What Happens When French Taxi Drivers Throw a Tantrum? Nothing.

On Tuesday, January 26th 2016, I saw burgeoning, black smoke in Paris; smelled burning rubber; heard a French radio announcer talk about Paris being under siege. Hostages were taken; civilians were attacked and immobilized. There was shouting on the streets; many schools were closed; hospital staff was greatly reduced; 70 % of flights in and out of Paris were cancelled; police were everywhere.

Teachers peacefully protesting in Paris on Black Tuesday 2016.
Teachers peacefully protesting in Paris on Black Tuesday 2016.

The Parisian population was being encouraged to stay home or go underground since the subway was the only thing working. Oh yeah, and France is still under an official state of emergency due to potential terrorist attacks. But this had nothing to do with terrorism. This was France’s socio-political business as usual. This was Black Tuesday.

Taxi drivers, teachers, public hospital workers and air traffic controllers were on strike, holding major protests throughout Paris and other big cities. Even though it was the fourth strike in nine months for teachers, they were quite calm. There was no violence – only some speeches, marching and even a bit of singing here and there. The taxi drivers,

Taxi drivers burning rubber at Porte Maillot in Paris.
Taxi drivers burning rubber at Porte Maillot in Paris.

however, were not. They were angry, young, and not so young, men throwing tires onto innocent people who were only trying to get to work. After that, they burnt the tires on the highway and blocked the roads, putting those poor commuters in physical danger. Then they got to meet with the Prime Minister, Manuel Valls, in an emergency noon meeting at the French Presidential Palace. Burning rubber opens doors.

There were more than two thousand taxi drivers in Paris protesting against the unfair competition that Uber, Le Cab and other private companies present to their trade. Yes, it’s a bum deal but if there was no need in the marketplace for an alternative to the taxis that were often absent, arrogant and not at all skilled in customer service, Uber would not flourish. I was a supporter of the taxi cause in the beginning and for a while. I purposely did not use the Uber app and defended the classic French taxis in dinner conversations. After this last demonstration, I have definitely changed my mind. I would rather walk than ever again take a Parisian taxi.

Grown men throwing temper tantrums and taking innocent bystanders hostage is no way to win anyone’s heart or wallet. The taxi drivers’ demands are simple – only two possible choices for the government. The first one would be to eliminate the competition by outlawing all alternative forms of taxi transportation.

A message to Uber to get the hell out of Dodge!
A message to Uber to get the hell out of Dodge!

The second one would be to reimburse every taxi driver for their license (which could cost up to 250,000 euros; about the same price in dollars). Neither of these demands are realistic. Taxi drivers have to wake up and smell the coffee before someone else drinks it.

The unfair competition battle cry just does not cut it any longer. The market has changed, that’s it. Smart phones have taken over our lives and our transportation. When the internet practically totally eliminated the need for stamps and letters, the post office (even the French one) changed. They adapted to the market and created other services that the public might want – banking, sending mail via internet, easier pick-up and delivery services. The post office didn’t try and make people still write letters so they could still sell stamps and deliver them. They found a way out.

The license part is a little tricky since not everyone has paid the same price for it. But I’m sure there is some way around that and, in the end, the government will find a way to compensate the drivers who are losing their big investment. Let’s just remember that, in the first place, it was the taxi drivers themselves who wanted this license to be expensive and limited so that their jobs would be “protected”. Looks like that plan backfired.

The taxi strike and highway barricade lasted for three days in and around Paris. Manuel Valls, the Prime Minister, has agreed to appoint a new mediator to resolve this conflict. (No tow trucktaxi driver thinks that will do any good.) On Friday, the police-ordered tow trucks removed the last of the cars that were blocking the entrance to Paris at Porte Maillot. I am sure the drivers will have to pay a hefty fine to get back their impounded cars. And I can also imagine that they will most likely take a Uber to go to the tow yard. Taxis are scarce and too expensive anyway.  Back to Square One.







The Original French Swingers and Other Works of Art

I always knew that the French have a light-hearted view of adultery but I never knew just how far back that view went until I went to the museum. That museum, the Museé du Luxembourg, happened to be open on New Year’s Day in Paris, which is really the main reason I chose it. The expo’s title, “Fragonard in Love” was also intriguing. Fragonard was billed as an artist during the rococo period and I liked the way that word sounded. I thought that checking out something rococo would be the perfect, rosy way to welcome 2016. And rosy it was.

