Fiction

Written in 2007.  Thinking of Nora Ephron tonight.

If she had suddenly left Paris for an emergency and traveled anywhere, she would be in Charleston. But this is fiction. If she were in Charleston, she would think that Charleston is a lot like Paris. Paris on vacation. Paris on Zoloft. Chic women, beautiful historic houses, hidden gardens, tinkling fountains.

But this is fiction. This is just a dream. Not even a nightmare: sometimes pretty and sometimes ugly, as fiction can be.

If she were in Charleston, she would go to the clean, bright bookstore and she would search for the self-help section. Not for herself, for she is Perfect (this is fiction, remember?). If she were searching for a book in the self-help section it would be for this reason. She used to be related to a sad supposedly human being who hoarded many things but mostly what he specialized in hoarding was the entire panoply of DSM-IV disorders. So she would find the book that might start to explain this tortured creature to the unfortunate souls who were to remain related to him for the rest of their lives, or his. It is a book called "I Hate You, Don't Leave Me" and she would be glad that even in a perfect city like Charleston there were at least two imperfect people because there were that many copies of this book in the very tiny self-help section. If she were in Charleston, that is. This is fiction, of course.

And if she were still in that pretty bookstore she would chuckle as she noticed that the Humor section was right across from the Self-Help section, far, far away from the massive Religion section and the even huger Food section. (There was no Fiction section, of course, because this is all fiction anyway.) So she would chortle and think out loud, as they do in Charleston, "Humor IS self-help. In my book." And smile at her bad pun. And she would look to see if the Ephron sisters had published anything new lately and she would find to her delight one slim yellow book called "I Feel Bad About My Neck" by Nora Ephron, and she would scoop it up and head to the cashier.

And if she were walking to the purchase desk she would notice towering shelves displaying dozens and dozens of this very same canary-yellow Nora Ephron book. She would feel pathetically smug knowing that she chose the book before seeing that it was being promoted as a best-seller "Women's Book".

And if she were really in Charleston and really reading Nora Ephron's new book back in her room at the pink stuccoed hotel next door, she would laugh and realize that she too experienced almost everything that Nora Ephron writes about, including real-estate love and book rapture. Excepting, of course, the love of cooking. And that second husband. And then she would think that if she could be so bold, that she would give up her latest personal motto which was "When I Grow Up I Want to Be Mary Blume" and change it to "When I Grow Up I Want to Be Nora Ephron" but since she would have already passed her 52nd birthday she would have to start growing up pretty damn fast.

But, as I said, this is fiction.

New Banner!

New banner.  A work in progress.  Thanks for all the input!  What about this one?  It feels more like moi!

Design S.O.S.!

I need your help!  I am considering any of the following for a new banner for Polly-Vous Francais?  Do you like any (if so, which) or none?

Other thoughts in general on color scheme.  Font.  Or forget the whole concept?

 I hate design decisions.  I LOVE design decisions.

A vous, mes amis!

A.

B.

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Six years and counting

Break out the bubbly!

Wow.  Here I am, six whole years old, and ready to down the champagne.

I'm not picky, really, but it must be French. Veuve Clicquot will do quite nicely, though I won't turn down a Taittinger, Moet, or Nicolas Perrier. (Am I missing someone important?)

Yup, six years ago today Polly-Vous Francais? was born. It happened by accident, really.  I had been living in Paris for two months on place de la Madeleine, invading and soaking up the cultural and political life of Paris.  Then I found my dream apartment in the 7e arrondissement.  The student protests were all the news, and I was madly sending missives to all my friends detailing the drama and social thrill of my new Parisian existence.

Then, over dinner in Paris, my good friend A. said, "Polly, you really must stop sending all these stories in emails."

Ouch.

"Oh," I apologized, abashed.  "Are they tedious?"

"No, not at all -- but they need to be published on line instead, " she said.  "You need to start a blog."

"But, but... I don't know the first thing about blogging!"  I think I whined a fair bit, feeling technologically incompetent and ancient.

"Look, Polly," said A., all no-nonsense.  "If you... did have a blog, what would you call it?"

(Ah, a question I knew how to answer!)  "Polly-Vous Francais!" I said, maybe a bit too excitedly.  It had been my mantra ever since I understood my first French phrase.

