A quick observation in New York. No shortage of love of French culture here. Why did I even need to leave Paris? In a brief walk on the West Side yesterday, I came across several arrondissements/quartiers:
Pigalle -- www.pigallenyc.com -- a pretty authentic bistro, but not many like this in Pigalle, I think.
Le Marais -- www.LeMarais.net -- a steakhouse
Montmartre -- no website, but I laughed out loud when I saw it. Nothing like the Montmartre I know. A trendy upscale women's apparel boutique, descibed by some as for "Stepford Wives". Or was it "Desperate Housewives?" I don't know the difference.
This all reminds me of the restaurant I passed by in Paris in some heavily touristed area. The name of the restaurant, on the awning , is "Authentic Parisian Bistro". Yup. Doesn't get much more authentic than that, n'est-ce pas?
We borrow, we lend names, words, icons, don't we!
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Horoscope
Not that I really believe in horoscopes, mind you, but if I did, it would be a great time to be a Capricorn, which I am. I have to admit to reading the daily Yahoo horoscope as well as the back pages in Elle, where I'm learning all the French astrology vocab. All these places tell me that I can expect to have it all in the coming months -- social, career, everything will go my way if I just go for it. Oh happy day!
So I find myself in New York City right now, drumming up support for Lafayette 2007, celebrating two centuries of French-American friendship. (Why don't we ever say American/French friendship? A question to be pondered another day.) Contacts and meetings are productive, and thus the career prospects of this old goat -- er, I mean Capricorn -- are looking up.
Jet lagged beyond mercy, at 6:00 am I am pressing my nose against the window of the Starbucks on Columbus and W. 76th, thirsting for my triple-grande-no-foam-no-fat latte, which I haven't tasted (or missed) for three months. Settling into my window seat with that first magical sip, I take out some light reading. Not Elle magazine, but L Magazine www.thelmagazine.com, a hip New York freebie. On the last page, I kid you not, here is this week's horoscope for Capricorns, written by Laps Trinity:
"Why can't the Yanks and the Frenchies get along? Ever since the whole Freedom Fry flap happened, I've been trying to reconcile these two groups, whom I love dearly. I've had transnational adventure camps, quiz nights, key parties ... all the fun things I could think of. But you know what finally did it, Capricorn? Getting them to gang up on Canada. When in doubt, attack the weak."
Now, how can I NOT believe in horoscopes?
So I find myself in New York City right now, drumming up support for Lafayette 2007, celebrating two centuries of French-American friendship. (Why don't we ever say American/French friendship? A question to be pondered another day.) Contacts and meetings are productive, and thus the career prospects of this old goat -- er, I mean Capricorn -- are looking up.
Jet lagged beyond mercy, at 6:00 am I am pressing my nose against the window of the Starbucks on Columbus and W. 76th, thirsting for my triple-grande-no-foam-no-fat latte, which I haven't tasted (or missed) for three months. Settling into my window seat with that first magical sip, I take out some light reading. Not Elle magazine, but L Magazine www.thelmagazine.com, a hip New York freebie. On the last page, I kid you not, here is this week's horoscope for Capricorns, written by Laps Trinity:
"Why can't the Yanks and the Frenchies get along? Ever since the whole Freedom Fry flap happened, I've been trying to reconcile these two groups, whom I love dearly. I've had transnational adventure camps, quiz nights, key parties ... all the fun things I could think of. But you know what finally did it, Capricorn? Getting them to gang up on Canada. When in doubt, attack the weak."
Now, how can I NOT believe in horoscopes?
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Love in the Afternoon
So here's what got me so mad.
We're all gathered together in a beautiful living room in a beautiful flat on a beautiful square in the 16th arrondissement: several dozen well-dressed ladies drinking delicious iced tea, and the piano concert is about to begin. I'm relaxing on a beautiful upholstered brocade settee, next to an open window, sun shining on my face and a gentle September breeze lilting through the room.
The concert is, unexpectedly, a sublime little jazz/blues recital with William B gliding over the Steinway with tunes such as "Autumn Leaves" and something from the Blue Note. He's so young and talented, only 24 and a true musical artist. I feel as though we should be coolly snapping our fingers instead of simply applauding elegantly.
In my seat next to the balcony, I am on the cusp between indoors and out, so the concert I hear is a blend of children's happy shouts from the park below woven into the mellow, swinging piano music. I am delirious. This is Paris at its finest.
Then, for a finale William plays Nat King Cole's "When I Fall in Love". To look around the room, nothing has changed. The sunlight is still brilliant, the atmosphere is luxuriant. But somehow my afternoon is shifting to darkness and sadness as I listen to the melody. Sad, because I used to really believe in love songs. I am wistful for the naive days of innocent believing. Then he begins to sing, in a soulful but muted voice:
"When I fall in love,
It will be forever
Or I'll never fall in love.
In a restless world like this is,
Love is ended before it's begun
And too many moonlight kisses
Seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.
When I give my heart,
It will be completely
Or I'll never give my heart.
And the moment I can feel that
You feel that way, too,
Is when I fall in love with you."
So that's when darkness turns to bleakness and blackness and I get boiling mad. Damn YOU, Nat King Cole! "Forever"? "Completely"? Who are you kidding? It's just not true.
