The Sweet Life

Life, especially as an American, is full of sweet, and the French are quick to point this out, pointing out that this is the reason for our obesity problem and cheesy romantic comedies.  American food, for example, is full of sugar, even when you least expect it.  For some reason this really hit home when I came back to California last Tuesday for a Christmas visit.  After surviving the past three months on a diet of French bread, cheese, and McDo's french fries, I noticed how sickeningly sweet American restaurant food is.  Though this hasn't stopped me from eating sweet potato casserole and shortbread cookies by the boat load.

And then, there's the less literal "sweet".  Like the sweet smell of flowers as you're picked-up by a dearly loved one at the airport.  Topped off by the priceless expressions on the faces of my friends and family when I knocked on their doors last week to wish them a surprise Christmas visit.  Or the sweet look on my niece's face when, while opening Christmas presents, she discovered the joys of tissue paper.  And the endless sweet memories of spending Christmas with your family when no one breaks out in a fight, punches each other, or declares that they're writing someone out of their will.  And to top it all off with the sweet sugarplum dreams I'm able to have cuddled up in bed with three dogs and a cat. 

Even though I miss Paris and the snow,sipping sweet and spicy mulled wine on the couch during this inevitable hangover of a week between Christmas and New Year's in Calfironia, I'm also very sad to leave.  Luckily, I have London waiting right around the corner.  French life may be la belle life, but in America, I've got the sweet life.  Usually, this sweet life is an overly-confectioned fake high-fructose corn syrup version, but sometimes Americans get the ingredients just right and, if we're very lucky, even a family photo.

La Vielle de Noël

'Twas the vielle de Noël in Paris
And all through the city
The streets were all purring
like a blue ribbon kitty.
The Citroëns were all parked in the street without care,
In the hopes that, thanks to Christmas, there would be no ticketing fare.


Karl Langerfeld was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of riches and black gloves danced in his head.
Le Pen in his kerchief,
And Sarkozy with his night cap;
All of France had settled down for a long winter's nap.


When out on the patio there arose such a clatter
I sprang to my window to shout “vas te faire foutre, bastard!”
I threw on my knee-highs and tied up my écharpe
stepping out in the sludge
in time to see an old Frenchman barf.


The city lights on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of Frenchness to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature drunkard and eight tiny cans of bière.


Being young and sober, I was more lively and quick
and was able to outwit the man as he tried to give me a kick.
More rapid than the métro his entreaties they came
And he whistled and shouted, and called each cent by name:


“Give a sous, a centime, a pound, a penny!
Give a dollar, a euro, a peso and plenty!
Fill the top of my cup! Fill the top of my bowl!
And merci, merci, merci to you all!"

When thinking of sapins de Noël and Givenchy couture,

Most think of Christmas in Paris as a time filled with allure.

But this man sat as a reminder in the cold;

That there are some Parisian realities that are still left untold.

He was dressed all in down, from his head to his chest,
And his clothes were all tarnished, though he tried to look his best.
A bundle of belongings he had flown on his back;
He was a God-honest peddler just opening his sack.


His eyes were a bit cloudy,
His hair was all greasy,
His cheeks were all rosy,
His nose was all hairy.
His droll little mouth slurred all his words,
But all the same he seemed to have made friends with the birds.


The stump of a Gitane he held tight in his teeth,
So much smoke coming from it that he could hardly breath.
His chapped, naked hands clutched tightly to his portable telly.
Hanging out from his pants. I could see the bottom of his beer belly.


He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf
I almost laughed when I saw him in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me reason to worry, so quickly I fled.


We exchanged not a word, but his image stuck with me.
Sentiments toward French gouvernement filled my head: have some pity!
As I made my way back, he lay a hand on his tummy,
So I gave in good cheer a couple euros of money.


I sprang back down the road as he gave me a whistle
And I ran up the stairs to leave you with this epistle:
To all those rich or poor and down on their luck,
A Joyeux Noël to you all, and may you partake in roast duck!

Moi parle jolie un jour...

I now know what it feels like to be in the presence of a god. Last Tuesday, after spending five hours teaching third-graders how to say words like “cut” and “tape” in English, I made my long-awaited pilgrimage to the David Sedaris reading at the Village Voice bookshop in Paris for his latest work, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.

David Sedaris is one of those freaks of nature who can write about something as mundane as say, sitting through an introduction to French language class, and make it into a humorous memoir about masochism. Which is exactly what he did in Me Talk Pretty One Day, his collection of personal essays which, in part, detail his transition into life in France in ways that I can completely relate to. Well, except for the whole gay man who owns his own apartment in Paris and spends his time hanging out with his celebrity sister and watching black and white films part. But at least his struggle with the French language part....I can definitely identify with that, which means he and I are meant to be great friends, bien sûr (bee-en sir: of course).

