Peter Mayle has done more to shape America's opinion of France than any other writer I can think of except maybe the Marquis de Sade. And since I try to keep my essays relatively clean, let's go with Mayle as a topic, shall we? Mayle is the author of the "Year in Provence" series, including, not surprisingly, "A Year in Provence", followed by "Encore Provence", "Toujours Provence" and "Bite Me Provence".
Naw, I made that last one up. Although I have heard that after his first book came out he became very unpopular in his little Provençal hamlet, because hordes of tourists descended on it and basically turned it into Paris South. The invasion of pasty white vacationers was the result of Mayle's rather glorified and ultimately patronizing reflections of his experiences living in the Provence area of southern France, which is about a 45-minute drive from Montpellier. Mayle's books speak of charming village café's, darling churches, and finally turn into condescending examinations of his French neighbors. It's enough to make anyone unpopular.
The books are bestsellers, in my opinion, because they're what everyone wants to think living abroad is like. They feed into myths, and they perpetuate stereotypes. Mayle never does his laundry in the books or discusses being flummoxed by the heavy southern dialect. I read the first two of his books a couple of months after moving to France, when my culture shock was at it's height, and I couldn't figure out what he was talking about - the France I live in is nothing like his. The one I live in is filled with people who can't drive or park their cars without causing major inconvenience, while all he talks about are peasants on bicyclettes. Consequently, his vision of France has sold millions of copies, while mine is languishing away on privately maintained web pages. You decide who's a better marketer.
Dave never got more than 50 pages into the first book. He'd try to read it and after a couple of paragraphs, start sighing heavily and asking me, "Where does this guy live?" For us, reading the "Provence" books was an exercise in frustration because we couldn't find the France of Mayle's prose. We'd had visions of quiet evenings listening to the cicadas, watching the sun set over the ocean and chatting up our boulanger when we bought our morning croissants. As it turned out, cicadas are unbelievably loud and we're just as lucky not to have them around in the city. The beaches are crowded during the summer and chilly during the winter. And although it's getting better, it's still hard to know what the heck the baker is saying to us.
But maybe it's just us. I do know an ex-patriot American couple living here in Montpellier who really seem to have it all. They're living the good life, and every time I see them they're relaxed and content. Life is good for them in a way I don't imagine it will ever be good for me. Their names are Nora and Riley and they're our cats.
Nora is our 6 year old calico. We call her our autistic cat because she's very timid, asks for absolutely nothing, and can't stand to be touched or held by anyone but Dave. I got her at the SPCA, and we assume a woman must have done something pretty lousy to her, though we don't know exactly what. If Nora curls up at my feet to go to sleep, I consider it an honor and will endure leg cramps in order not to disturb her.
Riley, on the other hand, is our year and a half old tiger-striped hellion. He was fed by humans starting at 5 days old, and has no fear whatsoever. Having Riley around the house is like living with an acid crazed two year old. He chases invisible phantasms around the house in a frenzy of excitement, pushes pens, pencils and scraps of paper off the table while looking you straight in the eye as if daring you to stop him, and then stomps onto your chest, demanding a warm spot to sleep. He's the noisiest sleeper I've ever seen; when Riley rolls over or stretches in his sleep he moans - loudly. He would not do well in the jungle. Predators would find him in a heartbeat.
I had to leave my two big dogs in California, since we knew they wouldn't be happy in a downtown apartment, but we brought the cats to France, much to the amusement of many French people. The idea of owning a cat (or thinking that you own a cat) enough to drag it to the other side of the world seems to be a decidedly American idea. You can do that with dogs, but cats are too independent for such nonsense. "These cats are American?" French teachers, plumbers, and meter men have asked me, their eyes wide. When I answer in the affirmative, they are charmed and proceed to chat with les chats.
"Ah, c'est une grande voyage pour toi, non?", the electricity man asked Riley, while grinning disarmingly and scratching him under the chin. Riley sits in on my French lessons, but appears to have picked up even less than I have. If he'd known how, I'm sure he would have told the electrician that it was indeed a big trip, and not a very comfortable one at that.
You'd think that one place is about as good as any other to a cat, particularly an indoor cat. I didn't let my cats out of the house when I lived in Fremont because there was too much traffic on my street for me to feel comfortable, and too many dogs in the neighborhood as well. Nora is too timid to go outside in any case, and Riley is too much of a tough guy. Since some days he doesn't seem to have the sense God gave him, I could just envision him getting into a Jerry Springer-like wrestling match with the dogs next-door, complete with thrown chairs. Here in Montpellier the cats don't go outside for much the same reasons.
They're inside all the time, but oddly enough, our cats seem even happier in Montpellier than they did in Fremont. This might speak well of their sophisticated tastes. After all, on the surface, and putting aside for the moment the culture shock and inability to find decent Chinese food, who wouldn't chose life in the south of France over life in Fremont, California, where a big night out is catching a latte at Starbucks and perusing the big new Border's at the mall? But if you stay inside the house all the time, who cares if the house is situated in sunny California or sunny southern France?
Come to think of it, if you stay at work all the time, what difference is there? Hmmm...
As to why the cats are happier in France than in Fremont, my guess is that it has to do with the pigeons. We have a family of pigeons who live over the window of the building across the alley from our living room. Riley can't get over them. He sits at attention on the back of the couch and stares at them, occasionally scratching the window and meowing piteously, as if inviting the birds over to play. The pigeons know they're in no danger whatsoever, a fact that was proven to them just 2 days after Riley arrived in France and before our furniture showed up. He heard their cooing and immediately went into stalker mode. Ears pricked, back straight, Riley prepared to pounce. He took a running start at the window, using all the power in his lithe body to charge forward. At just the right distance, he leapt into the air, claws outstretched.
And crashed into the stone wall under the window. It was like something out of a Road Runner cartoon. I wanted to check him for damage, but I admit I was laughing too hard.
So the pigeons are safe, at least until Riley's latest package from Acme arrives and he can undertake another complicated ploy to get at them. Whether due to disappointment or brain injury, Riley is reasonably content to sit around and watch them, or sleep under the window, in case they make any sudden moves. Nora's just happy any time Riley isn't trying to tackle her. The pigeons entertain him, giving her more freedom to roam in circles around the apartment without fear of being dive-bombed.
I may have come over to France with some visions that will remain unfulfilled, but even Peter Mayle couldn't accurately describe the simple joy that having my cats here brings. When Riley drops onto my belly and starts purring, or Nora begs for a scrap of chicken from my hand, it doesn't matter that this new life confuses me so completely. My worth as a person stops being tied to my abilities to negotiate traffic or properly ask for a wedge of cheese at the market. The fact that it becomes tied to my simply being a fellow carnivore with a warm lap is acceptable, for the moment.
- KNP Jan 21, 01
