The Joan of Arc Show (or No, No, No!)

May 8^th is the day France commemorates the end of WW2 in 1945. On the Sunday following the 8^th, traffic stops while dignitaries lay wreaths of red white and blue flowers at the foot of the gold statue of Jeanne d’Arc on horseback almost below my window. I’ll be awakened by the tootling of a trumpet playing the Marseillaise. But I have so effectively sound proofed my bedroom that this morning I emerged from my 8 hours to hear shouting.

May 1^st is usually the day when the Front Nationale assembles its members around Jeanne’s statue –a symbol of French national pride--to listen to a speech by its leader Marine Le Pen.  Today, however, extremists who find Marine’s views too moderate were there. The cross roads were blocked in every direction and a relatively small group of militants were being addressed while Police Nationale stood in a line at the entrance to my street. Only a few had riot shields and their posture was relatively relaxed.

Then a more aggressive counter demo erupted. Shouting was emerging from the corner of the Place and cameras were being directed at a spot out of my line of sight and upwards. A large fire engine, ladder ready, maneuvered into position while another stood to the rear of the statue. The building on that corner houses some state offices and left wing union members were occupying its balconies. Police reinforcements now began running around and donning riot helmets. Is this unusual? No. The Joan of Arc Show often turns to riots.

I’m writing about it because a few days ago a former British Chancellor of the Exchequer, Nigel Lawson, and one of the leaders of the plot that removed Margaret Thatcher from office in 1990, publicly recanted on his former pro-European position. In a long article in The Times, hemadvocated that Britain get out of the EU. It is now 23 plus years since the historic moment in the Commons when Lawson’s co-conspirator Geoffrey Howe made his speech accusing Thatcher of breaking the bats with which her side were playing cricket in the negotiations to join the Exchange Rate Mechanism. Thatcher did not want the uk to join that precursor to the creation of the single currency. Her famous speech in which she said “No, no, no” to any concessions that would erode British sovereignty was the cause of her downfall. John Major who took office that same month (November 1990) after being elected as the new Conservative leader continued to follow the dream of the single currency until the UK was thrown out of the ERM by its failure to keep to the conditions. Base rates of 17% were avoided and the country was rescued from the folly propounded by Chancellor Lawson. But so soon after the bells from Thatcher’s funeral have ceased to toll, her so-called “Brilliant” Chancellor (who resigned in November 1989 and was replaced by John Major) has emerged from the closet as an advocate of British exit from the EU.

Does the little scrap at the Joan of Arc statue have any bearing on this? Only too clearly. The extreme right demanding stringent limits on immigration are not only the French Front Nationale. Their sentiments are echoed in other EU countries including the UK. EU policies permit free migration from poorer to richer member states, while failing to prevent illegal immigration. This means the raucous shouts of the extremists will be heard increasingly in every EU capital.

The beautiful floral wreaths that pay tribute to the French and Allied fallen in WW2 and whose touching messages bring thoughts of peace in our time, will not survive the coming conflicts. The Eurozone crisis, the migration crisis, the unemployment crisis, the lack of EU democracy will bring worse than this ritual piece of French street politics.

No no no? But yes, yes, yes, the uk should start dismantling the chains that bind it to a dangerously insolvent, and frighteningly divided European Union.

For more background on the Lawson-Thatcher battle over the ERM see Chapter 1 of my biography of John Major available from Amazon and other Internet bookshops (Macdonald and Futura). And for details of Major’s role in the Black Wednesday crisis when Britain left the ERM in 1991, see the Postscript to the paperback edition (Futura).

Frenchmen and Food!

I simply love the way my lover serves food. Be it a picnic or some dishes I have cooked, it’s the way he arranges it all on the platters and the way he uncorks the champagne and the wines. He’s a heavy weight businessman but that does not diminish his grasp of that French art of dealing with food. He’s French, of course and it seems that Frenchmen know all about cooking and serving food. I don’t mean ‘The French’ entirely. I mean French men. The only two French women who ever cooked anything when they stayed with me in London had one dish each in their repertoire. One did Croque Monsieur when her boyfriend visited. The other did Moule Marinere when I introduced her to a Francophile ex of mine. The moule were superb, as were the bottles of Pouille Fume he brought,  the whole lot, served before a blazing log fire in my Montagu Square salon.  The love affair lasted a few weeks. Perhaps the one dish introduction needed some additions? One should not rest on one’s culinary laurels!

