Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

france

Book Tuesday: La Seduction

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Today’s post is later than normal. Our car arrived in Tacoma! Yay! We drove to pick it up and drop off the rental car at the Seattle airport, so I’ve been in a car all day and have the sore behind to prove it. It felt so wonderful to be in our own car again! Anyway, sorry I’m late, but on to our regularly scheduled post…

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I’m not sure I’ve ever read a book that truly captures the essence of France for me. I’ve read travel narratives intended to entertain that fall flat with cultural stereotypes. I’ve enjoyed the Peter Mayle books the most, because he writes about Provence with such affection and delight, but even they do not convey my experience of France. I’m always a sucker for yet another book on French culture, though, in the hopes I will find someone whose vision matches mine.

La Seduction: How the French Play the Game of Life by Elaine Sciolino approaches France, particularly Paris, from the “charm offensive” point of view. From dress to food, perfume, and even politics, Sciolino attempts to bridge the gap between our two cultures by explaining the French need to infuse beauty and sensuality into all aspects of life.

Whenever I read a book like this, I am interested not only in the content as it stands on its own, but its relevance to my own life. Is there information that is useful for me? To that question, I can answer yes. Over time I have learned to create a more aesthetic life, racing less from task to task and focusing more on quality of life. I’ll never dress like a sophisticated Parisian woman, though I have learned a bit more about combining scarves and hats (more on this tomorrow) with my hiking pants and sweat-wicking tops. I don’t mind the occasional vase of flowers to dress up the house, and I look for little ways to add “plaisir” (pleasure) to my day. Sometimes the small touches bring great joy!

One thing I do not learn from any of these books is what the poorer French, especially those living on the outskirts of Paris, have to say. No one seems to ask them what their lives are like. So we tend to get a distorted picture of the French from its upper crust, and this book, which details interviews the author had with high muckety mucks, including Sarkozy, is no exception.

Still, Sciolino has plenty of fun stories to tell, and she doesn’t hesitate to share her reactions to what we American women would consider sexism or even harassment. She delights in her dealings with a local butcher, learns to not run around in sweat clothes (you might bump into someone you know and have coffee), and revels in sublime French food. She reflects on changes occurring in France — fewer farms, for example, and the second highest consumption of McDonald’s hamburgers behind the U.S. (I’ve been inside a French McDonald’s, and it was so jammed that even my laid-back hubby freaked out a little.)

La Seduction seduces, to a degree. If you’re a francophile, you’ll probably enjoy it, and reading it made me a bit “homesick” for a visit. Sciolino shines best when she’s talking about her interviews over the years. Other reviewers have called her to task for describing a dinner party (they called it boring), but I loved that segment of the book. For this party, Sciolino prepared as best she could, trying to follow the intricate rules of protocol — only to find that the French themselves often broke the rules. To me, it described, in a nutshell, the impossibility, no matter how hard one tries, to truly understand French culture.

Sometimes You Need a Pizza

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We’re nearing the end of our monthlong travel odyssey. Today we visit Aix-en-Provence, and tomorrow we travel to France’s Grand Canyon. Saturday we return to Geneva, where we catch our plane home on Sunday. I love to travel–and I also love to go home.

Our stay in Provence has been a pleasant one. We are in Menerbes, perched high on a hilltop, with great views from our apartment. From there, we zip around easily to the spiderweb of towns that surround us, some in the hills, others in the valleys. We have traveled tiny roads where we sometimes need to back up to let another car through. We have visited the summit of Mont Vontoux, where nothing grows because of le mistral, but is made famous by the Tour de France and therefore qualifies, for Henry, as almost a religious experience. We visited wineries, and in one instance found a wine-grower who speaks the Queen’s English (his father Parisian, his mother British).

Picasso once owned a home here in Menerbes, which he gave to one of his lovers, Dora Maar, an artist, photographer, and poet in her own right. Dora was his muse for some of his better-known paintings. She lived until 1997, and her home is now used as a retreat for writers and artists. The selection process is administered by none other than the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston! It is indeed a small world. For any writers reading this blog, it’s well worth checking out as a possible retreat spot.

Then there is the food. As I write this, Henry is at the boulangerie, picking up the day’s supply of fresh croissants and baguettes, just out of the oven and still warm. We have found several restaurants favored by locals, with reasonable prices and delicious food. Since it is fall in Provence, pumpkin often appears as a side dish, either in a soup or a sweet potato-like affair, mashed and seasoned.

The best deals are the fixed-price meals, where one can get a salad or appetizer, a main dish, and a dessert. These combo meals are based on what the chef can get fresh at the market, and the prices beat the individual items on the menu by far.

Still, after all these fabulous meals, I have moments when I long for the simple, the familiar, the known. Last night I announced that I was sick of multi-course meals, that I needed pizza. In Provence, that is easier said than done. The pizzeria in town was closed for the day (every restaurant is closed one day a week, and is sometimes closed even when it’s supposed to be open). We knew of a recommended pizzeria in nearby Isle Sur La Sorge, but alas, it was closed, too. On our way to another restaurant that we knew had pizza on the menu, we found a tiny pizzeria in Coustellet. When the waiter scolded us for ordering red wine with our pizza (I quickly switched to rose, which is quite good here in Provence), I knew we would be okay.

Provencal pizzas are different from Italian ones, but I consider this a good thing. When my veggie pizza arrived, filled with zucchini, eggplant, and black olives, I still felt like I was eating real Provence food.

Today, as we resume our touring, I think I’ll go happily back to the fixed-price meals. For now, I am satisfied with a bit of home, with the simplicity of a single course.

Know When to Fold ‘Em

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Yesterday we treated ourselves to two interesting towns in Provence:  Les Baux and St. Remy. Les Baux is home to the ruins of a chateau, which we toured. Now, when I think of chateaux, I think of large, enclosed, glamorous places. I didn’t quite get the “ruins” part. Not that ruins bother me. Lord knows I’ve climbed and crawled around more than my share. It’s just that I thought our tour would be a warm, indoor experience. Wrong again. It turned out not to be overly cold, but we were greeted by an impressive wind. Provence, of course, is famous for its wind, but I guess I thought it hit only in the winter.

In spite of feeling blown around like a paper bag, we enjoyed the tour. The metal bauxite takes its name from this town, as the hills were once full of it. It’s amazing to me how, as we go from town to town, each not far apart from the other, the terrain looks so different. This rock I would call “pock marked,” gray with black. Looking out from the chateau, we got great views yet again, though it was too windy for me to feel comfortable taking photos.

Afterward we found the village of St. Remy, a warm and bustling place that thus far feels closest to what we have wanted in our Provence experience. We had a warm, hearty couscous stew with chicken, eggplant, and other veggies in a little restaurant where we were befriended by an American/British couple who now live in St. Remy full-time. They are in their mid-seventies and enjoy living in their little house in town–no Provence farmhouse for them, they like not having to get into their car! They gave us lots of food for thought for future stays and longer visits, should that turn out to be our goal. She said that a lot of the villages, though charming, are pretty dead with just one or two bistros and people who don’t speak to one another. St. Remy, on the other hand, has a lot going on, including a good-sized ex-pat population.

Van Gogh spent a year in St. Remy in the psychiatric hospital, which still exists today and which still offers art therapy as part of its treatment program. During this time, he painted more than 150 paintings (of an astounding 890 or so in 10 years). He would walk the various roads and fields of the area. We walked one of those roads, which was marked from time to time with information about his work and which paintings he might have done in each location or nearby. At the hospital, they had a nice exhibit of his biography, what his room would have looked like, and his treatment. Although he was a patient, they often allowed Vincent to leave the grounds in order to pursue his work. St. Remy was one of the few places that embraced and respected him during his lifetime–in Arles, they found him too strange. I guess when someone cuts off his ear, people get a bit nervous.

We made it back to the apartment for another workday for Henry, but the Internet was problematic yet again. It has power blips, and unfortunately, the router is in another apartment, so we can’t reset it ourselves. This morning, when it went down one more time, Henry decided it was time to go. I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t like the apartment much, and Avignon never did grow on me. I think they are trying too hard to be modern and hip, when what we want is a more traditional Provencal experience. Plus, the town is sort of dingy and run-down and sad. So, we checked out and headed for Arles, where we will spend the next three nights in a local hotel that seems quite charming.

We know that our style of travel involves a certain risk, and things don’t always work out. Last year in Jerusalem we had to make a switch–inconvenient and stressful, but we ended up in a fantastic place that we really enjoyed. We think we’re going to spend our last week in Lourmarin, which has some tourist trade but isn’t overrun, and is still said to maintain its charm. I’m not totally sure where we’ll end up, but we will be fine…just more stories for the grandkids!

Jesus and the Sex Shops–We’re in France!

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A 24 X 30 portrait of Jesus stares at me from the kitchen wall between two windows, and outside an old church faces our apartment. In the bedroom, a nun looks over us. And around the corner, the whole block is lined with sex shops.

Yep, we’re in France!

France Feldman style, anyway, where we never quite know what unique surprises await us with the apartments we rent. Inside, we are peaceful and safe. The rooms are bright and cheerful, the bed is comfortable, and we are locked up in three different places.

Whenever we arrive at a new place, I have to adjust. It takes me about a day or so as I let go of the previous experience (or home, if early in the trip). When I realized that this apartment is so bare-bones that I needed to buy toilet paper, I had a moment of asking myself, “What have we done? How are we going to stay here for two weeks?”

Well, it’s simple. We buy toilet paper (except it’s not toilet paper, it’s paper towels, and poor Henry has to go back to the store when we hit emergency levels). Then we get some sleep. The next day everything looks easier and more fun, and I’m ready to jump in. We figure out the shower–“C” is for chaud (hot), not cold. Oops.

