A Provençal Christmas Memory

We like to think it was better in the good old days, more snow at Christmas, simpler ways, less fuss over shopping—or ordering from amazon prime, more giving from the heart. In some ways we may be right, in others, surely wrong. Times change; the human heart is constant, we’ve always been good at love and at hate.

I have had memorable Christmases, one of the most, in Provence, where Noël takes on mythical proportions for the French. I did not experience a traditional Provençal Christmas, with its 7 dishes and its 13 desserts, but I was there, early in the morning, hiking in the mountains, to a high crest above the Mediterranean, with on one side the sea, on the other, France as about as unpeopled as it gets, another sea, this one of stone, waves of arid, jagged mountains, swelling towards the distant snowcapped peaks of the Alps.

We had a picnic in our backpacks, some fresh baguette (French bakeries open very early in the morning, every day of the year, because bread is indeed the country’s staff of life), some saucisson sec, dried pork sausage easy to cut with a pocketknife, a chunk of hard cheese, some apples, a bottle of water, a thermos of coffee, a simple Christmas feast.

It was cold where we’d left the car, in a small village, a cluster of stone houses, a simple church, in the shadow of hills to the east. The ground was covered with frost, smoke rose in white tendrils from terra cotta chimney pots set atop red tiled roofs. Sheep grazed in nearby fields, their bells tinkling in the pure, brisk morning air.

 

We climbed and climbed following steep paths used for centuries by shepherds and contrebandiers, smugglers. Sometimes hillsides were terraced, the remains of what once may have been olive groves, orchards or vineyards. On a high plateau, in the golden light, we came upon an abandoned chapel, its entrance, a round stone arch; its only window, a split in the wall of the nave, perfectly placed so the morning light fell on the stone altar.

We stopped for some water before we embarked on the steepest part of our ascent. Far below we could see the village from where we started. The sun had risen above the hills, and rooftops were steaming; surrounding fields had gone from frosty white to brown. We were hungry but agreed, our Christmas feast had to wait till we got to the top.

The terrain was rockier, better suited to goats than humans. We had to watch our step, sometimes using our hands to rise from one level to the next. But the crest was within reach and all our energy went into getting there.

When we did, overheated despite the cool air, faces flushed, we plopped down on a smooth rock. We caught our breath, then filling our lungs with the mountain air, embraced a spectacular view encompassing sea, mountains and snow.

And something else. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. Had the effort been too much? Was I hallucinating?

The sun was high; the sky, a brittle blue. Not a cloud, no mist, only sun, sea, coast and mountains. And out to sea, a giant emerald emerging from the swirl of aquamarine waters. It glistened, its emerald beauty crowned with a golden halo. Really, was I imagining things?

No. This was Corsica. The island was 150 miles away. Sightings from the mainland coastal mountains were rare. A set of atmospheric conditions had to line up just right. That Christmas day, everything was in place for what remains one of the most stupendous visual experiences of my life and one of the best Christmas presents I’ve ever received. 

After our climb, we’d earned our picnic. Contemplating the island wonder before our eyes, we ate slices of saucisson, broke off pieces of baguette and cheese, washed it all down with water and drank hot coffee with apples for dessert. Our fatigue, the cold air, the mountain silence and the companionable silence we kept, brought out the flavor of our meal and never have bread, dried sausage and cheese tasted so good. More than a Christmas meal, this was a Christmas feast, with a feast for the eyes not being the least of our pleasures.

After resting, we chose a different route down, towards a different village, where even on Christmas day, a bakery was open in the afternoon. This one had a few tables where you could have hot drinks with your pastry. In one of the glass cases, Provençal Epiphany cakes were on display.

In northern France, where it’s called a “galette,” the Epiphany cake, round and flat, is made of buttery puff pastry and filled with almond paste. It is heavy and rich. In Provence and across much of southern France, the Epiphany cake is more like a very light and sweet bread. It is decorated with candied fruit and rock sugar. For this kind of cake, texture and sweetness are everything. It must be light but not too airy nor too sweet. 

 

Once again, that Christmas day bestowed on us an unexpected gift, a perfect Epiphany cake, decorated with candied orange peel and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It was delicious with our hot chocolate and when I bit into “la fève,” what used to be a dried lima bean hidden in the cake, today a tiny figurine, I became the Epiphany queen. I even got a gold cardboard crown.

After that treat, we still had to get back to our car, two miles along deserted roads with the setting sun at our backs. A cold wind was rushing down from the mountains. Sheep were bleating, their bells ringing as they were herded into pens for the night.

I did not go to church that Christmas nor did I sit down for a Christmas feast with all the trimmings, but I remember that day as a celebration of all Christmas is supposed to be. Simple sharing, simple giving, simple gifts, wonder and awe.

Dear Readers, may you have a merry Christmas and may we carry the Christmas spirit throughout the season and the new year, with peace on earth and goodwill to all.

