Bonjour Madame

I love Sean.  He lets me be the person I am at my most unattractive.  He patiently listens to me when I whine, he pays close attention when I express my concerns in excruciating detail, and he assures me everything will be fine as soon as he sees I’m about to freak out.  What a guy.  Sean is my hairdresser in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.  He’s beside me every step of the way during my coloring process.  And besides all of that, he’s like a therapist- he’s willing to listen, analyze, gently criticize and generally help with whatever problem we open for discussion during the processing time.  What a guy.  His partner of twenty-six years is a very lucky man. 

So he understood my panic when I realized my roots would be beginning to show around my third week in France.  He painstakingly went over my exact color combination plus the percentage of peroxide and the time to process so I could give the information to a stylist here.  I’ve texted him about it seven times since I’ve been here.  And through his return texts he has assured me that the salon, Dessange,  is reputable, the color will be ok and just whatever else is necessary for me to hear to keep me from being “a pain in the ass”. 

See, that phrase has come up before.  I used to go to a fabulous shop in Rehoboth Beach, Bad Hair Day.  That shop keeps itself on the cutting edge of everything that makes a salon be a fun experience.  One day, as I was asking my former stylist Jeffrey when the last time was that I was in, he gave me my printed history that he had on his tray.  Apparently they print it out prior to an appointment  and give it to the hairdresser showing the exact formulas, processing times, comments etc, so there is never a question or mistake.  What a place!  Mine was pretty thick because I had been going there for awhile.  I’d never held mine is my hands before, and I leafed back through my pages and started reading from the beginning.  I had originally been seeing a different stylist, but we just didn’t quite hit it off and she didn’t seem to understand or appreciate my concerns the way I felt was necessary.  I mean… having your hair colored, cut and styled isn’t cheap, and since I was paying a lot of money for the service I wanted it done to my exact specifications.  I saw nothing wrong with that.  Hmmm… apparently someone didn’t agree… because there in the comments from my first few visits, it said this customer “is a royal P I T A!”  Well, well, well… what could that mean?   And then suddenly it hit me!  A ROYAL PAIN IN THE ASS!   How dare them to have labeled me that in their records to have it follow me around in their shop for years!  I went over to Dwight, the sweet receptionist and DEMANDED that that be scratched from my record!  He squealed when he read it and apologized profusely, but he hadn’t been the one to pen it anyway.  And I’m sure the owner, whom I highly respect, would’ve taken it out had he seen it.

I’m not sure what happened with Jeffrey, I think his schedule didn’t coordinate with mine a few times and I found myself in the salon across the street, having a coloring process done by a brand new person.  I was truly then a pain in the ass.  If something goes wrong with your hair, it’s bad news from the top all the way down and it changes your entire appearance.  I am so specific, requiring any new stylist to detail exactly what they’re doing and why; analyzing and requiring justification for every decision they make every little step of the way.  Luckily, for me, maybe not for him, I landed in Sean’s chair.  And we’ve had smooth sailing ever since.  Which is why I followed him to the new, super spazzified, so, so current salon when he decided to transfer.  Even though it was opened and owned by the hairdresser who had labeled me the royal P.I.T.A. from Bad Hair Day! Imagine the irony in that.  Well, no hard feelings for sure… I just want to follow Sean. 

In Antibes, I have been in maybe eight different shops asking them if they can match my color based on the name and number of the color product and its mixture.  There apparently is some computer software that correlates one brand of color to another.  That’s a pretty difficult question with the language barrier.  So usually the french receptionist has looked real confused, and finds someone who speaks better English, who listens and nods yes.  BUT then…  I ask a question to test them… you see, I don’t want any mess-up with my hair… and they have no idea of the answer because they DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH!   They were tricking me!  I swear, I think it’s routine to have a token “English-speaking” person that they bring to the front counter who pretends to understand and then say “oui, yes, oui” and you THINK THEY UNDERSTAND!  But I know better because I trick the tricker with my trick question!  Something like… “How would you be sure it wouldn’t look too ash blonde?”  and they nod and say again, “oui, yes, oui”.  Then I know they haven’t understood a damn thing I’ve said.  So I smile and shake my head in agreement like they answered correctly and move on. 

I stopped by a very nice salon close to my house and they got everything right.  I asked the price.  $35 for a color.  Hey!  Not bad!  It is just a root color, I would never do a highlight and lowlight in a foreign country.  But… wait a minute… what was he saying?  Plus $25 for a shampoo?  No shit!  Of course you have to have a shampoo or you wouldn’t get the color rinsed out after the processing time elapsed.  And $35 for a blow dry?  Sean lets me leave his shop with wet hair to save money.  They don’t like it, but he’s ok with it so I do.  How do they feel about that in France?  Turns out it seems to be an odd request, but grantable.  Hello!  $35 for me with my exchange rate is $52 US dollars.  I sure don’t want a style that I may not like anyway, when that plus another $35 will buy me the scrunched-top, just-above-the-ankle leather boots I’ve been eyeing for the last week. 

Ok, I’ll cut to the chase.  I made the appointment yesterday and went in today.  Christian was my stylist.  He didn’t know that today was going to be his lucky day to have me as a client!  He was very Sean-like in assuring me that everything would be fine, easy to match the colors and for some reason even though he spoke almost no English, I felt like I was in good hands.  He seemed to be the sort of person that wanted to be a perfectionist and as he happily pranced around getting my smock, fixing it, mixing the colors I became more and more relaxed.  When he gave me the $25 shampoo I melted into the chair.  He gave me a scalp massage like I’ve never experienced before!  It was so incredibly soothing, everything in my body just turned to warm taffy.  It lasted a good five minutes, maybe longer.  Everything was working out well.  The color was more ash than I would’ve preferred, but I think I and Sean would be the only ones to notice that.  You see, when Sean does my color it looks perfect every time.  But also every time after the shampoo, I get back in his chair and the red color scares me.   I gasp, “It looks too red!”  And he smiles and says, “You say that every time.  It’s the lighting in here”. 

The part of wanting to leave with my hair wet caused a stir of confusion.  Apparently that’s not a normal request and he had gotten a blow dryer plugged in and had begun drying by the time he finally understood what I was trying to say.  Did I catch a hint of his being mildly perturbed?  I couldn’t tell for sure.  But then…. when I was ready to pay, my $35 color plus $25 shampoo was totaled on the little hand-held register based on the information Christian had just entered into the computer, and then twisted around for me to see and $114 appeared!  What?  Christian… prance your skinny ass back up here!   I was shaking my head NO with that mildly crazed look in my eyes.  I know I must look a little unstable when I have that reaction because I’ve seen people get sort of nervous when I look like that.  Where was the person who told me yesterday it would be $60 total?  I looked around the shop, but all those dark-haired Frenchmen looked the same.  Finally someone came to my assistance and I was babbling in fast English in a higher and higher pitched voice, but he seemed to understand.  Punch, punch, punch numbers on the little hand-held register… voila!  Turn it around to me… and… $95!  NO!!!  No foil processing, no cut, not even a blow dry!  Can’t you see I’m standing here looking like a drowned fucking rat!   Lots of punch, punch, punching on the hand-held calculator again and now no one is willing to step forward and offer to speak English.  It gets flipped around to me and $60!  I assume that was $25 for the shampoo which is the only price that seemed to be a constant.  Which would make the color $45.  Ok.  Ten Euros more than expected but this shop is a place where I walk by easily eight to ten times each day, and I want to feel good karma when I walk past.   They had reduced the price from $114 to $60 and even though hair salons have sliding prices based on who knows what, (hair length or how irritating you are?) they usually are not negotiable.  All in all I’m happy with the new do.  At least there aren’t any gray (or as Sean says, “silver, never say gray”) roots and I’m sure Sean who’s 7000 miles away is also relieved.  Can you imagine if I insisted that he participate in a conference call with me and some unlucky French stylist to instruct the Monsieur how to specifically do my corrective coloring?  What a royal pain in the ass that would be.   

 

Note:  Hey, Chris… remember that time we were in Paris 10 years ago and I thought it would be fun to get my long hair cut in that cool Parisian salon?  And the guy did the entire haircut with a razor and no scissors and gave me short bangs too?  I think I cried.  I remember you telling me over the 3 hour train trip to Provence that it wasn’t “that” bad.

