The importance of language

                Fair weather is difficult to come by in Friville-Escarbotin during autumn.  Since my arrival, there have been significantly more umbrella-toting days than there have been sunglass-sporting ones.  So on a day like October 30, 2010, when the air was crisp, the sun was shining, and the only clouds that dotted the blue sky were white and fluffy, it was necessary to profit from mother nature’s kindness. 

                Around 11:00 in the morning I decided that I was going to take the bike out for another spin.  I had recently purchased a helmet—a vital necessity for my biking abilities—so all worries about repeating the previous bike outing were quelled. 

FLASHBACK TO PREVIOUS BIKE OUTING:  While returning from a trip to the Intermarché (the larger and well-stocked supermarket) on my bike I had an unfortunate run-in with a parked car (yes, I am a moron).  I had been thinking about how successful my trip had been considering the last time I had really been on a bike was when I was about 10 (well, I did go for a few bike rides with a friend along the canal path in Trenton but I could hardly claim my biking performance to be exquisite—especially after we had successfully navigated our way from Washington’s Crossing to Lambertville Station for two Bloody Marys which certainly made for an interesting return trip:   Whoo!  Don’t you feel like we are going so much faster?) . 

So while I was contemplating my success and was reminiscing about tipsy bike rides, I had entered the center of town and was within two minutes of the apartment.  As in many small towns in France, the streets are very narrow. With the addition of a few parallel-parked cars, it becomes hardly impossible to fit one car, let alone oncoming traffic and an idiot girl on a bike.  While traversing the crowded street I noticed that there was a parked car in front of me, a moving car behind me, and opposing traffic.  I glanced ahead.  Back.  Ahead.  Back.  Will the car behind let me go? He seems to be yielding to me, but will he pull up aside me just as I’m passing the parked car?  Will I get sandwiched between the two?  Will….SMACK! 
 

I face planted onto the rear window of the car.  

After scraping my face off the window I quickly looked around to see if anyone had seen the idiocy that had occurred.  Yes.  There was a man in a store to my right who was in hysterics.  Rightfully so.  I would have laughed at me too.  While trying to avoid his gaze as he threw his head back, slapped his knee, and pointed at me in a fury of laughter, I realized that there were people in the parked car.  I shamefully approached the driver’s side of the car and came face to face with a furious and shocked French woman.  As she rolled down the window I rapidly over-apologized (one of my natural skills) and explained the situation.  She got out of the car, worked her way to the back and checked out her bumper for any damage. 

“Fais-tu ça?,” she asked as she pointed to a mark on the bottom of the bumper.  “Non, je ne pense pas,” I honestly stated—there was no way my bike could have left the metal scratch mark on the underside of the bumper.  I explained that the tire came up very high past that point on her car and I stood up my bike to show it’s incapacity to do any damage—I had full on hit the car with merely the tire and my face.  The woman continued to observe her bumper and my bike until the laughing man approached us.  With my luck the laughing man in the store—who was desperately trying to choke back his laughter—was the husband to the French woman and he explained that the mark on the bumper was there before I came in contact with their vehicle.  With that, the woman and man both lit cigarettes.   I apologized profusely until they got into their car and drove off.  I decided to walk my bike back to the apartment—I had had enough riding for the day. 

 Armed with my new helmet I decided to ride from Friville-Escarbotin to Saint Valery; a total of 11.9 km.  The ride to Saint Valery was wonderful, freeing, and picturesque.  Several times during my trip I considered fishing my camera out of my bag in order to capture the beauty of the French countryside; 100% of those thoughts were shaken away by the remembrance of my previous biking extravaganza.  I rode through several tiny French towns—each one making me appreciate my quaint Friville-Escarbotin all the more—and saw kilometers and kilometers of sprawling countryside and farmland.  I passed fields filled with hay bales, fields filled with the remains of a plentiful harvest, fields filled with piles of manure (couldn’t say I really appreciated these so much), and fields filled with cows.  The only time I released my white-knuckled grip on the handle bars was to wave to the cows and to say “Bonjour les vaches!” 

