La Coquette

I'm okay, Eurotrash

In the cafeteria of the public junior high school I attended, there was a nook called the Red Room, decorated with images of our mascot and painted a scarlet red, meant to reflect spirit and school pride.  Everyone from a certain crowd--the cheerleaders, the jocks--ate in the Red Room.  Junior high school was the pinnacle of stardom for most of them, and this figurative velvet rope only made their glow of popularity burn brighter to those on the outside--you wanted to follow their every move, but first, you had to get past the door.

There is a hotel in Paris so fabulous, just seeing the name in print prickles the very hairs on my neck--Hotel Costes.  Wait, the hairs on the back of your neck didn’t stand up?  Perhaps you pronounced it wrong in your head the first time.  Try saying “OH-tel CUST." Bien.

The hotel is tony, gorgeous, and doting, yes.  But other hotels in Paris do it better.  It is also exclusive terrain for stars, fashion and music people, and those who are exceedingly rich and beautiful.  And nobody does it better.

I mean there is nothing mock-worthy when it comes to The Costes.

This place just rocks (pretentiously).  From the gorgeous (infamously rude) staff, to the elite (eurotrashy) clientele, to the pool that plays music underwater (allegedly, because who actually swims laps at The Costes?), to the somber lighting that pervades the space (all the better to savor narcotics, my dear).

I seem bitter you say?  I have got my reasons, can’t we just leave it at that?   

KIDDING!  Of course we can’t leave it at that.  

Humiliation à la Costes

We’d started at the Opéra Garnier on a crisp Saturday night in November.  I was taking Kathleen to see Katia Kabanova for her birthday.  We were having a tra la la night in Paris, so we thought, "Let us end with drinks at the Costes!"

10:30 pm I call Hotel Costes to reserve a table.  "We only take reservations for dinner," the hostess tells us.  I ask if there are still tables available at the bar.  "Yes," she responds, "we still have room at the bar."

11:00 pm Our taxi arrives at rue Saint Honoré, a man in a black leather coat walks up to my side of the cab.  Thinking he’s trying to get into the cab with us,  I start to shake my head, “Huh, uh Buster.”  Then I look up and see that we are, in fact, just in front of the hotel (the entrance is quite hush hush, you see); I realize the man is, in fact, the valet. 

11:02 pm Instead of entering a spacious, light-filled lobby (The Costes is all about dark, dark, dark), you begin by passing through a tight corridor.  In the corridor, I keep hearing voices just next to me, talking and laughing.  The voices come from left and right, causing me to jerk my head around, only there’s no one else in the hallway.  I realize THEY ARE PLAYING A RECORDING OF PEOPLE AT A COCKTAIL PARTY.

11:03 pm We see the hostess--petite, dressed in black, exquisitely, no cruelly beautiful.  She is the most popular girl in school, just daring you to talk to her.  I swear that she actually looks us up and down.  THANK GOD I WAS WEARING MY GOLD JEAN-MICHEL CAZABATS, (you know the ones I mean), PHEW! 

Me:  Table for two, please?
Hostess:  Sorry, we are complet right now.

Her cheekbones are so chiseled, you get the idea they could cut you.  I give her a huge smile. 

Me:  On n’est pas difficile, on peut attendre.  (We’re not fussy, we can wait).

This was my first big mistake:  I told her we weren’t fussy.  If there’s one thing understood by those who spend time around velvet ropes--NEVER UNDERMINE ONE’S OWN IMPORTANCE IN THE TIME-SPACE CONTINUUM.  “We’re not fussy!”  Jeez.  I might as well have offered to massage the hostess’s scalp and give her a facial, too. 

Hostess:  You can’t wait here.
Me:  Oh, okay.  Can we wait at the bar?
Hostess:  The bar is full too.
Me:  Okay, we’ll just stand at the bar then.

Second Big Mistake:  The Costes is not a standing kind of place.  You lounge.  You sit.  We had betrayed ourselves as amateurs.  Costian newbies. 

Hostess:  I’m sorry, you need to leave. 
Me:  What?
Hostess: sighing Fine, you can come back at midnight. 
Me:  WHAT! 

I started to say something about my call earlier, but the decision was made--she began pointedly ignoring us and ushering in the important looking couple who had just arrived.   

This is where people who have pride would have left. 
 
This is when Kathleen and I decided to use the bathroom.  And all you really need to know is that Kathleen and I stayed in the bathroom a long time, BECAUSE WE HAD A POW-WOW IN WHICH WE EXCHANGED BLOOD AND DECIDED THAT THERE WAS NO WAY EITHER OF US WAS LEAVING THIS HOTEL.  We wore them down.  WE. WON. 

Next time you go to The Costes, notice the mirrored wall just to the right of the bar.  While waiting for our table, I kept catching my reflection, and I wasn’t sure I liked this person I saw.  It didn’t bother me that they hadn’t let us right in.  What concerned me was this:  For someone who claimed not to be fussy, why did I make all that fuss?  Do we never grow out of that junior high school desire to belong?  Once we are on the inside, why does it suddenly seem less important? 

