Monthly Archives: November 2011

A Weekend in the French Countryside

Posted on by
3

The city of Villemandeur

The train pulled away from the station and we were off. Slowly, the view out the window changed from ugly towers of low income housing to green fields, ancient stone houses and trees with leaves the color of fire. It felt good to escape from the city if only for just the weekend. The smog, the honking horns and the hurried masses of people were now far away.

When we arrived in Montargis my heart began to flutter with anticipation. I hadn’t seen my host parents for nearly seven years, and now they would meet my new husband. I recognized my host mother right away, standing on the platform looking around for us with a big smile. We all kissed “bonjour” and jumped into the car, on our way to see their new home.

Now that my host parents have retired, they sold the farm that they had lived on in Chantecoq back when I came to stay with them as a shy high school student almost ten years ago. They had a home constructed in Villemandeur, a village not far from Montargis, and this is where we would be staying.

The same little dogs greeted us hello as they had greeted me all those years ago. The house had a large open kitchen which one of my host brothers had designed himself and a large backyard with a garden full of lettuce and zucchini plants, herbs, strawberry and blackberry plants, plus a few apple trees and plenty of space for all of the grandchildren to play in when they come to visit.

We took a little walk to the downtown area, which consisted of a single road lined with a butcher, a baker, a police station, and of course a bar. My host parents seemed to know everyone in the village as we said “bonjour” and stopped to chat with the locals.

That evening, one of my host brothers who lives down the street stopped by for the aperitif before heading off to a friend’s birthday party. Before he left, he invited us to stay with him for a weekend of clubbing and quad. Then, more family came over for dinner. As we went around saying hello and doing la bise (the kiss on both cheeks) with everyone, I noticed that my American husband seemed like a giant compared to my petite French family, but no one seemed to care. We toasted with champagne and enjoyed seafood-stuffed puff pastries for an appetizer, followed by baby goat (a first for my husband and I as well as a few others!) with stewed carrots and a nice Bordeaux. My host mother explained that chevreau, or kid, is a popular Portuguese dish, which is where the wife of one of my host brothers is from. Next came the cheese platter, and for dessert a lovely apple tart that my host mother made herself. After coffee, the men got my husband to taste some pungent Eau de Vie and Armagnac, a dry brandy distilled in the district of Armagnac in southwest France. “Hope he doesn’t snore after this!” Someone joked. My husband looked a bit tired, but it was more from the non-stop French than from the alcohol. Nevertheless, we were both having a wonderful time.

The next day we went to go see the farm in Chantecoq. I was devastated to learn that a freeway had since been built clear across one of the fields, chopping it in two, and the tenant renting out the farm had let the property fall into disarray. All the plants were overgrown, and the pathway that led to the house had become invisible. I had such fond memories of this place; it broke my heart to see it in such a state. Luckily, one of the brothers is in the process of taking back the fields. I am confident that he will get them looking as they once did.

Unlike the farm, to my delight, some things hadn’t changed at all. Down the street from the farm still lives my host mother’s brother with his family, one of my host brothers, and their paternal grandmother. This is a 15 minute drive from my host parents’ new home, which is also a short walk to the maternal grandmother’s apartment. I really admire the strong bonds that this family has kept with one another. At any time of day a family member might stop by for a visit, and you are likely to run into someone you know while walking down the street to the boulangerie. It’s always somebody’s birthday or someone is getting married or having a baby; there is always a reason to celebrate. Coming from living in big, lonely cities like New York and Paris, this tight knit community seems mythical to us.

We stopped by a local artisanal fair to admire the goods: homemade cakes, local wines, woodwork, hand-knit clothing, kitchenware, and even freshly made boudin, blood sausage. I bought a pair of carved wooden coquetiers (egg holders) to make oeufs à la coque, soft-boiled eggs. Unlike in Paris, everyone was so friendly and welcoming to us foreigners. I’m sure it helped that we had a nice family to introduce us and guide us through.

When it was time for lunch, we returned home and my host mother began cooking again. We toasted with glasses of kir and started the feast all over again. This time it was some sort of sliced fish pâté for the appetizer served with mayonnaise and bread, although we Americans preferred it with moutarde. Next my host father uncorked a bottle of Boujoulais Nouveau, since it had just been released several days prior. For the main course, we savored a juicy roast beef with fries fresh from their own fryer. After the cheese course, my host mother presented us with a divine chocolate fondant cake accompanied by crème anglaise that she had made herself, bien sûr. This was the life.

As the time of our departure drew near, we were bestowed with a toaster oven that the grandmother didn’t need anymore, some scented tea lights, a jar of homemade peach jam, a wooden egg timer to go with my egg cups, and best of all, an invitation to come back for Christmas. My husband and I simply can’t wait to return to this friendly village to spend the holidays with the family that reminds me why I fell in love with France in the first place.

