Alicia l'Américaine

11:15 on Sunday Mornings

    The organ strikes the chords just so. While I appreciate the gesture, the familiarity of the lyrics, the comforting warmth of a cold church sanctuary in San Francisco, the light shining in, reflecting off the podium just as it does back home... it’s precisely then, around 11:15 on Sunday mornings, that I am resentful.

    I resent time for moving too quickly, circumstance for moving me across the country, the organist for skipping the second verse. I resent him for not being Bob Griffith, for not playing on a Steinway Grand alongside Rev. McGee, a mere two yards away from our front row seats. For not promising a waltz or a rag time in the postlude...

    For making me homesick for something to which I can never return. For taking my voice away rather than helping me know what to say, when I call Grandmom in a chipper voice after the service.

    For playing “Spirit of Life” above me, rather than in front of me, so that I might watch his hands and he might hear my tears. For not knowing that it’s Granddaddy’s favorite, not stopping to pause for even a second, respectfully, before allowing the minister to begin his weekly sermon.

    My throat closes in anaphylactic protest, and I wonder how long it takes for one’s voice to truly come back.
   

Loïc, 15th Gentleman de France ...

    Gentleman’s Quarterly. That timeless, handsome reference to the seen and be seen of high society. I’ll hardly admit to glancing at my boyfriend’s subscription of Maxim, but am willfully caught indulging in the former.

    Reading each issue allows me to fantasize about a world where my only concern is the appropriate arm length for an Armani suit, what conversations truly take place with White House staffers in hot tubs, and whether Tel Aviv or Bangkok is more fashionable for business trips these days.

    And then, there’s GQ with a French accent (read: 10 times sexier). Where the likes of Gad Elmaleh or Frédéric Beigbeder offer glimpses into the intimacy of their fame, with perspectives on Sarkozy, cocaine, life in the movies with Audrey Tatou... just enough to make a girl melt with desire, a man with envy.

    This month? The February issue, featuring no other than Clint Eastwood on the cover, highlights the 30 most influential men in France.

    #15? No other than Monsieur Loïc Le Meur...

    Remarks French blogger MRY, “the great thing about these lists, is that they not only flatter the ego of those chosen, as well as that of their entourage... but they prove that the economic world of exclusive salons are crumbling... and that new forms of influence are taking their place. 

    “Before, there were those in the shadow and those in the spotlight. Today, it seems you must be in both... so as to develop a true personal brand, by maintaining not only your economic, but human, influence.”

    No doubt that M. Le Meur does both, and that his personal success arises precisely because those following him in the shadows of can only smile when he shines. Move over Arrington, Scoble, Pete Cashmore or even Ashton Kutcher... succesful, entrepreneurial, influential... a true gentleman, indeed.

    Now if only he knew what that meant...

Living on Dreams and Burnt Grilled Cheese

    Though fight it we may, that inevitable time in a young girl’s life encroaches upon most of us all too soon. Gone are the days of inhaling second-hand cigarette smoke in Parisian bars, while sipping red wine and debating philosophy with your fellow literature majors. One day or another, you find yourself living off dreams and cheerios, hanging curtains and sweeping floors, negotiating rent and waking up five days a week at 7:48.

    As far as “real worlds” go, I’ve been lucky to stumble up on an amazing city, with equally outstanding friends and coworkers to boot. Thus, I know I’ll have plenty of support as I struggle to compete with those pre-maternal nesters who have come before me, and create something that resembles, if only somewhat, a home - for now.

    My new year’s resolution? Learn how to cook. I’ve bought Mme. Frenchie’s recently translated 10,000,000,000 page “I know how to cook” book, which, for the moment, makes me come across as the world’s most desperate exaggerator (liar just seems to harsh).

    I invite you all to join me on my adventures. A la Julie and Julia, but a lot more fun.

    Baby steps... baby steps.