“Yes, I think so. Only a few more chapters.” He grinned. Pleased to be part of the process. “Merci, Philippe.” then I switched to English. “I am so appreciative for all you have done to accommodate me over the past year.” He glowed.
“Un cognac?!” he suggested.
“Non, merci.”
“Non? Pourquoi?” I always had a cognac and sometimes a second. Something he seemed to like giving me on him.
“Je bois trop.” I frowned. “Ma foie!”
He laughed and said “Moi aussi!”
I flagged Guillaume down and paid my bill, slipping outside in the rain to wait for my Uber. Philippe came running out after me to say goodbye. I kissed him soundly on both cheeks and said “Au revoir.” I doubt he knew the meaning of my au revoir. I even cried a little in the Uber.
L’Ecoles de Filles
A thousand years ago, when I was pretending to study at University, I had a boyfriend who brought the audio version of a book that was making the best seller lists at the time. Actually there were two; one for men and another for women. I can’t for the life of me remember the names of the books but the authors were just a single initial. So “J” wrote the version for women, “How to please a man” and “P” wrote the version for men. My clever boyfriend brought “J’s” version and we sat in his car in front of the house and listened on an 8 track or cassette or whatever archaic device we listened to music in the days before Bluetooth and digital and even CDs. Pretty smooth move on his part, now that I think about it oh so many years later.
Suzanne and Fanchon. Ninon had pulled it off. Her book was certainly causing quite the scandal. But Ninon cared naught for scandals. Everyone in Paris and beyond was searching for the true identity of Ange but ironically nobody suspected Madame de l’Enclos.
How was a young woman to learn about love; more specifically about the art of making love?
“Belles et curieuses damoiselles, voici l’École de votre sagesse, et le recueil des principales choses que vous devez savoir pour contenter vos maris quand vous en aurez ; c’est le secret infaillible pour vous faire aimer des hommes quand vous ne seriez pas belles, et le moyen aisé de couler en douceurs et en plaisirs tout le temps de votre jeunesse.”
Beautiful and curious young women, here is the school of your wisdom… all of the things you must know to please your husbands…
Or perhaps not your husbands.
It is impossible to find a copy of the actual book translated into English. It’s also evidently not possible to find a copy in French. But I did find an excerpt on a pdf file, in French that included the “Mystical and allegorical table according to the moral and literal sense of School girls.” After a year in France, my language skills had progressed sufficiently to get the gist of this, but I popped the lengthy Table of Contents into Google Translate and came up with a general idea of what Suzanne had to share with Fauchon, her young protégé.
Hardly the Kama Sutra. In fact, hardly titillating by today’s standards.
Note of age cleaner to marry girls.
First testimonials of love of boys towards girls
The rigors of mothers and the foolishness of girls who refuse them boys and their caresses.
Girls ignorant not to listen to words of men.
Excellence of the pleasure of love.
Simplicity of a girl who does not know what love is, nor what is it clean. (???)
Preparations for girls pleasure instruction of love
Age to start loving boys and girls
Short description by parenthesis and necessary in this place, of a man who pisses and lives when he does not band.
Generality of the pleasure of love and the large number of people who are involved, with a division on it.
OK, I’m going to need help understanding all of this. Google translate must be mistranslating some things…. A quick text to Renard.
“I think I may need your help with something for my book.” I suspect he will like this. He quickly responds, “Yes, you will explain to me.”
The list goes on, some things intriguing “Speech of fools”, others sound more technical; “the proper names of things”. Some don’t seem to make any sense at all; “How does the boy to push him live in the corner and the pleasure the girl receives”.
18. Third resumption, and more specific description of the lives only before; inner anatomy of the con, which he nothing is so difficult to peel; with the beginning, the end and duration of the pleasure of love.
And this way before Viagra but maybe after the African wood that Renard talked about looking into.
19. Of the liquor of love (I’m going to have to try using this phrase next time!), which comes about in this law. (law?)
20. Fourth recovery, as the living goes out after the function of the pleasure of love, and as the girl can make it return stiff with hand.
