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!

Le Collection Esterhazy

Currently on exhibition at Le Pinacothèque de Paris is an interesting and often stunning selection of paintings from the collection of Hungarian royalty; the Princes Esterhazy. An important art collection was the cornerstone of solidifying ones position of power in the Middle Ages, and over two centuries the famille Esterhazy amassed a staggering amount of masterpieces from the likes of Raphael, Champaigne, and Ruysdael. Nicolas II alone added some 1156 tableaux to the collection between 1780-1833, effectively bankrupting the family fortune, but during the 17th century they lived large and spent money like drunken sailors! The exhibition offers examples from the Italian, French, Spanish, German, and Dutch schools; the Esterhazy palette was highly developed and sophisticated. I offer you a little taste of this enviable collection; the full exhibition can be viewed until the 29th of May at Le Pinacothèque de Paris, 28 Place de la Madeleine, metro lignes 8, 12 to "Madeleine". Open everyday from 10h30 until 19h30, Wednesdays until 21h30. Tariff 10 euros. You can also purchase tickets online at http://www.pinacotheque.com/ for 11.50.

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Dior Fall/Winter Collection for 2011

Pirates, knickers, and Frankenstein shoes were notable features in John Galliano's last hurrah for the house of Dior, a collection that was as uninspired as his recent comments in a Paris café, and just about as cohesive. As his trial in the "Court of Public Insult" continues, (it is forbidden in France to make racist, sexist, or anti-Semitic insults toward another person) the pressure to produce for two houses is Monsieur Galliano's defense; his abuse of drugs and alcohol his downfall. Scheduled to enter re-hab the day of this show, he has been fired from Dior as creative director, and as Dior owns 92% of the Galliano house he is going to need a miracle to recover professionally. As for the collection for Fall/Winter 2011, it had many of the components that are signature Galliano, without much of the fun - it felt a bit rehashed and tired I am sorry to say! Of course, there is a "must have" or two; like thigh high boots, (always handy in winter) and a cape (always a head turner). The biggest surprise was the curtain call; the coutureiers who actually cut and sew the garments replaced Galliano on stage to take the bow - unheard of in the fashion world!

Christian Dior - Fall Winter 2011/2012 Full Fashion Show - High Quality ...

Diary of a Frenchman: A Soldiers Story, Part Deux

From the diary of Pierre Maugin, Corporal, 119th Regiment of the French Army, we gain insight into the life of a soldier in 1871. To recap; the Prussian army has surrounded Paris and captured Napoleon III. In the heart of Paris is civil unrest, "La Commune", the grandmother of the socialist movement. The army must defend the government from both factions, meanwhile Paris is starving. Dated January 2nd, 1871: "Crossing Neuilly at 4:00 in the afternoon we were called to Paris to take over the Hotel de Ville. (occupied by "La Commune") We had to stay the whole night in the street. We went to seek shelter in the stables of the police. All we had to eat was the horses. From outside of Paris we could hear bombs from the Prussians and we felt the fighting spirit of revolt. January 23rd: "We have moved into the barracks of Quai d'Orsay between Invalides and Champs de Mars. The price of butter has reached 50 francs a pound. Eggs are 1 franc each." February 3rd: "We have moved to Goeblins and Rue Moufftard. There is no bread to be bought. People would queue two hours for bread and only 300 grams of bread was available for the day. We had a ration card from the baker. Everyone was eating cats and dogs, and rats cost 1 franc each!" Next week the story takes a turn, while Paris continues its foray into creative cuisine. Note: To put things into perspective, the approximate value by todays standards, (in U.S. currency) for a pound of butter would be $12.50. One dozen eggs would be $3.00, and a delicious rat; 25 cents!

Les Ateliers

The plan was to meet Madame V at the "Beaubourg", the parisian pet name for the Centre Georges Pompidou, for free museum day. The architecture is quite shocking, the permanent collection interesting, and I thought it was time I included her in my blog. I rarely miss free museum day, and of course I know there are certain places to avoid like the plague (Mona Lisa being at the top of the list), but I wasn't at all prepared for the mile long queue that awaited us upon our arrival. It didn't take long to rethink our afternoon, the sun was out and the weather fine for a stroll down Rue Rivoli. We admired the beautiful Tour St. Jacques as we made our way through Chatelet, stopping occasionally to ogle the latest spring fashion displayed in the window of a shop naturally closed on Sunday. There was an air of calm that is unique to the day of rest here, which leaves one free to notice things often overlooked, like a giant pair of pants two stories high, and the biggest pair of red polka dot culottes I have personally ever seen. What began as a photo opp became a serendipitous discovery of an artists atelier (workshop), six splendid floors of painted staircases, muraled walls, and art stacked and hung in every square inch of the place! My camera was working overtime as we discovered treasure after treasure; metalwork and engraving, doll making and collages, realism and total abstraction, and everything in between. One room was a completely crazy jumble of random items that looked like the average storage unit, crammed full of forgotten memories and useless junk you just can't part with. It was at once fascinating and horrifying, like an episode of "Hoarders". There was an artist crouched on the floor making a big production of drawing two young girls he had wrangled into sitting for him, and it was pure theatre! He played the role of eccentric and wacky artist to the hilt, complete with sound effects and gratuitous flirtation, and was more than willing to play to my camera. (He knew all the right poses). There was a beautiful and friendly sheltie busy herding and keeping tabs on the flock of visitors moving through the 4th floor, and she willingly let me pet her silky coat, offering kisses generously. On the very top floor was a beautiful young artist, with fun watercolour sketches of jazz musicians on display. This was right up our alley, and Madame V struck up a conversation with him. We discovered there are jazz concerts in this venue, also that the entire building changes artists once a month. Oh la la - I tried to imagine the clusterfuck of junk three floors down, and the daunting task of actually moving it! In the end, Madame V purchased a watercolour for her darling J.P., and quite unexpectedly I was offered gratuit a charming painting of a drummer who reminds me of my favorite batteur, Pier Paolo Pozzi. It was a touching gesture on his part, and the perfect end to a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Paris!

