Apartment Hunting in Paris

There comes a time when "home" starts feeling a little tight around the seams. That dream apartment whose endless rooms of empty space you walked through a few years has somehow grown enough sticks of furniture, coffee table books, and electrical appliances to fill a house. And when you start bruising yourself on dresser corners on your way to open a window and bend down to get something out of a kitchen cabinet only to find yourself sitting on the hot oven door your husband just opened, a little voice inside tells you that it's that time again.
So you scour seloger.com and pap.fr in search of your next appartement de rêve.
What will it take this time? An extra chambre, so your desk and dining room table don't have to share a room anymore? Or a separate salle de bains and salle d'eau, so taking a shower no longer means taking a number? A balcony would be nice, too--no more repotting flowers in the bathtub. . . and maybe a view of something other than the apartment building across the courtyard, though people-watching can be pretty fun. . .

Chris Noth and Sarah Jessica Parker as Mr. Big and Carrie Bradshaw. [Online image] 2008.

Snowflakes and Slush

Growing up in Southern California, I thought that snowflakes were only in storybooks. (Like indoor school cafeterias were only on TV.) Nothing in real life could be that perfect and white. Rain was enough cause for excitement. We got to take umbrellas to school and have PE in the auditorium. Playing dodgeball to the beat of the rain outside: that was magical. A schoolyard blanketed in soft whiteness would have been too much.
And to Parisians, it seems like too much as well. The city holds it breath when the first flakes fall. All is quiet. Then when the snow sticks to the ground, everyone exhales at once. Policemen appear on street corners in sturdy boots. Children are bundled up like sausages, and women hurry around in fur hats. Soon the crisp whiteness turns to muddy slush. And then the rain returns.

Julie Christie and Omar Sharif as Lara and Dr. Yuri Zhivago. [Online image] 1965.

No Champagne for Me, Please. Or Smoked Salmon. Or Cheese. . .

Being pregnant around the holidays in France really makes you appreciate how vegans must feel during the rest of the year. Not only do certain sights and smells (fresh fish and pungent wheels of cheese at the morning market) make you go green around the gills, but whatever tempts your palate turns out to be hiding a blacklisted ingredient (a French dessert without eggs or butter is about as likely as rum-free punch at a Christmas party). So you get used to passing on pink platters of smoked salmon on tiny toasts and doilied trays of canopés slathered with foie gras mousse. Of course, while vegans can quell their growling stomachs with raw veggies (déconseillés for femmes enceintes due to toxoplasmosis risk) and sparkling trays of teetering champagne flutes, pregnant women's safest bet at Christmastime seems to be baguette and filtered water.
No wonder why Mary's a saint.

Production drawing of Sebastian. [Online image] 1989.

Diet Coke and Thimerosal?!

Despite its progressive health care system, French medical advice can seem pretty old-fashioned--and not in the good way. So unless your OBGYN moonlights as a Yogaphile osteopath, she'll most likely assume that you're looking for a nice 1950s-style, heavily anesthetized birthing experience.
Breastfeeding? Well, if you're sure you want to go to the trouble. Doesn't matter too much, though, because the baby will spend his days at the crêche by the time he's three months old anyway. In the meantime, are you suffering from morning sickness? Diet Coke works wonders. (Ah, yes, lovely thing, aspartame.) And here's a prescription for some anti-nausea medicine. It's not recommended for pregnant women, but it can't do that much harm. And you should also get the swine flu vaccine, of course. Thimer-what? No, no, if it weren't safe, I would have heard something. Now, have you chosen a hospital? What? A doula? (Looks searchingly at my French husband, hoping for an intelligible word from one of the future parents.) Uh, no, I highly doubt that a respectable public hospital in Paris would let someone like that in the delivery room.
Any other questions?

Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. [Online image] 1952.

Parallel Universes

When I'm home in California, I do the same types of things that I do when I'm home in Paris: I go to the pool; I cook spicy Mexican food with the radio turned up high; I do Yoga; I go out for coffee.
But life is so different for the other "me"-- as Nancy Huston puts it in Nord Perdu--living on the other side of the Atlantic.
While the LA me enters empty swimming pools and square stucco coffee shops with quiet, coffee drinkers in khaki shorts politely typing on keyboards and sipping skinny lattés, the Paris me kicks though crowded pool traffic to be greeted by winking café waiters busy serving middle-aged women mid-morning chardonnay and working men stout pints of beer.
My two universes aren't completely parallel, though, because the two "me"s come together sometimes. Like in yoga class when my eyes are closed. Or when I bite into a really good veggie burrito. Then I can fade out the glittering ocean or sparkling Eiffel Tower; smiling, wide-eyed English voices and mischievous Parisian wiles--and just feel home.

