French kiss

Zou bisou bisou

Mon Dieu qu’ils sont doux

France is a song you hear all day long. It begins in the morning with the cheerful bonjour from the beautiful young woman behind the counter at the boulangerie. It’s a playful, melodious greeting that bounces with happiness – as if just the idea of procuring a warm croissant wasn’t happiness enough.

I had the good fortune of spending three weeks in France last month and I may never get over it. Honestly, I don’t want to get over it, but re-entry has been challenging. My first morning back home, I was in the drive-through at Starbucks and heard myself saying “bonjour” to the barista when he greeted me through the speaker. I fear I have developed a rare form of French Tourette’s, and I can’t stop finding ways to use the twelve words of French that I know.

**Bonjour, Paris! My dear wife and our dear friends/travel guides Lori and Sue** **– let the games begin!**

To be fair, I did work on my French this summer using the Pimsleur app. It was challenging but surprisingly fun to shake off the thick cobwebs of two years of high school French. And to be completely honest, all I really cared about was not sounding like a hayseed from the USA when ordering in a French restaurant. I’m pleased to report that I did pretty darn well. I even made a dinner reservation by phone with a French woman who spoke no English. That was probably the highlight of my adventures in speaking French. I was usually okay until someone would ask me a question in real speed French. That’s when I would look like what the French would describe as un lapin pris dans les phares – a rabbit caught in the headlights. The other person would always smile sweetly and rescue me with their annoyingly efficient English.

**Flat with a view in Honfleur in the Normandy region – yeah, I could live here**

**Or here – Hautot-sur-Mer – a seaside commune in the Normandy region**

**This would be fine, too – Saint-Emilion – near Bordeaux**

I know it’s easy to fall in love with a place on holiday when you’re away from the boring chores of your everyday life. Be honest – if you’ve been lucky enough to travel abroad, how many times have you been somewhere and wondered if you could live there? And then we go home and make our Shutterfly books and go on with our lives and get over it. Well, I’m not over France yet – I catch myself fantasizing about cheese and chateaus – and then at night, I have gauzy dreams where I’m zipping around the beautiful French countryside like I’m Audrey Hepburn in Two for the Road. Hey, my dreams, my casting, and these nocturnal flights of fancy are so much more enjoyable than the apocalyptic end of democracy nightmares I often have.

I blame my lovely friends and travel companions Lori and Sue for my current status as a Francophile. Stay with me – I’ll connect those dots in a bit. My dear wife and I have traveled quite a bit over the past several years – usually with a tour company and we’ve had some marvelous adventures in five continents and over 25 countries. Tours are great – you get a lot of bang for your buck, and you don’t have to sort any of the details. And best of all, someone else schleps your luggage to the next stop. The downside is that you often wish you could have more time in a location.

Lori and Sue have traveled the world together for 45 years and have navigated most journeys on their own. They’ve been to more places than J. Peterman – Elaine’s eccentric globetrotting boss on Seinfeld. I mean, who goes to Bhutan or Mongolia? They do – and they are an unflappable duo who would slay on The Amazing Race. One early morning in the Bordeaux countryside, a wild boar leapt across the narrow road right in front of us. Sue – affectionately known as Baby Driver – never flinched – well, maybe a wee bit at the girly screams from my wife and me from the back seat – as she avoided une catastrophe. Lori was her steady co-pilot – monitoring the GPS – if we had internet connection – while looking at an old school map. And to make matters more challenging, Siri – for no apparent reason – would sometimes speak to us in French – charming but not that helpful.

**Mont Saint-Michel – seeing your dear wife cross a biggie off her bucket list – priceless**

Lori and Sue’s extensive plans for this trip rivaled the D-Day invasion. We began with two days in Paris – a short stay since we had all been there before. From there, we (they) rented a car and spent the next 18 days and 1500 miles exploring the French countryside – no interstates. You can really get to know a place this way. I can report that every little village in France has at least a dozen roundabouts and a cathedral or two. Oh, and they all look like a fairytale. Time travel is easy in France – and we traveled back centuries every day. We stayed in Airbnbs – with the signature never-ending European staircases that would have challenged Sir Edmund Hillary. They all had televisions and we never even turned one on which only added to the enchanting atmosphere. And I was never certain what day it was because it only mattered if it was a market day wherever we were.

