Bonne Fete

Today could quite possibly be the most cheerful, festive day of the year for les française. It's Christmas Eve, and tonight there will be the feast of all feasts, "Le Revillon!" Meaning "to revive" or "to wake", "Le Revillon" is all about three of France's most cherished traditions, Champagne, fois gras, and huitres (oysters), and no hostess would dare forget to offer them! Champagne and chocolates are offered by invited guests - the perfect gift for any fete. The day begins with the hustle and bustle of last minute shopping, but best be finished by 13h or you could be bitterly disappointed. There is a queue of people waiting outside the door of their local boucherie waiting to pick up their freshly dressed dinde, (turkey) the traditional main course, which is served with a chestnut stuffing (marron). Les patissieries are busy as well - of course we must have our baguette du jour, and the cases are full of bouche de noel, or "yule log". Made with a light Genoise (sponge cake) kissed with Grand Marnier and chocolate mocha buttercream, rolled and frosted to resemble a log in the forest, it is the finish to an ultra rich meal - the french literally dare you to rise to their seduction gastronomique! My personal favorite on the menu this evening (other than champagne of course) are raw oysters on the half shell, a pleasure I had not indulged in before moving to Paris. I must admit in my naivité I found them a little scary - but there are certain things in life one must experience at least once, and a freshly harvested #5 huitre from the beds of Bretagne is one of those. Some prefer a splash of lemon as an accompianment, but I like mine with a red wine vinagrette and finely minced shallot - oh la la! I die. It is no wonder that for this day, (only one of two per year) the french smile at their neighbors and wish them a "Bonne Fete!"

Occupy Wall Street

"A manifestation should be a happy event!" declared Madame V, as I marveled at the scene before me. It was my first "manifestation", (demonstration) and I was like a kid in a candy store - all eyes and wanting to taste it all! I grew up a child of the '60's, too young to march against the war in Vietnam, but old enough to know why I wanted to. After the Great Bra Burning of 1972, the trauma of Watergate, and the return of scores of displaced vets, America was ready for disco! All we needed was a steady beat, a gold chain, and a reliable dealer. With few exceptions, America stayed indoors - the season for railing against "The Establishment" turned into a long fall of complacency. Until 2007, when a small but noisy group of citizens sporting teabags stapled to their hats rallied to make their voices heard. They had the spirit - it's a happy event! Aside from the fact that some of these demonstrators were bused in and given handpainted signs by their employer David Koch, (the 4th richest man in the world) and that some of them were carrying loaded firearms to a heated debate, they were exercising their right to assemble, and that is an exciting thing. As the Arab Spring has blossomed throughout Africa, and the Occupy Wall Street movement has taken hold, I am reminded of that glorious afternoon I met Madame V at Place de République to join les française in their National Pastime - striking. I wasn't sure what to expect, perhaps police in riot gear holding back muzzled German shepards, or if tear gas would be involved. I remember Kent State! What I found was akin to a carnival. Vans with oversized balloons touting the logo of France's largest union, "CGT," tethered to loudspeakers blaring hiphop music, were stationed strategically around the rond point. There were cabanas everywhere, with vendors frying sausage, vegetables, and chicken for the most delicious sandwiches. Gyros, and pizza by the slice, and a guy wandering through the crowd selling whistles for proper noisemaking was the irony of the day - for this was capitalism at a Communist sponsored demonstration! The mood was upbeat as the crowd assembled, by law a union sponsored manifestation is a paid afternoon off. Unlike the OWS movement, most of the folks I marched with have a job, they just don't want to have it until the age of 65. They greeted their friends and colleagues with a kiss to each cheek, (there was alot of kissing that day) enjoyed a demitasse, (a teeny, tiny cup of liquid nitrogen) and marched to the Place de Bastille, smiling and chanting and having a day of it. I saw very few police, but I did see a van rolling along with the crowd with it's rear doors open, a portable bar selling beer, wine, and whiskey to thirsty demonstrators! Can you imagine that happening in the U.S.? When it was all over, the crowd dispersed to the cafés that surround the Bastille for one last beer and to discuss politics over a pack of cigarettes. Today I heard that an American veteran of the war in Iraq sustained a fractured skull whilst peacefully demonstrating in Oakland, California. Many have been arrested and detained, but not charged. The government should release of these political prisoners immediately, or give them their day in court. I raise my glass to my fellow Americans dans le rue, and wish you Bonne Courage. Power to the People! Now come with me for a manifestation, French Style....

Manifestation - french style!

Wanderlust Part One: The Early Years

I have had a thirst for travel and adventure since I can remember. My earliest childhood dream vacation was conceptualized at the age of three, my luggage a red hankerchief gathered up by all four corners and tied to a stick, destination: China! How I even knew there was such a place at that young age despite being brought up in a -shall we say - rural community in the 1960's can only be credited to my mother, who made it a point to expand our horizons in every way possible. She also encouraged my already vivid imagination, and thus armed, (a navel orange and 3 cookies packed in my kerchief in case I got hungry along the way) I set off down the country lane of my family ranch. I figured it would take about 3 1/2 hours to get to Hong Kong, due south as the crow flies. I would have to veer of the beaten path and make my way through the California chaparal, keeping my eyes peeled for rattlesnakes, to stay on course. I decided to walk alongside the creek that ran through "The Ranch" from the Ramona Mountains to Highway 395. The weather was fine, a quintessential autumn afternoon in San Diego. I was trying to whistle, with little success. But my imagination picked up where my abilities lagged, and I pretended to whistle just like Huck Finn. Those cookies were sounding pretty good by then, but I decided I had better ration my provisions, on account of there not being enough food to feed all the starving children in China. I began to wonder if one orange and three cookies was adequate for this length of journey. Maybe going all the way to China wasn't such a good idea, maybe I would just go to Hawaii instead. I calculated it would take about an hour on foot, and another 20 minutes to swim the English Channel - just like Florence Chambers! Singing a little song I improvised for the occasion, anticipating all the surprises Hawaii had to offer, I was about 40 minutes into my trip when it happened. The incident that caused me to abort my mission and return home humiliated, without having seen Hawaii or China. I had to pee. Suddenly and quite urgently. Granted, I was in the middle of acres upon acres of wild sage, anise, and mustard, most taller than I was, and there was nobody around except the 30 or so species of serpents, reptiles, and assorted stinkbugs to watch me do the deed. But I was too scared to drop trow, I had to head for home. Thinking it wise to run, the impact of each step increased my discomfort. I made a valiant effort ala Flo Jo, but to my chagrin, for the first and last time in my entire life, I wet my knickers. It felt gross, and I cried all the way home. China would have to wait until tomorrow, and I resolved to pack an extra pair of shorts for future emergencies should they arise. I was greeted upon my arrival home by a wild eyed and rather frantic welcoming commitee, and was informed that under no uncertain terms was I to embark upon any further international travel un-chaperoned. It would take nearly four decades for me to reach the beautiful sands of Hanalei Bay, but that's a story for another time!

Marianne; France's "Lady Liberty"

She's fierce, she's invincible, she's the symbol of the motherland. She's Marianne, France's "Statue of Liberty". She made her debut in 1830, (18 years before the fall of the monarchy) kicking ass in a tableau by Eugene Delacroix entitled, "Liberty Leading the People", stylishly appointed in a Phrygian bonnet - like those worn by freed slaves in Greece, her breast bared, fearless. Inspired by her beauty a simple shoemaker, one Guillaume Lavabre, pens a song that gives a name to this mysterious creature, "Berceau Occitan de la Marianne Republican" , a song of revenge by the servant class upon the nobility. Thus Liberty was baptized with a good Christian name! Shrouded in symbolism from head to toe, she appears in many forms; grasping a revolutionary pike (which held aloft the commander of the Bastille), carrying with her Tables of the Law or the Scales of Justice, (depending upon the situation) occassionally accompanied by her pet lion (a validation of the courage and force of the people). One of her favorite accessories is a length of broken chain, the very essence of her spirit - Liberté! Wildly popular, a force of nature, Marianne has been immortalized on postage stamps, her image married to the most revered of French celebs; Brigitte Bardot, Catherine Deneuve, and Inés de le Fressange are just a few of the A-listers who have posed as Lady Liberty. Exiled and ridiculed during the Occupation, she joined DeGaulle's Free France movement, but of course! I wonder why her cousin, who reigns supreme from her pedestal on Ellis Island, is not known by a name other than "Liberty"? A name popular at the time she was born, such as Abigail for example. Or Gertrude - "Trudy" for short! Or perhaps we should baptize her with a more current moniker, like Britney, or Heather, or Khloe. I think I prefer "Trudy", as it contains the sound "true", Liberty always being true to those under her protective wing!

