Continued from The Arrival
Right after our protein-rich American breakfast, we picked up a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle to scour the classifieds in search of the perfect vehicle. Our knowledge of American cars was pretty much confined to what we had seen on TV and on the silver screen: Steve McQueen’s Mustang and Michael Douglas’s Ford Galaxie. But we knew American cars came in two sizes: huge and huger. We needed something in the "huger" category to transport seven passengers, suitcases, tents, and sleeping bags. We zeroed in on station wagons priced at $1000 or less and found two candidates. We split up: Fred and Jean-Marc took BART to check on the two leads, the rest of us stayed in Oakland to kick tires at used car lots on Auto Row. We would rendezvous at the end of the day at the Hilton where our first night was comped.
First off, we hunted down a Western Union office to send telegrams (telegrams!) to our families. We could find public pay phones at every street corner but they were not a good option because of the amount of change required for international calls. The nine hours of décalage horaire didn’t help either. Then we walked up and down Broadway in search of a suitable car. Dismal results. After several hours spent trekking in the sun and fighting sleepiness, we only had one viable prospect: a mustard yellow Ford Torino with 135,000 miles on the odometer and a price tag of $1200. We hoped Jean-Marc and Fred had better luck. Alas, they came back bredouille as well: the first car had already been sold by the time they got to that address; the second one, all the way south in Daly City, turned out to be a tas de ferraille.
We comforted ourselves with a meal of Big Macs, French fries and chocolate shakes. In our book, this was quite a treat: there were only two McDonalds in Paris in 1977 (or in France, for that matter) and eating at a fast food joint was borderline elitist. In retrospect, it sounds very weird. Summarizing our day, we realized that intellectual knowledge and life experience are two sides of a coin. Our tired feet confirmed what our foggy brains had known for some time: European cities are dense, American ones are spread out. Utterly exhausted, we retired for the evening with the assurance that tomorrow would be another day: we were in America and Scarlet had said so.
The next morning, we quickly gulped down a Continental breakfast. We knew we would have to check out soon and it would be impossible to go car hunting with all our luggage: we agreed to bust the budget and buy the Torino. After a bit of negotiation, we shook hands with the dealer for $1150 and a spare tire. Traveler's checks (traveler's checks!) were signed and I was now the proud owner of one seventh of a car, my first car. Set up with our own wheels, camping gear, and a brand new copy of the Guide du Routard, we felt free, independent, and confident. We were looking forward to the most excellent adventures. They started that very night when we camped in the hills of Berkeley.
Continues at Modesto, First Look
Vocabulary
Le décalage horaire: time difference
Bredouille: empty handed
Le tas de ferraille: scrapheap, lit. a pile of scrap iron
Le Guide du Routard: The Rough Guide (at that time, the Rough Guides were quite a bit “rougher” than their current edition. They were the hitchhiker and backpacker’s bible and promoted traveling on a dime.)
BANLIEUSARDS
You will meet three different types of people in Paris: tourists, Parisians, and banlieusards. It’s actually quite easy to tell them apart. Tourists go to the Eiffel Tower because it’s there. Parisians don’t go to the Eiffel Tower because it will be there next week. Banlieusards don’t go to the Eiffel Tower because they don’t have the time. When I lived in France, I was a banlieusarde; I didn’t take the elevator to the top of la Tour Eiffel until I was 21 years old and my (future) parents-in-law visited Paris for the first time. Our house was only 7 miles outside of Paris per se; I studied or worked in the city; I had a full schedule during the week, spent two hours (or more) in public transportation every day, and aspired to “stay put” during the weekend. Living in the suburbs, I was always dependent on the last métro, the last RER, the last commuter train to take me back home. It changes everything. It affects the way you experience Paris: you don’t really belong there, you’re just passing through. It was indeed a special treat when I could spend the night at a friend’s apartment in Paris: the accommodations were usually far from luxurious (!) but not feeling the pressure of having to get home was liberating: for one evening, I could feel and behave like a Parisian.
Actually, there is another type of people you might meet in Paris: parisophiles. They’re a rare breed and they’re hard to spot. They were not born in Paris but they chose that city. Maybe they started as tourists but felt such an intense connection that they were drawn back many times. They don’t just come for a week: they stay for a month or more. They don’t book hotels: they rent an apartment. They don’t go out for dinner every night: they shop the outdoor markets and cook “at home.” They have their favorite neighborhoods but they want to explore every nook and cranny of the city. They want to see and experience everything whether glamorous or ordinary, beautiful or ugly, historical or avant-garde, popular or secluded, permanent or pop-up. They have the luxury of time: they can afford to make mistakes and “waste” an afternoon at a so-so exhibit because tomorrow is another day… still in Paris.
I started out as a banlieusarde; I’ll never be a Parisian but I’ve become a parisophile. What about you? Who are you? Who do you aspire to be?