After arriving in Saint Valery I locked my bike to a lamppost located in an RV park and walked into the center of the medieval town.  I passed Le Vélocipiède—a wonderful Salon de thé that has become my creative safe-haven—and made the decision to return there in the evening for a cup of Thé Spéculoos, some relaxation, and some peaceful free-thinking.  Feeling hungry from my 45-minute bike ride I decided to slip into a promising-looking bar for some French food.  The menu that was displayed outside the bar was handwritten and very difficult to read.  All of the letters were indecipherable: o’s looks like e’s and a’s looked like o’s.  In my stupidity I figured they must have additional options and perhaps this handwritten menu was simply the “carte du jour.”  All I want is a salad or a Croque Monsieur.  So I decided to go in and consult the other culinary options.  As I opened the door I was met by a wall of stares from the other patrons and was approached by the hostess.  In restaurants and cafés I have a very difficult time understanding the “proper protocol”—sometimes the hosts want you to make it known how many people are in your party and that you are planning on eating there whereas others expect you to simply choose a seat and then hope that the server recognizes your arrival.  This woman was obviously waiting for me to say something so I opened my American mouth and said in Franglais: “C’est seulement moi (It’s only me)” On second thought perhaps this was stupid to say.  Recognizing the woman’s confusion, I said, “Une personne.”  Becoming annoyed at my inability to properly maneuver the restaurant conversation, the hostess harshly asked, “Pour manger (to eat)?”  I resignedly said “oui” and then took my place at a long table that joined with that of a French family who were staring in my direction; forks hovering by their lips. 

When the hostess returned from the back room she handed me a menu and left me to look over the options for a few minutes.  I opened the menu to find nothing other than the same unreadable menu from outside.  Great!   After trying to crack the code of these hieroglyphic menu options  the hostess returned and said, “Je vous écoute” the traditional phrase of waitresses that means “I am ready to listen to you so you better be ready to order.”  Crap!  I couldn’t even read any of the options let alone pick one.  In my best French I explained the fact that I was not able to read the menu.  The woman politely rolled her eyes and looked at the line of illegible text that I was pointing at.  “Pavé de saumon (salmon steak),” she said.  As I am not a huge fan of seafood and preferred not to activate my gag reflex I decided against that option (in retrospect I would have been much better off).  My finger scrolled down to my second inquiry.  “Andouillette,” she managed to say through gritted teeth.  Andouillette, andouillette.  That definitely doesn’t sound like seafood.  Perhaps it is some sort of poultry?  “Une adouillette s’il vous plait,” I announced.  The hostess repeated my request as she took note of it in her notepad. To this day, I swear I heard a collective gasp from the family seated to my left. 

At first glance andouillette was beautiful; it was cylindrical in shape and was covered in a Dijon mustard sauce.  Next to the log of je-ne- sais-pas were a pile of French Fries and a small salad.  “Bon appetit,” the waitress smirked.  I held my fork above the visually appealing but mysterious piece of meat and hesitatingly cut into it.  The moment my fork went into the andouillette an offensive scent filled my nostrils—a combination of bologna, mustard, and something that indistinguishably smelled of feces.  As the first piece fell to the plate I inspected each morsel.  The inside of the andouillette was comprised of large chunks of various meat pieces—some of which looked like they could be the stomachs of small rodents.  The outside of the andouillette fell away from its contents and maintained a circular shape—intestinal casing of some sort.  With a shaking wrist I lifted a forkful of the andouillette to my mouth.  Here goes nothing.  The texture was remarkably chewy and the taste was reminiscent of hot dog mixed with my perception of what intestines would taste like.  After choking down the first bite I thought, maybe this won’t be so bad, and planned out my next bite.  I selected a few pieces of the mysterious insides, added a piece of lettuce, swirled the combination in the Dijon mustard and placed it in my mouth.  That piece was harder to get down than the last.  I quickly swallowed and tried to erase the taste with a swig of Stella Artois.  As I cut into the next piece my eyes fell on a small morsel of intestine that fell onto the plate.  It was covered in a few small piece of fur!  Really?  At that point I was ready to surrender to the meal but my former studies of French culture told me otherwise—it is extremely rude to leave the smallest morsel or even the garnish untouched.  So, to avoid being identified as mal-élevée (poorly raised) I continued my task.  The next piece was attached to a French fry, a piece of lettuce, a carrot and was followed with a round of baguette.  Still horrible.  Chugging my Stella I felt the anxiety begin to build.  How am I going to finish this?  Surely if I eat another piece I will visibly be choking it down.  The fourth piece was the worst.  At that point the scent was penetrating my nostrils and I was constantly reminded about what I was eating.  I could not push the andouillette’s stench out of my nose and when I placed the morsel in my mouth, my gag reflex was activated.  I held my napkin in front of my mouth and chocked the piece down.  At that point I felt as if I was on Fear Factor—the horrible American TV show where ridiculous people volunteer to eat the intestines, eyes, tongue, and genitals of animals in the hopes of winning $1,000.  I cut the remaining andouillette into three large pieces and planned how I was going to consume the rest.  While planning, the hostess approached and asked, “Tu es fini (you are finished)?” Yes, yes, oh goodness yes!  “Non,” I sighed and asked for a carafe of water to assist me in battle.  She observed me with a quizzical look as if to say, You are actually going to finish that?  and then walked to the kitchen.  When she returned with the water I was able to get down one and a half more pieces before surrendering to the dish.  I had eaten ¾ of the andouillette.        

When I returned to my apartment, I booted up my laptop and proceeded to research andouillette—I still had no idea what I consumed.  The results were nauseating.  One website referred to andouillette as “Pork colon sausage” and stated that it is an acquired taste—you’re not kidding—and that “most people are turned off by the lingering scent of feces.”  I read the rest of the article feeling like both a champion and an idiot.  I could at least claim that I had tried the traditional French dish—a dish that even most French people would never eat (hence the collective gasp from the neighboring family).  As a result of this moment, I have begun to appreciate the power of language all the more and I have become convinced that it is extremely important to learn all registers of vocabulary—especially culinary and menu options. 

Un Mélange

                Looking back at my experiences thus far  in France I have attended two dinner parties, three luncheons, an outing to Le Treport and Mers les Bains, a walk along the English Channel in Crotoy, an evening of art and live music in Amiens, an afternoon in Saint Valery, and a trip to Arras.  All of these experiences have occurred out of the good nature of my colleagues and for them I am very grateful. 

                The following blog entry will differ slightly from the others in terms of organization.  The previous blogs have focused on a single period that occurred in chronological succession to the others.  This blog will portray snap shots of various moments that are written in different genres.  These experiences represent la crème de la crème of my life in France; moments that remain memorable even after a significant period of time has passed.

                These are the moments that have surfaced:

Crotoy:

                Le Crotoy:

                An homage to tourists, weekend travelers, and sun worshippers—

                Where beauty is as ubiquitous as the salty essence of La Manche and ses fruits de mer.

                A location where memories, romance, and laughter run freely—

                Where cultures and languages harmoniously mélange.

                A town full of new experiences, milestones, and dreams—

                Where frigid waves meet bare flesh with screams of joviality.

                The village where sand is danced upon, transformed into creative structures, and imprinted—

                Where childish giggling hangs in the air and landscapes are permanently captured.

                A nautical vision transfixed in memory, sights, and photography—

                Where reminiscing resides in smiles and pleasantries:

                Le Crotoy.

La Nuit Blanche, Amiens, France:

(written in the same rhyme scheme as Edgar Allan Poe’s « The Raven »)

An evening of festivals, imagination, and hoopla,

Where sleeping is left up to chance.

Fatigue is void to movement and art,

As artistic imaginations attempt to take a stance.

Youth sulk preoccupied with romance,

As the drums begin and I join in the dance.

Visual cacophonies of colors and angles

Invade the thoughts of passers-by perchance.

Harmonies fall lightly on accepting ears

While head-banging instrumentals cut like a lance.

Music transforms the walk of the world into prance

And the drums begin and I join in the dance.

Absent creators leave their work for regard

by ranging interest—significant pause, passing glance.

