No Longer the Odd Couple

So, as I was saying, we have new neighbors. Technically, though, I suppose they aren’t really all that new. They’ve owned the house down the road from ours for ages, but haven’t set foot in it for years. That all changed last spring, though, when they took a renewed interest in the house and started fixing the place up.

But what’s so special about this new couple? Why does anyone care? What could be fascinating enough to make the locals forget all about the American girl and her posh, extravagant ways? First of all, it’s this: one makes her living as a successful documentary filmmaker in Switzerland, where they live for the majority of the year when not out hob-nobbing with other European filmmakers in Paris and other chic locales. Second, it’s this: the other is heiress to the Tesco fortune. Tesco, in case you didn’t know, is the fourth-largest retailer in the world, upstaged only by Wal-Mart, Carrefour and Home Depot. And third: they’re both thin and beautiful.

So let’s be honest here. There’s no way I’m ever going to be more interesting than glamorous, hot, multi-billionaire lesbians. Never.

They drew the attention of the locals when the construction projects started. The new gate, the pool house, the stone driveway lined with floodlights and olive trees, it all made for a vast increase in heavy truck traffic up and down our road. And predictably, everyone knew someone who was involved in the work. Robert, the retired hunter who is my source for truffles, got himself hired on the crew that did the tile for their pool. Well, for one of their pools. There are two. One is a large infinity pool, the edge that gives the visual effect of extending to the horizon facing a view of Mont St. Victoire. The other is a Japanese reflecting pool, shallow enough that its owners can lie flat in it and contemplate the sky. Robert gave me all the details, down to how much they paid for the Italian tile surrounding the pool areas. And you guys thought our Passat was expensive! Ha! I thought.

But that’s not all. They also have a Turkish hammam (steam bath) with a domed ceiling that features tiny inlaid lights in the shape of the constellations one would see from it if there were no ceiling. And lest a culture go unrepresented, they also have a ger (otherwise known as a yurt), which is a Mongolian tent made of yak skin that sources say was installed on the property by a Mongolian man that they flew over here specially for that purpose. I bet the man’s parents had initially been disappointed when he chose a future in yak tents as opposed to a career in medicine or the law. Little did they know that he would rise to the top of his profession and rich, sexy foreigners would someday finance trips around the globe for his yak tent expertise. Who’s laughing now, mom and dad?

Needless to say, I ate up all these details with glee. These people thought my dryer was an unnecessary luxury! Ha!

The grand opening of this multi-culti palace happened while we were in the U.S., so we didn’t score an invitation and had to rely on the neighbors for all the details. They had tables set up around the infinity pool, which was lit from spotlights within and surrounded by twinkly lights strung everywhere. Uniformed waiters circulated the crowd with trays of sushi resting on banana leaves. Posh entertainment industry types sipped champagne and were entranced by a magician who performed illusory feats with colored glass balls. A DJ from a Paris nightclub provided the music. At one point, they were using so much electricity that everything shorted out and one of the neighbors had to go down the road and do whatever it is that you do with the circuit box to get the juice flowing again. All in all, it was a rather Fellini-esqe spectacle, especially from the viewpoint of Provençal natives who had never even tasted sushi before.

Our swanky new neighbors have gone to one of their other houses now, presumably not to return until next summer. But they have left a sea change in their wake. Have you noticed the difference? It’s not just that they’ve usurped my throne as the reigning queen of the bizarre. All their glamour and grandeur has made me look downright normal by comparison. I’m normal! * And the people of Cadenet are now gossiping to me rather than about me. I’m one of them now. And it feels good.

* I am fully aware of how absurd it is that it took gorgeous multi-billionaire lesbians who basically live inside a Benetton ad to make me look normal, so there’s no use pointing it out.

Le Freak, C’est Chic

Great news! I am no longer the most bizarre thing to happen to the little village of Cadenet.

For years, I was. No question about it. There are certainly other foreigners living here, but I am the only American to call it home. And despite the fact that in the States you rarely hear the words “the French” without the words “hate us” immediately following them, nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, coming from the land of blue jeans, Coca-Cola, hip-hop music, “Friends,” McDonald’s, Harley-Davidson, Hollywood, cowboys, the Blues and “Sex and the City” made me rather exotic to the locals. And it didn’t hurt that I looked the part, too. I was young(ish) and blonde, which is what the French expect a real American to be. And unlike the the boring elderly couples who usually move to the South of France to run out the clock, I wasn’t coming here to die, I was moving here to live, and they couldn’t wait to see how I was going to do it.

