Carolyn Heinze

I've Fallen in Love With a Woman

2012-02-01T17:36:00.003+01:00

"...This was la Belle Époque. Well, not the real Belle Époque (it being the 1950s and all), but back when francs were such soft currency they smelled strongly of fromage, back when the euro didn’t even exist, let alone teeter on the cheese-plate of extinction, like Camembert left outside on a summer luncheon table. Back when American trust-fund babies and G.I. Bill babies and American students and American scholars and American beatniks and their even more horrifying British counterparts tore up the Left Bank (where all the wrong ones, or their ungodly grandchildren, still have their pied à terres) playing make-believe bohemians like the privileged brats that they were. And life was fabulous. Formidable. Fromage-y. Truly, really, la Vie en Rose, la Belle Époque, the Banquet Years. This was Elaine Dundy’s world, she was a part of all this, tearing up far more than her share. Makes me kinda jealous as hell. Et vous ?

The Poetry Reading

2011-11-28T13:30:00.001+01:00

"...Who brings a date to a poetry reading? What was I thinking? Especially a date that one’s only just started dating, but that one day, down the road, in the future, over the course of time, perhaps maybe might express that they — the date — are, in fact, willing and ready and ever-so-anxiously desirous of making one immortal, in the manner of Zeus? (Or at least willing to pony up for flowers?) (Or maybe just the moon?) Who, willingly, casually, coolly, off-the-cuff-ly, puts that kind of potential moon-y opportunity in jeopardy?"

Bonjour, tristesse

2011-11-18T16:37:00.002+01:00

"...En gros, on the whole, for the most part, à la base, Au revoir/Good Bye is your basic Broads In Burqas/Chicks In Chadori/Vamps In Veils/Dames In Doilies kinda deal: A human rights lawyer (it’s a girl) gets booted out of the bar. Her husband – a journalist – is in hiding. She desires to ditch her doilies and duds and get the hell out of Dodge. There’s some other stuff, too – like this semi-ritualistic feeding of a turtle which I surmise was supposed to be semi-symbolic, but the symbolism was semi-lost on moi. (Except the part where the turtle gets away, but that wasn’t even semi-subtle.) Oh yeah, and she’s pregnant. (The ex-lawyer, not the turtle.) (Don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.) (Can’t remember if there is an ultrasound scene, but I think she’s too early on.) (Come to think of it, couldn’t tell if the turtle was a boy or a girl.) And that’s pretty much that.

And it’s soooo not funny..."

Where's Momo?

2011-11-18T16:34:00.000+01:00

"...They have not found him in a boat,
They have not found him with a goat,
They have not found him in a house,
They have not found him with a mouse,
Muammar is neither Here nor There,
Muammar isn’t Anywhere.
That Momo – he’s such a rogue,
They should really check the September issue of Vogue..."

My Pants Out of France

2011-11-18T16:30:00.002+01:00

"Question: Can they put you away for treason if you’re not that hot and horny for your home country? Is not being hot and horny for your home country considered a crime? Even if your home country is Canada? (Especially if you’re home country is Canada?) I have nothing against Canada, really, but – sorry – it is Canada. As in, it’s not one of those sexy countries that come from some sexy somewhere else. As in – sorry – Canada is not that sexy. (And get your minds out of the gutter about all the kinky shit you can do with maple syrup.) I blame Celine Dion. (Ha! That line about kinky maple syrup and then the one right after about Celine Dion? Was totally trying to gross you out!)..."

The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World

2011-11-18T16:24:00.001+01:00

"...Paris, you had to acknowledge, was crawling with gorgeous men, and let’s face it, despite all of the blah-blah-blah about culture and language and cuisine and gastronomy and…it was the cute, artsy boys with brooding eyes and messy hair and three-quarter-length coats and fabulous cheekbones that many a girl arrived for. But these, these cheekbones! These particular ones! They were works of art. Chefs-d’oeuvre. It was as if they had been sculpted by one of the masters. One of the better masters. They should, she declared, be on display somewhere, a place where millions of women could come and queue up and buy tickets to see and marvel at the fact that, yes, there really was a set of living, breathing cheekbones as magnificent as these, as his. He should be in a museum or something. Yes, that was it. A museum. The Louvre. That’s where he should be, she decided. The Louvre. I’m writing a letter to the curator..."

Smells Like Sarko's Spirit

2011-11-18T13:31:00.001+01:00

"...The last elections? In 2007? When Sarko was promising to clear out punk-ass punk asses from the punk-ass suburban banlieue ? How he bellowed – in front of the French cameras, in front of the French election voters – how he bellowed that he’d do it with a fire hose? In front of the voters and punk asses and the cameras and the hoses? Or the time he told an enemy – it was another ‘Dominique,’ only this time it was former Prime Minister de Villepin – how he told him he’d hang him from a butcher’s hook before all was said and done? (It was during the whole Clearstream thing, which was so boring I won’t bother you with the details, but let’s just say that the other ‘Dominique’ got the short end of the stick…or hook…)..."

Being Bacri

2011-11-18T13:27:00.001+01:00

"...Jean-Pierre Bacri is always being Jean-Pierre Bacri even when he’s not being Jean-Pierre Bacri. You know how Jack Nicholson is always being Jack Nicholson even when he’s not? As in when he’s Jack Nicholson playing a ‘role?’ Kind of like that. Only with Jean-Pierre Bacri, it kind of isn’t like that at all. Because Jean-Pierre Bacri has what we call la classe..."

2012: A French Odyssey

2011-11-18T13:22:00.001+01:00

"...The elections are coming! The elections are coming! They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere, all over, partout . . . At least they’re everywhere en France. Or, at least, they will be: Cue the theme for 2001: A Space Odyssey but pretend it’s 2012 and you’ll maybe kind of catch my drift. (Yeah, I know: Your American elections are in 2012, too, but can’t you just let someone else grab the spotlight for once?)..."

Noir (c'est film) noir

2011-11-18T13:16:00.001+01:00

"...O.K. … O.K. … Here goes: Four guys walk into a French country house – a judge, a TV exec, a pilot and a chef. Their goal? To commit suicide. Their modus operandi? Eating themselves to death. So it’s a good thing that there’s a chef – much classier than death by McDonald’s. (Or Death by Quick, the French equivalent.) (Which, by the way, was just found responsible for the hamburger-related death of a customer.) (‘Quick’ and painless? I can’t say.) (And besides, don’t be so rude!);;;"

I Was A Parisian Booth Bunny

2011-11-18T13:11:00.004+01:00

"...He wasn’t my first cowboy, you know. (S’il vous plaît – credit? Please?) But it was my first Parisian trade show. My first Parisian trade show as a booth bunny. A few years back – it was Le salon de la lingerie. So Cowboy Thong was actually appropriately (un)dressed. He was…ahem…a male model. He was hocking gitch for Ginch Gonch. He’d strut and stride and swagger by my stand, every hour, on the hour, because, well…that was his job. (My job was to hock stuff, too, but I won’t tell you what because the designer was kind of a rotten evil bitch. Like: She wouldn’t let me – moi ! – be a model.) (Although she did give me a free pair of culottes.) But you could say that when it came to the booth bunny business, Cowboy Thong inspired me, motivated me, drove me on…roped me in. À propos of my whole Cowboy Thong Experience, I’ve kept my cute, fuzzy tail in the booth bunny business ever since. (Although in reality my tail isn’t really fuzzy.)..."

France's New Lovey-Dovey Dictatorship

2011-11-18T13:06:00.001+01:00

"...I know what you’re thinking: Dictators are soooo last year. Dictatorially, I disagree. I believe it’s not so much the stylishness of the job, but the stylishness of the dictator..."

I Was A Teenage French Girl

2011-01-31T16:36:00.001+01:00

". . . You should know that I used to want to be a famous actress. I studied Stanislavsky, read Strasberg, played around with The Method. But I’d never imagined this as My Big Break. Here, now, in Le Marais, in this moment, what’s my motivation?

“'I told you – I’m buying the drinks.'

SHOWTIME!"

The Sheep Gets It On The New Vulgate!

2011-01-05T14:47:00.001+01:00

". . . While watching someone slit a sheep’s throat isn’t so supremely surprising per se, watching them slit a sheep’s throat while listening to them lament about love is kinda just a bit too much. O.K. sure, all right, fine…while they were actually doing the slitting they were doing some praying, actually. (As, we can imagine, the sheep was, too.) But right after? When they hung it inside-out and upside-down to drain the brains and blood and guts and stuff? Gossip-gossip-gossip, girls-girls-girls, grumble-grumble-grumble, gab-gab-gab. And the shit they were saying! I’ve never had a Kurdish lover of my own, so I can’t really say how Kurdish men really are, really. And, of course, when you really think about it, it’s not right and fair and PC and just to judge all Kurdish men based on the behavior of some Kurdish men, but . . . The shit they were saying! Not to be unfair and unjust and un-PC or un-anything or anything, but it was like – c’est quoi, l’expression ? – it was like the blind leading the blind. Or the sheep following the sheep. Straight to the sacrificial slaughterhouse. . ."

Couples, Cuisine, Kurds...and France In Your Pants

2011-01-05T14:16:00.002+01:00

"The thing about Paris is that if you’re gonna couple-up, you’re probably gonna be a couple mixte. That’s mixte as in dual-national, where one person is from one country and the other is from another. At minimum. Most of the time it goes like this: French-English, French-Canadian, French-American, French-Irish, French-Swedish, French-Finnish, French-Turkish, French-Tunisian, French-Brazilian, French-Korean, French-Russian, French-Portugese, French-Senegalese . . . and then there are those couples where neither person is from France at all. One couple I know is English-Japanese: To communicate, they speak French. To argue, it’s every man and/or woman for his and/or herself. (They yell at each other in their own respective languages.) I can’t think of one couple I know that isn’t mixte . . . Well, there was that French-French couple from back in the day . . . but it didn’t really work out.

". . . Being in Paris, in a couple mixte, basically boils down to food. As in: he cooks cuisine from his country (probably not boiled) and you cook cuisine from yours. (Note: Don’t even bother trying to explain the concept behind maple syrup to the French.) Every now and then you get stuck going to one of those long-ass French lunches – chez les in-laws, usually on Sunday, where they all yell at each other, all at the same time, for hours on end, and because Sunday afternoon comes after Saturday night, you’re horribly hungover as hell – but otherwise, as a couple mixte, you’re pretty much in the clear. Even when clearly hungover . . . "

Arriverderci, Romas: The Real Story on TNV

2010-11-04T09:54:00.000+01:00

"...Of course, it was kind of funny when it came to light that the name ‘Sarkozy’ traces directly back to races with Roma roots, but as a highlight it was only in passing. Because it’s a questionably legal practice, largely frowned upon, this practice of basing stats and statistics on race, especially here in France, especially since France is part of L’Europe. (I won’t get into the nitty-gritty-semantically-hairsplitting details . . . they’re boring and kind of beside the point. Plus, you’d have to look back a few decades to see why Europeans might be a little skittish about racial profiling.) But Sarkozy did it anyway. Because he could. And because his street gang – I mean, his government – encouraged him to. And when you think about it, it’s all kinda, well, normale..."

Who Said 'Slapstick' Doesn't Go With 'Obit?'

2010-10-28T18:53:00.003+02:00

"...I know that you know that I know that you know that aside from alive-and-well French talk show hosts, I already have my fair share of crushes on a fair share of dead guys, but it’s hard not to have a crush on Claude Chabrol. Just ask France – or anybody from here. If Victor Hugo was France’s son, then Claude Chabrol was kinda like France’s uncle, only not in the creepy-sugar daddy-drinking-a-Coke-in-a-bordello kind of way. There’s a saying, or at least the newspaper Libération recently, rightly, righteously, just right the other day, the day right after his death, at the right time, kinda compiled and created one: Chabrol, c’est la France. (Chabrol is France.) When you think of the joyous, jolly, jovial, jubilant bon vivant-cum-cinéaste movie director – and you live in Paris – it’s hard to make the connection between the fun-“here kid, have a dollar”- type of uncle and, well, la France. But if you think about it a moment longer, you kinda get the drift. “La France perd son miroir,” Libé went on to say, in big, bold, black, bold emboldened letters: “France Loses Its Mirror.” And this is where it starts to get interesting.

"The thing about Claude Chabrol’s films is that someone always ends up with a fork in the eye. Or a knife in the back. Or a bullet in the head. That kind of thing. I don’t know if the French stick more knives in each other’s backs or more forks in each other’s eyes or more bullets in each other’s heads than anybody else from any other country, but when you’re watching Chabrol, that’s pretty much how things turn out. Complete with crazy, classically-inspired, it’s-three-o’clock-in-the-morning at the campus radio station-and-the pianist-and-horn-section-just-went-apeshit type of music. Often composed by Chabrol’s son, Mathieu. You know, just to create un peu d’ambiance. The kind of ambiance that makes the rich look, well, bitch..."

The New Vulgate Goes Burlesque! (Thanks To Caro-leen)

2010-10-28T18:16:00.002+02:00

"...No, don’t worry, non, ne vous inquiétez pas — French cinéma has not just come out with a re-make of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. And sadly, in Tournée (that’s ‘On Tour,’ en américain), there’s not one single-solitary-shimmery drag queen. There is that American guy dressed up as Louis XIV, however, and he does dance around while kinda-sorta deep-throating a baguette. And that kind of rocks in its own doughy-on-the-inside, crisp-on-the-outside kind of way. So there’s that.

"Then there’s that scene where that girl blows up that giant balloon for that routine where she pulls it over her neck and then her shoulders and then her chest and then her breasts and then her belly and belly button and bum and bottom parts and then she dances around inside of it? With the lights and the music and the scenery and the nakedness and heels, it’s really pretty amazingly cool. I wonder: Do you think that could be done with a condom? Helluva trick on a first date!

"No, this isn’t the Crazy Horse . . . or the Lido or Chez Michou or the Paradis Latin or the Moulin Rouge. And thank Dieu for that; we sure as hell wouldn’t want Nicole Kidman standing around in the wings. Because Tournée is sexy, in its own sexy-smart-celebratory kind of way, and we all know that when it comes to Sexy, Nicole Kidman is like bleach-scented disinfectant. When it comes to Sexy, we all know Nicole Kidman has the appeal of a salad. You know – as we all do – the un-sexy bleach-flavored one with Nicole Kidman starring in it. Made mainly-mostly-only of lettuce..."

France In My Thighs

2010-10-28T18:10:00.001+02:00

"...My Yoga dojo is right in the heart of Paris’s Communist Central, right at Métro Colonel Fabien. Je vous assure, that’s right, just across from the Parti Communiste HQ — the one that looks like a big diaphragm? Or cervix, depending on your angle? There’s, like, only four guys left that belong to France’s Parti Communiste — can’t say if they’ve ever seen a cervix from any angle — but I think that’s the building where they still come up with all of their slogans and stickers and rants and chants for when all four of them rise up to raise hell. In solidarity. (The liberté, etc., goes without saying.) Gazing at the big cervix/diaphragm was kind of inspiring. It kind of put me in the mood. I came up with my own bumpersticker chant-rant – only it was less political-propaganda-esque and more meditative/reflective (you know, in preparation for that meditative/reflective part of the class) (see how cooperative I am?): Down With Menopause! Rah! Rah! Rah! Namaste! Ça sonne, non ? I’m thinking of trying it out on the Communists the next time I’m down at the dojo and we’re all standing outside for a smoke..."

Who's More Jealous of Whom? JLG or Guy Debord?

2010-10-28T17:58:00.001+02:00

"...Film socialisme, Godard’s latest foray into nothingness, is one of those flicks that you can say you’ve seen once you’ve seen the trailer. Kind of like The A-Team. You know sometimes when you’re at an expo or a vernissage and there’s art on the walls and sculptures on the floor or suspended in the air and then there’s this bad video installation shoved off into a corner somewhere and it’s emitting endless loops of what sounds like it could be a human being, but it also sounds like moo-ing and moaning and meowing? And then after your third glass of free Veuve Cliquot you finally go over to check it out and discover that it actually is a human being and they are actually moo-ing…and moaning…and meowing…and they’re also rolling and romping and writhing around on the floor in-the-buff and they have a pimply bum? Well, Godard’s Film socialisme is kinda like that..."

France On The List (Or, Caro-leen's Top Ten . . .)

2010-10-28T17:45:00.002+02:00

"...Don’t you just hate Top Ten Lists? They’re soooo degrading. I mean really, how can you narrow down and chalk up and sort and sift through and screen and say who is – and isn’t – list-worthy? How does one come up with the criteria? And what does that criteria mean? And who’s to say that one’s criteria isn’t complete crap, that their priorities are misaligned, that their values are all out-of-whack, and that they’re perpetuating society’s increasingly fucked-up perspective on cool and cute and hip and hubba-hubba-hot? What gives one the right to play Top Ten List God? Who died and made Top Ten List writers the kings and queens and princes and princesses and dukes and duchesses and dauphines and dauphins of qui est in and qui est out ? Just where do they get off??!

"Meanwhile, I don’t know if you know this but in Paris there are a lot of cute men. Frenchmen – all French and manly (well, in a French way) and fine. Running loose in the streets and the rues and the courtyards and the passageways…especially now, especially since it’s September, especially since they’re all back from the South for la rentrée, hair all surfy and sun-bleached and just so. You know that little petite moi wouldn’t descend so far as to create a list — you know me. And this isn’t really a list at all — it’s more of a rundown. You know, in an effort to assist you in your French education. (Oh, and it’s in no particular order. Not really. Anyway . . .)"

Mammoth Masturbation in "Mammuth..."

2010-10-28T17:25:00.001+02:00

"...I can see why they didn’t put the Gérard Depardieu masturbating scene in the trailer. It wouldn’t make for good box office results. O.K. sure all right fine, if it had been Gérard Depardieu masturbating back in the Seventies it would have been an entirely different story. Back in the Seventies, Gérard Depardieu was kinda hot. But Mammuth came out just a couple of weeks ago, so in this film he’s all modern and masturbatory and present tense and present time and present decade and present day. And not to be shallow, but when you see Gérard in the flesh? In that full-fledged full-frontal fleshy façon ? Well not to be shallow or anything, but he’s gotten kind of . . . fleshy. (And get your minds out of the gutter — geez! — I’m not talking about that.) Actually, not to be to shallow or anything, but he’s...well he’s actually gotten kind of fat. Less in that jolly 'ho-ho-ho' kind of way and more in that 'wheeze-hack-wheeze-will-he-make-it-to-the, uh, climax' kind of way. So you can see where I’m, er, coming from..."

France Drops Its Pants (For Running In Heels, Anyway. . . )

2010-10-28T16:54:00.002+02:00

"...And if we can’t wear pants or burqas, what are we supposed to put on…mini-skirts? Every day? All the time? Tous les jours ? Try that in my neighborhood. Go ahead, you’ll see what I mean. My neighborhood is made up of an entire quartier of leg men, from the préfets and garbagemen and gadabouts right on down. Wear a mini-skirt in my neighborhood and you’re guaranteed to make new friends. Oh sure, all right, O.K., fine – no one’s denying that it’s a little flattering. Especially on those 'I feel fat and worthless' kind of days. But most of these ‘friends,’ the ones in my neighborhood, aren’t the kind you want or need. Sure, they can spit real good to impress you as they’re out there barking and hollering and hooting at you in the street, but that’s about it. We all know that with relationships of the deep, meaningful, profound, earth-shattering variety, good spitting skills count, sure, but they only take a couple so far. So when it comes to the wearing of pants or burqas or mini-skirts or otherwise, I’m all for a little liberté. . ."

