Similar But Different

Now I've always considered myself to be a fairly intelligent kind of fellow, but I'm here to tell you, France can grind you into a stupid state of humility before you know that it's happened.
Yes, yes, I know I don't speak the language all that well and yes that frequently bites me in the ass, but, it's more than just that. It's cultural but more. It's like there's the understanding of ways and things that I've developed over a lifetime and then there's the French way.
Everything will seem very similar at first, but, upon closer experience- it's always, always somehow a little different. And, for that moment, you're lost.
Let me show you what I mean by this.
My first two humbling experiences occourred during our first year at our new apartment. Both would involve our landlord, I'll call her Madame. Madame was the epitome of a modern French woman. She was attractive, trim and dressed impeccably.
During our first week in our apartment we had used our "telephone booth" shower daily with no issues other than it was the size of a phone booth. Week two and the water began to rise around the ankles. Uh-oh. I looked about for a plunger, but found none. And just where the hell do you buy a plunger in a little village like this. Morever, how do you say plunger in French? Out comes the Oxford Pocket French Dictionary- plunger- le plongee- there, I know what to ask for.
Pop upstairs to see if the landlord might have a plongee, I mean plunger. Oops, forgot, it's the middle of the day and they're both at work. Housekeeper answers the door and she doesn't speak a word of English. I fumble about with my inquiry- something, something about a plongee- puzzled look on her face. Me- making gestures and making stupid noises supposed to simulate a plunger- her more puzzled looking than ever. Then I hit on it! C'est pour la douche! It is for the shower. Aaaah- she gets it now, I think. Brilliant! Je suis desole- there is no plunger- damn- now what? Neither Sandy nor I can remember seeing a plunger in any of the stores- oh well we'll check with the landlords this evening.
Later that evening as we were prepping for dinner on the terrace- Madame pops out of the door and.... Keveen- you have problem wif zee doosh. Me stunned- oh... yes.. I mean, oui- je suis une problem avec le douche. Madam glides down the steps, onto the terrace and leads me into the apartment then back into the bathroom. Still in her impeccable atire, Madame kneels down before the "phone booth" and with her beautifully manicured nails pulls off the drain cover and pulls out a little plastic basket shaped object that I've never seen before. It's a strainer and it's full of hair. I knew the drains were small compared with the US, but, a strainer basket to catch the hair before it clogs the pipe, brilliant! She takes the little basket, empties it into the wastebin, and..... dips it into the toilet bowl to rinse it off.
Sandy and I both slackjawed by this point, watch as she goes back over to the "phone booth" kneels and replaces the basket and drain cover. Keveen, you weel need to do thees. How often? Oooh, I theenk once uh week. Oh Madame, merci beaucoup Madame.
I know my face had to be red with embarassment. I mean it was humiliating. me, a builder and licensed plumber even. Oh well. Who knew?

I think it was later on that week that our landlords had given us a bright shiny new charcoal grille, a bag of charbon (charcoal) and what looked like lighter fluid, naptha... something or another.
I had been dying to do a grilled cote du beouf or cote du porc, and tonight I would do just that. Pop by the boucherie and pick up the cote du beouf, some little fingerling potatoes and a salade from the market. A fresh baguette from the boulanger, a bottle of Bandol rouge- perfect!
So it's evening and time to do the manly thing and grille those lovely steaks. Open the charbon, and... wait a minute, it's just little pieces of charred wood, no briquettes let alone matchlight. What to do with this? Oh well, press on. Load up the grille, squirt on some of what I think is lighter fluid, and light with a match. Oh shit, no matches. Into the kitchen to light a piece of paper on the ceramic hob of the range (easier said than done, but that's another story) and about ten minutes later back out to the grille with the now smouldering paper and, viola! The grille is aflame... for a couple of minutes... and..nothing. Repeat this two or three more times with equally dismal results.
Deja vous. Madame pops out the door and... Keveen, you have uh problem? Yes, uhhh, oui Madame. C'est le phare (the fire). Once again down the steps and onto the terrace, the impeccably dressed madame now leading me about the jardin picking up little sticks, pine needles, leaves and such. back to the grille. Her beautifully manicured hands scoop out the charbon and she, like any good boyscout, begins to build a little campfire of leaves, needles and twigs in the grille. You have uh maatch Keveen? Uh... no Madame. Up the stairs and moments later back down with a tiny little Bic lighter. And viola! The little campfire is blazing. Now, Keveen, youz add ze charbon juste like theees. You build a fire to build a fire. Now why didn't I , the big strong intelligent man figure that one out? I'm now getting used to looking like a fool in front of her. She must think all Americans are idiots.
Oh well, it was a lovely dinner.

One of the biggest mysteries here in village France is to figure out where to buy something. No really! A grocery store is a grocery store and a pharmacy is a pharmacy. Unlike in the states, you can't buy a bottle of aspirin in the grocery or a can of cat food in the pharmacy. The grocery does have a number of HBA items, but what do they do? I mean there's all these bottles with white creams in them. Is it shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, dipilitory- oops, don't want that one. The all look the same, all with seemingly nondescriptive French descriptions. I mean, it can get so desperate, Sandy once went into a pharmacy (these have lots of the really expensive beauty aids) and unknowingly bought a $19 bottle of body lotion because she couldn't figure out which one of the bottles on the grocery shelf it was.
And, me, with the bum stomach. Where's the Tums, Rollaids even? Nowhere to be found. So... down to one of the dozen or so pharmacies in town signified by the green cross out front. Typically good with English, the pharmacist listens to my malady and I hear something back that sounds like, "sour stomach". Yes. Yes. That's it, I think? Out comes a little cardboard box from inside one of the myriad of unmarked drawers in a floor to ceiling cabinet behind the counter. No, no, no. You don't help yourself, they get it from one of the little drawers and set it on the counter in front of you. At this point a number of customers standing near the counter have heard the description of the malady, the prognosis and are all nodding in agreement. She has perscribed the best cure for a "sour stomach". I'm not so sure. But madame, do you have any Tums? Puzzled look. Rolaids? Puzzled look. Monsieur, thees ees thee best! oh, well then, I'll take it. The little box is wrapped up in paper, just like you would a gift, the cash register rings, six euro fifty. Ye gods, that's like nine dollars for what I think are 16 tablets. Yiipes!! I have now encountered this conspicuous absence of antiacids several times all over Europe. What do they do? Don't they get an upset stomach? My solution became to pack one or two one pound zip loc bags of Tums in my baggage. I felt like I was smuggling contraband Tums onto the continent, sure that if I was caught that they would be confiscated.
I have heard that pharmacist in France function as first line doctors, diagnosing minor maladies and dispensing the appropriate perscription- how intelligent is that?
I have also heard of their prowess with wild mushrooms. Huh? Yes Frenchmen are downright potty about gathering, preparing and eating their wild mushrooms. Doesn't mean that they all know how to gather them though. So, part of a pharmacist training is to recognize not only what's not to be eaten but also the ones that are the best to eat. Good to know. Check!

