We've moved on to the the month of August already, and I just realized that I haven't written since the 23rd of July!
August is a special month in France, one could almost call it a holy month, holy in the way that something sacred is holy. And so, you ask me, what is sacred during this, the 8th month of our calendar, the month that the emperor Auguste decided to name after himself? Well, my dear friends, it is vacation time that is sacred!
It used to be that entire factories closed down and stopped functioning during the merry month of august - and everyone, that is, all those who had a job, or money to spend, or both, went away. But where did they all go? I sometimes have visions of the entire country's population leaping into the sea ( and there is a lot of sea to jump into around France) - emptying the country of all its inhabitants like in a good, bad catastrophe movie.
Now, to be fair, the idea of a paid vacation for all, arose in the 30's, under the Socialist government called the Popular Front, which government did indeed do wonders to defend and protect workers and all of the masses of the un-wealthy. The first paid vacation was created - for one week - in August, and thousands and thousands of people took off on their bicycles, in buses, in trains, on foot, to go to camps for workers, or to the sea or to the mountains; anywhere that was away from their work and the tedium of 6 day weeks. The creation of paid vacation and other forms of social aide was the great accomplishment of the 1930's in Europe and, to a lesser degree, in the United States - but the French seem to have taken the concept of a paid vacation very quickly to heart.
Years passed, the economic situation of France vastly improved after WW II, and, little by little, with different movements and political changes, the amount of paid vacation has accrued to a non -modest five full weeks a year, (not including various days off for national holidays). To my knowledge the only country which has more paid vacation is Germany, which has six weeks, instead of five.
The problem is, that until quite recently, everyone took their vacations at the same time. The French, in spite of a desire to appear to be individualistic and non - conformist ( as in not wanting to obey certain laws that seem to infringe on the idea of personal liberty, like wearing a seat-belt or not smoking in public places) are, in fact, an incredibly conformist people. Lunchtime is at noon, dinner is at 8, cheese is at the end of a meal, and god forbid you don't eat things in the right order ( oh, we'll have to talk about food soon, won't we). Surely, there was a practical reason to have everyone go on vacation at the same time, but to an American, the idea of closing down a business; a shop, a restaurant, or A FACTORY, for several weeks, seems incomprehensible.
Paris is famous for being empty of its citizens during the month of August : who are all those people walking around? Tourists. Lines are shorter at museums, there are no traffic jams, ( it is not for nothing that the mayor of Paris began his ingenious new idea of bikes for rent everywhere in the month of August) and hotels are cheaper, believe it or not.
Here in the backwaters of provincial France (for Toulouse, although a city by most standards, is not a capital) the 'charm' of a quieter and calmer urban environment turns into a stultifying and, at least for me, depressing deadness. The mayor of Toulouse has copied the mayor of Paris, and has made public street parking free for the first half of the month - trouble is there is no one around to park their car - half the shops are closed, the streets are empty of crowds and the vague hum of human activity that seems to hover over a city during most of the year is gone.
Ten days ago, I had a very bad back pain that lasted for three days. I went to see my local doctor ( now he is an exception, since he takes his vacation after school begins, but that is because he is older, and prefers to go away when flights are cheaper and being a bit of a snob, when there are fewer people around to bother him). He gave me a prescription for x-rays, since I was a little nervous and wanted to make sure that it wasn't anything serious. I called my clinic where I usually get x-rays and other things of that order done, and got a message that told me to have a good vacation and that they would see me at the end of the month. So I pulled out my trusty yellowpages and started to call the other places that are not at the opposite end of the city and to my great surprise, I discovered that there aren't that many radiology clinics altogether. The second one I called, a secretary answered and told me that they were closing the next day for two weeks. The third one gave me a recording that also told me of their good fortune to be on vacation and yes, they would be back in another two weeks. The fourth one didn't tell me anything at all since there was no message - just a phone that kept ringing. It was the fifth one that did answer, gave me an appointment for two days later, and then had me wait two hours before taking me in.
