Monthly Archives: July 2012

Happy 4th!!!

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What does a music school have to do with US Independence? - photo from the Schola FB page

When we first moved to Paris my daughters were learning to play the piano on a teak 1950’s Scandinavian upright I inherited from my in-laws. I hated that thing, and was thrilled to give it away when the relocation service refused to transport it to Paris. But I loved having music in our home, so one of my first priorities was to organize piano lessons.

My view at the Schola - photo from the Schola FB page

I took the girls to the Schola Cantorum. Every Wednesday. For years. We’d hop on the bus, and head up the rue St Jacques, past the Val de Grace church and into the 400 year old building. The girls would head into class while I would sit in the garden under the centuries old trees and prepare emails, listening to the interweaving music of opera singers, tuba players, piano students and dance classes wafting down from large, open windows tracing the same air waves that had once transported the sounds of Cole Porter, Eric Satie and Serge Gainsbourg.

On rainy days I was forced inside, where I’d explore large empty spaces and claustrophobic stairways. On one such adventure I stumbled upon a folded piece of paper posted besides an old, tired door. The sign read something like this, “Benjamin Franklin slept here.”

The Franklin Statue in the 16th

Now, how cool is that? I explore some random building in the center of Paris and stumble upon the bedroom of one of my childhood heroes (yes, I know it should have been Blondie. We were called nerds then). Benjamin Franklin came to Paris as the US Ambassador in 1776 to beg money and military support against the British. He stayed in a tiny room at what was then the English Benedictine Convent before setting up house in the Passy area that is now a part of the 16th arrondisement. Like me, Ben adapted well to Paris, appreciating the romantic life, fine food and lavish lifestyle. Unlike me, he used his time wisely; gaining French support for American Independence and building a nation. The nation we are celebrating today.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!

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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.

more Flore

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A few weeks ago I posted photos of the elegant, rather pampered folk who are willing to stand on the boul St Germain patiently waiting for a table on the terrace of the Flore. The inside may be completely empty as posers and voyeurs like myself wait for a prime spot; a table with a view. Today, for the first time ever, I had to wait my turn.

In a very UnFrench way, people wait their turn here. In a very French way, they refuse to wait in line, but stand there dispersed, keeping an eye out for who arrives when. They are un-stereotypically civil about waiting their turn.

So I stood there waiting, completely relaxed knowing that I wouldn’t have to worry about someone pushing their way in, pleasantly chatting with the waiter Dominique and watching the crowds, when two ladies with leopard-spotted silk scarves paid their bill.

“Attend,” he warns me. “Don’t get too excited, they’re enjoying making you wait.”

So I wait, and another couple is waiting, casually leaning against a sea-foam green Renault, when a very scruffy looking, local guy shows up with his kid. He is clearly seeking a table, prowling between the place where the civilized wait and the lucky bathe in the luxury of their table with a view. My radar goes up. He is being très uncool. He starts chatting up the two ladies in their leopard scarves and suddenly, they are giving him their place.

I pop up, “Excuse me, I was waiting for this table.”
“I was waiting, too.”
“Yes, but I was waiting much longer than you”.
The leopard ladies try to help him out… “Non, non, we assure you, he was waiting.”

I don’t care about the reinforcements, I am already seated. “Listen, I was waiting. If you have your doubts, go ask Dominique, the waiter.” I am relieved to have had a witness. There is no way both of us missed this guy as we stood there watching for ten minutes. I was there first.

He yells at me and I repeat, “Ask the waiter.”

The waiter for our section simply refuses to get involved. He is not Dominique.
The man is irate, he grabs his kid’s hand, storming off as he shouts, “You know, we can’t take living in France much longer because of people like you.

At this point I start feeling badly about having deprived the sad, washed out looking kid of a place to rest his feet and enjoy a snack. Italian – Jewish mother syndrome. Then, I remember the 50 empty seats just behind me, which confirms that the kid is sad and washed out looking because he’s stuck with that for a Dad. I happily order a guilt-free kir, as I sit and ponder exactly what he means by “people like you.” Did I just deprive a xenophobe of a seat? Does he think I’m an uppity Parisienne? Either way, I’m feeling pretty content with myself as the sun breaks for the first time in days.

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