You see a lot of old cars along Route 66

The “gas station” in Hackberry on Route 66.

Corvettes only.

Route 66 or more than you ever wanted to know about my youth.

And then we got to Gallup, New Mexico. I don’t remember why but I have always thought it was an ugly town. I had even made up a song in my youth about how awful it was. We must have spent some time there when we traveled as a family. I was hoping I would be delightfully surprised when Maurice and I arrived there but we couldn’t really find an old section of the town and it stretched out in either direction along the freeway with miles of hotels and fast food places. I personally wanted to stop driving here-I was really tired of the car by then-but Maurice couldn’t find, in the hundreds of hotels and motels lining the highway, one place that appealed to him. It was 5:30 or so, and he managed to talk me into pressing on north up to Farmington. We somehow missed highway 666-sort of an interesting if scary number-and instead went up highway 371, one of those roads which look the width of a hair on the map and is of course two lanes. I was driving this part of the journey and we passed some absolutely fantastic red cliffs as we drove along and I was sorry that night was coming because they were unbelieveably beautiful in the red light of the setting sun. We passed the entrance to a place called the Red Rock Reserve and I remembered that I had an uncle named George who so loved this region that his family started calling him Red Rock. I called him Uncle Red Rock all of his life without wondering why he had such a strange name. He was called Red by friends although he didn’t have red hair. He and his family lived in Farmington. My Dad and all of his brothers ended up in Silver City, New Mexico when my grandfather was diagnosed with tuberculosis and was told he needed to move to a warmer, dryer climate than that found in Kentucky which is how I came to be raised in the Southwest. Anyway, I felt a sudden link with Uncle Red Rock and got why he loved it so. It was such a nostalgic feeling as I drove along in the dark with the highway unrolling under the tires and only the triangle of light on the road ahead. There was very little trafic on this small road and the stars came out thick and bright along side and overhead in the black sky. We found one of those great rock and roll stations that followed us all the way up the our destination playing hits from the 50’s and 60’s and I sang along to the Everly Brothers and Elvis hearing old songs that I hadn’t heard in years and I remembered being in high school dancing to these songs or being in a car with a boyfriend listening to hear which song would be number one that week maybe announced by Wolfman Jack coming through the air all the way from Los Angeles to the radio in Prescott, Arizona, filled with the wonder and joy of that innocent time. I think Maurice slept a little while I rushed up the road filled with memories. I was almost sorry to reach Farmington.
The next morning we reached Durango, another slice of life from my past. I had gone to junior high here. I need to ask my Dad why we moved so much and why he picked the places he did. I think he was simply trying to find himself and find something that he really enjoyed doing. I remember enjoying Durango, even the heavy snow in the winter although we didn’t do any winter sports. I need to ask my mother, too, how she felt about all of these moves. Her family was in Houston, Texas and she didn’t get to see them very often. In any case, we stayed in the historic Strater Hotel on Main Avenue which was a short walk from a clothing store that my father once owned.

The hotel is fabulous and built in the late 1800’s and was full of Victorian furniture. Our room was especially lovely and we had a great dinner in the hotel restaurant which was decorated in a wonderfully warm way with stained glass, bricks and dark wood. We walked down the street to my old junior high. I don’t have great memories of junior high, really, having been very shy, a new student starting in the middle of the year, and too sensitive on top of it all. I just remember enjoying the town itself. My sister and I even had horses while here. What a lot of work they turned out to be. What were my parents thinking? My horse was named Roly Poly when we bought her, being short and fat. We were told she had a grass belly. Imagine our surprise a few months later when we arrived to the plot of land where the horses were to find a new baby colt which I named Prince. My sister had a palomino named Richard who was really wacky having once eaten something called loco weed.
The next morning I drove Maurice up the Gold Dust highway to Silverton. It wasn’t as beautiful as I remembered it as there was no autumn color left and no snow to make it less bare. It is much better to take the train to Silverton but it had stopped running for the year. We then headed back towards Arizona, making a stop at Four Corners where four states all meet in one place-Arizona, Utah, New Mexico and Colorado. It’s sort of fun to stand with two feet in four states.

