Promised Land or Lost Paradise?

Last Monday I had a madeleine moment.
Provided by the most unlikely of sources: Anthony Bourdain.

My apologies to those of you who:
- thought I was actually going to talk about one of these delicious little cakes, shell-shaped, sweet, buttery and crumbly - staple of all French households, neatly tucked away in kitchen cupboards, shiny in their individual wrappers along with petits beurres and other delicacies. Especially if you were beginning to drool. Saving tip: if you have the chance to stumble upon them at the corner of a supermarket aisle, the best kind (and only one found here, lucky you) is "A la Cloche Lorraine" by Grosjean.
D.licious.
- don't know Anthony Bourdain. Honestly, you are missing out. He is one of these guys you love to hate, and hate to love (my case); first - he has this kick-ass job where he gets to travel all around the world to meet people and talk about food. And of course eat it. AND GET PAID FOR IT. But he also has this cocky attitude (actually really watered down lately, I guess paternity does change people - such a shame) and this sarcastic outlook on things that just makes you smile and shake your head at the same time.
Ex-chef, ex-drug addict, womanizer, good writer.

So, in the end, not such an improbable Marcel Proust. (Well, except for the womanizer part)
Because of course the madeleine refers to him. Open up your French literature Reader's Digest, make a Google search or scroll down to the bottom of this if you want/need to know more about the significance of the aforementioned cake in relation with the author.
No need to be ashamed. As an ex-U of C geek I do have dorky references. They add to my charm, so I hear.

Tony was in Saint-Remy-de-Provence.
Following him on the screen walking in the crooked streets of the village, I was a child again.

I spent most of my summers, quite a few Christmas, one Easter or two and even the reading period before taking the infamous baccalauréat exam in the apartment perched in the hilly hinterland of the Côte d'Azur that my grandparents started renting in the late 60s.
(I stubbornly refuse to use 'French Riviera' that I find ugly, offensive, impersonal (so to speak) and unworthy of the real beauty of the name....Sky Blue Coast...isn't it just darling?!?)

Being in Provence is first and foremost a sensory experience. I vividly remember the bite of the sun on my pale skin, the caress - rough, harsh at times - of the legendary local wind, the mistral, that made the chimney sing cheerfully in the summer, and gloomily lament in the dead of winter. I used to run in the courtyard, hair flying all around my face, delirious with joy, swirling with open arms to feel the air on my skin. And then, there was the anticipation of the coarse touch of the sand under my feet, sometimes so hot that I had to fly to the water not to get burned, sometimes so soft that I wanted to disappear in it, sometimes so tough and unforgiving that it made me bleed.
Colors. Smells. Tastes.
I remember so much.

The fragrance of the majestic eucalyptus tree in the backyard, one of its heavy branches leaning over our balcony. Playing with the wonderfully scented buds, rolling them in the palms of my hand.
The wild lavender, springing at random behind a rock formation, far from the neat rows of the cultivated fields - along with the rosemary, the thyme, and the fennel. All spread out in the pebbly little paths cutting across the blue Esterel mountains.
The ever-present sound of crickets. Their lulling music when I was falling asleep. Their fierce chanting on my walk to my beach.
The sensory overload of the farmers market set daily on the little square in front of the church. The intoxicating perfume of the sweet peaches, apricots and melons. The aroma of the freshly baked bread. The vibrant red of the tomatoes. The glistening skin of freshly fished tunas and sea breams. The sunny voices of the merchants calling out to customers, cajoling, laughing, bargaining.

And so many personal milestones....my first love crush (his name was Jean-Christophe, I was 8, he was 12), my first birthday celebrated without my mom, my first swim, my first travel alone... I also 'became a woman' - as my dad put it - totally unprepared for the event. I saw my first living snake, lived elated through my first tempest on a boat, learned to love seafood. Read my first novel.

So watching Bourdain experiencing first hand the bounty of my childhood playground was quite a bittersweet experience. I marveled and longed at the same time. I wanted to cross the screen and be there with him, in the garrigue, or on the shaded terrace of a small café.
Just. Be.
Something so hard to do here.

