Gown-Less in France

I had been living in Paris for about 6 months when I had to make an appointment with a French doctor to get a prescription for my allergy medicine. My husband came with me as a translator. I can get by in a grocery store buying tomatoes, or a pharmacy buying aspirin, but I wasn’t sure I could get medical terms across using hand signals, bad French and a hope that the doctor would understand some English.
The doctor’s office, strangely, turned out to be above a store selling fish. After a trip up a tiny elevator, we walked into a door and saw a sign directing us to a sitting room. There was no receptionist handing out forms to fill, just a small hot sitting room filled with bored patients and French magazines. The doctor himself came and got each patient as it was their turn. As in the States, he was thirty minutes behind, but it wasn’t too long before we sat across from him at his desk. He was a handsome looking man with gray hair and scholarly looking glasses giving him a distinguished air. He said he spoke English but, if he did, I never heard it. He asked questions in French, Maurice translated back and forth between us and the doctor put the information directly into a computer at his desk.
It didn’t start off too badly. He understood that I was allergic to everything green that made pollen and wrote out a prescription on his computer for my medication.
Then he asked about other medications I might want. When I mentioned Premarin he brightened up and pointed out the sign behind his desk. It turned out he was a Gynecologist. He insisted we walk right over to his examination table so he could check me out. It was directly behind us partially hidden by a wall. My husband was left sitting at the desk and the doctor took me over to the table. He told me to take off my jeans and underwear, and had me lie down on the table to which he attached some stirrups in which to place my feet. He did the exam with no nurse, no sheet to cover up top or bottom, no breast exam and he just mashed around on my stomach, did a quick look with a speculum with no gloves. When he went back to the desk, where he had left Maurice, he didn’t wash his hands. Oh my God! No nurse, no hand washing, no privacy. This was medicine in France?
Well, I didn’t die and I did get the prescriptions for the medications I needed. At least I didn’t have to mail my own pap smear test as some of my friends have had to that live here in Paris.
A few weeks later I was due for an x-ray of my back. My trusty translator was supposed to meet me there. I got there first and when they called my name to go back, Maurice hadn’t shown up. I thought I could handle it. What could go wrong?
So, the lady got me back to a little room and said, “Blah, blah, blah, Madam.” Somehow I knew that she wanted me to take my clothes off. I saw what looked like the belt to a terry cloth robe hanging on a hook on the wall. “Is there a robe for me to wear?” “Pardon?” I started doing pantomimes showing me trying to cover my body with my hands and then pulling on a robe.
“Blah, blah, blah, non,” she said.
” What?”, I thought, ” but, I’m an American. I must have something to cover myself with.” I tried to get this across with my bad French but no matter how I tried I soon came to understand that it didn’t matter how much I wanted one, there wasn’t one. I had my cell phone and quickly called Maurice. “Maurice, where are you?” He was about 10 minutes away trying to get to the radiologist as quickly as possible. “Maurice, they won’t give me anything to cover up with!” Of course, there was nothing he could do from his metro seat.
I obviously had no choice so I took everything off and shyly stepped out to the room where Atilla (I called her that in my mind) waited. She directed me over to the oldest looking x-ray machine I have ever seen. I guess Americans are used to the newest, latest, most expensive machinery there is when we get procedures done. I had a feeling this thing was probably made the same year I was born, but I got up on the little platform anyway. I understood the words left and right, and inhale and exhale were understandable so we got the x-rays done. I was sure that, while the procedure was being done, the door would open and a strange man would walk in, probably to sweep the floors, or a male patient would be walking by and get a good look. I really felt rather traumatized. Neither of these things happened and in a few minutes I was dressed and back out in the waiting room where Maurice now waited. He told me that he had talked to the lady at the desk and that patients were never given gowns for x-rays; that they had to be able to see “landmarks” to know where to direct their machines. “Well, we wear gowns in America and they don’t have any problems finding ‘landmarks’!” I said rather crabbily.
Well, I didn’t die and I got the x-ray, which, by the way are yours for life. You never leave them at some doctor’s office but take them to whatever doctor you will be seeing. I have some x-rays of my teeth from the dentist, too.
Later I talked to a Belgian friend who had lived in the States for many years telling her about my episodes with the Gynecologist and the Radiologist. She told me that, being European, she would go in to see her Gynecologist in France and as he asked her questions she would undress in front of him putting her clothes on the chair, they would walk over to the examining table where he would do his examination (without a nurse) and then she would get dressed again.
When she moved to the States and had her first appointment there, a nurse led her to a changing closet inside the examination room, told her to get undressed and handed her a sheet. My friend was totally mystified as to what the sheet was for, so being enterprising, she rolled the sheet up into a little roll, got on the examining table and put it behind her neck. The nurse walked into the room and gave a little scream and said, “What are you doing? Cover yourself up!” My friend was shocked and puzzled. It took her a minute to understand exactly what the nurse wanted.
Maurice informed me one day that they were offering free mammograms at various locations in France. I considered getting one for about five minutes but after the traumatic experience of just getting a chest x-ray, I decided there was no way I was ready for one. I was made doubly sure of this when a friend told me of her mammogram in France. It was done by a man. She had to undress and walk through two rooms to reach the machine. He stood her in front of it, then went behind her, put his body next to hers and his arms around her and guided her breasts into the machine as he wanted them. She was a little shocked at first but said it was less painful than some mammograms she has had in the States. I just can’t do it. I had no idea that my streak of puritanism ran so deep.
I’m sure there are many other tales in the Naked City, to use an American metaphor. I had no idea there would be so many differences. I hope I never have to go for surgery or be admitted to a French hospital. That would be interesting, to say the least. I wonder if French patients in hospitals get gowns?