Finally! A Holocaust Film Worse Than Schindler's List! On The New Vulgate

2010-05-31T17:06:00.002+02:00

"...grocery-shopping in Paris? C’est la guerre. As you may recall, the French know War. Or at least they’ve been in and around and beside and above and underneath and in the vicinity of one or two. And just like good old-fashioned fix-your-bayonet-and-off-we-go trench-warfare, the Battle of le Supermarché demands its own set of weapons and warfare and strategies and tactics and torture and Machiavellian/Sun Tzu-esque art. Because there are buggy-blockades and basket-caches, and unstoppable tank-like caddy-chariots and knee-capping baby strollers weighed down with fierce French babies, and even dual-strollers and dual-babies, and their single mothers and their elbows . . . dual-elbows . . . . and tsk-tsks and oh là là’s and hurled insults and free zones and occupied territories and collaborators and collateral damage and denunciations and friendly fire and plain-old prison-camp psychology when all you’re trying to do is stand in line. Or tunnel out. It’s a jungle out there – or in there, as it were – and silly is the soldier without a strategy all their own. Un pour tous, tous pour un ! Chacun pour sa gueule ! Solidarity forever! Bombs and baskets and buggies away!!"

The New Vulgate Submits to an Attack of the Carpet Munchers

2010-05-31T17:01:00.001+02:00

"...Just ask Bernard Tapie. Said like it’s spelled: Tap-ee. Kinda the same way you say tapis in French, which means ‘carpet.’ And lemme tell you, when it comes to le Crédit Lyonnais – the since 2005 appropriately-acronymed LCL – in some judiciously judgmental jurisdictions, Tapie got called up on the carpet. And plain munched. Or, depending on how you see it, damn near eaten alive..."

Francifully Yours on Running In Heels

2010-05-31T16:51:00.001+02:00

We receive numerous inquiries about our coverage of Paris . . . some fanciful, some France-i-ful . . . bref, it seems that everyone, everywhere, has a little France in their pants! And they want to know more!! Much more!!! So shove over, Dear Abby and Miss Manners and Ann Landers, and Heloise, and entrez A Certain Journalist, a certain expat canadienne, a certain Caro-leen . . .)

Lollipops and Boobs on The New Vulgate...

2010-05-31T16:32:00.003+02:00

"...The thing about French cinema is that the starlets don’t all resemble lollipops with breasts. You know, where they are so bony and jutty and skinny and stretched and then they go up to the altar or the podium or whatever they call that thing at the Academy Awards, and there they are, standing there, shuddering, shivering, teetering, crying and they make you think of newborns because, like newborns, they cry and because, like newborns, they look like they don’t really have the strength to hold up their heads? And it makes you want to force-feed them something drippy and greasy and hamburger-y just so they can get through their speech, and then when you finally cross your fingers and take a deep breath in hopes that their heads won’t actually just roll off what’s left of their bodies right there, right in the middle of the ceremony (although admittedly, one must admit that maybe such an event would actually lend the actual ceremony a certain pizzazz, a certain chutzpah, a certain je ne sais quoi. . .) and then your eyes finally trail down to their décollétés and there’s these two bursty-balloony things bursting and ballooning out in front of them and then down lower there’s just more skinny juttiness? Well, in French cinema there’s not so much of that. So if you’re into that kind of thing, then you might not be so much into French cinema..."

Gainsbourg, Le Film, Le Blog on Carolyn (On Serge)...

2010-05-31T16:25:00.001+02:00

Here’s what Gainsbourg, Le Film, Le Blog had to say on February 16, 2010: “You absolutely MUST read Carolyn ‘France In Your Pants’ Heinze’s commentary on Serge Gainsbourg and her review of Gainsbourg (vie heroïque) over at the fashion blog, Running In Heels. It is, perhaps, the most well-written and insightful look into how the French view Serge Gainsbourg and provides a ‘no-holds-barred’ critique of Joann Sfar’s film that will have you laughing the entire way through...”

Recently on Running In Heels...

2010-05-31T15:59:00.002+02:00

"...He was easy enough to pick out. Even in the grim grimy-greasy jaundiced not-so-flattering subterranean Métro light. Oh, it was him all right – no doubt about it. Or a fabulously finely-formed facsimile thereof. His profile, pitched in a precisely preconceived profile of a pose, the enormous ear, the prominent nose. His chin – smooth, not yet his signature unshaven chin— juts serenely, sagely, slightly upturned. The lips, sensual-soft, poised in mid-exhale. As if he were singing. Or smoking. No mistaking him, this finely-formed facsimile of one of France’s most famously infamous artists, one of the Fifth Republic’s most notorious agents provocateurs, the man who flipped la chanson française upside down and inside out and right side in and right side up all over again. He was Serge Gainsbourg..."

The Pen is Sexier Than the Keyboard

2009-07-23T20:52:00.003+02:00

There was this certain writer with whom this certain journalist was certainly acquainted that was kind of a Big Deal. He was kind of a Big Deal because his CV boasted the kinds of talking points that certain journalists in certain far-off lands, and certain other journalists in certain other distant, or not so distant, or quasi-distant, or semi-distant, or equi-distant locales dreamed of, one day, including in their own. Including in their own CVs, that is. One day. Not yet, but one day. Soon. One day when they were Big Deals, too, that is. Soon. One day.

Anyway, this certain writer with whom a certain journalist was certainly acquainted was such a Big Deal that, truth be told, he didn’t really have a CV. Not on paper, at least. His was more of a virtual curriculum vitae, only the talking points listed weren’t merely the virtual truth but the straight up, out-and-out, honest-to-goodness, accurate, unexaggerated, unmassaged, unaltered, unmodified Real Thing. He wrote for Big Deal magazines, magazines that people flipped through and read and liked and shared. Some would even archive them in that very special spot, that very practical spot, you know the one, that very special, practical, sacred spot in the bathroom, sometimes spread out on a clothes hamper, sometimes thrown haphazardly on the counter, sometimes carefully filed in one of those folding stands made especially for the purpose, sometimes in one of those Ikea racks designed to be affixed to the wall, it doesn’t matter in or on what really, but most of the time, most likely anyway, most certainly anyway, most definitely anyway, almost always they were mostly kept next to the toilet.

He had written for Big Deal newspapers, too; respected ones, at least they were respected back in the day, back at a time when newspapers were run not by MBAs or wannabe MBAs or MBAs-in-training or those considering enrollment in an MBA program, or even anyone who had acquaintances that had friends that were MBAs, but old-school newspapermen that sat in old-school offices and wore old-school fedoras and worked old-school phones, phones that were so old-school that they had to be patched through to a switchboard. Back when smoking was still allowed in the workplace. Back when it was allowed everywhere, really. Back when the hum of fluorescent lights and the clickety-clack of typewriters was the standard newsroom soundtrack. Back when instinct, and not Excel spreadsheets, existed and was allowed to flourish, and sales figures generated by some corporate jargon-spewing middle manager, one who probably suffered from some kind of MBA envy, didn’t determine what went on the front page. Back when the likes of Britney Spears wasn’t considered hard news. Back when the term “info-tainment” had yet to be coined by some (corporate jargon spewing), well, MBA. Back when celebrity publicists didn’t pre-approve interview questions. Back when reporters embedded themselves in breaking stories without waiting for the government’s permission. Ah, back in the day. The good old days. Way back when.

So no, this certain Big Deal writer didn’t have a CV, not on paper at least, because he had seen all this, breathed all this, lived all this, reveled in all this, worked in all this. Wrote through it, the whole time. He had enough clippings and tales and anecdotes and connections and inside scoops to speak for themselves. Need he have said more? No, he needed have not.

He went to the flea market.

One day he went to the flea market, a well-known flea market, actually, a very famous flea market, actually, the most famous flea market in a most famous town (well technically, it was on the border of a most famous town, relegating it to the most infamous suburbs, actually, but it was just a matter of crossing the street from town to suburb so everyone just considered it to be part of the most famous town to be done with it…actually); a flea market that was so famous that it was at the top of the list in all of the tourism guides. People would come from all over, from cities and towns whether reputed or not, from suburbs and villages whether chic or rough-and-tumble, from postal codes and zip codes and calling codes and country codes whether prestigious or proletarian. Here they would come, and stroll through, and stop, and have a gander at, and admire and ooh-and-ahh over the antique furniture and vintage books and refurbished stereo equipment and previously-worn clothing and trinkets and trunks and posters and key chains and dishes and bric-a-brac dating from, appropriately enough, back in the day. There was brand-new merchandise, too, at this very famous flea market, things like tee shirts and sweatshirts and weeny-teeny, bitsy-itsy yellow and blue and red bikini panties, even some with polka dots on them, all stretched out like starfish on these circular hanger thingies fabricated, apparently, specifically, for this purpose, giving one a wedgie just from looking at them. (The panties, not the hangers, that is.) But that’s not what all of these people came for. Or should have come for. No, the committed collectors, the tried-and-true deal seekers, the boldfaced bargainers, the real flea market frequenters apparently, specifically, went there for the old stuff. Because for some people, some people with taste, some people who respect traditions, old is the new, well, new.

The certain Big Deal writer, however, sidelined all of this. He didn’t much go in for tourism guides (he only used them as a resource to assist him in avoiding tourists, which he didn’t much go in for, either) and on that particular day, he wasn’t in the market for antique furniture or previously-worn clothing or tee shirts or sweatshirts or weeny-teeny wedgie panties. (Even though he thought the hangers to be somewhat intriguing.) (Somewhat.) (In one of those hey-there’s-a-car-accident-I-can’t-help-but-look kinds of ways.) (Only it wasn’t a car accident; it was wedgie panties.) (On circular hangers that made the panties look all stretched out like starfish.) But what interested him, really, truly interested him at that particular hour, on that particular day, in that particular town/suburb, at this particular flea market, at this particular very famous flea market, was junk. Other people’s junk. The junk that other people laid out on threadbare blankets and makeshift tables and under shabby tents at the very edges of this very famous flea market. On the no-man’s land bordering the main event, a place not for the faint of heart, a gauntlet of hand-me-downs and pick-me-ups and don’t-even-think-of-bringing-that-home’s. An outdoor corridor sure to inspire domestic disputes – worse than you see at Ikea on Saturday afternoon, worse than you hear through your thin apartment walls on long weekends when people are getting caught up on their do-it-yourself projects, worse than you encounter at the paint-and-wallpaper store when the wife wants to buy that peach-colored border accented with blue fishes and the husband stares longingly out the storefront window at the Corvette that’s parked next to his…mini-van…wondering why he ever left his dorm room, the one he had back in college, the one where he dedicated his entire final semester to creating a statue made entirely of empty beer cans and the only fish in the place was the half-filet of battered cod that had been rotting for a month or so in the Styrofoam take-out box lined with some Big Deal newspaper – among couples that had veered off the beaten path. The junk of one man, two men…two hundred-and-fifty men. A treasure trove.

That’s when he stumbled upon the pens.

Well, actually, he didn’t really stumble upon them. More like stopped, looked down, and there they were. Five green plastic pens, calligraphy plume-style, glinting in the sunlight. A box of cartridges filled with purple ink. One euro, with the refills thrown in. At that rate, at that price, on that day, beside this very famous flea market, on the border of it anyway, in the no-man’s land on the frontier of the main event that linked suburb with town, a certain Big Deal writer didn’t see the need for bargaining. He was sold!

Oh, to go back to the time when the pen really was mightier than the sword. Back to when scribes actually scribbled, when words weren’t assembled with drags and drops and points and clicks. Back to when the crafting of sentences was a sensual experience, when blots and smudges and scratches and ink stains were the signs of hard labor, the signifiers of the mystical, magical, heady, goosebump-inspiring, whirly-swirly connection between mind and hands. Back to when it wasn’t politically incorrect to go through reams and reams of paper, when, if it had existed, the term “reboot” meant crumpling up a sheet of foolscap and scratching up a new one. Back to when updating one’s system did not involve spending hours in a darkened room in front of a screen displaying window after window of techno-speak authored by people who considered the latest Microsoft manual to be worthy beach reading…back when “reformatting” meant a trip to the corner office supplies store. Back to when emoticons were reserved exclusively for 14 year-old girls. Back when they weren't even called emoticons. Need a certain journalist say more? Yes, she must. Ah, way back when!

But in this Information Age, in this era of connectivity, in this culture of keyboards and touchpads and touchscreens and GUIs and thin clients and mobile devices and intelligent intuitive interactive interfaces, it’s rather gauche, kind of kitsch, definitely old-school, positively passé to get all hot and bothered about five lousy pens. Or a stack of notebooks, for that matter. Or foolscap. Or, especially, a package of typewriter ribbons. Or, especially, typewriters themselves. Especially if you’re a Big Deal writer and especially if efficiency is the name of the game and especially if you’re always on deadline, as Big Deal writers always are, and especially if you need to get the story told fast. Because let’s come clean, let’s face it, let’s fess up, let’s (grudgingly, unwillingly) admit it right now: sometimes writing – even if you’re a Big Deal writer, even if you’re such hot shit that you don’t need a CV, not on paper, at least – can be slow. Sometimes especially so. Sometimes painfully so. Sometimes excruciatingly so. Sometimes why-the-hell-couldn’t-I-be-a-better waitress so. Sometimes just plain s-l-o-w. So. One must concede (grudgingly, unwillingly) that pens and pencils and paper and typewriter ribbons and typewriters themselves don’t exactly help much in speeding things up.

But we’re talking romance and passion and sensuality and lust here, not practicality. We’re talking matters of the heart, and other parts. And, like the real flea market-frequenters, for some writers, for lots of writers, actually, for heaps of writers, actually, for droves of writers, actually, for scores of writers, writers that write scores and writers that write poems and writers that write articles and writers that write epistles and even for writers that write anything and everything, even just blurbs because they are such lousy waiters and waitresses that writing is the only thing that puts (modest, writerly amounts) of food on the table…actually…everything that’s old is, well, like a fondly-remembered ex…or a centerfold in a soft porn rag.

There’s the sentimental nostalgic: “Oh, how I miss American-style legal pads – they don’t have them here in France! Think you could bring a few back the next time you go home?”

There’s the religiously reminiscent: “Some of my best times have been spent in office supply shops. Oh yes, those were the days, when I used to do that. If I die and go to heaven, heaven will be Staples. Or Gibert Jeune. Or maybe an independent stationery retailer that sells lots and lots of different kinds of pens. Yes, that’s it. A pen boutique. That’s where I want to spend Eternity.”

And then there’s the shallow lover: “I can only write in turquoise ink. I don’t know why. I just can’t seem to connect with anything else.”

The serial monogamist: “I miss Paris for its Clairfontaine notebooks. How smooth they are to the touch! For a long time I felt like I was cheating over here in London, with nothing but Oxford to write on. It makes me feel kind of dirty – I’m really not that kind of person, you know.”

The player: “I like to pass my notebook around at parties to see what other people write in it. My inspiration comes from using it as a medium to test my chemistry with lots of different people to see what they have to say.”

And then there’s the fetishist: “I love buying a new notebook, but I can’t use it right away. I have to throw it against the pavement a few times and maybe whip it against the wall before I can feel like we’re familiar enough for me to write in it.”

***
The flea market was coming to a close. The merchants – the ones who had displayed their wares on threadbare blankets and makeshift tables and under shabby tents in the no-man’s land on the border of the main event, on the frontier of the aforementioned very famous flea market – were starting to pack up. And a certain Big Deal writer was starting to feel a certain twinge, just a small one, so small he hardly noticed it, so tiny it could barely be classified as a twinge, but it was there, twinging away, twitching away, itching away, ever so subtly: that twinge/twitch/itch of pressure. Professional pressure. Deadline pressure. Big Deal deadline pressure. As in, he had to file a Big Deal story with a Big Deal magazine within the next few hours. No big deal - good thing he had just bought all those pens!

“Pens?” he said, eyebrows raised. “Oh, you mean to write my article. Nah – these are no big deal. They’re just for doodling. My favorite way to write is on the computer.”

*Editor’s Note: A certain journalist, a certain journalist who RESPECTS traditions, wishes to clarify that the initial draft of this blog entry was written on contraband legal-size foolscap in Number 2 pencil.

Forbidden France: How long before the term ‘bon vivant’ is wiped clean?

2009-01-16T19:21:00.005+01:00

A recent article in Le Courrier International by Macedonian writer Venko Andonovski lamented the country’s smoking ban and its negative effects on Balkan social traditions. Here in France, it was like re-reading history, only applied to another nation.

During the tumultuous month of May, 1968, one of the preferred battle cries of rebelling young Parisians was, ‘il est interdit d’interdire.’ Rising up against the 1950s status quo endorsed by conservative President Charles de Gaulle, these revolutionaries fought for a country where it would be ‘forbidden to forbid’ everything from freedom of thought and speech to increased rights for women and religious and sexual liberty.

When elected in 2007 (ironically, during the month of May), French President Nicolas Sarkozy heralded a ‘rupture’ (break) from the school of thought established back in the sixties. We’ve come a long way, baby, he seemed to be saying. It’s time to move on.

In a way, this was already happening well before Sarko took the top job at Elysée – not just in his own country, but across the rest of the European Union as well.

There is a perception (accurate or not) that a certain breed of wander-lusting North Americans have of Europe as a place where savoir-vivre will forever remain alive and well. The puritanical hang-ups that exist back home are considered quaint in the Old World, where centuries of history have formed a level of sophistication that we have yet to attain. For starry-eyed Francophiles, the word ‘Paris’ conjures up all of the cliché images of civilized debauchery and bon vivants: chic intellectuals debating politics over cheese and wine; sexy couples whispering husky nothings into each other’s ears on a moonlit Pont Neuf, brooding Frenchman consummating illicit relationships with mysterious femmes fatales in luxurious hotel rooms during the hours between cinq à sept. To the outsider – or newcomer – it’s a city where vices are shrugged off as ‘pas grave’ if indulged in moderately, where pleasure is a necessary part of living, and where one’s lifestyle is one’s business, keeping the moral views of others out of the bedroom or any other room…and especially the secret garden. In matters large and small, il est interdit d’interdire.

For the most part, these clichés still exist, with one notable difference: before, all of this cinematic activity took place among thick clouds of smoke. But with a number of other European countries already enforcing their own bans, France went smoke-free in 2007, just before Sarkozy was elected.

What’s interesting is how easily France’s smoking ban was embraced. In the months leading up to it, many wondered if the French – a nation of heavy smokers – would follow it at all. Many of the larger restaurants had installed non-smoking sections years before, but that didn’t stop their occupants from lighting up. What made the government think that a global ban would change anything?

The crowded sidewalks and outdoor patios attest, since 2007, that things have changed, and while it’s not evident (anecdotally, at least) that the French have cut down on how much they smoke, they’re certainly doing it in a different spot.

North American smokers have been accustomed to this for years, and in Canada at least, the laws are getting tougher: in some areas, smokers must put a designated number of metres between themselves and the building in front of which they are standing, and one town in Nova Scotia is instituting a smoking ban on an entire street.