© 2011 Pasa’s Paris

 

Just another Trip to Franprix

Posted on by
1

Franprix, "mes courses préférées" My favorite groceries

Even going to the local supermarket, Franprix, is not a simple task here in Paris. I have two choices: the quick way, which takes me past the hustle and bustle of the bank, the post office, honking cars, and numerous red-faced SDFs (homeless people) already drunk at 11am and begging for more money to feed their addictions. If I take this way, I have to maneuver around the piles of things that belong to the homeless people: cigarette cartons, bottles, filthy socks, hungry dogs, etc. I only take this way if I’m in a real hurry or if I have to pick something up from a local shop on the way back.

As you may have guessed, I usually take the second route. It’s longer but more scenic as it takes me for a moment along the canal and I pass little restaurants full of people enjoying themselves. Today, I choose this second way. I pass the courthouse with groups of judges outside smoking away, still wearing their black robes. They blend in with other employees on break as they too are wearing black and, of course, smoking. I weave around the smoke and notice one of the restaurants is closed. Through the dark window, I see giant turkeys and crates of vegetables piled high on the tables. The sign outside says, to my surprise, that they are preparing a special Thanksgiving dinner for this evening.

The woman walking in front of me is taking her sweet time, but the sidewalk is not wide enough for me to pass her. When she finally crosses the street, a man walks towards me as if he plans to walk right through me, so I am forced to go around him.

“Geez! Don’t move over or anything!” I say loudly in English while continuing on my way. People on the street stare at me, but I don’t care. It has only taken five seconds outside today to make me angry. Even though I have lived in France several times before, a person invading my personal space still gets on my nerves.

My next obstacle is to cross the giant mass of students, also dressed in black, who are permanently on a smoke break outside the school. A grey cloud of smoke hovers above them, a line of Vespas and other motorbikes belonging to them border the sidewalk. I see no other choice but to walk in the street to get around them. I see one poor fool who attempts to walk through the group nearly get burned by one of the many cigarettes being waved carelessly around in the air.

I have not escaped the SDFs. There are a couple waiting by the door of the supermarket to plead to passing customers. Luckily they are too wrapped up in their conversation to bother me as I enter the store. Thank God French people love to talk.

Once inside, little old ladies pick out their dinners to the irksome American rap music booming over the loudspeaker, no doubt chosen by one of the young cashiers. I smell alcohol on someone’s breath. It’s just past 1pm, someone must have had a boozy lunch. It turns out to be an older Franprix employee who is stumbling through the isles. I am careful to avoid him. A couple of girls in tights and skirts aren’t so lucky. He strides up to them and says:

“Stay away from the refrigerated section, Mesdemoiselles, vous allez attrapez froid! (You are going to catch cold)!”

They stare at each other as I laugh to myself hidden in the next isle. As I go to the checkout line, Monsieur is already at the front of the store. Now he is harassing the checkout lady. Staring at her, tears in his eyes, he addresses the entire store:

“Have you seen this beautiful smile Mesdames et Messieurs? What a gem this woman is,” he sighs with emotion. The poor cashier smiles at me, embarrassed. I smile back, appreciating how few and far between smiles are in Paris.

The homeless people try to bother me on the way out, but I stare past them and focus on the graceful, peaceful canal. On a gray day like today when everyone seems to be acting crazy and even the “good” way is looking like the bad way, it’s the only thing that keeps me from becoming just like them.

© 2011 Pasa’s Paris

 

La Concierge

Posted on by
2

The concierge from the movie Amélie

I’ve never lived in a building with a concierge before. I read a book a few years ago called The Elegance of the Hedgehog about a seemingly typical concierge in Paris who describes herself as “plump and ugly with bunions on my feet.” So you could say I had an idea.

When moving into our current apartment, our landlord suggested we introduce ourselves to the concierge, but seeing that it was 3pm at the time it would not be possible. I’m not sure how it works in other buildings, but for this one the working hours of the gardienne are Monday through Friday 8am-12pm and 4pm-8pm, plus 8am-12pm on Saturdays. A four hour lunch is quite generous even for the French, but I don’t think that makes up for working on Saturday mornings or until 8pm.

One afternoon several days later I ran into her while she was taking the garbage cans out to the street. The flip flops on her feet told me that she was not French. I took advantage of the opportunity to ask her where the garbage cans were kept so I could figure out where to take our trash.

“Are you new?” She asked me. Judging by her accent and from stereotypes about concierges in France, I took her to be Portuguese. She invited me to meet her in her lodge at 6pm so she could get my information.

In the doorway of her tiny lodge I gave her our names and the name of our landlord, who happened to call the concierge during the visit to make sure she knew about us. The concierge told me to tape nametags to our buzzers, but that we needed to have our names engraved on our mailbox to conform to the way it was for the rest of the tenants. She said she could have it done for eight euros. If we had to pay for fancy mailbox nametags, what was she paid to do? At that moment I wished that we did not have a concierge so we could have simply taped our names on the mailbox like the last place, free of charge. She insisted however that the names must be engraved, so I forked over the eight euros and left in a huff.

Several weeks later there were still no names on our mailbox. I had taped up our names temporarily next to the engraved name of our apartment’s previous tenant, but the paper was starting to get tattered. Each Friday morning exactly when everyone was leaving for work, the gardienne could be found dramatically sweeping the walkway wearing heels and a dress as if to say, “Look at me, how hard I work for you!” I’m quite sure she stopped as soon as everyone was gone.

