A visit to the dentist. . . .

The other day, my new dentist looked at my X-rays. She did not propose veneers or a new smile like many of her colleagues, but she said I would need a root canal.

Pain and money!

--If you give me permission, I can have an oral surgeon or an endodontist look at your X-rays.

Pain, money and a specialist?

I am a terrible dental patient. On one hand, I have no dental insurance and fret about the expense (a root canal is equivalent to a couple mortgage payments or that trip to Barcelona). But I dislike pain, and my tooth had started to ache.

On the day of my root canal, I went by the office in the morning to finish reports. Maybe I should reschedule the dental appointment? But no one at the office seemed in a hurry to get those reports.

Against the fresh smell of mouthwash and low hum of drills, I filled out paperwork—name, date of birth, allergies, apprehension (!), insurance. No insurance.

--He’s running a little late, the receptionist apologized. If you would like to grab some lunch. . . . and return by. . . .

This seemed to be a divine sign. . . . CANCEL. But I returned in two hours, terrified and grumpy.

X-rayed and measured. Numbed with a local anesthetic. Mouth wedged open. Contraptions inserted. But once the drilling subsided, I dozed, awakened only when asked if I was o.k. In 90 minutes, it was over.

I survived a root canal, but the big question remains. The price of healthcare for the uninsured. The US doctors have their expensive education, the threat of lawyers as well as payment through insurance companies. In France, your healthcare is through the government (all procedures are 80-90 percent covered; pregnancy is 100 percent covered). You pay insurance on the basis of your income (v. the fixed rate in the States).

Let's hope we can work toward a solution. . . .

From Cafe to Countertop, Coffee!

These plates have a price printed on them—2F, ½ F, etc. In his Movable Feast, Hemingway described Parisian cafes that used these saucer plates under drinks to indicate prices--coffee is ½ franc, whiskey is 2F.

Today, less than 2 euros gives you coffee and the right to sit on a terrace for hours. The Crystal in Juan-les-Pins is one of my favorites because the coffee and service are good but mainly because the people watching is excellent. No need to bring a book or newspaper.

On sunny days, the Place aux Aires in Grasse has back-to-back cafes, which also serve lunch on the square that is used for the open-air market.

My kids are very particular about their coffee. Not only do we explore cafes, but we also have tested many coffee machines. Nespresso has colorful pods with numerous flavors.

I have a smaller version, the Pixie, which my kids gave me for my birthday. Was it to ensure I experience wonderful coffee back in the States? Or to guarantee great coffee on their visits?

Now that the coffee issue has been resolved, about the cups? Never enough!

Those Plastic Bags by Jane Tolbert

What do socks in the dryer, lazy Sunday afternoons and recyclable shopping bags have in common? They disappear.

Each time I go to France, I stock up on heavy plastic or canvas bags. My kids are perplexed. Why would I continue to buy bags! Am I becoming a “bag lady” as I age? Suitcases filled with recyclable bags may raise alarm. But it really needs no explanation. If I lend someone books or carry food to a party, I usually forget to recover the bag.

These bags are sold in all supermarkets for a couple of Euros. They bear environmental mottos like, “Act for the environment” or, “In acting together, we truly act.” They carry the logos of Carrefour, Casino or Champion, some of the larger supermarket chains. Increasingly, in the States, more of these bags have become available in hopes that they will replace the fluttery plastic bags that clog the environment.

A Wall Street Journal article (Jeffrey Bell, “Paper or Plastic?” 6-12-09) points out that these little plastic grocery bags, introduced approximately 30 years ago as the next big thing because of their durability and inexpensive costs, have an adverse environmental impact. It is not as much the problem of bags in the landfill but rather the untethered bags that float through the ecosystem, choking waterways and animals.

Although in recent years, French grocery stores have sold the small plastic bags to the unprepared customer, generally shoppers always carry their own shopping bags or a small string net. The reusable sturdy bags are in the trunks of cars and accumulate under kitchen sinks. The French also bag their own groceries. Back in the States, however, I often forget my bags in the trunk of my car and stand by as an employee fills countless plastic bags with my purchases.