Paul Hogan as Mick Dundee. [Online image] 1986.

"La Grippe !"

With flu season upon us, it's been comforting knowing that my GP is right downstairs, ready to see me at a moment's notice; that my gynecologist is on call even on the weekend, answering my anxious emails about my little soybean and kissing me on both cheeks when she sees me; that across the street my pharmacist will greet me with kind, concerned eyes when I need to fill a prescription and ask me if I'd like a cup of coffee.
Oh, yeah, socialized health care is a bitch.
Universal coverage? What a drag. I mean, don't we have the right to stay sick if we want to?

If only Americans could see that the widespread epidemic that threatens us most is not borne of swine. It's our inane fear about having our so-called God-given rights taken away.

Somehow I don't think Jesus would have seen the liberty in people dying for lack of medical care.

Olivier Martinez and Juliete Binoche as Angelo Pardi and Pauline de Théus [Online image] 1995.

Halloween in Paris: Less Fuss, More Fun

For the past few years, the French have been feeling pretty smug around la Toussaint. "Halloween is gone for good," they gloat. "It wasn't a French holiday to begin with--it couldn't have lasted," they shrug, pointing to bland shop windows that used to be filled with gaping jack-o-lantern grins and spindly spider legs in woolly webs come October. Even store chains like Monoprix have started to skimp on the Halloween déco, content to fill their seasonal aisles instead with Christmas-themed candy and decorations as soon as the weather turns cool. With the exception of the odd chocolatier's--or Le Bon Marché's--displays of plump pumpkin-shaped chocolates, Halloween could almost go unnoticed now. Almost.
Because what the French haven't completely forgotten is the magic of make-believe. Wobbly toddlers turned ladybugs and wild Indians are led by the hands of proud parents to their crèches' Halloween parties, where even the staff has been transformed into witches and devils. Older Parisians stop the children on the street to compliment their costumes and joke with them, no doubt remembering costumed goûters d'anniversaire of yore.
So maybe with a less commercial version of Halloween, the French, young and old, will stop seeing the holiday as a capitalist intrusion and more as what it always has been: a good excuse to dress up and eat candy--pumpkin-shaped or not.

Drew Barrymore as Gertie [Online image] 1982.

Fall in Paris Means Really Big Produce

After months of bite-sized berries, wee apricots all ablush, and innocent heads of leafy greens, fall produce can come as quite a shock here.
Suddenly market stands are weighed down with giant slices of pumpkin (they're too big to be sold whole), fat apples and pears in all shapes and colors, and piles of twisted black radishes.
Shoppers hobble home laden with their spoils, conspicuous stalks of leeks and chard peeking out from bags and baskets, not knowing the culinary coup that awaits them. . . For tonight, Madame will cover them in egg and cream and put them in a pie!

Illustration by Beatrix Potter [Online image] 1893.

Cupcakes Vs. Croissants

I always wonder if kids in Paris know how lucky they are to grow up here. Walking home from school with a flaky croissant in one hand and a suave Parisian papa's reassuring hand in the other, do they know that their never-ending afternoons of goûters and Guignol in the park aren't the stuff that other childhoods are made of? Not that I'm knocking celery sticks and peanut butter with 30 minutes of Mary Tyler Moore. But the average American after-school program today seems to be filled with a lot less fiber and a lot more TV.
With cookies, doughnuts, and cupcakes slowly gaining space on French pastry shop shelves, though, Parisian palates may soon get sweet on gourmandise à l'américaine. Luckily French TV is nowhere near as entertaining as a puppet holding a stick.

Kirsten Dunst as Marie Antoinette. [Online image] 1996.

