My Parisian affairs
I didn’t take any vacation in 2010. It’s true! I tried to, but then I had to come back to work to resolve some issues and then – poof! – 2010 was over.
My friend Jenny and I had been talking about going to Paris and Provence pretty much since my first trip there in 2009, when I fell in love with the City of Light. So when we bought our tickets in the beginning of the year, the trip felt millennia away. But I put my nose to the grindstone, looked up for a second and – poof! – it was time to go!
My love for Paris has no context, really. I was never one of those English majors who wanted to chase Hemingway’s ghost through the Left Bank. Nor have I ever been an art nerd interested in dedicating long afternoons to the Centre Pompidou or the Louvre. I’m not a fashion fiend or a chef chaser.
I just really like soaking in the beauty of the place. I decided that for this trip, I didn’t need a fancy reservation or a firm itinerary; I just wanted to cycle around, pick up each scene between my index finger and thumb and gobble it up.
What’s so great about Paris? I think it’s the life I can imagine for myself when I look at all of these people. Parisians aren’t just gorgeous, they’re confident, assured about their beauty. I want to be them AND to be with them. My French is très mauvais, which means I really have no idea what goes on in their inner lives; maybe that’s why I can crush on them so hard. As I observe them, there’s a montage of Parisian scenes I sort of mentally deposit myself into.
*
I’m the French counter guy at the Rose Bakery. My accented English is close to impeccable because I practice every day with the American pastry chefs who man the ovens, baking coffee mug-sized muffins and gluten-free loaf cakes for the many tourists who have breakfast here. I scoop surprising sides like black sesame roasted potatoes and radish-cucumber salad into takeaway boxes for the locals at lunchtime. I’m having an affair with the wispy English rose of a waitress. I love her mascaraed eyes, her tiny waist, and the way she pronounces “assiettes des legumes” with a grass snake hiss.
*
I’m that teenage girl at the Tuileries straddling my boyfriend behind the hedges and making out. What do you mean, aren’t I embarrassed? OF COURSE I’m not embarrassed. What’s embarrassing about TRUE LOVE? I’m going to put our lock on the Pont des Arts and throw the key into the Seine. If anyone tries to cut our lock I’ll throw myself into the river, too. I MEAN IT.
*
I’m Auguste Rodin living in my big ass mansion with my big ass rose garden and my big ass hedges for my big ass statues. Ne me dérangez pas! Je pense.
*
I’m that young lady in the tulip skirt sitting at the bar by myself. I came to Marcel, a cafe on the most beautiful, dappled street tucked at the top of the Montmartre. The wooden cubbies on the wall are lined with cans of Heinz Baked Beans and Tabasco sauce for purchase; it’s like a little bit of Williamsburg in Paris. I cozied up to a plate of creamy moules with golden frites and a glass tumbler full of Eton mess, brimming with mara des bois. That cute waiter has asked me twice if I want a coffee. I wonder if my French is convincing enough for him to think I’m from here.
*
I’m that dazzling racehorse of a woman who joins her businessman companions halfway through their lunch at Marcel. I’m in my early forties; I’m sleeping with the older businessman, but I could nail the younger one with a single come hither look. No one has ever rocked a heathered V-neck and belted white jeans like I can. My tousled auburn bedhead is richly striated and subtle – sure, it’s my own hair color, artistically speaking. I’m as thin as a centime except for a few strategic slopes and valleys. Really, darlings, this is nothing; you should have seen me sunning in Saint-Tropez.
*
I’m in kitten heels, stripes, and Ray-Bans riding a Velib’ bike* to work in this glorious weather. My perma-pursed lips are a little orange-red heart punctuating every sentence and my wavy hair is perched in a haphazard pile atop my head. I’m going to pick up a baguette on the way home — any baguette from any corner shop — which will come in a 10″-sack that only protects half of the baton’s length from the elements, preserving the crackle-chew of its crust. I’ll also grab some dark and gamy raspberries from my favorite greengrocer. He’ll pack them neatly in a paper bag for me so they don’t fly around the bike’s wire basket.
