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.

Friday@Flore

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Hanging at the Café Flore, I spotted these dapper gents, wearing their formal garb on the streets. You don’t often see waiters just strolling the streets of Paris, because they change at the office. Cafés have underground lockers and these guys change just below you feet as you saunter on by. When they’re not at work, they blend in with the crowd, sporting unremarkable civilian wear. These penguins were cooling it on their break.

A week later, I spotted them again, this time having infinitely more fun, oggling the ladies as the pass. I’m not sure if this garçon* went back to serving after the lovely lady in red came his way, or if he had to got to the medecin de travail for whip lash!

But these group sightings are actually fairly uncommon. Waiters are on their feet dealing with colleagues and their customers all day, so on break, they often like to steal off on their own for a bit, enjoying a peaceful, solitary nicotine fix…

`

Or calling their damsel in distress, dealing with family matters, making medical appointments, placing bets at the races, and doing just about everything else regular folk do from the office. Only they do it on their feet, with a potential crowd and cars zooming by.

It is a lot of work, requiring balance, diplomacy, a fairly decent memory. and some considerable math skills. Watching the tables and joking around helps them get through the day with their good humour and sanity in tact.

And even on their break, these quintessential Parisian gentlemen are happy to give passers by the time of day.

 

*garçon – by now pretty much the entire planet knows not to use the term garçon, although I have noticed that certain Québecois visitors find it rather amusing and use the term as a joke, which always fails to make the waiters laugh.

Topless in Paris

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I used to have my very own, sexy little dutch bike, with its seductive swan body and charming market basket, but vandalism, after vandalism, caused me to give it a ditch, and now I go public all the way; metro, bus or Velib’ for me, folks.

But last week I had access to a car. A vehicle just as seductive as my beloved bike; it was topless. As luck would have it, the sun broke through and I had an airport run. I was behind the wheel before you could say, 1964 and 1/2, cherry red, Mustang convertible (that was not what I would be driving, but it is my dream car).

Going through the city, up the Champs Elysées with my daughter riding shot gun, was a thrill. We felt oh-so-very Parisienne. And then we got to the Etoile.

“Here’s some chewing gum, Mom.”

“How did you know I’d be wanting chewing gum right now? I never chew gum.”

“Because you’re nervous. You shouldn’t be though, 1000s of people drive around the Arc de Triomphe everyday. Some of them aren’t even very smart. You can do this.”

And do it we did. Up the avenue to the péripherique, where things were bottle necked and we spent an hour and a half for the 40 minute ride to Charles de Gaulle. And that’s why I love the RER.

That night, I met up with the Yoga Yenta; two (momentarily) single girls out on the town, the top down, the music cranked up. And while I’ll still never have a car in Paris, we had an absolute blast driving by the Eiffiel Tower, past the Shangri la, oh la, la! This city can be breathtakingly beautiful at night. We stopped and got out for a bit under the column at the Place Vendôme, and took a good long look. YY started noticing all the ornate detail in the sculpture for the very first time, reminding us how great it is to see the city from a new angle every now and again. Next week, we’re thinking skateboards….

You who? YUZU

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I am trying to shed a few, so naturally I am obsessed with food. Don’t you just love the way the mind works? My latest obsessions revolves around a new-to-me Japanese restaurant I recently “discovered” in our very own neighborhood.

I first saw their card in a local depôt-vente owned by a really lovely Japanese couple. My curiousity was officially piqued, but I was too shy to ask for the card, so I knew the name, but had no idea where it was. A few days later I was jogging towards the Tuilleries and I spotted the logo (ex-graphic designer claims occupational hazard). I even slowed down to read the menu.

A bento lunch and lots of original options. Nothing looked too touristy, although I was a bit worried that they offered such a diverse selection of specialties. I am the kind of diner that goes to one place for ramen, another for soba and is nearly fanatic about the udon joint on the rue Ste Anne (Kunitorya). When it comes to Japanese cuisine, I like specialists.

A week later Mr French and I were there for lunch and it was fan-tabulous!!! I went for a crab salad that was rolled into a vegetable skin and had flavours that truly zinged. My grilled salmon with a miso sauce was just as tasty and I still remember the refreshing zest of the yuzu flavoured jello the chef offered at the end of the meal. I couldn’t to go back.

