Shameless Self-Promotion and Other Gold Stars

The photo that launched my award-winning story

When I was busy following my passion around Chicago a couple of weeks ago, my inbox got even more full than usual.  That meant I didn’t even see until almost midnight on the Monday after I got home an e-mail informing me that I wasn’t absolutely insane for believing that I could possibly be a writer.  Well, more to the point it was an e-mail from the intrepid Larry Habegger of  BestTravelWriting.com (the group of folks who put out the fantastic collection of Travelers’ Tales books) saying the list of winners from the 6th Annual Solas Awards had been posted.

Now is the time for that shameless self-promotion.

I won Best in Category for my Travel and Shopping tale about my first attempt at trying to buy a dress in France when my French was very bad and the salesman was very, very good.  Hop on over to their site and read my story here.  Leave a comment there.  If my story does end up in one of their travel story books, I’ll let you all know so you can buy a dozen copies a piece. This recognition gives me great energy to keep writing and keep traveling and keep shooting for the Grand Prize.

(Of course, I was so flustered about winning that when they asked for a short bio I completely spaced out and forgot to include my blog url.  Duh.  Opportunity lost.  You see, I’m still not very good at this shameless self-promotion stuff.)

Let's hear it for some other writing this week worthy of gold stars:

Susan Bearman contributed a beautiful and thoughtful piece to Write It Sideways.  In “Finding Extraordinary in an Ordinary Life” she reminds us that everyone’s story is worth telling.  So many would-be writers believe they have nothing to say because their life has not been worthy of headlines or a center seat on the Dr. Drew Show.  For all of those out there waiting to claim their writer cap, chew on this:
“I’ve come to understand that extraordinary doesn’t exist without ordinary. And I’ve come to believe that it’s a writer’s job to find the extraordinary in the ordinary, to see the ordinary through the eyes of an artist and reflect the extraordinary back to our readers.”

(Come to think of it, we ALL could stand reminding that our lives aren’t that ordinary.)

Amber West tackles a common concern among those who write, for the most part, non-political blogs in “The Controversy Over Controversy.”  For those who regularly blog on political topics – or even those non-political writers who from a first blog post showed they were all over controversy, no matter the topic – it’s no big deal to take a very public stand on topics well beyond abuse of impossibly cute kittens.  How do the rest of the less controversial bloggers handle topics on which we feel compelled to make a statement, even though it might alienate some of our readers?  Read her take on this.

Becky Green Aaronson and her husband, photographer Jeffrey Aaronson have just published on e-reader Steve & i: One Photographer’s Improbable Journey with Steve Jobs.  Jeffrey Aaronson had an opportunity to photograph Jobs before he became a global turtlenecked technology icon.  Becky has told the story before on her blog, but now the whole story and the pictures are available for all.  If you don’t have an e-reader, you can also download it to your computer.  The the story, the writing, and the photography are remarkable.

Who have I missed that you think deserves a gold star this week – your 6-year old, another blogger, an activist you support?  Tell us in the comments box so we can all give a cheer.

Another, less engaging, character found in the market

You can read another story about the charming vendor pictured at the top of this post in a story I wrote last summer.  He and his friends kept me entertained in the market all the month I was there.  Read all about Trois Beaux Garçons.

My First Time

I go on the principle if the line is long, it must be worth the wait

Pale pig heads with their staring eyes and chickens with their brightly feathered necks wrapped around their goose-pimpled body as if taking an afternoon nap line up in the glass cases, waiting for me to choose.

It’s Tuesday morning, the main market day in Dijon, so all the lines at the boucherie counters are long. This face – the one racing back and forth under the Jean-Francois Chenu, Maître Boucher sign – seems to be smiling.  I see him throw his head back and laugh at something the old man with the wicker panier said.

Boucherie.  Chacouterie. Volailles.  I guess it tells me something about the kind of meat they sell, but it’s too hard to balance my market sack filled with vegetables and my dictionary.  Viande pour braserade.  Magret.  Canard.  Cuisse de grenouille.  Gigot d’agneu.  Entrecôte.  Steak à hacher.

There are no tightly-wrapped packages of pork chops or a pound of ground beef.  It’s all just large hunks of unidentifiable meat cut to order.  And suddenly I’m six years old, sitting on the floor of the butcher shop on Jefferson Ave., waiting for my mom to laugh at something the man in the blood-stained apron behind the counter said.  I wait patiently for her on that dusty linoleum as the long line of customers buy pork chops for dinner that night and roast for Sunday.

Monsieur Chenu smiles broadly.  I point to the pile of ruby red meat that says “entrecote.”  I recognize that word from restaurant menus. He wields his cleaver.  Voilà, it’s steak.  Then I point to something I’m sure is veal or lamb.  With that same warm smile and energetic Bonne journée he’s given all his regulars he points me toward the cashier where I can claim my first purchase from a French butcher.

*********

This story is another writing prompt from Write on Edge.  The directions were:
In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”  Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.  Word limit is 300.

Master butcher, M. Chenu -- never without a smile for this tongue-tied alien

Do you have a first time for something?  Share it in the comments box.
Go here if you want to read more about my meat-buying challenges in France.
 

A Snapshot of France

A whimsical window in an average village on a back road of France

It’s rained almost every day except two or three since I’ve been here.  I’ve had my wallet stolen in Paris.  It’s October weather in July.  We have unbearably boisterous Italian neighbors upstairs (how many live in that apartment?).  Brad’s laptop died on the first day.  My lost license means I’m not driving to the music festival I had been planning for since last summer.  The dollar-to-euro exchange is extremely painful.

When the time comes to leave, though, I’ll wish I could stay for one more day.

