LIfe, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

[written in Corsica last week]

When I last saw Josh tonight, a tall Corsican man dressed partially in camouflage asked “The American” how old he was and then invited him to sit at the table full of local men. After a seemingly satisfactory response, I saw a new glass being pulled from the bar for Josh who then shrugged and said, “I guess I have to sit.” I wished him “Bonne Chance” as I happily slipped out of the door into the quiet and star-filled mountain evening en route to bed.

Before we came here (to the tiny moutain Corsican village of Guitera, with a population of 65 people), I jokingly said, “Well, after a week, we’ll either be run out as invaders or Josh will be elected mayor.” He might not ended up as the mayor, but no one disagreed when he jokingly asked that all question to “Josh the American” be addressed to “Monsieur l'Ambassadeur”.

Here is what I know about our Christmas Corsican Adventure—it isn’t what most tourists expect, but it is exactly what we were looking for. We didn't come here for the famous beaches, we came to Corsica for the mountains, the unique culture and the famous pork products (lest you think we are too high-minded). And, after eating dinner with a collection of Corsican men and two European couples, Josh and I came to the conclusion that we’re experiencing less of a vacation and more of a cultural exchange. In a week, we've managed to get a real glimpse of Corsican mountain culture and I think we've met almost everyone who calls Guitera home.

We've been welcomed in a way that surprises even me. We are one of the only Americans to come to this small village in at least the past ten years, and we've felt a bit like local celebrities at times. A few nights ago we were invited to a neighbor's house for an aperitif and their homemade ham, while others from the town have taken time out of their day to drive us through some of the nearby villages. Josh has especially fascinated the locals and they seem to pepper him constantly with questions about American policy or American customs. [note: its not that they do or don't care what I think, but my French just isn't up to full-out ambassadorial duties.]

It seems that our status as Americans, rather than French or European, has smoothed the way for our temporary integration into the life of the village. Even if the battle for independence is far away in our national memory and our knowledge of it is mostly gathered through years of history classes, we can imagine how rotten it is to feel like a far-away nation occupies you, which is how the Corsicans seem to feel about the French. [Obvious Iraq questions arise here, but for now, we'll sidestep them]. Also, our foreign policy aside, American culture is still beloved by a lot of people. Tonight I was told that Scarface with Al Pacino is one of the local guy's favorite movies, while another woman said that she loves Hitchcock movies.

The strong sense of pride in Corsican culture is palpable here and is expressed most visibly in the various bilingual signs. The Corsican part of the sign is left untouched, the French part of the sign often has bullet holes and spray paint over it. There are also the occasional demonstrations of outright suspicion of the French government. On day three, a Gendarmarie (police) helicopter was flying overhead and all of the men gathered for lunch stepped outside (some with binoculars) to see what the it was about. Though it turned out to be a search for two lost hikers, the first instinct of everyone (including even me!) was "Why are they spying on us this time?" My own sense is that it isn't that they do or don't like the French; but they just don't think the Paris government has much to tell them. They also seem to have felt the same way about their other former colonial master, the Italians, so at least they are fair.

But let's pause here for a quick history lesson: Corscia is a small island that is between France and Italy, both of whom have ruled it at various times. Napoleon was born here and his family is buried here, but it's not clear if anyone who is Corsican actually cares. People here speak French officially, but there is also a local Corsican language, which sounds a bit like Italian. There are amazing beaches that are extremely popular as a European vacation destination and there are also mountains that are over 8,000 feet.

The island also has a slightly sinister side and organized crime has thrived here at times. Vendetta killings aren’t unknown here, though apparently they are extremely rare. McDonalds doesn’t exist here either, if that even seems possible. Apparently each time they tried to open one, as one local explained, “Boom”, which means, someone blew them up. Pork products of every variety, as well as cheese, is taken very seriously here. I Muvrini is a great Corsican singing group and a lot of Corsican music reminds me of the Portugese fado music, which was used as an artistic demonstration against years of dictatorship. There--Corsica 101.

