L'âge de la découverte

Why do we Americans call it French toast if French people don't even eat eggs for breakfast? These types of idiosyncrasies are fun to consider. But thanks to the internet, there's really no reason to involve you (other people) in such musings. I should just google it and go back under my rock. So, in deference to your prerogative, in consideration of your time, I'll abandon the French-toast mystery and dump it on the pile of evidence for the age-old assertion that contemporary media is killing social interaction (if by that you're willing to include conversations about toast).

I really can't ignore this self-made opportunity to tell my favorite toast story--a bit of a diversion from the Angers, France theme. It was a Saturday morning in 1991. I was still living in San Francisco so there's really no need to talk about seasons. I woke up on Nelligan's couch--an obvious indicator that it'd been another quality Friday night celebrating 36.5-hours of "work" at McCutchen. In need of breakfast, Patrick flexed his culinary muscle and set to fixin' a baking sheet of toast. Having badly burned all the prospective toast, it was suggested we see who could throw a piece of it the farthest. In case you're unfamiliar with Patrick's early 90's SF apartment (which doesn't exist anymore), it was one of a few units carved out of a natural wood hippy shack on 17th Street. Built on the back half of a very steep, rocky, lightly-forested lot on a very steep street, Patrick's door and front porch were at the top of very steep stairs. Just outside the door, we were about 200 feet from the street at a 45-degree angle. I can't remember who led off but my shot was a beauty. A backhanded wrist flip sent the toast off with impressive rotation and a visually pleasing slalom arc through the tree branches. As it became clear that this charcoal encrusted wonder was going all the way, a car came into view from the right, driver window down and... IN went the toast.

Superimposed on the Google Street

View of what's there today, the

approximate trajectory of the

epic toast flight.

In the same, unbelievable fraction of a second, the car exited our lot-wide view. We weren't looking for it but somehow this moment provided a sense of triumph--as if giving an unsuspecting driver an unfathomable yet mundane experience was a mission we'd been on for months. Who knows where this story might have gone next. But regardless of whether there's a chapter two, flying toast victim, here's to you (and that would be a toast).

My newly appointed panel of experts on all things Angers.

Back in Angers we've continued to encounter some ungoogleable puzzles. And just yesterday, I realized that I have the perfect, off-line resource for solving these curiosities--a panel of experts. Most Thursdays, in the hour leading up to lunch, I've been volunteering at the Angers Anglophone Library with the English conversation group--folks that meet to keep their previously acquired English in tune. Right off the bat, my experts are two-for-two.

1. What are those two-color, stripe symbols painted on poles, stones, and trees along the river and in other parts of town?
Well, this turned out to be easy. I was hoping that these markings would be the secret code of nocturnal masons. As it turns out, if I were any kind of euro-hiker, I would be all too familiar with the way-finding symbology of La Fédération Francaise de la Randonnée Pédestre. Founded by Jean Loiseau in the mid 1940s to create and maintain a wide network of hiking trails, the website history section explains that "He inquired about what already existed in some foreign countries: Germany, Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland and even the United States in the Appalachian Mountains where they had the good idea to put paint stripes on different media in nature (rocks, trees, etc.).." This method would likely still be used in Appalachia if they hadn't switched to using junked cars in 1951.

2. How is it that taxi drivers in Angers (or all of France?) have some of the nicest cars on the road?

Do I want to hail the Audi taxi
or the 'Benz?

I should start off by saying that I can see great reasons why taxis should be the nicest cars on the road. If you're going to drive a taxi for ten hours a day, you should have a nice office. And if we want to encourage alternatives to car ownership and parking lots, taxis should be alluring options, not holding cells on wheels designed to be hosed out at shift's end. But how is this the case? Subsidies? Tax breaks? Well my experts first let me know that taxis in Angers are expensive -- pricier than Paris -- especially at night when the rates go up. But also, the tax write-off turns out to be part of the the equation. And at the end of the shift, a driver can pull the blue light off the roof and, voila, sleep in their car.


On special this week: Since my most regular interaction with locals is paying for groceries and baked goods, store shelves continue, sadly, to be my most reliable proxy for conversations that might otherwise be a more defensible basis for commentary on life as it's lived here (which, from the sidelines, looks pretty flippin' good).

In France, is this like, buying shampoo
and conditioner? Or is it just another
five-euro dilema? Is the next step to
create a blended product, add
chocolate, or both?

Virtue and vice and processed rice,
that's what Barbie Dolls are made
of. *Serving suggestion. **Inflatable
Ghost of Barbie not included.

We stocked up on French groceries for Jack's 11th birthday Friday. After Evelyn's visit a few weeks ago, we needed to declare a moratorium on pain au chocolat. But we lifted it to kick off b-day festivities.

Jack's request for his day of hooky was a picnic at Parc de Balzac across the river. After pre-dinner/pre gymnastics brownies and ice cream, Jack's friends from the 'hood all joined up for a birthday Skype session on their way to school in Bellingham (very fun -- thank you!!!).

At the banque,  you need to
expose yourself for money.
(I never noticed FP mom's
360˚ bossom.)

In other news from the last week, we haven't really noticed much impact here in Angers from France's new prohibition on burqas that went into effect Monday. Waiting for the bus on the way home from Jack's soccer practice I noticed that to enter the ATM kiosk I was standing next to a customer is supposed to remove face and head coverings. So, if you keep your burqa in exchange for the 150€ fine, you can't use an ATM to get the cash? And what do people look like here when you convince them to remove their hats, sunglasses, chin-high collars, scarves, and face veils? Answer: Round-headed, smiley faced, ATM-worthy Fisher Price cylinder people. So take note, when everyone fits in the same size hole it's a lot easier for The Man to take your money at the parking garage.

Friends don't let friends wear farmed fashion.

The salmon are running: In fashion this week, one word, salmon. I don't know how the communiqués are issued but, as if a switch was thrown at the prefecture,  everyone's got their salmon-pink jackets, scarves, pants... you name it... on. Kristin doesn't share my sense that this recent shift in outerwear is especially pronounced or notable. Maybe this is less a French/Angers thing than it is a result of comparing any observation about clothing rituals to Bellingham, WA -- where the most intense fashion topic in three years was probably a new color of Danskos.
Au revoir for now.