Arles is a small town. Amongst the virtues and riches of a small town is the range of our own personal town fools, or curious folk. Living in Arles for more than ten years, I came into contact with a clutch of interesting individuals who are known, appreciated, protected, and fully accepted as belonging to Arles. They range from completely coucou, to simply mildly deranged, to highly colorful. None are dangerous. None are scorned. The locals call them nias or niase, fada, or maybe they simply think that une favouille mange leur jugement (a crab eats their brain, i.e. a screw loose). I don't think I ever truly experienced this before in my prior city and town lives. New Rochelle is simply too large and too suburban. Seattle had its downtown folk -- enough to please the local photographer population. But did we protect and accept them? We don't have the naked cowboy singing on Times Square, nor do we have the flamboyant cross-dressers of the Village. But I can honestly and proudly say we have ours and we cherish them.
When I first arrived there was a delightful woman perhaps in her late 60s, or low 70s, who would arrive at the market on her moped. Made-up in bright pastel tints, her helmut under her arm, she would make her first stop at the police station. Striding in a most official way, she would salute the officers as her fellow colleagues, and then head out to visit on the market. I would often see her leaning upon her elbow at the Charcutier Milhau -- the best-known in town -- with its owner and patriarch graciously listening to her, shooting the wind if you will. Our favorite vegetable seller -- Jean-Denis -- had pride of place in her Saturday morning routine, stationed as he was just in front of the gendarmerie. She didn't make much sense when she spoke, but that never bothered anyone. She was such a harmless and delightful fixture to market day. It has been years now though that she is either no longer with us, or perhaps just no longer able to come on her own.
César is no longer with us either. Already in his mid-eighties when I met him, you couldn't miss him (and many a photographer visiting for the photo festival in July captured his likeness) with his prominent dyed black mustache and his gentle demeanor. Nor did you pass in front of his former tailor's shop windows plastered with images of Pancho Villas and Clark Gable (something about those mustaches...) without giving it a long glance. He would come to the local bar in his white cotton pants and bright shirts, joining Erick's friends for a drink or simply an afternoon chat. My father-in-law told me tales of his younger years when he'd been rather notorious for having been caught photographing under-age girls. But at the time of my arrival, he was simply a gentle fixture. Friends would take him to his doctors' visits, keep an eye out to see if he was okay, and simply include them in their morning coffee and afternoon pastis rituals.
We've a fragile and ever-smiling cross-dresser as well. His hair was short on top and long in back last I saw. Quickly recognizable in his belly button revealing tops and tight white jeans, string underwear occasionally visible from the rear. He walks a bit uncertainly down the street in his high heeled clogs and sandals. Always pleasant, discreet, gracious, we worry when we don't see him, hoping he isn't sick, or otherwise indisposed. He's not very tall, and doesn't seem very strong physically (health-wise). At times he tries some make-up -- mascara and lipstick --, but in general, his style choices keep to the clothing and hair. Again, just like César, he is accepted and included at our local café. A fixture on the Place Voltaire.
And then there's Harmonie. Whereas the first three were relatively discreet, if highly visual presences in our town, Harmonie is someone you hear before you see her. Tiny, skinny, a little old lady with straggly gray hair, she lives in the local home for the not completely there folk and is free to roam the town during the day. She has a preference for the bar down our street, and I'm afraid does imbibe perhaps more than her minimal body-weight can handle. I try not to cross regards with her as she swishes her hips agressively home from the bar. When this has occurred, I've been treated to a stream of French cursing and vulgarity to turn my ears redder than a cooked lobster. She's really quite amazing. If you slow down and just listen, you can learn quite a bit -- as a foreigner that is. She is as harmless as they come, but has a terribly agressive front that led me to turn in the other direction whenever I spied her. Yet she too, is protected, known, watched, and assisted when necessary. She may be a bit wacko, but she's our wacko. And as pleasantly as a neighbor will come to our door to warn us our car lights are still on, he would equally accompany her back to her group home should she be too wobbly to get there on her own two feet.
In perhaps the colorful category, but completely sane and in command of all her powers is a marvelous woman who is to be seen everywhere and anywhere a cultural event is happening. With a red dot in the middle of her forehead, her gypsy style skirts and jewels, and her three dogs in their red bandana collars, she is a visual delight, and -- if you will -- a stamp of approval to the worthiness of your chosen show. Some say she used to be the editor-in-chief of Vogue in Paris, or if not that, a higher-up in the fashion world, before choosing her relatively simple life in this southern town. She most definitely has a strong sense of style and presence. Head high, her dogs in tow, she is on a first-name terms with the mayor and many of the movers and shakers in town. If I remember rightly, I believe she did us the favor to sign papers to permit Leo to attend the kindergartent across from town hall -- outside our district. I missed that meeting, but, her kindness and good will are not to be forgotten.
Showing posts with label social customs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label social customs. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thanksgiving far from home
I have a strong attachment to Thanksgiving and all that it stands for. Wherever I've lived in the world -– Japan, Paris, Seattle, Arles, Avignon-—I've managed to put one together. In Japan finding a turkey was near impossible -– so I purchased two large chickens. It cost a fortune – all those exotic ingredients -— but I reveled in recreating it alone for the first time in my life, for those I wished to say thank you to. I managed it in the home and kitchen of my host family, and added just three people to the four already in the house: my boss, my best friend/office mate, and the man who had introduced me to my host family. And there, amongst those dearest to me in that strange country, many of whom had traveled far and wide, I heard what I’d hear again and again in the future; my, but I didn’t know American food could be so good!
From my first winter in France in 1995 – the year of two months of transit strikes in Paris – I tried to offer Thanksgiving yearly. That first year, I was in Arles with Erick, and he invited numerous friends who’d met me over the summer to join us. Nearly everything was a hit, except the pumpkin pie -- my mother's recipe have you! Erick had declared, “c’est pas bon,”after one bite and not a soul took another piece. Ah well, pumpkin pie is an excellent and nourishing breakfast, and so it was for me for the rest of the week.
Returning to Paris I had no worry of putting on extra poundage through eating all my own left-overs of stuffing, corn pudding and pie. In the city of lights I walked absolutely everywhere for the during that two month strike. Add in my sixth story walk-up and I think I've rarely had such great legs in my life since.
As my family celebrated Thanksgiving, and later my Seattle friends, it's a time when everyone cooks, everyone feasts, and everyone helps clean. No one goes home (or to sleep) till the dishes are done. We've never been a football-watching crowd, so this truly included everyone from the oldest to the youngest, male, female, you name it.
But abroad, that just doesn't work. It is the rare French guest who helps with the dishes. In France when you entertain you do the “totale," meaning from start to end, the hostess copes with everything. Guests bring flowers, chocolate, wine, cheese or pottery (should that be their specialty), and go home, happy and well nourished. The potluck (now known as auberge espagnole had yet to really catch on when I first moved here. And, being the owners of a large and well-equipped kitchen, noted for our expertise in the cooking arena … well, it just evolved into a rather large event where I did the maximum if not all the work. Most years, it was pure joy to invite the various artisans, vintners, farmers, philosophers, archeologists and more to my table. I wanted to thank them for helping me, and us, make our business so rich with the warm welcome they offered to me and my guests as I tour Provence and visit them -- often! The irony was not lost on a soul that they were invited to the Provençal chef’s house, and his American wife was doing all the cooking!
From 15-20, from 20 – 28, from 28 to 35 … it just kept expanding. From our dinner table that sat 12 to the b&b table that sat 20, and then to the addition of a long make-shift table of boards, with very wobbly home-made benches alongside. Kids crawled under the table to access their seats – and a few adults as well!
There was the year I wanted to do it Southern style, harking back to my father’s Kentucky roots, and add bourbon to the sweet potatoes, cranberries and pecan pie. Rather than go out and purchase me expensive imported bourbon at the store, Erick got to work distilling wine to pure alcohol in the kitchen. Out came the pressure cooker, some rubber tubing, a copper coil, and voila, I had my alcohol. Granted it wasn’t aged in toasted casks, but, it was pretty thrilling to have your own house alchemist make you pure alcohol on the gas cooktop.
There were years when my American au pairs contributed their favorite family dishes – baked beans, potato salad, green salad with dried cranberries and cherries.... There were years when a Dutch friend came to help out a couple days before the event with grinding the corn through the vegetable mill to prepare the corn pudding base. There were years when my father came and did his special sausage, apple and prune stuffing recipe.
Each year’s feast required an explanation and proper introduction to this strange American tradition. I would tell my version of the arrival of the Pilgrims, their meeting with the Indians, what it meant to learn to survive in the New World, to begin to tame it, to know it … Then I’d tell them what all the dishes were : corn pudding, turkey, apple and sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, mashed potatoes, corn bread, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, the pies. All these foods of the Americas (excepting the apples). All these amazing food stuffs brought back to Europe from the New World. I added to my old favorites special new recipes for mince meat pie from the New York Times, oyster cornbread stuffing from a book of Indian recipes, Indian pudding.
With such a list of traditional favorites I couldn't delegate, nor entrust the dishes to any one else. I became a bit of a control freak. And the fact that I’d calmed down over how Erick carved a turkey (unlike my WASP dad, he most definitely did not slice the white meat, but removed the entire breast and then cut it in chunks) was already a big deal.
In the last two years much has changed. My home is smaller, my budget minimal, and my energy much taken up by kids, rebuilding the business, job searching, etc., I managed a variation on a pot luck T-day last year at the winery. It was lovely, but required nonetheless grand orchestration. This year, perhaps I'll be with a friend who has an American husband? Perhaps I'll just make a couple special dishes for me and the boys? I don't know. But I'm ok with it. I'm grateful already for my friends, for my world, for good health, for happy and healthy children, for getting along better with Erick, for putting many a project in motion. I will give thanks, even if I don't roll away from the dinner table in doing so!
From my first winter in France in 1995 – the year of two months of transit strikes in Paris – I tried to offer Thanksgiving yearly. That first year, I was in Arles with Erick, and he invited numerous friends who’d met me over the summer to join us. Nearly everything was a hit, except the pumpkin pie -- my mother's recipe have you! Erick had declared, “c’est pas bon,”after one bite and not a soul took another piece. Ah well, pumpkin pie is an excellent and nourishing breakfast, and so it was for me for the rest of the week.
Returning to Paris I had no worry of putting on extra poundage through eating all my own left-overs of stuffing, corn pudding and pie. In the city of lights I walked absolutely everywhere for the during that two month strike. Add in my sixth story walk-up and I think I've rarely had such great legs in my life since.
