Les liasons bourgeouises
As I write this, I'm looking out over the French countryside in an 18th-century chateau. It's just like in Dangerous Liasons. That is, except for the Internet access and the hot tub and the Sub-Zero fridge. And without the extramarital romantic intrigue or the period costumes.
So, really, nothing at all like Dangerous Liasons. But I'll take reliable plumbing and a plasma TV over epistlary titilations, any day. Which is why people with cable tend to skip the whole "writing tortured and torturing love letters and driving young women to suicide" thing. Why bother, when you could spend your time watching Kojak dubbed in Turkish, or the French home shopping channel?
We're spending the week at Paul's uncle's winter home near Uzès, a medieval village just outside of Provence. Nobody else is here (it being one of the 10 months the place is empty) except for the Grizzled Caretaker, a gruff older man with arms covered in prison-style tattoos. The only time he even comes close to smiling is in proximity to his dog, a fluffy, yet crotchety little shiit-zu (sp?) named Pralinée. A taciturn man, the caretaker is someone you feel like you've met before, if only in fiction - kind of a combination of Jean Valjean and the old man on Scooby Doo who's always foiled by "those meddling kids!" Apparently, he's a raging alcoholic, which seems like part of the job description.
"Whatever you do -- DO NOT leave any alchohol lying around in plain sight," Paul's uncle warned. But as long as we don't feed him after midnight, I guess we'll be fine.
It's kind of like having our own private Club Med, complete with a pool and tennis courts and le ping-pong. Not that I play ping pong, but it's strangely comforting to know that I could if I wanted to.
(DEEP THOUGHT DU JOUR: Maybe that's the definition of power - having the option to do something you don't even want to do in the first place. Like taking a breeding pair of long-haired dachshunds on a hot air ballon trip across Bhuthan. Or opening a Virgin Megastore in space.)
Here at the Mas de Grézac (an old French term roughly translated as Le Phat Cribb), there's even a young French maid named -- you guessed it --Fanny. Fanny is one of those names kind of like Jeeves; when you put that on your kid's birth certificate, she's going to end up cleaning a chateau. To Paul's great disappointment, she doesn't wear a maid costume, which defeats the purpose of a French maid in his book.
I, for one, could get used to having someone clean up after me. Dear lord, does this mean I have to go register as a Republican?
Excuse me, but I have to go drink some Chateauneuf du Pape to console my liberal guilt ...
So, really, nothing at all like Dangerous Liasons. But I'll take reliable plumbing and a plasma TV over epistlary titilations, any day. Which is why people with cable tend to skip the whole "writing tortured and torturing love letters and driving young women to suicide" thing. Why bother, when you could spend your time watching Kojak dubbed in Turkish, or the French home shopping channel?
We're spending the week at Paul's uncle's winter home near Uzès, a medieval village just outside of Provence. Nobody else is here (it being one of the 10 months the place is empty) except for the Grizzled Caretaker, a gruff older man with arms covered in prison-style tattoos. The only time he even comes close to smiling is in proximity to his dog, a fluffy, yet crotchety little shiit-zu (sp?) named Pralinée. A taciturn man, the caretaker is someone you feel like you've met before, if only in fiction - kind of a combination of Jean Valjean and the old man on Scooby Doo who's always foiled by "those meddling kids!" Apparently, he's a raging alcoholic, which seems like part of the job description.
"Whatever you do -- DO NOT leave any alchohol lying around in plain sight," Paul's uncle warned. But as long as we don't feed him after midnight, I guess we'll be fine.
It's kind of like having our own private Club Med, complete with a pool and tennis courts and le ping-pong. Not that I play ping pong, but it's strangely comforting to know that I could if I wanted to.
(DEEP THOUGHT DU JOUR: Maybe that's the definition of power - having the option to do something you don't even want to do in the first place. Like taking a breeding pair of long-haired dachshunds on a hot air ballon trip across Bhuthan. Or opening a Virgin Megastore in space.)
Here at the Mas de Grézac (an old French term roughly translated as Le Phat Cribb), there's even a young French maid named -- you guessed it --Fanny. Fanny is one of those names kind of like Jeeves; when you put that on your kid's birth certificate, she's going to end up cleaning a chateau. To Paul's great disappointment, she doesn't wear a maid costume, which defeats the purpose of a French maid in his book.
I, for one, could get used to having someone clean up after me. Dear lord, does this mean I have to go register as a Republican?
Excuse me, but I have to go drink some Chateauneuf du Pape to console my liberal guilt ...
posted by Marguerite at 7:08 AM
4 Comments:
Have a wonderful time in France! My husband, too, thinks the lack of costume defeats the purpose of having a French maid. Men.
I don't think you have to become Republican just because you like servants. But I do think it means you have to move to Martha's Vineyard.
Ah, yesh, dahling, the Vineyard - the Spiritual Homeland of the WASPs ... Must get some salmon-colored cordoroy pants with little lobsters emblazoned on them, and a collection of headbands featuring whales. I'm pretty sure it's a zoning requirement...
The title of this translates to "Burger meetings"
Yeah, it sort of is "Burger meetings" - like in the sense of "one who resides in a Burg (town)." Like the burgers of Calais, the Rodin sculpture that, contrary to popular belief, was not in fact a portrait of the assistant shift managers of the local Burger King.
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