tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52149337006918243142024-03-06T05:39:13.325+01:00The Completely Useless Guide to ParisA compendium of utterly unhelpful information about the City of LightMargie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-90159346300257816482022-06-23T16:15:00.002+02:002022-06-23T16:19:45.180+02:00Look at me - I'm turning French!<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Qq9pjXyvXT0w9mBuvIaPVm5dCBEO7a7EWM96uOqckYPCmAzF7G92W-JZ2TOIksXiBBARIGN0g40mgX60vewOjcUqp1HcluWMHGWuHO9kCAqwkwa2C03g5TftJvM4-Nv0hQo-0EFKSREseLk-4ahfY8TuuvYGa0rz5w4moH1VXHuB8zhw1aaAv7Dxsg/s800/Logo_de_la_Re%CC%81publique_franc%CC%A7aise_(1999).png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="800" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Qq9pjXyvXT0w9mBuvIaPVm5dCBEO7a7EWM96uOqckYPCmAzF7G92W-JZ2TOIksXiBBARIGN0g40mgX60vewOjcUqp1HcluWMHGWuHO9kCAqwkwa2C03g5TftJvM4-Nv0hQo-0EFKSREseLk-4ahfY8TuuvYGa0rz5w4moH1VXHuB8zhw1aaAv7Dxsg/w320-h189/Logo_de_la_Re%CC%81publique_franc%CC%A7aise_(1999).png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I recently became a French citizen, which was a huge relief for me, because I just couldn’t face another round of renewing my resident visa—my <i>carte de séjour</i>—which is <a href="http://useless-paris.blogspot.com/2007/12/my-beautiful-prfecture.html" style="color: #954f72;">an ordeal</a> the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Yes, it’s been 22 years since I first washed up on the shores of France, but it is only now that I have finally become a citizen. </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Why did I wait so long? Well, if renewing a <i>carte de séjour</i> is an ordeal, you can only imagine what getting one was like. Especially when you are pregnant and without health insurance as I was at the time. The whole thing was so traumatic that I was afraid to attempt citizenship, even though I was eligible, as I was married to a Frenchman. Especially when fellow expats informed me that the process could take up to five years. So I resisted. After all, I had the right to work, to healthcare, and just about everything I needed. The only thing I couldn’t do was vote.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But a few years ago, we bought a house and there was much grumbling from certain banks when we tried to get a loan because for some reason the US makes life difficult for them when they deal with Americans. And the rise in the radical right just about everywhere in the world, including France, where certain political parties scream and shout about how immigrants are responsible for everything from unemployment to indigestion, made it seem prudent to get dual citizenship. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And so, during Covid, when I was at a loss for things to do, I decided to take the plunge. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. In fact, the whole process only took two years, and was nowhere near as painful as the <i>carte de séjour</i>. My only regret is that my prefecture, Nanterre, doesn’t believe in citizenship ceremonies. Whereas other American friends were treated to music and proclamations in 18<sup>th</sup> century town halls with period<i> boiserie</i>, I was treated to this:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuJw5AAvD3fcKyJMXMNJpJepCNhlP0jyED7c6su3KNs-z1_nFVt1wd-C_N34DQUfK4RaAPqddaSVFLWHVaau70-O6Q4zS9Q4ttaxmafbt7xeyLK0lUqW9ujSxw-SaDBK_2wq7tnGQmoZiU27COo7QCuiSou_KiTJaanBRpFiH57Fpe6pdYP8kDZC3tQ/s4032/IMG_3746.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuJw5AAvD3fcKyJMXMNJpJepCNhlP0jyED7c6su3KNs-z1_nFVt1wd-C_N34DQUfK4RaAPqddaSVFLWHVaau70-O6Q4zS9Q4ttaxmafbt7xeyLK0lUqW9ujSxw-SaDBK_2wq7tnGQmoZiU27COo7QCuiSou_KiTJaanBRpFiH57Fpe6pdYP8kDZC3tQ/w210-h280/IMG_3746.jpeg" width="210" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A long line in front of a window. The lady behind the counter did smile and hand me a folder that included both my certificate and the words to the Marseillaise, but the experience lacked a certain something. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The good news is, I became a citizen just in time for the presidential elections. In fact, I was automatically registered to vote, which was amazing, because here in France you are never automatically registered for anything. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">And so I voted for president, which was exciting, even though it was the lesser of two evils all over again (just in case you think that doesn’t happen outside the US). But on further consideration, I think that’s OK. What are the chances that any candidate is going to meet all your needs? About the same as finding the perfect romantic partner. So you go with the one that meets most of them and try to remain optimistic about the future. On the other hand, I still don’t understand who I voted for in the legislative elections. But then again, neither do most French people. So I am at one with my fellow citizens. A step towards total integration… </span></p>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-32696413745635398622018-01-23T21:59:00.001+01:002022-04-20T19:57:00.577+02:00Who Cut The Cheese?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wUiKQs7t6GF438Aoy_V72FE3aGHopjRF-t6KGg11zLWu1mbnivLayFRyy-grolLk0nyYk6zVWZ55ah_cNMGT9Gxvd7mE6qbMedeyCFaAaNnbZ9oi_gu0LECf78PnVNBtb30Fj191De4t/s1600/fromage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wUiKQs7t6GF438Aoy_V72FE3aGHopjRF-t6KGg11zLWu1mbnivLayFRyy-grolLk0nyYk6zVWZ55ah_cNMGT9Gxvd7mE6qbMedeyCFaAaNnbZ9oi_gu0LECf78PnVNBtb30Fj191De4t/s1600/fromage.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Normally, a crime committed with a knife at a dinner table
would involve blood and screams. Mine was
different. The meal was almost
over. We had waltzed through the
appetizer and main course with a deceptive ease, pausing to refresh ourselves
with a bit of green salad before soldiering on to the cheese course. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That was when it happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A slight mishap with a cheese knife and my reputation was ruined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I admit it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was I who cut the cheese—the wrong
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I passed the cheese platter, I
was met with an accusing stare, which traveled from my bewildered face down to
the bit of cheese I had just cut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
looked perfectly fine to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the
end of a piece of Comté, and I had done what I assumed was the logical thing, I
cut a straight line across what was left of the slice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaving a small piece of cheese with rind on
three sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Quelle horreur!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is just not done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing my confusion, my tablemate, who just
happened to be my husband, took pity on me, a poor, ignorant foreigner, and
patiently instructed me on the Fine Art of Cutting Cheese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s not as easy as it looks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea is to cut the cheese so that
everyone has a go at the tender core, where the crème de la crème lies, soft
and sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cheese cutting is a decidedly
democratic act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone at the table is
entitled to the same level of quality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Quantity is a more personal choice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one will blink if you decide to sample a
nice wedge of every cheese on the plate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They will, however, cringe if you mangle the morsels with your deficient
cutting skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once you have shared in
the communal platter of pleasure, it is passed on down the table like a holy
relic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which means that should you mess
up, your gaffe will be immediately obvious to the person sitting next to
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it comes to cutting the
cheese, there’s no place to hide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To make matters even more complicated, cheeses come in many
different shapes and sizes, from classic wheels, to soft rectangles, to
heart-shaped cutie-pies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without taking
out a slide rule or a compass it is difficult to carve out an equitable wedge,
one that is perfectly placed to not only deliver the best of what your cheese
has to offer, but also leaves a similarly delectable and easy-to-cut piece for
your dining partners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What to do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fortunately, several cheese lovers have made instructional videos for
the great unwashed and uploaded them to YouTube. Even if you don’t understand
French, you will appreciate <a href="https://youtu.be/SEaiALtr0E4">this one</a>,
posted by the Franco-German TV channel Arte, designed to teach the basics to
Germans and is easy to follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://youtu.be/ojAlbM6R9tY">This video</a> is particularly heartwarming
because you can see that even the French reporter interviewing the cheese
vendor makes gaffes at this delicate mealtime moment (note the look on the
cheesemaker’s face when she cuts the blue cheese).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Never fear, after you absorb a few rules, you will get the
hang of it. Basically, do unto others as
you would have them do unto your own wedge of cheese. Leave the good stuff for everyone, take your
share of the rind, and when possible, cut a wedge.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-24250754464918486012016-11-09T12:04:00.000+01:002016-11-09T12:04:20.749+01:00On Communism and Bottle Openers<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9bVF_gnwYsPw8d2_V6AubsorKMykwKgMeZgcw2So2LPeLY-NOTo2c2Mx8pxCzrmJ3V2ssOnHvGrUUNpkgLhLPRT1oRpIhzUdysmyE_NQzAlNYCvgML7e2Uxop82VjwTl644etdXOJe_h/s1600/IMG_0338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9bVF_gnwYsPw8d2_V6AubsorKMykwKgMeZgcw2So2LPeLY-NOTo2c2Mx8pxCzrmJ3V2ssOnHvGrUUNpkgLhLPRT1oRpIhzUdysmyE_NQzAlNYCvgML7e2Uxop82VjwTl644etdXOJe_h/s200/IMG_0338.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I hated my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Carson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was probably very unfair, because
she really was just trying to get with the times, which were a changin’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without revealing my advanced age,
let’s just say that she was prone to having us discuss our feelings, world
events and asked us what our “bag” was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I thought she was ridiculous and would complain about her being a phony,
because after all, she was a middle-aged woman and looked like someone’s mom,
not a young thing with frosted hair and go-go boots (like Miss Terry).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One morning, I was chatting with my
friends in the school bus and we started dishing about Mrs. Carson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I warmed to the subject, Carrie—who
lived in an gated community known for excluding minorities—had a scoop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lowered her voice to a whisper:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My dad says that Mrs. Carson is….a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">communist</i>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Orange County, California, this was tantamount to
announcing that Mrs. Carson participated in satanic rituals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was taken aback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not only did I doubt Mrs. Carson was a communist, but I was flummoxed by
the use of the word as an insult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
she disapproved so whole-heartedly of WASP-y Mrs. Carson, what would she think
of my parents, lefty Jews from New York City? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was being a communist really that bad?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did they even really exist?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, none of us had ever seen
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Imagine my amazement when a couple of years later we were
living in France (thanks to my father’s sabbatical leave) and we went to lunch
at my mother’s cousin’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
cousin who was…a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">communist</i>! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Favik had come to France from Poland
before WWII to study medicine, and his doctoring skills and various strokes of
luck helped him avoid being deported by Vichy. He sure didn’t look like a
communist, whom I had imaged all being grey and thin and serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was fat and jovial and lived in a
big house in Argenteuil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
fact, he seemed to have lots of money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“How can a communist have lots of money?” I asked my dad, who waved me
off as he parked the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Since then, I have learned that in France, you can be a
communist and still have fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
can have a good job and lots of money, you simply have to vote and talk a
certain way in certain situations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A dinner with a communist need not involve Molotov cocktails but simply