As I sat in the waiting room, I wondered how many others were there because their "usual" clinic was closed. Now, of course, I know that I could have gone to the emergency room of one of the hospitals or private clinics that do function, if with a reduced staff, all the time. But my condition did not warrant such a dramatic choice. It did make me wonder though, about a society that is capable of slowing things down to such an extent that the pulse of its life seems to be barely there. For those away on vacation, the rhythm is very different - but for those who choose to or must stay home, either because they don't have the means to go away, or because they do have to work, the city seems to reject them as unwanted and annoying reminders of what there is not.
I live in a part of the city that could be considered to be suburb - just on the fringe of the urban environment, but far from the main center. And it is not by chance that I avoid going into the center as much as I can. At least here, in my little garden, watching my cat play or sleep, listening to some birds chattering away on the phone line in front of the house ( now there is a population that wouldn't understand the concept of vacation) I can pretend that the world out there is as usual. I can't wait until the end of the month, when everyone comes home and the parking lots are full again.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Welcome back ! Can't believe it has been more than a week since I wrote my last entry -- a few days away from home and routines are easily disrupted. Today summer has taken a little holiday; for the greater good of all. The weather is crisp and clear, after 24 hours of steady rain, and even though there are clouds in the sky, there is sun too, the humidity has dropped about 200% and there is a delightful breeze that lightens everything up.
Watched a little of the Tour de France yesterday since I knew that they were going to go up, down, and up again on the pass called Tourmelet in the Pyrenees mountains, about 120 km almost directly south of here. The Tour de France is a strange phenomenon, from a cultural point of view; if you only watch it on tv it is a sports event ( for better or for worse as far as drugs and scandals go) with a huge bevy of cyclists all crammed together on what seem like terribly narrow , windy roads, often being bothered by the by-standers who can't seem to help themselves from putting out a hand, a foot or an arm to touch their heroes or root the guys on. But, if you have had the experience of being a 'live" spectator, you discover that you are in fact, part of the show, and that the riders, as important as they might seem to be for sponsors and the television audience, are only a very minute part of the entertainment.
In fact, the Tour de France is one big advertisement for the products of the sponsors. My first (but not last) Tour experience was up in the Pyrenees, on a plateau that is, in the winter, a favorite place for cross-country skiing. I had been at a friend's country house for a few days and found out that the Tour would pass nearby ( this is about seven or eight years ago) and wanting very much to see 'our' boy, Lance go by, I decided to go and wait for the cyclists to come around a curve on the mountainside. My friends said to make sure I got there a couple of hours early which seemed very strange to me, as I couldn't imagine that there would be THAT many people in that exact spot, but dutifully, I took myself off well ahead of the time the riders were supposed to arrive, found myself a little cozy spot right on an uphill curve, very cleverly thinking that at least they wouldn't be going as fast as if they were on the downhill side, and settled down with a sun hat and a bottle of water to wait. More people arrived, families with children, grandparents, folding chairs, picnics, and even, horror of horrors, radios. After 45 minutes I realized that I was being surrounded, literally, by groups of people who seemed to be doing a strange dance, leaning over the road, stretching out their arms, and then pulling back. I felt a little out of sync with them, and wondered if there was some special archaic French ritual that was being re-enacted in front of me.
Rumblings overhead announced, to my great astonishment, a few helicoptors flying low, then about ten motorcycle cops came by, heading what seemed to be the president's cortege, and then, around the corner came a sight; a giant tire, (would say Michelin but in truth I dont remember what brand it was) rolling by on top of a flatbed truck, topped by three or four young girls who were throwing things, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. And low and behold, these folks who had been starting to crowd me out, performed their dance, leaning out, stretching as far as possible and when the objects thrown went beyond the road's edge, they all ran back, frantically, looking for the goods that had been jettisoned. After the giant tire, a huge pink pig came rumbling by, and more young maidens atop it, throwing out little objects, again once to the left, once to the right, and this time I figured I might as well join in and go for whatever it was, so I tried to pick up one only to have a chubby fingered ten year old grab it out from under me, and scream out to her parents, 'I got one, I got one'. Well.!! For the next hour, one float after another came rumbling by, sometimes throwing out candy, sometimes cookies, sometimes (ah, the pig!!) little itsy, bitsy sausages, sometimes fans in the shape of a hand, or little suncaps, keychains, or bottle openers, all of which have the Tour de France insignia, and all of which were little samplings and reminders of the great beneficence of the sponsors of the bike tour. The caravans, as they are called in French, took over one hour to pass, intermingled with motorcycles, police cars bullhorning their way through, tour employees passing out water bottles and making sure that the road stayed relatively free of interference, and load carnival music and voices barking out the names of each coming presentation.
