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.