21. Great and different virtues of the girls’ hand to give pleasure to boys; where it is inserted something of the kiss of the tongue.”
OK, now we’re going somewhere….
24. Possible and new remedy for girls who are con itchy for lack of life to put in, rubbing it with the finger.
It? Which it are we talking about?
25. Advice to girls to take a friend…
NO! Don’t do it!
26. Reasons that prevent girls from being entertained, and refutations of these.
First reason.
Second reason.
Third reason.
Fourth reason.
OK, I’d like to see these….
32. How many times he withdraws, or how many rides in one night.
Good question….
37. Nice comparison of the noise that makes a live con when he comes in and goes out… Learning necessary for girls to move well the buttocks. More about the ejaculation of love liqueur (liquid d’amore)…
My Google translate is sighing and moaning. I’m a little confused. I put it aside until Renard can lend a hand (so to speak).
Evidently Ninon’s book is in fact titillating. Or so it would seem on a rainy Saturday afternoon, after a long lunch and an excellent bottle of Margaux. I explained a bit about Ninon and her life to Renard. Then Ninon’s book. He was interested. I opened the PDF file, 19 pages introducing the tome and listing the Table of Contents.
Renard struggled as much with the translation as Google translate. “This is not common French.” he kept saying, as he scootched towards the edge of the couch, closer to the computer.
“No” I responded, “remember, it was written in 1655.”
“Yes, it’s very old... not typical.”
Well, typical enough to get him interested.
“Oh, this is very good!” was his most common remark. As he got lost into the book he mumbled and smirked and smiled and nodded. The most common theme seemed to be “riding” which he punctuated with a funny gesture, like two hands around a girl’s waist and plopping her down on his “lap”.
45. How to get sex quickly (in fifteen minutes or less) on the coffre. He spent several minutes trying to describe to me what a coffre is, finally googling it and showing me pictures of chests or trunks. Exactly what I thought it was. That seemed to baffle him. Why would anyone want to get sex on a coffre? At this point though, he seemed willing to go with it.
In the end, Ninon’s book seemed too distracting and he proclaimed we needed a break. “A nap, perhaps?”
364 years later Ninon’s L’Ecoles des Filles is doing its job.
October 17, 1706
Termini
Qu’un vain espoir ne vienne point s’offrir,
Qui puisse ébranler mon courage;
Je suis en âge de mourir;
Que ferais-je ici davantage
Let no vain hopes come now and try
My courage
strong to overthrow;
My age demands that I shall die.
What more can I do here below?
November 26th
A year ago today, I boarded (again) a plane to Paris. I know, I’ve flown a lot of planes to Paris in the last 10 years, but this time it was different. This time, I was going to start a new life. (And yes, I returned for the month of January to finish up some loose ends, but this time, I knew that returning to SF would be different, a “visit” short).
The past year has been extraordinary. I had the chance to make wonderful friends. Charlotte, my “Fairy Godmother and Elliot, my Fairy Godfather” of friends generously opened up their networks and the result was so rewarding. It’s hard to believe that the people who populate my days I’ve known for less than a year. I cannot imagine my life without them!
People say that Parisians are hostile and rude. I must say that nothing is further from the truth. Owners and servers of the cafés and restaurants, my butcher, my cheese maker, the charming man who manages the produce store, the boys downstairs in the mini market, the cashiers at the G20, the ladies at the bakery ... everyone in my little section of rue Caulaincourt, everyone made me feel so welcome and part of the fabric of my little neighborhood.
My French is appalling, but less dreadful by half than a year ago! I have eaten thousands of mussels, a mountain of cheese and other things that I will not even try to quantify. And I drank gallons of wine! Every bus or taxi ride through the city takes my breath away. Every day I am stunned by the reality that I live in this amazing place. The ghosts of Montmartre have become my friends. I love to walk on the cobblestones at night, the same pavements on which Lautrec, Degas and Picasso tread. And I am so grateful to add my own echoes to these nocturnal footsteps.
