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Travel Piece by Ida Nasatir
Letter from Paris by Ida Nasatir,
September 14, 1951
September 14, 1951—Ida Nasatir, "A
Letter from Paris," Southwestern Jewish Press, page
6, Dear
Julia and Mac:. Isn't it strange how the same words assume utterly
different meanings in different countries? Take the phrase: "The Staff of
Life." At home, we take it to mean the use of bread, and we go about our
business of eating bread in a rather nonchalant manner. But in France, the
subject of bread assumes enormous proportions, and somebody ought to write an
elegy, or whatever the proper title may be, on the unprotected life of a loaf of
bread in France. Each morning I watch a boy on his bicycle as he starts for home
with his breads. The loose loaves (they are never wrapped) protrude by something
more than half their length from a wicker basket attached to his handlebars.
Each loaf is more than two feet long, and pointed at both ends. Invariably, one
or two loaves will fall down on the dirty street, the boy will dismount and
recover it, polish it off on his trousers until he gets half the dust off,
replace it in his basket and proceed merrily on his way. The French are
oppressed by a strange superstition about bread. They eat it in tremendous
quantities; they do not charge for bread served with a meal, for they say it is
the gift of God. This belief may be the reason for their inflamed interest in
bread and the peculiar ways they have of expressing their interest, though I
cannot understand either the one, or the other. They carry bread through the
streets, exposed to the vast army of microbe-infested dust, and subsequently
devour it "as is." Women carry bread home under their arms as if they
were long walking sticks. Never have I seen a loaf of bread wrapped. Bread is
the French nation's measure of much that is good, its pride, one of its great
joys. It is decidedly the "staff of life."...Water also means
something quite different here. Apparently, it was not made to drink; there is
no doubt that water-drinking is preeminently an American practice. Europeans
seem to do without it as easily as camels. Wines—all colors and kinds, answer
their needs. Waiters frown unhappily when Americans ask for plain, simple
drinking water. If you try to use French water for washing purposes, you wonder
why someone does not get his start in provincial politics by running for office
on a "soft-water" platform. The hard water in Paris makes for a
terrific wear and tear on clothes—not to mention one's skin. And
soap—any soap that is strong enough to overcome the hard water and take the
dirt off, is potent indeed. On the other hand, a soap that is not too strong to
use is ineffectual; one might as well try to get a lather out of a
porcelain door-knob. There are a good many expensive soaps to be had here, all
highly perfumed and good to look at, but most of them are unsatisfactory. Even
"fresh air" means something different here. If you doubt this, hop a
ride across the pond, and take a ride in any French train. You will sadly come
to know that, in the main, the French have a horror of what they call a
"current of air." The day may be a hot summer one, the passengers may
be headed for the seashore where they will spend the whole day in the open
seashore. But in the train, fully clad, with collars turned up "for
protection" they shut tight every window and door at once, and being to
loll, sleep and sweat more intolerably hour by hour as the train goes on, and
all seem to be truly happy. If, when you think all in your compartment are
asleep, you tiptoe over to open the door a wee bit (by now you are literally
gasping) everyone suddenly awakens, and the excitement which follows due to the
"current of air" could not be greater had the Russian army surrounded
the train. Words really have quite different meanings in gay Paree: t'is best to
revise your understanding of them before you leave the States. Fondly,
(Ida Nasatir)