I am off to Chicago to see my daughter… Back Next week… Until then, here’s a little eye Candy left over from the Diner en Blanc….
Steppin’ Out…
4
Friday@Flore
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
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
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
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)!!!
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
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!
Through the looking glass
Yesterday I felt like Alice. I spent all day in a meeting at the other worldly Hotel de Rothschild in the swanky 8th arrondisement, surrounded by fashionistas from across the globe. I saw stilettos so tall, the front sole was on a 2 inch platform. I saw the classic Chanel bag in about 16 different variations, and every shade of black known to man on every chic fabric wearable, including plastic.
I read a text message from Mr French in my mad dash home to make dinner for Em, who was celebrating because she had her second article published in The Girls Guide to Paris. The text popped up just as was posting the above link on FB, tweeting it, and using every venue available to me to promote me kid shamelessly. It said, “cocktail tonight… gardens in the Grand Palais, we’ll leave at 8pm.”
At the appointed hour, I headed downstairs, hopped into his car and we were off through the pouring rain. It was coming down in sheets when we arrived 15 minutes later and there was a traffic snarl with cops everywhere. What to do? Use the valet parking at the Mini Palais restaurant, of course! Which meant I had to lie to the valet parker and tell him we had reservations for the evening. I am only sharing this little detail because confessing it makes me feel like maybe I won’t burn in hell for not telling the truth!
Hopping over puddles in my 3 inch high heels was something of a challenge, and Mr French had a good laugh over the meandering path I had to take. But we made it.
Shaking the rain off my shoulders I looked in wonder at the garden that had sprouted inside this glass domed monument. A bamboo forest grew in one corner, a 1000 yr old olive tree in another. There was a fantastical treehouse spiraling up from the middle of the room and a larger than life, a Barbie pink mansion to the far right. In the middle was a corral or artist decorated bicycles and a sprawling field full of picnic scenes and mini Fiat cars. There was some photography and beautiful watercolors by a man from Lyon, Vincent Jeannerot. A Monet style water lily garden, larger than life mushroom composters, plated chandeliers, Bijoux pine trees and countless other organic treasures that really did turn the place into a Wonderland!
Polly in Paris!!
Its The Art of Gardening at the Grand Palais until June 3, with a supplementary show in the Tuileries Gardens and it was a spectacular breath of fresh air in Paris!
Stilettos
Ancient Egyptians were hobbling around on high heels, so it is hardly a new thing. Monsieur Ramses was strapping on his heels to avoiding getting his feet dirty with blood as he worked in his butcher shop, so things have evolved considerably in the last 5000 years. We can thank the Italians for several phases of this evolution, as they wore heels on stage in Ancient Rome and then, in the 15th century, took the Turkish platform chopines and raised them to vertiginous heights. Particularly the Venetians, who have left samples with heels as high as 30cm. It was an evil plot, with the Republic’s patriarchs convinced that this was a sure way to keep their women at home, or at the very least, under escort, as they required servants to hold them steady to teeter from Palazzo to gondola and home again. It’s no wonder we use the Italian term to describe the most daring, most vertiginous heels today.
And the fact that the term defines the shape of a sharp, pointy weapon doesn’t seem to be an accident… they can be instruments of torture. And yet, we love them, covet them and spend excessive amounts of money acquiring them. Even when they may be just a half size too small (but they were on sale, I saved a fortune!).
On the last weekend before our departure, exactly one hour before stores closed for the weekend, Mr French dragged me out of the kitchen where I’d been preparing the meals for the week and steered me towards the posh rue de Grenelle, despite the distinct odor of onion emanating from my hands. The rue de Grenelle is an 8 minute walk from our front door and it just happens to be shoe lover’s mecca.
Chloé, Stuart Weitzman, Giuseppe Zanotti, Fratelli Rosetti, Marc Jacobs, Michael Kors, Prada, Sergio Rossi and Michel Perry can all be found along the 75 meters of street that run from the Carrefour de la Croix Rouge and the boul Raspail. Oh, and Christian. Yes, Louboutin is there, too.
The saleswoman for the dress had suggested silver shoes, but I had settled for a pair of black silk mules, with a reasonable 2 inch heel that I already had in my closet. Mr French wanted us to follow the saleswoman’s advice, but I didn’t want shiny silver, so we had one hour to find a pair of matte silver shoes. I was feeling confident that I’m be wearing my mules.
First stop; Sergio Rossi, where they had a perfectly acceptable pair of matte silver heels. They were lovely and I could use them for everyday wear at the office after the event. I was sold. As we walked towards the register, Mr French stopped in his tracks. He had spotted a pair of black and grey satin stilettos. He was intrigued. I tried them on. He feel hook, line and sinker. 5 minutes later I was stumbling out of the boutique with my first-ever pair of stiletto heels.
