Reflections on a French Honeymoon

"Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer."

As we get back into our normal lives of work and piles of laundry, the past month recedes into a happy memory. We loved our wedding. The best part was having our loved ones all together as we celebrated. Clyde and I followed that with some honeymooning in France, seeing the sights of Paris, lounging poolside on the Riviera, kicking back beach side, and napping in comfortable hotel rooms. The latter we were able to do without the feline company we have at home, what we've come to call "catus interruptus," the sudden need for attention cats have whenever humans lie down together. But that's a subject for another time.

France is just as great as they say it is. It's beautiful and romantic. It's dripping with history. There is much to see. Naturally I came away with some observations and generalizations:

• You really can just sit and relax over food and coffee at an outdoor cafe, taking in the sights as well as second hand smoke from others' cigarettes. People smoke a lot more over there.
• Is there any place more appropriate for a romance than the French Riviera? It felt like James Bond or Brigitte Bardot might walk by at any moment, having just stepped off one of the giant yachts anchored nearby. 
• The French are very stylish and beautiful. They dress well. The only people wearing shorts out on the street are tourists. Upon coming home, I'm very aware of what slobs Americans are. I include myself in that observation.
• Many French have cute little dogs, at least in the urban places we visited. I swear, they seem to yap with a French accent and a bit of stylish attitude.
• France is a capitalist western country where bejeweled shoppers rush by homeless people outside the high-end shops of the Champs Elysee, just like you'd see on Fifth Avenue in New York or 16th Street in Denver.   
• Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer.
• Subways. I love subways.
• Of course, some things are universal. People everywhere have their noses pointed at smart phones, only glancing up enough to see where they should be going.
• Remember that old Marianne Faithfull song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan? "She realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." Well suck it Lucy. I got to do it. Ok, it was on top of a big double deck tourist bus instead of a sports car, but still ... And please, no comments about the amount of hair the wind may or may not have blown through on my particular head. 

I miss eating in France. Not just the food, but the act of eating. You don't just fill the hole in your face in France. You sit, you converse, you savor. You don't eat out before an evening out. Eating out is the evening out. The waiter doesn't rush you out the door by bringing you the check before you are finished. You are expected to linger as long as you need to before asking the waiter to bring you the check. It's a whole different outlook.

But the food itself - it's so much better over there.

The pastry is flakier. The fruit is sweeter. The cream is somehow creamier. The butter is butterier. The cheese is cheesier. The coffee richer, without a hint of bitterness. Even the pre-prepared sandwiches in the convenience stores are made with fresher ingredients, as if just in from the farm. Even the cheap roadside frozen soft serve is better than what we have here.

And don't get me started on the bread. Before going to France, I used to look forward to scones in my office building cafeteria. Now, I can barely look at them. American bread is crap. I don't know why the French make it so much better. Maybe they just demand it fresher and don't tolerate it after it's a day old. I don't know. But seeing overcooked, plastic wrapped cinnamon rolls baked Godonlyknowswhen, made my stomach lurch this morning. And the coffee at work? Forget it.

Travel normally makes me appreciate home. Well, in spite of the lower quality of naps, it's good to see the cats. And it feels great to be married on any continent.

As for the rest, I guess I'll just have to power down the car window and stick my head out to feel the wind blow through my hair.

PostBlog from Paris: This City is Kicking My Ass, but the People Are Not

When I lived in New York City I made fun of the tourists who went on the Circle Line Tours. I could never so obviously be a tourist, If I ever had any pride, I'd have to blend in.

I've changed my tune.

First of all, we don't blend in here in France. We must smell American. The minute we walk into a restaurant, before we open our mouths or do anything at all, they take one look and hand us the English version of the menu. I don't know why. (Point of accuracy - Clyde says it doesn't happen everywhere, and it's usually because we're wearing backpacks. Fine, if you want accuracy, read the New York Times ...)

So you can read about Paris dozens of other places. I'll just tell you that the first day, we walked and walked and walked and walked and walked. The metro (subway) sped things up a little, but we really put some miles on the old dogs. The second day, we bought some shoe insert thingies to soften our instep because our feet were so sore, I personally thought I couldn't go on. The pain was nearly unbearable. I also needed to buy band-aids for my toes which were blistering, Hey, I understand that people in Paris have suffered through some tough times (I've learned at various historical sites). But did they ever have to stand in line on sore feet to get into Notre Dame, only to stand and walk, stand and walk, stand some more and walk slowly around from Saint to Saint once they got inside?

Long story short (too late, I know), Clyde and I and spent 37 Euros apiece for a two day pass on the L'Open Tours bus which drives around the city to all the major tourist sites. You can jump off the bus whenever you want and get back on when you're done seeing the sight you wanted to see. Or, if your feet are killing you, you can just stay on the bus and ride around, listening on the headphones which plug into a jack located by each seat which, depending on the channel you select, tells you about whatever you are driving by in whatever language you speak.