As my family celebrated Thanksgiving, and later my Seattle friends, it's a time when everyone cooks, everyone feasts, and everyone helps clean. No one goes home (or to sleep) till the dishes are done. We've never been a football-watching crowd, so this truly included everyone from the oldest to the youngest, male, female, you name it.
But abroad, that just doesn't work. It is the rare French guest who helps with the dishes. In France when you entertain you do the “totale," meaning from start to end, the hostess copes with everything. Guests bring flowers, chocolate, wine, cheese or pottery (should that be their specialty), and go home, happy and well nourished. The potluck (now known as auberge espagnole had yet to really catch on when I first moved here. And, being the owners of a large and well-equipped kitchen, noted for our expertise in the cooking arena … well, it just evolved into a rather large event where I did the maximum if not all the work. Most years, it was pure joy to invite the various artisans, vintners, farmers, philosophers, archeologists and more to my table. I wanted to thank them for helping me, and us, make our business so rich with the warm welcome they offered to me and my guests as I tour Provence and visit them -- often! The irony was not lost on a soul that they were invited to the Provençal chef’s house, and his American wife was doing all the cooking!
From 15-20, from 20 – 28, from 28 to 35 … it just kept expanding. From our dinner table that sat 12 to the b&b table that sat 20, and then to the addition of a long make-shift table of boards, with very wobbly home-made benches alongside. Kids crawled under the table to access their seats – and a few adults as well!
There was the year I wanted to do it Southern style, harking back to my father’s Kentucky roots, and add bourbon to the sweet potatoes, cranberries and pecan pie. Rather than go out and purchase me expensive imported bourbon at the store, Erick got to work distilling wine to pure alcohol in the kitchen. Out came the pressure cooker, some rubber tubing, a copper coil, and voila, I had my alcohol. Granted it wasn’t aged in toasted casks, but, it was pretty thrilling to have your own house alchemist make you pure alcohol on the gas cooktop.
There were years when my American au pairs contributed their favorite family dishes – baked beans, potato salad, green salad with dried cranberries and cherries.... There were years when a Dutch friend came to help out a couple days before the event with grinding the corn through the vegetable mill to prepare the corn pudding base. There were years when my father came and did his special sausage, apple and prune stuffing recipe.
Each year’s feast required an explanation and proper introduction to this strange American tradition. I would tell my version of the arrival of the Pilgrims, their meeting with the Indians, what it meant to learn to survive in the New World, to begin to tame it, to know it … Then I’d tell them what all the dishes were : corn pudding, turkey, apple and sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, mashed potatoes, corn bread, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, the pies. All these foods of the Americas (excepting the apples). All these amazing food stuffs brought back to Europe from the New World. I added to my old favorites special new recipes for mince meat pie from the New York Times, oyster cornbread stuffing from a book of Indian recipes, Indian pudding.
With such a list of traditional favorites I couldn't delegate, nor entrust the dishes to any one else. I became a bit of a control freak. And the fact that I’d calmed down over how Erick carved a turkey (unlike my WASP dad, he most definitely did not slice the white meat, but removed the entire breast and then cut it in chunks) was already a big deal.
In the last two years much has changed. My home is smaller, my budget minimal, and my energy much taken up by kids, rebuilding the business, job searching, etc., I managed a variation on a pot luck T-day last year at the winery. It was lovely, but required nonetheless grand orchestration. This year, perhaps I'll be with a friend who has an American husband? Perhaps I'll just make a couple special dishes for me and the boys? I don't know. But I'm ok with it. I'm grateful already for my friends, for my world, for good health, for happy and healthy children, for getting along better with Erick, for putting many a project in motion. I will give thanks, even if I don't roll away from the dinner table in doing so!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Un bon déjeuner et une sièste -- ils sont sacrés!
A good lunch and a proper nap.
Do we still do this somewhere in the US (or even in the Anglo-Saxon world at large)? I certainly never did before I came to France. I remember being at work at 7:30AM, zooming through piles of text and tapes to type up, dashing out for a quick cup of soup at 11:45, back at my desk at noon, through another pile of folders, and out the door at 4:30PM, in time to get to an aerobics class. When necessary, I worked late into the night, nibbling at a hoagie or some Chinese food as I typed away, researched, etc., This was normal.
Then I came to France. In Paris the lunch hour was an hour plus. Everyone left their post. Everyone went outside and purchased something hot to eat, with a preference for a sit-down meal in a restaurant. I was still in Japan mode, and would bring my not-quite bento lunch to the office. My boss at the time, the travelling show coordinator at the Centre National de la Photographie, would look askance at my cold food, and encourage me to get out and about. A tendency to eat quickly and be back at my filing was something she just found odd and quirky, if not downright sad.
In France many businesses distribute lunch checks worth 10-12 Euros (perhaps more these days, I've not gotten any since I last worked in Paris, over 12 years' ago) to their employees. Thus, out the door, and go forth to purchase your lunch! Keep the bistrots and cafés in business. Or, if you are following the fast-food trend, perhaps a sandwich with crudités?
And then I moved south. My first years with Erick in Arles drove me batty. I tend to not be a morning person (before 7AM you're not likely to see me vertical). I need that cup of coffee. Unless I'm driven out the door by necessity, or facing an emergency, I have a brain that wakes up slowly. Brain speed is improved dramatically by a long bike ride in a brisk and moist wind before arriving at an office, or by an equally long and vigorous walk. But, when you work for yourself, it is a different sort of effort to put this activity into your day (particularly when you've small children to wake, dress, feed and get to school). All this to say that it was the rare morning when I could get to the computer and actually start working through emails, paying bills, etc., before 10/10:30AM.
But then I'd get on a roll and start boogying through the day's work. Simply writing, responding, corresponding would wake me up and I'd slip into the flow. Eleven thirty would arrive and I had to tear myself away from the computer, or the files, or the phone, and go prepare lunch. At twelve fifteen I called Erick (for many years he was working to renovate the b&b, so just visualize him covered in chalk dust, physically weary, and in need of a woman to put lunch on the table).
Salad, a hot dish with meat, pasta, cheese, wine, and then freshly brewed coffee with perhaps a square or two of chocolate. While Erick then went to sleep on the downstairs' couch, I would clean up, put away, do dishes, etc., It was now after 2PM.
I would feel sluggish from the meal, the post-lunch coffee didn't have the enlivening effect of its morning cousin. Stopping so abruptly for such a long lunch completely jammed my momentum. And yet, there was more work to do. At this point, I didn't consider taking a nap myself. How could I when there was ever so much more to get done? I was more than a bit terrorized by the idea that lying down mid-day would eat up whatever work hours were left, and then before I was newly conscious, the kids would be home, and time just a memory. So, I pushed myself up to the computer. There, it took a moment, but slowly, I'd get back into responding to emails, updating the email list, re-working the web site and the year's programs, etc., By 4:30 I was back in form and chugging through the work at hand.
5PM, little voices, feet running up stairs; the beasties are back. I could try to keep working, but distractions were many, and then if I didn't get dinner on the table, it didn't happen, so, off I would go to keep the household functioning. Between dinner prep, setting the table, eating, clearing, dishes, etc., then bath, tooth-brushing, bed, stories, ... I would never get back to the desk. For those who came to our cooking classes, they witnessed even busier evenings. No matter the needs of the kids, I was with the clients from 5PM till 11PM, with nary ten minutes here and there to run up to kiss the boys goodnight. Clients or kids, at a certain point bed called to me too, and off I would go. I've friends who manage to get back to work after the kids are down and work till far into the night. I'm not an adept of this option, unfortunately.
Thus, for me, this major pause mid-day -- 11:30 to 2:30 -- wrecked my efficiency. I lived this as a frustration and as a burden for years. I was in a state of shock and amazement. I would look back with nostalgia to the days when I got lots done (office work) every day, when I'd been a super-achieving employee, diving into piles, creating order, mowing down the tasks at hand. What might I have accomplished for our businesses if I'd been able to give the time my brain and past history told me was normal? I would laughingly say that both my business and my son would have benefited from all my time, but were managing with only a sliver, and yet, they both seemed to be doing okay.
But, I preamble for far too long. I'm trying to write about people who successfully nap, and though I've brought up an example, I am also digressing at length.
In my current life I spend time under the roof of and in the company of my vintner. He seems to epitomize the Frenchman who abides by the good lunch and proper nap routine, and yet who also succeeds in getting a lot of work done. He religiously eats his main meal at noon (and often noon on the dot), follows it with a small coffee and a square of chocolate, and then lays down for 30 minutes. Even on the longest of days, with stress pouring out of his ears, he peacefully nourishes himself and then allows his mind and body a moment of complete and total rest. As he helps me finish up the dishes, and nap time isn't till the kitchen is clean, I am able to join him with a clean conscience. The presence of a warm and perfectly situated shoulder to lay my head on renders the act of napping quite marvelous. I succumb to the temptation.
This past weekend was typical: no matter the work at hand, lunch and nap were integral parts of each day. Saturday work began at 8AM, pressing the marc, but he was up at the mas for his noon lunch. Back down to the cellar at 1:30 after fifteen minutes lying down, finishing up for the day at 8PM. He offered himself a brief social pause between 4:30 and 5, but otherwise, it was a day devoted to the work. And yet, a good meal and a nap were not neglected.
Sunday moved a touch more slowly. He actually slept in till 9AM. Breakfast, some paper work at the desk, then down to the cellar from 10:30 - noon. A lovely lunch with his mother and my good cooking from noon - 1, a good nap till after 2, and then back to the cellar to finish up the cleaning, hosing down, airing the fermenting tank, etc., When I departed at 5, he still had a couple more hours to go.
In the world I came from, working sun up to sun down with nary a moment's pause, grabbing a quick bite, drinking lots of coffee in large-sized cups is the standard operating procedure for many. There is a tremendous need and pressure to be efficient. We do the most we can physically accomplish. And if we return home and simply collapse, eating whatever is put in front of us that goes down easily, such is life.
But here--and I have to stress here in Provence amongst the traditional professions, as outside of my artisans, not all of the population still abides by these rhythms--work gets done, lots of work gets done, and yet the civilized meal, the refreshing nap are not sidelined in favor of more efficiency. Granted, there's no nibbling while working, there isn't a large cup of Java sitting on a side board to be sipped throughout the morning, and there's a strong discipline in regards to the workday -- weekdays begin at 7AM in the vineyards, and finish anywhere from 5-7PM. Only smokers take breaks during work hours (not my vintner's case, nor my baker's, nor the cheesemakers', nor the beekeeper's), everyone else is at work and working. Thus, when the lunch hour arrives, the rest is well-earned.
