Diary of a Frenchman: A Soldiers Story

I had the pleasure of being invited to Sunday lunch by my proprietaire (landlord), an interesting french gentleman with an impressive collection of books - heirlooms passed down through many generations of family. One such treasure is the diary of a distant relative, exactly how they are related is somewhat ambiguous, probably the great uncle of his grandpére. His name was Pierre Maugin, and he was a Corporal in the 119th Regiment of the French Army when the diary begins in November, 1871. I begged Jean-Michel to read us a story, and listened as eagerly as a child would to Peter Pan being read to her at bedtime. His is a soldiers story, his words vividly bring to the fore a picture of hardship and sacrifice. I would like to share with you selections from the diary of Corporal Pierre Maugin, one entry at a time, over the next few weeks. First, allow me to set the scene. It is a very cold November in 1871. Napoleon III, (nephew of Napoleon I) has been captured by the Prussian Army, who have declared war on France and surrounded Paris. The french are starving, and their soldiers are freezing to death as they sleep. The french army is circling Paris, engaging in skirmishes with the Prussians, looking for inroads to regain control of the city. Complicating matters is a civil war brewing; "La Commune", in the heart of Paris. The french army must contend with the Prussians and a socialist revolution that is rapidly snowballing. From an entry dated December 29, 1871: "The bombshells were falling on us. We were tired and we were hungry. We were cold. We slept along a wall. Our clothes were frozen, some men froze to death during the night. We were departing Bobigny in the village of Gennevilliers. The houses were empty and people had deserted. So we occupied their houses and were less cold. We were on duty for 24 hours outside. It was not very warm and we couldn't make a fire. A couple of houses had burned down, only the walls remained. And even these had holes! At 2:00 in the morning someone came with a kettle of tea. This was truly comforting, and everyone came with their bottles." Note: Much thanks to Jean-Michel for allowing me to share this story, and to his lovely daughter Helen for translating it to english. Coming soon: The high price of rats in 1871!

