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….

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Rocky, our new chat. Kitten really. And its Rocky, as in the Horror Picture Show, not Stallone.

Getting a pet in Paris, you learn a few things. The most surprising thing is that in France, each year is assigned a letter and pets are given a name that begins with the letter of the year corresponding to their birth. Rocky was born in 2012, so his name starts with an H.

This tradition started in 1926 when the official dog breeders association wanted to get a better handle on purebreds to start a « LOF » (Livre des Origines Français). So basically this rule only applies to people that insist their wine be AOC, and not for folks like us who pick up a scrappy moggie (that is cat for mutt) from a lady in Dammartin-en-Goële.

And how did we find the lady in Dammartin-en-Goële? Well, “we” did not want a cat. Neither Mr French, nor myself, but Em was able to convince us that it was of most vital importance she has a cat. Convince is not exactly the word. She waged a battle and we survived under siege for four years! Our terms of surrender were clear; you’re not getting a pure bred, this is a cat, not an accessory. Pet shops are out of the question and it will be your cat, so you feed it and clean the litter box every day.

“Everyday? I though you can clean a box just a couple times a week?” No! Chez nous, it’s every day!!!

Em agreed, signing in blood before turning to the SPCA for a stray, but she had a hard time finding one accessible by metro that had kittens. Being a resourceful girl and really wanting a cat, she started calling up all the vets in our hood, which is when we learned fact number 2. There is a season for kittens, and January is not that season. I know, its logical when you think of farm animals and wild animals, but there are so many stray cats out there, who would have thought it applied to them, too?

Two vets recommended the cat lady in Dammartin-en-Goële (I love that name, tried googling where it came from because there is that tantalizing Goële, evoking jails and dungeons, but all I learned is that the once lord of the land was friends with Joan of Arc). So we called the cat lady to learn about her kitten. Instead of getting info on the cat, I was put through a rigorous interview to see if I was a worthy cat owner. She was spitting out rapid fire questions about the size of our flat, our work habits and vacation plans for the next three years in accented French as I walked past the construction crews on the rue du Cherche Midi, balancing my handbag, a computer bag and a box of cupcakes on my way home from work. We passed the test and were invited up to get the cat on a Saturday.

Madame lives with 14 cats of her own. She found Rocky’s mom early last fall. She was pregnant so she took her in and raised Rocky and his sister until we came along. When she is not taking care of her own cats, she has founded a charity to spay all the strays in her vicinity and she feeds about forty of the local strays up by the church, providing them with iso-therm huts she creates from boxes that fish mongers donate when they’ve off loaded their deliveries. She is with cats almost exclusively, so she was very happy to see us, nearly devastated when she learned we’d have to leave before lunch and cried when we drove off with Rocky.

Em has passed the two week test, which is how long Mr French thought it would be before she stopped taking care of her cat. He is adorable and we’re all charmed by his crooked smile. At night we watch him instead of the tv and he sleeps with Em, his paw in her hand. But I promise, unless he starts wearing Hermes or starring in a film playing near you, this is the last you’ll hear of the cat. Blame it on the detox, I’m feeling sluggish this week.

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!!!

Like the Schola Cantorum on Facebook

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

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…..”