The `FROSSIE LAND` DIARY
`Tu n'es pas moche, j`aime tes dents`!
# 1 Monday 12 July 12, 2004

I feel creaky, `rusty` as I write this from the balcony of an eleventh district apartment overlooking a grey Paris. Actually more like a rusty, twisted barn nail that has taken a hammering, but somehow manages to have carried the burdens required of it. Above me, the sight of swallows playfully dog-fighting offer hope of brighter summer days and I cling to this omen in terms of my own immediate future.

The back injury suffered during an enforced stay in Melbourne continues to remind me of increasing mortality against a growing agenda of projects that must take form. As the days to my departure grew nearer and greater with trepidation, I had focused on the simple tasks at hand, like tying my own shoelaces and so avoided the anxiety of thoughts concerning the gruelling twenty-four hour flight to Paris and life beyond.

Avoided also the thoughts surrounding the events that had `marooned` me in Melbourne, choosing rather to focus on the positive outcomes of this period. Now almost three months to the day of that trauma, I have discerned a more intricate, mosaic pattern of life that imparts a wiser, multi-dimensional perspective.

It perhaps suffices as a conclusion to state my view that the many ills of the world I see as global and removed are in fact the same reflected in the microcosms of our own human relationships and endeavours. To those of us burdened by the knowledge of these inequities at large, Mahatma Gandhi had sagely bequeathed his own epitaph and legacy-` Be the change you want to see in the world`! A simpler and less burdensome standard to carry for those of us that see no other practical solution.

So a new ship carried me away from Melbourne, one largely crewed by dear friends in France that showed up at Charles De Gaulle airport at 6:30 AM to redeem my sorry state. Despite my artificially sedated grin and the two years that separated this reunion, there was the evident and unspoken joy of a loving greeting that forever brands special friendships.

Nancy and Francois are soon to be married in Bordeaux and it will be my honour to be their `temoin' (`best man` if you are not French) during the formal ceremony. I have also been invited to join them during their honeymoon and I naughtily delight with the thought of being a witness at both events, like some tribal elder that has transcended the sensual distractions of such things and now presides over them.

As I wander, or more precisely, limp through Paris, questions about this place and time flood a naturally curious mind that is awakening from its recent Australian hibernation- questions that frame a context for my existence here! These are increasingly of a universal nature that covers the themes of friendships, love, venture and the barriers we all encounter in navigating them.

My initial observation of Paris is that much has changed since my last visit four years ago, tainted as that memory is by visits to various hospitals courtesy of the `gastro` epidemic that abounded then. English is understood and spoken almost everywhere and the global street chic confirms the surrender of the mainstream to the international slipstream. The question is whether `le resistance' will fight back, if it still exists at all? Despite the burning of the first McDonalds store over ten years ago, its place on the Champes de Eylsées in now enshrined, forever juxtaposed with Napoleon’s own earlier triumphant arch- both symbols of imperialist fervour, if not flavour.

It should be noted however that l`Èmperor always preferred chicken and the quickie lunch of fifteen minutes at a time when two hours was the norm. A time frame he is said to have also applied to other practices of sensual delight, much to the chagrin of Josephine, who had a penchant for dining on young lieutenants with more time on their hands.

Gone from main-street view are the boutiques of laudable Parisian individualism. Gone also are the glamorous women that are purged from Paris at this time by tourists in white walking socks that clean up the fashion refuse of the aforementioned in city wide sales- A kind of cultural purgation that benefits both parties. When I last came here in winter, beauty looked bitter and now in summer it had gone south.

Being deprived of such visual sensations, my mind is forced to savour the smells and tastes of culinary delights, a culturally high watermark long-established by the French. The food is great everywhere except the tourist areas where tired looking waiters serve equally fatigued salads that remind some visitors of home. You know who you are!

I decide instead to dig up some local history at the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, where the likes of Moliere, Proust and Balzac reside. Despite the Romanesque and Gothic mausoleums that celebrate such illuminated lives, the majority of visitors, including the French, seek out lot 30 in division 6 and I am constantly asked for the whereabouts of `Jeem Morrison`. Perhaps its my seventies leather coat and dark glasses that have me mistaken as a disciple of The Doors and its shaman front man?

Like many misunderstood poets Morrison had lived his life in a vain attempt at explaining his lyrics and while extolling us to `break on through to the other side` had left few clues (apart from extended periods of solitude in the Californian desert- a personal favourite of mine!). He did however perform this ultimate feat into infinity via a short stopover in Paris and like Alexander in Babylon was partied out, spent, young and dead.

