La Page Française In Exile

2009-06-24T13:23:00.004+02:00

You're always looking up, you're never looking down

2006-10-04T15:53:00.000+02:00

Right, ok, where was I? Oh yeah.

Earlier in the summer, on one of the many rainy Sunday afternoons this summer had to offer us, I wandered after brunch over to one of my favorite little nooks of Paris, the crypt underneath the parvis of the Hotel de Ville. If you've never been, and if you can look at Gallo-Roman and medieval ruins without declaring them as nothing more than a pile of rocks, I do recommend this place. I have had an inexplicable fascination for late Roman, early Christian and medieval ruins since as long as I can remember. This must stem from having grown up in a town where 1950s tuck-and-roll diner booths are considered antiques.

Anyway, as I was wandering through the damp, dark coolness of the ancient walls, cellars of sixteenth century houses, and Gallo-Roman heating rooms, I came across a little booklet on a chair that an English speaking tourist has discarded. Judging from its water drops, I suspected an attempt had been made to use it as an umbrella outside. The booklet contained little maps and an explanation of the what used to be on the parvis, what was torn down in the middle agaes and then again in the Renaissance. Upon reading this booklet, I learned something I did not know: on the parvis, there is a cobblestone line that marks what used to be the rue Neuve Notre Dame, the part that splintered off into the rue de Venise (which was, as a sidenote, really tiny! It sort of reminded me of the actual size of pathways in Venice), and a round set of cobblestones marked where the former Eglise Ste Genevieve-des-Ardennes had been, and the sixth century Eglise St Etienne, which was torn down when construction began on Notre-Dame in 1163. Alongside the cobblestones that mark the rue Neuve-Notre-Dame, there are written indicators of what shops lined them.

As I followed these markers up above, taking care not to bump into tourists squinting upwards for a glimpse of Quasimodo, it occured to me that Paris is a city where you are constantly looking up. Although a seasoned Parisian will always keep an eye on the sidewalk to avoid stepping into a pile of, ahem, le chocolat, it's the buildings that one's gaze always soars up to. The cathedral. The Pompidou center. Sacre-Coeur, high up on the hill in the distance. The wrought iron balconies on the fifth floor of the Haussmans.

But we don't realize that there is a whole other history at our feet. I was reminded of this a few months ago, while strolling with my friend Dina around the Bastille, when she mentioned a documentary she had seen and pointed out that on the busy place de la Bastille, a line had been drawn on the road and sidewalk to mark the original fundations of the dungeon of the Bastille.

And so, there it was. There it was, once again. That feeling, that rush that just keeps returning, even after four years in this city. I was standing in the parvis of Notre Dame Cathedral, a place I have now crossed possibly a thousand times, and I was standing in the rain surrounded by tourists, them looking up with their wide eyes and dropped jaws, and me looking down, but still with wide eyes and dropped jaws. There it was. Four years, and once again, this rich city has rendered me speechless in awe...

Shutting down shop for a month

2006-09-01T15:26:00.000+02:00

Our time at the beach on the Atlantic coast of France was a long melding string of lazy days filled with lying in the grass staring up at the (mostly) blue sky, drives exploring the beaches, lighthouses, oyster beds and vineyards, and the ruins of an ancient Cistercian abbey on the islands of Ile-de-Ré and Ile d'Oléron, stopping in quaint little villages whose church spires beckoned to us from départmentale roads whenever our fancy struck us, swimming near mussel beds with a view of an old military fort in the middle of the water, strolling through the sand and picking up seashells, picnicking in pine forests next to beaches with sandy dunes, stopping to buy local shellfish from roadside huts, restorative evening meals of local oysters, local muscadet wine, and pain de seigle spread with butter made from local fleur de sel enjoyed on our very own terrasse, coffee in a cafe next to the impressive fourteenth century fortress at the port of La Rochelle, drinking Pineau des Charentes for an evening apero picnic by a little river in the marshlands, and contemplating different shades of green in the dunes and the forests. If ever you should venture to these islands in the sea, I have two suggestions:

1) Rent a bicycle. The islands are flat and only a few kilometers wide, and there are tons of bike paths. If ever we return, we shall certainly be doing that.

2) I have one compound word for you: windbreaker.

One day, I hope to get most of the three hundred and ninety-three photos I took on our trip up on to flickr, but right now is not quite the moment.

For I am undertaking a rather time-consuming, personal enrichment project this month, and so, much as it pains me to do so, I fear I must put blogging and blog reading on the backburner until the first week of October. Please do check back then. I hope to be back in full force at that time.

The things that are getting me through the month are the thought of a return to blogging and my ayurvedic massage at Cinq Mondes at the end of the month, courtesy of a gift certificate that was a birthday present from two good friends of mine.

So please do return in a month's time, O Dear Reader, and until then I wish you happy blogging trails.

Meanwhile, English As A Foreign Language teachers of the world, I wanna hear from YOU...

An attempt at a haiku, in order to demonstrate why today, September 1st, is a day that merits celebration for me

2006-09-01T10:17:00.000+02:00

Butts are all stubbed out
One year since my last cigarette
Lungs pink and healthy

Chartres Cathedral

2006-08-25T14:05:00.000+02:00

Chartres Cathedral
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Dans ma valise, je mets:

2006-08-24T10:22:00.000+02:00

French Elle is one of my guilty pleasures. I don't get it every week, but I do snap it up whenever something on the cover catches my attention. At the beginning of July, they had an article entitled "Dans Ma Valise, Je Mets...", roughly translated as, "What's In My Suitcase". For no good reason other than it is fun, here's What's In My Suitcase for our late season week at the beach, in which we hopefully escape this utterly rotten weather that has plagued Paris this August. I think everyone must have prayed just a little too hard for the heat of July to go away:

Dans ma valise, je mets:
-2 bathing suits
-1 pareo, purchased in a street market in Portugal years ago
-1 sundress
-1 pair of linen pants
-Shoes: a pair of flip flops, a pair of walking sandals, a pair of ankle-tie espadrille wedges, and Converse (Yes Eddie I do need four pairs of shoes for one week)
-several plain t-shirts
-1 windbreaker
-digital camera
-ipod
-moleskine notebook and pen
-sunscreen
-Reading material
-guidebooks (checked out at the library)
-Er, Elle magazine
-beach towels, including one for the dog
-a picnic backpack, I love this thing, it has little cracks and crevices to hold plates, cups and silverware
-a frisbee
-highway maps
-driver's license
-and if all else fails, an ibook with some downloads and a few DVDs, in case it rains.

Regular posting to return in a week and a half...

Des vrais Parisiens...pour de vrai

2006-08-18T09:51:00.000+02:00

About a year or two ago, there was an amusing article in the Paris publication Zurban entitled "One Hundred Ways To Know If You Are A Real Parisian". It's a well known fact that most "Parisians" were not actually born in Paris, but in the provinces. Kind of like many people who consider themselves New Yorkers who were born in Kalamazoo. Well anyway, some of the high points of the article included:

Number 23: You know that Paris is recognized worldwide as having the best museums in the world, but you haven't set foot in one since 1988. (This is eerily true, the last time Eddie went to the Louvre was when the glass pyramid opened up).

Number 58: You know the best places in the city to watch the sunset, that aren't packed with tourists such as Sacré Coeur and the Eiffel Tower (hmm, I'd like to get around figuring that one out)

and last but not least, the incredibly true number 76:

You know you are a real Parisian if you venture out of the metro to take the bus.

It's an odd phenomenon, but many people, when they first either visit or move to Paris, have a phobia of the bus. Myself included. I'd been living here for two years before I took a deep breath one afternoon and decided to attempt to get from the Jardin de Luxembourg to the Piscine Butte aux Cailles on the bus. And I was up at the front window, glancing every ten seconds at the map above the door to count how many stops I had left, ringing the bell miles before my stop, and then performing some judo moves on fellow passengers to be sure to get right in front of the exit so there was no chance the bus would shut its doors and carry me off to the banlieue. Just last week, having dinner with a newly expatriated American who moved to Paris a month ago, coming out of the restaurant at 11pm Eddie suggested he could avoid having a metro change by taking the bus, which was direct. NO WAY! the expatriate exclaimed. I'm not ready to use the bus yet.

It's true that riding the metro is considered by many visitors to be one of the most quintessential parts of Paris living, and that may explain in part the initial reluctance to hop on the bus. I know that was the case for me. Even if it's smelly and crowded and unbearably hot in the summer, coming from a city obsessed with car culture, the Paris metro was a brilliant marvel to me. I actually went out of my way to ride it, and my heart would flutter with joy whenever a performer would get on and begin a loud rendition of the accordion theme from Amelie and then come around afterwards to passer le chapeau, or dixie cup as was often the case. But then one day, I realized that to get to the Champs Elysees, I would have to take one metro south and then change and then another line west to get there, whereas I could hop on a bus and be there in about ten minutes without changing. And so, it has come to happen that I'm a converted Parisian bus user, that I seek out possible buses instead of the metro, especially if I'm in a new neighborhood so as to get my bearings.

I do suggest taking the bus. Some of those routes are really pretty and will take you past many historic sites. Line 72 will start you off at Hotel de Ville and will take you up the right bank along the river, past the Louvre and the Tuileries Gardens, through Concorde, then past the Pont Alexandre III and Trocadero with a great unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower from across the river. And Line 27 will drive you through the Louvre courtyard at night, with the pyramid and museum all lit up and the Eiffel tower sparkling in the background. Now that is sight to behold, that never fails to impress even the most seasoned Parisiens...

Rose of summer

2006-08-10T09:36:00.000+02:00

What would a blog based in France be without at least one reference to wine? Not a very complete blog, if you ask me.

The New York Times announces that rosé is the summer drink du jour. After years of being shunned as cloying, pink wine, it seems, is coming into its own. Perhaps there will be no more guffawing when someone suggests white zinfandel.

We go through quite a bit of rosé in the summertime in this household, I like to think it is in part due to Eddie's Provence roots, but it's also just really light and refreshing and goes with summery foods. I don't much care to drink a heavy red on a warm evening. On a trip to Marseille last summer, I was surprised when we went into more homey neighborhood cafes and ordered a carafe of local rosé, they would often bring us a bucket of ice cubes to drop into our glasses. Now, I'm no connoisseur, but I was brought up to believe that putting ice cubes in wine was just about the biggest gaffe one could commit. But we actually found it be pleasant, depending on the wine, and so now we put ice cubes in our rosé at home during the summer, and sometimes even mix in some sparkling water to make a variation on a wine spritzer. I wouldn't do this with a really good wine, but for the everyday stuff, why the heck not...

A windy, rainy day in Paris, in 2002

2006-08-06T23:51:00.000+02:00

In the year 2002, I joined the masses of Americans who had been coming to Paris for years, decades, centuries even, for what I thought would be (ahem) a two month stay in Paris. Fresh off the plane at CDG, visions of a Hemingway existence were dancing in my head, complete with hours spent in cafes writing in notebooks and making Shakespeare and Company bookstore my second home (though I wasn't too keen on the whole Hunger Was Good Discipline bit). I decided to enroll in a short fiction writing class. It took place on the second floor of a cafe and coffee was included in the price of the course. How utterly fitting.

A few days ago, going through some old papers, I came across my first assignment with the class. We were supposed to do a ten-minute, freewriting exercise on a recent trip we had taken. Because it was a freewrite, it's choppy and ends abruptly, but as I was reading this, it brought back a lot of memories of my first impressions of the city that I was just setting out to discover.

A recent trip

I arrived in Paris on a windy, stormy afternoon in March. It wasn't particularly cold, but rain poured down very heavily all day. I was relieved to walk off the airplane after eleven hours and very happy it had not exploded somewhere over the Atlantic. (Note: this was only a few months after 9/11, my already strong dislike of flying was in full force at this time.)
My first thought upon driving into town was that the city was gray. Not just because of the storm clouds, but the buildings were gray, the sidewalks as well, even the river was a grayish green color. This was quite a shock to me, coming from the brilliant orange light in Los Angeles.
I wanted very much to have a look at the Eiffel tower, and so after dropping my suitcase at the hotel, I fought back my jet lag and headed out with my dog into the rain to catch my first sight of it. Despite my raincoat and umbrella, I was soaked by the time I stood underneath its arches. The cuffs of my pants were drenched. The dog's fur was dripping. I decided to duck into a cafe to get dry, and see if the rumors were true, that dogs really were allowed in cafes and restaurants in Paris. I found a very Parisian-looking cafe on a little side street and taking a deep breath, marched through the door and waited to be told I couldn't come in with the dog. Instead, the waiter gave my dog a pat on the head, and directed me to a table by the window. The dog flopped down under the table at my feet and began snoozing. I ordered a cafe creme and, holding it between my palms to warm my hands, looked out through the window into the wet street with its rushing gutters and trees swaying heavily in the fierce wind.

Chinese lanterns at Paris Plage

2006-08-06T14:21:00.000+02:00

Chinese lanterns at Paris Plage
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

Hey Mango

2006-08-01T18:33:00.000+02:00

Mangos. I heart them to pieces. More like to drippy messy slices.

I ate my first mango at the age of sixteen on a trip to Brazil to visit my best friend who was studying there for a year. I was so taken with this fruit that when I think back on my food and drink consumption during that visit, the things that immediately spring to mind are Brazilian cafezinho (Brazilian coffee boiled with sugar, strained through a cloth strainer and served in little cups with sweetened condensed milk), Guaraná soda pop (made from a local tropical fruit, with an extraordinarily high caffeine content), and ripe mangos. Yep, I was one wired little sixteen year old when I got back home from that vacation.

For years after that trip, I eagerly looked forward to the months in which mangos were in season. I would always eat them plain, perhaps with a bit of yogurt, and then one day about eight years ago I was walking around the Garment District in downtown Los Angeles, and I saw a teenage girl chattering in Spanish and selling mangos which had been peeled and sliced and wrapped in a paper towel, for a dollar each. What intrigued me was that after she cut the mango, she would sprinkle some lime juice and salt and chili powder all over the slices. Given my fondness for odd and unusual and seemingly contrasting taste experiences (I recently subjected Eddie to Pesto Fraise Basilic), I got in line and watched as she peeled and sliced an orange mango, wrapped it in bit of newspaper, and handed it to me.

"What, no lime and chili and salt?" I asked her, my face falling.

She looked a little surprised. "Oh, you want all that? Chili too?"

"Well duh" I said, though probably not in those words exactly.

She sprinkled the mango with a dash of salt and a bit of chili and stuffed a lime wedge in between the slices, and handed it to me.