We finished our dinner and our wine and parted ways for the evening.  The next morning, an email from A.  appeared in my in-box:  "Polly-Vous Francais? is up and running.  Start posting!"  She had created the blog for me.

I felt the wind knocked out of me.  It was like the time that the summer lifeguard/swimming coach forced me to jump off the high-dive. You can do it, you can do it.  Just plunge, just plunge.  Breathe later.

And voilà.

Polly-Vous Francais? has grown and morphed over the years, from A.'s great banner above, to a few variations.

I've written 920 posts.  The blog has had probably several million visitors in six years, but in today's internet stream, I can't begin to gauge the importance of that stat.  (For perspective:  when this blog began in May 2006, Facebook had about 7 million users, mostly college students.  Today?  Well, you know.)

Another Polly-Vous Francais banner, made with stamps from the Marché aux timbres.

Back in 2006, many of us bloggers in Paris felt as though we had a mission, but sometimes we felt misunderstood.   We wrote for the Paris Blog (many lucky ones, still in Paris, still do). We fed our feeds to the now-defunct Paris Times.  We gathered to celebrate our blogging life in Paris.  Sometimes I felt as though I were part of a new literary genre scene, and sometimes I felt as though it was just considered clown school.

I am really, really delighted to note that some of the official traditional Paris-based print journalists who had pooh-poohed the very notion of blogs back in 2006-7 are now the proud authors of blogs, Twitter feeds and Pinterest and Facebook pages.  They have hired their social media interns!! Kudos -- now we're all family.

I look forward to returning to Paris this summer to re-connect a) with my inner Polly-Vous, and b) with a lot of pals!  Time for a party.


And to say that I love you all!  

(Okay, almost all.  Except for a few anonymous commenters and so forth.  You know who you are.)


And tonight I nod off to bed, having blown out the six candles for my blog.

And the next burning question:  is it time for a new banner?  What do you recommend? Votes?

Paris Patterns #2

Paris is a constant kaleidoscope. Of course there is the magnificence of  the 'capital-a' Art, grand architecture, and masterful sculpture; but there is also the adrenaline rush of people-watching, le lèche-vitrines (window shopping), patterns, and 'small-a' art everywhere.

In homage to small-a Parisian art, here are more Paris Patterns.
This time more linear, angular.


Lattice-weave mosaics on a doorway of a residence near Vavin in the 6e arrondissement.


Screws and nails on display at the Marché aux puces at Vanves.


Ceiling at the Sainte Chappelle.


Exterior mosaic of a café on boulevard St. Germain in the 7e.




Windows of an office building at Montparnasse.

Markets of Paris

There are SOO many guide books to Paris.  We've seen 'em all.  N'est-ce pas?

So when I picked up Markets of Paris, in my jaded I-already-know-Paris frame of mind, I didn't have great expectations.

Boy, was I wrong!  Capital-W wrong.

This is a gem of a guide to Paris.

First of all, it is organized in the way that any guide to Paris should be, which is by arrondissement.  Second, it is more than just a guide to the open air food markets in Paris, but rather includes all shopping centers that you could want to visit, from la Grande Epicerie to the Marché aux Timbres and exquisite covered marketplaces such as Galerie Vivienne, and all my other favorite passages couverts.


Oh, did I mention that it is a gem?

It's a gem!

For example, rather than try to have the book serve as a map, the authors recommend the best map book, Paris Pratique, to use in conjunction with the book.  So true!  I never have been able to properly navigate  Paris without a couple of handy guides:  one is never enough.  And, at about 6 by 6 inches, Markets of Paris is petite enough to carry in your bag, but chock-full of information to keep you busy reading while you wait for the RATP bus to take you to your next destination.  It's a big book in a little book's hide.  This and Paris Pratique are all you need.

The book has so much practical information, including even a list of "Helpful Books, Blogs, and Websites" to visit to enrich your Paris market experience -- all of which I heartily endorse.


From small organic food markets to popular flea markets, bargains to luxe, the markets  and material covered in this book make it a definite keeper.

I can't wait to return to Paris this summer and use it as my guide.

