Carole Fredericks

Il a suffit de peu, il a suffit d’un mail et l’histoire a commencé. Carole Fredericks était pour moi en France l’un des symboles de la variété. Elle incarnait le fruit des histoires africaine et noire américaine, mais aussi un symbole du patrimoine culturel Français… et en somme sa voix me laissait justement, sans voix. 2008, voilà 7 ans que cette grande chanteuse nous avait quitté. Une soirée de Mai, je tombai par hasard sur un site web qui ralliait la mémoire des chansons de Carole à la pédagogie scolaire américaine*1. C’est alors que de fil en aiguille je rencontrerai sa propre soeur Connie Fredericks‐Malone, chose qui me paraissait complètement ahurissante… [lire Article 2008*2]

L’Aveyron est un département rural du sud de la France. On peut y trouver notamment le fameux ‘Roquefort’, les ‘Tripous’, le ‘Viaduc de Millau’, ‘l’Aligot’ ou le ‘Couteau de Laguiole’. Persuadé de la qualité de mon cadre de vie et de la richesse de mon entourage je n’avais donc pas hésité à inviter ces gens d’une importance certaine. Les trois passionnés de vieux édifices, de beaux paysages, de rencontres et de bien manger que nous étions, ne pouvait passer ensemble qu’un séjour notoire.

Jim, Connie et moi

Rodez de la veille. Départ pour le majestueux plateau de l’Aubrac. Un havre de paix plus ou moins vallonné où les tourbières permettent aux vaches de la race du même nom de trouver leur bonheur pour l’été. Après une visite à la dômerie de l’Aubrac nous avons mangé dans un buron traditionnel où les fermiers (pastres) gardaient autrefois les troupeaux à l’estive.

Le village d'Aubrac

Sur le retour par la route d’Espalion, la voix de Connie ‐qui était aussi chanteuse‐ a su enrayer les clapotements de la pluie qui passait par là ! Malgré la météo et la vieille voiture, ces moments‐là nousapprennent à apprécier l’essentiel, ce qu’on ne touche pas, ce que l’on se contente de ressentir. Arrivés sur Rodez, nous faisons une halte à mon exposition ‘Un regard sur l’Afrique’ alors en partance pour Dakar, puis à quelques brocantes qui affectionnent particulièrement Jim « In the USA, we don’t have old constructions and old things, generally speaking. This is a ‘young’ country with woody churches and houses » Inutile de préciser que les parlottes se faisaient en anglais, mais depuis deux ans leurs efforts pour apprendre notre ardue langue maternelle ont su porter leurs fruits auprès de mes compatriotes !

De retour au Bed and Breakfast*3 après un repas de soirée plus professionnel avec Marie, de l’association Laclef*4, la dernière journée s’annonce déjà.

Nous sommes mercredi, troisième et dernière journée. Nous ne pouvons pas ne pas rendre visite à Virginie et Pierre*⁵ qui travaillent l’or dans l’un des dix ‘plus beaux villages de France’ de l’Aveyron (classification française), le village de Conques. Les ooooh et les aaaah s’ensuivent de test d’acoustique des pièces par Connie pendant que son mari mitraille les lieux de photos ! Pour ma part je dois m’absenter en hâte
pour la préparation de la présentation publique qui allait se dérouler, laissant-là mes deux invités aux nouveaux hôtes. Aux dires de Virginie, l’après-midi dans l’abbatiale n’a pas manqué de susciter l’admiration des New
Yorkais pour Conques ainsi que celle des pèlerins pour la voix de Connie qui a entonné un « Amazing Grace » indélébile …

Le village de Conques

Jim, Connie, Virginie & Pierre

pour que les idées se partagent. Une atmosphère simple et apaisante…

Une rencontre entre deux mondes qui, sans la facilité qu’offrent les moyens de communication, ou sans l’humanité et la confiance qu’offre un Homme à un autre Homme, une telle rencontre sous l’égide du talent et de la passion pour Carole Fredericks n’aurait pu avoir lieu…

Connie Carole

*¹www.carolefredericksfoundation.org *²www.maxiphotos.com ^*3www.lesbrunes.com

*⁴www.laclef81.fr/laclef.php *⁵www.doreur-marchandot.book.fr

Bonjour à tous

Je m'appelle Isabelle et j'ai besoin de votre aide pour trouver une salle suffisamment prestigieuse pour accueillir une exposition de créations uniques en dentelles de Caudry pendant la semaine du 17 au 24 avril 2011.

