Ces't la vie

The French are a contradictory bunch. They have genius ideas. For instance: Starting July 15, the city government of Paris is installing these really cool contraptions all around town that allow you to rent a bicycle for the day with your credit card. I think it starts with 1 euro for the first hour, and then it goes up. I will take a picture so you can see how cool. Now, whether they are going to work is a different story.

Bea has been trying to contact someone at the Lost and Found department in Air France for a month. The best we could do yesterday, after personally going to the Air France office facing the Luxembourg gardens (the employee couldn't find the number, had to ask the supervisor, couldn't find a piece of paper where to write down the number, didn't have a pen handy) was to get a number for an answering machine. She told us we can leave a message there describing the lost object and they will get back to us. In mortal fear, but with great courage and conviction, I sit down and write the speech for Bea in French. I believe that addressing them in French will open the floodgates to their hearts.
Je m'appelle bla bla, j'ai perdu mon portable bla bla, si vous plait etc, etc. I dial the number. A recording in French: "We're sorry this phone isn't working right now, we care a lot about you, try your miserable luck again later".
Not ones to be easily defeated, we dial again the following day. Voilá! Another recording: "This is the lost and found office at Air France. In order for us to help you, you have to send us a letter in writing describing with microscopic precision the object that you lost. Write your name, permanent address, home and office telephone numbers and kiss your beloved possessions goodbye because it is entirely possible that we will not find them anyway and if we do, nothing guarantees that we will feel compelled to return them to you with alacrity. If you can sign the letter in blood and have it notarized by Napoleon himself, all the better."
Do these miscreants realize that asking a tourist to compose a missive, find an envelope, go to the poste, get in line, buy a stamp, etc, etc, is absolutely absurd in this day and age? What is this, 18 Brumaire?
And yet, for instance: The Paris Film Festival offers cool guided audiotours. They have absolutely nothing to do with the movies, but who cares? There is one for the Marais and one for Belleville. You can download the Belleville one directly to your iTunes. The Marais one, you go pick up the device and headphones at a movie theater in the Marais, leave your i.d. and voilá, you have a very cool tour of the neighborhood. It's read (I did it in French of course) by a breathy young actress with a sexy purr that would make Les Invalides rise again. For free. No hassle. Delightful. The fun part is that she gives you the code to the building where her mother works, or she tells you to go into a bookstore that otherwise you'd probably ignore and instructs you to go up the stairs where they have these amazing posters. I thought it was real fun.
My logic tells me that when it comes to culture, the French really make it easy. But if you happen to fuck up with your keys or lose something or demand the slightest bureaucratic effort, you will rue the day.

Alors...

At this point, I think I can understand the entire oeuvre of the French Encyclopedists in French. The immortal words of Rousseau, Montesquieu and Diderot. But a small child talks to me at the Place de Vosges and I can’t speak for shit. Voilá!
Par example: We went to see a movie without subtitles on the grounds that total immersion in French is suddenly going to make us speak like Moliere himself. The movie in question, Barbet Schroeder’s L’avocat du terreur (not the Avocado of Terror, but rather the Lawyer from Hell), is about the infamous Jacques Vergés, a man who was a personal friend of Pol Pot and who has made a career of defending the indefensible: Klaus Barbie, the butcher of Lyon; one famous Holocaust revisionist, sundry terrorists and dreadful, corrupt African leaders, among other vermin. In short: he’s never met an evil monster he didn’t like.
Mr Vergés gets ample screen time to explain himself. He obviously seems to relish controversy. I think what indicts him is what he said when asked if he would defend Hitler. He responded he would even defend George Bush. This is my view, categorizes him as a total asshole. As you know, dear lecteurs, I’m not a fan of G.W, to say the least, but I would never compare him or even Dick Cheney to Adolf Hitler. Similarly, I would not compare Fidel to Hitler, as loathsome as I find him, and I would also not compare the situation of the Palestinians to the Nazi extermination camps, etc..
But I digress. My point is that although sitting through this movie without subtitles was a formidable exercise for my brain (it was mush by the time the movie ended), I understood most of it. I gather the movie makes the point, quite credibly, that Vergés has not only defended indefensible assholes, (after all, nobody questions his professional duty), but that he has illegally aided and abetted terrorists like Carlos the Jackal and others above and beyond his responsibility as a lawyer. He’s one of those horrid radical commies who in the name of the cause excuses and justifies all kinds of gross abuses through idiotic rationalizations, such as the United States does it too, or is worse, or France also tortured people in Algeria. And who could possibly be friends with Pol Pot? Him you can compare to Hitler. However, it is evident that Vergés is a brilliant lawyer, and an interesting, if deeply disturbing man.
Yet, we go to see Julie Delpy’s bilingual romantic comedy, Two Days in Paris, and we can’t understand most of the French. Because it is daily, slangy, jokey French. We were kinda lost, just like Adam Goldberg, or whatever his name is, who plays Delpy’s neurotic boyfriend who doesn’t speak a speck of French.
So much for the adjectifs possessifs, and the objet indirect, and the verbes. I want to speak!

