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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)