 

Fake News, Big and Small

 

Paul Klee, "Man is the Mouth of the Lord" (1918)

This month as I write, I am looking out at the slope of Sharp Mountains as its dips down towards South Centre Street in Pottsville. I am happy to be here, relieved that American voters proved themselves to be levelheaded in their choices in recent elections, hopeful that elected officials will follow their lead.

          Before travelling to the States to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family—and I hope readers enjoyed the holiday—I was worried, even afraid. The news from the States was not good—and I’m not talking about the elections. I am thinking of Paul Pelosi, husband of Nancy Pelosi, who has served in the US House of Representatives for 35 years. The October 28^th assault on her husband was brutal and the motives clear: harm Speaker Pelosi. Not finding her in her San Francisco home, David DePape hammered the skull of her 82-year-old husband instead.

          I know readers are familiar with these details and I am repeating “old news.” Yet the distress I felt in the aftermath of that attack has not gone away. Hearing about it was disturbing enough, but the avalanche of innuendo that followed made me sick. Readers, you’ve heard it too. To sum up, some TV journalists and elected officials reduced politically motivated violence to a homosexual tryst that spun out of control.

          In 1347 the Black Death arrived in Europe and devastated the continent, killing at least 40% of the population. No one understood where it came from or how this terrible disease was spread. It was easier to blame the Jews, who were massacred in a desperate attempt, born of ignorance, violence and fear, to eliminate the plague. I give this as an early example, long before social media, of the ravages of “fake news.”

Pieter Bruegel, "The Triumph of Death" c. 1562

 

          More recently, in France in 2003, one year before the beginnings of Facebook, Dominique Baudis, a former mayor of Toulouse and director of the French equivalent of the Federal Communications Commission at that time, was accused of being involved in a sordid prostitution ring. Once again, I’ll spare you the details, but back in those days when the news was the almost exclusive domain of newspapers and TV, the vivid accounts of prostitutes who claimed to know him, the accusations of a rapist-murderer behind bars, filled entire pages in the national press and were amply covered on the evening news.

          To defend his honor, Dominique Baudis went on national TV. Understandably nervous, he perspired and the beads of sweat pearling on his forehead were perceived as the visible sign of his guilt.

Eventually, it became obvious the entire affair was a setup. The prostitutes had been paid to witness; the motives of the rapist-murderer were exposed. But the damage was done. To this day, despite his service to the French nation, the name of Dominique Baudis, who died in 2014, remains associated with a vile affair where the man was an innocent pawn.

Today, hardly a week goes by without a new scandal of this type. Last month, I wrote about Rachel Keke, elected in June to become a new member of the French National Assembly. Another deputy, Alexis Corbière, reelected in the same June 2022 elections, almost lost his seat to fake news, a patchwork of lies picked up by “Le Point,” a weekly news magazine. Corbière and his wife were accused of cruelly exploiting an illegal immigrant working in their home. Again, a woman stepped forward with her story, apparently paid by a former deputy of an opposing party hoping to oust Corbière. The woman was convincing. A journalist believed her. The damage was done.

A crushed skull, a permanently bruised reputation, or the horrors manufactured by Alex Jones of Infowars, who accused parents having lost a child in the 2012 massacre at Sandy Hook of inventing their children and then inventing their deaths: fake news, big or small, can destroy lives. And be it an “innocent” rumor or an incitement to violence, all fake news shares the same raw material: words, one of the most powerful tools ever placed in human hands. Released into the atmosphere, they can build new and better worlds, or set off a holocaust. 

"Fake news," 1980's style, from Weekly World News

Recently I too became a victim of fake news. Compared to the examples I’ve just given, the damage has been pretty mild. But there has been damage, pain and self-doubt. It’s the power of words, once again. If people are saying such bad things about me, might they not be true?

Faithful readers know I moved earlier this year. My most recent abode is an old manor house right next-door to the forest primeval, and it’s been a voyage back to France’s Ancien Régime. Our little chateau has a chatelaine. Her apartment is regally grand, the biggest in the place, and she lords it over our community of ten apartments, deciding who is accepted and who is not.

I think you can guess what she decided about me. Soon after arriving, I noticed some structural problems with the building, insisted the condominium board should look into them, and soon learned that, well, the “condominium board” was none other than la chatelaine herself. And as she had the most shares in the place, the lion’s share of the costs would fall on her. I should have kept my mouth shut!

From then on in, my American directness was no match for the subtle cunning of this French aristocrat. Using lies and innuendo, bent on protecting her interests, she managed to turn nearly everyone in the building against me. Quite a feat, and I’ve suffered. I’ve also made friends with the neighbors who know how to think for themselves.

          I know I’m small fry in the maelstrom of fake news. I also know that fake news is never going to go away. Certainly, social media allows rumor to spread like wildfire, but gossip, rumor and downright lies presented as truth have been with us since Adam lied to the Lord.

          The American poet Emily Dickinson wrote, “A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.” Words are our “children,” they grow up, they outlive us. When we use them well, they make us proud. If we abuse them, you can be sure they’ll come back to haunt us some day. 

