Many people dream of being writers. I was not one of them. As a math major in high school, I didn’t focus on creative endeavors and certainly didn’t imagine I would ever publish a book. But here we are: my book is out.
Madame Delaborde, my 8th-grade French teacher, gave me a 16/20 on a story I wrote about my grandparents’ farm and I was beaming with pride when she read it out loud to the class. Seconds later, I felt completely embarrassed when she pointed out –in front of the whole class, of course– that she deducted one full point because of a spelling mistake. Such was the French school system or, perhaps, a “tough love” teacher.
Over the years French friends urged me to write. In French. A couple of decades later American friends told me they enjoyed my writing. In English. I was a hybrid writer navigating between two different worlds and two different realms of punctuation. I was not convinced I had anything meaningful to share but my outlook changed a few years ago: people not only liked my stories, they also liked my photography.
Every book has a genesis. The first one –the first born– is always close to the heart: this book was inspired by my conversations with my ailing father. Moments Parfaits in Paris blends some of my favorite photographs with my most beloved stories. It is a series of forty vignettes covering every arrondissement of Paris: a photo, an anecdote, some historical notes and travel tips. Like me, this book is a bit of a hybrid... I hope you’ll enjoy it. Here is a preview of the book with photos, a sample story, and the table of contents.
And now, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that spelling mistakes (and Madame Delaborde) will not come back to haunt me!
PASSAGE TO INDIA
I’ve already confessed my love of outdoor markets. One of the bright sides of living in the Central Valley is local availability of bountiful produce. Nevertheless, a stroll through a French market yields many pleasant surprises. Not just because of the different varieties of fruits and vegetables: cultural preferences in regards to size also play a part. I always know that I’m in France when the stalls brim with slender poireaux, tiny fraises des bois, diminutive aubergines… or huge balls of céleri rave without knobs. In Paris, I’m particularly fond of Marché Bastille: the aisles are not too narrow and the selection of ingredients and prepared dishes is quite extensive. If you wish, you can even purchase a plate of chucked oysters and a glass of Muscadet to enjoy sur place.
In July 2011, I met a vendor whose offering was not of the edible kind but turned out to be the highlight of my day. He was selling leather-bound notebooks. They all looked different and varied in size, thickness, and color. Some covers were smooth, some were a bit rugged, others were stamped but they all showed an unmistakable antique patina. Each one was hand-made and tied with two or three feet of black string. He explained that he had bought a pallet of accounting ledgers from India. He unfolded one of these ancient leather books and unveiled yellowed pages filled with Sanskrit. He would cut pieces from their long covers, wrap them around a folio of white paper, and saddle stitch the whole thing together to create new books. They were beautiful. I purchased four of them, intending to keep one for myself and give the others to friends who would use them to sketch or journal. As I was relishing their smooth buttery texture between my fingers, I wondered whose hands had stroked that same leather a long time ago, in a land far, far away.
Vocabulary
Le poireau: leek
La fraise des bois: wild strawberry
L’aubergine: eggplant
Sur place: on the premises
PARIS REFLECTIONS
Rick has been an avid motorcycle rider since he was fifteen. His mother had hoped that none of her sons would ever own a motorcycle. She was horrified when Randy purchased a Suzuki 200 cc Street Rambler; relieved when he decided to sell it and buy a car; dejected when Rick bought the motorcycle from his older brother. I, too, had a love affair with a couple of deux roues when I was a teenager: a black Solex at first, then I “graduated” to a classic blue Mobylette. But those days are over for me: I traded helmet hair for the comfort and rain protection afforded by enclosed vehicles.
Motorcycles and scooters are a favored mean of transportation for many people in Paris: commuting at peak hours is more efficient than when traveling by car and they are much easier to park. Whenever we run across a herd of motorcycles parked on the street, Rick can’t resist checking them out a length. My interest wears off very quickly but I have found an entertaining way to keep myself occupied until he is done: I look into the bikes rear view mirrors hoping to catch an interesting reflection or an unusual architectural detail. Quelquefois, j’ai de la chance…
Vocabulary
Le deux roues: vehicle with two wheels (bicycle, motorcycle, etc.)