*
I’m the Middle Eastern man steeping thé a la menthe in bulbous copper kettles all day, perfuming the air around the Canal St. Martin. I pour the sweetened, fragrant tea into little plastic cups and top with a teaspoonful of toasted almonds. Go ahead, take a delicate fleur d’oranger honeyed almond paste sweet, too. You know you want one. My fluffy Maltese sits by my stand and barks at my customers all day, but nobody takes her very seriously.
*
I’m the bespectacled, scarf-wearing, bald hipster in for a late night dinner of dessert and Gauloises at Le Dauphin. Thank god for the small plates in this place; my gut wouldn’t be able to handle a whole meal next door at Le Chateaubriand. My blue chambray looks smashing against the cool gray marble of the Rem Koolhaus room. But those mirrors, those mirrors! Trop de la vérité, I tell you. Turn this room on its side, take 15 kilos off me, and it would be just like that summer I spent up my nose when I was 21. You know, if it weren’t so unfashionable to be this fat, I’d have that dreamy squid ink risotto, its hot ooze as black as my heart. As it is, I’ll content myself with a strawberry rhubarb crumble showered with elderflowers, or a bit of this cool frozen fermented milk with olive oil and thyme. Mademoiselle, another adorable bottle of the pink bulles, please.
*
I’m a teacher living on Rue des Rosiers in a rooftop apartment with a slanted ceiling and two balconies. Would you like to come over for some cold rosé? Ah, thank you for the beautiful gariguette strawberries. Let me spoon some crème fraîche into a bowl for dipping.
Let’s walk across the Pont Marie to Le Petit Pontoise. It’s hard to beat the sunset behind the tented fingers of Notre Dame. It’s late; I don’t think we’ll need a reservation. It’s a Monday night, and things are pretty quiet on the left bank. Look, a table out front for us! What beats a warm camembert with honey and almonds? Pass me those sweet, tawny crevettes and cool, tender haricots verts. Mmm…taste this velvety foie de veau and mashed potatoes! Let’s split a bottle of white burgundy and sip the final dregs of cornflower from May’s 23:00 sky.
***
Musée Rodin
79, rue de Varenne
7th Arrondissement
+33(0)1 44 18 61 10
Rose Bakery
30, rue Debelleyme
3rd Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 44 78 08 97
Closed Mondays
Marcel
1, villa Léandre
18th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 46 06 04 04
Le Dauphin
131, avenue Parmentier
11th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 55 28 78 88
Le Petit Pontoise
9, rue de Pontoise
5th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 43 29 25 20
Hotels in Paris can be tough. My last trip to Paris was spent in the dankest hostel with loud, messy college kids climbing up and down bunk beds with NBA player feet. For this trip, we spent most nights in the clean Hotel Turenne le Marais, which was fine except that the room was a shoebox, the two narrow beds about the size of electric guitar cases. On our last night, we stayed at the charming Hotel Jeanne d’Arc le Marais just around the corner, which was a touch quieter and roomier. It seems to be quite popular, so it can be hard to book a room, but I really enjoyed our brief stay there and recommend it.
Hotel Jeanne d’Arc le Marais
3, rue de Jarente
4th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 48 87 62 11
View Paris 2011 in a larger map
*You CAN rent Velib’ bikes with a chipless American credit card! The machines take American Express cards only (neither my Mastercard debit nor credit card worked). It costs 8 Euros for a 7-day membership and 29 Euros for a one-year membership (which is amazing). The stations are everywhere. Download the Velib’ app to find the bike station near you. In well-populated areas late at night, it can be hard to find an empty parking spot for the bike. Don’t fret, though—the next bike station is usually not more than a few blocks away. The bikeshare program makes so much sense in a dense city of Paris’s scale. I love that you can park a bike, walk a ways, then pick up a different bike wherever you want to. Drivers are quite aware of cyclists and people seem to follow the traffic rules (including stopping at red lights). One thing to know: while people love to ride their Velib’ bikes down the hill from Montmartre, not many people like to take the bikes up the hill TO Montmartre, which means there are lots of empty bike stations up there.