I see, I live, I taste this rhythm. I feel the sensible nature of caring for the body and soul in this way. And yet when I'm alone in my house in Avignon, I do admit, I return to what was inculcated into me as a young adult. I'm vertical at 7, but not really on top of things till 9:30AM (8-9 is drop off at school time). I work till 3PM when I have to ready myself to go pick up the kids. Lunch is thus a brief affair, and a nap non-existent (unless I'm in a state of collapse, but then I run the risk of not waking in time to get the kids). Getting the kids, being with them, keeping an eye on homework, preparing dinner, orchestrating dishes, etc., these eat up the rest of the day, (after all, there are six of them now) till my bed beckons and rest is at last an option.
Napping is a wonderful idea, and I adopt it when the opportunity is offered, when the situation warrants it, but... the rhythms of my birth country are still mark me.
Do we still do this somewhere in the US (or even in the Anglo-Saxon world at large)? I certainly never did before I came to France. I remember being at work at 7:30AM, zooming through piles of text and tapes to type up, dashing out for a quick cup of soup at 11:45, back at my desk at noon, through another pile of folders, and out the door at 4:30PM, in time to get to an aerobics class. When necessary, I worked late into the night, nibbling at a hoagie or some Chinese food as I typed away, researched, etc., This was normal.
Then I came to France. In Paris the lunch hour was an hour plus. Everyone left their post. Everyone went outside and purchased something hot to eat, with a preference for a sit-down meal in a restaurant. I was still in Japan mode, and would bring my not-quite bento lunch to the office. My boss at the time, the travelling show coordinator at the Centre National de la Photographie, would look askance at my cold food, and encourage me to get out and about. A tendency to eat quickly and be back at my filing was something she just found odd and quirky, if not downright sad.
In France many businesses distribute lunch checks worth 10-12 Euros (perhaps more these days, I've not gotten any since I last worked in Paris, over 12 years' ago) to their employees. Thus, out the door, and go forth to purchase your lunch! Keep the bistrots and cafés in business. Or, if you are following the fast-food trend, perhaps a sandwich with crudités?
And then I moved south. My first years with Erick in Arles drove me batty. I tend to not be a morning person (before 7AM you're not likely to see me vertical). I need that cup of coffee. Unless I'm driven out the door by necessity, or facing an emergency, I have a brain that wakes up slowly. Brain speed is improved dramatically by a long bike ride in a brisk and moist wind before arriving at an office, or by an equally long and vigorous walk. But, when you work for yourself, it is a different sort of effort to put this activity into your day (particularly when you've small children to wake, dress, feed and get to school). All this to say that it was the rare morning when I could get to the computer and actually start working through emails, paying bills, etc., before 10/10:30AM.
But then I'd get on a roll and start boogying through the day's work. Simply writing, responding, corresponding would wake me up and I'd slip into the flow. Eleven thirty would arrive and I had to tear myself away from the computer, or the files, or the phone, and go prepare lunch. At twelve fifteen I called Erick (for many years he was working to renovate the b&b, so just visualize him covered in chalk dust, physically weary, and in need of a woman to put lunch on the table).
Salad, a hot dish with meat, pasta, cheese, wine, and then freshly brewed coffee with perhaps a square or two of chocolate. While Erick then went to sleep on the downstairs' couch, I would clean up, put away, do dishes, etc., It was now after 2PM.
I would feel sluggish from the meal, the post-lunch coffee didn't have the enlivening effect of its morning cousin. Stopping so abruptly for such a long lunch completely jammed my momentum. And yet, there was more work to do. At this point, I didn't consider taking a nap myself. How could I when there was ever so much more to get done? I was more than a bit terrorized by the idea that lying down mid-day would eat up whatever work hours were left, and then before I was newly conscious, the kids would be home, and time just a memory. So, I pushed myself up to the computer. There, it took a moment, but slowly, I'd get back into responding to emails, updating the email list, re-working the web site and the year's programs, etc., By 4:30 I was back in form and chugging through the work at hand.
5PM, little voices, feet running up stairs; the beasties are back. I could try to keep working, but distractions were many, and then if I didn't get dinner on the table, it didn't happen, so, off I would go to keep the household functioning. Between dinner prep, setting the table, eating, clearing, dishes, etc., then bath, tooth-brushing, bed, stories, ... I would never get back to the desk. For those who came to our cooking classes, they witnessed even busier evenings. No matter the needs of the kids, I was with the clients from 5PM till 11PM, with nary ten minutes here and there to run up to kiss the boys goodnight. Clients or kids, at a certain point bed called to me too, and off I would go. I've friends who manage to get back to work after the kids are down and work till far into the night. I'm not an adept of this option, unfortunately.
Thus, for me, this major pause mid-day -- 11:30 to 2:30 -- wrecked my efficiency. I lived this as a frustration and as a burden for years. I was in a state of shock and amazement. I would look back with nostalgia to the days when I got lots done (office work) every day, when I'd been a super-achieving employee, diving into piles, creating order, mowing down the tasks at hand. What might I have accomplished for our businesses if I'd been able to give the time my brain and past history told me was normal? I would laughingly say that both my business and my son would have benefited from all my time, but were managing with only a sliver, and yet, they both seemed to be doing okay.
But, I preamble for far too long. I'm trying to write about people who successfully nap, and though I've brought up an example, I am also digressing at length.
In my current life I spend time under the roof of and in the company of my vintner. He seems to epitomize the Frenchman who abides by the good lunch and proper nap routine, and yet who also succeeds in getting a lot of work done. He religiously eats his main meal at noon (and often noon on the dot), follows it with a small coffee and a square of chocolate, and then lays down for 30 minutes. Even on the longest of days, with stress pouring out of his ears, he peacefully nourishes himself and then allows his mind and body a moment of complete and total rest. As he helps me finish up the dishes, and nap time isn't till the kitchen is clean, I am able to join him with a clean conscience. The presence of a warm and perfectly situated shoulder to lay my head on renders the act of napping quite marvelous. I succumb to the temptation.
This past weekend was typical: no matter the work at hand, lunch and nap were integral parts of each day. Saturday work began at 8AM, pressing the marc, but he was up at the mas for his noon lunch. Back down to the cellar at 1:30 after fifteen minutes lying down, finishing up for the day at 8PM. He offered himself a brief social pause between 4:30 and 5, but otherwise, it was a day devoted to the work. And yet, a good meal and a nap were not neglected.
Sunday moved a touch more slowly. He actually slept in till 9AM. Breakfast, some paper work at the desk, then down to the cellar from 10:30 - noon. A lovely lunch with his mother and my good cooking from noon - 1, a good nap till after 2, and then back to the cellar to finish up the cleaning, hosing down, airing the fermenting tank, etc., When I departed at 5, he still had a couple more hours to go.
In the world I came from, working sun up to sun down with nary a moment's pause, grabbing a quick bite, drinking lots of coffee in large-sized cups is the standard operating procedure for many. There is a tremendous need and pressure to be efficient. We do the most we can physically accomplish. And if we return home and simply collapse, eating whatever is put in front of us that goes down easily, such is life.
But here--and I have to stress here in Provence amongst the traditional professions, as outside of my artisans, not all of the population still abides by these rhythms--work gets done, lots of work gets done, and yet the civilized meal, the refreshing nap are not sidelined in favor of more efficiency. Granted, there's no nibbling while working, there isn't a large cup of Java sitting on a side board to be sipped throughout the morning, and there's a strong discipline in regards to the workday -- weekdays begin at 7AM in the vineyards, and finish anywhere from 5-7PM. Only smokers take breaks during work hours (not my vintner's case, nor my baker's, nor the cheesemakers', nor the beekeeper's), everyone else is at work and working. Thus, when the lunch hour arrives, the rest is well-earned.
I see, I live, I taste this rhythm. I feel the sensible nature of caring for the body and soul in this way. And yet when I'm alone in my house in Avignon, I do admit, I return to what was inculcated into me as a young adult. I'm vertical at 7, but not really on top of things till 9:30AM (8-9 is drop off at school time). I work till 3PM when I have to ready myself to go pick up the kids. Lunch is thus a brief affair, and a nap non-existent (unless I'm in a state of collapse, but then I run the risk of not waking in time to get the kids). Getting the kids, being with them, keeping an eye on homework, preparing dinner, orchestrating dishes, etc., these eat up the rest of the day, (after all, there are six of them now) till my bed beckons and rest is at last an option.
Napping is a wonderful idea, and I adopt it when the opportunity is offered, when the situation warrants it, but... the rhythms of my birth country are still mark me.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Fashion and Self Image
Shoes. Clothes. Girls do like them. And, living in France, they seem just that much more important.
When back in the US, it appears that the most beautiful American women are those in fabulous physical shape. Women who glow with good health, smooth legs and arms, taught bellies, a light tan, and who look just fabulous in an old pair of jeans and their boyfriend's white t-shirt. Health, athletics, strength, flexibility.
In France, what counts is style. Making the most of what you were born with. Strenuous athletics, multiple afternoons at the gym are still pretty anathema to the local female population. The general diet is healthy and not fattening – vegetables galore, salads at every meal, reasonable portions—and the cities being small, you can walk everywhere (nearly). So the gym is not necessary to being aesthetically pleasing.
Soon after my arrival in this fair land, I quickly learned not to wear sneakers except when I play tennis or go hiking. Then, I started choosing jeans for their fit and elegance, and put aside my brother’s hand-me down Levis. I like pretty shoes, but when you walk tons they have to have relatively sturdy heels. It's simply depressing destroying little heels too quickly. So, I choose for style, comfort, and practicality -- yes, that means a certain budget. I've come to spend more time putting myself together, that little extra touch of a scarf, jewelry, a bit more make-up. And yes, shoes: little boots that are elegant but comfortable under jeans or with a skirt; fluid and feminine clothes that flattered my figure – happily, not much changed from my college days (which also translates into a slightly too large wardrobe, as I'm loath throw things away...)
For years in Arles we’d earned so little that I simply never permitted myself to walk into a clothing or shoe boutique. However, to sate little desires, and to have that kick of something new in my wardrobe, I became an adept at the local flea market. Every Wednesday in Arles, from early morning till noon, tables of clothes are set up in the parking lot down the street from our house. There, I let my fingers do the walking. Perhaps it was all those years of giving massages, or being blind in the photo room, in any case, my fingers found me cashmere sweaters, silk shirts, linen jackets, lined wool pants, dresses, and even a few pairs of funky ankle boots. Most of what I found was simply useful, particularly when I was carrying around a few extra pounds after my pregnancies. But, even now, years’ later, I still have those little boots, an elegant double-breasted lined black linen jacket with mother of pearl buttons, a pair of elegant Jill Sander grey wool pants, Jill sander black suede sandals, summer dresses, a jean jacket, and my favorite lined brown suede redding coat style jacket. Not bad. I was able to dress my kids cheaply this way too, likewise Erick, and whenever I saw something a dear friend would like, I would grab it too.
The prices at the flea market followed the economy. When I first started going, every item was 5 Francs a piece (about a dollar). Then the Euro came in, and they became 1E a piece (which was equivalent to 6.67Francs, so a 20% jump). The next year it became 2E a piece. Highway robbery. And, a few years’ later, the prices were all over the place, 5E, 20E, 15E. No longer could I fill a sac with fun finds and head home having spent no more than 10E. Oh well. All good things do eventually come to an end.
My efforts at caring for myself were reflected back to me by the shop-keepers (the more elegantly you are dressed, the more respect and attention you will receive), my friends, men in the street, and even my boys (they're proud to have a pretty mommy). France is a world that values elegant women. The last good years of the b&b/cooking school business with Erick were good ones, and I was finally been able to treat myself to new clothes from the funky and elegant boutiques in Arles, St. Rémy de Provence and Avignon. And yes, I definitely enjoyed picking out flattering, fun, sometimes unusual, purchases.
Frenchmen clearly enjoy seeing women dressed well and they encourage it. It's quite possible that it's simply a reflection back on their good taste in choosing you, as much as the aesthetic pleasure of looking at you. And yet, I do come from the US, and the more casual style of dressing here is tempting. There are definitely times when staying in sweats all day, with glasses on and hair all askew is just where you're at. How to weigh these very different cultural norms.
When back in the US, it appears that the most beautiful American women are those in fabulous physical shape. Women who glow with good health, smooth legs and arms, taught bellies, a light tan, and who look just fabulous in an old pair of jeans and their boyfriend's white t-shirt. Health, athletics, strength, flexibility.
In France, what counts is style. Making the most of what you were born with. Strenuous athletics, multiple afternoons at the gym are still pretty anathema to the local female population. The general diet is healthy and not fattening – vegetables galore, salads at every meal, reasonable portions—and the cities being small, you can walk everywhere (nearly). So the gym is not necessary to being aesthetically pleasing.
Soon after my arrival in this fair land, I quickly learned not to wear sneakers except when I play tennis or go hiking. Then, I started choosing jeans for their fit and elegance, and put aside my brother’s hand-me down Levis. I like pretty shoes, but when you walk tons they have to have relatively sturdy heels. It's simply depressing destroying little heels too quickly. So, I choose for style, comfort, and practicality -- yes, that means a certain budget. I've come to spend more time putting myself together, that little extra touch of a scarf, jewelry, a bit more make-up. And yes, shoes: little boots that are elegant but comfortable under jeans or with a skirt; fluid and feminine clothes that flattered my figure – happily, not much changed from my college days (which also translates into a slightly too large wardrobe, as I'm loath throw things away...)
For years in Arles we’d earned so little that I simply never permitted myself to walk into a clothing or shoe boutique. However, to sate little desires, and to have that kick of something new in my wardrobe, I became an adept at the local flea market. Every Wednesday in Arles, from early morning till noon, tables of clothes are set up in the parking lot down the street from our house. There, I let my fingers do the walking. Perhaps it was all those years of giving massages, or being blind in the photo room, in any case, my fingers found me cashmere sweaters, silk shirts, linen jackets, lined wool pants, dresses, and even a few pairs of funky ankle boots. Most of what I found was simply useful, particularly when I was carrying around a few extra pounds after my pregnancies. But, even now, years’ later, I still have those little boots, an elegant double-breasted lined black linen jacket with mother of pearl buttons, a pair of elegant Jill Sander grey wool pants, Jill sander black suede sandals, summer dresses, a jean jacket, and my favorite lined brown suede redding coat style jacket. Not bad. I was able to dress my kids cheaply this way too, likewise Erick, and whenever I saw something a dear friend would like, I would grab it too.
The prices at the flea market followed the economy. When I first started going, every item was 5 Francs a piece (about a dollar). Then the Euro came in, and they became 1E a piece (which was equivalent to 6.67Francs, so a 20% jump). The next year it became 2E a piece. Highway robbery. And, a few years’ later, the prices were all over the place, 5E, 20E, 15E. No longer could I fill a sac with fun finds and head home having spent no more than 10E. Oh well. All good things do eventually come to an end.
My efforts at caring for myself were reflected back to me by the shop-keepers (the more elegantly you are dressed, the more respect and attention you will receive), my friends, men in the street, and even my boys (they're proud to have a pretty mommy). France is a world that values elegant women. The last good years of the b&b/cooking school business with Erick were good ones, and I was finally been able to treat myself to new clothes from the funky and elegant boutiques in Arles, St. Rémy de Provence and Avignon. And yes, I definitely enjoyed picking out flattering, fun, sometimes unusual, purchases.
Frenchmen clearly enjoy seeing women dressed well and they encourage it. It's quite possible that it's simply a reflection back on their good taste in choosing you, as much as the aesthetic pleasure of looking at you. And yet, I do come from the US, and the more casual style of dressing here is tempting. There are definitely times when staying in sweats all day, with glasses on and hair all askew is just where you're at. How to weigh these very different cultural norms.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Why don't the French go pippi as often as we do?
OK, this is yet again a rather odd subject. But one of the more remarkable chapters of Polly Platt's book, French or Foe, which has become a reference for Anglo-saxons visiting and working in France, covers toilet usage in a French house. She puts forth that it is considered rude to need to use a bathroom when you visit your French hosts. And that, in many cases, this is the last room of the house to be cleaned (I've found this true in but one instance, and my poor friend was overwhelmed with two small children and all that entails). In general, the French do not use the toilet when visiting. Hmmm.
More than one American friend has informally tested this hypothesis. Truly, if you invite French friends to a meal, will they use or not the house toilet? In most cases (particularly a first visit), no. They can come at noon, eat, drink and converse till 5 in the afternoon and go home without ever needing to climb the stairs or search out that tiny room in the back. How do they do it?
As the wife of a Frenchman for over ten years, I did notice that Erick had a tendency to stop by the side of the road, commune with a tree, and then get back into the car, oftentimes just ten minutes before we arrived at our destination. So, he seemed to take care of his bodily needs elsewhere than at the host's home. Aha..
Certainly, one of the points Polly Platt wanted to make is that it is considered rude to walk into your host's home and ask immediately for the washing up room. T'is true, this is just not done -- or at the very least you excuse yourself as you request directions to this most private of rooms.
In my years of touring mostly Americans (with a sprinkle of many other cultures mixed in), I did have to scout out wc possibilities at each and every destination. In the early years, before we really had our act together, we made the mistake of stopping at a village bar (yikes! it's a hole in the floor!!). Or, God forbid, we even offered toilet paper and motioned to a tree... (this latter I must stress was only during hikes).
There is a basic physiological fact that if you consume three to four large cups of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a copious breakfast, you will need to evacuate some of that an hour or so later. The French (and Italians) drink one small cup of espresso, no more. They do not touch milk (considered a poison when mixed with coffee), and only occasionally fruit juice at breakfast. And, they're generally content with a small piece of bread and jam.
Hence, clear and obvious reasons for my needing to have a toilet at the ready when my group arrived at its destination. And yes, this did startle my French partners. Before we could start wine-tasting, or looking at pottery, or hiking, half the group disappeared. Once, when setting out for our sea-side hike, the restaurant we patronize had yet to open, and I was driven to seek out a local fisherman who then asked his mother-in-law if she would open her house to us. Five persons then trooped one by one through her bathroom. It was a most interesting meeting of cultures...
Is there a moral to this story? Not particularly. Now that I live here and the majority of my friends are French, I don't notice things one way or another, and certainly we all have our days when the digestive system is a bit awry. However, I would say, when you're first invited to a Frenchman's house, for a party, tea, dinner, coffee, what-have-you, if you can manage to not need the facilities during your visit, or at the very least not till the end of your visit, you're better off. You can always see it as a slight skip in the act of being received. The host has been waiting for you, you arrive, and she/he is ready to take charge and entertain, but then you disappear into the wc. What is the host to do but wait? It is a rather awkward moment. You're there, but you're not...
More than one American friend has informally tested this hypothesis. Truly, if you invite French friends to a meal, will they use or not the house toilet? In most cases (particularly a first visit), no. They can come at noon, eat, drink and converse till 5 in the afternoon and go home without ever needing to climb the stairs or search out that tiny room in the back. How do they do it?
As the wife of a Frenchman for over ten years, I did notice that Erick had a tendency to stop by the side of the road, commune with a tree, and then get back into the car, oftentimes just ten minutes before we arrived at our destination. So, he seemed to take care of his bodily needs elsewhere than at the host's home. Aha..
Certainly, one of the points Polly Platt wanted to make is that it is considered rude to walk into your host's home and ask immediately for the washing up room. T'is true, this is just not done -- or at the very least you excuse yourself as you request directions to this most private of rooms.
In my years of touring mostly Americans (with a sprinkle of many other cultures mixed in), I did have to scout out wc possibilities at each and every destination. In the early years, before we really had our act together, we made the mistake of stopping at a village bar (yikes! it's a hole in the floor!!). Or, God forbid, we even offered toilet paper and motioned to a tree... (this latter I must stress was only during hikes).
There is a basic physiological fact that if you consume three to four large cups of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a copious breakfast, you will need to evacuate some of that an hour or so later. The French (and Italians) drink one small cup of espresso, no more. They do not touch milk (considered a poison when mixed with coffee), and only occasionally fruit juice at breakfast. And, they're generally content with a small piece of bread and jam.
Hence, clear and obvious reasons for my needing to have a toilet at the ready when my group arrived at its destination. And yes, this did startle my French partners. Before we could start wine-tasting, or looking at pottery, or hiking, half the group disappeared. Once, when setting out for our sea-side hike, the restaurant we patronize had yet to open, and I was driven to seek out a local fisherman who then asked his mother-in-law if she would open her house to us. Five persons then trooped one by one through her bathroom. It was a most interesting meeting of cultures...
