"No Thanks. Keep the BJ."

Yesterday afternoon I met up with my buddy Aaron for coffee….which turned into cocktails…as usual. Of course as soon as I arrived at the bar I randomly realized that it was the 3rd Thursday in November.

So after Aaron and I had warmed up our palettes with a couple glasses of Rose, the bartender asked us if we’d like to try the BJ Newvo. Aaron was a bit hesitant, but I agreed to give it a try if for no other reason than tradition and the fact that after 2 glasses of wine I’ll pretty much try damn near anything.

Long story short--- I hated the BJ Newvo. I will never become one of those people who bashes a bottle of BJ, but I gotta tell ya, the glass I had last night was crazy bitter and very flat tasting.

In technical wine tasting terms: It was yucky.

Public Service Announcement From Your Sponsor:

While I’m sitting here drinking my morning tea I would just like to take the opportunity to make a public service announcement:

*Ahem.*

I am not pregnant.

Ever since I made that damn post about quiting smoking, certain members of my entourage have been taking sideways glances at my midsection. People, I’m not knocked-up, I’m just fat….which is why I have also cut back on the drinkin’. Cuz as much as I love the booz, I’d still I’d rather eat my calories. It's a hard choice, but in the war of cakes vs. cocktails, cakes usually wins.

Please understand my sudden lifestyle changes have nothing to do with allowing a miniature human to reside in my uterus for the good part of a year. My reasons for giving up a few of my vices are shallow as a kiddie pool.

I wanna buy new fancy clothes and most designers only make fancy garments up to a size 10.

And Valentino sho'nuf don't make maternity wear so.....whatever to that.

How To Get Your Fancy On.

I’m not afraid to admit that I like fanciness. I am all but certain that I get this peculiarity from my grandmother Myrtle. I say peculiarity because, well, I don’t exactly have any rich uncles, yet as my father once so eloquently said to me: “Girl, you got champagne tastes on a beer budget!”

Touché Dad. Touché.

My grandparents were far from being rich, but that never stopped my Granny from treating herself to fancy perfumes, fancy hats and fancy costume jewelry. From my Granny I learned that sometimes, life is rough, but that doesn’t have to stop you from gettin’ your fancy on. In fact when life is rough you MUST get your fancy on!

Lucky for me I have friends that also like to get their fancy on. Everytime I’m in London I meet up with my friend Janice who keeps on the ready a list of fan-tabulous tea salons in London.

This past visit we went to The Mandeville, which was specifically chosen because they have a separate “man menu” which included larger hardier sandwiches. FrenchBoy even got to eat off of manly blue china instead of the standard pink floral patterned stuff.

However I don’t know how manly one can feel whilst munching a scone topped with clotted cream and strawberry jam on “Tiffany Blue” fine bone china…But you can certainly try.

For those who don’t wanna cross the pond, there is of course my old Paris stand-by: the tea salon at Hôtel de Crillon. A few weeks ago I met up with my friend Liz for a weekend in Paris and I took her on a "friend date" there. In fact Hôtel de Crillon has become my default friend date whenever I’m in the neighborhood with someone from out of town. I drag all my friends and family there and afterwards they gush about how lovely it was and I get to say “Duh I know.”, because well, I am sure my Granny Myrtle would agree that having fancy tea is fancy perfection!

p.s. Am I the only person who called their grandmother “Granny” or am I the lone reject? Discuss.

Halloween Part 2

I wrote a response to Charlotte's really good comment yesterday, but it got so damn long that I had to turn it into a post. Lucky you!

Anyway, Charlotte suggested that I was being a bit hard on the French. And she's right. I am a bit hard on the French. (But I like to think that I am equally ruthless with everyone I skewer on this blog.)

And in some ways I agree with her, but let’s not over-look the fact that in France it is also “cool” to be glibly anti-American for non-specific reasons that have vaguely something to do with capitalism, McDonalds, or religion. Nevermind the fact that in general the French LOVE to shop, when pushed will admit to having eaten McDonalds quite recently, and relish all the free days off they get for the Public and School holidays, of which a good part are Catholic holidays.

And while much of Halloween in the US is focused around companies getting people to buy crap they don’t need, I for one have never bought or paid for a Halloween costume. Never, not once. I will admit to buying obscene amounts of sweet treats, but who are we kidding---I do that even in France. If I could blame my candy consumption on the unseen forces of rabid consumerism….I would. But truth be told. I loves the candies. Give me some credit for personal responsibility...erh accountbility...erh whatever.

What this Halloween rant is really all about is that it just seems like in France there is only one way to be "French". Multiculturalism does not exist in any real way here. Either something is French or it has nothing to do with France. There is absolutely very little room for expansion, advancement or change in the definition of "French" in spite of the fact that France is changing----at the speed of f*ckin' light right before my very eyes. Inspite of this absolute fact, the idea of “Frenchness” remains very very rigid and set in it’s ways, and might I add, has a habit of cutting off it’s nose to spite it’s puckered face. It’s all so…..well, for lack of a better word…French.

