dys-fonctionnaires

Posted on 13 09amWed, 12 Sep 2012 11:00:37 +000037 2012 by Sylvia

Right now, I am sitting in the offices of the Caisse d’Allocation Familial. These are the folks who give out subsidies to families with children, and help students pay their rent. We’re a motley lot; foreigners, people with handicaps and single moms. The woman at the ‘welcome’ desk is yelling at everyone as they come through the door, putting all her energy into turning us away. I am one of the fortunate ones; well educated, a proper breakfast in my stomach, and two kids safe at school. With decent prospects, I have plenty of confidence for the arguing and bullying required. Being very persistent, I am given a deli ticket. It is not golden, but it gives me the right to wait my turn and speak with someone who may actually be able to help.

At most of the places I visited this week: the tax authority, city hall and social security, there is a very similar UNwelcome desk, where a ‘host’ does everything possible to convince you that you are in the wrong place, missing certain essential documents and would be doing everyone a favor if you’d just leave. It is one of the most frustrating aspects to living in France.

I used to take it personally: it was my fault and I had to arrive better prepared. I was very relieved last spring when the über cool, totally French Ioudgine blogged about the 146 days she wasted unsuccessfully trying to get the local tax authorities to correct their own computer error so that she could actually PAY her taxes.

Its not as easy as it sounds. For example, you almost always need a phone, gas, or electricity bill that is less than 3 months old and has your name spelled correctly with an address that is the exact same as the one where you claim to live. But I no longer have a land line and our building is gas-free. This leaves the electric company, which has misspelled both of our names, and has the address they use to access our building, not the mailing address I need to use for administrative purposes. With an annual plan, I only receive a bill once a year, anyway.

So I wait patiently at the CAF, caressing my worry beads to the mantra, “thank god for Photoshop” and I breath. My number is called, the visit is brief and I leave the office with a pre-printed list of additional documents they require. This list is different from the one they mailed to my home that had me coming to the office to begin with and I am only here because they want to “regularize” my situation. Which, actually, does not involve them because they don’t give me anything and I have asked for nothing. Urgh….

The bright side to all of this is that I am convinced its the reason the French invented champagne and perfected chocolate. We need it!!

fade to black

Posted on 13 09amTue, 11 Sep 2012 11:00:55 +000055 2012 by Sylvia

In memory of all those who lost their lives. In honor of the children, spouses, parents and loved ones they left behind. Today, the world remembers.

Take that, bunny!

Posted on 13 09amMon, 10 Sep 2012 11:00:12 +000012 2012 by Sylvia

Yesterday, Benoît left me a bunny, which is how the French say, “I was stood up!*” Benoît is was my bricoleur. He has a day job in construction and would come to my home evenings or weekends to work as a handyman. Yesterday he was meant to be hanging curtain rods, fixing closet doors and removing a radiator. Instead, he stayed home nursing a hangover. I had gotten rid of the girls, borrowed tools and risen early on a Sunday morning. I was vex-éd.
Mr French was not exactly thrilled either. It had been a gorgeous Saturday and Sunday looked even better. Normally we’d already be on our way to the beach for an early morning run. Or we’d have spent the night in the countryside. Of course, when he mentioned this I was only more vex-éd.
AND I shouldn’t have been home at all! I should have been running the 6km La Parisienne race. I’d been training all summer and was keen to beat my personal best record, but my fall at Fashion Night Out had put the kebosh on all that. So I was even more vex-éd than called for.
The thought of spending an absolutely gorgeous Sunday afternoon in Paris with a severely annoyed woman did not seem like a good plan. Mr French jumped into action. “Get out the isotherm bags, we’re going on a pique nique.”