Le Poste (post office) is another source of mystery/confusion to the uninitiated. You mail a letter, right? Well yes, but, there's more. You can pay your bills there. I don't know exactly what bills- I suspect utilities or something like that. In the days before everyone had cellphones or even long distance for that matter, there were phones you could use, still are in some places. You can send faxes, have your mail sent there, even if you don't live there. And, oh yes, there's a bank. Yep, the Poste Bank. Deposits, withdraws, ATM's just like any bank anywhere.

I think it was our second year at the apartment. We had rented bicycles, a mystery in a mystery itself. VTT's, VTC's, city bikes and road bikes. What did it all mean? Well I soldiered on and secured a couple of what we would call mountian bikes. They were wonderful and we now had virtually unlimited mobility to the surrounding villages, beaches, wherever. One morning as we were leaving for the beach I noticed that my rear tire was looking a little flat. I'd just stop by the petrol station along the way and fill it up. Guess what, only some petrol stations have air. Well finally one did, time to fill the tire. What the.... The chuck on the air hose wouldn't fit the tire valve. It was this spindly little affair that I hadn't seen before. Dammit! Does everything here have to be different? On down the street to a car garage, he'll figure this out. Monsieur, c'est non possible ( it's not possible).
I took one look at his hose and figured it out. His was just like the one at the petrol station. Monsieur, Qu est-ce-que vous recommandez? (what do you reccomend)He shakes his head. Me- the moto shop? (scooter shop) Aah, oui Monsieur, probablement (probably).
Down the street and over to the moto shop. Not so busy, everyone inside is sitting about the showroom shootin' the breeze, in French of course. I roll the bike into the shop, all eyes are on me. I point to my rear tire, c'est possible? "Yeah, no problem man" in perfect english. You need an adapter chuck. Out comes the adapter chuck from his tool box and, voila, the tire is inflated in less than 20 seconds.
There now. Only 45 minutes to fill up a low tire. Brilliant!!

Food in France is often a souce of constant confusion and humiliation. You know what you know. You know where you would normally buy what ingredient, what it is called and even what it looks like. In France c'est une mystrie (it's a mystery). You might not find that something something here. Get over it. Improvise or even try a different recipe. Use what they have!!!
At the wonderful, sumptous, morning market- the sights, the smells- you just want to buy it all. You want to pick it up, smell it, give it a little squeeze--- NO MONSIEUR! No moleest le prahduze!! Oh shit, busted for touching, no worse, squeezing the tomatoes. But how am I supposed to know if they're ripe? Monsieur, I weel azist you. Pour aujourd'hui? Pardon? Pour aujourd'hui Monsieur? Oh- I get it- for today?
Oui Monsieur, pour aujourd'hui. He pick's up the most beautiful cour-du-beouf tomatoes, at the peak of their ripeness, bags them and hands them to me. Once again I experience French customer service first hand. In the traditional shops and markets you don't help yourself. The shopkeeper prides themself on their selection and their ability to match them with your request. And you know, they always do.

Last year my wife Sandy who has been struggling here in the land of poisson (fish) to become a fish eater herself, suggested we have fish for lunch at our favorite cafe. My ears pricked at this, sure... I jumped on the opportunity. The menu listed poissons friture and I was sure that this translated into fried fish. You'll love this I said. You don't often find fish fried on the coast of France and fried is her preference. Order placed- order arrives and...... oh shit!!! A big ole heaping plate of little fried fishes, heads tails and all with a little pot of garlic aioli to dip them in. My face was devoid of color and of course I offered to get her something else, but she's a trooper and she proceeded to eat about half of the little fishy buggers. I'm sure that the two or three beers didn't hurt either. I gladly finished them off and she said that she probably wouldn't order them again, but that they really weren't all that bad. Amazing!! Bet that was the beer talkin'.

Finally, this year at that same cafe of the little fishes, we had the pleasure of befriending the most likable of waiters, he was awesome. I always like to tip the waitstaff generously, even if that is not the custom here in France. Servis-compris?
Well the generous tipping at this, our favorite cafe does not go unnoticed. The general affect being awesome service and very generous pours.
One day on a nearby beach we encounter our friend, the awesome waiter, it is his morning off and he's meeting a female friend here on the beach. We're introduced as "old friends" and a bit later he shows up with a couble of beers for me and Sandy. He's not drinking. Merci, I say, what about you? Oh, I just wanted to thank you and Sandy, you've been so nice. Me- oh.. merci beaucoup. Later that day at the cafe, we opt for an afternoon cocktail and settle in for a good "people watch". Our favorite waiter is there and of course recognizing us is quick to service. One drink leads to two, maybe three, but it is now time to leave. I leave a more than usually generous tip remembering this mornings encounter and wanting to thank him for his generousity.
We're just about out of the front and down the sidewalk when our waiter chases us down-- agitated and calling Keveen, Keveen! I figure we've left something under the table, but no.. he is visably upset. Keveen- it ees too much I cannot. But you were so nice to us this morning, I just wanted to say thank you. No Keveen. Eet ees not possible. Ees too much. Eef you want to thank mee, you see mee somewheres, you buy mee a drink, dacord (ok)? Yes, I think I understand. I would never want to offend him, but too much tip, I haven't heard that one before. A couple of days later at the cafe and all's well. Bonne!