Quelquefois, j’ai de la chance: sometimes I am lucky
THE ARRIVAL
It was 40 years ago and my dream had come true. Dad drove me to Roissy-CDG, the brand spanking new airport in Paris: so modern, so revolutionary, so efficient with its camembert design. I know, I know: it hasn’t aged well. I checked in my luggage and we walked together to my gate. Yes, Virginia, there was a time where friends and family could accompany you all the way to the boarding area. We joined the other six students from my business school who would be my traveling companions for the next two and a half months. A DC-8 operated by Martinair –a Dutch airline specializing in charter flights– took us to Amsterdam where we waited for three hours. Then on to Bangor, ME where we arrived before sunrise and waited for another three hours. Finally, we were off to California. Oakland to be precise, which in my mind was just a secondary airport for glorious San Francisco, like Orly had become for Paris.
July 18, 1977 and it was barely 7 am. As the wheels touched the tarmac, I noticed herds of jack rabbits racing with us on the grass patch separating the runways. How odd! I had been up for some thirty-five hours and thought I was perhaps hallucinating but my seatmate confirmed the sighting. After we deplaned a CIEE representative greeted us and shuttled us to the Oakland Hilton for an orientation meeting and a hearty breakfast: weak coffee (du jus de chaussette), steak and eggs (quoi? Au p’tit dej?), and Iceberg lettuce doused with "French" dressing (jamais plus!) Obviously, we were not in Kansas anymore… We had planned this trip for months and, two hours in, we quickly realized that we were not remotely prepared for the cultural challenges. But, hey, we were 19-20 years old and we would roll with the punches. Besides, we had our master plan. First order of business: purchase a used car, large enough to accommodate seven adults, their personal effects, and their camping gear; reliable enough to take us on a cross-country trip all the way to New York City; and affordable enough to fit a poor student budget. Piece of cake. Or so we had been told...
Continues at The Torino
Vocabulary
Le camembert: a famous cheese from Normandy. CDG1 is often referred to as a camembert because of its round, squatty shape
Le jus de chaussette: literally, sock juice; to qualify pale and tasteless coffee
Quoi: what
Le p’tit dej: short and familiar for le petit déjeûner, breakfast
Jamais plus: never again
BISTRO CHAIRS
Everybody dreams of taking a break, sitting en terrace, and watching the world go by while sipping une noisette, a glass of rosé, or a Perrier rondelle. And people actually do that in Paris: tourists, of course, but also the locals. Students gather in bistros year around as a more lively alternative to the library. Female friends meet for tea and a pastry in the afternoon. Others enjoy cocktails at Happy Hour. Some catch a film and finish off the night with moules frites and Belgian beer. Bistros are no mere watering holes: they also perform a social function.
And everybody sits in the ubiquitous rattan bistro chairs, without paying much attention to them. For more than 100 years, they’ve been part of the Parisian urban scenery as much as the Guimard métro entrances, the newspaper kiosks, and the Morris columns. All these chairs are made by two manufacturers: Maison Drucker (est. in 1885) and Maison Gatti (est. in 1920). You will occasionally find some cheap Chinese imitations but the authentic, made-in-France models will have a small brass plate attached to the frame: check it out next time you rest your tired derrière!
Although there are only two makers and they both use the same materials, the variations are almost infinite: different styles of frames, different patterns and dozens of colors for the seats and backs. The rattan is cut, steamed, bent, and assembled by hand. Rilsan (which comes from the castor oil plant) is dyed by injection and woven by skilled artisans: its color never fades even when exposed to the sun and it will sustain wide variations in temperatures without cracking. Although many famous cafés special order their “signature” chairs, there are enough choices for each neighborhood bistro to create its own look.
The popularity of these chairs doesn’t wane: they’re elegant, comfortable, light, and durable. And they stack so easily! Closing shop after a busy day is (almost) a breeze. Even Mr. Bear approves… Grab a chair and make a new friend.
Vocabulary
En terrace: on the terrace (where drinks will cost you more…)
Une noisette: an espresso shot with a touch of milk (lit. a hazelnut)
Perrier rondelle: a glass of Perrier with a slice of lemon
Moules frites: mussels and French fries
Le derrière: you know what that means; yes, you, do.
AMERICAN GRAFFITI
Everybody who grew up in Modesto during the 1950s has fond memories of cruising, that adolescent rite of passage immortalized by George Lucas in his 1973 film American Graffiti. Yes, the force is strong in Modesto but car culture is stronger yet! A spontaneous Friday night activity for teenagers anxious to show off their cars and pick up some dates, cruising originally took place on 10th street but had already moved to McHenry Avenue –the “new” main drag– by the time Modesto became my home; instead of a weekly happening, it had morphed into a once-a-year celebration (Graffiti Night) held on Saturday night right after graduation.
