I have this thing about generalizations. Granted, I’m guilty on occasion of such, but... As I read my way through The Secret Life of France I am startled and frustrated by some of her chapters. Now, to clarify, this book is very well written by a woman who moved in circles I will never come close to. I am in admiration and I am aware of the quite privileged access she has had. (Had I married a Frenchman who shared my classes at Princeton, perhaps, but that's not how my story has played out). She is describing the habits and tendencies of a rarified circle of the very highly educated elite bourgeoisie of Paris. What she says does not hold true for my world in Provence of teachers, farmers, vintners, artisans, massage therapists, essential oil practitioners, artists and musicians.
The last two chapters I read have been strong on politics and the relationship of France (since WWII), to its British neighbor to the West and the Americans across the ocean. She has encountered (she being British, not American), tremendous nostalgia and respect for the British (all the while acknowledging that the sentiment is not returned from across the Channel), and outright scorn, annoyance and disdain for Americans.
Hmmmm. Can I say Thank Goodness I’ve not encountered this in the South? Nor has my mother (granted, a Ph.D in French literature) in her many years backing and forthing across the Atlantic to the city of Lights.
But, as she perpetuates the unfortunate opinion that all the French hate the Americans (NOT TRUE!) I am forced to consider my impression upon people here.
I’ve written before of the cultural confusion I feel when in the US – where I am received as hyper-verbal, WASPy, New England with a European gloss – thus I intimidate on occasion. And the concurrent reception I receive in France where it takes quite a bit of time and knowing me to be convinced of my cultured self (is it so hidden?) and rather deep education (all is respective). Mmmm Yes, my first impression in the hexagon shines through my surface self : bubbly, American accented English (though my French accent is well-received), optimistic and outgoing, as JP would say, my enthousiasme enfantin lends people to not take me seriously and to underestimate me.
A friend recently confirmed that when outsiders saw me (young, pretty, ebulliant) with Erick (older, more established, local) upon our marriage they assumed he had to have wooed me with security, wealth, comfort... Why else would I have stayed? No, he didn’t offer me this, but he did offer me a foil upon which I grew, expanded, developed and discovered my talents, previously unknown to myself. It was his passion for cooking and his region that gave me the impetus to create our business from scratch. He was also willing to do what he was skilled at to complete the picture – the physical renovations of the house, the shopping and cooking, the driving, etc.,
When we were in the midst of divorcing and I was advised by both my lawyer and JP that I really shouldn’t continue to work with him, I am convinced (now) that they assumed he had the where-withall to continue to support me and the children. That the business might collapse without my participation, that I was the one that brought our clients to us... this was an idea completely outside their scope of imagination. I was simply a pretty young thing from America, right? Much to my chagrin (and at that time low self-esteem) I followed their advice. This timed with the economic crisis brought near financial disaster on both our heads.
Over the past year Erick and I have knit our working relationship back together and we now help each other as we are able. A far better solution for both.
So, to conclude: that yes, if Americans are sweepingly (and ignorantly) considered to often be uncultured and less civilized than their European counterparts (particularly by a class of individuals that truly revel in criticizing and judging others) ... I do suffer occasionally from this stereotype. But, not for long. Where people have open minds and the desire to learn, discuss, exchange, snap judgements can be altered.
Curiously, I more often encounter a certain level of cynicism towards the English... but then, I’m American and no doubt our French hosts occasionally play games with the suspected rivalry of the Brits and their former colonists. All is fair game for the gullible...
Showing posts with label US. Show all posts
Showing posts with label US. Show all posts
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Thank you French Healthcare
Yet again, I am and will be in debt to the French healthcare system. It has been not quite a year now since I first had an abnormal pap smear. From that day through to a snipping and biopsy to the surgery that removed the lesion of cells, barely three months passed. And, in my currently financially challenged state, I did not pay a centîme.
It is now six months later, and I've had two subsequent visits to the doctor, and another abnormal pap smear. This one is a bit more dubious, and might mean there are further areas out of sight and reach of a pap smear that are activating. My doctor contacted me immediately. I had a rdv in her office two days after I called. And not ten days later I'll have the less invasive of the two options she proposed.
I face now the choice of a pre-emptive hysterectomy, including the ovaries as there is a history of ovarian cancer in my family, or to choose the lesser option of removing what is visible plus a chunk and keeping a close eye on the rest.
My choice is personal, moral, physical, and not based on money and access. This is rather incredible. I am free to be freaked out at the idea that I might be harboring what could develop into a cancer. I have the option of choosing one intervention and following it up shortly with the more drastic choice. I have a present, bright, and competent doctor who is reactive, proactive and patient. Her schedule and the hospital can take me in. Whatever care I choose and need I will get. And, in my current economic position, I won't even have the minimal co-pay to handle (which would be a max of about 200E for the simple operation, and no doubt a bit more for the more dramatic one).
So yes, I don't like the thought of losing my interior organs at the age of 43. I don't like the thought of being on hormone replacement therapy till I choose (at a later age) to go through menopause. But, I have the option to deal with these personal feelings and worries. The care is there. I will be provided for. I'm not in the midst of going, "Shit! no job, no insurance and thus who and how to pay for such an invasive procedure?!"
If I were actually living in the States, I'd be royally screwed right now. Yes, I've family that would come through for me. I wouldn't be left without help and care. But, that would cause hardship and take funds away from other possibilities.
I have options. I have choices. I am just unbelievably lucky to be living in France right now. I simply need to decide on a when that coincides with free time on the part of friends and others who could help out while I'm following doctor's orders to take it easy.
It is now six months later, and I've had two subsequent visits to the doctor, and another abnormal pap smear. This one is a bit more dubious, and might mean there are further areas out of sight and reach of a pap smear that are activating. My doctor contacted me immediately. I had a rdv in her office two days after I called. And not ten days later I'll have the less invasive of the two options she proposed.
I face now the choice of a pre-emptive hysterectomy, including the ovaries as there is a history of ovarian cancer in my family, or to choose the lesser option of removing what is visible plus a chunk and keeping a close eye on the rest.
My choice is personal, moral, physical, and not based on money and access. This is rather incredible. I am free to be freaked out at the idea that I might be harboring what could develop into a cancer. I have the option of choosing one intervention and following it up shortly with the more drastic choice. I have a present, bright, and competent doctor who is reactive, proactive and patient. Her schedule and the hospital can take me in. Whatever care I choose and need I will get. And, in my current economic position, I won't even have the minimal co-pay to handle (which would be a max of about 200E for the simple operation, and no doubt a bit more for the more dramatic one).
So yes, I don't like the thought of losing my interior organs at the age of 43. I don't like the thought of being on hormone replacement therapy till I choose (at a later age) to go through menopause. But, I have the option to deal with these personal feelings and worries. The care is there. I will be provided for. I'm not in the midst of going, "Shit! no job, no insurance and thus who and how to pay for such an invasive procedure?!"
If I were actually living in the States, I'd be royally screwed right now. Yes, I've family that would come through for me. I wouldn't be left without help and care. But, that would cause hardship and take funds away from other possibilities.
I have options. I have choices. I am just unbelievably lucky to be living in France right now. I simply need to decide on a when that coincides with free time on the part of friends and others who could help out while I'm following doctor's orders to take it easy.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Snow in New York
Well, Filou, I'm not in Provence any more. I'm here amidst a US East Coast snow storm. Obama came home early from Oslo, and we came home early from our cousin's get-together up in Connecticut. The world is white, moving slowly. I had to push Ma's car out of the gas station with the help of a friendly passer-by. As I walked home from her church where she was singing in the choir, I witnessed the ritual post-snow storm act in front of nearly every home: there is the father with or without sons of varying ages shoveling away. It is rather sociable actually. I smile and say "Morning" to them as I stroll on by. In one case I'm invited to join in, but I demure.
Back at Ma's house I'll help with the walkway, and likely dig out her parking spot so we are able to manoeuver tomorrow when no doubt the snow will be denser and icier. According to Leo and Jonas, it is not a good texture for making a snow man. Hmmm, I may have to test that. But perhaps it's true. It felt rather powdery coming down, not lumps of dense moisture only barely frozen.
The birds flock to Ma's feeder for her generous supply of sunflower seeds. Jonas helps me finish decorating our Christmas cookies. A short session of yoga calls. I'm in that surreal space of being in my childhood home. Here, under my mother's roof, France seems far away, except when my children bicker and fight, cursing each other with a flow of vulgarities learned in the school yard back in Avignon.
Back at Ma's house I'll help with the walkway, and likely dig out her parking spot so we are able to manoeuver tomorrow when no doubt the snow will be denser and icier. According to Leo and Jonas, it is not a good texture for making a snow man. Hmmm, I may have to test that. But perhaps it's true. It felt rather powdery coming down, not lumps of dense moisture only barely frozen.
The birds flock to Ma's feeder for her generous supply of sunflower seeds. Jonas helps me finish decorating our Christmas cookies. A short session of yoga calls. I'm in that surreal space of being in my childhood home. Here, under my mother's roof, France seems far away, except when my children bicker and fight, cursing each other with a flow of vulgarities learned in the school yard back in Avignon.
