Paris’ favorite eats 2

As I am sure you have your Zagat’s and Michelin guides to restaurants, I wish here to go back to the traditional way of getting restaurant recommendations: I asked a few friends of mine to name their favourite restaurants and cafés or brasseries in Paris (Check out also an older post of mine that mentions restaurants that are good and cheap). As usual, I try to get names of cheapish or non expensive restaurants (though there might be exceptions, not all my friends here are poor, luckily).

For French food, I have these recommendations: L’ebauchoire (métro Faidherbe Chaligny, yes I know a mouthful to pronounce) is French traditional in food, décor and ambiance and has good French wine selection. For crêpes, a friend recommends la Creperie de Beaubourg near Centre George Pompidou. I also like the one on rue du Temple in le Marais towards rue de Rivoli (all kinds of crepes, salty to sweet). Café Féria in Place de la mairie in le marais is great for before dinner drinks (happy hours all is half price) and if you want tapas or hamburgers.

When you think of Paris restaurants/cafés, you might think of Brasserie Lipp, Café Flore and Café Deux Magots and le Zinc, the most famous foursome for Anglophones. Brasserie Lipp with its décor from the 19th century and traditional French dishes still banks on its historical significance as a place where Sartre, de Bouvoir, Hemingway used to dine. It’s not that cheap, but the food is good…and though many have said that the service is not friendly, I have had nothing but very friendly service (and here you find traditional French waiters…older men in black and white). Try their Blanquette de veau (veal in white sauce with rice) or confit de canard (duck confit, though the brasserie is known for its choucroute of course). The meals can be followed, of course, by the Mille feuilles, the dessert they are known for, though I could actually think of more exciting desserts than this. Get a table in the main room with gilded mirrors everywhere and a décor that helps imagine those great minds discuss all and everything oh so deeply...
Restaurant le Marché in Place St. Catherine has a nice heated terrace and French food with a couple exotic dishes thrown in among the choices (eg. Curry chicken). But better stick to French ones, I reckon. Le Zebre in Montmartre (Metro Blanche) has fun ambiance but also good food (le moelleux, a mixed of meat and ingredients refried is their most known dish,...try it!). Great beef tartar too.

For Thai food, a friend swore by Ruean Thai (I identified it in another post) in Belleville. I love especially their dried beef in lemongrass and the green curry. For simple but good Vietamese soup and traditional Asian dessert, try Dalat in Belleville. Restaurant Djakarta Bali is an Indonesian restaurant in a small street near Les Halles. You could try the different rijstafel combinations (composed of different dishes with rice and soup) so that you get to try many Indonesian dishes if you don't know them....very friendly service and this is one of just two Indonesian restaurants here (the other is a cooperative restaurant near le theatre d’Odéon).

For African food, here is a recommendation from a friend (I have not myself it myself): the Senegalese restaurant at 7 rues Poissonnier (18th) where you could eat excellent dishes for apparently very cheap. For Antillais, there is les Montagnards in rue Championnet, also in the 18th that I recently went to. I loved it: ambiance antillaise authentic....many friendly not so young Antillais men who easily conversed with you, great rhum for apperitif, and super banane flambée for dessert. The restaurant area is just to the left of the always crowded bar (and crowded outside too where there are a couple tables). I myself still recommend le Petit Dakar in le Marais (4th district). I love their chicken yassa (lemon and onion sauce) but also maffé (in peanut sauce). You should try their jus au gingembre (ginger drink) with these meals.

So I say you: Bon Appetit !

Paris - LA : Tradition, Sex and Food

One of my best friends lives and has always lived except for when we were in school in Berkeley, in the LA area. Though during these years he seems to be moving further and further south (Orange county, yuck! and now San Diego, much better) and I fully expect him to someday be over the border in Mexico. Not going to surprise me given his taste in men.
A tradition that has developed throughout the years since I left LA is for him to pick me up at LAX whenever I make my yearly visit from wherever I happen to be living. This is not solely for love for me that he does that. As soon as I landed and through immigration/customs, bags would be secured in the trunk and we would head straight to the adult bookstore near the airport that we have known since we were, euh, a lot younger. The storekeeper is a chain smoking old lady who lets you do whatever you want in the cabins as long as you don’t create troubles. The two of us would cruise there and most of the time we would find our brief but nonetheless memorable happiness with nameless strangers. One Xmas eve, my flight had arrived late and so it was late in the evening when we made it to the bookstore which meant the bookstore was closed (it was open til early evening). So my best friend decided to be a gentleman and walked the two blocks to see if the other bookstore in the hood was open. I got out of the car to smoke a cigarette in the parking lot when a pickup truck arrived, parked and a big black man got out. He walked towards me and asked very politely if I knew where he could get a blowjob. Hello? Am I in heaven? With my best Colgate smile I said Right here and we went in his car. By far this was the best welcome to the United States I ever had….don’t you just love this kind of welcome? Felt such enormous love for the US just then.

Another tradition is that we got to do what I have missed the most during my time away from LA. Once, for some reason, I thought about Denny’s a lot. Maybe remembering college days when we used to hang out there at 3 am drinking cups after cups of coffee (refills were free and free flowing then). I used to also wolf down Grand Slam breakfast at any hour of the day it was a miracle that I did not turn out like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. This time, I wanted that Grand Slam breakfast. Now, my best friend is sort of a refined eater (doing sex in the cabins of adult book store not withstanding), so going to Denny’s to him is like going to Queens for Carrie Bradshaw. But he relented and said that he would go and sit and watch me eat my Grand Slam (actually, the new GS is nothing like the old and is probably better left as a memory not to be relived). He chickened out though when we got to the restaurant and I ended up getting a takeout that I wolfed down while speeding down in southerly direction on the 405 freeway. Our next stops to satisfy my longings: Taco Bell for tacos and the gas station shop to get a couple Reese’s Peanut Butter and I was as good as anyone could ever be (If I wasn’t gay, I am sure I would have patted my tummy and belched loudly right there).

One thing that I would still have to do during my yearly LA stop is a visit to a KFC.
Now I know that there are KFCs in France, but going there in Paris is just not the same as in LA. First, I would have to go alone. None of my French friends ever contemplated going for original recipe or crispy chickens of the Colonel’s. Such is the social pressure that I would have to put on a hat, sunglasses and a big scarf to go to a KFC and hide in the most obscured table to consume my meal (Or I would bundle the box in a plastic bag, hide the whole thing in my backpack and eat it at home). Why is it that my French friends look down on KFC? American junk food, of course, that one poo poos. And I guess eating with your fingers just seem so barbaric to them…the French even eat their hamburgers with knife and fork! (For your information, Carrie Bradshaw and a dude she met did eat KFC chickens in one episode of Sex and the City!) (OK so they were stoned).

Paris comfort food: Soul food and cupcakes.

Soul food
When I started to write this entry, I was going to let you in on a well kept not so secret place called Chez Haynes, a restaurant serving soul food that could be found in the 9e arrondissement in Paris and was unofficially a place of reference for black Americans, American artists and singers, or simply Americans feeling homesick for things such as BBQ ribs or friend chicken in honey and corn bread. Unfortunately, this institution of American soul, southern US, American artists etc. closed its doors just over a month ago.

