I am now back in Provence with sunshine, blue skies, warm temperatures and lavender. I arrived via:

The TGV

If I were to drive each time from Paris to Provence, from the door of ou apartment in Paris to the door of our home in Provence, it would take over 7 hours. I am lucky enough to be able to take the TGV, a high speed train, back and forth and the ride only takes three hours. The train goes all the way down to Marseilles with occasional stops in Avignon and has turned out to be so wildly popular that the French are now planning to do the same thing from Paris to Alsace up by Germany. And, of course, there is the Eurostar as well going from Paris to London via the chunnel.
I have been going back and forth and now that the newness has worn off it seems to take every single minute of the three hours to reach my destination. Luckily I love to read and pass many happy hours occupied by books. I usually have my laptop with me and do a little writing and wish there were some way to get online-wouldn’t that be a great way to pass the time. Occasionally, I will make my way to the dining car which is really more like a snack stand with very few stools screwed to the floor and it is often necessary to stand at a bar, much like in French cafes, and eat my sandwich or drink my diet coke. It isn’t a bar so you can’t while away the time sipping drinks although, this being France, you can have beer or wine.
There have been a few bad trips where there is a whining or screaming child in the car and there is usually an adult or two who talk very loudly. Once, during a very hot summer, the car I was in had a nonfunctioning air conditioner and it was like an iron box used for touture by evil Japanese army personnel in some POW camp. I really wanted to get a refund for my ticket as I spent most of the time in the dining car or sitting on the stairs out in the luggage area. Usually, the trains come with cars that are two levels, or duplex as they call it, and they are the newer ones, so there are stairs to sit on if you wish, which I did when my car was so oven-like. With the newer cars there is alot more space to store luggage, between cars, in an area in the middle of the car, and some can be squeezed behind most seats-this is where I usually store my cat in his carrier when he is with me. Although he howls and complains at first, by the time I get on the train he has become “catatonic”, pardon the pun, and is quiet for the whole trip.
On my last trip, the train was packed, this being June. There wasn’t a spare seat to be had and, to my dismay, as I neared my seat I got a look at my companion. She was a nice enough girl but she had a huge bag at her feet and an even larger golden retrever. I was supposed to take an aisle seat and she tried to squeeze her dog and her huge bag over in the one seat area. The bag and the dog both were well onto my side. For a brief moment I hoped to get another seat, and had even sat there, but someone came to claim it and I trudged back to my original place. She gave me the window seat which was much better and the dog sat in the aisle blocking access to anyone trying to get to the bathroom or dining car. Except for a few dirty looks, no one said anything, just tried to squeeze by or take a giant step over him. I love dogs but I wondered at this. The lady who checked our tickets didn’t say a word, so I guess it is standard although I thought all animals had to be in some sort of holder.
For some reason the clerks selling the tickets for the TGV can never tell you what kind of seat you will have. I assume they must change the train cars at will, adding more if there are many bookings. All I know is, no matter how I beg, I almost always end up in a family seat of four with a table in the middle and touching knees with a stranger. Sometimes I am also facing backwards to the direction the train is heading which really bothers me at first but after a while I forget about it. I always seem to get a window seat which is fine except when the sun comes pouring in and I have to pull down the shade in spite of the dirty looks my neighbors give me. The last time I was in a family seating, the lady directly across from me had a huge bag that she kept between her feet. It intruded into my space and it was an uncomfortable 3 hours. I don’t know why she didn’t put it with the luggage as there was plenty of room. I was by the window and a man was next to me who promptly fell asleep so I didn’t feel comfortable waking him up to get into the aisle to make a trip to the bathroom. My legs started aching and I longed to just stand up to stretch them but didn’t. It is great when I get on the train, walk down the aisle and find I am in a seat for two, unless the other occupant has a huge bag and dog. I used to always want a seat by the window, whether train or plane, but, unless I am with Maurice, I now want the aisle so I don’t have to bother my neighbor getting up and down.
The trains heading south in France from Paris originate at the Gare de Lyon Station, one of five huge train stations in Paris open to the air on one side with the trains waiting in rows to take their turn leaving. There is a fabulous restaurant here called le Train Bleu, full of painted walls and ceilings, wood and brass, and arched windows soaring to the ceiling with lovely lace curtains. It gives you a taste of what travel must have been like at the time when women wore hats and gloves and traveled with trunks and maids.
As the train leaves the station, we pass through the suburbs of Paris and are quickly into green countryside and are soon passing small villages and fields with herds of white cattle and an occasional castle. I always know when we are getting into Provence as the vegetation starts changing with parosol pines grouped on the horizon, the dirt taking on a yellow ochre tinge and vineyards everywhere. The stations newly built for the TGVs in Provence are new and modern with fantastic archetectural details and are mostly made of glass. Although the windows are tinted, it can be very bright inside the station and hot in the summer. The winter can be horrible as they have these little convection like ovens that put out a very small amount of hot air that does nothing to heat up the room, even if you are standing immediately next to it. The stations in Paris, because they are wide open at one side for access of the trains, are the same without any heaters that I can see to warm it up.
Despite all of my complaints, the TGV is the way to travel. There are no long security lines to go through, no sitting and waiting in some lounge in an airport. You just show up where you might have to wait a few minutes to see on a screen up above which quai the train is leaving from and go find your car. The worst part can be lugging your luggage down the quai looking for the car usually, as in Murphy’s law, being at the very end, and then struggling to get your luggage up the stairs and into the storage area-if it isn’t full. I am lucky enough that I now have everything I need duplicated on each end and only have to carry my computer case and, occasionally depending on the length of my stay, Elliot, my cat. What a great life I have dividing my time between Paris and Provence, and having a rapid way to get between them.