*
And I’ll tell you who I’m not — I’m not this lame-ass tourist couple sitting on the steps of the Sacré-CÅ“ur with interlocked arms reading aloud from a single copy of Le Petit Prince. Pardonnez moi, I just vommed all over them.
Seriously, I will run you over.
I like to think that my bicycle commute is the loveliest part of my day. And it can be, especially on a breezy, mid-70s day like today. However, it can also make me a cranky, clenched bitch.
New York pedestrians are an entitled lot, and much of my commute in either direction was spent accumulating and hocking my anger-lugeys at the dickveins blocking the bike lane. My epithet-hurling started out a little lame and rusty during the morning commute, but by the time I made my way down that particularly smegmatic 10pm stretch of 2nd Avenue from the itchy scrotum of Murray Hill to the bulging hemorrhoids of the Lower East Side, I was in excellent form. Of the people who crossed my bike path today, it would be really difficult for me to choose the one I liked the least, so I’ll start with the one I liked and let it all go downhill from there.
Location: Park Slope, 5th Ave., in front of The Gate.
Subject: A young man with two French bulldogs waiting for the walk signal to turn green. Once it does, he and the dogs begin to cross from west to east. The black bulldog trots happily alongside the young man. The white bulldog plods slowly behind, its stumpy little legs inching forward at a stately pace. Its walker patiently leads it towards the corner, never tugging.
Reaction: <3 <3 <3
Location: Jay Street near the courthouse
Subject: A man with a briefcase jaywalking in the middle of the street, nowhere near the crosswalk. He’s standing in the car lane, about to step into the bike lane as I approach. I put the brakes on. He pauses. Then he has the gall to say, “Make a decision,” while standing in the middle of the fucking car lane.
My reaction: A very lame, “Y-Y-YOU make a decision!”
Location: The Manhattan Bridge
Subject: A Chinese guy* on a motorized bike ascending the Brooklyn side of the bridge at an excruciatingly slow pace, all while the motor is emitting its dying mosquito buzz as it struggles up the incline.
My reaction: I wait for a descending cyclist to pass, then I pass the old man. Then, because I am a slow rider, I hear the buzz chase me all the way to the top of the bridge. Mental note: must get in better shape and ride faster if I can be tailgated by a mosquito.
Location: East Village, 1st Ave. and 10th St.
Subject: A young brunette woman standing on the inner edge of the bike lane while her leashed dog is squarely in the middle of the fucking bike lane.
My reaction: Ding-ding-ding-ding! rings my bell. “Your dog!” Ding-ding-ding! “BIKE LANE!” She finally pulls her dog up on the sidewalk, turning. I see that she is talking on her fucking cell phone. For the rest of the commute to work, I have a seething fantasy about telling her how much I would enjoy being there when her world crumbles after her dog gets run over by someone who rides faster than I do. What will she and her E.V. banker husband do when they no longer have a canine buffer to prop their empty sockless loafer lives up? How will she clean up the mess when her golden pup becomes another glob of viscera and fur, not unlike the TWO separate dead rats I’ve ridden around in the bike lane both Tuesday and today? (Any bets on how long I’ll see those rats on my commute, decomposing away?)
Location: In front of the Kips Bay Movie Theater, Kips Bay
Subject: A couple, he in a tucked-in polo shirt and khakis, she in a skirt. They are walking against traffic in the middle of the bike lane. They look like they’re on a date and about to see a movie. They seem kind of new to New York.
My reaction: “Get out of the bike lane. Assholes!” They don’t react. I hope I’ve ruined the possibility of enjoying their movie as they think about their first time being called assholes in NYC. Mwahahahahahahaha!
Location: About 23rd and 2nd Ave.
Subject: A guy coasting slowly on his bike while another guy walks along the right side of the bike in tandem. It would be sort of romantic, except that there are several bikes behind the two. To pass, the bikes behind must ride in traffic and get back into the bike lane ahead of them.
My reaction: “Oh COME ON!”
Their reaction: “You come on!” Which I realize is what I did this morning. I hope his comeback feels equally lame.