Here is a really easy recipe that tastes terrific. All of my recipes, by the way, are from an out of print cookbook that Maurice found in Austin-written by two American ladies.

Garlicky Scallops and Shrimp (Fruits de Mer a la Provencale)

6 large sea scallops (for 2 people)
6-8 large shrimp, peeled. You can leave the tails on if you want.
flour, for dusting
2-3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
1 Tbsp chopped fresh basil
2-3 Tbsp. lemon juice
salt and pepper

Rinse the scallops under cold running water. Pat dry and cut in half
crosswise. Season the scallops and shrimp with salt and pepper and
dust lightly with flour, shaking off excess.
Heat oil in large frying pan over high heat and add scallops and shrimp.
Reduce heat to medium-high, turn the scallops and shrimp, add the garlic
and basil, shaking pan to distribute them evenly. Cook for 2 minutes more
until golden and just firm to the tourch. Sprinkle the lemon juice over and toss
to blend. Serve with rice.
You can remove scallops and shrimp after cooking to warm plate, pour 4 Tbsp
dry white wine into pan and boil to reduce by half. Add 1 Tbsp butter whisking
until it melts and pour over scallops and shrimp. Good, but not necessary.

Autumn has arrived

Autumn

I’m not sure which is my favorite season. There is nothing like the freshness of Spring with new plants sending out shoots of tender leaves and flowers budding with their promise of colorful flowers to come. Summer is great with warm temperatures that lure you outside, wonderful lunches and dinners outside on the terrace, just the well-being that comes with blue skies and sunshine. Even though a little sense of melancholy often tinges the arrival of Autumn, I do love it. I love the cool mornings and the evenings where you can leave the windows open at night as mother nature blows her cool air on you as you sleep. The chestnut trees seem to be the first trees in France to announce that a change of season is coming when their huge green leaves are ringed in brown which slowly moves inward toward the center of each leave. Eventually the leaves turn either golden or orange. Maurice get an a feeling of melancholy when the chestnuts themselves fall to the ground as this used to be a sign to him that it was time to return to boarding school. There are many pines here in the Luberon which remain green as do some of the oaks, but many trees become bare and many oaks are covered with brown leaves. I’ve left winter out. I love fresh snowfall, when I see it, and I enjoy a nice fire in the fireplace when the temperatures fall and the wind is blowing but I always anxiously await the coming Spring and the joy of getting outside again.
I recently read what I thought was a really good biography/memoir by a lady named Patricia Atkinson. The book is called The Ripening Sun and it is about how, after her husband bought a vineyard in France and basically abandoned her for various reasons, she goes on to make her vineyard and its wine a success and find a life she never dreamed of. I identify with her in many ways-the unexpected pleasure and joy of a life undreamed of before. In the front of her book is a wonderful poem that really speaks to me of the pleasure in the season of Autumn.