I must admit I did not know what “rococo” actually referred to so I did some background checking.   Rococo painting started in France in the early 18th century and was famous for

Just another Sunday afternoon outing in rural Paris (painting by Antoine Watteau)
Just another Sunday afternoon outing in rural Paris (painting by Antoine Watteau)

its curvy lines and its depiction of amorous encounters and fluffy, flirty, sensual scenes of love – usually happening in the grand outdoors on a Sunday afternoon (actually I just threw in that Sunday afternoon part; it could have been any day of the week.)  So, more than 200 years ago, the French were already immortalizing the pursuit of sensual pleasures and blatant adultery as a way of life. Wow.

I followed the crowd through the museum and stopped where they stopped. I lingered longer where they lingered longer just to see what caught their collective eye. Without a doubt, the erotic paintings were the most popular. I wanted to get a photo of one of them and had to wait about five minutes before the guy in front of me finished his picture-taking from every angle imaginable to man and woman alike. But the photo was worth it.

The paintings themselves are absolutely gorgeous. There are luminous pastel colors that draw your attention from across the room. It’s as if someone hid a light bulb behind

Here's the original swinging Happy Accident.
Here’s the original swinging Happy Accident.

the paintings and turned it on just when your eyes hit the canvas. I was particularly attracted to the subject of one work of art entitled “Les Hasards Heureux de l’Escarpolette” which literally translates as “The Happy Accidents of the Swing”. The canvas was pretty and feathery enough but I was drawn to what it depicted. It’s a good story.

This Happy Accident was a commissioned work for Jean-Honoré Fragonard. The wealthy man who paid for it (whose identity is uncertain) could, of course, choose the subject matter. What he wanted for all the world to see was his lover on the swing being pushed by her old, ugly husband in the gray background. The man on the receiving end of the push was hidden in the bushes watching the swing show – since, as the lady breezed through the air she had her legs spread open and was tossing off her shoe in a gesture of frivolousness. What she was exhibiting under her petticoat is anyone’s guess but her lover has a big smile on his face. This was solid proof that the French were into flashing long before Brittany Spears or Paris Hilton. Must be in their DNA. (I wonder if this painting from 1767 sparked the beginning of Swingers in general – never know).

I enjoyed this exhibit and happily (no accident) found another one in Paris dedicated to forbidden love (though not so forbidden in France). It is at the Museé d’Orsay, the gorgeous train station-turned-impressionist museum.

The poster painting of the Splendor and Misery Exhibit (Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec).
The poster painting of the Splendor and Misery Exhibit (Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec).

It is called “Splendor and Misery: Pictures of Prostitution, 1850-1910” and is a collection of paintings, drawings, peep-shows and objects that obviously have prostitution as its leitmotif. The time period is well over a hundred years after rococo but the subject matter is the same. Some things never change.

The paintings of masters such as Picasso, Van Gogh and Lautrec are shown here as well as lesser known artists with an eye and brush for Ladies of the Night. There is also a sectioned-off part of the exhibit which is for over-18 year olds only. This part shows the beginning of soft-porn – the first filmed peep shows, complete with red curtains and dimmed lighting.

It’s interesting how much the theme of illegal and illicit love is treated by French art and literature. I tried to imagine the same sorts of exhibits in the USA. I couldn’t – no happy accidents there – swing or otherwise.




Let’s Keep Those Parisian Butts Off the Ground

     It’s no contest that Paris, the City of Light, is a visual splendor. Ornate monuments enhance the skyline and decorate the Seine.  However, if you spend even just a few minutes checking out the sidewalks of Paris, you will see that they are decorated with other kinds of lights.  In between dog crap, papers and spit, there are literally millions of cigarette butts lining the city streets.

Parisians tend to use and abuse trees as urban ashtrays.

When the Parisians are done huffing and puffing and looking really cool,  they just throw their butts away — out of windows, cars, stores and into the streets. It is a grand example of the Parisian paradox.  They care about looking good themselves but they don’t care about how their city looks. So, the politicians took over and made a law.

     In theory, this new law went into effect in Paris in September 2015.  Well, at least you can see posters explaining it on the city’s garbage trucks.  I have yet to see it be enforced.

350 tons of cigarette butts per year in Paris alone!
350 tons of cigarette butts per year in Paris alone!

The law says that you will be fined 68 Euros (the price of a carton of cigarettes) for each cigarette butt you throw on a public street.  (You would, of course, have to be caught in the act by one of the more than 500 agents who have been hired to enforce this legislation…not an easy thing.)  The city of Paris is installing 10,000 municipal ash trays – stylish and chic metal garbage cans to make it easy for smokers. I honestly don’t think that will help. It would be easier to totally ban smoking in the street than to make people be responsible for their own trash.