Place de la Concorde glowing in the setting sun.

Chapter Five
Throne-Less In France

I had no idea that toilets would become an issue with me in France. I think we are spoiled in America with the availability of toilets in any place we happen to be. Of course, even in America, when standing in a line of fifty women at the door of a public bathroom at a football stadium, or a concert hall, I always gripe that this must be another bathroom designed by a man with no thought to the time it takes for women to go to the bathroom. Three toilets is not enough for three thousand women to take care of business and get back to their seats in time for the beginning of the second act or half.
I know that finding a bathroom can be a difficult feat in large American cities such as New York City and I remember the time when I was standing in line to get tickets to a play when a lady with crutches came up to the window and begged to be allowed to use the restrooms at the theater. She was almost in tears as she told them it was an emergency, but her pleas did no good. The man had no intention of letting her in. I can’t tell you how many cokes I’ve bought that didn’t want or stores I’ve gone into that I didn’t really want to shop in, just to find a bathroom.
I remember a time years ago in England. I was in a café and asked where the restroom was. I got a blank look from the owner, even though she was an English speaker. I had to say bathroom with no result and finally, toilet, before she said, “Oh, you mean the loo!” At least the word toilet is understood in France.
In cafés and bistros in Paris the bathroom is almost always downstairs. I used to wander around looking for the toilet sign before learning this. Now, I just look for the banister that leads downstairs without having to use my bad French for the direction of “les toilettes”. Sometimes the proprietor will ask if you are a customer. I’m sure a lot of people sneak in and try to use the toilets without buying anything. I am often surprised when I go downstairs and, although the toilet itself may be behind a closed door, the men’s urinal is in plain sight, often right next to the sink. I hate getting downstairs and seeing the back of a man using the urinal. Who sets these bathrooms up?
McDonalds can be a good choice for a place that you can get into to use the toilet and not be noticed, as there are so many people there buying food. Nobody notices people sneaking by the counter heading for the restroom. Once I thought I would try this in an area of Paris that is not known to be posh and full of wealthy people. I opened stall door after stall door and not one of the toilets was usable. I don’t know if they couldn’t be flushed or hadn’t been flushed. Either way, I was out of there. I went to one of the toilets set up on the streets that requires you to pay .45 Euro for its use. Desperate times call for desperate measures and the toilets I have used like this have turned out to be clean. Of course when there are times when they are out of order, or the men who maintain them are on strike, then you consider using the little alleys that run along the sides of the walls in the metro.
One thing I have found interesting is the different ways to flush toilets. There is the gravity method where the toilet tank is high up on the wall and a handle attached to a chain is pulled, releasing the water to plunge down and flush. Then there is the little knob on the top of the toilet tank that you pull up. There is also, sometimes, something to push on some toilets where you can pick one of two button halves: the one with one water drop on it if you have only pee’d - you get just a short little burst of water with this button - or the second button half showing two water drops engraved on it, for when a whole flush is needed. I assume this is a way to conserve water.
There is a website called The Bathroom Diaries that actually lists the worst and best bathrooms around the world, giving the Golden Plunger Award to those that are fantastic. I’m sure that this site must be run by a woman, as only women seem concerned with something like the state of bathrooms. The top prize for this year went to a bathroom somewhere in New Zealand but the runner up was the fantastic public restroom by La Madeleine, the Greek-temple-looking cathedral near the Opera House in Paris. It is fabulous with dark wood, stained glass, brass and mirrors. The lady who keeps it all clean and running is called “Madame Pipi.”
All sorts of bathrooms and toilets can be found in France. A large number of them don’t have seats. What is this about? You can see the two holes for the toilet seat where it should be attached, but no seat. Someone said that they were told that it was considered unhygienic and difficult to clean, so it was left off. Left off or pulled off?
Apparently French women don’t sit down on toilet seats anyway. They hover. I know that a lot of American women (and I’m sure women worldwide) don’t sit either, at least not without a special paper toilet seat cover. I tried to get my husband’s five-year-old granddaughter to sit on a toilet and got a huge reaction, and she refused. I had to hold her and elevate her over the seat. So I assume French women don’t care if there isn’t a seat as they aren’t going to sit on it anyway. They are appalled by the doors on stalls in America because you can see the feet of the person using it. They like their stall doors touching the floor for complete privacy. It’s just one of those cultural things.
I once used a bathroom in a Monoprix store. Monoprix is the French equivalent to Walmart. I was glad Maurice was with me as the door was covered in French instructions. We had to pay to use it. It was very clean inside but strangely damp. I found out why: after I left, the door locked with a sound of airlocks closing like a submarine getting ready to dive, and loud sounds of water swishing around could be heard. The whole room from top to bottom was vibrating to its being cleaned under high pressure with a disinfectant. This was a new one on me.
No description of public “toilettes” in France would be complete without a mention of the dreaded Turkish Toilets. Unfortunately, they are found at almost every roadside stop and in many older places, and needless to say, I hate them. But the French like them as they are considered hygienic: there’s no wondering about who sat on a seat before you.
Basically, the Turkish Toilet is a hole in the ground with a place to put your feet on either side. I learned that you are supposed to not face the wall but turn around. As much as I loathe using these toilets, sometimes, I have no choice. And I feel lucky if there is even toilet paper available. No matter how I try, I just can’t keep my shoes from getting splattered. Someone suggested completely removing pants and underwear before using one of these Turkish Toilets to prevent splattering. I don’t think so. I have no idea what women with arthritis in their knees or hips do. I’m not in great shape myself, and can hardly squat there without my knees and thighs starting to ache, like one of those exercises to strengthen thigh muscles where you lean your back against the wall and bend your knees. After forty-five seconds or so you are feeling the burn, and are in agony. Sometimes I’ve had to put my hand on the wall or floor to keep from falling. How hygienic is that? I also learned to always step out of the square of this Turkish toilet before flushing. If you don’t, water will cover your shoes. Père LaChaise Cemetery has this type of toilet and I was tempted to use it until I went in and saw the mess left behind by someone with what I guess could be called explosive diarrhea. Sometimes I feel like I am in a third world country when I see something like this.
Men are lucky. The only time I have Penis Envy is when I really have to go, in Paris, and find myself having to use a public bathroom. Men can pee by going behind a tree, or stopping on the side of a road and facing away from the traffic. Anytime I have tried something “different” I always have a disaster that I won’t go into here. It’s just one more thing about France where I can say once more, “Who knew?”

Red geraniums are seen everywhere in France during the summer.

Chapter Four
Foot-Less In France

In the States, I knew eating would be different in France when I asked Maurice if he wanted some French dressing on his salad and he asked me what that was. I showed him the bottle of the orange liquid I had in my refrigerator and he said, with a rather distressed look, “Why don’t you let me make the salad dressing?” True to a traditional vinaigrette, his dressing had Dijon mustard in it. It was a lovely muted yellow and tasted light and fresh.
So when we moved to Paris, I was slightly prepared for differences in food. I knew the shopping would be challenging and that many people bought their provisions at the colorful street markets that are found not only in Paris, but all over Europe. But my first experience at a market is the one I remember the most.
A trip to the market is a wonderful experience. It involves all of the senses. Your eyes can hardly take in all of the colors of the fruits and vegetables spread out and piled up - purple eggplants, gleaming, tomatoes lustrous and juicy, green zucchinis laid out in rows like soldiers or spread out like green fans, mountains of cherries just picked and succulent under their tight red-black skins. A whiff of the dirt still clinging to the potatoes whisks you to the country, as does the fresh scent of basil just cut and bundled into little bouquets. The vendors are calling out their specials to tempt you to stop, and sometimes hand out samples, such as a wedge of melon or a peach to show how fresh and tasty their wares are. You can touch a tomato or melon but it’s best to let the vendor pick out your selection so it is ripe and ready to eat when you get home.
On my first trip, we walked past bins of cheeses, white and yellow, soft and hard, some with blue lines running through them. There were huge rounds of cheese the diameter of a tire from which the cheese was cut into slices for customers crowding around. There were little round white cheeses from goat’s milk, the flatter, softer lozenges of Brie, and a hard cheese in a wonderful apricot-orange color. I haven’t had much experience in cheeses other than cheddar and that Ameri-cheese standby, Velveeta.
Maurice has introduced me to a whole new world of cheeses. Some of them are too strong to me, both in taste and smell. In fact, sometimes when I open the refrigerator and am assaulted by very strong smells my first instinct is to find out what has spoiled. Then I remember that Maurice has bought some cheese. It’s a gradual process, but I’ve come to love some cheeses that I’d never heard of before.
The first time I went grocery shopping with Maurice, we stood in front of the cheese section of the store for a very long time while he decided which cheese he wanted. It was a gourmet store in the States with cheeses from all over the world. I recognized the names Brie and Camembert and that was about all. He took longer to make his selection than I do to choose a dress. That’s when I realized how important cheese was to the French - at least this Frenchman. Let’s not even bring up the subject of choosing wines - that’s another chapter all by itself.
The first cheese I tried in Paris was actually on a salad - a “Salade Chèvre Chaude.” It’s a round slice of goat cheese on bread that is toasted under the grill then placed atop salad greens. The first few bites are an incredible blend of flavors, textures and temperatures. There is the soft warmth of the cheese, the crunch of the toast, the tart vinaigrette on the cool lettuce, sweet tomato and, if you are lucky, the slight bittersweet taste of crunchy walnuts.
I’ve tried an autumn cheese called “Arômes au Gene de Marc” smothered in dried grape seeds, and a cheese wrapped in chestnut tree leaves called “Banon (à la Feuille).” At a party I discovered Pyrennees cheese that is eaten with a small amount of black cherry jam. An unforgettable treat.
There is also a lady in the market who sells wobbly towers of boxes filled with fresh eggs. They are all brown and beige. I never see any white ones unless they are goose eggs, which are larger. I’ve discovered that the yolks are a much richer color than the eggs that I’ve had in the States. The first time my husband made an omelet, I thought he had added cheddar cheese to the eggs because the omelet was so rich and golden yellow.
I noticed there were different stands for each kind of meat. One place sells beef only, one pork. I can tell it is pork because there is the whole body of a pig turning in a rotisserie, head still attached and the little curled tail stiffly browning in front of the fire. There is also a seafood merchant where there are crabs so recently taken from the ocean that they are still moving. One place offers horsemeat. It looks dark red and low fat and the first time I saw it I mistook it for beef. On closer inspection I noticed a horse head done in brass above the stand and a sign saying “Chevalines.” I don’t see myself ever trying horsemeat, although I do wonder what it tastes like. But it doesn’t keep me awake at night.
We went to the stand selling poultry as we had decided on chicken for lunch. I noticed some tiny bodies sort of stretched out with what looks like perhaps the liver left in. I realized, in shock, that this was rabbit, something my husband loves, but which I just can’t make myself try yet. I have since found out that the kidneys are left in the rabbit to show that it is indeed a rabbit and not something else I don’t want to think about. We thought about buying a chicken already prepared. We saw them slowly rotating in a grill, with the skin turning golden and juice dripping down on potatoes underneath. The aroma floating out almost seduced us, but we had a new oven with a rotisserie at home that we were determined to try.
I looked into the case. There were some chickens but they all still had their heads and feet attached. I am used to chicken being cut into neat, handy pieces and packaged behind cellophane, unrecognisable as an animal. I asked my husband, “Do we have to take the chicken with the feet and head attached? I don’t think I can eat it that way.” I was thrilled to find out that the feet and head would be cut off by the friendly butcher, who said to my husband in French, “Didn’t you have a blond with you last week?” and then winked at me. He then took our chicken over to a table where a huge tank sat with an attached hose. After he whacked off the head and feet, he proceeded to light the end of the hose and when a flame shot out, he moved it slowly back and forth over the chicken, getting rid of any last feathers. When the strong smell of burnt feathers reached me, I wondered if this was too close up and personal; whether I would be able to even eat this bird.
We have a little cart on wheels with a handle that goes with us on all of our market trips. Into the cart went the chicken, along with our purchases of fruits and vegetables. At home, I crossed my fingers and introduced the chicken into our new rotisserie. Voila! It turned out to be marvelously juicy with crisp brown skin, just like the cooked chickens at the market. We rounded out our meal with fresh green beans simmered with tomato, shallots, and basil. This French-style feast included a bottle of white wine from Alsace and a finale of cheese from the Haute Savoie region. It doesn’t get any better than that.