From that day forth, nearly every mango I've ever prepared for myself has been sprinkled with lime, chili and salt, though I've met a few folks who use cayenne pepper instead of chili powder. Since then, I've come across another delightful recipe at other street food vendors in Los Angeles that is similar but takes it a step further: Combine cucumber and jicama along with the mango, peel and slice all three into thick spears, arrange the spears in a glass or a plastic cup if you're feeling environmentally naughty, and sprinkle with lime, a pinch of salt and just a quick dash of cayenne, not too much as it's quite fiery. A very refreshing and exotic snack, especially during these hot summer months, and hey, the catch phrase "fat-free and lo-cal" never hurts, does it?

But the lovely mango is a ubiquitous world traveler, and can be found in a variety of prepared forms. There's the mango lassi of Indian origins, a yogurt drink that can be served either sweet or salty and provides a particularly pleasing coolness to counteract the spicy heat of that cuisine. Also served on the south Asian subcontinent are green mangos that have been picked before they have ripened and are subsequently crunchy and slightly tart, and are prepared as mentioned in the previous paragraph, with lime and chili powder. Having never been east of Turkey, I've yet to get my sticky fingers on this yummy sounding treat, but I do hope that one day, green mangos will be mine. In France, Berthillon makes a mean mango sorbet, so flavorful that I've actually wondered if it isn't simply just a frozen puréed mango, and nothing else. Finally, when one requests the dessert menu in Thai restaurants in the western United States, more often than not it will list fresh mango served with coconut sticky rice. This is another one of my very favorite dishes, although if you are anything like me, a trip to a Thai restaurant often involves stuffing myself with so much pad thai, that I sadly have to push the coconut rice to the side of my plate and head straight for the mango itself...

The view from the top

2006-07-26T20:30:00.000+02:00

The view from the top
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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The Eiffel tower as seen from the top of the ferris wheel in the Jardin de Tuileries

Fave B-day prezzies

2006-07-24T15:09:00.000+02:00

New Vanessa Bruno sac cabas

A lovely mini-rose-filled jardinière that Eddie planted in the afternoon

B-day present to myself: ipod cozy that I knit last week

Yum

In addition, I received birthday greetings from a few readers and fellow bloggers, which was really heartwarming. Thanks again for those...

Well, except for the eyeball

2006-07-24T14:36:00.000+02:00

I have to admit that reading this article yesterday morning gave me a pang of homesickness for several things, including that beautiful oceanside stretch of Highway One between Santa Barbara and San Francisco, Taqueria Vallarta on Pacific Avenue in Santa Cruz, and of course, my mouth is still watering at the thought of a taco, good ones of which are just so sadly few and far between in these parts. And yes, I've been to that colorful crowded place on the rue Dante in the Latin Quarter. It's good. It will do in a pinch. But it's just not the same...

Chasing the Perfect Taco up the California Coast(registration required)

It's my birthday, and I'll cry, if I want to

2006-07-22T11:22:00.000+02:00

I'm thirty-two years old today.

This week two years ago, I was panicking in a big way. That terrible fate that strikes fear in the hearts of twentysomethings the world over was crashing towards me at lightning speed. Lord have mercy on us all, I was only days away from The Big Three-Oh. Few events in my life had been as nerve wracking as that.

For I wasn't ready. I hadn't done nearly as much as I thought I would have by the age of thirty. Where were my two point five kids and dog? (Ok, I had the dog already at least). Where was my house with a picket fence? (Granted, I lived in Paris, there aren't any picket fences for miles in these parts. Nor houses, for that matter). Most depressingly of all, I was approaching that time crutch with no husband and no prospect of one. (At least that what's I thought at the time. As it turned out, I had met my future husband already and didn't even know it. But that's a blog for a rainy day).

That list of things that women should have done by the time they were thirty loomed over me. I had the eight matching wine glasses and plates but couldn't cook for crap. Why should I, I had no husband. And anyway, it's not like eight people could even stand up in my tiny little chambre de bonne. I had several black lace bras but no idea how to use a cordless drill, let alone have one packed away in my little chambre de bonne. And while I was content with my youth up until that point, I wasn't at all ready to move past it.

I woke up that hot july morning that was my thirtieth birthday, and there are two things I remember about that morning:

One: the cherries I had bought the night before were the sweetest and juiciest and ripest I had tasted that summer.

Two: As I was walking down the stone steps of my old building to go to work, I slipped in my flip flops on a puddle of water that the gardien had left while cleaning the staircase, and fell smack on my buttocks, leaving a huge bruise. As I watched my apartment building flip upside down and I found myself staring up at the sky through the courtyard, two things went through my mind:

1. "That didn't hurt as much as it should have. Better cut back on the croissants."

and

2. "Today I am thirty years old, I don't have too many more years left in which I can fall like that without snapping any osteoporosis-stricken bones in two."

I picked myself up calmly and as with as much elegance as I could muster and slid gingerly down the rest of the steps on my backside, wincing all the way.

I got through the rest of the day with no more tumbles and I celebrated the momentous event with a couple of friends while drinking a bottle of wine by the Seine at Paris Plage. And then I woke up the next morning, and poof, the thirty thing was gone. It was over and done with. All the anxiety that had led up to the date was over with. I was no longer in my late twenties, I was now a woman in her early thirties. For some reason I woke up feeling younger than I had in a while, not older.

Two years on, I have come to realize that I didn't really have much to worry about. I actually prefer being in my thirties than I ever did being in my twenties. My twenties were a time filled with pressures from everywhere. Pressure from family about what to do with my life, school pressures, career pressures, pressure to find the love of my life, pressure to go out and enjoy my fleeting youth because one day I would turn thirty and it would all be over with.

There's pressure, of course, in one's thirties of a different kind, but what I've come to realize is that things are not so absolute, as they seem when one is in one's twenties. At thirty-two, I feel like I have more knowledge and experience than I did at twenty-two, but I still feel young enough to take advantage of that knowledge and experience. At thirty-two, I'm still not exactly certain what my life's calling is, but I do have a better idea of what kind of life I want, as well as what kind of life I don't want. I think the most important thing that I learned in my twenties is that things aren't always absolute, that you are allowed to change your mind even if it's towards something you once completely shunned. And also, that miraculous things do happen, both good and bad. Life can throw you the most horrible curveballs, but it can also dish you, in the blink of an eye, the most amazing turn of events, that are sometimes even better than you ever dared wish for.

At thirty-two, and this part is weird, I feel more comfortable in my body than I ever did when I was in my teens and twenties. I find this odd considering I've arguably got more of a backside on which to cushion my fall down the stairs than I ever did when I was a slender nineteen year old eating everything in sight. I still long for those twig days, but at the same time, I'm more comfortable flaunting it than I was back then. I have no explanation for this. I don't know why this is.

With all this in mind, I'd like to revisit a previous post of The Bold Soul, in which on the eve of her 45th birthday she recounts 44 things she has enjoyed up in her life up till now. I'm cheating a little bit though, because I'm just picking 32 things that I like off of my list of 100 things I like:

32 things I've enjoyed so far:

1. I have to start with Bold Soul's number 1: Chocolate. Hands down.
2. Bit 'o champagne with my chocolate, and I'm good to go.
3. If I'm eating by candlelight, whoa mama!
4. the sound of snow crunching under your feet
5. purple sunflowers
6. the view, after the hike
7. sinking into a hot bath
8. the smell of night blooming jasmine in the summer months in Los Angeles
9. coming across old pictures of friends and family
10. opening the mailbox and finding a postcard by snail mail
11. having a real good laugh, so hard your side splits and you aren't sure if you are laughing or crying
12. the 360 degree view of the ocean at Point Reyes in Northern California
13. the smell of christmas trees at the end of november
14. swimming in the mediterreanean
15. Italy. Everything. The food. The art. The architecture. The language. The food.
16. Friday afternoons, knowing you have the whole weekend ahead of you
17. foot massages
18. getting a baguette that is still warm
19. when the fog rolls in at four pm in San Francisco
20. Vietnamese spring rolls
21. Speaking French, especially while sitting at a café….with an espresso… in the Latin Quarter…while smoking a gauloise…wearing a beret….ok I've gone too far.
22. the first strawberries, apricots, cherries and basil of the season
23. shiny, metallic toenail polish
24. the sound of hair being cut
25. the sound of the Xylon voices in the original Battlestar Galactica tv show.: "By. Your. Command". (Did I just admit that out loud?)
26. The Eiffel tower when it's doing its hourly sparkling dance
27. spooning
28. thunderstorms in summer
29. watching the sun come up (A rare treat, let me tell you).
30. picking up right where you left off after not seeing eachother for a while

and

30. my very good friends, the ones I've known for most of my life, who are more like family at this point

and

31. having had the good fortune to come across the World's Greatest Dog ten years ago, whom someone had thoughtlessly abandoned along the 101 freeway near Salinas. Their loss.

and

of course

32. having had the great fortune to come across the World's Greatest Husband, thousands of miles from both our roots, who brings me breakfast in bed on my birthday.

Today on this maddeningly humid July day in Paris, I am thirty-two years old, and I feel inclined to reflect upon and celebrate this event with a bottle of wine consumed by the river at Paris Plage. And to continue to take advantage of being Old Enough To Know Better, but Young Enough To Seem Like I Don't.

But I'm still not yet ready to move past my youth. Get back to me on that one when I'm forty.

Canicule

2006-07-18T17:13:00.000+02:00

It's hot out there, I'm not going to say anything to the contrary, and a lot of people have asked me how on earth does one cope in a country that does not have ubiquitous air conditioning. For some reason though, the heat in Paris has never bothered me too awful much. Granted, you are talking to someone who grew up in a desert climate. Also, I spent the summer of 2003 in San Diego and therefore missed out on the horrendous heat of that year. But I find summers in Paris to be bearable, even without air conditioning. I personally find that the two or three weeks of really intense heat are offset by the several months of cold gray damp winter. In fact, whenever I feel too warm, I think of how I shivered in my big winter coat in the month of February, and suddenly I'm not unbearably hot anymore. There are several ways to cope with the 34 degree celsius type weather such as we are experiencing today:

-Draw the curtains and blinds closed in the late morning, turn off the lights and turn on the fan during the heat of the afternoon. As soon as the sun begins to go down, open up all the windows again and leave them open at night.
-Get outdoors in the evening, go sit on a patio somewhere or go to the park. Eat outside. The buildings retain the heat so it's usually warmer inside than outside.
-Avoid cooking.
-Carry one of those lovely silk japanese fans with flowers on it, the ones you've always loved but never could actually get any use out of without looking pompous, and fan yourself on the bus.
-Take advantage of the summer hours of the municipal swimming pools.
-Leave town in the month of August.
-Go to the beach for the weekend.
-If all else fails, make an extended afternoon shopping trip to Picard for a few hours...

Bols, cidre et pichet

2006-07-16T12:36:00.000+02:00

Bols, cidre et pichet
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

I've always loved these bowls that are used to drink cider in Brittany, as well as creperies throughout the world (my favorite Ti Couz in the Mission in San Francisco immediately springs to mind)

Rowboat

2006-07-16T12:31:00.000+02:00

Rowboat
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Bois de Boulogne

Paris je t'aime

2006-07-14T10:54:00.000+02:00

Oh wow, I just saw the nicest movie, I didn't even realize it was out until I read a review earlier in the week in the Village Voice and said to myself, I must see this movie RIGHT NOW. It's called Paris je t'aime, and it's a collection of eighteen short films, each taking place in a different neighborhood of Paris and each directed by a different director, including Alfonso Cuaron, Tom Twyker, the Cohen brothers, Olivier Assayas, Wes Craven, Gus Van Sant, Christopher Doyle and others. It has an equally impressive cast including Gena Rowlands, Juliette Binoche, Willem Dafoe, Natalie Portman, Elijah Wood, Emily Mortimer, Steve Buscemi, Ludivine Saignier, Nick Nolte, and a whole lot of others. It's based on the age old theme of Love in Paris, but in varying forms. It does a wonderful job of accurately showing Paris as a multicultural patchwork of a city, with the shorts taking place in posh areas such as the 16th as well as violence in the downtrodden suburbs. My favorites were a sequence with mimes, and a sequence with Natalie Portman as an American actress living in Paris with her blind boyfriend, directed by Tom Twyker, which had some of the flashiness of Run Lola Run. I also enjoyed the sequence with Gena Rowlands and Ben Gazzara as an aging couple who are divorcing, directed in part by Gerard Depardieu, which I'm told was supposed to be an homage to John Cassavetes, whose films were distributed and promoted in France by Depardieu. And quite a few others.

I'm not sure if the film is in the US yet but I highly recommend it to francofiles when it arrives. Even if most of it is in French, a few of the shorts are in English, and some of the ones with American actors had them not speaking at all, such as Steve Buscemi entangled in a lovers' quarrel inside the Tuileries metro station in the Cohen brothers sequence, and Elijah Wood's encounter with a vampire in "Quartier de la Madeleine". Maitresse reviewed the film here, I love and agree with her ending words: "If I were still living in the States, frustrated and longing to move to Paris, seeing this film would have put me over the edge. Good thing I'm already here." Be forewarned, francofiles, this is very very true...

Cafe/bistrot

2006-07-13T14:56:00.000+02:00

Cafe/bistrot
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Rue des Moines, Batignolles

Somewhere in time

2006-07-12T10:29:00.000+02:00

Because he left the US in 1986 at the impressionable age of 13, Eddie is a walking time capsule of TV commercial jingles that date from the time he left in the mid-80s. From that point on, his brain then began filling with French jingles from the past twenty years. Therefore, the last American commercials that he saw have remained in a remarkable state of preservation, ready to pop up by the slightest trigger. Because we grew up in the same city, these are jingles that lurk somewhere in dark recesses of my memory, but as my mind has been polluted by commercials from the 90s and aughts as well, they have a few more layers to push through and therefore I have forgotton most of them. But every once in a while, he will randomly sing one and I will immediately remember it, and it will take me back to the days of Hubba-Bubba and Keds, of being a latchkey kid growing up in southern California in the 1980s.

"Oh oh oh, ice cold milk and an Oreo cookie" he absent-mindedly sings as we tear into a bag purchased at the Gourmet section of Galeries Lafayette.

It's an odd reaction I have when one of these pops out of him. An immediate wave of recognition washes over me, followed by a practically visual transportation back in time, a feeling of childhood revisited.

I look at him. "Keeps your milk from getting lonely", I say. "I haven't thought about that commercial in decades."

We spend the next half hour trying unsuccessfully to remember the rest of the lyrics, but the only thing we can come up with is the last line, in which the name of the cookie is musically spelled out: "O-R-E-O". Then we try to think of others we had forgotton about.

Penguin's Frozen Yogurt (tastes like it's bad for you).

Wendy's (Where's the Beef?!).

Whatever it is I think I see
Becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.

A sure sign of a childhood spent in southern California, we decide, is being able to recite catchy tunes from car lots in the southland cities.

