Air Issues

There has been a recent spate of serious problems caused air. Well, at least that's what French people seem to think. Air -- it's freshness, it's temperature, it's movement -- is a national obsession. Every Frenchwoman walks around her entire home every morning and opens the windows for five minutes, no matter the weather. It is extremely important to air things out, one medical expert commented on the radio this winter. The show host asked, "But what if it is very cold outside?" combining two thorny issues: aire freshness and the need to never waste a single speck of heat or electricity. The medical professional said that even when it is minus 10 Celsius, you must open the windows in the house. "Cinq minutes. Pas plus." This morning, the same show was dedicated to air pollution and all the havoc it can wreak. The wet weather has confined children and adults alike to long stretches of indoor time, resulting in much speculation about the damage all that recycled, un-fresh air was causing on the local population. 

But it got more serious with my own child. My three year old had a red and irritated eye; like any parent, I feared conjunctivitis. To the doctor we went. It was a Saturday, so we went, naturally, to the doctor's personal house for the check up. He poked and prodded, and did some very scientific stuff, namely rubbing his thumb and index and middle fingers together beside each of my son's ears and asking him if he heard the same volume in each ear. The technique reminded me of my own hearing check as part of my "fitness to drive a 9-person vehicle" exam. In my case, a different doctor stood behind me at various distances and called out numbers in a whisper, asking me to repeat: "Dix-neuf! Quatre-vingt-cinq!"

At the end of the exam, the doctor said he didn't think there was anything to worry about. "Perhaps," he mused, "il a pris un courant d'air." 

Maybe my son had caught a current of air.

OK, I thought, so he's fine. Nonetheless, we had a prescription for the pharmacy, so we went there. The ladies expressed concern for le petit mignon, and asked what was troubling him. I pointed out the eye in question, and the ladies, almost in unison, said, "Perhaps il a pris un courant d'air."

Breezes, winds, gusts, draughts, and gales in this country were beginning to make me nervous.   

We trundled back to the car and drove out of town, stopping for a minute in front of a friend's boutique. I told her, pointing back at the little one in his car seat, that we had just been to the doctor for a second time in three days. 

"Encore!" she exclaimed, clearly upset and worried for his health. "Qu'est-ce qu'il a le petit lapin?" 

[Side note: I love how French people call my kids "little rabbits."]

I again pointed to his eye, and she stood bolt upright, authoritatively, and said...

"I think that he caught un courant d'air."

I waved my thanks and quickly rolled the window up, trying my best to protect my offspring from the vagaries of the invisible gas that surrounds us on Earth.

A day later, we had guests over for lunch. It was cold at the beginning, and people were concerned we might need to close the walls of the tent we had erected to protect us from the elements. One woman described how the previous evening she had gone to a concert in town, and the entire group of a hundred or more had to be enclosed under the tent because the air and wind were so cold. As our afternoon wore on, the sun finally won the battle, and temperatures rapidly rose. We had never closed the walls of the tent, but it was nonetheless a bit hot underneath, just on the edge of being uncomfortable without ever getting there.

The following day, the woman's husband came by to get some items he had loaned us for the gathering. He informed me that his wife was not well, and had taken to her bed. Worried, I asked what the cause might be. We loosely speculated about it being the food ("Maybe she had bad digestion," quite possibly the gravest of situations for an honorable French person to be in) but, as he was in perfect form, he didn't seem convinced. Upon a little more reflection, he said, "It was very cold, then it was very hot under the tent. Je ne sais pas...peut être elle a pris...un courant d'air."

Right now, my son is feeling much better and is currently outside in the sunshine and light breezes, running and playing with his brother and mother. 

Pray for them. Meantime, I will be inside.

If you like eating in France

You can read my article on how to do it cheaply here in my post for International Living.

That's One for You, Nineteen for Me

Been awhile...sorry about that. 

