New Year's Day at Margaritas

Well I can't quite remember  when it began, but some time ago my father decided that each new year should begin with Margaritas. Yes, the drink, but what he meant was the Mexican restaurant in Portland, Maine called Margaritas (the one on Brown St).  Since we loved going there anyway, no one objected to this new rule. And so it became a family tradition. Even for those of us in the family who are night owls, party animals, (you know who you are, eh-hmm, Megan and Paul) no worries, because fortunately Margaritas doesn't open on New Year's Day till around 5pm. So rolling out of bed at around 4pm works just fine. 

It's late as I write this, and 6 hours ahead of my family back on the east coast. I imagine they're all probably at this popular watering hole already, ready to dive in. And this year, a new addition to the family, my adorable 2-year-old niece Ivy, will join in. Order the baby chimis, Ivy! I really hope that someone snaps a picture of her wearing a sombrero. 

my dad - usually the first to arrive

If you're ever in New England and stumble upon a Margaritas Mexican Restaurant, go in, at least for a drink. Try my favorite, the frozen Russelrita Margarita made with raspberries and strawberries, or maybe a Blood Orange or Prickly Cactus Margarita is more up your alley. There are so many choices...

the Fried Ice Cream at Margaritas

 When a  waiter passes you by with a tray of sizzling fajitas, you'll find yourself asking the bartender for a menu. Suddenly you have quite the appetite after all that partying you did the night before on New Year's Eve. Everything is delicious on their menu, which is enormous and includes awesome pictures that will only play with your decision-making abilities. Start off with the Chicken Baby Chimis or go nuts with the Nachos Cowabunga (the name pretty much explains it). My favorite choice for dinner was always the Chicken Chimichanga. Chicken and cheese rolled in a flour tortilla, then fried MMM!, then baked. The whole thing's covered in a mild chili sauce, cheese of course, guacamole and sour cream. Heaven. If you find that you still have room after all this, go for their fried ice cream. Sound weird? It's deeelicious. (See picture)

my dad, my sister Meg, her husband Paul, me, and my hubbie Pascal

Every time I'm there I can't help but notice the decor which is vibrant and amazing. Bursts of color everywhere, super funky cave-like nooks for an intimate party of 2 or fun party of 6, big black stars with tons of pinholes bursting with light hanging from the ceiling.....no matter where you pose for a pic with your friends, you've got a great backdrop. On Margaritas' website, I read that each restaurant is decorated with artwork (and there's loads of it) that is hand-crafted by artists in villages back in Mexico. Pretty cool. That definitely gives the place an authentic feel.

Margaritas Mexican Restaurant in Portland, Maine

Click here to be directed to Margaritas' website

So have a Margarita for me, Megs. Ivy, if I were there, I'd steal one of your baby chimis! Who knows, maybe a trip to Maine will be in the cards for next year. I certainly won't hold my breath for a Margaritas franchise to be opened here in the South of France, although I think it would be wildly popular with the younger generation. Sigh...New Year's Day just isn't the same without my family and heading straight to Margaritas. Toast one for me guys!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY : )

Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree

foothills of our town spilling into the Mediterranean

Christmas Eve this year was spent in the comfort of a friend's lovely home which is situated on a beautiful foothill in our town. Typically, the French begin the Christmas celebration on the 24th, with lots of family, a big dinner, and the opening of a present or two; the rest of the gifts are opened Christmas morning. And also, typically, (and what this post will focus on) the French end the Christmas celebration, or any celebration for that matter, in the wee hours of the morning. In other words, when asked after dinner "Voulez-vous un café?" - an espresso to knock your socks off - don't look at your watch, see 10pm and think you'll never get to sleep. Say oui, merci to the lovely host, because perhaps the party's just getting started!

an intimate Christmas concert

Dinner for 15 with oven toasted foie gras, salmon 3 ways, duck, a bûche de Noël, and the finest champagne, white wine and dessert wine these lips have ever met, ended with roaring laughter over French and American Rated-R spoonerisms that I won't soon forget.

Spoonerism definition (Wikipedia): an error in speech or deliberate play on words in which corresponding consonants, vowels, or morphems are switched. It is named after the Reverend William Archibald Spooner (1844–1930), Warden of New College Oxford, who was notoriously prone to this tendency.

The night started out innocently enough, with conversation around the fireplace, and pictures by our friend's big, beautifully decorated tree. We were even treated to an intimate concert by some of the family members who dazzled us with sounds of the clarinet, baritone horn and piano. What a delight!

So dinner was done, and I thought well what a nice evening that was. I guess we'll sit around and talk for a while. Nope! Children began putting away tables and chairs and I thought how nice that was, to help out the hostess like that. But why are they so excited about this task? I wondered. The host's brother whom I'd had polite conversation with throughout dinner, got up, plugged his iPod into the stereo, and completely transformed into DJ Mix Master. With the volume at club level, I heard the first few notes of Party Rock Anthem by LMFAO, and knew we were in trouble! Every day we're shufflin'...

Party Rock Anthem by LMFAO

 Can you shuffle?

A Family That Plays Together Stays Together

For the next couple of hours, high heels were kicked off, sleeves rolled up, and we all worked off dessert. Man this family could dance! Everyone from the teeny-tinies to grandma and grampa were rockin' around the Christmas tree. Melting in my Christmas red sweater, the hostess came to me and said, Oops, I forgot to tell you that we'd be dancing! Layers...always dress in layers, I thought. You know this! It's a cardinal rule of growing up in Maine.

DJ Mix Master and his iPod pumped us up with an electrifying blend of American and French music. Only every once in a while did he give us a chance to catch our breath with a slow song.

Some French classics that I didn't know came on and the family went nuts. Singing in unison at the top of their lungs, often in a big circle holding hands, it was clear to me that a family that plays together stays together. This was definitely not their first time doing this. They seemed to fall into a comfortable rhythm as they created new memories on this Christmas Eve. Dads dancing with daughters, the hostess dancing with one of her twin girls, cousins cuttin' a rug, and the DJ, a father of teenagers, twirling his elegant mother around the floor. What an image. Everybody was having a great time!

the foothills provide a beautiful backdrop

This one song came on and they all joined hands. I clearly had no idea what was going on, but the grand-père grabbed my left hand and one of the grand-mères grabbed my other hand and we danced round and round in a big shape-shifting circle, switching directions only when Vincent would yell Tournez!  Super fun craziness took over as one part of the dancing circle would charge and crash into the opposite side of the circle. This went on until I thought I would just die of laughter. What a great feeling.

We actually didn't get home too late - I think it was around midnight. It could've been much later..believe me! So remember, if you're ever lucky enough to be invited to one of these French gatherings, dress in layers, bring a gift for the hostess, and say yes to the espresso. I promise you'll have a rockin', good time!

I'll leave you with a couple more pictures of the area.

Happy New Year, everyone!!

in our town, Le Château de la Napoule

La Siagne river, leading to our apartment at the base of that foothill

Dear Mum and Dad: I’ll Be Home for Christmas… If Only in My Dreams

I love a big, fat Christmas tree..and stockings!

Please have snow ... and mistletoe … and presents under the tree… These are the lyrics to one of my all-time favorite Christmas tunes. (link is below) This year, my husband and I are once again in France for the holidays, but my heart will be back home in snowy New England, and my mind will be filled with memories spent with family ‘round the big, twinkling Christmas tree. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, whether sung by Bing Crosby, Sarah McLachlan, or Michael Bublé, pulls at my heart strings every year, but this year it seems to be pulling just a little bit harder.

I'll Be Home for Christmas by Michael Bublé

Last week-end, here in the sunny South of France, it snowed. Too bad it wasn't this week-end! Where I am on the Riviera just outside Cannes, snow is rare, really rare according to some locals. We haven't seen this in 15 years, they'll say...but last year, also at about this time, it snowed too. (see picture) Me, I don’t mind at all. It’s pretty, refreshing, and reminds me of home. And when you don't have to shovel it...