And then came this moment where I woke up from my reverie. He was talking to his host, telling her that this was life, life as millions of people - him included - were dreaming it. Saying that what everybody is ultimately craving is not luxury, but simple and real things.
Here the lady laughs and exclaims, in a heavy French accent bien sûr : "Ha! Are you saying that even rich people want this? live this way? like us, poor people?!?!?"

I had to double take it. I must have misheard. What?!?!?

Owner of La Grande Duchesse et Le Petit Duc, thriving businesses specialized in chocolate, candies and sweets, daughter of a celebrated chef, Anne Daguin cannot by any mean be qualified as 'poor'. Unless a new definition has arisen since I left, a definition in which possessing a breath-taking mas (a traditional Provence house usually made of stones) with a pool and a state-of-the-art kitchen puts you at the bottom of the social scale.

Here I had it: France in its splendor. Or, rather - French in all their pettiness.
It may sound outrageous, revolting, and borderline hostile - worthy of an angry British author who found a fly in his soup, or got mistreated by a famously rude Parisian waiter but seriously, France would be paradise if it was not for the French.

Indeed, from afar - or after a delightful fortnight spent in Paris, the Loire Valley, Normandy and the South - France might appear to be about the most agreeable place on earth. Great food, good wine (actually, this shall be discussed later), time to breathe. 35 hour work weeks, 5 weeks of paid vacation, universal health care (disregard this last point if you think of it as a socialist threat and the sure sign of the imminent coming of the Antichrist), beautiful landscapes, history, culture, ...
The whole package.
An expensive one nowadays, but still.

But when you do live there, for - let's say, 25 years - you come to realize that this whole idyllic picture is not that perfect after all. Like the anamorphosis paintings of the Baroque (nerdy time!!) it's all a matter of perspective. The closer you get, the more you see what should remain unseen.
And the truth is far from charming.

What makes France so enticing for visitors is actually the heart of the problem. It makes for a great touristic destination because in many ways, it is a museum. Stuck in time like one, exhibiting past glories, charging for it. France got herself so immobilized through social reforms and reactionary measures that sometimes I wonder how the hell she is going to rebound.
I sure don't see any sign of it.
And in order to magically happen, a collective brainwashing would be in order.

Because French people are creatures of habit and entitlement. Sure they want some change, a lower unemployment rate, a better economy, higher exports, less administrative tyranny. But they are not ready to give up anything in order to get all this. As soon as the government thinks about imposing a reform, people flow onto the streets, block everything, paralyze traffic and won't bulge one inch until the policymakers publicly state the withdrawal of the plan. People want to make more money, but don't want to go back to the 39 hour week. They want health care, but don't want to have to spend a single dime on their treatments. They want better education but are not ready to pay more for it.
It is quite an impossible equation.

And it is frankly quite painful to watch. I do love my country, and I am damn proud to be able to tell people who inquire on my nationality (on a very regular basis, damn accent) that I am French. But living with a whole bunch of perpetually dissatisfied moaners is quite an ordeal. I chose to leave. Like so many of us. Our country is not providing for us. It is failing us - we are failing ourselves, and I am not sure when things will turn around and be welcoming again. France has been in crisis for thirty years now, when others were thriving and adapting to a new reality. I don't know what it would take for us to get back on track and be in the leading pack again. Not that we really need to be - but with us being French and all, it's a matter of pride. Damn pride. Nothing is worse than to rest on one's laurels, as they say.
France is learning it the hard way.

I could talk at length about it, and tell you many revolting stories, absurd anecdotes and ludicrous situations. I won't. The France that is accompanying me, in the secret of my heart, is quite different. It's bright, beautiful, enchanting - it is home.
For auld lang syne, my dear.





Marcel Proust is the author of "In Search of Lost Time" - a massive semi-autobiographical novel in seven volumes and containing more than 1.5 million words (arguably the longest novel ever written). In the beginning of the first part of the first book ("The Way by Swann's") the narrator, sick and depressed, is drinking chamomile tea. He mechanically breaks up the madeleine his maid brought him for tea service in a spoonful of hot liquid. He doesn't think anything about it until he gets to taste the combination.
And then - explosion. Unexplained sense of joy. Epiphany. All his childhood comes back to him through his taste buds.
Literary birth of the involuntary memory - other instances are spread out all throughout the novel - and beginning of a lengthy exploration of time, space, aesthetics, homosexuality, and memory that no one in his right mind (and without obligation to do so) has ever read in its entirety.