alcoholic ones, especially now that the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wall only
exist as material for historic spy novels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from a supporting role during the social
explosion of May of 1968, the masses of communists in France were never much of
a threat to the established order, even if they did and do continue to march in
the streets at the first whisper of a labor dispute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because even if they have lost all semblance of political
clout (though the party keeps huffing and puffing along), the communist spirit
is alive and well in France’s powerful labor unions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And perhaps that is as it should be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone has got to at least shout back
at the Captains of Industry, who have so clearly taken over the show on a
global scale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while they can
be painfully earnest (take a gander at the prose at <a href="http://www.lutte-ouvriere.org/">Lutte Ouvrière</a>), being French, they
still know how to enjoy themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A while back a friend of ours who has the unenviable chore of being a
union representative at IBM, brought us a unique bit of paraphernalia from the CGT
(Confédération Générale du Travail), the country’s largest trade union.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a bottle opener (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">décapsuleur</i>) with a metal bit that
starts to play the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Internationale">Internationale</a>
when it comes into contact with a bottle cap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave one to my younger brother as a gift, but the poor guy
didn’t recognize the tune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, the
days of revolution seem to be far behind us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or are they?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who
knows what might be required after the startling election results of last
night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s enough to make you want
to start humming <a href="https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tl2ul4gee6uyw6dy2345je7dx5q?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-songlyrics">the
opening lines</a>…hey, come to think of it, this stanza sounds rather timely:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">Let no one build walls to
divide us<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">Walls of hatred nor walls of
stone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">Come greet the dawn and
stand beside us<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">We'll live together or we'll
die alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">In our world poisoned by
exploitation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">Those who have taken now
they must give<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">And end the vanity of
nations<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #4e4e4e; font-size: 15.0pt;">We've but one earth on which
to live</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-16116263045901397542016-11-02T18:09:00.000+01:002016-11-02T18:24:42.495+01:00Medical Tourism Comes to France<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOT0z8HRWDE8Gi3bdDz-c0A7TfzNOyY6URFJvyC3UUOOdxKaUPxPi7-Gw3Cmn2RM60E7-R4faeLZG_i0IcKwphHgAJvaH_ZX69Wer7N1Mzrb4gQqBJvBrefx4u_QqxodBtd-EEA6VLdZw/s1600/medical+tourism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOT0z8HRWDE8Gi3bdDz-c0A7TfzNOyY6URFJvyC3UUOOdxKaUPxPi7-Gw3Cmn2RM60E7-R4faeLZG_i0IcKwphHgAJvaH_ZX69Wer7N1Mzrb4gQqBJvBrefx4u_QqxodBtd-EEA6VLdZw/s320/medical+tourism.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ever since my un-expected encounter with mortality and the
French medical system back in 2007 (see my post “<span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><a href="http://useless-paris.blogspot.fr/2007/10/thinking-of-having-brain-surgery-during.html" target="_blank">Thinking about Having Brain Surgery During Your Stay</a></span>?”), I have been
encouraging my fellow Americans to come to France for medical care. Not
only do they have some of the best doctors and hospitals in Europe, but the
price is definitely right. For example, a friend told me that an MRI can cost
up to $6,000 in the US, while here it would cost $200 max (and I should know, I
get them every two years). For that price, you could come to
France, take a tour of the Loire Valley, get your MRI and still have spare
change. The only tricky part would be the paperwork: stuff like visas,
insurance papers, and making sure your prescriptions/doctor’s instructions
would be accepted on this side of the pond. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But it seems that is no longer an issue. After watching
from afar as Germany, Belgium and the UK profited from US medical pricing
excesses, France has finally jumped on the medical tourism bandwagon. As
of November 1, the French public hospital network (Assistance publique-Hôpitaux
de Paris) is launching a <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><a href="http://www.aphp.fr/international/patients-internationaux-international-patients" target="_blank">medical tourism program</a></span> aimed directly at foreign visitors who wish to
benefit from competitive prices and quality care. And while that care
usually comes in a plain brown wrapper here in France (bland waiting rooms,
ugly doctors offices, minimal creature comfort options), this new program
offers <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><a href="http://www.aphp.fr/international/patients-internationaux/laccueil-des-patients-non-residents-international-patients" target="_blank">packages that include medical care, hotel stay and concierge service</a></span><span id="goog_228269086"></span><span id="goog_228269087"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a>. You
simply send in your application with your medical records to a hospital
specialist with a secure server, and they send you back a quote for the package. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The only catch is they want you to prepay. Though some are
complaining that the new program is meant to attract Arab sheiks and
millionaires, I suspect that your average American could enjoy major savings,
especially if they could get their insurance company to agree to pay part of
the cost. I can’t find an actually fee breakdown for the 110 treatments
covered by the program (for both adults and children), and rumor has it there
is a 20-30% price hike for foreigners, but judging from my own experience (a
visit to a GP costs 23 euros here), I’ll bet the rates are quite competitive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While I loudly applaud Obamacare, it is but a first step
towards a democratic health system in the US, a mere thumbtack in the toe of
the mega-monster that has grown out of unregulated medical fees (remember
Stephen Brill’s amazing article in Time Magazine in 2013? <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><a href="http://time.com/money/3684959/steven-brill-bitter-pill-consumers/" target="_blank">Here’s an update</a></span>). So why not make the most of medical tourism?
Especially now that it’s official: you can visit France AND have hip
replacement for a fraction of the cost in the US! What are you waiting
for?</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-50329958003347103352016-08-19T20:12:00.002+02:002016-08-19T20:13:05.007+02:00August in Paris<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbxSMvSVEt5PyVo7s2J2jCC7SLEW643KMXp37PUCQ087ORrEus8lTagRVvulf1xngnILl2-My2pkHFI84lmTPM7WLhij-bbWAwV-cm83wJRwYx1j453IeanIpKHPgsq3Lht-cntDTgH0g/s1600/IMG_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYbxSMvSVEt5PyVo7s2J2jCC7SLEW643KMXp37PUCQ087ORrEus8lTagRVvulf1xngnILl2-My2pkHFI84lmTPM7WLhij-bbWAwV-cm83wJRwYx1j453IeanIpKHPgsq3Lht-cntDTgH0g/s320/IMG_0005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s August, and in the quiet of the Parisian suburbs that
means there is not a soul on the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What is normally just low-key is now silent, save a few lone
inhabitants, aimlessly wandering the streets like survivors of a nuclear
blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>here is
nothing post-apocalyptic about the scenery though, which is a pleasant mix of cute
little houses and boxy modern apartment buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best part is the greenery, which is lush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are just a few steps from a forest,
and the neighborhood is dotted with some nice old trees, like the huge weeping
willow on the corner, which is literally the size of a house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most of the stores on the main drag, if you can call it
that, are shuttered, with notes taped to the metal shutters announcing
their summer closures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
mini-super market is open, as is one bakery, to feed those few who are not on a
beach somewhere, slathering the sunscreen and trying not to get stepped on by
the hordes of fellow vacationers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I prefer to stay on my deck chair in the back yard this
summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the sun is out, I can
close my eyes and pretend that I am at a luxury resort on the Riviera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, it’s the same sun beating
down on my face, the same warm breeze caressing my limbs, the same quiet
massaging my temples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, I’ll
admit that instead of the cry of seagulls I hear the twitter of sparrows and
instead of the distant roar of crashing waves, I hear the distant thunder of
the RER C.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But by and large, what
I lose in pampering I gain in the relaxing effects of sleeping in my own bed
and not needing to get to the airport. And it’s not like I could ever afford a
luxury resort to begin with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVe24O30nOgHPksxT9hKbTW_ky8H2spT0R9VhBHwtrngo1AnhDTbVyDxMH4MftNcPHfm3hZGAzBfvJwWnbuf31KALa6L2HzftRFpuChyphenhyphenNFfXhI6XszF9okV75xlnLs4D8F3X5dQeflh1KE/s1600/IMG_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVe24O30nOgHPksxT9hKbTW_ky8H2spT0R9VhBHwtrngo1AnhDTbVyDxMH4MftNcPHfm3hZGAzBfvJwWnbuf31KALa6L2HzftRFpuChyphenhyphenNFfXhI6XszF9okV75xlnLs4D8F3X5dQeflh1KE/s320/IMG_0007.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then I decide to go to the movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I waltz into my private screening room that the owner of MK2
Parnasse has so kindly opened for my personal benefit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or else it certainly seems that way—I
am the only person at the 1:30 matinee and get to enjoy Florence Foster Jenkins
without any one near me crinkling wrappers or munching on popcorn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the best part of my home-grown luxury vacation is the
silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The muted calm that you
pay for at a ritzy resort is a standard feature of any residential neighborhood
in Paris after July 14.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, Paris
in August is what some evil-minded tourists dream of: Paris without the
Parisians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be advised, however,
while the Parisians might be gone, their places have been filled by thousands
of out-of-town guests, who clog the arteries of every major attraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may be a nice playground, but one
you will have to share with the other kids, who might not want to play they way
you want them to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To them, it
might be fun to scream or run around or push people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So beware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or
be willing to strike out into the quiet corners and park benches where if you
close your eyes, you could be just about anywhere warm and peaceful.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifwuC5o806CkW9xL-WdR_NAsehlPozelb2zCGWjw2-cmTqdcWuY4PcJK_LE7lCB5p1sXZ8MTtl_lLcJWLFch6YPObLTQ-nW_aHALVqsJI2jnunj9Vsmzmf1W9I47Wz9XYRC9AQpumJ2dgE/s1600/IMG_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifwuC5o806CkW9xL-WdR_NAsehlPozelb2zCGWjw2-cmTqdcWuY4PcJK_LE7lCB5p1sXZ8MTtl_lLcJWLFch6YPObLTQ-nW_aHALVqsJI2jnunj9Vsmzmf1W9I47Wz9XYRC9AQpumJ2dgE/s320/IMG_0006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-52535725739211589682015-12-27T18:09:00.000+01:002015-12-27T18:19:35.360+01:00Christmas Aftermath<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJfOIl1zfbIIxQOWktEHfGcPCqfjtkHfqz5te3SbR90Tm7VZ61vsohdend2JMn5saUh4HhZZhi_KQDTA5WfhXptebpuwBcnV0GMCkvbqsWnFuAfPwELn4UF41SW5NFsl7fuljWejgG8yO/s1600/repas-noel-gastronomie-tradition1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJfOIl1zfbIIxQOWktEHfGcPCqfjtkHfqz5te3SbR90Tm7VZ61vsohdend2JMn5saUh4HhZZhi_KQDTA5WfhXptebpuwBcnV0GMCkvbqsWnFuAfPwELn4UF41SW5NFsl7fuljWejgG8yO/s200/repas-noel-gastronomie-tradition1.jpg" width="200" /></a>There was a whiff of hangover in the air yesterday at the
covered market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was strangely
quiet, as if a mute pedal had been applied to the noisy instrument that
generates the usual cacophony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Both the customers and the merchants were bleary eyed:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this one walked off without his package
of fruit, that one forgot the order he just took.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t say that I was much better off, as I was recovering
