Upon Reflection

Five years ago I embarked upon a dream of a lifetime, to live in Paris, the City of Lights. Her history, her monuments magnificently lit at night, her enigmatic personality beckons one with all the seductive charm of the most formidable femme fatale. And it is with great sorrow that I must leave her as she is now part of me - in my blood, in my heart, and always on my mind. As I prepare for departure I move about the city drinking in the sights and sounds I have begun to take for granted in the normal course of daily living. Often surrealistic, I feel as a phantome, a spectre that passes unnoticed through the hustle bustle of rush hour on the metro. Her parfum penetrates my nostrils, a mélange of humidity, tobacco, frommage, and duck fat. Her song fills my senses, the rythym kept time by the trains on the track, the horn section composed of angry, impatient drivers, the chanteuse gay laughter of young girls flirting with boys. There is no place like Paris and I am the luckiest girl in the world to have lived here. As I reflect I realize just how full my life has been! I participated in my first manifestation, attended an ambulation, and puked in a metro station. I've sat with my sketch pad drawing in le Louvre, and danced the Tango on the Quai St. Bernard on a balmy summer night, the bateux mouches loaded with tourists capturing the romance on film. I've been to London, Switzerland, Belguim, and Italy, paid homage at the Sacred Beaches of Omaha, Gold, and Juno, visited ancient Roman ruins, and fell on my ass in a bar in Amsterdam. I've palled around with Communists, Socialists, Marxists, and Jazz musicians. I've stayed in a suite at the Ritz with a dream date, picknicked on the Pont des Arts under a full moon, and took a young Italian lover who ferried me about on a scooter! I learned to appreciate the pleasures of raw oysters from Bretagne, fois gras, and stinky, unpasteurized cheese, and dined for hours with friends consuming countless bottles of wine. The friendships I have forged will last a lifetime - and what beautiful friends they are! It is they I will miss most of all.

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 6: "Mr. Low-key"

I was floating on Cloud 9 all the way home on the train. It felt good to be with "Low". He was smart, inquisitive, funny, and adorable! It had been difficult to leave him to sleep alone, but anticipation being the ultimate aphrodisiac I reluctantly tore myself out of his arms, gave him one final kiss and disappeared into the metro. I must have had a glow, or maybe it was the smile on my face that had every man on the train looking at me. If you go around smiling parisians assume you are completely crazy so perhaps it was the latter, but I didn't care. I was happy as a lark! Suddenly, my cellphone chirped - I had a text. "Thnx 4 2day" it read, "had a grt time! xoxo" "I had a gurt time 2" I replied, "sleep tight!" He said goodnight and as I put my phone in my purse I noticed a man sitting two rows away grinning at me. He winked as our eyes met, and I looked out the window nonchalantly. (The other thing french men assume is that if you smile at them in the train it means "Please follow me when I get off at my stop and let's go make love!" So I have learned to suppress my California attitude, and like any self respecting parisienne, snub them as if they are invisible.) I could see the Tour d'Eiffel twinkling in the distance, as it does every hour on the hour all night long. It's moments like these that remind me why I moved here in the first place, trading a life of security and comfort for the unknown. The next stop was mine, and as the train pulled into the station I made my way to the door. To my chagrin, Blinky did too. He hadn't stopped staring after my obvious F.U. and I made every effort not to make eye contact a second time. I hoped was getting off the train because he lived in my town, and in the opposite direction! I live near the gare, and I didn't want him to know where. I reached for my phone, and pretending to have a conversation with someone I mounted the stairs toward the exit. Blinky wasn't far behind, and I could feel his eyes burning a hole somewhere near my ass all the way up. Just then a young guy moved quickly between us to the top of the stairs, and as I pushed through the turnstile he created a welcome buffer. I wasn't obliged to hold the door for Blinky, and I breathed a little sigh of relief as he exited the door opposite from me and went on his way. Once inside the gate my thoughts returned to Low. As I climbed the stairs to my flat I wondered if he had already gone to bed. I imagined him there all naked and cosy, and me next to him! My mind running freely, I asked my self if he wore underwear to bed. Which led me to ponder if he was a boxer man or a tighty-whitey. Maybe he wore the kind that are like tight shorts - in red! I finally settled on banana hammock, also in fire engine red, who can argue with that? I switched on the television and found an opera on Arte, France's version of PBS. It was one of my favorites, "La Traviata", and the beautiful arias were the icing on the delicious cake that was the day. I showered off the dust of the city and settled into bed. The sheets felt cool and welcoming, and I sighed with contentment as I spooned up to my extra pillow to enjoy the finalé of a top notch production and reflect on the afternoon. I hoped Low was sincere about his theatre invitation and would really return the next weekend. My instincts told me he would, but in the dating game anything could happen! Join me next week and find out if a) Low returns to Paris just to see me, OR b) he totally stands me up!

Café Culture

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

The Fabulous Flavien

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

A Day at the Races

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

Visiting Champagne Part Deux

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