Sexualitease

*CONTENT INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS ONLY*

(Unless, of course, you are French)

This blog post has been percolating for some time. As is usually the case with my posts, the subject is decided upon and then the material basically writes itself because my mind and energy become attuned to the topic and- much like when I plan to buy a new car- I begin to notice it all around town. However, not much conscious attuning is necessary when it comes to sexuality in Paris – to not take notice would be like taking a trip to the zoo and not noticing any animals there.

Sexuality is just about everywhere I look in Paris. The main difference is, there is a more balanced display of sexuality, nudity, and objectification across genders than there is in America. In Paris, I see advertisements of naked men almost as often as ones of naked women. One second I'm strolling along the boulevard and the next second- BAM!- there’s a life-size poster of a naked man right in front of us at the newsstand. There is a wide variety of nudity on these nearly life-size ads and it's quite a novel sight to see such a lack of censorship out on the streets. The Americanized parent in me had a knee-jerk reaction during our first few weeks in Paris. I eventually allowed myself to let go of my tendency to distract my daughters from these bold and prominent displays by calling attention to, "That something over there". I'm fairly certain that French parents don’t censor what their children see while walking down the street, so why should I?  Besides, it was becoming difficult for me to multitask; holding Raelyn's and Nola's attention via distraction while at the same time snapping photos of these sexy ads. So I gave up on distraction techniques altogether and instead invited my girls to gaze and gawk together with me; comparing, contrasting, and remarking, “We’d never see anything like these back home!” (I didn’t tell them they’re behind the counter and brown wrapper at our local 7-11).

Back in the U.S., I find my mommy self highly sensitized to potentially harmful, negative, and demeaning marketing, media, and role models for my daughters. America’s early sexualization of young girls is, in my opinion, becoming more omnipotent and our rigid cultural norms are ready to attach labels to those on either side of its fence. Take, for example, Miley Cyrus. She seems intent on distancing herself from her teeny-bopper Hanna Montana character and reestablishing herself as an over-sexualized wannabe adult. Taylor Swift?  With her sweetness and modesty, she represents the other end of America’s spectrum for women and girls. While Miley’s public persona is characterized as “The Slut”, Taylor’s is, “The Pure Girl”. My guess is, like for all of us females out there, much more is to be found underneath the labels ascribed to us by society.

More recently, Reese Witherspoon, during her acceptance speech for MTV’s Generation Award, stated that, “It’s possible to be a good girl and I’m going to try to make it cool,” after slamming her peers who have become more famous for their sex tapes and naked photos than for possessing any actual talent. While I applaud Reese for daring to challenge the new norm in show business, I can’t help but notice that she is doing so by clinging to the only other viable option for American women; by glamorizing the Good Girl. I detest that a ‘Virgin-Whore’ model of sexuality is the only one that is presented by American popular culture and I resent that it is the only perceived choice given to my daughters.

Living in the midst of Parisian sexuality allows me to examine the polarized sexual norms, behaviors, and double-standards that I grew up with in America. It is liberating, as a woman who is raising two future women, to recognize our time in Paris as an opportunity to expose my young daughters to different and more expansive possibilities rather than these limiting and stereotypical dichotomies that I grew up with:

He’s a charmer and a flirt if he’s sexually forward or suggestive; she’s a tease for the same behavior.
He’s a Casanova and a stud for having many sexual partners; she’s a slut for the same behavior.
He’s to be sexually experienced; she’s to be virginal.
He’s to be sexually aggressive, she’s to be sexually submissive.
He’s always interested in sex. She never is.

America tends to cling stubbornly to black and white where the French approach sexuality, in many ways, more honestly by allowing for shades of grey. The French have fewer sexual inhibitions and a more open attitude towards sex. The sexual double-standard between genders, while I lament that it will probably always exist to some extent in any culture, is at least less definitive here in France than it is in America.

For one thing, my observations show me that French culture allows young girls to be just that- girls. The early sexualization of young girls is not ubiquitous here like it is in the states. The majority of clothing that is available to young French girls is less adult and more youthful. Advertisements for sparkly cosmetics are not aimed their way. I see fifth-grade Parisian girls wearing Hello Kitty and other kid-oriented character backpacks that many of their U.S. counterparts have, by that age, deemed too babyish.

French public middle schools lack dress codes unlike the one back home that Raelyn will attend next year as an incoming sixth grader. She complains that she will not be allowed to wear the spaghetti strap tank tops that she finds so comfortable to wear on warm days. Raelyn wonders why her future school has such a rule. I wonder why the French don't. My guess is that without the early and unnatural sexualization of its girls, French boys can concentrate on their studies, French girls can concentrate on theirs, and walking down the halls in between classes is not fraught with hormones potentially going awry at the sight of some tween girl's nearly bare shoulder. In France, bare skin does not equal slut, which does not equal sex, which does not equal depravity. But in America, school administrators tend to clamp down on this cultural force of early sexualization and all the potential labels attached to it by oppressing girls even further with, in my opinion, silly dress code rules.

