step it up, frenchie!

I know I moved here to slow down a bit and take the time to stop and smell the lavender so to speak, but perhaps transitioning from New York City to the South of France is just too abrupt.   Hell, transitioning from Barbados to the South of France is probably too abrupt.

I’ve been here about a year and a half and I still marvel at how the French are basically oblivious to anyone behind them in a line.   They have no compunction about spending hours searching through their purses for their wallets, slowly counting out the exact price to the centime (even if it means cleaning out their purse at the same time), chatting endlessly with the cashier while a line resembling the apple store on the launch day of the latest iwhatever forms behind them.  I think it’s more pronounced in the South. They have no problem lingering to chat in doorways, sidewalks, intersections.   Where ever they can block the most traffic.   I sure don’t want to be behind these people at an emergency exit!

Today 20 or so people were held up by a woman trying to count out exact change (centime by centime) from her purse with her elbows because her nails were still drying.   That was before waiting a half hour for a woman with a very full cart who waited until after everything was rung up and bagged to begin searching for her carte du fidelite.   Then she waited until after she finally paid to commence a long conversation with the cashier.   I hate her almost as much as I hate Dick Cheney.

Oddly enough, the only time the French seem to be in a hurry is when they’re on the road and looming in your rear view mirror.   Maybe they’re trying to make up for the time lost lingering in doorways and holding up the line at the grocery/drug/hardware/bakery/butcher/shoe/clothing/home decor/etc store.

Granted, in a way, it’s kind of nice…they’re taking the time to interact with one another in real time/real life, not on some social media site.  They know everyone in their neighborhoods by name.  They bring each other baked goods and tomatoes from their gardens.   They have a glass of wine together and watch the world go by.   I think it’s part of what makes this part of the world so special and drew me to it in the first place.  It probably even makes for a more civilized society.

But jeezus h. christ, I’m going to kick some French ass if they don’t get the lead out so I can get home and check my facebook feed.

 

a traditional thanksgiving in the south of france

Thanksgiving has always been a sort of mixed holiday for me.   I like the concept (in an uncomfortable, self-conscious kind of way), but the reality has always morphed into something far more complicated and different than the original idea of coming together and giving thanks.  It’s more like a delicious meal with a soupçon of dysfunction.

Where I come from, a traditional Thanksgiving goes something like this:

The day usually begins with my mother freaking out about how long to cook a turkey.   She becomes increasingly bitter throughout the day because my dad is sitting on his ass watching football and nobody is helping her in this gargantuan task.

By the time the guests arrive for dinner, my mother is usually on the verge of tears and/or telling everyone to go fuck themselves.   Dinner is usually delicious and we gorge ourselves nauseous.  Later, my mother weeps over some event from her childhood.

Over dessert some too-drunk member of the family has a mini tantrum, and storms out blithering semi-coherently about how someone has always loved someone “better than me”(and yes, on occassion, the blithering drunk has been me).

Frankly, I was perfectly happy to let the holiday pass quietly here in France, even though I appreciate the irony of having a first Thanksgiving in “the new land.”

But then my American neighbor and (ex?) friend, William, invites me and 20 of his closest friends for Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m a little petrified.   All these people will be in their 20’s,   That’s a chasm that can be wider than any language barrier. Clearly I won’t find a boyfriend here…unless some of them have single fathers.   I’ll probably end up alone in some corner with everyone feeling weird that an old person is there.

On the other hand, it’s a cool opportunity for observation, maybe it’ll be fun, I might make new (albeit young) friends and I could use a good meal.

The first thing I do when I enter is knock over the coat rack, not an auspicious beginning.   William reacts as if I just burned down the apartment.    I assume he’s a little tense from cooking all day and wanting everything to be perfect.

I sit down  next to William’s good friend Cedric, an adorable pilot who lives in Biot (an adorable nearby village) and almost knock over the TV.  At this point William is practically apoplectic at me.  Cedric kindly moves the tv farther away from the chair so I won’t destroy William’s prize possession.

