If I were the type to keep score, here is how the week is shaping up: 1 glass of champagne, 4 breasts, one glass each vin rouge and rosé, and 1 shot of Chinese saki, all gratuit.
Went to the local market on Sunday morning. Our market, sort of like Findlay Market, but all grown up and very comfortable and relaxed in its role. About twice the size of Findlay, open on Thursday and Sunday. Excellent selection of fresh fruits, vegetables, meat and fish, and around the periphery, street sales of clothes, and shoes, and also gloves and scarves on colder winter days. Oh yeah, and within waking distance of our house. Bought a nice pork roast and some chops for the grill from the regular boucherie. Since it was the first Sunday of the year, the boucher gave each of us a little pocket calendar. A mundane fleur-de-lis design on the cover for Jen, a naked woman for the design on mine. Not sure when was the last time Si Leis allowed the vendors at Findlay to hand out pin-up girl calendars, probably not even a Ben-gal on playoff Sunday.
Monday, at work, just before lunch. Assemble in the Comité for an arrosage. Good to learn some colloquial language every day. Arrosage: a watering. In practice: celebration initiated by one of my colleagues that he has been in his new position for 3 months; celebration enacted by champagne all around at 11:30 AM on a Monday. Sharing champagne has a bit more cachet when it is the family business, and you can pull out bottles that all have the family name on the label. One glass of champagne, gratuit encore.
Tuesday, at work, at lunch. Michel's birthday was Sunday. He decided to share a little of the celebration with us. One bottle of vin rouge, purchased at the company luncheon canteen. Shared around. One glass vin rouge, gratuit encore encore.
Wednesday, at work, at lunch. Céline signed off on and moved into a new apartment this past weekend. She decided to share a little of the celebration with us. One bottle of vin rosé, purchased at the company luncheon canteen. Shared around. One glass vin rosé, gratuit encore encore encore.
Thursday, evening. Walked down to the local Vietnamese/Thailandaise resto for dinner. Nice little dinner of bœuf au sauce piquante. When a guy with a french-asian accent tells you your french is improving, is this a positive? Am I now sounding slightly asian with my french pronunciation? At any rate, after dessert (apple beignet, nicely dusted with a little sugar) M. Serveur offers me a shot of Chinese saki as a digestif. Proudly he pours me a shot in a special shot glass that has an image of a naked woman in the bottom, but only as long as there is alcohol in the glass. As you drink the digestif, the woman mysteriously evaporates, diaphonous and tawdry ..... Now this is truly a conundrum. If you chooose to drink the alcohol, the naked woman will disappear. I think I have had this experience before. Not sure I have always made the best choice in this situaton. I choose the saki. Saki and two more elusive breasts, gratuit, encore x 4.
As the nudity dissolves into a blurred image and the saki dissolves into my bloodstream, I realize the distinctions between the familiar and the unfamiliar are starting to dissolve also, bit by bit, étape par étape.
vendredi, janvier 06, 2006
jeudi, décembre 22, 2005
05.12.22: Foggy day along the Meuse
Dad:
I had a few days to do some exploring, so I thought I'd check out some of the places Grandpa stayed when he was here. So, here is the story of what I found.
Drove east out of Paris for 2 hours on A4, then exit and continue on, mostly further east and a little north. At every intersection, take the smaller of the two roads, until finally all of the roads are barely one-and-half cars wide, just ambling through the French country side. All small towns. To an American driving through on a cold December morning, they all look the same. Agricultural countryside, crops long since harvested for the year, winter rye showing through the frost. Towns spaced about every 10 km. Rolling hills, reminiscient of western Kentucky, without the split rail fences, and without the roadside advertising.
All the towns have really only four identifiable features, and three of them are the same for each town.
The black lettering on the white sign to tell you where you are on the map; about 10 or 15 old grey buildings, older than memory, serving as either houses, cow barns, or maybe a local general store;
a church in the center of the town, the tallest structure;
and next to the church, a memorial to the local men who served, and mostly died, between 1914-18.
Rolled through a slightly larger town, Varennes-en-Argonne. Looked strangely familiar. I think, perhaps, Grandpa was here. Can you check his stack of photographs?
This is what it looks like today:
I seem to remember a similar photograph or two, black & white, with soldiers about, of the church, and the mill on the hill across the river.
