White Night Washout

The most illuminating cultural night of the year in Paris went by in a flash of light and colour, literally. Introduced seven years ago by Paris’s Deputy Mayor Christophe Girard, his aim was to create one artistic night annually, merging contemporary art with urban space. This year’s nocturnal festivities offered an array of events to choose from, in quantity and quality, to discover the mysteries and magic of the City of Light, at night.

This is Paris at its most artsy, and most baffling. For once she promised more than she delivered, offering too much in a short space of time within a realm of perplexing displays across the city. Puzzling projective expositions on historical monuments, museum gardens mysteriously glowing in light and mist, combined with colourful light presentations to music, all gave a different perspective of the city, but without clarity. It was a curious medley of international artists offering individual concepts of their own ‘Nuit Blanche’ but not letting us in on their secret.

The exposition ‘Going Through Walls’ at the Musee Carnavalet by Latvian artist Gints Gabran, promised a spooky feel with its theme of shadows and fog to produce a ‘thick screen of air’ enhanced by water sounds and the stillness of the night. Walking through this virtual misty doorway was quite fun, for all of three seconds it took, at which point you were ushered towards the exit.

Far more lucid was Henri Foucault’s light spectacle at Hotel Des Monnaies. Reminiscent of Paris’s dirty younger sister, Amsterdam and its Red Light District, the artist had each window lit up in a different color which changed to the tempo of the music, simple but effective.

Described by one writer as ‘New Year’s Eve with art’, 2008’s Nuit Blanche definitely needed some fireworks, or at least a few lanterns around the Louvre. Each year is different, and compared to last year’s magnificent light display at the pyramid and the spectacularly creepy exhibit at the house of Victor Hugo, which took you ‘on a strange journey between cloud, busts, and snakes’, this year’s White Night was missing something. With comparatively less on offer than in previous years, the expositions needed to be potent and enticing for the regular goer, yet instantly impressive for the Nuit Blanche virgins who attended.

Each person will have encountered a different White Night depending on the area chosen and time allowed. Those making the most of its sunset to sunrise agenda may have felt more satisfied, but those only able to have a taste of the unusual offerings may have been disappointed.

The one thing that all revelers would have had in common however, was the witnessing of the glorious City of Light bathed in a little more light and music than usual, and it’s a great excuse to go out and stay out late, to experience the wonderful if bewildering world that is French culture.

The Pope & Margaritaville

The Pope came and went on a beautiful sunny Saturday, and as usual Paris performed to its highest standards for her glorified guest, seamlessly erecting then dismantling the stage and huge seating area in record time, most importantly in time for rugby to recommence on Sunday morning. Over 200,000 people attended the event in attempt to catch a glimpse of his holiness, whilst Tom jogs right past him and his entourage on the way to the service when on his morning run....figures.

The night before the service there was a candlelit procession from Notre Dame to Invalides, anticipating the Pope’s route the next morning, with many people camping out all night at Invalides just to get a spot. With my Catholic roots I felt guilty for not taking part somehow. Attending these huge events in the city you’re living in should be an simple feat, but you would be surprised how easy it is to still miss these attractions on your doorstep. It seems criminal but it just happens.

On the other hand, there are certain things NOT to be missed, such as the World Cup Rugby tournament last year, and for me recently, the Jimmy Buffet concert at the New Morning Club last weekend! A surprise invitation from a journalist friend who is good friends with Jimmy, I jumped at the chance to singalong to ‘Margaritaville’, and knew I had to go just to tell my sister Gail about it. A bit before my time, (she was more of his fan than me), I still grew up listening to his music and knew watching any American/English musician in Paris would be a treat because the venues are smaller and more intimate.

Sure enough it met all my expectations. Set in the heart of the African 10th district, the New Morning Club is famous for jazz musicians and African bands, but has also hosted even the likes of Prince. Chock full of chubby, ageing Americans in cheesy holiday shirts clutching their plastic cups of beer, swaying and singing to the music, it was a jolly and eclectic atmosphere with fans from all over the world, including Australia, Norway, and Abu Dhabi.

Always with a holiday flavor due to the subject of most of his songs, Jimmy played the laid-back host very well with a strong edge of professionalism aided by his loyal band and varied back up singers, one black lady called Nadirah Shakoor who used to sing for Arrested Development and now is coming out with her own album, and the lovely Tina from Los Angeles who just couldn’t stop grooving to the music. Visibly affected by that evening’s crowd, Jimmy promised to play until his bottle of rose was finished, and admitted he would always remember this night. He ended his encore with a solo rendition of ‘He Went to Paris’ which brought tears to many eyes. Always the Mississippi gentleman, he signed many autographs and t-shirts after the show, and even an inflatable monkey!

