Afternoon Delight with 'Sex' and Dorie

...not at the same time, mind you, although these photos may lead one to imagine that Pierre is showing off something other than his tattoos.

For someone who has too much work, I was a marvel of doing very little yesterday. There were good intentions and several hours of morning labor before the derailment of a boozy lunch at the wine bar Racines.

No matter. Time spent with cookbook authors David Lebovitz and Dorie Greenspan would sort of qualifiy as work if it weren't also so pleasurable. It's not often that I get to raise a glass with such slim-hipped foodie heavyweights and bask in the Rolland Garros-esque batting around of names. "When does Mark (Bittman) sleep?" and "Patricia (Wells) says so...," etc. In the moments when I wasn't exactly sure which Ruth (Reichl?) was being considered, I was more than happy to keep company with a towering tartare.

The food at Racines is lovely (more photos here), and almost as nice as the wine, which is nearly as compelling as the proprietor himself.

I caught myself staring too long at Pierre Jancou's plate-stacked arm and rhapsodizing about the way his tattoos were set off against a background of colorful floor tiles. Ahem...

The only consolation for such behavior is watching all the other customers - journalists from the nearby HQs, young girls, moustachioed middle agers - also trying to conceal their crush. I suppose that's what good food & wine does.

When we finally left it was 4pm, three hours before my next date. Not really enough time to go home and work, a bit too long for cafe squatting. I was pondering my options when I walked past the Rex and saw people lining up for Sex.

I'm not really the sort of girl who wants to watch in a group and then go out for Cosmos afterward. I frankly don't have the footwear to pull that off.

But I was curious and so plunged myself into the theater for some... "Jesus... is this in FRENCH?!"

It's true - I have now seen the dubbed! french! version of Sex in the City. And if the reviews are to be believed, I may have made the right choice.

A half-remembered snippet:

Smith: [looking down at his bulging groin] "J'ai un cadeau pour toi, ma chèrie."

Samantha: "J'ai quelque chose pour toi, aussi."

Believe it or not, this sort of dialogue actually feels profound when you have struggled to translate it.

After the movie, I made my way across town to say goodbye to two friends who are leaving Paris. I fear for their sanity, returning as they are to a land devoid of three hour lunches, where one is forced (!) to watch Sex in the stark original version.

Let's all wish them luck, shall we?

The 24-hour Wedding

At 9am on Saturday I was delivering breakfast pastries for a bride too nervous to eat.

24 hours later, I was returning in a cab after sharing a post-party beer in broad daylight (8am) with two old friends and Inaki Aizpitarte.

This being my first French wedding, I can only assume that they are all like this.

The marriage of Petite Anglaise and her Boy, in between those two early morning bookends, was a completely joyful affair.

Friends from both sides of the English Channel gathered for a ceremony at the town hall, champagne, a sweet lunch at Vin Chai Moi, more champagne, more food, rowdy dancing, and still more champagne.

What I'll never forget:

• The radiance and endless grinning of the bride and groom
• Le Maire, after performing his duties, admitting that he recognized Cath and asking for a photo with the couple
  
• Seeing the groom's mother shaking her booty to Blur's "Girls & Boys"
• Watching French girls throwing up discretely in the garden before returning to the party looking elegant as ever
  

A few photos are here. Thanks for a great party!

Mucho Macho

Paris is a cultural capital for many, many reasons. An abundance of karaoke parlors is not one of them. And so it is with great anxiety that I announce the following:

I may no longer be welcome at L'Echanteur.

The city's best (only?) karaoke is in the basement of a dive bar in the Marais. Its management and clientele are "hetero friendly," but it helps to be accompanied by one of the Stars of Gayraoke.

One such Star was supposed to meet us at the bar last Saturday night. I arrived just after midnight with two boys and my new travel editor at the Wall Street Journal.

(Was that vulgar?)

Anyway, this distinguished visiting editor needed little encouragement, putting her Snoop Dogg slip in straight away. My inspiration came more slowly, but when it did I scribbled my song choice and found myself on the stage only moments later.