Went into the hotel to use the restroom. Three old men sitting in the bar, one with a cigarette, one with a beer, one with a glass of red wine. It's 10:00 AM on a cold December morning. The one with the full head of grey hair, the beer drinker, telling a story, the other two acting like they had not heard before. The interior of the old building is spotlessly clean.
Drive on, visiblity low, temperature steady at 1 deg C. Fog hangs heavy, like the history in this area.
Grandpa's DSC citation says he was in action near Mamey and Cuisy.
OK, so on to Mamey first.
To an American on a cold December day, 3 days before Christmas, nothing special about this town is obvious. One old man walking up his mud drive carrying a bucket, perhaps some feed for the chickens.
No place to stop for a coffee, no other activity about.
No reason to think this should be a decisive location in the history of the war, but I guess battles don't care what came after, or before, for that matter.
Drive on towards Cuisy.
Another hill, another town.
Down in the valley, a small cluster of buildings, captive between two facing hillsides. Must be Cuisy in the valley below. One can imagine countless trenches and artillery lined up on opposite sides of the valley, facing each other, waiting for the first to flinch to decide the moment, the day, perhaps the rest of the war.
Turn right, drive down the dirt road.
Cuisy.
Same small town, same church, same memorial. One of hundreds of similar French towns in this part of the country. This one is unique to me, only because Grandpa survived long enough again this day to gain the other hillside. No place to stop for a coffee, no activity about on a cold Thursday afternoon, 3 days before Christmas. One house has a few red and gold decorations hanging outside a window facing the main street.
One backyard has a small American flag next to the barn. Noone about to ask about this; it will stay a mystery.
Decide to walk about, over the next hill. Ground nearly frozen this time of the year. Better than September and October when Grandpa was here. I imagine it was just as cold then, but everything turned to mud from the rains and the constant footsteps and heavy vehicles. Through the fog, crest the next hill, an abandoned structure. Bombed out church. Taken by the Germans on Sep 11, 1914, re-taken by the French and US forces in September 1918. In the intervening years, the town and the church destroyed.
This town different than the others in the area; this one not to be re-built.
Keep moving, further north and a little westward. Next hill. Through the fog, smooth white surfaces. All day, everything has been stone and earth. Shiny white marble looks stangely out of place, yet calm, not disturbing. The boundary between the marble and the fog is elusive. Look again. 14,246 pieces of marble, each one marking the grave of an American who didn't leave France.
The markers have names, dates, divisions, home states marked on them. All of the states, all manner of family names.
Choice of marker: Latin cross or Star of David.
Choice of date: September, 1918 or October, 1918.
Up the next hill, introduced myself to the supervisor of the memorial. Middle aged guy, American accent, ball cap with American flag on the front. Told him my grandfather earned the DSC in this area; he expressed great interest in knowing more when I told him Grandpa was a balloonist.
This is what he told me: "You know, there was only one American balloonist killed in the war. Amazing when you consider how dangerous it was. He is buried here, out in that field. Perhaps your grandfather knew him".
And then he said this: "You know, there was one balloonist who used up three balloons in the same day, and survived."
This is what I said: "Yeah, that was my grandfather." He read the copy of the DSC citation I had with me.
Then he said: "Can I have a copy of this?" And: "Do you have a photograph of him that I can have? We are putting together a display that we share with visiting dignitaries, about the history of the Americans who served in this area." So I told him I would gather up some photos and send them to him.
Then he said: "You know, you oughta come back the last Sunday in May. We do a real nice memorial ceremony here with both American and French troops. I think your grandfather would appreciate it. The fog should lift by then."
I had a few days to do some exploring, so I thought I'd check out some of the places Grandpa stayed when he was here. So, here is the story of what I found.
Drove east out of Paris for 2 hours on A4, then exit and continue on, mostly further east and a little north. At every intersection, take the smaller of the two roads, until finally all of the roads are barely one-and-half cars wide, just ambling through the French country side. All small towns. To an American driving through on a cold December morning, they all look the same. Agricultural countryside, crops long since harvested for the year, winter rye showing through the frost. Towns spaced about every 10 km. Rolling hills, reminiscient of western Kentucky, without the split rail fences, and without the roadside advertising.
All the towns have really only four identifiable features, and three of them are the same for each town.
