Christmas in Paris 2010

It was a beautiful Christmas this year; I awoke to sunshine and blue skies for the first time in weeks, reminiscent of my childhood holidays in Southern California. My inbox contained messages from friends and family, and I listened to funny french Christmas Carols while preparing my deliveries. Looking forward to playing Lutin this afternoon, I dressed in red and green striped stockings, a maribou trimmed stocking cap and made the rounds! With my elfin duties complete, I dropped by Eglise St. Eustache the special holiday organ audition and Christmas mass. The pipe organ c'est magnifique, sounding at once like bells, and harps, and woodwinds! I have recorded a sample for you, and I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas everyone, Joyeux Noel à tous!

Christmas 2010 in Paris

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Hermès Spring Summer Collection 2011

Quite simply the most fabulous, chic, and hot hot hot collection of Paris Fashion Week this season is the Hermès Spring/Summer Collection for 2011. Designer Jean-Paul Gaultier artfully blends his talent for dressing women with the foundation of the Hermès tradition; leather goods. Being an aficionado of bondage himself, Gaultier (for once) uses discretion with this collection. The suggestion of such is married beautifully with the gaucho, the most feminine of silhouettes created with sumptious fabrics and flawless design, accented with strips of leather in all the right places. Our heroine is a confident self assured woman; a female Zorro, an accomplished horsewoman, a sensual seductress. My inner fashionista can't help but imagine the daring backless skirt from this collection paired with the daring backless blouse from YSL - ooh la la! (see blog archives) So pour yourself a glass of sangria, imagine for a moment you and Antonio Banderas, and crank up the AC for the hottest show in town; Hermès + Gaultier!

Hermès - Spring Summer 2011 Full Fashion Show (Exclusive)

The Family Jewels: BVLGARI

Currently on exhibition at Le Grand Palais and not to be missed is the Bulgari Collection of the blingiest bling in the history of blizizzle. On display is the rich history of a master craftsman, the medium; Earth's most spectacular minerals. We are taken on a magic carpet ride back to the day when beautiful moviestars collected-not borrowed-300 carat diamond necklaces and ginormous emeralds the way Imelda Marcos collected shoes. On display (in a room dedicated to her alone) is the private collection of Elizabeth Taylor, the ultimate collector of bling. She had Eddie Fischer AND Richard Burton buying Bulgari emeralds for her, a matched set that includes a necklace (the centerpiece of which can be removed and worn as a brooch), a stunning pair of teardrop earrings (from Fischer), a bracelet, a ring, and for her wedding gift from Monsieur Burton; a diamond and emerald brooch. "Elizabeth only knows one word of Italian; "Bulgari" Burton liked to say. As for Madame Taylor, "It was the best part of filming Cleopatra in Rome; going to the Bulgari shop in the afternoon and swapping stories!" Who wouldn't feel like royalty adorned with jewelry like this; hundreds of brilliant gems reflecting like the light in the eyes of a woman well taken care of! You can visit the Bulgari exhibition until the 12th of January from Tuesday to Sunday at 10h-18h. Tariff 12 euro (5 euro for audio guide highly recommended!) Metro ligne 1 or 13 Champs Elysées Clemenceau

Your Old Time Gospel Hour

I had the great privilege this week to have been invited to a Gospel/Jazz concert featuring Organist and chanteuse Rhoda Scott, accompanied by the Master Choir of Sevres. After a delicious comfort food meal of endive au jambon; a classic french casserole smothered in creamy white sauce (which has me indebted to my hostess for life), we donned our warmest winter coats and with the newly fallen snow crunching below our feet made our way to the local Centre d'Art. I have always found Gospel music a welcome alternative to the style of music I grew up with in church. Songs like "The Old Rugged Cross" couldn't have been more depressing, and I remember being in "Big Church" holding my hands over my ears and crying real tears - "please make it stop!" But Gospel is so uplifting - even if it can be tinged with the blues on occassion. Sevres is a small town, and everyone knows everyone. The lobby was lively and full of hello kisses, and as we made our way to our seats I discovered we were front row center. Bonne chance! Rhoda Scott was born in New Jersey in 1938 to a devout Christian family and learned to play the organ in church as a young girl. "It's really the most beautiful instrument in the world. The first thing I did was take my shoes off and work the pedals". Rhoda plays barefoot to this day, and is nicknamed "The Barefoot Contessa" and "The Barefoot Lady", possessing the biggest man-toes I have ever seen! They serve her well to play a mean bass line, as we discovered in the first half of the concert. Jazzed up "Jingle Bells" and an emotional "Oh, Tannenbaum" set the Christmas mood, then the Master Choir of Sevres joined her onstage to try out their Gospel chops as backup. Their pathetic lack of rythym was adorable but they sang their hearts out in joyous harmony as Madame Scott played the organ in true Southern Baptist Revival style. Soon the audience was swept away; singing along as one should, clapping, and I think the guy behind me was speaking in tongues! (Either that or in french - it's all the same to me.) After an encore and three curtain calls we left with our spirits uplifted, and a little video to share with you. So get on your feet, clap your hands and sing along! For more Rhoda Scott go to YouTube

Rhoda Scott 003.AVI

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Christian Dior Spring/Summer Womenswear Collection 2011

The all female Women's Fierce Navy; Betty Page Brigade under the leadership of Commander John Galliano has docked in St. Tropez and is on a 3 day furlough, running amok on the beaches and streets, dinner clubs and discos of southern France! Seductive in their flirty beach coverups and 7" stilletos, this company of femme fatales are to be toyed with at one's own risk - never give your heart to a sailor!

