When we first moved here, I wasn’t exactly used to winters. I’d done five years in Montreal, so they weren’t completely foreign, but I’m a third generation Californian and five years is not going to change what’ bred in the bone. We arrived on February 1, right in the thick of one of the colder winters on record. It wasn’t ideal.

I was distracted with all the details of moving in, so it hardly registered. What got me down was the early sunset with the dramatically shorter days in which to get things done. The lack of light was depressing, despite my overwhelming joy at being in Paris.

One day was particularly bad. My husband du jour was off on a business trip and the chauvinist principal of my daughter’s school was insisting she be held back a year before she’d ever set foot in a class room. And, oh, yeah, I had pneumonia. Leaving the neighborhood public school after our third discussion on the subject, I was absolutely furious with this fat, balding man who looked like Santa’s Mini Me with a rat’s tail up ‘do. I stormed across the street, talking to myself as I tripped over a pile of snow at the curb.

Even angrier now, I looked up and there he sat. A cheerful man, beaming up at me from his wheelchair, a basket of fresh violet flowers on his lap.

He held up his basket, “2€ a bouquet. Would you like one?”

My anger melted away, I smiled as I stuck my nose into the delicately fragrant bunches.

— Ah, oui….

It was exactly what I needed at the moment I needed it. Not only did I feel better about my day, but those flowers were a promise of spring and the light to come. I bought him out, filling our home with the fragile flowers, refusing to throw them out long after they’d faded.

Every year, I’d wait expectantly for the man and every year I’d buy a handful of violets, until one year, he was gone. But the violets still pop up and every year I am thrilled to see them as they remind me that soon the daffodils will be blooming, then tulips and soon it will be spring.

This winter has been particularly grim, the greyest in 50 years according to local weather reports, and March roared in before I’d seen a single bouquet, so I was particularly thrilled to spot them at our local florist this weekend. The sun’s gonna shine!

ps… My daughter did not get held back and earned top honors imstead.

So, it has been an interesting couple of weeks… I’ve been getting more freelance as a copywriter for advertising, which thrills me to no end and which means I am up early, out the door running off to see clients. On the days I don’t have to see clients, I basically roll out of bed, over to my desk and I start writing. So going out the door means major changes for me. The most important one being that I have to GET DRESSED! To work with French chicks. Usually very chic French chicks who are about half my age. No pressure there.

It has taken some time, but I seem to have developed something of a uniform, a Paris chic look that works on my tragically American roundness; black, blue, or white jeans, a business shirt that I leave untucked, with a fitted sweater on top and three inch heels.

As I walk to the various offices I visit, I am jealous of all the Parisiennes and how chic they look. I could live here for 60 years, I’ll never have that casually elegant, thrown together look they have mastered. And I love the way they wear dresses. I would love to wear a dress from time to time, but have never learned to shop for anything but the LBD, everything else just seems too, too… Too something! Too dressy, too frumpy, too floral. I’ve never managed to get it just right.

At the agencies, I work with a scrappy crew. Most of my colleagues are half my age (yes, I’ve mentioned that twice, it seems to matter in Paris), and they’re dressed like students, earbuds in their ears, a can of coke from last night’s late night session on their desk. Since real estate is precious, they never have a desk for me and I often end up working in some odd corner, where people have to step over my extended legs each time they pass. I love being in the agency and having the creative energy buzzing around like atoms in space. Conversations about a book cover spotted over the weekend may lead to an entire campaign for a product like corn chips.

At lunch time, everyone goes their way. Some of the agencies have a cafeteria, others subsidize their employees’ lunches through Ticket Restaurants. Since I am freelance, and just pop-in from time to time, I can arrange for long lunches to run errands and attend other meetings with other clients. This Monday I had a meeting on the poshest avenue in the world, avenue Montaigne, at the extraordinarily elegant Plaza Athenée hotel for a treatment at the Institut Dior spa.

Now that you’re done laughing at me, yes, it was a meeting, because I have been testing spas in Paris for a couple of articles I am working on, and I have to test these spas in order to write about them. I will write about the entire experience in the weeks to come, but for now, lets just say it was lovely. This particular “soins” end with a full makeover; foundation, powder, the works. You may have noticed above, my morning routine does not include make-up. I’m a strictly moisturizer kind of girl. I may wear mascara and maybe some lipstick in a pinch, but that is about it.

