Transatlantic Parallel

If you're looking for glamour today, you've come to the wrong place. 

But wait . . .  Don't sign out just yet, you might like this even better.

First the background (you know the story if you drop in regularly; you have no idea if you don't): Jean-Aelia of the stunning blog Through The French Eye of Design and I have a transatlantic "conversation" every Monday on the vagaries, values and vicissitudes of our parallel lives. 

She's French married to an American; I'm American married to a Frenchman, which places us on opposite sides of the Atlantic and often right in the middle of cultural curiosities that sometimes make us shake our heads in wonder or wrath. 

This week we're delving into some controversial conventions that when applied in the wrong country can lead to odd, impolite or embarrassing situations.

This is how the game is played: For each installment we agree upon four subjects, return to our computers and go to work. Neither one sees the other's opinions and observations until they're posted for you.

This weeks topics include:

1.) Money.

2.) Doggie Bags.

3.) The other kind of doggie bags (pooper scoopers).

4.) Bonjour Madame and Bonjour Monsieur (I'll explain).

And we're off. . .

Money, Money, Money

Many of you may know this, but if you're not au courant, allow me to save you from an enormous faux pas: one does not talk about money in this country. Banter never turns around how much one makes, how much one has or how much something cost.  According to the French (and often they do have a point) that's all we Americans can talk about.

Cash and what it can, could and has purchased is taboo. However, lightly veiled allusions to the family chateau, the house in Corsica, the little place in Provence, the chalet in Gstaad, grandmother's silver, great-grandmother's jewels, tante Anne-Charlotte's 200-year-old crystal, etc. is the French code for we have history; we're tres, tres comfortable. And the really, really lucky ones have titles which of course are priceless.

We were invited to a dinner party some years ago when suddenly the host, a vicomte, took my elbow and pranced me around his 16th arrondissement apartment pointing out the art, the objets and various other family treasures. I did the appropriate ooohing and aaahing. When we walked out the door I asked my Reason-For-Living-In-France why he took me on the grand tour, his response was: "probably because you're American."

Certain things can be cher or pas cher, but nary a Euro is mentioned.

Note: Pictured above is the Chateau de Thoiry where the owners, the Compte and his American wife, the Comtesse de la Panouse live. The grounds feature an extraordinary animal park and many of the rooms in the castle are open to the public. (I can only assume the rug pictured in one of the salons died of old age -- in his sleep.) 

Doggie Bags

It's simply not done. 

I've always been somewhat uncomfortable asking for one in the States -- and I have dogs for heaven's sake -- but one wouldn't dream of asking for one here. 

Also one must concede, the portion sizes are more human in France and more bestial in the States. 

(Art by: Ted Crow)

Ummm, The Other Doggie Bags

Have you ever noticed those green contraptions zipping up and down the wide sidewalks on the Champs Elysees? They're sophisticated pooper scoopers. The large vacuum-like sucking machines take care of what one plastic bag and a civic minded Parisian could do without costing the citizenry untold thousands of Euros in taxes.

Signs are starting to appear warning of fines, but I cannot tell you the number of times I've watched owners patiently wait for their dogs to relieve themselves and move on as if they hadn't noticed.  I see it in the town near ours and just about everywhere.  I once spoke, politely, to a woman who participated in this charade of nonchalance and I can assure you it was the first and last time I've gotten involved in this unsavory situation. She spat more vitriol at me than her dog left on the pavement.

Then people blame the poor dogs, not the owners. Now I ask you, does that make sense? (Well, whose side would you expect me to be on?)

Bonjour Madame, Bonjour Monsieur

From the earliest age, well brought up children address adults with this phrase. It continues for the rest of their lives. One never simply says "bonjour" and the equivalent of "hi" which is "salut" is slang and is sometimes used among young friends.

I've heard children of three say "bonjour madame" and "bonjour monsieur" and proffer a kiss on each cheek to the adult who bends waaaay over to receive the gentillesse. It is so adorable. Sometimes, with parental coaching, a little boy may offer his hand for a grown-up handshake.

