The New Franklin D. Roosevelt

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The Paris metro’s Franklin D. Roosevelt stop used to be a step back in time.  You got on the train in the beginning of the 21^st century and got off in the middle of the 20^th.  The platform for the number 1 line, in dashing shades of bright orange and steely blue, was particularly evocative.  You half expected Walt Disney to step out of the wings singing “There’s a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow.”  While Wikipedia tells me that this version of the station’s decor was unveiled in 1957, to me it looked like the mid-1960s, sending me on a magical mystery tour of my earliest memories, of cone-shaped paper cups at water fountains, of my dad’s Pontiac in the driveway, and snippets of the New York World’s Fair.  All I remember of that event are the dinosaurs at the Ford Pavilion (which later ended up at Disneyland), that Space-Age globe (which still hovers over Flushing Meadows), and terrifying fireworks that made me cry.   It was a time when technology was the key to the future, science could solve all problems, and messy wars like that one in Europe were a thing of the past.  Never mind that there was a seriously messy conflict going on in Vietnam.  That was something you could choose not to think about while you teased your hair into a beehive.

Until I saw that metro station, I never even realized that the Space Age arrived in France, despite having seen Barbarella.   It just wasn’t something you expected to see just underneath the Champs Elysées.  But there it was, with the words “Franklin D. Roosevelt” spelled out in bold American letters, lit up from below like a cinema marquee.   True, it was worn and somewhat seedy looking, but that gave it a ragged nostalgic charm.  It was as if you had come across a sunken relic of another age, like the forgotten New York subway in Beneath the Planet of the Apes. 

But alas, it’s close proximity to the Champs Elysées, that yawning commercial mouth dedicated to digesting tourist dollars, made it inevitable that someone at the mayor’s office would decide it was time to give Franklin D. a makeover.  Didn’t anyone tell them that “mid-century” design was all the rage?  Whose idea was it to turn the number 1 platform into a trendy club?  Black and gold brick, digital screens showing videos no one bothers to understand…it feels like a giant advertisement for something expensive.   I like the fact that the ceiling seems to have sprung a leak and the paint on the gold tiles is already peeling.  Serves them right for going against the glorious grain of time. 

 

But all is not lost.  There is still the number 9 line platform to admire.  An awesomely awful combination of grey and gold with bright yellow molded plastic seating, it still harkens back to the days of LBJ and Charles de Gaulle, of Ford Mustangs and Simca 1000s, of Ann-Margaret and Brigitte Bardot…ah, here’s to the memories, real or imagined…

Parisian Grass Munchers

Yesterday, with a splendid sun soaring in the heavens, I wanted to be a sheep lolling in a pasture.  In weather like that, who needs to do anything else besides lie in the grass and chew?  To be precise, I wanted to be a Ouessant (pronounced “wessahn”) sheep.  Members of that venerable ruminant race have recently been hired by the Paris city hall to graze in the 19^th arrondissement.  Not a bad gig for a sheep. 

On April 3, four fluffy Ouessants (also known as Ushants) were let loose in an overgrown, 2000 square meter field next to the municipal archives.  Their mission?  To cut the grass.  For two weeks, they will eat and eat and eat until the grass is shorn to crew cut length.  This herbaceous fiesta is actually an experiment in “eco-pasturing,” basically a non-polluting and fun way to mow the grass.  Look Ma!  No herbicides!  No noise, grass clippings, or chemical fertilizers either.  If everything goes according to plan during the next few experimental runs, our ovine friends may end up grazing in the Bois de Vincennes or the Bois de Boulogne.  

The city hall website has supplied a charming video showing the sheep capering about their temporary home.  The sheep themselves look like they could use a little mowing.  The Ushant breed was chosen for its hardy “rustic” quality and its small size—also known as the Breton Dwarf, this is one of the smallest sheep around.   In other words, they are very cute. 

  

Des moutons dans la ville ! par mairiedeparis

To my surprise, I learned that this sheep has a tie, albeit a loose one, to the American Revolution.  It seems that Ushant, a tiny island off the coast of Brittany on the south end of the English Channel, was the site of a nasty naval battle between the French and the English in 1778.  France, loath to pass up a chance to attack the British, had recently decided to enter the war on the American side.  The British sent out a fleet to keep an eye on French naval activities in Brest, and the French sent out a fleet to see what the British were up to.  They met up somewhere around Ushant, where the weather got so bad that neither side managed to do much damage to the other, nor could either claim a victory.  Each fleet came home to cranky officials and much political squabbling.

