Chapter Eight
Friend-Less In France

Unless you count my husband, I don’t have any close French friends. I think it is probably because I don’t speak French; kind of hard to be friendly with someone if you don’t speak their language. I can get a few simple ideas across, but once I get passed those I am pretty much out of communication. I also read that most French aren’t looking for new friends - the old ones will do just fine, thank you.
I have an acquaintance who sent me a scathing email, filled with terrible opinions about the French. She said her parents were European and as she stood on a ship leaving for America with them, her father spit into the ocean and said he never wanted to set foot on French soil again. She said I would never have French friends because the French hate Americans and that if I knew what they were saying behind our backs, as she does, I wouldn’t choose to live there. Well, as I don’t speak French and don’t know what they are saying behind my back, I can only go by what is happening in front of me and I feel accepted for the most part. They always give me a smile and like to practice their English with me.
I know my husband’s relatives better than other French and I must say they have never been anything less than kind to me. Maurice’s Aunt and Uncle always extend their hospitality to us with a lovely room to stay in, great meals, and an incredible amount of Champagne when we visit. His children have been great to us. His son likes to tease me and spends a lot of time talking to me in English. He doesn’t beat a path to the door the minute I enter the room. Maurice’s daughter gives me gifts from her designer line, has us over for dinner, listens to me, and talks with me. If I only had them to go by, I would say the French were warm and gracious.
I got talked into leading an English discussion group with some French women, all military wives or nurses. They are all very friendly to me, and I think they liked me, but I have never done one social thing with them. I don’t think it ever occurs to them that I might like to get to know them socially. It has taken me awhile to learn that there are some things you don’t ask in a social setting. The elections were in the process of occurring and I asked them who they voted for: Chirac or the very questionable Le Pen. One of them held up her index finger and moved it back and forth like a metronome, the French sign for “No, no,” and said, “You never ask people a question like that in France.” So I would ask them to talk about something in English like, “Tell me what your favorite dish is to cook,” and then I would slap my hand over my mouth and say, “Can I ask you that?”
I never felt more alone than September 11th. My husband was out of town and called me that afternoon to tell me something bad was happening in the States. I turned on CNN and watched as the second plane crashed into the World Trade Center. It was so horrifying. I didn’t know what to do. I called everyone I could think of in the States and while the news continued on and on in an unbelievable way I talked to my two sons, my mother - I was talking to her when the first tower collapsed - my husband, twice. I just needed the connection of another human being, but especially another American. I hadn’t been in Paris long enough to have any friends. I would walk down the streets the next day, or go into a grocery store and want to yell, “I’m an American!” I’m not sure why.
On my way to my French class two days later I was on the subway seated next to a lady reading the paper with a photo of the towers burning on the front page. I told her I was from the States and I placed my hand over my heart and told her it was so difficult. She just looked at me and didn’t say anything in reply. I don’t know what I wanted her to say, maybe just to agree how awful it was. When I got to my class only two people told me how sorry they were, an Iranian and an Iraqi, ironically two people from countries that are supposed to hate America.
I have often heard the comment, “You live in France and you don’t speak French?” The comment I want to reply with is, “Why? I’m not friends with any French people.” I haven’t said that but sometimes I feel like that.
Maurice has French friends and we often have dinner with them. They can speak some English but it seems to be a struggle. Mostly, I sit there, while everyone chatters away in French, catching a word now and then so I know the general topic, but usually I have to wait for Maurice to stop and give me a quick summary. I really like one of the women and I think she likes me but I don’t know if I will ever be close to her as we can’t have much of a heart-to-heart. I say a few words in French, she says a few in English, we each speak in our own language and we get our main ideas across – often with smiles and looks. She’s fun and funny and very nice, but I don’t know if we will ever have a two or three-hour conversation like I do with my American friends.