You know, all these little diferences, the mysteries, can be a bit maddening at times. But.. this is part of the experience. You know what you already know and you learn what you don't know. That's it! When you learn from these little mysteries, you become more and more connected to the place in which you are. And it into you.
You slip deeper and deeper into the blue.
Now, isn't that what you're here for?

A bientot
Cousin

Why Nice?

Nice, self appointed queen of the Riviera, a belle epoch beauty, part late 19th century Brit and part 20th century resort.
But Why? Why does it draw Sandy and I back time and time again? What's so special about Nice? After all, when we first arrived in Nice back in '98 as a part of one of those whirlwind tours of France we were known to do back then, we both looked at each other and said it's ok but what's the big deal?
Then came a second visit, a second chance for Nice as it were, and we hit upon "old town", yes old town. Vieux Nice with it's warren of narrow sometimes dark streets and alleyways almost at times a little threatening, pulsing with life. Sandy describes the experience as almost dizzying. I have to agree. A mixture of the flavors of France, Italy and the Near East, all co-mingled into one intoxicating brew of an old town.
We had not even been inside the old town our first time. Can you imagine! Nice as a whole is a perfectly likable large Riviera resort city, but old town- oh yeaaah!
If you don't go anywhere else in the old town, find the Cours Saleya and it's Marche aux Fleurs (flower market). Open daily, the flower market is a riotous feast for the eyes. All the best flowers from the French/Italian production hidden up in the hills of this glorious coast all the way down into Italy.
Early every day the vendors descend upon The "Cours" and erect their booths. Their myriad of flowers is absolutely unbelivable. And yes, the Niceoise, as they have done for decades, buy these flowers. And let me tell you, it's a lotta flowers! I can only imagine that the interiors of Nice's homes must be the best dressed of any in France and the women here are surely spoiled by daily gifts of flowers.
In the afternoon we like nothing more than to stake out a little cafe table across from the likes of Bridgett and Eric's booth, near the end towards the Opera House. We don't really know them but we like to imagine that we do. As always, we order a carafe of rose, sit back and watch the magic begin. Sometime around 3 or 4 all of the vendors begin to dismantle their stalls (a great time to bargain) in a well rehearsed scene. They even have special carts and racks just for this purpose and just as it has for decades, an enormous amount of "stuff" moves out to places unseen and the Nice sanitation crews move in on their heels with brooms, mini trucks and "fire hoses" to sweep the detrius of the market away. And at the same time almost magically, the cafes lining both sides of the "Cours" bring out their little cafe tables and chairs "stacked oreo style" from some unseen place in the back of their small little cafes and transform the "Cours" into a delightful cafe piazza.
The whole thing takes little more than an hour. It is amazing!!
For me it's one of those rythms of life I often speak of and I can't think of a better way to wile away a lazy Nice afternoon.
The "Cours" is also shared with a daily (except Mondays) produce market at the end opposite the flower market. I am never happier than when I am amongst the stalls of a Provencal produce market- pure bliss and this is a good one! On Mondays a classic French brocante (antiques) market occupies the space normally for the produce market.
While this is not my thing, it is none the less fascinating and I'm told is one of the best in France.
When in Nice, our address is the Mercure Hotel Marche aux Fleurs, fronting the quai les Etats-Unis directly across from the Promenade des Anglais and beach and with the Cours Saleya behind. It is modern, an awesome location, pleasant and offers a fine value. It can't be beat!
We have been in many an old town, and for us Vieux Nice is tops. First it's bigger than you might think- easy to get lost in, it's winding knot of narrow streets and alleyways (some are just stairways)- but small enough to regain your bearings and continue your wanderings. And that's what you do here, wander, just wander.
Yes, it's touristy and it can be crowded, but just dive right in and you'll find some gems, whatever your interest. Skip the tacky tourist shops. Maybe try the olive oil shop which offers tastings of at least a dozen local offerings, pop into the numerous caves (wine shops) perhaps you'll get lucky and land a bottle of the local AOC Bellet, France's smallest appelation, about 50 acres within the urban confines of Nice. Nose into the local craftsmen, including Sandy's favorite jeweler, or the surprising number of fresh pasta shops. The most amazing butcher shop I've ever seen is here, a gallery to meat with an overhead zipline on which your neatly packaged order is fired to the nearby cashier. The place is simply gorgeous. And artist, artist everywhere. Just walk the alleyways and check them out for yourself. Window licking (window shopping) as the French call it is great sport here.
In addition to a most walkable old town, Nice is a transportation dream come true for the traveler. I've never encountered it's equal. An ultra-easy to use International Airport just minutes by bus or cab from old town, a big regional train station, hub for the entire Riviera, and a central bus station with lot's of cheap and frequent connections to all of the local hilltowns and sights. A new tramway glides down Nice's central Jean Medecin, thru Place Massena, past the old town and on to almost the port.
A vast improvement over schlepping your baggage from the train station, down to Massena and into old town. Hop on!!
This all serves to make Nice the most perfect, user friendly base from which to explore the length of the Riviera, it's hill towns and all the way down into Italy.
Nice is just made for day trips. Some of my favorites, at least once to Monaco-ville. Go straight up to haute ville where the palace is- the view from there is unbelivable. Jaw dropping hilltowns abound all along the high corniche- but none perhaps as spectacular as little Eze. Touristy? Oh yeah! But oh my God what a view.
Finally, about a 15-20 minute bus ride east of Nice is tawny Cape Ferrat with my all time favorite walk in these parts. French law makes all coastline public- here a paved pathway follows the circumference of this uber-exclusive cape. You get the million dollar views for free. I hop off the bus at little Plage Passable and I end this walk at the charming little beachside cafe on petite Plage Paloma- perfection!!
