CAMP CANNES 2007

French film camp is over. Every May, the crème-de-la-crème of international big screen stars make their way to the Croisette to celebrate the 7th art. Film executives from all over the world gather in an oversized cabin (called the Palais), sit around the fire (namely, the lavish fireplaces of the Majestic and Martinez hotels), tell stories (via images on a giant screen the size of a small French village) and stay up all night drinking bug juice (also known as champagne). Each day, herds of movie campers hustle into the Palais for the morning screening, then head to daily activities such as sports (running up and down the Croisette to and from meetings), arts&crafts (yes, in France, cinema is indeed the “7th art”), relay races (you try getting up and down that red carpet in 4-inch heels) and sing-alongs (think: 3 am. Jimmy’z. Drunken film executives belting out Britney Spears), and there’s even naptime (see: the morning screening) and snacktime (caviar, anyone?). 12 days, 23 films in competition, 0 hours of sleep and hundreds of glasses of champagne later, everyone packs their bags and heads back to their respective countries. Everyone spends all year getting ready for it, and then, before you can say “cut!” the credits roll and its all over in a flash. As Catherine Deneuve told me just a few days ago: “There’s so much excitation in so few days. It’s so quick, so fast. I’m always depressed after Cannes.”
The Cannes Film Festival is like a drug – you’re high for 12 days then its only inevitable that you come down from such a crazy/exciting/colorful/hallucinatory trip. Though only a 5-hour train ride from Paris, Cannes is a planet all to itself, complete with its own time zone, its own language, its own rules and even its own royal family topped off by King Gilles Jacob. It’s a land where if you’re not VIP, it’s RIP for you.
This year, Cannes campers from all over the world spent “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” with “Alexandra,” “The Man from London” and “An Old Mistress” with a pit stop at “Paranoid Park” on the way to “Persepolis,” trying not to get lost in “The Mourning Forest” along the way. Cinephiles approached “The Edge of Heaven” and saw a “Silent Light” and a ‘Secret Sunshine,” but discovered that it was “No Country for Old Men.” “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” got together to sing “Love Songs” and declare “We Own the Night.” (“My Blueberry Nights,” that is.) Without stopping for a “Breath,” filmmakers tried to “Import Export” their “Death Proof” movies in order to avoid “The Banishment” from Cannes. “Promise Me This,” spectators, including the “Zodiac” : distribute “Tehilim” on your way up the red carpet steps to the Palais theater so you can avoid the inevitable “Days of Darkness” when you return to reality after the festival.
Here are some highlights from the festival’s 60th year and my third. Tighten up those fanny packs, wave goodbye to Mom and Dad and welcome to Camp Cannes.

May 16


The first of 12 blueberry nights kicked off in Cannes as director Wong Kar Wai led the cast of "My Blueberry Nights" up the red carpet to the Grand Palais theater for the film's world premiere. Wong accompanied Jude Law and songbird Norah Jones, stars of the Hong Kong director's first English-language feature, which, I must say, I really liked. It’s just like the blueberry pie that carries the plot – very sugary but also quite delicious. Jude Law plays, well Jude Law – the charmingly humble stud with a hot British accent – and Norah Jones proves that there’s a lot of acting talent behind that pretty voice. With a strong supporting cast (Rachel Weisz, David Strathairn, Natalie Portman), a fabulous soundtrack and enough pie to feed all of America, “My Blueberry Nights” is an aesthetically beautiful road trip through the United States that will put filmgoers “in the mood for love.”
Although Wong certainly was in the mood for the red carpet in his signature dark shades and tux, members of the film's supporting cast — including Rachel Weisz, Natalie Portman and David Strathairn — were no-shows. Yet the Croisette was glittering with star power as swarms of celebs including Elizabeth Hurley (who bumped into me while walking to her seat – bitch! No, I kid, Lizzie, I’ve seen “Austin Powers” you could totally kick my ass), Minnie Driver (in a fabulous hip-hugging white dress) Juliette Binoche (still the epitome of French glamour, class and elegance in my opinion) and Cannes vet Luc Besson sent photographers into a snapping frenzy.
Diane Kruger, German-born actress and mistress of ceremonies (and, more importantly, former spouse of THE Guillaume Canet himself, now dating Joshua Jackson, rumored to have separated from him, however he was with her at the closing night ceremony for the premiere of her film “Days of Darkness” sitting next to Karl Lagerfeld, thus, I am led to believe that they are indeed back on. Don’t cry, Guillaume, I am here to console you) was host of the hoopla and wowed the crowd with a trilingual welcome in French, English and German. "In Cannes, anything is possible," Kruger said, adding that "For 12 days, we all speak the same language, that of cinema."
The event stuck to its traditional proceedings, with Kruger calling the 2007 jury onstage, finishing with a musical entrance fit for a "Queen" for its president, Stephen Frears. A series of clips from each of the films In Competition followed.
David Lynch made the long trip from Mulholland Drive to the Croisette to present his "surprise gift" to the festival for its 60th anniversary, a short film titled "Absurda," also the name of the distribution company Lynch owns and a very appropriate title for a film that may as well have been subtitled in a rare Malaysian-African dialect from the 17th century because it went so far over my head – and the heads of the hundreds of people in the Palais – that it will take another 60 years for all of us to figure out what the hell was going on.
The almost 100-year-old Manoel de Oliveira came onstage to say a few words before Taiwanese actress Shu Ki declared the festival officially open. Let the games begin!
Audience members not full from the Wong film's many slices of pie refilled their plates at an official dinner in the Palais where very important people (and me!) gathered for cocktails, conversation and cuisine (and by that I mean, the “dinner” was more of a parade of finger food fit for a small town of Lilliputians – come on, King Gilles, FEED US!). Kerry Washington and Andie MacDowell represented L’Oréal with some fancy schmancy dresses and the brightest red lips I’ve ever seen.
But I must confess: I broke the law at this party – Jude Law, that is. It was the greatest (blueberry) night of my life – our eyes met and it was as if I was the blueberry and he was the pie crust and we were just meant to be together. (Yup, I’m still going with the blueberry pie analogies, it doesn’t get stale does it?)
We exchanged a few words:
Jude: I love you. I want to spend the rest of my blueberry nights with you. Forget Sienna - Will you marry me?
Rebecca: Oui!
Or something like that…
Harvey Weinstein was in tow and, when I was introduced to him for the 450th time and he said “Hi, Harvey,” I replied “I’m still Rebecca.”
Bai Ling was there. Bai Ling is everywhere in fact. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party and NOT bumped into Bai. Or Ling? Let’s just call her BL…Anyway, she’s totally ubiquitous. Last year in Cannes, at the Wild Bunch party for “Southland Tales,” she almost knocked me over with her very large white dress. She’s dangerous, I tell you.
After I’d had my fill of hot shot film executives, Jude Law’s extended gaze (I mean really, we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, can you take your eyes off of me for one minute please?), Norah Jones (who is quite tiny in real life but seemed very sweet, I adored her dark blue long dress) and way too many mini éclairs, I headed to the StudioCanal afterparty for the film. Just like camp, we all piled into buses to take us to East Bumblefuck, Cannes for a packed party in a huge tent.

Here’s the official party wrap up from moi and my fellow THR party attendees:
For the opening-night Cannes premiere of revered director Wong Kar Wai's first English-language film, these folks took the title seriously. Remember Violet in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory," the girl who turned into an exploding blueberry? That was how La Palestre looked from the outside the Canal Plus party, surrounded by metallic trailers serving diner food.

Attendees: Norah Jones, Jude Law (sans Sienna or Lindsay), Bai Ling, cineaste fave Jessica Simpson, Endeavor's Patrick Whitesall and the exploding U.S. distributor himself, Harvey Weinstein. Of course, the Wongster also was on hand, sporting his signature shades and in the mood for snapping photos with partygoing fans.

Cuisine: Hot dogs in a bun, chicken thighs and mini hamburgers virtually screamed, "Wong, welcome to America." The VIP bar had jugs of blueberry puree, and the Ben & Jerry's ice cream cart had strawberry, mixed berry but ... no blueberry! Quel scandale!

Highlights/lowlights: Three intrepid reporters made their way up to the VIP area without wristbands, but most were forced to stay below the raised platform. The large widescreen displays showing guests and film clips were impressive. Given the film's Ry Cooder score and Jones as its star, however, there was an inexplicable disco theme (including a remix of Dolly Parton's "Jolene") with a revolving metal grid dance floor (but no injuries were reported).

May 17
My first official day of Canal+’s “le Palmomètre”, part of “Le Grand Journal” daily Cannes edition during which time I tell over 3 million French viewers that I LIKE CHEESE. Yes, going to jump on one of these nice yachts in the harbor and escape…

My evening began at the annual Marché du Film opening night bash at the Majestic Beach – a who’s who of international buyers, sellers, distributors…and of course Jerome Paillard, the Master of the Market.
Then onto the “Red Balloon” party at the 3.14 Baron Beach…
The fete for Un Certain Regard opener "The Flight of the Red Balloon" was missing helmer Hou Hsiao Hsien and star Juliette Binoche, who chose to head home after dinner at the 3.14. Industry members and a select few famous French faces sipped Chivas Regal, Beefeater dry gin, champagne and Wyborowa vodka at the bash thrown by Margo Films, Les Films du Lendemain, Films Distribution and the Ile de France Film Commission. Though stomachs grumbled with no food in sight, guests enjoyed mellow music and a beachfront view at the swank 3.14 Baron beach.

Attendees: Director Pascale Ferran, Cesar winner for "Lady Chatterley," looked striking. Gallic actress Aissa Maiga floated about the beachside space with Ile de France Film Commission topper Olivier Rene-Veillon and a potpourri of international industry execs.

Cuisine: None!

Highlights/lowlights: With so many other events going on, star sightings were scarce, and the party became a sort of transition stopover for many on their way from the Marche du Film fete and to other events. And with not even minuscule munchies on offer, guests seemed ready to take flight.
Then onto the “Water Lilies” afterparty at the 3.14 Baron club just up the street…

First-time director Celine Sciamma celebrated a warm reception to her first feature film screened in Un Certain Regard category with live music, drinks and the creme de la creme of the hipster chic French scene. Para One, straight from the film's soundtrack, provided the music for the early morning bash at the Club Le Baron Hotel 3.14 as guests left the theater with images of synchronized swimming scenes as they headed for some synchronized -- and unsynchronized -- dancing courtesy of Les Productions Balthazar, Haut et Court and Films Distribution.

