The French And Their Bathrooms

I first noticed the many dif­fer­ences between North Amer­i­can bath­rooms and French bath­rooms a while ago, but I had some­how for­got­ten about it. It all came back to mind today, when I went for a drink with one of my old­est friends (we’ve known each other since we were six years old!).

The Presidential Race in France

Liv­ing in Canada means that I’m rel­a­tively shel­tered from cam­paign craziness—I didn’t even know all the can­di­dates who had qual­i­fied, ten of them in total. But of course, this week I got a crash-course in 2012 pres­i­den­tial elec­tions: it is the main focus in the media and the hottest topic on the street here.

Passage Pommeraye

Pas­sage Pom­mer­aye is one of the his­toric mon­u­ments I’m now redis­cov­er­ing. The mini shop­ping mall is a pas­sage between two streets, rue de la Fosse (the lower street) and rue de San­teuil (the higher one). It was com­pleted in 1843 and was a nov­elty at the time. The design is very elab­o­rate and includes renais­sance style sculp­tures along the stairways.

Is The French Diet Still A Good Diet?

A decade ago, José Bové, the farmer syn­di­cal­ist, was fight­ing against junk food (he famously sacked a McDonald’s fran­chise to make his point) and French would rather have some baguette with stinky cheese than a ham­burger. But the more I walk in Nantes, the more I won­der whether the French diet is still a good diet.

City Under Siege

French love to rebel against the estab­lish­ment, and spring is gen­er­ally the start of “protest sea­son”. That’s why I wasn’t sur­prised when I heard a demon­stra­tion was planned this Sat­ur­day. But while the protest itself was fairly innocu­ous, the police force deployed seemed pretty disproportionate.

Ten Things I Had Forgotten About France

Every­body speaks French! In Ottawa, I rarely hear “Parisian French”, and if I do, I tend to turn around and glance at who­ever talked. Well, I keep on doing that here: when­ever I hear French, I turn around. And I really have to stop doing it. This is France.

Packing and Flying… Again

From Ottawa, I can eas­ily bus to Trudeau Air­port in Mon­treal or Pear­son in Toronto and catch a direct flight to Paris. It’s a six– or seven-hour flight, and dozens of air­lines serve this route every day. I can be there if needed. At least, I can try to. And this time, I needed to be there.

Of a Flight Back Home

The trip back home was tir­ing. It always is. I some­times dream of fly­ing door-to-door but it’s not going to hap­pen as long as we live in Ottawa. Our air­port sucks: it is barely big­ger than a Wal-Mart and it has very few direct inter­na­tional flights. We always have to trans­fer in the U.S. or in Toronto.

Welcome Winter

We are head­ing home. The trip is over. Win­ter is start­ing… for us. Am I sad to leave? Always. A lit­tle bit. But to be hon­est, I don’t mind it that much.

Playa Del Carmen

Playa Del Car­men is a circus.

Walk in the main street and dodge restau­rants, tours and hotels offers. Decline to hold the baby tiger or the lit­tle iguana for the pic­ture. Walk straight, ignore peo­ple, because even a polite “no gra­cias” won’t be enough.