Michelin heads to the burbs

Famous French tire-and restaurant-guide company Michelin is packing its bags and moving out of Paris.

Not far, but to nearby lovely Boulogne, according to the spokesperson for Michelin.  The company's HQ is still in Clemont-Ferrand; but, since its inception in 1889 it's always had a Paris office. First avenue Pereire, then in 1967 the company purchased the building at 46 avenue de Breteuil in the 7e arrondissement.

No more!   Michelin has just sold the building to an insurance company for 110 million euros.

I love Boulogne.  But it must be a jolt for one of France's most iconic companies to exit from avenue de Breteuil, one of the classiest neighborhoods in Paris.

Bibendum will learn to drive to work, no doubt.

Image via lalsace.fr

Les zizis de Paris

The moment I happened upon the book Les Zizis de Paris, several years ago, I was smitten.  Not because of the subject per se (though what's not to love?!), but because I delighted in imagining a similar book in an Anglo-Saxon museum bookshop.  Maybe there is one and I just don't know about it, but I'm not holding my breath.  As a culture, I think, we Americans in general are just more disposed to be prudish/woo-hoo about such matters, as opposed to dealing with the subject matter with an appreciative nod and a wink.

Zizi is the French equivalent of wee-wee,  or weenie or what-have-you.  I find it quite adorable as a name for male parts.

I found this charming and entertaining photography book in a museum store of one of the museums of the city of Paris.  Not hidden hush-hush in a brown wrapper in a corner, but prominently displayed with other guides to Paris.  And indeed, it is a pictorial guide to male nude public statues.  What?  Oh yes, of course I bought it!

So, big deal.  It's Art.  No fig leaves.  It's France.  It's the human body.  Deal with it.  Enjoy it.

But I did get a chuckle out of the juxtaposition of the accompanying standard web language on the website for the book...

Bringing Up Bebe: A Conversation with Pamela Druckerman

Like many Americans who move to France, I have always been surprised to observe the differences in behavior between French and American kids. Seeing a 9-year-old confidently take the RATP bus alone to her music lesson. A 4 year old patiently guarding her baby brother in the stroller at the front of the store while their mom dashed for once forgotten item at the back of the Monoprix. Kids sitting at dinner tables, engaging in conversation.

So you can imagine my delight when I saw that Bringing Up Bébé had just been published. I had met author Pamela Druckerman at the American Library in Paris a few years ago. And we've kept up a bit since then. I was delighted when she was able find time for me to interview her. I just had to know more about the creation of this latest tour de force in deciphering the differences between French and American cultures.




Polly-Vous Francais: You write about so many wonderful epiphanies in Bringing Up Bébé. Was there one "aha!" moment in particular that stands out? A personal favorite?

Pamela Druckerman: I think it was the moment when a French girlfriend of mine saw my daughter, who couldn’t even stand up on her own at the time, pulling books off our bookshelves (for some reason she always pulled down the travel books - go figure). I hadn’t thought there was anything I could do about this irritating habit of my daughter’s. She couldn’t even talk! But my friend got down on the carpet with my daughter and said, very gently: We don’t do that. We leave the books on the shelves. Then she showed my daughter how to push them back in. To my surprise, my daughter never pulled the books down again. After that, I realized that I could teach my daughter things like that, and she could integrate them. It was a revelation.

PVF: How did you settle on the title? Were there other contenders for the title?

PD: I wanted to call the book Paris is Burping. My editor said what editors say when they are trying to be polite: "Let’s make it a chapter title."

PVF: Nice! I like that one. [Thinking how to translate that title...] And will the book be translated into French? Would you consider returning as a guest on (my favorite French TV show) Le Grand Journal to discuss the differences between French and American parenting?

PD: Yes, the French edition is scheduled for January 2013. Title TBD. Do you handle bookings for Le Grand Journal? :)

PVF: No, but I sat in the audience once. I hope they invite you back for a debate about French/American parenting styles. That would be an entertaining conversation! For example, which of the French parenting methods do you think you've had the hardest time accepting or adopting?

PD: I can't get used to the 5-day field trips for first graders. But I'm going to have to. My daughter starts primaire next year. And though I say “It’s me who decides,” I don’t always automatically believe it. I have to sort of rev up my inner CEO. I’m naturally picky, but I’m not naturally bossy.

