Falling in Love With France, Part 4

Burgundy

But, another time we headed in another direction right out of Paris into Burgundy. When I am planning a trip, I like to put a lot of time into research. I want to know where I am going to stay, how long it will take us to get there, and what there is to see. I hate it when I get back from a trip and someone says, “You mean you missed the ___? That’s the most fabulous thing I ever saw. What a shame you didn’t know about it.” But I have also found that some of my best trips have been those without any planning. Sometimes wonderful things happen when you are least expecting them. I believe it’s called serendipity.
Such a time happened to my husband and me one weekend on my first June in France. Maurice said on a Saturday morning, “Why don’t we take a quick trip into Burgundy? Just get in the region and then find a place to stay?” We quickly packed an overnight bag and were on the road in an hour. I had grabbed one fat tour book of France on the way out the door that I started scanning as we headed for Burgundy.
The country side was beautiful with golden wheat heavy with grain in the fields ready for harvesting. It was cherry season and we passed many people selling cherries at roadside stands at half the price of those in Paris. The skies were blue, the sun was shining.
The first town we came to that I saw in my tour book was Auxerre. I had never heard of it but the author mentioned a wonderful cathedral, Cathedral St-Etienne, started in the 13th century, that had been visited by Joan of Arc. The cathedral was wonderful, and that would have been all we had seen if Maurice hadn’t decided he had to get a drink of water. We started walking down a small street and discovered a town gate with an ancient clock set into it, opening onto a marvelous, cobble-stoned square. I was amazed that we had almost missed wandering around this little city.
Soon we were on our way to the next town when we decided we had better book a place for the night. Thankful for mobile phones, I started calling every little motel I could find in my tour book and found that they were all booked, so I decided I had better start calling the more expensive places and finally found a place with a room called Château de Vault-de-Lagny located between the two towns of Avallon and Vazelay. I was so happy, since I had imagined spending the night in the car at the side of the road somewhere.
We went on to Avallon, another really interesting town still shielded behind some ancient ramparts and with a lovely church. Then, we decided to go check into the Chateau. Driving along a winding country road through green hills and cherry orchards we found it: a 16th century château circled by a moat. We entered the gates and the château stood across the wide expanse of grass which are called grounds because they look, and are, so luxurious. Peacocks and exotic chickens strolled about. An 11th century tower left from ancient times stood next to a beautiful building. They just don’t make buildings like they used to, in my opinion, and it’s a shame. There is so much charm in steps that curve up to a grand wooden door, with worn indentations from centuries of others climbing in just the same way as we did that day. The interior had high carved ceilings and a wonderful fireplace. Our room was comfortable and luxurious and looked out over the grounds spreading out green in the setting sun.
We stayed there that evening for dinner out in front of the chateau with part of the entertainment being two hot air balloons being filled and then launched over our heads as we ate. We had a great meal with local wine and a regional beef stew.
I decided I could get used to this kind of life style, but I think one reason it was so special to Maurice and me is that we seldom treat ourselves to this kind of luxury, although it turned out to be fairly reasonable. It was also unique because it was unexpected and unplanned; just one of those special times that can happen if you get out and explore. “The best ever,” I thought.
We’ve made brief trips to Normandy and Brittany both full of unbelievable beauty with rugged coast lines, arching cliffs into the water, and breathtaking places like Mont St Michel, an island and cathedral truly lost in time.
There are cities like Rouen or Dijon or Lyon, regions like the champagne country or… well, I could go on and on. I have only been in France for a short time and am amazed at all I have seen and I have just started to see and explore this timeless country of France.

Falling in Love With France, Part 3

Not a photo of Chambord, but another lovely castel, Azaylerideau.