I’ve learned a lot of things travelling by myself.  One thing is that traveling can be spelled with one “L” or two.  My spell check doesn’t correct either one!  But the most important thing I’ve learned is to NEVER, NEVER, NEVER go to explore a new city using public transportation wearing new heels.  Oh my god, my feet are so sore, with lots of blisters. 

I decided to go to Nice and check out the Matisse museum.  I like Tarkay alot and he was strongly influenced by Matisse and I wanted to see the master’s work.   I took the train to Nice, easy enough… the shoes didn’t hurt walking the 15 minute walk from my house to the train station and then I walked from Nice’s train station to catch the tram.  By the way, Nice’s train station is magnificent.  This picture is taken from the platform area.  Clomp, clomp, clomp in my new heel clogs fresh from a U.S. Ross “Dress for Less”.  They looked great in Salisbury, MD, but somehow look dull and out of style over here.  Maybe because I have not seen one person wearing black leather clogs with a heel since I’ve been here and suddenly I feel like I am wearing truly out-of-fashion footwear.  In fact, when I realized what a dud I looked like was when the shoes started to hurt.  Maybe a connection there. 

I got off the tram to find the bus at Massena Place, a huge wonderful surprise.  Nice has more parkland and beautiful public areas than any other city know!  But I’m not what you would call a seasoned traveler, so I’m speaking in terms of in the south of France or cities I’ve been to in the US.  Beautiful parks with palms, blooming flowers, fountains, trellis walk-ways, carousels.  The buildings in Nice are huge with an Italian flair and touched with pastel colors.   Nice had been under Italian Savoy till 1860 and the Italian influence is all around.  But those beaches… the beaches are actually little round rocks instead of sand.  Take a look at the close-up of the rocks.  And surprise!  The men really do wear those European-style speedos!  Why do Americans pleasantly smirk at that?  It takes a lot of balls to wear those suits.  Hmmm.

 

I walked around 10 blocks or more just taking in the beauty of the city and the sidewalk cafes and of course stopping to have a crepe with sucre et du beurre and that’s when the shoes started to pinch a little.  By the way, this melted butter is something some cafes just don’t get.  I was presented a crepe with just sugar… a little dry, wouldn’t you think?  The garcon took forever to notice my finger popping up like a flying finger puppet, trying to get his attention.  I told him I would “Je voudrais du beurre pour moi crepe”- I would like some butter for my crepe…. hello!  And I thought that since he might not understand and bring the cold butter patties over I’d better be more specific.  Du beurre chaud.  Hot butter, I don’t know the word for melted.  (Last night I almost ordered a hot salad… salade chevre.  Yum, something sautéed in olive oil and garlic maybe?  Oops… chevre is goat cheese which I hate, chard is hot.  How could I mess that up?  There are just way too many things to learn).   Anyway, guess what the nice crepe garcon brought me?  A bowl of hot water with one of those dainty silver spoons and two pats of cold butter.  Non, non, non!  This will never do!  But then he said Non, non, non as in that was the best they could do.  Somebody was reducing their tip, and fast.  I put the foil- wrapped butter pattie in the hot water and held it down with the silver spoon, and it actually did get soft.  At least soft enough to take the dryness out of the crepe.  By now my shoes were beginning to feel really tight. 

I walked another 10 blocks or so to find the bus that would take me up hill to the Matisse museum.  The shoes were getting into the “hurt” category.  I finally found the correct bus stop and got on bus 17.  I asked the driver (in French) if this bus stopped at the musee Matisse.  He hesitated a second.  I don’t say arret (stop) very well because those r’s are made with a sound we don’t have in English… that back of the throat getting ready to hock a loogie sound.  “Oui”.  Bonne, (good) because sitting now felt wonderful… anything to take a load off those shoes!  But… a few minutes later the older lady near me who looked like she would never want to be sweet said something to an elderly grim-faced gentleman.  He brightened up and said something to her and they chatted and chatted, and I could hear them saying Matisse.  Then another very rough-looking guy joined in the conversation, and when he spoke his eyes widened past the half-open position they’d been in and he became nice and lively.  They all chattered away about… I was getting the idea… they were discussing why the bus driver told me Oui, the bus did stop at the Matisse musee, when clearly these regular riders knew otherwise.  Two other people joined the conversation.  Now I knew I was in deep shit trouble and would be dropped off nowhere near my destination.  They got the driver involved and as he drove through Nice’s tiny winding streets up the hill his hands did all sorts of turning, circular gestures.  Which apparently meant I’d be walking in circles when I got there.

Someone had an idea!  There was a young guy riding, and since most young people here understand English, they asked him if he spoke it.  Yes, he did!  So, I said, “Oh, good.  Can you tell me if this bus stops at the Matisse museum?”  He listened to my friendly crowd’s explanation to him in French, everyone offering additional facts and when he gathered all the information, he turned to me and said…  I don’t know what he said because it definitely wasn’t English.  It sounded like French to me.  And then the crowd agreed, looking satisfied and end of discussion.  What???  Where the fuck was I going to get dropped off?  The only thing I understood was that the driver was planning on announcing “musee Matisse” into his speaker when it was my time to get off the bus, something I’m sure the regulars on this line had never heard him say before.  Great.

Further and further uphill we went.  And then, out of nowhere a lady from the back of the bus came up to me- these busses by the way have seats in the front facing front and some facing each other and a large area in the middle for standing and then seats in the back on different levels.  So this lady had had an upper deck view of all the commotion.  She said, “Do you want to go to the Matisse museum?”  Perfect English!  Why yes, as a matter of fact, I did!  She proceeded to tell me (and now her English was becoming broken) that she would show me, to follow her because the bus driver would be dropping me off… and this is the part that I couldn’t understand what she was saying at all.  I shook my head yes… D’accord, d’accorrd, (ok, ok).  I just understood to follow her and she was going to show me.  How nice- for her to walk out of her way to show me the direction I needed to go.  I was aligning myself with her instead of the other helpful people on the bus who had figured out what I was supposed to do.  So when she got up to get off several stops later, I said, “I follow you, right?”  “Non, non, non!” she smiled.   And she did all the turning hand motions the driver had done.  What the?  And the doors opened and she was gone.  By now, nine people had discussed in deep detail how I was supposed to get to the museum, with the rest of the bus attentively involved and I was still at a loss.  And I could feel my shoes really hurting.  Fuck.  I hate public transportation… you’re at an agency’s mercy.  And it is so limiting and frustrating to not speak the language. 

Ok, around a few more hairpin curves and we’re at the top of a hill (mini-mountain) and everyone is watching me and the driver says “Musee Matisse” into the loud speaker.  And I see a pleasant look on everyone’s face like they know something that I don’t as the doors open and I’m the only person to get off.  The doors close and the bus drives away.  Where am I?  There are no signs that say anything about Matisse.  And I do what they had motioned for me to do… walk around in circles.  I’m at a park, a huge park or maybe it’s an olive grove.  I took this picture to the left facing one direction.  Behind me  there was a carousel, some type of a little kid’s party with balloons at a picnic table and interestingly champagne (kid must’ve done something right) and then I see Roman ruins and a bust statue of Louis Armstrong.  Very interesting.   I like him too, but never figured out the relevance.  I wanted to get closer to the ruins but the area was separated from the park with a netting material.  Later I realized I just hadn’t located the entrance, but my feet hurt too much to walk any extra distance to discover what was going on.  Too bad, I would’ve really liked to have seen the ruins better- they were part of the ancient city of Cemenelum.

And guess what… there near the back of the park was a large dark pink building… the Matisse museum!  My shoes hurt soooo badly.  I had trouble walking around the museum, my feet hurt so much.  The museum had many of his interesting early works, but none of the brightly-colored paintings with the colorful wallpaper in the background.  Not one.  He didn’t begin painting that style till later in his life and this collection was mainly work before that.  But they did have some of his personal furniture throughout that was fun to see. 

Leaving the museum… lots of trouble finding the right bus to take me back to town.  As in lots of walking.   I decided to get off at a stop I thought would be closer to the train station instead of going all the way downtown and having to walk to the tram and then tram it back to the train station.  I got off on what turned out to be a horribly inconvenient stop, some sort of a beautiful road with limited access that ran on a higher level compared to the roads I needed to get to so I had to walk an extra ¾ of a mile down hill and then back to the direction where I needed to go.  I could feel the blisters, but there was nothing I could do but make my way by foot to the train station.