Christian Dior Spring Summer 2011 Womenswear Full Fashion Show

Does Size Really Matter?

America is truly the Land of Plenty. Plenty of space, plenty of money, plenty of stuff. And Americans take so much for granted - I know I did until I moved to romantic France and reality set in. The reality of tiny apartments, many not any bigger than 10x12 all inclusive. The reality of no closets, no cupboards, no bathtubs, just tiny shower stalls smaller than most Americans would have in their motor homes. And the kitchens? Oh la la! With the cost per square meter at an all time high for real estate in Paris, the kitchen suffers. To find a flat with 1 1/2 meters of uninterrupted counter space is like a dream come true - for me gone are the days of cooking with every bowl, pot, and spoon in the house and spreading out. Of course, the upside is the fresh factor. With little room for large refrigerators and pantry's crammed with junk food loaded with preservatives,* one shops more often. Almost every arrondissment has it's thrice weekly Farmer's Market, and of course bread is a daily event at your favorite boulangerie. Sometimes I see ads for apartments that include a "cuisine americaine"; that is a bar counter (usually about 3 feet long) that divides the kitchen from the main room in a studio apartment. Apparently a revolutionary idea! Most important however, is what one prepares in the french kitchen. Gastronomy being elevated to an intellectual art form here (ironically there are zillions of bad restaurants), still every culture has it's preferences and France is no different. The essentials in every french pantry are; tea, café, chocolat, and biscuits (cookies). No cupboard would be complete without an ancient tin of sardines, and of course wine is a must have! For the frigo it's frommage, (cheese) yogurt, jambon, (ham) eggs, butter, and smoked salmon. Throw in a fresh baguette and with these ingredients in stock, you have everything you need for a snack. If you are really clever a saucisson seche (dried sausage) is in your arsenal, as the french are particularly fond of this and will respect you for having it on offer. And after all, it takes very little space to slice a pepperoni! *(a "preserveratif" is the french word for condom, so my french friends will certainly be thrown into a state of confusion upon reading this LOL!)

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Louis Vuitton Spring Summer Collection 2011

"Happy, happy fashion - there's not much more to it than that" Marc Jacobs The shortest shorts, the most daring of plunging necklines, impossibly high platform shoes worn by the thinnest models, designer Marc Jacobs takes us on a whirlwind journey around the world in a time machine. Reflections of the Roaring 20's flash before our eyes and give way to the 70's and memories of quiana and Studio 54. Suddenly we are in the 80's with all it's jewel tones, and then we are in the boudoir of Mata Hari, then we're in Africa on a cruise with people from Palm Springs! A misguided foray into colour blocking occurs briefly in this ambitious collection, and I was left with the impression that as a whole it lacked cohesion, but nonetheless there are some really beautiful and interesting pieces. Which would you choose to wear strolling the Champs Elysées?

Louis Vuitton Spring Summer 2011 Womenswear Full Fashion Show

This just in......

From the adventures of LL Ellison and GrandMaster G; You will never believe what happened today...okay, maybe you will. We had a great day exploring the Roman Forum and Coliseum. Had some lunch, some wine and while walking back to our hotel we got stopped by a traffic jam and a lot of Polizia on motorbikes!?! And then....The Pope went by (like within 8 feet of us standing on the street corner!) in his bulletproof Pope-mobile! Luckily, Gerard was quick on his toes and caught a great video, which I hope comes through. It was crazy and we could not have timed it better in a million years! Seems to be the way things work. Love, L & G

Joe Dassin - Les Champs-Elysées 1970

I was in the neighborhood last night, and decided to seize the moment and pop over to the Champs Elysées. During the holidays the trees that line the most famous street in the world are lit with millions of soft blue lights from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place du Concorde, and I wanted to see the view from the top of the Arc. And what a view! Every Christmas a roue à la foire (giant ferris wheel) is erected at the entrance of the Tuileries, bookending the glittering avenue with the elegant monument to Napoleons great (and unanticipated) defeat. The storefronts and cafés are decorated with flocked trees (red and also black flocking is the latest trend), and even jaded parisians take pleasure in strolling the crowded avenue during the month of December. Stroll with me down the Champs Elysées!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: John Galliano Spring/Summer Collection 2011

"The problem is with men. I know I shouldn't say this, but they've shrouded and hidden women to hide their incompetence" A lover of women, a sense of the dramatic, often over the top, John Galliano puts on a show like no other. I have always appreciated the extremes in his designs, even if I may not go out of the house bedecked in Galliano from head to toe. Unlike the very wearable YSL, the haute couture of Galliano is art in fabric; sometimes shocking, often amusing, always interesting. I love to windowshop at his boutique on the famous rue St. Honoré, (the Rodeo Drive of Paris). The displays are always edgy, the clothes a treat for the eye. His contribution to fashion for the masses is in the trickle down effect, watch the show then wait until summer; you will surely see a toned down version of Galliano everywhere. Enjoy the drama, enjoy the drag, but most of all enjoy the theatre of John's curtain call!

JOHN GALLIANO PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS FULL SHOW Part 1

John Galliano - Spring Summer 2011 Full Fashion Show Part 2 - High Quali...

