France Americans in Paris
Kimberley Quinn visits her mum, who deserted Beverly Hills for the French capital My mother is a breed of American woman that’s fast disappearing. The Protos-femme-nancyreaganotus. One of those chic little septuagenarians who comes down to breakfast in full make-up and still wears a matching ensemble to lunch. If you closed your eyes, you would swear she had on gloves. My mother has discipline and drive. She makes things happen. A decade ago I was visiting her in Los Angeles. Reading the Times over breakfast, she flipped to the Travel section. ‘What do you think about renting an apartment in Paris?’ she asked. Within the week she was on the plane to see estate agents. Within the month she had not rented, but purchased the sweetest little flat in the 7th arrondissement. Having cruised Beverly Hills for most of her adult life, she made the decision to go native, and shipped herself and her Chanel suits off to Paris.
So every April and September I board the Eurostar for a week of fun with Mum. I wouldn’t call it sun-lounger fun — my mother, after all, is a purposeful person. Here’s Mum’s Paris: vigorous, goal-oriented, and not to be flinched at.
Learn French: What’s the point of looking French if you open your mouth and give the game away? Mother topped up her school French with a course at the Paris Alliance, the tried and trusted language school on the Left Bank (101 Boulevard Raspail, 75207 Paris, Cedex 06; tel: 00 331 42 84 90 00; info@alliancefr. org). They offer an excellent series of customised courses including phonetics, private lessons and self-guided learning courses. She now sounds as good as she looks. My father has learned no French. She does all the talking. It’s easier that way.
Eat French: I have noticed that French women never, ever snack. They save their calories for a truly lovely meal. They eat judiciously but well. After we’ve walked until our legs ache, and looked at but not touched the pâtisserie, mother and I head for La Cigale Recamier (4 rue Recamier, 75007 Paris. 00 331 45 48 86 58). It’s situated on a pretty tree-lined pedestrian passage, and specialises in soufflés. The soufflé is the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ of French food. It seems naff, until a good one comes along. And then you understand that only something truly wonderful can become a cliché. Laura Bush recently had lunch at La Cigale. She liked it so much she invited the owner to the White House. Monsieur Idoux took her up on the offer. So now you can enjoy a gorgonzola and fig soufflé and talk to the only Frenchman in the world who loves President Bush.
Buy French: I would never shop with anyone but my mother, she’s so helpful in the ‘Only you could wear that colour! And such a practical office dress!’ mode. Someone evil — like a husband looking at a credit card bill — might go so far as to term her my enabler. Mother still does her biannual Chanel shop in Beverly Hills (support local produce). In Paris we stick with the rue du Bac, a miniature ecosystem of stylish shopping. Boutiques with adorable little ensembles, china and glassware, jewellery, antiques, baby shops, pâtisseries, boulangeries. Around the corner on the rue de Grenelle is Barthélémy — possibly the most famous cheese shop in Paris. ‘Are you planning to eat your Brie de Meaux this afternoon or evening?’ they will ask, before slicing from the lunch or dinner wheel. Rue de Grenelle is also shoe heaven: Christian Louboutin, Serge Rossi, Iris and Patrick Cox are all there. At the end of the rue du Bac is the Bon Marché, for that final big Paris department store shop. They also have an excellent food hall.
Seeing Paris: For the first day or two I spend with my parents, I get to be the guest. ‘What would you like to do today?’ my mother will ask. I invariably make the same choice. My favourite walk: down the rue du Bac and then a sharp right on to the rue du Varenne: 53 rue de Varenne was once the home of Edith Wharton, the place where she wrote that most American of classics, Ethan Frome. It’s so quiet and unchanged. I somehow think she might still be there. It’s a private residence, so I have to sneak into the courtyard, look up at the windows, and hope. Then it’s on to the grand panorama of the esplanade de Invalides. I sometimes stop to take a peek at Napoleon, depending on my mood. The consummation of this walk is the Musée Rodin. The sculpture’s residence at the Hotel Biron, 59 rue de Varenne has a small lake, lovely gardens, and The Kiss, The Thinker and The Gates of Hell all set among the roses and azaleas. Like the above mentioned soufflé, Rodin is a bit of a cliché — until you come upon it in its hewn marble or bronze foundry glory. There’s also a room dedicated to poor old Camille Claudel.
Travelling to Paris. Why anyone would fly I do not know. Eurostar is quick and easy, until the train breaks down, but that is the luck of the draw. I used to travel business class, but it’s not worth it. The food is horrible — and anyway, you’re on your way to Paris, why are you eating on a two-hour train trip? And the much touted business class porter service never materialises. Travel tourist class. The Chinese have such loud, vibrant conversations. They’re interesting, even if you don’t speak the language. And no one is more open and enthusiastic about being a tourist than an American in shorts and sneakers. Who needs the bankers in business class with their open laptops and endlessly bleeping BlackBerries? Yawn. Even Mother travels economy. And that’s something.
Previous page