Only after all the procession had passed, and a great void was created by the suddenly empty roads, did the crowd quiet down, move back ( counting out and bagging their booty all the way) and position itself to finally get a glimpse of the riders. Five minutes, ten, fifteen, complete silence, and then off in the distance, a humming noise began, getting louder and louder then whirling by; first the protection of the cavalcade of motorcycles, then the cars filled with newspeople, cameras, sound equipment, the cameramen hanging out the windows of the cars dangling their bodies as far out as possible to get the best shot, the vans for each team piled high with extra bikes, filled, one could imagine with emergency equipment, medicine and sustenance, and then, finally, finally, coming down from the skies in a quasi-biblical manner, the announcement, 'ladies and gentlemen, clear the way, the riders are about to approach'. Straining my neck, trying to peer out over the heads of the family who had poached the square meter of space just in front of me, I leaned a little and whoosh, there was a blur of yellow, red and blue that flashed passed my eyes, a movement almost too quick for my brain to focus on, and the riders were there and gone.
When I looked at my watch, a couple of minutes later, I realized it had indeed been over two hours that I was standing there. But I couldnt really say that I had seen the bikers or been able to wave at Armstrong, or any other racer for that matter. Everyone else was smiling and content, but I was left with the strangest feeling of having been had : all this for a bunch of stupid little souvenirs and junk to eat, but where was the race?
Truth be told, I have since seen the Tour de France four other times, and once even managed to be on the barricades in Paris when Armstrong came around with the other riders for the ritual seven times around the Seine before the final sprint into first place. Having been forewarned, I learned to enjoy the game of leaping for rewards, feeling somewhat like a monkey in a training session waiting for the prize for doing the right task - in this case, jumping up and down and applauding at the right moments, waving my arms and screaming like the rest of the public as the cavalcade goes by. But of course, if you really want to watch the riders, see the scenery, and get a sense of how difficult it is for them, or how accidented the landscape is, there is no point in going out in 95° heat, or 55° rain and fog to stand for two or three hours, all you have to do is put on the tv, sit down, and enjoy the view, which is what I did yesterday, as I watched the bikes descend the pass at over 90 km an hour, in a dense white fog, hoping that there would be no accidents to spoil the final sprint to the finish.
The French love to criticize and or make fun of Americans for their crass commercial attitude toward life - everything is about profit, everything is for the mighty dollar. I wonder really what they imagine they are doing as they participate so heartily and seriously in the big show called the tour de France. A final note; president Sarkozy, the much maligned man, was interviewed at the end of the day's run; he happens to be a fairly athletic guy and does a lot of bike-riding, but he wasn't there to congratulate the day's winner, he was there to shake hands with Lance Armstrong. When asked, more or less, by one of the French journalists, why he would want to shake hands with a man who is now considered by many not only to be a seven times winner, but a major league cheater in using undetected drugs,his answer was that he wanted to shake hands with a survivor - someone who had come back from almost dying to go on to accomplish an incredible physical feat, to triumph by will and determination. Now, I know that Armstrong is a good friend of "W's" so he ain't necessarily a good friend of mine, but I kind of liked what was said about him. Funny, we don't always know who the good guys always are,or what people will say, do we?
Watched a little of the Tour de France yesterday since I knew that they were going to go up, down, and up again on the pass called Tourmelet in the Pyrenees mountains, about 120 km almost directly south of here. The Tour de France is a strange phenomenon, from a cultural point of view; if you only watch it on tv it is a sports event ( for better or for worse as far as drugs and scandals go) with a huge bevy of cyclists all crammed together on what seem like terribly narrow , windy roads, often being bothered by the by-standers who can't seem to help themselves from putting out a hand, a foot or an arm to touch their heroes or root the guys on. But, if you have had the experience of being a 'live" spectator, you discover that you are in fact, part of the show, and that the riders, as important as they might seem to be for sponsors and the television audience, are only a very minute part of the entertainment.
