Final thoughts on France

As our train slowly sways its way out of Gare du Nord before picking up speed bound for Cologne, I can’t help but reflect on the past 10 days we’ve spent in France. Several impressions stand out in recent memory:

For me, the food is the best thing about France, bar none. Ah, the food. I’ve already covered my love for the street markets in a prior entry, but this affection also extends to so many other items as well. I think I could eat croissants for breakfast every morning for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy about it. Perhaps a pain au chocolat thrown in here and there for a little variety. And crepes…

I almost enjoy watching crepes being made more than I do eating them. Well, almost. The way these vendors know how to pour the perfect amount of batter onto the steaming greased griddle and use their little sandbox toy-contraption to spread it out, then wiggle a long flat spatula under the whole thing, fold it and flip it to the other side without tearing the delicate golden brown crepe… it’s half master skill, half art form. My go-to crepe is one spread with a layer of melting drippy Nutella, but I also had a delicious savory version that was stuffed with ham, cheese, olives and mushrooms. The crepe master managed to position the cheese so that as it melted, it oozed out the sides, turning all crunchy and brown on the grill. He then folded the whole thing a couple times like origami, and handed it over. I was in raptures nibbling the crusty cheese away to get to the actual crepe-wrapped goodness inside.

A short list of the best things I’ve had to eat while in France would have to include the salads I made with my street market produce purchases; the breads, pastries and preserves at a place called Le Pain Quotient during our first Paris breakfast with hubby’s mom, thyme-scented rotisserie chicken from a Parisian butcher shop, a chocolate macaron with ganache filling, Brie-smeared baguettes, and the steak dinner I prepared in our Aix hotel room kitchenette.

Second thing worth mentioning: I do a hell of a lot of walking here, without even thinking about it. Contrary to popular belief, some French women DO get fat, but they’re few and far between. With the amount of passive exercise they get, it’s not difficult to see why this is so.

Since neither hubby nor I like being cooped up in a cramped hotel room, we make a big effort to get out and about on foot as much as possible. I always come home from our European adventures with looser-fitting pants and, in the words of my dear hubby, feeling fit as a racing snake. I’m blessed to have good genes that keep me fairly thin to begin with, but I walk my ass off when we’re abroad. Literally. I keep intending to bring a pedometer with me on these trips to see just how much ground I’m covering, but never manage to remember to buy one beforehand. No joke, we walk for MILES, and that doesn’t even include stairclimbing. Take it from someone who struggles with a perpetually flat-as-a-pancake booty — my butt has never looked better than it does right now. I may just have hubby take a photo of it for me to post, I’m so proud.

Not to mention, my European travel diet consists of often spotty meal planning. For example, we might arrive at a hotel late and not get to eat a decent dinner. Or, say, we sleep in and miss breakfast. Whatever the case, I rarely eat three full meals a day here. I know I’m definitely burning off way more calories than I’m taking in, so I don’t feel bad about allowing myself an extra croissant, real cream in my coffee, or a big honking chunk of bleu cheese. Which is cool, because the French don’t do low-fat. Why would they when food tastes this good? The closest I’ve seen to diet anything is Coca Light (Diet Coke), but no one seems to order it.

On the far end of the continuum, many of the pale waifish teenagers and early twenty-somethings in France are impossibly skinny, seeming to exist solely on cigarettes and espresso. They look nearly vampirish. It’s unnatural. I want to rip the smokes out of their mouths, hold them down in the bright sunlight and forcefeed them creme fraiche.

Which brings me to my next point: smoking. Still compulsory in these parts. It’s a minor victory that smoking has been banned inside restaurants and cafes, but anywhere al fresco, it’s still fair game. Bummer, because the best part of the whole café experience is sitting at one of the outdoor tables, sipping your coffee and simply watching the world go by. A little hard to do when you’re worrying about your toddler inhaling loads of second-hand smoke from the oblivious mademoiselle sitting two feet away. And the second you step off a train or out of a hotel lobby, you’re walking straight into the heart of darkness that is the unofficial smoking section. I grew irritated with seeing young women galore pushing baby strollers around, butts aglow and hanging out of the corners of their mouths. Alas… let’s move on.

