Dior Institut at the Plaza Athenée

Dior Institute

Last winter I tested a handful of Paris spas. At first, I was on the quest to eliminate a black head that was more stubborn than your average teen. Once that was taken care of, I still had a slew of appointments to honor, and it being a cold, grey winter, I was thrilled to oblige! And this being the first grey, rainy day of La Rentrée, it seems like the perfect moment to cozy up to some luxurious memories.

Plaza Athenée

Next on my list was the Dior Institute at the Plaza Athenée. The Plaza is the only place left in Paris that still intimidates me, it is so terribly chic. Dior is, well, DIOR, and Dior on the avenue Montaigne inside the Plaza Athenée is the quintessence of Paris. I was delighted for the adventure!

But I was also working full-time at an agency in the center of Paris and my appointment was for lunch time.  I showed up at the office that morning a bit more dressed than any of my co-workers. At the stroke of noon, I headed out the door, dove into the metro and I was off with the delicious feeling that I was leading some kind of a double life.

The top hatted doorman saw me in and the concierge pointed the way. What exactly about this place intimidates me? Surely not the friendly staff! Downstairs, an elegantly (Dior) suited hostess showed me to the changing room with its hammam and large shower and invited me to join her in the rest area when I was ready.

The rest area. I am probably not the best person to be testing spas because I am so happy about getting a treatment, that I am not the most critical critic. The little extras are what matter to me, things like all those pools I’ve been enjoying, lovely spaces and tempting treats. There was no pool, but the rest area is a true haven, with Dior designed lounges where you sit and unwind as they bring you a tea and platter of healthy gourmet treats; dried fruits with fresh dates and the best little muffin I’ve ever had. I may have been purring at this point and the treatment had nut yet begun!

My appointment was for a facial. Another elegant woman came to get me in the rest area. The esthetician. She examined my skin and pointed out that its quite dry and rather sensitive, then went to work almost like a medical professional. I was in good hands, that much was certain and the facial ended with an extra bonus of a light make-over, for additional pampering and to ensure I’d be ready to return to the office. It wasn’t easy to tear myself away from this sumptuous spa where I really felt like a princess in a palace, but it was lovely having this little secret under my smile as I returned to work for the day.

+ The undeniable luxury, welcome snacks and total professionalism //  – No pool

Facials starting at 180€

Coming Up…

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Running errands in Paris can be a challenge. You’ll show up at a store and discover they’re closed Wednesdays, or you’ll take your lunch break to go to the bank only to find out that they’re closed for lunch. And sometimes the store/bank/post office or other service is closed because the entire staff apparently had something better to do. No sign is posted, no reason is given. Which is exactly what I did when I disappeared from the blog-o-sphere last week. I think the country is rubbing off on me.

But I am back now and getting ready for the rest of 2013. It’s la Rentrée. In 19th century novels authors refer to it as the start of “The Season” and this season promises to be busy. SO get out your calendars and start penciling things in. We’re kicking it off in style with Vogue’s Fashion Night Out on Sept 17th. Going into the boutiques is by invitation only, but the street scene makes it worth the trip for anyone in town.

Sept 13-15 //  The Parcours des Mondes ethnic art event in the St Germain art galleries is a great time to see things that have escaped the museum collections. And if you like your history more modern, the Journée du Patrimoine is the 15th. So is La Parisienne running race for femmes, uniquement.

Sept 19 – The Braques exhibit opens at the Grand Palais while Lichtenstein is still at the Pompidou for another month.

Sept 24 – Oct 2 // Its Fashion Week, so I’ll be out there with the camera stalking celebrities, fashionistas and Bill Cunningham.

October 6 – Les Nuits Blanches

Also in October, Le Chatelet theater has Chantecler Tango, a musical I’ve been looking forward to all year, and Frida Kahlo will be on display at the Orangerie!

Oct 24 – 27 // The FIAC International art fair is coming to Paris.

By now you pencil should be a useless stub, and this is only a list of things I’ve run across over the weekend. There is more to come…

 

Yuck!!!

Maya Rose

There was no Friday Date Night. No, Mr French and I did not have a spat, although he did abandon me for the weekend on yet another one of his numerous business trips.

Instead of writing about a yet another memorable meal, I caught a virus. Or rather my blog did. And I had NO IDEA! Those nasty hackers are now infecting sites, so that even the administrators, non, especially the admins are not aware of it. FORTUNATELY this virus will NOT infect you or your computer. Its sole purpose in life is to infect blogs for Google ratings to increase (in my virus’ case) Viagra sales! so YOU ARE 100%SAFE .

