Florent is the epitome of a romantic Frenchman. Alessandro reports that he is head over heels in love again. It’s as if the Italian waitress never existed. Now all he talks about is his colleague, whose name is Pauline. Apparently she is interested but evasive. Florent is forty-one and very much wants to settle down; Pauline is only in her twenties and not ready for a long commitment. Alessandro pointed out that the waitress was quite a bit younger, too, to which Florent retorted that his father is seventy-one and married to a thirty-five-year-old. Hmm.
In Bon Marché, I came across a display of spring shoes in pale yellow and melon. The best were tender pink boots with small silver buttons, and a pair of kitten heels by Sonia Rykiel that sported a glossy bunch of black grapes. They were utterly impractical, and utterly delicious. I wandered from shoes to clothes and stopped before a skirt, the kind that’s a bit stretchy. In a fit of spring fever, I decided to try it on—but in the dressing room, it hugged my bottom in a rather distressing fashion. The young salesgirl’s face fell when I asked her for a bigger size: “They don’t come any larger than that,” she said. I slunk out, feeling too bottom-heavy to live in Paris.
Marina called from Florence to report that Milo had suddenly toppled off the couch. After some consternation on the part of herself and all her neighbors, they determined that he had a digestive problem. Charcoal was suggested as a remedy. On the first attempt at administering it, via a prosciutto delivery system, Milo gobbled the prosciutto and spat out the hidden charcoal; ditto the second attempt. The third offering, however, was devoured whole. He hasn’t fallen off the couch since. Now you know what to do if you ever fall off the couch.
In the Métro this morning: two teenagers entwined behind a beverage dispenser. Anna turned around to ogle them as we walked by. “Their mouths are connected,” she hissed, “just like the way married people do.” A moment later she added: “Romantic. But disgusting.”
My friend Carrie and her daughter Charlotte bounded off the plane yesterday, and before I knew it, I was walking with them all the way up to Montmartre, the highest point in the city. I staggered up the last steps to find the Sacré-Coeur basilica’s dome gleaming in the sunlight, covered by rows of creamy scallops that reminded me of children’s drawings of ocean waves: very regular, quite fantastic.
When I left the States, stockings were out of style, so I was surprised to find French women sitting at cafés, their glossy legs looking quite fabulous. Carrie and I ventured into a hosiery store and were just informed that this year ladies are wearing “invisible” or “sand”-colored stockings. I find bare legs tiresome, so hallelujah!
Paging Dr. Freud: Me, at breakfast, to Alessandro: “The catacombs sound so interesting! In 1741, a man wandered off, and his body wasn’t found for nine years. Let’s take the children this afternoon.” Moment of silence … then gales of laughter. We’re going.
Back in 1786, the French emptied a few cemeteries into the catacombs under Paris, marking the entry with a macabre sign: STOP! THIS IS THE EMPIRE OF DEATH. In the catacombs, bones are set into the walls that line winding paths, with long bones and skulls arranged in pretty patterns. There’s even a romance writer’s delight—a wall constructed of piled femurs interspersed with skulls in the shape of a heart.
The children loved the catacombs. What with squealing at water trickling from the ceiling (possibly French sewers dripping on their shiny hair) and shuddering if they’d accidentally brushed a bone, the subterranean burial site turned into a Parisian treat. Plus, a lively discussion of how one could steal a bone, if one were criminally minded, followed by speculation about lifelong haunting by a vengeful eighteenth-century ghost, cheered everyone to no end.
Carrie and I met a lovely group of French romance readers who showered us with gifts and then took us to a restaurant that had never seen a tourist. We were particularly fascinated, then, by a painting of a young lady wearing nothing but an apron, stockings, and a fetching little hat, and carrying a provocative duster—it was very interesting to see that the French-maid fantasy has the same naughty currency here as in the American male psyche.
Yesterday was a little rainy, and we were virtually alone in Fontainebleau, the hunting palace of French kings and Napoleon. I stood for a long time looking at Marie Antoinette’s gorgeous private boudoir, paneled with glossy, fantastic arabesques … at the splendid bed she ordered but never slept in, because the revolution commenced before the royal family returned to the palace. While Versailles is grand and remote, it had made me feel every inch a Norwegian peasant. Fontainebleau, though, made me want to be a queen—though perhaps one with a longer life span than poor Marie.
