Perturbation

"Mouvment social.....la circulation des trains est perturbée". It's week 3 and counting in the latest of France's national pastime; le greve (the strike). With the unions strong opposition to Sarkozy's plan to extend the age of retirement, there have been marches, sit ins, and a vexing lack of transportation into and out of Paris for what seems like an eternity. Usually one can expect a day here or there when the train and bus schedules are cut in half, a minor annoyance and ineffectual in terms of a social movement. It's something I have come to expect since my arrival in France three years ago. "All the unions must strike together for at least one month!" my friend Madame V declares; "One day will not effect change!" I blame her by the way, my leetle commie friend who works for the largest union in France, CGT. "So, everyone should work longer so that YOU aren't inconvenienced by a transit strike?" my other Marxist friend J.P. called me out, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a strong sense of social injustice. Snap! Franchment, working until 65 might not be such a horrible thing, unless you are a stone mason, or a coal miner, or a fisherman on The Deadliest Catch. "But do we have to work until we're old and cannot enjoy the life?" Madame V demands, "there is much money in France, let the rich pay the tax! They can afford it!" I cannot honestly say I disagree with that logic, nor can millions of française who deliver mail, pick up trash, and work in restaurants and factories. The anethesiologist's union mobilized last summer and staged a massive sit in on the tracks at Gare Montparnasse, one of Paris' main arteries. This is the connecting point for me from the suburbs into Paris, and back home again. Fortunately on that day I had no work in the city and missed the perturbation! But for the last three weeks, there have been no trains going into town AT ALL between 4 and 8 p.m., only one per hour going home (instead of every 15 minutes), the last one of the night being at 11 p.m. instead of 12:58. This is severly cramping my style, and I am perturbed! (It's times like this I miss having a car.) The Senat was scheduled to vote on the issue of retirement last Wednesday, and the bill extending the age to 65 was expected to pass. I figured all hell would break loose for a couple of days, the strike would ultimately end, and life would once again return to normal. Instead, the opposition tacked on 362 riders to the bill, all of which must be debated individually before a vote can be called. A sort of french filibuster! Meanwhile, the perturbation continues.....

Pardon my French!

Learning french for me is a real challenge. Admittedly I am not a very good student, possessing a mind that is rich with imagination but easily distracted, as well as pathetic lack of self discipline. My grammar is horrible, and my pronounciation worse - in fact the french understand my english better than my french, even if they don't speak english! My friend Madame V can only understand my french when she is wearing her magic lunettes (eyeglasses), and we share many moments of hilarity when my mispronounciations take a conversation down the wrong path, ultimately leading to confusion and misunderstanding. English has replaced french as the international language of diplomacy as well as business, so more and more parisians have a basic understanding of my native tongue and are always happy to interpret popular french vernacular for my benefit. I carry a little note pad with me at all times to jot down my "vocabulaire du jour", and I would like to share some of the more - shall we say - colourful phrases with you. For example; in America, during a heavy rainfall, we say, "It's raining cats and dogs!" But in France, the expression is "Il pleut comme le vache qui pisse", which means "It rains like the cow who pisses!" Following the cow theme, (the french are quite fond of cows) one might exclaim "La vache!" ("Oh the cow!") which is the equivilant of "holy shit". The other day my friend Helen was showing off an adorable new handbag she had just purchased. It was large as is the fashion, the perfect size for an overnight bag, and when I mentioned this fact I learned the french expression for it; un "baise-en-ville" (pronounced bez-on-veal), or "B.E.V." This literally means "fuck in town"! A girl packs her b.e.v. to meet her lover for their "histoire de cul", their "story of ass"; what americans refer to as an "affair" or "walking the old Appalachian Trail". France being a culture full of contradiction, it was explained to me that the word "merde" (shit) is sort of a national word, a classic word that is not neccessarily considered vulgaire no matter who uses it. However, to say the equivilant of "it pisses me off" is "ça me fait chier" or "that really shits me" and considered a vulgarity. Now, if you can make sense of this logic, please clue me in because I don't get it! If you are a very proper and pious little old lady in France, you might exclaim "Flute!" because it rhymes with "zut" which really means "pute" (whore). Zut is to pute what darn is to damn, or "sugar" is to shit. And "flute" is even more refined, (but means the same thing). Interested in the french translation of "motherfucker", I was suprised to discover there isn't an actual word, rather more of a sentence. Trying to explain in english, my friend Jérome said this; "Start your mother, I am going to restart you!" Seeing my confusion, he said, "You know, if you call your mother, I'll do you again!" Which basically means "I'll fuck your mother and get her pregnant". Not quite the same thing as motherfucker, but a fine insult nonetheless. They do from time to time say, "Yo Mama" (Ta mére), or "Ta mére la pute" (your mother the whore). Snap! This of course, would be vulgaire and is to be used sparingly. I experienced a moment of enlightenment when I discovered the literal translation of cul de sac, a common phrase in American suburbia. We all have lived on a cul-de-sac, or know someone who does. Allow me to translate; "cul" means ass, "de" means of, and "sac" is a purse. The ass of a purse. All these years we've been telling our friends we live in the yellow house at the end of the ass of a purse! Who knew?

