Category Archives: for ELLE

Happily ever after…

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Imagine a life without the promise of a happily ever after. I think of this occasionally; when I’m waiting for the metro to clamour up, as I avoid the people mags at the Dr’s office or at the movies before the show begins. I wonder how different my expectations would have been had my mother not ended most days of my early childhood tucking me in and reading a story about some beautiful princess, the man who rescues her and their happily every after. I particularly think of this in the cinema because this is where I first learned that in France, for this too, things are different.

Its thanks to a playful film starring the actress Charlotte Gainsbourg and her actor husband Yvan Attal and it is called, Ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d’enfants.

“What a funny title.” I laughed one day, walking by the billboards of the Odeon cinemas with my chief Parisienne.
“Its like in the fairytales.”
“What fairytales?”
“Yes, you know, they always end with that line, and they got married and had lots of children.”

In France, Cinderella went from her step-mother’s frying pan into her new husband’s fire with a bevy of children to look after; challenging her waistline and her future. And it would seem that Frenchwomen have bought into the story line, hook, line and sinker, contributing to one of the highest birth rates in Europe. Frenchwomen are not raised with the expectation of having a fairytale life once they marry, so they prepare to look after themselves, which is one of the reasons they have one of the highest employment rates of mothers in the Western world. Being a princess starts to sound a lot less fantastic, and a whole lot more realistic.

Which I am starting to find works for me. Let’s face it, I am not a princess. The laundry needs to get done, the dishes don’t wash themselves and raising kids is alot of work, even when being tackled by two people who love each other very much.

Then there is the niggling detail; happily ever afters simply do not exist. Again, I learned this from the French. I was at a Paris night club, having a fantastic evening with my husband, dancing and drinking champagne, when a hit from the 80’s came on and I began to sing, listening to the lyrics for the first time, “Les histoires d’amour finissent mals.” (All love stories end badly)

No they don’t! I objected.
Yes they do! I reasoned.

Because even if you love each other madly until the end of your days, there is an end to your days, and your partner’s and that end rarely arrives simultaneously. The French are right, there is really no such thing as a happily ever after. Which sounds so sad, but is really quite liberating and makes you savour the happily for now moments of everyday life.

Happy Graduation, E

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After an entire week of written exams and two weeks with oral exams, it is official (almost). E’s high school career is over and she can now play for 8 weeks before heading off to dazzle the University of Chicago.

Almost. I say almost, because we only get the results July 6, and it is not enough to have taken the exams, she must also pass them. Which is why, there are no high school graduations in France. This is fine with me, but many, many expat families demand that final ceremony, and when your kids go to a large, International school, there are bound to be enough Anglo-saxon parents to get things organized.

Which is exactly what happens at the girls’ school every year. First, the parent’s association sponsors a prom in the spring. Kids are given about three weeks notice, the girls throw on what ever they happen to have in their closet and the boys may wear a jacket, but certainly not a tux. I have never seen a corsage in France. Nobody comes to the house, picking up your gorgeous, princess disguised daughter giving you the photo op of a life time. Mine was so relieved.

Things are equally relaxed for the not-quite graduation. Grandparents are not invited and even siblings are told to stay away. I went to E’s graduation alone. There was a tent, in case of rain, and the speeches were in two different languages, directed at an audience representing over 53 countries. Caps and gowns are hard to come by this side of the Atlantic, so the kids are given 2012 sashes. And there are no diplomas, because no one has graduated; they each get a rose. Even the boys. And because this is Paris, we end the evening with a silly line dance followed by a champagne toast. The legal drinking age is 18 and none of the kids have a driver’s license, so everyone is relaxed enjoying the final moments before our kids buckle down and start writing their Bac.

(note; The graduation was weeks ago. I’ve posted this after the Bac. My mother was Italian, my Dad is Jewish, I’m superstitious)

 

What stage are you?

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That is the question all the high school sophmores are asking each other this week, because stage (pronounced stah – je) is French for internship and it is internship week for sophmores in France.