I had left for “lunch” looking like a normal member of the team and I came back looking like a wanna be socialite. People were doing a double takes as they’d pass, no longer clearing my extended legs; twisted ankles became epidemic. I thought I should do something. Say something. My inner American wanting to apologise profusely, or at the very least, explain. But my Parisienne took over and I sat there having fun watching the expressions on the faces that passed, enjoying my time as a working girl.

Last Friday evening I had a business meeting near the Grands Boulevards. I arrived early and being on Detox, I was feeling weak with hunger. Needing to be in top form, I dashed into a Carrefour City and treated myself to an organic carrot salad, which I wolfed down voraciously in the long hallway entrance of the grocery store before heading back across the street.

The entire mission took less than five minutes of my time, but in that time, an accident had occurred. I did not see the accident, but I saw a body laying across the bus lane, a man in a suit the color of oak. Another man was crouched by his side and I was relieved to see that the accident-ee had been wearing a helmet. A second man stood nearby on a cellphone, while a third was directing traffic. I could not identify it, but there was something very odd about the scene.

In retrospect, I realize that if any of the French folk I know had been involved in an accident, there would have been some serious screaming, involving some very colorful language being thrown about. An agitated fist, or six, would be menacing the heavens above. Friday night, everyone on the scene seemed to be moving, well, not exactly in slow motion, but in no motion, without being perfectly still, either. Not a single voice was raised.

I was very relieved to see that the man had been wearing a helmet. There were enough good samaritans onsite that I was clearly going to be of no help and a crowd was starting to form, so I scurried on by, glad to hear sirens arrive. The accident happened less than 10 metres from the door I had to enter. As I turned to ring the bell, I saw that the man, who seemed to be in his late thirties, had a beard and a disconcertingly large pool of blood under his helmet. The door opened.

I went directly to the first floor and from the conference room I heard a few more sirens, then things seemed to calm down below. When I left the office over an hour later, there were still policemen on the scene. And an odd looking ambulance. Then I saw the curtains. White curtains, hanging on metal poles, forming a neat white cube that seemed to be floating there, not really connected to the black asphalt on which it stood. That ambulance was not an ambulance, it was a morgue truck and the man I had seen was dead.

I did not know this man, nor anyone who did know him. But my heart went out to his family and loved ones as I thought of the ripple effect the loss of his life would have. The man and his death touched me, like haunting waves of air stirred by the flapping wings of butterflies.

I wasn’t going to write this post. But my good friend, Out and About in Paris suggested I should use it as a reminder to everyone to be safe on the street. She is right, and I do so in honor of this man, hoping that if he had to die in a road accident, perhaps the loss of his life would save another, by reminding us all how important it is to pay attention in the street. Cellphones, down, everyone. Heads up.
Please, everyone, listen to The Man and be safe out there!!!

My tongue is green, my head is spinning and my teeth are furry. I haven’t had solid food in over 24 hours. No, its not the plague, its Detox Delight! Which is really funny if you think about it. A delightful detox? Really?

Well, actually, yes… I’m only on day 2, but already I’ve lost 2 kilos. I know that this is weight that will come back if I return to my evil ways, but that is the other delight of this program. The two days I spent “prepping” have really help point out my evil ways. Particularly my habit of going into the kitchen for a little snack between the articles I write.

Its a break. I need to stretch my legs, and rest my eyes from the computer screen. I always choose a healthy snack; a clementine, a rice cake or a few almonds. But I must have skipped my math because those calories add up!!! Now I boil some water and grate a bit of ginger inside. Same break, zero calories.

Another delight has been the comments from my family;
“You’re crazy, Mom, you look perfect.”
“No toast for me this morning, I’ll just have a plain yogurt, I’ll do a mini-detox. Like you.”

And then there is the delight of having all my meals planned for me. Detox Delight delivers. They deliver your entire menu for the next to days. They’ll be delivering chez moi for five days. This week I will not have to ask myself “what’s for dinner.” Not even once! The family is surviving on leftovers I freeze, which means they are cleaning out my freezer, too!!! And since there is no cooking, there are no dishes to wash. Now that is what I call delightful!!!

The not so delightful part has been the rather large, water logged legs I had to hoist into bed last night with their sexy sock lines that had to hide from Mr French. And taking the metro home from a meeting last night, sitting next to a young man who was munching innocently away on his fresh out of the oven baguette as I used all of my resources to resist the urge to pounce on his snack and reveal my inner gluten glutton.