By the by--Americans imitate the French alllll the damn time (art, cinema, fashion, cuisine)sometimes without even knowing it. And unless taken to extremes, few people would think of it as “pathetic”.

I mean is it pathetic that I desperately want these Chanel shoes?

I think not.

R.I.P. Halloween in France. (Born 2007- Died 2009)

Does this make any sense to you: The French hate Halloween because it’s American, but they inhale Le Beeg-Mac like high cholesterol is the new black?

Whatever. Don't get me started.

We don’t get to celebrate Halloween here in Frogland. I got excited about 3 years ago when it seemed that the Frogs were on the verge of adopting it, but then it just fizzled out. I used to be really bitter about lack of Halloween in France, but now I’m over it. In fact this year I forgot, and we didn’t get any trick-or-treaters anyway.

BUT, one very charming reader (*cough*Jamila*cough,cough*) sent me this photo from the movie “The Chronicles of Riddick”.

Would this not make the most bad-ass Halloween Couples Costume ever for FrenchBoy and I? Or hell we could just go out to dinner dressed up like that. The big manly metallic shoulder pads might be tough to pull off, but we could give it a try.

Also side note: I lurve "The Chronicles of Riddick" because:

A.) I love Thandie Newton long time.

B.) The fact that Vin Deisel has a million-dollar acting career and Ralph Macchio does not, is just sick and awesome.

And oh, oh, my favorite line from the movie: "Now look at you... all back of the bus and sh*t."

Priceless.

Cold Turkey.

...And in other news. I quit smoking.

Now, before you all start in on that round of applause, please note for the record that I am not at all proud and/or happy about my new so-called life as a non-smoker. In fact I'm down right pissy about it.

Eventhough I rarely smoked more than 6 cigarettes a day, you gotta understand something: I loved those 6 ciggies! They were mine. Mine! Mine! Mine! In fact I love smoking. I love the smell of it. I love the feel of it. I love delicately rolling a freshly lit ciggie between my index and F-U finger and waving it around like a flaming wrath-of-god magic wand. And really, there's nothing like that sensation of hot poisoned air rushing into the depths of your lungs. Naturally there's only one thing in the world that would convince me to give it up all that: FrenchBoy.

About two weeks ago, on our way home from London, we were standing outside Gare de L'Est in Paris while I smoked a cigarette. Every minute or so, some shifty character would come by and ask us for spare change. (Anyone's who's spent time outside a Gare in Europe knows just how shifty-shady these characters can be.) After about 5 minutes of this, FrenchBoy and I were both fed-up. As I prematurely extinguished my smokey-treat, Frenchboy said something to the effect of "You should quit smoking." or maybe it was "I thought you said you were gonna quit smoking." Either way, given the company we were keeping at that very moment, it seemed like a really good idea...at the time. And since it was the last ciggie in the pack, I just decided to quit then and there. That said, if I had known in advance that the smoke outside the gare was to be my last ciggie, I would have savoured it. Or at least finished the damn thing instead of putting it out only half smoked.

*insert deep sigh here*

So, two weeks sans-ciggies and I'm OK. I haven't tried to strangle anyone. In fact it's been easier than I thought it would be. I've been keeping myself insanely busy with work. Lots and lots of mind-frying paperwork. Oh, and audio books. It seems that the key to quitting smoking, at least for me, is to focus intensely on incredibly boring and repetitive tasks for hours on end. But whatever. It's working.

I have however gained 2 kilos in 2 weeks, so, it looks like I won't die of lung cancer after all. Instead I'll live forever as a fat-ass.

Bravo.

Burger With a Side of Nostalgia.

Everytime I have a friend or family member that’s coming to France for a visit, the first thing they ask is “Do you want me to bring you anything?” And it’s a fair question. Any expat can tell you that one of the hardest things about moving to a new country is all the food items that just aren’t available at your local grocery store—or any grocery store for that matter. But as the years pass, the list of food items that I miss gets shorter and shorter. First I started hating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Then,about 2 years ago, stores started stocking taco shells. If the local supermarket starts carrying strawberry Twizzlers, I can officially stop asking people to smuggle candy into the country for me.

That said, the one thing that The French just cannot seem to get right is a freakin’ cheeseburger. When you order a cheeseburger in France it is always a surprise: Will it arrive with 1 or 2 slices of bread, or maybe no bread at all? What the hell kind of cheese will they put on it? And most importantly--Will there be a half cooked egg on top of it?

