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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Paris Through Take-Away Eyes
Monday, July 23, 2007
Woo Tube (p. 1)
I open bottles incredibly well, as a result of having worked in a wine bar.
At the time, nine years ago, it was the only wine bar in Kansas. Perhaps there are others now (franchises?) named Vines or Sonoma Pete's.
Anyway, one day, at this wine bar, a man looked up from his big fat book. We spoke a little and fell in love... eight months later over email.
He was living in Chicago, and I was working in Western Kansas. Not as a waitress this time, but as an anthropologist studying sex among the meatpackers.
And despite what you may think, there wasn't actually a lot to do at night. After a long day of "participant observation," my options back at the dorm were to:
1) Play basketball with the boys from the John Deere tractor repair school
2) Paint my nails with the future beauticians
3) Exchange emails with this incredibly funny person in Chicago
By mid-summer, when the air outside was choked with cow-dust, our email pace had quickened to several lengthy notes per day.
His words on the screen brought a jolt of electricity matched only by re-reading my own. I wasn't sure who I was falling for, but it felt incredibly good.
I saw him in person during a quick trip back to the college town. Our paths crossed for only a few hours, but it was enough to confirm an IRL attraction. After several mix tapes and two anything-but-virtual visits, I packed my bags and moved up to Chicago.
And the internet, having served its purpose in our lives, went quiet.
(to be continued...)
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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:
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Back in Black Blog
Editor's note: readers are advised to click on the link below to add dramatic effect to the reading of what could otherwise be a slightly tedious blapology.
Dear reader(s?),
Sorry I haven't written. And thank you for your threatening comments, derisive posts, and not-so-delicate jabs to the ribs.
All this seems to have worked, in combination with the shame I experienced last week in seeing Daniel Rose point and whisper the following to one of his customers:
"Oh her? She's a blogger. Well, not really anymore..."
That was followed a few days later by an encounter at Hidden Kitchen in which a group of strangers were talking about blogs. A young American girl was describing her exciting (ahem) Myspace blog to the foodie superheros Dorie Greenspan and David Lebovitz.
I couldn't bring myself to mention that I too had a blog, and thus sat silently in a spiral of self-flagellation until revived by a very nice fish taco.
And thus I realized, even before Moonke threatened to cut me off, that I should really get back in the swing of things.
So thanks for sticking around. I'll be back with a story or two real soon.
xo
Monday, June 11, 2007
Not Your Grandmomma's Blogmeet
The Paris Bloggers' Picnic was a resounding success because:
Daniel Rose promised to buy me a hot dog stand - 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
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!
Friday, June 08, 2007
In the Butt(es) with the Paris Bloggers
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?
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)
Monday, May 28, 2007
The Wiener
The polls are closed, and I lost in three categories.
But I did done win Best Writing. Thanks for voting.
This victory will free me from obsessive tally-watching and enable me to focus on an important new project:
The "Who Will Sleep With Petite Anglaise?" Facebook group.
You Are a Ham Sandwich
The "what city do you belong in?" quiz was recently brought to my attention by Bookpacker, and I took it this morning as a break from tally-watching.
My result should come as no surprise:
| You Belong in Paris |
 Stylish and expressive, you were meant for Paris. The art, the fashion, the wine! Whether you're enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park... You'll love living in the most chic place on earth. |
What did come as a surprise however, was my result in the "what kind of sandwich are you?" quiz. I tried over and over again to rig the results, but got "ham sandwich" every time. I always fancied myself as more of a grilled cheese.
Other valuable information to be gleaned from this site:
- What's your rapper name? (dirty money)
- Can you make anyone fall in love with you? (no)
- Are you running on adrenaline? (yes)
| Your English Skills: |
 Punctuation: 80% Grammar: 60% Vocabulary: 60% Spelling: 40% |
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The Brest of Me
I could feel with my eyes closed that the train was slowing, and pulled down my headphones to hear "terminus."
I had only 30 minutes to wait before my friend's arrival in Brest, and then our hosts would arrive to collect us. The first leg of this journey had seemed to pass without incident, and I was looking forward to some time outside of Paris.
I trundled out of the train and was surprised to find a party. A band was screeching some traditional music and a cidre was placed in my hand. A sturdy Breton gal shoved some sort of finger-glistening dessert at me and I wondered if perhaps I was dreaming.
"What is all this?" was the first question that entered my mind.
"Where the hell am I?" was the second.
These festivities, you see, on the eve of Ascension, had been organized for visitors to Lannion.
"LANNION"
Had I not boarded a train for Brest? Had the conductor not punched my ticket? Was I maybe just a little bit drunk?
I considered these possibilities while the party moved off toward the exit. I looked back and forth between my bag and the sign, and before long was alone on the platform. My watch read nearly 11pm.