A spectacular sky above the minature arch leading into the Tuleries Garden.

Chapter Three
Class-Less In France

I decided that after six months had passed and I wasn’t fluent in French, as I was told I would be, that I should try a French class.
What a class it turned out to be. I wish I knew how to write a filmscript because I have such a “movie” from my experience in this class. Every single person in the class had a dramatic story and was a self-contained mini-series.
My French class took place in Paris, in an Institute for an Eastern European country where, I came to understand, a classroom was provided in return for teaching French to persons living in Paris. There was always at least one person from that country in the class while I was there. Sometimes we had as many as thirteen students in the class. There were never less than seven.
I had to take a long subway ride from our apartment to the Institute. It was near the Luxembourg Gardens, a very nice part of Paris. As time went by I came to spend many hours walking around the gardens, watching people, taking pictures. It’s a very restful place even with all of the joggers running around.
The first day I walked into the Institute I had to find my way down dark stairs, through a little auditorium filled with chairs, also in the dark, into a small, hot classroom. The room had no windows and the whole time I was in the class, no matter what the temperature outside, it was hot. A fan was finally purchased which added some much welcome relief. An Australian and I would plant ourselves in front of it dying in the heat, while the young nonmenapausal girls would shiver and pull on sweaters. There was a large rectangular wooden table in the center of the room surrounded by chairs that soon filled up.
The teacher rushed in. I was to find out that she always rushed. She appeared to be in her thirties, was attractive with blond hair, but wore no make-up and was dressed in a black dress with a silver pin on the collar. She had on what was stylish in Paris right then, patterned stockings in a grey and white animal skin pattern. With the quick, almost nervous movements of a bird, she opened cabinets, took out books and went through our registration papers. She introduced herself in French. Her name was Angela, and that was all I understood. She spoke nothing but French from the very beginning. We were to be introduced to the immersion method and she wouldn’t let us speak in our native language at all. We had to struggle with the little French we knew to answer any questions she might ask.
We took turns introducing ourselves in French and saying where we were from. There were no men in our class. Of the ten students there the first day, seven of us were married to Frenchmen. Besides being the only American, I was the oldest one there. The countries represented were Russia, Poland, Australia, the Philippines, Japan, Iran, Iraq, Columbia, Singapore, and Eastern Europe. I was surprised that so many of us were married to Frenchmen. I had to wonder if the men would be taking language classes if they were living in the country of their wives. But then, I was to find out that few men anywhere with serious careers opt to live in the country of their wives.
I once had a coffee cup that had a Far Side cartoon on it. In one picture a person was angry at a dog and was saying, “Bad dog, Ginger. Bad dog, Ginger. Shame on you, Ginger.” The second picture showed what Ginger, the dog, actually understood:”Blah, blah, blah, Ginger. Blah, blah, Ginger. Blah, blah, blah, Ginger.” I felt like Ginger.
Angela rattled off something in French. We looked at each other with incomprehension and I could tell the others felt like Ginger, too. The girl from the Philippines understood something Angela had said and when her neighbor turned to her and said, “What did she say?” Angela said, “French only!” Then Angela had the girl who asked the question repeat what she had asked in French. She did supply some French words when we came to a complete stop but we couldn’t look up any words in our French dictionaries. Angela said, “In this class, I am the dictionary.” Somehow I understood what she was saying.
We had a bad couple of days at the beginning. It was exhausting to keep focused and try to figure out what Angela was saying. The Australian lady, Victoria, started crying the first day because she felt so out of depth in the class. Afterwards she said, “I didn’t understand a single word she said in class. I think I’m going to quit!” She turned up the next day, though, and said her husband told her that even if she only got ten per cent of what was being said in class, that was good. She was going to try and stick it out.
When Angela wanted to get our attention as we took turns sitting there in a daze, it didn’t help that she would say, “Cuckoo!” This made Victoria cry again as she thought Angela was making fun of her. I think, although I am still not entirely sure, that this was just the French way of saying, “Yoo hoo!” I don’t believe that she was comparing us to an unintelligent bird but who knows?
By the end of the first week we had started to tentatively talk to each other before and after class. We did not speak in French. To my surprise, we were all speaking in English. I would soon find that this was not helping my French, but suddenly I was having a much better time in Paris. One girl’s husband said, “I sure hope you are speaking French with all of the other women after class.” If he only knew.
For the first time in my life, I found myself to be the most popular girl in the class. In my early school days I was quiet and shy and was always The Good One, never causing any trouble. I could easily be mortified by just about anything and that added to my quietness as I didn’t want to call any attention to myself. Fast forward these many years later and I discovered that I didn’t mind if I made mistakes, mistakes that often led to the others in the class laughing. I had no idea I could be so entertaining. I still don’t know if it was my American openness or just the fact that I truly didn’t care if I made mistakes or looked foolish.
I was helped along in my light-hearted approach by Victoria who had the same sense of humor. Victoria, the Australian, and I weren’t allowed to sit next to each other as we might speak in English so we sat across from each other (which was true). She had a wonderful infectious laugh and our eyes would meet across the table and she would laugh at me.
Fortunately, Angela also liked my sense of humor. She had a good one herself and occasionally, especially as time passed, we would understand something funny that she said. The first day, and many after that, I brought along a small plastic bottle of diet coke mainly because it was so hot in the classroom. I guess this must be a typical sign that someone is American, as I was often used as a metaphor for someone American with bottle of diet coke.
One day the subject of saints came up. Mary, the girl from the Philippines, did not understand what a saint was. Why, I don’t know. I thought the Philippines was mainly Catholic. As it all had to be explained in French we were struggling like mad to come up with the words to explain a saint - words like Catholic Church, angels, miracles. Mary still looked clueless so I threw in the name of Joan of Arc. I thought everyone had heard of her. No, not Mary. Angela drew a very bad drawing of a stick figure in front of a pole and a fire beneath her. With that drawing I wasn’t surprised when Mary still looked puzzled. I had just learned the word for toast, pain grille, so I told Mary that Joan of Arc was turned into pain grillee. Victoria, Angela and I got hysterical, laughing until tears came to our eyes. Angela said I was “morbide,” the French word for sick, I guess. The rest of the class looked at us like we were crazy, if not a little weird. Angela finally told Mary to go home and ask her husband to explain.
Victoria turned out to be our social director, so to speak. She was very good at getting us together for coffee or lunch after class and this was when a small group of us developed a very close relationship. I thought that this must happen in most French classes but was told from others who had taken other classes that this wasn’t the case. What we developed was very unusual. I think part of our bonding was the fact that we were all isolated by our lack of French and had a lot of experiences in common. We had so much to talk about. Unfortunately, we didn’t do it in French.
I stopped taking the class after a long trip to the States. I’m sure it helped my French some, but I have not become fluent and am still French-less. What I miss most is the girls from the class. Our lives took us all in separate directions and I don’t see them any more. I have some of their phone numbers and want to organize a big party for all of us. Someday. Oh, and it will all be in English, of course.

