It blows, it howls, it prepares to lift my heavy stone house from its foundation. It tosses leaves by the hundreds into the pool and dries out every plant in the garden. It keeps me awake at night, softening only a wee bit in the morning. It drowns the songs of my morning bird chorus, and drives dust under the door and through the cracks around the windows. Pollen, dust, leaves, fluff, all are swirling in the air. My rose bush is shorn of her petals and many another flower is buttoned up shut. Only the pink oleander is coming into bloom, sturdy on its firm branches.
My head aches when I awake, my mind is sluggish and disturbed. Small children are anxious and cry for no reason. Even Filou stays nervously by my side rather than roll in the dirt with his friend Saline.
It's been four days now. Four days of hot sun. Four days of fierce winds. Good for the vineyards, though it renders clay soil stone hard. Good for the olive groves, up to a point. Not good for the beekeeper. With the moisture of the morning dew so quickly swiped away by the hot breeze, the bees stay inside, or visit my pool.
It is the Mistral. A wind that blows at any time all year long. A north wind that can reach up to 120 km / hour, as clocked from the top of the Mount Ventoux. It bends trees to the south, and twists the locals a bit too. It is the glory and the bane of living in Provence.
They say tomorrow it will calm its anger and leave us a moment of peace. I would like to hear my birds again.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Starting in a Business in France
I spent two and a half hours at a meeting with the agency called Actif Conseil in Avignon the other day. The goal was to have the route to opening a business in France clarified and outlined for me and a number of other potential small business owners (all women by the way, interesting, hm?). Yes, I've run a business for over ten years in France alongside Erick, but... it was rather complicated in its structure, and I wasn't involved in the accounting, or in paying the taxes, and now it is time I understand how things function in this not a truly capitalist-bent country.
Despite checking on google maps ahead of time, it took me a moment to find the office -- a tiny plaque on a discreet door with no parking in front, and much dominated by the bakery to the left and the car repair garage to the right. I did quite a bit of bit of backing and forthing on a major street before finding said office, and then going back outside to move my car across the street to the supermarket parking lot. I then trotted up the stairs to join the others waiting for the presentation to begin.
First off, be prepared. Be enthusiastic. Have the will to go forth. This is harder than you might imagine as enthusiastic is conflated with naive in French culture, and nay-sayers are always more numerous than supporters. Then, send out surveys and get to know your competitors, do "études du marché" and see if your idea resonates.
All the classic advice was there: identify your client base, get to know them, give them a name, a job, number of kids, etc., and find out where they live, what their salary is, and how they spend their discretionary income. Figure out your pricing structure and your placement on the market taking into account traditional mark ups, your expenses, etc., but also your competitors' range of prices.
Have an idea of how you will market -- web sites are simply shop windows our young presenter reminded us. They are not a marketing device in and of themselves, you have to send people to it via your business card, ads in magazines, and ideally, word of mouth. This is not new to anyone who's attempted to run a business or read Money magazine, etc., but it was to many seated around the table.
We were a group of seven women of varying ages and origins: a quite silent Indian woman in the group, a young Magrébine, a very vocal woman of about 50, and three more around my age, 40-45. Before us was a dynamic young man and his powerpoint presentation. He ad-libbed here and there as this is what he does everyday. He puts people on the path (or removes them) to creating small businesses.
In France, the generous socialist system is slowing trying to re-direct itself to assisting people not just to get a basic minimum wage job, but to choose other options, such as creating a business, or taking over an existing one. When I did my mini-bilan de compétences which tested my basic skills, aptitude, and experiences, it was clear to the woman in charge that I had the profile to run my own business (this is reassuring, non?)
* sociability -- I like people (though I'm not necessarily therapist material), but I take great pleasure in my clients and artisans
* organization and figures -- I can handle these competently, but don't ask me to be your accountant
* movement -- I'm not someone who sits at a desk all day, thus my love of hikes, outings, dancing, etc.,
* artistic -- I'm not an artist myself, but I admire others who are, and surround myself with beauty, taste, pleasure
* intellect -- I'm not an astro-physicist in his laboratory, but I crave stimulation and the chance to learn
* management -- I can multi-task, direct others, delegate, orchestrate complicated schedules, etc.,
Thus, with these test results in hand, the local unemployment office is helping me (for free of course) put together the necessary materials to go forth, and/or directing me to the appropriate agencies.
I've a list of people to call and meet -- the Chamber of Commerce and Industry (where I'll speak with a tourism specialist) the Chamber of Agriculture (as so much of what I do involves agricultural producers), etc.,
There is not a SBA here (Small Business Association) as in the US, but there are privately run, publicly funded entities present to help you put together the business proposal and find matching start-up funding with minimal to zero interest rates. Various organizations are willing to loan sums from 3,000-10,000 Euros for start-up capital. However, they are not there to replace having a bank as a business partner. They recognize that it is easier for a bank to make a loan for a tangible object such as a car or the business offices, but far more rare for a bank to fill the start-up coffers.
And all these various sources of assistance are available to the unemployed of over six months. Fascinating, hm?
As the two and a half hour presentation continued, our young man presented us the various legal structures statut juridique, that we might choose for our business. They each have their virtues and vices. The most classic might be a micro-entreprise. For this you are your business and all that you possess is held as collateral to it. This is very scary to a Frenchman. Imagine losing your house if you've over-borrowed, etc? However, this is also the structure that most artisans have by necessity, be they bakers, woodworkers, or hairdressers.
Another option is more akin to a corporation. It involves multiple partners, and creates a non-personal legal entity run by you and your colleagues. In this case, the person(s) starting the business must decide upon a salary, and pay the necessary social charges, etc., out of the salary and the business capitol. However, in this situation, your personal effects (car, house, etc.,) are protected in case of a financial collapse. The first is a SARL (a minimum of two associates), the second is the EURL (which can be just one person). For these, a charter of sorts outlining the business, its goals, responsibilities, how it is structured, etc., is required as are yearly board meetings, and announcements of such. Lots more paper work. An accountant is a very good idea.
For the micro-entreprise you can opt to pay taxes and charges on your direct income after deductions, VAT taxes etc.,; or you can opt for what is called an abatement by which you pay on 50% of your gross income or 71% of your gross income (the former if you offer a service, the latter if you are selling a product). For this situation, you neither charge nor deduct the VAT tax.
Once you decide on the legal structure, you need to understand your social charges' rates (for unemployment insurance, retirement, health insurance, maternity insurance, etc.,) and how often you need to pay them. This is referred to as the régimes des cotisations sociales. You can be salaried, or a travailleur non-salarié, or a micro-social.
If you opt for the last option, it works with an abatement as well, meaning, you pay from 12 to 21.3% of your gross income monthly to the State for your charges.
To complicate things further, if you are a merchant, or typical small business owner, you calculate 45.05% of your net income as social charges.
A first year business can pay a base fee of 3300E for the charges, no matter the income.
The French are all excited by a new legal structure called the auto-entreprise. It's supposed to be simpler to put into effect, allow you to combine two incomes (a salary during the day, and your small business effort on the weekend for instance which used to be outlawed), and to calculate by percentage what you are to pay each month. Thus the months you earn nothing, you pay nothing (which is not the case in the traditional micro-entreprise structure).
Our young man didn't like this one too much as too many people have surged towards starting businesses without his most essential advice on how to do so. He regaled us with figures and facts on the success and failure of businesses in France, and how entities such as his can dramatically change these. But in general, this new structure is being greeted with much suspicion by the Chamber of Commerce and Industry and other official institutions that feel un-connected to this new idea that might just encourage people to act on impulse. God forbid, right?
