A Tenderness for Living

Joy of Travel

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 16:51:00 +0000

I’ve flown United Airlines since it merged with the formerly excellent Continental Airlines, so I know something about depressed and uncaring airline employees, horrible flights and crap operations. But on my flight back to Austin yesterday (which United managed to not screw up too badly this time), I read a story in La Provence about a group of French tourists in the Canary Islands who win this week’s award for worst flight.

163 passengers including eight children and a small baby, spent the last day of their August vacation inside a Boeing 734 sitting on a runway baking in the Spanish sun. They waited throughout the afternoon and evening, presumably without a meal or anything much to drink in keeping with new industry practices, until they were ultimately told at 11 p.m. that they’d need to disembark because Arrecite's Lazarote Airport was closing for the night.

Lazarote Airport, a notoriously hellish place

The official, no-frills explanation provided by the tour operator was: “The plane arrived late and couldn’t leave.” O Voyages (henceforth, Oy Voyages) added: “Lazarote is an airport that closes at 11 p.m. and since the crew arrived late, the Canariens closed. They don’t accept tardiness.” The Canariens may be the last in the air travel industry with some standards.

Meanwhile, the customers of Oy Voyage had a very different story.

“When the pilot came on to announce we were going to take off everyone agreed immediately that he was totally drunk,” 37-year-old passenger Delfim Paiva told the paper. “Then we saw some bizarre movement by the hostesses who didn't want to go on the flight. Passengers panicked and people started trying to break down the door to get off the plane,” he said, adding that eventually the Spanish Guardia Civil intervened to evacuate the plane.

"They later told us the pilot was just tired," Mr. Paiva added.

The tour operator Oy Voyage had sold the trip through the French website Voyageprive.com, a sort of Groupon-clone for French discount travel. Mr. Paiva said Voyageprive "confirmed that the hostesses refused to take the flight because the pilot was inebriated."

“Au contraire,” countered Alain Nizard, representing Polish airline Enter Air (marketing slogan: "Colorful holidays") which provided the charter aircraft to Oy Voyage. Monsieur Nizard, a graduate of United Airlines’ school of customer service, blamed the passengers.

They “were drinking on board to such a point that the pilot and crew had to be protected in exiting the plane. They were delirious, throwing bottles at the hostesses,” he said by way of explaining how the Spanish cops got involved.

Passengers in Madrid Airport last year

Mr. Paiva said about 60 exhausted passengers were put up in a hotel overnight. The other 103 unfortunates – along with some of their kids – slept on the airport floor. This being 2012 and all, there are apparently plenty of photos and videos of this tour from hell.

The plane finally took off the following evening but instead of going straight to Paris as it was supposed to do, it stopped first in nearby Fuerteventura for fuel.

“People on the plane were crying,” another passenger reported.

Anyone who flies these days knows exactly how they felt.

Un petit poison, well chilled

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Wed, 08 Aug 2012 12:56:00 +0000

The taste of summer in Provence: tomatoes and tapenade, cherries and Cavaillon melon, pastis and chilled rose.

Naturally, when I arrived home on a warm afternoon at the beginning of July, I quickly opened a cool, pink Tavel 2011 to drink while I unpacked. Two sips later, I had a sudden headache so massive the word "stroke" bubbled up from my hypochondriac soul. I recorked the bottle, tried not to panic and went straight to bed. The headache lasted three days.

I did not immediately attribute the headache to the wine. I figured it was fatigue, some poisonous pollen generating an allergic reaction or just the routine migraine that strikes from time to time. But I have to admit, that lovely, ruby-red liquid with a sketch of a Provencal Mas on the label, suddenly did not look so rosy.

After a few days it was time to pour it out. As I dumped three-quarters of the bottle down the drain, the fumes rose from the sink and I inhaled. Once again, I was struck with a sudden, massive headache. Again, the headache lasted nearly three days. Suddenly, that seductive bottle of wine looked malicious. I didn't mention this to anyone, but I quietly switched to whites, reds, water and the periodic cold Coke Light for the rest of the month.

Last weekend, the August 4-5 edition of the International Herald Tribune carried a story on wine additives, the international debate over the terms "organic" and "natural" and new European Union rules on wine labels. Halfway through Eric Pfanner's fine piece, "The lack of veritas in vino," I ran across this:

"The new labeling comes with stricter rules, including a reduction in the permitted levels of sulfur dioxide, which can cause allergic reactions in asthma sufferers. (Some critics say sulfur dioxide, low levels of which are naturally present in many wines, also causes headaches, though I have yet to see conclusive evidence of this.)"

There may be an absence of randomized, double-blind, controlled clinical studies, but I gathered the only evidence I need standing over my kitchen sink. Whatever was in that wine -- sulfur dioxide or some noxious combination of other ingredients -- made me very sick. Twice.

I'm going to choose more carefully. I'm going to read labels. But here's the problem: unlike most foods and beverages sold in France and the United States, wine is not required to list ingredients on the label. And, as it turns out, there are a lot of potential ingredients to list. In fact, the EU permits 59 things to be added to wine. Even wine labeled as "organic" in the States just means the grapes were farmed without using chemical fertilizers, pesticides and herbicides but it does not indicate what other mysterious additives may have been used.

On the label of my toxic rose was quite a bit of info, including a little map of Tavel, the eight grape varieties blended to make the wine, a list of the foods most suitable to the wine and a description of the wine's flavor, "raspberries and white flowers." I'd describe it now as "slightly sulfurous with just a hint of Bhopal."

Happily, in the United States, sulfur dioxide is one of the additives that must be disclosed with the nearly ubiquitous footnote, "contains sulfites." I'm going to be quite careful about searching for "cleaner" wines. And I'll also be monitoring closely the discussions between Europe and the United States over wine labeling which are continuing this fall.

Cheers.

Another April, another fabulous French antique fair

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 16:17:00 +0000

I haven't had time to write for awhile, but wanted to share my latest trip to the Foire Internationale Antiquaire, held in the main park in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue and along the quais that line the canals. It's held every April and August and this year's spring event was not quite as spectacular as in previous years -- it rained off and on and was cold -- but all-in-all still quite lively and well worth the day.

I must have been missing my son, who is in India for six months, because I took rather a lot of pictures of children mixed in with the bric-a-brac and treasures. Whatever the motivation, the kids were awfully cute and there were quite a lot of them along with their parents. I especially enjoyed watching a tow headed California kid playing with the military surplus. He was in heaven.

This year the fair had a central section devoted to industrial design. And, of course, there were quite a number of unusual, high priced items. But amid all this there were some real bargains and I came away with a set of four, rusted and mismatched iron garden chairs that I've been using in the dining room quite happily over the last few weeks.

