Watch Your Bag

This evening I was meeting a friend at one of the cineplexes on the Champs-Elysées to see Sex and the City. I didn't have too long a wait in line, thankfully. But just as I reached the ticket desk, a French woman with two young boys stopped by the side of the desk. I was worried at first that she was a line-jumper. Unfortunately not. "Excusez-moi," she asked the attendant, "but did anyone by chance find a cell phone in Salle 1? I was just watching a movie there and now my cell phone is missing."

The expected flurry of activity and exchanges took place. Did you go back to look for it? Are you sure you left it there, madame, etc etc. The mother replied "I turned off my cell phone as the movie was beginning and put it in my pocketbook. Then as we were leaving I went to retrieve it to turn it back on, and it wasn't in my bag. We returned to where were had been sitting but the phone wasn't anywhere."

Uh-oh. It reminded me that in some movie theaters an announcement comes on the screen prior to the featured film to warn theater-goers to keep their personal belongings on their lap.

I have a friend, a lifelong Parisian, who was at the movies this winter and absentmindedly set her firmly buckled pocketbook on the floor by her feet. When she left the cinema with her husband, she went to pay for the parking and pulled out her wallet. There wasn't a cent in it. She had bought the tickets earlier, and knew she had had at least 50 euros in her wallet. During the movie someone had sneaked under her seat, removed the wallet, taken the money, and replaced the wallet! Sadly, it's not an uncommon tale, but it leaves me baffled.

Do these thieves wear night goggles or something? How do they do it? How do they crawl so stealthily under the seats and not get noticed?

Needless to say, watching Sex and the City and all the Louis Vuitton pocketbooks and designer accessories it featured, I sat in my darkened cinema seat for two hours clutching my hum-drum pocketbook on my knees as if it were as precious as ... a diamond ring.

Up, Up and Away

I love Google for many reasons. But today when I opened my Google home page, I beamed.

Google's special logo is of a ballon Montgolfière. So very French!

Mais pourquoi a balloon today? I wondered. Turns out that today is the anniversary of the first successful attempt of the Montgolfier brothers to fly a hot-air balloon, in France, in 1783. Read more about it here.

Hot-air ballooning is of course popular worldwide, but to me it still has special appeal in France, where it was invented.

I've always longed to go on one of Buddy Bombard's fabulous balloon tours of France. He hasn't invited me on a press junket, yet. I'm still hoping.

Meanwhile, I guess I'll have to settle for a quick ride 500 feet up at the Parc André Citroën.

Saint-Pierre de Chaillot

The history of Paris is intimately linked to its churches. Notre Dame, la Sainte Chapelle, Sacre Coeur... the list of ecclesiastical sight-seeing spots is well known. Visiting the churches of Paris is one of the best budget tours around.

One lesser-known edifice, one of my favorites, is Saint-Pierre de Chaillot. Unlike its Gothic, neo-classical or Romanesque sisters in Paris, it was built in the 1930s. Designed by Emile Bois and constructed from 1931-1938, its descriptions mostly say it is in a Romanesque Revival style, but I lean a bit more toward the Art Deco attribution. A bit of an amalgam of the two, perhaps. Certainly worth a visit when you explore the Chaillot quartier in the 16e arrondissement (on the edge of the 8e).

It must be a real beauty when it's clean. I don't understand the whole legal aspect of what buildings are required to have their ravalement every ten years, but St. Pierre de Chaillot needs to have someone wash the city grime from its majestic face. The 1905 French law separating church and state returned the ownership of the churches to the Diocese of Paris, but apparently their upkeep as historic monuments still falls under the budget of the city or national government -- that is, for any church built prior to 1905 when the law was enacted.

Sadly, exquisite St. Pierre seems to get grimier by the day. They have clearly done some tests to see what it would look like all cleaned up. Just look at the difference!

Oh, if I were a paid journalist instead of a time-strapped madwoman-of-Chaillot blogger, of course I'd make phone calls and interview the powers that be (terrestrial ones, not The Big Guy) to find out why. Meanwhile, all I can do is share some photos, which I took before the trees were leafed out so you could see the structure.

