Le Blagueur à Paris

The blogger formerly known as Le Blagueur?

2009-03-11T15:21:00.012+01:00

Friends, the time has come to tenderly kiss Le Blagueur goodnight.

This doesn't mean that I'm done scribbling. Quite the contrary - I'm doing more freelance writing than ever before, and posting the spillover at megzimbeck.com

Please stop by if you'd like to continue to read about my adventures in Paris and beyond. You can subscribe to those posts with the RSS feed here. And thanks sincerely for all of your visits and comments over the years - you've made this first blog experience very special.

At Dawn, in Paris

2008-11-05T18:04:00.002+01:00

A funny thing I saw yesterday...

2008-09-21T21:00:00.003+02:00

So the Paris Techno Parade was fairly interesting this year:

More about it over on Mu Foo.

Home Sick Aloof

2008-09-18T08:47:00.010+02:00

One of my favorite bloggers has up and moved from Brighton to San Francisco and is just now beginning to unravel. She'll roll herself back up soon, of course, but in the meantime it makes for excellent reading.

Today's post finds her wailing about Squash, a particularly foul-sounding beverage that she can't find in the US. But it digressed into something I think expats anywhere can relate to:

I wept for not knowing how things worked, and not understanding a different culture and its different priorities - not worse, just different. I wept at the overwhelmingness of new sounds and smells and not knowing what brand of coffee bean I liked anymore, but having 500 to choose from. I wept because there is a deluge of wonderful new experiences and I am scared that I am too cautious and shy to enjoy or appreciate them. I wept because I didn’t know when the bin goes out and I don’t know where the bus stops or where it goes. >more

It's the last bit that really struck me this morning. After four years in Paris, I still don't know when the bins go out. There are a whole lot of things, in fact, that I have simply tuned out because the weight of not knowing so much was overwhelming.

Moving abroad does explode the head a little bit. I used to take pleasure in the mastery of small tasks, from checking boxes on a To-Do list. Routines were comforting and made me feel like I was the captain of my own little boat. The first years in France, while fun in so many ways, also completely kicked my ass. Faced with the sheer illogic and unfamiliarity of the place, I surrendered the sailor's cap and resigned myself to floating.

Homesickness, for me, was never acute in relation to products (although I did profess to miss, of all things, Kraft Mac & Cheese). The sickness came instead from feeling nearly-always confused, and from longing for a place where I was more in control.

Life in a foreign country brings hundreds of daily situations in which the answer is not at hand. I'm not sure how other people deal with this, but I seem to have adapted by becoming completely aloof.

Self: Can I recycle this?
Self: I dunno... yes... why not.

Self: What's my equivalent bra size?
Self: I dunno... just take that one.

Self: Is my green card still valid?
Self: I dunno... don't think about it.

Self: Glass of wine?
Self: I dunno... why you are even asking.

I know some expats who rise to the challenge and manage to organize themselves and even the natives around them. As for me, I've chosen to protect my sanity by not letting any new questions in. Sure, I may be evading the law and wearing an erroneous 42 DD bra, but at least my mind is clear.

Knowing When To Take Your Clothes Off

2008-09-10T07:14:00.016+02:00

The blogging ranks are regularly pressed by readers for advice. Those posting on the Paris Blog get emails asking for travel tips. Catherine Sanderson gets ten-page recaps ending with "so, do you think I should leave him?"

This is what I get:

Hi

In France do women having gyn exams have to take off all of their clothes at the start of the exam with no gown or drapes provided by the doctor?

Thanks

(name withheld to protect the vagina)

What an email! It's direct and to the point without any verbal foreplay. A lot, in fact, like a French gynecologist.

Here's what to expect when you go for ze Exam:

Doc - Mme Blagueur? [offers ungloved warm hand] Please follow me.

You - Bonjour! [sits in chair at office desk] I am here for my annual poke.

Doc - Congratulations. Now take your clothes off [indicates table and returns to typing].

You - What here? Yes? Erm... [stands, removes everything south of waist, drapes clothes hastily over office chair while hiding bits behind computer monitor].

Doc - The top, too.

You - Even the bra?!!

Doc - Your bra cannot save you, American.

You - I see...

Doc - Let's begin. Do you mind if I smoke?

So that's mostly how it happens. After parting your red sea, the doc will ask you to replace your pants behind the monitor while she types something into her records/blog. There will be a quick exchange of insurance cards or, if you're paying in cash, 28€.

As unnatural as that might sound to Americans, let's consider the reverse situation. I have a French friend who was living abroad and went in for her annual inspection at a Chicago teaching hospital. She was led by a nurse to the exam room, handed something that looked like a napkin, and told "the doctor will be with you shortly."

Now, an American knows that this napkin is actually a paper dress that opens at the front. It ties at the neck and protects her dignity.

Caroline, of course, knew nothing of this. And so the young American doctor, when he returned after a suitable interval, found a very hot French woman sitting buck naked on the table, a paper gown in her hand.

"Bonjour!"

The take home message: it is important, when traveling abroad, to know when to take your clothes off. Local bloggers are an excellent source of advice in these matters. Be advised, however, that we may use you as material.

To the terrified reader who sent in this question: an apéro before the exam always helps. Bon courage!

What's up, chicken butt?

2008-09-05T13:49:00.007+02:00

Not long ago, this conversation took place in my apartment:

French boy: I've ordered something online for us.
American girl: What's that?
FB: A cul de poule!
AG: ...Come again?
FB: Chicken butt!
AG: ... Is that, um, something you'd like to try?
FB: Absolutely! And it's silicone - so not hard to clean!

This went on for some time, with me becoming increasingly horrified until I realized we were talking about cooking. A cul de poule (big sigh of relief) is just a big bowl for whipping and melting.

AG: But why do they call it a cul?
FB: Because that's what it looks like!

Riiiight. Now, despite my Kansas origins, I've spent precious little time around poultry. Is there anyone out there who can 'splain to me how a bowl, whether silver or silicone, resembles a rooster's back door?

AG: Do you not find that even the slightest bit vulgar?
FB: I have no idea what you mean.

I am completely alone in this country, it seems, in finding cul de poule totally giggleworthy. How else to explain the straight-faced existence of restaurant named Chicken Butt? Caroline Mignot, in her review published online today, had nice things to say about the newly-opened (sorry) Cul de Poule. She even admitted that "le nom me plaît bien." And here I thought she looked so very innocent...

Cul de Poule, 53 rue des Martyrs, 75009
+33 (0)1 53 16 13 07

Update! I have finally tasted the butt for myself. You can read about it over at Mu Foo.

Like a bear in a cave, but with sun

2008-07-23T09:09:00.015+02:00

I moved to Paris in August, four summers ago, when everything in the city was closed.

Those impressionable weeks were spent shopping at Ed* and wondering what treasures lay behind the metal gates pulled over every window. I scanned the empty sidewalks and began to worry that Paris really was, as certain friends had warned me, a dead town.

And then a few weeks later, everything changed. The shops on my street reopened revealing cheese and baguette where before there were none. Paris wasn't dead, it had simply been sleeping.

I am currently bracing myself for the city's annual coma, and knowing the drill doesn't make it any easier. My butcher called it quits on Saturday, and today my favorite market vendor said goodbye.

I find the latter departure the most difficult to accept - there's something cruel about a farm stand closing during the most plentiful season. "But what will happen to all the basil?!" I cried to my usual vegetable lady. She stared at me blankly and backed slowly away.

Having cleaned them out of fresh herbs, I am now cooking and freezing as if for a war and padding my shelves for the enforced hibernation.

My only consolation is that, like a bear, I can anticipate burning through several layers of fat during this time of nothing-to-eat. September will find me slimmer and crankier - ever nearer to my goal of integration.
--
*Ed stands for Épicerie Discount and serves as the French version of ALDI. After three misspent years I learned the correct pronunciation (euh-day), but it will always be Eddie to me.

The Opposite of Nirvana

2008-07-15T12:29:00.002+02:00

Behold the world premiere video from the hottest band to come out of (Benoît's apartment in) Paris... we are Les Moquettes!

I believe the french term is pitoyable.

Why Paris?

2008-07-09T09:33:00.008+02:00

I've just returned from a holiday spent cycling through the Haut-Médoc - a peninsula that produces Pauillac wines, a surprising amount of pizza, and in this case, a sweet tan.

I will tell you about it shortly, but first have to get this out of my system:

Dear Dinaw,

I'm sure you're a lovely person. Being from Kansas, I'm obliged to offer that, and to apologize in advance for not being nice. That's how we tumbleweeds roll, especially when addressing anyone from New York.

An added drop of humility can be a good thing.

The question always in the back of my mind - "am I really qualified to say this?" - prevents me from doing things like, say, writing an article that pronounces Paris to be dead, creatively speaking, without appearing to have ever left the boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Dinaw, and those who will follow you, I beg: no more Flore, pas des Deux Magots. There's nothing to see here, please move along.

The scene that you came looking for happened sixty years ago. That moment, and those people, are now dead. Their children - those who were inspired by and learned to make money off that moment - are now talking, as the elderly do, about how things just aren't the same. Saint-Germain-des-Prés is, in effect, a retirement community with very expensive coffee. It is not (did you really not know this?) what you were looking for.

I have a new friend who recently arrived from New York. A clever writer and musician type, she is, I suppose, the sort of person you were looking to find. I was sitting with her and another writer friend (does that make it a scene?) on a roof-top terrace in the 20th, when she admitted that her new apartment would be over there, in the 7th, at the border of Saint-Germain.

We smiled and tried to be supportive, suggested some good markets, assured her that it wouldn't be "so bad." The truth, however, is that ~~nobody~~ very few people doing anything interesting live over there. And what's more, the "anything interesting" taking place these days doesn't look exactly like it did sixty years ago.

But as I said, I'm sure you're a lovely person who, like Adam Gopnik before you, just didn't know where to go.

The root of all obesity

2008-07-07T10:13:00.008+02:00

This morning I'd like to break a seal of sorts and take a moment to mock my French boyfriend. He doesn't read the blog so this will be our little secret.

An entire series could spring from the unintentional smut that sometimes falls from his mouth - the happy accidents that arise from the difficulty of certain sounds.

The majority are related to the aspirated 'h' that many French add, unnecessarily, to English words that begin with 'a'.

To illustrate: Once, as we were stolling along the Bassin de la Villette, he offered to "rent us a rowboat, along with some hoars."

This happens all the time.

And it brings me so much amusement that I have adopted, in some cases, his particular pronunciations. I will ask him with a straight face to take me in his harms, or if my hass looks okay in certain pants.

But my all-time-favorite has nothing to do with the aspirated 'h'. It revolves instead around a preferred spread, and its French designation as Evil. Dorie Greenspan addressed this recently on her blog when she noted that,

"French children never get peanut-butter because their parents are convinced it's the root of all obesity."

The boyfriend looks bemused whenever I bring out my overpriced jar of peanut butter. He watches me uncomfortably as I spread the stuff on bread, as if I were wiping boogers on the sofa.

And then he asks me every time, inverting the word order and fatally omitting the last 't',

"Do you really like this butter peanus?"

I have never corrected him, and have in fact doubled my consumption just to hear him mispronounce it. I suppose this means, in a roundabout way, that the French parents are right.

Food porn indeed

2008-06-26T22:19:00.007+02:00

Seen just this moment on Nerve.com - a "lifestyle" site that has introduced a surprising number of my friends - it's Dating Advice from Food Writers!

Don't ask me what I was doing there, or if I have multiple fake profiles for my own amusement.

Instead, I'll ask you to guess in the comments which food writer said the following:

"A good rare beef liver is like being banged hard against a wall in a skeezy alley behind a nightclub."

Her Big Big Smile

2008-06-16T13:32:00.029+02:00

I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.

Doesn't that sound lovely?

There is no internet in the French countryside, and very little spoken English. One is therefore forced to "relax," away from the computer, usually through HOURS of conversation.

Have I mentioned that I don't love French Meg?

French Meg smiles and nods a lot. She also laughs on cue. There are times when French Meg understands what you say, but she won't ask a single question. You may have covered that point already, and she probably already laughed.

Nod, smile. Ha ha HA!!

Not only am I a bit slow, I am indiscretely so. At 5'10'', I'm only slightly taller than average when playing on the home court. In France, however, I am walking ~~talking~~ circus show.

The result is that, in addition to babbling and smiling, I am often dressed kinda funny. It's not always my fault.

This weekend, the countryside hostess offered to lend me her slippers. I pantomimed something like "I don't think they fit!" looking at first disappointed, then smiling enormously.

She suggested that I just wear them over my toes, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.

Outside the chalet, her XS parka hit me just below the bra line. Even the mountain sheep were rolling their eyes. "It's cropped," I gestured in return, grinning madly the whole time.

My finest performance of the weekend can't be blamed on size. It came one night when I was too tired to climb the stairs for toothpaste, and instead started fishing around in the hosts' bathroom drawers.

Do I even need to type this? It's really too predictable...

I used their Fixodent.

It was exactly as you imagine.

And yet I kept on smiling, even with globs of waxy red stuff stuck in my gums.

Upon leaving, my soft-spoken host raised himself up to faire les bises and to say his parting words.

"Merci pour venir et... pour ton sourire... ENORME."

At least I think that's what he said.

* * * * *

For a different take on The Language Problem, please click on the veryfunny following from Paris blogger Kung Fu Dana.

Afternoon Delight with 'Sex' and Dorie

2008-06-12T09:27:00.021+02:00

...not at the same time, mind you, although these photos may lead one to imagine that Pierre is showing off something other than his tattoos.

For someone who has too much work, I was a marvel of doing very little yesterday. There were good intentions and several hours of morning labor before the derailment of a boozy lunch at the wine bar Racines.

No matter. Time spent with cookbook authors David Lebovitz and Dorie Greenspan would sort of qualifiy as work if it weren't also so pleasurable. It's not often that I get to raise a glass with such slim-hipped foodie heavyweights and bask in the Rolland Garros-esque batting around of names. "When does Mark (Bittman) sleep?" and "Patricia (Wells) says so...," etc. In the moments when I wasn't exactly sure which Ruth (Reichl?) was being considered, I was more than happy to keep company with a towering tartare.

The food at Racines is lovely (more photos here), and almost as nice as the wine, which is nearly as compelling as the proprietor himself.

I caught myself staring too long at Pierre Jancou's plate-stacked arm and rhapsodizing about the way his tattoos were set off against a background of colorful floor tiles. Ahem...

The only consolation for such behavior is watching all the other customers - journalists from the nearby HQs, young girls, moustachioed middle agers - also trying to conceal their crush. I suppose that's what good food & wine does.

When we finally left it was 4pm, three hours before my next date. Not really enough time to go home and work, a bit too long for cafe squatting. I was pondering my options when I walked past the Rex and saw people lining up for Sex.

I'm not really the sort of girl who wants to watch in a group and then go out for Cosmos afterward. I frankly don't have the footwear to pull that off.

But I was curious and so plunged myself into the theater for some... "Jesus... is this in FRENCH?!"

It's true - I have now seen the dubbed! french! version of Sex in the City. And if the reviews are to be believed, I may have made the right choice.

A half-remembered snippet:

Smith: [looking down at his bulging groin] "J'ai un cadeau pour toi, ma chèrie."

Samantha: "J'ai quelque chose pour toi, aussi."

Believe it or not, this sort of dialogue actually feels profound when you have struggled to translate it.

After the movie, I made my way across town to say goodbye to two friends who are leaving Paris. I fear for their sanity, returning as they are to a land devoid of three hour lunches, where one is forced (!) to watch Sex in the stark original version.

Let's all wish them luck, shall we?

The 24-hour Wedding

2008-06-09T12:14:00.012+02:00

At 9am on Saturday I was delivering breakfast pastries for a bride too nervous to eat.

24 hours later, I was returning in a cab after sharing a post-party beer in broad daylight (8am) with two old friends and Inaki Aizpitarte.

This being my first French wedding, I can only assume that they are all like this.

The marriage of Petite Anglaise and her Boy, in between those two early morning bookends, was a completely joyful affair.

Friends from both sides of the English Channel gathered for a ceremony at the town hall, champagne, a sweet lunch at Vin Chai Moi, more champagne, more food, rowdy dancing, and still more champagne.

What I'll never forget:

The radiance and endless grinning of the bride and groom
Le Maire, after performing his duties, admitting that he recognized Cath and asking for a photo with the couple
Seeing the groom's mother shaking her booty to Blur's "Girls & Boys"
Watching French girls throwing up discretely in the garden before returning to the party looking elegant as ever

A few photos are here. Thanks for a great party!

Mucho Macho

2008-06-05T19:42:00.018+02:00

Paris is a cultural capital for many, many reasons. An abundance of karaoke parlors is not one of them. And so it is with great anxiety that I announce the following:

I may no longer be welcome at L'Echanteur.

The city's best (only?) karaoke is in the basement of a dive bar in the Marais. Its management and clientele are "hetero friendly," but it helps to be accompanied by one of the Stars of Gayraoke.

One such Star was supposed to meet us at the bar last Saturday night. I arrived just after midnight with two boys and my new travel editor at the Wall Street Journal.

(Was that vulgar?)

