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.

Guilty Pleasures

I really couldn’t help myself. I was hoping that no one would spot me leaving. I contemplated telling Josh in person, rather than in our normal email check-ins.

I really tried to just walk away. I did what I could to stave off the desire—I walked around the block. I tried to distract myself with necessary errands at the phone store. I even resorted to making sure I could avoid leaving a trail by paying in cash. I counted each cent and thought, “I mean, this is ok to do once or twice.”

I entered the store uncertainly, tugging at my hat to cover my eyes a bit. I kept my iPod on, so I could claim distraction enough to avoid talking to anyone. I even had the nerve to stare at the others who were gathered with a condescending look of “I can’t believe you’ve let it come to this—surely we should be anywhere else but here.”

In the end, however, my spirit resisted, but the flesh was weak. I took the plunge. I enjoyed every last second of it and quickly discarded every last shred of evidence. I did think for a moment, “no one has to know but me.”

But I can’t hide it. Maybe its not even a real problem. Maybe its my right. And maybe all there is to say is: Damn, that McDonald’s Cheeseburger was good.

sPg

Strike Out

Make no mistake about it: I am ready for the transportation strike to end, but, in the interest of making lemons into lemonade, or grapes into wine as the case may be, the strike and its related stress has allowed me a better glimpse at French solidarity.

If you haven’t heard, since last Wednesday, the French transportation workers are on strike over a feud with the government over retirement reforms. The right to strike is held dearly here, so the workers are challenging the government’s position by cutting service on most trains and busses. The public, it seems, is squarely in the middle of a debate over the retirement benefits of 500,000 workers.

There was a strike about a month ago, which was a pain and lasted for about two days. This one looks to be longer and we’ve actually had to deal with it for a few days, so I feel like my perspective is a bit different this time around.

On Thursday, I had a meeting that simply had to take place—strike or no strike. So, like the others who were involved in the meeting, we figured out how to make it work. Most of us walked, which we found basically fine. It was a sunny, if a bit chilly, day and I left plenty of time. I even found myself at some points happy to be joining the masses making due in the face of inconvenience and, at the very least, I claimed my legitimate right to complain about the situation—which made me feel very French. Sadly, it took the one woman who had no choice but to use some transportation (she lived unwalkably far away) nearly four hours to arrive.

The one thing I don’t understand though is why the workers chose this particular method of striking. It seems instead of a work stoppage, they also had the option of just not charging anyone for transportation, which courts have decided is a legal strike method. Then, you could cost the government money and not make the public angry. I know the issues are complicated and retirement is sacred, but I seriously question their strategy.

I also think my goodwill and lemonade making skills are starting to run short, especially as the temperatures have dropped. Josh just said there was an Anti-Strike March today—if only I could get there I would join in and all this from someone who actually believes in unions. Nearly my entire family is part of a union and even my dad said, “In the States, they would have been forced back to work and a cooling off time or intensive mediation would have taken place.”

In truth, for us, this is mostly an inconvenience. So far, we’ve had to miss the ballet (they were on strike fighting to maintain a benefits package dating back to the 1600’s—no joke), an artist fair (even when the metro is running it takes an hour to get to this neighborhood and we weren’t going to walk there), dinner with Josh’s host father he stayed with in 1989 (who lives too far away to walk) and we ended up just walking everywhere else. Nothing absolutely important, but still slightly irritating. We’re hoping that our Thanksgiving dinner at Iris’ isn’t cancelled or, more comically, that I don’t have to haul a whole turkey on my back to Iris’. We also have a friend arriving on Wednesday without any clear way for him to get from the airport to the city, but we’ll figure all of that out. But mostly, I resent feeling like I am being taken hostage over someone else’s fight.

So, we’ll see when this ends. No immediate end is in sight and even when it’s officially over, it will take several days for things to be back to normal. Several French people have said, “Well, you are certainly having a chance to experience a unique piece of France.” I have to say, I prefer cheese and wine to this piece of culture any day.

sPg

PS: These photos are of a recent strike-related protest, a protest earlier this year, and "better days" our friends and family had with the transit system in strike-free times.

Proud to be an American

[Along with some political photos, I'm including some photos from recent visits by our favorite Americans and non-Americans.]

I cannot believe that I cried during a speech by French President Nicolas Sarkozy, but it’s true. Furthermore, I can hardly believe it took a French presidential address to the U.S. Congress to make me feel really proud to be an American, but that’s what happened. The only other time since we got here that I’ve felt this way was when I walked through the D-Day cemetery with my parents, Josh and three French friends. In both cases, it was a powerful reminder that America has stood for courage and freedom in real and absolute ways. It can be a rough thing to be an American abroad in times such as these. I have regularly fielded the question, “But what happened in 2004?” or “Does your country really support the war?” or “Is America really ready for a woman or an African-American as president?” or just “Who will be the next president?” Today over lunch with a Turkish friend I asked, as I usually do with a bit of trepidation, “So, how are our countries getting along?”

