Monthly Archives: June 2012

Friday@Flore

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This was the first Parisienne to come along my way, she looked so chic and fashionable, that I wanted to be her, and despite the soaring temperatures, she looks so cool.

The rest of us were not necessarily fairing so well, everyone looking slightly wilted thanks to a drastic temperature change. It is summer at last and I headed out the door expecting lots of summer wear.

What I say were legs. Legs everywhere. Poking out of skirts, popping out of dresses. From weekend wear to office attire, the Parisiennes were showing their gams. With lots of them having remarkably toned, tanned legs. Now how did they get those tans?

The ladies who look so relaxed and cool after a day at the office astound me and send me into reveries about where they are headed. Clearly she is all dolled about for someone. I love the mix of casual canvas heels with the taupe Birkin bag. As my friend in San Francisco says, “I want!” And she smelled fantastic as she breezed past…

Hermes not withstanding, the absolute MUST HAVE fashion accessories of the day, was, without a doubt, a large overnight bag. Parisiennes are going away for the weekend to get the most out of the summer temps, or perhaps to escape the Paris grey. And while a wheelie bag maybe practical, the vintage style Louis Vuitton almost smells like grandmère and summer weekends long ago.

Red hair and leopard prints. It seemed like everyone was going out tonight to celebrate the season.

Intricate back, gladiator sandals and maxi skirts. These girls seem to symbolize the recent fashion scene, as they rest, strategize and prepare for an evening in the sweltering heat, serving the über-trendy jet-set crowd on the ultra-cozy terrace of La Societé, one of the more discreet addresses of the Costes collection.

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

 

A Monumental Monumenta

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Monumenta 2012

When I came to Paris as a student, the Louvre had a day that was free for students. At the time, the entrance was at the eastern end of the palace, and I used to love walking past the crowds once a week, heading straight into the museum with my backpack. I would set-up on a large, wide bench, directly in front of Jean Louis David’s painting of Napoleon’s Coronation, and I would do my homework. The whole week’s worth. It would take me hours and I loved that time in the somber, dust scented air.

Monumenta 2009

I have not tried this as an adult, but I suspect the increased crowds would now be something of a distraction. However, I still go to museums or art galleries on a nearly weekly basis. A lot of the art I am seeing these days is contemporary. I love the playfulness, the irreverence and the pertinence of the art being created today.

Paris has the annual FIAC, Salon de la Photography and countless other events to keep the scene fresh and new. One of my favorite events is Monumenta, when every May an artist is invited to create an installation for the Grand Nef of the Grand Palais. The space is gi-normous making for art that is Grand to the power of two.

A few years ago an artist I really admire, Richard Serra was invited. His pieces are known for their huge scale, but inside the Grand Nez, his artistically rusted steel walls seemed like ridiculous child’s toys. A domino set ready to topple. In the video made about the show he mentioned that he had under estimated the volume of the space. I would say so!  In fact, I was so disappointed that I skipped the Boltanski show in 2010; large cranes moving in piles of clothing.

Monumenta 2011

Last year, another favorite of mine, Anish Kapoor accepted the challenge. M Kapoor’s art is not always monumental in scale and there is an entire body of his recent work that I find silly (the cement droppings), but I curiosity got the better of me. Thankfully, because it was perhaps the single most impressive art experience of my life. I now have an idea of what the folks during the Renaissance may have felt when the first saw the Mona Lisa, or how visitors to the 19th century Salons may have when first viewing a Monet. This piece change the definition of art for me, adding an entirely new vocabulary and leaving me dizzy from the experience.

Buren was the guest of honor. He is the artist responsible for the black and white columns at the Palais Royale, and while I think they are fun, I am not convinced it is great art. I expected to be disappointed. I was wrong. I still would not consider his installation great art, but it has a lot of what I like from the contemporary scene; it was playful, inspired interaction and made you see something in a new light. This time quite literally, with blue, green, orange and yellow plastics filtering our view of the Nef and changing the light shining down on one another.

I can’t wait to see who is in town next year!

200% more rain

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Tropical dreams

A recent email ended with my sign-off, “Enjoy the grey skies”.

The exchange ended with the query, “By the way, how does one enjoy the grey skies?”