Is there a moral to this story? Not particularly. Now that I live here and the majority of my friends are French, I don't notice things one way or another, and certainly we all have our days when the digestive system is a bit awry. However, I would say, when you're first invited to a Frenchman's house, for a party, tea, dinner, coffee, what-have-you, if you can manage to not need the facilities during your visit, or at the very least not till the end of your visit, you're better off. You can always see it as a slight skip in the act of being received. The host has been waiting for you, you arrive, and she/he is ready to take charge and entertain, but then you disappear into the wc. What is the host to do but wait? It is a rather awkward moment. You're there, but you're not...
Friday, May 15, 2009
Arriving in Paris -- Linguistically challenged.
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
When I first arrived in France, I landed in Paris. This was the city I knew best in France, and the place where my French had gotten up to speed when I sojourned in a few families for six weeks during my 16th summer. This time I'd come to Paris to go to graduate school in Arts Management. I wanted a Master's Degree, but preferred the exoticism of getting it in a foreign country to contemplating an equivalent school in NYC or Boston. The travel bug had definitely not been worn out by my year in Japan. Au contraire!
When I arrive in a country where I have yet to master the language there is a certain rhythm to how things progress. The first time, when I was 16 (after four years of study), it took me two weeks of concentrated listening till the normal speed of language clicked, and I was able to follow it. At first, I had the sensation of hearing words I knew sprinkled like little islands of awareness in a sea of slurred gobbledygook. The next stepping stone was a delayed reaction. I would automatically say, "what?" and then two seconds later, I'd comprehend what I'd heard. Rather akin to a phone conversation with a built in time delay. This made for very dis-jointed conversations. I'd be listening intently, say what? then the person would start explaining and then I'd interrupt to say, no, no, I've understood. Next?
The two week point was critical. I awoke up one morning and click, what had felt like a train steam-rolling through my skull on a daily basis suddenly sounded normal. Now, As I write this, I also realize that I am well-known amongst friends and family for speaking quickly. I'm reassured that I don't garble my words nor mumble (a dear friend from high school was the most sincere mumbler I've ever known.. and yes, I can still understand her, and she me). But I do clip along at an impressive pace... in each of my three languages. I do try to slow down for friends who're not native speakers of my languages. Truly!
I am also known for being talkative, bavarde, garrulous, loquacious... as you choose. This is frequently out of my control (particularly after a very strong espresso). However, when I come to a new country. I close my mouth and I open my ears. Ahhh. I don't exactly blend into the background, but I do position myself to listen, over-hear, follow, participate discreetly in gatherings and conversations whirling about me. I did this with ease in Japan (and slept with phrases flowing like waves through my dreams), and I returned to this state in Paris. This period generally lasts about three months. At which point, I become more confident, more able, and words start to tumble from my mouth.
I arrived in Paris in early January, and had a couple of weeks to find an apartment and get settled before school started. I was still in Japanese mode -- quiet, patient, amenable, assuming that people in charge would actually wish to help you resolve problems, etc., I'd also adopted a language tic from Japan -- to begin a sentence but not to finish it. It is rude to complain or specifically attack someone and risky to say too much in general in Japan. As such, if you had an issue with someone and you wanted to convey that to a friend/colleague, you'd simply say, "Mmmm, that woman. . . mmm neeeh, so desune...." and they'd get the picture. No need to go into detail.
This is not the case in France. Complaining is an art, and arguing a necessary skill. I've since adapted, and can hold my own in a political discussion at the dinner table, but right off the boat, I was a neophyte to say the least, in a land where the mastery of the spoken word and well-organized thoughts to pummel your opponent into submission is frighteningly common. A run-in with the France Telecom during my first month in Paris would have lain me low had my co-renter not been with me. Was I up to living in this country?
The apartment I ended up moving into was already partially inhabited by a young German woman who was depressive and out of work, but familiar with the French/Parisian system. Her telephone was limited to only local calls, and I wished to be able to call my parents, friends, etc., in the US. So, we set out to change this. However, the telephone bill was still in the name of a prior renter who'd departed more than a year before. At the France Telecom offices we presented our dilemma: change the name of the line to mine, and permit international calls.
--No. Not possible.
--Oh? But...
--We need the signature of the person in whose name the line was put.
--She's gone.
--Then we will assign you a new number (not an idea my German co-renter was keen on).
And we went round and round. I sat there mutely while my co-renter became more and more aggressive and nearly attacked the France Telecom agent across the desk. They were battling fiercely with words flying through the air. Who would back down first? This was a test of wills, to hell with what was permitted, standard procedure etc., rules were made to be bent in any case. But whose authority would win out in the end?
Ten minutes later, we walked out with a new contract and all in order.
Whew! Stunned, even a bit sick to my stomach from the nastiness of the moment, I wondered when (or if ever) my French (and my person!) would be up to negotiating the French bureaucracy. I was caught in a moment of serious cultural dislocation. Perhaps if I'd come to Paris directly from New York, but spending years in friendly Seattle, and ever so polite Japan had shifted whatever New Yorker aggressiveness I might have had to weather the Parisian front. Onward and?
When I first arrived in France, I landed in Paris. This was the city I knew best in France, and the place where my French had gotten up to speed when I sojourned in a few families for six weeks during my 16th summer. This time I'd come to Paris to go to graduate school in Arts Management. I wanted a Master's Degree, but preferred the exoticism of getting it in a foreign country to contemplating an equivalent school in NYC or Boston. The travel bug had definitely not been worn out by my year in Japan. Au contraire!
When I arrive in a country where I have yet to master the language there is a certain rhythm to how things progress. The first time, when I was 16 (after four years of study), it took me two weeks of concentrated listening till the normal speed of language clicked, and I was able to follow it. At first, I had the sensation of hearing words I knew sprinkled like little islands of awareness in a sea of slurred gobbledygook. The next stepping stone was a delayed reaction. I would automatically say, "what?" and then two seconds later, I'd comprehend what I'd heard. Rather akin to a phone conversation with a built in time delay. This made for very dis-jointed conversations. I'd be listening intently, say what? then the person would start explaining and then I'd interrupt to say, no, no, I've understood. Next?
The two week point was critical. I awoke up one morning and click, what had felt like a train steam-rolling through my skull on a daily basis suddenly sounded normal. Now, As I write this, I also realize that I am well-known amongst friends and family for speaking quickly. I'm reassured that I don't garble my words nor mumble (a dear friend from high school was the most sincere mumbler I've ever known.. and yes, I can still understand her, and she me). But I do clip along at an impressive pace... in each of my three languages. I do try to slow down for friends who're not native speakers of my languages. Truly!
I am also known for being talkative, bavarde, garrulous, loquacious... as you choose. This is frequently out of my control (particularly after a very strong espresso). However, when I come to a new country. I close my mouth and I open my ears. Ahhh. I don't exactly blend into the background, but I do position myself to listen, over-hear, follow, participate discreetly in gatherings and conversations whirling about me. I did this with ease in Japan (and slept with phrases flowing like waves through my dreams), and I returned to this state in Paris. This period generally lasts about three months. At which point, I become more confident, more able, and words start to tumble from my mouth.
I arrived in Paris in early January, and had a couple of weeks to find an apartment and get settled before school started. I was still in Japanese mode -- quiet, patient, amenable, assuming that people in charge would actually wish to help you resolve problems, etc., I'd also adopted a language tic from Japan -- to begin a sentence but not to finish it. It is rude to complain or specifically attack someone and risky to say too much in general in Japan. As such, if you had an issue with someone and you wanted to convey that to a friend/colleague, you'd simply say, "Mmmm, that woman. . . mmm neeeh, so desune...." and they'd get the picture. No need to go into detail.
This is not the case in France. Complaining is an art, and arguing a necessary skill. I've since adapted, and can hold my own in a political discussion at the dinner table, but right off the boat, I was a neophyte to say the least, in a land where the mastery of the spoken word and well-organized thoughts to pummel your opponent into submission is frighteningly common. A run-in with the France Telecom during my first month in Paris would have lain me low had my co-renter not been with me. Was I up to living in this country?
The apartment I ended up moving into was already partially inhabited by a young German woman who was depressive and out of work, but familiar with the French/Parisian system. Her telephone was limited to only local calls, and I wished to be able to call my parents, friends, etc., in the US. So, we set out to change this. However, the telephone bill was still in the name of a prior renter who'd departed more than a year before. At the France Telecom offices we presented our dilemma: change the name of the line to mine, and permit international calls.
--No. Not possible.
--Oh? But...
--We need the signature of the person in whose name the line was put.
--She's gone.
--Then we will assign you a new number (not an idea my German co-renter was keen on).
And we went round and round. I sat there mutely while my co-renter became more and more aggressive and nearly attacked the France Telecom agent across the desk. They were battling fiercely with words flying through the air. Who would back down first? This was a test of wills, to hell with what was permitted, standard procedure etc., rules were made to be bent in any case. But whose authority would win out in the end?
Ten minutes later, we walked out with a new contract and all in order.
Whew! Stunned, even a bit sick to my stomach from the nastiness of the moment, I wondered when (or if ever) my French (and my person!) would be up to negotiating the French bureaucracy. I was caught in a moment of serious cultural dislocation. Perhaps if I'd come to Paris directly from New York, but spending years in friendly Seattle, and ever so polite Japan had shifted whatever New Yorker aggressiveness I might have had to weather the Parisian front. Onward and?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Temptations of French Lingerie
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
OK, I'm getting rather far from the food theme here. But, since French women are known for being good cooks, staying thin, and enjoying being sexy, am I really? It took me awhile to get into French lingerie. Literally and figuratively. I was pretty much a cotton and Victoria's Secret basics kind of girl. Jockey for Her, etc., Basic, well made, comfortable. When I lived in Paris and went to dance class on a regular basis, I would goggle a bit at the super chic underwear of my fellow Parisian dancers -- magenta thongs, black lace, peacock blue satin... and this under leotards they were then going to sweat in?
But something happened when I turned 40. My body changed. My breasts got larger (which freaked me out just a bit), but my legs and torso didn't (could be all the yoga, but also living on lots of veggies, olive oil, fish...). I also had one of those Eureka realizations that this is as good as it's gonna get. From here on out, gravity will have an every greater say. So, I've never had the body of a model, but I'm curvy, mostly flat-bellied (depending on how much I binge on my bread and an evil and wonderful hazelnut spread by the Jean Hervé called Kokolo) and I enjoy what I have.
