In Praise of the Nonsmoking Section

So, it's been a quiet day in my hometown... No, no, no--in fact, I don't know what's going on in my hometown (and, moreover, given the number of towns I've called "home" over the years, which exactly is my hometown?), but it was a quiet day here in Hyeres. (Not so quiet now, unfortunately. A French couple is arguing in one of the other apartments on this rue, and though I'm only catching a word of the fight here or there, I can say with certainty that whatever M. has done, Mme. is not happy.) We four Lunstrums, however, had a relatively mellow day.

This morning I indulged in one of my true pleasures--walking to the cafe (alone!) for a cup of coffee. The routine is this: I leave Nathan to feed the children breakfast, walk down the hill for a quick stop at our favorite patisserie here to buy the day's bread and some rolls to bring back for a mid-morning snack (today's rolls were quatre brioche au sucre), then continue on to one of the cafes in town for a grand creme (or two). I sit at the cafe with my coffee, I read a short story or take some notes on my own thoughts, I people-watch. It is all pure delight, and the hour or two by myself makes me a much more patient mother the rest of the day. (Bless Nathan for understanding this and giving me the time--though he swears it's not an entirely selfless gesture, as I usually bring him home a tarte aux pommes, the French equivalent of his favorite American pastry, the apple fritter).

This morning I managed the potential cultural land mines of cafe-going pretty well until a couple sat down at the table next to mine (and "next to" here means literally right next to--within knee-bumping distance) and took up smoking their breakfast cigarettes. I haven't gone into detail on the issue of smoking on the blog yet, but it's certainly far more prevalent a habit here than at home. There are butts all over the streets, and it's not at all uncommon for someone to light up beside you at a brasserie or cafe. In fact, Nathan and I even raised our eyebrows in surprise last week as we watched the local playdate mommies spark up cigarettes on the playground bench as their tots scuddered around their ankles. (Seriously? Smoking at the playground? This would be cause for a call from CPS in Westchester, or, at the very least, a social shunning. But here none of the nonsmoking mothers batted an eye.) Like the fearless sun worshipping, smoking is a French habit I can't quite wrap my head around. (Do they not have PSA ads in France? Is there no French equivalent of the D.A.R.E. program in which impressionable French adolescents are forced by a friendly gendarme to watch videos of people dying of lung cancer? No? That kind of education-by-fear happens just in America, you say?) Whatever the cultural differences, this is one bit of French life I can't abide. I don't care for my brioche seasoned with ash, and the pleasure of inhaling my morning coffee's aroma is flat out ruined by the stink of secondhand smoke. So, I abandoned my cafe earlier than I might have liked (with not a little bit of sadness) and finished my reading at the park instead. C'est la vie.

As I left, however, emerging from my neighbor's cloud of smoke and high-stepping it over the piles of fresh dog poo the street sweeper had yet to wash off the sidewalks, I had another one of those flashing moments of homesickness for America. Don't fret--I'm not going American patriot on you. No one's turning Teabagger here. But part of the reality of being in a different culture is recognizing both the blemishes and the beauties of one's own, and, while I might have expected to come here and look at my native land with only distaste in light of this notoriously more elegant and culturally rich nation, that's not turning out to be the case. Americans get a lot of things right (at least as much as we get wrong, and that's quite a lot), and seeing that anew was like carrying a tiny, joy-making secret with me as I made my way back to the apartment this morning.

We had class in the afternoon, and following that Nathan and Ross led a wine tasting for the students (I hear Nathan did a nice job with the pour-and-twist wrist action, and Ross with the description of terroir). The kids and I played a no-rules version of Scrabble (or "Scramble," according to Finn) and tested out the petanque court, then, when the wine tasting had concluded, we all headed for "office hours" at the brasserie. Office hours at what is essentially a pub might be the best idea to hit academia in years. The faculty arrive a bit before the students, order their wine, beer, etc., relax, and are thus in an affable, pleasant mood when students show up to chat. When we take the kids along, they also get to order glace--ice cream--and their excitement over that ramps up the mood another couple of degrees until we're all quite happy to be sitting in "office hours."

My office hours beverage today was pastis, an anise-flavored liquor one dilutes with water and drinks on ice for a refreshing afternoon cocktail. Or so said Rick Steves on his Provence-region episode. I'm wondering now, however, if Rick might have been grimacing a bit after every sip when the camera was turned. Friends, I'm trying to sample new things here, to be open to the experiences of a different culture, etc.; but I must say, I wouldn't order pastis again. The anise flavor is extreme, to say the least, and though I don't dislike black licorice, I'm not ready for it in liquid form. (The taste actually reminded me of the flavor of black Neco Wafers. My first thought after the initial sip was that the experience of drinking pastis is not unlike what the experience of a mouthful of Neco Wafers might be. Perhaps if I stuffed several into my mouth at one time, sort of chubby bunny style. You know, until my eyes watered. That would be like pastis.)

Next time, I think a nice, cool glass of wine will do.

I'm one post behind here and have photos of a Sunday afternoon trip to le jardin St. Bernard to share, but it's getting late, so they will have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, bonne nuit.