As luck would have it, we were free for dinner just five nights later. We arrived, but for some reason the menu seemed much less exciting for dinner. And more expensive. Then the waiter came over with a black board listed about a dozen tapas style dishes for 14-18€. We ordered white asparagus tempura, clams that tasted like the ocean steamed with algae, tofu and mushrooms in an exuberant miso broth, grilled sardines and an indescribable dish of razor clams. Everything was delicious, and beautiful and cooked to perfection. There was a perfectly balanced miso soup to start the meal and for dessert I had a sake-infused jello.

The restaurant strikes the perfect balance between sophisticated cuisine and a relaxed comfortable ambiance. I’ll be back. Often.

bikini season

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We'll soon be seeing the sea...

It is swimsuit season, but you’d never know it to look out the window these days. Even when its hot, the skies are grey and menacing. Which means the summer holidays have kind of snuck up on me and, well, according to the doctor I saw for my annual check-up last week, I’d be happier if I shed 4 kilos. 4 kilos. Doesn’t sound too bad until you convert into pounds, which is 8.8 pounds, which is frighteningly close to ten. And all this just 2 weeks before we leave on holidays. To the beach. A French beach, where women of a certain age, in fact women of all ages wear bikinis. Lord help me, I need a drink.

But NON! Because that is the first thing I am meant to do. Stop consuming alcohol. Which is not terrific timing given the grey, cloudy weather we’ve been having.  This weekend the bookies were taking bets… friends, family and the guy who runs the superette were all betting against me.  Well HA to them, because I didn’t so much as take a single sip of the evil brew and I immediately shed 600 grams as my just (and calorie-free) desserts.

All those kilos and pounds make for some interesting cultural differences when dieting. Well, not so much cultural, as just plain math. When a Parisenne gains 100 grams, she takes notice. 200 grams and the red flags start going off. It is time to skip a meal and back on track. Try that with an American scale. I don’t think I’ve ever even read 3,5 ounces on a US scale. By the time I reach 200 grams (7ounces) I am completely clueless. Yes, my jeans feel slightly tighter, but that is just because they were accidentally thrown into the drier, non? With pounds, it takes much longer to realize one has put any weight on, and instead of loosing six HUNDRED grams, I lost a pound. One measly little pound. Not very encouraging, so I’m keeping to the metric system.

Besides forsaking all things alcohol, the doctor gave me a list with 20 do’s and dont’s. The basics, really; light dinners, avoid starches, especially at night (did I mention non booze?), smaller portions and no dessert. Oops. that is not right, we’re in Paris. They can forbid baguettes after sunset, but desserts are part of a balanced diet. They recommend sticking to fruits or dairy products. I think they say one OR the other because they know we’d all be dipping our strawberries in crème fraîche if they hadn’t made it clear that that was a non. But I am ignoring them and will be allowing myself 4 tiny squares of some extraordinary chocolate bar every day.

keep your brie, I want a real dessert, diet be damned!!!

Another non is mixing meats and cheeses. Steaks are in, Philly steaks are out. However, they are probably referring to the incredibly odd (to this sweet tooth) habit the French have of considering cheeses to be a dessert course. No camembert for you missie, unless you go veg with the main course.

Today was the true test; working from home with a kitchen within easy range as moments of boredom or fatigue sweep in and give me the munchies. So far, so good.

Going to Nantes

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Oxymoron of the day: fonctionnaire. Which is French for bureaucrat. In English you imagine some unhelpful soul sitting at their desk, pushing papers around their bureau like a rat gathers papers for his nest – Bureau-c-rat. But the French want to mess with your mind, so they give their nouns a gender, conjugate their verbs and give government officials a title that sounds like they actually get something done. Its time the Académie française re-define the term; dys-fonctionnaire.

In France, getting a copy of your birth certificate is free and easy to do online with a virtual visit to the city hall where you were born. That is because they require one that has been issued within the last 3 months for just about anything you really and truly need like; your passport, your driver’s license, and your morning baguette. When we first moved here as 1 immigrants, and 3 nationals born abroad, I had this nagging suspicion that our native city halls were not keeping files for the French government. I headed to our nearest Mairie to get the inside scoop.