We wandered into a restaurant at Fontainebleau yesterday; with a wild glint in his eye, Luca ordered pigs’ feet with mustard sauce. Then a minute after his plate arrived, he snatched my wonderful lamb. So I cautiously ate the porky trotters, whose ankles must have been chubby indeed, given the fatty meat clinging to their tiny bones. Thank goodness for the excellent Bordeaux.
Fontainebleau has a carousel that matches its royal palace: a double-decker whose horses, tiger, and Cinderella carriages are decorated in ornate pastel arabesques. Carrie and I climbed into an egg frothing with rosy curlicues and went around and around, sedately rocking back and forth while the children threw themselves into a spinning egg. We leaned forward, watching Fontainebleau slide by as if we waved from a royal coach; the children’s screaming laughter came on the wind.
Chanel’s spring theme seems predicated, oddly enough, on barnyard references. The mannequins in Printemps’s windows are posed in front of hay bales, and I just walked by the Chanel store near the Madeleine to find mannequins in short skirts awkwardly clutching rakes. Could it be a response to the recession, a daring (if unconvincing) claim that the ultimate Luxury-Is-Us label is dressing down on the farm?
Strolling out of the ultraluxurious Hôtel de Crillon: a woman, at least sixty, wearing over-the-knee boots (Puss in Boots style, with the tops turned up), a flash of glossy thighs in pale stockings, and a severely seamed skirt. A silk scarf sporting bright orange polka dots floated back over her shoulder.
Today, Carrie, Charlotte, Anna, and I tumbled into Le Dôme, a café on rue de Rivoli, and were driven by loud music into the back room, which turned out to be fascinating: a louche setting of velvet couches and low tables with metal lanterns that sent out twinkling spills of light. One could just imagine that decayed glamour at night, when swivel-hipped young Frenchmen with earrings lounge on purple cushions.
Carrie and I left our children behind and went for a swishy lunch near place de la Madeleine, around the corner from Chanel and Hédiard. The people eating with us were as fascinating as our scallops: a newborn baby dressed in soft mint-colored linen; a lady sharing a meal with her husband (or lover?) while wearing a pleated silk skirt that fell to her knees, her sweater embroidered in the same pattern as her skirt.
Anna had a tummy ache in class and cuddled with the teacher for most of the hour. I was suspicious of that stomachache, insofar as Anna is positively Machiavellian at malingering. Domitilla apparently put her head down on her desk and wept loudly because Anna wasn’t sitting next to her. “She’s so dramatic,” Anna complained, “and sometimes I still think about the way she slapped me, so I stayed with the teacher.”
Yesterday we flew to Florence for Easter with the family. I knew I wasn’t in Paris anymore when the entire dinner conversation revolved around food: salami from Sicily (is it better than that from Abruzzi?), the tomatoes bought from a special purveyor, the prosciutto made from “happy pigs” (i.e., free-range pigs, if such a thing is possible). “Any kind of prosciutto makes Milo happy,” Anna pointed out. There is no evidence that his current diet has reduced his waistline.
Florence’s store windows are full of Easter eggs—tiny ones wrapped in shiny gold foil, some as big as a small poodle, complete with pink bow. My favorites are speckled pigeon eggshells, carefully drilled and filled with molten chocolate. You crack the side with a spoo
n as if opening a soft-boiled egg, and voilà, chocolate delight.
To Marina’s great distress, when she called “Treat, treat!” (Milo’s favorite word) this morning, no Milo appeared. Convinced he was dead, she rushed around the apartment looking for him—only to discover him in the living room, stuck behind the couch like a cork in a bottle. Now the couch is pulled a good ten inches from the wall so that Milo’s stomach will not be impeded on its rush to the kitchen.