I personally never joined the bumper-to-bumper parade: I like to keep a bit of distance from noxious fumes… Rick and I preferred to walk down the street and admire the shiny classic cars and custom hot rods. Besides, the street offered terrific entertainment as well: 50s and 60s music, girls in poodle skirts, cops on horses, the very heavily tattooed guy who showed up with a huge python coiled around his neck year after year.
The City Council banned cruising in 1993 as the event had become too unruly. There were several dark years where Modesto seemed to forget its rich car history. Graffiti Night was finally resurrected into Graffiti Summer: throughout June, car aficionados from all over descend upon Modesto to enjoy several classic and custom car shows, festivals, Hula Hoop contests, and a “regulated” car parade that once again extends to McHenry Avenue. Maybe it’s no longer spontaneous enough for George Lucas; maybe he’d rather keep the memories of his youth intact. The Native Son has attended only once.
I did a double-take last year when I was in Paris: there was a car show right behind the Hôtel de Ville and all vehicles on display were belles américaines, like the legendary Chevys and Fords of American Graffiti, the true stars of the movie. Guess what: George wasn’t there either.
Vocabulary
Les belles américaines: the beautiful American cars (i.e. classics)
ON A WING AND A PRAYER
I’ll be flying to France today. I’ve lost track of how many transatlantic flights I’ve taken in my lifetime; it’s probably approaching two hundred. And yet, just like a young girl who knows nothing about physics, I still marvel that a huge, heavy metal tube can lift itself from Earth and travel through the air for hours. We take so much for granted but I guess I’ll never become blasé about that.
Perhaps people felt the same way in the 19th century when aviation pioneers were trying to defy gravity. Take Clément Ader, for instance. Inspired by the morphology of the bat, he engineered one of the first flying machines. And what a fantastic contraption it was! Three wheels suited for a child’s bicycle, 26-foot wings made of silk and bamboo, two steam engines powering crude propellers to –hopefully– carry 880 lbs up in the air.
It looks fragile. It’s a thing of beauty. See it for yourself at the Musée des Arts et Métiers in the 3rd arrondissement.
THE SKY'S THE LIMIT
During the 1980s, I got to fly almost all over the USA; it was a (welcome) job requirement. When traveling from one coast to the other, I usually transited through O’Hare airport in Chicago.
I remember the first time I experienced the “tunnel of lights” between the B and C concourses. Instead of dragging my suitcase on a numbing people mover confined within drab concrete walls, I found myself transported through a luminous wonderland: bright waves of multicolor neon tubes undulating from the ceiling while complimentary glass blocks lit up the walls. A rainbow of colors cycled rhythmically to the tune of Rhapsody in Blue. What a beautiful way to conjugate art and practicality.
Thirty years later, I always look forward to landing at a C gate. Michael Hayden’s The Sky’s The Limit art installation is familiar, yet still exciting. I feel like a little kid enjoying a two-minute ride in Disneyland: a spring in my step, a smile on my face, and peace on my mind.
CALIFORNIA DREAMING
I guess nostalgia can work both ways! I spotted this bi-national bicycle on rue du Grand Prieuré in the 11th arrondissement.
LOST IN ALMOND LAND
One of my favorite sights in the Central Valley of California is the blooming of almond trees in the early spring when the bare gray limbs disappear under a thick canopy of white blossoms. Almond production has increased at a frantic pace during the past two decades and new orchards sprouted in fields once planted with tomatoes or simply used as cow pastures. My ride to work takes me through country roads lined with dense orchards; this week, the low white skies and the thick white flowers enveloped me in a gauzy cocoon.
And yet, there is one almond orchard I still miss, the victim of another trend in the Valley: rampant urbanization. It was located in Manteca at the junction of SR 120 and Hwy 99, where the elevated off-ramp dips downward and curves South. Apartment buildings, storage units, and strip malls have replaced the huge almond orchard that was nestled within the ramp and extended as far as the eye could see.
On a clear February afternoon many years ago, Rick and I were driving back from San Francisco airport. As we left 120 to head home, my eyes lingered on the exploding blooms to my right, thick cottony pillows framed by deep blue skies. For a moment, I thought I was still on the plane, watching our descent from above the clouds and then through them. A second reentry. A second landing. Terra firma again.