After all the stress of impending homelessness and trying to figure out where I belonged, Stephanie came for our American Thanksgiving dinner, chez moi, with news to be truly thankful for. The owner of my apartment agreed to let me stay as long as I liked, beginning in June of next year. The apartment in the Cepage building was available for seven weeks of the gap, the time the owner will be in Paris. I have a world of options for how to spend the other seven weeks. It seems my perfect apartment would still be mine. It probably helped that I offered her more money.
A year ago, I opened a Google document and wrote the first sentence. I was not sure if I could write. But I wrote! Tens of thousands of words! I even suspect that with a serious editing, these words are worth reading!
So now that Paris is lit up again by the lights of the holidays and the champagne corks burst and the oysters are slurped and the foie gras is tasted and we wrap ourselves in layers of scarves, hats and gloves, I start my second year here. Paris changed me. I like the person that I’ve become. And I love the fact that Paris and the Parisians have embraced this Californian.
Il y a un an aujourd’hui, je suis monté (encore) dans un avion pour Paris. Je sais, j’ai embarqué de nombreux avions à Paris au cours des 10 dernières années, mais cette fois-ci, c’était différent. Cette fois, j’allais commencer une nouvelle vie. (et oui, j’y suis retourné pour le mois de janvier pour en finir, mais cette fois, je savais que retourner à SF serait différent, une “visite” courte).
L’année écoulée a été extraordinaire. J’ai eu la chance de faire de merveilleux amis. Ma “fée marraine et fée parrain” d’amis m’a généreusement ouvert ses réseaux et le résultat a été si enrichissant. Il est difficile de croire que les gens qui peuplent mes jours que je connais depuis moins d’un an. Je ne peux pas imaginer ma vie sans eux!
Les gens disent que les parisiens sont hostiles et impolis. Je dois dire que rien n’est plus éloigné de la vérité. Propriétaires et serveurs de café et de restaurant, mon boucher, mon fromager, le charmant homme qui gère le magasin de produits, les garçons en bas au mini-marché, les caissières au G20, les dames à la boulangerie ... tout le monde dans ma petite section de la rue Caulaincourt, tout m’a fait que je me sente si bien accueillie et qu’elle fasse partie du tissu de mon petit quartier.
Mon français est épouvantable, mais moins épouvantable qu’il y a un an de moitié! J’ai mangé des milliers de moules, une montagne de fromage et d’autres choses que je ne tenterai même pas de quantifier. Et j’ai bu des litres de vin! Chaque trajet en bus ou en taxi à travers la ville me coupe le souffle. Tous les jours je suis abasourdi par la réalité que je vis dans cet endroit étonnant. Les fantômes de Montmartre sont devenus mes amis. J’aime marcher sur les pavés la nuit, les mêmes pavés sur lesquels foulent Lautrec, Degas, Picasso. Et je suis si reconnaissant d’ajouter mes propres échos à ces pas nocturnes.
Il y a un an, j’ai ouvert un document Google et rédigé la première phrase. Je n’étais pas sûr de pouvoir écrire. Mais j’ai écrit! Des dizaines de milliers de mots! Je soupçonne même qu’avec une édition sérieuse, ces mots méritent d’être lus!
Alors maintenant que Paris est de nouveau illuminée par les lumières des fêtes et que les bouchons de champagne éclatent et que les huîtres sont gorgées et que le foie gras est dégusté et que nous nous enveloppons de couches de foulards, de chapeaux et de gants, je commence ma deuxième année ici. Paris m’a changé. J’aime la personne à qui il m’a confié. Et j’adore le fait que Paris et les parisiens aient embrassé cette californienne.
FIN
Acknowledgments
Merci Beaucoup
It’s dangerous to begin thanking people for any major undertaking because there are so many that will be left out. That said...
