February month for crepes, carnivals

Published: February 26, 2012

February in France has been exceptionally cold, from the shores of the North Sea to the pebble beaches of the Mediterranean, dusted with snow. Despite the cold, or perhaps because of it, the French have continued their winter celebrations, each one an occasion to crowd several people into the same room, warming hearts and raising temperatures a few degrees.

It all started on Feb. 2 - Groundhog Day in the United States, Chandeleur, Candlemas, in France. For this "festival of lights," candles are lit at midnight to commemorate the end of the Christmas season, 40 days after the birth of Christ. Traditionally, this is also the day when Nativity scenes are put away until the next holiday season.

However, ask the average Frenchman why he celebrates Chandeleur, nine times out of 10, he'll answer, "to eat crepes," and on Feb. 2, that's just what the French do.

They get out a well-seasoned frying pan made specially for the thin pancakes the French prefer to the fluffier American kind. Then they mix up some batter with buckwheat or white flour, depending on whether the crepe is to be salty or sweet. Buckwheat crepes are served with ham, cheese, eggs or andouille, a sausage made from pork belly, an acquired taste that's not one of mine. As for the sweet variety, the only limit is the cook's creativity. Some of the basics are sugar and lemon juice, melted chocolate, sweetened chestnut cream or a favorite jam, but, just like with a sundae, you can pile on pretty much anything you'd like, including a dollop of your favorite ice cream.

As to why the French eat crepes on that day, there are many legends, most concerning popes from long ago who distributed crepes to pilgrims visiting Rome. The most convincing explanation I've found is that a perfect, golden crepe, light as air, looks a lot like the sun shining in the sky. It's the perfect reminder that at the end of a long dark winter, sun and spring will return.

In fact, just like Groundhog Day, Chandeleur marks a significant turning point in the winter season. We all know that if a groundhog sees his shadow and returns to his burrow, winter will hang on for six more weeks. In much the same way, "if Candlemas be fair and bright, winter has another flight. If Candlemas brings clouds and rain, winter will not come again," claims an old English poem.

On Feb. 2 of this year, in Paris and much of France, winds swept down from Siberia and kept blowing for much of the month, turning this year's carnival season, leading up to Mardi Gras, into a pretty chilly affair. In Nice, where one of France's oldest and most famous carnivals takes place, temperatures have been hovering around zero for weeks, which does not bode well for the traditional "battle of flowers," perhaps the most peaceable battle on earth. In a parade of 20 magnificent floats, all composed of fresh flowers, scantily dressed men and women shower spectators with volleys of mimosa, lilies and daisies, grown on the hillsides around Nice. Fewer flowers and cold temperatures mean fewer tourists for what is the city's biggest money-making event of the year.

Further north, in the seaport of Dunkerque, where a cold wind almost always blows off the North Sea, everybody gets into the act at carnival time. Neighborhood associations, much like the "New Year's Associations" of Philadelphia mummers, dress in bright hats and carry parasols with their local colors as they march through the streets. There is no organized parade, no bleachers, no paying spectators, as is the case in Nice. There are simply the people of Dunkerque, organized in neighborhood "gangs," and anyone else who wants to participate, as long as they wear a disguise. From January through to Mardi Gras and beyond, each association organizes a dance, where entrance fees are donated to good cause.

For those who really want to celebrate, with a guarantee of escaping winter's cold, there is France's most famous carnival, which takes place more than 4,000 miles from Paris in equatorial Guyana, France's largest state, on the northeast coast of South America, bordered by Brazil and Suriname.

In what's known as France's "Far West," festivities begin in January, three days after Epiphany, with the arrival of the carnival king, the diabolical Vaval, and continue through to Ash Wednesday, when Vaval is publicly put to death. In between, most of the 114,678 inhabitants of Guyana, along with thousands of tourists, live to the beat of the carnival, which includes weekly Saturday night dances followed by Sunday afternoon parades. In the days leading up to Ash Wednesday, the festivities continue nonstop.

During carnival time, at the dances, in the parades, you'll always find le touloulou, a word you won't find in a French dictionary. Le touloulou is a woman who, at the weekly dances, gets to act like a man. In other words, the men line the walls of the dance hall, like so many wallflowers, while le touloulou, disguised from head to toe, wearing a mask, a wig and a veil, a long gown, long gloves and opaque stockings, even using cushions and stuffing to hide her physique, struts around the room, eyeing the men before selecting her partner for the night, who does not have the right to say no. Balls go from dusk to dawn and the dancing can get hot and heavy, to the point that nine months later, there is a sharp rise in the birth-rate in Guyana, where "Sadie Hawkins' Day" goes on for weeks.

As for me, I'm not sure I'm ready to dance the night away. I'd rather sit back and reminisce about a childhood memory of Fastnacht Day, back when, in Pottsville, you could find just about the best glazed doughnuts in the world.

