I love Paris and I love reading books about experiences in Paris. Granted, the authors view is from quite a privileged standpoint. However, he does struggle with the every day mundane problems that make this book a good read. It is a different from the Peter Mayle books, since he does not really offer any new insights into the life of the french, but I think it is absolutely worth it if you haven't been to Paris for a while and just want to escape to it in your own mind.

I sipped this book much like one sips a glass of champagne. I began reading it the last week of May, and it took me until early this morning to complete it. Allow me to explain.

Gopnik is a columnist for The New Yorker, which means that his style can be...well, a bit thick. His prose is often syrupy like pouring thick molasses from a jar. It's best enjoyed in small bites. I would often read only a chapter at a time to digest what I'd read: in-depth descriptions of French bureaucracy, a sit-in at the brasserie Balzar, and other complicated scenarios that required contemplation. Another problem, if you can deign to call it such, is that Gopnik failed to define certain French terms to the reader who might not be familiar with the French language.

Perhaps the most enjoyable portions of the book are when Gopnik writes about his family, in particular his son Luke. Luke is an interesting character because he isn't quite American but neither is he quite French. He's held in limbo because of his expat parents. Curiously, Luke seemed to me more adult than child at times. In particular, his expressions are uniquely European. For instance, when he has a crush on a fellow schoolgirl, he says, "She's quite a dish!" What a way to describe someone, especially coming from a child of four or five!

Gopnik really doesn't write much about his wife, Martha. We know that she played a large part in the decision to move from New York City to Paris, but she actually plays a minor role in his book and is mentioned surprisingly infrequently.

Overall, it was an interesting piece about French culture if a bit difficult to read at times. I do think it would have been easier to read if I was a regular reader of his column at the time the family resided in Paris. And perhaps the average reader couldn't relate to just moving to Paris in a whim. But because I moved to a city on just such a whim, I felt a kinship with Gopnik and his family. It is his appreciation and attempts to understand the culture he suddenly became immersed in that caused me to continue to turn the pages.

I sipped this book much like one sips a glass of champagne. I began reading it the last week of May, and it took me until early this morning to complete it. Allow me to explain.

Gopnik is a columnist for The New Yorker, which means that his style can be...well, a bit thick. His prose is often syrupy like pouring thick molasses from a jar. It's best enjoyed in small bites. I would often read only a chapter at a time to digest what I'd read: in-depth descriptions of French bureaucracy, a sit-in at the brasserie Balzar, and other complicated scenarios that required contemplation. Another problem, if you can deign to call it such, is that Gopnik failed to define certain French terms to the reader who might not be familiar with the French language.

Perhaps the most enjoyable portions of the book are when Gopnik writes about his family, in particular his son Luke. Luke is an interesting character because he isn't quite American but neither is he quite French. He's held in limbo because of his expat parents. Curiously, Luke seemed to me more adult than child at times. In particular, his expressions are uniquely European. For instance, when he has a crush on a fellow schoolgirl, he says, "She's quite a dish!" What a way to describe someone, especially coming from a child of four or five!

Gopnik really doesn't write much about his wife, Martha. We know that she played a large part in the decision to move from New York City to Paris, but she actually plays a minor role in his book and is mentioned surprisingly infrequently.

Overall, it was an interesting piece about French culture if a bit difficult to read at times. I do think it would have been easier to read if I was a regular reader of his column at the time the family resided in Paris. And perhaps the average reader couldn't relate to just moving to Paris in a whim. But because I moved to a city on just such a whim, I felt a kinship with Gopnik and his family. It is his appreciation and attempts to understand the culture he suddenly became immersed in that caused me to continue to turn the pages.

This is a book for francophiles. It might be a good resource on French culture and attitudes if you will be spending an extended time traveling or working in France. But if you are looking for good literature, skip it.

Should have known by just opening the cover - the first SENTENCE in the book has 9 (count 'em - NINE) commas in it. The prose is self-centered, self-conscious, and self-congratulatory.

You are regaled by sentences like this one: "The lucidity of Parisian empiricism was bought at the price of the grandiosity of Parisian abstraction, and you couldn't have one without the other".

Gopnik is the sort of author who thinks when he breaks a fingernail, it's significant and we need to know. You get an entire chapter devoted to a bedtime story he made up for his son, end to end.

The author needs to get over himself, and the editor needs to go back to flipping burgers. Spend your valuable leisure hours reading something else!

PARIS TO THE MOON is a collection of essays by a NEW YORKER writer. Gopnik and his wife moved to Paris in 1995. When a young teen, he visited Paris in 1773. After the couple's child was born in 1994 they endeavored to fulfill Adam's desire to live in Paris while their son was still portable. The romance of Paris became the author's subject for his NEW YORKER pieces. There was no big story in France. There was a lot of peace amd prosperity in the world and a lot animosity directed toward the United States. When Adam Gopnik thinks of Paris he thinks of his wife Martha and his son Luke.

French politicians engage in ostentatious displays of detachment. The Parisian government has a clutch of domaine prive apartments. In reality, most apartments in Paris are not available to rent in a market sense. It seems that one of the politicians lodged his entire family in various domaine prive apartments. French life in general is chock full of entitlements. North African immigrants, though, have no entree. The French elites have now decided that the cure for hidden deals is transparency. Gopnik describes a strike. France is a centralized country and anything that mainly affects Paris is a national event. French people deal with an event by pretending it isn't happening. (Picasso and Sartre pretended the Germans didn't occupy Paris.)

The writer's son Luke enjoys the Luxembourg Gardens, even in November. Trying to join an American-style gym, the author discovers that the rhetoric, the cult of sport is absent in France. Talking about the bureaucracy takes the place of talking about sport. In France there is no retirement anxiety. People don't linke the notion of stopping to work with stopping to live as people do in the U.S. It is believed that what France needs is its own Bill Gates. It has a philosopher, Habermas, who contends that the basis for the state is the human love of arguing.

