Not my kind of beauty mask

And while I'm on the topic of beauty products, here's an odd one:

image via Yves Rocher

The Anti-Asphyxiation Flash Mask from Yves Rocher.

I like Yves Rocher products.  And I bet this mask is great one.

But, c'mon translation people.   Really?

Brilliant French Eye Drops: les Gouttes Bleues

There can be many signs that it's time for a return trip to Paris.

(One of the most cruel is that some prankster recently signed me up for email alerts to Météo-France, so every morning my email inbox lets me know the Paris daily weather forecast.  It actually says "Vos prévisions météo aujourd'hui" which to me officially translates as "Time to pack for France!")

Image via Innoxa

Another sure-fire indication is when my stock of only-in-France beauty supplies is depleted.  Now, my last drop of Gouttes Bleues -- French blue eye drops by Innoxa -- is gone.  Time to make the plane reservations.  Pronto.

You've never heard of les gouttes bleues?  Do you think it sounds weird to put blue drops in your eyes?  Won't it tint your vision?

I learned of les gouttes bleues the way I learned about most treasured classic French beauty regimens -- by seeing them on a friend's bathroom shelf, and asking nosy questions.  Voila!   Another secret of French beauty unveiled.  And so subtle.

Unlike Visine or other products that get the red out, les gouttes bleues are designed to make the whites whiter, much in the same way that laundresses of yore used bluing to make white cottons brilliant and white. (Actually it turns out that you still can find old-fashioned laundry bluing.)

It isn't weird or unusual -- you just drop a few soothing drops in the corner of your eye as you would with any eye-drop, only make sure you have some Kleenex for dabbing at the spillover, which is decidedly blue-tint.  It doesn't affect vision.  But it does improve others' vision of you.  Le look.  Le regard.

And it's an all-natural classic, having been around since 1950.

Eyes look brilliant, brighter and whiter -- which is what we want for the firing up when they see the whites of your eyes.  N'est-ce pas?

Love in the Park

Easter Sunday morning in Central Park, and everywhere it looks like love.  All kinds of love.  Puppy love, romantic love, spiritual love, birds-do-it-bees-do-it love, love of mankind, love of life.  Not a grumpy being on the grounds as far as my eye could see...at least at 8 a.m.

And this was before going to church!

Inevitably any stroll around Manhattan will conjure up comparisons to Paris  - the art and architecture, the parks, the people, the culture.  In Central Park I find many of these comparisons converge.

1.  People and their dogs.  It is said that Paris is dog heaven.  But, honestly?  My vote goes to New York.  Apparently there is a law (or a loophole) that allows dog owners to let well-behaved pooches off-leash in the early morning hours in certain areas of Central Park.

And so they come in droves.  Everything from teacup terriers to Great Danes, frolicking in one happy love-fest, rolling and sniffing and delighting in each other's company, with their loving owners gazing contentedly as their beloved canines do what canines do best.  And the camaraderie among the owners is on a different plane from normal Manhattan sidewalk protocol.  They like each other and each other's pets, greet them with genuine affection, saying, "Max, sweetheart!   Go over and see my Sophie!  She has a stick!"  So endearing, so full of love and friendship.

Okay, I admit that I got a bit unnerved hearing a man shout, "Polly, stop that!" only to turn around and realize that he was talking to his border collie.

Another more...ardent love that I witnessed was a man on a bench in a semi-icky full frontal embrace with the standard poodle on his lap.  But each to his own, I guess.

I will not begin to get involved in much depth in the pooper-scooper stories and comaprisons.  Let me just say that in Paris, since almost no one picks up after their Fidos, I always walk with a careful glance to the sidewalk.  In all my time in Paris, never a squish. Seriously!   In New York, however, since you expect the sidewalks to be clean, you maybe don't pay as much attention underfoot, and --bingo!-- squish on the soles of your Italian ballerina flats on the way to church. For example.

2.  For the beauty of the earth.  Urban environments can be cold and hard and structured and unyielding.  Yet, a few steps into the park, and the city quickly melts away.  This is a beauty of Paris, too, with its many parks, pocket gardens and refreshing squares.  Today, in the Park, Spring was showing her greatest triumph over winter.

And the joy of rebirth after a long and dismal period of dim and dying. (And, alas, there are many spots where the loss of huge trees during Hurricane Sandy is painfully evident.) But also so many defiant delicate petals of sheer exuberance: "Yes, there will be spring."

Is there a heart that isn't uplifted by the sight of new spring flowers?

Harbingers of hope, of renewal and new things to come.

3.  For the splendor of the skies.  New York streets are veritable urban canyons, impressive yet sometimes daunting in their sheer pressure and overwhelming concrete-and-stone power and glory.  It is refreshing to get into open space where you can see the architectural structures from a distance.  When you are swallowed up by the buildings and the built environment, it is not as easy to appreciate them.  From the middle of the park, it is a moment of awe. Especially contrasted against the Park's Belvedere Castle, in wide-open sky.

4.  Shakespeare in love.  The Shakespeare garden.  Shall I compare it to a springtime day?
A yard for the Bard, a favorite spot in the Park.

When you see this fence, you know you're in Shakespeare country. Please let me know if you know of a fence more poetic, more romantic than this.

It reminds me in some ways of the small grotto-like pocket park just below the Trocadero in Paris.

