(We receive numerous inquiries about our coverage of Paris . . . some fanciful, some France-i-ful . . . bref, it seems that everyone, everywhere, has a little France in their pants! And they want to know more!! Much more!!! So shove over, Dear Abby and Miss Manners and Ann Landers, and Heloise, and entrez A Certain Journalist, a certain expat canadienne, a certain Caro-leen . . .)

Dear Certain Journalist,

Hey! How’s it goin’? Or, I guess you guys say, ‘Comment ça va ?’ Well, that’s about all I know in French for now.

So I’m coming to France in a couple of weeks, and I’m kinda broke. Can I sleep on your couch?

Sincerely,
A. Dude

Dear Dude,

Thanks! This totally reminds me that I have to book that rental truck for my trip to Ikea! They were on strike a few weeks ago, you see, and there was absolutely no way I was going to set foot in the store at Roissy then. En plus, you never – ever – want to go to Ikea on a Saturday, what with all the squealing, squalling, slurping, glurping little brats running around bouncing Swedish meatballs off one another. Weeknights are out, too. I mean, what’s with the couples that seem to think Ikea is the ideal perfect theatre-of-cruelty in which to play out their bitter resentments, their unresolved issues, their prickly-petty pet peeves, their irreconcilable differences? Really, those Ikea people who run Ikea should think about opening a divorce court. They could tuck it away somewhere in the back of that enormous basement alongside the discount slightly-damaged furniture. Pre-packed divorces with funky names like skilsmässa rörig or skilsmässa grotig or skilsmässa kinkig! And they could bundle them with a deal on furnishings for your new place!

Oh, and I don’t have a couch. Oopsie.

Francifully Yours,
Caro-leen
——————

Dear Carolyn,

I know we haven’t spoken in, like, five years or something, since when you decided to just up and abandon Vancouver and me, but really that’s your fault ever since you stopped taking my calls. (BTW, I finally did find someone to lend me the cash to repair my vintage tweed Fender Twin amp, just so you know.) But the Marshall stack is still in the shop.

So anyway, I got this call from a major promoter who’s based in France. He really digs my stuff. Says I’m definitely going to be the next Thom Yorke! But in France! He’s got genius taste. So anyway, he’s set up this whole huge tour thing for me — for us — and I’ll be passing through Paris in a couple of weeks. And then we’re coming back through a few weeks after that. He says this is more of a promotional tour, and he’s not paying for hotels. Would it be O.K. if I crashed on your couch?

EXEXEXEXEXEX, Your Ex That You Abandoned In Canada

Dear Dumbass,

Thrilled beyond words to learn that your whining has finally been compared to someone who actually succeeds at making money at being a professional whiner. Really, this is great news for you.

About the couch: That would be a non. Don’t have one. They’re expensive – and I’m still finishing off the bills you stuck me with. I sleep on park benches myself  — might I recommend a few local favorites for your stay?

Francifully No Longer Yours,
C.
——————

Dear Certain Journo:

What is up with the men in Paris? Are they all perverts or something? Do all they think about is sex? Have they not heard of Simone de Beauvoir?

I just came back from Paris (I made a very special trip for the distinct purpose of visiting Ms. Madame de Beauvoir’s grave), and I was constantly being approached by complete strangers – all men. One dared to offer to help me with my backpack. Another, chillingly, offered me a glass of wine. And I can’t count the number of times I received lewd comments. There was one man — you will really have a trying time believing this — who actually said, “Joli cul.” When I looked it up I discovered that it meant “nice ass.” The cheek!

Oh, and the vegan cuisine in Paris is absolutely abhorrent.

Regretfully,
Baffled in Bristol
P.S. The next time I’m in town, would it be possible for me to sleep on your couch?  I’m returning next weekend to confirm my impressions.
B.i.B.

Dear Baffled,

Hey! That reminds me — I just read something pretty baffling myself: Apparently some British scientist woman just did some research that just proved that women don’t have G-spots. Is this true? Or does it only apply to the British?

Your lovely story reminds me of this time I went walking in Montmartre and was approached by just the cutest guy. He had this amazing loft studio that used to belong to a notable famous artist, as so many of them do. Well, there I was in one of those cute little quaint stairwells and all of a sudden I hear this deep, gravelly voice and at first I paid no attention until I realized he was talking to me! And he said I looked like a model and everything! Which I guess meant he thought I had a nice ass. And nice ass cheeks!