We had the great luck of being invited to the aftershow dinner at L’Avenue on ritzy Avenue Montaigne, just down the road from the famous Plaza Athenee where the Paris episodes of Sex and the City were filmed. Feeling very humble and out of place we show up and are invited to sit and eat with the band. Jimmy comes over to chat and I am speechless. The obvious tag a long, I do not want to come across as starstruck fan and ask for autographs or pictures, so I just stand there grinning stupidly and say ‘Great show!’

We meet the rest of the band and they are more than gracious, even happy to have new people to talk to after their gig. We meet the Mayer brothers, one of whom makes children’s music and promises to send our kids some of his CD’s (www.unclejimrocks.com). I am looking forward to hearing his songs called ‘Funky as a Diaper’ and ‘I’ve got a Butt’.

For any Buffet fans here is the link to view the interview my friend Matt did with Jimmy riding bicycles around Paris:

http://blogs.iht.com/tribtalk/travel/globespotters/?p=546

La Rentree

How quickly autumn overcomes the summer, before we are ready for it. All of a sudden the air turns crisp, and so do the leaves under your feet, and you feel chilly and silly wearing your summer dresses. It does not stop us from hoping for an Indian summer in September, therefore those dresses are not being packed away just yet, and I refuse to wear boots in any shape or form.

We have much to look forward to in Paris in September. The city comes alive after being abandoned for weeks in the summer, and though heaving it is somehow comforting to be once more full of Parisiennes. We are relieved to have our favorite boulangerie open again, and to see our resident homeless lady has returned to her favorite dwelling in the metro, although I don't expect she went anywhere for her vacation. Paris just doesn't do ghost town very well, and the constant flow of tourists are no match for its temporarily removed inhabitants.

The most exciting and current event to happen is the Pope’s visit next weekend. Not us personally, though he would be welcome, but he is coming to Paris on the 12 and 13th September to greet the French, on his first 'Tour de France'. Not sure where else he is on tour, but I have no doubt we'll be caught up in the festivities surrounding him as they are already setting up stands around Invalides, preparing for his arrival. My delusional husband thought perhaps his rugby fan club had gone to the massive effort to watch his team in action on the fields directly across from Invalides where they play every Sunday, until I informed him of the celebrity visitor. Over 200,000 people are expected to attend mass on Sunday, but we think we may just watch it on telly.

Also on its way is Paris Fashion Week. I've marvelled at this event for the past two years, purely as an outsider, not being brave or glamourous enough to ever attempt to get into one of these shows, the coward I am watches from afar, either outside the Louvre or underneath in the Carrousel, seeing all the pin thin models make their way in, followed by the fashionable spectators, digging for a glimpse of someone famous. This year will render more of the same I am sure, maybe I will venture even closer and get a toe in the door, to see the male models at least.

As always there are interesting expositions in all the major museums; Le Bon Marche has devoted almost one entire floor to ‘Buenos Aires’ where there are portraits of the local people surrounding a huge balloon like globe showing footage of dance, life and culture in the city. They are hosting salsa dancing every Thursday night as well, a nice little aside to late night shopping amongst the designer names, just pop upstairs for a dance with a handsome stranger in a major department store....as you do.

Only in Paris.....

Princess Grace Kelly

I went to the Grace Kelly exhibition at Hotel de Ville recently and was amazed by the seeming perfectionism this woman oozed. An Oscar winning actress who gives up her acting career to marry a Prince and turns into a ball hosting, poetry reading, dried flower art making, virtual saint of a mother of three. Looking at bits of her life encased in glass made it all surreal somehow, like she was a phantom Princess, with her gold oscar and white wedding dress floating on display, her ghostly presence visible in the background with grainy black and white clips from her movies, untouchable and unreal. Apart from her tragic and too early death, her life was perfect, so it seems. Surrounded by rich and famous friends, adored by a Prince and her children, she embodied all the roles of women endeavor to, rolled into one. Something just doesn’t seem right....

Then we discover she was not always ‘perfect’, as she engaged in an affair with a married man before she married Prince Rainier. Her father was blatantly against this, as his personal letters to her were encased in glass in the exhibit, open for all to read. Joking with my friend about this whilst reading the letters, an older French lady joins in our conversation. ‘Oh yes, he was having an affair with her”, she said, almost proudly confirming this man’s infidelity and then defending it with a quip that, to the French it just doesn’t matter....’zit is zee Franche waaay...’

Beyond Beaches

Our first beach day was just outside Antibes in a place called Juan Les Pins.  An extremely crowded public beach, we chose the posh option and found a private beach with comfy sunbeds and waiters serving coffee....the only way to do a beach.  Much quieter and more civilized we settled in for some serious tanning and people watching, and there was endless sights to see.  I cannot even imagine what the beaches in Nice or St. Tropez are like compared to this relatively middle of the line one, but we couldn't help but giggle amongst the women clad in Christian Lacroix bikinis, puffed up muscle men wearing almost thongs, and excess older flesh on display.   We seemed to be the only sort of normal, English people on this particular stretch of beach, but we did not mind as the kids were content, the wine was fine, and the mussels and calamari were delicious.