Today is the day that, I thought, taxes are due in my region of France. As we aspire to be responsible human beings ("aspire" being the key word), I dived headlong into the FrInternet this morning, convinced that, after more than a few weeks here, I would be able to decode the government mumbo-jumbo and decipher the different acronyms and, well, pay my taxes.

As is her wont, France guffawed at me, leading me down a trail of imprecise advice ("enter your fiscal number, which is different than your ID number," "you must pay online" with a link to a .pdf form that cannot be completed online, a series of phone numbers that I can call for help [billed at the cost of a local call] where pressing "0 for the operator" leads back in a vicious cycle to the original welcome message...). Eventually, perseverance -- the most important character trait in any governmental dealings, here or in any modern state -- paid off and I had a human on the line.

Pascale was lovely, telling me that I had done several things wrong so far, but that I shouldn't worry about it. She gave me the number of another office closer to my hometown where they would be able to help me. She even looked up the direct line for me, prompting me to say, "And people tell me that French public servants aren't helpful!" We laughed, and I told her that I, too, had worked in government at home, and that Americans largely shared the French's opinions of government workers, but that I knew, like Pascale did, that folks work hard, even when they are on the taxpayer dime.

In Beaune, at the correct number, a woman cheerfully explained to me that she would need to send me documents to fill out. When I expressed mild concern about the supposed deadline of today, she chuckled and said, "It's your first time, Monsieur. You couldn't possibly have known what to do. Do not worry about; we'll help you figure it out."

It feels like a remarkable accomplishment for a day, and it's only 11. Naturally, I cannot write anymore right now...it is time to start preparing lunch. 

Mundane Observations

When living abroad, as I do with my family in rural Burgundy, France, it does not take long to notice the little differences between here and home. It is only with time, however, that one begins to comprehend the cultural links in the chain. Eventually, experience and simple observation help decode the mysterious until the relationship between two seeming oddities becomes part of the social logic of a foreign land.

Take, for example, one of the ironclad rules of French life: “On ne mange pas entre les repas.” One does not eat between meals. At first glance, this dictum helps explain why, generally, French people are thinner than Americans. Imagine eliminating every muffin or bagel you snitch at during your mid-morning break at work. Wouldn’t you be able to tighten your belt an additional notch or two if you never had that “whoops-I-ate-the-whole-thing” bag of Smartfood or shared a snack with your children in the afternoon?

But there is more to it than simply eschewing edibles outside of proscribed mealtimes. The repasts themselves explain the overriding philosophy. If you ditched your bland turkey sandwich at noon in favor of an appetizer of poached eggs in red wine sauce, a main course of rosy, sliced duck breast in a honey-mustard sauce with skillet-browned potatoes and green beans, followed inexorably by a cheese course and a slice of apple tart, it would be much easier to stave off a case of the afternoon hungries.

Our journey with this seemingly innocuous maxim is not over. Because the entire population has absorbed the words and accepted them as near-Biblical truth, supermarkets, small grocery stores, and the weekly outdoor markets that dot the countryside offer astonishingly little to eat on the go. There are no hot dog carts, no hot slices of pizza, no deli counters offering made-to-order sandwiches, no little tubs of carrot sticks and hummus. Even at rest stops on the highways, one eats, seated, with metal flatware and chooses from several hot plats du jour.

The No Take Out mantra applies to drinks as well. I cannot recall ever seeing a French person perambulating with a cup of hot coffee or a bottle of water. Nobody drinks any type of beverage in the car. A Frenchman in the street almost never has his hands full.

This national empty-handedness leads to the final reality stemming from a refusal to nibble. Because one is never carrying anything disposable, there is a surprising dearth of refuse receptacles on the Burgundy landscape. Perhaps more surprising, the ones that are provided for passers-by are almost universally empty. But it makes perfect sense. If we think back to the original premise – on ne mange pas entre les repas – and then consider what goes into the trash cans on busy US streets, the differences are clear. No white butcher paper wrapping a submarine sandwich, no paper bags, no straws, no take out coffee cups, no empty Doritos bags, no foil that wrapped your egg and cheese on an English, nothing to do with food. In other words, they don’t need a trash can because they never have trash with them because they never eat between meals and, when they do eat, they eat at a table with real utensils and dishes.