Present sound creators receive immediate recognition

As movement occurs amongst the vast expanse.

Liquor-laden night owls stagger about in a trance

While the drums begin and I join in the dance.

The night rolls on a continuous reel

As powerful art is met with searching looks; heads turned askance.

Necks careening to one side, the other

In hopes that their understanding of the piece will enhance.

The beauty and magnitude solicit a desired cry of “Vive la France!”

Instead, the drums begin and I join in the dance.

"Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis"

              After an overpriced but extremely necessary cab ride, an hour wait in Gare du Nord, and a period of helplessness while trying to lug my suitcases onto the train, I arrived in Abbeville, France.  I had received word from Le Proviseur (the principal) that either he or another teacher would be meeting me at the station in order to drive me to my new hometown.  As the train stopped I glanced at the time on my cell phone, 12:45—the train was running 10 minutes late.  I quickly tried to gather my items in order to make it off the train in time and realized that my suitcases, self, and carry-ons would not fit down the aisle in one sweep.  I pulled and pushed, chucked and shoved my way through the seats as two French gentlemen stared and smirked.  Finally after they had had their fun watching me struggle as I laughed at myself and muttered “désolé (sorry)”—for no necessary reason of course—one of them decided to help me. 

                I began to breathe a sigh of relief after successfully unloading my bags, but stopped short and choked on the air instead.  I could not believe my eyes.  It was a luggage-toting-traveler’s worst nightmare…STAIRS!  These were not your everyday, run of the mill, single flight stairs, oh no.  They were far worse.  They were steep and had three levels before they came to a plateau which passed over the train tracks below.  The plateau was followed by a mirrored amount of descending steps—three levels, all steep.  I wheeled my luggage to the very bottom step and stared in bewilderment at the stairs before me.  How the hell will I get these bags up those steps?  As the other passengers continued to file past me carrying their purses, mini-backpacks, or briefcases—I hated them all for traveling light—I started my climb.

                I made it as far as the second step—whoo-hoo for progress—before realizing that it was impossible to drag 150 pounds of baggage up the stairs at such an incline.  By the time I finished wallowing in my failure, all of the passengers had traversed the platform and the train began its departure.  Before it left, the conductor cheekily smiled at me and then shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head, and threw up his hands in a “best of luck, you idiot” kind of gesture.  As the train left the station I decided that the only way to get my bags across the tracks would be to carry one bag up the stairs at a time.  The Myth of Sisyphus?  So I began my Sisyphean deed—one bag down, two, three…just as I was about to carry my second to last bag up to the first level of stairs, a well-dressed man approached.  He smiled and in a quizzical manner that was touched with the slightest bit of certitude said, “You must be Rachel.”

                The well-dressed gentleman introduced himself as “Monsieur Niau, le Proviseur” (the principal) and proceeded to introduce me to his colleague, a “Monsieur Dupuis” the assistant proviseur (the assistant principal).  I graciously made both of their acquaintances and they offered to help me with my baggage.  I apologized (yes, this nasty little habit had followed me across the pond) for my oversized luggage and thanked them for their assistance.  Monsieur Niau spoke in French the entire car ride and he expressed delight at my knowledge of French—he did not know a word of English.  As we traversed the countryside he commented on the size of Friville, the absence of “fun” in Friville, the lack of transportation out of Friville, and on the lack-luster shops of Friville.  I smiled in the back seat and notified him that everything would be fine and that I am a fan of peaceful, quiet, and quaint. 

                When we arrived at the Lycée du Vimeu Monsieur Niau gave me a tour of the establishment.  The school was impressive in size and in structure.  We first toured the “professionnelle” section of the Lycée.  In the Lycée Professionnelle students study a particular trade similar to that of a Vocational/Technical high school.  As we toured the building Niau radiated pride in his work and in his students.  He showed me the metal sculptures some of them had built and he explained how several students were working towards becoming auto mechanics.  Niau gave me a tour of the classrooms where students worked on large factory machinery and then leaned down (yes, not surprisingly I am much shorter than he) to jokingly notify me that no, I will not have to teach about machinery in English. Thank goodness!   Following the Lycée Professionnelle introduction, Niau gave me a tour of the building where I would be working.  The building was half-moon in shape and it housed the administrative offices, the academic classrooms, and the cantine.  In the opening of the half-moon shaped building there was a courtyard and student lockers.  Several students were hanging about the courtyard and all stared as Monsieur Niau—the celebrity of the school—walked by. 

