Like all Americans, I’ve had New York on my mind this week. I’m sure most of us remember precisely where we were and what we were doing when the Twin Towers collapsed. Incredulity led to horror. Then, a profound sadness. At first, the scope of the tragedy played like a disaster movie out of Hollywood but the individual stories covered on TV and in newspapers made that moment personal, and real. For me, there were no Six Degrees of Separation but only two when I found out a friend had lost his brother-in-law in one of the towers. Arnaud was at a trade show in Las Vegas, immediately got a rental car, and drove to New York to be with his sister and her young children.
New York is a tough city, in more ways than one, and it took me a while to warm up to the Big Apple. It was a passage obligé at the end of my first trip to the US in 1977: we would be flying back from JFK. We so looked forward to experiencing New York: the Empire State building, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Time Square, and Broadway for electronic purchases. At that time, the World Trade Center included the two tallest buildings in the world so, naturellement, we took the speedy elevator in the South Tower to the observation desk. What an incredible view! I could really feel the air movement at a height of 1350 feet and I kept wondering how funambulist Philippe Petit ever spent forty-five minutes tight-rope walking between the towers, a quarter mile above the ground. Over the following three days, we hit all the landmarks and we were exhausted. The “verticality” of New York was too oppressive: we drove up to rural Connecticut.
After 9/11/01, I felt an obligation to help NYC rebuild: instead of flying once a year for my major trade show, I made three visits. To this day, I still fly to New York at least twice a year. Coming from California, I usually land at night. I always try to book a window seat on the right side of the plane on my way to JFK: we fly over Manhattan, usually just across Central Park, and I get to see the lights of the city: it’s a 2-minute magical moment. For a few years, the southwestern tip of the island was noticeably dark, a somber reminder of the lives and lights that had been snuffed out at the World Trade Center. On this more recent picture, you can see the beacon of the newest, tallest building in Manhattan, the Freedom Tower. Freedom. Hope. Peace, perhaps. It always looks peaceful from up high.
Vocabulary
Le passage obligé: lit. obligatory venue, a must-see
Naturellement: lit. naturally, of course.
THE CANNERY
Continued from Modesto, first look
We left Yosemite Park and returned to Modesto: after taking in the view from Glacier Point, mingling with very friendly écureuils, and driving through a giant sequoia it was time to get back to civilization and get ready for work. We were settling in Modesto for a few weeks to fulfill one of our business school requirements: we had to work for one month en usine, performing blue-collar tasks. Some of our friends had done seasonal work in California canneries during previous summers and we had a visa that authorized us to be employed. The procedure was straight forward: show up, sign up, and wait to be called. Hence the importance of having a domicile fixe and a phone number.
We drove to the apartment we had agreed to rent a few days before only to find out the manager no longer wanted us to be tenants: she had called the cannery and realized we would be leaving after a month. Que faire? We had to find another place. We hooked up with other students: they were renting an apartment on Paradise Road and another unit was available. We rushed over there to check it out and it was perfect: spacious and furnished, with laundry facilities and a swimming pool! Only ten minutes from the cannery with our Torino! It would truly be paradise.
A couple of days later, I was starting my first shift as a sorter: basically, I spent eight hours standing in front of a moving belt carrying loads of tomatoes. My job was to look for and remove any fruit that exhibited black mold and to discard anything that did not meet the definition of tomato: weeds, soda cans, small animals, etc. Since tomatoes were harvested by giant aspirateurs, everything that was present in the field would get sucked in. I must say it was the hardest job I ever had. Although I was assigned to the morning shift, August temperatures routinely reached 95ºF and the sorters’ lines were set outside, under a metal roof. Standing in one place for eight hours was uncomfortable and staring at tomatoes continuously moving before my eyes was making me dizzy and mildly seasick. To add insult to injury, my supervisor was not very impressed by my performance and kept urging me to “try to be a little faster with your hands.”
After a couple of days, she thankfully moved me to another position (clean up duties) and we eventually became good friends. We chatted during lunch and breaks; she had three French students working in her shift and she was curious about our native country and our travel plans after our stage. One day she asked me where we were staying; I happily shared our address on Paradise Road. She was absolutely horrified. Unbeknownst to us, our “paradisiac” apartment was located in one of the worst neighborhoods. In fact, a dead body had been found in our dumpster the week before we moved in! I’m happy to report that none of us got killed or maimed. We didn’t interact with our neighbors very much (we worked 6 days a week) but I’ll never forget that day in August 1977 when Elvis died: everybody seemed to congregate outside their apartments in disbelief and talk about what The King meant to them. Of course, all the radio stations were playing his songs. For some reason, it felt like the end of an era; we were not Americans but I felt we were all sharing a significant moment.
