A few weeks ago, an Italian officemate corrected someone talking about carbonara sauce with cream, saying that true carbonara sauce was from the Rome region, and she was pretty sure it used pecorino cheese – in any case, certainly not cream. In France, carbonara sauce is generally considered to be diced-up bacon (cooked), and a fresh egg mixed with cream. The hot bacon and pasta, when stirred with the sauce, cook the egg and cream just enough to thicken.

On a certain social site (which has been great for getting back in touch with friends around the world!), an Italian friend confirmed that the sauce used pecorino, and one of her friends mentioned that a dash of ground black pepper should be added too – that was where the “carbon” came from in the name. It all sounded delicious, so I was very much looking forward to finding some pecorino here in Nice. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, we’re near the border, I bet there will be some at the Libé market,” I thought.

I went there today, and sure enough, there was an Italian shop selling Italian hams and cheeses! With not one, but two types of pecorino: romano and tendre sardegna, which you can see in this blurry photo (taken with my cameraphone). The pecorino tendre sardegna is the cheese with black rind, two of them are stacked on the right. The pecorino romano is in the middle, marked 17.90€/kg. It also has a black crust, which isn’t visible here.

I asked for une tranche de pecorino romano (“a slice of pecorino romano”) in my own Niçois-ish accent, meaning what I said sounded more like “una transha de pecorino romano”. (French people who don’t know me first assume I’m from the area due to my accent… it’s a bit odd, knowing I picked up the accent because it’s actually easier for me to pronounce, being more rhythmic.) Also, having studied Italian at university, I used Italian “r” sounds, in the front of the mouth, not the French “r” rolled in the back of the mouth. “Romano??” the shopkeeper asked, seeming surprised. “Romano!” I nodded, smiling. “È italiano!” he smiled. I nodded, smiling again, happy to have found Italian cheeses.

Immediately after I’d nodded, I realized I’d misheard him: he had said “è italiana“, meaning he’d assumed I was Italian (“a” makes it feminine, me being a woman, whereas pecorino is masculine), and I had just said “yes” with my nod. English, French and Italian jumbled in my mind, I couldn’t say a word to correct the misunderstanding. “Italiani hanno molto buon gusto,” the man said cheerily. Again I understood right away (“Italians have very good taste”), so I chuckled and nodded, then mentally kicked myself for getting into a conversation in which I couldn’t participate. My hesitation made me too late to say anything in any language again: “Dopo?” the man asked. “Next?” literally – in French, market sellers often say “Autre chose?”, equivalent to our “anything else?” I motioned “no” and said “okay” for just the pecorino romano. (“OK” seems to work in 99% of Indo-European languages.) He rang me up, looking disappointed, and I left, feeling much the same way, wishing I’d been able to express myself.

Then again, it’s not exactly easy to explain: as simple a statement as “I’m American” may seem, those of us who live here know that it doesn’t conjure images of multilingualism or “good taste.” I am also “French”, though not born here, and being French does equate to ideas of “good taste” for some, but there’s friendly rivalry between Spain, France, and Italy as to whose taste is “better”, and depending on the person, you never quite know what stereotypes you’ll be running into. In any case, one thing is certain: I speak just enough Italian to embarrass myself. I still remember that stage of speaking French, too!

Here’s something I never dreamt I’d find in the trash one day: a vintage sewing machine. But find it I did, this morning, just before the truck came! It reminds me of my mother’s Bernina 830 I grew up using, although this machine is simpler and heavier-duty. Made by New York Sewing Machine Co. (not to be confused with New York Sewing Machines Inc. who replied to my query to say they never made this machine), its model number is 408, and that’s about all I know. It has an external motor built by French company Luxor, but I doubt it’s a retrofit since the motor is anchored by screws:

It is missing the foot pedal to control the motor, but that’s not a problem with this sort of machine. The large stitching wheel still moves smoothly by hand. The previous owner took very good care of this machine; nothing is rusted, everything internal is oiled and impeccably clean, the machine still works! But it had indeed been abandoned: as well as being in the designated trash pickup area, it was very dirty on its surfaces. But as you can see, it came threaded.