In fact, the Tour de France is one big advertisement for the products of the sponsors. My first (but not last) Tour experience was up in the Pyrenees, on a plateau that is, in the winter, a favorite place for cross-country skiing. I had been at a friend's country house for a few days and found out that the Tour would pass nearby ( this is about seven or eight years ago) and wanting very much to see 'our' boy, Lance go by, I decided to go and wait for the cyclists to come around a curve on the mountainside. My friends said to make sure I got there a couple of hours early which seemed very strange to me, as I couldn't imagine that there would be THAT many people in that exact spot, but dutifully, I took myself off well ahead of the time the riders were supposed to arrive, found myself a little cozy spot right on an uphill curve, very cleverly thinking that at least they wouldn't be going as fast as if they were on the downhill side, and settled down with a sun hat and a bottle of water to wait. More people arrived, families with children, grandparents, folding chairs, picnics, and even, horror of horrors, radios. After 45 minutes I realized that I was being surrounded, literally, by groups of people who seemed to be doing a strange dance, leaning over the road, stretching out their arms, and then pulling back. I felt a little out of sync with them, and wondered if there was some special archaic French ritual that was being re-enacted in front of me.
Rumblings overhead announced, to my great astonishment, a few helicoptors flying low, then about ten motorcycle cops came by, heading what seemed to be the president's cortege, and then, around the corner came a sight; a giant tire, (would say Michelin but in truth I dont remember what brand it was) rolling by on top of a flatbed truck, topped by three or four young girls who were throwing things, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right. And low and behold, these folks who had been starting to crowd me out, performed their dance, leaning out, stretching as far as possible and when the objects thrown went beyond the road's edge, they all ran back, frantically, looking for the goods that had been jettisoned. After the giant tire, a huge pink pig came rumbling by, and more young maidens atop it, throwing out little objects, again once to the left, once to the right, and this time I figured I might as well join in and go for whatever it was, so I tried to pick up one only to have a chubby fingered ten year old grab it out from under me, and scream out to her parents, 'I got one, I got one'. Well.!! For the next hour, one float after another came rumbling by, sometimes throwing out candy, sometimes cookies, sometimes (ah, the pig!!) little itsy, bitsy sausages, sometimes fans in the shape of a hand, or little suncaps, keychains, or bottle openers, all of which have the Tour de France insignia, and all of which were little samplings and reminders of the great beneficence of the sponsors of the bike tour. The caravans, as they are called in French, took over one hour to pass, intermingled with motorcycles, police cars bullhorning their way through, tour employees passing out water bottles and making sure that the road stayed relatively free of interference, and load carnival music and voices barking out the names of each coming presentation.
Only after all the procession had passed, and a great void was created by the suddenly empty roads, did the crowd quiet down, move back ( counting out and bagging their booty all the way) and position itself to finally get a glimpse of the riders. Five minutes, ten, fifteen, complete silence, and then off in the distance, a humming noise began, getting louder and louder then whirling by; first the protection of the cavalcade of motorcycles, then the cars filled with newspeople, cameras, sound equipment, the cameramen hanging out the windows of the cars dangling their bodies as far out as possible to get the best shot, the vans for each team piled high with extra bikes, filled, one could imagine with emergency equipment, medicine and sustenance, and then, finally, finally, coming down from the skies in a quasi-biblical manner, the announcement, 'ladies and gentlemen, clear the way, the riders are about to approach'. Straining my neck, trying to peer out over the heads of the family who had poached the square meter of space just in front of me, I leaned a little and whoosh, there was a blur of yellow, red and blue that flashed passed my eyes, a movement almost too quick for my brain to focus on, and the riders were there and gone.
When I looked at my watch, a couple of minutes later, I realized it had indeed been over two hours that I was standing there. But I couldnt really say that I had seen the bikers or been able to wave at Armstrong, or any other racer for that matter. Everyone else was smiling and content, but I was left with the strangest feeling of having been had : all this for a bunch of stupid little souvenirs and junk to eat, but where was the race?