Clearly the safest place is either in the bathroom or out on the terrace where the only thing I can really break is me.   I opt for the terrace because I can smoke out there and I won’t be constantly interrupted by people who have to pee.

I join a couple of fellow smokers on the terrace and we get to talking.   More and more people join us and we’re all laughing and having a good time   Pretty soon I know their life stories (more or less).

There are people from Beijing, Moldova, Spain as well as all over France.  Li, the guy from Beijing is going to cook me a chinese dinner and Cedric the pilot can get a plane for 50 Euros an hour flight time and we’re thinking Corsica!   Floriane invites me to her housewarming party next week.      I’m not the lone hag in the corner, yay!!!!!!!   In fact, I think I’m becoming a Yoda figure for a couple of the girls.

I try to ignore the fact that every time I catch William’s eye, he’s glaring at me.

Dinner is great, despite the lack of turkey (you try to find a whole turkey in the south of France that doesn’t cost a million dollars).

I’m feeling pretty darn good about the whole thing,  This may be the smoothest least dysfunctional thanksgiving I’ve ever had (except in 2005,when I spent it alone).  I get home about 1AM and am greeted by a message from William telling me that he’s really pissed at me.

I call to find out why and he tells me it’s because his friends liked me so much they didn’t pay attention to him.   When I realize he’s not joking, I angrily blither something semi-coherently and he hangs up on me.

You gotta love tradition.

the soiree of terror

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.    I received the above invitation a few weeks ago.

Every year at this time, French people try to get to know/reconnect with their neighbors in what is called “Fete de Voisins.”   The idea is to form bonds that will counteract the isolation of city living and build stronger communities.  So this little fete will include everyone in my small apartment building.   I’m pretty sure all the tenants here are French, except one family.   I’m also pretty sure their English is no better than my French.  In most cases worse (gasp!).   Naturally, I’m terrified.

I walk s-l-o-w-l-y down the three flights to the party.   On the way I bump into my only English-as-a-first-language speaking neighbor (Denise) and her four year old son (William).   Denise is very thoughtfully locking her door, and staring at it as if trying to remember something.  Turns out, she’s trying to remember a reason she can’t go to the party.   She’s as nervous as I am.  But she’s lived here for seven years, so she clearly has an advantage.   William, who is fairly fluent in both French and English and fearless because he’s 4 and there promises to be cake, he’s ready to partay.   At least now, I have a suitable escort.

We enter the apartment together, doing the whole introduction and kissing both cheeks thing.   Damn, these people talk fast!   I still don’t know what anyone’s name is because I can’t distinguish the words from the names.

The table overflows with food like some decadent still life.   I wish I brought my camera. There are about 11 guests ages ranging from 4-75.  The host and hostess are a 70-ish couple and live on the ground floor with an amazing garden with a small koi pond.   The husband speaks a petite peux of English (not as much as he thinks).

Representing the 1st floor a 60-ish couple ( think the man was a bit older).   They both only speak french, although the husband’s rapid-fire french is punctuated with seemingly random “OH MY GODs” (in English—maybe he’s trying to make me feel at home).

From the second floor we have Denise and William.   I’m the third floor.

From the top floor brings two female college students who are renting the apartment.   Also in attendance, the attractive 40-ish man who owns the apartment.  There’s also a woman I can’t place, but for some reason I think she has something to do with the top floor.

As much as Denise and I would prefer to sit in a corner and talk to each other in English, we know it would be cowardly and we must mingle.  I watch her dive bravely into the fray.   I’m intimidated by her ability to understand questions and answer them. I feel better when she tells one of the neighbors that her son, William is 40.

In the following three hours, I learn as much as I can about my neighbors and bond with them given my limited French skills.   Here’s what I managed to pick up:

The hostess quit smoking after 52 years and she said something about cocaine and morphine in the same sentence.   I’m assuming she said it was harder to quit cigarettes than cocaine or morphine.   Either that, or she used cocaine and morphine to kick nicotine.   Will have to delve deeper into that when my French improves.   In response, I tell her that she must have started smoking when she was two.   Well, I hope that’s what I told her.   She kind of clutched her hand to her heart, in what I hope was a gesture of gratitude or pleasure.