Of course one never enters a boutique or the boulangerie or any small shop without the proper greeting and au revoir Madame or au revoir Monsieur as one leaves.

Since rarely is anything simple in France, neither is the bonjour issue. With men and boys it is always accompanied by a handshake -- every day -- on seeing friends at school, in the street or co-workers. 

We generally save handshakes for introductions or perhaps greetings in social or out of office business situations. 

I can't wait to see what Jeanne-Aelia has to say chez elle about these cultural conundrums.

The Week Ahead or La Semaine Prochaine

On The Calendar for Next Week:

Lundi:  Transatlantic Parallel with Jeanne-Aelia of Through the French Eye of Design

(Our regular cross cultural exchange.)

Mercredi: Edith et Moi, Playing In Our Closets (Imagination required. No purchases allowed.)

Vendredi: Dear Cherie 

Weekend Surprise: Enduring Romance -- A French How-To Guide

***Sun by Edith.

Dear Cherie. . .

Cherie wouldn't want you to think she likes working in stress mode, but You-Know-Who -- off the vodka, wine, champagne, chocolate, ice cream and all other comfort foods -- is, not to put too a fine a point on it, insufferable. 

Too much undistilled grain can be damaging to one's sense of humor. 

Cherie had no choice. What else could a girl do? Paris beckoned. A small blue tote was packed; the blue YSL jacket and matching cashmere turtleneck were donned;  three scarves and two pairs of earrings (to change the look) were tucked in respective satin envelopes; all requisite beauty and treatment products were collected and with a quick wave and an au revoir the City of Lights was a mere 40 minutes from driveway to Arch de Triomphe.

 Now, just back from two days, one night, divine dinner, (interesting men at the next table -- a lawyer and a wine maker), lunch at Laduree and a final quick scan of the final, final dregs of the soldes, Cherie feels like a new woman.

As promised -- better late, than not at all -- this is what we're going to do today: Cherie will apply her scintillatingly intelligent imagination, supported by professional information, to the question on everyone's, artificially or naturally plumped lips: How can we look as young as possible as long as possible without turning to sharp, shiny objects in the hands of individuals wearing masks?

As you know, one of Cherie's most remarkable character traits is her honesty (usually), so let's be forthright. There is just so much one can do, until it doesn't do any good any more.

Shall we begin?

Dear Cherie: Please tell us everything you know, everything you've learned, everything you've read in this week's French Elle and last week's Figaro Madame that will help us, operative word, "appear" younger or at least save us from making errors that make us look older.

Dear Tout le Monde, Cherie is on it. Take notes, this will be part of a series:

1.) Up for debate in Cherie's opinion; therefore you decide: Change your perfume so you don't seem set in your ways. The other side of the debate, you have a signature fragrance and it is you, always has been, always will be. The compromise, change with the seasons or try to find different strengths of your favorite, i.e. toilette water, parfum, etc. Cherie has forsaken -- for the moment -- Parfum Hermes for Elixir by Clinique, pictured above.

2.) Cherie never thought she would endorse such an item because basically she dreams of a pared down product life, but here goes: a transparent base beneath foundation. Not every day, it's too much trouble, but for special occasions it truly does give an exquisitely pure/glowy/dewy look to the skin. To see if you agree, try the Sephora Sublimateur de Teint Luminizer since it's reasonably priced. 

3.) Ah, the well placed blush. Cherie will assume none of you is doing any facial "sculpting" with the product. Good. Now to lift, lift, the face, apply on apples and sweep upward toward the temples. You're not required to use a heavy hand, the product is called "blush" after all. Cherie likes mousse-y creams, they're practically error proof.

4.) Under no circumstances, never -- are you paying attention (?) -- get involved with sparkly, shimmery, pearlized products. Do not listen to the salesperson. (We may discuss one teeny exception in the future. . .)

5.) According to French Elle on the subject of lipsticks:

• Matte formulas add five years.
• Goopy/glossies add five years.
• Satin finishes subtract three years.