The black lettering on the white sign to tell you where you are on the map; about 10 or 15 old grey buildings, older than memory, serving as either houses, cow barns, or maybe a local general store;
a church in the center of the town, the tallest structure;
and next to the church, a memorial to the local men who served, and mostly died, between 1914-18.
Rolled through a slightly larger town, Varennes-en-Argonne. Looked strangely familiar. I think, perhaps, Grandpa was here. Can you check his stack of photographs?
This is what it looks like today:
I seem to remember a similar photograph or two, black & white, with soldiers about, of the church, and the mill on the hill across the river.
Went into the hotel to use the restroom. Three old men sitting in the bar, one with a cigarette, one with a beer, one with a glass of red wine. It's 10:00 AM on a cold December morning. The one with the full head of grey hair, the beer drinker, telling a story, the other two acting like they had not heard before. The interior of the old building is spotlessly clean.
Drive on, visiblity low, temperature steady at 1 deg C. Fog hangs heavy, like the history in this area.
Grandpa's DSC citation says he was in action near Mamey and Cuisy.
OK, so on to Mamey first.
To an American on a cold December day, 3 days before Christmas, nothing special about this town is obvious. One old man walking up his mud drive carrying a bucket, perhaps some feed for the chickens.
No place to stop for a coffee, no other activity about.
No reason to think this should be a decisive location in the history of the war, but I guess battles don't care what came after, or before, for that matter.
Drive on towards Cuisy.
Another hill, another town.
Down in the valley, a small cluster of buildings, captive between two facing hillsides. Must be Cuisy in the valley below. One can imagine countless trenches and artillery lined up on opposite sides of the valley, facing each other, waiting for the first to flinch to decide the moment, the day, perhaps the rest of the war.
Turn right, drive down the dirt road.
Cuisy.
Same small town, same church, same memorial. One of hundreds of similar French towns in this part of the country. This one is unique to me, only because Grandpa survived long enough again this day to gain the other hillside. No place to stop for a coffee, no activity about on a cold Thursday afternoon, 3 days before Christmas. One house has a few red and gold decorations hanging outside a window facing the main street.
One backyard has a small American flag next to the barn. Noone about to ask about this; it will stay a mystery.
Decide to walk about, over the next hill. Ground nearly frozen this time of the year. Better than September and October when Grandpa was here. I imagine it was just as cold then, but everything turned to mud from the rains and the constant footsteps and heavy vehicles. Through the fog, crest the next hill, an abandoned structure. Bombed out church. Taken by the Germans on Sep 11, 1914, re-taken by the French and US forces in September 1918. In the intervening years, the town and the church destroyed.
This town different than the others in the area; this one not to be re-built.
Keep moving, further north and a little westward. Next hill. Through the fog, smooth white surfaces. All day, everything has been stone and earth. Shiny white marble looks stangely out of place, yet calm, not disturbing. The boundary between the marble and the fog is elusive. Look again. 14,246 pieces of marble, each one marking the grave of an American who didn't leave France.
The markers have names, dates, divisions, home states marked on them. All of the states, all manner of family names.
Choice of marker: Latin cross or Star of David.
Choice of date: September, 1918 or October, 1918.
Up the next hill, introduced myself to the supervisor of the memorial. Middle aged guy, American accent, ball cap with American flag on the front. Told him my grandfather earned the DSC in this area; he expressed great interest in knowing more when I told him Grandpa was a balloonist.
This is what he told me: "You know, there was only one American balloonist killed in the war. Amazing when you consider how dangerous it was. He is buried here, out in that field. Perhaps your grandfather knew him".
And then he said this: "You know, there was one balloonist who used up three balloons in the same day, and survived."
This is what I said: "Yeah, that was my grandfather." He read the copy of the DSC citation I had with me.
Then he said: "Can I have a copy of this?" And: "Do you have a photograph of him that I can have? We are putting together a display that we share with visiting dignitaries, about the history of the Americans who served in this area." So I told him I would gather up some photos and send them to him.
Then he said: "You know, you oughta come back the last Sunday in May. We do a real nice memorial ceremony here with both American and French troops. I think your grandfather would appreciate it. The fog should lift by then."
mercredi, décembre 14, 2005
05.12.13: Rebel desserts, with a cause
The idea when I left the US was to develop and feed an obsession for wine and cheese. Seemed pretty straightforward. About as difficult as standing at 5th & Lex and developing an obsession for taxi horns.