Somehow in the whole time that I lived in the Southwest I had never visited Monument Valley so we decided to make a short detour to see it. Since the days are shorter now we had to rush like crazy. I hate to speed but I wanted to catch the setting sun lighting up those rocky towers while we had the chance. We just made it.

Most of the towers were in shade but one was just perfect.

We then took a small loop that took us along the base of the a few of them, really a nice experience but on an unbelievable rough unpaved road. A few Native Americans actually live amongst all of that splendor. I was amazed at the countryside of this whole area and wished I knew more about geology. You can see signs of so much that happened through millions of years-eruptions, mountains pushed up, great plunges, sinkings and fallings of stones and mountains, twistings and bubblings now in stone, centuries of run offs and erosions; it all showed here and there as we drove along. There were even occaional soft round mounds looking like elephants were perhaps growing under the ground, pushing up with just the tops of their backs and sometimes the tops of their heads showing, going to be full sized elephants maybe a thousand years from now. Maurice was all for heading on to Scottsdale to my parent’s home but I just couldn’t take five or six more hours in the car so we stopped in Kayenta which I remembered from years ago when we would stop for gas on the way to Colorado to go skiing. It was barely more than just a gas station then but now has many new motels built, I’m sure, for all of those who want to visit Monument Valley. It was interesting to look at our motel bill and see that the taxes were for the States, the city and the Navaho Nation.Then finally the next morning back to Scottsdale, happy to get out of the car but so glad that we went.

Route 66

Shortly before Maurice turned 66 he said, ” You know what I would like to do to celebrate my birthday? ”
I had no idea. He came up with the idea of driving along Route 66. For some reason many French people seem fascinated with that highway. When I mentioned Maurice’s idea to a couple of Americans they looked puzzled and said, ” Why? ” I’m sure the song saying to get your kicks on Route 66 as well as the old television show has a lot to do with it. It is really a slice of Americana, a memory of the 50’s and 60’s in smal town America. Growing up in the Southwest I had been on it a couple of times and didn’t have any particularly warm feelings about it. I remembered long trips on narrow roads stretching out straight ahead without a curve for miles while acre after acre of brown,barren desert could be seen from the back seat of the car. We were going to the States for the Thanksgiving holidays anyway so we thought, “Why not include a drive along some of Route 66 while we were in Arizona? ”
So, when we were in Scottsdale, Arizona to visit my parents we decided to drive up to Kingman and then head east finding Route 66 when we could because, as it turns out, not all of it is remains but parts are now listed as historic and you can still find old signs and now many shops selling Tshirts and mugs with the famous logo. In fact, it once went all of the way from Santa Monica, California to Chicago and opened up many areas of America that were little visited before and also brought a lot of visitors to little towns along the way. The highway itself followed a railroad track for most of the way and we saw train after train loaded with long boxes that would be put on semi trucks once they reached their destinations. I had forgotten how many trains America has.
When we got to Kingman we headed east and soon found a little northern loop of Route 66 which becomes a two lane highway without the 75 mile an hour speed limit of the nearby freeway. There was a lot less traffic and it was sort of fun to tool along like we did in the past. We had a fabulous hangburger at a little place called Mr. Dz’s which was all fitted out with a fountain with round twisting stools, a juke box playing hits from the 50’s and 60’s, and photos of Elvis and Marlyn Monroe.

I haven’t seen a water pump like this since my childhood.

The road took us to a little stop on the road called Hackberry with an old gas station in front of a store, a red corvette parked in a space saying: corvette parking only and it was filled with memorabilia of Route 66 where we could buy replicas of the old highway sign, Tshirts, mugs and more. I also bought a bottle of Route 66 Root Beer. What a rush of memories came with my first sip of that drink-long summer days, frosty mugs of root beer floats, lying on the lawn looking at the stars, the sound of a slamming screen door. I was starting to get into this nostalgia thing. Outside were rusting cars and even a pair of donkies.