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!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Where do I belong? -- yet another moment of belly-button gazing
Earlier this year I made a list of what has become French about me, and what is still American. The list was quickly tossed off, not entirely grammatically consistent, and well, more amusing than anything else.
After my month in the US -- the longest stretch of time I've spent back there since I moved to France in 1995 -- I'm musing yet again -- but I promise, this is the last time for a while. My desire now is to be where I am, and simply live day to day, with projects in the offing, granted, but still: Be here now.
I give up on wondering where I fit in. I'm an odd-ball with a collection of cultural experiences behind me, so, small-town girl and member of an established group/click I will never be. But that aside, how much did I learn? how much is simply me? how much is culturally and regionally dictated? I once declared that I preferred getting my au pairs from the Mid-West or New England -- sweet-natured, with a good work-ethic. I also reassure visitors that the Provençaux are sincerely welcoming and are thrilled when you make an effort to speak French -- as so many do not speak English (at least in the small towns, and Arles -- the English speakers congregate in St. Rémy de Provence, Avignon, and the cellars of Châteauneuf-du-Pape). So yes, I'm guilty of type-casting, and thankfully, I've accepted (humbly I assure you) being proved wrong a number of times. However, these ideas and regional codes do yet linger.
The United States is many countries. I repeat this ad infinitum to my French friends. Maine is not Texas, Oregon is not Mississippi, the coasts are different from the center. We have so many cultures in our very large country rubbing elbows side by side, and/or avoiding each other. However, in most cases, we manage to mix and accept each other amongst our numerous sub-groups. I love to point out that being from so many cultures, we have fewer judgmental reflexes, but wait for the person before us to show us his/her heart. What is rude in one culture is accepted in another, so best not to decide quickly, but allow the time necessary for a person to present his/her true self.
A friend currently living in Chicago and I have been exchanging comments about the worlds we prefer -- relatively hip, culturally curious, organically-minded, conversant with foreign countries, liberal politically, well-read, in movement be it dance, yoga, biking, hiking, exploring --and the worlds we tend to keep a bit of distance from (but which can often surprise us -- just have a car accident in Northern Wisconsin, as I once did, and you'll see... those good samaritans truly do stop to help anyone in need!) -- strongly religious, strongly right-wing, less curious about other worlds and cultures, abundant consumers of fast food and lowest-denomination media.
The United States harbors all of us, and graciously in most cases. But so do other countries. France has its share of the former and the latter, and of new immigrants and their many efforts at adapting to each other -- so I'm not going to boast of French superior tolerance and culture here, not to worry. What I've come to realize after living in multiple cultures for a serious length of time (Japan for one year, the US for 27 years, France for 15 years) is that each has its virtues and vices, and it is a choice of which level of imperfection we feel most at home in, or rather, which we choose.
My week of visiting the Vauvert Fête Votive had me mingling with the less-traveled, traditionalist, with deep local roots, and conservative (often rounder and a bit over-weight) part of town. It was fine, a bit different for me. All whom I met were gracious and pleasant to me, but no, I didn't converse much, I simply enjoyed my Perrier and watched the spectacle. I remember an evening last spring we went from a gathering at the Mairie (town hall, currently with a conservative mayor) over to the Cultural Arts Center (very left-wing/liberal -- and a hub of neo-Vauverdois, i.e. those who've moved here in their own lifetimes). We went from a room of hair-sprayed, poofed, artificially blond or red or black haired women, generally with a thick application of make-up (something I observe with wonder and curiosity as I just can't do the same) often a bit thick in the middle, sturdy, beside their booming, barrel-chested men dressed in red Provence-designed shirts, to a gathering of soft-spoken, nearly wispy, draped-linen and flowy scarf-attired, naturally gray and minimally made-up folk, who yes, did but rarely speak with the local accent. The vocal traditionalists and the liberal, frequently intellectual, outsiders. It was a strange moment in time. Where the twain ne'er shall meet.
This summer brought up many issues for me. With health insurance and health care the topic of discussion of the day, the public option in danger, and the general price of a doctor's visit 3 to 5 times what I pay here in France... I worry that I wouldn't be able to afford moving back to the US. However, in general I remind myself, once you have a job, you can earn more in the US than in France, or at least I should with a graduate degree, years of experience, a few languages under my belt, etc., and so, paying more for a doctor's visit is feasible where it just isn't counted into the budget in France.
I thought about the availability of fresh farm produce: the twelve month schedule of Provence, with organic farms and markets within very easy driving distance of my home, and a choice of three raw milk dairies, local fish mongers, and more vs. a six month winter in Northern Michigan, and a very short growing season of perhaps four months at tops? Silly as it may seem, I glory in the arrival of my early spring, my blooming roses, my wisteria and Japanese quince. I love the months of April and May in Provence... A huge wave of nostalgia washed over me as I contemplated that I'd enjoyed three months of good weather this spring, and my dear friends in Northern Michigan were only just getting a bit when I arrived early July.
But I also see the closed and frustrating aspects of France -- starting a business here is possible, but oopf! the paperwork, legwork, and sheer lack of encouragement! Compare that with the open, encouraging spirit of the US -- and in particular that special region up North. There is no comparison, though the French are definitely making headway. I see opportunities for what I know and can do in the US that I just don't see here. It would be a huge change, and not to be undertaken lightly, but...
But back to personality quirks. Am I simply too snippy and edgy to be in the Mid-west? And do I attribute that to living in Europe where observing peoples' diverse backgrounds, discussing politics, and weighing issues is commonplace? Or to having grown up in NY amidst the movement and intellectual spin of the East Coast? Can I become super-nice (and speak more slowly) like so many of the people I encountered this summer? I did pretty well in Seattle, a famously gentle and reservedly friendly city, and I even learned to drop my 'ly's in speech, just like the locals. So, with time...
I'm actually a very good friend to those around me. You can count on me. I generally say yes and help out however I might. I love kids, nourishing others, helping with and sharing projects, giving people a hand, laughing together (at no one's expense) and simply being with others. But yes, I permit myself to observe -- out loud. And that can contribute to open-mouth-insert-foot disease and its consequent misunderstandings in any culture.
The question(s) are as yet still up in the air.
After my month in the US -- the longest stretch of time I've spent back there since I moved to France in 1995 -- I'm musing yet again -- but I promise, this is the last time for a while. My desire now is to be where I am, and simply live day to day, with projects in the offing, granted, but still: Be here now.
I give up on wondering where I fit in. I'm an odd-ball with a collection of cultural experiences behind me, so, small-town girl and member of an established group/click I will never be. But that aside, how much did I learn? how much is simply me? how much is culturally and regionally dictated? I once declared that I preferred getting my au pairs from the Mid-West or New England -- sweet-natured, with a good work-ethic. I also reassure visitors that the Provençaux are sincerely welcoming and are thrilled when you make an effort to speak French -- as so many do not speak English (at least in the small towns, and Arles -- the English speakers congregate in St. Rémy de Provence, Avignon, and the cellars of Châteauneuf-du-Pape). So yes, I'm guilty of type-casting, and thankfully, I've accepted (humbly I assure you) being proved wrong a number of times. However, these ideas and regional codes do yet linger.
The United States is many countries. I repeat this ad infinitum to my French friends. Maine is not Texas, Oregon is not Mississippi, the coasts are different from the center. We have so many cultures in our very large country rubbing elbows side by side, and/or avoiding each other. However, in most cases, we manage to mix and accept each other amongst our numerous sub-groups. I love to point out that being from so many cultures, we have fewer judgmental reflexes, but wait for the person before us to show us his/her heart. What is rude in one culture is accepted in another, so best not to decide quickly, but allow the time necessary for a person to present his/her true self.
A friend currently living in Chicago and I have been exchanging comments about the worlds we prefer -- relatively hip, culturally curious, organically-minded, conversant with foreign countries, liberal politically, well-read, in movement be it dance, yoga, biking, hiking, exploring --and the worlds we tend to keep a bit of distance from (but which can often surprise us -- just have a car accident in Northern Wisconsin, as I once did, and you'll see... those good samaritans truly do stop to help anyone in need!) -- strongly religious, strongly right-wing, less curious about other worlds and cultures, abundant consumers of fast food and lowest-denomination media.
The United States harbors all of us, and graciously in most cases. But so do other countries. France has its share of the former and the latter, and of new immigrants and their many efforts at adapting to each other -- so I'm not going to boast of French superior tolerance and culture here, not to worry. What I've come to realize after living in multiple cultures for a serious length of time (Japan for one year, the US for 27 years, France for 15 years) is that each has its virtues and vices, and it is a choice of which level of imperfection we feel most at home in, or rather, which we choose.
