The Franco-American Flophouse in Versailles is quite charming: lovely garden, nice terrace, fireplace, hardwood floors and a respectable kitchen. But, it has limited space and, if you visit, you'll have to share a bathroom with two teenagers.
For those of you who find that this does not meet your expectations for luxury and French Old Regime decadence, you will have another option sometime in late 2011.
A mansion on the castle grounds (which has served as a Finance Ministry and a mess hall for the Army) is being transformed into a luxury hotel. Photo and article here.
Please be aware that if you choose this option, but still wish for a Franco-American breakfast on a Sunday morning or an afternoon beer on the terrace in MY garden, it is a 20 minute walk along the Avenue de Paris from castle to flophouse.
From the 17th century to the 20th.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Flophouse Favorite #3 - Good Day Books
Mentally stretch and imagine for a moment Tokyo as a suburb of Paris (a little like Belgium or Luxembourg).
Then take any Parisian metro line and extend it across the Eurasian continent, under the Sea of Japan, to the Ebisu Station on the JR Yamanote line.
Exit the station, stroll a bit and you will find Good Day Books.
This little gem of a bookstore in Tokyo was a frequent hangout of mine when I lived in Japan. I was a proud member of the Bookclub, a discussion group for political junkies animated by the owner, Steve.
Good Day Books is the “largest English bookshop in Tokyo” and it is a marvel. Only bookstore I’ve ever been in that made me feel really REALLY guilty for ordering books through Amazon.com.
Even if you are only in Tokyo for a few days, stop by and chat up Steve. Remarkable guy, amazing selection of new and used books, a “home” for those of us who like to spend our Sunday afternoons debating the fate of the world.
Good Day Books
3F Asahi Building
1-11-2 Ebisu
Shibuya-ku
Tokyo 150-0013
Tel: 03-5421-0957
goodday@gol.com
Then take any Parisian metro line and extend it across the Eurasian continent, under the Sea of Japan, to the Ebisu Station on the JR Yamanote line.
Exit the station, stroll a bit and you will find Good Day Books.
This little gem of a bookstore in Tokyo was a frequent hangout of mine when I lived in Japan. I was a proud member of the Bookclub, a discussion group for political junkies animated by the owner, Steve.
Good Day Books is the “largest English bookshop in Tokyo” and it is a marvel. Only bookstore I’ve ever been in that made me feel really REALLY guilty for ordering books through Amazon.com.
Even if you are only in Tokyo for a few days, stop by and chat up Steve. Remarkable guy, amazing selection of new and used books, a “home” for those of us who like to spend our Sunday afternoons debating the fate of the world.
Good Day Books
3F Asahi Building
1-11-2 Ebisu
Shibuya-ku
Tokyo 150-0013
Tel: 03-5421-0957
goodday@gol.com
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Hacking French
Allow me to direct you to someone who I think has found two of the essential ingredients for learning a second language: a positive attitude and empathy. Benny the Irish Polygot is a Global Nomad who believes that he has found the secret to quick and easy second-language acquisition. His site is called Fluent in 3 Months and, while I cannot vouch for his method, I believe that his enthusiasm and open-mindedness are key to his success.
I firmly believe that there is an important link between opening your mind to a culture and a people and successfully learning another language. If you don’t like the people that you ostensibly wish to communicate with, your motivation and, ultimately, your goal is compromised from the start.
For example, if you don’t like English-speakers (be they Brits, Americans, or Australians) - in fact, if you have a bad attitude toward the Anglo-Saxon world in general - you have created an enormous wall between you and them that will spill over into your efforts to learn English.
Benny has an excellent post here about his experiences studying French in Paris. He arrived overflowing with goodwill and a desire to learn which disappeared in a few short months. Instead of blaming the Parisians, Benny took a good hard look at himself and decided to change his approach (among other things he discovered the System D.) He called it “starting with a clean slate and opening your mind.”
If you are just starting to learn another language or, if you have struggled for years to master one, a good place to start is by taking inventory of your attitudes and prejudices toward the people who speak your target language.
Then sweep the halls of your mind clean and begin again.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Etrangeté
I have always been intrigued and impressed by my French friends’ deep appreciation for poetry.
They start young. When the Frenchlings were in elementary school I remember them sitting at the dining room table memorizing poems for French class. They must have learned hundreds of poems, some of which they can recite even today. Over the years and with a lot of guidance from friends, I’ve come to love it too.