In music videos, young French female pop stars look their age, they wear clothing that is not revealing, and there is an absence of footage that glamorizes sex.

Iselym is a 16 year old French singer who is not Britney-fied in any way in her video.

However, by the time they reach their mid-late teens, many French girls are both sexually assertive and sexually active. While the same has increasingly been the case in America for the past couple of decades (thanks Madonna), the French teen girl does not have to worry about incurring a negative reputation for such behavior. I recently learned of a nineteen year old French girl who had sex with a guy and then had sex with their mutual male friend that same month. Having heard about this directly from one of the guys she slept with, I was surprisingly shocked to hear him say, "She's a friend of mine, and my buddy is a friend of hers too. It's no big deal that she had sex with both of us. She knows what she wants, she's a friend to us both, and it's cool. She's still our friend."

Conversely, I know a guy who, back when we were in high school, learned that a girl with whom he had been sexual had gotten together with another guy. So this guy and his buddies hiked up into the nearby hills where they proceeded to write on a hillside in huge chalky white letters, "(FEMALE'S FIRST AND LAST NAME) IS A SLUT". This shaming message was prominently displayed for days on the hillside for all motorists driving on the highway below to see. Now, this example is nearly twenty-five years old, so it makes me wonder if today's American teens' sexual attitudes have changed since then? I'd be surprised if they have.

French children grow up in a culture that embraces sex and sexuality as a natural expression of human beings. They are exposed to sensual PDAs, sexy adult models posing partially and sometimes fully naked in both print and television ads, and films that would be restricted to adult viewers in the U.S. with an R rating are viewed much more leniently in France. Yet, despite this exposure, France's youth fare far better, statistically, as sexually active teens than their American peers. America's teen pregnancy rate is almost three times that of France's. America's teen birth rate is over five times higher than France's. And, not surprisingly, researchers found that French youth were significantly more likely to have used contraception during their most recent sexual encounter than were their U.S. peers.  I can't help but wonder about the correlation between cultural norms and attitudes and these statistics.

A few months ago, I visited the home of French friends who have male and female teenage children. Upon saying our au revoirs, I reached for my coat that I had hung on their coat rack, noticing that it had fallen to the floor. While bending down to retrieve my coat, I saw, on the floor underneath the family's coats, a condom in its wrapper, presumably one that had fallen out of one of their coat's pockets. Though I'll never know who the owner of the fallen condom is, I'm guessing it belonged to one of the teens.

By now, I am beginning to see more clearly how these puzzle pieces of French sexual culture fit nicely together. There is a protective piece that allows French youth to naturally embrace their sexual latency and an interlocking piece which is exposure to and an embracing of, the natural teen emergence of, and eventual full-blown adult sexuality. Somehow, their culture manages to fit these two pieces nicely together to create a more balanced whole rather than the incomplete and limiting portrait of sexuality in America.

This helps me to relax a bit and embrace the sexual images that my daughters see on a regular basis. We are a music loving family and one of the things we have enjoyed is familiarizing ourselves with French pop by watching NRG, one of France's music television stations. Below is one of their promotional ads by Lady Gaga which is not at all shocking, unless, of course, you are American:

I think NRG should change their tagline to "Tit Music Only!".

Here's another sight for our eyes at, of all places, a kid-friendly carnival:

They don't call this the Fun House for nothin'!

A visit to a neighborhood restaurant would be incomplete without at least a little something more than good food to peak our interest:

"I'll have the breast of chicken or duck, whatever, just give me some breast!"

I now realize that there is a reason the chorus in the song Moulin Rouge is, "Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" ("Will you sleep with me tonight?") French women are sexually assertive and asking somebody if they will sleep with her tonight is not considered to be trampy. French women, beginning in their teens, are free to claim their own sexuality, be in touch with their desires, and remain unencumbered by, and unafraid of being slapped with a negative, hypocritical label for doing so. What a novel concept! The label, 'slut', based on my inquiries, does not gain the same traction in France as it does in the U.S. How could it, when, in France, sexuality is embraced for what it is: a natural drive and expression of the human brain and body, regardless of gender.

It was in this spirit of embracing what is natural that Soren and I decided to take Raelyn and Nola to a Parisian cultural institution. The back story is that a French relative invited us to join him and his eleven year old daughter at a vintage brocante (flea market) and variety show. He told us that he had seen an advertisement in one of the freebie Metro newspapers. He scanned this ad and e-mailed it to me so that I would have the location information. Upon receiving his e-mail, I copied and pasted the ad's text into Google Translate and read this:

An event Sunday in paris with:
- a beautiful vintage antique
- an open stage for striptease burlesque pinups
- A review with the New Burlesque Cabaret Daughters of Joy
- a live band rock-n-roll 60's
- a contest of dance (s)
- a dance rock until midnight

A good fifteen of world-class artists
muscians
dancers
singers and strippers, good humor, and rock-n-roll

Flea: 9h-19h / 2 Euros
Review and Bal: 17h - midnight / 4 euros / free for children

Yes, I was thinking what you are thinking, "A strip show! Free for children?!" I promptly contacted our friend who had extended the invitation as well as our French babysitter to get a reality check. I just had to gain a better understanding of what, exactly, our family was going to be exposing ourselves to. Both sources had the same reply, "Oh it's really quite tame, no full nudity, perhaps hot pants and pasties. Burlesque is really fun to see." The casual and blase nature of their responses made me check my assumption that as a parent, I would be exposing my children to lewd and indecent behavior. After some thought, I came to the following conclusions: 1) Attaching the words 'lewd' and 'indecent' to non-predatory sexual behavior and expression is a social construction of reality, 2) Burlesque as a cultural experience in Paris is to France what a rodeo in Wyoming is to America and, 3) We currently reside outside of the jurisdiction of U.S. Child Protective Services. 