La Marseillaise, French National Anthem (Fr/En)

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Dolce and Gabana Menswear Collection for Spring 2012

Moving past, (with great difficulty) the hotness of the models and the sensuality of the music, the menswear collection by Dolce and Gabana for Spring 2012 is full of must haves, from the timeless elegance of a well made suit to daring see-through shorts! Trousers are slim, sometimes cropped, and the palette is muted. Earth tones are on the horizon for 2012, look for grey, tan, and slate, and accent with splashes of pumpkin, mustard, and plum. Man purses are getting larger as well, ("It's not gay, it's European!") which is fabulous for us girls - now they can carry more of our stuff and look good doing it. The casual look is dressed up with the marriage of Bermuda shorts and wing tips, and dress shoes are worn without socks (as the Italians are wont to do). Also shown were a selection of interesting jumpsuits, which evoke images of a chic groundcrew for some fabulous gay Air Force, and a new take on fishnet shirts - an open weave that on the runway looked damn good, but translated to the Jersey Shore? I'm not so sure. However, the slim pant is always groovy, always Italian, and trending.

Dolce & Gabbana Full Show ft Noah Mills - Milan Men's Fashion Week Sprin...

Cinema: Minuit à Paris (Midnight in Paris)

I was introduced to the quirky genius of Woody Allen in high school, on a date at the Drive-In with my friend Donald Smith, in a blue VW Beetle affectionately called "Mildred". It was the 1970's, and on the playbill was a triple feature; "Sleeper", "Bananas", and "Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask". It was quite an introduction! Donald's taste in cinema was far more sophisticated than mine, and I can still hear his laughter as we experienced this marathon of absurdity. I was hooked, the unbearable angst and rapier wit of a skinny Jewish geek from Brooklyn hit the mark so many times over the years. I have often felt that we have been privy to the innermost essence of the man, his soul laid bare on the silver screen for all to see. From his romantic side in "Play it Again, Sam", to his relationship issues in "Manhattan", and "Annie Hall", to his hatred for and desire to murder ex-wife (Mia Farrow) in "Crimes and Misdemeanors", we have experienced his personal journey to the place he has finally arrived, contentment with the here and now. Unfortunately, this new found state of being is unkind to his art - with the exception of "Scoop", where Allen confronts his own mortality, his last several films have fallen flat, missing the neurosis that gave his work a cutting edge. Having fallen head over heels in love with Paris, having lived here for the last 4 years, having loved Woody Allen, and having read about all the excitement as he filmed here, casting France's First Lady Carla Bruni in a cameo role, I decided Midnight in Paris was a must see. Sadly, I was wrong. Perhaps 10 years ago I would have wept at the sight of all the familiar places, shot so perfectly for the opening sequence. The Place du Concorde, Montmarte, Le Tour d'Eiffel, the Opera Garnier, he hits all the spots I know and love. Had I become jaded? What francophile hasn't dreamt of rolling with Hemingway and Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Josephine Baker, Man Ray and Cole Porter, all in Paris in the 1920's, all partying like rockstars together in between hours of intellectual discourse! Our hero, played by Owen Wilson has, and serendipitously has the chance as he walks the streets of Paris at night. A successful Hollywood screenwriter engaged to be married working on the next great American novel, he fancies himself as a writer in Paris, romanticizing a time long past. As the clock strikes midnight during his promenade through the city, he is transported by an antique Peugot occupied by Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald and the name dropping begins. We hear Cole Porter singing at the piano, Madame Baker sings and dances sensuously. There is nothing I hate more than predictibility in a movie, and it became annoyingly so as we went to Le Polidor to meet Hemingway, Le Moulin Rouge to meet - you guessed it- Toulouse Latrec, (yawn) and Maxims to include Degas and Matisse. What was worse is the acting, which felt stilted and unnatural. Rachel McAdams seems to be reading her lines, Wilson is just not up to snuff, and the part of Hemingway (played by Cory Stoll) was embarrassingly overacted. Ironically Madame Bruni came off as quite natural - this being her first role as an actress, and having taken quite a bit of criticism from the French press. Marion Cotillard proved herself formidable in the role of "Adriana", a mistress of Pablo Picasso, delivering the finest performance in the film, and Adrien Brody makes us laugh as Dali. The ending, being every bit as predictable as the rest of the film is a bit of a letdown, and I am sorry to say perhaps Mr. Allen's best days are behind him. On a scale of 1-10, my Overall Enjoyability Rating for Midnight in Paris is a 4

A Week in Bretagne: Cancale

Packing a suitcase to the max for every possible weather condition, armed with a sack full of Ranger Cookies and an appetite for fruits de le mer, I folded myself into the back seat of a tiny Japanese car, and along with Madame V, Madame M, and a long haired chihuahua named "Brutus", trundled toward the region of Bretagne and the quaint little village of Cancale. Bretagne is known for her fresh seafood, fresh cream, and sel de mer (sea salt), and the quiet fishing villages that dot the jagged coastline have been home to le pecheur for many a century. Windblown and sauvage, the islands that jut out from the sea have witnessed many a shipwreck, from invading marauders to those who have salt water coarsing through their veins, and small altars dedicated to the marins lost at sea can be seen everywhere. Cancale is a petite gem, with a boardwalk one can traverse in a matter of moments, lined with cafés featuring fresh oysters, gift shops offering the usual, and a town pub where the locals meet daily to share a beer and a good debate. One block behind the waterfront are two rows of three storied stone houses, their shutters painted bright blue and green, geraniums spilling out of planters attached to the windowsills. Many of these homes are summer getaways, and some have been converted into a clé vacances (vacation rentals). The rest are occupied by native Cancalese, some in the family for generations! We chose a good time of year to visit - mid June, before the tourists descend en masse, bused in from the Nederlands, ferried in from England, and motoring in from Paris to spend July and August at the seaside. We arrived at low tide, and had a clear view of the oyster beds below. Oysters are to Cancale what Buffalo Bill is to Cody, Wyoming - that is, everything! Vendors sell their harvest everyday from little booths installed permanently at the foot of the pier, and you can have them shucked for you and eat them on the spot. It's just the thing after a promenade along the hillside, a nature trail that is civilized enough for the timid, yet peppered with enough variety to keep the avid hiker interested. Affording one stunning views of the ocean beyond, the famous Mont St. Michel can be seen on a clear day, her unmistakeable shape a beacon in the horizon. If you are very brave, you can have a dip in the Atlantic, but men beware of shrinkage! The water is so cold year round it will be three days before you see the boys. Centre Ville (downtown) is a 15 minute walk inland, it's main focus a Gothic style church with a decidedly nautical theme and an impressive pipe organ. The village boulangerie has a line outside the door each morning, and is naturally closed on Mondays - it was here that Madame V bought a death-by-chocolate cake to celebrate my birthday. Nobody but nobody makes gateaux like the french, with their rich chocolate and fresh cream from free range, happy cows. It's a laid back vacation destination, perfect if you like long walks near the beach, oysters on the half shell, and peace and quiet. (Off season, that is!) Next door is St. Malo, famous for her thermal waters and spa treatments. We shall visit her next!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Sonia Rykiel Fall/Winter Collection 2011/2012

Evocative of French Resistance agents of WWII, the Sonia Rykiel Collection for Fall/Winter 2011 brings to mind the streets of 1940's Paris, with it's eclectic mélange of textures and patterns that is uniquely Sonia. Known for her sweaters, she layers expertly without losing the body, and her pairing of clunky shoes with evening wear is nothing new, but daring nonetheless! Sonja always projects a sense of humor with her designs, and this seasons Pendleton inspired plaid blanket pants are no exception - perfect for an crisp fall afternoon at an Ivy League football game, fringe and all! Choose a formidable leather handbag as your top accessory priority for autumn, perhaps in an eye popping colour to contrast with a neutral palette. Bonus Video: Interview with the artist Sonia Rykiel from her Paris apartment!