The conductor whistled past me. "Excusez-moi" I mewed, and explained my total confusion.
He put his hand in his pocket and then passed me some chocolates.
chocolates...?
This was intended to soften the blow, I suppose, that I'd be stuck overnight in Lannion. Brest was two hours away, he said, and there would be no more trains before morning.
but...?
My train, it seems, had separated while I slept. Train A, which included my assigned strapontin, broke off and went to Brest. Train B, which contained the all-important bar car, had continued on to Lannion.
And I, after downing a beer near Rennes, had found the first available seat and passed out.
I could picture my friend Andy, as I checked into a hotel, just shaking his head and muttering "Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..." Which is exactly what he did when I recounted the story yesterday.
"Did they know that you... y'know... do this sort of thing?"
"They do now," I said, and we shook our heads together.
The bathtub, it turns out, was all I saw of the hotel. My rescue team insisted upon arriving that very night, and then promptly got a flat in the parking lot.
"It couldn't get any worse!" said our cheerful host, who clearly imagined that these would be my only antics. I didn't have the heart to argue as he changed the tire in the dark.
His naive optimism was shattered en route to the Ile d'Ouessant, on what will now be referred to as "the pizza boat."
"You threw up on the ferry - what are you, ten?" Andy teased.
"It was choppy!" I protested.
"Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..."
-------------------------------------------------------
*TGV photo swiped from the dishy and talented Rion
Friday, May 25, 2007
Damn you tween devils!
Comment left on the blog of my chief competitor in the category of Best Expatriate Blog:
Okay, am I really afraid of the tween brigade on Facebook?I am terrified.
And rightly so.
My lead in the only category in which I have a chance has suddenly plummeted. Those tweens - in between updating their Facebook status from "oh my god" to "I am so bored" - are kicking my ass.
Any knights in shining armor may still vote here.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
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.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Why You Are Here
"What's your blog about?" is a question that I usually avoid by not mentioning the existence of this website.
To be honest, I haven't known how to answer it. "It's about Paris" sounds plain. "It's about me" sounds vain. So recently I have turned to Sitemeter for a more detailed analysis of my content.
Sitemeter, alternately known among bloggers as "Psychometer," is a program that allows me to track the number and location of my visitors. And to see the search terms that have brought you to this site.
It turns out that visitors, despite my best efforts, are not coming here to see pictures of dogs on bikes.
What you want, and what I have given you, is the following:
1) Transvestites. French visitors searching for ladyboys make up the vast majority of my Google hits. Bienvenue! Your average visit length, upon discovering a post about shoes, is a disappointing 0.4 seconds.
2) Naked Snorkeling. Here come the southerners! A large number of you have arrived to see me swimming in my nuddie pants. Could someone please explain why you all hail from Mississippi?
3) Naked Opera. I had not realized that this was a fetish. But it is, and almost exclusively among the British. Llaaaahhh!! La lalala alalaa!
4) Vagina Party. Call me cocky, but I really thought I invented this concept. I see now from the search terms that there is a whole community waiting to welcome me. Does anyone else find this a wee bit frightening?
In sum, this exercise has reinforced my belief that the best way to build traffic, apart from landing a spot on Petite's blogroll, is to sprinkle my text with perversion.
And now I finally have a response - four of them - when someone asks about my blog. Whether or not this represents an improvement over previous descriptions is a "research question" for the next big social gathering...
Monday, May 07, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
La crème de la crème
Ahh... french women.
I'm a little bit obsessed with them. We share the same sidewalks but seem to occupy two different planets. I feel foreign around them, like a cross-dresser in their midst.
And yet I find myself slowly migrating and starting to mimic their strange behavior. Just look at what I did to my face!
It occurred to me today that I could cream myself french - that culture may be a simple matter of conditioning.
This was following a conversation with some male victims on Gmail chat about the words that they use to for les françaises.
"Douceur" was the first response and an obvious effect of creaming.
The second description was "complicated," and can also be attributed to beauty products. To simplify the theory (Descartes, I believe it was) about local ladyplexity and the differentiation of creams: if the pharmacy in a given culture is selling two seperate creams for knee and thigh skin, than the women in said culture will be crazy.
The third adjective, "elusive," is also related to the regimen. A stong commitment to hair removal leaves little time to return phone calls. Is Delphine being coy... keeping you quivering with anticipation? Or did she just not have time to shave her legs?
The final word, "passionate," was used multiple times, and I gotta give the girls credit on this one. French women are without a doubt more sensual than their American counterparts.
Some say our prudishness is the by-product of Protestantism. But I think it's all about lubrication. Sensuality must increase with the number of hours spent self-lotioning. All that rubbing is bound to make a girl think about sex.
