Monthly Archives: June 2013

Chicago

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I am back from what may very well be the most under-rated city in the United States and I am already looking forward to our next trip. What makes Chicago so great? Like Paris, it is a gorgeous city. We were ooh-ing and aah-ing at the turn of nearly every corner. There is the lake, the river and the stunning architecture with streets wide enough to actually appreciate what is going on up above.

There is science, history and industry and even more profoundly, industry that has played a major role in the making of America. There are two major university attracting some of the brightest minds in the country and important monuments, like the desk where Jake and Elwood made their deposit in the Blues Brothers. There is an amazing art scene, with major works by names like Calder, Picasso and Kapoor literally crowding the sidewalks.

We were walking along one day and saw a colorful monumental sculpture nestled near an office building entrance. “That looks like an Agam.” my Dad pondered. And it was. Just standing there nonchalantly on the street. There there is the Crowd Fountain in Millennium park. A work of art that provides an interactive place for water play.

Millennium Park also hosts outdoor concerts and a movie night. We had the opportunity to see the film Chicago under the stars, in the city of Chicago, projected at the Pritzker Pavillion, designed by Frank Gerhy. WOW.

If you’re less cultural and more sporty, there is kayaking in the river (the little dots in the water in the photo to the right of this column. I swear, they’re there) and several beaches for swimming in the lake. The lake front is also a great place for your morning run. It is not just Frank Sinatra’s Kind of Town, but a city with something for everyone.

Go Blackhawks.

Le Moleskin

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I’m back, and since I was out exploring the world, I was thinking about, dealing with and actively using maps. I love maps. Maps and guidebooks. I have been accused of being a  guidebook geek. I get guidebooks even for brief weekends that need nothing more than a quick Google search, so guidebooks with great maps, well, they send me over the moon. You can imagine my nerdy excitement when Moleskin started publishing City guides that featured fantastic maps, some great tabs and lots of empty space for you to create your own guide. In the blink if an eye, I’d bought tw.o; Paris, of course and one for a pending trip to London. That was nearly a decade agoIt turns out I’ve barely touched the Paris version. Living here quickly made it irrelevant, but my London Moleskin is my treasure. It has an envelope in the back and this is where I store all the cards of people we’ve met and may like to visit again, people like shop owners, tour guides, the guy who grills sea scallops wrapped in bacon at the Borough market and specialists on one subject or another.

Then there are all those empty tabbed sections where I can note which hotels we stayed in, what we loved about it, what was annoying and the rates we paid so that I can compare when booking subsequent trips. I do the same for the restaurants we’ve really enjoyed. That’s all pretty standard use, I imagine, but I do two things with the Moleskin that I really depend on.

1/ I keep a running list of all the places that we pass that we would have loved to have tasted, seen or explored but simply couldn’t for one reason or another. The title of this list is Next Trip and every time we return I tick off a line item or two. This trip I finally got to check off a visit to the Apsley House (the Duke of Wellington lived here), Mr French’s shave and lunch at The Only Running Footman pub while I added a visit to the record shops in Soho, lunch at Tayyab Indian restaurant in the East End and ordering stationary from Smythson’s on Bond St.

2/ The guides come with tracing paper post-its that I stick over the (very well done) maps, drawing symbols of places of personal interest. I’ve sketched a parasol over James & Sons umbrella shop, a stiletto over Senderson’s glorious shoe store. There are teacups and frames and books and canes and crosses. As we walk out of a museum, leave a park, or finish dining, I take a quick glance at the map and I know in an instant if there is something else we may like to visit in the area and exactly what it is.

I also keep a brief travel journal, which is fun to read and particularly helpful for reminding me of little details, like my favorite cocktail, you have to rent the lounge chairs in Green Park and where the best toilets are hidden. I also write funny conversations we’ve over heard, which can be some what embarrassing as I sit in the Eurostar, reviewing my notes prior to our arrival. Embarrassing because the restrained French and staid Brits are invariably shocked when a loud guffaw escapes me.

Friday@Flore

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I’ll be staying in this afternoon, because last night I was out partying until the wee hours at the Paris Diner en Blanc. Last week I was taking a bus and started thinking to myself, “Gee, it should be the DIner en Blanc soon. I wonder if I missed it?” My mild curiousity was quickly washed away by desperation over the rainy weather. It simply will not let up.

