"FERMETURE ANNUELLE". It's as much a part of the landscape in France as the Tour d'Eiffel. Every year around May there is one question on the lips of every française, "Where do you take your vacances?" The exodus begins in July, and by mid August Paris is a ghost town. English becomes the predominant language heard on the street as tourists wander from the Louvre to Notre Dame. The streets are otherwise quiet, and there is an air of calm that is quite relaxing as parisians take their neurosis with them and head south for sunny weather and ocean breezes. The average française has six weeks of paid vacation a year, and they often take it all at once. "Juilletistes" prefer their holiday in July, getting a jump on the crowds that will inevitably invade the Cote d'Azur in August. The "Aoutiens" (ooh-she-ens) are strict traditionalists, vacationing the entire month of August as their ancestors have historically done since the Industrial Revolution when factories would shut their doors for summertime. It's a tradition difficult for my american capitalist mind to wrap around - we strive to keep our factories productive 12 months a year, our supermarkets open seven days a week, our C-stores distributing 24/7. Imagine shutting down General Motors for the month of August and all employees taking a paid vacation! Today it is the small businesses that close for weeks at a time. It is important to prepare for August if you are to remain at home - much like a survivalist prepares for nuclear war. I am careful to have my hair cut and colored before my coiffeur takes off for Spain or Corsica. I make sure to have any shoe repairs, dry cleaning, or alterations taken care of no later than July 15th. It is important to stock up on non-perishables such as booze and cigarettes, and to have your prescriptions for Prozac and Xanex topped off before your local pharmacist closes shop and hops the TGV for Bretagne. Life as you know it ceases to exist - the parks are silent, devoid of the laughter of children and controlled chaos of a friendly game of futbol. One walks twice as far to find a boulangerie to buy ones daily bread, or if you have a car, parking is a breeze. There is nobody around to battle for an available space! Forget having friends over for a summer BBQ - they all went to Provence. There is nothing to BBQ anyway, the boucheries and poissonniers are FERMER. Then September arrives, and on what americans celebrate as "Labor Day" marks the beginning of the French New Year. The mouthwatering aroma of rotisserie chicken wafts through the air, brought to you by the neighborhood butcher. Beautiful desserts are displayed in the windows of the patisseries, tempting the passerby. Once again, there is a long line that extends out the door of the boulangerie first thing in the morning, and the brasseries are crowded with "regulars" that drop by for a midday beer, a lotto ticket, and a lively political debate. It's as if Paris awakens from a collective slumber, and life begins as if it had never stopped - until next August!
Showing posts with label Cote d'Azur. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cote d'Azur. Show all posts
Monday, August 23, 2010
August: The month that time forgot!
"FERMETURE ANNUELLE". It's as much a part of the landscape in France as the Tour d'Eiffel. Every year around May there is one question on the lips of every française, "Where do you take your vacances?" The exodus begins in July, and by mid August Paris is a ghost town. English becomes the predominant language heard on the street as tourists wander from the Louvre to Notre Dame. The streets are otherwise quiet, and there is an air of calm that is quite relaxing as parisians take their neurosis with them and head south for sunny weather and ocean breezes. The average française has six weeks of paid vacation a year, and they often take it all at once. "Juilletistes" prefer their holiday in July, getting a jump on the crowds that will inevitably invade the Cote d'Azur in August. The "Aoutiens" (ooh-she-ens) are strict traditionalists, vacationing the entire month of August as their ancestors have historically done since the Industrial Revolution when factories would shut their doors for summertime. It's a tradition difficult for my american capitalist mind to wrap around - we strive to keep our factories productive 12 months a year, our supermarkets open seven days a week, our C-stores distributing 24/7. Imagine shutting down General Motors for the month of August and all employees taking a paid vacation! Today it is the small businesses that close for weeks at a time. It is important to prepare for August if you are to remain at home - much like a survivalist prepares for nuclear war. I am careful to have my hair cut and colored before my coiffeur takes off for Spain or Corsica. I make sure to have any shoe repairs, dry cleaning, or alterations taken care of no later than July 15th. It is important to stock up on non-perishables such as booze and cigarettes, and to have your prescriptions for Prozac and Xanex topped off before your local pharmacist closes shop and hops the TGV for Bretagne. Life as you know it ceases to exist - the parks are silent, devoid of the