We spent four weeks on Paradise Road while working at the cannery. Tomato is still one of my favorite foods. I discovered turkey lunch meat, American cheese, and Mexican salsa. My coworkers looked at me with amusement at first but, eventually, took me into their fold and brought me plums, figs, and peaches from their gardens. They even threw a mini lunch party on our last day at work, bringing home-made sweets and cookies. As we were getting ready for our big road trip across the United States, I said goodbye to my supervisor. Five years later, she became my belle-mère…
Vocabulary
L’écureuil: squirrel
En usine: in a factory
Le domicile fixe: lit. a permanent home, a residence
Que faire: what to do
L’aspirateur: vacuum cleaner
Le stage: internship
La belle-mère: mother-in-law. Also, stepmother
MODESTO, FIRST LOOK
Continued from The Torino.
The trip had been planned in great details. After landing in California, we would purchase a car, drive to Modesto to register at the cannery where we would work for one month, then start our road trip across the USA, staying at campgrounds along the way. The itinerary was set and dates were nailed down so we could pick up mail from France at General Delivery in some of the cities we would pass through. Our own version of “If it’s Tuesday, it must be New Orleans…”
After buying our mustard yellow Torino, we were chomping at the bit: still in Oakland (nothing to see), so close to San Francisco (lots to see.) We decided to drive across the bridge for a first taste of the City by the Bay. Spectacular! We spent most of our time around Fisherman’s Wharf, admiring Alcatraz surrounded by jade waters, and trying out a sandwich at Boudin's. We realized that French bread, like French dressing, was not really French after all. Late afternoon, we picked up some groceries at Safeway in the Marina district and headed out to the Berkeley Hills: our California map showed a tent icon there, indicating the presence of a campground.
It was dusk, and then it was dark. We were still trying to find that campground. Eventually, we noticed a wooded area with some picnic tables and a couple of parked cars. We had arrived. We turned our flashlights on, unloaded the gear, set up the tents, cooked some pork chops and rice, and called it a day. The next morning, it quickly became obvious that our first camping night had been sauvage: there were no facilities of any kind save for the picnic tables. But we were prepared for everything: teeth were brushed and business was done, in a very ecological manner. We boiled water for coffee, fried some eggs, and devour them with untoasted white bread. We packed our gear and headed out to Modesto.
We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and filled up the Torino at a station service on 5th Street. As soon as we got out of the car, we were immediately welcomed by the infamous Valley heat, a prelude to the temperatures we would contend with during the whole month of August. We drove to the cannery, signed up at the personnel office and told Kathy (personnel manager) we would give her our address and phone number as soon as we had secured an apartment to rent. We spent that night camping at the Modesto Reservoir, a legit campground. Taking a shower was wonderful, watching young Americans brush their teeth under a running faucet was surprising: I was the only one using a plastic goblet. Does your father own the water company?
We drove to town early, had breakfast at –the now defunct– Smitty’s coffee shop on 9th Street, picked up a copy of the Modesto Bee, and poured over the “For Rent” ads to find an apartment. We only needed a place for one month and there were seven of us but, in reality, we would be working different shifts: a two-bedroom apartment would suffice. We drove to Villa Verde South on Coffee Road, had a pleasant meeting with the manager where I pretended there were only three of us: me, my “brother," and my “boyfriend.” We were quite impressed by the spaciousness of the apartment, at least, by Parisian standards! I signed on the dotted line, paid the security deposit and one month rent. We congratulated ourselves for finding a place so easily and arranged to get phone service tout de suite. We knew the cannery would not need us for a few days and we drove off to Yosemite. What could possibly go wrong?
To be continued...
Vocabulary
Le camping sauvage: lit. wild camping; setting up your tent in an area not specifically designated for camping.
La station service: gas station
Tout de suite: right away.
