Ten years ago, I came to Paris just before New Year’s for a friend’s wedding. Another friend of mine flew to Paris to pal around with me for a week. I got in touch with a French guy, an acquaintance I’d met through a friend a few years before in L.A., and he invited me and my friend to a fête des rois. I had no idea what it was, but I was game. My first genuine Parisian party with genuine Parisians!

(I discovered later that it’s a celebration of the Catholic holiday of Epiphany, which I’d never heard of, being an atheist of Protestant-ish origins. In case you’re like me, it’s 12 days after Christmas, on January 6th—the twelfth day of Christmas (so that’s what that means!)—which is supposedly when The Three Kings (and the little drummer boy), guided by what the latest theory says was a conjunction of Venus and Jupiter (in June), got to The Manger.)

So I asked an American francophile friend who was there for the wedding what the fête des rois was. Turns out it is primarily about this galette made of buttery puff pastry with a layer of marzipan in the middle. (Very tasty.)

(I’d been wondering why all the bakeries in Paris were overflowing with these rather plain-Jane pastries with the Burger King crowns on top…)

My friend told me that the galette has a ceramic figurine baked into it (called a fêve). He said whoever gets the piece with the fêve gets to be king or queen for the rest of the night and that there were games or something. That gave me pause, because what if I got the fêve and the games required that one be brilliant and biting like the French aristocrats used to be in their salon games (à la Ridicule)? What if it was like Truth or Dare? I was apprehensive.

The day of the thing, I went into a bakery and asked the boulangère what one would traditionally bring to the hostess of such a party. She said “cider” and sold me a galette too.

So we got there, and we were a few minutes early, but we went up anyway because it was freezing outside and there was nowhere to go. (Note: Don’t ever show up at a Parisian party early. Or even on time.) The hostess was clearly annoyed because we were early, but also probably because her boyfriend, the one who’d invited me, had had to come up with some explanation for who this American was and why he’d invited her. I have no idea what he told her, but it clearly it wasn’t convincing enough to make her even remotely happy to meet me. She sneered when I gave her the cider and the galette. (Had the boulangère intentionally tried to make me look like a dork? I never did find out.)

Not long afterwards, people started arriving. They walked over to us, shook our hands, said bonsoir and their first names and sat down. (The appropriate response is to say bonsoir and your first name.) Every person who came in did the same. When there were 15 people there, the new ones came in and shook 15 hands and said their name 15 times. It looked pretty silly to my American friend and me; so formal and stilted for such young people (20s and early 30s). At our parties, you walk in and your host(ess) says “Everybody this is so and so,” or you introduce yourself to the room, or you just wander in and mingle (or not), grab a beer and a chip…

There was no munchie table to hover over, to anchor the thing, to get people to move around, to serve as a conversation starter. (“I must have the recipe for this dip!”)

We were served champagne. (No wonder she had snubbed my cider. That must be what you take to a fête des rois for six-year-olds…) Everybody was sitting around in a couch-and-chairs semi-circle. Nobody was standing or moving. Not much talking. They were pale skinned and dark haired, all thin, wearing mostly black, their movements languid, voices low. I felt like I had walked into Interview with the Vampire. I felt very pink. And I was wearing kelly green velvet pants, the loudest outfit in the room, despite the black turtleneck and boots on either end of the pants.

Then the moment of truth: the cutting of the galette. It was giant. (The one I’d brought was smaller and it sat there on the table, untouched.) (Note: Bring flowers and/or champagne to Parisian parties.)

There are rules to the fête des rois. The youngest person at the party is supposed to get under the table the galette is sitting on. With every piece the hostess cuts, that person tells her who should get the piece. (They did not make the youngest person get under the table, since she was a chic and sleek Parisian law student in her 20s wearing a short, tight black dress. Although she did have to call the pieces.)

Turns out there were two fêves in this galette, and it came with two crowns because it was so big. Oddly, I got the first fêve, and the friend I’d come with got the other one. I suspected that they’d rigged it, but I couldn’t figure out how… They made us each put on one of the Burger King crowns. Then I really did feel like a dork, surrounded by all these vampires, wearing a gold paper crown.

I expected them to start feeding on me and my friend at any moment.

So I said, “Now what do we do?” and one of the girl vampires laughed and said “La pauvre, elle pense qu’il y a une suite!” (Poor thing, she thinks there’s more to it!) And I’m thinking, “Don’t poor thing me, you vampire bitch, I’ll kick your scrawny ass.”

But I just laughed, and explained that a friend had told me there were supposed to be games, etc. It was a relief, on a certain level, but at that point, I was thinking that, as Queen, I’d really like to give the vampires some dares. Like hold your nose and sing Frère Jacques while hopping on one foot… I pictured them all playing Twister, the way you’re supposed to picture your audience naked when you’re nervous about public speaking…

When the first couple got up to leave, they went around and shook everybody’s hand again on their way out. My friend and I leaped up, waved to everyone, said bonsoir/merci and left. I’m sure they were scandalized.

(A few months later, I asked a woman who gave classes in intercultural etiquette to business people why the hostess didn’t introduce anyone. She explained that the French don’t like to be the center of attention. The whole experience was utterly fascinating and educational.)