Fashiontv | Sonia Rykiel Show Fall 2011 Paris Fashion Week | fashiontv ...

Sonia Rykiel exhibits personal drawings in Paris

Le Cuisine: The JJR Café

As I have mentioned in previous articles, dining in Paris is frought with hazards - from overpriced slop marketed to unsuspecting tourists, to overpriced crap served to Parisians vying for the best location sur le terrace, and one must "choose carefoolie zee restaurant" as my friend Madame M insists. Sometimes you find the best places quite by accident, as happened to me just the other day. It was not my intention to have dinner out as I hopped the train into Paris, and made my way toward Gare du Nord and the Indian Quarter. I was on a mission - I have had a craving for Mexican food lately (being from Southern California), and decided to learn how to make tortillas from scratch, (the availability of quality ingredients is highly questionable here.) I read gobs of info on the subject, most of it concerning a handy little tool called a "tortilla press". I was considering ordering one, until I discovered the shipping alone would be a cool $75.00! It was then the proverbial light bulb appeared over my head, perhaps a similar tool is used to make flatbread for Indian cuisine! The metro pulled into Gare du Nord, and I wound my way through the maze of underground tunnels, following the signs toward sortie Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. Once on the street I immediately felt the vibe of the neighborhood, a microchasm of inner city clichés. A small gang of teenaged bad boys lounged on the railings near the entrance to the metro, smoking cigarettes with an attitude and leering at everything in a skirt. An elderly Indian woman in a sari of saffron and purple silk pushed a stroller with her grandchildren in tow, shops full of traditional clothing, brightly colored and boasting a very "special price" lined the street. Little markets crammed full of strange looking roots and deadly chili peppers were my destination, in search of the elusive tortilla press (or a reasonable facsimile). The air was rich with the aroma of exotic spices, and the strains of Indian disco wafted through the air from a little shop selling Bollywood style DVD's. Women were at the market buying fresh ingredients for the evening meal, while men were gathered in little groups outside the neighborhood barber and the tabaconist. I marveled at the prices, it is much cheaper to buy spices here, and you can find other exotic ingredients you cannot in a supermarket. I did not find a press, (there was a similar item that pressed and cooked, but I was not convinced) but I found my appetite - all these aromatic ingredients on the shelves were having a Pavlovian effect on my psyche! It had been a long time since I have had Indian cuisine, the reason being the usual restaurants are mediocre beyond description. I hit the pavement in search of the most interesting prospect. There were any number of possibilities, little dives with pre-prepared takeout in a glass case, and two or three tiny tables squeezed in along one wall. Then I noticed what appeared to be the neighborhood "haunt". If you want a good meal anywhere in the world, eat where the locals do, I always say! A friendly waiter greeted me with a smile and offered me a seat, placing a large sheet of green waxed paper on the chipped formica table to serve as a tablecloth. I was the only "gringo" the the place, and I was eyed with curiosity by the regulars. A little girl stared at me with big brown eyes and a bright smile as she sipped her lassi, and I caught a whiff of sambal oleck that made my eyes and my mouth water. I ordered a samosa as a starter, and have never had better. People wandered in and out, laughing with the cook, shaking hands with my waiter Nazim, stopping in for a quick snack of parota garnished with chutney, or a refreshing beer. It was noisy, and divey, and fabulous! I had chicken vindaloo that was to die, which was served with a generous portion of rice. A piece of nan and a mango lassi completed the meal, and l'addition was less than 15 euros. The food tasted like I had wandered into Grandma's house, and she was cooking as she had been all her life! The JJR Café is located at 187 rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, metro lignes 2, 4, or 5, RER B or D. Service continué 11/11.

Sunday with Madame V

Sunday's in Paris are all about relaxation; family and friends, big lunches and long walks, and of course, art! I had a rendezvous with Madame V for lunch and a visit to our favorite atelier on this fine Sunday morning, a tropical and balmy day seldom experienced in this particular parallel. We met in her "quarter", and it was pleasant to stroll to le "Butte aux Cailles", (Quail Hill) and lunch in what Madame V would call a "veree sympatique" café known as "Le Café du Commerce". Cozy, unpretentious, and sensibly priced, it is a little gem, and Madame V and I lingered over our dessert of apple crumble and tea until our perky serveuse prompted our departure delicately (by stacking chairs from outside). My saumon was delicious and cooked to perfection, and they even had "mashies" and offered a basket of whole grain bread! V always knows the best places to eat, and I am highly recommending the Café du Commerce to anyone searching Paris for something good to eat. Well fed, (perhaps too well), I followed my expert guide through the historic, narrow, cobbled streets, the sun warming my skin as the wine warmed my belly, and I realized we had arrived at Place l'Italie - I am still connecting the dots! After a rather unpleasant ride on the metro, (the unseasonably hot weather has caused the trains to reek of "B.O." two months earlier than normal), we emerged into the fresh air and onto Rue de Rivoli, and voila! Our funny atelier, with the giant red and white polka-dot culottes hanging from the front of the building. I love this place! We perused, laughed at the quirkness of certain pieces, and were entertained by "Francesco", a piece of work if there ever was one. It's a joy to support the arts, and Madame V and I bought little thumbnail aquarelles for each other, signed on the back with a bonus tableau and a flourish by Francesco himself. A fine Sunday afternoon, Merci, Madame!

Meet Francesco; Art in Action!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Ermanno Scervino Fall/Winter 2011

It's sad but true; nothing in fashion is new! My grandmother once told me "If you live long enough, you'll see everything come around again", and she was right. And while the Fall/Winter Collection 2011 by Ermanno Scervino is a mélange of styles regurgitated from the 70's and 80's, somehow the collection seems fresh with it's slender silhouettes and monochromatic palette. Androgeny waxes feminine ala 1980's St. Laurent, with tailored trousers that take one anywhere. The daring backless pantsuit stubbornly makes another attempt at relevance yet another season, and the cape is modified into a rather chic 21st century carcoat. I was suprised to see shorts with tights, as this fashion statement seems to have seen it's day in the streets of Paris - being all that in 2009, and noticeably less so in 2010, and were those socks with sandals?! Must have's for Fall 2011: Ankle boots, Groovy car coat (semi cape), slim tailored trousers.

ERMANNO SCERVINO AI 2011-2012

Diary of a Frenchman: A Soldiers Story

In honor of Memorial Day I thought it fitting to take a look inside the life of a soldier, an ordinary man making extraordinary sacrifice for his country. The year is 1871. France is mired in war with the Prussian Army, who have invaded the Republic and surrounded Paris. Napoleon III has been captured and is a Prisoner of War. Meanwhile, a new revolution is brewing, "La Commune". The French Army has it's hands full battling both the Prussians, and pockets of French revolutionaries. From the diary of Corporal Pierre Maugin, 119th Regiment dated from May 6th, 1871: "We are guarding the marine battery (shells of 24) and mortars. We are camped in front of a watermill but there is no water, so we were forced to get water to the mills. Near the fort Mt. Valerien near the village of Nanterre." May 9th: "I went to the company 3rd Divison Armée, 2nd Brigade, in Courbevois. We will go to Paris to dig trenches tomorrow." May 22nd: "In front of the barricades and Clichy le Garenne we have dug our trenches to push them (the Prussians) more easily. We are near them, and they cannot hold their position. They are very tired." May 24th: "We took the Butte Monmarte. We were sweating it out, and we had to do it twice to succeed. The third time we climbed with the bayonets, and it was a real massacre. The bodies were piling up. This hill was their fort. Once we took this position, the fort became ours. Soon we would climb the barricades, and we went so fast that they had no time to respond. They fled rapidly, and we were at the corner of the street with machine guns, and when they ran past we shot them in their backs, which caused them to flee faster. Often they couldn't flee, and some of them had to escape their barricades without firing their cannons. And they put fire to all the buildings they could! They put fire to the Tuileries, and the Ministry of Finance, and the Town Hall. They put down the Vendome column which was remarkable, she was made of cannon pieces that Napoleon (the 1st) took during all his wars. They put fire to all the stores destroying all provisions, and the gunpowder stores blew up because they thought we could use these materials". May 28th: "We finished this pitiable war, and we went to the command center at the Palais d'Elysées, commanded by General Lamireault". June 22nd: "I was nominated to have a medal." To Corporal Pierre Maugin, and to the veterans of the United States Armed Forces; I salute you!

