THREE CHERRIES

In 1959, after receiving my Master’s Degree in French and Music from the University of Washington in Seattle, I was awarded a Fulbright Teaching Scholarship to spend a year in France. Given that I had wanted to go to France since I was eleven years old, this was a dream come true, and even though I had worked toward this particular goal since then, the reality of its happening was the best thing I could imagine. At the time, those of us awarded these scholarships had no say in where we went or in which part of France our destiny would take us. We all wanted to be in Paris, of course, but that was not possible.

From San Francisco I flew to New York, my first flight on a jet airliner the first year jet service across the country was available. Dressed in a new suit to wear on the airplane, I recall a red carpet stretching from the airport gate to the plane. That was normal, at the time. And from New York to Le Havre, I sailed on the S.S. America, my first transatlantic voyage. Those were the days of many “firsts.”

By great good luck, the fates sent me to Menton, the last town before the Italian frontier, between Monte Carlo and Ventimiglia, a region called Savoy, which bounced back and forth belonging to France or Italy, depending on the current regime. Currently a glorious part of Provence, whose natives speak French and think it’s Italian, or Italian and think it’s French, Menton, in France, or Mentone, in Italy, boasts splendid rocky beaches and spectacular views over the Mediterranean Sea, with a climate much like my native California.

The minimal teaching job consisted of teaching American English at the Collège classique de garçons for several hours every week. It turned out the “collège” was, in fact, a “lycée”, it was not “classique” but “moderne”, and it was not only for “garçons” because there were as many girls as boys enrolled.

Lunch times in the student café were fascinating. Most brought bag lunches from home, and I became aware of the French custom of various courses throughout a meal, even a simple school lunch. The students would usually begin with a plastic-wrapped hors d’oeuvre, such as a few carrot and celery sticks with a half dozen local olives. After that a sandwich, most times a baguette adorned with a slice or two of cheese with a bit of ham or salami. No lettuce, butter, mayonnaise, mustard or tomatoes – only the bare minimum.

And, if they were lucky, dessert was an apple or orange with a cookie or small piece of chocolate. There was very little of the yelling, screaming, shoving, clowning, and bad behavior I remember from my own high school cafeteria, and I was as impressed by the students’ politeness as I was by their formulaic patterns of one course after another, because that was how it was done.

Arriving in Menton, I found a dreary room in a home near the train station. Run by an elderly woman whose son was conductor of the Monte Carlo orchestra, I lasted only a month, because the combination of dingy wallpaper and constant noise from the trains in the middle of the night became unbearable. In haste I found another room, and within two weeks a heavy rain flooded my room, clothing, trunk and books, and I fled. The third try was the charm – an unheated room on the top floor of a medieval house in the center of town, spacious, with a small refrigerator and a hot plate sufficient for survival, and a glorious rose-covered terrace overlooking the Mediterranean.

The proprietors, a middle-aged couple, Monsieur and Madame Gioan, who had a daughter about my age, Evelynne, were welcoming, agreeable, hospitable, and I stayed there for the rest of my year, except for excursions and trips to Italy, Germany, Italy, and Greece. A friend from Seattle, who had studied in Grenoble the previous year, had left her Lambretta scooter there with an ex-boyfriend, and she was happy to sell me the scooter for $100, so I took the train to Grenoble, learned how to start and fuel the vehicle from the ex-boyfriend, and drove it over the Alps in November, which was a really stupid idea, and I have never been so cold and miserable since then.

Upon my miraculously safe return to Menton, I couldn’t bear to get on the machine for more than three weeks. Then, as Spring arrived, I was happy to ride it all over the Côte d’Azur, frequently with Evelynne riding tandem, as we explored Nice, Monaco, all three of the Corniche roads, and some of the most spectacular scenery in Southern France.