Strangers on a Train

I gave up my car upon moving to France, and with the exception of the tears of heartbreak I shed when I surrendered the keys of my Mercedes 230 SLK convertible (in black) with a Kompressor engine, I have never regretted it. Mass transit is so accessible, so easy, and so inexpensive here that unless there is a perturbation the train and the bus is the way to commute! People watching opportunities abound; a businessman in a navy blue pinstripe suit, highly polished pointy toed shoes, and Sponge Bob Square Pants socks busily reviews his paperwork while casually picking his nose. An old woman with flaming orange hair, whose support hose strain to contain her cankles, carries a ginormous sack of groceries laboriously onto the train and sighs heavily as she plops into her seat, a young Algerian male with baggy jeans, a D&G knockoff belt buckle, and headphones scrolls his MP3 for the latest french rap. There are tourists absorbed in their maps, and yuppies on the way to and from work, and gypsies who hold you hostage with a violin (which in this case can be considered a lethal weapon). And every once in a while - not often - you see a really hot guy. I was on my way home on the last train of the night when I noticed "Judo Dude". Noticeably taller, beefier, and more sportif than the average french guy he was hard to miss; his dark brunette hair was a striking contrast to his creamy white skin and rosebud lips, his blue eyes framed the longest eyelashes imaginable! He was downright pretty, (in a young Brad Pitt kind of way). We locked eyes as he boarded the car and he made a beeline toward me, choosing to sit in the seat directly across and facing me. (Holy shit!) He smiled and I blushed, looking demurely out the window at nothing. In my peripheral vision however were his thighs, which I can only describe as tree trunks. The kind of strong, oak tree trunks that you instincively want to wrap your arms and legs around and climb - higher and higher toward the heavens! He was no older than 25, but suddenly I felt young again when his knee "accidently" brushed mine as he folded his rather considerable frame into a space clearly not intended for two people over 5'4". On the floor next to us was his gym bag, as big as he was, and I noted that I would be obliged to climb over it at my stop. His scent was that of freshly showered testosterone, his blue Nike athletic shirt clung to his torso like a second skin. I could see clearly the cut of his pecs and his biceps in the reflection of the window. Of course, he was using the tried and true "window method" of flirtation as well (it has reached the level of art here), and he caught my eye in the reflection and flashed a shy smile. There was nowhere to go, I was trapped between a Mount Everest sized gym bag and a hard place, and the train was pulling out of the station. Meanwhile, my panties had taken on a mind of their own and decided to take a trip south! If I looked straight ahead there he was, smiling seductively. If I looked out the window, his reflection invited me to dangerous places. I leaned my head against the glass and shut my eyes - another tried and true method of using body language on mass transit. His knee gently kissed mine in synchopation with the rythym of the train, which lumbered toward our first stop like an old workhorse. I feigned sleep as we pulled into the station, keeping my eyes shut as a deflector shield - a self imposed cock block. He was creepin', normally I wouldn't support any physical contact with a stranger on a train, but Judo Dude was so cute I found myself making an exception! As passengers disembarked I opened my eyes and he was gone - our moment of silent, heated, flirtation finished. I must admit to having been a little disappointed. Then I noticed his gym bag, still in it's place on the floor beside me. Surely he hadn't forgotten it?! The bell signaling the departure of the train sounded, the steel doors slammed shut. The train began to chug, slowly picking up speed. I was concerened that he had absent mindedly left without his bag when he reappeared as stealthily as he had gone, and this time sat next to me. Again our eyes met, saying everything even as our lips said nothing. Again I blushed, and looked out the window at nothing. Judo Dude leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was a man of few words - being an athelete he was a physical kind of guy. I used this opportunity to gaze down at his tree trunk thighs, and as I did an idea began to formulate in my (rather clouded) mind. J.D. was on my right, eyes closed. My purse was on my left, which contained my business cards and vital information; name, phone number and email address. As gently and discreetly as I could, I reached into my bag with my left hand, manipulated a zipper pocket (quite a good trick), and palmed a card. I would quietly leave it on my seat if I got off the train before he did. If he was clever, he would find it and contact me! The moment of truth was about to arrive; the train slowed as it neared my stop, jerking slightly as the conductor applied the brakes. J.D. opened his eyes, and I stood up. "Pardon" I said, smiling coyly at him as I climbed over his bag. I had placed the card on my seat without him noticing. He was looking panicked, bewildered, and a bit befuddled as he realized he didn't know my name - he hadn't spoken or asked me for my number, and now I was about to disappear! All this was written on his face as I got off the train, smiling to myself as I wondered if he would notice the clue I had left behind. The bell sounded, the doors slammed shut with an air of finality, and as I climbed the stairs of the sortie I glanced toward the train. He was sitting there looking at me like a little boy who just lost his bike. I smiled seductively, and he smiled weakly as the train pulled away and disappeared into the night.....

