I'll Never Be French (no matter what I do)

by Mark Greenside

  Kathryn and I arrive on time, 7:30, the time Sharon told us, which is the wrong time, because in France only the trains and planes are on time, and she isn’t ready. I offer to help, but she doesn’t let me. Nobody lets me. Madame P won’t even let me clear the table or go anywhere near her kitchen.

  We sit in the living room, and their two boys—Yann, about fourteen, and Noé, about ten—come out of their rooms to entertain us. Come out of their rooms! They shake my hand, kiss Kathryn on the cheek, and sit down. Her husband, Jean, enters, does the same, and says, “Hello.” He looks like the French intellectuals I see in movies: tan and thin, with longish, over-the-collar, over-the-forehead, prematurely graying hair that somehow looks both distinguished and casual, glasses hanging from a string around his neck, wearing non-pressed jeans and a loose, baggy sweater. He has the demeanor of gravitas and the voice of reason—as if he could explain anything. If he weren’t curious and didn’t have an easy laugh and the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, he’d be intimidating. But he’s engaging and, as with Sharon, I like him immediately.

  Sharon finally joins us, and we sit for a couple of hours drinking kir, whiskey, and Ricard, finishing a bag of peanuts, two dry sausages, several tomatoes, chips, olives, radishes from their garden, and cornichons. By 9:30, I’m sloshed, and the boys, who sit through the whole thing, must be starving. Jean invites us to dinner, and the conversation changes from the political and social—basically what’s wrong with the U.S.—to the personal. We tell them who we are, why we’re here, and what we’re doing. Sharon tells us she’s Irish and Jean’s Breton and they met in Montreal in the sixties where he worked as a filmmaker. Jean tells us about the feature film he’s made about television being introduced into a tiny, rural village in India and that he’s currently writing a book about consciousness, melding Eastern religion and philosophy with Western philosophy and science. Sharon works with physically and developmentally disabled adults and is an abstract painter. We leave at two-thirty in the morning—the boys go to sleep at about one—and invite them all to dinner at Chez Sally the following week.

  I have lived in the Oakland hills fifteen years and don’t know any of my neighbors. I have lived in France less than a month and know two families, one of which doesn’t speak English, and have a social life more full and active than I do in the States. All my life, I’ve disdained the connectedness, closeness, visibility, complicity—the busybodiness and dependence of small-town and suburban life, and here, in Brittany, in this village of five hundred people, I find I desire it: the coziness of it, the togetherness, the neighborliness, knowing there’s a place where, whoever you are, you are known. I don’t know why I feel this, but I do, and I know I’m going to miss this life and these people when I leave.

  Market Day

  Thursday is market day in Loscoat, and I’m going shopping with Madame P. I know this because she’s standing in the doorway of Chez Sally with her car in front of the house, the passenger door open and the engine running. I’m trying to explain that it’s raining, when I realize (1) she already knows, and (2) it doesn’t matter. Bretons sprout umbrellas the way Texans sprout guns. Umbrella in one hand, panier in the other, they’re ready to shop. That I have no interest or desire or need to see a bunch of farmers selling fruit and veggies in the rain doesn’t matter any more than any of the other things I had no desire to see or do that I’ve done. Madame wants me to go to the market, so I’m going.

  I sit in the car and watch as she S-turns, barely missing the edge of the quay and toppling us into the river, and gets to Loscoat faster than until that moment I would have believed humanly possible. She parks on the sidewalk and decars, snaps open her umbrella—a basic black that covers the two of us—puts her purse in the panier, and we head out, armed. Using the cane basket as a lance and battering ram, sharp eyes, and lots of distracting questions, we go from stall to stall. “What’s this?” “Where does that come from?” “What’s in it?” “How old?” “How much?” With each question she samples the wares, an apricot here, cherries there, honey cake, cheese, sausage. Clearly, I’m in the presence of a pro. She buys with the eyes of a diamond broker looking for flaws.

  She hands me a peach. I roll it over in my palm and give it back to her. “Bonne,” I say. “Bien. Joli.” She gives me an avocado and indicates I should squeeze it. I do. I also smell a melon on the same spot she does, and bite into a strawberry from Plougastel that’s so sweet it makes the first bite into a stick of Juicy Fruit taste like alum. Everything’s “bonne, bien, and joli.” I stay with her until the rain lightens up, then wander off.