I'm sure I'm not the only one whose mouth waters when remembering The Danish Bakery, once located at 20th and Market streets. There, Mr. and Mrs. Frederickson spoiled us, not only with their glazed doughnuts, which made Fastnacht Day one of my favorite holidays, but also with fresh Vienna bread and their unforgettable almond ring. Ah! Those were the days when, upon opening the bakery door, which made a little bell ring, we'd be greeted by billows of warm, moist air smelling of fresh-baked bread.

But Lent has begun and the cupboards are bare of fat. Time to elevate our thoughts to higher things - although it would be hard to find better than the bread and doughnuts once sold at the Danish Bakery.

(Honicker can be reached at honicker.republicanherald@gmail.com)

Happy New Year - the French way

Photo courtesy of Eric Bony, Mairie 19ème Paris

Happy new year - the French way
Published: January 29, 2012

The French are at it again. They've carried the Christmas holidays into overtime and they'll be proposing toasts and clinking glasses of champagne right through to January 31st.

'Tis the season to be jolly. More seriously, 'tis the season to get a message across, which may be the true motivating factor behind a month of get-togethers and ceremonies, where "voeux" or "wishes" for the new year are exchanged. In 2012, a year when the French, like Americans, will be electing a new president, the standard greeting, "bonne annee" (happy new year) may very well represent the kickoff of this year's presidential campaign.

By the end of the month, President Sarkozy - who has not yet announced his bid for re-election, although everyone knows he will - will have pronounced those words thousands of times, in every corner of France. As I write, the president is midway through what the French media have dubbed his "marathon des voeux," one day addressing teachers, the next metalworkers, the next members of Parliament, etc., etc., etc. In this election year, each encounter becomes an opportunity to take a political stand.

After getting the traditional greetings out of the way, President Sarkozy gets down to business, announcing reforms, proposing new laws at the rate of about one a day. Government spokesmen insist the president is not campaigning; he is simply behaving "presidentially." Constitutional and parliamentary experts argue, however, that there is no way these reforms could be carried out before the end of the current session of Parliament in March. On April 22, the first round of presidential elections will take place.

The 14 other presidential hopefuls, ranging from the far left to the far right, are also getting into the act, combining new year's greetings and campaign promises, although you can be sure none of them get the same media exposure as President Sarkozy.

On TV, on the radio, I've heard the wishes of some of the more important candidates, those with a chance of making it to the second round, like François Hollande, the Socialist candidate; Francois Bayrou, representing the center; or Marine LePen, candidate of the National Front, a far-right political formation striving for respectability. All of them are striving to be heard, ready to enter the ring and fight it out with candidate Sarkozy, but, at least for the moment, the president, not yet candidate, has chosen to ignore them all.

Instead, President Sarkozy is concentrating on the citizens of France, respecting an illustrious tradition with roots in ancient Rome, where each year began with vows for the security and health of the republic. Interestingly, my Webster's dictionary tells me the words "vote" and "vow" share the same Latin root, "votum," which can also mean "wish." So we're back to where we started from: new year's wishes and political campaigning have long gone hand in hand.

Hearing about these ceremonies in the news, I decided it was high time I went to one myself and I jumped at the chance when I got an invitation from the mayor of the 19th arrondissement, or district, of Paris where I live. On Jan. 12, dressed in my Sunday best, I headed to the local gymnasium where the ceremony was taking place. The invitation was for 7 p.m. and I thought it best to arrive fashionably late, but as I approached the gym, I saw hundreds in line outside. I had no choice but to join them. Once inside, I joined a crowd of about a thousand waiting impatiently for Roger Madec, the 19th district's mayor since 1995, to wish us all a happy new year.

On a stage framed by two huge bouquets of red roses, the symbol of France's Socialist Party, to which Mayor Madec belongs, the mayor and the city council were already in place, all standing, like us, for the occasion. At floor level, all around me, I could see examples of the racial, ethnic and religious diversity for which the 19th district is known.

There were representatives of the Orthodox Jewish community, wearing their black felt hats, Catholic priests and veiled Muslim women. There were also hundreds of "normal" French citizens, many with roots outside of France, all come together as members of the same community. The gymnasium was crowded, but there was no pushing or shoving (at least not until it was time for champagne). I got the sense that people were happy to be there and proud to be one of the 187,603 residents of the 19th arrondissement of Paris.

But the mayor is asking for silence. He wants to get the ceremony under way and we all turn our faces upwards to hear what are his wishes for 2012. I listen carefully for this is my first "live" ceremony, my first direct contact with "my" mayor.

At the speech's end, I have to admit, I'm impressed. Rather than indulge in "wishful thinking," Roger Madec supplied us with a report on what was accomplished in 2011 and, based on those results, told us what to expect in 2012. The main themes were transportation, housing and cultural life, and in each area the mayor provided concrete examples of change. Better transportation thanks to a new tramway, renovation of housing for the middle class, and the creation of 700 new places in day care, essential in a neighborhood undergoing a baby boom.