It was with this new perspective that our family went to our first burlesque show. I can attest to the fact that it felt odd to sit in a 2-drink minimum cabaret environment while the sun was still shining and while surrounded by many other families with young children. Then the show started and instead of feeling odd, I felt rather exhilarated by what I saw. But not for the reasons you'll think. 

Several burlesque performers took to the stage. All dancers followed the same format, beginning with a tease, like this:

 And ending their routines by stripping, like this:

And for the grande finale, audience participation, like this:

What was exhilarating for me, an American female, was the fact that all sizes and shapes of the female form were displayed- all natural too, I might add- and there was a male burlesque performer as well, masquerading as a matador. As interested as I was in the show itself, I was even more keen in observing my daughters reactions to the live action onstage. They loved it! Nola even wondered when and if we were going to be able to see another one. I am pleased that my daughters were able to witness the actual art and gift of the 'tease' free and clear of it being labeled negatively.

I got to thinking about this after the show: Much female power is in the tease- keep em' guessing, keep em' interested, keep em' from seeking out the cave woman next door. For if man has an innate drive to procreate with as many females as possible thereby increasing his chances for viable offspring, then woman, I argue, has an innate drive to tease her sexual partner so as to keep him intrigued and coming back for more. The better teasing skills a woman has, the more likely that she'll be experienced as more alluring than her cave woman neighbor and thus secure ongoing food, shelter, and sustenance for her offspring. So, I say, if teasing is natural and biologically necessary for the continuation of the species, why does America have such a problematic relationship with it and the women who do it? (I am not about to get into the topic of religion here...)

Speaking of problematic, we know all too well the dicey relationship America has with its politicians and their private lives. The French expect their politicians to have a sex life; they even believe that their politicians can  have extra-marital affairs, and- get this- still do their jobs effectively. In other words, cheating on one's spouse does not equal cheating on one's country. In fact, Carla Bruni, wife of French President Nicolas Sarkozy, was quoted in a French magazine article, "I am a tamer [of men], a cat, an Italian- monogamy bores me terribly. I am faithful, to myself! I am monogamous from time to time, but I prefer polygamy and polyandry [its female equivalent]."

Can you imagine if Michele Obama revealed the same attitude towards sex and relationships? As soon as the story broke, the First Lady's lovers would sell their exclusive stories and photos to tabloid magazines and television shows, the religious right would have a field day, no doubt a sex tape would surface, and Obama would begin to openly chain smoke causing his country to wonder if he was still fit to lead as a cuckolded president.

As illustrated, in France there is a more equal playing field upon which both men and women can express their sexual needs, desires, and behaviors. In fact, this equality came up in a recent conversation with a French friend regarding the act of kissing. In France, one does not give a kiss. To say, "I'll give you a kiss," is to be presumptuous simply because, from the French perspective, a kiss is not given, it is made, as the language demonstrates. Faire un bisou literally, to make a kiss. One that is ours to share, not yours to give. 

In light of the recent and shocking headlines concerning France's DSK (Dominique Strauss-Kahn), I can't help but wonder if, had he remembered this cultural norm, he wouldn't find himself on house arrest, unemployed, no longer a presidental hopeful, and in a whole heap of trouble. Perhaps, had he visited Paris's Musée de l'Erotisme like I recently did with Soren, he would have been further reminded of the natural order of things as was I, by reading this:

Shared Pleasure
In love the two sexes are equal and pleasure should be shared equally. If the partners do not feel the same satisfaction once the act is accomplished it is not fair to pretend that they have made love. Love should be a shared reward and neither an egotistic satisfaction nor a duty.
Ovid- The Art of Love, penned around 2 CE

If my daughters can begin to internalize this valuable message during their time spent living in Paris, I will be one satisfied American mama.