Most of my friends here in France have turned out to be other Americans. Being a woman, I need someone to gab with, exchange thoughts and ideas with about living in a foreign country. Not only do you learn interesting facts like where to find certain household supplies, but also where great shops are to buy either American products that you are missing or some fantastic new French product that you will soon learn you can’t live without. You learn how to function, and enjoy such a new environment.
For instance, my white clothing was getting dingier and dingier and I couldn’t find any bleach. For some reason, Maurice was clueless here. I discovered that bleach is called Javel (or eau d’javel) in France so I could get those whites looking bright. And I learned that you can’t find baking soda in a grocery store. It is considered a medication so it has to be bought in a pharmacy. Just little everyday things that are hard to find out on your own, that’s what I need, advice from a pioneer who has been down the track ahead of me.
And thank God for the computer. Who knew that someday I would meet some woman on the streets of Paris that I had never laid eyes on before but who I had corresponded with on the Internet? I never dreamed I would make friends this way.
Sometimes, a posting on a travel board catches your eye and you start a little correspondence; you like the way they think. And then you find they are going to be in Paris and you decide to meet. You have to get a description, sort of like a blind date. One friend I met this way has a very flamboyant way of writing and has a gypsy relative in her background. I pictured her as being tall, thin, and with flowing black hair. She turned out to be short and blond. We “clicked” right away. Maybe it’s just that people who love France, and in particular, Paris, are delightful, fun people but I have met a great group of women from America and we have a blast exploring Paris and trying new cafés or shopping in the markets.
One very special friend I met via the Internet who, although she is an American citizen, is Belgian and speaks French. She and her husband live in Paris part of the time and when she is here she takes the time to give me French lessons. How nice is that? She knows a lot about Paris and loves to walk around the city and we often set off exploring and seeing what we can find and taking photos as both of us love photography.
I have also made some friends with other Americans who write for Bonjour Paris, an Internet magazine. We all love Paris, and often get together and exchange ideas and comments about our time here. I don’t know what I would have done without them.
And then there are friends I didn’t know I had who contact me and want a free room to stay in or free tours while here. I think this is often the case if you live in a neat city anywhere. I had an acquaintance that I used to work with that I hadn’t heard from at all once I moved until she decided to visit Paris. It was great to see her and all, but I feel a little offended when I never get notes, letters, or even emails, and then suddenly they want to visit me. Just comes with the territory of living in Paris, I guess.
I have no idea if I will continue to be friendless in France when it comes to French people. Maybe as I learn French this will happen and I try to remain open to it.

Chapter Seven
Posh-Less In France

Okay. I don’t live in a posh area of Paris. I can’t look out my window and see the Eiffel Tower or the Luxembourg Gardens. I can’t walk out the door and head up the street to Sacre Coeur or turn a corner and be in Place des Vosges. I wish I could, as these are wonderful areas to be in.
I live in the 12th arrondissement, one of the lesser known areas of Paris. When I look out my window I see the apartment building across the street, not a well-known monument. You can learn a lot about people just by looking in their windows. It’s not that I’m a peeping Tom, honest. Sometimes I look out the window to check the sky for clouds or open it to water my pot of geraniums and I glimpse life across the street – or rather, across the inner courtyard if I am at my kitchen window. I haven’t seen any scenes such as those in Rear Window or any amorous clutches.
Across the street is a lady sitting in front of a computer most of the day. I don’t know if she has a small business going or is, perhaps, a writer. One day, she smiled and waved at me as I was working out on my stairmaster in front of the window. One apartment over from her is an older woman I often observe hanging up clothing to dry or ironing. I can also, unintentionally glimpse her dressing or undressing as she never closes her curtains. The lady above her, grows masses of bright red geraniums and picks off dead flower heads every morning and throws them down to the sidewalk, and when she waters, a few unsuspecting pedestrians below get a sudden shower.