Loire Valley

I knew the Loire area would be fabulous with chateaux everywhere, and it was. Everyone has heard of the chateaux of France. I had seen pictures of various ones as I was growing up and, now that I was in France I couldn’t wait to see them in person. I found that I wasn’t familiar with any of the names except for Blois. So, I got on the Internet and started doing some research. We were only going to be in the Loire region for one weekend and I was planning to make good use of the limited time. I had a list of six chateaux that I wanted to see if time allowed.
Our first evening after eating dinner at a small place on the banks of the Loire River, Maurice suggested taking the short drive to take to the Chateau Chambord. We thought that it might be illuminated and, therefore, a good photo op.
I had seen pictures of Chambord on the Internet and was excited to see it in person. The roof is covered with a multitude of turrets, chimneys, and bellcotes. To me, it looked like the skyline of a medieval Italian city. This observation was confirmed when I read that at the time it was designed, the French had a love for all things Italian.
When we arrived it was just turning dark and the lights had started to brighten the chateau. We stood across the grounds just mesmerized. It’s hard to describe how fabulous it was with that wonderful roof outlined against the sky. Just then I heard my first cuckoo calling from the nearby forest. It sounded just like the clock. I guess I hadn’t remembered that they were real birds until that moment. It was one of those special times - to be standing along side the man I love in the growing dark looking at a centuries old chateau accompanied by a cuckoo.
Suddenly, we noticed a light inside the chateau and could see people moving around. When I heard music, I thought it was coming from the nearby hotel and wondered if there could be a party going on in the chateau. On impulse, we walked up to the side entrance and discovered an open door. There was a self guided tour called Metamorphosis, which is offered during the summer months. We were each handed a little tin lantern and off we went up the dark steps.
What a wonderful way to see a chateau. We were enthralled by dim lighting, special music, strange sounds, and moving shadows on the walls and silhouettes through the windows. It was as if we had stepped back in time, to the Chambord of long ago. There wasn’t any furniture because this had been a hunting chateau. When the king and his escorts came to hunt deer, servants brought in their furniture and wall hangings and then packed it all up again when it was time to leave. I asked a guide if there were ever any ghosts about, but was told no. No one really ever lived here. There were huge fireplaces that I could stand in. A sort of movie on a blank wall continually played. First, there was a scene of a forest. There were sounds of someone or something walking through the trees. Then I noticed a particular tree, which became a man, and then turned into a stag before once more becoming a tree. Very surreal.
We explored each floor slowly making our way up the famous stairs that many believe were designed by Leonardo de Vinci; double stairs that twisted around each other but never met. The stairs were a work of art.
Finally we reached the roof. This was so magical with all of the turrets and chimneys lit up with blue, green or gold spotlights. It made quite a spectacle against the royal blue sky. We moved to the wall around the edge, and just stood there looking at the grounds and the stars coming out as the sky turned dark. It was very silent, no sounds of traffic or civilization.
The other chateaux in the area are also wonderful, but my first one is the one I will remember - a special souvenir. “This must be the best area in France,” I told Maurice.