But back to the men, much the best part of the deal. The best French Chefs, in France or abroad, are well known to be creative, temperamental and exacting. But although a few females have been trying to erode their solid ranks, they remain dominant in the kitchen. Two French Chefs were friends of mine in London. They worked at prestigious embassies but moonlighted to make me a three course buffet for a concert and soirée I produced for 100 people. They did a great job and the ticket holders were ecstatic about everything from the ambience to, yes the concert, and of course the food. When, I was asked, would I do another one?

Since then I’ve moved to Paris, where I have to say I find not all French know that much about food or wine. Perhaps they take for granted the fact that even the simplest brasserie or café can rustle up a delicious omelette or steak and frites. Even though the standard is declining as costs rise, these compare favourably with many London equivalents. Some French seem not to expect a foreigner to know anything about food or wine. But I was taught French dining rules as a child. Besides, there is more good wine and more good French cuisine available at good restaurants in London than in France except at the very top establishments. I’m not saying that the food lacks quality at places like Laurent where President Hollande and his First Umbrella Carrier, the Rottweiler, (yes its still raining all the time) dine occasionally--a few steps from the Elysée’s back gate. I simply think that the Michelin star system is over rated: each time I’ve eaten at a Michelin starred place, I find the more the stars, the worse the food. Crème seems to be the main ingredient, plus salt overdose, and vegetables are mere slivers of decoration. One invariable feels sick later.

But eating at top restaurants is not the point. France is acknowledged as the home of great cuisine. Due to this, gourmets from all over the world fly in to discover how to shop, cook and serve great French dishes and wines. Hence, there are cooking schools all over France where these devotees train as adepts. French people also attend cooking schools in Paris, often in the lunch breaks.

French cooking was apparently imported from Italy by the ghastly Catherine de Medici, bride of Henry I (of France) along with high heels. She did a good job on marketing both.

Paris boasts several cooking schools, one of which, ‘Cook’n with Class’ in Montmartre attracts an international clientele who are taught by English speaking Chefs. This school will have a stand at the France Exhibition at Earl’s Court the coming weekend of Jan 18^th-20^th.

Other stands at the Exhibit include estate agencies, financiers and property renovators. Their stands may have been booked before the election of Francois Hollande last May as President for five years and the killer taxes he has since imposed on foreign property owners plus their incomes, or indeed on the wealthy French. One of the latter is Gerard Depardieu the actor who has invested heavily in restaurants, one of which my lover and I patronise for its excellent simplicity. His decision to become a resident of Russia makes him one of the more celebrated examples of a wealth drain of billions that has occurred since Hollande’s anti- wealth policies came into effect last October. In October-November 2012 France’s exchequer suffered a net loss of 53bn euros as individuals and businesses decamped; plus money supply has been falling at an accelerating rate since Hollande’s investiture. Bankruptcies are rising and the private sector is in revolt.

I grieve for French enterprises whose representation at the London Exhibition demonstrates such hope that France with all its wonderful amenities for leisure will attract foreigners as property owners, investors, tourists and foodies. Alas, while the cooking skills will remain, they may reap more profit for their talented cooks and restaurateurs outside France rather than at home.

Fifty Shades of Black

Put your Black Rags on, Babes! It’s the festive season. I was at a party the other night. The mostly French women there were dressed in deepest black from topknot to stiletto. There was plenty of texture, lace, damask, crochet, bits of fur and fluff—but black. I was the only woman wearing a colour! Shocking pink! One other British woman was wearing a white cardigan and my friend Tara was in a silver top.

Shopping for something new? Every boutique window in my quartier of St Honoré is draped in, yes, Black. With one exception, that of a recently opened boutique in the Rue Place Marché St Honoré where the windows are filled with multi-coloured trousers, jackets and sleeveless dyed fur gilets. I’m not quite sure I’ve understood the formula or the marketing sense. I don’t know where a Parisian would go dressed in these clothes. To her country house perhaps?. A friend of mine who lectures in fashion complains that going on the Metro in the morning is “like going to a funeral.” And the mood matches the colour. Somber.

The only women one sees dressed colourfully on the streets are usually artists. But generally, coloured clothes are not considered chic. I have heard a shade of magenta described as “flashy.”

Recent fashion seasons made grey into the new black and recently one of the boutiques in Rue St Honoré was displaying clothes in shades of beige and brown mingled with white, one of this year’s fashion favorites until the Christmas window displays took over. When I cycled down Rue St Roch on Daisy Belle just before Christmas I was shocked to see that, even the Pronuptia boutique was displaying long black dresses. Eek! Is black in for weddings now too?

