleston SC, in quaint Boston, MA, I wouldn't dare take a one-hour walk home alone at midnight except in the most upscale neighborhoods. Even then...

Always thought-provoking, my friend Wick Sloane sent me his recent article about a victim of violence in Boston. One of his students. Helps to keep things in perspective here.

Compare safety in France and safety in the US. Compare education opportunities. Lots to reflect on.

A Gentle Reminder

Listen up, children. Ecoutez, les enfants.

First, let's get the 2007 facts in order. This year the US celebrates Mother's Day next Sunday, May 13. France celebrates Mother's Day on Sunday, June 3. While this may cause some turmoil or confusion for transatlantic/binational families, I'm sure you can sort it all out. Until some body politic changes something, France and the US will honor mamans and mommies on separate Sundays. Nothing is ever that simple, of course. So we just have to deal with it.

I have spent much of my childhood and adulthood totally slavish to Mother's Day (right, Mom?). Even so, I had always believed that its genesis was from commercial Hallmark-card-and-florist interests. Couldn't be further from the truth.

It tums out that Mother's Day in the US was a women's movement first started by Julia Ward Howe (most famous for "Battle Hymn of the Republic") as a peace movement, then later by Miss Anna M. Jarvis in tribute to her own mother and all mothers. Finally in 1914, President Woodrow Wilson signed a bill officially recognizing the day, and fixing on the second Sunday of May.

La Fête des Mères in France, on the other hand, rose from somewhat different circumstances. Mostly promoted by men, for starters. In 1806 Napoleon, eager to encourage women to produce large numbers of little French patriots, promoted a Mother's Day in the spring. It wasn't until much later, in various 20th century governments, that the day was established as an official day to celebrate. Finally in 1950 the French Assemblée Nationale passed a bill officializing Mother's Day, and setting the date as the last Sunday in May. (If the last Sunday in May happens to also be Pentecost, then Mother's Day is bumped to the next Sunday, the first weekend in June, which is what has happened this year.) There are so many other May holidays in France, I guess there just wasn't a spot for Mother's Day on the same ticket. (Kind of the way that we enter Daylight Savings Time at different dates.)

When all is said and done, though, my vote goes to Mothers' Day in England, where they at least put the apostrophe in the right place.

Smokin'

Oh, boy. The emails and phone calls are already coming in. "Is everything okay?" "Are you affected by the riots?" "Should I cancel my upcoming trip to Paris?"

I don't know the actual numbers of protesters. I am not a journalist. But Paris is not on fire.

Then after reading all the French and foreign press I could get my hands on and still try to accomplish something with my day, I received the Borowitz Report.

I guess we all could use a little levity, this from a very irreverent American guy's perspective. Did he get the numbers right?

Rousseau, Hugo, and Mr. Handsome

Don't worry, I'm not becoming a groupie or anything. I was actually loooking at French products on line, and stumbled across this unlikely Tee-Shirt.

The caption: The Voice of Reason has a French Accent

The Motley Trio pictured: Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Dominique de Villepin

Hurry now while supplies last.

Election Party at France 24

A throng of some 300 eager viewers packed the France 24 television studios in Issy les Moulineaux this evening to watch the presidential election returns in French, English, and Arabic. Champagne corks popped to fill the glasses of the Sarkozy supporters celebrating the victory; whiskey, bordeaux and jus de tomate were poured for the Sego fans who wished to drown their sorrows.

In the hubbub it was hard to hear the televised commentaries. The crowd, a mix of mostly French and Americans -- journalists, bloggers, expats -- mingled with strangers, sharing stories. "Did Sego have an earpiece on during the debate?" "Is Sarko going to move into the Elysee Palace?" It was not a time for political debate. There was revelry and there was despondence, but moreover a sense of camaraderie that could serve the whole country in light of the 53/47 ratio in the voter turnout. As all said, "Vive la France!"

Sunday Confession

Forgive me fashion gods, for I have sinned.

I went for a walk this morning in the chill air of election day morning. (That is not the sin.)

Here's what I wore: navy blue jeans, black polar fleece jacket, and size 10 grey New Balance sneakers. The really wide tourist-type for walking.