     When I moved to Paris in the 80’s, I was culturally shocked when I saw people throw their cigarette butts on the cafe floor while they had their cup of coffee.  Where this would be unacceptable in the USA, here it was considered normal behavior.  A waiter would come and sweep them up every couple of hours or so.  The individual Parisian was not responsible for his own trash.  Private society took care of it.  Now that you can no longer smoke inside cafes, smokers, having kept the same gesture of flicking their butts away, just move their flicks out onto the streets.

Ready, set, flick!
Ready, set, flick!

It’s not irresponsibility; it’s a reflex…a smoker’s reflex that they learned when they started smoking.  Old habits die hard….or just get passed on from generation to generation.

     I have seen Parisians throw butts out of their balcony windows and onto the street – sometimes barely missing a baby in his stroller or a bald-headed pedestrian.  Not only is this disgusting but it’s also dangerous since these butts are often still lit.  An unenforceable law is not the answer. The new law says the “flicker” needs to be caught in the act..an act that takes only a second or two to complete.  That’s never gonna happen. However, I did get to thinking about how the French managed to get their drivers to slow down on the highways.  The police hardly stop speeders anymore.  They just photo-flash them and send them fines in the mail.  OK, they do happen to have the license plate as an indicator of whom to send the fine to but we could get creative here.
     What if the city of Paris set up cameras targeting the most butt-filled places in Paris?  They could position discreet cameras outside of popular bars and spy on the litterbugs. Then the police could just ask for the person’s identity card and send them the photo and the 68 euro fine in the mail.  For repeat offenders, the fines would be tripled and soon the litterbugs would be financing their own clean-up or, better still, there would be no need for it.  Or, how about the city of Paris paying for the return of cigarette butts to specified places?  They could pay-by-the-kilo to people who help clean up the streets – they could

Do the right thing -- pick up your butts.
Do the right thing — pick up your butts.

assign them specific streets in their neighborhood.  I’m sure that would be cheaper than trying to enforce the new law.  Or how about smokers being able to buy a new pack of cigarettes only if they brought back the butts from their last pack?  That’s certainly thinking out of the box!

      It is a New Year and time to make new resolutions.  Instead of resolving to stop smoking, the Parisians could just promise to pick up after themselves and make their personal smoking a private matter.  They could simply keep their butts off the ground of this beautiful city.

Dealing with Terrorism in the New French Way of Life

In the aftermath of the November 13th horrific terrorist attacks on Paris, there have been many political speeches and social networking conversations that are using the word “war”.   They say we are at war here in France.  That the assault on Paris was a “game changer”.

The very much respected French way of life.
The very much respected French way of life.

That nothing will ever be the same.  That we all have to change our attitude.  We all have to be vigilant.  We all have to work together to catch and neutralize the barbarians who have threatened the French way of life, the French “joie de vivre”.

One politician said we urgently need a French Patriot Act.  The same one said we should also follow the post-911 guidance of “See Something, Say Something”.  I believed him.  So, when I actually did see something a few days after the Parisian murders, I did say something.  And the whole process scared the wits out of me.   Here’s what happened.

I was walking on a Parisian avenue in the middle of the day and happened to notice a piece of paper on the ground in the middle of fallen leaves.  I don’t really know why I picked it up but I did.  It had something written on it that, in line with the recent terrorist events, was more than a bit troubling. I put it in my pocket and went home to think about it.

I called a few family members and friends and asked them if they thought I should bring it to the attention of the French authorities.

Logo of the National Police in France.
Logo of the National Police in France.

They all agreed it would be a good idea and encouraged me to call the police.  When I called the police and explained what I found, they told me to come to the station and do a “declaration de main courante”, which basically means going on record.  I have had reason to do that sort of thing before when I had my checkbook stolen; lost my passport, etc. and it was always an excruciating exercise in witnessing the inefficient French administration at work.  But I thought it would be different now – now that we were at war and we all have to work together towards a common goal of saving this country and its citizens.  I was wrong.

First off, there was a waiting period of at least an hour while I witnessed one policewoman yelling at an adolescent who fabricated an aggression just so he could cut class.  He now wanted to come clean and take back his declaration.  She had no idea how to handle this and was, of course, upset that the kid lied in the first place (as was his father and everyone else in the station).  In the meantime, I felt my possible evidence should have given me priority over this teenager who actually came in after me.  But I have lived in France for 25 years now; I have learned to be patient and polite in administrative situations.  So I waited.

Finally, a policeman came and led me into a back office to type up my declaration.  I spent an uneasy 10 minutes telling him who I was; where I live; why I live in France, etc. while he typed away at 1 mile an hour.  I was anxious to give him the paper and spar the police into action.  I had what could be an important clue in my pocket.  Could he please hurry up?

“So what is it you have?” he finally asked me.

I showed him the paper.  He looked at it with a puzzled expression on his face and showed it to his boss, the policewoman who had been yelling at the teenager.

She replied sharply, with a typical French down-putting attitude in her voice, “What the hell do you expect me to do with a piece of paper?”

I told her she might want to show it to the people who were taking care of the attack investigation and she just clicked her tongue and snarled, pretty much calling me an idiot for even thinking that this could be useful.  And, might I remind you, she was the police station chief.

When the boss turned her back on me, I thought it was time for me to leave but the police officer took my statement and kept the paper.  So I did go on record but I was totally convinced that this was an exercise in futility and that disturbed me almost as much as the threat of more violence in Paris.  Perhaps what I found was useless but perhaps not.  In either case, I was doing my civic duty and, even if she thought it was useless, she could have been professional about it.  The fact that my life might be in her hands at this time was definitely unsettling.

French Hotline number to call with any terrorist-related information.
French Hotline number to call with any terrorist-related information.

In the end, I called the Terrorist Attack Hotline number which has been put into place in France (it is 197).  I explained once more what I had found and, at least, the lady I spoke to sounded interested.  She took all the information I had already put on record and assured me someone would follow up on it.  As I mentioned before, what I found could be nothing but that’s not for me to decide.  I saw something and I said something. And, finally, someone in authority actually listened.

The moral of this story is, if France is at war, everyone needs to change their attitude.  That includes the politicians, the citizens and the local authorities. peopleIf this is a game changer for us all, police administrative business-as-usual cannot work.  Citizens need to be alert and report potentially dangerous or strange situations.  True, we all have to walk that fine line between paranoia and vigilance.  But, as part of dealing with terrorism, we all have to pay attention in our daily lives.  And the police have to listen.


Pigalle – The Legendary Parisian Playground

My own version of a “Paris by Night” tour always includes a stroll around Pigalle, the most intriguing area of the French capital. I take my tourist friends there for a good, inexpensive meal on one of the side streets; a visit to the bistro on rue Lepic where the movie “Amelie” was filmed; or a jazz concert in an authentic two-hundred-year-old acoustically perfect “cave”. We stop for the obligatory photo session in front of the Moulin Rouge. We do not pay the exorbitant entrance fee. We take a seat on one of the sidewalk terraces nearby and I give my tourists a decadent history lesson about the most famously infamous cabaret in the world. Now this lesson is for you.

More than a hundred years ago, the Pigalle area, and especially the Moulin Rouge was a living movie, filled with amazing characters from all walks of life and social circles. The Moulin Rouge (literally translated as Red Mill) was built in 1889 by Joseph Oller

Joseph Oller, one of the driving forces behind "La Belle Epoque".
Joseph Oller, one of the driving forces behind “La Belle Epoque”.

and Charles Zidler. By the way, Joseph Oller was also the inventor of “pari mutuel”, which is basically bookmaking.   He built the racetracks at Maisons-Laffitte and Alma and his betting structure was the predecessor of today’s French state-controlled betting system, the PMU, or Pari Mutuel Urbain – but that’s another story.

Anyway, when betting became illegal, Joseph concentrated on developing music halls and theatres, investing in the Moulin Rouge and other well-known venues such as the Olympia and Salle Pleyel, which still exist today. The Moulin Rouge became the temple of music and dance, the home of the French Can-Can and THE place to go for an evening of daring dancing and risqué relaxation. It was immoral maybe, especially for the beginning of the 20th century, but the Moulin Rouge exuded a joie de vivre that was no less than euphoric.

French can can
And yes, they Can….Can!

The army of young ladies who performed there were skilled, free-wheeling, flexible artists – almost acrobatic in their approach to the Can-Can – jumping and splitting as easily as giant rubber bands. They were gaily provocative, waving their white skirts in the air and showing their clingy underwear, a bit of skin and black garters. All of this was quite shocking at the time and a bit comic when you think of the topless, practically nude dancers who work there today.

There were many loyal customers of the Moulin Rouge. The most famous one, the French artist, Toulouse Lautrec, had his own table. He never paid for anything and immortalized the ambiance and clientele of the Moulin Rouge with his sketches and paintings. He was inspired by a couple of legendary Moulin Rouge dancers – Jane Avril (who was known for being discreet and nimble) and Louise Weber, nicknamed “La Goulue” who could take off a man’s hat with her foot while dancing!