Cette expo sera une des étapes de notre opération de présentation de la région Nord pas de Calais en avril prochain et en constitue un rouage important.

Si donc vous pouvez nous aider ce serait fantastique.

Nous vous informerons des différentes dates des évènements que nous organisons autour des atouts culturels, gastronomiques, économiques et touristiques de notre jolie région afin de partager avec vous tous ces moments conviviaux.

Dans l'attente de vous lire en retour

A bientôt

Isabelle

Au fur et à mesure que ma passion pour le Québec se fait sentir, on me demande de plus en plus d’expliquer le comment et le pourquoi du coup de foudre que j’ai eu pour cette province. Je ne suis ni québécois de naissance, ni ne le suis-je d’origine, et je n’y ai jamais vécu. Certes, j’ai quelques parents qui vivent à Montréal, à Laval, et à d’autres lieux qui si trouvent sur le terrain québécois, et il m’arrive de pouvoir leur rendre visite de temps en temps. Mais en dehors de ces liens plutôt éloignés, j’avoue qu’en tant que new-yorkais, on s’attendrait peut-être à ce que je fasse de mon attirance pour la francophonie une francophilie plutôt qu’une « québécophilie ».

Pourtant, sur le plan identitaire, je ressens quelque chose de profond pour La Belle Province. On dirait une sorte de congruence d’héritage, comme si le Québec était un frère jumeau retrouvé que j’avais perdu de vue depuis longtemps. Je suis haïtien d’origine et né aux États-Unis d’Amérique. C’est dire déjà que je suis coincé entre deux cultures. Mon expérience de mon pays de naissance s’est toujours caractérisée, entre autres, par l’affrontement des forces opposées : le conflit des races, le choc des cultures, la lutte des classes, les enjeux des immigrés, le bi-, ou trilinguisme et la question des langues maternelles, et ainsi de suite. Comme j’ai exprimé dans un article précédent, le français est une langue que j’ai regagnée afin de combler une lacune culturelle dans mon for intérieur. Elle m’a permis de mieux connaître ma famille élargie aussi bien que de me distinguer comme américain, voire comme noir-américain, par le fait que je parle une langue assez difficile à maîtriser, surtout pour la langue américaine.

En tant qu’américain francophone, mon intérêt pour le Québec ne devrait point étonner. Par ailleurs, en lisant l’histoire du Québec et à mesure que j’apprends sur la société québécoise, je me rends compte jusqu’à quel point mon expérience d’haïtien-américain reflète le trajet historico-culturel des confrères francophones du Nord. Les québécois sont une minorité linguistique du Canada. Un peuple dont les aïeux français du 17^ème siècle s’implantèrent dans la terre amérindienne de l’Amérique. Un peuple qui, par la suite, connaît une histoire plutôt difficile, de façon qu’il doive passer de main en main sous le contrôle de toute une série de colonisateurs qui comprennent la France, L’Angleterre et, de nos jours selon quelques uns, les canadiens anglophones et les américains. Ce statut de minorité va modeler la culture québécoise de manière assez particulière. Voilà pourquoi le Québec, suite à plus d’un siècle d’oppression, de domination et de subjugation aux mains des anglais, deviendra le seul territoire sur le sol américain où le français est la langue officielle ainsi que la langue de la majorité de son peuple. C’est pourquoi l’avènement de la Révolution Tranquille mettra en place, entre autres choses, des lois protégeant cette langue. C’est pourquoi la gamme d’accents qui développera dans l’enceinte de la terre québécoise prendra des caractéristiques aussi bien charmantes qu’informatives dans la mesure où elles vont raconter une histoire qui débute dans l’ancienne France, subit une évolution qui comprend une résistance acharnée contre les colons anglais du 18^ème au 20^ème siècle, cependant ratant les transformations linguistiques qui se produisirent en France suite à la Révolution Française, et perdurant jusqu’à nos jours grâce, parmi tant d’autres choses, aux répercussions de la Révolution Tranquille.