Building a new life would not have been nearly as much fun or as easy without two people who opened their networks to me and became my go-to guardians for all things Paris, Forest and Fred. Along with them, to all the lovely friends who have shared their adventures with me; a big merci.
Stephanie and Magalie, the soeurs de ma coeur: I love you both and look forward to many more bottles of champagne on rooftops, wine in our living rooms, gossipy lunches, and explorations of other parts of France!
Beverly, my editor, cheerleader, creative consultant and smart reader, you have been invaluable and I am so excited to work on Book #2 with you!
Lily, my French editor, merci cherie! You are both brilliant and fun.
Lina, who’s cover illustration absolutely captures my relationship with Ninon and the Grand Comptoir, you are so gifted.
To all my voisins and the denizens of my little neighborhood on rue Caulaincourt, a big merci for allowing me to become part of the fabric of life in this very special place. You have made me proud to be the American girl, but maybe just a little bit Parisienne.
And to R. You taught me that tomorrow can bring the most amazing surprises.
Coming in 2021
My Paris Kitchen - The Good, the Bad and Everything In Between
(Once taste is learned, there is no return…)
Oscar Wilde wrote that when they die, all good Americans go to Paris. Not trusting the Almighty’s decision as to whether or not I have been a good American, I decided to go a bit early. Visa renewal application completed, long term lease signed. Year number two of my life in Paris has officially started. So let’s recap.
I moved to Paris after a long and fruitful Silicon Valley career. I arrived a bit worn out from long years of business travel, twelve hour work days, horrible commutes, high pressure decisions to a life where my only decisions were where to spend my day writing my 1,000 words five days a week, which restaurant to eat in and what kind of wine to order. I made enemies (one) and friends (dozens).
As the seasons passed on my little street in Montmartre, as well as the rest of Paris, I got to know the commercants; the helpful handsome butchers, the lovely cheesemonger, the man with the Lebanese deli (who took a liking to my little granddaughter when she came to visit), the ladies in the boulangerie, the men at the produce stand, the girls at the G-20 all greeted me with familiarity. When I w
alked down rue Caulaincourt, Rafaele came out of Les Loups to give me la bise. Claudine, my hairdresser waved out the window. Tomas called out a hearty bonjour from Les Capages. The florist nodded and showed me what was new today. I had indeed become part of the fabric of my little quartiere.
Siobhan texted me regularly to ask me to meet her for a quick coffee. Stephanie came by often to share a bottle of champagne at the end of the day just because we liked to celebrate our happy lives. Magalie joined us often after work and our after work bottle would turn into several that lasted late into the night.
When I ventured further out of my neighborhood, and even out of the 18eme, I would find myself writing or enjoying jazz dinners at GCA where the bartender welcomed me by name, Philippe ran over to give me la bise and finally Guilloume stopped calling me Madam W. Daniele started to join me during his break. The same at Le Clou where Maulo rewarded me with la bise and the rest of the staff warmly shook my hand, more out of respect than anything else. I had dinners with Elliott and his tribe of expats, met Silvie to try out new restaurants, had regular drinks with Charlotte, and met Lina and Oliver to consult on ideas and guests for their podcasts.
I navigated the challenges of living in a different country, in a different language, in a different culture. I dealt with repairmen, delivery men, changing bus routes, stranger followers on the street. I cooked a turkey dinner for my French friends on Thanksgiving, figuring out how to get all but the most elusive products not regularly found in France. I bought a Christmas tree. I endeavored to live in French. “Si j’habite à Paris je doit parler seulement francais!” I declared to anyone who tried to speak English to me, or who complained about my French. My French got better by half.
I learned to eat differently. I actually begin to taste my food. One lunchtime at home I marveled of the exquisiteness of an artichoke eaten by itself, with a glass of wine. I ate thousands of moules, mountains of cheese and kilos of foie gras. I drank gallons of wine; wine with lunch, wine with dinner. I made coffee every morning in my French press. And I lost weight.
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 33