And that's when things began to turn ugly.

A "normal" karaoke night would find me taking to a stage much later, after several watery beers and having already witnessed other people's shame. On this particular night there was no posse to shield me from the unknown members of the audience. There was no former session singer at my side to do the backup. I was nearly - gasp! - sober.

But none of that would have mattered had I chosen the right song -

...had I NOT chosen to sing Macho Man

...in a gay bar

...without really knowing the words.

Who knew there were words? Besides the chorus, I mean. They're actually (don't laugh), kind of hard. Which is why I found myself staring out at the horrified audience and mumbling "body... body... body? It's so hot my body? body... body.. check it out."

The editor, in an ill-considered moment of great compassion, rushed to the stage and began to gyrate in circles around me and, I think, to pantomime the macho man's chest hair.

"...check it out, my body."

That went on for far too long, the opening verse, but I was just SURE that when the chorus came we would all throw our heads back and our arms in the air and unite as macho men together.

It was dead quiet as Nikki and I, the two white girls in the gay bar, threw our heads back and began to scream the chorus.

.....

And then the song went on another three or four minutes.

.....

The DJ, who has seen me perform many challenging numbers in the past, actually said, "Goodbye Meg" instead of "thank you" at the end of the song.

And that's when I dropped and shattered my glass.

.....

Nikki never got a chance to perform that night, her name seemingly blacklisted by association.

A shame, really, because I would have killed to watch her Drop It Like It's Hot. I had a clear image in mind of my employer rapping "I'm a bad boy, with a lotta hos," as I booty danced behind her. "SnooooooooOOOOOOP!"

Because I have no video of my disasterous performance, I offer instead this treasure from Brazil - two 22 year-old boys dancing Macho in their living room. The long-hair is my new summer crush and the spiritual twin of this guy. Where was HE when I needed him at L'Echanteur?

Wine, Wimmin' & Song

This weekend is the annual fête des vendanges in Montmartre, and I'll be making the rounds in the "village" of wine and regional products.

Coming from the States and a protestant background, there's something really great about being able to booze from wine stand to wine stand at the foot of a giant church.

For those interested in checking out the festival, which includes a parade, fireworks, and hundreds of music, literary, and even gastronomical events dedicated to the singer George Brassens, the official festival web page is here, and my Gridskipper article about it is here.

Coming Soon

..a real live blog post, I promise!

But until then, here's a Gridskipper post about all the Paris concerts that are happening through December.

November in particular is absurdly full. It's really almost too much. I remember complaining upon arrival that the Paris indie music scene was dead, and now I'm deciding between Cat Power, the Shins, Beirut/Andrew Bird, I'm From Barcelona, the National, Hot Hot Heat and about 15 other bands.

In any case, there's a whole lot of hoopla on that post, including video for my favorite bands playing in October, plus a Google calendar and a radio player that lets you listen to all the picks who are playing before January.

And I promise to write a real something soon. Just as soon as I finish my next Gridskipper article, which is tentatively titled "Famed Vagina Now Open in Paris."

Can anyone guess what show that is about?

Calenderlicious

Pssssst....

I've started a new feature at Gridskipper to track the local music finery.

Being slightly compulsive, I also added video links for all the upcoming bands and built a radio player to let you listen to everything.

Go and have a look, hey?

Paris Through Take-Away Eyes

One of the reasons I've been neglecting you, my dear readers, is that I've started pimping Paris for the travel website Gridskipper.

Today's post exalts the Blogothèque and their series of Take-Away Shows. Click on over to watch some great videos that capture the Shins, the Hidden Cameras, Arcade Fire, Guillemots, Andrew Bird, I'm From Barcelona, and Alamo Race Track playing songs against a backdrop of the city.

And then head over to la Flèche d'Or on Monday night (July 30) for the premiere of Soirées à Emporter. The Blogothèque's latest venture is a series of concerts that bring indie darlings to play with eachother and from positions within the audience.