And of course, after I arrived back at the Antibes train station I had to walk almost a mile back to my place.  Never, never again will I make that mistake.  When I got home I gently took off my high-heeled clogs, washed my feet and looked at my blisters.  What was I thinking?  I sat down and had a couple slices of a baguette with soft cheese.  Yum.  I needed a rest.  Then I slipped on my sandal flats,  walked out into cozy Old Antibes and chose one of the many old thick-walled, adorable restaurants to nestle myself into for a nice, relaxing dinner.   It’s always good to be back in Antibes.

I downloaded a 2 min. video of the winding little crooks and crannies to my apartment.  You can see it here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlUEoXY9evg  Somehow the sound is behind the video but my commentation isn’t all that neccesary anyway. 

Bust, bust, bust!  I took a train for a half hour to St. Raphael, and then a bus for an hour and a half to St. Tropez to see Brigitte Bardot.  She was supposed to be sitting on a bench outside of the tourist information office from 3-5:30 today, Thursday.  But she wasn’t there.  A two hour one-way trip for me, four hours round-trip and Brigitte was a no-show.  That bitch.  That’s me, not Brigitte, in the picture to the right sitting in St. Tropez.  No one, not one person in all of St. Tropez that I inquired about Brigitte had any knowledge of her ever signing autographs outside of the TI (tourist information) office.  Never.  I kept showing them the excerpt in my Rick Steves’ travel guide to PROVE that she did do just that, but one after another just shook their heads with a disdainful roll of the eyes.  The sweet girl in the TI office told me Brigitte Bardot lived in Paris and had no reason to be here, i.e (unspoken) especially to sit outside on a dumb-ass bench and sign autographs.  When I asked the lady at the ticket booth who sold tickets for a boat tour that was supposed to go by her house, about Brigitte’s appearance schedule, she informed me that Ms. Bardot retired 37 years ago, and with the short tone of her voice clearly implied the same as the TI girl. 

Oh, well, I wanted to see the other French Riviera resorts anyway, and I did.  St. Tropez which I have been pronouncing “saint” as it should be and Tro(troe) – Pez (pez) as in candy dispenser, is apparently pronounced differently in its homeland.  It is pronounced Sahn – chroll – pay.  And an unsettling place Sahn-Chroll-Pay is.  There’s a feeling of contrived, forced elegance that gives it a thin, worn coating of glamour with a core of emptiness. It didn’t feel comforting or cozy.  It all sort of fell flat.  The best part was the Old Town that sports shades of pretty pastel colors, that glow in the warm energy of this amazing south-of-France sunlight. 

Since I had no hope of seeing yesteryear’s sex-goddess legend, I decided to just sit and have a nice lunch and glass of wine in front of the Mediterranean.  Except that the big yachts are the attraction, not the sea, and no matter in which café you choose to sit on the town’s street bordering the water, the view is blocked by yachts, each one of greater magnitude than the other.  I’m not too interested in seeing the yachts unless I can get on one, and if invited I’d gladly drop my shoes on the sidewalk before stepping on the gangplank as I’ve come to realize is required etiquette.  But no one invited me, so I decided to have a Caesar salad instead.  By the way, dining in St. Tropez in unbelievably expensive!  It makes Antibes’ dinner costs seem like the blue plate special.  I wanted the steak sandwich I saw on the outside menu, but I didn’t see it offered on the fan-shaped menu located on the table.  With the waiter beside me, I jumped out of my seat to try and show him (I didn’t know how to say steak or sandwich) the item on the menu on the entrance post.   That’s all I remember for the next few minutes or so.  I somehow didn’t see the metal frame housing the menu that was bolted on the post right next to me and rammed full force into it with my forehead.  I wouldn’t have even noticed if Brigitte Bardot came over to help me.  I have a bump on my forehead that I can feel, but I haven’t seen it yet.  Because there are NO BATHROOMS ANYWHERE!  More on that in a second.  But I had already ordered my glass of wine, so I had to decide whether to drink it at 3pm on a fairly empty stomach and feel a little buzz or to monitor the bump and make sure I was alright.  I chose the first.  

Now, my bathroom gripe with St. Tropez and St. Raphael.  I had to change from the train to the bus in St. Raphael for the 1.5 hour bus ride.  There was a WC (water closet) at the area where the busses loaded, but it was one small room with three stalls.  It was one of those unisex numbers.  I saw an older man, who looked to need some cleaning up, go into one of the stalls.  The other two were locked or occupied, I never figured out which.  I waited, getting more hesitant by the minute if I wanted to go in after him.  I finally left and walked around to find another bathroom.  Finally I saw a McDonalds!  Perfect.  Their door marked WC was right next to the cash register with a keypad next to it.  And everyone seemed to have a secret code.  But there was only one toilet for the entire restaurant.  I ordered a coke and asked her how to use the toilette (twal–lette) and she told me there was a code number on my receipt.  Lots of bathroom control in St. Raphael.  I went into the room where there was a sink, but the room with the toilette was occupied.   For as long as I stood there.  My bus departure was getting too close.  I left and went back to the three toilets at the bus stop.  I made the best of it.  They were those toilettes with no seat, in wee-tiny stalls like so many in France.  What ARE people to do when they need to sit?  And as a special surprise, no toilet paper, not even a PLACE for toilet paper.  It wasn’t that it was empty, this was a place where they saw no need for paper.    

The road from St. Raphael to St. Tropez is beautifully picturesque.  The Esterel Massif mountains come right next to the sea, making for areas of rocky cliffs along the shoreline.  The Mediterranean is it’s normal beautifully jeweled-tone blue and turquoise colors.  There are marinas everywhere and often are right beside the beaches.  The beaches, however leave something to be desired.  We’re spoiled with our huge expanses of white, sandy beaches on the mid-Atlantic coastline.  I’ve always thought that they are some of the most beautiful in the world, and the more I travel, the more sure I am of it.  The beaches here, that all of Europe flocks to in the summer have a Sandy Point State Park appearance, except smaller.  Brownish sand and bay-like waters. 

St. Raphael, bathroom issues aside, has a junky, over-stressed feeling about it.  My theory is that the number of shops that sell the blaring t-shirts “I LOVE (THIS PLACE)” is directly in inverse proportion to how much I love it.  St. Raphael was loaded. was loaded.  Shop after shop, more souvenir-style stuff.  And interestingly enough, one shop with round displays of sunglasses outside advertised Prada, Gucci, Ray Ban.  I walked over to see the knock-offs, and the sunglasses were attached so they couldn’t come off.  And priced in the $200 range!  Obviously, they were the real thing, but even they couldn’t help becoming mistaken in their cheap surroundings. 

After my wine and before leaving St. Tropez on the hour and a half bus ride I had searched for a bathroom.  None to be found.  Imagine that.  By the time I arrived back in St. Raphael to get on the train I was getting pretty desperate.  There was a pay bathroom at the train station for .30 Euros (45 cents).  These pay bathrooms are quite expensive.  I was put off by having to pay .50 Euros (75 cents) to a gentleman attendant to use the bathroom in the Nice train station a couple days ago, but at least it was nice and clean and supplied with toilet paper.  I shoved my coins in the slot and opened the bathroom door.  What the???  How the???  Yuck!  It smelled disgusting and look at this!  WHERE IS THE TOILETTE???The entire floor had a thin coat of wetness and the “bathroom area” was even wetter.  No matter how I maneuvered myself- and I had a huge purse with my computer inside and a bag with a gift in it, there was no way for the water to not splash up on my feet and ankles.  I was wearing my favorite sandals.  And that splashing had to be not only mine, but everyone else’s pee that was in the trough.  Double yuck!  What a mess.  And obviously no paper… not in this place.  I finished and stood in front of what is the sink, the area with a thin stream of cold water continually running.  I balanced myself on one foot and without touching ANYTHING and holding all of my posessions, placed one foot under the stream.  I rinsed off all the way up to the top of my ankle, then the other.  And of course nothing to dry with.  So I walked out of bathroom with wet feet and wet shoes.  People must have thought I had really bad aim. 

If I told you that when I got home I rinsed my shoes off with Clorox and washed my feet and bottom of my legs with hot soapy water, would you think I was lying? 