After the concert, I make the smiling rounds and say my polite goodbyes and thank yous and air kisses, get on the metro and go home and cry.
The Pollyanna in me used to adore the romantic lyrics of Nat King Cole. Now I need to exorcise this song from my brain. Maybe the whole repertoire.
Not in my life. And not in most French lives, from what I can gather.
We're all gathered together in a beautiful living room in a beautiful flat on a beautiful square in the 16th arrondissement: several dozen well-dressed ladies drinking delicious iced tea, and the piano concert is about to begin. I'm relaxing on a beautiful upholstered brocade settee, next to an open window, sun shining on my face and a gentle September breeze lilting through the room.
The concert is, unexpectedly, a sublime little jazz/blues recital with William B gliding over the Steinway with tunes such as "Autumn Leaves" and something from the Blue Note. He's so young and talented, only 24 and a true musical artist. I feel as though we should be coolly snapping our fingers instead of simply applauding elegantly.
In my seat next to the balcony, I am on the cusp between indoors and out, so the concert I hear is a blend of children's happy shouts from the park below woven into the mellow, swinging piano music. I am delirious. This is Paris at its finest.
Then, for a finale William plays Nat King Cole's "When I Fall in Love". To look around the room, nothing has changed. The sunlight is still brilliant, the atmosphere is luxuriant. But somehow my afternoon is shifting to darkness and sadness as I listen to the melody. Sad, because I used to really believe in love songs. I am wistful for the naive days of innocent believing. Then he begins to sing, in a soulful but muted voice:
"When I fall in love,
It will be forever
Or I'll never fall in love.
In a restless world like this is,
Love is ended before it's begun
And too many moonlight kisses
Seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.
When I give my heart,
It will be completely
Or I'll never give my heart.
And the moment I can feel that
You feel that way, too,
Is when I fall in love with you."
So that's when darkness turns to bleakness and blackness and I get boiling mad. Damn YOU, Nat King Cole! "Forever"? "Completely"? Who are you kidding? It's just not true.
After the concert, I make the smiling rounds and say my polite goodbyes and thank yous and air kisses, get on the metro and go home and cry.
The Pollyanna in me used to adore the romantic lyrics of Nat King Cole. Now I need to exorcise this song from my brain. Maybe the whole repertoire.
Not in my life. And not in most French lives, from what I can gather.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
L'Ecole Buissonniere
Today I played hooky.
I love the French phrase for playing hooky, which is "faire l'ecole buissonniere," or go to the school of the greenery or bushes. Conjures up idyllic notions of walking through the countryside or wading in a stream. I guess my stream is the Seine. I did check out the scenery and the greenery. But I did not sit at my desk working. Not today.
It was one of those gorgeous blue-sky September days in Paris. I didn't intend to blow off all my work. Feeling rather productive, I made some business calls first thing and then decided to get fit and go for my morning constitutional. Here's the stream I followed.
I headed first to Invalides, which is right around the corner : www.invalides.org . One project that I am attempting is to find as many ways to walk across, around and through Paris dodging the rain, for all those winter months when there never seems to be a day without at least a little precipitation. The courtyard of the Invalides is a splendid find in this regard-- gets me across a major stretch, all under the colonnade. Oh, and I did swing by the museum boutique, just to see. Lovely place for Christmas shopping. But true to my exercise regime, I kept moving and didn't stop to buy a single thing.
I wandered around the gardens a bit -- why hadn't I done this before? Beautiful fountains, and I came upon a spot where a ceremony must have taken place just moments before. Fresh white long-stemmed roses were strewn upon a memorial to victims of terrorism. Spread out on the other side of the statue were large, formal floral arrangements with official ribbon sashes proclaiming the bearer's office: Maire de Paris, Le Premier Ministre, le Syndicat du RATP.
Between the Hotel des Invalides and the Seine is the broad, grand esplanade. (Check it out on google earth -- invalides paris.). Let me make a little confession here: I am so comforted by the built environment of Paris that in that sweeping, wide-open space I find myself feeling just a teeeensy bit agoraphobic. Too much free area. I dread crossing it. But today I descended the esplanade to my beloved Pont Alexandre III, heading toward Le Grand Palais. Every time I glimpse Le Grand Palais from afar, with its proud tricolore flying atop the dome, I feel as though I'm looking at a Pierre Le-Tan New Yorker cover.
Today was my day to enter. I hadn't been inside since the 10-year renovations were completed. The feature attraction right now is the Biennnale des Antiquaires www.biennaledesantiquaires.com, gorgeous paintings, antiques, jewellery. Fortunately I got reduced admission of EUR 12,50 with my Amis du Louvre membership card. The exhibitors were fabulous galleries, and many of the well-heeled attendees seemed to be there to pick up a little Bonnard or Degas for the study at home. Needless to say, in a sea of Chanel flats and Hermes ties I was way underdressed in my black jeans and walking shoes, even though I was wearing Bally sneakers, tres francaise (no one at TJMaxx had known what to do with them, I guess). I sat for a pause at the little cafe de la Biennale and got a Perrier in a plastic cup for EUR 4,50. That's when I knew it was time to leave. Fortunately they did have lots of good free magazines as giveaways, so I grabbed some as I headed out the door.