As of Jan. 1, 2010, only biodegradable bags can be sold in French grocery stores. Stateside, San Francisco has led the way as the first U.S. city to ban plastic bags (2007). No legislation has been passed in Florida, but customers are starting to bring their own bags, and stores insist they have recycling efforts in place. But probably more individuals will follow this example if I continue to leave reusable bags with friends and acquaintances.
# # #


A few interesting things can be created from plastic bags. Visit Joshua Allen Harris’ inflatable polar bear that springs to life when attached to subway grates. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-a607j2dOo

When the GPS and I parted company by Jane Tolbert

In the 17th century, natural philosophers (or scientists) worked to solve the problem of determining terrestrial longitude. They made observations of the eclipses of the satellites of Jupiter or the Moon from Paris, Aix-en-Provence, Tunis, Rome and other cities. The difference in times of the eclipse at various locations equaled the difference in terrestrial longitude.

These observers had numerous challenges to overcome—inaccurate time pieces and maps, poor quality instruments and the absence of a standardized procedure, and no prime meridian. Months in advance they began preparations for endeavors that could be fraught with problems like a cloud cover. Sometimes they counted the seconds to the midpoint of the eclipse by using their pulse or reciting the Ave Maria. Nevertheless, they made quality observations. What marvels would they have accomplished with a GPS.

I have always been fascinated by navigation especially since I have a poor sense of orientation myself. Friends and family hesitate to ride with me because we never know when or if we will arrive at our destination. Living on a coastline offers certain advantages—when I hit water, I know I am either on the Atlantic or the Mediterranean. But once I have to drive inland, I become disoriented. In terms of geographical coordinates, I am challenged. A GPS seemed to offer an obvious solution.

The GPS had a large map displayed on a screen attached to my windshield and a voice (either male or female) that issued verbal directions or recalculated the itinerary if I missed a turn. It could indicate not only destinations and “home” but also parking lots or service stations. What more could I want!

The first trial use took place in Orlando, a city where I have spent many hours lost on beltways wandering somewhere in the urban blend of communities. To test the GPS, we plugged in the coordinates of the IKEA store near the Millenia Mall, a route which was fairly simple (even for someone like me). But, oh misère. The GPS did not take us along the most logical route, but it led us through back roads and inner city neighborhoods before it deposited us in the vicinity of IKEA, which we found only because of the large size of the store. We had arrived at our destination but only after a circuitous route. I felt betrayed by my GPS.

We tested the GPS a second time on a trip this week to Coconut Grove and South Beach (Miami), which is basically a straight shoot south from our hometown. We drove along I-95, took the turnpike at Jupiter, and then passed the exit for Palm Beach. At Fort Lauderdale, the GPS insisted we had missed our turn. I ignored the frequent recommendations to exit. Was it my imagination or had my GPS become more insistent. Each time, it added an additional 10 minutes to our itinerary and announced, “Recalculating,” or directed us to make a U-turn. Did it know something we didn’t? Were there new roads or shortcuts? Or had someone reprogrammed the GPS . . . . Given that walls of construction in that part of Florida blocked my view of the coastline, I questioned my ability to navigate even these highways. . . .

To avoid hearing the GPS add an additional 10-minute leg to our journey, I exited in an area of abject poverty in North Miami. No road signs indicated how to return to the Interstate, and the GPS remained strangely silent. No option existed for a “get me out of here” or an “SOS” call. Instead, we asked directions at a service station. A Hispanic clerk who did not speak English explained we could continue south because there was no traffic, or we could return to the Interstate via a series of right and left turns. On the remainder of our trip, the GPS gave advice, which ranged from accurate to erroneous. This experience indicated to me that technology needed to be supplemented with a map or competent driver. Or, as my daughter suggested, get a chauffeur.

# # #

Resolutions . . . that will last . . . 15 minutes by Jane Tolbert

Most web articles on New Year’s resolutions focus on two things—the 10 most popular resolutions (starting with fitness and weight loss) and psychological advice on keeping resolutions (especially those concerning weight loss). Any historian or anthropologist looking at our newspapers (digital or otherwise) years from now will assume we are an idle population with too much food and too much time, and obviously unable to commit.