LL Cool Ell

I recently had the great joy of seeing friends from the States in Paris. Young, newly married, and cruising the world, they chose to spend her birthday in the City of Lights, and I was happy to share a coupe de champagne in honor of the occasion before they headed to Biarritz and then on to Morocco. I've known Lindsey since she was in high school, and it was sweet to meet her adorable husband Girard. She was glowing and as exuberant as ever, (obviously well bezed), and they have a beautiful life ahead of them! I have received a few letters since their departure, and with Madame's permission I would like to share one with you. So, from the pen of LL Ellison I give you "This bread is my life":

"This bread is my life," said the Frenchman, as he waved the baguette in my face and then shoved it in his mouth. How profound...and what a contradiction to the notion that you shouldn't buy into cultural stereotypes. The only thing that could've been better was if he would have been wearing a beret and twirling his French moustache.
What did this crazy man mean? Bread is your life? There are so many ways one could interpret such a remark! I mean, was his statement purely literal, as if to imply he had survived all of these years relying solely on the nutritional sustinence of French baguettes? Surely not. Too many carbohydrates. And besides, he looked drunk not poor and emaciated.
"This bread is my life." Obviously symbolic. Some sort of spiritual reference, a transcendence of yeast and water into nourishment of the soul. How zen of him.
Or perhaps he's referring to his strong French upbringing - A toddler amongst the lavender fields, smoking cigarettes and studying wine pairings. Once a child, now a man lost in the aroma of rising dough, reminiscent of revolutions past and his undying love for his countrymen.
But, wait! Surely "this bread," this crusty baton, isn't a reference to his French manhood? But, of course! What else are the French known for besides Eiffel Towers and Napoleon, expensive soaps and hairy armpits? Sex!!! He's making love with his baguette!

Jean-Michel Basquiat

The latest controversy in Paris these days is the exhibition of artist Jean-Michel Basquiat currently showing at the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris. Madame M had returned from her second home in the south of France, and being always in the know suggested we meet for an afternoon of cultural enlightenment. I must confess to having been the only person in Paris - perhaps even the world - unfamiliar with the fabulously famous Basquiat, so it was with an open mind and wide eyed anticipation that I entered the world of this short lived shooting star. Born to Haitian and Puerto Rican immigrants and raised in the mean streets of New York City, Basquiat (pronounced bass-key-a) was compelled to express himself and did so freely; in the street, on discarded pieces of wood, scraps of paper and cloth, an old refrigerator. "I start a picture and I finish it. I don't think about art while I work. I try to think about life". Hit by a car and seriously injured at a young age, his mother gave him a Gray's Anatomy book to help pass the long hours of his recuperation. This obviously accounts for the recurring theme of intestines, skeletons, and innards so prevelant in his body of work (no pun intended). His style was primitive; "It looks as if it was made by a five year old!" said Madame M, incredibly complex, "You need a long time to study each one to understand his intention" she announced, and controversial. In the beginning of his career, Basquiat worked by the tag SAMO, which stood for "Same old shit, SAMO as an end to mindwash religion, nowhere politics, and bogus philosophy". Lucky in his career, he made connections with important artists and patrons alike, showing at the prestigious Annina Nosei Gallery from 1981-83 and the Galerie Bischofberger in Zurich. Well known in Paris, Berlin, New York, and Los Angeles within a short period of time, he rolled with the likes of Warhol and Francesco Clemente, but he had a difficult personality and a habit of burning his bridges. "Since I was 17 I thought I might be a star" is a quote that personifies his character. Turning his back on his hero and mentor (Warhol) when the critics panned their collaboration, just as he had the gallery owners and patrons who launched his career (or grabbed onto the tail of the shooting star, depending upon how one looks at it) Basquiat suffered the paradox of narcissism and insecurity, in an era of excess, art babble, and self promotion. One either loves him or hates him, there is no in between. There were many negative comments heard by this blogger in the museum and on the street for two blocks around, and the exhibition was the main topic of lively dinner conversation two nights later. It was bonne chance that I had just been and was able to join in, as it is expected of one to have something intelligent to say on any subject broached at the french table! As for me, I give it a thumbs up. Unfortunately, photos were strictly forbidden (but I was able to bring you a small sample nonetheless). Basquiat died of a prescription drug overdose at the age of 28. To learn more about Jean-Michel Basquiat, just Google! To visit the exhibition in person, take metro ligne 9 to Alma-Marceau or ligne 6 to Trocadero to the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris in the Palais Tokyo, 11 avenue President Wilson. Open Tuesday-Sunday 10h-18h. Tariff 11 euro. Free entry to the museums permanent collection. Closed Mondays and holidays.

Your Friday French Fashion Report: YSL Spring/Summer 2011

Sensual, feminine, wearable, and collectable; the Yves Saint-Laurent ready-to-wear collection for Spring/Summer 2011 is all that and more! Designer Stefano Pilati pays homage to the master with a delicate touch, bringing a new twist to classics like the peasant skirt and creating jumpsuits one would actually want to wear. Shades of the 70's evoke fond memories of over-the- top diagonally ruffled skirts, which somehow seem to work under the watchful eye of Pilati. The fabrics are soft, and flow with the movement of a woman's body effortlessly. The silhouettes are timeless designs that one builds her wardrobe with, and can be counted on to make one feel chic at a moments notice! (My favorite piece is the pencil skirt with the thigh high slit, accented by a cockeyed pocket. Fabulous!) A picture being worth a thousand words, I offer without further ado; the Yves Saint-Laurent Spring/Summer Pret à Porter Collection for 2011:

YVES SAINT LAURENT PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Chanel Spring/Summer 2011