In Paris this is a very big deal (and probably for the entire country, I just don’t know because I can only live in one place at a time, despite my best efforts to do otherwise). Parents work hard at finding the perfect stage for thier child, sending out feelers months in advance. For E’s first stage, I had no idea  how difficult that would be and did not understand the stress. I had understood that she wanted to find the stage on her own, so I left her alone. Très unParisienne.

The week before E needed to hand the completed stage confirmation to her school, she came to me in tears. She didn’t have a clue where to start. I didn’t either, so I began with the basics. “What kind of job would you really like to do?”

“I’d like to work at a magazine.”

“What?” interrupted her 12 year old sister.

We can be a bit abrupt with M, especially when she interrupts in the middle of a conversation and we even have the bad habit of simply brushing her off. This time, fur whatever reason, we were on our best behaviour, taking the time to explain what was going on. Maybe it would be a lesson for when she needed to find her stage.

M listened intently. “Would you be interested in working at a fashion magazine?”

“Uh, like, yeah.” came the hopelss reply.

“Give me a minute.”

Ten minutes later M emerged from her bedroom, a post-it note in hand. “This is xxx’s number. She’s the Beauty Editor for Cosmo. The stage is yours if you call tomorrow from 4 to 5:30pm. Don’t forget and don’t be late, or you won’t get the stage. Miss class if you have to.”

Et voilà. A problem that had stumped the grown-up and confused the teen, was solved in a handful oh minutes by a tween. Who says wisdom comes with age?

This week is M’s turn. She’ll be working with the creative department of one of the more exciting online advertising agencies in town, in offices on the Champs Elysées she’ll be slaving away for the folks who did the latest Cartier film and are responsible for the surprisingly successfully and incredibly humourous Oasis ads. And again, she handled the finding of the stage on her own, making the calls and organizing the paper work. Already, a true pro.

The Client / Cartier

 

Grandmère comes to visit

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M and her BFF stumble into the elegant Neuilly flat laughing, their heads bent intently over their smartphones. Alex had sent a texto that was mdr (mort de rire) and they absolutely, omg, had to send it off to Claire, Olivia and Gertrude this very minute. Their Crackberry key boards clicking away at an astounding pace, the stereotypical fifteen year olds are so  absorbed in communicating beyond the flat, that they don’t notice what is actually happening within.

They are bowled over, quite literally as Mamie rushes towards them, her arms out spread, “Mawh, mawh, chérie…. its so lovely to see you. Oh, hello M. I’ve bought something. We’ve got business to attend to. What are you girls doing down on the floor? You look silly down, there, get up.”

The BFF looks up, startled, unconsciously wiping her grandmother’s lipstick marks from her cheeks as she rises back to her feet. “Mamie, you knocked us over! I didn’t know you were coming. You look so nice. What is the occasion?”

“Didn’t your mother tell you? She invited the family over for dinner. Your cousins are coming from London. We have to hurry. Come along.”

“Come along, where?”

“I told you, I brought something.”

Mamie hands the BFF a pink plastic Monoprix bag. The BFF looks down into the package, brushing back her waist length hair, “What’s this? E-pi-la-tion? Epilation! Eww, gross, what’s this for? Mamie, I have a friend here.” she starts to whine.

“It’s only M. And anyway, I don’t mind. She can watch. Now come on, we have to hurry”

“Watch? She can watch? Watch what?”

“Beh, mon épliation. You have to wax my mustache. Look at this mustache, c’est horrible. I was supposed to go to Ingrid on Monday, but now it can’t wait. I can’t have the family see me like this, come on, they’ll be here soon.”

“Maammmmie, M is here!!! This is sooooo embarrassing…..”

Bac parenting

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From strollers...

Yesterday I wrote about the thrills and wonders of the French Bac. As a Mom who grew up in the US, I’ll never know what it is to write the bac. This shocks the natives. “Quoi? You didn’t pass your bac? What did your parent’s say? How did you succeed in life? Wow, your writing must be total crap!” They can’t seem to wrap their minds around the fact that I don’t have my bac because in my country, they didn’t offer the bac to public high school students. So I sigh, assuring them that I got into UCLA, so I couldn’t be a total idiot. They remain skeptical.

to independence

Even now, decades later, the bac effects the adults around me. Mr French has been yelling at me for weeks about not being strict enough with E as she studies. We’re talking about a kid who gives herself a curfew, reads poetry for kicks and has already gotten into a fantastic university. Just last night he nearly fainted when he discovered that I had not thought of getting new batteries for her calculator, just in case the original batteries happen to die in the middle of her math exam.