Nice is where I first tasted my Riviera- the beachs here, justifiably famous, are not to be missed. Pebbley and crowded I prefer to be in the thick of it right in front of old town. I want to savour the full experience here- chairs, parasols, beach side cafes, carafes of rose by my side, delicious seaside lunches and beautiful water, lotsa sun and acres and acres of bare tan flesh- the monokini's rule here. For me it's as good as it gets. Just dive in and enjoy the whole thing!
If the beaches aint enough, might I suggest a favorite of mine. Nice's high park, the old chateau (castle/fort). Just walk in the direction of the port from anywhere in old town and you will encounter any number of stairways leading up to the old chateau, actually now just a flat-top hill, the castle being long gone. and offering the perfect picnic spot and the finest views in all of Nice. The old town spreads out before you, its orange tiled roofs glistening, punctuated occasionaly by the tiled domes of the churches. The port is on the opposite side and lovely, but perhaps the best view (how do you decide) is past the old town and down the length of the Bay of Angles, as far as the eye can see. Tres belle/bellissimo
Not unexpectably, when I think of Nice, I think of food. Not gourmet or spectacular for me, just really good food. A melange of Italian, French and Arabic. Wander the streets, smell the smells and look for crowds of Niceoise. The variety of food here is overwhelming. I'm partial to some of the ethnic spots- Turkish kebaps, Indo-Pak curries, even an excellent Afgan cafe with wonderful Biryanis. Lunchtime can be especially fun, an excuse to visit the many street food vendor stalls that dot old town. Look for socca, that unique Niceoise crepe-like creation made of heavily peppered chickpea flour (I'm partial to Theresa's), doubtless of Arabic origin. And the pissaladiere, the native pizza with only carmelized onions, niceoise olives, and anchovies. But classic Niceoise food for me means La Merenda (4 Rue de la Terrasse), a tiny oh so typical French bistro just off the "Cours". Maybe 20 foot wide, shared rows of tables tightly spaced down both sides, kitchen visible at the end. This is as good as it gets for me. Chef Dominique Le Stanc is behind the counter, formerly of the ultra chic Chantecler in the luxurious Hotel Negresco and formerly holder of two Michilin stars before he gave them up for a simpler life. Limited authentic Niceoise menu on a blackboard- more limited wine menu, a white, red or rose (if you're lucky the local Bellet). No phone but reservations are required so you must go by early in the day and make them in person. Quirky, loveable and oh-so-good food, a required Niceoise experience for me.
As for the evenings, I'm really not a night time drinker, I prefer an afternoon carafe of rose in a quaint little outdoor cafe savoring the moment and watching the passersbye. My evenings entertainment is likly my resturant of choice. I'm there for the evening, the experience to be savored in the style of the French. That being said, I must remark upon old town's bounty of night time watering holes, especially the ubiquitous English, Irish and even Scottish Pubs. I counted 8 on my walk one day. Unbelivable. That's a lot of beer and a lot of English. If this is your thing, just start on rue de Palais de Justice and you won't be disappointed. Cheers!
I do, however, absolutely adore gelato and Nice has for me one of the top 3 temples to gelato in Europe. Fenocchio's (not to be confused with nearby Pinnochio's) on Place Rosetti. 80+ flavors and always artisnal (made in house). Another Nice must and a people watching paradise. Hint: try the lavender glace- you'll be pleasantly surprised.
Now I'm not a big museum hound but I've gotta say Nice delivers what I want. I'm a huge fan of the French Impressionost of the late 19th century and early 20th and none more than Henri Matisse. He lived and painted here for years while living in the big yellow building at the end of the "Cours". I love the Musee Matisse (Matisse museum)- oodles of his paintings many accompanied by the actual props appearing in the paintings. In the hills above Nice you'll find the town of Vence. Matisse spent the last years of his life here and blessed them with his Chapel of the Rosary. It's a spectacular homage to a single man's creativity. After seeing the Chapel don't miss the final room in the Musee Matisse. All of his sketches, models, etc. for the Chapel are there. How cool is that?
Also near Vence in the village of St Paul de Vence is the Foundation Maeght- my favorite Museum of Modern Art anywhere. A dealer/collector, Maaeght acquired these works as the artist were making a name for themselves. Don't miss the outside gardens with all of the Miro and Giacometti sculptures. This museum is just awesome!
Finally, I find Nice's Museum of Modern Art to be one of the most appealing big modern art museums of anywhere.
The works are approachable, not quite as far-out as some modern art museums. Just my speed. I especially love the exhibit of the rejection letter sent to Andy Warhol in the early 60's in response to his offer to place multiple pieces there gratis.
They hold only a few of his works today. Duh??
And now about a quirky little pleasure of mine. I must admit to being more than a casual fan of the movie "Ronin", some of which was shot on location in the nearby countryside around Le Turbie, but largely in Vieux Nice. Sandy and I love to watch the movie when we're here then scout out the locations on our own. It's great fun, a sort of scavenger hunt if you will. I recomend it highly. Hint: spend lotsa time sitting in a little sidewalk cafe on Place Rossetti with a carafe of rose and you'll begin to recognize many of the scenes. A walk along the port and you'll spot more.
Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm not really a big city person. Paris, I do love because I view it's inner arrondissments as an assemblage of villages, and maybe just perhaps I am in love with the myth and romance of Paris, who knows.
But Nice, yes, I know it's big, 5th largest in France, but you see, for me it's all about the old town, Vieux Nice, My Nice. Not so big but oh so beautiful and smack in the middle of the "blue".
Yes,I know I will answer her irrestible siren call again and again.
A bientot
Cousin

Dedicated to Dave & Julie, Bon Voyage!

