Cade, Cats, and Camaraderie

One lesson learned while living in France is that nothing is permanent. From simple things like the weather (why, oh, why won't it stay sunny and warm for more than 48 hours at a stretch?) to more complex matters that include personal relationships, everything, apparently, is transient. Get used to it. (No! Well, OK; I'm trying.) If anything, accepting this truth has been good for cultivating coping mechanisms for those all-too-frequent existential crises. Which is why it's fitting that, just as I'm beginning to feel settled here, the friends I consider to be more than merely good ones are hatching their escape plans.

They're each planning to leave France for different reasons; Lee, a dog-walking client turned entertainment-outing friend, is in the fortunate position of being a stay-at-home husband of sorts to his partner, Nick. They're both Australian, both very intelligent, and possibly because we're all products of 1980s upbringings, our life experiences overlap on multiple levels. This makes for good conversation punctuated by Kylie Minogue jokes and explosive laughter. The fact that Lee's a vegetarian doesn't hurt, either. But Lee and Nick are set to move back to Australia soon, after Nick's current work contract expires. They have no desire to return to Sydney, but it's looking more and more like they'll be leaving before year's end.

Susa is another friend who's shipping off to potentially greener shores. She's already made one huge move from Finland to France, where she's lived for the last nine years, but early next month, she and her French husband are moving to Quebec City, Canada. Sight unseen. On a whim. What kookiness! What bravery! Don't leave! So, when Susa invited me to spend one last bonding weekend with her in the sunny south of France (at her belle-mere's roomy house on a hill in a quiet suburb, with easy access to the Mediterranean and my own bedroom), there was only one way I could possibly respond: Hell, yes! When do we leave?

Chez Bernard, on a quiet hill 10 minutes from the super salty Mediterranean sea

Bright, cheery, and likely very delicious beans at the Saturday marche in Toulon

Outdoor sculpture on a rocky Mediterranean outcropping

Cicada-shaped sweets in a chocolatier's window

Falafel, frites, and friends at the harbor (and yachts)

Why yes, that does say "Jeggings." What a relief to know it's the same in French and in English.

La Finnoise et le Francais

Just what, exactly, do "dicksongs" sound like, I wonder?

A corner saint, illuminated

Toulon architecture

Big-eyed kitty kitty

Big-ass croissants (those are standard issue pastries on the right)

What better place to realize the need to work on my posture than at the brilliantly blue Mediterranean?

A pale princess with swirly kookoo eyes

I want to stay here forever and ever and ever, swimming and sunning. Really.

Still-life with oranges.

Another cinematic sunset at la plage

Now, Susa--as you might notice--is a very slender girl. She's got her issues and she's working through them, but it's a process and to ensure success, she's taking her time. I, on the other hand, am a manic eating machine, known to Hoover up anything and everything that didn't originate in the animal kingdom. Toulon was a good place to exercise my glutton muscles. Why? In a word, cade.

I didn't know that Toulon has its own version of that Nicoise delicacy known as socca. In Toulon, they call it cade. In other parts of the Mediterranean, it's called farinada, and in Tuscany, it goes by cecina. By any name, this omelety sort of snack food has its origins in Italy, and historically was the food of the peasant class. Today, it's a still a cheap and delicious staple one could easily build each and every meal around, and fortunate for me, the ingredients are both vegan and unbelievably simple: Chick-pea flour, water, olive oil and salt.

At the Saturday open-air market in central Toulon, I happily stumbled upon a stand selling cade for €1.30 a serving. Like the socca I first tried in Nice with my friend Jen last February when doing research for my book, cade is cooked in a large, circular pan, and served with just a dusting of pepper or cumin powder. The major difference between the two treats is that socca is crepe-thin, while cade is the thickness of a waffle or very thick pancake.

Special, indeed

As I sprinkled pepper over my cade, madame said "Hey! Leave some for the other clients!" Mean.

Gone in 30 seconds

Not long after discovering one edible treasure, I veered straight into another as we strolled a pedestrian promenade toward la gare, from whence I'd soon board a train back home to Paris. I'd hoped to find something to nibble on for the nearly-four-hour trip back, and rarely do my snack-tracking senses fail me in times of need. All it took this time was the word "Ital" on a shop sign and within, like, two nanoseconds, my it-might-be-vegan alarm bells were clanging on code-red heightened-alert mode. The shop's proprietor stood in the doorway talking to two customers, noticed me eyeballing the menu, and says, more or less, "Sorry, this is a vegetarian restaurant. We only have vegetarian food."