Concerning cultural life, near where I live, a new public movie theater showing quality films at a reasonable price, will soon open. The mayor also gave us a rundown of local festivals for the coming year, among them, the "Festival du talent," a French equivalent of "American Idol."

To conclude, he reminded us of our responsibilities, admonishing us to "clean up our act" and litter less in order to make the 19th a cleaner, more pleasant place to live, while thanking the many volunteers in the community who are doing just that.

Finally, he invited us to have a drink, champagne or orange juice, served with tasty appetizers, hot and cold. Quite a spread, considering the crowd.

This local ceremony taking place in my own backyard convinced me that new year's wishes, a good time and politics can go together. And Mayor Madec's speech is proof that at the grass-roots level change is possible. Listening to the presidential candidates on the evening news, and this includes President Sarkozy, I'm less optimistic about their ability to transform wishes into reality.

But until Tuesday, the wishes will continue and the champagne will continue to flow. And by French standards, it's not too late for me to wish readers a happy 2012. Reflecting upon the French habit of prolonging the winter holidays, I've realized Americans do quite the same, which is why I also wish you a happy Super Bowl Sunday, a mere seven days away.

(Honicker can be reached at honicker.republican herald@gmail.com)

Two Words collide in 'Intouchables"

Published: December 25, 2011

The Christmas holidays in Paris are synonymous with gray skies, damp and rain. To brighten the short, gloomy days, garlands of lights decorate the main shopping streets of the city. In my neighborhood, the colors that dominate are sapphire blue and sparkling white.

Although the French varieties are as puny as ever, the price of Christmas trees is up over last year, but they are selling like hotcakes and despite bad weather, Christmas shoppers are out in force. It may well be "la crise," as the French call the worldwide financial crisis, but Christmas is Christmas and 'tis the season to spend.

It's also the season to go to the movies with family or friends and the major movie studios are well aware of this.

Americans have Spielberg's "The Adventures of Tintin," released just in time for the Christmas weekend. The French are going to see Martin Scorsese's 3D film "Hugo." They also have the choice of another movie, a record-breaking box office hit that Americans may never get a chance to see.

"Untouchable" is its name in English - in French "Intouchables" - and it has been likened to a fairy tale or a Christmas story.

Released in November, the film, starring Francois Cluzet and Omar Sy - definitely not household names to Americans - recounts a true story of the improbable encounter of two men who saved each other's life.

In the film, one of these men is a multimillionaire. He lives in an elegant townhouse in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods of Paris. A Maserati worth $200,000 sits in his driveway and when he gets the whim, he has the means to rent a private jet.

The other is a black man from the Parisian suburbs, the French equivalent of the projects or a ghetto. Just released from six months in prison for petty theft, he has no saleable skills. Out of work, he is also out of a home because his overworked and underpaid mother, who cleans office buildings at night, has just put him out in the street.

At first glance, there's no doubt about who is on top in this relationship, but at the end of the film's first sequence, the tables are turned. Pulled over after a car chase through the streets of Paris with the Maserati hitting speeds of nearly 180 mph, the hired driver Driss explains to a police officer that his boss is a quadriplegic who can move only his head.

Welcome to the world of "Intouchables," the fictionalized account of the true story of Philippe Pozzo di Borgo, the wealthy aristocratic director of Pommery, the producer of a famous French champagne, and Abdel Sellou - represented by the character of Driss in the film - his caregiver for a 10-year period during which "they needed each other," said Pozzo di Borgo, victim of a hang-gliding accident.

An important detail absent from the film is that the millionaire hired Sellou to take care of him at a time when his wife was dying of cancer so that he could devote more time to her. Today, Pozzo di Borgo, 60, lives in Morocco with his second wife and their two daughters. Sellou, married and the 40-year-old father of three, runs a business in Algeria, his native country. They remain close and the final image of the film shows the real-life "intouchables" together.

So far, more than 12 million Frenchmen have seen the film, which represents about one fifth of the entire population. Audiences love it and French organizations representing the handicapped praise its honest take on living with a handicap in a country which all too often ignores the needs and talents of its handicapped citizens.

Five cents of every ticket goes to Simon de Cyrene, an association named after the man who, according to the Gospel of Mark, carried the cross of Christ to Calvary. It works to build special residences where people with and without disabilities live together in a spirit of mutual aid and sharing.

But, as I've already mentioned, Americans may never get a chance to see this film in part because of fears American audiences may find it racist.

