Remembering Paris

It’s time for the journey to end, the photos to be uploaded, and the next chapter of the book to be written. Both London and Paris treated us well (and the south of France simply divine) but I expect that it’s Paris I will most dream about on my plane flight home. And long after we are back and settled in San Francisco, I expect Parisian nostalgic sounds, scenes and scents to continually haunt us, reminding us of the romantic interlude we had from our regular frenzied lives.

Like anyone infatuated, I can easily overlook the city’s faults. Paris isn’t the cleanest city (I managed to step, slip and slide on unmarked dog poop on several occasions). Nor are the convoluted streets easy to navigate (we got lost in side alleys about three times a day). However, it still maintains a unique charm that inspires one to revert back to a naive girl, prance softly, and fall in love with life.

LOVING LIFE AND LIVING WELL—LESSONS FROM PARIS
Ah yes, Paris is vibrant, it’s real, and it’s inspiring. The city made us think about our culture, our actions and taught us a few lessons to bring home.

FIND VICE
I suppose others may not find the smell of fresh baked baguette intermingled with smoky cigarettes appealing, but I feel I may slightly miss it in uber pristine San Francisco. Surrounded by super jocks and vegan eaters, I will miss the slim smokers and fois gras advocates that believe vice is the spice of life. After all, don’t the French live quite long after their diet of Bordeaux and Philip Morris? And they certainly don’t believe in a low carb plan. (a baguette under the arm is a fashion statement). And naturally all Frenchmen scoffed when I asked them about their exercise routine. In their eyes we are crazed overachievers that are only happy when we are outdoing someone else. Now, I will never stop running, but my competitive streak now resembles that of a sleepy French bulldog.. The only time you will see me pushing a sub 8 will be to race to the nearest bakery.

FIND ROMANCE

Paris also has am amazing ability to salvage your belief in romance. Past broken hearts can make us girls callous and cynical. We become overly independent, playing both feminine and masculine roles as if to prove a point that we don’t need anyone else. We rush through personal interactions, whether friendly or intimate and focus on masking our own insecurities. Luckily for us four girls, Paris has started to help us peel off those hard layers and make us much more in tune with life around us. For how can one stay cynical while watching lovers kiss in the street? (Never mind that half of the smitten people we saw were likely with their mistress). And even if not in love, people greet each other on every occasion with smiling Bonjours and Bonsoirs and Bisous and sound actually interested to the answer of "How are you?” Elderly gentlemen call us mademoiselle, and nice men across the bar send us wine….and er…small plates of sausage (nothing says ‘I love you’ like a pile of fatty pork!). Whether it’s receiving a kiss on the cheek or free piece of meat, you feel as if you had entered the land of possibility and are once again who you used to be; feminine and optimistic. In fact we even started to allow doors to be opened for us…

DON SCARVES
The French dress well. Full stop. In addition to building height restrictions, I feel Paris has also put a dress code on the city. Women run around in simple yet elegant dress combos while the men walk confidently in their suits and scarves. Conversely and sadly, most American men seem to think anything that isn’t wrinkled or denim must imply they are gay. “Why, if I wore those form fitting trousers and purple shirt, everyone would think I was a homosexual,” an American man once said to me on a shopping trip. However, I wonder if this notion isn’t really a lack of confidence. No French man feels uncomfortable in pastel regardless of sexual orientation. I would like to persuade all straight American men reading this that if the objective is to ‘not look gay’ and attract more women, scarves and lavender shirts will get you much further than ripped Levi’s and an untucked polo. For my gay friends—you already know you get enough action—pastel works!

STAY FUN, BUT NOT SMASHED?
French women, in addition to looking impeccably put together when they leave the house, also stay impeccably put together into the wee hours of the night. “French women”, one male friend explained to us, “do not really drink much. They don’t allow themselves lose composure and appear wild or coarse. French women are delicate.” Right. My mind immediately flashed back to a prior night where all of us American gals lost more than a little composure on mojitos and may or may not have made space in a crowded bar to do crazed lambada moves. We grinded with each other, with nearby strangers, and perhaps even with a few intimate objects. (I actually think one of us dry humped someone’s briefcase).
With a slight cringe I also recall that no one else in the bar was dancing that night. Right. Now I also do not think these delicate French girls came close to being as fun as us. After all, nothing gets the party started like us Americans. However, I do think pacing alcohol is a thing we may have forgotten how to do. Perhaps one should draw the line at dancing with someone’s work satchel? Then again, that was the highlight of the evening.

