The Vacation Vortex

It’s coming soon…The Vacation Vortex.  That’s when you and your entire family get sucked into a dizzying whirlpool of getaway plans and family visits.  Or getaway from the family visits, depending on your status.  Every year there’s a local ritual, whereon you ask everyone you know what they are doing this summer, then nod dutifully while they recite their complicated plans (“…five days in Sardinia and then the kids are going to spend a week with grandma in Normandy while I paint my cousin’s house in the Ardeche…”), and then promptly forget everything they just told you.

But it really doesn’t matter because the only thing you need to know is that in July and August you won’t see anyone.  You may bump into the occasional lone wolf loping through the ghost town that was once your bustling neighborhood, but basically, you are on your own.  Not that anyone actually takes two months of vacation, but since they are staggered throughout July and August, and since kids and parents often fly off in different directions at different times, and stores close for at least three weeks, it feels like everyone but you is doing precisely that. 

When you live abroad, the Vortex tends to whirl at an even higher speed, because you have to fly all over the world to even find the family that will slowly drive you crazy over the course of your stay.  Not that you don’t want to see your family, but if you are from a faraway place like California and it’s a once-a-year reunion, it tends to get rather intense.  It’s one thing to visit with your parents for an evening or a weekend, and it’s another to spend two weeks with them 24-7.

But I can’t complain.  While my carbon footprint this summer will be off the charts, my frequent flyer millage will climb ever higher until I can take yet more flights to more faraway places.  When I get back I will have reconnected with my Southern California roots and remember why it was that I left in the first place.  I will cherish my French suburb with renewed enthusiasm and savor the taste of espresso at the coffee stand at the covered market.  My apartment will seem so quiet and welcoming.  I will be at peace.  But then it will be time for the rentrée….

American Food in Paris

Though I’ve been trying to ignore it, there is no question that the phenomenon is spreading.  American food is hip in France.  While this seems impossible to any rational being with functioning tastebuds, it is equally impossible to ignore the trend.  There is a veritable engouement (which means “infatuation” but sounds as gooey as the insides of a jelly doughnut) for classic American taste treats.  Believe me, no one is interested in fusion food, they want brownies, cupcakes, and bagels. 

It’s been years since I saw my first brownie in a Parisian bakery.   I have since learned how to pronounce it, because my first attempt was met with a blank stare.  “Ah!  Un brooNI!  Vous voulez un brooNI!”  And this was years before Carla’s entrance on the political scene.  Then there was the crumbUL, which was quickly followed by muhfFIN.  This was all perfectly acceptable, especially because the French make brownies, crumble, and muffins so much better than we do. 

But I can’t bring myself to try a baGUL.  I’m sorry, but for me, any bagel that doesn’t come out of a sweaty shop with a huge, steaming bagel boiler just isn’t the real deal.  I can’t imagine that those dainty rings, delicately displayed next to croissants, could ever approximate Absolute Bagels on Upper Broadway.  While its entirely possible that the French bagel tastes better than an American bagel, for me, that’s beside the point.  I want my bagel to be chewy and leaden, that’s part of the experience.  You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Because there is a dark side to the Frenchification of American food.  Take hamburgers.  I’m not talking about those 25€ versions in the chic restaurants, I’m talking about the frozen ones in the supermarkets.  Already cooked, bun included.  Or the same horror in a microwavable version.  Nobody seems to understand that even the greasiest burger stateside is made to order.   Even in the best Parisian bakeries, the ones that also sell sandwiches, you’ll see pre-cooked hamburgers sitting on the counter in their buns.  La honte!

Lastly, I feel I must speak out about the presence of Budweiser in hip bars.  When I see Parisian trendoids paying exorbitant prices for the dubious pleasure of sipping that sad excuse for a beer, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  Especially when the majority of Parisian cafés and bars have excellent Belgian beers on tap.  What is this country coming to?

Brasserie Wepler

Brasserie Wepler is just up the street from my work.  It’s one of those famous artists’ cafés that could have easily fit into Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris (i.e., Picasso, Utrillo, and Modigliani slurped here)…if it were still in its original state.  It’s not, but who cares?  It’s still a great place to go and drink coffee and watch the world go by on Place de Clichy.

So after gulping down another “formule” at one of the cute sandwich/salad places on rue de Clichy, I went for a coffee at Wepler.  It was a suitably soggy Thursday, and the view from the covered terrace was suitably gray and Paris-like.  The Place de Clichy is probably as noisy and crowded as it was in the days when Henry Miller hung out there, though the café itself was much more scenic, if the paintings by Bonnard can be trusted for historical accuracy (somewhere along the line it got a boring, modern revamp).  I imagine there were less cars and more people milling around the enormous bronze statue dedicated to Maréchal de Moncey.  This huge trilogy of symbolic figures hovers over the circular square, giving an otherwise average Parisian traffic circle a touch of drama.

