Still, as is natural with not leaving your home country for two and a half years, you become accustomed to your own culture's modalities and pace of living. With my fluent French-speaking mother and my kindergarten French-speaking brother in tow, the three of us packed our belongings and traveled for a two week journey through city, town and countryside to celebrate my cousin's wedding. The flight was relatively smooth, save for the miniature seats and zero sleep (Le Trip: The Flight & Paris). We arrived in the early morning hours of Paris and immediately entered the seventh circle of travel hell: a caustic mixture of jet lag, intense humidity and an impromptu train strike. Right away I experienced culture shock, as the French and American way to cope with heat, I soon felt, differ greatly.
Air conditioning has rapidly become an addendum to the American Dream. Although my parents were of the Suck-It-Up, "Use the fan I gave you" ilk, a large portion of Americans relish their G.E.-assembled cold machines, as they renovate their homes into quasi-bomb shelters to escape the heat. Besides sticking out the sides of houses, you won't find an office, restaurant or municipal building that usually doesn't have A.C. In France on the other hand, central air is considered near heresy. Only a small number of businesses or buildings have it, and you'll be hard-pressed to even find fans to buy. Rumor has it they only sell them for a certain period of time, and if you miss that short purchasing opportunity, you sweat it out like the rest of them. Besides the occasional breeze or exhaling by the general public, the air in France and accompanying odors seem to linger wherever you go. While Americans bask, the French, and their omnipresent throng of tourists, bake.
Not knowing which direction I'm going is nothing out of the ordinary at this point in my life. I've gotten lost enough times that I should give in to the inevitability and accept it, but I still find myself bitterly annoyed every time I've gone astray or become confused in transit. My lack of directional sense, along with our train being stopped for no reason, sweat caking my body and complete lack of sleep, I slipped into what many psychologists would diagnose as passive-aggressive rage. I would venture a guess that most of the times in which the 'Ugly American' rears its red-white-and-blue head are in travel scenarios and any situation involving a language barrier. Fighting my heavy, sweaty eyelids I stared with disdain upon the packed and chatty train of Frenchies. I was in no state to drag my heavy luggage anywhere, be polite or have patience for anyone, including my immediate family. Eventually, the strike ended and the muggy train creaked and groaned towards Paris. Unfortunately, a nap was still miles and miles away.
* * *
What's striking about Paris is the amount of people; there are bodies everywhere. For a mere 33.5 square miles (as opposed to 305 in NYC), the city houses around 2.1 million people and on top of that sees a whopping 27 million more a year in tourism, allowing the teeming masses of foreigners to walk down their streets, eat their croissants and butcher their language. Interestingly enough, France as a country decided they would kick the rest of the world's ass in tourism statistics as they, according to a 2007 article in Forbes, welcomed in excess of 76 million (I'm guessing sweaty) people. Right off the bat I was aware of the very apparent diversity in Paris. These displaced Africans from former French colonies like Senegal and Algeria settled in the bustling metropolis in search of job opportunity. Though they have assimilated into white French culture, these people of color still adhere to their native dress and customs to keep their identity intact. This diversity has been embraced as I saw many (many more than I regularly see) mixed couples. Along with the interracial dating, the apex of just how diverse Paris is can only be summed up by the all-in-one Pizza/Sushi/Kosher deli joint which we passed frequently.
In Paris, I noticed people usually keep to themselves. Even the street hawkers, like the ones in front of the Eiffel Tower shaking their jangly ring of trinkets, don't dog you like the ones in New York City or Boston. If you buy it, you buy it. Spend a few minutes with me in public and you'll see that I'm extremely uncomfortable around the homeless, which is a huge reason why I'll stick to donating money or clothes and not serve them food or, you know, talk to them. Apart from the incredibly drunk homeless Frenchman who let out a resounding "Baaaaaaaaaaah!" as I walked by, they quietly go about their business petitioning for money or silently holding a cup. They almost seemed like they didn't want to inconvenience your daily activities, so their demeanor is quite relaxed. The homeless in the United States, on the other hand, can be more aggressive than Billy Mays and the Sham-Wow guy combined. I prepare myself for hand-to-hand combat most times I'm approached or simple eye contact is made between me and a vagrant, especially a drunk one.