[Side note: Once I asked that same question to my Turkish friend, but my Canadian friend chimed in by saying, “Well, there is the US/Canadian water crisis” I was dumbstruck and asked sheepishly, “We are having a water crisis?” She said, “Yes, you keep stealing our water from the Great Lakes, and what are we going to do, send our Mounties to get you?” ]

In the face of such questions, I usually do the best I can to talk about the America I know—the one that works hard, the one that believes in freedom, the one that still thinks that anyone can be president, the one that understands that sacrifice is a necessary part of freedom, the one that never actually used the term “Freedom Fries”.

I am less able to answer specific political questions in any helpful way. I fumble and sometimes find myself angry at the fact that I even have to entertain these questions. Sometimes all I can mumble is, “I didn’t vote for Bush and I don’t know who will be the next president.” Today I found myself in the rather odd and uncomfortable position of trying to describe “single issue abortion voters” to two friends who are fiercely proud that their countries are secular (and therefore, as I understand it, without the extremely religious driving major policy decisions).

But when Sarkozy was able to take a typically French view of history, which looks at history in terms of centuries (not days or months or even years) I was reminded why I am proud to be an American in France. Sarkozy seemed genuine in his appreciation of George Washington. He was downright moving as he talked about the sacrifice of American soldiers during WWI. His description of parents teaching the role of America to their children by taking them through American cemeteries from WWII was what made me tear up. It may all be just talk and rhetoric, but I loved it and so did the members of Congress who kept applauding.

America may or may not have it “right” in a lot of ways right now. We may not ever really be the perfect country that we hope for and that the world expects, but I think we still have a lot to teach and I reveled in the sentimentality and seemingly genuine admiration of America by a French president.

When I saw a French friend of mine today for lunch, she greeted me with a slightly devious smile and the comment, “You liked Sarkozy’s speech, didn’t you?” I admitted I was fond of it and she agreed that it clearly signified a warming in U.S.-French relations. She was a bit embarrassed that Sarkozy didn’t give the speech in English, and then went on to talk about all of the other European leaders who have come to France and given speeches in French. I countered that his 60 Minutes interview was in English and I thought the CNN translator was perfectly fine. I also said “I’m really glad it was Sarkozy talking to our Congress rather than the other way around.” We then talked a bit about which French president’s liked the US. Who knew? Charles de Gaulle really only tolerated us?

She also made sure to emphasize that the speech also made it very clear that just because it is an ally, France doesn’t have to always agree with us. Even in our casual conversation, the pride in French leadership was evident.

In contrast, however, I was told by my Turkish friend that the speech also got headlines in Turkey. It read: “Fido visits US Congress”. Apparently the Turks, who are not so fond of the French, refer to Sarkozy as Fido in order to conjure up images of a small annoying dog who barks a lot. Oh, EU politics are complicated.

It may be too early to judge what kind of president Sarko the American (as he’s known here) will become. In the election, I was pulling for his opponent and have been a bit skeptical of him. He is doing some potentially creepy things with immigration and who knows if he will get any major reforms passed. The transportation strike that we are in the midst of is going to be a key test of Sarkozy's abilities and legacy. But for now, I am grateful to him for having the right words to give me back a bit of pride in America. I guess it goes to show that all politics really is local in its own international sort of way.

sPg

Beaujolais Blue Balls

[Sara is sleeping, or else I never would have been able to sneak this blog’s title through…]

Maybe you remember the old Paul Masson wine TV commercials, featuring Orson Welles, with the tagline “We will sell no wine before its time.”

(I know, I know, there are no commercials on PBS, maybe there was a pledge drive that week, so sue me…)

Well, no wine better lives up to the “no wine before its time” (or, frankly, “no wine before it’s time,” grammar inside joke, note the apostrophe) mantra like Beaujolais Nouveau. Whereas most wines are made with aging in mind (if not in practice), the Beaujolais is meant to be imbibed right away. And by “right away,” the French mean at or after midnight on the third Thursday of November.

Ya gotta love Wikipedia—apparently, when Beaujolais got its AOC (kind of like a French government trademark to protect regional foods and drinks, so that only Idaho farmers can claim to be selling Idaho potatoes), they were only allowed to legally sell their wine after a certain date. The specific date has changed since, but the fixed start date concept for sales remains, even if it’s more of a marketing gimmick than anything. Other interesting fact: Beaujolais is the only wine, along with Champagne, that must have its grapes harvested exclusively by hand, if it is to be known by the “Beaujolais” name.

Well, among the many things Sara and I have learned this year is that Beaujolais Nouveau is a bigger deal in America (and, interestingly, in Japan) than it is in France. I guess it makes sense. This wine, technically, is junk. It’s all the words you hear used by people spoofing wine reviews—it’s immature, impertinent, impudent, and impetuous. Serious wine drinkers here generally turn up their noses at the mere thought of it.

