L’olivier au Marché
The covered market in Antibes is on my way to Old Town and the harbor. I go there primarily to buy olives from Titou (Thierry pronounced Tcherry like Chekov). We are invited to call him Titou, he knows our names, but we still say vous, not tu.
Titou is an artisan, and makes his own pâtes: black olives, green olives, garlic, lemon, sun-dried tomato, and also sells combinations of olives, never pitted, usually flavored with herbs and preserved in olive oil. We are free to taste everything he sells on pieces he pulls of a baguette. He rounds down what I owe and will often add something to try, a scoop of purple olives from Provence in a clear plastic container, as a gift.
A short, stocky man with big smile, he is a real-life person, I remind myself, not a caricature of a happy Frenchman. On Saturdays he is helped by the daughter of the man at the next stall who sells vegetables. I have not yet bonded with him, and I’m not sure I have the energy. Titou, on the other hand, is important: We have invited ourselves to his workshop/ kitchen to learn the nuances of making spreads. He is not too busy now; in the next few months his kitchen will be more active as red peppers and aubergine come into season, and more tourists arrive to flood the market, which would be a good time for us to visit his workshop in the heart of Antibes. Titou is normally and inexplicably very happy, but gets even happier when the sun shines. He promises good weather next month.
It has been raining a lot, with a winter storm every other week. I like to watch storms from the warmth of my living room, through the glass and over the terrace. It is blowing today, sailing at the club will likely be cancelled. The parasailors will be out though: I’ve seen these intrepid men in their wetsuits fly twenty feet into the air, pulled up by the sail while standing on a board. It offers the freedom of a bird and I wish I didn’t find the wind so strong or the water so cold and wet. Gusts blow seagulls sideways, and even through the glass I hear them squawk. When the windows are open, I can strain to hear the sound of the sea, waves hitting rocks.
The apartment is heated my radiators circulating hot water. The one near my table had at first the charm and sound of a babbling brook. After a few weeks it drove me nuts, much like the effects of Chinese torture. Moumou, the Algerian handyman removed air from the pipes to still the sound, a transient benefit. The noise is back. Moumou says it’s because the pressure in the system is too low and there’s not much that can be done about it except to wait for warm weather when we can turn the heat off. I could possibly incorporate the sound of the water into the recording of Finnegans Wake I’ve discovered on the Ubu website. It might even make the book comprehensible as I follow the audio recording with the text. I could take questions about the Wake if you ask, Gentle Reader, but you might have to listen to long answers notable for sound more than sense. But please don’t ask me why I’m reading it: Like Mt. Everest, it’s there.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
A Song and a Haircut
A song and a haircut
Our building, Les Remparts, overlooks the water as it stands at the end of Boulevard Albert Premier. In front of us is the little Place d’Albert 1er where men of all ages between 65 and 90 play petanque. Jeroen believes these men are sent out so that their wives can get a break. On any sunny day, there are four or five games played in overlapping territories much like cricket matches at Azad Maidan in Bombay. The games are just as vicious: Pastis, the anise-based drink laden with ice and changed from clear to white by the addition of cold water, does little to cool the passions of outraged men who should have won. Bah, oui, one should shrug off minor defeats over the immaterial, but who am I to say.
Les Remparts also boasts, yes, we boast, a nail salon, a brasserie, an Italian restaurant and a beauty parlor called La Nuance. We will need another writer to describe the first three, I shall hold forth on the last, La Nuance. (It is feminine, I checked on Google Translate.)
Jeroen made a rendez-vous, an appointment, for a haircut at La Nuance. The prices were posted in the window, and compared favorably to what we’d paid at F & C in Valbonne village where Caroline had last cut his hair. The salon, ok, saloon, was noisy mainly from conversations Joelle, the owner, had with her clients. She interrupted herself to attend to Jeroen and examine his hair, and discussed the matter at hand with Melanie, her dark-haired thin assistant.
“What kind of work do you do?” Joelle asked Jeroen.
“Try and guess,” Jeroen invited. He wore a black corduroy Ralph Lauren jacket, $60 at TJ Maxx, a blue full-sleeved ironed cotton shirt, blue jeans, black shoes. With his Arafat-style 3 day stubble, he looked every bit a Professor, or so he thought.
“Vous travaillez dans la mode,” she said. You work in the world of fashion.
Jeroen has since been insufferable. He is convinced that he needs to be discovered.
Jeroen sent the boys over for their haircuts, and finally, a month later, it was my turn, not for a hair cut but for hair color.
Joelle asked if I wanted to go noire, jet black like Lili. That was too dark for me, something a little lighter. “Chataine francaise!” she decided.
I had no idea what she meant. “La chataine francaise, est-ce que c’est vert? Bleu?” This chataine francaise, it is green or blue?
