Author Archives: Sylvia

About Sylvia

Vini, vidi, Paris... I look forward to sharing the fun, flavours and fashion of living in Paris with two teen Parisiennes and Mr French. A true Californian in search of that certain je ne sais quoi, I came to Paris an over weight, under-shod vegetarian. I've since learned to shave my legs, wear a bra, and act like a grown up. A lot of work, but I'm loving it, and my teens are oh so thankful now that I am infinitely less embarrassing.

On the Prowl…

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July has gone out with a roar as we enter the astrological sign of Leo, and men will soon be flooding the streets of Paris, on the prowl. Actually, the hunt begins just after the 14 juilllet, when families head off on summer holidays, heading back to the city, the children safely ensconced with the grandparents, or some hapless aunt, or in a summer camp.

It is time for the adults to play. Some of the families divide and conquer, with Mom and Dad taking turns watching the kids while the other returns to work in Paris. And that is when things start to get wild. I don’t know what the women are up to, but these days the cafés are overflowing with solo, but not necessarily single, men looking for a date.

And, as luck would have it, this is prime travel season for the rest of the Northern hemisphere. Tons of tourists are streaming in to the city, many of them single women (or men), some of them dreaming of being swept off their feet by a French prince charming, totally unaware of the current climate.

I once had a friend who was lured into the trap. Here on holidays, he chose to attend a public lecture at the Carnavalet museum in the Marais. A very handsome Parisien, Vladamir,  approached him and invited him for a café after the event. My friend was charmed, and they spent some time chatting. As they chatted a few alarm bells started going off. What was a fairly young, presumably employed local doing at a museum lecture in the middle of the afternoon?

Vladamir invited my friend back to his place. When my friend declined, saying he had a husband back home, Vladamir gave him his address, just in case my friend should change his mind. That night over drinks, my friend told me the tale.

“Oh, and he lives in your neighborhood, just a block away, on the rue de xx.”

“Vladamir on the rue de xx? I know a Vladamir on the rue de xx. He works with my husband. That’s too funny! No way they’re the same Vladamir, though, ours is married to a woman with two kids.In fact my daughter is very close with his son.”

“Oh, you never know….” And he went on to describe Vladamir, OUR Vladamir.

So caveat emptor, my dear friends, if you happen to meet a charming Parisien during the school holidays and he seems just too good to be true, chances are he very well may be.

It’s official

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Wahoo!!! Mr French has a passport!! We’re going on holiday after all!

Its time to get packing. Our first destination is Hossegor, a gorgeous vacation village built around a marine lake in the 1920’s. Nestled between the foie gras eating Landes region and the explosive (sometimes literally) tapas loving Basque region, this is surfer territory. An ironic destination for someone who left the Santa Cruz mountains of California, in search of city life. We come here every year, pedaling our dune bikes between the tennis courts and the beach, where we boogie board. And then, we eat.

So what exactly does a Parisienne pack for her French holidays? Her Carte Bancaire, bien sûr. Okay, that is a joke I made up, inspired by the horrible J-A-P jokes of the 1980’s. The ones that accused me of making reservations for dinner.

But seriously, if she is very lucky (I’m not that kind of lucky) an Eres bathing suit and some more sports-y beach wear. A pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers are probably stuffed into her market basket cum beach bag. Another favorite beach bag is the freebie given at the pharmacie when you buy Avene sunscreens. When not hitting the beaches, she may be sporting the practical but stylish Upla bag, or an even more practical and completely functional Bensimon bag. If she does not have a Bensimon bag, it is likely that she is wearing their very affordable, quite simply, yet annual popular canvas sneakers.

And she is probably throwing in some navy blue. And white. And a combination thereof. I blame it on the traditional navy and white striped, St James Breton fishing sweaters, which have been popular since the 1850s. Fashionable Parisienne‘s strictly follow the “never wear more than three colors at once” rule, even on holiday, and this one single, although historic garment seems to dictate the Parisienne‘s vacation palette year in and year out.