PVF: Which was the easiest?

PD: It was cutting out snacks, except for the one in the afternoon. It made the rest of the day flow better. Now when my kids sit down to eat, they're actually hungry.

PVF: Do you think there is a difference between French and American attachment objects (infamous doudous in France, in U.S., blankies or what-have-you)?

PD: I'm not sure. French parents do tend to have long Freudian explanations for why their kids have attachment objects. Whereas American parents would just say the blanket or the stuffed animal is comforting.

PVF: Okay, what about French children and correct posture? Any observations? How about faire la bise?

PD: I didn't look at posture at all (though I’m sitting up straighter as I write this). Please do tell, and I'll get that into the paperback! As for "faire la bise," I probably should have mentioned that too. What are your views?

PVF: Well, I once observed a French friend feeding her 18-month-old in his highchair. She simply cooed "Tiens-toi comme il faut, mon trésor" ("sit up straight, sweetheart") before she would give him the next bite, and it worked like a charm. La bise, of course, will take a whole chapter to discuss: up to what age a child must give a cheek kiss to a visitor, etc. So much to think about! All things considered, if you could start out your own childhood again, would you rather be raised à la française?

PD: I would change nothing at all about my own childhood. And I'm not just saying that because my mother is probably reading this.

Seriously, I think like many American women I wish I had developed a healthier relationship to food early on, instead of a guilt-based one. I wish I had learned how to savor one cookie, instead of needing to eat all eight of them.

PVF: Are there any French movies that might have some examples that illustrate the difference between French and American childhoods? (The Elegance of the Hedgehog comes to mind, but perhaps others)?

PD: On a recent flight to America I watched a wonderful French film called Un Heureux événement about a French couple that meets and has a baby, and how this affects their relationship. At one point during the mother’s pregnancy, she asks the doctor whether it’s okay to swallow semen. The doctor replies: Yes, it’s very nutritious. But of course it shouldn’t be the baby’s only food!

PVF: Hahhaha! Excellent. Okay, er, switching gears here, tell me, where do you write in Paris? Favorite spots? Favorite parks to go avec enfants?

PD: I write at home or at an office that I share with seven French journalists. I'm their token foreigner. I also write in cafes sometimes, though it’s hard to find one with the right combination of laptop friendliness, good coffee, good writing vibe, and a power outlet.

With kids, I love the Tuilleries, which has in-ground trampolines and a very imaginative, sculptural playground. One of the great things about Paris is that there are playgrounds all over the place. There’s usually at least one within walking distance. And there are wonderful film festivals just for kids.

PVF: Do you think that WWAFMD* will become a household mantra?

PD: Well since I had to read that acronym five times before I figured out what it stood for, probably not! I do think a new conventional wisdom about parenting is gradually emerging in America, and that it overlaps in some ways with the French style (date nights, having kids eat more interesting foods, teaching patience…). But whatever the next phase is in America, it's not going to be a carbon copy of French or Chinese or Eskimo parenting. It will be its own house blend.

PVF: Pamela, thanks so much for taking the time to chat. This might seem totally random as a closing question, but I personally think it's related: Do you think French dogs are exceptionally well behaved, too?

PD: How did you know? That's my next book! Though if French dogs were really were so well behaved, they wouldn't leave their poop on the sidewalk.




*What Would A French Mother Do?

Le Slip francais

Le slip. No, it's not a slip, which in English could be a lady's silky undergarment under a dress, or an embarrassing fall on a banana peel, or a place to moor your yacht, or a verbal faux-pas.

Le slip. I've always loved the word in French, one of those great faux-amis. And it has (almost) nothing to do with sleep, though it's pronounced that way: le sleep.

Le slip is... Tighty-whities. Briefs. U-Trou. Or, in some cases, a Speedo.

So for some reason this recent ad for le slip Made in France made me smile.

Allez, messieurs! Trade in those boring tighty-whities for some genuine all-cotton bleu-blanc-rouge slips francais.

The folks at Le Slip Francais say, "Our Briefs are Revolutionary!