I'm aware of the snooty, striped shirt, beret wearing, cigarette smoking stereotype of the French, but I must admit that they're very pleasant and congenial people. I do speak a little bit so that helped in social situations, and when out in the general public, a little can go a long way. A lot of the people I encountered had some modicum of English and those with superior skills corrected me nicely when I fucked it up. Most seemed to appreciate I was even trying. I only ran into two fairly rude people--both ironically working in a restaurant--because let's face it, whatever country you live in there's always at least one asshole. (I mean look at Fox News.) But in the case of my brother if you simply smiled, attempted some rudimentary French you were okay. Being even a little nice shouldn't be too difficult for normal humans, right?
From middle school through two semesters in college, I took French. I learned the bulk of it during my high school days where my all-time favorite teacher, Mr. Wintje, made learning the language fun. Our classes made French videos using our own scripts and ideas, he would make us a heaping batch of chocolate chip croissants on 'French Day' (a day off in class), play music and take us around the school to sing Christmas carols, among many other enjoyable (and educational) activities. One night I sang one of the songs he taught us to my French cousins, Chevaliers de la Table Ronde (Knights of the Round Table) and to my surprise found out after they stopped laughing that it was a drinking song.
I told you this guy was great.
The last time I used my conversational French post-high school was for no academic purpose whatsoever. I was drunk, in the city center of Dublin, Ireland waiting for a cab with friends following an eventful, Guinness-permeated night at the pubs. In my stupor, I noticed the two gentlemen next to us were speaking the language. I jumped in, formulated a few sentences and laughed when they were astonished to find out I am American. That brief moment of linguistic anonymity was a shining one and those few bits of coherent conversation were a testament to the six years or so that I studied.
Even though that encounter in Ireland happened over two years ago, I used that confidence for this trip. I started reviewing idioms, common phrases and some of the verb conjugations in my head. Grabbing the bull by the balls even more, I subscribed to not one but two French instructional podcasts, fantasizing that I'd have these regimented daily routines and become near fluent in the remaining months before my trip. Saying I listened to five minutes would be generous.
Regardless, my memory bank kicked in and the plethora of tangential phrases came back to me, albeit slowly:
"Where is the bathroom?"
"I like to play the guitar a lot."
"No thank you, I don't like mushrooms."
"Yes, I live in the United States, to the north of Boston."
"More wine please."
Following two days of sightseeing and finally conquering jet lag, the next leg of our trip was upon us and we hopped a train to Chinon, a town southwest of Paris. I marveled in the rolling hills and fields of wheat in the countryside between reading my book and watching my infant savant brother coo a French baby sitting across from him. We arrived at the train station in Tour for a brief layover and continued on our way to Chinon. After stretching of the legs and greetings to my American cousins, I met my French cousins Herve and Dominique and their two daughters, one 16 and the other my age, for the first time. As Herve drove around serpentine roads to the La Durandiere, he spoke maybe three complete sentences. I attempted some French to appease his silence, but didn't get much in return. This would be a long few days, I thought. La Durandiere is the summer residence of my French cousins. When I say this house is old, I mean this house is old. It was originally built 100 years before the United States even existed.
Think about that for a second.
Long before there were even laws put on paper to allow Rush Limbaugh to blather freely or punish Bill Clinton for lying about getting a blowjob in the White House, this house was constructed. Now it hasn't been in my family for that entire duration, but it still was astonishing to see something in existence long before America enjoyed day one of freedom. As we drove up the narrow driveway past amber waves of grain, we happened upon the outside gate which led to a courtyard and small circular driveway. I had taken a step back in time.