Je me reconnais dans cette histoire. Le français est une de mes trois langues maternelles ; mon père voulait tellement que j’apprenne cette langue car elle a toujours été un signe de culture et d’érudition chez les haïtiens. À l’âge de 6 ans, mes enseignantes américaines à l’école expliquent à mon père que le fait de parler français et créole chez nous m’empêchait de m’améliorer en anglais, ce qui, selon elles, finira par entraver ma capacité de réussir. Alors mon papa, ne voulant que le meilleur pour son fils, suit leurs conseils, et le français ne fera plus partie de mon quotidien jusqu’en secondaire, où j’aurai ma première occasion de réapprendre le français. Grâce à des efforts acharnés au fil des années, je suis arrivé au point de lire, écrire et parler couramment cette langue sans jamais avoir vécu dans un pays francophone. Pour ce qui est de l’expérience d’être une minorité, il suffit de dire que je le suis sur plusieurs plans : racial, culturel, linguistique et autres. Il en résulte que mon expérience d’américain qui n’est pas très américaniste m’a forcé à subir toute une série de problématiques identitaires.

Quoique le Québec subisse un questionnement d’identité propre à lui, sujet abordé de manière brillante et très éclaircissante par Joseph Facal dans son ouvrage Quelque Chose Comme Un Grand Peuple, l’ironie est que le Québec, ou plutôt la québecité, résout élégamment le dilemme existentiel qui me fut imposé quand j’ai dû faire face à ma francité comme haïtien francophone, mon américanité comme new-yorkais de toute une vie, et l’épreuve incontournable de minorité ethnique parmi les noir-américains et de minorité raciale parmi les blanc-américains. Je veux dire par québecité l’ensemble de faits sociolinguistiques, historiques et culturels qui font du peuple québécois un peuple unique au sein de L’Amérique du Nord. Enfin, bien que mon lieu de naissance ne soit pas québécois, je me dis dorénavant québécois de cœur car je suis, comme tout québécois, un nord-américain francophone tombé amoureux de cette Belle Province.

In the heart of the French community spread throughout Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill, Robin des Bois restaurant offers tasty platters in a whimsical atmosphere. A lanky well dressed Frenchman greets you at the door with a smile and a charming French accent. A giant crystal chandelier in the center of the room sends bits of light spinning off the walls. Below that, a life-size statue of Madonna and baby Jesus watch over the room, whose walls are ironically covered in sexy, obscure vintage posters of Robin Hood films in different languages. If you look up, you may even find a paddle boat suspended above your head.

When the snow is falling outside, have a seat at the little wooden table near the fireplace, or grab a red leather stool at the bar where you’ll spy the tiny green absinthe fairy peaking out at you from behind the bottles. Enjoy a classic Cosmo or a chilled glass of the house bubbly, which is pleasantly pétillant.

During the warm months when all of New York City is sitting at sidewalk cafés, find a table out in Sherwood Forest (Robin des Bois’ charming garden) where leafy green trees provide blissful shade and the theme of kitschy signs from the interior continues. Order the fresh gazpacho, which has the sweet crunch of chopped cucumber mingled with the tomato-based cold soup.

