SERENDIPITY IN MALAGA

When my recent cruise made a stop in Malaga, Spain I wanted to do only two things: see the cathedral and the Alcazaba. After going to those sites I wandered a bit, looking in the store windows on a narrow shopping street. There was nothing I needed – or had room for – but many items caught my eye.  Suddenly I was gazing at a glass case of seafood. Ah! Something I could consume but not have to pack. I went in.

The restaurant had a peculiar layout with all the small tables and their chairs packed in tightly against the wall.  Then I noticed an elevated stage, also small.  Now I got it.  They had a flamenco show!  I ordered something and waited, looking around the room.  I was still the only customer.  The woman in flamenco dress came in along with a guitarist.  They chatted a while, my fried sardines arrived, and the guitarist began to play.  He wasn’t the best cantaor I had ever heard, but I had no trouble getting into the mood of the great Andalusian music.  Shortly they were joined by another woman I had seen outside talking to the dancer.  She in no way looked  like a member of a tablao, but rather like someone who was spontaneously joining the music .  Her drumming mimicked the clapping that one would hear from the members of a larger flamenco ensemble.  The dancer’s heel stomps thundered in the small space.

After the performance I chatted with the dancer who was eager to talk about her career, where she had danced (including on some cruise ships) and her Facebook page.  This brief encounter confirmed my hope that despite globalization, cell phones, and hordes of tourists, the magic of Spain continues.

THE ZEN OF CRUISING

 

 Crossing an ocean slowly from one continent to another is to set aside time. It’s not just that the everyday world of home or work is in abeyance because you’re on vacation.  A  passenger inhabits an in-between space where time doesn’t matter.

None of my friends wanted to or was able to (more the former than the latter) take this transatlantic cruise with me. For some, fourteen days seemed too long, and for others all those days just being at sea seemed a waste. They wanted to spend time seeing another country, not just getting there. For me it was a dream come true. What could be better than being able to look at the ocean as you moved over it?

I’ve always loved the ocean. I was born on the Atlantic coast and feel drawn to the water, particularly the ocean. Lakes, rivers, ponds are all very nice, but nothing compares to the changing moods of the sea. Warm, sunny days with fair winds on the sea appeal to me no more than gray days with fierce winds. Each has its appeal.   Every day is different.  And time is the same – open.

Traveling alone on a transatlantic ship is not a lonely business. It’s a self-Indulgent one; I can eat at any hour, read whenever I want, write in my journal without answering questions, and spend as much time as I care to watching movies in the cabin. Being alone does not make me crave company. As a matter of fact, “in-room dining” allows me to eat in my bathrobe, which is frowned on in the Dining Room.  I can dine  while reading, looking at the water or watching reruns of “Downton Abbey.”  And then there’s the sleep factor. Plans and household demands at home dictate bedtime and rising time, even in retirement. At sea there are no doctors’ appointments or men coming to cut the grass. Get up when you want to is the order of the day.  Starting the day with  coffee on the verandah is a joy.

My meditation spot.

Every morning the first thing I do is look out my curtains at the water to see what it’s up to. Are there lots of whitecaps?   None?  On this trip there are always whitecaps.  They tell you about the water’s movement based on wind speed.  Is it gentle, moderate, blowing a gale?  Gentle seas are calming, while moderate seas can make you feel as if you’re being rocked by a heavy hand.  A slight gale makes it difficult to open the door to the verandah and  may send you careening around an open deck.  Then there’s the color.  Is the ship lightening the water to turquoise as it plows through the deep blue?  Is it navy?  Gray?   I confess that I do tend to ooh and aah over turquoise water, but it’s also fascinating when it reflects a gray sky.  

There’s a meditative quality that makes me wonder what other ships have passed over the exact spot.  Or, what’s at the bottom of this particular place?  How many other people have  looked at it wondering the same thing?  You lose track of time and perhaps don’t think at all.  It’s the water itself that conveys the sense of timelessness. Gazing at it reminds me that this water has existed for more years than one can imagine. And I’m just a drop in the fabric of time.

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Jardin Majorelle, Marrakech

This post is re-blogged from “seesaw travels.”  I had been to the Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech and thought her comments and pictures were definitely worth sharing with my followers.

