The Wedding Crashers

There is so much to experience in Paris I often feel as if I could spend a lifetime here and never really know her. She is mysterious, full of complexity, and above all stunningly beautiful. Her treasures are many, among them the quietly elegant Les Invalides. Serving at once as an armory, veterans hospital, and private chapel to kings dating back to 1674, it is best known as the tomb of Napoleon. It is a favorite place to take friends visiting from out of town, and I always discover somethng new and interesting in this multi-faceted gem of a landmark. From cannons fired in battle centuries ago to a museum dedicated to each branch of the military, it is to be savored slowly with attention to detail. I have glimpsed rows of armour hung meticulously in rows catalogued like library books and pondered the battles waged by brave soldiers in the age of chivalry. I have seen the modern day veteran taking the sun as they are cared for in the hospital which serves them still. Napoleon's infamous (and freakishly small) waistcoat was on display for a short time, as were letters written to Josephine and various members of his cabinet. The beautiful dome of the chapel is decorated with 12 kilos of gold leaf which gleams in the sun and catches the eye from miles away. I am fortunate to have a view of Les Invalides from my attic apartment, and never does a day go by that it doesn't take my breath away! I decided it was a must see during my sisters holiday visit. It had snowed the night before and the air was crisp and clean. The grounds were embellished in silvery white, sparkling in the early afternoon sun. We visited the tomb of the Emperor first, then I led Karen to the cathédral Saint-Louis des Invalides. I wanted her to see the ancient standards hanging along each side of the chapel, captured from enemies defeated as France expanded her realm. As we entered we passed a handsome soldier in dress uniform who appeared to be standing guard at the chapel door. There was a beautiful choir singing quietly, adding a magical ambience. As we stood there absorbing the sensuality of the moment - the sound of the choir, the beautiful light streaming through the windows, the energy of a place steeped in history, we noticed several men of various ages in military dress entering the chapel. There was obviously an event about to take place. Soon women in hats began to arrive and take their places in the pews. Was this a funeral of a veteran? Our curiosity was satisfied when we saw the children, four adorable little bridesmaids dressed beautifully in aqua dresses accentuated with taupe sashes and a little boy dressed in traditional breeches and possesing a gregarious smile. There was time to spare before the ceremony and they immediately found a way to have some fun, a vent in the floor gave the girls the Marilyn Monroe flying skirt effect! They squealed with delight as their full skirts ballooned above their waists and grandmaman anxiously fussed over making them look perfect again. Being the hopeless romantic I am (and possesing no small amount of chutzpah) we decided to take a seat and wait for the blushing bride. We were a little uneasy, unsure of whether we would face the embarrassment of being asked to leave, but to the contrary we were offered a program. We were to witness the nuptials of Perrine et Pierre-Henri. I readied my camera for madamoiselles big entrance as the strains of the huge pipe organ filled the room. The young attendants took their places, and a few latecomers rushed in a panic to find their seats. The wedding procession began and the beautiful Perrine was escorted by her father to her husband to be dressed in elegant simplicity. I captured her on film then we quietly ducked out, opting to forgoe cake and champagne (and a lengthy catholic wedding) for the Musée Rodin. What an unexpected pleasure. I wish Perrine and Pierre-Henri every happiness!

Snowy Paris

I was born and raised in beautiful sunny Southern California, a fixture at the beach and my aunties swimming pool, and a dedicated worshiper of "le bain de soliel". Before moving to Paris I thought freezing meant 58° Fahrenheit. In a particularly cold winter in San Diego we might enjoy snowfall in the higher elevations of the Cuyamaca mountain range, but snow is a novelty there and a white Christmas would be nothing short of a miracle. It is perhaps for this reason I have an almost childlike fascination for the snow, I have never had to live with it! What a delight to wake up last friday morning to find the world blanketed in prisine white, the evergreen hedges guarding the fenceline tipped in frost and the bright red berries of the holly tree adding a touch of contrast. I opened the window and inhaled the crisp fresh air, what parfum! I love the sound of snow - the quietude, the way it crunches under your feet when it's fresh, the melody of the falling snowflakes. Adding to the pleasure was the presence of my sister, visiting for the holidays from her new digs in Oklahoma. I woke her with the suprise, "C'est neige!" I made some hot chocolate and we bundled up for a day in snowy Paris. There was electricity in the air that day, a mélange of joy mixed with danger as snowball fights broke out willy-nilly and parisians trod carefully on the slippery sidewalks and icy cobblestone streets. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation - and half day at that - the joyful noise of children free from the confines of a classroom pierced the air in every arrondissement, causing even the most depressed and pessimistic parisian to smile. How beautiful everything looked, dusted like a cake with powdered sugar! I took pictures like a tourist and we warmed up with crèpes and coffee. It is an unusual year in terms of weather here in Europe, and the snow lingered several days - usually it turns to slush within hours. The eurostar to London was cancelled for several days, one was even stalled on the tracks for a very long time causing hungry and cold passengers to be stranded interminably. Tires skidded on the ice without traction, motorcycycles went down. The citywide sale of chocolat chaud increased tenfold and everyone had a story to share at dinner. Ultimately the sun burned through the winter haze and melted the lingering patches of ice as parisians prepared for Noel, rushing about until the very last minute shopping for gifts and desserts. The sun went down on a cold and clear Yuletide eve accompanied by a delicious meal shared with family, and a sense of contentment and gratitude for all my blessings. J'adore snowy Paris!

One Scoop or Three?