But the best thing I took away from this year's fair were memories of cheerful conversations with vendors and shoppers and a bunch of images in my head and camera that I wanted to share with you.

These came home with me

On the way back to the car, a place for a drink.

Shopping for Travel Insurance

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 05:10:00 +0000

I never buy travel insurance so when a friend asked me today if travel insurance would cover the airline strikes going on this month in France and Germany, I didn't know. But I knew where to look. Jumping onto Squaremouth.com and found the answer to her question and a whole lot more.

The New York Times in a January article, "The Claim Before the Storm," called Squaremouth the best of several new sites where travelers can do some comparison shopping for travel insurance, and I agree. Others that also provide travelers with insurance information include InsureMyTrip.com and QuoteWrite.com. Before buying any travel insurance, check to see what sort of coverage your credit card company provides.

Squaremouth lets you compare insurance products and prices from more than a dozen carriers, including Air Ambulance Card, CSA Travel Protection, Global Rescue, Global Underwriters, HCC, HTH Worldwide, IMG, ITravelInsured, Medex, Travel Guard, Travel Insurance Services, Travelers Liberty, Travelex, TravelSafe and USA Assist.

And the answer to my friend's question is that while standard travel insurance coverage is not available for airline strikes, some travelers may be able to buy a travel insurance policy with the upgrade Cancel for Any Reason benefit. Cancel for Any Reason allows someone to cancel their trip without explanation. However, not all states allow the purchase of this product and travelers must purchase a travel insurance policy within 14-30 days of the initial deposit payment.

Oh, and to keep up with who's on strike where in Europe and beyond, EasyTravelReport.com and Europe-Airports.com keep pretty good running lists. Being prepared is the best insurance.

Au Secours!

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 05:41:00 +0000

Thanks to Cucina Test Rossa for the
photo of the cute policemen

The folks over at AngloInfo published a very useful set of numbers to call in case of emergency. My adult son says I'm a ~~hysteric,~~ ~~pain in the a--~~ worrier, but I say better safe than sorry. I'm posting this list on the refrigerator in the kitchen and in his room. Some of the useful numbers:

Medical Help -- SAMU ...................................................... 15
Police/Police Nationale ................................................... 17
Fire and accident - Pompiers .......................................... 18
SOS -- all services (Europe wide) .................................... 112
Emergency Shelter ............................................................115

The bad news is that the person you get on the line may not speak English just as you note your English-French dictionary is on fire. The good news is that you can cross your fingers and use the other hand to call any of these numbers free of charge -- from public phones, fixed land lines or cell phones.

You need to be ready to tell the dispatcher where you need assistance (location), your name and phone number, what happened and if it is still happening, how many people need help and wheter weapons are involved. AngloInfo also provides a handy dandy list of useful phrases for emergencies, from "I'm in labor" to "that last chunk of foie gras is giving me a heart attack." (I made up the second one.)

Property Trends 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 23:08:00 +0000

Photo: guy harrop / Alamy

French banks, following in the footsteps of American mortgage lenders, are making it harder for home buyers to get a loan. Expat borrowers and French residents alike are being told "non" unless they have very large deposits and lofty incomes. BNP Paribas, one of France's biggest lenders to expatriates, overhauled its mortgage range for non-residents and has cut loan-to-value ratios from 80% to 70%. They've also chopped the terms on interest-only loans -- but then these loans have always struck me as a perfectly terrible way to borrow money. French banks are being cautious and rejecting borrowers with loan debt exceeding six times their income. This seems reasonable to me, but it could affect people with several buy-to-rent properties or even some first-time buyers. But then again, perhaps someone so heavily leveraged should rent for awhile before taking on more debt. Call me old fashioned.

Despite the tightened lending, borrowers with sufficient income and smaller debt can still get a loan and French mortgage rates continue to look attractive. French residents, more conservative borrowers than Americans, tend to like long, fixed-term rates and the interest rate on a 25-year-term is now set at around 4.4%. There's also something called a capped rate deal where borrowers are promised they will not pay more than 4.5% for the term of the loan and the current rate for these is just 3.5%.

Meanwhile, FrenchEntrée just published their annual property survey based on feedback from their network of immobiliers (real estate agents) and property finders across France. A few interesting items jumped out at me from this year's report, which showed real estate sales pretty grim in some parts of country but lively in others:

There seemed to be fewer buyers from the UK last year, except in the Alps and Cotes d'Azur, but this was made up for by French, Dutch and Belgian buyers. Increased interest from Australian and American buyers also showed an uptick.
Paris had a stunning year with a 22% increase in property values in the first half of 2011, although that pace slowed significantly as the year progressed. The number of transactions was down, but only because there weren't any properties to sell. The 3rd and 4th arrondissements were hot.
The Languedoc saw more American buyers, as well as people from Sweden, Norway, Denmark and, of course, French seeking homes. The region already has an enormous British community. A lot of people are taking a look at the Languedoc, which borders Spain, because of the anticipated completion of the TGV link to Barcelona at the end of this year. Travelers will be able to get from Perpignan to Barcelona in less than an hour. Tapas for lunch!

With all the gloomy economic news out of Europe, this all looks rather encouraging.

Bringing Up Bébé

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 04:18:00 +0000

My son was born in London but raised in Paris until he was two. This gave me a couple of years to study the French approach to child-rearing, long enough to notice they were doing something right. They were relaxed. Their children sat through an entire meal without pouring sugar on the table, knocking over glasses, throwing fits. French mothers seemed to have mastered the balance between loving attention to their children and basic self-respect. They were calm but set clear, consistently enforced boundaries around matters like eating and sleeping. Actually, understanding that the French had a unique approach to child rearing didn't take me two years, only two minutes in the neighborhood pharmacy.

It was my second month back at work and my beloved Alex had been restless the two previous nights. I hadn't slept a wink. I was pooped. With my son in the stroller, I staggered down the street to the pharmacy and approached the trim, bespectacled pharmacist. I was thinking that if I could pop a few more vitamins or some magic energy elixir, I'd be able to make it through the day.

"I'm beat," I explained. "He isn't sleeping well. I'm back at work and I'm having trouble staying awake."

"Ah," she said sympathetically, looking down at the adorable bundle in the stroller and smiling. "You just need a baby sedative."

"Baby sedative!" I was instantly consumed by a delicious mix of horror, guilt, fear and admiration for French ingenuity. "You give sedatives to babies?!!"

"Of course," the pharmacist calmly explained. "It doesn't hurt them, it helps you sleep and a happy mother is a happy baby."

