France – KensView

L’élection

La France
retient son souffle
La claque
Non au RN
C’est ouf
L’espoir renaît
Et maintenant
on fait quoi?

Election

France
holds its breath
The Slap
No to RN
Phew
Hope is reborn
And now
what to do?

Le ciel s’écroule*

Les Français, they say, have minds refined,
But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign.
With each remarque, they make a frown
As if the sky is falling down.

They sip their vin, yet curse the glass,
For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp.
In cafés small, with heads held low,
They sigh as if they always know—

Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde,
Nothing is right, it’ll all explode.
And while Liberté sounds divine,
But even freedom has its time.

Their poètes write of love’s cruel art,
Of dreams that fade and hearts that part.
Les rues de Paris grown with gloom,
As shadows gather spelling doom.

Oh, to be les Français who arise
To welcome the world with leery eyes,
To speak in sighs, in rueful tones,
And call chez eux a house of bones.

Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce,
A kind of beauté none can replace—
For through their doubts, their endless strain,
They teach us new ways to complain.

*The sky is falling

Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés,
Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux.
A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils
Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus.
Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre,
Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée.
Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse,
Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours—
L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde,
Rien ne va, tout va exploser.
Et si Liberté semble divine,
Mais même la liberté a son heure.
Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour,
Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent.
Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent,
Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur.
Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent
Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants,
Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste,
Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements.
Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce,
Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer.
Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin,
Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.

La soupe à l’oignon

The air’s alive with the scent of the night,
As lanterns flicker and the stars glow bright.
I follow my nose to a small, cozy place,
Where laughter and warmth fill an intimate space.

Le garçon draws near, with charm and a grin,
“Bonjour, monsieur! Would you like to begin?”
My heart strikes a beat, anticipation runs deep;
I nod and smile as my order begins to steep.

Then arrives a bowl, like a treasure unveiled,
With crusty brown bread and cheese artfully scaled.
Golden and bubbling, a fragrant embrace,
The steam curls upward, a hearty, sweet grace.

I take my first sip, and the world melts away,
Caramelized onions in the broth holding sway.
WIth savory whispers of fresh garlic and thyme,
Each spoonful’s a melody, a moment sublime.

The richness enwraps me, and images ignite
Of family kitchens with warm feelings ever tight.
In this far-off café, with its laughter and cheer,
I taste that connection, everything’s so clear.

With each bite I savor, a bridge I build up
From my world to theirs with the meal I now sup.
In the depth of my soul I’ve learned to believe,
That flavors that bind us do not ever leave.

War Is Not the Answer

I came to Paris to flee the war gods,
and their cynical words and cruelty,
each day viewing a decade of destruction
in the news from distant rice fields.

Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai,
napalm and carpet bombing,
a naked child’s run down a road,
there were no good reasons for their lies.

As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds
and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange,
some ask why so many have to die
while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.

Today began cold, wet, and gloomy
as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic
encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags
and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.

First Madame Binh approaches
dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai,
then comes South Vietnam’s Lam
followed closely by the North’s Trinh.

Last in the solemn procession
is Secretary of State Rogers
hissed and jeered at by protestors
as his car warily nears.

There comes the signal of completion
followed by a rousing round of cheers
signaling that the fighting is over,
a futile conflict with nothing but loss.

But observing such a ruckus,
I feel alone at the curbside
only now fully realizing
the extent of my country’s defeat.

Close Encounter of a French Kind

It was a warm autumn afternoon in 1972 when he, an American student boarded the train in Paris heading to visit Strasbourg. The hum of the train’s engine was soothing as he sank into his seat, tucked his backpack beside him, and let his eyelids flutter closed. His mind drifted lazily, the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks slowly pulling him into a deep, contented sleep.

The compartment was small, filled with the faint smell of old leather and fresh baguettes from lunch. Soon, the soft click of the compartment door opening broke the stillness, and two middle-aged French women entered, chatting animatedly in the way only Parisians could. They settled into the seats across from him, each taking her place with an air of practiced elegance. One of the women, dressed in a floral print dress with over-sized sunglasses perched atop her head, glanced at the young American snoozing in the corner.

“Regardez, he’s American,” she said quietly to her companion, nodding toward his sneakers and baseball cap. “You can always tell.”

Her friend, who wore a neatly pressed blouse and had her graying hair tied back in a strict bun, looked him over with a skeptical frown. “Of course, it’s the gym shoes. I can’t believe those people wear such things in public.”