 

New Kid on the Block

It’s never easy to be the new kid on the block. Many of us have had that experience, and no one likes to be the odd man—or woman—out. I’ve been there. Perhaps you have too and if not you, a friend, a relative, or an ancestor. Think of immigrants come to Schuylkill County to work in the mines over a century ago. They were outsiders who struggled and persisted, and today their descendants would not consider themselves anything but true-blue Americans.

     What would the United States or France be without immigration? Throughout their history, both countries have alternated between opening their doors wide and slamming them shut, fearful of that “new kid” who, given an inch, might take a mile. These days, more doors are shut than open, and everywhere in the world, people tend to “like” those who are most like themselves.

    There are exceptions—happily, there always are—among the new kids and the old. One of them is Rachel Keke, a newcomer to the French National Assembly, elected in June 2022. Here is a woman who, in simple, clear language, has a message for us all.

      Like me, Rachel Keke is a naturalized French citizen. She was born in 1974 in Ivory Coast. When she was 12, her mother died. When she was 16, she went to work and has been working ever since. In 1999, at a time of civil unrest in her native country, she fled to France. She began working in an uncle’s hair salon. In 2003, she took a job as a cleaning woman, working for a subcontractor in a big hotel overlooking the Paris beltway.

       At that time, she was also a mother with young children she was raising on her own, employed in a profession dominated by women who rarely get the respect they deserve. Scheduled to work at irregular hours at all times of day, Rachel Keke could not always be there to get her children off to school or welcome them when they came home.

      For years, Rachel Keke worked part-time for different employers who subcontracted with the group Accor, which owns hotels around the world (for example, Accor owns and manages the Plaza Hotel in NYC, where one night in a basic room costs $1,105, more than Rachel and her colleagues earned in a month). Though she regularly requested full-time employment in an industry where part-time workers are paid according to the number of rooms cleaned, she had to wait 15 years to get it. When she did, she was promoted to team supervisor. In 2019 she and her colleagues went on strike, initiating what was to become the longest strike ever in the French hotel industry.

    These women, many earning less than 1,000 euros a month, wanted better salaries, but they also wanted to see the hardships and dangers of their job recognized. Backache, tendinitis, carpal tunnel, these were their daily lot. Sexual harassment and racism, a regular part of the job

     Their movement, which began in July 2019 and ended in victory in May 2021, overlapped with the covid pandemic. During the worst of it, stock clerks, cashiers, cleaning women, that invisible workforce so many take for granted, had suddenly become more important to the smooth running of society than bankers, lawyers, or millionaire CEO’s.

     During the pandemic, this group of 28 cleaning women continued to fight for their dignity. They chose two spokeswomen, Sylvie Kimissa and Rachel Keke, whose determination caught the attention of people all over France. Taking on a giant, they fought for—and won—higher wages, increased benefits, and more reasonable working conditions, which meant more time to do each room and longer breaks to sit down for a meal. 

    In 2022, Rachel Keke participated in the campaign of presidential candidate Jean-Luc Mélenchon, founder of Union Populaire, which in May 2022 became NUPES, Nouvelle Union Populaire Ecologique et Sociale. She spoke at the inaugural meeting and once again stirred the crowd to action, this time to encourage Keke to run for a seat in the French National Assembly in June 2022. She was quickly invested in the district where she lives, and in the first round of legislative elections came in in first place. 

    The second round proved more difficult. She was up against another immigrant, Roxana Maracineanu, who emigrated with her parents from Romania to France when she was a child. Olympic medalist, she became France’s first world-champion swimmer at the 1998 World Aquatic Championships in Perth, Australia. During Emmanuel Macron’s first term as President, she was Minister of Athletics. In the June 2022 elections, she lost to Rachel Keke by about half a percentage point (50.30% for Keke; 49.70% for Maracineanu). 

    Today Rachel Keke is one of 577 members of the French National Assembly. She is one of 214 women and of 32 members belonging to what the French call “la diversité.” France does not tolerate terms such as “Franco-African,” “Franco-Arab” or “Franco-Asian” to refer to its citizens. We’re all supposed to be equally French. “Diversité” lumps together all backgrounds that are not white European. Keke is also one of two former cleaning women in the National Assembly, the other being Lisette Pollet, a member of Rassemblement national, France’s far-right party. 

    Rachel Keke has been on the job for a few months and the new assembly is only beginning its legislative work. It’s much too early to judge her record, but not too early to criticize. She’s looked down on for her lack of education in a country like France, where diplomas are everything. She’s been mocked for showing up at political meetings in an African boubou (at the National Assembly, she makes it a point of honor to dress in skirt or slacks and jacket). And some wonder how a cleaning woman, even one with lots of heart and guts, can have what it takes to write laws. 

    Racism, sexism and the scorn of the rich for the poor, Rachel Keke has been victim of them all—except that she’s not a victim. She takes these remarks in stride, gives them the importance they deserve (none), and gets on with her new job. 

    “That’s the way the world is,” says Rachel Keke. “You have to take people the way they are.” 

    Words of wisdom for us all.