So my friends, each and every time I am in Paris I make a quick stop at the Hard Rock Café. Yeah yeah, the first time I went I thought that too. It’s just too corny. But then I learned something about myself: when push comes to shove, I am likely to put up with all sorts of humiliation in order to get my hands on a really good Cheeseburger.

After I got over my initial embarrassment of being an American in Paris going to the Hard Rock Café, I really started enjoying eating there. I would look forward to it for a week in advance and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. And then, halfway through my HRC Cheesburger I realized why:

I love the Hard Rock Café because it reminds me of the golden years of MTV with Mark Goodman and Martha Quinn, when it was all music all the time. I mean where else on earth can you go grub on a cheeseburger while watching non-stop videos of Billy Joel, Depeche-Mode, and then U2 (circa the era where Bono had that crazy mullet) while a smashed up guitar once played by Eddie Veddar (circa ‘10’ before he started looking like a drunk sailor) hangs on the wall above your head?

Also the Purple Haze cocktail will get ya super drunk. Seriously what’s not to love about the Hard Rock café?

So here’s to nostalgia…and American cheeseburgers. Savor it, cuz this is about as patriotic as I get.

You Cannot Eat a Louis Vuitton Bag.

How on earth can I cram 6 weeks worth of blogging and photos into like 3-4 posts? I dunno but I’ll do my best. We’ll start with the good stuff: Food.

So, FrenchBoy and I went to Kong. (Warning: Loud obnoxious music on Kong website.)

Those of you who are Sex and the City whores already know exactly where it is. For the rest of y’all, Kong is a restaurant on the 4th and 5th floors of the Kenzo building (kinda facing Pont Neuf).

Philippe Starck designed the entire interior which is apparently supposed to be Manga hipster kitsch. In the final series episodes of “Sex and the City” which are partly set in Paris, SJP’s character Carrie meets with her boyfriend’s ex-wife here.

As expected, the service was just OK, and the food was lack-luster. (side note: If you want a good burger---go to the Hard Rock Café. More on that later.)

Next stop Nomiya.

I’ve always been insanely lucky, but I totally hit the jackpot when I was able to snag two seats in the Nomiya dining room. What’s Nomiya? Text stolen from the website:

"Enjoy a unique lunchtime event with family or friends. Gilles Stassart and his team invite you to sit at their table in the extraordinary ambience of the Nomiya dining room, where you’ll discover a moment of culinary bliss and creativity. There, on the rooftop of the Palais de Tokyo, in this ultra-contemporary architecture, you’ll relish in the breathtaking panoramic views of Paris and enjoy a truly unforgettable experience."

What they fail to mention is just how difficult it is to get a reservation. Ya see, bookings are released one day at a time, one calendar month in advance at exactly 10 AM. Oh, and there are only 12 places available, so if you log onto the website at oh say, 10:01, you are proper screwed so better luck next time.

Anyhoo, we got two seats and showed up for our fancy lunch. On the way up to the rooftop we got a chance to take a brief rest on the Palais de Tokyo rooftop garden complete with the most real-looking fake grass I’ve ever seen. (I took as many photos as possible so that I could steal and then duplicate all their landscaping ideas at the Barbie Dream House.)

Next we hiked up to the actual restaurant which is in fact a little glass cube that is temporarily affixed to the top of the building.

To say that the view of the Eiffel Tower is stunning is well, retardedly obvious.

"Yep. Only 12 seats. Shall we sit boy-girl-boy-girl?"

Right after I took this photo I snuck up behind the sous-chef, and in my best Fat Albert voice imitation yelled "Hey, Hey, Hey! I'm hungry b*tch. Where's my lunch?" It was super funny. Unfortunately it only took place in my head and thus there are no witnesses to this event.

Eiffel Tower hat!

Ok, long story short, the food was yummy and interesting. Our handsome young host was gracious and warm and very easy on the eyes. The other guests were a really interesting mix of middle-aged professionals---all Parisian. That said, they were all really delightful and the conversation was fun and easy even if FrenchBoy and I were a bit of a curiosity. Which brings me to my final topic of discussion.

How is it that when FrenchBoy and I go to fancy lunch we are almost always the only people under the age of 45 in the restaurant? OK, OK, Metz isn’t exactly a foodie paradise, but come on! We can’t be the only 30-somethings ‘round these parts who like to eat. And don’t try to tell me it’s cuz the restaurants are too expensive, because I just spent a month awash in a sea of skinny Hipster chics sauntering down la rue with their mini-LV bags while talking on their slick iphones. I love handbags as much as the next gal, but you cannot eat a Louis Vuitton bag no matter how hungry you get. I'm just sayin'.

Peoplez get your priorities straight here!

La Sorbonne- Part 2 "It Was Just Like Rocky Five!"

