Deep Thoughts: long-winded reflections from a long and winding road

Europeans, thats who. When we first traveled in Europe back in the 70's, very few men wore shorts of any description. And certainly not cut-off jeans - even regular Levis were a rarity in those days. What a difference a few decades make! Where once jeans and tennis shoes would mark you as an obvious American tourist, today they are an integraI component of every European's wardrobe. 

Of course, in the U.S. jeans are as popular as ever. But jean shorts, or "jorts," seem to have fallen out of favor, along with cargo shorts and Crocs. Thus we were not surprised to come upon a Reddit post from a sad Spaniard, asking why Americans were constantly making fun of his jean shorts. He asked readers to confirm that other European men were also sporting jorts in the torrid summer months. Well, we've traveled a fair bit over the last few years, and we can faithfully report that Italian, French, English, Scottish and Croatian males (and quite a few females) are rocking, not mocking, the jean shorts.

As we endured the unrelenting heat this summer in France, we couldn't help but notice how many guys were resorting to jorts to beat the heat. However, to our "American" way of thinking, this choice of shorts seemed insane. They looked both dorky and very uncomfortable to us. If you are going to wear shorts to cool off you need a lighter, more breathable fabric. You also need a little room to provide airflow to the moist nether regions. But guys in Europe are wearing their jorts very tight and knee length, with a (stylishly?) folded-up cuff. Seems like a recipe for chafing at best, crotch-rot at worst.

And yet we saw a daily profusion of males, toddlers to dotards, clad in the same denim demi-drawers. By our unofficial count, four out of every five French men in Nimes wear jean shorts. The fifth probably has his pair drying on the line at home. They no doubt think that the discomfort they are certainly enduring is more than compensated for by the stylish figure they present to the world. We'll let you be the judge as you peruse the pictures below.

[As a sidenote, you may find it interesting that denim, the fabric from which jeans are made, originated in Nimes, France. It's name is derived from the French "de Nimes, i.e. from Nimes.]

Recent surveys determine that smoking has made a rebound among French citizens in the post-Covid world.  

Unlike the U.S., smoking is on the rise in France, especially among teens and young adults. Statistics bear this out, as do our own observations. Passing by the large high school in Nimes at lunchtime we saw literally hundreds of students sparking up on the sidewalk. It is rare to see a young person on the avenues who doesn’t have a cigarette dangling from their fingers. Mothers and fathers blithely blow smoke into strollers and car seats as they strap in their little ones. At least laws now prohibit smoking inside restaurants and stores, but whenever business is slow you will see shop owners and restaurant workers just outside their doors, puffing on their cancer-sticks.

But what business is it of ours, you ask? Well, as covid-averse and statistically vulnerable senior citizens, we take our meals on the terrace whenever possible. But we are beginning to wonder if we might be better off taking our chances in the dining room. When dining outdoors, smoke inevitably wafts around the terrace and it’s virtually impossible to avoid secondhand exposure.

The other aggravating thing about this is the casual way they pretend to be trying to direct smoke away from other diners.  What this means in practice is you will be sitting at your table while someone who has their back to you will place their hand and cigarette behind their chair.  This is to avoid stinking up their friends’ dining experience while the lazy coils of smoke slowly find their way to you.  French smokers will also make a show of exhaling a lungful of smoke up and back from their table—again to appease their tablemates and thereby sending the cloud of pollutants right into your airspace!  What can you do about this sorry state of affairs?  Virtually nothing!  

Advice for Wobbly Kneed Travelers

By Clinton "Gimpy" Couse

I am completely missing the cartilage on the outer side of my left knee (if you find a slightly used lateral meniscus, please contact me) and have two cartilage tears in my right knee. Tennis, basketball, or any other sport at which I was once competent now place far too much stress on my knees. This is especially true now that I am in my mid-sixties. My main aerobic activity now is walking 4 to 6 miles per day. Stiffness, a dull ache, and constant almost subconscious concern about how each step will affect my knees have slowed my roll considerably. So, while Scott is blithely forging ahead wherever we are headed, I lag behind trying to make sure the vagaries of foreign streets do not further damage my fragile knees. 

What, if anything, can be done for the many gimpy travelers among us? Your main goal should be to avoid inflaming arthritic ankles, knees, or hips and thus diminishing the quality of your travel experience. You don't want to wind up in an emergency room with a break, tear, or sprain. Below I will list a few things that anyone of advanced years and/or walking on wobbly knees might want to take into account while traveling in Europe.

