“WHAT A PITY WE’VE FORGOTTEN THE ZANY LITTLE WAYS OF LIFE!” the architect wailed and we all drank a toast to this loss, feeling giddy with joy.
As the evening wore on, I no longer cared that my intimate dinner had turned into a tête à tête à tête à tête à tête. We drank a lot of wine and laughed like crazy. In fact, the whole restaurant was a boat of merrymakers on the brink of capsizing.
When the lugubrious waiter asked if we’d like dessert, and I declined, the architect appeared offended.
“Do you mean to say, Madame, that you won’t even try la banane du chef? It is the specialty of the house!”
“I don’t have room for it,” I answered.
“Nonsense! No room! You will have the room when you taste it!”
“Very true,” the ruddy faced man said. “It tastes like nothing else in the world! Am I not right?” he asked the waiter. The waiter nodded as one might on identifying a body in the morgue.
“Why don’t you try it, if it’s that good?” Steve urged, knowing my fondness for sweets.
“I’ll have la banane du chef,” I said to the waiter.
As conversation and wine flowed, it occurred to me (through a little haze) that this dessert was taking quite a long time. I was about to question the waiter when the lights in the restaurant went out, plunging us in darkness and causing a collective scream from the patrons. Then the kitchen door was flung open and our waiter walked through the black restaurant holding high a tray with a flaming dessert. Somberly he made his way to our table, guided by the blue-yellow light of the flames. He set the plate in front of me and announced gravely, “Madame, la banane du chef!” These words brought a hand-clapping and foot-stomping from the other diners. I looked down.
Banana fritters formed in the shape of a male’s private parts.
Every eye in the place was on me, waiting for me to take a bite but I was giggling so much, I couldn’t. At last, when I did take that first bite, loud cries of “Ooh La La!” went up and the lights came on. All four of us shared the dessert, which was delicious. After dinner, Steve took my hand and led me up rue Mouffetard. Up and up we wound our way through the medieval street. The night was bright with moonlight which gave the ancient gray houses the look of tarnished silver. We stopped and kissed, our bodies like clasped hands.
“Where are we going?” I whispered.
“You’ll see.”
We threaded up and around some side streets until suddenly Paris was spread before us. How beautiful it looked then! Exactly like my idea of Paris. Like everyone’s idea of Paris. Vibrant and askew. The gold-lit Eiffel tower tilted jauntily, and for a beret, wore the moon. The bâteaux mouches were now spaceships floating on black iridescent ribbon, while at the Place de la Concorde, the obelisk was a rocket taking off. And far at the city’s cusp sailed Sacré-Coeur—a white ship guided by stars. Yes, that night it seemed Paris, in sympathy with us, twinkled and trembled, and leaned too in fervent anticipation. An excited city listing toward love.
So if in the day, I recount some delightful French meal, shopping discovery, historical site or museum exhibit, you’ll understand if I say that at night, a more passionate nostalgia beckons. At night, when I lie in my husband’s arms, I need only whisper “Gucci Hootchie Kootchie” or “l‘expédition scientifique” or, if feeling particularly naughty, “la banane du chef” to lure us into the realm of memory. Lure us back to that long-ago couple, fearless and fanciful. Back to the quivering nights of a time-distant Paris when the air was dusty with miracles and the stars were hung lower. Closer to our hearts.
Maxine Rose Schur is a travel essayist, speaker, and author of ten books for young people. Her work has appeared in many publications including The Christian Science Monitor, the Los Angeles Times, and Caribbean Travel & Life. She is the creator of two gift journals— The Reading Woman and Enchanted Islands: Voices and Visions from the Caribbean —each marketed with calendars, greeting cards, and postcard portfolios. She lives in San Mateo, California.
Wet petals sticking to a sky born nude.
The magnitudes, insights, fears and proofs
Were your unconscious gift. They still weigh
With the weight of Paris forever hanging
White throat wearing icy gems,
A parody of stars as yet undiscovered.
Here they tell me I have come to terms.
But supposing I had chosen to march on you
Instead of on such a star—what then?
Instead of this incubus of infinite duration,
I mean to say, whose single glance
Brings loving to its knees?
Yes, wherever the ant-hills empty
Swarm the fecund associations, crossing
And recrossing the sky-pathways of sleep.
We labour only to be relatively
Sincere as ants perhaps are sincere.
Yet always the absolute vision must keep
The healthy lodestar of its stake in love.
You’ll see somewhere always the crystal body
Transparent, held high against the light
Blaze like a diamond in the deep.
How can a love of life be ever indiscreet
For even in that far dispersing city today
Ants must turn over in their sleep.
—Lawrence Durrell, Spirit of Paris: Letters and Essays on Travel
CAILÍN BOYLE
Hair Pierre
Put on your high-heeled sneakers and your wig-hat on your head.
I LAND IN FRANCE AT THE AGE OF NINETEEN WITH A STUDENT loan and the belief that an address in Paris is the precursor to a literary, artistic, or at least interesting life. I have come to attend the Sorbonne’s French Language and Civilization program. One month in Paris and I too will be sitting in the cafés, draped in black, suffering through excessive bouts of second-hand smoke, looking bored—always bored—complaining how my life is so underfunded. My lips will be fantastically pouty. I will meet only fascinating people—the soon-to-be-famous—and have an immediate rapport with them. I will be welcomed into their tight weave of friendship, partially due to the above-mentioned pouty lips, and partially due to my ability to say outrageously witty and insightful things at the appropriate time.
None of these traits have ever formed any part of my existence prior to moving to Paris. Why I will suddenly transform into this stylish, clever person is an inconsistency I easily dismiss. Who needs logic when they have Paris?
The first month passes with the usual excitement and frustration of a new routine. And I find the shopping areas. I remind myself that I am here to learn the language. And maybe have a deeply intriguing adventure. If I acquire a spectacular wardrobe and a sense of chic along the way, I won’t complain.
I regularly deposit myself and my journal in a café to watch the world, and more importantly, the Parisians, pass. I am initially taken by the style and je ne sais quoi of the men. However, they are taken by the style and je ne sais quoi of the French women. So I too become a student of the women’s ways.
After much study, I note in my journal, Things to Do to Become a Parisienne:
Always wear tight jeans. Anywhere and anyhow. A must. Even at funerals.
And heels. Podiatrists must retire early in France.
Have your hair managed. Stuck in place, really, so that it looks the same at 11:00 p.m. as it did at noon. In fact, it probably hasn’t moved.
Make sure your earrings match something on your person. Or have a serious reason for wearing them.
Carry an overstuffed shoulder bag. Watch for signs of curvature of the spine.
Ensure your lips are always a deep red.
Never have an appetite.
And always wear a scarf. Preferably silk.
I believe that I am eight items away from being mistaken for a Françoise, or Michelle or Marie. I march off to the markets. Most of these prerequisites are for sale. I search out an oversized shoulder bag and a new collection of bright or bold earrings. I have n
ever frolicked in the costume jewelry section before with so much determination. I have a mission.
Being cursed with curly hair, however, the Parisian women’s ability to manage their tendrils is beyond comprehension. I drag myself to a hair salon, clutching a photo of Princess Stephanie of Monaco. She is my age and is always considered à la mode. Maybe I am only a haircut away. Instead, after a long conversation with Pierre where I stress the need to be bien coiffée, he trims and poofs. I don’t believe Stephanie ever poofs. She may slick and groom and pat, but never poof. I leave Chez Pierre with an extra three inches in height and a potential to be a hazard in the Métro. I cannot afford enough gel to tame my cut, and to give it that royal style. Maybe my hair will sense the Parisian-ness of the rest of me and fall into place. The rest of me will be easier to manage.
In between classes I wander the Latin Quarter—with my big Pierre hair, shoulder bag, and earrings—to observe the locals: what they wear, what they order at the cafés, how they carry themselves. This is the greatest classroom for me. At the Sorbonne I diligently conjugate my verbs, polish my pronunciation, and learn the social implications of the May ‘68 uprising. But my passion is for the lessons of the street, and the chicness that somehow comes with a French birth certificate.
Three months in Paris and I still look as if I belong at a right-wing political fund-raiser, rather than on the Left Bank. I realize that this transformation is not just going to happen. I must take action.
After class I traipse down to a shopping area, or the department stores. This is the pulsing, intoxicating, and free version of the fashion magazines. The most overwhelming of these shops is Galeries Lafayette. Eight stories of exclusiveness built around an atrium. I’m not sure it gets any better than that.
One afternoon I collect some nerve—or maybe the second installment of my student loan has come through—and I enter Galeries Lafayette with a purpose. A full makeover. To allow the most Gaullic of women to spread as many concoctions on my face as the surface area will allow. They seem to see me as a challenge, a mound of fresh clay to mold and manipulate. Foundations and creams and shadows and liners all find their way onto my face. And lipstick. The ubiquitous Parisian red. My face is cracking but my lips are pulsating with color as I ride the escalator to the section “20 ans” where I plan to buy the remaining articles of a de rigueur wardrobe. It is time for the jeans and heels. I try. And try and try. But when you dwarf the men around you, the jeans don’t have the same effect. I totter in shoes that make me even taller, and pour into jeans that are meant to celebrate my natural lack of appetite. Instead they only cheer reinforced stitching. I decide to wear my new outfit out of the store. Onto the streets of the city I saunter, bottles of potions clanking in my massive, recently acquired, over-stuffed shoulder bag. I walk past cafés trying to notice if anyone is noticing me. From behind this canvas of cosmetics I feel more European, more sure that I am on the way to being “one of them,” and then maybe attracting an Etienne or a Tristan or a Jean-Paul. I’ll even settle for a Claude.
After a strutting tour of every public gathering spot I can manage, and with not even one proposition, I return home, limping but mostly undamaged, to survey the success these women have wielded on me. I poke and prod my pores, hoping to discover the secret and realizing that as I paid little attention to what they were doing, my hopes of replicating the result are fairly small. I struggle to remove my overpriced jeans. I got them on. The laws of physics comfort me: they must be removable. My feet are throbbing as I step out of my new shoes and back on solid ground. My arches have had too much of a workout.
The next morning I greet my face. It looks as if it has just landed in the emergency room. Colors blend in to black and red and blue that seem to be everywhere but where they were yesterday. I scrub and cleanse and exfoliate and start again. When I am done, however, half the bottles remain unopened, and I don’t look much different than I always have. But for those new, red pouty lips. Actually they aren’t pouty at all. They are red though, and I figure that counts for something.
Six months have passed and I still don’t possess that natural style. Maybe I just need the scarf.
Between struggling with the subjunctive tense, the French political structure and excerpts of Proust, I return to Galeries Lafayette to watch other women, and see how they do it. Just to hear the sound of their accents: “Les écharpes,” they say as they describe the scarves. The sound flows like the Seine, the last syllable rolling forward in the mouth. I’ve solicited other shops for their scarving expertise, but none are as good as Mlle. Vincent (as it says on her name tag) at Galeries Lafayette. Every week I canvas the area. She smiles at me, like a regular in a local pub greeting a familiar but unnamed face. This beautifully draped woman demonstrates how, with two flicks of the wrist, I could turn any piece of silk or cotton or polyester into a “fashion accessory.” As hard as I try, my scarves only ever look like a bib from Big Bob’s House of Ribs.
And each Sunday I devour another of the weekly Elle magazines, or Dépêche Mode, or anything glossy that proclaims French style. And still, after planning and plotting my texture options the night before, every morning is a chore, as I try to create some well structured outfit. And no matter how hard I try, I still look like I just stepped off the campus of Bowling Green.
Nine months have passed. I’ve mastered the tenses, an overview of French history and their beloved literature. I have acquired a nice social circle, but none of my friends are literary figures. In fact most of them have jobs. And none of them smoke. I am feeling a failure. Then I get a letter. A note, really.
A friend is coming to visit. An ex-boyfriend, passing through town on a “Europe in six weeks” pre-packaged expedition. Looking as Parisian as possible is mandatory for our meeting. This is my test. My watershed.
France, native land of Jean Nicot, the 16th-century French ambassador who introduced tobacco to France and gave his name to the poison it contains, was the first European country to impose a ban on smoking in all enclosed public places—including offices and factories—except in specially designated smoking areas equipped with suitable ventilation.
—The Economist
The morning of our meeting arrives. I try to tame my hair, slip into the volume-challenged jeans, apply a bright color to my lips, insert the appropriate earrings and elevate myself two inches in the shoes. I casually toss a scarf (as I now own several) around my neck. Actually I place it carefully, hoping for it to look casually tossed. I grab my massive shoulder bag, and I descend into the Métro to meet The Ex. He is on a tight schedule, which allows me the comfort of knowing this encounter will last only a few hours.
I ascend gracefully from the Métro stop. There he is, looking like the sorest thumb in tout-Paris. Shorts and a baseball cap and Converse running shoes. He screams North America. He is startled to see me approach. He doesn’t quite recognize me at first. I greet him and offer him my cheek. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He tries to hug me. An awkward exchange follows, half cheek kisses, half insubstantial hugs. He trails me as we enter and seat ourselves at the bistro. I translate the menu for him and highlight the most interesting items. I order for both of us, and complain when an item doesn’t arrive. I introduce him to a friend of mine and his girlfriend who pass in the street. I recommend places to visit and towns to explore. Dazed, he comments; “You look...different.” I laugh at his naïveté. I toss my hair, but it catches on my earrings. I smile, but he tells me that I have lipstick on my teeth. I play with my precious scarf, but its ends persist in falling into my café au lait. I search for my wallet, but it is lost in the pounds of necessities that I have managed to stuff into my oversized shoulder bag. I realize I have attained a high-maintenance look. Which, given the circulation-inhibiting nature of my clothing, is not a particularly comfortable one.
I feel, however, as if I’ve made it. I have soaked up French culture and it is soaking into my pores. I lean forward and try to flirt, as I’ve seen the Parisian women do eve
ry day in the cafés, but he only pulls back, as if I’ve invaded his personal space.
My chicness has been on display now for two hours. He must be in awe of my new-found grace, and stunned by my transformation. He looks at his watch and proclaims that this encounter must end. He picks up his baseball cap and puts it back on his head. I flinch. He fumbles at his velcroed money belt for cash. I cringe. He pulls out some francs and tries to understand the exchange rate. I cower. As he leaves he puts his arm around me. I smile. It’s true. I must be irresistible, like all those French women. He lowers his voice: “You know I’m impressed. You’ve learned a lot this past year. You speak French really well. But do you really think you look good like that?”
Cailin Boyle is a San Francisco-based writer working in various media, from dot-coms to the entertainment industry. She is the author of Color Harmony for the Web: A Guide for Creating Great Color Schemes On-Line, and has written for The New York Times, How Magazine, and Fodor’s Travel Guides.
Before Louis XVI mounted the throne in 1774, women’s hair styles had already reached a volume of such enormity that the weight on their necks was oftentimes insupportable. There were cases where the mouth of a lady in grande toilette would be at a point equidistant between the top of her coiffure and her feet. “The head was transformed alternatively into mountain, forest, or garden,” wrote Éze and Marcel, summing up the extravagances of the period of Mme. du Barry. “It was an orgy of butterflies, birds, tree branches, cardboard cupids. The hair was teased, crimped, loaded with feathers, gauze, ribbons, garlands, pearls, and diamonds. One went so far as to ornament one’s coiffure with vegetables.”
One went further than that and carried a whole tableau on one’s head. According to a contemporary witness, Louis Petit de Bachaumont, the Duchesse de Chartres wore an eye-catching scene, the central figure of which was a seated female wet-nursing an infant who was said by the Duchesse to represent M. le Duc de Valois. “To the right was a perroquet on its stand, pecking at a cherry, the bird being precious to the Duchesse, and at the left, a blackamoor,” Bachaumont noted in his Mémoires Secrets.
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