Falling in Love With France, part 2

Provence

We went to Provence for our honeymoon. Having heard about Avignon for years, that was first on my list of places I wanted to see. It’s a beautiful walled city with the Palace of the Popes there, a great chateaux inhabited by Popes for years, an interesting part of the Catholic history. And, it gave us Chatenuef du Papes, a fabulous and famous wine which is not a bad thing. We walked to the end of the Pont d’Avignon, where it ends half way across the Rhone River. Maurice sang an old nursery song to me that he knew when young about dancing on the bridge.
An interesting village in Provence is called Gordes. It is one of those perched villages that look out over the country. In fact, it was used by the Resistance during WWII to watch German movements. As a result, it got pretty much decimated and has since been rebuilt, mostly it appears, of stone. It once was known for its olives but all of the trees were destroyed in a cold spell so it has turned to art and has become an artist colony. It’s very interesting to walk around and the view is incredible.
St. Remy was the first French village in Provence that I walked through. I was charmed by the narrow streets, pots of flowers, interesting shops, just the whole feel of the town. We only stopped here for lunch but, as we walked around, I wished we had had more time to spend here. It’s true for St. Remy, as well as many places I have seen in France, that I put it on my list as a place I must come back to visit. I need to spend some time there and let it speak to me.
St. Remy was on the way to another incredible place called Les Baux. The short drive there is an astonishing experience with white cliffs bordered with green trees and the winding road is wonderfully tranquil, and then, there it is - Les Baux. This is where the Romans built a fort on a huge plateau. They really knew how to pick great locations. It has a long history, being in such a militarily strategic place. To get to the top we had to walk through old streets lined with the usual tourist shops and passed an interesting church. There used to be a castle at the top that was torn down by Richelieu and Les Baux, as well as St. Remy, were once in the hands of the Grimaldis of Monaco ( Grace Kelly became a princess when she married into this family). The view is wonderful and it has such a deserted feeling. I honestly felt the presence of lives long past there - very eerie. It can be packed with tourists but it has to be seen.
There are so many interesting towns to see in Provence such as L’Isle-Sur-la-Sorgue, a town full of canals and moss covered water wheels, Roussillon a town resting on a red hill and with all of the buildings red or ochre in color. There is the Luberon, a fascinating area full of vineyards and lavender fields and great villages. It would take a life time to explore the whole area. I understand why so many people want to visit here and I thought, “This is the best France has to offer,” but I’m not sure it is. It is one of the best areas France has to offer, there is just so much more to see.

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.

-2813

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.

Turkey-less in France

Of course, they have turkeys in France. I start seeing them in boucheries in November, many of them with the heads still attached to long necks and a fan of gray tail feathers arching over the prone body or hanging by their feet above a counter, the head drooping down on the streched out neck. I haven’t bought one in this state, but I assume they chop off the head and feet and pull out the tail feathers, if you desire. The turkeys look a little scrawny to me. You won’t see fat bodies looking plumb and juicy and, if like the Butterball Turkies I used to buy, injected under the skin with oil and probably given body enhancing hormones as it was growing, rather like many athletes wanting muscles fast in half the time.
I miss Butterball Turkeys. I never had a dry turkey baking them in my days back in the States. I loved cutting into the breast and seeing juices flow, even if those juices weren’t there naturally. I read an article recently about a French chef who wasn’t happy with turkey on the menu. He said for the turkey legs to be well done, the breast meat would end up dry so he cooked them separately chopping up the leg meat and incorporating it into a separate dish and then searing the breast before finishing cooking it on a rotisserie. He still wasn’t happy with it at the end. I guess turkey is the Mae West of fowl, a little too top heavy.