Truth be told, I have since seen the Tour de France four other times, and once even managed to be on the barricades in Paris when Armstrong came around with the other riders for the ritual seven times around the Seine before the final sprint into first place. Having been forewarned, I learned to enjoy the game of leaping for rewards, feeling somewhat like a monkey in a training session waiting for the prize for doing the right task - in this case, jumping up and down and applauding at the right moments, waving my arms and screaming like the rest of the public as the cavalcade goes by. But of course, if you really want to watch the riders, see the scenery, and get a sense of how difficult it is for them, or how accidented the landscape is, there is no point in going out in 95° heat, or 55° rain and fog to stand for two or three hours, all you have to do is put on the tv, sit down, and enjoy the view, which is what I did yesterday, as I watched the bikes descend the pass at over 90 km an hour, in a dense white fog, hoping that there would be no accidents to spoil the final sprint to the finish.
The French love to criticize and or make fun of Americans for their crass commercial attitude toward life - everything is about profit, everything is for the mighty dollar. I wonder really what they imagine they are doing as they participate so heartily and seriously in the big show called the tour de France. A final note; president Sarkozy, the much maligned man, was interviewed at the end of the day's run; he happens to be a fairly athletic guy and does a lot of bike-riding, but he wasn't there to congratulate the day's winner, he was there to shake hands with Lance Armstrong. When asked, more or less, by one of the French journalists, why he would want to shake hands with a man who is now considered by many not only to be a seven times winner, but a major league cheater in using undetected drugs,his answer was that he wanted to shake hands with a survivor - someone who had come back from almost dying to go on to accomplish an incredible physical feat, to triumph by will and determination. Now, I know that Armstrong is a good friend of "W's" so he ain't necessarily a good friend of mine, but I kind of liked what was said about him. Funny, we don't always know who the good guys always are,or what people will say, do we?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Ok, so it is now two days since I decided to begin this 'adventure' --writing to myself and to you out there at the same time - I'm still not sure what the difference is between this and sending off messages to individual friends, except of course, that there is a shared community able to read my ramblings and comment on them.
Today is the 14th of July, for us Americans, it is called Bastille Day, for the French, it is Independence Day. My dear nephew, who was here a few years ago, made the mistake in his youthful exuberance, of wishing someone a Happy Bastille Day with a great big smile and hug, and the poor person (dont remember who it was) was quite astonished and a little embarrassed at the joyfulness of the greeting and the incomprehensible name. For the French, those that I know at least, it is a day off ( if you dont already have the summer off) time for a picnic, fireworks at night - some quite spectacular like in Carcassonne, and maybe a long aperitif hour. The tv is filled with the military parades down the Champs Elysees, and the people citings of the "honored" guests who sit alongside the president, his wife and all the ministers of the government. There is always something 'royal' and truly archaic about the procession and the grandstands, with the students of the many military schools - which now include a good quota of women- passing on review in their (oh, so very hot in this heat) uniforms bearing arms and stiff backbones, followed by men on horses, foreign legion soldiers, foreign army guests, and the inevitable display of military power and prowess with artillery, overhead flights of superexpensive and sophisticated flying machines, and the final poof of red, white and blue smoke that arcs its way down the avenue.
The 4th of July isnt very different of course, but, in spite of the military, aren't we proud of ourselves tone to both of these holidays, there is an aristocratic, regal quality to the 14th that doesn't quite exist in the States. The French Revolution, and its aftermath, it seems to me, has never completely eradicated the monarchal element of society here, which some of my French friends would adamantly deny no doubt.
Bon, as they say in French, holidays here, do not mean an extra shopping day at the mall - all stores are closed, except of course the local baker and butcher and little ethnic grocery markets which stay open the morning catering to all who have not done their shopping beforehand and or who have slept late and forgotten that the stores are closed because it is a national holiday. All are off, of course, except the people who work at home, for themselves, or the construction workers who have to catch up on the building of the many new apartment units and houses under construction because of the excessive heat when they have to take off half a day. Days off are sacred, as are the days that stores are closed : don't mess with this. Sarkozy's government has tried to change the work-labor laws to allow stores to stay open 7 days but there is too much opposition to it, some of it for good reasons, and so, except for highly touristic areas like the Riviera, most shopping is out for Sundays. Of course, this gives everyone, including me, a chance to go to the local outdoor market, a truly wonderful institution all over the country. Pity the poor people who live in a town where the market is on Saturday, or another day of the week, whatever do they do on Sundays?