SPEAK SOFTLY
We also noticed that the French, and practically all other nationalities, speak much softer than we do. Now, on this trip I had been using the International Accent™ (uncanny and unintentional ability to imitate anyone who speaks to me) and thus had softened my voice to an overly articulate UK version. However even with this modification I still feared my voice carried much further across dining rooms that it should.

“We find the American accent hard to understand,” said one Frenchie. “Americans just speak abrasively.” This last comment was made by an older Australian couple. Now this does seem a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, but instead of becoming defensive us more feminine girls decided to pay closer attention. Sadly, out heightened sensitivity made us notice volume offenders everywhere.

CASE STUDY:
Monica and I entered the infamous Bar Heming way at the Ritz for a ‘last night in Paris’ martini (it may also be my ‘last martini in Paris ever’ as the sticker price on those things relieved my wallet of a day’s wage). No sooner did we step foot into the quiet bookshelf lined bar when we heard a loud Texan shout to his American counterparts at the next table. But he wasn’t shouting in his mind. He was having a normal (aka LOUD) conversation bragging about how he had the city of Paris under his thumb. He went on to detail out his fine dinners and luxurious spa services. Since I couldn’t hear Monica across the table over his voice and have our own conversation, I debated crawling under the table, martini in hand, in horror. This man’s wagging tongue supported why every European despises American tourists. He will be my first student in the International Accent™ soft speaking course for loud Americans. As for me, volume control remains a work in process-I have given the girls free range to kick me if they hear me sounding too ‘American’ in public settings.


All in all Paris is a treasure and an inspiration. We hope to bring back bits of it home and plot out our next adventure. Many of our stories have not been documented on this blog- “What happens in Paris, stays in Paris,” but further details of the trip and our delicate female psyches will be found in the aforementioned novel I am diligently working on (in-between glasses of wine that is). Due to multiple wine and cheese breaks, it may a while before its published, but Europe has taught me to have patience. At least I have material--our little month abroad gave me enough the entire thing! : )

Paris--and then we were four

Paris-the city of love, lights, and life. Last time I was here I frolicked about in a lightweight dress and made my meals from iced Pastisse drinks. Now I am bundled up in Parisian scarves eating hot cheese and drinking hot chocolate (although not together) in order to stay warm.


Trent, the fourth, has arrived to join the journey and join us, the “three trenchcoats” for afternoon city jaunts, late dinners, and even later conversations. Like us, she is completely enamored with Paris.

Paris is a city like no other for its ability to inspire, confuse, and make one fall in love. The very air here makes one susceptible to feel l’amour, even if there is no one in particular to feel it for other than a pain au chocolat. I actually worry that one of us will swoon over a particularly flakey croissant and become so smitten that she won’t be able to leave the pastry shop for the planned tour of the day.

The day tours so far have consisted of modern art museums, funky boutiques, neighborhood brasseries, and the occasional crepe stand. It has never been my intent to write a guidebook (and it would bore the average tourist as all I would write about would be cheese and macaroon shops), but I will provide a tiny taste of a few neighborhoods we seem to frequent the most.

Montmartre: The site of the Moulin Rouge, Amelie Poulain’s kiss, and the infamous steps up to Sacré-Cœur for an unparalleled view of the city. The steps up to Sacré-Cœur were flooded with tourists and locals and multiple guitarists and bracelet makers trying to make a quick buck (or Euro which is today’s sad exchange rate equals $1.50). After walking up the steps we found a multitude of shops, one in which Valerie found a Parisian vintage necklace too perfect to let the exchange rate get her down. Afterall, we are trying to look the part of French ladies (even though our loud American voice usually give us away).

St Germain des Pres: The site of our humble home, zillions of sidewalk cafes (yes Parisians sit outside to drink even when it’s minus freezing out), and tiny tempting shops. I adore the French (and European) propensity to have a little shop particular for one thing. The Fromagerie for cheese. The Boulangerie for bread, and the Epicerie for small cans of pickles and jams. The quaintness makes one want to grocery shop all day long. And I would if St Germain des Pres didn’t have all these tiny restaurants to check out. Our neighborhood has been scene of many 3 hour long dinners fueled with wine and laughter. I am positive that our loud banter, very un-politically correct jokes, and repeat of amusing French words wherever possible (derriere) are offensive to our polite French neighbors but what can we do? We are from the west and even if we resemble cowboys in a tea shop, at least we are having a blast.