That same year Erick offered me a very lovely and no doubt expensive Aubade black brassiere with a little jewel in the middle. Hmmm when could I wear that? He quickly figured out that this gift pleased me far more than yet another heavy coffee table book, and followed suit over the next couple of occasions.
I like to watch people (mostly women, I must confess), observe their fashion choices, their sense of style and the grace (or lack there of) in their movement. I noticed that certain friends had their elegant button down shirts buttoned down to the cleavage, and that their lovely bras were definitely in view. Hm? No one seemed to think them cheap or slutty. Au contraire, they were elegant, classy and ever so alluring. Other lovely friends wore bras with little jewels on the straps, again, very much in view (but of course! if not to show it off, why wear it?). Just another little feminine detail.
Since the 1990s, we've been entertained, as a people and a culture, by a gorgeous ad campaign by the French lingerie company Aubade. Take a look at their chic web site and the history of their "leçons d'amour."
http://aubade.com/
These images are photographed so spectacularly, no one could (or perhaps should) be offended. They are a celebration of beautiful women and the power of seduction. My children have now grown up with these on all the bus stops, in all the magazines, in calendars, post cards. It's just normal and beautiful.
So, I bit back my intimidation, and entered the lingerie stores in Arles. The first time I did this it was summer sale period. This made it a bit easier on the pocket book. All bras at 25-30E and all panties at 10-15E. The normal prices were more in the range of 45 - 105E for bras, and 25-55E for panties -- yes, that wee bit of string and stretchy lace costs more per ounce than either gold or black truffles.
I've a favorite store now, the Clin d'Oeil in Arles. I've gotten to know the woman who runs the store, to be able to chat with her about politics (what else?) breast size changes, the local economy, and so on. She seems to enjoy the infrequent visits from her American client, and I enjoy being known and accepted.
Here in Avignon, I admire, I photograph, I look wistfully. But, for the moment, with my pocket book much reduced this year, I've contented myself with my current wardrobe, and resisted further temptation.
OK, I'm getting rather far from the food theme here. But, since French women are known for being good cooks, staying thin, and enjoying being sexy, am I really? It took me awhile to get into French lingerie. Literally and figuratively. I was pretty much a cotton and Victoria's Secret basics kind of girl. Jockey for Her, etc., Basic, well made, comfortable. When I lived in Paris and went to dance class on a regular basis, I would goggle a bit at the super chic underwear of my fellow Parisian dancers -- magenta thongs, black lace, peacock blue satin... and this under leotards they were then going to sweat in?
But something happened when I turned 40. My body changed. My breasts got larger (which freaked me out just a bit), but my legs and torso didn't (could be all the yoga, but also living on lots of veggies, olive oil, fish...). I also had one of those Eureka realizations that this is as good as it's gonna get. From here on out, gravity will have an every greater say. So, I've never had the body of a model, but I'm curvy, mostly flat-bellied (depending on how much I binge on my bread and an evil and wonderful hazelnut spread by the Jean Hervé called Kokolo) and I enjoy what I have.
That same year Erick offered me a very lovely and no doubt expensive Aubade black brassiere with a little jewel in the middle. Hmmm when could I wear that? He quickly figured out that this gift pleased me far more than yet another heavy coffee table book, and followed suit over the next couple of occasions.
I like to watch people (mostly women, I must confess), observe their fashion choices, their sense of style and the grace (or lack there of) in their movement. I noticed that certain friends had their elegant button down shirts buttoned down to the cleavage, and that their lovely bras were definitely in view. Hm? No one seemed to think them cheap or slutty. Au contraire, they were elegant, classy and ever so alluring. Other lovely friends wore bras with little jewels on the straps, again, very much in view (but of course! if not to show it off, why wear it?). Just another little feminine detail.
Since the 1990s, we've been entertained, as a people and a culture, by a gorgeous ad campaign by the French lingerie company Aubade. Take a look at their chic web site and the history of their "leçons d'amour."
http://aubade.com/
These images are photographed so spectacularly, no one could (or perhaps should) be offended. They are a celebration of beautiful women and the power of seduction. My children have now grown up with these on all the bus stops, in all the magazines, in calendars, post cards. It's just normal and beautiful.
So, I bit back my intimidation, and entered the lingerie stores in Arles. The first time I did this it was summer sale period. This made it a bit easier on the pocket book. All bras at 25-30E and all panties at 10-15E. The normal prices were more in the range of 45 - 105E for bras, and 25-55E for panties -- yes, that wee bit of string and stretchy lace costs more per ounce than either gold or black truffles.
I've a favorite store now, the Clin d'Oeil in Arles. I've gotten to know the woman who runs the store, to be able to chat with her about politics (what else?) breast size changes, the local economy, and so on. She seems to enjoy the infrequent visits from her American client, and I enjoy being known and accepted.
Here in Avignon, I admire, I photograph, I look wistfully. But, for the moment, with my pocket book much reduced this year, I've contented myself with my current wardrobe, and resisted further temptation.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Getting Politicized
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
The French love to discuss politics. At the dinner table or a cocktail party, rather than pepper you with personal questions or complaints, they are more apt to try to draw you into a political discussion. Since living here, I too have become an adept at the political discussion. I simply care more and more deeply, and I strive to keep myself informed. Back when I lived in the US, I was not in any way politically savvy, nor particularly concerned. I loved reading the NYTimes, but stuck to the Magazine, Arts and Leisure, and the Book Review sections. When it came time to vote, I would call a friend who had worked in political circles for years and ask her to give me the list of her preferred candidates. I knew we thought and felt alike, so I simply voted her suggestions. As a system, it worked.
But since I began living in France, I've felt the need to be informed, and when possible to act. It could be because people here follow assiduously local and national politics, and also international. They're up on Chavez, on our presidential elections, on the political bents of the Germans and the Italians, what's happening in China. There is just a significant majority which reads about and discusses the issues of the day.
I moved to France during the Clinton years, and lived through the Monica scandal on French soil. At the same time, the French were publicly discovering the presence of Mitterand's illegitimate daughter with his longtime mistress. The comparison of our reactions was interesting at the least, and often amusing. Living amidst the less strict French (at least where mistresses are concerned) I felt that it was a bit much to expect a charismatic man in a position of power not to flaunt it. Attracting women is just one of the benefits for these men. I don't applaud it, but I'm not so innocent as to think that those who resist are in the majority. So, perhaps disrespectfully, I would say, why couldn't he have had better taste? JFK apparently bedded some of the great beauties of his time. Marlene Dietrich at least knew how to be discreet. Am I jaded? or just realistic when considering attractive and powerful men? I've definitely got a more continental view on this aspect of the political world.
Living in France means living amongst people who believe their individual actions, when collected into the organized actions of their unions, can change government. The people who stormed the Bastille and overthrew a king are still here. They shall not be dictated to. And yet, they do very much respect authority and the patriarchal structures that surround them. It's an interesting blend. As many visitors have discovered, much to their frustration, the French engage in and support organized strikes, those that can that is. So those who have guaranteed jobs for life with the civil service -- postal workers, the police, teachers, transit workers--or those who are well organized in unions such as the truck drivers strike with amazing ease and frequency.
This means that your average French citizen has to cope yearly with a week or more of no school for his/her child. One year, they missed so much school in the public system that the baccalauriat exam was in jeopardy. Parents were pulling their hair out seeking options for keeping their kids safe and occupied while they went to work (or missed work coping as they could).
He also becomes adept at juggling shifting train schedules (and the lack thereof), potential gas shortages due to truckers blocking all the highway exits, air flights being cancelled, mail not delivered, and so on and so on.
I remember fondly my experience in the winter of 1995 when all forms of transit -- the trains local and tgv, the busses, and the metro-- were on strike. It was just around Thanksgiving, and Erick had to drive me back to Paris and my job there. Once there, I simply walked everywhere -- something I love to do in any case. But I was joined now by all of Paris. Some were on roller blades, some on bikes. Some hitch-hiked up the Champs Elysées in their handmade shoes, cashmere coats and buttery leather brief cases. Everyone arrived at work with bright red cheeks and stories to tell. Those coming in from the outlying suburbs had it the hardest, but they also regaled their co-workers with tales of sharing rides, hitch hiking and general comraderie. I really loved that strike, strange as that may seem. Paris has never been nicer. And I've never had such lovely legs since.
Remarkably few complained of the situation as they were pretty much behind the strikers and they too wanted then prime minister Alain Jupé humbled. And they succeeded. He has now left central government and returned to his city of Bordeaux to be mayor again.
Though the strikes drive everyone crazy, remarkably often they are supported or at least tolerated by the general populace. There's something hopeful and reassuring in knowing that if you make a stink about an issue, and if there are a sufficient number of you, you will be heard and government will respond.
I've also been brainwashed into believing in the virtues of a single party health care system, and one where everyone gets cared for no matter their prior illnesses, genetic history, etc., I like that education is a nationalized system, designed as much as possible to give equal access to all. It is not paid for with local realestate taxes, and as such, the better neighborhoods don't have a complete monopoly on the best educators.
A fascinating media creation here is a nightly show of puppets repeating the news events of the day in the exaggerated personas of real-life politicians, tv newscasters, celebrities and more. It is called the Guignols, and it is the vehicle through which many French school children are introduced to politics and all the major players in France. Because of this show, your average ten year old likely knows the names and faces of a couple dozen major French political figures, from the head of the green party to the workers' party, the wives and paramours of the sitting presidents (and former as well), all the cabinet ministers. It is a brilliant show: funny, pertinent, and wryly informative. Imagine Jon Stewart but as a puppet.
When I go out on my visits, we chat about family, the weather, and politics. The baker follows Obama's visit to Europe and the various reactions to his presence. The chocolatier would like to know who you're voting for (on this particular occasion, it was Kerry or Bush). What happens in the US affects the French. What happens on an international level will eventually touch them on a local level, be it lower wheat yields in Africa encouraging local farmers to plant more grains, or the fighting in the Middle East increasing immigration, or the economic woes of the sub prime lenders reverberating out to pretty much destroy middle class tourism for a year or more.
I've not lived in the US now for nearly fifteen years. And as such, I no longer have any idea as to the political intensity of your average American. I know many in my own family and amongst my friends worked hard to get Obama elected, give regularly to help along medical initiatives, encourage green policies, etc., But there are also many who simply find discussing politics awkward, inappropriate and unsettling. And so, we are careful, tactful, and avoid "going there." I've been unable to not put a bit of oil on the fire though. Each time I've had a young American au pair in my house, she's gone home with a head full of thoughts about politics, whether she agreed with me or not. Indoctrinating susceptible young women was not necessarily part of the agreement when they came over to care for my kids, but, living amidst this world of fierce thinkers and debaters, I couldn't help myself. Spread the word.