If I look across our courtyard which is surrounded on all sides by apartment buildings, I usually see two young men with dark hair looking back at me. I assume they are students as I sometimes see one of them reading a book as the sun streams into their apartment. Of course, for all I know, they could be reading something naughty, which may explain their interest in checking out the view on my side of the courtyard. Maybe a lady above me undresses in front of her window because they always seem to be on the look out for interesting views, and I am very careful to always be fully dressed, especially in my kitchen if I have my curtains open. I am sure they would be shocked if they could see me up close.
There is one apartment that has me worried. The windows are never opened and I thought for awhile that they were covered in some sort of plastic sheeting, but have come to the conclusion that the windows have just never been washed. And I’ve never seen the windows opened, either. Ragged looking curtains hang down and at night, when the interior lights are on, I can see someone come close to the window and it is either the husband or wife looking like they must be in their 80’s, if you can guess such a thing from a distance. Oddly, as long as I can see movement over there every day, I assume they are all right, and breathe a little easier.
When it is sunny, and usually on the weekends, windows are thrown open and women can be seen shaking out dust cloths or mops and shining their windows. They also take duvets and place them half way out on the window ledge, I assume to air them out. I would try this, but my window ledges are too dirty to drape my good linens on. Duvets are a whole new thing to me, a type of comforter with a pillowcase-like cover. Duvets make it really easy to make the bed and are nice and toasty in the winter.
The 12th arrondissement has a large area called Nation. This is a so-called square with a huge roundabout where nine streets converge. The center boasts two tall towers, one mounted with a statue of Saint Louis and the other with a statue of King Phillip August. Centuries ago, tolls were taken here as people entered Paris. It was called Throne Place at one time since a throne was placed here in honor of Louis IV and his bride. For a short time it was called The Place of the Overturned Throne during the turbulent days of the French Revolution.
Also, during this time, over a thousand people were executed at this square after those at the Place de Bastille tired of the crowds, blood and smell. A tiny cemetery, Picpus Cemetery, holds the bodies of those poor souls. Lafayette and his wife are also buried here because some of his wife’s relatives died during The Revolution. Every July 4th, a ceremony is held at Lafayette’s tomb and soil from the United States is sprinkled on his grave, one of his last requests, so the tradition continues.
We are also near Bois de Vincennes, a huge lush park where my husband likes to jog. It has several lakes, an immense floral park, a château, and miles of jogging and biking trails. I had no idea, when I first moved to Paris, that this “bois,” or woods, was so close to our apartment. On my first week we started off on our bikes and soon we passed a lake with a little island in the middle, then a little restaurant, and suddenly, there it was, the Château de Vincennes. It has a lot of French history associated with it but in appearance, it seems rather modest to me if compared to such places as Versailles. The first Sunday of every month there is a meeting of a car club and all sorts of models of cars, mostly vintage, gather here and shown by their proud owners.
Parc Floral, right across the way from the château, has great jazz concerts every weekend in the summer months and is full of gigantic bushes of camelias and other flowering plants. There is an enormous playground for children full of interesting play equipment that even has me thinking about taking a ride or climbing. I was surprised at some things such as a climbing tower of ropes about 75 feet in the air. It has some rubber matting under it, but I don’t think it would help much if a child should happen to fall. Americans would never allow something like this in a park. I can only imagine the lawsuits that would result.
Back towards our apartment, at Place de la Nation, we are lucky to have a huge street market every Wednesday and Saturday. Maurice and I go there to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, fish, meat, chicken, seafood, olives, butter, and eggs. We almost always overbuy as everything looks so delicious. It’s really fun to shop here and we plan our menus for the next few days as we walk along and see what looks good. My favorite thing during June and July are the huge mounds of cherries in every stall. The ones I like best are large and heart-shaped and come from Provence. They can be very expensive so we look around and try to find the best price. Maurice loves strawberries, but not just any strawberry. The first to appear look great to me—enormous as strawberries go, and red—but Maurice says no, they are from Spain, and he says that they usually aren’t grown in soil. He will wait for those from France. He was right, of course. They were smaller, less red but incredibly sweet and flavorful.