To anyone who knows anything about the effect of colour on the spirits, this black fixation could be one reason why so many Parisians are on anti-depressants. Not that black cannot be sexy and alluring, but the sight of sallow unmade up faces framed with non descript black puffa jackets gives one the heebie jeebies. That’s why a slash of red lipstick or a nattily coiled scarf in some bright shade of anything but black can offer relief. And if French women have a talent it's for draping and coiling that foulard. Lately it seems they are not bothering with those flashes of colour. The endless procession of black clad bodies in the street (in baggy leggings and puffa jackets) says something about the French woman’s fear of being different from the crowd. At work she wants to avoid being conspicuous. Out for the evening, she wants to be the most attractive and chic of any group but she does not want to be too adventurous. But could this black fixation be a statement of class? Are we talking petit bourgeois? It is evident in my turns around the streets of St Honore and up into Rue Faubourg St Honore that it’s the more expensive shops that display coloured clothes. Does money mean a greater sense of liberation from convention, a carefree self expression? Or could it be that these very expensive boutiques in Rue Castiglione and the Faubourg St Honoré are patronized by rich foreign women? My feeling is that French women always prefer black whatever their social status.

One evening coming home on the Metro from a dinner at a friend’s, I was impressed by two elegant women in expensive looking, fur trimmed black coats. They sat opposite me and I watched them fascinated. They were clearly from the upper bourgeoisie, confident, manicured and well heeled, expressing a hard self absorption. To their right a young girl, with loose hair and pretty without make up in baggy beige jodhpur leggings with trainers and a brown puffa jacket looked them up and down repeatedly. Her clothes, her open mouthed expression and her wooly-hatted boyfriend suggested students. The more she looked at her rich sisters, the more she portrayed a yearning for something beyond her reach, a sense of being denied entrance to an unattainable world. The rich sisters, at a guess in their late thirties or early forties had clearly made a substantial investment in new winter coats. What other colour would they choose than black?

The girl gave a resigned sigh and leaned back against her boyfriend’s shoulder, envious eyes shut. Ah, I thought, surely love is better than a rich black coat?

Night Ride Through Civilization

It’s rather convenient to have a palace courtyard in which to exercise at night. I don’t go to a gym. Usually I swim but the local Olympic sized pool is closed thanks to a hunk of concrete roof falling into the pool two months ago (see my blog “And then the Roof Fell In”). I have thus taken to riding Daisy Belle 2 around the Cour Napoleon and the Cour Carrée of the Louvre. Insulated from traffic sounds and sheltered from the worst of the wind and rain by the deep walls of this palace, I am doing my circuit training in the most extraordinary historic environment, far from modern banality.

Tonight was no exception. I powered through the Cour Napoleon, past the glittering glass Pyramid and up the slope that leads via a long arch into the Cour Carée. The Louvre itself dates back to the medieval times when Paris was confined largely to the Isle de la Cité. The stern towers and prison like walls of Philippe Auguste’s Louvre (meaning defensive fortress) situated to the West of the Cité were demolished in more enlightened times and replaced in stages by the glorious Renaissance edifice that is the Louvre today. The transformation from stark fortress to sumptuous palace dates back to Francois I whose own residence was a rather modest little mansion in what is now the south west corner of the Cour Carrée, one end of which overlooks the Seine. Marie Stuart played here as a child. Since her days, Henri IV, Louis VIII and Louis XIV added to that building to create the square called the Cour Carrée—meaning Square Courtyard—keeping to the Italian Renaissance style of the original François I palace.

This is where I speed around on Daisy Belle 2. Tonight a niggardly drizzle needles my face as we circle the central fountain and ride in a wider arc closer to the walls where the lighted windows of the ground floor reveal displays of antiquities. I pause to admire the eight black marble statues of the lion headed Egyptian goddess Sekhmet, who in her role as the destroyer goddess of ancient Egypt removed many an evil leader or exposed a corrupt practice.

As we circle over wet slabs (avoiding very bumpy cobbles) we are accompanied by the strains of a lone cellist whose classical repertoire enriches our ride. The lighted galleries around us (kept open for the cleaners) reveal painted ceilings where cherubs and buxom ladies drift against angelic turquoise skies. These Renaissance works of art are part of the building itself. But, inside and outside, the Louvre takes a lot of upkeep, which is why the North façade has been shrouded in scaffolding for almost a year.

