A small church in Savoie

One of the cows that is the source of some great cheese.

Falling In Love With France

Being an American, I think Mount Vernon is very old. To me something 200 years old is truly ancient. Then, I get to Europe and I learn what ancient really is. Just looking up to see when construction on the Notre Dame in Paris was started I see the date is 1163. Not only that but it wasn’t finished in a couple of years - it wasn’t finished until the 1300’s. All of that time is just something that’s hard for me to wrap my mind around. Sometimes I will be climbing stairs in an old cathedral or chateau and as I step on the stone that has been worn smooth by hundreds of years of foot steps I think to myself, “Someone centuries ago walked this exact path living their lives just like I am. Maybe they were a priest going up the stairs to pull a rope to ring the bells or a servant carrying up a container of water for the Duke’s bath.” Maybe I have seen too many movies, but the fact remains that history is thick on the ground in Europe. (I know our American Indians were tramping through the forests then, but they didn’t leave anything like Notre Dame.)

Savoie

My love affair with the French Alps began when Maurice and I were married there. Like most Americans, I was totally unfamiliar with the area or even the names of the towns and cities there. I especially loved Annecy, set on a turquoise lake full of charm and flowers.
I have since been into the French Alps to a town called Bourg St Maurice. I assume Bourg is where the English word “berg” comes from, as in a very small town. I liked Bourg St Maurice with its own little old town lined with cobbled streets. The city is in the center of the Haute-Tarentaise region and is the starting point for an entry into Italy up and over a mountain pass, or the way up to a ski resort called Les Arcs. My husband and I have skied at Les Arcs, and it’s huge with runs all over the mountain. In the summer, I’ve seen people taking off the side of mountains on hang gliders, and there is excellent hiking. We trekked over a mountain trail, through fields of lavender flowers, to a little Russian-looking chapel at the top of a mountain built sometime in the 1800s. I wondered what inspired someone to want to build in such an inaccessible place, and how hard it must have been to get everything up there.
I really like the food in this part of France, the Savoie.There is a regional dish called Tartiflette, made with potatoes, bacon, onion, and the local Reblochon cheese, or Diot, a local pork sausage with Crozets, a Savoie pasta. We often drink the Vin de Savoie called Apremont that is a wonderful light white wine.
While we were in this area one summer we did several driving trips to explore the many little villages. All of the drives involved hairpin curves, and there was seldom a time I didn’t get a little car sick. One day we went across the border into an Italian town for lunch. We crossed a pass called Col du Petit St Bernard where a good deal of fighting took place during World War II and there is a statue of St. Bernard de Menthon standing at the top.
Another day we headed off for a little town called Bonneval-sur-Arc. It lies south of Mount Blanc and to get there we had to go over a pass called Col de l’Iseran, the highest pass in the Alps. There are areas here where the snow never melts. When we started out it was a sunny day, but as we got higher we entered thick fog and had to creep along, almost deciding to turn around. We finally got above the clouds and as we reached the summit, it started snowing (this was only August!). Then we descended the mountain, going again through fog and finally entered the area of Bonnelval-sur-Arc, which sits in the valley of the Arc surrounded by high peaks. It is a little town left totally untouched by development, with no satellite dishes or phone or electrical wires in sight. The tourists are all put up at a nearby village, and no cars are allowed. The buildings are all built of rough granite blocks, and slabs of stone cover the roofs. It all has such an ancient feel. It rained the whole time we were there, and it was cold so we went into a little restaurant and had some hot tea and a lunch of salad, local cheese and sausage to get warmed up. Coming out, we passed some hikers dressed in shorts and looking, to my unseasoned eyes, very wet and miserable. The whole area is covered in hiking trails that are used a lot during the summer months. I could also see ski lifts for winter skiing.
My husband’s uncle had told us to be sure to do the drive to Beaufort, as it was especially beautiful, and he was certainly right. After many a hairpin curve, we entered a valley where one of the most beautiful lakes I have ever seen sat - Roseland Lake. It was a milky turquoise color sitting in the sun. I have since read that it is manmade and covers an old village, but it is still breathtaking when first viewed. As we drove along we could see a glacier in the distance, and we passed cows everywhere eating grass that eventually becomes the famous Beaufort cheese. The charming town of Beaufort has a stream running through the center and flowers everywhere, and, of course, a picturesque church.
What’s astonishing to me is that we have barely scratched the surface of all there is to see in the French Alps. I am not much of a hiker, but I am inspired to become fit enough to start taking hikes around this beautiful area. Hiking is very popular in Europe, and now I know why. “This must be the most beautiful place in France. It won’t get any better than this,” I thought. I was wrong. Everywhere I went in France was totally awesome.