The french love their dessert. It's one of the things they do best, actually. Tarts of all description, death by chocolate, and custard tempt one to forget the names "Atkins" and "Craig" and embrace the concept of muffintops and eventual cardiac arrest. The pastry here is edible art, the patisseries gallerias of eye candy. Dessert is also big business for restaurants here in Paris. From around 5 euro to 7.50 a pop, you can spend nearly as much for dessert and coffee as for a decent meal. For day to day life, I prefer to buy my treats at the patisserie at 1/3 the price and have my café at home, but once in a while it is fun to indulge when I'm out on a big fat parisian dessert! I have two favorites: The tiramisu at La Trattoria on rue Convention (in the 15th), and the big bowl o' chocolate mousse at Chéz Janou (near Bastille). The latter is an "all you can eat" situation. Arriving in a huge family size bowl and served with a giant spoon you take as much as you like. I often imagine myself diving nude into the cloudlike chocolatey heaven and smearing it all over my body..... but back to the subject at hand. As I mentioned in my previous blog "Café Culture", the dessert menu is somewhat predictable in the typical parisian bistro. I have never seen a menu that did not include crème brulée, tart du jour, or glaces et sorbets. Ice cream is a popular choice, usually served in a large dish with a mountain of whipped cream and a cookie. I don't usually order glace for dessert as three scoops are encouraged and it's just too much! Two scoops would be baby bear, but here's the thing: The only thing the french love more than dessert and a good argument is the "double entendre". Now I have been living in Paris nearly three years, and during that time have been to more than my share of restaurants. I began to notice an unusual phenomenon (by american standards) on the french dessert menu all over town. It is possible to order 1 scoop of ice cream, known as a "boule" en française. Or, you may order 3 boules of glace (with or without the mountain of whipped cream). Ice cream is like a martini, one scoop is not enough and three are too many. I would prefer 2 boules s'il vous plait! When I dared request such a thing I was laughed at and given an emphatic "No!" What up? I asked my friend Viviane to explain. It seems that boule is another word for testicle. To be specific deux boules refers to the reproductive region of the male anatomy - that is why one orders either 1 boule of glace or 3 boules. To request deux boules is like asking for testicles on ice, if one prefers two scoops, one requests "deux parfums". For three scoops, one says "trois boules s'il vous plait" because as everyone knows, the man with three testicles n'exsist pas! BTW, now that I am hep to the jive I love to turn it around and punk the french by innocently requesting "deux boules: un chocolate et un vanille s'il vous plait!" The waiters grin knowingly and Vivianne collapses in laughter before chastising me, "Eets deux parfums Elisabet!"

Café Culture

I joined friends for dinner accompanied by live jazz the other night at a little place called "Les Bouches Oreilles", a typical parisien bistro near Place l'Italie. Our friend Jérome Tricoire was on keyboard joined by the lovely and talented Sophie Alour on tenor sax. The ambience here is warm and welcoming. When I say "typical" I could also say cliché, it's decor a hodgepodge of utilitarian diner furnishings in formica and vinyl, the obligatory silk plant and random posters of upcoming cultural events taped to the window. Along one end of the room is the brasserie where the non diners stand and sip a beer and discuss the news of the day before heading home from work. The dinner hour really begins after 8, never before 7, the peak hour for the french being between 8:30 and 10 p.m. This is why it is essential to stop for that little pick me up of a café, crèpe, or pain au chocolat around 5 -but I digress. Café culture is an intregal part of life in Paris and one of the 5 "Grand Plasirs". It is where friends connect, lovers flirt, and intellectual debate charges the atmosphere with a vibe that is uniquely french. On January 1, 2008 the landmark smoking ban went into effect, which for a non-smoking native Californian such as myself was a dream come true. One can now dine free from the acrid stench of the dreaded cigarette - indoors at least. The delicious irony of the ordinance is this: Excepting dead of winter, terrace seating is prime location, like having Anna Wintours front row seat to the Chanel show at Paris Fashion Week. This is also now the designated smoking section, outdoors in the best seats! Ha! The french LOVE irony and they love contradiction, and this is a great example. The menu varies slightly in the typical eatery in Paris, "confit du canard" (leg of duck), "poission" (fish -usually trout, salmon, or scallops-known as "St. Jacques"), "entrecote" (the toughest steak you will ever attempt to chew), or "poulet" (chicken). Of course you can have "frites", or if you prefer your potatoes steamed, "pommes vapeur". For dessert it is "Crème Brulée", "glace" (ice cream or sorbet), or the "Tart du Jour" (usually apple or pear). The house wine (verre du vin) is cheap and usually quite decent. Cheese (frommage) is always offered after dinner as a "digestif", the riper the better is the french way. First time visitors to Paris should note that when ordering water in a restaurant, the savvy diner requests a "carafe d'eau", which is drawn from the tap and free for the asking. The water supply is fed by artisian springs around the city so it is a decent source. If you ask your server for water, his or her response will be "Gaz or still?" This refers to sparkling (gaz) or non sparkling bottled water. Unless you specifically want a bottled water such as Pellegrino or Badoit I recommend the carafe d'eau as the bottled variety will cost you more than a glass of wine or a beer, plus it leaves a huge carbon footprint! One of the great myths about France is that the food is the best in the world. The pastry, yes. The chocolate sublime. The wine, well the wine speaks for itself. But the cuisine is hit and miss. Having experienced adventures in dining in New York and San Fransisco, from divey little all night diners to upscale haute cuisine, I never had a meal I didn't like. If bad food exsists in those two cities I haven't found it. So imagine my suprise as I discovered the chefs of France, so touted the world over as the supreme leaders of gastronomic skill hadn't the slightest clue how to cook a steak! There are many good places to eat, but choosing wisely is an art form. It requires a sharp wit and heightened senses. If the proprietaire is standing ouside the door making eye contact and attemting to lure you in, DON'T GO! If it looks like it is packed with parisians around 9:00, consider trying it. The cuisine at Les Bouches Oreilles is always good, the service friendly. There is a laid back barman with a Lou Albano inspired goatee who greets you with a smile and service that is quick and effecient, a luxury here. And what a joy to be with friends, practice my french and laugh at the misunderstandings that occur as a result, and listen to my amie play the piano as I sip a glass of Bordeaux and enjoy a good meal. A "Grand Plasir" to be sure! To join me for a moment of Café Culture at Les Bouches Oreilles use this link to my YouTube channel: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rcMdyKPHXDc You can visit Jérome on MySpace at www.myspace.com/jrme.tricoiretrioquartet and Sopie at www.myspace.com/sophiealour Bon Appetit!

