Monthly Archives: April 2012

Man-y Pedi

Posted on by
1

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

Posted on by
3

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

Posted on by
5

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…

Friday@Flore

Posted on by
9

Le méteo predicted rain to day, so I prepared a collection of umbrella shots for my very first Friday at Flore. It didn’t rain. Happy Friday the 13th!!!

Spring had sprung, and this week, the crowds brought out their brightest, cheeriest umbrellas, to banish away the rainy gloom.

Every Friday, I’ll be sharing images taken near the Cafe de Flore, where tourists from across the globe mingle with chic Parisennes and the international jetset.

Café de Flore

It’s a date!

Posted on by
6

Friday night was the beginning of the long Easter weekend and the end of a particularly full week which included an extended business trip for Mr French, so it was a special treat when he walked through the door at 19h, looking relaxed and ready to play. As is often the case, I picked up the phone and tried to get reservations some where. Anywhere.

But it was last minute Friday night, and Easter weekend means that half of Europe is in town anticipating a long romantic weekend. Everything in my petit livre noir was fully booked, désolé, madame. Even La Table d’Aki, which was still off the foodie radar as recently as three weeks ago.

A Maître Ouvrier de France at work

Mr French changed into something more comfortable while I racked my brain for inspiration. Restaurant 21, another favorite for fish, had a table at 22h, a bit late for my ravenous appetite,  so we headed out for a stroll as I proposed creole tapas from La Rhumerie, or the Italian wine bar Oenosteria, run by our friends Chicha and Simone.

Strolling through the festive crowds, everyone was thrilled to be on a long weekend, except the waiters, who were thrilled at the thought of the extra tips they would be earning. Suddenly I remembered a restaurant I had walked by earlier in the week. It was still under construction, but looked bright and welcoming and I already knew that it was part of the group that owns Cosi, Fish La Boissonerie and La Dernière Goutte, so bound to be decent. The menu boasted cheeses by Marie Quatrehommes and listed the names of their suppliers for meat, fish, olive oil and hazelnuts. A place that is proud of its suppliers is bound to be good.

Semilla bouquet

Not your average bouquet

The place was throbbing with energy as we arrived. The exposed pipes and high volume made me feel like I was in NYC, while the menu made me think of California cooking with starters featuring spring greens, mangos, green apples or shitake mushrooms. The mains are either grilled, steamed or in broth, making for light, healthy eating that was simply delicious. I was intrigued with the tangy sweet mango mixture, but loved the deep, woodsy flavours of the grilled shitakes, the bright flash of the gremolata with a monk fish osso bucco and the fresh, pure taste of the pumpkin purée that accompanied my perfectly cooked pollack.

The desserts took more courage to attempt. By this point, we had total confidence in the chef, Maître Ouvrier de France Eric Trochon, but we were not in the mood to brave the avocado ice or the aloe vera cream. We settled on the carmalised bananas, which were so good we both awoke the next morning, their flavour lingering in our memory.

Semilla

 

Get in Line!

Posted on by
5

My chief Parisienne is, just as you’d suspect a very elegant, chic lady. She had a “golden” childhood as the fille de someone important and is my principle guide for all things purely Parisienne. It can not be a surprise then, that Mlle Paris was the first to tempt me with the black magic of line jumping. It was La Nuits des Musées, with hundreds lining up at the Musée Rodin, waiting patiently for the promised flashlights and night gardens. The line started at the entrance, continuing west towards Les Invalides, wrapping around the corner and into the parking lot. We arrived from the east and Mlle Paris just walked right up to the head of the line, acting like a VIP, entering without glancing left or right. I followed behind, five kids in tow.

No one batted an eyelash, or spoke out, or even seemed to noticed. I was flabbergasted. I was amazed. I liked it!

“How did you do that?”” I asked, somewhat in awe.

“I walked in.” she shrugged, “Those lines are for everyone else. They are not for us.”

Its foul to admit, but I had had a taste of line jumping and I was wanting more. I now line jump regularly, but in a considerably more civilized way; pre-purchasing tickets online whenever possible.

This Saturday was no exception and I started the day thrilled about avoiding the long line in front of the Centre Pompidou, where we were headed for the Matisse exhibit.

Once up the tube elevators, I was crushed to see a large crowd, everyone holding a billet coupe-file. The loudest, most hyperactive Italian kids were just in front us, providing some great comic relief as we were treated to an impromptu, modern version of Dino Risi’s hysterical Italian film, I Mostris.