"Service Après Vente"

When a ripple of globalization finally finds its way to Paris, it's hard not to see the upside. Like when Starbuck's started popping up everywhere from the Madeleine to the Marais. Sure, it was hard not to feel guilty passing up an authentic neighborhood café for an obnoxious American chain, but it's amazing how no-smoking signs, friendly service, and soy milk can melt guilt away into pure contentment. Or when “returns" and "exchanges” finally became part of French salespeople’s vocabulary.
Yes, service après vente in Paris has definitely come a long way. I still have nightmarish memories of my failed attempt to return spoiled cheese to my local G-20 market eight years ago. I went in mustering all of my French-acquired politeness, asking with wide eyes what the store policy was for returns. But the store manager took one look at me and my rotten cheese and started yelling. How dare I come to him with cheese problems when obviously he wasn't the one who had made the cheese! Another time, I tried taking a top back to Benetton--it had reacted with my deodorant the first time I had worn it and turned into a mottled mess of ghostly white stains. The saleslady told me with a snotty smile that it wasn't Benetton's problem; I needed to complain to my deodorant maker. . . so basically all purchases used to be final in France--unless a store had a specially designated service après vente annex building (and the customer had a lot of time or was at least willing to cry pretty hard).
Dieu merci, in the past few years, service après vente has become intriguingly simple. I am happy to say that I have successfully exchanged rotten Noirmoutier potatoes at Monoprix for fresh ones, and I have even exchanged a flawed clothing article twice without a whimper of a protest from the sales assistant. Nothing spells globalization like a helpful salesperson in Paris.

Alan Ruck, Matthew Broderick, and Mia Sara as Cameron Frye, Ferris Bueller, and Sloane Peterson. [Online image] 1986.

Detoxing for Fall

The sun decided to leave Paris last week. It didn't ask anyone if it could. It just up and decided that it'd seen enough bare necks and painted toes for one year and hid behind the clouds (and there were plenty of clouds to hide behind). So just like that, fall came a bit early this year. And so did Parisian spleen.
Melancholy waiters ushered tables and chairs back inside dreary cafés, and irritable parents harried their children out of parks and back indoors. "C'est le changement des saisons !" they cried, rushing home to pull last year's scarves and boots out of their closets.
The lady who runs my yoga center had a more holistic approach: detox cocktails (sans alcool évidemment). "When the seasons change, people's livers are often filled with a lot of anger," she explained. To help purge the liver of its foul fall bile, she recommended a 20-day regimen of black radish juice and other plant extracts (available in ampoules at the pharmacy). I just hope my liver is ready to be that happy.

Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. [Online image] 1952.

"Derrière Le Volant"

I just can't seem to get the hang of it. The breeziness of it. The one-handedness of it. All I want is to stay in 2nd with both hands gripped around the wheel. But the engine always cries out for more. Even in-between roundabouts, it wants to be in 3rd or 4th. And once it goes over 50 mph, it's not happy with anything but 5th.
I hate 5th. I cringe as I try to push and shove the stubborn stick into the top right-hand corner, holding my breath, waiting for the engine to cry out and leap like a wounded animal.
How do the French make it look so easy? They whip through chicanes and minuscule countryside roundabouts in their toy-like Peugeots and Renaults as though they were born driving.
"Il te manque de la confiance en soi," my instructor concludes after another grueling lesson of priorité à droite and démarrage en côte. That or an automatic car. . .

Cary Grant and Grace Kelly as John Robie and Frances Stevens. [Online image] 1955.

September Slack

In Paris, the only thing more frustrating than finding your daily repères closed in August is finding them closed in September. As though the fermeture annuelle of your favorite boulangerie during the entire month of August weren't punishment enough, the city of Paris has decided to turn the rentrée into one endless force-fed goose chase. For one, it had the original idea of emptying out all of the city's pools at the same time. But even though swimming off the calories from all those croissants ordinaires may not be an option, you'll get quite a workout just tracking down an open pool in the area.
If only all the fonctionnaires could stay on vacation, life in Paris would be so much simpler.

Jacques Villeret, Daniel Prévost, Thierry Lhermitte, and Francis Huster as François Pignon, Lucien Cheval, Pierre Brochant, and Juste Leblanc [Online image] 1998.

Smoking is Still Chic in Paris

Even though more French women have started looking American around the middle, pressure to stay slim in Paris is as heavy as a six-egg chocolate mousse with extra crème fraîche and butter. Curvy just doesn't spell chic here (except maybe to Vincent Cassel).
But instead of reaching for running shoes and nonfat yogurt to stave off unwanted kilos, chic Parisiennes manage to eat what they please and rarely break a sweat. How do they do it? Cigarettes.
Unlike in America, where chain-smoking went from glamorous to trashy last century, in France, spewing lung-poisoning fumes in front of others is still considered perfectly acceptable behavior for an upstanding citizen. Which means that most days, you'll find yourself sputtering your way through a labyrinth of smoke emerging from the unabashed mouths of well-dressed businesswomen, friends gossiping in sidewalk cafés, and young mothers pushing (with one-hand) smart Maclaren strollers.
It’s enough to make you want to return to the land of Botox and celebrity diets, where even the head of state has the decency to smoke in private.