Wineless In France

I don’t know much about wine. Before I married a Frenchman not only did I only have one or two glasses of wine a month, but when I did it was a blush wine that I happen to love. I have heard wine connoisseurs laugh at this type of wine putting it on the level of soda when it came to the real thing. In fact, one night I got my feelings hurt when the television show called Frazier came on and Frazier and his brother, both wine snobs, were laughing at the absurdity of anyone who would consider blush wine a good wine. I have been known to buy a bottle of wine because I liked its shape or the design on the label. I thought I was really cool in the 70’s when I bought Blue Nun or some white wine from Portugal called Lancers - the bottle had a great oval shape. I was a total amateur in the field of wine.
When we still lived in the States we did make a vacation trip to Napa, California where we had a great time visiting wineries in this beautiful part of the State. I tried and liked a lot of white wines and even a few red ones if they didn’t taste too heavily of oak or tannin.
Shopping for wine in Texas we found French wine, as expected, to be fairly expensive and we only drank it on special occasions. In the store, Maurice would pick up a bottle, look at the label and know the region in which it was grown. I had never heard of most of the vineyards shown on the label, as I could when I looked at a bottle from California and saw, for instance, Russian River Valley and had a memory of crossing a bridge there. French wine was a total new world to me. In the States, the label tells what kind of grapes are used to make the wine. France tells where the grapes were grown-a much more important distinction to them because of the way the whole wine growing industry is set up.
Coming to Paris I went from an occasional glass of wine to at least one glass every night. Sometimes, we even finished a whole bottle. I moved from amateur status to that of a player. My children told me that my liver was now in training. I think my liver was going, “Mon Dieu!”. Since I basically started so late in life I had a lot to learn and a lot of time to make up. Sometimes we will buy a bottle of wine at Franprix for the equivalent of four or five dollars. Most of it tastes fine to me. I like the sweeter white wines from Alsace and rosé is hard to beat, in my opinion.
Red wine has taken me longer to get used to. We have a French friend who recommended that we get a guide to wine called Guide Hacette des Vins. He never buys any wine without checking it out in his book first. There aren’t many cheap wines to be found this way but we have discovered some great tasting wines in the guide and I’ve found some red wines that I have really learned to love such as a Burgundy red called Marquis d’Angerville from Volnay. The best Burgundy chardonnay white I ever had was a Puligny-Montrachet from Domaine Leflaive. I’ve had one bottle of each but now I know why these two were in our wine guide.
I don’t think I will ever be like a man I knew in the States who kept labels from wine bottles that he loved and put them in a scrapbook. I think he had more labels than pictures of his children. This is a little too reverential for me. At the time I kept a jug of wine in my refrigerator that lasted for weeks and then I could use the container to store flammable liquids if I wanted. Once I concocted some homemade kalua, a Mexican coffee liquor, and stored it in one of my wine bottles. I forgot to change the label and grabbed it and dumped about half a cup of it into some spaghetti sauce I was making. I was so mad that I had done it and, not wanting to waste the sauce, I got out as much as I could and served it anyway. I figured my children would never notice. I was wrong. Nothing like coffee flavored spaghetti.
I didn’t know that unless champagne is specifically bottled in the region of Champagne that it must be called something else. It is usually called Cremant or Brut and I can’t tell a difference in the taste. Since it is also cheaper I will often get a bottle of it for every day drinking. I don’t think most Frenchmen will buy it though. None of Maurice’s relatives ever serve it to us and the one time I took a bottle of Cremant from Alsace along to someone’s dinner, I got the remark, “Here is a bottle of champagne that Americans like the taste of.” I don’t think it was a compliment. Americans have the reputation of liking their wine and champagne on the sweet side. Germans must too. I love Reislings and Gerwurtzaminers from Germany.
There is nothing more fun and interesting than going to a part of France that grows the grapes and bottles wine and driving past rows of vineyards in their regimental patterns or visiting the caves on location where wine can be bought at fantastic prices. Of course, the fact that these vineyards are in incredibly beautiful parts of France makes it even more of an adventure. We had a wonderful trip to the area of Champagne and toured the Moet and Chandon winery, one of many. It was a very interesting tour done in English through dark underground caves where the champagne was stored. They actually have employees that turn each and every bottle of champagne regularly to get deposits into the neck where they can be removed and then the bottle is recorked. These guys can turn thousands a day. Then we bought a reasonably priced bottle of champagne at their shop and had a great memory to go with it when we drank it a few weeks later. As Dom Perignon said on tasting champagne, “I am drinking stars!” I love that.
Dijon is a wonderful city right in the middle of Burgundy country, the home of the rightly famous Burgundy wine. The whole area is packed with historic towns full of ancient buildings topped with the incredible roof tiles seen in this region looking like bright argyle sock patterns. Driving through the vineyards you find yourself on narrow little roads that aren’t crowded with cars. It can be very peaceful and refreshing to get off of the motor way and lose yourself in the countryside. Riding along you can sometimes catch glimpses of the Burgundy canal where boats do scenic tours. We haven’t done it yet but I have heard it is wonderful. You float along, stopping at the many locks. You can get off, ride a bike or go explore a village then come back for a gourmet meal and a bottle of wine that comes from the region the boat just passed. Sounds relaxing to me.
I had heard of Beaujolais Nouveau but hadn’t ever tasted it until knowing Maurice. There was quite a large number of French people in Austin, and they would get together for a huge party on the third Thursday of November to celebrate the arrival of this wine. It is a young wine, as they say, and it is fresh and fruity tasting so I like it. It hasn’t sat in an oak barrel for months, or even years, but harvested the September before. It is a time to taste what the new vintage will offer in years to come. We haven’t made it to the actual Beaujolais region in November to celebrate with the locals, but they have a lot of parties going on here in Paris. Every bar, cave, and restaurant is packed that evening as everyone tastes the new wine. One place we like to go is near Bastille and Place d’Aligre, a permanent street market, to a little place called Le Baron Bouge, a funky little bar with the walls painted bright red and where you can buy wine by the bottle right out of barrels. You can hardly get inside to order and most go outside to taste the Beaujolais Nouveau. It’s fun to be part of a celebration that has been taking place in France since the middle ages.
Another fun celebration in Paris in on the first Saturday of October when a wonderful part of Paris called Montmartre harvests grapes from their own tiny vineyard on the hill side from which a very bad wine is made and auctioned off for charity each year. There is a fun parade that winds up the hill of Montmartre that has a real down home feel, a neighborhood happening. It is lead by a group of children in red and white striped pants and blue coats, followed by groups from wine producing regions of France, some dressed like a painting by Toulouse Latrec in black capes and broad rimmed hats and vibrant red scarves around their necks. Some wear outfits reminding me of graduates of colleges with robes and floppy hats. There were brightly dressed performers on high stilts somehow making it up the hills, some men pushing a huge barrel full of wine in front of them, a few free samples being poured, and even a group of Japanese dressed in full Japanese regalia from a local museum. I saw wooden clog shoes and high architectural hats on women from Brittany. I also saw the mayor of Paris that day walking around enjoying the day totally in the open.
Provence is known for lavender, wonderful villages, the sunshine, and, of course, its wine. Maurice and I are down in Provence a lot and always make a point of stopping at a cave and buying a few cartons of wine. The first time I was at a cave in Provence I noticed a little couple come in who appeared to be in their seventies. They had their dog with them, a mixed breed of unguessable origin. I noticed that their arms were full of plastic jugs, five liter size, and a couple of straw covered glass jugs. They walked over to an area that I hadn’t noticed where there were dispensers on the wall that were similar to the ones that dispense gas in a gas station. They had their jugs filled with wine just like they were filling up their car. I took a great photo of the dog watching with interest as they filled their containers. A cart with wheels was provided to get their wine out to the car. They were soon followed by more and more people arriving with empty containers to be filled. The wine was an inexpensive table wine that cost about one Euro per liter. Our friend with us told us he never got that kind of wine as it really wasn’t anything special but it intrigues me and someday I might talk Maurice into trying it. I was amazed that people drank enough wine to need 5 liters at a time but at the rate I’m going I may be joining their league.
That is part of the pleasure of living in France - going into a local winery and buying some wine made from the vines growing right outside the door. And it’s cheaper that way, too. We can get three cartons for what a few bottles would cost at our local wine shop. It is murder lugging them up the three flights of stairs when we get home, but a joy to pull out a bottle for dinner and not only have a wonderful glass of wine but remember the day we bought it and think of the beautiful country side where the vineyards undulated over hills like cloth on the surface of a wave, smoothly stretching out towards the horizon. It makes you glad to be alive.

