Cross Cultural

Today I saw two examples of cross cultural exchange; each exchange was an example of American cultural hegemony. In the Pigalle, part of Montmartre, home of the Moulin Rouge and struggling artists , I saw some neighborhood youths participating in hip hop street dancing. I saw a lot of youthful enthusiasm and hard work but frankly the American originals have little to worry about.

It was not my first encounter with French hip hop culture. Hip hop fashion is a rage and sideways caps and pants large enough for Leo Romero and Jack Kermioian are not a uncommon sight here in Paris.

Later in the Madeleine, the huge church just off of the Concorde, Mary and I stopped at a café for a street sit for some afternoon R & R. We ordered one glass of white wine, one Perrier, and two cafés (espressos). My US trained antennae for super sizing and upgrade were atrophied and dormant. The waiter asked, more than once, if we wanted a medium size and of course the two babes in buy land say,’ yes’.

Thirty-five Dollars later the sheepish and exploited couple are looking at a beer schooner of Perrier and a glass of Vin Blanc the size of a turn out boot. Fortunately the two cafes were demitasse sized. Welcome to American super sizing or transitional transaction upgrade.

Souffle Shuffle


Mary prevailed in the restaurant selection, Again. We went to an all soufflé restaurant. Souffles must be a woman thing. I sacrificed Steak with béarnaise sauce and pomme frites for an all soufflé line-up? Hold the applause.

I got through the spinach soufflé with ease and shuffled into the ham and cheese soufflé for my main course. The decadent chocolate soufflé with melted chocolate was my well earned reward for dessert.

Mary had another line up of stars culminating in a classic Grand Mainer Soufflé. The waiter poured a hefty amount of Grand Mainer into the middle of hers. At her urging I tried some. I spooned some of her dessert into my mouth and felt that warm rush, the taste of the Grand Mainer and the heat of the alcohol. It was delicious.

Great! I’m going to leave the program over a damn soufflé! Wait till I tell the guys that one, it won’t be a tough sell will it? Don’t tell Jimmy Fex what ever you do, can you imagine his response? I like the visuals.

Mass At The Madeleine

Sunday morning found us taking in a mass at the Madeleine. Ever since we arrived we have planned to take in the 11:00 “Solemn Mass” with full choir and large organ. Now our time here is dwindling.

The Madeleine is a neoclassical pile of Greco-Roman architecture that almost reminds one of a Southern courthouse. Outside, the soup kitchen customers were drinking half quarts of ale and discussing the 9ers no doubt.

Inside, the church is a beautiful example of gilt and marble done in a Romanesque style. As we walked down the main aisle the organ was swelling behind us and the choir was singing in front of us with a lead soprano vocalist whose voice filled the entire church to its dome. It was an unforgettable moment.

We waited for the mass to begin by watching the sopranos’ graceful and fluid hand movements that encouraged the reluctant congregation to sing. Meanwhile the young alter boy was constantly fidgeting.

There were 7 priests on the alter and they were all eligible to tap their Deferred Compensation. I glanced around the massive church at the small and ageing turnout. Europe’s’ low birth rate was contributing to a diminishing demographic.

At the end of mass the priests filed out the main aisle, the organ was playing loud dissonant, crashing chords that reminded one of Judgment Day. “Hark sinner thy time is neigh”. Do you think they were talking to me?

Jazz At The Swan Bar


The Swan Bar is located 3 blocks from our apartment on Blvd. Montparnasse, it fancies itself an American Jazz Bar. We had passed it many times and were intrigued by its look but hadn’t bitten. Tonight we were walking home from dinner and decided to stop in. Lucky for us.

As we entered a man near the door smiled at us and said good evening in French. I thought he might be a customer. We found ourselves talking to him and enjoying the experience. His name was Lionel Bloom and he was from New York City, he had lived in Paris forever and was a retired University professor who had taught Comparative American/French Studies in Paris for 30 years. After retiring he had opened the jazz club. When Mary asked him how long had he been in business he said 2 years. When she asked him if it was going well, he answered “sometimes, like tonight when it is really busy.”

