Frenchie Ain't Misbehavin' !

To put a nice cap on my "pitiful" weekend, I was invited to join
some friends at the theater Sunday night for the 30th anniversary tour of the Tony-Award-Winning musical Ain't Misbehavin' starring Ruben Studdard and Frenchie Davis of American Idol fame. While I'm not an Idol fan, we all know I'm game for anything "Frenchie", even if it's a Frenchie of a different sort.

Also featured in the Atlanta leg of the tour were the amazing pipes of Trenyce Cobbins, Patrice Covington and David Jennings. While it's undeniable that Ain't Misbehavin' isn't the most engaging of musicals, particularly due to it's lack of plot as it's really a music-driven revue (jukebox musical) rather than dialogue-driven, few things are more fun than an evening at the theater with friends (especially the beautiful Fox Theatre.) We had fun joking around about the double negative of the show title and the diminishing presence of twinkle stars in the Fox theatre's famously ciel-frescoed ceiling, presumably due to global warming which we believe is claiming its next victim in the great indoors. Let me just say that the ladies were the real standout of the evening and I swear Frenchie was channeling the late, great Nell Carter throughout, especially during her performance of "Mean To Me". *Sniffle*
Copyright © 2008 A Southern Belle Goes to Paris, y'all.
As an added bonus, I think I may have discovered the answer to the great French women vs. American women He's Just Not That Into You conundrum. While French women are ready to leave the rapscallion in the dust and move on to someone who will appreciate them, we in America hang on to the randy bastards so we can have our moment in the spotlight with an earnest torch song. How great would it be if we all had our moment in full diva glory, enormous frilly feather boa in an ungodly color, flattering lighting, a microphone and an audience ready (and willing!) to listen to us belt it out about Mr. Done Me Wrong? I guess that's what drag bars are for. In the meantime, I think I'll start working on Mr. Done Me Wrong, the musical, starring Meg, Jack, Troy, Jay and some really hideous feather boas.

The Pity Party

I promise not to make a habit of the pity party, but I threw a grand one this evening! I figured there was probably a Fête de Something today in France, so I'd have a genuine Fête de Lamenter for myself, sans parades (I wouldn't want to be showy) and face-paintings.

Seems I've been having a problem with Saturdays lately. I do know when it started but I don't know when it started bothering me. I guess recently? I used to always be booked for Saturdays, sometimes many in advance, then something happened and my usual Saturday is now someone else's usual Saturday. That detail doesn't bother me in the slightest, but the fact that I've failed to fill up my Saturdays bothers me a great deal. Sure, I find stuff to do during the day and will occasionally fill my early evenings as well but then I inevitably end up at home inexcusably early and settle in for a book or an old movie (or in tonight's case 4 old movies) and dinner. Alone.

I think this is making me prematurely old as I frequently joke about being middle-aged but that is far from true. But a frumpy, middle-aged old maid would have had almost the exact same evening I had tonight, I'm sure of it. I was out of coffee cream so I ran up to the store around 8 and thought I would make a bread pudding for no reason other than a craving for it. I had just watched Vertigo on TV and left in the middle of Fanny with Leslie Caron, Maurice Chevalier and Charles Boyer. At Whole Foods, I pick up the necessary groceries and a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau (en plastique? The marketing sold this as "guilt-free" drinking with a reduced carbon footprint. Somehow I think no one has ever said "I feel so guilty for this carbon footprint" after uncorking a glass bottle of wine - at least no one in France.)

I overheard a French family at the store and almost said something but changed my mind. I took one look at the young (20-ish?) man who looked as blasé as me and thought I'd leave them be. So, home to an empty house, culinary masterpiece in the oven, Beaujolais Nouveau uncorked (or unscrewed as it were) and another old movie on. Too bad I don't knit or have a dozen cats, that would have made the picture-postcard complete. Sure, I thought about ringing a friend but my single friends have gone home for Thanksgiving and the rest (most) of my friends are married. I have no idea if it is like this in other cultures (specifically France) but married friends apparently do not ever hang out with single friends unless a family birthday or a wedding is involved, so I don't even bother to ask anymore.
Copyright © 2008 A Southern Belle Goes to Paris, y'all.
Of course, the impending Holidays make my ennui a little more acute but I sure hope my Saturdays with PBS and Turner Classic Movies will come to an end soon or my hair may begin turning grey and I'll start sporting housecoats. (*gasp* Never!) Here's a handy list of Holiday Blues do's and don'ts - too bad in one evening I am already guilty of every single don't.