She handed me a tiny bottle of liquid relief. Both my son and I slept much better that night and were happier for it. I was more relaxed and patient, able to both work and enjoy him more. He was rested, playful and happy with his mommy. Voila!

I mention all this two decades later because someone has finally taken a good look at how the French raise their children and written a book about it. Why do French children seem to be better behaved than our own? This was the question that started Paris-based writer Pamela Druckerman's on her quest to understand French parenting and the result is "Bringing up Bébé," being published in the United States later this month by Penguin Press. (It's already out in the UK as "French Children Don't Throw Food.")

Druckerman wasn't interested in writing a book to make us feel bad by telling us how much better the French are at raising their children. Rather, she went about deconstructing in a very funny way which parental behaviors lead to such well-behaved, yet totally normal, exhuberant, curious, giggling kids. This interview in The Guardian offers a look at both the content of the book and the charming humor of the writer. I wish I'd had it 20 years ago. Pick it up.

Hail Astoria!

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 17:00:00 +0000

If a hobby is an activity pursued for pleasure or relaxation then, clearly, I have a new hobby -- one spawned through the chance purchase of a household appliance. Not just any appliance, but a magnificent iron elegantly named Astoria fer à repasser. (Note: Those of you less inclined toward OCD, should just do yourself a favor and skip the rest of this post.)

The Astoria is no humble iron, but the powerful, exquisitely designed answer to a domestic mystery. If you've ever wandered through the antiques markets here, or stayed in a luxury chambre d'hote or hotel, then you've experienced the soft, smooth, snowy confections of sheets, pillow cases, tablecloths, handkerchiefs, nightgowns, often antique, always perfect, that French women routinely turn out. And, like me, you may have wondered, how the heck do they do THAT? How can anything be so perfectly smooth? Whither such perfection? The answer: Astoria.

The purchase of this iron has done more than give me beautiful linens, it has provided a new past time. Having ironed all the sheets and pillow cases in the house, I've now taken to ironing the tea towels from the kitchen. Earlier this week, I caught myself ironing my underwear until I stopped and poured a Pastis to catch my breath. There's just no denying the thrill of driving the Astoria across the ironing board, shifting effortlessly into steam, speeding across wrinkles and watching them disappear under the shiny chrome point. This highly controlled hot steam is the answer to how French linens look so perfect. Wrinkles just melt. These are moments of instant gratification, repeated with each new tablecloth or napkin. Supple, flawless, renewed.

This particular iron is like a middle age French woman, graceful, powerful and extremely good looking for its age. I bought it in April at a vides grenier, one of those irresistible village-wide flea markets where you can find fabulous treasures for centimes on the euro. This iron was in mint condition -- "nickel" as they say here about something in perfect shape -- in its original box with the purchase receipt from 1987. Then, it cost 100 euros. Today, Astoria irons cost up to 300 euros ($425 U.S.). I paid 20 euros ($28) and thought I noted a twinge of regret from the blonde, bourgeois housewife who sold it to me.

My Astoria has a large chrome tank for distilled water, set at an angle that reflects carefully considered ergonomic design. The firm black hose hanging from a stem connects to the iron which sits between use on a spikey, non-slip silicon pad. A caramel-colored cork handle protects your hand from the heat and is springy to the touch. The iron itself weighs just a few ounces although the entire apparatus weighs as much as my Miata. On the front of the chrome tank are switches for heat and the steam, and a guage for the water pressure that reminds me of a Porsche dashboard. (Or at least it does when shrouded in hot mist.)

Like any hobby, there are unanticipated expenses and many things to learn. My Astoria has highlighted the inadequacy of my ironing board so I must now find something broad, grand, and worthy. And seeing my new iron, my French girlfriends have generously mentored this beginner in how to fold items in half to iron them more quickly, how to efficiently press borders and which products give finished linens the scent of a lavender field. I really must stop at some point and go outside -- but first I have a few bath towels to iron.

Art on My Doorstep

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 16:08:00 +0000

This is such a pretty village that we regularly have artists sitting on the square painting the fountain, the plane trees, the remains of the medieval wall and more recent clock tower. It is very peaceful, watching them sitting quietly, appreciating the beauty and recreating it.

But today, I stepped out my front door to find someone painting... well, my front door. She was nice enough to let me take a picture of the pretty watercolor showing my living room window, breakfast table and door. What a treat!

Breakfast, late July, Provence

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 07:30:00 +0000

No Artificial Coloring or Preservatives

Three peches jaunes from the farmer down the road to my outdoor breakfast table this morning. Having missed the season for Stonewall peaches this year (sweeter, but not as pretty), I've been especially happy to see these coming in over the last three weeks.

I shot this before I gobbled down two, but didn't post until after my second cup of coffee.

At Your Service/A Votre Service

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 13:19:00 +0000

Life in France is all about the details. The same could be said for life anywhere, I suppose, but when I’m here I slow down enough to notice more. Noticing more is always worth the extra time. It is easier to be alert in a new place that demands your attention in a way that familiar places don't. But it's also a question of pace. Our ridiculous American pace, worship of competition, race to win makes it nearly impossible to pause and take note of small things. Life rushes by in one continuous, undifferentiated, swiftly flowing stream. Before I know it, the entire river has passed by without my seeing, or appreciating, any of it.

In Austin, a trip to the gas pump is pure function and speed. I arrive, shove the card in the pump, fill the tank as fast as I can and drive away, barely knowing where I’ve been for those five minutes or so. Which may be just as well. The station where I pump gas is a wasteland of concrete with fume-spewing traffic just a few feet from where I’m standing. Everything seems coated in a patina of gray filth.

In Provence, the closest place to purchase gas is a Total Station, set back off the road about the length of a tennis court and surrounded on three sides by grape vines for as far as the eye can see. Across the two-lane highway from the station is the large warehouse of a Cotes du Rhone wine distributor, landscaped with rose bushes just outside the black wrought iron fence. You can’t really see the wine warehouse once you’ve pulled into the pumps, because they’ve been placed thoughtfully behind the gas station building so that drivers are shielded from the road while filling their tanks. The driveway from the highway to the pumps is planted with roses and zinnias of many colors and between the pumps and a new carwash (enthusiastically advertised on the road as “!!Nouveaux!! Lavage Automatique”) is another bed of purple flowers and silver shrubs that help block the wind blowing across the vines.