The Beaches of Paris

As Christmas approaches and the festive decor cmagically appears around Paris the sky turns grey and the wind blows bitter. I am hibernating at home recovering from an emergency appendectomy and listening to the rythym of the rain tap against the window. It's a beautiful sound, but I cannot help but dream wistfully of the warmth of the summer sun and the Plages de Paris, the "beaches of Paris". Every summer a boardwalk is installed along the banks of the Seine between Pont Neuf and the Pont des Arts. Potted palms, cabanas, and ice cream vendors line the riverbank, sunbathers take full advantage of the opportunity, and crowds of people flock for the great parisian pastime: peoplewatching! Children scream with delight as they play under the cool mist emanating from large metal umbrellas. Street musicians strum their guitars and sing, the bateux lumber by ferrying loads of tourists, and college students gather on the Pont des Arts to have a smoke, a bottle of wine, and to perhaps sell a watercolour or some homemade jewelry. The location is prime, across the river is the Conciergerie where Marie Antoinette was held prisoner before her execution. Standing on the Pont des Arts one has a perfect view of the Ilse St. Louis, Notre Dame, and the steeple of St. Chappelle-considered to be the greatest treasure of Gothic architecture in Paris. It is amazing to realize that this tiny island, created by a fork in the Seine, was the kingdom of France in its entirety 900 years ago! The land which today forms the republic of France was divided into duchys and controlled by feudal families in medeival times. The deep bellow of a ships horn sounds an alarm and brings me immediately out of my daydream......tourists on the Bateaux Mouches are shouting and waving to the crowds on the bridge as they pass underneath, photographs are being snapped hurriedly, and everyone is smiling. It's just another beautiful summer day on the Plages de Paris!

Irony is a dish best served intraveinously

Last saturday morning I awoke after a swingin' night at my favorite jazz club with an apparant knife in my side. Now the Café Laurent is not a rough establishment by any means, and since I am not the bar brawling type I searched my mind for a reasonable explanation. As I felt for the offending instrument of my torment which twisted and turned inside my body as I moved to get out of bed, I found the source. As soon as I touched it with my hand I instinctively knew: appendicitis! Merde. Now denial isn't just a river in Egypt, it was a river inside my head. Even as I knew I was going to the hospital I was thinking about cleaning my flat of last night's dinner dishes, picking up my clothes, and making my bed. And who NOT to bother. Where should I go? I thought of dear Dr. P who helped me the last time I was ill, but we haven't been in touch lately and I didn't want to "bother" him. I thought about a couple of friends with automobiles who might be able to take me to a clinic, but I hesitated. Maybe it was just gas! I began washing the dishes and hoped for the best. Fast forward to 6 p.m: After three naps, I was still trying to finish the dishes. I knew by then I had better get some help. The pain in my side had not gone anywhere, and Cleopatras barge had hit a sandbar! My options were: an ambulance (so dramatic and expensive), a cab (but I must have an address to give the driver), or "bother" a friend. I called Damdy. In 20 minutes she had things under control. She drove me to a clinic which had emercency services and fortunately I was the only patient in the house. I told the doctor my diagnosis and after an examination she conferred. It was emercency appendectomy time! Part Deux: The Clinic I was ushered into a double room to be greeted by Madame Simon (pronounced "see-moan"), an emaciated 55 year old Sally lookalike from The Nightmare before Christmas. I had the choice of a double or a private room, but having no health insurance I am responsible completely for the bill so I chose the former. I would live to rethink that decision! I was immediately prepped for an I.V. and sent to the shower with a bottle of betadine and instructed to wash head to toe. Now I am thinking that since they want nothing icky growing on me before a surgical procedure, they might want to clean the mildew and mold out of the bathroom-but that's just me. And to my dismay there were no bath towels. Apparantly in France when you go to hospital you bring your own. Everyone knows that! I was offered a bedsheet to dry myself. Blood tests, pain killers, and antibiotics were administered intraveinously and I settled in for an anxious night to wait for the mornings events. I have to say that the care was great. The nurses were all very nice, most spoke english, the veinipuncturists made a scary procedure easier, and the anesthesiologist was a very masculine and handsome french hottie. I was really impressed with the staff. The building itself however was another story. It was really in need of fresh paint and new linoleum. The shower in my room had been leaking since 1972, causing the floor to have a wet and germy life of it's own. It looked more like the Hotel Sordide than the Ritz, but here I was with a freshly slit belly hoping to avoid a staph infection. Part Three: Madame Nightmare First she attempted to convert me to Christian Science. She insisted that all doors and windows be kept tightly closed at all times. She had a pantry of food squirrelled away that she refused to eat and she snored like a train! By 6 a.m. tuesday morning I was plotting her demise. I decided that morning some things are worth the money, like 200 euro more overall for a private room. There was no curtain to divide us in this clinic, so I was privy to the conversations she had with her soup. I never saw her once get up to brush her teeth or wash during the two and a half days I was there, but I know she was ambulatory. She seemed very concerned whether or not Americans believed in God and if they attended church. She ate all of her chicken at dinner and requested to finish mine as well, yet she weighed all of 80 pounds. The french have a saying, "Pompe l'air", to suck the air out of a room. Madame Simon definately Pompes l'air! Part Four: The Cost Sunday afternoon I received a visit from accounting. They estimate the cost of my little adventure to be between 2 and 3 thousand euro. They asked for a caution of 1,500 that night. The dollar being at its weakest in months this is going to hurt, but I am grateful that I do have enough in savings to cover the bill. This time. If I had securité sociale the bill would be completely covered. If I had purchased a world wide insurance plan when I arrived 3 years ago I would be at just about even. If I had purchased insurance from Cobra after my divorce I would have paid in premiums approximately 3 times what this surgery has cost. In Conclusion: I am home now, resting comfortably and healing my body. It has been an eye opening experience in many ways. While I was lying in a hospital bed hooked to an IV drip I had plenty of time to think. I thought about why I was so reluctant to "bother" my friends. They have been so supportive and kind this last week I realized that it isn't a bother to them, and I must think enough of myself to ask for what I need. I experienced the french healthcare system firsthand, and all in all I would rate it satisfactorily. I received good care, money was the concern second to my well being, and the anesthesia they provided was the best I've ever had! (I think it was propyphol, but that's a story for another day). I am keeping close tabs via internet of the healthcare debate taking place in America and I hope everyday for real reform, and a system that leaves no one out in the cold.

