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CHAPTER THREE

Le Jardin Secret: The Secret Garden

Pour vivre heureux, vivons cachés.

(To live happily, live hidden.)

—FRENCH PROVERB

FRANCE IS A MYSTERIOUS COUNTRY. Oftentimes, at first glance she is closed to you. This is especially true in the countryside where there are fewer tourists and most especially true if you happen to arrive in the middle of the day. It’s easy to imagine that she is not welcoming you and that indeed, you would have to stay for a long, long time and work very hard before she would open herself up to you.

If you are patient, and make a little effort, you will find that these stone walls will open to reveal beautiful courtyards, gardens, olive trees, flowers bursting into bloom—and the Frenchwoman herself, greeting you, well-rested and happy to receive you.

France is a woman. Here in America, we have Uncle Sam. But France is known as a woman—La Belle France. It’s true we have the Statue of Liberty, holding up her torch to welcome the world, but then, she was a gift to us from the French.

My Lessons Begin

Last September, I took the overnight flight from Boston to Charles de Gaulle Airport. My French friend Tania had given me detailed instructions on how to get to her office on rue Cambon (the same street where Coco Chanel once lived). From there, I was to pick up the keys to her apartment, where I would drop off my luggage. In my dazed state, I could not find the bus and so I got on the RER train and took that to Gare du Nord.

This was not in the original directions. So, once I got off the train, I was completely confused, bleary-eyed and exhausted from the overnight trip. I had no idea what Métro I should take to get to L’Opéra and so I ended up in a taxi line and took a taxi, grateful to put down my luggage. I arrived at her office around ten in the morning, sweating a bit, feeling less than fresh, and completely out of sorts. I sat on one of the sleek white leather chairs in the elegant lobby and waited for Tania, as slender and stylish Frenchwomen came and went. And then finally, Tania came down the stairs to greet me. Her hair was pulled back in a neat little chignon and she was wearing a navy blue pencil skirt, a simple white shirt, and a colorful scarf tied around her neck. The quintessential Frenchwoman! She sat next to me, and I suddenly felt like a tortoise—very large, very slow, and very ancient. It’s true, I’m probably old enough to be her mother, but at that moment, I felt more like her grandmother. I immediately confessed that I had taken a taxi and she looked at me a little disapprovingly (or perhaps that was my imagination) and proceeded to give me directions to her apartment in the Fourteenth Arrondissement, which involved more walking, more Métros and another bus, and absolutely no taxis.

The Secret Behind the Door

This time, I made myself follow her directions to the letter and I resisted the desire to fling my luggage and myself into the nearest taxi. Truthfully, I felt rather pleased, when I was able to negotiate changing Métros and finding the bus and getting off at the right stop. All was well with the world or so I thought as I stood in front of the enormous, ornate door and took out Tania’s key.

But then, the key didn’t work! I kept trying and trying and honestly I felt like sitting on the curb and crying. I was so close to a hot shower and a comfy bed and yet so far away. Finally, I asked a passing lady with a baby stroller if she could help me with la clé, because I imagined there must be some French secret to this key that I was not getting. And indeed, this was absolutely the case. The French lady explained to me that I simply needed to press a certain button. I did, and voilà, the big door opened easily to reveal a lovely cobblestoned courtyard. I walked in and found the door to which the key magically (actually quite obviously) fit. From there, I walked up the circular, winding staircase to the third floor (which was called the fourth floor, but that’s because the ground floor doesn’t count—that’s called the rez-de-chaussée and the first floor, which we would call the second floor is called the premier étage). You could see why I was in a state of confusion! Pulling my luggage up the stairs with me, I went up and around and up and around and up and around until I felt the dizzying effect of knowing that I was far, far from home and all that was familiar.

Later in my journeys I would come to realize that this circuitous route—the Métro, the bus, the walking, the secret courtyards, and the winding stairs—were all essential ingredients to French mystery and confidence.

A Long and Winding Road

And even then, in the midst of my exhaustion and confusion, I couldn’t help but think that years and years of walking up and down these stairs—something amazing must happen to the brain. A new pathway must form and it must change the Frenchwoman’s approach to life. Certainly, the stairs immediately force one to stand up straight and focus, not hurry, but to be present to the moment. And of course, these stairs are mighty theatrical. Just imagine your husband or lover waiting for you at the bottom of these winding, curving, ornate stairs. And there you are—descending the steps, seen from below in glimpses, flashes of leg and heels as you walk down and around, mysteriously coming in and out of view, disappearing, then reappearing, until finally you emerge. By the time you reach that bottom step, I would think this man would be in a state of enchantment.

No wonder it’s so easy for the French to reject the fast and efficient (an elevator, for instance) in favor of something that takes a little more time and delays gratification, but is ultimately much more satisfying. Deep in her cerebral cortex, the part that hides the mysteries of language and memory, a Frenchwoman holds the image of her first walk down those stairs, going round and round with her mother as she teaches her to sing “Au Clair de la Lune.” These stairs must hold so many memories and secrets for the French, but more than this, the difficulty of negotiating these stairs makes one more conscious of posture, breathing, and presentation. No, they’re not easy or quick or even sensible, but oh, they’re lovely to look at and they make the simple act of descending the stairs an opportunity for drama and beauty.