Zach Condon, who reportedly just bought an apartment near Gambetta, is the big draw for this first one. The freakishly talented near-teenager from Beirut will be playing with Sidi Ali and his favorite-ever Macedonian marching band. David Ivar from Herman Düne will also be there to delight, along with Jeremy Warmsley and Inlets.

It's free and will undoubtedly fill up, so my advice is to get there on the early.

Free Love

After months of living well beyond my means, the arrival of summer festival season means I can breathe easy through September. Each year at this time, the city of Paris turns slutty and starts to give her milk away for free. These are some of the ways in which I'll be loving her:

Paris Quartier d'été

There's a price tag for some of these theater, dance, music, and circus events, but also plenty for free in this festival that runs through August 5. Mahmoud Ahmed, the most famous living Ethopian musician, will be playing tonight for free at 19h in the Jardin d'Eole. The open-air film series feature several picks like The Van (Stephen Frears) on July 20, and Fish & Chips (Damien O'Donnell) on July 27. A bonanza of Australian cinema will be on offer July 28 in the Parc André Citroën. Mainstream and experimental films will show between 22h and 6h, with a free Australian breakfast served in the morning.

Cinéma en Plein Air

Last night the annual festival opened with a screening of Gosford Park. The lineup is filled with plenty of other decent English titles, like The Magnificent Ambersons, My Beautiful Laundrette, Tess, All About Eve, The Philadelphia Story, Sweet Sixteen, and Million Dollar Baby. The films roll at nightfall, generally between 21h30 and 22h, every Tuesday through Sunday until August 26. Entry to the lawn is free and chairs can be rented for €6.50.

Festival Sous La Plage

The coming weekend (July 21-22) brings the second installment of this boutique electronic music festival. The brand-new Jardins d'Eole, newly landscaped to look like early pubescence, will host two days of concerts, DJ sets, expos, and installations. The festival will then reappear on September 2 with eight hours of concerts and projections in the Parc André Citroën.

Cinéma au Clair de Lune

This festival finds our friends in city government projecting free films in large format on the side of old buildings. The 2007 program will be held in 14 different locations around Paris. Highlights include an old-school version of Moulin Rouge (Zsa Zsa!) shown on Saint-Eustache, and Godard's A Bout de Souffle in the Jardin des Champs-Elysées. Films are shown at 21h30 between August 1-19.

Paris Plages

The goofy urban beach concept came to life again last weekend, so the banks of the Seine will soon be swollen with sunbathers. The exciting news for 2007 is the addition of a third site at Bassin de la Villette. The new location in the 19th will offer kayaking, paddleboating, an outdoor dancefloor, and the usual mess of deck chairs.

Le Festival Fnac Indétendances

This free outdoor series begins this weekend, courtesy of the mammoth music store Fnac. In association with Paris Plages, concerts will be held every Friday and Saturday through August 18 between 17h-22h. Highlights for 2007 include Bertrand Belin on July 20, Hey Hey My My on August 4, and Adanowsky on August 17.

Not Your Grandmomma's Blogmeet

The Paris Bloggers' Picnic was a resounding success because:

1. Daniel Rose promised to buy me a hot dog stand
2. I made out with King Negrito (pictured here)

Something tells me that neither will remember...

Other picnic highlights include:

• Guarding the bushes as Petite peed no fewer than fifteen times
• Watching Katia and Rhino perform Xanadu (captured on FwaB TV here)
• Getting locked in the park after we ignored the guardian's whistle
• Watching Amy make a near-donut of herself while attempting to scale the gates
  
• Painting the sidewalk outside my apartment with a mélange of Pimm's Cup and Pringles

Police estimate that around 70 bloggers turned out for Saturday's picnic. Organizers put this number closer to five hundred.

Five hundred bloggers means that at least the same number of posts and no fewer than forty thousand photos will be circulating before Wednesday.

Thanks to everyone who came!

photo mosaic swiped from the Rhino
top photo poached from the Bear

In the Butt(es) with the Paris Bloggers

Your hosts Meg, Rhino, Frog & Petite

As previously warned, the peaceful idyll of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont will be gravely interrupted on Saturday.