Trembling as I headed on my trek, I figured that somewhere around rue St. Guillaume the streets would open wide their jaws and haul me to the underworld for such a fashion transgression.

Here's what happened: nothing.

The fashion police didn't stop me for questioning, the little slim ladies walking their Yorkies didn't glare at me, no little kids pointed and said "C'est quoi, maman?" I was a fashion mess from toes to neck. No one cared.

There were mitigating domestic circumstances having to do with laundry and availability of thin sports socks to wear with my acceptable slender black "Bally" sneakers. It wasn't happening, and I had to have that walk. So I just did it. I am so paranoid about making fashion faux pas in Paris that I only dared go out in those hideous but comfortable shoes, that outfit, because I figured it was early enough and not many discerning people would be on the street. This is partially true, I think. Under normal circumstances I could allow myself to wear running shoes like that IF I were in also in a chic spandex get-up heading over to the Champs de Mars or Jardin du Luxembourg in a trot. Spandex was not in the lexicon today.

But just walking in that ensemble, you look as if you are going somewhere, dressed "normally". A clueless American fashion ignoramus. Okay, okay, it is partially true, but my fashion IQ is improving slowly after a year here.

Anyway, I'll repent and atone tomorrow: a whole morning in Ferragamo pumps.

If you have knowledge, kindness and time...

"If you have knowledge, kindness and time, we would be very grateful you translate it to English ! " is the gentle request at the bottom of the page.

I am deeply moved. This is from a history page of a French website, La Place de l'Eventail. This is the sort of call for help that sways me to drop all my other, meaningless activities to pitch in. It's quite simply adorable of them to ask!

At the top of the page, they offer:

"We give here a translation with of course a lot of mistakes : we gratefully thank our visitors who will take some time for helping us !"

Followed by the touching,

"We forbide us stealing material from other sites, which is unfair and unuseful . Here is an exception :

Unable of translating well and quick the infra text of our own, we have taken for our english reading visitors a page from another site which gives some excerpts from well known books."

Their English isn't bad at all, basically. But the sweet, humble nature of the request is irresistible.

So how about it? Any volunteer translators out there?

FYI US Citizen Services News

A news alert from the American Embassy, recopied here for practical purposes.

"Important Notice Concerning U.S. Citizen Services

After many years at the Talleyrand building, the Consular Section of the U.S. Embassy in Paris is moving to a new location. During the move, services will be limited to emergency cases only on Wednesday, May 9; Thursday, May 10; and Friday, May 11. The Embassy will be closed for all services on Tuesday, May 8 which is a French holiday.

To avoid delays, U.S. citizens who need routine services that require a personal appearance, such as notarization of documents and applications for birth reports and passports, should plan to avoid coming May 9-10-11 since only emergency services will be provided. Emergency services include applications for lost and stolen passports which will continue to be accepted throughout this time if proof of imminent travel is presented.

Our new address starting Monday, May 14 will be in the main Embassy building located at Place de la Concorde. Access for consular services will be at a special entrance at: 4, avenue Gabriel, 75008 Paris. The métro stop remains the same: Concorde.

As of May 14, all consular services, including by-mail passport applications, will be available at our new address:

U.S. Embassy
Consular Section
4, avenue Gabriel
75382 Paris Cedex 08
Tel: 01 43 12 22 22

We look forward to providing consular services to U.S. citizens in France at our larger, more modern consular section.

If you have questions concerning American Citizen Services at the consular section, please write to us at the following email address: Citizeninfo@state.gov "

Adieu, Mr. Handsome

Today I was roused earlier than usual for my morning walk. The upstairs neighbors were having a feisty little morning spat, kind of like Sarko and Sego last night. It was better to get out of the audible crossfire.

And a good thing, because Paris in the tranquil morning hours reveals more than when it is in full swing with the glare of sunshine and commotion and traffic. At the end of my peaceful ramble, I rounded the corner from my apartment and stopped by the newspaper stand to get Le Parisien and Le Figaro to read their respective editorials about last night's debate.

Something looked strange. There were more trees than usual on rue de Babylone. A dozen more, to be precise. Twelve magnolia trees in large white planters were on a flatbed truck outside the back door of the Hotel Matignon, the Prime Minister's palatial residence with beautiful gardens. A Lomarec truck (Location de Materiel pour Receptions, a party rental service) was parked by the security guards' usual place. "Oh! They're having a garden party at the Matignon!" I thought gaily. "What a great day for it!"

Then the reality struck. It impaled me like a slender arrow in the heart.

Mr. Handsome is leaving the neighborhood. This is his going away party.

You see, the French press has been all aflutter about the fact that President and Mrs. Chirac are leaving the Elysee Palace after next Sunday and "downsizing" to a humongous apartment on Quai Voltaire lent to them by the family of the late Lebanese Prime Minister Rafik Hariri. But I haven't seen much (actually, I haven't looked) about where my dreamboat neighbor M. de Villepin is moving. (I'm not talking politics here when I discuss my admiration for Mr. Handsome-- I don't do that anyway -- I'm talking pure aesthetics. He is a sight for sore eyes, especially in person. Especially female eyes.)

So now he's moving out of the 'hood, to be replaced probably by either Dominique Strauss-Kahn or Francois Fillon. It just won't be the same without him. The daily frisson of possibly bumping into a man with movie-star good looks (okay, or his glamorous wife and lanky top-model kids). Well, c'est fini. Nevermore.

Too bad that shindig at the Matignon is not an American-style block party. The kind where you invite all the neighbors.

Sigh.

Reality

Before I moved to Paris, and in the first weeks when I settled here, I certainly had enchanting little images of what my daily life would be. Snapshots or movie vignettes, perhaps, but they were as clear in their emotional pull as they were gauzy but forceful visually. Oh, the life I would lead!

I recall these images now, each morning as I sip my coffee from my impractical but lovely large coffee cup, fine English Bone china decorated with little sparrows. I remember what I envisioned my Parisian breakfasts to be when I bought that pair of cups and saucers on an impulse in the wonderful old-fashioned cutlery store in the 2e arrondissement.

My image: intimate breakfasts by myself (or even with a fabulous amant), or with my visiting children, always with warm croissants or crusty baguettes and homemade jam, steamed milk, coffee press coffee, sitting at a table reading Le Figaro as sunlight streamed in the room, listening to jazz or classical musical, before heading off to some meaningful quotidian activity. First, perhaps a soft-boiled egg. Even the crumbs or the overflowing egg yolk looked exquisite and were so tasty and picturesque. Like all those photogenic foodie photos.

But here's the twist. Paris doesn't let you do that. Guess what? Life doesn't let you do that. Not mine, anyway. The imagined life is just that -- imagined.

Well, my usual morning reality is that I zap a pitcher of Candia boxed milk, put the pod in the Nespresso and whack the machine's backside until it begs for forgiveness, then turn on the laptop and start the daily onslaught of emails, news and what-have-you on my dining room table that hasn't unlearned its role as an overloaded desk. Breakfast is a banana from the Shopi, hopefully not overripe.

Hey, wait! This wasn't part of my Paris croissant dream.

Hey, wait! One French woman I just read about says she hasn't eaten a croissant in 10 years.

This is so depressing.

Where is my Paris of my imagination? And while we're at it, où sont les neiges d'antan?

Here is real life: Every morning I make plans. I vow to really get into shape, to return to my pencil-thin former self to blend in seamlessly with the chic Parisian women. So now part of my new Paris reality entails a daily hour inside some sweaty gym instead of spending that hour living the real Paris?

This was definitely not a part of my Paris dream. In my Paris dream I was speaking French all day long, working alongside some fascinating cultural powers-that-be and spending evenings hosting witty salons and attending glittery champagne-soaked soirées and glamorous theatre openings in stilettos, and afternoons in hip unknown cafes sipping café express with important people, perhaps.

Here's my reality.

I shudder as I examine the piles of to-be-opened mail from my three-week departure. I look at the still unfinished IKEA desk that I simply must do something about. Bureaucracy to deal with, plumbers arriving, and on and on and on.