At the end of the day we decided to take a boat tour around the Cap d'Antibes.  It was an underwater glass boat we thought the kids would enjoy, and they did.  The blonde French ponytailed tour guide was very informative and knew who owned each villa and private yacht.  We passed the stunning house of the bigwig at BMW (two connecting villas, one facing the sun when it rises, one facing it when it sets), the King of Jordan's villa, the head honcho of Heineken's pad, and the posh Eden Roc Hotel which costs up to 15,000 euros a night and where you have to pay 600 euros a day for a sunbed and 80 euros just to go for a swim!  Our indulgent private beach costs didn't feel so bad now.  

There is a lot of money in this part of the world, almost uncomfortably so, but it is easy to see why everyone flocks here.  The combination of the consistently warm climate with the scenic mountains overlooking the glorious Mediterranean and chic French culture is hard to beat.  The great thing is you can take or leave the chicness and wealthy ducks waddling around town, because everyone is on holiday and looking to relax.  Only the very sad are comparing designer bikinis and flip flops.

Unfortunately many of the 'village perches' are overrun by tourists, but it didn't deter us from visiting places like Biot (known for it's glass blowing factories), Grasse (known for it's perfume factories), and Gourdon, the highest and prettiest village of the Gorges du Loup, a stunning drive that takes you up through the mountains around a gorge with vast waterfalls and terrifying cliff drops.  On the way down we did stop for a dip in the rock pools of the mountain river, a secret spot the locals go to with a picnic instead of the beach.  Though the slippery rocks are lethal, we can quickly see why this nature haven is more appealing than the sandy, heaving beach.

Though the kids were actually very interested in how they make pretty glass vases, and even more in how perfume is made, it was time for a dreaded but necessary kiddy day, so we were off to Marineland, expecting the worst and busiest day of our holiday.  We were pleasantly surprised with a well run marine park that wasn't too crowded and mostly with a little boy who was beside himself with excitement over seeing a real, live orca.  Not only that, he was about to get up close and personal with the dolphins too and it was almost too much to take.   With scenes of Free Willy running through my mind and a heavy lump in my throat I watched the Orca show with completely mixed feelings.  The look on Sam's face was pure bliss, but part of me was wishing he was seeing them in the wild instead of with a blonde American girl standing on the tip of their nose clapping her hands.  I'm sure they are well looked after, and the show was truly fantastic, I was only moved by this unbelievable relationship between man and beast, and the smile on my son's face.

We were truly entranced by this part of the world, and feel especially lucky to live in such a diverse and beautiful country.  Even after the 930km drive home to Paris we resolved to go back there and see all those places we missed, namely Cannes, Nice, and St. Tropez!!  Ah well, it was the village perches and a big fishtank which were more fascinating for this family, those bigger cities can wait, I don't think the Lacroix bikini bunnies are going anywhere soon.

Cote D'Azur

From the lush green vineyards of Provence we have made our way to the slightly more tropical Cote D'Azur with it's palm trees, glamorous beaches and red, sandy cliffs.  After a horrific drive on the worst day of the year for traffic, we finally make it to our villa in Valbonne.  The sound of les cygales are less intense than in our remote farmhouse stationed high above the village of Faucon.  In a weird way I kind of miss that remoteness.  Just hearing the odd car or motorbike is distracting after the solitude of Merindol, but it is still fairly peaceful and quiet.  

I walked to the village of Valbonne this morning which was much prettier than I expected.  Along the walk I peered into the gardens of many villas, all seemingly abandoned apart from the glistening, obligatory pool.  Strangely, in the middle of a high grassed field there stood a white plastic table and four white plastic chairs, as if the horses themselves were having a garden party with various inhabitants of the meadow.  There happened to be an antiques market in the square and down the charming little streets.  I so wanted to buy something but feel far too naive about buying antiques.  There was a small, heavy iron which looked old, and a bit of a dangerous weapon, but had no price and i was too scared to ask.  

We go back in the evening 'en famille' and the square has a decidedly different feel.  Gone are the quaint antiques among the tables and chairs in the outdoor brasseries, and it is heaving with overly tanned, even some crisp, mostly English people looking for somewhere to eat.  One side of the square is obviously more busy than the other, one restaurant catering more to children than the rest.  We are lured in as well and end up waiting for a table next to the presenter Alice Beer and her two cute twin girls.  She comments on Ruby's Ariel Barbie who's gold bikini top has fallen off leaving her topless and we laugh.  I pretend not to recognise her whilst Tom makes googly eyes at me.  We eventually sit down to a great meal, brochettes de la mer and lasagne for the kids, and the square soon turns into a circus, complete with clowns doing shows and selling bright helium balloons.  Nowhere, it seems, is immune to the tourist trap.  I cannot deny we enjoyed people watching here, and almost recognised a few more faces but weren't confident enough to speak to them, they just all looked 'familiar'.  As we were leaving the French were all rolling in, just beginning their evening.  At least it wasn't completely English...

