La Coquette

Occasionally, she reads this blog, so the answer would be NO*

Hypothetically speaking, if you were dog-sitting at the home of someone chic, a fashion editor for example, and she had things of supreme chicness in her closet--things that exist naturally in Barneys and Frank & Fils, but appear only rarely in actual home wardrobes--if, hypothetically speaking, she had told you to "make yourself at home," would that include trying on her Christian Louboutin and Pierre Hardy shoes?

*And by "no," I mean, only because she wears a 37 and I'm a 39. 

Not drinking Merlot

Dax and Kathleen, at dinner in Florence.

The villa had a vineyard, its own church, and a woman named Bianca who bakes fresh bread on Tuesdays and Fridays.

We hiked in the outskirts of Greve, stopping for a photo shoot with the herd of goats blocking our path. 

We drove to vineyards and rang the bells of stone-walled houses. We stood in cool tasting rooms where the sun streamed through the windows, highlighting our fingerprints on the wine glasses, making my hair glow fiery red, Kathleen's honeycomb brown.   

We said grazie and prego.  Scusi.  (I decided I could form any Italian word by putting "usi" at the end.  "Usi."  Italian is so cute, non?) 

We ate lasagna. 

If our trip had been a movie, there'd be a montage of four glasses lined up on worn wooden countertops, filled with good red wine, again and again.  And then some.

Swirling, smelling, taking nerdy notes (me), leaving nothing for the spit bucket (the guys--okay, me and the guys), buying 17 bottles of wine (Dax and Kathleen), and staining our teeth a hopeless shade of gray (everyone). 

Dax prefers the Super Tuscans.  I like when the Sangiovese grapes don't exceed 80%--a little Cabernet Sauvignon mixed in is nice.  I have preferences.  Chianti stipulations.  I'll be insufferable in no time.

Naturally, we quoted lines from Sideways. Hello, we were so "not drinking any fucking Merlot." 

Our car, the Fiat Panda, was a fearless mascot, as was the symbol of the region, Il Gallo Nero, the black, umm, rooster. 

Oh yes, and did I mention that I nearly ran away with Lorenzo, owner of a small vineyard and a dog called Pinto?

And that was all just on Friday.  See the pics for yourself >>

Actually Maestro, you CAN still get a villa in Tuscany.

Greve, in the Chianti region. 

Kathleen's neighborhood was less than a mile from my own, just across A1A.  We didn't meet until junior year when I transferred to her high school, but oh, how quickly the friendship flowered.  Like Roquefort and Sauternes, put Leeny and me together and 1 + 1 equals, shoot, at least 7.5.  We even have opposite good sides for pictures. 

The day Kathleen got a car, she drove straight into my driveway and began honking.  From that day forth, we always carpooled.  We drove to each others houses at midnight for wardrobe pillaging when we had, my god, nothing to wear for the next day's English presentation.  We got back from family vacations ready to kill all blood relatives, threw down our bags, and headed to our "second" homes.  When I began experimenting with jogging, I'd swing by Kathleen's for a glass of water and maybe end up watching Oprah, eating her mother's iced butter cookies, and getting a lift home come dinnertime. 

But what you really need to know is, on Thursday, MY BEST FRIEND PICKED ME UP IN FLORENCE, ITALY IN A BLUE FIAT PANDA.

Allow me to explain. 

Kathleen and Dax have been married exactly one year and eight days.  While some couples might celebrate their first wedding anniversary with a nice dinner and a movie, she and her husband stayed in a villa in Tuscany for the week.  (It was their wedding gift from the kind owners of said villa.  Yes, we all feel like it's something from a Seinfeld episode.)

Dax's best friend Pete and I arrived on Thursday, making us a boozy band of four.  Add a few sun-soaked days in Tuscany to the bank of "remember whens."

I still can't believe Kathleen is married.  We're supposed to be lighting a nice smelly candle, painting our nails and agonizing, why, oh why, must Dr. McCarthy torture us with the injustice that is Physics homework?  But if getting older means somebody actually trusts us to stay in their villa, maybe there are some advantages. 

Oh, and did I mention that Dax is amazing, makes Kathleen laugh until she snarfs, and I love him?  Couldn't be happier for both of my friends.  Congrats on one year, kids.  And thanks, so very much, for letting me crash your anniversary party. 

I'll post pictures shortly.

Sweet spring, I give in

I just saw a kiss transpire at metro Odeon, where the girl actually lifted her foot in the air, old Hollywood style.  And I didn't even gag.

Fall is the king of all seasons.  Don't try to argue with me on this one, because I've got all sorts of dogma to back that story up.  (Bouquets of sharpened pencils and, hello?  I'm a redhead.  My colors are so totally "autumn.")