I was a subject of fascination, to be sure, but not in the same way that everyone is fascinated by the new kid in second grade and competes to befriend her. It was more like being the new kid in high school, when everyone already has all the friends they need and the interest is in observing you from a distance to see if you’ll wear something weird or say something stupid and give everyone something to talk about at lunchtime. If my sources are to be believed, there was actually some wagering going on. When they heard that I was moving from Chicago to a house in the countryside and that my French wasn’t even good enough to get a job here, some bet that I wouldn’t last a year. It gives me some satisfaction to know that those who believed in me made a little money at the expense of those who didn’t.

But believers or not, they all kept an eye on me. They noted what I bought at the bakery and what I ordered at the café. They talked about what I picked up at the pharmacy and speculated about which salon I would choose to cut my hair. My preferences stopped being a matter of individual taste and became cultural characteristics. When I asked for a baguette “pas trop cuit,” the lady at the bakery replied, “Ah, yes, that’s how Americans like their bread.” I wanted to correct her; to say, “No, no, that’s just how I like my bread. You can’t assume that all Americans share the same tastes as me.” At the time, though, my ability to communicate such a thought in French was pretty poor and there was a long line behind me. So I just paid for my baguette and left, reflecting on the awesome responsibility of being the cultural representation of a nation of 300 million people and wondering exactly how bad I was going to end up making us all look.

Then we bought a new car, and the tongues really started wagging. Oh my God, did you see it? It’s so expensive and fancy! And it’s huge! Just look at the size of that thing! They must be planning to have a family, what other reason could there be for such an enormous car? But then again, all Americans are rich and extravagant, you know. What I found impressive about this incident was that with one single purchase, I had managed to both shock them and reinforce their preconceived notions at the same time. And with just a Volkswagen Passat. Not bad.

I also remember the dinner party at which I expressed frustration that the washer and dryer we had ordered still hadn’t been delivered. Polite curiosity followed. A dryer? Why did I want a dryer? Well, so I don’t have to hang all the clothes outside to dry. But why don’t you want to do that? Well, it’s time-consuming, and everything comes back all wrinkly and needing to be ironed. And you don’t want to iron? …Wait a minute. Was this a trick question? Of course I don’t want to iron. Who wants to iron? Certainly not me. I don’t think I have ironed since the early nineties. Things that need ironing go to the dry cleaner, thank you very much. And before that, my college roommate would occasionally exchange her ironing services for my homework services. The exchange rate was about five shirts per assignment, though this would vary depending on whether or not there were a lot of essay questions or difficult fabrics.

But I was not going to tell the French all of this.

Unfortunately, there was really no way out of answering the question, though. They already knew that a dryer was on its way to our house. “Um, no, I guess I don’t like ironing much,” I said, trying to sound vague and casual but knowing deep down that I had just condemned every hapless tourist whose linen pants came out of the suitcase looking a bit rumpled to a litany of criticism. “Just look at that,” the French would say to one another over their morning coffee. “Shameful. But then, what do you expect? Americans don’t iron their clothes.”

So they watched me, discussed me and judged me for nearly three years. It made me feel like a kind of low-level celebrity. Not the kind that people ask for an autograph or want to get their picture taken with, but the kind that has to make an effort to look presentable in public, otherwise someone is sure to take a picture with their phone and laugh about it with their friends later. So not like Gwyneth Paltrow, but more like the weather girl at your local affiliate. And for those of you who say that I shouldn’t care so much about what people think, let me remind you that I represent you here. If I’m a slob, you’re all slobs. If I have lettuce in my teeth or salad dressing on my face, so do you. “Americans can’t eat a salad properly,” they’ll say. I’m also talking about just looking presentable here, the basics, like wearing a bra and running a comb through your hair, which is really the minimum amount of effort anyone should make (ahem, Tara Reid, are you paying attention?).

But thankfully, that’s all in the past now. No one cares about me anymore. I’m free to let my freak flag fly. I am no longer the strangest thing in Cadenet… We have new neighbors.

Stay tuned for more soon!