Not least of the pleasures of my year in Provence was the discovery of country French cuisine and French customs concerning the quality of life, of which fine cuisine is one of the foremost. On an excursion to Rocamadour, a medieval village on the summit of an ancient pilgrimage site, where devout pilgrims climbed on their knees to visit the shrine of The Black Virgin on the long route to St. Jacques de Compostelle, it was my delight to taste the best French fries of my life. The local potatoes were fresh cooked in native duck fat, and, just as they were served, sprinkled with minced fresh garlic. It was unforgettable, and to tell the truth, far more a religious experience than either the climb up the mountain or the sculpture of the Black Virgin.

During a train trip from Paris to Provence, there was a two-hour stopover at Brive-la-Gaillarde at midday. Finding a simple bistrot nearby, the special on the lunch menu was irresistible - a roasted quail stuffed with foie gras. At the time, it was the best thing I had ever tasted.

It didn’t take long to learn that the French do not snack. Breakfast was simple, usually café au lait with a croissant or a fresh warm baguette with country butter. The main meal is served at midday in courses: an hors d’oeuvre to begin, a soup or salad first course, then a main course with meat, fish, or pasta with vegetables, a cheese course, copious amounts of red wine, and maybe some fruit, followed by a sieste, before going back to work for the afternoon. The evening meal was usually small: fresh bread, crudités, charcuteries, with thin slices of ham, salami, a bit of pâté, and maybe a sweet – certainly not too much food before retiring. And what I loved most was the pace of meals. Seldom rushed, graciously paced, with pauses for conversation, and a variety of small portions rather than huge American or German portions overhanging the plates, consumed at breakneck speed.

Following one of those scooter excursions, I came down with a cough, sore throat, fever and couldn’t go to work one morning. Evelynne was sent up to my room by her mother with a glass of orange juice and a large pill, which she put on the bed table. I picked up the glass and began to swallow the pill when she yelled, “NO, not like that!” and ran from the room. Moments later, Madame her mother knocked gently, came in, and explained to me that it was a “suppositoire”, and that it was to be administered anally. At the time I was twenty-one years old and had never heard of a “suppositoire,” and when she described the procedure, I was horrified and told her in no uncertain terms that I was not sticking a pill up my butt for a cold in the head.

Meanwhile, my teaching job was not brilliant. The students, mostly between 15 and 18 years old, were not interested or amused by American English, and I was obliged to content myself with two students, the only ones motivated. Richard was 18, about six foot two, and extremely handsome. He wanted to learn good English so he could pick up and seduce all the Scandinavian girls who came to the Riviera in Wintertime with their parents to avoid the Nordic cold, snow, and ice. He was energetic, enthusiastic, athletic, sexy, and lots of fun.

The other boy, Marc André, was from Morocco. He and his parents were “repatriated” following the Moroccan Revolution, to France, where they had never been, and purchased a small hotel in Menton. Marc André was studious, quiet, and equally motivated to learn English because his parents spoke only French and Arabic, and he knew it would be his job to deal with the English and Northern European visitors to the hotel. His parents, lonely, isolated and finding their new life in France difficult, were well-educated, sophisticated, and fascinating people. They appreciated the extra time I spent with their son, and invited me to dinner one weekend. It was the first time I tasted Moroccan cuisine and was dazzled by the variety of dishes, exotic spices and herbs, cous cous, tagines, baklava, all enhanced by stories of their lives and travails in France, where they were not welcomed or appreciated. When I returned to California the following year, I brought home a couscousière, which I still have, more than a half-century later.

Social life in Menton was limited. Besides Evelynne, there was Astrid, a tall German girl from Hamburg, who lived in her parents’ apartment for the Winter. Astrid’s place was large, comfortable, and boasted a warm bathroom with hot water, a rare amenity which my room lacked, and Astrid’s was a happy refuge during the coldest months. We were a handful of people our age, and few locals whom we saw regularly.

