Bargain Shopping

Here I am in back in New England, a.k.a. bargain shopper's paradise. Fortunately there isn't much time for me to do major wallet damage, and I lack storage space in Paris, were I to weaken and actually buy stuff that I don't need. But all the local favorites do beckon -- T.J. Maxx, Filene's Basement, Christmas Tree Shops, Building 19, Marshall's.

However, they just can't beat my favorite bargain stores in Paris, the various bazars that are found in virtually every arrondissement. A concentration of them seem to be in northern Paris. From truly kitsch to remarkably practical, the wares sold in these tightly-crammed riyads are a bit of everything. At this one, Bazar Dejean on rue Dejean in the 18th, I found more fans, this time a mere one euro apiece.

Thinking of Paris

It's a curious phenomenon. When I'm in the states, I am barely able to write. My thoughts are more diffuse, my observations less concise than when I write in Paris. I have often wondered about this. Obviously many writers write wherever they are. Not me. I find simply that when I am in the US, a place where I can so easily verbalize the ideas swirling around in my head, I am not as able to articulate them as well. In Paris, my mental process is so funneled, so intense.

When I am in Paris, I often have stories that explode from me. I wake up and have to write a passage or a paragraph or an entire essay, and can't perform any other tasks or functions until the crystallized thought is transcribed. Business and other mundane details are tended to when I have captured the wild mental beast and put it into its written form.

Now I'm back here for a short stay in the US. The obervations and thoughts are there, but more transitory and elusive. "Oh, yes, I ought to remember to write about that". The compulsion isn't there. The idea has less shape to it, the story lacks flavor.

Lord knows I am no Hemingway --- but I wonder sometimes if other expat writers have found their voice when living in Paris, or any land where the native tongue is not their own. There, thoughts are distilled through the daily filter of another language, forcing the would-be writer to hone the narrative, giving a perspective that is unavailable when back "home." When I am living my American life in my maternal language, my native culture, my thoughts are more distracted, my prose muddier.

A friend recently told me she loves to live in Paris simply because it's where "a cucumber tastes like a cucumber." It's also a place where a thought tastes more like a thought.

Ignorance was Bliss

Is there a French expression equivalent to "ignorance is bliss"? I don't think so. I've been blissfully living a relatively anonymous existence as the American newcomer in my apartment building for the past year. Now things are heating up.

I was depositing my recycling in the courtyard when I spied the very pretty woman from the rez de chaussee who is often out watering the flowers (with an empty Evian bottle). We usually just nod "Bonjour, madame" to each other and go on our ways. Not so today. This afternoon she stepped in front of the door, blocking my exit. With a nice smile she asked if the velo (now the only one out in the center part of the courtyard) was in fact mine. In rapid-fire French she began pummeling me with the details of who is in fact allowed to leave bikes there (no one) and that although some co-proprietaires are still protesting their right to park their bikes, that is not what has been voted upon at the Assemblee Generale, (the annual owners' meeting) certainement pas les locataires, certainly not for days on end, blah blah blah. She was so friendly that I couldn't take umbrage at her complaints. Smiling politely, I merely explained that I had been very careful to ask the gardienne before I went to the trouble and expense of buying a bike. The gardienne had given me the green light.

Oops, not a good idea to get the gardienne in deep doo-doo.

Madame was shocked, shocked, that the gardienne could have dared say such a thing. "I don't want to create des soucis for her," I pleaded. Nevertheless, off we trotted to the gardienne's apartment. Always cheerful, but with a memory like a steel caisse, the gardienne said "I told Madame Polly that she had the same rights as the other locataires (renters)." Which apparently is zilch.

This started another flurry of conversation which gave me far more information about the lives of the other residents than I ever wanted to know. They harrumphed that Madame Untel on the top floor had started parking HER two bikes dans la cour years ago when she was president of the Syndicat des Proprietaires, as if that august position awarded her special dispensation. That started the mauvaise tendance, they both agreed. Now said Madame Untel is no longer President -- why, she won't even dare to show her face at the pot luck supper next week! Then more gossip and tidbits about various people's comments at the Assemblee Generale last week. "Pour qui se prend-t-elle?" (Who does she think she is?) and so on. Juicy info about who doesn't want to or can't afford to pay certain charges (monthly fees), etc. Quelle histoire!

