Читать книгу Bonjour, Happiness! - Джейми Кэт Каллан - Страница 7

INTRODUCTION

MY GRANDMOTHER WAS FRENCH.

She was French in a way that I will never be—no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I’ve tried.

My maternal grandmother was strikingly beautiful. She was tall and slender and dark. She tanned easily and before her hair turned silver, it was jet black. She liked to wear it in sleek 1930s-style waves. My mother and I looked nothing like her. We were not tall. We were not slim. We were blondes with blue eyes, and with . . . well, plenty of curves.

To my family, especially to my father’s Irish side, and indeed to our friends and neighbors, my grandmother was extremely exotic, even mesmerizing. She spoke with a slight accent, left over from a childhood where she and her brothers and sisters spoke only French at home and didn’t learn English until they began grammar school. My mother tried to be “French” in her own way. Occasionally, while I was growing up, she’d tell me fermez la bouche! (meaning “shut your mouth!”) and every now and then my mother would take a break from cooking frozen Swanson TV dinners and attempt a French béchamel sauce, with butter, flour, and milk. She would mix the ingredients in a saucepan, adding canned Bumble Bee tuna, and then she would serve this—smothered in a layer of black pepper—over toasted Wonder Bread. When my brother and I complained that it was too hot, she’d tell us, “I can’t help it! I’m French! I like spices—not like you cold Irish people!”

I have no idea where she got the idea that the French like to overpepper their food. Or for that matter, that the Irish are “cold.” (Perhaps she was talking about my father, who was not cold, but kept quiet around her, for his own good.)

My mother could be very theatrical. She was petite and girlish, but she could also be very provocative—kind of like a doll with a dirty mouth. She was used to getting a lot of attention and I think this made growing older all the more difficult for her. And when she found the power of her attractiveness waning in her forties and fifties, she became downright despondent.

This was not the case for my grandmother, who was elegant and stylish and quite stunning well into her eighties. In fact, I have photographs that my grandfather took of my grandmother while they were in Florida during the winter months. In one black-and-white photograph, she is standing in a yard in front of some bird of paradise flowers, wearing a one-piece bathing suit. She stands with perfect posture, one leg turned in front of the other, so that she is looking out from a slight angle. Her hair is wet, slicked back, and there are a few damp curls creeping around her ears. She doesn’t look directly at the camera’s eye, but rather she is looking away into the not-too-far distance, as if she has better things to do than to be photographed in her bathing suit. Her wry smile says, Yes, I know you find me beautiful. I know I am tall and slender. I know you think I am a bathing beauty, but really, enough of this now! But, my grandfather, who was crazy in love with her, couldn’t help but take many such photographs. They had a very steamy marriage. That was obvious.

My grandmother certainly knew the secret to joie de vivre. No, she didn’t tell wild jokes or risqué stories or tap dance around the kitchen (all of which my mother did), but rather, in her own quiet way, she found balance, joy, and l’art de vivre (the art of living). She gardened, she jarred fresh fruits and vegetables from my grandparents’ little farm and later from their own backyard. She composted and recycled long before it became fashionable. She fished and actually hunted with my grandfather. She sewed clothes for us. I’ll never forget how she took her old fur coat from the 1940s that was beyond repair and cut it up to make matching Jackie Kennedy-style hats and little fur collars for me, my mother, and for herself. She didn’t give us big, expensive gifts, but whatever she gave, you could be sure it was from the heart. She loved consignment shops and thrift stores. She loved the thrill of the hunt and the joy of finding something old and beautiful, but forgotten and discarded—something that she could rescue and rediscover.

During her Sunday afternoon visits, she would often shampoo and curl my hair. This was, in part, my mother’s idea. My mother, who loved Shirley Temple and taught tap-dancing lessons, had introduced me to her old black-and-white movies—Curly Top, Baby Take a Bow, The Little Princess, Captain January, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. And she told me that I could look just like Shirley Temple if only we could get my hair done up into a bunch of those bouncy little ringlets.

And so, my grandmother arrived and went straight to work. She gave me a shampoo in our upstairs bathroom, with me standing on a little step stool, my head bowed over the sink as she worked the fragrant bubbles through my hair and rinsed it gently. I loved the feeling of her fingers at the nape of my neck, and the warm water flowing over my head.