The first woman sighed, shaking her head. “And the baseball cap. So typical. He probably doesn’t even know how to dress properly for a train ride.”

They exchanged a knowing glance and began to speak more freely, certain the young man was too deeply asleep to understand their words. The conversation shifted, as it often did in Parisian circles, to the topic of politics.

“You know, I heard there are protests against the Americans even in Strasbourg,” the second woman continued, her tone growing more disapproving. “Their war in Vietnam, it’s a disaster. What kind of people invade a country on the other side of the world and destroy it? And for what? For profit? For control?”

“Exactly,” the first woman agreed, her voice rising with indignation. “And now they’re spreading their influence all over Europe, telling us how to live. It’s just disgraceful. How can we stand it? The Americans, they have no idea how to behave. So brash, so loud. I simply don’t understand.”

She paused, as if contemplating the sheer audacity of the situation. The other woman nodded in agreement, both of them clearly convinced of the righteousness of their opinions. Their eyes occasionally darted toward him, but they saw no sign of life from him. He was lost in his sleep, or so they thought.

Minutes passed, the train clattering on, and the women continued their animated conversation. They grew bolder in their critiques, convinced that the young man had no clue. They spoke in French, a language the Americans rarely understood fully.

Soon enough, the train’s speaker crackled overhead, announcing an approaching stop. The women fell silent as they gathered their things, preparing to disembark. They were still deep in their conversation, no longer paying much attention to the sleeping American.

As the train pulled into the station, he stirred from his nap, blinking as though the announcement had pulled him back to the present. He stretched and yawned, adjusting his cap, his eyes glancing momentarily at the two women across from him. The compartment had become a little quieter now, the hum of the train giving way to the voices of the other passengers.

He stood up, grabbed his bag, and turned to leave. Before stepping out into the corridor, he gave the two women a polite, almost amused nod.

“J’ai tout compris,” he said smoothly, his American accent still discernible but unmistakably clear in French. “Bonne journée, mesdames.”

The words hung in the air for a beat, their weight sinking in like a stone.

The first woman froze, her hand still gripping her handbag, her face slowly turning crimson. Her friend’s eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment, neither of them could speak.

He offered a smile that was both friendly and disarmingly polite before proceeding to debark.

The two women exchanged embarrassed glances, both silent now, as the doors closed behind him.

“Mon Dieu,” whispered the first woman, her voice trembling slightly. “Il a tout entendu.”

The other woman nodded slowly. “Et tout compris aussi. Quelle honte.”

As the train began to pull away, they sat in stunned silence, the reality of their assumptions and the casual judgment sinking in.

Steak tartare 2*

In a hall where snob Poli-Sci students dine,
A shy American sits, sipping some wine,
A plate slides before him, a curious sight,
Steak tartare gleaming, a culinary fright.

Crimson and raw, with a glimmer of spice,
He squints at the dish, not feeling too nice.
“Is this what’s to eat?” he reacts with a frown,
“This cold slab of meat? I’m not putting that down!”

With courage mustered, he approaches the cook,
“Pardon,” he says, with a nervous little look,
“Could you please heat this? I can’t even begin.”
The chef raises an eyebrow, but shrugs with a grin.

To the lad’s surprise, a strange ripple runs through,
The French students whisper, “Is this something new?”
One by one, they nod, “We’ll have ours like that,”
And soon the cook’s station’s abuzz with chat.

“Let’s sizzle that steak, make it juicy and warm,
Forget the finesse, let’s embrace a new norm!”
From tartare to grilled, a transformation’s begun,
In the heart of Paris, a new dish has been born!

Laughter erupts and all the suspense deflates,
As flavors unite across cultural gates.
L’etranger smiles, feeling bold in the fray,
In the Land of Chefs, he’s finding his way.

So here in this place, where traditions collide,
A meal is now shared with common ground as guide;
A lesson in flavor from a Yankee guy
Gives the cynical French a reason to try.

*What really happened.

Steak tartare 1*

In the glow of streetlights
on Boulevard St. Michel,
he sits, a young wanderer,
maps tucked in his pocket,
the scent of history swirling
with the smoke of Gauloises,
Paris murmuring secrets
in the language of bantering couples
and clinking glasses.