Food for thought

This is the deal. If you have to eat a French meal for lunch every day, from the affordable menus they offer you at every restaurant, which includes appetizer, entrée and dessert, you also need to take a massive nap to recover or run three laps around the Seine to offset its effects. Also, one gets tired of onion soup and boeuf bourguignon, etc. The French idea of a salad, still is, despite important inroads from America, something that includes boiled egg, boiled potatoes, some charcuterie, tons of mayo and cooked string beans. A simple green salad does exist but somehow never makes it into the salad offerings from the menus. It comes as a wilted side with the meat and potatoes.
Me, I could just eat Gratin Dauphinois for life. A gift of the French to the world, on a par with the Illustration in my opinion, it simply is this incredible baked gratin of potatoes and cream. I had one the other day near the Pantheon. I ordered the steak just so I could have the gratin. The steak was tasty but tough. The gratin? OMG.
Luckily, there are lots of ethnic restaurants in Paris.
So far we ate great Senegalese food. The best couscous on Earth. There is a Lebanese restaurant around the corner that offers very good take out (tabouleh, pitas, sauteed eggplant, kibbeh). Yesterday we had quite excellent Vietnamese food in a little place around the corner. So far, we've steered clear of Italian because we did have one pasta at Cafe de L'Industrie that, had an Italian eaten it, he would have declared war between the two countries. at the very least. The pasta was overcooked and accompanied by a pesto sauce that had more cream than basil. It was a frenchified version of a simple, easy dish and it was very wrong. Having said that, the flavor wasn't bad, but the consistency was creamy mush. The bolognese next to it wasn't any great shakes either. There are many Italian restaurants, and I guess they must be decent, but coming from NY, where I can eat at Lupa or Bar Pitti, why risk it? Unless someone tells me of something I shouldn't miss.
We've had other pastas in French places (the thing to do if you don't want duck or meat again). Apparently the French love their pasta smothered in strong cheese and tons of butter and cream. That, they do pretty well.
We are now officially in search of the best Chocolat Liegeois in Paris. The logic being that if at a non-descript cafe one can have such a marvel, there must be a place where they make the best one which induces incontrollable swooning. So far, we had a disappointing one at the place of the Gratin Dauphinois. A small sacrifice for the cause. I will keep you posted.

Defense de fumer

Remember when you couldn't come to Paris without feeling that you had smoked three packs a day? People smoked absolutely everywhere, at all times and more ferociously the less ventilated the place.
Believe it or not, those days are over. They still smoke like fiends, but they cannot do it everywhere anymore. There are now non smoking sections in restaurants (usually forlorn). It is now forbidden to smoke in class, thank God. There is no smoking in indoor public areas. People will still smoke their heads off in bars and outdoors, but you don't come home smelling like an ashtray. It is delightful. I'm sure they are loathe to admit it, but even they must secretly like it.

Lectures in French

As part of the Summer course in Langue et Civilisation Français, the civilization part consists of lectures in the afternoons about all kind of topics related to French culture and politics. So we go, because we are taking this course seriously, not like some of our young classmates who seem to be affected by severe cases of hangoveritis or can't make it on time to class, even if class starts at a leisurely 10:30 am. Half my class has a mysterious case of severe sniffles. They are all coughing and blowing their noses and coughing up phlegms the entire class. Did they immerse themselves in the frigid waters of the Seine at 3 am? Perhaps. Some are serious and do their homework; others never have their exercises handy or they have been absent for half the time. Whatever. Luckily, I'm not the only relic of an ancient era in the class. Three other women are even older than me. Most everybody is American. For Americans, French is hard. Having Spanish is very helpful because the grammar is very similar and so are many of the words, although really half the words in French have Latin roots like Spanish and the other half are similar to English. And then there are the purely French words like donc, and jusqu'a that are a pain in the derriére.
The lectures, suprisingly, are very well attended. Yesterday for instance, the first lecture was about poetry and la chanson française. There were actual French poets and composers of chansons in attendance. We heard music (you know some of those French chansons that seem more spoken than sung) One of the lecturers sang to us with a guitar. He was out of central casting. Longish gray hair, glasses, a pack of cigarettes waiting to pounce, the face of a penseur. They had a spirited discussion (all their discussions seem always very passionate, quoi!) about the difference between the chanson and the poéme. I think the conclusion was: the chanson has music and the poéme doesn't. It was fun.
Then there was this guy who should be turned into tablets and marketed as the most powerful sleeping pill ever discovered. I defy even a person with 50 grams of cocaine in their system not to fall into a deep slumber when this man talks. Yesterday his topic was "French Gastronomy Today" (as you can imagine, a topic dear to my guts). Well he managed to make it as dry as statistics and as excruciating as trigonometry. But I can't really tell you much because I woke up to hear him tell an amusing story that involved him buying risotto and overcooking it. This had something to do with globalization. Nobody laughed.
But the one after him was a riot. He talked about France and the European Community and he was funny and engaging and active and cracking jokes. He was super expressive, using those typically French facial expressions that would be considered a stereotype if they didn't exist for real. He always talks about politics and economics, but I've become a groupie 'cause he's fun.