Tea Time

Behind the Louvre, through Place de Colette, and past the Comédie Française lies a quiet street called Rue Chabanais, and an oasis of calm called Zen Zoo Thesaurus, a charming Salon du Thé in the authentic Taiwanese fashion. I was fortunate to be invited to a tasting by Madame V, and as soon as we entered the celadon green salon I sensed this would be no ordinary afternoon of tea and cake! The beautiful strains of the pipa, a Chinese lute, immediately transported us into another world, a world of peaceful garden paths and graceful birds, gentle brooks and bonsai, and the ancient Gong Fu Cha ritual du thé. Our expert guide was Madame Hsieh Yu-hsin, who demonstrated that there is more to a cup of tea than boiling water - much, much more! The ritual is choreographed like a classic ballet, each movement performed exactly as it has always been, with a specific logic and purpose. Madame explained what each utensil was to be used for as she set the table, then excused herself to prepare samples of Formosa's finest Oolong tea for us to choose from. The experience is rather like a wine tasting, one takes in the aroma of the dried leaves as Madame explains their location of origin, percentage of fermentation, and undertones of flavour. The scents were delicate, and it was explained that the infusion process would bring the aroma to life. We also learned that most fragrant teas on the market have parfum added unnaturally. (That is why the first cup of my raspberry tea always smells so good, but I only get one infusion per sachet!) We lingered over three infusions, filling our little clay teapots with water heated to an exacting 90-95° C. Did I mention this was a science? Once the tea is properly infused, one pours the entire amount into the first of three ceramic vessels. Then, burning ones fingers on the piping hot container, one pours a portion into another, shaped like a shotglass. From here, the tea is poured into the third and final cup - but before tasting one takes in the aroma from cup #2. This is not a ritual one performs on the fly, Madame V and I were there nearly two hours, sipping tea and munching on delicious gateaux lichee. It was a wonderful experience, one that I hope to pay forward and share with other friends! You can take part in the Gong Fu Cha ritual du thé Monday - Saturday from 12h to 19h30 by reservation 01 42 96 17 32. Tariff 12-20 euro per person. (French spoken, but little english.) Zen Zoo Thesaurus, Salon du Thé 2 rue Chabanais metro line 1 Palais Royal-Musée du Louvre. You can also visit the online boutique @ http://www.thesaurus-boutique.com/

Dialogues d'ateliers: Artistes à Meudon

Each year the artistes of Meudon open their ateliers, arrange an exhibition of their finest work, and invite the public on a weekend art walk. It's rather like a treasure hunt, one obtains a map from the Hotel de Ville (City Hall), or the Centre d'Art and wanders the streets of town discovering hidden treasures hiding in plein air. It's rather amusing to pass the Meudonaise trawling their village map in hand (like tourists), and one feels a common bond rarely experienced with one's neighbors. Each atelier is marked with a banner, and one enters with anticipation into gardens peppered with sculpture, paintings resting on easels next to lawn chairs, and workspaces that look like an episode of Hoarders. There are many temptations for the art lover, of course everything is for sale! Today I visited the ateliers of Raymond Duroyan, Bernadette Gallet, Claire Amosse, Irene Raymond, Jean-Pierre Dupressoir, Flavia Fenaroli, Gerard Gallen, Cho Nan-Young, Nathalie Tournesac, as well as the hilarious art of Pierre Rouilllon, currently on exhibition at the Centre d'Art. I was even seduced into buying something for myself, a beautiful aquarelle by Monsieur Raymond Duroyan. All the artistes were gracious and friendly, and I thank them all for allowing me to photograph their work!

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Six: Mr. Screensaver

There is something extra hot about being kissed by a handsome man in the streets of Paris. Unlike L.A. or Boston, where passers by will give you the stink eye and growl, "Get a room", in Paris you are offered a "get out of jail free" card for PDA. In fact, it is such a pleasure Mick and I lingered by the Fontaine du Chatelet, completely absorbed in one another. The oppressive noise of a busy city at rush hour faded away, and all pedestrian traffic ceased to exist as our lips connected gently, and our eyes searched the others soul. I don't know what he saw in my eyes, but in his I detected a tenderness I found quite appealing. In France, when you meet someone you immediately feel attracted to, they call it a "flash". I was "flashing", and I don't mean the menopausal variety! "Are you hungry?" Mick inquired, coming up for air. (Is that what he detected in the mirror to my soul?) "I am famished" I admitted, "and I can't wait to see what is on the menu tonight!" Mick took my hand in his and we strolled through the lively, Bohemian streets of Chatelet toward one of my favorite bistros, Bar à Mangér. Weaving our way past little shops full of cheap shoes, black and white posters of Le Tour d'Eiffel, and endless terraces full of chain smoking, wine drinking Parisians engaged in deep debate over Sarkozy's latest scheme, we arrived at an unpretentious little place on Rue St. Opportune des Lavandiers. We were welcomed by our hosts, a sympatico partnership of gay men dedicated to offering delicious cuisine, fabulous wine, and a warm ambiance. It is a small space, and as we had not made reservations we were led up a precarious, circular stairwell to the first floor. I hung onto the railing tightly as I ascended the narrow, pie shaped stairs, feeling a light tingle of vertigo as we arrived up top. The tables were lined up against a wall, with a metal railing that offered one a small protection from plunging onto diners below, as well as an unobstructed view of the bar. The ceiling is freakishly low, and I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland, having just had a drink that caused the room to shrink (or me to grow)! I turned to glance at Mick and see how he was faring, he is at least 6'2" (and I am sure the ceiling is no higher than 5'6"). I couldn't help but laugh at his expression of bewilderment as he folded himself in half and made his way to our table. We ordered an aperitif and I wondered aloud how the waiters managed to negotiate that crazy staircase while balancing food and drink. Mick wondered aloud where to put his legs, folded around his neck like a pretzel, or out in the walkway. I suggested the former, the latter being too dangerous for the wait staff and the diners below! Demonstrating impressive flexibility he complied, and managed to look quite debonair as he sipped his port. Now the chef at Bar à Manger is always thoughtful, his cuisine oozing love with every mouthful. But I think he sensed a flash in the air, or perhaps a little bird (s'appelle "Raul") told him to add a dash of aphrodisia to the order from table 11, because the more we ate, the hotter we became. Mick was in ecstasy over a perfectly broiled lamb chop when I playfully slid my toe underneath his trouser leg, lifting it gently toward his knee with my infamous Via Spiga stiletto. His eyes bulged, and I thought I would have to perform the Heimlich maneuver as he choked on his mouton. "Are you alright?" I asked with alarm. He couldn't speak, his face was bright red, and he frantically reached for a glass of water to gag it down. You see, this is the difference between a French guy and an Anglaise; a French guy would say, "So, yoo want to eet my leg? Yoo have not eenuff on zee plat?" A proper Englishman blushes and demurs, all the while sporting an uncontrollable erection (and harboring deep seated feelings of guilt). I smiled like the Cheshire cat, leaned back, and took a long, slow sip of wine. I was enjoying the dance of seduction, my role as femme fatale, and relished with anticipation his eventual annihilation. But first things first - namely chocolate! I never saw a man eat his dessert so quickly. We passed on café, Mick settled the tab, and we set off arm in arm for a digestive stroll through a beautiful evening in Paris. Our destination was not in question, the language of le flash is unspoken. As we continued our dance in privacy, I couldn't help but channel the spirit of Madeline Kahn as the inimitable Lilli Von Schtupp. Only because he would get the joke I purred, "So is it twue what they say about how your people are - gifted?" (Insert zipper sound) "Oh, it's twue, it's twue!"