At this point I realized that hooky was in full swing, so I hopped on the first bus I found -- the 83. I hopped off randomly in the 5th arrondissement and happened upon the Academie de la Biere (www.academie-biere.com ) The chef's special was moules paysanne, which, with a glass of crisp muscadet and crusty bread, was heaven distilled into culinary form. And at EUR 9,00 for the entire bowl, it more than compensated for that earlier glass of Perrier. After lunch I walked up the boulevard and sat in the sun and drank a cafe at Le Select, reading my French magazines and nibbling on the little chocolate-covered almond that accompanies your express in the good cafes.
Then I walked most of the way home, took the 92 bus for the last bit, landed back in the apartment and took a nap. Absolute bliss. I never do this.
I finished off the day by heading over to "Bunches," my favorite new florist at the corner of boulevard Raspail and rue de Vaugirard. For EUR 10,00 you can choose either 5 bottes of flowers (which can be an entire armload of sunflowers or irises, probably 30 - 40 total, or a botte of 50 tulips or 40 roses. What's not to love? So the apartment is now filled with bright red tulips -- in a cheerful yellow teapot on the dining room table, in a tall glass vase on the marble mantel, in a little tumbler on the bedside table.
Greenery -- by the armful or the dayful -- does wonders for the soul.
I love the French phrase for playing hooky, which is "faire l'ecole buissonniere," or go to the school of the greenery or bushes. Conjures up idyllic notions of walking through the countryside or wading in a stream. I guess my stream is the Seine. I did check out the scenery and the greenery. But I did not sit at my desk working. Not today.
It was one of those gorgeous blue-sky September days in Paris. I didn't intend to blow off all my work. Feeling rather productive, I made some business calls first thing and then decided to get fit and go for my morning constitutional. Here's the stream I followed.
I headed first to Invalides, which is right around the corner : www.invalides.org . One project that I am attempting is to find as many ways to walk across, around and through Paris dodging the rain, for all those winter months when there never seems to be a day without at least a little precipitation. The courtyard of the Invalides is a splendid find in this regard-- gets me across a major stretch, all under the colonnade. Oh, and I did swing by the museum boutique, just to see. Lovely place for Christmas shopping. But true to my exercise regime, I kept moving and didn't stop to buy a single thing.
I wandered around the gardens a bit -- why hadn't I done this before? Beautiful fountains, and I came upon a spot where a ceremony must have taken place just moments before. Fresh white long-stemmed roses were strewn upon a memorial to victims of terrorism. Spread out on the other side of the statue were large, formal floral arrangements with official ribbon sashes proclaiming the bearer's office: Maire de Paris, Le Premier Ministre, le Syndicat du RATP.
Between the Hotel des Invalides and the Seine is the broad, grand esplanade. (Check it out on google earth -- invalides paris.). Let me make a little confession here: I am so comforted by the built environment of Paris that in that sweeping, wide-open space I find myself feeling just a teeeensy bit agoraphobic. Too much free area. I dread crossing it. But today I descended the esplanade to my beloved Pont Alexandre III, heading toward Le Grand Palais. Every time I glimpse Le Grand Palais from afar, with its proud tricolore flying atop the dome, I feel as though I'm looking at a Pierre Le-Tan New Yorker cover.
Today was my day to enter. I hadn't been inside since the 10-year renovations were completed. The feature attraction right now is the Biennnale des Antiquaires www.biennaledesantiquaires.com, gorgeous paintings, antiques, jewellery. Fortunately I got reduced admission of EUR 12,50 with my Amis du Louvre membership card. The exhibitors were fabulous galleries, and many of the well-heeled attendees seemed to be there to pick up a little Bonnard or Degas for the study at home. Needless to say, in a sea of Chanel flats and Hermes ties I was way underdressed in my black jeans and walking shoes, even though I was wearing Bally sneakers, tres francaise (no one at TJMaxx had known what to do with them, I guess). I sat for a pause at the little cafe de la Biennale and got a Perrier in a plastic cup for EUR 4,50. That's when I knew it was time to leave. Fortunately they did have lots of good free magazines as giveaways, so I grabbed some as I headed out the door.
At this point I realized that hooky was in full swing, so I hopped on the first bus I found -- the 83. I hopped off randomly in the 5th arrondissement and happened upon the Academie de la Biere (www.academie-biere.com ) The chef's special was moules paysanne, which, with a glass of crisp muscadet and crusty bread, was heaven distilled into culinary form. And at EUR 9,00 for the entire bowl, it more than compensated for that earlier glass of Perrier. After lunch I walked up the boulevard and sat in the sun and drank a cafe at Le Select, reading my French magazines and nibbling on the little chocolate-covered almond that accompanies your express in the good cafes.
Then I walked most of the way home, took the 92 bus for the last bit, landed back in the apartment and took a nap. Absolute bliss. I never do this.