                Following our tour of the building, Monsieur Niau treated me to lunch at the cantine.  As soon as we walked in the door, Monsieur Niau was met with an astonishing amount of handshakes, nods, “Bonjour Monsieurs,” and smiles.   Niau received all greetings warm-heartedly and returned them with mirrored enthusiasm.   I smiled to myself as I pictured him as a rock star who flashes his pearly whites and winks at his beloved fans, causing them to go weak in the knees.  After the greeting party had dispersed, Niau and I wiggled our way to the front of the cantine line (a special privilege reserved for teachers—the ability to cut in front of famished adolescents without getting mauled).   As we worked our way down the impressive assembly line of food, Niau shook hands with the cantine workers and kindly introduced me to all.  

                Cafeteria food in America has absolutely nothing on the delicacies of French cantine cuisine.   The food is arranged buffet style and there are signs notifying how much of each course—yes folks, there are several courses—one should take.  At the beginning of the line you take a tray, ‘real’ utensils, and a ‘real’ water glass.  You then unsurprisingly approach a cart of baguette rounds of which you take three.   Next comes the entrée or appetizer.  There are typically four options—grated carrots in French vinaigrette, paté with pickles, purple cabbage in Dijon mayonnaise, or radishes with sliced hard-boiled egg.   Following the selection of an entrée, you take a dessert—usually yogurt, mousse au chocolat, an éclair, or fruit—and a wedge of cheese.  As with the other courses, there is a variety of cheese from which you can choose and it has been my hobby to taste them all.  I typically choose camembert (which is still reigning champion amongst les autres fromages), Kiri—a spreadable cream cheese similar to Philadelphia, le Petit Moulin noisette—similar to kiri but with chestnuts mixed in, or Boursin—also a spreadable cheese that is infused with garlic and herbs.  After selecting a dessert and cheese course, you move onto le plat principal, or in English, the entrée.  The main course varies from day to day but is always delicious: beef Bourgogne with pasta and roasted vegetables, kebab served atop couscous with a tomato purée, ratatouille—peasant-style vegetables that are roasted and then served atop rice with a gravy reduction, and chicken that is cooked in a mushroom cream sauce.  Following the main course, there is an optional salad or an additional side (my favorites have been stewed leeks and creamed spinach (delicious and ‘oh so healthy’).  In spite of the “overfull” feeling at the end of a French lunch, the idea behind the salad (which is eaten at the end of the meal) is to assist in digestion—you know, introducing some roughage to your dairy laden(cheese, cream sauces, butter)  stomach.

                After overloading my tray with French culinary delicacies, Niau and I made our way to the faculty dining area.  As we traversed the cantine, I noticed that the students would politely stand at attention while Niau passed.  He would greet the students in the same respectful (rock star) manner, with a kind nod of his head in recognition.  The effect of our passing through was similar to the wave at a sporting event—students alternatingly sitting and standing.  I walked next to Niau in astonishment.  When we finally entered the faculty dining area, the quiet hum of “teacher conversation” ceased and all eyes turned to le proviseur.  With great intonation Niau introduced me to his faculty while I nodded and smiled.  They all said “Bonjour” with almost simultaneous precision.  The affect was overwhelming.  I felt very welcomed and was fortunate for having been placed in the company of such wonderful colleagues. 

My New "Chateau"

               Following my surprisingly delectable introduction French cantine cuisine, Niau and I made our way over to my logement.  In preparation for my period abroad, Monsieur Niau and I had corresponded via e-mail about my future job as an English language assistant.  One of our correspondences centered on a discussion about housing and whether or not it would be possible to receive assistance in the housing search.  Our conversation resulted in the proposal of an establishment that was located within the grounds of the “Collège la rose des vents” (the middle school which neighbors the high school) and that I would share the apartment with the two other assistants—another English assistant from Scotland and a Spanish assistant from Columbia.  As a means of quelling any anxiety over the housing issue I graciously accepted the offer without even seeing the proposed apartment. 