The Battle of Ushant by Théodore Gudin

Where do the sheep fit in?  Well they don’t, really.  They do come from the island though, and I can imagine them mournfully bleating while the battle raged at sea.  I’m sure they are much happier munching on grass at the archives.

April Showers

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After an interminable winter, people are wandering outside this week to get a taste of sunshine, an element that now feels as priceless as caviar.  Like goldfish bobbing to the surface of their aquarium to gobble down food, we turn our heads up and gulp down the few rays of sunlight that pierce through the clouds. 

This was one of those record-breaking winters, not just in terms of quantity of snow and cold, but length.  No one has ever seen anything like it, not the vegetable guy at the market, not the old lady downstairs, not even the weather service. It’s been so cold that it is mid-April and most of the trees still have no leaves.  Plants whose buds usually start to open in late February are only daring to flower now.  Who knows what kind of havoc this is going to wreak on food prices in the coming months, not to mention hay fever season.

Not only has the cold and grey had a serious impact on health and happiness on an individual level, but it seems to have also eaten a hole in the country’s psychic ozone layer.  The number of scandals and predictions of doom has skyrocketed in the French media, which is not known for its sunny outlook even under the best circumstances.  First there was the dreadful revelation that the budget minister, Jérôme Cahuzac, the guy in charge of cracking down on tax evasion—has been hiding money in a Swiss bank account and not paying his taxes.  Apparently, he has been sleeping in his car to avoid the press.  It is still unclear which is his worst sin:  hiding the money or admitting that he lied about it.  An elected official being linked to financial scandal is not an unusual occurrence in France, in fact it is so common that no one seems to think it’s a problem for a president to be under suspicion of fraud, or for a jailed politician to be elected again once he gets out of the clink.  But what is unforgivable in this case is that the guy not only lied, but then he admitted that he lied.  That is simply not done.  What usually happens is that an official investigation drags on for so many years that by the time it goes to court, everyone has forgotten what the original fuss was about.  What was he thinking?  Must have been the weather that got to him.

But if that wasn’t bad enough, today's revelation is that the Grand Rabbi of France is not only a plagiarist, but also he lied about his academic credentials.    I can only imagine the Talmudic discussions that are going to come out of that one.  If you can’t trust the Grand Rabbi, who can you trust?  Really, what I’d like to know is who is this guy in the first place and why is he so grand?  What makes him any grander than any other rabbi?  Why is this night different from any other night?  If not now, when?  All I can say is—feh. 

You’ve probably noticed that I’m casually sauntering away from any discussion of the overall atmosphere of gloom and dismay that has settled over the current president, François Hollande, and his cabinet.  (On top of everything else, the president's camel got eaten in Mali).  I don’t feel qualified to even begin to sort that one out.  Though he seems pretty OK to me, I hesitate to say that out loud or I could get punched out in my conservative suburb where half the population turned out for a march against the legalization of gay marriage.  Don’t get me started…

Instead I think I’ll just sit on my balcony and soak up those rays and think about what plants I’m going to pot this weekend.  That is, if it doesn’t rain.

A New Look at Les Halles

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It’s been a long time since I visited the Pompidou Centre, and the day I did was a lovely almost-spring day.  This is important because one of the best parts of the Pompidou is the outdoor escalators that let you float majestically to the top of the building.  An inspiring view of Paris slowly opens up as your rise towards the temporary exhibits, and suddenly you find yourself thinking:  to heck with Dali, I just want to gaze out at the rooftops.  It’s all there, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower—just about every Big Name in the guidebooks peeks out above the grey roofs and limestone. 

One thing you can’t see is the construction at Les Halles.  Which is pretty amazing because it’s right nearby and gigantic.   The hideous 70’s era upper structure of the Forum des Halles is being pulled down, soon to be replaced by a futuristic “canopy” the size of a football field.   From the computer drawings it looks pretty cool – I just hope it’s not really that color yellow or it’s going to look, well, weird.  Weird seems to have been the watchword for architectural undertakings at Les Halles since they tore down the old central market with its graceful 19^th century pavilions in 1971.   