Why would someone throw away a working sewing machine? Unfortunately it’s probably easily explained: it’s a simple machine, with just straight and zigzag stitches, nothing more. Modern-day sewing machine manufacturers tend to tout fancy embroidery machines with any number of stitches, but all you really need are the two basic stitches and a way to control their length, width, and tension. This machine is built like a tank, entirely made of steel, apart from the heavy-duty plastic base (which hinges away to access the bobbin mechanism). That also probably worked against it for whoever decided to toss the machine: it’s big, not exactly the latest fashion, and weighs a ton. But it will probably outlast the home sewer’s Pfaff hobby 1030 that I have. I’m looking forward to trying it out seriously this weekend. I love its simple design lines.

 

A third cat post in a row (with opera!) – I’m still resting after the marathon of doing my Masters degree while working full time! Kanoko and Susu continue to build their friendship, and spend most of their days napping together, with the rest of the time spent play-fighting.

Last Sunday I went to the first Monte Carlo Opera performance of the year, Arrigo Boito’s “Mefistofele“. Erwin Schrott was excellent in the title role, and the orchestra played beautifully.

I have a subscription for the full season, but oddly enough, the MC Opera doesn’t have detailed seating diagrams, so I didn’t quite know what my seat would be like until attending “Mefistofele”. Happily, it’s as good as I was told over the phone: orchestra level, on the side but near the more expensive central seats, and just where the rear section begins, so I don’t even need to use binoculars! “Mefistofele” was performed in the more modern Grimaldi Forum, so I haven’t yet seen how my seat will translate to the original opera house, the Salle Garnier, but am looking forward to it. Will have to wait until January for the next opera, however! It will actually be two shorter, single-act pieces: “La Navarraise” by Massenet, and Ravel’s “L’Enfant et les sortilèges“.

Over this past weekend in France were held the journées du patrimoine, heritage days. Many museums and historical sites were open for free, and some had special tours. I once again sacrificed outings for my thesis, mainly because I’ve been to most of the places already, although I have yet to see the inside of the Villa Arson. Improving the French language in my thesis before printing it today was much more important, however! My defense is scheduled for next week – I am starting to feel more nervous, but also looking forward to talking about my research and writing.

After printing and binding my 155-page tome (volume), I went to deliver it, having taken the afternoon off to do just that. I got off a few bus stops too early, so decided to walk to the Université de Nice to deliver copies of my thesis to the two jury members’ mailboxes rather than take the bus. UNice, as it’s also known here (not spoken UNice, but written), has several campuses in Nice, as well as in Sophia Antipolis. For literature and languages, the faculté (college) is at Campus Carlone, located on a hill. I started at the Fabron musée d’art naïf and walked up a narrow road with switchbacks. It was nice, as it ended up being my own sort of heritage day! I had been unfamiliar with that part of Nice until now, and enjoyed visiting.

Above is a street plaque I crossed. I searched for Marius Raveu online, and found the best information gathered together in this French WWI history forum. Raveu flew bombing missions in WWI, was awarded the croix de guerre and continued as a civilian pilot afterwards, “beating several records”. He died in an airplane crash at the end of 1925.

I also passed a few beautiful villas, including one with gorgeous iris frescoes beneath the eaves (taken with my smartphone, so the quality isn’t great, but you can see their complexity by zooming in). I love these under-eave frescoes here.

Lately I’ve been on a sewing spree, and enjoying the nicer spring weather we’ve been having. With the start of the Festival de Cannes (Cannes Film Festival), the usual stormier spring weather has returned, so I have a bit more indoors time.

This morning I had several errands to run, but didn’t think to take my good DSLR with me. In any case, I walked my favorite street for variety of type styles in Nice and took some photos with my cameraphone. Someday I will think to take my DSLR here, since there are some gorgeous villas along the same street, and I really want to get a shot of my favorite little store before it entirely disappears. That would be this one, with the art deco lettering and architecture:

I also get a kick out of this old lock advertisement whenever I pass it. “With the Parade lock, Picard removes [the need for] keys! Come try it – Free entry”. In the past, when you entered a shop in France, you were expected to buy something – if you didn’t want to buy anything, you stayed outside to window shop. “Entrée libre” meant you could come inside without the expectation to buy.

Yesterday, rather than sew, I realized I had better go to the mairie (city hall) to request my French ID. At the citizenship ceremony, our cartes de séjour et de résidence, visitor/work/residence permits, were taken by the préfecture since gaining French nationality meant we’d no longer be “visitors”. We were given our new French birth certificates, which are one of the documents needed to request French ID. Rather than go to city hall on a Saturday morning, likely to be crowded, I decided to use one of my weekday vacation mornings and then make the most of my detour in the old town. After une flânerie (a stroll), I had aïoli, a traditional Provençal dish with a garlic, basil, pepper and egg white sauce. In fact, the name aïoli is the name of the sauce, which, theoretically, could be served with anything that goes along well, but as the name of a dish, it usually comes with potatoes, courgette (zucchini), leeks, carrots, boiled egg, and white fish.

When I got home and uploaded photos, I realized that in all my years here, I still hadn’t created a photoset for Nice’s old town. That’s done now: Vieux Nice photoset includes the photos from yesterday and several older ones.

Tomorrow is May Day, so here’s some traditional May Day muguet (lily of the valley)!

Just a quick post to share the unusual expression of team spirit in Nice this evening. Nice’s football (soccer) team made it to the Coupe de France semifinals, and are playing Lille in Nice tonight. The football stadium is in earshot of my apartment, so I’ve seen plenty of red and black scarves, flags and jerseys in the streets. Much more than for other matches, it’s fun. Even this women’s clothing store got into spirit. The guys below are dressed in Nice team jerseys, I passed them on my walk home, among dozens of others (who were harder to photograph).

As of yesterday, licensed drivers in Nice can now get around with pay-per-use electric cars, dubbed Auto Bleue and decorated with wings. One of the stations is near my apartment; all of us in the area are delighted by the concept. Currently, it costs (“les tarifs” on the website) 25 euros to sign up, for which you have to provide a scan of both your driver’s license and a second form of valid ID, then:
- 8 euros for one hour
- 20 euros for four hours in the morning (if you first take the car between 7am and 9am)
- 20 euros for five hours in the evening (if you first take the car between 7pm and 9pm)
- 50 euros for a full day (if you first take the car between 7am and 9am)
- or, for 50 euros a month, you can use the service for a total of ten hours in the month, beyond which it’s 5 euros an hour. (You have to sign up for a minimum of 6 months for this offer.)

The price includes the electricity, mileage, insurance, and round-the-clock assistance from the car – they come with a GPS – or by telephone. Beyond that, you also save on in-city parking, since you can hook it up at any of the 14 stations in Nice, as well as at a station in Cagnes-sur-Mer and another in Saint Laurent du Var. The drawback being, of course, that you do have to return it to a station, so if you wanted to use one for a daily commute, it would only be practical if you worked near one of the spots. New stations will likely be added, as they’ve done for the Vélo Bleu (pay-per-use bicycles). The Auto Bleue website also points out that “Le coût total moyen d’une voiture particulière est de 5360€/an, pour une petite voiture à essence. (source ADEME.)” Translation: “The average total cost of a personal car is 5360 euros per year, for a small gas-powered car.”

That total cost of ownership, along with parking headaches and crazy Riviera drivers, are why I don’t have a car. I take the bus, tram and train everywhere, for a total monthly cost of 25-35 euros. That’s 15 euros/month for the bus I take to work, plus 10-20 euros/month for city tram and bus usage. It’s hard to be convinced to shell out 5360 euros/year when I only spend 420 euros maximum (35 euros x 12 months) to go practically everywhere I need and want, plus I never have to worry about repairs, accidents, insurance, parking, registration, or gas stations! Indeed, I’ve become so accustomed to getting around by public transportation and my own two feet, whether walking or bicycling, that I can’t yet think of a personal use for these new electric cars, other than taking home large purchases. But I live alone; I can definitely see how practical the Auto Bleue will be for families and even couples, as well as business people who come to the Riviera often enough that it could replace a more-expensive rental car.