I pressed the same boys to give me some additional words for Americans. I heard "franche," "bold," "assertive," "confident," "strong," "busy," and "delurée."
At least half of those adjectives are directly related to alcohol. And french girls, after their 70€ breast cream, can rarely afford more than one drink. Americans may have an edge in the "strong" and "witty" department, but it would be wrong to say that French women aren't busy. The work of beautification is invisible to men, but the breasts, rest assured, are not lifting themselves.
"A few kilos, at least" is how Nabékor summed up our cultural differences. But this, too, I'm happy to report, has a cream-based solution.
Monday, April 23, 2007
84.5%
A cheer rang out around 8pm over the waters of the Bassin de la Villette.
We left the sun and found a wood-paneled café with a TV mounted above the jukebox. The space, empty when we arrived, was soon filled with young faces.
They were washed with relief upon hearing the broad outlines: Sarko and Ségo and defintely no Le Pen. But that (unbeatable?) 30% brought silence and worry - would Sarkozy really be the next president?
I remembered the anxiety that filled a similar bar seven years ago. We were gathered at Simon's to watch the map turn red. The same unbelieving questions were being asked about Bush. But not one among us had voted.
Stellar excuses abounded that night: I had gone to the wrong polling place. Many others had forgotten to register. And our votes weren't needed in Illinois...
For the French - who plan vacations around voting - this kind of apathy is incomprehensible. Nearly 85% cast a ballot yesterday, and turnout is expected to be even greater on May 6.
A mild depression has set in today among my lefty friends and colleagues. Not one of them is excited about their candidate. The "anyone but Sarko" ballot is not an inspiring one to cast. But they will do it anyway - and in huge numbers. Which is more than their US counterparts seem capable of.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Near miss in Montmartre
Wha--what??
The Shins were recently a few blocks from my apartment recording one of my favorite songs as a Concert à Emporter.
The tractor beam - the one that should have pulled me through the open window and deposited me within grabbing range of all that facial hair - was not working.
How could I not have known?
I suppose it's better this way. Had I been there, the "Gone for Good" video would have included a distant female backing vocal.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Spring Crush
Daniel Rose, the American chef, is being wooed. Every day his phone at Spring rings off the hook. "Are you free?" beg the callers, a little too desperate at times for his taste. The answer, short of ten days' notice, is no.
Hard-to-get is not just a pose for a man with sixteen seats. The diners know their luck in scoring a date. They have read the reviews and know all the rules: one seating and no substitutions. They arrive bursting with anticipation, walking billboards for the season.
The foodie faithful enter the 26 m2 chapel through a door that Rose designed. They are greeted by the acolyte, a lovely waitress who whispers the menu. She constitutes, aside from the occasional stagière, the entire staff of Spring. Rose himself shops and mops and does everything else in between.
The "clients," as he likes to call them, fall silent with the first course - a velouté sans crème (carotte). They ponder the secret (duck fat) behind his famous creamless soup, which is prettied by a foie gras throw pillow.
When presented with a whole dorade, stuffed with rosemary and red onion, every diner wears the young face of love. Round three, during which Rose wanders, looking worried and asking about salt, is spring lamb en croute à l'Italien .
One wonders, watching Rose with his clients, if perhaps he is wooing them, too. But as he builds the dessert, little towers of cake and cream, the object of his desire becomes clear. Is he touching a lover's face or arranging a garnish? This young chef has got it bad for his food.
Spring
28 rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, 75009
Tuesday - Friday nights only
Tel: 01 45 96 05 72
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Dark Matter
We parked the car at 9pm outside a low slung cement block building. After knocking three times on a window, a man wordlessly opened the front door.
Adam appeared as my boss had descibed him: short and stocky, like a sports trainer. Not so different than the other men I'd met in Warsaw. What set Adam apart was his brow line - two hairy thickets that twisted upward toward the flourescent bulb.
A man in a suit hovered behind Adam, his function unknown. The suit motioned for me to sit down, and Joanne silently followed Adam into the bedroom. After a few minutes the suit mumbled something in French. "Not many people from Poland in Quebec," he said. Then he stood up and walked out of the apartment.
Alone now, I could examine my surroundings. In addition to the bare bulb, there were plenty of other "mood elements." A television, muted, showing rugby. A phone that rang off the hook and a cassette answering machine. Decorative knives.
I heard footsteps in the hallway and then the flimsy door was flung open. Joanne emerged looking woozy, but gestured for me to go in. I followed dumbly and the door was closed behind me.
"Stand here," he said in French. "Close your eyes."
I had agreed to see the energy healer because my boss had offered to pay. She had her own appointment during my visit, and I was "lucky enough" to be added on. Adam had been in the papers recently, and was very much in demand.