Atlanta is just not a very good tout seul city or I would simply go out by myself and do stuff regardless of the time of day. Alas, it is what it is and I declare my Pity Party officially over.

A Quoi Ça Sert L'amour?

Three videos; the romantic in me far prefers the Édith Piaf version to the rap and I would have liked to have seen the Imogen Heap song Just For Now to the full animation rather than just a short track, but it's interesting to see how the sentiment changes with the colors inverted and the song a little more modern. Watch all three of them and see how different the feel is for the same Louis Clichy animation: says a lot about 'setting a mood', n'est-ce pas?

La Voyeuse et Les Espions Comme Nous

I finished my Christmas shopping this evening. *Sigh of relief*...and to reward myself, I wiled away a few hours inside Barnes & Noble in Buckhead where I was to reward myself with one new book. I bought three but self-restraint has never been one of my attributes, except where sweets are concerned (I can eat just one.) It was so damp and chilly today; the perfect day for Christmas shopping (everyone else seemed to think so, too - our economy may rebound yet) and book-browsing, Starbucks-in-hand. I was wearing my favorite mid-length trench coat today, it really is gorgeous and I feel like a million bucks every time the weather permits me to wear it, even though it only cost me around $200. I had a nice brief conversation with the barista at Starbucks about the shopping season and the great cool weather and my choice of beverage (triple grande latte...2 shots is too few, 4 is too many) before the perusing began.

I start in the magazine section where I shamefully read half of Vogue Paris (I'm sorry, B&N, I just can't shell out $16 for a periodical, even if it is en français) and notice a very cute man standing near by. I'm not sure how long he'd been there before I noticed, but boy did I take notice. A not-so-shy glance his way met a not-so-shy glance my way. It said "I'm single, you look single, we're in a book store on a Saturday night, let's flirt a little." Yessir! Picking up the next magazine, I check him out over the top of the page and assess the goods. Nice Italian loafers, nice black slacks, white collared shirt peeking out of grey pullover v-neck sweater, nice jacket, nice hair, nice face, nice eyes, nice, nice, nice.

Copyright © 2008 A Southern Belle Goes to Paris, y'all.

But I don't want to be too forward so I resume my other browsings and head over to fiction & literature, the whole point of the trip. Mr. Handsome joins me in fiction and then the dance begins. Checking out what I'm looking at...then I check out what he's looking at. He moves on to religion & spirituality and I think "oooh, cute and spiritual" and I'm looking at classics. He moves over to self-improvement and I think "oooh, sensitive" and I move to travel (France, of course) he moves over to sex & relationships and I think "please, not all the way over to gay & lesbian" and then, relieved, think "oooh, passionate". I make my way to poetry and he moves to true crime....."oooh, psycho". Au revoir, Mr. Handsome!

I should have known; my Official Nancy Drew Handbook, which I picked up at the Spy Museum in Washington, D.C., tells me on page 98 that I can surmise a man's character by the shoes he wears and should be wary of men wearing expensive-looking loafers.

Perhaps next time I should let this guy help me sleuth out the perps:

Inspector Clouseau would have spotted a stark-raving lunatic right away!

I must have a thing for spies; I was just regaling a friend with tales of an old boyfriend I had whom I was completely convinced was a spy. He lived in Paris (still does), he fluently spoke 5 languages (French, English, Spanish, Italian, Russian) and at one time was learning Mandarin and Cantonese, so he very well could be up to 7 by now. His job was very hush-hush for a telecom company and he traveled to some of the strangest places. Being in the late 1990's, there weren't too many investigatory advances on the internet so I had to resort to old-school techniques like pocket-searching and suitcase-inspecting. I never found anything concrete, but the gumshoe life is nothing if not exhilarating. My best guess is that he simply had a girl in every port. Such is life. Au revoir, M. L'Espion!

I think tomorrow I will go see Quantum of Solace, the new James Bond installment. And I'll wear my favorite trench coat. I need some sort of spy-action theme song.