It makes total sense now that I think about it--the Beaujolais growers have put together an American-style marketing campaign, generating a date-based “buzz,” in order to get skeptical Americans to drink the stuff. It doesn’t hurt that Beaujolais Nouveau is generally to American tastes (light, fruity), and that it is released one week before Thanksgiving. So, as far as scams go, pawning off much of France’s Beaujolais isn’t quite like the Dutch buying Manhattan from the Native Americans for $24, it’s really more like a Hollywood studio making “Beverly Hills Cop XIV,” knowing it will crash and burn in American theaters, since “it will break even at the foreign box office.” Leave it to the foreign rubes, in other words!

So, what’s with the “Beaujolais Blue Balls” of the title? Well, Sara’s getting over a bit of stomach flu, so she wasn’t up for a midnight wine outing. But she signed off on my plan to do a “quick and dirty” Beaujolais trip, hitting the new wine bar that opened two doors down for a solo, single, speedy post-release glass of the new wine. The best-laid plans…

At 11:55PM, I left the building, jacket-free despite the near-freezing temps, to quickly scoot the 100 chilly feet to the wine bar. I bellied up to the bar, ordered a glass…and received a five-minute lecture from a fellow customer about how bad Beaujolais Nouveau is. Semi-drunkenly, she told me that this high-class wine bar knew better than to serve such swill, that it’s too young, too fresh, too fruity. She said that she didn’t care, some years it tastes like raspberries, some years it tastes like bananas, some years it tastes like “shaypahtrokwah” (slurred French equivalent of “ayedunnowhut”). As soon as I could, I backed out the door and headed home.

After a few minutes at home, I decided it was silly to be in the international wine capital of the world but still miss the world’s most hyped wine release. So this time with a jacket, I headed out the door to try out the café “at the bottom of the Mouffe,” the “local” at the bottom of the rue Mouffetard, our local market street. The owner, who knows us, shook my hand and greeted me as I came in, but told me that because of the traffic generated by today’s transit strike, their shipment wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

Heading back to our place, I passed a half Chinese restaurant, half French café hybrid establishment that Sara and I usually avoid. But earlier in the day I’d seen that they had “Beaujolais Nouveau” posters in their window, so despite the place’s utter lack of charm or even compelling French-ness, I tried stopping by. No dice—the doors were locked, and the owner yelled through them that, Beaujolais or not, I should come back tomorrow.

In America, after three strikes I’d be out, but since they don’t know from baseball here in France, I decided to keep trying. I headed by l’Ourcine, the delicious restaurant with the great reputation (DC folks—Tom Sietsema approves!) that’s at the end of the block. They know us by name, and they even went so far as to suggest to me earlier in the week some places where I could find good Beaujolais release parties, since they themselves would be serving the wine but not hosting any special festivities. But by the time I made it back to l’Ourcine, the lights were mostly off, only the staff was left, and they were getting their jackets on. It didn’t seem right to trouble them with my quest, so I just kept on moving by.

Stop number five was at Sara’s and my “Euro Fifty” bar. That’s not its name, that’s its appeal—they have a massively extended “all drinks for 1.50” happy hour, which at one point went from 4PM to midnight but now is 6-10PM or something like that. They also have tasty and inexpensive couscous as well. And, on this night, they not only had a “le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive!” poster in the window, but the lights were still burning. Unfortunately for me, as I walked up, the owner was diplomatically escorting out his last, and quite inebriated, customer. It wasn’t quite closing time, but the drunk guy didn’t know that, so the owner was using that as a pretense to make him hit the road. After briefly pausing to shake my hand, the owner explained that yes, he had the wine, but due to present circumstances, I’d have to come back tomorrow to get it.

The drunk man, before heading home in the opposite direction but clearly based on hard-earned experience, reminded me that there was another bar a block away. So, I made my way towards bar number six. The bar was still bustling, a good sign. But when I asked the bartender for a glass of Beaujolais Nouveau, he told me that it wouldn’t be released until midnight on Thursday. I explained that it was in fact now past midnight on Thursday, that Wednesday had ended at 11:59PM and Thursday had begun at 12:00AM, or Thursday midnight. Not having any of my argument, he insisted that although he did have Beaujolais Nouveau “in the back,” his understanding was that midnight was the end and not the beginning of a day, and that he wouldn’t sell me a glass “in case I was with the government.” Unwilling to enter further into this astronomical and etymological debate about the nature of midnight, I withdrew, and headed home.

And that’s how I find myself sitting in my Paris living room, eating jelly beans and watching a French all-news channel, as the first hours of Beaujolais Nouveau time tick by. In a news story, they just described this year’s Beaujolais as “tendre et gourmand.” That means it’s tender and for gluttons/sweet tooths/bon vivants (Sara and I have been to a half-dozen French dinner parties where the word “gourmand” has been discussed and a successful English translation has been unsuccessfully sought.)

So, intrepid readers, it may well be the case that you, stateside, have tasted Beaujolais Nouveau before the Franco-Gibsons. All I can say is, “That's just like you immature, impertinent, impudent, and impetuous Americans!”

Josh