Now housing only my French cousins during the summer months and the occasional rowdy American relatives, it has been frequented by a couple generations of my family. My mother and her brothers and sisters have fond memories of time spent there and my 85 year-old American grandmother (who came for the two weeks as well) has story upon story of her younger days there. The youngest generation of my family would now be making their own memories on this hallowed ground.
The weathered steps brought me to the heavy brown door. The stone house is linear and simple. The matching brown shutters on the screenless windows a la French culture were typically kept closed during the hot days and open to welcome the cool air of night. Adding to the old schoolness, it featured a cramped room jutting out of the house which served as the lone bathroom for 17 people. Even though it was a working bathroom and not a hole, it wasn't what we Americans with our thunder-flush toilets were used to at all. On the left side of the house stood the skeletal remains of a room in shambles after three hundred years and little upkeep. This is where Herve and Dominique dried laundry.
The interior was uniquely off center, with awkwardly narrow stone hallways and creaky wood floors and an endearing mustiness that reminded me of childhood memories of the lake my family used to visit. This undoubtedly is the countryside. To the rear of the house is a thick field of wheat. In the backyard there is a plum tree which we had as a part of breakfast each morning. Across the fence are fields of grapes.
* * *
Like the near artistic assemblage of a juicy hamburger, wine-making is secondhand in France. Seeing as Europe literally invented it, just about all the French are born to drink and make large amounts of wine. Napa and Sonoma Valley were just grass and dirt by the time France had cracked its ten-thousandth bottle.
Characteristic of the old country homes, La Durandiere had a wine cave, in French called a cave (kah, not kay).
The neighbors across the narrow pathway also had a gate and a house comparably old to La Durandiere. As long as Jean-Luis and his wife Giselle have been around, the two neighbors have become friends over the generations. Shortly after arriving, the entire family headed over to Chez Jean-Luis for a drop of the red stuff. Herve gave him about 50 euro in cash, and after some very fast unintelligible French, a handful of us went into his wine cave. I immediately noticed this was bigger than the other and as I looked for the Batmobile, I rounded a corner to witness one of the most beautiful things in my years on this earth. There in front of us lay five to six thousand dusty, unmarked bottles of genuine French wine. We grabbed about 15 and carefully brought them across the way. Jean-Luis wasn't through as he took out five more bottles from the year 2000 and in the waning hours of daylight I, along with most of my extended family I hadn't seen in quite some time, relaxed and drank wine. Pulling out all the stops, Herve and Dominique prepared a feast for us that night as all 17 family members including Jean-Luis and his missus crowded around the table. Herve showed himself the consummate host. As soon as anyone set down their dwindling glass of vin rouge, an outstretched arm appeared over their shoulder and they were miraculously refilled. He then recited a maxim that I will always live by (at least until liver failure): Buvez toujours, ne mourrez jamais. Drink always, and you will never die.
There was more wine, much more wine, and general happiness all around.
Sitting around the table laughing, speaking French, eating good food and drinking good wine, I recognized another difference between American and French cultures: the absence of the rush. Basically every meal we had in France was long and drawn out. There are typically three courses: the first plate, the palette-cleansing cheese followed by dessert. The frenetic pace of eating without conversing or while watching the evening news was far gone in France. We ate as a family each night and the clock didn't seem to matter.
The remainder of our time at La Durandiere was spent mostly lounging, playing (and arguing) over a game of croquet using sticks built around the same time as the original structure and going into town for some sightseeing.
The next day after quickly working our way through a marche (flea market) past the odiferous cheese stand (they don't refrigerate it, another cultural shock), Dominique speedily brought my mother, brother and I to our train for the next leg of our France journey. We made the train in time, bid her au revoir and were off to my cousin's apartment in Lyon.