Last Christmas my son and his family were here and I decided to cook a turkey meal for them as this is the traditional time for turkey here in France. At Thanksgiving time there are fewer turkeys available and the butchers tell you that they aren’t very plump at this time of the year - that there is a better selection in December. When Maurice and I went to buy a turkey we had to preorder it a few days in advance as a large supply wasn’t kept where we shopped. They asked if we wanted it stuffed. “With what?” I asked Maurice. I didn’t think they would have the traditional Southern corn bread dressing that I was used to in the States. I was right. Due to a lack of communication, we ended up with some sort of meat stuffing that also had chestnuts in it. As soon as I brought the turkey out of the oven, I could tell by the odor that I wouldn’t like the taste of the stuffing, and I didn’t. It just didn’t have the taste I like with turkey. Maurice liked it but he was the only one.
There is a store here called Picard that sells only frozen food. It sounded rather strange to me and I wondered how it could stay in business but once I tasted their food, I understood. Everything was fabulous from the Coquilles St. Jacques to the Napoleons. You can even get frozen foie gros there and it tastes like you purchased it on a farm that day. Maurice decided to try their turkey and it came already stuffed with some sort of French dressing. I didn’t think I would like it, as there was meat of some kind incorporated into it, but it was really tasty with crunchy chestnuts and a little bread. I didn’t find any pumpkin pie at Picards, though. But there all sorts of wonderful holiday desserts to be had such as Busche Noel, a little roll of cake and chocolate frosting looking like a chocolate covered log and Galette de Roi, a pastry made with almond paste and a little figure of the Nativity baked inside. If you get the little figure in your piece of cake, you get to wear a crown and be King for a while.
I have tried to make my own cornbread so I could make a stuffing but the cornmeal is different than the brand I used to get and it came out tasting bitter. I assume, as is the case in many foods in America, the brand I used to get had some sugar in it. I like sweet corn bread, not bitter. So, I didn’t have my traditional stuffing that time. Now I go to a local shop here in Paris that sells food for Americans called Thanksgiving and buy either an American brand corn bread there, or just the good old Pettridge Farm Dressing mix. It’s not as good as home made dressing, but it tastes great to me.
Thanksgiving is an essential American holiday and such a time for family. The first year I was here in Paris, it was just Maurice and me and I roasted a chicken for the two of us. It was a good meal and all, but it just wasn’t the same without family around the table that was crowded with turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, string beans, sweet potatoes made even sweeter with brown sugar and marshmallows, cranberry jelly wiggling in its can shape, and rolls with butter. There wasn’t a football game going on in the background and I didn’t have pumpkin pie waiting in the kitchen. I had a faint tinge of melancholy that day.
Last Thanksgiving I once again found myself in Paris with no family but this time six friends and Maurice and I got together and shared Thanksgiving. A friend, even though a vegetarian, baked a turkey and made stuffing, and sweet potatoes with apples. I brought mashed potatoes and others brought string beans and wine. We had a great time stuffing ourselves. I’m sure Maurice must have sat there,as I have at many meals with French people,and wondered what in the world he was doing sitting with a bunch of Americans eating a Thanksgiving meal. I’m not even sure if he is aware of all that Thanksgiving is to us. But he seemed to have a good time and I know he loves the food served on this day. He can’t eat the sweet potatoes with marshmellows on top, though. They are too sweet for him.
Next year I want to be in America on Thanksgiving and have my children and grandchildren sitting at the same table as we dig into the moist turkey and talk and laugh and keep track of the Dallas Cowboys playing a football game in the background. I may have a small glass of eggnog before the meal, and I will surely have a slice a pumpkin pie afterwards even though I know I shouldn’t. I may live in Paris now, but some things I still have to experience back in the States.