from an epic Christmas lunch, one that started and ended with champagne and included
all sorts of deliciously noxious substances in between.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apèros</i>
with champagne are all the rage these days, so I started off with munchies and
a flute of bubbly, which hit my nervous system like a spray of sequins and
quickly infiltrated my blood stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon it was time for a succulent slab of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">foie</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gras</i> with a glass of
Sauternes from a bottle that was so old the liquid had turned the color of an
antique wedding ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It tasted
like pink gold too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chablis was
required for the oysters and smoked salmon, and a nice Bordeaux for the leg of lamb and the
subsequent round of cheese, and after all that, why not haul out the rest of the
champagne for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bûche</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bûche</i>
is a traditional, log-shaped, rolled Christmas cake that everyone complains
about (eww!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s too sweet!) but
everyone gobbles down when it appears on the table at the end of a long
meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suffice it to say that I barely remember who gave me what
when we unwrapped the presents and I am embarrassed to admit that I collapsed on my son’s Jumbo Bag and fell into a deep sleep at
6:30pm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I joined the ranks of those who doggedly attempt to
eliminate the alcohol and calories of Christmas at the pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t know what happens,” a woman
was moaning to her friend in the dressing room, “I just have no control when it
comes to chocolates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can eat the
whole box.” Just in case you thought that French women really don’t get
fat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not easy to resist when
exquisite chocolates are constantly shoved under your nose during the
holidays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m trying to be
strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, it’s only a
week until New Years.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-27736479589648109952014-06-09T22:18:00.000+02:002014-06-09T22:23:36.403+02:00Politesse<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntnDO013j1AQOjB4TvRkLsvhNTfH6ba9C0BS0tQcZ9OdBTgcQdcP5iVJcHW889vugwO7Zca7Ts7WLRY3wXc41_T1HXiJHVmJDlbiXbZbjMx_NmxexdJVrBI-JEEcWZJHgvlfJbNMaKpOW/s1600/writing-with-a-quill-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntnDO013j1AQOjB4TvRkLsvhNTfH6ba9C0BS0tQcZ9OdBTgcQdcP5iVJcHW889vugwO7Zca7Ts7WLRY3wXc41_T1HXiJHVmJDlbiXbZbjMx_NmxexdJVrBI-JEEcWZJHgvlfJbNMaKpOW/s1600/writing-with-a-quill-3.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
I just received a note in my mailbox that translates as
follows:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ladies and Gentlemen,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have the honor of informing you that a team from our
company will proceed to clean the parking garage on the morning of Thursday,
June 12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We thank you in advance
for kindly removing your vehicles.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is not at all unusual here to receive official letters from banks, plumbers,
or other service industries that sound like an invitation to a fancy dress ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However rude a clerk may seem at the
post office in person, in writing that same institution will sign off with “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">je vous prie d’agréer, Madame, l’assurance
de ma consideration distinguée</i>,” which roughly translates as “I beg you to
accept, Madam, the guarantee of my distinguished regards.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is difficult for an American (particularly one that lived
a long time in New York) to understand why the note in my box didn’t just say
“Garage cleaning June 12, please move your car before that date,” or something
more menacing like “garage cleaning June 12, all cars must be removed by sundown.”
I’m used to taking orders from faceless authorities, but apparently, the French
are not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s a leftover
sentiment from the French Revolution, when outrage over being subject to the
oppressive whims of the aristocracy led to a summary chopping off of its
collective head. Maybe that’s why my husband gets furious when I ask him to do
something in my direct, American way, like “can you take out the trash?”
instead of “my, but the trash bin is full, do you think you might be able to
take it out?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might a stretch to take a historic view of marital
squabbles, but there has got to be some explanation for the overblown importance
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">politesse</i> in certain French
circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, in
neighboring Spain, perfect strangers use the familiar form of “you” (tu). In nearby
Italy, locals will enthusiastically throw themselves at your baby and ask if
they can take pictures. Maybe it’s a question of personal space. In France, you
must wait to be invited into someone’s personal space, and politeness creates a
neutral territory where the two sides can check each other out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the French just need more time to
connect, unlike Americans, who hurl themselves at each other like overexcited
puppies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That still doesn’t explain the letters, however, or why my
health insurance center keeps thanking me for confidence that I have in
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or why the sign on the bus
about ticket prices “thanks me for my understanding.” Or, for that matter, why
a subway strike is described as a “social movement” on the monitors in the
metro station. Oh well, I guess some things just can’t be explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, in closing, I beg you to accept
my most cordial regards.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-68116187154999865312014-05-23T10:14:00.001+02:002014-05-23T10:16:16.674+02:00Another Velib' Update<style>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxTyOX-1V8NJ_Z9DwPA9s0-HHXGDy15qfA2_BKaBZ5Uj8wuNiO0nDd7TOaeHuO7dz2rbTt2ByXzvSFXUPEycQN1S2ohXsaJxF3_UFnPGLwqbbvXcYL9cGJZHbTanh1yl5JHTo75F1qIg7u/s1600/sipa_rex40204527_000017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxTyOX-1V8NJ_Z9DwPA9s0-HHXGDy15qfA2_BKaBZ5Uj8wuNiO0nDd7TOaeHuO7dz2rbTt2ByXzvSFXUPEycQN1S2ohXsaJxF3_UFnPGLwqbbvXcYL9cGJZHbTanh1yl5JHTo75F1qIg7u/s1600/sipa_rex40204527_000017.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a>It’s time to count our Velib’ blessings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been almost seven years since the mayor's office set up this low-cost rent-a-bike program, and today those funky
looking bikes are part of the cityscape. Similar systems have been set up are in cities all around France.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For years, the futuristic city cycles were almost entirely
out of reach of your average North American tourist, as they required a
chip-enabled credit card, preferably of European origin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there are options:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>you can either buy your 1-day or 7-day
subscription on line, or you can use a refillable cash card, like
Travelex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You an also find out how
it works on the extensive <a href="http://en.velib.paris.fr/" target="_blank">English-language page on the Velib’ website</a>, and even
call an English-speaking customer service person.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So let’s say you actually got yourself a bike and are ready
to take off into traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here are
a few do’s and don’ts:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Check your bike before you check it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are the tires flat? Do the brakes work?
Is a pedal missing? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I once tried
to pedal away and to my surprise…)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Wear a helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don’t want to bring one, you get a <i>casque</i> (helmet)
for <a href="http://www.decathlon.fr/casque-gavroche-3-noir-id_8293492.html">10€
at a Decathalon store</a> .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once
you take to the streets, you will understand why.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Get a map, preferably a handy-dandy “Paris par
Arrondissement” that lists Velib’ stations, so you won’t go nuts trying to find
one when you want to check in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
the smartphone inclined, there is also an <a href="http://en.velib.paris.fr/Velib-on-smartphone" target="_blank">app that you can download from thewebsite</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Take a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What you are about to do requires courage, patience and a certain
amount of derring-do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, while the traffic looks crazy, it’s not as bad as
it looks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as you pay
attention, most drivers will pay attention to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are also an increasing number of dedicated bike lanes
(though they often abandon you just when you were starting to relax).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bike lanes should be on those maps
I mentioned, but don’t count on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Look for the theoretically bike-friendly bus lanes (and then look out for buses and taxis).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Watch out for motor scooters—whose drivers seem to have little regard
for human life, including their own—and other cyclists, some of whom appear to
be trying out for the Evil Knievel Award for Stupidest Death-Defying Risk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I’ve made you nervous, I’d like to point out that
riding around on a Velib’ is a truly delightful way to see the city. As long as
you stay off the big boulevards, you can glide around with relative ease,
humming the theme to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sECzJY07oK4" target="_blank">the movie “Amélie”</a> as you take in Mansart-roofed vistas
and quaint neighborhoods you never knew existed. You’ll cover plenty of
territory in a short distance (this is a relatively small city, after all) and
avoid plunging into the Métro on a nice sunny day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it’s not a nice day, well that’s another matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s up to you how much cold, rain and
wind you can handle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And remember,
while you are having fun on your bike, you’ll be working off all those pastries
and croissants—and making room for more.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-39097111624938235352014-05-18T17:16:00.001+02:002014-05-18T17:29:16.453+02:00Just Say "Non"<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4X4rz8N9aRczYtsyGB_C6GRIbdgyhyNa9-Nh5X4cxFJ9KzdEw9NL8EJfUV081-2F346waBxmY8HhH0uqYhMN4JdIame7wSzigupeM5-1LMhG9M805nerMoMJX4KTAXFtEBV2h4rNVLQS/s1600/NON-600x356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4X4rz8N9aRczYtsyGB_C6GRIbdgyhyNa9-Nh5X4cxFJ9KzdEw9NL8EJfUV081-2F346waBxmY8HhH0uqYhMN4JdIame7wSzigupeM5-1LMhG9M805nerMoMJX4KTAXFtEBV2h4rNVLQS/s1600/NON-600x356.jpg" height="189" width="320" /></a>I went to the covered market this morning, and like every Sunday, the Communist Party was out there campaigning, in this
case, for the European Union elections next week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe I should say against, since the prominent word on
their posters was the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NON</i> (i.e.,
“no”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As in say “no” to the
uncaring European Union, who doesn’t give a damn about the workers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, I can see their point, but isn’t it
just a wee bit negative to use the word “no” as a campaign slogan?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can you tell people to go out and
vote (this was indeed a “get out the vote” campaign) for an institution that
you are simultaneously declaring isn’t worth a hill of beans? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
European Union elections are historically ill attended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apathy or downright animosity keeps
people away from the ballot box, as does the generalized fuzziness about what
exactly one is voting for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For if
everyone regularly complains that the “bureaucrats in Brussels” make
undemocratic decisions that filter down and muck up the life of the common man
and woman, they also are allergic to electing the deputies who at least give a
semblance of democratic process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in France, this seeming contradiction bothers no one,
since complaining is an age-old tradition and saying <i>non</i> is often the only
honorable way to respond to a question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For example, let’s say you ask a store clerk if they have bananas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will not equivocate like an