Pete Ellis Ford
Long Beach freeway
Firestone exit
Southgate

and of course, the ever famous Cal Worthington Ford jingle, "Howdy folks, I'm Cal Worthington and this is my dog Spot!" (Oddly enough, I don't remember seeing him with a dog, only a big scary looking tiger, and I think he was riding Shamu at some point too):

If you need a brand new car, go see Cal
If you need a brand new car, go see Cal
Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal!

Or something along those lines.

It never fails to amaze me, that thousands of miles away, I would have found someone who makes me feel like I am right at home...

"They forever go together, what a classic combination..."

Shoes of summer

2006-07-11T21:27:00.000+02:00

Shoes of summer
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

Two of everything, for different occasions...

Zizou

2006-07-11T15:20:00.000+02:00

Photo0477.jpg
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

All I can say is, the man was under some serious pressure and thoroughly exhausted and therefore just snapped. I think most of us would have too. Not that that's any excuse. Eight plus years of glory, forever altered in something like the last five minutes of his career. I just find it too bad he couldn't have redirected his anger into winning the game...

Well, at least those firecrackers outside our windows have finally stopped and I don't have to sit through another one of those matches. Try as she might, La page française is just not nuts about soccer (sorry, I mean football)

There goes the neighborhood

2006-07-10T16:19:00.000+02:00

A new cafe has opened up downstairs from us. When I say downstairs from us, I mean, as in directly downstairs from us. As in the people who work in the back have to use our entryhall to get into the kitchen. As in, our wireless connection on the fourth floor reaches the cafe, I can blog over an afternoon espresso, which how about that, I just happen to be doing at the moment. For those in the US, you might say, big whoop, but as finding a cafe in France that has a wireless connection is still not very common, this is definitely a big plus of having this cafe downstairs.

The cafe replaced a former bar that looked so depressing that I never stepped into it. It was dark and had no windows, and had old mustachioed fat men drinking cognac at seven in the morning and reading Le Parisien. I don't think women were welcome, in any case I certainly never tried. The new place is airy, with those wonderful windows that French cafes have that open up in summer so that you can sit inside but still feel like you are sitting outside, or else in winter you can still people watch. It has a beautiful mahogany bar, horse wallpaper, quiches (including a vegetarian offering) and decently priced coffee and wine by the glass. It also has tattooed waiters.

Now, I have nothing whatsoever against tattooed waiters, it's just that in my experience the arrival of tattooed waiters in cafes means a possible Silverlake-ization of the area could occur in the near future.

On a recent Saturday morning, while enjoying a coffee on the terrasse of said cafe, we suddenly jumped as trombones started blaring. The dog, sitting otherwise quietly underneath our table at our feet, began to bark at three men across the street, wearing funny straw hats and suspenders and playing instruments. After about a minute of music, one of the men picked up a loudspeaker, greeted the residents of the neighborhood, and proceeded to talk about the difficulties of the area and how the increase in rent has caused twenty percent of the local businesses to shut down in the last three years, and how important it is that we the people of our neighborhood patronize our local shops. The Tunisian bakery that closed in February immediately sprung to mind.

That, added to this recent article, means I have a feeling that the times they are a-changing up here in our cozy little corner of the seventeenth arrondissement....

What I did on my teutonic vacation

2006-07-09T17:27:00.000+02:00

A last minute decision to hop on a plane and visit family and friends in southern Germany led to some very summery activities such as bicycling to lakes in order to swim in them, taking breakfast, lunch and dinner outdoors in the garden while swatting some very persistent mosquitos, watching some soccer (sorry, I mean football), going through a gallon of sunscreen in a week and BBQ-ing in the backyard:

Lunch in the garden with a view of the Alps:

Reading and napping under a grape covered trellis with a view of a beautiful garden and the mountains on both sides:

Stopping to smell the roses:

Backyard bbqs:

More swimming in lakes:

This lake has a section off to the side where people can swim and sunbathe nude. I didn't realize this until after I took this picture*

It was quite hot and humid, but then a huge thunderstorm came in the afternoon and broke the heat:

We watched the wind and rain howl while having afternoon kaffee und kuchen under the glass-covered cactus-filled porch:

Revitalized and refreshed, arriving early in the morning in drizzly Paris, La Page Allemande became La Page Française once again...

*Riddle me this, dear Reader: Why is it never the people you actually would want to see naked, who choose to go to nude beaches??

Bike, Isar and Covered Bridge

2006-07-07T11:10:00.000+02:00

Bike, Isar and Covered Bridge
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Cycling along the banks of the Isar river. Munich, Germany

Polizei and Gendarmerie

2006-07-05T18:14:00.000+02:00

Polizei and Gendarmerie
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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I was surprised to see a few French police mingling with German police on the Marienplatz in Munich, it seems they must have imported some for the games

Vive la France

2006-07-05T18:06:00.000+02:00

Vive la France
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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French football supporters for the France-Portugal game. Kaufinger Strasse, downtown Munich

Bavarian Lake two

2006-07-04T17:49:00.000+02:00

Bavarian Lake two
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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In the forest, somewhere near the Austrian border...

Bavarian lake

2006-07-03T12:27:00.000+02:00

Bavarian lake
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Bicycling and swimming on a gorgeous sunny day in Munich, Germany

Ah les vacances...

2006-07-01T17:57:00.000+02:00

Ah les vacances...
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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A la plage...

2006-07-01T17:54:00.000+02:00

A la plage...
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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I am away from my computer

2006-06-30T11:49:00.000+02:00

I'm taking a little break from blogging as the influx of visitors has commenced and I'll be out of town for a little bit too. Regular blogging will continue in a week or two. Hope everyone is having a nice start of summer...

Paris Pride

2006-06-24T19:08:00.000+02:00

Paris Pride
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Bd Saint Michel

Saturday morning at the market

2006-06-24T14:36:00.000+02:00

Photo0440.jpg
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

Marché bio des Batignolles, 8th arrondissment

Faites de la musique on the Fête de la Musique

2006-06-23T13:32:00.000+02:00

Along with the kitschy celebration of the release of the Beaujolais Nouveau sometime in mid November, the Fête de la Musique is one of my favorite unofficial "holidays" in France, festive occasions that make me pleased to be living in a country that would designate celebrations to such carnal pleasures as wine and music.

The streets of Montmartre early Wednesday evening were swarming with musicians and people sitting outside of cafes on tables moved into the blocked off streets.

One DJ was actually spinning from their window.

An eventual downpour moved our group back to our living room, cracking open a bottle of champagne, diving into a rich Poire Caramel tarte and and transforming our Fête de la Musique into, in the words of one attendee, the "Fête de l'ipod".

During the Fête de la Musique, people play music on the crowded streets and dance all throughout the shortest night of the year. The métro, for once, runs all night. Centuries ago, people celebrated the Feast of St John, or Midsummer, on June 24th, where they would play music and dance. The desire to celebrate the beginning of summer, with its warm long days and warm short nights, seems to be timeless...

Three, two

2006-06-22T14:13:00.000+02:00

The 31 things has been temporarily taken down as they will very soon become 32 things, and therefore they need some adjusting...

Saltibarsciai

2006-06-20T10:41:00.000+02:00

In California a few years back I had a couple of friends who belonged to the Lithuanian expatriate community in Los Angeles, which along with Chicago is one of the largest communities of Lithuanians living outside of Lithuania. The heart of the community is at the Lithuanian church in Los Feliz, where they hold, among many things, Saturday language courses that are de rigeur for anyone born to Lithuanian heritage, as well as services and weddings, etc. Every year they also hold several festivals including a fair in October that lasts for three days. At these gatherings, a number of traditional dishes are offered. Much of Lithuanian cuisine revolves around potatoes, sour cream and bacon, such as kugelis, a sort of potato pudding baked in a casserole dish and topped with sour cream and bacon; blynai, potato pancakes topped with sour cream and bacon; and cepelinai, or "zeppelins", translated as "little blimps", a large potato dumpling with either pork or mushroom filling and topped with, you guessed it, sour cream and bacon. Though I find it quite impossible to go wrong with potatoes, sour cream and bacon, my personal favorite at these gatherings was always saltibarsciai, a dish whose name it took me quite some time to learn how to say, and even longer to remember how to spell. If I'm not mistaken it is roughly pronounced "shal-ti-BAR-shah". It should have this funny little "u" shape over the "S" but try as I might I have no idea how to make that symbol on my keyboard.

Saltibarsciai is a vegetarian cold beet soup, a little bit like borscht. In Lithuania it is traditionally eaten during the summer months, although it's eaten pretty much all year round in the Los Angeles community due to the warm climate in southern California. It's quite filling without being too heavy. A few years ago, as my first summer rolled around in Paris, and with it the hot humid weather, the first thing I did was email my Lithuanian friend in California to ask her to send me the recipe for saltibarsciai. Every year now, as soon as the weather turns balmy, I start to daydream about preparing a bowl of this lovely refreshing soup, with its crunchy cucumber, sweet and sour beets and dill. It is terribly easy to make, needs only to chill for several hours and if that isn't enough it's a very pleasing shade of fuschia, which may be off-putting at first to people who aren't used to pink food, but don't let that stop you from trying it. Eddie flipped out the first time I set a bowl of fluorescent pink soup in front of him, but now he is a converted fan.

The recipe calls for, among other things:

1 liter buttermilk: This was in the recipe I was originally given a few years back. However, I have heard that in Lithuania the recipe actually calls for kefir, which I had difficulty finding in California, which is why I have always used buttermilk. I have always thought that maybe some very liquidy yogurt or a mixture of yogurt and milk might work in a pinch, but I haven't tried that so I'm not certain how it would turn out. In France I look for lait fermenté at Monoprix.

Beets: Most recipes for saltibarsciai require boiling 1 pound of beets until tender and then peeling them and cutting them into matchsticks. However, the recipe I was originally handed suggested using a jar of pickled beets instead, liquid and all. I think this works nicely, it is less messy and time consuming and so I have therefore never deviated from this method. A bonus with using the pickled beets is that you get a nice sweet and sour element. In fact, if you do choose to boil beets instead I would suggest adding a dash of vinegar and a pinch of sugar in the final stages (actually that is something you can do anyway if you so desire).

All together now:

1 jar of pickled beets, julienned and reserving liquid OR
1lb raw beets, boiled, peeled and julienned, plus one cup of the boiled water, cooled

1 liter of buttermilk (or kefir, or yogurt, see above)
1 medium cucumber, julienned
3 hard boiled eggs, peeled and yolks separated
a handful of scallions, chopped
1 bunch of dill, finely chopped
1 tsp salt

For garnish:
sour cream
8 medium potatoes, boiled, peeled and cooled
a bit of the chopped dill

In a large bowl mash the scallions with the salt and the egg yolks to release the flavor. Coarsely chop the egg whites and add them to the bowl. Add the pickled beets along with their liquid, or else the boiled beets plus the cooled water used in the boiling. Add the cucumber and the buttermilk. Add about three fourths of the dill, setting aside a bit for garnish. If you like a more sweet and sour taste you can also add a dash of vinegar and/or a pinch of sugar. Stir, cover and chill for at least three hours.

Ladle into bowls and spoon a dollop of sour cream on top and a sprinkling of the remaining dill. Serve alongside 1 or 2 potatoes per person, which you will then dunk into the soup, one bite at a time.

Makes a lovely light dinner on a hot muggy summer evening. You can even drop a couple of ice cubes in there if it's a real scorcher of a night.

I shouldn't talk about Lithuania without mentioning Carra , who grew up in Lithuania and was a child during the revolution there and now lives in the Pyrenees with her British husband. I am certain she can pronounce "saltibarsciai" much better than I can.

Solar power parking meter

2006-06-17T18:21:00.000+02:00

Solar power parking meter
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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This parking ticket distributer runs on solar energy from a panel on top

An ode to Paris in the summertime

2006-06-13T12:34:00.000+02:00

Paris wakes up with the first signs of the warmth of summer.

It trudges lethargically later on, in August, when everyone but the tourists clears out, but for those first few warm days, which usually rear their heads in June, though sometimes as early as May, everyone looks at the city as though they had never seen it before. New summer dresses are still crisp and sandals have not yet rubbed feet into a blistered mess. Toenails are newly french manicured or painted red. Blindingly white winter skin begins to turn brown again, or in some cases, pink. Shoulders are bare, camisoles are the only way to go; indeed, there is no other way to beat the heat.

My insomnia has stuck. We both toss and turn in the crisp white sheets, the fan blowing warm air on us as we attempt to sleep. All the windows in the apartment stretched wide wide open, with the light from the moon and the street lamps pouring in, as though we were sleeping outdoors. We may as well be, not that it helps, not that it provides any relief from the heat. Usually I will just get up, go for a walk, attempt to write but the words just don't come. And neither does sleep.

My blogger's block has stuck too. Looking around it seems many other bloggers feel the same. But that's ok, because this is no time to be holed up indoors on the laptop. People have poured back into the streets and sidewalk cafes, taking advantage of the lateness of dusk, shunning sleep. Enjoying summer in the city. We are joining in.

A Friday evening in the cool dampness of the medieval cellar of a bar in the Latin Quarter to hear a friend of a friend's group play sultry music from all over the Spanish-speaking world: Spain, Mexico, Cuba, Argentina. The friend of the friend is a German girl who sings in Spanish, studied music in London, and now lives in France. If that's not Paris cosmopolitan for you then I don't know what is.

A Saturday night at a party at the home of a certain Parisienne bloggeuse, although leaving into the warm humid midnight before the real debauchery with egg tossing and dressing up as royalty began. Whose tart mojitos helped me to sleep soundly that night, the only time this week.

A Sunday, early evening, after the heat of the blistering afternoon sun has mercifully let up, lying in the soft cool grass in the park nearby, his head on my lap, sharing a can of Coke, listening to some long-haired youths playing guitar nearby, simply staring up at the blue sky, until dusk began to fall. Then slowly heading home, pouring ice cold rosé into wine glasses, slicing ripe red tomatoes and plucking pungent dark green basil leaves for a meal inspired by the season, with blushing apricots for dessert.

The city gets under my skin when it is like this, and all I can do is just go with it…

Beep Beep

2006-06-12T17:23:00.000+02:00

When I was a car owner, nothing annoyed me more easily than the car in front of me gently swerving from left to right, going five miles an hour, not paying attention to the road and narrowly missing the bus pulling out from the stop, who would honk angrily. A glance through their windshield as I put on my blinker and sped up momentarily to pass them almost inevitably proved that they had a cell phone glued to their ear, oblivious to the fact that they were steering a few tons of metal down Wilshire Blvd in the afternoon rush.

I no longer drive, but now whenever I'm trying to make my way along the crowded sidewalk on the rue de Rivoli (a difficult feat, as you most certainly know if you've ever gone shopping on Rivoli), someone will unexpectedly make a large swerving left turn out of the Zara and cut into my pedestrian lane without checking over their shoulder, then proceed to gently swerve from left to right while going five feet an hour, forcing me to calculate their next move so I can momentarily speed up to pass on the left, without crashing into oncoming shoppers. Almost inevitably, they are chatting blissfully ignorantly away on a cell phone.

