Tongue in Cheek

Wish you were here, Postcards from Paris

The Seine river taking its time running through Paris. Melange I thought of you as I walked over the bridge.

Jill and Lorene, under a grey sky and pouring rain the Eiffel tower seem to hide her face! This photo is to say, "The Eiffel tower is still on my list to do...for me to place a French nest."

A chocolate chandelier at the stunning Hevin chocolate shop. Can you imagine lighting it and having it melt, drip by chocolate drip, into your cup?

A chocolate crystal for Ulla and another one for Pauline.

A wedding cake at Laduree, a work of art no less Paula? There is nothing shabby in this city!

The city needs to eat, (more than cake or snicker doodles,) and they set it up with edible style.

Star! Laduree Easter bells are ringing for you. (In France, it is the church bells that bring the Easter eggs, when they ring on Easter morning....not the Easter bunny.)

Cheryl, here is a similar style of metro stop by the Louvre. I hope that will do?

Duchess, these doors open to a secret garden, where there is a hill, and on the top there is an incredible view of Paris just for you!

Vintage French poster reminded me of you Gypsy Purple!

Meredith, (a fellow American friend, living in France,) asked me to show a friend in Paris. Here she is: my friend Marie-Noelle. We shared an umbrella, in the pouring rain. Tommiea the Louvre is in the background.

Angelina's, a romantic old tea house that serves delicious chocolate (the spoon stands up because the hot chocolate is that thick!) This is for my daughter Chelsea and Rhonda my cousin.

French antiques. Anna, why not paint them pink for the casa?

Under the rain, the flowers seem to sing in Paris, "Regina Clare Jane!"

Photos: One of my favorite things to do is to wander through the streets of Paris. No matter where I look, up, down, to the side, anywhere it is a feast for the eyes. I love Paris, it is true!

Let me know what you want to see in Paris, and I'll try to find it. Martina, I am searching for that doggy in the window!

Click on photos to enlarge.

Pictures Postcards of Paris

A cafe for Colette.

The city lights at twilight for Chantal.

Carol because you love flowers!

Lovers sitting by the Seine river, do you see them Cindy behind the silver?

 

Tut tut, everyone knows something about French cuisine...does that count?

Deb, here are your flowers in a Paris window sill! By the way Em, aren't those geraniums?

Pam are you going to do the French can can?

A window that caught my eye...I wonder why Nancy?

French fashion for Cruststation.

For my brother Orama, a nude French woman, like the ones we saw in the museum!

Photos: Picture postcards. I'll be posting all week from Paris.

What Paris postcard would you like to see?

Click on photos to enlarge.

Say say oh Playmate....

Bright and early this morning Corey took the that super-duper fast train to Paris. I thought since she left I'd let you know....

By the way....Don't you think I have the prettiest eyes and the cutest lips (?!) and to think she has me living in a cupboard!

She told me as she was rushing out the door, "I'm going to do the cafe thing with friends, take a peek into some pretty pastry shops, lick windows, say oh la la alot, maybe take 500 photos."

Sure sure sure...If I know her she will spend her time hanging out with old things at the antique market.

"Say say oh playmate, come out and play with me, and bring your dolly sweet, climb up the Eiffel tower..." Some girls have all the luck. At least I got the cute little nose and the perfect eyebrows!

Stay tune...a week of posting from Paris is going to be an eye full!

Oh I almost forgot...Corey asked me to ask you:

"If there is something you would like to see of Paris, tell me and I will try my darn-est to take a photo of it, and post it here. (Orama, better known as my brother, keep it clean!"

photos: 1920 doll head that sits in my cupboard and keeps an eye on the chocolate.

French Immigration

                  

Like other foreigners I had to go through the French immigration process to have my carte de resident (green card.) Because I was married to a Frenchman the paperwork to receive residence in France, was considered more of a formality than a daunting procedure to be legal in the country. Nevertheless, it was a real eye opening experience, and one that still haunts me when I hear about immigration....

                  

With my back pack full of legal French documents and less than ten French words in my pocket, I went to the Prefecture to apply for my carte de resident. Standing in line, waiting with hundreds of other immigrants I realized I was not alone in feeling nervous. My eyes searched the crowd for a friend, someone who I might shot the breeze with....but without a common language between us, we could only share a small smile of encouragement.

                  

There was a guard at the entrance door. She grabbed my papers, and started to bark something in French. I didn't know what she was saying. Luckily I understand sign language, as she pointed to the photo machine; I needed a black and white, non-smiling photo of myself. Not a happy one, in color like I had in hand. (Look at the photo of me up above...wide-eyed, looking like a boy, who is about to wet her pants.)

                  

Walking into the small airless waiting room I saw the whole world gathered there. Fourteen chairs for a few hundred people. No water, not bathroom. There were elderly people, young people, pregnant women and small children. I stood there wishing I could do something to change the situation. Each of us had a number and waited our turn. After waiting eight hours my turn finally arrived. The clerk, who looked like she had never smiled in her entire life, looked at me like I was a murderer trying to ask for a knife. It wasn't easy.