The waiter, a figure of cool elegance,
leans in, an arch of brow,
and presents the dish,
a vibrant mound of crimson,
its sheen glistening like the Seine
under the watchful gaze of the moon.
“Steak tartare,” he says,
with the flourish of an artist,
a daring invitation
to plunge into the unknown.

He hesitates, heart racing,
the pulse of the city humming
in his ears, a distant jazz
echoing from a café corner.
It’s just meat, he thinks,
but in this moment,
it feels like a leap,
a test of courage,
a bite into the very marrow
of experience.

Fork poised, he relishes
the tang of capers,
the bite of shallots,
the whispers of mustard,
a symphony of flavors
unfurling on his tongue.
Each mouthful, a declaration,
each chew, a step further
from the familiar,
the mundane of Midwestern dinners.

Outside, life pulses—
students debating, lovers laughing,
the echoes of revolutions
still hanging in the air,
and he, in his own small rebellion,
savors the rawness, the edge,
the delicate dance of culture,
the heartbeat of Paris
infusing his very being.

Here, in this moment,
the world narrows to a plate,
to a taste that lingers
like the soft brush of a hand,
and he knows he is changed—
an American, yes,
but also a son of this city,
if only for an evening,
savoring life, one bold bite at a time.

*Tourist promo?

Parisian Pretzel

One day I left my boarding house
on the Rue de Vaugirard
to get air in the light autumn rain.

Armed with umbrella, beret,
Scarf, and overcoat,
I strolled the arrondissement.

Soon a Parisian pretzel greeted me,
autos pressing forward, from every side,
almost willfully blocking the flow.

I then spotted a safety vehicle
stranded in the jammed melee
blaring, flashing in the misty eve.

Shouts and curses of course erupted
no driver yielding even a centimeter
to let the conveyance by.

After smirking at the hubbub,
I squeezed by to continue my route
covering several blocks in a half hour.

But later when I turned back,
I saw to my surprise that the
ambulance had hardly budged a meter.

Tout de suite I looked to thank heaven
wondering to myself, what if
I was the one there inside?

Sorbonne

When I listened to le savant professor,
When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx,
When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form,
When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out,
How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé,
Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench,
I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent
Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.

Quo Vadimus?

It was late, even for a Parisian evening, as the three American students stumbled out of the smoky bar near the Bois de Vincennes. Their laughter echoed off the cobblestones, mixing with the dim glow of the streetlights. The weight of their conversation, heavy with intoxicated opinions and slurred words, floated over their boozy chatter. They had spent the evening in a haze of smoke, insipid French beer and half-remembered history lessons, each one trying to outdo the other in a mix of grand theories about America’s role in the world.

“Man, can you believe the nerve of Nixon?” Ken the most serious of the trio, slurred out, leaning against a lamppost. “I mean, he’s just bombing the hell out of those people, and we’re supposed to accept it and cheer?”

Vince, the half-French son of the French ambassador to Haute-Volta, grinned. His thick accent was more pronounced now, the product of both alcohol and a conflicted identity. “You American guys always so passionate about these things, huh? It’s not so black and white.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if your government didn’t—” Ken’s sentence was cut off by a hiccup, and he waved his hand dismissively.

Vince, who usually spent his summers in New York with his American mother, stood up straighter. “The Metro’s closed. I’ll get us a cab.”

The other two nodded instinctively, barely catching his words through the fog of their drunkenness. Vince hailed the cab, and they all piled in, ignoring the obvious constrast between the world of boisterous youth and the still of the Paris night.

“104 Rue de Vaugirard, s’il vous plaît. Près de la Tour Montparnasse”

“Ah, donc vous êtes étudiants en sciences-po, n’est-ce pas ?”

“Ah, oui,” Vince slurred nonchalantly.

The journey was unremarkable at first, their laughter and talk continuing in fits and spurts in the backseat, the cab bouncing along the streets of suburban Paris. The driver, a stocky man in his fifties, hardly seemed to acknowledge them, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He didn’t join in the conversation. The streets blurred together as they ventured further into the night, but the students hardly noticed. Their conversation danced between politics and philosophy, mostly lost in translation. They were on autopilot, consumed by their intoxication and misguided confidence.

It wasn’t until the cab made a sharp turn and the tires screeched on the wet asphalt that they looked up. The car came to a sudden stop. The suddenness of it jolted them, and they all leaned forward.

“Connards americains. Sors d’ici, bordel,” the driver shouted, his voice harsh and filled with a palpable anger.