Fortunately YOU are a GREAT bunch of readers and several of you sent me an email letting me know your access was blocked. MILLE MERCIS for that. Sincerely!Now that I have become something of an expert, I’d like to share a little health ed with all my blogger friends out there. 1/ 80% of all blogs get infected because the blogger (in this case moi) did not upgrade to the latest version of Blogger/WordPress or whatever platform you are using. Stay with the times, my friends and update when ever possible.
2/ What to do if you do get infected? There are tons of articles available online that teach you how to back up your blog, rout out the bugs and get it up and running again. For a pro it takes just a few hours. Knowing myself, it would have taken me a few days. Non stop, around the clock and much of it angst ridden. I needed a Plan B, aka a hired gun. This is a scary concept because you have to give a total stranger access to your blog and your ftp code. I went into research mode and found Jim from HackRepair.com. His prices are somewhere in between the bargain basement folks working from far off outposts and the more local “studios”. For a bit more confidence in his legit-itude, I found some review on him and his work, then I called and we had a little chat. Once I’d paid for his service, he started sending me emails with regular updates of what was going on. This is usually a two hour process, but I was missing a key password and the GoDaddy server went down. He kept me calm throughout it all and within fours, it was done.
I verified that everything was clean using a Google service and UnmaskParsites.com. I then reached out to the readers who had warned me in the first place. They confirmed that all was well in my little world. So thank you Jim, and to all of you for your support, and your patience…. I’ll be back tomorrow and next Friday I promise a date to remember. A date night at one of the Top Ten Best Restaurants in the World. Yum!!!

The King’s garden

A few weeks ago I had access to a car, a rare moment for me in Paris. Reveling in the glorious summer weather, I was ready for adventure so I called my friend Mary Kay from Out and About in Paris and suggested we visit Le Potager du Roi at Versailles. Being and Out and About kind of gal, she was game and we were off… After a brief detour getting lost through Issy les Moulineaux, Vroooommmmm, we cruised through the Ile de France countryside, arriving at the royal city at a record slow pace.

I love Versailles. There is history, with a rich blend of beauty and nature. Paris in slow motion.   “Why do you want to go to the Potager?” Mary Kay asked. “I don’t know,” I shrugged, “I’ve wanted to visit for years, but have never found the time.”

A potage is a soup, a potager is a kitchen garden. Built on a parcel of land known as The Stinky Pond at the request of  Louis XIV in the 17th century, the kitchen garden is now the National School of Landscape Architecture and has been open to the public since 1991. The garden hasn’t changed much over the last 300 years. There is an inspirational collection of heirloom pear trees, splayed like Malibu sunbathers in espallier.

Parts of the gardens are an odd disappointment, like the melon gardens that are now covered by green houses and the fig gardens that are now administrative offices for the school. Others are pure magic; the secret garden we wandered into with a dwarf’s cabin, picnic table and noose hanging from a tree. The most opulent detail must be the King’s gate, which was used by Louis himself and is one of the few original gates on the entire estate. Bleeding heart Californians like moi will be thrilled to see that there is a compost site, a bee hive and an emphasis on seducing beneficial bugs. Mary Kay asked me again (and maybe even a third time) “Why did you want to come here?” I think that all my talk of YSL jackets and art exhibits must give folks the wrong idea. While I am undeniably a city gal, I’ve got the heart of a country girl and I love a good kitchen garden.

The boutique is great, too. Fresh fruits and vegetables directly from the garden are put out every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. There are packets of dried herbs, rhubarb nectar and Marie’s favorite tea. Everything homegrown and healthy to enjoy!

After our adventurous morning, Mary Kay and I had developed something of an appetite. we asked the cashier at the boutique for a recommendation and he sent us to the  Monument Café across the street. The café hich features produce from the gardens, presenting everything in a appetizingly displayed all you can eat buffet. This is as rare as the sun in France, so we made a feast of it, savouring all their specialties, which included confit de canard, gaspacho and an exotic fruit panna cotta. If the great food is not enough, tourists can organize private tours of the neighborhood, running tours and even purchase advance tickets for Chateau tours through the café. We left quoting Arnold, “We’ll be back…”

C’est la Vie…

Excusez-moi, this post is several hours late. That is because today, I was out dealing with the French administration, which, after a few hours, helps one understand Sartre’s inspiration for “No Exit”.

The adventure began several months ago when Em mentioned that she’s like an official ID. This is a handy thing to have for art exhibitions, movie tickets and encounters with the RATP. Being someone who loves having all her paper work in order, I gave an enthusiastic OUI! and suggested we plan to go the first week of her holidays. That was in June.