Googling Chez Haynes you could find its long and illustrious history (founded by African American Haynes, apparently with a varied career from wrestler, actor to sociologist! who made good in France….friend of many French artists, actors, politicians whose photos could be seen in the unpretentious restaurant with a small stage that used to feature, for example, visiting jazz singers who would sing accompanied just by a piano). But I think each person could also tell a story associated with Chez Haynes. Mine was marked especially by meeting a personage in one of my favourite films when I was younger: La Cage aux Folles. Personable, still recognizably La Cage, he no doubt contributed to pull people into the restaurant to its ambiance.
Chez Haynes was also the place where you might encounter unexpected rencontres. Hosting an American college friend (blond as blond can be blond) who is crazy about soul food, we decided to go to Chez Haynes. Having come to dessert (Real banana split like we get in the US), I turned to the people in the next table, a group of African American young men to come face to face literally with my ex boyfriend from days long gone by! He was visiting Paris and of course he did not know that I have been living in Paris (OK, the separation was not that amicable). We looked at each other unbelieving what we saw….it was a good, as we say in French, retrouvaille …. Any regrets have been erased by time so there was just joy in finding each other again (though his then boyfriend might not think so!).
Now, helas, Chez Haynes is no more….another Parisian institution that is gone contributing to the longing that many long term residents feel for old Paris.

Cupcakes
Having left the US, I sometimes have cravings for things that I have not thought of for ages amid the varied and delicious French food. To the uncomprehending look of my French friends, I long at times for Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast, Reese’s peanut butter, and Sara Lee’s strawberry cheesecake. Luckily, a new place in Paris has brought “home” cupcakes, a food that I associate with happier insouciant time in my life. The cosy place can be found in rue Rambuteau in le Marais. Here you can find cupcakes, cheesecake and typical American snack food.

And what cupcakes!!! Forget the cupcakes that you ate when you were a child which was just sugar sweet and not very beautiful to look and either chocolate or strawberry. Here you would find beautiful looking cupcakes and all kind of flavours that you probably never imagined before. My favourites include carrotcake cupcakes (great icing), rose (yes, the flavour of the flower…it is sooo good), or violet (again, the flower). The price of course matches the presentation and the taste of these heavenly cupcakes (and the cheesecake too! I love especially the chocolate
cheesecake) and has nothing to do with the price we pay in the corner shop for 4 cupcakes in a plastic container. But here, the French touch (in presentation and in flavour) has been successfully integrated into what can be considered an American product much like the pyramid is now an integral part of the Louvre! (Ok I am going over the top here, but I am on a sugar high here). The cupcakes thus are to be eaten and appreciated much like other delicacies in France…slowly, admiringly, and with a lot of memories (of childhood) and emotions that they may evoke in you! With a cup of espresso, you could almost say that you don’t care that your Paris lover has gone off who knows where again for the afternoon…

Note: The shop where you can get cupcakes, called Berko, is located in Paris' 4th arrodissement (Le Marais), rue Rambuteau, metro Rambuteau. Another store (Berko's) is also now open near metro Blanche (on rue Lepic just above the Moulin Rouge).

Paris French speak: Accent and Josephine Baker

Having just spent an evening with a nice and good looking French guy who speaks bloody awful English with an accent that was moving further away from ‘cute’ as the evening progressed and not understanding more than half of what he said, I was glad to be home listening to Nina Simone. For all I know I might have missed the most romantic declaration of love ever made by one of the most good looking guys I know (hey, I could dream). The worst part was that he thought he spoke pretty good English and got annoyed when I asked him to repeat what he said (or he would just look at me as if I had just said the cutest but nonetheless the dumbest thing EVER and not repeat what he said). More French people now speak (or more precisely are more willing to speak) English than before (personal experience), especially among the young. And many have pretty good accent and sometimes surprisingly really good accent (resulting from watching American or British movies and tv series). But not the guy that I was with tonight. Words simply got stuck in his mouth and just would not roll out as they should. I finally figured out he was saying “casual” after he said it about 30 times (it sounded to me like “cashow” when he said it…I guessed cashew? Cash cow?). This got me thinking to the days when I did not speak French…
I remember when I could not spit the French words out of my mouth..the sensation being that these words were clunking around my head (admittedly a big cavity when I had to think in French in those days) and to get them out was a big effort, let alone getting them out correctly. It’s like I needed lubricant. Lots of it too. But the worst part probably was the fatigue that I felt when I got home in the evening. I felt as if I had spoken and done hard labor all day. It was such a relief to have found my Anglo friend in a café and to just blab without any cognitive effort and, especially, to be able to express yourself like an adult and not like a verbally constipated 4 year old. This I found extremely frustrating as indeed I counted myself as one of the better students in my French course at the Alliance Française in Melbourne. Yet, there I was, not able to understand a word people were saying here (nor could they me apparently: I booked a ticket with Air France to Nimes in the south of France, and when I went to pick up my ticket I found out that they had booked me on a flight to Niamey instead!).
The thing that amazes me a lot is how my personality seems to change when I express myself in French or in English. In English, I fancy myself a bit of a raconteur that could spin a boring story into an interesting and intriguing one (especially about sexual escapades). In French, though, my goal was reduced to just being understood (rather than being liked, or being considered funny, forget about being adored), and I have developed the habit of trying to find the simplest way of expressing myself (just a step above Tarzan and two above Cheetah I guess) because it was too complex of a cognitive activity to speak pretty and be understandable at the same time. It does not surprise me that my French friends have a totally different image of me than my English friends. Given that how you see yourself is determined in no small
degree by how those around you see you, I have tried to narrow the gap of how my French and my Anglo friends see me if only to keep myself sane (I was beginning to think that I might have multiple personalities…the demure demoiselle for my French friends and the sicko for my English speaking friends). And having always been a worry wart, I not only worry about errors (grammar, conjugation etc.) but also about my accent. Unlike my friend tonight, apparently.
Talking about accent, one of the comforting thought I held on to was that it would come naturally once one spends enough time speaking French. This was cruelly disproved when I met an American who had lived here a hell of a long time and you could still tell he was American the moment he opens his mouth. People may still chuckle when I pronounce certain words….though I notice people are also starting to appreciate foreign accents here in Paris. The best complement I had was when someone told me I spoke like Josephine Baker! Well, ok, if I could never sound like any François, Jean-Claude or Jean-Michel when I speak French, might as well be compared to a grand diva right?

Paris Velib 2 years on: Gripes, personal crises and danger

It is now nearing two years since Velib came into being in Paris (see my older post on Velib in this blog). The Velib allows you to take out a bike from a station (there is one practically every 200 m in Paris), ride it to wherever you have to go and return it to another station. Free for 30 minutes, and increasing fee for each of 30 minutes fragments added.
Velib has promoted cycling in Paris more than ever. As soon as the sun comes out, you would see hordes of Velib riders on the streets of Paris (the Velib bikes are easily recognizable by their grey like the sky of Paris color and their somewhat testosterone-pumped look compared to ‘normal’ ones as they include more safety features). To know the hard core riders, you should see who are out on the Velib when it rains (me and a few others). Velib has now been extended to neighboring cities that join Paris at its edges.
Though there is no doubt of the ecological and economical gains of the Velib for some (the company that manages Velib for instance and the city of paris), the negative consequences of its popularity could be felt by individual users…..leading to crises that could make an adult cry.
The popularity of Velib means that often you get to a station and there is no bike available. Indeed there are trucks that supposedly move the bikes among stations all the time, but they might seem to not be there when you want them. On the other hand, when you arrive at a destination station after pedaling uphill for a good half hour, you may find the station full and cannot thus return your bike. A friend of mine had a teary crisis because of this. The day when everyone in France took to the street to demonstrate, my friend checked a bike out of a station near her house and rode to where the demonstration was supposed to start to participate…Arrived at destination, all the stations nearby were not only full but there were long lines of people waiting to return their bike too. She cycled and cycled covering larger and larger areas, past her house where she started before finding a station with an emptly lock slot to return her bike. By this time she was cold, her hair was a big mess, and was in tears as she not only had leg cramps but also had missed the start of the demonstration.
Velib can also be dangerous for some. Who says that sex is like riding a bicycle, that is, you never forget how to do it? But, oh yes, I think you do forget (for both). This may be more of a question of how you do it rather than whether you can do it or not: sure everyone can fuck or ride a bike, but not everyone is a good lover or a good bike rider. Comes Sunday if the sun is out, many who obviously have not got on a bike do so. Fine, good even. But these people would ride as if having consumed a couple beers for breakfast, scattering pedestrians on sidewalks and getting on the nerves of car drivers and other riders on the road. An important implication of their behavior is the intergroup perception and relation that inevitably results in these kinds of situations: the cyclists and the pedestrians and the car drivers.
Now, some of us cyclists are very aware of our image. We want to be good examples to other groups by respecting traffic rules and being polite. Scattering pedestrians on a sidewalk by careening like a bat out of hell towards them of course is not good for our image among pedestrians. And they will get back at cyclists and, unfortunately, they will get back at any cyclist and not the one who acted like the crazy bat. Then there are the drivers….whom I wish to teach road manners more than ever (especially the taxi drivers). They used to be kings of the road I guess and now they have to share this with a bunch of sometimes equally aggressive riders (though how smart that is on the part of cyclists, I wish not to say anything). Sometimes I could positively see the desire in their eyes to flatten me out with my bike as I wait for the red light next to them (must be those who have had a bad brush with the Sunday cyclists). I must admit though that Parisian drivers are slowly accepting us as part of the road scene…but often we have drivers coming from outside Paris who looked at cyclists as if they had just landed from Mars threatening to kidnap their big haired girlfriends (or boyfriends in some cases).
All in all, Paris has had a great success with the Velib. I was interviewed by a radio once (about Velib) and was asked if it was true that Velib stations have become a place where you could cruise and flirt with other riders. I don’t know about that. All I say is that I love the technicians (mostly young good looking men) who repair the bikes. They make waiting for a bike to be repaired and available feel a lot shorter than it really is!