Film critic Jay Weissberg writing for the weekly entertainment trade magazine Variety, accuses the film of "Uncle Tom racism," claiming that starring actor Omar Sy, who plays the role of the caregiver, is treated like a "performing monkey." The Hollywood Reporter, while praising Sy's charm and energy, regrets that the racial angle is "clumsily dramatized," concluding that "Untouchable" is little more than a "shamelessly manipulative French crowd-pleaser."

On that last point, many French critics agree. They accuse the film's two directors, Eric Toledano and Olivier Nakache, of using every cliche in the book to bring audiences to tears as they witness two "untouchables," a quadriplegic and a black man from the projects, connect in what looks a lot like love.

In fact, without being a "love story," "Untouchable" is a movie where love conquers all: racial, economic and cultural differences disappear in a working relationship transformed into friendship. And in the process, claim the critics, viewers lose sight of the highly exceptional nature of the story and of the reality of millions of other "untouchables," be they the handicapped or the poor and downtrodden of France.

As for me, I'm one of the 12 million who have already seen the film. I enjoyed it and at times it brought tears to my eyes. Above all, I consider "Untouchable" a very entertaining movie, thanks in large part to the chemistry at work between its two stars, Francois Cluzet, vibrant with life although confined to a wheelchair, and Omar Sy, who combines the charm and good looks of George Clooney with the energy and humor of Eddie Murphy. And I did not find the film racist. Nor do viewers in those African countries where the film has been released.

However, I do have one criticism to make in the form of a question: What if Driss, the caregiver, had been a woman? Would such a film ever have been made? One source of the film's humor arises from a man doing "woman's work," cleaning up after his boss in the bathroom, getting him into clean clothes each day. Almost as exceptional as the two men having ever met is Driss's incursion into the overwhelmingly feminine profession of home healthcare. Many of Driss's qualities, exceptional in a man, are, in the case of a woman, simply what is expected of her if she works as an aid in a private home, a nursing home, or an assisted-living residence.

I have seen these women at work and they've impressed me just as much, or more, than the movie. I have observed firsthand their patience, their kindness and their physical, mental and moral strength, and this year, as I wish a merry Christmas to all my readers, I would also like to address warm greetings to Deb, Mary Margaret, Nancy, April, Bridget, Lauren, Joann, Dominique, Eleanor and the many other women working at Providence Place in Pottsville, making life better for my mother, putting the "Christmas spirit" into practice all year round.

(Honicker can be reached at honicker.republican herald@gmail.com)

Hard Times on Both Sides of the Atlantic

1850 photo by Charles Negre of young chimney sweeps walking along the Seine River

Published: November 27, 2011


In France, times are hard and getting harder: unemployment continues to climb, especially among the young, and the French government, with Moody's on its back, has run out of money and ideas to get the economy back on track.

As for the middle class, as their salaries stagnate, all around them prices rise. To give just a few examples, in the past decade, the price of that French staple, the baguette, has risen by 85 percent, whereas gas prices are up 65 percent and the price of a liter of milk, 182 percent.

The United States, with its $14.3 trillion national debt and unemployment hovering around 9 percent, has its own share of problems. Some Americans believe things would naturally get better if only the government would get off their backs. The French, deeply attached to their national health insurance and retirement plans, would certainly disagree.

As for me, I thought it might be interesting to wander back into the past, to those days when governments mingled very little in citizens' lives, to see what life was like back then. It just so happens, an exhibit at the Musee Carnavalet, the Museum of the History of Paris, gave me the perfect opportunity.

Located in the neighborhood of Paris known as the Marais, in what was once the home of Madame de Sevigne, a French aristocrat and important writer of the 17th century, the Musee Carnavalet is presenting until Feb. 26, 2012, an exhibit devoted to "the people of Paris in the 19th century."

At mid-century, "the people" in the sense of "the masses" or the working class and not "we the people," the citizens of a state, made up a third of the population of Paris. They were the workers of the city, cleaning it, building it, taking care of its children and working in its new industries.

The exhibit looks at how they lived, how they dressed, what they ate and what they did for a good time. In doing so, it shows us people who knew love and joy, but whose lives, from birth to death, were characterized by a lack of stability. The only security nets that existed were charity and the family, for those lucky enough to have one nearby.

The people of 19th century Paris were, for the most part, from somewhere else, from the French provinces or from bordering countries. Certain regions had their specialties. For example, young boys from the Alps came to the city to work as chimney sweeps, crawling up and down chimneys, experiencing burns, often losing their hair, in order to get the job done. This was a job a boy could begin when he was 5 or 6 years old. By the time he reached adolescence, an age when he became too big for his craft, his body was often too deformed for him to find other work.

Young girls worked as domestics, laundresses or seamstresses, and those who suddenly lost their jobs often fell into prostitution. Robust women from the countryside hired themselves out as wet nurses, some boarding in special institutions where they ate and slept better than they could ever dream of in their country homes. Men worked in the building trade or as porters, capable of carrying up to 400 pounds. Men and women both worked in factories in and around Paris as the region industrialized.

