Perhaps it is a caveman
thing. Something left behind from our
knuckle dragging days. I can’t help but
find myself enchanted with a roaring fire.
It was a relatively low key day around the magnificent Butler
Estates. A short trip to the grocery
store was really all that was on the agenda.
The pace of our lives these days is certainly not likely to break any
land speed records, but who am I to complain?
We still feel quite restless at times and miss our love of labor and our
labor of love back in the States, but we will have plenty of time for that in
our lives. On our trip back from the
grocery store we received a call. The
owner of the Chateau wanted to know if we would be interested in a load of
firewood. I couldn’t help but laugh at the
inquiry since we have been requesting wood for the better part of two months
now, but that is the French way . . . no hurry.
We were pleased to accept the generosity and made arrangements to catch
up with him when we arrived home.
The fire wood turned out to
be a bit out of the ordinary and its procurement was as much of a favor to them
as a treat for us. They needed to clear
out an old cellar to begin renovations at the house next to ours, so their
youngest son and I set about transferring wheelbarrow upon wheelbarrow from one
location to the next. Seeing that my
eldest son was wanting for some activity, I enlisted his help as well. The “firewood” turned out to be an old
stockpile of grape vines that had outlived their usefulness in the fields and
provided for a great bit of conversation that turned into quite an education
for my son and I both. In an industry of
“waste not, want not”, everything is put to use. I have seen fences made of old wine barrels
and beverages made from rotten grapes, so nothing surprises me. As it turns out, the sale of old vines is as
lucrative for some as the growing of the grapes themselves. There is actually an export market for the
vines for use in BBQ and evidently creates a unique taste that I will certainly
try in coming days. There is also a face
cream that is created with this byproduct.
Who knew?
The conversation was charming
and truly informative, perhaps even more so for my eldest than for myself. I suspect he was paying little attention to
the conversation about the vines, but his ears seemed to perk up a bit when the
conversation shifted to our progress with the language. The owner’s son is somewhere in his
mid-twenties and as I have described him in prior posts, is something out of a
print add for Armani. He commented that
my eldest was doing well with the language and indicated that we have done
something great for our son. “To know
French and English . . . it’s perfect.”, he said. “English is good for the business and French
is good for the girls”. I turned an eye toward
my son and he was grinning ear to ear.
This was a confirmation of advice that he had already received from his
father, but meant much more coming from this young man. Dad is old and bald, but this guy . . . well
just look at him, he MUST know what he is talking about. I have repeatedly told my son that once he
reaches a certain age, his interests in the fairer sex would certainly be
furthered by his triumphant return to France.
I think he now agrees.
The conversation once again
shifted to the young man’s recent trip to the US. When asked what he thought, he seemed less
than impressed. He spent several months
in our homeland, bouncing between Miami, Los Angeles and New York City. His perceptions were fresh and
interesting. Certainly youthful in their
sentiment, yet remarkably wise as well.
He commented that having been there for some time, he was having trouble
ridding himself of the word “fuck” when speaking in English. He said that everything is “fuck” this and
“fuck” that. I lost some of my lady like
demeanor as a string of snot shot from my nose when I erupted into
laughter. He puzzled over it a bit and
said that he had a very hard time at first understanding what people were
trying to convey to him when they used the term “fuck”. This revelation transformed my prior snort
and chuckle into a fit of laughter I found difficult to control. His second impression was a bit more
depressing. He was curious if American’s
ever read. “Do they read things?” he
asked. “Everything is the Cinema, no
culture”. Geez, this guy is twenty
something and complaining that America is lacking in culture? A playboy wine maker makes landfall in South
Beach and his comment is “Sure, it is good for partying, but no culture.” My laughter grew quiet and I suddenly felt
embarrassed.
Soon our labor was at an end
and we bid each other farewell.