Anna and I went out with Alessandro’s aunt for a ladies’ lunch today. Anna danced into the Rivoire, an august and elegant institution here in Florence, wearing gorgeous new ballet flats and a ruffled dress. The waiter brought us paper napkins, and then suddenly an elderly gentleman at the next table barked “Filippo! Bring these ladies proper napkins; they are Florentines!” Filippo returned apologetically with huge pale pink linen napkins. We ate like (Florentine) duchesses.
Alessandro and I ventured forth in search of chocolate eggs, since the Easter Bunny finds American children no matter where they happen to be. Generally speaking, the Easter Bunny hops over Italy, where instead parents give big chocolate eggs that crack open to reveal a surprise toy. We saw one the size of a seven-pound baby, decorated with a lush three-dimensional bouquet of chocolate flowers.
I always thought boys’ reluctance to speak about their feelings was programmed by culture (nurture, not nature) and raised Luca accordingly. But lately he only grunts when asked questions about his emotions. “I can talk about my feelings,” he said today, when pinned down. “But” (with unmistakable revulsion) “not with my mom.” I do hope whomever he’s sharing all those feelings with appreciates the effort I put in.
Milo looks very odd when he runs. His legs look like delicate twigs scissoring below his round and furry belly. But he rarely runs anywhere; he avoids even walking whenever possible. He’s like a bolster pillow auditioning to be a dog.
Today we went to a small fair that had taken up Easter residence in Florence’s biggest park. It was a small, tattered, and supremely illegal carnival: emblazoned with Walt Disney characters, though the magic and copyright-sensitive hands of the Disney corporation surely never came near it. Anna, who had triumphed over the Tower of Terror at Disneyland Paris, found herself petrified by this ancient Ferris wheel. We rose up in the air, sitting in a little car with open sides and no seat belts, and Anna buried her head in her lap and wailed, “This isn’t safe! I wouldn’t take my daughter on this ride!” I ignored her, enjoying the grin of Thomas O’Malley the Alley Cat on the canopy over my head as we rose into the blue sky, swaying gently.
A delightful Easter memory from yesterday: ladies walking to church holding little bowls tied up in linen tea towels and topped with taffeta bows. Inside were hard-boiled eggs, on their way to Mass to be blessed by the priest. We brought ours home and sliced them, per paschal tradition, into homemade broth, which created a sunny, blessed soup.
Today we all have chocolate hangovers. First the Easter Bunny arrived, then Nonna gave both children foot-high chocolate eggs topped by flares of shiny foil. Then relatives began to arrive—also bearing eggs. The living room table is now full of them, as if someone were growing huge radishes with garish foil tops.
We are throwing a birthday party for Alessandro’s beloved aunt Giuliana, the widow of his paternal uncle, whom she met thanks to being related to his father—after said uncle divorced his first wife. The dinner, which will take place in her favorite restaurant, includes family from both sides, several of whom maintain hostile relations. We just made up the seating chart, which took several hours and is a miracle of strategic and diplomatic finesse, in hopes of avoiding Italian fireworks.
If you ever visit Italy, do not skip the grocery chain Esselunga. They often carry onesies made by the French company Petit Bateau, with adorable little illustrations on the front. I always pick up a few for last-minute gifts, but only after living in Paris have I realized that they are actually cheaper in Italy than on their native soil.
The birthday party for Giuliana went off without a hitch. The children had every reason to behave during dinner, given that my personal threat of evisceration was accompanied by permission to bring books and iPod Touches. For five hours and six courses, they did a pretty good job of pretending to be polite and obedient. But when the birthday cake was delivered, Anna suddenly disappeared. Next thing I knew she was on Giuliana’s lap, smiling her most charming grin while a forest of cameras flashed and Giuliana blew out her birthday candles.
Next to our table was another such birthday celebration. Center stage was a pencil-thin, elegant woman with bleached blond hair, fabulous high heels, and a short blue dress. She stood out among her family members like a show poodle sitting in a group of cheerful, loving dachshunds. My favorite moment was when one of her family gave her a floppy messenger bag adorned with a big Snoopy. She charmingly slung it over her shoulder—for the very last time, I’d bet my firstborn.