Sharon Gless as Madeline Westen. [Online image].

The Return of Paris Angst

It's time to share Paris with its rightful owners again. No more breezy parking maneuvers and jostle-free promenades. They're back (a few shades orange-er granted) and ready to elbow themselves through post office lines and overtake sidewalks with their jumbo-sized poussettes.
Sadly enough the sun seems to be in on the whole thing. As if la rentrée weren't disheartening enough, now we have to scuttle around the crowded city in sweaters and wet feet. And even if the morning gloom and early nights will send Parisians packing for weekend getaways in no time, it no longer seems as fun to be left behind.

Audrey Hepburn as Regina Lampert. [Online image] 1963.

Summer in the Country

People outside of the Paris area look and sound different. They're not quite as slim; their clothes aren't quite as swanky; their tournures de phrase aren't as charmantes. In short, as a Versaillaise I know put it: "Le Français moyen n'est vraiment pas beau." But beautiful or not, the Français moyen happens to inhabit the picaresque French countryside that Parisians can't seem to get enough of--at least for a weekend at a time.
Perhaps it's not merely the leisurely riparian picnics and fresh country air, though, that propel French people to leave the comforts of city life again and again. One can't help wondering if part of urban elites' persistent attraction to la France profonde is due to pure snobisme. Indeed, with their 75s on their license plates, textbook grammar, and names that don't sound like they've been taken from an American teen drama series, Parisians must feel pretty snazzy next to their beauf compatriots.
Or maybe they see it as a chance to let down their Parisian guard for a day or two. Who knows: en cachette, they might even remember how to smile again.

Sylvia Bataille as Henriette. [Online image] 1936.

Summer in the City

In France, staying put in July and August is a bit like asking for ketchup with your snails. Ça ne se fait pas. But with la crise, more and more French families are opting for dépaysants day trips over month-long holidays. Luckily marooned Parisians have it especially easy with a slew of outdoor pools, like the Josephine Baker, at their doorstep--not to mention Paris Plages. If only commerçants would get into la crise spirit and not close shop all of August, Parisians could continue that favorite of of all vacation pastimes: le shopping.

Homemade swimming pool for steelworkers' children, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania by Arthur Rothstein, [Online image] 1938.

All in a Day at the Park

When summer comes to Paris, those who are still cooped up in the city flock to the nearest park in search of a quiet patch of shade. And soon the capital's espaces verts become dotted with picnickers and sunbathers, making them a fountain of free sociological information--and entertainment.
You can really learn a lot about a quartier from a park bench. Peering over the pages of an open book, you can innocently people-watch for hours, taking in everyone from the endimanché elderly couple sitting one bench over, quietly bickering, to the bare-chested, middle-aged man standing up and yelling on his cellphone to a flustered mother trying to remember how to play with her children again now that the nounou is on vacation. Unfortunately, as you are in a public, neighborhood park, you can't expect to hide behind your book indefinitely. At some point, someone will manage to squeeze herself and her summery spirits down next to you and begin some banal banter ("It's sure a hot day, isn't it?"). How can you break it to her that there's no fun in people-watching a good-natured Parisien?

Kristin Davis as Charlotte York Goldblatt. [Online image] 2004.

Would the Ritz by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?

From the elegance of Audrey Hepburn to the sordidness of arms dealers, the Ritz in Paris has made quite a name for itself over the years. Since its opening in 1898, it is also one of the few Paris landmarks that has remained largely unvisited by Parisians and tourists alike--no doubt making it all the more enticing to those who can afford it. 

Of course, no matter what you're able or willing to pay (11 euros for a glass of juice or 300 times that much for a modest suite), the Ritz is more than happy to offer you a taste of its name--not that that makes it any less intimidating to push your way though its turning doors past chic veiled women laden with even chic-er carrier bags. 

But walking out into the city again with echoes of the French staff addressing you in hushed, polite--dare I say helpful?--tones, it's hard not to feel like that that was one taste of Paris that was deliciously worth it.

Peter O'Toole and Audrey Hepburn as Simon Dermott and Nicole Bonnet. [Online image] 1966.

