But on the day of the fair, Antigone was drenched in a torrential rain that, as we would learn later, claimed twenty-three lives further inland. Still, the French were not deterred. Thousands of people strolled from booth to booth—some protected by umbrellas, most impervious to the rainfall—and soaked up the virtues of each club.
Every association imaginable was represented, all vying for the visitors’ patronage. The exchange at the first booth I stopped at was typical.
“Bonjour mesdames, messieurs,” I said, quickly slipping under the plastic tarp for protection from the rain.
I was immediately greeted by two men and two women, all with grand smiles. “You are brave to visit us in this inundation,” one woman said, her eyes shining with hospitality.
“Oh, not really,” I said. “It seems that everyone is having a good time. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Et voilà,” one of the men said.
“Please tell me something about your association,” I said.
A woman handed me a tri-fold brochure. It read “Choeurs de L’Enclos, Montpellier.” It was one of a dozen classical city choirs that I would visit that morning.
“We are a choir of one hundred and fifty voices,” the woman volunteered. “We perform large pieces: masses, requiems, and cantatas from the masters.”
“For example.”
“In past years we have sung The Planets by Holst, The Requiem by Mozart, The Creation by Haydn.”
“Impressive.”
“Yes,” the woman with shining eyes said. “Would you like to hear a recording?”
“Yes, I would.”
I sat down on a chair next to a portable CD player and listened to a few measures of Bach’s Saint Mathew’s Passion. It was glorious. “That’s exciting,” I said, taking off the headphones. “Are you sure you can use a baritone with an awful American accent?”
“Oh, but you speak French very well,” one woman said. “We are already an international choir. Two of our members are English and one is German. It would be wonderful to have an American. Besides, this year we are doing The Mass by Handel.”
“In English?” I asked.
“But, of course,” shining eyes said. “You could help us with our diction. Please come. We rehearse every Friday evening from eight-thirty to eleven.”
“Perhaps I will see you soon,” I said
“I hope so,” shining eyes said.
I waved goodbye and moved to another booth—and another and another. There were sections of booths dedicated to the arts, others to athletics, still others to social and environmental issues. There were individual booths on French patchwork, African dance, photography, theater, politics, scouting, mountain climbing, scuba diving, and gardening. There were associations devoted to Zen, Buddhism, Pentecostal evangelism, and free thought. There were historians, archeologists, biologists, and astronomers. It was a sea of passion—for knowledge, for experience, for sharing ideas that had made a difference in the life of every association advocate.
At the end of a soggy day, I walked away with my head reeling with the possibilities. I could live a hundred lifetimes in France and not have enough time to explore all the interest groups. Then, as though we did not have enough options, Nita and I attended the fairs in Carnon and Pérols on the following weekend. At the end, I had a stack of brochures two inches thick. Finally, I sat down at the round dining room table in our little apartment and sorted through the staggering surfeit of alternatives.
Ultimately, I decided against the clubs from Montpellier, reasoning that it would be easier to form lasting relationships with people closer to home. That considerably lowered the stack of brochures. Then I created a matrix of activities, locations, meeting days, and expenses. In the end, I had chosen two activities for every weekday.
Monday
AM-PM: Hiking club
Late PM: Jazz course
Tuesday
AM: Tennis
PM: Basketball
Wednesday
AM: Hiking club
PM: Qigong
Thursday
Early PM: Painting
Late PM: Orchestra
Friday
AM: Hiking club
PM: Jazz club
It was a schedule that proved to be a bit ambitious. Indeed, there were a few natural eliminations—one of which was demanded by my fifty-six-year-old knees.
* * *
I HAVE PLAYED BASKETBALL MY ENTIRE LIFE. My brother, Ray, and I used to battle it out in the backyard almost every night after dinner. We would practice dribbling between our legs and launching left-handed hook shots from fifteen feet out (not a practical shot, but impressive if you sink it). I was never quite good enough to make the team in high school—a blow to my ego to this day—but I played innumerable pickup games in the park until my knees started talking to me in my early fifties.
The point is I knew basketball. And I figured I would teach the French a thing or two about how Americans play hoops. I didn’t think my fantasies were in the least bit outlandish. I would saunter into the gym, an official NBA authorized roundball on my hip. I would affectionately tap the short-legged Frenchmen on their heads and say, “Let me show you how to shoot a running jump shot.” And then, prefaced with a head fake and a perfunctory dribble between my legs, I would release a perfect on-the-go jumper from the top of the key. Swish. The sound of ball and net would echo in the halls and pirouette in the minds of adoring Frenchmen.
“Oh là là,” they would whisper to each other, “did you see that?” And then they would shake away their disbelief and scramble to my side where I would be standing with one arm akimbo and the other leisurely spinning a basketball on the tip of my index finger. “Monsieur, monsieur,” they would cry, “pleez show us ’ow you making zee basket.”
What really happened was nothing like that.