American shopkeeper, who might say with a sad smile, “oh no, I’m sorry we
don’t but we should have some tomorrow,” or<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“gee, I just sold the last one, and boy were they tasty”
(both comments geared to getting you come back another day).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, they will look you squarely in the
eye and say: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">non</i>, or even more
emphatically:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pas du tout</i> (not at all).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because in France, equivocating and unnecessary
smiling are considered signs of weakness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That shopkeeper may have lost a sale, but she has saved her honor, and
what’s more, she has defended <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Gloire</i>,
that is, the glory of France.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The general rule here is when in doubt, say no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may be clothed in other words,
however, like “maybe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me
years to figure out that when my sister-in-law responded to a question with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pourquoi pas?</i> (“why not?”) she in fact
meant “no, anything but that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Being direct is also frowned upon (unless you are a shopkeeper or the
Communist Party), so “maybe” or “why not” sometimes have to do the job of
“no.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If all this sounds
complicated, it is, at least for a foreigner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately for me, the elections aren't an issue, since I don’t have the right to vote. Because after 14 years country I still don’t have the
nerve to face the red tape involved in getting dual citizenship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
</span>And perhaps this is where I must admit
I’m turning a little bit French: when I think of <a href="http://useless-paris.blogspot.fr/2008/07/my-life-in-hellanother-visit-to.html" target="_blank">going to the Préfecture</a> and
facing that bureaucratic madness, my instinctive response is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">non</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">non</i>,
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pas du tout</i>.</div>
<br />Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-23942412484497076902013-12-17T09:56:00.000+01:002013-12-17T10:13:19.885+01:00The Christmas Underground<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpfJBx92mA2KJz0IldjEQW3VdbduAnlvEHOlIo_dgmGSM0Xl2SCfKwUHe654_0lSkgFg8f9ghiND-skQLGz157PvTDf5iJwY1DX8Kxbou53Cl79A_DG6zT9FV_O3PWPc4zZ4qtnpy5hiW/s1600/saumon_entier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpfJBx92mA2KJz0IldjEQW3VdbduAnlvEHOlIo_dgmGSM0Xl2SCfKwUHe654_0lSkgFg8f9ghiND-skQLGz157PvTDf5iJwY1DX8Kxbou53Cl79A_DG6zT9FV_O3PWPc4zZ4qtnpy5hiW/s200/saumon_entier.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Forget the eggnog, Christmastime in France is when everyone pulls out all the stops and stuffs themselves with the most luxurious foods around: lobster and smoked salmon, caviar and champagne, fois gras and chocolates—it’s as if the holiday table were a buffet at the Cannes Film Festival.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This year is no exception, crisis notwithstanding. Supermarkets are at war over who has the best deals on oysters, towers of chocolates loom over store displays, and your waistline expands just browsing the aisles. That said, all that stuff adds up at the checkout counter, especially since when it comes to holiday entertaining, France is a friendly country, and those who don’t invite at least a dozen people over on the big day are considered slouches.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">How to pay for all that without going into hock? There are ways. For one, I have detected a Christmas underground. There is an untold volume of undeclared traffic in holiday goodies. For example, friends of my in-laws, who are otherwise virtuous, church-going upholders of the law, seem to be the leaders of a chocolate smuggling ring. The details are shady, but every year a large Tupperware box of excellent chocolates appears at my in-laws courtesy of this couple, who do mysterious pickups at non-descript parking lots, and then sell their goods to their friends at bargain rates.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">These networks seem to be very intimate, word-of-mouth operations. Just the other day, I was surprised to arrive at the home of an acquaintance and see a table full of vacuum-packed whole smoked salmons. Wondering if they had decided to have a bagel-and-lox-a-thon, I asked what was up. No, despite the recent frenzy for bagels (including an – urp – bagel hamburger) that was not it. It was another black market Christmas affair: I order a ton from my secret source, and you buy top quality at cut rates. I felt a pang of envy and wished that I was in on the deal. I wondered whose hands needed to be greased, and what the secret password was. I’m not usually one to defy the law for illegal or mind-bending substances, but good smoked salmon is an entirely different matter. Sign me up for next year.
</span></span>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-5714784709392791552013-09-30T14:29:00.000+02:002013-10-01T10:08:19.688+02:00The Right to Shop on Sunday<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw35bSoYslRXNsKZN6MkaEikzmjn81NP-NbiXZjKM_E6-60qxzMxZh4q3CcHRQIE5N8xdu77ZDHGkqiuCuhVP5g6yCSkGJc40wLknGePzvro5owV3wEtLSVhirqjYNFTof5LHS8lakTztR/s1600/sunday+store.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw35bSoYslRXNsKZN6MkaEikzmjn81NP-NbiXZjKM_E6-60qxzMxZh4q3CcHRQIE5N8xdu77ZDHGkqiuCuhVP5g6yCSkGJc40wLknGePzvro5owV3wEtLSVhirqjYNFTof5LHS8lakTztR/s200/sunday+store.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s been a lot of talk about “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">repos dominical</i>” around here lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time I hear the phrase I imagine a priest having a
late afternoon cup of tea, but it really refers to the right of French people
to relax on Sunday, and (most importantly) not work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worker’s rights have always been a hot subject in France,
but this week the issue is not the right to work, but the right <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the original idea was to observe the Christian Sabbath
(I wasn’t so off base with my tea-drinking priest), the holiness of this day
now revolves around the idea that the government should keep workers from being
overworked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, almost all
stores and businesses are obliged to close on Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I first moved here from New York City, the thought of a
store-free Sunday was frightening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After all, I was used to being able to buy a toilet brush at 11pm on a
weekday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then one Sunday I
looked out the window and saw entire families strolling down the Promenade
Plantée and it struck me that I rarely saw entire families doing much of anything in the Big Apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I thought, maybe it’s worth not being able to buy thumbtacks at a
moment’s notice if it means strengthening family ties and upholding cultural
traditions. (This was before I learned that those same traditions can turn
around and kick you in the butt when you are married to them.) I got used to
organizing my life differently, and enjoyed the quiet ambiance of a city
Sunday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, here’s what happened:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when the court ruled that certain giant DYI chains do not
have the right to open on Sundays, said monster hardware stores defied the
powers that be and opened anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a sort of anti-strike, where instead of refusing to go to work,
employees refused to not work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
see, these mega-stores have been open on Sundays for some time now, due to a
recent softening of regulations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But one of the smaller chains did not get the same dispensation and went
to court to complain that it was unfair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead of saying, “gee, you’re right, why do only the big chains get to
stay open?” the court simply closed down the big chains too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not surprisingly, the big chains
were outraged, saying that not only would they lose money, but the workers
would also lose precious pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus,
the anti-strike (<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/International/wireStory/workers-decry-french-law-closing-stores-sunday-20412530" target="_blank">see ABC news article for details</a>).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all seems pretty ironic to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The government, and the unions (who seem to have taken over from the church on the Sunday question), both trying to protect the worker, are keeping the
workers from working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which seems
like a strange stance to take in the middle of a huge financial crisis when
unemployment is a national problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not that I’m a big fan of huge chain stores, mind you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d prefer to pay a little more and go
to the local hardware store where I won’t have to wander around for an hour
looking for a package of screws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I think all stores, big and small, should be allowed to open on
Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only would it provide
jobs, but it would take a load off your 9 to 5-er, who currently has to do all
his or her shopping on Saturday (<b>note to tourists</b>: avoid shopping on Saturdays
in Paris unless you enjoy hand-to-hand combat).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True, it means that Sundays would lose their hallowed
Sabbath status, but if they can handle it in hyper-Catholic countries like
Italy and Spain, I think they can deal with it in “secular” France.</div>
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<br /></div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-62638315918138244182013-09-25T15:16:00.000+02:002013-09-25T15:25:30.356+02:00Ode to an Apéro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnoO-PSDesJcGKNpyJlHmloMNctB3qAu7LplqKzDObIzAVlGeTSuhq0OorwTVOamArJx0E9596LaN8Tjln45vdy2ImatEbCw-Jj7yf6Zy6i6FwiCBhQF3lzTgH5vLatjHYIc5KDFIN1t4H/s1600/Leffe_blonde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnoO-PSDesJcGKNpyJlHmloMNctB3qAu7LplqKzDObIzAVlGeTSuhq0OorwTVOamArJx0E9596LaN8Tjln45vdy2ImatEbCw-Jj7yf6Zy6i6FwiCBhQF3lzTgH5vLatjHYIc5KDFIN1t4H/s200/Leffe_blonde.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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I’m a mom with a kid just out of French primary school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This means that for the last eight
years, a gong has been going off in my head at 4:30, when school gets out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there’s
study hall, the gong gets postponed to 6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But when</span> it goes off, someone needs to be at school for pickup/childcare, and since I work at home, I am usually that someone. All of this points to one grim fact:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>no late-afternoon <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apéro</i> for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize this may seem selfish and petty, but on the rare
occasions when I’ve actually been in the city in the late afternoon when the sidewalk
cafés are crammed full of people enjoying an post-work drink, and watched the
sun slanting through golden globes of Belgian beer, I have felt a profound and
lasting envy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Short for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apéritif</i>,
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apèro</i> is the French version of
cocktail hour, without hard liquor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In theory, it involves lightly alcoholic beverages and crunchy things to
nibble on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In reality, American-style
cocktails are becoming quite fashionable, as are Spanish-style tapas, so the Parisian
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apéro</i> experience can be many things,
but for the sake of argument, let’s stick with tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I was first introduced to this tradition in Provence, where
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apéro</i> has been raised to an art
form. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a sunny afternoon, the
cafe terraces in Avignon are filled with happy customers sipping bright yellow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">panachés</i>, green <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perroquets</i>, and red <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">diabolos</i>
(which sound exotic but are actually beer flavored with sweet syrups or
lemonade).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time my son was
a baby and I wouldn’t have dreamed of indulging in such non-maternal
behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recently married, my
French mother-in-law was already shocked that I frequented cafés.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, in the old days, virtuous