For better or for worse

The other night I went downstairs like almost every day for the last 12 weeks or so.
I should add, for clarity purposes, that my building gym is downstairs.

I always dread the first few seconds when the elevator doors open on the basement level. I cautiously step out, all ears. I tip toe towards the door, the rubber of my shoes squeaking rather unpleasantly on the painted floor. A good day means that everything is calm and quiet. On a bad one - I can hear the blaring sound coming out of the TV set dangerously dangling from the ceiling.

Sharing the space is not what usually bothers me, as long as I can have free access to the treadmill. Let's get fit together! sure! as long as you leave me alone. Sounds misanthropic? It is. Working out is already painful enough, I don't want to have to make any compromise. I am a grumpy bitch there to kick her butt and burn as many calories as possible from her belly/thighs/ass fat so you don't want to mess with me. Fair warning. But what really makes things difficult - because despite what I have just said I usually put a huge smile on my face and utter a bright 'hello'!' to whomever has preceded me, good manners be damned - is the choice of the program. Early arrival is key to TV control.

And the other night, it was just.....wrong.
Something called 'Four Weddings' was on. Let me just tell you - it was BAD.

Not worse than any other wedding show, I guess. And in the last couple of years I had the unfortunate privilege to stumble upon quite a few of these jewels: 'Bridezillas' is now classics, but what about 'Bulging Brides', 'My Big Fat Fabulous Wedding' - only rivaled by 'My Big Redneck Wedding', mind you - 'Platinum Weddings', 'Say Yes to the Dress' or 'Rich Bride, Poor Bride'?!?!?
If you want to catch up on a very valuable wedding knowledge, you can watch them all these marvels on.....ready for this?!?!?!?!?!?
Brides Television of course!!!

Oh yeah.

One of the (many) things that me, Frenchie, will always have a hard time to understand is the fascination - unhealthy, sick, toc-sick even - of American women with the concept of 'wedding'. Not marriage. WEDDING. As if the iconic 'after' of the fairy tales - remember the 'and they lived happily ever after'?!? - didn't count at all. Irrelevant. Might as well just evacuate the whole thing in a line, a Technicolor (fading) sunset and forget about it.
***Actually, speaking of happiness and Cinderalla and her friends... ever thought of the influence of religion on fairy tales?!? Yeah...I thought so. Well, I did for you. You are welcome. So while the English versions are all proper and respectable, and conclude in a most puritan way "They got married and lived happily after after", the French - these filthy Catholic beasts - underline quite a different outcome: "They got married and had lots of children". As the song goes, every sperm is (indeed) sacred. And the regal one certainly is.***

I always thought that I would never get married. I never dreamed of my dress, never planned (over and over) the day in my head, never picked up (and dropped) bridesmaids. Not. Interested. Even as a little girl I remember looking at the wedding gowns and thinking what a pain they must be to put on. I thought it would be cool to just wear a bathing suit and then go for a swim with my beloved after the ceremony (that was of course before realizing that white bathing suits were not necessarily the best option out there....)
Then my parents divorced, and I was more sure than ever that I would never, ever go through this ordeal.

My first serious relationship lasted 7 years. The word 'marriage' probably never crossed our lips. We made endless fun of the few weddings we had to attend as a couple, giggling at the church, crucifying every bit of cheesiness we could find and just being respectfully disrespectful. We swore every time afterward, inebriated by too much champagne and toasts, that we would never make such fools of ourselves. And that we would never spend so much money on a day that had so little meaning for us.
Especially since France had in the meantime legalized civil union for all couples. Gay, straight, romantically involved or not, people and their 'partners' can get (almost) the same privileges as married people. (Yes, I know - quite amazing) So why bother?!?!?!?
Most of my friends didn't.

I knew coming here that things were a little different, but I was not quite prepared for what I found. Diamond ring competitions? Designer gowns? Favors? Ushers? Rehearsal dinners? Have I heard that one right?
It was just another league all together.
A scary one.