Having done this before, I wen to the official site, printed out the list of required documents and the forms to fill out. We headed out the door, confident that everything was in order. Arriving at the Mairie of the 6th arrondisement, we were told that official documents were now being handled in the 7th arrondissement. Which struck my funny bone, because when we lived in the 7th I’d had to come here for our passports. We traipsed off to the 7th.

The office was virtually empty. 4 civil servants were in the room, 3 behind their desks, a fourth standing there with his hands behind his back. There were two citizens being helped at the desks and a woman waiting with her child. After several minutes the standing man asked her if she had an appointment. She nodded her head, showing him the postcard she had received telling her to come by and pick up her son’s passport. The man shrugged and refused to help her. He returned to his post, but several minutes later he must have gotten bored because he stepped back up to Madame, took her card and went to get the passport. Then he turned to me, asking if I had an appointment. I did not.

“You must have an appointment,” he informed me, pointing to a sign that confirmed appointments have been required since Jan.

“That really sucks,” I told him, “I was on your website and there was nothing saying they were now required.”

“You went on the wrong site.”

“I went on the official government site.”

“Aha! I knew it. That is the wrong site. We are not the government, we are the police.” he exclaimed triomphantly.

I didn’t know how to respond to this. If he remembered me he could prevent me from ever getting the documents I required. But I could not resist, sneering something that sounded like this, “I may be an immigrant, but I am smart enough to know that you work for the government. You may want to go back to elementary school and learn something.”

I went home and sure enough, the official police site is a government site and it did NOT mention appointments were now mandatory. But it DID provided the link to make one. So I did. The next available one being today. We had to wait five weeks to see someone in an office in which only 1/2 of its staff was occupied. No wonder France is in trouble!

We arrived and I was confident that all our papers were in order. Ha, ha, ha…. I was actually curious to find out what problems they’d create. Again, two people were busy, two were not. I had my appointment and its reference number. They didn’t check either, it was enough to say yes, I had an appointment. Remember that when its your turn folks!

First problem, the photo looked too small. The fonctionnaire wasn’t sure, but she thought it was too small. She went to check with her boss. He wasn’t sure either, but it must have been a rather funny, engrossing debate. It took 8 minutes and involved lots of laughter.She agreed to send the photo, warning us it may be returned.

Second problem, the I had not photocopied the back of my ID card, only the front. I brought out the list. They do not require a photocopy of the back. She wanted one anyway.

The photocopy machine in the room was broken. I had to cross the courtyard and run upstairs. BUT, she warned me, the machine only takes 10 centimes pieces. I only had a 50 centimes piece. I run across the street to the post office, where, she has told me, they have a change machine. The post office is on summer hours and closed until 13h30. The Prefecture is on bureaucrat hours and will not see the public after 13h30. I see a tabac up the street and enter apologizing, explaining my plight to the woman at the bar, who is shaking her head.

“I really want to help you, but the post office just started their summer hours and people have been asking me for 10 pieces all morning. I’ve got nothing left.”

A kind gentleman at the bar offers me a 20 centimes coin. I re-explain my plight. The emaciated man next to him, with tired eyes and drawn skin eyes me wearily. He has a 10 centimes coin on the change tray in front of him, but I can sense these 10 cents are important to him. He has been debating whether or not to help for the past three minutes. He offers me his ten cents. I grab it thankfully, handing him my 50 centimes in exchange. His face lights up. I return the 20 centimes to my gallant prince and head out the door, clutching the coin tightly, petrified I am going to drop it as I stumble across the incredibly uneven, 3 century old paving stones. I make it into the Mairie, head upstairs and find the photocopier. It is being used by a man needing many, many copies. I am so happy to have the right change that I do not huff, or puff my impatience. I stand their happily and he invites me to make my copy, explaining he has many. I go to put my coin in the machine. Which is when I see that it takes all kinds of coins. It does not make change, but it would have happily taken my 50 centimes coin.

I make my copy, complete my dossier and flounce off, totally thrilled that my extra 40 cents went to someone who really appreciated it.

 

 

A little laugh

Last Saturday night Em’s dance class had their annual recital. The studio is a tiny spot near Les Invalides in the 7th arrondisement, so the teacher rents out an auditorium at the very conservative, very Catholic Le Bon Conseil community center.

“Where the hell are we?” Mr French grumbled as we walked in the door.

For us, the place is another world. A majority of the women had pin straight hair in a rigid headband and a lot of them were wearing cardigans. The men were in dress shoes and striped dress shirts. Posters against gay marriage where every where.

But the auditorium was, in fact, a real theater with red velvet curtains and cushioned seating. And the program for the evening looked fun. New York City was the theme, with a great selection of music that included Alicia Keys and the cast of Glee.