Uh, and why so apologetic?

"C'est merveilleux!"

He looked a little surprised. I asked if he could make me something without cheese. He said of course. I said get down on it, s'il vous plait. He said coming right up. The results were divine.

Pretty basic: Tomato, lettuce, and faux meat on a tortilla, which was then grilled, panini-style, to crispy perfection.

No more apologies, Paco

Wasabi snacks procured at a gargantuan Auchan supermarket. This was "dessert" after the ital sandwich.

My seatmate's kitty companion. Not a peep from this travel-wise critter in nearly four hours of train travel!

Back home in Paris, it's wet and gray, with an added dose of drama courtesy of a twilight show featuring flashy lightning bolts and rumbling thunderclaps. At least it's not cold. If I close my eyes, I can still taste the salty, aqua-blue Mediterranean water on my tongue, and feel the sun burning into my skin as I float on my back in the cool water. Heaven. And that delicious aroma wafting out of my oven? Another reminder of summer's last seaside hurrah: Cade. If the home-made stuff tastes half as good as it smells, I'll post photos and a recipe, tout de suite.

French (music festivals) For Beginners

It's been years (and years, and years) since my last foray into the world of outdoor music festivals. They always seem like a good idea in theory--lots of new bands to scope out, an opportunity to spend hours in the sunshine, a chance to see what all the cool kids are wearing. In practice, however, they tend to be overly crowded, full of intoxicated nimwits, and a veritable desert in the vegan comestibles department. So, when my Aussie friend and fellow herbivore Lee invited me to Rock en Seine, I was reluctant to accept the proposed all-day fun-fest challenge. But that was before discovering Big Audio Dynamite was playing. A chance to see a guitar hero from my youth shredding it up middle-age style? Count me in!

First thing I noticed at the venue--the 300-year-old Parc de St. Cloud--was that the crowds filing in spanned the age spectrum from toddler to bald-old-man. Then I noticed all the food booths: Thai, Ethiopian, Senegalese, Mexican. What?! Then there were the drinking huts--calm little oases serving up affordable (by American festival standards) pints of beer (in reusable cups--none of that disposable crap), wine, tea, and juices. And the water: free! I could get used to these French music festivals.

The wine bar, where a big-ol' glass of Bordeaux cost €5. Totally worth it!

Mint tea and North African sweets stall.

This year's beer served in last year's (reusable) cup!

Liquid refreshment in hand, we went to check out the bands, catching just the last song of two different bands we wanted to see: Smith Westerns and Beat Mark. Around this time I noticed something else setting this French music festival apart from its American equivalent: the bands' start times. Weirdly, if a band was scheduled to go on at 5:30, it went on at 5:30. Huh? Once we got the hang of it, we actually saw full sets instead of single songs. The best bands of the day? Herman Dune, Cansei de Ser Sexy (CSS), and that beloved oldie but goodie, Big Audio Dynamite.

Brazilian wonderband, CSS.

Herman Dune: really, really good.

Tail end of Wolf Gang.

General Elektriks. They were OK.

I sat tight and listened keenly--then danced my arse off!

Bobbing one's head up and down for an hour our two really works up an appetite, so Lee and I went scouting for chow. First stop: the bio booth, for some slightly overpriced but delicious organic French fries. They also had a vegan wrap with veggies and quinoa inside, but I wanted something hot, so we scarfed our fries and worked our way over to the "world cuisine" section. I got pulled into Ethiopia's edible orbit, while Lee opted for his own African dining adventure in Senegal. The little veggie-filled pie thing Lee bought me didn't survive long enough for a photo, but if you ever have a chance to eat a savory Senegalese pie, I suggest going for it. FYI, the injera here was some of the tangiest, most delicious I've ever swallowed without chewing.

Bio booth. The €5 organic frites were good, but they should've cost €2.

Scary-ass huge pot of chili at the "Tex Mex" booth.

Should have gotten the veg pad thai!

Vegan Ethiopian offerings. It only needed a dash of salt; otherwise: perfect!

The Senegalese booth. Lee got veggies over rice and two savory pies, one of which he gave to me. In a word? Scrumptious.

Who eats foie gras at a music festival? Ickydoodles.