* * *
Following the five hour train ride, we arrived in Lyon, not surprisingly, tired. Although we were in the second largest metropolitan area in France for about two days, this was all that essentially happened:
-Excessively long dinner at a restaurant literally across the street from apartment
-Pissy waitress wouldn't replace my napkin that was on the floor
-More boisterous and sleep-preventative snoring from my brother
-Zero sightseeing
The next day, my cousins from NY rolled into town. Seeing as they had six in total traveling, they deemed it best to rent two cars for the two weeks. They, like my brother and I, were stopping off in Lyon to rest and recuperate before the long haul to Provence, the world-renowned and beautiful south of France. A few of us bought food for dinner and afterwards, I said my goodbyes and took the train across town to the apartment of my cousin's friends Franck and Alexandra. My cousin's friend from the States was there as well and as she had less knowledge than my brother I was unofficially hired as translator. It helped that Franck and Alexandra spoke some English, but for the sake of learning I stuck to French.
The next morning around 6:30, we were up and out of the apartment for the trek down south. Usually any traveling is best accomplished early in the morning, but today it was particularly important because two obstacles stood to make the journey quite difficult. One was that it happened to be the major vacation weekend where people from all over France would hop in their Renaults and head down to the beaches of Cote D'Azur or Marseilles. Also, the other difficulty was that France only had one major highway heading in that direction. About fifteen minutes after we entered the highway, a sea of exhaust-spewing Frenchies sat bumper to bumper for as far as the pissed-off eye could see. I adjusted my seatbelt, sighed and prepared myself for long bouts of silence, intermittent French and a much desired cup of coffee. The beach traffic eventually broke up and we were off at a good clip. Franck was driving and interestingly enough our musical tastes were somewhat similar. He popped in album after album of Ben Harper and that made the eight hour journey bearable. Franck's GPS steered us correctly and as his car rolled to a stop on the gravel driveway of my cousin's future in-laws, I stepped out, stretched my legs and started sweating.
We were in Provence.
Now as some of the crotchety fear-mongers preach, owning a GPS or swiping a debit card gives "them" your exact location and takes away from every day freedoms from the government. I can buy part of their Big Brother argument, but I'd say my fear of getting lost trumps the fear that my life could suddenly turn into a sequel of "Enemy of the State." I am a fervent advocate for the directionally-challenged. However, I realize there is the inherent flaw in the system and the margin of error, albeit slight, is still present. My New York cousins found this out the hard way. When they typed in the address for the wedding, they chose the incorrect selection (seemingly more than one could exist, right?) and were perturbed to find out after some quality car time that they were smack in the middle of the French alps.
Jaw-droppingly beautiful? Yes.
On schedule for the late afternoon wedding (with my clean clothes in the trunk)? No.
They eventually hightailed it down the thruway and made it with about 45 minutes to spare. I showered posthaste and soon after my aunt drove halfway up the--I'm not joking when I say--boulder in the driveway of our rented house, the Mays were finally reunited. We pulled into a field to park, arriving to find the gathering group of French and American guests for the wedding.
My cousin's in-laws have lived in Provence for some time, about 30 minutes outside Avignon and an hour or so from Marseilles. After I had greeted my grandmother and cousin in-law's parents, I took in the scenery. Their house is situated at the base of a large hill and the handsome surrounding landscape reminded me of New Mexico. It is fairly arid and dusty, but not without the robust beauty that a desert holds. The town was small with narrow roads. There were little shops and restaurants that didn't ever seem to be open. The grass was on its last legs of green, aching for a drink. The sun shined with a purpose, like it was telling the visitors to the Provencal that the weather would be like this day in and day out. There were trees though, lots of them. Full and green and thick, they swayed in the occasional breeze. All wedding plans withstanding, this was beyond compare.