The likes of Balzac had answered life-long questions to their satisfaction, if not all of their critics, whilst the latter perhaps has a greater affinity to a current generation unable to answer the many questions asked of modern popular culture?

A realization in the form of a paradox also appears when one considers that despite French opposition to the dominant, pop Western culture of America, it also embraces two of its most notable symbols (McDonalds & Morrison).

That evening friends Jean Claude and Gee purchase tickets to see chanteuse Bebel Gilberto at Le Bataclan and despite my hosts forward planning, the management at the venue make the crowd line up for one hour, before a mad scramble to unreserved seating in a venue sans air-conditioning.

I am bemused to see around me what appears to be a newfound French tolerance. The crowd is clapping excitedly, which I am sure is convincing Gilberto to prolong her absence. I enquire of the charming woman next to me, the whereabouts of the country’s famous protest movement. She smiles like an infatuated schoolgirl and I instantly realize that I am unwittingly engaged in the French art of seduction, despite sweating profusely on the seat and floorboards beneath.

So while Bebel Gilberto seduces her audience by building their anticipation for her, I am sharing my body fluids with those around me and wish only for a cigarette on the cooler balcony outside.

The star attraction finally arrives on stage one hour later and its left to my Thai friend Gee, now living in Paris, to incite about half the room to a round of booing. Despite an ill-conceived attempt at the Bosa Nova in English the audience is easily won over when the switch to Portuguese is finally made.

The next day Jean Claude, now the manager of the prestiges Georges V, invites me to view the Bastille Day parade from the rooftop reception provided by his hotel. His wife Gee and I however negotiate an hour and a half of obstacles in the way of reduced transport services, security barricades and non existent signage that has us spending half this time wandering in the underground Metro for an exit. It is only when my friend charms a soldier with her exotic good looks that he divulges a national secret and we surface to street level.

We finally arrive to a glass of chilled champagne and other delights, whilst below us rows of tanks and other military hardware promenade. It is a scary visual contrast to the sights usually associated with the likes of Vuitton, Dior and Chanel. This is quite clearly a show of military muscle- one that history has provided a few unanswered questions and ironically one that failed on that first July 14 when the Bastille was breached.

Overhead low flying Mirage fighters trail plumes of tri-color red, blue and white, in scenes more reminiscent of Red Square or Tianiman Square. At the best the parade seems dated and insensitive to current global conflicts and most sadly does not celebrate the greater achievement that is France and its culture.

Later that evening we attend a soiree at an apartment with 180-degree views of Paris to watch fireworks that erupt from the top of the Eiffel Tower. The symbolism is not lost on the married women in the room who note that it emulates other acts performed only once a year and without the accompanying skyrockets.

In typical unabashed French fashion the appropriateness of the machismo military parade of the morning is questioned. The consensus around me suggest that President Chirac would have done better by the nation and himself by just opting to buy himself a bigger Cadillac (or Porsche if you happen to find him unattractive as well).

French machismo however, has and does remain in the domain of seduction and boudoir, where La Femme is worshipped and dignified with the most ardent intent. Post-modern feminism subsequently fell by the wayside of a seventies American aberration, like flares and platform shoes- comfortable ones, of course!

The next day in Parc Monceau the worshipping continues in the mutual adoration seen in young lovemaking couples alongside families, all sharing a closeness of proximity both physical and emotional that is not seen elsewhere. I am most touched by the sight of French mothers and the close connection with their young, which can be seen with doting fathers as well. This physical affection is buttressed by expressions such as ``je t'adore`` in response to even the most casual idiosyncrasies of loved ones.

The French also have a delightful way of letting you know they like you, without the fumbling awkwardness that accompanies less subtle cultures. Again, a closeness of physical proximity and an abandonment of self (which can be manifested in a charming absentmindedness) to total attention, informs and reassures the subject of Gallic affection.

Beauty is also defined in a multitude of perspectives including humour, dignity, style, charm, individualism and character, against an increasing global definition that is of singular dimension. As such, I am a devotee to some of this country’s many social graces and institutions, if not it`s somewhat restrictive class structure.

As I approach intriguing streets, cafes, soirees and people of Paris I can only purr in my best `Pepe Le Pew` brand of charm-` Tu n`es pas moche! J`aime tes dents`! (You are not ugly! I like your teeth!)