Sarko the American

The President of France, elected in April 2007, is Nicolas Sarkozy. For the moment at least he's wildly popular and is doing his best to reduce taxes, incredibly over-generous retirement benefits for public employees, and to divorce a hideous wife who had already left him for another man. You would think you'd need to be pretty hot to cheat on the President of France. Think again. And now he's dating an Italian model. And that's just in his first eight months in office. All good things, given that he's about the size of Napoleon with the ears of an elephant and the nose of a proboscis monkey. He's not much of a looker but he sure can make some good choices.

Sarkozy is well-known for his love of the United States and its culture, and the media here have taken to calling him "Sarko l'Americain." About two months ago, on an official visit to the US, he gave a speech to Congress. I'm not a huge fan of political speeches generally, but this one was simply spectacular. Really, you must watch it. If it doesn't grab you in the first five minutes then go ahead and shut it off, but then don't say you know what the French can be like when you don't. Listening to him talk about his generation's gratitude to the American military choked me up several times. I wish American politicians could be like this. Or at least more than none.

The speech is very well-translated into English. If you ever thought the French were snobs, at the very least their President is not. And everyone in Mougins voted for him. What does that say? Have a listen.

Sarkozy's new girlfriend, Carla Bruni. Can France's first lady be an Italian?

Miss France is in Trouble

Pioneers all?









As you may recall, I wrote previously about the Miss France 2008 pageant, which was quite an affair. Turns out the affair has turned a bit sordid, as "compromising" photos of Miss France, Valérie Begue, were published last week in a French Magazine. This stuff always comes out afterwards, since no one cares to see "compromising photos" unless they're of someone famous.

Apparently under the rules of the crown, Miss France being in compromising photos is prohibited. Which is odd because I've seen the photos on the TV and it's basically her in a bikini. I don't know what the big deal is. I mean, they had a 2-piece bathing suit competition during the pageant. Been there, seen that.

But scandal is scandal and there has been much debate about Miss Begue giving up her crown. She's apparently survived, however. The Times (UK) says:

Miss France 2008 will be allowed to keep her crown, contest organisers have said, despite a row over suggestive photographs that saw MPs, a bishop and the Minister for Overseas Territories spring to her defence. However, she will not be able to compete in the Miss World or Miss Universe contests, where she will be replaced by Miss New Caledonia.

Valérie Begue, 22, from Réunion, an overseas departement of France located in the Indian Ocean, won the beauty pageant, which is taken far more seriously in France than in many other countries, in a televised ceremony on December 8. But her reign threatened to be short-lived after a magazine published a risqué set of photographs in which she was featured lying in a crucifixion-like pose while wearing a bikini, and licking condensed milk in a suggestive manner.

The rules of the contest forbid participants appearing in nude or provocative photographs, and the head of the Miss France contest, Genevieve de Fontenay, called for Ms Begue to renounce her title. She refused, saying the three-year-old photographs were published without her consent. In the face of massive public support, the organisers later relented.

As Americans, we've already been through this with our very own trailblazer, Vanessa Williams. And as all Mormons know, thank goodness for her, since if it wasn't for those photos the very average-looking but Victorian bonnet-wearing Sharlene Wells of Utah would never have won the very next year. I still remember my mother crying when Wells was crowned, saying "They KNOW that Mormons aren't going to be involved in any scandals. They KNOW it!" They knew about scandal thanks to Vanessa Williams. Catch her every Thursday night on NBC's "Ugly Betty." Must see TV.

Josh Groban on Star Academy

Pierre, (26 yrs old from Paris) and Josh Groban (wearing makeup?)

Last night on "Star Academy" Josh Groban was one of the celebrity guests. I don't know if they do this on American Idol, but on Star Academy, the contestants live together in a chateau and have dance and voice teachers. They also practice and perform with celebrities, which is really cool.

Here is the link of Josh Groban and Pierre singing "You Raise Me Up." Notice the funny look on Pierre's face most of the time. I don't know if that is a face you make because you are singing with a celebrity and you don't want to mess up, or if it is the face you make when you are singing in English and you don't really know what you are saying.

But it was really fun to see Josh Groban on TV here in France. Nice little taste of home for the Holidays.

Miss France 2008

Miss France with a transvestite. And why not?
In France there's always a party going on. Each night Stasha and I are at the hottest nightspots, dancing the night away with the other beautiful people. There aren't enough nights in a year to fit in all the exciting evening events we have planned.