Ifs, Ands, & Cigarette Butts

Having grown up in America, I recall the days of my youth when cigarette smoking was still considered to be more vogue than it is now, and certainly, at least, more tolerated. I recall ads featuring pretty ladies smoking Virginia Slims on the back covers of my mom's subscription magazines. At age eleven, I recall flying on my first commercial domestic flight seated two rows away from the smoking section and thinking to myself, "How does the smoke know to stay in its designated section?" I soon learned that it doesn't. I had friends whose mothers smoked Camels and Pall Malls. My grandmother had a two-pack-a-day habit that lasted through my childhood years until she quit at the age of eighty. I blew my allowance on candy, and, more than once, purchased those candy cigarettes laced with powder that mimicked smoke. I attended a high school that had its very own outdoor smoking section called "Smokers' Cove" or simply, "The Cove". At age fourteen I was pressured to smoke a cigarette by well-intentioned friends who simply wanted me to feel like part of the group (this is a nice way to re-frame peer pressure, don't you think?). Despite my not wanting to, I took a puff and tried to look and act cool when I began coughing uncontrollably. That was the end of that. Somehow, despite all of my exposure to smoking during my formative years, I knew it was not my thing.

Thankfully, California voters decided years ago, it's not their thing either, at least in public places. My state's tendency to attract those leading a health-conscious lifestyle also contributes to a relatively low number of smokers. I go about my daily life without hardly ever coming into contact with cigarette smoke.

Then I moved to Paris.

There are three significant ways in which French smoking negatively affects my Parisian life:

1) I can't walk out the entry door of our building without being enveloped by a cloud of cigarette smoke.

There is a daily mob of smoking teens who attend the private Catholic school across the street that congregate on the sidewalk inches away from our building's entry. Turns out, this is because by age 11 about 10% of French kids start smoking and by the age of 15 over 50% of French youths are regularly inhaling tobacco.

After school smoking fix outside of our apartment building.

Parisian sidewalks, including the one in front of our building, are regularly littered with cigarette butts. Both store-bought and self-rolled ones. Rolling one's own cigarette is a very popular thing here.

2) I can't dine outdoors at restaurants without swallowing fumes along with my meal.

About five years ago, France passed a law banning cigarette smoking inside public establishments. Unlike California's smoking ban, French smokers can smoke on the premises of a restaurant as long as they remain on the outdoor patio or sidewalk. Two weeks ago, my friend Renee and I were enjoying a mid-day shopping break refueling with a beverage outdoors at a bustling cafe on the Left Bank (our main intent really was to gain access to a bathroom).

We chose to sit outside since that is where all the best people-watching occurs. I encouraged Renee to sit facing the street where she would best be able to take in the passing fashion show. I sat facing her and the restaurant. The seating was tight and compact, typical for Parisian cafes. Inches away, to our right, was a group of women, all of whom lit up shortly after Renee and I took our seats. The slight breeze blew their smoke directly into our faces. Without many options to avoid their smoke, I scooted my stool over to the left and back a few inches. Soon after, a waiter came over to tell me that I must move my stool back to it's original position. Reading the perplexed look on my face he quickly added in his thickly accented English, "Eet ees za rrrule." Those damn French rules again! He failed to notice that after following his rule, I moved my stool back to it's rule-breaking location as soon as he left our table. Yet, despite the slightly increased distance between my seat and the smoking ladies', I think I vicariously smoked at least a pack that day.

I wish sitting outside to see and be seen wasn't such a hazard to my health here. I appreciate that California does not force me to choose between dining al fresco or protecting my lungs. The next time I find myself enjoying a meal outdoors back home at La Boulange, Chow, or Va de Vi, I will surely feel much more grateful.

3) I can't run on Paris's lovely Promenade Plantée without routinely inhaling a pedestrian's smoky exhale as I whiz past.

I see more smoking pedestrians on this trail than I do power walkers and runners. There is an overall lack of embracing fitness and exercise here, and smoking fits in well with this lifestyle choice. Heck, 30% of French doctors smoke (compared to 5% of American docs) and they're the ones who should really know better.

French parents smoke with little apparent concern for the effects of second-hand smoke on their children.

"There, there, mon bébé ,  Maman's et Papa's smoke isn't that bad is it?"

As a non-smoking Californian, it is hard for me not to feel judgement creep in when I witness a French mother smoking a cigarette and holding hands with her toddler while waiting in front of the school for her older child to emerge at pick-up time. This is a sight that I never see in my community back home. I assume this is because California's anti-smoking campaign has had a great impact, particularly on the recognition of the detrimental effects of second-hand smoke. Of the one mommy friend that I have back home who smokes, she keeps her habit on the down-low and never lights up in the presence of her husband or kids. During our girls' nights out, well, as they say, what happens in Walnut Creek, stays in Walnut Creek (or at least more than 20 feet away from doors, windows, air ducts and ventilation systems of enclosed public spaces).
 
French teachers smoke too, not in the classroom, but certainly in front of the school and in front of their students. For me and my children this is a novel sight. Raelyn's math teacher told her class yesterday, "Don't bother me today! It's been thirty-six hours since my last cigarette, I'm trying to quit!" Not surprisingly, Raelyn reported, "Mom, he was way grumpier than usual today." Coincidentally, I captured one of his last smokes earlier this week in some photos in front of the school. To his credit, he at least told his students, "Don't ever smoke. Once you start, you can't stop." Hopefully, he'll be able to prove himself wrong and walk the talk. I wish him luck.

Raelyn inhaling her teacher's second-hand smoke.

