by Lynne Martin
Tim took the lead and we started walking along the river. People hurried past and we tried to match the pedestrians’ rhythm. Being cautious and aware didn’t save us from several pokes and a couple of near collisions, but we forged ahead for a while. When we looked around, we discovered we’d been going in the wrong direction. “Rats,” Tim muttered as he turned left and headed down another street.
“Darling,” I called sweetly, “I think it’s the other way.”
After a series of other wrong turns and near-collisions, I finally blurted out, “Could we just sit down over there for a minute?” I pointed to an empty bench.
Tim continued to dodge the oncoming foot traffic before acquiescing. “OK, I could use a break anyway.”
We sat down and I took several deep breaths.
Tim sensed my frustration trying to keep up with the hustle and gently said, “People in cities all over the world are in a hurry, sweetie. They’re not on vacation and they’re not here to entertain us.”
“Yeah, but why are we getting so frustrated and upset? Are we the intolerant ones?”
“No, we’re simply the ones with the big learning curve, and you’re the one who says that the view from there can be pretty ugly,” Tim replied. “We just need to toughen up, babe. I’m worse than you are when it comes to accepting the fact that new cultures require new levels of patience.”
I looked at him and nodded, thinking how right he was. If we were going to be true citizens of the world, then we needed to leave our expectations at home in that 10 × 15 storage unit and learn to be much more adaptable! I vowed on the spot to try to remember that every day.
Reassured, I kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you. You’re absolutely right. Lead on, master, even if you don’t know how to get there.”
Once we found the restaurant, we were not disappointed. Tim’s warm leeks, topped with a soft-boiled egg and shallot dressing, looked as beautiful as they tasted. I enjoyed the best piece of perfectly tender and mildly flavorful calf liver I have ever tasted. We splurged on caramelized fried bananas with rich vanilla ice cream on the side and then waddled several blocks to the eternal, majestic Notre Dame Cathedral, which dominates the island in the middle of the Seine.
I have seen Notre Dame many times, during different seasons and times of day, but still it lifts my heart with joy. How can such an architectural gem be so powerful and yet so delicately rendered? The rose windows soaring at the north and south sides provide a visceral effect. I can conjure them up whenever I like and marvel at their beauty. I am continually enchanted by the rose garden on the other side of the church, too, and the flying buttresses that soar there.
As we admired the view, I offered to take a young Asian couple’s picture with the church in the background. They reciprocated. The photo became extremely important to us in the months to come. Who knew that it would become an illustration for my story in an international newspaper? It was a good example of the power of saying “yes.”
Saying “no” to constant activity is important, too, because we need time to recharge every now and then. The Russian invasion of Marmaris, the trip to Paris, and the challenge of getting settled had started to take its toll on us by the time we finished our pilgrimage to Notre Dame. Being home free doesn’t mean that we operate in a constant holiday frame of mind. We require a chance to cocoon just as we did at home.
So that night, we locked our door, put on our “loosies,” and while Tim tackled our entertainment and communication systems, I surveyed our dinner options. The cassoulet in the can was irresistible, and I found some gorgeous salad makings in the fridge begging for a garlicky little vinaigrette. Tim had nabbed a hot baguette on the way home from the Metro, we had some gorgeous pâté, so we were all set.
This gave us a good opportunity to call home. We manage to speak with our daughters and friends often and have learned to compensate for the nine-hour time difference between Europe and California. They’re having coffee while I’m toasting them on Facebook or Skype with my first lovely Côtes du Rhône of the day. That day we fired up Skype on our computer and indulged in a long chat with Amandah, Tim’s daughter in Florida. We got to see four-year-old Sean paddling around in the pool! We miss our family deeply, and longing for them is the only part of our experience that makes us sad. It’s dreadful to miss many family events, and we know that whole dramas come and go in our absence. Sometimes we do hunger for their hugs and kisses, parties, and the connection that living near loved ones and friends full time can provide. We miss seeing firsthand family history in the making, but thanks to modern technology, perhaps we are creating a new brand of intimate communication. When we do get to be with them, our time together is much more intense and lovely, so perhaps it’s just a different way to stay close.
After we’d caught up on the latest, Tim fiddled with the electronics some more and suddenly exclaimed, “Eureka!”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, man, I’ve finally got it. See this doohickey?” (He’s a master of technological terms.) “Well, this end goes into my computer and this part plugs right here in the TV. Voila, m’dear, we shall have When Harry Met Sally this very night!”
Call us old-school, but we had discovered the wonders of an HDMI cable. God only knows how we survived without one before. We now carry around a little portable “theater” that combines our computers, HDMI cable, and tiny portable speakers. They fit right in our luggage and work aboard ship, in apartments, and everywhere else that we want to relax and be at “home.”
“Well, put your feet up and allow me to serve you dinner right there on the sofa, you technological wizard,” I laughed.
It was wonderful to slurp duck cassoulet, washed down with a lovely French Bordeaux, and snivel over Meg and Billy in this romantic classic as a light drizzle made the streets of Paris glisten outside.
Speaking of rain, we almost always planned our outings around the weather. Since we were having a rainy day, in fact a wet week, we decided to combine a grocery shopping trip with a visit to the cineplex we spotted the first day. We took our little cart along so we could shop on the way home, and the pretty girl at the counter kindly stashed it away for us. At the theater, we stepped into a crimson screening room with velvet chairs. When the lights went down, I whispered to Tim, “Hey, look—there’s a toilette sign right over there at the front of the screening room!” The French understand the human need for a toilet several times a day, and they place them where they’re really needed—like inside a movie theater. Instead of an irresistible bodily urge dragging you away from the screen (inevitably causing you to miss the most exciting part where the bomb goes off or where the couple finally kisses), you can step quietly to the back of the room, use the facilities, placed right by the door, and even wash your hands before the fuse is lit or their lips even touch. We went to the cinema at least once a week in Paris and saw several movies released in Europe before they made it to the United States. It was fun to tease our movie buff friends with reviews of things that hadn’t yet opened in California.
Our spur-of-the-moment inclinations also determined our daily life, and we embraced all side trips and distractions enthusiastically. On a typical day, a short trip to the Apple store would lead to a stroll along the Rue Royale, where we gawked at the Vuittons, Diors, St. Laurents, and the rest of the big names. We ended that tour in a store we could actually afford: the Gap.
I found a wraparound dress with an ecru, navy, and black pattern that instantly made me look ten pounds lighter, and a desperately chic navy sweater to toss around my shoulders a la Catherine Deneuve. Tim’s narrow wale mustard-colored corduroy shorts were so French that I expected him to burst out in fluent français.
Now, you may ask how we could make purchases when we move from destination to destination all the time. Here’s a great packing truth: we can travel light because it is possible to find something to wear any place we go! We just have to be willing to part with something old when we buy something new.
Our rule is that we must be madly in love with the item. Only people with consistent closets get to have ten sweaters and seven pairs of jeans.
By the end of week one, we were so in love with the city, we had already decided to return for three months the following year. Andie and Georges’s place was so popular that they were already booked, so we began immediately to search for something nearby. Knowing that we would return also made our sense of urgency to see absolutely everything fall to an all-time low, so we wandered the city without a plan, indulging ourselves every day as we pleased. If it rained, we sometimes stayed in all day writing and reading, or taking a little stroll just to get a breath of fresh, damp Paris air. It was an extravagant life, and we loved every minute.
***
We have come to cherish the European pace of life, especially on Sunday, when most people really do stop everything. They play with their children, stroll in the park, go out to lunch, play games, and ride their bikes. Traffic is light and most stores are closed tight, so people have a chance to recharge.
One Sunday, we wandered to Luxembourg Gardens, which surrounds the exquisite palace Marie de Medici built in 1611. She modeled it after the Pitti Palace in Florence, where she grew up as a member of the powerful family that, in the previous century, began financing the Italian Renaissance. Luxembourg Gardens is one of the busiest parks in Paris because it’s centrally located, easy for walkers, and offers many activities for all ages. Parisians use it for a Sunday stroll, a picnic, and to rent toy sailboats for their children to race one another in the grand Fontaine de l’Observatoire in front of the palace. Or the kids race go-karts up and down on a track under giant trees. Men play bocce on several courts, and people lounge with a picnic or a book on the vast lawns. Lovers smooch on benches, guarded by hundreds of impressive statues scattered throughout sixty acres of formal gardens. It was just delightful.
In Paris, everything is an excuse to eat, so we found lunch in a little café and enjoyed our meal while watching the action. A band began to form at the pavilion nearby. The members drifted into the park wearing their black suits with lots of gold braid, carrying their instruments, double kissing and chatting with one another as they set up music stands and chairs. Before long, the big Salvation Army Band had assembled, and they treated us to an hour-long concert. They played everything from rock to classical, capping off a Sunday afternoon as charming as any I can remember. This is what Sunday is supposed to be like.
We felt very much a part of the scene that day, but our lack of language deterred us from making conversation with those around us. A sense of isolation is one of the challenges of a nomadic life. No matter how much we thrive on one another’s company, we are both quite social and do need the company of other people. Soon after we hit the road, we realized that both the new people we did manage to meet and also the people we had left at home had important obligations and interests, and we couldn’t expect them to change their plans just because we showed up or rearrange their schedules just because we happened to call or Skype spontaneously. It’s one of the prices we pay for our freedom.
But, I will readily admit, I needed a little girl talk, just to make me feel normal. Trouble is, one has to have to have a girlfriend if one wants to dish the dirt! And I had yet to find one, especially a French amie, so we set about looking for friends in Paris.
We began by attending a gathering of travelers and locals, conducted weekly by Jim Haynes, an American writer who has been opening his apartment to strangers for thirty years. I had read about it in the New York Times and made a reservation via email long before we left home. It is a nifty arrangement. For thirty euros, he serves a mediocre dinner and some box wine, but the big draw is the opportunity to meet new people. Jim wears a red apron as he perches on a bar stool at the end of the buffet, collecting money and chatting up newcomers while the place fills up with people who look like deer in the headlights at first. Within five minutes the conversation is so loud and animated that a person could use earplugs! Everyone has a story to tell. We had fun, even though a hundred bodies were jammed into a space for twenty. We chatted with a lot of Americans and others passing though Paris, but as we walked toward the Metro, Tim said, “Well, that was okay, but I really didn’t meet anyone I wanted to pal around with, did you?”
“No,” I sighed. “I just wish Andie would call us. She’s so darling and animated, and I just know we’d have fun with them. I thought we all connected with each other that first day. I’m dying to meet Georges, too. D’you think we should phone her?”
“Not yet, sweetie,” he said. “Let’s give it a few more days. We don’t want to intrude. Remember, they have lives, and we’re just passing through.” I sighed and agreed with him.
To our delight, when we got home I found an email waiting from Andie. She invited us for cocktails the next evening. We were overjoyed. At last, we had potential new friends in Paris! The next night, giddily clutching a bottle of wine and a little bouquet, we rang their bell at precisely 6:00 p.m., anxious and excited like kids on a first date.
Their charming apartment was spacious and inviting, full of light, art, and colorful mementos brought home from their travels around the world. At one time, their apartment connected with our tiny one-bedroom in the adjacent building, so we were literally next-wall neighbors. Andie was as warm and fascinating as she had been the first morning, and Georges, her handsome and thoroughly, authentically, emphatically French husband, made us feel welcome immediately. Those two had experienced some enviable athletic challenges, something almost foreign to us. They were much more athletic than we. They climbed Mount Kilimanjaro on their honeymoon, while we took a leisurely two weeks strolling the streets of San Miguel de Allende. They bike, hike, ride motorcycles, and run marathons, all of which we two couch potatoes found wildly exotic and impressive.
Our first “date” grew quickly into a relaxed, pleasurable friendship. As the weeks went on, we shared memorable meals, talked, walked, and laughed together. They gave us insights into living in France that we could never have gained without their guidance. Our topics were all things French: history, politics, architecture, language, and especially food, something in which sane people indulge when they are in Paris. I even picked up some tidbits of gossip. It didn’t matter that I didn’t personally know the subjects of the rumors. It still satisfied me to hear about the follies of others. It’s a funny thing, but somehow knowing more about the real lives of the people around me made me feel rooted and connected, not like a tourist or spectator but more like a participant in the life of the city that was my temporary home.
One evening, over an outrageously delicious dinner at Le Dirigeable, a great restaurant right in our neighborhood, we discussed the national French personality and the people’s extraordinary relationship with food. That prompted Georges to give us examples of the numerous everyday French expressions that originated in the culinary world. We thought they were hilarious, and he wrote them down for me:
“Il y a du pain sur la planche”: “There is bread on the breadboard.” Or, to put it another way, we have our work cut out for us.
“On a mange notre pain blanc”: “We ate our white bread.” Or, we did the easy stuff first.
“Ce n’est pas d’la tarte”: “It is not a pie.” Another translation: it’s a tough go. Just the opposite of our saying, “A piece of cake!”
“Ça va mettre du beurre dans les épinards”: “This will put butter in the spinach.” Or, this will help make ends meet.
“Il pédale dans la choucroute”: “He is pedaling in the sauerkraut.” How might you feel if you were stuck pedaling in sauerkraut? At a total loss, right? That’s what it means.
“Il s’est fait rouler dans la farine”: “He got rolled in the flour.” Which is to say, he’s been had.
“Ça ne mange pas de pain”: “It doesn’t eat any bread.” Or, it’s not a big deal.
If it wasn’t obvious already, the French take food and wine seriously. If they aren’t eating or d
rinking it, then they are talking about it.
Our friendship was a “mange de pain,” a big deal, at least for us. Our relationship with France was brightened by Andie and Georges’ generous willingness to welcome us into their world. We are forever grateful to them for this, and we continue to be close friends to this day. We think of Paris as one of our homes now, and seeing them for several months every year is a highlight of our homefree life.
The next afternoon, I rooted around in my miniature closet in the bedroom when Tim asked, “Hey, whatcha doing in there?”
I peeked around the corner to see him typing away at his computer. “Looking for something to wear tomorrow. I’m beside myself!”
“Sweetie, anything you wear will be just fine. Remember, Julia will not actually be there.” He smiled indulgently.
Saturday was my big day! I had decided to watch a demonstration class at Le Cordon Bleu, the seat of all that’s holy in the culinary world, a shrine to America’s beloved Julia Child, and the apex of my personal food journey.
Did I mention that I love food? I’d wanted to walk these hallowed halls since a friend gave me the original Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 1965. After nearly half a century, it was finally happening. The school was located in our neighborhood. My sweet husband, recognizing its importance to me, helped me find it the day before, just to be sure I had the right place and wouldn’t be a second late for my big moment.
I set the alarm, even though it wasn’t necessary. I was like a six-year-old at Christmas, and I could hardly wait to bound out of bed and race down the street.
The next day, as I rounded the corner to this famed culinary institution, young people in chef’s togs marched into the building, clutching their leather knife rolls. More than a soupçon of envy washed over me at their chosen paths. Although my list of regrets is pretty short, I think that if I could have a do-over, I would find a way to make my living in the kitchen. Being a food professional is just about the most gratifying occupation I can think of! (The closest I came was when I briefly owned a gourmet cheese company that did very well. It was one of the most rewarding experiences of my professional life. You can’t imagine how much I loved playing with those big ovens, that enormous Hobart mixer, and having all the refrigerator space in the world.)