no more material girl: on prioritizing passion

I am a woman conflicted. acs_0023

Part of me frets to be fashionable.

I like the way I look, but sometimes it isn’t enough. Je me critique. I need to try harder, spend more money, spend more time.

Then I remember–all I can afford right now is a stream of espresso. The espresso buys me something more valuable: space to write. Hours and pages to fill. Time to work in the lively environment I crave: a bit of clatter and conversation the perfect background to ideas rising like bubbles. I am limited only by my ancient Macbook’s battery life and the closing time of the cafe.

Forget the money, anyway. The real problem is the time. There isn’t enough of it, and I’d rather spend what I’ve got writing. I am hunched over my laptop or I am scribbling unsteadily on my commute or I am seized by an idea while grocery shopping that I must labor to transcribe via a tiny qwerty keyboard.

I am squinting, biting off my lipstick. I am in the zone, my appearance of no concern.img_7950

But when I am idea-less, unfocused, it is easy to see my flaws and easy to care about them. I sit, chewing a pen, taking in my surroundings. Look at her, Mademoiselle Whoever on the sidewalk, on a date, walking a well-coiffed dog. Perfectly put-together. Look at her, frozen in laughter or coquettishness on a poster for perfume.

And me. Crumbs dot my clothing (how do you eat a croissant without this problem?). My hair is not in any arrangement you could call a ‘style.’ My nail polish is chipped. I look tired.

There’s a fix, though, for all of that. And sometimes I give it my time, determining these things a worthy concern. Truthfully, I’ve wasted much time here. I’ve been a material girl, and I do know why: it can be a relief to focus on something so concrete. Change your clothes, change your life. Shopping trips and haircuts and magazines, all of it bursting with promise.

But it’s all distraction. When I spend so much time getting ready to leave my house, so much time caring about it, I feel an undercurrent of dread.

I like looking put-together; I enjoy highly impractical shoes. But this is not what I love. This is not my passion. When my appearance gets more attention than it deserves, my real dream pleads for attention.

I want to write. That’s the real dream.

They say you’re either scared of failure or you’re scared of success. I could never determine which was true for me. Can it be both? What to do when your dream feels so fragile you’re scared to pick it up?

For a long time my writing dream was sitting pretty on a high shelf. It looked good up there, shiny. I wasn’t going to sully it with, say, hard work, risk, or failure.

It was pleasant to guard my dream like a collector’s item. Better to amuse myself with fun frivolity, things of no real consequence. I’d dust my dream off occasionally, make sure it was still there. I’d write a few pages when the mood struck–and look, I could show it to friends!

But I don’t want a ceramic cherub for a dream. img_7421

That means work. That means time. That means sacrifice, letting some things fall by the wayside (like maybe my impossible hair). That means learning to silence the distractions. When the voice pops up, the one that says that my appearance (or whatever distraction du jour) is what deserves my time and energy, I tell it to shut up. I glance at my harried reflection in the window of a designer store with a shrug and a smile. I keep working.

I’m probably not ready for my close-up.

But I’m a writer.

how to speak to Santa Claus in French

We’ve survived a bleak November, and Montluçon is getting its Christmas makeover. bienvenue

Music plays and lights sparkle into the night. The festivities are a little haphazard: instead of one cohesive carnival, there are attractions scattered around the city. Bumper cars at the foot of the chateau, some food stands across the street. A five minute walk brings you to the main attraction: the little marché de Nöel in front of the Hôtel de Ville.

France loves its Christmas markets. Typically, they last all throughout December, and are set up like a little Christmas village. You stroll around and eat, drink, shop, and play games or go on rides.

I was pleased to find that Montluçon does one too. It’s small but quite charming, with little booths that look like elf-sized log cabins forming the perimeter of the space. At these booths you can buy wool scarves, fine chocolates, sausages, fondue cheese… There’s a tiny skating rink with a big Christmas tree in the middle, an oyster bar, and, my favorite, several stands selling cups of vin chaud, steaming hot and ladled out of huge silver pots.

Vin chaud, or hot mulled wine, is a magical drink, tasting more like Christmas than anything I’ve ever tried. It’s made with red wine, wintery spices, and something to make it sweet, such as honey.

My favorite café here does it best. The flavor is perfection and they give you a little spoon to capture the grosseille berries and orange slices at the bottom of the glass. The café is in the medieval part of town (a circular area near the Cher river). It’s called Les 12 Apôtres (the 12 Apostles) and is right next to a medieval church and across from a used bookstore selling ancient Tintin comic books. montlucon-dusk-moto

du-vin-chaudLast night we went to the marché to have a glass of vin chaud for Mary’s birthday.

The wine wasn’t as good as my dear 12 Apôtres, but the atmosphere was festive, and who did we see but Santa Claus.

It was definitely him, Père Noël, but his shoulders were stooped, his steps slow. He trudged around the festivities in a slow circle. Even from behind, he looked decidedly unjolly. And disconcertingly thin.

Still, we wanted a picture. I didn’t want to catch up until I had my approach. Typically, Santa does the work: well what would you like for Christmas? But I had a feeling that French Santa, probably unaccustomed to the demands of American consumerism, would stare at me blankly after my bonsoir. What do you want and why are you bothering me? No twinkle in his insouciant French eye.

We walked slowly behind him, waiting for the right moment. “This looks creepy. We have to stop doing this,” Mary said as I took a picture of him with my camera.