But this isn’t a forum for raising the tired issues relating to why smoking is bad. Nor is it the place to debate whose rights are more important (those of non-smokers versus smokers) because we all know whose have prevailed. It’s unnecessary to (yet again) discuss how much smoking costs the health system, because we are well aware of its price. Just as we are in tune with the other dangers threatening our well-being – like, say, stress resulting from the increasing number of screeching children now populating Parisian cafés because their parents no longer fear polluting little lungs.

Here, what’s regrettable about the smoking ban is that it makes Paris seem more like home. In Canada, the knee-jerk reaction every time something poses any kind of threat is to propose a ban, or at least heavy restrictions. (One of the most extreme examples surfaced last summer, when a politician suggested establishing a ‘knife registry’ similar to the country’s gun registry, after a murder on a cross-country bus involving a kitchen knife.) Many of us who moved to the Old World did so, in part, to get away from the constraints of the New one. A smoke-free Paris may seem like a trivial matter to complain about, but it begs the question: under the guise of improving our collective health and well-being, what will they outlaw next? Will the break from May 1968 evolve from ‘forbidden to forbid’ to simply ‘forbidden?’

And if so, where does this leave the bon vivants?

The Price is Right: The Art of the Parisian Downsell

2008-12-06T14:43:00.004+01:00

It was a sunny Wednesday morning in Paris’s Montorgueil pedestrian district, and a certain journalist was sitting across from her dentist. He’s the kind of doctor that women dream of: tall, dark and handsome, devoid of a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand, and boasting an office outfitted with one-of-a-kind designer furniture, plenty of contemporary art…and, of course, the latest that dental technology has to offer. With all this, one actually looks forward to the uncomfortable teeth-cleaning procedure that is supposed to take place twice a year.

But that’s the thing: clad in his impeccable lab coat, Docteur B. was explaining that, in fact, he wouldn’t need to see said journalist for another 12 months. “I know that you North Americans are taught that it’s necessary to have your teeth cleaned twice annually, but personally I find that to be a bit excessive,” he declared, professional sincerity brimming from his soulful brown eyes. “Especially in your case – your teeth are in great condition. Why pay for something that you don’t need?”

He had a point: at 60 euros a pop, a détartrage (teeth-cleaning) chez Docteur B. is hardly bargain basement. Still, for this journalist, dentist’s appointments had become almost as fun as visiting her hairdresser in the Marais. Her fantasy of illicit affairs, cinq à sept and the romantic drama that is the stuff of French movies trickling away like mouthwash down a drain, she tried another tactic: what about whitening? She often indulged in the country’s famous Bordeaux. Didn’t that have adverse effects on the color of her teeth?

Docteur B., however, was not to be deterred. A hint of humor twitching at his French lover’s lips, he revealed his own pearly whites. “You have very pretty teeth, mademoiselle, and they are already white enough. I know that where you come from, everyone has a smile like Britney Spears, but it just doesn’t look natural. Of course, it is my business to sell procedures like this, but teeth-whitening is very, very expensive. I will do it if you really want me too, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking your money for, once again, something that you don’t need.”

Leaving the office hundreds of virtual euros richer, the journalist noted that this wasn’t the first time she had encountered a common phenomenon: the Parisian downsell.

In Canada and the United States, retailers, distributors, inside salesmen and outside field reps are taught one of the goldest golden rules of unbridled capitalism: when you land a client, don’t be satisfied with selling them just what they came for. If you’ve got a live one, upsell, upsell, upsell.

The classic upsell is practiced in a number of ways: if you’re purchasing a guitar, for example, a good salesperson will also attempt to sell you a stand, strings and picks, polish to keep it shiny and maybe a book instructing you on how to play (and if you buy all of this, maybe they’ll throw in the case). Anyone who has bought anything at an electronics or appliance outlet is familiar with the extended warranty – that over-priced document promising ‘free’ service or replacement long after the item has become obsolete. Then there are the more frivolous items, where unseasoned shoppers (or those who are on a tight budget) are made to feel cheap or uncultured if they opt for a less expensive brand.

One would think that this latter strategy would be employed in Paris’s wine boutiques, where locals and tourists alike – many possessing only minimal product knowledge – congregate to purchase the country’s most famous export. For the most part, this isn’t the case, and if your caviste wrinkles his nose when you name your budget, it’s advisable to thank him politely and head to the store across the street.

“Anyone can direct a customer to a bottle of 20, 50 or even 100-euro wine and be quite sure that it is of good quality,” sniffed a Parisian as he held up his glass. “It’s much more interesting for the salesperson when the client asks for something less expensive – like, say, in the seven to 10-euro range – and demands a reasonable rapport qualité/prix.”

The downsell, the Parisian continued, doesn’t exist because French retailers are lazy or unconcerned with the state of their organization’s bottom line. Au contraire: “It presents a challenge and allows that salesperson to demonstrate how much he knows about his work. It’s likely that if you say your budget is between seven to 10 euros, he’ll propose something closer to seven.” And, when his customer enjoys that wine with their family over dinner that evening, the salesperson knows that they have gained a loyal client. “The French get offended when they’re upsold, because they feel that they are being taken advantage of,” he said. “But if someone has urged them to buy something that is less expensive, but completely correcte, they will keep going back to the store and tell all of their friends about it, too.”

Which is why, presumably, that Lavinia, a giant wine store near the Madeleine, features signs posted throughout underlining that good wine isn’t about price; it’s about winemakers that conduct their profession according to la règle de l’art.

These days, the Parisian downsell is a reassuring ritual, as everyone is trying to squeeze as much as they can out of their increasingly compromised budgets. While Parisians haven’t given up on their savoir-vivre, they appreciate when those behind the sales counter acknowledge that money doesn’t grow on trees.

“I know you like the 160-euro model, madame, but won’t you consider this jacket, which is 60 euros cheaper?” inquired a conscientious sales girl in a sporting goods store on the Left Bank. “You said that you’d never been skiing before, and I believe that this less expensive coat is more than adequate for a beginner.”

After all, she added with a wink, if madame takes a liking to winter sports, she is more than welcome to come back and purchase a second, higher-end jacket in time for ski season next year.

The Other Side of the Curtain: Celebrating American History-Making in Paris

2008-11-15T00:47:00.003+01:00

It’s always fun to celebrate one’s homegrown customs in a foreign place – especially Paris, where native residents consider an invitation to participate an opportunity to learn about their friends who come from abroad. Holidays such as St. Patrick’s Day, Canada Day, Independence Day, and both the American and Canadian Thanksgivings are viewed as somewhat exotic – traditions that are entirely Anglophone. Taking part in one of these events gives Parisians the chance to indulge in one of their favorite pastimes: pontificating about culture, history, politics…and of course, la cuisine.

In a way, American elections are like one extended national celebration, the country’s size and scope dictating the need for a process that lasts much longer than those held by other international powerhouses. (Although geographically larger, Canada, for example, held a federal election several weeks before its neighbor to the south, with the rather humdrum campaign lasting just under a month.) In the United States, the plot twists, impassioned speeches and mounting suspense accompanying the nation’s climb to elect its next president are much like the blockbuster movies produced on its sunny west coast: action-packed, grandiose and, try as one might, impossible to avoid. The difference this time, however, was that while only U.S. citizens had the right to vote, those of voting age in the rest of the world followed the campaign as if it had been their own.

In France, the press had elected Barack Obama long before he delivered his historical speech at the podium in Chicago. Throwing neutrality by the wayside, the country’s prime time anchormen and anchorwomen barely smothered their gleeful smiles every time he inched upward in the polls. The week before the big day, there wasn’t a publication to be found bearing McCain’s mug on the cover, and the Parisian métro resembled a gallery expo dedicated to the charismatic black politician as commuters held their Obama-laden newspapers up in front of them with pride. (There was, in fact, a real exposition dedicated to him in Paris’s 11th arrondissement.) Even those running the press stands and magazine shops got in on the mania, crossing their fingers and calling out phrases of hope and encouragement every time they sold an item covering Barack, not unlike they would before a World Cup Soccer match where France actually had a chance of winning. Le Courrier International – a weekly published by Le Monde – announced its full support of the Democratic contender, running a heartfelt letter from the editor, a full-page, four-color pro-Obama house ad, and two issues with the now president-elect on the cover: ‘Dare They Elect Him?’ (‘Oseront-ils l’élire ?’) challenged the journal the week before Election Day. And, when they indeed dared, a headline that requires no translation: ‘YES!’

While right-wing President Nicolas Sarkozy has been dubbed France’s most Americanized leader yet, the razzle-dazzle of the American elections left the one that took place here in May 2007 in the dust. Sure, Sarko played (and continues to play) the showman, and the French campaign featured the kind of photo ops that are de rigueur across the ocean, but rather unfamiliar in the Fifth Republic. (It was the first time that a politician invited a crew to film him during his daily jog, raising the eyebrows of the privacy-cherishing French.) Pundits here may say the same things as they host a long election night, but they don’t have access to the same toys: there are few blinking video screens, no large-scale maps of the country that light up as voting stations turn in their results, no confusing statistics comparing the popular and electoral vote (no need), definitely no holograms, and while France has its ration of A-list television hosts, there’s no real equivalent to Wolf Blitzer.

So when several Frenchmen decided to stay up all night accompanying a gaggle of North Americans to a pub on the Left Bank for pints and an eyeful of CNN among American voters living abroad, their intention was clear: they wanted to see how these people spent Election Night…was it all that different?

In a word, yes, even if the core event was similar to any democratic election. Because when Americans make history they do it up right, and to the New World, that necessitates the blinking lights, ridiculous technology and, as they’d say on Broadway, all that jazz.

Au Revoir La Bohème: Recession and the Plight of the Parisian ‘Bobo’

2008-10-17T18:14:00.004+02:00

At first, the politicians were afraid to say it out loud, but now it’s official: the effect of the economic crisis in the United States has hit France. The country’s PIB (produit intérieur brut, or gross domestic product) has decreased for the second quarter in a row, the stock market plunged over nine percent on October 6th – the most drastic decline in one day in the CAC-40’s entire history – and French consumers, already living under the strain of a weak national economy, are cinching the proverbial belt even tighter. No matter how you pronounce it, recession (or récession) means la merde all around.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy – who must not only continue to fulfill his duties at home, but is president of Europe for the next few months as well – has been spending a significant amount of time with his E.U. counterparts to try and stop the damage from spreading while attempting to maintain the confidence of his countrymen. No matter what one may think of Sarko, it’s safe to say that his is not an enviable job: accustomed to living with negligible buying power, the French have long been skeptical of what their leaders will (or won’t) do to improve their lot. The recession may provide a new topic of conversation at the corner tabac, but the underlying theme of the discussion remains the same: it’s getting tougher to put food on the table, and it’s a good thing that we live in wine country, because with the current state of affairs, we could all use a drink.

While Paris is somewhat separate from the rest of the nation – as the Big Apple is to the States, the City of Light is to France – it’s uncertain as to how long its residents will continue existing in their little bubble. A recent survey of French real estate found that while prices are leveling off in the rest of the country, the cost of property in Paris remains high, and will unlikely reach a plateau any time soon. This was before the stock market’s historic crash, of course, and although the rich and comfortable suffer less in tough times, those who were doing most of the buying may be less inclined to sign on the dotted line. If, that is, they can even find a bank that is willing to furnish them with a mortgage in the first place.

The question is: what does this mean for the city’s post-millennial yuppie, the Parisian bobo?

A more politically correct version of the eighties yuppie, the standard bobo – or bourgeois bohème, in English, bourgeois bohemian – is the embodiment of what the long version of the term suggests: he or she is financially sound or even somewhat rich, but remains critical of society’s conventional rules. While the suits that pepper the stock exchange spend the daily commute scanning the right-leaning Figaro, a self-respecting bobo is more likely to rely on the reporting of Libération or the highly sarcastic (and widely acclaimed) Canard Enchainé. The businesspeople that populate the Champs-Elysées drive to work in Mercedes and BMWs; bobos favor scooters and Smart Cars. A faithful participant in café life, the standard bobo – clad in the de rigueur uniform of designer jeans, three quarter-length coat and artfully mussed hair – accompanies his daily dose of news with a morning espresso, shaking his head at how the government is once again bailing out the rich while taxing the poor. After work, the suit-and-tie set will wind down over champagne at Le Fumoir across from the Louvre while the bobos flock to Chez Prune along the Canal Saint-Martin. Professionally, bobos are largely entrenched in the media and the arts. When selecting a destination for a holiday, they demonstrate a strong attraction to Thailand.

There’s no denying that Parisian merchants are reliant on the city’s bobos, and that even while bobos wrinkle their noses at mass consumerism, it’s they who are doing much of the consuming. But with rising prices and an economy that has slammed on the brakes, it’s likely that bobos, too, will think twice before opening their wallets. Not to mention that the anti-consumerist sentiment that already exists among Parisian thirty-somethings is, under these circumstances, growing more prevalent.

“I am not a bobo,” sniffed a Parisian who, because of his fashion taste, could be mistaken for one. “I’m a proletariat.”

Which makes one wonder: could the pro-bo become the new bobo?

The Language of Conversation: U.S. presidential campaign underlines French passion for discussion

2008-10-08T13:25:00.004+02:00

It was the first round of U.S. presidential debates that reiterated a ‘fundamental difference’ between North Americans and the French. Standing upright behind podiums better-suited for speech-giving than dialogue, the candidates had an easier time addressing the moderator, the live audience and the TV viewing public at home than one another. Eye contact between opponents was minimal, and on several occasions journalist Jim Lehrer gently reminded the two senators to stop addressing their rebuttals to him. “I’m just trying to get you gentlemen to talk to each other,” he joked. Politics aside, even the casual observer has to admit that the physical configuration of the set encouraged a courtroom-style ambiance rather than one of spirited debate.

The French toyed with the same format during the 2007 presidential elections, but convention won out. Traditionally, French politicians sit across from one another, forcing participants to engage in a tête à tête. Eye contact is unavoidable, as is real discussion, which not only makes for more interesting banter, but when the candidates are particularly skilled, some historical TV moments as well. While the final debate between Ségolène Royal and Nicolas Sarkozy didn’t prevent the former from being any less wooden or the latter from spouting fewer platitudes, it remained much more captivating than anything we’ve witnessed across the Big Pond so far this fall, whether the debating has taken place behind podiums or in the form of a town hall meeting.

What’s interesting about all of this is what a nation’s debating style says about its philosophy on discussion in general.

In France, soccer may be the most popular sport, but discussion (or, depending on the subject, conversing, arguing or debating) comes in close behind. Anglophone professionals that work for French companies lament just how much discussion takes place: meetings that would last 20 minutes back home risk running an entire afternoon. The traditional French meal is structured with discussion in mind: if a French person invites you to lunch, you had better pencil in a good three hours. You don’t even have to know each other that well – if you don’t want to get personal, you can stick to the world’s problems and there’s plenty of subject matter to fill the time between apéro and dessert.

While the French may not be the only ones to sit back and contemplate the fate of the world over dinner and drinks, one notable difference between the two cultures is the nature of the discussion itself: in France, if you disagree with someone, you’re just chatting; in North America, if you’re opposed to what someone is saying, you’re often regarded as difficult.

“After a while, when you go back home you find yourself holding your tongue a lot,” observed an American journalist who has lived in Paris for 12 years. “Otherwise, you wind up getting in conflicts with your friends.”

“I have to watch myself whenever I’m home,” confirmed an American photographer who has lived in Paris on and off over the last eight years. “If I get too excited about the conversation, I come off as being aggressive.”

An American-born writer who recently moved from Paris to New York has had similar experiences. “In Paris, you can go to a party and meet someone, and if you don’t share their opinions that just means that you’re going to get into a big discussion,” she said. “Here it’s weird: sometimes people get offended.”

While politics may be the exception to the rule – it doesn’t do Obama or McCain any good to agree with one another on everything – French political wives aren’t afraid to demonstrate their disapproval of their husbands’ methods. Ex first lady Cecilia Sarkozy and Carla Bruni, the French president’s new spouse, have both admitted to not voting for Nicolas Sarkozy. This may have provided the public with a couple of chuckles, but it wasn’t such a big deal: in a society where disagreement leads to some great conversations, husbands and wives aren’t expected to hold identical sets of beliefs on everything.

In 2007, Resolved – a documentary on the university debating circuit in the United States – won the Audience Award at the Los Angeles Film Festival. In the movie, filmmaker Greg Whiteley depicts students employing what’s referred to as the ‘spread’ method, a debating strategy that focuses less on persuasive and eloquent speaking, and more on fitting as many facts and as much academic research as possible into an allotted time span. The result: debaters employ jargon – a sort of verbal shorthand – that enables them to cram up to 400 words into a minute, in between pants and gasps for air. Only those fluent in the spread method can understand what the speakers are saying; to a casual observer, the debaters resemble geeky versions of rappers hopped up on dangerous doses of speed.

In the end, one might conclude that while Barack Obama and John McCain may be rehashing their platforms rather than engaging in real debate, at least what they are saying is comprehensible.

Reading Lolita in Paris: A reminder that some people master language better than others

2008-09-17T19:11:00.005+02:00

For those who aspire to learn several languages within their lifetime, it can be humbling to read Nabokov. The immensely talented Russian author not only supplied us with a number of classics, but at least one of them – Lolita – he wrote in English first before translating it back into his mother tongue. Many Anglophones must admit – perhaps grudgingly – that the writer’s extensive English vocabulary expanded largely beyond their own grasp of their native language.

In Paris, there are a number of Anglophone archetypes: those who don’t bother to learn French at all, no matter how long they have lived here; those whose working knowledge of the language enables them to get by; those whose skills are minimal, but who exhibit the irritating trait of (usually wrongly) correcting everyone else’s grammar; those who label themselves fluent when they really aren’t; those who are fluent, but who are much too critical of themselves to say so, and; those who are fluent, admit to being so, and who possess the envious ability to speak in perfect sentences with little or no accent at all.

What category one falls under depends on several factors, including education, whether or not one boasts an ear for languages and a willingness to read, listen…and practice, practice, practice. It’s an ongoing journey that covers its peaks and valleys, and even the most skilled multi-lingual individuals experience days when all that work seems to have amounted to nothing…usually when one gets tongue-tied during the simplest tasks, such as ordering a baguette.

And everyone, at some point or another, experiences a baffling phenomenon: the loss of their native vocabulary.

This isn’t a matter of employing franglais – that blending of French and English that produces a sort of spontaneous dialect that is often exclusive to those conversing in that very moment. Nor is it an exercise in pretense (‘…that film was – how do you say? – so very enlightening…’) Instead, it’s a byproduct of the learning process: when one’s level in French reaches a certain plateau, one’s grasp of English heads south.

To compensate, many people use the method they applied when learning to speak en français: when all else fails, translate between the two languages directly, word for word. This results in some amusing phrasing, most notably when it’s directed at fellow English speakers who don’t speak French at all.

“Excuse me, would you please tell me how to get to Opéra?” a British tourist asked a certain journalist one sunny Saturday morning.

“Sure – you just turn right at the McDonald’s and keep going straight, and eventually you’ll fall on it.”

“I’ll what?”

“You’ll fall on it eventually. It’s about a 15-minute walk.”

It took said journalist a while to realize that the reason the woman had been eyeing her strangely was because in English, we don’t fall on famous buildings – we stumble upon them.

This language gap doesn’t just apply to directions, but descriptions as well.

“I like the 18th arrondissement, but there are certain parts of it that are a little hot,” observed a newcomer to Paris one crisp winter’s day. The speaker wasn’t referring to any unusual temperature-related discrepancies in the city’s northernmost quartier; she simply meant that when a neighborhood is chaud, it’s a bit seedy.