There’s one thing you should know. There are pretty distinct class lines in French society. I’m still trying to figure it all out. Thank gawd I have Vincent (and Claire) to guide me now. I’ve now been to a number of Parisian parties and they are not all as vampirish as this one was. It depends on the crowd. But they are all more sedate than American parties.

I can pretty much guarantee you will never see anyone at a Parisian party playing Twister.

Ten years ago, I came to Paris just before New Year's for a friend's wedding. Another friend of mine flew to Paris to pal around with me for a week. I got in touch with a French guy, an acquaintance I'd met through a friend a few years before in L.A., and he invited me and my friend to a fête des rois. I had no idea what it was, but I was game. My first genuine Parisian party with genuine Parisians! (I discovered later that it's a celebration of the Catholic holiday of Epiphany, which I'd never heard of, being an atheist of Protestant-ish origins. In case you're like me, it's 12 days after Christmas, on January 6th—the twelfth day of Christmas (so that's what that means!)—which is supposedly when The Three Kings (and the little drummer boy), guided by what the latest theory says was a conjunction of Venus and Jupiter (in June), got to The Manger.) So I asked an American francophile friend who was there for the wedding what the fête des rois was. Turns out it is primarily about this galette mad

When faced with a layover in an airport this is my general routine: browsing the paperbacks and magazines (rarely buying), checking out the tacky souvenirs (especially the fridge magnets just in case there’s a really kitschy one I need), buying something to munch on, usually M&Ms or pretzels, and either a Coke or a bottle of water to drink. All of this takes approximately 30 minutes, at which point I’ve exhausted all the entertainment options, so I settle down in the bar or at the gate for the duration.

The French, ever conscious of quality of life issues and firm believers in the pleasure principle, know that traveling and layovers suck. So last winter, they offered free UV light therapy to passengers traveling through the capital’s airports to lift their spirits and ease their pain.

This summer, they thought it would be nice to offer free dance lessons to travelers at Orly and Charles De Gaulle, the two Paris airports:

Summertime passengers can use their wait time at the airport to learn any one of 15 dances offered by the airport’s resident trainers from “L’Ecole des Vacances,” including Afro Jazz, Disco, Hip Hop, Mambo, Modern Jazz, Rock & Roll, Salsa, Samba, Tango, Cha-Cha and more. Music and trainer instructions are broadcast through cordless headsets so as to minimize the disturbance to other passengers, and lessons last 10 to 15 minutes each.

How cool is that?

Via Springwise.

When faced with a layover in an airport this is my general routine: browsing the paperbacks and magazines (rarely buying), checking out the tacky souvenirs (especially the fridge magnets just in case there's a really kitschy one I need), buying something to munch on, usually M&Ms or pretzels, and either a Coke or a bottle of water to drink. All of this takes approximately 30 minutes, at which point I've exhausted all the entertainment options, so I settle down in the bar or at the gate for the duration. The French, ever conscious of quality of life issues and firm believers in the pleasure principle, know that traveling and layovers suck. So last winter, they offered free UV light therapy to passengers traveling through the capital's airports to lift their spirits and ease their pain. This summer, they thought it would be nice to offer free dance lessons to travelers at Orly and Charles De Gaulle, the two Paris airports: Summertime passengers can use their wait time at the airport to learn any

I have a francofetish, anything French being for me “an object of irrational reverence or obsessive devotion” since about kindergarten.

But you all knew that. I am still mad at my mom for disappearing that shirt with the poodles and Eiffel Towers on it when I was 11. She said it was in tatters, but that’s not how I remember it.

I am doing myself and other francofetishists a favor and making some francofetishes (as in “material objects regarded with superstitious or extravagant trust or reverence”) available for purchase on the Francophilia site soon, via my FrancoStuff shop on CafePress.

I bought the FrancoMug just to check out the quality (don’t have it yet). There’s also a women’s (tiny) FrancoTankTop and a men’s (tight) FrancoT-shirt, both white.

Here’s the FrancoToteBag.

I am very attached to this big, red coq, even though he may not end up being the definitive Francophilia logo.

I already have a big, red rooster trivet my mom got me at Williams-Sonoma (doesn’t make up for the poodle shirt, Mom) and a glass cutting board with roosters all over it.

One can never have too much—rooster.

I’d like to know what you think (not about that). Should he be our logo?

I’m going to buy the other three items and do some QC. If you happen to get any of them, please give me some feedback about the quality of the image (and what it’s on), the size and placement of the design, etc. Also, I can add all kinds of products, so if you have a request, let me know.

Merci, mes amis !

I have a francofetish, anything French being for me "an object of irrational reverence or obsessive devotion" since about kindergarten. But you all knew that. I am still mad at my mom for disappearing that shirt with the poodles and Eiffel Towers on it when I was 11. She said it was in tatters, but that's not how I remember it. I am doing myself and other francofetishists a favor and making some francofetishes (as in "material objects regarded with superstitious or extravagant trust or reverence") available for purchase on the Francophilia site soon, via my FrancoStuff shop on CafePress. I bought the FrancoMug just to check out the quality (don't have it yet). There's also a women's (tiny) FrancoTankTop and a men's (tight) FrancoT-shirt, both white. Here's the FrancoToteBag. I am very attached to this big, red coq, even though he may not end up being the definitive Francophilia logo. I already have a big, red rooster trivet my mom got me at Williams-Sonoma (doesn't make up for the p