Like last night. We sat on the couch for like four hours and watched the "Miss France 2008" pageant. I'd always thought France is pretty progressive, so that passé stuff like beauty pageants wouldn't attract very many people. But the show was on France 1, which is sort of like the most popular channel, and it sure looked like there were a lot of people there. Plus the viewing public could call in and vote for their favorite contestant because you, the viewer, make the choice. They were relying on us. At the end of the pageant the host said they'd received almost 300,000 votes, meaning one of every 200 people in France voted, each paying 0.56€ per call (about $0.80). That's like 200,000 more than vote in US presidential elections, and that's free.

The host was some guy that was probably famous, and his co-host was supposed to be a woman that I'm pretty sure was a man dressed in drag. But the whole affair seemed pretty good, as far as pageants go. In fact I'd say it was much better than pageants I've seen in the US. Not that it actually was better, but since Stasha and I couldn't understand any of the jokes we probably enjoyed it more. Sort of like watching reruns of America's Funniest Home Videos on mute so you don't hear Bob Saggett's voice.

France is the size of Texas, with a population of 60 million. The country is divided into 96 "departments", which are basically just mini-regions. For some reason the Miss France pageant had only 36 contestants, so a bunch of people must have been eliminated at some point before this program. But there seemed to be a lot of good contestants. For the region we live in there was a Miss Provence and a Miss Cote d'Azur, so we sort of had double coverage. Miss Cote d'Azur was an outstanding representative for our region. Stasha and I beamed with pride. Miss Provence, not so much.

As far as I could tell, the show was basically about who looked best in various dresses and bathing suits. The contestants were almost all between 19 and 22 years old. Miss Paris was the grande dame of the group, at 24. They basically walked around the stage for 90 minutes while the program showed a little vignette of each contestant, filmed a few days or weeks before. Each was of the girl running on a beach or walking on a bridge near her hometown, talking about how each is very "loyal", "passionate", "fun", "loves to laugh", etc. Most of the contestants looked great but the judge's panel was basically comprised of past Miss France winners, rugby players and homosexuals, so those with obvious flaws were eliminated early.

When they announced the 12 finalists, Stasha was adamant that Miss Bourgogne and Miss Alsace were the best. I agreed but also felt very strongly about Miss Rhone-Alps. She spoke to me in a very special way. I couldn't help but notice Miss Réunion as well, because her eyes were so brown-green they were almost yellow. As you can see there was much to debate, and a great deal to consider.

Miss Bourgogne, Miss Alsace, Miss Rhone-Alps, and Miss Réunion

After the 12 finalists were chosen it was time for the 1-piece bathing suit competition. This was really a two piece suit with a flap of cloth on the front. They all looked pretty good. Miss Alsace turned in a remarkable performance, cementing her status as the early favorite. There were a few obvious duds in the group, namely Miss Pays de Loire, who walked like a man. She might look good in touched up photos but on video there was stuff wrong all over the place.

About 11pm the five finalists were announced. The audience on hand and us viewers at home gasped with outrage. Miss Bourgogne made the final but, in an unforgettable turn of events, Miss Alsace and Miss Rhone-Alps had both been eliminated. Stasha became very angry about the snubbing of Miss Alsace. She found an outlet in her anger as she looked over the five finalists one more time with incredible disdain. "Oh I'm totally over Miss Bourgogne," she exclaimed indignantly. I accepted that without argument, although secretly I was rooting for her. And we were both angry that Miss Pays de Loire had been chosen when there were plenty of other good contestants that had been discarded like so much flotsam and jetsam, none of whom walked like men. I felt especially sad for Miss Rhone-Alps. She had really tried hard and her dreams had been crushed. She'll make a good nurse someday.

The five finalists were: Miss Albigeois Midi-Toulousain (which made for quite a sash), Miss Bourgogne, Miss Cote d'Azur, Miss Pays de Loire, and Miss Réunion. I should point out, by the way, that the Réunion Islands aren't even part of mainland France. It's like Miss Guam being in the Miss America pageant. It's fine, nobody minds another pretty face, but she shouldn't really win. We have 50 states and Guam is nice but it's not a state and that's that.