I love Chanel and always will. Under the watchful eye of Karl Lagerfeld, the legacy of Coco is respected; her signature pieces a tradition in every collection. The classic knit suit is afforded an update in the pret à porter Spring/Summer 2011 collection with the tiniest of bloomers replacing the pencil skirt, and we see the quintessential Madame Chanel flowing silhouette in soft blouses and dresses. Those garments inspired by the great Chanel are my favorites of this season's offerings, however those obviously inspired by the recent reality show "Sister Wives" should have been left on the cutting room floor. Especially but not exclusively the Peter Pan collar, which should never be worn by any female over the age of 6. (I had envy to reach through the screen and rip it off a bitch!) I am ambivilent as well about the return of the clunky shoe, which should be used in moderation, and I am way over the open-toed-cut-out-ankle bootie which is merely a shoe with an identity crisis. But there are some stunning pieces that would add glamour and chic to any woman's closet, and the show is beautifully staged with a delightful suprise; a cameo appearance by the iconic Ines de le Fressange, who arm in arm with Monsieur Lagerfeld leads the finale followed by his army of well dressed starving zombies. So, without further ado, I offer you the Ready to Wear Chanel Spring/Summer Collection 2011:

CHANEL PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS Part 1

CHANEL PRÊT-À-PORTER SS 2011 PARIS Part 2

"Dem Bones...."

"Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones..." This was the theme of the day, and the song playing in my mind repeatedly as I discovered the Musée de Histoire Naturelle (Galeries Paléontology et Anatomy) this afternoon. Accompanied by my darling Madame V, and taking full advantage of the few hours of sunshine afforded us by Mother Nature (it has been raining constantly for a week), we entered the beautiful Jardin des Plantes and drank in the fresh air as we tromped through the mud toward the museum. Along the way 200 year old trees graced the path, some boasting the brilliant colors of autumn. Children were burning off excess energy, as was a jogger, and an elderly woman walked her dog. Suddenly, we found ourselves face to face with the Gatekeeper of the museum, a formidable prehistoric beast! We carefully made our way past him and into another world; the history of planet Earth. I have never seen so many skeletons assembled in one location in my life, the entire first floor was crowded with the frame of every beast imaginable, large and small. There were bison and zebras and apes and wooly mammoths and rhinocerous and whales and crocodiles and flamingos. The walls were lined with glass cases that protected more gruesome collections; the spinal cords of who-knows-what preserved in formaldehyde, a human fetus, a little cat. I quickly turned away and concentrated on the mind blowing size of a North Sea whale, the skeleton of it's fins a giant fingered hand. Upstairs, dinosaurs reigned supreme, and on the top floor; fossils. We shared a laugh as I related to Madame V the story of a candidate for Senate in the United States, who wondered aloud why, if evolution was a fact, "we don't see monkeys turning into humans?" (Fortunately, she was not elected). Visit the Galeries de Paléontology et Anatomy every Tuesday through Sunday from 10h-17h. Closed Mondays and the 1st of May. Open all other holidays. Tariff 7 euro. Free the 1st Sunday of the month!

Herman Singing Dry Bones

Cribs Part One: A Room with a View

A friend of mine is in the market to buy a home in Paris, and has been recently engaged in the daunting task of apartment hunting. She asked me to accompany her one afternoon, and we set out to find the perfect place. First stop; Les Halles. A lively and bohemian neighborhood, it boasts a history as old as France; Les Halles, or The Halls have been the center of commerce since the 12th century. Bateaux filled with wheat, grain, fish, and beef delivered their wares via the Seine to giant underground storage facilities to be sold by merchants in their stalls above ground. It was the first shopping mall in Paris! Today a modern shopping center takes it's place in history with chain stores offering shoes, cellphones, and skinny jeans. The streets are lined with Lebanese fast food shops offering Gyros and frites, poster stores for decorating on a dime, and Asian discount shoe shops (the place to go for a cheap pair of converse style tennies). We entered the Place des Innocents, a plaza skirted by cafe's and softened by a beautiful fountain in the center. The entrance into the building was smack dab in the middle of two of these cafés, and as we wove our way through the diners and entered the digicode I observed the easy access to room service! Four very long flights up (this was a very old building with no ascenseur) we were greeted by a very dignified agent with a back as straight as a ramrod and an air of royalty who would open the door to the most dreary apartment imaginable. Entering through a space of approximately 3x5 ft., this was the kitchen. A full length curtain was drawn to reveal a tiny camper style sink and drainboard, the latter being home to a microwave. A stacking wire rack occupied the remaining space alongside the sink, this was the available storage. A door to the right opened into the w.c., with just enough space for a toilet, but not really any space for a person. The salon was a dark, gloomy 8x8 nightmare in parisian beige - France's national color. I looked at Anne as if to say, "Let's run as fast as we can!" while the agent stood haughtily in the corner. He could care less if we liked it or not, in this market it would be snapped up within the week. At a mere 280,000 euro. Our next stop was near Gare de l'Est in on a quiet street that had good access to shops and restaurants. Liveable, with a nice kitchen with plenty of prep space and a seperate bedroom, it was definately a step in the right direction. There were other prospective buyers waiting their turn outside to have a look, and I am sure it was sold before the end of the next business day. Anne wasn't feeling it, and we moved on to apartment number three. Listed at 240,000 euro, it was in the heart of Montmarte; a busy ethnic neighborhood crowded with tiny shops full of exotic food and spices, traditional dress, and cheap housewares. We entered a small courtyard where a Haman offered saunas and showers to the public. To the left was the porte leading to the foyer. A salutation was scrawled on the wall as we entered; "Fils de Pute Dehors" (Son of a Whore Get out!) Not a good sign. Funky food smells and screaming kids provided the ambience as we climbed the stairs - again no elevator. I could see the handwriting on the wall (no pun intended)! After a trip down a long, dark hallway we met the current owner who was busy trying to clean the place up. And what a lovely place it was! Tile floors, a spacious eat in kitchen, a private bath (other apartments on that floor shared a toilet at the end of the hall), and a magnificent view from the windows in the salon. A picture being worth a thousand words, I have added a slideshow for your benefit (below). Ah Paris, the City of Lights, the most romantic city in the world!