End of an exhausting day and with a bump on my head.  I walked home from the train station, got freshened up and then went out to have a glass of wine and some little tid-bits to eat from the Lebanese restaurant.  And I used their Wi-Fi as usual.  It felt good to be home- back in comfortable, unpretentious Antibes.  A bientot, Brigitte!

Ravioli

Since the French Riviera has historic ties to Italy, food in Antibes has an Italian flair (ravioli and potato gnocchi were invented in Nice, only 10 miles from here) and the many, many restaurants offer an abundance of pasta selections.  And very reasonably priced- $10-15 Euro for a dinner including tax and tip. Today I got caught in the rain just outside the Old Town and dashed into a busy little restaurant, La Stozia, next to the movie rental store I discovered yesterday.  I would have preferred to have waited the rain out in the movie store because I had just sat out the previous burst of rain in a little place La Galerie Aubernon, near my house eating (of all things!) a sucre and beurre crepe and café American which I learned today does not go by the Starbucks name, but instead is called “un café allonge”.  But the movie store didn’t open till 3pm.  What could I possibly order to allow me to sit at this guy’s table while I waited for the rain to stop and the store to open?  Crème brulee?  Not on top of the crepe.  A glass of wine?  Everyone else was eating and drinking heartily but I just finished breakfast.  I decided on one of the 10 types of ravioli, the bolognaise, a meat-filled ravioli with tomato sauce.  Oh my god!  What a find!  This was by far, the very best tomato sauce I have ever tasted!  It was rich, sweet, and had a hearty, plump consistency.   And the pasta was paper thin with a fabulous tender shredded beef on the inside.  I was so glad I just happened upon this place.  Turns out the guy who I was waiting to open his movie shop next door came in with a friend and was seated right next to me.  No wonder he prioritized eating over opening.  Take a look at it to the right- can’t you just taste it?

Salad

Another one of my great finds… the tomatoes at the grocery store in the Old Town.  Oh my goodness!  I’m not a real tomato fan… I like tomato sauces and dried tomatoes, but usually push them aside in my salads.  Yesterday for some crazy reason, I was in the mood for bitter greens topped with tomato and mozzarella cheese and fresh basil and drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette and olive oil.  I saw these tomatoes in the little grocery store and bought one. 

Then I went to the fromagerie (cheese store) to choose a mozzarella.  The shopkeeper, who started off very friendly, insisted I buy the $11 mozzarella, because it was far superior to the $3 ball I thought I’d buy.  He became quite cranky when I stood my ground on the $3 choice (under intense pressure I might add) which made me wonder why if the $3 cheese is of such inferior quality, does he offer it for sale in his shop?  But I wasn’t about to go there.  Mr. Cheesy had already gotten himself in a mild hissy.

Turns out the salad was fabulous!  Even with the cheap cheese.  The tomatoes were the best I’ve ever tasted.  They had a delicious sweetness to them and now I finally know why they’re sometimes considered a fruit.

Wonder if I could have tasted the difference between the $3 and the $11 cheese?  Maybe next week when my $3 ball is gone I’ll go in his shop and ask him if he knows where I can purchase some mozzarella of higher quality. 

Baguettes, croissants and pastries

How good can they get?  There’s a boulangerie on just about every corner.  Every day… fresh baguettes, fresh croissants, fresh everything!  And if it’s not in the boulangerie (bakery) then I’m sure to find some wonderful sweet treat in the patisserie (pastry shop).  Antibes has one of those on every block too.  The picture to the left was taken in a shop just around the corner from my place.  Her baguettes are maybe 80 cents or something.  What you can’t tell from the picture of me holding the baguette is that it’s still warm in my hand.  When I got home, I cut it and put a slice of soft camembert on top and poured myself a glass of red wine.  Now, that’s relaxing.    

I don’t know what these almond bars are called.  All the boulangeries have them.  They’re made with honey I think, and almonds on top of a flaky crust.  I usually buy four squares a day and pop them in my mouth one after the other… I just can’t help it.   

And just take a look at the picture of the croissant… nuff said!  Except that I have no idea how they bake these to come out so airy and buttery delicious.  If I’m not having a crepe for breakfast in a restaurant, I put one of these in a hot buttered skillet just to make it warm (with a dash of salt since their butter is unsalted), and have it with honey.  Yum, yum, yum. 

Crepes

Crepes are super popular here.  Almost every casual restaurant sells them and they have maybe 10 different choices including ones with cheese and meat, like a sandwich.  I like the sucre and beurre (sugar and butter) crepe, but take a look at the Chef’s Crepe special at one of my favorite places, Cesar Cafe, the other day!  I didn’t get it, but it had goat cheese, tomatoes, eggplant and basil and the two people that I saw that did order it ate every bite.

Chocolate

Another one of my favorite things… Kinder chocolate!  Although it’s German and not French, it’s plentiful here.  This chocolate far surpasses Godiva and it’s priced like Hershey!  It is by far my favorite chocolate in the world.  Those little German ‘ice-cubes’, the chocolate squares that truly melt in your mouth do come in a close second. 

A friend of mine who had been stationed in Germany first introduced me to Kinder-egg chocolates.  They were egg-shaped with an adorable little wooden toy inside that after assembled, could move, jump or entertain.  You can imagine my delight when I was in France for the first time fifteen years ago and discovered that Kinder made little chocolate bars!  No toy to mess with!  All heavenly chocolate! 

For some reason, Kinder chocolate isn’t common in the states.  It’s in Spain (my kids used to bring it back for me from their exchange programs), Mexico (last January I bought boxes and boxes from the Mexican Wal-mart) and in France, it’s everywhere!  In the Tabac shops, grocery stores, drug stores, vending machines at the train station and even in some bakeries!  I keep a stash of it in my apartment.  One of my favorites is the kind that has what tastes like puffed wheat mixed in with it.  I bought this box the day before yesterday, and then last night noticed that only two of these bars (at 130 calories each) were left!  Who ate all of my chocolate???  Je ne sais pas!  Moi?  No wonder those French clothes don’t hang right.

Hungry, anyone?  Lots of pictures, I know, but a picture’s worth a thousand words, and I just couldn’t do this food justice with my words. 

I wanted to leave you with one last picture.  This morning when I walked by the sea I realized that I could see the snow-capped Alps behind Nice.  As usual, the beauty of this scene mesmerizes me.  But this morning it was just breath-taking.

I found it!  I finally found the clothing market.  But it keeps moving away.  I had heard that Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were market days.   As you might remember, I tried to locate the clothing market the first Thursday I was in Antibes and I went to the areas where it was supposed to be set up and … nothing.  I walked by a small flea market near my apartment, but it wasn’t the clothing market I had heard so much about.  It’s never been real clear to me, however, exactly where the market is supposed to be.   It’s described as being in several Places… Place National, Place Audiberti and winding through the streets.  The first Thursday someone told me that the market had already been taken down but it would be back on Saturday, right in the very square (Place) where I was standing.  Now, that was good news.  I knew where and when it was to be.  I made sure to wake up early on Saturday so I could get to it.  Disappointment.  Again, I walked by the little flea market by my place, pictured at right, then around the winding streets to where I had been on Thursday, and found a market.  All the tables, and goods and people, but nothing I was too interested in.   Where is all the clothing?  Non, non, non!   The clothing market is on Thursdays!   I enjoyed the antiques and odds and ends but was disappointed that I’d have to wait till Thursday to get some new French threads. 

