A First Date

Posted on 13 04amMon, 09 Apr 2012 11:00:48 +000048 2012 by Sylvia

I was in something in a tizzy over my first, going beyond the café, date. This wasn’t my first date with a Frenchman, in fact I’ve still never dated an American. But, this was my first date in 20 years!!! Was it really like riding a bicycle? Would I fall off? I had no idea, but I felt ready to find out.

Before heading out, I turned to My Parisiennes for advice. I was a bit wary of les filles around this time, because they had set me up on coffee dates with some of the wildest guys, occasionally knowing that the men were married! “Well, its not like he is in love with his wife, besides you never said you wouldn’t date a married man.” I learned to be very clear with my friends about what I was looking for AND what I was avoiding like a case of rickettsia (been there, done that… Africa 1993).

But these women were my friends and they provided some really fantastic advice about what to wear. Hands down, the best suggestion was to wear my favorite, most comfortable clothing that made me feel the most self-assured and at ease, ensuring I’d feel the most like myself. I chose a pair jeans with a low cut brown wool Burberry blazer that I’d had in my closet for ages.They reminded me that shoes are crucial in France. Even busy CEOs take a moment to bend down and shine their shoes before heading out the door each morning, while placement firms have been known to take potential candidates on shopping excursions for new shoes before an interview. It would have to be heels. Sexy ones that had been shined recently.

Then for that extra bit of confidence, they told me, go out and buy yourself some really, hot, sexy lingerie that you love. It will give you a secret that adds some mystery to the evening. If you’d like a second date, keep those panties to yourself and wait for another night before unveiling your new look. Of course, if one date is enough, remember to play safe.

Since I was dating men I had met online, they were not coming to pick me up at my front door. I was in no hurry to give out my home address. I headed out the door alone. Nervous, but confident with my new best friend, Chantal Thomass at my side.

Chantal Thomass

The new normal

Posted on 13 04amThu, 05 Apr 2012 10:31:15 +000015 2012 by Sylvia

Last week I was at the nearby Franprix grocery store buying some toilet paper. It was early, midweek, so the cash registers were under staffed and the lines long. Too bad for me, because we really needed that toilet paper.

Fortunately, a second cashier came over and went to work. Things were going quite orderly as the second person in line moved over to the newly opened cash, and I started to migrate there as well, having been fourth in line and the third person staying firmly put. A woman came darting in from the very end of the line and tried to get in front of me, but I deftly squeezed by. I am used to the French art of not queueing and particularly adept at blocking line busting Parisiennes.

As I got to the cash register the rude woman elbowed me in the kidneys. I pushed back gently. She elbowed again, harder this time.

“You’re hitting me,” I informed her, naively incapable of believing she was doing it intentionally.
“You deserve it, you got in front of me.”
“I was already in front of you, you tried to jump the line!”
“That is no excuse!” she responded indignantly.

I took my bags and stomped out of the store really angry. Annoyed at myself for not having the perfect retort and angry. So angry, that I swung back around, causing the large double doors to open nearly the entire façade of the store and began screaming at the woman, calling her all kinds of horrible names and informing her that I was sick and tired of people who were unhappy and felt the need to take it out on others. IN FRENCH! I wasn’t even drunk and I was giving somebody what for in French! I turned back on my heels and stormed off trembling and completely ashamed of my behaviour, mortified at the thought of the cashiers and the two dozen other clients who had seen me loose it.

confession shoes

Once home I called Pam. Pam is my bff from NY, a Yoga Maverick and my personal confessor. She is the woman I count on to redeem my soul when I’ve eaten one too many chouquettes, or purchase the ridiculously expensive sandals I’ve been coveting for three years.

Yoga Maverick laughed and told me that it really was better to handle these things calmly and not to let people “like that” influence me. She then ordered my penitence; a namasté, three sun salutations. and a series of letting-go breaths.

My Parisiennes informed me that it would have been better to just elbow the woman back, sparing the other shoppers a scene. Les filles closed the topic, unwittingly quoting the book Le Divorce, with a Gallic shrug, “C’est normal.”

Keep off the grass…

Posted on 13 04pmWed, 04 Apr 2012 12:00:52 +000052 2012 by Sylvia

I am with my dear friend Julie visiting the ruins of Angkor Wat to celebrate New Years Day, 199x. Today we’re visiting some of the further flung monuments with virtual no visitors, when suddenly an entire bus load of French tourists arrives. There are signs everywhere reminding people not touch the sculptures, the loose stone erodes easily. The French tour guide leads her troop to an out cropping of columns and statues and tells them all to be seated as she begins to lecture.

As a good anglo-saxon tourist, I become irate and march other there to inform the guide that she is jeopardizing the ancient site and her minions are destroying precious art, hoping to at least shame the others into getting off the rocks. No one budges.

The lonely enforcer...

“What are you, a cop?” she queries.

Although I was already fluent in French, I had not yet lived in Paris and had not yet been exposed to this insult. Not only do the French believe that the rules were created for the rest of the world, but they think that those who enforce the rules are beneath them. I was completely ineffectual in my 5 minute crusade to save Angkor Wat, having no better reply than, “yeah, that’s right, you fat cow.”

I have since been referred to as a cop by a 7 year old who was ramming his remote controlled car into a harmless infant, a spoiled brat teen who doused me with coke at the Luxembourg gardens and a Dad who I caught out trying to use his 10 year old to cut in front of me in line at the ski lifts. By then, I had a retort.

“No, but my husband is. Just a moment, I’ll introduce you.”

Mr French is neither a police officer, nor my husband, but my insulter never waited in line long enough to find that out.

Fences required when they mean it

Last Sunday, April in Paris arrived two weeks early, so Mr French and I packed up the teens for a picnic at a the glorious parc Montsouris. There were signs everywhere reminding law abiding citizens that the lawn was “resting” for another month. Nobody cared. So this time I did like the French, settling in, satisfied in the knowledge that rules are for everyone except moi.

Parc Montsouris

Finding Mr French*

Posted on 13 04amMon, 02 Apr 2012 11:30:56 +000056 2012 by Sylvia

I get this question a lot; how do you find a French man in Paris? Uhh…. well, hmmm…. Seems obvious, but, the women who ask make a very good point. Its like being lost at sea; water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink. The city may be teeming with local men but they are a shy crowd and a decent French man is very unlikely to randomly come up to you at a café and start a conversation. Don’t get me wrong, men coming up to unattached women in cafés is as common as a cold, but often monsieur has a madame, which goes beyond my definition of decent. Its caveat emptor, ladies.

Ask a Parisienne and the answer is clear. You’re introduced. At some point or another, during your lifetime you are bound to find your man through connections. That gets a bit tricky when you didn’t go to school here and even trickier when your connections are primarily expats. Married expats with married friends.

So what’s a modern, non-local girl to do? Go high tech! Online dating sites are a fantastic way to meet someone in France. There is a French J-Date, if you’re looking for someone with a Jewish mother, and AttractiveWorld for the gorgeous who don’t want to pollute the gene pool. But the practical, one-size fits all site that I used is Meetic. I highly recommend Meetic. In my tiny little social circle, with limited access to the expat world, I know of no fewer than 6 Franco-Anglo live-in relationships that began on Meetic.

This site fascinates me – I don’t understand how it works but who ever came up with the name is a genius. Gleeden. The first infidelity site developed for women.

How does it work? Just like the sites at home. Why does it work? Of course, this is only a theory, but as an Anglo, you stand out in the crowd, so you get lots of interest fairly quickly… my divorced 50 something friends had an easy time finding a date, or eight, as opposed to my friends in the US, who could go weeks without a reply. Who would you be dating? Like any place you meet men, there are weirdos out there, and married men, so you have to filter, carefully. I was surprised by the number of very young men out there who like older women because we are less likely to hassle them for silly little trinkets like marriage and children. But there are also a decent number of intelligent, well traveled, educated men (or women) who prefer to be with someone who has experienced the world. Its really not a bad pond to fish in and it is quite easy to unhook the undesirables, throwing them back into the lake. Just don’t use barbed hooks, that would be cruel.

How do you manage it? After the online chats and the obligatory phone call to the land line, its time for coffee. Cafés are a safe, neutral place to meet and I learned from experience that you can order, drink and pay for an espresso in seven minutes flat if you know things are not going to work out. My first weekend back in the dating pool (after 20 years on dry land) I organized a series of coffee dates. One for each meal, Friday to Sunday, making for nine dates in three days. That weekend I met a scientist from the Pasteur Institute, a National Assemblyman and a dis-honest to goodness Russian mafioso. It was fun, reminded me that I was attractive and eventually life-changing… Mr French was Sunday, lunch.

* for those with mostly attached friends and a serious lack of singles in the social circle.

Meetic.fr

THIEF!!!

Posted on 13 03amFri, 30 Mar 2012 10:54:39 +000039 2012 by Sylvia

My new pal, Geri!!

I am new to my ‘hood and when you’re new in Paris, it takes some time before the locals acknowledge your existence. Especially if you have an accent and they assume that you’re just another visitor who is staying in town for a month before heading back to the ranch.

I have learned some tricks, like informing the butcher that I have a Mr French who is genuinely French and an ex-rugby man and he really would not appreciate it if I told him that the butcher had talked me into a noble pheasant (50€) for my humble coq (12€) au vin. Or informing the wine merchant that despite my accent, I had enough common sense to know that you don’t use a Premier Cru Classé as a cooking wine.

At the cafés I sit at the bar and chat up the staff, sharing jokes and trying to be charming, so that they’ll remember me the next time I stop by. I was doing well at the café downstairs, having bonded with the owner over Les Landes, where we both spend our summer holidays. This morning the bar woman and I progressed from vacation chatter to weight issues and were laughing heartily as we bantered about this summer’s beach fashions while I completed a sudoku in Le Parisien newspaper. I was making a friend and I was starting to feel pretty cool when the owner stomped up from behind me, mumbling something about annoying patrons who hoard the papers to do games, as he swiped the broadsheet from under my pen!

I turned to look at him in utter shock. He saw my face and was immediately embarrassed (at least now I know he recognizes me), and started back pedaling, explaining that a patron on the terrasse wanted to actually read the paper and he’d return it in 3 minutes. He opened some People-like rag and shoved a crossword puzzle under my nose. Great, French crosswords for celebrity stalkers, just my kind of thing.

I threw my coins on the counter and stalked out of the café curious to see who had trumped me.

Gerard Depardieu!!! There he was sitting on the terrasse of my local café with my newspaper perched on his table. He wasn’t even reading it!

“Hey, you’ve deprived me of my sudoku!” I scolded, laughingly.

He looked up, unaccustomed to being yelled at by strange women with a funny accent, then joined in my laughter, offering to let me finish my game.

“Non, non, enjoy” I replied, as I whipped out the iPhone and stole his soul. A theft for a theft, as Hammurabi would say.

Le Bistrot Landais

Finding Noon

A life in Paris

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