6.) Curl your eyelashes. That one simple gesture opens the eyes and instantly perks up the face. Remember anything that has an upward movement theoretically lifts. Theoretically. As Cherie has said on numerous occasions, Shu Uemura is the best of the best.

7.) Smile all the time. It may be a cliche, but it also works. Check it out in your mirror, instant lift, defined cheekbones, chin appears sharper (sort of).

That's enough for today. The series will continue plus next week Cherie will be addressing more of your questions, particularly the one about gazing into a closet full of clothes and finding nothing to wear. Just you wait. It's seems You-Know-Who and Edith will be also addressing the conundrum Wednesday.

Cherie Is Running Late. . .

So what's new right?

She will be back in this space with all the news and views on looking younger longer later today. Please stay tuned.

(I think she's in Paris. . .)

Soldes: Over & Out (Probably/Maybe)

Sad, but true: this is the last week of les soldes in France. Not that there is anything left to buy at the bottom of the bins, but that's another story.

As you may know, laws apply to this twice yearly ritual. Specific dates are set for markdowns and their duration in January and July. 

Ever au courant, I thought they were over last week, but no (!) we have four more days. As you can imagine I'll be waist deep in boxes, barrels and baskets on Friday.

(A dear friend is coming to Paris tomorrow.  She can dip in with me. She claims to have no money so I explained to her she couldn't arrive at a better time.) 

Working on the premise that even those of us, ahem, who see a 70 or 80 percent markdown on a price tag would probably buy one sock, I decided to rise above my baser instincts and suggested to Edith that we pretend again. 

We each chose two ensembles we would have bought, if we could have bought them, realizing even with an 80 percent reduction they probably continued to hover in the four digit neighborhood. 

These are our final virtual finds of the season:

1.) Edith's one-shoulder gown from Ralph Lauren. 

2.) My Brioni skirt and jacket. 

3.) Edith's Hermes ensemble.

4.) My empire-ish tweed dress from Burberry. (They may look like little white dots, but they're not. It's a sophisticated tweed.) 

While I'm on the subject of clarification: You can see Edith got out of hand again. She knows I would never wear short boots with my dress -- she would, she's French -- I would choose opaque tights and low heels or high boots. Honestly, if I don't keep my eye on her every second she goes to extremes with her artistic license.

Next week we've decided to return to our closets to see what we can resurrect and re-mix into something new and exciting to pick-up our winter-weary spirits.

HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It all started yesterday according to those of you who have so kindly e-mailed me and Lillian who left me a comment. 

I have no idea what is going on. My blog apparently flips to ad pages or something, to a thing that flashes "sendptp.com" -- it has nothing to do with me; I don't know what it is. 

If anyone has any ideas about this I would be more than grateful to have your input. I checked it out on google and it doesn't make sense to me.

You probably won't even be able to read this.

I am so sorry.

I Fear Something Went Awry. . .

Bonjour, bonjour. . .

For those of you who know me well, I'm sure you are not at all surprised to discover that something could/would go wrong when I'm immersed in the fun-filled world of high technology. I'll make this short: My-Reason-For-Living-In-France scared the daylights out of me (an old expression of my mother's) while I was in deep concentration writing my side of the Transatlantic Parallel Sunday night (Jeanne-Aelia is the other side as you'll see below) and right in the middle of a bisou on the cheek, a scream and an involuntary reflex, I pressed "publish" post. 

Thus I fear Transatlantic Parallel wasn't registered in many places in the atmosphere or stratosphere or blogosphere or wherever. OR, and this is not beyond the realm of possibility, the thing was so long few of you had the energy to plunge in. I understand.

(Or, then again I might be completely mistaken and then this whole exercise is extremely embarrassing. . . Yikes, again then.)

If you're interested in ice, missives, diplomas and coffee see below, otherwise wait until tomorrow when Edith and I have some surprises for you and I promise to write short.

Merci par avance -- either way,

Tish