I’ve had a lot of time to study the surroundings because getting gas is not fast. The old pumps have no place to put a credit card; that must be walked inside the station and handed to the wife of the station owner. A lady in her 50s, with faded ash blonde hair, a beige T-shirt, a soft voice and a Zen calm, she chats briefly with the regulars, makes sure everything runs clean and smooth and always has a friendly “bonjour” when I come in. This process is gentle and human, but it also means a wait for a pump – each of which has only one hose. People line up and wait their turns patiently and instead of taking five minutes, it can easily take 10 but they are not unpleasant minutes and they offer a chance to study your environment and think.

Earlier this week, I was waiting at the pump with everyone else, lined up in our cars facing east. In front of me, the elderly gentleman and his wife, both of whom had gone into the station together to pay for their gas, came strolling out to get in their car so I could take my turn at the pump. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a beat up black Peugeot circled the line and pulled up to the pump going the opposite way. A disheveled man with curly hair graying at the temples jumped out, snagged the pump and began filling his car. I pulled up a couple of feet, turned off the engine and walked my credit card inside, grinning at his flagrant violation of pump protocol. I smiled at the woman behind the counter and at her husband, who had witnessed the line jumper.

There is a kind of stylish blue overall that workers wear in France and if you’ve seen one you know exactly what I’m talking about. They communicate confidence, saying that the person inside the well-worn overalls has been doing his job for a long time and is good at it, understands the traditions behind his “métier” and respects them. Someone wearing such overalls is disciplined, serious and honest. Of course, they’re just blue cotton overalls, but they’ve never let me down yet. Workers in France are among the most reliable and accomplished I’ve ever met – and this goes for electricians, plumbers, masons … and filling station owners. The station owner was wearing such overalls, underneath which was a t-shirt that must have been red 25 years ago, but now had faded to a lovely dusty pink. He smiled at me warmly and strolled casually to the pump where Mr. Black Peugeot was pumping away.

You could not hear what was said, he spoke very softly to his customer. He was smiling and had the body language of someone correcting a naughty child who had snatched a playmate's toy. The only reason I knew he was reprimanding the driver was Mr. Black Peugeot’s reaction, at once defensive and sheepish. The station owner listened to him quietly, patted him gently on the shoulder and strolled back inside. When the driver went inside to pay – by now I was finally getting my gas – the station owner’s wife wished him a fine afternoon.

I suspect that next time he stops for gas – whether at this station or somewhere else – he’ll be more inclined to wait in line. He was reminded of the importance of good manners by someone who had them in spades. And I was reminded of how different daily life is here and how even something as routine as filling your car can become a moment to notice and remember.

p.s. I went to get gas again yesterday and paused to shoot a few photos for this post. As I was paying, the service station owner's wife noted that I'd been taking photos and asked me which one I'd photographed. I must have looked confused, because pointing to a red bucket and rag beside one of the pumps, she explained: "I was in the middle of cleaning the pumps today, but I have not had time to finish. Please shoot the clean ones." I assured her I would. And I had. They were all clean -- cleaner than my car, cleaner than the front steps of my house, heck, cleaner than my kitchen.

Wheels

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 05:28:00 +0000

Second only to airfare -- which this year is far higher than at any time in recent memory -- is the cost of car rental for travelers in France. I keep meaning to buy a car but somehow I just haven't managed to get around to it so I continue to rent for a month at a time every visit. Really, I will buy a car sometime this year, but in the meantime, I've assembled a short list for myself of places to rent that are an alternative to Hertz, Avis and Europcar.

Although I've had first-hand experience with a pretty wide array of rental companies, this list also comes from the readers of the marvelously entertaining and terribly useful French Word-a-Day blog, by author, mom, and popular blogger Kristen Espinasse. She asked her readers for suggestions, got quite a few and I've added my two cents from my own experience.

Keep in mind that, just as in the United States, all rental agencies place additional fees and surcharges on cars rented at airports and train stations. If you can rent a car from centre ville, you can save some cash. Also, don't forget that gasoline and diesel costs are far higher everywhere than in the U.S. so if you can drive a stick and do with a smaller car, you'll save both money and the environment.

BSP-Auto: This is my favorite and the place I rent from nearly all the time. My friend Marie-Kristine suggested it and she's one of the two most knowledgeable, practical, wonderful French women I know. It turns out that BSP contracts with the major car rent companies, like Hertz or Europcar, to rent their excess stock at a discount. It is the same car you'd get from the big guys but often $200 to $400 less for a month of rental. Mileage is limited, but the limit is set so high I've never exceeded it. At airports and train stations throughout France, they tend to share office space with their partners so you'll be walking up to the same rental car counter you would if you were spending more money and dealing with the same agents. The Website is in French only.

Sixt.fr: This is the second best option if cost is a principal driver. (Yes, I said driver.) They're all over the country, have good rates and sometimes offer special discounts that make them a more attractive option than BSP-Auto. They also seem to have their own fleet, rather than consolidating the vehicles of partner companies. Another Website in French only.

Super-U: This chain of French grocery stores also rents vehicles and they can be less expensive than other places. However, you have to find a way to get from the train or plane to the nearest Super-U and I've found the clerks in the stores to be both ill-informed and ill-tempered. They really want you to just buy a jar of mustard and leave. There's also a cap on mileage here and many Super-U's rent only small trucks and vans to be used for hauling, like U-Haul in the U.S. I've never rented from the store, but for someone already in France and close enough to a Super-U to stop in, it might prove a good deal.

DriveTravel.com: This may not be the least expensive place to rent a car, but it is the only one with links to leasing motor homes, motorbikes, canal boats, luxury sports cars and classic cars, in addition to your garden-variety Twingo.

Auto Europe Discount Car: Offers car rental throughout France and some tips on driving in Europe. You pay upfront and avoid currency exchange charges, but it is not especially inexpensive. Word is that their customer service is quite good, but I've never used them and I'd guess that's more the luck of the draw.

I have heard time and again that for long-term rentals of one to six months it is possible to get better rates by leasing or doing a lease buy-back from Renault, Peugeot or Citroen. I have never found this to be a good option. You must rent at least 21 days in advance, the paperwork is more complicated and the costs are higher. You do get a brand new car, that's true, but the cars I've rented from the rental agencies are all one or two years and in new condition so I don't see that as much of an advantage. It might be a better deal at the high end if you're renting a more luxurious vehicle, and is worth exploring in any case. Here are two places to begin:

Autofrance: For Peugeot and Citroen, Autofrance is located in most cities with airports or major train stations. You can pick up the car and return it in other parts of Western Europe, the price includes full insurance coverage, no service charges or other taxes and charges. They arrange to meet you and get you the car on your schedule. It also is possible to buy the car at the end of the lease. I've been told the program is available only to holders of non-European Union passports.