The New Seven Wonders

Or find the one that doesn't match:

The great wall of China








Petra, Jordan








Chichen Itza, Mexico








Christ the Redeemer, Rio de Janeiro








The Taj Mahal, India









Macchu Picchu, Peru









The Colosseum, Rome










Especially when you consider some of the finalists:

Angkor Wat, the Acropolis, the Eiffel Tower, Easter Island, the Alhambra...

I will give you a hint. Every single one is an architectural marvel, except this one. WTF?

Le Weekend

Bea needs to work from Paris, so she goes to the Cafe Contrescarpe with WiFi and they allow her to sit there for about 8 hours every day so far, totally undisturbed, and drink 2 coffees and one coke. I feel one of these days they are going to call les flics and send her off to jail for loitering, or some idiotic American hostess (like the one we had recently at Luna Park) will ask her to clear the table after 2 hours because that is their policy, (regardless of the fact that the 8 people at the table at the time couldn't seem to get enough beers and that if allowed to stay their check would have been considered a small boon to the restaurant industry). Luckily, this is Paris, so apparently you can sleep over at a cafe if you so desire. Nobody rushes you out. But enough about work. Le weekend started with a wonderful lunch on Friday at a Basque restaurant near la Contrescarpe, called Le Bugne. The food was homey and delicious: cod cakes with piquillo pepper coulis, a wonderful beef stew in red wine with incredible mashed potatoes and a basque rice with tender octopus and chorizo, like a paella, delicious. And a bottle of house wine. For dessert: nougat ice cream.


Then yesterday morning, off to Barbés for a dose of working class, basically African and North African immigrant Paris (for Friday night we walked the tony streets of the Marais). We ran into the street market in Barbés, which was amazing, with the smells of fresh fish, cilantro, mint, strawberries, all mixed together. We ate at a tiny Senegalese restaurant where there were people lined up, a good sign. And it was great. I had Yassa, which is chicken in a lemon onion olive sauce that was incredibly citrusy and oniony and intensely yummy with perfect white rice. We also had fried plantains, oh, and seemingly fresh guava and mango juices.
Then we crossed the city by metro to go to the cinemas at the Bibliotheque François Mitterand, because right now there is a Paris Film Festival and we wanted to see DP Christopher Doyle (In the mood for love) who was going to talk. But since lunch always takes so long, we missed him. Still, we saw a film called This is England, a pretty brutal coming of age story of a young, sweet little skinhead in the Thatcher years. History is judging that woman pretty harshly, methinks. What a disaster. The young protagonist was an amazing little actor, and the movie was intense but utterly depressing, even though it tries hard to keep the tenderness afloat.
The new library is in a very modern stretch near the Quai D'Austerlitz, which reminded me a little bit of Berlin, but even more of the modern neighborhood of Puerto Madero in Buenos Aires. At least here they have a library and a very cool cineplex, but still maybe in about a hundred years, when we all live in pods under the earth, one will be able to see the charm. Right now, it's handsome, but feels rather soulless.
After the movie we took the bus (my favorite way to see Paris) on a perfect route by the Seine, by the Gares of Austerlitz and Lyon, by the beautiful Jardin Des Plantes, and to the Luxembourg gardens, which we left for another day, opting to walk the very elegant streets of the 6th instead. Rue de Seine to Rue Jacob, to Rue du Bac to Rue Grenelle, to Saint Germain des Prés to be ogled by the snobs and the tourists at the Cafe de Flore. I was not in the mood to pay three hundred dollars for a beer, so we just walked by. Saturday night seems to bring out an element of French Can Can in some peeps. There was such an outrageous character at the Flore, we are still debating whether she was a spectacular whore or an over the top drag queen. All I can say is she was covered in tones of screaming lilac, from eyelid to hair, to lips to shoes. She looked like a violent chandelier, and of course, nobody minded her.