Anyway, he invited me for a glass of wine, so we had one, and then another, and then we had dinner, and then we went back to his famous artist’s loft-studio-atelier and we drank some more wine and then . . . and then . . .  Well, let’s just say that I don’t think that the whole non-existing G-spot thing applies to any of the former British colonies. Especially to people from Canada. Comme moi.

He eventually left me for his wife. Which was kind of dramatic and involved a certain degree of plate-throwing (by the wife, not moi). But it was fun while it lasted. Thanks for reminding me.

They have vegan cuisine in Paris?

Francifully Yours,

Caro-leen
P.S. No couch . . . no can do!
——————

Dear C.,

Well, do you have any friends in France who have couches?

Your X.

Cher Jackass,

I have lots of friends in France. Loads. Couch-loads. Lots of friends with lots of couches. Great, big, puffy-fluffy-frilly couches. Citröen-loads of ’em! But none of them – neither the friends, nor the couches, nor the Citröens – are in need of a pet musician. That’s what cats are for. Oh, and you might want to check and see if the litter box needs cleaning, since I’m not there to do it for you.

Très désolée and Francifully Still Not Yours,
C.H.
——————

Dear Mlle-Sait-Tout,

I am a budding poet. An aspiring one. Actually, I would say an exceptionally accomplished one, and an exceptionally experimental one in that I consider each poem I write to be an experiment. As is my life, my very life. My poetry is like no other. Perhaps this is precisely what has held me back. Publishers are so unwilling to take risks these days; they only seem to print the repetitive, the safe, the cliché, the banal. The finished, the completed. . . the spell-checked and double-spaced. It is a troubling state of affairs. It speaks of the decline.

Despite — or as I like to think of it, in spite of — my current status as As-Yet-To-Be-Published Experimental Poet, I have heeded some success with one of the admissions departments at one of America’s more respectable graduate schools. Father, as you might imagine, is delighted. And, as a little parting gift before I embark on my prestigious post-graduate journey, he is sending me on a little gad-about Paris. Rather frivolous, I know, but that’s dear old Dad when he wants to be. Which leads me to my question: I have heard that, while it can’t exactly be categorized as ‘rich,’ there is quite a, shall we say, active poetry scene among members of the city’s Anglophone expatriate community. Do you suppose that they are ready for someone as experimental and avant-garde as I? And if you suppose this to be the case, would you by chance know with whom I should speak about organizing a reading?

As a writer of lighthearted meaningless fluff, I’m well aware of your brutal lack of literary sensitivity. I am also aware, however, that the expatriate community of Paris is quite inter-linked. I thought that as a so-called “journalist” charged with covering the so-called goings-on in the city, surely even you might have crossed paths with the more poetic among us at some point in your travels?

Quite relatively cordially,
Pensive and Poetic in P.E.I.
P.S. While I in no way wish to hint that Father’s generosity is limited, it appears as if, for this little gad-about Paris, locating accommodation has been left to me. Would it be possible if I slept on your couch? It would only be for a couple of months. At most. And I could pay you in poetry.
P.a.P. i. P.E.I.
P.P.S. Please note that this correspondence is under copyright, and I am hereby authorizing one-time publishing rights, as it may appear at a later date in my memoirs, on which I am also currently working and which I have also not yet completed. Or spell-checked. Or double-spaced.
P.a P. i. P.E.I.
Copyright © 2010 Pensive and Poetic in P.E.I.

Dear Pap,

You so totally reminded me of this poetry reading I went to on the Left Bank a few years ago. It was only a few days after I’d arrived in Paris, so you can’t really blame me – I was just trying to be social. But it was soooo bad.

Like there was this woman? Whose hairdo looked like she’d pinned a dead dog to her head? Kinda like Margaret Atwood, only it wasn’t Margaret Atwood, which was probably better, or worse, or well, let’s face it. . . ça mettait égale. Anyway, this Dead Dog Woman was reciting this poem that took forever. (The guy running the reading had said that each poet had to respect the 15-minute time limit, but for her I think he made an exception. . . maybe he had some kind of dead dog fetish?) It was The Poem That Would Never End.

So anyway – and this is the kicker – the poem was about a guy climbing a beanstalk. Only it wasn’t Jack – it was some other guy. Or maybe it was a girl, Jill? I can’t remember. Truth be told, I’ve kinda tried to wipe the entire experience from my memory. I’d pretty much succeeded until you just pretty much reminded me all about it.