  I expected the market to be tiny and dull, and it’s neither. It’s on both sides of the river, and the array of goods for sale is astounding: beds, mattresses, furniture, insurance, vacuum cleaners, driver’s education classes, bric-a-brac, and the strangest selection of women’s undergarments I’ve ever seen—a cross between the Marquis de Sade and Grandma Rose: girdles the size and strength of truck gaskets, bras with so much metal in them they could be soup tureens, panties like hot-air balloons. Africans are selling goods made in Africa and China. There are pizzas to go, paella and Vietnamese food, lots of flower sellers, people who specialize in spices, cheese, meats, kitchen supplies and utensils, fish, pocketbooks, historical postcards, wine, and tablecloths. Three guys stand in front of a stainless-steel van that in the U.S. would be an Air-stream camper and in France is a giant rotisserie with a dozen chickens and a two-hundred-pound pig rotating on spits as if they’re on a Florida beach trying to get an even tan. The pig still has his head and feet. His brother’s on the counter, half gone. I buy a slice of him for lunch and search for a chicken to cook for dinner.

  I don’t want one of the rotating chickens because Europe’s largest chicken-processing company, Doux, is in the next village, and I’ve heard and smelled what they do to their birds. I want a free-range chicken, not one of their concentration-camp types, which is what I suspect the rotisserie guys use because they’re cheapest. The problem is how to find one—and how to say it. My first thought is libre (which actually is correct, as in liberty) but dismiss it because I think it also means free of charge, and I don’t want to be asking some French person for a free chicken.

  I walk about practicing what I’m going to say, looking for someone who is alone, so no one else will hear me, someone who looks simpatico, so I won’t be a bigger fool than I am. I walk past a couple of charcuterie stands with wedges of people and several butchers who look forbidding. Toward the end of the quay I spot a slight man with a big smile standing alone in front of a van the size of an ice cream truck with Poulet Fermier written on the side. It’s an omen, a sign from the shopping god. I rush to him before anyone else arrives—he must think I’m desperate for a chicken—and say in my most polished, assured voice, “Monsieur, avez vous une poulet au beaucoup de promenade?”

  He doesn’t even flinch. “Oui,” he says, and opens the back of his van and removes three birds. “Noir, blanc, ou rouge?”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est, le difference?”

  It’s the right thing to say, because Monsieur has an unbelievable amount to tell me about these birds. Unfortunately, I don’t understand any of it, but I do my part by interjecting an occasional “oui,” “ah,” and a “bonne.” Ten minutes later, having either finished or given up, he picks up le rouge, turns it over, spreads its legs, and puts it down. He does the same with le blanc and le noir. I’m looking between the legs of these chickens for I don’t know what, hoping Madame doesn’t walk past and catch me. “Bonne,” I say. “Bien. C’est joli.”

  He hands me the black. “C’est le meilleur.”

  I hold out my money and watch as he carefully counts seventy-five francs (about fifteen dollars), and writes 75 on a piece of paper and hands it to me along with a plastic bag of innards, neck, feet, and for all I know, the head. Who knows what the French won’t eat? I walk toward the car with a chicken in one plastic bag and a slice of pig in another, feeling as if I’d survived a p
otentially life-threatening incident, when I see a man in blue overalls gently lifting the side-panel door of his van. The van is higher and longer than all the others, and he’s raising the panel as if the van contains Fabergé eggs. I stop, and watch, and listen to what sounds like birds—and see it is. Hundreds of them in cages: finches, budgies, canaries, parakeets, cockatiels, parrots, a macaw, a toucan—squeaking, squawking, shrieking, chirping, looking stunned and bewildered by their ride, like where am I and how did I get here? I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. A dozen villagers and I stand there amused and transfixed and surprised, everyone smiling as if we’ve just seen a rainbow or been to the circus or heard a Mozart concerto.

  The following week I go to the market alone. I’ve managed to purchase fresh pasta from the butter, egg, and cheese lady by pointing to it, holding up two fingers and saying, “Pour deux.” Emboldened, I search for a bay leaf for the sauce. I know what bay leaves look like and how they smell, so I approach the spice, herb, and condiment lady with confidence.