Instead, I am becoming enamored with desserts.
To be sure, I have sampled some pretty nice wines and cheeses so far -- some downright extraordinary.
- Exhibit 1 -- every damn fromage from Auvergne - Auvergnians are maniacs about their cheeses, and I think they have a point. More on this another day.
- Exhibit 2 - wine & cheese show in the Marais a few weeks ago. (Metro ligne 1, St-Paul) Met this very ambitious vigneron from Languedoc who has concocted some very sexy wines in the last few years (syrah, cabernet, carignan, grapes grown on the side of a volcano).
Made a commitment to visit his domaine next year for a major dégustation.
But the desserts here are can be just downright intriguing.
So, check this one out from MusicHall (Metro lignes 1 or 9 to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, walk about 3 blocks north, and oh yeah, they have a few street names here I can sort of pronounce correctly).
Le Havane:
carpaccio de poire au sirop de tabac, et ses fines meringues croquantes garnies de parfait glacé à la réglisse.
carpaccio de poire au sirop de tabac, et ses fines meringues croquantes garnies de parfait glacé à la réglisse.
Tabac, as in tobacco. Kentucky's finest. For dessert. ("I usually only have a cigar after a good meal", he told the hostess.) No kidding. They take some tobacco leaves, soak them in a very sweet caramel syrup, dry them out (I assume in a little dessert tobacco barn with La Poche Poste painted on the side) and then stand them like little gothic buttresses to create the parfait arrangement. Interesting mix of acrid tobacco encased tenderness. A very nice set of flavors to finish a meal with, and to precede un café.
France is a lot like La Havane. Visually very attractive, a little bitterness coated in sugar. Just the proportions change day to day.
(Oh yeah, the photo at the top .... we went down to Boulevard Haussmann the other night to enjoy the Noël window displays and outside lighting at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette.)
samedi, décembre 10, 2005
05.12.09: Visa, et nous ne faisons pas américain express
Subtitle: Kafka does Isle-de-FranceRemember that character in the Drew Carey Show, the incredibly large woman with the massive blue eye shadow and the bubbly personality? Well, she dyed her hair red, lost any redeeming qualities she might have had with her personality, and she lives in France now. She is in charge of the visa status of hundreds of non-French citizens on a daily basis.
And she is reeeaaalllly unhappy about the whole situation.
Oooh, j'exagères! Not! I really wanted to take her picture just so you would know that I am not exaggerating this time, but I figured that would be the end of my France vacation for sure.
Okay, so here's the story. We need to officially change our visas to long term stay, and the process has multiple steps, beginning about 6 months ago, and culminating in a visit to our local préfecture this week.
Thursday, 8-Dec
07:45 - Arrive at the préfecture. Cold, rainy. We are about the 100th persons in line.
09:00 - Stated opening time of the préfecture. No activity at the front gate.
09:15 - The gate opens, and the town crier announces multiple categories of people, none of which seem to apply to us, so we remain in the default line.
09:45 - We are now 6th in line outside the big gate; there are about another 50 people behind us. Gate closes. Town crier announces that is all that will be admitted today.
09:45:15 - Bedlam, melée, teeth gnashing, paper waving. Noone else passes through the portals of french freedom this day.
Friday, 9-Dec
07:20 - Arrive at the préfecture. Thankfully it is not raining on Friday. Unthankfully, the temperature has dropped a few more degreees, so it is just above freezing. We are about the 75th persons in line. We also have with us an appointment letter faxed to us from the préfecture yesterday, for an appointment at 8:00. We are not overburdened with confidence.
07:30 - I wanted to do a little photo shoot, you know, give me your tired, your poor, etc. We were in that kind of a line. I took one photograph. It was, of course, still dark out. The flash, of course, fired on the camera. I was immediatley verbally abused by about half a dozen young men.
I found out later I was standing in the line of people seeking asylum. No photos please.
So, anyway, my career in photo journalism ended early this morning by a desire to stay in line long enough to at least have the opportunity to be turned down again by the French gouvernement for a visa.
08:00 - Check my watch, check my appointment letter. No activity at the front gate.
08:30 - French army nurse Mimi struts out of the gate. Barks orders, checks papers. We get assigned to line number 3. Behind the Bulgarians, but ahead of the dread-locks.