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 11: "Mr. Low-key"

To stroll the streets of Paris on a warm summer night, after a satisfying meal and a bottle of Bordeaux, hand in hand with a beautiful man is the ultimate parisian experience. It had been a fabulous birthday thus far; dining at an exclusive restaurant with a reputation for the best foie gras in Paris, being officially and blatantly dissed by our waiter, and exploring the various musical options offered in the streets during the annual Fete de le Musique. Both Low and I were enjoying the warm glow of a good wine buzz as we slowly made our way back toward the Place de Vosges (and his hotel). An all girl Grunge band caught our attention, somehow the vocals didn't sound as hard in french! The bass player was a tall, lanky lesbian sporting a head shaven totally bald save for a skullcap of hair moussed to stick out in every direction from the crown of her head. "Now that's something you don't see everyday!" I discreetly whispered in Low's ear. "Fabulous!" he answered, as was his habitud. We moved on to discover a Reggae band, and a sea of dredlocks that reminded me of wall to wall shag carpet fiber from the 70's. There was a familiar aroma in the air, at once pungent and sweet, and the audience here was mellow as they swayed to the rythym of the islands. Cannabis is highly frowned upon here, but for the Fete de le Musique all is forgiven - for this night and this night only! After groovin' to a classic Bob Marley tune we moved on, our hearts filled with nostalgia. We laughed as we swapped stories of smoking our first joint back in the day, and Low was nearly creamed by a bicyclist as we briefly stepped off the curb to avoid a group of students sitting crosslegged on the sidewalk passing a bottle. It was an accident of timing; the guy on the bike zigging to avoid a young family towing a toddler, Low zagging to avoid the hippies. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed, "are you all right?" The cyclist was yelling angrily something that sounded like "What do you think you are doing you idiot, are you trying to kill me?!" (in french, so I can only surmise), and I was laughing inappropriately and uncontrollably as I always do in moments of crisis. Luckily, the french don't hold on to their anger for long, they yell and blow their horns and move on. Now we were even, having both been dissed by a parisian that night! "Fabulous!" he smiled as I pointed this out, then "I feel like I'm in the middle of a Woody Allen movie, set in Paris!" "Am I your Louise Lasser?" I joked. "No, you're my Scarlett Johannsen" he purred, and gave me a sweet little kiss. (5 bonus points) He was impressed that I remembered Louise Lasser however, and we compared notes on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" as we continued our journey through the '70's and the Marais. A German oompah band was competing for airspace with a french rapper with a bad amplifier and a Mr. Microphone, and we pondered the possibilities of a marraige between the opposing forces. Sort of a tuba beat box. Suddenly I realized we had arrived at the Place de Vosges, having arrived by a side street I hadn't used before. We strolled through the place, and I explained to Low that we were walking where jousting tournaments were held in medieval times, over 800 years ago! But tonight there were no sounds of horses hoofs pounding the soil as they charged their opponents, instead a choir of 20 or 30 men and women singing acapella. We were steps away from the Pavilion de le Reine, where he was staying for the weekend. We stopped to listen to the choir, and he put his arm around my waist, giving me a little squeeze. "Happy Birthday" he cooed, and kissed me tenderly. "So..." he smiled shyly, lowering his gaze. "So..." I repeated (hoping for birthday sex). "Would you like to stay with me tonight?" He was tentative, as if I might refuse. He had, after all, racked up quite a number of bonus points since I met him! He had been a gentleman and was adorable, coming to Paris from London twice just to take me out, which made me feel pretty special. I answered with a long, seductive kiss that left no need for words, and we strolled arm in arm through the beautiful hidden courtyard of his hotel and into the lobby. "Bonsoir, monsieur!" The smaller "boutique" hotels always require you to leave yor key at the desk, and a charming young parisienne greeted us, offering an antique looking key attached to a giant gold tassel. "Je vous en prie" she answered to our "Merci", then "Bonne Soirée!"