Making Small Change

This weekend I was with my dear friend Nina at a charming little grocery store on Long Island. As usual, when I was paying, I fumbled in my wallet, dumping the coin-purse part upside down into my cupped hand in order to rid myself of all the dreaded change which weighs down my pocketbook. "I just hate loose change, don't you?" I remarked to Nina.

"Well. Yes....but I guess I'm always afraid of being the jerk at the front of the line whom everyone hates because she's taking up time while she fishes in her wallet for correct change," said Nina.

Ouch. And also, BINGO! Because, in a snap, just like that, I recognized one of the most fundamental differences between living in Paris and living in the U.S.

Small change. Coins.

La petite monnaie.

At first blush, it might seem like a trivial difference, but it runs deep.

For an American living in France, one gets trained in short order, by the shop-owners or whoever is working the cash register, to proffer change so they don't have to depart with their precious supply. ("Vous n'auriez pas les 12 centimes, madame?" they'll ask, when the total is 13.12 euros. And you know that you'll get better service and smiles the next time if you give them the right change.)

Do people in France even keep change jars? Does Coinstar exist in France? I think not. I never saw any. Does anyone ever go in to their local bank branch and ask (instead of for quarters), "I'd like a roll of one-euro coins, please?" The very thought gives me the shivers.

The penny dish by the cash register? Ubiquitous in the U.S., preposterous in France.

Small change, in France, is social gold. Having correct change was how I wooed Madame Tabac to be my pal. It is how I stayed on good terms with the neighborhood epicier and news seller. In the rare moments when I was out of change, I always apologized profusely and was certain to make up for my perceived transgression the next time with pocketsful of change. All shopkeepers were always thrilled to have the right coins given to them. When I didn't have my reading glasses handy, they would even willingly help me count out the correct amount if I held up a cupped handful of coins for them. The tension-relieving was palpable. My boulanger, Robert, even taught me the trick of learning the distinction among euro coins by the edge and shape.

How important is it to have correct change in Paris? Two vivid anecdotes marked me permanently.

1. After one Saturday dinner party in Paris, it being late I decided to take a taxi home. The reluctant driver picked me up -- I was his last fare of the evening -- and we drove from the Champs Elysees to my place in the 7e arrondissement. We arrived at my doorstep and I explained that all I had on me was a 50-euro bill. And you would have thought I had committed highway robbery. I got the most severe tongue-lashing, with expletives, he saying "If I had known you wanted to pay me with a 50-euro bill, I wouldn't have picked you up," and so forth. I apologized profusely, to no avail. Finally, he gave me the change for the 11-euro fare -- change which he had in abundance, it turns out. So his protest and verbal abuse were simply a matter of principle? Big jump on the cultural learning curve. (And, I might add, the only bad experience I've ever had with Paris taxi drivers, who always remain dear to my heart.)

2. At an American performance event in Paris, I was helping as a volunteer to staff the entrance with a fellow expat who had lived in Paris for decades. An American woman arrived and wanted to pay for her discounted 8-euro ticket with a 20-euro bill. We had a well-stocked cash box with lots of change. My fellow American -- American! -- unleashed a tirade. "We can't let you in unless you have the correct change -- no, no, no, that won't work at all!"

I froze. "Um, Tim," I whispered in an aside, "we actually do have enough change in the till to let her pay with a twenty." He wouldn't budge.

The poor woman was about to leave in tears, when along came another American concertgoer who had change to share with her, so we were able to broker a deal. Tim had clearly been living in France too long.

What IS it about making or not making change -- the currency of everyday living -- that makes us who we are?

General anecdote number 3: I walk. A lot. In the U.S., on my walks, I invariably come across coins on the sidewalks and street curbs. Ranging from one penny (which I'll pick up if it's heads up and not in the middle of traffic) to the high-water mark, which was a $10 bill. Average is about 15 cents per one-hour walk. In all of my walks in Paris, I never once saw abandoned change on the pavement. Not once.

Small change is king!

I realized, this weekend, that there is a vestige of the Parisian resident in me that it's not so easy to shake. I still expect the person at the cash register to be appreciative of my ability to give small change.

But -- is it chump change?

And who is the chump?

The Best Part of a Trip to Paris

...is Iceland?

Um, no offense, Iceland. But, really?