The Shakespeare in the Park Delacorte Theater is in the background in this photo. You can draw your own comparisons (or not) to the drama of daily life at the Trocadero.

5.  Let's fall in love:  avian chapter.  Yesterday morning on the pond, two mallard drakes were loudly squawking, jabbing, and nipping at each other -- a real macho splashing squabble -- as the female duck paddled demurely on the sidelines.  Clearly she was the object of their desires for the upcoming love season, and only one of them was going to win.  A love contest!  This is no minor tale. Yesterday afternoon I ambled by again on a walk with Harry, and the two males were still sparring, drawing a bit of attention from the now-crowded group on onlookers.  Ouch.  A battle to the finish.

This morning?

One triumphant drake, one hen:  the newly hitched mallard couple paddling around the pond, ready to be the star parents of Make Way for Ducklings 2013 NYC edition.

Yes, and one loser in the alpha-battle for love, who apparently departed the territory.  Another Sunday-morning New York City love story?  Not limited to New York, of course.  It reminded me of these two love-birds in Paris.  Attached but showing slight indifference.  Ah, love.  Just ducky.

6.  Harry Loves Sally.  Or fill in the blanks.

The trees offer an outlet for a supposedly permanent expression of love.  Like a tattoo, but less personally accountable or embarrassing? Or not?

I wonder how old these are?

I wonder if any of the couples are still together?

And sometimes I think that the other, more ineffable expressions of love -- the greetings, the kisses, the pats, the hugs, the shared joy, the planting of exuberant perennial flowers for others to enjoy -- mean so much more than a moment's profession  of  heart-shaped love with a pen-knife on stolen tree bark.

A Happy Easter Spring Chick.. from Paris

Happy Easter!  Joyeuses Pâques!

This illustration would indeed be a Spring chick, if the advertisement weren't 66 years old.  Circa 1947.

Since it's for an elastic company, however,  let's just say it's a springy chick.

The caption underneath reads:  "Les produits élastiques de haute qualité portent cette étiquette."  (High quality elastic products bear this label.)

The company:  Société européenne de fils élastiques - 14.16 Bld. Poissonnière - Paris.

Alas, the European Company of Elastic Threads is no longer at that address in the 9th arrondissement.  But you can see the building anyway on this real estate video on YouTube.

Wishing all a joyous season.

Do you know about this magical French oil?

Second Avenue in New York City may not have the same panache as Madison Avenue, or even Lexington or Third, but it now forever holds a spot in my francophile heart.

Striding down the sidewalk the other day, I caught a glimpse of something so totally French in a storefront window that I stopped in my tracks and entered.  It was a hair salon, and they were selling Nuxe Huile Prodigeuse Or, a product I had never seen outside of France. 

It had been a staple in my batterie de maquillage in France. Tested chez des copines, forever enamoured of the little bottle of gold. A little on the cheekbones.  A little on the hair. A little mixed in with the body lotion for that overall glow.  My French friends all knew the subtle beauty secret.

I had assumed that I'd have to wait until my next trip to France to re-stock. (Because, in a moment of  extreme maternal generosity,  I had offered the rest of my precious bottle to Miss Bee, who loved the stuff SO much.)

But.... how could I have presumed that Nuxe Huile Prodigieuse Or was not available in the U.S.?  Silly me!  This is New York.  New York has everything.  

But the best part?  I entered the salon, Marianne Vera, a beehive of activity, and headed straight for the Huile Prodigeuse in the window display.  The owner approached me and didn't even attempt English.  "Bonjour, je suis Marianne, je peux vous aider?"

We started jabbering away in French, and I was happy to have a new acquaintance in the neighborhood who understood French beauty products (and maybe, eventually, my hair?).

"But... but...  how did you know to address me in French?" I asked, bewildered.  "This never happened to me in France! Despite my efforts, I am always pegged as an American."

"Simple," she replied.  "Only Parisiennes see it in the store window and stop to buy the product.  Les Americaines don't know what it is."

But now you do.

Bretons of New York

Bretonne on Lexington Ave, St. Patrick's Day

Tomorrow is officially St. Patrick's Day, but in New York City, today was THE day. The Parade.

Heading toward the subway station at Lex and 77th this early afternoon, I came upon large clusters of parade participants who had just finished marching 45 blocks up Fifth Avenue.  Bagpipers, handsome NYFD in their dress uniforms, and -- wait, what's that I see?  -- Bretonnes in their finest ancient finery!

I was behind one woman for the two blocks until the subway entrance.  All at once, though, it seemed that everyone around me was speaking French.  Even the three giggling young American women flourishing empty Solo cups, wearing sparkly green deely-boppers, their faces painted with emerald shamrocks, were saying, "Yah, like it's 'Bonjooor and cawmontallay voo,' right?"  Laughing and practicing their long-ago 7th-grade French lessons.

About 10 paces ahead of me, the woman in ancient Bretonne dress, to my amusement, was chatting on her cell phone.  I relish those anachronisms.

Finally, at the top of the stairs to the subway, foot traffic was jammed, and so as we all waited I asked (in French) for the story -- it didn't matter who I asked because I was surrounded by French.  But I found the perfect spokesperson, who even had a business card.

It turns out that

a) there is a Breton Association here in New York,  BZH New York.
b) this organization brought 100 traditional Breton performers from Quimper to New York for the event.  We do know, most of us, about the Celtic roots of Brittany, so it does seem so à propos for St. Patrick's Day.