The dancer "La Goulue" getting ready to do her famous hat trick as depicted in this famous Toulouse Lautrec lithograph.
The dancer “La Goulue” getting ready to do her famous hat trick as depicted in this famous Toulouse Lautrec lithograph.

The Moulin Rouge had its ups and downs; closed from time to time; burnt down in 1921 but was rebuilt soon after. It was known as “Pig Alley” right after WWII, when it was the epicentre of the Parisian red light district. It is just a tourist business now, without the energetic “joie de vivre” that was there at its origin. People are bus loaded in for the show at eye-boggling numbers. Each revue runs for 10 – 12 years and costs between 7 to 9 million euros to produce. The present revue is called “Féerie” which translates to “Extravaganza”. The next Moulin Rouge review will start just before Christmas 2015. The new show will be called “Flash”. For some unknown reason, every Moulin Rouge show begins with a “F” (no comment here).

There are other daring establishments to visit in Pigalle – things like erotic supermarkets and raunchy peep shows. I recently (and for the first time, really) went to the Musée de l’Erotisme on the Boulevard de Clichy. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was surprised at how boring it was. The place itself was more like a gallery of phallic carvings and religious artwork from India, Japan and Africa – interesting but not really exciting. No “joie de vivre” there, just a historical account of fertility symbols and erotic skeletons. There were some exquisite relics but, frankly, the Louvre is a better buy for the money.

Pigalle, where the adults come out to play.
Pigalle, where the adults come out to play.

The real fun in Pigalle lies in just walking around with an open mind (and your wallet safely out of pickpocket reach). Imagine what it was like over a hundred of years ago with bawdy laughter, music, dance, wine-tinged camaraderie and no tourist buses. Imagine Pigalle as a Parisian playground, an adult amusement park, the first of its kind and the only one worthy of becoming a legend.


Tasting Tips for the French Wine Connoisseur Wannabe

ad.foire aux vins
This is the event that French parents look forward to once the kids are back in school in September.

Now that parents have depleted their school supply budget and the kids are safely back in their respective institutions, the Parisians are ready to party. The first sign of this is the hype for the traditional “Foire aux Vins”, or “Wine Fair” which starts in mid-September and lasts for two weeks. There are wine tastings everywhere – private homes (beats a Tupperware party), supermarket retailers, wine store chains and farmers’ markets (my favorite). A wine consumer really gets to consume before they buy at this time of year. It could be overwhelming for those of you who aren’t used to the many facets of wine. So, here are some tips for the wine-tasting neophyte.

  1. Look before you leap – Take a good look at the wine you have poured into that glass; observe and enjoy its color. Look beyond the usual suspects of red, white or pink. Is it ruby, maroon, purple or brownish? For white wines, is it pale, yellow, golden, straw-colored? Is it opaque, cloudy, translucent?
  2. Tilt and Swirl – Tilt your glass slightly and give that wine a gentle swirl. Look for traces of sediment, which is a sign of an aged wine. Older reds might have more of an orangey tinge on the outside as you swirl; older whites would be darker. The swirling aerates the wine, which will release its aroma. The secret of the perfect swirl? Be gentle and don’t stand near anyone who is wearing white.
  3. Smell and Sigh – Well, maybe, just smell. The aroma of the wine will conjure up fruity memories of raspberry, blackberry, gooseberry or black currant. You might also smell vanilla, oak or citrus. Enjoy it – smell once, smell twice. Your nose will
    Get that nose in there — smelling is believing!


  4. Taste and Savour – Now, taste the wine, really taste it. Remember, you drink water but you taste wine. So, take your time. If the wine doesn’t stay long enough in your mouth, you cannot appreciate its magnitude. Sip it first, letting the wine spread across your tongue. Swish it from front to back and side to side before finally swallowing. Let its acidity, tannin and depth explode in your mouth. And let it linger.
  5. After-taste – Once you have imbibed the wine, it’s time to pay attention to how long it lingers. Can you still taste it on the back of your mouth or throat? Is the taste sweet, acidic? Like butter, fruit, flower or oak? Do you like it? Do you want more?
  6. Discover your preferences – There is no wine that satisfies everyone’s palate so it’s to time to pay attention to yours. Know what you like. Tastes can vary from fruit, leather, wood, spices, nuts, vanilla or any combination of these. Pick your favorite flavour from the wonderful range of options.
  7. Write and remember – I can’t tell you how many times I have tasted
    One needs to jog their oenological memory - especially during the French Wine Fair.
    One needs to jog their oenological memory – especially during the French Wine Fair.

    a wonderful wine only to forget its name the morning after. So, keep a paper and pen handy when you embark on your wine-tasting adventure and write down the ones that you liked and want to buy again and again.