I have to look at this ad every day on my way to work. Irk!

I love aurora borealis as much as the next person. But the best part of a trip to Paris is Paris.

The Polly-Vous Francais challenge: besides Paris in general, what do you think is the best part of a trip to Paris?

p.s. Yes that's me taking the photo. Sorry for the glare.

Deux Mille Douce

Bonne année to all!

One of the best trends of this new year (and I'm SO glad French tradition permits wishing Happy New Year for the whole month of January) is this phrase: deux mille douce.

Of course, in French, 2012 is deux mille douze.

Deux mille douce. Two-thousand and sweetness; two-thousand and softness.

I like it.

Wishing you all a deux mille douce.

Ceci n'est pas un blog

Really, how dare I call this a weblog when I haven't posted in over a month? Ceci n'est pas un blog. Call me Mme Magritte, but please do forgive my dilatory epistolary something-or-other. Okay, it really is a blog, but it doesn't appear to be so at times when nothing has been posted. Right? It's so very Magritte of me, n'est-ce pas?

Nom d'une pipe! I've been on the move. Polly-Vous Francais is now an official denizen of -- ta-dah! -- the Big Apple. Stayed tuned for updates from the flaneuse of the streets of Manhattan.


image via wikipedia

Change the Clocks in France

Remember that for one week, starting on Sunday October 30, France and the United States are just a bit closer.

Time-wise.

Yes, just my little public service announcement reminding you that residents of France will move their clocks back one hour on Sunday October 30 at 3 a.m. In the U.S., the "fall-back" will take place on Sunday November 6.

So for one week the time difference between East coast U.S. and France is 5 hours (8 hours for California).

You're welcome.

Living on a Houseboat

All my francophile life, I've dreamed of living on a houseboat -- une peniche -- on the Seine. That desire was reinforced when I happily happened upon -- and devoured -- Mort Rosenblum's The Secret Life of the Seine.

"It is agreeable, as the French say, to take a candlelight cruise without leaving home. You can go away for a weekend and not pack. Your morning alarm is those ducks quacking. Friends visit without coaxing. [A visiting pal] dropped into a deck chair. When a bateau-mouche passed, she flung out her arms and yelled, ‘Envy me.’"

Precisely the emotion I was aiming for!

Rosenblum's tale of life on the Seine, and the history of the river, is a timeless classic: one to read ASAP. And re-read.

I may yet stay on the Seine some day -- I also have a friend who has lived on a houseboat in Neuilly for the past 30 years. So who knows?

Meanwhile, I have found the best possible alternative: a houseboat in Sausalito, California. My wonderful friend Stephanie, observing the somewhat hellish month of September I'd been experiencing, said "Why don't you stay on our houseboat for a while? We don't have any tenants right now, and --" I cut her off at the pass, and jumped at the opportunity.

So here I am, living the life on a glorious houseboat. It may not be the Seine, but Sausalito is a bit of heaven on earth. And this houseboat is, as Steph put it, "a temple." It floats my boat, that's for sure.

Luxurious and spacious, it offers more room than I need as a solo tenant, yet still feels cozy.

I spend my mornings at the dining room table, looking across the harbor to Tiburon and Belvedere, catching an occasional glimpse of a harbor seal; the sea gulls and the other ocean

birds being the only noisy neighbors. The tranquility is absolute tonic for the soul, and it's a great spot to write and get work done.

Then it's all I can do to pry myself from the steam shower: pick your favorite jet stream of water, overhead, sideways, and play favorite tunes on the radio shower while you're at it.

And discovering Sausalito has been such a blast. Next door is Le Garage, a fabulous French bistro that attracts customers from all over and has the best kirs this side of the Atlantic. To burn off all those delicious calories, within a five minute walk I can be at a small beach, a kayak rental place, a bike rental spot, or a center for open-water rowing. The oarsmen and oarswomen row by my bedroom window at an impressively early hour.

Sunsets are magical.

Sunrises, too.

This is the life. I don't ever want to leave. But real life beckons, and so fairly soon I'll pack my bags and go back to reality.

And this place is available for rent! Check out the listing at CHBO, property 7827. You can live the life, too.

French Phrase Books: Slang? Colloquial?

Miss Bee, bless her darlin' heart, just spent an academic year -- or is that "academic" year? -- in France. I dare say her French got more fluent. She was a language assistant at a French lycée through the wonderful French Government program.

But as is the case with many young people who have fun carousing with their French peers, the language skills she acquired aren't necessarily 100% fit for polite company. The Berlitz-type phrase books didn't really give her a leg-up in conversing with other 20-somethings. On the other hand, the slang dictionaries didn't exactly help in terms of understanding the appropriateness of the language.

Her first adjunct phrase book, Dirty French, she purchased at Urban Outfitters. It is, she admits, "kind of raunchy," and doesn't give the reader any sense of the social context of when any of the phrases should be used. Witty and hip, perhaps, but "cool slang," "funny insults" and "raw swear words" were not exactly what an American in France needed for understanding colloquial French and, more particularly, for spouting them in la Belle France. (I remember a story told to me by a sweet American college student who, driving with her French beau and his parents to their weekend house, exclaimed, "Waouh, Christophe, t'a vraiment niquée, celle-la!" when he sped past a car on the narrow route nationale. His well-bred parents in the back seat were mortified at her foul mouth. She thought she was simply saying "Good job! You passed him!")

Recently, Miss Bee has acquired Merde! The Real French You Were Never Taught at School. This phrase book, she says, is imminently more practical and useful. It gives ratings as to appropriateness of all those phrases she learned and parroted back. Basically it gives you a rating scale of social context between being polite and bien élevé, a dweeb and having a gutter mouth: very important distinctions when conversing in France.

Good to know. Any other recommendations?

12 hours at CDG Airport

Ah, the fates can be cruel.

I have an upcoming business trip to Europe which has me flying into Roissy -- aka CDG, Charles de Gaulle airport. And making a hasty connection to my final destination. (The good news is that I'm flying beloved Air France.)

That initial part I can deal with -- dashing from Terminal 1 to Terminal 2E in a window of 2 hours. God willin' and the crick don't rise, I'll make it.

But the return flight is what pains me. My flight arrives mid-evening into Roissy. The continuing leg to the U.S. departs the following morning, about 12 hours later.

That, to me, is sheer temptation. Sheer torture! How can I be in Paris and not be in Paris?? Could I navigate my way into Paris, arriving after the dinner hour, and (ignoring seeing friends, alas, which would give me no time in the city), stay in a little hotel and spend my evening walking around -- being my old flaneur self -- and get enough rest and time to rise, check out, find transport and reach the airport in time for the return flight by 11 a.m.?

I surveyed my friends -- their suggestions ranged from "stay at the SofitelCDG," to "stay in the 6e near the RER station," to "the Ibis CDG," to the myriad other hotels at Roissy.

First I opted for taking the Air France car to the Etoile, staying in a small 2-star hotel, and hitting the town. Then I got real. If I didn't arrive until 10 pm, lugged my luggage to the room and then went out wandering, it would be a rather stunted visit.

And forgive me, but I really despise traveling on the RER from CDG with luggage, so that option had already been nixed.

So, I have decided to do something I've never done before in my Paris excursion adventures: I'll stay at a chain hotel at CDG and explore the airport itself for, um, entertainment and edification.

Any recommendations? Where would you stay -- what would you do -- what would you like to know about -- with 12 hours to kill at Charles de Gaulle Airport? Dining, lodging, spa services, entertainment, budget ideas? I'll report back in a week or so.

Travel Stories

These days we all have our travel horror stories: baggage lost, flights canceled, endless lines upon endless lines. Security itself is worth tomes.

A friend's recent saga reminded me of a most unusual moment in my early traveling days.

By the time I was 10, my parents were divorced and living in different states. We kids became troupers in air travel, shuttling from Tennessee to Pennsylvania without batting an eye. In the 1960s there was a cheap stand-by fare for the under 21 crowd, and we became pros at mastering the take-offs and arrivals. Getting adoring attention from the stewardesses.

One summer in the late 1960s, though, my sister and I had a most remarkable air travel experience.