If you live or used to live around snow, there's a sky that you get to know very well - a snow sky. Gazing out over our balcony last week-end I thought, naah, no way. I mean sure, it looked like a typical snow sky, but no way. We're in the South of France! Besides, it was thundering. Well, I guess the actual word for it is 'thundersnow'. Whatever it's called, seeing snow fall was a little slice of home for me. And that made me happy.

my dad's house

Having grown up in the northeastern most corner of the US, you can’t help but become a bit of an expert on the white stuff – how to drive in it, walk in it, ski in it, mentally cope with it, shovel it, have fun in it, shop in it, wear nice clothes in it, and try not to fall in it (unless making snow angels of course). And so, this white stuff becomes a part of who you are, whether you like it or not! In Maine, where I'm from, it can snow as early as October, and you can still be getting hammered with snow storms in April. That's 7 months! So, needless to say, I grew up with a LOT of white Christmases, and it's a white Christmas that I prefer.

Give me crackling fireplaces, the smell of the wood burning, the scent of a real Christmas tree, toasted marshmallows, the aroma of my Dad's pipe, the snowmen, the icy, fresh air, the city silenced by a cool, white blanket. White forests, ice skating, watching A Christmas Story for the umpteenth time with my family, winter hiking, walking the dog (who likes it much more than you!), and what is it about kicking that stuff off the car behind the tire that feels so good. Oh, and watch out for the unexpected snowball in your ear! Snowball fight!! And snow days...the best. (school cancellation)

doting: to show excessive fondness or love

I never really needed to watch the weather report, not because I have some keen ability to predict weather patterns, no...I have a doting mom. She always called to let me know of the next day's weather, whether I wanted to know or not. As a bonus I sometimes got the week-end forecast as well. This was of course always followed by suggestions on what to wear in terms of a coat, hat, gloves, scarf...  

warm and cozy in our old apartment

Anyone who's spent great lengths of time around snow knows that sometimes there's nothing better than cozying up at home, warm and content, watching the snow fall outside. And that makes me think of evenings spent hanging out at my dad's, and 'snow globe snow' -- round and round it gently swirls down. No, I don't want the snow for six months a year, but for just a night, for a holiday week-end with my family, would be nice.

Turkey displaying some Christmas cheer

And so it's Christmas, and my husband, frisky cat Turkey (master wrapping paper shredder) and I will be enjoying a delicious duck dinner, followed by a traditional bûche de Noël. But the real treat will come after our dinner, when we skype with the family back home in Maine. It's not the same as being there, but to see their faces will be enough. In my dreams I can imagine the rest.

! Merry Christmas everyone !

 especially to those of you 

who couldn't go home 

this year

French Saints Day | an Age Old Tradition

“Today’s my second birthday,” my husband said to me one day years ago.  “You have to wish me a Bonne Fête!” Me, a lover of all things birthday – the giving, the receiving, the shopping, the handmade gifts, the party, the American cake, the wish, the song – my curiosity was sparked. A second birthday? He went on to explain a little about this age old tradition called Saints Day. 

Back in the day, a child’s name was chosen based on the Saint Day. Born on August 25^th? Your name was Louis. A November 4th baby? Meet Caroline! Nowadays the Saint name can be given as a middle name, or can be sort of seen as a second birthday (my preferred choice!). Calm down, calm  down, my husband says. He could see my excitement bubbling. Looking at the French Name Days calendar, I could see that almost every day was a Saint Day (there are certain exceptions like Dec. 25th and Jan. 1st) and some days are given more than one name. Although I'm not French, I am married to a Frenchman, therefore I should be entitled to take part in the French Saints Day.

 

Today is Sunday, December 11, 2011 and it's my Saint’s Day, Saint Daniel.

Actually, I love that I share this day with my father-in-law, whom I call my joli-Papa; his name is Daniel, and mine is Danielle, we share this Saints Day. All close variations of the name shall share the same day. We’ll see who calls who first today!! Bonne fête, joli-Papa!!

In English, we might call this “a celebration of name days.” It’s a tradition that's been celebrated in Catholic and Orthodox countries since the Middle Ages. It’s in fact celebrated in many countries in Europe and Latin America. Today, it’s still customary to give a small gift. Hmm..wonder what I’ll receive today. At the very least, you’re sure to get Bonne Fête phone calls, texts and facebook posts. What about the cake? Cupcakes? Ah, c'mon!