I left the meeting with lots of notes, a bit better informed, but also rather confused. I once thought I was a smart woman... France and its many complicated laws can quickly humble you. However, it is reassuring to know that all sorts of simulated programs exist on the computer to test your business ideas, figure out what level of taxes, charges, etc., you'll be paying, and what possible financial help you might be in a position to obtain. This I find most interesting, and essential. So, perhaps next fall when the summer is over, the kids back in school and life a bit more under control (though is it ever?).
Onward and upward.
Despite checking on google maps ahead of time, it took me a moment to find the office -- a tiny plaque on a discreet door with no parking in front, and much dominated by the bakery to the left and the car repair garage to the right. I did quite a bit of bit of backing and forthing on a major street before finding said office, and then going back outside to move my car across the street to the supermarket parking lot. I then trotted up the stairs to join the others waiting for the presentation to begin.
First off, be prepared. Be enthusiastic. Have the will to go forth. This is harder than you might imagine as enthusiastic is conflated with naive in French culture, and nay-sayers are always more numerous than supporters. Then, send out surveys and get to know your competitors, do "études du marché" and see if your idea resonates.
All the classic advice was there: identify your client base, get to know them, give them a name, a job, number of kids, etc., and find out where they live, what their salary is, and how they spend their discretionary income. Figure out your pricing structure and your placement on the market taking into account traditional mark ups, your expenses, etc., but also your competitors' range of prices.
Have an idea of how you will market -- web sites are simply shop windows our young presenter reminded us. They are not a marketing device in and of themselves, you have to send people to it via your business card, ads in magazines, and ideally, word of mouth. This is not new to anyone who's attempted to run a business or read Money magazine, etc., but it was to many seated around the table.
We were a group of seven women of varying ages and origins: a quite silent Indian woman in the group, a young Magrébine, a very vocal woman of about 50, and three more around my age, 40-45. Before us was a dynamic young man and his powerpoint presentation. He ad-libbed here and there as this is what he does everyday. He puts people on the path (or removes them) to creating small businesses.
In France, the generous socialist system is slowing trying to re-direct itself to assisting people not just to get a basic minimum wage job, but to choose other options, such as creating a business, or taking over an existing one. When I did my mini-bilan de compétences which tested my basic skills, aptitude, and experiences, it was clear to the woman in charge that I had the profile to run my own business (this is reassuring, non?)
* sociability -- I like people (though I'm not necessarily therapist material), but I take great pleasure in my clients and artisans
* organization and figures -- I can handle these competently, but don't ask me to be your accountant
* movement -- I'm not someone who sits at a desk all day, thus my love of hikes, outings, dancing, etc.,
* artistic -- I'm not an artist myself, but I admire others who are, and surround myself with beauty, taste, pleasure
* intellect -- I'm not an astro-physicist in his laboratory, but I crave stimulation and the chance to learn
* management -- I can multi-task, direct others, delegate, orchestrate complicated schedules, etc.,
Thus, with these test results in hand, the local unemployment office is helping me (for free of course) put together the necessary materials to go forth, and/or directing me to the appropriate agencies.
I've a list of people to call and meet -- the Chamber of Commerce and Industry (where I'll speak with a tourism specialist) the Chamber of Agriculture (as so much of what I do involves agricultural producers), etc.,
There is not a SBA here (Small Business Association) as in the US, but there are privately run, publicly funded entities present to help you put together the business proposal and find matching start-up funding with minimal to zero interest rates. Various organizations are willing to loan sums from 3,000-10,000 Euros for start-up capital. However, they are not there to replace having a bank as a business partner. They recognize that it is easier for a bank to make a loan for a tangible object such as a car or the business offices, but far more rare for a bank to fill the start-up coffers.
And all these various sources of assistance are available to the unemployed of over six months. Fascinating, hm?
As the two and a half hour presentation continued, our young man presented us the various legal structures statut juridique, that we might choose for our business. They each have their virtues and vices. The most classic might be a micro-entreprise. For this you are your business and all that you possess is held as collateral to it. This is very scary to a Frenchman. Imagine losing your house if you've over-borrowed, etc? However, this is also the structure that most artisans have by necessity, be they bakers, woodworkers, or hairdressers.
Another option is more akin to a corporation. It involves multiple partners, and creates a non-personal legal entity run by you and your colleagues. In this case, the person(s) starting the business must decide upon a salary, and pay the necessary social charges, etc., out of the salary and the business capitol. However, in this situation, your personal effects (car, house, etc.,) are protected in case of a financial collapse. The first is a SARL (a minimum of two associates), the second is the EURL (which can be just one person). For these, a charter of sorts outlining the business, its goals, responsibilities, how it is structured, etc., is required as are yearly board meetings, and announcements of such. Lots more paper work. An accountant is a very good idea.
For the micro-entreprise you can opt to pay taxes and charges on your direct income after deductions, VAT taxes etc.,; or you can opt for what is called an abatement by which you pay on 50% of your gross income or 71% of your gross income (the former if you offer a service, the latter if you are selling a product). For this situation, you neither charge nor deduct the VAT tax.
Once you decide on the legal structure, you need to understand your social charges' rates (for unemployment insurance, retirement, health insurance, maternity insurance, etc.,) and how often you need to pay them. This is referred to as the régimes des cotisations sociales. You can be salaried, or a travailleur non-salarié, or a micro-social.
If you opt for the last option, it works with an abatement as well, meaning, you pay from 12 to 21.3% of your gross income monthly to the State for your charges.
To complicate things further, if you are a merchant, or typical small business owner, you calculate 45.05% of your net income as social charges.
A first year business can pay a base fee of 3300E for the charges, no matter the income.
The French are all excited by a new legal structure called the auto-entreprise. It's supposed to be simpler to put into effect, allow you to combine two incomes (a salary during the day, and your small business effort on the weekend for instance which used to be outlawed), and to calculate by percentage what you are to pay each month. Thus the months you earn nothing, you pay nothing (which is not the case in the traditional micro-entreprise structure).
Our young man didn't like this one too much as too many people have surged towards starting businesses without his most essential advice on how to do so. He regaled us with figures and facts on the success and failure of businesses in France, and how entities such as his can dramatically change these. But in general, this new structure is being greeted with much suspicion by the Chamber of Commerce and Industry and other official institutions that feel un-connected to this new idea that might just encourage people to act on impulse. God forbid, right?
I left the meeting with lots of notes, a bit better informed, but also rather confused. I once thought I was a smart woman... France and its many complicated laws can quickly humble you. However, it is reassuring to know that all sorts of simulated programs exist on the computer to test your business ideas, figure out what level of taxes, charges, etc., you'll be paying, and what possible financial help you might be in a position to obtain. This I find most interesting, and essential. So, perhaps next fall when the summer is over, the kids back in school and life a bit more under control (though is it ever?).
Onward and upward.
I too once lived in Paris...
Reading the very funny list of what he might miss in Paris by David Lebovitz on his self-titled blog reminded me that yes, I too once made an attempt to fit into the Parisian way of life. I swished down the street in elegant attire. I spoke in a clipped Parisian accent. I cultivated "euhs" in my speech. I licked the shop windows lusting (ever so discreetly) after the chic (or not so) clothing inside. I walked and walked and walked and walked -- I'm not a fan of the metro-- and had the most gorgeous jambes while I lived there. I drank my coffee black and serré. I spent my spare evenings wandering the corridors of some of the world's most splendid museums, and I had my spot as a regular at my favorite brasserie (where they still remember me thirteen years later).