Anyway, this distinguished visiting editor needed little encouragement, putting her Snoop Dogg slip in straight away. My inspiration came more slowly, but when it did I scribbled my song choice and found myself on the stage only moments later.

And that's when things began to turn ugly.

A "normal" karaoke night would find me taking to a stage much later, after several watery beers and having already witnessed other people's shame. On this particular night there was no posse to shield me from the unknown members of the audience. There was no former session singer at my side to do the backup. I was nearly - gasp! - sober.

But none of that would have mattered had I chosen the right song -

...had I NOT chosen to sing Macho Man

...in a gay bar

...without really knowing the words.

Who knew there were words? Besides the chorus, I mean. They're actually (don't laugh), kind of hard. Which is why I found myself staring out at the horrified audience and mumbling "body... body... body? It's so hot my body? body... body.. check it out."

The editor, in an ill-considered moment of great compassion, rushed to the stage and began to gyrate in circles around me and, I think, to pantomime the macho man's chest hair.

"...check it out, my body."

That went on for far too long, the opening verse, but I was just SURE that when the chorus came we would all throw our heads back and our arms in the air and unite as macho men together.

It was dead quiet as Nikki and I, the two white girls in the gay bar, threw our heads back and began to scream the chorus.

.....

And then the song went on another three or four minutes.

.....

The DJ, who has seen me perform many challenging numbers in the past, actually said, "Goodbye Meg" instead of "thank you" at the end of the song.

And that's when I dropped and shattered my glass.

.....

Nikki never got a chance to perform that night, her name seemingly blacklisted by association.

A shame, really, because I would have killed to watch her Drop It Like It's Hot. I had a clear image in mind of my employer rapping "I'm a bad boy, with a lotta hos," as I booty danced behind her. "SnooooooooOOOOOOP!"

Because I have no video of my disasterous performance, I offer instead this treasure from Brazil - two 22 year-old boys dancing Macho in their living room. The long-hair is my new summer crush and the spiritual twin of this guy. Where was HE when I needed him at L'Echanteur?

Bridesmaid channeling

2008-06-02T16:48:00.019+02:00

A "temoine" is not really a bridesmaid.

She's just a witness who needs to bring her passport to City Hall to sign something in French that she doesn't understand. Working backward, she needs to for once be on time, pick up flowers, and wake up...preferably not hung over.

It's not a big role by most people's definition. But because I so adore this friend (and am by nature a leader of rings), I have expanded the role of "temoine" to include party catering, guest DJing, and Hen Night Bringer of Shame.

The latter role was executed several weekends ago in London. The Brits had amassed on that side of the Channel for what Cath had hoped would be a stately affair. She'd even arranged the thing in Notting Hill (the London equivalent of Saint-Germain?) to decrease the overall odds of lewd behavior.

Little did she know that I had crossed into her territory with a sack full of props and no love for her dignity. And so while Cath's university friend was distracting her with shots, the assembled hens (several men included) were donning feather boas and bribing some Dutch boys to strip.

That's about all I can reveal, except to say that once the squealing died down, she really seemed to enjoy it.

Whether she remembers any of it is another question...

* * * * * * * *

One task down, then, and two to go.

For my music playlist, I've been instructed to "lay off the obscure indie crap," which leaves...? (I'll get back to you)

For the food, she has advised me to "be reasonable," i.e. choose 2-3 items instead of 12 to avoid spending the entire party in the kitchen.

Because someone's gotta be out there keeping an eye on that bride. I only wonder who will watch over me?

(more Hen Night photo evidence can be found over here)

Learning the English

2008-05-16T13:38:00.004+02:00

In preparation for tomorrow's trip across the Channel, I've been learning a bit of vocabulary:

#1: Slag is a perjorative slang term, primarily used in the United Kingdom to describe women who engage in casual sex and promiscuous behavior. Its meaning is broadly similar to the terms "slut" and "skank". It originally derives from the same term for piles of impurities skimmed off during the smelting of metals, and has been backronymed to mean "She'll Lay Any Guy", referring to promiscuous behaviour.

#2: Hen's Night - A bachelorette party, hen party, or hen's night, is a party held for a woman who is about to be married as a rite of passage. Companies sell decorations and novelties for bachelorette parties including products like "piñatas", fur-lined handcuffs, "willy whistles," and adult toys. Other companies also sell bachelorette party packs with games and party tools. There are all different products sold for this event. Many bachelorette parties have the girls wear matching tops.

#3: Petite Anglaise - Translates literally as "little english (female)", and is commonly used by French people to refer to English people. See also: Catherine Sanderson, a British blogger living in Paris; See also, Slag.

Further discoveries and photo evidence (matching tops?) to be posted here soon...

Turn and Face the Strange

2008-05-01T16:23:00.041+02:00

Ch-Ch-Changes!

There are two broad categories of people in my life: those who have no interest in blogs whatsoever (much more fun to drink with), and those who have at least two blogs of their own.

In the latter group, there's a tiny sub-set called Freaks (or, more politely, 'blog watchers'). These are the people who've been emailing me this week to ask, "Did they fire your ass?"

The they in question is Gawker Media. Blog watchers know that the most powerful and profitable blog network in the world last week offloaded the travel site Gridskipper. They dumped two other titles in the process, Wonkette (politics) and the music blog Idolator. The three together accounted for less than 3% of the network's total traffic. On a good day, Gskipper brought 50,000 page views. Gizmodo, their most popular, brings 2 million per day.

In an internal memo that he encouraged his writers to leak, founder/slasher Nick Denton spoke about the sale of these three sites (for mere pennies, as rumors have it):

"I'm relieved we've found pretty decent homes for the three sites, and most of their writers, but we're gutted to lose them... Gridskipper is so far the most sophisticated travel blog: it entirely deserved its inclusion in Time's list of the 50 coolest websites."

Gridskipper's "new home" is Curbed Network, owner of Curbed, Eater, Racked and now (in the interest of consistency?) 'Skippered. We received an email ten days ago from Editorial Director Ben Leventhal, promising news about the changes and inviting us to tell him how we'd like to stay involved. We (or at least I) never heard from him again.

Rumors are circulating that the revamped site will focus on resorts in and around the United States. That didn't appeal to Editor John Rambow (that really is his name), so he and the rest of his editorial staff are on the sidewalk. As for Denton's claim about finding homes for most of the writers, I don't know a single person from Gridskipper who has been invited by Curbed to stay on.

That brings us back to the original question, "did they fire my ass?"

Not officially, no, not yet. So I'm still wearing the company-issued underwear and checking my email every five minutes. However, I'm pretty sure that they're not going to pay me ever again, and so I should probably get out of the habit of sifting everything I see onto a mental list of six places...

In closing, out of the 47 posts I've written since last June, these five were the most fun to work on:

#5: The Hidden Kitchen

#4: The Most Horrible Tourist Traps in Paris

#3: Paris Concerts à la Carte series

#2: Le Swap: Paris Swing Clubs

#1: Dancing French Electro-Mimes Battle in the Streets

I doubt I'll ever find another outlet that allows me to rank the city's best restaurants alongside its clubs échangistes. It was certainly good while it lasted.

My sincere thanks to former editorial superheroes Chris Mohney, Amanda Kludt and John Rambow, and to all the deranged Paris writers I've met along the way: Adrian, Anna, Lauren and Morgen.

Someone should hire the lot of us. Beginning, of course, with me.

The Top 10 Concerts of the Summer

2008-04-28T22:47:00.007+02:00

Between now and mid-July, there are more than 40 great indie pop/rock concerts coming to town. For music lovers living and traveling in Paris, this Gridskipper article features videos for my favorite 25 shows. The Top 10 are reprinted below for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!

♫♫ ¡Forward Russia! 5/17 @ la Maroquinnerie

♫♫ Vampire Weekend 5/19 @ le Trabendo

♫♫ Yelle 5/23 @ Bataclan

♫♫ The Fratellis 5/28 @ Point Éphémère

♫♫ Feist 6/3-6/4 @ le Grand Rex

♫♫ Sunset Rubdown, Deerhoof 6/3 @ Villette Sonique

♫♫ Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks 6/4 @ la Maroquinerie

♫♫ The Go! Team 6/5 @ Villette Sonique

♫♫ Beck 7/7 @ l'Olympia

♫♫ My Morning Jacket 7/9 @ le Trabendo

Welcome Home

2008-04-22T11:28:00.064+02:00

When I visit the U.S. I am invariably asked about if I plan to stay in France.

"Who knows?" is usually my watery reply, along with "probably not forever." I tack on that last bit to soothe the Americans who are hard-pressed to understand why I've strayed.

I then usually try to explain why I like it "over there." Few among my people have visited, and they're not the sort to squeal about macarons. I've had little success in stammering about the simple pleasures of Paris. I suppose I'm afraid on some level of being insulting or, even worse, being tagged as an elitist. It is hard to extoll the virtues of fresh markets without seeming to judge the Costco member across the table.

I will turn to my camera then, to do the job of illustrating why I like it here in Paris. These are images from my first week back in the city after visiting the U.S.

Eating

Shopping

Relaxing

Exercise

It's an idyllic view, to be sure, and not always so lovely. But such was my week, and I am happier than ever to call Paris my home.

Notes from the Jet Lag Lounge

2008-04-17T05:01:00.009+02:00

My very confused engines started racing at 3am, and there was nothing else to do (after last night's dishes) but finally sit down and write a blog post.

I used to brag about my immunity to jet lag. No matter in which direction I had traveled, no matter how much coffee consumed, I was somehow able to sleep on command. This talent was developed, along with many useful others, while working the graveyard shift at a Kansas diner.

That, however, is a different story, and a seemingly moot point. Because the 'Sleep Whenever' trait has reached its expiration date. I now belong to that unfortunate camp of people who find themselves awake against their will at absurd hours in the morning. The breastfeeding and menopausal, plus me.

One week is a silly amount of time in which to visit the United States. I arrived at my mother's and spent the first three days in a haze, waking up in the wee hours and sleeping again at the first sign of light. Near the end of the trip, my body adjusted. I became very briefly delightful and then boarded another plane.

Now I'm counting the minutes before I can mount a Vélib' and head over to Au Duc de la Chapelle. My sleep-deprived mind is finding poetry in the idea of pedalling to the Best Baguette in Paris as it is pulled hot from the oven.

But will Anis Bouabsa be pleased to find an American sleeping on his bakery's doorstep? There's only one way to find out...

Weekly Giftbasket: Dance Fever Edition

2008-03-14T12:38:00.005+01:00

This week's distract-a-basket contains intentional juxtaposition: a dancing walrus, an 80 year-old stripper, and a combination of those elements as Last Night's Karaoke.

1. For the Kids

2. For the Ladies

3. For the Shame of my Eventual Grandchildren

*please note the terrorized voice at video's end pleading "stop this!"

4. What That Was Supposed to Look Like

*a white jumpsuit would have helped my performance, obviously.

P.S.S.

2008-03-12T10:32:00.024+01:00

A blog is a good enough excuse to track down your high school boyfriend, engage in some catch-up, and then pose the burning question.

BJH and I went out during our senior year. This "going" was conducted primarily on the phone, although I do recall one driveway makeout session with Elton John playing on the car stereo.

As blissful as that might sound, BJH was less content with our direction. He ended things after a few short weeks, I suspect because of these pants* =>

A high waist, double rolls, and one very hot pocket - my jeans must have... intimidated him.

In any case, it wasn't fashion that we discussed after fifteen years. It was the dog.

Specifically, the burning dog. The burning dog and erect penis.

"BJ," I asked. "What up with that?" The people need to know.

And now BJ, bless his H, hath responded:

In many cultures the artistic representation of the erect penis, also known as a phallus, represents power, wealth, and good health. The concept of the phallus is often connected with being the ultimate man, and possessing said phallus is compared to having the divine gift of God.

The dog has long been known as "Man's Best Friend," and symbolically represents undying love and loyalty. The union of starving dog and phallus under fire represents teenage misanthropic angst in conjunction with an overwhelming desire to deconstruct the norms of an impersonal, omnipotent society bereft of love.

Either that or BJH thought it was funny and cool. BJH can't remember exactly.

So there you have it, Commenter #8 - a fine answer from BJH. But while we have him on the line... are there any other questions for high school boyfriend?

* 'pants' in the American sense.

My Roots are Showing

2008-03-07T17:40:00.019+01:00

Facebook, that beautiful timesuck, seems to have developed a new application. It's called "Find Your High School Friends & Freak Them Out."

This has been happening a lot recently. The most recent high school alum to find me was - whew! - someone I actually liked.

More often, it's an unfamiliar name along with a message that offers no clues - "Hey there! What have you been up to??"

All this has led me to unearth The Yearbook.

It'd been a long time since I'd cracked this open, and I'd forgotten about the hair. I dare say, my high school companions may have had the Best Bangs of All Time.

I'm from Kansas, you see. And this is how we roll:

I'd like to claim that I was too cool for this trend, but the evidence shows otherwise:

Bonus points if you can name that grape-scented hair product in the corner.

DOUBLE bonus if you still own a pair of white shorts.

Anyway, the best part of unearthing The Yearbook has been re-reading the old signatures. From one classmate:

Good luck at Gay-U [KU], you pinko-commie baby-killin' fag-lovin' tree-huggin' Hillary worshippin' media mackin' flower-powerin' band wagon jumpin' U2 lovin' feminazi left wing LIBERAL!!! Call me this summer. We'll PARTY!!!

Did she have my number, or what?

The boy I was crazy about - the one who took me to Homecoming and then dumped my ass - brought my yearbook home one night in order to write something special. The next morning at school he delivered this:

You can see why I adored him.

The best, though, are the banalities. While I seem to remember a lot of hanging out in the Taco Bell parking lot, everyone else says we partied hard and had a total blast (!!!).

It must be true.

Weekly Giftbasket: Rap Lobster Edition

2008-03-06T09:23:00.027+01:00

These are the critical bits that found their way across the wires this week. I offer them up for your Thursday amusement knowing that, basically, you've stopped working by this point.

1. Cookin with Coolio

With a black toque topping his famous twisted braids, this "ghetto witchdoctor superstar chef" implores you to "get your ass into that kitchen, baby."

No ordinary Food Network nonsense, this is raunch-flavored 2.0 at its best. Cookin with Coolio is shown only on the internet, and viewers are encouraged to "Live the Dream, Win a Pepper" by posting their video responses. Jenni Powell did, and her winning video earned this comment from Coolio:

"He seemed like one of those salad eatin' bitches so she made him a Coolio Caprese salad. It worked out, because Jenni got his panties off..."

The promo can be seen right here:

2. Nuestro Gran Amigo

After watching this video, I for uno don't understand how Obama did not kill the popular vote in Texas.

Familias unidas, seguras y hasta con plan de saluuuud!!

3. Stephen Malkmus is Still Damn Hot

Here's a little trinket for those of you who, like me, wore the tape out of your Crooked Rain cassette back in '94:

#86.1 - Stephen Malkmus - Hopscotch Willie
envoyé par lablogotheque

He can hit my plane down anytime...

4. And for the 9 People Who Have not Already Seen This...

"Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolor disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life?"

I read every one of those books as a child. Does that explain anything?

Tecktonik Teaser

2008-03-04T00:16:00.025+01:00

I've just finished a new article for Gridskipper called Dancing French Electro-Mimes Battle in the Streets. It's not edited yet, but I had so much fun with the research that I wanted to share some videos with you. The full post with my analysis should be up on the site in a few days.

In the meantime, I offer a Tecktonik Teaser - a look at three rising stars from this French dance phenomenon. My favorite of these videos is the last for Lili Azian. Director Ristourne has made scores of these self-promos, and his moves seem to come straight out of the Tiffany video playbook. I've already watched it fourteen times...

IDOLS
This is the stuff that cult films are made of: A suburban teen named Jey-Jey films himself dancing in the garage. His DIY vid sweeps the internet and is ultimately seen by more than 4 million viewers. Jey-Jey becomes the face of Tecktonik and has packs of girls trying to get into his white jeans.

Another brand name is Treaxy, the dance champion picked to perform in this video for Yelle. He's now teaching Tecktonik in a chain of fitness centers.

One of the few female icons in the Tecktonik scene, Lily Azian has made a name for herself by dancing only in high heels. The shoes play a starring role in this self-promotion video, as does her azian heritage. Behold as Lili keeps it real by dancing Tecktonik with a bowl of shrimp chips!

P.S. Can I get one of these Ristourne masterpieces made? I think a soft focus video calling card would be the perfect birthday gift. Spice up my Myspace and all that...

P.P.S The article has now been published over at Gridskipper. Run-run-run to see footage of raging street battles, the Tecktonik Body Killer hair salon, and the trend's frightening cross over among US teens.

Roll Credits: My Week on Film

2008-02-24T22:18:00.017+01:00

It's best, while waiting for working papers to come through, to keep busy. Toward that end, I have just completed one of the stranger weeks in my life.

It all began when Chryde of (newly redesigned) Blogothèque fame sent me an IM. "Hey Meg, do you want a good and funky job?"

And so began my week as the guide and driver to a Hollywood film crew.