Maurice is a good cook and loves to try new recipes. I like some of his tried and true ones best. His beef burgundy is wonderful, and I have really come to love his ratatouille. We often get fresh fish or scallops and, if they look good, Maurice will get snails. They come already covered in butter and garlic—ready to cook. I will try one or two but I don’t love them like he does. He buys oysters, too, when in season, and opens them himself with a lot of prying and pressure. He eats them with a mixture of vinegar and shallots. I tried an oyster once in New Orleans. Once was enough for me. I must admit, however, that he won’t try certain things such as anything with bananas or pineapple or tuna fish sandwiches made with mayonnaise. He hates peanut butter as well. I’m sure it has to do with what he ate as he grew up, as it does with me.
We return home on a street called rue du Rendezvous lined with boucheries, boulangeries, grocery stores, fromageries, a fruit and vegetable place, and pâtisseries. One place sells what are surely the best macaroon cookies and chocolate desserts in Paris. I adore this shop. There is also a small store selling prepared food that’s ready to go. Everything always looks so good but, unfortunately, it isn’t cheap. The first time we walked passed I saw a pan heaped with fried potatoes with added pieces of duck, onions, ham and parsley. I’m sure they also had goose fat in them. It looked so fabulous I talked Maurice into buying some. It was in the days when francs where still used in France and I didn’t really figure out how much we were paying. When we got home Maurice said, “Do you know how much these potatoes cost?” I didn’t have a clue. It turned out that we had paid the equivalent of almost ten dollars for potatoes for two people. I must say, however, that these were the best potatoes I have ever had in my life. Every once in awhile, as we walk by, I will see a pan of them in the window again and try to talk Maurice into more of those delectable ten dollar potatoes. I just can’t duplicate them at home.
Finally, before we head up the stairs to our apartment, we must get a baguette. France has the best bread in the world; I don’t know what they do to make it taste so good. You can cross the border and be thirty minutes into Italy and the taste and texture of their bread is entirely different. I’m sure a really hot oven makes the outside so crusty, leaving the inside soft and chewy. I’ve heard the oven must be used for years to make the bread the right consistency.
Maurice is very picky about his bread. Once, when our usual bakery was closed, I bought a baguette that looked good to me. It was the right shape and the right shade of brown on the outside, but Maurice took one bite and said, “This was mass produced.” Just one bite. He was bothered by the texture of the bread inside which seemed to have too many air bubbles, or something. I thought it was all nonsense, but I don’t any more. When our favorite boulangerie is closed and we are forced to buy our bread at a place across the street I can really taste the difference, not only in taste but in consistency. As with many places in Paris, our boulangerie is closed for the whole of August. I can’t tell you how distressing this is to me.
The shop is no more than a couple of dozen steps from our apartment. One day I saw a white truck parked in front with a hose coming from it down into the basement of the boulangerie. At first I thought it might be delivering fuel but as I got closer I saw a white cloud in the air and I smelled the unmistakable odor of flour. I had no idea flour could be delivered in this way. The bakery across the street gets their flour delivered in sacks carried into the kitchen by men.
Bread was the first thing I bought by myself when I moved to Paris. A couple owns our neighborhood boulangerie and the husband is down in the basement toiling in front of the ovens while his wife mans the counter upstairs. I have only seen the baker twice. He had come up the stairs to bring a tray of desserts and he wore shorts with a long white apron over the top that reached his ankles. His wife used to tell me the price of what I was buying and I didn’t have a clue what she was saying so I would just hold out a hand full of change and let her take what she needed. As time went on she wouldn’t do it but would repeat the price until I understood what she was saying and figured out for myself what to give her. We have never exchanged any more than “bonjour” and “au revoir.” When I walk in the door she reaches back behind her to the forest of bread sticking up in holding racks and pulls out the type of baguette we always eat. I now have the exact change ready as I walk in. This is one time I would love to speak French so I could learn her name and a little about her.