I didn’t mind at all as a bunch of angels floated out onto the stage and got the house rocking to “Oh, Happy Day”. Please Click here to see what I’m writing about!

Just to get the Mom part out of the way, Em was fantastic. She had been selected to dance center stage as her group danced to “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend”. She hadn’t warned me that she was being featured so it kind of took my breath away.

And then came some adults, great dancers dancing to a song that had me rolling in the aisles. In fact, CLICK HERE to witness a bunch of talented, well meaning folk putting their energy toward an entirely foreign movement. With the added benefit of my hyena-like laughter, which was not directed to the dancers at all. They were fantastic. But those words? In that place? With the crowd that surrounded us and the tutu clad angels in the wings. It made my Saturday night. Now give me my money back….

 

 

Roland Garros

I’ve never gotten tennis. I love going on court and winging a few balls back and forth, but I am horrible at it and watching others play has always seemed like an odd sort of torture. And then came Rolland Garros, the annual Grand Slam event that happens in Paris every year.

Ay first it was barely a blip on my radar. Then I started to make friends here and I started to hear more and more about. Turns out, its a real people scene and my curiosity was aroused. As I asked about it, I learned that many of my friends were big fans and it started becoming a serious topic of conversation, but I was still not interested enough to do anything crazy, like log on and try to purchase some tickets so I could go on my own.

Then came Tuesday night’s dinner (grilled veggies with tome de brebis cheese and a Pouilly Fuissé) and Mr French’s announcement, “I have an extra VIP ticket to Roland Garros tomorrow, if you’d like to join me.” Monsieur Wonka was offering me the Golden ticket, a VIP invite with lunch and cocktails. AND (because, after all, its supposed to be about the game) we’d be watching the international star, Roger Federer play the French star Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It didn’t take me long to shout OUI!

Rendez-vous at the Tennis Pavillion, noon sharp. A leisurely lunch and we were on the courts by 14h to watch the women’s quarter final with The Italian Errani smashing balls back and forth with the Polish Radwonska. We had great seats and I started watching the game with some interest, but I had NO IDEA what was going on. So I started playing with my iPhone, taking photos. but that got old fast, so I started tweeting about the game, which made it kind of fun. And I started to get interested and before I knew it, my phone was back in my bag and I was at the edge of my seat, watching Errani win in a nail biting tie breaker.

After the match there was a brief break for everyone to go to the washrooms, purchase Addidas or Lacoste stuff, test the speed of their serve at the Longines stand, or have their photo taken by Balobat. There was soft serve ice cream and a face painter and so much to see that I felt like a kid at a carnival, which is pretty much what it is, only for grown ups! I could have stayed an hour, or two, but it was time for the men to begin.

I know its a sport, but let’s be honest here, even on the court, fashion counts. If it didn’t Nike, Adidas, Reebok and company would not spend millions outfitting every world class athlete in the planet, not to mention entire teams. So my first reaction to the match is that Federer was wearing a sad, grey t-shirt, no collar. Mr French assured me that this has been acceptable since Agassi in the 90’s. Fair enough, but if that’s ok, why are the women still wearing skirts? I have to admit that I loved his Nike sneakers with a white heel that made it look like he was wearing slippers.

And then the match began. Wow. Men’s tennis is really different from women’s tennis. They were serving that ball at 211 km/h. It was going so fast that sometimes we’d loose track of it as it zoomed from one side of the net to the other. In a total upset, the local boy did good, with Tsonga winning the match in just three sets (that’s pretty rare)!!!

20130605-114031.jpg
I’ve never gotten tennis. I love going on court and winging a few balls back and forth, but I am horrible at it and watching others play has always seemed like an odd sort of torture. And then came Rolland Garros, the annual Grand Slam event that happens in Paris every year.

Ay first it was barely a blip on my radar. Then I started to make friends here and I started to hear more and more about. Turns out, its a real people scene and my curiosity was aroused. As I asked about it, I learned that many of my friends were big fans and it started becoming a serious topic of conversation, but I was still not interested enough to do anything crazy, like log on and try to purchase some tickets so I could go on my own.

Then came Tuesday night’s dinner (grilled veggies with tome de brebis cheese and a Pouilly Fuissé) and Mr French’s announcement, “I have an extra VIP ticket to Roland Garros tomorrow, if you’d like to join me.” Monsieur Wonka was offering me the Golden ticket, a VIP invite with lunch and cocktails. AND (because, after all, its supposed to be about the game) we’d be watching the international star, Roger Federer play the French star Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It didn’t take me long to shout OUI!