The Poet

I was on my second vacation in France - perhaps 10 years ago - with my husband and another couple, Boots and Larry Boggs. After an eventful week in Paris (of which I have many fond memories), we rented a car and headed toward Normandy and the Sacred Beaches of D-Day, with our ultimate destination the Loire Valley, and Mont St. Michel. We were in no hurry, and decided to stop for the night at the charming medieval fishing village of Honfleur. Unprepared for the shocking reality that in the countryside (which means anywhere 5 kilometers outside Paris), there is no food for sale between 1:30 and 7:00 p.m., we were famished and chose a charming little restaurant with a promising menu and a terrace with a view of the harbor. The sun was setting, a cool breeze was tempered by temporary walls of plastic sheeting and space heaters, and we were eagerly sampling our entrée when an odd sound broke the ambience, clackety-clackety-clack! Louder and louder, it approached with the rythym of a freight train toward the restaurant, we dropped our forks and prepared to dive out of the way! CLACKETY- CLACKETY- CLACK, it was right on top of us now, this mysterious monster bearing down upon us from the seemingly tranquil cobbled streets of a sleepy little village. Suddenly, silence; a pregnant pause before the dramatic entrance of a silver haired Don Quixote in a white starched collar, black silken scarf tied in a bow at the throat, and a long flowing black cape. With great aplomb he approached the table to the left of us, produced with a flourish a book, and began to recite poetry - in française of course! As he moved from table to table it became apparant that he was a fixture in town, and the locals were clearly over it. Ignored by the diners at each table, he saw a glimmer of hope, four wide eyed tourists obviously seduced by a scene trés french; semi-outdoor dining with a romantic table side poetry reading by an old french dude in a cape! He introduced himself as "Moineau", and sensing by our clothing we were anglaise told us in perfect english all about himself. Born Grégoire Brainin in Québec, North America, he married the love of his life Micheline, and together they spent their lives in their homes in Honfleur and Québec. He explained that dear Micheline had died of cancer two years prior, and he had composed this book of poems dedicated to his amoureuse. He selected carefully a heartfelt passage, and recited in french with all the theatrical presence of Richard Burton or Sir Lawrence Olivier a beautiful homage to the long lost mother of his children. Not knowing a word of french, Boots and I were nonetheless charmed, seduced by the moment into opening our hearts - and our wallets. Presented with a beautifully composed book, illustrated by various friends of the author and complete with a personalized autograph, it is a lovely souvenir. Moineau took his money, his rolling case filled with books, and with his cape flowing dramatically behind, disappeared into the darkness as conspicuously and mysteriously as he had arrived. Poetry being an intregal part of french culture since the days of the troubadors, my blog would be incomplete without it! Therefore it is my pleasure to offer you a short reading; first in french, then in english (translated the best I could), by Grégoire Brainin, dit "Moineau" from his published collection entitled; "Moineau 2000, Poèmes du Temps de l'Amour". This is "Le jardin de notre amour" or "The garden of our love": Dans l'infini, il y a toi Dans l'infini, il y a moi Il y a lui Le jardin de notre amour Dans l'infini, il y a elles Le jardin de notre amour Si de chaque graine Le temps fait une rose Il y a fait de notre amour Un jardin. In the infinite, there is you In the infinite, there is me There is he the garden of our love In the infinite, there they In the garden of our love If each seed Time is a rose He made our love A garden.

Your Friday French Fashion Report: 007 meets Gaultier

It's hot, it's androgenous, it's "Bond...James Bond" in a daring backless tuxedo jacket! It's frogmen 2011, it's bearded assassins in fishnet stockings, it's escaping danger while shredding Gstaad, it's Goldfinger and Dr. No, and Veronica Lake with a penis. It's rock 'n roll metro-sexuality as only the great Jean Paul Gaultier can do it, and I love it! Any man with the balls to dress like this is okay by me! Fashion Must Have for Fall 2011: ankle boots and a prop gun

Fashiontv - Jean Paul Gaultier Paris Men's FW Fall 2011 Full Show - fash...

Dans le Rue

A stroll around Paris is a photo opp just begging to happen. With her street performers, hidden courtyards, and eclectic architecture ranging from Gothic to contemporary, she offers a visual smorgasbord of delights, bonbons for the soul! Under the watchful eye of ancient monuments and oblivious to the average tourist, life happens; a fisherman casts his line in the Seine, someone is charmed into buying a bouquet of flowers, a woman rushes to a rendezvous in the dead of winter wearing shorts and boots (and somehow making it work!) To say "it's the simple things in life..." is so cliché, so I won't. I'll just offer you a glimpse of what is dans le rue (in the street).

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Stéphane Rolland Haute Couture Spring/Summer 2011

It was bonne chance that a big sale on fabric was happening for designer Stéphane Rolland, as his imagination required a minimum of 12 meters per dress for this exercise in draping! With extended trains, asymmetric lines, and a hint of Erté meets "Mars Attacks" it is an interesting collection to say the least. There are hits and misses; the drapery rod dress harkens back to an old Carol Burnett spoof of Scarlett O'Hara, the gold lamé cropped Members Only jacket is just a fashion disaster waiting to happen, and the problems with putting a train in front of a dress instead of behind it became obvious with one wardrobe malfunction and several near nose dives. Rolland hits the mark however, with his avant garde sensibilities and fearlessness - if I was searching for a red carpet look I would want one or two of these dresses as options for sure! Fashion must have for Spring: a long, flowing skirt in soft silk or chiffon

