Dear Great Grand-Mère,
How have you been?
I am back from a beautiful trip to our shared European homeland: la France. It was a glorious, cheese-filled vacation. I’ll be honest, it took me a while to settle into the slower pace. Going from the Mad Max landscape of L.A. to Maman’s secluded corner of the countryside was jarring. The most difficult thing was adjusting to the deafening quiet of night. At first it took me hours to fall asleep; I missed my usual ambient noise of 405 freeway traffic. Eventually I adjusted to, and even started to enjoy the quiet. Now, after these last few weeks of living and sleeping in a technology-free environment, I feel positively recharged. (Maman hasn’t installed wifi into the house yet.)
Maman and I were fortunate enough to have some old family friends visiting us from New York, London, and Perth. We had fun catching up during our many hours across the table from one another. Our meals consisted of: breakfast, apéritif, lunch, tea time, and dinner. My jeans were notably tighter on my return flight but I didn’t care. Every crunch, bite, and sip was worth it.
All good things must come to an end; our international pals eventually left us for their next stop on their eating tour de France. After a few quiet days as a duo, Maman and I decided to pay her neighbor, Louis, a visit. We hiked the half mile1 up the hill to his home.
Louis, Maman, and I were enjoying apéritif in the shade of his hydrangea-drenched patio when Camille, the mailman, rolled up in his yellow Renault. Louis got up to greet him and grab his mail. After some polite chit chat, Camille hopped out of the van and approached the table. Louis, ever the host with the most, made introductions, then told us Camille would be joining us for a quick drink.
My nosy mind started probing. Could this apéro stop be considered a mandated ten minute break? Do French people even have mandated ten minute breaks? Would he get in trouble with La Poste if they knew he was drinking and driving? Or would they not care, so long as he was delivering? If his ten minute break is a drink pit stop, what was his lunch break like? Was Louis the only person in the village who invited him for a drink? If there were multiple invites per day, would that mean he was on some sort of state-sponsored bar crawl?!
I’ve been blessed with a strong brain-to-mouth filter, so fortunately none of these questions materialized outside of my mind. I quietly sipped my drink and snapped back to the present. The next ten minutes were spent happily listening to Camille as he regaled us with the tale of his recent family vacation to New York. After he finished his beverage, he wished me a safe journey back to Los Angeles, jumped back into the yellow van, and headed to his next stop.
Our impromptu apéro with the mailman was a beautiful shared moment of leisure. I tried to imagine our local mail person in L.A. stopping in for a drink; if I invited her in for a cold one, she would probably think I was either hitting on her, or possibly planning to murder her.
Work and pleasure are firmly demarcated in the U.S. The only exceptions are what I call “forced fun”: office Christmas parties, H.R. sponsored happy hours, team building weekends, etc. There are specific time allotments put aside for pleasure in the workplace. The powers that be decide when these moments happen, and whether or not the employee shall be compensated for said fun.
American companies sell themselves to new employees by highlighting their “company culture”. Ping pong tables! Snacks! A fridge full of beer! Yet there is a consistent underlying seriousness associated with labor. People who enjoy their full lunch breaks away from their desks and take all of their allotted vacation days are open to judgment. On the flip side is the person who inhales a salad at their desk every day and never takes a day off; they are celebrated and promoted.
Maybe she’s born with it? Maybe it’s Maybelline! Maybe it’s capitalism? Maybe it’s our puritanical roots! Per the Protestant work ethic teaching of days past, labor was a means to achieving salvation. What a scam. Unfortunately, the scam prevails.
I can’t change an outdated national labor structure. But what I can do, and will do, is pull a Camille. I’m going to make a conscious effort to infuse my work days with small moments of pleasure. Don’t worry, I’m not about to start pounding margaritas at my desk. I don’t drink much anymore, save for vacations or the occasional birthday party. What I will do is emerge outside for a few minutes between all the meetings and emails this week. I shall indulge in some sun.
Anyway, I hope the afterlife is treating you well. I also hope heaven is labor-free and leisurely. It has been heavily marketed as such down here on Earth.
I send my love!
Until next time,
Joséphine
half a mile = .8 kilometer
Love the Maybelline reference! Also, our labor structure is a scam! I have a couple of book recommendations for you on some “alternative” thinkers when it comes to approaching work-life balance