“You remember him – he was at L.’s going away party. He was the one who spent the entire night going on about the elections?” asked an American woman who works for a French financial firm.

“That tells me something,” responded her friend, signaling that yes, the guy sounded familiar, or oui, ça me dit quelque chose.

While we can’t all aspire to be Nabokov, and only a small percentage of us will be able to master several languages flawlessly, one thing is for certain: these little errors hold a certain charm, and any time that anyone attempts cross-cultural communication, there is little harm in a few details being – how do you say? – lost in translation.

Avoiding Céline Dion: The trouble with bilingualism is you can’t always hear what you want

2008-09-10T19:05:00.004+02:00

Due to their proximity to the U.S. border, Canadian celebrities have always had an unusual place in the star system: on their home turf, no one except their compatriots knows who they are, but the minute they cross the frontier and reap a little bit of success, not only does the American celebrity machine embrace them…it claims them as its own.

As a result, there is an extensive list of famous Canadians who have been, figuratively at least, stripped of their nationality and granted a sort of informal U.S. citizenship: Alanis Morisette, Neil Young, Mike Myers, Dan Aykroyd, Carrie Anne Moss, Keanu Reeves and Pamela Anderson, to name a few. While some have sought U.S. citizenship out-and-out (a number of years ago, actor/comedian Jim Carrey was said to have applied for it), most of these stars remain Canadian to themselves and their fans up north, and American for the rest of the world.

Living in France, this becomes extremely apparent: the majority of the celebrities that the French identify as being Canadian come from Quebec, with their Anglophone Canadian counterparts being lumped in with the Americans. Perhaps this is poetic justice: many Anglophone Canadians have little insight on the who’s who of the Quebecois celebrity circuit, partly because it doesn’t heavily target English-speaking Canada, and partly because sadly, many Anglophone Canadians couldn’t care less. Even so, this identity theft tends to ruffle Canadian feathers, and the more cynical among us have been known to observe, fairly or not, that our cousins to the south are great at claiming the best for themselves.

Except when it comes to Céline Dion.

Near, far, wherever you are, it’s made clear that this internationally renowned diva is Canadian, through and through. Even with her immense fan base, enormous success in the United States, heavy radio rotation, and soaring, (some would say) over-produced, reverberating vibrato, no one ever makes the mistake of labeling her American. Blame it on her Quebecois roots (that accent just doesn’t exist anywhere else), or the singer’s defiant emphasis on her own heritage, but to the rest of the world, Céline Dion is as Canadian as igloos, maple syrup and Labatt 50 beer (that’s Labatt cinquante for you neophytes).

This is good or bad news, depending on your taste in music, but in France, one thing is for certain: if you think you can escape hearing sappy love songs à la canadienne, you’ve got it all wrong. Here, the radio stations don’t just broadcast the artist’s English catalog…thanks to her bilingualism, Dion records a significant number of tracks en français, and there isn’t a supermarket in Paris that refuses to air these chefs-d’oeuvres.

Makes one think twice before bragging about the nationality of one of Canada’s stars.

Stay (Away) Just a Little Bit Longer: la rentrée sees the return of Parisians en masse

2008-08-28T10:18:00.003+02:00

For all of its carefree savoir-vivre, France is a country that operates according to a strict schedule: Sunday is for family, friends and sight-seeing (and not much shopping, because little is open); Wednesday is when grandparents and nannies tend to schoolchildren that have the day off (many attend classes on Saturday instead), and; restaurants serve according to traditional meal times (noon to 3:00 p.m. for lunch, eight to 10:00 p.m. for dinner, with the exception of a number of brasseries that boast service round the clock). In Paris, existence outside of the confines of the nine-to-five workday requires a strategic approach to getting things done, but it’s worth it if you can swing it, if only to avoid the crowds.

One of the most important annual traditions takes place in August, when the entire country goes on holiday. Many French professionals are granted five weeks of vacation, and much of this time is enjoyed in the country’s rolling countryside and seaside villages. The result: impossible traffic jams during the last weekend of July as vacationers make their escape from the city, elevated prices in the nation’s hotels and coastal restaurants and holiday destinations that are as congested as la capitale is during the rest of the year. Paris, on the other hand, is left to the tourists, as well as the entrepreneurs and freelancers that aren’t constrained by the limits of traditional schedules, and those who don’t have the means – or the desire – to get away.

Those conditioned to follow France’s collective agenda find Paris in August depressing: many boutiques and restaurants are closed, and it’s probable that your favorite fish market, fruits-and-vegetable stand, baker and butcher will take at least a couple of weeks off during this time. For those accustomed to less structured timetables, however, the advantages outweigh the inconvenience: Paris in August is quiet, almost lazy, and despite the decreased population, there’s still plenty going on…enabling one to enjoy the city without having to fight through the throngs.

Which is why some of us get wistful when we acknowledge the impending rentrée (otherwise known as France’s real ‘new year,’ when those on holiday come back home to work and school). The empty sidewalk cafés and métro cars will fill up once again, and everyone will be forced to pick up the pace.

That is, unless one’s personal planner permits the freedom of taking advantage of the reduced prices and tranquility of more relaxed destinations during the Indian summer…while everyone else is at work.

Buying Power for the Powerless: Living on the cheap is possible (sort of)

2008-08-09T17:58:00.004+02:00

Anyone who has traveled to Paris knows that if one wants to spend time in this world-class capital, one must be prepared for a world-cost expense. With the euro priced at roughly $1.50 USD (during these times, that’s on a good day), even the best deals are only so-so. This doesn’t apply to tourists exclusively: the segment of the expat community that works for clients overseas are accustomed to thinking (and wincing) in dual currencies as well.

For those who are earning the continent’s official lucre, affairs are just as tight: as is the case across the Big Pond, prices are on the rise, and basics such as food, fuel, electricity and gas are taking up more of the personal budget. Coupled with this is the issue of the average French salary: it’s low to begin with by the standards of other developed countries, and regular raises aren’t handed out willingly. This, however, is not a new phenomenon: just about anyone will tell you that things started to get tight long before the global market began to soften, and they blame it on the currency that was designed to unite the Old World.

“It’s a challenge,” admits a French salarié. “When the euro arrived, prices practically doubled, but personal revenues remained the same.” The result: foreigners aren’t the only ones to think in monetary exchanges: the French, especially when making larger purchases, continue to calculate expenditures in francs. Whether it’s via cell phone calculator or from memory, everyone practices arithmetic on the fly…and few are delighted when they reach the bottom line.

Despite all of this, enjoying Paris on a shoestring is much easier than it is in other destinations, such as Toronto, Vancouver and, of course, New York. Parisian rents are exorbitant, but they remain lower than those in the Big Apple, and while one may choose to go out for a luxurious night on the town, one doesn’t have to…and it can still feel just as decadent. “I feel like I can never leave the apartment without spending $20,” laments an American writer who recently moved from Paris to Brooklyn. “The quality of living here in New York just isn’t as high. I have friends that are rich, but who can’t enjoy their wealth because they work 24/7, and I have others that still work 24/7, can barely pay their basic expenses and have nothing left over for healthcare.”

It’s true that for those looking to adopt a bit of savoir-vivre into their lifestyle, Paris is a good place to start. “I’m always amazed that in Paris, it’s cheaper to buy a glass of wine than it is a small bottle of Perrier,” observes one tourist, obviously pleased.

The definition of ‘quality of living’ is a subjective one, however, and for all of their savoir-vivre, most of the French will tell you that their living standards are far from perfect. Nicolas Sarkozy, France’s president, may have, in part, won the election thanks to his much-parodied slogan, ‘travailler plus pour gagner plus’ (‘work more to earn more’), but so far, he hasn’t succeeded in making his constituents (with the exception of a couple of old friends, perhaps) that much richer. Buying power (le pouvoir d’achat), or the lack thereof, remains a hot topic, and with the cost of living on the increase, there aren’t many who are optimistic about when the pressure will subside.

One is hopeful, then, that wine will remain relatively cheap. Drowning one’s sorrows in tough times helps to ease the financial pain…at least for a couple of hours.

Mr. Cab Driver: the Parisian Taxi-Man’s Unique Breed of Discrimination

2008-07-30T19:51:00.004+02:00

Parisian living is peppered with a generous dose of trials and tribulations, which makes life’s little triumphs seems that much more, well…triumphant. Scoring an apartment through connections rather than the traditional way (the classifieds, followed by waiting in impossible line-ups that begin to form hours before the eight-o’clock-in-the-morning open house) tops the list, and when you’re a self-employed foreigner, finding a landlord who isn’t spooked by your inability to provide proof of income through the all-Important French fiches de paye (pay stubs), ranks not far behind. There are smaller victories, too, that guarantee the passage of a pretty good day: no line at La Poste when you had psyched yourself up for the standard 45-minute wait, a métro that’s just arrived as you are stepping out onto the quai or an expedient check-out at Monoprix at six-thirty in the evening, when the majority of the Parisian workforce is rushing around buying groceries for dinner. In Paris, where patience is both lacking and a necessity (it can’t be a coincidence that the French verb ‘to wait’ translates as ‘patienter’) things eventually come to those who wait, but it’s nice when one doesn’t have to.

One of the biggest triumphs that Parisians experience occurs long after the sun goes down. If it’s two o’clock on Sunday morning and you’ve waited no more than five minutes for a taxi, one might conclude that you were born under a lucky star.

Taxis in Paris seem to exist in their own vehicular dimension: ordinary human beings can see them circulating about, but making contact requires a special skills set – superpowers, conspiracy theorists might argue – to cross the invisible boundary between us and them. You can wave away, taunt the yellow lights glowing atop their roofs, advertising their vacancy with the malice of a schoolyard bully, but you can’t ride along.

Every Parisian has a taxi-related story – or several, depending on how long they’ve lived here and how often they stay out after the métro has closed down. There’s the classic tease: the taxi-man actually stops, but refuses to take your fare because your destination is not ‘on his way’ (where that is, no one has ever been able to figure out). There was the time that a taxi-man informed a certain journalist – who had treated herself to a panini as a midnight snack – that she was forbidden to indulge in her late-night delicacy because it would create crumbs. (The same taxi-man invited her, however, to make love with her boyfriend in the back seat if the need overtook her.) There was the girl who closed the door to the backseat a little too firmly, inciting the taxi-man to throw his tip at her while shouting that she was a whore. And then there was the gay couple who committed the sin of kissing each other as the car sped through one of the world’s most romantic destinations…that taxi-man retaliated by making a detour to the Bois de Vincennes, leaving them to find their way through the wooded darkness and back home by foot.

City Hall occasionally broaches the subject of Paris’s taxi problem, but like many issues in this country, one can’t push things too far without the threat of a strike. (Last year, taxi drivers in Marseille went on strike because some indiscreet politician whispered that one day…in the future…the government might consider proposing some amendments to the current system…maybe…) Mayor Delanoë has attempted to get around this (while simultaneously enforcing his platform on protecting the environment) by extending the métro’s hours (it closes at 2:00 a.m. on the weekends), the after-hours Noctambus (think of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest for drunks) and Vélib, the program enabling Parisians to substitute trains and buses for bicycles.

Solutions with merit, but for a world capital, it’s a shame that those who don’t drive (or who won’t do so after a couple of drinks) face a struggle at the end of an otherwise lovely evening if they opt for what in other cities is the most comfortable version of public transport. Which is why, perhaps, so many Parisians stay out all night. After all, the métro re-opens at five.

Paris When it Sizzles: Summer in a City in Heat

2008-07-24T16:19:00.004+02:00

A wise editor once remarked that she didn’t understand people who couldn’t see the beauty in a rainy day.

A wise Parisian once observed that the second the first summer sunbeam heats up the pavement, the city blows a fuse. A destination reputed for its drizzle, Paris, when it sizzles, is an entirely different place.

Unless you’re lucky, (your flat boasts a sizeable terasse and enough windows to either lock out the heat or generate a merciful courant d’air) or rich (your apartment features a large patio overlooking the Eiffel Tower and an abundance of windows that keep out the heat or the move the air circulating within), enjoying the hot weather, or at least resisting it, is a daily struggle during France’s hottest months. Paris’s multitude of studio apartments, nestled high up under the city’s photogenic metal rooftops, become as stuffy as a street-level boulangerie, and even the most spacious digs weren’t designed with air conditioning in mind. In the commercial facilities that are equipped with climatisation, the air still remains slightly toasty: the French are wary of conditioned air, largely because it’s bad for the health and equally detrimental to the pocketbook.

Outside, the population adopts behavior similar to a dog acting out of character on the night of a full moon. Perfume, grease and exhaust fumes hang, listless, in the heavy air, creating a stewy mélange that is intoxicating to the city’s inhabitants. Music is louder and people are bolder, shedding the studious discretion they maintained for so long under trench coats and scarves and umbrellas. “Don’t push me too far,” their eyes seem to be saying, hinting at the trouble that could ensue if boundaries are crossed.

Part of this is because while summer in Paris has more people out and about, it’s difficult to get away from them even if one is staying in. At night, when shutters are opened to welcome in the slightly cooler air, it’s impossible to avoid witnessing (at least, in an auditory sense) the lives of one’s neighbors in the throes of dining, arguing, entertaining and, on frequent occasions, making love. This is the City of Romance, after all.

Since 2003, the French talk about heat waves the way that Northerners discuss blizzards, and the most recent canicule was in July of that year, when thousands of Parisians (mainly elderly) perished due to temperatures that reached upwards of 40° Celsius (104° Fahrenheit). “The worst thing about it was that you kept expecting it to get cooler at night, but instead, the temperature actually rose,” remembers a media executive living in Paris at the time. ‘There was no relief.”

While a heat wave of deadly proportions has not been predicted for this year, Parisians will find relief the traditional way: on Europe’s southern shores and abroad. For those of us who can see the beauty in a rainy day, we’ll be looking forward to that odd summer shower, until it’s time to head out and enjoy the season the right way: on a beach.

Hot Job: Paris’s pompiers turn up the temperature

2008-07-16T14:14:00.003+02:00

An internationally accepted cliché, the image of the fireman is revoked on a weekly basis on ladies’ nights across the Western world. Strong, virile and well chiseled, these modern day versions of Adonis boast the enviable quality of being both heroes and sex symbols at the same time.

Among France’s vast array of men and women in uniform, the Brigade de Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris are easily the most popular. Established by Napoleon in the early 1800’s, the pompiers are part of the army, their main function being, as their job title suggests, firefighting and rescue in buildings that are centuries old, constructed largely of wood, and featuring none of the infrastructure – such as fire alarms and emergency sprinkler systems – found in today’s construction. Battling flames and saving the odd cat, however, is only part of their duty, and it’s not uncommon for the pompiers to be first on the scene of a party gone awry (they’re equipped to treat drug overdose but unauthorized to make arrests for possession of illicit substances, making them the preferred option for those whose debauchery has gone too far) and car accidents. In a city where the police are criticized for their inefficiency and poor training – and, even decades after the Second World War, for their collaboration with the Vichy government – the firemen are, to the average French taxpayer, far more trustworthy.

The physical demands of the job mandate a grueling exercise schedule, and many an early riser (often of the female variety) enjoys the perk of performing their own workout alongside Paris’s famed boys in red and blue. Whether they’re sprinting up the stairwells of Montmartre, running through the walkways of Les Halles or jogging through the well-groomed pathways of Les Tuileries, the pompiers are indefatigable athletes, and they always have an encouraging word (‘allez, mademoiselle !’) or a flirtatious quip (‘you’re in luck, man, you can catch up to her…she’s going pretty slowly!’) to keep motivation among those they share the space with relatively high.

Each year, on the eve of Bastille Day – when France celebrates the fall of the notorious prison and a bloody revolution that saw many a nobleman’s head roll – the Brigade de Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris host their most popular public relations event, the firemen’s ball. Open to the public, this alcohol-fueled soirée is a prime opportunity for those partial to men (and women) in uniform to cut a rug with a local hero…and for local heroes to capitalize on their elevated stature among the common man. Held in the various casernes (fire halls) that dot the city, le bal des pompiers runs into the wee hours of the morning, with the firemen in each caserne engaging in friendly competition to out-do one another. Seasoned Parisians know which casernes throw the best parties, and many make the rounds throughout the night. Dance cards fill up fast, however, and those who want to get up close and personal with the pompier of their choice are wise to arrive a little early.

Not to be upstaged by nightclub impostors, Paris’s firemen always plan a few surprises for their yearly fête. Sometimes, to the delight of the crowd, this involves a striptease…the concept being, one imagines, that if the bal des pompiers is the occasion to get to know the firemen in the flesh, they might as well go all the way.

Soldes-ing Out: Paris goes bargain hunting

2008-07-07T15:55:00.005+02:00

There are two times of year that all budget-conscious Parisians anticipate with that friendly competitiveness shared among all bargain hunters: those several gray weeks following the holiday season, and the (usually) sunnier ones that officially kick off the summer.

A continental phenomenon, Les Soldes offer retailers the opportunity to clear out the current season’s inventory, and consumers the chance to claim ownership of items that they couldn’t have otherwise afforded…or wouldn’t have bothered to buy. With the French consumer’s weakened buying power a hot topic for the nation’s president, scribblers and talking heads, Les Soldes, for many, is not just the best time to hit the stores…it’s the only time.

This summer, the purchasing orgy began on June 25th and will continue until the beginning of August. Initial markdowns run anywhere from 10 to 25 percent, growing more considerable as time marches on. By the end, shoppers can rack up to anywhere between 50 and 75 percent in savings. This inevitably leads to the classic Soldes debate: should I take the 30 percent discount on this pair of pumps that I will probably only wear twice in the next year and consider myself lucky, or do I take the chance and see if they still have my size in three week’s time, when they’re bound to be cheaper? If ever one were to assign a theme song to accompany this event they might choose ‘The Gambler:’ knowing when to fold and knowing when to hold out are crucial skills in the successful navigation of Les Soldes.

While items such as house wares have crept into the product mix, Les Soldes, for the most part, is targeted at fashion victims, with discounts applied to clothes, shoes (unadvisable to hold out too long for those), handbags and accessories. Strategic in times when there isn’t a deal to be had, bargain-hunting parisiennes assume the cold-hearted determination of a general at war when it comes to getting their dainty hands on a frock that is soldé, and in the weeks leading up to opening day, many a lunch hour is spent seeking out, trying on and, in some cases, hiding the coveted garment from any other Soldes-goers that may threaten to throw a wrench in one’s purchasing coup. If the going gets really tough, these otherwise docile creatures aren’t above using baby strollers as weapons…and naïve is the girl who thinks that the slow-moving elderly woman standing in front of the dress rack doesn’t know how to use her elbows if you get too close to the object of her desire.

‘All’s fair in love and war,’ goes the saying, and in times of Soldes, one can safely throw ‘shopping’ into the mix.

Sex and Le City: Enjoying an American Phenomenon in the World’s Sexiest Town

2008-06-05T19:01:00.004+02:00

There are those of us who made it a night out: a gaggle of girls, a few cosmopolitans, a giggly stumble down the cobblestone laneways that challenge even the most skillful wearers of heels in a scramble not to miss show time. There are those of us who used it as a pick-me-up the morning after: an antidote to too much drink, too much dance and too much time dedicated to chatting up the wrong guy.