Once my hair was towel dried and combed, I sat in a chair, while she twirled the damp pieces of my hair around small strips of cloth that she had fashioned out of old sheets. All this effort, so that I could go to school on Monday with a head full of Shirley Temple ringlets, or “rag curls,” as she called them.

By the sixth grade, the Beatles were all the rage and the girls in my school were all straightening their hair, but I still wanted my grandmother to curl my hair on Sundays, not so much for the ringlets—which didn’t even last through all of Monday—but for the experience of having her gentle hands slowly rinsing my hair in warm water. I loved how she took her time, carefully tying up the curls and how she smiled at me in the reflected mirror.

I OFTEN THINK of my grandmother nowadays—not simply because I am writing books about Frenchwomen, but because I am no longer “a spring chicken.” In fact, I’m fifty-six. I’m the mother of a twenty-six-year-old daughter. I divorced my first husband in 1994 and remarried in 2005.

Yet, even with a wonderful husband and a career I thoroughly enjoy, I am full of insecurities about my looks, my clothes, and my ever expanding, then contracting, then expanding again waistline. I worry about money. I struggle with the balance between work-work-work and having fun and enjoying my free time. I often feel that I was not a good enough mother to my daughter. I often sense that I lack a certain balance in my life. Sometimes my husband will return home from his work to find me still in my nightgown, still hunched over my computer, and he’ll say, “You are exactly where I left you this morning—you must go out and get some fresh air!”

I am a woman who often feels that I am not smart enough, not rich enough, not organized enough, not accomplished enough, not slim enough, and definitely not young enough.

All this is to say I’m a typical American gal!

And I know I am not alone in these feelings. When I wrote French Women Don’t Sleep Alone I traveled all over France with my good friend and translator, Jessica Lee, interviewing hundreds of women (and lots of men, too) and later on my own I traveled throughout the United States where I talked to hundreds more. I came to realize that as American women we have much to learn from our French sisters—yes, about love, romance, and marriage, but also about everyday living, shopping, buying fresh food, about the simple joys of being alive, appreciating what life has to offer us right now, in this moment—no matter what our age or shape or size or how much money we have in our pocketbooks. With their philosophy of “working to live” rather than “living to work,” Frenchwomen know a thing or two about balance. And I believe that they can teach us something about how we might at least start to finally feel that we are “enough.”

I decided to return to France on this quest to discover the secret to joie de vivre. But since I have very limited funds, I applied for a Virginia Center for the Creative Arts fellowship to live and work in Auvillar, a little village in the southwest of France. I will always be indebted to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and to the village of Auvillar, France, for welcoming me so warmly and offering a dream come true: a home base in France.

During my journeys, I have talked to Frenchwomen from all socio-economic groups, urban and rural, old and young and somewhere in the middle. I’ve tracked down those gorgeous femmes d’un certain âge and asked them how they stay so elegant and so confident into their fifties, sixties, seventies, and beyond. I’ve attended more dinner parties than I can count. I’ve attended cooking classes and I’ve helped organize French dinner parties—from elaborate fêtes to simple, spontaneous potluck get-togethers and everything in between.

I’ve interviewed all sorts of Frenchwomen—beautiful and not so beautiful, slim and not so slim, well-to-do and not so well-to-do. I found women in the countryside, tiny villages in the Southwest, the northern provinces, the coastal resort towns, the cities (Paris, bien sûr!), Toulouse, Lille, Besançon, Dijon, Lyon, and the suburbs. I talked to university students, housewives, office workers, doctors, lawyers, bakers, shop owners, photographers, and artists. I talked to a woman who makes her own artisan soap, a librarian, several beauticians and estheticians, an image consultant, business executives, a few health care professionals, and many others. Some of these meetings were casual and some were more formal interviews. I got into conversations wherever I happened to be at any given time. In Auvillar where I lived for a month, I helped harvest grapes for wine with my fellow compatriots and artists. We visited castles and the caves at Pech Merle. We attended art gallery openings and concerts and a pottery festival.