Attendees: Films Distribution's Francois Yon worked the room alongside Sciamma and talent, with the ubiquitous Harvey Weinstein making a late-night appearance. Gallic actor Melvil Poupaud, star of "Un Homme Perdu," which is screening in the Directors' Fortnight, and his producer, MK2's Nathanael Karmitz, also swam into the party.

Cuisine: None!

Highlights/lowlights: The film's afterparty turned into a smoky, crowded, elbow-rubbing bash as habitues of Paris' chic nightclub Le Baron headed to the 3.14 for a romp on the Riviera.


MAY 19


The Festival de Cannes received a rockin' gift for its 60th birthday as Irish band U2 played to an enthusiastic crowd from the steps of the Palais des Festivals around 12:30 a.m. Sunday.
The band missed an afternoon press conference and other festival events when their flight from Dublin was delayed, but they made up for their tardiness with a live, unscheduled concert.
Thousands of filmgoers and fans gathered by the famous Cannes red carpet to hear Bono, the Edge, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. belt out the hits "Vertigo" and "Where the Streets Have No Name."
Traffic stopped on the Croisette as Bono and company left the official festival cars and marched to the top of the Palais steps where their instruments awaited them. Cheers could be heard all the way down the Croisette as "No Country for Old Men" star Javier Bardem danced alongside the band.
The concert preceded the 1 a.m. world premiere of concert documentary "U2 3D," screening Out of Competition, which tracks the band during their recent "Vertigo" world tour with advanced 3-D technology.

May 20
Gilles Jacob and Thierry Fremaux had a lot of hands to shake Sunday night as the Festival de Cannes rolled out the red carpet for a star-studded 60th anniversary ceremony and screening of the shorts compilation "To Each His Own Cinema" at the Grand Palais.

The film's 35 directors were present, and cinema legends Gerard Depardieu, Fanny Ardant, Pedro Almodovar, Faye Dunaway, Helen Mirren, Javier Bardem and Sharon Stone also graced the massive swarm of fans on the Croisette with their presence. After a seemingly never-ending red carpet run complete with French Minister of Culture and Communication manning the top of the Palais steps, the ceremony began. Recently crowned French President Nicolas Sarkozy was a no-show despite rumors that he would make an appearance in Cannes over the weekend.

Chairs were set up in front of the big screen, with the movie's directors including Roman Polanski, Nanni Moretti and the brothers Coen and Dardenne, with Jane Campion the lone female helmer on the scene.
The empty seat at the end of the row was soon filled with hostess of the evening Juliette Binoche, who lent her bilingual, bi-cultural touch to the occasion by telling the crowd: "Tonight's celebration is a little different. It's a world premiere for the directors themselves." A standing ovation preceded the "move theater"-themed film dedicated to Federico Fellini described in the opening credits as "that thrill when the lights dim and the movie begins."
The film received a positive response from the crowd, who clapped especially hard for the eclectic submissions from Amos Gitai, Joel and Ethan Coen, Moretti and Lars von Trier. The film was broadcast simultaneously on Canal Plus and will air on Arte on Saturday night, with Studio Canal preparing a DVD release in Gaul in the coming days.
As the sky exploded with fireworks, the celebration continued with a dinner and star-studded afterparty at the Parc De La Roseraie.
Thanks to Guillermo del Toro who continued to refill my champagne glass despite my reluctance, it was a long, fun-filled evening complete with movie stars, champagne and dancing.
After the film ended, I hopped aboard the Arte yacht for the “Tehilim” afterparty then headed to the Roseraie for Chopard’s event. I stood outside slowly sipping my champagne as the catwalk unfolded before my eyes. Within seconds, every French actor/actress/major producer/director with a pulse walked by – my future husband Louis Garrel (sorry, Guillaume you had your chance), Juliette Binoche, Isabelle Huppert, Emmanuelle Seigner, Ludivine Sagnier – not to mention more famous directors than are probably present at an Oscars ceremony – Roman Polanski, Jim Jarmusch, Pedro Almodovar, David Cronenberg, Ken Loach, Amos Gitai, Olivier Assayas, and, of course, my best friend Brett Ratner. Not to mention Faye Dunaway, Josh Brolin, jury member Michel Piccoli, and the Fest’s very own Prince Thierry Fremaux.

My assessment of le bash:
"To each his own champagne" was the theme of the Festival de Cannes' 60th birthday bash on Sunday sponsored by Chopard, and Gilles Jacob made sure that the bubbly flowed after the cameras rolled. Following the official 60th anniversary ceremony and screening of "To Each His Own Cinema" and an official dinner, the best of the best of the world's directors and talent headed to Le Parc de la Roseraie to fete 60 years of Cannes with at least 60 famous faces present. A who's who of the Gallic big screen scattered throughout the large dome, some heading to the dance floor, but most chose to schmooze outdoors. With hostesses offering mini-desserts on silver trays and servers seeming to walk by with an endless supply of already-filled champagne glasses, the ambiance was just what you'd expect from an official celebration: mellow and tres, tres chic thanks to Chopard's elegant touch. The crowd was mostly French, with relatively no stars and stripes in sight. It was certainly a Gallic affair. The bash was short-lived, with most guests opting to jump into official black cars to head to after-parties at Jimmy'z and Le Baron 3.14.

Attendees: Thierry Fremaux put a pause in his hand-shaking to raise a glass with Roman Polanski, Faye Dunaway, Isabelle Huppert and Juliette Binoche. Guillermo del Toro guarded his signature smile as he awaited his flight back to Budapest to continue filming "Hellboy 2." Brett Ratner made an early "X"-it after the dinner, perhaps to avoid the late-night "rush hour" on the Croisette, and Josh Brolin also snuck out early. Jim Jarmusch added a bit of international flavor to the oh-so French evening complete with Ludivine Sagnier, Emmanuelle Seigner, "Lady Chatterley" Cesar winner Pascale Ferran and Louis Garrel, star of Christophe Honore's "Love Songs."

Cuisine: Guests ended the night on a sweet note with no salty appetizers offered. Desserts included Mini fruit cups, mini walnut tarts, mini lemon tarts and mini cream puffs.

Highlights/lowlights: Few Americans present. The parquet floors were easy to slip on and a corner area resembled more of a black hole than a dance floor.


May 21

As they say, when it rains it pours. And, while the sky remained blue all week and I got good use out of my new 5 pairs of Fendi sunglasses, there was quite a lot going on Monday night. After an accidental nap (I blame the previous six days of 2 hrs of sleep per night), I headed off to the CanalPlus patio for a delicious dinner overlooking the water alongside Gallic TV personalities and finished off with a delectable Tarte Tropezienne with fresh strawberries and a kiss hello from Alain Delon, equally as delectable.
I then headed to the 3.14 beach for the After “After Him” After party (say that 5 times fast) where I hung with the film’s director, the incredibly talented Gael Morel
(see: http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/hr/content_display/awards_festivals/cannes/features/e3ifa4ea4954736d9da18674a211123652f), the film’s stars Catherine Deneuve and Thomas Dumerchez and lots of fun “camp friends,” namely fellow journalists and industry execs who I get to see every year.
I then headed to the Baron 3.14 for the after party for Gus Van Sant’s “Paranoid Park” where Van Sant, the real Penny Lane, the film’s young stars and lots of important Frenchies (the film was produced by MK2) sipped vodka and champagne on one side of a velvet rope and other guests were anything but paranoid, showing their moves on the dance floor inside.
(Note: My invitation said “Olivier Assayas” whose name was crossed out and replaced with “Rebecca Leffler.” Fantastic.)

May 22

Tonight, I discovered that I am not indeed “Death Proof” and, after a week of extremely high stress, work and champagne levels, my body revolted against me and I was forced to give up my very precious invites to the Weinstein Company/TF1 bash for Tarantino’s film and do something shocking – go to sleep early.

May 23



May 24
I can safely say that I have absolutely no recollection of the day or night's activities. Oh la la la la la la...

May 25



May 26
The scene: The Martinez lobby
Quentin Tarantino: Your dress blends into the chair.
Me: Yup, I did it on purpose.
Quentin Tarantino: No really, it's the same design - crazy!

And to think there was a time when I attacked celebrities, now they're coming to ME!

May 27
At the summer camp I attended every summer since the age of 8, on the last night, we’d all gather around the fire and roast marshmallows, light candles, reflect on our memories from the summer and cry and hug a lot. The last night of Camp Cannes was sort of the same, only there was a chocolate fountain and a foie gras stand instead of marshmallows, there were photographers camera flashes instead of candlelight, and the only fire in sight were the flames of cigar lighters but there was still quite a lot of reminiscing and crying and hugging.
After 12 days, 22 Competition films and 60 years of the Festival de Cannes, Stephen Frears' jury reached its verdict and gave the coveted Palme d'Or to Cristian Mungiu's Romanian film "4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days." Mungiu pretty much summed up my Cannes experience when he said: "It looks a little like a fairy tale.”
I was thrilled to see the second place Grand Prix go to Japanese underdog "Mogari No Mori" (The Mourning Forest), directed by Naomi Kawase, about an old man and a caretaker at his retirement home struggling to overcome the death of their loved ones. This film I thought was very underrated among critics, and really moved me.
Props to Julian Schnabel for being named best director for "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.” What can I say – he’s a New Yorker who made a French movie. Yay for New Yorkers and French films, what a winning combination =)
Turkey's German-born Fatih Akin won the best screenplay award for "The Edge of Heaven." Jeon Do-yeon's portrayal of a mother dealing with tragedy earned her the best actress prize for Lee Chang-dong's "Secret Sunshine," and Konstantin Lavronenko took home the best actor award for his role in Andrei Zviaguintsev's Russian entry "The Banishment."
The jury prize was split between Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud's "Persepolis" -- a black-and-white animated adaptation of her comic book about growing up during the Iranian Revolution -- and "Stellet Licht," Carlos Reygadas' tale of forbidden love among Mennonite farmers.

