lost in the nether regions–roadtrip to bruges (part 2)

I wake up at 6:15. I refuse to even think about it, I’m going. I must liberate myself from this fear of stick shifts. I must see Bruges (Brugge). Today.

I’m on the road by 8:00AM. And lost by 8;15. I probably could have gotten lost sooner except there’s construction work being done on the familiar road from Auvers to Mery sur Oise across the bridge. I think I stalled in virtually every town in the Val d’oise region, from Taverny to Beauvais.

I finally find the right freeway at 9:30. By this time I’m exhausted and consider pulling over to take a nap. But I can still hit Bruges right around 12:30 if get moving now. I have no problems during the drive from the correct freeway entrace to Lille. The rest stops are lovely, the signs are clear and the freeway is uncrowded. Except for trucks which generally stay in the left lane and leave me alone.

I have a brief panic attack in Lille trying to reconcile the exit signs with the ones mapquest told me to use. Fortunately, I accidentally take the correct turn and find myself in Belgium, on the road to Gent. Which is according to my calculations, exactly where I want to be. It is now almost 12:30, and I should be in Bruges before 1:30, if I continue to drive like I have been (which is pretty much like a little old lady).

This is a beautiful country. Very green and manicured and well to do looking. On the down-side, the rest stops invariably charge .30 Euros to pee and there were condom machines in the ladies room, but no tampon machines. Aside from feeling inconvenienced, it strikes me as somehow sexist. I may never forgive the Belgians for this poor first impression.

When I hit Gent, I’m overjoyed. It should only be another 20 minutes to Bruges.

Wouldn’t it be ironic if I got hit by a truck now? I slow down a little and figure I’ll make it to Bruges in another hour. Right around 2:30. That should be plenty of time, especially considering it stays light until 10PM in these parts.

After driving another 45 minutes, I notice there’s another road sign to Gent. Have I been driving in circles? Where the hell is Bruges? Fortunately, according to the sign, I’m practically in Gent, so I should be able to figure out where I went wrong from there.

I start passing what looks like an endless industrial section, with huge plants and a vast grey expanse of water as far as the eye can see. It kind of reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the Gulf Coast…in the middle east, I mean. This is weird because Gent seemed pretty well inland when I passed it the first time. Maybe Gent is bigger than I thought.

I head onward past miles and miles of really depressing terrain, until I hit a tiny little village at what appears to be the end of the world. It’s kind of dilapidated and lazy looking. Certainly not the Gent I’ve seen in photos. There’s even something vaguely Middle Eastern about this town…the slightly downtrodden edge to it. The barely decorated cafes that seem vacant except for a few guys out front smoking, drinking and chatting.   Maybe I got caught in some twist in the time/space continueim.

The road seems to end here. I go back and try every variation of the roundabout before getting here and either end up on another road with a sign that says it leads to Gent, a vast expanse of water or a kilometers long aluminum building with trucks in front too many to count. Or a toll bridge leading to Ooestepoopergarpen, or something.  All I know, it wherever it is, it must be north, which isn’t where I want to go.

I figure the little town at the end of the earth is my best bet and head back, cursing the Belgians for their crappy signage and cursing the radio station for playing that freaking “junk in my trunk (uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh) song (and I use the word ’song’ loosely) yet again. Are Americans responsible for bringing this retarded craftless ditty into culture? No wonder the world hates us. Obviously the DJ at this station is trying to provoke all out war against us. And if I hear this song one more time, I’d probably join the fight against us. Maybe that’s what happened to John Walker Lindh (American Taliban).

I storm into town…well, considering my mastery of the manual transmission, lurch is more like it. I stop at the nearest café and ask two guys sitting out front pretty much verbatim ‘where the hell am I and how do I get to Bruges?

Gent, Belgium

Gent, Netherlands

They patiently fill me in, draw me a map and show me which direction I should go to get to Bruges.

What I want to know is why nobody up until now mentioned the fact that there is a Gent Belgium and a Gent Holland and they’re within 45 minutes of each other (when you’re trying to get from one place to the other as opposed to by accident).

I can’t believe I’m in Holland. And now I’ll have to drive another hour backtracking to get to Bruges. Goddamnsonofabitch! Searching desperately for a bright side, I figure since I’m in Holland, I should really take the opportunity to find some of those delicious wafflenstroopen cookies I love. Two wafers filled with caramel that I’ve only tasted the like of in Holland.   I don’t know what makes them so delicious.   I’ve searched everywhere for them and have found only pale imitations. Now that I’m here, I’ll forever feel a gaping loss if I leave Holland without more of those cookies. But this town doesn’t even have an open grocery store. I figure I’ll hit a town on my backtrack and I can still be eating Belgium waffles in Bruges somewhere around 3:00.

I wind up in a town called Ternuezen which is on the water, but much more pleasant than Dutch Gent. I scour the town and finally find a store that sells the coveted cookies and am pleased to note they’re much cheaper here than in Amsterdam. These are called stroopwafels, but look and taste exactly the same. I get a couple of bags and congratulate myself on making the best of a bad situation. I figure I’ll make it to Bruges by 4:00.

On my way to the car, I pass a coffee shop and make a flash decision to make a better situation totally awesome.   I am in Holland, after all.   According to my calculations, I’ll can be in and out of there in 15 minutes and make it to Bruges by 4:30.

I leave the coffee shop on schedule.   An hour later, when I remember where I parked the car, I’m faced with a task more daunting than any I have faced before on this roadtrip—yes, I must fill the gas tank.

During my wafflenstroopen search, I spot a Texaco nearby, so I know which direction to head. The trick is finding a road that agrees with me.

A half hour later I pull up to the self service pump and spend fifteen minutes adjusting the side mirror views until I realize that it isn’t the mechanism for unlocking the gas tank (which is the key…duh).