Paris has been rainy these last few weeks, and occasionally downright cold, but the spaces in between?  Seductive.  Beguiling.  Splendid.

Hi, I'm Coquette, and I'm sort of having a spring moment.

Crocus outside La Sorbonne, rue des Ecoles.

Latin Quarter, across from Notre Dame. 

Tulips, Jardin du Luxembourg.

Yeah, baby

I’ve been interviewed by a smelly Scottish letch for Dublin’s premier blogging journal, Blathmac Blather. 

Might I suggest visiting Bluepoppy for the transcript?

Confession

For eating the last slice of Clotilde’s Tarte Asperge et Fraise.  (Cucina Testa Rossa helped!)

My apologies to dear Alisa’s husband who, according to the comments over at Chocolate and Zucchini, didn’t get any. 

(In case you’re wondering, I was responsible for the figs with candied ginger crème fraîche.  If anyone asks, I slogged away in the kitchen for hours, m'kay?)

Fish Flippy

I’ve had various odd jobs since moving to France, but one thing I do a lot of is tutoring.  I find it inspires a welcome sense of superiority (see Tuesday’s post), pays 2.5 times as much as baby-sitting or dog-sitting, and best of all, doesn't require me to touch any poop.

Last spring and into the summer, I woke up every Saturday morning at 7 a.m. and went to Joinville-le-Pont for English “play sessions” with three brothers--Victor, Ivan, and Frédéric--working individually, at 45-minute intervals.  They were nice enough boys, but I think it’s no stretch of the imagination to say that they loathed me.  Victor, the oldest at 11, might be listening to the sounds of a neighborhood game of foot wafting through the windows, and there I was grinning at him like a jack-o'-lantern.

Me:  How ‘bout another round of I Spy?
Victor:  Mmmm.  I don’t sink so.

*crickets*

I assure you it wasn’t as merry as it sounds. 

Ivan and Fred were a bit easier--they found my rendition of The Hokey Pokey inspiring, and when I brought over Monopoly, they thought I had invented the game.  But novelty only lasts so long with eight-year-olds until they realize they’re looking at 22 more minutes in lockdown with the crazy singing lady.  In retrospect, it seems unfair that I was the only one getting paid in the situation. 

But adults, adults who actually want to learn?  I can get on board for that.  For an hour a day, their attention is mine, just like a child.  For an hour a day, I can mold them and lord it around.  For an hour a day, I am their superior.  Who’s the lady with all the answers?  Ding, ding, ding.  That would be me.

(This would be a good time for the gods to begin peeling that banana.  Also, I like my cream pies with just a hint of vanilla, thanks.)

One woman I tutor, Caroline, is trying to get ahead in the business world by working on her English.  She’s a lovely woman whose beauty and demeanor belie her actual age.  (There is a sixteen-year-old son.)  Most importantly, Caroline has several Oxford Business English books, and we’re not expected to play Simon Says.

Tuesday night, I was defining something for her in French--a practice that the Alliance Française might not endorse, but Caroline has requested in order to save time.  I started to explain, in French, “imagine if you,” and the informal “tu” just slipped out.   And sat there like a floundering, flippy fish on the table.  Uncomfortable.  Obvious.  Wrong. 

Allow me to interject that, for the six months I worked at the magazine, I was the nerd using “vous” with all the hip fashion assistants on the phone (my age), until I heard them “tu” me first.  And then I still usually stuck with “vous.”  But with a woman of Caroline's age, well, there should be no question. 

“Imagine si tu...” 

Flip flip.  Flip flip.   

I felt like Ralphie just after he’s muttered the “F” word.

What do you do at this point?  Once you’ve left a nice, fat, third-trimester pause?  Do you clear your throat, smile, and say “VOUS” meaningfully?  That seems so fey.  Do you simply excuse yourself, or do you carry on like it never happened? 

Me?  I excused myself, then carried on, as one must when one is being paid by the hour.

SHAZAM! Hey, unto you

Yippee!  We’ve been nominated for Best Personal Web Site in what the New York Times calls “The Oscars of the Internet.”  And what Vanity Fair calls--we’re just dying to hear what the context was--“Better than the Oscars.” 

It's called the Webby Awards.  We can count on you to vote for People's Voice, right?  Right?  Thank you.   

P.S.  Webby Academy people, (that includes you Mr. David Bowie), I don’t mean to sound blithe--this means a lot.  And if I win, I'm going to buy a fancy new pair of pj’s to go with that bouncy trophy.

UPDATE:
When I found out about this nomination, I immediately offered to withdraw, being that I hadn't paid a cent in entry fees.  (Trust me, if I had 195 bucks in the slush fund, it would sooo be going towards shoes.)  Background:  All Bloggie nominees could enter the blog category for free, but here I've been nominated for a different category entirely.  I sent an email stating this information (minus the "shoe slush fund" part).  Their response?  “Dude, chill out!” 

Their exact words were, “the judges wanted to see [your site] in ‘Personal,’ so that’s where it went.”  No, DDJ, I did not have a sugar sponsor, although that’s not such a bad idea.  Bowie, you interested?

Verbally Challenged

I like to think of my French language status as the verbal equivalent of “wheelchair restricted”--I may not enter gracefully into all environments, you might have to keep an eye out to ensure I don’t get hurt, take me to a party and I'm liable to illicit loud, hyper-enunciated talking from guests--Alooors, vous-venez D'OU?--and maybe some staring, but for all intents and purposes, I get around pretty well, thank you. 

Friday, I had an appointment to get my eyes tested.  I had to look up the word for ophthalmologist, call the ones in my area via the pages jaunes, find out who tests eyes the cheapest and make the appointment.  Then, when I was in the exam room and Docteur Besse covered my left eye, I said “Euh, Bay, Jay,” for E, B, G.  The phrases that I had to read were obviously in French, and the chit chat with the doctor as she drew up my prescription?  That was in French, too.  It’s not like I gave a dissertation or wrote a story for a French newspaper, but I have to celebrate the small things, like eye exams, because otherwise, why am I not in the US getting an MFA right now? 

To be honest, I’ve lived here one year and, that whole speaking in French thing?  It’s still really hard.  Sometimes I’m around other expatriates (expatriates who don’t even have any French in their blood, or a last name that ends in the “awhn” sound), and their accents are so much better than mine, and they throw around the subjunctive tense--a tense which DOESN'T EVEN EXIST IN ENGLISH--as if it were easy as pig latin. 

I want to say to these people, yes, fine, but can you express so much as I in a mere hand gesticulation?  Did you spend the summer of 1986 saying “AH ben dis DONC!” because you wanted to be just like your grandfather, Pépé?  When it comes to cheese, has your motto always been, the stinkier the better?  As a child, would you happily drink watered-down wine that was older than you were?  (Yes, they let children drink wine here, and have you seen how tame their college parties are?  MY FRENCH FRIENDS KNOW NOT THE MEANING OF THE FOLLOWING WORDS:  ICE BLOCK, KEG-STAND, POWER HOUR, ALCOHOL POISONING.)

I digress.  The point?  The point is, FRANCE IS IN MY BLOOD, you overachievers.  So step off with your perfect language skills and correcting my pronunciation of "Buttes Chaumont," before I smack you upside yo' head with that French in Action book.

Maybe this would be a good time to address why my own father, the man who got me into this whole mess, didn’t try to teach his daughters French.  He did.  He spoke it with us on the way to pre-school every morning.  And then he went and worked all day.  Little kids go to bed early.  Could we have learned French on the weekend and at nights?  There are countless families that make it work, but ours was set up so that we spent more time with our mother.  Our American mother who spoke no French. 

But I am here now, and while I may still be handicapped in the language department, I just took an eye exam in French, and that’s something neither my high school French teacher, nor I, nor my grandfather Constant Victor, may the man rest in peace, would ever have seen coming.  I’ve never said this to anyone before, because I know it's so very attractive to make proclamations about what one will do to one’s children (especially when "one" doesn't even have a boyfriend), but it’s my dream to teach my kids French someday. 

We may end up in Tupelo, Mississippi, the father may be from Spain, Denmark, or perhaps even Kentucky, but my God if I wont have 'em consuming stinky cheeses, watered-down wine, and the adventures of Tintin.  And they will like it.  Because Mommy likes it.  That’s how these things work, right Mom?

I might as well have been wearing a sign saying, "Deport me, I'm a schlubby American."

Seeing as today was cloudy and cold and generally disgusting, I didn’t make my usual run in the park.  Ditto for the standing Sunday movie date with my friend Erin.  In fact, I didn’t leave the apartment until just now to buy some milk and Country Crisp cereal at the grocery store.

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain after a day spent in idleness, but I stepped outside wearing my hair in a ponytail, Converse sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt advertising an American state university.  Someone please alert the fashion police.  Oh wait, THAT WOULD BE ME. 

To arrive at a grocery store in Paris on a Sunday evening at 7 p.m., to do so in my neighborhood at least, is to walk amongst scores of happy young couples wearing Italian leather shoes and French perfume as they buy a bottle of Sancerre, or perhaps a jar of paté, before dinner with the in-laws.

I am immune to the staring at this point.  IMMUNE.