And then there are those of us who spent the first week trotting by the billboards, eyes cast downward, as if making visual contact with a Photo Shop-ed starlet would somehow confirm our suspicion: the reviewers were right, our cherished series is yet another statistic in the line-up of A-class television shows that, when transformed onto the big screen, became Z-class flops. It seems like such a waste of celluloid (and anti-cellulite digital editing).

In honor of ‘Sex and the City’s’ movie debut, the French television channels have been airing re-runs of the series, and those of us who feared (and experienced) disappointment at the cinema have comforted ourselves in front of the tube. Dubbed over to address the national audience, the show is less punchy en français, but the translations suffer less in ‘Sex…’ than in the average New York police drama.

For a North American girl living in France, watching ‘Sex and the City’ amongst the French can make one feel very, very out of place. Humor, for one, doesn’t always translate across national borders, and what’s funny to one girl may be banal – or worse, gauche – to another. Furtive glances abound in a roomful of girls congregated around the TV set, their expressions silently inquiring: do you women really talk to each other like that? French girls, generally a much more discreet lot, use only the most obscure terminology when revealing anything intimate – and only then accompanied by a polite blush. Unlike their North American counterparts (many of whom were viewers to gain insight on the opposite sex), Frenchmen largely regard the show as women’s business, and it’s quite possible that the odd français who indulges his curiosity in this modern feminine phenomenon either spends the entire time criticizing the wardrobe choices of the male characters (‘a pin-striped suit and a close shave…mais, non !’), or wrinkling their noses whenever the female dialogue becomes crass.

A few years ago, when ‘Sex’-mania took hold in Paris, the bars and nightclubs responded by hosting ladies’ nights – complete with exotic male performers and pole dancing classes – to capitalize on the fad. It was a miniature revolution: in Paris, girls’ night out is mainly reserved for Anglophone expats. “C’est pas bien,” complained one Parisian man to his buddy, when their girlfriends announced their intentions to paint the town red together. “They’re going to gossip about us, and talk about private matters, and it will be just like ‘Sex and the City.’”

He needn’t have worried, because ladies’ night at the strip bars in Paris are much more sage than the ones North American girls are accustomed to back home. There is little shrieking, and no one charges the dancers, a wad of bills in her teeth at the ready. “What is this?” a transplanted New Yorker demanded as she surveyed the room at Chez Régine, which was hosting a two-hour performance of male strippers for women only before opening its doors to its masculine clientele. She gestured to the tables of women sipping their cocktails and chatting quietly amongst themselves. “At an event like this in New York, we’d all be friends by now!” Every so often, someone would throw an uneasy glance toward the door and check her watch, as if biding her time until she would be, once again, in mixed company.

It’s unclear as to how much success Sex and the City: Le Film will render in France. It’s safe to say, however, that for as many North American women who couldn’t believe that Carrie would give up the chance to live in Paris, there are just as many parisiennes who dream of living in New York. The chance to catch a few glimpses of the Big Apple in all of its cinematic glory may be just the ticket to getting French audiences to cough up the 10 euros for a seat…either as part of a girl’s night out or an evening entre amoureux.

Consumerism for the Fittest: in Paris, shopping isn’t an art…it’s war

2008-05-21T16:15:00.004+02:00

A wise Paris-based travel writer once said that if your day’s to-do list boasts five errands to complete in the City of Light, expect to accomplish no more than two.

Despite its geographic density and efficient train system, Paris isn’t always the easiest city when it comes to getting things done. Between the crowds, (in some businesses) lunchtime closings and (in many cases) unhelpful sales staff, doing one’s errands often requires the perseverance of an athlete training for a world-class sporting event…or a soldier preparing for conflict.

This is especially true in the springtime, when the city’s feminine contingent – emerging with relief and a newborn energy from the doldrums of winter – march down to the grands magasins (department stores) to stock up on bathing suits, leisure wear and beach supplies in anticipation of the long-awaited summer break. Cutting through the throngs of tourists that ooh and ahh over the racks of celebrated French couture, these seasoned veterans know that shopping à la parisienne has little to do with starry-eyed admiration and everything to do with elbows. Leave the ooh-ing and ahh-ing to the foreigners, their rigid, purposeful demeanors seem to be saying. We’re here to get things done.

And they have a point, these beautiful – if not always courteous – specimens of understated chic: with millions of likeminded citadines all hitting the stores around the same time, finding that flattering bikini in one’s size isn’t a matter to be left to chance. All may be fair in love and war, and when it comes to shopping in the City of Light, one must be prepared for battle.

Which is why, one supposes, that Galeries Lafayette and Printemps – two of the city’s most frequented grands magasins – conveniently house their own bars. After slugging it out on the sales floor, what's more civilized than recharging over a glass of champagne?

Come What May: France takes a break

2008-05-08T19:15:00.008+02:00

En avril ne te découvre pas d’un fil. En mai fait ce qu’il te plaît.

So goes the saying counseling the French not to forget their pullover sweaters when venturing outdoors in April; in May, however, when sunshine tends to be more consistent than misty Parisian rain, you can pretty much dress the way you want.

In May, the French can do pretty much what they want as well, given that it’s the month boasting the most national holidays. There are a total of three jours fériés – statutory holidays – during the year’s most lusty month: la fête de travail (Labor Day); victoire 1945 (celebrating the end of the Second World War), and; la fête Jeanne d’Arc/Pentecôte. Combine all of this with la fête des mères (Mother’s Day), and it’s safe to say that this month, the French have a lot of partying to do.

Foreigners accustomed to 40-hour workweeks and only the occasional nationally hosted day off can’t help but smirk that the French, with their 35-hour workweek and five weeks of summer holidays, have certainly got it made. This year, because these holidays happened to fall near the weekend, many professionals opted to take the pont – or ‘bridge’ – expanding their break into several consecutive days (and rendering those working according to the schedules in place overseas out of luck, since many businesses are closed). While cliché and inaccurate to label the French as lazy, one has to hand it to them for dotting the daily grind with a healthy dose of repose – a practice that the oftentimes tyrannical North American work ethic would do well to take into account. One is, after all, more productive when well rested, with plenty of fresh ideas to apply to the workplace if one is given the chance, once it a while, to escape.

Which is why French President Nicolas Sarkozy – a man who preaches the merits of travailler plus pour gagner plus (work more to earn more) – has probably not even considered adding the cancellation of public holidays to his long list of proposed reforms. For the president, already criticized for his actions during his first year in office, undoubtedly wishes to avoid as many strikes and protests as he is able to, given that he already has enough public outcries to deal with. And, for all of his blustering, the hyperactive statesman is not known to shy away from taking a day or two off himself – a perfect photo opportunity during which the politician who has earned the reputation for his appreciation for all things bling-bling to show off his flashy pair of well polished Ray-Bans.

Tongue Tied: English-only policies erect a different kind of language barrier

2008-04-25T22:03:00.004+02:00

At first glance, the recent debate surrounding the institution of English-only policies in some U.S.-based organizations seems so ludicrous that it must be rooted in a joke. How, in our age of globalization, when companies are reaching out to clients and suppliers around the world, can we possibly enforce that English be the only language spoken in the workplace back home?

A deeper investigation reveals that, indeed, some firms are attempting to do just that, and employees who break the rules face everything from being passed up for promotion to getting the boot – just for addressing coworkers, and in some cases, international customers, in their mother tongue. The argument behind this ranges from the practical (safety is a concern and, understandably, the Federal Aviation Agency requires that pilots speak English well enough so that they are comprehensible when communicating over the airwaves), to the political (uni-lingual employees may feel threatened by their multi-lingual counterparts, out of concern that those communicating in a foreign language might be gossiping about them).

English and French are listed as official languages in Canada, and Canadians are accustomed to road signs, product labels and public announcements in both. There are two versions of the national anthem, and whenever the prime minister delivers a speech, he’s required to do it twice: once in his native tongue, and again, however shakily, in French. This doesn’t mean that the majority of Canadians are bilingual, however, and the ongoing language debate over how much we should protect the preservation of our French roots, and ensure that Quebec students are exposed to enough English, resurfaces every time some politician feels that they’re not getting enough attention from the press. In the end, it has little to do with language at all.

Following all of this from across the Big Pond is disheartening. In Paris, if you don’t speak at least three languages, you run the risk of feeling a bit inadequate. While English is accepted as the language of business – and job seekers at all levels must note on their résumes that they have a grasp of l’anglais if they wish to become gainfully employed – the more languages that one is familiar with, the more valuable they are to the professional community at large.

Pick any country on the map and you will eventually hear its language being spoken out on the street, often several times in the same day. The colorful mélange of French, English, Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Turkish, Hebrew and everything else imaginable isn’t just music to the language lovers ears: it’s a window into how other cultures function, and what lies at their core. For someone who grew up in a uni-lingual (if officially bilingual) society, exposure to this is far more valuable than any textbook or Internet search. The chance to gain insight into something different in the comfort of one’s home country shouldn’t be viewed as a threat, then, but as a golden opportunity and a powerful motivator to learn.

Film director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck recently inked a Hollywood deal to remake his award-winning film, The Lives of Others (that’s Das Leben der Anderen in his mother tongue) – a story involving East Berlin’s intelligentsia during the time of the Stasi – for American audiences. It’s obvious why von Donnersmarck signed on the dotted line, and why Hollywood producers tagged the concept as a potentially profitable one. But one still wonders what renders a studio in Tinseltown better qualified to tell a story that is, inarguably, German…and hopes that it’s only a few big-wigs that believe the viewing public wouldn’t be interested in watching the original, albeit with English sub-titles, but performed in Deutsch.

Rockin’ Till the Dawn: Paris by night (and morning)

2008-04-10T12:06:00.005+02:00

Each October, Paris’s museums, galleries, performance venues and, of course, bars, open their doors to celebrate what is known as a nuit blanche. Directly translated as ‘white night,’ this term may apply to what’s required of harried Sorbonne students on the eve of exams. More often than not, however, a nuit blanche encompasses dinner, followed by drinks, a pit stop at someone’s flat (where there is undoubtedly a fête in the works), more drinks, some dancing and – depending on your social circle – a final shift in a bar that caters to those who don’t believe in last call, or one more whirl around the dance floor in what North Americans would refer to as a booze can, and what Parisians authoritatively dub an after (French accent mandatory).

Needless to say, a nuit blanche of the latter variety rarely produces any white knights. Nor do Parisian fêtards (party animals) wait for a city-sponsored event to engage in all-night debauchery. As spring attempts to upstage winter’s swan song, signs of the nuit blanche are everywhere – and even more so than usual, since France’s smoking ban has forced inebriated revelers to take their cancerous habits outdoors.

And so, it’s not uncommon for a Saturday morning jogger to be approached by a handsome – albeit disheveled – young man, whose red-rimmed eyes are having difficulty focusing on the directions to the neighborhood’s most popular after. Nor is it particularly surprising when the same jogger is stopped not five minutes later, in front of the famed brasserie Au Pied de Cochon at the foot of Les Halles, by a pack of raucous Frenchmen eager to share their champagne. Despite the chilly weather, it’s April in Paris, and while no one ever really abandoned it, the practice of the nuit blanche is in full force.

For those who have partaken in this ritual, it must be said that it’s not without its romance: watching one of the world’s most beautiful cities come to life while (staggering) strolling down the Canal St-Martin, along the Seine or through the winding passageways made famous by yesterday’s artists, musicians and writers holds a modest decadence that can’t help but make one feel like a bit of a bon vivant. Jacques Dutronc recognized this, and paid tribute to the Parisian-style all-nighter in his celebrated hit ‘Paris s’éveille’ (‘Paris Wakes Up’). In it, two sleepy worlds collide: the office workers on their way to their jobs; and the cabaret dancers, revelers and ladies (and men) of the evening, boasting smeared make-up and (in the last case) five o’clock (in the morning) shadows, on their way home. Every now and then, as the birds launch into their serenades and the garbage trucks start rumbling through the streets, you may hear a slurred interpretation of this contemporary masterpiece, delivered by someone who’s living – and facing – the music.

Presumably, right before they head back to their flat to conduct a clumsy search of the fêtard’s most powerful weapon: that all-important aspirine.

Of White Houses and Maisons Closes: Time for the press to get out of the boudoir

2008-03-19T17:03:00.004+01:00

Cecilia ran off on Nicholas for another man. Then she came back. Nico was elected.

Cecilia hung around long enough for her husband to get settled into his new post, even extending a helping hand when the liberation of a convoy of Bulgarian nurses – wrongly accused of contaminating a Libyan nursery with the AIDS virus – provided an opportune publicity coup for the new French government. Shortly after, she liberated herself from the bonds of marriage, signing the divorce papers during the first round of the transit strikes – a protest fuelled by her spouse’s much-debated reforms.

Newly divorced, Nico was footloose and fancy free, making history as the country’s first single president. The market of A-list bachelorettes with designs on the first ladyship was at his disposal. But the razzle-dazzle of swinging singledom, was, perhaps, dampened by the force of ennui. And so, several weeks after severing ties with one woman, the statesman that some refer to as President Bling-Bling did what many a man of power and influence would do: he hooked up with a model, until death (or le divorce) do them part.

Meantime, across the Big Pond, another man of power and influence was indulging in the pleasures offered by a different breed of A-list, to the tune of $80,000 – the price of a significantly devalued piece of sub-prime real estate, but still more costly, in the end, than a good, old-fashioned cigar. Every man, after all, has his own manner of partaking in le plaisir.

The question is: who really cares?

Judging by the media, the sex lives of politicians are at the top of everyone’s mind – or at least they should be. In an era when we are all scrambling to sustain and conserve, why else would editorial boards worldwide sacrifice the trees and the energy necessary to transmit this information if they didn’t believe the public was in need of it?

True, members of democracies have the right to know when one of their officials is engaging in practices that are contrary to what they are supposedly fighting for. And, even in a country where privacy is still held in relatively high value, a presidential divorce – or marriage – should hardly be kept a secret. It’s the duty of the free press, which continuously battles within the limits of its freedom, to keep people in the know.

However, those of us who regard the old days – those when the media winked and turned a blind eye to the more promiscuous activities of those that it covered – with nostalgia, are finding the pool of intelligent, informative analysis evaporating. Recent polls in France, for example, showed that the French would like to hear less about Mr. Sarkozy and his romantic exploits, and more about what he’s actually doing – and not doing – for the nation. Sex scandals and high-level unions are amusing diversions, but what with global warming, the decrease in consumer buying power and, hey, the time it takes to tend to our own secret gardens, we’ve got enough to worry about already.

For those who disagree, there’s one more tidbit: worry not for Cecilia. She’s back in the States, and word has it that she’s engaged to – gasp! – her lover.

Lusty Month of…October?

2007-10-03T19:14:00.001+02:00

Broadway composers Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe celebrated springtime in classic, toe-tapping style with ‘The Lusty Month of May’ (Camelot). Famously interpreted by Julie Andrews, the lively ditty heralds the whimsical romance of a season dedicated to rebirth, falling in love or, as the song suggests, lust.

In Paris, the French pride themselves on their savoir faire in the art of seduction year round, and while lust may permeate the air as the birds and the bees do their thing, it isn’t reserved exclusively for when the flowers are in bloom. Sometimes referred to as France’s real New Year, La Rentrée – which takes place from the beginning of September to the beginning of October – is when French schoolchildren replace bathing suits and suntan lotion with pencils, books and teachers’ dirty looks, while French professionals readopt their winter work schedules and fall back into the daily grind. President Nicolas Sarkozy’s France, after all, is one that gets up early (his election slogan being ‘La France qui se lève tôt’), one that works more to earn more (‘travailler plus pour gagner plus’).

But even with their noses to the grindstone, the French don’t leave lust by the wayside. Bold and invigorating in the springtime, hot and lazy through the summer months, Paris is just as sexually charged in the fall – just in a different way. The women, fresh from shopping sprees at the city’s grands magasins, are showing less skin, but remain sultry and provocative in their well-cut, ever-so-suggestive business attire. Frenchmen, masters at looking artfully unkempt, run their hands through their wavy locks and don their requisite three-quarter length coats, fashionably tied scarves and stylish Italian shoes – blending smart with sexy to fend off the appearance of being rigid or coincé. And everyone – be they married or single, on the street, in the métro or at the comptoir of their favorite café – is checking each other out.

“Have you noticed all of the nice-looking men walking about?” gushes a local magazine editor. “They seem to be everywhere.”

Indeed they are, the furtive-glancing, ‘oh là là-ing’ lot of them.

Kirsten Lobe, author of Paris Hangover (St. Martin’s Griffin) observed that one’s libido rises in direct proportion to one’s proximity to the City of Light: the minute you step off the plane at Charles de Gaulle, you don’t just feel the sex in the air…you feel sexier. Be it February, May or October, in Paris, it’s always a lusty month.

Good news for those who want to keep warm during a rainy hiver.

Tinseltown or La Nouvelle Vague? Paris is the ticket

2007-09-20T19:38:00.000+02:00

“Living in Paris is like living in a movie,” a Montmartre waiter once said, and many Parisians would probably agree. With all of the breathtaking architecture, rain-kissed cobblestone and gorgeous people bustling about, it’s hard not to feel as if one’s existence is taking place in, well…a French film.

One of the most delightful aspects of finally mastering French is being able to follow the movies. In France, the French films that run in the cinemas are (obviously) not sub-titled, and many of the older movies one finds at the video club are sans sous-titres as well. If you’ve developed an affinity for the works of Bertrand Blier, Michel Audiard or Louis Malle, you had better be armed with the right vocabulary…including a healthy dose of slang. Otherwise, you need to be in the company of a sympathetic native-speaker who is willing to hit ‘pause’ every few minutes to tell you what is going on.

Parisians are reputed cinemaphiles, and the city is bursting with film houses ranging from the cumbersome, architecturally questionable megaplexes similar to those that dot the North American landscape, to quaint, one-room venues dating back to the birth of cinema. (Pariscope, one of the city’s weekly publications featuring events listings only, commits an average of 75 pages to show times alone.) The culture’s passion for all things cinematic translates into a hodge-podge of offerings from France, as well as the United States, Germany, Belgium, Italy, Spain, England, Ireland, Sweden, Israel, Algeria, India, Korea, China, Japan, Canada, Latin America and even Benin. Reading the marquee is akin to scanning the line-up for World Cup Rugby…or a gala event at the United Nations. The selection - which rivals those of many an urban destination – is so expansive that many Parisians possess annual subscriptions that, for a mere 20 euros a month, gain them entrance into as many films as their eyeballs can withstand.

While French movie-goers concede that a lavishly financed Hollywood still reigns as the tinsel-bedecked king of cinema (and U.S. film openings remain among the most well attended in France), this abundance of celluloid from across the globe points to the country’s interest in works created outside of its own frontiers, and those of the United States. What’s more, a large portion of French movie fans nix the option of watching the latest release in version française (‘v.f.,’ where the dialogue is over-dubbed in French) in favor of the version originale (v.o.), with French subtitles.

A French teacher who has spent the last several years in Vancouver once remarked at how difficult it was to see a good film in his adopted town. Presumably, he had taken for granted the range of offerings he had been privy to back home.

One reason that North American cinema isn’t as varied is the culture’s rejection of sub-titles. Save for a few examples – such as Clint Eastwood’s Letters from Iwo Jima, which was filmed entirely in Japanese – the foreign flicks that are screened at a few big city art houses, and the movies that make their way up the coast and across the Atlantic during festivals, we don’t do sub-titles. With the exception of Anglo-Saxons, those populating the rest of the globe grew up with them, and have few problems digesting words and photographic stimuli at the same time. This concept has yet to truly penetrate the collective North American spirit.