La Rochelle

I've been going through the very tedious project of converting my grandparent's old 35mm slides into digital format. Hundreds and hundreds of them; I've scanned over 775 and I'm only about halfway through. It's absolutely a labor of love full of reward as I uncover almost-lost gems of my grandparents living in London post-war (my grandpa was an officer in the US Navy) and traveling all over Western Europe.

I came across these adorable photos of an officer's trip my grandpa took to La Rochelle in March 1959 and wanted to share them here. Apparently, La Rochelle is France's 3rd most visited city. I think that's something to boast about and I'm sure to make a stop there myself. La Rochelle has birthed a number of famous folks: Guy Laroche (famous fashion atelier), William-Adolphe Bouguereau (famous painter, including a few nudes) and Melissa Lauren (famous porn star, definitely nude) to name just a few.

Copyright © 2008 A Southern Belle Goes to Paris, y'all.

Seems like a nice place, doesn't it? Located on the Western Coast on the Bay of Biscay, the TGV will get you there in just 3 short hours from Paris. And you can settle in to enjoy the charming old town history and great seafood. Not to mention the 2400 hours of sunshine they have every year (ironically not captured in any of these photos.) I've provided my grandpa's captions for each image. Enjoy...

A local character.

Rooftops in La Rochelle.

A local lobsterman.

A street in La Rochelle.

Le Champlain Hotel, La Rochelle.

We'll Always Have Toledo

I haven't done anything outside of my routine for well over a week. Aside from taking 2nd prize in a Halloween Costume Contest, that is. So, my routine? Awake at 6....okay, snooze button until 6:30. Then up out of the cozy bed, coffee brewing, NPR on, and into the shower. Then out of the shower, into the clothes, hair dry, face on and coffee in mug, English Muffin in hand. Work at 8, lunch at 12:30, gym at 6, dinner at 8 followed by a book in bed and then.....awake at 6....:30. Mind-numbingly boring, non?

I made the mistake of discussing this mundanity with my mother this week. The Grande Dame of Quotidian Existence (sorry, mom) was very quick to point out that my expectations are far too grandiose for life and suggested I break the monotony with a new hobby like knitting instead of, as she put it, "going off half-cocked" and moving to Paris. Can a 6-year-plan really be described as being "half-cocked"? So, all of this got me thinking about perception and expectation: how can a life that is so common to me be so comforting to someone else?
Copyright © 2008 A Southern Belle Goes to Paris, y'all

I don't think humdrum routine is at all uniquely American and although in my mind everyone living in Paris is chic and wakes every morning to singing birds, church bells chiming the hour and a p.d. of croissant and café au lait in Limoges porcelain on a beautiful terrace overlooking a well-manicured parc or romantic streetscape before making their way onto the cobblestone around 10 for a day of exploring Paris and sipping things from very small tasses while reading Proust, I am well aware that this is a faulty perception. Maybe at the end of this journey, I'll move my life to Paris and find it lacking the cinematic lustre it has in my fantasies when it, too, becomes stale and routine. But my money is on the maybe not.

Is the idea that something (a city, a change in life, whatever it may be) isn't what it seems to promise a valid reason to say "nah, pass" and accept a horizon of boring? Not to me, but perhaps to one who perceives exotic as scary rather than appealing. If you told me Toledo isn't as glamorous as it seems, I'd definitely believe you. But people don't write poetry about Toledo, there are no movies about Toledo (April in Toledo, anyone?) and I'm pretty sure no new fashions are coming out of Toledo. Although, I have to admit, songs have been written about Toledo by John Denver as well as Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach, though Denver's not so favorably, supporting my theory. (No offense, Toledo, you just popped into my head.)

Because I believe that living in Paris will be wonderful, I think it likely will be, even if it isn't in reality as great as I dreamed. I had a French boyfriend years ago who failed to live up to all of my expectations as a boyfriend, but our relationship was a wonderful experience and worth all of the time I put into it - I wouldn't change a thing even though the end result was less than I desired. And maybe my mom's heart-to-heart has done me some good - instead of "going off half-cocked" and moving to Paris in 6 years, perhaps I'll go off "full-cocked" and make it happen in 3.

So, before I get back into my weekly routine, I'm going to curl up on the sofa with a porcelain cup of chocolat chaud and watch "Toledo, je t'aime" again.