Renault: I've heard that this is a good program and the online research seems to bear it out. Renault's leasing program offers prices comparable to Hertz, Avis, Europcar and Budget but allows you to select the car you want from their fleet. Pick up and drop off are all 32 locations throughout Europe, including the major French destinations. Leasing means unlimited mileage, a new car warranty, comprehensive insurance with no deductible, 24/7 multi-lingual roadside assistance and a broad network of service agents. Renault also will lease to drivers as young as 18 years of age, whereas most of the others restrict rental and permission to drive to those 25 years of age or older.

Buckle up!

Good news for Owners of French Real Estate

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 14:21:00 +0000

The Fédération National de l'immobilier, the French estate agents' body, says average prices of all homes in France rose 6% in 2010 and property purchases exceeded 700,000 – a 15% rise on 2009. "Prices, after having fallen quite significantly – approximately 10% if we look at the end of 2009 – have regained a certain strength," says FNAIM president René Pallincourt.

The average price of a home in Burgundy is now €148,400 (£129,000), while in Languedoc the figure is €208,800 (£182,000) rising to €384,200 (£334,000) in Provence. The federation and lenders, such as Credit Agricole, predict rises of about 3% this year, with larger increases in cities.

Le Corbusier at the Pratt

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 16:03:00 +0000

The design philosophy and work of Charles Édouard Jeanneret-Gris – Le Corbusier – will be celebrated starting August 30 when the Brooklyn-based architecture and design school, Pratt Institute debuts a free exhibition of his architecture, design, painting, writing and urban planning.

“Le Corbusier – Miracle Boxes” will present more than 50 of Corbu’s public buildings, including his exhibition pavilions, museums, theaters, cultural centers, monument and temples, as well as documentaries on his life and work. Pratt says this is the first New York exhibition in 60 years dedicated entirely to the work of a man who some believe was the greatest architect of the 20th century. The last exhibit was at New York's Museum of Modern Art in 1951. (When the architect first visited New York City at the invitation of MoMA in 1935, he said New York City's skyscrapers should have been bigger and spaced farther apart.)

I’m hoping I can find a way to see this ambitious exhibit. I saw another on Corbu in Paris some years ago, and I've visited his Atelier Ozenfant on avenue Reille in Paris and the splendid Villa Savoye about 30 minutes outside the city. I remember less about how these buildings looked like than I do about how it felt standing inside -- lonely, uneasy, exposed. You may not love the buildings, but they elicit strong feelings and you can't forget their raw beauty.

The Miracle Box that gives this exhibit its name is a full-scale construction, based on Corbu’s smallest architectural project, a seven-and-a-half-foot cube that was originally located inside his Paris atelier. The reproduction will also feature Corbu’s 1947 sculpture “Ozon” and the 1932 painting “Verre,” which were both originally featured in the “working cell,” as he called it. The Miracle Box will be on display outside of the Pratt Library in Brooklyn coinciding with the start of the exhibition on August 30 and will be installed in the library’s lobby as part of the school’s permanent collection following the exhibition.

Four years after Corbu wrote about his Miracle Box as a container you can fill with “everything you dream of,” he expanded the ideas behind this project into a small summer house for himself and his wife. In fact, this tiny box was the only structure Le Corbusier ever built for himself -- a 172-square foot (16 square meter), wooden cabin at Cap Martin that he referred to as his “castle on the Riviera.”

The exterior, at first glance, looked like thousands of other simple, French summer cabanons, but the interior was a spectacularly detailed, elegant “machine for living.” And live in it he did, spending 10 summers there, working in an adjacent studio on projects such as the pilgrimage chapel, Notre Dame du Haut Ronchamp (1955) that he “dedicated to nature.”

After the Pratt exhibit closes in New York, it will tour Bogota, Rome, Florence, Barcelona, London, Paris and other cities. I can't wait to see it.

French Bloggers Take a Holiday

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 17:34:00 +0000

We are nearing the end of the beloved Fermeture Annuelle, the annual summer closing of millions of French businesses every July or August. Especially in August, much of Paris shuts down and thousands of Parisians head to the warmth and pleasures of Provence. Meanwhile, everyone in Provence bails to their own summer retreats and travels.

Americans visiting here often ask with a level of incredulity reserved for UFOs, "This restaurant is CLOSED?! But it's August. It's tourist season. Don't they worry about losing money?!!"

Mais, non. Money is nice but summer holidays are sacred. Time with family and friends, time to enjoy the pleasures of a good book, meal, conversation are incomparably more important than filling a bank account.

Now, the Fermeture Annuelle has been taken to the next level. The lovely French Website-blog-online store Couleur Chanvre is in Periode Bleu -- closed for the month of August. It is an official summer closing and they're not alone. This month I've noticed many blogs doing the same thing. I hope this formal closing takes hold, becomes a trend and spreads to American bloggers. We must all unplug every so often -- it is essential to creativity, perspective, reflection and balance.

What do you think? Do you close down your blog officially for holidays?

Bravo Couleur Chanvre. Et bonnes vacances!

A "Princely" Airport and a Stunning Work of Art

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 18:29:00 +0000

Aeroports de Paris, the operator of Paris' Charles DeGaulle and Orly, reported this week that airports in the French capital saw a 3.1% increase in passenger traffic in July compared with the same month of 2009.

The numbers just reinforce the experience of anyone who has arrived at one of Paris' main airports -- especially international travelers -- over the last few years. The crowds are horrific, the terminals redolent with body heat and the panic of potential missed planes, everything feels rumpled and dirty and more than a little confusing. I do a lot of business travel besides my back and forth between houses in Texas and Provence, so I've had a lot of time to wonder why airports cannot be designed for humans, why they must be so consistently ugly, uncomfortable, and dehumanizing. The Paris airports are better than many, but I’ve begun looking for ways to avoid the biggest airports, the most popular travel days and the crowds.

This summer, rather than flying Air France to DeGaulle, I flew British Airways through Heathrow to Lyon Saint-Exupéry, a train station and airport named after the author of "Le Petit Prince," Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. I can't recall ever wanting to spend MORE time in an train station or airport -- but this is not a place to be rushed through and endured. This is a destination, a small wonder, a work of art. As art, it is not merely visually appealing, it evokes feelings and associations and memories. As the fox tells the Little Prince, "on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur" ("one sees clearly only with the heart"). I realize I sound a little goofy waxing on about an airport but, really, this is something quite special.