 

seesaw travels

Marrakech’s ancient medina is an intoxicating place to stay. During our time there the endless winding alleys, colourful souks and frenetic Jemaa el-Fna became hypnotic and it was tempting to spend our entire visit to Marrakech behind it’s high red walls. Despite this, one morning we were lured out of the medina into the new part of the city to visit the famous Jardin Majorelle. Although it’s located only minutes away, the garden provides a dramatic change from the bustle and intensity bursting within the medina. I felt an immediate relief from the morning heat upon entering. Very easy to sink into a state of quiet relaxation under the shady trees and with the sound of the trickling fountain at the entrance.

Covering over 2 acres, the garden was originally known as Bou Saf Saf and was created by French artist Jacques Majorelle in the 1920’s as he recovered from…

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IN DEFENSE OF CRUISING

Recently I met someone with whom I have friends in common.  I had heard that he was a world traveler and I was quite interested in discussing this mutual passion.  He had traveled extensively with his wife as well as solo.  He described places he had stayed in India and the natural beauties of Vietnam.  Unfortunately, he was no longer able to travel due to mobility limitations.  I told him I was interested in seeing Vietnam but then mentioned that I had been on a Caribbean cruise a few months earlier.  His response took me aback: “That represents everything I despise.  It’s bourgeois.”  That started me thinking about why I enjoyed cruises and what I’ve observed about attitudes toward various modes of travel.

When I was six years old, I crossed the Atlantic on a ship headed to Germany where we would be joining my father.  As a Charleston, SC native I had always loved being near the ocean and this adventure was a thrill.  For years after, I dreamed of being on an oceangoing  ship again, sailing the high seas, having unexpected encounters with glamorous people and going to elegant dinners wearing long gowns and diamonds, of course .  Think Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr.  Eventually I went on a cruise through the Greek isles with my husband for our twentieth anniversary.  Cary Grant did not sit at our table.  There was a young man traveling with his mother, a retired teacher.  He was an airplane painter, wore a Guns ‘n Roses tee shirt, and at the end of the cruise had the distinction of having the biggest bar bill.  He was a lovely young man.  The other gentleman at our table, traveling with his limo driver girlfriend, sold convenience store novelties.  He couldn’t understand why these little gems weren’t available in Greece.  “They could make a fortune!”  (Perhaps Greece’s monetary woes wouldn’t be so dire if they’d heeded his advice.)  In the academic circles in which we moved how would we have ever met these individuals? Their lives were interesting because so completely different from our own.  There was no private yacht for this bourgeois couple to enjoy with people just like us.

When my friend Ginny and I were embarking last October on our ship headed to the Caribbean, I was astonished at the number of people in wheelchairs and with walkers.  I realized that this cruise was a travel opportunity for those who weren’t able to travel other ways.  The gentleman who had referred to this cruise as despicably bourgeois just didn’t get it. Here were people who wanted to enjoy a bit of the world but couldn’t do it any other way.  Now, the majority of the folks on this ship were able-bodied, but they had other reasons for being there.  Some wanted a vacation: no work, no cooking, no cleaning, great food.  Some weren’t interested in getting inside another culture, that’s true, but I was working on my own tendency to be judgmental, so I gave them a pass and instead analyzed what it was about that lack of curiosity that bothered me.  I also found that after a quick stop in the Dominican Republic there were many comments about the poverty.  I prefer that we confront poverty and learn why it exists where it does.  A lot of Americans don’t want to ever face it.  But I’ve seen that as much from individuals traveling independently as I have on cruises.

A couple of years ago some friends and I decided to take a short cruise out of Charleston that was going to the Bahamas and back.  No big deal but we figured we’d have a good time.  When we started the boarding process we looked around at the other travelers and said “Oh my God!”  Here I was as guilty as “bourgeois man.”  I saw small town, working class South Carolina was boarding.  When I was able to shut down this ugly, judgmental part of my psyche, I thought it was great that so many of my fellow cruisers were able to enjoy this getaway.  Most of them couldn’t have afforded to fly to Europe, stay in hotels and pay all the attendant costs, the kind of trip I’ve enjoyed so many times.  Was I being condescending to think this way?  Maybe a little.  But I’ve known working class people who have done these cruises, for whom this was a big adventure.  I’m happy for them.