I think politicians should be doing something about this, and leaving the internet neutral...

Blue Sand in the Jardin

2006-06-07T13:26:00.000+02:00

Blue Sand in the Jardin
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

Jardin de Luxembourg

Blogger's block

2006-06-06T13:20:00.000+02:00

Don't know why but this week I've got a bit of "blogger's block". Maybe it has to do with the weather turning lovely again and wanting to sit out in the park instead of holed up in the living room tapping away on the laptop, or maybe my mind is churning with summer plans and all the things I want to do while the weather is nice: evening picnics, weekend trips to the beach, day trips to the lake, renting a rowboat at the Bois, downing as much Berthillon as possible, and of course, the inevitable influx of visitors. I actually had a bout of insomnia the other night, which is odd because I never ever have insomnia, but I attribute it to both a full brain and the fact that it is getting lighter earlier and that messes me up a bit. Insomnia can sometimes be a blessing, as I learned while taking advantage of being awake at 3am to talk to friends on MSN who are normally only online in the late afternoon in California, and then taking a five am stroll up to Montmartre with the baffled dog (who is not accustomed to being taken out by her owner at such an ungodly hour).

Montmartre was calm and empty, I have never seen the art market on the Place de Tertre with absolutely nobody in it. It's probably the only time in my life I've walked through that place without being badgered by at least three of those artists who sketch portraits for tourists. The streets were empty too, with only a light on in the back of the bakeries for the baker baking bread for the morning rush of people, and a few waiters in locked cafes beginning to take chairs off of tables. It was a very pleasant temperature, warmish with a cool snap. Up at Sacré-Coeur, the city of Paris was lit from the east in soft pink light. There was no one around except for some early birds walking dogs and one woman photographing the cathedral. I also noticed tons of pigeons everywhere. I wasn't sure if there were more pigeons than usual, or if it was just because there weren't any people around that it seemed like there were a lot of them. I was kicking myself for not having brought my camera in order to take some pictures of Paris in this quiet hour to post on the blog, since it most likely will be quite a long time before I'm ever out and about at that hour again. But then I decided, well, perhaps that moment was mine, and perhaps you will just have to come to Paris and take a morning walk to have your own moment.

So anyway, blogger's block. I'd like to instead refer to some posts of other Parisian bloggers who posted entries that I was delighted by and in some instances, could relate to:

-Mrs B in Paris has posted a five-part guide for tourists visiting Paris that is very comprehensive, which I will be referring to my influx of summer visitors as required reading.

-Etienne Marcel mentioned a restaurant with a four course vegetarian menu in the 20th arrondissement. I am so there.

-Maitresse wrote about reverse culture shock when returning to the US for a visit. I love these and am looking forward to my next visit to the US so I can compose my own list.

-Catty at Paris is an Old Dog has a nice anecdote about why she loves the south of France and a trip she took there with her former Frenchie a few years ago.

-Finally, I love this new blog, Paris Breakfasts, which is all about cafes in Paris with a few nice watercolors thrown in for good measure.

Some more posts will be churned out in a few days, but for now, the sun is shining, and I'm off to go sit on a bench in the park with a book and the ipod....

Jardin d'Enfants

2006-05-30T14:44:00.000+02:00

In a little corner of the eighteenth arrondissement, there is a garden, Les Jardins du Ruisseau, a jardin pedagogique, a garden for the neighborhood children, a place where they can learn to grow tomatoes, rosemary, peppers and flowers to their heart's delight, all year long:

Families come on Sundays and picnic in the garden:

The gardens are on a former train platform of the Petite Ceinture, an old railroad that used to circle halfway around Paris from the seventeenth to the twentieth arrondissement and beyond:

It is no longer in service.

Part of this railroad is now covered with parks, basketball courts, and pedestrian walkways where kids can run and roller skate and ride their bicycles, and dogs can be walked:

There is lots of graffiti that cover the old platforms of the train stations:

Further away, the SNCF provides cars for shelter for the homeless:

Click here for more pics of the garden, and here for more pics of the Petite Ceinture.

If you read French, click here and here for more information and history of the Petite Ceinture.

Week-end

2006-05-29T12:09:00.000+02:00

For some reason around the blogosphere today, I've noticed a handful of bloggers who have chosen to blog about their Memorial Day/ Ascension weekend. I will also recount my weekend, in all its sometimes mundane, sometimes glorious, glory.

Thursday morning: Sleep in, take dog for a spin around the block, stopping at bakery for morning croissants. (Eddie prefers the croissant ordinaire, also known as sans beurre, claiming that the croissants au beurre are too greasy. I could not disagree more.)

Thursday afternoon: Attempt spin on the roller blades with two expatriate friends on the Voie Georges Pompidou, which is closed off to traffic on Sundays and certain holidays. Come to the conclusion that I am just not cut out for roller blading. Limp to Breakfast in America in the Marais for an early dinner, all the while daydreaming about buying a bicycle. With a little basket in front for the Toutou.

Friday morning/afternoon: Wake up slightly early in order to catch the first showing of Da Vinci Code. Leave theatre feeling satisfied, the movie was what I expected it would be. Meet my friend Dina on the Champs, deem it warm enough for a
caramel beurre salé ice cream cone, eat it on a bench in the Jardin des Tuileries while watching two French people in their sixties making out passionately on the bench next to us. Hope that will be me in thirty years. Walk to the Louvre to see if it's possible to look down the inverted glass pyramid from the top. It is not, as that pyramid is on an island in the middle of the roundabout, enclosed by bushes.

Friday evening: Prepare tabbouleh salad with roasted veggies: green and red bell peppers, onions, zucchini and tomatoes. Watch season finales of both Lost and Desperate Housewives. Count number of months before start of season three for both. Cannot believe we must wait a whole summer before finding out what's up with those dudes in the Arctic.

Saturday morning: Sit around house reading newspapers. Liberation: paper copy from downstairs newstand. New York Times: online.

Saturday afternoon: Drag shopping caddy to the market. Greengrocer shoves sliver of delicious sweet melon in face. Cherries are on sale but do not buy any, deciding to wait a week or two, when they should be really ripe.

Saturday 6pm: Eddie suggests going to the late show of Marie-Antoinette at Place Clichy. Prepare myself double espresso.

Sunday very early morning: Leave theatre feeling vaguely unsatisfied. Did not dislike movie, thought it was beautiful to look at and an interesting idea, but something about it felt half-assed (can I say that in my blog?), as though Sofia Coppola had a good idea but was too afraid to take it as far as it could have and should have been taken. The music was a trip down memory lane though.

Sunday, two o'clock in the morning: The streets of Paris are bustling. There is a pleasant breeze in the air. Sit on the crowded patio at Corcoran's Irish Pub, amazed that it is warm enough to be able to have a drink outdoors in the middle of the night.

Sunday 10am: Surprise myself by waking up, assumed I would have slept even longer. Prepare breakfast burritos for brunch: eggs scrambled with onion and ground chili, served on a warm tortilla with grated cheddar cheese, salsa, chopped tomato, sliced avocado, creme fraiche and cilantro.

Sunday afternoon: Decide on impromptu walk to the flea markets. Eddie directs me to the most amazing bookstore in the middle of the St-Ouen market, where I find a book I have been looking for, that I saw in a bookstore in the city for 23 euros, for just ten euros. Rave about this intermittently throughout the rest of the day. Cannot for the life of me remember the name of the shop or the name of the street it was on to tell you, will just be able to find it again by memory.
Buy bracelet too.
Walk home along the Petite Ceinture, past the shared garden plots at Ruisseau. Take photos, which will be posted later in the week....

Cornet Simple

2006-05-26T18:05:00.000+02:00

Cornet Simple
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Note the small size of the scoop. With Berthillon, less is more...

Food: Salade Niçoise

2006-05-25T23:55:00.000+02:00

I figure the purpose of a blog is to blabber about whatever happens to be on your mind, and I find that quite often I've got food on the brain, and it just so happens that today I've got an itching to talk about one of my favorite French salads, Salade Niçoise.

This is a salad that I like to make for lunch in the springtime, when the weather is just beginning to get warmer, but not in the dead of summer, when I personally find it to be a bit too heavy. This is just a personal preference mind you. Not everyone would agree with me on that of course, since it originates from the warm sunny beach area of Nice and therefore most people would agree it's the perfect lunch for a day spent roasting yourself under the sun on the pebbly beach. But I personally prefer something even lighter in the heavy humid Parisian summer, like a simple ripe tomato (heirloom preferably) with sliced mozzarella or goat cheese, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and sprinkled with chopped fresh basil and coarse sea salt. An Insalata Caprese, if you will.

I've never been to Nice before so I probably haven't had the real thing, but you can find this salad pretty much in any cafe you go to in France. I look forward to it on the first sunny warm day in April after a long gray winter, when you decide it is warm enough to attempt lunch on a cafe terrace, albeit still keeping your coat on. According to this amusing article , there are so many different versions of Salade Niçoise going around, that you will rarely find two of the same. Unfortunately, I've definitely had some really atrocious versions in cafes along the Blvd St-Germain. Instead of regurgitating what the article said about the origins of the salad and the different kinds of ingredients that you can put in, I will just list what I like to put in my salade niçoise:

Lettuce: I agree with the Guardian article that while spicy and flavorful greens like roquette and mesclun are lovely, they don't belong in a salade niçoise. The salad has such strong flavors as it is, that it needs a bland lettuce. Personally, my favorite type of green to use is either butter lettuce or romaine, either green or purple, although I've been known to use mâche, (lambs lettuce) instead since we have it so often in the fridge. Iceberg would work as well, although personally I can't stand the stuff. You will be forgiven for using spinach in order to boost the vitamin intake, but I really don't think it works as well.

Tuna: I find it rather hard to find water packed tuna here in France. People here really seem to prefer tuna packed in oil. Which is good too. But I do my best to snatch up tuna packed in water whenever I can, just because that's what I grew up eating and old habits die hard. It's less fattening too. Also, that Starkist Light tuna does not exist here, it's the whole white tuna or nothing. That's ok with me too.

Beans: I always use a handful of those long French green beans, topped and tailed and boiled for a few minutes, not enough for them to lose their crispness and then blanched in ice water to stop the cooking. I've read loads of recipes that call for fava beans too. I haven't tried using those yet but I bet they are good too.

One hard boiled egg: Peeled and quartered. 'Nuff said.

Tomatoes: Very important. The ripest ones you can find. An unripe, pale pink, hard, flavorless tomato just makes me depressed. If it's too early for tomato season I use those little cherry tomatoes which are really sweet and flavorful. (There is a type of cherry tomato here called coeurs de pigeons, or "Pigeon hearts". Kind of a disturbing visual, but really sweet like candy.)

Potatoes: When I have them around and can be bothered to boil them for fifteen minutes, I use them. But I often skip them. I don't like skipping them, but I'm lazy sometimes. I've also had versions that include rice. If I have some leftover rice from the night before, I will use that. This afternoon's version will include some leftover couscous from last night's dinner. I've never tried using couscous before, nor have I ever heard of anyone using couscous, but I'm feeling a bit adventurous today.

Olives: Some say they are the most important ingredient since this is a mediterreanean salad. Purists say to only use black olives from Provence, but I have no problem using greek kalamata olives or green olives.

Anchovies: Ah yes, anchovies. Not everyone's favorite, and they can certainly be left out. I love them, but unfortunately never use them, because we never have them in the house. I think the smell would really bother Eddie. He already isn't crazy about the fact that I have canned tuna in the house.

Herbs: I will sometimes sprinkle either some basil or some tarragon on top of everything, but not both at the same time. Also some chives are nice.

Other random ingredients: If I have a cucumber around I will chop it up and put in a few slices. Same with bell peppers. Also, if I have a can of corn that is opened in the refrigerator, I will put in a spoonful. That's just my own little thing, I seriously doubt that anyone in Nice does that.
I hate raw onions, but if I liked them, I would probably decorate the salad with a few slices on top. I have heard sweet Vidalia onions are nice.

Dressing: One recipe I read claims that a true salade niçoise will have no dressing, only a drizzle of olive oil, since the tomatoes provide the acidity. I'm sorry but I really don't buy that at all. The dressing is one of the best parts and should include:

Olive oil, of course. Again, this is the mediterreanean we are talking about here.

Vinegar: Either red wine vinegar or balsamic is lovely.

A dab of spicy dijon mustard. NOT French's Mustard please! Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon? At the very least use some Grey Poupon.

A clove or so of pressed garlic, mashed with salt to release the flavor.

Half of a shallot, finely minced.

Salt and pepper.

Shake it up.

Don't forget a nice crusty wedge of bread to mop up the dressing with. Yummy.

Gotta go, it's lunchtime....

Sidestreet treasures

2006-05-23T15:34:00.000+02:00

After a leisurely Sunday brunch with an old friend of Eddie's, we discovered this cute little dead end street with a charming square at the end of it:

Then, while climbing up the hill towards Abbesses, we came across another one:

Voie Touristique

2006-05-19T14:53:00.000+02:00

I have a bad habit, whenever guests come to stay with us, of forgetting that they actually really would like to see the major Parisian tourist sights such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and Notre Dame, and not just the things I find to be superbly splendid in this city.

In preparation for my father's recent visit to Paris, I spent a month coming up with all sorts of activities and things I wanted to show him. High on the list was the LA art exhibit at the Pompidou, which I had not yet seen. Plus a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry at the quirky Parc de la Villette, which seemed the sort of thing one's father might be interested in. And a Sunday trip to the Bois de Boulogne to watch the dog slip and lose her footing and fall into the lake and then crawl out and shake herself in an I-meant-to-do-that kind of fashion, because an outing like that is a big part of the fabric of our everyday lives here. Lovely meals were carefully planned as well, some to be prepared at home: homemade quiche, salad with goat cheese and lentilles de Puy, morning croissant and coffee in a bol, and then some to be consumed in restaurants: lunch at the local sushi joint, takeout falafels from the Lebanese up the street, Vietnamese spring rolls in Chinatown, and the most delicious pizza this side of the Italian border, which just so happens to be right downstairs.

He loved everything. But I noticed a pattern in his narration on the videos he took of our outings (my father filmed everything, complete with narration, so he could relive the trip over and over and so everyone back home could feel like they had taken a trip to Paris too):

In line at the Pompidou: "Here I am in Paris, about to see an exhibit about art in Los Angeles. You can hear Mongolian monks chanting in the background on the esplanade behind me"

At the Parc de la Villette: "Here I am in Paris, about to go see an exhibit about Star Wars"

On line seven: "Here I am in Paris, we are on the métro on our way to Chinatown.