09:15 - We, along with the refugees, are in the building. We are now warmer while we get verbally abused by this frightful woman.
Let's imagine that this very large, unhappy woman is really here to help us. Let's imagine that we have an obsession for fondling paperwork (originals + 1 photocopy, please) and verifying that we can distingiush between the original and the photocopy. (See that small stamp of blue ink in the corner .... it must be the original, a photocopy would be all black print, of course). Let's imagine we need to ponder for 10 minutes why immigration did not stamp my passport on my most recent entry to France. Let's imagine that it is significant if I entered France on October the 12th or the 13th, given the fact that I am standing right here in fricking front of you! Let's imagine that it is important that I have one piece of paper that verifies that I have the second piece of paper, and that both of them are here with me today. Let's imagine that all of these are incredibly important details that determine if I (and my lovely wife) will, in fact, be legally or illegally in this country after Monday.
Let's imagine I'm a white guy, with resources available to me from one of the largest corporations on earth, and this is how I got treated.
Let's imagine that I'm not so fortunate, not so white, not so wealthy, and don't get through this process after 2 days of standing in the cold and rain. And imagine this is only one of many ongoing encounters with the fonctionnaires. Could lead you to want to burn a car or two (thousand). Or who knows, we could all get lucky, and the next to go could be a certain préfecture.
11:15 - Exit the building with new fancy stickers in our passports. We assume we are now legal. After all the shouting and arguing to get them, we are in fact just happy to leave the building.
11:16 - Still not content that I didn't get to complete my photojournalism task for the day, I snap a photograph of a protester outside the gate on our way out. He is standing next to a policeman. Bad move on my part, I guess. The policeman starts yelling at me, then yells at his compadre to call the chef de la sécurité. They have a long discussion on the phone. They tell me to leave. I'm not sure if they mean France or just the area in front of the building. I choose the latter, for now.
Am I ranting? Ah, tomorrow I will go to some 10th century architecure marvel, and truly be humbled and amazed. But the stench of the Créteil Préfecture is not likely to wear off for some time. And, rumours to the contrary, I guess all French women ain't all that skinny, and Lady Liberty was parked in the Seine this week, with no reach to the unfriendly confines of Créteil.
Irony of the day:
The french word for a little label is étiquette.
Go figure, encore.
lundi, novembre 07, 2005
05.11.06: Le déjeuner de six-heures
Can you actually spend 6 hours at lunch, and enjoy it?
We have been given a lot information about social customs here and cautioned about a certain level of formality that is not typically practiced by us new world folks. So, with a just a slight touch of anxiousness I accepted an invitation to a Sunday lunch at a colleague's home.
Appointment for noon on Sunday, and I assumed we would not be watching the NFL on the TV.
I drove down to Bois-le-Rois, only got lost once enroute (not bad for me, actually) and arrived generally on time with a nice bouquet of flowers for the hostess.
They asked me if I wanted something to drink, and I said: "Well, if there is coffee available that would be nice, or just a glass of water". They looked at me like I had a W sticker across my forehead, or something. What was I thinking? Coffee is only for aprés-dessert (and well, it's café, not coffee). And they were seemingly uncomfortable with the notion of giving me a glass of water. After they finished harrassing me for being too américain, they explained that despite the fact that it is noon, it is time for an apéritif, and I should have a glass of champagne or a beer. Well OK then, beer for me it is, and what time does the football game start?
This is then followed by 'pain surpris', little sandwiches of several varities as a little entrée, then a move to the dining room table for the main plat -- beef bourgoignaise served with homemade spaetzel, accompanied by a nice bottle of red wine. A little break, some nice conversation, then a plate of cheeses (yes, you know the kind), a little more nice conversation, followed by a homemade chocolate cake with sauce anglaise, and in acquiescence to my american ways, I was allowed to have café with my dessert. All of this was accomplished in just under 6 hours! Actually, when I looked at my watch after dessert I was a little stunned. We had just had some great conversation all afternoon and the time passed very pleasantly.
So what's on the mind of regular folks in conversations with Americans?
So, a Sunday afternoon in November with no Who-dey and no Hudy D-Lite, but all in all, very enjoyable. Welcome to the Jungle, really.
