Tuesday, April 7, 2009

"In Normandy, we LOVE the Americans..........."

A true story we can all be proud of:
At ten thirty, she sweeps up the torn Metro tickets, the crumpled, empty cigarette packs, and paper sugar cube covers. I watch her every morning, as my husband and I have our morning café crème and baguette with butter.
That is to say, as my husband has those delicious things, and I have a bitter, black café with cold water, a taste combination I have grown to savor. We say “bonjour” to everybody who’s behind the counter as we walk in, the proprietor, Serge, the black-vested barman, Brigitte, the blonde woman with a braid down her back which brushes her waist, and a little blonde woman with overly pinked cheeks. Every morning, it’s “bonjour,” or “merci, au revoir”, when we leave through the crowds standing at the bar getting their morning fix of caffeine and nicotine. She never leaves the back of the bar except to sweep, and we’ve never come to know her name.

We do know the names of our favorite servers we have come to know since we’ve lived near the Place Victor Hugo in Paris. We have felt like family for the last year, with Jean Paul, Mayda, and Jean Claude. They kiss our cheeks, or my hand, as we come in every morning, or on the evenings when we have dinner there. We talk about recipes, discussing the benefits of adding an egg yolk to mashed potatoes, or chestnuts to red cabbage at Christmas (Jean Paul went almost down to his knees in rapture when he talked about that!).

In the 2 ½ years we’ve come in to the café, I know the little blonde woman with the rouged cheeks has learned we’re not French…one only has to listen to my ‘Bon Jour’ to know that. I like to think that whatever else Jean Paul or Mayda might have said about us is kind. We have deep affection for these people and I think they do for us, too.

This morning, the blonde woman and I spoke for the first time. My husband and I sat fairly close to the bar and she had to sweep around our table so I lifted my purse off the ground to get it out of her way. “Don’t move, Madame, it is fine there,” she said in French. My husband made a comment about the mess on the floor, “there are ashtrays on the tables, why are there cigarette butts on the floor?” he complained. “The Parisians,” she said. “I’m from Normandy. You won’t see this there. Have you been there?”

“Normandy,” I said, “yes, we have been there. There are so many beautiful towns, and I love the specialties in Normandy, all the wonderful butter and cream, the blanquette de veau.” She looked proud. Tell the French you love their food, they’ll be yours forever. “Ah, oui, blanquette de veau…c’est magnifique!” She dragged her broom around floor under my chair and then stopped again. “In Normandy, we love the Americans,” she said, smiling.

“OH, I don’t think so!” I said to her..“I thought the French don’t usually like Americans,” I said, baiting her a bit but enjoying the compliment. She stopped sweeping, held the broom straight up in front of her, and looked directly into my eyes. “In Normandy we do…we will never forget what the Americans did for us. In Normandy, we like the Americans very much.”

I watched as she continued sweeping. She looked up from the floor and caught my eyes again, “very much.” I was almost moved to tears. She stopped again, leaning the broom stick in the cradle of her arm. “In Normandy, we have a statue of Patton….THIS high,” she gestured to about 7 feet in the air. We will never forget what the Americans did for us. Maybe in Paris they forget, but never in Normandy.” Suddenly, I felt seven feet tall, too.

I watched the blonde woman as she finished sweeping and brushed everything into the dustpan and into the trash. She put her broom away in the corner and went back behind the bar where she, again, became a one-woman perpetual café machine……never stopping, never ceasing to be pleasant, to offer a croissant, telling people to have a good day “bonne journee!” on their way out.

She looked up through the crowd and smiled at me, as she leaned forward, wiping off the bar top with a towel. How proud I felt this morning, like I’d actually helped the French myself! Who was I to take the compliment, I thought? Who am I? I wasn’t even born then. But I am an American. And, this morning, it felt even better than usual.

Z: Written in France, in 2002, I published this last January, but, after this last week, I felt it was right to do so again. This French waitress didn't need anybody apologizing for America.....

22 comments:

Always On Watch said...

Yet, BHO is proclaiming that we have to mend relations with Europe.

Sadly, those who voted for BHO really believe that he's going to "mend relations."

Just goes to prove that idiocy and ignorance are self-perpetuating.

Always On Watch said...

Does Europe Really Hate Us?

Anonymous said...

Mr. Obama has just said if Iran gets rid of the nuke program, there would be NO need for our missile shield.
Whoopeeeeee!
Peace in our time.

WVDOTTR

Pat Jenkins said...

it is sad when leaders of a nation, find that nation to be the root of evil! it is truly an amazing thought!! unreal maybe!

Anonymous said...

My wife and I traveled in France fairly often during the years we were stationed in Europe. In the countryside, we were always treated very well and the people were friendly. I'm sure the fact that my wife was educated in France and spoke fluent French helped. I was always a little nervous when the war came up,because inevitably, we did a lot of damage and killed a lot of people during and after D Day. The British did some carpet bombing and we helped, and people have to remember that. But we were never reproached. Military history is a hobby of mine, and I was a serving officer at the time, so the subject came up frequently when I had a chance to talk to older men who had participated in the war. One thing I noticed was that every old timer had been in the resistance. It must have been considerably larger than my reading led me to believe.:-)

Z said...