My mind is still spinning from figuring out the complex web of who speaks to whom. There is apparently some brouillon between owners of the apartments in the back section (mine) and owners of the more sumptuous apartments that face the street. Madame lives on the courtyard, a sort of netherworld in terms of allegiances. She just wants the bikes out of her sight line. "Maybe you should put the bike in the stairwell of your hallway," she suggested with malicious glee. "That'll teach em."

But the good news is that I have a new friend. I don't know her name yet, of course, but the pretty downstairs neighbor is working to help me find a solution, to see what can get arranged. She'll shuffle my bike around for me when I'm gone. The positive part of having a new "friend" is a new ally, someone watching out for you. It also means that there is someone who more carefully observes your comings and goings. Someone that requires more than a nod and a "Bonjour" each time we pass in the courtyard.

Oh, life was so blissful, so ignorant, just a few hours ago. Welcome to France.

I love it when you speak French!

The Addams Family was one of those 1960s TV classics that should get a prize for its impact on young brains. Sure, it was a little twisted perhaps, but a brilliant comedy. The premise and characters may have been weird, but the dialogue was ripe with irony and wit. A lesson in subtle sophistication for little 10-year-olds who eventually figured out what the canned laughter was reacting to.

The family values were good. The relationship between Gomez and Morticia, superbly played by John Astin and Carolyn Jones, was one of a loving couple and devoted parents, albeit tending to all sorts of creepy and far-fetched details in their bizarre family life. But hey-- it was an intact, multi-generational family. Well, intact except for the dismembered Thing. But they were all so kind and thoughtful to that ... hand. Such good manners!

More important, in a subtle way it inspired learning French. Well, mine, anyway. It is my firmly held but completely unsubstantiated belief that the Gomez-Morticia lovebird relationship gave a generation of young girls the impression that if they just spoke French, their knight in shining armor would be immediately transformed into a passionate, adoring Romeo. No matter what crazy activity Gomez was in the midst of, all it took was one little word of French from Morticia -- like savoir faire, or ensemble, and he dropped everything and rushed to passionately kiss her arm from wrist to shoulder. "Tish! I just love it when you speak French!" he crooned.

Ever cool, oh-so-femme fatale, Morticia would reply with a coy smile, "Don't torture yourself, Gomez, darling. That's my job..."

Gomez and Morticia: an unabashedly tender and passionate vie de couple while being loving parents and caring for older family members. Doesn't seem so bad, does it?

Betty and Rita and Me

Many moons ago, on another planet, I was a grade-school teacher. Sitting at the lunch table next to me one day, a doe-eyed second grader asked out of the blue, "Mrs. L, how old are you?"

"Well-l-l, Olivia," I chuckled kindly, "actually, I'm old enough so that you shouldn't really be asking that question." I noticed her quizzical expression. "But I don't mind telling you," I continued. "I'm forty-two."

"Ohh..." she cooed.

"Mrs. L?" she asked thoughfully.

"Yes, Olivia?" I offered my most motherly attention.

"How old is that in dog years?"


My love affair with dogs must have been evident on my face, even obvious to an 8-year-old. At the time I was the happy owner of a sweet black Lab (when is there a Labrador who is not sweet?) who has since departed this mortal coil. But my heart swells and I still get a lump in my throat whenever I look at her winsome portrait. Those searching, soulful eyes, begging to be fed a third dinner. Oh, dog owners all have tales to share; just get us started!

Now that I'm in Paris, home to 150,000 coddled pooches, with dogs in evidence everywhere I miss having a dog more than ever. It's just not the right time yet for me to have a new canine family member. Someday. So in the mean time I find ways to compensate. I offered to dogsit for the charming blond Nina, my friend Mary's Montmartre mutt. But Mary was worried that I would love having Nina too much and never give her back. Curses, foiled again! Now I have met Carmen, a beautiful black Schnauzer down the street, whose American mère and père are willing to let me take her for a stroll now and then. Carmen is show-stopper gorgeous and was even asked to model in a photo shoot. She speaks only French. This is a dog with pizzazz. But if I walk her, will all the handsome strangers I meet on avenue de Breteuil just admire Carmen and ignore moi? A minor concern, but I can live with it.