While the menu covers provide a feast for the eyes with vintage images of scantily clad ladies, you’ll find a feast for your stomach on the inside. The small plate combinations are perfect for sharing or for a varied meal. Choices consist mainly of French country cuisine: sautéed chicken livers, escargots with butter and parsley, or mousse trouffé with toasts. The baked Manchego cheese served with slices of baguette is decadently creamy and rich.

A favorite main course is the mustard-crusted salmon with creamy lentils and sautéed vegetables. This is a bit different from your average grilled salmon in that the taste is almost Asian inspired with a tangy soy glaze, which couples well with the creamy lentils. Other good bets are the skirt steak au poivre with potato gratin and sautéed string beans or the half roasted free range chicken with mashed potatoes. Choose a glass of Côtes du Rhône or a bottle of Malbec from their fairly priced, mostly French wine list to wash it all down.

Don’t miss the divine crème brûlée for dessert, a well- executed classic. You may even find yourself fighting amongst your dinner guests about who gets to crack the sugar top, à la Amélie Poulain. After the last drop of wine has been drunk, you’re sure to feel as satiated as Friar Tuck after his evening meal.

Whenever you’re ready to return to the land of plenty, Sherwood Café of French Brooklyn will be waiting.

Robin des Bois

195 Smith Street (near Warren)
Brooklyn, NY 11201

Metro: F or G train to Bergen St.

Even from the outside, it’s easy to see that Provence en Boîte has a bright character all its own. Quite literally a sunflower-yellow box plopped down on the corner of Smith and Degraw in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, this petit bistro warmly welcomes every passer-by to come in and discover the delights of Provence.

Guests are seated at simple copper-topped tables and served water from French bottles. The golden colored walls are covered with eclectic paintings and photographs of Provence and Brooklyn, while antique French tins and bottles of Ricard and Lillet line the wooden shelves. Diners are tempted by the glass case at the center of the restaurant filled with fruit tarts, éclairs and decadent chocolate pastries. Above the pastry display sit rows of puffy croissants, glistening pains au chocolats and fresh baguettes just begging to be taken away.

As a resident of the neighborhood, I myself am drawn to this sanctuary like a moth to a lamp. Every brunch experience there is filled with fluffy egg and creamy goat cheese omelets, real French bread, rich espresso, perfectly vinegretted salad and mimosas that taste like sunlight on your tongue. I often see Jean Jacques and Leslie, the charming French owners and executive chef (Jean-Jacques), making their rounds to the tables, saying “bonjour” and making sure that everything is delicious. Sometimes even les petits, their young children Andrea and Jacques, come around to collect the bill. Quite possibly they are in training to take over the restaurant from their parents one day.

Not one to forego new dining prospects, I noticed one evening that the yellow bistro is open for dinner as well. My boyfriend and I decided to stop in and see what was being served. Transformed for the evening with lights dimmed, a candle flickering on every table, and a track of smooth jazz playing, we found ourselves in a slightly more sophisticated version of the daytime hotspot.

That evening we were the only diners, but instead of feeling awkward it seemed as if the place had been reserved especially for us. We both ended up choosing the prix fixe menu, which was $22 for soup or salad, fish or entrée of the day, and crème brûlée for dessert.

The smooth and attentive waiter swiftly brought us our house salads with dark mixed greens and cherry tomatoes, which were to the same acidic perfection as when ordered during the day. Next for my boyfriend was the chicken special: a large thigh with crispy golden skin in a red wine reduction sauce, accompanied by creamy mashed potatoes and slices of savory portabella mushrooms. Quel paradis! On my plate sat a generous portion of thick buttery white monkfish smothered with an olive tapenade atop a chunky bed of ratatouille. The olive oil infused vegetables burst with flavor and complimented the fish superbly.

Topping off the evening with a bit of sugar, we gladly savored the vanilla custard of our home made crème brûlées down to the very last spoonful. Well, I savored. My boyfriend gobbled ravenously.