To Have and Have Not

Moving outside of one's comfort zone is often difficult, usually scary, unquestionably rewarding, and highly recommended. The opportunity to experience a different culture should be seized whenever it presents itself, to do so opens one's eyes, heart and mind. Born and raised an American, I was naturally accustomed to all the conveniences we take for granted in the good ol' U. S. of A. Like party ice, for example. Having a few friends over? Want to whip up a pitcher of ice cold margaritas? Need more cubes than the 3 trays in your freezer have to offer? No problem, there is surely a convenience store within a couple of blocks, chock full of ice! But in France, non. N'existe pas! (Even at Picard, a chain superstore of frozen foods.) "Ice is not a french concept" I was told. "What do you do when you go camping?" I queried, "Don't you take an ice chest full of food and drinks?" My friend responded with a blank stare, as if I had just arrived in a flying saucer from Planet Zyxzyx. What was I thinking? Of course you wouldn't put unpasteurized cheese, baguette, or a fine Bordeaux on ice! Being possessed with an overwhelming desire to paint walls interesting colours wherever I go, I naturally wanted to create just the right ambiance in my little rented flat in France. So off I went to Monsieur Bricolage, (France's answer to the Home Depot). The paint department was rather small, I perused Aisle 7 searching for the display of paint chips, sample colours on paper. "Ou est le paint chips?" N'existe pas! The closest thing to it are paint cans with lids the colour of what's inside, usually in "School Bus Yellow", " '80's Peach", "Obnoxious Lilac", or "Parisian Beige". Oh la la. And computerized colour matching? I have heard a rumour it's done at the Castorama in Velizy, a suburb southwest of Paris, but I have not been able to confirm this. It's the same with stir sticks, it's not a French concept! As summer approaches, I have become painfully aware (once again) of the lack of window screens in France. What isn't lacking however, is the presence of Man's little winged nemesis; the mosquito! I dated a french guy a few years back who couldn't function with the windows open after dusk, even when it was 90° Fahrenheit in the room. He was so paranoid of mosquitoes it was almost funny ( except I was suffocating - there is no air conditioning here either). Last night I thought of Michel and laughed to myself, payback is a bitch! There was a pesky bloodsucker dive bombing me all night - and les mosquitoes française are not silent but deadly - they bzzzzzzzzzz as they prepare for landing, causing it's intended victim to flail their arms wildly about in vain. They always zoom in for a landing just as one starts to drift off to dreamland.....Garbage disposals and hummingbirds n'existe pas, the former I have learned to live without, the latter I haven't. Of course, it's give and take; if the windows were screened in Paris, you would lose the charm of seeing people leaning out the window, their elbows resting on the sill, having a casual smoke and watching the world pass by on the streets below. You learn to appreciate School Bus Yellow in the dead of winter, when everything is grey and dark for months on end, and you have a margarita at the bar. You offer your guests Champagne or whisky, no ice necessaire!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Alexander McQueen Fall/ Winter 2012

Rock 'n Roll Bondage Snow Queens vs. Space Age Headmistresses from Hell! It's all that and more from Sarah Burton for Alexander McQueen for Fall/Winter 2012. It's the classic battle of black vs. "white is the new black", lace up thigh high vs. ankle boot, model v 8 inches of stiletto heels. The faux fur flies as these bad ass warriors from Planet Sappho take no prisoners, the runway is their bitch tonight! Who will reign supreme, Snow Queens or Headmistresses? You be the judge!

ALEXANDER McQUEEN WOMEN PRÊT-À-PORTER FW 2011-2012 PFW

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Five: Mr. Screensaver

"Stand right, walk left" is the rule of thumb on the escalators and moving walkways of Paris. Especially in a busy train station where people are frantically rushing to a rendezvous, or late for work. Fail to comply, and all bets are off! Of course les française will say "Pardon", but don't misinterpret the meaning. They are really saying, "Get the hell out of my way, you moron!" So when a young creeper blocked the fast lane on a trotteur to line 4 (as he tried to pick me up), you can imagine the vexation that ensued. If I'd had a rear view mirror, I would have seen a hundred faces fixed with what I like to call "the french furrow" - one giant collective uni-brow knit together in a frown. (Botox is definitely not the rage here.) Professing his love for me, he played his hand - a pair of deuces. "Piss off!" I said indelicately. I had already told him "No" with a capital N-O, and removed his hands from my body. Just then I saw an opening, and I maneuvered through it like a seasoned driver on the 405 at rush hour. Managing to stay one small step ahead of a tsunami of commuters, I never looked back. I assume Monsieur became lost in a sea of flotsam as the trotteur spat us out into an open hallway, where hundreds of people crisscrossed in an out of two separate tunnels to metro lines 4 and 12. This is no place for the timid, if you don't hold your ground and push your way through, you will be washed away like a grain of sand! Through the tunnel we snaked, first left, then right. A Rastafarian carved out a space in the corner at the left turn and sang reggae mon, his guitar plugged into the World's Cheapest Amplifier. I swear, you go upstairs just to go downstairs in the metro - it's like the infamous Winchester House! A young Gypsy woman sat smack dab on the steps halfway up, her eyes cast downward in false humility, her palm extended upward. Parisians have seen it all and the crowd pushed past, ignoring her. Finally I reached the quai, and jockeyed for position. During rush hour there would be no seats, and when you throw a perturbation into the mix it's difficult to even squeeze yourself onto the train. I glanced at the clock, I was right on schedule. "Bling" went my phone, signaling an incoming SMS. "The sheriff's a comin'!" (For those of you who know the movie "Blazing Saddles", you know what's next.) Before I could reply the train arrived, and I assessed the situation - sometimes it's best to wait it out if the cars are too crowded. Luck be a lady, the train arrived half full - I even secured a seat! Opening the phone, I composed my reply, "Hey, the sheriff is a ni-BONG!" I hit "send". I was a happy camper, how often do you meet a person who can quote your favorite movie? And he was tall, and he was handsome, and he was interesting. "Winning!" People stepped on and off the car as the train snaked it's way through Paris, stopping at St. Michel in the lively Quatier Latin, and heading toward Chatelet. There is a bistro I adore in Chatelet, and I wanted to share it with Mick. The train stopped at Cité, and a huge group of happy Italians boarded noisily - all talking at once. I had the sense they were one big family of sisters and cousins, nieces and nephews, grandchildren and married couples, all presided over by a formidable matriarch. Possessing a voice louder than all 15 of them put together, she commanded attention and respect as she herded her clan through the maze of Paris. Her ginormous breasts jiggled like Jello as she laughed heartily at something her grandson said, a cute teenager with a dazzling smile and a smart mouth. Her husband stood quietly in the background, content to observe his happy family together on vacation. He had willingly relinquished control to Mama decades ago, life being easier that way. The train screeched to a stop and I waded past Team Italia, offering a polite "Pardon". I located the proper sortie, (essential at a station as large as Chatelet) and ascended into the fresh air. Our designated location of rendezvous was the fountain at Place du Chatelet, and I spotted Mick standing beside one of the Sphinx, scanning the crowd for his date. I hung back for just a moment, drinking in this cool glass of water. There is something so sexy about a well groomed man, right girls? He brightened as I approached and moved toward me, taking me in his arms and kissing me tenderly on the lips. Damn he smelled good! Join me next week to find out if a) I swoon and fall backwards into the fountain, b) he smells so good I eat him for dinner, or c) his boss calls an emergency meeting before we get to the restaurant on Your Friday French Rom-Com!