While once just a heavy wool sweater worn to survive the elements, you’ll now find marine stripes in every collection, from the luxury houses to discount chains, available in an entire range of styles; from heavy wool to nearly transparent cotton, blue with white stripes, or white with blue stripes. When not on a sweaters, the stripes can be spotted on everything from dresses, to tank tops, canvas bags to beach towels. Only pants seem to be spared the Breton sailor look, and that’s probably because they manage to make even the Parisenne derrière look wide.

For her feet, she has probably thrown in a pair of Les Tropeziennes, an affordable knock of of the classic K Jacques still being handmade in Saint Tropez. And her Aigle rainboots, because no matter where you go in France, rain is always possible. Anything is possible, really.

UPLA

Bensimon

 Saint James

Setting sail

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Mr French and I head to the beach every summer. I find it rather odd and sometimes constraining to return to the same spot year after year, but this seems to be a French tradition, and to be honest, after a very difficult year, I am quite relieved to be heading to a place where I don’t have to think. No planning, no guide books, no angst over where to dine, or hoping to see it all. Been there, done that, if not this year, we’ll be back. We both feel like we’re headed into a safe harbour after a year spent in stormy seas. But we’re not there, yet, we’re still in Paris, slightly on edge as we wait for Mr French’s passport.

Last night we needed to feel like we were away already, somewhere near the sea, so we headed to La Compagnie de Bretagne, a new-ish crêperie overseen my the Michelin starred chef Olivier Roellinger. At first, I was not a big fan of these new wave, gourmet crêpes, being the traditional girl that I am. But at some point I had to have to get over myself and admit that there are enough meals in a lifetime to enjoy the most excellent, traditional crêpes from my beloved Ty Breizh AND for the scrumptus new fangled ones from LCDB.

I love the ambiance here, especially the sunbeams pouring down from the skylight and the zen of an entirely black and white decor. It feels intimidatingly luxurious, but the prices are reassuringly welcoming.

Tonight I had a galette with grilled sardines and preserved lemons on a bed of steamed spinach. Absolute perfect for my palette and my waistline. My French had some squid with a divine safran cream sauce. Miam! For dessert there was an apricot clafoutis crêpe and the much more traditional caramel au beurre salé, both worth their weight in calories. And the cidres selection is rather impressive, with a serious cellar featuring artisanal bottles for every palette.

Usually you can go into the basement and visit M Roellinger’s cellars in their elegant, glass enclosed clay vaults. there restrooms are down there and they have an area for private events, but all that was inaccessible they day we showed up… there had been an incident involving fire and the basement was closed for the evening. Its seemed we weren’t the only ones needing a holiday!

We sailed home and crawled into bed, feeling like we were already by the sea.

La Compagnie de Bretagne / 9 Rue de l’École de Médecine, 6e / 0143293900 /         (M) Odeon

For something more traditional; Ty Breizh / 52 boulevard Vaugirard, 15e /                          01 43 20 83 72‎ / (M) Montparnasse-Bienvenue

the adventure begins…

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un baton dans les roues

This weekend Mr French’s passport disappeared. We’ll never know if it was stolen or simply lost, but all signs point to somebody having removed it from a zipped pocket in a restaurant cloakroom. Regardless, it is gone… 24 hours before he flies off to Kentucky for business and 2 weeks before our holidays abroad.

As they say in French, “Panique abord!” It takes two weeks to get a passport in France, which means he would miss our flight abroad, destroying a much needed, extremely anticipated dream trip. Our first true vacation in 14 months! The only way to get an expedited emergency passport is if you have a business trip planned and the necessary proof. As luck would have it, the tickets to Kentucky were booked weeks ago. Fantastic. We’re in!!!

His assistant organizes everything, calling in advance and telling him to go to the Police station with his police report, ID photos and a sworn affidavit that he really is meant to be going away on business. We show up hours before the place closes. I have called, his assistant has called, we know that they absolutely must see him given his dire situation, but the young girl at the un-welcome desk refuses to let him through. I desperately try to call the help number, but can not get through, and we are too traumatized to raise a real ruckus in a Police station.