I was 13, she was 17. We were flying one evening from Nashville to Philadelphia with a connection at National Airport in Washington. En route to D.C., we were in the middle of the most horrific thunderstorm I've ever experienced in the air, before or since. Huge thunderbolts striking down on all sides, and our prop plane was bouncing like a superball from one air pocket to the next. After a terrifying descent, when we finally made it to terra firma, I was happy to be alive.

Then, we were told that our flight to Philadelphia was cancelled. Due to our "youth stand-by" status, the airline wasn't required to give us lodging or any other compensation. We spent our coins in the pay phone to call our mother, who couldn't really help us much.

Yikes. Two young teen girls alone for a night at Washington National? That was almost more spooky to me than the turbulent flight. We went to the airport hotel, the Air Wayte. They were booked, of course. We pleaded with the front desk clerk. Clearly, here were two nice girls in their Villager outfits properly dressed for travel; surely they couldn't leave us unchaperoned to walk the halls of the airport -- or sleep unprotected! -- for a night. (Remember, this was before airport security or cell phones...) The manager was summoned.

He was scratching his head, trying to figure out how to help the stranded waifs. Finally, he said, "Well, okay. I guess I could put you girls up in the Towah Room." I heard "Tower Room" and naively envisioned bunking down on the sofas of a cushy top-floor lounge. Sounded good to me! My big sister accepted, so off we went. To.... the third floor linen closet. The Towel Room.

He wearily told us to make ourselves comfortable in the 4X6 foot space, and shut the door on us. Pioneers to the hilt, we padded the floor with every towel from the shelves, spread out clean cotton sheets on top, settled in; and ah, did we fall asleep?

No, we didn't.

No, because it was also the supply closet, and we found an ample repository of Air Wayte Hotel postcards and a few ball point pens, and so spent much of the night scribbling notes to our friends. "Guess where I am? I'm spending the night in the linen closet of this hotel!"

All in all, it was a heavenly evening (except for a few scurrying cockroaches) where we felt both totally safe and totally outrageous.

We left with great gratitude and an unnecessarily large amount of miniature bars of individually wrapped hotel soap.

Thanks, Mr. Air Wayte, wherever you are!

Postcard image via La Dolce Vintage.

A table!

I just uncovered this quick ball-point sketch of me when I was about 13 or 14. It brings back such wonderful memories. I can't even remember the artist's name, yet he signed the sketch "I love you, Polly." What more could a teenager want?

Here is the scenario. I was the youngest of five children, and by the time I was a young teen, all of my siblings were off the social radar screen: Saturday night rolled around and they were away at boarding school or college or hanging out with the high school In-crowd in Philadelphia. Which left Polly and the parents. Social beings that they were, dinner parties were a frequent function. When those gatherings were chez nous, I was expected to join the adults at the table and be conversant, polite, and charming. I don't know how I measured up, but I know that it helped me learn to love dinner conversation, candlelight and starched damask napkins. The clink of silverware against china. Engaging in dialogue with adults, and having an opinion about current events.

I remember well the evening. My dinner partner -- a man my parents' age -- treated me as if I were a fascinating adult. I shared my naive views on politics and culture, and he responded with aplomb and appreciation. I blossomed. I was treated as a grown-up! Right there at the table, he asked, "May I sketch you?" And so we giggled conspiratorially and temporarily ignored the other guests for a few minutes while I found a Bic and some paper and he whipped up this sketch at the corner of the dinner table. Suddenly I no longer felt like the baby brat of the family, but a privileged participant in a grown-up world, even though I was wearing a cotton A-line skirt and a striped Skyr turtle-neck. I've kept the portrait to this day: an important reminder. I wish I could remember his name to thank him for the transformational moment.

So, what does this have to do with my love of France? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. I know that when I first spent time in France a few years later, it felt so natural, so elemental, to be reveling in dinner conversation. It still does. I don't know to what extent my own children have learned this joy of inter-generational socializing. In France -- at least among my French friends -- this still is the norm. All ages gather at the table and get along (or not!) with verve.

A few years ago I was sitting with a friend in Paris who was feeding her toddler in his high chair. She said, lovingly, "Tiens-toi comme il faut," and made sure he sat up straight, before giving him the next spoonful. He giggled and clowned and wiggled, then sat up tall for his next bite. Then smiled and batted his eyes at us.

Early dinner party training?