It's all about attitude

As the debate over health care reform in America wages on, I have received many letters from my friends in California asking me about the french system of universal healthcare. And I have had many conversations with my french friends with regards to this issue. I also have been keeping close tabs on the issue in the States via internet, as since my divorce I have been unable to afford health insurance (and I am not exactly in the system here). France is a democratic republic, much like the U.S. with a dash of socialism thrown in for good measure. Socialism is a word that strikes fear and much emotion in the hearts of Americans-many believe that it is a slippery slope toward communism. The french view this differently. Perhaps because of her history of monarchy, where the masses starved and suffered whilst a priveleged few lived in luxury, equanimity is part of the french mindset. Let me give you an example. I have spoken to several friends about my concern that if something catasrophic were to happen such as a heart attack, cancer, or an accident that would require a visit to the hospital what would I do? As I mentioned earlier, I have been flying "under the radar" so to speak- an illegal alien in France! I have a little savings, but surely not enough to cover anything major should a problem arise, and I don't wish to be a burden on the french system. My friends have all replied in the same way, "But you would be covered. You must fill out a special form designed for people here illegally, and the state will compensate." I was shocked, and just a little bit horrified! I explained that it didn't seem right to use a system that I have not contributed to, that I would be using money that they have essentially worked for and been taxed on. Their answer was always the same, "But the money is there, you must use it if you need it!" This way of thinking is so different from the American way that it has taken me a while to process it. Imagine a country where people believe that healthcare for all is a basic human right. Imagine a society that considers the needs of each citizen over the profit margin of giant corporatations. At present, the insurance industry in America is spending one million dollars PER DAY fighting health care reform. The profit margin per year is in the billions. And 128 people a day die in America because they have no health insurance. Meanwhile, the attitude of many Americans is this: "I dont want my tax dollars going to pay for illegals!" (I've got mine, screw you) "I don't want big goverment running health care!" ( The VA and Medicare are government run programs that work quite well). Granted, there are problems associated with the ininsured needing emercency medical treatment, many hospitals in California and elsewhere have been forced to close their doors because of financial issues. As Representative Brian Bilbray pointed out, the federal government mandates that no one can be denied treatment, and rightfully so, but they are not sending the money back to the states for compensation. Meanwhile, in France everyone gets decent healthcare. Nobody has to die because they cannot afford to see a physician. And if their tax rate is a bit higher than what Americans pay it still works out to be less than what the average family pays in insurance premiums, only to be denied compensation, canceled, or denied coverage altogether because of a "preexisting condition". Living in France has been an interesting learning experience, full of suprises and contradictions. I have long thought that the French can take some lessons from Americans, and Americans can take some lessons from the French. There aren't that many differences between us, after all is said and done human beings have the same basic needs and desires. Perhaps the most suprising difference for me has been the attitude of the average citizen, and how the french view social issues such as health care. Last year I was sick with a horrible cold that turned into a sinus infection. I happened to be aquainted with a doctor from whom I rented an apartment whilst on vacation a few years ago. I phoned him for an appointment, stating I thought perhaps I needed a prescription for antibiotics. Not only did he fit me into his busy schedule that day, (he is a specialist widely known in France) but he spent at least an hour on the examination, discussing my symptoms and offering me my first accupuncture treatment. He sent me home with some homeopathic remedies, and he followed up by calling me the next week to check on my progress. The cost? Zero. He explained that we were friends and refused compensation. Imagine! Imagine. It's all about attitude.

Journées du patrimoine

Once every year for a weekend the french goverment opens its doors and offers viewing of places usually closed to the public such as the Palais Elysées, (where President Sarkozy lives and works) The National Assembly, and the Senate. This is called the "Journées du patrimoine". Last year I was walking around town one sunday and noticed people queueing up in unusual locations. Later that week I mentioned this phenomenon to a friend over coctails and she exclaimed, "Why that was the Journées du patrimoine of course!" Of course. Silly me! What is "patrimoine?" I asked. (I knew what a journey was) She explained it was like "heritage" or "inheritance", and that these places "belong to all the people of France as we pay the tax to maintain them." Makes sense to me. This year I decided to brave the crowds and I joined my friend Madeleine for a tour of the Palais-Royal and the Quai d'Orsay, which is the nickname for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We met at the Palais-Royal, commissioned by the Cardinal de Richelieu in 1634. When he died, he bequeathed the palace to the royal family, and it was occupied thereafter by the Bourbons, represented by Louis XIV, the princes of the House of Orleans, and the Bonapartes respectively. Fire and the revolution took it's toll on the original palace and much has changed since the days of Richelieu, it is spectacular nonetheless and a national treasure. Today it is home to the Ministry of Culture and Communications, the Council of State, the Constitutional Council, and the Comédie Française. I have to say, if you have to work 9 to 5, this is the place to do it! The sumptious architecture of the 15th century overwhelms the eye, the detail in the mouldings, the beautiful carpets woven at the legendary Les Gobelins workshops and uber meters of fabric frame the doorways and windows in traditional french style. As we passed through the salons and offices of the Ministers of State, I was struck by the juxtaposition of traditional architecture, carpeting and draperies with modern art, desk lamps, and furnishings. It was eclecticism at it's best! We entered the office of the Minister of Cultural Affairs to discover a most shocking purple wall and fabulous piece of modern art that demanded ones undivided attention. At least I thought it was shocking, I mean who would imagine a purple wall in the middle of all these marble fireplaces, gilded wainscoat, and crystal chandeliers? Madeleine on the other hand was unfazed.....I must admit once I got used to the idea, and my brain processed the information it was pretty cool! The perfect setting for the Minister of Culture. We meandered through office after office, a dream library with a rolling ladder, and visited the General Assembly Room. The four oil paintings by Henri Martin painted in 1920 depicting Agriculture, Commerce, Industry, and Intellectual Work are stunning. After all this eye candy, we were in need of a break. We wandered into a small garden outside, found a bench in the shade, and watched people stroll by as we munched a ham and cheese sandwich and boosted our blood sugar with a coke. We began the second leg of our journée strolling down the fashionable Rue St. Honoré and windowshopping, then onto Rue Royal toward the Place du Concorde. This is my favorite place in all of Paris-bustling, steeped in history, a 360° turn full of famous monuments. It was a gorgeous fall sunday, sunny with a slight breeze, the light a golden yellow hue that is autumn, the sun warm but the air fresh. We crossed the Place du Concorde and headed west along the Seine toward the Assemblée Nationale and the Quai d'Orsay. We chose the Quai d'Orsay as the queue was much shorter. Known officially as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, it has welcomed many a foreign dignitary. Kings, Queens, Sultans, and Presidents have wined, dined, and forged diplomatic relations here. The Grand Salon is a celebration of red velvet and gold gilding, with the most magnificent tapestry imaginable, and there is a suite that was installed for Queen Victoria and her husband that boasts a mirrored salle de bain for her, and another with polished ebony walls for him. Wowza! There is a beautiful jardin behind the Ministry, and the offices in the rear of the building have lots of light and a great view. We finished the day relaxing in said garden, a luxury! Next year I would like to visit the Assemblée Nationale and the Comédie Française. What a blessing and a joy it is to have this opportunity. I thank my lucky stars every day!

The Fabulous Flavien

If you take the Metro Ligne 4 to "Odeon" and exit direction "Carrefour de Odeon" you will arrive above ground and be immediately greeted by an air of excitement and activity. College students mill about in groups smoking cigarettes, practicing being cool as they regard the opposite sex casually (or not) and run their fingers through deliberately messy hair. Others are on their cellphones waiting for a date who is running late, and guys with nothing to do lounge on the base of a statue of Danton and bum cigarettes from passers by. There is a man cooking hot crepes and a line of tourists waiting to eat them. The sound of laughter and animated conversation fills the air with the anticipation of a night of fun and uninhibited partying, for this is the "Quartier Latin" (kat-e-ay la-tan), home of night clubs and boutique hotels, interesting shopping and horrible tourist trap restaurants. It was this place, and the metro that would take me back to my vacation rental in the 15th that I was attempting to find as I wandered the streets in exhausted confusion one night about 5 years ago. I had just separated from my husband after nearly 28 years of marraige and decided to take a trip to Paris for a couple of months. I was in the middle of a major nuclear meltdown, and spent many days just wandering the streets aimlessly. I didn't know Paris at all then (in fact I still find myself lost on a regular basis) but I was tired, my feet ached, the sun had set and it was getting cold. I had wandered across the river to the Notre Dame Cathedral then back to the left bank and its maze of narrow crowded streets. I knew there was a metro somewhere nearby, I just couldn't find it! Every turn I took led me deeper inside the labyrinth of drunken college boys, thousands of satchels and tee shirts emblazoned with the image of le Tour d'Eiffel and PARIS, Lebanese fast food and gyros galore! I turned a critical corner and found myself on a slightly more civilized street, filled with art galleries and little clothing boutiques. The streets were wider and cars passed by, unlike the pedestrian streets I had been navigating. This was a good sign, my instincts told me I was headed in the right direction. Suddenly, to my left a door opened. The sound that poured from the doorway stopped me in my tracks! It was the music of the most beautiful piano imaginable, accompanied by the rythym of a contrebasse. My desire to head home vanished as I was seduced by the music of Pan himself, and I entered thus into the magical world of the Café Laurent. Elegant yet cosy, french yet welcoming, the Café Laurent is located on the ground floor of the Hotel d'Aubausson on Rue Dauphine. Formerly home of the famous jazz cave "Tabou" it was frequented by such luminaries as Jean-Paul Sarte and Brigitte Bardot. Three nights a week, from thursday to saturday, you can listen to the talented and always cool Christian Brenner Trio while enjoying an expertly mixed coctail from the bar. That night I was having my favorite drink, a champagne coctail. It was served by the most fabulous man to ever work a room, his name: Flavien. Flavien is elegant, poised, and immaculately groomed. Well dressed at all times, he appears cool in his suit and tie even in the oppressive heat of summer. He is beautiful to observe as he glides around the floor like a panther, his tray laden with drinks appears to weigh nothing at all. He is the perfect host, welcoming you as an old friend, taking your coat, making a joke. He is also strict, if you dare to choose a seat yourself you will surely be moved. It's Flavien's room, and he choreographs the seating with the precision of a Bob Fosse dance. To his credit, he seems to have an instinct for who should be seated where, and I have met many interesting people as a result of his innate talent as a host. Everyone should have someone like Flavien in their life. He fawns over you when you look fabulous, he dances with you like Fred Astaire spontaneously, and he cuts you off when he sees that you are on the way to drink and dial land. He is the heart and soul of the Café Laurent, and when he is away on vacation things just aren't the same! If you are ever in Paris you MUST visit the Café Laurent and Fabulous Flavien.... to see more of Flavien in action and a virtual visit to the CL, go to http://www.christianbrennerjazz.com/ rubric: videos, then click on "le Café Laurent".