Day of the Dead

Halloween in France isn't anything like it is in America; no overpriced bags of candy crowding supermarket shelves for a month, no superstores packed with cheesy costumes and frightening orange and black home decor, no cd's of continuous screaming and maniacal laughter. Aside from the few ex-pat Halloween parties (costumes encouraged but rare), and a smattering of french teens who find it amusing to dress as a sexy witch (females), or in drag (the boys), it just doesn't exist here. What does exist is Le Fete de le Mort, or Day of the Dead. The tradition began in 998 by St. Odilo of the Abbey of Cluny. The Clunaic Order was the largest network of monasteries in Europe, and soon the tradition of praying for the souls in Purgatory on the 2nd of November spread throughout the world. Buddists celebrate a "Ghost Festival", the Chinese set aside the day to honour their elders at the "Qingming Festival", and the people of Tirol leave cakes out for the dead, keeping the room warm and cozy for their midnight visit. In Bolivia and Brittany, food is also offered to those on the other side of the veil, rather like we leave cookies out for Santa on Christmas Eve! In modern France, the official Fete de le Mort is now observed on November 1st with a national holiday (a paid day off for many), a reason to close every shop in town, and a trek to the cimetiére bearing pots of colourful flowers to brighten up the gravesite of le famille. I rather look forward to the last week in October, when the local fleurists are flooded with large pots of crysanthemum in the colours of fall; bright yellow, burgundy, and purple. At 2 for 9 euro it is the deal of the season, the only time of year it is to be found, and I love to load my chariot full of flowers and enjoy the cheerful ambience they bring to the garden on a rainy autumn day! It seems like such a civilized way to honour the dead; chrysanthemums rather than fake spiderwebs, a paid day off rather than donning an Elvira costume as you check people out at the supermarket. I must admit however, I really do miss a good T.P.ing!

Perturbation

"Mouvment social.....la circulation des trains est perturbée". It's week 3 and counting in the latest of France's national pastime; le greve (the strike). With the unions strong opposition to Sarkozy's plan to extend the age of retirement, there have been marches, sit ins, and a vexing lack of transportation into and out of Paris for what seems like an eternity. Usually one can expect a day here or there when the train and bus schedules are cut in half, a minor annoyance and ineffectual in terms of a social movement. It's something I have come to expect since my arrival in France three years ago. "All the unions must strike together for at least one month!" my friend Madame V declares; "One day will not effect change!" I blame her by the way, my leetle commie friend who works for the largest union in France, CGT. "So, everyone should work longer so that YOU aren't inconvenienced by a transit strike?" my other Marxist friend J.P. called me out, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a strong sense of social injustice. Snap! Franchment, working until 65 might not be such a horrible thing, unless you are a stone mason, or a coal miner, or a fisherman on The Deadliest Catch. "But do we have to work until we're old and cannot enjoy the life?" Madame V demands, "there is much money in France, let the rich pay the tax! They can afford it!" I cannot honestly say I disagree with that logic, nor can millions of française who deliver mail, pick up trash, and work in restaurants and factories. The anethesiologist's union mobilized last summer and staged a massive sit in on the tracks at Gare Montparnasse, one of Paris' main arteries. This is the connecting point for me from the suburbs into Paris, and back home again. Fortunately on that day I had no work in the city and missed the perturbation! But for the last three weeks, there have been no trains going into town AT ALL between 4 and 8 p.m., only one per hour going home (instead of every 15 minutes), the last one of the night being at 11 p.m. instead of 12:58. This is severly cramping my style, and I am perturbed! (It's times like this I miss having a car.) The Senat was scheduled to vote on the issue of retirement last Wednesday, and the bill extending the age to 65 was expected to pass. I figured all hell would break loose for a couple of days, the strike would ultimately end, and life would once again return to normal. Instead, the opposition tacked on 362 riders to the bill, all of which must be debated individually before a vote can be called. A sort of french filibuster! Meanwhile, the perturbation continues.....

Pardon my French!