When I was a wistful teenager, my family moved to Paris because my dad was on sabbatical.  It was 1978, the Forum just opened, and I found it terrifying.  Shopping centers were pretty new back then, but this one looked like it had been sucked into the ground by a giant, cement-eating monster.  There was a gaping hole where the building should have been, and if you looked down it was as if the building had been turned inside out.  Incredibly, there were stores down there, with people milling around in them.  I stayed away, afraid of being pulled in by some fiendish gravitational force.

While the RER station is still open, the rest of the shopping center and gardens is masked by a high metal wall, with the occasional grill that lets you see what’s going on inside.  All hell has broken loose, it seems, and the entire shopping center has disappeared—except for the hole, which continues to buzz with customers despite the apocalyptic activity going on above.  Like a wound that will never heal, it appears that the only solution is to cover it up in a way that allows air to circulate so it won’t fester.  The cover, which is being called La Canopée, is an immense, undulating sheet of glass and metal that “floats” over the hole and a new esplanade, as well as an assortment of light-filled public facilities such as a music conservatory, a library, and a Hip-Hop center (don’t ask me, that’s what it says on the official site).

While I’m still unsure about the color, I have to admit that the canopy looks like a vast improvement.  There’s something soothing about it’s wavy look, at least on paper.  I still think it’s a shame that they didn’t save a couple of those elegant 19^th-century pavilions back in the 70s, but this does seem like a nice way for the city to make amends for its previous architectural crimes.  And maybe now that the hole will be safely covered, I’ll stop worrying about falling in.

The Call of Nature

Though I’ve lived in Paris for close to a decade, I’ve never had the nerve to try the public toilets.  I’m talking about those round kiosks on the street called sanisettes, those automatic wonders that do everything but wipe your bottom and zip up your pants.   Not only do they flush once you are done, but they automatically disinfect themselves once you’ve left.  How they do this is unclear, but I’m under the impression a small door opens and some sort of high-powered spray erupts from the wall, dousing the entire cubicle with Mr. Clean.  Or maybe Mr. Clean himself (or one of his minions) erupts from the wall and scurries about before the next needy soul pushes the button.  In any case, the whole procedure is rather sinister to the uninitiated:  when these somber booths first started appearing on the city streets, there were stories of small children being trapped inside and shpritzed within an inch of their lives.  Having a mild case of claustrophobia, the idea of being confined in a window-less, automated contraption while relieving myself was none too appealing.  But then the day arrived when I had already spent quite a bit of money on drinks at cafés just so that I could use the facilities, and I needed to go again.  It was getting late, it was time to go home, and I wasn’t the slightest bit thirsty.  I was counting up my change when I saw a sanisette beckoning to me right next to the metro station.   I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and pushed the button.

According to the Paris municipal website, (where you can enjoy a video and slide show on the subject), there are some 400 of these beauties throughout the city.   First installed in the early 1981, the sanisettes replaced the old vespasiennes, the public urinals that had adorned the city’s streets since the early 19^th century.   I remember seeing them in the 1970s and not quite understanding what they were.  I saw men go in, but there didn’t seem to be a phone in there, so what the heck were they doing?  They couldn’t possibly be…but yes, they were.  They were peeing on the street.  OK, you couldn’t really see, but you could see the bottom of their legs and their heads tilted down, and well, it was really gross.  Not to mention that the people in charge seemed to think only men needed to pee at inopportune times.  And so, at least to my teenaged mind, the advent of sanisettes was a great step forward in terms of both sanitation and human rights. 

The door opened majestically and automatically, and I entered a roomy space with a sink, mirror, and toilet.   I had the good fortune to be in one of the new, improved sanisettes, which are both wheelchair accessible and ecologically correct.  They also speak to you, just to make sure you feel at home.  This is a little daunting, since it starts speaking as soon as you hit the button on the outside, so that everyone in earshot turns around and sees you going in.  As the door closed behind me, I could have cared less what the recorded voice was saying, I just wanted it all to be over as quickly as possible.  While the place was relatively clean, I was surprised to see that the toilet had not been flushed.  Perhaps all that talking distracted Mr. Clean and he forgot.  Or perhaps…it wasn’t as automatic as I had thought.  In fact, I was urged to push the button after I did my business, so that once I left the premises, the automatic miracle would occur.  That was a little disappointing.  What with all those automatic flushing toilets at airports around the world, one would think…well, never mind.  After all, this was a free pee.   As of 2006, all Parisian sanisettes are free of charge.  Just don’t get any ideas about staying for any length of time:  after 20 minutes, the doors open wide and you are requested to leave.  Even Mr. Clean has his limits.