Go buy your fresh fruits and veggies, some goat cheese (if you are so inclined), eggs, bread - oh,the bread here, we have to talk about bread more seriously soon!- and look at the plants, hats, and other bric à brac of all sorts sold.
My local market even has a caravan coffee vendor - he sells teas too. The line to get a little one- sip coffee ( weaker than in Italy, not quite ever so delicious, but not bad)is four deep and the chatter is long and non-stop. I sometimes go with a friend of mine ( girl stuff mostly - time to talk and walk and not hurry) and we once waited 20 minutes to be served, but in the end it was worth it.
One of the things that living here in France has done, is make me realize just how much most of the world isn't in a hurry. Twenty minutes to stand and wait to see if you can order a tiny little coffee and pay 1.30 euros for it!!! The truth is that some Sundays I am too impatient to wait - and wonder how any business survives with a rhythm of service that defies all logic - and then I think how American I am, how Eastern American that is. So I try to maintain a certain sense of humor about service and cultural differences; four hour meals and two hour aperitifs and cashiers in supermarkets who turn to talk to their colleagues to tell them about what they did the night before, just as I am ready to pay for my twenty five or more items and want desperately to get OUT OF THERE! On good days, I take a deep breath and nod my head and walk away smiling, and on bad days I wonder what I am doing here in this inefficient (really?) and mostly far more user friendly (mostly) society.
Enough ramblings for one day - today there is a lovely breeze in spite of the heavy humidity in the air. Oscar the cat has shown the way by moving about a bit - he is now somewhere under the plum tree in back of the house, waiting with cat-optimism for a small unsuspecting creature to pass by close enough so that he can catch it without making too much of an effort. It is cool-ER, but let's not exaggerate!!!!!!
Today is the 14th of July, for us Americans, it is called Bastille Day, for the French, it is Independence Day. My dear nephew, who was here a few years ago, made the mistake in his youthful exuberance, of wishing someone a Happy Bastille Day with a great big smile and hug, and the poor person (dont remember who it was) was quite astonished and a little embarrassed at the joyfulness of the greeting and the incomprehensible name. For the French, those that I know at least, it is a day off ( if you dont already have the summer off) time for a picnic, fireworks at night - some quite spectacular like in Carcassonne, and maybe a long aperitif hour. The tv is filled with the military parades down the Champs Elysees, and the people citings of the "honored" guests who sit alongside the president, his wife and all the ministers of the government. There is always something 'royal' and truly archaic about the procession and the grandstands, with the students of the many military schools - which now include a good quota of women- passing on review in their (oh, so very hot in this heat) uniforms bearing arms and stiff backbones, followed by men on horses, foreign legion soldiers, foreign army guests, and the inevitable display of military power and prowess with artillery, overhead flights of superexpensive and sophisticated flying machines, and the final poof of red, white and blue smoke that arcs its way down the avenue.
The 4th of July isnt very different of course, but, in spite of the military, aren't we proud of ourselves tone to both of these holidays, there is an aristocratic, regal quality to the 14th that doesn't quite exist in the States. The French Revolution, and its aftermath, it seems to me, has never completely eradicated the monarchal element of society here, which some of my French friends would adamantly deny no doubt.
Bon, as they say in French, holidays here, do not mean an extra shopping day at the mall - all stores are closed, except of course the local baker and butcher and little ethnic grocery markets which stay open the morning catering to all who have not done their shopping beforehand and or who have slept late and forgotten that the stores are closed because it is a national holiday. All are off, of course, except the people who work at home, for themselves, or the construction workers who have to catch up on the building of the many new apartment units and houses under construction because of the excessive heat when they have to take off half a day. Days off are sacred, as are the days that stores are closed : don't mess with this. Sarkozy's government has tried to change the work-labor laws to allow stores to stay open 7 days but there is too much opposition to it, some of it for good reasons, and so, except for highly touristic areas like the Riviera, most shopping is out for Sundays. Of course, this gives everyone, including me, a chance to go to the local outdoor market, a truly wonderful institution all over the country. Pity the poor people who live in a town where the market is on Saturday, or another day of the week, whatever do they do on Sundays?