I most competently sought out obscure addresses with my handy Paris guide that should be replicated by every city in the world, particularly Tokyo where I believe the buildings are numbered chronologically... In thirty minutes I could arrive at nearly any destination (if I took public transport, preferably the bus).
I was pretty darned proud of myself when I took my friend's portfolios of model wanabees to the major agencies (Elite, etc.,) where I'd set up interviews carefully ahead of time. I felt elegant and well-received, and yes I was proud they were impressed by my French and my demeanor. Hey, what girl wouldn't want to feel pretty and respected at a top modeling agency? All your worst nightmares could be confirmed, or not, in such a place.
I learned to talk and argue and defend my point of view. I learned to flirt and to handle relatively aggressive male attention. But, I never learned to adjust to Parisian sidewalk behavior.
I've a theory that in Manhattan, we all walk quickly, but it's a socially agreed upon choreography of avoiding slamming into fellow pedestrians. It's a dance of running, dodging, jumping, swirling. And never, but never have I collided with a fellow pedestrian in NYC, even when I've been deep in conversation with a friend and relatively clueless to the world striding past. However, in Paris, more than once, walking abreast of a girlfriend (speaking in French mind you), I was slammed in the outside shoulder, and I mean slammed. It was frightening, shocking, disturbing, and more than a bit of, "what the????" I mean, was I taking up too much sidewalk or what?
Yes, I can move quickly, and be impatient, but I'm not rude. I value being considerate... which is a bit out of place in Paris, though not always. If you are not polite and say Bonjour Monsieur, or Madame, or Mademoiselle, you will not get good service and you will most definitely be in the position of the rude and boorish one.
Meeting students at my graduate program, finding certain interesting, I tried to propose an out-of-class get-together. "No, I already have friends, I don't have time for anyone else." Oh... that's an interesting point of view.
At work at the Centre National de la Photo, and later with the photo book editor Robert Delpire, I worked hard and did extra. Fine. But I also answered the phone with a full "Centre National de la Photo, puis je vous aider?" and my boss looked at me like I was crazy. The standard response to a phone call from who knows who? (world-famous Henri Cartier Bresson, a minister, a student, a Swedish colleague) "Oui." And you leave the caller to explain his mission, and then pass him onto someone else, not necessarily with an explanation or introduction, so it's up to him/her to explain him/herself all over again.
Paris was a world where I experienced being alone. After my rich social life in super friendly Seattle, and the member of the family work life in Japan, here I was on my own. I was able to call friends of friends occasionally, and be invited to a nice dinner in someone's home: "Bonjour, je m'appelle Madeleine. Je vous appelle de la part de Mme. D. Brodin, elle m'a donné votre numéro et.... Je suis actuellement étudiante à Paris... etc., etc.," But, it was very very difficult to find friends. So, I took to my evening habits of walking everywhere. I went to two dance classes a week (and briefly dated my Antonio Banderas look alike teacher, which was fun if brief), to my brasserie on the Ile St. Louis on the weekend, and to museums during their evening hours. I worked and I studied. I took in the amazing array of films, old and new, in the hundreds of cinémas in Paris. I picked up a copy of the Paris Spectacle every week for 2F and checked out the phenomenal art exhibitions and the numerous galleries and museums or free Sunday church concerts. I explored flea markets and took walking tours as outlined in the Guide Routard.
It was a time to look at works of art at my leisure, with ideas swirling in my head unshared, un-compared. It was a time to admire buildings, people, dogs, parks, skylines, in my own way and at my own pace. It was a curious and unusual for me. I'm terribly social, as many in my world will agree, and yet, I don't shy from being alone. It is often a preference, and vastly superior to being tugged along at another's pace on occasion.
I wasn't yet an adamant foodie, but I certainly enjoyed good food. A fellow dancer in class was married to the dairy shop owner in rue Daguerre, and from here I purchased yummy cheeses, fresh butter, artisanal crème fraîche and discovered the currant rolls from Poilane (in 1995 mind you, a bit ahead of the craze to follow). I sated my sweet tooth on tarts and éclairs et réligieuses till I could walk past a pastry shop and no longer drool -- that took a couple of months, but now, I know they're there, and when I need one, I can have one. It is no longer necessary to throw myself upon their mercy to satisfy the sweet cravings of a little girl whose mother was careful to raise her with few to no desserts in the house.
I walked down Rue Mouffetard, shopping along the way for a slice of pâté, some runny cheese and a gorgeous fresh peach or two for lunch. And I discovered La Maison du Chocolat nearby my office by Étoile. One, two, perhaps three amazing ganâche filled chocolates? I didn't dare get myself a whole box. But you're perfectly welcome to purchase chocolates by the gram, and carefully saying, Bonjour Madame, and Merci Madame, and ça sera tout Madame, goes a long way to a polite-if not warm-welcome.
I think as a young American female (I was 27 at the time), what was most frustrating was being hit on and followed way too often by strange men. Okay, I'm told it is to flatter us. That men feel it necessary to do this to stroke our egos. That actually, you should start worrying when this stops! But, as someone who likes to lie on a lovely green lawn (in between the visits of the Luxembourg Gardens' Lawn Guards) with a good book in her hands soaking up the unusual and sincerely welcome sunshine of a late Parisian spring... well, it's damn annoying to have a somewhat normal looking young man start talking to you, and then, ask you to come watch him jerk off in the bushes. Good Lord, is that what a gentle "please leave me alone" gets you? So I learned to be brusk and never to say a word, never to make eye contact. They did not exist, they were beneath my notice, and thus, I could have some level of peace.
On the flip side, when working the Photo Art Fair in Paris, I would greet potential clients as they walked into our booth to look more closely at the photos. I'll never forget the man who looked at me, startled, and said, "on se connait?" Ah, no, I don't know you sir, I'm simply a pathetically naive and friendly American who says hello to people who walk into her space....
Yes, I had ups, and downs. It's a gorgeous city. I love knowing it well, I love visiting, I loved my charming apartments, my studies, my free student entries to museums, theatres, the opera, dance, and so much more. What an incredible time in my life. Though oddly, I came to Paris via Seattle and Kobe Japan, not directly from NY. Had I done the latter, I might have fit in better.
Would I live there full time? After moving to Provence? I think not. But that's another story.
I most competently sought out obscure addresses with my handy Paris guide that should be replicated by every city in the world, particularly Tokyo where I believe the buildings are numbered chronologically... In thirty minutes I could arrive at nearly any destination (if I took public transport, preferably the bus).
I was pretty darned proud of myself when I took my friend's portfolios of model wanabees to the major agencies (Elite, etc.,) where I'd set up interviews carefully ahead of time. I felt elegant and well-received, and yes I was proud they were impressed by my French and my demeanor. Hey, what girl wouldn't want to feel pretty and respected at a top modeling agency? All your worst nightmares could be confirmed, or not, in such a place.
I learned to talk and argue and defend my point of view. I learned to flirt and to handle relatively aggressive male attention. But, I never learned to adjust to Parisian sidewalk behavior.
I've a theory that in Manhattan, we all walk quickly, but it's a socially agreed upon choreography of avoiding slamming into fellow pedestrians. It's a dance of running, dodging, jumping, swirling. And never, but never have I collided with a fellow pedestrian in NYC, even when I've been deep in conversation with a friend and relatively clueless to the world striding past. However, in Paris, more than once, walking abreast of a girlfriend (speaking in French mind you), I was slammed in the outside shoulder, and I mean slammed. It was frightening, shocking, disturbing, and more than a bit of, "what the????" I mean, was I taking up too much sidewalk or what?