Sometimes it's hard to make up your mind. True conversation: "Here's the stop for the Eiffel Tower. Should we get off?" "I don't know. Look. They have ice cream." "Ok."

I hope I never meet Rick Steves and have to confess I did such a thing, but there you are. I saw more in one day on that bus than I otherwise would have seen in a week, including the outside of the Moulin Rouge, crowds lining up at Sacre Coeur, Napoleon's Tomb, and the art deco cinema with the largest screen in Europe. At €37, that's a bargain.

A Note About the French

Clyde and I feel strongly that Americans are stupid. Ok. Not all Americans. Just the ones that complain about how rude the French are. We have seen absolutely no evidence, whatsoever, to support that stereotype. The people we have met, including and especially waiters, have been courteous, helpful, and tolerant as we struggle to communicate and deal with unfamiliar currency. The advice has been that if you make an effort with them by trying a few French words, minding your own manners, and smiling graciously, they will return the favor with kindness and helpfulness, even speaking English if the can. On the other hand, if you act like a boorish, entitled asshole American, then why shouldn't they be rude back to you?

My favorite experience with this so far has been the server who struggled with her English but tried very hard to use it with us. Clyde gave her our order in French, asking questions and getting clarification on a few of the menu items. Throughout the meal, she returned to us a few times, each time attempting to speak English to us before remembering that she could speak French to Clyde. Her impulse was to make us more comfortable before remembering that she didn't need to struggle to speak.

End of sermon.

So Paris has kicked my ass but the Parisians have not. The people here have made the exhausting, painful experience of walking all over the city easier by their friendliness and good manners.

Postblog from the French Riviera: In Search of White Ladies

Rick Steves would be so proud. Ok, no he probably wouldn't. We haven't done much of anything on the first part of our honeymoon in France except eat, sleep, lounge on the private beach and the pool of our hotel, and other honeymoon things.

We have ventured out a little on foot into a couple of the neighboring villages near Nice, including a beautiful walking trail along the Mediterranean Sea encompassing views of nearby cliffs, colorful villas, enormous yachts,  and of course the blue-green water that once stirred the imaginations of the ancient Greeks and Romans. But European cliches aside, I have been anxious to delve into the real France and observe what really makes this place tick, just as Rick Steves inspires us.

My first observation upon arriving in France was that at first, I saw very few French people. That was at the airport. Once we got to Nice and the Hotel Riviera in Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, there were French, British, and American people all mixed together. This is a pretty touristy area.

Some other observations:

• All those French words I learned in high school really work! People understand me when I use them here! They aren't fake, just like the Euros that come out of the ATM work like real money!
• It's true: if you try to politely speak French first, the French will politely try to help and even speak English back to you if they can. They are very nice people and only hate Americans when we are rude and entitled, like the guy who snapped his fingers at breakfast this morning and shouted to the waiter, "COFFEE!"
• This part of France has very wealthy people in it. They are mostly Arab and Russian. I know this because when you walk by a real estate office, the listings are mostly in  Russian. Also, the taxi driver told us. He told us a lot of stuff on the drive from the airport.
• My nutritionist, the one who is helping me lose weight, says she doesn't know anyone who has gained weight in France because the food is more natural and the portions more sensible. I am out to prove her wrong. The food may be less processed, but the portions have been generous and I have been eating like a pig. The croissants have been especially good. And the yogurt. And the bread. And the cheese. We'll see what happens when I weigh in once I'm home.

But the biggest surprise so far: an illusive and mysterious phenomenon, so compelling that we have walked miles, day and night to find it. I'm talking about the Dame Blanche, or White Lady. No, I haven't become a racist heterosexual. It is an ice cream sundae made with the finest coffee flavored ice cream (subtle, not overpowering coffee flavor), the highest quality chocolate sauce, topped with a huge pile of delightful chantilly whipped cream. I don't know, maybe it's just because I'm in France, but it seems so much better than the same thing at home. The ice cream is creamier. The chocolate is not that cheap syrupy stuff we are used to. 

We were seduced by the white lady our first dinner out. The next evening, we walked along the seaside walkway into a neighboring village and stumbled onto a sidewalk establishment with a neon sign that said, "Bar" and "Glace" (which means ice cream). We looked on the menu and sure enough, there she was: Dame Blanche. We sat at a table, mouths watering in anticipation. But we were too late. The water explained that no more ice cream would be served that late at night. 

Crushed, we vowed to return the next day. After a morning of reading and napping at the hotel pool, we motivated ourselves to hike back to that village where we triumphantly had a token sandwich for lunch, followed by a main course of the seductive white lady. 

You know, it was pretty good, but not as good as the first one.