We soon began to make jokes about it, culminating on on the day before he left, while standing in line at the cheese shop, in which he proclaimed "I can't wait to tell Philippe (our French downstairs neighbor in California) about all the wonderful French food I ate in France. The sushi was divine, the vietnamese unsurpassed, and you were right, that pizza was something else", which led us into a final fit of uncontrollable giggles. But on his final evening in our apartment, hearing his girlfriend shout into the phone "I can't BELIEVE you've been to Paris this many times and STILL haven't been to the Louvre!" as he held the receiver away from his ear, I had to grab the phone from him, realizing the error of my ways, and explain to her that I took full responsibility for the untraditional tone of my father's stay.

When you live in Paris, everyone and their grandmother comes to visit. People start coming out of the woodwork. Our spare futon mattress is booked solid in the summer months and reservations start coming in around early spring. The truth is that people come so often that, dare I say it, gulp, I get a little....tired of going to the Louvre after the umpteenth time this year. Nowadays I show our guests where it is and arrange to meet them at closing time in front of the glass pyramid. That isn't to say that I don't absolutely adore the wondrous major monuments that the city is so well known for. When I first came to Paris, I spent the first six months visiting these major monuments constantly. I thought I would never tire of gazing at the rose window in Notre Dame, and that the day would never come that I would have seen enough of the Louvre.

Guess what. It kind of did. Sort of.

It's just that since those early days, I have discovered so many, many other lesser known, less grandiose but equally wonderful things that I'd rather show people. My favorite little winding streets in the 20th, for example, or the Parc des Batignolles with its charming little stone waterfalls and bridges, or the Japanese garden at the annex of the Musee Guimet. Visiting the Latin Quarter cafes that can boast Hemingway's Butt Sat Here is definitely something we should all see once, but afterwards I'd rather go to my local brightly painted red and yellow cafe with coffee for one eighth the price of Les Deux Magots. As for food, it's true that when Eddie and I go out to eat, we rarely have traditional French cuisine. Part of the reason for this is that traditional French cuisine is normally not very vegetarian friendly, but it's also just that because Paris is such a cosmopolitan city, the ethnic cuisine and restaurants are truly outstanding, and so Indian and Lebanese places are staples of our dining out ventures.

My San Francisco uber hipster friend, Seth, made a side trip from London to stay with us last July. When we were roommates in Northern California many many moons ago, in between our digs through vintage clothing shops to see what archaelogical wonders we could find, we took it upon ourselves to start a quest to locate the quaintest coffeehouses the Bay Area had to offer. Most of them were housed in creaky Victorians and had well worn couches upon which the resident cat would be snoozing. Honoring that tradition, I looked forward to showing him around some of my favorite cafes in the eleventh arrondissement, on and around rue Oberkampf.

He loved them.

On the third day, he said "I probably should get a look at the Eiffel Tower or something, before I get back on the Eurostar".

Oh right. Of course you should. I nearly forgot about that.

Five things

2006-05-18T10:45:00.000+02:00

I've been tagged by The Bold Soul. Here goes:

Five items in my fridge:

1. cheese, cheese and more cheese
2. a couple of bottles of sauvignon
3. strawberries
4. jars of indian curry
5. branston pickle

Five items in my closet:

1. about eight or nine vintage coats. I simply adore coats
2. gold lamé high heeled sandals
3. an extra box of new black converse chuck taylors
4. a Longchamp handbag
5. a few pairs of Levis jeans

Five items in my car:

Hey, wait a minute, I no longer own a car. Can I say what used to be in my car when I owned one? Let me see if I can remember

1. Discman and tape deck converter (it's been a long time since I've owned a car, I never actually had a real CD player in any car I've owned)
2. Spare quarters for parking meters
3. a pack of road maps of California
4. a water bottle
5. There were probably some things under the seat that I didn't know about

Five items in my purse:

1. cell phone
2. iPod
3. Paris Par Arrondissement
4. lip gloss
5. carte orange

Five people who are "it" now

I don't want to put anyone on the spot. If you feel like doing it, you can let me know afterward. It's actually quite fun.

Welcome

2006-05-17T09:06:00.000+02:00

Welcome
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

New Page 1

Funny cup handle

2006-05-12T15:36:00.000+02:00

Funny cup handel
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

New Page 1

At the Amelie cafe, rue Lepic, Montmartre

As if there wasn't enough to see already

2006-05-11T17:19:00.000+02:00

A friend forwarded me this article today about new museums opening and re-opening this year in Paris:

Cultural News in Paris from Budget Travel Online

The aquarium sounds interesting, as does Le Corbusier's apartment. It's like I keep saying: everytime I think I have seen everything in this town, there is always something else....

A Father visits his daughter

2006-05-09T21:18:00.000+02:00

My father is on a plane, probably over Iceland, as I write this. I will pick him up in a couple of hours.

It's been a year to the day since last I saw him, May 10th, 2005. Waiting over coffee in the main hall at Bradley Terminal, me with a mocha with whip and him with his standard tall latte, waiting till the last possible minute before I dragged myself tearfully up a long narrow gate and turned to wave one last time.

The guy at the baggage x-ray noticed my red face and puffy nose and wordlessly passed me a kleenex box, as though he did it all the time, a gesture which made me laugh, a little embarassed, in spite of my howls.

It's the one thing I don't like about living abroad. The one thing. I miss my family.

I promised myself I would never go a year without seeing my parents. I may yet still be able to keep that promise.

My father hasn't been to Europe in 25 years, doesn't travel much. Likes his morning coffee in a travel mug with Boeing written on the side, while flipping through the LA Times, in his baseball cap.

For him to trek across a continent and an ocean to see his daughter, it just means so much.

I will cry when I see him, and I will cry when he leaves. My father means so much.

I've had a weird nervous sensation since last night. Somewhere inside me, I just want his approval. I want him to like where I live, what I'm doing, my life. I want him to like our little apartment. My gaze sweeps with mild irritation over the layer of dust in the entryhall that has been there for a month, from the construction workers' constant drilling and pounding on the downstairs cafe, neverending.

What this all means is I probably won't blog for a week or so, although I probably will still put up some moblog pictures, since that doesn't take too much time. Otherwise, it's Sightseeing City for a whole week.

In the meantime, may I suggest that you direct your attention this way to my friend Catty's new blog, Paris is an Old Dog, a fellow expat in Paris who is new to the blogosphere and a wonderful writer. I was thoroughly entertained while reading about her experiences as an Australian expat living in London for a few years and her current adventures navigating the cobblestone jungle, and I am looking forward to reading more...

Les Saints de Glace

2006-05-09T17:28:00.000+02:00

My mother, born in Germany, always told me about the "Eisheiligen" , or "Ice Saints".

These are three days in the month of May, usually between the 11th and 15th, where the temperature can suddenly plummet, causing a late frost. For centuries, before the invention of The Weather Channel, gardeners in the areas that are now Austria, Switzerland and Germany would align their plantings after these dates, and avoid planting delicate things that would be ruined by a drop in temperature.

Last week, as I was gushing joyously on the phone with my mother about how I was strolling around the Jardin de Luxembourg in a skirt and sandals, she heeded her warning to me: "Well, don't put your sweaters away just yet, remember that next week is the Eisheiligen".

"Yeah yeah yeah" I said, going back to my gushing.

When I was a small child, we lived in the middle of nowhere in New England for a couple of years. My parents have a funny story about how one year on the 9th of May, there was a huge snowstorm that dumped several inches of snow and ice. This was too much for my parents, a snowstorm in May, and within weeks plans had been made to pack up our belongings and head west to sunnier, warmer pastures in California.

This story intrigues me, because if it weren't for this snowstorm I may well have become an East Coast rather than a West Coast girl. Imagine. Life would have been so different.

Several things about the Ice Saints. The actual days are the 11th, 12th and 13th of May, although the cold snap can occur a few days before or after. Traditionally, after the 15th of May, known as "Cold Sophie", the chances of frost decrease. Some people, however, say that when Pope Gregory adjusted the calendar in the sixteenth century, the effects of the Ice Saints are now felt between the 19th and 22nd of May. It is possible that during this time, the earth moves through a cosmic cloud which affects the amount of sun that can get through, and that could explain the phenomenon.

Today I met my friend B for a late morning coffee on the blvd Voltaire. I was late in meeting her, though, because I had to run back upstairs and put on a sweater.

When I got home this afternoon, teeth chattering, I called my mother. "You were so right" I told her. "The Ice Saints are a couple of days early this year".

Children, let this be a lesson to you: Don't doubt your mother.

Frenchless in France has a lovely post on the Ice Saints and their various celebrations in Provence.

Yes, I do miss them, sometimes, just sometimes...

2006-05-08T16:54:00.000+02:00

My little dog (lets call her Toutou) had un petit accident during the night. Over the weekend, we went to the market and I noticed they sold some cheap cuts of meat specifically pour chien. Since the poor dog lives with one strict vegetarian and one nearly vegetarian, I figured I owed it to her to get her a little treat. She was very excited and gobbled up the cuts I gave her in about seven point five seconds, before I even had a chance to put it back in the fridge.

Well, this morning, we woke up, and I guess it had been a bit too rich for her little doggie tummy, because there was crotte all over the living room rug.

So we rolled up the old rug (it was old and filthy, we've been meaning to get a new one anyway) and dumped it in the garbage downstairs, then hopped on the bus towards the Champs Elysees to buy a new rug. We were lucky since even though today is a holiday, many of the shops were still open. Eddie had half the day off but then in the afternoon had to make an emergency trip to the office, leaving me to lug the new rug back home on the bus.

Except for a brief period of time in my teens when I was cruising around California in an old Volkswagen Beetle, I've always hated driving. I've never subscribed to car culture, I hate sitting in traffic, I hate how otherwise kind and gentle people become road rage monsters behind the wheel, making gestures that normally one does not make in polite company. I should qualify all this actually by saying what I hate is city driving, I do like a road trip on an empty highway with the windows rolled down. But otherwise, one of the many things I adore about living in Paris is the convenience of public transportation, the fact that the metro and bus goes everywhere, and that having a car is actually more of a pain than not having a car.

Except when you have to lug a rug back on the bus.

I had a little fantasy, while trying to keep the rug from tipping over onto people's laps in the bus and then trying not to whack cyclists off their scooters as I carried the rug sideways down the narrow Parisian rues, of just being able to toss it into my car, drive home, then leave it in the car till Eddie came home and could help me load it into the elevator.

Then again, that thing would NEVER have fit into the back of my VW anyway....

(P.S. That's not my Toutou in the picture, but she had a similar look on her face this morning)

Armistice Arch

2006-05-08T16:42:00.000+02:00

Photo0417.jpg
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

Kinda hard to see, but the Arc de Triomphe is wearing a big flag today too

Armistice Bus

2006-05-08T16:41:00.000+02:00

Photo0412.jpg
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

I noticed while out and about today that most of the buses are wearing French flags in honor of Armistice Day today

Formules de politesse

2006-05-05T11:43:00.000+02:00

I spend a lot of time thinking about social codes and levels of politeness over here in France. The whole tu/vous thing, which I still stumble over sometimes and doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. Having to address people when you speak to them, not just say "Bonjour" but "Bonjour Monsieur" to the baker. Every morning I see our neighbor downstairs while I'm taking the dog out for her morning business, every morning I smile and say "Bonjour", and every morning he replies with "Bonjour Madame" and every time he does that I curse under my breath and say to myself that I have to remember to address him as Monsieur tomorrow. Which I never do. Such is the drivel that runs through my almost-bilingual head several times a day. Even after years and years of studying French, I am still sometimes taken aback by the level of politeness that is so inherent in daily french life and the language.

The other day, on line 10 coming back from brunch at Breakfast in America, an older monsieur was standing between the two rows of seats, and I was trying to pass by to get to where Eddie had found some seats. I let slip a quiet, sing-songy "Pardon" to the monsieur. To which he looked up at me, not having realized I was standing there, moved into the seat and said "Eh bien, je vous en prie, Madame". He might have even bowed a bit. I passed by without another sound, sat down and contemplated.

Now normally, when someone says "Pardon" to me, when they are trying to pass by, I don't say anything, don't even look up, perhaps grunt in recognition and then move out of the way. In comparison to this man's flourish, my initial demand and resulting response truly felt impolite. Seeing as it was an older gentleman, I should have said "Pardon, Monsieur", followed by "Je vous remercie, Monsieur". That kind of civility, though, does not flow easily off my gum-smacking tongue. To my laid-back California ear, such niceties even smack a bit of condescension, even if I know it is not the case here. Such an elaborate language in California would, in my opinion, be used to as a form of subtle sarcasm. But it isn't the case here at all (or, well, at least most of the time, there are always exceptions). French society, and inherently the language, is built around a democratic notion of defining space and relationships, respecting the other person's anonymity and level. The French are quite proud of their language and the more elaborate, flowery and polite the language you use, the better response you will always get.

Case in point: as I was writing up this entry, I received an email from the university office regarding my French test results from last year. On Friday I had painstakingly drafted an elegant and polite email, using long-winded sentences punctuated by "Madame, Monsieur," at every other line, in order to ask if it would be possible to pick up another copy of my test results even though they were from a year ago. I had expected an answer that would indicate that since they were from last year, I would need to come in to fill out a form and pay a supplement to receive them. Instead, though, the lady sent my results as an email attachment, even wishing me a "good reception", thus saving me a calculated afternoon trip into the Latin Quarter.

Exagerrated politeness, it would seem, will take you far in this country.

You Know You're In France When... # 356

2006-05-04T11:23:00.000+02:00

....The Osbournes is on TV but I'm not hearing any BEEEEP! BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Why I live where I live

2006-05-02T12:27:00.000+02:00

After reading The Bold Soul's post inspired from Sunday Scribblings, I decided this might be a good way to ease back into blogging after being bone-achingly ill last week. Of course, it's no longer Sunday, I hope that doesn't make a difference.

I grew up in Southern California in the (once) quiet little beachside town of Santa Monica, two blocks from the border of the city proper of Los Angeles. At the age of nineteen, after my first experience abroad, which was a year in Germany after high school, I spent a weekend visiting family friends in the Bay Area and fell in love with Northern California. As only the carefree mobility of youth can allow for, I packed my 1974 Volkswagen Bug to the brim with everything I owned: Nirvana CDs, candles, a CD player, hair barrettes, my collection of vintage 1940s housewife dresses, stacks of poetry books, etc, and headed up Highway 1 to Santa Cruz, California, unable to see out my back window. It was 1993.