The Matisse show is so popular that it runs until 23h four nights a week. And with reason, because once inside we were spell bound by the art. His colors! His lines! The rooms were full and crowded, but we hardly seemed to notice, being so entranced with the work.

So entranced that I started snapping away, totally lost in the moment. I didn’t notice the pompous jerk who approached me until he had hit my hand, swatting my camera down. I was shocked and startled and asked what he was doing. He told me that no photos were allowed, which is when I spied his name tag; M LeGrand, official museum guide. I calmly told him that was fine, but he should be respectful and should have told me politely. He snorted. I kind of lost it at that point and told him that he was rude and that no, I hadn’t seen the “no photo” sign at the entry to the exhibit because I had been distracted by a bunch of hyper-active Italian kids and and that there was no sign in the room and that he was a jerk.

“And what uncouth country did you waddle over from?” he sneered after tutoyer-ing me and questioning my sanity rather loudly.

“That is none of your concern. What concerns you is that I am fluent in two cultures, and you can never hope to be as intelligent.”

At that point a woman from his lecture series piped in saying it was enough. I glanced up to realize that we had an audience of thirty hostile folks all looking annoyed that someone had interrupted their lecture. I backed down trembling.

A woman from the group kindly came over to express her outrage at the guide and we agreed that M LeGrand, was in fact very, very petit.

Matisse

A well earned photo

Mr French’s natural instinct was to punch the guy in the nose, but he has spent a life time controlling those alpha-male instincts, so he gave me a kiss instead and we continued to enjoy the show.

Generally, I follow the rules, particularly when it comes to waiting in line and photography in an art exhibit. But on this one occasion, I am very proud to have my illicit shot. So take that, M LeGrand!

Matisse

A First Date

Posted on by
4

Meetic Sign

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Love, by YSL

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 tax write off

Posted on by
2

The French love round table style sets...

I answer my ringing cellphone…
“Oui, âllo?”
“Bonjour, Madame S?”
“Oui?”
“This is M xx, your accountant.”
“Oh, yes,” I reply, looking for a bush to hide under or a passing bus that could hit me and relieve me of my terror of all things tax.
“I’ve been reviewing your receipts and, well, do you really think a television is a legitimate business expense?”
“Oh, well, THAT. Its just that I’ve never had a TV and now that I’m writing international ad campaigns for the mass market, I need one for work. Its just for the ads, I promise.”

I gave up on television a very long time ago. We had screens for watching movies, and  there were moments when I relied on the babysitter-in-a-box via DVDs, like any modern parent, but for the most part, it was not my thing.

Three years ago I started writing ads for companies that buy ad space on TV and the “idiot box” moved in. So did Mr French, and we started watching rugby games. Then he added some business news and before I knew it, I was watching la télévision.

I’ve started turning on and tuning in all by myself now, becoming a fan of Le Grand Journal, which is news in an entertaining format. Think the French version of Good Morning America, but at night and with puppets and a weather girl who is an affront to modern feminism. I like this show because it gives me a really good idea of what is going on from a fairly irreverent, uniquely French perspective.  It makes me laugh.

The cast of Marsupilami

Serious guests like Martine Aubry, president of the French socialist party, are questioned by a round table of journalists, which sometimes includes the American singer, China Moses. China is so fluent in French that Gad Elmaleh, a French comedian didn’t even suspect that she was from the land of burgers and shakes. There are Les Guignols (marionettes) that conduct in-depth interviews with other puppets representing politicians and business men and the Boite à questions, a brightly lit white box in which stars are asked thought-provoking questions. Last night, they asked the cast of the new film Marsipalami,“What sentence is most likely to kill the mood in the bedroom?” French star Alain Chabat replied with disconcertingly suspicious speed, “Oh that? Its just a bit of herpes.”

SAV by Fred and Omar Sy is a nightly improv routine about customer service reps and the calls they receive.The actors have so much fun that it is often a challenge for them to keep a straight face. Look out for Sy, who is bound to hit the big screen in America with the ironically touching film “Les Intouchables”, a true story based on the relationship between a obscenely wealthy paraplegic and his male nurse from the projects.

The most recent hit from Le Grand Journal is the short film series, Bref… 2 minutes tales of a single man in Paris. Francophones can watch it here. And if it doesn’t work from a US ip, well I guess you’ll just have to come to Paris!

The new normal

Posted on by
8

Normal

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.

YSL sandals

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 by
3

Keep off the grassI 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.

Lawn at rest

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

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...