Go buy your fresh fruits and veggies, some goat cheese (if you are so inclined), eggs, bread - oh,the bread here, we have to talk about bread more seriously soon!- and look at the plants, hats, and other bric à brac of all sorts sold.
My local market even has a caravan coffee vendor - he sells teas too. The line to get a little one- sip coffee ( weaker than in Italy, not quite ever so delicious, but not bad)is four deep and the chatter is long and non-stop. I sometimes go with a friend of mine ( girl stuff mostly - time to talk and walk and not hurry) and we once waited 20 minutes to be served, but in the end it was worth it.
One of the things that living here in France has done, is make me realize just how much most of the world isn't in a hurry. Twenty minutes to stand and wait to see if you can order a tiny little coffee and pay 1.30 euros for it!!! The truth is that some Sundays I am too impatient to wait - and wonder how any business survives with a rhythm of service that defies all logic - and then I think how American I am, how Eastern American that is. So I try to maintain a certain sense of humor about service and cultural differences; four hour meals and two hour aperitifs and cashiers in supermarkets who turn to talk to their colleagues to tell them about what they did the night before, just as I am ready to pay for my twenty five or more items and want desperately to get OUT OF THERE! On good days, I take a deep breath and nod my head and walk away smiling, and on bad days I wonder what I am doing here in this inefficient (really?) and mostly far more user friendly (mostly) society.
Enough ramblings for one day - today there is a lovely breeze in spite of the heavy humidity in the air. Oscar the cat has shown the way by moving about a bit - he is now somewhere under the plum tree in back of the house, waiting with cat-optimism for a small unsuspecting creature to pass by close enough so that he can catch it without making too much of an effort. It is cool-ER, but let's not exaggerate!!!!!!
Monday, July 12, 2010
chapter one - welcome to some summertime thoughts
A BLOG!!! I'm finally doing one.
I've been thinking of this for a long time now, but reading the blog of a fellow expat American has finally decided me!! The heat must have something to do with it too, as here, in the southwest of France, we are having what would clearly be called a heatwave in the States, but which is simply indicated as "many days of ( seasonal) hot weather" by the people on tv. To be a real heatwave the air, temperature, humidity, and number of fainting or dying people has to be considered - as well as the number of days counted; not more than or less than. Very French, though to be honest, I don't really know what the scientific definition of a heatwave is either! What I do know, is that I have been sweating for the last two weeks without any reprieve - closing up the shutters on the windows and doors and putting on a couple of small fans doesn't seem to help very much. My husband takes five showers a day - but then he walks around dripping water everywhere -- me, it just seems to make my brain a little slower, my gestures seem to be often in slow motion and now that school is out ( really out for me, but that is for another chapter) and vacationtime has taken hold of my psyche, I have decided that I can finally try new things.
Oscar ( my cat, who is one of the main characters in my life and therefore in my blog) has adopted a round and low flower pot as his summer bed: being as he is a small cat, with a short crooked tail, he fits into the pot perfectly- usually his paws under his head, and a snug curling up of his tail, make him a size 6 cat in a size 6 pot. But in the last two days, I have seen him put his head out over the edge of the terra cotta and hang out his tongue a little, a sure sign that he, also, is reaching his limit with this heat. Yesterday I think he moved three times in 12 hours - which might be a record of sloth, even for him. The only time he perks up his ears is when he hears the refrigerator open, that is, if he isn't really asleep.
So anyway, welcome to my blog. I would like to write about life here in southwest France; other people are doing expat blogs - nothing new about that. But I want to write about what I like here, what I have discovered about life, about history,art, people and ultimately myself, from my years of living abroad as a foreigner, by choice.
The world is a small place now, but also a much bigger one than we want to think it is. we can't be everywhere, so I like to think that the area I live in represents a microcosm of the bigger world, with all the good and bad things that that contains.