  8. Buy It – The Wine Fair in France in September is a great time to buy – in wine store chains or even in huge supermarkets such as Carrefour or Auchan.
    Just buy it already -- lots of it!
    Just buy it already — lots of it!

    At a supermarket, you might not be able to taste everything you would like to so here’s a little hint. Buy a bottle that you think would be a good bargain; drink it the same day. If you like it, go back and get a case or two before they all sell out. Have a party or get a wine cellar. Whatever you do, enjoy it. Wine and dine your lover, family or friends – or yourself. You know you’re worth it!

Monetizing a Smile and Driving a Parisian Taxi at the Same Time

I have discovered that the Parisians are changing their attitude about service industries – the recent Parisian taxi drivers versus Uber Pop clash being a prime example. But others will come. The French client is demanding that the people who they pay dearly to drive them in, out and around this beautiful city of Paris should actually be nice. Believe me, this is a game changer.

This smile will become very common as taxi drivers "adjust" to client demand.
This smile will become very common as taxi drivers “adjust” to client demand.

I have been alternating between using official Parisian taxis and Uber-driven vehicles since the conflict began. I have French taxi driver friends and I can understand their frustration at having to pay a hefty fee (it could reach as much as 100,000 dollars) and suddenly having to compete with chauffeurs who have paid nothing for the privilege of transporting clients in France. It’s not fair but hey, what is?

Before Uber came along, the cab drivers upheld their sterling reputation of being grouchy, unavailable and super-selective on whom they put in their cab (I’ve seen them refuse babies…and allow dogs). Almost every Parisian I know has a nasty cab story to tell. Some chauffeurs don’t have change for a fifty euro bill but do not accept credit cards. They add on charges for suitcases and early pick-up times. They come ten minutes earlier than their appointed time; start the meter and charge you extra for being on time.

Parisian taxis blocking the road in one of several "Uber Go Home" demonstrations.
Parisian taxis blocking the road in one of several demonstrations.

They go on strike fairly often, holding the customers hostage. Trying to find a cab in Paris in the rain is tantamount to waiting for hell to freeze over. The client was not “king” of the road when it came to taxis. The drivers made all the choices. Take it or leave it. Their government-backed monopoly gave them wings. Ah, but in the commercial sky of free enterprise, those wings are flapping out of control.

Taxi services will change in France because the attitude of the consumer is changing. Thanks to the likes of Uber, LeCab and other private vehicle start-ups, the French now have choices. And they are finding that having a smiling driver is a good thing. There is no longer any reason to “put up” with bad service. Now, they can leave it and get something better in its place. If I were a French taxi driver, I would read the writing on the wall really quickly – and make a uturn into the waiting arms of Uber or any other private transportation company. If you can’t beat them, join them.

I took an Uber a couple of weeks ago and was surprised to hear the chauffeur’s story. He is a bona fide Parisian taxi driver but he’s young and internet savvy and figured it out before his colleagues did. He has put his French taxi license up for sale and, in the meantime, he’s driving for Uber. He likes how easy it is – says he has more freedom over his life and he actually enjoys meeting his clients and making sure they are satisfied with his service. I was amazed – a French person wanting to provide good customer service is as rare as a three-euro bill here. But this new attitude will multiply. It has to or the French taxi drivers will just go out of business. Pure and simple.

I am looking forward to this impending change in attitude in taxi drivers.

We lile Parisian taxis but we're gonna love them when they start being nice!
We like Parisian taxis but we’re gonna love them when they start being nice!

It’ll be a lot more fun when the Frenchman taking me for a ride has a smile on his face. It doesn’t matter if he’s driving for Uber or for Parisian taxis. He will be nice because he finally understood that being nice has its advantages – the biggest of which will be his pay check. He will be smiling all the way to the bank.

Rural Romance – Finding Love in a French Haystack

I rented a car this week and ventured outside of the Paris capital to catch a glimpse of the seaside before it is invaded by vacationers. On the way there, I was amazed at how close the country is to the city. Whatever direction you might take on your way out of the French capital, in less than a 30 minute drive, you will start seeing endless fields of grain, corn or other crops bordered by green pastures and grazing cows. The cows might be white or brown or black and white depending on what direction you take, but they will always be there watching you watching them.