My Parisiennes are in a tizzy, too. Some have taken off work for the week to be there 24/7 for Jean-Jacques as he crams. Others have fled to the countryside, abolishing any possibility of an potential distraction for little Georgette. These are the very same Moms who would encourage these very same kids to stay in the playground unsupervised for hours when they were in grade school and who let their minor children head to the French Alps for a week of ski and brewski on the slopes, without helmets or adult supervision. In June of their kid’s senior year, these mamans break forth from their cocoons and spread the wings of parental protection over their developing caterpillars as they inch along in their studies (guess which subject we’ve just reviewed for the science exam…)

they'll always be kids!

This week they are stuck to the stove, preparing hot, healthy breakfasts, lunches and dinners and they read and review the philosophy subjects, so they are up to the task of testing and challenging the petit Louis. Pharmacists recommend brain energizing plants, waiters in cafés start shouting merde (the French version of break a leg) and the whole neighborhood gets into the act.

If all goes well, Marie Claire will be going into a very excellent Cours Prépa, or a place called Science Po. Which means the students will be living at home for the next few years and all this parental coddling has just begun. Of course, I am jealous, because my daughter will be going half way across the globe to pursue her studies. I can’t complain, because I set myself up for this, but its not easy, either.

Especially, when I get the French reaction. They think it is fairly nuts and bordering on irresponsible. I try to explain that it is an American tradition; we’ve been chasing our freshly adult children off to the wild frontier, in search of new territories, since the foundation of our country. We say it is for their own good. It helps them develop. But even to my own ears, this is starting to ring untrue. Have you smelled a growing teen recently? Tried to keep one fed? Universities have coin-operated washing machines and meal plans. Could it be, as the Parisiennes suspect? Was the American university system established to maintain the sanity of the nation’s parents?

A Children's Paradise

Now, excusez-moi, as I go prepare E’s meal. Something no mother should be doing for her legally adult child who is not eating with the family, but I am afraid they may revoke my citizenship if I refuse to comply (and I really do want her to do well.)

Get Bac!

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The French think, therefore they are...

Everyday my daughter goes online and reads posts from American and Canadian friends who are heading off to jobs at summer camp, going on vacation, or savouring the end of their high school careers. It is not the highlight of her day as she bunkers down and studies for the baccalaureate exams.

The French bac is a series of maybe 12 oral and written exams given in three or four languages at the end of a student’s junior and senior years. Their entire high school career depends on the results of these exams and will play a large role in each student’s future. And since the essay exams are often four hour tests in which a student responds to one or two questions, a lot can go wrong very quickly.

For students going to the US, there is less pressure. They simply need to pass their bac. Those going to England or Canada have been given a minimum grade required by their university. 14 or 15 points maybe required, which is difficult, but not impossible. For students continuing on in France, it is much more complicated and they won’t even know all of their options before mid-July.

Understanding the bac could almost require a degree of its own. There are three different baccalaureates. Science, Social-Economics and Literature. Some of these bacs are more prestigious than others. Each subject of the bac is assigned a value, called a coefficient. The coeff may have a different value for the same exam, depending on which bac you are taking. For example, French is coeff 2 for SE students, but 3 for L students. The results of a test with a coeff 7 are much more important than the results of an exam with a coeff 4. The coeff determines the importance of a exam in calculating the students final grade, because at the end of all those exams, that’s what you get, one final grade. No pressure there.

And if all that is not complicated enough, each bac also has a series of specialties and optional exams that allow students to earn extra points, with subjects like Ancient Greek, or Music. There is also an Option Internationale for all baccalaureate candidates striving for that extra challenge. With the OI, students may find themselves studying from a French language text book for an English language history exam.