Luckily, I didn’t have to look at myself for long, within a few minutes, we had a table, and then there were other things to look at.  The velvet banquettes, my mojito--the powdered sugar swirling, then settling like flakes in a snow-globe--all the beautiful people.  Who maybe were watching us, too. 

Real Men Bend It Like Beckham

My father (far right) with his Université teammates after a soccer win, circa 1972.  He has no idea that in a few short years, he will move to America, FOREVER ALTERING THE COURSE OF HIS LIFE.  America will make him drink beer from a bottle and put ice in his drinks.  America will persuade him to buy a Golden Retriever and an SUV.  America will inspire him to wear khaki trousers and oversized work shirts made by Tommy Hilfiger.  But will America take his soccer ball-shaped soul and replace it with NFL-regulation pigskin?  *swell French National Anthem, La Marseillaise*  NEVER.   

I remember feeling shocked when a teacher told my mother that my father had a cute accent.  What accent?  I’d never noticed any accent.  Of course, my father did, and still does, have a French accent, but it’s so indistinct, most people can’t pin what country he’s from.  I actually felt a bit disappointed when I realized what a less bated French accent could sound like.  Watching Jean de Florette, my sisters and I wondered why our Dad didn’t sound like Gérard Depardieu.  Even a French doctor who ran local T.V. commercials in Florida would say, exotically, “I’ve been a resident of Floreedah for 25 years.”  What was wrong with our Dad?  He sounded nothing like that, and he’d only been here 15 years. 

I just saw the movie Spanglish.  If you’re reading this from France, the movie is not slated for release there UNTIL APRIL.  I WISH SOMEONE HAD TOLD ME THIS BEFORE I MOVED TO FRANCE--YOU WILL NEVER AGAIN SEE A MOVIE WHEN IT’S SHINY AND NEW, BUT INSTEAD MONTHS AFTER IT HAS REACHED THE 100-SEATER IN PODUNK WEST VIRGINIA.  I am considering legal action because no one warned me I’d have to wait three months to see Lost in Translation. 

So if you haven’t seen Spanglish, two of the main characters are an immigrant from Mexico and her young daughter.  The typical struggles between first and second generation immigrants ensue--the balance of assimilation with homeland heritage, the problematic of a child having more power than her parents (the mother barely speaks English), etc.

I couldn’t relate to any of this.  I never felt like the immigrant’s child, shamed by my father’s accent and foreign ways.  (Oh, he made me cringe in public all right, but it had nothing to do with his being French).  Why was he so assimilated by the time of my birth?    A large part must be that he had absolutely no connection to France here--no French friends, no French-speaking television channels, and calls overseas were expensive.   And although my mother and he fell in love when she was studying abroad in France, they always spoke in English together.

I've been thinking about my Dad’s experience since reading Petite Anglaise’s posting last week, Cultural Schizophrenia.  She writes how even when you become fluent in another language, your true self can be harder to translate.   Asking for my father’s reaction to this idea, he told me what I already knew, but prefer not to think about--that 30 years after moving to the United States, no matter how confident his English skills, he still feels more comfortable telling a joke in French.  He told me that he considers his "true self" his French self.  Then we started talking about how his closest friends remain his high school friends, how he’d really like to retire in France, and how only after becoming a father does he realize the injury he caused his parents when he left.  And then, OH GOD THEN, as if my glasses weren’t foggy enough--he just had to go and bring up soccer.

You see, the thing about soccer is that not only did my father move all the way across the Atlantic for my mother, but then GOD GAVE HIM THREE GIRLS WHO COULDN'T HAVE CARED LESS ABOUT SOCCER.  The family member most moved by the game was probably our Golden Retriever Ginger, and even she ranked it a distant third to chasing lizards and digging holes in the ground. 

My father has made the best of things--he coached soccer at the YMCA off and on for ten years, played in a league when he first moved stateside, and now, while many of his friends play golf on the weekends, he spends his Saturdays refereeing youth soccer.   I asked him yesterday if he felt disadvantaged socially because he doesn’t follow American football and he said, “Sometimes I feel like a woman--when they’re talking about football in the hallway at work, I just walk on by.”

And that’s when I really lost it.  My father is a man.  MERDE.  Americans just aren’t talking about the right game. 

Stop Touching Your Hair

There are standing nights and there are sitting nights.  It all depends on the chosen venue.  Standing nights feel more American to me--you might dance a little, meet some new people, or, I dunno, end up sitting on the curb (JEANNE), or maybe hugging a toilet (JEANNE)...but last night was definitely a sitting night, so if you’re expecting wild stories, you’re out of luck.  OH, BUT YOU SHOULD HAVE HEARD THE DISCOURSE!  Hours and hours of it!  Wild, wild, conversing, folks. 

And then there’s the smoking.  Of course, it’s always about smoking in France. Even on standing nights, it’s all about smoking, but when it’s a sitting night, oh brother, then it’s REALLY, REALLY all about smoking.

I don’t actually know the name of the bar we went to last night.  It’s on a steep and narrow street, rue des Boulangers, near metro Jussieu, where Julie and Olivier recently moved.  I don’t think any of my friends know the name either, because I got about five text messages yesterday saying, “rendez-vous 21h, bar en face d’Olivier et Julie.”