The surface of France is 48% rural and France is the top agricultural country in the European Union. It is a star producer of wheat, sugar, wine (of course!), milk and dairy products (over 300 kinds of cheeses), fruits, vegetables and poultry. But, as I was driving along the magnificent countryside, I was wondering – where are the farmers?   I didn’t see a soul in any of the fields I passed. And then, on Monday evening, I got my answer. They’re on TV.

Here's the pretty presenter getting comfy in the haystack.
Here’s the pretty presenter getting comfy in the haystack.

It was a coincidence, really. In general, I do not watch reality television shows in any country. But it was raining and that was all there was to do in the sleepy seaside town I landed in – and I had been thinking about farmers all day. It was destiny throwing me some crumbs of entertainment, which I totally enjoyed.

The show is called “L’Amour est dans le Pré”, which literally translates into “Love is in the Meadow”. It’s a spin-off from the original UK series that is called “Farmer Wants a Wife.” You must admit that the French title is a bit more glamorous than the British one, a clear tribute to France’s romantic reputation. When you think about it, farmers would most certainly need a little help in the love department. The daily schedule for agricultural workers is pretty hectic. They wake up early; go to bed even earlier and spend most of their day with machines and animals. Their routine leaves little time for dating so it’s only natural that they turn to reality TV for a little help in the matchmaking department.

Here's one of this season's Love Crop.
Here’s one of this season’s Love Crop.

It works like this. The farmers are introduced to the public in January and would-be wives and lovers send in letters, actual hand-written letters, in which they pour out their hearts in the hopes of being one of the ten candidates who are chosen in the first round. Then, there is a televised speed-dating session in which the rural bachelors and bachelorettes narrow it down to only two candidates who subsequently get to spend a week on the farm. The week is really “up close and personal” – sometimes both candidates are there at the same time, which could make for colourful entertaining.

This year marks the 10th season for “L’Amour est dans le Pré ” and the first time that a gay farmer, Guillaume, joined the love search party. However, he didn’t last long. He made it through the speed dating part but got cold feet soon after and abandoned the show…much to the dismay of his handsome would-be partners.

This summer’s show is now down to 12 farmers – 10 men and 2 women.

Women farmers look for love in the meadow too.
Women farmers look for love in the meadow too.

It has just started and there already are serious internet forums about “Who is Your Favorite Farmer?” This year’s “crop” (no pun intended) is a handsome one with various interests. They breed cows and horses; raise pigs; make wine and cheese and range in age from 25 – 64. They are fun to watch and the scenery that goes along with the program is gorgeous. “L’Amour est dans le Pré” has a great track record too. Out of the 111 farmers whose search for love has been documented in the past nine seasons, 60 of them are now living with a partner; 14 of them are married; and 32 children have been born and 2 more are on the way. Love statistics speak louder than words.

“L’Amour est dans le Pré”, with its record-breaking 6.3 million viewers, is second only to soccer in popularity. After watching just one episode, I can totally understand that. And I know that I will be looking really closely the next time I drive by a meadow. You never know what might be hiding behind a haystack – especially a French one.

The Full Monty Steals the Show at the French Molières

French politics went back to basics last week when a Parisian actor decided to show his stuff – and I mean ALL his stuff .  This politically incorrect man, Sébastien Thiéry, actor and playwright, proud and naked, strolled onto the stage of the annual Molières Show, France’s Tony Awards dedicated to excellence in theater. This event was broadcast live on France 2, a national television station. It wasn’t cable or pay-per-view but it was total frontal

Stark naked actor Sebastien Thiery making a point.
Stark naked actor Sebastien Thiery making a point.

(and back) nudity on prime-time TV on a Monday evening. I was amazed…no, thunderstruck would be more like it. I absolutely could not believe what I was seeing for a multitude of reasons. Let me verbally paint this provocative picture.

The Molières Show started out as boring as usual and I was ready to surf the channels when suddenly a butt-naked man started walking down a spiral staircase. That man was Sébastien Thiéry, an actor in his mid-forties (and I’m guessing here but I actually did have visual clues). He had a very serious look on his face even though his birthday suit brought the house down in laughter. Sébastien got behind the podium and put on his glasses, the only speck of wardrobe he was wearing and started reading a serious politicized speech directed at Fleur Pellerin, the Minister of Culture, who was there in the audience.

This particular minister was exactly the reason Mr. Thiéry took his pants off.

An embarassed Minister of Culture, Fleur Pellerin.
An embarassed Minister of Culture, Fleur Pellerin.

Now, you can interpret that any way you want, but it’s the truth. He began this political speech and stared her right in the eyes. At one point, he even left the podium and approached her up close and almost personal. The Minister was obviously surprised and embarrassed but smiled discreetly.