At the end of our lovely meal after paying our bill and saying our merci’s, I couldn’t help but notice chef Jean-Jacques sitting in the back of the restaurant watching a French drama on TV5. That evening, as he was privately enjoying a little bit of home, I hope he knew that Provence en Boîte had also brought a little bit of France to us.

Provence en Boîte

263 Smith St (at Degraw)

Brooklyn, NY 11231

Metro: F or G to Carroll St

WHY I LOVE BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
BY Christine Shaffer

Larry, myboyfriend introduced me to Springsteen in 1975 in our local Queens, New York
record shop. “You gotta get this album,” he said handing over Born to Run. Since I was captivated by everything Larry did being that he was a senior and I, a sophomore who loved him with that complete baby love I still had at fifteen, I bought the album and listened to it that afternoon.

From Springsteen’sfirst gravelly vocal notes of “Thunder Road” to his last moaning cry of
“Jungleland,” his words fed the embryonic writer in my brain. Born to Run was not just an album of eight songs, for me they were short stories, plays, movies, poems, essays set to music. I was giddy with the workings of it all. You could do that? Write gritty stories of one’s neighborhood, one’s friends, shady people, using one’s actual streets names –– give them all credence? Then perhaps I could, too. There were stories of struggle, of lost loves, of dreams that would never be realized on that record. At the same time, I saw characters of my beloved English Lit class come to life –– Romeo and Juliet lived in the title song and in “She’s the One,” Mercutio and Tybalt fought in “Jungleland.”

I realized thiswas no longer my world of David Cassidy and Donny Osmond. This was serious, exciting, complicated. It was the adult world and I was getting ready for it. I had already let Larry, in his to-sir-with-love moment, take me from Tiger Beat Magazine to Rolling Stone, from the Jackson 5 to Jimi Hendrix. Larry became my pseudo Bruce boyfriend being that he conveniently looked like Bruce –– except for his purple tinted aviator eyeglasses and the
fact that he was a Greek-American, Larry had Bruce’s permanent five o’clock shadow, tousled brown hair, was skinny, wore a motorcycle jacket every day, tight Levis and dusty, black biker boots. And Larry was practically from New Jersey himself, being that his family rented a summer house in Point Pleasant Beach just six miles from Bruce’s Asbury Park. It was all perfect.

My mother forbademe to be with him. “He’s already a man,” she said, “much too old for you.”

So of course,Larry and I spent a lot of time together, secretly driving in his dark blue
Camaro –– not down Kingsley as Springsteen sang about, but down Astoria Boulevard to Astoria Park –– stopping between drag racers, drug dealers and other bored teenagers like ourselves looking to make out beneath the Triboro Bridge. Afterwards we’d hold hands, my head leaned back in the crook of Larry’s leather jacketed arm, while looking at New York City’s diamondesque lights across the East River, hearing the endless thump-thump of cars above our heads mingling with Born to Run playing on the car’s cassette player.

I felt Springsteenwas in Larry’s back seat the whole time, saying, “I know how it is, man, I know all about it.” As though Springsteen knew our lives: our alcoholic, absent unemployed fathers, our bitter, tired mothers, our crowded apartments, our graffiti-ridden public schools, our downtrodden teachers, our tumbleweed existence. Bruce gave us, gave me, hope in his famous line, “baby we were born to run” and I sincerely believed I was going to run out of there someday.

In time I had tolet Larry go, buckling under the pressure of “doing it” or in my case, not
doing it. “How long do you think Larry’s going to walk you home after school and take you for car rides, Chris? Huh?” my best friend, Patty would ask me, “how long before, you know ––– Jeez, Larry’s not a monk, for gods sake. You know what Bruce says? ‘From your front porch to my front seat, the door’s open but the ride ain’t free.’ The. ride. ain’t. free. Chris. Get it?” Bruce and Patty were right. It wasn’t free. So I released Larry to willing girls and the open maw of quasi-illegal activities that surrounded our high school while I took my place in regret.

I kept Brucethough, and graduated to his other albums so that by my senior year he had
cemented for me the last stage of my evolution in becoming an American teenager. I was born in Paris, France and arrived in New York City with my parents at eight months old in 1961.
My musical heritage was Edith Piaf, Tino Rossi, Serge Gainsbourg and Johnny Hallyday but they weren’t my generation and I didn’t understand, couldn’t interpret their nuances, the cadences, the underlying net of their stories.

How could I when Ihad scalpeled most of my being away from my French self by then, leaving only a quick desire for crème brulee, Tintin comic books and Petit Bateau t-shirts?
Springsteen supplied the sealant as I grafted myself onto my American world.

How was I going toexplain to my French cousins, Bruce’s words: “…Magic Rat drove his sleek machine over the Jersey state line?” or “the highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive?” How was I going to explain his characters of Wendy, Eddie and Bad Scooter to them? I wasn’t. We were on different planets. One cousin knew it when I visited him one summer in France. I was nineteen. I arrived wearing my navy blue and goldenrod yellow cowboy boots and a denim jacket with the inside of Led Zeppelin’s IV album painted on the back. “She’s a rocker,” my cousin whispered as I walked by. He said it with such heaviness as though he was saying goodbye to his best friend. He was saying goodbye. I wouldn’t return for another sixteen years.

In that time,Bruce delivered more of America to me as he himself delved deeper with parts of
The River, Nebraska and the Ghost of Tom Joad –– albums that arced away from his arena-anthemed, pop songs and paid quiet homage to Hank Williams, Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan –– an American musical tradition seeped in grit and struggle. With just his guitar, harmonica and a far off fiddle, Springsteen described the histories of the Depression and its harshness, Mexicans crossing U.S. borders into horror, prisoners on death row, highway patrolman doubting the law, bank robbers, Vietnam vets all living in places I knew nothing about: Fresno County, Youngstown, the Sierra Madres, Sinaloa, the Mesabi iron range. This was the music of how America explained itself and Springsteen, in those albums laid it out for me like an ever-expanding triptych.

I now useSpringsteen’s music to explain calamities to myself. Two years ago when my father was dealt his double death sentence of liver and bile duct cancer, while my mother was diagnosed three months later with Lou Gehrig’s disease and became paralyzed, I listened to all
my Springsteen albums one after the other almost every day. I also listened to Maria Callas, The Who, Mary J. Blige, the Decemberists –– but mostly I listened to Bruce because only through his music could I take an Alice-in-Wonderland tumble back to 1975 where reliving the story of two teenagers in a Camaro gave me respite from the crushing gears of the business of the dead and the deformed. His songs gave me repose from the words “terminal,” and “low survival rate” which continue to press against me daily.

His songs appeal to the pessimistic sidemy parents planted in me long ago but Bruce then goes one more step –– deliverance, even if it’s temporary. He throws me the rope to get out, leads me to the escape hatch. Show a little faith. Roll down the window and let the wind
blow back your hair. Let the brokenhearted love again. Viper’s in the grass, this too shall pass. Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness. Someday girl, I don’t know when, we’re gonna get to that place where we really want to go and we’ll walk in the sun. You work nine to five and somehow you survive. Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact. But maybe everything that dies some day comes back.

I carry thoselines with me as armor, as inoculation against sheer despair so that when I see
my mother I can cheerfully say “Hi Mom, how’s it going today?” without breaking down, or I can look into her eyes, smile, even though she can no longer breathe without a machine. It’s all right. Springsteen taught me to put one foot in front of the other and to march on. He has become my reference guide, my what-would-Bruce-say gauge, my go to guy. And I do go to him. I can hear him through his songs saying, look darlin’, these are the cards you’ve been dealt. They’re not all good. Now let’s examine. And when I do, Springsteen tells me that redemption and salvation are hard won and sometimes they don’t come at all. That’s just the way it is.

