by Lynne Martin
Soon, I sat in the small stadium theater with a big mirror over the work counter, so those of us watching wouldn’t miss a thing. Assistants scurried to ready the mise en place for the chef, who entered to enthusiastic applause. He was informative and entertaining, particularly when he mimed a duck being force-fed to enlarge its liver. He shook his head in disbelief that California has outlawed such practices, thus depriving Californians from enjoying real pâté! No comment from this Californian who lives with a pâté addict.
Chef prepared an entire meal from appetizer to dessert; after each production, we were treated to tastes. It felt like receiving communion in a culinary cathedral. Of course, I stopped at the tiny school store to purchase the best (and most expensive) apron I’ve ever owned. It wraps all the way around and has lots of pockets and a slot for my instant-read thermometer. I feel terribly grand and professional wearing it. My waiter’s wine opener, which travels wherever I go, sports the Cordon Bleu label and gives me a little charge every time I use it. I’m charged up several times a week—every time I open a bottle of wine! I floated home on a cloud of well-being. I had communed with the spirit of my favorite chef, learned some new world-class cooking techniques, and when I got to the apartment, my sweet, indulgent mate was appropriately impressed with my tales. My brand-new apron got a workout that very night.
***
Just before we left California, I had seen an article in the Wall Street Journal about a California couple who traded houses with people all over the world for at least six months a year. The article said that they would be in Paris the same time as we planned to be, so I sent Jim Gray an email suggesting that we have lunch with him and his wife, Carol. We met at L’Ami Vin.T in our neighborhood and shared another of Tim’s new favorite French foods, marinated beef cheeks served family style in a tureen.
“So, Jim,” I said, munching the pâté and crunchy bread my husband, the pâté addict, had ordered as his entree, “I’ll bet there was great reaction to your piece! You wrote it so well.”
“I was surprised,” he said. “There was a huge response, and it was so popular that they asked me to do a follow-up. I’m working on it now. You know, it’s amazing how interested people are in house trading. It sure works for us.
“As a matter of fact,” he continued, “your blog is really fun. After you emailed us, we started reading it. We were fascinated with your concept and your writing is very good, too. If you like, I’ll put you in touch with them. They’re wonderful people to work with and I’ll bet they’ll be interested in your story.”
I took a healthy sip of Bordeaux and smiled weakly. “Thanks so much. How nice of you to say that!”
The conversation burbled along, but my neurotic brain started ticking away. I was thinking, Me? Writing for the Wall Street Journal? You must be kidding. Sure, my ego quivered a little with pleasure at the thought. Who wouldn’t want a feather like that in her cap? I’d always enjoyed writing and was secretly ambitious, but never brave enough to believe that anyone would be too interested in what I had to say. After all, I had always been the muse, not the creator, the woman behind the scenes who made life smooth for Guy Deel, a well-known artist, for twenty years. There was even a running joke about it. I, like other artists’ wives I knew, called myself “the wife of.” It had been my job and my pleasure to handle all the details of our life, while he concentrated on the business of art. He worked very hard and he was so talented that his efforts looked easy to the viewer! In my role, I made all the reservations, managed the money, remodeled the houses, planned the trips, gave the parties, and kept the calendar. I also provided encouragement, inspiration, and applause from the sidelines, and was happy to be window dressing at banquets and exhibitions where Guy’s talent was celebrated.
When Guy passed away and I eventually married Tim, the lyricist/writer, I thought I would continue in muse mode, offering the kind of domestic atmosphere that would enhance his worthy efforts as a budding novelist. It never entered my mind that I might take on the role of creator while my mate became the temporary muse!