But here's the deal. I get up and walk out the door and more than ever Paris is more than my dream come true. My "indoor" Paris - the cozy flat with its "parquet-moulures-cheminées" (hwf, fpl, mldngs) has the bones of the Paris ideal. A splendid backdrop. But life is life, and bills must get paid, dishes washed, groceries bought, laundry cleaned, calls returned. But then I walk just a block or two down the street or ride my bike to the marché, and there is nothing -- I'm sorry ladies and gentlemen, but NOTHING -- that compares to the sheer exhilaration of living in this city. Just the everyday errands -- oh, go to the dry cleaners -- and the beauty of life that swirls around all the mundane stuff on a daily basis makes it worth every minute.

Paris the flaky-croissant-cliché is not here -- it's better than that.

Le Re-Looking

Oui c'est moi.

My fairy blogmother, Ariane, came to the rescue and updated my blog banner. Looks zippy, n'est-ce pas? So very Paris!

Soon I'll have the whole darn blog redone and it'll be the blogosphere version of a facelift, un lifting.

This is just a little preliminary Botox.

La belle demoiselle qui passe...

I can't believe I actually found this.

Three centuries ago, when I was about to enter 7th grade, I had to spend a summer listening to ALM French lesson records on our hi-fi to prepare for taking beginning French. Below are the sentences we had to memorize in perfect pronunciation. (First, say "la demoiselle" about 15 times. Then "la belle demoiselle," ditto. Then "la belle demoiselle qui passe", etc... )

Tu comprends le truc, non? You get the drill? And I mean drill. Evidently these three sentences have all the sounds heard in French, plus all the syntax constructions you'll need for a lifetime of speaking French.

1. La belle demoiselle qui passe là-bas est la voisine de Jeanne à la classe de mathématiques de la capitale.

2. Le jeune monsieur qui travaille à côté est le nouveau professeur de Charlot au cours de littérature espagnole du collège.

3. Le gentil garçon qui prononce bien a un voisin ennuyeux qui bavarde constamment dans une classe de français à Verdun.

Even today I still could recite almost all of nos. one and three by heart, which is how I was able to Google it. Shows what torture will do to the young brain. I think ALM stands for A Long Memory.

And you can imagine how thrilled I was at age 12 to listen to anything other than the Beatles, Herb Alpert, or the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. But somehow something clicked and it eventually didn't seem so difficult. And now, here I am, 99.9% fluent. In Paris.

Watch the Royal-Sarkozy debate in English

On May 2, Wednesday evening, at 9 pm (Paris time), all eyes and ears in France will be focused on the Sarko-Sego debate, broadcast live on TF1 and France 2, plus several radio stations. Moderators are the popular Patrick Poivre d'Arvor and Arlette Chabot.

Good news for anglophones: according to Le Nouvel Observateur, France 24 will have a live broadcast with simultaneous interpretation in English and Arabic. For those who have cable, a boon.

Paradis

Radish season is here-- so many to choose from. These were on display at the marché on avenue de Saxe.

Radis in French also is a colloquialism for a penny or a pittance. Je n'ai plus un radis means 'I'm broke;' cela ne vaut pas un radis means something is worthless.

Not so these tasty little roots. Get me some beurre or some gros sel, quick!

Hatred

With sentiments heating up over next Sunday's presidential elections, there is no shortage of defacing of political campaign posters. Eyes scratched out, mustaches drawn in, and personal commentary of all stripes. Somehow, in my mind's eye, I imagined that these graffiti-makers were young voyous, the same types you see with their giant magic markers in ill-supervised metro stations writing on the billboards.

Until today.

Riding my bike down rue Dombasle in the 15th arrondissement, I saw a man, about 50-ish, with shoulder-length hair and wearing sandals and a backpack, violently scribbling on three Sarkozy posters. I tried in vain to snap a photo of him from afar. By the time I got closer, I was too scared of him to actually take the picture. He looked big and mean. Scowling. So I rode past, then turned around to see if I could get a shot of him from down the street, but he hopped into his dented old Peugeot junior, which still had the engine running, and sped away.

The message: 1,58 metres de haine pure (5 feet 3 inches of pure hatred)

Of course, defacing political posters isn't exactly an act of loving kindness.