Baguette

You may be asking yourself, why in the heck is Kevin writing a post on bread.
Well, you see, when you practice what I call "immersion travel" you begin to pick-up on so many of the little details of daily life that create the "fabric" of that local life.
In France, and perhaps nowhere more than here in the South, a baguette is just such a detail. For someone from the States who has not experienced French life firsthand, it is difficult to imagine that something as simple as bread could play such an important role in their daily life.
What an understatement!
For us bread is an accessory to the meal. But to a Frenchman, it is integral. Every meal from breakfast thru dinner will have a basket of sliced fresh baguette at the center of the table. From the simplist cafe to the finest resturant and in every French home, no meal is complete without that obligatory basket of baguette.
The French chef Jaques Pepin once noted that if he could have only one food for the rest of his life he would choose fresh bread with butter.
Wow!
Now, about that bread. What we call French bread in the States, soft and spongy, would be unrecognizable to a Frenchman. In fact no bread made outside of an authentic French boulangerie will do. These "temples to bread" exist in all towns large or small. Our village of around 17K has at least seven that I know of. Amazing! Even the tiniest of villages will have at least one boulangerie.
And as for baguettes, the only acceptable bread, there are no simple choices.
There are the common baguettes (round ends with slashes on top). Banetts (pointy ends also with slashes on top, and usually a bit more brown on top). Baguettes "ancien style" dark and crusty on the outside with loose flour to get all over your lips and clothes.
Yes there are so many styles of baguette that even I, a confirmed baguette lover, am not thouroughly fimilar with them all, but my quest continues.
And, then there is the matter of the dough, much debate on this issue. Is it made fresh daily or does it arrive frozen from a factory to be finished locally? Everybody has their favorite style, shape and boulangerie and if asked they will pontificate for hours on the virtues of one over another. Really!
Some of my fondest memories in France have got to be sitting in a cafe and observing the "rituals of the baguette". Since you are never far from a boulangerie or a cafe, this is easy.
It happens at least three times a day. You begin to see people, all kinds of people with baguettes. Many will be carring one as intended by it's midsection where it is wrapped with a little paper sleeve at the boulangerie. Others will have them poking out of shopping bags, bicycle bags, backpacks and baby strollers. Suddenly, everywhere you look you see people with baguettes! I've seen them folded and put into a man's attache case, taped to the horizontal bar of a bike, carried while riding the bike and drooping at the middle, or, even once sticking out of the top of a traditional rolling shopping cart shared by a little lap dog who seemed more interested in the passersbye than in the baguette. It is also not uncommon to see someone with a floursack full of baguettes sticking out, walking down the sidewalk. Resturant staff I'll assume. (You know, it's worthy of note that here, everyone tries to do business with one another).
Yep! At a certian hour, if you look around, nearly everyone that you see will have one or more baguettes being carried in some fashion or another. Beginning early in the morning, the boulanger opens at around 7AM, just prior to lunch 12ish and around 5-6 PM. Yes- thats right- three times a day!
Just for fun Sandy and I like to see just how many of the baguettes have the end nibbled off- more do than don't.
Now it took us no time at all to fall right into this daily routine. We have our favorite- round ended "ancien style" baguette , well browned and crispy from our favorite boulanger, "Daniel Surirey". We often find ourselves in a que 8-10 deep to secure these beauties- "une baguette sil-vous plaits". .90e and a what a bargain!
About now, your'e probably rolling your eyes and thinking, whatever, but remember, a revolution was fought partly over the shortage of this bread. So, what's the big deal? Quite simply, it's the best bread you'll ever eat in your life.
Somewhere about here, Sandy suggest that maybe I describe the sensual experience of eating this awesome bread. Well here goes, let's try:
The thick dark golden brown crust -a slight nutty smell to the nose- crackles into small pieces scattering all over the table top and onto your lap as you break off a piece. A sharp crisp edge breaking off as you take a bite and digging slightly into your mouth. You salivate uncontrolably as the rich, pretzel like taste permeates your mouth. Then follow with a bite of the soft -not too soft- white, chewey center, it too possessing a rich wheat flavor. It's just pure bread!
Best enjoyed warm right from the boulanger (I could eat a whole one by myself before I get it home, but I won't). Slightly steaming under your nose as you bite, crackle into that crust and into that soft chewey bread center.
Oh yuuum!
So good with EVOO, although I must admit no one over here routinely does this, it seems to be an American thing, but best I think with lightly salted warm (don't give me cold) butter.
OOOh yeah!! Jaques was right!
It's also worthy of note here that the boulangers all seem to staff their counters with typically very pretty and very friendly young women. I had mentioned my observations to Sandy a while back who just cast a slightly raised eye in the direction of my by now my somewhat suspicious looking self, but, she too had noticed this "boulangers tradition".
I also have noticed no shortage of men queing up , buying and carrying these baguettes. Perhaps there's a conspiracy by the boulangers to entice the men into their shops and at the same time releve the wives of this "burdensome" chore. It appears to work. I for one can report that it is no chore at all to go to the boulanger twice daily when the staff is this easy on the eyes. Or? Perhaps it's really just for that heavenly just-baked aroma of the bread. You be the judge.
In any case, I now find that I too am unable to take a meal without this fimiliar basket (ok, bowl in my case, I really need to get a basket) of sliced fresh baguette .
As I continue my "slip into the blue" the baguette too has become yet another part of my "fabric of life".
A bientot,
Cousin

Elvis Sighting by Sandy in the South of France

Last night I went to my first French wedding. We were honored by the bride and groom with a seat the at their table. I was seated across from the evening's entertainment, an Elvis impersonator. He was here because our hosts and many of their friends are huge Elvis fans. Luckily for me he spoke very good English. He explained that it was important for him to be able to speak English because he wanted to understand what he was singing. I have never been a big Elvis fan. I guess because he seemed like an old man to me when I was a young woman. I was 20 when he died at the age of 42 and let's face it - he should have stopped wearing those jumpsuits by then. I have to honestly say I had been even less impressed by the impersonators - at least until last night.