The jury gave its 60th Anniversary Prize to Gus Van Sant for his skater drama "Paranoid Park" "for his career and because he made a lovely film," Frears said.
I give the Best Acceptance Speech prize of the evening to Etgar Keret when he and co-director Shira Geffen accepted their Camera d’Or award, given to the best first film in selection, for their Israeli film "Meduzot" (Jellyfish). "I haven't felt anything like this since my Bar Mitzvah," Keret said.
Before presenting the prize for best actress, Alain Delon requested 25 seconds of applause for Romy Schneider, who died 25 years ago to the day. Alain and I go way back (see: May 21 entry).
"I'm told by you people who come here every year that this has been a terrific festival. On behalf of the jury, the films have been a pleasure to watch," jury president Frears said. After seeing pretty much every film in competition this year for le Grand Journal (yes, I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree and cheated for a couple of movies), I'd rephrase that to say "MOST of the films have been a pleasure to watch. Some have been quite frankly, TORTURE."
Here are the Palmes de Leffler:
Best Film: "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" (Julian Schnabel)
Best Actress: The female cast of Fatih Akin's "The Edge of Heaven"
Best Actor: Mathieu Amalric "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly"
other honorable mentions: Naomi Kawase's "The Mourning Forest," James Gray's "We Own the Night," Gus Van Sant's "Paranoid Park," Wong Kar Wai's "My Blueberry Nights," and Christophe Honoré's "Love Songs"
Hottest actor award: Louis Garrel, "Love Songs"
Most hardcore actor award: Mark Whalberg (the artist formerly known as Marky Mark), "We Own the Night"
Actor with most charming accent award: Jude Law, "My Blueberry Nights"
Longest film ever in life award: "Zodiac," David Fincher
Most critically acclaimed film that wasn't actually very good award: "No Country for Old Men," the Coen Brothers
Most not talked about yet really wonderful film that deserves more credit award: Raphael Nadjari's "Tehilim"
Best 60th anniversary short from "To Each His Own Cinema" : a tough choice between Joel & Ethan Coen's humorous "World Cinema," Amos Gitai's moving "Le Dibbouk de Haifa," Nanni Moretti's personal, funny, very Italiano "Diary of a Movie-Goer," and Zhang Yimou's very cute "Movie Night." But My top prize is shared between Roman Polanski's "Cinéma érotique" and Walter Salles' "5.557 Miles from Cannes."
(honorable mention to David Cronenberg for "At the Suicide of the Last Jew in the World in the Last Cinema in the World" simply for the topic itself)
The awards were handed out at a gala ceremony presided over by mistress of ceremonies Diane Kruger (who arrived, as previously mentioned, with Canadian boy toy Joshua Jackson and the uber-fashionable Karl Lagerfeld) ahead of a screening of the Out of Competition film "Days of Darkness," directed by Canadian Denys Arcand. I only caught the last ½ hour and all I can say is that I hope the previous hour and a half are much better.
All of the important people (and me!) then headed to a closing-night dinner and soiree at La Roseraie. After attacking the – for a change actually quite copious and tasty – cuisine offered by the Festival (risotto, foie gras, mozzarella/tomato, some sort of fish and potatoes and hundreds of thousands of mini-desserts) I sat with my new best friend Gus Van Sant. Most people, when confronted with a Palme d’Or-winning, world-renowned film director might choose to discuss, say film, or directing. I, however, chatted with Monsieur Van Sant about the fact that New Jersey and Oregon (he lives in Portland) are the only two states in the US where its illegal to pump one’s own gas. Gus was very down to earth and friendly, and it was an added bonus that sitting next to him became an assembly line for the who’s who of international film talent all eager to meet Gus, and the mysterious girl talking to him. Maggie Cheung, Emmanuelle Seigner, Sarah Polley, etc. Actually, talking to Polley was definitely a highlight for me- I think she is one of the most talented actresses-turned directors out there. Her most recent film, just released in Paris and in NY, “Away from Her” is an emotional, terribly sad yet hopeful and well-done portrait of Alzheimers. Go see it if you haven’t. I congratulated Fatih Akin on his incredible film (which I think should have won the Palme d’Or mind you) and then spoke with Jia Zhang Ke, the cutest little man ever but better known for his directing career. I loved “Still Life” earlier this year. It was as if the entire past 12 days of my life were flashing before my eyes as the actors and directors from every competition film I’d seen walked by me. What a memorable evening.
Afterwards, I headed to the Baron beach for what I’ll refer to as the “who’s left” party – it was the strangest mix of people ever, pretty much everyone still in Cannes as the Fest wrapped, everyone from Rosario Dawson to major film execs to plebians such as myself. But everyone was raging until the very last minute, drinking and dancing until the party finally moved to the 3.14 hotel and I made my way back to my bunk/hotel.
Camp Cannes 2007 is over, but I can’t wait to head back next year for star-gazing, hiking (up and down the Croisette), barbecues and memorable evenings with the friends I look forward to seeing each year.
Au revoir!

Let them eat cake! And other lessons from a French film set...

Marie Antoinette may have said “Let them eat cake!” but Sophie Marceau is all about eating cake with them. And me.
Okay, so I didn’t exactly share a forkful of cheesecake with the famous French actress, but I spent the day in her shadow on the set of “Women of the Shadows” (“Les Femmes de l’Ombre” en français), a WWII drama about female Resistance fighters directed by Jean-Paul Salomé and starring Marceau, Marie Gillain, Julie Depardieu, Deborah François and Julien Bosselier. The set was on an airfield in East Bumblefuck, France (yes, that’s just south of WherethehellamI, west of Imisselectricity and just a quick train ride away from Farfromcivilization. Call the tourist board for more info.) I was just a little over one hour away from Paris, but I felt like I’d traveled back in time. Perhaps it was the men dressed as French soldiers, the 20th century cars driving by, or the map of occupied France that threw me off, but I could sense that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Every few minutes, I heard “Action!” (pronounced “ack-see-oon”!) then “C’est coupé, Merci!” (“Cut, Thank you!”). Isn’t that so very kind of French directors to say “Thank You” after they yell cut? It’s so much more civilized isn’t it? And so rude of American directors with their simple “Cut!” without bothering to thank the hundreds of other technicians, actors and extras for their amicable participation in the project. None of them said “You’re Welcome” of course, but I could sense that the positive reinforcement was good for business. Note to Spielberg, Tarantino and co.: Say “Thank you!”
Then, there’s the lunch break…
Brett Ratner called me recently (sorry, I just liked the way that sounded, actually I think I’ll say it again.) So my friend Brett rang me on the tele and – (no, too British). So, the Rat dialed me up and – (no, too cheesy) So, B.Rat scored my digits and – (no, too ghetto. But I am from New Jersey, so please excuse me) Anyway, so when I asked Monsieur Ratner about working with the French while he was in Paris filming “Rush Hour 3,” he told me that he found it wonderful working with the Frogs, but he seemed to be flabbergasted by the differences in the lunch scene. “In Hollywood, you have a buffet, everyone lines up, eats and it takes around 45 minutes and you’re done,” he said, “In France, they have table service which is nice, but it takes forever. You sit down, they bring you an appetizer, then they bring your main course, then a dessert and there’s a glass of wine open on the table the whole time. It’s nice, but we lost so much time doing that.”

Yet, while the lunch may be longer and more refined, everyone eats at the same table (or, in the case of the “Femmes de l’Ombre” shoot, under the same tent). From Sophie Marceau, famous French actress, to Fophie Karmeau, random extra from West Bumblefuck, France (the town next to E. Bumblefuck obviously – great real estate, call your broker), everyone breaks bread together. No fancy schmancy trailers. No “I’d like a diet coke with lemon shipped from Africa” or “I’d like a black truffle foie gras-flavored caviar lobster with champagne sauce delivered to my trailer by Alain Ducasse and Justin Timberlake s’il vous plait.” Just the lead actresses, the 17th unit cameraman, the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the director, and Sophie Marceau’s dog’s sister’s dog trainer’s mother, sitting at a table, sippin’ some Chablis, cutting through some steak and talking about Segolene Royale’s chances for the second round of elections. I mean, it’s only natural. Our forefathers differed in the same way. For the French, it’s always been “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” (Liberty, Equality, Fraternity), but for Americans Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. So basically, if I’ve gathered correctly, liberty seems to be a popular national sentiment, but the French believe in liberty, brotherhood and equal opportunity for all, and the Americans just liberty, staying alive and being happy even if happiness means eating lobster in your 8000-ft trailer while your technical team eats McDonald’s on a dirt floor.
Then there are the mandatory cigarette breaks. “C’est coupe, merci!” is actually just French director-speak for “Jesus, I haven’t had a cigarette in over 10 minutes, Jean-Pierre fetch me my Galouises!”
Speaking of smoky fumes, I filmed my TV segment next to a WWII fighter jet (yes, that’s right, I don’t think Katie Couric or the women of “The View” are exposed to these conditions. Or maybe they are and that’s why Rosie left?) So, there I am, airplanes flying by, soldiers walking by with large guns, a production crew all with cameras pointed directly at ME, a microphone in my hand, four producers yelling directions at me in French, the sun beating down on my face through 13 layers of thick makeup and…3…2..1…”Action!” No pressure, right? It’s a wonder I even formed a complete sentence. (Or maybe I didn’t, it hasn’t aired yet, who knows what rare form of Franco-English vocabulary left my lips, it’s all a blur.)


After a nice ride through the French countryside (as it turns out, the Bumblefuck region’s scenery is simply magnificent), I arrived back in Paris … and back to the 21st century (although my phone, television and computer seem to still be functioning in 20th-century mode). I’m sure Sophie Marceau is sitting down right now to write on her blog, “My day on set with Rebecca Leffler…”

French Word of the Day: “Pétaouchnok”: “In the middle of nowhere” (aka “East Bumblefuck)

French Dessert of the Day:

Today’s French dessert of the day is actually not French, well it’s New Yorker but with a French twist (sort of like me, only this is perishable.) The cheesecake at Market (Jean-Georges’ Paris restaurant on the Avenue Matignon) is quite simply delectably deliciously divine. It puts my mother’s cheesecake in the corner (and, “Nobody puts my mother’s cheesecake in the corner!”) – really, it’s that good. Light, yet tasty, served as a small round piece with a scoop of fruity sorbet on top, a fruity red coulis, and some fresh strawberries and raspberries sprinkled with sugar. The perfect balance of lightly whipped cheesecake, its perfectly crisp crust and the refreshing sorbet – all I can say is “Msdksdiusifsuifsuisuijimmm” (sorry my mouth was full.) The irony is that, though I always swore that it must be some special French crème fraiche made by Jean-Georges’ little French grandmother that gives the Market cheesecake its amazing flavor, I have recently been informed by a mole (disguised as a French waiter named Emmanuel) that the secret is in fact, Philadelphia Cream Cheese! Sacré bleu! I feel betrayed – here I go out of my way to move to France, suffer through French bureaucracy to be able to stay and then I find out that my favorite dessert is made from Philadelphia cream cheese? Apparently I’m not the only US import bringing flavor to this city… ;)

