07.07.23: Les Alpes, Ups and Downs of life in France

About 20 years ago I went to Colorado and climbed a few mountain passes on my bicycle (Rabbit Ears and Loveland still stick in my mind), and at the time I said (to myself): "wouldn't it be cool to go to the Alps and climb some of the cols that comprise the Tour de France." I never said I was in a hurry about it, so there you have it, last week I did a few of them alps. Col du Télégraph, Col de le Croix de Fer, Col Galibier most notably. Just a week after Le Tour passed by.

Here is what I remember:

Saturday...

We roll out of the hotel at 7:00 AM, the eight of us, after a breakfast of baguettes, marmalade, a little OJ, and café au lait ... we might have a long day ahead of us. I am nervous. No, I am scared. J'ai peur. I have no idea of the magnitude of the climbs ahead. Like I said, it's been a long time since I rode a bike in the mountains.



I ride alongside Robert, usually steady and very strong. About 15 km into the day, I notice he is sweating profusely and breathing hard. Robert, who kicks my ass every Sunday morning is looking a little peaked. It's not even 8:00 AM. J'ai peur. I am not sweating; either I am on form, or I am completely dehydrated. I take a drink. It's all I can do. I regard my heart monitor; I seem to be OK, or it's not working. Nothing to do about it except spin the pedals. Perhaps today is the day I kick Robert's ass. Or not. A few km later, Robert kicks it up a notch. I do not respond. I do not know what is ahead. La peur ne cesse pas. I maintain my pace.

About halfway into the 1st climb I realize I have forgotten my food / energy bars for the day. I am in France. Either this is a problem without solution, or this is a problem easily solved. There is no middle ground here. It's a food related question ... this should be easily solved. 10 km from the summit, there is small resto by the side of the road. I stop for a café, tarte tatin, a re-fill of my water bottles and a few sweet breads to-go. Food supply question easily solved. I'm finishing my café, Jacques, Jean, and Michèle pass. I re-mount and re-join the climb. The clouds hang low; there is no noise; the view is supressed; la peur ne diminue pas.

A few km later I feel a strange rotation pattern developing in my right pedal. I am 5 km from the 1st summit of a 2-day/4 summit week-end and my right pedal has backed out of the crank arm, lodged itself askew and misaligned in the threads. The pedal is not rotating about the same axis as the crank-arm. It is now causing my knee some pain. I un-clip from the pedal, and push the pedal pad with the center of my shoe. Very in-efficient, but at least it doesn't twist my knee on every rotation. I cannot give up in the face of these frenchies. 2 km from the summit, the pedal has nearly liberated itself from the crank arm. This is good news. I can now extract the pedal,and there are just 2 threads remaining in the crank - but it's enough to re-attach the pedal. I torque it down with all the little allen wrench has to offer. J'ai peur, mais je persiste. The pedal holds; I do not quit.

Le col de la Croix de Fer. Altitude: 2068 m (6800 ft). Not too bad on altitude, but the climb is 4800 ft in 20 miles.

The view at the top is very pleasing. Robert was waiting for me at the summit.




I ask another cyclist to take my photo next to the brag sign. Apparently, I forgot to turn the camera on. He is trying to take the photo and he says out loud: "Hey, does this thing work?" They were the first english words I had heard all day. Turns out, he is from Calgary. Speaks english pretty well. Can apparently ride a bike also.

I'm thinking the hard part of the day is over. Not much is as it seems here. Next little climb, having received no significant advance billing, Col du Mollard, is a nasty little climb, not long, not high, but steep and after lunch, was not pleasant. I nearly cracked 100m from the peak.

After, it's all down hill, 50 km, practice high speed turns. How fast do you dare? Noone passed me on the descent. Being overweight is a bonus on a descent.

Evening ... cheap pasta meal in a 2nd rate hotel 5m off the main highway. Two glasses of whine and I am ready for bed.

Sunday ...

I ride out of town with Michel in the early morning fog. The fog deadens the sound, clouds the road ahead in mystery, intrigue. The only sounds are those of mine and Michel's quiet breathing, our calm conversation as we begin the ascent. We can not see ahead 100m. On a bicycle, climbing, that is enough. I know the road rises; beyond that, I do not need to know. We breathe; we chat about nothing; I regard my heart monitor. I am in better condition than yesterday, or the battery is slowly dying. We will see.