Autumn

I solitary court
The inspiring breeze, and meditate the book
Of Nature, ever open, aiming thence
Warm from the heart to learn the moral song
And, as I steal along the sunny wall,
Where autumn basks, with fruit empurpled deep,
My pleasing theme continual prompts my thought-

Presents the downy peach, the shining plum
With a fine bluish mist of animals
Clouded, the ruddy nectarine, and dark
Beneath his ample leaf the luscious fig,
The vine too here her curling tendrils shoots,
Hangs out her cluster glowing to the south,
And scarcely wishes for a warmer sky.

James Thomson 1700-1748

Some beautiful tulips I saw in Paris.

French Kissless In France

You would think if a foreigner lived in America for ten years that not only would their command of the English language be great but that their comprehension of English would also be excellent. I don’t know if Maurice is the model of a French person who has lived in the States, but, even though he is very fluent in English, his comprehension is less than perfect. It’s especially bad at a play or if we are in a group of people. He has to really focus or he can lose track of what is being talked about. I imagine that sometimes he is as clueless in a group of Americans as I am with a group of French people. Granted, he does have a much larger vocabulary than I do.
We have had to resign ourselves to a lifetime often not understanding what the other has said. Our most commonly used word is, “What?” Sometimes I get irritated at having to repeat myself and just stand there without saying anything because I have learned that when Maurice says, “What?” he has actually heard me. Usually if I don’t respond right away his brain processes what I have said and then he will answer or respond.
When I say, “What?” to him it is usually, when he is speaking English, and that -because of his accent- I don’t understand what he has said. He pronounces most words correctly but every once in a while he says a word and I have no idea what he is talking about. Sometimes I just have to think a moment and remember the context of the discussion and then I can figure out what he said. There are some words he says wrong each time. Check book is one. He always says book check. And he keeps calling his wallet a purse. I always say, “Maurice, you don’t want to call your wallet that in the States. You will get strange looks.” Every once in a while he will say “sweeter” instead of “sweater.” He will also say, “That was worst than before” but is starting to correct himself.
All of this leads me to the conclusion that no matter how much I study and learn French, I will never reach a high level of comprehension of what I hear. And there is no question that I will ever speak French very well. I can say just one word in French and the French know immediately that I am American. Just ordering Coca Light, as they call Diet Coke here, will usually get me an answer from the waiter in English. I was very proud of myself when I learned how to say that I wanted a glass of white wine. Imagine my surprise when, once after I had ordered it, that the waiter returned with a cup of hot green tea. I’m still not sure what he understood but I learned to slow way down when I order it or just to simply say, “Chablis.”
When I was in America with Maurice and he would say something in English to an American they would immediately look at me to repeat what he had said. I got used to that quickly. Now I have this experience in the exact opposite way, when a French person looks at Maurice for translation after I have attempted some French. I must say though that the French often seem pleased that I am at least attempting to speak French. Sometimes Maurice will be rattling along in French to someone while I am standing at his side. I can see them give me a glance wondering why I am so silent. Often Maurice will then explain to them that I am an American and don’t know any French. I now correct him and tell the listening person that I know a little French. At least I can understand that much.