On a bright Friday of August my American boyfriend proposed to me. It was all nice and lovely, romantic and all; he had chosen an intimate flower garden off Michigan Avenue, written an adorable story involving past, present and future and bought a ring. Damn. I was going to be one of those. But I loved it as soon as I laid my eyes on it. Simple, elegant, timeless, not in-your-face. No sunglasses, portable safe or bodyguard needed.
And no outrageous price tag. Thank God, I would have (verbally) killed him and asked him what the heck he was thinking. And forced him to take it back and send us on vacation with the money instead.

So I had to rethink all my wedding assessments, and do it fast. Because it was happening. TO ME! I was lost. Didn't know what to do. What I wanted to do. I decided pretty quickly that I wouldn't agonize over it for months and picked up a date 4 months later. Sent an SOS email to my friends. And we got to work.

And, to my surprise, I had fun. Lots of fun. Prepping was exciting! Choosing the venues, the menu, the invitations...deciding on the favors (home-made jam), the room decoration, the flowers of my bouquet. Creating my own bracelet. Being with my friends, and sharing it all with them. Keeping things simple, heart-felt and meaningful.
But yet elegant, classy and beaaaaaaauuuuu-tiful.

The only bad moment? Going gown shopping. I even have pictures to prove it. Thank you, Mireille for immortalizing that glorious moment. I wish I could say that I will get even with you on this but chances are rather slim. Because as a fellow Frenchie, I know you know better. You won't get caught. And if you do - well, I will be there to try to make things go as smooth as possible.

But seriously?!?! Don't ask me to be your maid of honor - I wouldn't wear the dress. Or to time the ushers - I would make a mess. Or even to sit through a rehearsal dinner - unless you want me to give you the most embarrassing toast in the history of toasts.
Because I may be married now, I still don't like weddings.
Especially American.
Apologies to all the Bridezillas out there...


Real life picture. Me, stuck in the fitting-room of the WORST store ever. Marylee Bridals. Sounds bad?!? Looks and smells even worse.
BTW - this is NOT the dress I chose.

In the words of the Other

Every time I sit down at the computer and start - quite feverishly - a new posting for this blog that in many ways, still feels foreign to me - I cannot help but marveling at the easy flow of words.
I am not saying that I am a natural-born writer and that my prose is so brilliant that I, along with my readers, need sunglasses in order to move on.
(Even though I surely wish it were the case. It would end my bad case of I-wonder-what-to-do-next-with-my-life, and with the money I would no doubt make selling millions of books to frantic fans, I would at the very least be able to buy new living room furniture to replace the love seat and sofa recently soiled by my shameless cat)
End of fantasy.

What I mean though is that I never really thought I would ever write in another language. I never thought it would be somewhat 'easy' to do. I remember being terrified by the compulsory elective class that I had to take to complete my curriculum because of the final paper that came with it.
A paper in ENGLISH, God forbid.
The irony is that I ended up quitting school last week without having to brave this ordeal. My writing in English started self-imposed. I am loving it.

It is different. Stylistically, grammatically, rhythmically - if it makes any sense. The musicality of the language itself is distinct, new, other.
But it doesn't feel any different. The words come through the same channels, full of meaning and emotions, ready to be laid on an electronic page as white as the paper one. Mostly they sound the same. I discovered that even though I don't speak the same language, even though the idioms are different - I have the same voice.
And that's a comfortable surprise.

I am currently working on a big translation project, something that is going to carry over the summer and, on a more trivial note, feed me for a while now that I am not teaching anymore. It is my first book, my first real one. From beginning to end, it will be my job and only mine, to convey meaning from one set of words to another one. Quite exciting indeed. Notwithstanding the subject. This time having to get immersed in the history of international treaties in the nuclear field between 1945 and the mid-1970s doesn't particularly excite me. And to be totally honest it has never been the case; I am dreaming of a confidential, beautiful, artfully crafted jewel of a book, a precious piece of literature that would magically find its way on my lap, waiting to be whispered in French.
A massive best-seller, Wall Street #1 for X weeks would totally seal the deal too.
Fantasy seems pretty hard to off tonight.
Anyway.

Translating is a tedious work. It wears you out. It requires intense attention, a very sharp mind and most of all a sense of language that I would almost qualify of - forgive the repetition - sensual. I rub my fingers together as I type the word because it really is a matter of touch. You seize the words, cradle them in your palm, stroke them with your fingertips. Let them linger sometimes. Creating a good translation is not as easy as it may seem. Knowledge is merely sufficient. To be successful (and talented) you have to be more than a converter. Exchanging apple for pomme can only take you that far. It works in some cases, not in others. The 'apple of your eye' is not an apple in mine. It is a small, purple, juicy plum.
And it still goes way beyond that.