  “Bonjour,” I say.

  “Bonjour,” she says, and we’re off.

  I walk to the left, the right, back and forth several times. I see cumin, curry, paprika, cinnamon, nutmeg, tarragon; white, red, and black pepper; coconut, mustard, cardamom, oregano, marjoram, rosemary, parsley, sage, thyme, pickles, roasted peppers, olives, eggplant—everything except bay leaves. Can this be? Do bay leaves look different here? I walk away and return, certain I’m missing it, which is often the case in France. On my third return the lady says, “Monsieur?”—always the beginning of trouble.

  I know what I want, but I don’t know how to say it. I was so sure I’d find it, I didn’t bother looking up the word. I try, “Avez vous le bay leaf?”

  She looks blank.

  “Bay-leaf.”

  She looks puzzled. I can see she’s starting to panic.

  “Bay leaf.” For some reason I’ve convinced myself it’s the same word in French, and all I have to do is find the right accent. I lower my voice and say, “Bay leaf.”

  “Moment,” she says, and does something I’ve never seen any seller at the market do. She leaves her stall and goes to the fellow in the stall next to her, a guy selling hats, and says something to him, pointing at me, and says in a lowered voice, “Bay leaf.”

  He says, “Quoi?”

  “Bay leaf,” she repeats.

  “Bay leaf?”

  Now they’re both muttering it and looking at me. “Qu’estce que c’est bay leaf?”

  The lady returns shaking her head, obviously dismayed at the loss of the sale, not knowing what I mean, maybe failing France, who knows?

  “Merci,” I say, and walk away, not wanting to cause her any more consternation.

  A few minutes later I return. The spice lady is smiling. She’s talking to a customer she can actually help. When she sees me she smiles wider, but in my heart I know it’s a wince. I’m convinced, though, I can convey what I want and save us both. The satisfied customer leaves happy with a plastic bag filled with five olives. I wait for her to get out of hearing and sight, then walk up to the spice lady and say, “Madame.”

  “Oui…?” She makes it a question.

  I remove the pasta from my shopping bag. She looks at me as if I pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “Le pâtes,” I say, and hold it up to indicate I’m not talking about pastry le pâte.

  “Oui…?”

  “Le espice pour la sauce de pâtes.”

  She stares at me, speechless. Luckily this is Brittany. She’s too polite to hate me.

  “Madame,” I say, trying to get her attention back, as I see her eyes are glazed and she’s fading. “Le sauce tomate pour le pâtes, oui…”

  “Oui.”

  “C’est necessaire le espice specialment pour la sauce.”

  She says nothing.

  “Bay leaf,” I say. “Bay leaf.”

  She holds up thyme, marjoram, rosemary, coriander, paprika—who knows what foreigners eat with pasta?—anything she can think of, trying to help or get rid of me.

  “Merci,” I say, and walk away defeated, leaving her and the hat guy muttering, “Bay leaf.” I’m so rattled I buy a bag of honey soap from the honey lady and leave it at the stall.

  On my way to the car, the chicken guy sees me and calls, “Monsieur.”

  Shit. Now he thinks I’m a regular and I’m going to get the hard sell.

  “Oui…?” I say. I say it the way the spice lady said it to me.

  “Comment est le poulet au beaucoup d’promenade?” he says and smiles, and I know he’s been telling this story all week.

  “Bien. Bonne. C’est joli.”

  He smiles wider. I’m happy too. At least one French person understands me.

  I return to Chez Sally and look bay leaf up in the dictionary. Laurier. Laurel. No wonder the spice lady and hat guy couldn’t get it.

  Madame P knocks on the door. I brew tea and explain in great detail about “bay leaf” and laurier. She laughs and laughs and laughs, harder than usual, I think, then takes me by the hand and leads me outside. “Laurier,” she says, pulling a leaf from a tree and putting it under my nose. No wonder the spice lady doesn’t sell bay leaves. They grow wild, everywhere. No French person in her right mind would pay for something she can get for free.

