“John, What exactly do you do over there (here)?”

This is a great question, whose answer depends on who you are – my Dean, my wife, my children and grandchildren, my publishers, my co-conspirators, my new best friends and so forth. I tell my Dean only the things that rack up points in academia: research collaborations that might (ha ha) wind up in a grant, papers, books, Congresses, high–falutin‘ dinners at snooty starred restaurants, hard-traveling between venues and struggling with writing demons (a total lie since I have inherited some wonderful DNA and am unburdened by writers’ block). My wife, I give a watered down version of what I’ve done, omitting the real fun that she’s missing, the dreadful weather that she’d get schadenfreude from hearing about and the babes I ogle. My children and grandchildren get a glorified Disneyworld version of life here: all twittering birds from Cinderella outside the window, absolutely impeccable cheap meals in exotic settings and comfortable living in my cramped apartment (hey, I want them to take it over.) My publishers – ah, there it depends. If they’re just sending on work, I try to answer as if I’m in the same time zone; if it’s questions about future work, I ignore them; and if it’s news that they’re suddenly coming to Paris for 24 hours and want to get together, I reply instantly that of course, but there’s no way we can get into anyplace decent that doesn’t have three stars. For my co-conspirators who are into the faux-reviewer dodge, I try to hide my cards a bit, reveal bits and pieces of unreliable gossip and probe them for openings no one else has mentioned. And for my new best friends over here, I say how hard I’m working and how little free time I have (I’m really sorry), how much I admired their last restaurant review and what place is about to open that’s “the next best thing.?” But what do you really do? Actually it’s pretty boring. Yes, I am working on three books (one of which is alive, one on life support and the third definitely resting, kipping, pining like the Monty Python Norwegian parrot). And indeed, I do write a lot of the day and try to eschew Facebook and Twitter which are the cyber-equivalents of Ross Perot’s “great sucking sound” as our jobs moved to Mexico and Canada. I try to exercise for an hour, eat a healthy breakfast and supper and a most unhealthy, non-politically-correct lunch with one or another reputable or despicable peer, read several print newspapers in solidarity with my brothers and sisters in journalism, get 6 hours of sleep and a teeny power-nap and listen to fine music on Mezzo or France Classique. I said it was boring. In addition, I try to tell my wife I’m constantly on the alert for dust bunnies and love her, my children that I’m always thinking and loving them and my friends that I will miss them when they’re gone and which resto to spread my ashes in front of, if I go first. These thoughts were started over a nice meal at an overpriced but OK place with a real bargain of a friend: L’Invitation 82, rue Boileau, 16th, (Metro: Porte de St Cloud) T: 01-46-47-87-19 Menus at lunch 35 & 42, a la carte: 50-60 €. Closed Weekends. Blog: John Talbott’s Paris ©by John Talbott 2009