On we headed through Peach Springs eventually ending up in Williams. The highway goes right through the center of this town. I had gone to school in Prescott, Arizona, many many years ago and remembered coming here for football games or passing through it on the way to Flagstaff for skiing. Maurice wanted to stay in a hotel here overnight instead of going to the larger city of Flagstaff so we found one of those motels, the scene of many an American movie, and strolled down the street for dinner at a place which was also selling Route 66 mugs, Tshirts and much more. We bought a mug here. The next morning the traffic on Route 66 was temporarily blocked off as a huge pine tree was hauled up the street on a large truck. It was going to be placed in the middle of a small street and decorated for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving.
Heading on to Flagstaff, there suddenly is no more Route 66 and you are required to get back on Highway 40 with its heavy trafic and high speed. We found a small portion here and there but then there were only parts of it in the main street of towns such as Winslow. As we were getting closer to New Mexico we decided to make a detour to explore the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert where the old highway 66 once went.

The new highway when built actually led to millions of tons of the petrified wood being removed when it was discovered by travelers. It was a fascinating place with large pieces of what looked like huge tree trunks lying on the ground but which had become stone through millions of years of immersion in water and then silt and volcanic ash being deposited on top. The land is layers of colors-some gray and while, some shades of pink and rust-and here and there lie groups of pieces of petrified logs. It was a fun and lovely detour.

To be continued….

Something I wrote quite a few years ago that is still true today.

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 of 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 or interpret 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 the words French dressing in. What he would call a French dressing would be vinaigrette - closer to the bottled Italian dressing - not the creamy orange stuff 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 “Hold your horses” and “You can’t get blood from a turnip.” 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 it. 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.

Another repeat while I’m in the States. This was written years ago. Just re-reading it sets me to remembering all of those first impressions I had when I first moved to France. I try to keep reminding myself to keep my eyes open now and to be as charmed as I was then.

Posh-Less in France

I don’t live in a posh area of Paris. I can’t look out my window and see the Eiffel Tower or the Luxembourg Gardens. I don’t walk out the door and head up the street to Sacre Cour or turn a corner and find myself in Place des Vosges. I wish I could as these are wonderful areas to be in.

I live in the 12th arrondissement, one of the lesser known areas of Paris and when I look out my window I see the apartment building across the street, not a well known monument. You can learn a lot about people just by looking in their windows. I’m not a peeping Tom, honest. Sometimes I look out the window to check the sky for clouds or open it to water my pot of geraniums and I glimpse life across the street—or across the inner courtyard if I am looking out my kitchen window. I haven’t seen any scenes such as those in Rear Window or any amorous clutches.

Across the street I see a lady sitting in front of a computer most of the day. I don’t know if she has a small business going or is, perhaps, a writer. One day, she smiled and waved at me as I was working out on my stairmaster in front of the window. One apartment over from her is an older woman I often observe hanging up clothing to dry or ironing. I can also, unintentionally glimpse her dressing or undressing as she never closes her curtains. The lady above her, grows masses of bright red geraniums and picks off dead flower heads every morning and throws them down to the sidewalk, and when she waters, a few unsuspecting pedestrians below get a sudden shower.

If I look across our courtyard which is surrounded on all sides by apartment buildings, I usually see two young men with dark hair looking back at me. I assume they are students as I sometimes see one of them reading a book as the sun streams into their apartment. Of course, for all I know, they could be reading Playboy, which may explain their interest in checking out the view on my side of the courtyard. Maybe a lady above me undresses in front of her window. Because they always seem to be on the look out for any interesting views, I am very careful to always be fully dressed, especially in my kitchen if I have my curtains open. I’m sure they would be shocked if they could see me up close.

There is one apartment that has me worried. The windows are never opened and I thought for a while that they were covered in some sort of plastic sheeting but I have come to the conclusion that the windows have just never been washed. I’ve never seen the windows opened, either. Ragged looking curtains hang down and at night, when the interior lights are on, I can see someone come close to the window and it is either the husband or wife looking like they must be in their 80’s, if you can guess a thing from such a distance. As long as I can see them moving every day or so I have to assume they are all right.