Journées du Patrimoine 2010: Le Musée de Moyen Age

Smack dab in the middle of the Quartier Latin on the corner of Boulevard St. Germain and Boulevard St. Michel, a mere block away from The Gap and Mickey D's, is one of Paris' oldest monuments; the Musée de Moyen Age. It's strong foundation dating back to the 1st century, it stands defiantly amidst modern Paris like an old man who refuses to use a computer. Parisians rush by on foot, car, and motorbikes daily, going about their business with barely a glance - it's human nature to take things for granted. But when the sun sets and the strategically placed floodlights illuminate the Gallo-Roman ruins, oh la la! It's difficult to ignore the beauty of this ancient place. On my "to do" list for years, I decided today was the day. It is the weekend of the "Journées du Patrimoine", France's "Heritage Days". For two days a year, hundreds of monuments across France are open to the public free of charge, including the Senate, National Assembly, and the Elysées Palace; home to President Sarkozy. The latter expecting some 20,000 visitors, I chose to visit the old man on the corner. It is difficult to wrap my mind around anything 2,000 years old, but I was visiting a place that once served as a thermal bathhouse - before France was France and Rome ruled Europe. 700 years ago it was occupied by the Abbots of Cluny, as is witnessed by the Gothic chapel inside. It was enlarged and occupied by the Cluny Order until after the Revolution, when the property became nationalized and home to the private collections of three privileged men. Today, it houses a stunning collection of tapisserie (tapestry), religious artifacts, stained glass, and statuary; all 500 to 1,000 years old. C'est magnifique! You can visit the Musée de Moyen Age (Musée Cluny) Tuesday through Sunday from 9h15 until 17h45 at 6 Place Painlevé, metro ligne 10 to Cluny-La Sorbonne. Tariff is 8.50, with the exception of the first Sunday of every month, which is free museum day. You can read more about the Journées du Patrimoine by accessing my blog archive from October 2009 (on the sidebar).

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 10: "Mr. Low-key"