Paris( random) thoughts : African visa, passports and travel

Looking at Mali as a possible holiday destination, I got a bit discouraged to learn that an entry visa is required of citizens of many countries (including French, Americans, and Australians). Looking at other African countries, I found the visa requirement puzzling indeed. Gambia, for instance, requires a visa from Americans but not from Australians. Ivory Coast requires visas from Australians, French and Canadians but not from Americans.

This got me thinking as to what passport would be “best” for a hassle free travel. Checking the internet I came across a ranking of passports easiest for travel, in term of the number of countries NOT requiring a visa for the passport holders. Denmark tops the list (with 157 countries, source: Henley & Partners), followed by Finland, Ireland and Portugal. These were followed by a number of other western European countries plus the US, Japan, Canada, and Australia. On the opposite end, the passports whose holders would have to get a visa to enter most countries are Afghanistan and Iraq! That really sucks, your country is in war, and you cannot even go to another country without the visa red tape hassles! Life is indeed not fair.

Passport, though primarily a piece of identity, these days implies more than that. Indeed, from travel discussion in the forum it may even be a question of life and death! In these forums, there are those who expressed being happy to have a third world passport because (they said) if their plane ever got hijacked, they would most likely be let go (vs. citizens of big powerful first world countries)….this reminds me of when I finished college (in the US) and, with a friend, were getting ready to do a European trip. Advices for the trip for my friend who looked extremely apple pie and dressed very American, ranged from stitching a Canadian flag on your backpack and not waving your American passport in public. Others said best passports are those from a first world but small and insignificant (politically) country such as Switzerland or NZ (In fact, I would put Denmark in this category too): No one is likely to hate you and you can still travel without visas like the big, rich but sometimes hated countries. Aside from ‘reciprocity’ that may determine rule whether a country requires a visa from citizens of other countries, money apparently is a big factor (the poorer your country the more likely you are to be required a visa to travel most places).
It is also interesting to discover that the US probably has one of the lowest percentages of people who have a passport compared to other developed nations. And to think that it is the US requirements that make nations across the world change their passport systems (going biometric) at considerable cost and invasion of individual privacy!

Paris walking: sidewalk, dogpoo and parks

Paris is a city that ought to be visited on foot. It is compact and hides many treasures that one can easily miss sitting on a bus! If the grand buildings and monuments can be viewed from a bus, on foot you discover many other aspects of Parisian life. In Ile St louis, for instance, you could read all the small plaques above the entrance or on the front wall of the buildings indicating what famous (or not so famous) poets, artists, philosophers, painters, writers used to live there. In Pigalle, you may wonder into small streets that have old houses with gardens or seemingly run down buildings that hide grand old courtyards complete with fountain you could peek in (or even wonder in if you’re bold enough to follow a resident that happens to enter while you’re peeking). Many of these buildings would bear the date they were constructed and by whom (I found near where I live a building that used to serve as a dormitory for ouvriers or laborers centuries ago, complete with a common bath etc.). Paris also has many ancient arcades many of which now house small shops, tailors, coffee shops and restaurants. These are capillaries of Paris that connect the arteries and provide riposte from the hustle bustle (you can start near metro Grand Boulevard or Richelieu Drouot).
So, put on a good pair of shoes (still stylish though) and just go walkabout in the city.

Ok, now come the unpleasant aspects of walking in Paris. First, you have to watch
out for dog poo that you will inevitably encounter on the sidewalks of Paris. Despite the law requiring owners to pick up after their dogs, many do not. It is easy to recognize Parisians from tourists by the instincts they seem to have for avoiding these canine bombs that are lethal for your shoes (I have thrown many pairs of shoes because the smell just would not go away after I washed them or because my shoes were just too icky for words). Parisians would be walking along chatting away looking everywhere but down and they NEVER step on these bombs as if their feet had dog shit radar (akin to gaydar for gay men I guess, who could detect another gay man a mile away). Tourists and non Parisians constantly step on them while admiring buildings (On the up side, it is said that stepping on a dog poo brings good luck and happiness!!).
Second, you have to watch for aggressive Parisians of course. Often, they think they are the only people on earth and look at you with a big huge surprise as they bump into you or poke you with their umbrella. Many will apologize while you scream in pain, but many will not. To avoid them, best to walk on weekdays and not during lunch time or when they go to work or return home.
What’s worse than a Parisian on foot? A Parisian on a motorcycle of course! Don’t go into conniptions when you see someone on a motorcycle careening on the sidewalk (streets are small and with the traffic jam, the motorists may not think twice taking the sidewalk). Best to pin yourself to the building and let them pass.

My favourite neigborhoods to walk include le Marais (only on weekdays and I avoid it at all const on the weekends. Too many people!). Here, you could wonder and admire all the 18th century buildings where people live (grand doors with ornate decoration, beautiful courtyards), museums (Picasso, Jewish history and art museum, and of all things, door handle museum), and eat falafel in the Jewish street or take coffee in the many gay coffee shops with cute waiters (who do speak English!).
I also like Pigalle where you could bump into prostitutes in broad daylight (if they seem old and fat, don’t feel smug just yet. I have seen cute young men bargaining to sleep with these old fat ladies!) or transvestites with too much make up, and sex shops with their usual motley collection of the curious, the tourists or people seriously in need of a quick sex. Aside from sex shops though, Pigalle also has lots of music shop and is a heaven for any musician. This changes as you go up towards Montmantre where you will find the old Paris pleasant neighbourhood where people still shop in local merchants (complete with chats and banter, so better not be in a hurry) and sit on benches to read or just soak up the atmosphere (or the sun on the rare occasion that the sun is out). In Montmartre, you may bump into artists, happen on a little vineyard, and admire houses tucked in unlikely places and corners (Montmartre is very hilly), studios (painters) and theatres (many known ones are here but the area is also littered with small theatres where you can see plays in intimate ambiancee).
In Belleville, you could find Asian shops and restaurants that make you think you were in China complete with men who spit in public. The restaurants often are cheap, yummy and authentic though the ambiance may leave a lot to be desired. This is the place to get Asian ingredients and real good instant noodles!
In the late afternoon or evening, you should walk along the Canal St Martin from République/Goncourt towards Jaurés. Along this canal you would find little bars (right hand side if you’re heading up to Jaurés) that would sell drinks to go. You take them to sit by the canal, as many Parisians do, and just contemplate how lucky (or unlucky) you are to be in Paris.
You could always to go parks in Paris (Monceau, Luxembourg, jardin des Tuileries and Jardin des Plantes), but often these parks bizarrely prohibit walking or sitting on the grass ! These are very landscaped gardens that make me long for Central Park or the Botanical Garden of Melbourne (both in city centers) that are wild and where one can run and sit anywhere (the park Buttes Chaumont is a wonderful exception to this). In Paris, no sooner you put your butt on the grass, a guardian will surely materialize out of nowhere to shoo you off the grass!