I cannot even begin to tell you how much of a buzz-kill it is to be completely unable to upload photos to my ancient travel laptop. I’m having a blast running around Paris like a chicken with it’s head cut off, but I’ve no way to share my photos with you. So until I’m home, you’ll have to settle for one little spicy anecdote.

So, at La Sorbonne, as part of our last 2 hours of the day, we have a literature/culture/history discussion. Last week we studied the history of immigrants in France. Then as a way for each of us to practice our speaking skills, the professor went around the room and asked each of us to talk a bit about immigration and culture in our home countries. Everything was going really well at first. The Brazilians talked about the large Japanese population in Brazil, and the Londoners talked about Indian and Pakistanis in England. All very enlightening stuff. Then we got to the Russian girl.

“The Russian”, as we’ve all come to call her, began a tirade about how the only immigrants that come to Russia are criminals that move to Russia to become part of the mafia. Oh, and especially the Jews because they are smart and good with money.

Mind you, as she is spewing all this, the rest of us are just looking around at eachother in absolute bewilderment, (is that a word?) half wondering if we were hallucinating or if maybe we’d simply misunderstood her. Even our preternaturally calm, cool, and collected French professor looked a bit stunned. But before the professor could shut her up cut her off , one of the Italian students jumped in, and well, jumped about as far down that poor girl's throat as is earthly possible-- in broken French. It was beautiful! Bee-oootiful I tell you! Two people arguing in broken French about whether or not Jews run the Russian mafia. Needless to say, the Italian got the last word and that was the end of that.

Now each day after class “The Russian” scurries out of class as soon the class has finished. She won’t even hold eye contact with any of us Jew-lovers.

Oh the joys of higher education!

La Sorbonne - Part 1

The good news is that I have a million things to chat about, the bad news is, my camera and my computer are in the middle of a messy divorce and refuse to speak to each other. This post will be illustrated entirely with photos I have stolen from the interwebz.


A perhaps crazy, yet nice lady walks past the class building every morning. Yesterday she stopped as she passed by to say: ---“Oh you’re so beautiful. I always did love Black people.” I will leave the interpretation of that comment up to you my wise readers.

I am learning French, but I am also learning that the best way to meet crazy people in Paris is to take the bus. Last week, on the way home from class, a slightly wild-eyed Japanese man got on the bus with about 15 bags of god knows what. A few stops into our journey, he gets out of his seat, waits for the back doors of the bus to open, and then leisurely tosses out a bucket of noodles---nearly missing the immaculately coiffed women who had just gotten off to do some shopping on Rue Raspail.

And last but certainly not least, let us speak of La Sorbonne.

The first day of class we met in the amphitheatre Richelieu at the Sorbonne main campus building thing. Which in spite of its age is still quite beautiful, but also kind of creepy in an intangible way.

We meet our professor who informs us that our class will be starting—NOW, and that the quickest way to get to the class building is to take a “short cut”.

She then proceeds to take us on a break-neck speed death march across Le Jardin de Luxembourg at 8:45 in the morning. We actually lapped the military soldiers as they did their morning run.

Once we arrived at the class building we were relieved, but this relief soon faded into despair when we discovered that our classroom was on the 6th floor of a very old walk up building which of course had no elevator. The stairs are so steep that on each narrow landing there is a chair and a phone for the eventuality that you will need to sit down and call an ambulance to come retrieve your ass when you have your heart attack. On the way up I joked with the Japanese girl behind me that this was worse than hiking up Mount Fuji. She started to laugh, and then nearly passed out from lack of oxygen.

My bad.

I should have recognized the death-march and the hiking expedition as foreshadowing of things to come. The first day of class we covered 300 years of French history in 2 hours then were assigned a 500 word essay. Since then, things have not let up for one second. The verb exercises are abusively endless, and homework assignments take hours to complete. Folks, I am treading water in a sea of irregular verbs.

The professor is good. Damn good. She’s serious and she means business---and I’m not just using that as an expression. She supplements her meager teacher’s salary by making you pay her 1 Euro every time she catches you speaking any language other than French. It’s either that or you can choose to take 40 lashes in front of the class. Most people just pay the euro, hence her endless assortment of perfectly-tied silk neck scarves.

By the by, I’m having a blast.

Paris is great and my classmates are great. They are just as overwhelmed and confused as me, but seem not to care one bit. They go out to nightclubs every night and come into class late and unprepared and they just have a good time. Part of that might have something to do with the fact that they’re all young college-aged kids, Oh---did I mention that most of them are Brazilian?

Not only am I learning French, but I’m learning some Portuguese by osmosis.

So, that about brings you up to speed. Class at the Sorbonne part #1.

OK, I have to go now because I have to learn to use relative pronouns, and then quickly memorize how to conjugate every French verb in existence in the Present Indicative tense by tomorrow morning at 9AM.