I wholeheartedly admit, fashion is not my forte. Just ask the two gal-pals who came to my home and staged a wardrobe intervention earlier this year, dismissing nearly half the items in my closet as “Spongebob Squareshirts” and “grannywear.” It’s no surprise that I feel like a fish out of water in France. Paris, especially. The younger French women wear some crazy-ass stuff that I wouldn’t even attempt to get away with (or want to) back home – think bubble skirts and leggings, or jean shorts with black tights and knee boots in the dead of winter. I saw one guy wearing a pair of pants that were slung so low in the middle, even M.C. Hammer would have passed on them. Honestly. It looked like he took a dump in them and forgot to change.

However, with age comes wisdom. Many of the more mature women dress impeccably. I can’t even recall any actual outfits, but they all just seem put together in a way that appears simultaneously effortless and tres chic at the same time. A jaunty scarf (I’m telling you, these women know more creative knots than a sailor), fabulous footwear, a classic bob haircut, a swipe of red lipstick… they know how to pull it all off.

Fashion isn’t restricted to humans here, either. I’ve seen some seriously pampered pooches out and about, dressed in sweaters, raincoats and hats that probably cost more than I spend on my own clothes. The French LOVE their dogs. I just wish they would do a better job of cleaning up after them. Everywhere you look — poop. You really have to watch your step closely, lest you wind up with a soleful. To make matters worse, the piles are all but camouflaged this time of year by the brown leaves on the ground. Taking a stroll down the street is like walking through a minefield.

I somehow managed to tread in a big smear and didn’t even know it until I got back to the hotel room and started wondering where that awful shit smell was coming from. After deducing that the toddler’s diaper wasn’t to blame, I realized the bottom of my boot was caked. Even trouncing through puddles and shuffling through the grass didn’t get rid of it. I ultimately managed to scrape the merde out of all the tiny grooves with a twig. Ugh. The very next day, the toddler and I were playing in the expanse of grass across from our hotel when some woman’s yappy furry friend came bounding over to us. As he/she/it enthusiastically jumped all over me, I saw that this dog had apparently stepped in its own mess and with each bounce, was now transferring it onto the tops of my only remaining pair of clean shoes.

I certainly can’t wrap up my summation of one of the most beautiful and vibrant countries in the world talking about crap, so I’ll change the subject to a happier theme. I have this theory that cities are like people, and you can have relationships with them just like you would other human beings. To that end, I’ll attempt a little word association game to describe my impressions of the places we’ve been and seen:

Paris = Majestic. Magical. Cultural. Stylish. Feast of the senses. Out of my league.

Aix en Provence = Graceful. Friendly. Fashionable. Laid-back. Intelligent.

Marseille = Scrappy. Persevering. History. Tough talking, but with a soft side. Surprising.

And with that, I bid France adieu and au revoir, looking forward the rest of the week in Germany.

Amy, the anti-fashionista

I am a fish out of water in Milan. The fashion industry is alive and well here, but unfortunately, it’s mostly wasted on the likes of me. Sure, I recognize all the big names – Prada, Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana, Versace – but I’m scared to death about going into these stores and making a complete fool out of myself. I am missing the shopping-for-sport gene that most women are born with, and I can’t justify spending hundreds of dollars on a pair of shoes or a purse. I have zero ability when it comes to dressing myself in a creative or stylish manner. As a stay-at-home-mom, my wardrobe is pretty limited. You can usually find me in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt or mock turtleneck on any given day. I’ll throw on a dress or pair of boots for a special night out, but those events are pretty few and far between these days.

And it’s not just the women of Milan, but European women in general. Of all ages. These ladies are made up so nicely and dressed so well, it’s intimidating! Not all are drop-dead beautiful, but they are certainly what you’d call attractive, at the very least. As my husband says, they really learn to work with what they’ve got and maximize the hell out of it.

I have managed to pick up a few minor fashion tips here and there during my previous visits to Europe. For starters, do not wear tennis shoes/trainers under any circumstances. Even if you’re going to be walking and doing a lot of sightseeing. You’ll immediately single yourself out as a tourist. It’s currently 45 degrees outside and has been raining all weekend, yet the women of Milan are out and about in stilettos and all manner of gorgeous leather boots like it ain’t no thang.

Point number two. Wear a scarf, and don’t just wrap it around your neck; tie it creatively. I swear, European women know how to tie more knots than a sailor. You hardly see two scarves tied the same way, yet all look jaunty and fresh and oh-so-stylish. If you can pull it off, wear a hat as well.

There are some fashions I’ve seen here and in Germany that I’m hoping WON’T cross the pond. For instance, the resurgence of (dare I say it) legwarmers. No. Just, no.