Learning french for me is a real challenge. Admittedly I am not a very good student, possessing a mind that is rich with imagination but easily distracted, as well as pathetic lack of self discipline. My grammar is horrible, and my pronounciation worse - in fact the french understand my english better than my french, even if they don't speak english! My friend Madame V can only understand my french when she is wearing her magic lunettes (eyeglasses), and we share many moments of hilarity when my mispronounciations take a conversation down the wrong path, ultimately leading to confusion and misunderstanding. English has replaced french as the international language of diplomacy as well as business, so more and more parisians have a basic understanding of my native tongue and are always happy to interpret popular french vernacular for my benefit. I carry a little note pad with me at all times to jot down my "vocabulaire du jour", and I would like to share some of the more - shall we say - colourful phrases with you. For example; in America, during a heavy rainfall, we say, "It's raining cats and dogs!" But in France, the expression is "Il pleut comme le vache qui pisse", which means "It rains like the cow who pisses!" Following the cow theme, (the french are quite fond of cows) one might exclaim "La vache!" ("Oh the cow!") which is the equivilant of "holy shit". The other day my friend Helen was showing off an adorable new handbag she had just purchased. It was large as is the fashion, the perfect size for an overnight bag, and when I mentioned this fact I learned the french expression for it; un "baise-en-ville" (pronounced bez-on-veal), or "B.E.V." This literally means "fuck in town"! A girl packs her b.e.v. to meet her lover for their "histoire de cul", their "story of ass"; what americans refer to as an "affair" or "walking the old Appalachian Trail". France being a culture full of contradiction, it was explained to me that the word "merde" (shit) is sort of a national word, a classic word that is not neccessarily considered vulgaire no matter who uses it. However, to say the equivilant of "it pisses me off" is "ça me fait chier" or "that really shits me" and considered a vulgarity. Now, if you can make sense of this logic, please clue me in because I don't get it! If you are a very proper and pious little old lady in France, you might exclaim "Flute!" because it rhymes with "zut" which really means "pute" (whore). Zut is to pute what darn is to damn, or "sugar" is to shit. And "flute" is even more refined, (but means the same thing). Interested in the french translation of "motherfucker", I was suprised to discover there isn't an actual word, rather more of a sentence. Trying to explain in english, my friend Jérome said this; "Start your mother, I am going to restart you!" Seeing my confusion, he said, "You know, if you call your mother, I'll do you again!" Which basically means "I'll fuck your mother and get her pregnant". Not quite the same thing as motherfucker, but a fine insult nonetheless. They do from time to time say, "Yo Mama" (Ta mére), or "Ta mére la pute" (your mother the whore). Snap! This of course, would be vulgaire and is to be used sparingly. I experienced a moment of enlightenment when I discovered the literal translation of cul de sac, a common phrase in American suburbia. We all have lived on a cul-de-sac, or know someone who does. Allow me to translate; "cul" means ass, "de" means of, and "sac" is a purse. The ass of a purse. All these years we've been telling our friends we live in the yellow house at the end of the ass of a purse! Who knew?

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 11: "Mr. Low-key"

To stroll the streets of Paris on a warm summer night, after a satisfying meal and a bottle of Bordeaux, hand in hand with a beautiful man is the ultimate parisian experience. It had been a fabulous birthday thus far; dining at an exclusive restaurant with a reputation for the best foie gras in Paris, being officially and blatantly dissed by our waiter, and exploring the various musical options offered in the streets during the annual Fete de le Musique. Both Low and I were enjoying the warm glow of a good wine buzz as we slowly made our way back toward the Place de Vosges (and his hotel). An all girl Grunge band caught our attention, somehow the vocals didn't sound as hard in french! The bass player was a tall, lanky lesbian sporting a head shaven totally bald save for a skullcap of hair moussed to stick out in every direction from the crown of her head. "Now that's something you don't see everyday!" I discreetly whispered in Low's ear. "Fabulous!" he answered, as was his habitud. We moved on to discover a Reggae band, and a sea of dredlocks that reminded me of wall to wall shag carpet fiber from the 70's. There was a familiar aroma in the air, at once pungent and sweet, and the audience here was mellow as they swayed to the rythym of the islands. Cannabis is highly frowned upon here, but for the Fete de le Musique all is forgiven - for this night and this night only! After groovin' to a classic Bob Marley tune we moved on, our hearts filled with nostalgia. We laughed as we swapped stories of smoking our first joint back in the day, and Low was nearly creamed by a bicyclist as we briefly stepped off the curb to avoid a group of students sitting crosslegged on the sidewalk passing a bottle. It was an accident of timing; the guy on the bike zigging to avoid a young family towing a toddler, Low zagging to avoid the hippies. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed, "are you all right?" The cyclist was yelling angrily something that sounded like "What do you think you are doing you idiot, are you trying to kill me?!" (in french, so I can only surmise), and I was laughing inappropriately and uncontrollably as I always do in moments of crisis. Luckily, the french don't hold on to their anger for long, they yell and blow their horns and move on. Now we were even, having both been dissed by a parisian that night! "Fabulous!" he smiled as I pointed this out, then "I feel like I'm in the middle of a Woody Allen movie, set in Paris!" "Am I your Louise Lasser?" I joked. "No, you're my Scarlett Johannsen" he purred, and gave me a sweet little kiss. (5 bonus points) He was impressed that I remembered Louise Lasser however, and we compared notes on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" as we continued our journey through the '70's and the Marais. A German oompah band was competing for airspace with a french rapper with a bad amplifier and a Mr. Microphone, and we pondered the possibilities of a marraige between the opposing forces. Sort of a tuba beat box. Suddenly I realized we had arrived at the Place de Vosges, having arrived by a side street I hadn't used before. We strolled through the place, and I explained to Low that we were walking where jousting tournaments were held in medieval times, over 800 years ago! But tonight there were no sounds of horses hoofs pounding the soil as they charged their opponents, instead a choir of 20 or 30 men and women singing acapella. We were steps away from the Pavilion de le Reine, where he was staying for the weekend. We stopped to listen to the choir, and he put his arm around my waist, giving me a little squeeze. "Happy Birthday" he cooed, and kissed me tenderly. "So..." he smiled shyly, lowering his gaze. "So..." I repeated (hoping for birthday sex). "Would you like to stay with me tonight?" He was tentative, as if I might refuse. He had, after all, racked up quite a number of bonus points since I met him! He had been a gentleman and was adorable, coming to Paris from London twice just to take me out, which made me feel pretty special. I answered with a long, seductive kiss that left no need for words, and we strolled arm in arm through the beautiful hidden courtyard of his hotel and into the lobby. "Bonsoir, monsieur!" The smaller "boutique" hotels always require you to leave yor key at the desk, and a charming young parisienne greeted us, offering an antique looking key attached to a giant gold tassel. "Je vous en prie" she answered to our "Merci", then "Bonne Soirée!"