To tell you the truth, the night I felt most Parisian was when a few of us left a party and walked leisurely toward the metro station, champagne in a flute in one hand and a cigarette in the other…felt so sophisticated and civilized between sips and puffs! C'est Paris.

Paris: Ne me quitte pas and other songs

“Ne me quitte pas” is the title of a song of Jacques Brel and is now one of the classic when one thinks of Chansons Françaises (French songs). It has since been sung by many others including Nina Simone who sang it in a manner that made the song still recognizably Brel but in her very own style and giving it a totally new dimension. If Brel sang it with visible prosodic emotions (stringing and dragging you along on an emotional ride), Simone sang it with such utter calmness and flatness that only emphasized the emotions in her unique voice and demure and submerges you in it. Either way, both will make you feel spent, pitched and goosebumps all over at the end of their song.
You can see the video of Simone here:
Nina Simone Ne me quitte pas (Video, click here)

Part of the process of becoming Parisian or French involves getting to know these standard repertoire of songs that anyone can sing on cue! There are bars in Paris where certain nights you could sing a long to these standards (Brel, Piaf, Aznavour, Dalida etc.) and this could really be fun if you could overcome the feeling that you’re doing something totally ringard (outdated!). Many of these songs we know too, such as Non je ne regrette rien sung by Piaf or Les feuilles mortes (I know the version sung by Yves Montand). It seems like every singer in France would have to try to tackle these legendary repertoire to prove to the public that they are worthy of their adoration. And singing it prettily is not going to cut it with the French public who asks for real emotions. Mon manage à moi has been sung by Patrick Bruel, L’hymne à l’amour has been sung not only by every French singer today (including a rap and rock version) but also by Josh Groban!

If emotions were asked, it is that these songs usually tell fairly complicated stories (they seem in any case more complicated than English pop songs). This may have to do with many of these songs were sung in cabaret (I guess sort of like Jazz and blues that developed more in clubs etc.). Piaf’s songs (many are written by Prevert), for instance, may be about a young woman who works as a prostitute who dreamt of owning a bar with her boyfriend who had to go to war and never came back and the life that followed…Brel is a raconteur and not just any old raconteur as the words used not only communicate a lot of emotions and images but also touches on all dimensions of emotions (colors, visions, feeling, physical sensations such as sound and smell…you could find them all in his songs). No wonder that the French seems to put on pedestal aged singers that in the US, except for blues and jazz singers, would have been long forgotten. Age gives these singers the maturity that is probably necessary to sing these songs with convictions: it is like comparing new Beaujolais to old wine. New wine may have aroma that pleases, but only old wine can have bouquet that transports you!

Infos :
To listen to jazz, check ou the Duc de Lombards (rue des Lombards and blvd de Sebastopol in Chatelet), also check out the New Morning (their programme is on the net...also the jazz festival in Paris and La Cité de la musique, you can google both). In Pigalle, there are bars with life music and karaoke (tucked amid the sex shops...and beware of touts of these sex shops).

Paris: A top ten best gay place in the world

Surfing the net looking for a place/country to go on holiday (and of course checking out their gay laws and the existence of gay scene. As can be expected, very little visible gay scene when gay sex could lead to whipping or even death!), I happened on the site of the Independent (UK) that listed best and worst places to be gay. Paris is on the list of the 10 places (along with cities such as --obviously -- SF and Sydney and New York. The list continues to Mykonos, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Barcelona, London). Funnily enough, for Paris the article mentions the two neighborhoods that I have lived in (did live in and currently live in): le Marais and Pigalle. If le Marais was described as elegant in the article, Pigalle was said to be risqué and seedy! I like better the distinction made by a French gay magazine (Tétu) of ghetto (i.e. Le Marais, where the gays are proud and want to be among gay people and identified as such) and non ghetto (i.e. Pigalle, where they gays are discreet, may be even married men, do not want to advertize their gayness or do not see themselves as gay and maybe even anti ghetto). In Pigalle it is indeed surprising the number of married men or men who do not think of themselves as gay who have offered to have sex with me (being a polite person, I could hardly refuse, could I?). Indeed if one is nostalgic of the debatable good old times (when being gay was borderline illegal but tolerated, when being gay means almost that you’re an outsider, when being gay meant being a diva or admirers of divas, when fabulous meant something, when sex was everywhere, when condom was not necessary), I suppose Pigalle would come the closest in Paris.
The article also mentions some of the worst places to be gay where it could lead to death, public lashing (certain countries in the Middle East or Africa, for example)
or even years of hard labor (Jamaica, which surprised me a lot)! Now, the idea of laboring next to muscled men might appeal to some of you, but the idea that you cannot just leave when you’re tired puts sort of a damper on the whole thing doesn’t it ?
Interesting to note that while many countries progressively decriminalize homosexuality, certain recently submit ted laws to their parliament to criminalize it (because no law concerning homosexuality exists there and the church or religious leaders actually ask the government to put interdiction of homosexuality in their laws).
Gay guides also list laws about homosexuality in different countries, though you still have to take these with a grain of salt. If many Asian and North African countries are listed as not tolerant, this may indeed what the formal law says but does not necessarily reflect the attitude of the people there. I have been in places where homosexuality is supposedly illegal and ended up meeting so many gay people or at least people who have taken me to their house and not to have tea either. There is the law and, luckily, there are the people. You may not see bars like in NYC or Paris or SF, but if you’re discreet (even the gays you meet may not understand your need to express yourself….) and patient (in any case, don’t expect to spend the same 5 minutes to find someone to sleep with as in SF. Generally, a conversation to reassure that there is no misunderstanding about what you both like i.e. men is a necessary prelude), you will probably find a kindred soul.

Paris eats for cheap

Getting together with friends takes place as often in one’s apartment as in a restaurant. Given the size of the typical Parisian apartment, preparing dinner for more than 4 persons represent a nigh impossible feat…to cook all the courses on your two hotplates on top of the mini fridge in your tiny kitchen takes the planning of a military invasion. So restaurants represent a very attractive alternative for all to enjoy themselves (though of course, French restaurants except those Michelin starred tend to put chairs and tables so close together that you could practically caress the stranger sitting next to you. Space is scarce everywhere in Paris, I guess).

Having friends who are not rich, eating out means that we have to find a restaurant that is reasonably priced and good! (The Parisians will be hard pressed to sacrifice their palate for price!). Luckily Paris is just the place for that, thanks maybe to the standard of cuisine Française which represents a national pride to be enjoyed by all no matter how poor or rich.
Restaurants will often have menu (does not mean the same as menu in English which is carte in French) or formule. Menu means that for a fixed price, you have certain choices of entrée (appetisers), plat principal (main) and dessert (or/and cheese) and coffee. These menus may include all the courses or simply appetisers and main or main and dessert. Some restaurants (often small restaurants) may only offer menus that change from night to night (The Gai Moulin in le Marais, a good sized restaurant that I frequent for the food as much as the ambiance also does this though). In my experience it is best to avoid restaurants frequented by tourists (unless they are upscale restaurants or small restaurants in le Marais which will always have lots of English speaking clients mostly gay and ready for a good time contributing to the ambiance) as they tend to be overpriced and the quality may not be up to par … I cannot help feel that the chef might believe that since his or her clients were foreigners they would not be as discerning as the locals. Standard French fares such as blanquette de veau (veal in white sauce), magret de canard (duck, often you will also see duck in honey which is so yummy), lapin à la moutarde (rabbit in mustard sauce), pot au feu and ribsteak with a variety of sauce etc can be found in most bistros or neighbourhood restaurants. Talking about ribsteak or entrecote, there is a well known restaurant in Paris that serves only entrecote (Relais de Venise) with sauces that are kept top secret and have been debated by prestigious papers (Le Monde) classifying the debate as reaching the point of philosophale.