Saint-Pierre de Chaillot

31 avenue Marceau

metro: Alma-Marceau

Family

Leaving dinner at a friend's spacious apartment at Denfert-Rochereau tonight, I missed the last # 68 bus by a hair. There's a taxi stand next door, so I opted for a comfortable and swift ride home rather than attempting the circuitous two-transfer (correspondance) possibility on the métro. In the evening I try to never make a trip on the métro involving more than one connection -- my personal Parisian peeve.

It was raining, and I scurried across the cobblestones to the taxi stand where a car was idling. As I hopped in the cab on the street side, a Street Fellow in a frayed tweed jacket, bobbing on the sidewalk as he chatted with the cab driver, teased me tipsily, "Oh, you -- you're taking away my friend. We were having an important discussion. But that's okay, you're pretty enough. My name is Didi. What's your name?"

"Moi? Je m'appelle Madame Qui-Est-Fatiguée," I responded jovially but curtly. "Bonsoir!" The taxi driver rolled up his window, put the car in gear, and we scuttled off down boulevard Raspail.

The chauffeur gave me some background on the guy. "He's not a bad type, you know," he said. "He would be a regular person, but he's like this because had some problems with family inheritance He let his stepfather take everything when his mother died, and now he's a clodo (a bum). He leaves Paris for a few months to do travaille saisonnière, like the vendange. The rest of the time he pisses away his days in Paris, panhandling and drinking 50-cent beers all day long. It's a shame. But, you know, he doesn't look too bad for someone who has no roof over his head -- he's only 52, and he looks better than I do, and I'm 56 with a steady job. Every night the police cars come around to collect all the homeless and take them to shelters to sleep. Then in the morning, these guys all return to their regular spots -- we people in the neighborhood are like family to them."

You Say Tomato

I was just about to pop a few of these juicy cherry tomatoes in my mouth. As I opened the charming heart-shaped plastic package, I noticed the name. "Les Coeurs-de-Pigeon."

Pigeon Hearts?

"Crunchy, slightly sweet. Do not refrigerate."

My immediate reaction was a slight gag reflex.

Then my machiavellian pigeon-hating side took over.

Look at the sadistic smiling bird holding his cousin's heart in his beak.

Heh-heh. Pigeon hearts....

Dip them one by one by one in a little fleur de sel.

Yes, indeed.

Bon appétit!

Painting Paris

Finally.

After lengthy discussions, my friend Mary Blake has finally started a blog. It's called Painting Paris, which is what she does. Mary lives in Montmartre and takes her easel to the street every day to paint an outdoor scene of Paris. And does she have tales to tell!

Mary has been calling me for occasional help with Blogger, which is weirdly difficult. Two Americans in Paris, one with a Mac, the other with a PC. One with Blogger in French, the other with Blogger in English. I can't explain to her on the phone how to perform a simple task like dragging an image down on her compose screen. We might as well be in different continents, talking in tongues-via-Skype to each other. "What, a Mac doesn't have a left-click?" I ask.

But, oh, we have belly-laughs about daily street-happenings as she paints. "The question jar!" I hoot. "Put that tale in your blog, verbatim, exactly the way you just told me! Please, please, just do it!"

She demures. Each blog is a personal creation-- and Mary is carefully crafting hers to be just what she wants. I can respect that. I have to. I may have two years' blogging seniority over her, which is worth about 25 American cents. She's got the vision for her own blog.

I'd forgotten what a learning curve blogging had been, after that first morning two years ago when I got an email from my dear friend Ariane announcing to me, "Your blog Polly-Vous Francais is up and running. Here are your address and your password. Start posting!" Sheer panic set it, but I have to admit that I loved it. It took me almost a year before I figured out how to put a stat counter on the blog. Almost 1-1/2 years before I got comments enabled. Shoulda gone to blogger-behavior school, I guess. Or bought a copy of Blogging for Dummies a bit sooner. But to me, there's a certain poetry and choreography to singlehandedly surmounting the blogging technological head-scratchers. I still have a long way to go.

Looking back, it made me realize that I'd missed my two-year bloggiversary a few weeks back. Really? Five hundred and eighty-seven posts?

Gawd, what a blabbermouth.

What's the Story, Morning Glory?

Last Sunday was Mother's Day in France. As promised, I bought flowers for my window box. In my mind's eye I've pictured for two years the floral composition I wanted, but it took a while before I could figure out how to execute the master plan.