The past day in Milan has been kinda miserable. Hubby thinks I’m complaining nonstop. I am really trying hard to be positive and make the most of our time here, because after all, when am I next likely to be in Milan again? However, it’s proven difficult so far. The weather has been piss-poor – rainy and cold all weekend, effectively curtailing any plans for extended outdoor time. The toddler and I did manage to zip out for a little while yesterday between showers to explore the area around our hotel, but there’s just not a lot here. A few pizzerias, a McDonalds, a couple shops. Not exactly a hopping ‘hood. The toddler is enjoying watching the trams and cable cars go by, though. He nearly jumps out of his skin squealing with delight every time one goes by.

Hubby rejoined us last night after some on-site work for his trade show. He still wasn’t feeling well, so although we’d considered taking the tram into the city for a look around, we decided keeping outings to a bare minimum was probably the wiser way to go. We cruised back to the supermarket for baby food and milk, and found ourselves in the midst of even more mayhem than during our previous visit earlier in the day.

The saving grace of being here in Italy is, of course, the food. Dinner was a repeat performance at Il Pavone. Which was not a bad thing at all. We arrived just as they were opening at 6 p.m. and the lovely Maria took excellent care of us again. I ordered the delicious gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce and toasted walnuts, and it tasted every bit as good as it had looked the night before. A plate of grilled zucchini, eggplant and radicchio rounded out my meal, and I washed it all down with the house white wine (dry and slightly bubbly, almost champagne-like, but milder in flavor). Hubby got a pizza and seemed very content with his choice. The toddler soundly refused to eat the Italian baby food meal I’d purchased for him at the grocery and loaded up once again on breadsticks. He did take a few bites of my gnocchi, but wasn’t nearly as impressed with it as I was.

I was starting to go a little stir crazy by that point, so hubby offered to head back to the room with the toddler and let me take the tram into town for some solo time. The tram stop is right outside the hotel, but that’s about the only convenient aspect about it. I boarded with no problem and tried to pay close attention to the stops so I’d know when to hop up and get off. Well, the tram was super crowded, the windows were steamed up and I could hardly see out to get my bearings. Plus, some of the stops were announced and some weren’t. In short, I completely flubbed the trip.

We went through the a busy downtown area and at each stop, I assumed the next announcement would be the Duomo, where I was planning to disembark. It never came, and before I knew it, we’d gone through the city center and were somewhere on the other side heading into another residential district. Hm. I tried to text hubby to see if he could help me figure out where I was, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help. I knew it shouldn’t be taking THAT long to get to the Duomo, so I finally just got off the tram and walked around to the other side to catch the return route. Sure enough, I’d gone way past and out into the opposite side of Milan.

Discouraged and disgusted with myself and my apparent lack of navigational ability, all I wanted at that point was to get back to the room and into a hot bath. I did catch a very brief glimpse of the Duomo on the return trip, but it was seriously a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glimpse as we raced around a corner. All in all, the wasted trip ate up about two hours of time and I reentered the hotel wet, cranky and roundly defeated.

This morning, we enjoyed another nice continental breakfast at the hotel, then hubby suggested we all go into the city together where we could walk around a little before he met his work colleague and continued on his way for the day. We figured out that there are two kinds of trams running – older models that require three steep steps to enter and exit, often blocked by divider bars (no hope for us with the stroller), and the newer modern versions that are flush with the stop, allowing much easier access for us to wheel on and off. The only thing is, you never know which tram is coming when. Although the trams run frequently (every seven minutes or so during the week, every 15 on weekends), we quickly learned the hard way that our wait times were going to be inconsistent. We watched two or three of the older trams roll by before one finally arrived that we could board with the stroller.

We finally got into the city in one piece, after requesting a tram map from the hotel concierge and counting the stops like a hawk. We disembarked at the Piazza del Duomo, and it is a beautiful place. The buildings are ancient with gorgeously decorated facades, and the Duomo itself is enormous and elaborate. We took a few requisite photos and a spin through the gorgeous shopping center to the left of the square. Sadly, it was getting onto the toddler’s lunch time, the rain cut our walk-around short, and hubby had to get to work. We returned to the tram stop for the return trip, and ended up waiting about 30 minutes for one we could get on. I did have a lovely chat on the ride back with a family visiting from Ireland for a weekend holiday, and turns out they are staying in the same hotel that we are.

It’s a small world after all.