Last night some people in the house across the way from us screamed with joy when Spain won the World Cup. Were they Spanish or just liked that team more than the Dutch one? Don't know, but here, everyone has an opinion about sports, teams, nationalities, politicians, food and the weather - perhaps in that order. And one of the biggest differences with Americans, is that arguing about all these things is considered to be a sport in and of itself; everyone has an opinion, usually very clearly defined, and everyone makes sure that their opinion is known by others. Pascal's famous 'I think therefore I am, is more appropriately, I argue, therefore I am.
But if the arguing is about soccer teams, money, players, and national pride, well, that is what the world is about right now isn't it? Poor Mandela, they made him come out for the final, huddled in winter clothes, hat and smile on, the national symbol, one more time on display. But I was glad that there had been no violence during the games in South Africa - I just hope that some of the money spent for the stadiums and the transportation help the locals after the glory and the journalists have faded away.
Oh, I just felt a little breeze. How nice. The cat got out of his pot and is walking across the little lawn we have - time to go put some dinner together while the temperature is four degrees lower!
Will be back soon - hope you'll stay with me as I ramble on during the lazy days of summer.
I've been thinking of this for a long time now, but reading the blog of a fellow expat American has finally decided me!! The heat must have something to do with it too, as here, in the southwest of France, we are having what would clearly be called a heatwave in the States, but which is simply indicated as "many days of ( seasonal) hot weather" by the people on tv. To be a real heatwave the air, temperature, humidity, and number of fainting or dying people has to be considered - as well as the number of days counted; not more than or less than. Very French, though to be honest, I don't really know what the scientific definition of a heatwave is either! What I do know, is that I have been sweating for the last two weeks without any reprieve - closing up the shutters on the windows and doors and putting on a couple of small fans doesn't seem to help very much. My husband takes five showers a day - but then he walks around dripping water everywhere -- me, it just seems to make my brain a little slower, my gestures seem to be often in slow motion and now that school is out ( really out for me, but that is for another chapter) and vacationtime has taken hold of my psyche, I have decided that I can finally try new things.
Oscar ( my cat, who is one of the main characters in my life and therefore in my blog) has adopted a round and low flower pot as his summer bed: being as he is a small cat, with a short crooked tail, he fits into the pot perfectly- usually his paws under his head, and a snug curling up of his tail, make him a size 6 cat in a size 6 pot. But in the last two days, I have seen him put his head out over the edge of the terra cotta and hang out his tongue a little, a sure sign that he, also, is reaching his limit with this heat. Yesterday I think he moved three times in 12 hours - which might be a record of sloth, even for him. The only time he perks up his ears is when he hears the refrigerator open, that is, if he isn't really asleep.
So anyway, welcome to my blog. I would like to write about life here in southwest France; other people are doing expat blogs - nothing new about that. But I want to write about what I like here, what I have discovered about life, about history,art, people and ultimately myself, from my years of living abroad as a foreigner, by choice.
The world is a small place now, but also a much bigger one than we want to think it is. we can't be everywhere, so I like to think that the area I live in represents a microcosm of the bigger world, with all the good and bad things that that contains.
Last night some people in the house across the way from us screamed with joy when Spain won the World Cup. Were they Spanish or just liked that team more than the Dutch one? Don't know, but here, everyone has an opinion about sports, teams, nationalities, politicians, food and the weather - perhaps in that order. And one of the biggest differences with Americans, is that arguing about all these things is considered to be a sport in and of itself; everyone has an opinion, usually very clearly defined, and everyone makes sure that their opinion is known by others. Pascal's famous 'I think therefore I am, is more appropriately, I argue, therefore I am.
But if the arguing is about soccer teams, money, players, and national pride, well, that is what the world is about right now isn't it? Poor Mandela, they made him come out for the final, huddled in winter clothes, hat and smile on, the national symbol, one more time on display. But I was glad that there had been no violence during the games in South Africa - I just hope that some of the money spent for the stadiums and the transportation help the locals after the glory and the journalists have faded away.
Oh, I just felt a little breeze. How nice. The cat got out of his pot and is walking across the little lawn we have - time to go put some dinner together while the temperature is four degrees lower!
Will be back soon - hope you'll stay with me as I ramble on during the lazy days of summer.
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