Cobblestones

Mind the gaps! Many European streets are cobbled, and often the stones are irregular or unevenly spaced. Be on the lookout for that rogue stone sticking its head up, or that crevice missing its stone. And wear sensible shoes! Slick leather soles, high heels or tipsy platforms are a recipe for disaster. Surely it is no coincidence that even the most chic French jeune filles have elevated the humble sneaker to fashion icon. Even better than tennis shoes, invest in a dedicated travel shoe with a Vibram-type sole. These will provide both stability and better ankle support.

Different cities or regions in Europe can offer up different types of cobbles and pavers. In many French cities you will find ancient avenues with very large cobbles of varying heights and widths: these too can be challenging for the weak-kneed traveler. I find that walking extensively on these large, uneven cobblestones can cause my knees to get sore much more quickly because of all the tiny adjustments my legs are making to stay upright. Tripping is much more likely with these larger stones, and one really needs to concentrate on picking up one's feet!  Another common type of sidewalk is the large stone slabs of marble or polished limestone. These smooth, sometimes uneven surfaces can be extremely slick, especially when it rains. You are well advised to have shoes with good traction control to avoid ending up on your ass.

[Fun fact: Rome's cobblestones are known as "sampietrini," which means "little St. Peters," named for the square where the stones were first set in the 16th century.]

Look around while watching your step

All of these challenges pose a problem for the curious but limping traveler. How do you take in all the sights, buildings, and people if your eyes are always pointed at the ground assessing the next threat? While Scott is out front gazing at anything his heart desires, I have to walk more slowly in these danger zones. Only after scanning the terrain for obstacles ahead do I venture to look up and survey the sights around me. While this approach results in me looking like a chicken with my head bobbing up and down, I can generally avoid or limit further damage to my knees. And though I may fall further behind, I will frequently pause just to look around. When taking these pauses, I try to be considerate and move out the traffic flow so I don’t impede others: just because I am old doesn't mean I have to be old and in the way. 

Stairway to Hell

Europe does not care if your knees hurt or your range of motion sucks. Many European residential properties do not have elevators. Depending on where you are you may find virtually vertical stairways, very steep spiral stairways, or stairways that are basically ladders. Many of these ascents do not have handrails. And finally, no two stairways are alike in how the stairs are spaced. In fact, many of them vary stair by stair, so each step becomes a guessing game. I find myself with my eyes glued to the steps below my feet trying to gauge how high or low the drop/rise will be. Going up or down ancient stairs that are seemingly designed for giants is also particularly challenging. The stairs in the Colosseum in Rome, for instance, are at least 3 feet high. 

Use common sense when encountering challenging stairways. Don’t listen to the little voice in your head saying “of course, I can still climb like I did when I was twenty five." Take it from me, you can’t. If you are tackling uneven, steep stairs keep your eyes down and focus on stair height and depth and place your feet carefully.  Ask for assistance with luggage even though it makes you feel like a helpless old man. Do not speedily descend or climb to prove your vigor, and be content with slow and steady progress. Finally, know when to say “fuck it…I am not climbing that set of stairs.” Yes, your friends and family want to hike up the 500 stairs of that ancient tower to see the scintillating views of the Tuscan countryside. But before succumbing to peer-group pressure, run a few things through your mind. Start with the fact that even if you make it to the top, you will have to come back down, which is almost always harder on your joints than going up. Then, imagine how sore and borderline useless your legs will be for the next day or two. It is generally just not worth it. You risk outright injury or unnecessary stress and pain. Get a nice coffee or beer at the bar next door, and tell your compatriots to knock themselves out. You can enjoy the pictures of the view later.

Finally, read Airbnb and VRBO listings carefully before booking a lodging. Remember that in Europe an apartment on the first floor is actually up at least one flight of steps. (Ground floor apartments are technically on floor 0.) Don't assume that a place on the fourth (fifth) floor must have an elevator. If the listing doesn't mention a lift, there probably isn't one. Carefully read the reviews to see if former renters had any issues with the stairs. If the description and reviews are ambiguous, you can always message the owner and make a few inquiries. Your knees will thank you for doing your due diligence!