This is the only single-casement window in the apartment, at the entrance, and I envisioned morning glories recklessly scrambling up the wall on both sides during the summer months. The maverick in me loves a bit of untamed countryside in the middle of the structure of the city.

First challenge. The window box. There is a metal-covered sill just below the ornate grill work, but no obvious way to safely perch a window box on top of said sill, lest it topple to the courtyard below in the first gust. (I wanted the flowers at the bottom of the window, rather than on a hanging balcony-basket, which would block the view in the middle).

I finally devised a scheme. With my handy cordless screwdriver/drill (purchased long ago to assemble all those IKEA DIY furnishings), I drilled two holes in the top of the planter, then strung heavy-duty wire through them for fastening the box to the grill work.

Second challenge. How to lace up the strings for the morning glories to twine around and climb upwards? The apartment building is stucco-covered stone, so hammering little nails into the casement wasn't an option. Brilliantissimo! I figured that a tension-sprung curtain rod would do the trick. But installing the rod nine feet up in a wide open window was no mean feat for even the deftest of individuals, let alone for a somewhat uncoordinated, artistic type like me with terminal vertigo. I was terrified but determined. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to attach the strings to the rod first. Then I tied them to the railing.

Third challenge. Ever-present: Sacks and the City. Sacks of potting soil, that is. This time rather than spending days cleaning up the dirt in the cracks in my kitchen counter, as I did after my most recent urban gardening adventure, I simply spread out an old table cloth on the floor and transplanted the lavender, lobelia, and morning glories into the window box. Then I hoisted the box into place in the window, twisted the wires to the wrought iron. Done!

After just a few hours the tendrils are already curling around the strings, eager to have a destination. The lavender, warmed by the afternoon sun, sends wafts of Provençal fragrance into the apartment.

Urban dwelling.

I can live with this.

Taxi!

The good news: there will be increase of almost 5,000 more taxis on the streets of Paris.

The (kind of) bad news: you'll have to wait two more years to reach the full increase.

It seems that everyone has a Paris couldn't-get-a-taxi tale of woe to tell. The government has been trying to find a solution for a while. Finally, yesterday, an agreement was signed between the Ministry of the Interior and the FNAT (Federation National des artisans taxis), the independent taxi-drivers association.

Currently there are 15,600 taxis circulating in Paris. That equals 2.9 taxis per 1000 residents, compared with 7.2 in New York. The agreement calls for an extra 1200 cabs to hit the streets this year, and the total numbers of taxis in service by 2010 will be 20,000.

There is discussion afoot also about possibly changing taxis' rooftop lights to indicate more clearly if they are available or busy. (Red and green lights? Say it ain't so!) That particular change does not get my vote, but I won't complain as long as there are taxis when I need them.

More taxis! That's news worth hailing.

George et moi -- What Else?

Wow. I can't wait to fly to Milan to shoot the next Nespresso commercial with George Clooney. Oh, I know they're having a casting call and maybe -- just maybe -- a handful of other women will sign up for the contest. But George and me -- it was meant to be! This time, they'll want to cast a woman closer to George's age instead of those gorgeous, svelte twentysomethings, n'est-ce pas?

Besides, I invented the term Nespressoholic. Don't I deserve to be The Chosen One?

Honestly, I promise not to sign up at the web site more than once... per hour.

If you think you even have a snowball's chance en enfer, here's how to participate.

First, you have to be a Nespresso Club member. I used to scoff at that notion, every time I buy my little coffee capsules, but now I'm sure glad I am part of that elite group.

In 150 words or less tell them why they should choose you and not me.

Give them your best glamour mug shots -- a full-length photo and a head shot.

Cross your fingers and wait for the decision on June 10 -- What Else?

A French Goddess

Isn't she a beauty? And she is indeed a French goddess -- une Déesse, the nickname for the Citroen DS (pronounced day-ess). I found her rear end -- excuse me, but I'm serious -- on one of my favorite Paris photo blogs, Un Jour à Paris. Enthralled, I wrote Cil at Un Jour à Paris, and he sent me the entire photo -- a Polly-Vous Francais exclusive. Everyone else gets to see this Venus dramatically divided in part 1 and part 2.

