The debate

It is still the Presidential elections in France and last night was the great debate, which I didn’t find so great, but I did find rather fun to watch. French political debates are very different from my memories of US Presidential debates. Instead of standing officially at lecterns, each candidate is comfortably seated, with their notes. They face each other, not the voters, which helps tensions rise and makes for some great tv moments. As does the fact that the candidates do not have a set time limit for each answer. From an anglo-saxon perspective, this is not a debate, but a moderated argument, that turns into an intellectual free for all.

If I had any doubts as to the tone of the debate, I had only to look at the stage set, which closely resembled an electrified, post-modern gladiator arena from the days when Astérix and Obelisk were tormenting their Roman landlords in a Paris that was known as Lutèce.

Two journalist join the candidates at a table that, in keeping with the ancient roman theme, resembles a gladiator’s shield when seen from above. Their official role is to ask the questions, balance each candidate’s speaking time and try to keep the debate moving forward. Their unofficial role is to prevent it from coming to blows.

In true forum style, candidates quickly go beyond the gallic shrug and show their latin roots as they pound fists on the table, point fingers and throw insults at one another. And what never ceases to amuse my anglo upbringing is that they interrupt each other. Loudly and for an extended period of time, so that voters, hoping to be more informed, and perhaps make a decision based on some facts, never actually hear any facts.

Following another anglo tradition, my New Zealander friend Koko has an important note for the socialist party’s candidate; your party’s colors are red, not blue, red. Change the glasses, get a new tie and for heaven’s sake man, show some pride in your team! Nobody, but nobody in the French press has mentioned this little faux pas, so my best guess is that in France, this is not a faux pas. Red is simply not ‘in’ this year and no matter what your political allegiance may be, this is Paris… fashion first!

After talking to Koko, I made a point of noticing that the two journalists on the set. They were both clad in a judicial, neutral black. Très chic

Hermes

Your new summer tote

When I first noticed the Vanessa Bruno tote, it was not because I had a great love of fashion, but because it was literally everywhere. It would have been hard to miss it. The following season there was a scarf that had a similar following (knit with thin, bright-colored stripes on a dark grey background) and there have since been many more fashion fads.

Last month I saw a new fad emerging. It is a lovely, duo-toned leather tote, with a gold zipper that runs horizontally, about 2/3s down the bag and has two rather large, leather tassels. The faux-leather is often brightly colored in green, salmon or yellow jewels tones, sometimes balanced with a sedate beige and it is occasionally stamped with a faux animal print, imitating croc or snake skin.

The first time I saw this bag I was on the rue de Babylone, just steps from my very first fashion fad spotting, so perhaps it was the universe telling me something. I doubt it. The bag I spotted was in a gorgeous green that really caught my eye. I thought it was a very expensive designer bag. But, I was seeing it everywhere and on everyone of all ages, which is usually a sign that it is reasonably affordable. Then I started seeing it in shop windows, and sure enough, at 69€, the bag is several generations removed from a runway budget. At that price, it is clearly not leather and I wanted to know more. After visiting three or four shops and getting no answers, helpful sales girl reluctantly informed me that the bags are a crafty restyling (therefore legal) of a very expensive and very popular Celine bag.

Now, I know the argument, who wants fake, when you can have the real deal? Clearly the hundreds of parisennes I see toting this tote. Because, you see, as much as they love fashion parisiennes are a pragmatic lot and unless they are fabulously wealthy, they are not likely to invest in a luxurious, yet trendy, leather bag that they’d then be traipsing through a sandy beach and it likely to be a has been within the next 3 years. A faux-leather, not-quite-fake bag is good enough for a passing summer fancy.

I bet that you are all dying to know where you can get yours. I see them everywhere, but at this address near the Bon Marché they have the faux version, as well as more expensive ones in leather and a very helpful young sales lady who was willing to tell the truth. Happy shopping!

Basic Bazaar

Mayday, mayday

Tomorrow is May Day and it is going to be a big political day here in Paris, with the party-who-shall-not-be-named throwing their annual fiesta at the foot of the Jeanne d’Arc statue on the rue de Rivoli. Poor Joan. Really, it was not enough that the English burned her at the stake, she had to be adopted as a symbol by the nationalist party? Did anyone ask her thoughts on the subject? I’ll be avoiding that area, as I do every year.