I finished off the day by heading over to "Bunches," my favorite new florist at the corner of boulevard Raspail and rue de Vaugirard. For EUR 10,00 you can choose either 5 bottes of flowers (which can be an entire armload of sunflowers or irises, probably 30 - 40 total, or a botte of 50 tulips or 40 roses. What's not to love? So the apartment is now filled with bright red tulips -- in a cheerful yellow teapot on the dining room table, in a tall glass vase on the marble mantel, in a little tumbler on the bedside table.
Greenery -- by the armful or the dayful -- does wonders for the soul.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Paris Views
Yawn. Too tired to even attempt wit. Just back from the Marche aux Puces at Porte de Vanves. All I can muster is looking at webcams of Paris on www.pagesjaunes.fr and looking at what everyone else is doing, hoping that the weather will be kind to us. Tonight we celebrate the 60th birthday of my friend Mary Blake, artiste extraordinaire, who lives in a cool atelier in the heart of Montmartre with her dog Nina and a few cats. Her work includes wonderful vibrant street scenes of Paris and joyful abstract tableaux. http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://anversauxabbesses.free.fr/cartep/BLAKEP.jpg&imgrefurl=http://anversauxabbesses.free.fr/album%2520des%2520artistes/coordonnee.php&h=63&w=80&sz=6&hl=en&start=103&tbnid=R-uujaIcCXxBBM:&tbnh=58&tbnw=74&prev=/images%3Fq%3D%2522mary%2Bblake%2522%26start%3D100%26ndsp%3D20%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26sa%3DN
The embodiment of joie de vivre, that Mary. We're not sure how many people are showing up tonight to wish her the best -- she lost track along the way -- but in any case there are bound to be Memorable Moments, some perhaps not even publishable.
The embodiment of joie de vivre, that Mary. We're not sure how many people are showing up tonight to wish her the best -- she lost track along the way -- but in any case there are bound to be Memorable Moments, some perhaps not even publishable.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Etes-vous une vraie Serial Shoppeuse?
Some things make me chuckle in France and some things make me laugh so much that I snort (only in the privacy of my appartement, bien sur).
This honest-to-God tag line from a junk mail advertisement from 3 suisses (kind of like Sears/Target) hit my funny bone.
Maybe a bit close to home, too? Although I have learned to keep my belongings to a minimum, because French lodgings just don't have much storage space, I am starting to master the art of shopping a la francaise.
Armed with my bible, "Paris Pas Cher" and combined with great advice and help from other local friends -- Mirenchu, Kathryn, Isabelle, Mary, Gisele and others -- I have managed to sniff out some of the better bargains available in France. From fabrics in Montmartre (http://www.marche-saint-pierre.fr/) to la marche aux puces at Porte de Vanves to France's equivalent of the "Dollar Stores" , I have been making the rounds and have set up la vie a la Parisienne.
And when my tres glamorous friend Nina was visiting from New York in May we found Anna Lowe on rue du Faubourg St. Honore, which has real couture pieces that you can actually afford. So what if it's last season when you're an American fashion simpleton?
I've visited brocantes in the Yvelines and the Gers, the marche in Dinard and in Marciac, always comparison shopping.
When I needed to go to an important gala or have the right business clothes, I went to a great store called La Piscine. Yes, it is located in a former indoor swimming pool. Well, the pool is still there -- but the water is gone. They've added palm trees, so verrry French to make the most of what is. Great designer clothes at cheap cheap prices.
I don't really like to go to the big department stores, though it is tempting when it's raining.
My other favorite store in Paris is Deyrolle, not for clothes but for decor items. www.deyrolle.fr
If you're a PETA fanatic you won't like this store, but it is my idea of heaven. I got the most wonderful seashell there -- about the size of a soccer ball, a luminous and salmon colored cocnh shell. For anyone who thinks that a puppy is the only way to meet new people, let me tell you this: walk down the streets of Paris with a gorgeous huge seashell in your hand (too fragile to have it swinging from some plastic bag, of course) and you'll start conversations with all the kinds of people you'd really like to meet!
But I digress.
Shopping at BHV is another favorite. www.bhv.fr I have also discovered that my little neighborhood droguerie/quincaillerie (hardware store) has just about everything I need at BHV prices or less, plus good advice.
Next to my apartment building is "Le Depot Vente Rive Gauche", a great consignment store with everything from blue jeans to Hermes pocketbooks at rock-bottom prices. It is great to have the space restriction because it has forced me to become much more judicious and selective. I buy only what I really need (a suit for one business meeting, casual pants for another meeting) and then allow myself an occasional "coup de coeur" for the rest.
Now, where to put all that inappropriate apparel that I brought from the US? Actually some places in the US are great if you have an eye for French fashion and then go for a trip to the states -- especially Target and TJ Maxx.
My friend Michel disdained my shopping exploits when some American friends were in town. "Ah oui, les Americaines aiment ca, " he sniffed. Well, maybe les Americaines do like to shop, but evidently we're not alone if 3 Suisses coins the serial shoppeuse phrase.
This honest-to-God tag line from a junk mail advertisement from 3 suisses (kind of like Sears/Target) hit my funny bone.
Maybe a bit close to home, too? Although I have learned to keep my belongings to a minimum, because French lodgings just don't have much storage space, I am starting to master the art of shopping a la francaise.