It wasn't the right time for me to wax enthusiastic about my love of Brittany, my first unforgettable visit to Guingamp in my college years and how more recently I almost -- almost -- bought a house there.  But I look forward to getting to know the Bretons of New York a bit better.

And then the most adorable part -- the three tipsy American girls group-hugged one of the French women they had gotten to know during the parade, saying,  "Bye!  Bye!  We'll see ya in Paris!"

Open Umbrella: Etiquette or Superstition?

Sometimes there are those minuscule French/American cultural differences that pop up when you least expect them.

Today was a torrentially rainy day in New York City.  I arrived at work and immediately, as is the custom in our office, propped my umbrella wide open to dry it out, setting it in one of the few available corners of our unstructured office space by the conference table. I thought nothing of it.

Mid morning, I had a meeting with a French colleague.  We sat down and instantly I apologized for the now-dried umbrella crowding the floor of the conference room area, and hastily folded it up.  "One of the big/small cultural differences I've noted between Paris and the U.S.,"  I remarked, "is that no one in Paris ever leaves their umbrella wide-open for quicker drying.  There just isn't enough space. Cela ne se fait pas. [It is just not done.]"

"Ben, oui," she replied, "Cela ne se fait pas. But it's not a matter of space, though, Polly:  it's a question of superstition."

Aha.  Aha?

What do you think?  Do you leave your umbrella to dry open, or closed?

Don't laugh.  These things matter.

Polly-Vous Francais: Very Pinteresting

It's a challenge, some times, to keep up with all the latest digital connection places.  Back when I was a digital neophyte in 2006 and started this blog, the world of bloggers was a small one and often under siege by the mainstream media.  But as a group we hung together, and no other group hung together better than the bloggers for the Paris Blog. And now, we old-world bloggers are SO thrilled that the mainstream media have joined our ranks.

But  -- wow -- how to keep up with all the new media?  And, umm, I now have a day job.  As technology and cool social media sites have proliferated, I've done my best to keep abreast of all the sites for communicating my message.

This blog of course, has a Facebook page, and if you haven't yet liked it, I encourage your participation.

I am also on Tumblr (for which I have a kind of visceral aesthetic love), and Twitter, which I attend to in fits and starts.

I am even on etsy and ebay, should I ever find the time to sell some of my French trouvailles. Working on it!

But when I joined Pinterest, I was irked, annoyed, upset to see that someone had taken my name, "Polly-Vous Francais," to use for one of her Pinterest pages.  Awkwardly, I do also have my own, authentic, Polly-Vous Francais  Pinterest account.

Why would anyone want to siphon credit, SEO, and Google page hits from my personal blog, which has spent six years delivering knowledgeable fun and news about Americans and their relationship with France?  Especially since this other person who copied my copyrighted nom de plume is not named Polly in real life and has never even lived in France?  Polly-Vous Francais is my personal brand, built with pride and quality and a true raison d'etre.

I've left a few comments on her page, asking for a name change. A few loyal fans have done the same.   No response.  Naturally, I'm not encouraging readers to flock to her page because that will only increase her page hits.  Arrgh!   But I wish that common courtesy still existed in the cyberworld.

What do you think?  Next steps?

Paris Reborn: the making of Haussmann's Paris

Those who know and love Paris, and think they know all about haussmannien architecture in Paris, will be delighted and informed at an unimagined higher level when they read the absolutely splendid new book by Stephane Kirkland, Paris Reborn:  Napoleon III, Baron Haussmann, and the Quest to Build a Modern City.

I am only three-quarters of the way through the book, which to me is a gripping narrative, a page-turner. If you love Paris as she exists today, you will simply devour each page.  Stephane Kirkland takes his readers through beginnings of Paris modernization and through the city's massive transformation during the Second Empire.

A few highlights:

"Napoleon... had a large new slaughterhouse built on the edge of the city, with one important consequence:  As of September 15, 1828, it became prohibited to drive cattle through the center of town."

Ponder that for a few moments.

Or Queen Victoria's comments on her visit to Paris in 1855:  "What could I say about this most wonderful city in the world?" in an era when Paris was first learning what it meant to be a tourist destination.

Or Baron Haussmann's disagreements with Hittorff.

There are far too many excellent chapters in the life of  19th-century built Paris to enumerate here, so I simply recommend the book. Over and over.

Kirkland captures the drama, both social and political, and opulence of Paris in the mid-nineteenth century, and begs the reader to ask what Paris would have become if Baron Haussmann had not persisted in his determination to carry out the expansive and visionary urban-planning ideals of Napoleon III.  

For those who love Paris today-- all the many millions of you -- this book is a must-read.  You will always walk down the streets and grand boulevards of Paris henceforth with a knowing and appreciative understanding of how they got to be where they are today.

For those who yearn to know and discover Paris, this is a superb architectural primer on the creation of the most beautiful city in the world. (Yes, of course I'm biased.)

Official publication date is April 2, but you might not want to wait that long to order it.  Ask me!

How to Walk Like a Parisienne

Ladies, have you always longed to acquire the allure of a chic Parisienne walking along the Place Vendôme or the Champs Élysées?  Me too!  I adore walking, and especially walking in Paris.  The best exercise of all.

Here are a few tips, with photos to illustrate.  Oh, well, yes... they are from a Madame Figaro article from the late 1940s, liberally translated by yours truly.  But really, has that much changed?  Read on! (I'm off to do my basket-balancing exercises.)