Not to be out done, the Presidential candidates have decided to throw some parties of their own, with Hollande (the candidate, not the country) calling for members of his party to join the unions as they walk from Denfert Rochereau to storm the Bastille. Although I presume his campaign manger will be staying home nursing a hangover, after the party he attended this weekend with Daniel Strauss-Kahn. Seriously? The week before the elections and Hollande’s men are already flirting with the world’s sleaziest flirt? Sarkozy, who seems to be arriving a bit late to the whole game, intends to take over the Trocadero, or perhaps the Champs de Mars; he wasn’t sure the last I checked Le Monde. ALthough, facing France’s military academy, L’Ecole Militaire shows there is a lot of conflict in the air.

Personally, I’d rather be visits museum, but they close for May Day. I’d rather go shopping, but the stores close, too. If the weather was nice, I’d go for a hike, but its not looking like the weather is going to be nice. Au secours…. damsel in distress!!!

The secret garden

For a brief time, my daughters were adopted by a French grandmother. Mamie is a kind,  beautiful, incredibly elegant lady with a large flock of her own grandchildren, as well as a part time job raising funds and awareness for kidney disease, but she somehow found time for my girls and me, too. Mamie’s hair is always in a perfectly impeccable chignon, she wears stockings and once apologised for being under-dressed because she had on a pair of slacks. In the rare moments that she is not working or taking care of the grandchildren, Mamie goes to the theater and book lectures.

When Mamie would take the girls for the weekend she would give them intellectual exercises, teach them card games and cook traditional French dishes like baked endives. My kids didn’t love everything, but that knew instinctively that you don’t mess with Mamie. You finish what is on your plate, forget that computers or cellphones exist, say please, thank you and non, merci madame. Against all logic, they absolutely adored hanging out with her, and somehow managed to choke down those endives.

One evening after the girls’ father left, Mamie showed up at my door, telling me I needed a break and that I should get out of the flat. NOW. This very moment. She handed me a coat and sent me on my way with strict orders to eat something.

Later that evening, back at home with the girls safely asleep, Mamie and I had a chat.

“It is really shocking that he left. He was so in love with you, but you know, its kind of your fault a bit, too.” she informed me.

I continued to listen as she explained the concept of le jardin secret, the French woman’s secret garden. At around the age of 40, women are well advised to take a lover. You never share this with your friends, your family, or anyone has have ever breathed. Not even those who are now 6 feet under. It is your garden. Your secret garden.

Since that chat, I have had a few years to talk about it with my parisiennes and read about it in ELLE and eavesdrop on the subject in cafés. The theory is that having a secret gives you confidence, which draws people to you (people like your husband, for example). The French also believe that falling in love is the ultimate diet, so having a lover is great for the figure. And it is safe to assume that when one has a lover, she pays more attention to her looks and her wardrobe. To be brief, a woman in love looks hot.

I don’t know about your average Frenchman, but I am confident that Mr French would much rather send me to a fat farm, offer me a day at a spa and invite me on a shopping spree. This strikes me as a ridiculously complicated way to re-attract your man and perhaps there is something seriously wrong with my sense of adventure, but personally, I’d rather bring out the mink-lined handcuffs to spicy up my marriage.

The husbands, Mamie assured me, remain totally oblivious, but are unconsciously drawn closer to their wives at an age when their eyes tend to stray, looking for some young blood to make themselves feel younger. Does this ensure his fidelity? No way. If the women have a secret garden, surely they are hoeing in somebody else’s yard. The idea is that, while he may stray, he won’t stray far. And if he does leave, well, at least you will have had an adventure of your own. I am going to have to take her word on this. It is not something I can imagine for myself, but I get a girlish pleasure knowing that the very traditional, deceptively up-tight ladies I see strolling my quartier are, like Mamie, very likely to have had a secret garden adventure of their own.

The mailing list

Our first apartment in Paris, once we finally immigrated here, was on the rue de Babylone, exactly across the street from the men’s wear department at the Bon Marché. Trés chic, n’est-ce pas?

Not that it meant anything to me. I was 20 lbs too heavy, did not own a bra and hadn’t shaved anything in decades. I was a granola eating, barely-recovered vegetarian, native Californian. The only shopping I got excited about was the organic farmer’s market on the boulevard Raspail every Sunday. I’d spend serious amounts of time explaining to the market vendors that, non, I really did not want an extra bag to separate my tomatoes from my asparagus, they could co-habitate quite happily for the 100 metres it would take to get to my front door, but the planet wouldn’t be in such great shape if everyone took a bag for each fruit they purchased. I’d get the gallic shrug and head home in my Birkenstocks.