Then two days ago, my friend Mary Kay posted the date on her FB page, asking if anyone could tell her where the dinner would be held. She was in something of a pickle because we already had cocktail plans with friends that evening. Our cocktail was set to be a picnic, under the gazebo in the Luxembourg gardens, presumably as rain would be pouring down all around. And while that sounded lovely, MK had a lead on the Diner. We decided to play things by ear.

Ears started playing started with a phone call the next day at around 17h, “I really don’t have the strength to sit outside in this pouring rain. Could we choose another place?” MK had a point. It had been pouring all day. My pants were soaked to my knee caps and images of Noah’s ark were never far from my thoughts.

Ellacoquine, our third date for the night, suggested the Marais. Young, fun and somewhere new to me, I was IN. MK requested something a bit more central so she could jet off at a moment’s notice. She thought something along the Line 1 would be grand. Le Fumoir, I blurted out. Le Fumoir is one of the most searched sights in all of Google Maps Paris. It is hippy, trendy and located strategically just behind the Louvre, next to the Mairie du 1e (thank you Ella, for pointing out that it was the Mairie, and not just a continuation of the church next door). Le Fumoir also serves corn nuts at cocktail hour. We had a date.

 

And then magic happened. The rain stopped. The clouds drew away and blue sky could be seen for the first time in days. Ella was the first to arrive at the café and she deftly scored us a table on the much coveted terasse. I was quick on her heels, motivated by the promise of a sun celebratory drink.

 

We savoured the moment, the weather finally letting us being proper Parisiennes, sitting outside watching the world go by. And then, like fairy dust coming down from the sky, they appeared. “They” being folks dressed in white. Ella noticed them first. I immediately called MK and told her to step on it while Ella, ever the practical one, went over to get more details from the men in white.She came back to report that this was the pre-meeting place until their final destination was revealed.

 

I feel fairly confident that MK will give full details of the event on her blog, but I will just say that it ended as magically as it that began; from an amber sunset glowing through the pyramids of the Louvre to 6000 sparklers reflecting the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower. There were opera singers, an oompa band and one of my favorite activities on earth; dancing.

Dancing under floating lanterns and a rain-free, star lit sky.

A little laugh

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Last Saturday night Em’s dance class had their annual recital. The studio is a tiny spot near Les Invalides in the 7th arrondisement, so the teacher rents out an auditorium at the very conservative, very Catholic Le Bon Conseil community center.

“Where the hell are we?” Mr French grumbled as we walked in the door.

For us, the place is another world. A majority of the women had pin straight hair in a rigid headband and a lot of them were wearing cardigans. The men were in dress shoes and striped dress shirts. Posters against gay marriage where every where.

But the auditorium was, in fact, a real theater with red velvet curtains and cushioned seating. And the program for the evening looked fun. New York City was the theme, with a great selection of music that included Alicia Keys and the cast of Glee.

I didn’t mind at all as a bunch of angels floated out onto the stage and got the house rocking to “Oh, Happy Day”. Please Click here to see what I’m writing about!

Just to get the Mom part out of the way, Em was fantastic. She had been selected to dance center stage as her group danced to “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend”. She hadn’t warned me that she was being featured so it kind of took my breath away.

And then came some adults, great dancers dancing to a song that had me rolling in the aisles. In fact, CLICK HERE to witness a bunch of talented, well meaning folk putting their energy toward an entirely foreign movement. With the added benefit of my hyena-like laughter, which was not directed to the dancers at all. They were fantastic. But those words? In that place? With the crowd that surrounded us and the tutu clad angels in the wings. It made my Saturday night. Now give me my money back….

 

 

Friday@Flore

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Has gone to court. The tennis court!!! Since I’ve already made my case for fashion and sports, let me just say that for spectators wearing the right outfit can sometimes be a question of having a great time, or going home rather ill.

SO what does a girl wear to an international level tennis match with ‘it’ people sauntering by in every direction? Sunblock! And lots of it. I didn’t wear enough earlier this week and now Mr French is calling me Miss Strawberries and Cream. A hat, of course, that goes without saying. It is so de rigeur that they give them out free to all their VIP guests, which explains why you see entire sections of the crowd in matching hats. If you don’t bring one along, you may end up trying to remember how to make an origami one from newspaper, like you did in elementary school. Fans are a common accessory, but so are umbrellas!

Other must-haves include layers, lots of them, because it may be cold and blustery outside, but the stadium acts like a gigantic wind breaker, so if the sun is shining you may need to do some serious shedding. But once back out in the public area, you’re be happy for your rain coat.

Sun screen, hats, fans umbrellas and a rain coat? Yes, madame, because it may also rain. And that rain may be a chilly, grey, relentless rain, like it was last week, or it maybe a brief shower, with blue skies never far from view. Like the results of the match itself, you can just never be sure.