Getting Around Paris

Whether you're on foot, driving, Vélib-ing it, or swimming about, maneuvering around Paris takes some pretty fast decision-making and quite a lot of guts (or a very snug blindfold).
Crossing the street is not a simple matter of waiting for the petit bonhomme to turn green and then looking both ways. As a pedestrian, you are in an undeclared battle against all the cars and motos and bikes zooming your way. Some piétons may stoop to using their poussettes to stop traffic, but the pro doesn't need to resort to such methods. A glare at a nervy driver followed by a stern tap on the flank of his vehicle should be enough to cool most sets of wheels. And if all else fails, you can always yell, "Connard!" at the exhaust pipe as it races away. Just remember that this is a solo sport: don't expect any encouragement from bystanders sipping espresso at sidewalk cafés or a helping hand from the fellow competitors at your side. Trip and fall on the sidewalk in your brand new Tropéziennes soldées, and no one will bother turning around. You're just going to have to pick yourself up and keep on going. Or try life in Paris' fast lane. But after a tour ou deux around the Place de l'Etoile, you might find yourself begging for life as a lowly piéton again.

La Meute by Robert Doisneau. [Online Image] 1969.

"Les Grandes Vacances"

When General De Gaulle quibbled about governing a country with so many types of cheese, he obviously hadn't been on vacation in a while. If he had, he would have seen how manageable the French actually are.
As soon as les grandes vacances approach, les Gaulois begin pairing off in an orderly fashion before packing themselves off for a quinzaine or two at one of the Hexagone's designated vacation spots. Originality isn't a criterion. It's all a matter of leaving one's primary residence for a period of two to four weeks: the partir part of the partir en vacances equation is just as important as the vacances half.
Of course, the French don't all spend their vacances in the same style. The more populaire crowd camps out in tents, while across the hedge, bourgeois vacanciers play home improvement in their own résidences secondaires.
But whether they're sporting BCBG white and navy stripes and bateaux or dreadlocks and bare feet, they're all in one place, enjoying the same sun and sand--though some might choose to eat American cheese before admitting it.

Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney as Joanna and Mark Wallace. [Online image] 1964.

"La Fête Nat"

It's a national holiday. It's in July. The date starts with "four." How different can it be?
Well, assez different.
For starters, there are NO decorations anywhere. No blue, white, and red napkins or streamers in the supermarket, no flags waving outside of people's homes or glued onto t-shirts. No tricolor desserts or face paints for sale. Unless you're in an official military parade, it's really not your place to show any team spirit (expect for lighting fire crackers).
Luckily being a willing spectator isn't that hard of a role to play, especially in Paris.
This year, crowds will gather early in the Champs de Mars. Not to eat hot dogs or watch cheesy reenactments of the storming of the Bastille--or even to sing patriotic ditties. They'll be there for Johnny. But once the night is filled with booms and echoing "oohs," you might well tell yourself, "It's not that different." Who would have thought that after dark, even Parisians can act impressed?

Sophia Loren and Cary Grant as Tom Winters and Cinzia Zaccardi. [Online image] 1958.

Nothing Says Summer in Paris Like a Sweaty Day of "Soldes" Shopping

When trios of long-legged ados, free at last from the tortures of the bac, start strutting down rue de Passy in short shorts and slinky tanks, ready to raid the Gap--or at least the soft serve machine at McDonalds--you know another summer has arrived in Paris.
And it's not just the sudden plethora of teenyboppers that gives the color of the season away. Tiny grandmothers shopping for even tinier baby clothes and soberly dressed career women combing through racy swimsuits are pretty good signs.
The important thing to remember is that being an innocent bystander is not an option. Be prepared to have complete strangers ask you for shopping advice. "Should I get the skirt or the dress? In black and white or brown and cream?" All notions of French reserve go out the window when soldes are in the air.

Hayley Mills as Pollyanna. [Online image] 1960.

Finding the Keys to Lutèce

It's easy to forget that not everyone who comes to Paris is living a dream come true. Take a walk to the Eiffel Tower on a summer evening, and sure, you'll pass a group of well-fed, wide-eyed tourists, cameras flashing away. But just around the corner, a different group will be waiting, metal rings of Eiffel Towers dangling from their fingers like misshapen keys. Their wide eyes won't waste a second on the Iron Lady: all they see are three pairs of blue-cuffed hands grabbing the bare arms of one of theirs and his keys to the Parisian dream being torn away.

Ayush Mahesh Khedekr as Jamal Malik. [Online image] 2008.

Working Girl in Paris

Having a job in Paris intra-muros has always seemed like a luxury to me. No dreaded steps down seedy RER corridors for an hour commute away from coveted gardens, museums, and boulangeries. No resentful stares at tourists setting off to enjoy a day of culture and cuisine, while you're banished to the banlieues for seven hours. You are one of them now. I mean, sitting behind a desk all day can be simply delicious when you can taste Paris through an open window.