“What the hell?” Ken said, blinking in confusion. “What did he say? We’re not there yet.”

The driver didn’t respond. His eyes were wide, filled with something fierce, something dangerous.

Vince, still at half wits but attempting to read the situation, spoke up. “Où sommes-nous? Ce n’est pas le bon chemin.”

“Sortez!” the driver repeated, his face grim and twisted in a mix of hatred and disgust.

With no other choice, the students stumbled out of the cab, their brains still struggling to process the situation. They stood on the side of an unfamiliar road, the cab quickly speeding away, disappearing into the night. The air was crisp and cold, and as their senses began to sharpen, they realized something was wrong.

“Where the hell are we?” Sal, the quiet one of the group, asked.

They were surrounded by dark fields, an eerie quiet hanging over the small town. Not a single person was in sight. It was 3 a.m., and the streets were utterly deserted.

They turned in circles, trying to make sense of their surroundings. They could see a few distant street lamps, but they illuminated nothing recognizable. No Paris landmarks, no familiar buildings, just empty, darkened roads and low houses. It was as if the world had simply dropped them here, out of reach of the city they’d known.

“We’ve got to wait until morning,” Vince said, his voice low, strained. “No one is awake, no one will help us in the dark.”

“I’ll kill that cab driver,” Ken muttered, frustrated and angry, though the fury didn’t seem to fully match his current state of inebriation.

“Well, at least he didn’t charge us.” Sal muttered bringing all to a faint chuckle.

After several minutes of silent wandering, they huddled under the small overhang of a nearby house, trying to shield themselves from the biting wind. They sat there, taking turns dozing off in discomfort, every now and then waking up to the sound of distant animals or the occasional creak of a window shutter. The night stretched on, their exhaustion growing with each passing hour.

As dawn finally began to break, the sleepy town started to come alive. A few elderly women appeared, dragging their carts down the streets. The students approached one of them cautiously, not sure how to explain their predicament. But the woman simply raised an eyebrow at their disheveled appearance and pointed in the direction of a train station.

The students made their way to the station, still unsure of what had happened during the night, and unsure what to think of their cab ride. As they sat on a bench waiting for the first train back to Paris, they began to piece together fragments of the night. They thought of the driver, his angry tone, and the words he’d spat out. “Get out of here.”

Sal squinted, trying to understand. “Maybe he was one of those leftists or communists. You know, people who hate Americans because of Vietnam.”

Vince frowned, the weight of his father’s history creeping into his thoughts. “Or maybe he was a war veteran. I mean, he looked like he’d seen things… He might’ve fought in Indochina. A lot of French vets aren’t too fond of Americans, especially not now. Not after what’s happening in Vietnam.”

Ken nodded slowly, considering. “Could be. Either way, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“It’s dark and nobody’s around, “Sal interjected.

“Well, we’re just going to have to wait here for the first train to Paris,” Ken responded.

As the first train rumbled into the station, the trio climbed aboard, exhausted, confused, and still wrestling with the mystery of the night. They had learned something, maybe more than they could understand at the moment. France, with all its romantic ideals and rebellious history, was a place full of complexities they hadn’t fully grasped. But that night, they learned a lesson they would never forget: you never know who’s driving the cab, or where you’ll end up.

The City that sparks

C’est une histoire from time immemorial
Boy meets girl dans La Ville Lumière.
“Tes yeux pétillent vraiment.”*
La métropole beamed avec un grand sourire.

We drilled our leçons de grammaire,
Surveyed bouquinistes au Boule-Miche,
Split une baguette au saucisson et beurre …
Scooched sur le bancs du Jardin du Luxembourg.

We lost our way dans le labyrinthe du Métro,
Strolled les galleries du Louvre,
Sipped espresso au Café de la Rotonde …
Squeezed hands le long de la Seine.

We dodged crazed drivers dans les rues,
Snickered at Le Baiser de Rodin,
Shrieked at un plat du steak tartare …
Snuggled on the steps of Sacré-Cœur.

We paddled the Bois de Boulougne,
Savored Signoret et Montand au cinema,
Shared brie avec du Chardonnay …
Smooched under Le Pont Marie.

We lit candles in Notre-Dame, et puis
Swapped blushes on La Dame de fer …
“We’re not going to … , are we?”
“Bien sûr que non !”

*Your eyes sure do SPARKLE.

Tag: France