Yes, I can move quickly, and be impatient, but I'm not rude. I value being considerate... which is a bit out of place in Paris, though not always. If you are not polite and say Bonjour Monsieur, or Madame, or Mademoiselle, you will not get good service and you will most definitely be in the position of the rude and boorish one.
Meeting students at my graduate program, finding certain interesting, I tried to propose an out-of-class get-together. "No, I already have friends, I don't have time for anyone else." Oh... that's an interesting point of view.
At work at the Centre National de la Photo, and later with the photo book editor Robert Delpire, I worked hard and did extra. Fine. But I also answered the phone with a full "Centre National de la Photo, puis je vous aider?" and my boss looked at me like I was crazy. The standard response to a phone call from who knows who? (world-famous Henri Cartier Bresson, a minister, a student, a Swedish colleague) "Oui." And you leave the caller to explain his mission, and then pass him onto someone else, not necessarily with an explanation or introduction, so it's up to him/her to explain him/herself all over again.
Paris was a world where I experienced being alone. After my rich social life in super friendly Seattle, and the member of the family work life in Japan, here I was on my own. I was able to call friends of friends occasionally, and be invited to a nice dinner in someone's home: "Bonjour, je m'appelle Madeleine. Je vous appelle de la part de Mme. D. Brodin, elle m'a donné votre numéro et.... Je suis actuellement étudiante à Paris... etc., etc.," But, it was very very difficult to find friends. So, I took to my evening habits of walking everywhere. I went to two dance classes a week (and briefly dated my Antonio Banderas look alike teacher, which was fun if brief), to my brasserie on the Ile St. Louis on the weekend, and to museums during their evening hours. I worked and I studied. I took in the amazing array of films, old and new, in the hundreds of cinémas in Paris. I picked up a copy of the Paris Spectacle every week for 2F and checked out the phenomenal art exhibitions and the numerous galleries and museums or free Sunday church concerts. I explored flea markets and took walking tours as outlined in the Guide Routard.
It was a time to look at works of art at my leisure, with ideas swirling in my head unshared, un-compared. It was a time to admire buildings, people, dogs, parks, skylines, in my own way and at my own pace. It was a curious and unusual for me. I'm terribly social, as many in my world will agree, and yet, I don't shy from being alone. It is often a preference, and vastly superior to being tugged along at another's pace on occasion.
I wasn't yet an adamant foodie, but I certainly enjoyed good food. A fellow dancer in class was married to the dairy shop owner in rue Daguerre, and from here I purchased yummy cheeses, fresh butter, artisanal crème fraîche and discovered the currant rolls from Poilane (in 1995 mind you, a bit ahead of the craze to follow). I sated my sweet tooth on tarts and éclairs et réligieuses till I could walk past a pastry shop and no longer drool -- that took a couple of months, but now, I know they're there, and when I need one, I can have one. It is no longer necessary to throw myself upon their mercy to satisfy the sweet cravings of a little girl whose mother was careful to raise her with few to no desserts in the house.
I walked down Rue Mouffetard, shopping along the way for a slice of pâté, some runny cheese and a gorgeous fresh peach or two for lunch. And I discovered La Maison du Chocolat nearby my office by Étoile. One, two, perhaps three amazing ganâche filled chocolates? I didn't dare get myself a whole box. But you're perfectly welcome to purchase chocolates by the gram, and carefully saying, Bonjour Madame, and Merci Madame, and ça sera tout Madame, goes a long way to a polite-if not warm-welcome.
I think as a young American female (I was 27 at the time), what was most frustrating was being hit on and followed way too often by strange men. Okay, I'm told it is to flatter us. That men feel it necessary to do this to stroke our egos. That actually, you should start worrying when this stops! But, as someone who likes to lie on a lovely green lawn (in between the visits of the Luxembourg Gardens' Lawn Guards) with a good book in her hands soaking up the unusual and sincerely welcome sunshine of a late Parisian spring... well, it's damn annoying to have a somewhat normal looking young man start talking to you, and then, ask you to come watch him jerk off in the bushes. Good Lord, is that what a gentle "please leave me alone" gets you? So I learned to be brusk and never to say a word, never to make eye contact. They did not exist, they were beneath my notice, and thus, I could have some level of peace.
On the flip side, when working the Photo Art Fair in Paris, I would greet potential clients as they walked into our booth to look more closely at the photos. I'll never forget the man who looked at me, startled, and said, "on se connait?" Ah, no, I don't know you sir, I'm simply a pathetically naive and friendly American who says hello to people who walk into her space....
Yes, I had ups, and downs. It's a gorgeous city. I love knowing it well, I love visiting, I loved my charming apartments, my studies, my free student entries to museums, theatres, the opera, dance, and so much more. What an incredible time in my life. Though oddly, I came to Paris via Seattle and Kobe Japan, not directly from NY. Had I done the latter, I might have fit in better.
Would I live there full time? After moving to Provence? I think not. But that's another story.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Projects Accomplished (with help)
When the household projects get a bit much for poor ol' me, helpers come in all shapes in sizes. A nearly twelve year old boy can be cajoled (or coerced) to facing down the buzzing wasps and helping to mop out a pool. A herd of five (from seven to seventeen) can be promised ice cream and strawberries, in exchange for breaking down large branches of dead fig tree. A friend can be recompensed with a good meal, wine and coffee in exchange for helping put up mosquito netting in the bedroom windows, and rebuilding the garden fence. And thank goodness, my plumber is a friend, aka guardian angel, who comes when called. My bathroom is still in the planning stages, but at least the kitchen counter and sink are quickly nearing completion.
I Miss My Au Pairs
Throughout my childhood my mother waxed poetic about the numerous French au pairs she'd had to help her when we were little. There was Jocelyne whom my brother wanted to marry at the age of two. And Francine who could sew Vogue patterns and had gorgeous long legs. Mom first shared the secret of her third pregnancy (me) with her. These girls apparently doted on us, and as I absorbed the stories, were absolutely lovely and all good. So, when I found my life rather out of control with the growing business of the cooking school and a small toddler to care for, I immediately considered the solution of an au pair. I didn't have family nearby, and didn't know Erick's aunt well enough to consider asking her to care for Leo.
Erick wasn’t too sure. A stranger in the house? No one else nearby had chosen this solution. However, they nearly all had mamies (grandmas), which I did not. So, I persuaded him that it wasn't normal that I was sick nearly monthly; and that, with the sleep deprivation plus the house responsibilities, I'd never be able to get the business off the ground if I didn't have help. Perhaps if I didn't have my father's sleep needs (8-10 hours), I wouldn't be in such need, but... Best accept this fact and proceed forth to a solution.
So, I sent out word by email to friends, family and cooking clients to let them know that I was looking for a good-humored, helpful, Francophile young woman to help with my toddler, dishes and house-work. Amazingly, Carrie, a marvelous, hard-working, gracious, funny, and adept French speaker answered my call and came across the ocean from the Mid-Western United States to help.
From the day of her arrival I leaned upon her heavily. I had months of sleep to catch up on, and gratefully would pass Leo to her waiting arms and then go back to sleep – firmly closing the two doors to my bed room so I’d hear no cries, squeeks or burps. As with many a new mother, I could sleep through the local garbage trucks, but not through my child’s peep.
Carrie was a godsend. Discreet, up-beat, adept at using humor to move the stubborn Leo around town—oh, you don’t want to walk? Ok, let’s just sit and watch the world pass us by. Just tell me when you’re ready…
With her there I was able to get myself back together, advance on projects, and improve my nightly cooking offerings. Having another adult to cook for helped me keep to meal rhythms, and knowing I was no longer on dish duty I was able to cook more inventively. Carrie was there for our first expanded Provençal cooking programs. She got to know the guests and proved an enormous help with set up, serving, dishes, and occasionally interpreting when I left the room. Can I say again that she was a godsend?