For 12-14 hours every day, I recommended locations, plowed a nine-passenger van through Paris traffic, and negotiated release forms with unsuspecting bystanders.

I drove in circles around the Arc de Triomphe with a ~~camera man~~ Director of Photography hanging out of the open door. I relayed the precise timing of the Eiffel Tower twinklage and explained how to use the city's public toilets. I found restaurants that would let us eat at 7 (that's early), and learned (eventually) how to stay out of the shot.

I even had a few lines, hastily written and poorly delivered. And while I know that these scenes may be destined for the scissors, it was a total trip to watch myself when we were reviewing the footage. It looked, for lack of any better term, just like a movie.

I got lucky with a funny-as-hell crew of people who were good to be around. After keeping their pace for only a few days I'm amazed (after these softening years in France) that they manage to do this full-time and remain jovial. It must have something to do with the fact that they're almost all under 25.

I spent the small number of off-hours writing grant proposals and filling in as the waitress at Spring. Daniel Rose, chef/proprietor, spent most of that time looking at me like this...

... and saying things that can't be repeated on this blog.

And thanks to a pair of new webcams at the restaurant, that crack performance was also filmed.

I don't think you'll be seeing me on the small screen at Spring again, but you can look for me in the small print as "the driver" in an as yet unnamed feature film to be released next year by director Nicholas Jasenovec (Paperheart Productions) and starring Charlyne Yi, Michael Cera (Juno, Superbad), and Jake Johnson.

Baby's First Meme (awww...)

2008-02-24T18:42:00.024+01:00

Bookpacker tells me that it will be loads of fun if I open the nearest book, turn to page 123, skip to the fifth sentence, and copy the next three.

This is called a meme, and it's all the rage among real bloggers. Being only a part-time word spiller, I was previously unaware of the phenomenon, and find it not so different from the Christian prayer chain mail that's cohabitating my inbox.

If the bible were the first book to hand, that would kill two adulterous birds with one stone. Alas, the first tome within reach is decidely less saintly: it's Martha Stewart's Hors D'Oeuvres Handbook. And page 123 contains no text, only a tantalizing and glossy photo of beef bulgogi in lettuce leaves with soy-ginger dipping sauce.

That hardly seems to qualify, does it?

The next book in the pile is Petite Anglaise. I'm re-reading the newly released hardback after rushing through the manuscript last June.

This time around is a relaxing good ride, unaccompanied by the fear that my friend's book might suck terribly.

It doesn't.

Page 123, after skipping the first 5 sentences, reads:

Now was probably the time to come clean and face the music. If I kept all this to myself a moment longer I was afraid I would burst. 'It wasn't the nanny,' I confessed.

She then goes on to explain that she's had a hotel rendezvous with a man who she met from the comments section of her blog.

What a slag.

The book is on sale now in Paris, and there's a reading at WH Smith for those who want to meet the trollop in person. I pray (there! two birds.) that she sells a bundle, for this will surely come back to me in beer.

I will continue this memery by tagging P.A. herself, along with the boobalicious Little Red Boat...

...and the batshit crazy Gone Feral.

Postcards from Gluttontown

2008-02-06T18:55:00.002+01:00

Greetings from the Windy City, aka the City of Sodden Socks.

Note: this post is about Chicago. Fair city readers who care only for Paris may prefer this new article about the Paris restaurant scene, or this one about February concerts.

I was mildly deported recently, sent back to retrieve a slip of paper, and am making the most of this exile by stuffing my gullet with fried Americana.

The Health Fest began on Saturday when I was greeted by my hosts Nikki and Garen with, among other delicacies, a batch of homemade samosas.

The next day brought a Scotch egg and fried zucchini at the Gage, followed by a bag of takeaway pupusas.

Day three was deep dish Chicago pizza and a trip to Kuma's Corner, a metal bar cum hamburger shack where every sandwich bears the name of a band. Pictured below, the Pantera.

Yesterday began with a pilgrimage to Hot Doug's, one of my top five eateries in the world. My admiration for this man and his sausage is such that I made an offering of illegal foie gras at his ~~alter~~ counter.

In return, I feasted on the traditional Chicago dog, a Polish with peppers and carmelized onions, and an apple & cherry pork sausage with chutney and cranberry Wensleydale cheese. With a mountain of cheese fries, of course. Dinner chez Ed & Kathy offered no caloric respite: fried chicken, fried okra, and slaw.

At this point in the trip, I fear my digestive track may be shutting down. And I haven't even made it to Pilsen yet!

More to come from Chicago, site of my own personal war on moderation...

Bacon Sluts, Your Time is Now

2008-01-28T22:09:00.001+01:00

I felt both indignant and justified when I saw this today on BuzzFeed, via meat husband* Mike Cosentino.

Indignant because I thought I had invented the bacon cocktail at a brunch last summer.

Justified because everyone at that brunch was looking at me like I was crazy. In fact, I was super cutting-edge. A bit tipsy...

In any case, I'm not sure which is most perverse:

1) The intense desire to claim 'bacontail' as my own,

2) The possibility that there may be a collective baconsciousness, or

3) The fact that a site promising Step by Step Photos of the Bacon Vodka Enfusion Process is so popular that it has exceeded its bandwidth and temporarily shut down.

I have no such uncertainty about the following product:

I mean, seriously - who wouldn't want a Bacon Scarf for Valentine's Day?

---------------

* a meat husband (or wife) is one who, with full authorization from the vegetarian spouse, adopts a surrogate dining partner for the purpose of eating carcass.

Back to School/the Future

2008-01-24T09:11:00.001+01:00

I have just returned from a lengthy seminar on molecular gastronomy, put on for free by Paris AgroTech and starring the indefatigable Hervé This.

My companions and I, over two days in a stuffy salle, produced copious doodles and counted the minutes before the next coffee break. All in all, there were sixteen hours of lecture. For a field that is supposedly dead, This sure found a lot to say about it.

My notes from the seminar include terms that would be more at home in an episode of House than in anything to be found on the Food Network. Is maceration d'enzymes proteolytiques a concept with delicious applications, or an auto-immune disorder?

For further "research," I will today visit les Magnolias, my first 1-star and a purported proponent of molecular cuisine. I don't know whether to look forward to or fear eating food that may have been mixed with sodium alginate and dunked in a bath of calcium chloride.

In any case, I will report back.

Unless my throat is burned out, or I have turned into a robot.

Paris: International Shopping Coffee Break Destination

2008-01-11T18:18:00.000+01:00

Listen up all you cosmopolitan art farts: the city of Paris has a shopping plan for you.

"Artistic tourists and other adventurous creators," are the beneficiaries of a new creative circuit promising "alternative places, inventive concept stores, designer fashion workshops, old-time hangouts, fair trade stores...a subtle combination of pop culture and artistic expression."

Sounds good, right?

Upon closer examination, however, the plan begins to look a little troubling. The circuit, part of the Soldes By Paris stunt, is not so much a shopping agenda as a death march of twenty-two cups.

Beverage boot camp will begin with an 8am breakfast and continue with a coffee break at 10. Lunch is proposed at 11, an hour when not a single restaurant is actually serving. If you can eat and gulp down your after-lunch coffee quickly, you'll have at least three hours before your next coffee date. Any shopping must be finished before the three scheduled café visits between 3-7pm.

You'll be starving (you ate at 11, remember) and more than a little jittery by the time you arrive at 8pm at "Le" Spring. Beat those empty shopping bags against the glass all you like, but Daniel will not be opening up unless you booked back in October. Skip ahead to your next destination, le Divan du Monde, and hope for some peanuts set out on the bar. Or give up and stagger down the street to join the tourists at the Moulin Rouge.

The worst part about this shopping circuit, aside from the near-absence of shopping, is that the coffee being so shamelessly pimped is among the worst in the world.

More and earnest coverage of these important sales can be found on the site of every other Paris blogger.

Blogosphetiquette and the Salad

2008-01-04T18:12:00.001+01:00

Rule #42 for the aspiring novice: If an established food writer is having difficulty with her camera, lay your head down upon the counter and offer yourself as a tripod.

Results will vary, but may include something like the promise of a recipe for homemade Cheez-Its.

This pictured salad is what I brought, in lieu of Velveeta, for last night's pot-luck.

It was very simple: tarragon leaves, seeded grapes, vinegared shallots, and citrus cured scallops - all mixed at the last moment with a smooch of olive oil.

The portions were small because there was plenty else to swallow from the fine food fiddlers in attendance.

I may have nodded along at times, pretending to know the well-known, but humility has never tasted so good.

A Potluck Requiring Both

2008-01-03T09:17:00.000+01:00

I am up at 7:30 and have crossed the frozen floor three times before settling with coffee to work. Sleep was scarce as I spent the hours last night in a lost zone between dreams and anxiety.

There is a dinner party tonight.

Under normal circumstances, I am not a nervous cook [those who know me snort aloud and begin composing their corrections]. But tonight is a bit exceptional.

I am the only person attending this potluck, save for accompanying eaters, who has not or is not currently writing a cookbook.

"Why on earth," you ask, "are they letting her in?"

It's to make them look good, I assume. They must be counting on Kansas to bring the nacho cheese dip, the crock full of weenies, the Triscuits. I will provide the contrast by which their own plates/verrines will dazzle.

In writing this I have almost talked myself into bringing "a modern update on the cocktail weenie" or a deconstructed dip in which seperate piles of Velveeta and Ro*Tel are served in a millefeuille of Tostitos.

2008: Predictions

2008-01-01T18:13:00.000+01:00

Last year at this time, things were not looking good for Le Meg.

My Chinese horoscope told me that I "should not expect to have any achievement in 2007." And The Onion, not one to mince words, predicted that I would shoot myself.

On the bright side, the Chinese advised that I "would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards." I had only to wait twelve months.

True to their word, 2007 was indeed full of ~~shit~~ challenges.

I was mugged. I had a two month-long root canal. My widowed landlord went a bit nuts and threatened that her "husband the Préfet" would be coming for me. My carte de sejour was not renewed and I was instructed to return to the U.S. And while I left in late '06, 2007 was the Year of the Divorce.

With decidedly wobbly knees, I consulted those same stars again today. It was no small relief to read that the naysayers are now singing a different tune:

Love: "You are blessed by Hong Luan, the most powerful star of positive relationships. With this star shining on you this year, your romantic future looks all set to flourish and bloom."

Work: "Are you a freelancing Rabbit or do you own your own business? If so, there’s good news for you. You may have to work hard but the rewards you reap will be phenomenal."

Paranoia: When choosing friends and business partners try and determine whether that person loves you or hates you."

Even The Onion seems, in its own special way, to be rooting for me:

"Love awaits you where you least expect it in 2008—anatomically speaking, that is."

And a french version tells me that "the stars support me in taking professional risks, but that I can expect to suffer from headaches."

Taking these three together, it's clear that The Year of the Rat will be good for me. I should be ready for love, success, and perhaps aural penetration. But not by anyone who hates me.

Bonne année!

Stalking Beirut and la Blogothèque (again)

2007-10-19T09:38:00.000+02:00

The band Beirut and the french site la Blogothèque both have dedicated fans and a quasi-cult following. Recently, however, they have become twin fascinations for John Norris over at MTV.

Watching the video below, you might think to yourself, "damn, them kids is cool. I'd sure like to have a beer with them..."

It's not as hard as you might imagine. At the very least, you can stalk their favorite bars and watch them from across the room, waiting for the moment when they are drunk enough to consider letting you sit on their lap.

Not that I've tried...yet.

What I'm getting at is that Zach Condon from Beirut, along with Vincent Moon, Chryde, and several Blogothèque writers, have all revealed their favorite bars for indie rock drinking in Paris. It's all waiting for you in this article over at Gridskipper. So hit the trail and check out these spots where you're sure to feel comfortable in your hoodie and your love of home recording. And after you stumble home, treat yourself to a little un-sober surfing with la Blogothèque's Take-Away Shows video series.

And as pre-bar homework, watch this MTV news broadcast in which (a newly wig-topped?) John Norris manages to suck up to Zach Condon to a greater degree than even I have attempted in the past.

Wine, Wimmin' & Song

2007-10-12T08:39:00.000+02:00

This weekend is the annual fête des vendanges in Montmartre, and I'll be making the rounds in the "village" of wine and regional products.

Coming from the States and a protestant background, there's something really great about being able to booze from wine stand to wine stand at the foot of a giant church.

For those interested in checking out the festival, which includes a parade, fireworks, and hundreds of music, literary, and even gastronomical events dedicated to the singer George Brassens, the official festival web page is here, and my Gridskipper article about it is here.

Coming Soon

2007-10-08T20:25:00.000+02:00

..a real live blog post, I promise!

But until then, here's a Gridskipper post about all the Paris concerts that are happening through December.

November in particular is absurdly full. It's really almost too much. I remember complaining upon arrival that the Paris indie music scene was dead, and now I'm deciding between Cat Power, the Shins, Beirut/Andrew Bird, I'm From Barcelona, the National, Hot Hot Heat and about 15 other bands.

In any case, there's a whole lot of hoopla on that post, including video for my favorite bands playing in October, plus a Google calendar and a radio player that lets you listen to all the picks who are playing before January.

And I promise to write a real something soon. Just as soon as I finish my next Gridskipper article, which is tentatively titled "Famed Vagina Now Open in Paris."

Can anyone guess what show that is about?

The Vegetarian Problem

2007-09-22T09:47:00.000+02:00

During my first year in Paris, seemingly everyone who came to visit was a f@*k#ng vegetarian.

I support this choice, honestly I do. But it makes (in Paris) for truly lousy eating.

Or at least it used to...

In the olden days of 2004-2006, choosing a restrautant with a (non-fish-eating) vegetarian in mind meant that somebody was not gonna be happy. And most often, that body was me.

My insanely bulleted and hyper-linked list of Restauarants To Try was usually set aside because the places specialized in game, offered no choices, or were otherwise unlikely to have anything my friends could eat.

Recently, however, a new list has taken shape. I call it Places Where I Can Take My Vegetarian Friends Without Wanting to Kill Them.

Or, more formally, Fine Eatin' with Fleshless Options.

This new list features six restaurants where I would gladly eat, with or without a vegetarian in the mix. Beyond these, there is a world of casual street eats and ethnic joints that also get the job done. But for those who are looking to have a special (and not cheap) night out, with a focus on French rather than Cambodian, these are my top picks:

Arpège
Maceo
Mon Vieil Ami
Les Allobroges
Transversal
Maison Blanche

The map, and full descriptions of each, are published here on Gridskipper.

Go forth, friends, and eat without passive aggression.

You Will Miss Me When I'm Gone

2007-09-20T21:41:00.000+02:00

This morning a young woman sat down next to me on the Métro, an SMS already in progress.

The furious tapping of her manicured nails prompted me to look up periodically from the pages of my book, in which a conceptual fish was stalking our already-dead (or not?) hero.

"You will miss me when I'm gone..." began her text. I hated myself a little bit for reading over her shoulder.

"...but I understand your reasons,"
[deleted, then...]

"...and you're an asshole,"
[deleted, then...]

"...and you should call me when you change your mind..."
[deleted]

There were ten or so of these.

And during the seventh one (approximately) she farted.

Paris Coffee Tastes Like Ass

2007-09-12T08:33:00.001+02:00

Tourists are often too distracted by the ambiance to notice that brew between their fingers tastes funny -- but connoisseurs abhor the sludge that's on offer in the everyday Paris café.

It sucks for many reasons, including the frequent use of robusta (not arabica) beans, chalky water, sterilized milk, dirty machines with low pressure and temperature, and untrained baristas who almost never tamp their shots.

And while French drinkers don't seem to know what they're missing, many 'Mericans - even those from Kansas - certainly do. For those of you in search of a jolt without the dirty mouth, I made a list for Gridskipper of the top places in Paris where you can find a decent cup of coffee.

>and here it is...

Calenderlicious

2007-08-30T00:05:00.000+02:00

Pssssst....

I've started a new feature at Gridskipper to track the local music finery.

Being slightly compulsive, I also added video links for all the upcoming bands and built a radio player to let you listen to everything.

Go and have a look, hey?

Paris: City of Naked

2007-08-29T14:14:00.000+02:00

Dear friends,

Please excuse me for being late last night for margaritas at La Perla. Something happened while I was riding my bike along the canal.

I was watching him lift his penis so that friends could remove the bits of floating trash that had adhered to his testicles and I got a little dizzy - had a mild stroke, perhaps - and after that had to ride my bike slowly.

In any case, sorry.

Your pal,
Meg

The Swing Set

2007-08-21T18:36:00.001+02:00

I have just returned from a vacation in the Loire and will soon tell you all about it.

But first, and more importantly, I must tell you about the Sex Clubs.

Gridskipper, you see, offers a bonus each month for the correspondant who draws the most readers. Being competitive by nature and poor by tax bill, I am going for the throat and compiling a list of clubs échangistes.

This endeavor means that I've been rolling around for hours in the webworld of the swinger. And let me tell you, it is...hysterical.

This post shall not knock or otherwise comment on the practice of having sex with strangers. What I would like to share is this collection of absurdity that I discovered during the course of my research.