Manu, whose stage name is Melvis Bouvey changed my mind. At 41 years old he was physically fit and bore some resemblence to Elvis - as we say in America the "young Elvis". Born and growing up in France, Melvis was 8 years old when Elvis died yet he still had become an adoring fan. As he talked I realized he viewed our Elvis as one of our country's national tresasures. He dreams of going to Memphis - to Graceland of course. "Have you been" he asked. I felt a twinge of guilt when I had to admit that I hadn't been.

He spoke reverently about the King - he performs about 80 of the over 850 songs recorded by Elvis. He even performs a couple of the gospel songs - "Amazing Grace" and "How Great Thou Art" - of course he would not be performing these songs for this event. Tonight he says he is "wearing the leather". He talked about Springsteen being a big fan and that he had written a song he intended for Elvis to record and that Bruce had once "crashed the gates" at Graceland at trying to get in to meet him. He competes yearly in Blackpool, England with other impersonators for bragging rights about who is the closest to Elvis. This year at the January competition he made the semi-finals. He says he has of course watched many hours of Elvis - but doesn't try to duplicate his moves exactly - rather he has learned to feel like Elvis - the moves are now his own.

We must have talked for more than an hour over dinner and a few glasses of wine before it was time for his performance and by then I have to say I was looking forward to it. He wanted to know my favorite Elvis song, without hesitation I answered "Heartbreak Hotel". The time had come and he took the "stage" an area between the pool and the house. His jacket collar stood up, he was dressed head-to-toe in black leather. His first song: "Hearbreak Hotel". He had Elvis's swagger and for that time he had become the King. No wonder some say Elvis is still alive, last night I had dinner with him. Maybe next year I will go to Graceland

A link to a news article about the Blackpool Elvis competition: http://www.blackpoolgazette.co.uk/blackpoolnews/Elvis-impersonators-flock-to-Blackpool.5970779.jp

Fete de la Musique

29 years and counting. Every 21 June this "Feast of Music" is played out. Begun in France, it has become an integral part of the cultural fabric.
It is quite simply, a celebration of music, all kinds of music, all over France and now in over 90 countries worldwide. (www.fetedelamusique.culture.fr)
On the 21st of June small towns and big cities close off their streets and people by the thousands, all kinds of peoples, young and old, rich and poor, peoples of every ethnicity all turn out for the music and it makes for one big ole street party!
It is really quite a fantastic thing to behold. The universal beauty of music to inspire, unite and entertain.
The experience translates perfectly!
And, in our little village, it is all this with perhaps a twist or two. The entire old town around the harbor is closed to traffic, and, it would seem all 18,000 residents turn out for the party. Everywhere, the streets are packed with a sea of people.
Bands set-up willy-nilly all over the village. They play simultaneously, a calcophany of sounds surrounds me.
I loose count at 15 or so bands, but among the varied styles a Celtic/Peruvian band is most unexpected, a decent N'awlins Dixieland jazz band, but most of the bands favor 60's and 70's American/British pop. It's really a trip to hear French people singing English lyrics. Many times I'm sure they don't understand what their singing--- sometimes neither do I.
Imagine this, a rendition of "Sunshine of Your Love"-Cream, the theme from Rocky, two nearly simultaneous versions of "Smoke on the Water", one a bit better than the other and ending "merci beaucoup", then segued into "I Shot the Sheriff".
There is a DJ with no dancers, the requisite "Riders on the Storm", "Highway to Hell", and "Hotel California" and much, much more.
It was tres, tres surreal!
Perhaps, most "disturbing" was the line dancing troupe, accompanied by the worst "cryin' in your beer country music", rebel flags, US flags, fringed chaps, cowboy hats and unfortunately unlike previous years, without the green blow up cactus props. Huuummm?
It was a uniquely French Experience.
One where a few street toughs in leather and mohawks milled through the crowds chugging cheap bottles of rose wine. Sandy muses if one of the toughs might be the designated holder of the "waiters friend" needed to open all of those bottles of rose. No screw caps here!
And in true French style, it is a spontaneous spectacle with joyous outbreaks of dancing, bobbing and weaving, young and old alike mixing it up. A good time was had by all and, most importantly, everyone just seemed to be "in the moment".
Just another of the many things that I adore about this place.
And on that night, at the very same time the very same drama played out in villages, towns and cities, near and far, all across France.
Now, how cool is that?
A bientot,
Cousin Kevin & Sandy