Carrie was also tall and skinny. I felt a need to nourish her. So for her benefit, I worked on my broccoli and cauliflower au gratin, my béchamel sauces, and other richer dishes. She loved food and enjoyed working alongside us in the kitchen. She even returned to France a few years after her stint with us and often assisted during our cooking classes.
But, at the end of the summer, it was time for her to go home. And so, another girl was hired. She lasted two weeks. And so another came over from England. She lasted one week. So I gave up for that year and asked Marie, my neighbor who ran the Laundromat if she would help me. From that point, I settled into a daily routine of awakening, feeding and dropping Leo off at the laundromat every morning, picking him back up for lunch. On days with cooking classes Marie kept Leo all day, bringing him home with her for lunch, etc.,
This was a nice arrangement, but, not the ideal one. So, when a client suggested her step-daughter, I jumped at the chance. Shortly after, the lovely and gracious dancer-writer from a prestigious New England private university arrived. More beautiful than Helen of lore, Betsy had cascades of thick gold hair down her back, the longest and thickest eye-lashes ever, and a swishing gait as she ever so gracefully took Leo to the park every day. Betsy wanted time to write, and to learn French (she spoke none upon her arrival). Helping her with these two desires was an easy exchange. Gentle and calm, she quickly earned Leo's affection as well as the attention of many young men in town. Numerous mothers of eligible men suggested they take out Betsy, and I encouraged her to accept. “After all, if it’s their mothers that set them up, they’ll treat you correctly, and what a good opportunity to practice your French.” So a bit doubtful, but laughing at the justice of the observations, Betsy went out with these various young men, and safely made her way back home without incident.
Betsy had been a vegetarian before her arrival in our home. But to prepare, she'd eaten a juicy hamburger back home before coming -- it made her sick. However, undeterred, she enjoyed everything we served, and became a fan of our gardian d'agneau with white wine, green olives and potatoes. A favorite dish that she subsequently made up in Paris where she chose to continue her studies for a time. I still remember seeing a little belly form on her previously ballerina figure, and teasing her (gently) about this. Nice to know what you have to offer is appreciated!
From Leo's 18 months to his eleventh birthday, I hired au pairs. Not many stayed longer than six months, even the best of them. They weathered 9/11 with me, and the build up to war in Iraq. They were there for Jonas’ birth (Carrie is his honorary godmother), and as the business grew and developed. They were there when Erick worked non-stop on the bed and breakfast and I took the clients all over Provence. I've seen the good, the bad and the ugly. Some were amazing, hard-working, delightful, good-humored, generous of spirit and infinitely bright and capable. Others were stubborn and unpredictable. One had her valium pills with her (she didn’t last long). Another took pride in arguing ferociously and declaring herself under-appreciated and under-paid, as well as taking a strange pleasure in speaking bad French to Jonas.
But then there was Penelope, with whom perfect moments were lived. We shared so much, the children, good food, outings to visit the hat-maker, outings to the beekeeper (Penelope briefly dated her stone-carving elder son), yoga, test hikes (for my then new program of Hiking and Feasting). She adored fun and quirky clothes. Gift giving was a treat -- at times a found object from the flea market, at times a flouncy pink top from Monoprix. Creative, generous, funny, sincere. The build up to the Iraq war frightened us all, and so she left early to be with her family. However, as with Carrie, we are still close and I treasure the innumerable gifts she gave me in her presence and assistance.
There was bubbly and delightful, super-competent Laura whom the children adored. She had Jonas completely under control. Evening after evening she'd bring him down clean and in pjs for his good night kiss before putting him to bed (we were in the kitchen or the dining area with clients -- it was a very busy year!). There was ever-good humored and mellow Ashley, Jonas' favorite. Leo greeted her by running to her and hugging her with his head pressed against her bare belly (the year of hipster pants, belly-button rings and short tops). She was in heaven with all the good food, Erick's cold-smoked salmon "à volonté" and the fun guys she met at the Irish Pub. (my English party-girl).
And last, but definitely not least, Hayley. My last au pair. All the way over from Australia, thanks to a couple who had briefly stayed in our b&b. She is perhaps the one I over-worked the least, who had the most time to enjoy Provence herself, and who was thus freer to help me as she could. She had the freedom to go to capoeira four nights a week, and to accept offers for weekends away in Switzerland and Spain. But I could count on her completely when she was with me. -- She epitomized what I'd grown to understand all along, that my au pairs were happiest when they were able to build a life of their own outside our house and family. They needed their own friends and social life, be it by joining a drumming group, going to French class, finding a boyfriend (not necessarily my favorite solution... but one that has to be accepted and adjusted to when it comes up, however obnoxious that may sound on my part) or learning capoeira.
The boyfriend thing is hard in that sleep-deprived and distracted is not the state of mind a mother ideally chooses for a young woman who has an hour's drive on dangerous roads to her sons' school. That they need to live their lives, and that that includes finding love where it is offered, I cannot debate. I was living with my first boyfriend at the age of 18 in my university dorm room. Thus I try not to be a hypocrite, and recognize the need to juggle, to understand, to adapt, and to adjust on both parts.
As I settled into my house in Avignon, and stopped returning to Arles every weekend, Hayley was there. As I worked on the garden, so did Hayley. She weeded right along side me, planted crocuses with Jonas, went running down our dirt paths, roller bladed with Leo, helped repaint the floors (a yearly task before the summer rentals), scrubbed the pool with me (ah, t'would have been nice to have her with me this year!). I could count on her to cope calmly with any crisis and manage tons of driving. Her first two months she spent nearly alone in Avignon with my boys while I worked non-stop in Arles. And never did I hear a complaint.
Hayley was also there when I first started seeing my vintner. She laughed with me at my comments, my reactions. She encouraged me in fun ways. We would sit out in the sun, painting our toe nails and chatting in a wonderfully girly way. We did an Ayurvedic cleanse together, each there to support the other and keep it up for the full month. I know she'd love to see my rose bushes now, and the vegetable garden well planted. She'd be beside me plucking the strawberries from the patch, removing the snails and laying wood ash beneath the leaves. She'd be amazed by the height of the butterfly trees, and sad at the death of the fig tree.
I--we-- asked a tremendous amount of these young women, barely finished with their studies. For some, I could give back sufficiently in kind to make their hard labor worthwhile, or at least give it some sense. For others, I was simply the taskmaster who expected way too much. The years the business was developing, and taking more and more of our time, plus our choice to put Leo into the Rudolf Steiner school -– an hour’s drive away--placed way too much responsibility and sheer hours of work on the shoulders of these young woman (and one young man). Those who managed were, as I was well aware, heroic. And, unfortunately, there were those who quit, who complained, who became disagreeable. Ironically, more than a few have asked me to write recommendations for their future jobs, graduate school applications and more. And this I've done with great pleasure, emphasizing their strengths under pressure, their willingness and ability to juggle many tasks, and to adapt to a house-hold and culture not their own.
And now, on my own, with three more children under my roof to boot, I miss the companionship almost more than the assistance that they offered me so freely. An American in France, in small towns of the South, it took me a long time to find my French friends. And, friendships that you make as an adult, at least for me, don't necessarily have the open context of being silly, girly and frivolous that friendships from high school or college would permit. So I regressed with pleasure with my girls, enjoying their Anglo-saxon openness and spontaneity. I enjoyed their presence and their complicity. I appreciated immensely being able to count on them. I also enjoyed teaching them, showing them Provence, stimulating their political curiosity and interest. We went on hikes together, they accompanied me on visits, we biked and explored, shared personal frustrations. And yes, they were aware of the cracks in my marriage before many another. They learned to love my children, for which I am ever grateful. It was rarely just a job, and they were rarely just an employee. I was lucky, very lucky, to have girls who were okay with that arrangement. It is never easy asking another to help you with one of the most important aspects of your life. And, it is a big deal to shoulder that responsibility. Thank you again.