Primetime-Less in France

I didn’t realize I was addicted to American television until I had been in France a few weeks. I find myself watching shows from the States I never wasted my time with before I moved. American TV programs here are not up to date and can even be one to two years late, if not canceled years before. It doesn’t matter if I have seen the show years before moving here; if it is an American show that hasn’t yet been dubbed into French, I have to watch it. I never watched “The 70’s Show”, for instance, but I will plop myself in front of the TV when it comes on here. I don’t know if it’s just the pleasure of seeing something in English or the familiarity of an American setting with all of the inside jokes that I get but my husband doesn’t. I even watch “Friends” about a group of people I have nothing in common with, many years younger than me. I never cared before if Ross got together with Monica. Or is Monica his sister? I don’t know, and don’t care. I just have to watch it.
You can watch American soap operas here, too, but they are dubbed in French and they are 2 to 3 years old and I’ve heard that the American production companies make a huge amount of money selling these old soap operas and shows from the 70’s and 80’s. One I sometimes watch is an old one that I believe has been canceled for a while. A soap opera is something that can be watched without knowing French. The meaning of what is being said is telegraphed very clearly by facial expressions. I didn’t watch soap operas in the States and haven’t found them very interesting to watch here but sometimes one will come on and I will watch just to look at the clothing being worn or the interior decorating. I will watch just about anything except the old reruns of Dallas-shown here every Saturday night, or Starsky and Hutch in which even the theme song is dubbed into French with strong French accents singing “Starky and Hutch”. Just can’t watch it anymore.
My husband, and many other French people, told me that if I watched French TV it would improve my French. This is not true. I sit down to watch a French TV show and get my brain into the Zen mode it has to be in to really listen hard. I focus all of my energy on the TV screen. I become one with my TV and will myself to comprehend. I hear a few words I know - they leap out at me so I can hardly focus on the rest of the sentence. I hear some words that are familiar to me, that I keep hearing a lot, but I still don’t know their meaning. If there are subtitles written in French I learn some new grammar and usage. Soon, though, I stop listening and start watching the action of the characters on the screen. You can learn a lot about what is going on just by watching without understanding a word so I always get the big picture. However, it isn’t long until my brain clicks off and I am no longer actively listening. If I have picked up any French this way, I am not aware of it. I think watching television can help someone learning a language hear how to pronounce a word they already know the meaning of.
I’ve always loved watching American football, especially college football. I didn’t think I would get to see it in France but was surprised and happy when they started showing football games, although a day late. The commentary is in French and even I can hear that the announcer has an American accent. What is great is that all of the commercials and time outs are eliminated. You can see the total game in an hour! I had to learn to really watch and not let my mind wander, as you can in the States, or I would miss big plays and suddenly a team would be ahead by 14 points and I had missed the 10 minutes or so when it occurred.
It probably will come as no surprise that televised sports are different in Europe. There are hundreds of soccer games. My husband will watch a championship game between two countries and I will think there will be no more soccer as is true in America when the Super Bowl is over - no football until September (well, OK, August). The next night there is another championship game. “I thought the season was over,” I will say to Maurice only to find out that this is another league, another country, between French clubs, amateur clubs, a different age group - it goes on and on. I don’t think there is even a time during the year when they are not playing, although Maurice assures me there is. And, when one of the soccer players gets injured, I am amazed at the acting that goes on. They writhe on the field, rolling back and forth, holding some injured body part. I’m thinking they will definitely need surgery. Men run onto the field with a stretcher and carry the injured player off. Sure I have seen the last of him I am surprised when he runs back on the field, fresh as a daisy, one minute later. These guys could get jobs in some opera company with that acting ability.
Then there is rugby. This is similar to American football but they don’t wear helmets or padding and there is seldom a time out. The ball they play with is larger than the American football and white for some reason which brings the question to mind as to why the football is brown in America. The players get into this big circle and sort of ram into each other and the ball, which was in the middle, ends up in some player’s arms and he starts running. Right before he is tackled he throws the ball behind him - never a forward pass- and they keep trying to get to the goal. It was rather interesting at first but it becomes mind numbingly boring after a while. There is lots of passion in the stands, as with soccer, with colored smoke billowing out and chants and songs being sung. We went to a live game here in Paris once and at the end of the game the man next to me had tears of happiness in his eyes after his team won. It was his life.
Depending on the season there are hours of tennis, especially the French Open and Wimbledon but, in the early matches, you won’t see an American player unless they happen to be playing a European opponent. In the winter every type of Nordic event imaginable is seen, even those cross country events where they basically go around in circles or carry rifles stopping periodically to fire at a target. A lot of swimming events is featured year around. And there are endless hours of curling, that strange sport on ice where fat discs are started down a bowling alley type lane and people with brooms violently brush the ice before the disc effecting its progress in some way. I think it is a little like shuffle board but haven’t really figured out the rules. I see a lot of sports unknown to me that I only occasionally had seen before on televised Olympic games.
The game from Provence, petanque, with little metal balls being thrown reminds me of horse shoes that I played as a child. There is a lot of intensity seen in the faces of the people playing and those watching. Since I know a little about horse shoes I’d like to try this game sometime. I just don’t want to watch much of it on television.
We saw every moment of the Tour du France, especially with Lance Armstrong, a fellow American, racing. I thought watching men biking would be boring but incredible shots are shown of the country side so it’s like a mini travel guide as a helicopter flies overhead sometimes showing the riders and sometimes a chateau they are passing. I still smile at a shot, by a ground crew, of a group of men sitting in their chairs at the side of the road along with hundreds of other people waiting for the Tour to whiz by. The men were watching a portable TV in front of them. I assumed when the bikers approached they would be up and cheering with everyone else but they stayed in their chairs focused on the television even as the riders went by. I also enjoy various spectators. One man dresses up as Satan with horns, a cape and a tricorn and races along the riders as they pass. You see him every day and every year. There is always at least one streaker running naked with the flag of his country wrapped around his shoulders and this year I saw a line of naked men with their bodies painted in the colors of Spain’s flag and their hands covering their “privates” as the riders poured by.
Why do I know so much about sports televised on French TV? Because I watch so much of it. It’s something I can watch here that I can totally understand without knowing one word the commentators are saying. It requires no effort from me.
Shows in France aren’t interrupted with commercials every seven minutes or so as they are in the States. The commercials are all saved up and shown at the end. In some ways this is good but on the other hand ten minutes of commercials seems like a really long time. I’m not sure which is more annoying. It is nice to watch an American show the whole way through without interuptions. The commercials themselves are similar to those in the States although you will see a lot more nudity, topless with women, and more simulation of sex. I enjoyed one commercial where there were two leperchans speaking in French with an Irish accent. And there are also a lot of the horrible infomercials, some of them imported from the States and dubbed in French. They must make money but I sure keep on clicking when I come across one.
I was surprised at some of the inane shows I’ve seen in France. I guess I expected a more sophisticated level of television, and it is here, but there are also some really juvenile game shows that I can’t believe anyone can stand to watch. There was also something called “The Loft Story” where a group of young people lived together under the watchful eye of the TV cameras. They could not leave the premises. One by one they were voted off the show with the final person winning one million Euros. They all became celebrities. I hated this show and couldn’t understand the fascination with the people on it. My husband’s son would go to a special web site set up so they could be watched at anytime, day or night and he would watch such fascinating things as these people sleeping or sitting around a table eating. I just didn’t get it. Even Maurice would sometimes watch it. When he did this, I left the room. That’s how crazy it drove me.
We get CNN here and I sometimes watch it but it has a strong European slant which I haven’t developed much interest in yet and America is seldom focused on unless there is a crisis such as September 11th or the Stock market plummeting as this effected the European market as well. I try to watch the French news every night but I have the same problem with it that I had in the States with local news which is that only a part of it is really news while the rest is human interest stories. A little of this goes a long way with me. When a story is started and some sappy music starts playing in the background I know it’s going to be some more fluff with the news announcer using this special tone of voice that lets you know how sad or moving the story is. I often have to ask Maurice what was said after watching some news stories. I can usually guess, but not always.
I am hoping being in France will get me over my addictive television watching. I do spend a lot more time reading and I have a feeling that the computer is going to become my new addiction as I correspond with Americans, read American news, and just, in general, get my American “fix” that I sometimes need.

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Lasagne-less in France

I was considered a good cook in the States. I wasn’t known for gourmet meals but I could put together a quick, good tasting meal that everyone said they liked. Six people coming to dinner? No problem. I could whip together a Mexican meal or a chicken and wild rice casserole in no time. I was a master at cooking on the grill. I was comfortable with my cooking, sure of my self, at ease in the kitchen. After all I had been doing it for over 25 years by the time I moved to France.
I did something rather strange before we moved to Paris-I packed up all of my American cookbooks and left them in storage with some furniture in Austin. I bought a used copy of Mastering The Art of French Cooking by Julie Child as I pictured myself learning at least one new French dish a week, trying new recipes, changing the way I cooked. At the end of two years, I think I have tried 2 recipes. Maurice has made a couple of great French dishes such as Beef Burgundy.
I have found myself to be a lazy cook. Maybe it is because I have done it for so many years, and I am just tired of it. It is easier and I can get by throwing together a meal I have done hundreds of times before with ingredients I always have in my kitchen. A look at Julia’s cookbook always results in a trip to the store for many ingredients not commonly used by me, such as heavy cream or yet another package of butter. I reflect as I pan fry another steak (I am using Herbs de Provence on it, which is new) that my cooking in France is like my learning to speak French. I am just getting by. I don’t need to be fluent to live here so I’m not. I am like one of those people I used to hate to work with who do as little as possible to keep from getting fired. I didn’t know that about myself.
I found myself to be a novice in the kitchen here. I felt like I was going to be weighed on the scale of thousands of years of French cuisine and found wanting. I knew very little about French cooking. And shopping for food in France made me feel like a total beginner. The butcher shops were full of meat in cuts that I was unfamiliar with. There were strange names and strange shapes; bones in places I hadn’t seen them in before. I always had to be sure I was looking at beef and not horse as they both had the same red coloring. Except for grocery stores like Monoprix, the meat doesn’t come in cellophane wrapped Styrofoam trays. You have to select what part of the cow, sheep, or pig you want and know how many cuts are needed and what thickness , and it all has to be done in French. I usually have to wait for Maurice to be with me to help me through the new process of shopping in France.
When I went to the store by myself I was in a new land in more ways than one. One day I was looking for flour. Up and down the aisles I went. I finally found myself in the aisle sugar was located and decided that flour must be called something else in French. I started looking for the familiar rectangular shaped bag found in the States and finally discovered some but they had the word “Farine” on the front. On closer investigation, I saw the tell-tell white powder around the packages and the familiar floury smell when I held a sack to my nose. “Voila!” as they say in France. It sounds like a small thing but I felt I had mastered something important and it was a triumphant moment for me, alone in a French grocery store with so little French.
There are a lot of interesting boxes and containers of new French items that always fascinate me. Needless to say, I can’t find such things as Rice a Roni or Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, but there are many boxes of things totally new to me. I can find cubes to make a basil/olive oil mixture for pasta, inexpensive containers of Herbs de Provence, a wonderful seasoning for just about anything. I found mayonnaise in tubes like toothpaste, and mustard in a huge variety of flavors and strengths. Mustard in France doesn’t taste like the usual substance we are used to in the States - too much on your sandwich will clear your sinuses and make your eyes water.
Milk is different in France. You can find container of milk in the dairy case but there are also plastic bottles of milk kept on the shelves, specially treated that Maurice likes to get as this kind lasts longer due to some sort of special process or ingredients added. It tastes like something has been added and it has taken me a while to get used to the taste. I used to love a glass of cold milk with cookies but I don’t have that snack any more. Cold chemical milk just doesn’t do it for me. I bet it glows in the dark.
I don’t always know what the writing on a package is saying in French but I look at the pictures on the front, make my painful way through instructions on the back and can usually figure out what is in the container. For instance, I picked up a package with Sauce Chasseur on the front along with a picture of a spoonful of brown gravy full of little mushrooms being poured on top of a chicken leg. It looked so tasty that I thought I could try this at home. I turned the package over and, although the directions for preparing the sauce were in French, there were also pictures. It showed a pan full of hot water with the amount used underneath, then a hand is dumping in the contents of the package, ending with a picture of a hand stirring the liquid in the pan and “5 minutes” is written underneath. Hey! I can do this so I buy it.
The first time I had some of Maurice’s relatives over for dinner I was filled with anxiety. Here were people raised on French cooking, known to be the best in the world. I couldn’t decide what to make them. I had heard that the French consider Americans to be horrible cooks and often eat before they come to dinner at an American’s in case everything is inedible. I didn’t have a grill because we lived on the 3rd floor and didn’t have a terrace on which to put a grill. Trying to prepare a classic French dinner filled me with fear as I could picture a total disaster so I finally decided on Lasagna. Perfect. I had made this hundreds of times. What could go wrong?
The main thing that went wrong was that I couldn’t find the lasagna noodles that I was used to. Instead, all I could find was very thin noodles that weren’t boiled in water first. There was a recipe on the box for lasagna that had bechamel sauce in it. I had never made bechamel sauce and was afraid to try so went ahead and used my old tried and true recipe. It turns out that you need 2 to 3 times as much liquid when using uncooked noodles. To say that my lasagna was dry and rather rubbery is an understatement. We are talking door stops here. We all sat there in silence chewing like a herd of cows, big eyes not looking at me, trying to get it down. Of course, the next time I tried it for just Maurice and me, using the bechamel sauce, and more liquid, it turned out not only perfect, but the best lasagna I had ever made. I haven’t cooked for these relatives since. Nor have they asked me to, or even implied that they would like to come over for dinner. The next time we had French people over for dinner I let Maurice make Beef Burgundy, which is always a hit.