Bringing Home the Bread: My Greatest Life Triumph

I may only be 24 years old (soon to break the quarter century mark, but let’s not get into that now, it makes me cry) but I’ve already achieved the impossible. After over two and a half years of living in Paris, France, I can proudly say that I have accomplished feats even I never thought myself capable of. I have gone where no human – or at least, no American I’m quite sure – has gone before. I have, in just a few short years, finally won over the mean, mean lady in my neighborhood bakery. Not only did I make her crack a smile (already worth thousands of points in the game of life), but also laugh, joke around and – gasp! – put aside the breads and pastries I like in the morning so that, not only are they waiting for me when I arrive, but they are piping hot having been kept warming in the oven! This may just seem like something nice that one does for a client who visits every day (okay okay, usually twice-three times, hey there are three meals in a day! Or four when you stay out until 6 am, but I’ll save that for when you’re old enough), but let me tell you a story about a Baker named, well, let’s call her Marie-Pierre to protect the innocent. I first moved to this neighborhood (read: the BEST neighborhood, Paris’ St Germain-des-près district aka the 6th arrondissement aka Sofia Coppola and Karl Lagerfeld’s hood among others) almost two years ago. Every day, I headed to the Eric Kayser boulangerie for delicious breads (Alain Ducasse uses Kayser bread for his restaurants if that tells you anything), morning croissants, freshly made sandwiches or late-afternoon tarts. I smiled, sometimes even cracked a joke or two, occasionally asked about the contents of a new kind of pastry, and, without fail, Marie-Pierre, known among the community as the Pastry Nazi (well, I actually didn’t poll the community, but I certainly called her that) would glare back at me, refuse to laugh at my wisecracks (well ok, that didn’t bother me that much, I’m used to it after 24 years) and throw my change on the counter. “May I have a plastic bag for the bread? It’s raining.” “Non!” “Can I have a more well-done croissant?” “Non!” “Can I just buy half of the white chocolate brioche? It’s enough for 8 people and it’s just me…” “Non!” So, while some strive for job promotions, others work hard to rescue innocent children from poverty and abuse and still others fight for political justice, I made it my mission to make Marie-Pierre smile. My smile broadened, the wisecracks got wiser and I always arrived with exactly the right amount of change. It was a hard fight, but Mission: Make Marie-Pierre Smile was accomplished. And then some… Now, when I arrive early in the morning, tired and hungry, Marie-Pierre (or MP for short, we’re BFF now) greets me with a smile, comments on the weather, and sometimes even cracks a joke or two before heading downstairs to grab my special stash from the kitchen. I can have all the plastic bags I want even when there’s not a cloud in the sky, my walnut-raisin breads are always waiting for me hot from the oven in the morning, my croissants are well-done and – well, I still have to buy the whole white chocolate brioche, but there are worse things in life, right?
Other incredible life triumphs since crossing the French border:
1) Getting my carte de séjour. Yes, after almost three years of waiting on line for hours at the Prefecture, then leaving in tears emptyhanded, my carte de séjour has been approved. I am completely, officially, 100% LEGAL to live and work in Paris, France. (well at least until January, 2008 at which point I’ll need to equip myself with a French husband … any takers? I’m not very picky, I’m just looking for French, tall (preferably at the NBA all-star level), intelligent (preferably at the Albert Einstein level), funny (preferably the Woody Allen-Will Ferrell level) and, well, extra points for Jewish, wealthy (preferably at the Bill Gates level) and English-speaking. Please send all applications to HelpmestayinFrance@iloveparis.fr.
2) Being invited to press screenings, conferences and movie premieres and after-parties. Now, of course I’ve been GOING to such events since I arrived, but now I actually go equipped with an invitation (addressed to MOI) and don’t have to pretend my name is Fifi LaFoo from French Vogue, jump through windows or spray tear gas in the bouncers’ eyes to get in. Only sometimes =)
3) Being able to successfully polish off an entire bottle of white wine by myself (well not by myself like by myself sitting in a room alone – jamais! – but by myself like I drank the whole bottle just me while everyone else had red at dinner) and still function.
4) Being the proud owner of a Café de Flore pin – given to me by one of the waiters in honor of my unwavering fidelity (“Café Deux Magots you say? Never!”) to the historical establishment. Sure, Sartre and De Beauvoir went, but did THEY get pins I wonder?
5) Being able to finish the steak and enormous plate of frites at 20 de Bellechasse … AND still have room for dessert and a bottle of wine (see triumph #3).
6) Guillaume Canet not only recognizing me, but also saying hello upon seeing me. (Stay tuned for triumph #6: Marrying Guillaume Canet ;)


Crazy French expression of the day: “J’ai envie de fraises.”
Literal translation: I want strawberries.
What people will understand you to mean: I’m pregnant.

French Dessert of the Day: Well, I’m not sure if it can really be qualified as a dessert – it’s a brioche, so it’s supposed to be eaten for breakfast and is delicious with some jelly and tea in the morning, but I’ve had it for dessert, warmed up (with ice cream or yogurt on top) and it’s also quite good. Whatever time of day you choose to eat it, Kayser’s white chocolate brioche is truly wonderful. It’s just what it sounds like: a fluffy brioche filled with white chocolate chips. I really don’t know what else to say – I think the history of the white chocolate brioche went a little something like this. Eric Kayser: “I think I’ll put white chocolate in my brioche and sell it.” And then it was born. Fascinating, huh?

A Night at the (French) Oscars...

The French Film Prom


Dancing Rabbis, a man massaging a phallic-shaped statue, Gerard Depardieu, sex, drugs, tears and …the credits roll. This may sound like the script for a bizarre French movie, and fittingly so. Last Saturday night, the crème-de-la-crème of the French film world stormed the Bastille – sorry, stormed the Chatelet theater – for a night of glitz, glamour, red carpets and funny-looking hors d’oeuvres stuffed with strange animal parts. My night at the French Oscars, Mesdames et Messieurs…

It all began at my humble abode at **, rue S6%DD^G^^^ Paris, 7500% (I neglect to mention my real address to avoid the papa razzi obviously).

My hair was done up and hairsprayed to resemble a large piece of concrete (thank you, personal French hairstylist Olivier), my makeup perfectly applied (thank you, personal Italian makeup artist Chiara), my dress zipped tightly (thank you, French cuisine), my nails impeccably manicured and pedicured (thank you Artistic Nail, rue Cherche Midi 75006) and my accessories in place (Valentino shoes, Etername earrings worth half a year of rent, Swarovski bag and ring on my left hand and…cute French actor on my right.) I felt like Cinderella at the ball. I was waiting for my taxi to turn into a pumpkin and for prince charming to – oh who are we kidding, I’m in France, Prince Charming doesn’t live in these parts haven’t we already established that?


I arrived at the Theatre du Chatelet, pumpkinless, princeless, but ready to roll. Thanks to a timely rain and wind storm, my 200-euro hairstyle was turned to a mushy pile of bobby pins and molten concrete by the time I reached the door, but I didn’t let that stop me. I checked my coat, and we walked up the red carpet staircase to a pre-show cocktail complete with industry execs, French movie stars and…Jude Law’s pointed shoulder blade which brushed mine as he headed to the bar. Sienna, Schmienna, he was so having eye sex with me. Too bad he’s way too short. You can have him, Sienny-poo.



I schmoozed with everyone in the room (ok not EVERYONE, perhaps I missed a few heads while they were in the bathroom, but I think I pretty much attacked 98% of the French population), then sat down, relaxed (ha just kidding, just wanted to see if you were still paying attention) and enjoyed the show. I won’t recount the almost 3-hour ceremony, but here are some highlights:
1) Valerie Lemercier, host of the program. In an Ellen Degeneres-like coup, Lemercier made the almost 3-hour ceremony fly like a Frenchman on a motorbike with her subtle wit, dancing interludes and wonderful ability to make the whole room feel like they were at dinner with friends, not the most glamorous awards ceremony in the country. One day she’s responding to my questions for Studio magazine (November issue, 2005, holla!) and the next she’s the queen of the Cesars. Way to go, Val.
2) Guillaume Canet winning Best Director for “Tell No One.” He neglected to thank the love of his life, Rebecca Lynn Leffler, but I think he’s just shy. But, way to go, Guy. We can celebrate anytime you like ;)
3) The award for best foreign film. Hilary Swank presented, saying “Sorry I don’t speak French” then, channeling a frigid ice statue, read from the teleprompter in English, stuttering over every word. “Little Miss Sunshine” won, and Thierry Lacaze of Fox Searchlight accepted the award. Suddenly, the entire room erupted into laughter. Turns out our poor Thierry was a little nervous and was stroking the Cesar statue (which resembles, well, you know) up and down and the audience had a field day. The show’s host Valerie Lemercier went up to him in front of everyone, turned the statue on its side and explained to him just why everyone was laughing. The guy looked like tomato soup on fire. Swank, meanwhile, just stood there completely clueless as to what was going on. Fantastic moment.
4) The Gerard Oury tribute. It was sort of like an episode of Grey’s Anatomy – I cried for most of it, but got a few giggles in here and there. Oury was one of France’s best directors in my opinion, famous for “La Grande Vadrouille,” “The Brain” and “The Adventures of Rabbi Jacob” among others. Oury’s daughter, prolific Gallic director Daniele Thompson, and grandson actor/screenwriter Christophe Thompson were present and the entire room joined them to remember Oury. Then, after the montage of clips from Oury’s films, Valerie Lemercier stormed the stage dressed as an orthodox Jew with around 20 other dancers wearing paises and top hats and dancing to the theme song from “Rabbi Jacob.” Only in France, I thought to myself, Only in France.
5) Pascale Ferran’s really really really really long politically-charged speech when she accepted the award for “Lady Chatterley.” Just kidding, that was extremely boring. I wanted to hurl myself off of the balcony. (I probably should’ve, I would’ve landed right in Jude Law’s lap!)

After the show, we took a bus to the official after-party at the Galerie Royale. It was sort of like going to camp, only everyone was wearing dresses and tuxedos and no one was wearing headgear or stuffing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into their mouths. The after-party was mildly fun – the food (read: miniscule portions of je ne sais quoi) wasn’t bad – well, at midnight on an empty stomach it did the trick. However, there was – GASP! – NO CHAMPAGNE. The soirée was sponsored by Chivas whisky and, while there was some white wine present to tickle my tongue….needless to say, I didn’t stay long and headed over to the REAL after-party at Regine’s. I wasn’t actually invited to this party, but I made my way in anyway (see: the history of the life of Rebecca Leffler).