                When Niau and I passed through the gate that lead us into the “Collège,” I frantically scanned over the buildings in search of something that looked like a housing facility.  To my surprise I located nothing of the sort—or so I thought.  After meeting with the principal of the collège as well as the gestionnaire—the gentleman in charge of building management and other odds and ends—the four of us—Niau, Madame Lefebvre, Monsieur Ramay, and myself—walked to the apartment.  We walked past all of the buildings Niau and I had seen as we entered the school, and Monsieur Ramay led us to a building that I had previously assumed to be an abandoned classroom trailer—you know, the ones that are readily constructed in American schools when class sizes get too big or over population occurs. 

                As we passed the long, rectangular, metal structure, I gazed at it with searching eyes trying to reveal some underlying “hominess”.  Instead, I saw a one-story, green trailer that was equipped with several industrial sized windows and metal door that was large enough for the admittance of a baby elephant.   After struggling to open the Dumbo-sized door, we filed into a large hallway that opened up to an immense dining/living room.  The inside of the establishment was cold and it felt as if the heaters had not been running for about 45 years.  Along the entrance hallway were four doors.  The first door on the right housed the heater, the electrical box, and shelves for storage.  The second door on the right was a pantry of sorts that currently held cleaning supplies, a mop, a bucket, a broom, a small roll of garbage bags, and two rolls of toilet tissue.  Across from the utility room was the kitchen.  Upon my arrival the kitchen was very sparse—two long sink areas in which one of them was no longer functioning and had been converted into a countertop through the addition of a plank of counter; a classroom cabinet that had been converted into a food and storage pantry, several small cabinets that held dishware and utensils from the previous English assistant, a small refrigerator, a tiny convection oven that could easily be mistaken for a toaster oven, and a dish rack.

                The second door on the left led to the bedrooms of which there were four.  In one of the bedrooms there existed a baby crib that again served as a memory of the former English assistant’s life in Friville—she had very daringly brought her baby with her on her journey to France.  The other three rooms were identical with the exception of one room which came equipped with a sink.  At the end of the hallway was a large bathroom that was furnished with a sink, mirror, and an elevated shower/bathtub.  I may have to get a running start in order for my short legs to clear the edge of that thing!   In a separate room next to the bathroom was the toilet.  At first I found it very odd that the toilet would not be in the same room as the sink—primarily for hygienic reasons—but I learned after frequenting several French homes that this was normality. 

                Although I would not claim the house to be a chateau in any regard I was happy with the establishment.  Upon my arrival nothing in the house had been arranged in any sense—some of the furniture was left askew and there was not any bedding.  Despite its appearance and the absence of some essentials, the flat was clean and had the charm of a dormitory—which I had grown accustomed to after spending three years of my life in Wolfe Hall at The College of New Jersey.  To make myself even more “at home” I was fortunate enough to select the only bedroom with the sink which made me experience déjà vu and the good ol’ days of my Freshman dorm—Wolfe and Travers halls are equipped with sinks inside the dorm rooms; a commodity that is initially overlooked until you realize the benefits of being able to brush your teeth and wash your face in privacy.  So, I began to establish my life in a place that felt familiar amidst the foreignness of culture, country, and language.       

Paris, day II

               Initially, I had had big plans for waking up early on my second day in Paris to run about the jardin des tuilleries like a real local.   Then, as I continued to press the snooze button on my alarm clock, I realized that was just wishful thinking.  Around 9:30 a.m. I finally found the energy to get myself up, get showered, and get dressed before heading out to do je ne sais quoi—I had big plans for je ne sais quoi.  Around 10:30 I found myself at a newspaper stand and successfully located “Le Figaro” before heading to a café for well, a café.  After perusing the paper and sipping casually on my French coffee—a.k.a. delicious diesel fuel—I decided to walk to the Musée D’Orsay to immerse myself in Impressionist art.   