The man on the second floor feels very strongly (OH MY GOD!) that The painter Nicolas Stahl was very something.   So was Picasso.   He also said something about Collioures, which is a small fishermens village near the Spanish border where a lot of famous painters spent time.   I’ve always wanted to go there, so I nod enthusiastically.

First floor’s son got married in Santa Barbara.   He may also live there.   It’s very beautiful there.

The students on the fourth floor are studying at some school on Jules Grec Blvd .  I know where it is, so I nod enthusiastically.   They’re majoring in either agriculture, horticulture or quantum physics.  They are originally from somewhere in the north of France.  I know where the north of France is so I nod in knowingly.

The recipe for Gateau du thon (tuna cake, think meatloaf made with tuna instead of meat):   Tuna, lemon juice, capers, egg, salt pepper and a touch of mayo with Dijon mustard.   Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

The proprietor of “Le sex shop” (a few doors up the street) is very charming.

David and his wife, Nikki  (the couple who own the apartment I live in) are lovely, and Nikki is both smart, beautiful and a bunch of other stuff that is said in a very positive manner.   Great.   I will always be compared to her.   I bet her French is perfect, too.   Bitch.

The crowing I hear from the building next door at about 10AM every morning is actually a chicken (I figured it was a lazy rooster)   They used to have three but two of them died.   Not sure if they ate them.

William wants his bubbles (as in to blow bubbles).   Bubbles in French ar “bulles de savon”.   I initially thought they said bulles de savant (bubbles of knowledge).   It took about 15 minutes to clear this up.

The tarte is delicious.   The hostess didn’t make it, she bought it at the bakery on the Rue de Republique

The rest of the evening, I’m pretty sure they were just saying bad things about me.

I used the phrase “lentment s’il vous plait” approximately 14 times.

I guess some would say this is a pretty lame example of my French skills if this is all I got from three hours of continual conversation.

On the other hand, a year ago here’s the sum total of what I would have picked up:

Cocaine.   Morphine.   Cigarettes.  Picasso.  Collioures.   OH MY GOD!   Santa Barbara.  North of France.    Tuna cake.   Salt and pepper.   They like Nikki better than me.   Chicken.   Dead.  The Sex Shoppe.  Knowledge.   The tarte is delicious.

I’m making progress!

the euro’s falling, the euro’s falling!!!!

I have been watching the currency exchange rate like an obsessive investor watches the stock market since the moment I got here ($1.47 to 1 Euro).

At this very moment the exchange rate is 1.24 for 1 Euro (yesterday at the same time it was 1.25 USD to 1 Euro).    That’s a pretty huge decline.  Look at this way: if I had bought  a E200,000 house with cash when I got here it would have cost me  $294,000.   Today, the same purchase would only cost $248,000.

Some predict the exchange rate could go even lower (like crash).   Which is great for me but not so hot for the EU.

It presents a quandry.   Do I buy a ton of Euros now or hold out because they could go lower?   If it bottoms out, I could be kicking myself for buying a ton of them at $1.24.  On the other hand, the dollar could also crash any day now right along with it, so this could be the optimum time.

What it boils down to is a gamble.    Or a semi educated guess.  I have to decide who I think will be financially stupider and bet on the other.

Will I throw in my lot with the EU or the US?

Up until now, I‘ve been straddling the fence—buying euros when I need them.   I think overall it’s averaged out to a not too terrible exchange rate over the past 12 months (given that the rate was fluctuating between $1.51/E1 and $1.24/E1).

But the current state of things may require definitive action.   A commitment executed swiftly and unequivocally.   Unfortunately, the more I read, the more difficult it becomes.   I have imminent faith in both sets of governments’ability to act stupidly and decimate their economies.  They’ve been doing a fabulous job so far.