We have been given a lot information about social customs here and cautioned about a certain level of formality that is not typically practiced by us new world folks. So, with a just a slight touch of anxiousness I accepted an invitation to a Sunday lunch at a colleague's home.
Appointment for noon on Sunday, and I assumed we would not be watching the NFL on the TV.
I drove down to Bois-le-Rois, only got lost once enroute (not bad for me, actually) and arrived generally on time with a nice bouquet of flowers for the hostess.
They asked me if I wanted something to drink, and I said: "Well, if there is coffee available that would be nice, or just a glass of water". They looked at me like I had a W sticker across my forehead, or something. What was I thinking? Coffee is only for aprés-dessert (and well, it's café, not coffee). And they were seemingly uncomfortable with the notion of giving me a glass of water. After they finished harrassing me for being too américain, they explained that despite the fact that it is noon, it is time for an apéritif, and I should have a glass of champagne or a beer. Well OK then, beer for me it is, and what time does the football game start?
This is then followed by 'pain surpris', little sandwiches of several varities as a little entrée, then a move to the dining room table for the main plat -- beef bourgoignaise served with homemade spaetzel, accompanied by a nice bottle of red wine. A little break, some nice conversation, then a plate of cheeses (yes, you know the kind), a little more nice conversation, followed by a homemade chocolate cake with sauce anglaise, and in acquiescence to my american ways, I was allowed to have café with my dessert. All of this was accomplished in just under 6 hours! Actually, when I looked at my watch after dessert I was a little stunned. We had just had some great conversation all afternoon and the time passed very pleasantly.
So what's on the mind of regular folks in conversations with Americans?
- Well, invariably I get to hear the opinion-du-moment of the W thing, as expected.
- Also, almost everyone that I have a decent conversation with eventually wants to know if Ohio has the death penalty. So, that is a big curiosity here (from the folks who invented the guillotine). I have tried to explain the state / federal court systems and appeal processes that result in changes in the death penalty implementation, but this is apparently not well understood. Federalism, state's rights, local rights, etc. is not a concept that France has experience with (Evidence the current situation, where after 12 days of rioting the national government finally gave permission to local mayors to impose curfews. Give permission after 12 days of chaos, excuse me?)
- Many people also are confused over the notion that the Supreme Court can have an influence on abortion rights. The typical response is: "why is this something that the court is even involved with?" Well, that's not really a question I even try to answer.
- Sunday we spent some time talking about employment contracts. They were absolutely stunned when I told them I have had probably 20 jobs in my life, and never had an employment contract (until now, at any rate). The whole notion of not having every detail in an employment situation explicitly defined and agreed to in writing made them very uncomfortable. I guess we are just living on the edge. Crazy new world people.
So, a Sunday afternoon in November with no Who-dey and no Hudy D-Lite, but all in all, very enjoyable. Welcome to the Jungle, really.
mercredi, novembre 02, 2005
05.11.02: Resto Pensée
I think it was just over 100 years ago that Pavlov won the Nobel Prize for his work on conditioned response. The thing I don't remember (from the only psychology course that I took in high school) is, what did the dogs do after he rang the bell when he didn't give them the damn food? OK, so we know that they salivated, but how angry were they when they didn't get the food, and what did they do next?
I was thinking about this last night (OK, almost every night) when I was waiting for a glass of water, which seems to be a big deal over here. After 40 years of restaurant service in the U.S., I have been totally conditioned to expect a glass of water delivered, without my asking, (and independent of whether I need it or want it) within about 2 minutes after I sit down. Moving here I get to experience the conditioned-response-meets-denial side of the experience spectrum. And on more topics than just a glass of water.
[Sidebar: So anyway, as I'm wondering how many times to request water before it is considered embarassingly rude (by local standards), the woman at the table next to me plops her baby on the table and changes her diaper (the baby's) in the middle of the restaurant dining room. Which gives me another thought ... do people do this in the US and I just never paid attention, or have I just discovered another quaint local custom? I think it might be the latter. OK, aprés-change, a very cute little baby]
I am coming around to recognize that what is so much perceived rudeness between foreigners is just a lot of seemingly common situations (but from independent perspectives) and the participants have vastly conflicting conditioned responses. For a glass of water in a restaurant -- not a big deal. The handshake thing they got going on over here -- hopefully not a big deal in the long run ('cause I cannot just keep it straight every day exactly who I have seen already today, and who I haven't). But, on the other hand, two unfortunate deaths in the suburbs leads to burning 1,000 cars a night in Paris for twelve nights and counting. And 'splain to me again that thing where we end up in Irak. Who rang the damn bell?
For my part, I am trying to pay attention to what I have been conditioned to do vs. what it is that I either really want or need. I hope that's not too french-y for the long haul. It may be a good strategy for holding onto some sanity.
Oh, and did I mention ... hold the H2O, forget about the damn dogs ... the côte du Rhône with the fusilli au saumon is quite excellent, merci.
(The photo is the local Italian restaurant where they do serve water, have a pretty good lasagna, and they keep very polite smiles on their faces while I butcher the french language, mercilessly.)
mardi, octobre 25, 2005
05.10.24: Le Bilboquet est OK (et bien plus)
I took the metro line 4 to St-Germain-des-Pres to see the district existentialisme remnants. Apparently, this area is famous for smart writers like Hemingway hanging out here in the 20s and 30s (I suppose pre-Spanish revolution), and later still in the 50s for J-P Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, developing their special blend of existentialism. Don't know what it looked like in their day, but very much the nice cafe scene today. Maybe a little heavier on the tourists, and a little lighter on the heavy thinkers than in years past.
But if you forget about trying to find the exact chair at Les Deux Magots that Hemingway sat in while he was musing over ... whatever, and wander around the corner and down one block, you can hear some very nice jazz tunes working their way out of Le Bilboquet.
I sat down for dinner and to listen to the show last Sunday night. 4-person combo. Piano (and vocals), lead guitar, bass, and drums. Basic. Without a doubt the 2nd best pianist I have ever heard. (For the prémiere ... Henry Butler, Christmas Night, Funky Butt's, The Ramparts, New Orleans, 2000). When they opened up with 'And the beat goes on ..' I was a little concerned, but damn if they didn't make that song sound great. La-di-da-di-dee ... la-di-da-di-daah. A big mix, from Rat Pack, to Marley to an excellent rendition of I Put a Spell on You. Now, I'm a fan of Screamin' Jay Hawkins, and I expect Nina Simone might have peddled a few versions around the Paris clubs for many years (recall, after leaving the US in the '70s for racial reasons, and I think passed away last year), but this live jazz version put a big time spell on everybody in the club; and served up with a fondant au chocolat.
[Sidebar: why the heck don't we have this dessert in the US? OK, I think I have had this dessert about half a dozen times so far, and it never disappoints. Basically, it is a single-serving size chocolate cake, bordering on a brownie, but the center is melted (melting?) very dark chocolate. So my question is: how do they bake a little cake in about 5 minutes where the outside is a great little crusty cake, and the center is just melted chocolate? They can be a little inventive over here when they want to be. I will not leave here until I know how this is done. I have also seen it on menus as: moelleux au chocolat and moyenne cuit (sp?) chocolat. Maybe I have become a little obsessed with this.]
It all came together when they launched into a very jazzy-blues version of The Wind Cries Mary; I think Jimi would have been proud (and I didn't hear any rumblings to the contrary from Père Lachaise, either). Sometimes you are in a club and the atmosphere, the music, the food, and the conversation works itself into a very nice fondant au soirée. Le Bilboquet is a pretty good place to start. That's a brand of existentialism that I can hold on to.
La-di-da-di-dee ... la-di-da-di-daah.
[Addendum: There is a jazz radio station here that gets me back and forth to work every day; even in the nastiest traffic Paris has to dish out (well, sans riot zones), this station keeps me sane and entertained. They also stream on the web, so you should check it out ... TSF 89.9 FM - Tout Jazz.]
samedi, octobre 22, 2005
05.10.22: Cimitière du Père Lachaise
The obligatory visit to see Mr. Morrison's resting place.
I went to see Jim Morrison's grave the other day, but then there were a whole lot of other gravemarkers in the way, so it took a little longer than I expected. I thought it was Jim Morrison's cemetery, but I guess the other 100,000 people buried there have a different opinion.
I went to see Jim Morrison's grave the other day, but then there were a whole lot of other gravemarkers in the way, so it took a little longer than I expected. I thought it was Jim Morrison's cemetery, but I guess the other 100,000 people buried there have a different opinion.
At the gate to enter, for 2 euro you can get a map and admission.