There are some grocery stores in our neighborhood that we go to for staples such as toilet paper, drinks and the like. The least expensive store is called Franprix. I get upset when I shop there because I am accustomed to American efficiency and customer service. There can be 50 people in line, stretched back into the aisles blocking access to products—it is a very small building and everything is crammed together making it hard to even pass people in the aisles. In front of the 4 cash registers will be 3 or 4 women who work there but invariably two of them are involved in some sort of busy work that doesn’t involve waiting on customers.
Another curiosity is that all of the people checking out customers get to sit down. I’ve done my share of retail work and remember how my feet ached at the end of the day. What I wouldn’t have given for a chair back then. And when you buy groceries, you have to bag them yourself. The check-out person will grudgingly dole out one plastic bag at a time, as if they cost a fortune. At a discount grocery store called Ed you have to pay for each bag. The bags in Paris are always plastic—no paper bags here.
On Saturday morning, the busiest morning of the week, two or three Franprix employees will have huge carts of canned goods or cleaning supplies blocking the aisles while they stock the shelves. Occasionally, there will be a man sweeping the floors at the same time. It makes me want to pull my hair out but I know the French would be totally mystified at my attitude. It’s just how it is; they’re used to it. I asked Maurice why they couldn’t clean the floors and stock the shelves when the stores were closed, but they don’t want to pay the extra wages to do this. How does America do it? I remember with fondness the 10-15 open check-out lines. The floors gleamed, the shelves were fully stocked. I do miss that.
It is different here. I miss the comfortableness of America some of the time and being able to find a store open late at night or on Sundays. But there are tradeoffs. I have found more charm here and I enjoy the “event” of shopping the markets. Now, if I could just get the recipe for those ten dollar potatoes.

Sacre Coeur on top of Montmartre

A Montmartre Surprise

A family of four scheduled a tour with me. Among their requests of things to see in Paris, was a desire to go to Montmartre, a popular destination for many tourists to Paris. The mother, named Sandra, told me that she wanted to find a particular painter up on top of the hill. I had my doubts that he would still be there as there can be quite a fluctuation in painters. I see many of them almost every time I take visitors up to Place de Tertre as it is a full time job for them. Others are only there for a season or two and then disappear.
Sandra’s story was this: Fifty years before her parents and the young Sandra had visited Paris and on a visit to Montmartre found a painter that they liked. They were looking at his gentle painting of some clowns (not the scary kind with white faces and red noses) pastel in color playing a musical instruments. Sandra’s father wasn’t sure he liked the selection so the artist took them up to his studio going through a door right on the square, up some rickity stairs and showed them some more of his work. They found exactly what they wanted and bought a painting.
Sandra grew up with that painting. Fast forward, 20 years later, and Sandra returned with her husband, Ron, and they went to Montmartre. They found a painting they liked on Place de Tertre, bought it and when they returned home discovered that it was by the same artist of the painting her parents had bought in the same location. It must have spoken to Sandra, been in her subconscious, and she selected one that felt familiar to her.
So, she wanted to find the artist again as her son had grown up with her painting and wanted something similar for himself. I didn’t have much hope but we set off for Montmartre, took the bus up to the top and found the artists in the middle of the square. We walked around them all and didn’t find the artist. By chance, Sandra stopped at a lady selling colorful Eiffel Towers painted in plaid and asked him if she knew the artist. To our surprise the lady said, “Yes, I am very good friends with his daughter. He, however, died about 10 years ago.” I thought that was it but then she said, “The daughter isn’t here today but I have the key to her studio and I know there are some paintings left there by her father. Let me take you there.” To Sandra’s surprise, we went through a door right on the square, up the same rickity stairs that she had gone up so many years before and entered the same studio. Among the daughter’s painting were about 50 left by her father. We looked through all of them and they ended up buying four, after the artist with the plaid Eiffel Towers named Kiki, called the daughter and got the prices. Because they bought four, she gave them a discount. The son selected a Paris landscape, the mother bought three clown paintings, two for herself and one for her sister. We left Montmartre very happy people, amazed at how small the world can be and at how amazing it was that, out of all of the painters up by Sacre Couer, she picked the artist who helped them find the paintings of the artist they had talked about for years. It was a real Montmartre surprise.