The roses are beautiful right now in Paris.

Chapter Two
Church-Less In France

With all of the churches in France, you’d think we could have found at least one to be married in, but, in the little village in which we were to be married, I had to be either French, or not divorced, so the church was out.
When Maurice asked me to marry him he suggested that we get married in France, in a little village north of Annecy called Allonzier-la-Caille. I didn’t know where Annecy was, and certainly not Allonzier-la-Caille, much less how to pronounce it. I had to get a map out and then I discovered it was near Geneva right over the Swiss border and near the French Alps. In fact, Allonzier-la-Caille was so small it wasn’t even on my map. It turned out to be an absolutely beautiful area with fields of green spreading out in valleys, ancient “châteaux” , and bridges to surprise. And Annecy had an old area that I especially loved where canals ran full with water, black swans floated by, and buildings painted in bright greens, blues, and yellows lined interesting cobbled streets.
Getting permission to marry in the little village was not easy, and it was made more difficult by being in the States and having to get everything sent over that they required. Normally, you can’t get married in a place if you don’t live there, but Maurice’s Aunt Yvette had lived and worked there for years, so we were able to get permission to marry there. They wanted a phone book’s worth of documents and on top of it, mine had to be translated into French. The first requirement was, I had to prove I didn’t have a criminal record. The only thing they didn’t ask for was a note from my Mother. After we sent the required documents we were asked for yet more, but Aunt Yvette bless her heart went and talked to the Mayor, and he said that they had enough for us to marry there. It’s always who you know.
A few days before the wedding we arrived to take care of last minute details. Maurice’s Aunt had arranged for many things, such as rooms for us and the guests, and a place for the after-wedding party.
The first day, I picked out the flowers I wanted for my bouquet, the most beautiful I have ever seen, arranged with flowers I wasn’t familiar with. We went and checked out the room for the party, bought ribbon and balloons with which to decorate the tables, and selected the menu.
Aunt Yvette had this thing about almonds. We had to have them. So we bought a huge bag of candy-coated almonds in pale pink and blue hues – later I learned these candies are called “dragées” for prosperity and good luck - and she ordered tiny net-filled bags full of the same candy that were piled high on a decorative plate to be passed out to the guests. What was this obsession? Maurice said it was a French tradition and Aunt Yvette was very traditional. So, we had a lot of tradition.
We then went to see the room where we would be married. It was to be an official ceremony, rather like that in the States before a Justice of the Peace. I thought, because it would be taking place in an old village in France, and because it was going to be in a building called a “Mairie” - which sounded like the word marry to me - that it would be old, quaint, and beautiful. I was quite disappointed to see a room with all of the warmth of an insurance office. So this was where our romantic wedding was going to be: with a blackboard, metal folding tables and linoleum floors? There was nowhere else, so I had to accept it.
The day before the wedding we walked around the village and looked longingly at the wonderful old church that we weren’t allowed to get married in. There was also an ancient suspension bridge nearby. By then my best friend had arrived. Maurice took us to visit a relative and her husband. The first thing they did was pull out a bottle of Champagne. My friend, Nancy, and I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said in French, so we quietly chatted together and drank the great-tasting bottle of bubbly. Then they opened another. An hour later Maurice had to help the two of us out of the house. I’ve since learned that the French keep opening bottles as long as someone will keep drinking.
Next came my children and their spouses. We picked them up at the airport in Geneva, just a 30-minute drive away. They loved the countryside and couldn’t believe how green everything was. We had a great time that night with all of our relatives eating dinner in Annecy and then walking around exploring. I felt I had become the expert on Annecy and loved showing everyone how beautiful and interesting it was.
The night before we had seen some great looking stores in Annecy. Nancy loves to shop, and since she was leaving right after the wedding, she wanted to make a quick foray into the city. So, after Nancy, my sons and daughters-in-law and I had decorated the room for the party, we zoomed down into Annecy to buy shoes and clothing. We didn’t have much time but ran quickly between stores trying to see it all. Nancy found three pairs of shoes, two tops, a skirt, a coat and some lingerie in an amazingly short amount of time. Then, we all piled back into the car to get back and get dressed for the wedding.
Even though this wasn’t my first marriage, I was very nervous. I knew a lot more now than I did before I married the first time. Nancy and I had a couple of glasses of Champagne and then my son drove us over to the “Mairie” because it was pouring rain. This was it. With a deep breath I went in. To my surprise the room looked great. The blackboard had been pushed to the side, the folding table had been covered with green felt and the Mayor stood there in a suit with one of those shiny wide, purple diplomatic ribbons crossing his chest. There was also an officious-looking lady there to translate everything into English for me. Maurice has twin grandchildren who were three years old at the time dressed adorably in velvet, and they spent the time making a racket, banging on the blackboard. Eventually their father took them outside.
Afterwards, it stopped raining long enough for us to walk back to the hotel for the party where we had a great time dancing, eating and drinking - what else? – Champagne. When Maurice and I had been discussing the party with the owner of the “auberge,” her sons, both in their thirties, had come in and became very interested in our wedding when they heard about Nancy. The fact that she was not only an American, but also from California, sounded magical to them. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when they showed up at our party wearing enormous smiles, hoping to meet her.
One great part of marrying Maurice was meeting his wonderful grandmother who was 104 years old. She wasn’t very mobile but she was very bright and twinkly with short gray hair, a hook nose and a walker. She only spoke French but Maurice translated that she loved American women, American movies, and that her favorite singer was Frank Sinatra. With a wink, she told me that she had a glass of Champagne every day. Her doctor, when he heard that she did this, told her to continue on, as it obviously wasn’t hurting her, so she considered this a prescription of sorts, and never went a day without a glass and, before turning in for the night, a piece of chocolate. I decided then and there to follow her example. She died two years later at the age of 106 and all I can say is she must have been doing something right.
Our French wedding cake took the cake. Known as a “Pièce Montée” it is a small mountain of custard-filled pastry with spun caramelized sugar trickling down the sides. The waiters turned off the lights and put sparklers on the cake and wheeled it out. By then we had eaten five courses with wine and it was hard to even taste it. To this day, Maurice isn’t sure he had any. I did. And it was wonderful.
Maurice and I went across the lake of Annecy to a beautiful area called Tailloires for our honeymoon night. It started pouring again, so hard this time, that I was afraid of getting there without a wreck. The next morning the sun was out and an ethereal mist hovered above the water making it all look so mystical. We spent our honeymoon traveling through Provence. But that’s another story.

