Breathing Space

Paris' tiny streets are crowded with people pushing over-sized Maclaren strollers and walking pampered dogs. Bicycles and motorcycles weave between nervous cars, while pedestrians elbow each other to make it to the bus or métro. When they can't take it anymore, they all flee to the seaside or mountains, where the sand and slopes are dotted with the same crowds left behind in Paris. 

Dieu merci for Southern California. Even with more and more land being swallowed up by cookie-cutter houses and malls, there's enough wiggle room for everyone to breathe in her skinny jeans.   

Sarah Jessica Parker and Kim Cattrall as Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha Jones. [DVD screenshot] 2000.

Home

There's no French equivalent to "home," except maybe, chez moi, but the sense of unconditional belonging is lost: chez moi is temporal.
In French, a homing pigeon is a pigeon voyageur, or traveling pigeon. The home base idea doesn't seem to be important.
Perhaps France is too small a country for people to feel disoriented enough to need an abosolute home. They can go chez les parents or chez les beaux-parents or chez les cousins whenever they like.
They don't have to subtract nine hours every time they dial "home" or fly twelve hours to get there.
But then they don't have the promise of "home" either.

Vivien Leigh as Katie Scarlett O'Hara. [Online image] 1939.

"Magique Pour Tous"

Holiday magic may be for the kids, but it's we adults who need it most. And the French seem quite all right with indulging us.

They might not be into hanging up stockings over the fireplace, but they let us sprinkle santons of miniature lambs and pumpkin-carrying ladies on top of our grown-up meubles. And though making gingerbread houses isn't very big here, it's totally acceptable to spend an evening trying to turn a chocolate cake into a snow-covered log.

Giant Santas and reindeer might be scarce in the City of Lights, but parents will stop to look at winter scenes of dancing princesses and twitching rabbits in store windows or at the glittering strands of lights that guide shoppers to rues commerçantes like stars.

Natalie Wood and Maureen O'Hara as Susan and Doris Walker. [Online image] 1947.

My "Jardin Secret"

As educational as people-watching can be--and as incontournables as cultural sites like the Louvre and Pompidou are--, the real delight when living in Paris is finding a spot that seems to belong to you alone. When you turn a corner in the Marais and come across a quiet courtyard where no motos or English twangs can be heard, you suddenly feel like you and Paris share a delicious secret.
Walk down a crowded park's ivy-covered steps into a deserted garden, and you'll feel as triumphant as the Tatin sisters must have felt upon tasting their first upside-down apple pie. What could be more satisfying, other than sharing your secret place with an appreciative moitié?

Lucy Gutteridge as Mary Lennox and Colin Firth as Colin Craven. [Online image] 1987.

Decluttering Your Shopping Cart

In France, it's easy to go overboard with grocery shopping. You just never know if the delicacy in front of you is still going to be there the following week. And I don't mean pale brown loaves of chocolate torrone imported from Italy or styrofoamy stacks of organic rice cakes. I'm talking dental floss. Tissues. The basics. So I've started stocking up. Unfortunately, my Paris apartment hasn't budged a centimeter to accomadate my growing stashes of toiletries--or my vertically-expanding pantry of cornmeal (farine de maïs), brown sugar (sucre saveur vergeoise), and baking soda (bicarbonate). But a fire in a grande surface over the weekend got me thinking. As we waited for the firemen to survey the scene and tell us that we would not be allowed back in the store, I realized that I couldn't remember half of the items in our abandoned cart. I had gone in there with a list of maybe 10 staples I was running low on but had loaded up instead on things like Kleenex anti-viral tissues and backup cranberries. Of course, there were also the fixings for that night's dinner, but pas de drame. What could be more fitting for a French supper than day-old baguette and a dusty bottle of red?

Alicia Silverstone as Cher Horowitz. [Online image] 1995.

American Again

I grew up defending my beliefs with a toss of my pony-tail and a glib, "It's a free country."
America gave me that luxury to be smug. I could say what I thought. I could be what I dreamed of being.
But then something happened in 2000. Suddenly someone who didn't "get" it was leading our country. Someone with a personal agenda that had nothing to do with thinking or dreaming.
In spring 2001, in a room of fellow Berkeley undergrads eager to study abroad, it was impossible to ignore the change. "For the first time in my career," the program director warned, "I cannot say that you, as Americans, will be welcomed abroad with open arms."
I moved to Paris that August, and three weeks later, on 9/11, the world ground to a halt before diving into a perilous cycle of fear, hate, and greed.

When Barack Obama was elected President this week, Americans affirmed their right to think and dream. . . and, yes, to be smug again.

Daryl Hannah as Madison. [Online image] 1984.

It Takes A "Quartier"

It's easy to feel alone in Paris. Parisians just don't smile or say bonjour to strangers for the fun of it. 