Which leads me to the food in France. Food is truly art to the French, and we enjoyed several masterpieces during our stay. It’s no secret that French cuisine is famous for its elegant technique-driven methods – think boeuf bourguigon and coq au vin – and classic sauces – butter is its own food group there. We had some gorgeous meals, but I think our favorites were the ones we had at home – with a fresh baguette and an embarrassment of cheeses. So many cheeses – even former French president Charles de Gaulle famously asked, “How can you govern a country which has two hundred and forty-six varieties of cheese?” We even named our personal bistro Chez Fromage. The French do not fear carbs and bread is as essential as air – or wine – to them. There is no such thing as bad bread in France – the breadmaking is highly regulated – and you can even buy a fresh baguette at a petrol station. We never did, but it was much more tempting than a bag of Cheetos.

**Forget the flowers – say it with fresh greens!**

The French are not careless about food and they value fresh, quality ingredients. Going to the farmers market is akin to the Louvre of Produce – fresh greens that looked like bouquets, finger shaped radishes that were almost sweet, and carrots – don’t get me started on the crispy carrots – my favorites. Every salad we had – even in modest off the beaten track restaurants – was Instagram worthy. And market days have a festive feel – the locals with their bags on wheels in animated conversations with their familiar vendors. I swear I could hear Eartha Kitt singing “C’est si bon” in the background as we stuffed our lone tote to the tippy top.

**Chez Fromage – have cheese, will travel** **– reservations strongly recommended**

Our favorite meal out was at a small restaurant in Saillans – in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region near Bordeaux. The owner was our server, and she spoke very little English, but she described each dish to us in exquisite detail – in French. It was like having Catherine Deneuve narrate our dinner and even though we understood very little, she was so passionate and intentional in her descriptions that we were absolutely mesmerized. We all sat there smiling and nodding as she slowly told us about every artfully arranged item on our plates. I joked later that she could have been telling us we were having braised roadkill in a sawdust reduction sauce and we would still be smiling and nodding. It was absolute magic and we were there for almost four hours. There is no grabbing a quick dinner in France and we were all in – even if we had to stay up past our bedtime.

**I’m still not sure what it was, but it was delicious in any language.**

If France is a song, French pastries are poetry – sweet, buttery elegance. The only challenge is choosing which one(s) to try. Every region of France seems to have a distinct pastry that highlights the local ingredients and techniques. We did our best to be fair and sample as many as possible – with one of our favorites being the canelé from Bordeaux. It looks like a mini bundt cake and has a crunchy, browned outer shell and soft custard center flavored with rum and vanilla. Honestly, all of the pastries in France looked almost too good to eat – almost.

But one of my favorite things about France was something that I couldn’t identify until after a few days there. I would find myself a bit distracted sitting in a restaurant – a feeling I couldn’t quite discern. And then I became aware of the sound of my own voice and I finally got it – the noise level in the restaurant was so subdued that you didn’t have to struggle to be heard over the other tables. The background music was merely a suggestion and there were no TVs draped over the bar. Oh, and in three weeks in France, I never once heard someone talking on speaker phone.

**A picnic lunch at Chateau Prieure Marquet – a luxury estate and winery in the Bordeaux region**

It’s not just that the French speak more quietly than Americans, it’s their whole approach to dining out. They aren’t in a hurry and if you are seated at a table, it is yours until you ask your server for the check. Yes, they value fine food, but they also thrive on conversation with their dining companions. Eating out is much more than a meal – it’s a choreographed social ritual – starter, main, cheese course and dessert. Amen. The portions are not supersized and there is a pause between courses – leaving room for your appetite for deliciousness and conversation. Every one of our dinners out felt like a special occasion – beyond just being in France – we were all in the moment. And this is the unique souvenir I wanted to cram into my carry-on bag with all those dirty clothes to take home – presence.