Lacking Carmen or Nina on a day-to-day basis in Paris, I still have Betty and Rita to keep me company. If you love dogs and you love Paris, Betty and Rita are the pooches for you, too. If you have Betty and Rita at home, you don't have to feed them. You don't have to call Taxi-Dog to dogwalk them. They are none other than the canine stars of the eponymous book Betty and Rita Go to Paris, a delightful rhyming photo album that chronicles these two Labs on their tail-wagging romp through the City of Light. Photographer Michael Malyszko and poet Judith Hughes brought their two canine pals on a dog's-eye journey through Paris that will make you smile. An excerpt (too easy to call this doggerel)::

Three major musées were the second day's fare;
we took l'ascenseur instead of the stairs.
A strange illustration right on la rue
Left nothing to chance on where to go poo.
At a cute bistro politely we begged:
Please, just a morsel; it worked, we got fed!

This wonderful book is not to be missed -- two of the classiest, quietest American tourists in Paris I've come across in a long time.

I've had Betty and Rita on my coffee table, where they have a permanent home, for about seven years. How much is that in dog years?


Available at http://www.malyszko.com/

The downstairs neighbors are at it again

I can tell when the sub tenant who is in the apartment below me has found a new boyfriend and/or girlfriend because he always turns up the opera and drinks too much and shouts excitedly. Then angry complaints and stomping and pleading. Then... well, never mind.

He had told the owner, who is away in Los Angeles for a year, that he was a quiet divorced man, sadly getting over the break up of his marriage. I don't think so.

His latest rapturous overtures began in earnest last night, with decibel levels that certainly he had no intention of keeping private. Or perhaps no ability to. We live on an otherwise peaceful courtyard, and his concert-level antics keep all the neighbors awake. Like it or not, this is the old-guard seventh arrondissement, plain vanilla Paris, where the custom is to keep personal matters quiet, behind closed doors. The neighbors are mostly families or retirees, all polite and courteous. We shut our shutters at night.

Not so with row-row-Romeo below. That ain't happening. And tonight it is at fever pitch, windows open, music blaring. Their shake-it-a-baby shouts and cries at 10 pm make my ears turn crimson. The cross-courtyard neighbors are slamming their windows and shutters in protest.

I'm sorry that I won't be here for La Fete des Voisins next week, a pot luck supper when the building residents get together to get to know each other.. If loverboy is smart (which I doubt), he'll be busy that night, too.

Let's (All) Go to the Movies

Fellow Parisian blogger Tacoma Girl has a great post on going to the movies in Paris.

I love all aspects of cinema here, too. Except for one. I wish at least one movie house would offer French movies with English subtitles. So many of my anglophone expat friends, even those whose French is pretty strong, just skip French movies because it's too much of a strain to follow the French dialogue, and pay 9 euros to suffer. Thus thousands of Americans, English, Canadians, etc., who have chosen to live in Paris in part because of the wonderful culture, are shut out from one of the country's greatest art forms.

Here's the typical scenario: four friends get together for a movie and dinner. One of them is not so keen on a French movie because of the language barrier, so all four (even if two are French) will go to an American movie instead. This happens over and over.

And how about tourists? Millions of visitors from all nations who come to Paris have English as a first or second language. If one big cinema house -- oh, perhaps on the Champs Elysees -- showed French movies with English subtitles, everyone could then experience newly released French films as part of their cultural visit, instead of waiting to see them months later at home, if ever. Instead, they watch v.o. American movies in Paris. Or none at all. A sad state of affairs.

So if France wants to really promote its culture, why not make films accessible for all (or at least many many more)? Many museums now have signage in three languages. Most French movies are already produced with English subtitles -- but for international export only. They just aren't shown here.

My point is: what is more representative of French culture: American movies with French subtitles or French movies with English subtitles? The verdict is a no-brainer to me.

How about it, moviemakers? UGC? Gaumont? Why not give it a try?

Just think: you could do it for the sake of art, for pride in a great national culture. Or you could do it for the sake of increased sales.

Scrabble

I herewith admit that I am an internet Scrabble junkie. This is my vice.

It could be worse. Couldn't it?

I don't know of any 12-step programs to wean me from it.

I don't even play to win; just for the love of words.

There, I've said it. No interventions necessary.

Point It

My favorite traveller's phrase book has no phrases at all.

Point it traveller's language kit is a post-card size book with hundreds of clear photos that -- you guessed it -- you just point to in order to make youself understood, in any country. No text. Learn the language without massacring it first! I got mine at W.H. Smith.