What do you think? A stretch? I actually think I am right.

La Technologie en France

Pour les américains, le stéréotype du Français -- au delà de la baguette et le béret -- est quelqu'un qui est 100% convaincu que la vie qu'il mène est plus ou moins parfaite. Il a une culture, une éducation, une compréhension du monde autour de lui qui sont les meilleurs de tous les autres pays du monde. Bref, pour un américain, le Français, c'est l'Art de Vivre. 

Quand je regarde votre rapport avec la technologie, je pense que l'idée ci-dessus n'est peut-être pas loin d'être vraie. Jusqu’ici, vous avez mieux maitrisé la technologie que nous. (Avant de continuer, il faut avouer que je n'habite pas Paris. Je sais très bien que la capitale a un autre rapport avec la technologie qui n'existe pas ici dans la France profonde. Mais Paris est la France comme New York est les États-Unis...)

All Politics is Local

If there is ever a time when it is acceptable and even desirable to ignore the racket of the American political world, it surely is when living in rural Burgundy, France. In our small village, locals are concerned more with the cost of bread than the cost of winner-take-all primaries. I have repeatedly tried to tune it out, to enjoy local food specialties, wines, and habits on local time without the distraction of democratic socialists (we've got the real thing in power here). 

The US presidential race, however, has just been too spicy to block out. I devour the noise from big-time prognosticators, experts, and insiders. (Only in America do you get a high-paying job where you get to say on television or in print, "He has no chance" and then later get to say, in the same mediums, "He is inevitable" without issuing a mea culpa. And if you think I am talking about the current situation, be reminded of 2008, s'il vous plaît. What a great country.)

In time, I realized that, while my new French friends may not know much about filibusters or why DC license plates say "Taxation Without Representation," they do follow U.S. politics. And, so, in my little corner of the Burgundian countryside, I offered up my knowledge.

Bonjour les Français

Quelle surprise ce matin de regarder mes statistiques sur ce petit coin de l'internet. D'après ce que je constate, vous avez été 400 à venir ici hier pour lire un peu comment je vis en Bourgogne. Si ces statistiques sont fiables, il me semble que l'heure est arrivée de vous poser une question. J'aimerais partager un peu plus ce que je vois ici et de vous décrire les différences entre votre culture et la mienne. Donc, la question est la suivante: 

Parmi ces sujets, lequel aimeriez-vous que j'aborde prochainement:

• Les règles du "bonjour" en France et aux États-Unis. Difficile à croire qu'il y a des différences, mais je vous jure que c'est le cas.
• "On n'a pas le droit," "ça ne se fait pas," et "être bien élevé": des expressions typiquement françaises que nous n'avons pas vraiment chez moi...mais pour comprendre les Français, il faut les comprendre et savoir s'en servir.
• Le service clientèle: chez vous, j'ai parfois l'impression que l'on commence en disant "non." Chez nous, on commence sur le principe que le client a toujours raison. Qu'est-ce ça fait pour un américain en France? Avec plein d'exemples!
• La technologie en France par rapport à la technologie en Amérique. Dans les deux cas, tout le monde a un smartphone...mais on s'en sert d'une manière très différente. 

Si un ou plusieurs de ces sujets pourraient vous intéresser, laissez un petit mot dans les commentaires ci-dessous ou envoyez-moi un mail. Merci!

Situation Toujours Floue...

Lors de ma conférence la semaine dernière, j'ai expliqué que tous les experts étaient d'accord sur les deux cadidats qui allaient s'opposer pour l'élection générale au mois de novembre. Mme Clinton contre M. Trump, fait accompli.

Merci

Just un petit mot pour remercier les plus de 50 personnes qui se sont déplacées pour venir à ma conférence hier soir. J'ai beaucoup apprécié vos questions et votre attention tout au long d'une soirée conviviale. Si jamais vous connaissez des autres communes ou endroits en Côte d'Or où une conférence de ce genre pourrait plaire, n'hésitez pas à me contacter. 