Armed with my bible, "Paris Pas Cher" and combined with great advice and help from other local friends -- Mirenchu, Kathryn, Isabelle, Mary, Gisele and others -- I have managed to sniff out some of the better bargains available in France. From fabrics in Montmartre (http://www.marche-saint-pierre.fr/) to la marche aux puces at Porte de Vanves to France's equivalent of the "Dollar Stores" , I have been making the rounds and have set up la vie a la Parisienne.
And when my tres glamorous friend Nina was visiting from New York in May we found Anna Lowe on rue du Faubourg St. Honore, which has real couture pieces that you can actually afford. So what if it's last season when you're an American fashion simpleton?
I've visited brocantes in the Yvelines and the Gers, the marche in Dinard and in Marciac, always comparison shopping.
When I needed to go to an important gala or have the right business clothes, I went to a great store called La Piscine. Yes, it is located in a former indoor swimming pool. Well, the pool is still there -- but the water is gone. They've added palm trees, so verrry French to make the most of what is. Great designer clothes at cheap cheap prices.
I don't really like to go to the big department stores, though it is tempting when it's raining.
My other favorite store in Paris is Deyrolle, not for clothes but for decor items. www.deyrolle.fr
If you're a PETA fanatic you won't like this store, but it is my idea of heaven. I got the most wonderful seashell there -- about the size of a soccer ball, a luminous and salmon colored cocnh shell. For anyone who thinks that a puppy is the only way to meet new people, let me tell you this: walk down the streets of Paris with a gorgeous huge seashell in your hand (too fragile to have it swinging from some plastic bag, of course) and you'll start conversations with all the kinds of people you'd really like to meet!
But I digress.
Shopping at BHV is another favorite. www.bhv.fr I have also discovered that my little neighborhood droguerie/quincaillerie (hardware store) has just about everything I need at BHV prices or less, plus good advice.
Next to my apartment building is "Le Depot Vente Rive Gauche", a great consignment store with everything from blue jeans to Hermes pocketbooks at rock-bottom prices. It is great to have the space restriction because it has forced me to become much more judicious and selective. I buy only what I really need (a suit for one business meeting, casual pants for another meeting) and then allow myself an occasional "coup de coeur" for the rest.
Now, where to put all that inappropriate apparel that I brought from the US? Actually some places in the US are great if you have an eye for French fashion and then go for a trip to the states -- especially Target and TJ Maxx.
My friend Michel disdained my shopping exploits when some American friends were in town. "Ah oui, les Americaines aiment ca, " he sniffed. Well, maybe les Americaines do like to shop, but evidently we're not alone if 3 Suisses coins the serial shoppeuse phrase.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Save the Cedars?
Last week I was riding the RATP bus on one of my "get to know Paris cheaply" afternoon excursions. In the seat in front of me was an American couple, about retirement age, both sounding relatively educated and cultivated. They were, however, bickering needlessly about who had the right idea about taking the bus and who , in fact, was right about just about everything they had done since their arrival in Paris. I was getting exhausted doing all that anonymous eavesdropping on all the petty acrimony.
As the bus approached Place de la Bastille, we could see a growing crowd of people, all either wrapped in or waving Lebanese flags. Music was playing. The people were resolute and smiling.
"Look, Bob!" exclaimed the American lady to her husband. "One of those French demonstrations. Let's check it out!!"
"What is it all about?" he grumbled, as he hoisted himself up, not wanting to be bested.
"Oh, well, it looks like 'Save The Trees' or something." she flung over her shoulder as she scrambled off the bus.
As the bus approached Place de la Bastille, we could see a growing crowd of people, all either wrapped in or waving Lebanese flags. Music was playing. The people were resolute and smiling.
"Look, Bob!" exclaimed the American lady to her husband. "One of those French demonstrations. Let's check it out!!"
"What is it all about?" he grumbled, as he hoisted himself up, not wanting to be bested.
"Oh, well, it looks like 'Save The Trees' or something." she flung over her shoulder as she scrambled off the bus.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
L'Hopital Laennec
Just down the street from me on rue Vaneau is a huge abandoned property, the former Hopital Laennec. It is about to be transformed to a new mixed-used residential and academic center, with international collaboration from Stanford and some of the grandes ecoles in Paris. Here's one website for information. The city of Paris has some info in French as well, under Projet Laennec Rive Gauche.
http://eleves.enpc.fr/clubinfo/laennec/Welcome.htm
In addition to being much contested for the demolition of some older buildings and amid local concerns about building heights and density, the property has acquired another place in neighborhood culture: the home of the beloved stray cats. A small band of residents juggle their schedules to make sure that each day the 6 adults and 15 kittens get fed. They slide opened cans of cat food under the rusted gate. While some folks gather to scrutinize the construction/demolition permit signs posted by the Mairie de Paris, others young and old hoist themselves up to peer over the wall and look at the admittedly beautiful felines.
Yesterday I saw one well-dressed lady being dragged by her dog down the street because he knew they were reaching the kitty stop. Being a French dog, he wasn't interested in the cat food at all -- just all those enticing chats. One of the neighborhood cat-feeders was there, and told us the story: 6 adults, feral and unadoptable. The neighbors have contacted the Mairie of the 7th arrondissement, which is helping them look for a new terrain for the adults who will soon be displaced by the construction. 15 kittens soon to be seeking a home.