As well it should.  While today passers-by may ask themselves: “who the heck was Maréchal de Moncey?”, back in 1814 he was the man of the hour.  Does anyone remember that de Moncey led a valiant defense against the Russians at the “Clichy Barrier”?  Does anyone even remember why the French were fighting the Russians in 1814?  Certainly not me, though a quick whizz through Wikipedia tells me that our friend de Moncey was one of Napoléon’s loyal generals who remained loyal even after the disastrous Russian campaign.  He then bravely defended Paris against those same Russians when they attacked our beloved place de Clichy. 

You see, at that point, Napoleon was in trouble.  Several European countries, who were sick of being invaded, had formed a coalition designed to put that tiresome little Corsican in his place.   On March 30, 1814, the coalition attacked Paris.  There were horrific battles all over the city, but it was the Russians that attacked Place de Clichy.  Though it was pretty clear that he was in the process of being trounced, de Moncey stood firm and hence, was declared a hero.   France seems to be one of few countries that routinely celebrates its defeats. From Alésia to Agincourt, French history books are full of brave deeds in the face of certain catastrophe.  Perhaps this is part of what makes French “humanité” so human.  Anyone can celebrate a victory, but how many can make defeat seem so poetic?

Today there are no drunken whores passing out on Wepler’s tables like they did back in Henry Miller’s day, just wealthy business people fleshing out their expense accounts and sober literary agents frowning at manuscripts.  For despite everything, Wepler has maintained its literary heritage, and even sponsors an annual writer’s prize.  Miller, Vian, Prévert, Verlaine, and all the other old habitués would be proud.

The Ties That Bind

Imagine the scene:  A televised presidential debate between six male and female candidates from the same party.  But here’s the hitch—two of the candidates lived together for 25 years and had four children!  Sounds like a doofy plot for a situation comedy, right?  Well, no, that actually happened last night on French TV (read this article in The Guardian for more).  

How do they do it?  How do François Hollande and Ségolène Royale manage to remain civil to each other during a presidential debate when their very public split up a few years ago is still in the minds of one and all?  And here I thought French politics couldn’t get any weirder after the president divorced his wife and married a pop star one year into his mandate.  Of course, this is all private stuff and nowhere near as pertinent to the country’s future as the current campaign financing scandals or the state of the French economy.  Still, you can’t help but wonder what is going through their minds during the taping…

FRANÇOIS:  Oh God, there she goes again, always getting on her high horse.  Reminds me of the time I left the roast out overnight.  You’d think I’d betrayed the Republic.  Ha, she’s one to talk about betrayals…whose that creep she’s with now, anyway? Damn, she looks good in that suit.  OK, focus now, gotta focus…

SÉGOLÈNE:  OK, keep a straight face…did he just say the word ”fidelity?”  My ass!  Hey, Fifi, it looks like we’ve gone off our diet—isn’t that collar just a little bit tight?  You never could keep away from the camembert.  Time to run back to Dr. Dukan, chubby….Woah there girl, breathe—just breathe and flash that devastating smile….

And then there’s the kids—

THOMAS:  So are you going to watch mom and dad debate tonight?

CLÉMENCE:  Hell no, I had to listen to that all my life.

It boggles the imagination…

French Newspapers—The Space-Time Continuum

When you buy a newspaper in France, you enter a time warp. The laws of physics no longer apply. If up-to-the-minute reporting is what you are after, you may be in for a surprise.

Say you want to buy Le Monde, France’s most prominent national paper, on a Tuesday. You go to the newsstand Tuesday morning, but the only Le Monde available is from Monday. That’s because Le Monde comes out at 3pm. So you wait until 3pm and buy the Tuesday paper, but the news in it is from yesterday. In fact, many of the articles on the front page are news analyses of events that happened earlier in the week.

But that was the easy part. When you look at the paper you bought on Tuesday afternoon, it is dated Wednesday. So in fact, you are reading a paper with news from the past that appears to come from the future.

It gets worse. Let’s say you want to get the weekend edition, which has the magazine in it. You waltz up to your local news vendor Saturday morning, full of optimism. But no, the weekend edition, i.e., the Saturday edition, came out Friday. Now you have to wait until 3pm again (it’s still Saturday, remember) to get….the Monday edition. There is no Sunday paper.

Feeling frustrated, not to mention jet lagged, I tried other papers. Libération comes out on the morning of the day it’s supposed to be, but the articles have all the newsy urgency of a late night discussion over a bottle of wine. France Soir, despite its name, comes out in the morning. I don’t have the courage to try the Journal du Dimanche, for all I know, it comes out on Wednesday.

Which leaves me with Le Parisien, which is the Parisian equivalent of the New York Daily News. It comes out when it’s supposed to, is dated logically, and actually has the latest news. It may not be of the highest journalistic value, it may not have Le Monde caliber writers, but it gets high marks for living in the present.

Actually, the most newsy newspapers are the ones you get for free on the Métro, i.e., Métro and 20 Minutes. Which also seem to be the only newspapers that are thriving in this Great Newspaper Crisis era. But to tell you the truth, I have pretty much given up on the French newspapers for up-to-the-minute events. For that, I either go to the Internet, or more frequently, the radio. That old-fashioned thing with the dials does a great job in France, where there are excellent stations like France Inter and France Info.