Pont D'Avignon

Once hosting 22 arches, it was built over 8 years at the beginning of the 13th century when Saint Bezenet laid the first large stone himself, alone.

Sign Of The Times

Playing harp and texting friends in Avignon

Resting after a long climb up to the Count's Castle at Vaison

Vaison La Romaine

The bridge leading up to the old town and castle with monument carved into the wall to remember the floods

Provence

We are staying in Northern Provence, in the Vaucluse area (which means 'closed valley'), and the term describes accurately where we are situated, nestled amongst large foothills and various lush vineyards, with a small mountain overlooking our farmhouse complete with Roman castle ruins, and the larger Mont Ventoux in the distance. Mont Ventoux gets its name from the french word for wind which is 'vent' as apparently it is very windy at the top. During mistral season the wind is massively strong at the top of the limescale mountain. This was also where the sport of mountain climbing was born. The writer Petrarch went up with his brother in 1336, and according to historians, this was the first recorded experience of anyone climbing a mountain simply for pleasure. It takes around 5 hours to walk to the summit of Mont Ventoux, but not so energetic travellers will be relieved to know a road has been built to the top as well. According to Eyewitness Travel Guides, until 1973 there was a motor race on the south side of Ventoux, to the top. These windy and steep mountain roads are often included as a challenging stage of the Tour de France as well. Not sure if we will make it up there even by car with our carsick prone family.

We are staying in a remote restored farmhouse near the hamlet Merindol-des-Oliviers, a place where there really doesn't seem to be much happening. The sound of 'les cygales' (crickets) is overwhelmingly loud when we arrive, but you soon get used to them. Then, sometime in the early evening, they all of a sudden just stop, and it's a relief when you can once again hear yourself think. The view from our outdoor terasse is exceptional, short green trees in perfect sandy rows paint the landscape in soft mounds, with the larger white topped summit of Ventoux in the distance. We are virtually hovering on a cliff, and have warned the children not to venture too far. We go on a few adventures which basically lead us from vineyard to vineyard, and Noah becomes obsessed with taking pictures of grapes, and some very good ones too. Gail and I are determined to find our way up to the ruined castle on the hilltop overlooking us. We start our incline hoping to be in the right direction and half an hour and a bit of luck later make it there, to the 'Vieux Ville'. It is slightly eerie, with a miniscule graveyard across from the ruined castle, covered in scaffolding and quite unwelcoming with it's 'Interdit' signs on the door. Strangely there is a lone motorhome parked on a ledge alongside the castle, and a mailbox at the start of the path leading to the ruin. As we walk along we see there is work underway here as well, with signs of 'private property' and 'danger'. From what I could read of the French historical signpost in front of the castle, 7 strong men performed its demolition in 1700 something, for a reason unknown at this time. We did not dwell there long however, as soon as I mentioned that it felt like we could be in one of those weird horror movies, with this lone camper van luring us in from our naive curiousity, surely hosting some crazed serial killer waiting for stupid tourists like us to wander slowly uphill to a demolished and relatively unimpressive castle..... we were outta there!

The whole area of the Vaucluse is embedded with Roman influence. From the great theatre in Orange and the ruins of Vaison-La-Romaine to Carpentras there is evidence of Roman history and culture. Vaison-La-Romaine is our nearest town, and we feel very lucky to be so close to such a beautiful, historical place. The Roman remains here have been virtually left untouched, it is an archaeologist's playground. The town's origins go back 2400 years alongside the river Ouveze which burst it's banks in 1992 in the worst flood France has ever seen. They have recuperated since then, but remember the tragic day with a plaque engraved on the stone wall above the bridge stating 'Souvenions nous' (Remember Us).

We all make our way uphill in the scorching heat to the medieval quarter of the town. The narrow lanes and alleys provide a labyrinth of lovely terrace houses combined with art galeries, creperies, and ice cream shops. We finally make it to the top (even Ruby who has a burst of energy and nearly runs up the stairs!) and enjoy another stupendous view. The ruins of the castle atop this hill was built in the 12th century by the Counts of Toulouse, and partly reconstructed in the 15th century. Unable to walk around the ruins, we were more taken in by the estates attached to vineyards with pools scattered in the landscape, imagining a house of our own there one day...

The town itself hosts many souvenir shops as you would expect, and the pottery is too colorful to resist. We buy some, along with pretty packets of lavender and herbs de Provence of course, and I am tempted by an expensive Moonstone ring. We attend the weekly market and it is one of the best I've seen in France. With only a few bits of food intended to buy, we end up getting most of the souvenir requirements for home in this bustling place which sells everything from tablecloths to wooden salad tongs made from olive wood to pots of fresh paella. We eventually end up at the poissonerie to get the sought after sea bass I was determined to barbeque and end up paying a huge amount for two very fat fish. The fishmonger however provided us with a bit of a show gutting and scaling the fish, which made it almost worth it. Almost....as the kids and Gail did not eat a bite and I should have just bought one of the fat flippers and saved 25 euros.