Sad, yes, because there’s some great stuff out there. But a hunger for more variety must be accompanied by an open mind – one that welcomes a little culture shock. To someone raised on clean-cut storylines with violins, the occasional explosion, and happy endings, French cinema – with its long scenes of dialogue, followed by dinner scenes (with lots of dialogue), and winding up with sex scenes (and more dialogue) – can, at times, be a bit tedious.

“American scripts aren’t always that great, but the studios have a lot of money, so the special effects are magnifique,” mused a French production manager who works in accounting. “There’s nothing wrong with something being fun to watch.”

Bien entendu.

Beverage of the Gods, Fuel for a Nation

2007-06-21T15:25:00.000+02:00

There is a video circulating the Internet that is serving as fodder for the animated political discussions that take place in the cafés and tabacs scattered throughout Paris. On at least one occasion bearing the subject header: ‘Bourré ou pas bourré ?’ (‘Drunk or not drunk?’), the controversial snippet stars none other than France’s newly elected president, Nicolas Sarkozy.

In the clip, the statesman is featured taking the podium at a press conference following a rendez-vous with his Russian counterpart, Vladimir Putin, at the G8 summit. Clearly, Sarko is not himself: he has more ticks than usual, and, for once, he has very little to say. When he does speak, what comes out of his mouth isn’t as buttery smooth as what his audiences are accustomed to hearing. Had he and Vlad (a non-drinker) made an exception and broken the ice à la Russe ?

If it weren’t for the Internet, French audiences would be hard-pressed to uncover this little gem. Sarko’s critics have analyzed his cozy relationship with the French media at length, and – surprise, surprise – his performance hasn’t received air time on the major networks.

Throughout his aggressive campaign, feisty Old Nick wasn’t shy about sharing his daily health regime with the public. For the first time, French voters were fed images of one of their politicians jogging through the Bois de Boulogne, similar to the footage of Bill Clinton trotting through Central Park. Unlike Clinton, however, Sarko hasn’t been witnessed recharging with a Big Mac. He possesses a very un-French distaste for cigarettes. And, he’ll be the first to tell you, he doesn’t drink.

If what everyone suspects is true, why, then, would he test his tolerance with a beverage that serves as liquid heat for citizens of one of the coldest countries in the world?

In France, drinking is as common as crooked politicians: no one bats an eye if one fancies a glass of Chablis at a business lunch, and a full-bodied red is a regular staple at dinner. For frenzied professionals thirsting for a way to unwind, l’heure de l’apéro (happy hour) is a celebrated daily event.

Wine isn’t just part of the lifestyle of this country: it is life. Each year, the hundreds of thousands of people that depend on it collectively cringe during bouts of nasty weather, and sigh with relief when a bumper crop adorns the rolling hills. The quirky (often cranky) viticulteurs that oversee the nation’s cherished chateaux combine unbridled passion with fanatical discipline, honoring a tradition that was born, on many of France’s properties, back when centuries were counted in single digits. In an age when modernism is favored over tradition, when streamlining, leveraging and converging is what it’s all about, France’s winemakers should be applauded for their stubborn focus on their roots. Streamlined processes often discard quality for efficiency. By remaining true to la règle de l’art, this colorful lot reminds us that the past is as important as the future.

This, however, poses some considerable challenges: international competition and a trend toward the new is testing France’s wine industry. The country’s vineyards need as much support as they can get, and political leaders should be generous in their encouragement for those producing one of the Fifth Republic’s major exports. If indeed Nicolas Sarkozy ordered it straight up at the G8 when he tee totaled his way through the presidential election, France’s winemakers should be insulted. There is no denying the importance of maintaining friendly relations with an increasingly temperamental energy power. But those slugging it out among the vines merit a toast, too.

I Love America: exploring the French fascination with Uncle Sam

2007-05-23T16:36:00.000+02:00

Newly elected French President Nicolas Sarkozy has made no secret of his admiration of Anglo-Saxon business culture – particularly in the United States. This has delighted many French entrepreneurs and executives alike: maybe, just maybe, under Sarkozy it will become easier to do business in their country…and to be more competitive on the world stage.

There is some fear, however, that the ambitious politician will go too far: in his determination to make a clean break – or ‘rupture’ – from the philosophies of May 1968, will he do damage to the State-sponsored systems the French take such great pride in? No one, after all, wants a healthcare system similar to that which is applied in the U.S. of A.

This has nothing to do with a backlash against America. Au contraire: Americans here and across the ocean are admired for their aforementioned business prowess, and the culture is, indeed, exotique. However, scandals like those involving Monica Lewinsky’s sexual antics with the former president and Janet Jackson’s bare-breasted Superbowl performance caused many a Frenchman to roll their eyes and smirk. In a country where politicians are practically expected to have mistresses and images of half-naked women are used to sell everything from shampoo to phone plans, the uproar surrounding the two American women seemed, to the French, rather ridiculous, but nonetheless, typique. What, they shrug, do you expect?

But as much as the French may find traditional American values a little extreme, or some of the country’s political policies to be unappealing, unabashed anti-Americanism here is relatively insignificant. Certainly, during the height of France’s disagreement with the United States at the beginning of the Iraq war, it did not reach the depths that the anti-French movement did in the U.S., where White House menus were relieved of any reference to the Fifth Republic. Instead, the cuisine-obsessed French were amused: French fries (or make that, ‘Freedom fries’) hail from Belgium.

For every Francophile there exists an admiring French Americanophile that tips their hat to Uncle Sam. Those who lived through the Second World War are quick to shower praise on America for its crucial involvement in the liberation of France; without the American forces, many admit that they probably wouldn’t have lived long enough to disagree with the USA’s invasion of Iraq. Disco star Patrick Juvet still makes the airwaves regularly with his hit, ‘I Love America.’ French celebrities such as Juliette Binoche, Vincent Cassel, Jean Reno and Audrey Tautou have all established careers for themselves in Tinseltown. Vegas-style showman Johnny Hallyday models his act (and his lifestyle – he is often photographed riding a Harley) on American productions. And, unlike Hallyday (who fled to Switzerland), rebellious singer/songwriter Michel Polnareff fled to the States to evade taxes, where he quickly set up shop as a composer to the American stars. (One assumes that the I.R.S. isn’t letting him get away with the same coup that he did here in France.)

Many Americans, on the other hand, would be surprised to learn how many of their famous compatriots speak fluent French when interviewed here – among them, of course, France’s adopted son, Johnny Depp.

Even the not so rich and famous express a fascination with what they refer to as ‘the American way of life:’ young Parisians talk of leaving Gai Paree for the real big city, New York. Paris-based American-style diner Breakfast in America recently expanded from its one location on the Left Bank to another in the Marais because so many French people flock there to sample its selection of enormous hamburgers, down-home pies and blue-plate specials. Many a Frenchman (and woman) dream of conducting their very own American road trip, complete with a gas guzzling Mustang and a séjour in one of those shabby roadside motels that are so often featured in Hollywood films. And, if one could buy a baseball hotdog from a street vendor in Paris like those cops in the NYC police dramas do, life would be magnifique.

So, when during the election Nicolas Sarkozy preached the merits of the American system, 53 percent of the nation agreed. But even his supporters declare that he must proceed avec caution: as admiring as they may be of the United States, the French still prefer when many things are done à la française.

Vous êtes d’où ? Identifying one’s I.D.

2007-05-02T16:02:00.000+02:00

For the past few months, those vying for the French presidency have spent a lot of time debating what France is all about, what it should be about, and what needs to be done to get there.

Living abroad puts into question the identity of one’s own nation – especially in a city like Paris, where people from across the globe are crammed together onto one tiny, congested geographical surface. What they say is true: after spending time away from home, you tend to appreciate it more, even when you’re not in a hurry to return. It’s interesting to hear one’s country described by outsiders, and it drives one to learn all of the things about their homeland that they were ashamed they never knew. In Paris, sharing one’s culture is a municipal sport, and people can’t get enough of it.

People here don’t know much about Canada, as is the case for most of the world. They know about Quebec, but can’t understand the twangy French accent and old vocabulary that hails from the time when Louis XIV was busy invading the Western world. (Quebec films are subtitled in France.) Some of them have even visited Canada’s controversial francophone province, but they certainly don’t feel the connection that many Canadians seem to think they enjoy with the Fifth Republic. Quebec is a place where they speak a funny-sounding French, where it’s freezing in winter and hot in summer. They’re not as prickly about smoking as they are in English-speaking Canada. And, bien sûr, the people are very nice.

There are few Quebeckers here in Paris, and Anglophone Canadians seem even more exotic. Tell any curious shopkeeper that, no, you’re not from Montreal – the last placed you lived was a Pacific Coast town called Vancouver, in the province of British Columbia – and you’re likely to be met with a blank stare. Canada may be the second largest landmass in the world, but the only images it conjures up are, for the most part, igloos and maple leaves. (No one believes it when you say it doesn’t snow in Vancouver, and when it does, it’s highly unusual.) The more traveled might describe it as a rich country that doesn’t make war; a vast land of beautiful, untapped nature. And the people are very nice.

There is one time when Canadians might become less hospitable (they may wrinkle their noses a bit), and that is when one compares them to Americans. Want to insult a Canadian? Tell them that Canada is like the 51st state.

This has nothing to do with anti-Americanism, nor with the fact that one administration has so successfully managed to render the nation it governs so unpopular on the world stage. Many of us Canadians (the majority, hopefully) can identify the difference between clueless politicians and the people who are, for the time being, stuck with them. Anti-separatist Canadians have been doing the same thing for decades with Quebec.

But Canada is not the 51st state, despite all of the similarities it shares with its still powerful neighbor to the south. Why, with all of its space and beauty and riches, would it need – or want – to be? It’s true, the country is prosperous in large part thanks to its American cousin; an enormous portion of Canada’s economy depends on it. Many entrepreneurs not only thrive on, but prefer, doing business with their energetic, ‘let’s-get-down-to-it’ associates in America. For now, however, Canadians can reap this enviable benefit without changing their identity, and that suits most of us just fine.

Each year, Canadian students are tasked with describing their nation’s identity. It’s a question that has been pondered for the last 140 years. What, teachers will ask as they scrawl notes on the chalkboard, does Canada mean to you? Igloos? Snow? Maple leaves? Hockey? Nice people that say, ‘eh?’ all the time?

It’s tough to say, and a rather unfair question to pose. Only a fraction of the population in the far north resides in igloos, and many of us think those people are nuts for wanting to be there. A great number of us hate snow, and avoid any bar with a hockey game on television like the plague. And only people from the province of Ontario say, ‘eh?’

Canada is too big, and its population of 33 million (that’s three people per square kilometer) too scattered, for its identity to be compiled into one pat summary. What Canada is to someone born in Niagara Falls could be entirely different to someone raised in Halifax. The cultures between provinces (and even regions within provinces) are so diverse that in many cases, Canadians don’t feel the same kinship that compatriots from smaller countries experience. Perhaps the best way to sum Canada, and being Canadian, up, is this: you just feel it.

So we shouldn’t complain that the most common thing stated about us is that we’re very nice. As such, a Canadian passport, when living abroad, is good to have. Just ask any Moroccan living in Paris.

À voter ! Talking politics à la française

2007-04-24T17:08:00.000+02:00

They tell you, before you leave for France on an extended stay, that you had better be interested in politics. The French talk politics as much as North Americans discuss the weather, and if one’s goal is to integrate into this country’s culture, it’s best to become acquainted with at least the main players in the left, right, extreme left, extreme right, left-of-center, right-of-center, green, pro hunting and fishing, and yes, even communist, movements.

This holds especially true over the last couple of months, as the nation’s 12 candidates took to the podium to announce, underline, reiterate and restate their campaign platforms for this year’s presidential election. To scale down the number of choices, French voters take to the polls twice: at the end of the first round, only two candidates remain in the race. Spooked by the 2002 election, where voter absenteeism in the first round left citizens with the unappealing option of voting for either Jacques Chirac or the blatantly racist Jean-Marie Le Pen (who has referred to the Holocaust as a minor detail in history), this time voters flocked to the polling stations, carte electorale in hand. Attendance spiked to 85 percent; the UMP’s Nicolas Sarkozy (who represents the same Gaullist party as Chirac) and the Parti Socialiste’s Ségolène Royal (who if she wins, will be France’s first female president) will duke it out on May 6th.

Despite the hubbub (and endless discussion) leading up to it, Election Day, Part One (which took place this past Sunday) came and went peacefully. Voters, shaking off the remnants of the previous evening’s soirée, lined up outside the various bureaux de vote, patiently waiting their turn in the hot sun. There were no incidents, no calls for a recount, no disputes over what name a voter had really intended to check off.

This is largely due to the fact that in many regions, Paris included, neither voting machines, nor check-in-the-box ballots, are employed. Instead, voters receive 12 ballots, each bearing only one name, along with an envelope. In the privacy of the polling booth, voters place their ballot of choice in the envelope, discarding the remaining 11. Not the most environmentally friendly approach, but less costly than a herd of career-making lawyers battling out the results in a courtroom for weeks on end.

It’s tough to say what the final outcome will be; pundits declare that this is the most unpredictable election the country has seen. Power hungry, right-wing Sarkozy, who has been compared to both Napoleon and George W. Bush, won 30 percent of the vote – even though a considerable number of Frenchmen and women admit he scares them. The less alarming Ségolène Royal, however, came out behind at 25 percent. She may be less scary, but many are undecided as to whether she has what it takes to bring about the change of which France is so desperately in need. The runners up on the left have rallied behind her, but they represent only a tiny percentage of voters. The 10 percent that voted Le Pen will undoubtedly turn their attention to Sarko.

But it’s unclear what those who voted for underdog François Bayrou, who represents the center-right, will do the next time they are presented with an envelope. Bayrou, who up until just over a month ago wasn’t regarded as a serious contender, came away with 19 percent of the vote. This week, he is to announce which final candidate he is in support of, if any.

All of this means that there will be more election talk, and more political vocabulary for those who don’t count French as their mother tongue. The talk shows – of which there are many, all running between two and three hours long – will cover nothing but.

Those with only a mild interest in politics, however, must admit that the version française of this three-ring circus is more tolerable than it would be on the other side of the big pond. The French love to discuss, pontificate and debate; with a language that enables one to state the same idea in a hundred different ways, it’s hard not to. They can become quite heated, too: every talk show features at least one segment where everyone is yelling at the same time. What’s refreshing is that arguing here doesn’t take the same shape as it does in Anglo-Saxon culture, where when you disagree with someone, you risk losing a friendship.

“I have to tone it down when I go back to the States,” observed one Paris-based American photographer, “because people think I’m being hostile whenever I question their ideas.”

Here, one can argue all night with someone without it affecting your relationship. While it’s natural for those with common interests to run in the same circles, people don’t feel compelled to surround themselves with those who always share their opinions. The press – be it on the left or the right – harshly criticizes the representatives of the ideologies it openly supports. Friends remain friends even when they strongly disagree.

People joke that one of the reasons nothing ever changes in France is because the French spend so much time talking, they never get around to implementing any solutions. There may be some truth to this, but we are all aware of the disastrous outcome of quick change sans discussion. Inhabitants of an old country, whose violent history is visible at every turn, are conscious of this.

For now, in France, there is no respite for those who hate politics. The presidential race concludes May 6th, but that’s not the end of it. The country’s legislative elections are in June.

Then, we must discuss whether or not any of these newly elected officials will actually make a difference.

The Birds and the Bises: The Art of French Kissing

2007-04-17T19:39:00.000+02:00

French photographer Robert Doisneau captured the hearts of hopeless romantics worldwide with ‘Le Baiser de l’Hôtel de Ville’ (or, ‘Kiss at City Hall’) – an image that has become as synonymous with Paris as the Eiffel Tower, fine wine and baguettes. Taken in 1950, the photograph portrays a handsome young couple pausing for a spontaneous embrace in front of City Hall, the blurry images of harried passersby surrounding them. This picture of whimsical romance has helped to contribute to Paris not only being recognized as the City of Light, but also the City of Love.

The more sentimental among us, then, are disheartened to learn that Doisneau’s seemingly impromptu lip-lock was, in reality, premeditated. When Françoise Bornet, the female half of the couple, sued Doisneau for a percentage of the photograph’s sales (she lost), it was revealed that the photographer had asked she and her boyfriend to pose. Bornet may have never benefited from sales revenues, but she did manage to cash in when she sold her original print of the famous kiss for 155.000 euros ($259,000 U.S.) at an auction.

For some, kisses come at a price.

Doisneau is among hundreds of artists that have used embracing Parisians as inspiration. More sarcastically, rogue songwriter Georges Brassens criticized couples kissing on park benches for believing that the seating accommodations existed specifically for that purpose in ‘Les amoureux des bancs publics.’ Leo Ferré lamented in ‘Les amants de Paris’ that the city’s amorous couples remain blissfully unaware that they use his rhymes and music as the backdrop of their romance, without giving him any credit. The song was eventually interpreted by Edith Piaf.

Perhaps Paris’s reputation precedes it, or maybe it’s because the city’s aesthetic lends itself to heady romance, but it’s true that people here spend a lot of time kissing. Nowadays, even the stuffiest of politicos are generous with their affection: with the first round of France’s presidential elections less than a week away, candidates are doling out their most heartfelt bises to babies, old ladies, and the media’s collective derrière. In A Year in the Merde (Bloomsbury), Stephen Clarke’s semi-fictitious account of an Englishman’s first year living and working in Paris, the author opens by recounting his first day on the job. Everywhere he looked, he wrote, people were kissing. Hardly the stuff of Anglo-Saxon corporate culture, where complimenting someone on their attire could be perceived as sexual harassment.

French kissing over here is not just reserved for spit-swapping adolescents, nor is it exclusive to those doe-eyed Paris lovers that Ferré and Brassens complained about. As common as saying ‘bonjour,’ les bises, bisous (or bizzz…in text messages and emails) are how friends, family, familiar acquaintances, and even some colleagues greet each other, both at the beginning and conclusion of their rendez-vous. While generally a quick peck on each cheek, les bises are as subtle as the French language itself: down south or among more classic circles, the number of bisous can rise to four or even six; in other settings, people change it up by giving three. Upon initial introduction, cheek-kissing is generally conducted between women or women and men, however guys who know each other well substitute handshakes with les bises as well.

For newcomers hailing from a handshake culture, les bises is one of those adorable practices that takes some getting used to. In social settings, it’s customary to make the rounds at both the début and fin de la soirée, which calls for a lot of lip action. (In fact, it can be viewed as impolite to do otherwise.) When one visits home, something just doesn’t seem right: those first few seconds upon meeting someone seem awkward, and a handshake doesn’t really fill the void. Kissing everyone may be time-consuming, but something is missing when this custom isn’t employed. And hey, with all of that close contact, one becomes a whiz at identifying perfume.

Every now and then, some ambitious medical expert will attempt to put a damper on all of this love by addressing the health-related consequences associated with close contact: the more we kiss, the more chance we have of spreading germs. The French remain unfazed: les bises are one of life’s petits plaisirs, and in a frenzied society where pleasure is growing harder and harder to come by, sharing a bit of bacteria serves as an antidote to what can sometimes be an unfriendly world.

For now, it would seem, a kiss is still a kiss.

