Wild Flowers for the Queen
I have made an active decision to work in the early hours of the day. It
isn't a new idea. But I wake up chock full of promise, but as the morning
progresses great ideas are replaced by chitchat over coffee. As I walk through the
gardens, my ideas slip away between the flowers.
So, by noon, I am worn out of creativity. Good, maybe for cleaning, or
typing, but certainly not for outlining the differences between England and France.
We sit just outside the Chunnel, near Ashford, England, while the railroad
makes a quick check for illegal immigrants traversing the English Channel. I
used to wonder why someone would choose England over France.
Two days this week, we had our usual meetings with clients in London. We
stayed at our regular hotel, unfortunately a little too expensive, but something
we indulge ourselves in for working as hard as we do there. "Where's Tim?"
Blair asked the woman behind the desk. Tim is the tall, handsome Australian
who carries our bags. "He found another job," she admits, "but he didn't really
want to leave." We ask where he went -- she tells us he is a lawyer, and
took a job with a top English firm.
When I tell people in France I work in the restaurant from time to time, they
cringe. If I really want to shock them, I tell them Blair and I are going to
buy a calliope when we retire and play music on the street. These things are
not possible in France. I am breaking them in slowly.
We eat well in England – at a wildly decorated Moroccan restaurant for
Wednesday lunch. Blair couldn't place the accent of the owner, and asked if he was
from Iran. "No!" he announced. "I am from Iraq. You are Americans, aren't
you?" I cowered; secretly I hoped he wouldn't poison me. In fact, his family
left Iraq thirteen years ago. Christians, oppressed by Saddam Hussein, his
parents and brother went to Phoenix, Arizona, and he went to London. "My
brother is an American soldier", he tells us.
There are increasing numbers of ethnic restaurants in France, but no where
near the number there are in London. Admittedly, French food is among the best
in the world, but it isn't the only good food. For the number of immigrants
from the former French colonies, there are surprisingly few non-French
restaurants. It is extremely difficult to begin a business in France. Up until six
months ago, one had to have $10,000.00 (approx.) in the bank to be granted a
business license. After that, the cost of social security is 1-1/2 times
one's salary. The social safety net is an expensive luxury for those who fit the
profile.
We visited Decorex, the annual design product show held in London. I
"womanned" the NEWH (Network of Executive Women in Hospitality) booth for two hours.
I had one seriously interested woman take an application form. A man came by
the booth, asking for information. Mr. Sharif had a hotel. "I'm sorry," I
said, "but NEWH is for women". He told me how he was interested in
organizations for "fringe" people. He thought it interesting that in England (and in the
US) there would be an organization to help people who were outside the
mainstream, to find a mainstream. He was interested in creating a group so that
people would be able to learn more about how to be effective in a world alien to
them, in an atmosphere they would feel comfortable. I took his name and
address.
In Paris, I told my girlfriend about my group. "Surely that wouldn't work
here," she snipped, "no French woman would want to join a business group
without men."
After the show, we were cold and starving. We forget those few degrees of
latitude represent so many degrees of temperature. We went to an Italian
restaurant nearby and settled into a little red wine, pasta and rabbit. While we
were there, a tall, thin nostrilled man came in with an exotic wife. "How good
to see you milord," the entire waitstaff bowed. The couple sat adjacent to us.
He ordered a double vodka over ice with bitters on the side. During the
evening, nearly half the people who came in paid respects to him and his wife.
He ordered a second vodka as his son arrived, likewise impeccably suited and
shoed. The formality of the family, the subservience of the crowd was something
I formerly abhorred, but I realized, this evening, that the lord was doing
his duty, and the crowd was thanking him for that chance to be in England, to
open a restaurant, to practice their religion. And to sell him another drink.
As usual, I breathed that sigh of relief when the train entered the tunnel
and the conductor announced the time in France. I felt at home. But at the
same time, I reflected on role, on duty and on just what we do. And resolved
to do it better.
Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER
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