There were also the water carriers, a pole slung over their shoulders with a bucket attached at each end, who brought water from the Seine River to people's homes (running water began to arrive in Paris apartments at the beginning of the 20th century). Others served hot coffee or soup on street corners, some delivered hot meals to families who, at a time when lodging was scarce, lived in one room, often without a fireplace. Many families worked in their lodgings, sewing or handcrafting objects such as funeral wreaths. Even the smallest children began to participate as soon as they could learn the craft.

At a time when there was no official "day of rest," the workday depended on the seasons and the hours of natural light. Many workers were laid off during the winter months and in summer, they worked as long as it was light. Free time was scarce, money even scarcer, and most of the family budget was reserved for food. When there was time for a outing, it often consisted in a walk along the Seine, a picnic on the outskirts of the city or an evening in a guinguette, an open-air cafe where there was dancing and cheap wine. There was also street theater, with clowns, acrobats and mimes.

But overnight, life could change. An accident or illness put a worker out of a job, and without money to pay the rent, an entire family found themselves in the street. Begging was against the law and beggars were sent to the poor house. Those with a few pennies could enter a flop house for the night. The poorest of the poor became rag pickers, setting up shop on street corners, recycling and reselling everything they found.

By now, I think readers have got the picture. For the people, life in 19th century Paris was hard, and only toward the century's end, did things begin to improve when laws were passed to permit trade unions and protect workers. In 1892, a law made it illegal for children under age 13 to work while limiting the workday to 10 hours for those between the ages of 13 and 16. A woman's workday was limited to 11 hours, that of a man to 12.

At about the same time, in 1885 it became illegal in Pennsylvania to employ boys under 14 in the mines, and those under 12 on the surface. In 1903, those limits were raised to 16 and 14. Surely, life in a 19th-century mining patch or coal town was just as hard or harder. There, too, boys as young as 6 began work as mule drivers or breaker boys. In the breakers, perched over chutes of coal, in thick clouds of black dust, old men joined them at a time when men and women alike worked until they simply keeled over and died.

I recently had the opportunity to see one of those young workers in another exhibit in Paris devoted to the American photographer Lewis Hine, who spent more than 30 years photographing Americans at work. In the exhibit, there was a photo of Angelo Rossi, a breaker boy in Pittston, in 1911. He looks to be about 10 years old.

Much of the 20th century was good to the working and the middle classes, but the 21st is teaching us that past gains can be lost. Let's hope that in France and in the USA, "we the people" can learn to work together in a spirit of shared responsibility.

For photos of Pennsylvania mine workers by Lewis Hine see http://contentdm.ad.umbc.edu/hine.php. There are also hundreds of photos of miners taken by Pottsville photographer George Bretz at http://contentdm.ad.umbc.edu/bretz.php.

For details on a report by the IRS and the U.S. Census Bureau on the gains of the rich and the losses of the middle class in the past 30 years, visit www.nytimes.com/2011/10/26/us/politics/top-earners-doubled-share-of-nations-income-cbo-says.html?_r=2.

(Honicker can be reached
at honicker.republicanherald @gmail.com)

Got My Licence! Republican Herald, October 2011

Obtaining driver's license in France takes time, money
BY NANCY HONICKER
Published: October 30, 2011

http://republicanherald.com/news/obtaining-driver-s-license-in-france-takes-time-money-1.1224163

On Oct. 16, I was heading north, travelling by my favorite means of transport, the TGV, France's high-speed train, that has almost turned Paris and Provence into neighbors. I had spent the weekend near Nimes, the region where the bull runs I wrote about last July take place. At this time of year, after the late-September grape harvest, the vineyards are golden against a sky of brilliant blue, and in the surrounding woodlands, wild strawberry trees, members of the arbutus family, look like they belong in a game of Candy Land. The trees are heavy with hundreds of edible fruits that resemble gumdrops. Red on the outside, yellow at the center, they are as sweet as candy when you bite into them.

In the train, I was relaxing, looking out the window, watching the South with its dry fields and mountains, vineyards and olive groves fade away, making way for night and the greener, less dramatic landscapes of the North. I was not thinking about the week to come and the challenges awaiting me in Paris, but while I savored the last three hours of my trip, the time required to travel between Nîmes and Paris, let's say the week was "thinking about me."

While I drifted in and out of sleep, millions of Frenchmen were in front of their TVs, watching the national eight o'clock evening news. The big news of the day: as of Oct. 17, all over France, the examiners in driving centers, where candidates for a driver's license begin their road test, were beginning an unlimited strike. My driving test, whose result I hope to give to readers at the end of this article, was scheduled for the end of that week.

By now, regular readers know the French love strikes and the examiners at the driving centers are no exception. Since a 2007 reform of the rules of the road and the requirements for obtaining a license, they have regularly gone on strike, although until the beginning of Monday's strike, there had been no long-term movements, as was the case in 2002, when examiners went on strike for 47 days straight.