Un Jour à Paris is a daily photo blog with unexpected glimpses of daily life in Paris. It's one of my daily reads, and I highly recommend it.

The Déesse caught my eye because a decade ago I had the wild experience of driving one for a whole month. We did a summer house swap with a family in the Loire Valley when my kids we in grade school. As was the fashion, we swapped not only houses, but also, cars, pet care, garden watering chores -- the whole enchilada -- through a great home exchange organization called Intervac.
Without a lot of explanation, our French host Maurice gave me the keys to his Déesse, and then he hopped on the plane for our place in Boston. While living in our house in New England, he drove a prosaic Volvo wagon for the month (automatic shift). All I knew was that I had a quintessentially standard-shift French car to drive. Little did I know that it was legendary. What a classic I was driving!

But imagine my surprise and consternation when on my first outing, stopped at a red light, the car lowered to the ground. Panicked, I thought something was amiss, and tried to pull over to the side of the road to see what had happened. Had the air gone out of the tires? But when I put her in gear, she rose back up like a mushroom cloud. Maurice hadn't warned me about the hydro-pneumatic suspension system. Once I figured out that it was a normal occurrence, the Déesse and I got along like soul sisters. She purred like a kitten down the autoroutes or départementales as we scoured the French countryside.

Now, that summer seems like an ancient dream.

It's rare to see a Déesse roaming the streets in Paris; I'm not sure why. Too valuable -- too much a collector's item -- to risk getting in a fender-bender, perhaps?

With the advent of spring weather, though, the Men In Convertibles seem to proliferate in Paris, cruising for love or some facsimile thereof down the boulevards. I am unswayed by the Mazzeratis, the Porsches, the various open-air décapotables that zoom past on the boulevard des Invalides with a solo male driver checking out the female scenery.

Then, one day -- a thrill. I spot a Déesse approaching, driven by a handsome man about my age. Ah, now there's someone I could relate to, I think. The car nears, and as it slithers around the corner, I notice a child seat in the rear.

I instantly hoped it was for his grandchild.

Probably not.

Sundays with Richard and Polly -- May

The first time I ever visited the Parc de Bagatelle, over a year ago, I had ventured out on a self-imposed solitary expedition. Meandering among the the grottoes, the follies, the winding paths, the Orangerie, oohing and aahing over the strutting peacocks, I was transported. It was sublime, everything I'd ever wanted in a French park. Or any park. My garden-induced rapture was jolted by the ringing of my cell phone. It was the friend I was meeting for lunch nearby in the 16e arrondissement.

"Where are you?" he inquired.

"Uhh, I'm not sure," I replied breathlessly. "But I do I think I've died and gone to heaven."


So it's easy to imagine how much I was looking forward to returning to the Parc de Bagatelle for the monthly adventure of "Sundays with Richard and Polly." We'd had the plans lined up for weeks. Directions to the Parc, decisions about picnics on the lush lawns. I was burning to get back to that little bit o' heaven in the Bois de Boulogne on a lovely May afternoon.

Then SNAFUs struck. Logistical challenges, out-of-town guests, the usual Paris glitches. So at the eleventh hour, Richard and I decided to stay in the center of town and go to the Sainte-Chapelle for our monthly outing instead.

Bagatelle?
Logistical hell.
Oh well,
Sainte-Chapelle

Crossing the bridge from St Germain, I arrived first , and a sizable line confronted me outside the entrance. There is a security check to get into the Sainte-Chapelle and the Conciergerie because they are both located within the walls of the Palais de Justice, more or less France's equivalent to the Supreme Court. Patience is a virtue and a learned skill in trying to visit popular Paris spots.

Waiting for Richard and Vincent, I struck up a conversation with the couple behind me. Actually, they struck up the conversation: "Excusez-moi, parlez-vous Anglais?" asked the lady in a lovely Aussie accent. I gave her my basic I'm-an-American-living-in-Paris spiel.

Relieved, she sighed, "Can ya tell me, then, what IS it exactly that we're standing in line for?"

Ahem. I know I usually think I've heard everything in Paris, but this was a new one. She and her darling husband were obligingly standing in a long line of tourists -- let me get this straight -- because they saw a bunch of other tourists and figured it had to be a Worthwhile Thing to See? But they had no idea what? I sputtered as I sought a reply. Then I realized, hey -- come to think of it, maybe that's not such a bad tourism tactic after all. Ditch the guide books, and follow the crowds. Ask a knowledgeable person -- and presto! -- you've seen Paris.