My high points were with a professor from the Collège, an amateur violinist, and his wife, a cellist. They possessed a handsome French piano, a rarity in Menton, and we amused ourselves with weekly afternoon meetings to read trios. While they tuned their instruments, I would warm up on the piano, and we enthusiastically attacked compositions by Mozart, Haydn, and Brahms for an hour or so, then take a break, which consisted of tea or coffee and a délice prepared by Madame for the occasion, then play for another hour afterwards. The treat might be a pastry, a cake, or something special served on beautiful porcelain and antique silver. My favorite memory remains three small Limoges plates, emerald green with gold rims, on each of which Madame had arranged three cherries which had been marinating in Cognac for years – exquisite, elegant, delicious, and unforgettable, as are so many of my memories of living in France.

The scholarship provided $90 per month, which I quickly learned was insufficient for life in Menton, so I put out ads offering to teach American English, at a time when it was not very popular, and that was how I met my Colette, proprietor of the Hôtel des Anglais, a lovely woman who was to enhance my year and quality of life in that small town, for decades the Winter refuge for wealthy northerners who sought the relative warmth and milder climates of the Mediterranean.

Colette was small, well formed, and lively. She wore a delicious perfume from Molinard in Grasse, tight skirts, tighter cashmere sweaters, high heels, and lots of jewelry, especially bracelets, which jangled as she walked or talked, because she talked with her hands as well as her mouth and body. In addition to running the hotel, with help of course, she was mad for French bicycle racers and Americans – especially the Fifth Fleet, which anchored off the coast of Menton, Nice, Villefranche, and Toulon. Sailors would come ashore and set up impromptu baseball games in a park adjacent to the promenade, and she would seldom miss a game. She spoke rapidly and enthusiastically, and her goal was to learn English so she could speak with clients of her hotel as well as American servicemen, and I was enlisted to help her in this endeavor.

Colette had acquired an enigmatic chef named John, from New Jersey, who never gave his last name and refused to talk about his past, and I suspected he was some sort of fugitive from organized crime who had figured out a way to live quietly, with Colette's assistance. A silent, reticent fellow and superb chef, he seldom left the Hotel, and began baking at four every morning to have croissants ready in time for breakfast. I learned a great deal from long hours, wonderful lunches, and splendid dinners in the kitchen with both John and Colette.

Our English lessons were spotty events, and despite her great desire to learn the language, her attention span was limited, and any interruption gratefully welcomed. Grammar was not of interest to her, and she preferred conversation to knowledge. When she was simply not in the mood for a lesson, she would suggest we get in her car – a snazzy Facel-Vega convertible – and race off to Monte Carlo for a film instead, and I could never complain.

Colette was attractive and sexy, in a clean and wholesome way. She was always well-dressed, well-coiffed, and perfumed, with enthusiastic gestures and a ready laugh.

She loved to have a good time, and whenever she became excited, English would fly out the window, and she would continue in rapid-fire French which was utterly charming. When the grammar got on her nerves, she would switch the conversation into French and talk about her favorite bicycle racer, Bobet, or a spa treatment of the moment. The high point of her year, she explained breathlessly one morning, was the arrival of an American aircraft carrier the previous evening. She had somehow wangled an invitation to go aboard the ship, and she told me it was heaven, describing her dinner, which was fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and frozen peas, all of which she found remarkable and delicious. Dinner was followed by a film projected over the carrier's deck. “Three thousand men and me!” she exclaimed happily, “and it did not smell like a French ship!” Of course I was obliged to ask how it smelled, and she answered triumphantly: “Like soap!”

After my departure from Menton back to the States, we maintained an erratic correspondence for a number of years, and she would send notes telling me about her adventures on vacation. I returned to Menton for a visit, and she told me she had booked passage on a freighter bound for Africa which would return to Marseilles with a cargo of bananas. That did not sound particularly interesting to me, so I asked her why, and her response, accompanied by the jangle of her bracelets, was: “Chéri, I am not as young as I used to be, and when you're the only woman on a ship in the middle of the sea, you become very popular!”