Erick wasn’t too sure. A stranger in the house? No one else nearby had chosen this solution. However, they nearly all had mamies (grandmas), which I did not. So, I persuaded him that it wasn't normal that I was sick nearly monthly; and that, with the sleep deprivation plus the house responsibilities, I'd never be able to get the business off the ground if I didn't have help. Perhaps if I didn't have my father's sleep needs (8-10 hours), I wouldn't be in such need, but... Best accept this fact and proceed forth to a solution.
So, I sent out word by email to friends, family and cooking clients to let them know that I was looking for a good-humored, helpful, Francophile young woman to help with my toddler, dishes and house-work. Amazingly, Carrie, a marvelous, hard-working, gracious, funny, and adept French speaker answered my call and came across the ocean from the Mid-Western United States to help.
From the day of her arrival I leaned upon her heavily. I had months of sleep to catch up on, and gratefully would pass Leo to her waiting arms and then go back to sleep – firmly closing the two doors to my bed room so I’d hear no cries, squeeks or burps. As with many a new mother, I could sleep through the local garbage trucks, but not through my child’s peep.
Carrie was a godsend. Discreet, up-beat, adept at using humor to move the stubborn Leo around town—oh, you don’t want to walk? Ok, let’s just sit and watch the world pass us by. Just tell me when you’re ready…
With her there I was able to get myself back together, advance on projects, and improve my nightly cooking offerings. Having another adult to cook for helped me keep to meal rhythms, and knowing I was no longer on dish duty I was able to cook more inventively. Carrie was there for our first expanded Provençal cooking programs. She got to know the guests and proved an enormous help with set up, serving, dishes, and occasionally interpreting when I left the room. Can I say again that she was a godsend?
Carrie was also tall and skinny. I felt a need to nourish her. So for her benefit, I worked on my broccoli and cauliflower au gratin, my béchamel sauces, and other richer dishes. She loved food and enjoyed working alongside us in the kitchen. She even returned to France a few years after her stint with us and often assisted during our cooking classes.
But, at the end of the summer, it was time for her to go home. And so, another girl was hired. She lasted two weeks. And so another came over from England. She lasted one week. So I gave up for that year and asked Marie, my neighbor who ran the Laundromat if she would help me. From that point, I settled into a daily routine of awakening, feeding and dropping Leo off at the laundromat every morning, picking him back up for lunch. On days with cooking classes Marie kept Leo all day, bringing him home with her for lunch, etc.,
This was a nice arrangement, but, not the ideal one. So, when a client suggested her step-daughter, I jumped at the chance. Shortly after, the lovely and gracious dancer-writer from a prestigious New England private university arrived. More beautiful than Helen of lore, Betsy had cascades of thick gold hair down her back, the longest and thickest eye-lashes ever, and a swishing gait as she ever so gracefully took Leo to the park every day. Betsy wanted time to write, and to learn French (she spoke none upon her arrival). Helping her with these two desires was an easy exchange. Gentle and calm, she quickly earned Leo's affection as well as the attention of many young men in town. Numerous mothers of eligible men suggested they take out Betsy, and I encouraged her to accept. “After all, if it’s their mothers that set them up, they’ll treat you correctly, and what a good opportunity to practice your French.” So a bit doubtful, but laughing at the justice of the observations, Betsy went out with these various young men, and safely made her way back home without incident.
Betsy had been a vegetarian before her arrival in our home. But to prepare, she'd eaten a juicy hamburger back home before coming -- it made her sick. However, undeterred, she enjoyed everything we served, and became a fan of our gardian d'agneau with white wine, green olives and potatoes. A favorite dish that she subsequently made up in Paris where she chose to continue her studies for a time. I still remember seeing a little belly form on her previously ballerina figure, and teasing her (gently) about this. Nice to know what you have to offer is appreciated!
From Leo's 18 months to his eleventh birthday, I hired au pairs. Not many stayed longer than six months, even the best of them. They weathered 9/11 with me, and the build up to war in Iraq. They were there for Jonas’ birth (Carrie is his honorary godmother), and as the business grew and developed. They were there when Erick worked non-stop on the bed and breakfast and I took the clients all over Provence. I've seen the good, the bad and the ugly. Some were amazing, hard-working, delightful, good-humored, generous of spirit and infinitely bright and capable. Others were stubborn and unpredictable. One had her valium pills with her (she didn’t last long). Another took pride in arguing ferociously and declaring herself under-appreciated and under-paid, as well as taking a strange pleasure in speaking bad French to Jonas.
But then there was Penelope, with whom perfect moments were lived. We shared so much, the children, good food, outings to visit the hat-maker, outings to the beekeeper (Penelope briefly dated her stone-carving elder son), yoga, test hikes (for my then new program of Hiking and Feasting). She adored fun and quirky clothes. Gift giving was a treat -- at times a found object from the flea market, at times a flouncy pink top from Monoprix. Creative, generous, funny, sincere. The build up to the Iraq war frightened us all, and so she left early to be with her family. However, as with Carrie, we are still close and I treasure the innumerable gifts she gave me in her presence and assistance.
There was bubbly and delightful, super-competent Laura whom the children adored. She had Jonas completely under control. Evening after evening she'd bring him down clean and in pjs for his good night kiss before putting him to bed (we were in the kitchen or the dining area with clients -- it was a very busy year!). There was ever-good humored and mellow Ashley, Jonas' favorite. Leo greeted her by running to her and hugging her with his head pressed against her bare belly (the year of hipster pants, belly-button rings and short tops). She was in heaven with all the good food, Erick's cold-smoked salmon "à volonté" and the fun guys she met at the Irish Pub. (my English party-girl).
And last, but definitely not least, Hayley. My last au pair. All the way over from Australia, thanks to a couple who had briefly stayed in our b&b. She is perhaps the one I over-worked the least, who had the most time to enjoy Provence herself, and who was thus freer to help me as she could. She had the freedom to go to capoeira four nights a week, and to accept offers for weekends away in Switzerland and Spain. But I could count on her completely when she was with me. -- She epitomized what I'd grown to understand all along, that my au pairs were happiest when they were able to build a life of their own outside our house and family. They needed their own friends and social life, be it by joining a drumming group, going to French class, finding a boyfriend (not necessarily my favorite solution... but one that has to be accepted and adjusted to when it comes up, however obnoxious that may sound on my part) or learning capoeira.
The boyfriend thing is hard in that sleep-deprived and distracted is not the state of mind a mother ideally chooses for a young woman who has an hour's drive on dangerous roads to her sons' school. That they need to live their lives, and that that includes finding love where it is offered, I cannot debate. I was living with my first boyfriend at the age of 18 in my university dorm room. Thus I try not to be a hypocrite, and recognize the need to juggle, to understand, to adapt, and to adjust on both parts.
As I settled into my house in Avignon, and stopped returning to Arles every weekend, Hayley was there. As I worked on the garden, so did Hayley. She weeded right along side me, planted crocuses with Jonas, went running down our dirt paths, roller bladed with Leo, helped repaint the floors (a yearly task before the summer rentals), scrubbed the pool with me (ah, t'would have been nice to have her with me this year!). I could count on her to cope calmly with any crisis and manage tons of driving. Her first two months she spent nearly alone in Avignon with my boys while I worked non-stop in Arles. And never did I hear a complaint.