Anyway, Richard and Vincent lucked out because by the time they arrived I had advanced our spot in line close to the front. We both admitted that we hadn't visited the Sainte-Chapelle since we'd been here, an embarrassment somewhat mitigated by the fact that the church had been closed for renovation for a while a few years ago. We chatted about our Hall of Shame -- the must-see Paris sites that we haven't visited yet.

We finally made it through the metal detector and experienced the mini-frisson of being frisked by the handsomest of the two gendarme security guards. At least one of us wanted to return for a repeat performance. I'm not telling who.

When you enter the ground-floor level of the Sainte-Chapelle, the first inclination is to hum along with Peggy Lee in "Is That All There Is?" The vaulted ceilings and the boutique are pretty, to be sure, and the medallion-maker tempting and very busy, but there isn't an automatically-revealed sense of some other incredible space to visit beyond the low-ceilinged chamber, with its enticing polychrome frescoes that look like like rich tapestries. Knowing the glorious stained glass windows of the Sainte-Chapelle from Art History class eons ago, I knew we had to figure out how to get to see them somewhere in the building. We spotted an inconspicuous narrow stairway in the corner, and made the climb to the upper level.

Have you ever imagined what it is like to be inside the tumbler of an exquisite kaleidoscope? I hadn't. But that is precisely the whirling visual impression I got upon entering the chapel. There are practically no walls above about eight feet -- just stained glass. A myriad of jeweled glass designs and biblical stories far too detailed to write about here. I spun around and walked around and gazed upward until finally Richard urged, "Come, sit." I sat, in one of the chairs lining the length of sanctuary. A wise decision.

Please, if you visit the Sainte-Chapelle, do yourself a favor and take time to plunk down and simply stare at the glass. For a good long while. You'll see much more than if you snap away for photos of the stained glass with your digital camera. Slow down and absorb all the intense visual stimulus. There is no book, no slide show, no video tour that could replace the first-hand experience. Sainte-Chapelle was a good decision. I'm happy, in a way, that my photos of the stained glass didn't turn out well, because nothing can attempt to capture being there. I took close-ups instead of the fleur-de lys patterns and angels.

Finally oxygen depletion and sensory satiation forced us to reach the departure-decision. This meant descending the treacherous stairs opposite the ones we had climbed. So worth it, despite the vertigo.

Sainte-Chapelle was by no means an "oh-well" destination, it turns out. I realized why it's on the must-do lists of sites in Paris. So I'm now inspired to go to visit all the other sites on my Hall of Shame... after I take a quick jaunt to Bagatelle, of course.

Now, let's go see what Richard wrote about our Sunday.

Regard sur les Etats-Unis

I like to read the news. Online, I usually read the news about France in French, and then I read Art Goldhammer's French Politics for the timely analysis. To get the U.S. and world news I scan all my favorites: the New York Times, the International Herald Tribune, any other on-line news source that lets me read for free.

Lately when I log into my Yahoo! account the Yahoo! News page pops up as Yahoo.fr. Yahoo! France is not merely Yahoo! US translated in French, of course. It's news deemed of interest to a French readership. Its tone and content lack the gravitas of regular French newspapers, somehow. I think it's! the! exclamation! point! I really miss all the major, life-altering headline stories on English-language Yahoo!, like Lindsay Lohan's missing mascara, or how to make perfect scrambled eggs.

But, in all earnest, one interesting feature of Yahoo! France is a great blog called Regard sur les Etats Unis, A Look at the United States from a French view. In my lifelong learning curve about France, I find it helpful in general to look at my own culture from a foreigner's perspective. And REU has news and commentary, as well as some interesting blogs on its blogroll -- French expatriates in the US writing about the American cultural and political scene from their viewpoint.

I applaud REU's effort to include an English version on their site. It's a noble effort, brought to you by Google translate. But try reading this English version of the latest Clinton/Obama story, where the possessive pronoun his or its is constantly applied to Hillary.

"The awkwardness of Hillary Clinton unworthy democrats

This is the latest controversy to date, across the Atlantic. Hillary Clinton has committed the blunder to justify its continuation in the race for the Democratic nomination through rapprochement with the assassination of Robert Kennedy.