When Clinton was a senior in high school our father gave him a weekend job. The septic tank in our backyard had fallen into decrepitude (or decrapitude, if you prefer.). To save money, Dad had asked/demanded that Clinton spend his Sunday uncovering the top of the old tank so it could be pumped and dismantled. This entailed digging down through about 3 feet of sod and dirt to reveal the wood-covered top of the old rickety tank. After a morning of slow progress, he managed to uncover about half of the top. Thick wooden planks that had been installed about 20 years earlier had begun to deteriorate, and were thick no more. Despite their vintage, it never occurred to him that he might be in any peril. But as he stood on the planks and continued to shovel dirt off the remainder of the lid he felt a sudden lurch. The rotted planks gave way and he was plunged into a fecal hell. Fortunately, his youthful reflexes allowed him to grab onto the edge of the remaining planks to avoid complete immersion. Suspended waist-deep in sewage, he held on like grim death to avoid an ignominious end. The thought of his likely epitaph helped motivate him to claw his way up and out of the partially covered tank. 

Alerted by the gagging noises and the screams, our mother emerged from the house to find, instead of her son, the creature from the black lagoon. She retched a bit at the sight of her second born impersonating a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone, but then quickly got down to business. She hosed him down, then turned her head and proffered a towel as he stripped off his besmirched clothing. He spent the rest of the day taking multiple showers and contemplating what would have happened if he had fallen head first into the fetid pit. 

This story is actually a long-winded introduction to the dangers of ordering sausages while visiting  France. If you are a fancier of processed meats and sausages, you have probably encountered the Cajun andouille sausage, a tasty tube-steak packed with pork butt (shoulder) and a mixture of spices, usually including cayenne pepper. Smoked and sometimes soaked in vinegar, it is good.

WARNING! If you see andouille or andouillette sausage on a French menu, do not under any circumstances order it. Not unless, that is, a whiff of the sewer whets your appetite. Because instead of tasty pork shoulder, French andouille consists of tripe (stomach lining), chopped pig anus, and layers of pig intestines flavored with some spices and herbs (but not enough!). We cannot emphasize this enough. Learn from our mistakes: we have both made the error of conflating the French andouille with the Cajun variety. Luckily, we have survived the experience so we can send out this warning. 

One day in 2007, at a bistro in Avignon, Clinton leaped at the chance to order an andouillette. He salivated in anticipation of the spicy treat he had enjoyed so often at Top Dog in Berkeley. His meal arrived with a glistening, shiny sausage, browned to perfection, a fine looking pile of fries, and a small green salad. But then came the initial piercing of the crispy sausage casing, and Clinton found himself immersed in that septic tank once again. The pungent smell of poop wafted up out of the tangled innards of the sausage. At first we thought we had been seated too near the bathroom, but it soon became apparent that the olfactory offense emanated from the awful offal on his plate.  Assuming it couldn’t taste as bad as it smelled, he took a big bite and discovered the odor was perfectly replicated in the taste! To Scott’s amazement, Clinton soldiered on and proceeded to eat almost half of the serving. Why, you ask? In Clinton’s words:

1. “I was paying for it.”
2. “I felt obligated to try local “delicacies.””
3. “I thought I might get used to it?”

After his valiant attempt, he finally abandoned the stinky innards and enjoyed a very nice meal of French Fries and salad. 

Jump to August, 2022:  we were on a day-trip to Saint-Malo on the Atlantic coast of France to escape the heat in Rennes. After doing some research we made reservations at what is considered the best Creperie in town. One of the offerings was an andouille crepe. Somehow, our previous sausage debacle did not alert us to the imminent danger. But the dime dropped a few minutes after the server had left the table, and Scott was just getting out of his chair to try to change his order when the damnably efficient waiter appeared with our crepes. With fear and incipient  loathing, Scott lifted the corner of his crepe and took a whiff. Sure enough, we had been fooled again. Just to prove that he was a trooper, Scott took one bite and then surreptitiously scraped the rest of the vile sausages into a napkin. Luckily the galette also contained some delicious cheese with onions caramelized in cider, so the lunch was not a total loss. As we were leaving we disposed of the offending meat in a nearby dumpster.  As George W. Bush once said, : “Fool me once, shame on - shame on you. Fool me - you can’ get fooled again.” And we don’t intend to!

