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      CHAPTER THREE

      Le Jardin Secret: The Secret Garden

       Pour vivre heureux, vivons cachés.

       (To live happily, live hidden.)

      —FRENCH PROVERB

       FRANCE IS A MYSTERIOUS COUNTRY. Oftentimes, at first glance she is closed to you. This is especially true in the countryside where there are fewer tourists and most especially true if you happen to arrive in the middle of the day. It’s easy to imagine that she is not welcoming you and that indeed, you would have to stay for a long, long time and work very hard before she would open herself up to you.

      If you are patient, and make a little effort, you will find that these stone walls will open to reveal beautiful courtyards, gardens, olive trees, flowers bursting into bloom—and the Frenchwoman herself, greeting you, well-rested and happy to receive you.

      France is a woman. Here in America, we have Uncle Sam. But France is known as a woman—La Belle France. It’s true we have the Statue of Liberty, holding up her torch to welcome the world, but then, she was a gift to us from the French.

      My Lessons Begin

      Last September, I took the overnight flight from Boston to Charles de Gaulle Airport. My French friend Tania had given me detailed instructions on how to get to her office on rue Cambon (the same street where Coco Chanel once lived). From there, I was to pick up the keys to her apartment, where I would drop off my luggage. In my dazed state, I could not find the bus and so I got on the RER train and took that to Gare du Nord.

      This was not in the original directions. So, once I got off the train, I was completely confused, bleary-eyed and exhausted from the overnight trip. I had no idea what Métro I should take to get to L’Opéra and so I ended up in a taxi line and took a taxi, grateful to put down my luggage. I arrived at her office around ten in the morning, sweating a bit, feeling less than fresh, and completely out of sorts. I sat on one of the sleek white leather chairs in the elegant lobby and waited for Tania, as slender and stylish Frenchwomen came and went. And then finally, Tania came down the stairs to greet me. Her hair was pulled back in a neat little chignon and she was wearing a navy blue pencil skirt, a simple white shirt, and a colorful scarf tied around her neck. The quintessential Frenchwoman! She sat next to me, and I suddenly felt like a tortoise—very large, very slow, and very ancient. It’s true, I’m probably old enough to be her mother, but at that moment, I felt more like her grandmother. I immediately confessed that I had taken a taxi and she looked at me a little disapprovingly (or perhaps that was my imagination) and proceeded to give me directions to her apartment in the Fourteenth Arrondissement, which involved more walking, more Métros and another bus, and absolutely no taxis.

      The Secret Behind the Door

      This time, I made myself follow her directions to the letter and I resisted the desire to fling my luggage and myself into the nearest taxi. 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