Granted, I had written two sample chapters about our proposed homefree life while we were in San Miguel de Allende the first time, hatching our homefree plan, but I didn’t take them seriously. Tim was already booked to attend the Southern California Writers Conference in San Diego on our way back to California, and since I was going along, he suggested that I try writing a chapter and an outline and run it past a couple of agents at the conference. The idea made me extremely uncomfortable because I wasn’t the front man—I was the woman behind the curtain. But to please him, I slogged through a couple of chapters. Besides, it gave me something to do while he worked on his novel for submission. We did have fun reading our daily output to one another over cocktails.
Always enthusiastic, he had even persuaded me to have calling cards made while we were in Mexico, so I’d have something to hand out at the conference.
“I don’t need a card,” I complained. “I’m just going along for the ride. Besides, what on earth would I call myself, ‘Chief Cook and Bottle Washer’?”
After a second’s pause he said, “No, you will be a travel writer.”
“What? Are you completely nuts?”
“Listen to me.” He gave me his best devilish smile. “You travel, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You can write, can’t you?” His devilish smile was growing wider.
“I believe so.”
“Well, there you have it—you’re a travel writer!” We both laughed at his logic, and I reluctantly agreed to have the ridiculous things printed. I was embarrassed every time I handed one over at the conference. The agents found our notion exciting and treated me kindly, but at the time, they didn’t seem to find my halfhearted efforts at two chapters appealing enough to consider taking me on. Thankfully, Tim’s work was well received and he came away encouraged. I was just relieved when the whole thing was over so we could get home and put our new plan into action.
I ruminated on that writer’s conference episode as I worked up the courage to say, “So Jim, how would I go about submitting this?”
I half-expected him to laugh or brush me off. Who was this wannabe of a writer sitting next to him?! But instead, he replied, “Hmmm…well, I’d suggest that you write a 1,200-word article and send it to him in the body of an email. They don’t like attachments.”
That’s it? He made it sound as easy as creating the blog posts I was writing for my friends and family. Summoning up the courage to write an article and then suffering rejection was not what I had in mind for my golden years. But ignoring my inner chicken voice and embracing my burgeoning desire to create something, I said with bravado, “Thanks so much. I’ll look forward to hearing from you about what they say!”
We parted, standing in the warm June sunshine outside the restaurant, hugs all around, promising to stay in touch. By the time we returned to the apartment, I managed to sublimate the whole conversation and returned emotionally to my former status as cheerleader, not quarterback.
The next day Jim emailed me to say that his Journal contact would be happy to consider a piece from me.
Oops. Too late to turn back now. The muse had opened her curtain and was on her way to becoming a writer.
My assistant in the PR company I owned years ago once told me that she could always tell when I was facing a writing project because that’s when I chose to balance the checkbook, clean off my desk, pass projects on to others, and sharpen all my pencils. Anything to avoid starting the press kit, press release, bio, whatever task it was. A blank page to a writer is like a blank canvas to a painter—full of possibilities and dread that it won’t all work out right. A milder version of that aversion had plagued me since I started the blog, but this was different. This was the Wall Street Journal. An editor there was willing to take a look at my story. It made me weak with ambivalence. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be doing this. It was Tim’s thing. So, instead of getting down to
it, I ran away and found other things to do.
As always, Paris beckoned, and we answered. We lunched at Le Timbre, named aptly the postage stamp, because it seats only twenty-four in its elegantly simple space. Chris Wright, an English chef, serves up dishes in the classic French style, and it’s fun to watch him and his assistant dance around each other in the impossibly small kitchen. It reminded me of the women swirling around in Lidia’s Mexican kitchen. Tim swooned over the fried pâté de foie gras, while I sighed with pleasure over my delicate fried pig’s trotters followed by quail on a bed of potato/apple purée, drizzled with a touch of citrus sauce.
Later that afternoon, we strolled past the gorgeous Hôtel de Ville, Paris’s city hall since 1357. “What are all those people in lawn chairs doing?” Tim asked.
I followed his gaze. Hundreds of people were lounging on chaises, while others sat at tables shaded by bright orange umbrellas. “I don’t have any idea. It’s three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. What on earth could be going on?” Then I noticed they faced in the direction of the river, pointing, laughing, commenting to one another, and, of course, drinking wine. Then I saw why. “Oh, Tim, look at the size of that giant TV screen! They’re watching the French Open!”
Sure enough, in typical French fashion, these people chose an afternoon of tennis over their jobs and were enjoying themselves completely. People in business attire had set up chairs, and served each other refreshments. No one looked furtive or concerned about taking time off in the middle of a weekday.
“After several weeks here, I’m beginning to get an idea of why these people seem so happy,” Tim said. “I think it’s true what we’ve been told forever: for the most part, the French work to live, not the other way around, and the work they do seems to be appreciated. Have you noticed how courteous they are? The cabbies, waiters, even those guys in the green suits who sweep up the joint seem satisfied with their jobs. They’re courteous to the public, and I don’t see anybody treating working stiffs like second-class citizens.” He snapped photos as we walked.
“You know, I think you’re right,” I said. “People are busy here, but they take Sunday off, and they quit working at five-ish, and have long lunches and dinners. I don’t think they’re in their offices at dawn, either. And consider all the gorgeous parks…people really use them. Remember seeing families yesterday afternoon having picnics by the Seine, sipping their wine, having a good old time watching the boats and playing with their kids? By the way, I really, really want to do that before we leave.”
As we walked I thought more about the French attitude about money and work. Everyone in the country is allowed eight weeks of vacation every year by law, although companies can alter that plan. I once discussed having some custom shoes made for my extra-large feet, and the shoemaker informed me it would have to be “Next year, because I do not work in July and August.” Can you imagine an American who charges $250 for a pair of sandals saying that?
We observed in many instances that French culture does not necessarily breed motivated entrepreneurs. It does, however, breed great appreciators for wine, art, food, music, and beauty. And if the French workers don’t like an edict or a contract, they’ll shut down Paris with a strike to make their opinions known. It’s a French attitude of personal responsibility that I do admire.
We crossed the street to walk along the river. We had just enough time to stop into the Musée d’Orsay, home of the world’s largest collection of impressionist art. Built on the eve of the 1900 World’s Fair as a railroad station, the museum is a work of art itself. In fact, it, and Montparnasse, a traditional mecca for artistic types and the home of Luxembourg Gardens, were the inspirations for Martin Scorsese’s magical film Hugo, about a little orphan boy who lives in the space behind the massive clock and keeps it on time to avoid being taken away to an orphanage. The station was closed in 1939 and reopened in 1986 as the museum. Its grand spaces and unparalleled natural light in the Beaux-Arts building make it my favorite place to savor the paintings I love best. The high ceilings in the main part of the building create intimacy in the adjoining galleries and enhance personal interaction with the art housed in those rooms. We luxuriated in the breathtaking collection and surroundings.
As we walked along a passageway at the highest point of the museum, where the railroad clock tower offers a stunning view of the Seine, my eyes welled with tears. It happens sometimes, out of the blue, when I least expect it. When I return to places my late husband, Guy, and I enjoyed together, or see spectacular sights that I know he would have appreciated, I am reminded of how much Alzheimer’s took from him. This sentiment does not diminish my passionate love for Tim at all. In many ways, having had a happy marriage makes it easier for a person to love profoundly, without reservation.
Tim took my hand. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Just remember what a wonderful life he had, and how fortunate he was to have had a great career that he loved. And best of all, the lucky devil got to be married to you for twenty years!” He understands and appreciates the fact that Guy was very dear to me, and often we point out things to each other that he would have enjoyed. Tim’s sensitivity is just one more trait that I cherish in him.
He smiled and pecked me on the cheek. The man always knows just how to make me feel better.
We made the trek to Montmartre, the artists’ neighborhood high in the hills above Paris. Toulouse-Lautrec and his contemporaries hung out there. Picasso, Salvador Dalí, Van Gogh, and many more colorful characters lived and worked in the area. We climbed the impossibly steep stairs up to Sacré-Coeur, where thousands of tourists jockeyed for what must be Paris’s most memorable view, the city’s skyline spread out for miles below the church. Of course, once we reached the summit, we realized that there is an efficient, cheap funicular that whisks tourists who have bothered to look at their Rick Steves guidebooks right to the top. As we looked longingly at the cool, crisp tourists bundling in and out of it, we told ourselves that our pounding hearts, sweaty bodies, and aching knees would benefit from such excellent exercise.
However, the climb had offered no such benefit to my already frizzed hair. When I got home and took a look, I knew I could no longer postpone some professional assistance.
Andie to the rescue. I explained my plight: on a ship for two weeks, then two weeks in Turkey, and now halfway through a month in Paris. I needed help. I could no longer disguise the silver roots with clever combing, and the sides resembled either George Washington’s “do” or Barbara Bush’s, who, one could argue, somewhat resemble each other. Think about it.
“No problem,” she said. “There’s a local place that does a nice job and they’re reasonable, but since you’re in Paris and you need the works, I think you should spring for Dessange International. It’s pricey, but you’ll be a happy woman. It’s so luxurious you’ll need a special visa to go in the place! Want me to phone them for you tomorrow?”
I meekly nodded.
Several days later, Tim accompanied me along the Champs-Élysées to Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Going to Dessange International was not a challenge I wished to accept on my own. A discreet gold sign (note the operative word “gold,” as in gilded, glittering, and expensive) announced we had arrived at the gorgeous neoclassical building on a swanky street. We walked up the wide stairs and entered a white marble lobby, mirrored, pristine, and crowned with a large sparkling crystal chandelier. A gorgeous young brunette with a dynamic haircut and a beautiful smile greeted us in French, to which I mumbled my standard, humiliating reply. She signaled for me to wait a moment.
I had thought I looked pretty cool when I left the apartment. In fact, I’d worked to plan a nice outfit and took special care with jewelry and makeup to make sure I could hold my own against the impossibly stylish French. As soon as I walked into the salon, however, I immediately felt like a bag lady, pitifully out of place in the intimidatingly chic surroundings. Tim told me later that when the woman from the coat check closet came toward me to offer a white smock,
I glanced over my shoulder at him with a panicked look, as if she were approaching with an opened straitjacket.
Luckily, my alarm turned to delight when Roberto, the impeccably suited Italian manager, appeared. His English and style were equally impressive. He was so good at his job of welcoming customers that in moments, my bag lady fears had vanished and I believed I belonged there after all.
Roberto touched my elbow and steered me to the main salon, where customers and technicians were swathed in dazzling white kimonos, and more crystal chandeliers cast a flattering light. Gucci and Chanel handbags sat neatly next to the other clients’ enviable footwear, and the click of scissors and soft chatter rose slightly above soothing classical music. No funky rock ’n’ roll, pop, or hip-hop would bother the patrons in this temple of beauty, the way it does in the United States.
After seating me, Roberto and I chatted pleasantly while Karen (Kah-reeen), a tall blond, completed her ministrations to the elegant woman in her chair. Kah-reeen stepped over to us. She and Roberto talked over my case in rapid French, inspecting my poor ragged “do.” They refrained from “tut-tutting,” thank God, but I could tell they pitied me.
Roberto then explained in English that I would be returning to Kah-reeen after my color had been administered, and he escorted me down a wide-curving, white-carpeted staircase with a polished brass rail to the hair processing parlor in the basement. Patrons sat in separate cubicles, each facing its own tiny garden outside the large window. Their Guccis and Chanels at their sides, their feet in Christian Louboutin and Jimmy Choo, the strands of hair where color had been applied were wrapped not in the kitchen foil regular salons use, but in gorgeous, iridescent, sparkling cellophane. They looked like Christmas gift baskets waiting to be delivered.