I got a kick out of the many words that I was surprised that Maurice had never heard of before. He did not recognize French dressing in the States. What he would call a French dressing would be vinaigrette - closer to the bottled Italian dressing - not the creamy orange dressing that Americans think of as French. Once I said I was going to put my hair up in a French Twist. “What’s that?” he asked. Of course, that might have just been a male thing as not many men pay attention to hairstyles or what they are called.
Then there is the saying, “French kiss.” He had never heard of that either. When I explained it to him, of course he knew what the type of kiss was, but he didn’t have any idea, nor did I, why it is called a French kiss. I did look it up on the Internet and learned that the saying started being used in the 1920’s, probably by the English who also called syphilis the French disease. They considered the French then, and probably still do, to be over-sexed and too open about it. When I asked Maurice what a French kiss was called in France he came up with some slang word that has to do with rolling or unrolling the tongue. Maurice’s son, being of an earlier generation and knowing a lot of American slang, knows the phrase French kiss.
Almost any colloquialism that I use will get a “What?” from Maurice. I had never been aware of how many I used until I was around him. I always have to stop and explain what they mean. France has many similar ones. I, of course, never hear them, but Maurice has told me of some such as “walking along side your shoes” that means someone doesn’t know what they are doing. A lot of our sayings about cats are known in France except Maurice had never heard, “As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs”. One day I used the expression, “Holy Cow,” then a week later I guess Maurice thought he would use it, but couldn’t remember the correct animal and said, “Holy Cat!” I’ve had to explain, “Whatever fries your chicken” and “Put the pedal to the metal” and “Flip a u-ie here.” The list goes on and on and I say something new to him at least once a day.
I still remember trying to tell some French people that I had had a fun time with them that evening. I asked Maurice, “How do you say fun?” and he replied, “Chouette” that, I came to find out, does mean fun but also is a word for owl. It sounds like “schweat” which rhymes with sweat and for some reason I love to say it. Plus, it just seems so strange to me to use a word that means owl to say fun. At least it is one word that I never forget. It turns out to be an old-fashioned word not used very much by younger people who say something is “cool” if it is fun.
Before we were married and still in Austin, Maurice called me at work. I was standing right next to the phone when a colleague answered it and I saw the look of incomprehension on her face. She finally understood that Maurice was asking to speak to me. He has trouble pronouncing my maiden name smoothly. I’ve heard other French people have the same problem. Of course, it was a year before I came close to pronouncing his last name. Part of the sound in his name is not a known sound in English. I can’t even form the proper shape with my mouth to say it. I was always saying to Maurice, “How do you say our last name again. I’m getting closer to getting it correct but I’m sure any French people will always hear my accent.
So, Maurice and I spend quite a bit of time not really understanding each other. When we were first together Maurice would give the impression that he understood what I was saying. I would go on to other things thinking that something was handled only to find out that he hadn’t had a clue as to what I was saying. I have learned, when he remains quiet when I am finished speaking, that he often hasn’t really understood me and that if I ask him he will admit so. I have to double check things a lot for my peace of mind. And, I know that if our conversations were being carried on in French I would be the one not knowing all that was being said. I was once complaining to a friend that Maurice never understood me because he was French and she said, in her thick Southern accent, “Hell, Honey, it’s not that he doesn’t understand because he’s French. He doesn’t understand because he’s a man!” I think she has a point there.

These cats and dogs, all on leashes, were with a homeless man. They all seemed well fed and healthy and they all loved him. He let me take the photo if I gave him some money for pet food.

Border-Less in France

A lot of people, I have heard, get married in order to gain the proper papers, if not a passport, to live in a foreign country. I remember seeing a movie called Green Card about this very thing. That wasn’t what I had in mind when I married Maurice. He was the one who suggested we apply for French citizenship for me. We started the process in Texas at the French consulate in Houston. Like everything done in France, it required all sorts of paperwork and copies of everything that had anything to do with my life in America -such as divorce papers- and then, it all had to be translated into French. We made a special trip to Houston twice to get everything signed and submitted. Before we could even start the process, we had to have been married for a year, which we were.
I did find out that I didn’t have to give up my citizenship in America to become a French citizen, which I’m not sure I could have done in any case. I thought it would be rather cool to be a citizen of both countries by-passing the long lines of American tourists at immigration at Charles de Gaulle terminal or, in fact, any country now in the European Union, to go the shorter French citizen line and show my French passport and then get to do the opposite when I arrived in the States.
Of course, there is more to being a French citizen than immigration lines. I can vote now. I will probably negate Maurice’s vote with mine, although there is no way I would have voted for Le Pen at the last election. He had some very strange ideas on how to run France which seemed to have a lot to do with kicking all of the immigrants out of the country, one of which would have been me. I heard that he was also married to an American. Anyway, he came off as a racist and I would have voted along with Maurice for Chirac. Maurice doesn’t like Chirac or his political beliefs. Every time we see Chirac on the television Maurice says, “Big Liar” but he held his nose and voted for him. I guess Maurice is what would be called a Socialist and that seems to be very close to an American Democrat. I always call him a “Pinko Commie” just to kid him. He and I don’t agree about political parties such as the Green Party and the things they do to get their point across and he laughs when I call them “tree huggers”.
One benefit of my new status as a French citizen is that I can run for political office if the desire ever arose. As this thought never entered my head in the United States I don’t think it is going to in France. I could even run for President of France. It doesn’t matter that I was not born in France as it does in the States. As a citizen of France I can seek asylum in a French embassy should the need ever arise. I guess now I could take my pick of the French or American Embassy if I find myself in trouble in a foreign country. And, I can have my name changed to something more French, if I wish. Maybe I should try Bridget. That sounds so French to me. Few French people can pronounce Linda. I am always called Leenda.
Being a citizen will give me access to the excellent medical system in France. I had this privilege already, simply by being Maurice’s wife but now I will always have access to it no matter what should happen in the future. I will get my own social security number and it will not be attached to Maurice’s. If, someday years from now, I should be really old and destitute, I will be given a certain amount of money each year for living expenses.
Prior to my citizenship, I did get what is called a Card de Sèjour. Maurice made that a priority as soon as we moved to Paris. It just made me “legal”, as a green card does with immigrants in the States. I could work with it, that is if I could have found a job that didn’t require me to be bilingual. With my qualifications and background I thought I could get a job as a nurse at the American Hospital here in Paris but when I called I was told I had to speak French to work there. I have heard that most of the doctors and patients there are French. I got to thinking about how stressful it is starting a new job in the operating room at some hospital in the States even with my fluency in English and imagined trying to work in some French operating room without being perfectly bilingual and how stressful that would be. Plus, every instrument, patient position, and medicine would not be familiar to me, even if I could speak French. So, I put that idea behind me.
When I finally got the paperwork that said everything was in order for me, I went to our local Mairie to become a citizen. Needless to say I was apprehensive. In the States, new citizens have to know the answers to some questions about American history and the workings of our laws and government, which requires some command of the English language. Who knows, even the recipe for apple pie may be required. New citizens have to take the Pledge of Allegiance and swear to uphold the laws and defend America against invaders. There is a special ceremony for all of this; sparklers might be supplied along with tiny American flags for the celebration. And after all this, the new American citizens have the privilege of being called for jury duty.
But I digress. Anyway, on my special day, I dressed up and went to the Mairie with Maurice where we entered an office, I signed a paper, and that was it. What a relief! I had spent the morning being terrified that someone was going to ask me some questions in French on French history or government, AND expect me to respond in French. As I thought about it I realized how little I knew about French history. Let’s see - Marie Antoinette was beheaded, Louis XIV had a lot of neat furniture designs named after him, and Chirac is a Big Liar. Would that be enough information?
Of course, now I must brace myself for the inevitable question: “You mean you are a French citizen and you don’t know how to speak French?” I think I am going to have to make more of an effort to be more fluent. It all seems a little overwhelming to me since I know how difficult it is. I will even have to learn the darn French anthem, La Marseille, which I understand is a little bloody and brutal. Surely every French citizen should be able to sing it. I can hum it, but I don’t think that counts.
Well, it turned out that I had dressed up and been nervous for nothing. There was no anthem or pledge; there were no questions; no one talking to me in French, no music, and no hand over my heart. But it worked. I am now a French citizen.

I love these heart shaped chairs at a cafe on Rue du Buci.

One of my favorite florist is Nom de la Rose in Paris. They only sell roses. They are starting to sell autumn hued roses.

The wonderful Medici Fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens.

Chapter Fifteen
Breath-Less In France

All in all, when I think about it, France is full of places that leave me breathless.
There’s the famous cathedral of Chartres outside of Paris, with its stained glass that has to be seen to be believed. A walk in Monet’s garden at Giverny is a dreamlike experience. The first time I was there I couldn’t get any good photographs because it was so packed with visitors, so, on my second visit, I arrived just as the grounds opened and practically ran to the back of the property to beat the busloads of disembarking tourists. I zoomed through tunnels of climbing roses, passed huge groups of dahlias and daisies, not sparing anything a glance. I was on a mission. Finally, I reached the arching green bridge going over the pond full of the water lilies that Monet loved to paint so much. I had a few minutes to get photos of the bridge, sans humans, and trees hanging over the pond. Then I could sit and just enjoy this beautiful place and not have to wait for a break in the crowd for a photo. Now, I love looking at that photo I took, the bridge in it’s delicate curve over smooth water and the light still gentle and golden in the early morning sunshine. I get that feeling again, in my heart, when it is pierced by beauty. It is a feeling I get often when travelling around France.
Although France is full of unbelievable beauty, for me there is nothing more breathtaking than the city of Paris. As long as I have been here – has it really been a year already? - and round a corner where Notre Dame is gleaming in the sunlight, or the Eiffel Tower towers huge and yet delicate above my head, I am still amazed that I live here. I lived in Dallas for awhile and not once did I look up at its skyline, at one of its buildings outlined in green, and thought that.
I have always heard that Paris is the most romantic city in the world and I got to wondering what exactly is it that makes it so? How did this happen? Of course, its beauty if undeniable. The Seine curving it’s way through the middle of Paris, crossed by bridges that are works of art in themselves, or the view from one of the boats making its way up and down the river giving a different point of view of each bridge, or Notre Dame Cathedral - all this is enchanting.
Paris at night is a special delight and a most romantic time, and the phrase “City of Light” comes to mind when wandering around the quiet streets at night seeing its famous monuments lit up against a dark sky. There is a special kind of magic to look up and see a room with its lights on, or a wood-timbered ceiling or maybe a tapestry hanging on a wall or a chandelier twinkling from a ceiling. Who lives there? Occasionally you can see parties going on, and hear music and laughter spilling onto the streets along with the light. A couple might be standing on a tiny balcony drinking wine, their hair lit from behind with a halo of light. I think night time is my favorite time in Paris.
Maybe it is going into the Louvre and there, right before your eyes, is the actual Mona Lisa or the Venus di Milo. Is it because you have seen pictures of them all of your life – objects of beauty that are recognized as the height of western culture - that Paris and Romance are often found in the same sentence?
Or is it the Eiffel Tower? You can be just about anywhere in the world and pull out its picture and everyone, without a pause, will exclaim, “Paris!”. I read that many Parisians hated it when it was built and plans were made to tear it down but it was saved by the radio station at its apex. Now, who can imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower?
My first trip to Paris was many years ago with my ex-husband and my main memory of our time in this city was a huge argument we had on top of the tower. It wasn’t until I went to the Jules Verne, an exclusive restaurant actually inside the Eiffel Tower, and had dinner and Champagne with my new French husband looking out over the city turning pink at sunset that I replaced a bad memory with a good one. A very good one. It was then I could see the Eiffel Tower as one of the most memorable places in the world, and we raised a glass that night to Paris, and our new life together.
One of my favorite places to wander around is the Marais. Full of winding narrow streets and charming little squares, it is easy to understand that all of Paris was once like this, crowded and packed and full of life until Haussman, that great urban architect, was commissioned to make the wide boulevards that Paris is so famous for. Boulevards lined with buildings in the Haussman style with their wonderful façades and shapes, crowning windows, some of which look like Napoleon’s hat. Often you’ll see round towers on parts of Haussman’s buildings that men who built them said were the shape of a woman’s breast. The original Champagne class is said to have been made in the shape and size of Marie Antoinette’s breast. Frenchmen call mountains breasts, too, so there you are. Yet Paris wouldn’t be Paris without those boulevards, no matter what was torn down to make room for them. Ah but breasts are another chapter.
Is Paris romantic because so many of us have seen great movies with Paris in them? This is a what came first, the chicken or the egg question. When I picture Audrey Hepburn sweeping down the stairs at the Louvre dressed in a fabulous red gown shouting to Fred Astaire to “Take the picture, take the picture!” or Sabrina, once again Audrey Hepburn, finding herself, AND finding herself, in Paris, I know that Paris was chosen for these scenes. Any movie made in Paris stays with me. And to walk along the Seine in the very same place that a movie was filmed is an incredible feeling.