This is the metro entrance at Palais Royal at Place Colette. It was done for the Millenium and is made of hand blown glass from Murano Italy.

Ground-Less in France

The metro stops in Paris always, for the most part, fascinate me. I often sit there on the train as we come to stops and wonder how they came up with some of the names. Most, as you would think, are named after the street they are on or a major site nearby and the names are so interesting such as Stalingrad, Chemin Vert, Télégraphe, Picpus, Chateau d’Eau. I often want to get off and look to see where the names have come from. I’m sure French people know all about the history behind most names. I believe there is even a book out that would increase my knowledge, I just haven’t found one in English yet. It is part of the charm of Paris to see these names and be intrigued by them.
I have a few favorite metro stops. The Louvre Rivoli stop is full of carvings and sculptures such as the ones you will be seeing if you proceed inside to the museum. It is very classy and cultural and I’m wondering if they are copies as they are exposing them to those monsters that do the graffiti in the metro lines. The metro stop at Hotel de Ville at one time had a lot of interesting copies of paintings and photographs done through the years of events occurring at the Hotel including a beheading. I like looking at copies of paintings or drawings done many years ago and look at the style of clothing they wore or what transportation was being used or how the area surrounding the Hotel de Ville has changed. These pictures show pieces of history of this interesting and sometimes brutal city. Then one day, they were all gone and replaced with the history of many of the names of metro stops. I just have to remember to take my French dictionary so I can translate it all.
At Gare de Lyon, a metro stop for a train station, the stop has been made of gigantic columns of iron riveted together and painted bright yellow. It was designed by Eiffel, the man responsible for the Eiffel Tower. I don’t like this metro stop as it is very large and getting to another line always involves a long walk, but I enjoy going into the train station and looking at all of the trains sitting ready to head off into other parts of France and I love a restaurant here called Le Train Bleu that is a step back in time when people who traveled by train wanted luxury as they waited. This restaurant has high vaulted ceilings with scenes from all the parts of France that Gare de Lyon services. There are also gilded cherubs, lace curtains and bathrooms with dark wood doors and old marble sinks. A resident cat who usually sleeps in seldom used rooms. I like to take friends here for a drink and we all sit there amazed at the beauty of it.
One line, number 14, doesn’t have an engineer driving the train. It is all done automatically. The train track at the stop is covered over with a glass tube so people can’t get to the track (there are suicide attempts occasionally on the train tracks). You can get in the front car and sit at the window where the engineer once would have sat and watch the train whiz through the tunnels. The stops themselves are all new and clean with pink marble floors and what looks like tropical gardens behind glass. There is always a bad odor in the stops and in the trains on this line. I’ve heard it’s because the line is so far underground and near “wet” smelling soil and that everything mildews in the moisture or that it is so far underground it is near subterranean gas pockets. I’ve heard it is the fuel used by the trains. I don’t know. It’s just part of the experience of riding on line 14.
My favorite stop of all the Arts et Métiers on line 11 and which is lined entirely with copper. At first I thought it had been constructed to look like a submarine because there are round “windows” and rivets everywhere but above the track are gigantic models of gears and I found that it was supposed to be similar to being inside an engine. The stop is named after a fabulous and interesting museum, one of my favorites. I also like the Abesses stop for all of the wall paintings done by local artists. If you are feeling energetic you can climb the extremely long curving flight of stairs and be charmed by the art work. I delight in the metro entrance there, too, as it is one of two original remaining done by Guimaud in the art deco style.
I have seen a few fights on the metro lines. Twice I have seen men get into fist fights but they aren’t brutal. I guess, in the phrase I’ve heard my son use, they fight like girls with slapping and flapping their hands, but no fists. The most frightening time was when a homeless man boarded when I was on a train one morning. He was one of those scary ones who make eye contact and are belligerent. A young black man sat across the aisle from me and didn’t seem to be bothered by what the man was saying to him. I say he didn’t seem to be, but that was wrong as he suddenly stood up and did a karate kick right into the man’s head. The man went down in the aisle and the young man continued to kick him. Finally, someone got up and talked to him and he stopped. When the train pulled into the station he got off and went to a car several cars down. The homeless man stood up and actually looked around for his assailant hoping, I assume, to resume what he was saying. I was glad to get to my stop.
There are turnstiles to get into each metro station that require a ticket to get through. I often see young, and not so young, people jumping the gate. Sometimes someone will ask if they scoot in behind you and get in on your ticket. Sometimes they don’t ask and suddenly there is some guy behind you with his body pressed against yours which can be startling. Occasionally, there are security police waiting out of sight to give tickets to those not having tickets and the guilty are given large fines. If you let someone go through the stile with you, you get a fine, too. One time a young man in his 20’s tried to get through the gate with my husband and Maurice told him to go and buy his own ticket. We went on down to the waiting area for the train but soon the guy showed up. He had been drinking and started yelling at Maurice. Maurice told me later that he was threatening to push him in front of the train when it arrived. Maurice stood up to him, though, because he feels like people like this get away with threatening and the other person backs down. I was afraid the guy was going to attack Maurice and I got my purse ready to swing if he did. My purse is not a small dainty thing but back pack size and I have it loaded with so many things that I could do serious damage by using it as a weapon. Luckily, I didn’t have to. The guy eventually moved on down the line although he continued to yell things at us.