All of “Young Frenchiewood” was there – they’re sort of like what Americans call “Young Hollywood” the Lindsay Lohan-Paris Hilton-Mischa Barton-Olsen Twin crew of young actors (only in France they actually are actors) who are in every film and all know each other and are probably related in some way by a distant French cousin since everyone in the French film industry seems to be either the daughter of, son of or brother-sister-aunt-dog of someone else. And then there’s me. The crazy American drinking out of the Magnum bottle of Champagne and talking to everyone in sight. Or not in sight – I have long legs, I can jump over tables to get to an A-list actor if need be. Everyone was there – Guillaume Canet (which means, in French “my future French husband”), Jean DuJardin (the French James Bond) and his amour Alexandra Lamy, Gilles Lellouche, Best female newcomer winner Melanie Laurent and her amour Julien Bosselier, Audrey Tautou, Alice Taglioni… and the list goes on, but since I don’t care about fame or gossip clearly I’ll stop there ;)
I didn’t want the night to end – I’d spent my whole life, or at least the last few years, passionate about French cinema and always dreamed of attending the Cesar awards. And there I was. In Valentino shoes nonetheless. And, despite the fact that it felt like someone was stcking large glass knives into my feet, I was determined to keep them on until I left at around 7 am. But Saturday night near the Champs and, with not a taxi to be found and my feet screaming in agony, I allowed myself to be convinced by a random French guy outside that I should enter his vehicle and join him and his friends for an after party at their hotel room at the Place Vendome. I swear it’s not THAT sketchy, I recognized this actress from a bunch of films so I felt like I knew her even though I clearly didn’t (the magic of the movies) I figured she couldn’t be a serial killer and followed her into the car. Then, five minutes into it, I remember that the last time I’d seen her on the big screen she played a nice girl who, a few minutes into the film, turns into a serial killer. Yup, way to go, Leffler.
At 8 am, I made my way to a taxi and headed home. I think we passed Cloud 9 on the way across the Seine because that’s where I’ve been for the past few days since. It was just like the Oscars only everyone spoke French and Clint Eastwood wasn't there - no wait, here he is!



(taken last week at his private party at the Ritz -- come on, you knew I'd get that in here somehow ;)

Someone told me he thinks the Cesar award looks like pieces of chewed gum stacked on top of each other. To me, however, it looks like my dreams coming true. Cue the cheesy music and a close-up of the Eiffel Tower.
The End.

Paris is Burning!

Paris is burning!
Well, not the whole city, just le Baron.
Tuesday night. Circa 3 am. Hipster chic Parisians are sipping champagne, smoking cigarettes and rolling their “r”s. It’s a pretty calm night for the tiny yet always hopping joint. A few French b-list celebs are sitting in a booth, but nobody seems to care. 150 girls are waiting for the bathroom with just one stall. And outside, wannabe hipsters are being told “c’est privé ce soir” and shooed away.
Then, suddenly, the smell of gas overpowers the familiar nocturnal mélange of cigarette smoke and body odor from the hard-core dancers sweating on the dance floor. I;m standing near the bar. A large French man (read: more than 110 pounds) knocks into me and starts to sprint for the door. He’s followed by the rest of his entourage, then pretty much everyone else in the establishment. I dare to inquire. “There’s a fire!” There is mayhem at the coat check and I am forced to decide between death by fire…and death by hypothermia if I walk outside without my jacket. I choose fire and get in line. The two French guys next to me hit on me. Only in France, I think. Amidst a smoky explosion in a tiny crowded nightclub, instead of running for their lives, French men choose to work their game. And, mind you, continue to smoke their cigarettes. Ah, la France. Then, as if by some strange Christmas miracle (a couple of months late), lo-and-behold, with about 150 people waiting outside on the avenue marceau, I, Rebecca Lynn Leffler, found a taxi. Yes, that elusive, yellow vehicle of transportation we all know and love but can never seem to find in Paris, arrived before me, vacant and willing to drive me home. It’s true – nothing is impossible. So I’m assuming that le Baron did not, indeed, burn to the ground. (There would probably have been some sort of funeral-like service among my fellow nightcrawlers and I haven’t received an invitation so I’m going with …it’s all good now.) But this whole brouhaha started me thinking (I know, a rare occurrence these days):
What would a world without Le Baron be like? What would all the cool kids do without their nighttime haven?
And, because you know I love the metaphor: Parisian nightspots are like really delicious chocolates. They’re incredibly wonderful yet ephemeral. They explode with sensation, then lose their flavor and you are left wondering what to do next. Do you pick another chocolate? What if it’s not as good? Or what if it’s better, but you liked that chocolate and wanted another. What if the reason you liked that particular chocolate was that the taste on your tongue was familiar and – Okay, I see I’m getting ahead of myself here. My point is this: there is a severe problem in France, specifically Paris. Aside from the lack of taxis and, in my opinion, way too much cigarette smoke…here it is: Someplace becomes très chic, très selective, all of the cool kids want to go there then, just like that, someone decides it’s had its run and the cool kids pick another spot and the establishment needs to a) close entirely, b) cater not as cool kids or c) find a way to get the cool kids back.
Prime example of this unfortunate cycle: L’échelle de Jacob. (or “jacob’s ladder” in English) Known to its clientele as simply “l’Echelle,” this bar-lounge on the rue de Jacob in Paris’ très chic St-Germain-des-Pres district is a small, intimate lounge with comfortable velvet couches and a tall staircase (or “ladder” of the “Jacob” variety if you will) leading to a second level also filled with modern tables and lush cushions. The music usually starts out mellow, then gets louder and more fun as the crowd does the same. The martinis are delicious, the strawberry vanilla variety is a 15 euro piece of heaven if you ask me. And, up until a month or so ago, was the hottest ticket in town. Ok, not in town, but at least in the 6th arrondissement. Then, before you could say “sacré bleu!” (actually, don’t say “sacré bleu” it’s sort of passé), the cool kids packed their bags and ran, and the place is now filled with, well, how do I say this, less cool kids. The door is no longer selective, the place is empty on weeknights when it was once in its heyday, and I swear my passion fruit martini was totally lacking in flavah. So what gives? :Where have all the cool kids gone/” (to be sung to the tune of “where have all the flowers gone.”) (but not too loud, this is France, someone will yell at you if you’re talking over a certain volume.)
So who decides whether or not a bar or club is “branché”? And what are the tell-tale signs that your branché location of choice is headed for imminent uncool status, or, in other words, has contracted a common and contagious disease I will refer to as “L’échelle syndrome.” How can we bring back L’Echelle? Return the place to its one-time glory? Shall I draft a petition? Put an ad in this week’s ELLE or Le Monde? Perhaps the “accidental fire” at le Baron was really a tactic from another bar with a bad case of Echelle syndrome who wanted to woo its clients back? Maybe if celebrities started hanging out there, people would follow? “If you build it, they will come.” Build what?? Build whaaaaat?? Oh Kevin Costner, where are you? Paris needs you. I need you. L’Echelle needs you. I mean, there are other places to go, it’s true – Mathis Bar, La Perle, le bar Hemingway, the Plaza, the Hotel Amour, my latest coup de Coeur, the Park Hyatt bar… but, sadly, these fine establishments will one day meet their fate, and, before you can say “I’d like a vodka tonic please,” their time will come. But, until then, Baron ce soir anyone?

WWJD? (What Would Jean-Paul Sartre Do?)

“Non!” I should be used to this expression by now after over two years of living in France. (“Non,” en français, is short for “yes, but I’m French so I’m going to make things unnecessarily difficult for you.”) I was last told “Non!” at Parisian café qua historical establishment Le Café de Flore when I asked for an afternoon Cappuccino with a few amis. “Um, excuse me?” I questioned the tiny little French man in the apron standing before me, tray in hand and nose in the air. He pointed to the menu – “On n’a pas de Cappuccinos sur la carte,” he pointed out. And rightly so, there was indeed no Cappuccino on the menu. “But I’ve been here a million times and ordered perhaps just that many cappuccinos over the years,” I explained. It may not be on the menu, but the fine people of Flore certainly do know how to make a Cappuccino. I may even have photos to prove it (if not, certainly fond memories of coffee and frothy milk to speak of.) After an extended debate with this Monsieur, the truth finally sunk in: Café Flore no longer makes Cappuccinos. What kind of a café doesn’t make Cappuccinos? Certainly not a famous one that has been the stomping ground of the crème de la crème (oui, pun very intended) of the French intellectual scene from the days of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir to the days of, well, Rebecca Lynn Leffler. But oui oui – sacré bleu! – the Café de Flore does not serve Cappuccinos. Pourquoi?
According to the Manager, the strange menu change is due to “an executive management decision.” I can visualize the scene in my head: a dozen old French men in suits and ties sit around a smoky room. The agenda: the menu at Flore.
Old French Man #1: “Oui, I think we should get rid of the Cappuccino.”
Old French Man #2: “Pourquoi? Jean-Pierre have you lost your marbles?”
Old French Man #1: “No, but Cappuccino-making takes time and we have to make sure our waiters don’t work a minute over 35 hours per week.”
Old French Man #2: “Oh certainly, a 19.6% automatic tip just for bringing an 8-euro head of lettuce to tourists and ladies who lunch is hard work. We wouldn’t want them to go on strike now would we.”
Old French Men #s 3,4,5,6,7, and 8: “Vive la France! No more Cappuccinos!”
And cut.
The Manager, when queried, was not able to identify the cause of the menu change, but agreed that all of the necessary ingredients to make a cappuccino – namely coffee, frothy milk and cinnamon – were indeed available on the premises. So what can explain such a mysterious menu alteration? I’ve developed a number of hypotheses, and am determined to solve this puzzle.
Cappuccino –disappearance Theory #1: Perhaps their Cappuccino machine broke and they don’t have the budget to buy a new one.
However… a) then where does the budget to print all new menus come from? And b) Hundreds of people frequent the café every day and pay a ridiculous amount of money for mediocre food, I highly doubt that the café needs to make budgetary compromises.
Cappuccino –disappearance Theory #2: Maybe it’s an election campaign tactic. In a few weeks, I bet Segolène’s new slogan will be “l’ordre juste: Bring Back the Flore Cappuccino!” and Sarkozy will be calling for a “selective coffee filtering system.” That is, no African or Chinese coffee. Only highly educated, rich beans.
Cappuccino –disappearance Theory #3: It’s a governmental ploy to enforce the smoking ban in public places as of 2007. A Cappuccino calls for a cigarette and, without Cappuccinos, perhaps French fumeurs won’t be tempted to light up while reading Le Monde and watching that tacky touristy couple making out by the window.
Cappuccino –disappearance Theory #4: Hot chocolate sales have been down. With no Cappuccino to tempt hot winter beverage lovers, said consumers will inevitably default to the cloest thing, namely the café’s famous “chocolat chaud.”
Cappuccino –disappearance Theory #5: The “management” found out his wife had been cheating on him and his little French dog had gotten run over by Karl Lagerfeld’s Hummer on the Boulevard St Germain des Pres all on the same day and simply took out his anger on the Cappuccino. I’m going to go with this one.
But what will this mean for the nation of Gaul? Or, more specifically, its capital city? The town has gone mad. The fat French lady (yes, there must be one somewhere) has sung…pigs have flown (straight into your Croque Monsieur)… as the French hoodlums say “c’est ouf!” While the disappearance of this ubiquitous beverage may not seem like cause for national uproar, believe you me: first, the disappearance of the Cappuccino from the menu…later, they’ll announce they’ve done away with the Croque Madame (“egg shortage”) and have stopped selling apple tarts because “an apple a day does not indeed keep the doctor away as previously believed”… and finally, they’ll ban red wine and boeuf tartare and the French population will perish all because of a mere refusal in early 2007 to serve a young American girl a hot cup of espresso coffee, steamed milk, powdered cinnamon and whipped cream.

