Stiletto Thin by Jane Tolbert

Years ago, the French physique seemed to be defined by a pencil-thin silhouette. Americans marveled—how could a nation that consumed wines, cheeses, and croissants and pastries do it! In her book French Women Don’t Get Fat, the slender Mireille Guiliano addressed this paradox of eating, stressing that French women do not deny themselves certain culinary delights. But they seek quality over quantity and get plenty of exercise. But hélas, did Ms. Guiliano speak too soon? Not all French women look like the svelte, laughing demoiselles remembered by WWII GIs (including my dad) or the shapely bistro bartenders in the tight lace dress.

The image of pencil thin has changed in recent years. Overweight people, who used to be identified as “foreigners,” speak French while they wait in line at French supermarket aisles, walk seaside boardwalks and eat in restaurants. What used to be a lean population has turned into one of expanding waistlines, which has become a matter of national concern! Too much rich food? Au contraire. This phenomenon is blamed on the invasion of junk foods--a shift from eating only at an established meal time to continual grazing. Furthermore, more cars and parking spaces provide less incentive to walk. The average French person of previous years walked to the fresh food markets, dashed to catch a bus and always ran up steps, lugging net shopping bags filled with the day’s purchases. For children, the combination of fast foods (in French, le malbouffe actually means bad food), computer games and television programs has led to the problems of being overweight and obese.

To combat a growing population of obese children (an estimated one in 10), the French government removed vending machines from public schools and initiated a massive campaign, targeting fast foods. Since 2007, all fast-food advertisements carried by the media must advocate healthy eating habits--five fruits and vegetables daily, exercise, avoidance of snacking and foods high in salt and fats. .

But is obesity the fault of McDo (prononced MAC-DOE) and “le Big Mac” or other fast foods? Or is that je ne sais quoi. . . .

Of course, a simple solution exists, one developed by my mom years ago. Before my sister and I could approach the den couch to watch afternoon television, she whisked us outside under any meteorological conditions for “rip and run.” Exercise became part of our lifestyle, and fruits, vegetables and the occasional pretzel, the staple of our snacking and our bag lunches. Of course, we did find ways to circumvent healthly eating. At the school cafeteria, we bartered these raisins, carrots and apples for the occasional indulgence (a Twinkie!). But overall, the "rip and run maxim" and healthy eating has stuck with us.

The French maintain the crisis has leveled off, that the draconian measures to combat the invasion of fast foods are working. . . . Time will tell. When the slender bartenders return to their counters in their form-fitting tops and when the new generation of kids rip and run outside, the crisis may have passed.

Pocket harbors, a Well-Kept Secret in Melbourne by Jane Tolbert

The four-mile stretch along U.S. 1 between Historic Downtown Melbourne and Eau Gallie Boulevard passes between car dealerships on the west side and the Indian River Lagoon on the east. Blue and white signs with a sailboat logo identify Melbourne as the harbor city, but no harbor is in sight.

From the historic downtown, the visitor needs to walk a couple blocks south to Melbourne Avenue, which runs parallel to Crane Creek. However, the water remains elusive, hidden by private properties, Australian pines and no trespassing signs. The harbor is located to the east, at the angle of Front Street and Melbourne Avenue. University and high school crew teams row past moored boats. From a small boardwalk, visitors watch for manatees.

Leaving the Front Street harbor and driving north along U.S. 1, visitors pass pocket-sized harbors that dot the waterways along the Eau Gallie River, Elbow Creek and Tortoise Cove. Most of these harbors remain hidden, located behind residences in Ballard Park and on Thomas Barbour Drive, a tattoo parlor, and watercraft sales and repair shops. A boat builder who on one of these inlets said manatees come, and migrating birds stop over. But he also pointed to the contamination caused by non-point source pollution, or runoff.

A glimmer of blue or the flash of sails provides that element of surprise that accompanies the discovery of a natural setting. Many natives describe the area—harbors and waterways—as a well-kept secret.



Melbourne is one of many cities working to bring blueways back into community planning. The history of this city, which is named for Melbourne, Australia, is tied to the water. Many of its European counterparts would have boardwalks and cafés—not car dealerships and highways—bordering a waterway. Melbourne has the other necessary ingredients for the integration of blueways—a balmy climate and sea breezes, a unique ecosystem, access to the lagoon and the ocean, mangroves and estuaries. Cafes—one of which should be a 24-hour news café--and boardwalks should not be too long in coming. And then, the secret will be out.

For English, Press 1, by Jane Tolbert

When I called the Istanbul hotel in June 2009 to talk to my sister, the recorded message said, “Press 1 for English,” which I did, only to hear a flutter of Turkish, none of which I understood. When I finally reached the receptionist, he told me, “Margaret is outside.” He didn’t say “out” but instead “outside.” What an interesting thing to say.