Défilé haute couture Stéphane Rolland, printemps-été 2011

Getting Schooled French Style; The Re-gift

Intelligence, wit, and charm are qualities most highly valued in France. As a guest at the table of friends, one is expected to arrive with ones A game (and a bottle of wine). The French love to argue and will challenge even the most obvious point ad nauseum, in a sort of verbal game of table tennis. Prove yourself a formidable opponent, and you win respect. Have nothing of interest to say and you will not be invited back! The French love affair with intelligence extends to insults as well, the most cutting delivered with a strong aftertaste of saccharin. Of course one hears from time to time the sort of common insults that are internationally understood, (especially from the younger generation) but the well heeled Parisian prefers a more creative approach. An "Excusé moi, monsieur" can be delivered dripping with acid so strong one needs a haz-mat suit, and if you unwittingly commit a faux pas may the Saints protect you! Revenge being a delicacy in France much like escargot, champagne, and foie gras, savored like a fine Armagnac, and enjoyed as much as chocolat noir, there are many dramas unfolding in the city; plots carefully thought out for maximum effect. The following is a true story. The names have been changed to protect the culpable. Three colleagues (female) working for the same company befriend one another, lunch together, and ultimately decide to exchange birthday gifts. We will call them Marie-Claire, Geraldine, and Rhonda. The first year, Marie-Claire offered Rhonda a thoughtful gift of her favorite parfum - not an altogether cheap gift, as she prefers Chanel. A couple of months later, it was the anniversaire of Marie-Claire. Rhonda offered her a gift; a cheap child's plastic bracelet on elastic - an insult! The next year, Marie-Claire offered Rhonda a book written by her favorite author, but when it was Marie-Claire's birthday Rhonda offered nothing, and said nothing to acknowledge the day. Of course it hurt Marie-Claire's feelings, but she was discreet. The next year arrives, and goodhearted Marie-Claire offers Rhonda another thoughtful gift, only to be forgotten yet again on her birthday by Rhonda. Finally, in private she mentions this to Geraldine - she is vexed by Rhonda's lack of consideration! Geraldine concurs; she has also been insulted. Geraldine tells Marie-Claire about the gift she received from Rhonda the year before; a child's plastic bracelet on elastic. The identical cheap bracelet she had offered Marie-Claire! (They must have been 2 for 3 euros.) When they realized what Rhonda had done, Geraldine had revenge on her mind. It took a year to exact, but her patience paid off; for her birthday this year Rhonda received, wrapped in exquisite handpainted paper and tied with beautiful ribbon, a re-gifted child's plastic bracelet on elastic. SNAP!

Free Museum Day: L'Orangerie

My favorite day of the month is the first Sunday, or as I like to call it; "Free Museum Day". I rarely miss the opportunity to take advantage of this forward thinking social program, whether I take my sketch pad to the Louvre or the Rodin, or choose to discover something new. Today I was in the mood to visit L'Orangerie and her collection of Impressionism and Modernism. A light and airy space, her foyer is walled in glass which affords a view onto the Tuileries, the Seine, and Le Tour d'Eiffel. Inside you will find a delicious selection of bonbons; beginning with giant tableaux by Claude Monet representing the four seasons at Giverny. It's a pleasure to sit and contemplate the brushstrokes, the beautiful colour palette, and the technique of this great master - if you can find a spot on the benches! Downstairs is the private collection of Jean Walter and Paul Guillome, patrons of the arts. Renoir, Matisse, Picasso, and Cezanne are well represented, as are André Derain and Chain Soutine. It's a collection one dreams of possessing! Modest and demure, L'Orangerie can be savored in a couple of hours from Tuesday-Sunday from 9h-18h. Closed Monday! Tariff 7.50 (plus 2.00 for special installations) Visit the L'Orangerie and the Musée d'Orsay (within 4 days) for 13 euro! Metro lignes 1,8, ou 12 to Concorde. The museum is located at the front right end of the Jardin des Tuileries.