On Thursday, I was ready!  I got up extra early and out the door.  I walked to where the antique/flea market had been, again going by the little flea market near my place that seems to be there most every day, past the huge food market near me that is there every day but Monday, some days more lively than others, to Place National, where I was told the clothing market would be.  I saw stalls of merchandise and got excited.  Then let down.  The few clothes I saw seemed to be priced fairly high, and were sprinkled in with other things for sale… antiques, material, handbags, belts, jewelry.  It was interesting and festive, but not what I was expecting.  I walked around looking at things but wasn’t too impressed so I went to some of the little shops that line the streets.  I spent a lot of time looking at sweet greeting cards in several shops, trying to choose a few more to send to my family.  I dilly-dallied in some cute little toy stores too, just generally shopping through my disappointment.  I walked the several blocks towards the post office to buy some stamps and send my cards and THERE IT WAS!  Stalls and stalls of all sorts of great clothing!  I stopped at the first stall and was enthralled with their belt selection!  All sorts of wonderful belts, with the Parisian fit, the kind with a gentle curve that sit low on the hips and makes me look so French!  And for $5!  Fabulous!  I couldn’t decide which ones I liked best and finally chose two for me and one for Christine.  I wanted to find some shirts like I see everyone wearing- they’re loose fitting, made from a special knit cotton and hang in a way that is very different from what I’ve seen in the states.  I’ve seen them here in the boutique shops.  They’re made in Italy and are fairly expensive.   I started to move to the next stall… there were dozens and dozens of stalls… I was so excited… and then everything went into motion!  All at once all the market people began dismantling their tables and canopies and everything was disappearing!  Right before my eyes!  What the???  How could this be!  I had wasted over an hour meandering in and out of the little shops looking at greeting cards, only to miss market day!!!  I hurried as fast as I could and tried to grab a glance at anything that wasn’t being hustled away.  I saw a shirt- perfect for $8 and bought it but by then the market people were getting irritated if you were in their space during takedown.  How did I miss it!  No one told me the clothing market was hidden behind the streets around the other side of the post office.  As I was leaving, I asked one seller the hours of the market.  He told me that they would be set up in Antibes, just on the outskirts of Old Town on Saturday.  I thought I understood the area he described.  That gave me some hope that I’d be able to see it again before next Thursday.

Saturday- I walked around the edge of town where I thought the clothing market would be and didn’t see anything.  I went to the cell phone store to buy more credits and on my way back decided to take a different route.  There, on the southwest section of town, in a quiet area where I never would have expected to see the market, I came upon the stalls winding around the small streets.  It didn’t look like quite the same inventory, but it didn’t matter.  They were already in the process of dismantling!  It happened again!  Right when I got there it disappeared!  Unbelievable.  But I decided that since the tops I like are made in Italy, maybe I should just hold off.  I want to go to Italy for lunch one day- that sounds so cool to be in France and go to Italy for lunch!  The little town right across French border, Ventimiglia, has a big market on Fridays.  I’ll go then.  I might have a greater selection and they might be even better priced. 

Now… my favorite store in all of Antibes….  drum roll……   Schlecker!  Out of all the quaint, little interesting shops in this adorable town, my favorite store is Schlecker, the Dollar General of the south of France.  That’s right!  It looks like Dollar General, it’s priced like Dollar General and I think I can almost smell the Dollar General store in Bethany Beach, Delaware!  Right smack in the middle of all the little boutique shops, it sits, totally comfortable and confident, with its big sale banners slapped all across its front.  I had checked the price of my shampoo at one of the fragrance-scented specialty shops… $9.00!  Schlecker… on special this week at $2.65!  Yippee!  Toilet paper at the cute grocery store- $4.00.  Schlecker… $1.65!  Wine at the grocery store with my 50 cents off coupon was a bargain for $3.50.  At least I thought it was till I saw bottled wine with cork tops at Schlecker for $1.79!  That’s Cotes du Tarn white or red.  Right beside the beach towels and swimming floaters.  And now… get this… remember the $57 US lipstick I saw at the cosmetic boutique?  I found the perfect shade in Schlecker in a wonderful brand for $3.49 Euro!  I love this store! 

I still enjoy the specialty shops.  I like the smells- they have the fresh scent of an expensive spa.  And there’s an elegance to the presentation and lighting that I enjoy.  And of course the shop owners greet you with a cheery, sing-song Bonjour!  I meander around in the boutique shops and touch things and sometimes pick things up and put them back down and then touch some more things, until the saleslady begins to get that tight, snappy look.   But with the exchange rate being about $1 Euro to $1.5 USD, I’ve gotta stay friends with Schlecker!  Too bad they don’t have the Italian-made cotton knit tops I’m trying to find. 

Note:  Just by chance, after I finished proof reading what I wrote above, I picked up Rick Steves’ guidebook to The French Riviera and a line jumped out at me…  “Except in department stores, it’s not normal for the customer to handle clothing.  Ask first if you can look at an item.”  Hmmm… so there’s the problem.  How will I ever learn everything?

I’m beginning to look more and more French.  And blending in better.  I can feel it.  On non-shampoo days I would usually wear my hair up, like I do in Ocean City.  I twist it back with one large bobby pin into a French bun with long, free hair coming from out of the middle and loosely draping over from the top.  It looks nice and often times people ask me how I do it.  I’ve worn it that way here a couple times and have realized it’s not the look.  People in Antibes have their hair very controlled, and tight, like in a pony tail or something.  I don’t know where it is, except it isn’t bouncing around like in a shampoo commercial.   In fact, I realized that I probably look like a banty rooster with my hair on top of my head, bopping along when I walk.  So now I blow dry it straight and sleek.  I wear it down, nice and smooth or pulled behind my head in a low ponytail… no more 1980’s poof!   (I don’t know who this woman is,  but she was in my viewfinder as I was sitting on my bench using the Wi-Fi from the Lebanese restaurant, Falafel, and she captures the look of the typical french woman I see).

I even ditched my fuchsia pink lipstick.  I know… that’s a big step.  People in Bethany Beach have been telling me to GET RID OF IT, but I just couldn’t seem to let it go.  I liked the color it gave my face.  Sort of like those old ladies who paint two circles of pink on their cheeks and don’t quite blend it in.  (To the left is my Clairol #540 that I’ve been wearing for the past 9 years). I walked into a wonderful cosmetics shop with a cleansing soft-fragrance aroma and asked the lady for a shade of lipstick not so pink.  She obviously didn’t understand my French and began showing me shades of HOT, HOT PINK!  Was she crazy?  No one wears that color here- everyone wears a barely noticeable beige color.  Did she take me for a faux-pas fool?  Eventually, after smearing many, many testers on her hand and mine I found a shade I thought was becoming.  Just a hint of color.  

 “Combien ca coute?”  How much does this cost?   

“Trent-huit euros”  $38 Euros!  $57 US dollars for a fucking tube of lipstick???

“C’est tres cher.”  It’s very expensive, I gasped.  Maybe not to Miss Prissy Pants strutting around with her tightly pulled- back hair, but to moi it was way, way too much. 

I looked around at other displays, as she painstakingly followed close behind.  I didn’t want to keep testing samples until I found something in my price range.  So we moved from display to display with my asking “Combien ca coute” and her looking slyly at the price and then stating it with a raise of her eyebrow.  The least expensive lipstick in the entire store was $28 euros.  $42 US dollars. 

I should’ve bought a $5 tube of Cover Girl in a beige shade before I left the states.  I actually stocked up with three tubes of the hot fuchsia pink color so I would have plenty while here.  Oh, well.    I’ve noticed that I’ve been wearing almost no lipstick instead, which is something I couldn’t imagine doing in Ocean City. 

And now I think I appear quite François!  You naturally begin to look like the people you’re surrounded by.  You begin to act like them too, and become aligned with their goals, but that’s a story for my deeper blog. 

I am wanting to put things together from my very limited wardrobe that make me look more natural here.  I bought a new shirt and belt from the clothing market… Yes!  The clothing market!  More on that later.  And I’m really appearing quite fashionable.  All except for one major thing.  All the French women have tiny breasts.  Their clothes hang off their shoulders, straight to their hips.  Not me.  Mine hit speed bumps along the way.  By the way, a lot of the shirts actually hang all the way off the shoulder, like in the movie Flashdance.  Be ready for that look to hit the US next year and I’m so glad that I’m not the parent of a middle school or high school girl.

I am not the perfect body style according to the French.  They still hold beauty in the way bodies look in Renaissance paintings.  Little breasts, big fleshy butts.  I’m just the exact opposite.  When I was growing up, I was imprinted with the idea of big breasts being beautiful and a real asset.  Mom had a shape that turned a lot of heads, and she was proud of it.  She somehow instilled in me how fortunate she and one of my sisters were to be well-endowed.  And she told me how lucky my aunt Lorene was when she got her beautician’s license and began shampooing hair- all the working out of her arm and chest muscles made her grow an entire size! 

When I was 12 and a size 28 triple A, I begged my mom to get me The Breast Enhancer that I saw advertised in the TV Guide.  I wanted it shipped fast delivery, but she said I’d been my size for quite some time and three to five more days of waiting wouldn’t matter.  It finally came- it was a 2′ rubber tube with round handles on the end.  You were supposed to stretch it in front of you.  I stretched and stretched and stretched.  I stretched it so much that on the second day it snapped.  It was like a huge rubber band breaking and snapping back against my hand and it hurt!  But what really hurt was that I had just lost the ability to increase my size. 