My week of visiting the Vauvert Fête Votive had me mingling with the less-traveled, traditionalist, with deep local roots, and conservative (often rounder and a bit over-weight) part of town. It was fine, a bit different for me. All whom I met were gracious and pleasant to me, but no, I didn't converse much, I simply enjoyed my Perrier and watched the spectacle. I remember an evening last spring we went from a gathering at the Mairie (town hall, currently with a conservative mayor) over to the Cultural Arts Center (very left-wing/liberal -- and a hub of neo-Vauverdois, i.e. those who've moved here in their own lifetimes). We went from a room of hair-sprayed, poofed, artificially blond or red or black haired women, generally with a thick application of make-up (something I observe with wonder and curiosity as I just can't do the same) often a bit thick in the middle, sturdy, beside their booming, barrel-chested men dressed in red Provence-designed shirts, to a gathering of soft-spoken, nearly wispy, draped-linen and flowy scarf-attired, naturally gray and minimally made-up folk, who yes, did but rarely speak with the local accent. The vocal traditionalists and the liberal, frequently intellectual, outsiders. It was a strange moment in time. Where the twain ne'er shall meet.
This summer brought up many issues for me. With health insurance and health care the topic of discussion of the day, the public option in danger, and the general price of a doctor's visit 3 to 5 times what I pay here in France... I worry that I wouldn't be able to afford moving back to the US. However, in general I remind myself, once you have a job, you can earn more in the US than in France, or at least I should with a graduate degree, years of experience, a few languages under my belt, etc., and so, paying more for a doctor's visit is feasible where it just isn't counted into the budget in France.
I thought about the availability of fresh farm produce: the twelve month schedule of Provence, with organic farms and markets within very easy driving distance of my home, and a choice of three raw milk dairies, local fish mongers, and more vs. a six month winter in Northern Michigan, and a very short growing season of perhaps four months at tops? Silly as it may seem, I glory in the arrival of my early spring, my blooming roses, my wisteria and Japanese quince. I love the months of April and May in Provence... A huge wave of nostalgia washed over me as I contemplated that I'd enjoyed three months of good weather this spring, and my dear friends in Northern Michigan were only just getting a bit when I arrived early July.
But I also see the closed and frustrating aspects of France -- starting a business here is possible, but oopf! the paperwork, legwork, and sheer lack of encouragement! Compare that with the open, encouraging spirit of the US -- and in particular that special region up North. There is no comparison, though the French are definitely making headway. I see opportunities for what I know and can do in the US that I just don't see here. It would be a huge change, and not to be undertaken lightly, but...
But back to personality quirks. Am I simply too snippy and edgy to be in the Mid-west? And do I attribute that to living in Europe where observing peoples' diverse backgrounds, discussing politics, and weighing issues is commonplace? Or to having grown up in NY amidst the movement and intellectual spin of the East Coast? Can I become super-nice (and speak more slowly) like so many of the people I encountered this summer? I did pretty well in Seattle, a famously gentle and reservedly friendly city, and I even learned to drop my 'ly's in speech, just like the locals. So, with time...
I'm actually a very good friend to those around me. You can count on me. I generally say yes and help out however I might. I love kids, nourishing others, helping with and sharing projects, giving people a hand, laughing together (at no one's expense) and simply being with others. But yes, I permit myself to observe -- out loud. And that can contribute to open-mouth-insert-foot disease and its consequent misunderstandings in any culture.
The question(s) are as yet still up in the air.
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, August 4, 2009
Marvelous Women
Yesterday evening eight superb women gathered under my roof here in Michigan to share delicious food and even more tantalizing tales of dreams, risks, business ventures, good marriages, strong willed children and more. There was a clothing and textiles' designer -- successful, funny, onto new ventures; a restaurant chef and owner -- cheerfully working very long days, and succeeding in her one-year old restaurant during one of this state's worst downturns. Goes to show you, when you've figured out the formula, thought through your idea, and put it into motion with grace, intelligence, savvy and good humor, surrounded yourself with good helpers and assistants, yes, it can work, no matter when. Another is a cooking teacher, expert in Asian cuisine, and successfully on this healing side of a nasty, multi-year bout of Lyme disease. Another is discovering the joys of raising goats, making goat cheese and contemplating this new profession -- at the tender age of 60!
I love it. I love them! Spunk, risk-taking, joy, hope. Two are on their third marriages (apparently 3's the charm), one happily single, another managing with her small children, and another cheerfully contemplating entering into the 30 plus anniversary with her husband. Differences abound, but the unifying force of smarts, following dreams, and supporting friends.
This is a gathering that is nearly inconceivable in my little world of Provence. Women striking out on risky business ventures are few, and those who do are counseled that it probably won't work, they need to do more market research, the fees will be too high, and then, rather than receive support and networking encouragement from their family and friends, those who are closest to them will be more likely to sit back and watch to see if they succeed, than do their utmost to help them succeed. If after a few years they are still in business, well, then the family, colleagues, neighbors, friends, etc., will start to take them seriously and just maybe patronize them.
This has been the general feeling and atmosphere for women-directed risky ventures since I've been in Provence. When I first arrived and simply barreled into building the business of our cooking school and culinary vacations, I was blind and deaf to the neighbors' comments. This was a very helpful state of mind to be in. I was filled with the gumption of my American background and simply worked, day by day, night by night, learning how to make a web site, learning how to lodge it in the search engines, learning about meta tags, titles, exchanging links, etc., reading books one night and spending all the next day putting that new information into motion. And, surprise, surprise, we built a business. Sure, in the beginning it was rough going. There were the week-long classes with only one client (oh well, let's explore and improve ourselves). There were moments of difficulties, day trips in rather tired-looking cars, crises, etc., But, we just kept on, with hope, with hard work, with optimism. I pulled Erick with me, directed him, provided him with clients, and he made them happy with good food, patience, great musical taste and his sweet smile.
Today, I've three friends in France who are contemplating and actively moving forward on new business projects. Mireille, my horse-whisperer is building, every so carefully, her reputation as a healer of horse and rider relationships. If your horse bites you, if your horse throws you, if your horse is terribly skittish, if he refuses to pull a plough... she will work with him and the owner and strive to bring harmony to this relationship.
Pascale is setting up her Iyengar yoga teaching, and seeking to build her astrological counsel and therapy practice. She has the space in her home, she's made her brochures. It is growing and coming into being.
Martine has been teaching Shia Tsu massage now for a few years, and, as time permits, seeks to build her practice as a massage therapist (being a high school guidance counselor is highly time consuming though!).
These three are stretching themselves, reaching for dreams, contemplating, striving and assiduously putting down the building blocks upon which their projects can grow. I'll do what I can to support them, to be there, to encourage, to send business their way. We don't yet have an entrepreneurial culture in France, and particularly not where women are concerned, but, it is beginning, as I've seen during my CIBC (see earlier blogs) weekends and trainings. Whereas in the US it is strong and thriving, in France, it is in its infancy. Send them your moral support!
I love it. I love them! Spunk, risk-taking, joy, hope. Two are on their third marriages (apparently 3's the charm), one happily single, another managing with her small children, and another cheerfully contemplating entering into the 30 plus anniversary with her husband. Differences abound, but the unifying force of smarts, following dreams, and supporting friends.
This is a gathering that is nearly inconceivable in my little world of Provence. Women striking out on risky business ventures are few, and those who do are counseled that it probably won't work, they need to do more market research, the fees will be too high, and then, rather than receive support and networking encouragement from their family and friends, those who are closest to them will be more likely to sit back and watch to see if they succeed, than do their utmost to help them succeed. If after a few years they are still in business, well, then the family, colleagues, neighbors, friends, etc., will start to take them seriously and just maybe patronize them.
This has been the general feeling and atmosphere for women-directed risky ventures since I've been in Provence. When I first arrived and simply barreled into building the business of our cooking school and culinary vacations, I was blind and deaf to the neighbors' comments. This was a very helpful state of mind to be in. I was filled with the gumption of my American background and simply worked, day by day, night by night, learning how to make a web site, learning how to lodge it in the search engines, learning about meta tags, titles, exchanging links, etc., reading books one night and spending all the next day putting that new information into motion. And, surprise, surprise, we built a business. Sure, in the beginning it was rough going. There were the week-long classes with only one client (oh well, let's explore and improve ourselves). There were moments of difficulties, day trips in rather tired-looking cars, crises, etc., But, we just kept on, with hope, with hard work, with optimism. I pulled Erick with me, directed him, provided him with clients, and he made them happy with good food, patience, great musical taste and his sweet smile.
Today, I've three friends in France who are contemplating and actively moving forward on new business projects. Mireille, my horse-whisperer is building, every so carefully, her reputation as a healer of horse and rider relationships. If your horse bites you, if your horse throws you, if your horse is terribly skittish, if he refuses to pull a plough... she will work with him and the owner and strive to bring harmony to this relationship.
Pascale is setting up her Iyengar yoga teaching, and seeking to build her astrological counsel and therapy practice. She has the space in her home, she's made her brochures. It is growing and coming into being.
Martine has been teaching Shia Tsu massage now for a few years, and, as time permits, seeks to build her practice as a massage therapist (being a high school guidance counselor is highly time consuming though!).
These three are stretching themselves, reaching for dreams, contemplating, striving and assiduously putting down the building blocks upon which their projects can grow. I'll do what I can to support them, to be there, to encourage, to send business their way. We don't yet have an entrepreneurial culture in France, and particularly not where women are concerned, but, it is beginning, as I've seen during my CIBC (see earlier blogs) weekends and trainings. Whereas in the US it is strong and thriving, in France, it is in its infancy. Send them your moral support!