The French have been obsessed with Vichy for more than twenty-five years. Thus, they did not finally confront their past during Papon's trial in Bordeaux. Explanation turns first on romanticism, next on ideological rigor, and finally on the futility of explanation. In 1997 there was an incident at the Eiffel Tower. The French draw their identity from their jobs, the Americans from what they buy. Adam Gobnik decides that couture is romantic cartoon. Yves St. Laurent is still the favorite in 1997 of the Socialists in the government. He uses opera arias to show his clothes. The new Bibliotheque Nationale, a Mitterand grand project, is, according to Gopnik, in the totalitarian Luxe style. Other transformations of cultural sites have been undertaken at the Louvre and the Bastille Opera. Jazz, loved by the French, and Impressionism, loved by the Americans, confirm the simple physical basis of powerful emotion.

Alice Waters is in Paris at some point during the writer's stay. He offers to cook dinner for her and is nervous. Her ends up cooking lamb for seven hours where four would have been appropriate. It seems that the purpose of the visit of Alice Waters to Paris is to determine the feasibility of opening a restaurant at the Musee des Arts Decoratifs at the Louvre. She has reconciled utopian politics with aristocratic cooking. The crucial unit of French social life is the cohort. Members of the cohort inhabit neutral places such as parks and cafes.

The couple's daughter Olivia is born in Paris. Since Paris is beautiful, but France is not a life, the family returns to America. The book is both amusing and instructive.

An interesting collection of essays about family life in Paris. Gopnik's erudite, interesting descriptions of the City of Light will delight Francophiles, although his writing is fairly pretentious and pedantic at times. Nevertheless, this book is still a worthwhile read.

I picked up this book for insights on the less-touristy aspects of Paris, prior to a trip my family is taking. It's a very enjoyable book, and the author's descriptions definitely have raised my anticipation level for our visit, as well as given me ideas about places for kids. Plus (as many other reviewers noted), it's a funny and charming book. As the husband of a former chef, I enjoyed his discursions about cooking, too.

My one complaint comes from the occasional pretentiousness and preciousness of the author's lifestyle. How many of us could move to Paris for five years during the prime of our working lives? And how many of us could take a month's vacation to the US in the summer, or fly our kids back for two days of interviews for kindergarten? Kindergarten?

The author comes from a very small slice of our society, and he both downplays this and celebrates it at different times. And I don't like it. For example, his literary allusions -- whether French, English or American -- go over my head. I'm a well-read person, but I feel as if the author is trying to show that he has a greater range than his readers. To shift from Baudelaire to the New York Knicks within a few paragraphs is trying to have it both ways -- the intellectual and the common man.

I picked up this book for insights on the less-touristy aspects of Paris, prior to a trip my family is taking. It's a very enjoyable book, and the author's descriptions definitely have raised my anticipation level for our visit, as well as given me ideas about places for kids. Plus (as many other reviewers noted), it's a funny and charming book. As the husband of a former chef, I enjoyed his discursions about cooking, too.

My one complaint comes from the occasional pretentiousness and preciousness of the author's lifestyle. How many of us could move to Paris for five years during the prime of our working lives? And how many of us could take a month's vacation to the US in the summer, or fly our kids back for two days of interviews for kindergarten? Kindergarten?

The author comes from a very small slice of our society, and he both downplays this and celebrates it at different times. And I don't like it. For example, his literary allusions -- whether French, English or American -- go over my head. I'm a well-read person, but I feel as if the author is trying to show that he has a greater range than his readers. To shift from Baudelaire to the New York Knicks within a few paragraphs is trying to have it both ways -- the intellectual and the common man.

This book has been enlightening in at least one respect - I thought one had to be an upper-class English twit to be this pretentious. Gopnik, of course, is not the former, but he is most certainly the latter.

To be fair, occasionally Gopnik does present a humorous nugget or a unique insight into Parisian life (though not French life; he is only a Parisophile, not a Francophile.) It's the other 95% of the book's self-indulgent prattle that is so annoying. I swear that if Gopnik thought that too many readers understood the massive amounts of French in the book, he would switch to Latin or Greek. He is not merely a name dropper, he's a word dropper.

While it starts out well enough, no more than 1/2 way through the book the reader is reduced to skimming page after page of discussions about food, reports of haute couture fashion shows, and an endless series of boring reflections on his young son. Toward the end of the book Gopnik even mentions taking his 4-year old on a trip back to New York in order for the boy to be interviewed for admission to a good pre-school! What a turkey this Gopnik character is. How is he ever going to explain all this pomposity to the boy when he grows up?

I had not really heard of this book until I saw Gopnik on Charle Rose after the interview I knew I had to go out and get this book. I can honestly say I was not disappointed, it is a quick read and I was fascinated at the authors experience as an American living in Paris. At times he name drops and you sort of feel he is one of these insipid, fey people, like the annoying Arthur Slesinger, Jr., who's easily impressed by famous people and famous places, but overall, I liked what he had to say and he's a very good writer, I really felt I was in Paris with him at times.