Bonjour, I introduced myself on that first day, my French kids were born abroad and I’m an immigrant where can I get recent copies of our French birth certificates?

You go to Nantes.

Nantes?

Yes, Nantes.

 

As in the big city near the coast?

Yes, Nantes.

I go to Nantes and they’ll give me my birth certificate?

Obviously.

Uh, where at Nantes?

Just, Nantes.

The City Hall at Nantes has my birth certificate?

Beh, non, not the Mairie, Nantes!

But where exactly in Nantes?

Gaellic shrug.

So I just go to this town and when I arrive which traffic signs do I follow?

I don’t know. I’ve never been to Nantes.

So I just follow the signs to Centre Ville and I stop in the middle of the town square and start yelling for a birth certificate?

Exasperated sigh, Behn, no, clearly, you go to L’Etat Civil.

Score one for the home team, I’ve got something to google. But I’m there, so I proceed. And does this Etat Civil have an address at nantes?

Another shrug, I’m no longer sure if she is trying to frustrate me, seduce me, or drive me to Ste Anne’s.

I mention that maybe, I’d like to call Nantes and see if I can’t order birth certificates over the phone. Impossible. It is not done, and anyway, she doesn’t have their phone number, and even if she did, they don’t pick-up. Which strikes me as odd. How do you know the phone habits of someone who you’ve never been able to call, because you don’t have their number?

You have to go to Nantes. She insists.

Do you think the information is online? Do you have a URL for online requests?

Non, AY-tah SEE-ville, you must to go there. No internet. She has given up on full sentences, convinced that I am a blathering idiot.

That night, I google Nantes Etat Civil and land on www.Service-Publique.fr. Three days later the birth certificates are in my mail box. And at last; I agree with the Academie, because that was a true service.

Friday@Flore

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Mom-esse Oblige, I need to make an announcement:

E has passed her BAC. With Mention Bien, no less. Kudos, all around. 

Really not bad for a little yankee with two anglo parents. In honor of her success, here is a look at what French teens are wearing lately.

This girl was so stylin’ I couldn’t resist. And those shoes! I simply love those shoes. So much going on, I didn’t get to a change to ask who designed them, but I did manage to get a close up…

And with those wide heels and platform sole they are infinitely more walkable than one would imagine. They’re almost downright practical.

Most girls were considerably more practical, sticking to the strappy sandals that are so popular these days. And sailor blue. From marine stripes, to polka dots, with a bit of floral thrown in, everyone had a hint of blue, even the boys in their jeans. Of course those champagne glasses are merely optional.

Back to the Flore, I spotted a trio coming my way. Lovely girls, lovely dresses, but the rubber soled shoes were a dead give away, even before I heard their yankee twang. Not that it is a problem, they look beautiful, and were incredibly happy to be exploring Paris. Just an observation.

Then along comes this pair and you simply know they’re local girls. Probably from the quartier. So yes, it is time to go and get your black leather jackets out of the storage and start wearing them again. or pass ’em on to your teens…

And, just like their Moms, teens tend to travel in packs. Walking two by two, three by three; in large groups, or intimate couples. It’s girl time !!!

When they’re alone, they are none too happy about it. Of course, mobile phones have made it possible to express this displeasure and share the moment all at the same time. Even annoyed, this young lady looks like a summer holiday.

 

Headed North

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Before moving to Paris I’d fantasize about cycling the city’s cobble-paved streets on a traditional Dutch bike, trench coat and middie skirt batting the wind as my red pumps hooked carelessly onto the wide pedals. That was circa 2000. Now the ugly, clunky, but oh-so-practical Velib’s are available with pedals that unabashedly murder a girl’s shoes, yet sensibility has won out and I am often seen struggling along in whatever happens to be the outfit du jour. I still live the dream from time to time, finding it especially rewarding when men turn their heads, and their handle bars, ending in near fatal accidents.

But that’s during the week. On weekends Mr French keeps me in check. I get serious about my cycling and we head out on some pretty great adventures. Sunday’s adventure began with lunch on the terrace at La Cantine de Quentin where an ageless, artsy crowd mixes with senile old locals and young families to enjoy tradition French cuisine with an original twist, like the steak tartare served with finely minces mushrooms instead of fries. Or the lentil salad with a foie gras chantilly. Delicious.

a pizza truck outside the Fishing Cat ballroom - I've kept the finger in the frame, it's so vintage!