I have tried my hand at French desserts. I followed directions to the letter for creme carmel and it turned out fabulous. Maurice liked it but commented that it was too sweet. I have since found that most French desserts are a lot less sweet that what we are used to in the States. Their desserts with fruit, for example, have a lot less sugar than I like to add. The upcoming generations of French seem to be eating a lot of sweet things now. My husband’s son often has a box of cookies for breakfast. I imagine in a few years the French will be eating the same sugar laden sweets that we Americans like to eat.
Maurice was bought up on a farm where they prepared and killed all of their own food to eat. When they butchered a hog, everything was eaten and I mean everything. From ears, to feet to intestines - it all found itself on the table. When it rained the children were sent out to hunt for snails that would be cooked up with garlic and butter for dinner. I don’t think I ever even saw a farm when I was growing up. The closest I ever came was riding a horse, which, come to think of it, is probably why I am not interested in eating horse meat. My mother did try to get us to eat liver and onions that she loved, but I hated the taste. Now here I am in France where dishes such as foie gros are a common occurrence. They love the stuff here, along with all sorts of paté and something called rillettes, a dish of pork meat mixed with lard that resembles fork-mashed tuna fish. I have started trying various things new to me and I actually like them, although in small portions, with bread, or on top of a salad where the taste of lettuce and vinaigrette mellows out the taste.
Once Maurice and I were at a restaurant having lunch. This was where I learned to never order anything with the word, “tete”, in it. This means head in French. Maurice decided on veal head. I sat there expecting a whole head to be brought out and was relieved when slices of beef with fat on them arrived at our table. The meat had been cut off the head, thank heavens. Maurice ate it with a vinaigrette with shallots and asked if I wanted a bite. I thought about it but on closer examination I could see wiry little hairs sticking out of the fat on his slices of veal head. They didn’t even shave nor pluck the poor creature properly. Needless to say, I took a pass. I have since heard that a friend of mine ordered veal “tete” and the whole head not only came out on a plate but a portion of its brain was resting on the top and the tongue decoratively came out of the mouth to add color to the plate it rested on. I can’t bring myself to try brains either, no matter how much Maurice assures me how delicious they are - no matter how much beurre noire they are smothered in.
I didn’t expect food to be an adventure in France when I came here, but it has turned out to be so. I had a very narrow field of experience with food in the States. Chinese food and Mexican food were about as far as I ventured in experimentation. There was a wonderful French restaurant that I liked in Texas but I never tried anything very exotic. I have to say that I really miss Mexican food in Paris. They have some places that serve what they call Tex-Mex but it doesn’t come close to what I am used to, and I am very suspicious when walking in and seeing mustard on the table. What the heck is this for? Where is the salsa? So I save that particular craving for when I go home to visit.
My oldest son still talks about the first meal he had in Paris at a well-known restaurant. He can describe every course and loved the fact that it took several hours. It was not the usual business lunch he was used to. The French do take their time when eating. It’s almost a religious experience. No one hurries or inhales their food to rush back to the office. There are several courses to be tasted, wine to be swirled on the tongue. (And, usually, several cigarettes to be smoked.)
I have sat at many lunches or dinners that last 3 hours. I had to learn to slow down, pace myself, and pay attention to flavors and textures; how a red wine tasted with a beef dish, a white wine with the fish. Sometimes a liquor, usually Poire Williams, is served between courses because the French believe it helps the digestion and you can go on to the next course without that over-full feeling. I’m not sure if this is true, but it’s fun to do. It is really strong stuff though. I think if I blew on a lit match after drinking this I could do one of those flame thrower streams of fire across the table. After all night parties the French often have a bowl of onion soup which Maurice tells me also helps the digestion after a night of big eating and drinking.
I don’t know why but I assumed that because Maurice ate so many, to me, exotic foods and was raised knowing so many varieties of things to eat, that he would be adventurous in his eating. Anyone who eats raw oysters or cow brains seems so to me. But I have had to change this opionion as I become more acquainted with his likes and dislikes. For instance, he doesn’t like coconut, bananas or pineapple leading me to think he must have gotten hit by a tropical fruit truck when he was a kid. Actually, I’m sure he never had these things growing up so he hasn’t acquired a taste for them. One day I got a craving for a tuna fish sandwich and put together some tuna with chopped olives, pickles and mayonaisse. Maurice wouldn’t touch it. He wanted his tuna plain and on a salad.
Maurice has moments, and this always sends me through the roof, when he will cut into something I’ve cooked or take a bite of something and get this look on his face that he doesn’t like it. He says something is too “wet”, such as canned peas which can’t have any liquid left in them, just some butter. Veal has to be totally cooked through with no pink but steak can be pink. Chicken can’t have any pink at all, pork must be cooked almost to the point of being dry. I always get mad when he does this after I have cooked a meal. I think he is criticizing my cooking as I feel very inadequate about my skill here in France. It just has to be the way he likes it. Sometimes he has to get up and re-cook it himself when I am feeling insulted and saying something like, “ I will never cook you another steak again!”
I’ve come to find that many French serve the same things at dinners to which we are invited . They always start with champagne, which is no hardship for me as I love the stuff. Sometimes, in Provence, you are offered Pastis, a southern drink, but usually always champagne. In the summer the starter for a meal is almost always smoked salmon. The French seem rigid to me about how the meal is served and the salad and cheese are served in certain order. Maurice never mixes a salad with a meal-it has to follow whatever we are eating. I got a strange reaction from Maurice when I wanted to serve guests something out of the ordinary. I could see a real discomfort there. I am so insecure now that I always leave the menu up to Maurice but I am starting to think, “What the heck, I’ll serve what I want to”, as I have been in France for a longer time. It’s not going to kill them if the darn salad comes first or we have margaritas instead of champagne.
Becoming educated in French food is something I’m really enjoying - an unexpected dimension to all that is France.