The Glass Ceiling

"Do you consider yourself French?" I was lunching with a friend and posed this question, curious as to how she viewed herself. Born in Glendale, California, Madame C arrived as a college student over 30 years ago, met and married a dapper young Frenchman, and settled in her adopted country. They had three children together, who have married and started families of their own in France. Madame speaks perfect french (according to my sources), even if with a distinct American twang. She has worked in France for many years, attended her community church and sang with the choir, holds duel citizenship, and voting privileges. She has even been called to serve jury duty! "That's a good question" Madame C mused. She sipped her tea slowly as she took her time to think it through. "Well, I am almost french" she slowly, as if she didn't quite believe it. "My accent gives me away" she added, "and come to think of it, I do say things in a way that is American. So, I guess I would say no!" I was surprised (and yet, not). "That's amazing" I laughed, as I read the laundry list of her qualifications, "In America, if an immigrant has lived, worked, raised a family, learned the language, voted, and paid taxes for 30 years, he is an "American"! If you have lived there for 10 years you would be considered "American"! WTF France?" But interestingly enough, all of these things don't add up to a hill of beans in the minds of les française. Apparently, one must think like a Frenchman (a task more daunting than finding Jimmy Hoffa), have a lineage that excludes African ancestry, (second generation Algerians born in France are still considered "Algerian"), and learn to truly appreciate the aroma of unpasteurized cheese. Later that day I was speaking with a mutual friend, a Frenchman who has known Madame C for 20 years. "Would you consider Madame C to be french?" I asked, as I listed all the reasons she should. J.M. paused, scratching his nose and rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his other arm crossed over his chest. "Hmmm" he was searching his mind carefully. This was a loaded question, a difficult one to answer. "She has made a success here in France" he admitted, raising one eyebrow as well as his index finger, "but she is not exactly french". "What would make her french?" I asked. My friend shrugged, his lower lip jutting out just a bit, his eyebrows changing to resemble Shaggy's (from Scooby-Doo). "I don't know" was his answer.

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Four: Mr. Screensaver

Note to self: Never run for a train, there will always be another one! Even during those pesky perturbations, when they run half schedule. And what better excuse to keep a gentleman waiting than the old french standby, "Le train etait rétardé!" (It's the parisian equivalent of "The dog ate my homework", but it carries a little more clout). But on this occasion I wasn't in the mood to spend 25 euros on a taxi into Paris, this was the only train into town this hour, and in the end I think it is inconsiderate to be more than 10 minutes late for a rendezvous. So I was determined to be on it, even if I had to run like a madwoman in 4" stiletto Italian shoes that would charm the most dedicated foot fetishist. I flung open the gate and sprinted out, without a care if it was locked behind me. The sidewalk was uneven and treacherous, I leaped off the curb into the street which was paved more evenly, and devoid of doggie doo. I could hear my train pulling into the quai, groaning and squealing under the strain of too many journeys as the driver applied the brakes. If I wasn't wearing these stupid shoes it would be a cinch, but I had three sets of stairs to negotiate once I got past the turnstile. I was nearing the plaza, paved with bricks and not at all conducive to the 50 yard dash. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeKKKK!" The train stopped and the doors opened. I had less than 20 seconds before departure as I entered the Gare. I made it through the turnstile smoothly with my magnetic Navigo, and approached the first set of stairs. Ah stairs, my nemesis! I briefly considered taking off my shoes, but just briefly. I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in a panic behind me, and held the handrail just a little tighter as two teen aged boys raced past, determined to be on that train. "Wait for me!" I yelled at no one in particular. I had made it down staircase number two and through the doors. The bell signaling takeoff had not yet sounded, and I was in descent of staircase number three. The boys jumped into the nearest car and turned to watch the show. It's always fun to see someone run for a train, narrowly slipping through the "Jaws of Death" and into the car, victorious! (And it's the only time it's socially acceptable and unambiguous to smile at someone on a train). "Hold the door, hold the door!" I pleaded in English. I was too panicked to say it in french, I needed more time to switch the language tape in my head. The bell sounded as I reached the bottom of the staircase. I had less than 3 seconds to cover 3 meters and mount the stairs to the train before the Jaws of Death slammed in my face for good, and left me standing on the platform looking stupid. Flo Jo had nothing on me as I flew through the air, my feet barely touching the ground. The boys teamed up to help me, each one straining with all his might to hold the doors open. The train cannot depart if the doors aren't shut, (the practice of holding them open highly frowned upon by the Department of Train Scheduling). I leaped into the train, and when the boys let go of the doors they slammed shut immediately. "Merci" I smiled gratefully. "Whew! That was a close one!" "De rien" the boys replied, and we shared a community laugh. I found my seat and and sighed deeply, trying to regain my composure. It was a ten minute ride to Paris, and I closed my eyes and took a moment to catch my breath. My heart was pounding wildly, and the image of having a cardiac arrest on a suburban train flickered by like a silent movie. (At least I was wearing cute underwear!) Just then my phone blinged - an incoming SMS. "Looking forward to seeing you, xMick" it said. "Moi aussi" I replied, and thoughtfully checked my shoes for any possible damage sustained by my sprint to the train. With her mélange of cobblestones, potholes cemented and re-cemented, endless staircases, and canine booby traps, this town eats shoes for breakfast! Everything checked out, my pulse returned to almost normal, and I was on schedule. The next step: securing a space on the line 4. A busy line on the metro on a normal day, during a perturbation the cars are crammed full, and a queue of five people deep wait impatiently on the platform to push their way in. You see, a strike in Paris doesn't necessarily mean there will be no service. It's more like a one to three day demi-schedule. Perhaps one or two lines traversing Paris will be closed, and the others will run every 5 minutes instead of 3. Traffic from the closed lines is naturally rerouted, and the underground tunnels resemble a rats maze even more than normal as perturbed parisians push by one another, focused on getting home from work as quickly as possible. You must have your game face on, and fearlessly aggressive to secure a spot. The suburban train pulled into Gare Montparnasse, a major artery of transportation throughout l'Ile de France and beyond. The quai was already crowded with commuters who had waited extra long for a train home, and they barely let us disembark before pushing their way on board. "Oh la la" I groaned, as I weaved through the madding crowd. I hate crowds, and being in the middle of a perturbed, grouchy crowd is even worse. I pictured my handsome Englishman and kept my eye on the prize. I held on to my purse a little tighter and walked with purpose through the station, hesitating for no one. It's dog eat dog in the naked city! I stepped on to the trotteur, a moving walkway that expedites one's journey through the Gare, and stopped walking for a moment, letting the machine do the work. Just then a young African man stopped to my left, creating a bottleneck. When on an escalator or trotteur in Paris, the rule is "stand right, walk left". (The left side is a sort of passing lane, and as on the autoroute, it is considered rude to linger there). "You want to go someplace with me?" he asked, putting his arm around me. I shrugged off his arm and frowned. "NO!" I said, emphatically. "But you are beautiful, and I love you!" he insisted. I looked him in the eye. He smiled his most charming playa smile, his eyes twinkling. Join me next week to find out if I a) trade my handsome Englishman for a cute Senegalese, b) kick this creeper in the nuts, or c) get trampled by 1,000 angry frenchmen saying, "Pardon" on Your Friday Night French Rom-Com!