Then we took the metro again to Montmartre where the Paris Film Festival ran a free outdoor screening of recently restored silent and ancient films with live music. That was so cool! Behind us, the illuminated meringue shapes of Sacre Coeur, the hordes of tourists and the pests who try to leech off them (who are really obnoxious in Montmartre, with their transparently hostile forced charm and their ridiculous pretense at French bohéme). But below us, in front of the crowded grassy incline, a giant screen and the rest of Paris by night. My favorite film was a little jewel by Georges Melies, about people wrestling, complete with beautiful special effects. There was also a rare Stan Laurel film from 1922, when he wasn't with Ollie yet and he was very young and far less hapless.


Today is only Sunday. Yay!

Lenine

The internet in France and I, we are friends again. We found a café (Le Contrescarpe) where the password is easy so it’s all good. Also, Telerama, which is like Time Out, has a great site listing all the shows and things to do in Paris, super easy to use; and FNAC, the culture megastore, has the best internet ticket sales. It’s easy and user friendly and the extra charges are already included in the price of the ticket so you don’t feel the pinch. They have a page in English and it is a breeze to buy tickets. They don’t threaten you with the amount of time you are given to purchase. It’s so delightful I wanted to buy more tickets just for fun. Steely Dan will be in town, but it’s 100 euros a ticket, which seems tres cher, no? But I’m very tempted because it is at an old deco cinema called Le Grand Rex and because I do like their “dentist music”. And because I can buy the tickets at fnac.com.
In the meantime, looking for something to do last night, we went to see Brazilian pop singer Lenine at La Cigale, in Pigalle. I had not heard his music, but I had heard about him in the NY press and was curious. He was great. Ordinarily, and this is considered either an eccentric quirk or unspeakable sacrilege, I’m not a huge fan of Brazilian music. Sure, I love Jobim and Bossa Nova. I believe Aguas de Março is the best song ever written. But Caetano Veloso puts me to sleep and many of the singers seem exactly the same to me: breathy, cutesy, boring.
Lenine has other influences: lots of good hot funk and a bit of reggae and rock, and his pop music is melodic, beautiful and strong and it doesn’t sound like a cliché, even though it is unmistakably Brazilian somehow. He is also a charismatic and charming performer, very connected to the audience, which as expected, was composed of many Brazilian expats who knew the lyrics to the songs and also of French people, who are a tremendously appreciative, passionate audience. He played for an hour, there was an intermission and then in the second part he saved the best for last: rocking, powerful music. He gave 2 encores, one rousing and one beautifully intimate and quiet, to calm the audience down. A class act. We decided he must get laid a lot. He’s one of those guys who isn’t handsome but who is very sexy.
The last time I was at La Cigale, smoking was permitted, so the place was really a toxic cloud. It looks like they passed some laws in France where people cannot smoke absolutely everywhere anymore, although they are kind of lax in enforcing them. Yesterday some people lit up, but it was manageable. Also, you are allowed to bring your cup of beer inside, which is highly civilized.

Magic Hour

The walk home from Opera.

Chocolat Liegeois

I just had a dessert that made me so ecstatically happy, I finally understood what they mean when they say that chocolate is a mood enhancer. My serotonins just had an orgy of joy. This thing was basically better than sex (at the moment of writing, it certainly seems this way). And the good part is it can be had in public while you blog.
I believe Liege is a place somewhere in France or in Belgium. It has been decided for safety's sake to avoid Liege in order not to run into the Chocolat Liegeois, because we'll be like a junkie on cold turkey who runs into a bunch of his favorite heroin. It's that good.
It comes with a lot of creme Chantilly, which we spooned off to one side for purely dietetic purposes (some of it). The rest made it safely into our system. Below the mounds of snowy Chantilly there lies a pure cold chocolate ooze: it ain't mousse, it ain't ice cream, it is thicker and creamier and lighter than syrup. It's like pure chocolate goo that has little specks of hard chocolate inside. It's not too sweet, not too dark, not too bitter. It is beyond good. It comes with a huge delicious vanilla butter cookie and a maraschino cherry and mint leaves, because the French like to overdecorate. But I could swim in vats of this thing forever and then rinse off in a shower of creme anglaise.