  The next Thursday I go to the market, hoping to avoid the spice lady, feeling like a total jerk. I see a wedge of people in front of her stall, people buying three or four olives at a time, and scurry past.

  “Monsieur.”

  Shit.

  I walk over, prepared to be humiliated. “Madame.”

  She reaches under the counter and holds up a three-foot branch covered with bay leaves. “Laurier,” I say, at the same time she and the hat guy say, “Bay leaf.” I can’t believe she brought an entire branch of it to the market for me.

  I thank her and walk through the market proudly carrying my branch like the laurel it is. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. It’s the honey lady. “Monsieur,” she says, and hands me the bars of soap I bought and left at her stall last week. She’s held them all week, like the spice lady, not knowing if or when I’d return. Now she’ll never get rid of me. I’ll never buy honey or honey products from anyone else. Or spices. Or cheese. Or pasta. For as long as I’m here, I’m hooked.

  Pardon Moi

  The second Sunday in July is the Pardon of Locronan. Madame P tells me I should go. I wonder if it’s like Nixon and Watergate, and who’s being pardoned for what? I read the guidebook to see what I’m getting into and see it’s not politics or crime but religion. Of course! This is Catholic-land with a Gothic C. Every village has a saint, and every saint has its day, and every day has its saint. Clearly, these are not a people who want to take their chances with God. Madame P wears multiple charms—Saint Anne, Mary, and Saint Rita—and has reliquaries from Lourdes and Rome in her dining room and a crucifix on the wall next to the front door for protection in this world and insurance in the next.

  As a kid growing up in Brooklyn and Long Island, I was jealous and disdainful of my Catholic friends who went to priests and made confessions any day or time of the week and were absolved for anything bad they’d said or thought or done. In those days, church doors were always open. Today the church has discovered the market economy (not to mention the joys of litigation) and has economized—fewer priests, fewer masses, fewer confessions, and fewer churches open fewer hours—so Pardon day is the day to do it. Makes sense to me, a one-stop, one-shop kind of day. What doesn’t make sense is why Madame wants me to go. I don’t know if it’s to see a tourist attraction, like Île Bréhat, or because I’m a desecrater of all things revered in France, like language, attire, and protocol. Does it mean she thinks there’s hope for me, or I’m already lost? What? What?

  The Pardon starts at two-thirty, after lunch, because everything important in France starts after lunch, and the people leading the procession will need all the strength they can get. I arrive at two o’cl
ock because I’m American enough to believe things start on time, and earlier is better than later. I park the car and walk into the village carrying the brochure the Lady of the Parking Lot gave me.

  The closer I get to centre-ville the more improbable the village becomes. It looks like a perfectly reconstructed medieval village, right down to the few old people in traditional costumes strategically placed at conspicuous locations—a Breton Williamsburg or Old Sturbridge Village. Only this is real.

  The church is fifteenth-century, Gothic. The houses are sixteenth-and seventeenth-century Renaissance, and everything—everything—is built with granite: the church, houses, cobbled streets, dormers, stairs, ramps, shops, benches, tomb-stones. Geraniums are everywhere, in pots, planters, growing from the ground, turning the village into a cross between a nursery and graveyard. The windows of the houses are curtained with lace, each house with its own design: tiny boats in the sea, fishermen, boys and girls playing on the beach, flowers, gardens, Breton people in medieval costumes. It’s as if there were a village competition and the whole village won. Except for the people on the street, it’s a still life, a memento mori, all of it watched over by midget, carved-in-granite, local, Breton saints. They’re perched in niches built above doors or windows, below the roofs, into the sides of the houses, or set on lawns, waiting, watching, blessing, judging every human thing that happens. The whole scene is so perfect it could be Hollywood. The brochure tells me it is Hollywood. More than thirty films have been shot here, including Roman Polanski’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles. For all I know, this village is Brittany’s Schwab’s.

  I round the bend and see hundreds of tourists with cameras, guidebooks, water bottles, and backpacks, milling in front of the church. It’s like the annual Macy’s sale is about to begin, or trying to get tickets to the Rolling Stones. The French are in restaurants and on the terraces, in the parking lots and picnic areas, eking out every millisecond of eating they can. Watching them makes me hungry.