Vocabulary
Le (la) banlieusard(e): commuter, living in the suburbs.
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
TO MARKET, TO MARKET
France has not been immune to the transformation of the retail scene: big box stores and supermarkets ushered the sad decline of old-fashioned, family-owned specialty shops. But one tradition is holding steady: the weekly open-air markets. I simply love them, especially those in the countryside where just about everything offered is farmed or raised locally.
When my sister and her family moved to Grenade-sur-Garonne, our Saturday morning routine included a long visit to la halle, the medieval covered structure in the center of town. Farmers and vendors display their bounty under the tile roof and along the adjacent streets: mounds of tasty saucissons (made from a dozen different meats), regiments of disks and pyramids of chèvres perfectly lined up in their refrigerated cases, baskets of brown eggs with an occasional feather stuck to their shell, colorful bunches of cut flowers soaking in tall galvanized buckets, and produce galore. As a little game, I would ask my toddler nephews to identify and name every single légume we saw while filling our cabas. Afterwards, we’d grab an outdoor table at one of the cafés lining up the square and order un Ricard or un demi for the adults, une orangeade avec une paille for the younger set.
La halle de Grenade is quite remarkable: with its thirty-six octagonal brick pillars and massive oak carpentry, it was specifically built in the 13th century to hold a weekly market. Weights and measures were kept in one of the upstairs loges; another one was used as a workplace for the judge, the mayor, or the notaire. Pigeons still roost there.
In addition to the market, la halle is also the site of special events such as the famous “Sausage Fair” organized by the Confrèrie Gourmande et Joviale de la Saucisse de Grenade. Pageantry is served, along with endless arguments about the merits of the local sausage versus the one made in Toulouse, a mere 15 miles away…
Vocabulary
La halle: covered market
Le saucisson: dry cured sausage (like salami)
Le chèvre: goat cheese
Le légume: vegetable
Le cabas: old-fashioned grocery bag
Le Ricard: brand of a pastis drink
Le demi: draft beer
L’orangeade: water with orange syrup
Avec une paille: with a straw
Le notaire: a public officer who records contracts, property inheritance, wills and other documents in every area of law
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.
LA GRANDE BOUCLE
How my grandfather Albert liked his Tour de France! Every afternoon in July, he would take a break from working in the fields, turn on the radio, and sit down at the kitchen table to listen to the live broadcast. When they finally got TV reception at the farm in the mid-60s, he could actually watch his favorite riders comme en vrai. Jacques Anquetil, Raymond Poulidor, Eddie Merckx were his heroes. Personally, I found the race extremely boring and saw enough close-ups of hairless legs pushing on pedals to last me a lifetime.
I've changed my tune, though. Not because I suddenly developed an appreciation for la petite reine: I just enjoy the scenery. The increased use of helicopters transformed how the race is filmed and won over a new group of spectators: armchair travelers who discover the variety of the French regions without leaving their living room and the 64” flat screen. It’s cheaper than a plane ticket and, if you care at all about the race itself, it gives you a fantastic overall view of the stage leaders, the peloton, and everyone in between. Muscular calves are getting short-changed but I don’t mind that.
Le Tour de France is believed to be the most popular sporting event in the world: where else can millions of fans watch champions compete in the most prestigious bicycle race sans débourser un centime? Just line up along the road; catch goodies thrown from la caravane, arm yourself with a bottle of sunscreen, or an umbrella. The weather can be unpredictable even in the middle of summer.
In July 1997, Rick and I spent a few days at my sister’s apartment right outside of Paris. That third Sunday of the month was the final stage of the Tour and the riders were scheduled to barrel around our corner right after lunch. The guys walked down the street to catch the action and a glimpse of le maillot jaune. It was a hot day. Francoise and I decided to stay in. We turned on the TV, hoping to spot our husbands’ sexy calves. No luck…
Vocabulary
La Grande Boucle: The Great Loop, nickname for the Tour de France
Comme en vrai: in person, lit. like in real (life)
La petite reine: nickname for a bicycle, lit. the little queen
Sans débourser un centime: without spending one cent, free
La caravane: the (publicity) caravan, a procession of advertising floats and vehicles that precede the race and distribute giveaways
Le peloton: the pack
Le maillot jaune: the leader of the race (he wears a yellow jersey)
Official Le Tour de France website
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)
MICHELLE'S CHOCOLATE MAYONNAISE CAKE
Truth be told: I didn’t start cooking until my twenties. I had plenty of opportunities to learn from the best: my mother and grandmothers were all excellent, intuitive, confident cuisinières who whipped up two meals a day without the aid of any book. I just wasn’t interested. My desire to know how to cook developed quite suddenly, after my second trip to California, but I’ll save that story for another time.