Space: The Final Frontière

2007-04-06T13:35:00.000+02:00

It’s a Paris cliché that the city’s residents are most conscious of la merde while dodging the dog poop on the sidewalk. It was a New York-based Web site’s bathroom humor, however, that unwittingly drew the line between apartment living in North America and inhabiting a standard Parisian pied à terre.

DailyCandy – the hip Web site offering consumer product news to a readership primarily made up of women – recently ran a cheeky piece on the Brondell Breeza, a ‘deodorizing toilet seat’ that automatically eliminates embarrassing bathroom odors as the dirty deed is in progress. Women that spend the night with their boyfriends, the site cheered, will never have to cringe about doing their business while he’s in the apartment again.

It doesn’t take long to shed one’s modesty when living in a Paris apartment. Like many world capitals (DailyCandy’s hometown included), lodging is expensive, comfort for the average working girl (or boy) is minimal, and space is at a premium. Rent prices may not be as through-the-roof as they are in London or the Big Apple, but the average Parisian – even those who hold relatively respectable positions professionally – are accustomed to living in 30 to 40 square meters (a whopping 300 to 400 square feet). Considering the exchange rate between the menacingly strong Euro and the weaker Canadian and American dollars, urban tenants here pay the same amount of rent as those who reside on the other side of the Atlantic in accommodations that are double or triple in size.

Cohabitation, then – even if it’s just a sleepover – becomes, as the French would say, chaud. The restricted amount of space redefines the meaning of intimacy. The Brondell Breeza may answer nature’s call with a touch of discretion, but aside from blasting the stereo, little can be done to mask how loudly nature may be calling. If it’s togetherness you’re after, a Paris flat is the perfect environment for you to experience everything ensemble.

One of the most significant paradoxes of Parisian living demonstrates itself where the French are renowned for spending a considerable amount of their time: la cuisine. A city reputed for its gastronomical delights, Paris boasts a mouthwatering number of restaurants, cafés, bistros and brasseries – all of which are jammed around mealtime. This can’t be solely attributed to the thriving tourist industry, or to the fact that Parisians don’t like to cook (it’s hard to find a Frenchman or Frenchwoman who doesn’t). But unless you’re a member of the bourgeoisie, or you own your own place and are in a position to finance a remodeling project, or, even rarer, if you rent and are just plain lucky, chances are your ‘kitchen’ will consist of little more than a glorified hot plate.

The majority of apartment-seekers in Paris are students or young professionals: those in the market for housing that costs below 1.000 Euros a month. The flats that fall under this category are usually studios (single room affairs measuring anywhere between 10 to 25 square meters, or 100 to just under 300 square feet); or two-room apartments measuring between 30 to 40 square meters, or 300 to 400 square feet. Crammed into these spaces are sleeping accommodations, a bathroom (though not all flats are outfitted with one), a washing machine (if possible), perhaps a space for a living room/office, and, of course, a kitchen. The kitchens in these spaces usually boast no more than a bar fridge, sink (though some apartment dwellers must wash their dishes in the bathroom sink, or conversely, brush their teeth in the kitchen because the bathroom is just big enough to fit a toilet and shower), two electric elements, and a tiny patch of stainless steel upon which one might chop onions or leave the dishes to dry. Preparing lunch is a juggling act; realising a conventional French meal – complete with entrée (starter), main dish, cheese and dessert – requires the organizational savvy of a seasoned war general.

This isn’t to say that the quaint, charming Parisian pied à terre we see in the movies doesn’t exist. With regular jaunts to the myriad of brocantes – or flea markets – in and around the city, a well-planned trip to IKEA, and a little flair, many a dank, dreary, poorly configured apartment can be rendered warm and cozy. The secret, Parisians will tell you, is not to accumulate too much stuff.

It’s hard to cloak one’s North American-ness when one first arrives in Paris: we pack too much into our gigantic suitcases for a three-day getaway, we can’t help ourselves from wistfully reminiscing about the spacious living conditions we left back home, and we buy stuff in quantities that our new digs are too tiny to house. In Paris, even the most anti-consumerist North American is capable of feeling like a freewheeling shop-aholic…at first.

It doesn’t take long, however, to understand why Frenchwomen have the reputation for being a tough sell: it’s possible that the reason they spend hours agonizing over whether or not they should purchase that sleek pair of Dolce and Gabbana’s has little to do with the shoes or their price and everything to do with where she will put them when she gets home. To live comfortably in Paris, one must develop the skills of an A-type closet organizer (for when you think about it, arranging a 25 square meter space isn’t all that different), and even the most expert closet organizer will eventually command you to quit buying so much junk and focus on only stocking up on what you need…when you need it. Buying in bulk is reserved for businesses and families living in the suburbs. And, stopping by Monoprix to buy a four-pack of pens when the immediate situation dictates the need for only one might be regarded as excessive.

The benefit of this mode de vie is that if you were the kind of person who never threw anything away, you are now. Aside from the bare necessities and a couple of frivolous luxuries that you granted yourself (because you expertly made the space for them), you spend less money on crap and more on actually interacting with the rest of society. Living in a small space, after all, can result in cabin fever- one of the reasons why Paris is such a social city. And who wants to spend their time accumulating stuff when they can be out and about, admiring one of the most beautiful cities in the world?

Oh, Canada...C'est pas vrai ?!

2006-11-29T16:37:00.000+01:00

While living abroad, keeping up with what’s going on in one’s own country can result in mixed emotions. Many Americans living in Paris, for example, feel ashamed whenever President Bush opens his mouth. Some Canadians, on the other hand, are guilty of being more patriotic than they ever were when actually living in the Great White North: we’re an agreeable lot that welcomes immigrants from across the globe; we benefit from all of the positive things that America has to offer without actually having to be American; and we are keepers of peace, rather than purveyors of war.

Canadians, long overshadowed by their superpower neighbor to the south, have struggled to establish their own identity. What – aside from grizzly bears, mountains, beavers, polite folk, hockey and heaps and heaps of snow – does our nation really stand for?

It can be difficult to explain to one’s new friends across the Big Pond – especially if one never bothered thinking about this before. And it’s rare when Canada receives airtime in the French media – and when it does, there’s a strong chance that those mixed emotions will surface.

Such is the case surrounding the recent debate taking place over, ironically enough, identity. Not Canadian identity, but the status held by its Francophone province, Quebec. A prickly issue (because Canadians don’t start wars, they have time to squabble over whether or not Quebec should, or is ever going to, separate from the rest of the country), this argument has divided an already floundering Liberal party even further during its all-important leadership convention.

Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper tried to quiet things down by announcing that the Quebecois will be officially recognized as a nation. The problem with the law, written in both of Canada’s official languages – English and French – is that no one can agree on what the definition of “Quebecois” actually is.

Some argue that “Quebecois” (“Quebecker,” in English) means anyone who resides in the province of Quebec. Others emphasize that “Quebecois” has a deeper meaning, and should be reserved for Canadian Francophones only. In the true spirit of bureaucracy, no one really knows what the hell is going on.

Frenchmen often smirk at the twangy, down-home French that is spoken in Quebec, declaring that the accent is so harsh it can “tue l’amour” (or kill love) and that the Quebecois (or Quebeckers, or whatever they are) use funny phrases that either don’t exist in France, or have not been applied since the Revolution. But whether or not Quebeckers/Quebecois/Canadian Francophones speak a pretty, refined French is beside the point: the truth is, a large majority of Canada’s population doesn’t speak the country’s second official language, period.

To a Frenchman traveling across Anglophone Canada by car, this phenomenon is, he admitted to his Anglophone Canadian driving partner, quite shocking. In Paris, everything from menus to museum guides to the notices posted in boutiques are translated into English, if not several other languages, even if French is the country’s only official language. Even with France’s reputation for being weak when it comes to learning other languages, most people can get through a basic conversation in English, and in Paris, it’s not uncommon for people to speak two, three, or four languages aside from their mother tongue. Try finding someone who can stumble through a conversation in French in Vancouver or Toronto, two of Canada’s largest cities. (It’s not impossible, but it’s not that easy, either.) And, while Quebec imposes ridiculous laws requiring signs to feature the French type larger than the English, the only hint of French in the rest of Canada is on the federal street signs and buildings, and on the labels pasted to the products that are bought in the stores.

Instead of quibbling over the details of Quebec’s identity, Canadian politicians (both Anglophone and Francophone) should be sharpening their language skills so that they can actually comprehend the laws they pass. Then, as the leaders of what they proudly deem a multicultural society, they should get busy ensuring that Canadians can properly learn to master both of the languages they are supposed to be able to speak.

Maybe then, the entire nation – including Quebec – would be on the right path to finding its identity.

Romancing the Language:Sometimes, Ignorance is More Romantique

2006-11-16T21:37:00.000+01:00

In Paris, one always has language – or, more accurately, its vocabulary, syntax and annoying exceptions – on the brain.

It all starts with one’s first wave of Francophilia: that first French class back in school, perhaps enrollment in a French immersion program or a course led by some cute Frenchman who left his homeland to do just what you, too will eventually wind up doing – crossing an ocean to apply all of the new communication skills you have under your belt, thanks to all of your studying and the subtitled Truffaut films you picked up at the library.

Of course, nothing prepares you for the level of concentration you will initially require after stepping off the plane at Charles de Gaulle and embarking on your dream. Specialized immersion programs and sexy, transplanted tutors may have provided you with the rudiments, but these can seem quite, well…rudimentary when you find yourself face-to-face with a cranky Parisian cabbie, a chatty saleswoman, or an amorous Frenchman who thrives on your linguistic limitations as he advances on you, his prey. When, you think, staring at the dictionaries, verb conjugation books and flashcards that litter your desk, will you finally be able to order a baguette without stumbling over your own words? When will you roam this city – touted as one of the most beautiful in the world – and actually be able to truly appreciate all of its Old World Charm and cultural subtleties with the breezy nonchalance that everyone else seems to?

And it comes, gradually, your ability to navigate through the sea of masculine and feminine nouns, verb tenses and even slang, and life couldn’t be grander. You find yourself not only following a conversation, but participating in it, and small talk – an activity you had grown to dread – becomes fun again. You identify peoples’ origins from their accents, and you even get their jokes. You pick up the phone, rather than typing out textos. Sure, you make mistakes – quite a few, in fact – but it doesn’t matter. People understand you, and your little errors in syntax – and your own foreign accent – are “chouette.” So, too, is your tendency (thanks to your ear, which has been trained to pick up new expressions and vocabulary in an effort to improve your mastery of this strange tongue) to pause in the middle of a heated political discussion to confirm, “Oh, so you’re supposed to use the subjunctive tense after that phrase? I must remember that!”

Then the romance starts to fade a little – and when you think about it, it’s all your fault. You realize that handsome couple sitting close to one another on a bench in the Jardin des Tuileries isn’t in the midst of a sexy lover’s talk; they’re breaking up. The funky-looking guy walking ahead of you along a moonlit Seine isn’t engaging in playful banter over his cell phone; he just told the caller that they were breaking his balls. And, the two women pointing to the arch at Strasbourg Saint-Denis aren’t examining it out of admiration; they’re saying that they think it’s pretty shitty that there are so many pigeons perched upon it, because they produce so much “merde.”

You comfort yourself by reasoning that French is so beautiful, even “les gros mots” (or swear words) can sound like music to the ears. But your ears don’t agree; every language can be ugly, if the speaker chooses to render it so. Ah, how much rosier La Vie en Rose was back in the old days!

But, as is the case with human romance, when it comes to one’s love affair with a language, you can’t go back. You must accept it for all of its quirks – even the ones you find unattractive. And, if you really feel the need to be swept off your feet again, there are other fish in the sea, and other languages to try.

After all, they say that after learning French, Spanish is a snap.

Taking Care of Le Business: management, à la française

2006-10-13T21:05:00.000+02:00

A recent survey conducted by the Financial Times placed business schools in France among la crème de la crème of European educational institutions specializing in management. France’s strong reputation for higher learning, apparently, extends to the arena inhabited by three-piece suits and hard-nosed dealmakers.

For the common man (or woman), French management methodology is amply demonstrated at the retail level. At discount grocery store chain Franprix, and its higher-end counterpart Monoprix, for example, the management seems to believe that daily tasks, such as the re-stocking of inventory – with the aid of large, unwieldy dollies stacked with so much merchandise that it is difficult to navigate through the narrow aisles – is best carried out at lunchtime, when the store is crammed with throngs of rushed office workers buying salads and juice before hurrying back to their desks. Franprix takes this strategy one step further between the busy hours of six and eight o’clock in the evening, when the same clientele returns to procure the ingredients necessary for that evening’s dinner, by opening only one “caisse” – or cash register – through which to process all of these items.

For those who have no desire to tote their heavy purchases through the bustling streets of Paris, the wise (presumably well educated) management behind these establishments offers the luxury of delivery: once you have wandered through the store selecting the products of your preference, you can stand in line with the rest of the shoppers, pay at the “caisse,” and the staff will box up the groceries and scribble your address on a scrap of paper for the deliveryman’s benefit. Between one to three days, conveniently enough, your groceries will arrive at your door.

Similar management ingenuity is applied at the communications level. In today’s fast-paced, interconnected world, everyone wants high-speed Internet, and in France – just like in any modern country – it’s yours for the taking. The clever executives that head the organizations that provide these services are such whizzes at creating consumer demand for their wares that customers wait anywhere between two weeks to eight months for a connection; perhaps they believe that the longer one waits for the ability to communicate normally makes one appreciate their offerings even more, once said offerings are in place. And they’re right!

In North America, business managers – schooled or not – impose upon their employees that the customer is always right. After a quick shopping expedition in France, one can ascertain that this is probably not the same philosophy that is taught in France’s top-notch management schools. Here, in many enterprises, the thinking seems to be that the client is probably quite incorrect, usually deficient in intelligence, and almost always far too demanding. In order to accommodate for this, merchants are perpetually forced to elevate the common man’s poor consumer etiquette – yet another service to provide during an already jammed 35-hour workweek.

Witness the owner of a café/tabac, who, when a young man laid five euros’ worth of cigarette money down on the bar instead of in the plastic tray beside the cash register, thumped his fingers on the unassuming object, barking: “The cash register is here!” Surely, this lad will never be so gauche as to try and hand over his hard-earned money with such disrespect for those serving him again.

For those customers who continue to believe that they are always right, French management culture may seem a little, well…unorthodox. Upon reflection, however, the businesses that employ these practices are not only selling products and services: they are improving human relations. It’s important, after all, that the average Joe be reminded that patience is a virtue, things aren’t always easy, you can’t always get what you want, and that the world does not revolve around you.

How many other management methodologies combine business prowess and social consciousness so elegantly?

New Year’s, Paris-Style: Pondering the Rejuvenating Characteristics of L’été Indien

2006-09-11T15:23:00.000+02:00

It ended – and began – with a head butt.

After a month-and-a-half of uncharacteristic camaraderie among normally reserved Parisians, the World Cup screeched to a halt when retiring French football star Zinedine Zidane marked the conclusion of his career not with a triumphant victory, but a barroom maneuver that left him suspended and, some argue, his team no hope of beating the notoriously fierce Italians. As France climbed its way to a potential win during the weeks leading up to the finals, even the most stony-faced Parisians managed to smile, the words, “allez, Les Bleus,” serving as a friendly call to battle as they marched the city streets in search of a bar with a television. For a brief period, the incessant honking that is normally coupled with a string of French swear words grew friendly; instead of scolding fellow drivers for their conduct on the road, the blaring horns reminded residents that, for a few weeks at least, they were united to achieve a common goal.

In a way, Zidane’s field-level foible not only punctuated the end of the World Cup and his own stint as a football favorite, but it signaled the start of something new. With the World Cup out of the way, the French could turn their attention to another important aspect of their lives: summer holidays. By the beginning of August, a large portion of the country would have displaced itself in search of, as national icon Serge Gainsbourg would have said, “sea, sex and sun.” The beaches along the once paradisiacal Côte d’Azur would soon rival the cramped environment of the Parisian Métro, as families set up camp to soak up some rays and frolic in the ocean.

For those with less structured schedules, the prospect of going on holiday with the rest of the nation seems rather silly: how relaxing can a resort town brimming with other Parisians actually be? Still, those with the right connections (a boyfriend whose parents conveniently retired to the Southwest coast; a girlfriend whose parents own a home in a 9th Century village revered for its history, quaintness, and fine wine) escape at least for a little while, eager to fill their lungs with “real air,” as opposed to the heavy, polluted grime they are accustomed to breathing year-round.

But August in Paris – whether hot and sticky, or cool and rainy, as it was this year – is not without its perks. It’s one of the only times that obtaining a table on a sidewalk terrasse is easy, and, thanks to the crowds on the Mediterranean beaches, the Métro in the city is, save for the tourists peering at their maps, relatively empty. If you’re willing to put up with the fact that your favorite boulangerie will probably be closed for a month (necessitating the procurement of one’s daily baguette elsewhere), spending August in the City of Light can be quite pleasant. Even those who like to “faire la fête” use this quiet month to calm down and detoxify after a year of frequent partying and heavy alcohol consumption; in August, wild soirées are few and far between.

Hélas, “La Rentrée” – which commences the first week of September, when the French get back to work and students start to dust off their textbooks – is met with mixed emotions. Tanned (and, for once, relaxed) professionals linger over lunch in the Jardin des Tuileries, nostalgic for the summer and struggling to get back into the swing of things. Independent workers, such as sports instructors and music teachers, rub their hands together, eager to resume courses for their schoolchildren clients, who have been away for the last couple of months, putting a damper on revenues. While everyone remains slightly more chilled out, there is, as author Stephen Clarke wrote in A Year in the Merde, that New Year’s vibe in the air, with the promise of new ventures and self-improvement projects. Getting back to work might not be easy, but it isn’t so bad, either.

The next bout of holidays, after all, is just a few weeks away.

Cuisine That Speaks for Itself: The French let the food do the talking

2006-08-02T18:14:00.000+02:00

Former French President and General Charles de Gaulle once lamented the difficulty of governing a country that produces 246 different kinds of cheese.

During the Second World War, while exiled in England where he led the French Resistance, a famous radio broadcast featured the military man calling upon his countrymen to continue fighting against the German occupation of France. To him, it was only a matter of time before the deal was sealed and the French would regain their freedom. “Les carottes sont cuites,” de Gaulle announced, on this occasion using cooked vegetables, instead of milk-based food products, to punctuate his discourse.

Foreigners living in France often joke that the French can’t go two hours without talking about food. They are either recounting what they ate for dinner earlier that evening, pondering what they should buy at the market the next morning, debating whether the latest restaurant in the area really respects the true art of culinary preparation, or planning what they will eat when lunchtime rolls around. To the newcomer, this obsession for discussing the most minute details of one of life’s basic necessities can seem, at times, pornographic, but to the French (who value pleasure as much as Anglophones feel guilty about taking part in it), deriving le plaisir from food is just common sense. To live, we must eat. If we must eat, we might as well enjoy it. If we enjoy it, we should share this nice experience with those around us.

And, like de Gaulle and his cooked carrots, even when the French aren’t talking about food, they really are.