French Culture - a Part of Everyday Life

Tune in to the weather report here in France and you’ll find the meteorologists telling you about more than just the ever-present sun in Cannes and the snow in the Alps. At the very end of the forecast, they give you the Saint Day name for tomorrow. My favorite weather person, chef du service météo, Evelyne Dhéliat of channel TF1, tells us with jubilance each night of tomorrow’s Saint Day. She does this with her signature point toward the camera, big smile, and a tilt of the head. She’s my favorite because she’s the most elegant, the most impeccably dressed of them all, and sports the perfect short blonde hair style. As a lady of a certain age, she is the epitome of the French woman.

But if you don’t tune in to French weather reports, and you’d like to know what the upcoming Saint Day is, you can check out this website for a complete list of names for the whole year. www.frenchsaintsdays.com

Not only is the list a great way to browse typical French names, but on their home page you can pop in your email and receive a daily Saints Day reminder. This helpful site even offers a free widget, which displays the current Saints Day name. The widget can easily be put on your Blog or Website. See it on the top left of my blog? Don't worry, it's easy! Just follow their instructions. And how great is that? With all of these great tools, never again will you forget to wish your friend, colleague or family member a Bonne Fête!

Tu and Vous | Little French Subject Pronouns That Pack a Big Punch

Tu or vous? That is the question. Even after 3 years of living in France, AND after having studied French in school, I still don’t completely understand which one to use sometimes. I sigh and think about how much easier it is to teach ‘you’ in English. My students here always look amazed. That’s it? they say. Just one ‘you’? Yes, c’est tout. You for singular, you for plural, for informal, formal, n’importe quoi! - whatever!

Ah, but the French language is très sophistiquée. Add to that, the French have a tendency to complicate the simplest of things. Alors, let me give you a glimpse into my world here in France; tell you about the uses of tu and vous, and how I’ve stumbled along the way.

Tu and Vous both mean “you.” That’s the easy part. They're just subject pronouns, so what’s the big deal? Ah, les règles - the rules.

Vous is used : to show someone respect, in a formal setting, when you’re speaking to more than one person, and when speaking with our elders.

Tu is used : informally, with friends, family (not always) and good acquaintances (not always), when you’re speaking with one person, and it can also be used as a way to disrespect someone.

I suppose that one easy way to go about all this is to be like my friend Brige, who simplifies things by using tu with everyone…and she doesn’t really give a hoot what you think about it!

Tu Offend : With tu, it’s easy to offend someone. One of our French teachers here, Cornelia, told our class an interesting story about this. She knew this girl who one day walked into a store in Cannes. The girl used tu with la vendeuse. La vendeuse-the saleswoman even corrected her, but the girl continued the innocent verbal assault. Quel horreur! The saleswoman demanded that the customer use vous. The girl either didn’t understand or chose to ignore the firm request. La vendeuse was so offended that she refused to assist the young customer, and if memory serves me right, I believe the girl was asked to leave the store. All because she used tu instead of vous! One part of me sides with the saleswoman but the other part of me says, Oh gimme a break, get off your high horse and help the girl.

Co-workers : My husband, Pascal, has a colleague who is older than him. They have worked together for some time now, meriting the use of tu between them. Even though she is Pascal’s elder, she’s also his co-worker, now a friend. So naturally, tu is used. But she’s funny, this French woman. She will only use vous when speaking with my husband. Why? Couldn’t tell ya. She is why there’s always an exception to the rule.

Friends : One day, Pascal had a friend over for coffee. When I met his friend, Ludovic, for the first time, I used vous with him. God it just sounds too formal! Ludovic gave me a warm smile and instantly corrected me. Tu, he said. Later, I asked Pascal about this. I said, So when I meet a friend of yours, like the day that I met Ludovic, was it wrong to use vous? No, he said. OK, I said…But if I’d just started in with tu, would that have been OK? Yes, he replied. It wouldn’t have been a little disrespectful? Well, he said, not really. So how do I know which to use?