Thus the longing to be something I wasn’t turned into the realization 34 years later that for $4500 and a couple days of discomfort I could be everything I imagined!  I still don’t know why I waited so long.  So now I’m happy with my look when I’m in the states.  But here, my generous curves are quite off the map.  In fact, I think most women would go under the knife to change the way they looked if they had my shape.  That’s really an odd feeling- to suddenly be put in an environment where what you perceive are your pretty features aren’t recognized that way.  I guess it’s the way those Chinese ladies bound their feet during childhood so they would take the desirable shape of  those little pointy shoes, only to have foreigners see it as a mutation.  Or the African tribe that implanted progressively larger and larger pieces of wood into their bottom lip to make it wider and longer- the TV crew probably looked at them with their eyebrows furrowed and their heads cocked sideways. 

So, the first fashion stumble I have to deal with is that the clothes don’t drape over my body in nice, straight lines.  The second is this whole bra thing.  French women actually show their bra on purpose!  Remember when it was bad to have your bra strap showing, and we’d pin it under our shirt at our shoulders so it wouldn’t come out?  Well, no longer a problem!  Women here have ALL of their bra showing- even parts you wouldn’t expect!  Some styles have the back of the bra showing… you know where the hooks are… the part that gets really grungy and dirty-looking!  The middle of the back of the bra is plainly in view with the cut of the shirt.  I couldn’t believe it, but I’ve seen it too many times for it to be the result of the wearer just not checking a mirror before leaving the house.  And some shirts allow the entire side, under the armpit to be out in the open.  Another possible problem area for yellow tinge and dark edges.  But not for these girls!  In fact, it seems like their beautiful bra is part of the outfit. 

But… it’s even harder if you’re an American man wanting to blend in here… especially if you’re in the slightly to middle maturity-age category.  Real French men wear Capri pants.  Yep!  Even the over 45 gang.  Somehow that younger, beach-going group can get away with Capri pants in the states, but not the more conservative guy.  And… to take it to the limit… many are tied at the bottom, so they have sort of a bloomers look to them!  And this stretches it even further… guess what kind of shoes they wear!  Those little boy English sandals!  The kind Prince William  and Prince Harry wore in their childhood pictures.  Rounded toes, straps across the top of the foot and a buckle on the side.  How cute!  But 50 and 60 year-old men all around here feel totally comfortable walking around in this outfit!   It’s even beginning to look normal to me! 

By the way… a follow-up to the water bottle fiasco.  I was talking to an Antibes resident about how good the tap water is in Antibes.  He said they’re very proud of the quality of their water here and all municipalities take great pride in having good water, but theirs’ is the best.  When I said I had a question about bottled water, he told me that Antibes’ water is filled with all the necessary minerals, strictly monitored by the local government, and much healthier than bottled water for which you don’t know its content or point of origin.  He incorrectly assumed that was my question.  Oh no.  I wanted to know the problem with taking the bottle into a coffee shop and setting it on the table.  So I asked if that was an acceptable thing to do.  He literally GASPED!  Like a mouse trap had gone off in his hand.  And shook his head and said with surprise, “You didn’t do that did you?”  Oops. 

Tomorrow I’m going to tell you about my favorite store in all of Antibes!  But for now, I want to leave you with one of my favorite sounds here.  There is a bell tower built during the 12th century that is attached to the Church of the Immaculate Conception, which is built on the site of a Greek temple dating back to the fifth century B.C.   The present church served as the area’s cathedral until the mid-1200’s.  There’s a second bell on top of the hotel de ville, or the town hall which appears modern since it was built in 1824.    They both chime on the hour, one strike for each hour, and on the half-hour, which means at 12 o’clock you hear 24 chimes.  On special occasions, such as a wedding, they chime for a long time.  I love it.  The metal clang is the sound of an old, heavy, antique bell and it takes me back to how it must’ve felt here many lifetimes ago.  I put it in a you-tube video so you also get a view of Antibes from the perspective of the little wooden bench where I sit when I’m picking up free Wi-Fi from the Lebanese restaurant.  Enjoy! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-y0mmxKLjA

There is a major problem in France.  That of the doggie do-do.   The French word for dog is le chien, pronounced she-en.  The ch’s in the french language are pronounced as the “sh” sound.   My word for do-do is chit, pronounced she-it.  Or… Le Chien Chit! (pronunciation: Le She-en Shit!)  What is it with the French people and their dogs???  Has no one heard of cleaning up after your dog?  The answer is no.  All over the sidewalks and cobblestone streets, in front of all of these wonderful, sweet, little restaurants and shops that I’ve been telling you about is smeared shit!  All over the place!  I don’t get it!  I have yet to see ONE person, NOT ONE, clean up after their dog.  And there are hundreds of dogs.

Dogs have a much pampered life in France.  In my next life, if I have to be an animal, I’m going to choose to be a French dog.  They get to go everywhere with their owners.  In the shops (even the expensive make-up and perfume shops), restaurants, grocery stores, bakeries.  Everywhere.  And it’s even popular to push them in strollers!  Cesar Millan, the dog whisperer, would be very unhappy with that.  I saw one of his programs where the two male owners were in quite a fuss over the aggressive behavior of their miniature Schnauzer.  My guess is that the damn dog knew what a pain-in-the-ass breed it was and was having its own anxiety attacks over coming to terms with that.  But Cesar told the two guys to STOP making Twinkle-toes sit in a stroller, peaking out over the edge during “walks”.  They were only walking themselves that way.  The dog needed to get out and get exercise and expend some of its energy.

In France, the dogs that aren’t in strollers apparently don’t even have to have a leash.  Imagine that!  You are running errands around town with your dog, going in and out of all your favorite stores, Starbucks, Nordstroms, Wal-mart, and your dog is not even on a leash!  And all of your friends’ dogs aren’t on leashes!  It seems like doggie mayhem!  But not here.  The dogs have learned to behave like their owners.  Very quiet and mildly subdued in their own little space.  Except sometimes, albeit infrequently, those shopkeepers do snap.

If the dog happens to meander outside, and god forbid, down the sidewalk, the owner just leans out the door and gently calls the dog’s name and says something meaning “come back here, honey” and voila!  The dog comes tip-toeing back.  And then sits by the owner until the owner is finished discussing whatever with the shopkeeper.  Wouldn’t that be crazy if KIDS were actually that well-behaved!

But… what are we going to do with Le Chien Chit?  The French actually have a slang word for shit-  chier! Amazingly similar to chien. Maybe because  when they think of the word chien- they automacially think of all the chier! Asking each person to carry along a plastic bag for picking up after their dog seems unreasonable.  The French seem to be pretty stingy with their plastic bags.  At the stores, when checking out, you need to BUY one!  It has taken a number of times for me to get the hang of this.  The salesperson leaves your purchases at the end of the check-out counter, waiting for you to stuff them away in your belongings.  They always look surprised and I think maybe mildly irritated when I ask to buy a bag after the fact.  You see, according to them, after they take my money and give me change the transaction is over.  Finis!  And for me to just be staring at my purchases as the next person’s items get pushed into mine and then my asking about “acheter-ing (buy-ing) a sac (bag) is exactly the type of thing to push them over the edge and make them a little snappy.

Since a plastic bag has to be purchased with each store transaction, the throw-away plastic bag idea for each doggie bowel movement may not be a popular concept.  But guess what!  Today, in the tourism office, another one of my favorite hang-outs, I saw something I’ve yet to see!  Definitely not yet in use.  A Pince-a-Crotte!  Which is translated to mean Pinch-the-Droppings!  Quiet the concept!  It consists of a piece of ready-to-bend cardboard inside a little brown bag that the dog owner would use to “pinch” up the dropping”!

Or the bomb.  I guess if you have a big dog, you would need to carry two.   And then the American who’s writing this wouldn’t step in their chien’s chit!  Fabuous!

On the back of the bag it says in seven languages “I love my dog, I take care of the environment with Pince-a-Crotte”.  If you’re concerned about using too many plastic doggie dippers back in the states, you can contact these people at pac@compofac.fr or on their website at www.compofac.fr.   Man, I  hope their invention catches on in France!

(Footnote- all of the pictures in this blog were taken in Antibes today.)