women did not drink coffee unattended, and here not only was I sipping in
public, but I was exposing my tiny tot to my unorthodox behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So a late-afternoon <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pastis</i> was definitely out of bounds. </div>
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This year, my son has entered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">collège</i> (junior high school), and not only does he get to and from
school on his own, but he would prefer that I stay as far away as possible
during his commute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has his own
keys so I don’t have to be on hand when he arrives in the afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this points to a new reality:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can indulge in non-maternal behavior.</div>
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And so, yesterday, when a beautiful Indian summer afternoon
presented itself, I took the plunge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A friend and I parked ourselves on a café terrace and ordered an
overpriced <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">demi</i> of rosé and indulged
in a full-blown Parisian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apéro</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We gulped down our doubts about our
continued usefulness as mothers, and toasted our newfound freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We felt young, daring and
debauched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then we both ran home to make dinner. </div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-31080312576356112462013-09-20T11:24:00.001+02:002013-09-20T11:25:33.128+02:00The French Grand Tour<div style="text-align: left;">
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-</style>Back in the 18<sup>th</sup> century, upper class Europeans
were fond of making a “Grand Tour” that included visiting France,
Italy, and Austria, with a little bit of Spain or Germany thrown in for extra
flavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rite of passage,
a way of furthering one’s cultural education, and of showing the folks back
home that you were a worldly sort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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Today, at least in France, the Grand Tour has headed west—to
the Far West, to be exact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It seems like every French person I meet who has the means has been to,
or is planning to go to, the American Southwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I thought this was due to an overabundance of
cowboy movies being broadcast on French TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still vividly remember the first time I saw John Wayne
speaking fluent French in a dubbed Western—a shock like that leaves psychological
scars that can take years to heal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I now think this obsession goes beyond Hollywood, and speaks to the
mythic image of the US in the minds and hearts of millions of French
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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After over a dozen years in this country, I’m still amazed
when I realize how many people here and in other places see Americans as
essentially cowboys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no matter
how many times you tell people that your grandfather was a hat maker from Vitebsk,
when they look at you they still see someone blonde and freckled who grew up on
the Great Plains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But there’s another essential reason that tens of thousands
of French people trek halfway across the planet to roast in southern Utah—it’s
frigging gorgeous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This fact was
unclear to me until recently, when I got so tired of hearing about the
Southwest from the French that I actually went there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from a visit to the Grand Canyon when I was five (when
my main interest was avoiding falling in), I’d never been, a fact that made me
burn with shame when faced with so many delighted reports from my
neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So a couple of years ago, I packed up my
French husband and son and took them on a mini-version of the French Grand
Tour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I say “mini” because we
didn’t have the time to do the classic tour, a Herculean event that takes at
least three weeks and includes the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/grca/index.htm" target="_blank">Grand Canyon</a>, <a href="http://www.nps.gov/zion/index.htm" target="_blank">Zion</a>, <a href="http://www.nps.gov/brca/index.htm" target="_blank">Bryce Canyon</a>, and <a href="http://www.nps.gov/arch/index.htm" target="_blank">Arches</a>
National Parks, <a href="http://navajonationparks.org/htm/monumentvalley.htm" target="_blank">Monument Valley</a>, Las Vegas, San Francisco, <a href="http://www.nps.gov/yose/index.htm" target="_blank">Yosemite</a>—and for the
truly possessed—<a href="http://www.nps.gov/deva/index.htm" target="_blank">Death Valley</a>.</div>
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We settled for the Grand Canyon and Zion, with a side trip to
<a href="http://www.nps.gov/jotr/index.htm" target="_blank">Joshua Tree</a> on the way back to California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were enchanted, enraptured, enthralled,
and every other over-used adjective you can think of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I grew up about an hour from the Mojave, I never
appreciated the desert until adulthood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A decade in the confines of New York City probably had something to do
with my newfound appreciation of wide-open spaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any case, I became hooked on red rock, and this past
summer we made another excursion, this time to Monument Valley, Arches and
Bryce Canyon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only part of the
tour I take issue with is the obligatory stop in Las Vegas, but I will complain
about that in a future post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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So, thanks to the French, I am now a one-person promotional
campaign for the American Southwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Go!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll never see cowboy movies the same
way again.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-66188924571550355322013-04-29T09:12:00.001+02:002013-04-29T18:16:47.835+02:00The New Franklin D. Roosevelt<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWyAGxwwjzFN4aIx13bGpNWz_iH9bIMiswpHKNX7PDB9CPtupiCxN5ow6ZK8VFj-BWsIXbHOLZHSqyu48kghb2p5cor2UnxkzKIVaZXGdtWjAW2P1LeE8UC1ZV_E-1foBayj3BjXSIkv7/s1600/Station_de_Franklin_Roosevelt_Ligne_1_-_Plaque_02-03-06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWyAGxwwjzFN4aIx13bGpNWz_iH9bIMiswpHKNX7PDB9CPtupiCxN5ow6ZK8VFj-BWsIXbHOLZHSqyu48kghb2p5cor2UnxkzKIVaZXGdtWjAW2P1LeE8UC1ZV_E-1foBayj3BjXSIkv7/s200/Station_de_Franklin_Roosevelt_Ligne_1_-_Plaque_02-03-06.jpg" width="200" /></a>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The Paris metro’s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franklin_D._Roosevelt_%28Paris_M%C3%A9tro%29" target="_blank">Franklin D. Roosevelt stop</a> used to be a step back in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You got on the train in the beginning of the 21<sup>st</sup>
century and got off in the middle of the 20<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The platform for the number 1 line, in
dashing shades of bright orange and steely blue, was particularly evocative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You half expected Walt Disney to step
out of the wings singing “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/There%27s_a_Great_Big_Beautiful_Tomorrow" target="_blank">There’s a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow</a>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1964_New_York_World%27s_Fair" target="_blank">New York World’s Fair</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I remember of that event are the dinosaurs at the <a href="http://www.nywf64.com/ford01.shtml" target="_blank">Ford Pavilion</a> (which later ended up at Disneyland), that Space-Age globe (which
still hovers over Flushing Meadows), and terrifying fireworks that made me
cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind that
there was a seriously messy conflict going on in Vietnam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was something you could choose not
to think about while you teased your hair into a beehive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Until I saw that metro
station, I never even realized that the Space Age arrived in France, despite
having seen Barbarella.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
just wasn’t something you expected to see just underneath the Champs Elysées.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there it was, with the words “Franklin
D. Roosevelt” spelled out in bold American letters, lit up from below like a
cinema marquee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True, it was worn and somewhat seedy
looking, but that gave it a ragged nostalgic charm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if you had come across a sunken relic of another
age, like the forgotten New York subway in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0065462/" target="_blank">Beneath the Planet of the Apes</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But alas, it’s close proximity
to the <a href="http://www.comite-champs-elysees.com/accueil.html" target="_blank">Champs Elysées</a>, 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t anyone tell them that “mid-century” design was all
the rage?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whose idea was it to
turn the number 1 platform into a trendy club?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black and gold brick, digital screens showing videos no one
bothers to understand…it feels like a giant advertisement for something
expensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the fact that the ceiling seems
to have sprung a leak and the paint on the gold tiles is already peeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Serves them right for going against the
glorious grain of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jkpMtXNPsX8KB1tdSChRB3B28YLXISzO1_0BDOJ57pR5KgepkkMySNl_yK_KKuJdo1NBViTwzpOJ1UZbLgr4MLBFQRu3iXIHfF3iafaFNbB1A_dLzzqoeWDOKxTJsYKPZWh71Lew79Qh/s1600/Metro_Paris_-_Ligne_9_-_station_Franklin_D._Roosevelt_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jkpMtXNPsX8KB1tdSChRB3B28YLXISzO1_0BDOJ57pR5KgepkkMySNl_yK_KKuJdo1NBViTwzpOJ1UZbLgr4MLBFQRu3iXIHfF3iafaFNbB1A_dLzzqoeWDOKxTJsYKPZWh71Lew79Qh/s200/Metro_Paris_-_Ligne_9_-_station_Franklin_D._Roosevelt_01.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But all is not lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is still the number 9 line platform
to admire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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…</span></div>
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</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-34686808972338614332013-04-18T09:32:00.004+02:002013-04-18T10:07:18.696+02:00Parisian Grass Munchers<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ns_TasRz1EGd_mRuJ2Zzrry9zB22EQ2Tr5zWU3Dm0iCjSFqDPxCaSwoaSxyI9kbJD96M4LijZP2pqJPnmI0bCRlT-eBcWzJkNSP-pp1-mUPVAk1fzzoi7CGDyIumlA2HdB2VSOxl84zI/s1600/334_Mouton1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Ns_TasRz1EGd_mRuJ2Zzrry9zB22EQ2Tr5zWU3Dm0iCjSFqDPxCaSwoaSxyI9kbJD96M4LijZP2pqJPnmI0bCRlT-eBcWzJkNSP-pp1-mUPVAk1fzzoi7CGDyIumlA2HdB2VSOxl84zI/s320/334_Mouton1.JPG" width="320" /></a>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yesterday, with a splendid sun soaring in the heavens, I
wanted to be a sheep lolling in a pasture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In weather like that, who needs to do anything else besides
lie in the grass and chew?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be
precise, I wanted to be a <a href="http://ouessantsheep.net/breed.html" target="_blank">Ouessant</a> (pronounced “wessahn”) sheep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Members of that venerable ruminant race
have <a href="http://digitaljournal.com/article/346417" target="_blank">recently been hired by the Paris city hall</a> to graze in the 19<sup>th</sup>
arrondissement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a bad gig for
a sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span>
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</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their mission?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To cut the grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For two weeks, they will eat and eat
and eat until the grass is shorn to crew cut length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This herbaceous fiesta is actually an experiment in “eco-pasturing,”
basically a non-polluting and fun way to mow the grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look Ma!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No herbicides!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No noise, grass clippings, or chemical fertilizers either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The city hall website has supplied a charming video showing the
sheep capering about their temporary home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sheep themselves look like they could use a little
mowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, they are very cute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/xypdtb" width="480"></iframe><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xypdtb_des-moutons-dans-la-ville_news" target="_blank">Des moutons dans la ville !</a> <i>par <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/mairiedeparis" target="_blank">mairiedeparis</a></i></span></span><br />
</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">To my surprise, I learned that this sheep has a tie, albeit
a loose one, to the American Revolution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Ushant_%281778%29" target="_blank">nasty naval battle between the French and the English in 1778</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>France, loath to pass up a chance to attack the British, had recently
decided to enter the war on the American side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each fleet came home to cranky
officials and much political squabbling.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFtCXCJeqhFiIgYIQ-lL2iDb5vOT4slynYxyCdKvV9f_eo1J3uXVQ3Ggises0lMDEQR94pLqo_4SNWfjXAPB5laYhWmJuCVj4S1YEG-3KPpJvBvVGyVS5rFA2QBA8yDCWCUbEXtPk7Vzit/s1600/Combat_d'Ouessant_juillet_1778_par_Theodore_Gudin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFtCXCJeqhFiIgYIQ-lL2iDb5vOT4slynYxyCdKvV9f_eo1J3uXVQ3Ggises0lMDEQR94pLqo_4SNWfjXAPB5laYhWmJuCVj4S1YEG-3KPpJvBvVGyVS5rFA2QBA8yDCWCUbEXtPk7Vzit/s200/Combat_d'Ouessant_juillet_1778_par_Theodore_Gudin.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Battle of Ushant by Théodore Gudin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Where do the sheep fit
in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well they don’t, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They do come from the island though,
and I can imagine them mournfully bleating while the battle raged at sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure they are much happier munching
on grass at the archives.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span>
</span></span>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-9706076127229326252013-04-12T15:56:00.001+02:002013-04-15T09:57:06.581+02:00April Showers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0FOkD9izejKcf2W02pJYFIkxA0de1xKgQLSTDXtp3CmR3eTHovuOYA78Ntv-q8THX_4WIn0bMrhQ97B93g4ClCUXD746ZExYM-XaNOLtUEbxzWuZsCi5KdJc7GZ5oTNmBVZRSXYjtnoT/s1600/eiffel_clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0FOkD9izejKcf2W02pJYFIkxA0de1xKgQLSTDXtp3CmR3eTHovuOYA78Ntv-q8THX_4WIn0bMrhQ97B93g4ClCUXD746ZExYM-XaNOLtUEbxzWuZsCi5KdJc7GZ5oTNmBVZRSXYjtnoT/s200/eiffel_clouds.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This was one of those record-breaking winters, not just in
terms of quantity of snow and cold, but length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plants whose buds usually
start to open in late February are only daring to flower now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows what kind of havoc this is
going to wreak on food prices in the coming months, not to mention hay fever
season.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First there was the
dreadful revelation that the budget minister, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C3%A9r%C3%B4me_Cahuzac" target="_blank">Jérôme Cahuzac</a>, 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, <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/disgraced-french-minister-jrme-cahuzac-forced-to-sleep-in-car-8569283.html" target="_blank">he has been sleeping in his car to avoid the press</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is still unclear which is his worst sin:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hiding the money or admitting that he
lied about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
what is unforgivable in this case is that the guy not only lied, but then he <i>admitted</i> that he lied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is simply not done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was he thinking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Must have been the weather that got to
him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But if that wasn’t bad enough,
<a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/2013/04/11/france-rabbi-idUSL5N0CY3IF20130411" target="_blank">today's revelation</a>
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</style><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">is that the Grand Rabbi of France is not only a plagiarist, but also he
lied about his academic credentials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can only imagine
the Talmudic discussions that are going to come out of that one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you can’t trust the Grand Rabbi, who
can you trust?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really, what I’d
like to know is who is this guy in the first place and why is he so grand?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What makes him any grander than any
other rabbi?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why is this night
different from any other night?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
not now, when?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I can say is—feh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
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You’ve probably noticed that I’m casually sauntering away
from any discussion of <style><!--
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</style><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">the overall atmosphere of gloom and dismay that has settled over the
current president, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran%C3%A7ois_Hollande" target="_blank">François Hollande</a>, and his cabinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
<a href="http://newsfeed.time.com/2013/04/10/french-president-francois-hollandes-camel-eaten-in-mali/" target="_blank">(On top of everything else, the president's camel got eaten in Mali)</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t feel qualified to
even begin to sort that one out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/25/world/europe/same-sex-marriage-opponents-march-in-france.html?_r=0" target="_blank">a march against the legalization of gay marriage</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get me started…
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is, if it doesn’t rain.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-8471088818473551902013-03-25T10:39:00.001+01:002013-03-25T10:56:11.069+01:00A New Look at Les Halles<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOQPuycfBeNkShjRjvp7XBgXPZhIpegGrrj0k8ZEZRV2rqotbyOa8R5pmtp_DDX2b_ZIUJ2Pe-nxgHfNgDFrIJNU4vBI4d2pyAWaCcNIZ2eFrVonFzmH0Djvhv0r6Lhvhand0dKZ3Si89/s1600/destruction+of+old+Halles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOQPuycfBeNkShjRjvp7XBgXPZhIpegGrrj0k8ZEZRV2rqotbyOa8R5pmtp_DDX2b_ZIUJ2Pe-nxgHfNgDFrIJNU4vBI4d2pyAWaCcNIZ2eFrVonFzmH0Djvhv0r6Lhvhand0dKZ3Si89/s1600/destruction+of+old+Halles.jpg" /></a>
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An inspiring view
of Paris slowly opens up as your rise towards the temporary exhibits, and
suddenly you find yourself thinking:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>to heck with Dali, I just want to gaze out at the rooftops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing you can’t see is the construction at Les
Halles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is pretty amazing
because it’s right nearby and gigantic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hideous 70’s era upper structure of the <a href="http://www.forumdeshalles.com/W/do/centre/accueil" target="_blank">Forum des Halles</a> is being pulled down, soon to be replaced by a futuristic “canopy” the
size of a football field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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<sup>th</sup> century pavilions in 1971. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SCSzWjgay6_0ZoqAO7_7H1Mccq7jOlgmsX11rjlJ-prnDEMCcf8FbXzhpl8aAlMHHE4ATavWc59Fawhyphenhyphen3LifjXm48v7Ab10XAr5ExB5_U7zOlxF8xxqlgWnnZnip0wcav0yWfvp2TLxB/s1600/forum-des-halles-en-2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SCSzWjgay6_0ZoqAO7_7H1Mccq7jOlgmsX11rjlJ-prnDEMCcf8FbXzhpl8aAlMHHE4ATavWc59Fawhyphenhyphen3LifjXm48v7Ab10XAr5ExB5_U7zOlxF8xxqlgWnnZnip0wcav0yWfvp2TLxB/s320/forum-des-halles-en-2007.jpg" width="320" /></a> When I was a wistful teenager, my family
moved to Paris because my dad was on sabbatical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 1978, the Forum just opened, and I found it
terrifying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Incredibly, there were stores down
there, with people milling around in them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stayed away, afraid of being pulled in by some fiendish
gravitational force.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzv_txjxS2AfFjbmB0EiTJndSpld-sY75GyCb-VgAfu7G1uDbPiz0J-cIjqWSOVyPl4dolELv-4SHmKeiOeSQWDjP-T0LoprW5YlMlDVoBkc659g0Mrky-5Z0jIfno5IME3AX-5qxG4oDp/s1600/New+forum+des+halles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzv_txjxS2AfFjbmB0EiTJndSpld-sY75GyCb-VgAfu7G1uDbPiz0J-cIjqWSOVyPl4dolELv-4SHmKeiOeSQWDjP-T0LoprW5YlMlDVoBkc659g0Mrky-5Z0jIfno5IME3AX-5qxG4oDp/s320/New+forum+des+halles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cover, which is being
called <a href="http://www.parisleshalles.fr/le-projet/la-canopee-0027" target="_blank">La Canopée</a>, 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 <a href="http://www.parisleshalles.fr/" target="_blank">official site</a>).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I’m still unsure about the color, I have to admit that
the canopy looks like a vast improvement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s something soothing about it’s wavy look, at least on paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still think it’s a shame that they
didn’t save a couple of those elegant 19<sup>th</sup>-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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
maybe now that the hole will be safely covered, I’ll stop worrying about
falling in.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-62181118753271000142012-08-24T19:14:00.001+02:002012-08-24T19:15:38.642+02:00The Call of Nature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_o-Ch1TzSTudPadqcg_selwBHPUBEfCxS6tYXNGJxFTVpaAfKaqRvj78RVnoMIexSjk94hk-lwei9bHbPO-q61VXUP8W4rVHF0oTYXGUPd7ymm1h0qDJFqpw93SaWNCsyE6dFRKYO5qeO/s1600/sanisettes3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_o-Ch1TzSTudPadqcg_selwBHPUBEfCxS6tYXNGJxFTVpaAfKaqRvj78RVnoMIexSjk94hk-lwei9bHbPO-q61VXUP8W4rVHF0oTYXGUPd7ymm1h0qDJFqpw93SaWNCsyE6dFRKYO5qeO/s320/sanisettes3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Though I’ve lived in Paris for close to a decade, I’ve never
had the nerve to try the public toilets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m talking about those round kiosks on the street called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanisette" target="_blank"><i>sanisettes</i></a>, those
automatic wonders that do everything but wipe your bottom and zip up your
pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only do they
flush once you are done, but they automatically disinfect themselves once
you’ve left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
any case, the whole procedure is rather sinister to the uninitiated:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having a mild case of claustrophobia,
the idea of being confined in a window-less, automated contraption while
relieving myself was none too appealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was getting late, it was time to go home, and I wasn’t the slightest bit thirsty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was counting up my change when I saw
a sanisette beckoning to me right next to the metro station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gritted my teeth, took a deep
breath, and pushed the button.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the <a href="http://www.paris.fr/pratique/Portal.lut?page_id=8938&document_type_id=4&document_id=59613&portlet_id=21141" target="_blank">Paris municipal website</a>, (where you can enjoy a video and
slide show on the subject), there are some 400 of these beauties throughout the
city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First installed in the
early 1981, the sanisettes replaced the old <a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vespasienne" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vespasiennes</i></a>,
the public urinals that had adorned the city’s streets since the early 19<sup>th</sup>
century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember seeing
them in the 1970s and not quite understanding what they were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw men go in, but there didn’t seem
to be a phone in there, so what the heck were they doing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They couldn’t possibly be…but yes, they
were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were peeing on the
street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to mention that the people in
charge seemed to think only men needed to pee at inopportune times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The door opened majestically and automatically, and I
entered a roomy space with a sink, mirror, and toilet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the good fortune to be in
one of the new, improved sanisettes, which are both wheelchair accessible and
ecologically correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also
speak to you, just to make sure you feel at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the place was relatively clean, I
was surprised to see that the toilet had not been flushed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps all that talking distracted Mr.