When I was seven years old my rather devout, convent school raised, Roman Catholic mom decided to become Jewish. Her husband, my father, was Jewish and she somehow got it into her head that my brother and I needed religion. My Dad was not going to start attending church, so she signed up at the local synagogue and before any of us, not my Dad, not even the Rabbi, knew what had hit us she was organizing a conversion ceremony. I still remember that day, driving up to The City with a RABBI in our car, dressed to the nines, a gazillion bobby pins in my hair, ready to go to the Mikvah (a ritual bath).

Because we were already born, and to a shiksa no less, my brother and I had to go into the bath, too. There is not a single photo of this day, but I can tell you that I was wearing a polyester a-line pale pink, yellow, and orange dress that had a square neckline and white knee highs with patent leather mary janes (my fashion habit started at an early age). I had to take it all off, and then we had to remove every one of those bobby pins from my rather long, unruly hair before heading into the bath. I remember my mom being annoyed with herself for not having understood that when they said we’d have to be as naked as the day we were born, that included our hair. I was just relieved they p hadn’t insisted we shave it off.

Immediately after that, pork was banned from our house, those lovely crab dinners were out and a new tradition began; Friday night dinner. Every Friday night we had to be home for dinner. My mother would light the candles, we would sip some really horrible sickly sweet wine and we’d all say a prayer over the bread. Then my Dad would bless us. There is a special prayer in Judaism, asking that your children grow up to be healthy, good people. If you’ve ever seen Fiddler on the Roof, you’ve heard the prayer, you just didn’t know it was a prayer because they snuck it in there as if it was a Broadway melody. Finally, my Dad would recite a poem for my Mom, a hymn really, written by a king (Solomon) and fit for a queen.

Those dinners stopped a few weeks before my brother’s Bar Mitzvah and my 16th birthday, when my mother died. She was 39 years old.

A WOMAN OF VALOUR who can find? Her price is far above rubies.
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, and he hath no lack of gain.
She doeth him good and not evil all the days of her life.
She giveth food to her household, and a portion to her maidens.
She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.
Strength and dignity are her clothing and she laugheth at the time to come.
She open her mouth with wisdom and the law of kindness is on her tongue.
She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed. Her husband also, and he praiseth her;
“Many daughters have done valiantly, but thou excellest them all.”
Grace is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
But a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands and let her works praise her in the gates.

Happy Birthday, Mom

;

When we first met, Mr French was a bit concerned with my lack of fashion and thought I needed lessons in chic. He did not get my California hippy penchant for large, clunky shoes in odd color combinations, like fushia trimmed vomit green. Or my handbags that could double as a stuffed animal which I alternated with my equally inappropriate ‘Eastpak’ collection. He has since ‘corrected’ my ways and helped me develop a rather unhealthy habit regarding both shoes and bags.

These days, he can not understand why I still insist on wearing my threadbare, black frock coat when I could wear my other, perfectly modern, black wrap-around coat.

“But it’s from the 1940’s.” I whine.

“Yes, and it looks like it.” he reposts.

He’s right. The lining is shredded, the sleeves are worn and there is no button hole, so the coat can not be closed to ward off the winter winds. It is a little nutty to be wearing torn, worn out clothing when there are practical, yet gorgeous alternatives just one hanger over.

I bought the frock coat at one of those rag dealers near Les Halles when I was a starving student here in the 90’s. I was with my brother, and being a fille from la Californie, I didn’t own a decent coat. I found this one and have loved it ever since I loved it a little more when a tailor taught me it was a redingote, a traditional  French style that draws its name from the French trying to say “Riding coat” around the time of Marie Antoinette. I still loved when that same tailor mistakingly removed 6 inches from its length.

I have, it would seem, a passion for vintage coats. Like my 1950’s Paris couture black velvet, A-line coat with wide 3/4 length sleeves and a zoot suit lapel, or my 1960’s baby llama’s wool coat with jet black buttons (and holes torn under the arms). I’m missing the 70’s, but the 80’s are represented by my purple, inverted fleece Norma Kamali wrap around coat that I bought new for a small fortune and have worn ever year since then. The 90’s I went classical with a Burberry trench.

Now that we’re on to the next century Mr French is trying to show me the evil of my ways. He has guided me in the purchase of a grey Max Mara; practical, but boring and its already fading at the sleeves after just a few years!!! IHe has even gotten me into a warm, sensible, yet dreaded for being totally un-stylish, yet heart breakingly trendy Moncler, which my daughters hope I tire of sooner, rather. And I’ve acquired a lovely black cashmire trench style from Paule Ka that I love and look forward to wearing as vintage some day!