Check back here for the post-picnic wrap-up, in which I will answer some burning questions:

• are all blogs crap?
• did Meg roll in any dog poo?
• did Petite have sex in the bushes?

More than 100 bloggers and their hangers on are planning to turn out. If you're going to be in Paris, and are narcissist-friendly, please join us. The picnic website is here.

Petite has whipped up a little t-shirt competition, and you can vote for the following picnic slogans:

• I don't read your fucking blog
• But enough about you...
• Shag me first, Google me later
• Will this picnic improve my stats?
• (front) I'm a little bit famous (back) Overall visits: 47
• Your link here
• I don't fuck with my shrink because he reads my blog
• Kiss my bloggin' ass
• Paris Bloggers Take it in the Butt(es)

Bloggers in Paradise

Do you blog? Do you pretend to tolerate somebody who does? Do we look like the kind of people you'd like to spend some quality time with?

If so, and if you're planning to be in Paris on Saturday June 9, drop on by the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont for the Paris Bloggers' Picnic. Your hosts Meg (that's me!), Rhino, Frog with a Blog, and Petite Anglaise will be doing log-rolls down the hill from 2pm onward. Details are here, along with an email address for signing yerselves up.

Expect to see hair pulling and possible pond-dunking as Petite gets progressively drunker and takes revenge for Meg's come-from-behind WIN in the Third Annual Satin Pajama Awards.

No?

You're probably better advised to vote for her in the Best European Blog Overall category, where she is currently bitch-slapping me with more than 65% of the vote.

However I would gladly accept your electronic love in any of these other blog categories:

• Best Expatriate - in which I am being mounted from behind
• Best Writing - in which I am being Twatted (again)
• Best Personal - in which I am being trounced

The fancy vote tabulator on the polling site is doing wonders for my productivity:

11:32 am - 2% of the vote

11:34 am - 2% of the vote

11:36 am - 3% of the vote - yesssss!!!

...see you at the picnic.

Les Folies Vaginales

A barking need for attention is easily mistaken for dramatic flair.

And so last night I was asked for the 100th time in recent memory, "have you spent any time in the theater?"

The answer is no. Apart from weekly classes in amateur improv, I have never sullied a stage.

I do, on the other hand, love to put on a show. And for my birthday last week I went a bit overboard.

I searched high and settled low in selecting the motif. I wanted a theme that people could get into.

And while my dream of turning the entry hall into a giant Slip N' Slide did not come true, les Folies Vaginales afforded an impressive array of absurdity.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time in preparing this - feathering the apartment, slitting dates and stuffing them with marscapone, making labia garnish out of strawberries... all of the usual things that one does.

I sampled cocktail recipes while making my costume (above) and built a playlist of very nasty songs.

But nothing that I did (and I did a lot) could compare with what came out of the guests.

In the category of dress, the biggest surprise came from a pair of (gasp!) french boys. They donned homemade t-shirts labeled grandes and petites levres, and wore necklaces strung with bic razors.

Girls in every labial hue were monitored carefully by a British gynecologist. And there were more fur accents in that apartment than on a Croatian nudie beach.

But the audience participation was not limited to costume.

Some brought vaginal artwork. Others made labial folds out of ham. Music and videos, boxes of all shapes and sizes, pervy chocolates and candies, the list goes on and on...

But the best form of participation is always dance. And people got down for the vagina. There was blouse-popping, booty shaking action under the nightie light.

Take this Dan kid at left: a soft-spoken intellectual type by day. Get a couple of kir vaginales in him and he's suddenly spinning Nardac like a top.

At the end of the night, following much drunken singing, someone made a musical vagina out of a vaccuum tube. You'll have to click here to see what I mean.

Something about the evening seemed to have put people in the mood. At least six (however temporary) couples were formed, and that's not even counting Steve and his friends here. I myself retired alone and happy around 6:30 am.

A vulvatic thank you to everyone who came. You made me a very happy birthday girl, indeed.

