Letter From France: Call Me in September.(European vacations)

Byline: David Ray

Who could blame her for laughing? Not a giggle, but a guffaw held in so tight that tears welled in her eyes. My wife, a big muckety-muck at a French fashion house, thought she had seen it all. But never had an employee come to her and demanded a pay hike in quite the same way. He deserved the extra 10 percent, the young man said, not in reward for burning the midnight oil while his co-workers cavorted in Cannes--but because he needed the extra dough so that he could, too.

It's like this, he explained with a straight face. Prices in St.-Tropez are out of control. He could barely afford a parasol at Nikki Beach, much less the moelleux au chocolat chaud at Restaurant Joseph. Nor was he going to sleep even one night on a sponge mattress in an unrated hotel. He wanted lavender-scented sheets and thought his boss should bump him up to four stars.

After dabbing the mascara off her cheeks, my wife calmly reminded him that the company had already given him three weeks of sick time for "stress" as well as two extra vacation weeks for working more than 35 hours a week throughout the year. In her Cruella De Vil voice, she suggested that he learn to spread the confiture more economically on his baguette--or else learn how to pitch a tent in Brittany.

As an American living in the south of France, I secretly sympathize less with my wife, the tough boss, than the bossee with his taste for fine whines. Before taking on my current job as part-time bus driver and chef de cuisine Chez Nous--I'm a househusband with two kids, in other words--I worked for two Silicon Forest Internet start-ups. You know the drill: work 24/7 until the IPO, then retire rich at 30. (In my dreams.) Vacations, even the standard American two weeks? Everyone boasted about not taking them.

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