Another consideration for me is age.  I could have gone to Aruba and Bonaire alone, learned more about the islands and most likely had a great time.  But I’ve learned that traveling alone at age seventy is very different from doing it at twenty-five.  No one comes to my table in a Paris cafe to chat me up.  Who hits on someone who looks like his grandmother?  I have sat alone through many dinners in restaurants and enjoyed them, but I didn’t make friends.  On cruises there are advantages to this solitude.  One is that with open seating you can join other people and have enjoyable (usually) conversations over a meal.  The unpleasant individuals are few and provide another story line when you return home.  If you don’t feel like being social, you can be alone.  Order room service in your cabin and revel in having dinner dressed only in your bathrobe.

Possibly the crux of the “bourgeois” accusation is the perceived hedonism of cruises.  Guilty on that count.  I must say I enjoy the good food and being served.  Not having grown up with many luxuries I often say how fortunate I am to be able to enjoy myself this way.  I never take it for granted.  Most of my friends, no matter what type of travel they prefer, feel the same way.  (For that reason, we are generous tippers.)  The kinds of cruises my friends and I have chosen do not cost massive amounts of money nor do they appeal to millionaire hedge fund managers.  That right there moves us away from the bourgeois accusation; we are not really capitalists.  We are middle class professionals, retired or active, who love learning about other cultures through travel.  It’s true that cruises only let you skim the cultural surface, but sometimes that’s enough.  A cruise is a vacation that doesn’t require non-stop sightseeing or making all our own arrangements.  It’s just fun.

If I were young and capable of hiking across Iceland, I might do it.  But for now I want to enjoy various kinds of cultural exploration, including cruising. The prospect of solo land travel still appeals to me, but in the meantime, I’ll enjoy vicariously the adventures of young women hiking through Iceland and backpacking through Myanmar.

THE BEST SOUVENIR

In the winter of 2004 I set off on an adventure unlike any other: I would be living and working in Bulgaria for nearly six months.  It was surprising how many people asked me why I wanted to go there and, by the way, where was it?  The second question was easier to answer than the first, but the simple reason I was going to Bulgaria was that I had received a Fulbright award to teach at the American University.  Some of my expectations were eventually fulfilled, some not, but there were plenty of surprises.  One concerned a little black dog.

On a bitterly cold January morning  I was walking to the university when I spotted a dark shape on the grass beside a building.  Oh my God!  A dead dog.  I had seen a lot of street dogs around town and here was one who hadn’t made it.  The locals told me that after the Velvet Revolution (the fall of the Soviet Union that enabled former soviet republics to re-establish their independence) the poor economy forced many people to abandon their pets.  Many dogs roamed throughout Eastern European cities, scrounging for food and trying to survive.  Being a dog lover, this situation made me sad, but there was nothing for me to do.

A few days later, walking to the university, I see the dead dog standing up!  It was holding up one leg, obviously injured.  I felt worse than before because I knew that if the dog couldn’t get around to beg for food, it was a goner.  I was afraid to approach an unknown, injured dog.  There was no canine 911, nobody to go to for help.  This was Eastern Europe where people were struggling and a stray dog was almost invisible.   Then the next day Black Dog was being fed by a good Samaritan!  This was extraordinary.  Gradually Black Dog healed enough to be able to walk around.  I would see her following people with plastic bags, hoping to score a piece of bread.  Before long I was one of those people who would give her food.

Evolutionary anthropologists Brian Hare and Vanessa Woods have coined the term “survival of the friendliest” to describe the evolution of the domesticated dog from the wolf.  Black Dog was a good example of a modern-day dog whose personality helped ensure her survival.   As I continued to see her around the plaza that extends from a row of small restaurants and stores up to the main university building, I noticed that many people responded to her gentle ways by giving her food.  As we got to know each other, Chernya,  (“black” in Bulgarian) and I became friends.  I gave her pizza slices (She loved pepperoni.) and finally bought a bag of dog food.  She would come up to me and even follow me home.  That required crossing a busy street, so I sometimes went around the block so she wouldn’t see me.  Maybe the survival of the friendliest would lead to the demise of the friendliest.  This was getting complicated.

A visit to the vet was in order.  I learned from some American co-workers that Vera the veterinarian spoke English.  Chernya was going to get some shots.  If I couldn’t save her, I could at least make sure she didn’t get diseases common to unvaccinated dogs.   After getting directions to the clinic,  I made my plan.  It was easy to get Black Dog’s attention.  We headed off and soon Chernya was charging down the street, around a corner, and into the arms of none other than Vera.  I was never sure how they knew each other, but they were fast friends.  Vera knew a bit of Black Dog’s history; she had been abused and kicked out of her “home.”  She was supposed to be a hunting dog and, indeed, loved to chase small creatures, especially cats.  But for some reason she had been abandoned.

Over the next few months my relationship with Chernya continued to deepen.  I even rented a car from a friend’s landlord and took her into the mountains to Rila Monastery.  She loved riding in the car, but I almost lost her when I let her out and she took off into the woods.  It was one of those Oh-God-what-have-I done?  moments.  The little stinker led me a merry chase.  She didn’t pay any attention to my begging her to come back.  She moved through the thick brush with no trouble, while I thudded along trying to get un-stuck from brambles, trying to stay upright, and hoping to get her attention.  Thankfully, she didn’t spot any small animal or she would have been gone for good.  Somehow I got hold of her collar and led her back to the car.  When we returned to Blagoevgrad, I had to turn her loose and hope that the car’s owner never found out that I had taken a street dog joy-riding.

As the time got closer for me to return home I struggled with the prospect of leaving Chernya behind.  I knew that her life expectancy would be short if she stayed on the street. Besides that, she had come into heat and pregnant stray dogs were a sad sight.  Another visit to Vera ensued.  Chernya got spayed.  I wrote my husband and asked him how he felt about my bringing home a stray.  We already had a labrador retriever, but I thought I could find Black Dog a home if necessary.  He was reluctant but said it had to be my decision.  It would be expensive and inconvenient, but I decided to make Chernya an American.  Now it was back to Vera.  She was so happy that Chernya would have a real home.  Vera took care of all the paperwork, while I took care of the passport picture.  Yes, the dog needed a document akin to a passport.  (Bulgarians love paperwork that nobody ever looks at.)  Besides papers, I had to buy an expensive travel crate and I made arrangements with the airline.  This craziness was going to happen!

One other thing had to be done.  I declared Black Dog’s new name to be Masha.  This isn’t truly a Bulgarian name; it’s a Russian diminutive for Maria.  But I liked it and thought it fit her, so Masha she would be.  And it’s on her passport.

The three flights we took back home were nerve-wracking for me, as I worried non-stop about my precious cargo.  In Washington DC she was released from her crate briefly as the security agent checked her out.  He wasn’t interested in Masha’s paperwork, but he passed a magic wand over her entire body.  Satisfied that she wasn’t a drug mule, the agent sent us on our way, Masha back in the crate and I relieved that we were closer to home.  The customs agent asked me only one question: was that a goat in the crate?  If I had known I could bring a goat. . . but no.  It was a dog I knew I couldn’t give up.

At last we reached the Columbia airport where Masha was delivered along with my luggage.  I promptly released her from the crate and took her outside where the joy of being free coupled with the intense heat impelled her to  jump into a fountain.  Oh God!  What next?  Into the car and home to meet Daisy, our lab.  Masha kept her distance while Daisy sniffed around.  I hoped they wouldn’t fight.  Then a thunderstorm broke, terrifying Masha.  The poor girl was was acquainted with Daisy and a summer thunderstorm in one short evening.  We got her settled in for the night and I collapsed in the arms of Morpheus.  When I awoke the next morning, Daisy and Masha were playing and chasing each other.  Thank you, Lord!  Our new tenant didn’t have to be housebroken and she crate-trained herself.  It was as if she were saying, “See how good I am.  I can stay, can’t I?”

Twelve years later we are still gratefull to share our life with Masha.  She can’t run as fast as she could when she was young and she sleeps a lot. Also it’s been ages since she came in the den with a dead squirrel in her mouth.  Daisy died two years ago, so all our attention is lavished on “the little immigrant.”  She’s the souvenir that keeps on giving, and, for her, life has been happy and secure.  Our vet loves Masha’s story and says she went “from the outhouse to the penthouse.”  She does live well, but so do we.  Our lives have been indescribably enriched by inviting in this sweet girl.

 

 

 

 

Isn’t It Good? Norwegian Wood

On my recent trip to Norway a cruise along the coast delivered a magnificent array of beautiful land and seascapes with fjords and picturesque villages.  Wherever we stopped to go into towns, our way was made easy by people who spoke English.  I felt a little ashamed that they were so proficient and I barely learned a couple of phrases in Norwegian.  Meet the Norwegian educational system, one of the best in the world.

Scandinavia (Norway, Sweden, Denmark and broadly speaking Finland) rank in the  top 10 or 11 in global educational rankings, while the US places around 22.  There are many reasons for this, but if placed within other social and economic contexts, the picture comes into clearer focus.  In recent attempts to rank health care systems the US has come out far behind other developed countries, in one study ranking number 37.  These studies usually base their rankings on equitable access to health care as well as patient expenses, including insurance, and responsive services.  Much criticism has been directed at the methodology of the study, but we have known for a long time that our health care system is not equitable.  That’s where a look at the context of Scandinavia’s health care system is helpful.  It is constructed to provide for everyone regardless of income or social class. Nobody goes bankrupt buying expensive cures.  And healthy children are a crucial part of the success of its educational systems.  Scandinavian children don’t go to school hungry or sick.  Parents don’t have to choose between food and health care.   Kids arrive ready to learn.

Scandinavian children typically start learning English in the third grade and continue through high school.  The main reason for this is that, since these are small countries, they don’t expect other countries to learn their languages.  They study the ones that can help them perform in a global arena and we know that English is becoming a universal language.  They have faced the reality of their place in the world.  In the US some children start learning a second language in grammar school, some in middle school, and others in high school.  There’s no uniformity or push to provide steady instruction over several years.  As a former Spanish language teacher I know a lot about lip service.  “We should learn Spanish (or Chinese or French) since it’s become so important here at home and globally.”  But of course it doesn’t happen.  Lip service with no speech, as it were.

Another area where the safety net in Scandinavia is superlative is in dealing with special needs children.  Many US schools make herculean efforts to teach children with special needs, but in Norway, for instance, a licensed teacher will be dedicated to one child in a classroom in order to help him/her develop his abilities to the utmost.  Extra attention as well as training for parents support the child’s development.  Allowing for county and state variables in the US it’s difficult to count on the support special needs children can expect.

But what about higher education, you say?  It’s true that the US ranks number one in the world.  That’s much to be proud of.  But economic developments now ensure that most graduates, the ones not from well-to-do families, will leave their college or university with massive debt.  In Norway public higher education is tuition-free, even for foreigners!  Of course you have to live somewhere, eat, and perhaps learn Norwegian.  And the country is very expensive.  Our two systems could certainly learn from each other.   US innovation and collaborative learning combined with a Norwegian-style equitabiity could help our higher education system and its graduates take a stronger place  in  US society and in the world.

Does all this mean I want to move to Norway?  Well, I wouldn’t mind spending the summer there.  The cool temperatures make life pleasant there while the South bakes under 100 degree days.  Would I want to spend winter there?  No way!  For the long run (which is getting shorter and shorter)  I choose to stay in my country and hope for a future where everyone enjoys a safe and healthy life.

On the Road in Finland

Several years ago I spent one whole day in Helsinki, Finland as part of a Baltic cruise. All I remembered was Sibelius and a rock church. Now I can say I’ve quadrupled that stay, although it feels much longer. In a short few days we have been busy exploring and learning. In Helsinki we visited the Sibelius Monument and the Rock Church, but much more, including the impressive Lutheran Cathedral, the open market on the port, the esplanade, Stockman’s Department Store, and Capelli’s cafe. When we left Helsinki for Lapland I at least felt that I had gained a passing acquaintance with the capital.

Arriving in the far north of Finland we have seen a sparsely populated region with vast forests.  We came up here,  north  of the 71st parallel, to learn something about Sami life and culture.  They are an ancient people who inhabit two worlds, one traditional and one modern.  Lapland knows no boundaries, being the far north reaches of Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Norway, home of the Sami.  (Russia also has Sami, although Stalin killed great numbers of them.).   They are reindeer herders, not really nomadic any more, who earn their livelihood from selling reindeer meat, hides, hooves, in short, all of the animal.  They also produce exquisite crafts of wood and textiles.

This part of Finland is all about reindeer.  We saw so many along the roads that we lost count.  Because calves are born in May we spotted lots of bouncing baby reindeer, trying to stay close to Mom.  They roam free until fall when the Sami round them up and slaughter the ones who are slated to go to their heavenly reward.  Since the animals move about freely, earmarks tell the herders whose reindeer are whose.  Each member of a family has his or her own earmark and is responsible for those reindeer starting at age five!  No couch potatoes allowed!  Of course the smallest children need help, but they learn how to be a responsible member of the family very early on.

The highlight of our short stay up here was a visit to a family who, besides raising reindeer, welcomes tour groups for dinner and conversation.  We had a chance to feed a couple of non-wandering reindeer some tasty lichen, after which, rather ironically, we had a dinner featuring reindeer meat.  It was quite delicious and a meal I won’t forget.

 

WHAT IF ?

Getting ready for a long trip (For me that usually means crossing an ocean.) is painful.  Unlike thinking about a trip when I focus on all the positives and tend to idealize the destination, preparing, I.e. packing, is as much fun as the come-to-Jesus talk I have with my doctor during my annual physical.  Days before seeing him, I keep thinking about all the bad news he might have for me since I gave blood for analysis.  What if my cholesterol has shot through the ceiling?  I knew I shouldn’t have had those hush puppies and french fries with my bacon cheeseburger.    Maybe my luck has run out and I have a fatal disease?  What if there’s something wrong with me that I never could have imagined?  Cancer of the uvula, for instance.

On the other hand, packing isn’t usually fatal, but I can’t help thinking about all the things that might happen that would require special equipment, for want of a better word.  What if I hurt my foot??  Would it do any good to take an Ace bandage?  I might need more than a little wrap.  In that case I might have to go to the doctor.  Well, I carry my list (longer every year) of medications, in case of an emergency visit to a doc, but what if they don’t understand the medication names up in Lapland?

And do I need to take packets of Tide to wash clothes?  Do they have soap in countries that are more advanced than the US?  Do I need insect repellent?  What if the tundra is melting and there are swarms of mosquitoes, like in Alaska?  What if I run into a bear?  Should I carry bells to warn them off?  (There’s a joke in Alaska that you can tell where bears have been recently by the piles of scat – with bells in them.)

Then there is the worry about clothing.  Many years ago, before I had as much travel experience as I do now, my husband and I took an anniversary trip to Greece, one week on land, one week on a ship.  Because of the strange way our travel packet was handled, we couldn’t check our luggage all the way to Athens.  When we got to the DC airport where we were connecting to Europe, our luggage wasn’t there.  I had a meltdown.  Neither one of us had packed a carryon with anything useful except a toothbrush and a book.  I cried all the way across the pond.  I knew there wouldn’t be any clothing readily available in my size.  We spent an entire week with nothing but the clothes we were wearing and tee shirts purchased at a market.  It was a valuable lesson.  Now I make sure I can survive with what’s in my carryon.