Amsterdam

Amsterdam is everything you imagine it to be and more. A multi-faceted gem nestled in a setting surrounded by agriculture and commerce, it is at once a bustling center of tourism and debauchery-and a great place to settle and raise a family. "What has she been smoking" you might ask? Some pretty good shit franchement, (but that is neither here nor there). Upon arrival by train at Amsterdam Centraal Station one is immediately innundated by hordes of pedestrians rushing to and fro. Some are commuters running for the train that will carry them to work, but most are confused tourists getting in the way of the former as they navigate their way through a maze of fast food take out stands and last minute tulip vendors. Upon finding the exit one has the sense of being in sort of a Disneyland/carnival atmosphere. All trolley lines it seems begin and end at Centraal Station, a giant brick structure with two towers that house clocks large enough to see from a kilometer away. Young travelers equipped with dredlocks and backpacks hang around outside munching gyros and smoking one last fag before catching their departing trains. Beggars mingle amongst them hoping to scrounge a few euro, and there is a lone Jesus freak doing his very best to save those who have sinned in the sinningest city in Europe. Weaving through the masses of people coming and going, and taking care to mind all trolleys whose tracks crisscross over the streets, one makes one's way to Damrak, the main street in Downtown Amsterdam. And let the show begin! Do you like museums? Amsterdam has many fine installations for your enjoyment. Tired of that depressed old Vincent Van Gogh? Allow me to suggest the Vodka Museum! Just steps away you will find the ever popular Sex Museum, Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, and the Condomerie, where your opportunity to photograph a wide assortment of novelty condoms hanging in the window is (evidently) not to be missed. Tourist shops line the boulevard, the hot ticket items seeming to be bright orange wooden shoes, cannabis seeds, and something to drink. As in most European cities, the shops are located on the bottom floor of a multi storied dwelling, with living space in the apartments above. The architecture is difficult to describe- a sort of mélange of four storied gingerbread buildings crowded together, most leaning precariously on it's neighbor for support. Canals meander gently through the city, inviting one to rent a boat and explore quieter neighborhoods away from the circus that is downtown. It is in these quiet places one realizes what a good way of life it is in Amsterdam. There is a sense of community, acceptance and tolerance. Bicycling is the preferred mode of transportation, and the neighborhoods occupied by young families are clean and peaceful. The air is brisk and fresh, people smile easily, and every small business has a cat on premise. It is a real joy to explore by boat or bike, and the balance one needs to survive party town. Which every canal and every trolley leads back to eventually... Must do's in Amsterdam: The Anne Franck House, apple cake with cream, the "green light district", shopping the boutiques. (Amsterdam has some great fashion, much more interesting than Paris!) What to avoid: Going to the red light district to gawk at the hookers, (unless of course you are intending to hire one) ANY restaurant in the red or green light district (the food is crap), and stepping out in front of a moving bicycle (certain death) It's an Amster-dam good time!