Ordinarily, the sting of this type of criticism of the land of the free
and home of the brave would leave a lasting welt on my American ego, but recent
experiences of my own here in France deflected the blow a bit. I have encountered an ugly side effect of the
French system. What do you get when you
tell your people that they are “entitled” to certain benefits by nature of
their citizenship? You get a good number
of people whose sense of entitlement knows no bounds. Let me give you a couple of examples. While in the grocery store, we were patiently
waiting in a very long line and watched as a couple (that I would have guessed
to be in their later sixties) cut in line in front of us and two other patrons
and simply started unloading their cart onto the counter. They in fact shuffled someone’s articles to
the back to make room for their own. Not
so much as a word was spoken. Not
knowing the proper response I kept my mouth shut. I wanted unleash a fury of good old American
“fuck this and fuck that and fuck you’s” on them, but instead I held my breath. In looking around at every other shoppers
disgust I caught sight of the sign . . . we were in the handicapped line.
It is an unwritten rule here
in France that those with a handicap (advanced age being a handicap) are
entitled to a place in line ahead of all other able bodied clients. I can’t argue with the concept. I would gladly give up my spot to anyone in
need and certainly have a better chance of standing for half an hour in line
than an elderly person walking with a cane.
I do, however, have an expectation that if such concessions are
expected, the person moving to the front of the line would at least indicate their
desire to do so and provide their fellow shoppers with a nice “thank you”. These people didn’t thank a soul and were not
so elderly as they had any mobility issues at all. They simply were old enough to qualify for
the advancement and took full advantage without the slightest remorse. It was like watching people parking in the
handicapped spots at Wal-mart back in the good old USA. Their only handicap being rampant obesity
that would only be assisted by a long walk through a parking lot. These folks were old, that was their only
claim to fame. And still I thought to
myself, who am I to complain. I am half
their age, so why not? A thank you would
have been great, but the rule is the rule.
Why let this ruin my day.
For a split second, I was
proud of myself. Real emotional
growth! Then it happened. I looked to my left and there in the able
bodied line stood a woman who was easily 10 years older than these folks and
walked with a clear limp. She was
smiling at me with one of the sweetest grins I have ever seen. Her look said it all. She felt for our plight and found the other
couple’s behavior as deplorable as I had.
Once again my anger began to grow.
It grew to the point that the wife and I pulled ourselves out of line
and took up real estate behind the woman with the nice smile. She immediately turned around and commented
that it drove her husband crazy to see people like this as well. She had clearly been standing there watching
my emotions play out on my face. Evidently I shouldn’t head to Vegas any time soon . . . my Poker face sucks.
The second example I would like to share
occurs every time I get in my car and pick my kids up from school. I will inevitably run across someone that
thinks they own the road. The French
have an uncanny way of gumming up the works.
They will block lanes of traffic to carry on a conversation. They will make it nearly impossible to enter
a building while they kissy face with an acquaintance in the doorway. Entitlement . . . if left unchecked, it is
easily as evil as the fattened bigotry found in my own homeland. And yes, this is as much of a generalization
as saying all American’s are movie loving fat fucks (there’s that word
again). Neither society is perfect. We all have room for improvement. “Societal warts” is how I like to refer to
them . . . kind of like genital warts with less inflammation. Like a hairy mole on your face, it is a
blemish that you can’t disguise. Everyone
around you pretends not to notice and yet can’t take their eyes off of it either. I love the French. They have my number and I have theirs. They can clearly see my faults as they are
awfully hard to hide and at the same time they make no effort to hide their
own. I respect that. Oh say
can you fucking see, by the dawn’s early light . . . What so proudly we hailed
at the Twilight Movie’s last screening?
Whose broad ass and bright stars . . . Not such a pretty way to face the world is
it. Indeed our perceptions of each other
are biased, but there clearly is an element of truth in there somewhere. Perhaps the owner’s son was right, we have
the opportunity to take the best from both worlds. Extract that which is good for business and
good for the girls and leave the rest behind.
Now those are words to live by.
R.
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