Critics who pan the latest Gerard Depardieu movie might opt to call the film “un navet” (turnip) instead of a flop. In France, a “lemon” doesn’t refer to a poorly built car; “citron” is an affectionate term for “brain.” Got into a bar brawl Saturday night? If you did, it’s possible you emerged with “un oeil au beurre noir” – an eye of black butter – instead of a plain old black one. (Especially if faced with someone who had mustard climbing up his nose – “la moutarde lui monte au nez” – because people in that situation are so angry they are about to explode.) And the French don’t “floor it;” they prefer to “appuyer sur le champignon” (push on the mushroom) when putting the pedal to the metal.

War men like de Gaulle are continuously criticized for the death that ensues the battles they lead. One can imagine how a soldier’s family would feel if their sacrifice was explained in this way: “On ne fait pas l’omelette sans casser un oeuf.” (We don’t make an omelette without breaking an egg.)

A headstrong de Gaulle was criticized by those who helped to free his country from the Germans for some of his methods, but he would have probably argued that he liked to do things, “à sa sauce,” or in his own way. Former French President François Mitterrand also created many a stir – especially when, after his death, it was discovered that he had maintained a secret love affair that produced a daughter outside his marriage. Had journalists revealed this before he died, Mitterrand could have argued that he was just trying to “mettre du piment dans la vie” (put some spice into life).

Or, he could have simply proclaimed: “Ce n’est pas vos oignons.” (It’s not your onions or, as we Anglophones would declare: it’s none of your business.) Faced with this situation, he would have tried to refrain from putting his feet in his plate (“mettre les pieds dans le plat”), or putting his foot in his mouth.

More often than not, French politicians are criticized for their dirty dealings related to money rather than love. This is when the country’s most famous food-related product – wine – makes headlines. Though the French may consume many throughout the course of any given day, it’s “la fin des haricots” (the end of the beans, or the end of the story) for anyone caught taking a “pot-de-vin” (pot of wine, or bribe) in any government-related matter.

Wine doesn’t always carry negative connotations in the lexicon of French food-related expressions, however. While the act of cutting wine with water is a major faux pas everywhere, someone who figuratively puts water in his wine (“mettre de l’eau dans son vin”) is one who has softened up on his previously inflexible convictions. One who takes the bottle (“prendre de la bouteille”) hasn’t fallen off the wagon; they’ve aged gracefully and wisely – a bit like the legendary beverage itself.

There are a number of French expressions similar to those used in the English-speaking world. At any given time, we might have a lot on our plates; the French have a lot of bread on the cutting board (“avoir du pain sur la planche”) – presumably to go with all that cheese. “C’est la tarte” means it’s as easy as pie. Ever heard of a tempest in a teapot? In France, the teapot is substituted with a glass of water. (“Une tempête dans un verre d’eau.”) If tea isn’t your thing, you could cleverly declare, “Ce n’est pas ma tasse de thé.”

One could argue the number of expressions involving food contributes to France’s obsession with gastronomy…or that the country’s emphasis on meals has created enough phrases to fill a book. At any rate, it leaves one so hungry that they may find their stomach in their heels (or, “l’estomac dans les talons.”).

Carolyn Heinze is a freelance writer/editor. Contact her directly at punchface@earthlink.net, or through her agent, Rebecca Friedman, Sterling Lord Literistic, (212) 780-6050 or rebecca@sll.com.

Plans of Attack

2006-08-02T18:09:00.000+02:00

Perhaps it’s the entire country’s history of war that demands one to develop Napoleonic strategies for living in Paris. If one accepts this, it’s indeed possible (most of the time) to live la vie en rose. If one doesn’t, it’s probable that one will find themselves, as the French would say, dans la merde – and they’re not referring to the little souvenirs the dogs leave on the sidewalks.

To those living in less concentrated locales, the methods that Parisians apply to conducting the ordinary tasks of daily life can seem a bit neurotic. But for a population reputed for its tendency to throw tantrums, a little stress management can go a long way.

Among the survival skills most practiced by veteran Parisians is that of crowd control. This has nothing to do with keeping rioting Sorbonne students from burning books; rather, it involves a strategic combination of time and location to achieve a rather mundane result – doing one’s errands. Venture out onto the narrow streets at six o’clock in the evening, and you are sure to find yourself elbowing through throngs of harried shoppers as they rush from store to store in search of ingredients for dinner. This is when one learns that the most dangerous pedestrians are those pushing baby strollers – they often double as a sort of shin-paralyzing weapon – and that the little old dog-loving ladies aren’t as frail as they may appear.

While France may be criticized for its 35-hour workweek, it must be said that the French are whizzes at time management. They must be, because to anyone who is accustomed to societies that are open 24 hours, seven days a week, getting something done here requires a well thought-out plan of attack. The reason six o’clock shoppers (who are usually nine-to-fivers in the professional world) are so stressed out is because the stores start to close at seven. Doing errands at noon, unless you’re near a large chain, is challenging in a culture that closes its doors for lunch. One woman complained that for the longest time, her bank didn’t allow her to make deposits during the afternoon, period.

During the summer, one of the most important strategies for navigating through the Parisian jungle is related to tourists. As one of the most visited cities in the world, Paris attracts tourists by the planeload, and the dollars that burst out of their wallets are definitely welcome in an economic climate that, as the French would say, is rather merdique. But the crowds can be vast, and maneuvering through them in order to complete one’s daily duties can grow a bit tiring around, say, mid-July. The trick is to avoid the city’s attractions – a difficult goal in a place where practically every street corner boasts an historic monument.

Not all Parisians wish to avoid the tourists, however. Women traveling alone can attest to the flirtatious Frenchmen that prey upon them around the Louvre, in the chic streets of St-Germain, and throughout Montmartre’s winding cobblestone passageways. Want to get a true taste of the French approach to chatting you up, ladies? Just open your map and try to look a little lost.

“It’s widely known that Montmartre is a great place to pick up tourists,” declared one such chasseur de filles, as he proudly recounted the story of a group of 12 Irish girls who had asked he and a friend for directions to the quartier’s famed Sacré Coeur. Instead, the entire entourage wound up drinking cheap Bordeaux in a neighborhood bar.

“Did the bar at least have a view of the church?” asked his interviewer.

“Non,” was the nonchalant response, “but I’m sure they got to see it eventually.”

Frenchmen don’t reserve their amorous tactics exclusively for tourists, however. Such is the case for one such Parisian, who is said to employ an elaborate strategy for quiet nights in: he invites a girl over to watch a movie (late enough so that she is sure to miss the last Metro), informs her that he just polished the floor (ensuring her removal of footwear – eliminating the need for its removal later on), cranks up the heat (possibly motivating her to do away with her sweater as well), and shows her a sad film (inspiring her, hopefully, to fall into his arms when she cries at the end, begging for his comfort).

Back in the day, rumor has it that he referred to this strategy as “le coup de videocassette.” One assumes this moniker has been modernized: these days, it’s probably “le coup de DVD.”

Carolyn Heinze is a freelance writer/editor. Contact her directly at punchface@earthlink.net, or through her agent, Rebecca Friedman, Sterling Lord Literistic, (212) 780-6050 or rebecca@sll.com.

Strange Love

2006-08-02T18:01:00.000+02:00

There are those who love Paris. There are those who hate it. And then, there are those who live here.

For many expats who were swept off their feet by the city’s charm and good looks, the honeymoon eventually rolls to a halt about a year into the love affair. It’s then that the afterglow begins to fade, and all of Paris’s blemishes and annoying quirks are revealed. She may be sexy, this City of Light, but she can also be hell to live with…or make that, in.

A lazy brunch in Berlin’s hip Mitte district find three young German chaps questioning an equal number of parisiennes on life in France’s famed capitale:

“It’s so polluted there; in the summer, you can barely breathe…”

“Everything is so expensive…”

“Especially the apartments – if you succeed in finding one. And if you do, it’ll probably be tiny, dark, or noisy…or all three.”

“My apartment is so small that I must think twice before buying a simple t-shirt because I know that when I get home, I’ll have nowhere to put it.”

“Did I mention how expensive it was?”

“Everyone is always so stressed out.”

“Unless you’re in a lousy neighborhood, you can rarely buy a coffee for less than two euros…”

“The Metro doesn’t run after midnight…”

“And finding a taxi is as difficult as finding an apartment…”

“Everything is complicated in Paris. Even ordering a pizza can transform into a complex operation if you allow it to.”

“Pizza! Do you know how much pizza costs in Paris?”

“Forget pizzas…let’s get back to the cabs. When you finally flag one down, don’t assume that the driver actually knows the city. And if he doesn’t, he’ll start yelling at you if you don’t have a map.”

In HBO’s hit television series “Sex and the City,” New York’s personality was as prevalent as those of the four female protagonists. Paris, too, is like a person – one who is prone to severe bouts of bitchiness. So why do we continue to live here? Like the fetishist slaves who beg their masters for another spanking, do we crave the whipping that Paris delivers? Or are we all a bit like that eccentric friend who dates only crazy people because they find stability too boring?

It would seem that way. How else would one explain why three otherwise intelligent young women found it annoying – but relatively normal – when, after the automatic machine broke down, a Metro worker refused to sell them tickets for the last train between the Orly airport and downtown …and taunted them to boot? Or that a freelance journalist wasn’t that shocked when a cab driver forbade her to eat a sandwich in his car because it would create too many crumbs, but gave her the green light to make love with her boyfriend in the back seat if the desire overtook her?

“It’s true that Paris can be infuriating,” admits a pretty Irish editor. “I’ve had periods when I’ve wondered what I’m doing here. But after eight years, I can’t see myself living somewhere else.”

In a way, Paris is a trap of one's own making. “That’s what’s so frustrating,” concedes a tall German redhead who has lived here for over two years. “Part of you wants to leave for an easier destination, but you know you won’t love it as much. There’s just something about this city.”

True, it’s pretty special being in a place where the energy is so vibrant and everything is beautiful. Paris isn’t just full of museums; it is a museum, where not only the stunning architecture is perpetually on display, but the gorgeous people are, too.

“Barcelona is a great town, but there aren’t as many good-looking men as there are in Paris, and when you do see one, he’s probably poorly dressed,” was one superficial, but heartfelt, comparison. “Frenchmen know where to find well-tailored clothes.”

And, once you’re through gazing at the stereotypical, stylish Frenchmen, perhaps it’s appropriate to apply a method that some of them use to spice up their relationships: cheat.

“The trick to being happy in Paris is to go somewhere else…even if it’s just for a couple of days,” instructs one such well-tailored Parisian bloke. “Then you come back refreshed, invigorated, and appreciating Paris all over again.”

Absence, after all, makes the heart grow fonder.

Carolyn Heinze is a freelance writer/editor. Contact her directly at punchface@earthlink.net, or through her agent, Rebecca Friedman, Sterling Lord Literistic, (212) 780-6050 or rebecca@sll.com.

Sexe, Drogues et le Rock ‘n’ Roll

2006-08-02T17:38:00.000+02:00

The casting of John Travolta as J.R. Ewing in the upcoming film version of “Dallas” sparked a debate at a recent Parisian soirée. The French and the North Americans couldn’t agree on which of the hit TV series’ themes were better: the instrumental, horn-based jingle that preceded each episode on the other side of the Big Pond, or the kitschy ballad that commenced each show here in France. When one alcohol-fuelled Frenchman sang a few lines – “Dallas, ton univers impitoya-a-ble…” or “Dallas, your merciless universe” – the North Americans had difficulty suppressing their laughter.

When The Violent Femmes mischievously inquired “Do You Like American Music?” it didn’t take their fans more than 60 seconds to come up with a laundry list of U.S.-based favorites. When most Anglophones – especially those from the States and English-speaking Canada – think of French music, it’s Edith Piaf that first comes to mind. Some might be a bit familiar with the sentimental musings of Jacques Brel, or the Sinatra-esque showmanship of Charles Aznavour, or the Las Vegas-inspired Johnny Halliday. Beyond that, however, it’s usually Francophiles that have been exposed to Dutronc, Polnareff, and the host of others that have contributed to French music history.

Regardless, there exist strong parallels between the English language music scene and what has happened here in France. Mike Brant, for example, a Tom Jones-ish 1970s icon of Israeli descent, soon rose to playboy status thanks to his pretty face and love-drenched chansons that made French girls swoon. Though Brant enjoyed a successful career, the lack of privacy that accompanied his stardom drove him to suicide. Today, Brant’s music continues to live on – usually in the salons of the concierges that inhabit the ground floor apartments of most Parisian residences.

While former celebrities Mike Brant and Kurt Cobain have their fulfilled death wish in common, it’s France’s own version of Nirvana (many argue, a better, more clever version), Noir Desir, that smacks of Sid and Nancy. A few years ago, at the peak of the band’s career, drugged-out singer Bernard Cantat beat his girlfriend, actress Marie Trintignant (daughter of French actor Jean-Louis Trintignant) into a coma. She died several days later. Cantat is currently in prison, serving an eight-year sentence for his crime.

French musicians regularly complain that in order to gain recognition, it’s obligatoire to sing in English; Anglophones – which make up the biggest market – generally don’t listen to what they can’t understand. It’s not uncommon for a French person to declare they don’t know a word of English, only to find them singing along to “Bohemian Rhapsody” five minutes later. But this phenomenon is hardly reciprocal: how many American Piaf fans could belt out all of the words to “La Vie en Rose?”

It’s a pity that the North American school system doesn’t encourage its students to learn several languages the way European educational institutions do. While English is king, one can’t deny the obvious benefits of communicating in something other than one’s mother tongue – even if it’s just to enjoy the little cultural gems that every country has to offer.

For this reason, Serge Gainsbourg – a national hero in France – never managed to break much ground outside of Europe. Here, however, he enjoyed legendary status as an agent provocateur: part dirty old man, part genius, he combined wit, booze, rebelliousness, cigarettes and romance to craft some of French music history’s sharpest lyrics. The French, who are never an easy audience to impress, deem him one of the country’s best poets.

While Madonna’s crotch-grabbing scandalized America, Gainsbourg was creating a stir of his own, with his reggae version of French national anthem La Marseillaise (those are Bob Marley’s Wailers chanting out the refrain); his burning three quarters of a 500 franc note (a crime) on national television to illustrate how much he was paying in taxes; and his declaration, upon being introduced to Whitney Houston (again on national television) that he wanted to fuck her. To accompany his single “Lemon Incest” (an examination of the strong emotional bond between father and daughter, and the physical love between them that must go unfulfilled) he filmed a video clip featuring himself, shirtless, rolling around a bed with his panty-clad 14 year-old daughter, Charlotte. One wonders what the repercussions would have been for the artist if he were based anywhere else, but save for the media hype upon the clip’s release, father and daughter emerged relatively unscathed. Today, Charlotte is a successful actress.

Unless one speaks French – or has access to someone who can translate – it’s difficult to enjoy Gainsbourg’s acclaimed plays on words. A number of Anglophone musicians (most of them Brits) recently made an attempt, however, with Monsieur Gainsbourg Revisited, a compilation of 14 of Gainsbourg’s songs translated into English. Artists such The Rakes, Jarvis Cocker, The Kills, Placebo, Portishead, Tricky, Michael Stipe, Marianne Faithful, and Cat Power tried their hands at tributing the man himself, and while not all of the translations are – or could – depict their original intention, the performances are strong. Even media darling Jane Birkin, Gainsbourg’s former wife and celebrated collaborator, makes an appearance. One hopes that Gainsbourg, despite his trademark cynicism, would be touched.

The alcohol and packs of Gitanes that served as Gainsbourg’s permanent props finally killed him in the spring of 1991. While he had no problem provoking his audience with observations that weren’t always pretty, he remained self-conscious about his own physical ugliness, even dedicating a song and album title to the subject: L’Homme à la tête de chou (or, “the man with the head of cabbage.”) This didn’t stop him, however, from enjoying affairs with some of France’s most beautiful women, among them Brigitte Bardot.

Which is why, perhaps, he was able to come to terms with his looks eventually: “Ugliness is in a way superior than beauty,” he said, “because it lasts.”

Carolyn Heinze is a freelance writer/editor. Contact her directly via punchface@earthlink.net, or through her agent, Rebecca Friedman, Sterling Lord Literistic, (212) 780-6050 or rebecca@sll.com.

Romance Internationale: Paris singles travel vicariously through each other

2006-08-02T16:58:00.000+02:00

Paris, FRANCE-There exists a group of Parisian men in (according to them) their mid twenties and thirties who are known for their (usually) charming quirkiness, ability to pull a party out of nowhere, and partiality to dating foreigners.

One of the most popular destinations in the world, Paris attracts millions of visitors each year - a significant percentage of which return on a semi-permanent or permanent basis to master the French language, start a new life, or to simply live a dream. Many of these individuals are of the female variety, providing flirtatious Frenchmen with ample opportunity to hone their skills in international relations.

Rarely can a single foreign woman attend a vernissage, concert, book reading (not even necessarily in French) or her local café without receiving at least one request for a romantic rendezvous. Wherever foreign girls go, Frenchmen will follow, eager to try their luck at what their female compatriots would sarcastically refer to as la drague à deux francs, or cheap pick-up methods for schmoozing the ladies.

Which would explain why any soirée involving the aforementioned band of parisiens resembles a United Nations convention - if U.N. officials were reputed for their funky dress. At these events, a large chunk of the globe is represented, resulting in France, Germany, Sweden, Denmark, Portugal, England, Spain, Canada, Japan, Ireland, Latin America, Hungary, Tunisia, and the United States all cavorting together on one smoky dance floor. Without ever leaving the comfort of their hometown, these Frenchmen travel through the women they woo, jet-setting with the added convenience of never having to pack a valise.

"I'm through with French girls," sniffed one of these brooding Parisians with an exasperated drag on his cigarette. "We grew up in the same culture. We know each other's stories already." French couples, he argues, are familiar with one another before they have the chance to...er...really get familiar.

One wonders, however, if these Frenchmen have any choice but to prey upon foreigners: many étrangères have yet to become fluent in France's official language. La drague à deux francs works much better on someone who has no clue what le dragueur is actually saying.

While expats that have fallen for a Frenchman gain intimate insight into what makes the French culture tick, Parisians delight that their foreign partners offer a fresh perspective on their native city. In a way, they become tourists in their own home, visiting spots they never would have dreamed of frequenting otherwise as their lover takes in the scenery of their adopted locale. Among these couples, the role of tour guide is dual; when it's time to return home for a visit, many Paris-based expats invite their romantic interests along for the ride. This prospect can be a little scary for both guest and host: not only is there the pressure of meeting the girl's parents (who probably speak no French); two worlds collide when one reveals all of the unglamorous truths about the city (or suburb, town, village, or burg) from which one hails.

"It was weird seeing my boyfriend in Stockholm," confessed a pretty suedoise who has dated a Parisian of Portuguese decent for the past six years. "It was like he was seeing a secret part of me for the first time." Others lament that it's tough enough to impress Parisians with the truly fabulous; what happens when they find out that one's hometown is small, provincial, and not all that exciting?

But what's humdrum to one is exotic to another, and just because one's birthplace might not boast the stuff of movies, it can still be new and exciting to virgin eyes. Globalization, the Internet, and the alarming number of Starbucks cafés popping up all over may deem the world a smaller place, but there still remain small differences that fascinate even the most blasé. Our cultures may be similar, but they are definitely not the same, and our stories will likely hold interest past a couple of cheap pick-up lines.

Long enough, at least, to really get familiar.

Carolyn Heinze is a freelance writer/editor. Contact her directly at punchface@earthlink.net or through her agent, Rebecca Friedman, Sterling Lord Literistic, (212) 780-6050 or rebecca@sll.com.