The rhythm of France, especially Dijon, has begun to feel as familiar as home.  It’s not the only place that calls to me.  Italy is still in my sights.  I haven’t seen the redwoods in California yet.  I could visit Nashville once a month for the rest of my life.  Yet I’ve come to love France, warts and all.

Last night we had our friends, Didier and Françoise, for dinner.  The conversation turned to the disappearance of local farmers who had filled the stalls at the market.  There is more suburban flight to where housing is cheaper and property larger.  Commercial centers (malls) create water run-off because the concrete prevents rain from sinking into the ground, just like in America.  Restaurants in town are catering more to the tastes of tourists.  “Progress” is changing the country.

Yet I bought all the organic produce that went into dinner’s vegetable mélange for about $1.50.  The bread we ate had been made while we slept the night before.  The chocolaty dessert we ate was perfection, not the over-sugared concoctions that pass for chocolate in America.  And we had all night to sit at the table and chat, even if tomorrow was a workday.  France’s appeal for me lies not in the overwhelming offerings of Paris, of the picture perfect chateaux, or the richness of the next boeuf Bourgogne.  I find my pleasure in the quotidian.

So for those who want to know what I see in this country, here are five random reasons I keep coming back:

1) All day, every day, people walk down the street with a bouquet of flowers cradled in one arm and a loaf of fresh bread in the other.  What else is there to say?

2) Shopping for food (which I usually hate) is a community affair.  Much of the town comes out for market day, trailing their shopping carts behind.  They shop.  They talk produce.  The butcher knows them. A vendor cuts an apricot in half and give it to me for free just to prove his fruits are the best.  People stop to chat with friends and neighbors.  Their dogs are enjoying the day out, too.  Then before they head home (with leeks and roses peeking out of the top of their carts), they stop at the café or brasserie or salon de thé for a taste of something and conversation.

Taking a break in Pl. François Rude, Dijon on a busy market morning

 

3) At the grocery store, where I stopped for some organic apricot nectar (something I’ll long for the rest of the year), I was behind a scraggly bleach blonde who looked like she hadn’t been to bed in three days and who was constantly tapping her foot, checking her phone, and muttering to herself as if whatever she had taken that morning hadn’t worn off yet.  However, she did not fail to greet the cashier with the typically enthusiastic bonjour of this country, and when she opened her backpack to pull out her wallet she also pulled out a copy of Aristotle’s Ethics.  This is a country that seems to still read.  Books.  In non-digital format.  People of all ages.  In the center city of Dijon I can pass at least four bookstores on an average day. 

4) Life continues in small towns and villages.  Take a day to travel the back roads instead of the autoroute and you’ll see villages strung out along an extensive bike path, people stopped for refreshment at a tiny café.  No matter the size of the town, there are still planters filled with red geraniums on any bridge that crosses a river, canal, or stream.  There are no abandoned cars and rusting trailers along the routes.  You’ll see posters for upcoming spectacs (entertainments of a wide variety) happening somewhere in the area.  I know they have their problems, but they still keep going.

5) When here I can settle into a pace that says there is time to get everything done.  I know part of the reason is because, to a large extent, I’ve left my life in St. Louis behind.  But France – with its cafés and flowers and back roads and walking everywhere and small apartments – slows time to a level of  human comprehension.  Every year I vow to maintain the rhythm of this life when I return home.  Each year I let it get eaten away by to-do lists, ringing phones, racing to the supermarket before dinner.  I get little writing done, fail to complete long-term projects, don’t take care of myself.  I forget to sit down for a tea break. Then I come to France and decompress within hours.  And vow to not lose this capacity to just chill when I return home.  Let’s see if I can keep that vow this time.

What is one of your favorite places to change perspectives on your life?  Give us a clue to what we’re missing in the comment box.

Even the dogs enjoy an afternoon of shopping in France

Selections from a French Life

Everyone goes to market on Tuesdays

-- I saw a man wearing a yellow straw skimmer with a black band having tea.  He had a very distinctive mole on the side of his face.

-- Walking home from dinner late one night I saw three men lift a small car and detach it from the large trash truck that had hooked it when trying to maneuver a tight corner on a narrow street.  Everyone went back to dinner without a further word.

-- Just because it’s beef bourguignon and it’s served in Burgundy, FR doesn’t make it always good.

-- Hallelujah! Coke Zero is everywhere here.  What’s up with the US?  They make it; why don’t they sell it?

-- My Blackberry is actually getting 3G internet service here.  In St. Louis I can’t even get a good phone connection in my living room.

-- The French must have their bread!  Bastille Day, everything closed except a few boulangeries for the early part of the day.  Line is outside the door and down the sidewalk at mine.  Exiting at various times: lady with small dog, lady with large dog, old man with three large baguettes (hey, where’s the party!), young man on roller skates.

-- The French make a very clear distinction between cocks and hens.  It is coq au vin NOT poulet au vin.

-- The French need a second revolution, or at least a nationwide strike, to improve public toilets.  You would think the country that houses the treasures of the Louvre would see the beauty in clean public toilets with porcelain thrones, not holes in the ground.

-- I truly enjoy having sun-dried laundry.  I don’t care if anyone sees my undies hanging on the line in my window.

-- If the French can grow the most succulent and beautiful fruits and vegetables you’ve ever seen, why do they only serve green beans or a few romaine leaves with an anemic sliced tomato with the meal?

-- I finished lunch at a brasserie and then sat there reading the paper and writing until the “happy hour” crowd started arriving.  A cup of tea will get you a table all day if you want it.

-- Sunday brunch with croissants and quiche and champagne in France brings you one step closer to heaven.  Especially if the gratin pomme de terre is clearly made with heavy cream and gruyère cheese.  And it’s eaten in a walled garden with a gurgling fountain.

A mountain of haricot verts

Market stop

What truths or observations have you come across in the past week?  Share your thoughts or comments here