To me, the kindly gentlemen said: "But for you, you can enter for two greenbacks, if you have them. That's about a 20% discount. The reason is, we never forget '44 and '45."
I wanted to remind him that my grandfather was here in '17 and '18, but there were other people in line, and probably not from the US, so I let it go, this time.
At any rate, the cemetery is on the east side of Paris, and amazingly is about 44 hectares (~100 acres).
The only grave that has a little protective fence around it, and the only grave that has a gathering of people around it is .... Mr. Morrison's.
The simple marker has an epitaph in Greek, and depending on the translation you find, means either:
- "To the divine spirit within himself"
- "The devil within himself"
- "The genius in his mind"
- "He caused his own demons"
Nice.
Rock'n'roll should always be an enigma.
dimanche, septembre 25, 2005
05.09.27: Versailles, Le Jardin
OK, so the first time I went to Versailles was about five years ago, and I only had time to visit the gardens; so I did not make it inside the royal living quarters. But at any rate, here is the reaction I had the first time I was there: I walked thru the gate to enter the central garden area and you think: what a nice garden, isn't this interesting. And then, you walk about another 50 meters ... and then you see the garden. What you had seen was really just a patio. And then you say (depending on where you are from, but in my case): "Holy Excessivity! This is unbelieeevable." We are not talking about a garden here. I think basically what we are talking about is maybe the size of New Jersey, but all of it incredibly well manicured.
So then my next thought was this: What took them so long to have a revolution? I mean really, why would you finance a lifestyle like this for some fancy-pants royalty while everyone else is living baguette to mouth. I don't know what King George had in England at the same time, but I imagine if he had tried to build a place like Versailles near Boston or New York or Philadelphia, the revolution would have come just that much sooner.
So this year, I thought it would be fun to take Jen, and just gauge her reaction as this whole thing unfolds before her. It was really a beautiful sunny fall afternoon. I swear to Neptune, she had exactly the same reaction. She wandered across the patio, nodding agreeably about how nice the place is, and then all of a sudden: recognition of the enormity of this place, and then she had basically the same thought I had: "This was all for ONE guy?"
Really, it is that enormous. Kinda makes you wonder how the mob were even able to find Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette when they knocked on the door in October 1789. If Crawford, Texas starts to develop a reputation for impressive water sculptures, let's start re-reading the Constitution.
OK, so don't get me wrong. I am not negative about the beauty of this place.
It is stunning.
It is a marvel of design.
It is a joyous way to spend the day, wandering about and imagining the 18th century coming alive in all of it's regal regalitry. They even pipe in some nice baroque music to help re-create the ambience.
All I am saying is: let's also keep in mind who paid for all of this.
Appended below for your viewing pleasure are some images from the day. The water sculptures were big this day, so these photos are heavy on the water theme; in conjunction with the water fountains there is also an enviable collection of plant diversity, and all very nicely maintained and manicured in a very french-y formal garden style.
And, if you do get a chance to visit, here is my recommendation for the most stunning water / sculpture / garden I have ever seen. The sculpture is called le bosquet d'Encalade. This sculpture depicts the demise of Enceladus during the giants' failed revolt against Zeus. Enceladus was one of the 24 giants that revolted, attempting to reach Mt. Olympus by stacking mountain upon mountain. As it become obvious that the battle was lost, Enceladus attempted to escape, but Athena crushed him under a large piece of extracted earth, that is now the land of Sicily. Go figure.
Happy gardening!
samedi, septembre 24, 2005
05.09.23: House-hunting à Paris
House-hunting
There is only one sane way to go house-hunting in a foreign country where you don't speak the language: hire a company to take care of the intial screening and the appointments and the interpretations and the contracts and the yadda-yadda-yadda. We actually got something right.
Here are some images of the house we decided to rent and a few interesting images of some of the other places we decided to let go. No fish stories here ... all images without digital enhancement. The last image is of our tour-guide and house-hunting heroine. Without her, I think we would still be living in the States.
We are located ~20 minutes east of Paris, in a nice little town called La Varenne. We are within walking distance to the train into Paris, and not too bad of a commute for me to get to work. If you need to satisfy your mapping curiosity try: La Varenne, postal code 94210 in www.mappy.fr. I haven't tried the digital satellite images from google yet. I'll keep the porch light on, just in case.
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