Dog Days on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

Most of us want to return to this life as a French dog—loved and pampered and stay-at-home.

I adopted my first dog when I lived in the French countryside near Grasse. The masons who worked on my house had Brittany Spaniels, which they used for companionship and for the hunt (pheasants, water birds and others). They brought their dogs to work every day. Nana climbed ladders and would sit on the chimney while her master Robert worked on the tile roof. Roger’s puppy Sophia ran through wet cement, chased lizards or chewed the seats in his Peugeot 204.





One day the masons asked if I wanted a dog. Their friend planned to get rid of his Brittany, Pink, who had committed two egregious sins—she had eaten a tiered cake, which he had prepared for a wedding, and she had spent the last hunting season hiding under his car. Pink loved pastries, and she did not like guns. She became my companion and nanny to my two kids for many years. She rode in the front seat of the car, went on family vacations in Florida and continued to scarf down pastries. She took the bus with me to Grasse (dogs rode half price). Sometimes she wandered off to the village café, the Pergola, at Pre du Lac. Usually someone brought her home.




When we moved to Melbourne Beach, Pink moved with us. She wandered down to the beach one day. Since her tags still had a French address, my dad commented that anyone who found her would have marveled at the distance a Brittany could swim.

When I later returned to France to live in the city, it seemed the growing emphasis on clean public streets and the “no poop” policy had forced people to opt for smaller dogs just because of logistics. Toy poodles, papillons, terriers and chihuahuas, now the vogue, were in boutiques, cafes and even in backpacks on scooters.



In France, with its population of nearly 62-million people and an estimated 19-million dogs, canines are an integral part of life, as much as the apértif and baguette. Even on the coldest days, shivering pooches accompany their owners to the Monday morning flea markets in Nice or for a walk on the beach. Some watch passersby from shopfront windows in Juan-les-Pins. Still others sit on their owners’ laps on the boardwalk or wait patiently outside a grocery store. One dog even had a security clearance at the research park of Sophia Antipolis. Patrons bring dogs to cafes and restaurants, and both eye the menu with a hint of gourmandise. Sugar cubes? Two orders of croissants? One large café au lait and a hot chocolate followed by a walk in the sun.

As I prepare for an early morning commute to my day job, I realize a dog’s life sounds pretty good.

Pipedream or Paradigm? by Jane Tolbert

Rails to Trails Overlook


South Rim

When we think of ideal biking locations, the Northwestern United States or Europe come to mind. But ever so slowly networks of greenways are inching across the American landscape, offering the possibility of biking on off-road paths or little-traveled highways. What might have seemed a pipedream years ago is becoming the new paradigm--a shift from the automobile-based lifestyle of recent generations to one that focuses on exercise. Let’s hope this trend continues.

In the Melbourne – Cocoa area, cyclists meet at Viera or Cocoa Village for a 25-to-35-mile loop that follows the Indian River Lagoon. Some of these roadbikers in brightly colored jerseys have such a competitive gleam in their eyes that I know this loop is not for amateurs. I’ll ride at my own pace and maybe meet them later at Ossario’s Café. I’ve trailed other cyclists who gather near Mather’s Bridge to pedal a 10-mile circuit on South Tropical Trail along the Banana River and taken a predawn ride along Riverside Drive between the Eau Gallie and Melbourne causeways.


Mather's Bridge

Biking technology has really changed since the days my sister Margaret and I shared ‘Thunderbird,’ our first bike. The massive-framed green bike had coaster brakes, streamers on the handle bars and a clattery kickstand. We got our thrills from riding with feet on the handlebars or pedaling furiously up and down neighborhood streets of Virginia. And it probably took both of us to lift the cumbersome Thunderbird to an upright position. Today, we don’t even have to stand to pedal uphill. The lightweight frames, comfortable seats and gears make bikes easy to ride.

Weekend activities are planned around meeting friends for a bike ride. In the Gainesville area, we biked the popular 16-mile Gainesville-Hawthorne Trail. Other times I have joined friends at Split Rock, the South Rim or the San Felasco Hammock, all of which provide miles of sandy paths as well as encounters with deer, bird and, if not the cougars or bear themselves, at least their paw prints.

So why isn’t everyone biking? The network of trails still needs to be linked. Portions of many bike routes contain a mixture of high- and low-congested areas and roadside debris, conditions that preclude many commuters or school kids from biking. One my favorites workouts in Melbourne is to ride the causeway bridges that link the mainland to the barrier islands. But an element of fear offsets the salubrious benefits of a cardio workout. I dodge road debris within feet of speeding pickups, towed boats or SUVs.

The combination of exercise, outdoors and chats with friends make biking somehat addictive—enough to get me out before 8 a.m. on weekends. It’s unlikely I’ll ever ride more than 15 or 20 miles, but I am looking forward to the day when I can access a greenway from my neighborhood, ride my bike and feel like a kid.

Promises, Promises by Jane Tolbert

Chapelle de la Garoupe, Cap d'Antibes


Imagine the setting. You are a captive in some dank prison in a foreign land. You vow to perform an incredible feat if you ever gain release and return home. Faced with adversity or in a moment of duress, individuals often made wild promises. Take for example the Knight of Blacas, captured by Saracens during the Crusades, who vowed that upon his release he would hang a star over the provencal village of Moustiers Sainte Marie. No one is quite certain when the actual feat took place, but the star hangs today about 690 feet in the air on a chain that spans a chasm more than 675 feet across. What was he thinking! The knight could have made a more modest vow--the restoration of a chapel or a generous financial contribution to ransom other captives. Instead, he chose a way to give thanks for his liberation that captivates our imagination to this day!

Sailors make vows and offer prayers for a safe passage on tranquil seas or deliverance from shipwreck. On the Cap d’Antibes, the small, 13-16th century Chapelle de la Garoupe has an eclectic collection of ex-votos--drawings of the Virgin Mary, paintings of flowers and ships, model ships and marble plaques. In other areas, roadside shrines to the virgin or a patron saint enable passersby to make small votive offerings.



The numerous ex-votos in chapels suggest even to the skeptic that there may be something to these offerings. . . or is there? What about those individuals who made vows but nevertheless succumbed to a crisis or perished in a dank prison? As scholars Jörg Rüpke and Richard Gordon have pointed out, “Failed vows produced no votices; the system renders its failures invisible” (Religion of the Romans, 2007, 164).

Still, school-age children may want to play it safe not only in the pre-Christmas season when they prepare their wish list for Santa but throughout their K-12 years. To complement their studious efforts and hours devoted to study, they may want to make a promise to the patron saint of homework assignments. Rumor has it that a patron saint of parking meters exists in New Orleans. Impressive! But has anyone beaten Blacas' record of the star on the chain?

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
# # #

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.