Stasha remained stunned and sulked quietly for the rest of the program, except to comment on the nose of Miss Pays de Loire, which from a side view was quite expansive. I, on the other hand, threw my hopes and dreams squarely on the 1.5m high shoulders of Miss Bourgogne, with a backup plan of Miss Réunion. They then had a two-piece bathing suit competition, which only served to futher confuse the male judges. Afterwards the host asked each finalist what she would do for the country as Miss France. They were all pretty much going to save the country.


Miss Albimidi-whatever, Miss Cote d'Azur (otherwise known as Donald Trump's wife), and Miss Pays de Loire

When they announced that Miss Cote d'Azur was the 4th runner up I was suprised because she was the tallest of the group. She looked very unhappy to finish in 5th place. This was also a surprise because her last name is Hot. I mean, that's really her name. And frankly, based on the photograph above she probably had a legitimate claim to Miss Most Beautiful Woman That Has Ever Set Foot on Any Planet Ever, but c'est la vie. We all moved on. The 3rd runner-up was Miss Bourgogne. I flew into a rage inside. These pageants are always rigged.

At that point I shifted my hope to the elimination of Miss Pays de Loire and the (hopefully) crowning of Miss Réunion. So when they announced Miss Réunion as the winner of Miss France 2008, it was a very emotional experience. She stood there with her hands over her face, tears welling in her yellow eyes, looking absolutely radiant.

She will represent France well in the coming 12 months, and gives us all hope for the future. No doubt she will champion many causes and will fulfill her responsibilities with great aplomb. While she may or may not win the Miss World/Universe/Earth/Planet competition, there are plenty of people here in Provence that woke up this morning feeling just a little safer. Miss France is there, taking care of us.

We're Going to Have a Commercial

Poobs: Today's subject from Dave
If you only have five minutes to read, go do something else right now. Because what I have to say here is important and it's going to take you a long time to read it. Even longer if you're illiterate. So pull up a chair and stick your feet up. It's time to learn.

When we watch TV in the US there are things that appear approximately every two seconds during any program, and much more often if it's during the final few minutes of an important sporting event. Companies pay a lot of money for these things that we Tivo through with abandon. We call them commercials in the US, which is a pretty long word for something we see all the time. In France it's different. The word for commercial, or advertisement, is Publicité. But everyone just calls them "des Pub" (pronounced "day poob") for short. Like in the US, some words (like "Refrigerator", or "Television") are never actually said. They're so common that we shorten them. Instead it's "Look in the fridge" or "Would you please just let me watch TV?"

Let me give you an example of how we shorten words all the time in the US, because it's the same in France: One Saturday evening in January 2005 Stasha and I had been working on a project at our house in Phoenix. This wasn't just any old project, however. We were covering our dining room walls with toile de jouy. The short version of how to undertake this divorce and possibly suicide-inducing process can be found HERE. Covering walls with fabric is not a good idea. Don't do it. Anyway, we were fighting about how to do it every step of the way, and since it had been going on for a month, our marriage was not holding up well.

It was on this particular Saturday night, when we were getting close to being finished with the month-long process, that the San Diego Chargers happened to be playing the New York Jets in the playoffs. I had been looking at toile de jouy all day and was sick of it, and sick of Stasha telling me I was putting it up wrong. I was ready for some football. For all you guys out there, this was a great game. You might even remember it. I'm no Jets fan and, although I love the Chargers' new uniforms (which are really just a throwback to their original AFL digs), I don't feel any special affinity for them either. But it was quality football and I was enjoying it immensely.

Stasha, however, who is jealous of me because she doesn't like sports and therefore most of the joy of life has been sucked out of her, did little but stare at toile du juoy while I enjoyed four quarters of heart-pounding action punctuated by 14:55 of overtime madness. It of course didn't help that the Chargers were behind until the very last seconds of the 4th quarter, so that when - with two minutes or less left in regulation - Stasha asked, "When is that game ever going to end?" I responded, "There are only two minutes left." And therefore with that statement continued to perpetuate the massive fraud on wives that men perpetuate every weekend about when a game will be over. What's funny is that women never seem to fully get how the game clock and the regular clock differ. They just don't get it. It's like man's little secret. SHHHHH. Don't tell them. They'll never figure it out!

