What Side is Your Bread Bloody On?

After herding my mother and her friend, Madge, on to the train in Bruges, with directions on how to switch trains in Brussels and a pre-arranged hotel reservation awaiting them in Amsterdam, I turned the Brain and said, "I'll bet that's the last time I see my mother alive."

I was certain that she would forget to get off the train in Amsterdam and would end up in Poland or Belarus.

The Brain patted me on my shoulder sympathetically and said, "It's for the best."

We, too, had a train to catch for Brussels, and then on to the TGV for Paris. I shouldered my backpack and marched off to our train.

...

After about a week in France, we arrived in Arles, a small city in Provence about 90 km north of Marseilles. Arles is a delightful town of old buildings and older still Roman ruins, the most impressive of which is not a ruin at all, but a still functioning Roman coliseum. We had only intended to stay in Arles for two nights, but my body had other plans. While lifting a pair of pants to hang them up in the closet one morning, my back spasmed.

Spasm is not a precise enough word to describe what happened to me. A better description would be a large, invisible man stepped up behind me and punched me just under my left shoulder blade. As hard as he could. With a four foot piece of rebar. Heated. Twice.

With a cry, I collapsed to the ground, where I lay immobilized, barely able to breath. A normal person might, at this moment, think "Well, gosh, this isn't right. Perhaps I should call a doctor." I, on the other hand having never laid claim to normality in any form, found myself on my back, looking up through the open window at a perfectly blue sky, thinking "What a pretty blue sky. It really is stunningly blue. My, my back hurts. That sky sure is blue." Tears filled my eyes at the sight of that blue sky and the sudden knowledge that I, now infirmed by a traitorous back, would not get to see much of it.

I crawled, literally inch by painful inch, to the bed. It took me 10 minutes to go from the window of my room to the bed. When I finally had to go to the bathroom, it took me another 10 minutes to go from the bed to the toilet, which I had to heave myself up on to, wincing and moaning with each breath. The Brain tried to help as best he could, but often his pulling and lifting just somehow made it worse and I had to wave him away.

Lying in bed, itself, was not painful, though it was humiliating. Here I was, on a trip I had planned for years, in a beautiful town in Southern France, on a perfect day, and I was lying in a bed. And I wasn't going anywhere.

Our two day stay extended to five as I recuperated. By the next day, I could stroll slowly and solemny about the town, as long as I didn't lift my arms. By the day after that, I could drive, and we visited the Pont du Gard and Avignon. It was in Avignon, in the Palace of the Popes, that we encountered The Ugly American.

She was old, but not elderly, a woman in the prime of her sixties. She had a wispy blue scarf tied around her huge bowl of white-grey-blonde-blue hair, as if trying to hide her embarassment. Of course, the woman had no shame, being as she was The Ugly American.

The Palace of the Popes is a medieval castle, perfectly intact and impressively large, set atop a steep cliff above the Rhone. It's a museum now, of course, and when you enter it, you are given a black wand that looks very much like a foot-long cellular telephone. As you stroll through the palace, you punch in numbers displayed on cards in each room to hear a pleasant voice tell you about what you are seeing. It's all very simple, clear to anyone capable of dialing a telephone and holding it to a ear. Yet, its use completely baffled The Ugly American.

In the middle of a cavernous room, with remarkable accoustics, she began waving her black wand back and forth in the air, screaming at the top of her lungs, "Helllloooo! How do I get this thing to work? Helllloooo!?"

Unfortunately, I was quite near her when she began her tirade. The Brain was up a flight of stairs, intent on the details the pope's garderobe.

"Helllloooo?! Does anyone here speak English?!"

In all truth, had she not said the last bit, I very well may have stepped up and helped her myself. But she had managed in five-little words to convey everything that is absolutely wrong with Americans.

Does anyone here speak English?

"Of course they do, you embarrassing idiot," I thought, "just not to you."

A pretty young french girl wearing a t-shirt that identified her as an employee of the museum came over, and in perfect, polite English, asked the woman what was the matter.

"This thing," she shouted at the girl, shaking the handset in her face, "doesn't work."

The french girl held out her hand, and the Ugly American gave up the handset.

"Madam," she said, "you just need to press the 'Play' button, see? Here, let me show you." She young girl pressed the large bright green, clearly-labeled PLAY button on the black handset and handed it back to the woman, who held it to her ear. She eyed the girl suspisciously.

"It wasn't working before." she said.

"Madam," replied the girl, "if you want, I'll get you another handset."

The woman declined the offer and without thanking the girl, turned and walked away. A moment later, she began shouting again, this time for her husband. I'd seen him about when the whole fracas began, crouching and slinking away into the treasury hall, no doubt wondering how he might explain their grandmother's sudden disappearance in France to his grandchildren when he got back home.

The young girl watched the woman walk away, and the practiced smile melted from her face to something not angry, not reproachful, but placid and serene. I was about to step up to her and apologize. I wanted to say something like, "Je suis très désolé, nous ne sommes pas tout comme elle." (I am very sorry, we are not all like her.). However, two things about her serene, placid expression stopped me.

First, I knew she'd dealt with Ugly Americans before.

Second, I knew no matter what I said, it would not change her expression: she knew Americans were assholes and my apology wouldn't change that. Her expression derived from the perfect contentment of one absolutely certain of the veracity of her beliefs.

...

The next day, the Brain and I wandered the narrow streets Arles, doing some errands and enjoying the town for one last day. My back was on the mend and we had promised to meet my mother and Madge in Florence the next morning. We intended to take a night train into Italy, arriving in Florence in the early morning. But the train was hours away and at the moment we wanted something to eat. We avoided the touristy-looking spots and crawled up and down the town, looking for something interesting.

At the intersection of three alleys, we found it, a little brasserie named Saveur de Provence, the Flavor of Provence. It was absolutely empty of tourists, and that suited us fine.

As we passed into the brasserie, an unshaven man - obviously the chef - looked up from his cigarette, coffee, and paper to glance at us. His white apron was stained with kitchen colors, browns and reds, so much so that he looked a bit like a color-blind painter. A large woman - obviously the chef's wife - hustled over to us from behind the bar.

"Bonjour! Bonjour!" she greeted us. "Two for lunch? Or coffee, perhaps?"

"Bonjour, madam. Yes, lunch, please, madam." we replied in our very polite, very stilted French.

The Brain describes French as "just like English, only specific and polite." He goes on to add that the way you translate an English sentence into a French sentence and get your pronouns right and your syntax in the correct order is to place an imaginary "sire" at the end of each phrase. Thus, to figure out how to ask for a room in French, you start with your basic English question, "Do you have a room?", make it specific, as in "Is it that you have a room available for renting this night?" toss in the polite words "Sir" and "please" and then for good measure, so you get the tone just right, add an imaginary "sire" at the end.

Thus, "Do you have a room?" becomes in your brain, "Sir, please, is it that you have a room available for renting this night, sire?" Voila, perfect French.

The reverse is true going back the other way, of course, and is a great aid to the traveler reading a french newspaper or short-story.

Remembering this is quite simply the key to a pleasant stay in France. As long as you keep your sentences short, precise, polite, and remember to hum "sire" at the end of it in your mind, the French will jump through hoops for you and exclaim, quite honestly, that "You speak French really well. Are you English?"

Much to his chagrin, the Brain learned the hard way that the French are exceedingly prickly when liberties are taken with respect to the polite beginning, middle, and end of a conversation. This is lesson number two for surviving in France. Start every conversation with "hello". Sprinkle the conversation liberally with "sir", "madam", "miss", "please", and "thank you". And, finally, always always always end your conversation with a cheery "goodbye". Once, while we were driving through the countryside, the Brain needed something to drink and we stopped at a convenience store in some small village. He walked into the store, and without thinking simply asked, "Où est les bouteilles d'eau?" to the young lady behind the counter. She looked at him not with anger or displeasure, but with a stark and utterly confused look on her face. The Brain had spoken the sentence quite clearly and she'd plainly understood it. She was confused because he had simply not followed the rules of polite conversation. The Brain calculated his error at once, and a little voice in his head peeped, "Congratulations! You're an Ugly American!" The girl finally recovered from her confusion and directed him to the bottled water. The Brain attempted to repair the situation, switching to his stilted and exceedingly polite French, but it was simply too late, she knew him for exactly who and what he was. He heaved himself heavily into the car and was inconsolable until we reached the hotel.

The matron at the Flavor of Provence sat us at a window table and asked us what we wanted.

"A pastis, please, madam." I replied, "And my friend would like a kir, please." Kir and pastis were brought in due order, along with the carte so we could decide what to eat.

"Pardon me, madam." I said, "but what are the specials of the house today?"

"Ah," she said, smiling, "today have chicken rolls with potatoes and chicken gizzards, fried, with salad."

"I would like the gizzards, please, madam." said the Brain with pep. He knew I'd not eat them, and it would be rude for him to order the special I would eat.

"And I would like the chicken roll, please, madam. And may we have a pitcher of wine, too, please?"

"Of course." She was really quite nice. Like many people in Southern France, she was dark, Italianesque. She was matronly and fit. She spoke quickly and we had to listen carefully to understand her. Everyone in Arles spoke very quickly, we decided since arriving. We had no trouble understanding people in Paris or Burgundy. The Parisians spoke with an accent familiar to our ears and the Burgundians, being mostly farmers, spoke like farmers anywhere, very slowly. But here in Arles, perhaps because of the proximity of the Mediterranean, the people spoke in clippingly fast French, and we struggled daily to understand them.

A few minutes later, she returned with the pitcher of red wine and a sliced baguette. Her husband, the chef, stubbed out his cigarette and shambled into the kitchen. We sat and chatted, sipping the wine and nibbling the bread.

It was at this moment that I noticed a peculiar tinge on the bottom of my piece of baguette. Just a splotch of brilliant red. I shrugged, figuring it to be some red ink that had obviously rubbed off of the plastic bag she carried the bread back from the market in. It never occurred to me that it was what it was. I munged away at more pieces of baguette, flipping them over to inspect the splotches of crimson on their bottoms. I even pointed out the odd color to the Brain, and expressed my ink-rubbing theory to him.

Finally, the matron returned with our entrees. I noticed her left hand was wrapped in a profusely bloody kitchen towel. I pursed my lips in thought. An idea was germinating in my mind. No, I shook my head, too horrible to contemplate.

As she lifted the now empty plate that had held the half-dozen hunks of baguette, the full horror of the situation was there to see on the table, a thick oozy circle of congealing blood that had pooled beneath the plate.

"Oh, my lord!" the matron exclaimed upon seeing the blood on the table. She grabbed another towel from the bar and quickly began to wipe it up, explaining, "Oh, my lord! I am so sorry. See, I cut myself on a knife in the kitchen when I was slicing the bread. Oh, my lord!"

It occured to me that based on the amount of blood extant on the table, the woman had not only cut herself, but had stabbed herself repeatedly. I asked if she was alright, to which she replied that she was fine, just fine. The table now cleaned of the blood, she offered us a cheerful if somewhat strained "bon apetit" and left us to our chicken rolls and gizzards.

I calculated for a moment. Would I die from ingesting this woman's blood? What strange disease was I now in danger of getting? Should I purge? Am I still hungry?

I remembered once, when I was a child, going the refrigerator after play. My mother kept a jar of Ovaltine for me and my brothers to use out on the counter. With the efficiency of a child expert in the making and consumption of Ovaltine, I poured a glass of milk, dumped a ludicrous amount a Ovaltine into it, and stirred. When the drink had turned a rusty brown, I lifted it my mouth and began to inhale the cold ambrosia.

After the three or four impatient gulps, my face twisted into disgusted confusion. What was that flavor? Then it hit me: Oh god, the milk is spoiled and I'm going to die! How much did I swallow? What should I do? Should I throw-up? No, they always say don't throw up if you drink poison! Oh god, I'm going to die!

I gagged and coughed, pouring the rest of the tainted Ovaltine down the drain, then sat on the couch and waited to die. My mother came into the room three or four times, doing motherly things about the house. Finally, she paused and asked, "Honey, why are you just sitting on the couch?"

"I'm waiting to die." I replied.

She looked at me, perplexed. "You'll have to wait a long time, I think. Why don't you go outside and play."

I obeyed her and dragged myself outside to play and wait to die.

This memory flooded back to me as I stared down at my chicken roll and potatoes. I'd hadn't died from the spoiled milk, even though I drank nearly half the glass. I hadn't even gotten sick. Sure, the bread was a little bloody, but it wasn't that much blood. Just a little drop or two on each slice. Nothing to worry about. It was nothing. You probably get more germs just talking to her. Nope, nothing to worry about.

"Was that a load of blood or what?" burst out the Brain, "How much of that shit did you eat, anyway?"

Stabbing my chicken roll with my fork, I glared at him, trying to decide what painful revenge I could exact.

"These gizzards are tee-rific!" he prattled on. "What's the matter? Feel sick? Want a gizzard?"

"No." I mumbled, as I sliced into my chicken roll, taking a bite and thinking to myself, "Technically, I already qualify as a cannibal. Might as well kill him, too. He'd probably taste like this chicken roll."

When we finished and paid, we passed the matron and the chef at the table. They were both reading the paper, sipping coffee, and smoking cigarettes. The chef glanced up at us, then returned to his paper. The matron stood and bowed slightly.

"Was everything fine?" she asked.

"Absolutely," said the Brain. "Let me tell you. We've eaten at many places in France. In Paris. In Burgundy. But this food was the best we've had."

The matron hooted with delight. With surprising visciousness, as if we had suddenly stepped into a long-running domestic fight, she turned to her morose husband-chef saying, "You see! You see! The best in France, they say! They've eaten in Paris and they say your food is better. Your food! You see! What do I keep telling you?"

The chef grumbled and chewed on his cigarette, barely raising his eyes over the paper to look at us or his wife. When we paid our respects to them both and left, she was still yelling at him about how good his food was.

Yes, I admitted to myself, it really was that good.

As we walked back to the hotel, the Brain couldn't help himself. "Was that a lot of blood, or what?"