Paris also counts many regional restaurants serving dishes such as cassoulet, fondue, and dishes à la provençale or Mediterranean. Remember that France also includes départments (administrative regions) in south America and in the pacific. Not surprisingly, there are many Antilles restaurants serving traditional cuisine such as boudin (sausages made from, among others, blood ) and Colombo (meat cooked in tomato, ginger et Colombo spices). African restaurants abound as well (France at some point in its history colonized many regions in Africa) and though the prices may seem a bit steep when the restaurants are found in quartiers that do not have a large population of African origin. If you want good African food for cheap (and willing to trade traditional French ambiance with authentic African), these could be found in less fancy neighbourhoods near stations Stalingrad, Goncourt/Permentier or Mairie de XVIII. Favourites African dishes include Chicken yassa (chicken in lemon and onions sauce) or maffé (meat in peanut sauce). So, if you have had your fill of French cuisine, checking out Antilles and African cuisines should be in your agenda to extend your French experience to include its history and multiculturalism.

Hints :
For Chinese/Thai/Vietnamese, best to go to Porte de Choisy or Belleville which have large Asian population. I love Ruean Thai in Belleville and Tricotin (very bright light and noisy but great food and prices) in Porte de Choisy. A nice African restaurant in the Marais is Le Petit Dakar. There is also Moussa at Porte de la Villette. For Indian food, many restaurants can be found in Passage Brady. Traditional French restaurants (for 30-50 euros/person) in Le Marais are eg. Eglantine (near place de la Mairie) and le Marché (in Place St Catherine). Le Zebre is in Montmartre (métro Blanche). An Antilles restaurant the I like is Table d'Erica near Métro Mabillon and Chez Armelle et Henri near Métro Blanche. For fancy restaurants, check your guide!

Paris boat rides

Bateaux mouches are the boats that traverse the river Seine (La Seine) up and down, carrying loads of tourists. Most have open air seating on the deck though there are also glass roofed boats (mostly for the lunch or dinner cruises). Mention Bateau mouche to a Parisian and the most likely reaction would be to poo poo these rides that a Parisian considers just too touristy and way too kitsch to believe. In public, I too poo poo the boat rides, but in private it’s a different matter. These rides are fun and you do get to see Paris at its best.
Visiting friends of course are my best excuse to go on these rides. Sighing heavily as if I was making a huge sacrifice, I would take them all on these boat rides shine or rain and day or night. In the winter, the open deck does get a bit cold though on the lower decks there are enclosed seating granted with less spectacular view. Day and night rides do give different views of Paris. Day time is fun to enjoy the sun (if it’s out) and admire the architecture of Paris landmarks in all their details (the boats pass the Louvre, Académie Française, Notre Dame, les Invalides and the Grand and the Petit Palais among others). At night, with the artistic lighting that must cost Parisian tax payers bunches of money these buildings take on a different allure altogether…less imposing maybe but softer, more mysterious and indeed evoke more the romantic image people have of Paris. I must admit that the name the City of Light for Paris is indeed well deserved. Most of these rides start at Pont d’Alma (Métro Alma Marceau) or Pont Neuf and will take you as far as the train station Austerlitz and back.

Another less known but more interesting boat ride is the one that goes from Bastille (Métro Bastille, when you go out of the station, go to the canal side where you see lots of boats anchored) to Jaurés (Métro Jaurés, in front of the cinema MK2) on the canal Saint Martin. On this ride, you will pass many neighborhoods of Paris giving you glimpses of the different facets of Parisian life and not just its landmarks. This ride is a lot longer as often we have to wait for the water gates to be opened and closed. Waiting for the water to go down on one side and up on the other, you can watch the neighborhood activities and watch people go about their business.

So, next time you have visitors, pack a lunch and go on the boat ride…you may have to contain your own excitement to convince your friends that you have become a true Parisian though.

Paris universal gay sex: Not just about sex

Talking with a straight friend (yes I have a few of those), he told me how surprised he was to learn that sex can be so easy for gay men. Apparently, he was walking with a gay friend when a man passed them going the opposite direction and looked meaningfully at his friend. His friend stopped, turned to look back and made a beeline towards the guy who had also stopped and was standing in front of a store. They exchanged phone numbers and that night they slept together. End of story. I was surprised that he found this situation surprising considering that he has a few gay friends.
My (het) friend’s story made me think. Gay sex ritual seems to be universal. When I first came to Paris, I might have had problems talking to people (due to not speaking French well), but had absolutely no problem finding men to sleep with. I just did what I had always done in Melbourne or in New York or in Los Angeles. The meaningful eye contact is a universal language that traverses cultures and colors to reunite two men in a bed (or a bush). This seems to not be the case for heterosexual ritual. For example, how a man looks at a woman that piques his interest could lead to different interpretations in different cultures (appreciated in one culture and considered as extremely vulgar in another).
Second, this confirms that we (I mean gay people) think of sex differently to our heterosexual cousins. Sex is not an end that one gets to by means of getting to know each other (as my het friends seem to think). Sex is getting to know each other, a first baby step to getting to know the other. In cases where this babystep with a man is enough to make you burst out into a song, well maybe we would invest in the next steps such as drinks, dinner and a movie with him. The mystery of course lies in what one can discover in his heart and head ….uh, let’s just say that these are the more interesting mystery boxes to discover at the end and after investing the time and energy than what a guy's pants contain!

Applying psychology to compare dinner-sex or sex-dinner :
Sex as an end implies that once you have sex with a guy he won't be interested anymore in dinners and conversation that merely were means to get to sex!
With sex out of the way, I think people are more inclined to be more honest. With sex hanging over you (so to speak), the guy will probably pick and choose (or worse yet, invent) what he says to bring him closer to your bed. (Like being good before Xmas and once you get your present, well...)

Hints for heterosexuals:
I can come up with nothing, sorry !

Paris random thoughts in an evening

So here I am sitting on the floor of my miniscule but cute Paris apartment thinking about everything and nothing and doing mindless stuff. As usual, with my laptop on my lap.

Surfing the net, I found out that now to get a long term visa under the category ‘family’ (to join significant others in France) one needs to pass a French language and knowledge about France tests. I tried the language test and passed! Also did the test on knowledge about France and got excellent score. Questions on this test include Symbol of France (Marianne), La Marseillaise (national anthem), term for presidency (5 years), date of French revolution (1789), and bizarrely questions on Monet (Impressionist and definitely not cubist or abstract which were given as the other choices!) and Jacques Brel (Singer, and not cineaste or actor given as the other choices).
I have also heard that now to renew your carte de séjour you have to show that you speak French and have sufficient knowledge about France (history, government, culture etc.) to show your integration in the French society.

Thinking about language, tried to list French expressions I find funny or I like such as: ‘Gay as a seal' (foque = seal) is what that we say in France instead of Gay as a goose as we say in the US or Australia when there is no doubt that a guy is gay….(Actually neither goose nor seal evokes gay man in my mind).
We call people we love in france puce which means flea! So different to Honey, Pumpkin or other terms of endearment that evoke cute cuddly things that we say in the US. So my flea, you know I love you right?
My lovers often ask me if I have taken my foot after making love...taking one's foot (prendre son pied) means having fun (does it have something to do with skipping ?)(having a blast which we say in Oz or US conjures images of explosion...would be more appropriate after sex non ?).
Setting up RDVs with my lover, I always tell them to not leave me a rabbit (poser un lapin) which means not to leave me waiting for a RDV that never comes (waiting, wanting and wanton I'd say). Men you meet on the Net are notorious for this.
And my favorite expression lately is J'en ai ras le bol which means My bowl is full which means I have had it up to here !!! Bol can also be replaced by Cul (Ass) which makes the expression vulgar but with much more impact indeed.