An hour later I was still glued to the edge of my seat as the game was deep into overtime and the Jets were driving. Stasha, on the other hand, was fuming. She wanted toile de jouy help and was intent on getting it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her march into the room, give me the Stasha Death Stare, and promptly just shut off the TV. She just SHUT IT OFF. In the middle of a play. To make matters worse, she turned off the main power button which meant I would now have to GET UP and go turn it back on. This was going way, way, way too far and there was no turning back. You just don't shut off a guy's playoff game without asking. Some lines one must never cross. We had been arguing for a month about toile de jouy and the volcanic rage that had been bubbling for 30 days suddenly burst forth in a titanic eruption. It was like Krakatoa.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" I screamed as I lunged across the room towards the power button. "ARE YOU &$^#*%@ KIDDING ME?!?!"

I turned the TV back on and one instant later the roof fell in: Stasha reached over and turned off the TV again.

"I'M WATCHING TV RIGHT NOW!!!" I screamed. "I AM NOT DEALING WITH TOILE RIGHT NOW!!! I AM WATCHING TV!!!"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?!" I was going crazy. "I AM WATCHING A PLAYOFF GAME ON TV. DO NOT EVER, EVER TURN OFF THE TV WHEN I'M WATCHING THE PLAYOFFS." (note that I said TV, not television. Americans don't say the word television, unless you're buying one. It's always TV. The word television was never uttered during this argument and the ensuing preparation for divorce proceedings. That is the main point of this story)

This did not go over well at all. She leaned in to turn the TV off a third time and I blocked her path. So naturally she chose to do what any rational woman would do in such a situation, which is to say that she grabbed a long cardboard tube laying nearby on the carpet and hit me with it. The toile fabric had come wrapped around this tube and the kids had been playing with it. She hit me hard. It bent.

I was shocked by this sudden display of force. Violence, other than me murdering the incessant crickets that come around in late spring in Phoenix, is very uncommon in our home. I reacted badly. Not with any violence, because I leave that to Stasha, but badly nonetheless.

"You're a &*%@$", I said.
"I'm leaving", she said.
"Get the #@$^ out, I said.

It was over. She went upstairs to pack and I turned back on the TV. The Jets won the game about five minutes later. I'd been very content to watch my game in silence, but once it was over I began to realize that perhaps my wife and kids moving somewhere else was not a great idea.

I sulked upstairs and apologized, because it's always my fault. Stasha graciously acknowledged that the whole thing was in fact my fault and then, with some coaxing, I helped her put away the clothes and the suitcases. We made up a couple of days later and moved on. Things are good now. Really. Whenever we see the toile de jouy in the dining room we are reminded of this experience. Mostly I remember what a great playoff game I watched, but Stasha always reminds me that we came to a marital precipice and looked down it. I love the NFL.

By the way, she never finished the trim around the toile and three years later it's still not finished. It looks really bad. Two weeks ago when I was in Phoenix I ate dinner in the dining room with our exchange family and our (now mutual) friends the Bodens and the Wilhelms. Ladd Wilhelm was kind enough to point out that it's not finished. I let Stasha know right away. She appreciated the input, Ladd.

So anyway, Americans never say 'television' and in France, French people never say publicité. Ads and commercials are always called "Pub", for short, and are pronounced "poob." What fun!

But this is actually about something else. Something so insane that it will stun you into reading in silence. Ready?

In France you must pay to watch TV. Not to buy a TV, or to watch cable (you pay for all of that too), but just to be able to watch regular old TV. Even if you only get French CSPAN in black and white on a 12" screen, you must still pay. It's called the "redevance de l’audiovisuel" or better put, "TV Tax". It costs 116 euros per year, or about $175. What's more insane is that it's the US that's apparently insane. Insanely cheap, that is. Almost every major country in Europe has a TV tax. In fact, if you want to live in that vacation haven called the Walloon region of Belgium (where it rains like 300 days a year), it costs 150 Euros for an annual TV license, plus 27 Euros a year for every single car radio. Would you pay $40 just to listen to Belgian radio in your third car? I think not. So count your blessings. Incidentally, if you want to read about this fantastic way of ripping people off, go here. By the time you're finished you'll know how much the annual TV tax is in Albania. It's pretty detailed.

In France, having a TV is a bit more common than having a trampoline, or a boa constrictor, or a Ferrari. There are 60 million people in France and about 59,999,994 are subject to this tax. We are not, because our exchange family pays the tax for us (just as I pay my property taxes so they can live in my house in Arizona). If you consider that the average number of people per household in France is 3.2 (a guess), and each house in the country must pay 116 Euros, translated into dollars that is just over 3 billion dollars a year in the government coffers, just because people like to watch TV. Perhaps they should tax you if you eat. Oh wait, never mind. The tax on food is 19.6%.

