(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living

by Mark Greenside

  Copyright © 2018 by Mark Greenside

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Jacket illustrations and design by Jessie Kanelos Weiner

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3110-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3111-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Donna Umeki, my wwwwife

  Contents

  Foreword

  Driving (Me Nuts)

  Shopping for . . .

  Money, Money, Money, Money

  I’m Eating What?

  I Cooked This for You

  A Hypochondriac’s Delight

  “Je Voudrais Une Con Avec Deux Boule . . .”

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Note to the Reader

  If you’re lucky, some of the things that happened to me will happen to you. If you’re luckier, some of them won’t.

  Several names of people and places have been changed to protect them and me from everyone.

  Foreword

  In the spring of 1991, against my wishes and all my judgments, my girlfriend persuaded me to spend the summer in Brittany, Finistère: “The end of the world.” I wanted to go to Saskatchewan where people speak English, where I could get to by driving instead of flying, and where Americans, if not actually liked, weren’t actually hated. This isn’t the last time I was wrong.

  We rented a house in Plobien, a village of about six hundred people, from an English lady named Sally, and within days, I fell under Brittany’s spell: its shimmering light, white cotton candy clouds, and blue-green sea; its granite viaducts and dolmen; ambling rivers, heathered hills, huge skies, beaches, and tides.

  I met Monsieur and Madame P and their two sons, Henri and Philippe. Madame was the keeper of the keys to Chez Sally and the knower of everything I needed to know, my first friend, and future Aladdin and guardian angel.

  I also met Jean and Sharon and their boys, Yann and Noé. Jean is Breton, a filmmaker, Sharon is Canadian, Quebecois, a painter, and teacher. They are soixante-huitards, sixties folks like me, and unlike Monsieur and Madame P, fluent in English: she from birth, he from her.

  As it turned out, eight weeks were four weeks too many for my girlfriend and me. By the end of the summer I was out of love with her, in love with Brittany, and ready to return to California—then I bought a house in France.

  I, who don’t speak French, don’t like to fly, who owned nothing at the time but the clothes in my closet and an eighteen-year-old Volvo, borrowed money from my mom and bought a 120-year-old stone house six thousand miles and twenty-one hours (door-to-door) from California. That was twenty-plus years ago, and I’ve never regretted it—which I can’t say about a lot of things I’ve done.

  Over the years, I’ve met and become friends with many people: Bruno, Françoise, Gilles, Tatjana, Hugo, Nadine, Jean-Pierre, Joëlle, Ella, Rick, Martin, Louise, Sally, and Monsieur Charles. These people, along with Monsieur and Madame P and Sharon and Jean, have become my family and have served as a combination Red Cross and Salvation Army, as they have repeatedly saved and rescued me—mostly from myself—more than they can believe and I want to remember.

  All of them are in this book, along with my American friends Peggy, LeRoy, Jerry, Sheryl, Bob, Loni, and Donna—who entered my life and changed it forever, for better, and who unbelievably speaks French, likes France, and agreed to marry me and live part of every summer in Plobien.

  This is my world, the Old World that is constantly new to me. I’ve been coming to France—Brittany—for more than twenty years now, and I’m still trying to master the art of French living. For a guy who likes to think he knows what he’s doing, it’s been an unexpectedly bumpy ride.

  Driving (Me Nuts)

  I started driving when I was seventeen and had my first accident when I was seventeen and a half. I’d successfully completed driver’s education in high school and was convinced I knew what I was doing, which is often the first and best sign that I don’t. In those days, driving was a sign of adulthood—manhood—even more than sexual experience, probably because it was easier to get a car than a girl, and definitely easier than getting a girl into a car, which was my chief aim at the time.

  My driver’s ed teacher was Mr. F, a pleasant man who was also a history teacher and tennis coach. He liked teaching driver’s ed most because it was where he could pay the least attention. I passed the class easily (we all did) but I didn’t learn anything about driving or safety or sanity or adulthood (no one did), which is why I had the accident.

  It was one thirty in the morning. I had just dropped Shelly Grebin at her house after summoning the courage of Jeanne d’Arc, Socrates, Galileo, and Shackleton to kiss her under the strobe lamp her parents left on to dissuade her, or me, or us. I was elated, having accomplished my two chief goals in life: getting a girl into my car and kissing her. I was also slightly drunk from partying all night. I sped through a red light, hitting another car and totaling mine. Amazingly, no one was hurt.

  I had my second accident twenty years later. A woman named Bea Bee, a name I will never forget, dead-stopped her car at an all-clear, open-all-the-way freeway entrance, and I nicked her impetigoed Volkswagen. I gave her a check for five hundred dollars for invisible, caused-by-her damages, and that was that.

  Since then, I’ve had my share of speeding and parking tickets. Nothing unusual, really—until I started driving in France. Driving in France, especially before GPS and Mapquest (but even after), is more complicated and difficult than Magellan’s sailing and navigating the seven seas: he had the stars and a guy in the crow’s nest to guide him; I have myself and French signage, and more often than not, that’s not enough.