Junk Food-Less In France

There are many foods I miss in France. Here I am in a land known everywhere for the best food in the world. People go into raptures over a fabulous meal they had in a famous restaurant in Paris. They dream of the crusty bread that has a special taste found no where else in the world. They long for a cup of dark, rich French coffee. There is the paté, foie gros, and the special sauces invented in France. French cheese is a national industry and wine is a passion. I have been privileged to try a lot of it and I agree: it is all beyond compare.
So why do I sometimes sit in my apartment here in Paris and dream of an Enchirito from Taco Bell or a Blizzard from the Dairy Queen? Am I a junk food junkie or just a typical American? Probably, both. I’m sure it started in my childhood. I have fond memories growing up as a child and making a special trip to the local A&W on a hot summer afternoon and getting a root beer float. When a big thick glass mug came out covered with a slushy coating turning white in the warm air and I saw that scoop of vanilla ice cream making a delicious foam as it floated in the brown root beer, I was in heaven.
I’m not sure the year McDonald’s came into being and all of the franchises were starting to be set up, but it was probably around the time I was growing up. What was considered a treat to me back then slowly through the years lost its allure. I spent countless hours in McDonalds with my children and got so I couldn’t eat anything there anymore just due to years of repetition. It didn’t help when they started installing playgrounds on the premises to increase the allure for my children. It is now the same with my grandchildren and I find myself sitting at a table with half eaten hamburgers and packages of cold fries while they race off to climb up into the fun play grounds that have been set up.
I haven’t been near a McDonald’s here in Paris as I can’t bear to eat their food even when in the States. Maurice’s son, Ben, loves McDonalds. He loves that he can get his food with no wait, that there is ice in his coke, that it doesn’t take 3 hours to get through a meal, and, most of all, he loves the affordability. One day, in Provence, I was helping to clear some property. It was really hot and I hadn’t had breakfast. Ben showed up with some giant cokes - with ice - and some cheeseburgers from McDonalds. He offered me one. I was weak. I ate one. It was the best darn cheeseburger I had had in years. I haven’t tried one again. I think it was a one time event.
They do have places here from America such as Kentucky Fried Chicken but for some reason it doesn’t taste the same as it does in the States. They have T.G.I. Fridays, too, but I didn’t eat there before and don’t go. Ben loves their ribs there so goes often. I dream of Long John Silvers and those great chicken planks. I miss the Mexican food. I’ve tried it in Paris but how Mexican is a quesadilla if French goat cheese is used? The one Mexican restaurant I tried had mustard on every table. Mustard? For what? Everything had a slightly different taste, a French take. And I get really ticked when I am charged eight Euros for an inch of margarita in a glass and there are maybe 8 tortilla chips in a tiny bowl, never to be refilled, and some cut up tomatoes and onions that are supposed to be salsa.
One thing you can get here is American candy. There are M&Ms, plain and peanut, Snickers, Kit Kat Bars, Mars Bars, etc. None of it can compare with the luscious wonderful French and Belgian chocolate found all over Paris in sumptuous shops but French chocolate is expensive. You can find just about any brand of candy at the movie theaters here. You can also find popcorn. When you order it they ask if you want sweet or salt. The sweet is sort of like carmel corn but not brown. Since it doesn’t have peanuts in it, a la Cracker Jacks, I always get regular. But the French cinemas haven’t mastered the art of selling popped corn. They don’t pop it on the premises in front of the eyes - and noses - of those coming in to watch a movie. I could seldom pass up a box of popcorn in the States when I walked in and was overcome by the aroma that only comes from corn kernels popping in hot oil. I don’t know where or when they pop the corn here. It usually tastes like it was done several days ago in the manager’s basement but I will still sometimes get a box for nostalgia sake.
France may have come to the junk food idea late, but they have come, probably under the bad influence of America who has not only polluted the French language with such words as cool, not to mention McBurgers and McFries, but has introduced a whole new world of things before unknown. I see potato chips and Doritos in stores here now. I’m still waiting for Twinkies and Ding Dongs and Hostess Cupcakes, but I’m sure it won’t be long. I made myself stop eating them years ago in the States, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still crave them. One of my most revolting breakfasts I used to have was a cold glass of milk with a Ding Dong. I would still have it today if someone could convince me that it was good for me. There is a fantastic brand of French cookie that I love called Le Petite Ecolier. It’s like a chocolate candy bar on top of a sugar cookie. It’s something I won’t let myself buy anymore as it calls to me from the cupboard.
I guess cold breakfast cereal could be considered junk food. I used to have a bowl every morning, usually one of those granola type cereals. When I looked for something similar here in Paris, I couldn’t find it. I did notice Corn Flakes, and I was rather excited when I saw Kellogg’s Special K. That was something I had liked in the past so I bought a box. I was really surprised when it tasted entirely different. It wasn’t as crunchy and tasted a little like cardboard to me, even if I added fruit and sugar. I assume it is made to French tastes and has less sugar as well as an entirely different list of ingredients. When my grandchildren came I bought an unknown brand of one of those chocolate cereals which they seemed to like. Their main complaint was the taste and smell of the milk which was the one found on shelves full of chemicals to preserve it, and tasting like it.
There is something that I still have in the mornings that I know is bad for me. It’s Diet Coke. I know it sounds horrible, but what is the difference, really, between a Diet Coke and a cup of coffee? When it is hot outside, it just sounds good to me. Ben loves Coke, too. I haven’t seen him have it for breakfast, although he will eat cookies in the morning if there is nothing else. He won’t even go to the corner boulangerie for a pain au chocolate which, in my opinion, is far superior.
Many tourists learn to their dismay that Coke is very expensive here. It can cost more than wine, especially in cafes near tourist destinations. One hot day I sat outside a cafe on Montmartre and ordered a Diet Coke. I should have looked at the menu first as it cost me seven Euros. I could have had a carafe of wine for less. A lot of French people seem to drink Orangina, an orange soda that comes in a cute little shaped bottle. I have also seen teens lugging around huge plastic bottles of peach flavored ice tea. More and more I notice bottles of Coke or Diet Coke on tables at restaurants. They are even starting to serve soda here with ice, without the customer having to ask for it, which is a really big deal. Ice is something most Europeans don’t consider essential for drinks. I stopped ever expecting it and have even gotten used to drinking soda without it. When a waitress hands you a glass of cold Coke and says, “Be careful, it’s cold,” you know it will be a while before ice will be found in every beverage.
So, what do I do when I start craving some junk food from America? I can get some good candy here and sometimes I will eat that. A pain au chocolate, which is a croisant stuffed with chocolate, is a worthy substitute. I have been trying to train myself to be content with fruit and we have wonderful fruit here at the markets. I save up my cravings for my trips to America. I go to my favorite restaurant in Austin for the best fries in the world, I hit Long John Silvers for my chicken planks and I consider buying a Ding Dong. It all tastes great. However, I always find myself, when back in the States, craving things I can only get in France. Isn’t that just the way it always is?