Surfed the net again, this time looking for old school mates on Facebook. Nada. I guess they are not at an age to care or have the time to maintain a Facebook (But Barack Obama does maintain one non ?)

Surfed the meeting sites for gays and thoughts about my lovers in Paris: Guillaume who disappears each time he has a girlfriend, Raphael who has moved out of Paris to be in the Army, Samba whom I have known for 7 years but still know too little about, Reynal who makes love like an animal incidently making me fall in love with him. Also J. who is so acrobatic that after making love with him I feel like I have run the Paris matathon or played 3 sets of tennis, D who thinks he is the best lover in the world (Not!) and concentrates more on taking pictures of us making love than making love itself. Frederic who was my first love after I moved to Paris. Thierry who was one of the reasons I moved to Paris (a decision made on a rainy night when he kissed me on the Pont des arts). And the many other lovers whose names I cannot remember anymore (or maybe never knew).

Finally, set up a RDV with yet another nameless (or fake named) guy to pass the time and forget the cold weather of Paris. I hope he would not me give me a rabbit, and that we will both take our foot, maybe he would even murmur that I am his flea, and I hope also that he is macho acting rather than like me, a seal on the verge of thinking that his bowl is full!

Hints for visitors:
A few phrases in French go a long way to start friendly conversations with the locals. Bonjour is Hello/good day. Parlez vous Anglais is Do you speak English. Merci is thank you. To tell someone to fuck off, say Va te faire foutre (or of course a few rude universal gesture will suffice).

Paris neighborhood: Pigalle

The neighbourhoods in Paris as in many large cities appear to be divided by money as much as race. Add to that specific atmosphere that has always characterized a given quartier that seems to traverse any divides based on money or colour. Pigalle, for instance, is a quartier that people will say chaud (litterarlly, it means Hot)…it’s sex, vices and all the things that people are fascinated by but dare not say or do. But residents of Pigalle would probably tell you how it has changed. If Pigalle before really was a place of debauche (though the tourists had always been there), today only vestiges or gentrified version remains. Sure, there are still lots of sex shops but these are now frequented by curious tourists, clean looking couples rather than the hard core people who frequented old Pigalle. The prostitutes that used to be an integral part of Pigalle are less visible because of newer and stricter laws concerning prostitution (what is France coming to? No sex, no cigarette?). The transvestites that used to line the small street from Place Pigalle to the hills above are as rare as UFOs. Where have they all gone?

But sex is still in the air if less than before but at least more so than in other quartiers of Paris. As a gay man walking the sidewalk (or the island in the middle of the boulevard) the possibilities of meeting men are always there. Not men that you find in the gay ghetto like le Marais, but men who say they are heterosexual, men who are just feeling randy, and of course gay men who don’t feel (or don’t want to be part of) the gay ghetto all cruise in Pigalle. Not to mention, of course, those who do it for money. Some do it for money because they need it, some do it just as a symbol to convince themselves that they are not gay. Of course, you have to know who to look at among the hordes of tourists who come to Pigalle by the busloads.

Aside from the sex shops, the tourists come to Pigalle also to see the show at Moulin Rouge (Metro Blanche, which is just next to Pigalle), the Sacre Cœur (Metro Anvers, also next to Pigalle on the other side). The cabaret featuring transvestites (actually called transformists) Chez Michou and Madame Arthur are also in Pigalle (there are still other traditional cabarets as one goes up towards the hill from Pigalle…remember Pigalle was THE place for cabarets in Paris. But many are also just for tourists). Restaurants abound, of course, though you have to be choosy to avoid the tourist traps. Among those that cater to the locals, near Moulin Rouge, there is a fun restaurant with good food to boot, called le Zebre (rue Lepic). And to partake aperitifs or before dinner drinks in Pigalle there is Chao Ba which has a clubbish atmosphere with a twist of Vietnam (you can get spring rolls to nibble on when drinking). The well known café Chat Noir (it’s on all the tea towels, dirnk mats etc.) which has just recently undergone renovation is of course here. Another café that’s fun is café Fourmi just down the street from Michou and Madame Arthur (rue des martyrs). Finally, don’t forget the gay bar MZ where you are more likelty to meet men off the street that are not clones, and if you’re into sordid gay sex, the cinema at Place Pigalle!

Hints for tourists:
Avoid touts !!

Note (2013) : Chao Bas has since been closed and replaced by Indiana restaurant (:-()

Paris Manifestation or Street protests

Now, about the third or fourth thing that people associate Paris with after café, fashion and strikes is demonstrations on the streets. How many times have I been stuck in a taxi waiting for the chanting and shouting hordes of people expressing their protest to the government on some new policy or other. I would fume (and probably muttered under my breath "Bloody French")
But, as they say, people change. Now, I am those people you see on the street shouting my protests (well, not quite there yet, but I was on the street with those who shout loud).

I have noticed that changes are hard to come by in France. Each time the possibility of change is evoked, much agitation will follow until everyone is exhausted and forgets all about it and, in the end, things stay as they were. (indeed, at times I have the impression that we spend a lot of energy to stay the same!). But at the same time, these changes often come from up above (the state) that, in France, is present practically in every aspect of an individual’s life (unlike in Australia and certainly unlike the US). And often, and especially lately, they certainly wish to impose changes with dictatorial authority.

Basically, if the state is in every aspect of an individual’s life, it would make sense that a dialogue is to exist between the individuals and the state. But this does not seem to be case. Indeed, if we think that changes should be preceded by dialogues, what happens here seems to be the reverse : changes are imposed first and may be followed by a dialogue (after much protesting on the streets). The layers and layers of levels that make up the state makes it hard for people off the street to know just who to speak to, to be heard. So, better shout it on the street for all to hear.

I attended thus my first manifestation or demonstration last month. This was to protest a reform proposed by the state (though I am mostly opposed to the way it was to be imposed, with no dialogue with people concerned, especially since the changes were proposed by those ignorant of the domain). With no ready preconception (I never protested on the street before in the US or in Australia…) I did not really know what to expect. Well, I guess a successful demonstration (i.e. attended by a lot of people) means that you move about 2 metres in 3 hours, which felt even longer in the cold and the pouring rain. The second demonstration was a bit better, the sun was shining and there were people who played music. What impressed me the most (taking into account we were all professionals and far from being thugs) was the presence of the police everywhere. Practically every street off the route (the route has to be specified to get a permit to demonstrate) was blocked off by hundreds of police in combat gear! Despite my secret fantasy about men in uniform, seeing them on the street was a bit intimidating. And street protests are done by everyone here (in our demonstration, there were dignitaries and personalities who participated!).

Hopefully though we are being heard. Funnily enough, our protests were not to prevent changes, but to have changes that are rational and preceded by dialogues of all concerned. Now I guess I could sympathize more with those protesting on the streets of Paris. For despite the fact that all state machines are in this city, a stone throw away from everyone really, they might as well be in Mars. And the only way to reach them was by shouting at the top of your lungs!


Hints for visitors:
Check the website ratp.fr or the newspaper for demonstrations planned on the day of, for example, you have to travel to the airport. Demonstrations have to be announced in advanced. You could then plan your travel differently (taking another route, another means of transport, or simply plan more time for your travel). To get to the airport, the suburban RER train is less likely to be disrupted that bus services or taxis.