This is collection of essays written by Gopnik, while he was posted to Paris, by the New Yorker Magazine, between 1995 and 2000. Gopnik characterises the French as overly intellectual, valuing wit over humour, valuing theory over practicality; however in the initial essays I thought Gopnik was committing these errors himself. There is an essay about the error messages of French fax machines, which takes the messages as indicative of the French attitude to the world. I found this essay amusing, but overly witty rather than funny, and plausible, if requiring a suspension of disbelief. In fact I thought that Gopnik might fill the essay's with methaphors for France or the French or Europeans, and I considered giving it up about the Fax essay. In fact, I took up `The Looming Tower', which I found to be unutterably sad, and found that I returned periodically to Gopnik for some reassurance.
The essay's themselves revolved around the author's domestic life in Paris, his difficulties getting an apartment, taking his son to the park, taking his son swimming, cooking. He intersperses these with observations on French and American culture. I found the later essays more personal, less analytical, but the writing was just as inviting and gifted as at first.
In fact there are two classic essays about Gopnik's efforts, along with a group of concerned citizens, to save their favourite restaurant - the Brasserie Balzac - from being taken over by a (French) conglomerate personified by its owner Jean-Paul Bucher. The manoeuvrings of the plotters, the reaction of the restaurant staff, and the final outwitting of all the above by Bucher are a joy to read.
Reading the book, at this remove and along with the Looming Tower, make me think about the fact that Gopnik's essays, witty, amusing, domestic were written at the same time as the threat from Al Queda was emerging, but being underestimated. It made me yearn somewhat for the nineties, when all that seemed to bother us was the personal troubles of the US president. Gopnik returned to New York for the millennium and I believe has a new(ish) book of essays coming out about his time there. I will definitely read them.
While I started out being put off by the whimsical content of the essays, in the end I became glad that Western society can create a space for such a talented writer to exercise his craft on such, apparently, slight topics. In reality of course, and Gopnik quotes Maupassant on this, the very familiarity of the tale leads to its being hugely personal and important.

I have always enjoyed Adam Gopnik's writing, so when I set out on a long drive I was looking forward to listening to him read his own book, From Paris to the Moon. But I turned off the CD after a while because Gopnik is such a second-rate reader. He drops his voice at the end of a sentence and over-emphasizes phrase divisions, so the general effect is bumpy, monotonous and tiresome. Who chooses the reader of audio books, I wonder? Does the author always have first dibs? In this case, an experienced speaker would have done better by the book than did the author.

This wonderful book is a collection of essays by Adam Gopnik, author of "Paris Journal" in "The New Yorker" magazine. He, his wife, and son Luke (a prominent figure in these tales of expat life in Paris) resided in Paris for five years as he penned his musings for the magazine. In this picturesque tale of Parisian life, Gopnik chronicles living as "an American in Paris," following in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and James Baldwin, revisiting their sites and discovering his own.

Gopnik chronicles the changing world as seen through one American's eyes. He addresses the global economy, the decline of French cuisine, and the effort to bolster a neighborhood cafe so that it would not become simply another victim of global homogenization. All of these topics, however, are tackled with a individualized view to telling the tale. Injecting his own experiences with French bureaucracy and society, Gopnik brings a fresh eye to the subjects at hand.

Yet what is most charming in the book are his personal stories of family life and the adjustment to bringing a new child into the world in a foreign country. This tender account of life with children makes the book a standout from other expatriate tales. You will love the stories of exploring Paris's parks and cafes with toddler in tow.

This charming tale of Parisian life was a bestseller and comes highly recommended from the "New York Times" Book Review Section. From me, too

The book feels dated when you read it years after it was published, as it focuses too much on political issues that gripped France in the late 1990's. You're better off going back to a newspaper archive. Interestingly, there are brief mentions of terrorism that are treated off-hand as if it were a mosquito interferring with the author's sleep. Perhaps it illustrates how dismissive we all were of terrorism prior to 9/11.
The author also makes the mistake of equating Parisians with the French at large, but I think anyone who has travelled widely in France knows this is not the case. Little is of transcendence in Mr. Gopnik's account.
Another thing I could not stomach --perhaps because I am childless-- is the author's focus on his son, Luke Auden (I had to roll my eyes every time the full first & middle names came up -- ironically, the son prefers at one point to be plainly called "Luca"). In typical Upper West Side Liberal Yuppie Narcissist fashion, the author thinks the entire world is interested in learning about his son's development. Well, we're not, and these accounts are better suited to mass e-mails sent to the Gopnik family rather than a wide audience.
The writing also possesses a faux naivete that appears to be completely fabricated. I would have expected deeper analysis of certain issues and experiences, but the author floods page after page with inane detail.
I gave up reading this book 3/4 of the way. There are blogs by expatriates living in Paris that make far more interesting reading.

I bought this book because I'd read positive reviews of it. Gopnik immediately informs us of his stellar New Yorker connections, and no doubt some arms must have been twisted in book criticland. The personality which emerges from this collection is of someone who has floated up to his level without much evidence of sensitivity to or knowledge of his subject.

This collection of essays gives you a glimpse into the world of French politics as a journalist seeks to understand his countrymen.

The paperback copy of "Paris to the Moon" that I purchased has the quote "The finest book on France in recent years." --Alain de Botton, The New York Times Book Review. This truly misrepresents this collection of essays.

This is NOT a book about France. My expectations were essays that thoughtfully presented aspects of French culture from a person knowledgeable about the subject. What I got was the literary equivalent of home movies from a guy who understands little about U.S. citizens, let alone the French. The essays could have been written anywhere; they just happened to have been written at a time around Gopnik's life in Paris. They are mostly about Gopnik, his family, and his poor understanding of reality.

At one point he compares the U.S. and France by saying in America we talk about sports while in France they talk about politics. He fails to realize that perhaps people in Paris often talk about politics because it's the capitol city. I noticed people in Washington D.C. talk about politics often--I wonder why. He makes over generalizations constantly throughout his essays and seems not to understand people in any country he's lived.

Gopnik writes for a small click, not the French populous. His click is the celebrity fringe: those people that attempt to acquire vicarious celebrity status by association. These are the ones that eat at a bistro, not because the food is good, but because Sartre or Proust once ate there. They go to fashion shows, not because they are interested in fashion, but because they want to be known to go to fashion shows. They follow in celebrity footsteps instead of making their own.