Location: About 14th St. and 2nd Ave.
Subject: A Chinese guy* on a motorized bike. I must admit that I have a thing against motorized bicycles. Like, what, you’re too good to pedal like the rest of us? But I especially disliked this guy because, get this, he was riding SIDE SADDLE. Swear to god. Was the wittle seaty-weaty too hard for his wittle ballsy-wallsies?
My reaction: ??@#??
*And it’s always a Chinese guy. What’s with the motorized bikes and the Chinese? Is there some secret underground bike shop in Chinatown where you can get a little jet pack for your two-wheeler?
France, Je Viens!
AAAARRRRGGGH! I’m going to France on Sunday! AAAAAAAARRRRRGHGHHHGasdlf jalsdkfj!
I can’t believe it’s already here. I’ve been planning this trip for ages. Now that I’m only two days away, the Dominican lunch counter beef stew I had for dinner refuses to yield to my digestive system. Despite my bust of a trip across Gotland, the idea of a bike tour still thrills me. This time, my very fit pal Jenny is coming along to shame me when my doughy ass meets a hill. We’ll be going to Paris, then taking a train to Avignon and doing a self-guided tour there. (It’s the same trip that was written up in the NYT a few years ago.)
I bought a book that assured me I could learn French in 15 minutes a day. It looked pretty good; alas, I only looked at it once. And I don’t even remember what I learned.
My iPhone is dead so I think I will go without it which I’m kind of psyched about, though I realize it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have working GPS. This means no tweeting, which I also think will be good for me. Perhaps I will get better at forming thoughts with fully-enunciated words and proper serial commas. Also, I will be relying on the old point-and-shoot for pics. It’ll be old-school EDOW up in dis bizzzz.
How do I pack for 4 days in Paris (Posh Spice) and 4 days cycling in Provence (Sporty Spice)?? How do I leave enough room for the edible souvenirs I will bring back? Should I bring my pannier or leave it? Will the bike I rent even have a rack??
The weather is in the mid-70s in Paris. It’s in the low 80s in Avignon. I just bought three pairs of pants with elastic waistbands. BRING ON LE BEURRE.
I have no restaurant reservations anywhere and I am not eating anywhere fancy (except maybe Chateaubriand if we can get a 10pm table).
GAHHH! France!
How I dropped my keys into the sewer grate – and how I (almost) got them back
According to the automatically created related posts link on my previous post, I have lost my keys before. And now that I think of it, I think I’ve lost my keys three times in my life so far. That’s one time per decade, which is not a bad average (though I didn’t start using keys until I was into my second decade, but whatever).
I have also had key miracles, as I did using a skeleton key from Brooklyn to open a Copenhagen bathroom door that had been shut by the wind.
This story begins, as all my stories do, with a quest involving food. I am en route to a friend’s house for fastelavnsboller, the Danish version of semlor, pre-Lent. I’m making very good time on my bike when I think, hey, why don’t I stop to pick up some coffee beans for the week at REDACTED? All seems copacetic. I leave the cafe with my beans and walk towards my bike, where I see that another girl is locking her bike up to the bike rack.
GIRL: Am I in your way?
ME: No, it’s alright, I’ll just go around to the other side.
I walk around to the curb side of the bike rack and reach into my vest pocket to pull my keys out. (You see where this is going.) I feel metal against my fingers, but then the keys slip out of my grasp and — jingle! klang! plop! — they fall down the metal grate of a sewer drain. A douchebag who happens to observe the entire thing sings, “OHHHHHH!” in the falling tone of an anvil drop. The girl I had valiantly stepped around freezes in guilty horror. I start laughing. I mean, what the what?
I squat and peer down into the sewer grate. It’s the kind where there’s a 3-foot wide by 6-inch tall opening along the curb, but the hole in the ground is covered by a grate that is bolted down well with slots that are barely two inches wide — big enough for my keys to fall through but not big enough for my arm to fit. It’s probably five feet from the grate to the pool of mucky, standing water at the bottom. D-bag, probably feeling repentant for laughing at my misfortune, comes over.