I know people who don’t take any carryon luggage.  God bless them.  Recently I ran into some good friends at the airport who were on their way to Madrid.  She had a small shoulder tote with their paperwork in it and he was carrying a grocery store plastic bag with some goldfish (the cracker type).  Outside of the shrine to the Black Madonna in Czestochowa, Poland, I have never seen such faith.  Of course,people like that always get their luggage.  It’s the neurotic worriers like me (sigh) who have problems.  Like the time I took students to Spain.  For the only time in my life I thought, why not dress up a bit?  I see ladies in Business Class who look like a million bucks.  Maybe I could too. Sort of.  So I wore a dress with a coordinating navy sweater, pantyhose and cute little sling back heels.  Right.  My suitcase didn’t arrive.  I was leading students, who’d had the good sense to dress more comfortably than I, up and down Madrid’s uneven streets in those shoes.   It didn’t take long for the pantyhose to rip and develop a gigantic hole.  Somewhat uncomfortable, you say?  Oh no.  More like torture.  I went to El Corte Ingles where I searched for “reina” size pantyhose.  I found some in navy and grabbed then up.  When I put them on, I discovered that they were dotted.  Hideous.  Navy blue but somewhat iridescent.  The students got a good laugh.  I looked like a hooker!  I’ve never tried that again.  No dressing up for me.  What if I’m mistaken for a bag lady?  I’ll just have to live with the consequences, but I’ll be comfortable.  And if the worst happens on the trip?  Well I’ll have to pray to the Black Madonna.

The Bread of Life

Invariably, when I return from France, someone will ask me about the great, rich French food, or if I ate in such-and-such a famous restaurant. The truth is that I like to discover restaurants.  A couple of years ago I saw that there was a Tibetan restaurant near my studio apartment. I had no idea what Tibetan cuisine was like, so I tried it and found it delicious. The decor was eye-catching and the staff was delightful. Paris offers so many cuisines from the many immigrant communities that have settled in the great city that one could probably try something new and unusual every day for a month. I still haven’t been to a Senegalese or Ethiopian restaurant, although I have tasted the fare at a couple of Moroccan establishments.

During my recent time in Paris I was searching for a cafe or brasserie near the Jardin des Plantes. I wanted French food and kept finding Italian pizza-and-pasta eateries. Those two items, which I enjoy, were not on my current “approved” list, but finally I gave up and went into a little restaurant that serves only their house-made pastas. I figured that if I had to eat pasta, it could at least be unusual. Each dish was made with a different pasta. There was barley, chestnut, buckwheat, and a few others I’ve forgotten. And each pasta dish was different from every other. I settled on the barley pasta with salmon, leeks and seaweed. It was scrumptious and no tomato sauce in sight! This is the kind of eating adventure that adds to my joy of being in Paris.

Even the most ordinary foods can be delicious; a sandwich of ham and cheese on a baguette, lentil soup, a big salad. Because the French are so interested in the origin of their foods, you even see signs for French fries “de la maison”, meaning house made fresh rather than frozen. Imagine that in the US!  Of course nothing says “French food” like bread.  Hardly any French person would settle for a day-old baguette.  Someone from the household always goes to the nearby bakery in the morning for fresh croissants and baguettes.  In the afternoons it’s as ordinary to see someone walking down the street holding a long baguette as it is to hear an impatient driver blow his horn.  There’s absolutely nothing in French cuisine to compare with the wonder of their breads.  The croissant is a delicate layered marvel that makes eating just a single one a challenge.  (If you’ve never had a real, French croissant, I would say you’ve never lived.)  And the baguette with its soft inside and crunchy outside was made to carry passengers, whether butter and jam at breakfast or sauce at dinner.   At the end of a meal it does the mop-up work on a plate.  Perfection.

The day after our arrival I headed for Notre Dame with a student to help her catch up with the group.  An unsightly although fabulously redolent tent was set up in front of Notre Dame celebrating something, not the divine Ascension.  (That was happening inside the cathedral.)  It was the Fête de Pain.  Ahhh, something else divine, French bread.  We wandered through, taking in the dazzling variety of breads, rolls, sweet rolls of all kinds, pastries, and finally sandwiches on baguettes.  Everybody fell for something irresistible.  I considered getting a langue de belle-mère,  a large oblong cookie called a mother-in-law’s tongue.  I settled for a tiny bit of a croissant-like roll.  A delicious morsel.  A taste of the city that said “Welcome.”

“Never Get a French Car”

When I found out that the weekend my friend Christine and I were leaving Paris for Tours was a pont, a long holiday weekend with its attendant crowded trains, I suggested that we rent a car in Paris and drive instead.  Christine thought this a fine idea so I arranged the rental.  Last summer I had picked up a small rental car in Caen and driven around the north of Normandy, enjoying the freedom and savoring the gorgeous countryside. The car was easy to handle and I got used to the manual transmission quickly.   Manuals were what I had driven for years, after all.  Why should this year be any different? My confidence was boundless.  My concerns about driving near Paris were allayed by the brilliant idea, also mine, of getting the car at Orly Airport, thus avoiding the urban traffic.  Everyone thought it made sense.  Plus, it wasn’t all that long a drive to Tours.  Done.

