Rambling Paris and New York thoughts.

Look at all those windows. Like stars in New York.


And this is where the row boats take a break next to drippy trees.


Back to Paris - another church looking like King Kong, ready to eat the street it faces. Get ready Miss June.


A velvety red Paris staircase with shadows only Paris could keep.

Parisian Finale (to a day).

"Francomot."

Get geared up - there is a competition under way in France. If you love the French language, you may want to enter. Sarkozy (sacré Sarko - with the mounds of problems at hand, this is what he chooses to tackle) and the Ministry of Culture have created a contest for the students of France and other Francophonie countries.

The objective: to come up with innovative French substitutions for 5 heavily used English words, which are currently polluting the French language.



The five culprits: chat, talk, tuning, buzz and newsletter. Egregious.

The contest ends tomorrow (hurry! time is running out) so if you have ideas, go here and enter yourself. Your words could end up rolling off the tongues of French people everywhere, circulating everywhere French is spoken (with a little help from the l’académie française). I can't wait to hear the results.

...à la recherche du mot francophone le plus juste.

Molte grazie Davide, this was indeed a great find.

La Galette des Rois (a little late).

I thought I had missed it, having spent the holidays in the U.S. and then heading straight to New York rather than Paris. It is the celebration of the arrival of the three kings after Christ's birth. This is a classic French tradition and with the Joly twist, the Galette des Rois becomes comical. Luckily, our weekend in Baugé included the resurfacing of said tradition, just a few weeks late (I don't think the Magi minded terribly; it was still in their honor after all).



In past years, I've described the little ritual surrounding the Galette des Rois, but since the Joly version is definitely worth exhibiting, I am also going to show it this year.

Here is the first step (in which Louise hides under the table and assigns the slices of cake to everyone as they are cut):




(The fève and some miettes).


The fève finders.


To be clear, one person (Jules) (or two people in this case + Marguerite) finds the fève in their slice of cake and then they choose a reine or a roi. Jules chose me; Marguerite chose Xavier. Then the family conduct a test of composure for the newly chosen royalty...screaming in their ears while they drink. Can the queen and king finish their drink gracefully despite the pandemonium? Clearly, Xavier makes a much finer king than I make a queen.




(Before he starts drinking, he says: "I'm taking my time." And Marguerite's reaction is worth a king's ransom).

Others...

Paris thoughts...

Her.

There are certain New York things that become thread-bare references they are so frequently used, mentioned, repeated and photographed. The Bethesda fountain in Central Park could be one of these things, but she is not. She is not made vapid by being perpetually cited (there is even a part of Grand Theft Auto set on this terrace, just beneath the flutter of her wings). At least in my mind, she is totally untouched by the banality, by her endless guest appearances in films, by the swarms of Korean brides who peacock underneath her every Saturday, by the blinking of camera shutters as often as the batting of eyes. Maybe that is because her genesis is so pure. The people from Central Park pronounce that she was sculpted by Emma Stebbins (the first major sculpture done by a woman in NYC) in 1861 as part of a tribute to the aqueduct that was built to get clean water to New Yorkers, who were mighty dirty at the time. Bethesda is, of course, a reference to the biblical pool, where an angel would visit and make sick people well. "For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: whosoever then first after the troubling of the waters stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease with which she was afflicted" John 5:4.








Plus, he looks great perched at the hem of her skirts.

Aujourd'hui of all days...

Snow occurs about once every five years in Paris...the day of our move this reckoning. I love it still.

Plouc.

Yes, it is winter. Yes, it is very cold at the moment in Paris. The topic of conversation chez les Joly this weekend was, however, beach umbrellas. When I heard, "and he had the audacity to come down to the beach with a beach umbrella!" I sat down at the table grinning, knowing that I was going to get a good helping of French-ness in one conversation. I asked to recommencer - to start again, because I wanted to hear the whole thing.

Apparently, someone the Joly family is very close to appeared on the beach in St. Aygulf with an umbrella this summer. The horror. I sat in my chair smiling with amusement, straining to figure out what could be horrible about it. So, I flat out asked. "Ouh la la, Emilie!" they responded in surprise.