Oh, and we shopped! And since I was on a budget, I also did a lot of simple window shopping or, as the French say, le lèche-vitrines: “we licked the window.” As an American traveler, full of curiosity, I tried to deconstruct what the arrangement of the mannequins in a window might truly mean. I took thousands and thousands of photographs of ordinary things. I also drank a lot of wine. I ate a lot of cheese. Delicious yogurt. Hundreds of baguettes, with fresh butter from the farmers’ market—oh dear, here I am confessing—again in true American style!

During all this, I asked Frenchwomen (and men) about their secrets to happiness. We talked about family, community, work, love, marriage, growing older, and body issues. We discussed their penchant for being fifteen minutes late, why Frenchwomen tend to be a little secretive at times, and what’s the big deal with the five-hour dinner party. I’ve been invited to have tea in these women’s gardens, to take a look and see what’s in their refrigerators, to discuss their buying habits, how they handle money, their secrets to keeping their love lives interesting, and yes, I’ve even seen their under things—which by the way, are quite beautiful. We’ve talked about growing older, how to stay healthy and sexy at every age. And we’ve discussed the joys of a simple life, how pets can bring us comfort, the Frenchwoman’s relationship with food, health, and fitness. Oh, and I’ve even attended their Weight Watchers meetings. Yes, they have Weight Watchers in France!

As Americans, we dress for success. We are always on the run and we grab our grande mocha lattes and drink them while driving. And we rush through our household chores with the help of the latest gadget. We want the newest car—whether it’s the biggest SUV or the latest and greatest model in fuel efficiency. We approach every new trend with a kind of childlike zeal, bursting into the room with our arms extended, singing, “More, more, more!”

But at the end of the day, does all this rushing around, all this accumulating of stuff and jumping on board to grab the biggest, brightest, coolest, time-saving, convenient, new-new-new thing really bring us happiness? With all our success and expensive vacations, our big houses and bigger mortgages and our brand-new cars—have we become so satiated that we’re really a little miserable, feeling a little let down by the pursuit of material goods? And have we forgotten how to find simple, old-fashioned, down-to-earth happiness?

AND THIS BRINGS ME back to my French grandmother and how she took hours to give me a shampoo and set, her fingers working the soap through my hair, slowly rinsing it with warm water, and toweling it dry, then sitting by me, wordlessly separating the strands and slowly removing the snarls with her fingers, one by one.

The beauty and meaning of this gift was brought back to me when Jessica Lee and I visited Besançon. We stayed with Marie Joëlle, a fashionable Frenchwoman who owns her own hair salon. Marie Joëlle spoke no English and at that time, my French was still quite rusty. Nonetheless, we were sympathique and we communicated with simple phrases and gestures. On the final day of our visit, Jessica and I were in the salon and Marie Joëlle said she wanted to shampoo my hair for me. At first, I was taken aback. I even felt that she was possibly being critical by offering this. Perhaps she thought my hair was really a mess and I was in desperate need of help! But no, she just wanted to give me this gift.

And so she did. She put a smock on me and had me sit in the salon chair, I leaned my head back in the sink while she leaned over me, working the warm water and then the fragrant shampoo into my hair.

Slowly but surely, I found myself crying. Tears streamed down my cheeks and ran down my neck and into the soapy water. I could not explain this to Marie Joëlle, but I knew that this was more than the gift of a shampoo. This was the gift of bringing my grandmother back to me, the experience of my childhood, recalling her accent, the softness of her voice, the perfumed smell of soap, the feeling of gentle hands on my scalp. The kindness of this simple and generous act.

I will tell you this now: I have lived a fairly comfortable life. I have been given many gifts in my life, but the gift of this shampoo was by far one of the most important gifts I’ve ever received.

And to me, this is the essence of French joie de vivre. It is a gesture. An experience. It is the fleeting moment in time that can never be repeated and must be appreciated now before it flies away, gone forever.

It’s about being present and alive to the ordinary moment. It’s about friendship and the knowledge that nothing lasts forever. It is Zen. And for the Frenchwoman, I believe, it is the heart of her happiness.

This book is my gift to American readers. My intention is to show you some simple ways you can keep your authentic American style, your enthusiasm and can-do spirit, and still incorporate some French joie de vivre into your life. It is also a love letter to the French; especially to Frenchwomen, and most especially, to my grandmother.