So I was delighted when my friend and colleague, Corinne Texier, gave me permission to post some of her work here.
In English the title of the poem is “Strangeness”. Not wishing to be a “translator, traitor,” I have not translated it into English since I know I couldn’t capture her meaning in a way that would do it justice. May you enjoy it as much as I did.
Etrangeté
Le vent doucement vient de s’apaiser,
Les oiseaux n’osent plus à cet instant chanter,
Le silence comme une feuille sur le sol posé,
Les rides du lac lentement viennent à s’effacer.
Sur ces berges un fantôme semble se dessiner,
Au témoin le voile garde ces traits dissimulés,
Mais ressent le silence que le spectre a imposé,
Il s’approche de l’onde et vient si agenouiller.
On distingue alors ces mains toutes décharnées
Que le vent d’un souffle pourrait briser,
Le témoin à cet instant s’arrête de respirer,
Vers lui le visage lentement vient de se tourner.
La main gracieuse, le voile semble attraper,
Révélant ce visage que le temps à ravagé,
Sur vous son regard, elle vient de poser,
Elle ne semble pas des berges vouloir bouger.
Vers elle maintenant vous vous avancez,
Vous discernez nettement son visage atrophié,
Prés d’elle sur le sol à ses coté, vous venez,
Dans ses yeux noirs vous y retrouvez le passé.
Elle se penche alors vers le miroir de pureté,
Son visage comme par magie vient se refléter,
Il n’est pas celui que vous semblez regarder,
Mais seulement ce que la vie semble lui laisser.
Dans quel miroir le soir voulez vous regarder ?
Celui de ce lac qui seul restitue la beauté ?
Ou celui de mon cœur sous les brumes cachées ?
Une larme des yeux noirs dans le lac est tombée.
Une si petite chose pouvait donc tout effacer,
Comme une flèche le cœur venant transpercer,
Le visage dans l’eau, c’est par magie volatilisée,
Ce spectre a-t-il pour vous réellement existé ?
Moi je l’ai sur cette berge rencontrée,
Un rêve qui me montrait une réalité,
Et les larmes sur mes joues ont coulé,
Dans ce miroir je voulais tant y regarder.
Corinne Texier
They start young. When the Frenchlings were in elementary school I remember them sitting at the dining room table memorizing poems for French class. They must have learned hundreds of poems, some of which they can recite even today. Over the years and with a lot of guidance from friends, I’ve come to love it too.
So I was delighted when my friend and colleague, Corinne Texier, gave me permission to post some of her work here.
In English the title of the poem is “Strangeness”. Not wishing to be a “translator, traitor,” I have not translated it into English since I know I couldn’t capture her meaning in a way that would do it justice. May you enjoy it as much as I did.
Etrangeté
Le vent doucement vient de s’apaiser,
Les oiseaux n’osent plus à cet instant chanter,
Le silence comme une feuille sur le sol posé,
Les rides du lac lentement viennent à s’effacer.
Sur ces berges un fantôme semble se dessiner,
Au témoin le voile garde ces traits dissimulés,
Mais ressent le silence que le spectre a imposé,
Il s’approche de l’onde et vient si agenouiller.
On distingue alors ces mains toutes décharnées
Que le vent d’un souffle pourrait briser,
Le témoin à cet instant s’arrête de respirer,
Vers lui le visage lentement vient de se tourner.
La main gracieuse, le voile semble attraper,
Révélant ce visage que le temps à ravagé,
Sur vous son regard, elle vient de poser,
Elle ne semble pas des berges vouloir bouger.
Vers elle maintenant vous vous avancez,
Vous discernez nettement son visage atrophié,
Prés d’elle sur le sol à ses coté, vous venez,
Dans ses yeux noirs vous y retrouvez le passé.
Elle se penche alors vers le miroir de pureté,
Son visage comme par magie vient se refléter,
Il n’est pas celui que vous semblez regarder,
Mais seulement ce que la vie semble lui laisser.
Dans quel miroir le soir voulez vous regarder ?
Celui de ce lac qui seul restitue la beauté ?
Ou celui de mon cœur sous les brumes cachées ?
Une larme des yeux noirs dans le lac est tombée.
Une si petite chose pouvait donc tout effacer,
Comme une flèche le cœur venant transpercer,
Le visage dans l’eau, c’est par magie volatilisée,
Ce spectre a-t-il pour vous réellement existé ?
Moi je l’ai sur cette berge rencontrée,
Un rêve qui me montrait une réalité,
Et les larmes sur mes joues ont coulé,
Dans ce miroir je voulais tant y regarder.
Corinne Texier
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Flophouse Favorite #2 - Les Diablotins (formerly Les Galopins)
Restaurant Les Diablotins, 27 rue des Meuniers, Suresnes
When I was working in Suresnes this place was very popular. For those of us who ate there often, it was practically the company cafeteria. There was even a story (probably apocryphal) about one executive who knew the wine list so well that he would bypass the waiter, go straight to the cellar and select his very own bottle of wine from their fine selection.
Really, really good food. The menu is here.
Get a reservation and go for lunch. There is a very nice park across the street so you can walk off your crème brulée. They are closed in August (yes, the entire month) so plan accordingly.
The most memorable meal I had here was right after my boss (two companies ago), the much-loved and greatly respected CIO, announced that she was leaving the company.
My Operations Director and I left the meeting room, walked out onto the streets of Suresnes and headed straight for the restaurant where we ordered:
An aperitif (kir)
The Côte de boeuf for two (a huge slab of perfectly cooked, melt in your mouth, bloody rare, beef )
A nice bottle of Bordeaux (also for two)
Dessert (it was either the Fondant au chocolat or the Crumble)
The meal was superb and, after the third glass of wine or so, we cheered up and started plotting our next career move.
Restaurant Les Diablotins
Tel : 01 45 06 54 54
They also take email reservations
When I was working in Suresnes this place was very popular. For those of us who ate there often, it was practically the company cafeteria. There was even a story (probably apocryphal) about one executive who knew the wine list so well that he would bypass the waiter, go straight to the cellar and select his very own bottle of wine from their fine selection.
Really, really good food. The menu is here.
Get a reservation and go for lunch. There is a very nice park across the street so you can walk off your crème brulée. They are closed in August (yes, the entire month) so plan accordingly.
The most memorable meal I had here was right after my boss (two companies ago), the much-loved and greatly respected CIO, announced that she was leaving the company.
My Operations Director and I left the meeting room, walked out onto the streets of Suresnes and headed straight for the restaurant where we ordered:
An aperitif (kir)
The Côte de boeuf for two (a huge slab of perfectly cooked, melt in your mouth, bloody rare, beef )
A nice bottle of Bordeaux (also for two)
Dessert (it was either the Fondant au chocolat or the Crumble)
The meal was superb and, after the third glass of wine or so, we cheered up and started plotting our next career move.
Restaurant Les Diablotins
Tel : 01 45 06 54 54
They also take email reservations
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
What is a "Flophouse"?
When I was a child growing up in the Pacific Northwest, I lived in a house in Seattle that everyone called “The Thackeray Street Hotel”. This house (also called “The Blue House” by the Frenchlings) was located on Thackeray Street in the Wallingford District of Seattle, not far from the University of Washington.
I’m not sure who first came up with the idea of calling it a “hotel” but I surely know why; it was an open house in the best sense of that term. Almost every day there were people popping in and out; some stayed for dinner, some for a night and some practically moved in for months at a time. It wasn’t a large house by any means but there was always room for a friend or a friend of a friend to sleep and there was always space at the dinner table for “just one more if we squeeze the chairs together a bit tighter.” At one time there were so many keys to this house floating around that my parents were no longer sure who had one and who might unexpectedly appear in the evening hours. Interesting people: lawyers, artists, scientists, engineers, anthropologists, jazz and folk musicians, public radio aficionados, a retired Federal Appeals Court judge and at least one hobo.
So when the time came to found my own household I looked for name of my very own. One that captured the bi-cultural nature of the family, the transient nature of our living situation and the hope that we would have our own collection of interesting people to visit us wherever we decided to live.
“Franco-American” was obvious. As a synonym for “hotel”, the archaic American “flophouse” seemed appropriate. When I put the two together I thought that “Franco-American Flophouse” tripped nicely off the tongue.
For those who wish for a formal definition, Wikipedia says: “a place that offers very cheap lodging, generally by providing only minimal services... Occupants of flophouses generally share bathroom facilities and reside in very tight quarters." A very accurate description of every apartment I've ever lived in and the house I own today in Porchefontaine (55 square meters).
