A Year Abroad by Jane Tolbert

In my travels to France over the years, I have seen a lot of change. American expressions have entered the vocabulary, and more American products are available—not only diet soft drinks, but Skippy peanut butter and Doritos. McDonald’s and fast foods are firmly entrenched, but the French waistlines also have expanded.

Driving no longer presents the white-knuckle experience. Many right of ways have been replaced by stop signs or traffic circles. Drivers seem more courteous, but the motorcycles and scooters swerve and weave like stuntmen from an action film. Among the worst offenders are the delivery boys for Mister Pizza. Both tiny cars and SUVs are more numerous. The dearth of parking spaces continues to force drivers to use ruse and stealth to snare a space.

Even with the emphasis on environmental protection and climate change, large development projects continue to spring up along the Mediterranean coastline, all but blocking the view, much like the condos on Florida’s beaches. Fields once filled with roses and jasmine for the perfume industries of Grasse have given way to villas and swimming pools. The inland region, with its rolling hills and olive trees, looks a lot like California.

In the post-war years, the French phone system seemed antiquated if it existed at all. But today, the telecommunications systems exceed my wildest dreams. For 30 euros a month, subscribers have a high-speed Internet connection, an excellent phone system with unlimited, free calls in France and to many foreign countries, as well as cable TV service. Healthcare is enviable. The “subscription” is based on an individual’s income rather than the flat rate charged by private health companies in the States.

More stores are open during the lunch hour. However, aside from a few cafés and North African groceries, little is open on Sunday afternoon, a time when I often ran my last-minute errands in Florida. A few rare service stations have mini-markets that carry wine, coffee, sandwiches, toilet paper and cat litter. The things that just can’t wait until Monday.

The post office and banks have maintained the traditional French schedule—mysterious operating hours, the two-hour lunch break and numerous holidays. Strikes, especially among railroad employees and university professors, continue to be prevalent. Shopping carts still do not roll in a straight line, and checkout counters in large supermarkets have the client elbowing their way through lines or diving to bag merchandise at it flies by on conveyor belts.

Singles are still welcomed by groups of friends, a much healthier social scene than the couples-only syndrome in the States. In the post-disco years, more Latin dance places have opened. And Argentine Tango is very popular. Its Tangueros look for any opportunity to dance at a variety of places—from Jack’s Blues jazz club to seaside parks.

In other ways France still maintains its uniqueness. Is it the fresh slivers of parmesan on my salad at the Café de la Plage? The hint of ground pepper in the vanilla ice cream from Fenocchio Glacier ? The tall, thin fluted glasses in which my peach kir is served at the Bamba? The way in which women dress up even for menial chores, and the interest the men show? The rows of fresh pastries that line the glass display cases? The sidewalk café terraces with dogs? The advertising with its humorous, sexual allusions?

I don’t know the answer. But fortunately in this world of change, France still retains an intangible quality of . . . Frenchness.

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Recessionista on the Riviera

Recessionista on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

I was a recessionista before the term was coined. As a graduate student, I shopped at thrift and consignment stores, limiting pricey purchases to the occasional splurge on a Hermès scarf or Prada glasses. Now with the recession in full swing, the frugal approach to fashion has replaced ostentatious consumption of the fashionista era. Many artifacts of a consumer culture are now relegated to the back corners of a closet. No one wants to look the extravaganista now.

Even on the French Riviera, the recession has brought about a shift in the geography of spending. The Americans have long been displaced as symbols of affluence. After 9-11, even more so. But now even the British and Russians have faded from the landscape. Although a British investor is transforming an early 20th-century hotel at the edge of the Cap d’Antibes into luxury apartments and hotel suites, his fellow countrymen no longer lap up properties in the Mougins area. The Russian bodyguards who drove convertible Mercedes in front of the casino in Juan-les-Pins have vanished. In September 2008, the much talked-about sale of the Villa Leopolda in Villefranche to a Russian did not materialize—the selling price was to have been a heafty 500-million euros. Although the wealthy people here still live off their rentes—those private incomes and annuities, they have shortened their international trips. The locals with day jobs are cutting back on expenditures—less money goes to food, and this past winter, they bundled up in more sweaters to avoid paying a higher heating bill. Although the summer vacation is somewhat sacred here, the news media predict more families will be staying in camping grounds rather than at hotels or large resorts.

In an area in which tourism is a major source of income, the recession has affected the hotel business. Some hotels closed during the winter; others reported a 10 percent decrease in business. Some attempted to lure in new clients with offers of bargain weekends. In response to the downturn, swank restaurants began offering affordable noon menus.

The retail businesses found little relief with the Christmas season. For a few months this winter, the Rue d’Antibes in Cannes seemed devoid of people with shopping bags. The Cap 3000 had a full parking lot, but clients made only modest purchases. Department store sales, formerly limited to twice a year—July and January--extended to entice reluctant customers.