Five Reasons Why Sex Clubs Are Hilarious

1) Soundtracks!
Le Quai 17 website provides a continuous stream of music, presumably the sort of sounds one might encounter at the club. I tuned into "Radio Libertine" and laughed to the point of tears when I heard 4 Non Blondes bleating out the chorus of "What's Up." This was followed by (what else?) "Boys Don't Cry."

Don't get me wrong, I'm really quite fond of both these songs. But I could not be expected, while balancing in heels at some quai-side swapmeet, to keep a straight face while Linda sang about her great big hill of hope.

2) Message Boards!
The very same cyber-wizards at le Quai 17 have also introduced the message board, allowing users to publicly register for soirées and chat with eachother in advance. In this way, "cplbi3446" (at left) and "Michelx74" can break the ice a bit before meeting at Thursday's Gang Bang Buffet.

and speaking of...

3) Buffets!
Nearly all the clubs offer a buffet or some other form of pre-game dinner. I'm trying hard to imagine (and help me out here if you know) what on earth is the etiquette for warm-up supping? Does a lady retain her skirt while tossing back her plate of moules? Does she chit-chat with the man in the mask about the delicious moelleux? I think Buñuel may have made a film about this...

4) Special Nights!
This city's love for theme-parties knows no bounds. In the most remote backrooms and cuddle corners, one can still find people dressed for "Carnival." Le Nautilus, for example, recently hosted a "Las Vegas-style Casino Night" complete with blackjack, poker, and prizes. Au Pluriel will soon be celebrating its anniversary with "surprises, gifts, and onion soup." I might mistake this for the local Rotary Club if I didn't know about the Saint-André cross in their basement.

5) Mind-Blowing Translation!
There is so much to choose from, but here's my favorite from Le Nautilus:

This club is appreciated by loose couples which appreciate to meet themselves in a felted frame, wish to make more ample knowledge with new couples which share certain art of living and to make the "holiday."

I will leave you now to reflect upon your readiness for the felted frame. This video from Stereo Total, to say nothing of Radio Libertine, should aid in your considerations...

Update: the article is now up (here) at Gridskipper. Needless to say, the onion soup is not mentioned...

Making Love to Zach Condon

2007-08-10T17:17:00.000+02:00

No more marching down the boulevard and singing along with the iPod - my love for the band Beirut has finally found an appropriate outlet.

The Blogothèque asked me to write a text in English to accompany the release of their latest video. Taken from the magical Soirée à Emporter, it features two amazing songs and one Go-Go dancing blogger.

Below is the video and my text from the Blogothèque. Many other delights, including the other eight videos from this concert, are available on their site.

#60.9 - 60.10 - Zach Condon feat. Kocani Orkestar
envoyé par lablogotheque

When Zach Condon introduces his last song, denial rings throughout the Flèche d’Or. "But after," he continues, "I will play with Kocani Orkestar. It’s a dream for me."

This news about a Balkan band elicits very little reaction from the crowd. Most of those crammed into the venue, not to mention the hundreds who are waiting on the sidewalk, have arrived to see Beirut. The announcement of their last song seems to signal the end of a very special soirée.

The opening tump-thumps of "Sunday Smile" see the crowd start to turn around, swaying and beaming with pleasure of discovery. Zach’s attention is initially focused on the job of filling his microphone. When he raises his head for the chorus, looks around and sees what’s happening, a manic grin threatens to wipe out his ability for words.

He is 22 years old, this kid. He has spent the summer in Paris, mere steps away from the stage that now holds him with his musical heroes. Their brass envelops him and sends this unreleased song into the sky. His new neighbors are all around, waving their arms and asking for more.

How did he get here ?

It was only a few weeks ago that Chryde broke the news in a Paris café. Upon learning that the Blogothèque was bringing Kocani to come and play with him, Zach was stunned into silence. He lit a cigarette. He said "thank you." He then retreated into the fear that comes with getting what you want.

That initial astonishment infuses this song with Kocani Orkestar. "Sunday Smile" is taut with anxiety and joy. It is bursting with Zach’s gratitude for the beauty of this moment. By the end of the song he is nearly bowing down before his guests from Macedonia.

When the call for "Siki Siki Baba" is sounded, Zach raises himself up and promptly jumps into the fray. "Watching me listen to this song," he wrote last year for Said the Gramophone, "is like watching a hyperactive four-year-old without his Ritalin. Pure excitement." Watching him not only listen but play along to this song is doubly exciting.

The crowd that only an hour ago was held spellbound by delicate sounds is now erupting, their energy in each chorus threatening to break out the windows of this former train station. Zach gushes along with the rest of them, waving his arms like some deranged conductor. His eyes are often closed or fixed upon the distant ceiling as if the sight of this swell is just a little too much. When he opens them and looks around, he can barely contain his laughter.

We are so thoroughly whipped into musical fervor that the end of the song is not an option. The crowd continues to bleat out its ecstasy in chorus after unscripted chorus. Our consolation, when the last note falls, is that this song is only the beginning of our night with Kocani Orkestar.

Let’s hope this is also only the beginning of these Soirées à Emporter.

Men Like to Hunt: the Cachet of Hidden Kitchen

2007-08-08T09:30:00.000+02:00

A brief mention in a post three weeks ago that I had been to Hidden Kitchen garnered ten or so hungry emails:

How was it?
Can you get me in?
Oh my oh my oh my god! (etc.)

The panty-throwing reaction prompted me to write about it for Gridskipper. Not only about the food (here), but also the chefs' favorite places to shop around the city (here).

There were more undies in my in-box this morning, and a whole pile of them waiting on the electronic doorstep of Hidden Kitchen.

And every wet knicker reminds me of one of the cardinal rules of dating: RUN AWAY.

When I moved out of my marriage bed and into a shared apartment, my roommate Kate had a bookshelf stacked with (plenty of high-quality literature and some) classic dating tomes. And so I spent those first nights, when I wasn't hyper-ventilating, turning the pages of He's Just Not That Into You.

This of course brought on more hyper-ventilating.

Surely, I thought to myself, I have more to offer than "not answering the phone."

"Utter rubbish," declared Catherine, who read the book as soon as I'd finished it. Along with Kate, we decided that while some girls might need gimmicks - hiding themselves and cultivating mystery - we were interesting enough to be exempt from the rules.

Months later I sat across from a man who told me "Men like to hunt."

He then advised me to be "more like a gazelle."

I stopped inviting him to free concerts after that.

Who among you will wager on whether he's booked at Hidden Kitchen?

Biking Bliss in the Fôret de Sevran

2007-08-07T12:03:00.000+02:00

I have been an active biker for over a year.

By "active," I of course mean occassional, and only in near-perfect sunny conditions.

Such biking activity has rarely, however, extended outside of the city. Only once last year did I bike out of bounds, on a lovely trip near the Royaumont Abbey. Last Sunday I tried again - a rematch country ride to the Fôret de Sevran.

The morning started with a trip to the market. A loaf of bread, fixings for a green bean salad, some drippy Reine Claudes and a nice Brie de Meaux - we bought everything we needed for a little country picnic.

Setting out from the Parc de la Villette, we followed the Canal de l'Ourcq (the northern extension of the Canal Saint-Martin) in the direction of Meaux.

For the first five minutes, the view was post-industrial. The falling-down Grands Moulins de Pantin towered before us and we breezed past buildings with broken windows and graffiti.

Emerging from a massive SNCF repair complex, we found ourselves in the middle of a Bobigny block-party. Balloons, each one with a message attached, filled the air above our heads. I smiled at them memory of doing the same twenty years ago in Kansas.

Next up along our route we spied some rough necks letting off jet ski steam. All bike traffic stopped to watch them as they skidded across the stank and murky waters.

Thirty minutes into the ride, the view became more picturesque. Wooden fences replaced grafitti-covered walls and flowers bloomed from suburban patios.

Time flew and soon enough the view had become fully forested. The heat of the day was held at bay by the canopy of trees. Light filtered between the branches to cast a serene glow on all who were picnicking (or reading, sleeping, drinking, entangling in various states of undress...).

We found a shaded spot within the Fôret de Sevran. We dropped like sacks after the sixty-minute ride and spread ourselves out for a sigh. A nap in the grass followed a leisurely lunch and then we found the buvette and a revitalizing beer.

Our party turned back around 4pm to attend to some pétanque around the Bassin de la Villette. The return trip took just over an hour, with some delay from weary legs and the of number joyriding Vélib'ers.

This trip was part of my training for an upcoming cycling holiday. I have been persuaded to pedal through the countryside between the châteaux de la Loire. Considering the number of very good vineyards along the way, it is certain to be a fiasco.

Woo Tube (p. 3)

2007-08-06T12:43:00.001+02:00

I started this blog about a year ago.

The intention, as I described in my first post, was to tell stories about France to people back home.

But most of these friends were not internet fiends. And they were swiftly outnumbered by strangers on my site.

Just one month into this electronic endeavor, some website listed me as one of its favorite blogs. This brought the Brits and a bunch of other unknowns to my door.

And they started leaving comments. It was weird.

"Who are these people?" I would shout across the room to where my husband was sitting with his own laptop. He would roll his eyes, rightly so, and then return to Googling himself.

Our courtship long ago had been conducted over the wires. Eight years and another continent later, we were still susceptible to those screen-based shivers.

Only not so much from eachother.

However odd the sensation, it didn't take long for me to adapt to writing for the invisible. It didn't matter that my readers had no faces and were prone to over-punctuation.

What mattered was that they loved me, insofar as that could be deduced from comments like " :-) " and "woo!!"

I found myself rushing to check the computer like I'd done back in the old days. They weren't romantic, these exchanges, but they held the same thrill of discovery.

Not all of these readers remained strangers. My first friends of blog origin were two Canadians who introduced themselves at a concert. They recognized me as "Le Meg," much to the amusement of my visiting friends. They later posted about the night as bloggers (I now know) are prone to do.

I began to spend more time online and outside the apartment. Things weren't going well at home, and this new universe (which had expanded into writing for Expatica and Parisist) was wonderfully distracting.

Eventually it became large enough to climb into.

It's odd to look back upon one year of blogging and think about everything that's happened. My marriage ended, I stayed in Paris and decided (after a brief pause) to stick with the blog.

To all of you who I've met in some way or other through this site...

(LadyK, Tin Foiled, Lauren, Eloïse, Sing Sing, Benjamin, Catherine, Clair, Bookpacker, Adrian, Mike, Rion, Garrincha, Anna, Bridget, Nabékor, David, Jussura, Bennett, Sophie, Nardac, Kirsty, Frog with a Blog, Suzanne, Kasia, Matthew, Kermit, Petite Americaine, Hugo, Kate, Phyllis, Daniel, Clotilde, Florian, Joanna, Elisabeth, Edvard, Katia, Kylie, Lisa, Always Ace, Negrito, Stuart, Chryde, Anna Boat, Amy, Braden and Laura, David, Dorie)

...and to all you unlinkables, invisibles and old dears - it's been lovely to have you around in this year of new beginnings.

My Secret Garden(s)

2007-08-03T17:07:00.000+02:00

Need a quiet spot away from the horde for feeling up your summer fling?

I just posted an article on Gridskipper about some of my favorite hidden terraces.

You can read about them here, and tell me in the comments what I've forgotten.

Woo Tube (p. 2)

2007-07-30T10:19:00.000+02:00

It was 1998 when I had my first and only internet fling.

Back then, the only way that people seemed to interact on the web was in "chat rooms." These were dark and awful places which, according to the local news, were full of sweaty old men trying to pick unripe peaches.

I didn't want any audience for our "how did you meet?" story to think we had sullied ourselves in some virtual disco. Our first encounter was respectable - in the flesh and broad daylight.

Yet any courtship that involves the frantic refreshing of a browser is bound to breed suspicion among the Luddites.

My exclamations about email failed to conjure for my friends any of the old-fashioned romance of letters. To the contrary, they spurred tense smiles and the worry that perhaps I was projecting.

"She's headed for a fall," some of the eyebrows seemed to say. "I give it six months."

As anyone who's made the transition can tell you, the road from email to real life is fraught with shameful inarticulation. Because as anyone who knows me in person can tell you, I am much more clever in post-production.

Whatever bounce my words have on-screen is padded in reality by a lot of "buhhhh?"

And when sitting across from a new flame, one who's been lured by fancy typing, every spot of faltering speech feels like a flare. Every "ummmm..." is another shot into the sky, a distress signal to illuminate the disappointing reality.

Case in Point: I just searched for and found another word for "inarticulate."

Exhibit B: I then typed "point in case."

The only solution is to drink. And to find other outlets and ways to impress.

Like learning to cook, for example. Or playing the banjo. Or perfecting one's already impressive range of monkey sounds.

Because once you're living with the boy, there's really no point in writing anymore.

Paris Through Take-Away Eyes

2007-07-25T13:41:00.000+02:00

One of the reasons I've been neglecting you, my dear readers, is that I've started pimping Paris for the travel website Gridskipper.

Today's post exalts the Blogothèque and their series of Take-Away Shows. Click on over to watch some great videos that capture the Shins, the Hidden Cameras, Arcade Fire, Guillemots, Andrew Bird, I'm From Barcelona, and Alamo Race Track playing songs against a backdrop of the city.

And then head over to la Flèche d'Or on Monday night (July 30) for the premiere of Soirées à Emporter. The Blogothèque's latest venture is a series of concerts that bring indie darlings to play with eachother and from positions within the audience.

Zach Condon, who reportedly just bought an apartment near Gambetta, is the big draw for this first one. The freakishly talented near-teenager from Beirut will be playing with Sidi Ali and his favorite-ever Macedonian marching band. David Ivar from Herman Düne will also be there to delight, along with Jeremy Warmsley and Inlets.

It's free and will undoubtedly fill up, so my advice is to get there on the early.

Woo Tube (p. 1)

2007-07-23T15:10:00.001+02:00

I open bottles incredibly well, as a result of having worked in a wine bar.

At the time, nine years ago, it was the only wine bar in Kansas. Perhaps there are others now (franchises?) named Vines or Sonoma Pete's.

Anyway, one day, at this wine bar, a man looked up from his big fat book. We spoke a little and fell in love... eight months later over email.

He was living in Chicago, and I was working in Western Kansas. Not as a waitress this time, but as an anthropologist studying sex among the meatpackers.

And despite what you may think, there wasn't actually a lot to do at night. After a long day of "participant observation," my options back at the dorm were to:

1) Play basketball with the boys from the John Deere tractor repair school
2) Paint my nails with the future beauticians
3) Exchange emails with this incredibly funny person in Chicago

By mid-summer, when the air outside was choked with cow-dust, our email pace had quickened to several lengthy notes per day.

His words on the screen brought a jolt of electricity matched only by re-reading my own. I wasn't sure who I was falling for, but it felt incredibly good.

I saw him in person during a quick trip back to the college town. Our paths crossed for only a few hours, but it was enough to confirm an IRL attraction. After several mix tapes and two anything-but-virtual visits, I packed my bags and moved up to Chicago.

And the internet, having served its purpose in our lives, went quiet.

(to be continued...)

Free Love

2007-07-18T12:32:00.000+02:00

After months of living well beyond my means, the arrival of summer festival season means I can breathe easy through September. Each year at this time, the city of Paris turns slutty and starts to give her milk away for free. These are some of the ways in which I'll be loving her:

Paris Quartier d'été

There's a price tag for some of these theater, dance, music, and circus events, but also plenty for free in this festival that runs through August 5. Mahmoud Ahmed, the most famous living Ethopian musician, will be playing tonight for free at 19h in the Jardin d'Eole. The open-air film series feature several picks like The Van (Stephen Frears) on July 20, and Fish & Chips (Damien O'Donnell) on July 27. A bonanza of Australian cinema will be on offer July 28 in the Parc André Citroën. Mainstream and experimental films will show between 22h and 6h, with a free Australian breakfast served in the morning.

Cinéma en Plein Air

Last night the annual festival opened with a screening of Gosford Park. The lineup is filled with plenty of other decent English titles, like The Magnificent Ambersons, My Beautiful Laundrette, Tess, All About Eve, The Philadelphia Story, Sweet Sixteen, and Million Dollar Baby. The films roll at nightfall, generally between 21h30 and 22h, every Tuesday through Sunday until August 26. Entry to the lawn is free and chairs can be rented for €6.50.

Festival Sous La Plage

The coming weekend (July 21-22) brings the second installment of this boutique electronic music festival. The brand-new Jardins d'Eole, newly landscaped to look like early pubescence, will host two days of concerts, DJ sets, expos, and installations. The festival will then reappear on September 2 with eight hours of concerts and projections in the Parc André Citroën.

Cinéma au Clair de Lune

This festival finds our friends in city government projecting free films in large format on the side of old buildings. The 2007 program will be held in 14 different locations around Paris. Highlights include an old-school version of Moulin Rouge (Zsa Zsa!) shown on Saint-Eustache, and Godard's A Bout de Souffle in the Jardin des Champs-Elysées. Films are shown at 21h30 between August 1-19.

Paris Plages

The goofy urban beach concept came to life again last weekend, so the banks of the Seine will soon be swollen with sunbathers. The exciting news for 2007 is the addition of a third site at Bassin de la Villette. The new location in the 19th will offer kayaking, paddleboating, an outdoor dancefloor, and the usual mess of deck chairs.