‘Twas the Night before Christmas

by Jack Frost de Leffler

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Paris, France
Not a store was open, not even to buy pants;
My menorah was mounted by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Hanukah Harry soon would be there;
I was planning Chinese and a movie, like any good Jew,
Perhaps an afternoon showing of “It’s a Wonderful Life” with some pork à la moo-shoo? ;
A bottle of Sancerre and a large Evian were on tap,
As I settled onto my couch for a long winter’s nap,
When my phone started to vibrate, it caused such a clatter,
It was Aurelie, I said “what’s the matter?”.
Our friend Corinne had been rushed to the hospital in a flash,
About to give birth to her baby, getting ready for diaper rash.
So we hopped on our horses and trudged through the snow,
No just kidding, this is 2006 of course we traveled by metro,
We brought a gourmet Christmas dinner, have no fear,
Guided by a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
“I’m celebrating Christmas,” I thought, ‘Am I going to hell?’
What’s the harm in a little tree and visit from Père Noel?
It was my Christmas mitzvah, Moses would be proud,
The reindeer were even Jewish, so we yelled their names out loud,
‘Now Dasherstein! now, Klezmer Dancer! now, Prancercohen and Rabbi Vixen!
On, Cometchaim! On, Challah Cupid! on Prima Donner and Cantor Blitzen!
To the top of the Eiffel Tower! to the edge of the Seine!
Trying to avoid deportation from Jean-Marie Le Pen!
We prepared a gourmet feast of scallops, salmon tiramisu, fancy French cheeses, foie gras, and chocolate cake,
A bit different than the traditional brisket and latkes my Mommaleh used to make,
So up to the hospital we flew to see Mary,
She was in the maternity ward, which wasn’t so scary.
We were like the Magi bringing gifts and cheer,
Even though Baby Jesus wasn’t quite ready to come out, but the doctors said the coast was clear.
And then, in a twinkling, we dined under the roof
Using plastic knives to cut our filets de boeuf.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the hallway the nurses came with a bound,
We offered them something to eat, an alternative from their gross hospital turkey and gravy,
It’s the least we could do until the arrival of the baby.
A bundle of Toys we had flung on our backs,
We fit so many Christmas decorations into Aurélie’s backpack.
Corinne was thrilled - her eyes-how they twinkled! her dimples how merry!
Her cheeks were like roses, her nose like a cherry!
She had a pretty face but a little round belly,
And we made sure to add to our foie gras a bowlful of fig jelly.
We piled the presents by the tree on the shelf,,
and I was so happy to do this mitzvah, I felt good about myself;
With a wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
We decided to leave and head off to bed.
There was not a taxi in the whole city,
So we waited in the cold, the site was not pretty,
But finally – a Christmas miracle! – a taxi appeared,
Much sooner than we all had feared;
We hailed the bright yellow sleigh, to the cabbie gave a whistle,
and away we all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard someone exclaim, ‘ere we drove out of sight,
‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.’

CRAZY FRENCH EXPRESSIONS: Take Une

Those crazy frogs are at it again. Here's what they're saying ... and why (according to advanced etymological theories courtesy of yours truly).

Crazy French Expression: Purée!
Meaning: damn!/heck!/a nicer way of saying Putain! (F—k!)
Literal Meaning: mashed potatoes
Leffler's Etymological Theory: "I'm so upset I feel like someone mashed me up … like a potato!"


Crazy French Expression: Oh, la vache!
Meaning: wow! Gosh!
Literal Meaning: Oh, the cow!
Leffler's Etymological Theory: In France, cows are exciting animals. Thus, seeing a cow begets feelings of exclamation and bewilderment.



Crazy French Expression: Il pleut comme vaches qui pissent.
Meaning: It's raining cats and dogs/ It's pouring.
Literal Meaning: It's raining like peeing cows.
Leffler's Etymological Theory: French cows urinate with intensity.



Crazy French Expression: Parler français comme une vache espagnole.
Meaning: To murder the French language.
Literal Meaning: To speak French like a Spanish cow.
Leffler's Etymological Theory: Spanish cows don't speak very good French. (I'll be sure never to take a cow named Fernando to dinner in these parts.)

And enough with the cows…What is with these people and their cows? They do make good cheese though, I guess I can't complain. Anyway ...


Crazy French Expression: Avoir la gueule de bois.
Meaning: To have a hangover.
Literal Meaning: To have a face of wood.
Leffler's Etymological Theory: If you've ever had too much French wine, you know what they're talking about.

Crazy French Expression: Avoir un chat dans la gorge
Meaning: To have a frog in one's throat.
Literal Meaning: To have a cat in one's throat.
Leffler's Etymological Theory: In France, frogs legs are a delicacy so lots of people literally do have frogs in their throat all the time. Cats, however, are more rare. Or, perhaps, French people have larger throats so a tiny little frog won't make one hoarse – it takes a large feline.

Crazy French Expression: Faire une galette.
Meaning: To vomit.
Literal Meaning: To make a pancake.
Leffler's Etymological Theory: French people vomit on their pancakes.

That's all for today, stay tuned for CRAZY FRENCH EXPRESSIONS: Part Deux. With Parts Trois, Quatre and maybe even Cinq to follow. Hey, Stallone just came out with another Rocky movie, eet eez posseebull.

TOP TEN WAYS TO STAY WARM IN PARIS IN THE WINTER

Oh the weather outside is frightful…And, no there's nothing delightful about it off the top of my head (perhaps it's the large wool hat covering it). I love Paris in the Springtime … I love Paris in the Fall … But what the f- ...oie gras am I supposed to do in Paris in the winter? Goodbye days of strolling along the Seine, sitting on the "terrasse" of a café for hours on end, running through the Luxembourg Gardens, walking all around the city ice cream cone in hand, people-watching at Café Flore. And Bonjour to thick scarves, travel by metro, and cramming indoors. Okay okay, so there are far worse places to be in the winter (Hanover, NH immediately comes to mind). While I will have to take a hiatus from Amorino's head-sized cones of gelato, endless walks along the Seine contemplating my existence and making out passionately on the Pont des Arts for hours with tall, gorgeous French men (ok let's be honest, that's not even a frequent activity in any season), there are ways to pass the (daylight savings) time during l'hiver à Paris. Here are my top 10 ways to stay warm in Paris in the winter.

10) Drink Warm Beverages

The Classic: Hot Chocolate at Flore
The French Traditional: Thé sur le Nil from Mariages Frères
The "Yes, I'm American, so What?": Chai Tea Latte from Starbucks
The "Wow That's a Lot of Foamy Milk": Cappuccino at Les Philosophes
The Disgusting: Vin Chaud from Just About Anywhere

9) Take Line 4

Traditionally known as the Porte de Clignacourt-Porte d'Orléans line, La Ligne 4 is more famous for being perhaps a warmer location than a metal-filled beach on the Equator. Not only is the temperature always fluctuating between a crisp 150-298 degrees (and I'm talking Celsius here), but be sure to take advantage of the body heat factor as you'll definitely be pressed up against your neighbor as you cram into the cars like sardines and enjoy the "Eau de Body Odor" as you inhale the humid air.

8) Eat Comfort Food


The Classic: Croque Madame from Les Editeurs. A large slice of Poilane bread, gobs of creamy Bechamel sauce, slices of ham topped with a thick layer of gooey melted Gruyère and a fried egg. They try to give you a small side salad to maintain some degree of health and equilibrium, but don't be fooled, ask for French fries on the side instead, they will concede.
The Healthy: Fresh Soups from Cojean. Pumpkin with Vanilla, Eggplant and Coriander, Tomato/Coconut/Lemon … the varieties are endless, sinless and delicious.
The Italiano: Penne ai Bisi at L'Altro. Pennette with a thick, cream of pea sauce with crispy slices of ham served piping hot with unlimited fresh bread and parmesan cheese. Or any of their pasta dishes really, you can't go wrong – linguini with pumpkin sauce and pecorino cheese, penne with radicchio and gorgonzola, not to mention the best chocolates ever in life served with their coffee.
The Sucré: Tarte Tatin from Les Philosophes. I owe much of my happiness to the Tatin Sisters, God Bless them wherever they are, for their mere quarrel years ago that turned an ordinary apple tart upside down, carmelized it and served it hot complemented with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, has changed my life forever. Les Philosophes does a mean version, both in the traditional apple dessert and also a tomato appetizer variety.

7) Steal a Warm Coat

I am not a thief. Au contraire, I am a victim of thiefdom (thiefness? Thiefety? Oh right, theft – apologies, but my eengleesh is leaving something to be desired these days). The scene: Cuisine de Bar, rue Cherche-Midi in the 6th. Circa 2 PM on a Wednesday. The Lefflers – yes, all four were in town – sit down for a casual meal of tartines. We hang our jackets on the coat racks adjacent to our table. There are tartines, there is salade, there are cafés, and then, hélas!, it is time to go. We all retrieve our jackets from the coat racks. All of us, that is, except for me. Yes, alas, my brand new Tara Jarmon coat has been removed from its hook, and not by its rightful owner (read: moi). I will spare you the details of what followed, but the point is this. If you are cold – and lacking morals – then why not steal a warm coat? Invade the coat check at a fancy restaurant when the girl handling them is in the bathroom. Or, better yet, put on a black dress or tuxedo and stand in front of said fancy restaurant and ask "Can I take your coat, Monsieur/Madame?" then run off into the night with a warm Chanel parka (and maybe even a Hermès scarf if you're lucky). Or, perhaps easier, just have lunch at the Cuisine de Bar, you can have your pick of the season's hottest trends in fashionable insulation. Trust me.