I arrived at the Mairie to greet my mother and brother, both weary from travel. Here I encountered another example of culture shock. Weddings in France are a lot different than in the States. For one, they probably last longer, but outside of that they resemble more of a free agent signing in major league baseball. The ceremony takes place at a Mairie, which is a derivative of the French se marier (to marry oneself) and mariage (wedding). Although one can really get married in whatever township or city they live in, my cousin and her husband decided this would be exceptionally special seeing as he spent his childhood here and the presiding justice was someone who watched him grow up. Both parties showed up with accompanying witnesses and other family members to the packed room. The bride and groom did a little speaking, but other than that the justice who married them did a lot of the talking, most of which I didn't catch. They signed the legal documents on the table in front of them, exchanged the kiss and walked out together as man and wife. Though I hadn't been to a "Wedding Crashers" amount of ceremonies, I knew that this typically wasn't the way things worked in America.
In today's world, what with the soaring divorce rate, annulments and the novelty of a 15 minute ceremony presided over by some schmuck dressed as Elvis, the 'sanctity' once closely associated has now mutated into the more apropos 'convenience' of marriage. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the love people, but when I'm flipping through the channels and reality TV whore Khloe Kardashian is blabbing on about her marriage to LA Laker's cagillionaire Lamar Odom, who she only knew for about a month before they decided to hog-tie the knot, I get annoyed. Who knows, it could be the best thing that's ever happened to either one, but it's hard to think that way when looking at the statistics.
Following the ceremony we went to the parents of the groom's house for a light reception. The house my extended family and other families associated with the wedding stayed at was a four minute drive down the road. The house was massive. Opening the electronic gate and driving down the pathway, the structure reminded me more of a mafia compound in Sicily than a rented family stay. To the left was a driveway extension that could hold up to 10 or so vehicles. The grounds were completely surrounded by a fence. As you drove around the boulder my aunt mistakenly crashed into and parked, the gravel driveway had an enormous tree where every deafening cicada in the country of France seemed to be during the day. The house sat lengthwise to the driveway and while heading past the shortened stonewalls, you can't help notice the expansive backyard with a tree-lined walk leading to a salt water pool that would be inhabited 85% of the remaining week in Provence. The main house had a tannish, rocky exterior with furniture outdoors to accommodate those gluttons for sunshine. It was one of those old homes, probably not as old as La Durandiere, that fell into disrepair, was bought and refurbished by some wealthy family who turned it into a rented cottage (read: mansion). The main section slept 22. The first attached house towards the gate heading out slept around eight comfortably and so did the back section near the pool. Needless to say there was a plethora of bodies, all the time. That place was like a meeting at the UN.
The next day was the more traditional type of ceremony, so there much preparation. Chairs and tables had to be set up, caterers were to be avoided as they got ready, and the basketball hoop and ping-pong table were shooed away. The bilingual ceremony was great. They exchanged their vows. They opened up the ceremony for guests to say something. All bitter cynicism about marriage behind, throughout the entire ceremony I felt like I was looking at two people who were genuinely in love and wanted to spend the rest of their lives growing old together, cherishing what they have and taking satisfaction in annoying the shit out of each other for the rest of their days. The night was great, the food was phenomenal and the drinks were never empty.
The rest of the week would be spent lavishing in the Provencal sunshine, taking laps in the pool, exploring the surrounding towns and enjoying the company. This was a vacation where you could truly wake up and see a day full of nothing as an accomplishment. There didn't seem to be a worry, just making sure you had some breakfast, some lunch and were prepared for the long dinner outside that evening.
When the day finally came that we had to depart, it was with sadness that we looked on the house as we drove away. It would be some time before I return to this paradise, and I was quite aware. For some it could be their final time, but what's most important is that tiny window of time was spent contented, with loved ones.
* * *
The next morning we hopped on the bullet train for the speedy ride back to Paris. We'd spend the remainder of time in a hotel downtown that formerly slept other visiting family members, present and absent. In my last ditch effort at sightseeing I tagged along with my New York cousins to the Louvre, the vast expanse in Paris holding a large portion of the most prominent art in the world. I'm not a huge art buff, but it was one of those places you have to experience for the sake of traveling.