I know that doesn’t sound like serious cycling, but a girl’s got to eat (and maybe enjoy a glass of rosé). Soon enough we were off, heading north up the Canal St Martin to the Canal de l’Ourcq, with its 25 km of reserved cycling path beginning within the city of Paris, running along the Canal, through the lively La Vilette area with its museums, parks and astounding mirrored geodesic dome. At the city outskirts the scenery starts getting very industrial, very quickly, with cement plants and train yards and fantastically graffiti-ed abandoned warehouses.

A picnic break

At one point, among lawn and poplars, a group of very talented taggers was hard at work tagged as they partied to rap music and bbq-ed a picnic to share with another group of fans; severly disabled adults with their caretakers and souped up wheelchairs. Turns out these taggers have been tagged by the city of Bobigny and they were being sponsored to beautify the area. They were doing were doing an astounding job and were remarkably cool to visit with.

The canal was alive: barges went past, Canauxrama boats sped by and trains clamoured along – everyone was on the move. There was a mini-shanty town,  temporary espresso bar, the Chat Qui Peche guinguette, kayaks on loan, and many, many other sportsmen cycling, running, or blading along.

16km later we came to the Parc de Sevrans and its gunpowder museum. Yes, Virginia, there is a gunpowder museum. There is also a teaching farm, apiculture center and a climbing wall, but we were pretty tired by now, so it was time to head back, pedaling directly into the wind the entire 16km to La Villette, before heading home. I can’t say we minded that it was the final match of the Euro Cup Sunday night, providing us with the perfect excuse to sit at home, acting like couch patates. Two happily exhausted souls.

RESTAURANT/ La Cantine de Quentin

52 rue Bichat, 10e /  01 42 02 40 32/ (M) Jacques Bonsergent

Happy 4th!!!

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What does a music school have to do with US Independence? - photo from the Schola FB page

When we first moved to Paris my daughters were learning to play the piano on a teak 1950’s Scandinavian upright I inherited from my in-laws. I hated that thing, and was thrilled to give it away when the relocation service refused to transport it to Paris. But I loved having music in our home, so one of my first priorities was to organize piano lessons.

My view at the Schola - photo from the Schola FB page

I took the girls to the Schola Cantorum. Every Wednesday. For years. We’d hop on the bus, and head up the rue St Jacques, past the Val de Grace church and into the 400 year old building. The girls would head into class while I would sit in the garden under the centuries old trees and prepare emails, listening to the interweaving music of opera singers, tuba players, piano students and dance classes wafting down from large, open windows tracing the same air waves that had once transported the sounds of Cole Porter, Eric Satie and Serge Gainsbourg.

On rainy days I was forced inside, where I’d explore large empty spaces and claustrophobic stairways. On one such adventure I stumbled upon a folded piece of paper posted besides an old, tired door. The sign read something like this, “Benjamin Franklin slept here.”

The Franklin Statue in the 16th

Now, how cool is that? I explore some random building in the center of Paris and stumble upon the bedroom of one of my childhood heroes (yes, I know it should have been Blondie. We were called nerds then). Benjamin Franklin came to Paris as the US Ambassador in 1776 to beg money and military support against the British. He stayed in a tiny room at what was then the English Benedictine Convent before setting up house in the Passy area that is now a part of the 16th arrondisement. Like me, Ben adapted well to Paris, appreciating the romantic life, fine food and lavish lifestyle. Unlike me, he used his time wisely; gaining French support for American Independence and building a nation. The nation we are celebrating today.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!

Like the Schola Cantorum on Facebook

 

Happily ever after…

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Imagine a life without the promise of a happily ever after. I think of this occasionally; when I’m waiting for the metro to clamour up, as I avoid the people mags at the Dr’s office or at the movies before the show begins. I wonder how different my expectations would have been had my mother not ended most days of my early childhood tucking me in and reading a story about some beautiful princess, the man who rescues her and their happily every after. I particularly think of this in the cinema because this is where I first learned that in France, for this too, things are different.