                After standing in line for three hours, I finally made it into the Monet exhibition at the Grand Palais in the Musée D’Orsay.  The exhibit yielded all of Monet’s works—pieces from his early years, pieces from his personal collection, pieces from his later years.   In all, the exhibit told a beautiful story of Monet’s life as a progressing artist.  In pieces it was a snap shot of his thoughts and of his current technique.  One of the more thought-provoking pieces was a painting of his wife on her deathbed.  The painting appeared to be blurry with the slightest presence of a face that was wrapped in what looked like wedding-veil tool.  To me, the painting spoke volumes.  It spoke of love lost, the failure to accept the death of a loved one by shrouding it under a veil, the unclear image of the deceased as a form of disregarding reality—failing to clearly see a loved one as being dead; the blurry vision one has while tearfully looking at the deceased, the presence of a wedding veil and the significance of the words, “til' death.”  I stared at this painting longer than any of the others because although the more famous works of Monet captured his talent, this painting captured his emotions. 

                Following the art exhibition, I spent the rest of the day perusing the shops along the Champs-Elysees.  I purchased a beautiful winter jacket, a hat, an alarm clock, and an umbrella—all of which are vital when living in the north of France.  Following my shopping spree, I headed back to my hotel where I was planning on refreshing before going out for a final dinner in Paris.  I made it as far as the bar in my hotel—where I stopped for a simple glass of water—and ended up staying for dinner.  While I was sitting at the bar drinking my l’eau gaseuze, the Italian waiter commented, “how sad it is that you only drink water, not wine,” in French that was touched with the slightest Italian pronunciation.  So, as is customary with most Europeans—but especially the Italian and the French—he poured me a glass of wine and gave me a basket of bread.  The waiter and I conversed for a good hour or so and in the course of that time I had finished the entire basket of bread and had successfully polished off half a bottle of wine without realizing my deed.  By the time the wine began to hit me, I figured staggering through the Parisian streets was a bad idea so I chose to stay for dinner.  At dinner my wine glass continued to “magically” refill itself—a trait of waiters that I was warned about—and I thanked my stars for the fact that my “commute” was only stairs away.  During the meal, I couldn’t help but laugh when “Smooth Operator” played over the speakers in the Italian café that was located in Paris, France—how bizarre, how bizarre.   I concluded my meal with a delicious Tiramisu then bid the waiter adieu, thanking him for the wine.  Before stumbling up the stairs following my one-woman wine show, I asked the concierge to reserve a taxi in the morning for what was to be the beginning of my journey north.

A birthday to remember

               At noon on September 22, 2010, as promised, an e-mail swooped into my inbox from a Monsieur Bruno.  The presence of the e-mail not only represented a promise kept, but also destroyed the stereotype that all Americans are hated by the French.  For as Bruno himself had stated on the plane, “I like the U.S. quite a lot.  You are all very nice, friendly, and open.” 

                I waited in anticipation for the message to load and then proceeded to read, re-read, and re-re-read, his silk-like prose and his thoroughly contemplated suggestions.  Bruno’s message was very instructive and it even included links to websites where I could read recommendations and restaurant ratings.  For one restaurant Bruno even included a website where I could make an online reservation.  After much research—that was made very easy by Bruno—I decided to have my birthday dinner at Le Sarladais, a renowned and Michelin Guide rated (oh la la), restaurant serving traditional French cuisine.  In the fashion of a European I made my reservation for 8:00 and then notified Bruno of my selection. 

                In my response e-mail I graciously thanked Bruno for his assistance and suggestions.  I also made him aware of my dinner plans—perhaps subconsciously wishing he would join or ask to accompany me.  This was actually something I contemplated for quite some time, Should I ask Bruno to join me for dinner?  Would that be inappropriate?  Too forward without wanting to be forward?  After thinking about the mixed message my invitation could send, my ignorance of the man’s marital status (although I noticed he was not wearing a wedding band.  And yes, I did check J), and the potential danger I could be placing myself in by inviting a stranger—whom I had only known for seven hours on a plane—to dinner, I decided to merely thank Bruno for the information.