There is a famous French proverb – “La vis est aite de petits benheurs” – that translates into English as “Life is made of little joys.” It perfectly captures my time in France. Yes, I saw some beautiful and deeply moving things – the restoration of Notre Dame, Monet’s Giverny, the magnificent Mont Saint- Michel, the devastating beaches of Normandy – on and on – and they will remain vivid postcards in my memory. But it is those little joys that I have revisited the most since I’ve returned home and they shuffle through my mind like an old school Kodak slideshow – and I see the little French children with their backpacks holding hands as they walked to school with their mother on a bright Paris morning. And I smile when I remember the dog walker at a busy intersection in Paris somehow effortlessly walking eleven dogs at one time – two not even on a leash. I can hear the beautiful French girl singing a sweet song to the mannequin of a WWII soldier at the Museum of the Battle of Normandy – as if she were trying to cheer him up. Oh, and the light – when we were so lucky to catch the pastel sunset over Bayeux from our fourth floor flat – and the divine kaleidoscope the sunlight created through the stained-glass windows in the Basilica of Saint-Sauveur in Dinan – and the pearl full moon illuminating the night sky when we left our fabulous dinner in Saillans – these exquisite images are all on rotation in my carousel.

**I wish I knew the song she was singing – I just know it made me feel happy.**

I want to be more present to these tender treasures of beauty and kindness in a country where the volume of the discord bombards us every freaking hour. I am certainly well aware that the French are experiencing their own turmoil these days, but we’ve been mired in ours for over a decade and the cumulative weariness is palpable. I mostly avoided the news on our trip, but before our flight home I learned that I was returning to a country where an execution was going to be live streamed and the president had encouraged the bombing of the city where my beloved sister lives. My time in France was a balm from the madness, and I want to steep in it for as long as possible.

**The Normandy American Cemetery – 9,389 graves are a chilling reminder of the catatastrophic cost of preserving freedom**

Ernest Hemingway famously described Paris as a “moveable feast” – an unforgettable experience that you not only carry with you, but you can revisit time and again through indelible memories. Papa was right and I have a feeling I’m going to be feasting on France for a very long time.

Bon appetit!

**Marta, on the left, was our delighful host in Bordeaux for six nights. She sent us a text on our drive back to Paris wishing us good luck in our upcoming elections.**

**As rare as a Big Foot sighting – Sue and Lori sitting still – in Saint-Lunaire – Brittany**

**Dear France – Stay magnifique. We’ll be back!**

Do You Hear the People Sing?

les mis

Faces of kind strangers – that’s where my mind went racing after I learned of the horrible attacks on Paris last Friday.

I immediately thought of the robust older woman behind the Metro ticket window who reminded us of a character from The Triplets of Belleville and teased us about our spotty French as she helped us figure out our route to Versailles; the handsome young waiter who cheerfully and patiently translated an entire menu into English for us; the two little girls gleefully running around on a perfect Saturday in the Tuileries Garden; and the owner of the patisserie who smiled sweetly and playfully told us that she would speak English to us if we spoke French to her.

So many kind faces under attack.

Yes, yes, all lives matter but I have to be quite honest, this feels more personal to me than some of the other acts of terrorism across the world. Just last week I posted about my magical trip to Paris six weeks ago. It was my valentine to the City of Light. It was a bright and joyful post written before 129 faces were brutally erased. I could not write that post today.

I was grateful on Friday evening that my wife and I had made plans earlier in the week for a movie and dinner with dear friends. Otherwise, I’m sure we would have been glued to the television all evening. As it was, when our movie ended I checked my phone for an update on the situation and was so touched to have a handful of text messages from family and friends telling me that they were thinking of us and were grateful that we were home and safe.

I couldn’t help but wonder if those faces that had touched us were home safe, too. I felt afraid for them and heartbroken that their beautiful city had been attacked.

These global tragedies seem to bring out the best and the worst on Facebook. I find comfort in mass mourning on a public forum – like an ancient wailing wall. “Pray for Paris” was the overwhelming trending message on all social media Friday night.