When it is sunny, and usually on the weekends, windows are thrown open and women can be seen shaking out dust clothes or dust mops and shining their windows. They also take duvets from their beds and place them half way out on the window ledge, I assume to air them out. I would try this, but my window ledges are too dirty to drape my good linens on. Duvets are a whole new thing to me, a type of comforter with a pillowcase like cover. They make it really easy to make the bed and are nice and toasty in the winter.

The 12th arrondissement has a large area called Nation. This is a so-called square with a huge roundabout where nine streets converge. The center boasts two tall towers, one mounted with a statue of Saint Louis and the other with a statue of King Phillip August. Centuries ago, tolls were taken here as people entered Paris. It was called Throne Place at one time since a throne was placed here in honor of Louis IV and his bride. For a short time it was called The Place of the Overturned Throne during the turbulent days of the French Revolution.

Also, during this time, over 1000 people were executed at this square after those at the Place de Bastille tired of the crowds, blood and smell. A tiny cemetery, Picpus Cemetery, holds the bodies of those poor souls. LaFayette and his wife are also buried here because some of his wife’s relatives died during the revolution. Every July 4th, a ceremony is held at Lafayette’s grave and soil from the United States is sprinkled on his grave. When he died, he requested that American soil be put on his grave, so the tradition continues.

We are also near Bois de Vincennes, a huge lush park where my husband likes to jog. It has several lakes, an immense floral park, a chateau, and miles of jogging and biking trails. I had no idea, when I first moved to Paris, that it was so close to our apartment. On my first week we started off on our bikes and soon we passed a lake with a little island in the middle, then a little restaurant, and suddenly there was the Chateau de Vincennes. It has a lot of French history associated with it but seems rather modest to me if compared to such places as Versailles. The first Sunday of every month there is a meeting of a car club and all sorts of models of cars, mostly very old, are collected here and shown by their proud owners.

Parc Floral, right across the way from the chateau, has great jazz concerts every weekend in the summer months and is full of gigantic bushes of camellias and other flowering plants. There is an enormous playground for children full of interesting play equipment that even has me thinking about taking a ride or climbing. I was surprised at some things such as a climbing tower of ropes about 75 feet in the air. It has some rubber matting under it but I don’t think it would help much if a child should happen to fall. Americans would never allow something like this in a park. I can only imagine the lawsuits that would result.

Back towards our apartment, at Nation Square, we are lucky to have a huge street market every Wednesday and Saturday. Maurice and I go to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, fish, meat, chicken, seafood, olives, butter, and eggs. We almost always overbuy as everything looks so good. It’s really fun to shop here and we plan our menus for the next few days as we walk along and see what looks good. My favorite thing during June and July are the huge mounds of cherries in every stall. The ones I like best are large and heart shaped and come from Provence. They can be very expensive so we look around and try to find the best price. Maurice likes strawberries, but not just any strawberry. The first ones to appear look great to me—enormous as strawberries go, and red—but Maurice says no, they are from Spain and he says that they usually aren’t grown in soil. He will wait for those from France. He was right, of course. They were smaller but incredibly sweet.

Maurice is a good cook and loves to try new recipes. I like some of his tried and true ones best. His beef burgundy is wonderful and ratatouille is something I have really come to love. We often get fresh fish or scallops and Maurice will get snails if they look good. They come already covered in butter and garlic—ready to cook. I will try one or two but I don’t love them like he does. He buys oysters, too, when in season, and opens them himself with a lot of prying and pressure. He eats them with a mixture of vinegar and shallots. I eat an occasional oyster which gives you a taste of the ocean but that’s about it.

We return home on a street called rue du Rendezvous lined with boucheries, boulangeries, grocery stores, fromageries, a fruit and vegetable place, and patisseries. One place sells what are surely the best macaroon cookies and chocolate desserts in Paris. I love this shop.