Now all I need are the travel plans and tickets.

C'est Quoi, Toutes ces Bulles?

The other day on rue du Four I saw an older lady (by that I mean at least 15 years older than I am), stumble on the sidewalk, catch herself, turn around and glare at the spot on the ground, and then move forward, annoyed.

From a distance, I was thinking in my smug younger ego, "Well, at a certain age (ha! not me yet!) you just aren't as steady on your feet." And, I assumed, she just wanted something to blame. "Aardvarks," we used to call those invisible non-existent obstacles that caused the terminally clumsy -- or in this case, slightly aging -- to pitch forward but not flat out, as if someone had stuck a foot in front of you.

Punish me now, please. I am so unkind, so skeptical. When I got to the spot where she had tripped, I noticed an odd bump protruding from the otherwise smooth asphalt sidewalk. She really had caught her foot on something.

A few days later, crossing the Pont de l'Alma, I encountered a wild-haired, ragged guy on Rollerblades. He stopped dead in his tracks in front of me and, pointing behind him, demanded "C'est quoi toutes ces bulles?" (what are all these bubbles?) as if I was expected to know the answer. I moved on without responding to him, but did stop to look.

Sure enough, Paris sidewalks and streets are sprouting bumps faster than a teenager on Snickers bars -- everywhere there are annoying clusters or single protrusions where you least expect them.

So my weird little question to Mayor Delanoe and his team: c'est quoi, toutes ces bulles?

Photo Booth

So I was dawdling in the Duroc metro station and stumbled upon this mysterious photo-booth photo. Whom could it belong to? Why did she abandon it? Is she lost without that guide book? Can I find the owner of the photo?

Ha ha. Je plaisante. C'est moi. I have loved photo booths since waaay before Audrey Tautou popularized them in Amelie. Since I was 8 years old, to be exact. And I still have decades of photos to prove it.

Parisian photo booths, found in virtually every metro station and many grocery stores, have a wide variety of options, from standard fare ID photos to some with wacky seasonal borders and goofy J'aime Paris heart-shaped frames. 4 euros, and correct change only, s'il vous plait.

But there are now stern warnings, with posters and brochures at each booth, for folks who are having multiple passport or other ID photos taken: to make your ID valid, you must have a neutral expression in your photo. Fun is fun. ID cards, on the other hand, are serious business.

And I've been told that bien sur the French don't say "cheeeeese" for the big wide grin, the way Americans do, for photo-ops. In France, we apparently should say "petites pommes," which, in addition to meaning "little apples" or "small potatoes," also keeps your mouth fairly well closed.

Somewhat Trivial Pursuit

Today I stopped into Variantes, a very well-stocked game store in the 6th arrondissement, to pick up a copy of Trivial Pursuit Paris. Always curious, I asked the owner if there were other jeux de société in the shop similar to Trivial Pursuit that might have Paris as a theme. He bristled and, looking at me askance, scoffed, "Mais madame, in my opinion Trivial Pursuit is not a 'jeu de société'." (Okay, let me wrap my brain around this for a second. I think of jeu de société to mean a board game or parlor game.) "Ah, oui?" I query. (Thank God I'm suddenly remembering all the words used in French for treading water intellectually while you process thought during a discussion: euhhh, ah oui? alors, enfin...) I rose to the challenge. "Well, monsieur, if it is not, then what is, in fact, a jeu de société?" "Un jeu de société, Madame, is something like Monopoly, " he reprimanded. "Or Scrabble. Un jeu where you have a chance to use your skills to win. Trivial Pursuit is just a test of -- little bits of information. Certainement pas social," he sniffed. So I had to take all this in and dwell philosophically about his perspective while forking over major euros for the bloody expensive game I was intent on buying. Thought in, money out: difficult mental multitasking. To me, Trivial Pursuit is like Jeopardy, like "the Weakest Link" (awful, I admit, but which exists on French TV as Le Maillon Faible.) I kind of understood what he meant but was totally confounded by his vehement reaction to my innocent question. IT'S JUST A GAME, I wanted to say. I bit my tongue. Hmm. In English we call them board games or parlor games, and I think we view them all the same. We either love or hate this kind of group activity. Camp-counselor-mom that I am, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool fan of all entertaining activities that bring people together to have fun. Charades, Twenty Questions, Botticelli, even Parcheesi -- all are family favorites. His point was that this game of questions and answers creates only a competition -- egad, of trivia! -- and therefore is not a social activity but merely a concurrence. Either you know the answers or you don't. He curtly dismissed my purchase of Trivial Pursuit (which, we might note, he stocks in his store and was more than willing to take my cash for) disdainfully, "Maybe it's fun for ... people with un intérêt touristique." Ouch. That stings. Maybe he's just a sore loser. I won't be inviting him to my Trivial Pursuit soirées, that's for sure. Variantes
29 rue St. Andre des Arts
75006 Paris