I stayed in the Bay Area for the better part of the mid-nineties and then moved back down to Los Angeles when I decided to go back to school to get my degree at the ripe old age of 23. No longer a spring chicken, the thought of living in a dormitory and becoming the designated alcohol purchaser for a whole floor of freshmen was less than appealing. Plus, I had acquired a dog from my séjour in Northern California. So instead I found a charming studio apartment off of Melrose avenue, built in 1921 (ancient for Southern California) in a row of red clay roofed bungalows. The studio had built-in arched shelve enclaves and a built-in dresser, as well as a built-in ironing board that folded out of the wall. Big windows opened up into a shared courtyard. It also had cockroaches the size of mice (these particular ones were actually waterbugs). Despite the fact that it was far from the UCLA campus, it was a great place to be a student. A public MTA bus stopped practically in front of my house and dropped me off in front of my first class, so every morning I would join the masses of Central American housekeepers on their way to their jobs in Malibu in the long trek along Sunset Boulevard. I'd interrupt my studies in the middle of the night to join the beautiful people in the line at Pink's Famous Hot Dogs, occasionally ordering my chili cheese dog behind some famous person or another. There was a coffeehouse down the street that offered bottomless cups of coffee, the lifeblood of university students.

I returned briefly to San Francisco at the end of my studies, where I sublet one bedroom apartment on top of a rather large hill from a friend who was going to India for a year. The apartment was in Noe Valley, at the top of Castro Street. It had a beautiful view of the bay, and I would drink my coffee on the plant filled terrace every morning, but I cursed my aching calves every time I realized I had forgotton to buy milk at the grocery store.

By this time, I decided the time had come to fulfill my dream of moving to Paris for a while to study French. And so I arrived on a windy, rainy gray day in March, intending to stay for two months. That was in 2002.

I'm still here. It happens.

Before crossing paths with my wonderful Eddie, I lived in the teeniest chambre de bonne in the sixteenth arrondissement, which was owned by a wealthy French family whose children I tutored in English in exchange for the room. Imagine, these kids had their own nanny AND their own private English tutor. The room was incredibly tiny, a six floor walk up with a sink, shower, hotplate, tiny fridge, small closet space, and a fold out couch. The toilet was out in the hallway. I ended up staying in this room for a couple of years, even taking in a few incredulous houseguests along the way. While visitors from the US were often horrified at how small the place was, it never really bothered me. It had the basics of what I felt I needed at the time: a water boiler to make coffee, linens, a few dishes, a wine bottle opener, a fridge to store my cheese, a very good heater, and a place to rest my weary head at the end of the day. Otherwise, Paris was my living room. I would explore different neighborhoods during the day, check my email on my laptop whenever I could find a cafe with a wireless connection, explore the numerous museums, sit in the upstairs room at Shakespeare and Co and read, eat baguette sandwiches by the river during the summer, take the train out to various little villages in the Ile-de-France and so on.

Then I met Eddie, and that was the end of that.

We now live in a one bedroom apartment in the northeastern corner of the seventeenth arrondissement, about two blocks from the border of the eighteenth. Our neighborhood is quintessentially Parisian. We have four bakeries in a three block radius, a newsstand, several cafes, a sushi restaurant, a Lebanese restaurant, a park, a swimming pool, and a weekly street market that takes place twice a week. We are a twenty minute walk to Sacre-Coeur and to the weekly organic market at Batignolles that Clotilde from Chocolate and Zucchini writes about from time to time. Our neighborhood is far enough from the center of town to be quiet and less crowded, but we are still able to reach the Latin Quarter in 20 minutes by metro.

We also have an espresso machine and wireless internet throughout the apartment, so nowadays I sometimes have to remind myself to get out and enjoy the cafes of Paris…

No more rhume

2006-04-24T11:03:00.000+02:00

I think I decouvre-d too many fils in what seemed to be warm weather last week, because I woke up Sunday morning with the sniffles.

Which resulted in a lie-in all afternoon and listening to the thunder and rain pour outside the window, instead of our planned picnic.

I just don't get it. Will I ever get used to this climate?

UPDATE 28 APRIL: Oh wow, I don't know what that little virus was, but it sure was vicious. Even Eddie had to take three days off of work this week to lay in bed groaning, and he normally has an immune system of steel. Regular blogging will continue once I start to feel like a coherent human being again and can actually lift fingers to type without needing a nap afterwards

In April, don't uncover a single thread

2006-04-21T10:12:00.000+02:00

It was warm in Paris yesterday evening. At least, I think it was warm. It could be deceiving. I just can't decide if I can take my scarf off or if I should leave it on. As soon as I walk out the apartment in a trenchcoat and cardigan underneath, I immediately notice that my hands and face are the same temperature as the air outside and that I don't immediately feel the need to shove my hands in my pockets. Moreover, it's impossible to tell what season it is by looking how much everyone on the street is bundled up. I pass a young guy in nothing but a t-shirt. Then I pass a shabby-chic girl in a handknit scarf and turtleneck sweater. I'm not sure what to think.

"I think that for the first time in months, I actually feel too warm, I shouldn't have worn a sweater today" I say to my friend C from Australia as we make our way through Montmartre to metro line 2 for kirs at Cafe Cannibale.

"Really? I'm kind of cold, I was thinking I should have worn a sweater," is her reply.

It's probably still cold, even if I'm sweating a bit.

In the end, we decide that it isn't too cold to enjoy our kirs on the terrasse of Cannibale, but we stay bundled up in our coats. April in Paris confuses me.

Eau no

2006-04-19T23:09:00.000+02:00

Just came back from a lovely evening involving cocktails at an outdoor cafe with fellow expatriate girlfriends and leisurely conversation in French, followed by a stroll across the Pont des Arts. Arrived home after a long metro ride, took down the dog for her nightly walk, came back, put on flannel striped PJs and fuzzy slippers, went to brush my teeth, water's been cut. It's 11pm.

Tried shower, kitchen faucet and flushing toilet, all out.

In a tizzy, ran out the door, hopped in the elevator to check to see if there was a note downstairs, explaining the situation, thinking there would be no danger of bumping into any neighbors at 11pm. As soon as the elevator door shut though, I heard the beeping of the doorcode outside.

There I was, trapped.

I had no choice. I bravely walked out of the elevator, took a deep breath, proudly greeted my downstairs neighbor who was just returning from her job as a hotel receptionist, and explained they had cut the water in the building and I was just very quickly coming downstairs to see if I could find an explanation for it.

All the while looking her right in the eye, seeing her struggle to keep her gaze from falling to my flannel striped PJs and fuzzy slippers.

It's just not done here.

I feel shame.

Another statue of liberty

2006-04-18T14:11:00.000+02:00

Another statue of liberty
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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I never realized there was a second one of these in Paris, (the first being the one on the Allee des Cygnes) but apparently it's been in the Jardin de Luxembourg since 1906

Los Angeles Fashion?

2006-04-16T21:07:00.000+02:00

In conjunction with the Los Angeles exhibits going on at the Centre Pompidou at the moment, Galeries Lafayette is having some sort of Los Angeles theme in their shops, complete with pink cadillacs, juke boxes, motorcycles etc.

Personally, I don't quite see what Naomi Campbell sitting on a hamburger in a gold bikini with a laptop and a dog has to do with fashion in Los Angeles, but what do I know.

And they even have shows with "Chippenboys". Ooh la la...

Moi, dimanche de Pâques

2006-04-16T21:05:00.000+02:00

Moi
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

A leisurely stroll along the Boulevard St Germain after a lovely Easter brunch of pain perdu...

Revisiting a quaint tradition from days of yore

2006-04-13T16:40:00.000+02:00

I'm in the midst of searching for some extra hours of employment, and some of the jobs I am applying for do not leave email addresses, instead requesting applicants to send in a handwritten cover letter and a paper copy of the resume.

Except for jotting down blog ideas in my moleskine notebook, I realized it's been a long time since I've handwritten anything. I enter phone numbers directly into my cell phone, shopping lists on my palm pilot, scheduled appointments directly into iCal on my computer which I then load onto my ipod. And I've emailed resumes as Word attachments for most of my adult life.

So this handwriting of cover letters seemed like a trip down memory lane. Apparently some French companies still use in-house graphologists. I really have no idea what sort of things they can tell about my handwriting and frankly, it makes me a little nervous. Handwriting was never ever my strong point in the second grade, I was consistently given low marks for crossing a "t" which should have been an "i". Will they think I am a person of low moral standing because they can't tell whether that's an "n" or an "m"?

First off, I had to go to the newstand downstairs which doubles as a papeterie and ask Madame what she would recommend in the way of paper for a lettre de candidature. She handed me a pad of lovely cream colored unlined paper. I had to make sure it included one of those line guides, as there was just no way in this life time I would EVER be able to write in a straight line otherwise.

Next up I grabbed my best Waterman fountain pen, positioned the line guide underneath the first sheet of clean crisp paper, and tried to remember my letter writing techniques. First, tilt the paper slightly as this is cursive. Next, should I put my address directly at the top, or leave a few lines margin from the edge? Do I leave a line between the date and "Dear so and so" salutation line? Wait, it's all coming back, I do remember I am supposed to start the first line of the letter under the "r" of "Dear" in order to make a proper two finger indentation. (I suppose it's two fingers if you are seven). Now for the closing: do I indent "Sincerely" or leave it right justified or left justified, and if so, do I sign my name right underneath or do I justify that as well?

Out came the dusty copy of A Writer's Reference, 1994 edition. I knew there was a reason I tossed it into the box of books to be shipped across the ocean, that one day, even if the situation and circumstances were unbeknownst to me at the time, I would be glad to have it.

Four shaky pages and two balled up sheets in the trash can later, I now need to find some envelopes.

My wrist is sore.

Cuisine de grenouille

2006-04-07T14:43:00.000+02:00

I've lived in Paris for four years, and I've never seen a French person eat frog's legs.

As a matter of fact, I've never even seen it on a menu, except for just one time, and that was at a chinese restaurant in a supermarket shopping plaza. In french, they are actually called "cuisses de grenouille", or "frog thighs". Sexy. Frog's legs seem to be one of the many stereotypes about the French that aren't quite accurate, such as the so-called ubiquitous beret. (It may have been the case during the era of Robert Doisneau photographs, but no self-respecting Frenchman would wear one now. I've seen them on italian woman wandering up and down the Champs-Elysees, but that's about it.)

I've never tried cuisses de grenouille myself, so I have no idea if they really "taste like chicken".

That said, the French eat some things that might strike some as odd. I like some of these things, but not all. The French are quite big on raw oysters, they are traditionally consumed at the late-night Christmas eve supper after midnight mass. There's nothing like the sight of a waiter coming towards you with a big metal platter of crushed ice, on top of which lie half a dozen open shells, along side some lemon wedges and a bowl of chopped shallots in vinegar. Likewise, mussels and other seafood are eaten often, especially in the seafaring regions of Brittany.

Escargots are also not a myth, you can find them with a bit of searching but they aren't consumed regularly, in fact I've mainly only seen them in restaurants that have their menu written in five different languages. It's another one of those culinary oddities, which tourists expect the French to eat often, and therefore they seek them out in order to have the real French experience on their visit. Escargots aren't bad either, but they seem to be more of an excuse to consume large quantities of butter and garlic than anything else. The snail becomes an afterthought. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever seen a French person eat escargots either. Only tourists.

Having installed myself in a vegetarian household when I moved in with Eddie, I've had a good time trying out many different French cheeses. We consume a lot of cheese on a weekly basis, since there isn't much else for vegetarians to eat in this country. There are over 400 different kinds of cheese that are produced in France. Some are stinkier than others. I can definitely hold my own when it comes to stinky cheese, with just one exception: camembert. I've only recently admitted to myself that I don't like camembert. More than just not like it, I will spit it out with a grimace, and have done so on a few occasions. I adore brie, ripe blue roquefort is divine, the bluer the better, but camembert, I don't know, it is just too pungent, and the flavor lingers on the palate just a little bit too long for my liking. Even after a few sips of Cotes du Rhone.

One thing I've noticed that real French people do actually eat and tourists tend to shy away from is steak tartare. That, in my humble, better-to-overcook-steak-than-undercook-steak opinion, is a dish that takes some getting used to. The first time I saw someone eat this dish was several years ago when I was an au pair for a posh French family in the sixteenth. They took me out to dinner to celebrate my birthday, and I was amazed when the mother, an extraordinarily chic and beautiful woman who had recently been been approached by French Elle for an article on what she ate in order to stay thin (yes, even French magazines have articles on how to stay thin), had a dish of raw red steak topped with onion and a raw egg set down in front of her. I can imagine that as far as fat content goes it makes sense as a low calorie and low fat dish, but still... to me, it just did not seem like the sort of dish an elegant French woman would eat. It was quite a difference from the gym-going velour sweatsuit-wearing Californians I had been surrounded by growing up, who consume nothing but salad and boneless skinless tasteless chicken breast.

Since then, I have sat across a dinner table on many occasions with French people who have had this dish set down in front of them. I haven't tried it yet. I'm sure it's delicious, but I'm just not in a terrible hurry to try it.

Ever get the feeling you are being watched?

2006-04-06T10:41:00.000+02:00

Photo0407.jpg
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

While sketching in the Louvre's Greek and Roman antiquities section during the Wednesday night Nocturnes, I looked up from my drawing pad and pencil and nearly jumped out of my skin to see this 1,900 year old intense marble stare towering over me.

L'eglise de la Trinite, 4pm wednesday

2006-04-05T16:18:00.000+02:00

L'eglise de la Trinite, 4pm wednesday
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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I've past this church a hundred times in a taxi, but never been inside. Till today. A scene from Truffaut's Les Quatre Cent Coups was filmed here. Everytime I think I have seen everything in Paris, I stumble across something else...

Encore

2006-04-03T18:36:00.000+02:00

From my inbox:

Warden Message
Alert - April 4 Demonstrations

Student groups and labor unions are calling for a day of nationwide
demonstrations and strikes on April 4 to protest the CPE (or First Employment
Contract).

A major demonstration is planned for Paris on April 4. According to public
sources, the demonstration will begin at 2:00 PM at Place de la République and
proceed towards Place d'Italie via Blvd. Temple, Bastille, Quai de la Rapee and
Pont d'Austerlitz. Arrival at Place d'Italie is anticipated around 6:00 PM.

Estimated number of participants: 100,000.

Disruptions to normal traffic patterns should be anticipated and demonstration
areas avoided. Demonstrations may also result in disruptions to public
transportation in affected areas.
U.S. Embassy personnel have been advised to avoid all demonstrations and large
gatherings.
Travelers should be alert to news media reports for the most up-to-date
information, avoid areas where unrest has occurred, move quickly away from any
concentrations of demonstrators or police they may encounter, and exercise
particular caution during evening and nighttime hours. Travelers may also
monitor the Embassy web site at for updates
regarding the ongoing demonstrations.
Travelers in France who need assistance can contact the U.S. Embassy at
01-4312-2222, or by email at: citizeninfo@state.gov . The Consular Section of
the U.S. Embassy in Paris is located at 2 Rue St. Florentin, 75001 Paris (Place
de La Concorde, Metro Stop Concorde), tel. 011-33-1-43-12-22-22 or (in France)
01-43-12-22-22; fax 011-33-1-42-61-61-40. Further information can be obtained
at the U.S. Embassy's web site at .