As this blog posts, every French high school senior in the country has just finished their first* their major épreuve, the Philosophy exam; 4 hours, 1 question, ready, set, GO…. Each bac (S, SE, or L) has a different set of questions to choose from. Questions like; Does art change our perception of reality? Are politics a science or an art? Is communication the only use of language? Can we know the truth? Why protect the weak?

The entire country spends the next three days discussing the questions and expounding for hours over all the possible replies. It tops the news of the day, takes over business meetings and dominates dinner conversation. Bringing all of France together in an annual exercise of deep thought. As soon as the questions are made public today, I’ll be heading to the Flore to eavesdrop on philosophers like Bernard-Henri Lévy and hear how they would have answered. But if I didn’t have to stay close to home, THE place to head would have to be the Café des Philosophes in the Marais.

EAVESDROPPING AFTER THE BAC PHILO/ Café des Philosophes

28 rue Vieille du Temple / (M) St Paul / 01 48 87 49 64

* except the OI students who already had a few oral exams last week.

UPDATE/ This year’s questions…

Sujets Philosophie Bac S 2012

1/ Avons-nous le devoir de chercher la vérité ? Is searching for the truth our responsibility?
2/ Serions-nous plus libres sans l’Etat ? Would we be freer without government?
3/ Commentary on a text by Rousseau (Emilie)

Sujets Philosophie Bac L 2012

1/ Que gagne-t-on en travaillant ? What does one earn through work?
2/ Toute croyance est-elle contraire à la raison ? Is all faith contrary to logic?
3/ Commentary on a text by Spinoza (Traité théologico-politique)

Sujets Philosophie Bac ES 2012

1/ Peut-il exister des désirs naturels ? Can natural desires exist?
2/ Travailler, est-ce seulement être utile ? To work, is it uniquely about being useful?
3/ Commentary on a text by Berkeley (Devoir et obéissance)

Happy Father’s Day!!!

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Once upon a time a little girl had a dream. It was an odd dream. She wanted to cross the seas and live in a strange, far away land where the people spoke a funny language and ate stinky cheese. The dream was particularly odd, because the little girl was already very happy; she had two fantastic parents, a very sweet brother and tons of fresh cherries from the cherry tree in their backyard. The little girl’s parents had other, really important things to worry about and didn’t really know much about this strange land, but they loved their daughter very much, so they gave her the very best education possible, and they showed her the ancient redwoods, and they took her to the nearest city and they opened her mind and they promised that someday, they would send the little girl to the land of her dreams.

One day, the Mom died. But the Dad was there and through his grief he remembered their promise, so he sent the girl to this very strange land. She was only 16 and there he was, putting his little girl on a plane. Alone. Letting your children go is never easy, but sending them to a far off land you’ve never visited can be very scary. And he was right to be scared, because the girl truly loved this strange land, so she went again. And again. Then one day she moved there and only came back for holidays, and even then, not very often.

By that time, the Dad had learned to love this land, too, and he understood why the girl wanted to live there and he saw that she was happy. It made him happy that she was so happy and had found her home. But it also made him a little sad, because it was so very far away and he didn’t get to see her very often. And then she had two beautiful little girls, so he missed them, too.

But he made the girl feel very proud about her life, and the job she was doing raising her daughters. And everyday the little girl would wake up and thank the powers of the universe that she had a Dad who had shaped her into the kind of woman who would make her dreams come true.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you and I love you very much.

Happy Father’s Day Grandpa, love, Evan & Maya. You’re the best!!! Mwahhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

Not yet a room of my own…

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I love writing. I get up in the morning and more than a cup of coffee, the first thing I want is to sit at my computer and hit the keyboard. As I head to my desk, I often find myself tripping over a pile of laundry that desperately needs cleaning, as I pop it in to the machine, I notice that the kitchen needs a quick sweep and as I sweep, I realize that we’re out of bananas for breakfast. Heading to the market, I grab some dry cleaning that needs to be dropped off, and before I know it I’ve spent the day doing housework. I am someone who needs to work outside the home.

