Dreams of Owning a Tiny House in France

I am not alone, I think, in having the dream of someday owning a house in France. A small "pile of stones" that I can call my own.  Ah, yes, with a deux-chevaux parked outside, and morning baguettes from the local boulangerie.

a bergerie

Part one:  the history

My first infatuation with the notion of living in a small stone house in France came when I spent the summer between high school and college on Île de Ré.  The main house of the compound was a larger residence, but within the walls of "Les Bergeries" were many small stone outbuildings, which each of the grown siblings had adapted for individual families' summer living.  I was hooked.

A year or two later, I experienced the life of a young Frenchman's "second home" in Brittany, complete with the 2 CV. Primitive, but certainly doable.  And cheap!

Since then,  I have come so close -- SO close! -- more times than you can imagine,  to owning a small place in France.  First was the house in Theneuil, during a summer spent in the Touraine in the early 1990s.  I was within a hair's breadth of purchasing the crumbling small rectory next to this church, complete with outbuildings and gorgeous stone courtyard.  After lengthy discussions with the mayor of the village, I was not certain of the fate of  the property's ancient stone wall, possibly to be torn down for a road widening. I sadly, ultimately, backed down from making an offer.  The price at the time was 70,000 FF, about $14,000 at the time. Awful end of story:  I bought a used Saab instead.  To this day, of course, this missed opportunity will always be referred to as my "Saab story."

The Maison de Poupee in St Enogat

In 2006, I fell in love with another tiny house, in Dinard.  I was staying with my dear friends Isa and Jacques; and since I was always the early riser in the house, I would go on my habitual hour-long morning walks through the town just after dawn, and return with baguettes and croissants for the family breakfast.  One morning on my perambulations, I wandered through the area of Dinard called St. Enogat.  That particular day, a woman leaned out of her second floor window and remarked cheerily, "Vous etes matinale!"  ("You're up early!").  I waved and smiled and continued on my way. Shortly thereafter, I stumbled across a small side street with the charming name of Passage du Beausoleil. Ah. If I could ever find a place to live on a street like this, it would be perfect, I thought.  And 20 paces later, behold:  a For Sale sign on a perfect little house.  This time I meant business.  I was living in Paris and was looking for a permanent residence in France to own and call home.  I called the agent.  I viewed the maisonette.  I took Isa and Jacques to visit and offer their opinion.  I made an offer. Signed the papers.

I became known among the local friends as "the woman who went out for baguettes and came home with a house."  My kind of fame!

The view from the little house in St. Enogat

Well, a long story made short:  the owner died, the unhappy and unwilling tenant flaunted a scary machete in the kitchen.  The sale never took place. Expensive lesson learned:  purchasing real estate in France is not even vaguely similar to purchasing real estate in the U.S.  Even if you speak French fluently.  Even if you have friends in the neighborhood.

And yet the dream lives on.  Whenever I tootle around the back-roads of France I always experience real estate envy.

Part two:  real estate envy.

Sshhh.  Some of my friends call it real estate porn.  It is just as addictive, so, well, yeah.  Dreaming of that sexy place that isn't yours, well, not yours now, but maybe someday, or in your dreams, or.. . well, okay kind of that.  If you have that kind of real estate fixation in the U.S., for example, you know what sites you go to for your fix. If you have French real estate yearning, for a small pile of stones in the luscious French countryside, you know where to go, right?

Oh, you don't ?

Well, let me tell you:  you go to Explorimmo.  That's the simple part. Then you need to know some French and some French geography.  You need to pick a region that you are interested in.  And if you want a tiny house, enter an amount such as 100 m2 in the square meters part. Well, it's complicated.  But, trust me,  it's pure French real-estate gratification, right on the screen.  Does it for me every time!

Part three: driving around.

There is nothing I would rather spend my leisure hours doing than exploring the routes départementales, the windy back roads, in France, and then from there even the smaller back roads.   Sheer bliss.  Because if you use GPS and always get where you're going, you can often miss some of the most fabulous buildings around.  Driving around Provence, I spotted this wonderful place in a horse paddock in a field in a town not far from Salon de Provence.

This is my new object of desire, the tiny house that I would love to live in in France.

I want to live in this house, or I want to replicate it exactly.  No more, no less.  My dream.

End of story. Mine, at least.  Where would you like to live your small-house fantasy in France?

Darling, je vous aime beaucoup

"Darling, je vous aime beaucoup" was a song which I associate with one of my favorite crooners ever, Nat King Cole.

I'd always assumed it was written for Nat in the 50's, but it turns out it was written for a cabaret singer named Hildegarde in the 30s.

Then, 50 years ago, Dean Martin, looking rather silly,  donned a beret and chomped a cigarette holder and produced this album, "French Style," which included "Darling" and a variety of other French-ish tunes.

My question is: why?  Was America's francophilia at such a fever pitch in the early 60's that any popular singer could cash in just by making a French album?

I've often pondered over the influence of francophilia in American culture and its ebbs and flows over the course of the decades.  From Dean to Soeur Sourire the Beatles' "Michelle, Ma Belle," to Morticia and Gomez to Freedom Fries to French Women Don't Get Fat.  It's a socio-cultural roller coaster ride.  I'm in it for the long haul.

How about you?

image via wikipedia

French Vanity Fair

This is big news.

Condé Nast has announced that it will launch a French version of Vanity Fair.  Michel Denisot, of Le Grand Journal, will be editorial director.

90% of the content will be original to France.

A vos plumes!

image via wikipedia

Je suis amoureux

I am in love. With Je suis amoureux, a sweet short film that is so adorable and so French. A perfect Paris love story.  Two minutes and fifteen seconds. I think you'll love it too.