The French love to discuss politics. At the dinner table or a cocktail party, rather than pepper you with personal questions or complaints, they are more apt to try to draw you into a political discussion. Since living here, I too have become an adept at the political discussion. I simply care more and more deeply, and I strive to keep myself informed. Back when I lived in the US, I was not in any way politically savvy, nor particularly concerned. I loved reading the NYTimes, but stuck to the Magazine, Arts and Leisure, and the Book Review sections. When it came time to vote, I would call a friend who had worked in political circles for years and ask her to give me the list of her preferred candidates. I knew we thought and felt alike, so I simply voted her suggestions. As a system, it worked.
But since I began living in France, I've felt the need to be informed, and when possible to act. It could be because people here follow assiduously local and national politics, and also international. They're up on Chavez, on our presidential elections, on the political bents of the Germans and the Italians, what's happening in China. There is just a significant majority which reads about and discusses the issues of the day.
I moved to France during the Clinton years, and lived through the Monica scandal on French soil. At the same time, the French were publicly discovering the presence of Mitterand's illegitimate daughter with his longtime mistress. The comparison of our reactions was interesting at the least, and often amusing. Living amidst the less strict French (at least where mistresses are concerned) I felt that it was a bit much to expect a charismatic man in a position of power not to flaunt it. Attracting women is just one of the benefits for these men. I don't applaud it, but I'm not so innocent as to think that those who resist are in the majority. So, perhaps disrespectfully, I would say, why couldn't he have had better taste? JFK apparently bedded some of the great beauties of his time. Marlene Dietrich at least knew how to be discreet. Am I jaded? or just realistic when considering attractive and powerful men? I've definitely got a more continental view on this aspect of the political world.
Living in France means living amongst people who believe their individual actions, when collected into the organized actions of their unions, can change government. The people who stormed the Bastille and overthrew a king are still here. They shall not be dictated to. And yet, they do very much respect authority and the patriarchal structures that surround them. It's an interesting blend. As many visitors have discovered, much to their frustration, the French engage in and support organized strikes, those that can that is. So those who have guaranteed jobs for life with the civil service -- postal workers, the police, teachers, transit workers--or those who are well organized in unions such as the truck drivers strike with amazing ease and frequency.
This means that your average French citizen has to cope yearly with a week or more of no school for his/her child. One year, they missed so much school in the public system that the baccalauriat exam was in jeopardy. Parents were pulling their hair out seeking options for keeping their kids safe and occupied while they went to work (or missed work coping as they could).
He also becomes adept at juggling shifting train schedules (and the lack thereof), potential gas shortages due to truckers blocking all the highway exits, air flights being cancelled, mail not delivered, and so on and so on.
I remember fondly my experience in the winter of 1995 when all forms of transit -- the trains local and tgv, the busses, and the metro-- were on strike. It was just around Thanksgiving, and Erick had to drive me back to Paris and my job there. Once there, I simply walked everywhere -- something I love to do in any case. But I was joined now by all of Paris. Some were on roller blades, some on bikes. Some hitch-hiked up the Champs Elysées in their handmade shoes, cashmere coats and buttery leather brief cases. Everyone arrived at work with bright red cheeks and stories to tell. Those coming in from the outlying suburbs had it the hardest, but they also regaled their co-workers with tales of sharing rides, hitch hiking and general comraderie. I really loved that strike, strange as that may seem. Paris has never been nicer. And I've never had such lovely legs since.
Remarkably few complained of the situation as they were pretty much behind the strikers and they too wanted then prime minister Alain Jupé humbled. And they succeeded. He has now left central government and returned to his city of Bordeaux to be mayor again.
Though the strikes drive everyone crazy, remarkably often they are supported or at least tolerated by the general populace. There's something hopeful and reassuring in knowing that if you make a stink about an issue, and if there are a sufficient number of you, you will be heard and government will respond.
I've also been brainwashed into believing in the virtues of a single party health care system, and one where everyone gets cared for no matter their prior illnesses, genetic history, etc., I like that education is a nationalized system, designed as much as possible to give equal access to all. It is not paid for with local realestate taxes, and as such, the better neighborhoods don't have a complete monopoly on the best educators.
A fascinating media creation here is a nightly show of puppets repeating the news events of the day in the exaggerated personas of real-life politicians, tv newscasters, celebrities and more. It is called the Guignols, and it is the vehicle through which many French school children are introduced to politics and all the major players in France. Because of this show, your average ten year old likely knows the names and faces of a couple dozen major French political figures, from the head of the green party to the workers' party, the wives and paramours of the sitting presidents (and former as well), all the cabinet ministers. It is a brilliant show: funny, pertinent, and wryly informative. Imagine Jon Stewart but as a puppet.
When I go out on my visits, we chat about family, the weather, and politics. The baker follows Obama's visit to Europe and the various reactions to his presence. The chocolatier would like to know who you're voting for (on this particular occasion, it was Kerry or Bush). What happens in the US affects the French. What happens on an international level will eventually touch them on a local level, be it lower wheat yields in Africa encouraging local farmers to plant more grains, or the fighting in the Middle East increasing immigration, or the economic woes of the sub prime lenders reverberating out to pretty much destroy middle class tourism for a year or more.
I've not lived in the US now for nearly fifteen years. And as such, I no longer have any idea as to the political intensity of your average American. I know many in my own family and amongst my friends worked hard to get Obama elected, give regularly to help along medical initiatives, encourage green policies, etc., But there are also many who simply find discussing politics awkward, inappropriate and unsettling. And so, we are careful, tactful, and avoid "going there." I've been unable to not put a bit of oil on the fire though. Each time I've had a young American au pair in my house, she's gone home with a head full of thoughts about politics, whether she agreed with me or not. Indoctrinating susceptible young women was not necessarily part of the agreement when they came over to care for my kids, but, living amidst this world of fierce thinkers and debaters, I couldn't help myself. Spread the word.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Crossing the Rhône-Changing Values
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I spent the first fourteen years of my French life on the Eastern side of the Rhône, in Provence, the hub of the former Roman Catholic Empire. Erick, the father of my boys, though an avowed atheist, has all the habits and mannerisms of a good Southern Catholic: distrust of the taxman, very generous, a bon-vivant; he can be chaotic, letting money burn the proverbial hole in his pocket. He lives in the moment, often neglecting his health, his future, but with few regrets.
His is a good personality for receiving people, for dealing with whatever comes up. And, I am the first to admit, a crazy and ambitious American wife 16 years your junior isn’t the easiest person to bring into your life, attractive though she’d been. I’d always said his gray hairs dated to my arrival… and the complexities and twists I added to his life.
With his skills in the kitchen, and his love of his region, plus my marketing skills, enthusiasm, and willingness to constantly try new things, to explore and seek.. we built our culinary tourism business centered on the cooking school and Erick’s recipes. Later we added the bed and breakfast, making everything from scratch, as organically as possible. With Erick's funky renovations, it all came together. The fun people who came to visit, the visits in themselves, the hikes, excursions, conversations, meals and more fully occupied my life for the over 10 years.
From Catholic Provence I crossed over the Rhône to the West, the Gard/ Languedoc-Roussillon and there found my organic vintner. Protestant France with its history, its traditions, greeted me. Here many battles were fought for the freedom to practice a different faith, and the over the years, a majority has chosen a simpler, more legalistic, restrained living style. This world is familiar to me. I'm living moments reminiscent of my Protestant New England background: waste not, want not – JP actually is willing to eat left-overs, something Erick would sooner let mold over than dig out of the fridge - and prepares just enough, never in excess. He keeps his house cool, spends a minimum of money, believes sincerely in “if it ain’t broke, don’t replace it)” and spends quite a bit of his time repairing old tools and vehicles. His house is spare, minimal, with no excess. No piles of books, mail, magazines toppling over on every surface, few but well-chosen art pieces on the shelves and walls. Old and serviceable, if not particularly good quality pots and pans.
Part of this world is comforting to me, but it's also disorienting. I was order to Erick’s chaos, and now I am apparently chaos to JP’s order. How far can and will each bend to accommodate the other?
You take up quite a bit of space, he said to me this summer. Yes, I agreed, I brought cooking utensils because I like to cook, and I brought a ¼ of my summer wardrobe, because I like to look well – which you appreciate as well I believe. I brought photos of my boys, and my dog, and my cat with her 5 kittens. And yes, I brought my boys for a time as well. OK. I don’t travel lightly. But, ahem, have you made room for me? Your closets are full, and what closets there are are small. Your kitchen is minimalist if artistic, built for two people who rarely cooked, or rather took small pleasure in cooking. And, forgive me, but I am simply amazed that you were able to share a closet of a meter’s width with the mother of your children …..
The discussion brought me to look at my own house, my manner of living amongst my belongings, collected over multiple lives, in plain view. I have no closets, no attic, no basement or garage. Nor do I really want them. Why hide what I possess? Then it wouldn’t exist anymore, and what purpose would it serve. I am a visual. Either I see and use my possessions, or I might as well get ride of them. And yes, I have (had) cats, and a dog. They get on the furniture, and are frequently on the knees and in the arms of my children, warming their nights. My rooms are painted in different colors, and I frequently bake and have music blasting. Sights, smells, sounds. It is a lively place filled with warm and active bodies who leave their prints.
Meantime JP couldn't operate more differently than myself. Nothing goes to the Goodwill, nothing is thrown out. There is a huge barn on the property into which he's put everything from his past life with the mother of his children and his now-grown children. There it all stays, safely molding away, stashed out of sight. His closets shut with opaque doors behind which order is not always a primary goal (though he's definitely making progress on this aspect). Thus visually communicating a certain Zen ambiance. He lives and eats simply--not monastically, but terribly reasonably and rationally.
Though we have many elements in common, in many important ways we are trying out the cliché of “opposites attract”. Will I adapt to his more restrained ways? Will he adapt to my exuberance and more colorful existence? Lovely as this year has been, the future is yet rather uncertain. Time will tell.
I spent the first fourteen years of my French life on the Eastern side of the Rhône, in Provence, the hub of the former Roman Catholic Empire. Erick, the father of my boys, though an avowed atheist, has all the habits and mannerisms of a good Southern Catholic: distrust of the taxman, very generous, a bon-vivant; he can be chaotic, letting money burn the proverbial hole in his pocket. He lives in the moment, often neglecting his health, his future, but with few regrets.