The Louvre is unconscionably big. Residing in the former palace, the collections of art and sculpture take up an astonishing 652,000 square feet of space with around 35,000 pieces of art including the famous Venus de Milo, remains from the Egyptian empire and of course, arguably the most famous painting in the world Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. If there was any place to have a game plan before stepping in, this was it. This is a museum so grand that if one wandered aimlessly from hall to hall, there was the potential for confusion and sheer panic as it was easy to get lost. Welcoming an absurd 8.5 million visitors a year, I quickly thought this place was in dire need of a monorail or at the very least a golf cart shuttle service. The two groups split and I went off with cousins Liz, Carrie and Aunt Fran. Before leaving the hotel, I thought it necessary to wear jeans as it could get quite windy on the streets of Paris, but as we meandered down hallway after hallway in the Louvre, I again suffered for the Frenchies inability to embrace the wondrous world of air conditioning.
I was amazed at the volume of artifacts we witnessed. Countless famous paintings from Rembrandt, sculptures from the Egyptians, Greeks and Michelangelo, and around 35,000 others. We made it a point to see the famous Venus de Milo, which for those unfamiliar with it specifically or art in general I will describe as: unattractive topless chick with no arms.
Akin to visiting Fenway Park and not participating in the wave or a first-time eating experience at McDonald's being a salad, you can't visit the Louvre without at the very least glancing at Da Vinci's Mona Lisa.
Again, I felt pretty let down. I know some art experts would wholeheartedly disagree, but I didn't see the big deal. First off, she's ugly. Secondly, the painting is minuscule. I walked into the room and was more wowed by the amount of people huddled around the glass-encased canvas than the painting itself. Ironically on the opposite wall is the 22x33 foot fresco of The Wedding Feast at Cana by Caliari that could hold hundreds of Mona Lisas and yet had a fraction of onlookers. I took a puny mental picture, and moved on.
During my time at the Louvre, between sweating, being annoyed at how much uninteresting shit there was, I noticed something in one of the Greek rooms. Much can be talked about of the spread of western culture and the ability for more and more people in the world to look similar to each other instead of standing out as different. Something culturally specific that I'm glad never spread to the United States is the male capri pant, which I saw more than I would have imagined. On the other hand, America's puritan roots still frown upon the nude or at the very least topless beach--one thing I believe makes the Europeans pioneers. I've come to accept the inevitability of happening upon a McDonald's in any country I visit, but as I moved from one Greek statue to the other, I saw something that thoroughly disgusted me as an American. Right in front of me stood a European mother and son admiring the artifacts in their capris, both having the same purchased mullet haircuts. I knew this duo couldn't be American because, well I just knew. You had to appreciate the juxtaposition though. Arguably the ugliest haircut ever next to priceless sculptures dating to 400 BC. Just when you think you've seen a lot, something new and breathtaking slaps you in the face. On that note, it was time for lunch.
That night as a full extended family, we went out to dinner. For our last night in country, I couldn't have picked a better parting meal; Confit de Canard, which is basically a duck roasted in its own fat. The crunchy skin covering the juicy, tender meat below was a flawless ending to a divine fortnight in France. Followed by a cousins only dessert at a nearby crepe restaurant, we rolled ourselves back to the hotel for our last night of sleep and my final time using the complimentary earplugs to drown out my brother.
The next day we were off to the airport for our flight home, back to the hustle and bustle of frenzied American life, back to responsibility and colder, rainier weather. I was headed back to terse, conversation-lacking dinners with little appreciation for the company you were in or how good life really is. Even though I didn't step onto that plane a French citizen, I definitely took a part of its culture with me, an appreciation for those sometimes mundane moments people take for granted.
I brought with me a bottle of wine stowed carefully in my checked baggage and a resolve to appreciate more in life, namely that I'm still living it.
1 comment:
viva la france - nice work again, bro!
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