Roses at the Carnavalet Museum in Paris

Back in Paris now and am continuing my Frenchless In France series.

Chapter Six
Water-Less In France

When I was in the States, I lived in New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas through the years. I was used to droughts, water restrictions and the fear that my State would some day run out of water. It used to drive me nuts when I drove through Scottsdale that massive water fountains were being used for landscaping and golf courses were being built with abandon all over the place with green grass stretching as far as the eye could see, yet everyone else was being told to conserve water. I made sure my yard just had desert landscaping and I was religious in following recommended watering schedules.
That is probably why, when I moved to Paris, I was surprised at how the streets were cleaned. Men dressed in a horrible shade of bright green carry green plastic brooms that look like a witch could ride them converge on just about every neighborhood. They sweep away debris that is in the streets into the gutter, where a large amount of water then gushes out and sends it down to the sewer lines. There is even a little piece of folded carpet where the water comes out to head the flow into the right direction.
I honestly couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it. “You mean, this is how they clean the streets? Aren’t they worried about wasting water here? It’s such a huge city, What if they have a drought?” Maurice couldn’t see what I was worried about. It had been done this way for years and, he said, nonpotable water was used, adding, “I don’t know why you think this is so bad. Look how America wastes things such as electricity and gas.” Well, maybe, but you won’t die without either of those. Got to have water.
With all of the street cleaners around, and you do see these men every few blocks, at unexpected hours, you would think the streets would be immaculate. Wrong. Okay, some of them are. Some of them look like they haven’t been touched in months. I seldom see those green guys actually doing any work. They are often on the phone, taking a cigarette or coffee break or laughing with a fellow worker. When they are sweeping, it is done in a rather offhand manner, sweeping here and there. If it gets in the gutter, fine. If the debris is too large to fit down the opening to the sewer, they just leave it there. I’m sure there are eager beavers out there cleaning for all they are worth but I just haven’t seen any. Their busiest time is in the autumn when the leaves start falling. If they don’t keep them swept up, as I saw first-hand once during a street cleaner and garbage collector strike, the run-off drains get clogged and water pools in ponds at every corner and become difficult to jump over.
Once or twice a month an enormous water truck comes down every street with a crane-like bar that goes over cars with a hose attached. As water under high pressure comes out, a man in green with rubber boots moves the hose back and forth getting the more difficult to remove items off the sidewalk. And watch out if you don’t see them first and get in the way: you are in for a drenching. I was told that there was some sort of insect repellent in the water to keep down the flies and I must say that I seldom see a fly in Paris. There are no screens on windows here and if it is not too hot or too cold you leave the windows open. Very seldom does a fly or mosquito enter our place. Maybe they’ve all gone down south.
One thing these high pressured sprayers does is remove the dog poop. Left behind or stepped in, there is a lot of it. The French truly love their dogs. There has been a campaign to get dog owners to start picking up after their canines but it has been slow going. A friend of mine was cleaning up after his and a neighbor came out, hollering, telling him that if he started doing it everyone else would have to! One of the inalienable rights the French feel entitled to is, apparently, not having to clean up their dogs’ droppings, no matter how disgusting the mess left behind. There may be a revolution over this. Millions are spent by the city cleaning up after dog owners. There is even a battalion of cleaners, who I can only hope are being well paid, who ride matching green motorcycles and have a device to vacuum up the dog dung. But even with those, you still have to be careful where you step. Lately, more people are getting their dogs to go against a building, under a tree, or in the gutter, but not always. It’s not fun to watch people doing the old banana peel slide if they aren’t careful where they step.
