To be or not to be: A Francophile in Paris

Everyone who learns that Gene and I went to Paris last month asks the same questions: “Where did you go?” and “What did you see?”

Did we scale the Eiffel Tower, spend days in the Louvre, stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg and the Jardin des Tuileries, or seek out le cancan at the Moulin Rouge? Did we take the nighttime Illuminations Tour or cruise down on the moonlit Seine? Uh, no.

I feel as though I disappoint friends when I say our trip wasn’t like that. Gene and I didn’t go with the express purpose of seeing the sights, hopping off one tour bus and onto another, calculating how many monuments and museums we could cram into the fewest number of minutes. We employed no guides to show us around. Instead, we went simply to be in Paris.

Being in Paris did take us to several notable landmarks, but only as the spirit moved us. We had no fixed itinerary. The only schedules we had to meet were a 5:49 p.m. train from Rouen to Paris and a 11:46 a.m. TGV from Paris to Nice -- and we nearly missed those!

For four days we chose to dispense with deadlines and just let life happen, opening ourselves to adventure where and when it found us.


Desperate for a second cup of coffee one morning, we staked out a spot on the Boulevard Saint-Michel -- aka Boul’Mich -- at the edge of the Quartier Latin and watched pedestrians scurry by. Frantic to escape the hordes of tourists and school groups disrupting the calm of Notre Dame, we crossed Île de la Cité to Louis IX’s celestial Sainte-Chapelle. To view Claude Monet’s complete series of La cathédrale de Rouen (we’d seen one painting in the “Monet in Normandy” exhibit at the North Carolina Museum of Art in 2006), we spent a rainy afternoon at Musée d'Orsay. To check on train departures to Rouen, we visited the famed Gare Saint-Lazare.

We tried a new restaurant each night. By the fourth evening, we'd seen most of the sixth and seventh arrondissements and a good bit of the fifth -- but not by design. We repeatedly consulted our pop-up map but still got turned around and completely disoriented in the warren of criss-crossing alleys on the Left Bank. It didn’t matter. We got to relish Parisian nightlife and practice our French by asking for directions. And we eventually got to our chosen destinations: La Petite Chaise, Le Petit St-Benoit, Le Petit Zinc and Au Pied de Fouet.

For me some of the thrill was being able to read Le Figaro over a leisurely breakfast each morning. To speak French with the various desk clerks at Hotel Lindbergh, where we stayed. To shop the store windows stocked with antique faïence, avant-garde light fixtures and artfully arranged patisseries. To stumble upon the puppets of the Chat Noir Shadow Theatre that even the Musée d'Orsay claims is "an unlikely object to find in [its] collections."


No doubt Gene and I could've seen more, done more. But being in the moment as life is happening around us, being part of it, delighting in the spontaneity and feeling of discovery, that is the greatest adventure.

Perhaps Jean Paul Sartre said it best: This feeling of adventure definitely does not come from events: I have proved it. It's rather the way in which the moments are linked together.

© 2009 by Lorin D. Buck

Summertime ... and the livin' is easy?

Hi there! It's me again -- Lorin -- trying to figure out which end is up in this topsy-turvy summer.

I hope you all enjoyed Brittany’s inaugural blog. I love her writing, and her voice. The same goes for Anne. I believe Gen X is one of the best things that's happened to us baby boomers.

I’ve been lax about posting lately, as you may have noticed. Life picked up steam after I came back from France.

Like Brittany mentioned, I was filling in for a copy editor at USA WEEKEND Magazine. This last week I was gearing up to return to The Fairfax Times, a weekly suburban newspaper where I worked until last August.

Post-Newsweek Media Inc. bought The Fairfax Times and took ownership June 1, rescuing it from annihilation and announcing plans to expand. What could be better? I get to do the work I love -- journalism -- with people I already know and admire. Really, a paper that is growing and adding staff in this economy, while venerable newspapers are dropping like flies? Well, it’s a miracle.

Anne, Brittany and I are determined to keep Chatterlines going, though, despite our day jobs.

On a final note, as I mentioned in my first post, my youngest son has cancer. He's back in treatment, and over the last month concerns about his care have pushed more creative thoughts to the back corners of my mind.

But he's charging ahead, and now that I've regained my emotional equilibrium, I intend to do the same. As soon as I get my feet back on the ground ...

More to come. I promise.

© 2009 by Lorin D. Buck

Bling blog

Hi, it's Brittany. Lorin has been busy copy editing for USA WEEKEND (become a Facebook Fan) so I am helping fill in the gaps.

I just got back from a fun trip to Atlanta so I have more than enough to write about. Now, June probably is not the best time to visit "Hotlanta," but I went for a purpose: to visit an old friend and attend a baby shower. I've known Tiffany (aka Teety) since we used to skip Mr. Bowers' band class together in middle school. It was my first trip down to visit her and her family in Canton, about 40 miles north of the city.

The day I arrived, Teety picked me up from the airport and immediately took me to "The Underground" (someone later asked, "Why did you take her there?!"). Well, I can't answer that, but I sure am glad we went. It was a fascinating taste of local culture ... and by local culture I mean bling, crunk and bedonkadonks (Urban Dictionary at your own risk) all centered around an underground shopping mall of sorts. I've never seen anything like it. Inside the mall part, there was a long corridor lined with kiosks selling all sorts of shiny things like faux diamond (sorry, iced out) dollar symbol necklaces, iced out handgun belt buckles and gold chains (a guy told us they could melt gold into a personalized necklace that spelled our name). There must have been a pimp hat or cane in there somewhere and maybe even a grill (fo' yo' teef). There was some milder stuff like Bob Marley posters and incense, but this crazy hip-hop bling is what caught my eye. That and the women wearing the super-short booty shorts with matching stilettos. How do they walk in those things?!

This got me thinking about crunk, the style of southern rap that originated in Atlanta. After a quick Google search, I learned that Lil Jon is the current reigning "king of crunk" and that he grew up in the A-T-L. I also learned that I, surprisingly, am 92 percent crunk according to the "How crunk" test on howcrunk.com. A lot of people would probably find the questions highly offensive, but I think they are funny. Here's one of the cleaner examples: "So you're rollin down the street, smokin' indo, sippin on ... 1. Bud Light 2. Cognac 3. Gin and Juice 4. Cristal." You would have to be familiar with the Snoop Doggy Dog song to know what the hizzle I'm talking about.

There were plenty of other forms of local culture that I found equally intriguing -- the southern redneck (missing teeth, says "skeeters" instead of mosquitoes), the southern yuppie (plaid shorts, popped collar, golf cart), the southern housewife (implants, lots of makeup) -- but I digress.

One other cool thing we did during my visit was go to the top of the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel in downtown Atlanta. It's a 73-story cylindrical skyscraper with a revolving bar/restaurant at the top. The lounge part on the top floor where we hung out has panoramic views of the city and makes one complete revolution every 30 minutes. I remember going there as a kid with my family so it was cool to revisit some 20 years later. Only now I could order a real peach daiquiri instead of a virgin (to the tune of $15). It came in a giant souvenir glass with a mountain of fruit piled on top. It was worth every penny and I was happy to satisfy my craving for something peachy. The only problem was finding our way out of the revolving sky bar after consuming this rum-filled monstrosity. Teety and I must have looked confused because a staff member stopped and gave us directions to the elevator. "Just keep walking, you're about halfway there."

Atlanta is not necessarily somewhere I'd choose to live, but I certainly appreciate that we could go from the crunked-out Underground to the plush Peachtree Plaza all in a single afternoon.

Meet Brittany

I’m so lucky! Another of my talented writer friends, Brittany Boyd, has agreed to contribute to Chatterlines. Brittany will give blogging a whirl in the coming weeks.

I met Brittany, like Anne, when she was hired as a reporter for the Loudoun Times-Mirror. Brittany was brought on board to write features for the brand-new Friday Times, a standalone lifestyle and entertainment newspaper. I liked Brittany from the start because her copy required almost no editing. She’s a precise writer with a fluid, hip style, a sharp eye for art and design, and cool, eclectic tastes in music.

Eventually, Brittany transferred to our sister paper, The Fairfax Times, to take over as editor of the entertainment section. In frequent e-mails she’d tell me how much she liked the staff -- and more important, how much I’d like them. Roughly six months later, she lured me over to what LTM’s executive editor gloomily called “The Dark Side.” Brittany and I struggled together over content and deadlines for bridal guides, holiday gift guides, theater guides and more.

For the last year, Brittany’s been working as a Web producer for Universal Sports , an Olympic and lifestyle sports Web site and TV network partnered with NBC. A University of Colorado grad with a penchant for the outdoors, Brittany covered World Cup skiing over the winter.

I’ve missed the day-to-day contact with Brittany that allowed me to witness her refreshing take on life. I’m excited that she’s joining our writers group on Chatterlines so I can hear her point of view again. Reading Brittany’s stories is like sailing on clear, pleasantly lapping waters. The flow of her prose delivers you from one side of the lake to the other in a totally delightful ride.

Welcome aboard, Brittany!

From Paris to Paradise

We arrived at the 13th-century village of St-Jeannet shortly before midnight, culminating a half-hour drive -- accented with whiplash-inducing hairpin turns and empty roundabouts -- up the mountainside from Nice. As we approached, we could see the vast shadow of the village, a sleeping stone monument that after centuries seemed to have eroded into the Baou. Except for the music and laughter spilling from the café at the edge of the village, all was quiet and very, very dark.

Several times on the train ride down from Paris Gene had told me he wanted to arrive before nightfall, but I hadn’t listened. Now we needed to find the inn -- L’Auberge des Baous -- among this black maze of nondescript buildings. We parked our rental car near the café and set out on foot down the narrow street that split into a half-dozen directions leading who-knew-where.

I was mad at myself. Why had I let an impulsive run over to the film festival in Cannes distract me from getting safely to our inn? Star-struck, I’d chucked caution in favor of eye candy.

Hesitantly, I followed an alley up the hill, and Gene took a path down. I quickly realized I had no bearings and might wander all night through the silent streets. There was no sign of the inn.

Then I heard Gene call, “Lori! It’s here!” I hurried toward his voice and found him standing in front of a dimly lighted four-story building, just steps from the café plaza. Together we walked to the door. An envelope was taped to it. On the envelope was written, “Lorin & Eugene Welcome!”

We tore it open and unfolded this handwritten note:

Hello Lorin & Eugène :)

Sorry we had to go. Just in case we are not back on time when you arrive, here is the code for the door. [A small sketch showed how to work the security lock.] Press the handle down, the door will open. “Philomène” [our room] is at the top floor, so go all the way up to the top: the door on your left is Philomène.

All the restaurants will be opened in the village tonight: “Le Ste-Barbe” has a lovely terrace with a view. For the best pizza, go to “Le vieux four.” For a “homey-feeling” try “La bonne fiangette.” And for a more intimate atmosphere “Le chantegrill” could be the one … They are all 5 mins. max away from each other.

Have a great evening, see you tomorrow for breakfast if we don’t see you tonight (breakfast from 8:30 to 10 a.m.).

à bientôt,
Benoit & Corinne

Our hosts included their mobile phone numbers is case we had any problems.

Again I wished we’d arrived earlier. By now, the restaurants were closed and the view was less than spectacular. Gene and I unloaded our bags from the car, successfully worked the code and headed upstairs. Hauling our suitcases up the several flights, wheels clattering on the tile floor, seemed endless and left us breathless. We were reluctant to turn on a light as we didn’t want to disturb the other guests. We fell into our room, worn out from the long day.

We looked out the French doors to our small balcony at the lights below, orangey specks scattered far and wide. We had no idea where we were. I wondered if again I’d acted impulsively by choosing this place. I didn’t obsess for long as once I lay down on the comfortable bed, I was asleep.

Early the next morning, intense sunlight beckoned us to the doors. I pushed the sheer curtains aside and looked out. For a moment, I thought we’d landed in Oz. The view across the green, undulating hills and down to the blue Mediterranean could only be described in superlatives. All worries that we’d made a mistake coming here evaporated.

© 2009 by Lorin D. Buck

Plus ça change

The French have a saying: Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The more things change, the more they remain the same.

After my visit to Paris three weeks ago, I’d propose a slight alteration: Plus ça change, plus ils deviennent de la même. The more things change, the more they become the same.

I was last in Paris for a few short days in spring 1975, at the end of a seven-month stay in Rouen. The previous fall, I’d spent a month in the City of Lights for orientation. Our group of 30-some undergrads lived and studied in the 14th arrondissement, not far from the artsy Latin Quarter on the Left Bank. Throughout the year, we routinely passed through Paris on our way to other destinations: Rome, Munich, Provence.

No matter how often I visited, Paris never failed to wow me. I was bowled over by how foreign the city felt. Everything was new to me: the food, the shops, the tiny cars, the narrow streets, the art, the book sellers, the museums, the way people dressed. I’d never experienced anything like it. It was all so French!

This time things were different. Somehow Paris didn’t seem so French. I’ve been asking myself: Who changed more, Paris or moi?

I fled my small hometown in Upstate New York and my even-smaller college town in 1976. I spent two years in Manhattan. I've lived in Washington, D.C., for three decades. I've eaten all kinds of unusual foods. I drive a small foreign car, as do my neighbors. I've hung out at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the National Gallery. I’ve traveled. I’ve seen more of the world.

Now Paris strikes me as just another big city. Has it always been that way for people accustomed to urban living? Or has globalization homogenized it?

I anticipated a promenade up the Champs-Elysées from Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe as guaranteed immersion in all things exquisitely and expensively French. I was disappointed. First, Tom Hanks glowered from every other corner in ads for “Anges et démons,” “The Da Vinci Code” sequel. On other corners were ads for “Là-haut” (“Up”), the Disney/Pixar film, and Ben Stiller’s “La nuit au musée 2.” (Meanwhile, wall-size posters for the upcoming release of the DVD, “Confessions d'une accro du shopping,” plastered Métro stations.)

Second, the busiest restaurateur on the Champs-Elysées? McDonald’s McCafe, just up the wide avenue from Starbucks. Third, as my husband and I sampled flan and tarte aux framboises at a real sidewalk café, two double-decker buses emblazoned with Mickey Mouse, Pluto and other Eurodisney characters cruised by. For this I left the States?

Yes, we saw chic, expensive retailers: Cartier. Louis Vitton. Guerlin. Sephora. But it felt no different from New York. (Or is it that New York feels no different from Paris?)

“Sadly, the Champs-Elysées — formerly the bastion of fashion and class — has degenerated into a neon strip of fast food chains, banks, airline offices, malls, and cinemas aimed squarely at the tourists,” confirms VirtualTourist.com.

Here's a word about fashion: That's changed, too. In the ’70s, French clothes were prohibitively expensive. French women owned only a couple of outfits and wore the same ensemble day after day. Now with Gap and Esprit -- fashion made in China -- all over the Left Bank, mademoiselles can stock their armoires with 19-euro T-shirts and 25-euro flouncy skirts.

Not that they’d need to. Everyone -- and I mean everyone -- in Paris was wearing jeans. And I don’t mean the tourists. It was incredible. I’d bought new clothes for our trip, hoping I might pass for Parisian. But I could’ve pulled everyday jeans, ballet flats and cardigans out of my closet and fit in just as well.

Another thing about jeans. The French couldn't get their hands on them in the '70s. Levi's was an American phenomenon for which the French were willing to spend hundreds of francs. Now jeans are ubiquitous and the franc is gone.

You know what else? Young people in Paris are nearly indistinguishable from their U.S. counterparts, uniformed in jeans, hoodies and backpacks with iPod wires running down their necks and cell phones at their ears. In some ways, maybe this is good -- I have the sense that, language barriers aside, twentysomethings on both sides of the pond might actually understand each other.

Thirty-five years ago, it was easy for me to tell who was French and who wasn’t. Not anymore -- I’d guess but was almost always wrong. Paris is an international city, just like Washington or New York, an amalgam of cultures, languages and ethnicities.

Am I sorry I went? Of course not. But next time I’ll need to dig a little deeper to find what’s truly French in Paris.

P.S. The mystery actress in my previous post? It's Amanda Plummer, daughter of Christopher Plummer (Captain von Trapp in "The Sound of Music"). I remembered seeing her on "Law & Order." She also was in "Pulp Fiction."

© 2009 by Lorin D. Buck