Raw, Naked Courage

I frequently pass by a small artist studio on the Rue de Bievre in the 5th arrondissement. Lately a sign has been hanging in the window asking for nude models. As an experience junkie, I think this is certainly something I should try. First of all, I am in Paris, one of the world's great art centers; secondly, I am not particularly modest (I've done way too much theater with backstage quick-changes); thirdly, I seriously enjoy shocking my husband and mother, which gets more and more difficult to do since this is a known personality quirk of mine. Still, despite limited modesty or shame, I admit it does sound a bit embarrassing to stand there in my starkers while somebody eyes me critically for a drawing. So it takes me a few days to work up my courage to call the artist, both because I'm volunteering to be painted/drawn nude and also because I will have to have a conversation in French, over the phone, about a subject matter I've never tackled before.

I need not have worried, as the only question he asks me is "How old are you?" and when I tell him 44, he simply replies, "My models are younger," and that's that. So my short-lived career as an artist's nude model ends as it starts, fully clothed in my apartment.

I'm wondering if I should argue the point with the artist, since I think I am in better shape now than I ever was 20 years ago. (For all I know, he's aiming for something Rubenesque, and I'm too fit.) In the end, I just tell him I understand and hang up. "Standing Female Nude, 1910" by Pablo Picasso and "Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2" by Marcel Duchamp show me why it might be important sometimes to have a young, nubile model.

 

 

The Problem As I See It

There are actually two problems, as I see it, with Midnight Mass. The first is that it's at midnight. And the second is that it's a mass. Other than that, it sounds highly appealing to me, so I meet up with my gymnastics-mom friend Mei and her friend, and her friend's friend, to try to go to midnight mass at Notre Dame.

We are not, as you can imagine, the only ones with this idea. So the other problem with the mass is that even before the mass, it's just a mass (of people). We get there around 10:45, and the line is already very, very long with many armed police and temporary barricades. We hear the singing while waiting outside, as they project the service outside on a screen that is, of course, mass-ive. I am told by my Catholic friends that first comes the singing, then the mass will be about an hour, starting at midnight.

 

I am clearly in it only for the cultural aspect of the music, so once I realize that if I wait to get inside for the actual mass, I won't even get home till 1 or 1:30am, I cheerfully wave goodbye near the end of the singing, jump out of line, and go home to finish prepping for Christmas itself -- and there's a lot to prep since my sister's family is arriving on Christmas day (our very best present this year!). So I do not actually get inside Notre Dame with the masses. But, on the positive side, at least this year my hair doesn't get incinerated.  

 

 

The Scarlet Letter: A is for American

It used to be that the French could identify who was American by the sneakers (generally white) and blue jeans (generally scruffy). Now, of course, this uniform is de rigeur for hipsters worldwide, including here in France. Not just hipsters, but basically anybody under a certain age -- and even a large chunk of the population over a certain age -- can be seen toodling around Paris in jeans. And while there are fewer sneakers here than in the US, you still see plenty of them around. Admittedly, they are not usually stark white ones; as in the US, Converse sneakers rule.

 

 

So what marks us as American now? I don't mean American society as a whole -- the obesity, the multi-racial melting pot, the high percentage of shirts that scream "GAP"?

I mean as individuals. How do the Europeans identify us walking through their streets? Well, there are some small telltale signs: Baseball caps certainly say something, and a jacket tied around the waist says it just a little bit louder.

But the two things that I have heard from many French people that really mark us as Americans -- the scarlet letter A if you will -- is walking around holding a to-go cup of coffee, and having North American movie star teeth.

Here he is, the typical American (and my brother-in-law) with his coffee to-go.

I met somebody who had worked on a movie production shooting in a small village in Italy; he was told to go down to the café and get a cup of coffee for the star who, I am 99% sure I'm remembering correctly, was Tom Hanks. The owner said no, the coffee needed to be consumed in the café. When the assistant said Mr. Hanks was too busy, the owner looked baffled, "Who doesn't have time for a cup of coffee? How much time does it take?!" It's true that you almost never see people walking the streets of Paris with the telltale white to-go cup and, on the super-rare occasion that you do, you can bet they're American. And you can bet it's Starbucks -- about the only take-out coffee you can buy.