So don't expect any niceties from the check-out lady at Monoprix as she yawns and watches you swipe your American Express with one hand and stuff your soy patties and rice crackers into bags with the other. If she tosses an au revoir your way, consider yourself lucky. But pas de soucis: you'll still have plenty of time to chew the fat on your walk home. 

Off to pick up the dry cleaning? Your local pressing owner will not only greet you with a warm bonsoir; she'll probably rattle off the articles your husband dropped off over the weekend and dive into a heart-to-heart on family planning.

Never mind that between your groceries and Monsieur's suits, you need ten minutes to punch in your building code--you're still glowing from your bout of neighborly banter. And to think you get to top it off later on with a dégustation of tea and vegan goodies at your Yoga studio. Oh, comme j'aime mon Paris !

Audrey Tautou as Amélie Poulain. [Online image] 2001.

"Paris en Rose"

An average daily allowance of métro, boulot, dodo isn't exactly a recipe for staying in love with Paris. Sure, you could manage a peek of the Eiffel Tower on your way to work on Line 6 every morning, but you're probably too busy finding a way to stand or sit, which doesn't involve unnecessary body contact with all the faune in the wagon, to be bothered by a web of steel. 

So what happened to the Paris you fell head over black stilettos for? The city where you had your first bite of chestnut puree and shopped for your first pair of knee-high boots. Did the magic one day die? Or can you still feel it sometimes, through other people's eyes? 

Juliette Binoche as Hannah. [Online image] 1995.

"La Campagnarde du Dimanche"

One in every eight Frenchwomen (and men) has a secondary residence*. So if you live in the Hexagone for a while, chances are that you'll be asked spend a weekend at one of these tucked-away homes in France's picturesque provinces. And whether you're invited out into the country, up to the mountains, or alongside the sea (some lucky families have all three, of course), you'll probably be expected to join your Parisian hosts in a game of let's-pretend-we're-locals. Sometimes this means sticking your stockinged feet into a pair of weather-beaten galoshes--only to see the real natives wearing their Sunday best. Or riding a rickety bicycle to the nearest open market--trying to ignore all the 75s on the license plates passing you by. Whatever the fly in the ointment, you'll probably be having too much fun playing make-believe to mind.

*Paris Insider's Guide 2004, p. 65.
Kirsten Dunst as Marie-Antoinette. [Online image] 1996.

Presidential Race

My husband and I each subscribe to a weekly magazine: he to Marianne, which is politically aggressive for French standards, and I to Time. When I saw this week's editions side-by-side on our coffee table, a picture of Obama on the French magazine cover caught my eye. Below it was a foreboding question that has been omnipresent in the French media since the summer: "Will he lose because he's black?" As though in reply, Time boasted its own passport-sized snapshot of Obama with the headline: "Race is not the key to the U.S. election." I'm sure most French people would think that this was just hypocritical American political correctness talking. Call it what you like. (Personally, I prefer "rosy naïveté.") But, for once, Americans are analyzing a current event with greater nuance than the French. And I must say, it feels good to have something to be proud of again (and, no, I don't mean lipstick and Naughty Monkeys).

Katherine Houghton as Joey Drayton. [Online image] 1967.

Paris Comfort

Before I moved to France five years ago, I went through my mom's recipe clippings. I needed to write them all down: spaghetti casserole (which I haven't eaten since 1985), butterscotch pudding, pumpkin bread. . . What was I going to do if I needed to make chocolate chip cookies one night? I couldn't just get some random recipe off the internet. I needed hers.  The one I grew up with. And her recipe for playdough couldn't hurt either. (You never know when a play date might show up at your Paris apartment.) And today, as I whip up a batch of my mom's Egyptian rice with vermicelli and hear the bits of pasta sizzling at the bottom of the pot and smell the richness of the butter (or margarine) even once I pour cups of water on top, I know why all those recipes were so important to me: because somehow they take me home again. And all the madeleines and linden tea in France can't hold a candle to that.

Cher as Loretta Castorini. [Online image] 1987.

Just Too Many (Imaginary) Friends

Keeping friendships alive through Gmail and Skype can be disorienting enough for someone living time zones away from her former life. Of course, it'd be even harder without the Internet, but then maybe we'd be obliged to live more completely in the present: the here and now. Take Facebook, for example: sure, it's great suddenly to be in touch with people you haven't seen or heard from in 15 years, but that doesn't exactly help you get on with your life on the other side of the Atlantic. Not only do virtual networks like Facebook propel you into another time zone but back into another phase of your life.
Nothing refutes real-life parameters more, though, than our weekly flirts with "imaginary friends" (as my mom likes to call them): that is, the Susans (and Mikes) and Fionas (and Michaels) of primetime TV. Soon you find yourself racing home for a date with DH (and when you're abroad, it's not as simple as just turning on the télé: first you need to wait for your "friends" to air in the US, and then you can start trying to find them online [or ask Mom to send you their whole season on dvd]), rather than immersing yourself in your adopted culture. But if the alternative would mean TV à la française (i.e.: Ségolène live from the Zénith), give me savvy American smut (albeit delayed) anyime.