Gopnik's essays are typical self-important New Yorker magazine style of essays. They are more interested in their own ideas than real observation, their own character than the subject. An analogy is a story Gopnik tell's about his attempt to get a Spanish(?) restaurant in Paris to give him take-out. The restaurant gives him his "take-out" on plates and covers them with a second set of plates. Gopnik makes this take-out story a big deal that reminds him of home. The owner/worker calls to him as he is leaving to please remember to return the plates. Gopnik doesn't. If he really cared so much about his "take-out" adventure he would have remembered, but he was too self-involved just like this collection.

Gopnik seems at times to be disdainful of Americans and the French at the same time. And he fails to convey the rich diversity that exists in Paris, not to mention France. Paris is no more representative of France as any major U.S. city is representative of the rest of the country. And actually, Paris and New York may share more in common with each other than they do with small towns in their respective countries. Big city life is very similar regardless of country, although the local culture affects its flavor.

This is not even close to a book about France. And these essays just happen to take place in Paris. They could have easily taken place in Tokyo or Chicago, with only minor changes.

This book took me a long time to read because I kept putting it down. The only reason I finished it was because I commit to finishing any book I start. I gave it 2 stars because on rare occasion Gopnik has something somewhat interesting to say, but these comments could fill a couple of pages and are usually second hand information.

I would not recommend reading this book to anyone outside of Gopnik's family.

Growing up, I was (and still am) fortunate enough to spend my summers in Paris, visiting my grandparents, and other relatives living in France. So, as you can imagine, I absolutely love reading anything about France. After reading the reviews on here, I was extremely excited about picking up Paris to the Moon, and OH MY GOSH! Do not be fooled by these reviews! This novel is so pretentious, I had trouble getting through the first few chapters, and once I reached his discussion of the variety of different wall plugs that exist in this world (which went on for PAGES), I'd had enough! Anyone who believes themselves to be so self-important that they can pass off the discussion of different wall plugs as great writing, and believes that THIS is the drivel that keeps the readers turning the pages, needs a severe reality check.

If you want a lovely, interesting, and vivid account of French or Parisian life, stick with Peter Mayle, or check out "Almost French" by Sarah Turnbull, instead.

Growing up, I was (and still am) fortunate enough to spend my summers in Paris, visiting my grandparents, and other relatives living in France. So, as you can imagine, I absolutely love reading anything about France. After reading the reviews on here, I was extremely excited about picking up Paris to the Moon, and OH MY GOSH! Do not be fooled by these reviews! This novel is so pretentious, I had trouble getting through the first few chapters, and once I reached his discussion of the variety of different wall plugs that exist in this world (which went on for PAGES), I'd had enough! Anyone who believes themselves to be so self-important that they can pass off the discussion of different wall plugs as great writing, and believes that THIS is the drivel that keeps the readers turning the pages, needs a severe reality check.

If you want a lovely, interesting, and vivid account of French or Parisian life, stick with Peter Mayle, or check out "Almost French" by Sarah Turnbull, instead.

I wanted this book to go on forever. I found it to be a very comforting, curl up in front of the fire, listening to jazz kind of book. Maybe I relate to it because I have to boys and adore Paris, I don't know... but I really enjoyed it.

It is completely unlike other books about Paris-- which I read whenever I get the chance. It is much more about the family in Paris than Paris itself, which gives a completely different perspective (obviously, since everyone would experience a place differently). Anyway, I fell in love with the entire family and Paris all over again.

I wanted this book to go on forever. I found it to be a very comforting, curl up in front of the fire, listening to jazz kind of book. Maybe I relate to it because I have to boys and adore Paris, I don't know... but I really enjoyed it.

It is completely unlike other books about Paris-- which I read whenever I get the chance. It is much more about the family in Paris than Paris itself, which gives a completely different perspective (obviously, since everyone would experience a place differently). Anyway, I fell in love with the entire family and Paris all over again.

It's not an atmospheric travel memoir; it's not a memoir of youth (except in so far as a father relates to his young son); it's not "Almost French".
But it is an extremely good insight into recent French politics; And it is an American journalist's documented 'thinking about the French and trying to understand them/describe them/contrast with them'; Expect lots of politics, and you should well enjoy.

Contrary to many of the reviews provided for this book, I have cherished this book as one of my favorite books on France. I lived in Tokyo, Japan as an expat for five years and felt an immediate kindred spirit with the author. I found my own personal experiences to be not that different from his own and related to many of his experiences on a deep, personal level. His gift of prosaic writing is a rare and wonderful treat within the travel essay genre, and I was delighted to be invited in to such an intimate and personal account of life in Paris. While most travel essay books are written by amateur writers, offering shallow accounts of brief stays in foreign lands, this book combines the rare writing talents of Adam Gopnik along with a fascinating, intimate portrait of Paris, a city that offers so much but which reveals so little for most of us who don't have the time to absorb and observe and experience what he was able to enjoy and write about for the rest of us.

I wish I had read some of the reviews prior to wasting my time on this inaccurate collection of self absorbed drivel. My husband and I were fortunate enough to have lived for two years in the center of Paris. I enjoy reading everything about Paris from Alistair Horne to Patricia Wells and am always looking for new insights. This book was a big disappointment that never captured even the slightest essence of Paris. If Gopnik was a painter his palette would be limited to a tiresome grey.