Grace and physical allure are qualities that are more precious than the beauty of face or body. And did you know that nothing reveals more about the inner you? A physical bearing that is confident, free and easy, will never belong to a shy woman; and men simply are not drawn to a woman whose demeanor proclaims grumpiness.

There are nevertheless exercises that can help you achieve that allure: practice walking with basket on your head, juggling, jumping rope, walking on tip-toe.

Walk without hurrying. Relax, throw your shoulders back, plant the sole of the foot on the ground, and walking will be, even in the city, the most beneficial sport of all.

Don’ts (illustrated in photos):

1.  Certainly we have to open our stride from the hip, but, ladies, please:  taking “giant steps” is not pretty. And bending the knees makes walking exhausting.

2. L’air perché – the heel touching the ground before the toe reaches the pavement. Non, non!  And where is this pocketbook going, grasped in the fist like a dangerous projectile? And where is this doll going, arms and legs akimbo? Slow down!

3.  Oh, dear.  Drooping shoulders, hunched back, hollow chest, head bent over… this demoiselle glumly counts the cobble stones. This posture is just so sad.

4. Right-left, right-left, 2-3-4. Oh, no!  The hips swing back and forth, taking the jacket with them in their movement. Nothing less gracious than this swaying.

5.  Over-arched derrière, chest forward, arms going nowhere.  Does this young woman hope that her nose will arrive before she does?

The couture has certainly changed in the past 70 years... but does the posture advice still hold?

Patron Saint of Paris Taxi Drivers to be Honored

Taxi drivers in Paris are the stuff of legend.  And urban myth, too, perhaps.  In all my Paris taxi rides, I have had only one driver who was less than wonderful.  (That is, when I could actually get a taxi.  But that's another story, and a long one.)  I know that other people will differ with me;  maybe I've just been lucky?

Or maybe St. Fiacre was looking out for me.

Who in tarnation is St. Fiacre, you ask?  Why, he is none other than the patron saint of French taxi drivers.  And this week he will have a new statue in his honor unveiled.  The term fiacre was used originally for the early horse-drawn carriages for hire in Paris.  So the next time you need to hail a cab in Paris, maybe if you make a special pryaer to St. Fiacre, it might help.  Can't hurt.

God bless that St. Fiacre!

I've had lively discussions about literature, politics, current events --- and, of course, the weather -- from the backseat of a G7 or Taxi Bleu.  A few accounts of my interactions with Paris taxi drivers:

1. I telephoned one to fetch me at my apartment on the place de la Madeleine, and the driver said "Non, Madame, I cannot -- there is a manif  [street protest] in your neighborhood and the traffic is blocked." (His taxi stand was around the corner, so he knew what the real situation was, but he was apparently acting on official traffic reports from the Prefecture de Police). I said, "Monsieur, I must tell you, I have the best view of the Madeleine of anyone, and I promise you that the traffic has completely cleared up. In fact, feel free to call me any time if you want a really good traffic report!" He perked up and said, "Okay, I'll be there in 2 minutes."

2. Another day I was bringing home two antique wooden chairs I bought at the Marche aux Puces in Vanves, and although I called the number for extra-large taxis, a regular size taxi showed up. The driver snarled, "You are moving furniture. Do I look like a moving man?" "No," I replied sweetly, "you look like a very kind chauffeur de taxi." He melted like butter. Even helped me move the chairs into the vestibule when we arrived.

3. It is after midnight. I am riding home in a taxi from a farewell dinner. "Brrr. Il fait froid," says the driver. "Moins 2." We make pleasant chit-chat and I note with irony that just as I'm leaving Paris I'm beginning to recognize the Celsius temperature readings without a mad mental scramble to do the math.

The car slides silently along the quai, past the Statue of Liberty on Ile de la Cygne, past the high-rise apartments across the Seine in the 15th. "How can I ever replace this?" I wonder. Even the mundane modern buildings take on importance. Suddenly the Eiffel Tower surges into sight; its brilliant blue lighting is breathtaking. For a brief moment I consider asking the driver to stop so I can take a photo, but it's too cold, I'm too tired, and I would have no way to upload it when I get home, because there is nothing left in the apartment.

4. And this, my all-time favorite.

This anecdote is the only less-than-wonderful experience:

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 was a 50-euro bill. You would have thought I had committed highway robbery. I got the most severe tongue-lashing, with expletives, him furiously spouting, "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.


Do you have any Paris taxi stories?  Any prayers for St. Fiacre?

Rhymes with France

Free at last! Free at last!

The unjust law which for centuries has denied the freedom of certain French citizens to choose their personal lifestyle has finally been repealed.

That’s right. As of last Thursday, French women can choose to don a pair of pants from their armoire, and not be illegal.

Maybe Jeanne, too?

For the past few years there has been an outcry to get this outdated law off the books.

And now it is a fait accompli.

Je refuse!

What do Louis Aragon, Albert Camus, Claude Monet, Hector Berlioz, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir and George Brassens all have in common?

Answer:  they all refused to be awarded the prestigious Medal of the Legion of Honor.

And, as of today, they are joined by famed cartoonist Jacques Tardi. "I learned, to my stupefaction, via the media on the evening of January 1, without having been informed in advance, that I was going to be decorated with the Legion d'honneur, " said Tardi.  Being "ferociously attached" to his freedom, he emphatically refuses the honor.

