La Coquette

The whole point of this post is to bump down the previous one

I know that America doesn’t have the exclusive rights to either Legos or Santa, but something about the combination of elements, and their location in the entrance of a swanky American shopping mall (the shops at North Bridge on Michigan Avenue, which I walk past every day on my way to work) makes me want to stand and sing with my hand over my heart.

Meanwhile, French Christmas decor has always felt sort of contemporary art installation-ish to me.

That’s all I got! Oh, and I’m sitting here in the Tribune Tower at 5:30pm CST on Friday evening and it’s so quiet that I can hear the Salvation Army guy playing Star of Wonder on his trumpet down on the street. That’s nice. But don’t worry I’m out the door in ten minutes to have cocktails wearing a crazy feathered hat (social experiment), and then I’m headed in the direction of family tomorrow (umm, different kind of social experiment!)

Christmas Wishes, The Drop It Like It's Hot Edition

subject:  Christmas

La Coquette to Aimee, Jennifer                      (3 days ago)
what would you guys like?  i need ideas. 

Aimee to me                                                (3 1/2 hours ago)
hype bag
brown or black
big enough for mac
durango

La Coquette to Aimee                                   (3 minutes ago)
in my head that email is wearing a gwen stefani pompadour and lots of bling.

Durango is a bag, but that's not the point.  The point is, isn't she poetic?  Next year, I will request that she scat sings her wish list. 

Emerging from the salt mines

Chickenhut, Barnum and Bagels, ginormous parking lots, E! Entertainment News, cabs, elevators, Whole Foods, TJ Maxx, SNL, and high rise buildings with doormen are feeling exotic to me right now. Some other things America has meant to me in these first ten days...

Swinging
It occurred to me yesterday as I was balancing my tall peppermint mocha no whip latte and fishing for my taxi fare (I'm not blowing all my money on cabs, but they're so cheap compared to Paris! And it means I can wear heels!)--I’m really lucky to be bi-coffee.  Not ten days ago, I was loving the Cafe Contrescarpe and now I'm in bed with Starbucks.   I know French people for whom walking with coffee is anathema, and Americans who are turned off by those wee shots of milk-free expresso.  Not me.  It’s all my bag and there’s enough of my coffee lovin' to go around, babies.

Greeting
The first couple of days here, I didn’t know how to talk to strangers.  I gave a hearty “Hello sir!” to the Airport Express Shuttle man.  Sounded funny.  Next, I couldn't remember how I greeted people if I needed directions.    Was it Hello and then Excuse me?  Hail ye fellow citizen of Earth?  I was at sea. 

Drinking
Water fountains, they are EVERYWHERE.  Whenever I want water, THERE IT IS.  It is as if this country said, “Let us anticipate that people will get thirsty outside the confines of their own homes, and they will want to satisfy themselves.”  Ditto toilets. 

Listening
Jingle Bell Rock is just a cracker of a tune--the part with the key change releases more endorphins to my brain than the molten hot chocolate at Le Fumoir.   I’ve heard it no less than 387 times since I arrived.  In France I’d get to experience it twice if I was lucky.  It makes me anxious to think of all the Jingle Bell Rock I'd be missing if I were in France right now. 

Eating
Whole Foods is a strange place.  2-bite Brownies, Laura’s Wholesome Junk Food, Pumpkin Seed Cheese Snacker Crackers.  Everything is disguised as something else.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a little variety.  Curried Cauliflower is great, but sometimes we should just let veggies be themselves.

Commuting
In the US on a Friday evening, 6:30 pm is rush hour.  In France, it’s 1:30 pm.  (Okaaaay, 2:00 pm.)

Dressing
You know you’re in the US when you see a college students wearing strange things: pajama pants with puffy fur-lined jackets and flip flops, for instance.  I saw three girls hop out of a car and run into the Blockbuster on Huron Street wearing only tanktops and track pants!  It’s 20 degrees out!  Put some clothes on, bitches! 

Overhearing
I stepped off the plane, and overheard this guy say “I mean, I truly do love basketball” with a Southern drawl--right!  Southerners say Truly!  How charming!  Why don't I have any Southern expat friends in France? Later, I caught a little bit of The Food Network where that lady with pretty gray hair was making blueberry dumplings and she said, “Ah thank ah just swallahed mah tongue.”  Ha! Regional accents are too much.   

Brunching
Sunday, on my way to get coffee in Lake View, I saw people carrying leftovers from brunch.  First off, allow me to say:  B-R-U-N-C-H!  And also:  leftovers in styrofoam!  Your hungover self can open the styrofoam container throughout the afternoon and graze on bits of breakfast burrito.  Makes me miss college. 

Thanksgiving
“It’s so strange that you’re in the country and I haven’t seen you yet” my mother said on the phone last night.  It’s hard for both of us.  I never thought I would be that girl who could go a year without seeing my parents.  (Normally, they would have come to France for visiting this summer, but they’ve had a tough year rebuilding our home from the hurricanes of 2004.) 