Some signs of opulence remain. Luxury cars still abound on the Riviera—Maserati, Aston Martin, and the ever-present Ferraris and some Lamborghinis. The smaller cars—the Smart and the retros (the Fiat 500 and the Mini)--have also become popular. After all, you can fit a shopping bag in the backseat if necessary. But a true sign of a firmly entrenched recession would be chic Vespas cluttering street corners. With a Vespa, a pair of stilettos and a billowing skirt, and a shopping bag between the knees, anyone would look the true recessionista.


With predictions of the French economy shrinking by 3 percent in 2009, it has become fashionable, even on the Riviera, to be recessionista. Before I returned to the States, I planned a day of shopping at friperies and dépôts ventes (thrift and consignment), all within proximity of the palatial Cannes hotels, where I hoped to find that little soupçon of luxury. Would that gently used D & G handbag now be affordable?

The day I went to Cannes, the rain dampened my enthusiasm for shopping. I visited only one consignment store where I tried on a D & G cotton dress that carried a tag for 100 euros, likely 20 percent of the original price. I planned to return another day with more enthusiasm. But the rains continued, and instead I went to the Cap 3000 where 100 euros bought much more at the H & M. Cannes would have to wait. But perhaps when I returned another year, the recessionista would have also gone the way of the fashionista. And perhaps we would all go shopping with our Vespas.
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From Istanbul to Vallauris by Jane T. Tolbert

Last August, my sister told me she was sending me a jacket she bought in Istanbul. She wanted the address of the studio I was renting in Vallauris, France, so she could mail it to me.

After a week of living to the north of the city made famous by Picasso, I received an “avis de passage” in my mailbox. I was certain this was my Istanbul jacket, although the notification did not specify the sender. It only provided the times at which the package would be available. I took the Rue Notre Dame, darted across a busy intersection and headed in the direction of the Picasso Museum, the market square with its “Homme au Mouton” statue by Picasso, and the Café Llorca. From there, I walked down a narrow street toward the Chapelle de la Miséricorde, which serves as an exposition hall for the arts. After several more blocks, I arrived at the post office.

Two long lines had formed at the counters. Each transaction seemed complex. The clerk shuffled books, opened cabinet drawers, checked information on a monitor, and made trips to a back room. Didn’t anyone want just one postage stamp? Many people still use the post office for financial transactions—for savings and checking accounts or to send money back to their families in North Africa. The lines swelled. Women with shopping caddies, others with babies in strollers. Men with large packages in plaid bags. Couples with fresh product from the market. Would I reach the front of the line before the two-hour closing for lunch?

The line inched forward. I was next. No! A buxom woman walked to the front, claiming she had a priority card for a physical infirmity. The others waiting in line rolled their eyes, but no one said anything.

I handed the clerk my notification, explaining it was probably bulky. But she returned with a small taped box, asking that I sign the receipt. This was not my jacket! It was my high-speed internet connection box.

Months passed. I received other notifications, but I did not receive my jacket. The post offices in Turkey and France are reliable. What could have happened? I moved to Juan-les-Pins, and I left the post office a forwarding address. But after nearly eight months, I assumed the jacket had been lost in transit. When my sister asked if she should mail my birthday presents to my new address, I said to wait until I returned to the States. I’d rather not risk losing another jacket.

Now after nearly a year, my sister is back in Istanbul. The other day she left me a cryptic phone message that she had great news. Then she asked if I remembered the “brick joke.” I assumed she referred to a commission for a major project. But I didn’t see the relationship to the joke. Later, she explained she had not called about a commission, but about my jacket. She was staying at her favorite hotel, the Troya. The concierge had a package for her. She had addressed the jacket to me in Vallauris, but she indicated the Hotel Troya in Istanbul as the return address. The concierge kept the package, knowing she would return one day. He would have kept it for forty years if necessary.

“Do you want me to mail it?” she asked.
“Let’s not risk it. I will get it when we both return to the States.”

As for the brick joke, best to ask my sister about that one.
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Une Trouvaille in Opio, France

Une trouvaille!
Opio, France, by Jane T. Tolbert

The name La Boutique is something of a misnomer. The antique store, located inland between Cannes and Grasse, is a combination of many things. A cabinet of curiosities. Ali Baba’s cavern. A connoisseur’s delight. Those interested in history will be enticed by artifacts from the past and its owner, Michel Hassid, whose extensive knowledge and appreciation for style and period give the shop its uniqueness. Stepping across the threshold, the patron enters another world.