They Say Hunger Makes a Thief of Any Man

Our favorite restaurant was broken into recently. It’s a tiny little place in a tiny little town called Lauris. It’s not the type of restaurant that would be mentioned in any guidebook, and it doesn’t have any Michelin stars. The decor isn’t fancy; there aren’t any little footstools next to a lady’s chair to hold her handbag. From time to time, they take the artwork down and put up a collection of paintings from a local artist. And the food isn’t pretentious; just fresh ingredients prepared simply and never served in the shape of a ridiculous little tower surrounded by a moat of sauce. I tend to order the same thing every time, though the special of the day is always good. Yolande takes the reservations and waits on tables, while her husband cooks. She knows us by name and always gives us a good table, and he always comes out from the kitchen to say hello to us, a gesture that draws glances from the other tables, who wonder who we are and make us feel like big shots.

We love it.

Last year, we threw a little surprise party for Johann’s grandparents’ anniversary there. Our neighbor recently bought a limosine in an effort to break into Provence’s tourism industry, so he offered to pick them up in it. They arrived in the limosine to the cheers of friends and family, who were just as surprised by the limo as Marco and Maryse were by the crowd waiting for them at the restuarant.

It’s not often that one sees a limosine in this area, so its appearance was talked about for days afterward in Lauris. Yolande later told us that she went to the café in the village a couple of days after the party and was barraged with questions. Who was in the limo the other day? Was it Johnny Hallyday? I heard it was Nicholas Sarkozy! Probably some American – Johnny Depp lives in the South of France, you know. “Oh, I can’t keep track of who comes in and out of the restaurant,” she said, airily. The speculation continued as she finished her coffee and left, laughing all the way home.

So we were more than a little dismayed to hear that these nice people had been burgled. “When we heard the restaurant had been robbed, our first thought was of the paintings,” Yolande said. “They weren’t insured, so it would have been a total loss for the artist, but…” She gestured to the walls. The paintings were still there. So what did they take? The stereo? The cash box? The champagne? Some of the more expensive wines? Nope. The tip jar, a twelve-pack of beer and the cheese tray (with cheese). That’s it. When I relayed this story to my sister, she found it more than a little hard to believe. “Those were our least favorite things about France,” she said. “The service and the stinky cheese. Why would someone steal those? I mean, the beer I understand, but I don’t know what kind of person would go to all the trouble of breaking into a restaurant just for a twelver.”

What kind of person, indeed… The beer and cheese strongly indicate someone from Wisconsin might be to blame. Don’t you think? And when you factor in a jar full of change for playing pinball… Well, I’m looking in your direction, college buddies.

The News With Nothing to Hide

Comédie Tv – Nuz (météo)

There’s a new program on the French comedy channel called “Les Nuz.”

An attractive newscaster in a businesslike skirt suit and silk top delivers the day’s news on a brightly-lit set. Shortly into the broadcast, she removes the jacket. All those lights must be hot, you think to yourself as you wonder about the likelihood of successful enforcement of North Korean sanctions. Then she starts unbuttoning the shirt. Is this girl out of her mind?

Oh, she is sooooo fired, you think, as she talks about the long-awaited Afghan exhibit opening at the Guimet Museum in Paris and her shirt hits the floor. Why the hell aren’t they cutting to commercial?

Next, the skirt comes off. Unbelievable! At least she’s wearing matching undergarments on the day she showed up at work drunk, you think. That will be some small consolation later, when she’s telling the story during “group” at rehab. And Bordeaux beat Sochaux last night. Good for them.

By the time she gets to the weather, she has dispensed with the bra as well and is wearing nothing but a thong and high heels. About now, it dawns on you that “Nuz” is not only pronounced the same as the word “news,” but also the word “nus,” which is French for “naked.” The naked news. You glance at the parental advisory icon in the corner of the screen, which says that the program is not recommended for children ten years old and younger. Only in France. And Canada, apparently, where the program originated and whose version is actually called “Naked News: The Program With Nothing to Hide.”

The show doesn’t discriminate, though. There are male presenters as well, evidenced in the clip above, which begins with a cheery “Good evening, my name is Esteban and I’m a boy.” This, presumably, is in case there are viewers who find him pretty enough to be unsure or whose sexual identity is fragile enough that the prospect of seeing a man strip down to his underwear would cause an emotional crisis necessitating a hasty channel change.