Unfortunately I'd only had three hours sommeil (so-may: sleep) the night before the reading, so when he showed up and started hilariously giving anecdotes from his diary I got none of those cold-sweat, celebrity-fervor feelings I expected upon meeting one of my most inspirational life models. In fact, all I really felt was an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. Sacrilege!

Like a champ, though, and anyone else with relentless, unquestioning devotion to a deity, I waited in line for two-and-a-half hours to get a five minute one-on-one conversation with the man, in the hopes that his hilarity and fabulosity would somehow rub-off on me. Listening to all the other atrocious American-accented ex-pats in line (mostly NYU students, the fuckers) talk about how much they loved Sedaris, I couldn't help but roll my eyes because, clearly, I love the man more...but enduring that sleep deprived hell while standing in line in my new high-heeled ankle boots was definitely worth the pain...I received inspired advice from Sedaris himself that I should open up my own hotel in Santa Cruz, because Santa Cruz doesn't have any good hotels. Which, I have to say, I totally agree. David Sedaris: I'm on it. I'm considering this new entrepreneurial venture a life quest demanded personally by God.

David Sedaris doesn't like getting his picture taken, so the blurry one you see above is all I got, but the memories I have of him telling a joke about giving Willie Nelson a blow-job are treasures I'll hold with me for a lifetime. And I'm sure that, any day now, I'll talk pretty one day just like Sedaris. Because clearly this man holds magical powers of awesomeness that he felt I also deserved, right?

O, Champs-Elysées!

In my opinion, there's no better time to visit the Champs-Elysées (sham-pz ell-ee-zay: literally translated as heavenly fields )--the famous Parisian shopping district--than in December. The bare chestnut trees lined up along the avenue are decorated in twinkle-lights, all the magasins (ma-guh-zon: shops) have a little bit of Christmas cheer on display in their windows, and then of course there's the marché de Noël (marsh-ay duh no-ell: Christmas market) where, if you're brave enough to charge your way through crowds of tourists and Christmas shoppers, is full of knick-knacks, sure, but most importantly mulled wine, crêpes au chocolat (kre-p oh shok-oh-la: pancakes filled with chocolate) and gauffres (go-fruh: waffles) which for some reason in France are 100 times better than waffles in the US.

Unfortunately, if you don't like crowds, Champs-Elysées is not for you, during December or any other time of year. I have no idea why, but the Champs is chartered holy ground on the Parisian landscape and so native Parisians and camera-wielding sightseers alike make stiletto-clad pilgrimages here in the thousands every day of the week, as ironically the Champs is also the only street in France that seems to have stores open on les dimanches (lay dee-mansh: Sundays).

I don't think it's the Arc de Triumph (ark duh tree-umf) that opens up the entry of the Champs or La Grande Roue (lah grahn-d roo: a huge ferris wheel in Paris) on the other end--which for some reason never seems to be moving when I see it--that attracts so many here. No, I think it's really, honestly the shopping. Even though the street has become über-commercialized and lost it's former unique French-ness that made it what it was, everything a shopper wants is here: H&M, Nike, Sephora, not to mention some of the priciest but also most delicious (à la Ladurée) cafés in all of Paris.

Ok, sure, these stores exist on every corner on Earth and a good pastry isn't really that hard to find, especially when you're willing to spend $50 on it, but how many malls do you know of that also have chestnut trees?! And twinkle lights?! And a big cement arc?! It's unique, I tell you!

If you don't believe me, the entire Champs-Elsyées experience has even been immortalized into a song by France's beloved French-American folksy singer Joe Dassin in his delightful « Aux Champs-Elysées » (oh cham-pz ell-ee-zay), an ode to this much beloved stick-straight avenue in the heart of Paris. In case you don't know the lyrics, I can sum it up just so:

« While singing along the avenue Champs-Elysées, I feel like saying hello to perfect strangers. I just want to talk, doesn't matter what about, just to have a good time. Champs-Elysées is perfect in sun, rain, at noon or midnight; everything you're looking for is found here... »

Then in more typical French fashion, silly Joe Dassin goes on to point out how he started singing and dancing with some new-found amis (ah-mee: friends) in middle of the sidewalk, but I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea: nobody will be singing or dancing when you come. This is Paris, after all. I mean, I'll give Joe the benefit of the doubt: he was famous back in the '70s, so I'm sure one of his many acid trips turned into a musical ensemble in front Cartier, but things have changed a bit since then. Still, the point is that Champs, while crowded, still holds the heart of most people who come here. And there's a music video to prove it: