Detour through France: the book

As of yesterday, I launched a new blog site which links to this one: SuzansVenture

I am beginning to work on my book, "Detour through France". This book entwines my personal story with my uncle's story as told in his letters (1943-1944).  I follow him as he is inducted into the Army and trains for the Allied invasion of Normandy.

A book in progress deserves the occasional update for potential readers so, voila, it's there at SuzansVenture.

As well as researching and writing this book, I still indulge daily in my pursuit of French and writing in both languages.
More to come at this blog as well... 

Starbucks in Paris

People often think visiting an American fast-food outlet in Paris is as useful as that old joke: providing refrigerators to the Eskimos. That is, why would you go to a Starbucks when there are a bazillion cute French cafés in the city? Strolling down a boulevard, one can thread through the crowd to find countless places at which (morning, noon or night) one partakes in un café et plus. However, as I found out last January in Paris, there are so many good reasons to patronize Starbucks.

I have very bad feet when it comes to standing or walking too much. I am always looking for the nearest place to rest. I’ve never associated the thought of my feet with coffee in the past, but on this particular trip it became necessary to find places that I could rest for an hour or more.

If you have not had the opportunity to experience French cafés, for the most part they are delightful. The espresso machine is always ready, there are usually inexpensive offerings on the menus, and in modern times there is also a public restroom. One is never hurried out the door no matter how busy the establishment might be. This is good for my feet most of the time.

Parisian waiters, in even the smallest place, are efficient and professional… one doesn’t try to pass the time of day with them! Don’t expect them to greet you with something like “Hi, I’m Jacques. I will be waiting on you today.  May I bring you a beverage while you linger over the menu?” and after the order they will not say, “Would you like pommes frites with that?” No, they treat you as though you are important, a qualified customer and as though you actually know what you want to order without coaching. 

Don’t expect smiles. French culture does not require smiling. Do not interpret this to mean you are being ignored because you won't be. Also, don't expect French waiters to stop by your table every few minutes and ask, “Is everything is all right?” I like that. I don’t enjoy having my conversations interrupted for no particular reason. The staff will wait until you call them so as not to unduly disturb a customer. If you want the bill, call for it.

Well, despite the nice qualities of the French café, they do have a rather large drawback. While there are many seats and tables, they are so close together that often one can’t sit without having the table pulled in and out by the staff to allow access to the seat at the table. This is true for most Paris restaurants and most of France. So they are not the best place to put one’s feet up and relax. (I can only imagine the revulsion staff and customers alike would express if one did put his or her feet up on a piece of furniture.)

One week end we were on foot, covering great distances in central Paris, and I needed a place to rest. It was cold, so an outdoor café experience was unappealing. The traditional café indoors offered no room to stretch out. But there before us was a Starbucks. We entered.

My first revelation was that Starbucks was offering a superior cup of coffee compared to that which I had been drinking in the cafés. Stunned, I looked around more carefully. The seating was as spacious as or more so than in my home city. French families were enjoying the casual, spacious atmosphere. French students were using the Internet at tables to study and do homework. I was able to elevate my feet on a chair enough to be comfortable-- and no one came by to ask me to put my stocking feet down!

After that pleasant experience, we stopped at a number of Starbucks in Paris. The last one I was in was near the Montmartre train station. I had talked my husband into stopping with me for a hot chocolate before he went to work and I went to my French language school.  
But, I found one could relax too much. Finishing our morning beverages, we packed up and left. I was about 25 yards from the Starbucks door when my husband heard someone calling “Madame!” Turning, I saw one of Starbucks’ staff holding up my bag containing passport, money, and other essentials.  “Merci! Merci! Merci!” I exclaimed running back. He smiled! What a nice lasting memory of Paris and its people.