Didn't I see that: an umbrella at the beach is plouc? (middle-low class). Isn't it clear to me by now that the French are not practical people (they are aesthetic and philosophical people); therefore, the practical in France are the most plouc of all. (They slipped in that it is different in my country, because my people value pragmatism, which made me feel a great deal better).

They went on with their tale: and sometimes people will even bring a glacière (cooler) to the beach with them! This was said with eyebrows raised very high. (Again came my request to explain the problem with a cooler at the beach). "Il faut pas bouffer à la plage!" (You mustn't eat on the beach!) "On mange pas en public." (We do not eat in public). This one is a rule to take seriously in France. Eating in public spaces that are not designated for this activity = high doses of shame.

They brought up the subject of folding chairs on the beach. As you can imagine, also a no-no.

Xavier specified: This sort of person (the one who has an umbrella, a folding chair and a cooler at the beach) "veut reproduire sa maison partout. Le syndrome du campeur" (...wants to reproduce his house everywhere he goes. It is the camper syndrome).

The traditional, well-educated French person: "vient le matin, il nage et il s'en va. Et puis, il revient le soir" (comes to the beach in the morning, he swims and then he leaves. Then, he comes back again in the evening).

I am so plouc.

Paris.

RTT.

In France there is a phenomenon called RTT. I call it a phenomenon only because that is what it seems like to me.

RTT is literally Réduction du Temps de Travail, "Reduction of Working Time" - the famous 35-hour work week in France. The idea got started in 2000 and it remains a hot topic for political discussion today. RTT means that employees get 1-2 days of time off every month. Some people accumulate these days for additional vacation time, others take Friday afternoons to go golfing (well, French people don't golf that much, but you get the idea), and others get extra pay since overtime is calculated as anything over the 35 hours. (Please keep in mind that this is in the country where everyone has at least 5 weeks of paid vacation time on top of that. These people know what it means to take a breather).

Slapped all around Paris right now are posters for this film:



RTT. Only in France could a film come out with that title, based on that idea. Here is the premise: Arthur lives a peaceful life and loves his girlfriend of five years, Florence. One day Florence announces that she is going to leave Arthur for another guy, that she is even going to marry this other guy. Totally shocked, Arthur is convinced that Florence is making a huge mistake. He searches for her everywhere and continues to search even after he learns that her marriage will take place in a few days in Miami. He is obviously not invited, but his mind is made up: he is going to the marriage (thanks to RTT).

Sacrés Français !

Useful French Formulations.

Il a une tête à claques: someone you want to slap - literally, "a head to slap." (Used by Xavier in reference to American heros in epic, apocalyptic films, where the antagonist is always surrounded by stupid people who prevent him from saving the world. Tête à claques also applies to the woman who falls in love with him believing that she will help him, but in the end, she doesn't. And perhaps most of all, tête à claques applies to the teenage boy in the end-of-the-world film who has no dad and really identifies with the hero figure. Xavier would like to slap them all).

Il est bête à manger du foin: dumb as a doorknob, literally "so stupid he eats hay." (Used frequently).

Je dis bonjour.

Bonjour. Yes, that simple word is the subject of this post. You may think the translation of bonjour is hello. How wrong you are. You see, bonjour is so much more than that. Bonjour is not just a simple greeting.

Bonjour is your ticket into any shop (it is compulsory at the threshold), it is the the way to properly enter a waiting room full of people at the doctor's office (if you fail to say bonjour there is a very palpable feeling of tension), it is the only way to ask for directions, and it is the absolute first thing to say to neighbors when you see them (you cannot skip the bonjour and go directly to ça va, for instance): it is loaded with value, this word.

When one forgets this omphalic word, two things generally occur:

1. The person at hand takes the time to teach you that you must always say bonjour before any other utterance.

2. The person continues to say bonjour (up to five repetitions may be necessary) until you repeat it back (at which point a great deal of straining and confusion for both people ends: confusion that you don't know very basic rules of behavior (her), confusion that a person would go on repeating themselves in such a silly way (you), straining to get you to say the word (her), straining to understand what the problem seems to be (you)).

