Miracle

I have been walking around Paris this week, thrilled (and chilled) to the marrow. I learnt in some sweltering primary school science class that water becomes solid at zero degrees. And I still get a spine-tingling kick every time I see that distantly-gained knowledge confirmed somewhere other than a freezer.

Having grown up in Sydney, where you buy ice from the service station to put in the bathtub to keep your Christmas beer chilled, the fact that it can be so cold outside that water freezes is something still so exotic and extraordinary to me that I have been going out of my way to visit bodies of water, just to see if they’re congealed or not.

The lake in the Parc Montsouris? Completely frozen over. The sight of its strange, grey, flat solidity makes me want to laugh with joy, even though my fingers feel as if they’re about to drop off as I doggedly jog through the pre-dawn frost. I watch intrigued as the park gardiens break the ice around the edges of the lake with long-handled wooden mallets, sending thick transparent triangles sliding into the centre. The round lake in the Luxembourg Gardens is frozen too, the central fountain austerely festive with Christmas card icicles. The Stravinsky Fountain next to the Pompidou Centre is solid as well, its bright creaking sculptures reflected dully in the scratched silver below.

It’s all quite wondrous, the cold transforming even the ugly and mundane into things of wonder and allure. Crackling puddles, sparkling gutters, even dog pee takes on a new and fascinating sheen when criss-crossing the pavement in brilliant crystalline streaks.

I know I should be more ho-hum about this phenomenon if I’m ever going to be a real Euresident, but the little boy from Sydney in me can’t help but be enraptured by this marvellous wintry mystery. This miracle of the season. May the novelty and wonder never fade.

Warmest wishes for a glittering Christmas!

Do you speak Vélib?

It was only a matter of time before someone published a collection of all the new words which have been cleverly coined since the rise of the Vélib phenomenon. Anne Abeillé has put together the Dictionnaire du Vélib to highlight some of the inventive neologisms which have (unofficially) entered the language almost overnight. Some of her favourites: “Vélibation”, meaning a boozy night on the Vélib; “Vélibabouchka”, a Vélib-riding granny; and “Vélibataire”, a single guy on a Vélib (from the French word célibataire, meaning bachelor).

It seems an English version is in the pipeline, so I couldn’t resist adding a few of my own suggestions (in no particular order):

Vélinguist n.
Someone obsessed with the language surrounding and inspired by Vélib.

Vélligerent adj.
Suffering from Vélib Rage. “Don’t get Vélligerent with me, mister. It’s not my fault there are no more bikes left.”

Vélebration n.
Festivities resulting from the opening of a new Vélib station near your home.

Vélincident n.
Any unpleasant occurrence or mishap whilst riding, such as accidentally swiping a parked car.

Vélitigation n.
The potentially unfortunate outcome of a Vélincident.

Ad Vélibber n.
A person who is unsure of their cycle route. Can also be used as a verb: “I don’t have my map with me, I’ll just have to Ad Vélib it.”

Véli Belly n.
The queasy feeling resulting from cycling home after a particularly large meal.

Jellib n.
The state of one’s muscles after riding up a long hill. “That Ménilmontant’s a bitch – my legs have turned to jellib."

Chain Gang n.
A group of delinquent youths who delight in vandalising and damaging innocent Vélibs by pulling the chains loose, for example.

Flat Chat n.
The words exchanged around a Vélib station when determining which bikes have deflated tyres.

Hell’s Bells n.
The painful cacophony of ring-ding-a-lings which betrays a group of excited first-time Vélibbers (Vélib Virgins).

Vélegance n.
The natural style and grace of an experienced Vélibber (a Vélib Veteran) as he or she swipes and swooshes away.

Heartburn

This is my pet hate. Next time you watch Star Academy, look out for it in the shots of the audience. I guarantee you’ll see it: some pathetic tween making a stupid heart with her fingers. There’s always one, and you can bet the camera will somehow manage to get a shot through the finger-heart, framing the performer; a touching and powerful image of the love shared at this deeply moving occasion. Excuse me while I throw up a little in my mouth.

Is it just a French thing, or has this heart disease spread globally? Do you see it at Anthony Callea concerts? I tend to think not, having watched the most recent series of Australian Idol, which remained mercifully heart-free.

Yes, I think it must be a Franco-saccharine phenomenon, which has even spread from TV variety shows and teeny-bopper pop concerts to the sports arena. I’m referring to the French swimming champion Laure Manaudou, who became a pin-up for the power of l’amour when she left the French swimming team to follow the love of her life to Italy. The sickening image of Laure finishing a race, ripping off her goggles and finger-hearting to her lover boy made me retch for weeks.

I can’t explain this reaction I have; it’s not like I don’t enjoy seeing, feeling and celebrating that loftiest and most beautiful of human emotions. I don’t go around shouting at couples to stop holding hands. (Although don’t get me started on public snoggers. I mean just get a room.) This aversion reminds me of a friend who simply cannot bear that hand sign people make, thumb and pinkie extended, to represent the telephone. Makes her physically ill. That’s what the hand-heart does to me. The mere sight of it, childish and cloying, makes me nauseous.