For this question I got the classic French response which means either ‘I don’t know’ (like in this situation) or it means the more offensive ‘it’s not my concern, why should I care.’ How this is done is by simultaneously shrugging the shoulders, jutting out the lower lip and at the same time puffing out a tiny burst of air...which makes a teeny tiny popping sound. It’s undeniably French and always makes me chuckle a little!

Family : It took me a long time to ease into tu with my in-laws. They’re family and super sweet, but I felt I couldn’t just jump into tu with them. They deserved my respect. Eventually I chose moments to drop in tu here and there, and started changing the ‘Comment allez-vous?’-How are you (formal) to the much more informal way to say that: ‘Ca va?’

Acquaintances : Arlène is a very kind retiree who lives in my building. She spends four hours a day, every day, two hours in the morning and two in the evening, feeding a group of beautiful, homeless cats who live at our residence; she’s not the only one. There are in fact two or three other women who also perform this labor of love every day in other parts of our complex, which is enormous. They also ensure that the cats are spayed or neutered which is why we never see kittens. I see Arlène quite often, and I’ve even helped her out a few times, like when she was laid up with an injury. So, I’m comfortable around her.  
Warning: comfortable does not mean you can feel free to use tu instead of vous. She is an elder and unless she tells me to use tu, I have to continue to use vous with her, even if I’ve spoken to her 100 times. But hey, I’m human – and what do we humans do? Make mistakes. Just the other day, right in the middle of the conversation I let a tu slip right out of my mouth. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a quick, sharp look from her. Oopsie.

Americans in general, we’re a pretty relaxed, laid back, easy-going and friendly bunch. All this tu and vous business is tiring and we already work 40+ hours a week! But I think the French never tire. (Could have something to do with 35 hour work weeks and 5 weeks paid vacation each year!) And the French, they can really live it up. They out-last me at every party. At 1:00am I’m like - stick a fork in me, I am DONE! But the French, they’ll dance and dazzle till 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning. And I’m talking parents and grandparents! Joie de vivre...

Though engaged in a lively (if it sounds like a debate, that’s OK, c’est normal!), friendly conversation involving elaborate bodily gestures, and a multitude of facial expressions, the French will often maintain that je ne sais quoi, that composure and air of elegance…that I just don’t possess. They’re so dignified. Even two older ladies, who have been neighbors for years and have spoken a thousand times, will still use vous with each other. I sense an air of elegance as I pass them by…

Like with learning the ins and outs of anything, especially a language, experience is key! The road to perfection is paved with bumps and holes, as well as the occasional patch of black ice, leaving you to sometimes skid out of control. Accidents will happen. But most French people will be resilient to your grammatical mistakes and social faux pas. I mean, hey, we at least get points for trying, right?

French Lessons: for many nationalities

“It’s a new law,” my jovial, French father-in-law said to us over the phone; a new French law that would now require all immigrants to take free, government paid French lessons. This was good news! The number of lessons would reflect your current level of French. Advanced, only get 100 hours. Débutante, you get the max, 400 hours. I took 4 years of French in high school with Mrs. Ryder and although that was over 20 years ago, I knew I’d at least remember the basics if not more. She was a wonderful teacher, very charismatic and jovial herself.

We spread the news about the new law at our going away party. Our friends and family were impressed that France was so bold. Yes, America could stand to take a few pointers on this subject. Imagine if the US required all immigrants to learn English. It sends quite a message, don’t you think?

In France you will hopefully never hear this when making a phone call: Press 1 for French, 2 for English, 3 for Arabic… France wants to hold on to their identity, and rightly so. I can’t blame them. Remember when you didn’t have to press 1 for English in the States? That was a long time ago. 

Turkey and her stuffed animal in the Sherpa bag

Two weeks after our party, we were gone; boarded the plane in Boston with a mix of emotions, a few suitcases and one Sherpa bag containing one Turkey. She rode in the cabin with us of course.

The immigration office is located at the préfecture. You are told to arrive at 7:30am, only to end up waiting outside for an hour and a half with 100 other people until the place actually opens at 9 o’clock. Baa, we resembled a herd of sheep I thought, all facing the same direction, cramming toward the gate waiting for the door to open, where you then have to haul a$$ to then wait in yet another line, where you are then given 2 minutes of someone’s time to explain your needs, and she gives you a number and you wait yet again for 1-3 hours. Good times. 

At the préfecture I was given an oral French exam to determine my niveau de français. I quickly learned that the poorer my responses were during the exam, the more hours I could rack up in free French lessons. So, I purposely botched a few answers. Et voila! I managed to get myself 300 hours.

As a side note, and completely unrelated…I was also given a chest x-ray. Standard procedure for les étrangers. What’s NOT standard procedure to me however is doing this type of exam buck naked. Well, I was naked from the waist up. I asked for a johnny, a drape, two napkins for pete’s sake, something! Eh beh non, Madame, c’est juste comme ça…

holiday party, had to dress in our country's colors - USA!

“You must be the other American!!” she excitedly boasted from her seat at the big classroom table. She was Brigid, another blonde, blue-eyed, uber-friendly American. We would soon become each other’s BFFs (best friends in France). I smiled and sat next to her, and with total disregard for the fact that this was my first day of French class, I immediately started chatting with her in our fun, native tongue. Ah, American English, so refreshing. So popular! ALL eyes were on us. Our teacher entered the room, however, and quickly put an end to that. En français, les filles… Oui, madame,  désolée.

Several French classes were offered during the week, with a variety of profs, and I attended class about twice a week. Each class was 3.5 hours long. The teachers used the direct method with us. Ohlalalalala. This is where the teacher refrains from using the student’s native language and only speaks in the target language. Most of the profs spoke English, but they refused to do any translating for us. Well, except for one. She was really cool. It wasn’t just me and Brige that spoke English. It was the 2^nd language for many other students as well. 

a motley crew

So in addition to Brige from Florida, I made other friends through this course. I met a cornucopia of interesting people! We were such a motley crew. I wondered how hard that must’ve been for the teachers. I was truly surprised to realize just how many different nationalities were represented. Here are just some of the people that I met: Laila from Portugal, young Amadou from Senegal, Christian from Chile, out-spoken Sanye and soft-spoken Sadye from Turkey, sassy Anya, Katia, and a slew of others from Russia, Svetlana and many more from the Ukraine, Neno from Georgia (which I am embarrassed to say that I never knew was a country), Tanya from Ecuador, Terri from New Zealand, Marco from Brasil, Gianna from Italy, a bunch of very nice chatty-cathy’s from the Philippines, Nathamon from Thailand, Oh and Jung from Vietnam, Fatima and others from Tunisia, Susan from Norway, Mel from The Netherlands, Tomoko and Midori from Japan (two very cool chicks), Mike from The Big Apple, Mara the California girl, a young boy from Iraq, Ali and Temirlan of Chechnya, and our oldest student, a grandmother, age 75ish but sharp as a tack, named Alla from Russia. 

I got to know a lot of people and Brige was always amazed at how I could remember all the names. She calls me Rainman for that. I’m not shy and can strike up a conversation with anyone. Other than the Americans, I most enjoyed talking to the Japanese women and the Muslim women wearing the headscarves. Or rather, these Muslim women seemed to really enjoy talking to me. But I remember one though who always looked at me with contempt. I was friendly with her just the same. I don’t think they’d ever had much opportunity to speak with a woman from the west. 

Once even, when I was turned talking to Brige, I felt something on my hair (long, blond hair). I turned and it was the sweet-faced Fatima from Turkey. She had touched my hair and apologized for doing so. She said she’d never really seen blonde hair up close, or touched it. Did she think it would feel differently? She commented that it was so pretty and soft. I asked her about her hair, if it was brown or black, wavy or straight, and how she likes to wear it at home when she’s allowed to take off the scarf. And there we were, two women from completely different cultures, backgrounds and religious beliefs, just chatting about hairstyles, make-up, etc. It was a completely different kind of lesson; the type that opens the eyes and mind, and introduces similarities in a world full of differences.