6) Live on the 6th Floor in a Building Without an Elevator

By the time you arrive at your door, you will be ready to open all the windows, take off all of your clothes and pour ice down your back. Trust me.

5) Join a Gym

I am by no means endorsing exercise (hello, I'm French now, my only form of exercise consists of raising pastries to my lips, running to catch the bus I'm about to miss almost every morning, or punching slow-walking tourists as I attempt to navigate through the crowded streets of St Germain des Pres with 15 bags of groceries.), however, I recommend just joining Club Med gym, and standing in the main workout room. It smells like the armpit of a Frenchman who has bathed in cheese and hasn't taken a shower in 15 years, but you will sweat those winter worries away, I promise. They also have a sauna.

4) Take the Bus

This is a double whammy. Not only do the buses here all have heat (God Bless the RATP!!), but they never tend to arrive when I do and the next one can take up to 20 minutes, so it is necessary to run after said bus as fast as my heel-ridden legs can carry me when I see it in the distance. I'm proud to say I've clocked my fasted time from Odéon-the rue de Rennes Monoprix as a victorious 40.3 seconds. I will take on all challengers (or at least those wearing heels). I take the 39 bus to work every morning and, by the end of the winter, I will have calves of steel, you just wait.

3) Get a Slingbox

(see previous entry for details) This incredible demonstration of the miracle of technology is called the Slingbox, but a more appropriate name might be "Reason to Not Leave Couch Ever Again." I mean what could be better than a hot date with Dr McDreamy, with the heat turned up to maximum temp, in comfortable pajamas and a cup of hot cocoa in hand, to combat the cold? (Don't answer that, I know what you're thinking, but, admit it, it is a wonderful alternative.)

2) Shake What Your Maman Gave Ya

If staying in isn't your thing (you obviously don't own a slingbox), then I recommend a hot night at Le Baron to get the blood rushing through your veins for the following reasons. A) You can dance until the French cows come home or the fat (or more like skinny model doing coke in this place) lady sings or until you're sweating to the tune of Justin Timberlake or old school hip hop beats. B) The tiny space and large crowd ensure a minimum inside temperature of 171 degrees (298 on the dance floor). C) You'll almost definitely run into your favorite hot celebrity. I saw Romain Duris there the other night and don't think I'll be cold again until March at the latest. And D) They sell alcohol. Point finale!

1) Body Heat

Find French lover. Bring he/she home. Your electric bill will thank you.

Ode to Cojean

As if the invention of the Slingbox wasn't enough exhilaration for one week, another extremely exciting event occurred right in my own neighborhood last week. Cojean opened another café on the lower level of the Bon Marché department store! Yes, I know, this news makes Tom and Katie's recent Rome nuptials and the Iraq war seem almost obsolete. To those of you living under a rock (or in any city other than Paris, France), Cojean is a chain of cafés offering healthy (or at least disguised as healthy), Anglo-style sandwiches, quiche, salads, soups, drinks, desserts and snacks in a très chic atmosphere complemented by the world' most smiley waiters and waitresses. The atmosphere is zen, the food inventive and delicious and, with locations all over Paris, Cojean is the perfect spot for a quick, take-out lunch on the go, an intimate tête-à-tête with a friend, or a relaxing solo lunch hour complete with both French and English-language magazines for one's reading pleasure. Their toasted sandwiches put street paninis to shame; today, I sampled (read: scarfed down) the mozzarella, tomato and artichoke on toasted organic sesame bread variety, and also enjoy the chicken Caesar on poppy and goat cheese, pesto and fresh veggie versions.

The soups, sandwiches, quiches and salads change seasonally, and this autumn's menu offers a mélange of the traditional (mini ham and cheese sandwiches on fresh baguette, 3-cheese quiche, molten chocolate cake) and the original (chicken-coconut-pineapple-mango chutney mini brioche sandwiches, sweet potato-pear-mint soup, white chocolate raisin cookies). There is something to satisfy everyone's tastes, even the pickiest of eaters. And the employees are an international pot pourri of could-be models in blue aprons whisking your empty tray away before you have a chance to swallow your last bite, attending to your every desire (or at least culinary, that is) and never ceasing to smile in the process. A few of the employees from the Madeleine location (my former stomping ground before the opening of this new location) have now moved to the Bon Marché venue and I am now welcomed with friendly faces who have upped me to official Cojean VIP status. Some of my current seasonal favorites include their homemade granola ( which makes for an excellent mid-afternoon snack at work), their turkey-swiss-tomato brioche sandwiches (with real turkey, a rarity in this city of myriad ham sandwiches), pretty much any of their soups (although the pumpkin-vanilla and eggplant-coriander stand out), their cakes (chocolate, carotte and lemon), their fresh slices of mango (apparently delivered daily from Ghana especially for Cojean), not to mention their thai chicken or poached egg-parmesan-green bean salad varieties, their freshly-made fruit smoothies and their wrap sandwiches.

Not to mention free copies of The International Herald Tribune and every luxury magazine printed in France to peruse while chewing. Cojean represents the new trend in modern Parisian "luncheries" (a word I just invented seconds ago referring to cafés with modern design that offer lighter, more inventive cuisine for the new generation). Cojean is the pioneer, but these modern, usually organic, luncheries are popping up all over the city: Naked (healthy salads and snacks on the rue Colisée in the 8th), Lood (juice bar), Jour (make-your-own salads), Bioboa (organic café near Opéra offering perhaps the city's best veggieburger), La Ferme (fresh-from-the-farm "bio" products, and a mean Sunday brunch) and Eatme (a French nutritionist's dream). Long gone are the days when one had to choose between a steak frites or a street crêpe for mid-day nourishment. And while these other establishments are all delicious and enjoyable, no one holds a candle to the original "snack chic" Master, Cojean.

Ode to the Sling Box

I watched “Gilmore Girls” with my Mom today. She pressed fast forward when there was a commercial, and I pressed pause for periodic bathroom breaks. Incredible, isn’t it? Oh, and P.S. I live in Paris, France and my mother, in Cedar Grove, NJ.
Ostensibly a banal mother-daughter activity, my little TV-watching moment with Mom was actually a miracle in modern technology. At 9 am EST and 3 PM in Paris, as I sat on my couch in my Paris apartment, I was able to join my mother in New Jersey for a morning/afternoon TIVO break. With the same remote, mind you, which, for the untrained Slingbox user, can be a bit strange. As the first segment of the show made way for a long commercial break, I went to click the fast-forward button on my remote (aka virtual remote on my computer screen) but noticed that the images were already moving forward quickly, then stopped right as the show came back on. After checking my apartment for French TV-loving ghosts, I soon realized that it was not a Gallic “Gilmore Girls” fan who had broken into my computer, but rather my own mother, sitting in our living room, using the actual remote (and scaring the merde out of me). It was the epitome of laziness; not only was I lying on my couch watching TV on a Wednesday afternoon (G-d bless the 35-hour French work week), but I had my very own assistant to fast-forward through the commercials and “play” as soon as the show came back on. Incredible. However, trans-Atlantic TV viewing sessions do have their drawbacks; our bathroom breaks weren’t timed accordingly and there were admittedly some remote-control battles as I attempted to rewind when Mom had already seen a scene and vice versa. At least we couldn’t kick each other for leg room on the couch.
While I admit that a 24-year old young woman watching a cheesy WB – sorry, CW – show with her mother on a Wednesday afternoon is perhaps questionable, the fact that I was able to do it is quite extraordinary in my opinion. An exciting – if not imperative – addition to expat life. While the “Live TV” aspect of the Slingbox is perhaps its most interesting feature, let’s be honest: how many times will I actually want to watch my favorite show at 4 AM Paris time? Especially when I can watch commercial-free at a more reasonable hour. Even so, if I do happen to be counting French “moutons” (sheep) I’d much prefer a romp through the sordid love triangles at Seattle Grace (of Grey’s Anatomy, for those of you living under a large rock… or in a Slingbox-free household abroad) or a laugh with Pam and Michael and co. (The Office).



Tomorrow I’m having breakfast with Barbara Walters (The View) and perhaps a mid-morning snack with Martha (Stewart). Then maybe I’ll fall asleep with Dr. McDreamy by my side (Grey’s again- are you noticing a trend here?). When I recently expressed my extreme joy at this relatively new invention to a friend, the response was “So? You can download everything to itunes.” Yes, this is true, but a) I cannot download everything to itunes – some of my favorites such as Boston Legal and Without a Trace are still not available in that format, and a morning without Regis (of the Regis and Kelly variety) is well, no morning at all if you ask me; b) I can’t watch itunes downloads with family and friends overseas; and c) Slingbox shows don’t cost $1.99 per download. So back to b). Yes, I realize that perhaps a phone call, email, text, or “poke” on facebook.com are perhaps more sociable ways to communicate with my loves ones across the ocean. However, it was amazing just how close I felt to my mother today when we were watching “Gilmore Girls” together. I can hear you thinking: “Oh, what’s the big deal?” Yet for that one hour (or, let’s say, around 45 minutes minus the commercials), my mother knew where I was, what I was doing – even when I stopped to go the bathroom – which, for a mother whose daughter lives in another country, is a very big deal indeed.
Despite its assets, the Slingbox is surprisingly unknown even to many technology buffs. I was amazed at how easy it was to set up. I simply downloaded the software, typed in our access code and password and – voilà! – minutes later, our home remote appeared on my screen and everything that had been taped Chez Leffler for the past months appeared for my viewing pleasure. It was a historical moment in the life of Rebecca Leffler, you should’ve been there. Not only can I catch up on my favorite shows whenever I want, but I will also be able to catch major televised events – the Oscars, the Superbowl – in real time, rather than waiting for the re-runs to appear dubbed on French television. And although I am now immersed in French culture and enjoy my life here, sometimes it’s nice to cuddle up with Mom to watch TV as I munch on my peanut butter sandwiches and Oreo cookies.

