Bonheur - Happiness

Quel Bonheur – The arrival of a long-awaited spring in the South of France. By Jane T. Tolbert

From mid November 2008 through mid April 2009, we had wet, cold, gray weather, typical of what I would call Northern Europe. “Unseasonal,” the natives claimed as if to justify the high prices visitors paid for the sunshine that should have been but wasn’t. “We always eat on the café terraces in January,” came the familiar refrain. “The first time in more than twenty years,” the meteorologists repeated all the while continuing their dire forecasts for the coming days. But spirits remained optimistic. “It could be worse—we could be in Paris or Brussels or London,” the locals agreed. Anything north of the mountains was viewed as the “netherland,” at least in terms of weather. But even in inclement weather, the people here remained optimistic and found happiness in the little things like walks or conversations with friends or bouquets of flowers.

In all weather conditions, a handful of bundled pedestrians appeared, often with a small shivering dog at the end of a leash. The dedicated joggers made their way up and down the boardwalk. The serious cyclists looking insect like in their large helmets and Spandex suits flew along streets and through deep puddles. But reminders of warmer weather appeared daily—the citrus and orange trees in terra cotta planters, geraniums that overflowed from balconies, and clusters of cafesitters.

On those rare sunny days that broke the monotony this winter, people and their pets, roller bladers, Africans hawking souvenirs, and candy vendors competed for space.
By Easter, anoraks, wool coats and scarves had been shed. Hopeful tourists donned light sweaters, flip flops or sneakers at the first sign of spring. Bright beach parasols popped open, and lounge chairs appeared on the private beaches that carried signs--transats et parasols demi-journée 8 euros, journée 10 euros. Dog scampered on the beach, kicking up sand. Small children raced to the edge of the water then darted back. Some people ventured into the water, oblivious to cold water. Café terraces became crammed with patrons sporting large designer sunglasses—Chanel, D & G, Roberto Cavalli, Guess. Other dogs tethered to café chairs squinted into the sun, their nozzles twitching at the scent of other canine friends.

Most boutiques and many small restaurants have been closed for a month or more during the winter. Tourists are scarce, and many locals hesitate to linger outside when the temperature drops below the 50s or rain threatens. Now with the return of spring, restaurant and store owners begin six weeks of frenzied activity to prepare for the tourist season. Crowds arrive before Easter, swell during the Cannes Film Festival in May, and streets become dense with moving throngs of color in the summer months. Although the weather remains beautiful into October, the crowds thin by late August. School or work vacations have ended, and the travelers have returned to their day jobs. By November, most have left the area, but some return at Christmas for the holiday festivities.

In late March, the beachfront restaurants, which pay an exorbitant rent I’ve been told, dig out terraces that have been buried under the sand or worse, washed away by the winter storms. The smell of paint and the sounds of saws, drills, and chink chink of masonry hammers fill the air. A large landscaping truck brimming with live palm trees blocks traffic in front of the Up Café. With a crane, it unloads the cargo to the beach of the Helios restaurant. Further down, the terraces of the Café de la Plage overlook the sea. The café, which has just gotten a face life, is in a gridiron-shaped building with a large clock on its façade. Most days its mascot, a black and white Newfoundland dog, ambles among the tables or lounges as waiters race to and from the kitchen to fill orders. This café offers an ideal vantage point from which to view the Mediterranean, the Lerin Islands, and the Esterel Mountain chain beyond Cannes. Just behind the café, the road veers off toward the park and the Cap d’Antibes. This street is bordered by small boutiques selling clothes, jewelry, and ice cream. Just beyond, an intersection is crowded with cafes—the Café Crystal and the PomPom—and restaurants and the Casino and hotel owned by the Partouche family. The annual jazz festival is held in July at the Pinède, a small park shaded by paraol pines. On the border of the sidewalk, clay tile squares carry the hand prints of jazz musicians--B.B. King, Little Richard, Ray Charles, and many others. On the sandy large area overlooking the sea and Cap d’Antibes, groups of men gather for their regular game of boules or pétanque.

Back at the Café Up (UpSideDown Café), I selected a seat facing west with a view of the sun setting over the Esterel and the Lerin Islands. I nodded a greeting to the gentleman and his dog sitting at the next table.

“What happiness!” he exclaimed.

I assumed he referred to his dog, who displayed a perpetual smile.

For two euros, I ordered a large coffee in a cup advertising Mokalito, which came with two individually wrapped sugar cookies.

“Quel bonheur,” my neighbor said again, this time motioning to the view.

The couple behind us seemed oblivious to the surroundings and instead debated the dessert menu. A waitress took orders of ice cream and drinks in tall glasses to another table.

Clouds gathered, and the rays of the sun cast hazy spotlights on the Esterel, now subdued with the fading light. On the boardwalk, parents and grandparents herded small children on tiny scooters and bicycles back to parked cars. A tan Corgi mix that makes daily rounds looked shocked and almost accusingly at an approaching car. He was in the pedestrian zone after all. I gathered my sweater and prepared to leave, somewhat euphoric at having spent more than an hour contemplating the scenery over a cup of coffee.