Journées du Patrimoine 2010: Le Musée de Moyen Age

Smack dab in the middle of the Quartier Latin on the corner of Boulevard St. Germain and Boulevard St. Michel, a mere block away from The Gap and Mickey D's, is one of Paris' oldest monuments; the Musée de Moyen Age. It's strong foundation dating back to the 1st century, it stands defiantly amidst modern Paris like an old man who refuses to use a computer. Parisians rush by on foot, car, and motorbikes daily, going about their business with barely a glance - it's human nature to take things for granted. But when the sun sets and the strategically placed floodlights illuminate the Gallo-Roman ruins, oh la la! It's difficult to ignore the beauty of this ancient place. On my "to do" list for years, I decided today was the day. It is the weekend of the "Journées du Patrimoine", France's "Heritage Days". For two days a year, hundreds of monuments across France are open to the public free of charge, including the Senate, National Assembly, and the Elysées Palace; home to President Sarkozy. The latter expecting some 20,000 visitors, I chose to visit the old man on the corner. It is difficult to wrap my mind around anything 2,000 years old, but I was visiting a place that once served as a thermal bathhouse - before France was France and Rome ruled Europe. 700 years ago it was occupied by the Abbots of Cluny, as is witnessed by the Gothic chapel inside. It was enlarged and occupied by the Cluny Order until after the Revolution, when the property became nationalized and home to the private collections of three privileged men. Today, it houses a stunning collection of tapisserie (tapestry), religious artifacts, stained glass, and statuary; all 500 to 1,000 years old. C'est magnifique! You can visit the Musée de Moyen Age (Musée Cluny) Tuesday through Sunday from 9h15 until 17h45 at 6 Place Painlevé, metro ligne 10 to Cluny-La Sorbonne. Tariff is 8.50, with the exception of the first Sunday of every month, which is free museum day. You can read more about the Journées du Patrimoine by accessing my blog archive from October 2009 (on the sidebar).

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 10: "Mr. Low-key"

My first birthday since moving to Paris was shaping up nicely. I had a rendez vous with a lovely man who planned to take me to dine at the french bistro equivalent of Studio 54 (if they decided to honor the reservation), I had someone fun to trawl the Fete de le Musique with, and it was a hot summer weekend. The weather here is something I still haven't acclimated to - cold and miserable the majority of the year, with a smattering of perfect days when Mother Nature takes pity on a soul. It was going to be a perfect evening for the citywide, night long street party, and I was looking forward to experiencing this mysterious restaurant Low had invited me to. He was staying at his preferred hotel at the Place de Vosges, and we met in the lobby. He was waiting for me ensconced in an oversized armchair, and he stood up to greet me with open arms. "Happy Birthday!" he smiled and hugged me. "Are you hungry?" I admitted that I was, and he said he hoped they wouldn't turn us away at l'Ami Louis. I hoped so too, more for his sake than for mine! I knew he would feel humiliated if they snubbed us. He had ordered a taxi, and we chatted about London, the fete, and how he managed to maneuver our dinner reservations as the driver wound through the streets, carefully avoiding the partying pedestrians that were beginning to spill off the sidewalks. We passed a four piece band that included a snare drum, a tuba, a trumpet, and a washboard making a racket as a small group of college students passed a bottle of cheap rum, laughing as one of them performed a jig. The driver turned into a quiet, deserted street and stopped the cab. It didn't appear as if anything was open, could he be mistaken? I saw nothing that indicated a restaurant, certainly not the obligatory bistro tables that occupy the narrow sidewalks here, nor any signage. Maybe it was one of those places where you knock three times and the doorman peers at you through a tiny opening, demanding a password! Low paid the driver, took my hand, and led us to the place. It was the Studio 54 moment of truth - I held my breath as we entered and approached the Maitre'd. Ignorant as to the protocol of acceptance, I hoped I had dressed appropriately. Fortunately Lady Luck was on our side, and with a sigh of relief on both our parts, we were seated. He was smiling as I took in our surroundings, which were suprisingly understated for a restaurant frequented by dignitaries such as the Clinton's. It was a small establishment, with two rows of tables lining the walls, which had been painted a matte black perhaps 50 years ago. The tables were covered by red and white checkered tablecloths, and were set with cutlery one would find in a down home diner. There were photographs on the wall of who I assumed was the owner, with various celebs and politicians, mostly European. It had a sort of old school mafia ambiance, and was famous for the foie gras and rotiserrie chicken. I ordered the former for starters, and Low chose the escargot. Now, I must admit, up until that night I had never tried escargot, nor had I ever desired to do so. But it was my birthday, and my blood was up! Low graciously offered me a taste, and I was a virgin no more. I was suprised at how much it reminded me of mussels, (which I quite like) and I was glad to check it off the list of things to do before I die. That said, one was enough, and I concentrated on the foie gras which was the best I have ever had! Warming up with a good bottle of wine, we amused ourselves by observing the waiters as they served up platter after platter of poulet accompanied by huge piles of shoestring potatoes, with the attitude that they would rather face a firing squad than look at another chicken. They were the quintessential clichés of the french waiter; condescending, arrogant, and sarcastic. We were in french heaven as we casually eavesdropped on the conversation of a big, fat, obviously rich old man who was in the process of seducing a young, blond, Italian social climber with huge ta ta's, collagen injected lips, and a deep tan. In fact, there seemed to be several tables occupied by men with the same goal in mind; to impress and seduce. All the waiters had a goal of their own, to make it through the night without slitting their wrists, and my goal? Birthday sex! Our waiter approached and provided what to this day is the most awesome moment in the history of dining out. "Dessert, madame?" he inquired. Just as I opened my mouth to say "Oui, le sorbet citron s'il vous plait" he dissed me by turning his back, nose in the air, looking across the room at nothing. My mouth was literally still open as I looked at Low in utter disbelief, and we started to laugh. Only in Paris, only in a restaurant that charges 22 euro for two itty bitty scoops of ice cream, and only from a waiter guaranteed 15% of a 300 euro dinner bill! Who could be angry? Ultimately he was obliged to take my order, thoughts of suicide dancing through his head. "That was fabulous" Low was laughing, and took my hand. "I can't believe it!" I exclaimed, "Can you imagine that happening in L.A.? They would never work in that town again!" We were still chuckling as our dessert arrived. The cool lemony concoction was the perfect finish to a delicious meal, and I was as content as a fat cat as we stepped out into the balmy night air and strolled arm in arm back toward Bastille. The mood on the street was festive, all of Paris it seemed was out and about; laughing, boozing, and kissing. Families strolled from concert to concert, fathers with young ones perched on their shoulders, bouncing gently to the rythym of the music. Groups of noisy teens flirted, the girls laughing just a little too loudly, the boys fueling the fire by offering alcohol and cigarettes. We stopped for a moment to listen to a french grunge band, somehow it didn't sound so grungey in française! There was a large crowd assembled around us; a girl with bright pink hair, a white dude with dredlocks and a nose ring, and an elderly french couple, all forgetting for an evening that smiling is strictly interdit in Paris! Over the grunge, we moved on and discovered an eclectic group of people drumming an ancient tribal beat, anyone with a bongo was welcome to join. It was peoplewatching at it's finest, and Low and I were taking full advantage of the opportunity. Always a gentleman, always discreet, and with the exception of a few affectionate pecks, Low gave me little indication of whether or not I was going to get that birthday sex I was talking about earlier. I couldn't think of a better way to end a perfect evening, but would Low a) once again send me home in a cab, b) take me to a Karaoke bar and sing "What's New, Pussycat?" or c) give it up? Join me next week for my big birthday suprise on Your Friday night French Ro-Com!