The list of resolutions in both France and the States reads like this:
- Stop smoking - Eat healthy - Do more sports - Spend more time with friends and family (or form new meaningful relationships) - Be nice to colleagues at work and the general public -Be more socially responsible. These resolutions are easy to uphold. . . for a few days anyway.

In past years, neighborhood streets and parks have been filled with newly converted cyclists. Membership in fitness centers has increased. And it is easy to integrate a fitness routine in a vacation schedule. Just as it’s easier to think charitable thoughts about colleagues you have not seen for a few days. Our resolutions are made as we bask in the afterglow of holiday merriment.

My resolutions fall into two broad categories—volunteering for a humanitarian cause and maintaining a focus in my work. The odd thing about humanitarian actions is the difficulty I have had in getting organizations to accept my offers of free help. It has been much more difficult than getting a job

My personal resolutions include goals such as organizing my daily schedule, developing a business plan, identifying goals and objectives and branding my products. A critical resolution is not to sweat the small stuff.

That reminds me. I can’t have a business plan until I write my goals and objectives. And to write those, I really need to set aside a block of time in my schedule. But first, I need to clean up the dining room table which serves as my office. I’ll start once I check my email and cell phone messages just in case something important has come in . . . . This new technology is wonderful. I am so “in touch.”

Messages on FaceBook. A Gainesville friend is celebrating a birthday. A tanguero just wrote from the South of France where they will hold the Reveillon at Jack’s Blues. And look, an email. The Nice-based tango association Siempre Tango just posted photos from the Dec. 4, 2009, milonga at the new Café Nikaia I wonder if I recognize anyone?

My son just texted me from the Frozen North. He has been caught in various snowstorms over the holiday. I need to check the online weather. I just talked with my daughter the other day—those great phone rates in France (unlimited and free). Wake up, AT&T and T-Mobile.

Where was I? Organization. Focus. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Now that’s one of those expressions I haven’t been able to locate on WordReference. But a Google search. Eh bien, ça y est! Of all places--in a forum about New Year’s Resolutions--“arreter de prendre la mouche pour un rien.”

Maybe I should sweat the small stuff. . . . No, focus on the tasks at hand—clean off my desk! I am finding all kinds of interesting things. Ahhh, if I can keep this one resolution, at least for the next 15 minutes.

But all resolutions have a downside. . .



Best wishes for 2010!

What are your resolutions?

Locked Out by Jane Tolbert

For generations, we have buried keys in the garden or flower pots or under statuary or left them with a neighbor. Fear of being locked out of our house runs in my family.

In the old days, you could always shimmy up a gutter or a vine. In middle-class apartments, someone always answered the interphone and buzzed you inside the main entrance. If you lived in more fashionable apartments, you could rely on a concierge.

The concierge has become obsolete or replaced by a system of gates and doors requiring security keys and codes. Hiding a key in the garden is also a thing of the past. These neatly manicured lawns behind walls and gates preclude burying a key (and those security keys with indentations cost les yeux de la tête to duplicate).

It was not my choice to live in a gated community. But from January through April 2009, this was the only place I could find in the South of France. For someone like me who fears getting locked out, this apartment was the stuff of nightmares. The main gate for pedestrians had an access code (1-2-3-4#) and another for the external set of glass doors to my building (4-3-2-1#). In this gated residence in which most units were still unoccupied, I assumed there would be a 24-hour guard or at least a concierge. Au contraire. No one to call on the interphone. No backup mechanical system in case of electrical failure or if the battery in my remote died. I had a lot to worry about.

Electrical failures did occur--at the main entrance gate (both the pedestrian gate and car entrance), the two apartment main entrance doors (which did fail), and my own apartment door.

In January, my cat Lacey and I moved into our apartment. We were the only living creatures in our 15-unit building. Each time I left, I carried my keys and cell phone. The key to my apartment entrance also opened my apartment and the elevator to the garage. I left a spare set of keys with my daughter, who lived a mere 15-minutes away on foot. And I often left the balcony door open just in case I could climb in.

For a couple months, I did well. I left the apartment and returned without getting locked out but still felt overwhelmed by a slight feeling of trepidation. When the syndic, or governing body, of the units hired a guardian, I felt giddy, “Enfin sauvée.” I had been saved. But Monsieur Christian, homme à tout faire, only worked in the day (excluding Sundays) and returned to his house near Grasse at 7 p.m.