Next we visit Avignon, the walled city. I sing the french song 'Sur le Pont....Avignon' the whole way and drive the kids crazy, but I've heard Ruby singing it at school, though she doesn't seem to appreciate it now. The town is bursting with the festive fever of theatre shows, with performers everywhere providing glimpses of their productions and handing out leaflets, the most interesting being 'Les Monologues de Penis', an offshoot of the women's version apparently, but what made it interesting was the naked actor covered barely by a cardboard box handing out the brochures. At least it kept the kids entertained whilst we had lunch.

As ever, entranced by the souvenir shops selling the same ceramic crickets in each one making the same bloody annoying noise (who would ever buy those??), we tear the children away and convince them to have a tour of Le Palais des Papes (the Pope's Palace), for a little bit of culture, forced though it may be. This is a 14th century fortress built by the Popes of Avignon who lived there for 100 years from 1309. Each of us had our own audio guide, even the children, and amazingly the kids lasted more than an hour.

Though it was almost impossible to sleep comfortably and the kids were eaten alive by all sorts of strange bugs, we were sort of sad to leave Les Rouviers. Our regular Boules and Uno games in the evening with the odd disco to Greenday, some strange rapper singing about handlebars, with some country thrown in, made for amusing entertainment. But the Welch's European holiday had almost come to an end and it was time for us to move on....

Giverny

After finally learning how to say the name of this town properly (Jah-ver-nay), we have decided to take a day trip to visit Monet's gardens.  The kids are too excited for words, as you can imagine, to see a garden full of flowers and lilypads that some famous artist painted a long time ago.  No matter how much history and culture we try and feed them, whilst living in such a historical country, they are still more excited by ice cream and carrousels.  

The drive is quaint and not nearly as far outside Paris as we thought.  We arrive in under an hour and the kids are already whinging about what is there and what they're going to do there.  Sam soon realises this is not a 'kids day', it's a parents day and therefore decides to make it as painful as possible for us.  Even one of the American tourists appreciates his charm when after some loud whinging she says 'well aren't you delightful'.  Anyway, we press on and try to teach our kids about the beauty of nature and why Monet wanted to paint such landscapes.  Not sure if they realised this when we left as thier only desire was to get back in the car to continue watching the movie they had started on the way.  

So that leads me to ask, is it even possible to teach our kids about culture nowadays, or are they too screen focused and full of hydrogenated oils and E-chemicals to care?  We leave feeling a bit cheated on our experience but at least I got some cute photos of Ruby with some pretty flowers, and we picked up some lovely cushions as a souvenir.

A Night In Paris

How much can you cram into one night in Paris??  When you sort of know where you're going, you're with a willing partner (who happens to be a travel writer writing an article on doing things in Paris without a guidebook), and the weather is fine, a lot can be seen and done.  There's endless places to discover in Paris, tiny side streets, new cafes that are old really but new to you, and for me this evening, a small, quirky anglophone bookshop nestled away on Rue Parcheminerie in the 5th.  The large Canadian flag outside Abbey Bookshop dominates the small street, it is almost impossible to miss yet I seem to have done easily over the past two years.  

As I walk down the crowded, narrow lane I can hear a loud English voice reciting something.  People are milling about drinking red wine from white plastic cups, and there are slabs of wood teetering on towers of books outside the shop carrying huge chunks of cheese and saucisson.  They are listening to the freckle faced man describing an unfortunate situation with sheep and shit, using many expletives in the process.  Quite expressive in his reading, he shocks the ignorant people walking through who have stumbled across this little street.  Some stop and listen and laugh (presumably anglophone), whilst the French or other Europeans look a bit disgusted with his f'ing and blinding.  He is an author promoting his book on what is their 19th anniversary of being open.

Brian, the Canadian owner, is intrigued as to how I never heard about his shop, and jokingly asks his French assistant in charge of marketing how this could be so.  We decide that it's a combination of foreign ignorance and bad luck but on the bright side contains the appealing possibility of delightful discovery in a place that isn't in your face....or something like that.  They immediately put me on their mailing list and invite me on their next 25km hike outside Paris.  The Canadian friendliness in a European city is very much welcomed.