Yes, I know, in Paris, you imagine charming woven market baskets, which is exactly what I have. But Mr French is very into temperature control, so we use those practical, horribly un-romantic isotherms when he is in charge. Fortunately, this doesn’t happen often.
I complied then scurried off to get dressed while he took care of the feast. 20 minutes later the car was packed, the top was down and we were off for Versailles. Not the chateau, but the town, with its fabulous Sunday market where I have a rather serious crush on the mushroom lady. But we wouldn’t be visiting her today. We already had our picnic. So I was really confused when he parked and headed her way.
Just as we hit the market, he made a sharp right turn into what looked like a private courtyard et voilà…. there was a tiny collection of vintage shops selling canes, postcards, French fashion and even some serious antiques from timber framed shops built in the 1670’s. We spent an hour combing through the treasures as I fantasized about buying a queen carrier. That’s not the official name, but several shops had those large boxes, with a seat for one inside, windows around the top 1/3 and large metal clasps for pole bearers to use for transporting nobility across the palace grounds. They’re called sedan chairs (thanks Google) and I could just see the lines of clamouring tourists scrambling to pay a small fortune to ride one through the Tuilleries gardens. And then I thought of Benoît and employees who don’t show, and my stomach started growling and I was ready to head to the chateau grounds even if Mr French was not willing to carry me there.

*Il m’a posé un lapin (espèce de con may be added for some local color)

Mightier than the sword

Posted on 13 09amThu, 06 Sep 2012 11:00:57 +000057 2012 by Sylvia

La Dolce Vita

Like any good soldier, I pay great attention to my weapons, and being a writer, that would be my pen. I love my writing tools.

As a blogger, I depend mostly on high tech tools, like the iPad, which fits perfectly into all my bags and seems to have been made for the Parisian café culture. I love it. To a point. Because, as cool as it is, it is missing the art and the beauty of the written word. There is nothing more luxurious than having the time to sit in a Paris café, take out one’s pen and begin to right on a smooth, lovely paper. And there is really nothing like going to the mailbox and finding a long, handwritten note among the stack of bills.

The French take their pens pretty seriously. In grade school children are expected to learn proper penmanship, using a fountain pen. This is not a quirky little habit of the über rich, it is required by the public school system and It is a big deal when your child gets his/her first fountain pen at about 7 years of age. Lamy makes some really great “starter pens” (12.90€) for young students that are wooden, not terribly expensive, easy to handle and easy to replace at just about any corner stationary store as your kid looses first one, and then the other, and another, and… As the kids get older, they tend to stick with Lamy for school, graduating to the brighter, sleeker models that many adults like. I assume that they pick them up when replacing the umpteenth Lamy lost by le petit.

Beyond the school yard, its a wide, open field full of fun, fantasy pens. If you look beyond the Lamy section at any tabac or stationary store, like the one by the artist Ben (12.99€), in his signature black, with witty French sayings like, “Write between the lines.” Or trés fille fille Inès de la Fressange models (15€) with graphic flowers and a modern touch.

Being deprived all the fun fashion accessories available to us ladies, les garçons tend to get very serious about their pens (and watches, but that is another article altogether). Mr French loves shopping at Mora on the rue de Tournon in the 6th, a traditional family business where you can find the latest models, as well as an excellent selection of vintage pens from the most respected houses like Waterman, Pélikan and SJ Dupont (70€ on up…).

As for me, in 1992 I had a very nasty accident involving a leather purse and a leaky fountain pen. The ink won and I have been a strictly ball point girl ever since. I recently developed a somewhat unhealthy attachment to a Delta, Dolce Vita (195€). The pen is the perfect shade of orange to go with my collection. It comes from Italy and it is an absolute delight in hand; perfectly weighted, ideally balanced and wonderfully smooth to the touch. Now if only it could do some of my writing for me…

Da king…

Posted on 13 09amWed, 05 Sep 2012 11:00:46 +000046 2012 by Sylvia

While in Botswana the manager of San Camp, Mercedes, served pili pili ho ho, a Kenyan hot sauce made from chili peppers and gin. As much as I love French cuisine, I miss some heat, and I loved it so much that she shared the recipe. As soon as I returned, I needed to see a man about some peppers. A visit to the Saint Denis market was required.

At the market I treated myself to an ear of roasted corn and some oriental pastries dripping with honey. A holiday for my taste buds. Happily sated and the peppers safely in my bag, I took some time to visit the famous Basilique de Saint Denis, where the French buried their Kings and Queens. I hadn’t been in probably 25 years and on my previous visit I had not realized that this is where Dagobert had been laid to rest.