Pour l'instant, je suis malheureusement obligé de vous informer que la vraie star d'hier soir a fait encore la une ce matin aux États-Unis. Je suis profondément désolé de vous dire qu'il a fait allusion à la taille de son sexe. Ce n'est pas une blague. Si vous vous demandiez si nous étions un pays de fous, voilà peut être une preuve!

Alors...

Eh bien...si vous voulez savoir vraiment ce que je pense des primaires d'hier, il faut venir au Centre Social d'Arnay-le-Duc demain, jeudi, à 19h00. C'est là que je vais dévoiler mes propres pensées. 

Pour l'instant, c'est qui, le monsieur qui vote dans la photo? Oui, c'est Bernie Sanders, qui gagnerait son proper état (est le mien) de Vermont.

Big Time

[ENGLISH BELOW]
Jeudi prochain, je vais animer une conférence au Centre Social d'Arnay-le-Duc sur les élections américaines. Venez nombreux. Avant cette soirée pleine de convivialité où je présenterai l'histoire du système américain et les candidats actuels, Le Bien Public a publié un petit portrait ce matin. J'aurai mis des chaussures différentes si j'avais su qu'ils allaient me prendre en photo comme ça...

On Thursday, I am giving a presentnation on Americain elections to local people in Arnay-le-Duc. I will talk about the Electoral College, when and how Americans vote, discuss the current candidates (in this land of distinguished discourse, I think I will avoid delving into "she called him a p****" and "maybe to make sure his pants weren't wet" and "blood coming out of her" and "I don't know if sand can glow in the dark" and "dead broke" and "I don't believe I ever lied" but I might give them some good Democratic-Socialist love...this is France, after all) and answer any questions. Today, in anticipation of this seismic event on the political landscape, the local paper ran a piece about yours truly. Two things: First, yes, French food agrees with me and second, no, I didn't forget which was his first name and which his last when talking about my old boss. The link, behind a pay wall, is here.

Plus de Buisson à la Maison Blanche

Dimanche a vu la fin d'une certaine dynastie politique américaine: la famille Bush n'habitera pas la Maison Blanche une troisième fois. Dans la Caroline du Sud, M. Jeb Bush, le fils et le frère de présidents, a fini en quatrième position, loin de Donald Trump et deux autres candidats, Marco Rubio et Ted Cruz. La classe politique américaine est un peu sous le choque que la campagne de M. Bush n'a rien donné. Après tout, en principe, il avait ce qu'il fallait: un nom connu par tous les citoyens du pays; une carrière politique importante (gouverneur de l'état de Floride); le soutien de nombreux élus et gens puissants dans les mondes politiques et de business; et surtout de l'argent. 

No "S" in Lyon

I have no photos today...so to make sure you get your money's worth, here's a thousand words. Seriously. Check it yourself.

We are in Lyon, where apparently there is a lot of fascinating history to explore. For anyone out there who has had two children under 6, you recall how much they adore discussing the Roman era versus the Middle Ages versus the Renaissance. What toddler doesn't love visiting churches, basilicas, or ancient theaters? 

Happily, everyone eats, and we are a bit more in tune with the city's gastronomic reputation. The typical Lyonnais restaurant is called a bouchon, and they dot the city's landscape, inviting the hungry local and traveler alike to step in from out of a cold February wind to linger over local specialties for 90 minutes or so. We chose Le Poêlon d'Or for our first foray into the city's food scene. 

41 Minutes

 
Time for an update of my post about the butcher shop from summer 2014. Here is what the same butcher shop is like in early 2016.