For the latest security information, Americans living and traveling abroad
should regularly monitor the Department's Bureau of Consular Affairs Internet
web site at , where the current Worldwide Cautions,
Public Announcements, and Travel Warnings can be found. Up-to-date information
on security can also be obtained by calling 1-888-407-4747 toll free in the
U.S., or, for callers outside the U.S. and Canada, a regular toll line at
1-317-472-2328. These numbers are available from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. Eastern
Time, Monday through Friday (except U.S. federal holidays).

The cornerstone of our efforts to keep the American traveling public aware of
problems threatening their safety and security is our Consular Information
Program.
If you would like to receive important information issued by the U.S. Department
of State and the Embassy in Paris, please register your stay in France using
this online registration service https://travelregistration.state.gov/ibrs . By
indicating your e-mail address at the time of registration, you will receive all
Embassy bulletins and warden messages automatically.

United States Embassy
Office of American Services
2, rue Saint-Florentin
75382 Paris Cedex 08
France
Telephone: 01 43 12 22 22
Website:
E-mail:

This new media

2006-04-02T15:47:00.000+02:00

Blogging is really a weird new form of communication. Especially when you come face to face at a blog meetup at a bar with several of the bloggers you read on a weekly basis. I'm still just getting used to it. It's kind of strange to be able to say to someone, oh hi, I just met you thirty seconds ago and even though you haven't volunteered this information to me personally, I know where you are from, how long you have been here, that you like to knit, and how was your housewarming party last saturday night? Oh and I recognized you right when you walked in, you look just like your photo.

Very strange indeed.

I'm still testing the waters on blogging, I'm still not quite sure what I am writing about, so that's why for the moment I'm still somewhat anonymous (except for those who were directed here from my myspace page), and I haven't actively been advertising my blog by leaving comments on other blogs, or joining a ring, etc. I would like to do that eventually but first I have to figure out exactly what I'm blogging about.

I was quite pleased though, to hear a couple of people, when I mentioned my blog name, tell me they enjoyed some of the posts I'd put up. I really don't know who, if anyone, reads this thing. Actually, I kind of prefer it that way, because maybe if I thought a lot of people were reading I would be more inclined to hold back.

I don't think I want to hold back.

Cela dit, it was very nice to meet other expat bloggers, and blog readers alike, and especially, to be able to put not just faces, but also voices, to words....

On the back of the bus

2006-03-31T19:07:00.000+02:00

On the back of the bus
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Spring flowers pushing their way up

2006-03-24T18:30:00.000+01:00

Spring flowers pushing their way up
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Avenue Foch, 16eme, friday afternoon

One day in March, 2005

2006-03-22T17:50:00.000+01:00

The end of The Long Dark Winter, a few days into Spring…Beginnings…

Not warm, per se, not sunny, but warm enough to wear open-toed high heeled sandals without the danger of feet turning blue and cracking and falling off. Plus a red Chinese silk brocade blouse. No white wedding here this morning…

I arose when it was still dark. Drank some green tea, did a half an hour of yoga. We had to be there quite early, there was no other time slot available.

A rush of makeup and hair tied up with a lacquer pin, and him running around stuffing last minute items in the suitcase. What would the weather in Venice be like at this time of year? One collapsible black trenchcoat, for us to share..

His friend from school days calls fifteen minutes before we depart the apartment. "Tu peux me prêter une cravate? J'ai pas de cravate moi". He puts down the phone in exasperation, couldn't he have thought of that a little EARLIER, and continues stuffing the suitcase like a Thanksgiving bird.

I can still hear that David Bowie song that kept running through my head, for one reason or another:

Never gonna fall for
Modern Love
Walks beside me
Walks on by
Gets me to the Church on time
Church on time

I'd imagined walking but in the end time did not permit. Plus we are dragging a big suitcase, and there is some teetering on the aforementioned heels. We call a taxi.

"Ça me fait plaisir de vous amener à la Mairie pour le mariage.."

A small group outside. As had happened on several occasions before, when we dropped off the marriage dossier, and came back to grin at the posted bans, a sigh of frustration, that we didn't live just two streets east, in the 18th, where the Mairie is nineteenth century, and instead we are forced to be join lives in the circa 1970 concrete utilitarian block that is the Mairie du 17eme. Yes, sigh…

Some photos, taken by a sign: Paris 2012: L'amour des Jeux. A couple of cigarettes even though I don't usually smoke in the morning. A shuffle into what reminds me of my elementary school's assembly hall. A lady wearing a tricolore sash, smiling.

A ceremony in French, a Cartier ring, chosen at Galeries Lafayettes weeks before, had been sitting in its wrapped package on the dresser since.

Not "I do", which as a teenage girl I had always thought it would be, but "Oui".

A kiss.

"Les américains qui se marient à Paris" says the lady in the tricolore as she sees our birthplaces on the livret de famille. I can practically hear his teeth biting his tongue. Je suis pas américain. Je suis canadien. Je suis français. Je suis californien.

It is done. A walk to Place Clichy for a taxi to the airport. My feet hurt. Some waves from the taxi. I look at the ring, on a finger that has always been devoid of jewelry.

Up in the air and back down again. A long boat ride from Marco Polo airport, making one stop at the island of Murano before finally dropping us in front of the fog-shrouded Campanile. I have since changed shoes, back into the beloved chucks. A map purchased on the Piazza San Marco, followed by crossing canals for an hour, squeezing into crowded medieval passageways, over small arched footbridges, past scores of display windows draped with Venetian masks, stopping to lecher les vitrines in front of the gelato shops, backtracking, searching for our yellow hotel. And then…

And then…a pasta meal, some attempts at uttered Italian, a bottle of bubbly Prosecco Spumante purchased at a little wine shop, two plastic glasses offered to us by the shopkeeper, for our gondola ride. Our gondolier doesn't sing. Sipping said Prosecco through the dark, candlelit, silent back canals of Venice, no sound, except the gentle rippling of water lapping at the gondola. We feel inclined to whisper.

And then…

And then it is late, and we merely sit on the banks of the Canal Grande, legs hanging off the side, and look at the lights of Venice under the moon. Finish off the Prosecco, swigging from the bottle since we left the glasses on the gondola. We just sit, watch, and pass the bottle back and forth.

A year of someone who really does understand…

This post is for him….

Bridge over water

2006-03-22T15:50:00.000+01:00

Bridge over water
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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Bois de Boulogne in the rain, wednesday 15h45

Going for Breakfast in America

2006-03-21T22:06:00.000+01:00

I love Paris. Of course I do. I love everything about this great city. The cafes, the coffee, the wine, the bistros, the outdoor tables. The way you can sit for hours over a meal and no one comes around to ask how everything is.
But sometimes, just sometimes, I get a hankering for home. Bottomless cups of coffee (what the french call "jus de chausettes"or "sock juice"). Milk in a metal jug with a flip lid. Stacks of blueberry pancakes. And one of the few places in Paris where you can find veggie burgers. The French have fallen in recent years for brunch, but it's more of a fancy shindig with croissants, charcuterie, a cheese place, etc. For me, it's nice to know there is a place to go on a Sunday morning to sit at the counter with the International Herald Tribune and order up scrambled eggs and hash browns in English. I'm not saying all the time. But it's just reassuring to know it's there.

Best to get there before 11 on weekends, it gets pretty packed in that little space after that....

Le Coffee Parisien isn't bad at all either, one might even argue that the food is better than Breakfast in America, but that isn't really the point now is it. It just doesn't quite have the same atmosphere, the same people. Perhaps only another expatriate, someone who has been away from their homeland for a long stretch of time, will understand that hankering every once in a while to order in your native tongue and to eat what is familiar and comforting, no matter how much you really do love your new home...

Water runneth over

2006-03-19T17:24:00.000+01:00

Water runneth over
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

The Seine is quite high at the moment, actually spilling over at some parts

Containers of Paris I: Addendum

2006-03-19T17:13:00.000+01:00

Containers of Paris I: Addendum
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

About once every month or two, however, they actually come to you. You just leave the bags in the entryway before 8am. Which is nice of them...

That old striking spirit

2006-03-17T12:04:00.000+01:00

The spirit of '68 is in full swing here in Paris. Getting from the Latin Quarter to Montmartre on line 7 during rush hour yesterday evening was a stop and go experience. I may have had better luck getting out and walking, joining the students in their protests. Kids in their early 20s with "CPE" painted on their faces and a line slashed through it would stomp onto the subway car, yell their slogans to the amusement of the riders, and run out at the next stop. Eddie took a taxi home last night from his office near Gobelins. Upon hearing his taxi driver's accent, he soon learned that the guy was Russian, a former member of the Red Army for five years who, upon the dissolution of the Soviet Union, then became a member of the French Foreign Legion in Africa for seven years. It was only his second day of being a cab driver in Paris. It would be bad enough on a normal day. "Which way should I go?" he kept asking Eddie. You picked a hell of a week to start being a cab driver, Eddie told him.

Coming from the land of two weeks vacation a year, I continue to be really impressed with employment benefits in France. For those of you who don't know already, the French receive FIVE weeks of vacation a year. Yes I said FIVE weeks of vacation a year. Count 'em One Two Three Four FIVE weeks of vacation a year. In addition they receive other benefits such as subsidizing of transportation to work, meal tickets good in most restaurants, very decent social healthcare AND a thirty five hour work week. Once you sign an employment contract in France, it's next to impossible to get fired. I mean, you have to do something REALLY REALLY bad, like, literally do NOTHING but blog from your desk all day for a year. I do admire the system, and the French are reluctant to let go of these benefits that they have worked so hard for. I read a poll this morning that says only 27 percent of French people support the new First Contract law that the students are protesting against. The drawback of this model of employment is that it is incredibly costly to the State, and unemployment has been at a two digit figure for over a decade. Sooooo....something does have to give. I can understand the students not wanting to accept a contract that offers less than what the country is used to and has fought for, but at the same time the system cannot continue to stagnate as it has, with over three million young people unable to get a first work experience.

I feel sorry for the kids who want to get back in and finish their degrees, it seems they have been shut out for a few weeks now. I also need to get into the Sorbonne to get a copy of my French linguistic evaluation from last year. Having called several times and wondering why they never answered their damn phone, I finally showed up on Tuesday, not realizing the address of the office was actually INSIDE the Sorbonne itself, and felt silly when Monsieur Le Cute Policeman looked at me like I was a space alien and said, but, no, of course you cannot access the rue Victor Cousin, Madame, the whole street is blocked off...

Containers of Paris 1

2006-03-13T13:25:00.000+01:00

Containers of Paris 1
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

Space in Parisian apartments is limited compared with the wide open living spaces of the California west. Yet shopping temptations abound aplenty. That means new lessons in space management. Which in turn means, when a new item comes in, an old item must move out to make room for it. (I'm sure many of you would agree, this ain't as easy as it sounds). That's why it's so handy to have this cute little mini-Salvation Army depot just up the street. You just lift the lever and pop your garbage bag full of jeans from circa 1998 that you can no longer pretend you will someday fit into again (sniff sniff). Open 24 hours a day for those nights when you can't sleep and have an uncontrollable urge to spring clean. Yeah right. Like that happens....

Lumière

2006-03-10T17:53:00.000+01:00

It can get pretty dark on a third floor Parisian apartment. In the depths of winter, I have to keep the light on in the living room, even during the day. The bedroom, which faces la cour, the courtyard, gets no light whatsoever. Which is why Eddie very smartly insisted that, instead of painting the bedroom a funky deep shade which I suggested, we should paint the walls a white shade that has the slightest hint of yellow, point de jaune is what is written on the paint tub. How very very right he was. It makes a big difference on a January afternoon, where a darker shade would have turned the room into a rock cave.

During the winter, the sun is too low to shine in the living room, as it is blocked by the buildings across the street. But during the spring and summer months, there is a spot on our couch where, at a certain time in the late afternoon, if you are sitting in that particular spot, the sun will be at such a level that it will shine right on you. Today, the sun has been peeking out between little patches of rain showers, but just now, at 17h46, for the first time in months the sun shone brilliantly through the window, so much it blinded me and I couldn't see the computer screen in front of me. It lasted just a few minutes but I think that means Winter is drawing to a close.

Which gets me thinking about spring plans, and even a bit of summer. Most importantly, what should I wear this year once the doudoune comes off. I wonder if those long flowing skirts will be in fashion again this year.

Plans for spring:
1. Dust off the roller blades, and think about finally learning to brake this year.
2. Or, just break down and buy some classic roller skates, I was good at roller skating when I was a kid, I bet it sticks with you.
3. Oh, maybe I'll just get a bicycle instead.
4.Start laying off the pain au chocolats, in preparation for beach trips.
5. Start going back to the pool twice a week, in preparation for said beach trips.
6.Get some plants for the jardiniere, including some cooking herbs: basil, dill, rosemary, coriander.

It's nice to daydream about warmer brighter days, even if I must not be too hasty in my shedding of the doudoune. As the old saying goes:

En avril, ne te découvre pas d'un fil
En mai, fais ce qu'il te plaît

(Rough translation: "In april, don't uncover a single thread. In may, do whatever you like")

(doudoune: down jacket)

Blood, sweat and Swedish do-it-yourself furniture

2006-03-08T18:51:00.000+01:00

One thing you learn very quickly when you move to Paris: when someone you know, be it a work colleague, a friend or even just an acquaintance, has a car and is going to Ikea, you change your plans, drop everything and offer up your firstborn child to be certain to get a spot in the backseat, knowing full well it could be months before another opportunity presents itself...

What I'm going for...

2006-03-05T20:32:00.000+01:00

The color scheme I am loosely following at the moment...:

Ma ville, mon quartier, mon LOOK

2006-03-04T12:16:00.000+01:00

In last week's issue of French Elle, there was an article about different fashion styles in the different arrondissements in Paris.

Elles sont chics, les Parisiennes. Certes...Mais on ne s'habille pas pareil à Saint-Germain-des-Prés, dans le Marais, à Belleville ou avenue Montaigne..

According to the article:

the Parisienne who lives in the 1st and 8th arrondissements is about: "des marques, des marques, des marques!" She travels back and forth between the Avenue Montaigne and the rue Saint-Honoré.

3rd and 4th arrondissements, from the Marais to Republique: "La vie est bobo". An artistic allure, but with such a sense for the beautiful that she doesn't lack any taste. "Belle et naturelle" is her mantra.

6th and 7th: Classic chic

9th and 10th: "Chic, mode et rock 'n roll". She dates musicians and architects and lives in designer studios. Wears converse and velour blazers (I might add, an uber-trendy Parisian look I have seen all over the place for the past few years, in both men and women).

11th, 19th, 20th and parts of the twelfth: Ethnic cheap chic.

