Greetings and Vandellas

Hi there, are you all right?

Right, so I'm beginning today's post with some witty observations about various forms of greeting practised around the world – or at least around the Western world as I have yet to go further east than Amsterdam. In the U.S., we have "hi," or "good morning," but that is usually reserved for people you know. There's that whole confusing "Aloha," thing, which like "Shalom" or "Ciao," seems to be hello, goodbye, give me a pack of Marlborough Lights, and everything in between. But generally, in the Midwest and East Coast at least, friendly greetings tend to be reserved for just that – friends. When we first moved from Manhattan to our small riverside village, I did make an effort to greet neighbors I passed on the street – one too-bright, super-syrupy "Good morning, how are you?" backfired when I realized the recipient was neighbor and, yes, Exorcist mom Ellen Burstyn, who appeared to be in no mood – but even those overtures were generally met with the obligatory fake smile and I was always left with the distinct impression that any further outreach would result in blatant scoffing at best and restraining orders at worst.

Moving to Paris, therefore, required a real sea change in our whole approach to social interactions. Fortunately, I had read the late Polly Platt's fabulous French or Foe?, and was thus prepared for all the niceties expected of one visiting a boulanger, patisserie, or fishmonger. Entering these shops, Platt wrote, is like entering their homes (which is also why wearing sweatpants to any of the aforementioned spots is frowned upon, but more on that later), and thus mumbling, "Um, I'll take a taquito and a Super Slurpee Strata," without any courteous prelude – such as an inquiry into the owner's health or an exchange about the weather – is considered not only gross and unhealthy but rude beyond compare. But you know what, I quickly got used to "Bonjour, ca va? Ca va bien, merci. Avez-vous passé les bonnes vacances?" and found it really nice, particularly as it lulled me into the (false, surely) impression that I was making lifelong friends of the drycleaner, the Bretagnan-pastry vendor at the market, and of course the salesclerk at the corner wine store (well, I really did consider him a friend, for obvious reasons). Unfortunately, all this "Ca va, ca va? Ca va, ca va?" ad infinitum business makes one's errands three times longer than they ought otherwise to be, but that's probably why the French never appear to be in a hurry, and there's something charming, if sometimes maddening, about that too.

So now that we Francophilian Yanks have landed in the charming English countryside, we've yet another set of social graces to interpret and replicate. There's definitely a similar social pressure to do the whole greeting and exit banter, with different phrases, obviously. "Right," is the standard opening to any conversation or presentation. "Cheers," I'm learning, like "Shalom," means hello, how are you, goodbye, thank you, carry on, go Manchester United, sorry about all this rain, enjoy your room-temperature, cloudy glass of ambiguous ale, etc. One I haven't quite gotten used to is "are you all right?" As in, I'm walking into the gym, hand my membership card to the cute desk clerk and he says "Are you all right?" The first time I was hit with that one I was a bit taken aback. The hapless gym employee could, of course, be asking after my health/general disposition for any number of reasons – Birkin bags under eyes (we're talking giant, bloated Kelly, not petite and trim Lindy), hair matted with pillow-poaching daughter's early-morning sleep dribble, shriveled Cheerios stuck to bum – but the French would generally ignore these foibles and merely raise a famously imperious eyebrow. Caught off guard by this actual acknowledgment of the USWeekly-captured-Wynonna-Judd-taking-out-the-trash look I was rocking, I staggered a bit, muttering something about traffic and the hot water heater having blown out (see how quickly those late-for-work excuses come flooding back?), only then to be met with... the raised eyebrow. After getting the same question at the supermarket, the local department store, and Josie's nursery, it finally dawned on me that these myriad compatriots couldn't all possibly know what a complete mess I am, and that "Are you all right?" is simply the British (or at least west country) Ca va?

After that unconscionably long rant, are you all right? (I mean it, are you? Are you even awake?) I'll try to think of some exciting haps since my last post. Right – Martha. No, not that Martha. The other Martha. You see, in my excitement over having a babysitter again I've been booking shows and dinners all over the place, most recently for the closing show of the Bath International Music Festival. That's right, what began for us with the Royal High Pop Collective (see below, gangly girls, many outmatched by their oversized wind instruments) ended with a welcome infusion of the Motown Sound: Martha Reeves and the Vandellas! I had to work a bit to convince Jeff that this would be a fun concert – but I think the initial reluctance on both our parts was our shared experience of seeing concerts in New York City and elsewhere. Let's face it, it's a pain. Getting the tickets (how about the time I got to work at 6am to be online when Madonna's Drowned World 2001 tickets went onsale, only spending $1,842 to look at Madge's back? Sorry about that, M and E), not losing the tickets (sorry about that again M, also A and L, also Madonna, Girlie Show 1993), getting to the concert itself (horrible traffic en route to the now-defunct Pine Knob or mobs of drag Madonnas blocking entrance to Madison Square Garden), either parking or taking public transportation, fighting the crowds, endless bathroom lines, $11 drinks, etc.

If every concert could be like the Bath Music Festival I would go to one every weekend. There were about 500 of us, under a tent, no seating, two bars with multiple bartenders (and thus short lines), where one could procure a Super Big Gulp of delicious pear cider for about $5, and unprecedented ease in visiting the ladies' room before, during and after the show itself. And those ladies rocked the house! They played all their hits, some b-sides that were only popular here in the UK (but every Lady of a Certain Age seemed to know by heart: "third finger, left hand, that's where he put that wed-ding band"), and finished with a Motown medley that included a little MJ, a little Smokey, and some Marvin wrapped up in "Dancing in the Streets." Lots of weird references to Detroit (Martha was a one-term City Councilmember, defeated in her re-election primary because, well, she was always off touring in places like Bath and not around to vote on various ethics investigations and debt-recovery plans), and the probably-surreal-only-to-me- suggestion by the emcee/festival chair that the Mayor meet with Martha to draw on her municipal expertise and brainstorm about cultural events and other development ideas for Bath (huh? wha?). But it was jolly good fun and not just a bit heartwarming (I might have wiped away a tear or two) to see the original WASPs boogie down to the same music my own parents danced to in their basements. Good stuff.

Other highlights: Josie started swimming lessons (so cute, I'll take pictures next week), I was invited out to see "Sex and the City II" with a gaggle of girls (really fun, even though the movie was ridiculous), we saw some gorgeous gardens at a nearby National Trust site, I made a tres haute cuisine Jamie Oliver meal (see left), we discovered a potential "our place," with good grub, good cheer, and al fresco tables, right around the corner. Send some sunshine our way, mes amis.