Even with the best of planning, the day came when I got locked out. It was one of those days. . . . The syndic, a collection of men and women with notepads, visited the residential park and issued decrees such as this one:

Nous vous rappelons que he stationnement des véhicules est intérdit sur l’allée de circulation. Residents (meaning me) could no longer park above ground but had to park in the underground parking lot.

But the parking lot had been flooded for two months. So on this day, I grabbed a set of keys, rushed to the basement with a large bag of garbage then went through another set of doors to check the water level in the garage. The doors closed behind me.

When I turned to go back inside, I realized I had taken the wrong set of keys. The elevator door would not open, and my cell phone had no reception. I escaped through the underground parking lot where construction was still under way. And oh miracle, the guardian was still there. He opened the main entrance to the apartment with his master key but apologized for not having a key to my apartment. Fortunately, I had left both the balcony and apartment doors cracked. But I might consider burying a key in the garden of the model apartment. Just in case. . .

# # #

Euro Culture by Jane Tolbert

Travel used to be an adventure—I went to Europe to experience métros, small hotel rooms, a Taramisu and even Nutella. I regaled family and friends by returning to the States with suitcases brimming with Panettone, the Italian fruit bread, a special Cantal cheese or even a bottle of walnut liqueur. Today, the Euro has homogenized culture, and airplanes have telescoped distances, making foreign travel less of an adventure and certainly caused problems in terms of gifts to take home.

On one hand, the Euro has offered advantages. Before, I used to spend all of my layover in Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport waiting in the currency exchange line or trying to deliver American products (e.g., a tennis racket or sports clothing) to Dutch friends. Plus, at the end of a European vacation, I had a sprinkling of coins from numerous countries.



Trashcan on Promenade, Juan-les-Pins

Globalization has also given me access to European clothing stores. Although the French catalogue La Redoute no longer has a U.S. base from which we can order, Mango, a Spanish clothing company, has a mail order business in the States (and a store in South Beach). At least I can order reasonably priced clothes that fit without having to travel to Cannes or the Cap 3000.




Mailbox, France

When we think of globalization, the first thing that comes to mind is the way in which McDo and Disney are embedded in French (and other) culture. You can eat burgers or visit the Magic Kingdom without without a transatlantic trip. Like one American friend pointed out, I can experience international flavor by visiting the Epcot foreign pavilions. There are other examples of blending of cultures. Study abroad programs enable students and their classrooms travel to a foreign setting, follow a similar curriculum and in some cases have their US professors. What a change from the old days when you had to know a language or you lived with a foreign family. Furthermore, it’s even becoming more difficult to distinguish nationalities. The French look less French and more like everyone else.



Taxi, Lime Street Station, Liverpool

With all the blending and merging, some icons remain. The French trashcans and mailboxes remain distinctly French (see photos that compare the French to the British). And the British have kept their currency, square taxis and right-hand drive cars.

The advantages of globalization are offset by my more pressing problems. How to find unique souvenirs! I am baffled. Nutella is in American grocery stores, and French t-shirts carry American expressions. What small trinkets can I bring back to show that “I was there.” Maybe I’ll just check out Epcot to see if those pavilions offer something I overlooked while traveling.



Mailbox in Liverpool

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La Rue Bijou - The Pear King

NOTE: The typographic pear image is from Robert Justin Goldstein's book, Censorship of Political Caricature in Nineteenth-Century France, 1989. The inkwell portraying Louis-Philippe belongs to me.

Increasingly, activists and dissidents are turning to the new media (blogs, FaceBook, Twitter) to lead grass-roots protest movements often because the mainstream media are government controlled. The “net” is accessible to a diverse crowd, and information delivery takes place in real time. What a change from those earlier days. It took the content of Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses (1517) approximately a month to travel Europe and 17th-century subscription-based newspapers approximately one week to arrive at their destination. How did earlier citizens question official policies in a period of censorship and the Inquisition?