At the very least, I thought, as he stood behind me doing God-knows-what, there is a blog post in this. And I began to imagine the opening lines.
"You're very sad," Adam said, interrupting.
"Am I?" I replied, imagining a serious poker face.
"This here," he said, passing open hands near my sternum, "is your (something-or-other) channel. Immediate family. Boyfriend, husband. Very ......"
The last word was represented only by a gesture. An anguished face, like he had stepped on something sharp. Or eaten Marmite.
"I see."
"This here (moving southward) is your spirit channel." He spent some time pawing the air in front of my belly, and then moved on.
He started in about digestion and I had to call him back.
"Excuse me, Adam... my spirit channel? Did you, uh, find anything there?"
His impressive brow collapsed into itself. He started to say something and then thought better of it. He moved his hands down and continued to talk about intestines.
Parlor tricks followed, with Adam pointing to my physical ailments. He correctly named all the current ones (a bad cough, a sore back) and even forecast a few that "will follow."
He then told me to sit, and looked directly into my eyes. His face hung with the over-wrought sincerity of a high school guidance counselor.
"You're very sad," he repeated.
Isn't everyone? I thought. "But what about my spirit channel?"
He started again to explain, stopped, and then called for Joanne. He took her in the corner and spoke very quickly.
My mind wandered to various versions of this story - the sad expat learning that she has, after all, no soul. It could be done like Lost in Translation with good music, Polish art students, and sexy casting. Or in a Sci-Fi direction, with a vampire soul! Or...
"It's your third eye," someone interrupted.
Joanne was explaining to me that it's broken. My third eye. And that this is very, very bad. "It's the way you relate to the world. It's the interface between you and everybody else. Or something like that. We can Google it."
The good news, she assured me, is that Adam can fix it. Only 2-3 more visits, and only 15 euros a pop. I could be a much better person before the summer.
I came back to Paris last night, dropped my bags, and went to an Andrew Bird concert. And the dashing multi-instrumentalist peered out from beneath his hair-mop, looked right into my eyes (so I imagine), and sang:
Do you wonder where the self resides
Is it in the head or between your sides?
I decided this morning, after a proper night's rest and five cups of coffee, what this third eye business is really about.
It is not about me being soul-less. Or selfish. Or any other unflattering word that begins with S.
It is about grammar!
My interface with the world, like a radio dropped in water, has been cutting out. I am third eye
My next trip to Warsaw is in May. This leaves me plenty of time to master the subjunctive and return triumphant to Adam's "office."
"All clear," he will say, brows twitching happily. My sternum will reveal that I am good.
One can hope...
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
32
Form a line to the throne comments box because today, dear readers, is my birthday.
The day began with bright sun streaming through my window and crisp blue surrounding the visible sliver of Sacre Coeur. Birds - I kid you not - were warbling on the balcony.
My roommate had left a pot of strong coffee waiting, along with a spot-on funny gift. I drank it in slowly while making a new mix tape CD, quite content to be hookey from work.
A date drew me out of musical solitude, and I set off to meet Catherine around 12:30.
A perfect assiette at the Cantine de Quentin, and then a walk along the shining canal.
Cath returned to work and I continued on to meet another girl. After four months apart, I wasn't sure what to expect from our reunion. My bike was waiting for me outside an Oberkampf pool hall, a little worse for wear but still beautiful. I hopped on for a wide-eyed ride through the city and then installed the bike at her new digs in Montmartre.
I later transferred my fesses to Nicole's scooter - a machine that always makes me feel like a teenager. There was much "wheeeee!!!" as we rode over for cocktails near Abbesses. And there was much gossip to accompany our kir.
I haven't even told you about the Vagina Party yet, have I? The one that spawned at least 5 (however temporary) couples? The one that left me exhausted at 6 am amid a pile of red feathers?
That'll have to wait.
After 5 consecutive nights of stuffing my gullet, I am calling it an early night. Perhaps tomorrow, after some digestion, I can be clever again. For tonight I'm just pleasantly stuffed. And quite grateful to friends for the filling.
I shall leave you with this hopeful message from the Onion:
Your Birthday Today
May 25th, 2007 at 14.11 CEST+2.00
Look,
It’s not that I have anything against Mme. LeMeg. I’m sure if she won, she’d look much prettier in the Satin PJs’ what with her Amelie-ish blog portrait and everything, than you would. Plus, she seems to be a good sport, which counts for a lot.
But, you in Satin PJ’s would be a stitch and you know that saying about stitches in time and such.
I hope the cavalry is coming. I’m rounding up my daughter’s Facebook chums so I’m looking for some high numberage from that corner of the Internet lot.