I felt angry. Angry that people should treat people as rudely as I had seen in the last eight hours. Angry that I saw an elderly woman pee her pants because she wasn't allowed to go outside to use the bathroom. Angry because of the blatant racism and vulgar remarks. Angry because people who wanted a better life; who were willing to do slave labor, who left their countries, there homes, to be able to eat and live were treated like animals. Angry that because we didn't speak French, the clerks yelled as if speaking louder we might understand.

                                           

When my turn came she asked my name. I gave my maiden name. Instead she typed my French married name. I had never caused a scene in my life. But on this day after being pushed to the wall, feeling the insults of the day embedded in my memory. I decided I wanted to keep my maiden name. After a blow out scene where languages collided.

The clerk stood up and ripped my document in two and pointed to the door. I won. She re-typed on a new piece of paper:

A M A R O.

*I have heard that this is the norm for immigration waiting rooms all over the world. It is not like the, "Welcome Wagon."

photos: Snippets of my French Carte de Resident. Circa 1988

What to give a Child

            

A list of gifts to give a child:

1. Spools of thread and a needle.
2. A flash light.
3. Watercolors and a stack of paper a mile high.
4. A tea set.

5. A wallet with a photo of the two of you together, an old credit card, a band-aid, a packet with a moist tissue, some one dollar bills, a discontinued checkbook...some stickers...

6. A date to have a water balloon fight.
7. A chunk of wood, a hammer and some nails.
8. Rolls of wrapping paper, a box and a roll of scotch tape.
9. Walnuts and a nutcracker.
10. A harmonica and tap shoes.

A snowglobe. An apron. A butterfly catcher. Mod gifts. Vintage toys.

What was your favorite toy as a child?

Sunday Afternoon

French husband and I went for a drive on Sunday afternoon. We stopped at this cafe because it look like a picture postcard, and seemed all alone.

Cobbled stone steps made me wish I had worn flat shoes.

French husband with his thoughts in the clouds dreaming of the flying machine.

Silence extends a hand in the canyons of the little streets.

The terre cuite tiles form the rooftop which reminds me of an Easter bonnet. My imagination starts to see the clothes hanging as the hat's ribbons.

Noticing many vacant maisons de village (houses in town,) French husband points out that the real estate market might be interesting.

It just goes to show you who is the imaginative one in this group.

photos: From a village in the south of France.

Sunday at the Open Market

Madame of the Villa with her eagle blue eyes, sets out to the open market. Preparing for Sunday lunch is serious business. I tag along for the adventure.

We start early in the morning, the moment the market opens it baskets and spreads out a feast. Bread is bought last as it is soft and doesn't need to be squished. Of course if you're me, you buy a baguette to nibble-on along the way. Madame of the Villa is not pleased with my lack of properness.

Goat, sheep and fresh cow milk cheeses, a different one for each day of the year, perfumes the air.

Chic fresh eggs in shades of brown with hints of pink.

"Hopefully you have a carton to put them in?" Nudges Madame of the Villa.

Navets, (turnips.) French script on small chalk boards.

A still life waiting to be painted.

"Do you know how to prepare radishes?" Madame of the Villa questions me, she thinks she has got me on this one.

"I do, I do, French husband has shared this haute cuisine technique with me..."

Nevertheless, Madame of the Villa interjects that salted butter is the key.

Vats of table wine to fill our bottles. I ask him if I could buy his apron? He looks at me like I am a crazy American tourist, and says, "No."

Fennel? Fennel.

"Stuffed cabbage is on the menu. Sans viande (Vegetarian version that is.)" Triumphs Madame.

(Though I think they would make perfect centerpieces instead, don't you?)

Strawberries for dessert, we buy three jewelry boxes full.

Monsieur of the Villa walks ahead leading us home.

Photos: 1900's oil painting of a Bonne Femme. Other photos taken today at the open market. Click on photos to enlarge.

French Grocery List

The first time I went to the grocery store in France, I bought sour milk instead of milk, and cornstarch instead of flour. After that I always took a dictionary. It was an all day affair just to buy the basics. Plus two more days to sort through the cheese and wine.

The first time I had a meal with French husband's family the silverware line-up was endless. I looked at the table as if it were a piano and the silverware its keys. I have never played the piano. I spent most of my time mimicking the impeccable table manners of my Father-in-law.

A typical French grocery list: Pain, yaourt, fromage, fruits, salade, huile de olive, thon, sel, sucre, farine, chocolat et vin. There is nothing better than the open markets!

As if my being American wasn't a shock enough for my belle famille (In-laws) I was a vegetarian too. Pas de steak frites?! Tofu was a distant relative that they had a chance to meet.

photos: My Mother-in-law's table set up for lunch.

One Foot on the Ground

                     

When the ground was rocky, dry, barren, and uneven. She bent down and tied a velvet ribbon on her ankle.

"There!" she said, "That's better."

Knowing where to focus can make a world of difference.

photo: A French antique, 19th century, plaster paris foot.

The Hourglass

                  

Time worn and true like grains of sand. Each second-each grain carries a memory to tomorrows distant shores.

photo: Eighteen century, French hourglass, holds someone's story.

Measures four inches.