“The weather should be nice tomorrow,” the waiter commented. “It’s been unseasonably cold this year.”

I nodded, and agreed.
“Quel bonheur to see the return of spring!”


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Cafesitting, the French Way

Jane T. Tolbert – Café Sitting, the French Way, an article based on more than 20 years of café sitting in various cities and villages of France.

Travelers returning to the States often find the absence of cafes noticeable if not annoying. Cafes are on every street corner in France and for centuries have been the mainstay of civilization. Writers, artists, absinthe drinkers, the illustrious, the luminaries, and the renegades have long adopted the cafesitting style of life. For the most part, clientele consists of average people and pets. The outdoor terrace has chairs and small tables, and a black board with a white inscription carrying the menu. Inside the woman behind the counter may be the girlfriend or the wife of the owner. Large dogs are often underfoot, spread comfortably across the entry, surveying the scene through half-closed eyes. These languid beasts spring into action at the whiff of a croque monsieur or even the sight of wrapped sugar cubes that accompany an espresso to the table.

Shelves behind the bar display bottles of flavored syrups--mint, strawberry or blackberry—fruit juices, or beers. Alcohols include scotch, martini vermount, and numerous brands of pastis. I am in the South of France, after all. In the middle of the counter, an elaborate chrome- plated espresso machine fizzes and hisses, and spurts alongside a pyramid of white porcelain cups.

Cafes have names like the Auberge Fleuri, le Flore, la Cupole, but most of the time, no one remembers the name. Instead the cafes are known as chez Mario or Amelie or Francois.

The wide spectrum of cafés includes those seedy-looking places in need of repair with the long-standing reputation. At the other end, the newer more luxurious parlors with their upholstered chairs and booths. In the 1970s, the worn tile floor of the Café de Flore was carpeted with cigarette butts. Chairs sagged under the weight of decades of patrons. The café had been a popular watering hole for generations. In the winter, the air was a suffocating mixture of heat and cigarette smoke while in summers, the terraces opened to the noise and exhaust fumes of the street. The poker-faced maitre d’ with the ashen complexion never forgot a face. In contast, Les Glaces had art deco wallpaper and a jukebox that played top hits. A wasp-waisted garcon raced back and forth filling orders and making change with the coins in his six-pocketed vest. His black pants lacked one half centimeter of dragging the floor.

Some cafes fill a function in addition to serving food and drink. The PMU sells lottery tickets and cigarettes as well as the local newspaper. Other cafes also act as an employment agency, matching workers with potential employers. Of course, these transactions take place under the table, and workers are generally not declared. But that’s another story.

The success of a café is not determined by its decor but by some intangible quality—that je ne sais quoi that attracts a loyal clientele. The blue collar cafes have their regular group—those men who appear several times a day—before work for an espresso, which they enjoyed with their cigarette before the laws changed, at noon for an aperitif, and again in the evenings to meet with friends. They also appear on Sunday mornings, baguette and newspaper in hand. With their ever-present berets squashed down over reddish complexions, they lean heavily on the counter an order—a little glass of white wine or something stronger. Or they order mineral water, explaining to anyone who might be listening their douleurs au foie or liver problems. Conversation is punctuated by curses like putain, acceptable in the South of France, or the more genteel zut or mince in mixed company. Talk centers on weather, the hunting season, or the plague of tourists and Parisians responsible for all ills such as traffic jams and the poor economy.

Other cafes are frequented by regulars who seem to have no schedule but have perfected the skill of café sitting. They come expressly to watch or talk, food and drink are secondary. They distract themselves in conversation or with that well-cultivated look of ennui or boredom, the French have mastered.
(Drawing by Margaret R. Tolbert)

I remember when I approached a café for the first time—an experience bordering on the traumatic. The feeling was much like that of stepping into the wrong hotel room. A hush fell, glasses and cigarettes paused, and heads craned. I settled in, ordered a large cappuccino, and studied the regulars. How did they move? A perfectly choreographed dance of clients, waiters, dogs, and shopping bags seemed to move, never colliding. With a fluid motion, the regulars unfurled their bodies at a small round table and arranged themselves in the most alarming pose. They draped their body in an S-shape loosely over a chair. They looked like disinterested spectators or they engaged in animated conversation, leaning over a table crowded with an ashtray, two coffees, and sugar cubes, somehow finding room for hands and elbows. The small table does encourage intimate conversation.
Now, years later with more than two decades of experience in this art of café sitting, I too enter an establishment with ease. I take my regular seat with the best view of the terrace. I nod to the garcon who remembers my order.

At Juan-les-Pins, my favorite café is the Crystal, just across from the casino. The dark reddish exterior bears the logo of the café—the letter Y in the name looks like a glass of sparkling champagne. The terraces are filled in winter and summer alike. Most mornings, an elderly lady arrives with her Boston bull. They both eagerly eye the basket containing their two orders of croissants that accompany their two large cappuccinos to which they will add numerous sugar cubes. On warm evenings, this café terrace offers a window to the world of luxury cars. Before 8 p.m., drinks are served with a plate of hors d’oeuves of melted cheese or olive paste on small toasts. After 8 p.m., it’s only peanuts. But the café serves clients until the wee hours of the morning.