I'M IN LOVE (Je suis amoureux) from DRÔLE DE TRIP on Vimeo.

Merci to PerfectlyParis for the tip!

What to do with 2 days in Paris?

A dear friend from high school emailed me a few days ago:

We're arriving in Paris Friday for a very short visit before our bike trip in Normandy starts.
Should we do the boat on the Seine at night??
Any other “must do’s” you can think of or restaurant we should go to?
Only have 3 nights and 2 days really!

And when a question like that comes in over the transom, and I don't have lots of time to think or research, I know that my speedy answer is coming straight from the heart. Here is what my fingers replied hastily:

So exciting!! It's apparently really hot in Paris right now, so a boat ride on the Bateaux Mouches might be nice, if you can be on the upper deck and it's open.

Two days? All I can recommend is walking walking walking around everywhere. Go from Place Vendome (that's where you're staying, right?) to the Opera to the Madeleine to the place de la Concorde, then (if you can bear it) up the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe.

Then -- perhaps the next day, go to the Trocadero for an unforgettable view of the Eiffel Tower, then go down to the Seine and go "left" along the quais, admiring the houseboats etc., then cross the Pont Alexandre III. Okay, actually stop here and go to the restaurant at le Grand Palais called Le Minipalais. Then cross over the Seine, head toward the Invalides, wander through there and then go to the Musee Rodin. Great shady garden to cool off in.

If you only have a few days, do NOT try to actually go into places like the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre. You'll spend too much time in line.

If the weather were cold, I'd recommend Angelina on rue de Rivoli for a hot chocolate!

If you want something fun, try a car ride in a classic Deux Chevaux through Paris through Quatres Roues sous un parapluie.


The Palais Royal is another of my favorite spots. And Cafe Marly next to the Louvre is a great spot to stop for lunch or dinner.

Of course, the classic Cafe de Flore or Les Deux Magots in the 6e are great even just to stop by for a coffee or glass of wine. Great people watching, which is what Paris is all about.

Have fun and send photos!!!
xxoo Polly


ps. Avoid Montmartre Place du Tertre, avoid  Chatelet les Halles, and do not pay any attention to beggars or to anyone who asks "Do you speak English?" They are gypsies and/or pickpockets.

pps: In all establishments, stores, restaurants, boutiques, buses, taxis, whatever, always begin with "Bonjour, Monsieur," or "Bonjour, Madame." Then move to English if necessary. But you'll always get better service. And "Merci, monsieur/madame, au revoir," at the end. It will make a world of difference in your visit!!!


I'm sure there are favorites that I have forgotten.  I neglected shopping spots and the Hotel de Ville.  What have I left out?  What do you think? What would YOU have suggested? How would you recommend condensing Paris into 2 days?

Every Frenchman Has One

Fifty years ago, Olivia de Havilland, a classic in her own right, wrote a classic about being an American in France. I don't have sales statistics on her memoir Every Frenchman Has One, but I hope it was a best-seller.  She wrote it about the challenges of adjusting to life in France, married to the dashing author Pierre Galante. It still resonates today.

Miss de Havilland is still living in Paris and is as gorgeous and gracious as ever at age 94.  A few years back, at the American Cathedral, I had the delight of talking with her about her book after a service. After some introductory conversation and enthusiasm,  I begged her to re-issue her fabulous and funny book.  It would be an instant "re-born" classic! "Oh, yes, I should do that," she replied in her lilting and charming voice. "I think they still have the plates somewhere."


Oh, and what does every Frenchman have, according to Miss de Havilland?

Ha.  Not so fast, and get your minds out of the gutter.

Every Frenchman has a liver.

Bastille-ish Day!

The other day I attended a Bastille Day party, organized by some French groups.

It was SO Bastillish. It was more Bastillish than even the Fête nationale shindigs that those hotties Parisian firemen host every 14 juillet.

Why?

Because, first, the event was scheduled for 7:30 p.m. Crowds arrived at 7:30 and no one would open the doors.  It was a warm July evening and the throngs were chafing and muttering. Some looked as though they were ready to push their way in. No one on the inside seemed to care. (Is it sounding a bit Bastillish to you yet?)

Finally at around 7:50 the doors were flung open, and the assembled crowd on the sidewalk was allowed to enter the building, in small batches. We shelled out the not-unreasonable entrance fee.  For the masses, it cost $35, which got you in the door.

For VIPs and those who had been willing to spend $130, there was an exclusive lounge.  It was way up on a lofty balcony overlooking the main floor. Cordoned off.  I never saw any of the VIPs. I had naively imagined I might bump into a few familiar dignitaries at this French national holiday event.  Ix-nay.  They apparently went in before the rest of us, or were ushered up there as soon as they arrived.  No mingling with the rest of the crowd.  They were having unlimited wine and dinner, looking down at the rest of us (or ignoring us, more likely).

Down on the main floor, the requisite Edith Piaf-ish singer was singing, the requisite accordion was playing, and a few couples were dancing à la guinguette.   We minglers in the masses sported wristbands and were drinking $10-per-glass wine out of flimsy plastic cups.  Craning our necks, we peered up at the other party taking place in the loft. (Was it my imagination, or did I hear glasses clinking up there?)

"It reminds me of the old days when the Paris metro had  first and second class cars," I joked.

I thought perhaps there would at least be a word of welcome, of solidarity, ya know: "Liberté, égalité, fraternité"  or "Vive la France!"

Nope.  Just two separate crowds, one up and one down.

I just had to laugh.  It was so very Bastillish.

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!

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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.