In my search for a work space, I consulted an expert…a literature professor who has spent much of his life in libraries.  I listed my requirements; comfortable, airy place with plenty of natural light, an electrical outlet and wifi.  Like a true friend, Karl put me in my place informing me that natural light destroys books. Expectations adjusted, we headed out. First, he brought me to Mitterand’s Bibliothèque Nationale… too big, then to the Bibliothèque de Paris André Malraux… too small and finally to his persona favorite, the Bibliothèque Mazarine… just right.

It was love at first sight. We walked up a handful of steps into an oval light well, sun dappling the black and white checked floor. The sedate spiral staircase that leads up is lined with busts of famous, blank faced luminaries. Entering the reading room, the ancient parquet floor creaked under our feet. We stopped to open a drawer from the old card catalogue cabinets and inspected one of the thousands of cards bearing intricate script that had flowed from feather pens in the 1800‘s on to now yellowing stock. They are obsolete, the system has been digitized, but the cards remain.

The Bibliothèque Mazarine was opened to the public in 1643 by Louis XIV’s advisor, Cardinal Mazarin, and it is the oldest public library in France.  The library itself is relatively small with only four large tables running across the façade of the building and ten tables continuing down the eastern wing.  Each table is equipped with two large reading lamps and ten embedded brown leather blotters bearing gold embossed numbers that direct readers to their assigned seats.  The twenty-four foot high walls are lined with bookcases, each filled with ancient tomes from the 16th to 19th centuries. The works are arranged according to height, with the tallest books on the bottom shelves and the smallest books up in the rafters. Each row is carefully protected by hanging green baize dust covers, creating a restful symmetry that would make Martha Stewart swoon.

Between the bookcases stand ionic columns, each providing a stately backdrop to the bust of historical figures such as Cicero, Benjamin Franklin, and Molière.  The entire room is topped like an inverted wedding cake by a mezzanine rimmed with iron work balustrades that visually support an additional ten vertical feet of book shelves, this time filled with collections of all the same size, looking a bit forgotten and rather forlorn up there, removed from their only source of life, the readers.

And there are windows, UV’s be damned!  18 glorious french-paned windows perhaps four feet wide and eighteen feet high stand among the columns of the bookcases.  My favorite windows are along the façade and look out on to the Pont des Arts as it stretches from the left bank to the Louvre, providing passage across today’s roiling brown waters of the Seine.  As I take a brief break I can watch lovers sharing an umbrella as they stroll along the quai and bemused tourists gazing skywards while crossing the historic span.

I share my new work space with men and women both young and old.  Some, like myself, merely come here because it is a pleasant place to study, read, or write.  Others are here for research from the more that half a million tomes that dominate this space.  Many of the books here are so precious that they must be perused under the supervision of library staff.  Others are furnished with two triangular pillows that serve to cradle the book and protect its spine.  Strolling among the readers, one can see pages that have turned ivory with the passage of time, their brittle leaves supporting frayed and uneven edges, telling tales perhaps as rich as the printed work on the pages.
THE LIBRARY/ Bibliothèque Mazarine

Ode to Corey Hart

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My fashion frames

Well, not really, but like him, I am obsessed with sunglasses.

When we first moved to Paris I owned a great pair of lemonade-green Ellen Tracy’s with a serious 90’s flair, a ne plus ultra pair of Giorgio Armani’s from the 80’s and I was soon offered a hipster-cool (before hipsters were cool) pair of blue tinted Italian shades. I lacked fpr nothing, but I really, really wanted these very great tortoiseshell Persols. Really, wanted them. Some times I went to sleep thinking about them, petty girl that I am. But as my daughter’s strict Irish nanny would say, “I want gets you nothing.”

Found frames

That spring I chaperoned my daughter’s class to the Luxembourg gardens to watch Brazilian dancers perform for La Fête de la Musique. As we strolled through the park, chatting and herding kids, a teacher came up to a group of us declaring “Tiens, look what I found!”
She was holding a pair of “my” Persols!
“Wow,” I declared, “those are excellent glasses. Perhaps we should bring them to lost and found?”
“Are you nuts?” scoffed la parisienne, “that would be giving a gift to the park staff, they’ll just keep them for themselves.”
With the thousands who passed through the park each day, I kind of saw her point. “Well,  keep them, they’re awesome.”
“I already have this model. Do you want them? If not, maybe Catherine is interested.”
Ethical dilemma. I was still thinking we should return them, but there was no ‘we’ and if I didn’t accept the offer, Cat would. “Oui, merci” I gulped.