Not my grandkids, but sorta cute.

Hugless in France
(written several years ago as I now have 5, almost 6 grandchildren)

One thing that is hard for me while living in Paris is that I can’t see my family as much as I used to. I miss my parents and my children a lot but, except for new hair cuts or hair colors or maybe a little weight loss or gain, they don’t change from time to time like my grandchildren do. If you miss just a month out of their lives, especially in the first two or three years, you miss so much. I especially miss their chubby little arms around my neck in a hug that only grandchildren can give. Between the time I saw my two oldest grandsons they went from being toddlers to little boys. It happened so quickly. My newest grandson, Jackson, was just starting to lift his head and look around curiously when I last saw him. I could already see his little personality developing in between his feedings and naps. Since then he has learned to crawl and is pulling himself up on furniture getting ready to walk. And I have missed it all.
Thank God for computers and telephones. I talk to my children about once a month but a lot more often via the Internet. I often get photos of the two oldest grandsons, Cooper and Evin, e-mailed to me and Evin has his own web site that his Dad set up which I visit often and see new photos posted so I feel like I am in their lives a little bit. At least I see some of the changes taking place. I’m looking forward to the time when they get old enough to exchange e-mails with me. Since Cooper will be starting first grade soon, that probably won’t be much longer.
Because Jackson isn’t a year old yet, he and his parents haven’t been here to visit me. I know I wouldn’t want to make that long trip with a baby. Cooper and Evin, however, have been here with their parents. Their mother made sure they watched Rug Rats in Paris so when they came they were all primed for the sights. Evin said, “I’m going to Parwis and I’m going to see the Eiffel Towwar.” They loved the Eiffel Tower and were surprised at how large it was. I made all sort of plans to entertain them. The first thing we had to do, even though they were 3 and 5, was to buy umbrella strollers as they weren’t used to walking so much. After that they were fine. They would happily climb in the strollers when we set off.
It was December when they came for a visit and our first visit was to Galeries LaFayette and Printemps to look at the fabulous window decorations animated with such characters as mice and cats. Red lights hung above the sidewalk and were wrapped around every tree. Christmas is a fantastic time to see Paris.
I had read about Deyrolle, a store full of stuffed animals. As you are walking by on the street your eye will suddenly be caught by a zebra or horse in the window. It changes monthly. I thought my grandsons would enjoy this so we entered and climbed the stairs where we were met by a pair of lions looking real but a little moth eaten. This place was started in the 1800’s before there was television, computers, or encyclopedias, and few zoos, and people wanted to see what a certain animal looked like. Sometimes one of the stuffed animals will be rented out for a party or a fashion shoot. You can see an ostrich, sea turtle, bear or tiger. We saw domestic animals as well. There are old fashioned wooden cases filled with drawers you pull out full of collections of beetles or butterflies. The floor is ancient and has dips and tilts all over the place but it adds to the ambiance. It is all fascinating to me and my grandsons liked it, too. We could buy a butterfly in a little display frame or a book about animals. It seems to me to be something that is uniquely Parisian and I like the feeling of going back in time when I enter.
Being boys they also enjoyed a boat trip down the Seine, a climb up the Arc de Triomphe, as well as the Eiffel Tower. We ran out of time before I could take them down to see the Catacombs or do a tour through the sewer system. There will still be a lot to do the next time they come to visit.
Maurice has twin grandchildren almost five years old now named Tom and Lola. They are so cute and help fill the void for the desire to be around my grandsons. Of course, they don’t speak a word of English, although they can mimic a word or phrase perfectly like little parrots. They aren’t quite sure what to make of me but they always seem glad to see me and when we are walking down a street they will hold my hand. Lola is just starting to figure out relationships and has realized that Maurice was once married to one of her grandmothers. She asked him recently why I didn’t speak French, so she is starting to understand. Tom doesn’t seem as interested in all of the inner workings of the modern family. It is a source of frustration to me that both of them have been able to talk circles around me in French since they were three. They rattle off sentences to me and, if I am lucky, I can pick up a word or two and know what they are talking about. Tickling is universal and I can make them laugh. I can look at their toys or art work and say, in my bad French, “This painting you did is so beautiful!”.
I learned very quickly how to say “Stop!” just in case they do something that scares me such as getting too near a street. We were at a huge park once with Tom and Lola and their parents. Suddenly, none of us could see Tom. He had totally disappeared. In the States if this happens, the parents go berserk, thinking the worse, racing around madly trying to find the child. Here, the father just mildly set off, not upset at all. He did find Tom but I was surprised that the parents weren’t more panicked. The same thing happened with Lola on a packed street in the Marais. We found her talking to a lady. Neither she, nor her mother were upset.
I live in fear that I will be left alone with them and something will happen where they have to communicate with me and I won’t be able to help them. I baby sat them the other day by myself which I agreed to as they were both taking a nap. I sat there the whole time praying they wouldn’t wake up. Maurice wants them to start staying with us for longer periods of time. I always say, “Fine. As long as you never leave me alone with them.” They are used to staying with baby-sitters and relatives as their parents have to go all over the world frequently for business trips so they wouldn’t be crying for their parents the whole time. Until I am a lot more fluent I sort of stay on the periphery not really involved with them which doesn’t stop them from talking to me. They are cute kids.
As might be expected, French children eat differently here. There are hundreds of foods and drinks I have never heard of such as Banania, a type of chocolate breakfast drink full of vitamins-not bananas as I thought at first seeing the box. Maurice’s grandchildren happily eat cheeses that I don’t think my grandchildren would touch. Macaroni and cheese or tacos with cheese on top is probably where their knowledge of cheese stops. One day I was serving myself some cheese from a wedge of Brie while Lola carefully watched. I made the mistake of cutting my piece off the pointed edge. I was informed by Lola that you only cut cheese off of the side. Who knew?
When Tom and Lola were younger I noticed that they would always have their baths before being fed dinner. Then they would eat and make the usual mess children make when they eat and, also, have to have their diapers changed. This didn’t make sense to me. Why not save the major cleaning for when it is all over? I used to use baths to help make my children sleepy, too, so they would go to sleep more easily when their bed time came. I’m not sure if the bath thing with Tom and Lola is something just in their family or if it is common in all French families.
I haven’t noticed a whole lot of difference in child care between Americans and French. I often pass two year olds on the streets here in Paris having a “meltdown” and screaming. I haven’t seen parents swat their children on the streets but I have seen the twins get spanked at home. The French parents seem fairly strict here with instant reaction if something naughty is done by the child. I would say, just from my observations, that American children “get away” with a lot more.
There is also a big difference in how the French dress their children. I see little babies in the winter dressed in heavy snowsuits so well lined that the poor kids can’t bend their arms or turn their heads, which are covered in thickly woven hats. When I see one of these miniature snowmen on the subway or train, which are always very warm, I don’t know how they stand it. My grandsons would start squirming and crying in misery. I’ve never seen such hot blooded people as my grandsons. There is no way they can even be dressed in winter pajamas. They wake up crying and miserable if their bedrooms aren’t at arctic levels. When the temperature in Paris gets below 70 degrees I see mothers dressing their children in hats and coats. I guess if you are dressed like that all of your life you become used to stifling rooms, buses and metros. I just remember pulling a hat off of one of my children when they were infants and their little heads would be sweating like crazy. Once again, it’s a cultural thing.
There are wonderful clothing stores for children in Paris and they are found in great numbers everywhere. For those with money to burn, designer clothing stores are available. I always had trouble spending much money on clothing for my children when I knew they would either ruin it while eating or drinking or outgrow it in a matter of months. For my grandchildren I head for more affordable stores where I can find things that won’t be seen in the States. I got a little T-shirt for Jackson with a rabbit holding a watch hurrying somewhere and it said, “Je suis retard!” which means “I am late!” but, being an American, I thought it would get double takes from people in the States wondering about the word “retard”. I have to stay out of the stores because it is so easy to overspend. Everything is so cute and stylish.
I look forward to the time when my grandchildren are old enough to come spend a summer with me. I think I will love seeing France through their young eyes. And I won’t have to worry about dressing them for winter.