Fashion Paris

Having spent the holidays in California, I was struck by how often people there asked me if Parisians really dress nicely and if, when they go visit Paris, they should pack their best clothes. Indeed, having lived here a while now, I sort of have forgotten the stereotype that people have of Parisians as sharp dressers and Paris as the world capital of fashion. The latter I feel is still true. During the period when the big houses of fashion present their collection, Paris is abuzz with energy, soul and optimism rarely seen in other times.
But do all Parisians dress sharply? Now, we know that stereotypes are oversimplified generalizations that contain many inaccuracies and tend to overlook the many exceptions. So, being a jaded Parisian already (can one be jaded before one becomes a real Parisian? I guess one could in Paris), I tried to tell those who ask that in Paris there are certainly bad dressers….to be directly contradicted by those present who have been to Paris and who swore that everyone in Paris dresses to a T (Did not even have the energy to explain to them that stereotypes often lead to selective perception and that we only notice cases that confirm the stereotype and forget those that disconfirm it).

But still, maybe there is some truth to the stereotype that Parisians dress better than Americans or Australians? I try to test this idea on myself as I have noticed changes in how I look at myself and others when it comes to beauty, clothes and other important things in live ha ha. Beauty as I think it in Paris is not something that you are born with. It is something that you cultivate, something that you take time to acquire and to finesse. You have to earn your beauty. Now, if you have time and just sit at a café in le Marais, or even in Avenue Champs Elyssée and watch the men (well, for me anyway) and the women who pass by, I am often struck by the attention to details that these guys and gals have, not just the matching or complementary colors from shoes to socks to gloves and scarfs and coat, but to how everything has to hang. With their gorgeous longish dark hair brushed back, the guys would have a recalcitrant strand that falls on his face (that of course looks as if it happened by itself, though trust me, this was done on purpose). The scarf can be tied in a million ways all of which look like they took hours to tie, but very gorgeous indeed. And what’s amazing, even in the evening after being out all day, these guys still look impeccable (Me, on the other hand, I will already have wrinkled everything and spots of the sauce that I had with my lunch on several places). Even in all white, they would manage to keep it white all day and all night.

But there are also fashion-challenged souls in Paris. And of course, given the contrast to those other well dressed people, they stand out even more here. But at least one can comfort oneself in the idea that beauty is earned and nurtured. With this idea, you can always tell youself that in time you would also be beautiful (unlike the idea that you were or were not born beautiful). But nonetheless they are there and though I notice them, my visiting Australian and American friends do not (or they simply think that they must be tourists like they are).
But indeed it is a nice change to see American and Australian tourists leaving behind their t shirts and shorts to dress up when visiting Paris. I have noticed though, when there is a group of tourists distinctly American that would attract attention because of their t shirts, shorts, sandals and brightly colored baseball caps, my French friends never fail to whisper "Americains" (Americans) under their breath, but they NEVER notice the well-dressed Americans who could be sitting at the next table or walking beside us on the sidewalk. Such is the power of stereotype!

Hints for shoppers:
My favorite clothes (though I am not always able to affod) is agnes b. (store that I visit is near St Eustache behind les Halles). If you're going to spend 145 euros for a sweater better stick to basic style in black (and not other colors that would go out of style). Jeans I like are Et Vous (store at rue Etienne Marcel). Indeed, Paris is good for expensive well cut clothes but for middle range clothes, better buy them elsewhere (though Zara is moderate and can be found in Paris too).

My beautiful launderette

When you rent an apartment in Paris, do not be surprised if it is deprived of many things that we generally find in rented apartments in the US. I used to not have to buy stove, or fridge (though in Australia, fridge is often not present either). Walking into my first rented apartment in Paris, what I found instead were bare wires (yes, bare wires sticking out of walls to which you have to attach lamps etc the type of work that I generally associate with electricians and not just any average Joe citizen or I imagine Joe the plumber either).
So, it is no wonder that changing apartments in Paris is such a big deal as you have to lug really heavy stuff each time since you own the fridge, the stove and, for many Parisians, their washing machine.
Buying a washing machine was not something I considered when living in LA and San Francisco (same as when I lived in NY). Most of the time I used a laundromat or visit my relatives with a big bag of wahing. But Parisians seem to have a thing about having everything in their miniscule apartments. So, once you have that dream apartment, you have to find yourself a stove (very small one as generally the size of your kitchen is more fit for broom closet), a fridge (also small on which you may have to put your stove…which means everything in your fridge will start to defrost or melt when you use the stove) and the fabled washing machine. Going to stores that sell washing machines, I have never in my life seen such variety of machines in sizes and shape. The smallest washing machine I have seen was here….a tad smaller that the small bar fridge that we find in the US (you know, the one that goes up to about your knees and can be hidden in a cupboard under the bar). Now, I imagine myself washing my underwear 3 at a time and spending the entire day rerunning the machine to finish my washing (I may have to forget about my big towels that I brought from the US). Let’s face it, that miniscule machine that would be perfect for the small Paris apartment is finally a bit too small for me but still a bit too big for being a toy (like Barbie’s washing machine for instance?).

Laundromat is a great alternative if the thought of buying a washing machine that weighs tons and lugging it up to the sixth floor via narrow stairway puts a damper to your enthusiasm of owning your own washing machine. Indeed, Laundromats can be an interesting window to life in the neighborhood. The Laundromat in France tend to be smaller than in the US, the machines tend to take a lot longer to run (though your washing does come out cleaner) and the dryers are just not hot enough (the French have a thing about hanging everything rather than drying themd in a dryer). A window to your neighbourhood I said, because they may also serve as a place for other activities that have nothing to do with washing.

Once, a shifty looking man entered the laundromat followed by a very well dressed woman. Already, making an unlikely pair, they attracted attention. Inside the laundromat, the man started taking handbags out of his big bag (which did not obviously hold his laundry) to show to the woman….turned out to be fake Louis Vuitton bags! The two bargained away in loud voices not taking notice of those who were stuck assisting this transaction.

Another time, a very big butch guy who looked like he could beat up a guy like me without sweating asked me in a loud voice for all to hear if I was gay. A bit stunned, I said that if he had to ask surely then he knew the answer already. Surprisingly a lady who happened to be doing her laundry at the same time started dissing the guy to his face for asking such a personal question. I got out of there like a bat out of hell and went to a café nearby. When I went back to retrieve my washing though, he was still there, drinking probably his tenth can of beer from the looks of it. Turned out that he was not violent at all, despite his look, and seemed just genuinely curious (and does not understand a bit what being gay is all about). Incomprehensibly, despite his scary look I found him then rather exciting (but thought he was too drunk too, to attempt anything exciting with him).

Finally, the guys that I see hanging out in the corner of my street all the time might also be found here, either settling disputes with their girlfriend or maybe doing deals…

Then, of course, there are the odd tourists who come in every now and then (from the hotels nearby). An American guy I ended up having a drink with after we chatted in the laundromat; another was an Australian with whom I discussed Melbourne with more than a pang of feelings that resembled longing. I guess for tourists, laundromats can also be a place to mix with the locals (my advice: choose your laundromats carefully. In le Marais, for instance, I have met good looking men).

So far, I have not yet met the dream man in the laundromat, but I keep hoping. At this stage, anywhere is a good place to look for love.

Hints for tourists:
Laundromats are called Laverie(s) in French. They can be found in most quarters of Paris. At about 3 euros 60 cents a pop, it is a bargain compared to giving your laundry to the hotel.

Pari(s) Obama

Pari(s) Obama

Pari in French (written like Paris without an S and is pronounced the same way) means bet. And we are betting, with a lot of confidence I might add, on Obama to change things, today being his inauguration as the President of the US.

The night of the election (it was night in Paris) was probably one of the few times when I wished that I had been in Los Angeles or New York rather than Paris. If there is something that I thought came across in his message, it was that we should look beyond the color of the skin when we look at a man or a woman (but also beyond their faith, their sexual orientation and origin). But, of course, who could at that moment forget for a nanosecond the historical significance of the event : the first African American ever to lead the US, and with it, the world.