The queen of eastern Paris, whether a stylist, journalist, assistant director, globe trotter or massage therapist, does not have much means but is always trendy. She was one of the first to wear indian embroidered ballerina slippers. If she could, she would spend her time in India or Argentina. Her icon is Isabel Marant. Her look is a mix of styles and she could be seen pairing a skirt from Mouton à Cinq Pattes, a jacket purchased while traveling, and a top from Zara's collection from two years ago. She does her shopping on bicycle and with her family. Her favorite places to have a drink are Le Pause-Café and Favela Chic, where her drink of choice is a pastis in summer or a caipirinha the rest of the year.

Finally, we come to my neighborhood:

18th arrondissement and northern part of the 17th (us): "Drunk on vintage and second-hand"

In love with thrift and second-hand, and vintage, she knows the marché Saint-Pierre by heart. Demanding and eccentric, she combs relentlessly through the piles at Guérissol and has mastered the art of finding a pair of pants for eight euros. And if she is still wearing military jackets, it's only because she had the idea before everyone else. She seeks out ethical brands of clothing. She is moved by the poetic universe of Miyazaki. She gets around on the metro and dreams of a house at the foot of Sacré-Coeur. But perhaps one day she will live in the suburbs. Without complex. She goes out dancing in the evening at Le Pulp or Le Triptyque and her drink of choice is the mojito.

I found this description to be funnily accurate. It's true that I would love to live at the foot of Sacré-Coeur (well, who wouldn't), I try to be concientous in my shopping, and more often than not I will order a mojito when I am out. Eddie makes fun of me because I have a tendency of bragging about how cheap I found such-and-such an item of clothing, and while it's not my favorite place to shop, I have hit Guérissol in a pinch, especially since it's practically next door. But the one thing that definitely rings true is I do love my vintage and secondhand. In fact, it's one thing I miss about California (along with veggie burritos). It's true that I have found some very nice vintage shops in Paris, as well as the flea markets, and if I still can't find anything, there's always hopping the Eurostar to London for the weekend to comb through the wonderful markets there. But I do find myself sometimes missing the secondhand shops and thrift shops in the US. When I lived off of Melrose and La Brea, I would stop in at Jet Rag
and Yellowstone practically everyday on my way home, in search of cute original items for pas tres cher. That sort of thing just doesn't quite exist in Paris. I have at times caught myself wondering how well a California style vintage clothing shop slash bookstore slash coffeehouse would do in Paris....

(And don't even get me started on missing Ross and Old Navy, that's another post all together...)

To the castle!

2006-03-02T17:12:00.000+01:00

To the castle!
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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14h30, Chateau de Pierrefonds, Picardie 60350. 1.5 hours from Paris...

"I saw you, walking in the snow..."

2006-03-01T19:33:00.000+01:00

"I saw you, walking in the snow..."
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

I love clear umbrellas. They are so much fun. I can walk down the street in the rain and still admire the Haussmannian buildings of Paris. I can look up and watch the snow pummel down without getting any caught on my eyelashes. And of course, it greatly helps in the Battle of the Umbrellas in the street, when someone is coming towards you with an umbrella and you can't see them and you end up bumping into them...

Un express, s'il vous plait...

2006-03-01T19:27:00.000+01:00

Un express, s'il vous plait...
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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4pm, La Fourche, 75017, snow just beginning to fall. I don't usually drink coffee this late in the day. I predict sleeplessness will ensue...

The trials and tribulations of blog templates

2006-02-28T14:46:00.000+01:00

I'm still sitting on color schemes, working on the banner, selecting fonts and trying to figure out how to get rid of these annoying borders, so the blog is still a mess for the moment. It has, however, been quite fun to learn how to tweak the template. Not to mention quite engaging, read: time consuming. The important thing, I have realized, is to always save a copy of the template in Word in case I really mess it up. I hope to have a lovely and satisfying blog up by the end of the week or the beginning of next week...

La Page Hollandaise

2006-02-28T11:13:00.000+01:00

More canals and bikes
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

One of the things I like most about living in Europe is the relatively close proximity to other countries, allowing for weekend visits to places that are not that far distance-wise, but are completely different as far as scenery, language, food, art, architecture and people are concerned. In California you can go a few hundred miles to the north and you are in...California. Last weekend we hopped on the Thalys heading north for a few hundred miles and visited friends in Amsterdam.
Highlights included cycling by the canals despite the damp cold, visiting friends, and seeing the Rembrandts in the Rijksmuseum and the Van Goghs in the Van Gogh museum, two things I have wanted to do since I was a teenager. And since everyone keeps asking, the answer is no, nothing green was inhaled...

Curb your dog, please

2006-02-26T19:44:00.000+01:00

Curb your dog, please
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

If only more Parisians would listen...

Testing....testing....

2006-02-25T00:14:00.000+01:00

I'm in the middle of experimenting with CSS codes and color schemes, so please forgive me if the blog looks like someone threw up on it....

Writer's Paris

2006-02-10T11:14:00.000+01:00

Writer's Paris
Originally uploaded by Frenchpage.

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I just love this cozy little writer's nook on the first floor of Shakespeare, with its quaint old typewriter

Prickly fruits of winter

2006-02-09T10:40:00.000+01:00

Although apparently they grow in California, I had never had a fresh litchi nut before the winter of 2004, my first winter in France. I had eaten them canned quite often in my childhood, served for dessert in a bowl at the Dragon Palace Chinese Restaurant in the mini-mall on Santa Monica Boulevard just up the street from where I grew up. During my first winter in France, I was quite surprised to see them at practically every greengrocer I passed starting from mid-January. They looked quite scary and dangerous to me, and I couldn't imagine the sweet white fruit that lurked beneath their leathery spiked armor.

It was the eight year old girl I tutored who convinced me to try them. As we would walk home across the bridge to the sixteenth from the Ecole Bilingue in the fifteenth, she would often spontaneously exclaim how litchis, along with cherries and green grapes, were her FAVORITE fruit in the whole wide world. Well, if an eight year old wasn't afraid of them, I figured I shouldn't be either. She showed me how to bite off the top part of the skin, just below where the stem would be and just enough to make a little dent, then peel off the skin as though it were a little hat, and then pinch the bottom part of the skin so as to cleanly pop the fruit into your mouth. I've looked forward to them every February since then.

In my two years of fresh litchi eating, I have learned through trial and error which litchis are probably the best by looking at them. In my experience, I have found the best litchis will be quite plump and fat, almost heart-shaped, proud-looking, not wimpy-looking. They should not be too hard, but not too soft either. They should give a little when you squeeze them, but then defiantly puff themselves back out when you release them. I look for ones that are light brown in color, but have pleasing pink blush swept across them. However, they should not be too pretty and pink, as I have found this can mean they are overly ripe. If you are lucky and have picked a perfect litchi, the skin will break with a clean "pop!" when you bite into it, and then a little explosion of sweet juice will trickle out, not a whole lot, but just enough. The fruit inside should be pure white, not brown at all. If you are really lucky, the brown nut-like seed inside will be fat, smooth and glossy (don't eat it, it is slightly poisonous) and the white meat will literally slide off of it in a very pleasing manner. However, some seeds end up being a bit bent or gnarled, but I have found this normally doesn't affect the taste of the fruit itself, it is just that is quite pleasant to slide the fruit off a glossy smooth seed instead.

I was so surprised to learn how sweet they are fresh, that it surprises me now that they would sell them canned in syrup...

Nouvelle Cuisine

2006-02-06T11:32:00.000+01:00

We saw a crazy Hong Kong film Saturday night, called Dumplings
in English and somberly titled Nouvelle Cuisine in French. It's about a former doctor who smuggles aborted fetuses from China and chops them up in order to prepare them as dumplings to serve wealthy women in her run-down apartment for a pretty penny. The fetus dumplings are supposed to make one young again. It's not so much a horror movie or even all that gory (except for one teenage abortion scene, ugh), but it was sort of horrifyingly dark in its portrayal of people's quest for youth and beauty at any cost. The film centers around a wealthy former television actress in her mid thirties whose husband is obsessed with twenty year old girls. It was sort of interesting because you didn't know if it was the dumplings that actually worked or if they had a placebo effect. In any case, there might have been all sorts of cultural references going on that, having no knowledge of Chinese mythology, I wouldn't have caught on to. It was explained at one point that a boy fetus is more "nourishing" than a girl and much harder to come by, due to the One Child policy in China, where boy children are more prized than girls and therefore girls are more likely to be aborted.

Oddly enough my French is still such crap that I can't follow a full-length film easily and I find that when watching a foreign film it's easier to watch it in the original language with French subtitles, rather than dubbed in French. I hope this changes someday.

After the film we went to our favorite Japanese place on the rue Ste Anne, but as we arrived just before closing time many things weren't available. The place is packed when we've come at eight pm, at 7pm there is no wait and it's filled with mainly japanese, and at 10:30pm it's filled with mainly French people. So we have decided that dining slightly earlier at around 7:30pm is the perfect time to go.

They have lovely udon soup, and no dumplings were consumed during this particular meal...

What's so african about it?

2006-02-02T15:57:00.000+01:00

After a few rounds on the ice rink in front of Hotel de Ville on on a beautiful, sunny yet crisp Wednesday:

...trying mostly unsuccessfully not to knock down or be knocked down by randy French youth, followed by a leisurely stroll through the Tuileries...

...in order to bypass the soldes, we stopped into Angelina's for their infamous chocolat africain:

Say what you will about Angelina's, it may be tourist destination central, but hot damn, that is some good stuff. I only went for the first time two weeks ago with my friend Debbie from Florida, and we were already back yesterday, despite our vows that we were all hot chocolated-out from the last visit. We figured we could afford the calories after our battle on the ice. I know a couple who went two times in a four day trip to Paris, and this was my second time in four years. Oh well.

That whipped cream by the way, that is real cream that has been whipped, and no sugar added. Ummm...Take that, Cool Whip..

Debbie and her husband got a new car on Tuesday, an automatic, so I foresee some day trips to the forest with the dog in our future...

The Tunisian is no longer

2006-01-26T03:50:00.000+01:00

Our Tunisian baker closed its doors definitively last week, without warning. While it's true that their bread was not as good as the Breton bakery on the next block, they had lovely Arabic pastries such as baklava, cone shaped filo pastries filled with ground pistachios or almonds, and other rose water and orange flower water-scented delights, that provided an occasional break from the lovely yet ubiquitous tarte aux fraises and millefeuilles in the area. Plus they were open till 21h30. Trust me, in our neighborhood, that was a godsend.

When Eddie moved to this area near La Fourche about six years ago, it was still quite a working class neighborhood with lots of immigrant families. Now our neighborhood shows signs of slight gentrification. Eddie was wondering if the Tunisian closed because of this, but I think maybe it's just that the bread wasn't as good. On days when the both the Breton and the Tunisian were open, the Breton always had a line out the door, versus the Tunisian who was usually occupied but rarely all-out full. One thing that is true about the French, I have noticed, is that they will go out of their way for quality, as opposed to just plain convenience. I remember when I first moved here a few years ago, a French friend of my mother's walked me up and down the rue de Commerce to the butcher that had "the best blood sausage in the fifteenth". Even now, I find myself waiting for the twice a week produce market instead of buying fruits and veg at the Franprix...

Steam

2006-01-24T15:42:00.000+01:00

One thing I have discovered living in Europe is that during the cold damp winter, visiting a sauna or hammam can do wonders to revive and blow away the feeling of lethargy, as well as dry winter skin. Yesterday I decided to visit the hammam that is just down the street. Although I had visited other hammams in Paris, this one has the advantage of being right in my neighborhood and plus it is about half the cost of other hammams in Paris. When I got there I realized it's because it is the real thing: mainly only North African women beginning sentences in Arabic and finishing them in French. Since it was the middle of the day, there was just me and two round Moroccan women in the steam room. They were very convivial and laughed loudly. I heard once that the hammam traditionally holds an almost sacred place for women in some Islamic countries as this is the one place where they can speak alone with one another without the veil. One of the women offered to scrub my back with my exfoliating glove as I was alone and could not reach. Another one offered me an orange.

Then came time for my treatment. I was shown into a steam room with a table in the center, and a woman with a thick accent I could barely understand took a dixie cup filled with a black gel-like soap called savon noir. It is supposed to draw out impurities in your skin and is used all over hammams in North Africa. Then she began to scrub me all over with an exfoliating sponge. I mean, she was really scrubbing, more than I had ever scrubbed in my whole life, really pushing down with that thing. I was slightly wincing in pain and thought for a moment I would sit up and blood would run down my arms. In fact when I did sit up and she continued to scrub my legs, I noticed little gray peels of dead upper epidermal layer. Oh. My. God.

She instructed me to rinse off the dead skin in the shower, and when I came out she slathered me in this mud substance. It smelled like cloves and cinnamon, and it burned slightly on my new baby skin. As I stood there waiting for the mask to sink in to work its effects, the two Morroccan women were looking to see my reaction. "C'est le vrai Maroc", one of them said to me, pointing at the burning mud.

Afterwards I rinsed it off, and went upstairs to nap on one of the wooden sofas with big oriental pillows. The room had oriental rugs, fake plants, lavish silk curtains, soundproof ceilings, a coke machine and a little boom box set to an Arabic radio station. The woman came back in a little while and led me into another room for my massage with essential oils. My skin is now so soft and shiny I can literally see my reflection in my shins. I was offered sweet mint tea and North African pastries on my way out, which I sadly had to decline because I am on an after-holidays January regime. However, I was proud of myself for actually declining.

Might make this a weekly endeavor, who knows....

Hibernation

2006-01-24T15:35:00.001+01:00

After a big gung-ho back in October about starting a blog, I now haven't written in over three months. Hmm.

It's been kind of a crazy few months, what with the holidays and traveling and all. Finding a pumpkin to carve in Paris, which took us on a goose chase to the Carrefour in Saint Denis just days before the riots began in that 'hood. Then I think the entire month of November was spent obsessing about what vegetarian dishes to serve on Thanksgiving, where to buy Ocean Spray cranberry sauce in Paris, and corresponding with Eddie's mother who very generously mailed us cornbread mix and Stovetop stuffing from Canada. Early December I was invited to a traditional German Christmas cookie baking party, and then Christmas eve was celebrated with a walk in the Bois de Boulogne followed by the traditional Reveillon late night supper of fois gras, oysters, a dark bread served with oysters called seigle, poached lobster, and about six of the traditional thirteen desserts of the Reveillon from Provence. Christmas day my sweet hubby baked me a stuffed guinea hen despite his vegetarian self not having any, and we had a Buche de Noel christmas cake for dessert. I am still full. Then it was down to snowy Germany for a few days, and back to Paris on a six am flight New Years eve morning, in time for a New Years celebration at a friend's tiny studio in the Latin Quarter. So yeah, it was a bit crazy for a minute there.

But things are calm now, in this chilly month of January filled with rest, detox diets, christmas bills etc, so I hope I am back in action....