Thanksgiving is not a “thing” in France, for obvious reasons. (Though, strangely enough, Black Friday is most emphatically a “thing” - more on that later.) So we had more or less resigned ourselves to spending November 28 at a nice restaurant where duck or guinea fowl would take the place of turkey, baguettes and butter would sub for stuffing, and crepes with chestnut spread would replace pumpkin pie for dessert. No big deal - we’ve been dining in Vancouver B.C. for the last few turkey days anyway.  But instead, we had the good fortune to meet a wonderful circle of new friends here in Nimes. It started with an online search that revealed an expat group that organizes various meetings and activities every month. Through their website we found an upcoming gathering at a nearby cafe. There were Americans and Brits in attendance, most of whom had made Nimes their permanent home. After a pleasant morning of conversation and espresso at the Cafe des Beaux-Arts, we found ourselves running into several of our new acquaintances over the following weeks. Two of the Americans, Elizabeth, and Meher, were kind enough to invite us over for Thanksgiving dinner. Along with two other American expats, the six of us celebrated in true American style, eating to excess and complaining about French bureaucracy over glasses of good French wine. Thanksgiving has long been the only holiday that really matters to us, so with our friends and extended family an ocean away it was comforting to be invited to a traditional feast with new friends..    We took on the challenge of providing the apple pie and the cranberry relish. The pie was no problem - we don’t have an oven, and there are several local bakeries that make a mean tarte aux pommes. But it was a bit of a challenge to find the cranberries to make our Mom’s cranberry relish. In the end, the national grocery chain Monoprix came through. There we found what may have been the last two bags of Ocean Spray Craisins in Nimes. Although our recipe calls for fresh cranberries, the substitution of dried worked remarkably well. Elizabeth and Meher took on the bulk of the work and cooked up an outstanding series of dishes including a plump French turkey, glazed ham, mashed potatoes, and an excellent stuffing. Other side dishes like string beans and an onion tart were brought by our other new friends Debbie and Patty.    Perched up in Elizabeth and Meher’s beautiful attic apartment, we all sat down to a meal every bit as traditional and tasty as Thanksgiving spreads back home. Despite some doubts about being able to recreate the dishes, it was actually pretty easy to find what we needed. The only thing missing was the homemade fan-tans and crescent rolls our mother used to make. But most importantly we all got to enjoy each other’s company here in France. it was good to have a convivial group of new friends with whom we could raise a glass to those who are absent or departed. Followed, of course, by the obligatory toast: God Save the Kinks. And just like any Thanksgiving back home, we found ourselves with enough leftovers to sustain us for the next two days  But long after the leftovers are consumed we will remember the generosity of our hosts, and harbor fond memories of our first Thanksgiving in France. Click link to watch Thanksgiving Day By Ray Davies Video

First of all, Stan Smith is a real human being and not just a tennis shoe made by Adidas.  As a former tennis player myself, I followed the career of Stan Smith in the late 60s’ and early 70’s.  I fondly remember wearing these simple but sturdy shoes in the early ’70s.  If I am perfectly honest though I preferred the other member of the Adidas stable of tennis shoes...The Rod Laver.  The Lavers had a bit more cushion which made the hard courts I played on slightly softer.  But I had my share of Stan’s shoes over the years until advancements in footwear design made both the Smiths and Lavers obsolete as competition level shoes for the hardcore player.  The Lavers have gone in and out of “fashion” over the years but the Stan Smiths seem to have become an international fashion icon. 

And as fashion trendsetters the French certainly seem to have adopted the Smiths in a big way. In our 3 months in Nimes, it seems as if every other person we see on the street is sporting a pair of white and green shoes. Boys and men are definitely aficionados, but I’d wager that every woman in Nimes has a pair of Stans in her closet. 

So the question presents itself----why do the French dig these shoes so much?  One possible answer is a surprising one.  The original 1964 Smiths actually came to life as the “Robert Haillet” shoe named after a French tennis champion!  In addition, Adidas actually manufactured the shoe in Landersheim in northern France.  The Haillet was the first tennis shoe to be made out of leather and it had a long production run of 9 years. However, in 1971  Stan Smith chose to wear the Haillet’s on his way to winning the U.S. Open.  Wanting to cash in on his popularity, Adidas added his name to the shoe along with Haillet’s.  Smith continued his winning ways (while Haillet faded from the scene) and 4 years later the shoe was rebranded with just Smith’s name.

The other reason for the shoe’s popularity in France seems to center on the French sense of style, which is attracted to the clean, simple design of these iconic shoes. They are easily recognizable with their bright white uppers along with the 3 subtle rows of perforations signifying the “3 stripes” of the Adidas logo. Finally, a bright green Stan Smith image and signature can be seen on the tongue of the shoe along with the bright green heel tag with the Adidas logo.  Apparently the French think this kind of neutral style goes with almost any type of apparel, so you will see gleaming white Stan’s worn with anything from fishnet stockings to skin-tight black leather (vinyl?) pants to granny dresses.

See our  photo gallery of Stan-wearers, clandestinely snapped in towns and villages throughout southern France. A rather pedestrian form of entertainment, but we hope you get a kick out of it.