So.

What do Julia Child, Miles Davis, Walt Disney, Alan Greenspan, Jerry Lewis. Toni Morrison, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Sully Sullenberger, and Buce Willis have in common?

You guessed it!  They are all Americans who said "j'accepte" and got to wear the little rosette in their lapels for life.  And all these others, too.

photo via wikipedia

A New Year's Eve a la Francaise

Rewind to a few decades ago.  A young-ish Polly-Vous, ever the francophile, had been invited to attend a coveted New Year's Eve reception for le Reveillon du Jour de l'An at the French Consulate in Boston, at 10 p.m.  Complete with an engraved carton d'invitation.  Ready to impress her new-ish Beau with that prized invitation, she invited him first for dinner at her Beacon Hill apartment.   Her roommates were away, and she was eager to demonstrate her nascent culinary skills for a divine and romantic repast.

She set to work for an entire day on her favorite recipes from her favorite French cookbook, the Tante Marie.  The Tante Marie was and is the French counterpart to the Joy of Cooking or Fanny Farmer's.  Unadorned, classic French cooking.

The Beau arrived at 7 p.m., and they had kirs and salted nuts.  Then, mussels for a first course. Polly had carefully debearded and scrubbed the mussels; then chopped shallots and sauteed them lightly in butter in a deep pan, added the mussels and a cup of Entre-Deux-Mers. When those wine-steamed blue-shell bivalves opened, Polly and her Beau devoured them, and mopped up the dripping, savory sauce with chunks of crusty baguette.

Already this was heaven.

Add to the scenario candlelight on silver candelabrae and a crisply ironed damask tablecloth and napkins, and Puccini soaring in the background.  Fire in the fireplace and quaint lights of Charles Street twinkling outside the window.  Magic, right?

Next, Polly prepared a filet of sole au gratin, with the slightest whisper of bread crumbs and butter, baked then lightly broiled.  Creamed spinach and parsleyed steamed potatoes.  A Sancerre to accompany.

For the pièce de résistance, she had whipped up choux à la crème -- because Tante Marie had taught her how easy it was to prepare.

By 10 p.m. mademoiselle Polly and her Beau were (to be stated undaintily) completely stuffed to the gills.  But they were rapturously happy, holding hands in the flickering silver candlelight.  With a slight moan and a forced heave-ho to get to their feet from the dinner table, Polly and Beau donned their overcoats and set out in the New England frosty air to conquer the six blocks to the French Consulate on Commonwealth Avenue.  Ready to hob-nob with the elite francophile crowd for an elegant glass of champagne and a festive midnight bisou.  Polly was confident that this would let her Beau appreciate her many, many merits, on oh-so-many, many levels.

The couple was greeted at the door by Abdel, the consul's major domo, and welcomed by Monsieur and Madame le Consul in the glittering and elegant Back Bay mansion that was home to the consulate.  Polly introduced the handsome Beau to Monsieur and Madame, and she politely shrugged off her overcoat to Abdel, to emerge in her shimmering dress.  She was ready to subtly demonstrate that, although an Americaine from Boston, she had the sophistication and social wherewithal (tra-la!) to know how to be a gracious guest at a diplomatic party a la francaise.

And then Polly saw it.

Gasp.

IT.

The most impressive array of the best and most exquisite French cuisine, spread out among many tables, as far as one could see.  Foie gras, glistening chilled oysters, smoked salmon, caviar, hams, roasts, cheeses, blinis, fruits, tarts, pastries, chocolates.

(Egad!!  This invitation had been for dinner?  At 10 p.m.?  Who knew?)

With a graceful flourish of the hand, Monsieur le Consul beckoned Polly and her Beau to dine at the buffet.

Oof.

Polly exhibited a wan, green-ish smile and, in an effort to not appear not worldly, carried a small empty plate across the stands of sumptuous offerings.  Handsome Beau heroically speared a slice of ham, which he then ignored for the duration of the evening.  They wandered under the crystal chandeliers of the salons, smiling and chatting with various VIPs Polly recognized, hoping to avoid the scrutiny of the multitudes of knowing invitees who had been starving themselves for 24 hours in anticipation of this astounding French culinary and social event.

And overstuffed as they were on Polly's beginner Tante Marie home cooking, neither of them could bear to eat one morsel of the exquisite French gastronomic feast.

This, my friends, is torture.

To top it off, when midnight tolled, Polly found herself not next to her Beau, but instead, elbow-to-elbow with her arch-nemesis, and was forced to give a saccharine, champagne-laced, Bonne- Annee cheek-kiss to that dowdy, powdery, simpering old lady.  Indignation meets indigestion.

A New Year's to beat all New Year's.  Unforgettable.

But always a great tale to tell!

And so, dear friends, here's wishing all of you a brilliant and shining 2013, with many French delights and memories to savor.




image via amazon.com.

Let an unnamed Luxury Brand pay YOU!

Image via wikipedia

Attention all Paris denizens! An unnamed Luxury Vbrand wants your opinions and is willing to pay for them.

If you are in Paris between January 2nd and 11th and would like to express your opinions on an unnamed luxury brand Louis Vuitton, the marketing group Miratech is conducting a series of focus groups in which you can participate and get rewarded.