Complicating matters, I just read an article that said that when economies break down, sometimes the best currency is cigarettes for bribing officials.   Maybe I should be exchanging my dollars for cigarettes.

I wonder how corrupt officials feel about pastry.

word of the day: vetuste

The plumber taught it to me.   Well, he used it in a sentence.   I had to look it up.   I was a little offended when I saw that it means  ”old” and “decrepit.”  Then it occurred to me that he might have been referring to the plumbing, not me.

how i became the thing i fear most (a german)

To be clear, I’m pretty sure my fear of Germans has nothing to do with that Hitler/exterminate the Jews thing.   It’s more visceral than that…I think I feared Germans before I even heard of Hitler or WW2.

I think it’s the accents.   My dad’s whole family had them, including the pediatrician who also had a booming voice.   Imagine the terror.   A German can say the nicest thing and it always sounds like an order.   “Enjoy your cappuccino” sounds like “Enjoy your cappuccino, or else” when a German accent is added.     Then there’s the fact that in my travels,  I’ve been shoved by more Germans than any other nationality.   If there’s a head or person blocking the most scenic photo ever, you can rest assured, it’s a German.     And lets face it, they can be a little cold and officious.   That being said, I know my fear isn’t rational–there are lots of lovely Germans.   But I digress.

A lot of people ask how I handle the visa thing over here.   It’s simple.   I became a German citizen.   As an EU citizen, I can stay and work here without a bunch of paperwork.

Of course, becoming a German citizen, wasn’t exactly a leisurely day in the park.    It actually took a lot of effort.

First, my ancestors had to be forced to flee Germany based on religious/racial persecution, which believe me, is a lot of work.

 

Then someone had to tell me about a little known law that allows US German citizens whose parents or grandparents were persecuted and left Germany due to religious, racial or political persecution, to become citizens.   And I had to remember it.

Then I had to tell my niece who was way more hot to trot to get EU citizenship than I was.   She had to drag me to the German consulate to hand over the forms, photos and documents most of which she gathered (hey, I filled them out!).   It was quite a struggle for her, since I really didn’t want to go someplace full of Germans (scary).

Then my niece had to prod and cajole them to give us our damn citizenship papers already.

It took almost exactly a year of diligent effort, but I’m officially a self-loathing German.

 Information on how to get restored German citizenship

the nomad and me

I’ve been admiring him from afar for quite a while now.   Today we met, up close and personal.

He’s known as “La Nomade d’Antibes.”  But I just call him Nomad.

He is even more attractive than I imagined and he really doesn’t have a bad angle.   He’s 8 meters high–that’s over 26 feet.  I’m a sucker for a tall man.

He’s composed of random white stainless steel letters and occupies a prime piece of real estate, overlooking the Baie des Anges over to Nice, Cap Ferrat and beyond.  He probably has one of the best views in Antibes. His view to the right is the old town of Antibes and Cap d’Antibes;  his view to the left is Fort Carre and the alps (if he could turn his head).    I can’t keep my eyes off him.   But I’ve always had a thing for men of letters.

He hasn’t been in Antibes much longer than I have, so we’re both newcomers.  He was erected in 2010, when Jaume Plensa, a Catalan artist, was commissioned to create a monumental sculpture that would grace the recently renewed Bastion Sainte Jaume (which has been around since the Greeks parked their boats here).  It’s just a coincidence that the bastion and the artist share the same name.

Nomad is a controversial character.   From the moment he was commissioned, he’s been a source of controversy and rage.   It’s the typical anger you’d expect in a bad economy, when people are unemployed and having problems putting food on their tables.   The naysayers considered the $500,000 price tag trop cher.   But like the Transamerica building and the Eiffel tower, which also met with great resistance originally, Nomad is now an important part of the Antibes skyline and a tourist attraction.   He’s here to stay.   I think he looks quite dashing with the ancient town as a back drop.

I’ve always considered myself a bit of a nomad, so I kind of feel like we’re soulmates.   It’s kind of romantic when you think about it:   two nomads meet in the South of France and settle down together in Antibes.

 

the dark side of living in the south of france

Reading over past posts, it occurs to me that it may seem that I’m all content and blissful now that I’m living in the South of France.  I tend to talk about the wonderful food, the beautiful views, the charming villages.   That has got to stop!    I was raised to believe that the moment I appear to be happy, vengeful gods (and humans) will become envious and smite me.

So, in case any of those mean old dieties/people are reading my blog, here are a few things that make  it impossible for me to live free from the shadow of rage/helplessness/hopelessness/misery hanging over me and will prevent me from ever having a day of peace.

• Waiting in lines.  French people will chat away with the cashier/postal worker/butcher/baker/candlestick maker with absolutely no concept of how many people are waiting behind them.   I’ve seen lines outside bakeries here that resembled apple stores on iPad2 launch day.
• Lots of loud motorbikes.  Don’t know why, they’re louder here.   Why would anyone want to drive something that loud?   They should be banished.   I’m certain that the drivers of these audio monstrosities are compensating for something.   Maybe they have tiny voices or something.
• So many people here have no grasp of the English language.   To be fair, I found the same problem in California.
• The guy at the Marche Provencal who sells roses.   NO I DON”T WANT TO BUY YOUR DAMN ROSES!!!!!   IF I DO I’LL LET YOU KNOW.  STOP BUGGING ME!!!!
• Speaking of being bugged, they have telemarketers over here too and they call every bit as often (about 5 calls a day).   The good news is, I just say “je ne comprends pas” and hang up.   I guess I could have done that in the US too.   Live and learn.
• There’s dust here.   It’s like every time I dust, five minutes later, there’s new dust.
• I just spent 10 Euro on a lightbulb only to discover the lamp doesn’t work.
• I just spent 10 Euro on a lightbulb.
• I forgot to buy milk at the grocery store.
• my cat just threw up on the clean sheets.

french pharmacies: a source of drugs, cosmetics, knowledge and something akin to serenity

 You know how men are supposedly drawn to hardware stores?   That’s how I feel about French pharmacies.

I could spend hours tinkering with French skincare creams, nail polishes, cosmetics, haircare products and contemplating the ingredients in a bevy of drugs, herbs and salves.   French drugstores have a lot of the stuff you might find in Barneys or Sephora such as Caudelie, Nuxe, Darphin,  a smattering of Eucerin, Oil of Olay amongst lots of things with exotic sounding names that I’ve never seen before.   I just know there’s a  miracle unguent in there somewhere.

I don’t know if French drugstores are more or less expensive than American ones.   I got 7 Zyrtec,  24 Advil and some cough syrup for 8.50 Euro.  I do know that Tiger Balm is exorbitant at about 12 Euro.   On the other hand, Roger and Gallet is like Dove over here.

In addition to all the homeopathic, aromatheraputic medicines, the over the counter drugs are much more interesting than ours(for starters, their over the counter cough syrup has codeine!)   Once, long ago in Paris, they gave me the most wonderful pain killer that had me floating through the Tuilleries which I have devoted part of my life trying to find again.

In Europe, they’re big on plant based cures.   For example, when I had a cold and asked for something to help, they gave me these capsules of essential oils and Advil.   I don’t know if it worked or whether the cold just ran its course, but I’m feeling better, thank you.

I’ve learned a lot of French words in French pharmacies.   Appaisant means calming.   Minceur means thin as in lose weight.      Grippe means flu.   Toux is cough.   Cellulite means cellulite.

Today’s word:   allaitement.

While taking leisurely browse at the Grande Pharmacie d’Antibes I find an exciting product I’ve never seen: Weleda Tisane Allaitement pour Serenite.  Weleda makes these lovely plant based moisturizers, bath oils and skincare products, which I’ve always liked.   I figure the tea must be delicious and will calm my rattled overworked nerves.

I take the box to the cash register along with the Mavala Daring Pink nail polish and hand them to the cashier.   I point to the tea and say boldly “j’ai besoin de serenite”.

She looks at me really funny.   My mind started whirling as I try to figure out what word I’d mangled and how badly I’ve offended her.   I stammer out some words trying to explain…”j’ai beaucoup du stress… beaucoup de travail… donc j’ai besoin d…”   At this point she looks concerned, shakes her head, studies the box and babbles something to the other cashier.

I’m thinking, “oh merde, what have I said?   They’re gonna kick me out of the pharmacy, no, Antibes for this…maybe even France.

The other cashier blurts out with it (in English):   “this tea is for breast feeding!”   Now I know what “allaitement” means.   They must think I’m nuts trying to buy a tea for lactating mothers.   I’m one step away from being known as that crazy old American woman in Antibes.

I turn the color of Malava Daring Pink nail polish, slap myself upside the head and say…”Okay. Merci.  Le vernis de ongles seulment.   Ces tisanes ont tres, tres, tres pas pour moi”    Then we all have a good laugh.

I make a conscious decision not to spin myself into an uproar wondering how she knew I’m NOT breastfeeding (clearly I’m old and flat chested).   And despite the lack of serenity inducing tea, I swear to God, every time I look at my newly painted toenails, I feel pretty damn good.

living a life of luxury on the french riviera. well, the riviera part is true.

Never in a million years did I imagine I’d wind up living on the French Riviera (or any Riviera for that matter).   I figured I would have to be rich and fabulous.  But here I am.

I live in Antibes now, which is smack dab in between Nice and Cannes.   The population is about 75,000 which may seem small by urban US standards, but is huge compared to Vidauban (population 8,000), which is where I was originally.

The vibe in Antibes isn’t in the least bit fancy schmancy. Where Cannes is leathery skin squeezed into tight, trendy, un-age-appropriate clothes, trout pout and faces that aren’t quite human, Antibes is leathery skin in shorts and flip flops.   Well, that’s not exactly true.   There are a lot of Brits here, so there’s a lot of pasty skin as well.

Here are a few other reasons I love Antibes:

The weather 

Mostly sunny.  Not too hot, not too cold.  It’s like living in California without the Californians.

The train station Every train stops here, so I can get to a lot of places quickly and easily.  No car necessary.   It’s 20 minutes to Nice, 12 minutes to Cannes, 35 minutes to Monaco, 40 minutes to St. Paul de Vence (with a bus transfer), 5 minutes to Biot or Cagnes sur Mer, 1 hour 15 minutes to Italy, and so on.

The daily market (marche provencal)

Most villages have a market once or twice a week.  Antibes has one every day except Monday, plus a bunch of antique, clothes, crafts and flea markets.

One of the best ancient medieval villages ever

 

 

The new part ain’t bad either

Ten minute walk to the beach

Or 10 minutes to a morning cup of coffee on the ramparts overlooking the Mediterranean with the alps looming in the background..

Little shops

Art, culture, history

Antibes has been around for millennia.      It used to be called Antiopolis.   They’re not sure if the “anti” means opposite from Nice or Corsica.   Ligurians, Ionians, Phoenicians, Etruscans frequented the place before the Greeks settled in 5th century BC.    It fell into obscurity in the 1400′s, and was rediscovered in the early 1900′s (the jazz age).   Napoleon, Monet, Picasso, F. Scott Fitzgerald, all hung out here at one point or another.   And now me.

There are museums, theaters, concerts (the Jazz festival in July is pretty famous).   There must be hundreds of paintings by dozens of famous artists of the place.  No wonder.

Killer views

I may not be living in a lavish villa with a view of the sea (try a one bedroom apartment with a view of another apartment building, lots of sky and palm trees), have no yacht, Rolls Royce or even a car, but to me,  living somewhere this awesome is a luxury in itself.

More pictures of Antibes