Foie Gras and Peanut Butter Sandwiches

“America is my country, but Paris is my hometown.”
-Gertrude Stein
Trudy was so right on. She took the words right out of my mouth (and good thing, because now there is more room for croissants and cigarettes). Like Stein, I am an expat. An expatriate. According to my Latin roots (as in the italic language spoken in ancient Rome, not of the “I’m still jenny from the block” variety), that comes from “ex” (former) and “patria” (native land, stemming from pater, or father). Thus, I no longer live in my native land, and have taken up residence in a foreign country, namely France. Gaul. The Western European Republic. Home of Jacques Chirac, Gérard Depardieu, and 951 million cafés (approximately). I moved here a little over two years ago, and plan to stay until Nicolas Sarkozy sends large French soldiers with hungry watchdogs to escort me onto a plane back to New Jersey. Yes, I’m here for the long Gaul … Yet when most people (more specifically, American people) learn of my choice to reside overseas, the conversation usually goes something like this:
Ignorant American (sorry, Mom): “When are you coming home?”
Me: “I am home.”
Cue the cheesy music and close-ups of the Eiffel Tower.
Oui, it’s true, I am a cliché. I live in St-Germain-des-près. I sip coffee at Café Flore while reading Le Monde. I walk the streets with a baguette under my arm. And every time the Eiffel Tower sparkles for the first ten minutes of every hour at night, I am giddy with emotion. Paris is indeed my hometown.
Many people associate my love – yes, love – for Paris with a consequential hatred for America. That is not the case. I don’t necessarily think that France is “better” than America, I just think that the life that I lead here vs. the one I would be leading across the Atlantic, is. Many people move across the ocean to escape from something, or someone – a traumatic childhood, an unfulfilled life, a violent lover. I’m not running from anything – I’ve had a mostly happy life filled with pleasant memories, plenty of friends and family. My government did not exile me for treason. I am not fleeing the law (I did pay the one speeding ticket I was ever issued, thank you very much.) And, while I think that Jessica Simpson may have done a better job in the Oval Office than Monsieur Bush, I am not a political zealot fleeing the idiocracy of Washington. America is still my country.
I’ve developed a sort of Dr.Jeckyll, Mademoiselle Hyde complex here. I am still the American girl from NJ who misses Skippy Super-chunk peanut butter, un-dubbed episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and Desperate Housewives and reading the New York Times in print. But I am also the Parisian girl who eats Nutella, watches Le Grand Journal and Les Guignols and reads The International Herald Tribune cover-to-cover. How can I be both? How long can I lead this double life? Maintain these two personalities? Won’t one have to win in the end? If I stay here indefinitely, will I be disgusted at the thought of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Become disinterested in Meredith and Dr. McDreamy’s up and down love affair? Trust the weather report on meteofrance.fr and forego my loyalty to weather.com?
Do I want to be a Parisian? Or an American in Paris?
Is it possible to have two souls : one French, the other American? It’s a battle between peanut butter and foie gras: may the best disgustingly unhealthy substance to spread on toast win.
I can’t leave. I have a life here now – friends, a job, VIP status in my local boulangerie. But the thought of never going back to America scares the merde out of me. Will my childhood friends forget about me eventually? Are email and phone conversations (and, I confess, facebook.com) enough to sustain lasting relationships? Will my family eventually get used to an empty seat at the Thanksgiving table? Or, worse, will they fill this seat? Turn my bedroom into an exercise facility? Adopt a small child from Cambodia and name her Rebecca?
My mind has become a croque-monsieur of languages. There’s now a thick layer of cheese (French) covering the ham (English) and though the croque needs both to be a croque, the cheese definitely overpowers the taste of the ham. (yes, I just compared my bilingual brain to a ham and cheese sandwich, I think I’ve been living here for too long.) “This is your brain.” “This is your brain on France.” I think in French. I think in English. I speak in a strange mélange of both. I dream in Franglais. To me, I’m the same person, just in different languages. I am a human DVD – press 1 for French, 2 for English. But do my French friends and my American friends see the same person when I speak?
Do my mannerisms, my personality, the inflection in my voice, change when I switch dialects?
And then there are all of the cultural differences and misunderstandings – things I missed because I grew up in the Garden State and not outside of the Tuileries Gardens, or ostensibly banal things they’ve never heard of. Cupcakes, for example. Who has never heard of a cupcake? Apparently, the majority of the French population. I actually had to google a picture of one to show a confused colleague who couldn’t understand what a “small muffin-like cake covered with frosting and little colorful candies” could possibly look like. But it’s moments like that when I realize that, although I fit in to this strange land where pregnant women smoke, men cheat on their wives and the coffee is served AFTER dessert no matter how badly you want a little caffeine with your lemon tart, we are different. A childhood without cupcakes? A tragedy. A Halloween without candy corn? Heartbreaking. Waking up to old French men yelling at each other instead of Regis and Kelly? Traumatic. And – are you sitting down? – they eat cheeseburgers with a fork and a knife. I know, my eyes are tearing too. Yet, for reasons I cannot explain, I love these strange people who think Jerry Lewis is funny and Gérard Depardieu is sexy. I love that nothing here is easy, that I have to call 467 different people who yell at me in French and charge me 34 cents per minute to listen to a voice message telling me that it will take 15 years and cost me five million dollars and my first born child to fix my television reception. I love that pretty much everything is “eemposseeebull” from making a deposit in another branch of your bank that doesn’t happen to be the exact one in which you opened your account to having your salad dressing served on the side. I love that I have to make plans ahead of time, that I don’t have 700 friends that have known me since birth deciding what our Saturday night plans are. I love that I don’t always understand why my French friends are laughing or why the metro has suddenly stopped moving; it makes life interesting. It makes me more independent. Life shouldn’t be easy. It should be challenging and tough and even sad, lonely and horrible at times. It should also be exciting and passionate and crazy and wonderful. And any expat knows that on a typical day, life can be all those things.
My country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberté, égalité fraternité. I am an American. I am a Parisian. And proud to be both. Just no foie gras and peanut butter sandwiches, please, I might get sick.

KISSING FROGS

When I was just a tadpole, my mother told me: “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.” So I decided to move across the pond to Paris, France, a city filled with frogs ripe for the kissing. French kissing, that is…
What many people don’t know is that Paris, France is actually a Third World Country disguised as an aesthetically beautiful and civilized land filled with art, poetry and artery-clogging pastries. It’s mathematically quite easy to adapt to culture here – just multiply the time it should take a task to be accomplished by 147.46 and that’s how much time it will take for this task to be accomplished in France, or by a French person. Opening a bank account? TIST (time it should take): one hour. TITIF (Time it takes in France): minimum 4 weeks. Painting the door of a building. TIST: 3 hours. TITIF: 3 months. And if you purse your lips together and make no attempt to smile, laugh or emit any signs of emotion while performing said undertakings, you’re totally in. Félicitations, you’re French.
Anyway, so back to my amphibious animals across the Atlantic. Frogs are often slimy creatures. The French have a word for this. It’s “drageur.” In reality, a “drageur” is just a synonym for any male of Gallic origin, but a more official definition might be “player” or “a male of Gallic origin who enjoys hitting on unsuspecting females with the direct goal of sleeping with said females.” Drageur-radar is a learned skill, and one that I can now boast that I do in fact possess. They come in all shapes, colors and sizes, but they all have one ultimate goal: to say absolutely anything necessary to get you into bed with them. You can’t blame them – it’s in their (extremely tight) jeans. All of the old philosophers did it. I mean, just picture Jean-Paul Sartre sitting pretty at Café Flore and seductively telling the lady next to him “In love, one and one are one.” I can just see her heart melting (mine certainly is.) Or Victor Hugo: “To love another person is to see the face of G-d.” Oh Vic, stop, you’re making me blush.
Before you start kissing said frogs, you need to redefine your definition of a “man.” French men are not athletic, they smoke, they’re skinny, they have big noses and order girlier drinks than you. And even the most heterosexual of them kiss each other frequently and enjoy shopping – many even cry. The hair gel industry in France must be breaking records, since the average hair gel-to-strands of hair ratio is currently at an all-time high among French men; I’d estimate around 7 kilos of gel per strand.
Being an American female in Paris is comparable to a bone being thrown into a cage filled with rabid dogs; one is inevitably poked, prodded, licked and barked at until the canines get bored and move onto another. While the French-English dictionary boats thousands of words, there are really only a very few indispensable phrases for every American female to know. “Dégage!” (Get out of here!) “Fut-moi la paix!” (Leave me alone!) and, if need be, “Je suis lesbienne!” (I am a lesbian.) Even that one doesn’t necessarily always work on this carnivorous, persistent species we call the French male.
Unfortunately, Hollywood has romanticized “le French lover” causing many American females to dream about gorgeous, charming men who speak only in a dull whisper, rolling their r’s as they roll onto you in a passionate embrace. Think: Olivier Martinez in Unfaithful, Vincent Cassel in Derailed, Gérard Depardieu in My Father, The Hero (no just kidding, I was just making sure you’re paying attention.)
That’s not to say that all French men are of the “drageur” variety. Au contraire…there are many good-looking, even tall and muscular, kind, more reserved Frenchmen all over the country. 99.999% of the members of this rare species however are, in fact married (and/or have an affinity for the male race.) However, just because the French man of your dreams is married, certainly does not mean that you should give up hope. In fact, the fact that he is married, enhances your chances of sleeping with him. In America, cheating on one’s spouse is looked down upon. Not that it is never done, but, if/when the act of adultery is committed, it is usually done in secrecy (or attempted secrecy at least.) In France, adultery is considered less of a crime than speaking loudly into one’s cell phone in a restaurant. Bring your mistress home while your wife is asleep in the next room, Pierre, but if you even think about talking over a whisper when she calls your cell… When Bill Clinton “did not have sex with that woman,” it caused a huge political scandal. Yet, at François Mitterand’s funeral, his wife and mistress were photographed side by side, sharing a sob over the death of their lover. That, mes amis, is the difference between France and America. We’re not more moral in America, we just try to act like it in public. Do you expect of a people who eat cheeseburgers with a fork and knife?
There are bi-racial couples walking all over the streets of Paris. By this, I mean of course, the “scrawny, ugly male” race interbreeding with the “tall, beautiful female” race. They’re everywhere. Snuggling in cafés, making out in the subway… everywhere. At first, I simply thought that French women are genetically partly blind. Now, however, after vast scientific research, I have come to the conclusion that they just simply have no choice. For every 27 tall, thin, painfully gorgeous, well-dressed, put-together French women, there is one arguably attractive French man. Thus, the other 26 females are forced to forego Gérard the Gorgeous for Pascal the petit, Hugo the hairy and François the funny-looking. Just look at the discrepancy among French movie stars. Juliette Binoche, Cathérine Deneuve, Nathalie Baye and Ludivine Sagnier vs. Gérard Depardieu, Daniel Auteuil, Jean Réno and Romain Duris. Sure, these actors are very talented but, let’s be honest, they aren’t aesthetically worthy enough to be in the same room as these beautiful women, let alone sharing the same screen. Yet, who is to say that it’s only the good-looking frogs who turn into princes?

So with that, I return to Le Pond, in preparation of my next amphibious adventure.