Bon Appetit

Praise for
Bon Appétit

L
iving in France was my dream, and I was going to make it work. With that goal in mind, I waited nearly two hours to get my
autorisation provisoire de travail
, the temporary work permit that would allow me to take a job at the Delacroix bakery while I attended pastry school.

A bored-looking woman behind the counter beckoned me forward with her finger.

“I need to apply for the APT,” I said in fluent French, handing over my paperwork. I had a letter from Luc’s uncle saying I would be working at two family bakeries in a neighboring village and town, the student resident permit Luc’s mother had acquired for me, and a letter from L’École du Pâtisserie stating I was enrolled in their sixteen-week program from September through December.

“If you are a citizen of a European Union nation, you don’t need this”. She flicked the papers back at me but paused to look at my identity card. “Lexi Stuart. What a strange name”.

“I’m an American”.

The room went quiet except for some muttering. I felt like shouting,
Yes, an American. You know, the ones who saved you in World War II.

Instead, I forced a polite smile onto my face.

“You speak French,” the woman said, as if noticing for the first time.

“Oui,”
I answered. “My permit, please?”

She moved incredibly slowly. Finally, having assembled and stamped all of my paperwork, she handed a card over the countertop. “You do know that you cannot work in France once you complete your school program? You’ll have to go home”.

I shook my head. “I read that foreign workers are welcome in France”. The words dried up in my mouth.

“Welcome?
Non
. But they can be hired. If no one in the EU can be found to do the same job, that is. Of course, we don’t have many bakers and pastry makers in France, so I am sure they’ll make an exception for you”. She directed her sarcastic laugh more at the woman next to her than toward me. The second woman coughed out a laugh, but hers seemed halfhearted rather than truly cruel.

“Here, Lexi,” she said, drawing out my name to make it sound like “Leaksie” before continuing.
“Bon courage
. I hope you enjoy your stay in France. This permit expires in six months”.

I left, slowly walking to the Rambouillet city center, and stood
by myself at the train station, permit in my purse, shoulders drooping, sensible shoes on my feet. I slumped onto a bench.

I heard the arriving train announced in French, and the suave melody of the language reminded me.
Lexi! You’re in France. You’re living in France. Your dream has come true. One cranky, ill-informed government worker does not a nation make.

In spite of everything, I was here. I was breathing French air, eating
real
French bread, meeting French people. Kind of. I grinned, remembering a joke I’d read before leaving Seattle a few weeks ago.

In European heaven, the British meet you at the door, the Germans orchestrate your schedule, the Spanish plan your entertainment, and the French prepare your food.

In European hell, however, the Spanish orchestrate your schedule, the Germans plan your entertainment, the British prepare your food, and the French will greet you at the door.

Considering my welcome thus far, I could assume I’d landed in European hell. All I needed to confirm it was an unorganized siesta and a plate of fish and chips followed by a lively reading of Goethe’s
Faust
.

I decided not to worry. I’d make it work.

Thirty minutes later I got off the train and lifted my chin toward the sun. My village, Presque le Château, was perfect, a tiny jewel on the necklace of towns that encircled Paris. Old houses, tidily kept, lined the streets. The air was perfumed with the sweetness of orange blossoms and bitterness of orange zest. I trailed my hand along the low stone wall fronting the sidewalk. My fingers and heart tingled at
the thought that hundreds of years before the United States was even a nation, some other young woman may have trailed her fingertips along this very wall, wondering what life held for her.

“Bonjour!”
I called to a woman I passed on the street. She said,
“Bonjour!”
back to me. Would that exact woman show up to buy her baguette from me in a few days? In fact, that very woman may become a friend or end up buying baguettes that I
make
in a few months. Or ordering a birthday cake from me in a year! I loved that thought.

When Luc, my boss at the French bakery where I’d worked in Seattle, had first approached me with the idea of swapping places with his sister, I felt both excitement and anxiety. His family owned several bakeries in France and two in Seattle. As they expanded their business, the family members went back and forth between Seattle and France to get experience in both. Luc’s sister was coming to the US to work in Seattle for six months or more. Would I be interested in taking her place in France?