Vive l'Amitié

America is losing a great friend from its shores. Gone but not to be forgotten, M. Jean-David Levitte has been French Ambassador to the US since 2002. He is being called back to France to be an international advisor to President Nicolas Sarkozy. His positive impact on relations between the two countries leaves a lasting legacy.

With impressive goodwill, perseverance, and diplomatic savoir-faire, he weathered the sophomoric, knee-jerk "Freedom Fries" era of US-French relations. He fought back, when needed, with sound logic and cool-headed tenacity, defending the ties between our nations.

I had the good fortune to meet M. Levitte in 2003, at the height of the French-bashing, where even in liberal Cambridge, Massachusetts some locals quietly threatened to picket the reception in front of the home of the French Consul to Boston. Fortunately cooler heads and Bostonian reserve prevailed.

And a good thing, too. His purpose at that reception was to honor and promote the French-American friendship that is exemplified by the groups in the US who work hard to sustain the ties between our two countries initiated by the Marquis de Lafayette. I don't recall M. Levitte's exact words at the time, but his message was clear: America and France have always been close friends, ever since Lafayette and Washington forged their deep bond. Friends can sometimes have strain in their relationships, but true friendship is a testament to loyalty.

We wish M. Levitte la bienvenue en France, and hope that his successor will have the same dedication and devotion to that friendship which has endured over two centuries. The next Ambassador will arrive in Washington at a time when there is much to celebrate. This year marks the 250th anniversary of the birth of Lafayette. A wide range of exciting activities on both sides of the Atlantic are in busy preparation, from trips to documentaries to exchanges to special exhibits. Now it's time for all of us to remember why.

May 20 is the anniversary of Lafayette's death. Please do this for me: find out who is honoring him, and honoring French-American friendship, in your community. One small way of saying merci to Lafayette, to M. Levitte, and to offer a tchin-tchin to l'Amitié.

Kilo, zero, oh-oh

I look at the weather forecast for today. Cloudy, drizzle, 19 degrees. Damn, how much is that? I have a vague idea that it's not really warm, but don't know if it's going to require a heavy sweater or an overcoat. To me there is a big difference between 50 and 65 Fahrenheit, which is the range I figured for 19C. I've been a year now in Paris, but I just haven't done the cultural Celsius switch yet.

That goes for kilos, and meters, too. While I can approximate a meter to be about a yard when ordering fabric for curtains, for example, I cannot do the same when someone asks how tall I am.

Old method. For example, my son is 6'3", so I figured he was about 2 meters tall plus a bit. WRONG-O! You should have seen the shocked look on that sales lady's face when I guesstimated that my son was 2 metres 4 centimetres tall. (That's about 6'8". Oops.)

New method: I avoid these conversations. I try to write pertinent information such as this in a little address book, but it is never handy to whip out the address book, even if I could find it.

I'm actually good at math, so of course when I have time I can sit down and do the calculation. I have a thermometer in the window in the other room which has both Fahrenheit and Celsius. But I want to just know it, to feel the Celsius temperature in my bones or to envision the metres in my spatial imagination.

On the other hand, I prefer not to calculate my personal weight in either kilos or pounds, thankyouverymuch. I am more fluent with grams than kilos; so asking for 250 grams of olives at the marché is not problem. That's about half a pound, easy.

I was just getting accustomed to the European clothing sizes (36, 38, 40, 42... ) when I found myself needing to purchase a fancy French soutien gorge. The vendeuse asks, "Quelle est votre taille, madame? 80, 85, 90, 95?" Aarggh. I hate it when I'm feeling so cool, so confident about my language skills, and then get thrown for a loop when asked to make some culturally translated calculation like this. My face shifts into a frozen, contorted grimace as I squeeze my French brain to work even harder. Ouch, it actually hurts somewhere behind the eyeballs as I try to concentrate on that one.

I need to get to the point where I just don't have to translate temperature, distance, volume, and weight. My expat friends who have lived in Paris a long time all talk in metre, kilo, Celsius, never switching back to the Am-uh-rican system of measurement. I am so jealous. I long to do that.

The cab driver says, "It's going to reach 25 today!"

"Ah, oui?," I feign some sort of reaction, but I have to hide that I don't know whether that's good or bad. I bear my ignorance with deep shame and embarrassment. My language skills are strong, so I sound like such a doofus not knowing the social currency of these very basic day-to-day exchanges.

I am reminded of Ernest Hemingway's story, "A Day's Wait," where a boy just back in the states has a high fever and the flu. At bedtime, the father sits down with his son after the doctor 's visit:

I sat down and opened the Pirate book and commenced to read, but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.

"About what time do you think I'm going to die?" he asked.

"What?"

"About how long will it be before I die?"

"You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two."

"People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to talk."

"I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two."

He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning. "You poor Schatz," I said. "Poor old Schatz. It's like miles and kilometers. You aren't going to die. That's a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," I said. "It's like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy miles in the car?"

"Oh," he said.

Another Saturday Night and I Ain't Got No Money

If you find yourself like a gazillion other Paris denizens who did not "faire le pont" with today's Ascension holiday and leave for a long weekend, do not despair. There's a lot to do (duh) in this fair city, even though the weather is --

Well, let's all admit that we were uber-uber-spoiled by April, and no one is moaning much about Global Warming this month, are we? We're back to umbrellas and winter coats. Ah, Paris, that fickle woman!

So all the more reason to head indoors this weekend. A little low on euros? Pas de problème! Saturday night, May 19th is La Nuit des Musées. All 14 of the museums of the City of Paris will be open, free of charge, from 6 pm to midnight. From le Petit Palais to le Musée de la Vie Romantique, there is a selection of some known and lesser-known City-owned museums to prowl around for a great cheap date. Voilà.

They're changing the guard at the Elysee Palace

This is Jacques Chirac's last full day in office. Tomorrow at 11 am Paris time, in a solemn ceremony, Chirac will hand over the keys to 55 rue du Faubourg St. Honore to Nicolas Sarkozy. (We don't have time to investigate whether there will be any teary wife-to-wife exchanges between Bernadette and Cecilia, but somehow we really really doubt it. We're not actually sure that Cecilia will even show up, or if she does what her sartorial statement will be.)

Oops -- we always digress into something girly. We apologize.

Ahem. From what we can surmise, changing of power, "la passation du pouvoir" in France is a different kettle of fish from the hoopla of US presidential inaugurations. When does he put his hand on the bible and swear to uphold the laws of the land, we keep wondering? Because we couldn't find that part in this information-packed Presidential Investiture site for the Office of the French President. Chirac will give Sarkozy the keys and -- a sobering little thought -- the secret code for nuclear attack. Then, the excitement begins in full swing when the election results are read out loud to Mr. Sarkozy, department by department by department.

Then a short presidential talk, most likely nothing like "Ask not what your country can do for you" or "Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away." But we're sure it will be gripping.

We hope we got the order right for all the activities. In any case you can observe for yourself! We'll be watching, most certainly. The ceremony will be televised starting at 10 am Paris time Wednesday. TF1, France 2, and France 24 will all broadcast the event and some may podcast it.
And tonight at 8 pm Chirac will bid adieu to the French people he has served for the past 12 years on TF1. And later, a program on "The Chirac Years."

Incredible. The last time a new French president was being sworn in to office there was virtually no such thing as a blog. Back in the good old days when "Paris" always meant France, not Hilton.

Feeling Snoopy?

Oh, for example, say you meet some dashing devil here in Paris and he gives you his carte de visite and you've agreed to meet for un apero on Monday.

Well, once back at home in your jammies, you log on to your computer and of course you Google him. That's kid stuff. And if you're more advanced and more curious you check out his neighborhood with the aerial view on pagesblanches.fr or Google Earth.

Goody! Now Pages Jaunes shas added a new feature for the infinitely snoopy that actually allows you to see the facade of his building. (You of course want to be sure it is a building of tres grand standing, no?)

Part of me finds this really fun and part of me finds this totally creepy.

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.