One day I received a note in our mailbox saying that the concierge had accepted a package for me and that I could pick it up during her working hours. I went over and tried to make small talk, seeing if I could butter her up enough to get the stupid engraving done. I noticed she had a couple of birds and asked what there names were. Bingo. Her eyes lit up as she rattled off some long Portuguese names that I didn’t understand and explained in choppy French: “Yes, sing a lot, don’t sleep much,” She beamed. People in France may be rude to each other, but they absolutely adore their animals. I praised Saturnino and Candelaria in hopes of seeing a shiny name plate in return.

But then the concierge went on vacation for a week and an expressionless man filled in for her sorting the mail. He pretended not to see me through the glass doors each time as I fumbled for my keys. Our sorry handwritten names were on the verge of falling to the ground.

I saw her again sweeping outside one day and cursed her birds under my breath. However, when I stepped into the building, I noticed our freshly engraved names shining on the mailbox at last. Next to them, the name of the previous tenant still gleams.

© 2011 Pasa’s Paris

The Top 10 Reasons Why Parisians Smoke

Posted on by
2

Une Fumeuse Parisienne

  1. To forget about how uncomfortable they are in the tight clothing and pointy shoes they are wearing
  2. To match the sullen theme of the gloomy, cloudy Parisian sky
  3. To take frequent breaks from work and complain about life with their coworkers
  4. Because coffee and cigarettes just go so well together
  5. It’s an excuse to step outside and call their lovers to schedule an afternoon rendezvous
  6. It’s an excuse to ask that handsome/beautiful stranger for a light: “Tu as du feu?”
  7. Because everything is more chic when accompanied by smoking: reading, writing, drinking, talking, riding a motorbike, kissing…
  8. To forget about dinner, because French people don’t eat dinner. How do you think they stay so thin?
  9. To cope with all the disgruntled employees at the post office, the social security office, and the SNCF who provide horrible “customer service”
  10. To take advantage of their healthcare system. So they’ve developed emphysema. At least the state is footing their hospital bills!

© 2011 Pasa’s Paris

 

Pompeii: An Art of Living at the Musée Maillol

Posted on by
Reply

Pompeii Artifact at Musée Maillol

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live during the Roman Empire? At the Pompeii exhibition at the Musée Maillol in Paris, you can get a good idea. Excavations of the cities covered in ash from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in Italy in 79 A.D. have been organized to show visitors what a Pompeian home might have looked like and the items that would have been found inside.

Preservation

Because the ash left the artifacts so well intact, we are able to view household items and artwork almost exactly as they were two thousand years ago. The bodies of humans and animals also left precise imprints in the ash before disintegrating. In 1863, Guisteppe Fiorelli, director of excavations at the time, was able to make molds of the bodies by pouring plaster into the imprints they left behind. Startling casts of bodies crouched together and a dog twisted up in pain vividly capture the suffering of these people who died so many centuries ago.

The Home

Each house had an atrium, the room for greeting guests and conducting business. At the center of the roof was an opening where rainwater fell into a pool that fed an underground cistern. This served as the unique source of water before the construction of the aqueduct. Mosaic or Terra Cotta covered the floors, while frescos and family portraits adorned the walls. Status symbols such as marble furniture or an altar indicated the wealth and piety of the family.

Banquets were held in the center of the home in the triclinium. This room tended to be even more richly decorated and led out to the garden.

Cuisine

A very civilized society, Pompeians cooked with brick ovens and ate three meals a day. They ate mainly vegetables, chicken, pork, fish, olives, nuts and fruit, and wine played a central role during meals. Dinner or coena, the main meal, started in the mid-afternoon and continued on into the evening. Guests washed their hands with perfumed water and then lay on their sides on the couches in the triclinium to begin the meal. Each banquet typically consisted of three courses, and a designated person chose the wines to accompany each. Here, the man displayed his social status to his guests, wives were responsible for greetings and conversation, and slaves served food and provided entertainment in the forms of music and dancing.

Religion

Pompeians worshipped Greek and Latin gods. Each house had a shrine shaped like a temple adorned with statuettes representing Mercury, god of commerce, Venus, god of love, and Bacchus, god of the vine. Here the inhabitants performed morning worship and celebrated feast days. Pompeii inhabitants were also superstitious and owned stone amulets in the shape of snakes, phalluses and hands with crossed fingers to scare away evil spirits.

Bathing and Beauty

Like the ancient Greeks, Romans had public baths, and the richest citizens enjoyed private tubs in their homes constructed out of marble or bronze. As part of the women’s beauty routine, slaves would apply perfumed oils to their bodies and henna to color their hair. The ornatrix, or hairdresser, would style their hair in the latest fashion, and finally the women would choose jewelry made by local artisans to wear.

Practical information:

Pompeii exhibition from September 21st 2011 until February 12 2012

Hours: Daily 10:30am-7pm/Friday until 9:30pm

Access: Metro Rue du Bac

Cost: General admission 11€ reduced rates 9€- free

Musée de Maillol
61, rue de Grenelle
75007 Paris

http://www.museemaillol.com/

© 2011 Pasa’s Paris