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Flavors of the Mid-West (of the US).
My kids tasted a Mid-west specialty today: sweet jell-o salads. If ever there was an oxymoron, this is one. And yet, I loved these as a kid -- no, that's too strong a sentiment to be used for such a dish... I happily served myself these rather than go for the vinegary, oily normal iceberg salads which were the other option --, and I remember the pleasure I took joining my grandmother Locket as we filled our plates at the breakfast buffets with sausage, french toast, and jell-o salad, often improved with evaporated milk and canned fruit cocktail. Well, neither the green nor the dark red version pleased my kids. It is true that they prefer their food recognizable. Having all the ingredients mixed together and indistinguishable rather took away from the pleasure of eating berries, grated carrots, pecans, pineapple, and who knows what else on their own. I consider myself rather an adept at figuring out recipes by their taste, texture and visual clues, but my kids aren’t yet food puzzle-solvers. So, having politely tasted the bits I put on their plates (I just couldn’t let such a cultural moment be passed up), they ate a bit of normal salad (green leaves and grated carrots), lasagna and garlic bread.
So yes, you can infer that though I was raised on banana and apple-laced green jello, my kids have never before had such a treat. Have I deprived them? Goodness, nothing like being back in the US for more than just a couple weeks to start seeing and tasting foods rarely glimpsed since my departure for foreign shores. Green bean and tuna casserole can’t be far off.
So yes, you can infer that though I was raised on banana and apple-laced green jello, my kids have never before had such a treat. Have I deprived them? Goodness, nothing like being back in the US for more than just a couple weeks to start seeing and tasting foods rarely glimpsed since my departure for foreign shores. Green bean and tuna casserole can’t be far off.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Adjusting to being here
Sometimes, it just takes time. The belief goes that you get over one hour, i.e. one time zone, of jet lag per day. Thus, from Provence to Michigan, six days should do it for my head, sleep rhythms, hunger, meal times, etc., But, does the same theory work for cultural dislocation?
Six days into being here, I feel just about almost here. I'm learning to chill (re-learning). I'm enjoying that cleaning here means sweeping out the sand, brushing off the window seats, and wiping down some counters: marvelously minimalist.
One historical murder mystery done, and a pile waiting to be slowly and leisurely enjoyed. Early mornings peacefully sipping my tea, reading old New Yorkers, Newsweeks, catching up on the Book Review. Then a quiet walk in the woods. No cell phone attached to my ear, no agenda, simply the birds singing amidst the swaying branches.
My eyes are seeking out tree-climbing trees. Why are there so few in these woods? When I was a child, there were more, weren't there? But now, the firs seem few and far between, and the ever taller deciduous are resistant to the small arms of a child eager to scramble and discover. Neighbors pass me with their dogs, their walking sticks. The early morning walk on these dirt roads is a favorite amongst us all.
When I roll out my yoga mat, the loons are calling, laughing in the distance. Then comes the peck, peck pecking of the woodpeckers, and lastly, the cawing of crows, no doubt reacting to the prowling of my mother's cats. I've put a yoga pod cast on, and the jarring sounds of the Philadelphia based voice directing my movements is a bit invasive, even though I follow it calmly. As I look up from half-moon stance, I see the trees sway. The mosquitoes are a heavy, slow-moving breed, but numerous. I leave a very non-zen cemetery around me as I swat, kick, slap through upward and downward dog.
And yet, it is all starting to feel right. This is my history, a world I know and love. I've been so rarely here over the past few years. I've worked so many summers at the b&b, doing the cooking classes, the teen courses, and more. It is a deep and distant part of myself that is getting a chance to re-emerge.
It's me, and it's other, and it's awakening as I watch with joy my sons re-discover the lake, kayak for the first time, rule the roost, and my mother, flapping those flippers through the water.
Now, I've got to get over my hot weather toes and get into the water myself. It's almost as disorienting to go from 90(35) degree weather to 65 (20) as it is to adjust to all the shifting cultural clues and elements.
Six days into being here, I feel just about almost here. I'm learning to chill (re-learning). I'm enjoying that cleaning here means sweeping out the sand, brushing off the window seats, and wiping down some counters: marvelously minimalist.
One historical murder mystery done, and a pile waiting to be slowly and leisurely enjoyed. Early mornings peacefully sipping my tea, reading old New Yorkers, Newsweeks, catching up on the Book Review. Then a quiet walk in the woods. No cell phone attached to my ear, no agenda, simply the birds singing amidst the swaying branches.
My eyes are seeking out tree-climbing trees. Why are there so few in these woods? When I was a child, there were more, weren't there? But now, the firs seem few and far between, and the ever taller deciduous are resistant to the small arms of a child eager to scramble and discover. Neighbors pass me with their dogs, their walking sticks. The early morning walk on these dirt roads is a favorite amongst us all.
When I roll out my yoga mat, the loons are calling, laughing in the distance. Then comes the peck, peck pecking of the woodpeckers, and lastly, the cawing of crows, no doubt reacting to the prowling of my mother's cats. I've put a yoga pod cast on, and the jarring sounds of the Philadelphia based voice directing my movements is a bit invasive, even though I follow it calmly. As I look up from half-moon stance, I see the trees sway. The mosquitoes are a heavy, slow-moving breed, but numerous. I leave a very non-zen cemetery around me as I swat, kick, slap through upward and downward dog.
And yet, it is all starting to feel right. This is my history, a world I know and love. I've been so rarely here over the past few years. I've worked so many summers at the b&b, doing the cooking classes, the teen courses, and more. It is a deep and distant part of myself that is getting a chance to re-emerge.
It's me, and it's other, and it's awakening as I watch with joy my sons re-discover the lake, kayak for the first time, rule the roost, and my mother, flapping those flippers through the water.
Now, I've got to get over my hot weather toes and get into the water myself. It's almost as disorienting to go from 90(35) degree weather to 65 (20) as it is to adjust to all the shifting cultural clues and elements.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Where do I belong?
I arrived in Northern Michigan Friday evening, just two days ago. It is beautiful. My children are happy as munchkins, blending in with their cousins (Leo has now scorned his smaller French bathing slip for the preferred American-style shorts, or jams as they were called in my day). They are most happily adjusting to the rhythms of tennis in the morning, pancakes or muffins by Gramma, outings to the dunes or on the lake, and large, boisterous family dinners around pork roast, barbeques, spaghetti and lots of pies and ice cream.
And it is wonderful to be here. So why do I find myself out of sync? I adore my cousins. With them the conversation flies, stimulating, funny, cogent. We cover the quite a range: politics, life experiences, good books, dogs, horses, kids. We listen, we share. It's just neat to be together again, whatever generation we belong to. It is when I leave the family compound that I feel askew, awry, out of sorts. Part of me is thrilled to be at the local mac store, with these super-helpful and very bright young folk helping me sort out my difficulties (alas, no, I cannot correct the country code lock on my Macintosh DVD drive by purchasing an external DVD drive. I can no longer watch American DVDs with this machine). Ditto the downtown book store with their warm home-made scones, their piles of books by local authors, signed and awaiting purchase. It is a friendly and marvelous place I've come to. I adore the local organic coop -- and am planning on picking up some more organic cotton socks there this year.
But, I am startled by the sheer size of so many people walking down the street (sorry!). How politically un-correct of me. But it is startling to see so many large bums in pastel shorts; so many bellies overhanging their jeans. My eyes are startled, and my ears are adjusting to the different range of accents. Have I become so European? Back in Provence, I feel soft and chunky. Here, I'm as slim as they come (well not like a young girl of 12, but still, for 43, I'm doing ok).
Back in Provence, when things are a touch too much, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I've romanticized this corner of North America: Its wineries, great restaurants, beautiful outdoors, great organic scene, numerous green, energy-efficient homes. It is a place I hunger for, and I entertain the possibility of moving her, for a year? for more? But the huge roads, the huge trucks, the abundance of over-sized ice cream portions, the pink fluff served on French toast, the French named restaurant which has decisively misspelled its name (Amicale). Yes, I'm a bit freaked out today. I've only just arrived. So, I just need to take it slowly, right?
I'm way psyched about the Michael Moore sponsored Film Festival at the end of the month. I'm adoring the quiet of the woods, the family tennis, the books, the chance to simply chill. Other years, I've taken advantage of the outlet malls to get clothes for the kids. But for some reason, I'm feeling overwhelmed by the extra-friendliness of everyone. Gosh but they're all super-nice here. It's almost surreal.
Sometimes you forget what an alternative "normal" feels like.