The Great Lakes

Living in Paris is a joy. Evening strolls by the river, lolling in the park on the weekends, the architecture, the history. But an even greater joy is getting out of the city. There are a myriad of places to go with trains that transport you across international borders in the time it takes to eat a sandwich and catch a quick nap. The Nederlands, Spain, Germany, Switzerland, Italy and more are yours for the taking, you only have to choose! The choice this weekend: Lugano and Lake Como. Lugano is in Switzerland, just on the border with Italy and was our first destination. The first leg from Paris to Zurich began early, it was to be a long 7 hour day by train. The dining car was full of businessmen chatting and drinking their tiny little cups of coffee, and after a croissant and a cup of tea we settled in with our books and ipods until the motion of the train rocked us back to sleep. I was dreaming happily of an intended rendez vous with the very handsome and debonair George Clooney when I was rudely awakened by my traveling companion-we were pulling into Zurich station and we had exactly 8 minutes to catch our connecting train to Lugano! Of course our car was at the far end of the platform.....luckily my friend knew right where to go and soon we were on the second leg of our journey. The ride from Zurich to Lugano was stunning. High mountains and lush green valleys, crystal blue rivers that cut through the landscape, waterfalls and wild goats snacking on tender flowers as they balance precariously on the granite hillside a few feet from the train. It was everything one imagines Switzerland to be, without the snow. The sheer beauty of the landscape made the next three hours pass easily. We arrived in Lugano ready for a good meal and a nice long walk. In Lugano the predominant language spoken is Italian, even though it is still Switzerland. It is a charming town, terraced into the hills that surround the lake, a common theme this trip. The water is the most unusual colour of aquamarine I have ever seen! I am at a loss to describe it, and even my camera could not capture it. We strolled through town windowshopping as we made our way to the lakefront, then lazily through a little park. A swan was enjoying an afternoon swim and a mama duck watched over her brood protectively as they fished for dinner. Children played on the grass and it seemed that everyone came equipped with gelato! (The gelato in Italy is the simply the best I have ever had anywhere) On the far end of the park hugging the lake was a restaurant recommended to us by some lovely local residents and we had a lovely meal al fresco. This was living! But it was to get better. After a good night's sleep and a really good breakfast we rented a car and set the GPS for Lake Como - and my intended rendez vous with George Clooney. Even with a GPS we had our challenges with roads that lead to nowhere and one way streets "Jill" couldn't possibly detect from outer space. I think we circled Lugano three times before we got it right and I was getting impatient. I had a hot date waiting! Once we made it out of the rat maze we were in Como before we knew it. Lake Como was founded 56 years before Christ walked the earth. It's ancient streets are a labyrinth of shops, restaurants, apartments and piazzas. It is warm and sunny and everyone lives outdoors. The shops offer stylish and beautiful clothing for sale, and Italian women are fierce in their 6 inch stilletos. They are gorgeous, tanned, and exude an air of casual confidance. The men look like Roman gods with their classic profiles and bright white smiles, and they flirt joyously and unabashedly with everything in a skirt. There is something so engaging and merry about the language. French is very elegant and civilized, but Italian is so - fun! We had a great time getting lost in the sidestreets, people watching, and flirting with cute boys. All of this had given us a good appetite and the sun had sapped our energy, so after a big plate of pasta and a pizza pie we took one last midnight stroll and bathed in the cool night air before returning to our little oven of a room. Being a very old structure, our hotel was charming but lacked air conditioning - or even the luxury of a ceiling fan. To sleep comfortably, we opened the windows, which faced the piazza below. A very busy piazza. A piazza that boasted no fewer than six restaurants. Did you know that Italians dine at 2:00 in the morning? Boisterously and joyously (God bless their crazy Italian hearts)....somehow all the chatter became like white noise and I eventually fell to sleep, unaware that I had done so until for some reason I awoke to total silence. I reflected in amazement how suddenly it seemed everyone had disappeared as if in a dream, but only for a moment. I stretched and turned over and fell back into blissful slumber. Dawn broke early with the startling sound of the kitchen staff below dropping a hundred pieces of cutlery into a metal receptacle from 5 feet above, one piece at a time. This seemed to be either directly outside our window, or perhaps inside the room.....this didn't appear to bother George however, who continued to snore gently, his face like that of an angel at rest. I made use of this quiet time to draw a nice hot bath, sipping orange juice and reflecting on the trip thus far. Then suddenly it hit me - I had forgotten to charge the battery for my camera! Merde! I heard movement in the next room and knew I wouldn't have a chance to fully charge it before we left for the day. We were heading for Bellagio and some excellent photo ops. (Note to self: buy an extra battery.) The drive to Bellagio was an adventure in and of itself. The ancient road between the Roman settlements of Como and Bellagio is carved into the mountain and flanked by houses old and new. There is barely enough room for two small cars to pass side by side, not counting the bicyclists in full race gear, motorcyclists passing at breakneck speeds on hairpin curves, and the occasional pedestrian out for a morning stroll to the tobacco shop. Homes are crowded in every conceivable space up and down the mountains, all the way to the edge of the road. You are literally inches away from the front doors of homes built in a time long before motorized vehicles were imagined. In some areas the land is too "sauvage" to build, and one has an unfettered view of the lake below. The colours of the day are terra cotta and mustard, pale pink and azure. And bright yellow sunshine. Bellagio is a popular tourist destination, and a stream of cars was pouring into the sleepy little village early in the morning. Parking is at a premium, and you will surely be thankful once you have secured a spot. Be ready to walk, but it is a pleasant walk that winds around the hills into town. Despite the tourists, it has a very calm and peaceful ambience. The more ancient heart of the old city is paved with the original cobblestone - real little river rocks all cemented down to form the first paved streets. Mysterious alleyways wind up and down the terraced maze of homes built in the time of Christ that are being occupied today. Occasionaly the crowd makes way for an automobile to squeeze through, allowed to drive there only because they are residents. The locals have a charming habit of stenciling in elaborate fashion the outside of their buildings. Window trim, faux columns and stone block, curly queues and greek goddesses...an idea I will definately put to use one day. We had a lovely lunch at a very posh hotel overlooking the lake served by beautiful Italian boys in white gloves and epilets. It was peaceful and elegant and simply perfect. We strolled and shopped, had a gelato when it got too hot, and decided to beat the rush out of town. We had an early morning and a long day of travel home ahead. When we got back to Como we were done for the day. We went to our room, stripped off our clothes, and munched on leftover pizza while watching two crazy Italians on television arguing about futbol. I have to say it was the most entertaining thing I have seen on t.v. in quite some time! Arms flailing, everyone talking -nay yelling at once in this really fun language. Fabulous. I am head over heels in love with Italy. We were up before the kitchen staff moday morning and on our way early in an attempt to beat rush hour traffic into Lugano. We had been warned it could take as long as it does on the Hollywood freeway at 7:30 a.m. and we had a train to catch. The always accommodating and diction impaired "Jill" led us to the car rental agency with only a few minor recalculations, and we even had time for a hot chocolate! We had a brief layover in Zurich, and a nice walkabout before the 4 hours back to Paris. Zurich is a busy city of commerce rich in capital and on the move. There is a beautiful lakefront park not far from the station, and a wonderful National Museum. I visited an abbey built in the 7th century painted with the most beautiful tableaus of a sacred histoire, on the outside! Time passed quickly, and we were loath to leave so soon, but leave we did with memories of a wonderful adventure we won't soon forget. As for George, he gave me his address and an open invitation.