Another film, more recent, is Amelie. This delightful little French film was filmed mostly in the Montmartre area, a place explored with an aerobic workout as most of it involves steep walks. Here, you are rewarded with wonderful views from the top. Montmartre can really be packed with tourists and people selling their art work, or posing in various getups, such as a Pharoah-type in a gold costume on top of a little stand, just standing there waiting for money to be dropped into his little box. Someone called crowded Place du Tertre the Gatlinburg of Paris and it really is, yet every time friends visit and I do my tour thing with them, they always say this was their favorite place.
Does the romance of Paris come from all of the little cafés around the city where one of the most enjoyable things to do is pull up a chair at a table in front and watch people stroll by? People often mention this as their favorite memory in Paris - sauntering around the charming streets, finding a place, buying a drink and just sitting, dreaming, and watching the variety of life passing by. Sitting at a café can be like being on the bank of a river watching the flow of color and humanity. You can see bent old men with their canes and, often, a beret, and many dogs being walked - there might be one sitting with the people at the table next to yours - or women dressed in the latest fashion looking stylish and thin. All of this is just life in Paris - the stuff dreams are made of. I won’t get into snobby waiters, who can ruin the mood and bring not only American but Frenchmen to the point of eye-bulging, red-faced reactions as they try to get the check.
No city I’ve ever seen does parks like Paris does. I mean, they really whip nature into shape, especially in places like the Luxembourg Gardens. The trees aren’t allowed to unfold into their natural shapes but are trimmed like a General’s mustache, all in regimental rectangles. I love standing at the end of a row of trees and seeing the perfectly squared shapes lined in soldierly rows. The flower beds are perfect too, filled with striking color clusters, and there are huge urns overflowing, although in an orchestrated way, with geraniums, petunias, or mums, depending on the season.
I wondered how they got the mums to cascade all in the same artistic way so I investigated and found discreet wire frames underneath to guide the growth. There is grass here and there, that no one is allowed to walk on or loll about on, and great expanses of beige-colored dirt which coats your shoes with dust as you walk, but at least it doesn’t have to be mowed. My favorite time to walk there is in the autumn with yellow or rust colored chrysanthemums everywhere, brilliant fall-foliaged trees standing out against a deep blue sky, and sometimes the gardeners seem to leave a few leaves on the ground to crunch through. There are green metal chairs everywhere, to sit and dream in, read or sleep in. I guess they are too heavy for anyone to haul off. The park is packed with statues; there’s even a replica of the Statue of Liberty. It is just a great place to walk through and I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Being the center of the world for Champagne and wine doesn’t hurt Paris’ romantic image one bit. What could be more dreamy than opening a bottle of Champagne and filling the fabulously shaped glass with that magical elixir and watching the bubbles continuously rise to the top? There is a TV show in America where actors are asked, among other things, to name their favorite sound. If I had to answer that question it would be the sound of the cork coming out of a Champagne bottle. Not because I am an alcoholic, but because that sound always means you are getting ready to celebrate something. (My least favorite sound, the one I absolutely detest, is the ear splitting sound of those darned motorcycles whizzing by on the street.)
Maybe Paris is romantic because of the impression those outside of France have that every Frenchman has sex whenever he wants it with the readily available lovely French women in their sexy black underwear. I guess this belief comes from French movies. I have to say that I haven’t gotten that impression while here. And every married man doesn’t have a mistress. There are couples here, as anywhere, where that is perhaps the case. In fact, my husband told me of one couple that he personally knows but in this instance it is the woman who has someone on the side. Maurice says this belief is a cliché and it can’t be applied like some broad paintbrush to all of France. I do think men have more of an appreciation of women here. I never felt that attractive in the States but here I have encounters while shopping where the salesman is a man and I leave thinking, “Gee, maybe I’m not so bad, after all.” Maybe he just wants to sell me something.
I guess I’m not going to be able to nail down exactly what it is that makes Paris the most romantic place in the world. Although, I will always wonder about it from time to time. As I walk around, I think I will just enjoy the fact that it is. And, as French-less as I am, I know I will still feel breathless every time I see Nôtre Dame, or gaze at the Ile-St. Louis from the Pont des Arts.