Le Festival Fnac Indétendances

This free outdoor series begins this weekend, courtesy of the mammoth music store Fnac. In association with Paris Plages, concerts will be held every Friday and Saturday through August 18 between 17h-22h. Highlights for 2007 include Bertrand Belin on July 20, Hey Hey My My on August 4, and Adanowsky on August 17.

Back in Black Blog

2007-07-17T12:43:00.000+02:00

Editor's note: readers are advised to click on the link below to add dramatic effect to the reading of what could otherwise be a slightly tedious blapology.

Dear reader(s?),

Sorry I haven't written. And thank you for your threatening comments, derisive posts, and not-so-delicate jabs to the ribs.

All this seems to have worked, in combination with the shame I experienced last week in seeing Daniel Rose point and whisper the following to one of his customers:

"Oh her? She's a blogger. Well, not really anymore..."

That was followed a few days later by an encounter at Hidden Kitchen in which a group of strangers were talking about blogs. A young American girl was describing her exciting (ahem) Myspace blog to the foodie superheros Dorie Greenspan and David Lebovitz.

I couldn't bring myself to mention that I too had a blog, and thus sat silently in a spiral of self-flagellation until revived by a very nice fish taco.

And thus I realized, even before Moonke threatened to cut me off, that I should really get back in the swing of things.

So thanks for sticking around. I'll be back with a story or two real soon.

xo

Not Your Grandmomma's Blogmeet

2007-06-11T13:44:00.000+02:00

The Paris Bloggers' Picnic was a resounding success because:

Daniel Rose promised to buy me a hot dog stand
I made out with King Negrito (pictured here)

Something tells me that neither will remember...

Other picnic highlights include:

Guarding the bushes as Petite peed no fewer than fifteen times
Watching Katia and Rhino perform Xanadu (captured on FwaB TV here)
Getting locked in the park after we ignored the guardian's whistle
Watching Amy make a near-donut of herself while attempting to scale the gates
Painting the sidewalk outside my apartment with a mélange of Pimm's Cup and Pringles

Police estimate that around 70 bloggers turned out for Saturday's picnic. Organizers put this number closer to five hundred.

Five hundred bloggers means that at least the same number of posts and no fewer than forty thousand photos will be circulating before Wednesday.

Thanks to everyone who came!

photo mosaic swiped from the Rhino
top photo poached from the Bear

In the Butt(es) with the Paris Bloggers

2007-06-08T11:43:00.000+02:00

Your hosts Meg, Rhino, Frog & Petite

As previously warned, the peaceful idyll of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont will be gravely interrupted on Saturday.

Check back here for the post-picnic wrap-up, in which I will answer some burning questions:

are all blogs crap?
did Meg roll in any dog poo?
did Petite have sex in the bushes?

More than 100 bloggers and their hangers on are planning to turn out. If you're going to be in Paris, and are narcissist-friendly, please join us. The picnic website is here.

Petite has whipped up a little t-shirt competition, and you can vote for the following picnic slogans:

I don't read your fucking blog
But enough about you...
Shag me first, Google me later
Will this picnic improve my stats?
(front) I'm a little bit famous (back) Overall visits: 47
Your link here
I don't fuck with my shrink because he reads my blog
Kiss my bloggin' ass
Paris Bloggers Take it in the Butt(es)

The Wiener

2007-05-28T22:50:00.000+02:00

The polls are closed, and I lost in three categories.

But I did done win Best Writing. Thanks for voting.

This victory will free me from obsessive tally-watching and enable me to focus on an important new project:

The "Who Will Sleep With Petite Anglaise?" Facebook group.

You Are a Ham Sandwich

2007-05-28T10:54:00.000+02:00

The "what city do you belong in?" quiz was recently brought to my attention by Bookpacker, and I took it this morning as a break from tally-watching.

My result should come as no surprise:

You Belong in Paris

Stylish and expressive, you were meant for Paris.
The art, the fashion, the wine!
Whether you're enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park...
You'll love living in the most chic place on earth.

What City Do You Belong In?

What did come as a surprise however, was my result in the "what kind of sandwich are you?" quiz. I tried over and over again to rig the results, but got "ham sandwich" every time. I always fancied myself as more of a grilled cheese.

Other valuable information to be gleaned from this site:

What's your rapper name? (dirty money)
Can you make anyone fall in love with you? (no)
Are you running on adrenaline? (yes)

And finally, some clear evidence against that Best Writing nomination:

Your English Skills:

Punctuation: 80%
Grammar: 60%
Vocabulary: 60%
Spelling: 40%

Does Your English Cut the Mustard?

The Brest of Me

2007-05-26T15:48:00.000+02:00

I could feel with my eyes closed that the train was slowing, and pulled down my headphones to hear "terminus."

I had only 30 minutes to wait before my friend's arrival in Brest, and then our hosts would arrive to collect us. The first leg of this journey had seemed to pass without incident, and I was looking forward to some time outside of Paris.

I trundled out of the train and was surprised to find a party. A band was screeching some traditional music and a cidre was placed in my hand. A sturdy Breton gal shoved some sort of finger-glistening dessert at me and I wondered if perhaps I was dreaming.

"What is all this?" was the first question that entered my mind.

"Where the hell am I?" was the second.

These festivities, you see, on the eve of Ascension, had been organized for visitors to Lannion.

"LANNION"

Had I not boarded a train for Brest? Had the conductor not punched my ticket? Was I maybe just a little bit drunk?

I considered these possibilities while the party moved off toward the exit. I looked back and forth between my bag and the sign, and before long was alone on the platform. My watch read nearly 11pm.

The conductor whistled past me. "Excusez-moi" I mewed, and explained my total confusion.

He put his hand in his pocket and then passed me some chocolates.

chocolates...?

This was intended to soften the blow, I suppose, that I'd be stuck overnight in Lannion. Brest was two hours away, he said, and there would be no more trains before morning.

but...?

My train, it seems, had separated while I slept. Train A, which included my assigned strapontin, broke off and went to Brest. Train B, which contained the all-important bar car, had continued on to Lannion.

And I, after downing a beer near Rennes, had found the first available seat and passed out.

I could picture my friend Andy, as I checked into a hotel, just shaking his head and muttering "Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..." Which is exactly what he did when I recounted the story yesterday.

"Did they know that you... y'know... do this sort of thing?"
"They do now," I said, and we shook our heads together.

The bathtub, it turns out, was all I saw of the hotel. My rescue team insisted upon arriving that very night, and then promptly got a flat in the parking lot.

"It couldn't get any worse!" said our cheerful host, who clearly imagined that these would be my only antics. I didn't have the heart to argue as he changed the tire in the dark.

His naive optimism was shattered en route to the Ile d'Ouessant, on what will now be referred to as "the pizza boat."

"You threw up on the ferry - what are you, ten?" Andy teased.
"It was choppy!" I protested.

"Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..."
-------------------------------------------------------
*TGV photo swiped from the dishy and talented Rion

Damn you tween devils!

2007-05-25T15:12:00.000+02:00

Comment left on the blog of my chief competitor in the category of Best Expatriate Blog:

DarkoV was totally all, like,
May 25th, 2007 at 14.11 CEST+2.00
Look,
It’s not that I have anything against Mme. LeMeg. I’m sure if she won, she’d look much prettier in the Satin PJs’ what with her Amelie-ish blog portrait and everything, than you would. Plus, she seems to be a good sport, which counts for a lot.
But, you in Satin PJ’s would be a stitch and you know that saying about stitches in time and such.

I hope the cavalry is coming. I’m rounding up my daughter’s Facebook chums so I’m looking for some high numberage from that corner of the Internet lot.

Okay, am I really afraid of the tween brigade on Facebook?

I am terrified.

And rightly so.

My lead in the only category in which I have a chance has suddenly plummeted. Those tweens - in between updating their Facebook status from "oh my god" to "I am so bored" - are kicking my ass.

Any knights in shining armor may still vote here.

Bloggers in Paradise

2007-05-24T15:48:00.000+02:00

Do you blog? Do you pretend to tolerate somebody who does? Do we look like the kind of people you'd like to spend some quality time with?

If so, and if you're planning to be in Paris on Saturday June 9, drop on by the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont for the Paris Bloggers' Picnic. Your hosts Meg (that's me!), Rhino, Frog with a Blog, and Petite Anglaise will be doing log-rolls down the hill from 2pm onward. Details are here, along with an email address for signing yerselves up.

Expect to see hair pulling and possible pond-dunking as Petite gets progressively drunker and takes revenge for Meg's come-from-behind WIN in the Third Annual Satin Pajama Awards.

No?

You're probably better advised to vote for her in the Best European Blog Overall category, where she is currently bitch-slapping me with more than 65% of the vote.

However I would gladly accept your electronic love in any of these other blog categories:

Best Expatriate - in which I am being mounted from behind
Best Writing - in which I am being Twatted (again)
Best Personal - in which I am being trounced

The fancy vote tabulator on the polling site is doing wonders for my productivity:

11:32 am - 2% of the vote

11:34 am - 2% of the vote

11:36 am - 3% of the vote - yesssss!!!

...see you at the picnic.

Why You Are Here

2007-05-12T09:42:00.000+02:00

"What's your blog about?" is a question that I usually avoid by not mentioning the existence of this website.

To be honest, I haven't known how to answer it. "It's about Paris" sounds plain. "It's about me" sounds vain. So recently I have turned to Sitemeter for a more detailed analysis of my content.

Sitemeter, alternately known among bloggers as "Psychometer," is a program that allows me to track the number and location of my visitors. And to see the search terms that have brought you to this site.

It turns out that visitors, despite my best efforts, are not coming here to see pictures of dogs on bikes.

What you want, and what I have given you, is the following:

1) Transvestites. French visitors searching for ladyboys make up the vast majority of my Google hits. Bienvenue! Your average visit length, upon discovering a post about shoes, is a disappointing 0.4 seconds.

2) Naked Snorkeling. Here come the southerners! A large number of you have arrived to see me swimming in my nuddie pants. Could someone please explain why you all hail from Mississippi?

3) Naked Opera. I had not realized that this was a fetish. But it is, and almost exclusively among the British. Llaaaahhh!! La lalala alalaa!

4) Vagina Party. Call me cocky, but I really thought I invented this concept. I see now from the search terms that there is a whole community waiting to welcome me. Does anyone else find this a wee bit frightening?

In sum, this exercise has reinforced my belief that the best way to build traffic, apart from landing a spot on Petite's blogroll, is to sprinkle my text with perversion.

And now I finally have a response - four of them - when someone asks about my blog. Whether or not this represents an improvement over previous descriptions is a "research question" for the next big social gathering...

Election Night

2007-05-07T11:38:00.000+02:00

La crème de la crème

2007-04-26T14:34:00.000+02:00

Ahh... french women.

I'm a little bit obsessed with them. We share the same sidewalks but seem to occupy two different planets. I feel foreign around them, like a cross-dresser in their midst.

And yet I find myself slowly migrating and starting to mimic their strange behavior. Just look at what I did to my face!

It occurred to me today that I could cream myself french - that culture may be a simple matter of conditioning.

This was following a conversation with some male victims on Gmail chat about the words that they use to for les françaises.

"Douceur" was the first response and an obvious effect of creaming.

The second description was "complicated," and can also be attributed to beauty products. To simplify the theory (Descartes, I believe it was) about local ladyplexity and the differentiation of creams: if the pharmacy in a given culture is selling two seperate creams for knee and thigh skin, than the women in said culture will be crazy.

The third adjective, "elusive," is also related to the regimen. A stong commitment to hair removal leaves little time to return phone calls. Is Delphine being coy... keeping you quivering with anticipation? Or did she just not have time to shave her legs?

The final word, "passionate," was used multiple times, and I gotta give the girls credit on this one. French women are without a doubt more sensual than their American counterparts.

Some say our prudishness is the by-product of Protestantism. But I think it's all about lubrication. Sensuality must increase with the number of hours spent self-lotioning. All that rubbing is bound to make a girl think about sex.

I pressed the same boys to give me some additional words for Americans. I heard "franche," "bold," "assertive," "confident," "strong," "busy," and "delurée."

At least half of those adjectives are directly related to alcohol. And french girls, after their 70€ breast cream, can rarely afford more than one drink. Americans may have an edge in the "strong" and "witty" department, but it would be wrong to say that French women aren't busy. The work of beautification is invisible to men, but the breasts, rest assured, are not lifting themselves.

"A few kilos, at least" is how Nabékor summed up our cultural differences. But this, too, I'm happy to report, has a cream-based solution.

84.5%

2007-04-23T14:13:00.000+02:00

A cheer rang out around 8pm over the waters of the Bassin de la Villette.

We left the sun and found a wood-paneled café with a TV mounted above the jukebox. The space, empty when we arrived, was soon filled with young faces.

They were washed with relief upon hearing the broad outlines: Sarko and Ségo and defintely no Le Pen. But that (unbeatable?) 30% brought silence and worry - would Sarkozy really be the next president?

I remembered the anxiety that filled a similar bar seven years ago. We were gathered at Simon's to watch the map turn red. The same unbelieving questions were being asked about Bush. But not one among us had voted.

Stellar excuses abounded that night: I had gone to the wrong polling place. Many others had forgotten to register. And our votes weren't needed in Illinois...

For the French - who plan vacations around voting - this kind of apathy is incomprehensible. Nearly 85% cast a ballot yesterday, and turnout is expected to be even greater on May 6.

A mild depression has set in today among my lefty friends and colleagues. Not one of them is excited about their candidate. The "anyone but Sarko" ballot is not an inspiring one to cast. But they will do it anyway - and in huge numbers. Which is more than their US counterparts seem capable of.

Near miss in Montmartre

2007-04-16T14:30:00.000+02:00

Wha--what??

The Shins were recently a few blocks from my apartment recording one of my favorite songs as a Concert à Emporter.

The tractor beam - the one that should have pulled me through the open window and deposited me within grabbing range of all that facial hair - was not working.

How could I not have known?

I suppose it's better this way. Had I been there, the "Gone for Good" video would have included a distant female backing vocal.

#44 - THE SHINS - PART1
Uploaded by lablogotheque

Spring Crush

2007-04-12T17:32:00.001+02:00

Daniel Rose, the American chef, is being wooed. Every day his phone at Spring rings off the hook. "Are you free?" beg the callers, a little too desperate at times for his taste. The answer, short of ten days' notice, is no.

Hard-to-get is not just a pose for a man with sixteen seats. The diners know their luck in scoring a date. They have read the reviews and know all the rules: one seating and no substitutions. They arrive bursting with anticipation, walking billboards for the season.

The foodie faithful enter the 26 m2 chapel through a door that Rose designed. They are greeted by the acolyte, a lovely waitress who whispers the menu. She constitutes, aside from the occasional stagière, the entire staff of Spring. Rose himself shops and mops and does everything else in between.

The "clients," as he likes to call them, fall silent with the first course - a velouté sans crème (carotte). They ponder the secret (duck fat) behind his famous creamless soup, which is prettied by a foie gras throw pillow.

When presented with a whole dorade, stuffed with rosemary and red onion, every diner wears the young face of love. Round three, during which Rose wanders, looking worried and asking about salt, is spring lamb en croute à l'Italien .

One wonders, watching Rose with his clients, if perhaps he is wooing them, too. But as he builds the dessert, little towers of cake and cream, the object of his desire becomes clear. Is he touching a lover's face or arranging a garnish? This young chef has got it bad for his food.

Spring
28 rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, 75009
Tuesday - Friday nights only
Tel: 01 45 96 05 72

Dark Matter

2007-03-29T18:32:00.000+02:00

We parked the car at 9pm outside a low slung cement block building. After knocking three times on a window, a man wordlessly opened the front door.

Adam appeared as my boss had descibed him: short and stocky, like a sports trainer. Not so different than the other men I'd met in Warsaw. What set Adam apart was his brow line - two hairy thickets that twisted upward toward the flourescent bulb.

A man in a suit hovered behind Adam, his function unknown. The suit motioned for me to sit down, and Joanne silently followed Adam into the bedroom. After a few minutes the suit mumbled something in French. "Not many people from Poland in Quebec," he said. Then he stood up and walked out of the apartment.

Alone now, I could examine my surroundings. In addition to the bare bulb, there were plenty of other "mood elements." A television, muted, showing rugby. A phone that rang off the hook and a cassette answering machine. Decorative knives.

I heard footsteps in the hallway and then the flimsy door was flung open. Joanne emerged looking woozy, but gestured for me to go in. I followed dumbly and the door was closed behind me.

"Stand here," he said in French. "Close your eyes."

I had agreed to see the energy healer because my boss had offered to pay. She had her own appointment during my visit, and I was "lucky enough" to be added on. Adam had been in the papers recently, and was very much in demand.

At the very least, I thought, as he stood behind me doing God-knows-what, there is a blog post in this. And I began to imagine the opening lines.

"You're very sad," Adam said, interrupting.

"Am I?" I replied, imagining a serious poker face.

"This here," he said, passing open hands near my sternum, "is your (something-or-other) channel. Immediate family. Boyfriend, husband. Very ......"