After finding the gymnase in Pérols, I got out of the car and walked over to two men in their early twenties who, from my five-foot-ten-inch perspective, measured well over six feet. That was my first misjudgment. There were no “diminutive” French basketball players. In fact, of the twenty players that showed up that first night, I was easily the runt. No, I take that back. There was a fourteen-year-old boy who was a bit shorter than I, but he was in a growth spurt, and I figured he would pass me up by the end of the week.
“I understand that you play basketball here tonight,” I said to the lanky Frenchmen.
“Well, I don’t know if you can call what we do basketball,” one of them said in typical French humility.
“Whatever it is that you do, can I join you?”
“Sure,” they said in unison. “Allez-y.” Let’s go.
The court was regulation size with portable glass-backboard hoops, not unlike what you would find in any well-equipped American high school or college gym. On the downside, the floor was linoleum on concrete. That was going to be hard on the knees, I thought.
There were no old men on the court that night, that is to say no old Frenchmen. Just one somewhat rickety American. With the exception of the fourteen-year-old boy (who had a fake pass move reminiscent of Pistol Pete Maravich), the entire squad was comprised of young men from eighteen to twenty-three. They all were lean athletes with defined guts and muscular shoulders. I unconsciously gave my love handles a tender squeeze.
We formed four teams in typical American schoolyard fashion: The first ten to hit free throws made up the first two teams. It’s a screwy method—stacking the first two teams with the best shooters—but there are some traditions you just don’t mess with.
Amazingly, I made my free throw and was teamed up with four horses led by a six-foot two-inch guard called Julien. I rated Julien a Division I university-level player, able to fast break in traffic, shoot from either hand, and surgically thread precise no-look passes in any direction. Julien could do all that and more. He was twenty-one and wore a Chicago Bulls uniform, replete with a Bulls baseball cap that sat backward on his head the entire evening. His shor
ts were baggy, just touching the top of his knees, and when he drove for a lay-up, his shorts slipped off his hips, revealing the top half of his bare buttocks. You’ve heard of plumber’s butt? Julien had basketball player’s butt.
The game started, and the four horses blasted up and down the court, a run-and-shoot game that is designed for players with young legs. I lumbered up the court on offense, arriving just in time to reverse directions and lumber up the court on defense. Eventually, I spent a lot of time meandering around the half-court line. I took one shot that bounced off the rim like a brick. Then, after a few more sluggish trips up and down the court, Julien shot me one of his no-look passes that slipped through my fingers like a fish. I looked at my hands and thought, how the hell did that happen? Julien had the same expression. It was the last pass I got from the talented point guard.
Our team, that is the four horsemen and one wrung-out American bar mop, collected fifteen points before the opposition, which gave us the right to take on the fresh challengers. That was not a happy moment for me. I stood there numbly, all my muscle fibers puddling into my tennis shoes. This was not being tired. I’ve been tired before. This was more like death. I wondered if anyone could administer last rites.
We lost the second game—thank all the heavenly hosts—and sat down on the bleachers at mid-court. I started talking to Julien, which was not easy. He spoke so quickly and with so much slang and so many contractions that it sounded more like Hebrew than French. Still, I got the gist of the conversation.
“Are you English?” Julien asked.
“No, American,” I said, “My name is Allen.”
Julien’s eyes brightened. “Oh, like Allen Iverson.”
I was stunned at how quickly Julien rattled off the name of the gifted NBA guard. “Yes,” I said, “just like Allen Iverson. What’s your name?”
“Julien.”
“Ah, like Julius …”
“Right. Like Julius Irving. Dr. J.”
Now, how is that possible? Julius Irving’s last season as an NBA player was in 1987. Julien would have been six years old at the time. In contrast, I couldn’t think of a single French athlete. I scanned my brain and all I could produce was Maurice Chevalier—not really known for his basketball skills. (Remember, this was before the French native Tony Parker was a household name with the San Antonio Spurs.)
“What NBA team is your favorite?” Julien asked.
“That would have to be the Seattle Sonics,” I said, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.
“Eh oui,” Julien said, “Gary Payton. A good player, but a little temperamental.”
“Uh-huh,” I said profoundly, having already exhausted everything I knew about the Seattle Sonics.
“The Sonics are a good team, but San Antonio kicked their butts in the playoffs.” I don’t think the French say “kicked their butts,” but that was the sense of Julien’s commentary.
“Bof,” I said.
Just then, the team on the floor scored its winning point, and Julien leapt from the bleachers. “Let’s choose up teams,” he shouted. “Fabrice, Roland, Jean, and I will be captains.”
It was interesting to me how all the players deferred to Julien’s command—perhaps a privilege granted to the best player on the floor.
The four captains stood on the sidelines while the rest of us looked at our shoes at center court. The names were clicked off.
“I’ll take Henri.”
“David.”
“Michel.”
“Viens, Jean-Claude.”
In less than two minutes, the sides were nearly chosen. Only two other players and I remained. And then the process of selection became slower—painfully slower—as the captains agonized, not over who would be the greatest asset, but who would cause the least damage.
“Eh bien,” a captain said mournfully, “I’ll take Gérard.”
Now, it was between me, the former Emerson Elementary School standout, and the fourteen-year-old French version of Pistol Pete. As I stood there, hands on my hips, I realized that in all the schoolyard pickup games I had ever played, I had never been chosen last. Never. I lifted my head slowly and looked at Julien. It was his choice. I tried to send a telepathic message to Julien. “Choose me, Julien. Please choose me.”
Julien looked at me for a moment, and my heart leapt. He would certainly call my name. We had a connection. We both knew Julius Irving by name—and Allen Iverson and Gary Payton.
And then I thought Julien’s eyes became sad and apologetic like the eyes of a poetic hangman. “Le petit gars,” Julien said. The little guy.
For a moment I thought that Julien meant me, but then I looked at the French Pistol Pete and saw that, despite his growth spurt, he was still a couple of inches shorter than I. The fourteen-year-old leapt to Julien’s side. And there I stood, the dregs of basketball manhood, the last player chosen in the sport of my choice.
“Come on, Allen,” my captain said, followed by the awful French phrase spoken under his breath to no one in particular. “Je suppose que tu es avec nous.” I suppose that you’re with us.
I suppose that you’re with us! Oh my God. Has there ever been a more cruel and shattering string of words? Why not just say, “What the hell, we’ll take the crumbling fossil with the scrawny legs.”
At the end of the evening, after three hours of full-court basketball, I was reduced to a few strands of kelp washed ashore on the beach. I had a calf muscle that was tightening up, and when I walked, my knee snapped and my groin popped. I limped over to Julien. Snap-pop-snap-pop.
“You have a great team,” I said.
“Yes, like the Chicago Bulls,” Julien said in English.
“Yes, like the Chicago Bulls,” I said. “You are too strong for me. I’m afraid I would do more damage than good—to the team for sure, but especially to me.”
“I understand,” Julien said, returning to French. “But if you ever change your mind, you can come and play with us anytime. If you would like to run.”
“Thank you, Julien. You are a good guy and a terrific player. Really sensational.”
“Bof. I miss a lot of shots.”
“Not so many,” I said, turning away.
I was halfway to the door when Julien called out. “Hé! Allen.” He trotted over to me and shook my hand. “I am sorry I did not choose you.”
“Merci, Julien.”
“De rien.”
I walked out into the warm Mediterranean night, got into my car, and for a moment overheard the wind chimes of time and remembrances that dance over the graves of old athletes. It is a sad feeling of loss when you realize for the very first time that you will never again be the first man chosen on the field of battle. Although he may never speak of it, it is an inscrutable surprise that eventually shakes every man to the core.
If that man is strong enough, centered enough, wise enough, he will surrender to the third act of his life. He will say, “So this is what it means to grow old.” Then, if he is one of the lucky ones, he will in a moment, a day, a year seize the dignity to disabuse himself of his own immortality. He will come to embrace the grand and almost unlimited promises that await his discovery. There are ten thousand possibilities, only one of which is the exploration of a foreign land, including, not insignificantly, its epicurean delights.
CHAPTER 8
Bon Appétit
THE FRENCH DON’T EAT, THEY DINE. They don’t lunge at food, they savor it. There is a word that they often use to describe themselves. Gourmand. It means “one who loves food and eats with great pleasure.” (We have the same word in English, although, at least in my circles, it is seldom used. Moreover, it has a more negative sense in English: a person who is fond of good eating, often indiscriminatingly and to excess.)
I suppose that somewhere in the hills or back roads of France, there is someone who is not gourmand. Perhaps he is a shepherd who has never left his flock and has grown accustomed to eating berries and mutton chops. I suppose that man exists, but I h
ave not met him yet.
The French I know make dining an event. In the States, eating (I will not call it dining) is more like an interruption. I have had meals stateside that have taken five minutes to prepare and three minutes to devour. In fact, as far as I know, we are the only country in the world that microwaves five-minute rice.
The French, on the other hand, will spend two or three hours at the table with guests—drinking, eating, and conversing about world affairs, current styles, and the neighbor’s five yapping shih tzus.
My wife and I grew attached to the leisurely three-hour dinners in France. It was so much fun to eat like royalty and needle the French as if they were old college chums. A week after our return to the States, we tried to replicate the experience. We invited two couples—both close and longtime friends—for a dinner at our home. We sat down at the table at 7:30. One hour later, one of our guests said, “Well, this has been very nice, but we need to call it a night. Lots to do tomorrow, you know.” And with that both couples whisked out of our home like swirling dust devils.
When they had left, Nita and I sat slack-jawed at the dining table.
“What the hell just happened?” I asked.
Nita shook her head. “It’s just another culture, sweetheart. You can’t expect them to be like the French.”
“I don’t like this culture.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it. It’s who we are.”
“I’ll never get used to it.”
“Then prepare to be miserable.”
That sentence pulled me up short. As usual, I realized that Nita was right. Both people, French and Americans, have qualities that are endearing. However, they are not always the same qualities. The trick is to love what is lovable, tolerate what is not, and stop insisting on cultural blending.
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