I went, as I too frequently do, on a Saturday morning. This is colossally dumb, as everyone does their shopping on this day in Saulieu: it's the weekend, there is a market, everything is open. Everything except the hotels and restaurants, which are in the midst of their fermeture annuelles, when they shut down from December 24 through mid-February. The pre-holidays must have been particularly exhausting this year. (On a side note, we are heading into school vacation starting this afternoon, and the café, two of the three bakeries, a hair salon, and the wine shop will all be closed in our town for at least a week. As Trump might tweet, "Sad!") I got to the shop slightly after 11. The inside was pretty packed and I had a few seconds of self-doubt...did I really want to wait in this line? 

Apparently, I did.

La Vie Politique Américaine, part 2

Le monde politique américain est très perturbé ce mercredi matin. Après l'Iowa, c'est le New Hampshire qui s'est exprimé hier soir. Pendant la journée, entre 7h00 et 19h00, les citoyens se sont rendus aux urnes pour voter par bulletin secret. Et des deux cotés, démocrate et républicain, les électeurs dans ce petit état nous ont donné les résultats aussi définitifs que surprenants.

D'abord, chez les démocrates, il va falloir que les français qui sont férus de la vie politique apprennent le nom d'un "socialiste-démocrate": Bernie Sanders, sénateur qui vient de l'état du Vermont (nord-est des États-Unis). C'est lui qui a gagné contre la machine Clinton avec près de 60% du vote. Pour M. Sanders, c'est une victoire qui valide sa campagne et montre que le concours entre les deux démocrates va durer au delà des premières élections (rappel: il y a 50 états qui vont voter; seulement deux se sont exprimés jusqu'au présent). Une réalité qui fait peur aux démocrates "traditionnels" parce que maintenant, Mme Clinton va devoir faire face à M. Sanders et non pas aux républicains. Elle va être obligée de tourner plus à gauche si elle veut être le choix du parti de Barack Obama. Et plus on discute entre démocrates, plus cher c'est.

Gifts à la française

NDLR: Pour mes lecteurs français, rendez-vous mercredi pour la vie politique américaine part 2.

Although there are days when I pine for city life (no take-out Chinese in two years!), there are many wonderful surprises and treats when living in the country. Recently, I have been taking my boys on a lot of walks where we identify as many animals as we can along our path. (If they would ever be quiet, they would surely hear about a dozen more than we actually note.) Naturally, horse poop (full of hay!), cat feces, cow dung, dog logs, deer droppings, and white and gray splotches of avian refuse are the biggest and most obvious hits. But we also spot empty snail shells, white herons, magpies, Charolais cattle, hawks, earthworms, spiders, flies, and ladybugs. Thanks to a library book about wild boar, we learned to look at the barbed wire fence for signs of their long, thick black hairs caught in the barbs. Foxes and cats use the same trails, leaving little bunches of their fur behind as well. It is, simply, a lot of free fun, without any worries about traffic.

Breakfast Part 2

Following yesterday's post, I was surprised to turn on France Bleu Bourgogne, the local radio station, this morning and hear a nutritionist discussing what French people eat for breakfast. Listeners called in to say what they ate for breakfast. Guess what? Toast with butter and jam and a cup of coffee was the landslide winner. 

I am not making this stuff up. 

The expert said, "Un bon pain bien fait, c'est pas trop mal." A good bread, well-made, is excellent. The "petit déjeuner classique" is everywhere in France, and a good way to start the day. She said it was important to "fuel the machine" first thing in the morning, and chatted at length about the challenges of digesting coffee and milk together, why to choose butter over margarine (natural v. artificial), and the dangers of puffed cereals.

A woman of a certain age called in from Dijon. Her breakfast? "Les biscottes à la cancoillotte et la chicorée au lait." The cancoillotte replaces the traditional butter. 

Then we got into the eating habits of the English and -- gasp -- Americans. "Bacon is very fatty." Everything is possible on the protein front, "I suppose." (The derision was thinly veiled.) She encouraged experimentation: "Lentils or pasta for breakfast...why not? Anything is worth trying once. It's important to vary things." And the next sentence was "Most of the time, in France, we're going to eat bread in the morning." 