Utterly fascinating is not strong enough to describe Lionel. He was a small man with an elfin quality and an easy smile that lit up his face. He was too cool for school. A French jazz trio was holding down the bandstand, Piano, bass, and vocals. It was my first experience with French jazz, listening to someone scat in French is a whole different deal.

We went to the bar where two female bartenders held forth. The first was a stunning young woman from Oaxaca, Mexico; the second was a tall Scottish woman with a plunging neckline and a fabulous smile who had lived in Paris for many years. Can you say ecletic? Can I say ohhh? Can Mary say behave yourself?

The club was small and full this evening with about 75 people. It was a good crowd that was attentive and enthusiastic. Lionel came back and engaged us in a lengthy discussion. He keeps up on events at home with the internet and was up on all things political. He was an inspired conversationalist, high performance energy and at all times fun.

You could tell that he loved the intimate environment he had created. Pretty girls running his bar, really good jazz on stage, lots of friends who stop in. What a leap of faith to start this club with not enough time in his life to make it back if it fails. I just hope that he is still in business the next time we come back to Paris.

Cafe Le Chartreux



It crept up on me and came as a bit of a surprise. It was the Café Le Chartreux situated downstairs in our building. It is a small and unprepossessing establishment, a little tatty and worn at the edges.

I didn’t pay much attention as I came and went. Finally I noticed that it was always busy and usually full. The owner/proprietor does not look like a café guy, seems like a CPA with a nice smile when he finds it. He has just the right touch: soft, friendly, and trusting.

The café is open from early morning until 11 pm, unless there is an impromptu party then closing seems negotiable. The breakfast crew starts it off with baguettes, croissants and espresso. Then the moms drop their kids off at the school across the street and come in for a café crème and chat with each other.

The lunch bunch is next and they enjoy a leisurely meal followed by the afternoon café habitués; they stretch and bend the day until the happy hour crowd arrives. The dinner regulars are followed by late night drop-ins. It’s a full day.

The café has a delightful combination of informality and intimacy that is disarming and embracing. Maybe it is because Paris apartments are small and cramped so café life is so important. The French seem to live a more communal life than we Americans. Talking with friends is very important, and the café is a perfect extension of French life. Mary thinks it is a Parisian version of Cheers, where everyone knows your name. I know they are very loyal.

We have begun to stop in for a late dinner when we don’t want to go far. It is the usual French café with the menu written on a blackboard; the owner brings it and leans it against a chair for our convenience. He speaks an odd mixture of French and English with us, tonight he threw in two Spanish words.

He plays music CD’s on a small system, when I inquire about the music he will bring the CD cover to the table. His taste is eclectic and interesting. He knows his stuff, likes blues and jazz a lot.

I like watching his light management touch, one night someone’s 9 year old daughters served our table and swept up later like they were playing grown-up. The café scene is a multi generational one; there are seniors, kids, and middle-agers occupying the same space. In America there would be more age separation.

I always wonder how 12 tatty tables, some 70’s décor best ignored, and old photos of long forgotten French actresses could make such a compelling café atmosphere. Maybe it is the cheeseburger on the menu, but I think it has a lot to do with the owner and a more to do with the people themselves. “Where everyone knows your name.”

Nuit Blanche

Saturday evening we were meeting friends Billandnancy.com at a sidewalk café near the Bastille. Over drinks we mapped out our strategy for Nuit Blanche or Sleepless Night; it is the fifth annual version of this event which has now spread to Rome, Riga, Madrid, and Bruxelles.

Paris lights up the entire city and opens museums and public spaces for entertainment and revelry. The Metro system runs for free and a youthful energy of freedom and anticipation pervades the night autumn air.

Nancy and her French skills were invaluable in checking the official published announcements, and Bill organized our attack and route of march. Mary and I occasionally said oui to their ideas and the all purpose d’accord. Once in a fit of unearned confidence I uttered a forceful exactement.

Bill lead us on a wending way through the Marais district, our destination the Pont Saint Louis, a small bridge on the Ile Saint Louis where a modern dance troupe threatened to appear. We watched the troupe contort to electronic music and then headed off thru the island.