Back home I finally get through and they can confirm that it was an error, but it is too late for today, come back tomorrow. Here’s the rub; his flight is booked for tomorrow morning. He will now be returning to the Police station AFTER his planned departure, which means he no longer has a business trip and no longer qualifies for an emergency passport. We are in the merde.

The next morning with three different variations of all of the necessary papers in triplicate, we are in front of the Police station where cold winds from the Seine have us dancing for warmth at 6h30 in the morning, a full two hours before they open their doors to the anxious public. Mr French (my hero) has had the ingenious idea of re-booking his business trip for next Tuesday. We are hopeful, but not confident, currents of nervous energy running through our bodies like the electricity in the thunder clouds we see blowing in from above the Conciergerie.

More than 100 Parisians, French citizens from every walk of life, are with us in line; the trop-chic-pour-vous young man lugging his Hermes travel bag, a bright red silk scarf tied like an ascot, the Ivory Coastian aunt in a three piece navy blue, pinstriped suit and a precion-cut bright red bob, the exhausted teen squatting on his heels, slightly green after a night of partying, hiding under the hood of his navy sweatshirt, the two exuberant young black men in wide jeans and funky, intellectual glasses, waxing nostalgic about their high school years, the Parisienne accessorized with a leather jacket, Louboutin pumps and a matching teen daughter, the slightly plump 20-something in a pink track suit who has had her passport stolen, the lunatic behind us who keeps trying to strike up a conversation as she kicks her Dr Scholl sandals across the busy street and the practical businessman with his Decathalon camping stool, keeping him comfortable as he sits and waits while reading his book.

The doors opened at 8h38. The crowd rushes in, remaining orderly but fairly excited. I put my bag through scanner and pass through the metal detector. Alarm bells start sounding, the woman is barking at me excitedly and French suddenly sounds like a strange, foreign language. I have been up since 5h30, standing in the cold for hours and I am not quite sure what is going on. The people in line behind me, particularly the ones still in the blustering cold, are not looking happy. What stupid idiot has left a Swiss Army in her bag? That would be me, forgetting that this is a police station not an art museum?  I apologize profusely as my Victoronox is confiscated and I am given a ticket to reclaim it when we leave. We’re in.

Two hours later, Mr French has submitted his application and it looks like we’ll be going on holiday after all. Disaster averted?

Friday@Flore

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Heading out to the Flore this morning, I spotted a crowd, which is rather unusual in these parts. Then I looked to my left and noticed a stunningly gorgeous woman being chatted up by our local fish monger, in his shop, with the surprisingly literary name; Moby Dick (the shop, not the monger).

 

 

Yes, that is Ms Catherine Deneuve there looking absolutely fantastic. I was thrilled. We’re practically neighbors, I’ve been part of this quartier for nearly a decade, seeing stars on a nearly weekly basis and yet I had never run into the elusive Cat. The fish monger has an even more famous name (than his shop, not Catherine).

And Gerard Depardieu (yes, he owns a poissonerie) was having a grand time flirting with his movie star client, filling her trendy new Louis Vuitton red & white polka dot bag with bottles of olive oil and boating about the fresh lobster swimming in the tank below, as a film crew recorded their repartee.

Finally at the Flore, the rain clouds had stormed in, turn the daylight into a night sky, women rushing by in a blur. Black is still de rigeur on these gloomy summer days, with sandals some how making it look ok.

And big bags, lots of them, as every one dreams of travel, prepares for travel and heads off to travel.

On the phone, perhaps making plans for a quick get away, hopefully before the weekend madness really sets in?

Everyone struggling to keep the nasty weather from making us feel down and grumpy. Occasionally forgetting that this is Paris. The sky may be behaving dastardly, but the light remains inspiring and beauty abounds.

And one terribly optimistic soul keeping things bright and her fashion colorful, providing delicious eye candy for the rest of us as we throw our heads down and our umbrellas UP.

 

Going, going…

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Messieurs et mesdames, I have lost my inspiration.