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

Provençal Promises

When I’m in Provence, I can’t help feeling back in Southern California. The same sweetness of star jasmine beckons me to breathe in memories of my backyard; the same rhythmic rasping of insect legs sings to me of fleeting summer promises. Only they don’t bother waiting till dark—and they have earned a more melodic name than “cricket.” Cicadas. I used to dream about them. The sophisticated, continental cousins of Jiminy and company. I wanted to belong to their world. To gaze at their surroundings: marshlands and stone houses; lavender fields and parched dirt paths. And the sea beyond. To prostate myself before them and tell them that I’m ready for more.

Cast from La Gloire de mon père as the Pagnol family. [Online image] 1989.

Ready to Sing Red, White, and Blue Backwards?

People here often ask if I've applied for French citizenship yet, but no one's really tried to convince me to make La Marseillaise my national anthem--until the other day at my local French employment agency. "But don't you feel French? Your children, they will be French," my conseiller said. "They will have la mentalité française--it is much different from la mentalité américaine, non?"
"Uh, yeah, kinda different," I managed, as my mind started to whirl in blue, blanc, rouge: "My kids are going to be French? How has this never occurred to me?" Suddenly I pictured skinny little bourgeois teenyboppers with tight jeans and Longchamp bags, strutting along in the shade of chestnut trees and giggling into cellphones. No after-school sports. Except maybe horseback riding. Or badminton. "Well, don't you feel French?" she was asking me again. I gulped. Thank God French has so many round-about ways to say non.

Madeleine LeBeau as Yvonne. [Online image] 1942.

Finger Food

The French are experts at eating finger food. At a cocktail, you won't see them grappling for hand sanitizer or searching for the toothpicks and napkins. They're trained early on as children in the art of appetizers: as soon as they can walk, they're taught to pass demurely from guest to guest at apéro time with a careful grip on a bowl of gâteaux salés (why call a chip a chip?) or cherry tomatoes, pausing just the time needed for each person to choose a nibble or two and coo, "Merci Mademoiselle." By the time they're old enough to attend a formal pince-fesse ("bottom pincher"!) with glasses of bubbly and elegant trays of canapés, navettes, and petits fours, they're balancing two chamagne flutes in one hand while slurping down raw oysters with the other.
But we Americans have our revenge on taco night!

Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Perkins as Josh Baskin and Susan [Online image] 1988.

When in Versailles. . .

As homogenous and prim as some bourgeois Parisian communities seem, none has managed to breed cookie-cutter, church-going citizens like a certain neighboring suburb. Once home to desperate nobles locked in a vicious battle of decadent one-upmanship, presentday Versailles is comparably dull--as though the blue-blooded of today have all agreed to save their time and energy (not to mention money) by dressing, eating, and living exactly alike. It might be refreshing not to have to keep up with the Joneses, but a little healthy competition (other than waiting to see who gets to baby number five first) might be part of what loving thy neighbor is all about.

Katherine Ross as Joanna Eberhart. [Online image] 1975.

"Débrouille"-ing in French

"Je me débrouille pas mal, je pense," I muster, blushing as my distorted vowels spill out in front of the smug cashier. For someone whose worst grade ever was in French Phonetics (having a professor named Mme Boucher probably didn't help), daily life in France can feel a lot like a never-ending test in the language lab. And in the capital, where English-speaking tourists flock like sneakered sheep, it's easy to be mistaken for a fly-by-night Parisian. Of course, sometimes this can be used to your advantage, like when you're accosted by petitioners or taking longer than normal to count out change at the supermarket. For the most part, though, it feels like a slap in the face to have a French person answer you in English. And it's a matter of honor to accept the challenge and fight back with every irregular verb and idiom you can think of.

Kate Hudson as Isabel Walker. [Online image] 2003.

Getting in Step with Paris

It's hard to find the right balance in Paris. One minute a shopkeeper is ignoring you; the next, you're listening to the roundup of all the quartier's news since De Gaulle was President--the first time around. The reassuring, bubbly, and to-the-point, "Hi! How can I help you?," is as foreign here as a mimosa on an Air France flight. But until you acquire a taste for Parisian small talk, there's no reason not to be bubbly and to-the-point yourself. If anyone raises an eyebrow, you can always comfort yourself later by adding a little orange juice to your champagne.

Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo. [Online image] 1956.