I went for a run with Alessandro and then trotted up 108 steps to the sixth floor, fell through the door, and threw myself on the living room rug to recover. Milo hauled himself up from his velvet cushion and came to see what was happening. To everyone’s delight, he aligned his fat little body next to mine and rolled over on his back so that we could pant in tandem.
Anna’s favorite moments in life come when Luca deigns to play with her. This afternoon Luca played king, sprawled in a chair, while Anna danced about him, waving her wand. Anna, as has perhaps been deduced, is a Harry Potter addict, while Luca prefers the Middle Ages. From the other room, I heard “Avada Kedavra!” (the killing curse), followed by a fifteen-year-old’s bellow: “What do you mean, you killed my court poet?”
Today the kids and I went to the Parco delle Cascine, a huge former estate that is now a public park sporting Florence’s biggest weekly outdoor market, with stands selling everything from wastepaper baskets to vegetables to dresses for a euro or two. It’s a particularly great place to find long translucent curtains, embroidered with flowers or fleurs-de-lis, the emblem of the city of Florence.
Thanks to an Italian hairdresser, my blond hair has been turned bright orange. Alessandro grinned and observed: “It’s really different.” My bruised self-image was soothed by Luca, who said, “Wow, no suburban moms have hair like that.” In an instance of truly regrettable timing, this week Alessandro and I are off to Venice, where I am to deliver an academic lecture before Shakespeare professors. I can guarantee that none of them will have hair that Ronald McDonald would envy.
Yesterday we wandered around Florence, ending up in a fabulous ice cream shop, Gelateria dei Neri, on Via dei Neri, behind Piazza della Signoria. If you ever come to Florence, try the sweet and slightly nutty ricotta and fig flavor.
In Venice for the conference, the first thing we did after leaving our hotel was go to Caffè Florian in Piazza San Marco. When Alessandro and I were grad students and poor as church mice, we shared a tiny pot of tea here for 7,000 lire ($3.50 at the time—a small fortune). Now we had a pot of tea each, listening to a jazz quartet play “And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.” Our tab came to thirty euros, or about $44.00, a ha’penny compared to the joy of being there together, solvent and happy.
Today we took a tour of Venice’s Jewish quarter. It’s the oldest ghetto in the world (dating to the early sixteenth century)—a tiny island where all Jews were compelled to live, so they built houses eight stories high, with no elevators. The synagogues are beautiful, as is the memorial depicting the train that transported people to the concentration camps. Out of hundreds of Venetian Jews, only eight returned. It is heartbreaking.
Venice is like the dream of a sleeping shopaholic—the little, gorgeous footbridges rise into the air and come down into yet other streets of shop windows, shining with gold, velvet, and glass. The streets blend together as if one were wandering in circles, always presented with more to desire, more to buy.
Today I happened on a large pink sign for the Fortuny Museum. I thought vaguely of si
lk and decided to investigate. Mariano Fortuny (born 1871) was a brilliant fashion designer who worked with finely pleated silk and lustrous velvet. Don’t miss this museum: it’s a bit gloomy inside, but there’s a velvet couch to rest your tired legs and read the museum catalog.
Venice is big, labyrinthine, and full of stairs. Its address system is obscure to the point of impenetrability, and because it has no streets, you can’t simply fall into a taxi, which is my response to being lost in other cities. Today I got lost, but then found myself again at the Grand Canal Restaurant at Hotel Monaco. I splurged on an exorbitant lunch on the terrace, by myself. I ate a grilled octopus salad and fish soup profumo di zafferano, or saffron, along with a glass of champagne. My waiter thought I was crazy because I drank champagne alone while reading a book. But by that point I was tired of beauty, and a novel set on a foreign planet featuring a cowboyesque hero was exactly what I needed.
My least favorite moment in the academic conference for which I traveled to Venice: an enormously skilled actor performing a scene as a mountebank, or Renaissance con man. He waved his tiny bottle of “Dew of Venus” at my orange hair and said, “For ladies who are going gray, this will give you back your auburn tresses.” I laughed but thought bitter thoughts about the Italian hairdresser who’d promised to restore my blond hair to its normal red.