Anyone traveling abroad encounters these linguistic curiosities, an integral part of the “foreign” experience. The restaurant at a four-star hotel in Juan-les-Pins advertised its “mouse of lamb” on the noon menu. I have complained about the “préservatif” in American bread, only to learn the term “produits chimiques” more appropriately described our sandwich bread (much to the disappointment of the French).

But can translation software replace the human element? A group of us discussed bilingual job opportunities in tourism and multinational corporations. A real estate agent who spoke only French insisted bilingual employees were going the way of the slide rule—they were becoming obsolete. To test this statement, our hostess ran a French real estate ad through a free online trial for a commercial software translation program. The result was gibberish:

"Very beautiful 3 rooms through, stay in excellent condition with fitted kitchen open loggia. Cellar and parking for rent 50 € / month."

Another attempt to test translation software yielded this English translation of a Turkish thank-you note Margaret sent to her friends:

“Silver is the my Rize withdraws iciyorum is the you dusunuyorum. Skecleri cok cizgileri devamli calisiyorum! Cok sicak and cok a sharp fly are the here. Yusufcuk(hatirlamisin and dogum gunu like a present!) If she comes!”

When I sent Margaret the translation, she wrote, “This is nuts! I hope I don't sound this way to people in Turkey!”

What follows is her English account of her message:

“Nazli gave me some wonderful tea from Rize. And I said I was working on sketches...and I said it was hot and the pointed flies (mosquitoes) are here. I wish the dragonfly would come and eat the mosquitoes, and Nazli and Yusuf gave me
a silver dragonfly for a pendant for my birthday!”


Is globalization tending to homogenize cultures and languages, eliminating that sense of adventure in travel abroad? The challenges and angst associated with translation or conversation in a foreign language are offset by that afterglow that comes with understanding another person, or even the laughter generated when something is lost in translation.

I am not a linguist, and I have retained only two vocabulary words from a trip I made to Turkey years ago—Iki çay, or two cups of tea. But memories of the bus rides and attempts to communicate remain—there was that couple who assumed my sister was Kurdish because she is tall and speaks Turkish with an accent. When Margaret insisted she was American, the couple joked, “Ask your mother.” This poignant exchange provided such insight into the culture. Other times, I asked for translations. Some expressions were so beautiful, they left me breathless. “Bir tanem” means “my one and only.” But in the photo, does it refer to the scooter or a significant other (spouse or daughter or pet)? When Margaret returns to Gaziantep, a city in Southern Turkey, I will get her to ask.

Photo courtesy of Margaret Ross Tolbert
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Day Jobs and Duvets by Jane Tolbert

When I heard Eleanor Beardsley review Tribulations of a Cashier by Anna Sam, a liberal arts graduate, on NPR (7/23/09), memories of my day job as a hotel maid came flooding back. Could I blame my choice of jobs on the economy or the red shoes in the store window? Hotel work in the South of France accounts for a heafty 25 percent of jobs in tourism. With more than 10 million tourists coming to the Riviera annually, I knew I would find a job.

But my confidence in the ease of getting a job in hotel work waned. No jobs in communications or public relations. I did not have the skills to manage a reservation system. Only housekeeping would take me, and that job involved a three-day training period. What could I possibly need to learn that required three days?

Many things, as it turned out. My day began in the laundry room where I was issued gray pants and shirt, a coded checklist for each of the eight rooms assigned and a supply box, holding bottles of sprays and polish, but no gloves. On my assigned floor, a large storage area contained the vacuum cleaners and laundry carts, which we loaded in the morning with clean towels and sheets, rolls of toilet paper and the countless bottles of shampoo and body wash.

Given a recent change in hotel ownership, the maids no longer worked in teams of two, but alone. Twenty-nine minutes to clean a room! I wrestled heavy furniture in a cramped space, wiped windows of sea spray and rain, rubbed those marble bathroom counters to a shine and folded the end of the toilet paper to a point. But the most difficult task was the duvet cover. My assignment consisted of rooms with the extra-large beds, the lit à l’italien, but only extra-small duvets remained, forcing me to piece them together and squeeze them into the large cover. I tugged and tugged, but lumps remained. Most often, my room failed inspection.

The neatest clients were those nice men or couples who came for conferences at Sophia Antipolis. They left their room impeccable—toothbrushes and hairbrushes neatly aligned, clothes hung in the closet, bed linen pulled tight to military perfection. I wanted to flop on one of those beds and sink into a duvet with the client’s paperback--a Nelson DeMille I had not read. But I only had one such room. The next suite was occupied by an American family, among the messiest of international clients. Sandy towels and shoes, canned drinks and bags of snacks littered the floor. Finally, at the end of my day, my cart piled high with the debris of many overnight stays, I waited for the client in my last room to leave. He had requested a late checkout (usually 3 p.m.). He finally left an hour later.

Two days of work enabled me to buy my red shoes. After five days I quit, but the experience has been invaluable. Like the cashier Anna Sam pointed out, you learn a lot about human nature.