Then one fine, blossom blooming, gorgeous spring day, the very first of the season, I opened the front door to our flat and I saw that nearly ever Parisenne, chic or otherwise, was carrying the same handbag. I am not exaggerating. Sequined bags going past to my right, sequined bags going by to my left, sequined bags going down into the Metro, sequined bags perched on the rattan café stools at my feet, sequined bags balanced on park benches directly across the street. Clearly, everyone had received a fashion alert in the night, telling them what to wear for the first warm day of the season, and I had not been on the mailing list! I felt so left out. But, like, really. I still feel the sting today. Why wasn’t I on the mailing list?

The bag was just a simple canvas tote, with sequin trim across the handles and around the base and it came in a multitude of colors. The funny thing is, until then I had never wanted to have something everyone else has and I don’t particularly like sequins, although they are starting to grow on me. I felt left out, just the same.

It didn’t take me long to learn (I lived across the street from the Bon Marché, after all) that the bag is a Vanessa Bruno, by the eponymous designer. It was the ‘it’ bag of the season and many seasons there after. In fact, you still see the same design everywhere, ten years later. One of the great things about the Vanessa Bruno tote is that it is relatively affordable for an ‘it’ bag, usually available for under 100€. It is very light, and easy to wear, making it a favorite with local high school students, their Moms, their Grandmothers and every other woman who has ever seen one.

Thanks to the Paris lifestyle, which requires walking kilometres and kilometres until your feet crumble and you must rush off for a pedicure, I lost those surplus kilos. Peer pressure from my Parisiennes had me waxing in a matter of months and I now have a lovely collection of French lingerie. I’ve taken my blinders off and allow myself to admire fine fashion, even spoiling myself with an occasional shopping trip during les soldes, but I never got a Vanessa Bruno tote. And I learned that there is no mailing list. There is Telerama, ELLE and Garance Doré, which local fashionistas follow like a diamond cutter sharpens his tools. And there are my Parisiennes who keep me on their list, which is all I really need.

Vanessa Bruno

 

La honte*

a visual moment of silence

This week, I am ashamed to be French. This week, Marine Le Pen, the candidate of the Front National, a racist, anti-immigration, anti-Europe, far right political party received 18% of the popular vote in the presidential elections. This distressing news has captured the national headlines, with people decrying the fact that 1 in 5 French have racist tendencies. I estimate that it is probably worse than that, once you’ve removed the Jews, Muslims and immigrants from the calculations. You would remove these groups because that is what Le Pen would like to do, remove us from France, so it is very unlikely many of us actually voted for her. The party-who-must-not-be-named (I am avoiding using their name or initials for Google reasons) is the 3rd most important political party in France. Things were only slightly worse in 2002, when the party-who-must-not-be-named candidate was actually in the second round of voting, and was dangerously close to actually being elected the president of France.

For an interesting slice of life, we heard the result during dinner with E and two of her close friends. One whose father survived the Rwandan genocide, another whose mother educated herself out of the Marrakesh Medina. Both of these heros immigrated to France, both became doctors and both now have international careers, making this world a healthier place for the whole world.

I have to be honest, as a Jew, an immigrant and an incurable globe-trotter, I have never really followed this party’s program in great detail. It was enough for me to know that they would not be getting my vote. I could not quote any of their proposals or cite any of the changes they’d make. But not long ago, someone I know well mentioned that she and many of her friends were considering voting for Le Pen. At first, I was in shock. It is tragic, but I eventually understood why she’d been led astray. She is French, middle class and relatively young. None of the candidates are speaking to her, yet she represents a large percentage of the population. Then you read the party-who-must-not-be-named’s proposals and they talk about cutting budget costs and protecting France and it sounds reasonable. In fact, it sometimes sounds like they are the only party offering a solution. Tragically, it is the wrong solution, but it is easy to see how people get taken in. In order to convince her otherwise, I went into research mode.

I learned from their site that the party-who-must-not-be-named wants France out of the Euro zone, to re-enforce its borders, and install a zero-tolerance policy towards crime. One of its key proposals would reduce the titres de séjours for visitors wishing to stay more than 3 months from 200,000 per year to 20,000. That means less foreign students, less foreign workers and less ex-pats. In a time of globalization, this all sounds like a pretty bad idea and it hides some of the more sinister aspects of their plan, like turning out all illegal immigrants and denying them medical care. I then went to SOS Racisme to see what the other side, my side, had to say. The party-who-must-not-be-named was founded by the current candidates father, a man who has been to court and condemned countless times for his racism. A man who is President of the party. Which does not seem to bother nearly 1/5th of my countrymen, but it certainly bothers me.