If Eero Saarinen's Dulles Airport terminal looks like an aircraft wing, Saint-Exupéry appears to be a marvelous, metal bird perched on a concrete field but ready for flight. Designed by the world famous Spanish engineer and architect Santiago Calatrava, the train station connects directly to the main airport terminal and airport hotel. Calatrava's design was selected in open competition and built between 1989 and 1994. (Check out his current projects slated for New York, Chicago and Dallas.) Why more people don't use this lovely port of entry for coming and back and forth to France -- why I haven't used it until now -- is beyond me. Many of the fast TGV trains (train a grande vitesse) connecting Paris with Geneva and southern France stop at the Lyons Airport (as well as at the main station in central Lyons, Part Dieu), so for anyone traveling to Switzerland or points south, Lyon is far easier than going through Paris. The airport is an easy 20-minute cab ride from central Lyons, a lively, sophisticated, beautiful and underrated city built not along just one river like Paris, but two.

On my way back to the States, I took the TGV to Lyon and had the surprising pleasure of a walk through the station, a lofty, exhilarating interior with windows like glass feathers and bones of steel. There was barely a soul in the entire place -- a couple of SNCF employees, a dozen passengers who rushed from train to plane, leaving me for a few minutes virtually alone. When I finally tore myself away, it took just two minutes to walk to the main terminal and an additional two minutes more to cross the small airport plaza to the NH Lyon Airport Hotel. Total time from station platform to registration desk, about 5 minutes.

The NH, by the way, is quite a bargain. For a little more than $100 (book ahead), I had a comfortable, clean, stylish room that overlooked the main terminal and was absolutely silent. Pleasant staff at the desk, nice deep tub, flat-panel TV, fluffy pillows. Just about everything you could ask for in an airport hotel. Getting out the next morning was entirely stress-free. Paris is now my second choice as a place to enter France and catch the TGV. And the increase in passenger traffic at DeGaulle and Orly is only going to get worse, making Lyons an ever more attractive port of call.

Delicacy and discretion in a bottle

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 06:58:00 +0000

It used to take a lot of courage to admit that, for the most part, I prefer rosé wine. People would look at me with the barely concealed contempt of someone witnessing a diner at Le Benardin ordering Manischewitz. But this summer, both The New York Times AND The Financial Times have written in defense of the much-maligned petite rosé.

The FT's Andrew Jefford does a particularly nice job of explaining the allure of the pretty, pale cousin to France's reds and whites. He notes that these are wines to be savored not stored, that they are for drinkers, not collectors.

There's nothing better than a crisp, cold rosé that refreshes on a hot summer afternoon and goes with all kinds of food. And while I appreciate Jefford's sharing a short list of his favorite domain, I'm surprised that he didn't include a single wine from Tavel, the only Appellation Controllee in all of France specializing in rose.

Tavel was producing wine all the way back to when the Romans ruled Gaul and by the 17th century the wines of Tavel had an international following. It gained its AOC classification in 1936, and the village built the cooperative cellar in 1939. The cellar now includes 36 estates and individual cellars producing five million bottles -- 20% of which are exported -- roughly 45% of the region's production.

With all the recent press attention, it's probably a good thing that an official Rosé Research Center has been set up to oversee the image of the wine, how it is presented and described. They've suggested nine descriptors for the flavor, including apricot, mango, raspberry and red currant. I think they need to add another word to the list -- yummy.

August & Antiques in L'Isle sur la Sorgue

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 06:49:00 +0000

Twice a year for the last 42 years, the antiques mecca known as L'Isle sur la Sorgue has hosted an international antique brocante that attracts hundreds of vendors and shoppers from throughout Europe. The fair fills the city park and flows out along the crystal clear, swift-flowing canal that encircles the town. I was able to make the fair in April -- on a cold, windy day threatening rain -- but I'm going to miss the one going on this weekend. If you are anywhere in the area around Avignon, Marseilles or Aix-en-Provence, head for L'Isle sur la Sorgue.

There are about 300 permanent antique dealers in L'Isle and that number more than doubles every weekend when the village holds a very well-known antiques flea market on Sunday. During summer months in the market, you'll hear nearly as much English, Italian and German being spoken as French. The selection of antiques is both expansive and expensive -- if you're used to shopping in lesser known brocantes or vides greniers as I am. Still, you can still find some excellent items at fair prices if you're patient. Like any market in Provence, you want to arrive early for the best deals. The vendors buy from each other before the customers arrive and being part of those first sales yields bargains.

An old seed advertisement

L'Isles sur la Sorgue Antique Fair last Spring

Last April, I bought a half-dozen hemp grain sacks dating from World War II in excellent condition at about 10 euros each ($13) to someday be used for upholstery but now being used to store linens. I wish I'd bought the surplus 1950s Swiss Army blankets in steel gray with red crosses on them, selling for about 60 euros ($75). I don't have the blankets but I do have the memory of the amusing exchange I had with the vendor when I expressed the wish that the Swiss military made blankets in queen size. He laughed so hard he almost gave me one. Almost. Things were busy in the military surplus tent, but I heard a number of vendors complain that sales were slow because of the economic crisis in Europe. The economic outlook seems a bit better now, but my friend who sells in several other local flea markets says summer is never great for business. Tourists come in droves, but few are interested in buying any larger items to take home. If you're the exception and you're willing to schlep your purchases home, you should be able to negotiate a very fair price this time of year.

Never too early for a glass of wine

The Sunday flea market in L'Isle dates to 1966, when just 14 vendors gathered to sell old furniture, paintings and antiques on a Sunday afternoon. A little local publicity helped make the event a great success and it continued to grow gradually over the years, picking up steam in the 1980s with an increase in tourism, continuing publicity and a strong dollar. Over the last decade, L'Isle has seen a 128% growth in sales by the permanent antique dealers and those working the Sunday market.

Sitting in traffic or searching for a place to park on Sunday morning, it's hard to remember that L'Isle sur la Sorgue was once a tiny village of fisherman. It was an island surrounded by marshlands that were drained by the construction of the canals that now criss-cross town. Tourist brochures refer to the town as the "Venice of the Comtat" and in the 12th century, water wheels were built along the canals to grind flour. Later, these were used for the silk and wool industries, which made the town extremely rich. (More on the silk trade in a later post.) A few of those 72 original waterwheels survive today. And fishing for trout is still very popular on the Sorgue -- although, perhaps, not as popular as fishing for bargains.

Armchair adventurer

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 23:49:00 +0000

I confess. I'm addicted. If I buy one more Côte Sud, Elle Deco, Maison Francaise, Arts & Décoration, Ambiances, Campagnes Décoration, Mon Jardin or any other French decorating or art magazine, I'm going to need another house to store them in. With magazines perched on coffee tables, bookshelves, even stacked under the bed, I've run out of space. Now, I've begun now to collect links to blogs on design, especially French design, with the same obsession the caused the overflow of magazines. You can't hold a link the way you can hold the slick paper and satisfying weight of a magzine, but you don't have to dust them, either. This fascination with the decorative arts isn't new. In fact, I've been interested in design, including French design, for as long as I can remember.