I wanted to read this book from the minute it came out in print. Everything about it: the subject, inset drawing, even the chapter titles cried out, promising "the great Parisien adventure lay within!" Though I'm glad to have read it, I must say that I was disappointed by the experience. In the book's defense, though, it should be mentioned that Paris to the Moon isn't a novel, but a collection of essays, written principally for the New Yorker, which have been gathered, a bit haphazardly, here.
Every chapter or subsection is ended as neatly and memorably (if, sometimes, illogically) as a newspaper column. Some, like the chapter "A Tale of Two Cities," sound particularly beautiful and sensical, while others, like "Couture Shock," well, don't exactly. This is mostly due to his prose-style, or lack of it, which one can attribute, if not excuse entirely, to the fact that he has been living in France for the last few years, probably speaking little English. Here's an example: "I wonder which child when won the last prize (94)" It took me a few reads to understand what the sentence was even reaching toward, but eventually, I settled on "I wonder which child won the last prize, and when."
Grammatically, it would appear that Gopnick has spent too much time away from his home language, since the book is full of run-on sentences (I take this tendency to be a particularity of spoken French) and verb dis-agreements; he seems to throw in commas as dictated by his own joie de vivre. In the end, I'm not certain that this publication counts as a book. The little articles are enjoyable and informative: just the sort of thing one would look forward to in each month's New Yorker, but as a novel, they miss both the sense of a narrative arc and of tonal agility.

A good book in general. I hate to caompare authors as I think it's important for everyone to have their own voice, but others are more open. This was not a friendly little read like Mayle or Mayes or Bryson. I am not compelled to live in France after reading the pages. The daily life of an ex-pat was realatively interesting. If you want to fill your American head with thoughts of Paris, it can't hurt.

If you're going to write about the city that is Paris, you'd better be up to the task. Gopnik may have the writing and observation skills that would have served this assignment well, but this collection of essays generally falls flat. For someone who resided in the City of Light for 5 whole years, Gopnik gives us a surprisingly myopic picture constrained by his own self-absorption. Those who are interested in Paris and its natives will be sorely disappointed in the smug chronicles of a New Yorker who regards himself and his son to be the most interesting elements of this city. I have zero interest in My-Toddler-Does-Paris stories and Gopnik's relentless insertion of his look-how-cute-my-kid-is accounts should have been saved for a family re-union instead of wasting precious space that could have been used for more interesting topics.

For a better book on Paris cuisine and culture, check out the collection of Gourmet essays from the last 60 years titled 'Remembrance of Things Paris'. It provides a wider variety of perspectives and a more expansive and interesting view of Paris -- and it's blessedly free of all that baby's-scrapbook stuff.

This book contains the Parisian memoirs of journalist Adam Gopnik. From childhood, Gopnik had always been enamored with Paris. In his mid-thirties (from 1995 to 2000), he had the opportunity to live his dream, together with his wife and young son. In this book, he describes his period of adjustment to French culture and to fatherhood.

Towards the beginning of the book, Gopnik tells us of his struggles to furnish their Parisian apartment, of his dismay when he found that many of the electrical items that they had brought from the States were not compatible with the European electrical system. At this point, I nearly put the book down, thinking that someone who was overwhelmed with such superficial and entirely predictable problems such as these could not possibly have anything of interest to say about cultural differences or French society. Fortunately, I kept reading, and found that Gopnik does indeed make some worthy observations. He does a decent job of explaining French attitudes to labor, and how this can result in conflicts with American attitudes towards vacations. His struggles with gym workouts highlight the French health conundrum: the French seem to eat fatty, buttery foods with abandon, they smoke like chimneys, and according to Gopnik, have an aversion to rigorous exercise-so why are their life expectancies still higher than ours? In addition to discussing life in France, Gopnik also describes episodes in his son's development. Parents may find these descriptions charming, but some readers may find them tedious.

The book is quite entertaining, sometimes thought-provoking, and would make good reading matter for anyone thinking of traveling to or living in France.

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man," Hemingway wrote, "then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." For this reason, in 1995, New Yorker "Paris Journals" columnist, Adam Gopnik, and his wife, Martha, moved to Paris so that their son, Luke, could grow up "someplace where everything he sees is beautiful" (p. 167). M. F. K. Fisher observed in her book, THE GASTRONOMICAL ME, that Paris "should always be seen, the first time, with the eyes of childhood or of love." In the 23 essays and journal entries that constitute PARIS TO THE MOON, Gopnik's best writing occurs when he is describing Paris through the experiences of his young son, though as a whole, the book may be read as an intimate memoir of Gopnik's five-year (1995-2000) love affair with The City of Lights--its cafés, brasseries, and shops, the aesthetics of the carousel in Luxembourg Gardens (in striking contrast to the stupidity of Barney on American television), and the never-ending, small moments that that infuse his life in Paris with profound meaning. During his tryst, however, Gropnik also learns that Paris can be difficult mistress. For instance, he recalls the frustrations he encountered upon joining a French health club, and in attempting to purchase a Thanksgiving turkey during a 1995 strike. While he offers no apologies for mooning sentimentally over his subject, Gropnik never loses his objective, journalist's eye in writing about his subject. Equally funny and intelligent, Gopnik's observations will not only appeal to readers of the New Yorker magazine, but to anyone interested in French culture, cuisine, and bureaucracy.

G. Merritt

This is a 'lets make fun of the French' book. In reality, a similar book can be written by many expatriates in every country, including foreigners living in the US and New York. Mr. Gupnik refuses to accept the differences between the different cultures and seemingly expects the French to behave as if they are funny speaking Americans.

This is a useless book, fake and pompous. Don't waste your time and money with it.

"Paris to the Moon" is a compilation of essays on Parisian culture, cuisine, schools and bureaucracy, told from the perspective of a New York family that moves to Paris. It is clearly Gopnik's intent that these essays read like a novel, with certain developed themes and characters, especially the maturation of Gopnik's son. Gopnik goes as far as to use a print that he acquires (entitled "Paris to the Moon") as a metaphor of what is lovely, but yet unattainable in his vision of Paris and the French. I had mixed feelings about this book. On the one hand, I thoroughly enjoyed his observations about how Americans and Parisians view each other about important cultural issues, and I also enjoyed his attempt to explain the inexplicable lure of Paris that has existed for centuries. On the other hand, Gopnik was offputting much of the time because it's as if his clever insights were so delightful to him that this book was simply a pretext for his self-reverential musings. I like to determine for myself whether an author is clever, wry or witty; I object, however, when an author writes to validate his self-importance.