Miss Marie

Dagobert was the first king to be buried in the Basilique Saint Denis, sometime around the year 640. Ha was considered to be a good king and he made something of an impression on popular culture. Such an impression, in fact, that today 1400 years after his birth, in pre-schools across the globe, little French children sing about the Good King Dagobert who put his panties on inside out. He also had holes at his elbows, in his tights and was so filthy the grime looked like a beard growing on his face. Thankfully he had his good buddy Saint Eloi to point out all his little short comings and to give him the shirt off his back; along with the tights, the soap, and the money to replace whatever he needed. Its a long song. Dagobert needed a lot of help and Saint Eloi was a great sport, although I am not sure how he responded to Dagobert’s request to take his place by the devil’s side for eternity. The king’s privilege should only go so far….

Pili pili ho ho; fill a bottle with chili peppers, cover it to the top with gin, then let it sit for 6 months. Add dry sherry as needed.

Le Bon Roi Dagobert

50 Shades of Red

Posted on 13 08amThu, 30 Aug 2012 11:00:33 +000033 2012 by Sylvia

Uh, huhn…. you all know what book I’m referring to. Yes, THAT book. Being someone who tends to eschew popular culture, I was blissfully going through life, quite happy to ignore THAT book when it came into my life all by itself. And here are the (not quite) 50 shades of red it evoked…

Surprise when I realized my 15 yr old had brought the book home from her holidays in Canada
Shock that she was interested
Anger that her Dad had allowed the purchase
Bewilderment as she explained that all her bunk mates had read the book
Sadness that 15 yr olds are reading housewife porn
Flabbergasted that teens would fantasize about sex with an old man. In my day we read Forever, by Judy Blume, good old fashioned consensual sex between two minors.
Dismay that erotica is being sold to 15 year olds (that is the official genre printed on the back of the book)

Stunned that she’d lacked the good sense that this is something you don’t share with Mom, she’ll just confiscate it.
Pride that she was willing to share her curiosity with me
Confusion that I was angry about my 15 yr old having the book and proud that she is comfortable with sexuality at the same time
Amazed how many frustrated souls there are out there. Its not that people are reading erotica and talking about it, but that it is poorly written.

Astonished at the book’s success
Curiosity about how it will be received in France
Admiration of the author and her success
Nostalgic over the memory of the drunken lady at a chic restaurant in NYC who polled the entire room asking who had read the book. I told her that no, I had not, but she should consider getting herself some hot lingerie and a Frenchman so that she could start living it, instead of reading about it.
Wonder that it has taken so long to get from Woman’s Lib to a point when people are openly discussing their taste for erotica
Relief that people are talking about it
Concerned that women don’t know about the Secret Garden (ie, you keep it secret… no need to be taking polls in restaurants during a work meeting)
Timid about anyone knowing I have the book
Disdainful about ever actually reading it
Mischievous as I hide the book for good
Inspired to write a bit of soft porn of my own (but not for 15 yr olds!)

Intrigued by her writing style
Embarrassed as my own curiosity begins to wax
Amazed that I was never even tempted to crack the spine
Satisfied to let it sit (for now…)
Enlightened by this list
Happy that I get to live my fantasy with Mr French

Well, that’s just over 25 which is probably all the book really deserves and certainly more than anyone wants to read from me…

A solid foundation

Posted on 13 08amWed, 29 Aug 2012 11:00:27 +000027 2012 by Sylvia

Lingerie shopping for that first date reminded me on my very first bra fitting in Paris. I was nearly 40, had had two children and had not changed bra sizes in a very, very long time. To be perfectly honest, I had not actually worn a bra in a very, very long time. Like an insect in metamorphosis, I was changing from a granola-munching, hairy-legged, commando-dressing Californian into me. I’d look at the moms picking up their kids at the girls’ school and, as a designer, I could not help noticing that having the proper under garments made a significant different to their lignes.

