Pleasures : a Quotidian Approach.

I complain a lot about France. With joy and gusto. With delight, even. In fact, I think the only people who complain about France more than I do are the French. The daily shoves and slights continue to surprise me, and though you’d think after a year of cut lines and catty comments that the shock would’ve worn off, it never does. I extend my deepest thanks and love to my friend Guillaume who not only encourages me to discuss my outrage with this beau pays, but doesn’t think less of me for doing so. Exploring my rage towards the French with a Frenchman makes me feel much more sane. Merci, mon chéri.

However. I’m not writing to complain today. Today I’m writing to note a few moments of keen “pleasure” I’ve experienced this week. A few instants of supreme contentedness. Before getting to that, a tiny diversion: the word “plaisir.” Could a better, more French word exist? I’m sure libraries worth of academic explorations of this term exist, and they ought to, but holy hell. I tried explaining to Laurence last year that “pleasure” has an extremely sexual connotation when used in English, and it stunned her. In French, pleasure exists everywhere – in the company you keep, in activities, in a glass of wine, in any food imaginable, in sex of course, and in any relationship, be it human, canine, or scholastic. I love that. I love that my English class can be a genuine plaisir for my students (who knows if they’d ever call it that though), and that my daily walks down Rue Adrien Baysselance, admiring each and every doorknocker I pass, can also be one.

This week saw the beginning of my actual teaching, and it’s been pretty odd. Big kids may have the vocabulary, the grace, and the intellectual properties my petits lacked last year, but they have little of their charm, even less of their kindness, and none of their enthusiasm. But I’m not complaining. I had the amazing chance to sit in on an art class at the middle school yesterday, (after witnessing a physics, Spanish, and two math classes : yikes) and it was incredible. I’ve been to a French art class! I feel like my life is fuller now than it would be otherwise, like I’ve unknowingly experienced something that should be profound. Ha. The teacher, Claire, was a lovely woman – very interesting, very engaging, and very kind. I have the unfortunate habit of clamming up like a mollusk when meeting new people, and I think she took my shyness to be some form of mental retardation. After we were introduced she said “tu parles?” (do you talk?) That was a first. When I confirmed that, why yes, I do talk, and I even speak her language and understand 90% of what I hear, we got along very well. Her students (11/12 year olds) were working on interpreting and re-interpreting a work whose name now escapes me of course. She had them summarize the analysis they’d done in the previous class of this particular painting, and then she very excitedly showed me some of the stuff the kids had done with it. Claire invited me to walk around and look at the work the kids were doing, which was fun, and after a few awkward circles around the room, I sat down and decided to make my own re-interpretation. I’m sure the kids were shocked to see “an adult” do their assignment, but why the hell not? Claire saw what I was doing and brought me some colored pencils without so much as a condescending sniff. So much fun! So much freedom! I love drawing. I love arts and crafts. I love being in the state of self that comes with losing inhibition in the instinctual. It makes me wonder: should I be an art teacher? Do I possess that kookiness?

I took my ten minute stroll to the boulangerie I’ve now switched to (which I reluctantly admit has always had better bread, is five centimes cheaper than Margotine was, and I always considered a special treat after a terrible day at Gambetta) after my class ended yesterday afternoon. I like this place for a lot of reasons, most of which I’ve listed above. But I also love that it’s absolutely a neighborhood joint. They must have over a hundred regulars? Mamies (grandmas) stop in with their sticky-handed little tykes; bespectacled middle-aged men with pink socks wait in line; students buy a baguette on their way home. This place, unlike any other I’ve seen, also has an enormous glass window separating the boulangerie and the kitchen. So you can see the two mid-twenty something guys in white outfits baking the bread. I can think of few things I enjoy more. I got in line today and rather than feel annoyed at spending a good ten minutes waiting, bored, I felt blessed to witness a batch of fresh baguettes being taken out of the oven. It was magic. One guy used his enormous wooden spatula (?) to check their status and then cranked a special enormous metal sheet in place to receive the perfectly done bread, while his comrade took out a chunk of dough from the massive industrial mixer. Piles of flour everywhere. The scent of yeast rising… When Mec #1 had all the baguettes safely on the metal sheet and had his wooden bin in place, he picked up three baguette at a time, gingerly, like baby birds, before stacking them in the bin. I know you’ll all roll your eyes and say “oh god Anya. Way to romanticize everything” but it really touched me. The care this guy took in transporting his goods was really incredible. They were also probably hotter than lava, and he didn’t want to make more than necessary contact, but there was nothing mechanical in his movements. It wasn’t as if he did this every day and had some manic bread-baking rhythm to which he was adhering. I appreciate that.

When it came my turn to order, I got two baguettes (I had company over, I swear) and though I wasn’t surprised, I smiled to myself when I felt that they were perfectly, out of the oven fifteen minutes ago, hot. I got about a block before I couldn’t help myself any longer and broke off the end of one of them. Light, chewy, a little yeasty, absolutely divine. The best 85 centimes I could ever spend.

Good one, France.