The other day, I took this photo on the way home from school:

At first, I thought that this advertisement was an anti-smoking one and I felt very satisfied to have captured the irony on my camera. The ad's message, "One could invite cancer, but he definitely would prefer to be left alone," is promoted by France's Institut National du Cancer. I found this out when I saw other similar ads in the Metro station containing their logo. Notice the absence of any tangible reference to smoking in the advertisement. Is the lone guy in this ad supposed to be pondering the thought of quitting smoking as he stares at the side of the Centre Georges Pompidou? Or, is he supposed to be fighting the urge for a smoke before he goes inside to view all of the Pompidou's modern art? Does the fact that I'm not French impede my ability to fully grasp the meaning and message of this ad campaign? Or, is the Institut purposefully using an indirect approach simply because a more blatant anti-smoking campaign wouldn't be well-received in a nation full of smokers? One thing seems perfectly clear; this guy on the sidewalk doesn't seem to be particularly impacted by the ad nor concerned about cancer.

Are the French concerned about cancer? I don't know the answer. According to a recent ranking of global cancer rates, France and the USA are about equal. Same goes for the two country's cancer survival rates. And yet, despite its larger percentage of tobacco intake, France beats America's overall life expectancy rate. What's going on here? Does France's love for croissants, cheese, butter, and wine counterbalance the detriments of smoking? Does America's love for (over) eating all things processed explain its lower life expectancy rate? Hmm...

French cigarette packages do take a more in-your-face approach regarding the dangers of smoking. And they hit below the belt, literally, with health warning messages that target one of the things the French value most. Sex.  This package was discarded in one of our window flower boxes a few weeks ago. I was about to toss it in the garbage when the warning label caught my attention.

"Smoking can cause low blood pressure and impotence."

What French romantic would ever want that to happen? I did learn that the French anti-smoking movement - yes, one actually does exist- went a bit too far last year according to popular opinion when they tried unsuccessfully to launch this advertising campaign targeted at teens:

“Smoking makes you the slave of tobacco”.

The ads are meant to show that smoking creates dependency and submission, but critics of this campaign believe the images trivialize sexual abuse. I can understand both sides of the argument.

What I can't understand is, this: Why do the French, who seemingly have a greater appreciation for a natural beauty aesthetic- particularly when it comes to females- engage in a habit that dramatically shaves years off of this natural beauty in the form of early onset wrinkles, yellowed teeth, and jaundiced-looking skin? Take, for example, our apartment building's Gardienne, a hip bohemian woman with orange dreadlocks, funky boots, tattoos, an eleven-year-old son, and a wicked smoking habit. Her age is a complete mystery to me. She gives off an aura of youth and I'm guessing that she's in her early 40's, but I can't be sure because her skin and teeth look like they belong to a much older woman.

The only upside of being surrounded by all this smoking is that my American-conditioned female self- who wants to stay young-looking for as long as is naturally possible- takes comfort in knowing that in about 10-15 years, I will wind up looking younger than my daughters' twenty-one-year-old (gorgeous) French babysitter. Although she smokes in the presence of my kids- outdoors only- Raelyn and Nola have reported that she strongly cautions them against ever trying a cigarette. This advice coming from a gal who also tans, as many of the French do, both naturally and artificially. Just another means by which I'll wind up looking years younger than her before not too long.

My final thoughts: IF the French quit smoking, would they become fat? AND, if they started exercising, would their current overall life expectancy rise even further? BUTT, it's pointless to ponder these musings because, as we know, the French possess that indefinable je ne sais quoi and who would want to mess with that?

Love Is In The Air

Surely you know the famous tagline: Paris, The City of Love. Well, it's actually true. I have witnessed more PDAs (Public Display of Affection) in less than a year than I have seen in all the PG-13 films combined over the course of my lifetime.

I have noticed a gradual mental shift in my very American internal reaction when I view couples lip-locked on the sidewalks, park benches, bistros, and Metro platforms. My initial thought is, "Get a room!" But then I realize that I actually appreciate the carefree abandon with which the French show their love and affection for each other. And by love and affection, I'm talking much more than the standard double-cheek euro kiss.

Parisian couples- young and old, gay and straight- take their city's moniker very seriously. Love is demonstrated by long, full-bodied embraces, hands cupping faces, or sliding down towards their lover's lower back to pull them in for a closer embrace, and sometimes, hands even disappear altogether underneath a lover's clothing. Fingers caress cheeks and run through their partner's hair, eyes lock upon each others' for long, loving gazes. Kisses are strong and sensual and they routinely involve tongue action. Duh, French kissing! They are exchanged in multiples as if neither partner wants this kiss to be the last. Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow! Seriously, walking down a Parisian sidewalk can sometimes be like flicking the switch on my childhood View-Master if it were loaded with a disc of images from Romeo and Juliet.

While the French desire to keep toileting separate and private, by my observations, they certainly don't feel the same about demonstrative passion. As a parent, I have learned to value the real-life learning opportunities this French behavior has presented to me. The Birds and The Bees has taken on new and deeper dimensions thanks to our daughters' eye-witness accounts of sensual, sexual, passionate, and shocking liaisons.

One Sunday morning, last Winter, Soren and Raelyn headed off to our favorite boulangerie, for croissants, which requires a walk across the river to Ile St. Louis. During their walk, they passed a park bench and this particular bench happened to be occupied by a pair of lovers. Even by our newly revised don't get a room standards Soren was shocked that the woman, who was sitting on the lap of her lover, had her legs hoisted up and over his shoulders while they passionately kissed. She was wearing a mini skirt and had bare legs; in the middle of Winter! I told Soren that perhaps she was a prostitute, but his take on it was that they were mutually authentic lovers in their 30's blinded and numbed by passion to the frigid temperatures outside. Hearing about this bare legged, mini skirted, passionate woman, I couldn't help but think back to the scene from When Harry Met Sally, when, after Meg Ryan's climactic scene stealer in a restaurant, another female diner says to the waitress, "I'll have what she's having!"  

The girls learned about French kissing thanks to two teenagers riding on the Metro. The young gal was sitting on her beau's lap as they noshed away on each others' lips and tongues, oblivious to the fact that two impressionable grade-school kids were taking it all in. Upon exiting the train, my daughters' first comment was not, "Eww, yuck!" Their first question was not, "Why do they do that?" What my girls actually wanted to know as they looked me square in the eye was, "Do you and Dad do that?"

It's not that the girls have never seen Soren and I kiss, embrace, cuddle, and hold hands. It's just that we, like many of our fellow Americans, engage in the rated G version of demonstrative love when in public. Raelyn and Nola have seen our wedding video numerous times and their most memorable clip is when Soren embraces me, dips me backwards slightly and plants a great big lingering kiss on my lips upon the minister's pronouncement that we are husband and wife. Almost every time our girls have seen Soren and I kiss over the years, they begin a boisterous and demanding chant of, "Wedding kiss! Wedding kiss! Wedding kiss!" If we fail to deliver, they let us know that we have not met their expectation of a repeat performance.

It occurred to me that Raelyn's and Nola's desire for Soren and I to demonstrate tangible displays of love, passion, and sensuality between us, likely has something to do with the fact that these emotions are core to our essence as relational human beings. The French have taught me how it can be healthy for children to witness parents engaging in a fuller expression of their relationship- one that moves just a bit beyond quick pecks on the lips or simple hugs, but rather, displays a deeper sense of passion and sensuality. My guess is that very few French children have to ask their parents if they French kiss because this behavior is so ingrained into their country's culture of romance in a very public, and- dare I say- titillating way, that, it's as normal to them as is breathing. As newborn babies, they've probably seen their parents French kiss countless times before they all head home from the hospital.

I do wonder if marital status impacts this cultural display of passion and, if so, to what extent?  The French romantic in me wants to believe that at least some of the folks that I've stalked with my camera are happily married and still wild and crazy about each other. My new goal- for the remainder of my time in Paris-  is to prove to my kids that, like these French couples, I am still wild and crazy about their Dad. Oh yea, and to bring this custom back to the States. Who knows? Soren and I just might gain a reputation for being the prolific PDA couple of Walnut Creek. I think I already have a park bench picked out. Then, of course, there's Bart, the fitness club lobby, the Meher School parking lot ...

Due to the overwhelming and enthusiastic response that I received for my 2010 EuroMan Election blog post, I bring you another voting opportunity. Ladies and gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, I now present to you for your viewing and voting pleasure: The 2011 French Lovers Competition.
Results void where prohibited by law.

Couple # 1

Couple # 2

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Couple # 5

Couple # 6

Couple # 7

Couple # 8

Couple # 9

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Couple # 13

Urinal This Together

Having given birth to two children- fellow mamas, I know you can relate- the need to relieve myself, when it strikes, can often do so with a sense of urgency. Even if I haven't been consuming my 8 glasses of water per day, I still have to visit a public toilette on a regular basis. And, because I am the same gender as my children, that makes me their default bathroom escort.  Therefore, I now have lots of experience using public restrooms in Paris and the other regions and countries that we have visited over the past nine months. I am still very much grappling with several issues that pertain to the necessary evil of relieving oneself on this continent.

This city, like many others in Europe, suffers from an underwhelming supply of available free toilets. In Walnut Creek, when I gotta go, I can pop into Nordstrom, sneak into Starbucks, or drive to a gas station and take care of business without having to fork over a cent. On this continent, I pay 1.50 euros (as of today that's about $2.00) to use the facilities in a department store, or, I pay for a cappuccino in a cafe to gain access to their bathroom, and, I can forget about using one in a Paris gas station since a single gas pump sitting on a sidewalk is how gas thirsty cars get their fuel. Ironic, isn't it,  that my most usual method of gaining access to a toilet- buying a beverage in a cafe- is only going to exacerbate my core issue of needing one in the first place. And, at my current bladder retention rate, I'm talking less than an hour later.

$5.00 granted us access at the Galeries Lafayette's public restroom. Who wouldn't want to pay for the use of all that pretty toilet paper? I have never before seen a restroom with a maitre d'.  He's too busy taking toileting reservations by phone to admonish us for taking this photo.

Paris does have some free public toilets located on the sidewalks, but every time I attempt to use one, I encounter some kind of mishap. It's the kind of experience when, moments afterwards, I feel the urge to look around for the hidden camera that just caught my blunder on tape. I sort of expect Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind a garbage can or bus stop and say, "Holli, you've been PUNKED!"

During my first attempt to use one of these toilets, I was accompanied by Raelyn. We waited our turn in line on the sidewalk of a busy shopping district. The young woman ahead of us was British and when it was her turn to use the facilities, I made certain to watch carefully so that I would know what to do when it was our turn to enter. I noticed that she pushed a button to open the door, then she stepped inside, and just as the door slid to almost a complete close, it opened up again while she was unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans. The door attempted to close three more unsuccessful times before she gave up with a loud and exhasperated, " #@!!% this!" and off she went. Despite the intimidation I was now feeling, I was determined to figure it out and make it work for me and Raelyn. She and I quickly scooted into the restroom while the door was still open. Seconds later, it slid closed and we were inside the surprisingly clean looking pod-like contraption complete with toilet paper and soap. I was impressed!

Suddenly and unexpectedly, a recorded French female voice loudly instructed us of something. I had no idea what we were being told. Raelyn, thank goodness, understood that the voice was warning us of the self-cleaning cycle that was about to commence. Before I could push the button that opens the door, a loud alarm sound bleeped repeatedly and Raelyn, who had taken a brief moment to read the French instructions printed on the wall, realized that if we didn't get out- and fast- our feet were about to get soaked with water. This is because the bathroom floor gets a washdown between each usage. In addition, the toilet retracts back into the wall, dumping its contents into an unseen basin and receives its own rinsing before lowering itself back into the ready position for the next patron. I now understood why the British woman could not succeed in getting the door to remain closed- this bathroom knew it was dirty and in need of a cleaning- it's smarter than we are!

While waiting outside for the self-cleaning cycle to terminate, I noticed that these units come equipped with an exterior light system in which each colored light indicates the toilet's current cycle: Green = Available, Red = In Use, Yellow = Self-Cleaning, or Blue = Out of Service. I have learned that these colored lights can be misleading and that, most of the time, a seemingly available sidewalk toilet isn't. I wish there was a light indicator for: This Toilette Looks Available But Isn't And Won't Be For Who Knows How Long So Move On.

I have tried to outsmart these sidewalk bathrooms. Having lost faith in the light system, I employed my other senses, mainly, my hearing, in an attempt to decide if I should keep persisting in getting the door to slide open. I'd like to say that I gleaned useful information from this method, in fact, I'd like to have a reason to become known as The Toilette Whisperer, but listening did not prove to be any more useful than looking.

My intelligent friend, Renee, tried to outsmart the toilette by suggesting that we all go in together. At least this could ensure that all of us who need to go pee actually get face-time with the toilet. Make that butt-time. Her idea was not embraced by all as you can see here:

Raelyn's and Nola's need for privacy trumped Renee's 'Urinal This Together' idea simply because, as Americans, we are used to having a much more privatized public toileting experience. In Europe, I have noticed, gender separation of public toilets is a rarity. I have used restrooms that have a communal sink area, one semi-private urinal, and one toilet stall all confined within a very small space. Even though I want to look in the mirror to freshen up and dab on a bit of lip gloss, I don't due to my own discomfort with the lack of privacy. I am forced to share this space with men and boys and I really prefer to do my female primping in private or, if I must, only in the company of other females. Sometimes, I have cleverly pulled out my compact mirror that I keep inside my handbag and reapply my lip gloss while in the toilet stall. Sure, I take longer, but I'd rather risk others assuming I'm going #2 than go without luscious looking lips.

"Why is she taking so long in there?" Little does this guy know, that, behind closed doors, I am searching around in the bottom of my purse for my lip gloss. He can always use one of these display toilets if he becomes really desperate.

Soren has been forced to get over his desire for privacy, especially when he was using the urinal in a communal bathroom and a cleaning woman mopped around his feet while he stood there taking a leak. This was just one of those in-the-moment cultural lessons for us about the fact that the public bathroom boundaries around privacy and personal space are way different here. The fact that I was even able to take the photos shown below are proof of this relativity.

Soren not quite embracing the lack of privacy.

Soren's comfort level with the Urinal This Together concept is increasing as demonstrated by his ability to flash a lighthearted smile despite the fact that the ladies room is next door to his semi-private urinal.

One fine example of Europe's relationship with toileting was evident in Den Haag, The Netherlands.  We arrived on the eve of Holland's biggest holiday - Queen's Day- a celebration of their queen's birthday which is marked by street fairs, flea markets, and the Dutch consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Our hotel was conveniently located in the city center, the heart of the celebratory action. Naturally, a city needs to provide the means necessary for its celebrants to relieve themselves. Back home, this means setting up rows of individual porta potties. They're stinky, but at least they're private. As you can see from the photo below, the Dutch have devised their own version of the porta potty.

I can't help but wonder what they expect women to do as well as all the people that may have to go #2?

The next morning, while the Dutch slept off their hangovers, we awoke early to find that the urine holes were filled to the brim with beer bottles. Urinating and littering conquered with one invention. I wonder if its creator realizes just how doubly ingenious this contraption is?

Less ingenious are the toilets that I use while out and about in Paris on a daily basis.  The usual toilet bowl configuration leaves much to be desired. Granted, this isn't India and there is an actual porcelain fixture in the stall rather than two foot plates on either side of a hole in the ground. Nonetheless, the functionality of ladies' toilets here aren't much of an improvement. This is because the vast majority of public toilets lack a seat. I'm not naming names, but it's like living with a man who forgets (or refuses?) to put the seat down at home. Except that here, there is no seat to put down. So I resort to squatting over the toilet, giving my quadriceps the same workout that they received when I was traveling in India. There are no seat covers, but I wouldn't want use one. Sitting is just not an appealing option for me. I know someone who, when she travels in Europe, sits on her hands because she does not like to squat. She figures that at least she can wash her hands (obviously not her butt) afterwards in the sink.

Washing is another gripe of mine. There are no paper towels in most restrooms. The majority of public bathrooms here are equipped with very old and/or inoperable hand dryers so I usually resort to shaking mine dry. While I applaud environmental friendliness, for a germophobe like me, I really prefer having a paper towel in my hand when I turn off the faucet and open the bathroom door because of all the folks I see who opt out of hand washing after using the toilet. 

And, let me tell you, size does matter. For ladies' bathroom stalls at least. Like everywhere else in Paris, space is at a premium and toilet stalls are no exception. Most of the time, my knees bump up against the door as I squat over the dirty, seat-less bowl. At least then I don't have to use my arm to hold closed the occasional door with an inoperable lock. The width of the stalls is not generous. When I cram myself, my purse, and the occasional coat and/or shopping bag(s) into my postage stamp of a stall, I become grateful that I do not suffer from claustrophobia. I just hope that my Louis Vuitton handbag (my Baby!) does not fall into the toilet every time I have to hold it behind my body and over the bowl so that I can create enough free space in order to open the stall door.

There are no female-friendly hooks or pull-down shelves for my Louis Vuitton which means that My Baby remains uncomfortably restrictive and burdensome on my shoulder. It inevitably slides down towards my elbow thus challenging my balance during my squat. My germophobia prevents me from putting my Baby on the floor. The reality is, for me to have ease of use in a European toilet stall, I need to grow a third arm. This extra appendage would become my much-needed handbag, coat, and shopping bag holder since, during certain times of the month, I need both arms free for taking care of business. TMI, I know, but I gotta call it like it is. And besides, I take comfort in knowing that at least half of you who read this can fully relate to and appreciate my toileting challenges.

The French appear to have a method of dealing with these toileting challenges by simply avoiding the use of toilets. Based on my observations, one of the ways in which they accomplish this feat is that the French drink very little to no water, at least during mealtimes. The French guests that we have hosted in our home never even touch their water glass and they never use our bathroom. For instance, our 11-year-old French relative spent a full day with us and despite her eating and drinking while in our company she never once used the toilet. Not long ago, our new French babysitter spent the afternoon with us. She drank a glass of wine with lunch (she did not touch her glass of water), and later, she consumed a cup of coffee. She never went to the bathroom! For me, that amount of liquid creates the need for at least two trips to the loo.

Last week, using our babysitter as my cultural relativity barometer, I asked her what this toilet avoidance is all about. She explained that many French people refrain from making trips to the bathroom as a guest in somebody's home because doing so is considered to be slightly crude, embarrassing, and impolite. Urinating and defecating are considered private bodily functions to ideally accomplish in the privacy of one's own home. She did stress the reality that, when you gotta go, you gotta go, and the French- when necessary- will and do make use of the facilities outside of their own home. I was relieved to hear this bit of news because my bladder was really beginning to develop an inferiority complex.

Most Parisian apartments have a salle de bain, or bathroom, which consists of a tub or shower and a sink and then a separate water closet; the tiny room containing only a toilet. Sometimes these two rooms are located next to each other, sometimes they're at opposite ends of the hall. The French, unlike many Americans, create a boundary and sense of privacy in their homes by not taking guests on a tour of their entire house. Therefore, the location of both their toilette and salle de bain remains a mystery to me unless I inquire as to their location.

For almost a year now, I have been totally naive and I have indeed made use of the facilities as a guest in the homes of many French relatives and friends. Had I known that the norm is to hold it in until I get home, I would have been more restrictive with my beverage intake because now I fear that I have been perceived as impolite by asking my host or hostess to point me in the direction of their toilette.  Hopefully, they realize, like our babysitter said- when you gotta go, you gotta go. Because- let's face it-  when you get right down to it, despite societal norms and cultural relativities, we're all human beings at the mercy of Mother Nature, and, when She calls, they, I, and urinal this together.