This book is in a long line of books about why France is hard for non-French people to understand. There have been much better ones, especially the one by Ted Morgan whose real name was Sanche de Gramont. Adam Gopnik is a clever writer for the New Yorker and that is his problem. He thinks that since he was in Paris with his wife and young son and also had another child there he might have some especially fetching things to say about the French. He doesn't. I spent two years in France with a young child and know that he is pretty banal about it all.

The French are interesting and infuriating. To do them justice requires a writer more interesting than Gopnik.

Maybe it helps to be a regular New Yorker reader or to be very familiar with Paris. I just wanted a cozy armchair travel experience, but this wasn't it. I kept putting this down to read other books and finally gave it up.
Tidbits in the book intrigued me (activities with his son, interaction with the French, descriptions of food), but much of it was "over my head." That was frustrating and ultimately drove me away from the book.
Since each reader brings a different background to their reading of the book, give it a try. Maybe it will be perfectly wonderful for you.

I must echo those reviewers who say that this book is both a) a crashing bore and b) conceited. Gopnik's attitude is just grating. Also, I found his physical descriptions of Cressida a little disturbing. She was four years old, yet the way he described her beauty, you'd think HE was the one in love with her, rather than his son. I understand that he was doing it from the point of view of his son, but it still came off as a tad creepy.

Save your money. Don't buy this book.

I had the great priviledge to visit Paris in December of 2000 which was just a smidgen after New York Time Columnist Adam Gopnik had finished his five year soujourn there...thus the imagery of the book was very fresh: his discussions of the Eiffel Tower , the restaurants, the museums and the Seine activated each and every precious, jewel like memory. If you too have been a visitor to Paris, Gopnik's dispatches work tremendously on this level alone. But beyond simple travelogue, the author invites the reader to experience his obsevations as a husband and new parent, as the intrepid outsider, and as an iconic American expatriot seeking an alternate dream.

Though the canvas of Paris is broad, his vingettes are witty, personal and affecting. He so artfully renders the object of his desire, his Paris, that you'll ache with longing to be there as well. I was so caught up in the thrall of his tales of City of Lights that I had a hard time finishing this book. But day dreams must end and the moon must set...even in Paris.

I treasure this truly engaging and wonderful book.

This book is a wonderful memoir of a New York family that moves to Paris for a period of 5 years with a young son in tow.

Adam Gopnik writes this book in a style of short stories or essays that weave into one great book. He offers a well thought out idea of what must be said from an American in Paris. His comparisons are very real, some light-hearted, some blatantly profound. Gopnik shows his vulnerability many times as a fish out of water, but he tries harder than the average American to blend into his surroundings and take on some of the easier characteristics of becomming French like developing a fondness for a life of profound beauty, a taste for well prepared food, relaxing into the dining experience of the cafes and brasseries, showing his son the art of the carousel rather than the brainlessness of "Barney", and eventually creating another child born a Parisian.

The best chapters in this book are the ones that Gopnik writes about his son discovering himself in Paris. His favorite food becomes croissants rather than ketchup fast food burgers, his puppy love with a young French girl in the Ritz pool, how he would rather play at the Luxembourg Gardens than with a television and most importantly how he adapts to becomming a childish little Frenchman. With this said the one chapter I would skip is "The Rookie" a portion in the book that somehow just dosen't fit. From the elegance of the French life back to the world of baseball? Personally I would have just left the entire chapter with an editor and walked away.

Gopnik shows how well he has adapted to French life in the portions of the book that he dedicates to the cafe Balzar. This cafe becomes the victim of a corporate buyout and is almost lost until a band of dining brothers glue themselves together and form a secure fortress in pure French flair to save the cafe in its original form, garcons and all! It is an interesting look at how easy and yet how complicated life can be in Paris, all that French discussion can lead to something good.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who loves Paris and craves a walk down its Rues. Gopnik makes little things seem absolutely important and accurately describes all of the large and small nuances between the French and Americans. His wife, Martha, says it best, "We have a beautiful existence in Paris, but not a full life, and in New York we have a full life and an unbeautiful existence." This must be why Paris remains in the minds of most Americans who walk along its streets but slowly find themselves returning home, to the rush and bustle of America with an over-inflated heart.

...and think that "The New Yorker" slant on everything is the apex of Western thought, then you'll love this book because you're the kind of person who goes to Paris and experiences it and notices it the way Mr. Gopnik does. If you detest "The New Yorker"/"New York Times" Manhattan-centric provincialism, you'll hate this book. If you're somewhere between these two extremes, well, you'll love and hate "Paris to the Moon."

Gopnik is a fine writer and observer it's always gratifying to read well-written expatriate tales. (I lived in Asia for years and am still looking for competent contemporary expat memoirs of Southeast Asia). Some of what he writes is engaging--he takes you inside the national library, demystifies the Ritz, describes everyday rituals that become something else overseas. Some is mundane--if you're not a parent or you loathe (your) children, your eyes might glaze over reading about his son and daughter and wife's pregnancy. Some is excruciatingly precious--the occupation of a restaurant (such revolutionary, soul-shaking activism!), the explanation of how super-expensive French restaurant cooking really is about peasant roots, one person's outrage over a perceived misuse of curry powder.

In short, my reactions to Gopnik's book were pretty much my reactions to Paris. It's hard to tell sometimes if Gopnik is just reporting or really finds all he writes about momentous, but it's refreshing to read contemporary accounts of urban life that aren't layered in irony or polemics.