Before heading to a restaurant for dinner Roger (my writing instructor from my writing course in Norway) is keen to check out the Samba dancing on the Quai near Institute Monde d'Arab.  I've always wanted to do this.  We jump on our velibs and ride along the river, the warm air turning to a welcoming breeze as we pedal faster.  On such an evening the quartier was heaving, but we dove straight through the crowd.  They do this dancing every night in the summer when weather permits, the quai is transformed into an open-air dance floor.  Roger takes many pictures and I wished I had my camera too.  Then he invites me to dance and I remember he told me he took Salsa lessons in Argentina.  A bit hesitant but in we went, joining the other already sweaty and very good dancers.  I wish I could have relaxed a little bit more and let loose, but I was a bit overwhelmed by the crowd and quality of dancing around me.  We caught the last song and the music stops abruptly at 11pm.  People continue to hang out and dance and drink by the river.  We jumped on our velibs again and headed toward the Marais for dinner.  We stop en route at Hotel De Ville which is beautifully lit up and Roger takes more photos of me on the velib and tells me I'll be in the Daily Express next weekend.  Not impressed, I take some of him to use instead.

Maite, the French girl from the bookshop, recommends a restaurant on Rue de Montmartre called Le Tambour.  The plastic chairs and tables with umbrellas outside put us off a little bit, but are encouraged more when we go inside to eat.  Cute and kitsch with friendly anti-tourists signs on the door to the toilet and above the kitchen, you get the feel of a different kind of French flair, hurried in the staff's rushing about, but laid back in atmosphere.  Service is unbelievably quick and the food is good.  Whilst eating the tables fill up around us as more and more people come in to eat their dinner at midnight.  The very cute French waiter handles it all with ease, shouting 'C'est chaud' about everything he carries so people make way, even if it's two cold glasses of beer.

Then we head to a bar called 'Le Coeur Fou' (The Crazy Heart) which was apparently going to be called 'Craps' until someone saw a movie of the former name and changed it.   After an expensive cocktail, Le Coeur Fou surprisingly announced last call quite early and we ended up at a nightclub called The Social Club.  We paid 12 euros each to get in so we decided we better check out the funky DJ called Barbie something.  Little did we know it was gay and lesbian night, or if it wasn't their night it was definitely a place favored by them, more lesbian than gay really.  We had a beer each and got into the groove of the music.  The consistent thumping of the dj's bass gets under your skin, and after a few songs we were drawn to the dance floor.  It is so easy to lose your sense of time and space in this kind of atmosphere.  Your head automatically thumps along to the beat, you close your eyes and seem to go up to another world as the soul core of the music reaches up through the floor to your feet and reverberates through your body.  Everyone is dancing alone and dancing together at the same time, we are all in harmony with each other, moving to the same beat, on the same plane.  Time is irrelevant in this place, and before we know it it's 4am.  I feel I could stay longer but know I will have a difficult time getting home.  Taxis always a nightmare in Paris, we jump on yet another bike and go our separate ways, I have at least a 30 minute bike ride ahead of me, but it is a lovely evening (or morning!) and I need to cool off from all the dancing.  

As I ride past the Eiffel tower just after 4, I see it all lit up blue for the first time and am mesmerized.  The atmosphere in Paris even at this time of night is one of frivolity, with friendly 'Bonjour Madame's' from everywhere, people on the street, in their cars, or other fellow bike riders.  I do not feel unsafe in the least, a woman on her own at such an hour, you can't help but feel at one with all the other late night partiers, slightly fizzled from their night out.  At this point I did wonder if riding a bike slightly drunk was illegal, but managed to make it home, unscathed, by 4:30, only my feet aching from my high wedge sandles and from biking and dancing all night.  My amazing (and slightly worried) husband offers to park my bike so I can rest my weary feet and I am asleep by the time he gets back.

I love this city...

Everybody's Happy

After driving back from Normandy on the warmest day of the week we park the car outside the flat and are met with some joyful accordian music across the street.  There's two round, sweaty men playing some classic song I know the words to but not the name of, on the corner of Rue De L'Abbe Groult.  I watch with a smile and think, only in Paris, like they were playing a jolly homecoming tune just for us.  I then see some old women from my building throw something on the street for the men, a pack of coins wrapped in foil.  They wait a few moments to see if there's any others, then move on to play again down the next block. 

Back from holiday with too much alcohol and seafood in my belly, I escape to the streets for some exercise.  I am bit instantly by the happy bug as the warmer air and sunshine envelops me.  As I walk towards our local square Adolphe Cherioux I hear more festive music being played and see people dancing under the central gazebo in the square.  I stop to watch and see our local homeless lady (I call her Wilma), dancing her own tipsy jig by her park bench.  I am now more entranced by her than the group, watching her stilted but passionate dance, wondering if she danced sober like this before, one day long ago perhaps.  She's wearing a cap and a smile, her usual men's attire consisting of a grubby overcoat and workboots, with the permanent bottle of whiskey by her side.  Considering the last time I saw Wilma was the backside of her doing a piss in the metro station grate, this was a refreshing perspective, her gappy mouth grinning wide, remembering old times and old dances, old loves even.  It almost brings tears to my eyes and I am drawn to speak to her, find out her story, but my french comprehension is not nearly good enough for drunk, incomprehensible chat.