The candidate wanted to make it clear that the Democratic campaign could be extended and that everything could still happen.

The problem is that his opponent, Barack Obama, is regularly subjected to death threats and is constantly under protection of U.S.
secret services.

As for Democrats is consternation. Even if the candidate has made his apology, particularly with respect to the Kennedy family (which also makes the headlines as a result of the hospitalisation of Edward
Kennedy), everyone's attaches to say that fatigue does not justify
everything.

This controversy is further proof that the campaign has gone on too long term."

Who needs Comedy Central when you've got automated translating?

Lights are on at Deyrolle

I stopped by Deyrolle today. Phoenix-like, it has risen from the ashes. Yay! They've opened again, on a temporarily smaller scale, after suffering a terrible fire in early February. As you can see from the photograph, the lights are on in less than half of the former space; the more damaged area on the left, the locus of the fire, will have to undergo more extensive renovation. The current space was repainted, floors sanded, and it seems just like the old, beloved Deyrolle.

Many of the lions and pigs and birds were there; some of the larger beasts are still in taxidermy hospital. Virtually the entire butterfly collection was wiped out in the fire -- a terrible loss.

I finally got a close-up view of "Plumes," the scarf created by Hermès to help finance the reconstruction of Deyrolle. The scarf, 265€, will be available in September; and for now can be ordered only in France, apparently. Here is ordering information for those who love Hermès and Deyrolle -- two classic Paris institutions. A third venerable Paris institution, Editions Gallimard, has lent a hand, and published a book on the future of Deyrolle for 15€, if that is more in your budget.

Ile Seguin

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One hundred years ago, Ile Seguin, an island in the Seine just outside Paris, was quiet and verdant. In the late 1920s, Renault built a car manufacturing plant on the site, where over 30,000 workers were employed.

Until 1992, the factory was in full production, with a barge of 500 newly-minted Renaults departing twice daily from the island. After the factory closed down, a plan was in the works to create a museum to display the vast art collection of billionaire financier François Pinault. Pinault abandoned the project in 2005, citing bureaucratic difficulties, and moved his art collection to Venice.

Then other projects were in the works, including an artists' residence, a four-star hotel, the headquarters for the CNRS and France's National Cancer Institute, a campus for the American University of Paris. Now caught in political crossfire, the fate of the island is still up in the air. It seems as though the now-desolate island is like a child caught in a bitter and drawn-out custody battle: the one who suffers is the child. Will it be a sculpture garden? A battlestar galactica superbuilding dominating the riverfront? Only the politicians know for sure.

To see a slide show of the old factory in production, click here. Now there is virtually nothing on the languishing island but bare earth. Tabula rasa.


"Ile Seguin, derniers éclats," is a superb exhibit of photographs of the Renault factory before and during demolition that has just opened at the Galerie Christian Arnoux. Hubert Fanthomme, a photographer for Paris-Match, was one of two reporters allowed on the site to photograph the final days of the factory building over a three-year period. The photos are poignant still-lifes that tell a rich tale. A deeply detailed and evocative expression of faded industrial architecture.




Ile Seguin, derniers éclats
May 22 - June 29
Galerie Christian Arnoux
42, rue de Seine
75006 Paris
01 56 24 31 37

Versailles

I had lunch on a sunny terrace at the home of a new friend who lives in Versailles, not far from the Château. Versailles: the very name conjures up gilt moldings and grandiosity. Before I got there, I expected a frilly, fussy, stuffy house, kind of Louis-something. Was I in for a surprise.

The side street was narrow and inconspicuous. Except for the fact that there was hardly any room to park, it could have been in a village in Normandy. Entering the outer cobblestone courtyard, I already began to swoon.

The terrasse was picture perfect.

The garden made me long for my old garden in the States. Since I've been an urban dweller, I've persuaded myself that my garden had mostly been a chore; I haven't missed the weeding and composting. Right?

And then this. I think I want a garden in my future. With a humble stone fountain at the end, like this, pleasing the eye and ear.

But, mostly,

I want a bathroom with a crystal chandelier.

Sabrina

Paris isn't for changing planes. It's for changing your outlook! For throwing open the windows and letting in... letting in la vie en rose.