  Getting My Car

  Every summer begins with a telephone call to reserve my car, and even though there's never been a problem, and I know I'm going to get my car, it's always a surprise when I do. Surprise is my new routine.

  I start in January, when I’m feeling most optimistic (about the Giants and a new year) and most pessimistic (about the Giants and a new year), and call Rob. He has his own agency—Liddiard Travel—and always manages a discount greater than everyone else’s. Plus, he’s friendly and thorough, and answers all of my questions no matter how many times I ask them. I tell him my pick-up and return dates and locations, and he goes into action, searching for the cheapest combination possible: Renault or Peugeot, gas or diesel, rent or lease. I do this even though we both know the outcome: Renault (sans GPS), gas, and lease.

  This year isn’t any different: it’s Renault (sans GPS), gas, and lease. What is different is I’m getting my car at Aéroport Charles de Gaulle and driving to Brittany, something I haven’t done in more than a decade. When I made the reservations six months and six thousand miles ago, it
seemed like a good idea—the way invading Iraq must have seemed to W.

  My plane lands on time, two o’clock in the afternoon, five o’clock in the morning California time. Thanks to a mileage award, I’m flying United. Except for the food, less legroom, and smaller and harder seats that barely recline, it’s just like flying Air France. This is what I’m thinking as we taxi to the docking area and the pilot announces, “Welcome to Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport, Terminal One.”

  This is how I learn that Terminal Two, the newest terminal, the one I’ve been landing at for years, with its spacious, airy, light-filled, air-conditioned, glass and wood interior; many free, comfortable chairs and benches to sit on; clear signage; helpful personnel; easy access to a newly automated, quick and efficient baggage claim; lots and lots of bathrooms—and elevators and escalators that work—is where Air France lands. United and the other U.S. airlines have to share Terminal One, the oldest terminal and the worst, as I recall from the last time I was here, ten years ago.

  I pull my briefcase with laptop, three-hundred-page manuscript, and several notebooks filled with notes from the overhead bin and lug it to the baggage area, a trek that makes Mao’s long march seem like a lark. My back aches, my shoulders, my hands. I arrive looking and feeling like Quasimodo. I’ve been traveling fifteen and a half hours, door to de Gaulle. All I want is to get my luggage and car and drive to Senlis, where I’m spending the night, so I can wake refreshed in the morning and drive to Plobien.

  Ninety minutes later—after the death march to the baggage area, a forty-minute wait for baggage, plus the additional wait for customs, which goes smoothly, but not quickly, because only three of the sixteen booths are open, and one of those is closed for a worker’s break—I’m ready to go.

  I wheel my baggage cart through the doors, into the terminal, and realize the games haven’t even begun. People are everywhere, moving every which way. I know there’s a protocol, there has to be a protocol—there’s always a protocol—but I don’t see it.

  I push my two-bags-plus-briefcase-laden cart into the crowd like a bumper car, saying, “Pardon-moi, excusez-moi,” with every hit. I’m looking for the elevator to the ground floor. I know I want the ground floor, because Rob at Liddiard told me, in English, “Take the elevator to the ground floor and look for Renault.”

  I search and search and can’t find an elevator. I wheel the cart back and forth and in circles. The entire terminal is a circle. I make a complete loop. I want to sit down, but the few free, uncomfortable, non-restaurant, non-shoe-shine, non-toilet places to sit are taken. An apple-cheeked boy of about fourteen walks up to me and says, “Monsieur?”

  I think he’s going to ask me for directions. “Oui...”

  “May I help you?”

  I could kiss him. This is France, I could kiss him, maybe I should, I don’t know. I tell him I’m looking for the elevator. His face turns grave. He looks serious. He takes my cart and leads me in another series of circles to a dark corner under the stairs and points to a wedge fifteen people deep, each person commandeering one or two overflowing baggage carts, waiting for the elevator. In the U.S., this would drive me nuts, but in France, a nation whose people lack the chromosome for line-formation, this is the way it is. Wedges of people are everywhere: movie theaters, supermarkets, post offices, banks, bathrooms.

  I thank the lad, get in the wedge, and wait, relaxing until I see in front of me, along with everyone else, an old lady in a wheelchair, pushing a cart, and once again I’m reminded there’s no coddling of the weak, needy, or infirm in France, which doesn’t bode well for me.

  I get behind the old lady and wait. There’s no pushing, grumbling, anger, or rage. Everyone accepts this as normal. C’est normal. I accept it, too—even when I see two of the three elevators aren’t working, and the one that is is barely large enough for three or four people with carts, meaning the wedge never gets smaller. Three people enter the elevator; three people join the wedge. It’s like some immutable law of French physics.

  Thirty minutes later, I push myself and my cart into the elevator along with the lady in the wheelchair and an African family of four. The African man pushes the button. The elevator goes up. I didn’t even know there was an up. It stops. The doors open. No one gets on or off. He pushes the button again. It goes down, back to the floor where we started. The doors open. The people in front move forward, then scowl when they see it’s us and there’s no room for them. The African man quickly pushes the button, and we go down.

  The wheelchair lady and African family push off in opposite directions, knowing where they are and where they’re going, probably in both the geographical and ontological sense. Not me. I stand there, lost, frozen, mesmerized, surrounded by every car rental agency in the world except Renault. I’m looking for a sign that says Renault. I ask four people, “Où est Renault?” and get pointed in four different directions. I follow each one and get nowhere. An old man who has been watching me stands and lumbers over to me, takes my hand—to balance himself, I tell myself—and leads me to a telephone on the wall under a sign that says TT. He points with his other hand and says, “Renault.” I thank him and marvel at how anyone finds anything. Then I shudder as I realize I’ve already been lost twice in the last forty minutes and I haven’t even left the airport. What’s going to happen when I hit the road?

  I pick up the phone, and before I can speak, the person on the other end says, “Oui.”

  “Parlez vous anglais?” I ask.

  “Non.”

  “Bon. Je suis Greenside. Vous êtes Renault?”

  “Oui. Votre nom?”

  “Greenside,” I repeat, and realize I’m going to have to spell it. G is zheh; R is ehr; euh is E; enn; ess; ee is I; D is day; euh. “Zheh-ehr-euh-euh-enn-ess-ee-day-euh.”

  “Cinq minutes,” he says and hangs up.

  Five minutes what! Walk? Drive? Crawl? I go to them? They come to me? Merde. Double merde. I wait five minutes, ten, fifteen, convinced I’m supposed to be somewhere else when a young man of eighteen or nineteen arrives, calling, “Monsieur Greenseed, Monsieur Greenseed!”

  “Oui,” I call back.

  “Monsieur Greenseed?”

  “Oui.”

  “Anglais? Ing-lish?”

  “Américaine,” I say. An American girl.

  He shakes my hand and smiles. I smile, too, happy to be found even if he thinks I’m a transvestite.

  He leads me to the van, puts my bags in the back, and races to the car rental location, chatting all the way in rapid-fire French and heavily accented broken English, not caring in the least that I don’t understand a word he says in either language. He stops at a tiny shack with the sign TT on it: the Renault office. It looks to me like a shed for a lawn mower.

  I walk in. There are no chairs or benches to sit on, and no music to comfort or distract. It’s worse than the Department of Motor Vehicles in Oakland, and the woman behind the counter looks just as forbidding, jabbing the air with a pen when she speaks, her hair and face pulled tight in a bun. I get in line and wait. When it’s finally my turn, I say, “Bonjour,” and resignedly ask, “Parlez vous anglais?”

  “Yes,” she says, “bien sûr, of course,” and transforms into a freckle-faced fairie, speaking flawless English with an Irish lilt. She hands me a sheaf of papers, all in French, and tells me where to sign. I do, not knowing or caring if I’m making her my heir. She tells me the insurance covers everything except flat tires, how to get road service, and, most importantly, where to get gas.

  I already know leased cars in France come with an empty gas tank. Basically, what I’ll get is fumes. I’ll have five minutes to find a gas station, and God help me if I don’t. So when the lady says, “Take the first right after you exit to the left and you’ll find the Total station,” I write it down: take first right after the exit. I fold the paper in half and put it in my shirt pocket. She hands me a map of Paris and its environs, says, “Bon voyage,” and points out the window to my car, a Twingo.


  It looks like a stubbed toe, a windup toy, something designed by LEGO. The only distinguishing features are the red license plates that tell everyone I’m a foreigner and that they should stay far, far away from me and this car.

  I place my bags and briefcase in the back, which surprisingly has a lot of space, open the driver’s door, and sit down. I feel like I’m on a ride at Disneyland. The car’s so basic, I’m glad it has seats. The fellow who met me at the airport walks over and explains how to operate the car—in French. I nod whenever he pauses, and say, “Bon. Bon. Oui,” not having a clue what he’s saying. When he finishes, he gives me the keys, shakes my hand, and says, “Bonne chance.”

  I adjust the mirrors and the seat, start the car, and look at the gas gauge: sure enough, a milliliter above empty. I back up and exit left, feeling confident until I get to the first right and see it’s a service road. The next right is the A-1 freeway entrance to Paris. There are no cars behind me, so I stop. I definitely do not want to go to Paris, and will never get there anyhow, given the amount of gas I have. But a service road? That doesn’t seem right either. I take out the Mapquest directions I smartly printed a week ago—who needs a GPS when there’s Mapquest?—and look at them for the first time.

  Step One says, “Start out going south.” I open the window and look for the sun. It’s Paris, June, there is no sun. Step Two says, “Take the first right.” I take the note out of my pocket. The Renault lady also said, “Take the first right.” I remind myself of the pride French people take in their use of precise language and logic—and how first means first, not second . . .

  I follow Mapquest, the Irish lass, and French logic and turn right, onto the service road, and immediately realize they’re all wrong. I take the next right, hoping to loop back, and begin driving in circle after concentric circle around the service areas of Aéroport Charles de Gaulle, watching the fuel gauge dip, drop, slip, slide closer to E, then beyond to the red, flashing panic light . . .