There are several metro stops that I hate and I often get out my metro map to see if I can avoid them. One is Chatelet which is huge, dirty, filled with people standing around looking like drug dealers to me and lots of teen-agers heading for the Les Halles shopping mall. If you don’t know which street exit you need you can be doomed to roam about for hours and start wondering if this will be another stanza in that song from the 60’s by the Kingston Trio in which they stated, “He Never Returned”. I was once looking for the St Eustache exit and found myself in the shopping mall when I took the wrong exit. Roaming around looking for exits, or sorties as they say here, I finally saw the cathedral through a window and was able to make my way there some time later.
I hate the Franklin D. Roosevelt stop as well. It looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 50’s to me, either by designers or cleaners. It is always dirty with water stains running down the walls and sagging ceilings. They were doing some sort of work there for a while and dozens of black electrical wires were just hanging there all within reach of anyone wanting to touch them. The ceilings are really low and give me a feeling of claustrophobia although I have never experienced this before in my life.
Montparnasse is a huge underground space. I think most of the population of Paris could use this as a bomb shelter if the need ever arose. One day I had an appointment on Blvd. Montparnasse. I thought I had given myself plenty of time. I got off of line 4 and started walking. And walking. After a while I came to one of those moving sidewalks. I was really running late by now so I moved to the left and started walking as fast as I could. I came to the exit I needed 10 minutes later. The area I came out to was also huge and confusing and I couldn’t even tell where Blvd. Montparnasse was as there were so many roads taking off from the roundabout. Luckily, the person I was meeting for my appointment was running late. After that, when I had to be at Montparnasse I took another metro line that involved changing twice so I could arrive closer to the exit I needed.
Then one day I read that a new “moving sidewalk” had been installed under Montparnasse. They were calling it the TGV People Mover. Well I thought this could be interesting. It apparently had been under study for years and had cost a fortune to build. As I had yet another appointment that day I decided to give it a try. Before I reached it I still had a ten minute walk but then I came to the old moving sidewalk area I had used before. And there it was looking rather like something out of Star Trek, all gleaming silver metal and flashing blue lights. At the entrance stood 8 young men there to help the uninitiated. I didn’t see them say or do a thing as the poor naive people about to launch themselves into the unknown went to the entrance.
I saw, at my feet, about 20 feet of thin, metal rollers whirling and turning. I stepped on and immediately grabbed the handle strip on the side as it was like suddenly being on skates. I wobbled and slipped around like a 5 year old on skates for the first time. A woman was in front of me and as she approached the flat rubber moving sidewalk there was a little hump. She almost went down. I decided to hop over the hump and as I landed the fast moving surface I came close to going down myself. Thank God I was wearing jogging shoes. I hoped if anyone approached this thing at the beginning wearing high heels that those helpful young men would direct them to the still present slow moving sidewalk.
Soon we were whizzing along. It was rather cool to pass the people slowly moving along side us like a Mercedes passing a Deux Chavaux on the motor way. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Then I saw another little hump coming up and there were signs flashing in red and yellow to stop walking. I saw the same lady in front of me wobble and clutch the side. My heart started beating as if I were on a roller coaster getting near the top of the hill knowing that a horrible drop off was on the other side. I grasped the side handle with both hands deciding to “take” the little hump instead of jumping it. I went over and suddenly it was as if I was on ice. I gave a little scream and hung on tightly. A man next to me was doing the same thing and we exchanged glances that said, “Can you believe this?”. He said something in French but I have no idea what he said. Probably it was similar to what I was thinking - never again.
So that was it. My heart beating in my chest I staggered up the metro steps into the sun thankful to be alive. I plan on making two metro line changes the next time I come to Montparnasse. Maybe they should call this thing the TGV People Eater. The next time I was in this metro stop the “People Eater”had been shut down, and continued to be so 3 months later. I think I was not the only one to feel it was dangerous.

Gown-Less in France

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

Some beautiful tulips I saw in Paris.

French Kissless In France

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

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

Border-Less in France

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

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

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

The wonderful Medici Fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens.

Chapter Fifteen
Breath-Less In France

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