His is a good personality for receiving people, for dealing with whatever comes up. And, I am the first to admit, a crazy and ambitious American wife 16 years your junior isn’t the easiest person to bring into your life, attractive though she’d been. I’d always said his gray hairs dated to my arrival… and the complexities and twists I added to his life.
With his skills in the kitchen, and his love of his region, plus my marketing skills, enthusiasm, and willingness to constantly try new things, to explore and seek.. we built our culinary tourism business centered on the cooking school and Erick’s recipes. Later we added the bed and breakfast, making everything from scratch, as organically as possible. With Erick's funky renovations, it all came together. The fun people who came to visit, the visits in themselves, the hikes, excursions, conversations, meals and more fully occupied my life for the over 10 years.
From Catholic Provence I crossed over the Rhône to the West, the Gard/ Languedoc-Roussillon and there found my organic vintner. Protestant France with its history, its traditions, greeted me. Here many battles were fought for the freedom to practice a different faith, and the over the years, a majority has chosen a simpler, more legalistic, restrained living style. This world is familiar to me. I'm living moments reminiscent of my Protestant New England background: waste not, want not – JP actually is willing to eat left-overs, something Erick would sooner let mold over than dig out of the fridge - and prepares just enough, never in excess. He keeps his house cool, spends a minimum of money, believes sincerely in “if it ain’t broke, don’t replace it)” and spends quite a bit of his time repairing old tools and vehicles. His house is spare, minimal, with no excess. No piles of books, mail, magazines toppling over on every surface, few but well-chosen art pieces on the shelves and walls. Old and serviceable, if not particularly good quality pots and pans.
Part of this world is comforting to me, but it's also disorienting. I was order to Erick’s chaos, and now I am apparently chaos to JP’s order. How far can and will each bend to accommodate the other?
You take up quite a bit of space, he said to me this summer. Yes, I agreed, I brought cooking utensils because I like to cook, and I brought a ¼ of my summer wardrobe, because I like to look well – which you appreciate as well I believe. I brought photos of my boys, and my dog, and my cat with her 5 kittens. And yes, I brought my boys for a time as well. OK. I don’t travel lightly. But, ahem, have you made room for me? Your closets are full, and what closets there are are small. Your kitchen is minimalist if artistic, built for two people who rarely cooked, or rather took small pleasure in cooking. And, forgive me, but I am simply amazed that you were able to share a closet of a meter’s width with the mother of your children …..
The discussion brought me to look at my own house, my manner of living amongst my belongings, collected over multiple lives, in plain view. I have no closets, no attic, no basement or garage. Nor do I really want them. Why hide what I possess? Then it wouldn’t exist anymore, and what purpose would it serve. I am a visual. Either I see and use my possessions, or I might as well get ride of them. And yes, I have (had) cats, and a dog. They get on the furniture, and are frequently on the knees and in the arms of my children, warming their nights. My rooms are painted in different colors, and I frequently bake and have music blasting. Sights, smells, sounds. It is a lively place filled with warm and active bodies who leave their prints.
Meantime JP couldn't operate more differently than myself. Nothing goes to the Goodwill, nothing is thrown out. There is a huge barn on the property into which he's put everything from his past life with the mother of his children and his now-grown children. There it all stays, safely molding away, stashed out of sight. His closets shut with opaque doors behind which order is not always a primary goal (though he's definitely making progress on this aspect). Thus visually communicating a certain Zen ambiance. He lives and eats simply--not monastically, but terribly reasonably and rationally.
Though we have many elements in common, in many important ways we are trying out the cliché of “opposites attract”. Will I adapt to his more restrained ways? Will he adapt to my exuberance and more colorful existence? Lovely as this year has been, the future is yet rather uncertain. Time will tell.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Hugging in France
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I love to hug. I was raised cuddly, leaping into my father's arms when he came back from work, snuggling for long warm moments at night before bed, curling up on welcoming laps, be they my father's, my mother's or a boyfriend's. Already in high school I hugged my good friends, and even more so from university on, and during my years in Seattle. I was the affectionate, outgoing, demonstrative one. Not only hugs, but back rubs too. However, that's another subject. Full body hugs of dear friends, both sexes, simply expressing the joy and pleasure in seeing each other. Arms wrapped tightly around their backs, face gently pressed into a warm shoulder, this was the warm greeting I adored giving and receiving.
Then I spent a year in Japan. In Japan, not only do you not hug, you don't kiss, and greetings are the non-touching act of bowing (at various depths depending on status, etc.,). Girlfriends can link arms, but, hugs? I actually wondered if I could still be me, the myself I knew or thought I could define, if I wasn't giving and getting hugs. It was an existential moment.
And yes, as you well know, I now live in France where I've been for the past fourteen years. In France we exchange kisses as greetings. These vary. In Paris, the tendency is two kisses, one each in the air located somewhere in the direction of your distant ear. You certainly don't actually touch the cheek, and you lean gently towards the person, but don't touch. In the occasional brasserie when men get a bit high on wine and the company of women, this can quickly become four kisses, for said women.
The word 'embrasser' which so resembles 'embrace,' if we go back in time, originally meant enwrap with arms (bra=arm), as you would think. But with the passage of the ages, the word has come to mean to kiss. And the word that you'd think would be to kiss, 'baiser' which so resembles the word kiss, bise or bisou, has come to mean something much stronger, that is, to have sex. Yes, things get complicated when etymology comes into it!
In Provence, we exchange three kisses, and yummy little grandmas and aunties make a sincere effort to smack their lips on your cheek (this takes some doing, try it!), properly leaving a nice smudge of red-orange lipstick. It is also quite common to hold the shoulder of the person you kiss while doing so. It adds an extra affectionate touch, which is not out of place between between friends and family members. This is my tendency -- and so far it hasn't gotten me in trouble.
However, hugging... even between close friends is a rare thing. A mommy can hug her kids, and they her. But Grandmas more often get kisses. In general, such an exchange of bodily warmth (fully clothed yet) is reserved for lovers. And yes, I do count on JP for my share of being wrapped in arms, pressed against a warm chest, my nose snuggled in a warm neck. But, ... that's beside the point.
As my time in France has evolved, I think I've followed a sine curve on the hugging thing. In the beginning I missed it terribly, but kept myself carefully in hand and observed local customs most attentively. Then, when my babies were born, I cuddled them, and held them, and nursed them, and even had them sleeping in bed beside me. Yes, I had missed that physical warmth, and my kids were the recipients of all that bottled up affection (it could have been worse).
In general, I've mostly adapted to the state of things. It's been over fourteen years now after all. However, in the past couple years, as I've lived through the difficult times of my divorce, and realized what truly wonderful friends I have, I just can't resist pulling them into an embrace American style. And, dear and wonderful friends that they are, they respond, and it's ok. I am after all their American friend. I'm Madeleine, I happen to be American, and where I come from and who I am is most truthfully conveyed when I permit myself the freedom of truly expressing my love and affection. So, be it my two dearest friends, or my much loved goat cheese makers Isabelle and Paul Pierre... I reach out and pull them close. I love them so.
I love to hug. I was raised cuddly, leaping into my father's arms when he came back from work, snuggling for long warm moments at night before bed, curling up on welcoming laps, be they my father's, my mother's or a boyfriend's. Already in high school I hugged my good friends, and even more so from university on, and during my years in Seattle. I was the affectionate, outgoing, demonstrative one. Not only hugs, but back rubs too. However, that's another subject. Full body hugs of dear friends, both sexes, simply expressing the joy and pleasure in seeing each other. Arms wrapped tightly around their backs, face gently pressed into a warm shoulder, this was the warm greeting I adored giving and receiving.
Then I spent a year in Japan. In Japan, not only do you not hug, you don't kiss, and greetings are the non-touching act of bowing (at various depths depending on status, etc.,). Girlfriends can link arms, but, hugs? I actually wondered if I could still be me, the myself I knew or thought I could define, if I wasn't giving and getting hugs. It was an existential moment.
And yes, as you well know, I now live in France where I've been for the past fourteen years. In France we exchange kisses as greetings. These vary. In Paris, the tendency is two kisses, one each in the air located somewhere in the direction of your distant ear. You certainly don't actually touch the cheek, and you lean gently towards the person, but don't touch. In the occasional brasserie when men get a bit high on wine and the company of women, this can quickly become four kisses, for said women.
The word 'embrasser' which so resembles 'embrace,' if we go back in time, originally meant enwrap with arms (bra=arm), as you would think. But with the passage of the ages, the word has come to mean to kiss. And the word that you'd think would be to kiss, 'baiser' which so resembles the word kiss, bise or bisou, has come to mean something much stronger, that is, to have sex. Yes, things get complicated when etymology comes into it!
In Provence, we exchange three kisses, and yummy little grandmas and aunties make a sincere effort to smack their lips on your cheek (this takes some doing, try it!), properly leaving a nice smudge of red-orange lipstick. It is also quite common to hold the shoulder of the person you kiss while doing so. It adds an extra affectionate touch, which is not out of place between between friends and family members. This is my tendency -- and so far it hasn't gotten me in trouble.
However, hugging... even between close friends is a rare thing. A mommy can hug her kids, and they her. But Grandmas more often get kisses. In general, such an exchange of bodily warmth (fully clothed yet) is reserved for lovers. And yes, I do count on JP for my share of being wrapped in arms, pressed against a warm chest, my nose snuggled in a warm neck. But, ... that's beside the point.
As my time in France has evolved, I think I've followed a sine curve on the hugging thing. In the beginning I missed it terribly, but kept myself carefully in hand and observed local customs most attentively. Then, when my babies were born, I cuddled them, and held them, and nursed them, and even had them sleeping in bed beside me. Yes, I had missed that physical warmth, and my kids were the recipients of all that bottled up affection (it could have been worse).
In general, I've mostly adapted to the state of things. It's been over fourteen years now after all. However, in the past couple years, as I've lived through the difficult times of my divorce, and realized what truly wonderful friends I have, I just can't resist pulling them into an embrace American style. And, dear and wonderful friends that they are, they respond, and it's ok. I am after all their American friend. I'm Madeleine, I happen to be American, and where I come from and who I am is most truthfully conveyed when I permit myself the freedom of truly expressing my love and affection. So, be it my two dearest friends, or my much loved goat cheese makers Isabelle and Paul Pierre... I reach out and pull them close. I love them so.
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