I see these women on the subway platform and think, "A-ha! I've been proved wrong! The French are drinking their coffee to go!" But then I hear them speak. The two with the white Starbucks cups in their hands are, indeed, American. Their non-coffee-toting friend on the bench is the French one.

Another give-away, I am told, is our movie star teeth. Our North American movie star teeth (yes, Canadians share our teeth, but not literally, because that would be both logistically difficult and quite gross). On a recent visit to the Musée Quai Branley, an older woman comments to Pippa, "You must be 7!" When Pippa asks how she knows, the woman points to all those missing teeth. She basically looks like a Jack-o-Lantern.

Then she turns to Gigi and says, "You must be older! Just look at all your teeth!" And Gigi and Pippa respond, in perfect French. So when she turns to me, and I jokingly smile big to show her my teeth, she really can't know we're American, yet still she comments, "And look at how perfectly aligned your Mommy's teeth are! Where are you from?"

She makes sure to point out that in the last 20 years, plenty of French people also have worn braces, but since I wore my first braces over 30 years ago (and the second round about 10 years ago), that still puts me at an age where my teeth are so American, they might as well be colored in stars and stripes.


 

Thumpety Thump Thump

Thumpety thump thump, Thumpety thump thump, Pippa's on her way. Between our 18th century, Haussmanian parquet floors, and Pippa's natural, shall we say, exuberance, we are woken up nearly every morning by her stampeding down the hallway like an elephant. During the day, every available floor space is used -- and used frequently -- for gymnastics practice, dance parties, rock-concert-decibel-level singing, and any other manner of activity best not conducted inside an apartment.

Given the unfathomable tragedy in Connecticut this week, I am not at all bothered by our precious seven-year old's constant thumping. But our neighbors downstairs might be. If it makes our downstairs neighbor feel any better, our upstairs neighbor occasionally likes to vacuum at 2am.


  

Quaint It Ain't

My friend recently posted on Facebook about pre-Christmas tradition in her area of Southern France, Tarare. On December 8th, homes around her region are lit up with candles on windowsills and balconies. Then families walk around at night to view their neighbors' homes, see street performances, and share some hot mulled wine. She and her kids lit 67 candles around their house. I bet you're thinking all of France is like that, and all our holiday customs here in Paris are so old-world, so charming, so authentic.

So. Let me take you on the school field trip I help chaperone to the mairie (City Hall) of the 5th arrondissement. As we approach the building, there is a small, temporary forest of Christmas trees, each decorated with foil bows. There's no nod to secularization, no Menorah, no religion-free and generic "Happy Holidays" written as a greeting. So far, so quaint.

Then we go inside for the show, held in a huge reception room with its combination of mid-19th century and also 1930s art deco grand chandaliers, murals, mouldings, columns, wrought-iron balconies, and parquet floors. So evocative of eras gone by.

The lights dim, and the music comes up. We are blasted with the pop rock sock "All Star" by Smash Mouth. As the only native English-speaking adult in the room, I am probably the only one able to mouth along with the lyrics "Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me, I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb, In the shape of an 'L' on her forehead." Lovely holiday sentiment indeed.

The show itself shatters my preconceived notions of a city-hall holiday spectacle. A colorfully-clad woman gets up on stage and takes a minute to set up the premise that there is a genie locked in a box who is afraid of the dark. She booms into the micorphone, "And the only way to help him is to sing songs from Walt Disney." She then cheerleads, "Do you know your Disney?! Can you help?"

And, as advertised, the show is -- 100% -- about quizzing the children on their knowledge of Disney movies, characters, and songs. Children are brought up on stage and asked in which movie can be found "Hakuna Matata" (the Lion King), or to repeat and identify the source of "supercalifragilistic-expialidocious" (Mary Poppins), or to name the Seven Dwarfs from Snow White. Oddly, she quizzes them on a song from Anastasia, yet never once mentions the Little Mermaid.