THE TORINO
Continued from The Arrival
Right after our protein-rich American breakfast, we picked up a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle to scour the classifieds in search of the perfect vehicle. Our knowledge of American cars was pretty much confined to what we had seen on TV and on the silver screen: Steve McQueen’s Mustang and Michael Douglas’s Ford Galaxie. But we knew American cars came in two sizes: huge and huger. We needed something in the "huger" category to transport seven passengers, suitcases, tents, and sleeping bags. We zeroed in on station wagons priced at $1000 or less and found two candidates. We split up: Fred and Jean-Marc took BART to check on the two leads, the rest of us stayed in Oakland to kick tires at used car lots on Auto Row. We would rendezvous at the end of the day at the Hilton where our first night was comped.
First off, we hunted down a Western Union office to send telegrams (telegrams!) to our families. We could find public pay phones at every street corner but they were not a good option because of the amount of change required for international calls. The nine hours of décalage horaire didn’t help either. Then we walked up and down Broadway in search of a suitable car. Dismal results. After several hours spent trekking in the sun and fighting sleepiness, we only had one viable prospect: a mustard yellow Ford Torino with 135,000 miles on the odometer and a price tag of $1200. We hoped Jean-Marc and Fred had better luck. Alas, they came back bredouille as well: the first car had already been sold by the time they got to that address; the second one, all the way south in Daly City, turned out to be a tas de ferraille.
We comforted ourselves with a meal of Big Macs, French fries and chocolate shakes. In our book, this was quite a treat: there were only two McDonalds in Paris in 1977 (or in France, for that matter) and eating at a fast food joint was borderline elitist. In retrospect, it sounds very weird. Summarizing our day, we realized that intellectual knowledge and life experience are two sides of a coin. Our tired feet confirmed what our foggy brains had known for some time: European cities are dense, American ones are spread out. Utterly exhausted, we retired for the evening with the assurance that tomorrow would be another day: we were in America and Scarlet had said so.
The next morning, we quickly gulped down a Continental breakfast. We knew we would have to check out soon and it would be impossible to go car hunting with all our luggage: we agreed to bust the budget and buy the Torino. After a bit of negotiation, we shook hands with the dealer for $1150 and a spare tire. Traveler's checks (traveler's checks!) were signed and I was now the proud owner of one seventh of a car, my first car. Set up with our own wheels, camping gear, and a brand new copy of the Guide du Routard, we felt free, independent, and confident. We were looking forward to the most excellent adventures. They started that very night when we camped in the hills of Berkeley.
Continues at Modesto, First Look
Vocabulary
Le décalage horaire: time difference
Bredouille: empty handed
Le tas de ferraille: scrapheap, lit. a pile of scrap iron
Le Guide du Routard: The Rough Guide (at that time, the Rough Guides were quite a bit “rougher” than their current edition. They were the hitchhiker and backpacker’s bible and promoted traveling on a dime.)
THE ARRIVAL
It was 40 years ago and my dream had come true. Dad drove me to Roissy-CDG, the brand spanking new airport in Paris: so modern, so revolutionary, so efficient with its camembert design. I know, I know: it hasn’t aged well. I checked in my luggage and we walked together to my gate. Yes, Virginia, there was a time where friends and family could accompany you all the way to the boarding area. We joined the other six students from my business school who would be my traveling companions for the next two and a half months. A DC-8 operated by Martinair –a Dutch airline specializing in charter flights– took us to Amsterdam where we waited for three hours. Then on to Bangor, ME where we arrived before sunrise and waited for another three hours. Finally, we were off to California. Oakland to be precise, which in my mind was just a secondary airport for glorious San Francisco, like Orly had become for Paris.
July 18, 1977 and it was barely 7 am. As the wheels touched the tarmac, I noticed herds of jack rabbits racing with us on the grass patch separating the runways. How odd! I had been up for some thirty-five hours and thought I was perhaps hallucinating but my seatmate confirmed the sighting. After we deplaned a CIEE representative greeted us and shuttled us to the Oakland Hilton for an orientation meeting and a hearty breakfast: weak coffee (du jus de chaussette), steak and eggs (quoi? Au p’tit dej?), and Iceberg lettuce doused with "French" dressing (jamais plus!) Obviously, we were not in Kansas anymore… We had planned this trip for months and, two hours in, we quickly realized that we were not remotely prepared for the cultural challenges. But, hey, we were 19-20 years old and we would roll with the punches. Besides, we had our master plan. First order of business: purchase a used car, large enough to accommodate seven adults, their personal effects, and their camping gear; reliable enough to take us on a cross-country trip all the way to New York City; and affordable enough to fit a poor student budget. Piece of cake. Or so we had been told...