She laughed. I would find out. I sat and waited for the color to set and read as most of the other clients began to leave. Could chatain mean blond? I can’t carry off blonde. I should have been born French, perhaps in my next life.
Jeroen came to check in and asked Joelle to sing. She rendered “Ne me quitte pas” a la Jacques Brel (to be found on youtube, JB, not Joelle. His version is better). It’s a song sung too late, after she’s left, and evokes pity rather than a rush to be at his side.
Lili washed my hair. She told me that she attends a vocational high school for hair (coiffeur) at Cannes le Bocca and works with Joelle part-time. She did not sing along.
I liked what I saw in the mirror: chataine francaise. It is a French chestnut, dark brown with red. Nothing alarming. Elegant.
I have the words to Ne me quitte pas. I will sing with Joelle when it comes time to get those roots again.
Our building, Les Remparts, overlooks the water as it stands at the end of Boulevard Albert Premier. In front of us is the little Place d’Albert 1er where men of all ages between 65 and 90 play petanque. Jeroen believes these men are sent out so that their wives can get a break. On any sunny day, there are four or five games played in overlapping territories much like cricket matches at Azad Maidan in Bombay. The games are just as vicious: Pastis, the anise-based drink laden with ice and changed from clear to white by the addition of cold water, does little to cool the passions of outraged men who should have won. Bah, oui, one should shrug off minor defeats over the immaterial, but who am I to say.
Les Remparts also boasts, yes, we boast, a nail salon, a brasserie, an Italian restaurant and a beauty parlor called La Nuance. We will need another writer to describe the first three, I shall hold forth on the last, La Nuance. (It is feminine, I checked on Google Translate.)
Jeroen made a rendez-vous, an appointment, for a haircut at La Nuance. The prices were posted in the window, and compared favorably to what we’d paid at F & C in Valbonne village where Caroline had last cut his hair. The salon, ok, saloon, was noisy mainly from conversations Joelle, the owner, had with her clients. She interrupted herself to attend to Jeroen and examine his hair, and discussed the matter at hand with Melanie, her dark-haired thin assistant.
“What kind of work do you do?” Joelle asked Jeroen.
“Try and guess,” Jeroen invited. He wore a black corduroy Ralph Lauren jacket, $60 at TJ Maxx, a blue full-sleeved ironed cotton shirt, blue jeans, black shoes. With his Arafat-style 3 day stubble, he looked every bit a Professor, or so he thought.
“Vous travaillez dans la mode,” she said. You work in the world of fashion.
Jeroen has since been insufferable. He is convinced that he needs to be discovered.
Jeroen sent the boys over for their haircuts, and finally, a month later, it was my turn, not for a hair cut but for hair color.
Joelle asked if I wanted to go noire, jet black like Lili. That was too dark for me, something a little lighter. “Chataine francaise!” she decided.
I had no idea what she meant. “La chataine francaise, est-ce que c’est vert? Bleu?” This chataine francaise, it is green or blue?
She laughed. I would find out. I sat and waited for the color to set and read as most of the other clients began to leave. Could chatain mean blond? I can’t carry off blonde. I should have been born French, perhaps in my next life.
Jeroen came to check in and asked Joelle to sing. She rendered “Ne me quitte pas” a la Jacques Brel (to be found on youtube, JB, not Joelle. His version is better). It’s a song sung too late, after she’s left, and evokes pity rather than a rush to be at his side.
Lili washed my hair. She told me that she attends a vocational high school for hair (coiffeur) at Cannes le Bocca and works with Joelle part-time. She did not sing along.
I liked what I saw in the mirror: chataine francaise. It is a French chestnut, dark brown with red. Nothing alarming. Elegant.
I have the words to Ne me quitte pas. I will sing with Joelle when it comes time to get those roots again.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Progess Report
Progress Report from Collège Rouston.
The boys were integrated into the mainstream troisième class in early December, initially on a trial basis. We have survived the trial and are preparing to take the brevet examination in the last week of June. The brevet marks the end of middle school in France. Many of their classmates will not be going on to academic lycée: a few lads of Turkish and Romanian origin will take some vocational and licensing courses before joining their fathers to work in construction, one boy will start an apprenticeship at a bakery, a girl will start learning to cut hair. At the age of 16, the future is decided. My boys cannot explain to their classmates why they aren’t looking for apprenticeships. A gap which has everything to do with privilege and nothing to do with language.
Meanwhile, we plod on. The math is easy, mainly a repetition of what they covered in seventh grade but with a French twist. The teacher, described by Mohan as “a nice guy who doesn’t like kids” yells at the class, “You are all nice people but you do nothing, and never try.” My first-born thinks this teacher is a jerk.