Clean and he forgot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or perhaps…it
wasn’t as automatic as I had thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a little disappointing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What with all those automatic flushing
toilets at airports around the world, one would think…well, never mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, this was a free pee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As of 2006, all Parisian
sanisettes are free of charge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just don’t get any ideas about staying for any length of time:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>after 20 minutes, the doors open wide
and you are requested to leave. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Mr. Clean has his limits.</div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-55011017644442702832012-06-28T17:08:00.001+02:002012-06-28T17:11:21.140+02:00The Vacation Vortex<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19jx_Hg4XxKOWw4Kn1o_4cpdbmEGiafnFMr9pgT7RdoFxOpRs0xljQrmOB5mXWXfMX_5tAsljW2dm1vV_K0hXjewRZjHvWcTHLlcB1RVvPIn7nUj7EaAbg46EafwHh0_5gpYtC5z5cEUC/s1600/Vortex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19jx_Hg4XxKOWw4Kn1o_4cpdbmEGiafnFMr9pgT7RdoFxOpRs0xljQrmOB5mXWXfMX_5tAsljW2dm1vV_K0hXjewRZjHvWcTHLlcB1RVvPIn7nUj7EaAbg46EafwHh0_5gpYtC5z5cEUC/s320/Vortex.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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….</div>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-32339934262964542452012-06-22T09:20:00.000+02:002012-06-22T09:23:44.004+02:00American Food in Paris<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuQK3UCyVQoInNdvnOV3T4Y7jHtTmZKz9QKDLNxnfVUFwcWn5vlyjDKdYpcpFHUiW0KaeUEcTA2e57Xqvs4wvvDRRYp1AtM9HxYJ7PSzCby4R9CtrryRpmCB4MHg61Srjku2DxG-LFnaS/s1600/Hamburger+surgelee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuQK3UCyVQoInNdvnOV3T4Y7jHtTmZKz9QKDLNxnfVUFwcWn5vlyjDKdYpcpFHUiW0KaeUEcTA2e57Xqvs4wvvDRRYp1AtM9HxYJ7PSzCby4R9CtrryRpmCB4MHg61Srjku2DxG-LFnaS/s200/Hamburger+surgelee.jpg" width="200" /></a>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">engouement</i> (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. </div>
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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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">brooNI</i>! Vous voulez un <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">brooNI</i>!” And this was years before <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carla_Bruni" target="_blank">Carla’s</a> 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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La
honte</i>!</div>
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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?</div>
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<br /></div>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-8252562651642995632012-01-20T12:36:00.000+01:002012-01-20T12:41:31.466+01:00Brasserie Wepler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR-g9ja7YzW8xwAMJUXDRbjBT4MtYrQcTo7JqMixmh8fAOb6zddpK5sQCa9Kbm55ToDzcqI2z-aYN4La7dFNeLWCw3NN1YMy7FHoOZrpFOL8fldsbdsiXbo8ihKE_IMAjQVmxQ3tBocvY2/s1600/PA020019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR-g9ja7YzW8xwAMJUXDRbjBT4MtYrQcTo7JqMixmh8fAOb6zddpK5sQCa9Kbm55ToDzcqI2z-aYN4La7dFNeLWCw3NN1YMy7FHoOZrpFOL8fldsbdsiXbo8ihKE_IMAjQVmxQ3tBocvY2/s320/PA020019.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.wepler.com/">Brasserie Wepler</a> is just up the street from my work. It’s one of those famous artists’ cafés
that could have easily fit into Woody Allen’s <a href="http://www.sonyclassics.com/midnightinparis/">Midnight in Paris</a> (i.e., Picasso,
Utrillo, and Modigliani slurped here)…if it were still in its original
state. It’s not, but who
cares? It’s still a great place to
go and drink coffee and watch the world go by on Place de Clichy.</div>
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So after gulping down another “formule” at one of the cute
sandwich/salad places on rue de Clichy, I went for a coffee at Wepler. It was a suitably soggy Thursday, and
the view from the covered terrace was suitably gray and Paris-like. The Place de Clichy is probably as
noisy and crowded as it was in the days when Henry Miller hung out there, though
the café itself was much more scenic, if the paintings by Bonnard can be
trusted for historical accuracy (somewhere along the line it got a boring,
modern revamp). I imagine there
were less cars and more people milling around the enormous bronze statue
dedicated to Maréchal de Moncey.
This huge trilogy of symbolic figures hovers over the circular square,
giving an otherwise average Parisian traffic circle a touch of drama.</div>
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As well it should.
While today passers-by may ask themselves: “who the heck was Maréchal de
Moncey?”, back in 1814 he was the man of the hour. Does anyone remember that de Moncey led a valiant defense
against the Russians at the “Clichy Barrier”? Does anyone even remember why the French were fighting the
Russians in 1814? Certainly not
me, though a quick whizz through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bon-Adrien_Jeannot_de_Moncey">Wikipedia</a> tells me that our friend de Moncey
was one of Napoléon’s loyal generals who remained loyal even after the disastrous
Russian campaign. He then bravely defended Paris against those same Russians when
they attacked our beloved place de Clichy. <br />
<br />
You see, at that point, Napoleon was in trouble. Several European countries, who were sick of
being invaded, had formed a coalition designed to put that tiresome little Corsican in
his place. On March 30, 1814, the coalition attacked Paris. There were horrific battles all over the city, but it was
the Russians that attacked Place de Clichy. Though it was pretty clear that he was in the process of
being trounced, de Moncey stood firm and hence, was declared a hero. France seems to be one of few
countries that routinely celebrates its defeats. From Alésia to Agincourt, French
history books are full of brave deeds in the face of certain catastrophe. Perhaps this is part of what makes
French “humanité” so human. Anyone
can celebrate a victory, but how many can make defeat seem so poetic?</div>
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Today there are no drunken whores passing out on Wepler’s
tables like they did back in Henry Miller’s day, just wealthy business people
fleshing out their expense accounts and sober literary agents frowning at
manuscripts. For despite
everything, Wepler has maintained its literary heritage, and even sponsors an
annual writer’s prize. Miller,
Vian, Prévert, Verlaine, and all the other old habitués would be proud.</div>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-71754433019523555412011-09-16T16:03:00.002+02:002011-09-16T16:14:07.007+02:00The Ties That Bind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksiWzsnJ3gPo5JHkYzCVExUxCBcJzJcQgRZ61ufalJjSFCmorD09RWJ4fruulPvtK5aqJ75k4OoEXX-oOoBJ402lgl1B3qzOWAaararAcb3uOKDc5fo0L61El4uqqI0D62NA3wqs6a60f/s1600/segolene_royal_et_francois_hollande_se_separent_reference.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksiWzsnJ3gPo5JHkYzCVExUxCBcJzJcQgRZ61ufalJjSFCmorD09RWJ4fruulPvtK5aqJ75k4OoEXX-oOoBJ402lgl1B3qzOWAaararAcb3uOKDc5fo0L61El4uqqI0D62NA3wqs6a60f/s200/segolene_royal_et_francois_hollande_se_separent_reference.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Imagine the scene:
A televised presidential debate between six male and female candidates
from the same party. But here’s
the hitch—two of the candidates lived together for 25 years and had four
children! Sounds like a
doofy plot for a situation comedy, right?
Well, no, that actually happened last night on French TV (read this <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/sep/13/french-socialist-party-love-triangle">article in The Guardian</a> for more). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">How do they do it?
How do François Hollande and Ségolène Royale manage to remain civil to
each other during a presidential debate when their very public split up a few
years ago is still in the minds of one and all? And here I thought French politics couldn’t get any weirder
after the president divorced his wife and married a pop star one year into his
mandate. Of course, this is all
private stuff and nowhere near as pertinent to the country’s future as the
current campaign financing scandals or the state of the French economy. Still, you can’t help but wonder what
is going through their minds during <a href="http://www.francetv.fr/2012/en-direct-sur-france-2-le-premier-debat-des-primaires-ps-4199">the taping</a>…</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">FRANÇOIS: Oh
God, there she goes again, always getting on her high horse. Reminds me of the time I left the roast
out overnight. You’d think I’d
betrayed the Republic. Ha, she’s
one to talk about betrayals…whose that creep she’s with now, anyway? Damn, she
looks good in that suit. OK, focus
now, gotta focus…</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">SÉGOLÈNE:
OK, keep a straight face…did he just say the word
”fidelity?” My ass! Hey, Fifi, it looks like we’ve gone off our
diet—isn’t that
collar just a little bit tight?
You never could keep away from the camembert. Time to run back to Dr.