*shame

SOS Racisme

 

Ah Vo Tay

That is your French pronunciation lesson for today.  Ah Vo Tay is how to say a voté, I wanted you to hear this French expression from chez vous, because we voted in France today. And responsible citizens from across the country will hear this cry as they place their ballot in the voting urn and someone declares rather loudly, a voté”! It put shivers down my spine the first time I heard this when I was finally able to vote and it still thrills me to bits. Today was a particularly special day because I got to hear the official call twice; once for myself, and once as my 18 year daughter voted for the first time in her life.

In San Francisco, we’d vote from a neighbor’s garage, but every polling station I have been to in France has been inside of a public school. Despite the early Sunday morning desolation of Paris during the school holidays, there were lines at all three polling stations I visited (Mr French, my daughter and I were each assigned a different address) today. Upon arrival at the station, you present your Carte Electorale and an official ID. You are then handed an envelope (today’s was powdered blue)  and invited to collect the voting sheets. A voting sheet is an index card-sized document that bears one candidate’s name printed in large, bold letters. This year there were 10 candidates, but I only took 9 sheets, because I refuse to even touch Marine LePen’s ballot.

You are then invited into the isoloir. The isolation room. Sounds scary, but its just a simple voting booth with a wildly evocative name. Inside the isoloir, you pick your candidate’s ballot and slip it into your envelope. Outside the booth stands a large paper recycling bag for the rejects ballot, but I keep my voting chits because It feels more private. You then get back in line at the urn. When your turn arrives, they once again review your ID and confirm that you are on the list. The urn master then makes his declaration. Today he had a slight problem with my name and I stood there mutely as he announced;

Sylvia Jean Jeanne Jane Sabes a voté!

Man-y Pedi

A letter home, just weeks after moving to Paris…

Email Subject: Sex with strangers.

Well girls, I have finally found the Parisian woman’s secret to sexual satisfaction (didn’t take me long, did it?).

Lisa (yes, you, princesse) asked me to ship home some Darphin products, so I made it a special errand to walk the half block from our flat to their spa and discovered that this would be an ok place for a much needed pedicure to tame those funky alien callouses you all saw at the beach. Darphin is nothing like any of the 700 vietnamese owned and operated mani-pedi salons in Noe Valley. No risk of vainly trying to drown into the foot bath as a handful of hard working women laugh at my monster feet in a language I can’t understand. I’d be a tough horned rhino in an elegant spa, but I was desperate and made an appointment.

I have had a pedicure in Paris once before, and it was at a training school. The experience taught me that pedicures over here are generally given in a private room and that it is predominantly a clinical event involving a series of scalpels and a really cool power tool.  No nail polish.

I showed up at my appointment and was immediately greeted by one of the better looking members of the French male genre, my new podiatrist. You know, the shaggy, intellectual looking kind that so melts my butter. He welcomed me with a warm handshake, a smile in his chocolate eyes. Something was clearly wrong; Parisian men do not smile broadly at strangers, it is not in the culture. I must have had spinach between my teeth…

(c) Maurice Sendak My feet pre-pedi

We proceeded upstairs to a cosy little chamber which was decorated in prissy rose-bud and aqua tones and smelled of something floral. Relaxing music could be heard and I started to unwind just as humiliation struck. I was asked to remove my shoes and show my very ugly feet to this very male presence. He wanted to know  exactly what is wrong with my paws. As if it isn’t obvious. I change shoe sizes after a proper pedicure! The torture ended and the treatment began.

Imagine; you are lying down, completely relaxed in a plush spa recliner. Your surroundings are pleasant, very private and intimate as someone gently tends to your feet with large, warm hands, treating each toe and the spaces between with their undivided attention.  MMMMMmm delicious.

The treatment was finally over, when Monsieur Foot warned that my skin was quite dry and advised a regular application of lotion and would I mind if he applied some immediately.  That was fine with me, and so began one of the more innocently erotic foot messages of my life.  MMMMMmmm sinful.  I melted on the spot.

This, of course, would not be considered sex in the strictly Clintonian view of the act, but I came out of that room trembling.  I then had to descend the stairs and pay for services rendered which added a surreal validation to my feelings of having just hired a gigolo. I paid quickly, unable to make eye contact with the next patient and scuttled out of the store to brace myself against the sturdy coolness of a nearby wall before being able to walk home. Ok, I am exaggerating slightly. I stayed in the shop long enough to make an appointment for the podiatrist’s next visit to the spa in two weeks time before scuttling anywhere. Sinful pleasures.