Contact the representative if you are interested.  Apparently for a one-hour interview/survey, located in the 10th arrondissement,  you will receive 80 euros' worth of gift cards redeemable at stores such a Decathlon, FNAC, Printemps, etc.

Of course from my point of view, the 80 euros is just frosting on the cake.  The bonus would be that I was actually in Paris at the time.  

Drat.  Next time.

Miratech's phone number is 01.53.34.65.59.

Post updated per Miratech's request.

Christmas letter from Beirut, 1959

Mini-me and mini-Christmas tree 1959

Christmas time is here.  And I found among family mementos a Christmas newsletter written by my mother in December 1959/January 1960, when our family had moved to Beirut, Lebanon, for a glorious year.   I post it not to detail the minutiae of our family life, but as an archive of life in that era, certainly the early era of the Christmas newsletter.  And also?  Where I first learned French.

Younger readers may scratch their heads at the notion of a mimeo stencil required to make multiple copies of a missive.  These days even photocopying a newsletter -- or a newsletter itself --  seems so outdated, n'est-ce pas?  (And these photos were certainly not a part of the original newsletter.)

When a family with five children ages 5 through 12 picks up and moves half way around the world, I would say that it calls for a newsletter. A chronicle of expat life.  Then I wonder:  is this subtly what gave me the urge to re-live an expat experience?  And to write about it?  

I love the 1960's social norm of not writing about misfortunes (oops --  neglected to mention little Polly's two weeks in the hospital in Rome with pneumonia!?) Oh how times have changed!   Here's the letter.

Dear Friends,

What started out being a Christmas letter has ended up being a belated New Year’s message, and for this we apologize. Actually, we did mimeo a Christmas letter, but yours were the 15 or 20 envelopes we put aside because we wanted to write messages on the letters. In our own inimitable way, before we realized it, the letters were consumed and we didn’t even have a copy to make another stencil. So be it! Enough of apologia. You will get the more up-to-date news anyway.

Dad and Polly on board

The past five months have been the “pinch yourself to make sure it’s true” type. This has been a marvelous experience for us all and certainly one that we’ll never forget. Starting with the boarding of the “Bergensfjord” on August 8th right through Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Austria, Italy, Greece, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt and Jordan we have been wide-eyed and incredulous, all the more so because we never dreamed this could happen to us. We only wish we could bottle all this and bring it home to share with you………..beautiful Scandinavia with its lovely countryside, handsome people, sumptuous meals, and abundance of flowers everywhere; Bavaria with Oberammergau….. the Passion Play anticipation shown on the bearded faces of the townsmen, the delicate woodcarvings, fairy tales painted in bold colors on the houses, and the magnificent rolling countryside; Austria with its unforgettable Tyrols right outside our window, folk dancing, The Achensee 3000 ft. up where we swam in 65 degree water, Peter in his leiderhosen and our girls in Tyrolean dresses………..; Italy, after a glorious trip over the Brenner Pass, with its host of churches, monuments, and fountains… plus the usual tourist attractions…. Not to mention “Chaiou, chaiou Bambino” played nightly outside our pensione windows….. sailing out to see the Straits of Messina go by. Greece was almost the high spot… a cloudless warm day with the Acropolis silhouetted against a deep blue sky…it was all we had anticipated and more…the Olympic Stadium, the King’s palace eve to seeing the changing of the guard….we hated to leave. A brief visit to Alexandria with the inevitable “Gullah-gullah” man on the dock to greet us… the museum, the catacombs, bazaars… and back to the ship.

And here we are in Beirut. Having just put down our roots, we will be loath to leave here in June, and hope to be able to return someday. This is a fascinating city and country…. A real meeting of Eastern and Western cultures. You can walk down any street and in one quick glance take in men in tarbushes and baggy pants…. Goat-herders with their flocks, a Cadillac or Chevrolet, veiled women… men with pushcarts of brioches or vegetables… women in mink stoles… and boys and girls alike dressed in their smocks with big white collars, on their way to school. The Lebanese people are kind, generous to a fault, volatile, argumentative, and the biggest bargainers in the world! The city with its souks (markets), mosques, flea-market, luxurious hotels, poverty, and beggars is one great conglomeration.  Beirut International Airport is the third largest in the world (next to New York and Frankfurt) and it is an exciting excursion to go out there and watch the big jets taking off for spots all over the world. The countryside here is incredibly beautiful! From our balcony we look out over the Mediterranean right across the street, and by turning our heads to the right we can see lovely snow-capped mountains. We haven’t yet been able to be really nonchalant about all this… and will miss it terribly.

Even our “routine” life isn’t routine here. Having to speak French to “Information” to get a telephone number; speaking spotty Arabic with our wonderful maid, Hania; eating new foods; getting the “bukra” attitude toward life (“bukra” means tomorrow!); and living in a wonderful apartment on the sea…. Now does this sound routine? The more mundane things include the children loving the American Community School; L enjoying his teaching and research; A tutoring 4 hours a day; the usual Brownies and Boy Scouts, etc., but life will never be the same again!

Skiing in Lebanon, 1960

We have crossed the mountains into Syria for a wonderful trip to Damascus where we saw so many things we have all read about since we were children… the “Street called Strait”…the window where St. Paul escaped… the Omayed Mosque… and many others. We came home laden with lovely silk [illegible] . We plan another trip In the spring.