Bruce has braidedthe three threads of my life, by jump starting my young desire to be a writer, assisting in my transformation from an immigrant kid to an American teenager
and he still teaches me –– now it’s how to push through grave illness.

During hisconcerts, Bruce is my time machine. When the blue light comes down on only him and he sings the slow part in “Jungleland” it’s as though I’ve swallowed an elixir of memory, a vial of the pure past. In that moment, I can almost hear the crackle of Larry’s leather jacket around my neck once more, his stubble at my cheek. In that moment, it is 1980 again. Look how happy Patty and I are dancing in Bruce’s Madison Square Garden audience. We’re happy to be there of course and overjoyed because we’ve got tickets to see him again for the next two nights. Here in this moment, my father is alive and my mother walks this earth.

Christine Shaffer, a writerlives in Westport, Connecticut. She is currently completing her MFA at Fairfield University where she is working on two memoirs, one of which is about growing up in a French household in New York from the 1960s to the 1980s.

Bonjour,

J'aimerais connaitre des francophones en Southern California. Moi, je fais mes etudes au niveau de masters en francais pour devenir institutrice. Avec mes nouveaux amis, j'espere partager ce qui se passe ici.

a bientot, j'espere,

debora

Dear all,

The International School of Brooklyn's 6-year-old Playgroup program will come to an end at the end of June. Sophie Amieva and Stephanie Larriere, two of the French teachers who have been teaching for ISB for four years, are launching their own immersion program in Spanish and French in September 2010, Brooklyn Beanstalk.

Big Event: Come meet us Saturday June 12th from 2-5pm at Vanderbilt Avenue's Summer Streets

---DEMO at 3pm-- Thank you, Sophie

The mice will play ! Bien sur.

What an enchantement it was to talk with Nadia Stieglitz, founder of Mice at Play. Our conversation was bubbling with ideas and giggles. Like her, it wasfun, relaxed and wickedly titillating. The French-born piquantebrunette is my kind of girl. She wants women to rediscover the lost Artof Playing,"live in the moment, on the edge, and with gusto".

Do you remember the last time you had goose bumps, felt your heartbeat and your pupils dilate ? If you're still thinking or worseyou answer "the gym"... you are in trouble and not in good trouble! Thesweet taste of Adrenaline is not reserved to cats!

For that purpose, Nadia organizes semi-monthly creative, out of the box events that will wake up your senses and crack a smile on yourlovely face. She has already taken mice rock climbing, trapeze flying,acting and coming up are a trip to Paris, catamaran sailing and walkingon fire!

But this week-end's event is tailored to the She is French adventurous and daring woman...

Indeed, Mice at Play is hosting its first Erotic Scavenger Hunt in New York City on Saturday, May 8 from 4-8pm. The hunt is open to 20 women with only a few open spots left.

Nadia and business partner Sara Baysinger will help you discover the luxurious erotic venues that have been popping all over New York.Places catered to women but that you might not dared to venture byyourself... yet!

So join Mice at Play's tasteful, fun and adventurous game that will lead you on a gentle exploration through erotic New York. Attention,there will be clues to discover sensual places, challenges to solve& dares to perform. The groups will finish their hunt in Sohosipping cocktails and unveiling their treasures—fresh ideas for theirsexual bag of tricks.

I wonder who'll be chasing who when the mice go home... Cats beware! Meow!

by G. Sarcone

Photo by Jeff Mermelstein

Last night I had dinner at Degustation and let me tell you, it was heaven! This tiny place is a gem where the food is delicious,delectable and divine - or was it the Chef?

I might have to say both.

Degustation serves Tapas Extraordinaires - small exquisite dishes from Spain- that melt in your mouth. The restaurant only seats 16people around a large bar that faces Chef Wesley Genovart, from which Ihad a hard time taking my eyes off except when the food was hitting mypalate, forcing me to close my eyes to fully enjoy the pleasure ofeating.