Ma cérémonie d’accueil dans la nationalité française took place on Friday, in the palais préfectoral located in Vieux Nice. The “prefectoral palace” was formerly le palais des ducs de Savoie ; le palais des rois de Sardaigne. Just 150 years ago, Nice was not part of France, but part of the duchy of Savoy, which later became part of the kingdom of Sardinia, thus the dual names for the palace. Although the palace is open to visit a few times a year, I’d never been inside, so it was quite a treat to experience the richly decorated salle des fêtes (festival hall) firsthand.

About a hundred brand-new French citizens residing in the département des Alpes-Maritimes had been invited to the ceremony, so it was quite large, and long. The sous-préfet began the ceremony with a nice speech, then we stood to sing La Marseillaise. After that, we were shown a short film entitled “Devenir Français”, which gave a very brief history of la République Française, the Déclaration des droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen, some background on the French republic’s values (and official motto) liberté, égalité, fraternité, an additional bit on laïcité, and finally, a rather jarring sequence of ground, air, and naval war scenes with running commentary about how we could be called to defend France.

Once the film had finished, we were each called by name to shake hands with the sous-préfet and our city’s representative, and receive our new papers. There was a verre de l’amitié (“friendship toast”) afterwards, but as we’d all arrived at 8:30am and I was finally called at 11am (they went in alphabetical order), I didn’t hang around to see how it went. Neither did many others – it was kind of a shame that they had invited so many of us at once, since a smaller group would have been more conducive to meeting people. Even the préfecture staff commented on how the group was a bit too large, so I got the sense that they’ll be on a smaller scale in the future.

I just had my first experience of voting in France. Today was the first round of élections cantonales, regional elections. Like in the States, public schools are used as bureaux de vote, polling stations. Yours is marked on your carte d’électeur, voter registration card. In France, you’re part of a canton, a “seat”. What I didn’t realize is that each seat is also subdivided into bureaux, offices. So I was surprised when I went to the elementary school, entered what I thought to be my canton‘s voting area, and was told that it wasn’t mine… I had to find my bureau.

After some searching, and wondering how such a small seat could have a half-dozen offices, I did eventually find mine. Then I was nearly led astray by an elderly woman whose actions I was following, figuring she knew better. She went straight to the table of candidate cards and to the polling booth without signing in! I too had gone right to the candidate cards and taken a few (I already knew you have to take more than one), but decided I had probably better try signing in first. So I went to the voting table, manned by four people: two women, with the registration rolls and empty envelopes, one woman manning the ballot box, and a man who held the voter rolls and had people sign once they’d voted. I presented my carte d’électeur and ID to the two women at the registration rolls. “Madame Stevenson Anne-Marie, c’est bien ça ?” “Oui, et c’est juste Anna,” I smiled. “C’est bon !” she said, marking an X by my name and passing my card on to the second woman. The second woman then presented me with an empty envelope, and passed my card on to the woman at the ballot box.

From there on I knew, roughly, what to do: put my chosen candidate’s card into the envelope. But what to do with the leftover ones? There’s no trash can in the polling booths. This is something we don’t encounter in the US, where we use punch cards that come with a different (and one could argue, more serious) lot of problems. So I folded the remaining candidate cards shut, left the booth and went to the ballot box. The woman at it asked, “Madame Stevenson, oui ?” she asked, looking at my voter card. “Oui, c’est moi,” I said. “Madame Stevenson !” she announced, which surprised me, and she opened the envelope slot. I put in my envelope. The man at the voter rolls announced, “a voté !” I nearly laughed but kept it to a smile, and the man asked me to please sign by my name. When I had, he returned my voter card and ID to me. There was a large trash can with discarded candidate cards by the door; I added mine.

There you have it! I’m glad to know what to expect for future elections. I felt awkward at this first one! As for the photo above, I took it last evening while on a walkabout hoping to see the full moon… which I never did due to all the clouds we had. You can see more photos of St. Barthélémy neighborhood at twilight there, starting with St. Barthélémy in the trees.