Dukan, chubby….Woah there girl,
breathe—just breathe and flash that devastating smile….</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">And then there’s the kids—</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">THOMAS: So are
you going to watch mom and dad debate tonight?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">CLÉMENCE: Hell
no, I had to listen to that all my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It boggles the imagination…</span></div>
Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-42890625680528875742011-05-03T22:29:00.006+02:002011-05-04T23:22:54.751+02:00French Newspapers—The Space-Time Continuum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1oqsg4LeX9vXeinRvpM__eC85Mhtw0Hv_hcNlthII1cnaQndjj6AIgZBzxJsugZNIB7tiJ-H4v601njwPLrtsfD3yLUIs1gmYA3Y6fLGSNdEieSk1bu0NVtxo-gZAug24M5HU3N5X5Jb/s1600/Le-Monde-STF-Day-500.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1oqsg4LeX9vXeinRvpM__eC85Mhtw0Hv_hcNlthII1cnaQndjj6AIgZBzxJsugZNIB7tiJ-H4v601njwPLrtsfD3yLUIs1gmYA3Y6fLGSNdEieSk1bu0NVtxo-gZAug24M5HU3N5X5Jb/s200/Le-Monde-STF-Day-500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602593047686882866" border="0" /></a><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">When you buy a newspaper in France, you enter a time warp. The laws of physics no longer apply. If up-to-the-minute reporting is what you are after, you may be in for a surprise. <br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Say you want to buy<a href="http://www.lemonde.fr/"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Le Monde</i></a>, France’s most prominent national paper, on a Tuesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You go to the newsstand Tuesday morning, but the only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Le Monde</i> available is from Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That’s because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Le Monde</i> comes out at 3pm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So you wait until 3pm and buy the Tuesday paper, but the news in it is from yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, many of the articles on the front page are news analyses of events that happened earlier in the week.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But that was the easy part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When you look at the paper you bought on Tuesday afternoon, it is dated Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So in fact, you are reading a paper with news from the past that appears to come from the future.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It gets worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Let’s say you want to get the weekend edition, which has the magazine in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You waltz up to your local news vendor Saturday morning, full of optimism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But no, the weekend edition, i.e., the Saturday edition, came out Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now you have to wait until 3pm again (it’s still Saturday, remember) to get….the Monday edition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is no Sunday paper.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Feeling frustrated, not to mention jet lagged, I tried other papers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><a href="http://www.liberation.fr/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Libération</i></a> comes out on the morning of the day it’s supposed to be, but the articles have all the newsy urgency of a late night discussion over a bottle of wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><a href="http://www.francesoir.fr/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">France Soir</i></a>, despite its name, comes out in the morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t have the courage to try the <a href="http://www.lejdd.fr/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Journal du Dimanche</i></a>, for all I know, it comes out on Wednesday.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Which leaves me with <a href="http://www.leparisien.fr/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Le Parisien</i></a>, which is the Parisian equivalent of the <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">New York Daily News</i></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It comes out when it’s supposed to, is dated logically, and actually has the latest news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It may not be of the highest journalistic value, it may not have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Le Monde</i> caliber writers, but it gets high marks for living in the present.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Actually, the most newsy newspapers are the ones you get for free on the Métro, i.e., <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Métro</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">20 Minutes</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Which also seem to be the only newspapers that are thriving in this Great Newspaper Crisis era.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But to tell you the truth, I have pretty much given up on the French newspapers for up-to-the-minute events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For that, I either go to the Internet, or more frequently, the radio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That old-fashioned thing with the dials does a great job in France, where there are excellent stations like <a href="http://sites.radiofrance.fr/franceinter/accueil/">France Inter</a> and <a href="http://www.france-info.com/">France Info</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So let’s hear it for the radio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It doesn’t cost anything, it doesn’t need to be recycled, and you don’t have to put on your glasses to use it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-40405514294110197992011-02-02T22:09:00.003+01:002011-02-02T22:22:29.932+01:00On Crêpes and Groundhogs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAImUvmgG2sKRwPNWHpPsnvlKnkC3eERthE4jYSaP03LZIfgr7inYwmW3w9Q5wRFDm_7MRX1QlAX7UZfRMCW4EZxtSES134ag18zzIuJrnxZGBk7Gbs-Iy-O69WYmEUaExM6EHwonUvYlC/s1600/crepes+chandeleur.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAImUvmgG2sKRwPNWHpPsnvlKnkC3eERthE4jYSaP03LZIfgr7inYwmW3w9Q5wRFDm_7MRX1QlAX7UZfRMCW4EZxtSES134ag18zzIuJrnxZGBk7Gbs-Iy-O69WYmEUaExM6EHwonUvYlC/s200/crepes+chandeleur.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569204647154635810" border="0" /></a><br /><style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }a:link, span.MsoHyperlink { color: blue; text-decoration: underline; }a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed { color: purple; text-decoration: underline; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">Tonight I made crêpe batter for the very first time.<span style=""> </span>Up until this point, I have shirked all crêpe-making duties, pleading ignorance.<span style=""> </span>After all, my husband is much more qualified than I am.<span style=""> </span>He grew up in Nantes, which is in Brittany (the Crêpe Capital of the World), and I grew up in Southern California.<span style=""> </span>And while I feel very confident choosing a ripe avocado, when it comes to crêpes, I am daunted.<span style=""> </span>Because in France, everyone has his or her special crêpe batter.<span style=""> </span>Not that it’s all that hard to make, but everyone has a recipe that he or she has inherited from Tante Mimi, or Oncle Marcel, or, in our case, Mamie Georgette.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So it was with great trepidation that I embarked on my crêpe-making journey.<span style=""> </span>I’m delighted to report that so far, I have come out of it unscathed, aside from a lightly grated knuckle, a casualty of the lemon zesting process.<span style=""> </span>I say “so far” because we haven’t made them yet, and who knows what heinous crêpe making crime I will be accused of once the batter hits the pan.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Why am I making crêpes tonight, anyway?<span style=""> </span>Because it is Chandeleur, of course.<span style=""> </span>For reasons that are shrouded in the mists of time, February 2 is French National Crêpe Day.<span style=""> </span>According to Wikipedia, <a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chandeleur">Chandeleur</a> is basically <a href="http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/03245b.htm">Candelmas</a>, a Christian holiday that celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the temple.<span style=""> </span>The road from Jesus to crêpes is tortured, however:<span style=""> </span>Wikipedia puts forth a theory that Pope Gelasius I offered pilgrims crêpes when they came to celebrate the holiday in Rome.<span style=""> </span>This seems a bit of a stretch and I prefer to believe it is linked to an earlier Celtic holiday that had to do with the “end” of winter, though how anyone in their right mind could believe that February 2 is the end of winter is a mystery to me.<span style=""> </span>Then there’s another bit about bears coming out of their hibernation at this time, which was another subject of a pagan rite.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Which brings me to another fascinating and equally tortured link between this holiday and <a href="http://www.groundhog.org/">Punxsutawney Phil</a>.<span style=""> </span>It was only this evening that I realized Chandeleur was in fact, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Groundhog_Day">Groundhog Day</a>.<span style=""> </span>And if you look up explanations for Groundhog Day, you come up with the same Celtic festival, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imbolc">Imbolc</a>.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>So by all rights, Phil and his colleagues should not come out of their burrows and look for their shadow—they should eat a crêpe.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But to get back the batter.<span style=""> </span>It is Wednesday, and my husband doesn’t get home until 7:30, and it seems that the batter absolutely must rest for one hour before it goes into the pan.<span style=""> </span>God forbid we should use tired batter.<span style=""> </span>Hence, I must make the batter before he gets home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Right now the batter is resting and I must admit, I’m jealous.<span style=""> </span>It looks so calm and mellow that I’d like to jump in and swim around in it.<span style=""> </span>This was my day “off” (kids don’t go to school on Wednesdays in France) when I get to take my son to soccer, make lunch for him and his squirrely friend, clean the house, fold the laundry, and do the shopping.<span style=""> </span>But I am looking forward to our crêpes tonight.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps we will even throw one on top of the armoire, which my father-in-law insists is traditional, but then he’s Gascon, and they have a tradition of telling tall tales.<span style=""> </span>No other bona fide French person has ever confirmed the existence of this custom, so for all I know he is pulling my leg and chuckling about it with my mother-in-law. (“Can you believe it, Monique?<span style=""> </span>She believed me!”)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Either way, the crêpes will be tasty.<span style=""> </span>That much is sure.<span style=""> </span>I’m looking forward to it.<span style=""> </span>Really. <span style=""> </span></p>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5214933700691824314.post-18946858436182898742011-01-11T14:25:00.006+01:002011-01-11T14:42:42.620+01:00Parlons Cash<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUE7-kcuMqPb2JlimOQ6eJY1LpfhxUKCOFrOeon4_HX2dDc9ArPPmDW5t-Wh899Iddmrfzft0UNYLoM77vsBDOgWOhE453TA0WEK4HHYUwccCrbDRIfN0bPB4uZ5JAm1wM3vBvOPLyKK9/s1600/johnny-cash.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUE7-kcuMqPb2JlimOQ6eJY1LpfhxUKCOFrOeon4_HX2dDc9ArPPmDW5t-Wh899Iddmrfzft0UNYLoM77vsBDOgWOhE453TA0WEK4HHYUwccCrbDRIfN0bPB4uZ5JAm1wM3vBvOPLyKK9/s200/johnny-cash.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560921508412492722" border="0" /></a><br /><style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">Should I be worried?<span style=""> </span>My very French husband has recently become enthralled with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Cash">Johnny Cash</a>.<span style=""> </span>So far, he’s not dressing in black, but he is listening to the music all the time, staring off into space and looking soulful.<span style=""> </span>Mr. Cash’s work is virtually unknown in France, and no one even knew who he was until the excellent film, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walk_the_Line">Walk the Line</a>, came to Europe.<span style=""> </span>That’s how my husband heard about him.<span style=""> </span>Like me, he was surprised to find out that the actors actually sang on the soundtrack, and that they weren’t dubbed over with original recordings.<span style=""> </span>Good as they were, he wanted to hear the originals, so he ran to his computer and started downloading ballads like “Sam Hall” and “Damn Your Eyes.”<span style=""> </span>He likes that many of the songs tell simple, often sad stories about regular people; he says that in that way, Cash’s songs remind him of French singer-poets like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georges_Brassens">Georges Brassens</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">That made me think.<span style=""> </span>I wonder how many people have ever compared Johnny Cash with Georges Brassens, for one.<span style=""> </span>It also made me think about some of my own biases about country music.<span style=""> </span>Here was someone who didn’t know anything about the genre (virtually unheard of over here), or have any political/ideological associations with the music or the people who generally listen to it—he was just responding to what he was listening to.<span style=""> </span>My associations with Johnny Cash have to do with hazy memories of his old TV show, and cliché notions about the country music scene.<span style=""> </span>Then my husband downloaded a few songs from Cash’s last albums, like “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o22eIJDtKho">Hurt</a>,” and “When the Man Comes Around,” which pretty much blew me away.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s surprising how much you can learn about your own country by living somewhere else, or by seeing it through someone else’s eyes.<span style=""> </span>It’s like seeing a painting from a distance, where you don’t obsess so much about the details but take in the overall composition, the gestalt of the thing. <span style=""> </span>Gets the hairy cobwebs out of one’s eyes.<span style=""> </span>Of course, what you see isn’t always so great.<span style=""> </span>But occasionally it’s a lot better than you thought it was.<span style=""> </span>I guess I shouldn’t worry too much about the Johnny Cash obsession, even if my son and I are getting tired of hearing endless re-runs of “Ring of Fire.”<span style=""> </span>Maybe its time to try Willie Nelson?</p>Margie Rynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426445779633185752noreply@blogger.com4