The Vacation Vortex

It’s coming soon…The Vacation Vortex.  That’s when you and your entire family get sucked into a dizzying whirlpool of getaway plans and family visits.  Or getaway from the family visits, depending on your status.  Every year there’s a local ritual, whereon you ask everyone you know what they are doing this summer, then nod dutifully while they recite their complicated plans (“…five days in Sardinia and then the kids are going to spend a week with grandma in Normandy while I paint my cousin’s house in the Ardeche…”), and then promptly forget everything they just told you.

But it really doesn’t matter because the only thing you need to know is that in July and August you won’t see anyone.  You may bump into the occasional lone wolf loping through the ghost town that was once your bustling neighborhood, but basically, you are on your own.  Not that anyone actually takes two months of vacation, but since they are staggered throughout July and August, and since kids and parents often fly off in different directions at different times, and stores close for at least three weeks, it feels like everyone but you is doing precisely that. 

When you live abroad, the Vortex tends to whirl at an even higher speed, because you have to fly all over the world to even find the family that will slowly drive you crazy over the course of your stay.  Not that you don’t want to see your family, but if you are from a faraway place like California and it’s a once-a-year reunion, it tends to get rather intense.  It’s one thing to visit with your parents for an evening or a weekend, and it’s another to spend two weeks with them 24-7.

But I can’t complain.  While my carbon footprint this summer will be off the charts, my frequent flyer millage will climb ever higher until I can take yet more flights to more faraway places.  When I get back I will have reconnected with my Southern California roots and remember why it was that I left in the first place.  I will cherish my French suburb with renewed enthusiasm and savor the taste of espresso at the coffee stand at the covered market.  My apartment will seem so quiet and welcoming.  I will be at peace.  But then it will be time for the rentrée….

American Food in Paris

Though I’ve been trying to ignore it, there is no question that the phenomenon is spreading.  American food is hip in France.  While this seems impossible to any rational being with functioning tastebuds, it is equally impossible to ignore the trend.  There is a veritable engouement (which means “infatuation” but sounds as gooey as the insides of a jelly doughnut) for classic American taste treats.  Believe me, no one is interested in fusion food, they want brownies, cupcakes, and bagels. 

It’s been years since I saw my first brownie in a Parisian bakery.   I have since learned how to pronounce it, because my first attempt was met with a blank stare.  “Ah!  Un brooNI!  Vous voulez un brooNI!”  And this was years before Carla’s entrance on the political scene.  Then there was the crumbUL, which was quickly followed by muhfFIN.  This was all perfectly acceptable, especially because the French make brownies, crumble, and muffins so much better than we do. 

But I can’t bring myself to try a baGUL.  I’m sorry, but for me, any bagel that doesn’t come out of a sweaty shop with a huge, steaming bagel boiler just isn’t the real deal.  I can’t imagine that those dainty rings, delicately displayed next to croissants, could ever approximate Absolute Bagels on Upper Broadway.  While its entirely possible that the French bagel tastes better than an American bagel, for me, that’s beside the point.  I want my bagel to be chewy and leaden, that’s part of the experience.  You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Because there is a dark side to the Frenchification of American food.  Take hamburgers.  I’m not talking about those 25€ versions in the chic restaurants, I’m talking about the frozen ones in the supermarkets.  Already cooked, bun included.  Or the same horror in a microwavable version.  Nobody seems to understand that even the greasiest burger stateside is made to order.   Even in the best Parisian bakeries, the ones that also sell sandwiches, you’ll see pre-cooked hamburgers sitting on the counter in their buns.  La honte!

Lastly, I feel I must speak out about the presence of Budweiser in hip bars.  When I see Parisian trendoids paying exorbitant prices for the dubious pleasure of sipping that sad excuse for a beer, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  Especially when the majority of Parisian cafés and bars have excellent Belgian beers on tap.  What is this country coming to?