I suspect, if I'd been better in math, I would have been an architect. When other little girls were snuggling baby dolls or playing house, I was designing mine -- drawing floorplans with crayons and imagining castles with rainbow roofs.

Salon, Le Clair de la Plume

As an adult, this love for interior design and decorative art translated into serial home buying. I found great fun in the first house I ever bought -- a plain wooden box -- that I gussied up with a pretty interior and flowery garden, sold at a nice profit to buy another one and begin decorating again. Six houses and 18 years later, I'm still having fun and in the three years since I bought my home in France, I've just had a blast filling it.

Furnishing a house is less about acquiring objects than it is about acquiring knowledge. I've bought little, but learned much. I've learned to identify French furnishings by name, the way some people can identify birds -- the delicate Saint Hubert, the diminuitive bonneterie, the difference between a Bergere, Voltaire and Louis XIV. I've discovered an ancient, Rube Goldberg-style factory in Provence where a brother and sister are the last to maintain a 19th century tradition of hand making brightly-hued coconut fiber rugs. I've met painters and potters and professors of decorative arts who were kind enough to explain the influence of nature in 17th and 18th Provencal architecture. Being an eager, appreciative student seems to bring out the teacher in everyone I meet. So the search for a single chair becomes an excuse to meet people who share my passion, a chance to explore new corners of Provence, a key to learning more about the history and culture of France, an adventure. I take my time; each piece has a story. And I have many more stories than any single house could ever hold.

Provence is a paradise for people passionate about decorative arts. You don't need to be in Paris to have access to fantastic museums filled with beautiful objects and generous curators willing to share their knowledge. There's no better place for open-air markets, amazing out-of-the-way antiquaires and brocantes, the serendipitous greniers vides. In the next few posts, I'm going to share some of what I've learned and hope that I'll hear from others who share my interest in art, decor and my deep affection for France.
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Patriot Act Fallout: More Americans Giving Up Citizenship

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 14:37:00 +0000

My run-in with the so-called Patriot Act began with a leaky roof.

I'd been told that "all old houses in France leak," so I wasn't shocked when water began flowing into the house from my lovely roof terrace. It need to be fixed.

About two months ago, I started trying to transfer a few thousand dollars to France for the repairs. I called the currency trading company in London that helped me transfer money to buy my house, Currencies Direct, and was told rather brusquely that they no longer worked with American clients. Apparently, last November, some measure within the Patriot Act took effect that barred the transfer of funds. Or made it impossibly cumbersome and potentially risky for currency traders. At least that's what I was told. To move the money, I'd have to prove I "lived" in France. My bank in Texas also was reluctant to wire the funds -- despite the fact that I needed less than $10,000 and I've been an excellent customer for about a decade.

Ultimately, I figured it out but the experience made it clear that the U.S. Government is seriously tightening the screws on the freedom of its citizens. I found the experience more than just a nuisance, I found it frightening. So I was not surprised when the New York Times ran a story today describing the myriad problems that are so serious they're causing expatriate Americans to renounce their citizenship. The article says expats are taking such a dramatic step based on financial issues, not politics. I'm not so sure. What is clear is that there is a lot of confusion and fear among American expatriates and even those, like me, who live only part of the year abroad. And it is clear that the Treasury Department is ignoring official requests for relief for Americans living abroad. I wonder why?

I'd be very curious to know what other people are experiencing. Are you having trouble with your U.S. bank, with transferring funds? What are you hearing about the experience of others?

Sunday, market day

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 00:05:00 +0000

Sunday morning is no time for lazing about. Sunday is flea market day, and the goal is to get out the door after one small coffee for a morning drive to some nearby village and eager vendors with all sorts of fascinating things to sell. There are several kinds of outdoor flea markets, fancy schmancy antiquity markets, more modest brocantes and the truly modest vide greniers. Brocantes can be fancy or modest, large and small, with everything from beautiful carved bonnetiere to old faience and ancient tools. Vide Greniers -- literally, emptying the granary -- are closer to what Americans might think of as a neighborhood yard sale but with vendors whose families may have been in the neighborhood for centuries, collecting some pretty wonderful old stuff the entire time. Vide Greniers are much less pricey than the other fleas and I've bought everything from a used iron for 1 euro to fine hand-embroidered linen pillow cases that would cost four times more in a brocante.

Professional antique dealers with fancy shops get to the brocantes and vide greniers early before things have been picked over and the heat of the day has set in. In the summer, tourists start pouring in around 10 so the goal is to get there around 8, earlier for some markets like Villeneuve-les-Avignon where everything is out and buyers already are negotiating full force by 7.

Every market has its own style and feeling and every object has its story so just asking, "what's this?" can generate an entire history lesson or a glimpse into an mostly forgotten way of life. Last weekend I saw my first silk bobbins, lovely carved wooden arcs of less than 3 inches shaped like waves. I purchased two with colorful silk thread still wound tight and ready for use in making a pinafore or bustled skirt. The bobbins date from the Industrial Revolution and when I asked about them I was lucky enough to hear a long history of the silk trade, the worms raised in the Ardeche and the flourishing 18th century silk industry in Lyons.

Often, I just wander through the markets listening to conversations and watching the interactions between buyers and sellers, couples, friends and families, all out shopping for the day. But if I'm not careful, I also can wind up with an empty wallet by late Sunday afternoon. So last weekend I set of goal of not spending for any single object more than I'd spend on seeing a movie. Here's what I brought home. Christmas presents? Perhaps, if I can bear to part with them.

A tiny, perfect porcelain vase made in Limoges. My friend Guy said it was for a "rose d'amour." He was making fun of me, but I think he's right. It's just perfect for a single, tiny tea rose from someone you love.

A funky, handpainted souvenir, probably from the 1920's and found here:

There were two, and the other one said "Souvenir de Monte Carlo."

Six yards of 19th century, handmade lace. I've been buying a lot of lace lately and am going to do a future post on what I've learned. Regardless, it's just so pretty. Stitch this on anything and it would be elegant.

A plastic piggy bank in the form of a French post-office box. A dealer threw this in as a gift with another small purchase. Very silly. Love it.

A pretty glass bottle with tiny red flowers painted in relief around its fat belly and a bright green line around the rim, like a choker around a pretty girl's neck.