Unexpectedly though, I feel oddly at home here, despite the somewhat language barrier. It's not that the Indiana town that I grew up in was that remote, and it did have a McDonalds, but there, as here, camouflage, shotguns and pork products are simply a part of everyday life. The mountains that surround us here in Corsica are a far cry from the flat Indiana fields, but the many dogs and pickup trucks feel familiar.

Dinner tonight was very nice. Fairly traditional—a damn good pork chop and gratin dauphinois (a potato, cheese, and cream casserole—it's where we get the term "potatoes au gratin"). After dinner, a bit of wine and a round of digestifs (after-dinner drinks), a man came over and explained how the notion of the pursuit of happiness is actually a Corsican term. It's true—30 years before our Declaration of Independence, a Corsican named Pasquale Paoli first put the concept into a written national charter. 240 years later, the Corsicans are still fighting for it and I'm glad that Thomas Jefferson had the good sense to include it.

For me, while I’m a temporary resident of Guitera, Corsica, the view of life isn't all the complicated and hardly includes revolutionary thoughts or high-level political discussions. For a week, my own pursuit of happiness is simple. The mountains in the distance are beautiful and I love to watch them change colors with the time of the day. The sheep outside our door are downright funny to a "sort of" city girl, and it's fun to play with the friendly dog that sleeps outside our door. The wonderful meals we've enjoyed with Paul-Antoine's family nearly feel like the icing on an already perfect cake.

The mountains of Corsica are a special place—but they are that way as much because of the people who still call it home as they are for the incredible views. And as much as I'll always remember the mountains (and the chance encounters with wandering livestock), I somehow suspect that I'll most remember Corsica for what it taught me about US history and some core American values. I guess all I can say is, "Thanks Pasquale—I think you were spot on about the Pursuit of Happiness."

sPg

Christmas in the City of Lights

Everything that is said about Paris in the springtime is true, but Paris in December is just as special. The City of Lights doesn’t dare to skimp on this time of long evenings and fewer tourists. In the last month (since the arrival of all the Christmas lights), it feels like the city has wrapped itself up like a beautifully decorated present, just enough for those who call this place home to spend chilly December evenings here.

With the approach of the holidays, Parisians also get very serious about their seasonal cuisine. While not for the faint of heart or even possibly most American palates, for foodies, this is as good as it gets.

Foie gras, oysters, scallops, game, special holiday teas, special cheeses, special cakes—it's all here at seemingly every turn. The local grocery store even brought in two large temporary refrigerator cases devoted entirely to foie gras and caviar, with both ranging in price from 8 to 100 euros!

The butcher shops are fascinating and a little disturbing since now it seems that every type of bird and rabbit are hanging from the ceiling. Nothing says Christmas like birds and rabbits, I suppose! There is a part of me that thinks it can’t really be Christmas without Polish sausage, but just this once, I’m finding if I hum “I’ll be home for Christmas” while eating some foie gras, somehow it's easier.

Tonight, Josh and I are heading out on a Christmas date. We leave tomorrow for the mountains of Corsica, where we will be spending Christmas, but we couldn’t resist a Saturday night on the town admiring all there is to see.

A trip to the department stores to see the windows feels like a perfect addition to the Marshall Field’s Christmas window-gazing tradition of my childhood. The chance to stroll down the Champs Elysees with Josh while surrounded by Christmas lights feels one of like the most romantic walks I could imagine. A few Christmas markets are still open and we can’t help but think there is a little treasure there to be discovered. Maybe if we’re lucky, we might even find a glass of vin chaud or a little café with enough room at the counter for us.

And so, with Christmas music playing in our apartment, our “Holiday Lamp” all aglow and a cup of warm tea beside me, I’ll leave you until after the New Year.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Hoping Santa can still find me,

sPg

Pluta Parentals

People said it couldn't be done. Rumor has it that a great aunt declared, "Henry won't go to France, even if his daughter is there." Even we were a bit skeptical, and we knew they loved their first trip here in May. But against all odds, the Pluta's returned to France and loved it! We headed out of Paris this time and met in Toulouse for a 10 day trip in the Southwest and in Provence.