We spent the rest of the evening people-watching, dancing, dodging one of those huge inflated balls that always seem to make the rounds at big shows, and marveling at the clean bathrooms. We didn't stick around for the Foo Fighters, but we could hear "Learn to Fly" as we rode our Velib' bikes home in the dark.

Dude! Totally!

Cute hair, non?

The Statue of Liberty's long-lost French sister? Sophia would know!

The requisite outdoor concert Port-a-Potty shot.

Love when there's actually toilette papier in said Port-a-Potty.

Bon nuit a tous!

36 Hours in Brussels

"Hey, look! It's ..."

"Bela Delosi."

"Uh, no. I was thinking of Salvador Dali, actually. And his name's not 'Bela Delosi'--it's 'Bela Lugosi.' Sheesh! I guess you weren't a Bauhaus fan, huh?"

"That moustache was drawn on afterward. That's not Dali."

And so went one of many squabbles hashed out over street art in colorful, graffiti-filled Brussels. In 36 hours, we squeezed in a lot more than simple, inane conversation. Over the course of a day and a half, we:

• drank tangy, slightly vinegar-y Lambic ale at a bustling beer joint
  



• got invited to a party by a Rockabilly-styled, vintage-store-owning Scottish transplant
• admired 20th century sculpture in a public garden



• communed with a banded pigeon



• rode public Villo bikes to a grand park inhabited by wild parakeets



• ate really lousy falafel sandwiches at a kebab place just before discovering a veg falafel place around the corner



• wandered around slippery cobbled alleyways without falling even once
  
• scored treasures at the flea market in the Ixelles district



• munched mediocre frites with the one vegan sauce out of 20 they had available: ketchup
• pricked up our ears for street musicians playing the accordion, saxophone, guitar, and flute




• sat at outdoor cafes and listened as the world passed by in Flemish, English, and French
• accidentally meandered through the local housing projects



• laughed while watching screaming passengers spinning on a manic, twirling Ferris wheel
• enjoyed a deliciously spicy Thai dinner, and washed it down with excellent house wine
• gazed at the fanciful facades of many a Gothic church
• discovered Dr. Bronner’s soap actually does exist in Europe (at Belgian natural food stores, anyway)
• bumped into the crowd gathered around Manneken Pis, even though we tried to avoid it
• bought the best vegan chocolate on the planet, aka Ritter Sport bar Marzipan
  
• picked up dog poo, earning ourselves the imagined "good visitor" award from locals
• pretend-ate poison berries



• stared up at a gargantuan model of an iron atom
  



• moseyed about Chinatown, stealing furtive glances at outdoor diners' plates as we passed




• sipped overpriced carrot-apple-ginger melanges from a juice-bar chain
• missed our chance to laze about in the hotel sauna
• watched a light show projected against the ancient buildings in the main square



• vowed to haunt the Magritte museum the next time we visit




• marveled at king-sized loaves of bread for sale at the very few bakeries we encountered
• cuddled cute cars



• experienced documentary film-making failure at Laeken Park (see below)
  

Buried Treasure

Yesterday we pedaled over to the Marche d'Aligre, my favorite outdoor market over in our old Faidherbe-Chaligny neighborhood. The objective was fruit, veggies, and tofu from the Chinese market that's tucked into a small shopping area behind the produce stands. The place was mobbed with people, as is normal on weekends, but we still managed to squeeze through the entire length of the market, getting run over by poussettes a couple of times, picking up our litchees, lemons, and six-for-a-euro pamplemousse.

A block away, on Boulevard Diderot, a neighborhood vide grenier was in full swing. "Vide" means "empty" and "grenier" is "attic," so what you find at these festive events is a hodgepodge of junk mixed with some serious treasures. I almost bought a super cute little orange Peugeot bicycle--it was too good to pass up at 25 euro--until we noticed it was a single speed. No! Who wants to huff-and-puff up the hills of Montmartre when you don't have to?

Jeff found a video game for a euro and bought it when I wasn't looking; I was too busy ogling an orangey-red "sculpture" in the shape of an exaggerated female torso. I hemmed and hawed--what the hell would I do with it once I got it home?--but the guy was willing to strike a bargain so I got it for 10 euro and 50 centimes in change.