Our views as we flash around the central space also includes glimpses through the arch that looks south towards the Seine, of the gold trimmed cupola of the Academy Français, poised on the Left Bank end of the Pont des Arts. Another, to the West, reveals the Pyramid, glittering with reflections from internal lights, and a third the delicate tower of St Germain d’Auxerrois whose carillon chimes the hour. Not now though because I am riding in the late evening. In a few minutes at 10pm the huge iron gates that open onto the Cour Carrée from the four arches will be closed.

Daisy Belle speeds me back to the Cour Napoleon, past the romantic cellist whose profound gaze and divine music follow us through the arch. We take a few turns around this vast wet space. The fountains are switched off as the hour of ten arrives but one can still hear the gurgle of the overflow via the artificial weirs that empty the black pools surrounding the Pyramid into who knows what Stygian reservoirs.

We pass under the small Arc de Triomphe going West towards the Tuileries, out onto the rue de Rivoli and past the gilded statue of Joan of Arc on her horse. In moments Daisy Belle is back her own stable in the Place Marche St Honoré and I walk the couple of blocks to my street. As during our ride through the palace courtyards, there’s hardly anyone around. A welcome glass of champagne awaits me after I pull off my damp clothes. A November night’s work out in the heart of civilization: it beats sweating it out in a stuffy gym.

Naughty Flanby and the London Scene

As you may know, ‘Flanby’ is one nickname of France’s Socialist President, based on a commercial crème caramel pudding thanks to his flacid photo images. Also nicknamed Noah, by me, thanks to the rainfall records accompanying his arrival at the Elysee, and continuing, you could also call him ‘Mr Tax anything that moves.’ He’s doing it and by now nothing is moving, other than backwards: but he’s still taxing. His pedigree as a Socialist includes the fact that he hates the rich and hates the Middle Classes, the ‘Bourgoisie’ as they call ’em ’ere.

Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. I’m not new to breaking exclusives and if you want to be on top of French breaking exclusives, join this blog. I made my name as a scoop writer from South Africa in the 1970’s. No hacking.  I have my methods and I get to sources other people can’t reach.

The President of France proclaims that he owns no property. According to his biographical blagues (meaning lies or jests) he rents a modest apartment in the 15^th (yuppie arrondissement) with his “First Umbrella Carrier,” Valerie Rottweiler. His former companion, Segolene Royal lives elsewhere and his four kids may or may not be renting apartments: we have no transparency about these arrangements. We know how its done here in France: the apartments will be owned through companies whose tax status will relieve the President of any direct connection or even fiscal deductions. It’s legal but invisible to the masses that vote for socialist representatives.

Here comes the real, exclusive, dope. Mr “Fatty Flanby, ‘hate the middle classes”, Hollande’ “owns apartments in two central London buildings. He has not declared them to the state for public scrutiny, which the rich are obliged to do. But the government does know that he owns them. It has not yet become public knowledge. Nor is it likely to do so since the activities of the “top” people are not usually reported in the media here who collude with the politicians (even to the point of bedding them and moving into the Elysee Palace) to conceal the hideous con trick being perpetrated on the average, heavily taxed individual.

Does that make him a crook?

Frankly, yes, but thanks to the French laws of privacy which I commented on today in a news item to Radio Wales, Cardiff, with reference to the Leveson Enquiry, the French media do not report matters of such seminal interest to the French public. Thanks to the political-media collusion, they remain silent about the financial and sexual aberrations of their political bosses. So, only insiders know the truth and it will stay that way in France because information about the secret activities of French politicians, sexual or financial, is suppressed and does not become visible in the media.

Books seem to be the way in which confidential information, i.e. scoops, become visible to public scrutiny. The media will report exclusive news that turns up in a newly published book. This may not go on. Who knows what new tricks the high up manipulators of public opinion will resort to next? It’s a pity that the more open media culture in the UK has not only condoned outright invasion of privacy for ordinary citizens or celebrities but has concealed historic sexual abuses now being uncovered.

In France, privacy laws that apparently allow photos of foreign celebrities (viz Kate Duchess of Cambridge) in private circumstances, to be published contrary to the law, (the publishers are fined modestly, but still make a world wide killing) and yet allow the secret financial manipulations or sexual aberrations and lies re top politicians (e.g. Dominic Strauss Khan’s sex life or Francois Hollande’s financial investments) to remain hidden, cannot be to the benefit of a democratic country.