On my bike I'm so free, moving at my own pace with no one holding me back, pulling on my hand or my bag, voices ringing in my ears, knocking each thought down with interruption.  I could ride like this forever, almost effortless on the flat streets of Paris, with my own special lanes giving me the right to be there, a part of the traffic, a part of the city.  I ride down Vaugirard to Pasteur, turn down Bretueil towards Invalides, people getting thicker the closer I get to the Seine.  As I approach Invalides I am tempted to stop, the grass areas are full of people, mostly lounging in the sun, playing football, frisbee, flying kites, and even one couple rehearsing a tricky dance sequence near the metro station.  Absolutely nothing can surprise me in this city anymore.  I am not ready to get off the bike and run however, so keep going towards Concorde and the Tuileries.  There are so many people everywhere enjoying themselves, eating ice cream, drinking wine or coffee at outdoor cafes, basking in the sun, I am overwhelmed with feeling so fortunate to be alive.  It is difficult to run in such hedonistic conditions, but I press on in the heat, knowing I will feel better for it.  My jaunt takes me round the Tuileries, back along the river towards the Eiffel Tower, under Pont Alexandre to look once again at the cool nightclub I've heard about under the bridge, on towards Pont D'Alma, towards home.  As I walk back through our local Mairie there exists even more jubilation in the form of some kind of celebration, a low key wedding I'm guessing, with guests strewn over the steps, some with guitars and other musical instruments, some swaying to the music, chatting and laughing.  There is so much vibrancy in this community, so much colour to this city, I love it more with every pound of the pavement or dusty step I take. 

Walking to the D-Day Beach

Our Future Youth

Normandy

Spending a long weekend on the Canadian Beach at Normandy was an enlightening experience for this slightly war ignorant family . Juno Beach, near Courselles-Sur-Mer, was one of the landing sites assigned to the Canadian soldiers nearly 64 years ago. Sitting with our friends at their beach 'shackeau', sharing barbequed seabass fresh from the sea and drinking fine Pouilly Fume, the tip of the reality iceberg started to sink in slowly as our hosts recounted the destructive statistics of the time; there was one body every square metre on the beach's edge, and as you got further away it was one every 3rd or 5th square metre. Imagining the amount of lives that ended under our feet was difficult as you looked out towards the blue sea, free of warships and naval mines, and as our children played happily on the no longer blood stained beach.

A visit to Arromanches down the road, the neighbouring town designated as 'Gold Beach' during the D-Day Landings, was fascinating Still existing in this stretch of water were huge concrete blocks required to calm the waves for provisions to be transported during the war. As the children were clambering all over the huge 'memorial' tank it was hard not to feel uncomfortable somehow. The boys then went to the D-Day museum to look at models and artifacts, but the Cinema Circulaire show was much more disturbing. Purely visual, it showed scenes from the times, only with echoes of machine guns and screams to be heard, no dialogue. A bit harsh for these seven year old boys? Perhaps, but historical reality, which provoked a discussion about death that evening and then prompted them all to move in from sleeping in their independent 'bungalow' to quarters closer to comfort.

On a lighter note, we also visited Bayeux, home of the great 'tapisserie' depicting the Battle of Hastings with William The Conquerer in 1066. Impressive at over 70 metres long, the children were more interested by the final scene when King Harold gets an arrow in the eye - ouch!

At night there still evoked an eerie feel from the sea, complete with beams from a ghostly lighthouse, beams which seemed to come directly across the channel, though impossible to be all the way from Hastings in the UK, the only area of land in that direction. Every night was spent with a bottle of beer in hand trying to figure out this phenomenon, never to be discovered presumably...

Normandy is a lovely banlieue with it's glorious (though smelly) fields of yellow flowers called 'colza', the origin for 'rapeseed oil' and beautiful seaside towns with some of the best seafood in the world. However, it also carried an inescapable air of war which was felt everywhere you went. This is one history we don't want repeating itself.

Ok - history lesson over now, phew!

Cultured Kids

With Sam studying Matisse in his art class, Ruby taking ballet lessons, Tom's new 'french only' regime at work, and me in my new photography course, we’ve all started off the new year with cultural intentions.

Ruby recently visited the Dali museum in Montmartre with her school, proceeded by a project on surrealism, namely recreating Dali's famous elephants and clock sculpture called 'The Nobility of Time'.  Personally I find Dali a bit creepy for a four year old to study, but that's culture for you.

A few weeks ago we visited Le Palais Garnier and Ruby decided she wanted the full tour of the famous Opera House.  She felt like we were in the movie 'Beauty and the Beast' and was quite surprised to see 'boy' ballet dancers rehearse on stage.  This was followed by a cinematic viewing of the ballet 'Caligula' showing in the basement of the Opera House, a tad erotic for a four year old but she was entranced by the artistic impression I am sure. 

And finally 'binoga' (yoga to you & I) is her latest activity as it is now being incorporated into the curriculum at school.  She has apparently mastered the breathing techniques required along with the 'down faced dog' yoga position.  This teamed with her formal ballet class at the Academie De Danse is turning her into a right mademoiselle.