A tiny Berger pitcher, big enough for a Pastis for one.

A hand-painted, blue and white vase from Moustiers, with a bird on one side, a musician and bird on the other and little bees and flowers on the top.

A pair of 18th century cast-iron locks from an old commode or armoire. I dug through a large tin box containing dozens of other patterns before I picked this one. They were all pretty and I learned you can use these locks to help date a piece of furniture. I'm going back to that antique hardware vendor -- an woman of about 85 in a well-used straw hat who drives a hard bargain -- to learn more about the lovely locks she sells.

A tart baking dish from Luneville, which has been making faience in this same pattern for about 300 years. The mark on this one, which looks brand new, is from around 1922 -- which is new by brocante standards.

With all of these objects and a few more on the back seat of the car, I drove home from the markets through a valley filled at every turn with wisteria and the first pale leaves of spring. An altogether satisfying Sunday.

A Sunday Drive in Early Spring

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 18:45:00 +0000

It has been an unusually cold and rainy spring here. The mimosa on the village square that has usually lost its blooms by March has lasted all the way into mid-April. That tree is such a brilliant and definite yellow that since I first saw it, I've never been able to hear the word "yellow" without thinking of it.

I've been putting my vases of tulips and ranunculus on the windowsill at night to keep them fresh and turning the heaters on first thing in the morning before bundling up to go downstairs to make coffee. All around, the twisted branches of the plane trees and vines seem especially bare now that wildflowers are blooming at their feet and they seem ready to get dressed. By this time last year, the vines were fluffy with pale green leaves and I was sleeping with the windows thrown wide open.

So I and my friend visiting from Italy were especially grateful Sunday for a warm and sunny day that encouraged us to hit the road. The excuse were visits to the flea markets in Roix and Le Tour, but all along the way we meandered, stopping to admire an almond tree so white it seems to glow or shoot pictures of fields blanketed with eye-popping blue flowers that made me feel a little better about missing the bluebonnets this year in Texas (which, I hear, are stunning after a couple of pretty thin years).

Then, alarmingly, it was 1 p.m. and we were hungry and if you don't find a place to eat in southern France before they stop serving at 2 on Sunday then your options for food -- like those bluebonnets in years past -- are thin on the ground. We raced for the nearest town, Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, which I normally try to avoid. Isle is a famous tourist destination and there are times in the summer when you hear more English spoken than French. The Sunday market is large and varied and includes a substantial number of antiques vendors, befitting a town whose economy is built on selling very nicely polished items at sky high prices. In the summer, you can't park, can't find a table for lunch, can't get through the crowds and anyway, why bother when there are so many wonderful places to go? But this Sunday in Isle reminded me of why it became such a popular destination in the first place.

We ate beside the canal that encircles the island ("isle"), the water glass green, swiftly flowing and transparent, allowing a view of small fish and graceful water grasses. The sun was warm, there were relatively few tourists, the crowd at the cafe was relaxed and lively, and as the vendors took down their tents and came in for lunch, the joking and wine increased in volume. Then the music started, a committed accordionist of the old school providing drama, humor and the perfect soundtrack for this little piece of paradise.

Finally, it felt like spring.

A drunk of discerning taste

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 21:56:00 +0000

I'm quite sure I'm not supposed to enjoy the advances of an anonymous drunk, particularly when he's already "dans la jus," as they say, at 11 on a Thursday morning and he's speaking to me rather loudly across a parking lot. And there is just no doubt about his state since the wind coming from his direction is saturated and I smell stale red wine even before I hear him and realize he's addressing me. But what he lacks in discretion, he makes up for in poetry. "Did you know you are beautiful, madame?" he asks, as I pass on the way to the car carrying a basket of vegetables and olive oil from the Nyons market. "Yes, yes," he insists, "you are a woman of rare beauty. Rare beauty." My birthday is later this week. I'll take the compliment. I smile all the way to the edge of town.

Pictured here, my preferred tapenade vendors. Worth a special trip in to the market on Thursdays. Nyons is famous for anything olive -- olive oil, tapenade black and green, with garlic and without, olives cured in every fashion, in bags, bottles and boxes. Yum.

Solde! Sold!

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 15:14:00 +0000

In the States, there seem to be sales going on all the time. Everything is for sale and on sale. Stores like TJ Maxx and Marshalls make finding a great bargain routine. But in France, sales are an annual ritual, overseen by government authorities, awaited with great anticipation and especially exciting because they're over so quickly. The American shopping experience is like a marriage, ongoing and predictable, whereas the French sale is like an affair, exciting and over before you know it.

There are only two official sale dates -- the summer sales (Soldes d'été) and winter sales (Solde d'hiver). Dates for both are set each year by the Minister of Economy, Industry and Employment. I nearly always take advantage of the summer sales when items from dishtowels to Dior are reduced 30%, 50% and sometimes 70%. Sales begin on the same day across the entire country, but end dates are set by each department after local government officials confer with local merchants. They last about five weeks. It is all very organized with shops often closing down for a day or two beforehand to prepare, the clerks moving behind glass or ropes re-stacking stock and dangling colorful banners and boxes from the ceiling marked with the amount of the discount.

This year's winter sale began at 8 a.m. Wednesday, January 6th, and in most places it will end around the February 10th. There's often a bit of a crush to find the best bargain in the first few days and for the biggest department stores, the winter event can represent a quarter of total annual sales. Pierre Pelarrey of Printemps on Boulevard Haussmann told Radio France Internationale on Tuesday that his department store was expecting 140,000 eager Parisians on the first day of the sale. Other retailers said the recession in France means people will be especially eager to shop the bonnes affaires this year.

Which is to say, if you are in Paris this month, avoid the sidewalks around Printemps, Galeries Lafayette, Le Bon Marche or BHV over the next few weeks -- unless you intend to join the fun.

AP Photo by an old colleague in the Paris bureau, Lionel Cironneau.

Another Reason to Appreciate French Trains

noreply@blogger.com (Sydney Rubin) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 08:10:00 +0000

I love the romance of train stations, the rush of people dashing for departing cars, the embraces on arrival. I like the lofty iron canopies of the old stations and the sleek glass walls of the new ones. But in winter and during the holidays with everyone on the move, standing in crowds and drafts? Not so much. So I was happy to find this very nifty site put up by SNCF, Gare en Mouvement, a virtual station that lets you check on possible delays before you head for the station. There's all kinds of useful info. You can check arrivals and departures, whether the station has WiFi, the location of parking around the station, train connections -- and you can do it for stations all over the country in five languages. (Drawing from the charming Paris Sketchbook of British animation artist Matt Jones)