Letter From Paris
Paris Kiosque - September 1998 - Volume 5, Number 9
Copyright (c) 1998 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.
Letter from Paris? Let's say this is a letter from
a Parisian who has recently returned from vacation in Provence
and is still undergoing the shock of la rentré, the
wonderful word the French give to that time of year
when everyone in the whole country reluctantly trudges back home
to work and school after les vacances.
For people
with children, la rentré means buying school supplies which meet
the requirements of endless lists of things teachers dream up
and which the kids absolutely must have, a certain kind
of paper with certain measurements, for example, and none other.
A certain pencil and a certain compass. I would be
hypocritical if I said that I miss that part of
la rentré now that my boys have passed that stage.
No, this year my rentré into Paris was of
a different sort - one son soon to be going
off to the Sorbonne to study Philosophy, and the other
off to start his ten-month compulsory military service. (Oh, did
he ever look happy as he marched out the door
to go to basic training...).
The whole back-to-real-life period
was actually fine for the first twelve hours after our
return. Then my husband opened the mail and found that
our taxes had increased by about forty percent. Next, going
to get our "good car", a Renault, for an errand,
we discovered that it wasn't there. We took the Citroën,
our "little" car, to report the theft - and got
picked up by a bunch of nasty looking French flics
who delightedly fined my husband for not wearing a seat
belt, not having readable license plates, and a few other
things I'd rather forget. Finally, we went to get our
vacation pictures (this time on foot) which were... blank. NONE
of them had come out. Is this any way to
start a rentré? Get me back to vacation land, quick!
Why, I moaned, hadn't we just stayed there far
from traffic violations and stolen cars? "There" is an eminently
picturesque village of some 1000 souls, not all that far
from the Mediterranean but on such winding, convoluted roads that
even the most diehard Peter Mayle fans would have a
hard time finding it. All activity starts and ends, it
would seem, on the village square, which, appropriately, is complete
with a fountain and plane trees which obligingly spread their
gigantic branches over the three cafés arranged side by side
on the "place".
And what does one do in
a place like this? How about the following: lazing by
the pool of our rented house under the hot Provençal
sun, gazing up at blue skies cleared by the fierce
Mistral, hanging out at the local café sipping a glass
of licorice-flavored pastis (which, incidentally, is supposed to do terrible
things to your brain when ingested in great quantities). Watching
the locals: for a solid week, I observed a large
dark-haired lady with a huge white Labrador who sat upright
on his chair in the café opposite me in a
positively uncanny human posture. I was wondering how long it
would take before le chien would descend into a more
doglike position, but it never happened. At one point I
even started wondering if he wouldn't open his mouth and
order a pastis!
It didn't take me long at
all to get into the rhythm of village life. A
week into our vacation, I already had my habits: up
around 8 and down to the village, into the boulangerie
for a brioche au sucre or pain au chocolat or
pain au raisin and then off to the terrace of
the café on the main square to eat the patisserie
du jour with my coffee. (I quickly learned that the
terrace is fine for the tourists. However, it's also very
apparent that the territory inside the café is reserved for
the natives. No one would say so outright but if
you try to mingle, you'll rapidly get the idea that
outsiders are better off...outside).
On the terrace, then, hunkered
down with the Herald Tribune and/or the Var Matin, the
local newspaper which gives the pleasant details of fiftieth wedding
anniversaries alongside the gory details of automobile and hunting accidents
and accounts of terrible faits divers such as the pizza
place owner in a nearby village who in a fit
of rage hit a client over the head with a
rolling pin (I swear I'm not making this up), I
would while away a couple of hours before vaguely considering
marching back up the hill to the pool and then
lunch and a siesta.
One day as I was
sitting on the "place" getting the latest on Monica and
Bill, I was seized by a desire to shake off
my torpor and go "do" something (city habits die hard).
My project, I decided, would be to question some of
the townspeople about how they felt about the whole Clinton
business.
My first stop was the papeterie. "I'm American",
I announced, as if my accent wouldn't have already given
that little fact away. "I'm just curious as to what
you think about the whole Clinton affair." The lady behind
the counter pondered the question a minute and then proffered
her considered opinion as if she had been thinking about
it for quite some time. "It makes everyone laugh. How
can one do such a thing to a man like
that? He should have told them he wouldn't answer those
questions. I pity his wife and daughter." And then she
came out with what seemed to fascinate her the most:
"Monica was a consenting adult and not even good looking!"
I then proceeded next door to the boucherie. "Ridiculous",
proclaimed the jovial butcher as he traced a neat line
in a container filled with fromage de tête (gelatinous pig's
head). "When you think that our President fleeced us and
had kids in every corner of the world, it's a
joke."
My last stop was at the dry cleaner's.
"Why didn't he at least choose someone attractive?" inquired the
(Dutch) owner, echoing the concern of the lady at the
papeterie.
The French call these kinds of exchanges "une
conversation de café du commerce", the equivalent of idle gossip.
It was, however, just enough to satisfy my curiosity and,
mostly, get me away from the café for twenty minutes.
After all that effort, I returned to it gladly to
order a glass of chilled rosé and some of those
exquisite tasty small black olives you only find in the
south of France. Bliss.
And so it went on
my vacation in Provence. If only I had stayed. But
then, of course, I would have missed all the excitement
of la rentré in Paris, traffic violations, stolen car and
all.
Harriet Welty-Rochefort, a bona fide Midwesterner from
Iowa, visited Paris for the first time while in
college. She became so completely enamored of
France that she stayed - and has been there ever since.
Married to a Frenchman and the mother of two
Franco-American boys, Harriet Welty-Rochefort writes
on business, lifestyle and travel for major U.S.
publications. Her book - French Toast - is a lighthearted look at
French manners and mores.
Writes Leslie Caron: French Toast includes the most delightful barbs at France's
subtle but deep-rooted codes of behaviour...I read the book on the EuroStar between
Paris and London and wished the train had not reached its top speed of 300 kph!
Reviewed in the Los Angeles Times on January 2, 1998, French Toast
will be published in the U.S. by St. Martin's Press in January and can
now be pre-ordered at local bookstores, or you may contact Harriet directly at
101676.467@compuserve.com.
Your Cellphone in Paris
