Truthfully, I felt rather pleased, when I was able to negotiate changing Métros and finding the bus and getting off at the right stop. All was well with the world or so I thought as I stood in front of the enormous, ornate door and took out Tania’s key.
But then, the key didn’t work! I kept trying and trying and honestly I felt like sitting on the curb and crying. I was so close to a hot shower and a comfy bed and yet so far away. Finally, I asked a passing lady with a baby stroller if she could help me with la clé, because I imagined there must be some French secret to this key that I was not getting. And indeed, this was absolutely the case. The French lady explained to me that I simply needed to press a certain button. I did, and voilà, the big door opened easily to reveal a lovely cobblestoned courtyard. I walked in and found the door to which the key magically (actually quite obviously) fit. From there, I walked up the circular, winding staircase to the third floor (which was called the fourth floor, but that’s because the ground floor doesn’t count—that’s called the rez-de-chaussée and the first floor, which we would call the second floor is called the premier étage). You could see why I was in a state of confusion! Pulling my luggage up the stairs with me, I went up and around and up and around and up and around until I felt the dizzying effect of knowing that I was far, far from home and all that was familiar.
Later in my journeys I would come to realize that this circuitous route—the Métro, the bus, the walking, the secret courtyards, and the winding stairs—were all essential ingredients to French mystery and confidence.
A Long and Winding Road
And even then, in the midst of my exhaustion and confusion, I couldn’t help but think that years and years of walking up and down these stairs—something amazing must happen to the brain. A new pathway must form and it must change the Frenchwoman’s approach to life. Certainly, the stairs immediately force one to stand up straight and focus, not hurry, but to be present to the moment. And of course, these stairs are mighty theatrical. Just imagine your husband or lover waiting for you at the bottom of these winding, curving, ornate stairs. And there you are—descending the steps, seen from below in glimpses, flashes of leg and heels as you walk down and around, mysteriously coming in and out of view, disappearing, then reappearing, until finally you emerge. By the time you reach that bottom step, I would think this man would be in a state of enchantment.
No wonder it’s so easy for the French to reject the fast and efficient (an elevator, for instance) in favor of something that takes a little more time and delays gratification, but is ultimately much more satisfying. Deep in her cerebral cortex, the part that hides the mysteries of language and memory, a Frenchwoman holds the image of her first walk down those stairs, going round and round with her mother as she teaches her to sing “Au Clair de la Lune.” These stairs must hold so many memories and secrets for the French, but more than this, the difficulty of negotiating these stairs makes one more conscious of posture, breathing, and presentation. No, they’re not easy or quick or even sensible, but oh, they’re lovely to look at and they make the simple act of descending the stairs an opportunity for drama and beauty.
But at this moment in time, I did not appreciate all this beauty. Instead, I braced myself and I walked up and around and up and around, huffing and puffing, cursing myself for being thoroughly out of shape. And finally, I entered Tania’s apartment, looked around quickly, taking in the fact that her kitchen was small and modern, and her living room was dominated by a big round table with a big vase of fresh flowers on top of it. The sitting area was upstaged by this table and I imagined this is where she hosted her dinner parties. And that most of the interactions took place around this table. Yes, this was the place where romances blossomed and friendships were solidified—all within the context of delicious food and wine and laughter and talk.
Upstairs, there was a lovely bedroom and a bathroom, a guest bedroom, which was very inviting to my jet-lagged self.
Nonetheless, once I put my bags down and drank a glass of water, I did go back outside to the little boulangerie I had spied on the corner and I went in and ordered a baguette sandwich with fresh chicken and lots of vegetables. I confess, I returned and stood in Tania’s little kitchen and I wolfed it down in a matter of seconds (not very French!). And then I took a shower. I did not take a bath in the enormous claw-foot bathtub, even though it was so beautiful and so enticing.
After the shower, I got into bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep, only to awake with a feeling of panic. I knew I would now have to get dressed and find my way back to Tania’s office. I would have to walk or take a bus to the Métro, change Métros, then walk some more. And so, armed with my French-English dictionary, the Métro map, Tania’s directions, and a great deal of determination, I managed. I actually arrived at Métro L’Opera a little early and had time to walk around and take photographs at the Chanel store and then stare at the delicate, multicolored macarons in the windows of the famous Ladurée.
And then, I sat in the lobby on the white leather chair and observed French office workers coming down the stairs and out the door. I saw no elevators. Instead, everyone seemed to come down these beautifully ornate stairs. And for me, sitting in the lobby, full of wonder—it was as if I was watching a fashion show! The men wore dark suits, white shirts, and brightly colored ties. Clearly, there was no such thing as casual Friday. The Frenchwomen wore stylish black dresses, scarves, fitted skirts in charcoal, black, and navy, and yes, I saw the occasional pair of jeans, but they were fitted perfectly to the woman wearing them and accompanied by an elegant white shirt and some baubles or bijoux. It seemed to me that they wore very few prints, but rather a basic palette of black, navy, and white or beige with a dash of color from a scarf or an interesting accessory—a trendy bag (or sac, as they call them) and some fabulous heels or cute ballet flats.
Finally, Tania arrived. She said that before we went to dinner, she wanted to pick up some tickets for an upcoming concert. Did I mind walking a bit more? “Oh, no, not at all!,” I said. And we were off. Walking fast. And this was no short walk. By the time we had dinner and took the Métro and then the bus back to her apartment, I was ready to go directly to sleep.
But before I did, I noticed that Tania turned on her computer and checked e-mail for about fifteen minutes. She did not turn on the television. And unlike me—when confronted with my laptop and my e-mail—she did not spend hours at it. But rather, it seemed that her priority that evening was to enjoy a long, leisurely bath in that big, beautiful bathtub.
I was impressed by how self-contained she was and how she seemed to not share as much as my American girlfriends. And this is not just the case with Tania. I have encountered so many Frenchwomen and they simply don’t “dish” the way Americans do. You know what I’m talking about—how we can meet a woman at a party and within five minutes we are sharing the most intimate details of our lives, our childhood, how we are having marital difficulties or we are feuding with our sister or how our oldest son is failing in school. The French just don’t do this. They keep it hidden. Or at least they wait a long time before revealing all. This is part of their Secret Garden. And it is definitely part of how they keep their mystery and their confidence, because they never get that feeling that bits and pieces of their soul are scattered all about town.
Get Some Rest
Everyone knows that stress is bad for us. Stress makes us cranky and tired. We’re more likely to make mistakes and to make decisions that we regret. Stress makes us unhealthy. It can lead to weight gain. It can lead to heart attacks. But you can reduce a lot of the stress in your life by simply creating a Secret Garden. This Secret Garden can be in your bedroom, where you spend a few hours every weekend, sleeping late, or reading in bed, writing in a journal or just daydreaming. Perhaps you don’t have a house with pretty blue shutters, but you can block out the day’s hustle and bustle and demanding light with a pretty silk sleep mask and a pair of earplugs. I know from personal experience that some lavender potpourri or scented candles can be incredibly soothing.
Your Secret Garden
