Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
More Than French Fries
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Dear Brittany,
Hello from Paris. How is school? How did your prom turn out? I will be home soon, so save your best stories!
Do your friends know that French fries are no more French than Brussel sprouts are Belgian or a slab of Canadian bacon is Canadian? When I get home, just for the helluva it, the next time we go to Mel’s for a hamburger, I’m ordering “a burger with frites.”
Speaking of burgers, the Big Fernand is a French fast-food chain that serves a grilled meat patty—tenderly tucked into a soft roll with a crispy crust—topped with a slice of Montague cheese, sundried tomatoes, a healthy portion of chopped parsley and a mayonnaise-based secret sauce. Pairs perfectly with a glass of red Bordeaux. Comes with, um, French fries.
Someday, I want you to come with me to France. Maybe for a graduation present. Picture us exploring together, showing each other the things we missed. Touristing is more than sightseeing. It’s about learning different ways of living.
In Nantes, a 280-square foot microhouse perches over a narrow alley squeezed between two buildings. The entire house could fit into our garage. Think of it: storage for our polluting car converted into housing for Aunt Abby or a foreign exchange student.
Public art is a thing in France. Art that is innovative, festive, fun is displayed everywhere. Art to challenge you, art to make you smile. My favorite: in front of a gelato stand a garbage can in the shape of an ice cream cone. Like the fashionable clothes you wear, art woven into daily life.
Cathedrals in France are as plentiful as Catholics in a convent. Ever since evangelical Christians backed Trump in the last election, religious hypocrites have converted me to atheism. For every Dali Lama there’s a Christian Nationalist. That aside, stained glass windows backlit by a righteous, radiant sunlight transform even a sinner like me.
In Paris on the Champs-Élysées, one place you will want to check out is the very first Sephora store—the mothership, so to speak. I was there yesterday looking for perfume for your mother. The place is claustrophobic with a fusion of fragrances, colognes, potions. Overpowering. I could hardly get out of there fast enough, but you’ll love it.
In most French towns, urban treescapes convert otherwise boring streets into promenades. A touch of the forest primeval in the city center is a makeover, transforming drab buildings and grey pavements. Besides providing shade on blazing hot days, the trees are frontline soldiers combatting the climate crisis.
America should copy France’s public restrooms. From outdoor urinals for men to self-cleaning, sanitary bathrooms placed in public parks and squares. A traveler with a bursting bladder is a distracted traveler, so this is one public amenity that I hold in high regard. Wink, wink.
Stylishly attired moms—like well-dressed zebras at a watering hole—use bistros as daytime way stations to rest and rejuvenate, to reclaim their adulthood by connecting with other mothers. Neighborhood eateries have shelves packed with children’s books and toys. It’s fun to watch the moms gather and greet each other.
Brittany, I’m so excited at the thought of us together in France. Will write more later, Dad.