Just an added note:  today I walked by one of squares on the edge of town and noticed the American flags!  That was a surprise!  And they had some chairs set up facing the memorial.  I asked some people what it was about.  The flags are the American, French and as far as I could understand the “European” flag.  They are having a ceremony at 6:30 in rememberance of 9/11.   

I, as an American, was very touched.  Merci, Antibes.

I see hundreds of people everyday walking around Old Town Antibes.  I leave my apartment in the morning and except for one or two quick stops back in, I’m out all day.  And it’s hot.  I notice my natural ingredients Tom’s deodorant (which I’ve been using since Tony Robbins told us in the seminar that the aluminum present in most others is associated with Alzheimer’s) does not seem to be working very well.  I carry a water bottle with me, just like I usually do in the states when it’s hot.  Actually, there I keep one in my car all the time. 

It’s super easy here because the tap water is wonderful!  I don’t know where it’s coming from, maybe straight from Evian, but it’s better than any bottled water I’ve had.  So I have a couple empty bottles and I fill one with tap water in the morning and carry one with me during the hot day.  Now… I’ve noticed that NO ONE else has a water bottle.  NOT A SINGLE PERSON!  Pour quoi?  When I eat in a little café sometimes I don’t ask for de l’eau (some water) because even though it’s free, it’s a big production.  It comes in a big colored glass bottle along with a glass with ice.  Always the same thing.  So rather than bother the garcon (waiter) for a carafe of water which leads to a big discussion of glass bottle, with or without gas, I just pull out my plastic bottle, knowing they appreciate my being less of a bother.  I have plenty of things to bother them with… more sucre (sugar), can I have some salt, please, je voudrais de beurre (I would like some butter).  And God knows what else I can think of needing while I’m eating my little meal.

One day, I even smiled and laughed, showing the waiter how I find the need to pour extra water- from my bottle- into my café American, because even the American-style café is too strong for my taste buds.  I noticed that day in particular he had a very strained look on his face.  Who knows? 

I was sitting in Le Crème Brulee, one of my new favorite free Wi-Fi hangouts, eating my sucre avec beurre (sugar with butter) crepe and sipping my coffee syrup or whatever they call that coffee when I noticed the owner saying something to my waiter while two other female servers listened with a look of disgust.  And they seemed to be glancing my way.  I was dressed nicely, and the place wasn’t busy.  I thought that in France there was an unwritten rule that you could sit at your table as long as you liked, it wasn’t even polite for the garcon to bring your bill until you requested it.  There were empty tables all around me.  Were they just tired of my being there?  They certainly weren’t acting very French-like if they were going to hurry me along.  And they’re the ones with the free Wi-Fi, so of course they should expect some people to lounge a little longer than normal. 

 I saw the garcon- very handsome and proper I might add- walking towards me.  What was he going to say???  What instruction had the restaurant owner just given him… because I could tell by his walk and his head slightly lowered that he didn’t want to be the one to deliver the message.  And his crew was watching him sideways, trying to act like they weren’t. 

“Excuse me, Madame”, he said softly… “Would you please remove your water bottle from the table?”  And I glimpsed the other two female servers quietly snickering. 

What???  What in the world was the problem with my water bottle???   “Oh, certainly” I said, and couldn’t get it in my purse fast enough.  “Je suis desolate”  I am sorry.  Sorry for fucking what!!!  When did it become so RUDE to have a water bottle on a table in a casual café? 

After that, I finished what I was doing on the internet, left an extra large tip and left.  I felt so flustered and stunned. 

Later that evening I was sitting in the tiny “The Happy Face”, the only place besides the Lebanese restaurant that has internet Wi-Fi available in the evening.  By the way, I have now mentioned in my blog the four places in all of Old Antibes that has Wi-Fi.  If you plan on coming here, make a note because they have been extremely difficult to find.  I bought a drink so I could ask for their confirmation key number to log on.  As I was sitting with my computer on the bar, feeling very uneasy and nervous about making another etiquette custom mistake, I asked the girl near me if it was considered rude to be using your computer at a bar or café.  “Oh, Non!”  C’est d’accord!”  Oh, no, it’s ok!, she said happily.  And how about at a café, while eating a crepe?  I thought I would make her answer a second time to make sure we understood each other.  No, no, no.  Absolutely no problem.   Hmmm… ok….. so….. how about having a water bottle on your table?  Is that ok?  She looked as if someone had struck her!   No, no!  She shook her head and wagged her finger with a horrified look in her eyes.  “Non, non” she said.  Wonder why. “It’s impolite?” I asked.  “No bottle water.  Non, non.” she said concerned, as if she was hoping for my sake I hadn’t committed that terrible faux pas. 

So, there you have it.  Now I keep my water bottle hidden in my purse and turn when I drink it, as if I’m blowing my nose or something.  I don’t know what it is about the bottle of water, but I won’t make that mistake again! 

And, as a footnote, when I was in the cell phone store buying my phone with my bottle deep in my purse, two French women were chattering away.  One laughed and I heard her say to her friend, “Look, I’m thirsty all the time just like an American” and she took her water bottle from her purse and took a drink.  I don’t get it.  What’s it all about? 

I have good news about Le Crème Brulee.  Like falling off a horse, the best thing to do is get right back on… the next morning, guess where I chose to have my crepe?  Yep!  Le Crème Brulee!  And I followed all the rules. Well, most of the rules.  I asked the girl (a new one that hadn’t waited on me yet) for a crepe avec sucre and du beurre.  Imagine that.  And she was real confused about the du beurre.  Apparently I was saying it like du ‘bear’ and it’s supposed to be du ‘ber’.  But we finally got that settled… or so I thought.  When the crepe came it seemed a little dry.  I took a bite and tasted no du beurre.  No du beurre to be found.  She finally came back into view and I motioned her over and tried my best to explain in francais that my crepe didn’t have the du BER that I SPECIFICALLY asked for.  Actually, I was very polite.  She left and returned with two cold pats of butter wrapped in gold foil and tossed them on my plate and quickly turned and left.  Oh no, that will never do.  I actually thought about spreading the cold butter on my crepe but at $7.00 US a pop, I pretty much want the crepe to be parfait (translated as perfect)!  When she walked back into sight I motioned her over.  Lots of commotion- my trying to tell her I wanted warm melted butter and her looking very confused.  She called over one of the other servers (one of the smirkers) and they chattered a flury!  Then she started to remove my plate.  I had only taken one bite, and I didn’t need for the kitchen to make an entirely new crepe.  I’m not a jerk, I just wanted melted butter on my crepe!  The smirker girl came over and said something to me in French which I didn’t understand, but it obviously confirmed what the first girl had said because the second girl whisked my plate away!  Go figure.  So I busied myself on my computer thinking I had awhile before the new crepe arrived and then voila!  My original crepe with the bite taken out returned with a cute little bowl of melted butter beside it.  “Perfect!” I said with a big smile.  And they smiled too.  I guess The Crème Brulee has a stern rule about bringing melted butter out by itself.  Who knows? 

My crepe was delicious and I left another sizeable tip in hopes that they won’t only not cringe when they see me walking their way, but that they’ll actually hope I come in.  Before I left, in the 90 minutes that I sat there using the internet after finishing my crepe, the smirker girl came towards me and said something about me, and my using the internet and motioned outside.  I said, “Not a problem, I’m ready to leave”, thinking she was telling me my time was up.  She profusely made it clear that that was not what she was trying to convey, but that a woman seated in outside seating needed help connecting, and that perhaps I (since I’ve apparently spent more time in their restaurant on-line than all other people combined) might be able to help her.  So I got up and went over to the lady’s table and helped her get on-line. 

Now when I walk by The Crème Brulee they smile and say bonjour.  And I smile and happily say “Bonjour” in the french sweet sing-song voice!  After all, they’re my internet connection.  And their crepes are really good!

And another happy note… look how beautiful the Mediterranean is today.  I walked around the corner of my narrow street and the view opened to the sea and the cobalt and turquoise jewel tones of the sea set against the bright blue sky took my breath away.  I hope even a tiny bit of the warm, vibrant energy comes through in the picture.  In person, it makes me breathe faster and I feel a soothing wave move through my body.

Note: since I didn’t take pictures of Dr. Bruno or his patients- I thought that might freak them out- I filled this blog with some of my favorite Antibes shots.  All of these pictures except Brigitte are things within a block or so of my place.

