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.