Anyway, we are in the oldest part of Avignon, a town that is somewhat like old Paris but drearier, somewhat like Siena, Italy, but more cheerful, and that seems confused about what it wants to be. Old or modern? Charming or rundown? Even our proprietess reflected this confusion. On the phone, as we came closer to town, she seemed brusque to the point that I wanted to find somewhere, anywhere else to stay. When we met in person, though, we were instant friends, and she conveyed warmth and caring as she told us where we could eat good food for reasonable prices. She even told us which booths in the marketplace were the best.

Sunday morning, with no food in the apartment, we walked to said marketplace, Les Halles, one of the more famous markets in Europe. It has a permanent structure instead of being in the open air, and it is open six days a week. After some initial overwhelm that was cured by a yummy pain au chocolat, we made our rounds. Each vendor seemed helpful, cheerful, and even playful, and our purchases were all rewarded by some little extra treat that got slipped into our bags. The bread guy, for example, would cut hunks of bread off of loaves up to 18” in diameter and reveled in showing the customers the bottoms of each loaf so they could see and choose the one they liked the most. His extra little gift to us was a slice of brioche, sweet and fresh.

We came back with cheese, bread, yogurt, eggs, and plenty of produce. Then we finished at the supermarket, where a few simple purchases gave the apartment all the comforts of home. It may sound odd to some, but market shopping is an important part of the Provencal experience, and our first encounter was a pleasant one.

In the afternoon we hit the road and drove to Gordes, a village built on a rocky hillside. We took a long walk through the winding streets of town and got some great views not only of the town itself, but the vineyards and olive groves below, and the mountains in the distance.

From Gordes we found a Gothic-era abbey that we visited briefly, and then the village of Bories, which consists of restored stone houses that were used from the pre-Christian era to the 18th century. Each dwelling sat directly next door to a sheep or goat pen. Not sure I would like that much!

Since we had time, we then drove on to Rousillon—a place we will definitely return to. We had time just to wander around a bit before everything closed, and there’s a lot to see. The hillsides and soil of Rousillon are famous for its ochre pigments, and great Impressionist painters came to Rousillon to get just the right colors. The walls and shutters of the village buildings are painted in a wide variety of cheerful yellows, oranges, purples, and greens in addition to light and dark ochres. There’s a whole self-guided “ochre tour” of the area that we plan to take when we go back.

As we made the return trip to Avignon, we took some winding roads (a GPS is a great invention) and, as it turns out, ended up somewhere near Peter Mayle’s first Provence house. We didn’t see it but Henry looked up the info later. Apparently after A Year in Provence hit it big, complete strangers would come over and jump in Mayle’s pool or otherwise disturb his peace, thus eventually forcing him out. He’s a bit vague these days about where he is, or even if he is in Provence full-time.

Today we took a walking tour of Avignon that led us into a Gothic church, to the old Jewish quarter, and finally to the Pope’s Palace. We finished with an elegant lunch at one of the hotels. All the food has been great so far, even when it isn’t specifically French (I had sushi last night). I will rest, write, and do yoga while Henry works, and we shall eat in at the apartment tonight. Visit me on Facebook for all the latest pics!

Packing Lightly

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Despite frequent travel, I never find the right amount of clothing to pack. Sometimes, as in when we went to Italy, we locate a laundromat on the Internet ahead of time so we know when and where we will get to wash clothes. In Israel, however, our laundry plans went awry when we had to change hotels unexpectedly, and we ended up washing our underwear in the hotel sink. Add to that an Air France strike that delayed our return home, and I ended up wearing clothes on the long plane ride that, well, weren’t quite as fresh as I would like. Usually, though, I overprepare and end up bringing clean clothes home.

This time, we’re headed to Switzerland and France. In addition to the clothing options, challenged by three different sets of temperatures, we have hiking gear to consider. Still, I am determined to pack lightly. Yesterday, all packed, I then unpacked everything to move it to a smaller suitcase, which forced me to make some hard choices. I decided I didn’t need to take two vests, for example,  just because they’re both cute, when one will do. I discovered that in my panic about being gone for an entire month, which is new for me, I WAY overpacked. Now I am happy with a smaller suitcase that will work much better as we navigate the Swiss railway system.

In addition to lightening the suitcase, there are other ways to pack lightly. For me, that has meant working hard to get writing projects to a certain point so they can “cool” while I’m gone, and I won’t feel compelled to work on them. I have promised myself that for this month, in the midst of exploring and hiking and immersing myself in different cultures, I get to work on new stuff. In working hard ahead of time, my mind is relaxed and clear, making room for new stories.

I read a lot of travel narratives, and I’m not sure what I can offer that is new or different–Peter Mayle, for example, seems to have Provence locked up–but my job is to travel lightly, with a light suitcase and a light heart, and to write whatever comes of that. So, the next installment of this blog will come to you from Grindelwald, Switzerland, where I have a date with mountains, cheese, and chocolate, not necessarily in that order.