The last word was represented only by a gesture. An anguished face, like he had stepped on something sharp. Or eaten Marmite.

"I see."

"This here (moving southward) is your spirit channel." He spent some time pawing the air in front of my belly, and then moved on.

He started in about digestion and I had to call him back.

"Excuse me, Adam... my spirit channel? Did you, uh, find anything there?"

His impressive brow collapsed into itself. He started to say something and then thought better of it. He moved his hands down and continued to talk about intestines.

Parlor tricks followed, with Adam pointing to my physical ailments. He correctly named all the current ones (a bad cough, a sore back) and even forecast a few that "will follow."

He then told me to sit, and looked directly into my eyes. His face hung with the over-wrought sincerity of a high school guidance counselor.

"You're very sad," he repeated.

Isn't everyone? I thought. "But what about my spirit channel?"

He started again to explain, stopped, and then called for Joanne. He took her in the corner and spoke very quickly.

My mind wandered to various versions of this story - the sad expat learning that she has, after all, no soul. It could be done like Lost in Translation with good music, Polish art students, and sexy casting. Or in a Sci-Fi direction, with a vampire soul! Or...

"It's your third eye," someone interrupted.

Joanne was explaining to me that it's broken. My third eye. And that this is very, very bad. "It's the way you relate to the world. It's the interface between you and everybody else. Or something like that. We can Google it."

The good news, she assured me, is that Adam can fix it. Only 2-3 more visits, and only 15 euros a pop. I could be a much better person before the summer.

I came back to Paris last night, dropped my bags, and went to an Andrew Bird concert. And the dashing multi-instrumentalist peered out from beneath his hair-mop, looked right into my eyes (so I imagine), and sang:

Do you wonder where the self resides
Is it in the head or between your sides?

I decided this morning, after a proper night's rest and five cups of coffee, what this third eye business is really about.

It is not about me being soul-less. Or selfish. Or any other unflattering word that begins with S.

It is about grammar!

My interface with the world, like a radio dropped in water, has been cutting out. I am third eye ~~blind~~ mute as a result of speaking french like a six year-old.

My next trip to Warsaw is in May. This leaves me plenty of time to master the subjunctive and return triumphant to Adam's "office."

"All clear," he will say, brows twitching happily. My sternum will reveal that I am good.

One can hope...

Les Folies Vaginales

2007-03-21T14:38:00.000+01:00

A barking need for attention is easily mistaken for dramatic flair.

And so last night I was asked for the 100th time in recent memory, "have you spent any time in the theater?"

The answer is no. Apart from weekly classes in amateur improv, I have never sullied a stage.

I do, on the other hand, love to put on a show. And for my birthday last week I went a bit overboard.

I searched high and settled low in selecting the motif. I wanted a theme that people could get into.

And while my dream of turning the entry hall into a giant Slip N' Slide did not come true, les Folies Vaginales afforded an impressive array of absurdity.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time in preparing this - feathering the apartment, slitting dates and stuffing them with marscapone, making labia garnish out of strawberries... all of the usual things that one does.

I sampled cocktail recipes while making my costume (above) and built a playlist of very nasty songs.

But nothing that I did (and I did a lot) could compare with what came out of the guests.

In the category of dress, the biggest surprise came from a pair of (gasp!) french boys. They donned homemade t-shirts labeled grandes and petites levres, and wore necklaces strung with bic razors.

Girls in every labial hue were monitored carefully by a British gynecologist. And there were more fur accents in that apartment than on a Croatian nudie beach.

But the audience participation was not limited to costume.

Some brought vaginal artwork. Others made labial folds out of ham. Music and videos, boxes of all shapes and sizes, pervy chocolates and candies, the list goes on and on...

But the best form of participation is always dance. And people got down for the vagina. There was blouse-popping, booty shaking action under the nightie light.

Take this Dan kid at left: a soft-spoken intellectual type by day. Get a couple of kir vaginales in him and he's suddenly spinning Nardac like a top.

At the end of the night, following much drunken singing, someone made a musical vagina out of a vaccuum tube. You'll have to click here to see what I mean.

Something about the evening seemed to have put people in the mood. At least six (however temporary) couples were formed, and that's not even counting Steve and his friends here. I myself retired alone and happy around 6:30 am.

A vulvatic thank you to everyone who came. You made me a very happy birthday girl, indeed.

32

2007-03-14T17:12:00.000+01:00

Form a line to the ~~throne~~ comments box because today, dear readers, is my birthday.

The day began with bright sun streaming through my window and crisp blue surrounding the visible sliver of Sacre Coeur. Birds - I kid you not - were warbling on the balcony.

My roommate had left a pot of strong coffee waiting, along with a spot-on funny gift. I drank it in slowly while making a new mix ~~tape~~ CD, quite content to be hookey from work.

A date drew me out of musical solitude, and I set off to meet Catherine around 12:30.

A perfect assiette at the Cantine de Quentin, and then a walk along the shining canal.

Cath returned to work and I continued on to meet another girl. After four months apart, I wasn't sure what to expect from our reunion. My bike was waiting for me outside an Oberkampf pool hall, a little worse for wear but still beautiful. I hopped on for a wide-eyed ride through the city and then installed the bike at her new digs in Montmartre.

I later transferred my fesses to Nicole's scooter - a machine that always makes me feel like a teenager. There was much "wheeeee!!!" as we rode over for cocktails near Abbesses. And there was much gossip to accompany our kir.

I haven't even told you about the Vagina Party yet, have I? The one that spawned at least 5 (however temporary) couples? The one that left me exhausted at 6 am amid a pile of red feathers?

That'll have to wait.

After 5 consecutive nights of stuffing my gullet, I am calling it an early night. Perhaps tomorrow, after some digestion, I can be clever again. For tonight I'm just pleasantly stuffed. And quite grateful to friends for the filling.

I shall leave you with this hopeful message from the Onion:

Your Birthday Today

After days of grave and anxious discussion, the stars have decided that it's better you don't know.

Supermooch

2007-02-23T16:17:00.000+01:00

As a downwardly mobile refugee from double income, I've been trying lately to improve my financial outlook.

Being disinclined toward sugardaddies, I've instead found a way to cut expenses. I have become, in the fullest sense of the word, a mooch.

Various dictionaries define a mooch as someone who "wanders aimlessly," "begs," "sponges," and "accepts gifts and favors."

I think that about covers it.

What's surprising to me (and baffling to my friends) is how well this has been working. I decided several months ago to try, just for the hell of it, requesting some free passes for exhibitions and music events. I was doing a calender for Expatica and couldn't afford to see everything I was writing about.

I'll never forget my surprise the first time someone said yes to me, and then how nervous I became at the prospect of approaching the ticket window. "Is it sur la liste?...or dans la liste?...or is list masculine??"

Eventually I got over it and got inspired to try for more. I started writing for Parisist and eventually editing their Events section. This is where began in earnest to build my kingdom of mooch. I started working with the editors and some fine staff writers to develop the FSS (free shit strategy). We banged out a request letter in two languages and I set about to begging.

Hundreds of emails have since gone out to clubs, promoters, labels, and the bands themselves. The result is that we have passes to a whole slate of concerts over the next few months.

There have been some let-downs (Clap Your Hands did not Say Yeah) and we're still waiting to hear about some big ones (Arcade Fire and the Shins), but overall it's been working surprisingly well.

All of this is good for Parisist, but more importantly it's great for me. I've been out having fun desipite a startling lack of funds.

Last night I had 2 passes for the sold-out Decemberists show (review here), and even scored a pre-concert dinner from Catherine. Not a bad deal, I say.

All this mooching can be exhausting. I turned down Guillemots tickets on Monday (reviewed by Alex here) and Rufus Wainwright tickets on Tuesday (reviewed by Lauren here). Tonight is another freebie, however, and Monday will bring a Tobias Fröberg show and interview (my first).

Holy crap!

Perhaps I can develop a whole series of indie rock interviews that incorporate my expertise in reproductive health...

The Vagina Dialogues, perhaps?

Climb Every Mountain

2007-02-18T11:39:00.000+01:00

Last night a crack team of operatives set out for reconnaissance around Châtelet. We had a list of 5 karaoke establishments and no idea if any of them were good. "At the end of this night," I promised, "we will be the Karaoke Experts of Paris."

Our first address was showing a football game. The second had transformed into a Japanese restaurant. The third was now Lebanese. The fourth had simply given up, and the fifth required an hour wait before its opening.

We settled in at a lesbian bar to wait for karaoke and the arrival of a support squadron. Second lieutentant Samantha had promised to bring in some "professionals." When they arrived, we mounted our attack upon the joint across the street.

L'Annexe revealed itself to be a sad little basement with a 12 euro cover charge. As Rhino observed, karaoke in Paris is considerably more elusive than a club échangiste.

Crushed, we retreated from the karaoke battlefield and set out on foot for a party near the Canal. We pillaged along the way, unleashing our pent up musical energies upon the sleeping residents of the Marais. After working our way through several not-so-golden oldies, we made a big finish with this bit of artistry from the Sound of Music:

As the Reverend Mother from that blessed musical once said to Maria, "Whenever God closes a door, he somewhere opens a window." Last night's mission was not a defeat. If we hadn't been turned away from FIVE supposed karaoke establishments, the Roaming Club Karaoke (RoCK!) would never have been born.

*Note: the videos featuring my voice and facial distortions will remain carefully guarded. But the many others featuring Rhino and Christina are available for free and upon request.

My Valenthèque

2007-02-13T16:25:00.000+01:00

I revealed in my last post that I had fallen in love with a dancer.

Sadly, however, the bouncing boy has not been in touch.

Perhaps he's very busy.

Or (unlikely) does not read my blog.

In any case, I am fickle and have fallen for a new toy. My heart this Wednesday belongs to La Blogothèque.

They say the best way to learn a language is between the sheets. But "they" haven't been practicing their french on this website.

In reality, la Blogothèque is much better than a boyfriend. He's always up for going out, I like his friends, he brings me new music, and I don't have to shower after visiting him.

Some places he has taken me:

(in Montmartre)

and...

(along the Canal St. Martin)

Not a bad couple of dates, right? And I didn't even have to shave my legs.

Happy VD, tout le monde.

I Have Found My Valentine

2007-02-11T21:19:00.000+01:00

...and need only to make him mine.

What enthusiasm! What MOVES!!

This man is my destiny. I just know it.

The following greetings from Meish will remain on standby, however, just in case I can't manage to track him down before Wednesday:

The Twat Factor

2007-02-03T10:02:00.000+01:00

I am having, dear reader, an identity crisis.

This isn't about my crumbled marriage...

Or about wondering what I'm doing in a foreign country where I can barely speak the language...

Or about deciding whether to write a dissertation or more concert reviews...

No, no, no. This is about my blog name.

I thought I was being clever when I named this thing. Blague (meaning: joke) sounds like blog - isn't that funny?

No?

It may not be funny, but it sure is annoying to the frenchies. I have been questioned in a surprising number of encounters and emails about why I would use the masculine form to describe myself. More properly, I am a blagueuse. But blagueuse sounds like something that's smearable. And what's more, it doesn't sound at all like 'blogger'.

A second problem with the title is correct spelling. Nobody (including me) seems capable of properly spelling blagueur. I go by Meg to avoid gaffes with Meagan. Should I similarly re-christen Le Blag?

These are minor considerations, however, in relation to The Twat Factor.

One of the other four nominees for Best European Blog is "My Boyfriend is a Twat," and her victory for two consecutive years has spawned a new blogging principle. A friend explained The Twat Factor to me last week, saying that there are certain words that make people smile, click, remember, return, vote, discuss, etc. 'Blagueur' is apparently not one of them.

She wants me to rename the blog "Paris without Pants" (in the British sense) for my failure, at times, to wear undergarments.

I think I'm stuck with the original name. But let me just say: I can't believe, with all my talk about vagina, that the nominee with the word twat in her title is not me.

I am seething with jealousy.

_____________________________________________________

Gratuitous crotch shot courtesy of Gustave Courbet.
See it in person at the Musée d'Orsay.

Brain Food

2007-01-31T13:12:00.001+01:00

"Chicken or pork?" said the flight attendant, and I couldn't help thinking that she reminded me of someone.

"Pork," I replied, and then realized the connection. I saw Inland Empire last week, and it's been bubbling up like indigestion ever since.

The pretty girl with the Polish accent was, through the Lynch lens, now a prostitute. And the meal that she placed before me was suddenly sinister.

What exactly was it?

Spaghetti, ostensibly, drenched in red with fleshy bits. Bits that glistened beneath their blanket of melted cheese. I eyed the mass warily, poking at what were possibly the remains of some passenger. That woman, perhaps, who was protesting the new liquid regulations?

I closed my eyes, willed myself out of the labyrinth, and took a bite. It was, in reality, the most innocuous meal in the world. Here before me was the Midwestern culinary trinity: a mildly tangy tomato sauce, some delicately sweet browned meat, and melted cheese.

Various permutations of this had sustained me during childhood - a period in which I was "allergic" to nearly everything. Cheeseburgers, pizza, and enchiladas - these were the building blocks of my youth. I consumed more ground beef and defrosted cheddar in those years than have been seen in whole regions of China.

This continued until 1995, the year in which I moved to Arizona. At twenty I was running away from Kansas, leaving a burnt-out apartment and everything else behind. "Everything else" included the university, my family, and eventually my food phobias.

I got a job in a bookstore in the college town of Tempe. I spent lunch breaks behind the shop in an enclosed garden that tinkled with the sound of running water. I devoured books and, after some time, the exotic offerings of a Lebanese food cart.

This practice wasn't immediate. In my first few weeks on the job, I'd been trekking to Carl's Junior to retrieve my lunch. It turns out, though, that a sourdough bacon melt isn't the best thing to be eating in 120 degree heat. My co-workers seemed to be enjoying themselves in the garden, but that food?

I still remember, more vividly than my memory of first sex, sitting alone one afternoon and contemplating tabbouleh. "This is a bite of onion," I told myself. "This is what it feels like on your teeth. Is it really so disgusting?"

It took nearly an hour to work my way through that salad. There were so many elements that were foreign to my protected palate. Raw tomato (I know). Parsley and garlic. Lemon, for God's sake.

My orientation to food, following that tabboul-ephiphany, began to change. But the transformation was anything but rapid. I added new foods slowly, painfully, and because it was "good for me." It felt more like homework than pleasure.

It would be years before I'd eat my first fresh fish. A taste for sushi arrived only with the millenium. And my first brain, well, that was only last week.

I sampled brain recently at Le Midi-Vins in the 6th. Lamb's brain, to be precise, sautéed and sprinkled with toasted almonds. Andreia, whose dish it was, pointed perplexedly to a jiggly bit at the base. The lessons of high school anatomy came flooding back to me. "The cerebellum," I nodded, and described its role in motor functions. I avoided that nubbin, but was not disgusted to bite into the rest.

It's no big deal, I suppose, for a frenchman raised on offal. But for Le Meg, raised on Le Mac (and cheese), this is something of a triumph. Had I held to the bizarro food convictions of my youth, I would have missed out on the following pleasures in January:

Foie de Lotte

(raw monkfish liver)

sprinkled with sea salt

at Ploum.

_______________________________________________________________

Patta Negra Bellota

(Spanish ham)

whose fat and flesh melt sequentially

at La Crèmerie.

_________________________________________________________________

Perdreau rouge avec champignons à la forestière et chaîtagnes

(red partidge with wild forest mushrooms and chestnuts)

at Chez Michel.

_______________________________________________________________

Is this bragging? Vulgar boasting about my gastronomic triumphs? You bet your sweet oxtail it is. But it's also a call to all you food neurotics out there to please and finally get over yourselves.

You are strong enough to eat better than you do.

It's simply mind over (grey) matter.

Bon appétit!

On Fire

2007-01-26T10:09:00.000+01:00

This morning's episode in nincompoopery unfolds with our heroine lighting her crown on fire.

A work colleague brought the ubiquitous galette des rois for breakfast, and suggested that I heat it up a bit.

My mastery of the microwave has been much-touted around this office. Feats such as "warming coffee" have been regarded - until today - as some sort of American birthright.

That's all over now. For I forgot, being unaccustomed to toys-in-food, to remove the foil crown from the box. That's right - a galette des rois comes complete with a party hat, one that's awarded to she (me) who finds the little toy hidden in her slice.

It's only fair, they said, that I should have to wear the blackened crown for the morning. A french tradition, they told me.

It wasn't an altogether unfitting uniform in which to discover that I'm up for a Bloggie. A diaper would have made the outfit complete, considering what nearly happened when I read the news.

(now behave, all you New Year's Baby fetishists out there...)

This is boggling news, given that I've only had the blog for six months and that the other four finalists have massive traffic, book deals and blog-themed coffee cups for sale on their sites.

If you feel like rooting for the underdog, you can vote here until February 02.

Le Travesti

2007-01-23T11:48:00.000+01:00

"So, we're going to this club later, you should come," said Marcuse. "Good music, a nice bottle, really beautiful people..."

"And where is this club?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

"Right off the Champs Elysées," he answered, the street name falling like a gift from his mouth.

I burst out laughing. "Dude," I said, "do I look like I would hang out around the Champs Elysées?