We explored one perfectly charming little village (Cordes-sur-Ciel), and even saw some local art. Be sure to notice the Tour de France hat of Dad's that proves his newfound affinity for France and mom's very French scarf, which made her a near local.

There was an ongoing quest for the perfect Christmas Card photo. Here is one attempt in Carcassonne--in addition to being a possible Pluta Family Background, this walled town is also where Robin Hood was filmed and it is approximately 1,000 years old.

Sometimes I was overwhelmed by the pre-Christmas spirit, what can I say?

We also went to see the world's highest bridge. This was Josh's idea and it made Dad happy. Mom and I were game since the boys were so happy, but we did think, "We're driving how far to see what?" I, however, did manage to conquor my bridge phobia for the first time. Maybe Josh's bridge impersonations helped.

We also saw a lot of Roman ruins. This is where gladiators fought for centuries in the city of Nimes. Is it just me or do we look photoshopped in?

We also listened to a LOT of audio guides. Here, Dad is modeling his hat along with Audioguide #512 which explains the history of Nimes gladiators and still ongoing bullfighting tradition.

This is the second bridge-like thing of the trip. This is actually an ancient aquaduct. The boys went there solo. Mom and I were having tea and shopping while the boys were looking at ancient plumbing and nearly-as-ancient graffiti on the aquaduct.

Dad even rode the bus! Henry Pluta on public transportation in France!!??!! Did anyone else notice a rip in the time/space continuum?

We didn't have a lifesize cut out of David to include in this family photo, but somehow the Harley is close enough. Having David with us would have made the trip complete, but I suspect France wouldn't let in that many Plutas at once.

This was perhaps my favorite day of a truly wonderful trip. We ended our time in the city of Avignon at a Christmas market. Lights, tasty treats, mild weather, music and the chance to laugh with Mom, Dad and Josh...it was pretty special. And, I really and truly think that cotton candy should be a party of every Christmas festival! Mom had a waffle with whipped cream that she enjoyed so much that I don't think I'll never forget how happy she seemed as she ate it!

We stopped for one last beverage before heading back to Paris in this cute little cafe. It felt like we were in a French kitchen from the 1930's. We then returned back to Paris for a last whirl around town.

We said goodbye to my parents on a chilly morning and as I waved goodbye, I realized that our hosting duties in Paris were officially over. Since April, we've had the joy of sharing this amazing city with 35 people, which surely should earn us at least an honorable mention in next year's Nobel Peace Prize discussion. It was really a blast though and I couldn't really imagine this adventure without the stories and antics that each visitor brought.

For those of you who came, thank you truly for making our adventure so fantastic. For those of you who couldn't make it, know that we thought of you often and probably toasted you with a glass of French wine.

It isn't very often that you can truly count life in moments, rather than deadlines, but this year was filled with them.

Back to counting my blessings before Christmas,

sPg

Yankee Go Home

When I got home from doing errands and found this truck in front of our apartment building, I started to wonder if France was trying to send us a message.

It wasn't just on our street, or on our block. It was literally right in front of our apartment. The lit-up window over the sign is our living room window. Here's a picture of Sara, Evita-like, or perhaps Mayor McCheese-like, greeting her subjects from our living room window.

And here's the view out the window, looking down.

I suppose we can only hope that this same time next year, there's a foie gras or a stinky cheese billboard outside our DC window...

Josh

Appy Sanksgiving

As you all likely know, on the fourth Thursday in November, the French don't celebrate Thanksgiving like we Americans do.

Instead, they celebrate Thanksgiving on December 16.

No, I suppose they don't. I guess I really am just that late in posting news and pictures from our excellent Paris Thanksgiving dinner. OK, so with apologies, think of it as the leftovers that wouldn't go away, here's the play-by-play of our Paris Thanksgiving.