And it is wonderful to be here. So why do I find myself out of sync? I adore my cousins. With them the conversation flies, stimulating, funny, cogent. We cover the quite a range: politics, life experiences, good books, dogs, horses, kids. We listen, we share. It's just neat to be together again, whatever generation we belong to. It is when I leave the family compound that I feel askew, awry, out of sorts. Part of me is thrilled to be at the local mac store, with these super-helpful and very bright young folk helping me sort out my difficulties (alas, no, I cannot correct the country code lock on my Macintosh DVD drive by purchasing an external DVD drive. I can no longer watch American DVDs with this machine). Ditto the downtown book store with their warm home-made scones, their piles of books by local authors, signed and awaiting purchase. It is a friendly and marvelous place I've come to. I adore the local organic coop -- and am planning on picking up some more organic cotton socks there this year.
But, I am startled by the sheer size of so many people walking down the street (sorry!). How politically un-correct of me. But it is startling to see so many large bums in pastel shorts; so many bellies overhanging their jeans. My eyes are startled, and my ears are adjusting to the different range of accents. Have I become so European? Back in Provence, I feel soft and chunky. Here, I'm as slim as they come (well not like a young girl of 12, but still, for 43, I'm doing ok).
Back in Provence, when things are a touch too much, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I've romanticized this corner of North America: Its wineries, great restaurants, beautiful outdoors, great organic scene, numerous green, energy-efficient homes. It is a place I hunger for, and I entertain the possibility of moving her, for a year? for more? But the huge roads, the huge trucks, the abundance of over-sized ice cream portions, the pink fluff served on French toast, the French named restaurant which has decisively misspelled its name (Amicale). Yes, I'm a bit freaked out today. I've only just arrived. So, I just need to take it slowly, right?
I'm way psyched about the Michael Moore sponsored Film Festival at the end of the month. I'm adoring the quiet of the woods, the family tennis, the books, the chance to simply chill. Other years, I've taken advantage of the outlet malls to get clothes for the kids. But for some reason, I'm feeling overwhelmed by the extra-friendliness of everyone. Gosh but they're all super-nice here. It's almost surreal.
Sometimes you forget what an alternative "normal" feels like.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Marriage as a Cultural Clue
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
Both the United States and France have adopted the policy of separation of church and state. However, at very different moments in history, and with different goals in mind. The US, from its founding, was a haven for the free and open worship of any and all religions (such was the intention). The English and Dutch Puritans and the French Huguenots suffering in Europe for their faith found, in the new world, a land where their choice of religion did not mean their banishment or their death. The wars fought in Southwestern France (with a few memorable battles and slaughters occurring in Paris under the Catholic Queen Catherine de Medici in the 16th century) to bring the heathen Huguenots, Cathars and other Protestants back to the Catholic faith were vicious and devastating. Remember the phrase, "Kill them all, God will know his own."? This was by Arnaud Amaury in 1208, at the time the legate of the Pope, soon to be appointed Archbishop. He, in the name of a crusade against the Protestants on French soil, directed the brutal burning alive of Bezier's Protestant population hiding in their church, seeking the safety of God beneath his rafters.
France did not adopt the national tradition of separation of church and state till the end of the 19th Century. The goal then was not to liberate the minority religions to practice freely and openly, but to weaken the hold of the Catholic church on the French people. Quite specifically, religion was removed from the schools, and concurrently, public education was made mandatory for all children. Up till that time, the teachers of the upper classes, the flame holders of knowledge were the priests and nuns. Be they private tutors to the wealthy, or benevolent tenders of their bourgeois or peasant parishes, it was men and women of the cloth who taught the French their letters.
Jules Ferry (1832-1893), a prominent French politician, and notably the Minister of "l'Instruction publique," saw and understood that as long as the education of the French was in the hands of the army of the Pope, the French people's first loyalty would be to the church before their country. Over a hundred years later, the overwhelming laicity of the French and the pitifully small numbers that attend Sunday morning mass, are a testament to the success of his mission.
Today, we live amidst the intended and unintended results of these choices. Many have read of the French banishment of the Muslim head scarves (also yarmulke head caps, and large crosses) from public schools. Whereas in the US, Muslim girls have the freedom to wear their scarves if they so choose, even their burkas, and certainly yamulkas were on the heads of many of my friends the weeks of Yon Kippur and Passover; in France, they must be removed before crossing the threshold of the establishment, thus removing any outward show of religious faith in this most public of buildings. One country seeks to permit, finding unity in allowing such a diaspora of traditions, the other seeks cultural integration through a forced adoption of the habits of the host nation.
Personally, I have known Muslim women who preferred wearing their veil full time to continuing their schooling, as well as women who quite easily adapted to the law, removing their veil as they walk into class. It is slowly becoming an issue that touches only the most religious and strict of the French Muslim population.
However, I wished simply to introduce this notion, as it affects other subjects: in particular ceremonies, and in this article, marriage.
Numerous differences between our countries have touched me, personally or tangentially, in France. The importance, or lack there of, of marriage is one of them. JP was quite definite back when we started going out that he would never marry me, no matter our relationship, as he had not married the mother of his children. Erick, at the age of 45, had never been married, nor ever thought to be before meeting me. He acceded to my request and/or need that our union be consecrated. I was of the opinion/belief that you just don't put children on this earth till you are married. You can perhaps imagine that my subsequent experiences and discussions have been eye-opening to say the least.
In France you can only be married by a public official, in most cases the Mayor of your town. If you choose, you can also be "married in the eyes of God" by walking across the town square to your local church and there receive the priest's blessing. But, for the nation, the marriage ceremony of the church has no weight. In the US, we must file our papers with the city, but, we can then be married in a ceremony of our choosing, by any representative of a religion, be he your local pastor, an Indian Shaman, a Buddhist priest, or, the captain of a vessel at sea. A friend sent off the papers to begin his own religion a while back, and we joked on the phone that I'd call him to marry me one day. And legally, wacky though that may seem, I believe he could have.
What this perhaps chaotic freedom offers or protects is a reverence for the ceremony. Or at least so in my mind. If you are free to design your ceremony, have it at the edge of a volcano, or in your own home, re-write the texts (though generally we all include the "will you take this man... will you take this woman..." parts), you can own it. Its importance is thus reinforced. In the US, a wedding ceremony is personalized, and the words we wish to speak aloud, the sentiments we share weighted and uplifted by the act of ceremony. Coming from a sentimental family, I must say that my mother weeps at every wedding she goes to, and I too have tears that come to my eyes at the beauty of a pledge of union and a shared leap into the future.
My sister was married this weekend. It was a second marriage, with the children of both former unions present to share in their parents' coming together. It was relatively traditional in that it was held in a church and my sister wore a white dress. But, after that it was very personal. She and her husband chose the music. A minister she's known for years spoke carefully prepared words of support and encouragement to a woman he has accompanied through times of joy and pain. He personally welcomed her new husband as a man he has come to know and respect.
I've been to a few marriages in France now. I respect that the choice to come together officially is powerful, no matter the country. But, I've always been somewhat disappointed by the tone of the mayor as he unites a couple--just one of his many day's duties. He recites the same text, no matter the two individuals before him. It is an official text that is required by the Nation. Thus diverging wouldn't be appropriate or perhaps even legal. The wedding guests crowd the room at the Mairie (town hall), overflowing into the hallway or stairwell or not as the case may be. The bride is often dressed to the hilt (we girls love this princess moment), and there are official witnesses present. The ceremony is a 15 minute affair (though often the wait is long on a June Saturday as anyone marrying in town must do so in the same way). If we then go to the church to have a second ceremony, as happens in a good number of marriages (family tradition requires this), we then step into the ancient world of the Priest who does all, and a full hour's mass. This, for me, is made doubly painful by the often poor miking of the priest to amplify his voice in a stone chapel specifically designed to acoustically amplify the spoken or sung word. Why, in this 21st century, we feel the necessity of putting screeching and ear-deafening amplification in a tiny stone chapel whose vaults marvelously raise the voice all by themselves is beyond me.
These days, many French simply do not marry. The stamp of the State on their union, their family, their couple, is not necessary to them. My vintner never married the mother of his children. And many friends over the years have expressed to me that for them, a marriage certificate is just not necessary. My friends who have married are thus rare. In a number of occasions they've gotten married after having a first child (as if this were a test?). But, they are also unable to marry till they can afford the party. The ceremony is minimal. It is the party that is important.
And the party is all about food and dancing. This latter goes on all night, and no matter the age of the guest, from the smallest to the oldest, they are boogieing (or more aptly, dancing 'le rock') till the wee morning hours. The food begins with the "apéro" or apéritif hour: lots of nibblies, champagne, wines and more. This lasts at least a couple of hours. Then, the guests who were invited simply for the apéro and the ceremony depart, and the closer guests stay for the sit-down meal. It is a big deal to be invited as a guest to the sit-down meal, as sentiment aside, it could easily be costing the wedded couple from 75-100E/person.
My sister had a delicious and lovely, if tiny, reception back at her house, superbly catered. But, by 8PM many of us were on our way home (happily for me as I was still jet-lagged in spite of my late morning nap). We milled around her house chatting and nibbling. It was a warm moment that permitted the two families to get to know each other a bit, and for cousins to catch up. A night of dancing was not part of the program. It could have been, but, this was a small affair, and we joyfully participated in the very personal and intimate nature of the event.