There followed a discussion of what "brunch" is here, which is almost as depressing as their efforts at club sandwiches and wraps. The French are wonderful at what they know, but they do not always excel at what they do not. They are not alone, of course; after all, you don't go to China for the lasagna. 

The expert left the studio, to be replaced by a couple more food pros who discussed how to make a quick meal with what you have in the cupboard or the fridge. You know, just throw something together. (American mind: mac and cheese, grilled cheese, can of soup, microwave popcorn, PB&J, Ramen.) The French were back on very safe ground...chicken with apricots; salmon with crème fraîche, mustard, and chives; sardines, walnuts, and shallots cooked in olive oil and served over pasta; quiche with mushrooms; "Sunday night risotto," with any and everything you can find in the fridge: vegetables, chorizo, cheese, etc. 

"Just something simple."

Breakfast

Americans's knees buckle when they rip into their first croissant, fresh from the local bakery in France. Though cliché, it is the definitive French treat in the morning. Surely a warm croissant with butter and jam and a cup of hot coffee belongs in the Hall of Fame of Great Gourmet Combinations, joining peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, the BLT, mint and chocolate, raw fish and rice, pasta and tomato sauce, Rice Krispies and marshmallows, and red beans and rice. (Any I missed?)

But it is not a staple of the French diet in the way you may imagine. From time to time, people might venture out for croissants or pains au chocolat in the morning, but, for the most part, in the rural countryside when the nearest boulangerie is 5-20 minutes away by car, there is simply no time in the morning. 

La Vie Politique Américaine, part 1

Alors, la fête a commencé lundi soir aux États-Unis. Les deux partis principaux, les Démocrates et les Républicains, ont tenu leurs caucus dans l'Iowa. C'est le premier des 50 états à s'exprimer dans la campagne présidentielle 2016. Les autres états voteront d'ici fin juin. 

Pour comprendre un peu le côté individualiste des électeurs américains, les 50 états votent de plusieurs manières différentes. Dans l'Iowa (état au plein milieu des États-Unis, très peu peuplé [3 million d'âmes], et majoritairement blanc), c'est un caucus, avec des règles différentes pour les Républicains et les Démocrates. Dans les deux cas, il faut être membre du parti en question, et, globalement, environ 20% des électeurs vont participer au caucus. (NDLR: Triste!) Pour les premiers, ils votent au bulletin secret ; parfois, le bulletin est très officiel, parfois les gens écrivent tout simplement le nom de leur candidat préféré sur un bout de papier quelconque. Quand même surprenant au XXIème siècle.

Tartiflette

Welcome to the fine folks of Virginia who saw my piece about ham in the Pilot, the largest daily newspaper in the Commonwealth. Thank you for reading. There are entries here about jambon persillé, wild boar, why French people will probably have cancer, or ping pong, among others.

Since all things porcine are on the brain today, let's talk cookery. On a recent cold, rainy winter day, I stared at the contents of the refrigerator and realized I had all the fixings for a classic rib-sticker lunch for my family of four. 

Feasting

I neglected to express my New Year's best wishes to everyone in my previous post.

My brain and body might be a little cloudy from the holidays. Look, I know what people are capable of eating around the holidays. I have seen heaping tablespoonfuls of mayonnaise stirred into dips and hoovered in minutes. Whole baked bries don't stand a chance against a crowd of holiday revelers. Entire hams, turkeys, and roasts get destroyed around an American holiday table.

Wine Tasting

At work, old school style

Near the end of 2015, it was, as is so often the case here, time to visit some winemakers and taste some wine. Though I know a lot of different winemakers and their products, when it comes time to discover new ones, I basically rely on the good ol' internets to help me through.

I don't know any winemakers based in Chassagne-Montrachet, a village famous for some of the world's finest white wines. At the entrance to the village, there is a sign eliminating any and all doubt about the quality of the town's Chardonnays. It reads, "Les meilleurs vins blancs du monde," or, modestly, "the best white wines in the world." I figured that if I was seeking a new discovery, I could do worse than here.