The Dinner

OK, by now you can tell that the gathering of my food and the cooking of that food in my own kitchen is so central to my enjoyment of this place. Simultaneously sensuous and delicious.
We have for years wanted to invite our landlord and his wife-to-be to dinner. For me, to prepare a meal and to offer it to my guest at my table is my highest expression of admiration. They are to be married while we are here and this seemed a perfect time to pitch the offer.
Sandy's always a bit leary of these intercultural affairs, because, let's face it, we really don't speak French, and they really don't speak English. Don't worry, we'll manage. Offer is made- offer is accepted. Friday, vendredi at 8 PM, 20h. Oui! That was easy!
Right,, now,, the menu.
Think I'll do a nice cote du porc (thick pork chops on the bone) marinated in EVO, garlic, balsamic, herbes de provence and a pinch of fresh orange zest. Oh, and some of those little fingerling potatoes sauteed in EVO/butter with shallots, garlic and herbes de provence. A simple salade verte and a starter of onion tarte, a favorite of Sandy's back home- carmelized onions, lardons (bacon), garlic, minced black and green olives, herbes de provence, feta and shredded emmentahler, bake until golden brown, yuuuum!
And for dessert, I think the fraises (strawberries) in a parfait with chantilly creme.
First, a trip by bus to Bandol- stop by the cave au vins to pick up the wine. The rouge, a Domaine Bunan- Moulin des Coste 2004 and a Domaine Pibernon 2004. Both are blends of mouvedre, a rather ornery grape that has been sucessfully managed here with stellar results. Similar to the cotes-du-rhone, these two are spectacular with grilled meats. Also, a primo rose, the Domaine Tempier 2009. I have only read about it, highly anticipated for it is not available in the states. Bus back, about 1hr round trip, that was easy.
Friday morning, vendredi, market visit, oh boy! Won't bore you with the details of another market visit, but it was glorious!
Stop by the boucherie (butcher), C'osseline- for the cote du porc. This place is like a gallery for the meat, artfully presented and simply beautiful. my request made, je voudrais le cote du porc, sil-vous-plaits- cinq (5) piece, 2.5 cm tranches (I would like the pork chops please, 2.5 cm slices), he takes the rack of pork, cleaves it in great strokes (I look, he still has all his fingers, wow) and whittles the chops with a razor sharp knive, steeled before my eyes of course, into the appropriate form. Again, simply beautiful. 1.3 kg for 13e, 50- not bad.
Drop by the boulanger Suirrey on the way home for duo baguette, sil vou-plaits, and on to the house.
Ah, now, duo Pastis on the patio for Sandy and me, before long, time to start the cooking.
But first, a spot of lunch. I'm cooking tonight, so lunch is out. It can be an inexpensive way to enjoy a great resturant meal here. Little cafe by the harbor, boats bobbing out front, a big basket of fresh fish brought to the table for inspection. OOOh, fresh dorade (sea bream) grilled whole, we both jump on it.
Add a bottle of local rose from la Cadiere, oh yeah.
Ok, once again, , up the hill, a bit wobbly.
Time to cook!!
Chopping, chopping and more chopping. salade prepped- will build it later. let's see, sautee the aroamatics for the onion tarte-- build-- top with cheeses and, into our cantanqerous little oven to brown.
UUmmm, smells soooo good. Prep the marinade and combine with the chops in a zip loc bag, ready!
Ok, let's sautee those little fingerlings, eschallotes, garlic, herbes and yep, a big ole pat o' butter.
Open a bottle of Bunan and Pibernon- the attendant at the cave recommended opening a couple of hours prior to drinking, ok, done that!
Hummm! Where's the bottle of propane? I had asked monseiur if he could pick up a full one earlier in the week when the invitation had been made. Don't see one yet and I'm just a little concerned. Oh well,,, I'm sure he'll come thru.
Now,, oh yes, chop the fraises and set in the fridge.
AHHH, I'm in pretty good shape with time to spare.
Hummm, about 19h and the sky's not looking so good. And the gas, no sign of it, actually no sign of Monseiur or Madame either, hummm?
Oh well, press on. Things sometimes work a little strangely here. Table settings prepped, hold off a bit, see what the weather brings. Clear off our little dining table, just in case.
OK! Monseiur and Madam are in the house- good- it's about 15 till 8. How does this work? Do I go up and invite them down- will they just come on down? Oh, I'll just wing it! Sandy's not quite as freewheeling as I, by now she's showing just a bit of stress. Pas de probleme (no problem) I tell her.
I walk out onto the patio to greet Monseiur, he's dressed casually with a jacket and Madame, a casual frock, also with jacket-- awkward pause-- "Keveenn, I forgot to get the gas, I will get it for you now". Wheew! Yes!
After a couple of minutes of confusion over an empty tank, it becomes known that Madame had picked up the gas earlier in the week and told no one. Oh bonne! (good)
Monseiur leads me to the grille to instruct me on its usage-- no need,I did this last year. Oh good! it's beginning to sprinkle now--- shit!
'Bout to go back into the house for the meat and Monseiur and Madame begin to walk off in the direction of their car. HUHH? "Bye bye Keveen, enjoy your dinner".
Into the car, Monseiue, Madame and two of their boys.
I am slackjawed, what the.......?
I am the deer in the headlights as the family drives off and down the street.
I stumble, dazed, back into the house to find a puzzled Sandy standing in the kitchen. She want's to know what's goin' on-- I really don't know!
Things like this happen when you're the stranger in a foreign land
Did Monseiur:
1. Forget the dinner?
2. Misunderstand the invitation or the date?
3. Not want to have dinner?
At times like these it's difficult to figure, but I think definately not #3.
OK, so,,, we still have to eat and boy, we've got plenty of food!
Grab a couple of chops and out to the grille, and,,, yep it's raining. Merde!(shit)
Chops cook quickly, back to the house-- have candle--can't light--don't smoke--they do--aren't here. Oh well,, a delicious meal, and,oh yes, we enjoyed a whole bottle of the Pibernon as a consolation, it was tres tres bonne. A classic experience, not the first or last.
Next day, Sandy, only half jokingly, wonders if Monseiur somehow got the days mixed up, he does that sometimes. You see, it's a little tricky, when both parties don't speak one another's languages, it's easy to assume that the other party understands
what you are saying or even what they are saying to you. Communication is not necessarily occouring. I blow-off her ponderings and say something like, who knows or mysteries of the French.
Later in the day after having returned from the beach, we are leaving on our way to dinner at our favorite little Provencal Cafe, when we are met at the door by, you guessed it, Madame, dressed smartly. "Keveen, would you like to have dinner with us this evening"?
Oh shit! How do I work myself thru this hole? She speaks even less English than Monseiur.
Madame,,, cest une probleme! Le dinner pour vendredi. (there is a problem, the dinner was friday).Puzzled look in return,,, ajourdui, c'est samedei. Oui,,, more puzzled look. Oh God, this is awful! After five minutes or so of this awkwardness, I manage, or not, to reschedule dinner to diamanche (Sunday) 20h, 8pm. Following various repetitions and "agreement", I think we have and understanding.
deja vu--go to market--go to butcher--go to boulanger--chop, chop, prep, prep--tutto bien (everything's fine), orrrr..... Sandy's doing her pondering again, you don't suppose they think we've invited ourselves to dinner and that they too are fixing dinner?
Seriously,, at just about this time Monseiur comes up the drive , "bonjour--bonjour", and into the house with beacoups shopping bags.
Ohhh shiiit-- no way?
I do the only thing I know, I sit down and in my "best" French I write up a menu for this evenings dinner, my dinner that is. up the stairs and present this to Madame, who guides me into the kitchen. Just as I hand her the menu, I take notice of Monseiur out of the corner of my eye, he is,,, brushing a moutarde marinade on,,, yess,, noo,,, a big ole pile of cote du porc.
Shit!!!!
Madame, puzzled look again--me stupid look again--much awkward verbal groping.
Finally it hits-we both realize what's up- we are both cooking the same dinner.
Compromise--her taboule salade--me no potatoes--her tarte au pomme (apple pie)--me no fraises--both meat for the unknownst to me six friends and family who are also comming. But wait, one speaks english very well, or so I'm told. Yes,, well then,, all will be clear after this evening-- hummm?
Well I must say, dinner goes off wonderfully, despite an initial glitch with Monsieurs grille. Plenty of food and drink, and, yesss, the one guest did speak English, beautifully, actually all of them speak some.
We, are of course, a curiousity with much questioning. The French in these parts are intensely curious about America and Americans, and hey,,, we are the token Americans. Everyone is so charming, so welcoming and so quick to make us feel at ease.
Also, having the benefit of an introduction by one of their peers further eases us into the fold.
It was a wonderful time--many toast and pronouncements--the story of the "comedy of errors" being somewhat explained to all that evening--I only too willing to accept the blame for the misunderstandings--they--much to gracious to allow me to do so.
The party breaks up around 1am--much cheek kissing, bonne nuits, abientos.
It's been just great and we'll see them all again in two weeks for the upcoming wedding.
Bonne nuit,
Cousin