Both the United States and France have adopted the policy of separation of church and state. However, at very different moments in history, and with different goals in mind. The US, from its founding, was a haven for the free and open worship of any and all religions (such was the intention). The English and Dutch Puritans and the French Huguenots suffering in Europe for their faith found, in the new world, a land where their choice of religion did not mean their banishment or their death. The wars fought in Southwestern France (with a few memorable battles and slaughters occurring in Paris under the Catholic Queen Catherine de Medici in the 16th century) to bring the heathen Huguenots, Cathars and other Protestants back to the Catholic faith were vicious and devastating. Remember the phrase, "Kill them all, God will know his own."? This was by Arnaud Amaury in 1208, at the time the legate of the Pope, soon to be appointed Archbishop. He, in the name of a crusade against the Protestants on French soil, directed the brutal burning alive of Bezier's Protestant population hiding in their church, seeking the safety of God beneath his rafters.
France did not adopt the national tradition of separation of church and state till the end of the 19th Century. The goal then was not to liberate the minority religions to practice freely and openly, but to weaken the hold of the Catholic church on the French people. Quite specifically, religion was removed from the schools, and concurrently, public education was made mandatory for all children. Up till that time, the teachers of the upper classes, the flame holders of knowledge were the priests and nuns. Be they private tutors to the wealthy, or benevolent tenders of their bourgeois or peasant parishes, it was men and women of the cloth who taught the French their letters.
Jules Ferry (1832-1893), a prominent French politician, and notably the Minister of "l'Instruction publique," saw and understood that as long as the education of the French was in the hands of the army of the Pope, the French people's first loyalty would be to the church before their country. Over a hundred years later, the overwhelming laicity of the French and the pitifully small numbers that attend Sunday morning mass, are a testament to the success of his mission.
Today, we live amidst the intended and unintended results of these choices. Many have read of the French banishment of the Muslim head scarves (also yarmulke head caps, and large crosses) from public schools. Whereas in the US, Muslim girls have the freedom to wear their scarves if they so choose, even their burkas, and certainly yamulkas were on the heads of many of my friends the weeks of Yon Kippur and Passover; in France, they must be removed before crossing the threshold of the establishment, thus removing any outward show of religious faith in this most public of buildings. One country seeks to permit, finding unity in allowing such a diaspora of traditions, the other seeks cultural integration through a forced adoption of the habits of the host nation.
Personally, I have known Muslim women who preferred wearing their veil full time to continuing their schooling, as well as women who quite easily adapted to the law, removing their veil as they walk into class. It is slowly becoming an issue that touches only the most religious and strict of the French Muslim population.
However, I wished simply to introduce this notion, as it affects other subjects: in particular ceremonies, and in this article, marriage.
Numerous differences between our countries have touched me, personally or tangentially, in France. The importance, or lack there of, of marriage is one of them. JP was quite definite back when we started going out that he would never marry me, no matter our relationship, as he had not married the mother of his children. Erick, at the age of 45, had never been married, nor ever thought to be before meeting me. He acceded to my request and/or need that our union be consecrated. I was of the opinion/belief that you just don't put children on this earth till you are married. You can perhaps imagine that my subsequent experiences and discussions have been eye-opening to say the least.
In France you can only be married by a public official, in most cases the Mayor of your town. If you choose, you can also be "married in the eyes of God" by walking across the town square to your local church and there receive the priest's blessing. But, for the nation, the marriage ceremony of the church has no weight. In the US, we must file our papers with the city, but, we can then be married in a ceremony of our choosing, by any representative of a religion, be he your local pastor, an Indian Shaman, a Buddhist priest, or, the captain of a vessel at sea. A friend sent off the papers to begin his own religion a while back, and we joked on the phone that I'd call him to marry me one day. And legally, wacky though that may seem, I believe he could have.
What this perhaps chaotic freedom offers or protects is a reverence for the ceremony. Or at least so in my mind. If you are free to design your ceremony, have it at the edge of a volcano, or in your own home, re-write the texts (though generally we all include the "will you take this man... will you take this woman..." parts), you can own it. Its importance is thus reinforced. In the US, a wedding ceremony is personalized, and the words we wish to speak aloud, the sentiments we share weighted and uplifted by the act of ceremony. Coming from a sentimental family, I must say that my mother weeps at every wedding she goes to, and I too have tears that come to my eyes at the beauty of a pledge of union and a shared leap into the future.
My sister was married this weekend. It was a second marriage, with the children of both former unions present to share in their parents' coming together. It was relatively traditional in that it was held in a church and my sister wore a white dress. But, after that it was very personal. She and her husband chose the music. A minister she's known for years spoke carefully prepared words of support and encouragement to a woman he has accompanied through times of joy and pain. He personally welcomed her new husband as a man he has come to know and respect.
I've been to a few marriages in France now. I respect that the choice to come together officially is powerful, no matter the country. But, I've always been somewhat disappointed by the tone of the mayor as he unites a couple--just one of his many day's duties. He recites the same text, no matter the two individuals before him. It is an official text that is required by the Nation. Thus diverging wouldn't be appropriate or perhaps even legal. The wedding guests crowd the room at the Mairie (town hall), overflowing into the hallway or stairwell or not as the case may be. The bride is often dressed to the hilt (we girls love this princess moment), and there are official witnesses present. The ceremony is a 15 minute affair (though often the wait is long on a June Saturday as anyone marrying in town must do so in the same way). If we then go to the church to have a second ceremony, as happens in a good number of marriages (family tradition requires this), we then step into the ancient world of the Priest who does all, and a full hour's mass. This, for me, is made doubly painful by the often poor miking of the priest to amplify his voice in a stone chapel specifically designed to acoustically amplify the spoken or sung word. Why, in this 21st century, we feel the necessity of putting screeching and ear-deafening amplification in a tiny stone chapel whose vaults marvelously raise the voice all by themselves is beyond me.
These days, many French simply do not marry. The stamp of the State on their union, their family, their couple, is not necessary to them. My vintner never married the mother of his children. And many friends over the years have expressed to me that for them, a marriage certificate is just not necessary. My friends who have married are thus rare. In a number of occasions they've gotten married after having a first child (as if this were a test?). But, they are also unable to marry till they can afford the party. The ceremony is minimal. It is the party that is important.
And the party is all about food and dancing. This latter goes on all night, and no matter the age of the guest, from the smallest to the oldest, they are boogieing (or more aptly, dancing 'le rock') till the wee morning hours. The food begins with the "apéro" or apéritif hour: lots of nibblies, champagne, wines and more. This lasts at least a couple of hours. Then, the guests who were invited simply for the apéro and the ceremony depart, and the closer guests stay for the sit-down meal. It is a big deal to be invited as a guest to the sit-down meal, as sentiment aside, it could easily be costing the wedded couple from 75-100E/person.
My sister had a delicious and lovely, if tiny, reception back at her house, superbly catered. But, by 8PM many of us were on our way home (happily for me as I was still jet-lagged in spite of my late morning nap). We milled around her house chatting and nibbling. It was a warm moment that permitted the two families to get to know each other a bit, and for cousins to catch up. A night of dancing was not part of the program. It could have been, but, this was a small affair, and we joyfully participated in the very personal and intimate nature of the event.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
How French Have I Become?
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
In what ways have I become French?
In what ways am I still American?
I’ve lived more than a quarter of my life in France. Do I have any clue what it is to be American now? Fifteen years after my departure? Am I even up on what current American culture is? Social mores have no doubt shifted. For example, when I came to France, I carried with me the belief that you should get married before having children. This point of view was greeted skeptically by numerous friends here. I also put milk in my coffee, to the horror of many a Parisian friend who assured me quite seriously that the combination is poison for the liver. I like open windows in a car. But, I was told, air currents are very bad for your health. Hmmm. In the beginning I went overboard trying to adapt and Frenchify myself. But with time, I've moved back a bit to center. I've in some ways chosen certain behaviors that are simply me, no matter where I live. And, I've accepted that I'm an oddity now, belonging -- perhaps?-- nowhere, and thus anywhere?
French:
If I drink coffee, it is espresso.
I hang my laundry out to dry (or on a rack in the bathroom in winter)
I care about meal times and have salad and veggies, plus a glass of wine, at nearly all (excepting breakfast).
I can, will, and enjoy discussing politics with most anyone.
I know my wines and my wine regions, and have friends and neighbors whose bottles fill my cellar.
I can whip out a simple fresh fruit tart with any and all fruit I find at the market, on a tree, on a bush.
I wear sneakers for playing tennis or hiking. Never in town.
I have my hair done on a relatively regular basis (and if I had the budget, pedicures would be on the list too).
I eat cheese at the end of a meal.
I can wax poetic on cheeses, bread, chocolate and wine.
I can live in small houses built of stone.
I don’t need the latest technical device to be happy.
I believe in long vacations for all.
I believe in shorter work hours that allow me to be at the family dinner table every night, and even better, to pick up my kids after school.
I love the idea of a single payer medical insurance system.
I think it’s normal to be able to drive less than an hour to the sea, and 2-3 to the mountains.
I find myself humming along to George Brassens, and recognizing French songsters. However, I draw the line at Johnny.