And Then The Roof Fell In

No, I am not referring to Flanby’s taxes announced in his 2012 budget. Nor to the seismic effects in high places of the revelations of his paramour’s convoluted love life. This roof falling episode is more seriously symbolic of current events than those. Perhaps you can detect a faintly mocking tone? Yes, thanks to Flanby, (President Hollande, nicknamed Noah by me for the floods accompanying his election) the rich are moving out of France. Chief among these is Bernard Arnault, CEO of LVMH who says he’s taking Belgian nationality. Evidently Belgium is bright enough to keep its taxes low enough to attract top earners. Arnault, who built his company himself—by aggressive mergers, acquisitions and asset stripping-- and is the world’s 4^th richest man and Europe’s richest, has also been knighted in London (as Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire) for his services to the luxury goods industry in Britain where his company employs 3,000 people. Only three thousand employees to get a Knighthood? That’s really cheap! Come on you small business owners, get mobilized. You could be next.

But back in France the Captains of Industry are complaining. The current CEO of L’Oreal, the worlds biggest cosmetic company, says France will not be able to attract top talent to run its companies due to the tax of 75% on incomes over 1m€ per annum.  If the idea is that French top talent will migrate to other more lucrative locations would this government care? Certainly no foreign CEO would want to run a French company unless paid offshore. But does France want superannuated expatriates running its bigger companies? For decades L’Oreal was run by a Welshman, Owen Jones, who started at the bottom in Normandy as a traveling salesman for Dop shampoo.  He had to retire at 60, the French rule. That’s a lot more ridiculous than having to move to Belgium. But Arnault, already 63, does not have to retire. He owns the shop.

Perhaps the socialist Hollande doesn’t want powerful private companies with highly paid CEO’s who might start telling him what to do. He’d rather have state run companies like EDF or Areva whose CEO’s are paid less fancy salaries than is the rule globally for the private sector. Indeed, Flanby doesn’t like the private sector at all. Nor does he like the rich or even the middle classes.

Maybe I’m reading between the lines but did we expect anything better from Francois? These several months since he first had sight of France’s accounts, he has been sitting in the back room at the Elysee, working on his sums. He can’t cut unemployment benefit or civil service jobs without upsetting the unions and causing riots, but he can tax the very rich; always a popular move. They are few in number, although agile at guarding their fortunes from the taxman. But even if they make a great example of the President’s wish to show how much he is penalizing the better off, he is increasingly unpopular with the French public. From May to September Hollande’s support has declined 18%; 11% of that during September when the holiday mood wore off. When a friend who works at the Banque de France told me he’d seen the recent figures and was appalled, I simply nodded. Yup. And you can also tell the country is in recession from the number of boutiques that close, the fewer customers in my rather upmarket supermarket after office hours, the widespread public building works. And that brings me to the matter of the roof falling in. It’s all about public works in progress, and this is the reason:

French Government Bond Yield for 10 Year notes declined 3 basis points during August. From 1990 – 2012 the yield went from 10.7 per cent to a record low of 2.1 per cent in August 2012. Thus making it historically cheap for the French government to borrow: hence, the huge outbreak of publically funded works going on all over Paris.

It may be a case of Grabbit and Run, since the future looks less rosy, but, thanks to this cheap borrowing, the French government is digging up the roads, extending the tramway and the Metro, funding archeological digs in the Tuileries, repairing the external facades of the Louvre and rebuilding the ancient Palais de Tuileries. How much are they borrowing? I’d love to know the truth. Meanwhile, a long planned 120m€ restructuring of the Les Halles park and shopping centre in the very hub of central Paris is underway and this is why roof started falling down.

This roof in question is that of the Olympic size swimming pool I have used since the Ritz closed its doors (for a two year refurbishment). It’s a short trip away from my apartment on Daisy Belle 2. Alas, about one month ago I turned up for my swim and discovered it was closed indefinitely. It seems a large chunk of the concrete roof fell into the pool and everyone ran out screaming. Fortunately no one was hurt but it has not reopened and may not for months. The digging of huge holes for the rebuilding of Les Halles is the cause.

Who cares? This could be the biggest reconstruction period for Paris since Baron Haussmann swept away the rat ridden slums in the mid 19^th Century. While the private sector starves; shops close or offer huge reductions, factories are shut down and mergers and acquisitions are stalled the government is spending like a drunken sailor. And the lenders may prefer lending a lot of funds at low interest when they know they’ll get it back on a programme of low inflation in a government dominated economy.

Forget the private sector, it’s not wanted on voyage. Nor is it even bankable compared to the Government of France.

So where am I swimming now?