At first I found this alarming and was deeply concerned. I’ve only been blogging for about 12 weeks, and I’d already lost my voice? Then I opened Le Figaro and discovered that I was suffering from a syndrome that is sweeping the nation; everyone in the country, from Besançon to Carcasson is suffering from vacation-itis.

Today, the front page of the online edition has articles on the lovely provençal town of Gordes, the cheese haven of Rocamadour, and St Jean Pied de Port in my beloved Basque region. There are even places I’d never heard of, like Barfleur, Bantôme, and Conques. There are warnings about the Nile flu in Greece and the expected lines for lottery tickets on Friday the 13th.

With the 14 juillet safely behind us, the 15 août is now bleeping on the radar and we are all ready to set sail, fly, or hot air balloon it away, getting our sorry selves to some where other than home. Last minute, non-planner that I am, I have been getting ready for two weeks now and Mr French, the guy who usually throws his bag together an hour before heading out the door to Charles de Gaulle for a week in China, is already packed.

From the mountains, to the beach, from cultural visits in international cities to hunkering down in the family home by a swampy lake, the French are ready for a change of scenery, and I am, too.

As I head out on my morning run, I’m blind to the Seine, already picturing myself tackling the 8km loop around our holiday marine lake. At the fromagerie I futilely search out the rare local cheeses we can’t find in Paris, hoping for a taste of far away. And on the menu for dinner each night, its fish. My body may be in Paris, but my mind has gone fishing. Or rather, body boarding.

Going home

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Americans tend to be planners. They book their vacations months, sometimes years in advance. Restaurants, too. They’ve got daily schedules and annual check-up and weekly meetings. The French are a bit more laissez-faire, you can’t even reserve a TGV more than three months in advance and lots of restaurants will only book up to one month out. Which works for me. I mean, really, how do I know what I am going to be feeling like for dinner a week from next Wednesday? I’ll only really know Wednesday afternoon, probably about half an hour before heading out the door.

With the BAC results out, French families are only now beginning to figure out where their kids are headed this fall, which is just 6 weeks away. This is normal over here. Those headed for the UK have a slightly better idea, but they’re not 100% guaranteed a place, yet. Which is why I was somewhat taken surprise when everyone started fussing about how E was going off to Chicago and with whom and when. DATES. Friends and family were clamoring for dates.

Thank heavens. A few days ago I received a FB message from a dear friend who lives in Chicago and who had invited us to stay with her for the big drop off. “Hi, Sylvia, what dates are you coming to Chicago, exactly? Because, well, you see, I invited you to stay with us when you take E to university, and well, my husband kind of invite your X-husband to stay here, too. For the exact same dates. And, well…” Now wouldn’t that make for interesting house guests?

Compelled by my US friend to give it a bit of thought, I made a decision; I wouldn’t be going at all. At least not at first. Which kind of blew my neurotic mother mind. I hardly recognized myself. Who is that crazy woman who isn’t going to check out her daughter’s new digs in a foreign city, thousands of miles from home on the very first day that she moves in? Would I loose my rights as an Italian-Jewish Mom? Had my hair gone straight overnight? Could I still make chicken soup?

It is really thanks to my friend, Mary Kay, who has been-there, done-that, and who told me about Family Weekend; a month after classes start, just as the kids are getting home-sick, have run out of laundry detergent and would do anything for an off-campus meal, parents are invited for a little visit. How is that for American style planning par excellence? And since I was in planning mode, I noticed that Family Weekend just happens to be during the first school holiday of the next school year; M could come along. And while we were at it, why not invite the proud Grandpa to join us to make it a party!

BFFs, 30 years and counting...

I was so excited about our plans that I called my BFF in San Francisco. The one my Grandfather set me up with when we were only nine years old, obsessed with Encyclopedia Brown and still wearing polyester. The one with an adorable 18 month young baby I have never met. She was in a state of shock when she realized that I was going to be flying all the way to N America and I was not planning on going home for a visit.

And that is when it hit me, Paris is officially home. Warts, fonctionnaires and all. Even if someday I pull up stakes and move back to California in my 70’s, like Michael Stein (Gertrude’s brother and fellow art collector), for better or worse, Paris is my home.