Le Marché aux Fleurs

It's April in Paris, the sun is shining, and the weather is fine. French men are frisky, and falling madly in love all over town. Tulips bloom in profusion, and the streets are filled with tourists in town on spring break. I am obsessed with my garden at present, planting primrose, dahlias, columbine and nasturtiums, and heavily engaged in the age old battle of man vs. escargot. "Ave yoo been to le marché aux fleurs?" Madame V inquired, "eet eez very bu-tee-fool!" We arranged a rendezvous, and after a delicious lunch at chéz V, we caught the bus and made our way to the l'Ile de Cité, the heart of ancient France. Back in medieval times, France was a tiny island where the Seine forked, and just a little beyond. For centuries Normandy was controlled by the English, Provence was her own, her fertile soil battled over by Rome, Spain, and England alike. It was the same to the north and the east as well, Europe was a mélange of feudal clans and monarchy's. It took centuries of bloody battles, carefully arranged marriages, and delicate diplomacy (not to mention bribes), before France expanded her territory to become as we recognize her today. So when you visit St. Chappelle, Notre Dame, and the Place Dauphin, you are standing in the original France! I was acutely aware of this as we approached the market, even as the buzz of modern life drowned out the whispers of ghosts from the past. Parisians eager to pimp their terraces with a profusion of bright colours peruse the market, comparing prices from vendor to vendor. Tourists flock to this famous marché to capture a Tweet-pic, and the proprietaire of each stall does their best to charm you into buying. I was in paradise, the hortensia's (hydrangeas) here are ginormous, and there are new hybrids available every year. There was wisteria blooming fragrant and violet, and great big begonias. One vendor specializes in cactus, which has become quite popular with Parisians! This is the last remaining open air flower market of it's kind in Paris, and the locals cherish it like they cherish St. Chappelle and unpasteurized cheese. Every Sunday a metamorphosis occurs, and flowers become birds at the equally famous Marché aux Oiseaux. A tradition in Paris since 1808, you can visit the Marché aux Fleurs from Monday - Saturday, 8h - 19:30, et aux Oiseaux every Sunday at a civilzed time. Metro ligne 4 to Cité.

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Three: Mr. Screensaver

Heading home from my first rendezvous with Mick was a giddy affair, it had been a very successful first date as first dates go! We spoke easily on a variety of subjects, we had chocolate, we discovered we had the same favorite movie (Blazing Saddles), and nobody hurled. We made a date for dinner the following night, and I was on the way home considering restaurant and wardrobe options when my phone blinged - an incoming text from my handsome Englishman. "My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives!" I squealed with delight - he was quoting Hedley Lamarr from our favorite film! I don't think I've ever met another human being who can randomly pull quotes out of their ass from this movie, but Blazing Saddles was our "Rocky Horror Picture Show". We know every line by heart. "You use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore" I texted back. Laughing out loud to myself, I was giving out crazy vibes (nobody dares laugh or smile for no apparent reason here), and the rush hour commuters I shared the train with stared disapprovingly. I wasn't phased, I gave up long ago trying to fit in. I went home and perused my closet. The next day was hectic, I had several clients and barely enough time to freshen up before my dinner date with Mick. Plus, there was a perturbation; a one day strike on half the metro lines in Paris. Not very effective in terms of favorable changes to one's contract, but very effective in perturbing their hapless victims; those who commute by train everyday. Of course, the line I was taking to our rendezvous is one of the busiest, and I could quite possibly have to wait for two or three trains before managing to cram myself into a car full of sweating, frowning Parisians like a sardine without olive oil. Then suddenly I remembered a rule of dating I had heard somewhere; a woman should be a little bit late! (I guess it has something to do with anticipation.) Taking a deep breath to decontracte, I applied my favorite fragrance at the pulse points, put on my Via Spiga CFM's, and headed out the door. Just as I was locking up, I heard an all too familiar sound, the faint roar of a distant train approaching. I live about 45 seconds from the station, but by my calculations the train would be en quai in about 30, and as I mentioned, I was wearing CFM's not Nike's. "Merde!" I exclaimed, "That's my train!" Now I can walk in my stilettos, and I can dance in my stilettos, (I can even make love in my stilettos), but I simply cannot run for a train in my stilettos! But I was determined to try. Across the terrace I ran - like Blanche DuBois in "The Golden Girls" - or perhaps it was Sophia. These were shoes one wears to walk to the car, which is parked in the garage, which is right outside the kitchen door, and is dropped off at the front of the restaurant in. Down the steps, I cleared the hose that snaked around the pathway menacingly, and rounded the corner to the front of the house. The train was close now, if I didn't have these damn shoes on I might be able to make it! I hit the buzzer to release the lock on the front gate, the train was just pulling into the station. I didn't bother to make sure the gate was latched, there was a strike on and this was the only train into Paris this hour! I got my Flo Jo on and stilettos or no, I defied the old axiom; "Never run for a train, there will always be another one!" Tune in next week and find out if: a) I trip on a pothole and do a face plant in the street, b) I make the train, but get caught in the "Jaws of Death", or c) I call a taxi on Your Friday Night French Rom-Com!

Pardon my French Part Deux: The Devil is in the Details

I was on the Metro recently with my dear Madame V, making our way in silence toward our destination and engaging in the plasir of people watching, when a good looking young french guy stepped into our car. As the doors (or as I fondly call them; "The Jaws of Death") slammed shut, he leaned against them and casually scanned his Ipod, searching for that catchy tune that had been on his mind all afternoon. His bone structure caught my interest - upon occasion I see people in France who look as if they just stepped out of a 16th century painting! I saw a dude last month who was the spitting image of Napoleon, (he was even short). Often they look like a Duke of Something, with large hook noses, heavily lidded eyes, and thin lips. This boy had the look of an aristocrat painted all over him, and I leaned over to whisper in Madame V's ear. As usual, I attempted to communicate in french (for purposes of this story I will say it in english), "That guy near the door has a face like a old painting." There are two ways to say "old"; vieux, or ancien (I have no idea when it's correct to use which word). I chose the latter, partly because we have a similar word in english; "ancient" . V looked over at him, then back to me, a look of utter confusion on her face. "Quoi?" she asked, "I doesn't understand" (I didn't correct her, those little grammatical mistakes are so cute!) "Il visage est comme une peinture ancien" I repeated. She frowned and looked back at the Duke, thoughtfully considering my statement. Something wasn't adding up, but she couldn't quite figure out what it was! Plus, it's hard for her to hear with the noise of the train. Soon we arrived at our stop, and as we headed toward the sortie Madame V asked, "What deed you say about zat man?" "I said he has a face like an old painting" I replied. "Oh, ancien! (pronounced ahn-see-en) I think you say "un chien" (pronounced ahn she-en). She began to laugh so hard she stopped walking, doubling over and gasping for breath. I had pronounced "ancien" as we would in english, with a sshh sound. This very subtle difference between "sshh" and "see" changed my sentence from, "He has a face like an old painting", to "He has a face like a painting of a dog"! My bad.