If you’re interested in the Canadian version (and you’re over ten), which is in English and features female newscasters, go to: www.nakednews.com

Buongiorno from Sicily!

View of Giardini-Naxos and Mt. Etna from the Greek Theatre in Taormina.

Buongiorno! We’ve just returned from a beautiful and fun-filled week in Sicily. We started the trip by lounging around the hotel, which was even better than it looked in the photos. The weather was fantastic and the sea was still warm enough for swimming. If you venture out into the water and turn to face the shore, your view includes Mt. Etna, evidence of its continuous eruptions visible in the photo at left; the beachfront of Giardini-Naxos, its private beaches divided from one another by boulders made of volcanic rock; and off in the distance, the city of Calabria perched on the toe of Italy’s mainland. It was absolutely breathtaking.

Next we explored the hilltop city of Taormina, where we visited an ancient Greek ampitheatre in which concerts are still held. We saw some photos of the theatre lit up for an evening concert, with Mt. Etna spewing lava in the background. One can just imagine that the effect of adding an orchestra to that scene would be nothing short of spectacular.

Taormina had other virtues, such as unique churches (one featuring skulls and crossbones you could almost hear whispering “vanitas” over the heads of the newlyweds posing below them), quiet courtyards adorned with fountains and some truly phenomenal shopping. Johann and my father chose to sit out the shopping, though, and spent their afternoon drinking Italian beer at a café and listening to street musicians play “Volare” and the music from The Godfather.

Pottery shop in Taormina.

Meanwhile, my mother and I stocked up on pottery, artwork, wine, coffee, sun-dried tomatoes, pesto with pistachios (a local specialty) and capers preserved in sea salt. When we returned to the café, we found that Johann and my dad had accumulated a considerable number of beer bottle tops (Johann’s sister collects them) and had become experts on what happens when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie.

Speaking of pizza, if you’re ever in Sicily, don’t pass up a chance to go to Il Covo, where you can order your pizza diavola extra spicy and by the meter. The two thin teenagers at the table next to us ordered a meter of pizza, half of it topped with french fries! And yes, they finished it. I don’t know how, but they did. I suspect next year’s tourists will be writing home about the two fat teenagers seated at the next table.

Michael Corleone got married here.

The following day took us to the tiny villages of Forza D’Agro and Savoca, where scenes from The Godfather were filmed. It’s easy to see why these two locations were chosen, as both villages seem untouched by time. Certainly, nothing has changed since 1972, when it was filmed.

Wednesday found us on a boat with a couple from Luxembourg, a Russian man named Vincent and our captain, Peppe. When Peppe wasn’t singing Italian love songs and banging his tambourine, he showed us the caves and islands along Sicily’s coastline, including one cave that the boat actually fit into. The walls were lined with dark pink coral and the water was such a brilliant blue that it looked as if it were lit from below with spotlights. Then he pulled the S. Pietro into a quiet cove where we could take a swim in water so calm and clear that you could see the bottom, fifteen meters down. He carved into a large yellow melon while we swam and served up slices with cups of sweet almond wine when we were all back on board.

Peppe aboard the S. Pietro.

The last order of business was a trip to the foot of Mt. Etna for a wine tasting at Azienda Agricola, a vineyard in Linguaglossa owned by the (no kidding) Gambino family. The unique climate and soil conditions found at the foot of the volcano give the wine a unique taste. According to their brochcure, the soil is nearly two times richer in potassium than non-volcanic soil, which provides an equlibrium between acids and alcohol and regulates the sugar content of the grapes. (See for yourself at their site: www.agricolagambino.it)

All I know for sure is that the wines were exquisite and our hosts were charming, not at all gangster-y. With the white wines they served slices of thick Sicilian bread, sun-dried tomat
oes, eggplant and mushrooms in olive oil; all produced there on the vineyard. With the reds, a plate of sausage and cubes of fresh parmesean cheese with black peppercorns was produced. That’s just more hospitality than one expects from the Mafia, right? I did notice, though, that in the “storage” section of each wine’s organoleptic characteristics we were instructed to keep the wine “away from light sources and noises.” Really? How can a wine made at the foot of Europe’s most active volcano, which erupts in some fashion nearly every day, be sensitive to noise? I couldn’t help but picture a hit man arriving at someone’s door and being told, “not here, you’ll disturb the wine.”

If you want to see more of our vacation in Sicily, please check out the photos on the right.