I know the names of most of the major politicians in France (thanks to the news, and the Guignols).
I’m beginning to think it’s normal to take kids to modern art exhibits on a Sunday.
I wait patiently in line at the market, and take the time to search for the right change.
I zoom through traffic circles.
I drive my stick shift like a pro.
My dessert portions are small.
I make my own mayonnaise rather than buying it in a jar.
I can keep my voice down in restaurants and cafes, and enjoy a tête à tête.
I’m on a first-name basis with my chocolatier, my baker, my cheesemakers and my beekeeper.
I think shopping in open air markets is normal.
I think paying 1E/litre of diesel is normal.
I prefer not to drive, but to take public transportation when possible.
I bring my dog with me to restaurants, cafés, the hairdresser...
I think jeans should be cut to accent my figure, and a t-shirt is best when slim and form-fitting.
Sandals should be comfortable but elegant.
I don’t wear Birkenstocks.
I no longer say “um,” I say “euh.”
I call my gynecologist a gyneco (ji ne ko).
I wear two piece bathing suits almost exclusively.
I’ve invested in elegant under-things.
I haven’t seen a baseball or an American football since univeristy.
I prefer to bake with grams and milliliters.
I like little cars.
I think it’s normal to make salads with only one vegetable, like green beans or tomatoes.
I care about my children’s penmanship.
I find “do, do, l’enfant do” much easier to sing to a baby than “rock-a-by baby.”
I (try) to serve grown-up food to my children.
Sweet butter is a staple in my house.
Ice cream is not a staple in my house- though it is an occasional luxury.
Herbal tea = lemon verbena, mint, liquorice, orange blossom and chamomile.
I don’t do televised sports.
I know that broccoli grows in the winter, asparagus in the spring
I can handle the topics of sex, religion and politics at the dinner table (though I probably won’t launch the discussion).
A quick & easy dinner is either a quiche or braised meat with veggies in wine.
American:
I love breakfast: pancakes, French toast, waffles, omelets
I put milk in my coffee (even if on occasion it is soy or rice milk)
I put chocolate in my coffee (love that mocha!).
I belly laugh at Jon Stewart, but only chuckle at the Guignols.
I laugh out loud with my mouth open – not quite a guffaw, but, it does carry.
I am optimistic, enthusiastic and willing to take chances.
I cried at the inauguration of Barack Obama, and sang along with the American anthems.
I love Bonnie Rait, Joe Cocker and Bruce Springstein.
I speak English to my boys, and express disappointment with “bummer.”
References to Star Trek and The Wizard of Oz riddle my speech.
I love hamburgers with all the fixings.
I eat potato peels.
I put ketchup on hamburger and saucisses.
I make biscuits.
I make muffins.
I put cinnamon in lots of cakes and cookies.
I read Little Bear, The Wild Things, Clifford the Big Red Dog and other childhood greats to my kids.
I read the NYTimes, the New Yorker and Newsweek to get my news.
I’m learning to use facebook and blogging as business and social tools.
I bake my own bread.
I like cornbread and carrot cake.
My boys are dressed nearly always in t-shirts, jeans and sneakers.
I buy my boys clothes at the Gap, and US Outlet malls when possible.
I like to acquire kitchen accessories and tools.
My main source of books, cds and dvds is Amazon.com
The vast majority of my movie and literary history is American and English.
I connect with Friends and Meg Ryan movies.
I like happy endings.
I do my yoga with American podcasts and videocasts.
I vote in US elections.
I am willing to shout after my kids in public, no matter who will hear me.
If I’m tired, I’ll bring my kids to school in yucky sweats (but I won’t get out of the car!).
I think it is normal to wear yoga clothes in public.
I am known to respond to questions and statements with a version of “unhunh.” Or “hunh?”
I don’t believe one should suffer to be beautiful.
I like to have guys as friends.
I wear clogs.
I still use my measuring cups and spoons.
I keep maple syrup in the house.
I’m not too sure what an iron is for, and in any case, I like that wrinkled look.
I adore Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie.
I’m not really interested in learning the Marseillaise.
If they could choose, my kids would live on pasta, lasagna and fried rice.
I like to chat with the postman, my waitress, etc.,
I compliment people sincerely, and praise them when a job is well done.
I believe in positive reinforcement.
I love to hug.
I like nice.
I like gentle.
I like friendly.
I like cities where pedestrians have the right of way (and cars stop for them!)
No doubt I'll keep adding to this list as time goes by.
In what ways have I become French?
In what ways am I still American?
I’ve lived more than a quarter of my life in France. Do I have any clue what it is to be American now? Fifteen years after my departure? Am I even up on what current American culture is? Social mores have no doubt shifted. For example, when I came to France, I carried with me the belief that you should get married before having children. This point of view was greeted skeptically by numerous friends here. I also put milk in my coffee, to the horror of many a Parisian friend who assured me quite seriously that the combination is poison for the liver. I like open windows in a car. But, I was told, air currents are very bad for your health. Hmmm. In the beginning I went overboard trying to adapt and Frenchify myself. But with time, I've moved back a bit to center. I've in some ways chosen certain behaviors that are simply me, no matter where I live. And, I've accepted that I'm an oddity now, belonging -- perhaps?-- nowhere, and thus anywhere?
French:
If I drink coffee, it is espresso.
I hang my laundry out to dry (or on a rack in the bathroom in winter)
I care about meal times and have salad and veggies, plus a glass of wine, at nearly all (excepting breakfast).
I can, will, and enjoy discussing politics with most anyone.
I know my wines and my wine regions, and have friends and neighbors whose bottles fill my cellar.
I can whip out a simple fresh fruit tart with any and all fruit I find at the market, on a tree, on a bush.
I wear sneakers for playing tennis or hiking. Never in town.
I have my hair done on a relatively regular basis (and if I had the budget, pedicures would be on the list too).
I eat cheese at the end of a meal.
I can wax poetic on cheeses, bread, chocolate and wine.
I can live in small houses built of stone.
I don’t need the latest technical device to be happy.
I believe in long vacations for all.
I believe in shorter work hours that allow me to be at the family dinner table every night, and even better, to pick up my kids after school.
I love the idea of a single payer medical insurance system.
I think it’s normal to be able to drive less than an hour to the sea, and 2-3 to the mountains.
I find myself humming along to George Brassens, and recognizing French songsters. However, I draw the line at Johnny.
I know the names of most of the major politicians in France (thanks to the news, and the Guignols).
I’m beginning to think it’s normal to take kids to modern art exhibits on a Sunday.
I wait patiently in line at the market, and take the time to search for the right change.
I zoom through traffic circles.
I drive my stick shift like a pro.
My dessert portions are small.
I make my own mayonnaise rather than buying it in a jar.
I can keep my voice down in restaurants and cafes, and enjoy a tête à tête.
I’m on a first-name basis with my chocolatier, my baker, my cheesemakers and my beekeeper.
I think shopping in open air markets is normal.
I think paying 1E/litre of diesel is normal.
I prefer not to drive, but to take public transportation when possible.
I bring my dog with me to restaurants, cafés, the hairdresser...
I think jeans should be cut to accent my figure, and a t-shirt is best when slim and form-fitting.
Sandals should be comfortable but elegant.
I don’t wear Birkenstocks.
I no longer say “um,” I say “euh.”
I call my gynecologist a gyneco (ji ne ko).
I wear two piece bathing suits almost exclusively.
I’ve invested in elegant under-things.
I haven’t seen a baseball or an American football since univeristy.
I prefer to bake with grams and milliliters.
I like little cars.
I think it’s normal to make salads with only one vegetable, like green beans or tomatoes.
I care about my children’s penmanship.
I find “do, do, l’enfant do” much easier to sing to a baby than “rock-a-by baby.”
I (try) to serve grown-up food to my children.
Sweet butter is a staple in my house.
Ice cream is not a staple in my house- though it is an occasional luxury.
Herbal tea = lemon verbena, mint, liquorice, orange blossom and chamomile.
I don’t do televised sports.
I know that broccoli grows in the winter, asparagus in the spring
I can handle the topics of sex, religion and politics at the dinner table (though I probably won’t launch the discussion).
A quick & easy dinner is either a quiche or braised meat with veggies in wine.
American:
I love breakfast: pancakes, French toast, waffles, omelets
I put milk in my coffee (even if on occasion it is soy or rice milk)
I put chocolate in my coffee (love that mocha!).
I belly laugh at Jon Stewart, but only chuckle at the Guignols.
I laugh out loud with my mouth open – not quite a guffaw, but, it does carry.
I am optimistic, enthusiastic and willing to take chances.
I cried at the inauguration of Barack Obama, and sang along with the American anthems.
I love Bonnie Rait, Joe Cocker and Bruce Springstein.
I speak English to my boys, and express disappointment with “bummer.”
References to Star Trek and The Wizard of Oz riddle my speech.
I love hamburgers with all the fixings.
I eat potato peels.
I put ketchup on hamburger and saucisses.
I make biscuits.
I make muffins.
I put cinnamon in lots of cakes and cookies.
I read Little Bear, The Wild Things, Clifford the Big Red Dog and other childhood greats to my kids.