I spend another 15 minutes trying to fit the nozzle in the gas tank hole until I realize that it’s the guzzle for trucks, not cars. I spend another 10 minutes trying to get the car in front of the right pump, and another 5 minutes adjusting the car’s position so the nozzle actually reach the place I need to insert it.

lunch

When I enter the place to pay, there’s a bunch of crappy seven eleven type food which awakens my stomach. Now that I think about it, I’m punchdrunk from a combination of hunger, stress and waking up too early for my delicate system. I’ll never make it to Bruges alive if I didn’t put something in my stomach now. Something more substantive than a wafflenstroopen. It has to be something I can swig down really fast and keep driving. Something that coats my stomach. That only leaves one option once I scratch pepto-bismol from the list: chocolate milk. In addition to their unparalleled wafflenstroopen, The dutch have a rich, creamy, delicious chocolate drink called chocomel that I totally forgot to crave until now. I swig the chocomel like a person who has been stranded in the desert introduced to her first water in days.

I head towards Bruges, feeling mildly bloated, but sure I can make it by 6:15 for my Belgian waffle.

stalling–roadtrip to bruges (part 1)

I’ve seen pictures of Brugge (or Bruges), Belgium and have always wanted to go there. They call it the Venice of the north, with picturesque ancient buildings flanked by canals. A town untouched by World War II. A gem. According to mapquest, it’s 168 miles away or a 2 hour and 48 minute drive from Auvers (they lie) or a 2 ½ hour train(s) trip from the Gare du Nord in Paris, so about 7 hours roundtrip.

If I take a train, it’s over 240 Euro round trip to get to Brugge. Flying might be cheaper, but there’s getting to the airport, security, waiting, fees… As opposed to the train, which is quick and painless. But I lose time in connections (ie: from Brussels to Gent to Brugge) and there’s that price thing.

I check the prices of a three day car rental and it’s a no-brainer. Three days unlimited mileage for more than half the price of a train ticket.   And this way, I can stop where and when I want.

But I quickly discover a catch…there’s a premium on cars with automatic transmissions. The difference in prices is huge. Which presents a huge dilemma.

The last time I attempted driving a car with manual transmission was in San Francisco (probably one of the world’s stupidest places to attempt such a feat). It was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. Not only was I in constant fear of death by rolling backwards down a vertical hill, I was also constantly humiliated by my inadequacy in shifting—stalling at every intersection and being forced to stop people on hills and ask them to hold the car in place while I shifted. I think I lost half my weight in sweat that day. I swore I’d never touch a stick shift again.

But poverty does funny things to a person. I decide driving with a stick shift will be an exciting challenge. A new experience. And there aren’t a lot of hills up north. I gamely click “reserve”.

The next two nights I spend studying maps and travel websites like I’m cramming for a final.

The night before I’m to pick up the car, the enormity of what I’m attempting hits me. I try desperately to come up with a reason, or find a sign that I should really cancel this whole junket. I’m sure I’m coming down with something. I can’t find my glasses. I can’t drive without my glasses. Oooooh, I have a bad cramp in my clutch leg. Where are the damn keys? Not being able to find the keys must be God’s way of telling me not to go. A black cat just crossed my path several times….THAT’s got to be a sign, even if it is Denzel.   Every little thing seems a warning of impending disaster.

I tell myself to calm down. It’ll be all right. I’ve got every conceivable route written out and mapped. How hard could it be? Less coordinated, dumber people than me have driven a stick shift. I temporarily ignore the fact that less coordinated, dumber people than me can also walk and use a cellphone at the same time and I’m totally incapable of that.

I mentally practice shifting until the xanax kicks in.

I must be maturing, because I don’t recall being tortured the by nightmares of sleeping through the alarm on the morning of my final exam or being at school naked. Only a few sane waking moments wondering whether seeing Bruges is worth dying for as I drift off to sleep.

When I wake up the next morning, I have that feeling I used to get before finals of being too tired and brain dead to cope with the task at hand. Being a trooper, I lumber towards my goal.

Armed with maps, instructions.credit cards, passport, drivers license, snacks and bottled water, I take the train to Pontoise, where I’m to pick up la voiture.

By 8:30 AM, I’m at the Pontoise Europcar. The car rental process itself is painless. The rental agent seems amused (in a friendly way) by my caveman French. The only rocky moment is when I sign the receipt and realize (after I signed it) that the number on it is E 500. Not the E116 I’d been quoted. The agent seems to notice that I’ve turned white and reassuringly tells me “c’est une deposit.” I’m relieved and terrified all at once. One false move and I’m broke. That’s worse than a fatal accident. I wonder if they’ll charge me for the day if I return it now?

No, I will hate myself if I don’t attempt to go to Brugge while I have this damn car. After stalling three times and almost backing into a Volkswagen Golf before getting out of the parking lot, I resolutely tell myself that I’m definitely driving up to Bruges while I have this goddamn car in my possession.

Just not today.

I stall 12 times on the 5 mile drive back to Auvers.   Fortunately, the French drivers are kind.   One person  honks when I stall at an intersection, but two jump out of their cars and offer to help.   In New York, I would have caused a riot.

The rest of the day, I intermittently practice driving the damn car interspersed with taking naps to recuperate from the physical and mental tension of practicing driving the damn car. My left leg will be very muscular from this experience. I have so many “my little goat moments”, I’ll be surprised if I don’t have permanent brain damage. I’m still trying to unfurl my hands from clutching the wheel in terror.

With a deep sense of foreboding, I make a delicious dinner of pasta with sausage, mushrooms and tomatoes before I go to bed. I figure it could be my last supper.

pastry of the day (or as I like to call it, dinner)

Fraisette

This is one of those pastries that falls under the category of too much. Beautiful to look at, but not entirely satisfying.

It’s a very thin layer of white cake, a layer of strawberry jam, a layer of cream and a very thick layer of vanilla meringue. Then the whole thing is covered with cream frosting and the thinly sliced strawberries.

When I dug my fork into it, I was surprised at how hard it was to cut…I thought it would be some light fluffy concoction. The meringue (while delicate and delicious in the chocolate macaroon) was like a chunk of crispy, sweetened styrofoam or a huge cube of sugar.

I would have been perfectly happy just eating the bottom layers of cake, jam and one layer of cream frosting which was only a sixth of the entire confection.

Me no likee.

Fortunately, I bought what I thought was yogurt at the grocery store earlier and it turned out to be a delicious creamy dessert. Phew! Disaster narrowly averted.

embarking on a life of crime

Don’t ask me why I didn’t consult the weather report before getting on the train to Paris. Maybe it was destiny.

The plan was to start in the Canal St. Martin area in the 10th arrondissement. It’s supposed to be an up and coming neighborhood. From there I’d cut through the Marais, and cross the Seine to the 6th and 7th arrondisements (which is ideally where I’d like my future husband to have a pied de terre).

After a short sweaty walk down the Canal St. Martin I head for the Seine…maybe there’s a breeze there. There isn’t. Which leaves two options. Jump in the Seine or find a nice air-conditioned establishment to seek refuge from the imaginary global warming. The refuge just happens to be Dalloyau Patisserie. Here I will cool off, get something to drink and reassess my game plan.

In the Sex in the City version of my life, there would be a handsome Frenchman also seeking shelter in Dalloyau. It would just be him and me and the windows steaming up. We’d start to chat, the windows would steam up some more, maybe there’d be a hot pastry sharing scene followed by a thunderstorm. Of course, we’d run through the rain to his fabulous nearby pied du terre. That doesn’t happen. It’s just the pastries and me.

Since I have a short attention span and am easily distracted by bright, shiny objects, I immediately forget my game plan. Oooooo, pretty tart…pretty puffy thing with cream and berries…pretty chocolately square… Since I haven’t set foot into any sort of boutique for months, all my most shallow consumer cravings are bursting forth here and now and I’m not sure if I have the self control to stop them.

I’ve always been a little stand offish about French pastry. Sure, there’s your croissant, your tarts, your pan au chocolat, éclairs, panniers, beignets…all delicious. But there’s a whole world of pastry out there I’ve never tried. The custardy things with apricots on top, the huge chocolate bombs, the things that look like opaque green jello, the napoleons of many stripes. Frankly, I never thought I’d like them. Most of them look a little too gooey, too sweet, too much (although right now, I’m sure my life will never be complete without consuming each and every one of them).

It doesn’t help that I’m afraid of the women in the Auvers bakery. I pretty much buy my bread, catch a quick glance of the desserts out of the corner of my eye and get out of there. No hemming and hawing trying to decide between the cannonball sized snowball rolled in shaved dark chocolate, the tried and true fruit tart with plump perfect raspberries, the white creamy looking cakes with imbedded strawberries…nope, she’s giving me a dirty look…she’s gonna yell at me…’un bagette s’il vous plait…une Ooops, desolee, UNE bagette, s’il vous plait.’ I always wind up skulking out in shame.

The pastries here at Dalloyau look like jewels glimmering behind the glass. I get lost in them until reflexively, like a guilty dog, I look up at the woman behind the counter to see if she’s giving me a dirty look or about to smack me with a newspaper. She’s not. She’s smiling at me. I take this as a sign that fate brought me here for a bigger purpose than whatever my initial game plan was.

I should make it my business to try every pastry out there and write a thorough review. Sort of a verbal painting depicting the beauty of each pastry. I’ll be the like the Van Gogh of French Pastry description. If I try one pastry a day, I think I can still get every possible pastry in. There couldn’t be more than 90 french pastry varieties out there, could there?. I suppose if there are more, I’ll have to double up.

I know, it seems like an indulgence. A pastry a day can really add up. But it’s cheaper than lipgloss or a pack of cigarettes, both of which I’ve given up. And my efforts will serve mankind as a guide to what sort of pastries they may like and dislike. Yes, I’ll do it in the name of helping my fellow man navigate the intricate world of French pastry. And for art. Now that’s a lasting legacy.

Of course, the venture does involve critical risks. Like spending my hard borrowed money on deserts I may not even like (and where will that leave me when I crave something sweet and I blew my wad on some lavish frou-frou concotion that sickened me earlier?) And the capital risk is enormous considering that at this very moment, I only have 5 Euros. How will I afford a pastry AND get back to Auvers? And what about tomorrow? Will I be forced to beg for pastry? Will I become poor AND fat? Nobody feels sorry for a fat homeless person. Now I’m sweating out of pure stress.

But sometimes, you’ve just got to go for it. At least I know I won’t have to shoot myself in a field when my time here is up. I can just have a heart attack on my way up to the field. Nobody can say I didn’t consider all the angles.

I order a chocolate macaroon. A relatively safe bet being chocolate and only 3 Euros. Now, this isn’t your classic coconut cookie you think of in America. Not even close. It looks like a scooter pie. It’s two chocolate almond merinque cookies sandwiching a thick layer of dark chocolate ganache. I hold my breath and take a bite….ahhhhh, this is decadent.

It’s like the world’s biggest truffle, with a slightly crispy coating that crackles like a thin layer of ice and melts into the ganache. How could heroin possibly be more addictive than this? There’s that pure chocolate endorphin rush, but there’s also the taste…no, not just taste, it’s bigger than taste, it’s a feeling. It almost engulfs the brain. I’m in Paris and I’m eating the most chocolately delicious thing in the world and I’m soooooooooooo happy!

When I come to, I’m already wondering how when and where I’ll get my next fix. And do I really want to try those custardy things? Maybe I should limit myself strictly to macaroons. Seriously, I haven’t even dented the surface of macaroons. There are caramel, coffee, vanilla, strawberry, green ones, chocolate noisette.…

No, that would be the cowards way out. I must explore the entire pastry realm. But damn, I could go for another chocolate macaroon right now. Maybe I should marry a Patisserier. I nonchalantly check the back kitchen of Dalloyau to see if Mr. Right is back there. He’s not. I guess that would just be too easy.

I gather my remaining two euros, thank the girls behind the counter profusely and step out out into the torture chamber. I was going to walk back to Gare du Nord and save myself the Metro fare but I forgot how hot it is. I fear I’ll become one of those elderly woman heatwave death statistics if I do. And how tragic would it be to die after experiencing such happiness only an hour before? On the other hand, perhaps THAT’s my destiny. Nahhhh. The metro entrance is about 50 yards away.

As I walk briskly toward my train, I don’t even notice all the handsome men I’m sure must be checking me out. I’m deep in thought, ticking off my options methodically. I hope I could be mistaken for a high powered businesswoman (wearing “don’t socra-tease me” toenail polish) making a career altering decision as she rushes to her train for the burbs. Nobody has to know what I’m really thinking: “I could try the chocolate cannonball next, but maybe I should try something fruitier. Or would it be smarter to bite the bullet and get one of those things that look like jello with berries out of the way. Hey, there’s probably something for two Euros at the bakery in Auvers.”

I jump the turnstiles and head for my train.

bridging cultural chasms

The other day when I was watering the yard, the neighbors were coming home. We smiled said bonjour and I returned to my watering. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the husband said “I have a question.” I think this is the first complete sentence I’ve ever heard in Auvers, except for Henri and Alan when they were here. He invited me for drinks. I accepted and I have both looked forward to and dreaded this day arriving.

I don’t know why I’m so fearful of the language barrier thing. I’ve spent time with Japanese people who don’t speak English, dined with Italians who don’t speak English, had drinks with Dutch people who don’t speak English, Americans who don’t speak English, and always had a perfectly good time. Nonetheless, I’m nervous as I walk up there with a lovely, hand-picked, hand- arranged bouquet of flowers.

Okay, flowers and weeds. But in the weeds’ defense, they would have cost at least $6.00 in the US. Maybe they’ll think it refreshingly humble for an American to bring something personally crafted. Or that I’m a cheap bitch. It’s a huge responsibility going next door for drinks. I represent America. The Lubattis don’t count because they’re American, but also French. They speak French, they have roots here (not the kind of roots I have). They know how to behave.

So much to worry about. Will there be cheek kissing? If so, how many times does one kiss each cheek? And are you actually supposed to kiss the cheek or do an air kiss thing? Chhhhhhh. Merchk –ci. Je pouvais. Je pouvons. How long am I supposed to stay? I suppose I’ll have to drink something. What should I drink? Should I have brought wine? Will there be food? What the hell are their names?

Within minutes, Carole and I are planning to meet on Wednesdays so she can help me learn French and I can help her learn English. If this doesn’t improve my French, I’m afraid my one remaining hope is enrolling in French kindergarten and learning it the way children do.

There are important things I learn at this meeting that need to be shared in order to help bring about an understanding between our two cultures. For example, I learn that the women in the bakery don’t hate ME, they’re like that to everyone. The French don’t curse like we do. When we say “merde” as a curse, we don’t sound French. We sound like Americans trying to sound French. The French equivalent is of our “C” word is probably “putain” which sounds like it’s got a lot more syllables when pronounced correctly (kind of like (pchkwuuuueeeeetaeeeen. When Carole says it, it sounds really vile…like the worst thing in the world you can say. If someone called your mother that, you’d have to punch their lights out (or at least give them a good head butt in the solar plexis). When I say it it sounds like Porky Pig. The French often feel uncomfortable in America because there are signs everywhere telling people not to do things. I’m sure 75% of that is the no-smoking signs everywhere.

Jerome and Carole also float a theory as to why so many Americans are perceived as arrogant and narrow. Europeans are constantly exposed to different cultures because there are so many different little countries so close together. Americans, not so much. Americans is huge and homogenous for the most part. the limits of what we’re exposed to as a result of our size is what makes us come off how you say, xenophobic. I never really thought about it, but that makes sense. I also give them credit for giving more thought to justify our being assholes than we do. And nothing creates a warmer bond than a mutual hatred for German tourists. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

On a practical level, I learn that a Kir is quite refreshing and makes me feel much happier than a diet coke does.

After about two hours of pleasant conversation, I feel we have made vast inroads mending the French/American relationship. I also feel like I’m making friends with the neighbors. I thank them very much for having me. They thank me for coming and for the flowers, c’est tres jolie. And I say je vois vois en mercredi. She says haltingly “at six o clock.” I leave feeling really good about the whole thing. Like maybe I will learn French. And make French friends. And feel like I really live here (if only when I have to leave/shoot myself in a field.)

This is a critical step in breaking down walls and stereotypes and re-establishing that deep friendship between France and America that seems all but lost these day of ruthless political expediency. Maybe we can live side by side again as brothers and sisters. Maybe I’ll even have someone to feed my kitties when I go to Croatia! This is promising. But wait, I hear Carole say something to Jerome that’s too fast for me to make out and they laugh….Did that French snob just call me a “pchkwuuuueeeeetaeeeen?”

impressionist and other works of art

Since my hair is now as colorful as a Van Gogh (especially the roots), I decide it’s a good time to go into Paris and re-visit the Musee D’Orsay with new perspective.

I catch my favorite train from Auvers transferring in Valmondois which travels through the beautiful countryside into what I imagine is the riot ravaged section of North Paris into Gare du Nord. I bravely decide to take the metro to the Musee D’Orsay despite the fact that I know all metros are under terrorist threat. Somehow, the Paris metro is so much more civilized than the New York subway I let down my guard and forget to be afraid. My fellow passengers and I survive.

I get off at St. Germain and prompty walk in the wrong direction. When I reach the Odeon, I realize my mistake and backtrack, passing a gazillion gorgeous food stores. At least I know if I get lost I can follow the trail of my drool back the way I came. I resist the urge to enter and continue past the fashion boutiques (also drool inducing) and down the Rue Jacob past the small galleries until I reach the Musee. The line is virtually non-existant and I’m inside in a flash.

It’s a beautiful museum, a converted railway station, with art instead of bums. I head straight for the impressionists, trying not to notice the art lovers critiquing my hair.

The first room alone is more impressive than MOMA and the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam by a long shot. And it keeps going. Rooms of impressionist paintings, many of which are scenes that looks strikingly familiar, maybe because so many were painted in the Val d’Oise. Pissarro, Corot, Sisley, Monet, Manet, Degas, Renoir, Cezanne and Van Gogh are well represented. There are numeous paintings done in Auvers, I notice with pride (as if I had something to do with it). Views of Pontoise, Argentueil, Sannois, the Oise, Chaponval are as plentiful as if I were at the Chateau Auvers looking down on the valley. And not all that different.

I like Renoir more than I remember and Monet less (although I’m still fascinated by his series of the views of the cathedral in changing light). I still think Pisarro is underrated and feel my rage rising at the injustice of it.

But I’m immediately soothed by the room of Van Goghs. He may have been a douche and a drama queen, but man, I love his paintings. They’re brighter and more striking than I remember. I can’t keep my eyes off the picture of that quack Dr. Gachet and can almost understand why that Japanese industrialist who bought one of the two portraits Van Gogh painted of him wanted to be buried with it. Dr. Gachet looks depressed. His hair is very red. I wonder he went to the same hair salon in town that I did.

I can’t help noticing the scarcity of English speaking people here in the Museum. Where are they? Are they boycotting France because of our refusal to take part in the Iraq war? Whatever it is, I’m grateful, as the museum is uncrowded and pleasant.

Until I go to the ladies room and realize, this must be where the Americans have been hiding. The line here is longer than the line into the museum and virtually everyone in line is an American. Maybe we have smaller bladders than the French?

Only one of the two stalls has toilet paper and rather than take toilet paper from another stall when it’s empty, the women in line choose to wait for the stall with toilet paper to become available, which doubles their wait time. When a woman leaves that stall, I cut ahead to take some toilet paper and go into the free one. The women act as though I’ve just invented the paper clip or something. I begin to understand why the US is no longer a center of innovation any more.

Once I’ve finished my business I take a look at a pre-impressionist work of art—Paris itself. The view from the D’Orsay balcony is spectacular, even when it’s overcast.

By now it’s almost 3:00 and time to wander over to the Place de Madeline and Opera, which I haven’t seen since I floated by in the 80’s high on painkillers from a tooth infection (I have searched vainly for whatever that painkiller was ever since). I walk through the Tuilleries and up the Rue de Fauborg Honore to the Opera. It’s as impressive to me now without narcotics as it was while under the influence.

Then, I don’t know what possesses me, maybe a narcotic flashback, I walk to the Boulevard Haussman to Galleries Lafayette. I recommend this neighborhood to anyone homesick for New York. Here English is more prevalent than French. And I experience the pushing and shoving I’ve so missed. I hate it and rush out. Until I remember that the food hall is supposed to be an epicurian oasis.

I’m not disappointed. It’s the Musee D’Orsay of food. And it’s not nearly as crowded as the rest of the store…in fact it’s downright pleasant.

This place makes Eli’s in New York (the best and most overpriced food emporium in NYC) look like Safeway, except the prices of course, which are high, but still comparatively reasonable. The options are infinitely more mindboggling than Eli’s (which only boggled my mind with the prices). There are all sorts of prepared foods to take out, or eat at little counters set up at each section. There’s the Italian deli section, the Petrossean section, the tapas section, the dim sum section, the meze section (the take out meze platters are so beautiful, I consider them to be art on par with a Van Gogh), the Indian section, the oyster section. There’s also fresh produce, meat, seafood, bakery, candy and grocery sections that includes everything I’ve ever craved and some things I’ve never imagined to crave but will start immediately.

My budget allows me a smoked salmon on blini sandwich for 4 Euros which is tasty, but leaves me longing for more. I take one last slow, tortured lap and decide I better leave before I find my credit card buried in my bag and create a deficit at the dim sum counter that’s bigger than the US debt to China.

The train ride back to Auvers is uneventful. I watch the countryside go by now with the eyes of an artist—the slashes of green, gold, and red of the passing fields as vibrant as the tabouli salad at galleries Lafayette.

Once again, I feel a kinship with Van Gogh, despite my desire not to. I stop at the grocery store on the way home and linger over the wine section since absinthe is no longer legal. I decide against buying a bottle, since like Van Gogh, I’m short on cash. What would Van Gogh do? It seems I have two choices. One involves cutting, the other painting.

I head back home to paint my hair.

keeping up avec les jones

I knew my good old American consumerism would take effect in one form or another. It was just a matter of when, what and how much.

In NYC, every time I went out in public, I was subjected to a barrage of ridiculously expensive things that my life would be incomplete without. Life was a constant bombardment of I need a pedicure, double mochafrappucino, boob job, hepa air purifier, krispy kreme and brown purse. And that was just in one block. As my income spiraled downward, I managed to maintain the rampant desires, but scale them down to size. A one block stroll became I need nail polish, a candy bar, a lightbulb, lipbalm, allergy pills and ant traps or my life won’t be complete. I believe that’s called adaptation.

Since I’ve been in Auvers, that looming hole in my soul that could only be filled with something I have to buy, has been surprisingly unobtrusive.

Sure, there’s the occasional deep yearning for a lamb brochette tempting me in the boucherie window. There’s the tarte frambois beckoning from the boulangerie. Since I haven’t read any magazines telling me what to covet, I wouldn’t know what will make my life complete if it slapped me in the face.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I do find myself coveting gardens (I believe Freud called it ‘Garden Envy’).

The flowers here in Auvers are spectacular. From week to week, a new batch of flowers crops up just as another one dies. And every week I think this week can’t possibly top last week’s, but it usually does.

I even covet the weeds.

It’s obvious people put a lot of care and expense into their yards. Some are overwrought, some are painstakingly wild, others look more English and overgrown and sometimes just the part spilling out into the street looks like I wouldn’t mind spending time, breathing the air and enjoying the view with a nice tall cool glass of something.

Every house is a statement. From the shutters, to the window boxes to the outer walls. So it’s been bothering me a little that my yard isn’t saying it with flowers as eloquently as I see everywhere else.

I mean, when the parking lot nearby has more flowers and greenery than your yard, you start to get a complex. Even if you don’t own the yard.

What to do? Obviously, I’m broke. I came here to cut down on expenses, not spend it on something as temporary as annuals.  Isn’t that more foolish than spending it on fashion? On the other hand, a few plants are cheap compared to fashion. . I briefly consider stealing a few plants that appear to be wild. Scratch that, they probably belong to the town and I’ll be arrested or something. On the other hand, jail would be rent free and I could stay in the region when my time here is up. But when I imagine my prison cell, I definitely think it needs flowers, which brings me back to my original problem.

Maybe if I gave myself a $30 limit? When you think about $30 to spruce up a house, even for only six months, is a bargain! An opportunity that can’t be missed!

I’ve been quietly pricing plants in my journeys. (I also covet the bloomenmarket in Amsterdam, by the way). Little boutiquey plant stores are out of the question, especially if they have the FTD logo in front—a sure sign they’re overpriced. The Thursday/Saturday market is okay, price-wise, but I should be able to do better. The Isle Adam market is on par with Auvers. So for the time being, I focus my energies on buying food.

But while on a trip to Epluches, St. Ouen to survey Le Clerc, a French hypermarket (a big huge supermarket with everything from booze, to cereal, to garden furniture to underwear to travel agent at cheaper prices—sort of a French Costco, I imagine.), the pangs of crass consumerism start to rumble. So many different cookies, cheeses, desserts…of course, I must try them all. In the spirit of discovery, of course. This is an integral part of French culture afterall. Shall I start with the Bon Maman citron madelines or the Laiterie Pots au crème chocolat? Or both? But my musings are interrupted by a feeling–something powerful and impossible to disregard. Like a hunter dog getting a whiff of prey, my every nerve is on alert. My inner paws are pointing frantically. Then I realize what they’re pointing at– the leclerc also has a centre de jardin

Culinary exploration be damned! I’m off and running.

A flat of petunias for E 6. 10 trailing geraniums for E 7. Now we’re talking. I contemplate the flowers like I used to consider a blazer at Barneys: After what seems like hours of mixing, matching and trying out every conceivable combination, I load up on pinks, cream, yellow and purple accents, keeping in mind the allotted funds available to me.

The woman at the cash register speaks to me. I nod and smile and say “oui” or “non, merci” depending on the tone of her questions. She rings them up. I almost have a heart attack when I see the number—196.000. Mon dieu…I can’t afford this and there’s no way I’mn proficient enough in French to explain it, especially since this seems to becoming a my little goat moment. I’m either having a hot flash or some sort of panic attack (I’m not sure which would be worse) and any moment a drop of sweat from my forehead will fall on the counter, compounding my humiliation. Maybe if I act like I’ve forgotten something (I’m good at that hit my forehead and emitting a sigh of exasperation thing). Then I can pretend like I’m going back to get whatever it is I forgot and skulk off like the loser I am. But the cashier says “vingt six, and I realize that the first number was in Francs. I giggle with relief as I pay her.

I load my new possessions into my bags and make it to the train station just as my train is arriving (surely a sign that buying these plants was the right thing to do).

When I get home I immediately put the flowers in the windowboxes. I wind up with a total of five. The problem is, I don’t have enough dirt to fill the boxes. I figure I can go back for that later. In the meantime, I put the lovely window boxes in the windows. It looks much better. I can almost hold my head up high. I’m very proud that I’ve been able to satisfy my crass consumer cravings for under 30 dollars.

But now that I really look at the gestalt of it, the window boxes just make the lawn and the rest of the yard seem…well, lacking. there are a couple of spots in the garden bed that could use an nice annual or two. I guess when I go back for dirt I can pick them up.

And why does the neighbor’s lawn seem so much greener than mine? I wonder if there’s something wrong with my lawn. I’m sure there’s something I can get for that. And those little red bugs are a real problem, What sort of spray do I need to get rid of them?

I start to write a shopping list. Sure, it’ll cost some money. Sure, I can’t afford it. But if this yard doesn’t fulfill its potential, I’ll feel as though I’ve missed an opportunity. This is about experience, not a gross desire to acquire stuff. And I’m pretty certain that there will always be something incomplete about my experience here in Auvers, if I don’t make this yard the best yard it can be. At the very least, I’ve got to make it better than the yard next door.

paris fashion notes

Ever since I quit my advertising job, I’ve spent very little time on Madison Avenue (meaning Barneys and Bergdorf, or as I liked to call them with a certain amount of sour grapes, fashion victim central). I havn’t looked at a Vogue, Harpers Bazaar or Elle since pink was the new black

Needless to say, I’d been feeling hopelessly out of place on the New York city streets for quite awhile. Sure, there was my out of style Levis and non-brand name tee shirts, but more importantly, my face still moves. I often got the feeling that women I knew recoiled in shock, horror and pity when I smiled or furrowed my brow. I was also convinced that I was the only remaining B cup left in Manhattan, which I think may have qualified me for my own personal display in the Museum of Natural history.

Aside from the 600 dollar price tag for a lousy shot of botulism toxin (wouldn’t it be cheaper to cultivate my own? I had some funky looking cans of soup that were probably chock full of the coveted poison), the whole idea of injecting something that used to have a skull and crossbones on the label into my face seemsto be pushing fate. And major surgery to insert huge plastic globes in my breasts seems more ridiculous than…well, cutting off my ear.

So when I go to Paris, I watch the women with interest trying to get an idea of what’s in style and whether my next move will have to be to a country where Burkas are mandatory.

The good news is, I won’t have to move to Iran for several years, at least.

The first thing I notice (or don’t notice) is the omnipresent low cut satiny lingerie type blouses with huge plastic breasts on display with cleavage up to the chin aren’t present. Not a one. Nor is the night of the living dead parade of bandaged women on the streets that’s so popular on Madison avenue and Soho. Maybe the French just have the good taste not to emerge until their plastic surgery scars have healed. And I won’t have to invest in absurdly low cut jeans or acquire the obligatory rolls of fat that accompany them (where is lipsuction when you need it?

I scrutinize the French womens’ faces and smile at them. They smile back and their eyes actually crinkle. Some of the women even have grey hair, god forbid. Further, their faces are not caked with Lancome, Chanel and all the other ridiculously expensive make up products American women seem to believe are the height of fashion in France. And the B cup seems to be the norm here—for the first time in ages, I almost feel adequate. These women actually look human.

Before I left New York, I consulted a couple of fashion experts to see what the summer trends would be, just to make sure I didn’t stand out like a sore thumb. I was told to wear wedgies with two inch platforms and another four inch of heels, brightly colored skirts, tiny little sweaters and to carry a large brightly colored leather bag, preferably by Louis Vuitton or Prada if I didn’t want to feel hopelessly out of place. Thank goodness I couldn’t afford to take their advice or I would have felt hopelessly out of place.

The women here seem to be much more casual, usually wearing jeans, cargo pants or a simple dark slightly above the knee length skirt, blazers and very basic small leather purses. Their shoes are generally stylish, yet comfortable looking. And there’s not a tiny sweater in sight.   I’m pretty sure Carrie Bradshaw would have been laughed out of town.

As further research, I enter a couple of drug stores and the cosmetic departments of department stores. Unlike the mile long displays of exhorbitantly priced French named cosmetics found in the US, the array is small and simple, mostly devoted to skin care, rather than cover ups. And unlike the 200-500 dollar miracle creams peddled in the US, the creams here are in the 50 Euro range and seem to have the same miracle incredients.   Creme de la Mer is nowhere to be found.

The clothing lines are simple, consisting of names that for the most part, I haven’t heard of. And the only place I can find Channel, Louis Vuitton, Versace, and the other designer names popular in the US is on the Rue St. Honore-Fauborg, where the only languages spoken seem to be American, German and Japanese.

Isn’t Paris the fashion capital of the world? What’s going on here? Is it possible that the women here are guided by some innate sense of style, rather than the fashion magazines?

I begin to think that the designers and fashion magazines have been pulling the wool/gabardine blend over Americans’ eyes all these years. Is the still  booming billion dollar plus US beauty and fashion industry based on a lie?   Why not?   It seems most of our billion dollar industries are.   So now my only remaining fashion question is how can I cash in on that lie so I can afford to buy the $2,000 dollar Louis Vuitton purse I saw in a store window.



the rock stars of auvers

Where I come from, people stand in line for celebrities and iPhones.

Here in Auvers, it appears the most wanted men are the butchers.   On Sunday mornings before they close for their weekend, the line stretches down the main drag.

J.Y. Gicquel Boucherie  comes highly recommended by the Ladoux family.   I’ve been a little hesitant to venture in there because it will require speaking French and I shudder to think what adorable forest creature I might wind up taking home for dinner.   I’m also not sure whether those numbers before the decimal point in their prices, are ones or sevens and whether we’re talking francs or euros and I’m afraid I can’t afford it if I have to ask.

I’m feeling a little lazy tonight and have decided that my lack of energy is due to a protein deficiency and I need a good piece of red meat.   Preferably something someone who’s lived on takeout for the past 20 years can cook.

I’m a little nervous entering, the vibe here is a lot friendlier than the boulanger down the street, where I feel I must apologize when I enter, again when I order and one more time when I pay.   Sometimes I apologize when I leave for good measure.

It’s not like I’m a total stranger here.  I wave to them every time I walk by and they wave back.  There are usually two butchers; a younger one with a roundish face and receeding hairline and an older guy with salt and pepper hair and a nice northern european face.  They may be wearing bloody aprons, but here, they’re captains of industry.   A woman mans the prepared foods counter (quiche, Frenchy salads, things en croute and terrines with hardboiled eggs in them) and cash register.

A couple of people are ahead of me which gives me time to get my bearings and look at all the meats behind the counter and try to figure out what they are so I can point knowledgably.   There are about 7 different kinds of chicken shaped items in various sizes.  Lots of fillets of chicken colored objects of various sizes,  slabs of red unrecognizable red meats.   Lots of unrecognizable parts.   Sausage galore.   Chops.   Ribs.   Rabbits.   Geese.   I’m getting a little sad and consider fleeing or at least turning to the deli counter, but it’s my turn.

Here are the french words for meats I know I’ll eat:   poulet (chicken), agneau (lamb), boeuf (beef), dinde (turkey), porc.   But then we get into cuts and I’m lost.   Is an onglet a steak or some organ I don’t want to know about?   And is it an onglet de boeuf, ou cheval?   And what the heck is french for goat?   Je ne voudrais pas goat.   Or lapin (rabbit).   I’m now in a cold sweat and probably look guilty.

The younger guy greets me in French.    I try to say something in French, but all I can do is look behind the the glass and point desperately at a kebab and ask ‘qu’est ce que c’est.’   He doesn’t understand me.   Shit (merde).   He’s one of those French people who doesn’t understand English OR really bad French.   This could be a problem.

I point again at the kebab and ask “c’est l’agneau?”

He looks at me blankly.   I repeat myself slowly.   Nothing.   By now everyone in the store has stopped and watches curiously.   I really want to flee now, but I might want to come back here sometime, so I blunder on.

I point at the kebab and “baaaaah” loudly like a lamb.   His face brightens and he nods vigorously.   I point to my leg.   He nods again.

I shout excitedly, ca!   Un de ca s’il vous plait.  He doesn’t understand what I’m saying, but we’re on the same wavelength.

He wraps it up and I hold my hand out to take it.   He gives me a slip of paper and points to the cash register while babbling something in French.  And I totally get it.   They give me the meat after I pay.   I say merci beaucoup, he says something and the transaction is completed.    We’re both very pleased with ourselves.

Next stop, cash register.   Grand total about E4.92 which is about 9 dollars, so, pretty pricey.   It also presents the problem of whether I pay with the pocketful of coins in my pocket or just hand her the E10 bill I have and get even more coins.   If I pay in coins it could take hours for me to figure out the right amount.   But if I get my change in coins, I’ll just have to face the problem down the road.   I do the only logical thing and dump the contents of my pocket on the counter and let the very nice cashier pick out the coins she needs.

I leave the store with my package, calling out “merci, bon soir!” feeling very French.

I broil the kebab, which is all seasoned lamb cubes with a chunk of some sort of sausage at each end and make a salad.

All I can say is that kebab brought me more pleasure than Springstein, Jagger or an iPhone ever could.   Hours later, I’m still fantasizing the subtle seasoning and the tender juicy lamb cubes.   And the sausage!   OMG!  A veritable medley of spices in perfect pork harmony that I can’t get out of my head.

Tomorrow is Sunday, so I’m going to get in line first thing in the morning.   Maybe I should camp out front over night.   I’ll just die if they’re sold out when I get there.

Consult this meat translation guide before venturing into a boucherie.

the paris marathon

Big day. My first venture into Paris to meet my friend, Alan who is taking the bullet train down from Brussels.

This is huge. I’ve got train schedules, maps and metro paths to figure out. Naturally, I am frightened. His train gets in at 11:35 at Gard du Nord and I have a vague idea of how to get there and an even vaguer idea of where to meet him.

I studied the transillien schedules for hours last night, trying to figure out the right connections into Paris. I’ve been told it’s Auvers to Pontoise and then from Pontoise into Gare du Nord. But the times just aren’t meshing. The train from Auvers to Pontoise gets in two minutes after the train from Pontoise to Paris leaves which means I’d have to spend 45 minutes in Pontoise waiting for the next train. But at closer glance, I notice that if I get off one stop before Pontoise in Saint Ouen, where the train to Paris also stops, the timing would be perfect…6 minutes between trains. I’m  hesitant to try it because everyone told me the point of transfer is Pontoise, and who am I to deviate from the advice of people who know better? And what if Saint Ouen is as confusing as Pontoise and it takes me longer than 6 minutes to find the train to Paris?   But it has to be done, because I sure as heck don’t want to spend another 45 minutes at the Pontoise station.

The lady at the Auvers station confirmed my decision by drawing a picture because I kept looking at her blankly when she spoke. So off I went.

The connection works perfectly and I spend the 45 minute train ride watching a baby in a stroller sucking on a pacifier (much more enjoyable than watching grungy teenaged boys sucking on a joint). Every time the father takes the pacifier out of the baby’s mouth, tthe baby breaks into a huge grin and yelps joyfully. It’s almost like uncorking a bottle of champagne, without the foam, (thank goodness).

As we pass Sacre Couer perched majestically on the hill, I start to get nervous again. Gare du Nord is huge. A city unto itself. I’m to meet Alan at the gate where his train arrives, wherever that is. I left myself enough time to get lost, and promptly do so. It seems the only way I can meet Alan at his gate is to pay for a train ticket, which I don’t want to do. I consider fleeing, but decide that a better course of action is to ask a woman behind the ticket counter. She kindly buzzes me in.

I arrive five minutes before Alan’s train pulls in. When Alan appears I’m faced with the next daunting task of the day…figuring out where exactly Gare du Nord is in relation to the rest of Paris. Since Alan has no particular thoughts on what he’d like to see in Paris, I wing it and we start walking.

As long as a city is on a grid system, I’m fine. Unfortunately, Paris is not. Every time I think I knew where we are, another diagonal street intersects up and confuses me all over again. We wind up in Les Halles, which isn’t my favorite part of Paris, so we head towards the left bank. Or so I think. I start to feel as though we are walking in circles and the only thing that tips me off that we aren’t is the fact that the naked mannequins in the store window here have nipples while the ones we saw earlier didn’t. The nipples hearten me.

We wind up at the Pompidou center, which has the longest line I’ve ever seen (damn tourists!). Alan knows nothing about Paris, and being the creative person I am,, I tell him that the Pompidou center is a large public toilet. He wants to go in until I tell him that it’s really just a museum.

From there we head over to the Left Bank, but quickly cross back to the Il Saint Louis because Alan HAD to have crepes, and there’s a great crepe place there.

After lunch we wander through the Latin quarter (or maybe it’s Rome), checking out all the food on display on the narrow streets. It’s almost enough to make me hungry again.

We consider going to the Louvre, but decide since I can’t find my way around Paris, the Louvre would be an inescapable nightmare. They would probably find our bones in some obscure, dusty corner years from now.

We pass through the Louvre courtyard, which is impressive in itself and continue to the Palais Royal and Rue St Honore. We take a right because neither of us can afford to even look in the store windows.

At this point we hear sirens approaching and my visceral reaction is to hide, as I’m sure they’re coming to get me for some NY rent violation, but they pass. Dozens of police cars head in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. My second visceral reaction is to find a spot where we can check and make sure that the landmark is not a smouldering pile of ashes. It’s still there. We decide to celebrate by having drinks in the Marais. We find a nice spot under the eaves of the Place du Vosges, which is one of my favorite spots in Paris. I tell Alan a little history of the area (this time the truth…I think). It’s lovely and peaceful until a batch of teenaged girls come screeching through, as loud and obnoxious as any American teenagers.

At this point, I’m starting to get a little nervous that we won’t find the Gare du Nord in time to catch the train back to Auvers. So we pay and head off at about 5:30. I believe I stopped people to ask directions approximately seven times between the Marais and the Gare de l’est. And another four between the Gare de l’est and Gare du Nord, which are about 3 blocks apart. Everyone was very friendly and helpful.

We arrive at Gare du Nord at about seven. And this is the only time I start to feel like I’m in New York. There’s a huge line for tickets and only two people manning the booth. Further, the machines that dispense tickets aren’t working. Alan just follows me mutely as I storm back and forth between the two, my head about to explode in rage.

The line moves fairly quickly and we make the train with a few minutes to spare.

We make it back to Auvers without a hitch.

In all, I ‘m sure we must have walked 26 miles and asked approximately 30 people for directions (that’s a little more than one person per mile, which doesn’t sound nearly so bad). I’m not sure what Alan got out of the experience, except that Paris is beautiful, French people aren’t rude as legend has it, citron crepes are delicious, Victor Hugo lived in the Place de Vosges, the Pompidou center isn’t a public toilet and that mannequin nipples are almost as good as a compass when it comes to finding one’s direction.

I’m very happy to have contributed something valuable to his cultural experience.

See my Paris picture gallery.