Well, at least I learn something. Namely, that the dwarfs are called in French: Atchoum (Sneezy)  Grincheux (Grumpy), Dormeur (Sleepy), Timide (Bashful), Joyeux (Happy), Simplet (Dopey), and Prof (Doc, evidently having changed professions). Then she says something to the boy I don't catch, and the little boy adds, "Calixte". At first I think the French have an 8th Seven Dwarf I don't know about, but it turns out she has asked the boy for his own name. Still, he is very, very small.

Even in English, Pippa knows very few of these references, and she certainly doesn't know them in French. But she, and all the kids, enjoy screaming answers back to the stage and, of course, in the spirit of all field trips, avoiding any real school work. I am a bit baffled, though, and turn to one of the teachers to ask, "Was this sponsered by Disney, by any chance?" She laughs, as if I've made a good joke, but my question is sincerely meant. I'm not sure I would expect this kind of crass commercialism even in the US, except (naturally) at Disneyland itself. Or the mall.

And so, as the lights come back up in the audience, I leave you with this heartfelt holiday wish, as we are sung out of the mairie, again by Smash Mouth: "Hey now you're an All Star get your game on, go play. Hey now you're a Rock Star get the show on get paid. And all that glitters is gold. Only shooting stars break the mold."


 

Happy St. Kevin's Day

I volunteer in Pippa's class for a Thanksgiving Day presentation, complete with art supplies so the kids can make handprint turkeys. One of the girls tells her mom, my friend Béatrice, that they learned about St. Kevin's Day at school. Béatrice keeps (jokingly) wishing me a Happy St. Kevin's Day, which at first I think may be a real holiday, since every day, literally, is a Saint day in France.

 

(The little red guy underneath Pippa's hand turkey is saying "Help! You're eating my friend. Which is a turkey!!" And this is our carniverous child.)

 

In fact, we can't celebrate Thanksgiving on the real day, November 22, because there is a special mass and celebration for Catherine, the school's patron saint. By the same token, Saturday Nov 24th is out, because the school holds their annual parents' dinner in her honor.

 

It turns out that while each day is devoted to saint something or other -- be it Clémence, Séverin, or François-Xavier -- "Kevin" (which the French consider the ultimate stereotype of an American  name) is just not one of them. When I finally ask Béatrice why she keeps wishing me a Happy St. Kevin's Day, she explains that's what her 7-year old daughter hears during my classroom presentation:

 

     Thanksgiving =

     Sank-givin =

     Saint-Kevin

 

And if you say that all with a French accent --  because it's hard for the French to say "th" -- you will see that it actually does sound a lot alike. It makes perfect sense!

 

On Friday night, sandwiched between real Thanksgiving and the school parent supper, we are invited for a Thanksgiving with an international crowd at the home of some American friends. It's a classic dinner except for two things: in order to fit the whole turkeys in the oven, they had to go all Mark Bittman and remove the bones before roasting. And there is channah masalah at the table, though that last is actually due to another American guest, of Indian origin.

 

 

 

But we need to host our own Thanksgiving so that we can a) invite our friends Béatrice, H-O and kids, and b) have leftovers. Turkey Day, the Sequel, turns out to be this weekend. We can't fit a whole turkey in our oven, either, and we're not about to spatchcock it (Bittman's method). But turkey leg-thigh sections and breast-roasts are surprisingly easy to find at the Monoprix, so I just roast my turkey in pieces. Thanks to all the foreigners around, the Monoprix even sells cranberries during the holiday season. And sweet potatoes are everywhere, despite the fact that I don't actually know any French people who buy, cook, eat, or like sweet potatoes. 

 

 

Our menu: turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet-potato souffle, cranberry-orange sauce, brussel sprouts, sausage-apricot stuffing, and apple crumble for dessert. Because I don't like pumpkin pie.

 

This is the first Thanksgiving for our friends and their five (yes five) kids. It is the second for us this year alone. But it's our first-ever St. Kevin's Day. May St. Kevin, the patron saint of cranberry sauce and gravy, watch over you and your turkeys.