This time, they are protesting against their working conditions and low salaries in a profession where, after nearly 40 years on the job, an employee, who also happens to be a civil servant of the French government, rarely earns more than $3,000 a month (starting salaries are around $1,500 a month). Since the 2007 reform, the 1,500 examiners have seen their workload increase. In that year, the driving exam was extended from 20 to 35 minutes and a new, more complex system of evaluation was imposed. Also, secretaries were replaced by computers and it was up to the examiners to enter the results themselves. More work, the same salary, and, last but not least, no respect.

The result: as of Wednesday, Oct. 19, more than 78 percent of the profession was out on strike, and in certain regions, that figure climbed to 100 percent. It just so happened that my exam was scheduled to take place in Bobigny, one of the towns where agents were protesting loudest.

A few miles from Paris, in the heart of the "dangerous suburbs," the Bobigny exam center has not escaped suburban violence, another reason for examiners to strike. They have been beaten up by candidates whom they have failed and have even had their life threatened. Some unsuccessful candidates, turning their violence against themselves, have stretched out on the ground, challenging the examiner to run them over because they prefer death to having failed the exam! For the above reasons, examiners no longer give results the day of the test and candidates have to depend on the French post to find out how they did, which means at least 48 hours of high anxiety, because first time round, only about 50 percent of candidates pass!

But what about me? Am I still as angry as I was a month ago? Am I driving any better? To both those questions, I'd answer yes and no.

Two weeks ago, I felt ready and said this to the director of my driving school, at which time she announced that I first had to do nine hours of intensive training, at 52 euros ($71) an hour. That was how they did things and without that, she assured me, I would not be ready the day of the exam. I asked why I had not been informed before hand, why this was written nowhere on paper. The answer (and remember, driving schools in France have an almost total monopoly on teaching driving and presenting candidates for the test) was "my way, or NOT the highway." In other words, I had no choice, especially as the director insinuated I would not pass otherwise.

Thus, in the days leading up to my exam I did the intensive training in three-hour sessions. Three hours in heavy, rush-hour traffic, three hours of gruelling driving, all beyond my powers of concentration at the end of a long workday. Having been a teacher myself for more than 30 years, I can attest that such methods are ineffective and may do little more than reinforce the bad reputation driving schools already have among the French. During each session we drove by the Bobigny exam center and each time it was closed. All week long, I followed the strike online, reading every article and report I could find, reading readers' comments as well, further proof, if I needed it, that I'm not the only one who is angry.

Finally, Friday arrived. With a teacher from my driving school and two other candidates, each 18 years old, I made the trip to Bobigny, just in case. And it is a good thing we did. The gate to the center was open. A car was parked in the parking lot. Once we parked, an examiner approached us. Our driving test was going forward as scheduled, and my name was first on the alphabetical list!

I'd heard all kinds of stories about examiners, describing them as cruel, even sadistic, whereas I found myself seated next to a calm and courteous young man who happened to not be on strike. We did the test and I did fine, until I really messed up at the end when, wanting to shift from second to third gear on a standard transmission, I accidentally slipped into first. My two young companions made what is called "une erreur eliminatoire," a disqualifying mistake (after their parents had invested more than $2,500 in driving lessons, they confessed to me), whereas my case remains up in the air. I may have passed, I may have not, depending on the number of points earned: 20 out of 30 and I pass, 19 and I fail. The gear-shifting incident may have knocked me out of the race….

Monday, Oct. 24 - More than 72 hours have gone by since I took the exam. I return home from work, I open my mailbox, and there it is, the envelope with the results: favorable.

Readers, I've earned the right to get into a car, turn the key and drive in France!

(Honicker can be reached at honicker.republicanherald@gmail.com)

Getting a license to drive, Republican Herald, September 2011

Getting a license to drive
Published: September 25, 2011
http://republicanherald.com/news/getting-a-license-to-drive-1.1207606

First I was angry, then I was scared, now I'm simply exhausted. It was my decision, so I can't blame anyone else. I'm the one who decided on July 29 to enroll in auto-ecole - a driving school, an experience, an investment, a rite of passage and a necessity for any Frenchman who aspires to drive in France.

No parents taking Johnny out on the weekend for a lesson in the family car, no practicing with a licensed driver in an empty parking lot, no driver's ed in high school, auto-ecole is a requirement and pretty much the only way to get a driver's licence in France. Not a bad idea, some might say, but wait until I tell you the price tag. That's where the anger comes in.

In July, I handed over a check for 1,000 euros, the going price for a standard driving course, which equals about $1,365, and that does not include enrollment fees for the official state exams - a theoretical and a practical test. Many jobs in France require a driver's licence, but many Frenchmen cannot afford to go to driving school, which makes the entire process exclusionary and undemocratic.

In my case, I carry in my wallet a driver's licence issued by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, but it is not valid in France. Had I known, I would have exchanged it for a French license, a simple formality, when I arrived in France 24 years ago. There is in fact a treaty between France and Pennsylvania allowing drivers to drive for one year with their respective licenses before making the exchange.

Had I known, I might have felt less intrepid, foolhardy might be a better word, when, for three years, between 1987 and 1990, I crisscrossed the routes of southern France in one of the least powerful cars in the world, a "2 chevaux" - a "two-horsepower" - car, a sort of tin can with the rounded angles of a Volkswagen Bug, but without the solidity. For two of those three years, although I was not aware of it at the time, I was driving illegally.

When I arrived in Paris in 1991, I no longer needed to drive. In this city, public transportation is excellent and at rush hour pedestrians move faster than cars. As for parking, without a rented space in a private garage, a driver can spend up to an hour each day looking for a parking place, which he will pay for, and where he can leave his car for no more than 24 hours.

So what got into me? What made me cough up 1,000 euros to be able to participate in a perpetual traffic jam, which is pretty much what driving in Paris is like? I suppose like everybody else, I wanted the freedom a driver's licence brings. I wanted to be able to rent a car for the weekend and explore the back roads of France. I wanted to be able to legally sit behind the wheel in the country where I reside.

Six weeks later, I'm no longer so sure. Auto-école has done me in. More than a learning experience, it has become an obstacle course. French friends warned me, some even predicted I would fail (the French are not the encouraging kind). And when I sat down and began to learn by heart "le code," a 250-page book which includes all the rules of the road in France, I began to think they might be right.

Besides studying at home, I also had to go to my driving school, where, in a dark stuffy room with a flat screen TV, I took a series of practice tests, simulations of the official exam, 40 multiple-choice questions based on the voluminous code. Once we proved we could make five mistakes or less, we were ready for the real thing. For many students, it takes months to get to this point!

A week ago, my driving school (and not me, I had absolutely no say in the matter) decided my time had come, and a date was set for me to take the official exam. Unfortunately, that's also when the school discovered it had lost my file, which included a paper bearing a government seal, permitting me to sit for the exam. Without it, I could go no further and would have to wait weeks for another copy of the document.

Twenty-four hours before the scheduled exam date, my file was still missing. On the eve of the exam, around 8 p.m., I got a call telling me, miraculously, it had been found (and don't think my school is particularly incompetent. Nearly all veterans of auto-ecole have a tale of woe to tell). To make amends, the school proposed to drive me and another candidate to the exam center the next day. Less than one hour before exam time, I received another call telling me the ride had fallen through and it was up to me to pick up the paperwork at the school and guide myself and a young candidate, afraid to go alone, to the test center.

Our progress was like a high-speed chase in an action film. We raced into the Parisian metro, up and down stairs, on and off platforms, changing trains twice, to arrive at the outskirts of Paris, where, at street level, we made a wrong turn. Once I realized "my" mistake (the other candidate followed me like a puppy), we began to run along a heavily travelled boulevard until, just in the nick of time, we entered the official test center, after having undergone a thorough security check.

By that time my heart was beating fast and my mind felt empty. The very last to arrive, we waited while every other candidate, about 100 of them, was called into the exam room. When we entered, only two front row seats remained. The examiner gave us each a remote control which we would use to take the test. The test began. The room was cold and I was clammy after our run. Listless, somehow convinced I would be one of the many who don't "make it" on the first try, I answered the 40 questions about safety, speeding, the dangers of alcohol, etc.

Then we waited again, while each candidate handed in his remote and received his score: pass or fail. There were cries of joy and moans. The pressure to succeed is enormous, because failing not only means taking the exam again, but forking out more money to do so. Once more, we were last. The now empty room had become frigid. The examiner called us to his desk and was about to give us our results …. when the device that "reads" the remote controls broke down. More waiting. More suspense. More tension. I wonder what my blood pressure was that day.

And finally, the words we were hoping for, "C'est bon," it's good, you've passed.

That was three days ago, and I still can't believe it's for real. I have passed the theoretical test. Now the practical test awaits me, and I have a feeling it's not going to be easy. I'll fill you in on that one - and French drivers - next month.

(Honicker can be reached

at honicker.republican herald @gmail.com)

This French beauty gets better with age
Published: August 28, 2011


http://republicanherald.com/news/this-french-beauty-gets-better-with-age-1.1193539



Yesterday I paid a visit to one of the most beautiful women in France.
She is not young, nor is she fashionably dressed, but her eyes remain bright and her skin glowing, despite her age. True, she has benefited from some cosmetic surgery, but her beauty is timeless and many would consider her one of the true icons of France.