Given the history of the US , I did not believe until the very last minute that ‘the people” would actually elect Obama as President . Did not dare even to imagine that the US was ready for that for fear of jinxing what I hoped and fuelled to a large degree by the fear that Palin could become, eventually, President of the US if John McCain was to be elected. That would probably be the only scenario I could imagine that is worse than the US under Bush!

The significance of having a Black president could not be emphasized enough. Here is a person who could heal wounds that might have been healing but still leave traces in forms and shapes that are so far removed we may not even think they could be related. But now, imagine all the African, Asian and Hispanic American boys and girls who could, with firm belief rather than ephemeral fantasy, dream of becoming a US President. In his speech Obama talked of confidence….and I think that that is the one thing he has given us all, of whatever colors but especially those of color in multicultural societies, in the US and beyond their borders. A color that at times could stigmatize us by sight alone is finally starting to fade....as Obama said, hopefully, we could all find that common humanity not too far below the colors...

Paris : Race, Ethnic and Racism ?

Race and ethnicity and Racism are subjects that one must inevitably face in multicultural societies such as France, Australia and the United States. Especially for someone like me who is not exactly snow white.

At a personal level, I am somehow much more aware of my race (I am of Asian origin) here in France than in either Australia or the US (despite the fact that in any forms in the US, I often have to indicate my ethnicity, whereas in France NEVER, as this is illegal…you would think this would prime my ethnicity more in the US than in France, but No in fact). Having just returned to Paris from the US, I was this time struck by how often we see Asian and Black and Hispanic faces on tv as anchors, reporters or occupying big important positions in the US cities such as Los Angeles and San Francisco. This is quite rare in France (in fact, often when we see a non white face on tv, my bet would be that is about riots in banlieu (i.e., hot areas in the periphery of Paris) or protestors asking for better government housing.
The same thing I notice at work. Though many of the people we have to deal with (ie. people that we serve in my profession) recently include many more minorities, the number of my colleagues who are non white could be counted in one hand…Yet, I think it is important that we reflect the population that we serve (if only for identification and activating possibilities among those we serve at work….sort of like Obama inspiring young blacks to aim to become US President). And indeed having a black anchor on a French tv still made big news here not too long ago.

This seems in contrast with other aspects of of race relations found in these countries. In Paris, we seem to see a lot more inter racial couples than, say, Los Angeles or New York. And many kids you could tell are métisses (of different race parents). And in fact, the mixed racial couples here seem to not have the self-conscious look that mixed race couples I have noticed in LA, for instance, do (that is, they are conscious that they still attract attention).

Stil, I feel like I have noticed more racism towards me in Paris…if we define racism as being treated differently because of your skin color. In the US or Australia being Asian often means that you’re perceived as hard-working or intelligent and that you’re probably a professional. In France, people often assume that I do not earn enough money, for instance, to apply to rent an apartment, or that I probably have the papers of someone else who is dead (Rumors that in Chinatown they never report when a person dies, but give the papers of the person to a newcomer to use). And of course they never assume that I am French (how many times have people asked me: What is your nationality (yes, nationality, not origin)?). But bizarrely, this racism does not always or only come from whites. Indeed, I could feel racism from others who are not white …what’s maddening is that they treat the whites better than they treat other non-whites. Hm, do I smell colonisalism still here?

(An) American(S) in Paris

We have always known that the french has very ambivalent attitude towards America (meaning the US) and Americans. If they copy American “culture” or simply all things American (tv programmes, how they dress especially the young) they would be the last to admit that they admire America and things American. They might tell you that Americans are superficial, that in their practicality and cheerfulness they are naïve (in France, in contrast, nothing is simple and everything is complicated), that their optimism is ignorance. But secretly, they would wish to spend less time running around to get anything done here, and yes they could probably use a dash of optimism to put a smile on their face.

But all that was forgotten the night Barack Obama got elected. I was extremely surprised to see that all the tv stations in France were giving direct results as they came in with comments and discussion and explanations (the election system being different between France and the US). And what’s more surprising, many of the French actually stayed up to watch (many were bleary eyed the next day!), or are in bars and in gatherings with friends to follow the election. I did get invitations to attend certain bars frequented by Americans, but these come from Americans with whom I am in contact in Paris….to see French people do the same thing was incredible! This is especially true of black French who seems to have adopted Obama as a symbol of all people of color and not only of Black Americans. In African bars or bars frequented by Black French, the party was on as soon as it looked like Obama was going to be elected.

I myself was intermittently on the phone with friends until the wee hour of the morning (because of the time difference, we could only be sure Obama would win nearing dawn Paris time). But many of these friends were French people with no American connection whatsoever! They were just as excited and moved to learn that Obama finally made it a reality for a Black American to be president. They also admitted that despite their méfiance of the US, they must admit that this kind of historical event could only happen in the US and are hard-pressed to imagine the same thing in today’s France. Never had I felt such connection to everyone in Paris….at least for that night, many Parisians were American!
And my American friends living in France all sighed in relief ….all thinking the same thought: hopefully the French would like us (again) now. …

Paris secrets: Morning has broken in my neighborhood outside the ghetto

As I have said elsewhere, I was rather out of sorts in term of my gayness having left my hood in the Marais (Paris 4th arrodissement, known as the gay neighbourhood).
However, having lived in my new neighbourhood for some time now, I have started discovering its secret that is just as exciting if not more. Discovering the layers of gay men who inhabit this beautiful city indeed is a voyage that any new Parisien will have to traverse!

If in the Marais, mornings tend to be dead (we party and stay out late and we think mornings are for the birds), the discovery of early morning sexual escapades in my new neighbourhood had turned me around into a veritable morning person (well ok, still not as cheery as a real morning person, but more willing to wake up just as the sun peeks out than ever before).

I was once in the neighbourhood of Place de Clichy before 9 am (for an appointment there that I could not miss nor reschedule to a more civilized hour). After the appointment, I took a small street to get to the metro station. Walking along, I noticed a man of North African origin standing just outside the entrance to a (his) building. This man was eyeing me as a wolf would be eyeing a roast chicken (or whatever wolf likes to eat in the wild, my experience with wolves are based exclusively on cartoon that I watched as a kid) as I passed by. I stopped and lit a cigarette (an excuse) and noticed him pointedly touch himself in the place where I would like to be touching him! He looked at me intently and opened the building entrance door. I followed him then into the building, and he led me to the basement where he took out his dick and I, being a well brought up kid that I am, got on my knees and went to work.

Another time I was rushing toward the metro station from my house for an early morning conference outside Paris. This man I noticed as we both were crossing the street. The look that he gave me made me stop on the other side and I pretended to look at a window of a store (in fact a drugstore so there is nothing interesting to look at lol). He recrossed the street and asked me for a cigarette. Then, without further ado, he asked me if we could go to my place. Well, I am a professional thus would feel very bad missing the conference I was supposed to attend. So I said we could exchange phone numbers to set up a RDV at a later time. At this point, I must admit that I was that close do just give the conference a miss and take him home. But I stuck it out, a professional that I am, and attended the conference.

The next day, I called him and we met near my house. I learned that he is Egyptian (about 30 years old) and has lived in Paris for 6 years. He came up to my apartment and asked if I could put on a blue film and took off his clothes. We did many interesting things on my little bed on the floor after which I gave him a massage which seemed to have gotten him all hot again.

So, after all this time, I discover the more interesting aspects of my new neighbourhood. Indeed, changes are required (ie. I have to be a morning person), but if it is so worth it, why not? I welcome mornings now and see it not as the moment best spent in bed waiting for the sun to go down again....I look at morning persons differently and have come to recognize the secrets that mornings could hold which are all the more interesting as it is harder to hide in the light than at night. Say hello to the sun and bye bye moon.