With Ruby excelling in the Arts, of course we are very proud, but realise not all children have such a natural yearning to learn about culture. 

Sam, on the other hand, though excelling in rugby with his dad at the weekends, is falling out with his various french teachers at school.  After receiving his second report card of the year we are pleased to see a huge progression in French, yet strangely he is not taking the other courses in school so seriously, such as Art, Gym, Music, and Computers, all taught by french teachers.  

Sam receives a note in his agenda from his french art teacher stating; 'Sam does not listen to me when I speak to him.  Sam always has his fingers in his mouth.  Sam is not a baby anymore.  He must make a painting on the subject of 'Sam is not a baby anymore'.  Use colors freely, proper paint preferably, collage is acceptable'.  The French revel in humiliation at all levels, and apparently it's quite a common method used in schools to keep children in line.  Maybe this is why the french are so pissed off when they grow up.

However, his recent masterpiece is a sculpture based on Alfred Jacquemart's work, the artist who sculpted the 'Rhinoceros' outside the Musee d'Orsay.  Carrying the tall, spindly man made out of plaster home on the bus was interesting, though not an unusual sighting in this city.  

Though the kids are being subjected to all kinds of culture in Paris, we're not quite sure how much is sinking in.  Sam is still quite anti-french and is turning his sister against them too as she refuses to play with French girls at school.  We wonder whether this is just a matter of culture clash or a truly informed opinion after spending 18 months in Paris!

For adult culture Tom and I recently went to the Marie Antoinette Exhibition at Le Grand Palais.  Everyone apart from the French seem to be entranced by this women, the French just seem tired of her.  Saying that, it was a fantastic exhibition and I was relieved to see the furniture from that era is similar to my authentic Louis XVI chair.  

Also very interesting was the Femmes de Monde Exhibit, stunning photographs of women from around the world from photographer Titouan Lamazou:

This is the story of a navigator, a dreamer who enthusiastically and courageously braved the the seas and oceans day after day, sails to the wind, in search of beauty and the absolute...

When the sea was calm, this sailor set about painting, drawing, or taking photographs to recount his amazing journey to us. It is the fabulous story of Titouan Lamazou! The Musée de l’Homme invites us to discover, "Zoé Zoé", the wonderful portraits of women by Titouan Lamazou during his travels over five continents. Six years journeying in search of his muse, is summed up in 200 sketches, photos, paintings and texts.
In the beauty of his models, and his art works, Titouan Lamazou shows us that he felt even more inspired by his many encounters across the world than by the crossing of nations and frontiers.
We are therefore able to become acquainted with young female Chinese rock stars, a very made-up Brazilian actress from 1997, a princess from Bali, a mother of five children, etc. It is then a veritable artistic world tour that our generous-hearted sailor proposes. Not to be missed!

With the upcoming Jazz Festival in St.Germain and the superb Babylon exhibit at the Louvre, we've got lots to see and do this spring, but a family trip to Normandy is in order first, followed by a short excursion to Norway for some travel writing and photography practice with fjords for inspiration.

Black November Fades to Grey

After eighteen months in Paris things are starting to settle down and get easier. After Sarkozy's 'Black November' last year we weren't sure if we'd recover, but we have, until the next transport strike anyway. France has become a bit more interesting with Sarkozy ruling along with his new wife, Carla Bruni. The political climate feels like a virtual soap opera, full of intrigue and glamour, gossip and sex appeal. Seeing pictures of Sarkozy cuddling up to his attractive missus makes him feel more 'real', albeit in a celebrity kind of way, regardless somehow more approachable and appealing than your run of the mill politician, like someone you might actually bump into jogging along the Seine in the early hours when all the true Parisians are fast asleep.

Needless to say, Paris is never boring. With all the buzz of a big city it exudes something a bit more special somehow, unattainably appealing. It's a city that you immediately love for all the obvious reasons, then soon love to hate once you become victim to linguistic disadvantages, then slowly fall back in love with as you gain more confidence or get more familiar with the geography. Sometimes all it takes is a successful chat with a friendly waiter, a glimpse of the sun shining on Invalides golden hat, or a sip of an espresso whilst you watch the whirlwind of Paris blow around you. Such simple things all of a sudden become more meaningful in Paris, but that's an adult point of view.

Paris at knee height is much different. Most children not used to the hustle and bustle of city life will dislike moving to a city with a foreign language. 'There's too many people and they're too bossy' is how my children view the Parisians, and they are right. They are homesick sometimes, understandably. They miss the space in a house, the outdoor freedom of a garden, the even more simple things that mean much more to children than to their parents. And what do you do if you love a place that your children don't? Or at the very least aren't at their happiest? Move, of course. But not yet....

Spring in Paris is around the corner...and I wouldn't miss that for the world.