This Instagram post went viral after the attacks on Paris.

And then, of course, before the blood stains were dry, came the blaming for the attacks. Pick one, pick two – Obama, Bush, Cheney, religion, Muslims, always the Muslims.

Why are we so afraid of intentional silence? Why can’t we be comfortable creating a space to ask ourselves some hard questions before spewing out empty answers?

I suppose it is fear because, deep down, we know we don’t have the answers.

I know I found a balm, as I so often do, in the words of others much wiser than me.

Saturday morning, I saw the author Anne Lamott’s post pop up in my feed. I felt better before I even read a word of it. If you’ve never read her stuff, leave this post and go straight to Amazon to download one of her books. I mean it. Go. You will thank me later.

On Facebook she writes in a rambling and raw stream of consciousness that makes you feel like she’s drinking coffee with you at your kitchen table in her bathrobe. Here’s an excerpt from her post on Saturday:

We’re at the beginning of human and personal evolution. Whole parts of the world don’t even think women are people.

So after an appropriate time of being stunned, in despair, we show up. Maybe we ask God for help. We do the next right thing. We buy or cook a bunch of food for the local homeless. We return phone calls, library books, smiles. We make eye contact with others, and we go to the market and flirt with old or scary unusual people who seem lonely. This is a blessed sacrament. Tom Weston taught me decades ago that in the face of human tragedy, we go around the neighborhood and pick up litter, even though there will be more tomorrow. It is another blessed sacraments. We take the action and the insight will follow: that we are basically powerless, but we are not helpless.

I have no answers but know one last thing that is true: More will be revealed. And that what is true is that all is change. Things are much wilder, weirder, richer, and more profound than I am comfortable with. The paradox is that in the reality of this, we discover that in the smallest moments of amazement, at our own crabby stamina, at kindness, to lonely people who worry us, and attention, at weeping willow turning from green to gold to red, and amazement, we will be saved.

Amen.

I have been deeply moved and inspired by the resilience of the French people, so brave and adamant in vowing to retain their way of life, their precious joie de vivre. Yesterday, Charlie Hebdo, the satirical magazine, responded to the attacks with a provocative cover of a bullet-ridden man drinking a glass of champagne. The cover translates from the French: “They have weapons. Fuck them. We have champagne.”

charlie hebdo

This is not to imply that their reaction is at all cavalier. They are in deep mourning and carrying a grief that cannot be contained in the graves of the dead.

Love > Terror

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American Girls in Paris

Oscar Wilde once said that “When good Americans die, they go to Paris” and while I’m certainly not ready to test his premise, I certainly hope that it’s true.

My wife and I spent a week in Paris in late September and we may never get over it.

We’ve been home several weeks now and when someone asks how our trip was, we both still crumble like a flaky croissant and swoon.

People almost always ask the same question, “What was your favorite part?” My wife has the best reply – “All of it.”

I know we’re hardly unique. People have been falling in love with Paris for centuries for all of the same reasons we did – the art, the history, the architecture, the food, the wine, the baguettes…Okay, you get the picture.

We followed The Gospel According to Rick Steves for our trip as did every other tourist in Paris. I was sitting on the Metro one morning beside a beautiful Asian woman who was pouring over our exact Rick Steves’ Paris guidebook – only hers was in Mandarin.

The Book of Rick

On the platform waiting for the train to Versailles, a Midwestern woman traveling with her husband and two grown sons struck up a conversation with us and announced with great fervor, “We’re following Rick Steves.” We felt compelled to bow in reverence and say, “And also with you.”

Throughout the week we overheard folks prefacing comments with, “Well, Rick Steves says…” Make no doubt, when Rick Steves speaks, tourists listen.

Funny how an average looking Joe in a camp shirt and Mom jeans became the Travel Messiah for the free world. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a believer after following his recommendations saved us from standing in line in so many places.