"Les Règles"

There's a reason why "rules" and "period" are the same word in French. They can both show up anytime, anywhere, causing pain and a terrible waste of paper. But with a little experience and a lot of determination, it can be easier to navigate through French red tape than the feminine hygiene aisle at the supermarket.
First, you have to be prepared for the dreaded "non, ce n'est pas possible Madame" to hit when you're most vulnerable. Like at the pharmacy in the middle of August when your doctor is on vacation and your mosquito-bitten body is screaming for an anti-inflammatory prescription. No point mentioning that back home, apartments come with A/C, and windows have screens. To get through to that blank, smug expression behind the counter, you're going to have to beg. And if you stick it out long enough and make it clear that you are a human being despite your léger accent, you'll have the double reward of getting what you asked for and seeing a wall of Parisian obstination slowly melt into winks and pleasantries. And once you get a French person to smile at you, you'll really feel like a woman.

Peter Sellers and Capucine as Inspector and Simone Clouseau. [Online image] 1963.

Eurostardom

London has never been so close to the Continent. In a little over 2 hours, you can swap your café au lait and pain au chocolat for a strong cup of tea with milk and warm scones smothered in clotted cream. You might be slightly fazed by the plethora of Paul boulangeries popping up next to teahouses and pubs, but you won't wonder for long whether you just dreamt your transplantation. For one, that lady with the stroller who just bumped into you? She didn't keep on walking with her chin thrust out like some kind of weapon. Instead, she rested her hand on your arm, looked at you with sincere eyes, and said the unutterable for Parisians: "I'm sorry."
Then there are the monuments. Fancy a peek at the British Library's prized shelves? Don't be disconcerted by nightmarish memories of the BNF's massive steel doors and mazelike corridors. The English came up with a library that doesn't make visitors feel like they're too stupid or unworthy to behold books.
You gotta wonder how a country so intent on keeping its monarchy can be so bloody democratic.

Kevin Kline and Jamie Lee Curtis . [Online image] 1988.

Every Little Breeze Seems to Whisper. . .

Spring always seems to arrive in Paris overnight. One day, your fingers are shivering as you button up your coat, and the next morning you find yourself kicking off your boots and slipping your bare feet into a pair of flats.
Of course, some people just grin and bear the heat. The French seem to have a disrobing angst when it comes to winter coats and scarves. "En avril, ne vous découvrez pas d'un fil ; en mai, faites ce qui vous plaît," the saying goes. Heaven only knows what would happen if you start showing some skin in March!

Audrey Hepburn as Ariane Chavasse. [Online image] 1957.

Another Side of Gay Paris

Despite Paris' steady embourgeoisement since the 1950s, citadins of the capital of fashion and romance are not always trippping down the street in la dernière mode, arm in arm with a dapper Prince Charmant.
Crouched on the sidewalk outside supermarkets or on top of glauques underground staircases, less fortunate Parisians raise their heads as bustling shoppers and commuters rush by. "Bonjour, bonjour," a monotonous voice repeats, switching to "Merci, merci" every time someone slows down to drop a shiny coin into a weathered cup.
Around 8 pm (dinnertime in France), you might see the voice's owner waiting in line for a plastic bowl of steaming soup, as across the street, a parallel world laughs and blows cigarette smoke in-between gourmet forkfuls.

Juliette Binoche as Michèle Stalens. [Online image] 1991.

Baobabs in the Garden

My eyes moved from growth to growth of mistletoe distorting the silhouettes of trees. I hardly noticed the ropes of liane snaking up and down the branches of the big poirier. The younger strands were reddish brown, bursting here and there into puffs of creamy down. "It can't be a weed," I said. "Start pulling, and you'll see." So I tugged as hard as I could, my feet staggering backward and the palms of my hands burning against the stubborn vine. And then there it was, defeated and lifeless in a heap by my feet. I reached for another strand of the creeper and another. "Don't be too greedy, or you'll bring the whole tree down." But I wanted to tear all the weeds out at once. I wanted to feel them give, like gray hairs being plucked clean from their roots.
So I yanked at the twisting ropes until I was covered in their cream-colored fluff, and you laughed, as you coaxed the vine gently down, letting the tree breathe again.

Maureen O'Sullivan as Jane Parker. [Online image] 1940s.

Paris "En Semaine"

Savoring Paris on a weekday feels a bit like playing hooky. As you sit back in a cozy café, sipping a rich soy latté (ok, it's Starbucks, but still), you can't help but imagine coworkers lined up in front of a coin-operated instant coffee machine. Slip into a dark movie theater in the Latin Quarter, and for a second, you picture the office gang stifling yawns in front of an interminable PowerPoint presentation. Almost takes the fun out of flâning on a manic Monday. Almost.

