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