“Fine, let’s just go.” As we sped up, something came to me. “Wait! Do you tutoie Santa Claus?” Tu versus vous (informal vs formal form of address) is often ambiguous even for the French. There are some clear rules: you always use vous with strangers (unless, say, someone runs off with your purse), you never use it with children or animals (inquire after a cat’s well-being with comment allez-vous and look at the smirks you’ll get). Usually I do okay, not without my share of accidental tu‘s and hasty corrections, but this was one of those situations they don’t teach you in school. Does politesse entail using the formal form of address with Santa Claus, a Christmas character in a velvet suit?

Probably. 

We got our pictures, and as expected, he was not exactly full of cheer. No Joyeux Nöel, even. He did, however, leave us with a mumbled à bientôt (see you soon).mary-et-pere-noel

I won’t get my hopes up. While my list would include perfume, Chanel nail polish, travel money, a food processor, and a nice pillow, French Santa would probably just tell me to appreciate what I already have; eat more salad.

I’ll have to count on American Santa, if he can find me here. We don’t even have a fireplace.hotel-de-ville

there are snails in the salad: adventures in renting

 

In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and lettuce. 

Had Benjamin Franklin rented from Monsieur C, his famous line might have looked a little different. I can rarely foresee what challenges life in France will throw at me, but I am always confident there will be lettuce in the fridge.

It all started with a simple question. One day Monsieur C asked Mary: tu aimes la salade ? 

Yeah, I like salad, she responded. The deed was done. Sentenced to salad without parole. Daily, Monsieur C knocks on the door that separates the two living spaces, shouting his classic âllo ? Je peux ? and offers us a big bag of fresh lettuce from the garden. C’est bonne, la salade ! It’s not a question.

Unfortunately, neither of us much like lettuce.

Bags of it crowd our fridge. It sits wilting, forgotten, on our countertops.

I tried to tactfully tell Monsieur C that, you know, we’re really doing okay on the lettuce thing. It’s more than we can eat! 

I know, he said. Vous mangez pas beaucoup! Vous mangez pas beaucoup!

(You girls don’t eat much!) 

He explained that that was why he had been giving us such small daily portions. An image of our fridge, home to scores of wilting green leaves, flashed through my mind.

Anyway, I’ll bring you some more tonight! Bon après-midi ! Conversation over.

I smiled weakly, the light surely gone from my eyes. What could I say but, merci. C’est très gentil. 

Sometimes, guilty, we do make a salad: a task which typically involves the setting free of a live snail or two. Open the window, set it on the ledge, send it on its way.

Last week we found a slug.

lettuce

The upside is that salad has become our measuring stick, a real source of motivation. If we’re waffling about going out and doing something, we put it to the salad test. Okay, we either get ready now, catch the 6:56 bus, or we stay here and eat salad. 

That’s usually enough. We’re running to our rooms and scrambling for our coats in no time.

The lettuce thing represents just one of the many little misunderstandings that are bound to happen, when you think about it, when you put together a traditional French man in his seventies and two lively American girls in their early twenties.

In early October, when Mary moved in, he said to me one day: Vous vous entendez bien, hein? (You two get along well!)

Yes! I said brightly. We do! 

I know, he said flatly. I can hear you.

What he doesn’t know is that his two renters are often awakened from sleep in the morning by the sound of him sneezing. From downstairs.

The generation gap is impossible to ignore. I think we baffle each other. Monsieur C thinks, for example, that we hang out in cafés in an effort to meet boys. A 4 pm pot of jasmine tea with notebooks out for lesson plans…and we’re there to flirt? His interpretation had me scratching my head until I realized that, with his particular values and no-nonsense practicality, he probably just doesn’t understand why someone would pay for coffee and tea when you could make it at home. But his idea becomes even more hilarious when you consider that rarely, in any of the cafés I frequent, do I encounter someone under the age of forty.

In any case, I am a happy renter. The house is lovely (and rent is unbeatably cheap). It’s pretty, with big windows and bright orange shutters, surrounded by roses, vines, and well-fed cats. We have the main floor while Monsieur C lives in the lower part of the house that opens out to the back garden.la-maison

I am unaccustomed to having a landlord who is so…present, but Monsieur C is a thoughtful man in many ways. If he knocks on the door to talk about rent, it’s usually with a few clementines in hand. Tiens ! One for you, one for ta copine. He’ll give us a bag of chestnuts and tell us how to cook them, or leave us a couple of ripe pears.

He’s thoughtful, yes, but I can’t say niceNice is too tame a word for Monsieur C. He’s the sort of man surely described by his friends as a rascal. Probably, too, by his enemies, of which I’m almost certain he has at least a few.

He is always yelling merde! Or calling someone a con, then asking if I know what that means. Sometimes he drives me places, to the bank or insurance office, and he’ll slow down in the middle of the street to yell at a friend he sees. Passing drivers then might honk, and he’ll yell at them to slow down, but if he’s the one in a hurry he’ll yell some version of, hurry up, Grandma! to someone taking their time.

Yesterday he gave me a ride home from town–I was carrying a bouquet of flowers and trying to catch Mary on her 23rd birthday before she left for work–and as we passed a house a a few blocks away from home, he slowed down the car and gestured to a tree. You see that? You see that cherry tree? Ça c’est un beau cerisier, ça. 

It wasn’t the innocent observation of an avid gardener. Monsieur C proceeded to tell me a story. He had once asked the man whose garden it was to let him have a branch, start his own cherry tree. The man refused. I offered to pay him, Monsieur C said, and he still said no! He wouldn’t take my money! 

So what did he do? One night, around three a.m. as the man slept, Monsieur C crept through the fence, snipped off what he wanted from the cherry tree and roared off in his car.

I laughed, incredulous. So did you leave him a bit of money in exchange? Ben non ! He didn’t want it.

So this accounts for that tree in our backyard…probably the most dramatic cherry tree story since George Washington.

All’s fair in love and gardening, apparently.