Vintage frames

A few years later I mention to Mr French that I love the perfectly designed Tom Ford glasses that seem to have crossed the bridge of every fashionable nose in the city. He thought I had a point and start talking about less sporty, more stylish options. The Ford model was just a bit too popular. We headed to JLC which specializes in fashion forward models from fantastic designers who are discreet with their logos. Most of their collections are not household names. I tried on a pair of Barton Perreira Centerfolds and it was clear I’d found the perfect fit.

Then I started running. Buying new sunglasses struck me as frivolous, but my mind would wander, telling me that a classic pair of the ubiquitous, yet cool Wayfarer Ray Bans would be ideal. M was in Montreal for the summer. At 13, she had some very trendy blue plastic Ray Ban aviators that she loved. She called from grandmère‘s. “Mom, Mom… we were at Walmart shopping for beach towels when Grandmère found a pair of Wayfarers under the display stand. She said that it was no use turning them in to lost and found, they’d only keep them for themselves.” Yes, grandmère is a parisienne, born and bred. My daughter came home from her holidays with a fantastic souvenir for Mom.

After all that, it is somewhat shocking that I still bought another pair of sunglasses. I was strolling the Marais when a pair of Audreys caught my eye. I had never seen a pair of sunglasses that looked so much like the pair Audrey Hepburn once wore. I went in and learned that I was not far off from the truth. Oliver Goldsmith made glasses for Audrey in the 60’s. Recently, his grand-daughter set-up shop in London and started selling Granddad’s designs to addicts like myself, looking for a great vintage look that never grows old.

THE STORE/ JLC

A Royal Opera

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Opera by (electric) candlelight

I’m a writer. I love a good story. The stories in operas are not good; Mimi wasting away of consumption in a Paris garret, Norma climbing the funeral pyre, Carmen’s ranting ex… the ending is always the same. She dies tragically.

Violetta dies tragically (photo courtesy of the Opéra de Versailles)

And to my ears, these gloomy tales us are told by hysterical screechers, their voices grating on my nerves like dry erase on a white board. I spend most of the show wishing they’d stop singing so I could hear the music! There have been some performances I have truly enjoyed, but more for the moment; seeing an outdoor performance of The Magic Flute with the Château de Sceaux as a backdrop (at last, a happy ending… although that high F6 drove me mad for days), or watching Carmen at Christmas, cuddled-up with Mr French over a steaming mug of hot chocolate (spoiler alert; she dies tragically). Someone once told me that it was a question of maturity and that I’d learn to love it when I was older which has only left me dreading the fit of depression I’ll fall into if I ever do start liking opera…

The King's Loge

So it was an incredible act of selflessness when I chose to give Mr French tickets to see La Traviata (you know the ending) at the Royal Opera House of Versailles for Christmas. The Royal Opera House was inaugurated in 1770 as part of the wedding celebrations for Louis XIV and his charming little Austrian, Marie-Antoinette. The Opera house was closed for restoration in 2007 and Mr French has had a hard time getting tickets since its re-opening in 2009. In walks moi. I was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice and attend an opera, even if it meant taking the risk of actually liking it and spiraling into a fit of depression as I ponder my mortality.

Only a few souls were left haunting the château

The sacrifice was large when you consider the sumptuous beauty of the setting; royal seats designed for a king, exquisite chandeliers and ornately painted wood. And we had the entire palace to ourselves, with just 1000 other, well-dressed guests. Versailles at its best. I can’t say that I was suffering.

The show was spectacular, and even if I don’t yet love opera, I do love the music and I could appreciate that the soprano, Nathalie Manfrino, was truly fantastic. The purity of her voice moved even me during her final aria. But I’ll be honest; the best part was spending the two intermissions haunting the wings, watching the sunset over the deserted gardens, and entering the King’s loge, feeling like a princesse as I sat in the royal seats.

MORE INFO/ Opéra Royal de Versailles

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