The actor’s message was about how authors should also be part of the special governmental statute that French artists have which is called “intermittent spectacle.” Actors, stage and sound crew, wardrobe people, make-up artists, etc. can collect unemployment benefits in-between shows thanks to this statute. He was asking for the same rights for playwrights. The naked man did not smile once. This was supposed to be a serious political statement. He was lobbying in the buff. Well, even though his intentions were good, let me tell you what I think was wrong with this indelicate statement.

photo4.indexFirst of all, the spectators were not warned that this show would have what some people might call “adult” content. Just ten minutes before Mr. Nude came on stage, France 2 posted the warning that the show was not recommended for children under 12. They did not black out Mr. Thiéry’s private parts. It was four minutes of the Full Monty at the Molières . Now, why would anyone listen to what that guy had to say while they were checking out his anatomy?

I kept thinking, “Only in France, this could happen only in France.” In the USA, someone would have escorted him off the stage in a second. Whether he wanted to impress a minister or not – that wouldn’t matter. I also wondered, “What if the Minister of Culture was a man? Would we have seen the same show? Would this guy’s wife come out on the stage instead?”

In the end, it seems that the shock value of this display did not bear any political fruit. Ms Pellerin issued no statement. She did not talk about this after the show and certainly did not go backstage to shake this guy’s (cough) hand. What will she remember from that evening? Probably the fact that she was embarrassed in public. Will that change any legislation? I doubt it.

What did I take away from that one naked man show or one man naked show? That, whatever anyone says about Mr. Sébastien Thiéry, I know for sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s got balls!

A Parisian Old Lady with an Attitude

She didn’t see my crutch when she tapped me on the shoulder but when she did finally notice it, she tried to get me on her side, the “nasty” one. “She” was a dressed-to-the-nineties little old Parisian lady who was sporting a beautifully carved cane, a Gucci jacket and a very expensive hairdo.  I’ll call her “Eglantine”, an old French name that means “needle” or “thorn”. You’ll find out why later.

It was Saturday morning. I was in Monoprix, a French supermarket chain and I was standing in the priority check-out line meant for pregnant and/or handicapped clients.

The scene of the attitude.
The scene of the attitude.

Eglantine saw me from behind and pushed her cart in front of me thinking I was not handicapped. She noticed her mistake and promptly barked in loud-enough-for-everyone-to-hear French, “Don’t you hate it when these non-handicapped people take your place in line?” I was not looking for trouble; I was just buying toothpaste and dental floss so I ignored her. But, then again, I’m not French and the other customers were. A shouting match followed; giving me a live lesson on how senior Parisian ladies can take care of themselves and anyone else who gets in their way. Here’s what happened.

The first lady in line had 2 small children and could have been pregnant. Eglantine looked her up and down and clicked her tongue in obvious disapproval.

“What?” said the young mother. “I have every right to be in this line and don’t you dare look at my children like that!”

Eglantine was ready with a quick reply. “I was not looking at your children. I don’t like children (none of us doubted that). Are you pregnant? Because if you’re not pregnant, you cannot be in this line! Look at the sign.”

The "sign" that Eglantine so proudly pointed out.
The “sign” that Eglantine so proudly pointed out.

The young mother told Eglantine that her body was none of the old lady’s business and then flipped her off as she stormed away pulling her kids behind her. Eglantine then lit into another lady customer who looked to be in good shape – too good a shape to be in our line. That lady lowered her eyes immediately and made room for Eglantine to put her purchases on the belt. Eglantine thought she had won but the fight wasn’t over yet. We had another round coming.

The elderly, cane-less lady behind me objected raucously to Eglantine cutting in – she told the cashier that no one should give in to such a “disagreeable” person. And, in any case, she just had a gall bladder operation and she was really tired.

Eglantine's trump card.
Eglantine’s trump card.

That’s when Eglantine took out her card – her pink government-issued card that proves she has a declared handicap. She slammed it on the moving belt and shouted something that roughly translates to “Oh yeah? Well, my handicap trumps yours. So, show me your card or shut up!” The customer sighed and raised her eyebrows. The rest of us followed Eglantine’s rather strong advice. We all shut up while we waited for her to pay and go away.

But, as soon as Eglantine was out of hearing distance, we had an animated discussion about how nasty she was and how we should have checked her card. It might have been a fake. Well, even if her card had been a fake, I can assure you that she wasn’t. Eglantine was a nasty, arrogant self-centered lady. And, even though she was an impeccable dresser and her make-up was reminded me of Jane Fonda, she was still old and still nasty. No saving grace. No grace at all.