There is also a little store that has food prepared and ready to go. Everything always looks so good but, unfortunately, it isn’t cheap. The first time we walked passed I saw a pan heaped with fried potatoes with added pieces of duck, onions, ham and parsley. I’m sure they also had goose fat in them. It looked so fabulous I talked Maurice into buying some. It was in the days when francs where still used in France and I didn’t really figure out how much we were paying. When we got home Maurice said, “Do you know how much these potatoes cost?” I didn’t have a clue. It turned out that we had paid the equivalent of almost ten dollars for potatoes for two people. I must say, however, that these were the best potatoes I have ever had in my life. Every once in a while, as we walk by, I will see a pan of them in the window again and try to talk Maurice into some more ten dollar potatoes. I just can’t duplicate them at home-never have goose fat or duck in my refrigerator.

Finally, before we head up the stairs to our apartment, we must get a baguette. France has the best bread in the world; I don’t know what they do to make it taste so good. You can cross the border and be 30 minutes into Italy and the taste and texture of their bread is entirely different. I’m sure a really hot oven makes the outside so crusty, leaving the inside soft and chewy. I’ve heard the oven must be used for years to make the bread the right consistency. Maurice is very picky about his bread. Once, when our usual bakery was closed, I bought a baguette that looked good to me being brown on the outside and the right shape. Maurice took one bite and said, “This was mass produced.” Just one bite and he was bothered by the texture of the bread inside which seemed to have too many air bubbles or something. I thought it was all nonsense, but I don’t any more. When our favorite boulangerie is closed and we are forced to buy our bread at a place across the street I can really taste a difference not only in taste but in consistency. As with many places in Paris, our boulangerie is closed for the whole of August. I can’t tell you how distressing this is to me.

The boulangerie is no more than a couple of dozen steps from our apartment. One day I saw a white truck parked in front with a hose coming from it down into the basement of the boulangerie. At first I thought it might be delivering fuel but as I got closer I saw a white cloud in the air and I smelled the unmistakable odor of flour. I had no idea flour could be delivered in this way. The bakery across the street gets their flour delivered in sacks carried into the kitchen by delivery men.

Bread was the first thing I bought by myself when I moved to Paris. A couple owns our neighborhood boulangerie and the husband is down in the basement toiling in front of the ovens while his wife mans the counter upstairs. I have only seen the baker twice. He had come up the stairs to bring a tray of desserts and he wore shorts with a long white apron over the top that reached his ankles. His wife used to tell me the price of what I was buying and I didn’t have a clue what she was saying so I would just hold out a hand full of change and let her take what she needed. As time went on she wouldn’t do it but would repeat the price until I understood what she was saying and figured out for myself what to give her. We have never exchanged any more than “bonjour” and “au revoir.” When I walk in the door she reaches back behind her to the forest of bread sticking up in holding racks and pulls out the type of baguette we always eat. I now have the exact change ready as I walk in. This is one time I would love to speak French so I could learn her name and a little about her.

There are some grocery stores in our neighborhood that we go to for staples such as toilet paper, drinks and the like. The least expensive store is called Franprix. I get upset when I shop there because I am accustomed to American efficiency and customer service. There can be 50 people in line, stretched back into the aisles blocking access to products—it is a very small building and everything is crammed together making it hard to even pass people in the aisles. In front of the 4 cash registers will be 3 or 4 women who work there but invariably two of them are involved in some sort of busy work that doesn’t involve waiting on customers.

Another curiosity is that all of the people checking out customers get to sit down. I’ve done my share of retail work and remember how my feet ached at the end of the day. What I wouldn’t have given for a chair back then. And when you buy groceries, you have to bag them yourself. The check-out person will grudgingly dole out one plastic bag at a time, as if they cost a fortune. At a discount grocery store called Ed you have to pay for each bag. The bags in Paris are always plastic—no paper bags here.

On Saturday morning, the busiest morning of the week, two or three Franprix employees will have huge carts of canned goods or cleaning supplies blocking the aisles while they stock the shelves. Occasionally, there will be a man sweeping the floors at the same time. It makes me want to pull my hair out but I know the French would be totally mystified at my attitude. It’s just how it is; they’re used to it. I asked Maurice why they couldn’t clean the floors and stock the shelves when the stores were closed, but they don’t want to pay the extra wages to do this. How does America do it? I remember with fondness the 10-15 open check-out lines. The floors gleamed, the shelves were fully stocked. I do miss that.