As I am struggling through the lingo of international law I am not only striving to find the lexical equivalent of the words. I have to rewrite them. To reorder them, rethink them, reinvent them, really - give them life. That is the reason why all of us translators are addicted to the job, as strenuous as it can be. A good translation, an excellent one - is a work of art of its own. Our name might not be on the cover but it is still there, inside, in small letters. On the first page or in the author's thanks. But there.

This detour to say this: my writing in English never feels like a translation. It startled me when I first realized that these words were directly my words, not the result of a linguistic transformation. I write in English because I think in English. I live in English. I would never say the same things in French. Not only the words would be different, but the story itself. I cannot explain why but day after day, as I am writing away I am becoming more convinced of the truth of this old Romantic idea: one's language shapes one's writing whether one likes it or not.
The enjoyment, though, stays the same.
Thanks for that.

The Third Man

Last week I was applying for a writing position (freelance) for an on-line publication.
It was easy-breezy: enter your email, copy/paste your resume (attach your resume?!? whatever, one of these), give two writing samples....

I stopped.
Right there and then.

It was not because I didn’t have anything to submit. Even though I wrote much more in French than in English I do have samples. Nothing stellar, or serious or really mind-blowing but that’s not the point, is it? I was not up for a Pulitzer Prize nomination.

I could get a good article or two out of my blog, to begin with. Or even a solid Yelp review. I was Review Of The Day five times already, that must mean that I am not too shabby of a writer, right? Or not. Who knows? Word is that these are computer generated anyway, and honestly I am not sure to be ready to have my prose judged by some random machine which only recognizes its A from its B because of their different binary code. Not just yet.

I stopped the movement of my fingers on the keyboard because right below the line ‘First Writing Sample’ were written in italics the following words: ‘Third person articles only’.

Wha-aaaat?!?!?

Seriously?!?!
I was blown away, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, thunderstruck.

Just.

Speech.

Less.

Especially since the job in question consisted in writing opinion pieces on gossip and other women-related news.

Their words. Not mine.

Now that I think about it, a publication shallow enough to link that shamelessly ‘gossip’ and ‘women’ is probably not worth writing for.

But still.

In a world where everyone seems to have a compulsion need to let the whole world know about their every move, feeling, and thought – I am eating sushi/I believe that X’s dress was ab-so-lu-te-ly fabulous at the Oscars the other night/I am a fan of ‘brushing your teeth under the shower while singing ‘My Way’ – this was shocking news indeed

Third person articles.

Huh.

In French grammar the ‘il’ or third person, is labeled as the ‘non-person’ (for those of you perverted enough to be interested in syntax and overall linguistics, Emile Benveniste is the guy to blame behind all this. Students all over the country suffer countless hours in his hands. RIP, Emile). I am convinced that most writers-to-be out there start their first line with ‘I’ not ‘he’ or ‘she’. And it’s only natural. People want to talk about themselves, not for narcissist reasons (not always) but only because they are their best-known subject. Writing is a hard enough process; one doesn’t want to waste one’s precious time trying to think about WHAT to write about. Right? Right. So one usually digs into oneself and let it all out. Or just some of it; sometimes it is more than enough. No crazy stream of consciousness. Just a nice, controlled, entertaining (touching, boring, funny – insert your adjective here) flow of reflections and emotions put into words to fulfill a need not always simple to explain. Why do we write? That is an entire different story.

As I was recovering from my initial surprise I was wondering who these people were. Who is writing third person articles?

I did, actually. 3 of them about the expression of melancholy in the work of a French 17^th century author (Tristan L’Hermite. RIP to you as well, Tristan); 2 others on French Canadian theater. Academic publications fit the bill. News reports too, obviously Otherwise? I cannot really think of any article where the author doesn’t intervene at some point to say ‘I’. Sure, I might be totally oblivious to a world of ‘he’ papers. If so, please let me know. But if I am right indeed my question is: who is this publication looking for?

Not for me, at least. I blog and review and I like my ‘I’. And so do you.

I am happy with that.