My first birthday since moving to Paris was shaping up nicely. I had a rendez vous with a lovely man who planned to take me to dine at the french bistro equivalent of Studio 54 (if they decided to honor the reservation), I had someone fun to trawl the Fete de le Musique with, and it was a hot summer weekend. The weather here is something I still haven't acclimated to - cold and miserable the majority of the year, with a smattering of perfect days when Mother Nature takes pity on a soul. It was going to be a perfect evening for the citywide, night long street party, and I was looking forward to experiencing this mysterious restaurant Low had invited me to. He was staying at his preferred hotel at the Place de Vosges, and we met in the lobby. He was waiting for me ensconced in an oversized armchair, and he stood up to greet me with open arms. "Happy Birthday!" he smiled and hugged me. "Are you hungry?" I admitted that I was, and he said he hoped they wouldn't turn us away at l'Ami Louis. I hoped so too, more for his sake than for mine! I knew he would feel humiliated if they snubbed us. He had ordered a taxi, and we chatted about London, the fete, and how he managed to maneuver our dinner reservations as the driver wound through the streets, carefully avoiding the partying pedestrians that were beginning to spill off the sidewalks. We passed a four piece band that included a snare drum, a tuba, a trumpet, and a washboard making a racket as a small group of college students passed a bottle of cheap rum, laughing as one of them performed a jig. The driver turned into a quiet, deserted street and stopped the cab. It didn't appear as if anything was open, could he be mistaken? I saw nothing that indicated a restaurant, certainly not the obligatory bistro tables that occupy the narrow sidewalks here, nor any signage. Maybe it was one of those places where you knock three times and the doorman peers at you through a tiny opening, demanding a password! Low paid the driver, took my hand, and led us to the place. It was the Studio 54 moment of truth - I held my breath as we entered and approached the Maitre'd. Ignorant as to the protocol of acceptance, I hoped I had dressed appropriately. Fortunately Lady Luck was on our side, and with a sigh of relief on both our parts, we were seated. He was smiling as I took in our surroundings, which were suprisingly understated for a restaurant frequented by dignitaries such as the Clinton's. It was a small establishment, with two rows of tables lining the walls, which had been painted a matte black perhaps 50 years ago. The tables were covered by red and white checkered tablecloths, and were set with cutlery one would find in a down home diner. There were photographs on the wall of who I assumed was the owner, with various celebs and politicians, mostly European. It had a sort of old school mafia ambiance, and was famous for the foie gras and rotiserrie chicken. I ordered the former for starters, and Low chose the escargot. Now, I must admit, up until that night I had never tried escargot, nor had I ever desired to do so. But it was my birthday, and my blood was up! Low graciously offered me a taste, and I was a virgin no more. I was suprised at how much it reminded me of mussels, (which I quite like) and I was glad to check it off the list of things to do before I die. That said, one was enough, and I concentrated on the foie gras which was the best I have ever had! Warming up with a good bottle of wine, we amused ourselves by observing the waiters as they served up platter after platter of poulet accompanied by huge piles of shoestring potatoes, with the attitude that they would rather face a firing squad than look at another chicken. They were the quintessential clichés of the french waiter; condescending, arrogant, and sarcastic. We were in french heaven as we casually eavesdropped on the conversation of a big, fat, obviously rich old man who was in the process of seducing a young, blond, Italian social climber with huge ta ta's, collagen injected lips, and a deep tan. In fact, there seemed to be several tables occupied by men with the same goal in mind; to impress and seduce. All the waiters had a goal of their own, to make it through the night without slitting their wrists, and my goal? Birthday sex! Our waiter approached and provided what to this day is the most awesome moment in the history of dining out. "Dessert, madame?" he inquired. Just as I opened my mouth to say "Oui, le sorbet citron s'il vous plait" he dissed me by turning his back, nose in the air, looking across the room at nothing. My mouth was literally still open as I looked at Low in utter disbelief, and we started to laugh. Only in Paris, only in a restaurant that charges 22 euro for two itty bitty scoops of ice cream, and only from a waiter guaranteed 15% of a 300 euro dinner bill! Who could be angry? Ultimately he was obliged to take my order, thoughts of suicide dancing through his head. "That was fabulous" Low was laughing, and took my hand. "I can't believe it!" I exclaimed, "Can you imagine that happening in L.A.? They would never work in that town again!" We were still chuckling as our dessert arrived. The cool lemony concoction was the perfect finish to a delicious meal, and I was as content as a fat cat as we stepped out into the balmy night air and strolled arm in arm back toward Bastille. The mood on the street was festive, all of Paris it seemed was out and about; laughing, boozing, and kissing. Families strolled from concert to concert, fathers with young ones perched on their shoulders, bouncing gently to the rythym of the music. Groups of noisy teens flirted, the girls laughing just a little too loudly, the boys fueling the fire by offering alcohol and cigarettes. We stopped for a moment to listen to a french grunge band, somehow it didn't sound so grungey in française! There was a large crowd assembled around us; a girl with bright pink hair, a white dude with dredlocks and a nose ring, and an elderly french couple, all forgetting for an evening that smiling is strictly interdit in Paris! Over the grunge, we moved on and discovered an eclectic group of people drumming an ancient tribal beat, anyone with a bongo was welcome to join. It was peoplewatching at it's finest, and Low and I were taking full advantage of the opportunity. Always a gentleman, always discreet, and with the exception of a few affectionate pecks, Low gave me little indication of whether or not I was going to get that birthday sex I was talking about earlier. I couldn't think of a better way to end a perfect evening, but would Low a) once again send me home in a cab, b) take me to a Karaoke bar and sing "What's New, Pussycat?" or c) give it up? Join me next week for my big birthday suprise on Your Friday night French Ro-Com!