Since the advent of movable type (in the 1450s), journalists and scientists have used the press to criticize. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, officials of the church and state responded by implementing increasingly stringent laws to suppress divergent views in religion, medicine, and astronomy to name a few. There were enough examples of burnings at the stake (Giordano Bruno who wrote a heliocentric and infinite world) and imprisonment or censorship (Galileo who claimed he had proof of the heliocentric world) to make writers cautious. In sixteenth-century France, newspaper copy was submitted to officials prior to publication. In the 17th century, Cardinal Richelieu penned some of the news stories carried by journalist Théophraste Renaudot to ensure the favorable portrayal of French policies. To evade pre-pre-publication screening, some writers used rhetorical strategies such as a retraction (e.g., I am outlining this pernicious theory to make you aware of its dangers). Some writers (including Galileo, the priest Marin Mersenne, and journalist Renaudot in his published conferences proceedings) presented information in the form of a dialogue between three individuals, representing divergent positions characterized by rational, neutral, or specious reasoning. Often these evasive writings seemed reminiscent of a verbal sparring match, pitting the wit of the writer against the intellect of the official. Others used convoluted reasoning, or they relied on a long-winded, verbose style to overwhelm censors and make the author’s position unclear. Still others attributed new points of view or radical theories to the Ancients. Sometimes two different versions of a text appeared—one targeting the censors and the other, a public of savvy readers.





Source: http://blogs.princeton.edu/graphicarts/2009/02/charles_philipons_la_caricatur.html

One of the more creative ways of communicating antigovernment critiques took place in 19th-century France. By this time, the press had been given varying degrees of constitutional protection in the late 18th century. But freedom of the press vacillated with politics and often failed to protect caricature because officials contended these images could create derision and scorn in the public eye. And French kings, who created regimes of abuse and displayed gout-ridden or jowled physiques, became popular targets. In a series of caricatures, Louis Philipon, editor of Le Charivari, represented King Louis-Philippe as a pear in the 1830s. When Philipon faced imprisonment and fines, he protested by using the shape of a pear to print the text of the censorship decree issued by the king.

These earlier activists, limited to the print medium, used creative approaches, approximating verbal or visual repartees to spar with officials. Just think of what they would have done if they had access to blogs or FaceBook. They could post satirical messages on a Louis-Philippe FaceBook fan club. . . . They could use blogs to counter any “whitewashing” that originated with royalist supporters. While pre-internet officials had hard copy with which to contend, with numerous outlets and the potential for real-time communication, perhaps today’s “censors” face a more difficult task.



# # #

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.

What did not fit in my suitcase! by Jane Tolbert

Travel is about experiences and memories. I used to collect souvenirs—salt and pepper shakers, mugs, ashtrays--but now I realize the most special parts of a trip are the intangibles (sights, sounds, smells, memories) and all those other things that just won’t fit in my suitcase--parasol pines, the azure and turquoise colors of the Mediterranean Sea and the cobalt blues of the mountains, the hillsides of poppies and olive trees.



Just to the west of Juan-les-Pins, the Boulevard Bijou Plage runs down to the beach, the Bijou Plage and the restaurant.


Starting in April, the ferries make frequent runs to the nearby Iles des Lerins, where the Man in the Iron Mask was imprisoned. But that is just one small incident in an area with a rich history of numerous civilizations.


Although Antibes offers an old city, a market, and port, my favorite place to visit is the Picasso Museum.


There, the Nicolas de Staël painting, “The Concert,” and the view from the terrace with the Giacometti statues leave me breathless. For obvious reasons, I could not put these objects in my suitcase. . . .



My other favorite museum is the Maeght Foundation near St. Paul de Vence, which has an enviable sculpture garden and collection of Mirò, Calder, Arp, Giacometti's figures and animals, and Chagal as well as the Braque basin with the fish mosaic.

In Nice, the Monday morning flea market on the Cours Saleya has numerous stalls of books, furniture, glass chandeliers, toys and curiosities.

One vendor sporting large, round glasses, has a wonderful collection of Art Deco jewelry. But I am tempted by the larger and colorful chandeliers. The pragmatic concerns (e.g., airline excess baggage) deter me in my purchase. I end up by contemplating options from the terrace of a cafe.

In the streets of Valbonne, that red Ferrari would go well with my red shoes and, of course, THE red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival. For now, these are musings. I am not sure I could afford to fill up the Ferrari anyway.

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.
# # #

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.

# # #

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.