Unlike the Thackeray Street Hotel, the Franco-American Flophouse is not a physical place. On the contrary, it will never have a fixed location. But it travels well and has found homes in Seattle, Tokyo, Courbevoie, Suresnes, Paris, Versailles, Osaka and now Brussels.
Think of it as a state of mind; a place where the door is always open, you have your own key and there is always a place at the table for someone with an open mind and a gracious heart.
If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world, and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands, but a continent that joins to them.
Francis Bacon
I’m not sure who first came up with the idea of calling it a “hotel” but I surely know why; it was an open house in the best sense of that term. Almost every day there were people popping in and out; some stayed for dinner, some for a night and some practically moved in for months at a time. It wasn’t a large house by any means but there was always room for a friend or a friend of a friend to sleep and there was always space at the dinner table for “just one more if we squeeze the chairs together a bit tighter.” At one time there were so many keys to this house floating around that my parents were no longer sure who had one and who might unexpectedly appear in the evening hours. Interesting people: lawyers, artists, scientists, engineers, anthropologists, jazz and folk musicians, public radio aficionados, a retired Federal Appeals Court judge and at least one hobo.
So when the time came to found my own household I looked for name of my very own. One that captured the bi-cultural nature of the family, the transient nature of our living situation and the hope that we would have our own collection of interesting people to visit us wherever we decided to live.
“Franco-American” was obvious. As a synonym for “hotel”, the archaic American “flophouse” seemed appropriate. When I put the two together I thought that “Franco-American Flophouse” tripped nicely off the tongue.
For those who wish for a formal definition, Wikipedia says: “a place that offers very cheap lodging, generally by providing only minimal services... Occupants of flophouses generally share bathroom facilities and reside in very tight quarters." A very accurate description of every apartment I've ever lived in and the house I own today in Porchefontaine (55 square meters).
Unlike the Thackeray Street Hotel, the Franco-American Flophouse is not a physical place. On the contrary, it will never have a fixed location. But it travels well and has found homes in Seattle, Tokyo, Courbevoie, Suresnes, Paris, Versailles, Osaka and now Brussels.
Think of it as a state of mind; a place where the door is always open, you have your own key and there is always a place at the table for someone with an open mind and a gracious heart.
If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world, and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands, but a continent that joins to them.
Francis Bacon
Saturday, January 1, 2011
French: a Passport or a Citadel?
“For any speaker of it, a given language is at once either more or less his own or more or less someone else’s, and either more or less cosmopolitan or more or less parochial - a borrowing or a heritage; a passport or a citadel. The question of whether, when, and for what purposes to use it is thus also a question of how far a people should form itself by the bent of its genius and how far by the demand of its times.”
Clifford Geertz
The Interpretation of Cultures
My Frenchlings are bi-lingual by birth; I am bi-lingual by choice.
When I arrived in France in 1989 I was a mono-lingual American who had taken French classes in high school and university but who was incapable upon arriving in Paris of ordering a baguette in a bakery. Surviving a job interview was out of the question. Writing the thank you notes after my wedding was pure torture. My first job was with an NGO in Paris where the working language was English.
At the time I perceived French as this enormous hurdle I would have to overcome to be able to function normally in this country. Today I see French as the vehicle, my passport, through which I can move freely though worlds I never knew existed. This poem by Robert Desnos, for example, which has the power to move me to tears every time I read it:
Or the excellent novel, Les Bienveillantes by Jonathon Littell which had such terrible reviews in the Anglo-Saxon press that I questioned the competence of the English translator.
Beyond the world of the arts, French has made friendships and business relationships possibIe in places far beyond the borders of the Hexagone. Every day, I meet, work and study with people from Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia. It was in French that I discovered Quebec, Canada. It was French that gave a new dimension to my all too brief relationship with my French-speaking great-grandmother, Celestine Amans.
And if that were not sufficient reason to make me a proud Francophone, here are three more I came up with over my morning coffee:
Primo - it is the most beautifully precisely imprecise language I have ever encountered. Why do you think it was the language of diplomacy for so many years?
Secundo - its demise has been greatly exaggerated and it is more widely spoken than many people think with more than 200+ million native and bi-lingual speakers.
Tertio - since I do speak it, I feel I own a part of it even if I am not French.
The citadel (the Academie Francaise) be damned - a language is living thing that is lovingly created and re-created every day by those of us who use it. All of us: African, American and European.
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