I want to go to St. Tropez badly.  That town has just been in the press recently, but most Americans aren’t too familiar with the south of France.  This just isn’t a place that Americans (and when I use the term Americans, I’m talking about people from the U.S.  I’m aware that people from Mexico, Central America, Canada and I guess even South America are all American’s from the America’s) vacation.  I hear a lot of people talking about being in Cancun or one of the Caribbean islands, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone I know talk about vacationing on the French Riviera.  Since I’ve been here I have not seen or heard talking ONE person from the United States.  I hear English, but it’s spoken by Australians and Brits.  And then it sounds funny. 

The reason the town of St. Tropez has been in the news is because that’s where Jon Gosselin of Jon and Kate Plus 8just vacationed with his 16 year-0ld  girlfriend.  Ok, maybe she’s 22, but she is the daughter of Kate’s plastic surgeon who did her tummy tuck in the first season.  And because of that Jon CROSSED THE LINE!!! 

Anyway, that’s the only American I have heard of ever vacationing in the south of France other than the movie stars at the Canne’s film festival and they don’t count.  They’re just there because it’s the cool place to be seen that week. 

But, the reason I want to go to St. Tropez is because every Thursday between 3 and 5:30, Brigitte Bardot hangs on the beach in front of the tourist information office and signs autographs!  Bless her heart… she turns 75 this year!  I can’t wait to see what she looks like and how in the world she holds up in this hot sun.  I’m melting and I’m a quarter century younger than she is.  Her 1956 movie “… And God Created Women” was filmed in St. Tropez and was steamy enough to put the town on the map!  I don’t remember the film but I do remember her being such a sex goddess when I was young.  A true icon.  As true an icon as Elvis Presley, who I did see in concert the year before he died.  (amazing concert!) 

The problem with going to St. Tropez is that besides being on Thursday, which is the clothing market day in Antibes, and I have yet to see, is that it’s going to cost $75 Euros to get there.  With the weak exchange rate, everything is so expensive here and my money is going faster than anticipated.  There are no trains into St. Tropez so it’s either by bus, boat or car.  The bus would take ridiculously long and I don’t have a car.

I wanted to do this badly enough, that I earmarked $100 in my mind for it.  But… I spent it.  I decided to buy peace of mind instead.  Those chest pains that I’d been having since I’ve gotten here were getting worse and I wasn’t feeling too good.  It’s scary to be sick in a foreign country when you’re by yourself, don’t have transportation, don’t speak the language AND have no way to call for emergency help.  I don’t have a cell phone here nor internet in my apartment, so to communicate I have to walk with my computer to within the wi-fi signal of the Lebanese restaurant and then get on-line and use Skype.  I checked the bus and train schedules to Nice, thinking that if I awoke in the middle of the night, knowing I needed emergency help, I would be prepared with what to do.  I was left with walking to the bus or train station, either about a 15-20 min walk and hoping it was when service was running.  Not a real good option.

I found the number of an organization that helps “Anglos”  in the French Riviera find English-speaking emergency care.  That’s the term the organization uses- Anglos.  Now… this is where the interesting things about the French health care system became apparent.  When I called the number a physician answered the phone!  What the???  And he asked me about my problem.  He gave me the number of an English-speaking doctor, Doctor Bruno Lavagne, in Antibes and told me to call the next day at 9 AM.  I called around 10:30 and guess who answered the phone?  Dr. Bruno himself!  He asked me the nature of my problem and then continued to ask about further details.  He asked me to come in at 3:30 the same day!  What service!  I’ve paid nothing, no one knows if I can pay, and I’ve already spoken with two doctors and have an appointment that day. 

I walked myself to his office, about ¾ mile away.  It was an odd entrance. The little room looked like a foyer with a hallway with doors.  What struck me was the lighting.  A receptionist sat at a desk in very soft light.  Barely enough for her to see to read, but all she did while I was there was talk to people so maybe she didn’t need light.  I told her in French that I had an appointment at 3:30.  She asked me to write my name.  “Where?”  She nicely pointed to a little scrap paper- definitely not a sign-in sheet.  She was super friendly in a quiet way and told me that I could wait in the room in front of her (I had no idea that door led to the waiting room) and the doctor would be with me.  I went into the room with five other people, sat down and then wondered what in the world I was doing there.  He wouldn’t be able to diagnose anything in his office.  It would be terribly expensive.  How could I even trust his competence?  The tile floor was beginning to have a cheap look to it…  and how long would I be sitting in this waiting room with these horrible foreign illnesses floating around me?  I walked back to tell her something came up, and I’d have to re-schedule but she seemed so nice.  So instead I asked her how much it would cost.  That would be my deciding factor.  I wasn’t going to pay over $70 Euros ($105).  I would take my chances and just get myself to some emergency room if need be.  She said “33 Euros”.  “Oh”.  So I went back into the sick room and took my seat trying not to breathe.  Actually the only person who looked sick was a little girl with both her mother and father who appeared to have a fever.  But then that made me nervous… the other adults didn’t even look sick, so God knows what ailment they could be hiding.

Then not so long, a thin, pleasant, mild-mannered man wearing casual pants and a stylish Indian-cotton shirt appeared.  Another patient?  He said, “Vickie?”  It was the Doctor Bruno who did not look like his name.  Well, maybe the Lavagne part. 

He showed me the room and from that point on, he never left the room nor did a nurse or the receptionist do anything- not even come in.  It was one-on-one with the doctor.  He did a thorough exam and then pulled out wires with metal half-balls on the end that looked like it could be from a Frankenstein movie.  I had already decided that I WAS NOT going to let him do anything invasive- not even a shot.  I would handle his drawing blood and only if I could see that the needle was a disposable, pre-packaged kind.  He said he was going to do an EKG.  No waiting for someone to roll it out from another room, no waiting for a nurse to have time to get to me.  Nope… voila!  Dr. Bruno did it all!  The EKG wires that attached to my body were metal ½ spheres hooked to a suction ball.  He squeezed the ball and the metal thing attached by suction.  Odd… in fact I have a very funny mark on my chest left by one of the suctions that looks like the EKG machine and I had a hot and heavy date!  But he ran it, pulled the strip, made some marks and said, no, I was definitely not having a heart attack.  And then he gave me the strip of paper to keep. 

We talked for a little while more, mainly my concern over in case of an emergency i.e. waking up knowing I was doomed, what I should do.  I was surprised to learn that the hospital in Antibes is supposedly superb for vascular surgery, and the University hospital in Nice may not be my best choice.  He also told me that the emergency system is different in France compared to the states.  If I would call the ambulance here (#15) a doctor would answer who would access the problem and determine which hospital would be the best one for treating the problem, since the closest hospital may not be the best.  Interesting.  Then a group consisting of a doctor, a nurse and a few other helpers would arrive in the ambulance and stabilize me at home.  And begin treatment.  The goal is not to get you to the hospital as fast as possible, but to do almost everything they can at the original location.  Hmm… wonder if the French team can perform an angioplasty in your home?  Just kidding, I’m sure they would get a patient to the hospital as quickly as possible if that’s what had to be done (wouldn’t they?).   

Then it was time to pay.  Dr. Bruno wrote the bill and told me I could turn it into my insurance company.  The EKG added another… get this… 25 Euros!  If the exchange rate was what it should be, that would mean I had a first time doctor’s visit and an EKG for $58!  And on the day I called!  With the exchange rate it cost $86 US dollars.  He seemed to be waiting.   I asked if I should pay the receptionist.  Oh, no, she had already left.  I was supposed to pay the doctor!  I looked through my purse for three $20 Euros and handed them to him and he reached into the drawer of his little desk and handed me a $2 euro coin for change.  When was the last time you handed money to your doctor?  And he gave you the change?

Walking home I felt much better, but still decided to stop by a cell phone store and purchase my very own, use-in-France cell phone.  That little sucker put me back $39 Euros.  Bummer.  But I knew that in an emergency I would feel so much better being able to call for emergency help from my room rather than trying to walk a block away from my apartment and wait for my computer to get connected. 

So there goes my $100 I had planned on using to see Brigitte Bardot.  Oh well… I had to make a choice between peace of mind, or getting to see in real life if a 75-year-old woman still has the ability to emanate sex appeal.  Hmm… now that I think about it, maybe both could have given me peace of mind.