I won't be one of the adoptive parents, but if I were, I could come up with some great names.
http://eleves.enpc.fr/clubinfo/laennec/Welcome.htm
In addition to being much contested for the demolition of some older buildings and amid local concerns about building heights and density, the property has acquired another place in neighborhood culture: the home of the beloved stray cats. A small band of residents juggle their schedules to make sure that each day the 6 adults and 15 kittens get fed. They slide opened cans of cat food under the rusted gate. While some folks gather to scrutinize the construction/demolition permit signs posted by the Mairie de Paris, others young and old hoist themselves up to peer over the wall and look at the admittedly beautiful felines.
Yesterday I saw one well-dressed lady being dragged by her dog down the street because he knew they were reaching the kitty stop. Being a French dog, he wasn't interested in the cat food at all -- just all those enticing chats. One of the neighborhood cat-feeders was there, and told us the story: 6 adults, feral and unadoptable. The neighbors have contacted the Mairie of the 7th arrondissement, which is helping them look for a new terrain for the adults who will soon be displaced by the construction. 15 kittens soon to be seeking a home.
I won't be one of the adoptive parents, but if I were, I could come up with some great names.
Monday, August 14, 2006
August in Paris
August in Paris -- you've heard it all before, right? Stifling hot, filled with tourists, all stores shut and shuttered, can't get a decent baguette without walking for miles.
Sshhh! Don't tell anyone. It's not really true.
We've had glorious clear weather, rain and positively autumnal chill.
The tourist spots are indeed crammed with a great mix of international visitors. Always will be, 12 months a year. The Louvre is a swarming madhouse, and on the Champs Elysees hardly a word of French is heard among the teeming masses.
But in the residential nieghborhoods, it is quite simply delightful. The pace is relaxed. Neighbors greet one another in camaraderie. The trees rustle in the breeze. I have friends, native Parisians both, who choose to take vacation in June and July so that they can enjoy Paris in August. If they let me divulge their names, I'll tell you. They may disown me for letting this secret out of the bag.
The majority of Parisian Fidos appear to be away with their owners, so the the narrow sidewalks are navigable and crotte-free. I can wander the streets and look at the facades (my favorite pastime) and not be jostled or have to practice Parisian "double vision," a neat trick of simultaneously looking upward at beauty and downward to avoid slippery little dog patties.
Closed? Sure, most of the small shopkeepers have taped "Fermeture annuelle" signs to their stores for their well-deserved holidays. One quick reconnaissance mission will let anyone know which favorite neighborhood spots are open and where to find substitutes. But staff in the shops that are open are cheerful and happy to have clientele.
Driving in Paris is a breeze in August-- now would be the perfect time for me to practice getting around the city by car, as there is very little traffic and lots of on-street parking.
There are a lot of planned activities -- like outdoor movies and Paris Plage, which turns the banks of the Seine into a beach for August. I haven't even checked those out. I'm just happy to explore the city and discover the Paris that gets lost in the hustle and momentum of the other 11 months. This is the reward.
On August 1 at the Sevres-Vaneau bus stop, a dear older lady gazed at the vacant street with delight. "Regardez cela, madame," she rhapsodized to me -- a total stranger -- as she waved her cane at the calm. "Pas une voiture sur la rue de Sevres. Enfin Paris est a nous!"
Sshhh! Don't tell anyone. It's not really true.
We've had glorious clear weather, rain and positively autumnal chill.
The tourist spots are indeed crammed with a great mix of international visitors. Always will be, 12 months a year. The Louvre is a swarming madhouse, and on the Champs Elysees hardly a word of French is heard among the teeming masses.
But in the residential nieghborhoods, it is quite simply delightful. The pace is relaxed. Neighbors greet one another in camaraderie. The trees rustle in the breeze. I have friends, native Parisians both, who choose to take vacation in June and July so that they can enjoy Paris in August. If they let me divulge their names, I'll tell you. They may disown me for letting this secret out of the bag.
The majority of Parisian Fidos appear to be away with their owners, so the the narrow sidewalks are navigable and crotte-free. I can wander the streets and look at the facades (my favorite pastime) and not be jostled or have to practice Parisian "double vision," a neat trick of simultaneously looking upward at beauty and downward to avoid slippery little dog patties.
Closed? Sure, most of the small shopkeepers have taped "Fermeture annuelle" signs to their stores for their well-deserved holidays. One quick reconnaissance mission will let anyone know which favorite neighborhood spots are open and where to find substitutes. But staff in the shops that are open are cheerful and happy to have clientele.
Driving in Paris is a breeze in August-- now would be the perfect time for me to practice getting around the city by car, as there is very little traffic and lots of on-street parking.
There are a lot of planned activities -- like outdoor movies and Paris Plage, which turns the banks of the Seine into a beach for August. I haven't even checked those out. I'm just happy to explore the city and discover the Paris that gets lost in the hustle and momentum of the other 11 months. This is the reward.