laughter of children and controlled chaos of a friendly game of futbol. One walks twice as far to find a boulangerie to buy ones daily bread, or if you have a car, parking is a breeze. There is nobody around to battle for an available space! Forget having friends over for a summer BBQ - they all went to Provence. There is nothing to BBQ anyway, the boucheries and poissonniers are FERMER. Then September arrives, and on what americans celebrate as "Labor Day" marks the beginning of the French New Year. The mouthwatering aroma of rotisserie chicken wafts through the air, brought to you by the neighborhood butcher. Beautiful desserts are displayed in the windows of the patisseries, tempting the passerby. Once again, there is a long line that extends out the door of the boulangerie first thing in the morning, and the brasseries are crowded with "regulars" that drop by for a midday beer, a lotto ticket, and a lively political debate. It's as if Paris awakens from a collective slumber, and life begins as if it had never stopped - until next August!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
La Cote d'Azur: Nice
Everyone should visit Nice at least once during their lifetime. The light, the colours, and the ambiance are seductive, and one finds everything from ancient Roman ruins to the ultra modern "La Tete au Carré", an office building perched high atop a sculpted noggin. The picturesque harbor is edged with structures painted in the typical earthen hues of the region; mustard and terra cotta in varying shades from intense to pastel, accented with greens and blues. Open air markets in old town offer everything from dried lavender to fresh strawberries, olive oil and dried sausage. The mountain roads wind sharply, leading one up through terraced neighborhoods that offer stunning views of a sea shimmering in the hot sun. Swimmers cool off deeply tanned bodies barely covered by speedos and thongs whilst tourists wander the narrow streets of "Old Nice" shopping for souvenirs and snapping photos. The piazzas are crowded with locals as well as visitors, who stop for a drink at the cafés which surround the ever present fountain, this is where one gathers to gossip and share the news of the day. Small groups of male "Nicoise" gather around tiny tables in the shade to play cards, beautiful girls negotiate scooters through the crowd, homemakers hang their laundry out to dry from third level windows. Away from the hustle and bustle of old town one discovers the ruins of Roman bathhouses, arenas, and the first Catholic church in Nice, dating back to the time of Christ. Open to the public, it is possible to stroll through the crumbling foundations of history all the while marveling at its modern day existence. It is a fairytale city, rich in culture with many stories to tell. I was sorry to depart, but there was more to see of the Cote d'Azur. Next stop: Cannes!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
La Cote d'Azur: Antibes
I took a trip to heaven last week on the shores of the Mediterranean sea in the south of France. Honored to be invited by a friend, blessed with beautiful weather and arriving just before seasonal visitors crowd every spare inch of beach, I was fortunate to have a knowledgeable guide to the area. First stop: The very beautiful and very chic Antibes. Winding roads lead around the sea offering tiny private coves, the water clear and aquamarine lapping the rocky shoreline. Parasol pines unique to the region grace the landscape, the snow capped French Alps in the distance provide a stunning backdrop, and boats both large and small are to be seen everywhere. The homes are built for the comfort of the uber rich, the boutiques cater to the nouveau-riche with money to burn (and questionable taste). Restaurants line the promenade next to the beach, and to my surprise tables are set up on the sand for dining served by a barefooted wait staff! The harbour is home to giant yachts and elegant bayliners, as well as sleek racing vessels that were being prepped by well tanned and muscular crewmen for the upcoming annual regatta. The focal point of Antibes is the Musée Picasso which is housed in a castle-esque structure overlooking the bay surrounded by quiet little narrow passageways, the old village of Antibes. In the center of old town an open air market offers fresh fruits and vegetables for sale in the morning. Then the vendors disappear and are replaced with bistro tables for the lunch crowd to sit and enjoy a sandwich, a beer, or a refreshing glace. Little shops sell the usual touristic kitsch; T shirts, postcards and brightly coloured flotation devices, but the real fun is to explore the little streets where you will find a charming old church, a cat perched on a windowsill, and potted flowers accessorizing the front stoop of an ancient dwelling. The peaceful ambiance of old Antibes is in juxtaposition to the excesses of wealthy partiers who will arrive soon to dance in trendy nightclubs until dawn, bathe in Cristal, (literally-they prefer to waste the finest champagne rather than drink it) and snort bowls of cocaine. It is the joie de vivre, the joy of life!
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