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An
American in Paris: Thanksgiving 2004 What could be more appropriate to hear on the Paris Metro than French horns? They add a holiday feeling to a chilly Paris on a Thanksgiving weekend. Thanksgiving, of course, is completely off the map of the French. We spent Turkey Day with expat friends slurping oysters and savoring foie gras and boef. Oh, and don't forget the cheeses and chocolates. You see, all of this stuff is good for you…if you are in France. Turkey is a delicacy here, an expensive one. But these are not the Dolly Parton 44D Turkeys we gorge on in America. These are trim, petit, Leslie Caron birds that could inspire you to dance through the Bois Bolougne rather than fall asleep in your LazyBoy. I don't feel so guilty eating red meat in France. The French are very fussy about what they put in their mouths. Not so many hormones and other nasties that pass down the food chain to plump you up as surely Tom Turkey. We spotted quite a few fellow free-range Americans wandering about. One young couple wore a Kerry-Edwards buttons, a "I didn't vote for HIM" statement. Our friends told us that people visiting them from Kansas feared they might be kidnapped. Oh zut! By whom? The gourmand resistance? I would love to be locked in the Pied d'Cochon or some other starred restaurant and force fed pate' and Crepe Suzettes washed down with flagons of Burgundy, Until , of course, I confessed that I loved Paris. I can see the headlines: "Food hostage succumbs to gout!" Do the French hate us? No, that's silly. But they are curious. I was surprised at how many struck up conversations with my wife and me in restaurants. They view us as kind of rustic, like survivalists holed up in a backwoods cabin defying the rest of the world. They hate George Bush but they're not wild about their leader either.
And what about this American culture that surrounds them? Posters for Disney's "The Indestructables?" ("Incredibles" doesn't translate well). And what about the huge billboards in almost every Metro station featuring Sarah Jessica Parker. She gets more face time than Jacques Chirac…and that, at least asthetically, is a good thing. The French may sniff at American culture but they buy it by the bushel. My wife and I enjoy a lunch at the Pied d'Cochon, hosted by a Paresian friend. We couldn't afford it ourselves. The fois gras goes down like a creamy magic potion. I don't harbor a fleeting thought about the rights of geese. At the next table, Regine, the disco queen, holds court surrounded by fawning men. It looks like a scene of "Gay Paree" from an Impressionist painting. Some of the old dresses of this Paris icon are displayed in the Louvre. Regine is still stunning after all of these years. We exchange glances, but when she opened her first club in 1958, someone like me would have never gotten past the doorman to party with Nureyev or drink Dom Perignon from Bardot's shoe. I could live in Paris if it weren't so damned expensive. Our several friends there, living on US dollar based pensions, book royalties and salaries have seen their buying power plummet by about a third recently. But there are still bargains to be found, even for tourists. My wife and I got a decent hotel room for about 130 bucks a night with a view of the Eiffel Tower (the Best Western Trocadero). We found several tasty, charming, reasonable restaurants. Our favorite was the Brasserie de la Poste on Rue de Longchamp. But, best of all, we did what Paris is all about…took time to savor life: stroll along the Seine, browse the old travel book on Isle St. Louis, roam romantically in the fall drizzle as Christmas lights sparkle and the dollars in our pockets whimper: "you can look but you can't buy." But that is fine with me. The best of Paris is free.
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