"In fact, yes."

I looked down at myself and (dear God) it was true. To begin with, there were the heels.

Those who know me know I don't wear heels. They function in my life much like cigarettes - looking cool on other people but ridiculous whenever I try them. Through the mauvaise influence of friends, however, I am tottering into a new phase.

To continue, there was the dress - a black fitted thing and, well, strapless. Friends know that I don't wear dresses. Or if I do, they are wildly-colored 60s flares with the lingering scent of some Edna.

In trying to fit in for what I knew would be a fancy party, I'd transformed myself into a magnet for investment (bankers). Poor Marcuse was a victim of false advertising. He recoiled - as I was asserting the merits of dive bars - like I was showing him my penis.

Just two nights earlier, I was in a different sort of costume. I was reviewing a concert at La Maroquinerie, wearing filthy Converse and a ¡Forward, Russia! t-shirt. I had covered the tee with a cardigan at work, and changed shoes under my desk before leaving. My co-workers remain clueless about the indie rock Superhero in their midst.

Sunday night, before my first improv theater class, I stood baffled in front of the mirror. "White face paint?" I wondered. "Black turtleneck?"

Who am I kidding...

You Want a Piece of Me?

2007-01-16T14:01:00.000+01:00

All morning long I've been having these fantasies.

I have them while I'm making coffee. In the bathroom. On the Métro.

I especially have them while I'm walking.

It's evening in the dream, and unseasonably warm. A tall stranger encircles me from behind, saying something in French that I cannot understand.

I turn around to face him, breathless, and realize that he's not alone.

Five men in total - all for me?

I smile to myself, step forward, and proceed to beat the EVER-LIVING CRAP out of them.

Hiiiiii-YAH!

I am flying through the air. Jaws are cracking. Noses shattering. I am wielding some kind of pipe. They are running. I am chasing.

THEY HAVE MESSED WITH THE WRONG GIRL!

(I got mugged last night)

In my dream it matters not that the expletives are in English. They know exactly what I mean when I ask if they're my bitch.

SAY IT!!

I am spent, at the end of it. I collect my things, smooth my skirt, and replace the earbuds on my iPod. I press play and step delicately over the bodies. And old man on a balcony nods approvingly. The night is cool on my cheeks - I am happy.

F the Pig

2007-01-04T10:47:00.000+01:00

On December 31st, while ambling up the rue des Martyrs, I came across this little wagonful of pig.

Some children were gathered 'round, flanked of course by watchful parents.

I dove right in to feel the pig's short black bristles and smooth pink nose. This, to the dismay of those waiting for permission to touch.

Imagined conversation:

"Maman! Why does the giant lady get to do it?"

"Just look at her, Ludivine. She's wearing sweatpants. I think that answers your question."

(I was coming home from the gym...)

My pig-stroking made a challenge of the lebanese flatbread I later bought. It would have been terribly inconvenient, so few hours before New Year's Eve, to contract some sort of mouth disease. But I managed, while nudging through the frenzied fish shop spillover, to keep a napkin over my fingers at all times.

This neighborhood is perfect, I thought to myself, as I crested the butte near my home. Not only do I get to look at this during my morning walk, but there's a pig in the street for no reason.

It only dawned on me today that it might have something to do with astrology. 2006, remember, was the Year of the Dog.

(You didn't know?)

And 2007, which technically doesn't begin until February 18, is the Year of the Pig.

Because my knowledge of Chinese Astrology is limited to whatever was printed on the placemat of my hometown "oriental" restaurant, I turned to Google this morning to find out what it all means.

And what it means, according to this site, is that I'm screwed.

Some remarks about my coming year:

"It is actually a year of transition for the Rabbits"
...Hey - they're right on!

"They have chances to handle major issues or tasks"
...That's right. Watch me go.

"But Rabbits should not expect to have any achievement this year."
...Um, what?

"Otherwise, you are just going to be hugely disappointed at last."
...

"Because of your energy this year, you would fail to find support and assistance from others."
...This is a joke?

and finally...

"You would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards."
_________________________

After a full minute of staring with my jaw dropped, I went back to the search screen. And I Googled and Googled until I came up with something more to my liking:

"This is a good year for those who are born in the year of the Rabbit."
...Damn straight.

"There are signs of promotion and you will be given the power to be a leader in your career."
...I knew it!

"Do not push your luck by trying to reap profits through illegal means."
...But you just said...

"Put a scepter to your right on your office table. Place a lepidolite near you."
...
_________________________

To round things out and add a little occident to the mix, I paid a visit to the only horoscope that really matters.

And here is The Onion's prediction for Pisces in 2007:

"The New Year will start out with a bang for you. Unfortunately, it will also end with a bang for you."

I think I'm finished with astrology.

Lost (Happy New Year)

2007-01-02T18:03:00.000+01:00

I spent the better part of yesterday on the sofa watching Lost.

I've never before been the serial type, but was grateful - upon rousing myself from the hangover bed - to find my roommate's DVD collection.

Television is such powerful escapism. I'd forgotten about it during my six weeks of squatting. It's even more effective than, say, drinking one's own body weight in champagne and pretending to be a libertine.

Another New Year's Eve, another attempt to wipe clean the ~~temporal lobe~~ slate. This wasn't the first year that I'd drank too much on NYE, but it was the first time I'd done so alone. Alright, okay, so I was hardly alone. But I wasn't in the bosom of my long-time friends, and it had me feeling a bit maudlin.

I looked around the party and couldn't ignore what was missing: Loretta dancing in a giant pajama sack...Roshen passing out the lyric sheets...Friese tossing his wig under a canopy of paper foliage...Jennifer not knowing when to stop with the jello shots...

What? That was me?

And, of course, Jayson. In their place were some strangers who were doing a miserable job of already knowing me. Several hours after midnight, with the party nowhere near dying down, I grabbed my coat and fled to the Pont des Arts.

I stood for some time staring blankly at the city, waiting for an epiphany to bubble up from the Seine. In its place came a text message from Yorkshire, reading:

"I'm in a bar with lots of rough people with non-ironic mullets..." followed by some unrepeatable instructions on lightening the hell up.

In lieu of further revelation, I went back to the party. And I had, against all odds, a very good time.

Reinvention seems to be a little easier on Lost. A plane crash strands them on a tropical island and these characters can be whoever they want to be. The criminal becomes a do-gooder. The wounded cripple is suddenly a hero.

So what exactly am I supposed to be? Your suggestions, particularly if accompanied by costume ideas, would be appreciated.

And seriously, are there really polar bears on that island?

Happy New Year.

Shuffle

2006-12-17T10:54:00.000+01:00

Christmas has come early in the form of a new MP3 player. My last one died two weeks into the breakup, thus separating me like a private from her marching orders.

I spent today filling the new one up with options - 240 moods in all.

The original playlist was perky, almost manaically encouraging. This new one - now that I've granted myself a small weekly allowance of emotion - is more diverse. Husker Du is still there to tell me that Love is All Around, but they've been joined by the Mountain Goats and a dose of reality.

The speed at which I shuffle through both songs and sentiments is scary. And this mutability, aside from other privacy concerns, is enough to keep me from "going personal." The very act of having a blog, as someone reminded me this week, is très indiscret. But there are levels, quand même, and a shallow end to this pool.

Others, of course, have no problem baring all on the internet. To show how very indiscreet some can be, I offer the following You Tube illustrations of my current shuffle...

The Futureheads "Hounds of Love" by three prep school boys known as BigSplitta: Love the gum chewing, homoeroticism and big guitar finish.

Neutral Milk Hotel "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" as interpreted by Matteastin. A tender illustration of the song using by three dudes who drive pick-ups and light their furniture on fire.

The Mountain Goats "No Children" as illustrated through super-literal Japanese photomontage. A picture of a fence for a lyric about a fence. An underwater Barbie for a line about drowning. And a wholelotta punk-looking models...

The Killers "Mr Brightside" as danced by a spanish-speaking teenager in her bedroom. She scores major points with a spinning camera move reminiscent of In Between Days. But it's her flashy scrolling text that breaks my heart - "Destiny is calling me!!!" Indeed.

O.P.P.

2006-12-14T16:47:00.000+01:00

"It's not you, it's me," I say to François, as I make my goodbye at the door. The phone is buzzing and I'm eager to answer, so I smile guiltily and rush out into the stairwell.

Could it have worked - a philospher in a sport coat on the rue du Louvre? I don't have much time to think as I race down into the Métro.

I'm late to meet Yann, tall and cute in the 10th. He welcomes me in but wants small talk before we get into it. And all I can think about is seeing the bedroom...

Looking for a roommate is a lot like ~~whoring~~ dating. Furtive textos, quickie drop-ins, and promises to call. It's sordid and exhausting, but there's a certain thrill to it all.

Getting down with O.P.P. is a new development for le Meg. It's been nearly a decade since I last dabbled in other people's property.

A whole lot has changed since then in the way that people look for one another. Simply finding eachother, nine years ago, was a word-of-mouth affair. We can now go online to fill our bedrooms. We can email, send pictures, google the hell out of eachother.

I myself was picked up through this blog. A tall Aussie sent a cautious first note. I replied and got another one with pictures and a link to her blog. The words "wine industry" and "Montmartre" were bandied about. "When can we meet?" I asked breathily on the phone.

Two anglophone girls unafraid of commitment - we jumped headlong into the affair. And even emailed eachother the next morning.

So while it was fun - my brief affairs with Yann, Julien, Mei, François, Leonard, dear Bennett and Franck - I'm pretty glad to be back in a relationship.

I know where I'm sleeping from now on, who I'm coming home to every night. I can stop running around and focus again on the important things in life.

You know, like fighting over the dirty dishes.

Super Stud(ette)

2006-12-12T07:44:00.000+01:00

Last night I rode the train into unchartered territory, recalling Paris to the Moon and a syrupy passage about Métro stops imagined but never seen.

Adam Gopnik's heart of darkness was the Goutte d'Or, an area rarely visited by left-bankers like himself. Mine, on the other hand was the (more than one drop) 16th.

The author cooed as he trundled past the Château Rouge stop - imagining a storybook cottage waiting for his family outside. I, on the other hand, clenched as we rolled through Passy and I realized that for the first time in my life there were no brown faces on the Métro.

I admit it: I am scared to death of the 16th.

Out of the Métro and in unsafe open waters, I hurried head down to my destination. I held my bag close and made no eye contact with the nannies. I was very nearly running.

What was I even doing in that neighborhood, you ask?

Getting the best haircut of my life, that's what. A towering Scotswoman, a friend of a friend, cuts it for cheap out of her apartment. There was sipping and snipping and bagging on men while we waited for my hair to turn blond-ish. She told me tales about working the fashion shows and offered her chambre de bonne if I need it. It was another planet, but incredibly fun.

I left with a sashay and headed to my first apartment visit of the night. I was hopped up on adrenaline, feeling capable and adventurous. If I could visit the 16th, maybe I could also find an apartment.

I was not, before last night, familiar with the concept of the studette. I hadn't thought there was anything smaller than a studio until I visited this diminutive bed-box in the Marais.

A mattress on a mezzanine, a shower I had to crawl into, and no light from either window - was this really to be my new reality? An Italian girl ten years my junior explained that she only slept there after dancing.

It was raining when I left and headed back to my beloved 19th. "My email will be full of offers," I told myself as my heavily sprayed hair began to stick to my cheeks. I began to hum a little as I made my way along the Bassin - a snippet from the Magnetic Fields song Nothing Matters When We're Dancing, with lyrics altered to suit a newly-imagined stud(ette) lifestyle.

"I only sleep there after dancing..."

Save Le Meg!

2006-12-11T11:37:00.000+01:00

Five months ago I read a headline on the Paris Blog inviting me to "Save Petite!"

Catherine, aka Petite Anglaise, had been fired for blogging and alarms were sounding all around the sphere. It wasn't clear what readers were meant to do - how exactly we were supposed to save her - but she ended up somehow with a two book deal from Penguin.

It's my turn now to summon the mighty power of the internet. My request, however, is more modest, and I have clear directions for my rescue:

Le Meg needs an apartment!

Some of you readers have discerned a shift - a bit of personal upheaval - between the lines of my recent posts. Thank you for the many encouraging comments regarding this new direction. My favorites include:

"You're only interesting when you mock yourself,"
"Your last three posts are dysentery," and
"Peeeeeee youuuuuuuuu"

Point taken: my soft underbelly is not in high demand. You want snark. Self-deprecation. More talk about vagina.

I can give you this. But I want something in return:

A studio or one bedroom apartment. Short-term, long-term, furnished, un-furnished, shared or solo, I'm a little bit pressé.

The gorgeous 40 m eden that I had arranged in Montmartre just fell through. The occupants, on the same day I was to sign, decided not to move. So I found myself yesterday looking at 10 m hovels and contemplating the potential of a hot plate.

To quote Peggy Lee, "is that all there is?"

Surely you must know of something. Make my dreams come true at leblagueur@gmail.com and I promise to write you daily missives depricating my own vagina. What more could you want?

Wait, don't answer that.

________________________________________________

A few specs, in answer to your questions:

1) The dog is not coming with me.
2) 750 for something beautiful and 500 for a dump.
3) North/east Paris preferred (9-11, 18-20), but I'm flexible.
4) ASAP or in January; temporary, shared and housesitting OK.
5) I can cook.

Mercy, beau coup!

2006-11-24T08:16:00.000+01:00

Last night I celebrated Thanksgiving at a wine bar - a departure from my original idea to host 25 people for wild food acrobatics.

Plans change and spheres collide. Four women found themselves instead at le Verre Volé, upending tradition with oysters and foie gras.

It is no longer possible, after Sex and the City, for four women to gather chastely around a table. Perhaps this has always been true. Perhaps I am just getting older. But when a recent business dinner in Dublin included an assignment of the "Samantha" role, I began to sense that the times, in fact, are a-changin'.

Last night's conversation unfurled with the usual revelations about work. The curator from Boston explained her visit (Paris Photo). The reporter from Miami discussed a recent assignment (Castro). The Paris-based writer described her (completely awesome) book deal. And I don't discuss work on this blog.

This reasssurance of professionalism, this "go girl!" performance - this is what smart women do during the first drink. The devolution begins with the second, however, and can wind its way through any number of discursive gutters.

Our particular Thanksgiving path included the following:

1) The reporter's counsel that "sturdiness" is the most important quality in a dining table.
2) The curator's fist-in-the-air manifesto about every-day oral sex.
3) The writer's description of trans-Atlantic difference in circumcision.
4) My illustration of said difference with a wine bottle and baguette end.

In a contemplative moment, I asked my friends what they were thankful for. There was silence, glances cast toward the ceiling, and an immediate return to the sex talk.

I'm not entirely sure, was this a dismissal or a response?

Des jours et des vies

2006-11-20T17:08:00.000+01:00

I got rid of my TV over the weekend, so my viewing is now limited to whatever Club Med Gym is showing above the treadmill.

This morning it was des Jours et des Vies. The long-running American soap opera has been airing (dubbed) in France since 1991, which is probably around the last time I would have seen it in the States.

Now, there may be subtleties that a truer devotee would discern - one not distracted by sweat and an Arcade Fire soundtrack - but it seems to me that nothing has changed. The same faces are there, and fifteen years of fake crying has not aged them a day.

I, however, am a different story. In 1991, I was a gangly 16-year old growing up in Kansas. I played basketball and spent my weekends driving around in cars. I had very big hair and no real sense of who I was.

There's no denying that, unlike Hope and Bo, I have changed a lot over fifteen years. My hair, barring any exceptional friction, is now flat. My driving days are over, both in sports and vehicular terms. And I haven't hung out in a Taco Bell parking lot in years.

Does that mean I've left adolescence behind? Some who know me behind the scenes would say no. I seem, in fact, to be going through a second adolescence these days, complete with note passing, mix tapes and hangovers.

But life is short, as the hourglass reminds us. And Paris is as good a sandbox as any.

In the Buttes

2006-11-19T23:42:00.000+01:00

I lay down today in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont and thought seriously about never leaving.

With the dog wandering nearby, I stretched my arms above my head and twirled the damp grass between my fingers. Tiny papers fell eratically from a canopy of yellow and black. Beyond it, white clouds raced across a blue sky.

I put my headphones on and was swollen by a song. Mirth appeared above me, having abandoned her grass-eating for a moment. I stroked her soft fur with my eyes closed and thought about that line from American Beauty - "Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in."

And then the dog threw up in my hair.

Korean snails and nothing at all to do with vagina

2006-11-13T18:07:00.001+01:00

A hearty welcome to you Petite Anglaise devotees who have found my site by way of her completely fictionalised version of Saturday's events.

My previous post contains an image of a man wearing a giant vagina. That's a bit much for first-time visitors, especially those who have already been primed by Petite's lies. To ease your transition and help you settle into the world of Le Blagueur, I wil tell you first about the Restaurant Namsam.

This no-frills Korean joint is arguably the best in Paris, a claim that is supported by the bus-loads of Korean tourists who will eat only here. Don't believe me? There's a kiosk inside the restaurant selling little Eiffel Towers, and the tourists have covered the ceiling in thousands of Korean business cards.