Everyone knows this. I mean, it is very simple. Very. That is why it is so perplexing that after three years I still manage to forget it. When I walk into a shop and ask very nicely for, say, a croissant and am met by a stern bonjour rather than bien sûr, how can I still be confused?

What I mean is that it is requisite. More than requisite, it is the first basic rule of France. When children are taught how to be polite, they are always instructed to say bonjour in a very deliberate way. It is as important as merci or s'il vous plaît. Parents in France teach bonjour exactly as parents where I come from teach please (as is evidenced by this worksheet from a third grade French classroom).


(TO BE POLITE: When I am polite I say bonjour when it is day and bonsoir when it is night. I say s'il vous plaît to get what I would like. When I am polite with my mouth I smile and say merci).

I was having lunch with my friend Emma (British) today who seems to have the same forgetting spells as I do. She had forgotten her bonjour earlier in the day. In her case, the result was response #1. She had been instructed like a 6-year old (her words) for getting straight to the point at the boulangerie. "It is just a bit much, this aggressive bonjour-ing, isn't it," she proclaimed and I smiled and wrote the phrase down. Aggressive bonjour-ing. Very funny and very befitting.

Breakwater walking.

Decidedly French.

Two things:

1. Xavier. Yes, he is decidedly French. So was what he said the other day. We were in a shop near Opéra looking at scarves and winter things. He tried on a red scarf, sauntered over the mirror, had one look at himself and pronounced:

"Ca fait un peu parti socialiste quoi. Pas possible."

(It's a bit socialist party, isn't it. Not possible).

I must be honest, I had never heard anyone utter something similar while appraising an article of clothing - nor had I ever connected a common red-colored scarf to the socialist party and then consequently deemed it unwearable. I broke out laughing.

2. Louise. (Niece). She is also very French. Marie and I went to go collect her from school and she was in a real huff when we got there. Her little 9-year old face was all red and she was out-of-breath exasperated. She burst out her complaints: while playing basketball the boys never pass to the girls at the school gym hour. She exclaimed huffing and puffing:

"Je cours partout et c'est nul. Je ne suis pas dans la catégorie des filles qui prennent le thé et parlent dans les groupes. Elles sont des décorations - les bougies sûr un gâteau quoi. Mais avec moi et ma copine, ce n'est pas la même chose ! Attention les garçons ! C'est Louis XVI et on va faire une révolte !"

(I run everywhere and nothing happens. I'm not in the category of girls who stand around in groups as if it were tea time. They're decorations - candles on a cake! But with me and my friend, it's not the same thing! Watch out boys! It is Louis XVI and we are going to have a revolution!)

Oh, how I love their references. And please do revolt, Louise. I'm rooting for you.

Escape to nothing at all.

The other day I was feeling crowded. It felt like people were trying to congregate around me, elbow me and make me want to scream. It was, of course, nothing personal, but anyone who lives in an urban space can relate. I was near St. Michel (the worst of the worst if you ask me) and I bustled my way onto l'Ile de la Cité. I tried to take refuge in the Marché aux Fleurs - nesting between spaces in the plants, away from human bodies. Not good enough. It wouldn't do. So, I huffed off toward the other side of the island and found a staircase. Yes, the one above. I thought to myself, oh goody, I shall be unshackled along the quais of the Seine.

There was a guy standing at the top of the staircase whom I passed as I hurriedly headed down. He looked at me funny - I could feel his quizzical gaze following me. I kept obstinately on. Down the second tier of stairs. And then, I opened my eyes and there before me was the Seine. The water. The staircase led to no such quai. Just directly into the waters of the Seine. I stopped. For a little while I looked at the inky water and scolded it. How could you do this to me? Just end with no explanation? Then I turned back around, sheepishly, and smiled a little smile at the gent when I passed at the top. His eyes mocked me, "Not in such a dash now, are you missy?" Curses.