The worst? She recounted Jack’s or Jill’s or whoever the hell’s journey up the beanstalk, step by step. And it was a tall beanstalk, lemme tell you.

Francifully Yours,
Mlle Caro
PS. Oh, I don’t have a couch. They’re so cliché, so unexperimental, don’t you think?  I sleep in Shakespeare and Company most nights. You’ll adore it.
——————

Dear Caro-leen (mind if I call you that?!),

Isn’t Facebook just the most amazing? For years I had no way to get in touch with all of my old high school friends. Oh sure, every now and then I bump into one of them, usually around Christmas when the whole crew is home for the holidays. You can’t really BE home for the holidays without going to Wal-Mart or Canadian Tire or Tim Horton’s or the what’s left of Wintercrest Mall, so those are as good places as any for bumping into each other. But you know how hectic the Christmas season is, with everybody rushing around trying to find those last-minute gifts, and then Madison’s really involved in her school choir and there isn’t a day that goes by when little Carter doesn’t need to be carted off (!!) to hockey practice, so when I’m at a place like Tim Horton’s or Canadian Tire or Wal-Mart or the plain old mall I just zip in and zip out. So when I DO bump into someone at one of those places, there just isn’t enough time for catching up. I’m sure YOU know how it goes!

But with Facebook it’s so easy! Last Friday night after the kids were down and Brad had gone off for beers with his buddies, I logged into my account and found the profile of this gal that went to the same high school as me. We didn’t really run in the same crowd — it was the end of the Eighties back then and she used to dress a bit like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink and that wasn’t really the same look we were going for in my social circle – I’d always felt, even back then, that there was something special about this girl.

So like I said, I found this gal on Facebook, and you’ll never guess what: She lives in your city! In Paris! And she’s a journalist just like you!! And just like you it sounds like she’s living this amazing life where all she does all day is drink wine and flirt with really charming men and run around in heels. . . just like on “Sex and the City!” And then I got all excited and then I looked around and then I thought: Well, if these gals can do it, so can I! And so before I knew what had happened, I’d logged out of Facebook and booked a flight! To Paris!! For me – all by myself!!!  Not for even Carter or Madison or even Brad!!!! I arrive next week!!!!

Now all I have to do is rush-order my passport. And, of course, break the news to Brad. . . boy, will he be surprised!

The thing is, I only had enough money to cover the cost of the tickets. And it’s been so long since I’ve even spoken to this gal. In your opinion, what’s the best way to go about asking her if I could sleep on her couch? Any advice?

Couchless in Caledonia (Ontario, Canada)

Dear Couchless in Caledonia (Ontario, Canada),

(And tell me…what your name was again…?)

So sorry to hear how your life turned out. But oh, I do lo-o-oo-ove Pretty In Pink! I can never decide who was funkier — Molly Ringwald or Annie Potts? I kinda liked Annie’s outfits better, but that dress Molly wore to the prom was awfully cute, too. Though I never did understand what she saw in that simpering Andrew McCarthy – doesn’t he look like impotence personified? Jon Cryer was way sexier. And funnier! And deeper and more complex. Plus, he had cooler shoes.

Did you know that Molly used to be married to a Frenchman? She lived in the South of France and everything. Just like Johnny Depp now. Who provides governesses and maids and au pairs as a buffer against his spawn.

Here’s hoping you have the nicest holiday! Are you even sure that your old high school acquaintance even has a couch? Many don’t, you know  — or the one they have is currently out being re-upholstered. Sorry.

Hope this helps!

Francifully Yours,
Caro
——————

Carolyn,

Well, if I can’t sleep on your couch, can my soundman at least crash at your place? At least? He’s willing to sleep on the floor . . .

Ur Ex

Dear Ass,

You mean Max? The Maximum, as I like to call him? How’s he doing?! I still have such fond, warming memories of that one bright, blissful, brilliant night when you were on tour with another woman, and with another soundman, if memory serves correct . . . Well anyway, of course he can sleep here!! He must!!! I insist!!! So gifted with buttons and knobs and dials, that Max. Ahem. Well, maybe not s-l-e-e-p, per se. Especially not on the floor. Nor the couch. Unless . . . unless . . . well, do, please, make certain to give him my number. Wheee!!!

Francifully Never To Be Yours Again, Ever, In Any Lifetime,
Caro-leen
P.S. Bisous! xo