"The Grass is Always Greener..."

It's true that when one lives in the city, one can't wait to get out to the country for a bit of quiet and relaxation. And vice-versa, when you are a country girl you love going to the city where the action is! That's where the suburbs come in. With their proximity to the hub, it takes very little effort to enjoy a night out at the theatre, a romantic dinner at the latest trendy eatery, or a major sports event, and return home to a less frenetic atmosphere. There are many "burbs" surrounding Paris, the line of deliniation often vague. One simply crosses the street and is no longer in Paris proper, the change in ambiance not as noticable as when you are further out. I personally chose to live in a suburb just south of the City of Lights, in a quiet yet elegant ville that affords me the best of both worlds. I can be in Paris in a mere ten minutes, I have a spectacular view of le Sacre Couer in Monmarte as well as the golden dome of Les Invalides, and there is little here to distract me from my writing. So naturally I like to go into the city for a change of pace! King Louis IVX had chateaus in Versailles and St. Germain des Prés to escape the oppresive heat and stench of Paris, as did anyone who was anyone. Today one can hop on the RER at St. Michel, and in a matter of minutes visit any number of historic and breathtakingly beautiful domaines in the 'burbs. Residing in one of most expensive cities in the world on a budget quite a bit lower than I enjoyed in married life, I have made a game of finding interesting places and events to enjoy free of charge - or nearly. It was on this search I discovered the Parc de Sceaux (pronounced "sews"). When I learned a free guided tour (albeit in french) was being offered of the castle and museum collections, I was all in. It was a perfect fall day, sunny and mild as I arrived in the suburb of Sceaux and followed the small crowd from the train station through residential streets toward the parc. It is an affluent ville with large, well manicured homes that frame quiet winding roads. I could hear nothing but birds chirping in the lush green trees that lined the streets, life was good here! A pleasant 15 minute walk lead me to a place I never could have expected, a vast and wonderous parc carved out of the forest centuries ago. The Chateau itself is a gem, with marketry floors, crystal chandeliers and mirrored shutters that protect ones furnishings from the damaging effects of the sun, whilst preserving a sense of light and space. Originally inhabited by Jean-Baptiste Colbert from 1670-1683, today it is home to an impressive collection of paintings, sculpture, and porcelein. Furniture crafted by cabinetmaker Pierre-Benoit Marcion, offered by Napoleon to the duc and duchesse de Trévise (occupants of the estate from 1829-1871), graces a small salon with an intricately inlaid floor. But as lovely as the chateau is, it's the grounds that knock your socks off! A jardin out back is defined by rows of cypress sculpted into cones, placed in perfect symmetry. A long strip of grass extends as far as the eye can see, and colorful wildflowers punctuate the landscape. To the left, a distant fountain shoots a steady stream of water towards the heavens, a subtle rainbow appearing out of the arc. I was drawn toward the beauty of it, I love me a fountain! I descended the terraced walkway, flanked by the soothing music of a waterfall on my left, a mysterious forested trail to my right. I soon realized this was a space that demanded a bicycle, the waterfall led to a large pond, which led to a lake, which led into the forest....even with all the joggers, lovers, and cyclists one can find solitude and bask in the glory of nature undisturbed. Like the Smithsonian, too big to see all in one day, I made a note to self: Return soon, with a bicycle, a picnic, and some friends! To find out more about the Chateau and Parc de Sceaux, go to: www.domaine-de-sceaux.fr/