This talented and gorgeous Spaniard in his late late twenties is so charming, I would not advise bringing a date. It would be best to gowith someone who enjoys the sensual food delights as much as you andwho will be happy starring at the Chef view with you!

Degustation

More on Wesley Genovart from NY mag:

"...Wesley Genovart, a Perry St. grad who looks to be about 12, fusses over his bite-size creations in plain view of diners seatedside-by-side at the food bar. With its reverential service, itsfrequent changes of silverware, and assorted other flourishes, thisisn't your ordinary toothpick-flying, sangría-flowing tapas bar.Genovart's menu makes use of such currently fashionable A.W. (AfterWylie) cooking techniques and ingredients as sous vide andxanthan gum. But nothing tastes forced or contrived. Flavors, for themost part, are bold and harmonious, and often so rich that the smallishportions make perfect sense. "

There's nothing better that a man that makes you laugh!
Multiply that by 60 and you can just imagine what a day I had thanks to new website : The Man's Guide to Love.

The website features each day a short video of men from all over the country who were asked:
“If you had one piece of advice that you’d give another man about love, what would it be?

The answers are are hilarious as they are frightening.

Allow Edward, 29, to share with you how he sells all the Ladies the dream by telling them what they want to hear. When asked if they are norepercussions to his method, he genuinely answers that by the time thegirl finds out about the real him, he already out with another one.

and

William, 42, that suggests to men to forget that little bone in the back of their neck so they can bop his head up and down indicating thathe is in agreement with a Yes Dear. He says that sometimes he evenagrees before his wife even says something, just so he can get to seethe light of another day.

or

Jay, 65, who's advice is to stay the course as long as possible because the longer you stay the better it becomes to the point where athis age he is living in ectasy... I am still LOL thinking of his wife'sattitude as she is sitting next to him and clearly wondering who thehell he's talking about!

Thank you Ed, Bill and Jay for such a lovely afternoon. I mean if you pair this website with a copy of Undateable, there is chance of women giving up on the idea of any partnership with a man for... ever.

Hopefully, She is French will continue to devote time and dedication to exploring the Art of Seduction and show you that not all men areequal!

A few of our favorites:
Francesco Alberoni's Falling in Love Center,
The Way to the Superior Man by David Deida
Pablo Neruda's poems,
Daniel Packard's Live Group Sex Therapy,

and much more!

I had a lovely talk on a sun-drenched bench in Central Park with a dear friend this afternoon. Our discussion eventually came to thejourney it takes to find one's own voice and nurture it despite theobstacles - more often inner than outer !

So I smiled when I saw that the poem Maria Shriver chose to read for the Women's conference in celebration of Poetry Month: The Journey by Mary Oliver. The author received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1984 and still today in her 80's, continues to write.

This beautiful poem could have not more appropriately described our delightful afternoon conversation.
Ce poeme est pour toi, ma cherie!

One of my favorite ones is Indian Summer by Dorothy Parker.... What's yours?

The video is on http://www.sheisfrench.com/afternoon-delight/art/

The Journey by Mary Oliver.

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Dimanche 21 March 2010, 13:58

Chère Cange,

Tu as fini par t’enraciner dans mon âme de manière inarrachable. Tu as cultivé mon être, mon
identité, mon haïtienneté.

Dans l’oasis de ton sein, tu m’as permis de servir les victimes d’un cauchemar et de remplacer ainsi le désespoir par de l’espoir.

D’un coté, tu m’as montré combien l’être humain est capable d’aimer ; de l’autre, tu m’as
appris que l’esprit humain contient une réserve inépuisable de courage.

Bien que je ne sois pas moins troublé à propos de notre avenir que je ne l’aie été lors de mon
arrivée, je te laisserai avec davantage de confiance.

Confiance en notre potentiel.

Confiance en l’espérance que nous réaliserons les rêves de nos aïeux.

Cange – tu t’es transformée en troisième point de référence

Car quoique Grand-Goâve et Port-au-Prince eurent mis au monde les gens