Minuit à Paris

Paris is a magical city--yesterday, today, and toujours (too-joor: always), but especially yesterday.  I honestly figured  before moving here that I'd be spending my evenings rubbing elbows with Edith Piaf and F. Scott Fitzgerald--pre-fame--while we sipped absinthe and dined on escargot (s-kar-go: snails) before making a minuit (min-wee: midnight) stroll along the Seine.  

 So, you can imagine my utter shock at finding out that these famous chanteuses (shan-toos: female singers) and écrivains (ek-ree-von: writers) of the days of yore have long since died, leaving in their wake over priced croissants and watered down cocktails at the uber-touristy Latin Quarter joints.  Like the protagonist in Woody Allen's adorable newest film, I too wish for a older, more down-home and grungy Paris filled with the intellectual elite.  However, unlike Woody Allen's character, I would never be invited into the inner-circle of these geniuses.  I lack a certain je ne sais quoi (juh nuh say qwa: I don't know what)--or, you know, talent.

Unfortunately I still haven't stumbled across the magical time portal that brings me to the Paris of my choosing, but luckily there's still something magical about roaming the streets of Paris in the throes of nightfall even in the year 2011, imagining where it was that the people who made this city famous once puked their drunken guts out, passed-out, or simply engaged in other debauchery.  When the city is dark and the streets are more or less empty, it's easier to imagine this cultural capital in its heyday--whether that be la belle époque (lah bell ep-ok) or when Hemingway was practicing his alcoholism here.

 Sure, I may not be making history here like the many celebrities who have claimed Paris as their stomping ground, but it's enough for me to know that I've had the privilege of soaking up the leftovers.  Plus, David Sedaris (one of my personal favorite authors) lives here, and that means Paris must be in the process of a whole new age: that of the sassy, humorist writer with a penchant for being a lovable asshole. 

La famille

Sundays in France for the most part piss me off, not only because it means I have work the next day but also because most stores in France are closed, including many restaurants.  However, there is one Sunday ritual in France that I can't help but call mignon (mihn-yohn:cute) : that of the family Sunday stroll in le parc (luh pahr-k: the park).

The French tend to be very traditional as a culture, and the tradition I see them holding the most dear is that of la famille (lah fam-ee: the family).  Not only do old world child rearing standards hold firm in France (that of spanking children, corporal punishment in the classroom, and openly demeaning children on the street for spilling their ice cream), but the idea that family should stay close and spend lots of time ensemble (on-semb-luh: together) still has deep roots among the French.  This isn't to say that the French family is without it's obligatory dysfunction.  Oh non, au contraire (no, oh kon-trer: on the contrary):  French families are every bit as dysfunctional as the American ones, but at least in France they keep their fighting and backstabbing together under one roof or in a public park, where it belongs.

Sundays seem to be the day when the French famille puts their art of togetherness to the test.  It's the day when not only does the family hangout together during the afternoon in the park, but the entire extended family will often get together for a lunch or dinner.  And since it's still quite common for the college age Frenchie to live at home until some poor sap agrees to marry him, getting together for a meal isn't all too hard to do.  In a large country like the US, where families sometimes live a thousand miles apart from each other and getting the family together for some quality time usually just means sitting around the t.v. and watching American Idol while waiting for the pizza delivery guy, I have to say, it's refreshing seeing the families of France make a more concerted effort to stick together and openly argue about Dominique Strauss-Kahn and immigration while strolling along le Sein (luh sen: the famous river that runs through the middle of Paris), especially when this family includes a petit chien (puh-tee she-ehn: little dog) available for my patting pleasure.