We made a stop at the atelier of an artist friend of Billandnancy.com/ We had a wonderful visit and their warmth was infectious. Then we headed for Hotel de Ville or City Hall. There we went thru a security screening to go inside and see more electronic music groups and giant black balloons hanging as a mobile over a central courtyard.

The Louvre Museum was calling out to Bill and we continued our march thru the crowded streets of youthful and friendly revelers. Did I mention that the four of us were slightly older than anyone else in the crowd? The Louvre courtyard was crowded but no discernable entertainment could be found so we left for a late dinner at a nearby Brasserie.

The Marais was singing out to Bill and Nancy, but the bewitching hour of midnight was upon us. Mary and I headed to a crowded Metro for our return home. The youthful revelers were singing on the Metro subway cars, I would rate the singing more successful than the modern dance troupe. Nuit Blanche even more successful, Thank you Bill and Nancy.

Jean Paul And Jennette



I made two new friends today, and in the life of an ex-pat that is memorable. I went to the Vit Halles fitness club this morning and a man in the locker room began a conversation, when he realized I was American he became more animated. His name is Jean Paul and he told me he works for Airbus and lived for 17 and 1/2 years in Washington DC.

I could tell from his demeanor that he enjoyed his stay. He liked Washington and told me stories of driving back from the homes of suburban co-workers who had introduced him to the wonders of American Bourbon. He chuckled at the memory.

Then he mentioned New York City and his whole face came alive, he loves New York. It is his favorite city. It was fun watching him talk about Manhattan, its crowds and its energy. His son now lives in NY so he has an excuse to go back a lot he explained. It was the social freedom and energy that he enjoyed so much.

Later I was in the cardio room, I had just finished the Stairmaster and a woman named Jeannette asked if I was American. She had seen my tee shirt and saw me reading the Intl Herald Tribune on the Stairmaster she explained. She was American and had lived in Paris for 30 year’s because she had married a French man. Her daughter was at Cal and she went home to spend every summer on Martha’s Vineyard to renew her Americanism.

The current anti French feeling some Americans harbor made her sad, she said that the French love Americans and she has never encountered any anti Americanism in her long stay. We parted, saying we would see each other again. I went back to my faux weight lifting thinking that almost all of my Paris encounters had been so positive. It was like they were all named Paul Lancey.

A Paris Moment




A wise young friend of mine informed me in a casual conversation over lunch, that he was a prisoner of his demographic. It was one of those well crafted throwaway lines that I can fall in love with. He knew the fickle nature of his audience. But then, I have always been a sucker for Peter’s charm.

Peter is the junior partner of the Pete ‘n Al show. It is a keenly competitive crowd, I always feel my creative juices coursing and my humor on high alert in their presence. Peter is the ‘probie’ you always fall for. Al is the princess of brevity and understatement. Like all artists, her angle of orientation is slightly askew, she catches you by surprise.

Peter and Alison spent 4 days with us in Paris and we made the rounds of the usual suspects: The Pompidou Museum, The Eiffel Tower, a Seine cruise, the weekend flea markets, and a hair salon. Yes, Peter left Chicago in need of a trim and my graying locks were long overdue.

Our wives dropped us off at the Frank Provost Salon. The girls stayed long enough to see the salon staff put us in white smocks, watched us negotiate our haircut with great hand gestures and fractured French and then they left.

Peter went first and his college French and charm was carrying the day. I saw him regaling his stylist Malika, with broad arm gestures and smiling stories. I waited in back and was then delivered to the shampoo line where my meager French went begging. The woman ‘shampooee’ to my right, gratefully translated my wishes.

I was delivered to an English challenged, young woman named Gail. She very charmingly tried to communicate with her French challenged client while her boss came over to keep asking me about the proper pronunciation of American English idioms. It was a confusing day.

Peter was finally finished, he profusely thanked Malika, got a coffee and sat in the empty chair to my right, and he had a broad smile on his face. Gail was finishing up my haircut by shaping the back with a straight razor. Peter and I have been through many great and humorous experiences. I reached over and slapped his leg, Peter I said this is another of those memorable experiences to be treasured and banked in the memory account.