DBAG: You could totally get down there.
ME: No, I couldn’t!
DBAG: Yeah you could.
He reaches into his pocket for a lighter, sparks it up and puts his hand into the grate.
DBAG: Yeah, you totally could. Good luck.
The bike girl asks if I want her to stay, but I tell her I’m fine. I still have my wallet and my phone, it’s a sunny day, and I still have half an hour before I’ll be late for Danish buns. I think, this is just a problem, and solving problems is what I do best! I can do this! I never felt so good, I never felt so strong, nothing can stop us now! I am going to straight up MacGyver this shit!
Oof
Facebook and Twitter have really gotten in the way of my blogging. It’s sad. It almost makes me want to remove my profiles, only I need to keep up with that stuff for work. I recently created a foursquare profile, mostly to see if anyone I know is at the park on a given Saturday, but otherwise, Grandma may have reached capacity on the technology she’s willing to adopt.
In other news, I’ve been experimenting with Soundslides this entire rainy Saturday in an effort to do something cool for the upcoming SAVEUR Barbecue issue. Will probably take me many hours to complete, but I think I can do something pretty nice for it.
Still, I miss writing, dagnabbit! It’s been a while, huh? I have several things I have been wanting to record. such as:
- Dropping my keys into the sewer
- My head made a cameo on The Celebrity Apprentice last week
- The Met’s Capriccio sucked. As Jenny said, “Would have been better as Carpaccio.” Crapaccio?
- Food blogs! Everyone has a food blog, and it’s way better than mine ever was. I bow down.
And that’s all I have for you, really. I’ve got to get back to doing some work now.
Why I became an NYT digital subscriber
I subscribed to NYTimes digital this week because, quite simply, I really like what they do.
I read their news every day. I love the fact that I can download the news on my mobile app so I can read the news even when the train goes underground. On a professional level, I also really admire what their infographics team does. The NYTimes provides me with a base reading of the world’s temperature. The other news sources I draw on are calibrated against it.
I know from my own career that good journalism costs money. Compelling writing, fact-checking, copy editing, design, these are all things that enrich my news experience and help me understand the world.
I don’t want journalism solely driven by clicks and search terms. I don’t give a shit about Suri Cruise’s high heel addiction or Barry Bonds’s testicular asymmetry. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in giving people what they want to read. But I also want to be able to fund and support the stuff that maybe isn’t going to show up in search. My fear is that journalism will become a career that only trustafarians can afford to enter into. That’s not good for the kids and it’s not good for the news.
Call me a square, but I also don’t download music for free. I have a lot of friends who are musicians. I respect the fact that they’re trying to make a living by stringing together $100 gigs a few times a week (and these are the really talented ones). They don’t owe me or anyone free music.
Nor do I sneak into movie theaters or hop the subway turnstiles. I like our social contract.
Here on EDOW, I flirted with brief periods of advertising, but I didn’t like the way the ads interfered with the site and the paltry pennies I made weren’t even worth the trouble of adding the code. So yes, I’m giving my writing away. But this blog doesn’t support my living. I write it for myself, it doesn’t cost me anywhere near the cost of sending a reporter into a war zone; I am happy to give it away for free.
You know what would be really easy? It would be really easy to take my neighbor’s clothes from the dryer. It would be really easy for me to just pocket that packet of gum from the 99-cent store on the corner. But you know why I don’t do that? Out of respect for my neighbor and the store owner. Because my Mae taught me to pay for the things I want. Because I empathize with them. They shouldn’t have to worry about me taking their stuff just as I don’t worry about them.
I’m not saying what the Times does is perfect. That fawning Francophilia story made me want to barf Pierre Hermé macarons into the writer’s Repetto ballet flats.
If you, like several people I know, don’t like the Times‘s reporting, fine. If you get your news only from blogs, or Pro Publica, or dlisted, that’s cool. Don’t pay for the Times. That’s your choice.
But if you do read it, even if you read it just to hate on it, I think you should pay for it. Well-reported, well-designed, grammatically correct news is not our birthright.