Blue skies guaranteed

To be honest, I haven’t the faintest clue. The recent weather, full of rain and lacking light, seems to have the entire city in a slump. If you’re a visitor, you just buck up, put on a happy face and hit out to see the sights; museums, restaurants, cafés are all waterproof. Not as easy for denizens, whose sights tend to be the local Carrefour, or the inside of the same office you see all day, every day. But I do try…

I remind myself that the sky is blue in Syria. Suddenly, dull, grey Paris is sounding fantastic. When I asked a handful of locals how they cope. I expected a dozen different answers. I got one; they concentrate on their vacation plans. I can’t believe I had to ask.

You can even surf in the rain...

At this very minute the government is proposing more school holidays for students who already enjoy almost two weeks of vacation every six weeks. How is that for an economic austerity plan? More holidays for everyone! This news would be absolutely tragic for working families, but most employees get a minimum of 6 weeks paid holidays with a 35 hour work week so nobody is complaining. Except the financial markets, and maybe Germany.

Vacations are so important in France that large companies offer their employees Chéques Vacances. Chéque Vacances are gift certificates that can be used to pay for hotels, vacation rentals, surf clubs, golf resorts, theme parks and even highway tolls, a really generous way for companies to subsidize their employee’s vacations.

Summer vacation is taken so seriously in France, that along with the Fall campaign to help Children’s hospitals, it is one of the top charitable organizations in a country that doesn’t really do much fundraising. There are “Send a kid to camp” drives, “take a kid on vacation with you” opportunities and Ferrero chocolate sponsors “Kinder Village” summer camp. Even the City of Paris subsidizes some kids’ summer plans, because in France vacations are not a luxury.

Getting us through the grey....

And where are the French going this summer? Many stay in France, visiting family, heading to their vacation homes or going to exactly the same spot they stayed at last summer, and the summer before that and all the summers in the last 20 years. Unfortunately for us, the weather reports don’t look good, and we may all end up chasing the grey, instead of chasing the grey away.

 

 

Friday@Flore

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Thank you for tuning in. I hope you enjoyed yesterday’s musique…

We had about two hours of sunshine yesterday and it came just after a tremendously dramatic thunder shower with lightening bolts and deafening echos. As soon as the skies cleared, Parisians came scurrying downstairs the true city rats that we are (Ratatouille was no accident), gasping for light and fresh air.

All this gloomy weather has Parisiennes scrambling for a hot summer look that will keep them warm. Red is the solution; it gets the heart rate up and inspires love, like spring is supposed to do, if it ever arrives. Any shade of red, from bright fuchsias to deep rusts will do, on any garment; from jackets, to handbags, scarves to shoes.

Red pants are as IN as ever, I suspect that there are closets full of red shorts just waiting to hit the streets, if those clouds ever clear. In the meantime, it goes perfectly with that glass of Burgundy, since it is still too cool for a proper rosé.

When red is not available, every Parisienne is sure to have some summer whites in her closet. But even with long pants, despite the low temps, girls have succumbed to the comfort of open toed shoes. Damn the rains, something had to come off.

And then there are the pragmatists, accepting the weather for what it is, and looking absolutely swimmy in this fall’s coming fashion. Leather jackets, and low boots are still in, soon to be joined by the faux Chanel blazers on offer at all the fashion houses that market to the fresh and the fashionable.

And now a word from our sponsors; I would like to thank Lindsey, from Pictours Paris for reminding me to bracket my shots over drinks last Saturday. Such a “duh” moment, its embarrassing. Milles mercis!

Friday@Flore (not)

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Your regularly scheduled programming has been interrupted for La Fête de la Musique…. tune in tomorrow for a delayed viewing of Friday@Flore.

Fête de la Musique begins early, very early, for some. Around noon in the Luxembourg Gardens scheduled concerts had already began. But, I’m a working girl, so I only made it out the door around dinner time.

Heading home from a meeting, I saw café after café counting on police indulgence for the evening, having installed additional tables that sprawled well,beyond their legal limits. The places were already over flowing with Parisians absolutely thrilled to be enjoying a rare moment of blue skies. Especially after a tremendous thunder storm that had shaken windows throughout the city earlier in the day.