Hayley was also there when I first started seeing my vintner. She laughed with me at my comments, my reactions. She encouraged me in fun ways. We would sit out in the sun, painting our toe nails and chatting in a wonderfully girly way. We did an Ayurvedic cleanse together, each there to support the other and keep it up for the full month. I know she'd love to see my rose bushes now, and the vegetable garden well planted. She'd be beside me plucking the strawberries from the patch, removing the snails and laying wood ash beneath the leaves. She'd be amazed by the height of the butterfly trees, and sad at the death of the fig tree.
I--we-- asked a tremendous amount of these young women, barely finished with their studies. For some, I could give back sufficiently in kind to make their hard labor worthwhile, or at least give it some sense. For others, I was simply the taskmaster who expected way too much. The years the business was developing, and taking more and more of our time, plus our choice to put Leo into the Rudolf Steiner school -– an hour’s drive away--placed way too much responsibility and sheer hours of work on the shoulders of these young woman (and one young man). Those who managed were, as I was well aware, heroic. And, unfortunately, there were those who quit, who complained, who became disagreeable. Ironically, more than a few have asked me to write recommendations for their future jobs, graduate school applications and more. And this I've done with great pleasure, emphasizing their strengths under pressure, their willingness and ability to juggle many tasks, and to adapt to a house-hold and culture not their own.
And now, on my own, with three more children under my roof to boot, I miss the companionship almost more than the assistance that they offered me so freely. An American in France, in small towns of the South, it took me a long time to find my French friends. And, friendships that you make as an adult, at least for me, don't necessarily have the open context of being silly, girly and frivolous that friendships from high school or college would permit. So I regressed with pleasure with my girls, enjoying their Anglo-saxon openness and spontaneity. I enjoyed their presence and their complicity. I appreciated immensely being able to count on them. I also enjoyed teaching them, showing them Provence, stimulating their political curiosity and interest. We went on hikes together, they accompanied me on visits, we biked and explored, shared personal frustrations. And yes, they were aware of the cracks in my marriage before many another. They learned to love my children, for which I am ever grateful. It was rarely just a job, and they were rarely just an employee. I was lucky, very lucky, to have girls who were okay with that arrangement. It is never easy asking another to help you with one of the most important aspects of your life. And, it is a big deal to shoulder that responsibility. Thank you again.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Chronos Time or Kairos Time?
In my second session with the women's group at CIBC we had an open discussion lightly guided by a psychologist. He brought up the concept of Chronos Time and Kairos Time:
Chronos refers to the Greek god who ate his children, father to Zeus. When we live on Chronos time we have a sensation of never having enough, checking through lists, running through errands, dashing from one place to another, never a moment to appreciate our surroundings, our loved ones, or to breathe and take stock. It is an endless sense of movement rushing us through this existence. We're chasing after life, but it keeps escaping our grasp;
And, Kairos Time, linked to the writings of Aristotle. Kairos is the time of the moment, a chance to tussle the hair of our loved one. From it we have the word opportunity, and the concept of seizing the moment (Carpus Diem). Kairos time is enjoyed, lived, savored. Kairos is the time that creates memories, that enriches. Kairos time is what an aged person will remember, even while forgetting what he had for breakfast ... all those glimpses of childhood, the fabulous boat rides, that trip to Disneyland, swimming under the Pont du Gard, sending paper helicopters off the Tour Eiffel, the first sweet peas off the vine.
According to the psychologist, women are the bearers of Chronos time. We keep time for the family, we organize, orchestrate, get all the necessary tasks done, check off the lists, help with the homework, keep the household fed, keep the washing machine and dishwasher going, dust, and repeat. In all the rush, the daily rhythms, we can lose all sense of enjoyment, and time for ourselves.
I can honestly say that yes, during the intense years of the businesses, when the kids were little and things were at times rather hairy, I lived in the rush of getting everything done. However, I must confess that I'm an adept at Kairos, and I'm working to go further in this direction. Even when life was at its most crazy, I relished the rich conversations and personalities of my clients. I felt privileged to be with such interesting people, and to have the chance to take them to visit my special artisan friends. I loved having the "excuse" of working to be able to visit my baker, or take a gorgeous hike along Mediterranean cliffs. I was fully aware that I'd somehow created something wonderful and as often as I could, I would sit back and just enjoy and be grateful.
When Jonas was a baby, smiling, sociable "gracieux" as they say here, Erick was at peace with this babe who so resembles him in his arms, dear and much loved Penelope was our au pair, Leo was proud to be the elder, and, well, I felt bathed in rays of happiness, and knew that I was living some "perfect moments."
Much of this year I've been trying to find that ideal balance between getting things done, being "on top" of all my responsibilities, my financial situation, the numerous and necessary meetings with the lawyer, the notary, social security, family services, doctors, etc., and taking the time to be grateful, to enjoy my boys, to read books together, pick our strawberries, hug my friends, bake my bread-- each time a new loaf comes out I eye it with delight and a touch of gourmandise. This may be because my recipe is completely "au pif", that is, I just eyeball it. Ditto the timing. As such, each loaf is a minor miracle. Though I must say, they've all been damned good this past while.
And so, I make my lists, and I try to make my way through them. I take stock of the house, and once a week put it to rights. I eye my garden, and take time to remove weeds, weave the roses onto the climbing wires and harvest some strawberries. I choose a day in the week and try to group all outdoor rendezvous into it, moving from one to the next, remembering that the more pleasant you are, the more pleasant the person in front of you, no matter their stress level. And in the evenings, even if I was all harassed and stressed getting dinner on the table while Leo and Jonas were in the midst of slaughtering each other at my feet, I'll try to notice Jonas' improved table manners, Leo's more adventuresome eating, and delight in the lively conversation that flows amongst my five young folk.
I know I'm lucky. Thank you universe, and/or a deity of choice.
Chronos refers to the Greek god who ate his children, father to Zeus. When we live on Chronos time we have a sensation of never having enough, checking through lists, running through errands, dashing from one place to another, never a moment to appreciate our surroundings, our loved ones, or to breathe and take stock. It is an endless sense of movement rushing us through this existence. We're chasing after life, but it keeps escaping our grasp;
And, Kairos Time, linked to the writings of Aristotle. Kairos is the time of the moment, a chance to tussle the hair of our loved one. From it we have the word opportunity, and the concept of seizing the moment (Carpus Diem). Kairos time is enjoyed, lived, savored. Kairos is the time that creates memories, that enriches. Kairos time is what an aged person will remember, even while forgetting what he had for breakfast ... all those glimpses of childhood, the fabulous boat rides, that trip to Disneyland, swimming under the Pont du Gard, sending paper helicopters off the Tour Eiffel, the first sweet peas off the vine.
According to the psychologist, women are the bearers of Chronos time. We keep time for the family, we organize, orchestrate, get all the necessary tasks done, check off the lists, help with the homework, keep the household fed, keep the washing machine and dishwasher going, dust, and repeat. In all the rush, the daily rhythms, we can lose all sense of enjoyment, and time for ourselves.
I can honestly say that yes, during the intense years of the businesses, when the kids were little and things were at times rather hairy, I lived in the rush of getting everything done. However, I must confess that I'm an adept at Kairos, and I'm working to go further in this direction. Even when life was at its most crazy, I relished the rich conversations and personalities of my clients. I felt privileged to be with such interesting people, and to have the chance to take them to visit my special artisan friends. I loved having the "excuse" of working to be able to visit my baker, or take a gorgeous hike along Mediterranean cliffs. I was fully aware that I'd somehow created something wonderful and as often as I could, I would sit back and just enjoy and be grateful.
When Jonas was a baby, smiling, sociable "gracieux" as they say here, Erick was at peace with this babe who so resembles him in his arms, dear and much loved Penelope was our au pair, Leo was proud to be the elder, and, well, I felt bathed in rays of happiness, and knew that I was living some "perfect moments."
Much of this year I've been trying to find that ideal balance between getting things done, being "on top" of all my responsibilities, my financial situation, the numerous and necessary meetings with the lawyer, the notary, social security, family services, doctors, etc., and taking the time to be grateful, to enjoy my boys, to read books together, pick our strawberries, hug my friends, bake my bread-- each time a new loaf comes out I eye it with delight and a touch of gourmandise. This may be because my recipe is completely "au pif", that is, I just eyeball it. Ditto the timing. As such, each loaf is a minor miracle. Though I must say, they've all been damned good this past while.
And so, I make my lists, and I try to make my way through them. I take stock of the house, and once a week put it to rights. I eye my garden, and take time to remove weeds, weave the roses onto the climbing wires and harvest some strawberries. I choose a day in the week and try to group all outdoor rendezvous into it, moving from one to the next, remembering that the more pleasant you are, the more pleasant the person in front of you, no matter their stress level. And in the evenings, even if I was all harassed and stressed getting dinner on the table while Leo and Jonas were in the midst of slaughtering each other at my feet, I'll try to notice Jonas' improved table manners, Leo's more adventuresome eating, and delight in the lively conversation that flows amongst my five young folk.
I know I'm lucky. Thank you universe, and/or a deity of choice.
Sailing on the Mediterranean
Martine and I had decided to spend Thursday, Ascension day, either hiking or... something fun and outdoors. We don't get to see each other that often, despite our closeness, and I jumped at the chance. Tuesday, when we were able to find a moment to confirm plans, she told me that a friend had a boat and we were both invited to spend Thursday with him, sailing on the Mediterranean.
I was raised in a family that loves boats, sail boats in particular. My mother's sailed on our small lake in Northern Michigan all her life. She taught my father to sail, and he took to it with a passion, purchasing a sail boat to moor in front of our home on Long Island Sound in NY, which he then hooked up to a trailer, and brought to MIchigan every summer. So, I've been crew, handled the jib and the tiller, and been a happy sunfish sailor most of my life. Being that this was a shared passion of my parents, they somehow came across sailing friends with relative regularity to sail on Lake Michigan and when traveling in Europe. One memorable sail of my teen years was off the cost of Antibes, on the Côte d'Azur. I was staying with a family, working on my French in the little hilltown of Biot behind Antibes. They took me along on a friend's boat for a day sail on the Mediterranean. The water was crystal clear, the sun high in the sky, the breeze relatively strong, and the jagged rocks and cliffs spectacular. We anchored between some rocky islands at lunchtime, where we leapt off the boat to swim in the sea. I still remember a passenger on a neighboring boat, a girl-woman with the most beautiful body, and only a tiny triangle and two strings to cover her modesty. Yes, a self-conscious teenager aware that her hips were a bit generous, etc., I did notice when a particularly perfect female was in view.
However, since I've lived in Provence, the only boats I've been on have been a kayak (going down the Gardon river under the Pont du Gard -- I'm not complaining!) and an old-time fishing boat chug-chugging on the Rhône with the kids from our teen courses. Somehow, I never did get onto a sailing vessel in the all the years I lived in Arles. Till yesterday, I'd not been back on a sail boat, and certainly not on the sea just a half hour to the south.
Martine and her friend Bernard changed all that. We set out early and headed to Le Grau-du-Roi and the port right beside it, Port Camargue. To get there we went past the steep ramparts of Aigues Mortes (built between 1244-1254), keeping the stone walls to our left and the canal to the sea dug by King Louis the IX (aka St. Louis) to access the sea just a few kilometers to the south on our right. Between the ramparts and the city are the salt marshes of La Baleine salt, and the Listel vin de sables wineries. From Arles it is an hour's drive, from Vauvert thirty minutes.
Le Grau-du-Roi is a vacation residence/port on Mediterranean equidistant to Nîmes and Montpellier. It is the beach place for the city-folk, not too far, but just enough, with many, many rental and purchasable apartments built in the 1960s and 1970s -- with that highly stylized poured concrete architecture in sorbet colors that would look perfect in a James Bond film... or even late Elvis. It may have once been a simple fishing village. However, what you see now was put there by politicians and urban planners, and with a vengeance. JP's parents met and fell in love there. Many a family outing was enjoyed on the beaches and strolling along the boardwalk. Later his father purchased an apartment there, which the family later sold. Numerous friends of his still have their little spot in the sun there. And, come high-summer, wonderful beach-side restaurants set up camp to cater to us city-folk in need of a late summer sunset over the sea, barefoot walks in the sand, a glass of crisp summer wine, and perhaps an evening of Salsa dancing.
We went straight out to the port, parked the car and brought our things to Bernard's little wonder. The boat has the standard two sails, a wheel rather than a tiller, and cabins afore and aft. You could sleep 6 bodies very tightly in it, fix a few meals, and if necessary, use the head (though the preferred spot to relieve oneself is apparently in the sea, off the back of the boat). Before we could set off, Bernard set to work getting the motor up and running. He'd brought a starter and a battery, so this happily didn't take too long. He then put on his wet suit, duck-taped a snorkel to a garden hose, which he then attached to an aquarium oxygen pump, and he jumped into the water to scrape off the barnacles and mussels incrusted on the helix behind. Boat people do need to be skilled in an array of tasks, creative problem solving on the top of the list.
It took a couple of hours for all to be set, and then, off we went, maneuvering rather awkwardly with the small motor, the tub-shape of the boat, and many another day-tripper alongside with the same plan in mind. At last, we were out of the harbor and Martine proved herself a very experienced sailor, jumping up to raise the mainsail and jib, hooking pulling, tying off, and such as necessary till we were fully a'sail. She'd spent over a year working on a large boat on the Mediterranean, around the coast-line of Corsica in her twenties. And it all came back to her. She moved with ease and assuredness, and kept an eye on the wind, the state of the sails, and our fellow pleasure boats with the eyes of a pro. I'm afraid I took photos and admired her as she worked. All my sailing years are far in the distance at this point, and I was simply in a state of hesitation and observation.
With the sails up, we were able to break out lunch: my bread (with some nutty quinoa flakes in the mix... yum), local saucisson, JP's organic rosé wine, and Martine's salad of organic fava beans, pea pods, and carrots (all lightly cooked) with a sauce of tahini, soy sauce, olive oil, and a touch of water. Martine also brought along a delicious cherry mousse cake from the vocational high school where she is a social worker. Life could be worse, hm?
The weather was warm, lightly breezy (no major gusts, but that was ok), and gray. We were far from alone on the water, and had to keep a regular look-out under the jib for potential collisions. Conversation roamed all over, returning frequently to shop and work talk between Martine and Bernard (both social workers who work with troubled teens).
Myself, I chatted, ate, drank, photographed, and, sweetly cradled by the gentle waves and the solid tubbiness of the boat, lay down and napped for a time. Once you're on the water, sails up, and the sea beneath and all around you, you've no other choice but to slow down, take your time, listen, be, and perhaps recover from cleaning out your swimming pool, installing a kitchen counter, and entertaining five Canadians. Ahhhhhh.
What Grows in a Rock?
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
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