A good companion piece is Lawrence Osborne's "Paris Dreambook", a fantastical account of Paris's underworld that is feverish and lurid where Gopnik's book is measured and polished.

Paris to the Moon follows the relationship of a new father with an old city. The book's anicdotes describe Parisians and the awkward curiosity that Americans have with the Gallic personality. Gopnik is a Paris romantic, but doubts that the city remains the international capital of culture.

Gopnik is a New Yorker at heart, but has a tremendous desire to understand and to fit into Paris. This dilemma never resolves itself, but Gopnik's struggle is a journey that is unique to contemporary America (and Paris). The desire to be separate from New York, a romanticism for Paris, and the uncertainties that come with being a father mix for a touching description of an American abroad.

As a casual speaker of French, a new father, and a lover of Paris, I found the book insightful and meaningful.

I enjoyed Gopnik's book, primarily due to the mixture of personal reflection and careful observation that make up these essays. The essays about French cooking were certainly confirming in that the history of cooking is grounded in peasant fare and a return to those roots is a central theme in understanding good cooking foundations. I was most impressed however not by the essays on French government and culture but by the soft personal loving sections of the book on Gopnik's young son. Gopkik and his son swim at the Ritz pool in Paris where they meet two young girls. Gopnik's son's playful love for one of the female children was written so well and so transparently that I was amazed. The boy responds like a puppy, abaze with attraction and energy, swimming fearlessly in the deep end of the pool, like a magnet, a duckling, a male. Gopnik, the wise father, perfectly reads the situation, seeing eros engulf his little child, and supports the situation so that his son fully experiences this first taste of the honey and sting of the beautiful other.The children order expensive hot chocolate every day after swimming, which Gopnik endulges. It is Gopnik's wife upon discovering the VISA card balance that brings reality back into the picture. I would say to Gopnik "Your choices were correct, as you yourself know. The good father allows a child to experience the pull of beauty in the world, aware of the risks, aware of the rewards." I expected thoughtful essays because I have been a New Yorker/Gopnik fan. However, the passages on his relationship with his young son were sublime.

I too was suckered in by the praise this book received. In retrospect, I realize that the praise must have come from the author's boorish book critic friends and others so enamored of themselves that they find the work appealing.

Mr. Gopnik is of above-average intelligence. Apparently, however, he feels compelled to prove this fact to us, through constant obscure references that very few people will get. Often, the book reads like a poor attempt at creative writing by a show-off college freshman.

As an American who formerly lived in Paris, steps from the Luxembourg Gardens, I thought that the book would really speak to me. Unfortunately, Mr. Gopnik worships the same type of pretensions I learned were unappealing after a few short months in the city of light. I too finished the book, always waiting for it to get better. Newsflash; it doesn't.

Don't waste your time with this one.

PARIS TO THE MOON is a wonderful book, that rare kind of book that leaves its readers feeling happy. (The title is explained in the first segment.)

Author Adam Gopnik wrote many of these pieces as the permanent correspondent for the "New Yorker" Magazine in Paris. According to the foreword, a few other sections are seeing print for the first time here, coming directly from his personal diary.

PARIS TO THE MOON covers a five-year interval during which the author and his wife lived in Paris with their newborn son. The vignettes included are very personal. Gopnik tells of their adventures as strangers in a strange land, celebrating the similarities in everyday life and delighting (pretty much) in the differences.

So many of us, so many Americans in Paris, do love that city and this book will strike a chord in anyone who ever has visited there. And it also will resonate with any reader who, simply, loves good writing, because this is writing at its best.

The only complaint is that this reminiscence is too short!

I found this book to be perfectly charming. This is a New Yorker writer, whose wife is a filmmaker. Repeat that sentence and ponder its meaning. Some of the readers who have posted review here seem to expect Adam Gopnik to write a book about somebody else's experiences. They wouldn't do this themselves, or have their children do so. They wouldn't expect Hemingway to write about feng shui or Jane Eyre to write about the Peloponnesian Wars. This isn't a history of Paris, or a guide to the subway system. Perhaps Paris brings out self-obsessiveness; perhaps living in any other country does; but I compare Gopnik favorably with Anais Nin and Henry Miller, two other self-obsessed American writers in Paris, and wonderful writers they are, albeit in the 30's. (And by the way I think Gopnik is possibly Canadian; certainly his wife is.) His touch is lighter than Miller's. His affection for his family creates a warmer sort of familiarity than Miller's (which is very winning in its own way). There's a can-you-top-this aura to Henry Miller, whereas Gopnik just marvels at things and shows off his whimsical humor and gift for association. At the same time I find his prose to be more concrete and outwardly directed than Nin's. Not a high bar, that!

Gopnik makes it clear from the outset what his and his wife's admittedly enviable plans are for the next five years, for the duration of this book. Buyer beware.

I would agree that he takes awhile to hit his stride, but Gopnik's talent for generalizing from common experience is wonderful. The parallel he finds between Americans' attitudes toward sport and the French's toward government officiousness is priceless. He manages to come to an understanding of soccer, a feat that to my mind compares favorably with writing, say, War and Peace. He may wander for a time in fashion circles (were I in Paris with the appropriate press pass I would too), yet he has a talent for bringing the whole crazy scene down to earth. He and his wife are raising a boy and (near the end) giving birth to a girl, and I find nothing wrong, and everything praiseworthy, about giving this side of his life center stage from time to time. The description of pregnancy and childbirth in France is one of the most memorable parts of the story.

As you might expect, there is plenty here about food, and about restaurants, and about language, and about globalization, and about New York, too, aka home. As with New Yorker writing at all times, the prose is idiosyncratic, breezy, maybe a little unedited. That's just the way it is. I guess if you like it, you love it, and if you don't you don't.