This memorable line is from one of my favorite movies of all time, a movie whose transformed heroine made me believe in the transformative powers of Paris, very early on in my life. Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. Of course it's a 1950's Hollywood fairy tale, but there are elements about Paris that director Billy Wilder nailed perfectly.

Sabrina, a chauffeur's daughter, has gone to Paris to learn to cook, and to forget about an impossible relationship -- her crush on the wealthy playboy son of her father's employers, played by the dashing William Holden.



The wise cooking instructor tells her he can tell she is in love.

"A woman happily in love, she burns ze souffle. A woman unhappily in love, she forgets to turn on ze oven."

After two years in Paris, Sabrina is indeed transformed. She has found a new recipe ... for life. In her letter home she writes,

"It is late at night and someone across the way is playing La Vie en rose. It is the French way of saying 'I am looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses.' It says everything I feel. I have learned so many things, Father. Not just how to make vichyssoise or calf's head with sauce vinaigrette, but a much more important recipe. I have learned how to live, how to be in the world and of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never, never again run away from life, or from love, either."



Well, we'll all just have to run out and rent the DVD to watch the full Sabrina. I hardly need to, since I almost know it by heart.

My parting line, another favorite piece of advice (except the umbrella), is Audrey Hepburn saying to Humphrey Bogart, the stodgy businessman workaholic brother,

"We can't have you walking up the Champs Elysées looking like a tourist undertaker! And another thing, never a briefcase in Paris and never an umbrella. There's a law!"

Carrie Bradshaw en francais

Whodathunkit. Sarah Jessica Parker speaks French! Well, at least 10 words.

"Bonjour, je vous aime, enchantée, merci, merci, merci, merci, merci!"


La belle SJP was in Paree at the Sephora on the Champs Elysées to launch her new perfume, Covet.

The throng of fans was not disappointed, apparently.





Watch the video here.

Love Me, Love My Blog

One of the charming thrills of living in Paris is occasionally rubbing elbows with -- and even getting to know well -- people who are in the upper echelons of the literary, journalistic, artistic, diplomatic or business worlds. You get accustomed to it -- at a sought-after gathering there's usually quite a mélange of guests. One person who was interviewed in the New York Times or the Economist the previous week, for example, and another who wrote the article. And then there's me. And a pale guy still hanging on the social coattails of his late mother's international fame. And a blonde who announces she can't stay at the party because she has to catch a plane to Cannes. That's just the day-to-day world in Paris. The mighty and the lowly, tossed together like a macédoine at any given social function.

Yes, the lowly -- such as the humble bloggers. Not the famous Paris blogger-authors like Clotilde or Petite or David. Just random bloggers like me who are having fun sharing their version of Paris with the gullible dozen or so readers who actually believe that I live here. (I'm really writing Polly-Vous Français from my garage office in the suburbs of Spokane.)

Ha-ha, naturellement, I'm kidding. But really. Being a blogger in Paris. It's often hard to get taken seriously in this city of people who wield their impressive talents and get paid for it.

Not enough of a self-promoter, I don't pimp my blog in casual conversation much, but sometimes I do get asked about it.

Typical scenario. I am at a large weekday conference-soirée milling around with friends and acquaintances. "How's the blogging going, Polly?" asks one pal, with the same ever-so-slight pause after the word blogging, the same intonation, as if he had asked "How are you enjoying clown school?" When American friends in Paris ask "How's the blog?" there is often a suppressed smirk accompanied by a benevolent closed-mouthed smile and a bemused twinkle in the eye. Oh, yes, a blog. They gleefully mime the twittering of fingers over a keyboard when they say it. I want to reply coquettishly, "Goodness me, why are you asking -- don't you read my column faithfully, mon cher?"

But gosh darn, no, I don't say that. I'm so eager to please. I just chirp, "It's great!" with my usual perky all-American smile, and then I spew out some fictional weekly statistic to prove how respectable I am. Actually, this blog does have about 3,500 individual hits per week, about 5,000 page loads. Those numbers never fail to either a) impress or b) make people want to hook me up to the nearest polygraph machine. "On your blog?" they ask incredulously. Well, sure. Of course, I don't reveal that 25% of my readers are Boomers reading my post on Morticia and Gomez, and another 25% are Estonians googling for pictures of French babes in lingerie.