I suppose you could say I’m heartily sick of it.

The votes are in...

and the winner is... Kylie! Our very own pint-sized pop princess is France's favourite Star Academy mentor, beating the equine Québécoise with a 16% margin. What with one thing and another, I'm quite a proud Aussie at the moment.

Fantasy

Last weekend I lived out a long-held dream and sang Patricia Kaas in public. With a microphone.

I fell in love with Patty back in the Winter of 1989 when, as a student in Paris, I spent long hours in front of the TV watching the afternoon teen music shows (to perfect my aural comprehension, obviously). Kaas had just released “Mademoiselle Chante” and was on high rotation. I rushed out to FNAC and bought the cassette which I played obsessively on my walkman. (That sentence makes me feel so old.)

Every morning my head would fill with her husky, jazzy, sophisti-pop voice, all the way from the Porte de Clignancourt to St. Michel. I would step lightly up the boulevard as dawn broke, humming with pleasure at the exhilarating arpeggios: “Elle voulait jouer Cabaret…” Turning into the place de la Sorbonne: “En buvant dans les verres, Un fond de picon bière…”. Taking my seat in the Amphithéâtre Richelieu: “Je peux vous dire qu'elle en rêvait, D'un jazz band sous un clair de lune…” And all the while feeling swooningly Continental.

No doubt any French readers are pointing and laughing at me now: I’ve probably just outed myself as the biggest dag on the planet. (While I’m at it, I might as well tell you that my other favourite chanteuse was Mylène Farmer. I know.)

Which is why it took so many beers to get me up on stage in that fabulously low “gayraoke” bar last Saturday night to fulfill my teenage fantasy:

“Mon mec à moi il me parle d’aventures, et quand elles brillent dans ses yeux, j’pourrais y passer la nuit. Il parle d’amour comme il parle des voitures, et moi j’l suis où il veut, tellement je crois tout c’qu’il m’dit.”

For those present, thank you for your generous and indulgent support.

Wrinkly

This is what I’m going to look like after the weekend. I’m going to fill the bath with blistering water, lower myself slowly, monkey-like (oo oo ee ee aa aa), and luxuriate endlessly, pinkly, warmly. My toes will be nimbly prehensile, turning the tap for countless hot top-ups, my body reveling in steamy bliss as I marvel at the luxury of having it again: hot water. On tap.

It’s been seven days. A week of icy showers; boiling the kettle to wash up; freezing showers; messages left with the plumber; glacial showers; waiting in the apartment; calling the landlord… and really, really cold showers.

It’s not normal to have blue hands for a whole week.

And that’s why I am going to have the longest bath in history, and emerge looking like a Giant French Prune.

Delicious.

Filthy habit

I’m going to get all strait-laced, thin-lipped and tut-tutty for a moment. I’m sorry but I am. It’s just this: why oh why do people have to spit in public?

Every early-morning jog is invariably marred by having to dodge countless blobs of froth-slimy hideousness. Why do people feel the overwhelming need to get rid of their saliva when running? Granted, it can tend to get a bit thick and gloopy (sorry), but surely this is reason to conserve it rather than dehydrate the mouth further? I certainly don’t eject it and I’ve never choked on my own spit. I just don’t think it’s necessary. Perhaps those who exercise outdoors feel they have some special dispensation to perform anti-social and disgusting acts because, well, they’re rugged and active and that’s what sportspeople do?

Now if this were legitimate (and I’m not conceding for an instant that it is, let's be quite clear), it makes it even more inexcusable for non-exercisers to hawk and spatter all over the street. Yet I see it everywhere and at every time – people discharging mid-conversation, spritzing and hissing with odious abandon. Vile sputters of mucous-drool leaving glistening gobs of festering filth behind them…

Am I overreacting?

In trying to think why this makes me shudder so, I dredge up a particularly sick-making childhood memory of walking behind a man in Hong Kong (where spitting was even more distressingly common than it seems to be here). Either it was a particularly breezy day, or the pedestrian traffic was moving at a faster-than-usual clip, because it seemed only a split second after hearing the sickening hack that the resulting phlegm smacked wetly on my neatly pressed shirt. Scarred for life.

The other reason I really dislike the habit is because I think it is often done with intent. Let’s go back to jogging for an explanation. I have noticed that the more attractive you find the person running past, the more likely he is to spit in passing. It’s as if, sensing some incoming ogling (not that I ogle, but you get my point), a sputum-defense mechanism swings into action to make the object of appreciation less appealing. A sort of gaydar jamming technique, so the gentle thrill of any innocent eyeballing is completely ruined. Fiendishly and depressingly effective. Because really, who could ever look with appreciation at a common expectorator?

All spit, no polish.