In the US, the grade A stands for average. The French average for writing is an ambitious 10/20. The teacher would grade herself with 16/20, Victor Hugo would probably get 17, with a comment “Bon travail,” for encouragement. My boys could use a little of that encouragement. Wouter had “Dommage!” on his essay, which could be loosely translated as “Bummer.” It put him in a bad mood for a day. But he is not disheartened. The teacher told the boys privately that she wishes she could give them better marks because they work hard and turn in their homework and are improving every day. The kids in their class don’t do homework, don’t try. One boy, 15 years old and French born, doesn’t know why j’ai finit is wrong or why it matters, not after 9 years of school. He doesn’t care.
The English class is taught in French. Wouter helps other kids with their work. The teacher thanked him once in public, and he said an American “aha.” A classmate raised a hand and said, “Pourquoi tu ne dis pas you are welcome?”
Some teachers don’t show up to class. No explanations. The kids are dismissed early. The Spanish and Science teachers are notorious for leaving school early. I can’t blame them. Who’d want to hang around in school all day to teach a class at the end of the day? Some of the kids don’t show up everyday. Some go home for lunch and don’t return for the second half of the day. A boy I’ve seen in a dark leather jacket shows up at school once a week for twice, never for more than a half day: he already runs a successful drug dealership with many satisfied customers. Many kids smoke outside the school gates, tobacco.
The boys have remained friends with their classmates from CLA, the original class they attended, French for foreigners. After a year of this instruction which focuses entirely on language, the students will have to repeat a grade to learn science and math, which will put them further behind their peers. Many of the kids from CLA get together to shoot hoops after school. Nobody here seems to have heard of AnnArbor which Mohan describes as near Detroit which does not shed light. Wouter says it’s between Chicago and New York. Most of the kids have heard of the Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan. For some reason, a leap of miscommunication, it is thought that my boys play club basketball with the Bulls. Disillusioning the believers requires more vocabulary than we have.
Wouter and Mohan have been playing ping-pong at lunch time at school. At the annual Roustan tennis de table competition, les Amercains did very well: Wouter is the champion, Mohan the runner up. They came home with a frisbee and a wall calendar from the local fire department, modest spoils of victory.
The boys were integrated into the mainstream troisième class in early December, initially on a trial basis. We have survived the trial and are preparing to take the brevet examination in the last week of June. The brevet marks the end of middle school in France. Many of their classmates will not be going on to academic lycée: a few lads of Turkish and Romanian origin will take some vocational and licensing courses before joining their fathers to work in construction, one boy will start an apprenticeship at a bakery, a girl will start learning to cut hair. At the age of 16, the future is decided. My boys cannot explain to their classmates why they aren’t looking for apprenticeships. A gap which has everything to do with privilege and nothing to do with language.
Meanwhile, we plod on. The math is easy, mainly a repetition of what they covered in seventh grade but with a French twist. The teacher, described by Mohan as “a nice guy who doesn’t like kids” yells at the class, “You are all nice people but you do nothing, and never try.” My first-born thinks this teacher is a jerk.
In the US, the grade A stands for average. The French average for writing is an ambitious 10/20. The teacher would grade herself with 16/20, Victor Hugo would probably get 17, with a comment “Bon travail,” for encouragement. My boys could use a little of that encouragement. Wouter had “Dommage!” on his essay, which could be loosely translated as “Bummer.” It put him in a bad mood for a day. But he is not disheartened. The teacher told the boys privately that she wishes she could give them better marks because they work hard and turn in their homework and are improving every day. The kids in their class don’t do homework, don’t try. One boy, 15 years old and French born, doesn’t know why j’ai finit is wrong or why it matters, not after 9 years of school. He doesn’t care.
The English class is taught in French. Wouter helps other kids with their work. The teacher thanked him once in public, and he said an American “aha.” A classmate raised a hand and said, “Pourquoi tu ne dis pas you are welcome?”
Some teachers don’t show up to class. No explanations. The kids are dismissed early. The Spanish and Science teachers are notorious for leaving school early. I can’t blame them. Who’d want to hang around in school all day to teach a class at the end of the day? Some of the kids don’t show up everyday. Some go home for lunch and don’t return for the second half of the day. A boy I’ve seen in a dark leather jacket shows up at school once a week for twice, never for more than a half day: he already runs a successful drug dealership with many satisfied customers. Many kids smoke outside the school gates, tobacco.
The boys have remained friends with their classmates from CLA, the original class they attended, French for foreigners. After a year of this instruction which focuses entirely on language, the students will have to repeat a grade to learn science and math, which will put them further behind their peers. Many of the kids from CLA get together to shoot hoops after school. Nobody here seems to have heard of AnnArbor which Mohan describes as near Detroit which does not shed light. Wouter says it’s between Chicago and New York. Most of the kids have heard of the Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan. For some reason, a leap of miscommunication, it is thought that my boys play club basketball with the Bulls. Disillusioning the believers requires more vocabulary than we have.