Shawl made of Damascus silk, seen in photo at bottom

L has had a fascinating trip to Jordan. He saw Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, and Amman, staying in the latter for 4 days with a Christian Arab family which made his trip. He even had an audience with King Hussein and has pictures to prove it! We plan to take the children to Jerusalem at Easter when it is a bit warmer.

We still have much of Lebanon to see. So far we have been to Byblos and to Baalbek, plus many lesser places close by, but are very anxious to get to Tripoli, Sidon, and Tyre. L also plans a trip to Ankarra, Turkey in the very near future. We have the traveling bug but good!

Our best trip so far, though, started on December 19th when we boarded a Viscount for a flight to Cairo. Exactly 1 hour and 15 min. later we landed at the Cairo Airport! We had an unbelievably good time there and could have easily stayed another week. Cairo was very reasonable… we seven stayed at a nice pension hotel for the equivalent of $11 a day, room and board, and the food was excellent and excellently served by a team of Sudanese in their red tarbushes and long white gallebeyas with the red cummerbunds. It was quite an experience. Of course, we had the customary camel rides at the Pyramids of Giza, saw the Sphinx, the Tomb of the Bulls at Sakarrah, the second Sphinx at Memphis, all of the lovely mosques, the Egyptian museum with all the contents of King Tut’s tomb, the Mousky bazaars, a boat trip around Gezirah Island in the Nile, and two visits with Egyptian friends in their homes which was great fun. The children were determined to get home for Christmas so we arrived back in Beirut on Christmas Eve and even had a big Christmas dinner for 14 the next day!

Expat night club life in Beirut, 1960

You can see that we are enjoying ourselves to the fullest. We have made many friends, both Lebanese and American, and it will be hard to leave them, too. We have even done quite a bit of night-clubbing which is most unusual for us… plus seeing an excellent “belly-dancer” just the other night who was a real artist.

All this description has been most inadequate but we hope we have conveyed some of our feeling and impression about this wonderful year. Our only regret is that all of you couldn’t have enjoyed it with us. We will most likely be unbearable to live with when we get back with our many slides and stories! Until then, we send you belated wishes for a very Happy New Year.  Inchallah! (God willing!)

Polly, Peter, Meg, Suzie, Johnny, L and A

. . . .

This post dedicated, with love, to the memory of my mother. (November 1923 - February 2012).  She's the beauty in the foreground of the nightclub photo.

p.s. And I was so glad to be able to re-visit my childhood memories a few years ago.

Hidden Gardens of Paris

One of the most amazing secrets about Paris was imparted to me in the first week after I moved there.  At a dinner party, a well-known French author/photographer of luscious French coffee-table books told me, "All courtyards in Paris are legal to enter if the courtyard door opens. It's the law."  I was still bashful about the notion, but somewhat emboldened to give it a try.

Because, of course, some of the most fabulous intimate outdoor sights in Paris are hidden from view from the casual passerby, and require some knowledge and audacity in order to see them.

Mostly we spend our days in Paris walking down the cold stone sidewalks and simply wondering about the greenery on the other side of the wall.

I spent three happy years in Paris on my daily walks trying my best to discover all those hidden spots that serendipity tossed in my path.

But who needs serendipity when you have a copy of Hidden Gardens of Paris?  The hidden gardens included in this great guide range from not-so-hidden (Luxembourg Gardens) to tucked-away treasures, and I can only say that I am never going to meander around Paris again, EVER, without this gem of a book in my arsenal.

Author Susan Cahill artfully organizes the gardens geographically around Paris, and includes places and restaurants to visit nearby.  "Aha!"  you might say, "She didn't include one of my favorites!"  And, yes, it's true, because Paris has so many wonderful hidden green spaces, how could any 220-page tome include them all?  (Picpus Cemetery is one of my favorites, for example.)  But you will not be disappointed - there are ample new places to discover.  This book will simply give you more reasons to keep discovering Paris.

Hidden Gardens of Paris includes so many cultural and local references, it really is a must-have for any trip to Paris if, like me, your vision of Paris includes exploring on foot, outdoors.

French Films with English Subtitles

As an ardent francophile, I've loved French movies since I can remember.  So I finally learned enough French to catch up and be able to understand French movies in French.

Alas, the same is not true for many English-speaking francophiles around the world whose French isn't quite up to the task of understanding a French film without subtitles.

Double-alas:  too many wonderful French films that don't reach the mass-distribution market abroad are missed by these francophiles because the films are rarely released with subtitles in English.  Even worse, they are not available in France to the non-francophone population.  Honestly?  I don't get it.  Why not share the culture even if others don't get the language?  Really, think of the scores of Amurican movies that are subtitled in French for French audiences each year.  Why not subtitle French movies for American/all-other-anglophone-audiences?  It might help to bridge the cultural gap!

Yet these French films, which convey the sauce and substance of daily French existence, and the comedy/tragedy therein, are virtually unavailable to those who do not speak the language.

With one exception, at least this week.

Enter In French With English Subtitles, a New York-based group that for the past several years has been offering a French film festival featuring some of the sweet and wonderful French films that don't hit the mass-market distribution cinemas in the U.S.

Tonight is opening night of the In French With English Subtitles festival.  Because I'm a procrastinator I've been crazy busy at work the festival is such a hit, I didn't get to score a ticket for tonight's opening Gala with Gad Elmaleh.