Once you’ve got the basics, anything goes, but I have never seen so many Hermes bags in one place. Not even in their shops. Men are often wearing suits, because they’re arriving straight from the office, and more often than not the suits are there for work. Women seem to have an easier time of dressing down in outfits that do double duty.

And then there are the uniforms. Every sponsor has an entire team of young, attractive folk wearing crisply cool uniforms. This is a group of ball kids who were done for the day.

Love all!

Roland Garros

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I’ve never gotten tennis. I love going on court and winging a few balls back and forth, but I am horrible at it and watching others play has always seemed like an odd sort of torture. And then came Rolland Garros, the annual Grand Slam event that happens in Paris every year.

Ay first it was barely a blip on my radar. Then I started to make friends here and I started to hear more and more about. Turns out, its a real people scene and my curiosity was aroused. As I asked about it, I learned that many of my friends were big fans and it started becoming a serious topic of conversation, but I was still not interested enough to do anything crazy, like log on and try to purchase some tickets so I could go on my own.

Then came Tuesday night’s dinner (grilled veggies with tome de brebis cheese and a Pouilly Fuissé) and Mr French’s announcement, “I have an extra VIP ticket to Roland Garros tomorrow, if you’d like to join me.” Monsieur Wonka was offering me the Golden ticket, a VIP invite with lunch and cocktails. AND (because, after all, its supposed to be about the game) we’d be watching the international star, Roger Federer play the French star Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It didn’t take me long to shout OUI!

Rendez-vous at the Tennis Pavillion, noon sharp. A leisurely lunch and we were on the courts by 14h to watch the women’s quarter final with The Italian Errani smashing balls back and forth with the Polish Radwonska. We had great seats and I started watching the game with some interest, but I had NO IDEA what was going on. So I started playing with my iPhone, taking photos. but that got old fast, so I started tweeting about the game, which made it kind of fun. And I started to get interested and before I knew it, my phone was back in my bag and I was at the edge of my seat, watching Errani win in a nail biting tie breaker.

After the match there was a brief break for everyone to go to the washrooms, purchase Addidas or Lacoste stuff, test the speed of their serve at the Longines stand, or have their photo taken by Balobat. There was soft serve ice cream and a face painter and so much to see that I felt like a kid at a carnival, which is pretty much what it is, only for grown ups! I could have stayed an hour, or two, but it was time for the men to begin.

I know its a sport, but let’s be honest here, even on the court, fashion counts. If it didn’t Nike, Adidas, Reebok and company would not spend millions outfitting every world class athlete in the planet, not to mention entire teams. So my first reaction to the match is that Federer was wearing a sad, grey t-shirt, no collar. Mr French assured me that this has been acceptable since Agassi in the 90’s. Fair enough, but if that’s ok, why are the women still wearing skirts? I have to admit that I loved his Nike sneakers with a white heel that made it look like he was wearing slippers.

And then the match began. Wow. Men’s tennis is really different from women’s tennis. They were serving that ball at 211 km/h. It was going so fast that sometimes we’d loose track of it as it zoomed from one side of the net to the other. In a total upset, the local boy did good, with Tsonga winning the match in just three sets (that’s pretty rare)!!!

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I’ve never gotten tennis. I love going on court and winging a few balls back and forth, but I am horrible at it and watching others play has always seemed like an odd sort of torture. And then came Rolland Garros, the annual Grand Slam event that happens in Paris every year.

Ay first it was barely a blip on my radar. Then I started to make friends here and I started to hear more and more about. Turns out, its a real people scene and my curiosity was aroused. As I asked about it, I learned that many of my friends were big fans and it started becoming a serious topic of conversation, but I was still not interested enough to do anything crazy, like log on and try to purchase some tickets so I could go on my own.

Then came Tuesday night’s dinner (grilled veggies with tome de brebis cheese and a Pouilly Fuissé) and Mr French’s announcement, “I have an extra VIP ticket to Roland Garros tomorrow, if you’d like to join me.” Monsieur Wonka was offering me the Golden ticket, a VIP invite with lunch and cocktails. AND (because, after all, its supposed to be about the game) we’d be watching the international star, Roger Federer play the French star Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It didn’t take me long to shout OUI!