Teri Hatcher and Gabrielle Anwar as Susan Mayer and Fiona Glenanne. [Online images].

Baby Talk

For an intellectual and sophisticated language, French can certainly be pretty infantile. Especially when babies are involved. Seeing a tiny bundle of joy seems to transform the most composed and respectable of French people into simpering ninnies. And soon expressions that are already nauseating in their cuteness, like pitchoune, minou, and coquine, take on the uber-cute -ette ending before gushing from proud parents' lips: "Hello, coquinette! How is my minette? Yes, pitchounette?" Ever taken care of a French baby for an afternoon? When the parents come home to their pauvre petit chou, they don't just say, "Thanks for watching Marie-Claire." They will cluck and coo: "Oh, have we been pouponning? Oh, yes, we've been pouponning, haven't we?" As they papottent, the parents will probably ask if you remembered to wrap their darling in her doudoune before going outside or if you tucked her doudou in with her at dodo time. Or whether her precious didis got dirty while she was playing in the gadoue.
If only it could end there, but the poor girl will probably be referred to as choupinette by her family till her 35th birthday—not to mention as bibi by her own sweet self for the rest of her life. . .

Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. [Online image] 1953.

Home Sweet Home

After a mini-break, the shock of being back on French territory usually hits me as soon as I step onto the plane (if not up to the Air France check-in counter). No one knows better than an Air France steward how to piroutte over one of my outlandish requests ("Can I please have some peanuts?") with a single patronizing glance. Quel knack for making one wonder, even before take-off, what the hell she's doing back in the rooster's coop.

Pauline Collins as Shirley Valentine. [Online image] 1989.

"La Mi-Saison"

I really didn't understand the whole mi-saison concept when I came to France—and I still don't get how you can be between two seasons when everyone knows it has to be one of the four. Of course, in Southern California, there really weren't seasons at all, so I could wear pretty much everything all year round (I didn't hear about "no white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day" till college). Anyway, in Paris, I guess that mi-saison means you can go outside without wool tights or a coat but not with bare legs or arms. What usually happens, though, is that you have people who just aren't ready for the last season to end (and so continue sporting sandals and mini-skirts over their goose-pimply legs well into October) and those who can't wait to start showing off their up-and-coming winter fashion feats (and so start wearing high-heeled bottines and retro wool hats in August). Maybe this mi-saison, it's time for a compromise—I'm thinking white boots. . .

Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly. [Online image] 1961.

"La Rentrée"

In France, September doesn't just mean "back to school": it also means "back to work" for all those who spent most of August figuring out the best rapport qualité/prix for a bottle of rosé and the most effective way to tan under gray Atlantic skies. It means back to overcrowded métro stations and rushed evening Monoprix runs, back to cardigans and cafeteria lunches. Not to mention planning for the next holiday! La Toussaint is just two months away!

Megan Follows as Anne Shirely. [Online image] 1985.

Barley, Poppies, or Lavender

The "deuxième quinzaine" of August starts in a couple days, meaning vacation time for many here in France. And this year, I'll be joining in!
I, too, get to load up the car with maillots and robes d'été and head South (on the passenger side, bien sûr—CA licenses still aren't up to speed here), pretending to be Augustine in La Gloire de mon père (minus the kids). I've been listening to my "Relaxing in Provence" cd and am ready to nap in lavender fields. So please, cicadas, forget La Fontaine, and keep singing!

Helena B. Carter as Lucy Honeychurch. [Online image] 1985.

Paris Angst

Life in la ville des Lumières can be filled with romance and Perrier bubbles, but it can also be frustrating and grueling (especially when you have a petit accent). After 5+ years of endless métro and RER commutes, raised eye-brows from in-laws, and utter indifference from fonctionnaires, I've begun to think that maybe I've given it my best shot, and now it's time to move on (and away).
Though I've got to admit that I wouldn't have 40 vacation days in the U.S. ...

Naomi Watts as Roxeanne de Persand. [Online image] 2003.

The Break-up

I’ve tried to dress like you and eat like you, talk like you and think like you.

But it’s over now.

So go ahead and keep your curt pardons and greasy steak-frites.

Just give me back my wide smile and tofu cheese, and I’ll be fine.

You can have your leather flats and throaty “r”s back if I get to wear flip-flops and laugh out loud.

I’ve been waiting for you to fall in love with me for five years now, almost six.

But you don't give a shit.

I’ve read your poetry, your history books, and watched your bad TV.

Only to hear you say, “Vous n’êtes pas française.”

To feel you push me into tired trains and step on my feet.

But this time, I’m not coming back for more.

You can rain on me and blow smoke in my face all you want.

Profites-en.

Because it won’t last for long.

I’m leaving you, France.

And even though you won’t miss me, I’m taking along someone you will.