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!