Special areas for dogs to use have been set up in most parks. It is usually a small, enclosed area with a gate and a picture of a dog to show it’s purpose. There is a very nice area called Place Dauphine with a large area set up like this. The owners of the dogs often sit at a café across the way so their dogs can romp around under their watchful eyes, just like parents of a toddler. The mutts usually run around and then saunter up to the owners just to make sure everything is still all right.
Dogs aren’t the only creatures using the streets as a bathroom. There seem to be a lot of homeless people sleeping on the streets and in the metro stops. I often am walking down the street and see a little puddle against a wall with a trickle of liquid running across the sidewalk. Occasionally, it will be from watering a pot of flowers up above, but usually it is from a dog that has peed against the wall. When I have my grocery cart with wheels, I often will lift it over the trickle because I hate to then carry the soiled cart upstairs. I just imagine all of those germs next to me as I carry it or wheel it into our apartment. Sometimes the puddle is so large I can only assume it is not from a dog, but a human, and somehow, this is even worse to me. There are narrow gutters that line the walls in the metro stops where the cleaning crew sweeps debris, then turns on water to wash it away, as on the streets. The homeless use these gutters to urinate in. I have also seen mothers hold their little boys over these to use.
We have what I call a resident homeless man, whom I privately call Pierre, who has procured an area under an old abandoned railroad track as his home. I think it used to be a storage room. He even has a door that he can lock and has set up large found pieces of wood around the perimeter for privacy. As I pass by, I get a glimpse of a double bed with a fluffy duvet and pillows, a chest of drawers topped with a vase full of plastic flowers, and a chair. In the evenings I hear a radio playing. There doesn’t seem to be any electricity as I never see any lights, and I can’t imagine there would be running water. Pierre is a friendly, talkative fellow, although I haven’t a clue as to what he is saying. He does his drinking as do many homeless, and I have seen him going through garbage looking for useful items. Once we left some of Maurice’s old shirts by his door. Now, I occasionally walk by and see him wearing one. I passed him one day carrying a sack of groceries with a bouquet of roses sticking out of it. I don’t know if they were given to him when a florist decided they were past their prime, or if he picked them in some park. I wonder who they were for. Being French, probably to spruce up his living space.
In the lower numbered arrondissements you usually won’t see any prostitutes openly advertising their availability on the streets. As the arrondissement numbers get higher, such as ours, the 12th, they are seen, especially at night, but there are one or two who stand at a corner near our neighborhood all day long, rain or shine, whatever the temperature. I wish the streets could be “cleaned” of them but the French don’t arrest prostitutes or chase them away. I’m not sure if I think prostitution is necessarily bad, I just don’t want to see it a block from where I live. Sometimes they round up a few and take them in for medical tests but I’ve been told that if a police stops and questions them, they simply say they were waiting for a friend.
A news report on television the other day said that most of the girls are from Eastern Europe and are desperate to make money. So, as I walk by our “neighborhood prostitute” standing there in a mini skirt and boots with four-inch soles and six-inch heels, I wonder about her life, and what must go through her mind because she has to do something like this.
One night Maurice and I were walking home and actually passed a car on a dark street where one of the “girls” was servicing a client. I thought about knocking on the window and yelling at them, but I’m sure some other car would be there again within an hour. In some parks and along highways outside of Paris, many vans parked at the side of the road where men can pull off and hire a prostitute, just like going into a hotel, only quicker, cheaper and more anonymous. Sometimes the prostitute will be sitting under a tree taking the sun on a beach lounger. Just another part of life in France.
As I’ve been in Paris for awhile now, I don’t cringe as much as I used to when I see water pouring down the gutter. I can’t impose my American way of thinking on a government that has done things the way they have been done for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. I may not agree with all that I see, but I sure am never going to be able to change anything. Part of living in a foreign country is becoming more accepting of how things are done even if you don’t agree with them or like them. And so far, the good things have far outweighed the bad.