Its thanks to a playful film starring the actress Charlotte Gainsbourg and her actor husband Yvan Attal and it is called, Ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d’enfants.

“What a funny title.” I laughed one day, walking by the billboards of the Odeon cinemas with my chief Parisienne.
“Its like in the fairytales.”
“What fairytales?”
“Yes, you know, they always end with that line, and they got married and had lots of children.”

In France, Cinderella went from her step-mother’s frying pan into her new husband’s fire with a bevy of children to look after; challenging her waistline and her future. And it would seem that Frenchwomen have bought into the story line, hook, line and sinker, contributing to one of the highest birth rates in Europe. Frenchwomen are not raised with the expectation of having a fairytale life once they marry, so they prepare to look after themselves, which is one of the reasons they have one of the highest employment rates of mothers in the Western world. Being a princess starts to sound a lot less fantastic, and a whole lot more realistic.

Which I am starting to find works for me. Let’s face it, I am not a princess. The laundry needs to get done, the dishes don’t wash themselves and raising kids is alot of work, even when being tackled by two people who love each other very much.

Then there is the niggling detail; happily ever afters simply do not exist. Again, I learned this from the French. I was at a Paris night club, having a fantastic evening with my husband, dancing and drinking champagne, when a hit from the 80’s came on and I began to sing, listening to the lyrics for the first time, “Les histoires d’amour finissent mals.” (All love stories end badly)

No they don’t! I objected.
Yes they do! I reasoned.

Because even if you love each other madly until the end of your days, there is an end to your days, and your partner’s and that end rarely arrives simultaneously. The French are right, there is really no such thing as a happily ever after. Which sounds so sad, but is really quite liberating and makes you savour the happily for now moments of everyday life.

more Flore

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A few weeks ago I posted photos of the elegant, rather pampered folk who are willing to stand on the boul St Germain patiently waiting for a table on the terrace of the Flore. The inside may be completely empty as posers and voyeurs like myself wait for a prime spot; a table with a view. Today, for the first time ever, I had to wait my turn.

In a very UnFrench way, people wait their turn here. In a very French way, they refuse to wait in line, but stand there dispersed, keeping an eye out for who arrives when. They are un-stereotypically civil about waiting their turn.

So I stood there waiting, completely relaxed knowing that I wouldn’t have to worry about someone pushing their way in, pleasantly chatting with the waiter Dominique and watching the crowds, when two ladies with leopard-spotted silk scarves paid their bill.

“Attend,” he warns me. “Don’t get too excited, they’re enjoying making you wait.”

So I wait, and another couple is waiting, casually leaning against a sea-foam green Renault, when a very scruffy looking, local guy shows up with his kid. He is clearly seeking a table, prowling between the place where the civilized wait and the lucky bathe in the luxury of their table with a view. My radar goes up. He is being très uncool. He starts chatting up the two ladies in their leopard scarves and suddenly, they are giving him their place.

I pop up, “Excuse me, I was waiting for this table.”
“I was waiting, too.”
“Yes, but I was waiting much longer than you”.
The leopard ladies try to help him out… “Non, non, we assure you, he was waiting.”

I don’t care about the reinforcements, I am already seated. “Listen, I was waiting. If you have your doubts, go ask Dominique, the waiter.” I am relieved to have had a witness. There is no way both of us missed this guy as we stood there watching for ten minutes. I was there first.

He yells at me and I repeat, “Ask the waiter.”

The waiter for our section simply refuses to get involved. He is not Dominique.
The man is irate, he grabs his kid’s hand, storming off as he shouts, “You know, we can’t take living in France much longer because of people like you.

At this point I start feeling badly about having deprived the sad, washed out looking kid of a place to rest his feet and enjoy a snack. Italian – Jewish mother syndrome. Then, I remember the 50 empty seats just behind me, which confirms that the kid is sad and washed out looking because he’s stuck with that for a Dad. I happily order a guilt-free kir, as I sit and ponder exactly what he means by “people like you.” Did I just deprive a xenophobe of a seat? Does he think I’m an uppity Parisienne? Either way, I’m feeling pretty content with myself as the sun breaks for the first time in days.

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