We quite enjoyed our bulots à la sauce Coréenne (yes, snails) and crêpe aux poireaux (with squid). The hands-down winner was the barbecue Coréenne poitrine de porc piquant avec seiche. Whoever thought of pairing bacon with squid is a genius.

We ate and drank very well for around 20 euros a person, and I hear that their lunch specials are even better. Go see them at 87 avenue de Flandre, M° Riquet.

So there you have it - an innocent little restaurant review from a modest and misunderstood blogger. I hope this post goes some way toward dispelling any rumors you may have heard about me.

Now, about that vagina...

Vaginas and vernissages

2006-11-06T14:46:00.000+01:00

Everyone has one true specialty in life. Mine is the vagina.

Measuring the number of vaginas in Europe and the relative health and happiness of their owners – this is what I do for a living. I went to grad school in "vagina." I have been known to make vulva-themed food for parties. I sing a song from time to time called Cooter Boogie.

In the States, this was a big hit. So imagine my surprise upon learning that such frivolity is not appreciated in France! It doesn't matter that I've mastered the new vocabulary and translated the Boogie's (many) lyrics. Talking crotch at a French dinner party is a definite non-non.

The French, as I have deduced from 26 months of careful observation, prefer to talk about "culture." Sigh...

Because I cannot beat them, I have decided to join them. I shall cleanse my filthy mouth and learn to pepper my speech with words like vernissage - which almost sounds gynecological.

You may be wondering how exactly I plan to pull this off. In fact, dear reader, it's quite easy. You need only a child-like sense of curiosity, access to the internet, and abundant coffee. A total lack of shame helps, too.

Just last week, for example, I attended two concerts, five expos, one play, a lit-mag launch, an I V Y event, and a Parisist gathering. I chatted up a sculptor, a comp lit dude, even an actors' boyfriend. Distracted by their own plastic cups, they barely noticed as I spun my web of inanity and pried the info from their arty little brains.

For your benefit, I should add.

In addition to the aforementioned mission (being a better dinner guest), I will soon be transmitting my findings via Expatica, a website for anglophone expats in France. They've asked me to compile their What's On calendar of events - covering music, exhibitions, theater & dance, and festivals. My first submission will be up next Monday, November 13.

To effectuate my transformation into Hack of All Trades, I welcome your suggestions. There may come a time when my knowledge of classical music exceeds that of the cervix. Until that day arrives, I could use a Henry Higgins or ten.

Boo (Hoo)

2006-10-31T15:48:00.000+01:00

Evidence of Halloween is paltry today, not a ghoul or a goblin to be found. I don’t blame the French for not getting into the holiday – it makes no sense from their perspective.

Logistically, Halloween is a nightmare in Paris. School-sponsored events are out because the holiday falls during a mid-semester break. No Halloween parade for the kids to show off their costumes. No thematic cupcakes, no dry ice.

Trick-or-Treating, the raison-d’être of Halloween, is ruled out by building security. A child without a door code cannot enter from the street. Thus, the doorbells are not rung and the threats are not issued. The candy is purchased and consumed in moderation.

The cultural differences are more glaring when one considers Halloween for adults. Dressing up in costume is not just child’s play in the States. Some of my best holiday memories involved university parties, a hasty get-up and even hastier hallway kissing.

Costumes for adults fall into one of the following categories:

1) Trying to be sexy
2) Trying to be ugly
3) Trying to be clever
4) Not trying (see mask and sheet)

Most of my costumes fell into the third category and enabled a range of irregular behavior. Dressing as a bonobo allowed me to demonstrate my ape calls and hump assorted legs. Dressing in foliage and carrying a scythe enabled me to make a political statement...or at least to try (“I’m a Bush. Get it?”). Dressing as Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo gave me the freedom to leave little brown smears all over a friend's apartment.

Parisian adults are more limited in their choice of costume. “Trying to be sexy” is not a once-a-year frivolity here. “Trying to be ugly” is just out of the question. Clever is good, but not at the expense of decorum. Dressing oneself as a turd? I think not.

That leaves #4: Not Trying. Parisians making an effort will simply accessorize.

Others will reject the holiday kit and caboodle, deriding Halloween as an imposition of Anglo-American culture and commercialism. They’re not wrong. In absence of trick-or-treating and costumes, the only visible signs of Halloween can be found in Happy Meal boxes and at Euro-Disney.

In this context, I chose boots for Halloween. And also tights, a knee-length skirt, and fitted shirt. I put on a scarf and brushed my hair, looking for all the world like a Parisian.

It is, after all, the day to be something you’re not.

Today's Shiva: destroys and does windows

2006-10-29T09:09:00.000+01:00

For the roughly one billion adherents of Hinduism, Shiva is the destroyer - the most powerful god of the Hindu pantheon.

For residents of Paris, however, Shiva is a maid service.

That's right, folks. Shiva, acclaimed for his ability to dissolve life in order to create, can also work magic on your carpet stains and mildew.

No larger incarnating as Hanuman the monkey god, the modern-day Shiva prefers to be seen as a kicky south Asian gal with a preternaturally small waist. And s/he's waiting for you with a cold beverage.

Blogging hands are the devil’s playthings

2006-10-25T14:03:00.000+02:00

Father, it’s been three months and 21 posts since my last confession. Things have only gotten worse with more time spent in the blogosphere.

I’ve become greedy, desiring nothing more than visits and comments. I ignore the realm of the spiritual in favor of the ~~material~~ virtual. Site traffic is now an end in itself.

I am envious of more popular bloggers, coveting their traffic and leaving breadcrumb comments for their visitors.

I erupt with anger when accused that I may perhaps be blogging too much. Impatience and self-denial are my new fall accessories.

Evidence of sloth can be found in my kitchen sink or in-box. I am apathetic, short of attention, and fall quickly into sadness if my stats are down.

I am a full-blown glutton for praise. So acute is my need for flattery that I offer it falsely to other bloggers. Comments are the new crack cocaine.

Pride may be my worst sin, Father. I am love with the word, but not His. On a given day I may post, edit, and re-read my work twenty times. I deceive myself into thinking that I have an “audience” and expect at any moment to be recognized on the street.

The only sin I seem not to have violated is lust. The blood flow to my nether-regions has been compromised from so many hours at the computer. I hardly think about sex anymore, but do enjoy blogging in bed from time to time.

How much worse could it get?

Video art with an egg yolk chaser

2006-10-24T15:43:00.000+02:00

Which Dallas character do you see when you look at this installation by Sheena Macrae? And what does that say about you?

Le Meg has posted again on Parisist, this time about the MAC/VAL and its restaurant in Vitry-sur-Seine.

Have a look-see and wonder aloud, "who's that Kansas girl think that she is?"

When IKEA attacks

2006-10-22T21:18:00.000+02:00

I was mauled today by Swedish furniture.

An unassuming Billy case lurched from its cardboard box, ripping through my forearm and punishing my toes.

Wiping blood from a faux chêne finish is simple enough. A newfound fear of IKEA, however, may not be so easily erased.

The first time I heard about IKEA was in the movie Fight Club. "What kind of dining set defines me as a person?" asked a soul-less Ed Norton while flipping through a catalog on the toilet.

IKEA hadn't yet come to Chicago, so it would be years before my first sojourn to the giant blue box. On that day, I came away cash poor but rich with all the barware that a graduate student could need.

Outside of one or two "experimental" visits, however, IKEA was never a habit while I lived in the States. The objects in my life came from thrift stores and alleyways. Dressers were found and re-finished, not ordered and assembled.

That all changed when we moved to France. The logic in shipping cast-offs across the ocean was questionable, so we sold the old lamps, wobbly table and velvet paintings.

We arrived in Paris planning to buy new, but there weren't many affordable options. Beyond IKEA was a world in which objects were either ugly, expensive, or undeliverable. Without a car or much money, we needed IKEA if we were going to live with more than an inflatable mattress on the floor. So we swallowed our consumer conscience and set out to fill the apartment with particle board.

In a single afternoon we ordered everything - bed, dressers, bookshelves, tables, and chairs. We waited for weeks in our empty apartment until the delivery company finally turned up.

I spent days assembling the lot of it, including a bookcase that was missing a third of its shelves. Those parts never arrived, and their sister bits were transformed into a kitchen counter. We swore we would never order from IKEA again.

Our next pair of bookshelves came from Conforama. Twice the cost and doubly fugly - they now lean dramatically to the side. IKEA cases may be shoddy, but they don't require kitchen twine to keep them from falling over.

The ban on IKEA was lifted last week to buy more shelves. The boxes arrived without incident and I found myself wondering why I'd ever made such a fuss. IKEA wasn't the devil, I reasoned. They were just a private "foundation" offering affordable solutions for better living.

That was before I was Billy clubbed - before I saw the hidden evil lurking within these objects.

I tremble now in my Noresund bed, wondering when the next attack will come. I scan the room and realize that I'm vastly outnumbered. IKEA has successfully infiltrated every corner of this apartment. Perhaps tonight I will sleep with the Kroby light on, or put a Herman chair in front of the door.

My soul, I see now, is not enough for them.

Crush of the week: ¡!

2006-10-20T11:13:00.000+02:00

I was conscripted last night into the ¡Forward, Russia! army. Headlining Inrocks Indie Club 11 at La Maroquinerie, these DIY darlings from Leeds put on a sore-neck performance to remember.

It's difficult to choose just one crush from the band - Katie Nicholls on drums was very persuasive. But the singer Tom Woodhead made Le Meg's little head spin around.

His voice never wavered as it moved between Thom Yorke trilling and gut-bust bawling. He would wrap himself in the mic cord - turning pirouettes in bondage - then break free to play keyboards and writhe on the floor some more.

What he actually looks like remains a mystery. Just meters away, I could only perceive a blur of movement and sopping hair. I'm surprised that he didn't collapse.

A sample clip from their show is below. Click here to hear the BBC radio documentary, "A year living in the pockets of iForward Russia!"

The milk for free

2006-10-19T16:12:00.000+02:00

Le Meg is now giving it away at Parisist, a collective Paris blog in both English and French.

Check it out for "Actus, évènements, bars, restaurants, happenings, rendez-vous, chroniques et mauvaise foi: Paris par les parisiens, pour tout le monde."

Today's post: The Rock Menagerie.

Have a look at some upcoming shows, and feel free to make flattering comments about me on their site.

Les anglophones sont arrivés!

Party Place

2006-10-18T10:28:00.000+02:00

I always love a good party, but the Place des Fêtes seems an unlikely setting for celebration.

One hundred & twenty-five years ago it hosted a bloody battle between the communards and the Versaillese. More recently, Place des Fêtes was the bleak backdrop for a stabbing in Paris je t’aime.

On Sunday mornings, however, red is joined by a host of other colors in Place des Fêtes. Hundreds of vendors and shoppers transform this architecturally-blighted corner of the 19th into a party worthy of its name.

When to go: The market also runs Tuesday and Friday mornings from 7:00-14:30, but go Sunday (7:00-15:00) for the real action. Arrive early for shorter lines and fresher pastry. Stay late for the best seafood deals in town.

What to buy: In October, buy mushrooms. A spore-only stand sells cépes on the cheap, along with girolles, lactaires and trompettes de mort. Apples and pears shine now, along with strange and seasonal stars like kaki (persimmon) and coing (quince). The cheese shop across from the Fun Guy is our choice. Check here for the best autumn cheeses. Finally, no trip to Place des Fêtes would be complete without a stop at the fish stand. In the last hour of business, all the food is divvied onto wax paper squares and accompanied by a song: “Red tuna, calamari - four euros! It’s crazy!!” And it is crazy, selling seafood for four under five.

Maintain a healthy blood sugar by snacking on accras de morue from the Caribbean stand or the spicy cheese Lebanese flatbreads. Shop around for the best prices on pain au chocolat, but don't blame Le Meg if you eat all five for two euros.

What’s around: Start your morning with coffee or brunch at La Pelouse, a revamped café at 86 rue Botzaris. After the market, stop in at Le Vin de Ma Vigne, a wine shop at 25 rue Fêtes. A guy doing his best Louis Armstrong voice on the grand piano will entertain while the owner prescribes an accompaniment for your sauce de girolles.

Before heading home to cook, take a nap or a pony ride in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. It's just a stroll away down the rue de Crimée and the leaves there are currently on fire.

For a list of other outdoor markets in Paris, click here.

Vege-mighty

2006-10-17T10:41:00.000+02:00

I eat meat. I love to eat meat. I still love to eat meat, even after reading Fast Food Nation and working as an anthropologist in the world’s largest slaughterhouse.

I don’t cook it much at home, but almost invariably order meat when eating out. Paris bistros are a playground for those who like their dinner wrapped in bacon, drizzled with demi-glace, and slow-cooked in lard for seven hours.

In the past two years, however, nearly all of our visitors have been vegetarian. Many have been lax and willing to content themselves with fish. But strict vegetarians are difficult, a sort of bonus round in the “where should we eat?” challenge.

There are plenty of options for street or casual eating. But a sit-down dinner is a different story. Vegetarians, regardless of dietary restrictions, want a “Paris Bistro Experience.” They don’t want to be consigned to special restaurants with names like Aquarius. They don't want another cheese plate.

I was hoping that Les Allobroges would provide the perfect solution. A traditional bistro in the 20th arondissement, Les Allobroges offers a 29-euro vegetable tasting menu in addition to meaty fare.

We visited Saturday night with two friends who chose the tasting menu. The veggie parade kicked off with a rémoulade de choux fleur et endives tiédes (a chunky slaw of shredded cauliflower with warm endives). The interplay between flavors was interesting, and the endive in particular was rich enough to have been braised in veal stock (is that the secret?). Next came a risotto aux cépes and légumes sucré-salé - carrots and parsnips in a sweet and sour glaze. Both were delicious on their own but there was little harmony between them.

Meanwhile, the carnivores were sharing a (vegetarian) starter of légumes d’automne au reblochon - blue potatoes, Jerusalem artichokes & beets under a blanket of stinky cheese. This was followed on the 33-euro menu by a gorgeous c annette longuement rôtie au banyuls, chutney de fruits sec - a young duck slow-roasted in sweet fortified wine with dried fruits so that its skin was carmelized and slightly crackling. A fricassée de homard et lotte, caramel de homard (braised lobster & monkfish in a sweet lobster reduction sauce) was ordered as a single plat for 15 euros.

While the meat-eaters finished triumphantly with desserts selected from the regular menu, the tasting menu offered no choice for vegetarians. A pear poached in white win e was a bit nul in its watery sauce. The final compote de coing needed some other element to balance its singular quince quality.

Overall, we were well-pleased with the food chez Allobroges. Their menu represented a Greatest Hits collection of October produce, and a light touch in preparation allowed these seasonal stars to shine.

On the down side, the service was cool and the lights were too bright. The décor reminded me of a Midwestern hotel lobby circa 1987.

When faced with the challenge of vegetarians, however, Les Allobroges remains a good place to sample French food without Passard prices.

Les Allobroges
71, Rue des Grands Champs
Paris 75020; M° Maraîchers
Tel: 01 43 73 40 00

Bon weekend

2006-10-13T11:45:00.000+02:00

A blanket of grey will soon be drawn across our Parisian sky, but the coming (and aptly named) Sunday promises to be gorgeous.

Locals are advised to profiter in one of the city's parks, like the Buttes Chaumont in the 19th. This photo was taken last weekend, but such golden days are sadly numbered.

If lying around in green grass isn't your thing, you have plenty of other options for the weekend:

Words

Lire en Fête is happening this weekend, with 4,000 literary events across the country. In Paris you'll find everything from a Proust lecture to an all-night poetry slam. There's a literary brunch in the morning and a cabaret at night.

Sounds

Pere Ubu is playing on Friday at the Nouveau Casino. Taking their name from a french play, Pere Ubu formed in the year of my birth in Cleveland, Ohio. Others call them proto-punk, they call themselves "Avant Garage." See them for 18 euros at 109 rue Oberkampf. For some Aprés Avant Garage rage, the P'tit Garage is just around the corner at 63, Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. Bartenders pour cheap drinks while spinning the sweet sounds of garage nostalgie.

Bubamara looks like good fun on Sunday - a franco-balkan trio playing "tzigano-klezmer" for free at Cannibale: 93 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud in the 11th, Métro Couronnes. They play early at 18h, but you might stay for dinner because the food's not bad chez Cannibale. And they have options for our visiting vegetarians.

Sweet pop on Monday from the over-stuffed mouths of the Magic Numbers. The first self-titled album from this UK foursome was a bit too saccharine for my taste, but "Forever Lost" sure was catchy. They play at the Boule Noire at 8:00.

Sights

New expos are running at the Centre Pompidou, including Yves Klein, Fabrica: Les Yeux Ouverts, and (what I'm excited about) Robert Rauschenberg. Don't forget that they're open late until 10:00.

The I V Y Paris artists will exhibit in the Carrousel du Louvre as part of the Expatica Welcome to France event. The I V Y exhibition will be showing off the breadth and scope of the expatriate artist scene in Paris. The Welcome to France event as a whole offers programs from 11-6 helping expats learn about everything from immigration and taxes to cooking and wine.

Bon w/e!