I read the NYTimes, the New Yorker and Newsweek to get my news.
I’m learning to use facebook and blogging as business and social tools.
I bake my own bread.
I like cornbread and carrot cake.
My boys are dressed nearly always in t-shirts, jeans and sneakers.
I buy my boys clothes at the Gap, and US Outlet malls when possible.
I like to acquire kitchen accessories and tools.
My main source of books, cds and dvds is Amazon.com
The vast majority of my movie and literary history is American and English.
I connect with Friends and Meg Ryan movies.
I like happy endings.
I do my yoga with American podcasts and videocasts.
I vote in US elections.
I am willing to shout after my kids in public, no matter who will hear me.
If I’m tired, I’ll bring my kids to school in yucky sweats (but I won’t get out of the car!).
I think it is normal to wear yoga clothes in public.
I am known to respond to questions and statements with a version of “unhunh.” Or “hunh?”
I don’t believe one should suffer to be beautiful.
I like to have guys as friends.
I wear clogs.
I still use my measuring cups and spoons.
I keep maple syrup in the house.
I’m not too sure what an iron is for, and in any case, I like that wrinkled look.
I adore Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie.
I’m not really interested in learning the Marseillaise.
If they could choose, my kids would live on pasta, lasagna and fried rice.
I like to chat with the postman, my waitress, etc.,
I compliment people sincerely, and praise them when a job is well done.
I believe in positive reinforcement.
I love to hug.
I like nice.
I like gentle.
I like friendly.
I like cities where pedestrians have the right of way (and cars stop for them!)
No doubt I'll keep adding to this list as time goes by.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Roger Cohen and Me
Roger Cohen, NYTimes Op-ed published March 4 2009
" I lived for about a decade, on and off, in France and later moved to the United States. Nobody in their right mind would give up the manifold sensual, aesthetic and gastronomic pleasures offered by French savoir-vivre for the unrelenting battlefield of American ambition were it not for one thing: possibility.
You know possibility when you breathe it. For an immigrant, it lies in the ease of American identity and the boundlessness of American horizons after the narrower confines of European nationhood and the stifling attentions of the European nanny state, which has often made it more attractive not to work than to work. High French unemployment was never much of a mystery.
Americans, at least in their imaginations, have always lived at the new frontier; French frontiers have not shifted much in centuries.
Churn is the American way. Companies are born, rise, fall and die. Others come along to replace them. The country’s remarkable capacity for innovation, for reinvention, is tied to its acceptance of failure. Or always has been. Without failure, the culture of risk fades. Without risk, creativity withers. Save the zombies and you sabotage the vital."
This is a very long quote, and I hope my borrowing it (carefully cited and sourced here above) won't get me into trouble. But, reading it just now stirred many feelings, and brought to the fore numerous discussions and arguments I've had over the years.
Living in France, in Provence in particular, has so many plusses. The weather, the history, the quality of the food, the abundance of local agriculture, the level of the general populace's education, the culture, both popular and high class. I can play my bassoon with a local chamber music group, learn tango from top level internationally schooled instructors, drink some of the best wine made in the world, enjoy Chinese films in Chinese (I read the subtitles), or Iranian for that matter, taste some of the most divine chocolate, revel in hikes amidst gorgeous wild flowers, with views of the blue-green (or wine red?) Sea. I can leap from cliffs for a refreshing swim, and wander in olive groves, climb over the ruins of a Roman aqueduct, or simply drink a cup of dark coffee in the shadow of the Pope's Palace.
But, yes, there are limitations to this world that are in stark contrast to the plethora of possibilities in the US. I've felt the class lines personally. One of the strange realizations I had early on still jars me today. I was, admittedly, a very naive young woman. Well-traveled, well educated yes. But hopelessly naive. When I married Erick Vedel, I married a man of many talents, food, sketching, repairing the home, history, iron-working, photography.. a man who loved learning, and was open to new ideas, sought knowledge and cultural exposure. A rich and interesting autodidact. But others didn't always see him this way. His paysan roots (which I often compared to those of Picasso, a boy of the Mediterranean too) were visible on his face, in his body type, in his language. So I extrapolated, and had a moment of epiphany on what the rise of Picasso meant to upscale French society, and the numerous women of class and wealth who were enamored of and and subsequently destroyed by him.
Our American clients adored and adore Erick. His gentleness, his generosity, his warmth, his knowledge of food history, and world music. These are the qualities we see, value and marvel at, and which in the US would have earned him much. But here.... it's not as easy to be well-respected if you've not the requisite degrees and school learning. The will to build and advance are not traditionally rewarded.
And yet, even with these experiences, I'm still enamored of this world, and I'm still here. Though clearly in French terms, I married out of my class -- Erick didn't mix with university professors here, who snubbed his unconventional approach. And I was raised by two Harvard Ph.Ds, in the suburbs of sophisticated NYC. But what a peculiar thing to say and feel? What is class? Is it still so important? But this is the old world, and many, if not most, of the old world behaviors and sentiments are still quite present.
I reveled in the election of Obama. I reveled in what it meant both symbolically and realistically. Someone, from a very simple background, raised by his mother and grandparents (who valued education very highly!), mixed-race, world traveled, and his wife, from a simple lower middle-class Chicago neighborhood; this person and his family can reach the highest office in the land through sheer work, willpower and belief. Nothing is unattainable if you work hard enough for it.
For this simple fact, much as I love living in Provence, I will always be American.
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
" I lived for about a decade, on and off, in France and later moved to the United States. Nobody in their right mind would give up the manifold sensual, aesthetic and gastronomic pleasures offered by French savoir-vivre for the unrelenting battlefield of American ambition were it not for one thing: possibility.
You know possibility when you breathe it. For an immigrant, it lies in the ease of American identity and the boundlessness of American horizons after the narrower confines of European nationhood and the stifling attentions of the European nanny state, which has often made it more attractive not to work than to work. High French unemployment was never much of a mystery.
Americans, at least in their imaginations, have always lived at the new frontier; French frontiers have not shifted much in centuries.
Churn is the American way. Companies are born, rise, fall and die. Others come along to replace them. The country’s remarkable capacity for innovation, for reinvention, is tied to its acceptance of failure. Or always has been. Without failure, the culture of risk fades. Without risk, creativity withers. Save the zombies and you sabotage the vital."
This is a very long quote, and I hope my borrowing it (carefully cited and sourced here above) won't get me into trouble. But, reading it just now stirred many feelings, and brought to the fore numerous discussions and arguments I've had over the years.
Living in France, in Provence in particular, has so many plusses. The weather, the history, the quality of the food, the abundance of local agriculture, the level of the general populace's education, the culture, both popular and high class. I can play my bassoon with a local chamber music group, learn tango from top level internationally schooled instructors, drink some of the best wine made in the world, enjoy Chinese films in Chinese (I read the subtitles), or Iranian for that matter, taste some of the most divine chocolate, revel in hikes amidst gorgeous wild flowers, with views of the blue-green (or wine red?) Sea. I can leap from cliffs for a refreshing swim, and wander in olive groves, climb over the ruins of a Roman aqueduct, or simply drink a cup of dark coffee in the shadow of the Pope's Palace.
But, yes, there are limitations to this world that are in stark contrast to the plethora of possibilities in the US. I've felt the class lines personally. One of the strange realizations I had early on still jars me today. I was, admittedly, a very naive young woman. Well-traveled, well educated yes. But hopelessly naive. When I married Erick Vedel, I married a man of many talents, food, sketching, repairing the home, history, iron-working, photography.. a man who loved learning, and was open to new ideas, sought knowledge and cultural exposure. A rich and interesting autodidact. But others didn't always see him this way. His paysan roots (which I often compared to those of Picasso, a boy of the Mediterranean too) were visible on his face, in his body type, in his language. So I extrapolated, and had a moment of epiphany on what the rise of Picasso meant to upscale French society, and the numerous women of class and wealth who were enamored of and and subsequently destroyed by him.
Our American clients adored and adore Erick. His gentleness, his generosity, his warmth, his knowledge of food history, and world music. These are the qualities we see, value and marvel at, and which in the US would have earned him much. But here.... it's not as easy to be well-respected if you've not the requisite degrees and school learning. The will to build and advance are not traditionally rewarded.
And yet, even with these experiences, I'm still enamored of this world, and I'm still here. Though clearly in French terms, I married out of my class -- Erick didn't mix with university professors here, who snubbed his unconventional approach. And I was raised by two Harvard Ph.Ds, in the suburbs of sophisticated NYC. But what a peculiar thing to say and feel? What is class? Is it still so important? But this is the old world, and many, if not most, of the old world behaviors and sentiments are still quite present.
I reveled in the election of Obama. I reveled in what it meant both symbolically and realistically. Someone, from a very simple background, raised by his mother and grandparents (who valued education very highly!), mixed-race, world traveled, and his wife, from a simple lower middle-class Chicago neighborhood; this person and his family can reach the highest office in the land through sheer work, willpower and belief. Nothing is unattainable if you work hard enough for it.
For this simple fact, much as I love living in Provence, I will always be American.
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
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