 

 

 

High on the Hog

The Ubisoft corporate Christmas party for children is better than a day at Disneyland. Of course, if you know what I think of Disneyland Paris, that's not actually saying much, so maybe I should specify that it's much better than a day at Disneyland Paris and just as good as a day at Disneyland Anaheim. Having gone two years in a row now, I can tell you it's not a fluke; these people know how to throw a killer kids' party. I wonder if any other companies out there have anything this amazing?! I like the kids' party so much, I'm not even too disappointed that, as a spouse, I'm not invited to the grown-up party (which I know after having inadvertantly crashed last year's).

This year's kids' party is held at the Musée des Arts Forains. Forain means itinerant or peddlar, and it's basically a museum dedicated to the old-timey carnival. It's open during holidays to the public and with reservations at other times. How come I have never heard of it? The advance reservations make it less practical, and it's located out-of-center, by Bercy, but I'm still shocked it's not on lists of great things to do with kids in Paris. It is one of the most magical places for children that I've seen!

 

While the Christmas lights make it feel especially other-worldly feeling, I think the really special part of this place is how it brings you back in time. There's a carousel and, even cooler, a people-powered bike carousel that I've decided to name the "bikousel". Other than making me a wee bit woozy, it is actually quite fun and very, very fast.

 

 

 

There are slower pleasures, like the swinging boats and the pettable owl being walked around.

 

Of course there are treats, like waffles, crêpes, cotton candy, and patisseries. And our girls never met an arts-and-crafts table they didn't like.

Our favorite activity might just be the old-fashioned carnival games, throwing beanbags to knock down figures, that sort of thing. The one pictured here strikes me as both very old-fashioned and très français: we roll a little ball up and depending on which color slot it drops into, our waiter advances zero, one, two, or three steps, balancing his glasses of wine on his tray. Gigi and I each win once. It's harder -- and more addictive -- than it looks. We just about close down the party playing round after round.

 

 

Santa brings them each one present early, when he drops by the Ubisoft party, and this year he does exceptionally well. Full roller blade kits, complete with helmets, pads, and a tote bag so cool the girls like it almost as much as the skates.  

 

  

Indeed, we feel like the girls -- and we -- are really living high on the hog. Right up until the moment when the guy comes by with the "Ne Pas Monter, Merci" ("Don't Climb on This, Thank You") sign.

 

 

Paris, a Book Report

Even though the girls are reading "chapter books" now, there's still room for breaking out a picture books for a quick bedtime story. They've heard it a million times, and it's really too "babyish" for them, but the girls still love to hear Madeline. What's the draw? Well, it's the drawings. The pictures mean so much more to them now. The words on each page take about two seconds, but we analyze each illustration. Have we been there? Have we seen that angle? How does it look different today?

We can play the same game with Eloise in Paris, and Téa Stilton: Mystère à Paris (Thea Stilton and the Mystery in Paris, but we have the French version), and any other illustrated books set here.

Drawing vs. Photograph, Fact vs. Fiction, Then vs. Now: I can come up with the following guide without even having to break out my camera, because all of these are photos already in my existing files:

Notre Dame (Madeline):

Jardin de Luxembourg (Madeline):

Les Invalides (Madeline):

Sacré Coeur (Madeline):

Pont Alexandre III (Eloise in Paris):

Arc de Triomphe (Eloise in Paris):

On the subject, my friend Sue sent me this T-shirt which is both à propos and très chic. It's Madeline at the Arc de Triomphe.

Tour Montparnasse (never heard anybody call it the Tour Maine-Montparnasse, whether that's its official name or not, from Téa Stilton: Mystère à Paris):

Le Grand Escalier (the Great Staircase) at l'Opéra (Téa Stilton: Mystère à Paris):

And, of course, each book has its own views of the Eiffel Tower, such as this one with fireworks and balcony view (Eloise in Paris):

Eiffel Tower as seen from across the Seine, at night (Téa Stilton: Mystère à Paris)

Eiffel Tower (Madeline):

And finally, one that little to do with Paris, but a lot to do with book illustrations and their real-life counterparts: While we are living here, Pippa makes that huge jump in reading level where she can start to read "real" books. Her first effort (age 6, last Christmas) is to read a book of her namesake: Pippi's Extraordinary Ordinary Day. In honor of finishing her first book, I re-create the feast from it and, yes, am dorky enough to insist on staging the photo to match the Michael Chesworth illustration, too.