A Day at the Races

There are several traditional horseracing events in France, one being the Grand Prix de Diane held at the hippodrome in Chantilly. The beautiful green park like setting is snuggled up to the Chateau de Chantilly, a centuries old castle boasting stables on an indescribably grand scale. (note to self: visit the Chateau some weekend) A short 20 minutes by train from Paris, I met my friend at Gare du Nord for the 11:32. The station was alive with daytrippers, their destination obvious by the hats they donned for the occasion. This was a day to see and be seen! We found a seat on the upper deck and sat back to enjoy the ride. It was a hot, sunny afternoon with little breeze to offer relief to racegoers dressed to impress. Handsome tanned mediteranean men dressed in white trousers and linen shirts looked cool as they strolled arm in arm with equally tanned ladies in stilletos and hats. We found a beautiful shade tree to have a picnic lunch and a front row seat to the parade passing by. Tapinade with fresh baguette, salmon and cucumber sandwiches, fresh cherries and tiramisu, Madeleine is the undisputed Queen of Cuisine! Wait......what's that I see? Wow, could it be.....yes.....yes it's definately a guy in drag. And what drag! I am talking full on Audrey Hepburn in "My Fair Lady" when they go to Ascot. Full length white lace dress with train. Huge wig with an even bigger hat on top. Gloves and a parasol, did I mention a train? Absolutely Fabulous! Soon it was time to head to the grandstand for the main event. I was enjoying the peoplewatching so much I almost forgot about the races! We found a place on the lawn in view of the finish line and examined our racing forms. Last year I learned to read them from a friend who used to hustle book (cool huh) but I sure can't pick a horse. I had one winner out of eight races. C'est la vie...... It was a beautiful sunday. Between the heat, the eye candy, and the great food, I went home completely exhausted in that "good tired" kind of way. I showered the dust and sweat off my body and discovered I had a beautiful sunburn that left me looking as if I was wearing a flesh colored tank top. As I fell into bed, the sheets felt cool to my skin and I sighed contentedly. Sometimes I can't believe I really live in Paris! Life is good........

Visiting Champagne Part Deux

There is simply nothing as beautiful as France in springtime. The sun warms your bones after the chill of a long winter and brightens the sky, turning it from grey to a brillant blue. Flowers abound, spilling out of windowboxes. Beautiful young men and women bicycle maniacly through traffic. Parisian women retire their shorts - it is after all above freezing now - and out come the jeans and the cleavage. Springtime here is also replete with another french favorite, the 3 day bank holiday. It's a perfect opportunity to jump on a train, or in my case ride shotgun with a friend out of Paris and into a more peaceful world. It doesn't take long for the tension of the city to dissipate as the traffic lessens and the congestion of housing and industry gives way to a more suburban setting. Each ville has a distinct ambience. Some feel like Anytown, others have ghosts from centuries past to welcome you, screaming for attention, refusing to be ignored. Sunday morning dawned bright with not a cloud in the sky. We had spent the night in Troyes, a place that at first appeared nondescript but upon further inspection proved to have a historic old town district whose architecture spanned 1000 years. Our hotel was a charming and busy place complete with hookers on the corner and the most popular disco since Studio 54 located on the floor below - or was it in the walls? Those who know me well will be suprised to hear I passed on dancing at obviously the hottest (and possibly the only) club in Troyes on a saturday night - but I digress. After the usual breakfast of croissant, café and three cigarettes we jumped in the car and attempted to head out of town. After making several O turns, cruising the interior peripherique twice, and learning a few new words in french, we stopped for a café and a cigarette (hey it's France after all). Serving the café was the most beautiful man/boy imaginable. Tanned, dark hair, beautiful smile and eager to be our human Mapquest, soon (but not too) we were on our way and settled into enjoying the drive. As we left Troyes and it's scintillating nightlife behind, we entered the peaceful and labour intensive agricultural region of Champagne. In the distance were gently rolling hills, the foreground a sea of wheat and leeks and wild mustard just beginning to bloom, splashing yellow droplets of paint on the green patchwork quilt blanketing the valley. It was not unlike the American Midwest with it's flatlands of agriculture as far as the eye can see and the lone white house, isolated. Then, suddenly a cluster of ancient homes! Constructed centuries before the automobile, their front doors opening literally onto the street, you must take care not to run over the cat lazily crossing your path, in fact it is best to pull over and park at the first opporunity and enjoy a walk around. Being sunday in the country it is calm. Most of the local shops, cafés, and caves (wine cellars) are closed - but you should have known that, it is sunday of course! Children chase each other on their bikes through the labyrinth of alleyways. The sounds of lunch being prepared drift out of windows opened to let in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Bees search flower pots with a single minded purpose, and men gather in front garden to have a beer before lunch and exchange the news of the day. The ancient heart of the village is compact and like spokes on a wagonwheel, long flat roads lead you in every direction past new modern luxury homes and through acres of the crop that built them - the grape. Back in the car, and thirsty, and in Champagne, our next required stop was obvious. Did I mention it was sunday? Now I can't blame the french, after all when in Rome......and I have been here long enough to know the routine. But there must be someone who will sell us a case on a sunday in the middle of wine country, I happen to know for a fact there is a small pocket of french who embrace capitalism! After two strikes, we hit a home run. We were welcomed by two friendly shitzu's and the smiling and deeply tanned proprietaire who explained they were just sitting down to lunch, but they were happy to offer us a glass of their best. Mother in law was there, an easy going and humourous lady with a love of travel and an innate curiosity. Madame rushed about finding clean glasses and poured the wine. Monsieur pulled up two chairs for us at the table and continued grilling blood sausage and fresh vegetables. We were seated in a room constructed of cinderblock, which looked rather like a garage with no garage door. Along the back wall was a long kitchen counter which had a large grill, an undercounter fridge and a sink. It was cool and smelled of oak and and good living. When they discovered I was from California, we swapped stories of San Fransisco, Las Vegas, and the Grand Canyon, popular vacation destinations for every french citizen I have ever met. They talked about their children and grandchildren, and the wedding reception they hosted for their son. They served over 500 bottles of champagne that day! After a pleasant conversation, two or three glasses of champers and a case in hand for the road we were on our way. I will always have fond memories of the friendly famille of Luc Bourmault of Saudoy......santé! It was mid afternoon and time to get a jump on the rush hour traffic sure to clog all arteries into Paris. With a nice glow envied by the designated driver, I cranked the seat back as far as it would go and settled in for a nap in the sun. The hypnotising hum of the wheels and the wine combined to lull me into dreamland, and I slept soundly until we reached the outskirts of town. All in all it had been a perfect weekend. Medievel towns and rose petal confitures. Sunshine and wine and a divey hotel. Some of life's simple pleasures!