The long rainy winter and the poor economy have kept most of us away from the café terraces. I have only recently returned. I want to perfect this skill before I return to the States where I hope to discover some new cafes.

Moms and Muscle Cars

Mom, Teenage Driver, and Muscle Car—It Can Be a Winning Combination
by Jane T. Tolbert

Getting a driver’s license represents a transition in family life. For the teenager, it signifies freedom and perhaps a car. For the parents, it raises a question about safety and insurance rates. Parents have good reason to be concerned. First, we remember our own experiences behind the wheel. Second, we know the grim statistics.

But teaching kids to drive takes time and is probably one of the most important skills to develop. Together, Alex and I logged many hours of driving in cities as well as on highways and Interstates. We started our long drives in my old Mazda with manual transmission about nine months before he turned 16. After an initial peel out from the library parking lot early one morning, we had a delightful drive. Our conversations ranged from things like his dream car or college plans to his involvement on the crew team and even my dream cars, those from the 1960s and 70s when I was growing up. Our trips had no destination. Neither of us knew the area of Melbourne and the beachside communities, so we used these drives to explore but mainly to talk. I learned some of the jargon—“ghetto” car means a cool but shabby car. Pimped refers to the body work, rims, exhaust pipes, paint, or spoilers—the visual accoutrements rather than a prostitution ring.

We liked to go south on U.S. 1, which runs along the Indian River Lagoon, or take A1A, along the beach. As we neared the time for Alex to get his license, the drives took on a purpose. We began to look for “his” car. We parents joked that we would like to buy our kids an older station wagon that would only go 35 miles per hour. At my son’s school, many kids inherited their mothers’ cars. A few got new cars. We skimmed classified ads and notices of car auctions, and we visited local car shows. Our maximum price was $4,000. He wanted a muscle car, preferably a Mustang GT from the late 1960s or 1970s, but he would settle for a Camaro or Firebird. Body style and engine size seemed to be his criteria along with a car that was easy to repair and transform. I was concerned about things like horsepower and stopping distance. One of the local mechanics who raced Mustangs called us with some leads--a 1970s Firebird parked south on U.S. 1, a 1996 Mustang GT in Satellite Beach, a t-top Camaro. But the cars had flaws—an automatic transmission, too pricey, or too much rust.

Although the car hunt excited us at first, after months of combing the car lots, the experience soured. Then the mechanic told us his 1988 Mustang GT was for sale, a car he used for drag racing. A former drag car?
The lines were nice, and the exhaust sounded throaty. While Alex found the car to be “cool” in the ghetto sense of the word, for me the car had ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes, crackling paint, and brakes in need of repair. But the Mustang offered numerous possibilities for a kid interested in auto mechanics. It turned out to be the best investment of my life.

Other parents tried to dilute my enthusiasm. A drag car for a teenage driver! One in need of mechanical work. A single mother with no mechanical abilities. What was I thinking!

But for more than seven years, this Mustang has offered an excellent learning experience and provided a wonderful avocation. Alex, armed with a car repair manual and on the phone with the mechanic, began with the simple tune-ups (radiator flush, oil change, belt replacement, timing) and interior work (carpeting), and quickly moved to more substantial repair: radiator replacement, brakes, struts/ shocks, and rack and pinion, motor mounts, and heater core and ac replacement, and electrical wiring. Later modifications were for aesthetics rather than necessity—such as the x-pipes (exhaust) and racing seats. These skills have enabled him to get part-time work at auto parts stores to help defray university expenses.

Naturally, our drives became less frequent now that he had the car and his license. But one day as we waited in the left turn lane of a major intersection, a 1988 Mustang 5.0 rag top pulled up beside us. Four big tattooed guys inside looked past me to Alex, in the driver’s seat. The big guys revved the engine. Alex responded with a challenge, showing off the new x-pipes, and made eye contact with the other driver. Both cars continued to rev their engines and inch forward toward the starting line, waiting for the light to change. But we weren’t at Speed World! We were in an urban area.

“He can’t race. I’m his mom,” I called to the driver as Alex gave that look of “Oh Mom.”

“We just finished restoring this baby,” the big guy laughed. “I’m not taking any chances.”

Two years later when I was pondering the astronomical bills on my import, Alex dropped by.

“I was just test driving some Mustangs. With the new 05s coming out, there are a lot of 02s at the dealerships.”

“I can’t afford it, and besides. . .,” I said.

But I agreed to look. We went from one Ford dealership to the next. And here we found a black Mustang with tinted windows and tan leather interior, which, in Alex’s words, looked “bad.” We took a test drive. Alex negotiated the sale price and the trade in.

When we finished the paperwork, the salesperson said to him, “You’re lucky to get such a car at your age.”

Alex grinned. “It’s not for me. It’s for my mom.”

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