Gosh, this is going to make me sound like I need a 12-Step Program, but I chose not to go home for Thanksgiving for the sake of my sanity--I have a whopping deadline to meet early next week. Family is more important to me than anything but I guess you have to pay the piper from time to time if you want to do work that you enjoy.   To reward myself for pouring through lookbooks and transcribing interviews when I should be making stuffing with my mom, and to continue my life’s current chick lit meets poignancy vibe--(It's not that I'm lonely, but there is something about turning down invites to see Second City with old friends or being too busy for Thanksgiving that makes you feel desert dog-ish)--I think I’ll go see Shopgirl today, or In Her Shoes...they're not around in France yet.  But I’m saving Rent to see with my sisters.  That has to do with counterpoint renditions of Would You Light My Candle? in a small Renault in Italy, Fourmont Family Roadtrip 2002, but that’s another story for another day. 

Back to the salt mines...

Turn on the wistful Charlie Brown music

On my way to give an English lesson in the 5ème yesterday, I passed a red-suited woman looking in a store window with her daughter.  “Ooooh!”  the daughter screamed at something in the display, delighted.  As if on cue, a low, swirling gust blew the girl’s hair straight up, giving the scene a sort of ominous, here-comes-Mary-Poppins feeling.  I thought that they maybe were enjoying a seasonal scary display in the window of what I knew to be a toy shop, but when I approached, the vitrine was its normal hectic palette of rainbow colors--neither bat nor black cat to be seen. 

Well, that just ain't right, I thought.  But not right for whom? 

Linus in the pumpkin patch, wax candy lips, apples bobbing in spicy cider, paper scarecrows taped to classroom doors.  It’s not that I miss the stuff, of course I don’t miss the stuff.  But the satisfying melancholy for childhood that the stuff evokes?  Maybe just a little. 

Later, I saw a troop of pint-sized witches wandering around Saint Germain des Prés squealing in French, their parents looking a little sheepish.  It’s an entirely different shade of melancholy, and you cannot imagine until it happens to you, but you will feel fantastically, chemically homesick if you ever see a half dozen French children all wearing identical costumes (what was up with the matching costumes?) and squealing delightedly for "des bonbons."   

Olive Belly Button

Here, and below, is my fourth and final Blog World piece.  I want to thank The San Diego Reader, and specifically editor Judith Moore for inviting me to take part.  Judith has written a breathtaking book.  Maybe you’ve heard of it?  This is what it tastes like.  And this is why.  Rarely am I so floored.

At first gasp, France's Télématin could be the identical twin cousin of The Today Show.  The hosts hum along to pop music on the way back from commercial; there's corny banter; a stodgy man in a bowtie minces and camps it up, just like Al Roker.  The French Katie Couric would have to be a petite blonde named Sophie Davant who got her start doing weather 20 years ago.

But then, there's this:  female hosts wear complicated tops in the style of Jean Paul Gaultier; meanwhile, America's Kelly Ripa is left to languish in a palette of corporate beige and focus-group-friendly blandness.  And the male host of Télématin sometimes wears a jaunty jean jacket.  Sure, I could see Regis or Matt in denim if they were on location with, say, a rock star.  But would they turn the collar up? 

And also, the camera angles.  Today, we're discussing some new sunscreen technology with a beauty expert.  The shot begins off kilter, showing profiles of guest and host as they project to the imaginary audience.  Focused on the expert in the foreground, the perspective then changes to the host in an artful manner. Returning from commercial, the camera gaze lingers tightly (voyeuristically?) on the beauty expert's face while the music plays.  Wrapping up the segment, she finally declares a certain brand of sunscreen most effective, but who could think about dermatology now?  I want to put on a black turtleneck and play bongo drums with Truffault. 

**********
The weather girl on Channel 6 is showing her navel.  She speaks of last week's hurricane in Florida, talking about the horrible devastation.  All the while, her little olive belly button winks at the camera.   She signs off with a bouncy clap of her hands.  You, mademoiselle, are no Al Roker.  I can't decide if I'm more annoyed at the objectification aspect, or the fact that it's such a gross cliché--sexpot weather girl.  “Oh, her!  Did you know she's not even a trained meteorologist?” my cousin reads my mind when I ask her about this particular jeune fille, “She used to do télé réalité.”  When I flip back to Télématin, the host tells the female expert that men will be distracted by her legs if she sports the chiffon sarong in question.  The woman responds archly, “And what will you be wearing on the beach?”   And with that bit of flirtatious repartee, I mute the television.

***********
I go to the grocery store before my friend Julie's birthday party Wednesday night.  It being the day before la fête nationale, (Bastille Day), the lines are epic.  An American couple behind me frowns at the inconvenience--in their Connecticut grocery store, “this would not fly.”  A few minutes later, the cashier runs a price check.  “Why don't you call Kara?” the American woman sighs to her husband, “Tell her we're in line at Monoprix.”  As if her daughter Kara will be at all surprised, or need any further explanation. 

Wool over eyes -- GONE

After last week's tutoring session with Christine, one of my English "pupils", we chatted about this European Constitution business a little, but mostly we chatted about her vacation plans.  The French are blessed with five weeks of holiday per year, three of which are typically used in the summertime.  Would this not be EVERYTHING you talked about if you were about to have 21 consecutive days without seeing your boss?  I thought so. 

Christine's 15-year-old daughter Candice, I learned, is at that age where she does her own thing.  In fact, she's having three separate vacations this summer:  one in Biarritz with friends, one at a camp in Corsica, and one with a host family in England.  Meanwhile, Christine tells me she and her husband might go visit her cousin.  Her cousin lives in the south of France and just bought a mobile home. 

"I sink it will not be a good one, this idea."
"Why’s that?"
"Jean-Pierre, he says we are too old."
"Too old for mobile homes?  Nah!  What you mean is too young."
"No, too old for camping."

According to Christine, there are no showers on these particular mobile homes.  (When I pressed, I determined it's probably more like a camping car. I'm still calling it a mobile home only because I'm from Florida and take every opportunity to say "MO-bye-ull.") Thus, they need to wash outdoors, in a communal-type setting, and this is the part Jean-Pierre takes issue with.   

"And what do you think, Christine?  Are you up for the showering?"
"Sure!  I think it would be funny!"  (She meant "fun."  The French sometimes do this with the "y."  As in, "Were you very drunky?")

I love Christine and really, how can you NOT love anyone who would describe showering outdoors as "funny"?  But the vacation plan?  Christine may or may not be going camping and her daughter gets three trips, one of which involves BIARRITZ?

You know, a certain someone in my family, the someone who grew up on a french farm, he used to suggest that to be born The American Child was quite the picnic of tomfoolery, as if no kids ANYWHERE else on earth ever did ANYTHING besides play with wooden toys and milk cows on their summer vacations. 

How could you Dad?  Shocking. 

American Birthday Cake, Paragon of Exoticism

When you live abroad longer than a three-month school term, you pass the point of “I want to blend in.”  You live here, you shop here. You acquire Converse sneakers, Et Vous jackets, and a furrow in your brow when the bus doesn’t come.  Pretty soon, you’re approached by Germans in fanny packs asking directions to the Panthéon in guidebook french.

Of course, let's be honest--there are many things you might also do, things that broadcast HELLO, I AM NOT NATIVE.  Wearing your gym clothes to the grocery store, or say, failing to starve your boobs away like a proper French girl.

But the point is, you walk like you know where you’re going and you wear something reasonably adult, and 87% of the time, you’re taken for a Parisian. 

And if you’re like me, that’s when you want to be different.  That's when you find yourself clinging to things you would never, ever cling to in the US. 

Collegiate t-shirts at the gym.  Jimmy Buffet and the Barenaked Ladies.  Margaritas.  You find yourself waxing poetic about Cheerios, Conan O’Brian, and good mexican food.  Costco and parking lots.  The Macy’s Day Parade.  Target. You find yourself arguing in the wee hours of the morning why The Simpsons are, indeed brilliant. 

“I just don’t sink eet’s so funny.  Homer, pshhht. Eet’s crude, non?” 

And after a year of the world's finest desserts--macaroons, gateaux moelleux au chocolat, tarte tatin--you just might find yourself getting damn nostalgic for an icing coated, make-your-teeth ache, good old fashioned american birthday cake. 

You see, this Friday, there's going to be a joint party for me (my birthday is May 13th), Sophie, and Caro (their birthdays were yesterday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LES FILLES).  I’ve contacted one american caterer who no longer delivers to Paris.  If I must resort to something delicious and french, fine, but I still thought I'd ask, can anyone recommend?  You may suggest I make the cake myself.  This would be a happy suggestion IF ONLY I HAD AN OVEN.

Also, while I’ve opened the advice lines, can someone please tell me why the Favela friggin Chic wont allow you to reserve a table in advance?  Because I just can't do another Hotel Costes experience, I just can't. 

Pâques-Man

First duck captured = 200 points.  (Happy Pâques!)

Happy Saturday of Rest

Last Sunday, I walked by the Patrick Roger store and noticed Patrick was inside wearing his crisp, white, chef’s coat with “Meilleur Ouvrier de France” embroidered on the chest.  And on his lower half--bright orange cargo pants. 

The frisson!  The buttoned-up and unbuttoned!  The high and the low! (Hi, he makes fancy expensive chocolate 'SHROOMS.)  The chocolate!  We're POWERLESS TO RESIST AND THIS REALLY NEEDS TO STOP FOR THE SAKE OF OUR POCKETBOOK AND WAISTLINE, PLEASE.       

Cocorico

Welcome to Day One of a three-part, Easter Triduum Series in which we observe chocolate.  Because, my god, it’s all made of chocolate.