In the Seine. Well not quite. I’m using a floating pool that filters river water, treats it with Ozone and minimal chlorine. A masterpiece of French technology, it works most of the time. And I get there, not on Daisy Belle 2, alas, but on the extremely efficient Line 14. It takes 6 minutes transit time between Avenue de l’Opera and Bercy. Another masterpiece of French engineering, it’s driverless so there are no strikes to interfere with traveling.

No private sector, no workers? Sounds like Paradise. As to who gets the profit from the higher taxes? Foreign buyers of French bonds.  Bi Bi Bernard Arnault. Sorry, I mean Sir Bernard Arnault. La France doesn’t need you, your money or your jobs. She’s borrowing in a market place that is frankly desperate to find a good bet, even if the rates are bargain basement low.

Postcard from Paradise

During the halcyon days since mid August, when summer finally arrived, I have been  picnicking with my pals in the Tuileries, sipping fizz and nibbling smoked salmon salads.

One glorious Sunday, I was on my way to share an early aperetif with a friend who had just returned form a week’s fashion course in London. As we walked towards the gate, she carrying some artisanal goats cheeses and the boxes of sumptuous fruit salad that she invariable brings to our feasts, and I carrying the bottle and glasses, we passed a mother who was hauling up the pants of a toddler who had just been peeing against a lime tree.

“Oh,” she sighed, “There is something so hopeless about Paris.” She added that in London she and her fellow students had been whizzed all over the city and the suburbs. In trains and tubes and streets from Shoreditch to Knightsbridge, they had not failed to be impressed by the energy of the Londoners. “Wherever we went, rich or poor areas, they were all getting on with it,” she said. In Paris, a city still, in these hard times, more dedicated to pleasure than pursuit of professional priorities, there is a marked difference of pace and one cannot help noticing an apparent lack of motivation. While in London one overhears snatches of mobile phone conversations as the speaker strides past--usually all about business, in Paris, the mobile phoners are talking about their last meal or holiday. One constantly hears the words ‘manger’ (to eat) or ‘vacances’ (holiday). Well I’m not against it but the flabbiness of the atmosphere zaps one’s energy.

Recently, I was returning from London where I had raced from one dynamic meeting to another and was still exhilarated: but as I emerged from my local Metro on Avenue de l’Opera,  (the Mayfair of Paris) it was raining, and the street deserted. Two sloppily dressed girls, one pushing a pram, were waddling along in my path. Immediately all my London energy sprang a leak and I felt tired out.

It was that same hopeless atmosphere upon which my friend had remarked.

I can’t say its universal but it is prevalent and some of it may be due to the 35 hour week which floods the streets with people who have more leisure than they know what to do with, no ambition and no motivation except the next rendezvous with their friends.

My neighbourhood attracts tourists in large numbers. Rue St Honoré, around the corner form my building is usually congested with strolling groups of Italians (yes, they are still spending!) or other tourists. They slop along gazing at the shop windows.

My quartier is a former residential neighbourhood that has been colonized by offices. Lately an extraordinary number of those have had “To Let” notices posted on their windows. Is this a sign of the times? Rents are prohibitively high and the cost of office space often includes a year’s rent in advance as a guarantee, not to mention legal deposits and refurbishment.  Businesses that can function in suburbs outside Paris such as Levallois, Courbevois and La Defence, find it cheaper to do so.

Empty offices don’t make it any easier to find an apartment, but, they do diminish the crush at my local Monoprix in the early evenings, except when the tourists outnumber the remaining workers.

Perhaps this contributes to the sluggish atmosphere that pervades the streets as day shoppers, pram pushers and 35 hour a week leisured classes take over from the dark suited business workers (some of whom now jog off their suppressed energy in the Tuileries).

Yes, there is recession in France--hidden in Paris due to the fact that over 40 percent of the city’s workers are government employees. They may not have much spare cash, but their spending masks the private sector’s decline. They have jobs for life. But, that hardly creates an exuberant economic atmosphere.

As for the sense of hopelessness, I am reminded of a visit to Washington DC, long before I met my American husband and lived there. A student on my first US trip, I met a man from Brazil. He said he was Austrian (a euphemism for relocated Nazi). He told me, wearily, “South America is the Continent of infinite impossibilities and North America is the land of infinite possibilities.” He exuded an air of hopelessness.

In France even the most talented and energetic find it hard to move forward, to advance professionally, to create or build enterprises—reminiscent of the UK in the 1970’s when socialism suffocated initiative. The tax system limits ambition and enterprise.

Meanwhile, my small apartment is a powerhouse of projects in progress. And there is still the joy of  meetings with my workaholic lover, who finds solutions to every problem.

Pour me another one, please!