Hermit, that really surprises me because most people think the resistance in France was romanticized and 'enlarged' due to CASABLANCA, the film.
In fact, we never heard of the German resistance, which was enormous. Never.
The French love their military, and every little village, as you probably have seen, has a small 'roundabout' in the main street or an area in a park, where every name of the boys killed from that village are mentioned.
How wonderful that your wife was educated in France! It's an amazing place to live.

WVDOTTR...thank GOODNESS even Americans are starting to bandy the word NAIVE around FINALLY.........Obama does seem so so naive. And our lives are in his hands.

Always.......I was impressed by that. LA Sunsett and Mustang have it right, as does Corrina......
Europeans, if anything, are sometimes JEALOUS and it comes out as 'hate'. very good points in the piece but even better in the comments. thanks.

Pat, very sad. I'm hoping Obama gets more feedback from the conservatives..I'd love John Bolton to weigh in but I'm afraid the Left never gives a shred of credence to anything which wasn't invented on their side..a REAL unintelligent way to go which NEVER TEACHES ONE ANYTHING>

Anonymous said...

Lovely story! If you want the truth, go directly to the people. The official version of most things is usually dead wrong.


"Believe half of what you see, less of what you hear, and nothing that you read in the paper."

Anonymous said...

Exceptional writing, Z. Truly.

shoprat said...

Truly a worthy story.

Z said...

hermit's right, by the way, the countryside French are a tad nicer than the Parisians. But, really, what's it take to just be polite and say BONJOUR? Americans usually don't, so French people find it odd to enter a shop and not greet the person working there. It's a cultural thing but the snottier ones say we're rude for not saying anything...I must admit.

Mustang, thank you so much. I appreciate that, coming from an excellent writer like you.

Shoprat, also, thanks....very much. I thought so. It was quite a morning.

I miss that life terribly. As American as I am (and I wish I didn't feel I needed to add this here), living in Paris was beyond wonderful. Of course, an enormous gorgeous apartment in the best part of Paris paid for by Mr. Z's company didn't hurt!! heh

Anonymous said...

Great Post Z, beautifully written.
A really wonderful story. I'll bet if truth be told, there are many in France who are like this woman.

This is why it's so important for the elders in a family to tell the children their stories and experiences.

Pris

Z said...

thanks very much

(((Thought Criminal))) said...

Nice story.

But in 2003, during the opening days of the Iraq War, some war protesting ass in Normandy spray painted "Américains! Venez déterrent vos ordures! Il pollue notre sol!" on the gates of the American cemetery there.

Not to harp on my visceral contempt for all things French, but no post about Paris is complete without mentioning the number of pounds of dog crap per square metre there.

Z said...

beamish, there are crazies here, too!
And ya...LOTS more dog poop there, TRUST me. All they do is watch their dogs poop then complain about it!

(((Thought Criminal))) said...

They eat snails, rarely bathe, let their dogs crap on the floor in a "5-star" restaurant, and perhaps the worst cruelty of all, force their own children to learn French.

miradena said...

I adored this story, Z. I'm certain that there are many more hidden gems sparkling in your archives. I really felt as though I was sitting beside you at that cafe this morning. Alas, I suppose the closest I will get to Normandy is the warm croissant, drizzled with honey, that I had for breakfast. *sigh* -
Merci de l'inspiration !

Z said...

Thank you, MIradena!

Beamish. Snails are DELICIOUS if you love Garlic. They DO BATHE, and they do NOT allow dogs to do that on the restaurant floor.
They DO, however, allow a small dog into a restaurant...

You'd love Paris, Beamish. I swear.

~Leslie said...

Beautiful Z. I could see it all as I read it. Beautiful. Thank you for sharing this.

(((Thought Criminal))) said...

Z,

Not fond of garlic. I can't imagine having to deal with people who eat garlic, RARELY bathe, and speak French on purpose.
It's the stank trifecta.

Anonymous said...

Beautiful, Z.
Now I want a buttery croissant and a latte...

Anonymous said...

In 1985, I was in a tiny shop on Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy, when the shopkeeper told me that there was someone in the back who wanted to speak to me.

It was the man's grandmother. Apparently, she had heard my voice and knew I was an American.

The shopkeeper pulled back the curtain, and there sat a very old woman, with a toothless smile.

She held out her hand to me and
was speaking in garbled French.

She was trying to say thank you to me and to all Americans, for saving her life and her country. It was a very moving scene.

I smiled and squeezed her hand, and nodded my understanding of her message.

I left, feeling a tearful pride over her appreciation for what our nation had done for France.

America was clearly not forgotten.

Matisse

Z said...

Matisse! SHE was speaking 'garbled French'?!! hee hee!!

Glad you had a similar experience!