But back to the smoking.  I recently did a little poll, and most of my friends smoke a pack a day.  This, of course, can vary greatly depending on variables such as stress and weekly percentage of nights spent out.  Because if they’re going out, well, most of them can easily smoke a pack IN A NIGHT. 

The Time Jennifer and I Saw Supersize Me

As promised last week, this is the other story about breaking Cardinal French Rules that involves both McDonalds and sore kidneys.  So sit back, grab a snack, and let me tell you about The Time Jennifer and I Saw Supersize Me.

We started our night with a meal both light and delicious--salads with seasonal veggies at a cafe on Boulevard Saint Germain.  Then, en route to the cinema, we passed a street vendor selling some tempting-looking candy, and we again took the high road...JUST KIDDING!  What do we look like, Ambassadors for America?  We said “Bring on the sweets!”

Have I ever mentioned that there are some rules in France?  Yeah, well, there are.  Just a few.  One they don’t tell you in the guidebooks is: THOU SHALT NOT EAT FOOD DURING A MOVIE.  But in case you aren’t up to speed on the rule, they drive it home by making sure each lobby is COMPLETELY LACKING IN ACCEPTABLE THINGS TO CONSUME.  First there is popcorn from a red wheely wagon that is WHITE.  Hello?  Last time I checked, movie-theater popcorn is supposed to be yellow?   And, you know, taste like buttered styrofoam?  Duh!

Freedom Fries, Indeed

On Sunday, Kathleen and I decided enough with the scarves and Euro-chicness, we were coming out of the closet as who we were, god dammit.   (Inhale cigarette, exhale.  Pout:  SOH AMEREECAN)  We took coffee from Starbucks.  To go!  We went shopping. On a Sunday!*  We wore tennis shoes.  That were WHITE!  But we knew we could get away with all this craziness because we’d planned on spending the whole afternoon out of the city, at Chateau de Versailles, where there are only tourists.

*only flea market shopping is available on Sundays

We exit the train at Versailles and all passengers are moving in mass in one direction.  So we follow.  Who wouldn’t?  Confident masses, they’re so reassuring!  We shuffle across the street, in our happy little tourist herd, and the next thing I know I’m smelling French fries.  I’m not kidding you people, THE WHOLE TRAIN had just headed straight across the street to McDonalds.   

Pop Culture Remedy

Jeanne has friends from lycee, Vincent and Francois, in town, so we all saw the play Clinic last night--a hospital comedy that relies heavily on pop culture references and gross-out gags.

Afterwards, in a cafe near Place de Clichy, across from the Moulin Rouge, Francois asked if I had understood all of the references. I had. ER? Check. Silence of the Lambs? Check. Plastic surgery reality TV? (For better or worse) Check.

In the end, there was only one joke I hadn't understood, which got me thinking, thank God I come from America, because if I’d had to move my ass all the way over here, learn how to conjugate the subjunctive, AND been forced to accumulate anything on par with the breadth of American pop culture, I never could have dealt.

It's FREE PUBLICITY, Maaaan...

ME: Hi, I’m calling from Really Big American Magazine.
IBIZA DUDE: Oh yeaaah, what is that?
ME: It’s an American magazine. We have a photographer coming in two weeks to shoot your hotel. He’ll be staying with you, and I’d like to just schedule a time when...
IBIZA DUDE: That sounds great, but we’re like, full, so umm, I don’t know if he’ll be able to take pictures.
ME: But it’s already been arranged through our New York office. I really just need to set up the time.
IBIZA DUDE: Uhh, can you call back in the afternoon? It’s better in the afternoon, man.

So Secretly, It Made My Day, But...

I need to change banks.

Recently, I went in to the very small branch of Credit du Nord in my neighborhood where everyone calls me “Mademoiselle (my last name).”--they must not get a lot of Americans, because an employee even identified me on the phone once. The 30ish guy who used to be a teller said, his eyes twinkling, “what would you say if I told you I’d be handling your affairs now?” (Apparently he had been promoted to an officer.) “Great!”

Children (and the Elderly) Never Lie

There are so many unkind things people say. It’s when their words touch your sad, insecure, mushy apple-bruise spots that it really hurts.

In this case, I think you could look like Angelina Jolie and still be stung by what happened to me Saturday.

So my sister and I were enjoying a little “terrace” dining at a cafe overlooking Place St. Sulpice when we somehow start chatting with the older couple next to us. I mentioned that my sister was visiting from US.

Does this make my Pucci look fat?

My favorite Texan, Noelle, came to Paris recently for a visit. We hit Le Bon Marche, Paris’s swishiest department store, just for the fun of seeing the pretty clothes in the genius lighting and to eat some of the famous macaroons.

Now I love this department store, but it is also the type of place where every third customer is accompanied by dog-as-accessory. The only Left Bank department store. Lots of locals. VERY bourgeois.

It was, for all these reasons, so refreshing and funny when I held up a really skimpy pair of hot pants made by Pucci, retailing for about 300 euro, and Noelle said at full voice, in her saucy, southern-direct way, “I’d be lucky if I could get my Pucci INTO that.”