Antibes, France - I get it now

Antibes is a small city in the south of France with a population of about 75,000. It is a part of the famed French Riviera that the French refer to as the Cote d'Azur, which literally means blue coast referring to the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean sea. Pablo Picasso was probably Antibes most famous resident. He made it his home for a couple of years after WW II. During his time in Antibes he was living with his mistress Francoise Gilot, who was 40 years younger than he. The end of the war and his time with Francoise was a very happy time for Picasso. In Antibes he completed what is Kevin's most favorite Picasso painting called "Joie de Vivre". The painting expressed Pablo's "joy of life" and was inspired by Francoise Gilot. As an interesting aside - Picasso and Gilot split up after a few years and she later married Jonas Salk - the inventor of the polio vaccine. Hard to imagine a life where one of your love's is one of the most famous painters of modern times and the other eliminated polio in our time - must have been a incredible life for Francoise.

Twelve years ago, Kevin and I made our first trip to France - and I didn't get it. I had grown up a hound dog American kid that liked plain hamburgers (nothing on them at all), french fries and white bread toast with the crust cut off. Our first trip abroad had been two years ago and was to Great Britian - a safe English speaking country with regular looking meat and potatoes fare. France was truly different and it took me out of my comfort zone - big time - and I didn't get it. No matter how much English you spoke to them they just kept speaking French - whether you understood it or not. Then there is the food - this was a place where snails and ground up goose liver are considered delicacies. I didn't get it at all.

One of the places we went that first trip was to the seaside city of Antibes. It was France in full force. The beach wasn't sandy like I expected. The shops closed for a couple of hours in the afternoon. There wasn't a single convienence store with gas pumps out front where you could grab a pack of chips and a soft drink whenever you wanted it. The old town was just that - old - it needed paint everywhere and it had small cramped alley ways - nothing new and shiny like in the States. Then there were the restaraunts - each meal was a tense struggle to figure out what it all meant. To select a restaraunt we trolled the displayed menu boards looking desperately for something I could / would eat. And believe it or not - not a single restaraunt offered sweet iced tea - not even unsweet iced tea.

In the twelve years since I have been lucky enough to travel to Europe every year - mostly to Italy and France with some occasional Switzerland and Austria tossed in. Over the years it has seeped into me - becoming part of me and me part of it. It has changed my ideas about so many things. Seeing cultures that put people and family first in their day to day lives, not just as a part of their stated political creed, has made me realize we really don't need so many things to be content. Cultures where fresh local food and wine reign supreme and not a single chain restaraunt in sight. The "Mom and Pop" that serve your dinner will get to keep the money instead of it going to a faceless corporation.

Ok - so here it is 12 years later and I am back in Antibes. I look at the pebbly beach and it glistens in the bright, white sun with the turquoise fading to the cobalt blue of the Mediterranean sea. We go to the Picasso museum so Kevin can at last see "Joie de Vivre" (Joy of Life). The covered market place is a buzz with people, fresh scrumptuous fruit and vegetables, cheeses, olives, spices and colorful, fragrant bouquest of flowers. The charming old town has a patina wash from the hundreds of years of people living their lives there one day at a time. The narrow streets are now paths to be explored. Kevin and I go for a "menu licking" stroll, which involves reviewing all the menus to pick a spot for this evening's much anticipated meal. There are many starters to choose from usually one that includes chevre chaud (melted goat cheese) - yum! For the main course there is almost always an offering of Moules Frites (Mussells and french fries) and a selection of fresh fish - brought to the table on a platter as a part of the menu presentation to show the diner what is fresh and available today. Also, always the viandes (meats), beef steak with Roquefort or leg of lamb to name a few common offerings. Before we eat we have an apertif (to stimulate the appetite) - a pastis or maybe a Kir Royale. After we choose what we will eat we now must decide amoung the local wines to pick just the right one to accomany our meal.

One afternoon we put down in a cafe for a carafe (or two) of the local rose wine and a rich bubbly jambon and fromage (ham and cheese) crepe as a snack. It is the weekend and some drummers take the square and start pounding a rythm that silences everything else. After a few minutes of playing they begin a slow march down one of the narrow streets with throngs of people including me following behind. The drum beats are mesmerizing as the sounds richochet from the old buildings and into my chest. Warm from the wine, I feel Pablo's joy as I march behind the drummers. This time I get it - I so get it!!!

Cousin Sandy