The TV tax is used to fund several TV and radio stations in France, the equivalent of CBS, ABC, Fox, and NBC. The net result of this is that there aren't that many commercials on those channels. They pay for their programming through taxes. The people pay for it. I personally prefer the American way, but whatever floats your boat.

But, over time it, despite the tax dollars, commercials have appeared anyway. They get 3 bill a year in tax money but still there are commercials. Not that many (the number of commercials has actually fallen in the last ten years), but they still have them. So, perhaps out of guilt, these public networks feel the need to introduce the commercials. A screen appears right before the poobs begin, and it appears again every minute or two until all the commercials are over. Sort of announcing that the poobs are coming on now, so if you want to go to the bathroom feel free to make it happen you won't be missing anything. It's ridiculous. The letters " P U B " appear on the screen for five seconds (I timed it), usually amongst a bunch of other letters, and then a commercial comes on. They have a million different little vignettes, all of which show the letters P U B and that's it. It's ridiculous. But that's Poobs for you.

At the top of this post is a shot of my TV, taken today when the word "PUB" appeared magically on the screen, announcing that commercials were about to begin. It's like magic. And below this paragraph, screen shots of two commercials that appeared right after the "Poob for the Poobs". One is for Castorama, which is the Home Depot here and in which they never give you any service. The other is for a veterinary school in which you can learn, in only minutes a day of study, how to be a veterinarian's assistant in France. During this poob, if I had snapped the photo 3 seconds before you would have seen a screen in which a lady was giving a shot to a raccoon. Yes, a raccoon. Or if I'd taken it three seconds later you would have seen a screen in which it said there are two tracks at the school: one track to be an assistant for taking care of animals, and another track for taking care of fish. A veterinarian for FISH? I don't know what more to say.
Castorama: "Has everything for me" (except service)



"IFSA, the specialist for the creation of animal care", especially raccoons.

A National Tragedy

Last night we went to my friend Stephanie's house and after dinner watched the rugby match together, along with 20 million other people in living rooms all over France. Not only was this a match that filled the country with hope, but – as Dave told me – it’s one that, deep down for the public confidence, the French needed to win. Les Bleus played well and led almost the entire match. But sadly, just like in the World Cup four years ago - when the final whistle sounded they had lost to England. When it was over Sebastien Chabal, the enormous, bearded rugbyman who has become the pride of all France, knelt on the field and cried.

Like Stephanie I was just waiting for the match to end so we could all eat some dessert with our husbands. Everyone else, however, had little appetite. Jille (all 6’6” of him) kept saying “C’est fini, c’est vraiment fini” (“It’s over. It’s really over.”). Pierre (wearing glasses in the photo) kept saying a lot of bad words and Fabienne, Jille’s wife (in the red), just kept saying “Can’t we just beat them once when it matters? Why is it always the English?” Dave, in his broken French, just kept saying “I am very sad”. Only I think it sounded like the equivalent of “I vewy said”. It added to the somber, pathetic mood that permeated the room for several hours afterward.

Turns out Dave and his friends aren’t the only ones feeling sad. The whole country is devastated. The Paris bureau chief of the Times of London said:

The English destroy the dream of an entire nation. So said the headline in le Parisien this morning after England ejected France from the rugby world cup in a semi-final that had stirred a wave of patriotic hope.

Click on the link and you’ll read that the country is in such a funk that tomorrow the president, a huge rugby fan, is expected to announce he has separated from his wife. Who says the French don’t care about their sports?

Un Gars Une Fille (a guy and a girl)

We Love This Silly Show! Of course when we watch we don't have the luxury of subtitles; So most of the time we just laugh like fools although we don't understand half of what is going on!

One of the things we're learning is just how alike people are everywhere. Sometimes we allow ourselves to think someone is different than we are because of the way they look, their language, their age, their religion, or where they grew up. But being here drives home the point daily how - with few exceptions - we are all the same. This show makes Dave and I laugh because it's a constant reminder of that fact.

Watch the clip. Even without understanding what they say it's still obvious what they're doing: about to claw each other's eyes out just like Dave and I do on occasion. Fortunately when those events happen in our house, Dave always comes back and humbly tells me how wrong he was, and how sorry he is, and how lucky he must be to have such a perfect wife. And when he does, because I'm a nice person I always take him back. Ladies, I'm sure all your husbands do exactly the same!