imagine a place where you can buy a loaf of fresh bread, made each day by a master baker who rises before the sun does, for a mere, guarenteed 65 cents. and there is a bakery like this on nearly every other block.
and envision also on nearly every other block, or at least within a few minutes walk, a wine shop stocked to the gills with the finest wines you'll find anywhere. and you can buy a good wine, i mean a GOOD wine (as in it tastes good to you and there is no other criteria for enjoyment) for less than six dollars. for ten to fifteen dollars you can have a bottle of superb wine that back in the States, you would have had to cross state lines to have the privilege of paying fourty dollars to a snooty, malcontent clerk for.
imagine a place where you can sit at a warm and inviting coffee shop, order the smallest item, a coffee for a trifling 1.00 and stay at that table the entire day thereafter, never being bothered to move on. and there is a choice of such establishments, including some actually on a beach, yes, you can put your toes in the sand, sit in a comfortable chair under an umbrella and sip coffee THE ENTIRE DAY for one dollar. ok, maybe two dollars, a second cup of coffee never hurt anyone.
and think about this one: no one ever, EVER asks what you do for a living. they frequently and enthusiastically ask you, however, and get this: what you do for FUN. that's right, for PLEASURE. they don't ask where you went to college, they assume you know how to find the knowledge you seek. they don't ask you what kind of car you drive, it's not the car but it's contents (YOU!) that interest them. for status conscious Americans, i repeat: in this place, you will NEVER be asked what you do to earn a living. they want to know HOW you DO your LIVING.
and imagine even the smallest of towns have shoppers enough (of the sort who care enough about their evening meal to prepare for it in the morning) to support daily open air fresh produce markets. and at this market there is always someone who knows more about cheese than you ever believed humanly possible. and it's actually interesting information. and another fellow down the way has the same vast knowledge of nothing but sausage. and another holds a doctoral degree in mushrooms. again, all of it interesting and useful. this is not your pimply-faced highschool grocery mega-mania supercenter produce department stock boy flunkie. these guys live this stuff. and you gain at the table, ten-fold, for the difference i can tell you.
imagine that it is generally agreed amongst the people of this place, that in order to avoid the stress that the inevitable dings, scratches, miffs and clunks that driving and parking in small and winding lanes can create, they've all agreed that the OUTSIDE of all vehicles in fact belongs to NO ONE. an individual only owns the INSIDE of a car. the condition of the paint job is of no concern whatsoever, it's not yours anyway. poof! in one fell swoop, no worries! so what that the delivery truck engraved the side of the car?, he has every right to if he needs to get through that way, it belongs to everyone afterall. it's a free country.
and dogs and babies are welcome (and truly welcomed, with coos, cuddles and smiles) everywhere..every shop, every restaurant. even the foo-foo ones, where occassionally, wonders!, a dog may actually be enjoying quite a fine meal in the chair next to you. and FIVE YEAR OLDS regularly order huge bowls of MUSSELS and eat them, unaided, with relish. and someone will bring your dog a bowl of water, or warm your baby's bottle, often without being asked, every time.
imagine a people so comfortable with advances and tradition at the same time as to have clothed their street sweepers (individual men, not the vehicles) with insulated, wind and rain resisitant day-glow reflective uniforms of the most advanced variety (picture a HazMat suit) and then equipped them with a wood handled broom made of dried twigs bound together with a bit of string, a style of broom in use since i imagine the Middle Ages. it works. the best of both worlds, in teams of four (for the smoking break rotation), moving cleanly down your street every morning.
this is the France, my little piece of France, that i will miss next week. bless her.