The Marais: The Marais offers eclectic charm, the up and coming designer shops, and the Picasso and Pompidou modern art museums. After a unexpected long visit at the Pompidou (for some reason modern art grabs me much more than the “yawn” pastoral paintings of more classical artists) we set off to think profound thoughts before entering amazing boutiques with visual merchandising that must have borrowed the Pompidou’s curator. Sadly no one can afford anything—we have spent all our money on pastries.


Enough of a taste for now—it’s almost time for the aperitif! More to come in Paris, Part Deux….

Ladies of leisure

While at the British Library in London, I picked up a small book on the art of leisure by Robert Louis Stevenson. The famed author makes the point about how most Americans (and some Englishmen) are missing out on the core of life by focusing all their energies to achieving wealth or status for a future end goal. Little time is left to do absolutely nothing and enjoy the moment you are in.

Valerie, Monica, and I all decided that we would never be of that American class that Mr. Stevenson describes. In fact, we were heading to a country cottage in southern France to do exactly what he would want—absolutely nothing. For it is only when we have nothing to achieve that we really enjoy life.


What does nothing look like? A sampling of life the land of leisure.


DRIVING: A car is to get from point A to point B. Nothing more, nothing less. Gone are the German make fancy cars. We ladies are touring in an Opel Wagon and couldn’t love it more. The Opel may or may not have been stuck going around the same roundabout a few times while we try to navigate the country roads—but no matter. We are not in a hurry.

EATING:Eating is really the main mission of every day. When you have time on your hands the only stress you may encounter is not tasting every type of cheese and sausage from the region collected at the local markets.

This, ahem, means we are eating about 2-3 ‘market boards’ daily IN ADDITION to our main meals. We may pack on the lbs while staying here, but in our leisure state of mind, we don’t really care. As my granny says, ‘get fat and sassy!’ Granny, you know best--Bring on the sausicsson!


DRINKING: Cheese and meat trays cannot be eaten dry (or sober for that matter). It is imperative that one has the proper beverage to go with it and perhaps make you tipsy enough so that you forget you are eating encased lard. Although an American may watch us and be motivated to take us to AA, the southern French mind finds it perfectly acceptable to get drunk 2-3 times a day. There is the mid day rosé during lunch. Once sober again from our afternoon ‘leisure activities’ we move on to the ‘before dinner’ aperitif. We cook tipsy and finally enjoy the ‘during dinner‘ red wine while we eat the fruits of our labor. And lastly, we enjoy the very important ‘after dinner’ digestif. The digestif actually doesn’t help you digest anything—it just makes you pass out.

OTHER ACTIVITIES: While we are not passed out drunk or trying out another stinky cheese we amuse ourselves with other leisurely activities. I write, naturally, although most of my writing in La Broulie has to do with sausage wrappings and the mournful cows out in the neighboring field. Monica takes delight in taking the Opel out to go in roundabouts. Valerie has taken on the new sport of fly hunting (she keeps a swatter attached to her waist at all times). We nap. We read. We listen to eclectic French music and take photos of ourselves looking profound.
And we cook slow roasting-time consuming dishes that only the leisurely can do.

We are drunk, we are fat, and we are absolutement très content. We leave for Paris tomorrow afternoon, but since we are in the land of leisure, that seems like a lifetime away.

Being 'edgy' on the east side--Images from Shoreditch

Inspired by punk eclectic, curry houses, and graffiti walls we left the comfortable upscale neighborhoods for a bit of a different scene. Although we collected quite a bit of writing material, photos, instead of my prose, captures the spirit of the neighborhood best.

Modern Feminist Femininity

I am wearing purple plaid in Chelsea, attempting to look (and thus be) artistic. The girls are off hitting the Designer outlet shops while I, attempting discipline, seat myself at Bluebird café on King Street, with my macbook out ready for prolific prose and whimsical wit. I fear that my novel is starting to turn into a mythological creature and thus am motivated to reinvigorate its life with mad typing.

Monica and Valerie, two character studies for my book, have given me much insight into varying depths of feminism and femininity. As self created women, we realize we typically fall on the brazen end of the spectrum.

Yesterday we saw the Tate Modern’s “Pop Life” exhibit, full of Andy Warhol soup cans, Keith Haring’s dancing stick figures, and Jeff Koon’s 18+ room. We didn’t have to enter the 18+ room, but the curious bold women that we were couldn’t let it pass in favor of a more subdued Matisse downstairs. The room was definitely not for the faint hearted; it was filled with life size images of the artist’s private parts to “create powerful communication.”