                After unsuccessfully maneuvering Paris streets by foot in search of Le Sarladais—with the “help” (or lack thereof) from googlemaps—I took a cab to the restaurant and arrived exactly at 8:00.  The restaurant was situated on the corner of a small side street and had an entranceway that was shrouded in cabernet velvet.  I meekly approached the host of the restaurant and notified him of my reservation.  He nodded with a smile and said, “We’ve been waiting for you,” in beautiful, but very rapid French.  It was at this moment that I truly absorbed my surroundings and realized that yes they indeed had been waiting for me.  The restaurant, in spite of its renowned reputation, was in close-competition against the other 3,000 high-quality restaurants scattered throughout the city.  It was as a result of this competition that my addition to the restaurant only increased the body count to a whopping number of six—the host, the waiter, and a French family of three.

                I was seated in the fashion of royalty—it literally felt as if they had rolled out a cabernet carpet (to match the entranceway) for my arrival.  The host began speaking to me in rapid French: “le journal, le champagne, une verre, une bouteille.”  I had no idea what this jolly man was saying, so in clear French with an air of confusion, I asked: “Je suis désolé mais, répetez s’il vous plait.”  He kindly nodded, inhaled, and rattled off the exact same expression at light speed—still nothing.  To avoid asking him to repeat the phrase a third time, I quickly tried to decipher his statement and realized that he was offering me a glass of champagne.  Why not?  It is my birthday after all.  Along with the champagne I was given a beautiful plate of salami and crousti that was big enough to feed three people, let alone one.  For the “plat principal” I ordered a steak, “bien cuit” in a béarnaise sauce.  The steak was served with “peasant-style” vegetables that were cooked to perfection.  Along with my steak I was also offered a fine glass of Bordeaux that was absolutely delectable. 

After finishing my meal, which I had eaten at a snail’s pace in order to savor each morsel, I was asked if I wanted dessert.  I agreed and selected a carmelized pear gelée.  I also notified the waiter that it was my birthday to which he smiled and replied, “Je sais (I know).”  How could they know?  Were they just being polite or was it Bruno?  I puzzled over the waiter’s statement of acknowledgement until the pear gelée arrived on the table—with sparkler in tow.  The host set the dessert in front of me, sparklers shooting every which way, and the French family (my only comrades) cheered in honor of my birthday.  I smiled, thanked them all, and was then left in my solitude to finish my dessert.  It was at this moment that I felt more alone than ever before.  My ability to cope with solitude is something I typically pride myself on, I mean, for goodness sakes, this entire summer I lived as a traveling, housesitting gypsy, who with the exception of a dog or a cat, spent morning and evening alone in a myriad of houses.  But this moment was much different.  It was not the eating alone that was a problem—I never mind eating alone (as long as there is more than just one other family around)—but it was the fact that it was my birthday; a day that should be shared with family and friends who you care about and who care about you.  Instead, although the French are lovely and Paris is gorgeous, I was surrounded by a restaurant host, a waiter, and a family who was engulfed in the presence of one another. 

Without warning, fat tears began to run down my cheeks as I tried with much effort to swallow each bite of heavenly pear.  The daughter of the French couple noticed my misery and whispered to her mother who then whispered to the father.  I tried to suck the tears back into their ducts but it was too late, they kept sliding down my face onto my cabernet napkin (the French really know how decorate, don’t they).  After regaining some composure I enjoyed the rest of my dessert and avoided thinking about my loneliness.  I simply paid the bill, thanked them for the wonderful meal and for the birthday candle, and left a tip as a sign of gratitude (NOTE to all future travelers: in France the tip is included in the bill).  The host thanked me and made his way over to a vase of beautiful cabernet roses.  With caress, the host lifted one out of the vase and handed it to me, “A bientôt et bonne anniversaire,” he whispered with a kind smile.  I left the restaurant feeling rejuvenated and I practically floated back to my hotel.  Although a large part of me still felt alone and foreign, there was a small part that felt a sense of belonging and of care.