But there are lots more for New York-based audiences to view this weekend.  Some for the first time in the U.S.  And with four screenings each day on Saturday and Sunday, there are many great films to see.  I can't wait.

Get your tickets while they last!

All screenings are at the Florence Gould Hall of the French Institute Alliance Francaise, although the festival is not a part of FIAF programming (i.e. no reduction for FIAF members).

55 East 59th Street
Between Park and Madison Avenues
New York, NY 10022

An Award for Books about France!

If you've read this blog with much frequency (and of course you have!) you'll know of my unending love of books written about France -- or the discovery of some aspect of France -- by Americans.

Over the last two centuries, many great (and some not so great) works have been written for the anglophone world to explain or showcase France in a way that helps them appreciate or understand France a wee bit or a lot more than they did before.  I have kept a personal library of them, made a habit of collecting and reading them.  To see the vast numbers of books that I have written about in my casual way, check here, or simply click on the category "literature" in the column to the right.

This year I was dreaming and scheming about the fact that this literary genre -- whether fiction, non-fiction, or coffee-table book -- should be awarded a prize in the great tradition of literary prizes.  I came up with a well-laid-out plan. Alas, I did nothing with it but mention it briefly to a CEO of a New York-based French non-profit.  Busy with the day job.  I figured, I'll get around to it.  But great minds, apparently, think alike.

So imagine my delight last month when, at a NYC gathering for my beloved American Library in Paris, I heard the announcement from Director Charles Trueheart that ALP is now sponsoring the American Library in Paris Book Award.  The award will be given each year to  "...the best book of the year in English about France or the French-American encounter."

It is, quite simply, thrilling to have the genre recognized and awarded and by such an august organization and writers' council.

A vos plumes, everyone.  A vos plumes!

From London to Paris Photo?

M --, a dear friend in New York, called this evening as she was heading to JFK to go home to London, to see her mum.  M is a superb photographer, and does know Paris a bit.  She had hopes to see Paris Photo next weekend but wasn't sure of how to make it work at the last minute.  "Polly, darling, can you help me?" asked M.  "Just the logistics on getting to Paris Photo from the Eurostar.  Last time I went it was in the Carrousel du Louvre."  Not sure of internet or time availability in the next few days, she needed Polly-Vous Francais to the rescue, and to email her all the information.

Ah.

Ah!

This is my idea of the best possible way to spend a Sunday afternoon.  

So here is what I wrote.

Dearest M --

Here is the information (more than you need!)

Paris Photo

DATES: 15th -18th NOVEMBER 2012

Location: Le Grand Palais
Avenue Winston Churchill
75008 Paris
Thursday 15 Nov. - Sunday 18 Nov. From noon till 8pm.
Full price : 28 €

If you take the 8:30 am Eurostar from St. Pancras, you'll arrive in Paris at around 11:45.  Eurostar arrives at Gare du Nord.  Take a taxi  from the taxi stand outside to the Grand Palais, about 20 minutes.  Have the driver drop you off at the entrance to the Grand Palais on avenue Winston Churchill.  Cost?  Not sure, maybe 15 euros?  20? Note: Not all Paris taxis have credit-card machines (like NYC), and even if they do, will not accept payment by credit card (carte bancaire) for less than 15 euros.  And the machines are with the drivers, I think, not mounted in the back seat like in NYC.  So best to have cash, in any case,

_________________________________

Or, in a pinch,  if the taxi line is too long or no taxis seem available (which is sometimes the case!) or you're just feeling adventurous, you can take the # 42 bus, which goes directly to the Grand Palais.  To get to the bus stop, from inside:

• Follow the Gare du Nord station exit signs for “Est” onto rue de Dunkerque, then go left onto rue du Faubourg St Denis. 
• Walk about 200 meters to the bus stop.  You'll want the # 42 bus heading toward ("direction") “Hopital Europeen Georges Pompidou." You can buy the ticket on board the bus (1,7 euro) with exact change (as long as you say “Bonjour, monsieur” to the bus driver first!!) or buy in the train station at a place that says "tickets RATP."   
• Take the bus (about 18-20 minutes) and get off at the stop “Champs Elysees-Clemenceau".  The Grand Palais is to your left as you look up the Champs-Elysees.

I am a big fan of the Paris bus system, as long one takes it in the right direction.  "Direction" always means where it's going, not where it's coming from.)

 ____________________________

If you want to have lunch when you arrive, a great cafe is LeMinipalais, which is located in the Grand Palais itself.  It opened a few years ago and is quite good - fabulous decor and setting, and delicious food.  I don't know how crowded it will be during Paris Photo.

Otherwise, if you take a slightly later Eurostar, of course you can always lunch on the train.  Is the Eurostar train food good?

By the way, there are some great local restaurants near the Gare du Nord, but they are cheek-by-jowl with others that are too touristy and lackluster; so I think better not to waste time figuring those out.

If you finish at Paris Photo and have some time left over before you head back to London, across the street at the charming and glorious  Petit Palais there are also some photography exhibits, and entrance is free for the permanent collection, and very reasonable for special exhibits.  Discounts for those who are 60+,  but you are so young... I'm not asking!

And of course my beloved Pont Alexandre III is right there.  You must take at least a quick stroll, and take some photos.

Have a safe trip!  I hope all is well with your mother!

   

Let me know how it goes.

Bises,

Polly

_______________________

Did I forget anything?  any other recommendations for M?