The entire city was ready to party. The first band I ran into was fantastic, playing original tunes that made you want to dance. 100 metres further along was a very young boy playing violin. I crossed the street to take a photo, expecting to hear a squeeky repetition of scales. Instead, I heard an impressively polished performance of some basic Mozart tunes. Wow.

Then it was off to the Grand Palais, where they were throwing a Bal Blanc to celebrate the end of Daniel Buren’s installation of Monumenta. Lots of youth trying to wear mostly white. It was infinitely less elegant than the Dîner Blanc, but just as fun, and a great way to really appreciate Buren’s piece, which was all about color and light. I was loving the scene and the intense beat of the techno music made my insides smile. I wanted to dance. Instead I lay down on the floor to photograph this original couple with the Buren couple in the background.

It was a great scene, only it felt almost criminal to be inside on this glorious evening so I headed back out to the Odeon area, where I know the performers and exactly where to head for British rock, 80’s cover songs or an old fashioned oompah band.

I have a particular soft spot for the man who stands on the rue de Seine, near the corner of the rue des Beaux Arts playing traditional French songs over a sound system as he distributes the lyrics and leads the crowd in a sing along. He once had an average day job, but thanks to his success at the Fête de la Musique, he now offers his services for corporate events, cruises and private parties, making a career of his passion. Proof positive that La Fête la Musique can change your life.

My favorite discovery of the evening, these guys played original music for at least six hours; They were amazing!!!

 

 

 

 

Shine bright

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When a good friend of mine was made redundant at work, the replacement agency that was helping her find a new job actually hired a fashion consultant to take clients shoe shopping. Shoes, according to the experts, are the most important thing you wear when going on a job interview in Paris.

I found this little bit of trivia amazing. I shared it with Mr French and the Parisiennes. But, of course, they concurred. C’est normal. If someone does not take care of their shoes, beh, they are just not serious. Which explains why even the seven year olds in the playground have perfectly polished shoes. My daughters’ friends; average teen boys, all have dress shoes. And wear them on a fairly regular basis. Its a national habit. But having nice shoes is just the beginning.

Shoe care starts immediately upon leaving the shoe store, when Mr French asks if we have waterproofing spray at home. At first, I thought this was a joke. He buys some fairly expensive shoes, and is worried about waterproofing? Don’t you buy them that way and the stuff wears off with time? Non ! When you buy a pair of shoes in Paris, you’ve got to waterproof them before you can ever wear them. And then waterproof them again, every 6-8 weeks for the rest of their lives.

And since they are nice shoes, they will most likely have leather soles. The problem with leather soles is that they are fragile and need to be protected.  You’ve just spent several hundred euros on a pair of shoes, you would think, you would HOPE that they were ready to wear for years to come. But no, after wearing those brand new, gorgeous leather soles exactly five times you are off to the cobbler’s protecting the soles and putting taps on the heels.

At last, you can finally enjoy wearing your shoes; sashaying through the city streets, crossing your legs ‘just so’ at the local café, bobbing your ankle at exactly the right rhythm to appreciate your stunning footwear and generally feeling chicer than the widow of the deposed president of a tropical island state. But wait. Is that a scuff over your left pinkie toe? Damn, did that stumble in the paving stones eat into your leather-lined heel? One day on the town and already you need… a shoe shine.

Fortunately, that is when Frenchmen come into the picture. On any given Sunday night, men throughout the city are taking out their shoe shine kits and getting ready to polish their shoes. I know CEOs of multi-national corporations with full time help who choose to shine their own shoes. Bankers, lawyers, the waiters at your favorite café, and even the gentleman who delivers my groceries, shine their shoes. Every week! “Its relaxing” they claim. “I enjoy it.” They insist. Whatever. I, for one, am happy to contribute to this relaxing moment by adding some shoes of my own. And of course, every morning as he heads out the door, Mr French stoops down, polishing cloth in hand, giving his shoes their daily caress before I get my kiss goodbye.

There is a specific routine to proper shoe shining, but in France, it is like the BBQ, almost exclusively a man’s realm. I suppose I could get all self-righteous about women’s equality, and demand to know more, but really, I’d rather let them have this one. Shine away, Monsieurs! Shine bright!

For everything from animal skins to heel forms to make your own shoes, or just a bit of polish in any color imaginable/ BHV

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.)

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