While I dug through a pile of old garden gnomes, Jeff spotted a funny little outfit that looked like it was made for a monkey. It was actually deadstock doggy duds with its pricetag--in long-gone francs--still attached. For a euro, we couldn't pass it up, though later, Fanny clearly wished we had. At home, she looked noticeably reluctant--and a tad uncomfortable--when she saw that it was meant for her.

"Oh, c'mon. Look how warm and cozy you're going to be when it's snowing out there! It's going to be great! Ooh, you'll be so snuggly. You're going to love it!"

Once we got it on her and rolled up the cuffs a few times--this contraption was made for a dog with skyscraper legs--there was no amount of cajoling to convince her this wasn't actually punishment in the form of a straightjacket for naughty dogs, a league in which she does not belong (for the most part).

I think she looks pretty cute, but this is probably the first and last time she'll be seen in this outfit. Anyone want or need a onesie for their small-size, long-limbed pooch? Holler!

Double Tragedy

Exactly one week ago, on a warm (50 F) and overcast Parisian winter day, Jeff and I left Chettinadu Mess, our Friday lunch spot, and headed back toward home in the hinterlands of the 17e arrondissement. We pedaled down the bike lane on Boulevard de Clichy, past giant pink megalith Tati and the Abbesses metro station, where tourists on their way to climb the steps of Montmartre to Sacre Coeur clog the sidewalk, staring down at maps while their pockets are most likely being picked from behind.

We rode further still, past the Moulin Rouge and the popular Irish bar Corcorans. At Place de Clichy, we pointed our handlebars north, cycling past the art house theater with the upstairs bistro selling 2.80 euro glasses of Cotes du Rhone that I still haven't tried, and then spun past my favorite fripperie, Guerrisol.

Pedaling closer to our apartment, the traffic grew thicker. Not unusual for a Friday really, when everyone and their grandmere makes a beeline for the peripherique to make their weekend getaway. Something was off about this traffic though. At the intersection of Avenue de Clichy and rue Cardinet, we could see a cop directing traffic, steering motorists away from a commotion further down the street. Was it a manifestation? A car accident? The journalist in me (or maybe just the nosy bit) wanted to know what the heck was going on down there.

Wheeling our bikes up onto the sidewalk, we moved through the pedestrian traffic toward the hubbub. We could see now that there were an awful lot of men in blue milling about, and that police tape blocked a rectangular swath of the street. Then we saw the bad news: a body in repose in the middle of the intersection, the distinct hump of two feet poking out from beneath an off-white sheet.

"Oh no. Somebody died," I said to Jeff.

Trying to piece together a likely scenario, I surveyed the scene for clues, my eyes settling on the king-size cement truck angled toward the body. A gruesome vignette danced about in my mind. Suddenly I didn't want to be a nosy lookyloo any more. I just wanted to cry.

"C'mon. Let's go."

For the rest of the day I semi-obsessed about the person who'd died there, just a five-minute walk from my front door. "I hope it wasn't that nice old man I was chatting with yesterday at G20," I told myself, remembering how bravely he'd stepped into that intersection, holding his cane up to stop traffic as we conversed our way through the crosswalk.

Saturday, we stopped at our local boulangerie for our daily dose of warm-from-the oven bread. I asked the guy behind the counter if he had any details on what happened the day before.

"Yes, someone was killed by a cement truck just over there."

"I thought so. God, that's terrible. Was it an old man?"

"No, no. It was a woman. She was about your age. How old are you?"

"I'm XX."

"Yeah, she was your age. XX." he said, adding three years onto my own age. "A mother with two children."

Two horrible thoughts ran through my mind simultaneously:

1. I hope to god it wasn't Sophie, a woman in the neighborhood I've become friends with. She's about my age and she has two kids.

2. Do I really look like I'm XX years old? Shit! No!

"Her name wasn't Sophie, was it?"

"No, no, I think it was Nadia."

"Oh no. Hey, do you really think I look like I'm XX years old?"

"No, no--I just meant she was around your age."

Nothing about this conversation was very cheerful. Just as I was about to melt into a pool of self-pity, Jeff walked in to remind me to get our carte de fidelite stamped. (We want that free baguette we're due after 10 stamps!)

"He just told me that bad news--it was a woman from the neighborhood with two children who died yesterday. He said she was XX years old--or, as he likes to say, MY AGE."

Jeff laughed. The guy behind the counter laughed, too. I didn't think it was so funny, but I laughed with them anyway. It's better to be old than dead, I told myself in consolation.

RIP, Nadia.