So let’s hear it for the radio. It doesn’t cost anything, it doesn’t need to be recycled, and you don’t have to put on your glasses to use it.

On Crêpes and Groundhogs

Tonight I made crêpe batter for the very first time. Up until this point, I have shirked all crêpe-making duties, pleading ignorance. After all, my husband is much more qualified than I am. He grew up in Nantes, which is in Brittany (the Crêpe Capital of the World), and I grew up in Southern California. And while I feel very confident choosing a ripe avocado, when it comes to crêpes, I am daunted. Because in France, everyone has his or her special crêpe batter. Not that it’s all that hard to make, but everyone has a recipe that he or she has inherited from Tante Mimi, or Oncle Marcel, or, in our case, Mamie Georgette.

So it was with great trepidation that I embarked on my crêpe-making journey. I’m delighted to report that so far, I have come out of it unscathed, aside from a lightly grated knuckle, a casualty of the lemon zesting process. I say “so far” because we haven’t made them yet, and who knows what heinous crêpe making crime I will be accused of once the batter hits the pan.

Why am I making crêpes tonight, anyway? Because it is Chandeleur, of course. For reasons that are shrouded in the mists of time, February 2 is French National Crêpe Day. According to Wikipedia, Chandeleur is basically Candelmas, a Christian holiday that celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the temple. The road from Jesus to crêpes is tortured, however: Wikipedia puts forth a theory that Pope Gelasius I offered pilgrims crêpes when they came to celebrate the holiday in Rome. This seems a bit of a stretch and I prefer to believe it is linked to an earlier Celtic holiday that had to do with the “end” of winter, though how anyone in their right mind could believe that February 2 is the end of winter is a mystery to me. Then there’s another bit about bears coming out of their hibernation at this time, which was another subject of a pagan rite.

Which brings me to another fascinating and equally tortured link between this holiday and Punxsutawney Phil. It was only this evening that I realized Chandeleur was in fact, Groundhog Day. And if you look up explanations for Groundhog Day, you come up with the same Celtic festival, Imbolc. So by all rights, Phil and his colleagues should not come out of their burrows and look for their shadow—they should eat a crêpe.

But to get back the batter. It is Wednesday, and my husband doesn’t get home until 7:30, and it seems that the batter absolutely must rest for one hour before it goes into the pan. God forbid we should use tired batter. Hence, I must make the batter before he gets home.

Right now the batter is resting and I must admit, I’m jealous. It looks so calm and mellow that I’d like to jump in and swim around in it. This was my day “off” (kids don’t go to school on Wednesdays in France) when I get to take my son to soccer, make lunch for him and his squirrely friend, clean the house, fold the laundry, and do the shopping. But I am looking forward to our crêpes tonight. Perhaps we will even throw one on top of the armoire, which my father-in-law insists is traditional, but then he’s Gascon, and they have a tradition of telling tall tales. No other bona fide French person has ever confirmed the existence of this custom, so for all I know he is pulling my leg and chuckling about it with my mother-in-law. (“Can you believe it, Monique? She believed me!”)

Either way, the crêpes will be tasty. That much is sure. I’m looking forward to it. Really.

Parlons Cash

Should I be worried? My very French husband has recently become enthralled with Johnny Cash. So far, he’s not dressing in black, but he is listening to the music all the time, staring off into space and looking soulful. Mr. Cash’s work is virtually unknown in France, and no one even knew who he was until the excellent film, Walk the Line, came to Europe. That’s how my husband heard about him. Like me, he was surprised to find out that the actors actually sang on the soundtrack, and that they weren’t dubbed over with original recordings. Good as they were, he wanted to hear the originals, so he ran to his computer and started downloading ballads like “Sam Hall” and “Damn Your Eyes.” He likes that many of the songs tell simple, often sad stories about regular people; he says that in that way, Cash’s songs remind him of French singer-poets like Georges Brassens.

That made me think. I wonder how many people have ever compared Johnny Cash with Georges Brassens, for one. It also made me think about some of my own biases about country music. Here was someone who didn’t know anything about the genre (virtually unheard of over here), or have any political/ideological associations with the music or the people who generally listen to it—he was just responding to what he was listening to. My associations with Johnny Cash have to do with hazy memories of his old TV show, and cliché notions about the country music scene. Then my husband downloaded a few songs from Cash’s last albums, like “Hurt,” and “When the Man Comes Around,” which pretty much blew me away.

It’s surprising how much you can learn about your own country by living somewhere else, or by seeing it through someone else’s eyes. It’s like seeing a painting from a distance, where you don’t obsess so much about the details but take in the overall composition, the gestalt of the thing. Gets the hairy cobwebs out of one’s eyes. Of course, what you see isn’t always so great. But occasionally it’s a lot better than you thought it was. I guess I shouldn’t worry too much about the Johnny Cash obsession, even if my son and I are getting tired of hearing endless re-runs of “Ring of Fire.” Maybe its time to try Willie Nelson?