First, if you go to a French butcher shop in late fall, here's what you are most likely to find:

The rabbits and the hares still look pretty good here, and they do for a couple of days. But then, if they don't sell by day two or three, there's usually a plastic bag around their head, held on by a rubber band, so that any...escaping liquids...are contained. By the way, the sign in the picture says "Game has arrived: Roosters, pheasants, "green necks" (the green-headed ducks you see in the park), partridges, does, boars, hares, rabbits..."

But, lo and behold, for the first time in the four years I've lived here since 1992, you could see an unusual sign this November at a butcher shop on our street:

It says "Remember to order your Thanksgiving turkey." Within days, in the butcher's case,

we saw this:So, interestingly, it looks like Thanksgiving has made an appearance on the French scene. I don't think they're celebrating it, but I think they realize there are enough Americans in Paris to make it worth recognizing. I also think they find the holiday intriguing--the one day all year that Americans live vaguely like French people do every day of the year: no work and good food!

Of course, French people continue to live like French people, which means that Thanksgiving occurred in the middle of the longest French transit strike of the past few years. This complicated life, since our plan was to celebrate Thanksgiving with Iris (my French host mother from my 1992-1993 junior year abroad), and she lives in Boulogne, just outside of Paris, and probably a 1.5 to 2 hour walk from our house. Since Sara had a work meeting that day, I was in charge of getting all of our food contributions (the turkey, wine, stuffing fixings, and three desserts) over to Iris'.

I hoped to get one of the 10% of metros and busses running that day, or to catch a cab, but since I wasn't sure either of these would really be possible, I had to prepare as if I would be walking the whole way, avec Thanksgiving literally in my hands. For that reason, I had our 16-pound turkey in a wheelie suitcase.

I also packed our classy and tasty new house wine in the bag.

Then I was ready to set out for Iris' house.

Fortunately, though, I was finally able to get through to a cab company on the phone, so I made the trip in a taxi.

Everything worked out great in the end. Sara and Iris, two of my favorite cooks in the world, collaborated to put together one of the best Thanksgiving dinners ever. Here they are relaxing between bouts of cooking. Iris had a stroke a couple of years ago, and prior to living in Paris, Sara and I never expected to be living here, so it's honestly a blessing that this year they've gotten to know each other, swap cooking tips, and share meals in Iris' warm and perfect home.

After hours of hard work, including Iris' genius idea of mummifying the turkey in raw bacon before cooking it, the bird was ready for its star turn.

We sat down to dinner with a motley crew: Iris, Sara, our visiting friend Matt Carty, myself, Sara's French teacher Elodie, her boyfriend David, and two of Iris' American artist friends. There were a couple of last-minute cancellations (less resourceful people who couldn't overcome the transit strike's stumbling blocks...), so there was an even greater bounty of food than we'd planned.

After a lovely Thanksgiving, it was time to head home, but again thanks (but no thanks!) to the transit strike, that was easier said than done. Sara, Matt, and I planned on sharing a cab with Elodie and David, but the special cab we called (most French cabs can't take five people) went to Iris' address not in Boulogne but in Paris, and was then too pissed to come out to get us. We then had to call two separate cabs, which are obviously a scarce commodity during strikes. So, we ended up standing downstairs far longer than we expected.

And, of course, after a bit too much turkey, wine, and waiting, antics ensued.


All in all, it was a very French, and a very American, Thanksgiving.

And since we'll be in Corsica for Christmas (we were in southern France for most of Hanukkah), we didn't get a tree, so instead, we decided to decorate a Holiday Lamp.

With that image, we wish you all Happy Holidays.

Josh

Tiny Cars

Here is another in the promised "favorite things" series. This one is short and sweet, since Sara's parents are here and we're on the road. It's so short and sweet, I'll express it in haiku: France has tiny cars We mock them big time, but they Aren't at war for oil.