If some readers imagine I dropped in on Catherine Deneuve, born in 1943, they're wrong. Nor was I able to get behind the walls of "la Madrague," the Saint-Tropez hideaway of Brigitte Bardot, born in 1934. Which leaves Jeanne Moreau, born in 1928, one of the most talented French actresses and singers of the past century, best known for her role in the 1961 movie "Jules and Jim," where, after having invited her two lovers to join her for a ride, she drives them off a bridge and all three of them drown.

Those three women are youngsters compared to the woman I was with. Not yet as old as Methuselah, who lived to the ripe old age of 969, she has nonetheless entered her ninth century. Her name is Mary, and her title is Notre Dame de la Belle Verrière, Our Lady of the Beautiful Window. Her home is the cathedral of Chartres, the most important shrine to the Virgin Mary in all of France.

I am writing this on Aug. 15, the Feast of the Assumption, the beginning of Mary's heavenly life, and a public holiday in France. For many, like Labor Day in the United States, it marks the end of summer vacation. For the city of Chartres, dominated by its cathedral which can be seen for miles around, it is one of the most important days of the year. Last evening, a prayer vigil held in the cathedral began at sunset and continued throughout the night, followed by an early morning Gregorian Mass and High Mass later in the morning.

After lunch - no matter what the event, the French always take time to sit down for a meal - which will be more like Sunday dinner, begins what may be the most important event of the day. Throughout the town, there will be a procession dedicated to the Virgin Mary, which will end inside the cathedral with the veneration of the Virgin's veil, a gift of the Frankish Emperor Charles the Bald in the ninth century.

In 1927, it was determined the fabric was probably woven in Syria some time in the eighth century, but that knowledge has in no way dampened the fervor of the many pilgrims who travel to Chartres to worship in its presence, as the faithful have been doing for more than 1,000 years.

Already in 743, there was a church dedicated to the Virgin on the site of the cathedral. In 911, during a siege of the city by the Normans, enemies of the Franks, the bishop solemnly carried the Virgin's veil to the ramparts and, according to legend, the Norman warriors turned on their heels and ran. Since those early days, deep in the church's crypt, a chapel was reserved for another relic, a wooden statue of the Virgin known as Our Lady of the Underworld (Notre Dame de sous-terre). Believed to possess magical powers rooted in druidic mysteries of pre-Christian times, she survived three devastating fires and after each, inspired the people of Chartres to build bigger and higher than before. In 1793, during the Terror of the French Revolution, a period when many churches were sacked, Our Lady of the Underworld met her end.

Our Lady of the Beautiful Window has also encountered many dangers in her life and she, too, is the survivor of a major conflagration which, in 1194, destroyed all but the cathedral's crypt, its western facade and her image in stained glass, most likely located near the altar where the Virgin's veil was kept. Created around 1180, she is, along with the stained windows of the western facade, devoted to the life of the Virgin and of Christ and is among the oldest existing stained glass windows of France. These works of art in dominant tones of red and the famous "blue of Chartres," which has never been equalled in beauty, have earned for the cathedral a place on the prestigious list of UNESCO's world heritage sites.

During the rebuilding of the cathedral at the beginning of the 13th century, its nave was raised to a height of 120 feet (the nave of Notre Dame de Paris is 102 feet) and, thanks to the use of flying buttresses, the upper walls were opened to the light. Stained glass windows filled the upper reaches of the church, and as light poured through the colored glass, it was as if the supernatural presence of God had become visible. Those windows, together with the sculpture that covered the church's exterior, created a Bible in luminous, vibrant pictures at a time when very few people could read.

Today, seen from afar, Notre Dame de Chartres, the queen of the Gothic cathedrals of France, is an imposing and austere monument in stone. In 1260, the year of its dedication, the church shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, for each of its statues was painted in the greatest detail, with gold leaf used for highlights. And when the faithful crossed the threshold, they truly imagined they were entering paradise. Sparkling, multicolored light showered down from above, and the cathedral's 176 stained-glass windows glowed. Bible stories, told in colored images, preached louder than words.

Reigning over them all, seated on a throne, the Virgin looks down. On her lap, she holds the Christ child, who blesses with his right hand, and in his left holds an open book with the words of a hymn to the Virgin sung at Chartres in the 12th century. Dressed in heavenly blue, with a pearled blue halo encircling her head, she is the crowned sovereign of Notre Dame de Chartres.

Regal, kind, gently smiling, yet sad, The Virgin of the Beautiful Window is a French beauty worth getting to know. Created from sand and ash, iron and lead, she is more than the materials that made her, thanks to the artisans who created her with love.

If you would like to learn more about this beautiful lady and the cathedral she inspired, read Universe in Stone, a "biography" of the cathedral of Notre Dames de Chartres by Philip Ball, published in 2008, available through PA Access at the Pottsville Free Public Library.

(Honicker can be reached at honicker.republicanherald @gmail.com)