I was ready for some underwear. Remembering that my Mom had taught me to always purchase one bra for three matching panties (yes, my Mom was cool), I spent several hours strolling through the lingerie department looking for something I thought I could actually wear. I was finally ready to try on a few pretty, yet practical, everyday bras to see how they fit.

The woman at the changing room stopped me cold. “Are you sure you have the right size?”

“Oui, oui, madame.”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” she replied as she clinically took her hands and cupped them over my breast. I let out a startled squeak as my eyes popped out of my head and my feet left the ground in surprise. “You’re an A cup,” she announced loudly enough for anyone to hear. She then put her two hands on either side of my rib cage and declared me a 90. 90A. The bras in my hands were 85B, which confirms that I am an optimist.

It also confirms that I had not yet learned how important proper fitting underwear is for a chic Parisienne style. I started paying attention, and at the gym I noticed that even for a workout, the girls were all wearing properly fitting, matching underwear, just like my Mom had said. And it was not necessarily expensive, many of my Parisiennes get their Dim underwear at Monoprix for bras that give a great silhouette with a comfortable fit for everyday wear.

Since girls just wanna have fun, they also like the lacy stuff from time to time. Practical girls head to Orcanta, where they have a large selection of many different brands with a respectably diverse selection of ‘moods’ in a variety of price ranges. When I am feeling particularly up-scale and naughty, I like Marlies Dekkers, for her flattering, extra-odinarily comfortable designs that are hot enough for a girl like Fergie from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. When I am looking for luxurious fabrics with that silky feel, I head to Princesse Tam Tam. Sometimes I get so carried away that I have to remind myself that I am there to look lovely when I am dressed and need to think about how the garments flatter me and my outfits (or not). For that, Aubade has the “cheater’s panty” which I will not picture here because my Dad and my kids read this blog. Not to mention Mr French’s assistant! If I really want to splurge, and I don’t care about what I’ll be wearing on top, I look at Eres for sumptuous silks in girlie not-frilly designs that have been proven to drive men wild.

Going Live

Posted on 13 08amTue, 28 Aug 2012 11:00:15 +000015 2012 by Sylvia

The problem with attempting online dating in Paris, is that if you are at all successful, then eventually, your ‘date’ is going to want to take things offline and actually meet you. Of course, that is the goal anywhere you start chatting up people online, but in Paris, chances are pretty high that you’ll be meeting a Frenchman who is used to seeing Parisiennes all day, every day.

Now, if you are a happily confident soul, this is not an issue (and you are a very lucky person) but if, like me, you are slightly complexed about your rounder than the-averag-local-girl figure and painfully aware that you are NOT a chic Parisienne, and on top of that had not dated, had not even contemplated dating, in the previous two decades, much less meet a new man for anything more adventurous than a coffee to discuss business, the thought can be overwhelmingly INTIMIDATING.

And that is exactly how I felt after Mr French and I had been ‘seeing’ each other online for a while. I wanted to meet him live, but I had no confidence and was paralysed by the simplest possible question; what do you wear on your first date with a Frenchman that you’ve never seen before, and who, more importantly, has never seen you?

Being plugged in, I posted the question online to see what the fashionistas of France had to say, and I got some fantastic advice, “Wear your favorite outfit, whatever that is. Something you feel absolutely comfortable and at ease in, something you know and that knows your body. Whatever you do, do not go out and buy something new.”

The advice continued, “Then go out and buy yourself the sexiest, most fabulous lingerie you can find. Something that you love and that makes you feel wonderful.”

Those women, like most truly chic ladies, understood that bras and underwear were not called foundation wear for nothing. They are the foundation of your style, they define your silhouette, control how your clothing falls and flows as you move and if chosen properly, they can give you a delicious secret that is visible to none, but obvious to anyone paying attention.

I started going through my closet, choosing my favorite jeans, my favorite blazer and some adorable kitten heeled boots that I simply loved. The blazer and the shoes were a color that seemed particularly appropriate for a date; chocolate. Then I went to Chantal Thomass where I picked out a little (teeny, tiny, even) something in a warm chocolate satin with laces. Not lace, but laces.