Wouter and Mohan have been playing ping-pong at lunch time at school. At the annual Roustan tennis de table competition, les Amercains did very well: Wouter is the champion, Mohan the runner up. They came home with a frisbee and a wall calendar from the local fire department, modest spoils of victory.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Art
Yesterday, we recovered from our day of sunshine to return to Mistral. The wind blew all day along, white-topped waves came at the shore, not rolling but pushed like a wall of many colors. I tried to name the shades of blue, but was rendered inarticulate: light blue, dark blue, deep-blue, turquoise, greenish-blue..and then what? Sea blue? Picasso had it easier, he could mix colors on a palate and throw them on canvas.
I accepted years ago that I would ever be able to paint or draw. Mrs. Mehta at Fort Convent had given up on me. I did not fail art because no one ever did; my report cards show 40 out of 100, the bare minimum to pass. I went through school without significant art instruction, only a sense of despair and failure.
In our days in Valbonne, I stumbled upon a flier for class that taught Mandala art. It’s easy to draw with compass and ruler geometric patterns and color them, something I could learn to do competently. I could never find that class but instead I discovered Marlene’s atelier. When I went in to ask about Mandalas, I met Marlene herself and Annie Jaqueline who teaches abstract painting on Friday mornings. I signed up for four sessions. Abstract art doesn’t have to look like the object that inspired the work; the less a rectangle resembles a tree, the better. The most extreme example is Mondrian, all squares painted in primary colors to depict houses, forests, tulips, windmills and Mistral, as seen through the lens of his tortured soul.
In our first class, we mixed colors and dabbed away on art paper. In the second class, we advanced to drawing what we saw on the street outside the studio. I drew a house, its doorway and its windows, flower pots in the windows, a tree beside the outer wall of the house. Annie told me to paint in any color what interested me in my drawing. Soon I had a red-brown roof, a pink door and green-blue windows and nothing could stop me. A classmate, Muriel, remarked that my work reminded her of Matisse, the windows of the eyes on a face. That was all the encouragement I needed. My finished piece was exhibited along with the work of my classmates at the Mairie of Valbonne at its First International Abstract Art Exhibition.
Imitation is not the highest form of flattery, theft is. My painting was missing at the end of the exhibition. My children think that it might have ended up in the trash, my husband hopes that the paper was recycled. I survived Ms. Mehta and Fort Convent, these unkind comments didn’t hurt me. I reported the missing art to the local police who launched an area-wide search that, alas, has to stop at the limits of French jurisdiction at borders of Italy and Monaco. All they have found so far are some previously undiscovered work by Matisse but I remain optimistic.
I accepted years ago that I would ever be able to paint or draw. Mrs. Mehta at Fort Convent had given up on me. I did not fail art because no one ever did; my report cards show 40 out of 100, the bare minimum to pass. I went through school without significant art instruction, only a sense of despair and failure.
In our days in Valbonne, I stumbled upon a flier for class that taught Mandala art. It’s easy to draw with compass and ruler geometric patterns and color them, something I could learn to do competently. I could never find that class but instead I discovered Marlene’s atelier. When I went in to ask about Mandalas, I met Marlene herself and Annie Jaqueline who teaches abstract painting on Friday mornings. I signed up for four sessions. Abstract art doesn’t have to look like the object that inspired the work; the less a rectangle resembles a tree, the better. The most extreme example is Mondrian, all squares painted in primary colors to depict houses, forests, tulips, windmills and Mistral, as seen through the lens of his tortured soul.
In our first class, we mixed colors and dabbed away on art paper. In the second class, we advanced to drawing what we saw on the street outside the studio. I drew a house, its doorway and its windows, flower pots in the windows, a tree beside the outer wall of the house. Annie told me to paint in any color what interested me in my drawing. Soon I had a red-brown roof, a pink door and green-blue windows and nothing could stop me. A classmate, Muriel, remarked that my work reminded her of Matisse, the windows of the eyes on a face. That was all the encouragement I needed. My finished piece was exhibited along with the work of my classmates at the Mairie of Valbonne at its First International Abstract Art Exhibition.
Imitation is not the highest form of flattery, theft is. My painting was missing at the end of the exhibition. My children think that it might have ended up in the trash, my husband hopes that the paper was recycled. I survived Ms. Mehta and Fort Convent, these unkind comments didn’t hurt me. I reported the missing art to the local police who launched an area-wide search that, alas, has to stop at the limits of French jurisdiction at borders of Italy and Monaco. All they have found so far are some previously undiscovered work by Matisse but I remain optimistic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)