It is different here. I miss the comfortableness of America some of the time and being able to find a store open late at night or on Sundays. But there are tradeoffs. I have found more charm here and I enjoy the “event” of shopping the markets. Now, if I could just get the recipe for those ten dollar potatoes.

Another repeat while I am in the States.

Frost-Less In France

The only time I have been cold in Paris is in the winter out on the streets. The rest of the time, I roast. I had never been hot blooded before. I spent most of my youth cold, always sneaking around and turning down the air-conditioner or turning up the heat. As I got older I noticed that I wasn’t as cold as often-except when I lived in Dallas. I learned to never go to the grocery store or a movie in shorts when living there. I also learned to never forget to take a sweater for the movies. We are talking glacial. I would be in front of a screen sitting on my hands to warm them up or putting my hand over my nose to prevent frost bite.

I worked in the operating room for many years in the States. Because the doctors and scrub nurses are wearing double gowns, masks and caps and standing under the hot operating room lights they often requested the temperature in the room be turned down to Arctic levels. I had to wear a special jacket as I was outside in the periphery of the room and special efforts had to be made to keep the patient warm as well.

Then I moved to Paris. We went to a movie and the temperature outside was in the 30’s. I had on boots, jeans, a sweater over my shirt, a coat, hat and gloves. On the metro I started sweating but we were soon sitting in front of the screen where I slowly began removing layers. I even eventually removed my boots to cool my hot feet on the cooler floor. That place was like an oven. When I went outside I was immediately chilled in the cold air. I came to find that this was the norm for Paris. You may be dressed up for winter outside, but enter a store and you feel like you are in Arizona and spend the time in the store carrying your coat.

The French are very big at wearing scarves. I once saw a jaunty little dog one cold winter day wearing not only a leapard sking jacket, but a little scarf tied around his neck-even the dogs are stylish here. Of course, the women look fabulous in scarves and have all sorts of intricate ways to tie them that are works of art. I don’t see as many in the summer as even a Parisian can get a little hot. In the winter everyone has one, usually a wool scarf. My husband won’t leave the apartment without one if it is cold outside. I think he feels he will become deathly ill if his neck should become exposed to the cold. The scarves do look very nifty tied and tucked into a coat. I bought one to fit in with the crowd and tried to get used to tying it around my neck but got horribly uncomfortable with it on when I got on a bus or subway and it wasn’t long before I untied it and lost it. I do have a beret that I will pull down over my ears for warmth. The wind can really make your ears feel cold.

Then there are the summers. Ask any Frenchmen if it gets hot in Paris in the summer and he or she will say no, it is only uncomfortable at the most for 10 days in the entire season. In addition, you will be assured, all of the old buildings in Paris are built with very thick walls that keeps the heat out and the rooms cool. Shutters can be closed when the temperatures rise and opened when the sun goes down keeping the room at a comfortable level. At the most, all that is needed is a fan that won’t ever really be used.

What a load of bull. I am here to tell you that it is hot a lot more than 10 days in the summer. I have staggered home with a heavy load of groceries, stumbled into our apartment and plopped myself directly in front of our electric fan waiting to start feeling cool. The windows are wide open on either side of the apartment and I wait with anticipation for a cross breeze that never occurs. I think in any large city with all of the asphalt and cement it feels even hotter than the temperature actually is. And the nights can be agony with the little fan working its heart out to cool the temperature of the room down, and sheets pushed down to the foot of the bed. Around 3 or 4 AM the room finally starts cooling down. You also hope you don’t have to close the window because a party is going on across the courtyard leading to a really difficult night.

We were over for dinner at a relative’s of Maurice one summer night. It was in the 90’s and that is really hot in Paris. The room where we were eating dinner was was extremely hot. The windows were open and it helped some, but not a lot. The husband couldn’t stand the noise from the streets and closed the windows. I couldn’t believe it. My hair started frizzing, my neck became hot. I surreptitiously dipped my napkin in my water to try and cool my neck and forehead. Finally, the wife insisted he open the windows. I couldn’t wait to get home and take a cold shower.