Rendez-vous at the Tennis Pavillion, noon sharp. A leisurely lunch and we were on the courts by 14h to watch the women’s quarter final with The Italian Errani smashing balls back and forth with the Polish Radwonska. We had great seats and I started watching the game with some interest, but I had NO IDEA what was going on. So I started playing with my iPhone, taking photos. but that got old fast, so I started tweeting about the game, which made it kind of fun. And I started to get interested and before I knew it, my phone was back in my bag and I was at the edge of my seat, watching Errani win in a nail biting tie breaker.

After the match there was a brief break for everyone to go to the washrooms, purchase Addidas or Lacoste stuff, test the speed of their serve at the Longines stand, or have their photo taken by Balobat. There was soft serve ice cream and a face painter and so much to see that I felt like a kid at a carnival, which is pretty much what it is, only for grown ups! I could have stayed an hour, or two, but it was time for the men to begin.

I know its a sport, but let’s be honest here, even on the court, fashion counts. If it didn’t Nike, Adidas, Reebok and company would not spend millions outfitting every world class athlete in the planet, not to mention entire teams. So my first reaction to the match is that Federer was wearing a sad, grey t-shirt, no collar. Mr French assured me that this has been acceptable since Agassi in the 90’s. Fair enough, but if that’s ok, why are the women still wearing skirts? I have to admit that I loved his Nike sneakers with a white heel that made it look like he was wearing slippers.

And then the match began. Wow. Men’s tennis is really different from women’s tennis. They were serving that ball at 211 km/h. It was going so fast that sometimes we’d loose track of it as it zoomed from one side of the net to the other. In a total upset, the local boy did good, with Tsonga winning the match in just three sets (that’s pretty rare)!!!

 

My daughter, the Star

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Can you keep a secret? I can’t! I’m horrible at keeping secrets, which in someways has made being a Mom who blogs torturous. Having teens who get into all kinds of adventures has made for interesting stories I can’t share under threat of disownership by one, or both of my daughters. And rightfully so.

So you can imagine how difficult it has been for me to keep my mouth shut since last November when Em got kicked in the face during dance class. She has no idea how she reacted, she barely remembers the kick, but the person who kicked her (completely on accident and with profuse apologies) remembers and was deeply impressed with Em’s witty response.

She was so impressed that she kind of started stalking my daughter, finding out who she was through the dance teacher and making a point of getting to know her during class. In January, with the dance teacher present, so it was not at all as creepy as this is starting to sound, she introduced herself. She explained that she was both an actress and a director and that she had recently written the script for a short tv series. Its about a woman, her job and her family. She was convinced Em would be perfect in the role of her eldest daughter.

Em came home from class, her feet still dancing and blurted out her news with so much enthusiasm it took four tries before I understood what she was trying to say. I mean, the idea that she’d be working on the set of a tv show was not exactly hanging around the ol’ frontal lobe. “What?” I guessed, “you’re studying TB in dance class? You’re dancing about cereal?”

A month later she was invited to a casting call, and I spent the next several days preparing her for disappointment. We had no idea how many other girls they’d be auditioning. Em always responded with an “I know” but I wasn’t entirely sure that she did. The big day came and I joined her in a small chaotic office not far from the Sorbonne. There were stacks of files everywhere, low ceilings and dim lighting. We were escorted into a small room to wait with the two other kids and their Moms. There was the boy who’d be playing the middle brother, the 7 year old with the role of little sister and my daughter, the eldest. Scripts were handed out and they started doing a read through, which is when I realized that she was in. This wasn’t a casting call, it was a rehearsal.

Filming was supposed to begin in April, then May, and while I was dying to write about it and share the adventure with you all, Em swore me to secrecy until she was actually on the set. Which was today!

From 15h until 21h Em was in an apartment of the rue des Rennes pretending to be another woman’s daughter. Last week, they had met to decide on costumes. Em was astounded by the great details they went to, which included asking her to wear chipped black nail polish and requesting some much younger photos of each kid to decorate their “home”. Dropping her off this afternoon I got a funny feeling seeing a photo of my baby (and her sister, see above)) framed in someone else’s home, but I was thoroughly flattered by how young the Mom looked, and astounded to learn that she really was old enough to be Em’s Mom.

The set doctor (minors have to see an assigned doctor before filming) insisted I be on set, because she believes teens are fragile and she knows that show business is a nasty business, which is why I was there.

I’d love to tell you more details about the filming and the show itself, but I don’t know what is confidential and what is not and I stayed in a separate room, well out of the way to let Em do her thing, which was nearly as torturous as keeping secrets! But I can tell you its a pilot for a six minute comedy, a format that is very popular in France and I promise to share it all with you as soon as goes live!

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