Not knowing my way in the kitchen didn’t mean that food was unimportant to me. After all, it is hard to grow up in France and think about food as mere sustenance. I had definite ideas about what I liked and which ingredients usually combined in a tasty way. During my trips to England, Italy, and Germany, I also had the pleasure (or displeasure) to challenge my taste buds with the unfamiliar: beans on toast, grilled octopus, or cheese with music (look it up…)
In general, I was not surprised or offended by American food when I came over to the US. The notable exception was desserts: some of the ingredients just made me cringe. Mincemeat pie? Really? I never got used to that one. I had heard of carrot cake and it didn’t sound appealing. Luckily the first one I was served was baked by Debbie, my sister-in-law-to-be: her recipe is simply the best and it has become one of my favorite cakes. I also tried zucchini bread made by Terri (my other sister-in-law-to-be) and it was quite enjoyable. After a while, my mind finally accepted the notion of incorporating vegetables into baked goods.
At some point, Rick raved about Michelle’s chocolate mayonnaise cake and it just sounded gross to me. I had watched my dad make mayonnaise from scratch too many times to ignore that it contained black pepper, vinegar and –gasp– Dijon mustard. Quelle horreur! By now you probably know where this story is heading. Yes, Frank and Michelle invited us over for dinner. Yes, a chocolate cake was served. And yes, it was absolutely delicious. I asked for another slice and for the recipe. I learned a few lessons that night. First, one should always approach new foods with an open mind. Second, break down a preparation into its components: after all, mayonnaise is mostly composed of eggs and oil, the “usual suspects” in baked goods. Third, read the labels: American mayonnaise is made sans moutarde…
Michelle died of cancer while I was in France last month. Her Facebook page was flooded with tributes and memories. Her granddaughter Sara brought up the chocolate mayonnaise cake: judging from friends and family’s reactions, I think it’s safe to call it her signature dessert. Last Saturday I felt a sudden urge to bake (trust me: it’s not a normal state for me.) Locating the recipe was a cinch: I knew I would find it in my very first American recipe folder, the one I started thirty-five years ago. So, I baked my cake and cried. Losing a long time friend is hard but thirty-five years of shared meals and laughs and songs sparked many of those moments parfaits I love so much. Her famous chocolate mayonnaise cake is only one of them; the oldest one.
Vocabulary
La cuisinière: (female) cook; also, the stove
Quelle horreur: how horrible
Sans moutarde: without mustard
Michelle’s Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake
1 box Duncan Hines Devils Food cake mix
4 oz package instant chocolate pudding
4 eggs
¼ cup mayonnaise
½ pint sour cream
1 tbsp almond extract
½ cup vegetable oil
½ cup water
6 oz chocolate chips
1 cup almond slivers
Butter and cocoa powder for the pan
Preheat oven to 350º. In a large bowl, combine cake mix and chocolate pudding. In another bowl, combine eggs, mayonnaise, sour cream, almond extract, oil, and water. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and beat until smooth. Fold in chocolate chips and almond slivers. Butter a bundt cake pan and dust with some cocoa powder. Bake for about 55 minutes.
Sylvaine’s tip: I like to serve it with a raspberry coulis and a dollop of whipped cream.
I did not take the photo included in this post but I do not know whom to credit (if Frank lets me know, I'll update.) It's one of my favorites; it was used for an open house at their design/art gallery.
SMELLING THE ROSES
My grandmother’s house has sat uninhabited since she died twenty years ago. Restoring it and bringing it up to modern standards will be our retirement project (yes, I do enjoy the convenience of central heating.) In the meantime, the wood shutters remain closed except when we visit or when my sister checks in with my nephews during school breaks.
Grandma’s days were packed with all the typical activities of a small farm: tending to the chicken and the rabbits, picking and canning vegetables, working in the vineyard, fetching water from the well, stoking the fire in the cantou, preparing meals for the family, washing clothes and sheets by hand, sewing her own dresses and aprons… all essential tasks to supplement my grandfather’s modest pension.
And yet, she always found time to take care of her beloved flowers. She was especially fond of the three rosebushes planted by the front door and the kitchen window. One plant produced roses the size of small cabbages, or so it seemed when I was haute comme trois pommes. They were an unusual blend of pale yellow and delicate pink; I couldn’t escape their heady scent when I walked by. The other two were pourpre, that deep blackish-red color of luxurious satin or velvet. They produced tight buds like the ones sold in floral shops; their beauty was only matched by their intense fragrance.
Lack of care and a few harsh winters were fatal to a couple of grandma’s rosiers but the scraggly red rosebush by the porch still manages to produce a few flowers every May. What a treat to see and smell these beautiful roses! That plant is a sexagenarian, a true survivor. I hope it will hang on a few more years so I can lavish it with the TLC it deserves. And continue to feel grandma’s benevolent haunting.
Vocabulary
Le cantou: large fireplace in a country kitchen
Haut(e) comme trois pommes: literally “high like three apples;” of short height, referring to a young child
Pourpre: cardinal red
Le rosier: rosebush
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.