To retain the soil and keep it all from sliding down the hill, we planted a lot of lavender, rosemary and Santalina-which, at first, I thought was going to be thyme. The first year they were all rather puny although the lavender attracted many butterflies. This year everything has really taken off, especially the Santalina which, when held close to your nose, has a pleasant, metallic sort of smell. From a distance, to my nose, not Maurice’s, it smells like dog poop to me. I don’t know what it smells like to all of the flying insects we now attract, but we now have quite an eco-system. I’ve counted 3 different types of bees, a few wasps, the usual flies, and probably 15 or so flying insects that I’m not familiar with. When I stand near the plants, I hear active buzzing going on in that secret little world. I especially love seeing the butterflies, in their short time on the earth, flit from flower to flower, sometimes dancing in the air in circles with a friend. There are small butterflies with lavender wings-could be a moth, not sure-small dark orange butterflies, ones with black wings striped like a hot rod with a white stripe, and there are the usual yellow and orange varieties, but the most common is white with a tiny black dot of the upper part of each wing. One I have just seen this year one that flies in what looks like an upside down manner to me, with its wings larger at the bottom edge. It looks like the shape of a tulip cut in two, and when it lands on a flower, it assumes a flower shape as well, it white wings with black stripes making a pretty sight.
I am especially atuned to butterflies this summer because before my favorite aunt died, she told me she would come again to me in the afterlife in some way having to do with butterflies. I don’t know if it is true or if she has but, every time I sit outside watching our extravaganza of butterflies, I think of my Aunt Lois.
A friend of mine slept in our upstairs bedroom and left the window open at night. She told us that lightning bugs flew in and gave her a light show performance up by her ceiling every night. I haven’t seen any myself here at night. Probably because I am in bed every night before it gets truly dark.
The lavender is just now starting to bloom and it attracts more butterflies than the Santalina-a plant with silvery foliage and yellow flowers. There is a lovely fragrance in the air in the morning with the flowering yellow bushes everywhere, growing wild all over Provence. I have the standard red geraniums doing well. The heat is really settling in now, getting up near 100 in the afternoons.
For the first day of summer, we went into Lourmarin to listen to music, the tradition now in France, and 100 other countries, where music is played all over, late into the night. It is called Fete de la Musique, and it is a great way to welcome in summer.

The beginning of the transhumance festival.

Transhumance Festival

Once a year various animals in France are moved from one area to another, usually in the late spring or early summer. It is called a transhumance which means moving animals from one field to another but it often means moving herds from a lower area to the French Alps. In the case of sheep-there are also transhumance for goats and cattle- this is so they can earn a special label saying they were raised in an area well known for great tasting sheep, rather like Bordeaux wine. You know when you drink it, it has been specially controlled with specific rules and that there is nothing else to compare to it in the world.
In centuries of tradition, sheep, goats and cows have been moved in large herds to the special fields high in the Alps with sweet green grass. Per tradition, the herds are moved along mainly country roads which often happen to pass through villages. A transhumance festival often occurs with people lining up along the side of a village street to watch a herd of sheep moving by like a living, bah-ing river.
One especially fun transhumance to observe is the one taking place in the village of Riez on the edge of the famous lavender country. It is worth visiting Riez just for their fun market set up every weekend selling no vegetables or fruit but Provencal products such as garlic, honey, olive oil and table clothes. At 10:30 the bells of the village church start ringing and then a small procession starts with villagers in native costumes holding arches of flowers over their heads. Drums are beat and small flutes are played. When they reach the end of the street there is a moment of quiet followed by the unmistakable sound of sheep approaching. At the head of the herd is the shepard, the berger, with his dog followed by thousands of sheep each with a painted symbol on their backs of the owner. They move along down the street, not moving into the sidewalks, probably due to their fear of people. At one point, they balked being scared in typical sheep fashion, and the front of the heard circles around on the street for a while until sorted out by two men and several dogs before they moved on to their first field of grass and some water by four Roman columns left from centuries past when Rome had a little village here.
A little glimpse into times past and another fun way to visit little villages in France and experience their festivals.