Supermooch

As a downwardly mobile refugee from double income, I've been trying lately to improve my financial outlook.

Being disinclined toward sugardaddies, I've instead found a way to cut expenses. I have become, in the fullest sense of the word, a mooch.

Various dictionaries define a mooch as someone who "wanders aimlessly," "begs," "sponges," and "accepts gifts and favors."

I think that about covers it.

What's surprising to me (and baffling to my friends) is how well this has been working. I decided several months ago to try, just for the hell of it, requesting some free passes for exhibitions and music events. I was doing a calender for Expatica and couldn't afford to see everything I was writing about.

I'll never forget my surprise the first time someone said yes to me, and then how nervous I became at the prospect of approaching the ticket window. "Is it sur la liste?...or dans la liste?...or is list masculine??"

Eventually I got over it and got inspired to try for more. I started writing for Parisist and eventually editing their Events section. This is where began in earnest to build my kingdom of mooch. I started working with the editors and some fine staff writers to develop the FSS (free shit strategy). We banged out a request letter in two languages and I set about to begging.

Hundreds of emails have since gone out to clubs, promoters, labels, and the bands themselves. The result is that we have passes to a whole slate of concerts over the next few months.

There have been some let-downs (Clap Your Hands did not Say Yeah) and we're still waiting to hear about some big ones (Arcade Fire and the Shins), but overall it's been working surprisingly well.

All of this is good for Parisist, but more importantly it's great for me. I've been out having fun desipite a startling lack of funds.

Last night I had 2 passes for the sold-out Decemberists show (review here), and even scored a pre-concert dinner from Catherine. Not a bad deal, I say.

All this mooching can be exhausting. I turned down Guillemots tickets on Monday (reviewed by Alex here) and Rufus Wainwright tickets on Tuesday (reviewed by Lauren here). Tonight is another freebie, however, and Monday will bring a Tobias Fröberg show and interview (my first).

Holy crap!

Perhaps I can develop a whole series of indie rock interviews that incorporate my expertise in reproductive health...

The Vagina Dialogues, perhaps?

Climb Every Mountain

Last night a crack team of operatives set out for reconnaissance around Châtelet. We had a list of 5 karaoke establishments and no idea if any of them were good. "At the end of this night," I promised, "we will be the Karaoke Experts of Paris."

Our first address was showing a football game. The second had transformed into a Japanese restaurant. The third was now Lebanese. The fourth had simply given up, and the fifth required an hour wait before its opening.

We settled in at a lesbian bar to wait for karaoke and the arrival of a support squadron. Second lieutentant Samantha had promised to bring in some "professionals." When they arrived, we mounted our attack upon the joint across the street.

L'Annexe revealed itself to be a sad little basement with a 12 euro cover charge. As Rhino observed, karaoke in Paris is considerably more elusive than a club échangiste.

Crushed, we retreated from the karaoke battlefield and set out on foot for a party near the Canal. We pillaged along the way, unleashing our pent up musical energies upon the sleeping residents of the Marais. After working our way through several not-so-golden oldies, we made a big finish with this bit of artistry from the Sound of Music:



As the Reverend Mother from that blessed musical once said to Maria, "Whenever God closes a door, he somewhere opens a window." Last night's mission was not a defeat. If we hadn't been turned away from FIVE supposed karaoke establishments, the Roaming Club Karaoke (RoCK!) would never have been born.

*Note: the videos featuring my voice and facial distortions will remain carefully guarded. But the many others featuring Rhino and Christina are available for free and upon request.

Lost (Happy New Year)

I spent the better part of yesterday on the sofa watching Lost.

I've never before been the serial type, but was grateful - upon rousing myself from the hangover bed - to find my roommate's DVD collection.

Television is such powerful escapism. I'd forgotten about it during my six weeks of squatting. It's even more effective than, say, drinking one's own body weight in champagne and pretending to be a libertine.