Curiosités - Cabinets of curiosities gained in popularity in the 17th century, a period of exploration and discovery. Located in the private homes of wealthy patrons of learning or in rich palaces of royalty, these eclectic displays, which provided the basis for later museums of natural history, contained an assortment of objects—mummies, monstrous bones thought to belong to a giant, fossils with supernatural properties, unicorn horns, crocodile skins, and scientific instruments among other things. Reference books, drawings of flora and fauna or portraits also lined the shelves.

In La Boutique, curiosities include 18th-century thermometers, unusual paintings, and toys. Thermometers in the Réaumur scale indicate the appropriate temperatures for taking a bath, hatching chickens, or raising silk worms. Just above one of the stairwells hangs a figurehead from a ship, a wooden sailor looking somewhat worse for wear. A cigarette lighter worthy of Q’s gadget laboratory in a James Bond film becomes a small pistol. A small inlaid box contains hidden compartments. An autograph book from an early 20th-century ice cream parlor carries signatures and drawings from famous artists and writers visiting Cannes. Other objects include mechanical toys, phonographs, music boxes, candleholders and sundials.



Ali Baba’s Cavern - The jewel-like clusters of lamps and chandeliers have earned La Boutique the designation of Ali Baba’s cavern. Hanging fixtures carry tiers of clear or colored faceted crystals, and the art nouveau and art deco lamps are reminiscent of large hotel lobbies. Many of these lights are Murano glass, and others carry names like Baccarat or Gallé.

History – For the cultured or the uninitiated, a trip to the store can be an educational experience. Each piece of furniture or object is an artifact that conveys information about a period of time, a geographical location, or a theme. An inkwell in the shape of a pear is actually a caricature of Louis-Philippe, who censored many commentaries by journalists. A pewter pitcher portrays what looks like a squawking politician. Two 18th-century Italian mirrors with ornate frames appear joyous in comparison to their counterpart from Provence. An empire console with sphinx-like figures topping the legs shows the influence of Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign on French furnishings. Armoires, sideboards, and faience china provide hints about past lifestyles and available materials.

Michel has an unequaled passion for the historical and cultural context of a period. He takes pleasure in his selections and works to bring rare and valuable pieces back to life. He insists on the distinction between the terms “restoration” and “renovation.” A true restoration involves the use of original techniques and materials. Knowledge of the context of the period and the technology available at that time are critical to the process.

Although I am only beginning to learn about antiques, and my passion is constrained by limitations imposed by budget and space, I still have many things from Michel’s store--a yellow armoire and a small table, both in the style of Louis XV, the pear-shaped inkwell, and art nouveau lamps. Future purchases will likely include an 18th-century thermometer (after all, silkworms did provide a source of income for women) to complete the beginnings of my own cabinet of curiosities.

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Esprit fonctionnaire

Is this the end of the era of the esprit fonctionnaire? By Jane T. Tolbert

I have no official statistics on which to base my claims, no studies issued by French research groups like the CNRS or the INSEE, but the French civil servants—at least in the South of France--have become more courteous in their dealings with the public.

For many years, the fonctionnaires—whether a postal clerk or a Prefecture official-- responded to most questions by throwing up their hands as if to brush away an unpleasantness and scowling: “Just what do you expect me to do!” The slamming of a counter window, or the uttering of, “Suivant,” to the next in line, brought an end to any inquiry. The more fortunate members of the public were given a list of documents (la paperesse) to be included in the dossier. Most dossiers required three identity photographs (that met certain administrative requirements), family genealogy contained in the thin blue livret de famille, which no one had seen since the birth of the last child, the three most recent salary statements (particularly problematic if unemployed), and bills from the utility companies that indicated a street address. Since many documents had to be obtained during official business hours (between 9h – 12h and 14h-16h) outside of periods of national or religious holidays, and strikes, the completion of the dossier became a type of personal mission. For the public, it seemed these mean-spirited civil servants took extreme pleasure in forcing people to miss a half day of work to obtain the documents. Often additional papers—not included on the list—were required.

This negative spirit, esprit fonctionnaire, gave rise to the ingeneous système D, or “do-it-yourself-ism,” which consisted of bending the rules. If authorities did not give permission to build your house, you built it anyway, disguising the walls under tarps or behind planters of large trees. After five years, you could not be forced to tear it down by any fonctionnaire. If the national employment agency did not help you locate a job, you worked on the black market while receiving an unemployment pension. For years, this système D was a type of game, pitting ordinary citizens against petty bureaucrats. Although the système D still remains part of the culture as do bistros and the PMU, the attitude of French bureaucrats has changed. They no longer throw up their hands and slam the glass windows closed. Instead, they smile, ridicule the amount of useless paperwork the government requires, and propose solutions.

Will the concept of esprit fonctionnaire be relegated to history books? If so, what will become of the système D that seemed to evolve in response? Is this phenomenon only experienced in the South? Once I finish locating the papers for my own dossier, I plan to investigate this question.

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