After such a er...large…spectacle we felt that we ought to wash our hands and do something distinguished and proper, such as have high tea with the wealthy at Claridges. At the desirable time of 4 o’clock we rushed into the 5 star hotel lobby barely pausing for the front gates to be opened for us, and approached the hostess. “I’m sorry, she said, eyeing our assertiveness disapprovingly, “unless you are a guest at the hotel you’ll have to book out one to two months in advance.”

Two months in advance for colored water and small cakes? We got a bit puffy chested; booking a full set dinner at The French Laundry was easier! But instead of arguing, we fought against our rising testosterone and walked ladylike out of the hotel. In fact, we even waited for the doormen to open the doors for us.

However, do not think acting as ladies made us meek and tealess. We quickly made a new tea plan, opting for a recently written up modern tea bar, Sketch. Apparently a place called ‘Sketch’ was all us porn watching assertive gals could get into. Sketch, however, was a pleasant surprise. It was trendy and delicious; better than a snooty old ambience. And if the tea cakes and sour jams weren’t noteworthy enough, the bathrooms were. Each toilet was a separate porta potty enclosed in a giant white egg. Once you closed the door you listened to german language learning tapes. A DJ spun outside.

After spending too much time in Sketch’s toilets, we felt we should once again try for a classier British place. We headed toward the cocktail bar at the Ritz. The doorman (aka security guards) however wouldn’t let us in. Monica was wearing jeans. I am typically a huge fan of dress codes for they establish a sense of class and fashion. I am not a fan, however, when it applies to my group of friends and implies that we have no class. As if on cue, Monica started to unbutton her pants and asked if she would be let in if he took off her jeans under her (Burberry) trench coat. The doorman security didn’t find it amusing. We turned around, tails between jeaned legs, and decided to go back the next day in couture. But in the meantime we needed to save the evening. We went to a martini bar at Duke’s hotel where Ian Fleming wrote James Bond and apparently coined the phrase “shaken not stirred.” The white coated staff was beyond courteous and wonderfully charming. We let them remove our coats, treat us to appetizers, and make us martinis tableside with boutique gin and freshly grated lemons. We felt like proper Bond girls. Bond girls, after all, maintain a perfect balance of the feminine and feminist.

I see London, I see France.....

Since the past entry on whitechameleon, written well over six months ago, my friends, family, and I have capitalized on life in a way that only self proclaimed San Franciscans can: Day trips to Napa, weekends in Tahoe, and city evenings sipping wine in-between bursts of laughter at slightly offensive jokes.

However, despite the fun there was still something pulling at me. I was yearning for another escape. I coveted time to think, inspiration to write, and freedom from capitalist puritan mores.

My girlfriends, Monica, Valerie, and Trent felt similarly. Although they didn't need designated writing time, they all wanted to flee material yuppiedom, romantic ambiguity, and walk down carefree down old world cobblestone streets to enjoy nothing but the present tense.

Naturally we found ourselves in Europe.

LONDON

The first part of the journey would focus on the city of literary genius. Marks of Oscar Wilde, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Virginia Woolf were all over London.

Indeed, it was hard not to be motivated to put pen to paper. Unfortunately (or fortunately) there were also many other distractions. Quaint shops, fragrant bakeries, and cozy pubs all vied for out our attention (and share of pocketbook).

And trying to navigate the tube system made one much more thirsty for a beer than a novel. Our first tube journey put us in exactly the opposite corner of London we aspired to be at. Needless to say multiple beers and cider (and highly caloric pub pies) were necessary to commiserate the experience.

Also distracting me from writing was the adorable English accent that permeated the city. I just wanted to sit still and listen to the London voice and its uncanny ability to make commonplace words sound extremely educated. In comparison, I found my own accent ignorant and stupid and have a very hard time not imitating anyone who speaks to me. Not more than 2 hours into the vacation, Monica put me on strict accent probation. Hmmppff. Personally I think I sound much better English and do not understand why my friends insist I speak American.

Valerie, although diligently keeping her Midwest way of speaking and cursing, has embraced London dress. She has decided to wear leggings, a rain hat, and tall boots every day and looks decidedly chic. Given the never ending rain, I am about abandon my Californian attire soon. Wet jeans, stringy hair, and soggy shoes are very unattractive...especially when paired with my now unrecognizable accent.

We stayed up 36 hour yesterday to bite any jetlag in the ‘you know what’…but now are well rested and off for a day of small street walking, high tea at Claridges, and naturally multiple pub stops. After all, wants a sober vacation? Or a non alcoholic writer? ; )

Stay tuned as our adventures are truly just about to start.....