Before I married Maurice I only half jokingly told him that I would only marry him if he bought an air-conditioner for our apartment. He didn’t do it right away. We went through one summer without one. I survived but I was crabby about it. No metro trains or buses were air-conditioned by anything more than opened windows and the French class I was taking at the time was oven-like. I came home dying for a cool room. Finally, the second summer we were in Paris we bought a little unit. What a difference! It doesn’t sit half in and half out the window like the units I was used to in Texas. There is a little box, which I assume is a compressor that goes outside. A hose goes through a hole in the window to the unit shaped like R2D2 from Star Wars inside which moves around on wheels. It makes such a difference. I haven’t kept track of the number of times we have used it but I am going to next summer. I want to prove that the heat lasts more than 10 days.

There are no screens on the windows in Paris, or the rest of France, or even Europe, that I can see. It is just not the custom to use screens. If it is cool or warm enough you open the windows and let the air circulate. I’ve gotten used to doing that and was surprised that, in Paris anyway, “bug strainers” weren’t needed. Very seldom does a fly or mosquito make it into our apartment. I don’t know if it’s because the streets are kept so clean or if they put some sort of insecticide in the water. I thought that maybe all of the flies went to Sweden for milder temperatures but discovered most of them in Provence when I got there.

Of course, the summers in Provence where we often go are much worse. When you go out exploring for the day you come back totally wiped out by the heat. All you want to do is float around on a raft in some swimming pool like a frog on a lily pad. You think when you return to Paris that the heat won’t seem so bad, but it never proves to be true.

I am slowly getting used to the heat in Paris. I was amused when the temperature this June “plummeted” to the 70’s and it rained so all of the cafes with places to eat outside fired up their gas heaters. God forbid, that we should get chilled. I was seated in a nonsmoking area of a restaurant not long ago and the room had an air-conditioner. It felt wonderful. It wasn’t long, however, until the French people in the room were cold and had the owner turn the temperature up - just as I was feeling comfortable. I don’t turn on our air-conditioner unless it gets above 80 degrees as I am now comfortable with just the fan going. Paris may make a Parisian of me yet.

The summer after I wrote the above, Paris, as well as the rest of Europe had the hottest summer on record. Over 10,000 people in France died from the heat which reached as high as 106 several days. I started using our air condtioner in May and didn’t stop until the middle of August, thanking God the entire time that Maurice had indulged me in my wish for one. Many angry postings were made by people on various Internet boards in the States about their trips to France and how they suffered without air conditioning in the rooms they had stayed in. When the owners of these places were questioned about buying units for the rooms, they would just shrug their shoulders and say the heat wasn’t normal, which is probably true but I also think they are cheap. I realize, of course, that an air conditioner will raise the electricity bill to high amounts, but this could be paid for by increasing the room rates. I have no doubt that not one B&B or Gite owner bought an air conditioner anywhere in France. I heard on the news that none of the French hospitals have them. Can you imagine being ill, having had surgery, and being in a bed in a room which is probably 100 degrees? Or, working in an operating room for that matter.

Many photos were taken of poor hot tourists with their feet in various fountains all over Paris. I imagined what their rooms were like at night. I met a couple who were lucky enough to have an air conditioned room but were awakened at three in the morning when the automatic timer turned it off. They never were able to get the manager to disconnect the timer. People on the Internet boards were posting messages saying France was uncivilized. It needed to follow the example of America and air condition everything, especially places where tourists were staying. Then the black out came on the East coast of America, that civilized country. It just seemed rather interesting how everything came to a stand still in the States when this happened. Of course, in France, the metros and trains would stop running, but most of France would continue on just as it does on a day to day basis, in their normal way. Maybe the old ways are still the best. I don’t know. I do know that I always pack an electric fan when Maurice and I go out of town if we are taking our car. He may be embarrassed to carry it into our room but he sure doesn’t complain at night when it is blowing on us, cooling off the room.