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Deux: Mr.Screensaver

"Madame," the waiter smiled as he presented a beautifully plated dessert of raspberries, chocolate and a tuile of meringue. "Monsieur..." We returned his smile gratefully and Nick offered a "merci" as our tea was laid before us on a perfectly starched white linen tablecloth. The day was fine; balmy and warm, we were on a bateaux moored on the Seine with a breathtaking view of Notre Dame, and I was in the company of a tall, handsome Englishman. Who could ask for more? OK, I could - the only thing missing was a shot of Dramamine on the side! Oh la la, the bateaux was barely rocking on the gentle wake of the river, but I was feeling a bit queasy and trying not to show it. I found if I concentrated on the chocolate, and fixed my gaze on Mick's beautiful blue eyes I felt less nauseous, and the conversation was easy and interesting. Englishmen are so very different than the french; less chauvanistic and more deferential, more appreciative and less judgemental, less neurotic and more open. While most of my dating experiences with french men included - at some point - walking at least 5 paces behind, (a total dealbreaker) Mick took my hand in his, and we walked side by side around Paris. (5 bonus points!) I learned about his work, and could see that underneath his genteel exterior was the heart of a warrior. He was obviously a master chessman, a formidable foe at the negotiating table. And yet he possessed that most precious attribute; humility. "This is probably boring you" he said of his work, "I would much rather talk about you!" So we chatted on about hobbies and books and gardening and politics, shared our horror and disbelief regarding Sarah Palin, and discovered we had the same favorite movie, (Blazing Saddles). All the proper subjects for a first date - if Mick was Michel, he would have looked me dead in the eye and asked me (before we were presented with "l'addition"), "So, do yoo sink I am interes tink?" (Translation: "So, do you want to have sex afterward or shall we split the bill?") Now this question is a land mine for an Americaine new to the system and unaware of the cultural mores of french society. Not only is it embarrassingly direct, if you don't know that what he is asking is really not about the attributes of his personality, rather whether or not you intend to engage in unlawful carnal knowledge, you could easily walk into a trap of misunderstanding! But there was no ambiguity with my English gentleman, no embarrassing questions I didn't know how to answer. We finished our tea and pastries, and hand in hand continued our stroll along the Rive Gauche, admiring the various houseboats and pondering the unique lifestyle of a "River Rat". The sun had begun her slow descent toward late afternoon, bathing Paris in a rosy glow - the light a beautiful shade of pink I have never experienced anywhere else. The traffic on the street above increased with commuters heading home from work, but down along the river it was peaceful and calm, like a different world altogether. It's no wonder the Seine is a prefered location for lovers! We passed a young couple who were busily kissing; there is no "Get a room!" here, it is considered more vulgaire (like a prostitute), than PDA. Mick and I smiled knowingly, and he gave my hand a little squeeze. "I'll be here one more day" Mick said, "I'd like to take you to dinner tomorrow night - that is if you are free!" I was, and I accepted. "I wish I didn't have this dinner meeting tonight." We paused to watch a fisherman reel in a trout-like little Nemo, and he put his arm around my waist and gave me a little side hug. "I'd much rather spend the evening with you!" (Note: he clearly said "evening") I snuggled into his chest and he smelled good, a mélange of navy blue worsted wool, impeccable grooming, and "Allure" by Chanel Homme. Delish! The pecheur busily baited his hook, a woman walked by keeping a watchful eye on a freewheeling Jack Russell Terrier, and yet another Bateaux Mouches lumbered by, loaded with tourists happy to wave at romantic couples strolling the Seine. As dusk approached, we found ourselves at Place du Concorde, and we said our goodbyes in the metro as we took separate lines on our merry way. I think I had a certain glow - the kind one gets after a particularly good date - and I found myself smiling as I recalled my afternoon with Mick. Which is always a hazard when on public transportation, what was I thinking? My eyes naturally darted around the train as we rhythmically swayed to the motion through the mysterious tunnels underneath Paris, and I noticed no fewer than 5 men checking me out with obvious interest; for no man has a nose for pheromones like a Frenchman! I deliberately avoided direct eye contact, as the combination of this and a smile is obviously an invitation to unlawful carnal knowledge in froggie land. But I just couldn't suppress myself, the edges of my lips refused to head south, and I hoped the creepers would assume I was daft (the only other reason anyone smiles in Paris). Just as we approached my stop my phone blinged her little code for an incoming SMS - from my handsome Englishman. I joined the crowd of commuters busily texting, talking, and scrolling for Itunes and accessed my inbox. The message made me laugh out loud; tune in next week to find out if Mick a) quoted Hedey Lamar, ("that's HEDLEY!") b) spontaneously canceled his meeting, or c) sexted me instead of texted me

Your Friday Night French Rom-Com Part One: Mr. Screensaver

Divorce after a lifetime of marriage (I met my ex husband at the age of 19, and was married until 50), one finds oneself in a brave new world; a world of Internet dating sites, somewhat ambiguous gender roles, and a plethora of rules that boggle the mind. When one is a woman "of a certain age", the dating game seems a bit of a pain, however I must admit to enjoying the company of men. So I threw my hat in the ring, posted a profile, and in no time I had several options to choose from. One response in particular piqued my interest, his introduction was gentlemanly and he actually attached a photo of his face instead of his penis! (5 bonus points) He was staying near Bastille, and we arranged an afternoon rendezvous on the steps of the new opera house. Springtime in Paris is nothing less than magical. After months of gray skies and bitter cold, suddenly one morning one awakens to the obnoxious chatter of a magpie, blue skies, and double digits on the thermometer. There are masses of tulips everywhere, and gypsies stand at the exits of the metro selling bouquets of daffodils. It was just such a day as I arrived to meet my date - a fine spring afternoon, perfect for strolling around the most romantic city in the world with a handsome and elegant man! And handsome he was; with a shock of silver-grey hair that complimented perfectly his turquoise blue eyes, classic bone structure, tall and slender with broad shoulders, (just how I like 'em) and an engaging smile. "Hi, I'm Mick" he greeted me warmly with an extended hand. "Bonjour Mick" I introduced myself and touched my cheek to his - first the right, then the left. (It's a precise system) "Shall we take a walk along the river?" he offered, "Do you know the Canal St. Martin? I passed by it on the way to meet you, it's really charming!" I admitted I hadn't yet discovered this little inlet on the Seine dotted with houseboats, some having secured their mooring long before I was born. Mick took my hand in his, and we chatted easily as we meandered away from the hustle bustle of the Place du Bastille and toward the peaceful banks of the river. I learned he was anglaise, based in London, divorced with two young adult children, and he worked in shipping. In fact, his office was on a ship. No wonder he wanted to walk along the river! I found him easy to talk to, even if he was a proper Englishman - I am sure I made him blush a time or two, but he didn't seem to mind my directness. I shared my story of how I arrived to be in Paris, and he admired my courage. We walked and talked, and before we knew it we could see Notre Dame looming in the near distance. The Bateaux Mouches were ferrying tourists up and down the river, turning around laboriously near the great Gothic cathedral and allowing for plenty of photo opps. The sun was heading westward, my dogs were barking, and Mick declared it to be tea time. Serendipitously, we stumbled upon a boat converted into a tea and cake barge, and after regarding the possibilities on a menu (conveniently posted dockside), we crossed under a welcome arch festooned with fake ivy and plastic geraniums onto a deck furnished with white linen tablecloths and a several young Greek waiters. I couldn't have asked for much more; I was sitting across from a gorgeous and interesting man, in Paris, on the Seine, about to enjoy something fabulous involving chocolate and raspberries, on one of the three days a year when the weather is absolutely perfect! There was just one little problem; the thing is, I get seasick on a water bed. I am a total landlubber, the only thing I'm good for on a boat is chummin'! Granted, we weren't out to sea - the Seine has a current as seemingly gentle as a baby cradle, and the wake of the Bateaux Mouches barely kissed our barge - yet even this subtle motion was starting to get to me. I felt with dismay that familiar sensation in my stomach and head simultaneously, and began a frantic mental calculation of possible toilet location and how much time it would take to get there, vs how much time I had before the moment of truth, all the while trying to smile and concentrate on whatever the hell Mick was saying. I began breathing a little more deeply through my mouth, trying not to look at the movement of the horizon, instead fixing my gaze intently into Micks eyes. I am sure I looked rather like a cat who gets that funny open mouth posture when they smell something really funky (as I sat there doing my best not to puke). I am also reasonably sure that Mick didn't feel a thing in terms of motion, as we weren't exactly on the Deadliest Catch. I just hoped that I could get through tea without a dating faux pas! Join me next week for Your Friday French Rom-Com and find out if a) I lose my cookies on a first date, b) one of those cute Greek boys slips me his phone number, or c) we throw caution to the wind, and go skinny dipping in the Seine!

Diary of a Frenchman: A Soldiers Story Part 3

From the diary of Pierre Maugin, Corporal 119th Regiment of the French Army, we catch a glimpse of a soldier defending France against the invading Prussian army, who have captured Napoleon III and surrounded Paris. From an entry dated February 2, 1872: "Bombs were falling everywhere. The ground was trembling. It was very cold. We got up at 5:00 in the morning and started shooting, and the Prussians fled. When a horse was felled everyone jumped on it and cut the flesh and put it in the fire on the end of our knives. Some ate it raw. It was very bloody." February 5th: "Today we were asked to lay down our weapons. We were considered as prisoners, we had to deposit our weapons in the Pantheon church. This church is very beautiful! Lots of bombs are stored here. On the 4th of February a census was organized to know how many men were eligible to vote. The trains were starting to work again. Some trains loaded with flour arrived from the south of France. In the fortresses we found wine and bacon. Onions the size of an egg cost 50 centimes a unit, and potatoes were 20 centimes!" February 8th: "Today we voted. I went to see the Notre Dame. There were 400 steps, and I could see all of Paris, but not to it's limits. We slept in the Louvre." Next week Corporal Maugin gets a little R&R!