Mia Sara and Matthew Broderick as Sloane Peterson and Ferris Bueller. [Online image] 1986.

Times of "Crise"

A homeless guy in Berkeley once stole a stack of CDs from my dorm room. He pawned them right away for cash.
Before this weekend, though, I'd never come home to gaping cabinet and dresser drawers, their vintage contents strewn about like rejected strands of pearls.
As we followed the fresh trail of mud left by the gendarmes' boots up to the cambrioleurs' dry sneaker prints, I thought: "C'est la crise."
Why else would a group of teenagers in rural France have gone to all this trouble for a decade-old computer and a DVD player?
If it weren't for our upside-down value system, they surely would've at least tried to take off with a prized stamp collection or a Picasso copy or two.

Cary Grant and Sophia Loren as Tom Winters and Cinzia Zaccardi. [Online image] 1958.

Oh, "Beau Sale Temps"

Parisians really don't like the rain. "Quel temps !" they sputter, shaking the city's dampness off their impers and opening up their parapluies to dry on the palier.
And can you blame them? Paris gets pretty moche when it's wet out and raindrops hold tight to lonely park benches, as the floors of métro stations become laced with muddy prints.
A speaker at the Salon du Bien-Etre this weekend got me thinking, though. "What do you do if you live in a gray and rainy city like Paris?" she asked.
"Get a light box," seemed like the obvious reply.
But her answer was more clear-cut: "Either move to the South, or learn to like the rain."
Guess it's time to start looking for poetry in those muddy footprints.

Charmian Carr as Liesl von Trapp. [Online image] 1965.

February At Last

Once January's gloomy page turns, revealing February's red lace and snow flurries, Paris breathes a sigh of relief. Or, at least, I do! As carefree spring fashions finally manage to elbow their way to the front of window displays and lucky schoolchildren bundle up for Alpine fun, the city seems to revel in its extra hours of light. It's time for crêpes and cider, fondue and mulled wine, and strawberries and champagne. New Year's resolutions, beware! It's time to live a little.

Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck as Dr. Peterson and John Ballantine. [Online image] 1945.

"Grève," Schmève!

In France, socialist sympathizers say the same thing about striking that right-winged people in the States say about bearing arms: "It's our right, so don't even think about messing with it!" Of course, French strikers don't risk killing innocent people by carrying out their right. They just barbecue merguez on the side of the road, organize a few manifs, and try to shut down the country for a day or two. It's how they vent, and if you ask moi, it makes a whole lot more sense for a disgruntled postal worker to close shop for a day than open fire on his co-workers.

Sally Field as Norma Rae. [Online image] 1979.

A Contagious Moment

During Obama's historic inauguration on Tuesday, we the people felt like part of history, too. We were happy to be witnesses to the Obamas' happiness. That's because cultural hegemony works in America.
In France, one person's victory doesn't make les autres feel victorious: they become critical and bitter because they don't think it will ever be their "turn."
We, on the other hand, are so blinded by the American Dream that even a taste of success (a J. Crew ensemble as seen worn by Michelle, anyone?) feels as good as the real thing. Perhaps if Carla started foregoing her usual Chanel, more people in France could have their petit goût of fame aussi.

Glynis Johns as Mrs. Banks. [Online image] 1964.

Bringing Back Home

When the initial shock of being back in Paris after a visit home--and all the soul-searching questions that follow ("Did my métro station always have this odor?")--clears, it's just a matter of time before you tell yourself, c'est la vie, and get back into the French swing of things.

But now that you're fully armed with your favorite peanut butter, three pairs of jeans that fit, and the entire gamme of Luna bars, are you really just supposed to go back to métro, boulot, dodo and like it? 

Or do you do what it takes to make sure that parts of the life you left behind live on?

Rachel Ward as Meggie Cleary. [Online image] 1983.

Holiday Lag

Aisles of heart-shaped candy boxes and flowery cards on January second may seem like a slap in the face for Americans who'd been hoping to stave off sweets and codependency for at least the first week of the New Year.
But faded door wreaths and garish strands of street lights in mid-January don't exactly inspire bold resolutions either. Christmas has come and gone, and the French seem content with leftover winter cheer. Maybe flakey galette and soldes racks are enough to get through January's grisaille?

Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones. [Online image].