Continues at The Torino
Vocabulary
Le camembert: a famous cheese from Normandy. CDG1 is often referred to as a camembert because of its round, squatty shape
Le jus de chaussette: literally, sock juice; to qualify pale and tasteless coffee
Quoi: what
Le p’tit dej: short and familiar for le petit déjeûner, breakfast
Jamais plus: never again
AMERICAN GRAFFITI
Everybody who grew up in Modesto during the 1950s has fond memories of cruising, that adolescent rite of passage immortalized by George Lucas in his 1973 film American Graffiti. Yes, the force is strong in Modesto but car culture is stronger yet! A spontaneous Friday night activity for teenagers anxious to show off their cars and pick up some dates, cruising originally took place on 10th street but had already moved to McHenry Avenue –the “new” main drag– by the time Modesto became my home; instead of a weekly happening, it had morphed into a once-a-year celebration (Graffiti Night) held on Saturday night right after graduation.
I personally never joined the bumper-to-bumper parade: I like to keep a bit of distance from noxious fumes… Rick and I preferred to walk down the street and admire the shiny classic cars and custom hot rods. Besides, the street offered terrific entertainment as well: 50s and 60s music, girls in poodle skirts, cops on horses, the very heavily tattooed guy who showed up with a huge python coiled around his neck year after year.
The City Council banned cruising in 1993 as the event had become too unruly. There were several dark years where Modesto seemed to forget its rich car history. Graffiti Night was finally resurrected into Graffiti Summer: throughout June, car aficionados from all over descend upon Modesto to enjoy several classic and custom car shows, festivals, Hula Hoop contests, and a “regulated” car parade that once again extends to McHenry Avenue. Maybe it’s no longer spontaneous enough for George Lucas; maybe he’d rather keep the memories of his youth intact. The Native Son has attended only once.
I did a double-take last year when I was in Paris: there was a car show right behind the Hôtel de Ville and all vehicles on display were belles américaines, like the legendary Chevys and Fords of American Graffiti, the true stars of the movie. Guess what: George wasn’t there either.
Vocabulary
Les belles américaines: the beautiful American cars (i.e. classics)
THE SKY'S THE LIMIT
During the 1980s, I got to fly almost all over the USA; it was a (welcome) job requirement. When traveling from one coast to the other, I usually transited through O’Hare airport in Chicago.
I remember the first time I experienced the “tunnel of lights” between the B and C concourses. Instead of dragging my suitcase on a numbing people mover confined within drab concrete walls, I found myself transported through a luminous wonderland: bright waves of multicolor neon tubes undulating from the ceiling while complimentary glass blocks lit up the walls. A rainbow of colors cycled rhythmically to the tune of Rhapsody in Blue. What a beautiful way to conjugate art and practicality.
Thirty years later, I always look forward to landing at a C gate. Michael Hayden’s The Sky’s The Limit art installation is familiar, yet still exciting. I feel like a little kid enjoying a two-minute ride in Disneyland: a spring in my step, a smile on my face, and peace on my mind.
LOST IN ALMOND LAND
One of my favorite sights in the Central Valley of California is the blooming of almond trees in the early spring when the bare gray limbs disappear under a thick canopy of white blossoms. Almond production has increased at a frantic pace during the past two decades and new orchards sprouted in fields once planted with tomatoes or simply used as cow pastures. My ride to work takes me through country roads lined with dense orchards; this week, the low white skies and the thick white flowers enveloped me in a gauzy cocoon.
And yet, there is one almond orchard I still miss, the victim of another trend in the Valley: rampant urbanization. It was located in Manteca at the junction of SR 120 and Hwy 99, where the elevated off-ramp dips downward and curves South. Apartment buildings, storage units, and strip malls have replaced the huge almond orchard that was nestled within the ramp and extended as far as the eye could see.
On a clear February afternoon many years ago, Rick and I were driving back from San Francisco airport. As we left 120 to head home, my eyes lingered on the exploding blooms to my right, thick cottony pillows framed by deep blue skies. For a moment, I thought I was still on the plane, watching our descent from above the clouds and then through them. A second reentry. A second landing. Terra firma again.