Awesome

I heard on NPR last week that, if you were a teenager in the ‘80s (as I was), then to positive descriptor word that you would have used would have been, ‘awesome’. I did and still do use this word, a lot. If you were a teen in the ‘90s, your happy word would have been ‘sweet’. Millennials (the teenagers of today) say, ‘bitchin’’ as their word of most coolness.

With every decade comes new (or sometimes recycled) words, interests and fashions. I’d always thought that my parents lucked out with me, as the fashion of my time in the ‘80s was preppy very similar to their preppy fashions of the '50s. At least it was the fashion of the '80s in my white, suburban, conservative childhood town…which, come to think of it was the same town that they grew up in too, so maybe it is not that the same, preppy fashion sense came back around into style, maybe it just never left. I’ll have to think more about that and get back to you in a bit.

Anyway, my niece and nephew came to visit us from the D.C. this past week. They are full-blown teenagers, with their own sense of music and fashion playing an integral role in their lives, as I was to come to appreciate.

My niece, Reva is 12. She and my two oldest daughters, who are a few years younger than she, were thick as thieves; palling around, sleeping in a tent set up in the family room every night, doing make-overs, baking cookies-- they had a blast (note: ‘80s term).

My nephew, Gabe is a very cool 15 year old. So sweet with his younger cousins and easy-going, but absolutely consumed with fashion, music and shopping.

Shopping in European department stores and boutiques was why he came to Switzerland. He’s already got wardrobe of a rock star- droopy jeans and boxer shorts held just above his hip bones by a Gucci belt, non-athletic, athletic shoes, layers of shirts and a slick jacket. He’s even got the oversized, plastic, black, aviator sun glasses that I have seen celebutants like Mary-Ashley-Kate Olsen (or whatever her name is) and Paris Hilton (barf) wearing in ‘Hello’ and ‘People’ magazines.

This dude is a well executed, casually presented, fashioisto.

It was just those sunglasses that threw me. They were reminiscent of the ones that the male star of every cop show in the ‘70s wore (with their large-collared, shiny synthetic shirt, butt-hugging trousers and ubiquitous perm).

When we piled in the car to go downtown to shop, Gabe, sitting next to me in the front seat, slipped them on. “Nice shades,” I said. He just slowly nodded, like he was listening to a new, very funky song.

On Gabe’s request we shopped... A lot. Downtown twice and two little villages that are known for their unique boutiques. But here’s the thing, Reva and my two girls would rush off in a small swarm of energy ALWAYS returning with goodies in hand; earrings and accessories from Claire‘s, skirts from H&M, sweaters from Pimkie’s, sweets from random candy shops. Gabe, on the other hand, bought just one shirt in all of our shopping sprees. I was perplexed.

On their final day of their visit, we drove over to France to the small city of Mulhouse, that has a good pedestrian shopping area. “Now,” I thought, “Gabe is going to fill the car with his fashion finds.” I set off with the girls, while Gabe wanted to shop on his own. After several hours we met up in front of the city’s cathedral to have lunch and then make the drive back home.

Across the cobbled courtyard I saw Gabe walking towards us. In his hand he had one, small bag. Once he reached us, I couldn’t contain my curiosity, I blurted out, “Whad’you get?” “These,” he said. He took off his giant, black, plastic aviator sunglasses, opened the bag and slipped on an identical pair of oversized, black, plastic aviator sunglasses. He stared at me (he is a young man of few words). I looked at him for a moment, then said, “Dude, those are…awesome.”. “Yep,“ he said as he nodded very slowly, “Bitchin‘”.

Zee South of Fraaaahhhnce

My mind was open to what we would find on our trip to the south of France. The drive was beautiful and much easier than I had thought it would be. No one had a tantrum (except for the mister-- and that was to be expected).

Down to Ticino (Switzerland's Italian region), up, around and through the Alps, by-pass Milan, then south further still to Genova, hang a right and curve along the cliffs of the Mediterranean from Italy, quickly through Monaco and finally into France.

The views were spectacular! The water, well it is aptly named Cote D'Azur-- deep indigo gives way to crystal clear teal, finally brilliant turquoise laps at the beaches and white cliffs above. I was glad not to be driving, so that I could just absorb this warmth of colors.

We arrived around dinner time. Aunt Gretchen's kitchen was filled with the fragrance of fennel, thyme, oregano and chicken roasting in the oven. We had a cold glass of dry rose and sat down to eat, talk and catch up.

The following days were dominated by seeking out small villages along the coast, but also up in the hills of Provence-- chasing outdoor markets from one small town to another. Incredible assortments of olives, cheeses, fresh fruit and vegetables and bags upon bags of spices were what caught my eye. The kids liked looking at all the costume jewelry. We all enjoyed many stops in Boulangeries; pain au chocolat (chocolate croissants) for the kids and a simple baguette (to go with the piles of cheese that we bought) for the mister and I.

I had hoped that everything would be sunny and warm and beautiful-- imparting sea colors into my atumnal, gray life (as it were). I was overwhelmed at the beauty there, along the Mediterranean, in 'Zeee South of Fraaahhhnce'. I understand now why it has been visited and adored by so many for hundreds of years.

I hope some day to go back.

Links to towns that we visited:

Gassin
Ramatuelle
Grimaud and Port Grimaud
St. Tropez

Xenophobic Confectioners

Dana and I met in German language class four years ago. She had just moved to Switzerland from Minneapolis, and I had just arrived from Georgia. We hit it off right from the start, developing a friendship as close to sisterhood as I have experienced.

When I was pregnant with the twins and laid up in the hospital on strict bedrest for three months, Dana took care of my life for me. When the babies were born ten weeks prematurely and terribly fragile, Dana stood by me as I morphed from a strong, wise-cracking woman to an emotionally shattered ghost.

After dealing with the serious and intense side of life for nearly two years, we decided to dust off our sense of humor, kick up our heals, kiss the husbands and kids goodbye and head off to Beaune, France http://www.ot-beaune.fr/567000001/home-beaune.htm. Ah, Beaune-- located smack-dab in the middle of Burgundy wine country, it's a small, Medieval town surround by rolling vineyards and pastures with free-roaming, white Charolais cattle (they make for some delicious steaks...).

We enjoyed ourselves to the fullest; eating at fine, French restaurants, shopping at the expansive Saturday market (per my MO, we rented a small apartment so that I could cook with local ingredients), visited a vineyard or two and tasted lots of wine. We soaked it all up.

On our last day in Beaune, we were strolling one of the shopping streets when a candy store caught Dana's eye. We entered the small, cramped shop and looked around. Dana squeeked with joy (she is a fairly tiny woman-- mighty but compact, and prone to enthusiastic 'squeeking') as she found bags of housemade Cassis jellies. They were really expensive, about 20 Euro, but she said that they were her father's favorite (her father also being a foodie). She held tight to the Cassis jellies as we made our way over to the chocolate confection counter to admire the vast assortment. Even though I am not a sweets fan, it was a most enticing display. A couple of other French women were there ordering boxes of handmade chocolates, so we quietly chatted about what we would get when it was our turn. A few other local women came up to the counter, then a few more-- all were being helped before us. While this was annoying, it is also common, to my experience, in Europe-- there's just not the same adherence to lines and order as in North America.

Finally, everyone left and it was our turn. Dana wanted to get a few nice chocolates for her three children. She pulled out her best college French and asked for a number of different chocolates to be placed in her box. Then she asked for one that we didn't see in the case, dark chocolates filled with coconut.

"WHAT?" The confectioner looked at us with disdain. We just stood there, maybe blinked a few times, wondering what the problem was. The xenophobic confectioner went on, "You Americannns want shocolates filled weeth coconutz, or worse, peanut butt-air! Well, you are not IN Americah now-- you are in FRAAANCE and we do not make shocolates with coconutz and peanut butt-air!"

Are you kidding me? This lady's shop is in the middle of the tourist shopping area in a tourist-filled town. I love living in Europe and love vacationing in France, but this woman was as ridiculously closed-minded as the few Americans I know who think all French people are snobs, having never even traveled to France to meet a one.

That was it! I turned on my heel and stormed out of her shop. I was fuming! Dana was right behind me, leaving her half-filled box of 'shocolates' with the mean cofectioner lady. We marched down the pedestrian street angered by the treatment we had just received.

After about two minutes of marching and muttering, Dana stopped. "Oh my God." "What?" I asked, still steaming and annoyed that she had stopped-- we were on a roll. She held up her hand that still clutched the tres expensive Cassis candies. "Should we go back? We should go back." Dana stated. "Hell no! Absolutely not!" I shouted. Dana put up a half-hearted fight. Stealing is bad. Stealing is wrong. I believe this, but I was not going to go back there and admit to that cow that we inadvertantly stole a bag of costly candies-- no way would I give her that satisfaction.

So we didn't go back. And Jack, Dana's father, enjoyed a fine bag of stolen Cassis candies for Father's Day.