Then there are chums who have the opposite reaction: embarrassed, they say nothing about my blog, pretending it doesn't exist. It's as if they don't want to have been caught reading it, as if knowing what I have written on my blog is tantamount to sneaking a peek at my intimate diary.

Don't worry, folks, I yearn to say. It's published on the World Wide Web, over 1.3 billion internauts served daily there. So go ahead, it's okay to read it. More than okay -- encouraged, actually. Please pass it on. Tell your friends about my blog. Especially any publisher friends looking to find the hidden talent in me and sign a six-figure book deal.

And, blessedly, there are the kindhearted journalists or editors who occasionally express admiration, real or pretend. "Oh, you write Polly-Vous Français? Love the blog!" It's happened -- exactly twice, which isn't quite putting me on the superhighway to a Pullitzer. Sure they love blogs. Blogs are, of course, an excellent source of initial field research for writers at many august dailies and glossies. A recent statistic claims that about 70% of all journalists skim blogs for information and timely topics. I don't mind doing the legwork for them for free, for the most part. It doesn't pay the rent, but, heck, I'm flattered whenever a story or idea of mine gets borrowed and rewritten and put into print... usually. Don't any of these print publications want to hire an in-house blogger? I'm available!

Ah, blogging in Paris. No fame, no glory, no income. Quand même, I love it. I'm accustomed to the reactions or lack thereof at parties. So these days I don't mind it when a charming rascal mimics that keyboard-typing gesture when mentioning my blog. It's kind of sweet.

But if ever -- ever -- some fellow dares to ask about my "blog" while using his fingers in little-rabbit-Foo-Foo "air quotation marks," I hope I'm wearing my pointiest stilettos.

There goes education

I just heard the most incredible news. So incredible that I didn't believe it until I came home and researched it and found out it's true.

The College Board, administrator of AP exams, SATs, and all the other (supposedly) important barometers of high-school ability for college placement, has made a decision to cancel the Advanced Placement exam in French Literature, effective in 2009.

As a lifelong student of French literature, knowing how much I learned from studying not just the language but also the literature, I am not only outraged but totally depressed at the political dumbing-down of American education, by people who ought to know better.

Please join me in writing the College Board to protest this stupid decision, which they claim is final. And pass the word along to all your Francophile friends.

Please send letters to:

Gaston Caperton

President

The College Board

45 Columbus Avenue

New York, NY 10023-6992

email: gcaperton@collegeboard.org

and

Lester Monts

University of Michigan

503 Thompson Street

Room 3084 Fleming Building

Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1340

email: lmonts@umich.edu

Understanding French Body Language

Glancing up at a sizable group gathered on a fifth-floor balcony in the 8e arrondissement the other day, I mumbled to myself, "Il y a du monde au balcon." Then I laughed, remembering what that phrase means. Then came the flashback. To a black-and-white photo in a book, of a man in a turtleneck, miming the phrase il y a du monde au balcon to indicate seeing a large-breasted woman.

The book is called Beaux Gestes, and it is the Rosetta stone for deciphering French body language. Gallic puffing-out of cheeks or the finger-pulling-the-lower-eyelid got you confused? You'll find the answers in Beaux Gestes. An entertaining, witty, loving look at French gestures by probably the most avid American Francophile of all time, the late Laurence Wylie. The online version of Beaux Gestes and an excellent biography of Professor Wylie are found at an informative website called FranceInfo US.

I first discovered Professor Wylie's work when I read A Village in the Vaucluse, the tale of Wylie's family life when he was a teacher in Rousillon in the early 1950s. It was a tremendous hit with Francophiles well before Peter Mayle ever dreamed of writing A Year In Provence. (If you read both A Village in the Vaucluse and Mayle's books, you'll see the differences in their approaches. Professor Wylie was a witty and eloquent esteemed Harvard social anthropologist, chair of the Department of French Civilization. Mayle's background was as an astute advertising exec.) I loved A Year in Provence, though in parts I found it a bit condescending to the villageois. Mostly I wished that Professor Wylie's books could have had the same best-seller accolades. They deserved it.

Lucky me to have been a French major: Beaux Gestes was required reading for a French civilization course. Some of us have to do the hard work!