Cheers to you all and much love, S

Darphin

Save the Parisiennes

Metro Poster

I am in a fantastic gym class doing the ab exercises, in a packed room full of grunting women and our coach, Eugene, when an English speaking mom starts talking to me. We know each other from the girls’ school and she is a very nice lady, but talking in gym class is not the done thing and I think she has a hearing problem, because she SPEAKS VERY LOUDLY. Eugene is my favorite teacher at Fitness First (now Health City), he takes our workouts very seriously and can be fairly strict; ridiculing students seems to be his second favorite sport, which is why I am not really listening to The Mom as she babbles on. Suddenly, the music cuts out and the room is filled with her voice screeching, “…so I told my husband, that’s why Parisiennes are all a bunch of bitches, they’re starving. These women need to eat someth…” The music mercifully returned. After class I bolted out the door, not stopping to see if she made it out before being eaten alive.

Kermit the FrogBut my gym mate does have a point. In the French guidebook, “Comment devenir une vraie Parisienne”* they note that the highest suicide rate in France is among single women in Paris and even the most oblivious tourist will note that very few women in the metro seem to be smiling. Kermit sang that its not easy being green. Its not easy being a frog(ette), either.

Like the woman at the gym, when searching for answers, I’d blame it on hunger, or the painful shoes, or the fact that working women in France still do 80% of the domestic chores and are grossly underpaid compared to their male counterparts. But I like My Parisiennes and I had to believe that there is more to it than just the framework of their lives. If their heels make them that miserable, they’re smart enough to change shoes and surely they must be getting some pleasure out of feeding the family, or they’d just stop. Like I did last month.

While on dinner strike I had time to visit the doctor. My GP is a nice man and incredibly intelligent, but I only use him for the most basic of needs because I consider him to be something of a nut ball, in the absent minded professor kind of way. I was not at all surprised during my last visit when he went off on a 20 minute diatribe about vitamin D deficiency, only half listening as he claimed that the percentage of Parisiennes with a vitamin D deficiency was greater than among women in the refugee camps of Sudan. I don’t want to sound like an idiot by stating the obvious, but Sudanese are dark skinned, which is a natural inhibitor of vitamin D AND they are malnourished, yet doing better than the locals for this one nutrient.

Two days later my blood test results came back. The nut ball wasn’t so nutty after all and I, a native sun drenched Californian, had virtually no vitamin D left in my system. The Sudanese women had me beat by a long shot. The cure is easy, Cod Liver Oil. Cold liver oil is nasty stuff that comes up on you throughout the morning, even if taken in a self contained gel cap. Which explains the mystery of the unhappy Parisiennes. Vitamin D deficiency causes Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), and with 88% of us affected, the next time you see a grumpy looking woman confronting the aisles at Monoprix, it is very likely that she is either depressed or has just downed her daily dose of Cod Liver Oil. All that’s missing is a kiss from Kermit!

*How to become a true Parisienne

Health City

Dating Mr French

There is a scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta is in the car with Samuel Lee Jackson and he is discussing his recent stay in Amsterdam:
Vincent Vega: You know what the funniest thing about Europe is?
Jules Winnfield: What?
Vincent Vega: It’s the little differences. I mean they got the same sh** over there that they got here, but it’s just, just there it’s a little different.

Vincent then goes on to explain how the cheeseburger exists in the French McDonald’s, but it is called Le Royale. That is what made the movie great. Odd from the perspective of an incompetent gangster, but so true. Everything here is the same. We all eat, drink and sleep the same, but the French just do it with a certain je ne sais quoi.

I didn’t date very many Frenchmen before Mr French had earned my complete and undivided attention. There were more dinners and eventually, I let him pick me up at my front door.

This meant we arrived at the restaurant together, signaling my greatest “Le Royale” moment. Considering that the seven year old kid upstairs already insists on opening doors for me, and that my daughters’ boy friends make it a point of honor to be the last one through the door, its a safe bet that any Frenchman an adult woman would date expects to be the one opening the doors. This does not necessarily come as a reflex for independent girl from San Francisco, where men tended to be too busy flirting with her husband to even notice she was coming through the door. SLAM!

There is an entire choreography to entering a restaurant with a French man in Paris. You arrive together, then mademoiselle takes a half-step back as he opens the door, inviting you to enter. She steps in, the number of steps necessary to let him in the door, but then she must immediately step back to let him pass and be the first one to greet the maitre d’. Kind of like a back step, forward, forward, back, cha cha cha. It has taken me years to get the choreography down.

Once you’re in the door, you’re on your own, ladies. I’ve heard that French men say “je t’aime” immediately and then continue to shower you with the phrase, Mr French prefers to shower me with flowers. I’ve heard reports of men who grab you by the wrist and rush you home to meet Maman, while other men wait until after you’ve said yes to his proposal. I can’t generalize. I only know my own happily ever after, and I hope you find yours…

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