But at this moment in time, I did not appreciate all this beauty. Instead, I braced myself and I walked up and around and up and around, huffing and puffing, cursing myself for being thoroughly out of shape. And finally, I entered Tania’s apartment, looked around quickly, taking in the fact that her kitchen was small and modern, and her living room was dominated by a big round table with a big vase of fresh flowers on top of it. The sitting area was upstaged by this table and I imagined this is where she hosted her dinner parties. And that most of the interactions took place around this table. Yes, this was the place where romances blossomed and friendships were solidified—all within the context of delicious food and wine and laughter and talk.

Upstairs, there was a lovely bedroom and a bathroom, a guest bedroom, which was very inviting to my jet-lagged self.

Nonetheless, once I put my bags down and drank a glass of water, I did go back outside to the little boulangerie I had spied on the corner and I went in and ordered a baguette sandwich with fresh chicken and lots of vegetables. I confess, I returned and stood in Tania’s little kitchen and I wolfed it down in a matter of seconds (not very French!). And then I took a shower. I did not take a bath in the enormous claw-foot bathtub, even though it was so beautiful and so enticing.

After the shower, I got into bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep, only to awake with a feeling of panic. I knew I would now have to get dressed and find my way back to Tania’s office. I would have to walk or take a bus to the Métro, change Métros, then walk some more. And so, armed with my French-English dictionary, the Métro map, Tania’s directions, and a great deal of determination, I managed. I actually arrived at Métro L’Opera a little early and had time to walk around and take photographs at the Chanel store and then stare at the delicate, multicolored macarons in the windows of the famous Ladurée.

And then, I sat in the lobby on the white leather chair and observed French office workers coming down the stairs and out the door. I saw no elevators. Instead, everyone seemed to come down these beautifully ornate stairs. And for me, sitting in the lobby, full of wonder—it was as if I was watching a fashion show! The men wore dark suits, white shirts, and brightly colored ties. Clearly, there was no such thing as casual Friday. The Frenchwomen wore stylish black dresses, scarves, fitted skirts in charcoal, black, and navy, and yes, I saw the occasional pair of jeans, but they were fitted perfectly to the woman wearing them and accompanied by an elegant white shirt and some baubles or bijoux. It seemed to me that they wore very few prints, but rather a basic palette of black, navy, and white or beige with a dash of color from a scarf or an interesting accessory—a trendy bag (or sac, as they call them) and some fabulous heels or cute ballet flats.

Finally, Tania arrived. She said that before we went to dinner, she wanted to pick up some tickets for an upcoming concert. Did I mind walking a bit more? “Oh, no, not at all!,” I said. And we were off. Walking fast. And this was no short walk. By the time we had dinner and took the Métro and then the bus back to her apartment, I was ready to go directly to sleep.

But before I did, I noticed that Tania turned on her computer and checked e-mail for about fifteen minutes. She did not turn on the television. And unlike me—when confronted with my laptop and my e-mail—she did not spend hours at it. But rather, it seemed that her priority that evening was to enjoy a long, leisurely bath in that big, beautiful bathtub.

I was impressed by how self-contained she was and how she seemed to not share as much as my American girlfriends. And this is not just the case with Tania. I have encountered so many Frenchwomen and they simply don’t “dish” the way Americans do. You know what I’m talking about—how we can meet a woman at a party and within five minutes we are sharing the most intimate details of our lives, our childhood, how we are having marital difficulties or we are feuding with our sister or how our oldest son is failing in school. The French just don’t do this. They keep it hidden. Or at least they wait a long time before revealing all. This is part of their Secret Garden. And it is definitely part of how they keep their mystery and their confidence, because they never get that feeling that bits and pieces of their soul are scattered all about town.

Get Some Rest

Everyone knows that stress is bad for us. Stress makes us cranky and tired. We’re more likely to make mistakes and to make decisions that we regret. Stress makes us unhealthy. It can lead to weight gain. It can lead to heart attacks. But you can reduce a lot of the stress in your life by simply creating a Secret Garden. This Secret Garden can be in your bedroom, where you spend a few hours every weekend, sleeping late, or reading in bed, writing in a journal or just daydreaming. Perhaps you don’t have a house with pretty blue shutters, but you can block out the day’s hustle and bustle and demanding light with a pretty silk sleep mask and a pair of earplugs. I know from personal experience that some lavender potpourri or scented candles can be incredibly soothing.

Your Secret Garden might also involve a long, luxurious bath with lavender oil. Then again, there are secret gardens that are real gardens. The French are brilliant at creating these sacred spaces—intimate and enchanting gardens behind stone walls. From the outside on the street, there is only a stone wall, but once you enter a gate, an entire world of lilacs and gardenias, tulips and roses, fruit trees and olive trees might be revealed. Your Secret Garden might be a small vegetable garden that you plant in the springtime and then tend to in the early morning and later afternoons. It could be a small herbal garden you keep on your deck or windowsill. Watching a garden grow—even in the city where your little garden might be part of a larger communal garden—is truly a Zen experience. When you first plant your lettuce, days go by and it seems as if nothing is happening. Your garden is not growing, but then one day—voilà! There are little green shoots coming up and if you did not know it, you might think they are only bits of grass or weeds, but with patience and time and water and sunshine, your garden grows.

Here’s what my friend Marjorie tells me about the Secret Garden: