May 2, 2012
Oxford My Way
Back in the days of British Rail, I often used to add a few day’s vacation to one of the many May long weekends here in France and fly to England. Then, I decided where I wanted to go, went to the local tourist office and used their Book a Bed Ahead service. For a small fee, they found you a bed and breakfast at your destination for that night. I’d take the train in late afternoon, spend the night, explore what I could the next day and move on. On one of these trips, sometime in the ‘80s, I visited Oxford for the first time.
It was the day before Ascension Thursday. As I walked along past various colleges bookstores and pubs, I came to an ancient church called St Michael at the North Gate.
A sign outside said “Tomorrow – beating of the bounds”.
That sounded intriguing. I needed to find someone to tell me what it meant. It was nearly dinner time and the church was near the Randolph Hotel (the very place Lord Peter Wimsey suggested taking Harriet Vane to in Gaudy Night!).
Surely someone there could help me? Several waiters conferred but no one knew. They decided to ring a colleague who was not working that evening since he “knew everything about Oxford”. Soon, my waiter came back to my table with the information. The beating of the bounds was an ancient custom. Once a year, the congregation went round the boundary of the Parish. An ancient custom in an ancient city sounded good.
Thursday afternoon I left Oxford, a little disconcerted that I hadn’t been to any museums or taken any bus tours. True, I had run through the town with a stick following the priest, the choir and twenty or so parishioners, been fed cookies and ale at one college and lunch at another (drinking water out of a tankard pewter tankard that had the year 1746 engraved on it.) In between I had visited a pub (sherry) the local Marks and Spencers (mince pies in the employees’ dining room), the City Hall, the outside of the Sheldonian Theater and the Bodleian Library. Watch this video of a more recent Beating of the Bounds and you’ll understand why it’s still one of my most vivid memories.
I’ve had several other trips to Oxford since but they were short ones for shopping or a meal while visiting friends that lived nearby. I still hadn’t managed to take a tour or see a museum. Then, in January, I got an invitation.
At last, I was going to Oxford again. I stayed at the Randolph and went to the new make-over of the very old Ashmolean Museum.
Still not as a normal tourist should, however. I had dinner there.
May 1, 2012
Beam Me Up Scottie
The person who wrote “It’s not the destination; it’s the journey. » certainly did not travel the way I do. The phrase that goes through my mind every time I pack my suitcase is “Beam me Up Scottie.”
« If only it weren’t science fiction », I think wistfully.
Of course, travel can be a pleasant experience. I discovered that when I went to Sri Lanka. Business class pampering followed by two weeks of my own guide in my own air-conditioned Toyota.
Most of my travel, however, is like my recent trip to Oxford.
From my apartment to the Gare du Nord I went, dragging and pushing my suitcase with my purse and my hand luggage over my shoulder. About 250 steps,
a 1.6 km. (almost a mile) walk, three turnstiles,
a ten minute metro journey and three escalators (joy they were all working!) later, I reached the special Eurostar area of the station. I’d thought I’d have time for coffee once I arrived. Alas, since my last visit, the café has given way to more space for passenger control. After showing my ticket to an agent, going through security – like airports but with shoes on – showing my passport to French police and showing my ticket, passport and landing card to British authorities, I was free to find a seat in the waiting room. Shortly thereafter, we were summoned down a moving ramp to our train. My seat was in the first car; we came down the ramp at car 11. Another walk.
The Eurostar is still comfortable, though the seating configuration has become snugger over the years as the train has become increasingly popular. Over 9 million passengers travelled on it last year. I remember 1994 when it was new and exciting. They used to make an announcement as we entered the tunnel. Now, people read, watch videos or work on their presentations as if it was the most natural thing in the world to go from Paris to London in 2 hours and 15 minutes -- including 20 minutes under the English Channel. What happened to the romance?
I arrived at St Pancras just before noon. I decided to go to Victoria Station and locate the coach stop for the Oxford Tube before lunch. After years of reminding Americans to take trains in Europe like the locals do instead of following their own “either take the plane or rent a car” reflexes, I had decided to take my own advice. Since British Rail’s privatization nearly 20 years ago , English trains have become overcrowded and expensive. For short journeys, coaches are the way to go.
I visit England fairly often, but I always forget how pleasantly random, the English can be. The young woman at the information desk gave me almost inaudible instructions. I followed them as best I could and soon found a street with many buses in front of a fancy hotel. The concierge assured me that the Oxford Tube stopped there. The one I saw across the street was just coming in from Oxford. Time for my pub lunch.
It was drizzling when I returned to wait for the coach. And wait. And wait. I saw two go past across the street but none came to where I was. Finally, a young woman volunteered to go inside and “make inquiries”. (Though the English can be vague they are often helpful.) She came back and told me I needed to go across the street and up a side street. Off I went, just in time.
A comfortable two hours later, I knew it had all been worth it.
March 12, 2012
The Best Health Care System in the World
In 1972, home after starting my first job (in PARIS!) my father sat me down for the Financial Security Talk.
“Before you spend a lot of money, make sure you have 3 months’ salary in the bank.”
“Why?”
“You might get sick.”
“But I have health insurance.”
“That won’t cover everything.”
“Well, it covers 94% of my medical expenses.”
That shortened the talk.
As time passed, I became aware of differences between my American friends’ health care experiences and my own. But my understanding remained vague until I saw Michael Moore’s film Sicko about 5 or 6 years ago. An insurance company could deny you coverage? You could be told that you had exceeded your limit and would no longer be covered? You could go bankrupt paying medical bills? Really?
My education was completed during the lengthy media coverage of the health care reform debate in 2009. Republican politicians succeeded each other on talk shows proclaiming proudly that the United States had “the best health care system in the world.” “It’s not about quality it’s about ACCESS,“I yelled back.
There was accurate information available.
National Public Radio even spoke quite competently of France.
But misinformation ruled and even now many are still opposed to the reform.
When I got sick in Charlottesville in December, I got a chance to experience part of the American health care system first hand and do my own comparison.
I had previously gone to a Walk-in clinic in Charlottesville but it was difficult to get to by bus and I don’t drive. Each time I had to go, I thought regretfully of SOS Medecins in France. (Since 1966, if you need a doctor, you call the number of the local SOS Medecins. Within half an hour one comes to your house.)
This time, I consulted several friends. They decided the best place for me was the University of Virginia Primary Care Center -- a short bus ride from my house.
I called them and was told that I couldn’t see a doctor without an Initial Visit and there were no appointments available for Initial Visits until the end of December. If I couldn’t wait, I should go to the Emergency Room. I replied that my illness was not an emergency, that I hoped to be well by the end of December and that I needed to see a doctor now. I was apparently convincing. The woman started to take my personal information. When she asked which health care plan I had, I replied that my insurance was in France. She told me I’d need to call the Finance Department. When I did, the woman I spoke to asked if I had a regular income. Not in the United States, I replied, but I did have a bank account and a check book. And I was sick.
“Do you have more than $2000 in the bank?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t qualify.”
“I don’t want to qualify; I want to see a doctor.”
She returned me to the Primary Care department where a different woman bent the rules so I could have my Sick Appointment before my Initial Visit. (Who knew there were different kinds of appointments. I later found out there were also Well Appointments. Each of these is reimbursed differently by different health plans. And there are many. One major pharmacy boasts that it “accepts over 5000 health plans”.)
And so I finally entered the Primary Care Center.
After I had paid (payment comes first), a nurse took my temperature and blood pressure and weighed me. Then she led me into another room. Soon a young doctor came in. She was warm and thorough. She told me I had a virus that would last about two weeks. She was right.
The first day I felt well was the day of my Initial visit. After the payment and the nurse, another warm and thorough doctor went through my medical history with me and keyed everything into a computer. Payment for the Sick Visit was $126. Payment for the Initial Visit was $147. Payment for any visit in France is 30 euros (about $40)
"What about foreigners in France?" you ask. Several of my American friends have needed medical attention in Paris and have had similar experiences to Karen Fawcett, an American expatriate who gives advice about life in France.
I returned to Paris in January, held my Carte Vitale and my complementary insurance card to my heart.
I knew which country I thought had the best health care system in the world.
“Before you spend a lot of money, make sure you have 3 months’ salary in the bank.”
“Why?”
“You might get sick.”
“But I have health insurance.”
“That won’t cover everything.”
“Well, it covers 94% of my medical expenses.”
That shortened the talk.
As time passed, I became aware of differences between my American friends’ health care experiences and my own. But my understanding remained vague until I saw Michael Moore’s film Sicko about 5 or 6 years ago. An insurance company could deny you coverage? You could be told that you had exceeded your limit and would no longer be covered? You could go bankrupt paying medical bills? Really?
My education was completed during the lengthy media coverage of the health care reform debate in 2009. Republican politicians succeeded each other on talk shows proclaiming proudly that the United States had “the best health care system in the world.” “It’s not about quality it’s about ACCESS,“I yelled back.
There was accurate information available.
National Public Radio even spoke quite competently of France.
But misinformation ruled and even now many are still opposed to the reform.
When I got sick in Charlottesville in December, I got a chance to experience part of the American health care system first hand and do my own comparison.
I had previously gone to a Walk-in clinic in Charlottesville but it was difficult to get to by bus and I don’t drive. Each time I had to go, I thought regretfully of SOS Medecins in France. (Since 1966, if you need a doctor, you call the number of the local SOS Medecins. Within half an hour one comes to your house.)
This time, I consulted several friends. They decided the best place for me was the University of Virginia Primary Care Center -- a short bus ride from my house.
I called them and was told that I couldn’t see a doctor without an Initial Visit and there were no appointments available for Initial Visits until the end of December. If I couldn’t wait, I should go to the Emergency Room. I replied that my illness was not an emergency, that I hoped to be well by the end of December and that I needed to see a doctor now. I was apparently convincing. The woman started to take my personal information. When she asked which health care plan I had, I replied that my insurance was in France. She told me I’d need to call the Finance Department. When I did, the woman I spoke to asked if I had a regular income. Not in the United States, I replied, but I did have a bank account and a check book. And I was sick.
“Do you have more than $2000 in the bank?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t qualify.”
“I don’t want to qualify; I want to see a doctor.”
She returned me to the Primary Care department where a different woman bent the rules so I could have my Sick Appointment before my Initial Visit. (Who knew there were different kinds of appointments. I later found out there were also Well Appointments. Each of these is reimbursed differently by different health plans. And there are many. One major pharmacy boasts that it “accepts over 5000 health plans”.)
And so I finally entered the Primary Care Center.
After I had paid (payment comes first), a nurse took my temperature and blood pressure and weighed me. Then she led me into another room. Soon a young doctor came in. She was warm and thorough. She told me I had a virus that would last about two weeks. She was right.
The first day I felt well was the day of my Initial visit. After the payment and the nurse, another warm and thorough doctor went through my medical history with me and keyed everything into a computer. Payment for the Sick Visit was $126. Payment for the Initial Visit was $147. Payment for any visit in France is 30 euros (about $40)
"What about foreigners in France?" you ask. Several of my American friends have needed medical attention in Paris and have had similar experiences to Karen Fawcett, an American expatriate who gives advice about life in France.
I returned to Paris in January, held my Carte Vitale and my complementary insurance card to my heart.
I knew which country I thought had the best health care system in the world.
January 4, 2012
Happy 2012
Did you miss me?
I certainly missed you. And my blog. My last post was written just before I left Charlottesville for Paris. All September I was travelling about, visiting friends, seeing new sights and taking pictures to share with you. I came home from my third and final jaunt on September 24th sick as a dog. And, despite the doctor’s best efforts, remained so until nearly the end of October. It was nothing exotic – just a sinus infection. But it gave me new insight into what some of my chronically ill friends go through as they try to lead normal lives without feeling normal. There were days when the way I felt and the number of medications I was taking seemed totally out of proportion to the banality of the diagnosis.
Many of my readers come looking for specific information on somewhere I’ve been or something I’ve done. But some of you are regulars. I thought of you and how you must be wondering if I had just left without saying goodbye. But that was all the energy I could summon.
About the time I was able to resume my regular activities again, it was time to pack and go back to Charlottesville for my last visit of the year. I felt well and yet strangely listless – just going through the motions of my life. After Thanksgiving had come and gone with just a nod of recognition from me and I was trying to gear up for pre-Christmas fun and preparation, I came down with the Charlottesville Virus that has been plaguing the community for several months. I even braved a visit to an American doctor (which deserves a blog post to itself.) Other than that I stayed home, drifted from bed to sofa to Facebook, coughed, wheezed and waited. And waited.
I was fortunate. I was well enough to enjoy Christmas, though still tired. Other friends were mown down much closer to the holiday than I and are still sick. (The average time to recovery is two to three weeks.)
By New Year's Eve life was good again. I was able to volunteer, as usual, at First Night Virginia in the morning.
Afterwards, I strolled to a restaurant on the Downtown Mall to have lunch with a friend. By the time lunch was over, the fun was beginning.
The sun was shining. Excited children were running. I was listless no more. Life was good again.
The next day, at a friend’s annual New Year’s Day brunch
I was sure. There were more adventures to be experienced and written about.
Happy New Year to you. And to me. I’m back.
I certainly missed you. And my blog. My last post was written just before I left Charlottesville for Paris. All September I was travelling about, visiting friends, seeing new sights and taking pictures to share with you. I came home from my third and final jaunt on September 24th sick as a dog. And, despite the doctor’s best efforts, remained so until nearly the end of October. It was nothing exotic – just a sinus infection. But it gave me new insight into what some of my chronically ill friends go through as they try to lead normal lives without feeling normal. There were days when the way I felt and the number of medications I was taking seemed totally out of proportion to the banality of the diagnosis.
Many of my readers come looking for specific information on somewhere I’ve been or something I’ve done. But some of you are regulars. I thought of you and how you must be wondering if I had just left without saying goodbye. But that was all the energy I could summon.
About the time I was able to resume my regular activities again, it was time to pack and go back to Charlottesville for my last visit of the year. I felt well and yet strangely listless – just going through the motions of my life. After Thanksgiving had come and gone with just a nod of recognition from me and I was trying to gear up for pre-Christmas fun and preparation, I came down with the Charlottesville Virus that has been plaguing the community for several months. I even braved a visit to an American doctor (which deserves a blog post to itself.) Other than that I stayed home, drifted from bed to sofa to Facebook, coughed, wheezed and waited. And waited.
I was fortunate. I was well enough to enjoy Christmas, though still tired. Other friends were mown down much closer to the holiday than I and are still sick. (The average time to recovery is two to three weeks.)
By New Year's Eve life was good again. I was able to volunteer, as usual, at First Night Virginia in the morning.
Afterwards, I strolled to a restaurant on the Downtown Mall to have lunch with a friend. By the time lunch was over, the fun was beginning.
The sun was shining. Excited children were running. I was listless no more. Life was good again.
The next day, at a friend’s annual New Year’s Day brunch
I was sure. There were more adventures to be experienced and written about.
Happy New Year to you. And to me. I’m back.
August 31, 2011
Florence Then and Now
I’m always amazed at “the earnest tourists”. You know them. They are on the go from morning to night, guidebook in hand to make sure they miss nothing, driven by the idea that this will be their only chance. I’ve always been more of an “ambler”. I do what I have the time and energy for and never feel much regret if I don’t see everything. I’ll do it “next time”, I promise myself. This is pure optimism. There has seldom been a “next time” for any given location. Take Florence, which I visited forty years ago on a Christmas tour of Italy. I’ve returned to Italy numerous times but never to Florence. So I was delighted when my friends Maggie and Paul, last visited in London, told me they’d be spending six weeks there this summer. A chance to go back!
I remember Florence as one of my favorite places on that long ago Italian vacation, travelling with three acquaintances who, like me, were not interested in the “I visited 10 countries” type of student trip. But, when I tried to recall the City, I was startled by how few details came to mind. Was it the lack of photos? (My camera had been stolen in Naples at the beginning of our holiday.) Or that we had basically let Marilyn decide everything because she spoke Italian? Or simply the passage of time? In any case, I was ready to update my memory banks.
This trip, instead of taking the train and looking for a cheap pensione upon arrival, I flew in and took a taxi to Maggie and Paul’s one bedroom apartment -- on the other side of the Arno from where the tourists stay.
They had found their “Room with a View”
And soon -- a few streets away --I had found mine.
It was fun to be in the locals’ Florence.
My friends had already discovered the best gelato place.
I decided gelato is better appreciated in May than in December, like the city itself.
Strolling with a three year old leads to a different kind of tourism.
Of course, we visited the Ponte Vecchio just as I had done years before
though the lovers’ locks tradition hadn’t started yet.
About 10 years ago, lovers began fastening padlocks to the Ponte Vecchio and throwing the key in the Arno as a sign of their undying attachment. There is now a 50 euro fine for this as the sheer quantity was not only esthetically offensive to the Florentines but was beginning to cause harm to the medieval bridge. But when did lovers ever put the law above their emotions?
On my first visit, aside from waiting with various degrees of impatience while Marilyn chose just the right gloves, I mostly remember going to art museums. A vivid memory is Giovanni Antonio Bazzi Sodoma’s St Sebastian at the Pitti Palace.
This time I concentrated on churches.
On Sunday, Maggie, Camm and I picknicked in the gardens of 12th century San Minateo
and admired the view
The next day I paid my respects to Santa Croce.
Like Lucy Honeychurch, I had no guidebook (amblers seldom do)though the audio guide I rented explained what I wanted to know.
Like Lucy, I met someone I knew in the church. Paul had brought his students on a visit.
No trip to Florence would be complete without a visit to the Duomo and its Campanile.
Surely I had seen it on my last trip? I couldn’t remember.
Camm knew its name and had already climbed to the top as he told me excitedly (and repeatedly). I had no memory of having done so. And no desire to change that.
I did remember seeing the Gates of Paradise on the doors of the Baptistery on the Square near the Duomo. Who could forget them?
Moses – one of 10 scenes on the east door called Gates of Paradise by Michelangelo.
Home on the bus for one last dinner with my friends – and one last gelato afterwards. And the next day it was off to the airport and back home, glad that, for one beautiful city at least, there had been a “next time” to appreciate it.
I remember Florence as one of my favorite places on that long ago Italian vacation, travelling with three acquaintances who, like me, were not interested in the “I visited 10 countries” type of student trip. But, when I tried to recall the City, I was startled by how few details came to mind. Was it the lack of photos? (My camera had been stolen in Naples at the beginning of our holiday.) Or that we had basically let Marilyn decide everything because she spoke Italian? Or simply the passage of time? In any case, I was ready to update my memory banks.
This trip, instead of taking the train and looking for a cheap pensione upon arrival, I flew in and took a taxi to Maggie and Paul’s one bedroom apartment -- on the other side of the Arno from where the tourists stay.
They had found their “Room with a View”
And soon -- a few streets away --I had found mine.
It was fun to be in the locals’ Florence.
My friends had already discovered the best gelato place.
I decided gelato is better appreciated in May than in December, like the city itself.
Strolling with a three year old leads to a different kind of tourism.
Of course, we visited the Ponte Vecchio just as I had done years before
though the lovers’ locks tradition hadn’t started yet.
About 10 years ago, lovers began fastening padlocks to the Ponte Vecchio and throwing the key in the Arno as a sign of their undying attachment. There is now a 50 euro fine for this as the sheer quantity was not only esthetically offensive to the Florentines but was beginning to cause harm to the medieval bridge. But when did lovers ever put the law above their emotions?
On my first visit, aside from waiting with various degrees of impatience while Marilyn chose just the right gloves, I mostly remember going to art museums. A vivid memory is Giovanni Antonio Bazzi Sodoma’s St Sebastian at the Pitti Palace.
This time I concentrated on churches.
On Sunday, Maggie, Camm and I picknicked in the gardens of 12th century San Minateo
and admired the view
The next day I paid my respects to Santa Croce.
Like Lucy Honeychurch, I had no guidebook (amblers seldom do)though the audio guide I rented explained what I wanted to know.
Like Lucy, I met someone I knew in the church. Paul had brought his students on a visit.
No trip to Florence would be complete without a visit to the Duomo and its Campanile.
Surely I had seen it on my last trip? I couldn’t remember.
Camm knew its name and had already climbed to the top as he told me excitedly (and repeatedly). I had no memory of having done so. And no desire to change that.
I did remember seeing the Gates of Paradise on the doors of the Baptistery on the Square near the Duomo. Who could forget them?
Moses – one of 10 scenes on the east door called Gates of Paradise by Michelangelo.
Home on the bus for one last dinner with my friends – and one last gelato afterwards. And the next day it was off to the airport and back home, glad that, for one beautiful city at least, there had been a “next time” to appreciate it.
June 16, 2011
One More Year
Yesterday was June 15th. “Ah yes”, my English friends remember. “The day the Magna Charta was signed."
« The day the US-Canada border was finally settled, » exclaim my history-loving American and Canadian friends.
« Eh, oui . The day Georges Pompidou was elected President! » my politically-minded French friends pronounce.
All true but I have a personal reason for remembering this date. It was on June 15th 2009 that I became a blogger.
Like most projects, this one has evolved a good deal since my first slightly naïve image of what I wanted to do and who my readers would be.
I gradually came to understand, without totally accepting, that most of my friends would not be regular or even occasional readers. My disappointment was hugely diminished by the realization that a number of people I had never met would be. Some stumbled across my blog by accident; others came looking for specific information that one of my posts provided. Some made only one brief appearance on my reader statistics. Others became regulars. The fun I was having and the slightly but definitely increasing readership was all the incentive I needed to continue for one more year – especially as I knew that I would soon have a trip to Sri Lanka to share.
As some of you know -- and others can discover by reading my posts from September to December 2010 -- share it I did. Though I was only in the country for two weeks, it took me three months of almost constant posting to reach the end of what I wanted to describe. Exhausted from my thirty-five Sri Lankan posts and a little lost as to what should come next, I was just a step away from writing a final farewell post when a journalist friend of mine, who is a regular reader, startled me by remarking that I had become a travel writer. She was about to start an adventure of her own, teaching writing on the University of Virginia’s Semester at Sea summer program,
and asked if she could use some of my posts as reference material for her students. Of course, I said yes! The flattery of this and the fact that my readership continued to increase even though I was no longer writing, made me decide that it was too soon to say goodbye. Since January 1st of this year, readers from 74 countries have consulted my blog at least once – most of them (including a number of Sri Lankans) interested in the Sri Lankan posts but also reading others.
This is a map of where my readers in May and June connected from. Always a thrill to see.
I’m finding this a heady experience. And I do still have things to tell you. I was recently in Florence. I have only scratched the surface of Paris. I have plans for a fall trip which should be fun. So I’m launching myself into another year of bloggery. I hope you’ll come along.
(If you want still more travel, why don’t you join me as I read my friend Jeanne’s blog of her summer adventure. I know she’d love to see you, too.)
« The day the US-Canada border was finally settled, » exclaim my history-loving American and Canadian friends.
« Eh, oui . The day Georges Pompidou was elected President! » my politically-minded French friends pronounce.
All true but I have a personal reason for remembering this date. It was on June 15th 2009 that I became a blogger.
Like most projects, this one has evolved a good deal since my first slightly naïve image of what I wanted to do and who my readers would be.
I gradually came to understand, without totally accepting, that most of my friends would not be regular or even occasional readers. My disappointment was hugely diminished by the realization that a number of people I had never met would be. Some stumbled across my blog by accident; others came looking for specific information that one of my posts provided. Some made only one brief appearance on my reader statistics. Others became regulars. The fun I was having and the slightly but definitely increasing readership was all the incentive I needed to continue for one more year – especially as I knew that I would soon have a trip to Sri Lanka to share.
As some of you know -- and others can discover by reading my posts from September to December 2010 -- share it I did. Though I was only in the country for two weeks, it took me three months of almost constant posting to reach the end of what I wanted to describe. Exhausted from my thirty-five Sri Lankan posts and a little lost as to what should come next, I was just a step away from writing a final farewell post when a journalist friend of mine, who is a regular reader, startled me by remarking that I had become a travel writer. She was about to start an adventure of her own, teaching writing on the University of Virginia’s Semester at Sea summer program,
and asked if she could use some of my posts as reference material for her students. Of course, I said yes! The flattery of this and the fact that my readership continued to increase even though I was no longer writing, made me decide that it was too soon to say goodbye. Since January 1st of this year, readers from 74 countries have consulted my blog at least once – most of them (including a number of Sri Lankans) interested in the Sri Lankan posts but also reading others.
This is a map of where my readers in May and June connected from. Always a thrill to see.
I’m finding this a heady experience. And I do still have things to tell you. I was recently in Florence. I have only scratched the surface of Paris. I have plans for a fall trip which should be fun. So I’m launching myself into another year of bloggery. I hope you’ll come along.
(If you want still more travel, why don’t you join me as I read my friend Jeanne’s blog of her summer adventure. I know she’d love to see you, too.)
May 20, 2011
Bread and Circuses
One of the fun things about living in France is the number of free events, large and small, politicians have scattered throughout the calendar for our enjoyment. It seems they retained the idea of “bread and circuses” from their classical education, without remembering that Juvenal meant it as a criticism. Or perhaps they simply feel that if it worked for the ancient Roman government, it could work for the modern French one.
May’s festival, for the last 16 years, has been the Fête du Pain (Bread Festival). It was established by Jean-Pierre Raffarin, then Minister of Small Business and Commerce, to honor bakers and bread as well as to teach French children a tradition that supermarkets and diet books were altering. The French eat 5 times less bread today than 100 years ago and, though the neighborhood baker still exists, more of what they do eat is bought in supermarkets or baked in factories and delivered to local bakeries. Young people looking for jobs often don't consider one which requires such long (and early) hours.
For all these good reasons,since 1996, bread and bakers are fêted all over France for a week in May. Why May? May 16th is St Honoré Day – feast day of the patron saint of bakers.
The Paris version of the Festival changes venues every year. This year it was held in the square in front of Notre Dame
to the bemusement of foreign tourists who had no idea what was happening and had just come to see the Cathedral.
This year, for some unexplained reason, Normandy was being honored. There were Norman musicians and ladies in traditional costumes
and people happily honored Normandy as directed.
Schoolchildren, dressed as bakers
learned how bread was made. Grownups didn't get special hats or have guided tours -- but we were allowed to watch the film.
Throughout the week, bakers participated in contests and were honored with prizes and diplomas. Here are the winners of the bread sculpture contest.
There was even a display of breads from around the world.
The English were represented by a display of hot cross buns and bagels.
Bagels? Don’t tell any New Yorkers you know!
The Americans were represented, too.
Ah well. To each country its own pièce de résistance.
French specialties were to be found between the cinema tent and the tent for tourist attractions in Normandy.
Freshly baked bread is wonderful and well worth a Festival. Merci, M Raffarin et bon appétit to all!
May’s festival, for the last 16 years, has been the Fête du Pain (Bread Festival). It was established by Jean-Pierre Raffarin, then Minister of Small Business and Commerce, to honor bakers and bread as well as to teach French children a tradition that supermarkets and diet books were altering. The French eat 5 times less bread today than 100 years ago and, though the neighborhood baker still exists, more of what they do eat is bought in supermarkets or baked in factories and delivered to local bakeries. Young people looking for jobs often don't consider one which requires such long (and early) hours.
For all these good reasons,since 1996, bread and bakers are fêted all over France for a week in May. Why May? May 16th is St Honoré Day – feast day of the patron saint of bakers.
The Paris version of the Festival changes venues every year. This year it was held in the square in front of Notre Dame
to the bemusement of foreign tourists who had no idea what was happening and had just come to see the Cathedral.
This year, for some unexplained reason, Normandy was being honored. There were Norman musicians and ladies in traditional costumes
and people happily honored Normandy as directed.
Schoolchildren, dressed as bakers
learned how bread was made. Grownups didn't get special hats or have guided tours -- but we were allowed to watch the film.
Throughout the week, bakers participated in contests and were honored with prizes and diplomas. Here are the winners of the bread sculpture contest.
There was even a display of breads from around the world.
The English were represented by a display of hot cross buns and bagels.
Bagels? Don’t tell any New Yorkers you know!
The Americans were represented, too.
Ah well. To each country its own pièce de résistance.
French specialties were to be found between the cinema tent and the tent for tourist attractions in Normandy.
Freshly baked bread is wonderful and well worth a Festival. Merci, M Raffarin et bon appétit to all!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