Another New Year's Eve, another attempt to wipe clean the temporal lobe slate. This wasn't the first year that I'd drank too much on NYE, but it was the first time I'd done so alone. Alright, okay, so I was hardly alone. But I wasn't in the bosom of my long-time friends, and it had me feeling a bit maudlin.

I looked around the party and couldn't ignore what was missing: Loretta dancing in a giant pajama sack...Roshen passing out the lyric sheets...Friese tossing his wig under a canopy of paper foliage...Jennifer not knowing when to stop with the jello shots...

What? That was me?

And, of course, Jayson. In their place were some strangers who were doing a miserable job of already knowing me. Several hours after midnight, with the party nowhere near dying down, I grabbed my coat and fled to the Pont des Arts.

I stood for some time staring blankly at the city, waiting for an epiphany to bubble up from the Seine. In its place came a text message from Yorkshire, reading:

"I'm in a bar with lots of rough people with non-ironic mullets..." followed by some unrepeatable instructions on lightening the hell up.

In lieu of further revelation, I went back to the party. And I had, against all odds, a very good time.

Reinvention seems to be a little easier on Lost. A plane crash strands them on a tropical island and these characters can be whoever they want to be. The criminal becomes a do-gooder. The wounded cripple is suddenly a hero.

So what exactly am I supposed to be? Your suggestions, particularly if accompanied by costume ideas, would be appreciated.

And seriously, are there really polar bears on that island?

Happy New Year.

Vaginas and vernissages

Everyone has one true specialty in life. Mine is the vagina.

Measuring the number of vaginas in Europe and the relative health and happiness of their owners – this is what I do for a living. I went to grad school in "vagina." I have been known to make vulva-themed food for parties. I sing a song from time to time called Cooter Boogie.

In the States, this was a big hit. So imagine my surprise upon learning that such frivolity is not appreciated in France! It doesn't matter that I've mastered the new vocabulary and translated the Boogie's (many) lyrics. Talking crotch at a French dinner party is a definite non-non.

The French, as I have deduced from 26 months of careful observation, prefer to talk about "culture." Sigh...

Because I cannot beat them, I have decided to join them. I shall cleanse my filthy mouth and learn to pepper my speech with words like vernissage - which almost sounds gynecological.

You may be wondering how exactly I plan to pull this off. In fact, dear reader, it's quite easy. You need only a child-like sense of curiosity, access to the internet, and abundant coffee. A total lack of shame helps, too.

Just last week, for example, I attended two concerts, five expos, one play, a lit-mag launch, an I V Y event, and a Parisist gathering. I chatted up a sculptor, a comp lit dude, even an actors' boyfriend. Distracted by their own plastic cups, they barely noticed as I spun my web of inanity and pried the info from their arty little brains.

For your benefit, I should add.

In addition to the aforementioned mission (being a better dinner guest), I will soon be transmitting my findings via Expatica, a website for anglophone expats in France. They've asked me to compile their What's On calendar of events - covering music, exhibitions, theater & dance, and festivals. My first submission will be up next Monday, November 13.

To effectuate my transformation into Hack of All Trades, I welcome your suggestions. There may come a time when my knowledge of classical music exceeds that of the cervix. Until that day arrives, I could use a Henry Higgins or ten.

Video art with an egg yolk chaser

Which Dallas character do you see when you look at this installation by Sheena Macrae? And what does that say about you?

Le Meg has posted again on Parisist, this time about the MAC/VAL and its restaurant in Vitry-sur-Seine.

Have a look-see and wonder aloud, "who's that Kansas girl think that she is?"

The milk for free

Le Meg is now giving it away at Parisist, a collective Paris blog in both English and French.

Check it out for "Actus, évènements, bars, restaurants, happenings, rendez-vous, chroniques et mauvaise foi: Paris par les parisiens, pour tout le monde."

Today's post: The Rock Menagerie.

Have a look at some upcoming shows, and feel free to make flattering comments about me on their site.

Les anglophones sont arrivés!

Party Place

I always love a good party, but the Place des Fêtes seems an unlikely setting for celebration.

One hundred & twenty-five years ago it hosted a bloody battle between the communards and the Versaillese. More recently, Place des Fêtes was the bleak backdrop for a stabbing in Paris je t’aime.

On Sunday mornings, however, red is joined by a host of other colors in Place des Fêtes. Hundreds of vendors and shoppers transform this architecturally-blighted corner of the 19th into a party worthy of its name.

When to go: The market also runs Tuesday and Friday mornings from 7:00-14:30, but go Sunday (7:00-15:00) for the real action. Arrive early for shorter lines and fresher pastry. Stay late for the best seafood deals in town.

What to buy: In October, buy mushrooms. A spore-only stand sells cépes on the cheap, along with girolles, lactaires and trompettes de mort. Apples and pears shine now, along with strange and seasonal stars like kaki (persimmon) and coing (quince). The cheese shop across from the Fun Guy is our choice. Check here for the best autumn cheeses. Finally, no trip to Place des Fêtes would be complete without a stop at the fish stand. In the last hour of business, all the food is divvied onto wax paper squares and accompanied by a song: “Red tuna, calamari - four euros! It’s crazy!!” And it is crazy, selling seafood for four under five.

Maintain a healthy blood sugar by snacking on accras de morue from the Caribbean stand or the spicy cheese Lebanese flatbreads. Shop around for the best prices on pain au chocolat, but don't blame Le Meg if you eat all five for two euros.

What’s around: Start your morning with coffee or brunch at La Pelouse, a revamped café at 86 rue Botzaris. After the market, stop in at Le Vin de Ma Vigne, a wine shop at 25 rue Fêtes. A guy doing his best Louis Armstrong voice on the grand piano will entertain while the owner prescribes an accompaniment for your sauce de girolles.

Before heading home to cook, take a nap or a pony ride in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. It's just a stroll away down the rue de Crimée and the leaves there are currently on fire.

For a list of other outdoor markets in Paris, click here.

Bon weekend

A blanket of grey will soon be drawn across our Parisian sky, but the coming (and aptly named) Sunday promises to be gorgeous.

Locals are advised to profiter in one of the city's parks, like the Buttes Chaumont in the 19th. This photo was taken last weekend, but such golden days are sadly numbered.

If lying around in green grass isn't your thing, you have plenty of other options for the weekend:

Words

Lire en Fête is happening this weekend, with 4,000 literary events across the country. In Paris you'll find everything from a Proust lecture to an all-night poetry slam. There's a literary brunch in the morning and a cabaret at night.

Sounds

Pere Ubu is playing on Friday at the Nouveau Casino. Taking their name from a french play, Pere Ubu formed in the year of my birth in Cleveland, Ohio. Others call them proto-punk, they call themselves "Avant Garage." See them for 18 euros at 109 rue Oberkampf. For some Aprés Avant Garage rage, the P'tit Garage is just around the corner at 63, Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. Bartenders pour cheap drinks while spinning the sweet sounds of garage nostalgie.

Bubamara looks like good fun on Sunday - a franco-balkan trio playing "tzigano-klezmer" for free at Cannibale: 93 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud in the 11th, Métro Couronnes. They play early at 18h, but you might stay for dinner because the food's not bad chez Cannibale. And they have options for our visiting vegetarians.

Sweet pop on Monday from the over-stuffed mouths of the Magic Numbers. The first self-titled album from this UK foursome was a bit too saccharine for my taste, but "Forever Lost" sure was catchy. They play at the Boule Noire at 8:00.

Sights

New expos are running at the Centre Pompidou, including Yves Klein, Fabrica: Les Yeux Ouverts, and (what I'm excited about) Robert Rauschenberg. Don't forget that they're open late until 10:00.

The I V Y Paris artists will exhibit in the Carrousel du Louvre as part of the Expatica Welcome to France event. The I V Y exhibition will be showing off the breadth and scope of the expatriate artist scene in Paris. The Welcome to France event as a whole offers programs from 11-6 helping expats learn about everything from immigration and taxes to cooking and wine.

Bon w/e!