On August 1 at the Sevres-Vaneau bus stop, a dear older lady gazed at the vacant street with delight. "Regardez cela, madame," she rhapsodized to me -- a total stranger -- as she waved her cane at the calm. "Pas une voiture sur la rue de Sevres. Enfin Paris est a nous!"
Sunday, May 21, 2006
I AM an American in Paris
It's funny how settled in I feel in a way. I'm totally accustomed to the French phone lady on voicemail, and not at all traumatized any more about going into stores and asking questions. It helps that I've learned to stop trying to masquerade as French -- that will never work, because it ain't so. So I just try to be a civilized americaine, ya know do my bit to make French people think that Americans are halfway intelligent and francophone (and even funny).
Sometimes I get the impression that French people don’t expect foreigners to have anything amusant to share with them. No fun light banter with shopkeepers in stores, for example. Usually it's pretty serious interaction. I was in a boutique on rue Tronchet trying on pants, and said jokingly to the lady, "The pants are great; it's the body that needs help!" and she frowned and said "Mais non, " and went on a little mini-tirade about how you must respect and love the body you have. Oh well, it was just my way of trying to engage in lighthearted banter... So I tend to do that less and less, because they just don't seem to get that level of levity.
On the other hand, I have learned how to engage in conversation with cab drivers, and so far can charm just about any of them. I called one to come pick me up and he said "I can't -- there is a manif in your neighborhood and the traffic is blocked." (His taxi stand is around the corner, so he knew what the real situation was, but he was apparently acting on official traffic reports from la prefecture de police). I said, "Monsieur, I have the best view of the Madeleine of anyone, and can tell you in fact that the traffic has cleared up. In fact, feel free to call me any time if you want a really good traffic report!" He said, "Okay, I'll be there in 2 minutes."
Another day I was bringing to the apartment two antique wooden chairs I bought at a brocante, and although I called the number for extra-large taxis, a regular size taxi showed up. The driver snarled, "You are moving furniture. Do I look like a moving man?" "No," I replied sweetly, "you look like a very kind chauffeur de taxi." He melted like butter. Even helped me move the chairs into the foyer when we arrived.
Then -- enfin! -- a little foray into Polly-humor that kind of worked:
Yesterday I got a bad blister on the palm of my hand from trying to assemble an IKEA table with a too-small screwdriver. I immediately dropped everything and went straight to the beloved pharmacie at the corner for help. I told the mademoiselle about spending the morning shopping at IKEA, and showed her the horrible, painful result of the afternoon's assembling efforts. She found all the right pansements to miraculously cure my blister, and a nettoyant for cleaning my hand. As we approached the caisse, I noticed a homeopathic product in promotion called "Memo-Boost pour aider le memoire." I said, "Ah, I will take this so I will remember not to go back to IKEA!"
She actually got a good chuckle out of it, before then saying, "Quand meme, il y a des choses tres interessantes chez IKEA."
Of course I’m absolutely passionate for IKEA; unfortunately, I don't think there is a French phrase for "just kidding". Maybe "c'etait pour rigoler"? I dunno. But I got her to laugh!
Sometimes I get the impression that French people don’t expect foreigners to have anything amusant to share with them. No fun light banter with shopkeepers in stores, for example. Usually it's pretty serious interaction. I was in a boutique on rue Tronchet trying on pants, and said jokingly to the lady, "The pants are great; it's the body that needs help!" and she frowned and said "Mais non, " and went on a little mini-tirade about how you must respect and love the body you have. Oh well, it was just my way of trying to engage in lighthearted banter... So I tend to do that less and less, because they just don't seem to get that level of levity.
On the other hand, I have learned how to engage in conversation with cab drivers, and so far can charm just about any of them. I called one to come pick me up and he said "I can't -- there is a manif in your neighborhood and the traffic is blocked." (His taxi stand is around the corner, so he knew what the real situation was, but he was apparently acting on official traffic reports from la prefecture de police). I said, "Monsieur, I have the best view of the Madeleine of anyone, and can tell you in fact that the traffic has cleared up. In fact, feel free to call me any time if you want a really good traffic report!" He said, "Okay, I'll be there in 2 minutes."
Another day I was bringing to the apartment two antique wooden chairs I bought at a brocante, and although I called the number for extra-large taxis, a regular size taxi showed up. The driver snarled, "You are moving furniture. Do I look like a moving man?" "No," I replied sweetly, "you look like a very kind chauffeur de taxi." He melted like butter. Even helped me move the chairs into the foyer when we arrived.
Then -- enfin! -- a little foray into Polly-humor that kind of worked:
Yesterday I got a bad blister on the palm of my hand from trying to assemble an IKEA table with a too-small screwdriver. I immediately dropped everything and went straight to the beloved pharmacie at the corner for help. I told the mademoiselle about spending the morning shopping at IKEA, and showed her the horrible, painful result of the afternoon's assembling efforts. She found all the right pansements to miraculously cure my blister, and a nettoyant for cleaning my hand. As we approached the caisse, I noticed a homeopathic product in promotion called "Memo-Boost pour aider le memoire." I said, "Ah, I will take this so I will remember not to go back to IKEA!"
She actually got a good chuckle out of it, before then saying, "Quand meme, il y a des choses tres interessantes chez IKEA."
Of course I’m absolutely passionate for IKEA; unfortunately, I don't think there is a French phrase for "just kidding". Maybe "c'etait pour rigoler"? I dunno. But I got her to laugh!
Masses taking over the streets in Paris in April
In the cold pink dawn of a Sunday in Paris, once again the police had barricaded the streets: rue Royale was just a silent sea of cobblestones, so I strode down the middle as I headed to the Place de la Concorde to see what all the tumult was. Gendarmes were everywhere.
Coming from the Champs Elysees there appeared to be an endless river of human beings, running in my direction. People were shouting, the police cars were wailing their sirens as they drove ahead of the masses. First came a throng of black men, leading the pack. The rest of the crowd followed close at heel.
A large oomp-pa-pah band began playing, celebrating the opening of the 30th annual Marathon de Paris.
Coming from the Champs Elysees there appeared to be an endless river of human beings, running in my direction. People were shouting, the police cars were wailing their sirens as they drove ahead of the masses. First came a throng of black men, leading the pack. The rest of the crowd followed close at heel.
A large oomp-pa-pah band began playing, celebrating the opening of the 30th annual Marathon de Paris.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
NDLR
Which means "note de la redactrice". I owe a huge thanks to dear friend Ariane for setting up this blog for me, as I'm totally inept.
An explanation of "Polly Vous Francais:"
When I was very very little my older siblings gave me my very first French lesson, telling me to respond to the question "Parlez vous francais?" by answering "Oui, un peu."
I obliged, but I asked them what it meant; and, in all fairness, they explained "It means, 'Do you speak French?' ."
Great. But then little Wog was very upset to hear the same question being asked of her older sister. I thought they should be asking "Suzie-vous francais?"
Not eactly an early attempt at cartesian logic, but the genesis for a lifetime of learning French.
An explanation of "Polly Vous Francais:"
When I was very very little my older siblings gave me my very first French lesson, telling me to respond to the question "Parlez vous francais?" by answering "Oui, un peu."
I obliged, but I asked them what it meant; and, in all fairness, they explained "It means, 'Do you speak French?' ."
Great. But then little Wog was very upset to hear the same question being asked of her older sister. I thought they should be asking "Suzie-vous francais?"
Not eactly an early attempt at cartesian logic, but the genesis for a lifetime of learning French.
Le Look Parisien
written in April 2006
She's getting it figured out. Le Look Parisien. After finishing le petit dejeuner, she dons le look.
Well-pressed jeans. Check.
Suede boots. Check.
Long scarf coiled around the neck. Check.
Face lightly made up, lips glossed. Check.
Hair coiffed. Check.
Brown shearling jacket. Check.
One last check in the mirror before heading out the apartment door to a meeting. Looks pulled-together.
Into elegant wrought iron elevator cage, down to floor "0".
Push "porte" button to enter courtyard.
Push exterior "porte" button, out heavy ancient door onto place de la Madeleine.
Nod "Bonjour, monsieur" to shopkeeper next door who stands guard smoking all day.
Deep breath, get ready for the Parisienne-style walk, which will take her past Dior, Gucci, Chanel and all the neighborhood stores:
Head tossed high as though you're looking over the person in front of you. Check.
Posture: not exactly "chest out", more akin to "boobs first". Check.
The stride - a mild version of the fashion catwalk, heel-toe, heel-toe. Check.
Longchamp bag hung just so at the elbow. Check.
Feeling good, got le look. Within minutes, a man calls out from behind her, "Madame?"
Hmmm. Does she deign to respond? She turns oh-so-slowly and confidently around.
He says, "Vous avez un morceau de papier colle la!"
Mais oui, Polly's customized version of le look parisien includes a yellow post-it note flapping from her derriere.
She's getting it figured out. Le Look Parisien. After finishing le petit dejeuner, she dons le look.
Well-pressed jeans. Check.
Suede boots. Check.
Long scarf coiled around the neck. Check.
Face lightly made up, lips glossed. Check.
Hair coiffed. Check.
Brown shearling jacket. Check.
One last check in the mirror before heading out the apartment door to a meeting. Looks pulled-together.
Into elegant wrought iron elevator cage, down to floor "0".
Push "porte" button to enter courtyard.
Push exterior "porte" button, out heavy ancient door onto place de la Madeleine.
Nod "Bonjour, monsieur" to shopkeeper next door who stands guard smoking all day.
Deep breath, get ready for the Parisienne-style walk, which will take her past Dior, Gucci, Chanel and all the neighborhood stores:
Head tossed high as though you're looking over the person in front of you. Check.
Posture: not exactly "chest out", more akin to "boobs first". Check.
The stride - a mild version of the fashion catwalk, heel-toe, heel-toe. Check.
Longchamp bag hung just so at the elbow. Check.
Feeling good, got le look. Within minutes, a man calls out from behind her, "Madame?"
Hmmm. Does she deign to respond? She turns oh-so-slowly and confidently around.
He says, "Vous avez un morceau de papier colle la!"
Mais oui, Polly's customized version of le look parisien includes a yellow post-it note flapping from her derriere.
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