I have to admit, the extra inch made a world of difference to the whole outfit. As I walked into the Palazzo in Venice, eyes were drawn to the sparkly tips of my toes. Women looked at them admiringly and a few even asked for a closer look. Not that I plan on making stilettos a regular addition to my wardrobe, but it was fun to feel like an It Girl for the evening.
La Soirée…
I felt beautiful for the soirée. I love the dress, which is the closest I’ve ever come to wearing a work of art. For the first time in my life I was daring a genuine pair of stiletto heels and all of my accessories were just right. I’d even had my hair done , braving the gossipy Saturday morning crowd of venetian grandmothers waiting for their blow dry as I tried to explain what I wanted in a very broken Italian to a woman who was used to back combing and litres of hairspray. In the end, the stylist did a stupendous job, creating a chignon that showed off the daring décollté of my dress, while keeping it all loose and informal.
Taking the elevator from our room I espied another Frenchman in a tuxedo. Assuming that he was also guest for the soirée, I introduced myself and soon met his wife, Dorothy. Before heading out together, we stopped on the dock to take photos and that is when I realized that no matter how great I felt that evening, in reality, I looked like an over stuffed sausage. I’m only now digesting my disappointment…
BUT, I didn’t let it taint our evening. Mr French looked fantastic and we were in Venice! We set off on quite the adventure finding our way through the maze of this ancient republic; over age worn cobbled stones, beyond a lively square, left along a canal for 20 meters, and over a bridge. The sight of 2 smiling girls in regional costume standing by a dock let us know we’d arrived. Not being in a water taxi, we crossed yet another bridge, passed a water well and stopped for a photo op by a couple of guards dressed as moors before going in. Rose petals littered the ground of a square, falling from a vase adorned water well that dominated the stone-lined courtyard while a stringed quartet plays light music and tuxedo clad gentlemen twirled ice cubes short glasses filled with amber red Spritzer cocktails while luxuriously dressed ladies sipped fragile pink Bellinis from champagne flutes.
The women were in long dresses, silken dark, flowing fabrics, jewels catching the evening light. There is a private garden with blooming roses, lion sculptures and a gate to the canal. A man comes over, introducing himself as the brother-in-law of our hosts and our table captain. I had never heard of a table captain before and quickly learned that it is his job to introduce the folks who’d be spending the evening together to ensure a good time is had by all. We chat and he is soon off to identify the rest of our table’s guests for the evening. Hands are clapped and we are beckoned back to the courtyard for a Commedia dell’arte performance with a human horse that is cut in two.
It is time to climb the stone, candlelit stairs to the sumptuous piano nobile where Murano glass chadeliers crown the ornate room like a series of tiaras. Spouses are separated as seats are assigned, food is served, speeches are made. I am the only one in the room with a camera and I am not the least bit perturbed by this fact. We are supposed be used to this, taking it all in our stride; blasé. But I am not and I don’t ever want to be. I am living an incredible moment and I savour it. The French man to my left is catching up with an old classmate. I introduce myself to the gentleman to my right and quickly understand that he is an Italian Count and our second host for the evening. It is his Palazzo we are dining in and I have been seated next to him because this is a French crowd, yet he is more comfortable speaking English.
Course after course is served as this man, who has been the oldest son of the oldest son for 1000 years, shares some of his family history, pointing out the trompe l’oeil portrait of his ancestor the doge above the door way, explaining that his family is one of the 5 remaining families of the 12 (apostles) founders of the Venetian republic. I listen intently, then respond in kind, answering his questions about life in California. Just before dessert we are interrupted by an operatic treat; three performers from La Fenice opera house serenading us with traditional gondolier songs and arias. Bravo!
I think everyone should have Grandpa's portrait above the doorway.
After the high culture there was some low brow fun in the gondola garage that the Count has quite recently transformed into uno disco where we shook it until the wee hours of the morning, returning to our hotel room over the Grand Canal just as the sun started to stir and the vaporettos to whir for the day….
Friday@Florian
After a month of exile from my beloved Flore, I was rewarded with a visit to the equally historic, just as spectacular Caffè Florian on the Piazza St Marco in Venice, where I quickly discovered that the most important accessory was a partner. Everyone seemed to be a couple, strolling hand in hand, or side by side….
The Florian has been serving caffè to locals since 1720, serving such famous people as Casanova, Lord Byron, Proust and Balzac. With a seductively ornate interior and a sprawling terrace outside, it is the perfect place to stop for a Bellini after a long afternoon spent sight seeing.
At least, it would be the perfect place if you happened to be there during peach season. A true Bellini is Prosecco (Italy’s version of champagne) with crushed peach purée. Most places will be happy to serve you a glass of bubbly with industrial peach nectar. The Florian is NOT most places and refuse to serve Bellini is the peaches are not fully ripe and sweet.
To console disappointed tourists, they offer the Tiepolo, a crushed strawberries version of the Bellini. Less famous, it is infinitely more delicious and I savoured mine appreciatively as Mr French and I watched the world go by.
And a very brightly colored world it was…
And some more sedate folk, as well….
Looking for love?
Could it be her?