Also, for the people complaining about iPad access, you are being targeted because you obviously have the money. Yeah, flying first class is expensive, too, probably not commensurate to its value, but you don’t have to fly first class. Suck it up.
I love this sign
I read it aloud to myself and chuckle inside whenever I see it, which is more often than I’d like to admit.
Go ahead, try it.
The best hairdresser for Asian hair in NYC
I’m not the kind of lady who obsesses over her hair, but I have to give props to my hairdresser, Machiko at Kiyora Salon. You girls with straight Asian hair know what I’m talking about – in the wrong hands, your normally easy-to-manage ‘do can look like a jagged mess hacked by a nearsighted preschooler with safety scissors. Machiko really understands symmetry and drape, which is really what you’re talking about with hair like mine.
She takes her time making things even and swingy, and she lets me fall asleep in the chair. (I’m not the kind of person who seeks social interaction of any kind while I’m in the salon chair.)
Also, afterwards, you can do what I did today and go down 13th St. to Joe for a cuppa and a doughnut (or two). Ideal rainy day productivity.
(I like this picture because I was trying to capture Machiko’s handiwork but it looks like I’m staring down Doug’s feet. You’re either in Suthivarakom’s Korner or you’re with the toes!)
Kiyora Salon
15 E. 12th St. btwn University/5th Ave.
212-414-4488
Because I couldn’t say this in 140 characters
Your questions are burning a hole in your esophagus, I KNOW. So I decided to sit down and answer some for you. Get yer popcorn and have a seat, whippersnappers.
Where the F have you been?
Chill the F out, Mayor Emanuel. I’ve been working. A lot. And maybe I have been watching a lot of Say Yes to the Dress on Netflix Streaming. (Shut it. You know what? This show makes me feel good about myself. Let he who hath not gotten an ego boost from watching The Situation or real housewives cast the first stone.) But things are finally cooling down and I think I can get back to blogging again. Because blogging is for grandmas. And I am nothing if not a grandma.
What the F happened to your site?
I’ve moved! After years of wrecking and re-wrecking my website in Movable Type, not to mention oodles of ESL spam from some SEO marketing assholes, I decided that it was time for a change. I’m on WordPress now, thanks to the fine, fine work of a friend-of-a-friend, David Mason. Hit me up for his contact info if you need help with PHP or migrations. Rates reasonable, job well done (and fast!). Also special thanks to Adam Kuban for his always awesome bloggy advice. He is Master Po to my grasshopper.
The monkey is wearing gluten-free chocolate chip cookies.
Gah! The font is ginormous!
That’s right. Grandma is too old for tiny, gray text. Make it black on white and make it BIG, said I to the CSS monkey*. And she obeyed.
*I am the monkey. And the grasshopper.
Subway Battles
BATTLE: 36th St. subway stop, Brooklyn, NY
TIME: Friday morning, January 14, 2011. 0700 hours.
RED: 60-year-old woman
vs.
BLUE: Eatdrinkonewoman
CONDITIONS: Platform not too crowded, as it’s pre-rush hour. Commuters well-bundled against the chilly midwinter weather. N train pulls into the stop. BLUE, closest to the car door, stands aside to let passengers off of the train. Last exiting passenger steps out of the car. BLUE has had neither coffee nor enough sleep. RED‘s state of mind unknown.
RED = A4: [Yelling from behind BLUE] MOVE!
MISS
BLUE= L7: [Turning to RED] I am letting people off the train first.
MISS
RED = C5: You blocking the door!
MISS
BLUE = D10: [Already well inside the car, hanging on to a pole] It’s nice to let people off the train first.
HIT!
RED = B8: But you block people!
MISS
BLUE = D9: We’re both on the train, aren’t we? [Car doors close.]
HIT!
RED = C11: [Lips pursed] Harumph.
MISS
BLUE = D8: [With a half-smile] Good morning.
HIT!
RED = C10: [Mumbling] Good morning. How are you?
MISS
BLUE = D7: Fine, thanks.
BLUE sinks RED‘s battleship!
GAME OVER