One thing is for sure – you won’t see any Mom jeans in Paris – even on moms. Parisians are an intimidating lot when it comes to fashion. My dear friend Jeff and his partner Michael were in Paris a week before us and had prepared us to feel not worthy. Jeff posted from Paris on Facebook, “I feel like I just climbed out of a Salvation Army donation box.”

Granted, the French have an advantage over us because they are all beautiful. No, I’m not kidding. There are no ugly Parisians or they must keep them in a remote arrondissement far away from high traffic areas.

So you start with beautiful and then add a minimum of two artfully draped scarves and you have your “average” looking Parisian. I really do think part of their secret is in the scarves. They are all Houdinis when it comes to tying one. Even the children! I swear French children learn to tie a scarf before they tie their shoes. And everyone looks so natural in them – not pretentious like us. (Granted, that didn’t stop me from wearing mine to try to assimilate.)

Oh, and while we’re talking about children – Parisian children all look like they just skipped out of either Madeline or Le Petit Prince. They are well-behaved and charming and we adored hearing them speak in their tiny French voices.

We want one.

We really didn’t do any shopping because we were on an Amazing Race pace to see everything that Rick Steves told us to see but we joked about nabbing a French child as a souvenir.

If I had to pick one favorite thing about Paris I think it would have to be the iconic cafes. I loved sitting outside at lunch every day with a glass or deux of rosé just Parisian watching. I learned a lot, especially about French women.

First, the term “gluten-free” does not exist in the French language. You never overhear people saying things like “Can I get that dressing on the side” or “No, thank you, we don’t care for any bread.” In short, Paris is where low-carb diets go to die.

The café life

I could devote an entire post to French baguettes. They are, in a word, perfect – light and airy with a thin crust. And they are an accessory in Paris. You see people throughout the day carrying them under their arms. It was especially fun to see young mothers with small children buying baguettes in the evening for that night’s dinner.

My wife had done all the homework for our trip and trust me, the Invasion of Normandy was not as detailed as her itinerary. My task was making some dinner reservations. Which reminds me, how did people travel before the internet? I perused TripAdvisor and used thefork, the European version of OpenTable, and made some fairly educated selections which all worked out deliciously well.

Say cheese.

I made most of our reservations for 7 or 7:30 knowing that we would be hungry and tired after a frenetic day of sightseeing. Who knew that a 7:00 PM reservation in Paris is the equivalent of the Early Bird Special? We were amazed to see folks coming into a restaurant after 9 – even on week nights. Damn the French – we had chic envy.

The art. Sacre bleu! Where do I begin? You could spend a year in the Louvre alone but we took St. Rick’s advice and made a bee line for our “priority” items first. For me, that was Venus de Milo.

Venus is out of this world.

Growing up, my beloved Aunt Phyllis had a small replica of this statue in her living room and I thought it was the most exotic thing I had ever seen. My uncle was an Air Force officer and he and my aunt lived abroad for several years and collected some beautiful mementos.

I would be mesmerized by my aunt’s tales of travels all over Europe. She knew I loved her Venus statue and as she began to downsize in her later years, she gave it to me. I treasure it and to see the real thing in person at the Louvre took my breath away and I felt as if Aunt Phyl had her arm on my shoulder.

My wife’s moment came at the Musee d’Orsay when she saw Monet’s Field of Poppies. I saw her tear up and asked what that was about. She told me that her high school English teacher (not her favorite) had a poster of the painting in his classroom and that she would zone out and escape into the beautiful fields during class. To see the original exceeded even her high school imagination.

It’s not your English teacher’s Monet.

And perhaps that’s the true elixir of travel, particularly to lands foreign to us. Travel makes our world view so much larger. As Saint Augustine noted, “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.”

I’m only a few pages in on my book but I can’t even pretend to be blasé about Paris. And I think the author Paula McLain perfectly articulated my magnifique obsession in The Paris Wife when she wrote, “Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.”

I can live with that.

C’est si bon!

Happy, happy, joie, joie!

We’ll always have Paris or maybe it’s really Paris will always have us.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Paris

French kiss

Do You Hear the People Sing?

American Girls in Paris