A week later it was D-Date. I am not crazy. I did not know this person and I had met him online. All this build up and angst was about a coffee date. We’d be in a crowded room together for as little as 15 minutes and a maximum of two hours if things went exceedingly well. Being the old-fashioned girl that I am, there is no way that anyone but me was going to be seeing my underwear that day. But it worked like a charm, and I walked out my front door feeling very comfortable in my old jeans, yet standing tall with my little secret…

Bonjour Paris !!!

Posted on 13 08amMon, 27 Aug 2012 11:00:27 +000027 2012 by Sylvia

We’re home!!! To be honest, my blog is post dated, so we’ve been home for an entire week and got to enjoy the canicule. It was glorious to have a bit of heat after our dismal Paris summer!

Sorbet from Pierre Hermé... no line and virtually guilt free!!!

So, what is it like, coming home to Paris? Well, if you have to say good bye to Africa or any great adventure, knowing that you’ll soon be saying Bonjour, Paris does make the pill that much easier to swallow. If you’re a paranoid freak like myself, you will be very relieved to come home and find that your flat has not been broken into, because home invasion is the number one crime in the City of Lights and it is particularly popular over les vacances.

Along with the relief comes an overwhelming sense of mud-wallowing, tail-wagging joy, because it is mid-August and the city is nearly empty, opening up a delicious playground to discover and fall in love with all over again.

There is a sinfully tempting selection of note-worthy restaurants that are usually too packed to even attempt in the regular season. This week we just walked up to and were immediately seated on the terrasse at the fabulous Le Comptoir du Relais and the mouth-watering La Cantine du Troquet Dupleix. Both featuring a enlightened menu of light, scrumptious dishes to choose from, all 100% healthy and guilt free. Like Mr French’s cold beet soup with anchovies at Le Comptoir, or my grilled razorback clams at La Cantine.

Even the street art got in the mood...

And parking spaces!!! Everywhere. One night Mr French called on his way home from the office, “It is gorgeous out. Get dressed, we’re going on a date.” 15 minutes later he was downstairs and we were headed for a lovely evening, topped off by a romantic stroll at the foot of Sacer Coeur. Like a true rive guache Parisienne, I had not been there in eons, so I was swept away by the romance of the illuminated, rain bleached basilica surrounded by couples hand-in-hand, tourists clamouring for a view of the Eiffel Tower as it went into sparkle mofe on the hour and one really, really bad street singer who provided the perfect comic relief for an enchanted evening in Paris.

Friday@Flore

Posted on 13 08amFri, 03 Aug 2012 11:00:18 +000018 2012 by Sylvia

Friday@Flore goes to Hossegor and shows you the sights from the Café de Paris. The Café de Paris is an institution around here. Set in a classic 1920’s building, at the main intersection, the lazy come here to see and be seen throughout the day, then around 19h, the active set, just back from a day catching the waves, or cycling the hills, spills in to enjoy the live music and refreshing cocktails.

I am really on holidays, so I only have a few moments to take the briefest of snapshots… but sitting here for a morning coffee before a ride along the coast, I was really wishing I had the time to write more about all the fashions being sported by Parisiennes on holidays.

Even on their bicycles, they are looking fairly chic, yet sportive. Hossegor is a cycling town, with the town’s center reduced to one way streets and wide cycling paths.

Those marine stripes I mentioned when packing are still in, although I was wrong about the Wayfarers. They have been replaced by Persols this summer. Any style will do, as long as it has the signature silver at the tips.

Then there were the market baskets that I loved coming, and going…. Mr French even got swept away in the fun and spotted this unique little bag, that he thought was fantastic.

There were even more, some sporting elegant leather trip, others boasting ethnic chic and a handful with polka dot cotton trims and bows.

Other stories, I didn’t get on film; orange or pink neon is THE thing to wear for runners this year; shoes, shoes laces, shorts or tanks, it doesn’t matter as long as it glows. The foutas Maroccan hammam towels are becoming more and more popular this year, being favored by the young surfer dudes as well as their grandmères.

Off to the beach. Bises!!!

Finding Noon

A life in Paris

Category Archives: for ELLE