This pretentious and narcissistic memoir may be useful if you are a member of the glitterati. Otherwise, look elsewhere for an authentic glimpse of Parisian life.

His experiences are bear no resemblance to the lives of any average (or above average) Parisian, but embody the experiences of a snobbish expatriate who is far removed from the realities of his readers.

His familial anecdotes gave me the same cornball emotions of a bad "Full House" rerun. The stories of his son could just as easily be one of the wretched Olsen twins displaying their fake cutesiness to a maudlin television audience.

His insights are vapid, superficial, and excessively sentimental: Hardly a breakthrough in French cultural studies. It is certainly not deserving of the fine reviews churned out by his publicity manager.

Some where hidden behind all the name dropping and vainglorious details of fine wine and haut couture fashion shows, there's a boring story of a prententious American guy who comes to Paris and proves that he can live the life that even most of the French themselves dream about. I lived in Paris for four months before reading this book. It made me hate Paris and Americans at the same time. This books highlights the unsavory qualities of French culture as well as the arrogance of Americans. The great theme of the book being if you're a privileged American, your kid can learn to swim at the Ritz in Paris.

I've read many books about Americans in France since I am an American in France myself and this has got to be the worst. I was annoyed hearing about the author's son and how precious we should think he is because he puts his dirty feet on bar stools to play pinball and pulls on lace curtains at restaurants. No wonder a stool magically appears under the pinball machine -the owners were probably sick of this American brat messing up the chairs for other customers! The author also reveals his thoughtlessness by "forgetting" to return six plates to a restaurant he convinces into serving him American-style take out. There is also lots of arrogant name dropping of all the famous people and expensive wines and food the author drinks and restaurants he visits. With Americans like this in France, no wonder the French hate us. The writing style was also annoying and jumped from one random thought to another. I felt like I was reading the badly written diary of a schizophrenic. The guy can't decide if he likes France or hates it. I only finished this in the hopes that it would get better but it never did. Waste of time.

Originally reviewed on October 31, 2003

A lovely memoir blending the mundane activities of life as an ex-pat with the "only in Paris" characters Adam Gropnik surrounds himself (and us) with. I loved his stories in the New Yorker when he was in Paris and the book makes me want to go back and read them again now that I know the back story.

Michael Duranko, Bootism: a shoe religion
www.bootism.com

Featured on NPR, this wonderful book is a collection of essays about the writer's experience living in Paris with his wife and small child. Gopnik has the same love of Paris that Mayle has for Provence and gives you a similar humorous outsiders view into a foreign culture. The big difference between them is that Paris to the Moon is a collection of essays rather than a narrative book like Mayle's works. The result is sometimes disjointed, but thoroughly enjoyable. This is a book for anyone who has ever fantasized about living in Paris. Page after page he is living my dream life and it's delightful to escape into his world.

You really have to struggle through the clunky first few chapters to get to the good stuff. I quite nearly put the book down after the first couple of chapters. But after he finally gets into a grove and you settle into the odd disjointed style of a collection of essays, you're in for a treat. My favorite essay is the one about trying to get some exercise in Paris (the mere thought of which the Parisians consider unhealthy.) He has hysterical descriptions of the French view that sweat is not good for you, and all activity should be combined with a good meal and wine.

Although this is not as good of a book as Mayle's Year in Provence, it is a very enjoyable read, and a great escape to Paris

A lovely memoir blending the mundane activities of life as an ex-pat with the "only in Paris" characters Adam Gropnik surrounds himself (and us) with. I loved his stories in the New Yorker when he was in Paris and the book makes me want to go back and read them again now that I know the back story.

Michael Duranko, Bootism: a shoe religion

This book is not funny nor lyrical. It does not produce what its title suggests. This book is a crashing bore. Though I finished it (due to compulsion only), I finished it in a very angry state of mind -- feeling used, abused, ripped off (as if I had been locked in a train compartment with someone who was going to show me every boring photograph of his kid, tell me every 'cute' anecdote about the kid, every scrapbook memory to demonstrate the kid's precociousness, not to mention every ho-hum anecdote to demonstrate the adoring care of Gopnik pere to Gopnik fils.)

Gopnik mere, on the other hand, is a shadow who appears most vividly once to complain about the bills monsieur accumulates to pay for hot chocolate for the kids at the Ritz swimming pool and once more to make sure she gets an epidural during labor. Madame Gopnik must be a true hero to endure this self-adoring papa.

Gopnik, fascinated by his own discovery of metaphor (not to mention his kid's same discovery at the age of 4 or 5 and about which we get to hear endlessly) really needed an editor. In an otherwise, somewhat interesting description of a new Library complex, we get to hear about 'caged' and 'chained' plants three times. Once was interesting, twice was obtrusive. Third time I almost started screaming 'Where is the editor?' Well, the editor -- and the writer -- were both 'out to lunch' as we say in New York.

This book is perfectly dispensable. I couldn't STAND Gopnik's smug, self-congratulatory tone (I am in Paris! I have made it to the center of world culture! My wife is giving birth to a girl! I now have a girl and a boy! My children will know about French culture! They will be COSMOPOLITAN! etc. etc.), but unfortunately, it took me a LONG LONG time to figure out that that was what bothered me about the book. I finally hit on it on p. 307, when Gopnik is obssessing about whether a taxi driver will be able to make a U-turn on a particular street, and therefore be able to get him to the hospital fast enough when his wife is ready to deliver their second child. He goes on like this for two pages, I suppose to show the reader how entranced and fixated he became by the whole idea of his wife's having a baby in Paris. (Just goes to show how irrelevant men really are to the whole birth process. No pregnant woman would obssess over such a detail...) Well, I forced myself to finish the book. What.an.excruciating.experience. AND I have such good friends in Paris and have always been fascinated by the city...