I’ve been absent for quite a while now... I sort of missed writing the occasional blog, but obviously not enough to do anything about it. Since my last entry, I’ve started a new job (hallelujah), went to my friends’ wedding in Israel (mazel tov), and visited a place that must be none other than heaven (angels singing) – France. I need not be reminded that living and vacationing in the same place can be very different, and I refuse to allow this and other anti-French demagoguery to interfere with my memories of this unbelievable region where four-course meals are standard, mid-day sieste is strongly suggested, and being unhappy is nearly impossible. The Brits, who are quite abundant in the south of France, must have decided to call a vacation a “holiday” after going to the Riviera. Their accent, which typically pleases my ear, sounded uncouth. Their tone, threatening to turn every statement into a question, was repelled by the energy of the mountains, the sea, the villages that through plagues and wars, retained a calmness that is not eerie, but ecstatic.
In a strange way, the humble inhabitants of the villages reminded me of New Yorkers (no, they are not rude! and I will "fight" tooth and nail that New Yorkers, sans MTA employees and Eastern European transplants, are among the nicest and most helpful). They appeared not to take their quaint streets and breathtaking views for granted the sa
me way New Yorkers take pride in their grand city. And like with New Yorkers, you simply have to agree with them that yes, this is, indeed, the best place on earth, to get on their good side. You don’t even have to say it, just show it in your eyes. It’s not that hard. Both are, after all, right about it. P.S. Mustard is sold in containers that double as drinking glasses once you are done with it. Simple and genius, n'est pas?
3 comments:
I don't know whether you can really use your eyes to get on the good side of New Yorkers. For a good ass-kicking, stare away though.
Oh my dear francophile,
During my googling of francophile symptoms, i came across a single recurring question, which alone qualifies one as a francophile: "Are you learning French because you want to or because you have to?"...Well?...Moving on, i am sure that those divine four course meals came from the "twelve course dinners of regret", to borrow a line from one poet. In any case, I can only imagine your happy little face when walking the holy soil of the French...Evolution for some Jewish girls may happen in France afterall, because in that photo of yours, you certainly look French-ish to me.
My dearest-
Coming from you, a Francophile-in-training (I think Spain distracted you a bit from the main focus), the compliment on me looking French-ish is nothing short of the greatest honor. As far as your poetic reference, I stand slightly confused. If by twelve courses of regret, you are referring to the endless aperitifs, you are right :)
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