At the rental counter at Orly the agent tried to talk us into getting a better car.  More expensive, of course.  He kept saying the Peugeot model I had requested was big and perhaps we should upgrade to an automatic.  Also more expensive.  We couldn’t get a smaller car at that point, but anything more expensive was no problem.  We stuck with the original Peugeot. He said it was brand new and very nice.  Great.

The agent who showed us to the car agreed to set the GPS for us in English.  I hadn’t wanted that technology, but it came with the car, so who was I to complain.  Besides, it might come in useful, since I hadn’t bought a map.  I watched him do it and told Christine it couldn’t be easier.  It was the last time I ever saw that screen.  He also demonstrated the state-of-the-art, push-button ignition.  Wow!  We were good to go!  He left us, I adjusted the seat, let out the clutch, and the car immediately crapped out.  I knew I’d have to get used to the feel of the clutch.  The high-tech dashboard flashed out instructions: “Declutch and press the Start button.”  Ok  I de-clutched, put the car in neutral, and nothing except red flashing across the dash.  Same message.  I tried several more times and couldn’t get the car started.  Cars were piling up behind us, starting to blow their horns, and I was beginning to panic.  Suddenly the car started.  I didn’t know what I had done differently, but I announced that we were going to pull in to a parking place until I figured this out.  Ok.  Don’t panic  I got the car started again and attempted to put the car in reverse.  It inched forward.  Three more attempts and we were licking the wall.  No reverse.  Christine noticed something about the gear shift and suggested I lift the gear shift up.  Voila!  It went into reverse.  Thank you, dear friend.  I inched into the lane, and the car cut off again.  NOoooooo!!!!  I couldn’t get it started.  Same message on the dashboard about de-clutching, same useless attempts, cars accumulating behind us.  Dear God.  What was I going to do?   A young man in the car directly behind us got out and asked if we needed help.  You could say so.  I explained what the car was telling me and he suggested that I put the clutch in.  When I told him the instructions were to de-clutch (Doesn’t that mean to release the clutch?)  I did what this kindly young man said and the car started.  Holy Hell!  We finally got out of the garage.  Only 200 miles to go.

As we made our way through the traffic I only messed up the gears a few times, stalling once, but very briefly.  After all, I had learned how to start the car hadn’t I?  The GPS had reverted to French and Christine couldn’t find the language settings, but I understood the French directions so wasn’t worried.  As we moved farther from Paris we both relaxed a bit and eventually reached a large truck stop where we were eager to eat and get some drinks.  Somewhere about this point the GPS voice, Fifi, started speaking English!  Maybe Joan of Arc had sent a miracle.  We welcomed her back with open arms.

When we got out of the car I clicked the lock symbol on the electronic key.  The lights blinked but the doors didn’t lock.  I tried again.  No luck.  I examined the key as if it were the Rosetta Stone.  Enlightenment was not forthcoming.  When in doubt, read the manual.  We found the section about the key and how to lock the car.  The magic button still wasn’t responding.  Ok, well, it says right here that you can use an actual, old-fashioned key that pops out when you slide this little button on the electronic key.  We both pushed, pulled, poked, tried to pull the invisible key out of the invisible slot.  Nothing doing.  Was this revenge for Freedom Fries?  On the verge of taking turns guarding the un-lockable car, a young man walked past us to an auto parked in the next space.  Aha!  Youth!  They can figure out all things vaguely related to computers.  This young man also pushed, pulled and poked, but couldn’t release the key-key.  He noticed that the picture in the manual didn’t match the key we had.  Turn page.  There it is!  Still didn’t work.  Back to the plan to take turns guarding the car.  Our young Frenchman then noticed something about re-setting the key.  That sounded far-fetched, but we decided to try it.  Eureka!  Our electronic lock-unlock worked!  The young man got into his car, a Japanese model and said, “Never get a French car.  Never get a French car.”