Rendez-vous at the Tennis Pavillion, noon sharp. A leisurely lunch and we were on the courts by 14h to watch the women’s quarter final with The Italian Errani smashing balls back and forth with the Polish Radwonska. We had great seats and I started watching the game with some interest, but I had NO IDEA what was going on. So I started playing with my iPhone, taking photos. but that got old fast, so I started tweeting about the game, which made it kind of fun. And I started to get interested and before I knew it, my phone was back in my bag and I was at the edge of my seat, watching Errani win in a nail biting tie breaker.

After the match there was a brief break for everyone to go to the washrooms, purchase Addidas or Lacoste stuff, test the speed of their serve at the Longines stand, or have their photo taken by Balobat. There was soft serve ice cream and a face painter and so much to see that I felt like a kid at a carnival, which is pretty much what it is, only for grown ups! I could have stayed an hour, or two, but it was time for the men to begin.

I know its a sport, but let’s be honest here, even on the court, fashion counts. If it didn’t Nike, Adidas, Reebok and company would not spend millions outfitting every world class athlete in the planet, not to mention entire teams. So my first reaction to the match is that Federer was wearing a sad, grey t-shirt, no collar. Mr French assured me that this has been acceptable since Agassi in the 90’s. Fair enough, but if that’s ok, why are the women still wearing skirts? I have to admit that I loved his Nike sneakers with a white heel that made it look like he was wearing slippers.

And then the match began. Wow. Men’s tennis is really different from women’s tennis. They were serving that ball at 211 km/h. It was going so fast that sometimes we’d loose track of it as it zoomed from one side of the net to the other. In a total upset, the local boy did good, with Tsonga winning the match in just three sets (that’s pretty rare)!!!

 

My daughter, the Star

Can you keep a secret? I can’t! I’m horrible at keeping secrets, which in someways has made being a Mom who blogs torturous. Having teens who get into all kinds of adventures has made for interesting stories I can’t share under threat of disownership by one, or both of my daughters. And rightfully so.

So you can imagine how difficult it has been for me to keep my mouth shut since last November when Em got kicked in the face during dance class. She has no idea how she reacted, she barely remembers the kick, but the person who kicked her (completely on accident and with profuse apologies) remembers and was deeply impressed with Em’s witty response.

She was so impressed that she kind of started stalking my daughter, finding out who she was through the dance teacher and making a point of getting to know her during class. In January, with the dance teacher present, so it was not at all as creepy as this is starting to sound, she introduced herself. She explained that she was both an actress and a director and that she had recently written the script for a short tv series. Its about a woman, her job and her family. She was convinced Em would be perfect in the role of her eldest daughter.

Em came home from class, her feet still dancing and blurted out her news with so much enthusiasm it took four tries before I understood what she was trying to say. I mean, the idea that she’d be working on the set of a tv show was not exactly hanging around the ol’ frontal lobe. “What?” I guessed, “you’re studying TB in dance class? You’re dancing about cereal?”

A month later she was invited to a casting call, and I spent the next several days preparing her for disappointment. We had no idea how many other girls they’d be auditioning. Em always responded with an “I know” but I wasn’t entirely sure that she did. The big day came and I joined her in a small chaotic office not far from the Sorbonne. There were stacks of files everywhere, low ceilings and dim lighting. We were escorted into a small room to wait with the two other kids and their Moms. There was the boy who’d be playing the middle brother, the 7 year old with the role of little sister and my daughter, the eldest. Scripts were handed out and they started doing a read through, which is when I realized that she was in. This wasn’t a casting call, it was a rehearsal.

Filming was supposed to begin in April, then May, and while I was dying to write about it and share the adventure with you all, Em swore me to secrecy until she was actually on the set. Which was today!

From 15h until 21h Em was in an apartment of the rue des Rennes pretending to be another woman’s daughter. Last week, they had met to decide on costumes. Em was astounded by the great details they went to, which included asking her to wear chipped black nail polish and requesting some much younger photos of each kid to decorate their “home”. Dropping her off this afternoon I got a funny feeling seeing a photo of my baby (and her sister, see above)) framed in someone else’s home, but I was thoroughly flattered by how young the Mom looked, and astounded to learn that she really was old enough to be Em’s Mom.

The set doctor (minors have to see an assigned doctor before filming) insisted I be on set, because she believes teens are fragile and she knows that show business is a nasty business, which is why I was there.

I’d love to tell you more details about the filming and the show itself, but I don’t know what is confidential and what is not and I stayed in a separate room, well out of the way to let Em do her thing, which was nearly as torturous as keeping secrets! But I can tell you its a pilot for a six minute comedy, a format that is very popular in France and I promise to share it all with you as soon as goes live!

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