Your Friday French Fashion Report: Louis Vuitton Fall/Winter Collection 2011

The ambience was that of a glamourous 1950's movie starring Audrey Hepburn (I know, that's so cliché), with sumptous music reminiscent of a Bernard Hermann score in a Hitchcock film. The clothes are ultra feminine, the skirts full and swishy recall Dior's "New Look", the signature handbags are to die, the shoes however, a bit odd. Designer Marc Jacobs revives cleavage, the ponytailed, fresh faced "sweater girl", and romance in his collection for Fall/Winter 2011. The evening gowns were a hot mess I am sorry to say, but the classic daywear ensembles offer disaster free fashion for ones personal closet. Fashion Must Haves for Fall 2011: A full skirt hemmed just below the knee, a cashmere sweater, and a LV handbag!

Louis Vuitton - Fall Winter 2010/2011 Full Fashion Show - High Quality

That's So NOT French!

Despite the bitter realization that I have somehow arrived to be a woman "of a certain age", I continue to imbibe a childlike sense of whimsy, an appreciation for the simple pleasures in life, and a sentimental sense of nostalgia. All things "Americana" appeal to me now more than ever. A rousing chorus of "Take me out to the ballgame", Route 66, Drive In theatres, and the romantic notion of the Santa Fe railroad forging a trail across the southwest tug at my heartstrings and bring a little tear to my eye every time! But I settled in France four years ago with the desire to be a française. Parisian women are after all, chic and confident, possessing a certain je ne sais quoi uniquely their own. I have come to realize however, that I am hopelessly American - and I am happy to own it. The cultural chasm between the french and American mind set never ceases to surprise me, or make me laugh heartily even as I am reproached by my french friends. I hear "C'est ne pas drole!" ("It's not funny!") on a regular basis, even though it really is. Funny I mean. I dare to do things no self respecting française would ever do, like smile for example. Or sabotage a dinner party with my remote control fart machine. (So NOT french!) Or something I did just the other day; wave at the conductor of a train! Actually, this was the first time I indulged in this most romantic of American traditions since moving to France, even though I have secretly always wanted to. The train is my current mode of transportation, I ride one every day, and I appreciate the men and women who get me to work safely and on time. But to wave at them is simply not done - unless you are "completely crazy" or addle minded. Last Tuesday was a different story however. I was enjoying a pleasant afternoon stroll with my friend Madame C in the quiet little suburb of Sevres. We were in no hurry, chatting about how she arrived in France from California some three decades earlier as a young college student, pausing from time to time to consider the architectural details of various homes, when we approached one of many bridges that traverse the railroad tracks. "Look" Madame C exclaimed, "a train is coming!" (She seems to have the same fondness for them as I.) We paused in the middle of the bridge to savour one of lifes simple pleasures when the urge took hold, it had been such a long time since I had done it, and as soon as I saw the whites of his eyes I waved at the conductor as the train quickly passed underneath us. And what do you know - he smiled and waved back! I was ecstatic, and jumped up and down clapping my hands in affirmation. (Also totally NOT french). "Yay, he waved back!" I giggled and did a mini fist pump. I was reveling in my American-ness. "That was so NOT french" I laughed to Madame C. "No, it wasn't" she agreed, "I didn't dare!" As we continued our promenade she said, "It could be considered an act of aggression you know." Waving an act of aggression? Only in France. "Did you hear about the sabotage during the weekend?" she asked. (In the French Alps, someone had stolen a section of copper wire from the tracks, which effectively disabled crossing signals throughout the region, and stranding hundreds of vacationers en route home from winter break.) I had heard, but wasn't getting the connection between the theft of copper wire and waving at a train when Madame C said with alarm, "The railroad workers could have gone on strike you know!" At this I burst out laughing, now that is so french! (Strikes being the National Pastime and all.) "It's not funny!" she reproached. She had a point, a perturbation is just that, a real pain in the cul. But to strike because of an act of theft, or perhaps an act of waving? I guess I'd better watch my whimsical American ass - I don't want to cause an international incident!