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Emilio Pucci Spring/Summer Collection 2011

"Groovy, baby!" The spirit of Brigitte Bardot and swingin' 60's jet setters partying from London to L.A. is captured by Norwegian designer Peter Dundas for the iconic Italian House of Pucci for Spring/Summer 2011. Objective: Breath new life into a brand on the brink of irrelevancy, and bring it into the future! With respect to the Godfather - he dressed Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy after all - Dundas continues the tradition of colourful signature prints that are uniquely Pucci; in slim hiphugging trousers and flowing feminine gowns. Skin tight thigh high boots are a visually exciting juxtaposition to blue and white silk chiffon; if I had to choose only one new pair of shoes for the rest of my life, it would be those boots! Of course there is swimwear, (as Pucci began in the 1950's as a boutique on the island of Capri) and who among us can't use an uber soft jewel toned tunic in our wardrobe? Fresh, young, and hip, sensual, comfortable, and sexy are just a few words that come to my mind; how about you? Must have for Spring: slim trousers and the highest platform stilletos you can manage!

Emilio Pucci PE 2011

Paris Travel Advisory: L'Gastronomique; L'Auberge Pyrenées Cevennes

"It is very important to choose carefully the restaurant!" Madame M declared. We had met at the Place du Chatelet to enjoy together dinner and a concert; me with an appetite, she armed with a well researched list of culinary possibilities. C'est vrai, dining out in Paris is fraught with hazards; from endless plates of mediocre food at the better establishments to the inedible at the dreaded tourist traps, one can spend a small fortune fueling up during ones visit to the City of Lights. I have learned the hard way, and since good food is a high priority for me I am dedicated to bringing you the best the city has to offer! I recently had the great pleasure of meeting a lovely woman from Texas, on a world tour and in Paris in search of the ultimate cassoulet. I understood completely, having experienced this ambrosia in a small Breton village years ago. "You need to start in Lyon" I advised, "in the country is where they make really good cassoulet!" "A friend recommended a place near République" Debra said, "Would you like to join me for dinner this weekend? My treat!" Not one to turn down a legitimate dinner invitation, I accepted. We arranged a rendezvous, she made the reservations, and I arrived at L'Auberge Pyrenées Cevennes with great anticipation of the gastronomic delights to follow. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, with a rustic country french ambience. The french staff are friendly, and happy to show you they speak English. Totally unpretentious, red and white checkered tablecloths invite relaxation; you are transported to Granny's house in the farmland that surrounds Lyon, the duck confit put up by Grand-mère herself from the game shot by Grand-père, homemade sausage and foie gras served simply on freshly tossed greens with crouton. There are a number of traditional Lyonnaise dishes to choose from, but we were on a mission. We started with the foie gras, moved on to the specialité de le maison; the cassoulet, and for dessert a classic profiteroles. Now I have had my share of foie gras since moving to Paris. It's as french as apple pie is American, but inconsistent in quality. I have had foie gras that tasted literally like cat food, and foie gras that was better than sex. The foie gras at L'Auberge PC is the latter - well almost! (I highly recommend it.) The cassoulet arrives in a huge cast iron skillet with as much theatre as the sizzling fajita platter does Stateside. And it's good; the beans are cooked to perfection, the duck confit added at just the right time to avoid a greasy broth. The traditional parfum of thyme, rosemary, and bay is delicate, as is the spice in the sausage. Your server will be happy to recommend the perfect wine to compliment your meal from a well stocked cellar, and the chocolate desserts are the perfect happy ending to a satisfying experience. You can expect to spend from 30-50 euro per person (depending upon your selection) which would include a starter, a plat (main course), dessert, and wine. One serving of cassoulet is big enough for two, and don't forget the secret code of the savvy parisian; order a "carafe d'eau"! (Water served tapped from artesian springs under the city, it is high quality and free. When you ask for water your server will always respond "Gaz ou still?" Unless you prefer to pay up to 7 euro for a bottle of Pellegrino or Evian, the carafe d'eau is the way to go.) Serving déjeuner from 12h-14h and dinner from 19h-22h30, reservations are recommended @ 01 43 57 33 78. Located at 106 rue de la Folie-Mericourt, metro lignes 3,5,8,9, ou 11 to République. Open Monday - Saturday. Closed August and some holidays. Visa, MC, CB, AMEX, and pets accepted. You'll love it!