It has been cold in Paris this week with snow. They locked up Palais Royal tighter than a drum as it was too icy and unsafe to walk in.

A closer look at Palais Royal park through the locked gate.

How We Travel

It is interesting to me to read various travel boards on the Internet and get a glimpse into the thinking of those who travel. There are those, even members of my family, who travel as little as possible and have no desire to see the world. It is almost like a recessive gene to have urge to see parts of the world you have only read or heard about. If you don’t have that travel gene, you don’t get it. I have had people say to me, “You are going traveling again? Don’t you get tired of it?” I never have, not even when the victim of Montezuma’s revenge in Mexico, getting a close up view of the inside of a toilet. I’ve even been back to Mexico many more times. I like the culture there and the warmth of the people.
There seem to be two sorts of travelers: those who want to see it all and who want to cram as much as possible into one short period of time and those who think that is a ridiculous way to travel. Americans, especially, seem to be accused of the “If this is Tuesday, it must be Belgium” mentality. Part of this is because, unlike many Europeans, Americans only have a limited vacation time. Two weeks for a vacation is a real luxury and Europeans with their six weeks or more of vacation time are looked at with envy. If you only have a week of time to travel and you have paid a large sum to get airline tickets with hotel reservations and happen to be in a place overseas that you feel is a once in a life-time event, such as France or Italy, you want to see as much as you can. You may never again get the chance to see Rome, Florence, Venice, Tuscany and Naples even if it is all in one seven day period.
More and more travelers have discovered, especially if traveling with children, that staying in apartments rather than hotels can be a real benefit in traveling, especially when the kids get up in the morning wanting their ceral, not a croissant and coffee. It can be great to come back to an apartment for a nap, cooking your own meals after shopping in a neighborhood street like a native. Of course, there isn’t anyone to wash the dishes or make the beds, and no room service. There is also the possibility that the apartment doesn’t look like the photo you saw on the website renting it and that two of you will be sleeping on a lumpy fold out couch bed and you may never figure out how to run the washing machine there. Apartment renting, never the less, is becoming more and more the norm for tourists.
There is a travel board that I read call Slow Travel. This is a different philosophy of travel. You don’t see how much you can pack into your time in a city or country but you stay in one place and really get to know it. You might make forays into the area but you savor your time there, slowly explore, let the country soak into your memory like a slowly developing photo.
I’ve done it both ways and, if I have the time, like the slow travel way of visiting a country. But, when I’m in a new place and only have one week there, I find myself feeling a little stressed, wildly reading the Internet, pouring over travel books, wanting to find out all that I can about where I am going. I don’t want to miss anything. I hate to get back, know I am proably never returning there, and then hearing about something fabulous that I missed. I know I will return not really “knowing” a place in the world, new to me, but I will still be happy that I got to see it.
There are traveler’s clubs whose goal is to see as many countries in the world as they can. By seeing a country, it doesn’t mean exploring it. Just landing in the airport or getting off in a port counts. And that is what you do, count. Everyone wants to have the longest list. I used to get this mentality about seeing as many States in the US that I could, going miles out of my way to cross the border so I could say that I had “been” there. I did this once when in Kentucky, ending up in a rather depressing corner of Indiana so I could say I had been there. There are many States I haven’t visited unlike my French husband who has visited every State but North and South Dakota. He traveled across America often camping out and getting more of a feel for each State than I’m sure I do when I blitz Europe.