A typical bench under some trees in a park in Paris.

Chapter One

It was never in my plans.
I wanted to visit France, see Paris, go up the Eiffel Tower, but it never entered my mind
that I would someday live there.
I thought we would settle somewhere in the States but when Maurice got transferred
to Paris, I was excited to go. I was worried about my lack of French but thought I would
quickly learn it. As it turned out, I was wrong. I often felt like I was in a boat floating on
a sea of French language where I only occasionally recognized a word or phrase as it
popped up. It did make me much more of an observer and many impressions I have picked up about France have probably been incorrect but, nonetheless, I have them.
I haven’t found the French to be rude, contrary to the beliefs of many Americans. I often
get smiles when I try to buy something with my bad French, and many of the French seem interested in my life in America and how I like it in France. However, more times that Ican count I have heard the statement, “You mean you are married to a Frenchman and you don’t speak French?” I’m never sure how to answer this. I explain that I am too old (“Je suis trop vielle!”) and it is hard to learn a new language when that door in the brain shuts that used to let in new information. I could say my husband and I only speak English at home, or that I don’t know any French people that I speak to on a regular basis. All of these statements are true. I have decided, when I hear someone say, “You don’t speak French?”, to do what one Frenchwoman advised and simply say, “Non.”
One day I had a large load of clothes to wash and went down to the local laundromat.
It was a really hot day and, this being France, the place wasn’t air-conditioned. I had the
door open, although every time a French person came in, they closed it. It seemed they
have a terror of cool air, the dreaded cause of so many aches. So, I was sitting there as myclothes washed, my hair frizzing in the heat and humidity only half aware of a young guy doing his wash, when a lady walked in and asked me a question in French. I let her know I didn’t speak French and pointed to the guy doing his wash, indicating that maybe she should ask him her question. It turned out that she could speak English - she wanted to know if the laundromat did ironing. It didn’t. I told her no and she left. The young guy that I had pointed at said, “I don’t know why you were pointing at me to answer her question. I’m an American too.”
We both laughed. It turned out that his name was Fidel, that he was from Miami, and had decided that he wanted to experience France and learn French. I was shocked to learn, having just gone through weeks of getting my papers to make me “legal” that he was living
and working in Paris without any papers. “Oh, the French don’t care if you have papers if
you are an American,” he said. I am sure this isn’t true, but he didn’t seem concerned. I
learned that in fact he bused tables in a Thai restaurant, something I definitely did not plan to do in the near future.
He told me he had a French girlfriend and I asked, “Can she speak English?” No, she didn’t. I had the feeling that his French was going to go at a much faster clip than mine.
I used to be appalled at foreigners that I met in the States who had lived there for years
and had never learned English. I thought they should have done whatever necessary to learn it. Now, I understand. It’s easier not to learn a new language as an adult. I wonder if Maurice would mind if I never become fluent? I can get by with the little I know.
Would my impressions of France be different if I knew French? I’m sure they would. I
have found living in Paris to be an exciting adventure. I’m a tourist every day, out taking
photographs, visiting the usual and the unusual sites to be found here. But, then, reality
sinks in as I head home, stop and buy something for dinner on the way, and, when I arrive, put some dirty clothes in the impossibly small washer and dust the furniture in our tiny apartment.
Sometimes real life intrudes on my exploration and enjoyment of France, but I wouldn’t
trade it for anything. There is very little I do day to day where I am not reminded that I am, indeed, French-less in France. My new husband and my new country have been full of surprises as well as delights. Who knew? I sure didn’t.