Child of the 80s

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And proud of it. Or at least, I don’t mind. Its not like I exactly had a choice in the matter, and while I wince at the memory of my forest green polyester dress suit, I still wear my purple fleece Norma Kamali winter coat and I am happy to spend hours with E and M, curled up on the sofa, munching away on popcorn as we watch Molly Ringwald’s melted chocolate eyes on the silver screen, seducing us through the expert guidance of John Hughes.

When I met my new BFF, Scaramouche this weekend I naturally had Freddy Mercury bellowing Bohemian Rhapsody in my mind. “Thunderbolt and lightening…”. Curiousity got the better of me and I learned that his namesake is a conceited clown from the commedia dell’arte. Clearly, this was my kind of dude. And what was the 2012 Scaramouche’s particular brand of conceit? Commercial hubris.

flipping through folded bus stop posters... a voyeuristic joy

This reformed pharmacist, friend of the graphic novelist Moebius and over all connaisseur rules over his domain like a light-hearted, extremely knowledgable clown, teasing flâneurs who have stopped to rest their weary soles at the terasses of the cafes in the Passage Molière. That is how Mr French and I first discovered his shop, Librairie Scaramouche. We were sitting there, sipping away at our poirés (think cidre, made with pears, delish!) when a door popped open and inside we spied a treasure trove… Ali Baba’s cavern.

Just beyond the man, we spied posters of the great, classic cinema from every decade. Everything from Mon Oncle to the 2012 Cannes film festival; Audrey in Vacanze Romane to Tim Burton at the Cinemathéque, it was all there. There were cheap reprints, affordable press shots and vintage posters, as well.

We spent hours wotj Scaramouche, admiring his collection while we discussed Moebius and Billal. Most of the work is quite affordable, in the 20€ range. I can’t wait to come back here in November for our Christmas shopping. Hopefully by then he’ll have had time to hunt down a Pretty in Pink poster in French…

Don’t walk, fly…

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photo courtesy of Ahae site

So a Frenchman and an Englishman are chatting about a Korean man over lunch in Malaysia…. sounds like the start of some silly joke, but this really did happen about a year ago. Only the Frenchman is the director of the Louvre museum and he was speaking with an interior designer about the photographer Ahae, and his latest project; 2 million photos taken from the same window over 2 years.

Monsieur Loyrette was intrigued and a year later, “AHAE at the Tuileries” posters with a photo of a lone crane were lining the boulevards of Paris.

“What is AHAE” I asked Mr French, who avidly follows Beaux Arts magazine and listen about art on the radio every day on the way to the office.

“I have no idea, and we’ll probably never find out.

I didn’t protest. The photo looked like a shot from National Geographic. Technically perfect, but not overly compelling.

Yesterday morning though, we had a fantastic run, ending in the gardens near the Orangerie, just as they opened the AHAE exhibition for the day. There wasn’t a soul and entrance was free, so in we went.

photo courtesy of Ahae site

The first thing we read was Henri Loyrette’s ode to the serendipity of the moment he first learned of Ahae. We were instantly intrigued. The first photos, hung on zen grey walls were gorgeous. He must have an gi-normous window, I thought to myself. But no, a few steps later and the exhibition showed the exact size and view from Ahae’s window in Korea. An ordinary window with an ordianry view provided the frame work for an absolutely extra-ordianary body of work.

photo courtesy of Ahae site

Personally, I loved the abstract impressions on the water, displayed in an oval room, reflecting Monet’s waterlily galleries less than 250 meters away. Ahae laso has a fantastic eye for selecting wildlife shots that are particularly moving; magpies de-ticking a deer, a bird getting his neck in a twist to better contemplate the dragonfly squatting his tree branch and a Kingfisher just a nano-second from diving into dinner. There, among the wildlife work, is another window, exactly the same size and height as Ahae’s, this one looking into the gardens. I stood, there trying to imagine what Ahae might see that I missed, exploring a very familiar sight with completely new eyes.

The exhibition is free, but only runs until July 27, so if you’re here, go as fast as your wings will carry you.