My heart monitor has 4 levels: (1) u woose, (2) u r not a woose, (3) r u sure u know what u r doing?, and (4) exploding!exploding!exploding!

I am on level 2. This is good.

I read the names of the all the TdF riders that climbed this pass the week before, painted in the road, encouragment for the pros with big fans. I do not find my name among them. I have no rabid fans with spray paint cans. I am alone. I push the pedals.

About 30 km later, the fog lifts, the sun shines, I believe, in fact, there is a slight breeze on my back. The normal gods who punish people that ride bicycles uphills have taken the day off.
I turn right past the treeline; I look up; yesterday was nothing; today we have a climb. I continue. All the guys with shaved legs pass me. I pass the old ladies with super granny gears. At any rate, I continue. I pass a sign that indicates 500m to the ravitaillement (refueling stop). About 500m later, I pass another sign that says 500m to the ravitaillement. 500 m later, a third. This is a cruel joke. French sense of humour is lost on me. The wind is picking up; the road steepens. 100 m later, I reach the summit.

Col de Galibier. Altitude 2645 m (8678 feet).

This was a climb. This is a view. In the distance, glacier peaked summits. The valley stretches out below me in every direction. The sun is shining. There is a local cheese producer selling artisanal Tomme cheese. All is good and right in the world.

Jean, le président of our local cycling club, asks me to ride a supplementary 6 km with Robert. He assures me there is a great view to be enjoyed, and it is only 6 km extra. I agree. They are always playing jokes on me, those frenchies. The route is steep, hot, and about a 20 km detour. It is afternoon, I have already had a beer, I am tired, I perservere. At one point, I watched another cyclist actually fall over as he couldn't make a turn; don't go too slow. He fell from exhaustion. I redouble my efforts. The view to talk about was to after the mini-col was crested. We descended along a cliffside ... lean too far to the left and it's about 1000 ft straight down. Did I mention that I am afraid of heights? Every km that passes, I have more respect for the TdF riders. And then, and then, it was 50 km of descent. 50 km is a long way to go down. Fast. Perhaps the detour was worth it.

Evening .... much celebrating, as we have proven once again that, although we are human and old, on a good day, we can still push a bicycle up a long steep hill. The good weather in the afternoon was a special bonus. Another cheap meal in a 3rd rate hotel (look up Turkish toilet in your french travel guide sometime, and then share among 5 hotel rooms). I will be happy to make these climbs again next year, but I might try to throw my 2 centimes in when it comes to picking the hotel accomodations. Two glasses of cheap red wine, and I am again down for the count.

07.06.29: Portuguese mystery mash, Mirabelle, Poire William, Moonshine

This is my level of sophistication: give me a beer, or I'll have a glass of wine. I don't much care.

This is not an attitude or behavior pattern that is much shared here. Before dinner, we have an aperitif, with the entrée, we might have a little white wine, unless the entrée is foie gras, in which case there is a very limited and special selection of wines to choose to accompany (Juraçon seems to work pretty well), with the plat then we have a little red wine, and then after dessert, we can have a little digestif. Add to this, each region of France seems to have a slightly different version of a local apéro and digestif specialité. This is a lot of different alcohols to keep up with. I'm doing the very best that I can.

Before I came here, I think all of the alocholic beverages I consumed came in bottles with official looking labels from real companies. Don't think I had that moonshine kind of stuff. But, then I'm a Yankee, and all that, anyway.

In the last 3 weeks, I have now had 3 home-made alcohols. Like I said, I'm doing the very best that I can.

Went for a bike ride on Sunday with the group into Paris. Had a picnic in Bois de Vincennes in the early afternoon. Full spread of all the frenchy pique-nique items. After the picninc, went back to the 'hood for a little dessert specialty ... came in a 2-liter plastic softdrink bottle, plastic cap and all. Pass the bottle around, pour a little into your little plastic cup. Toast the day. Wow. That was some tough stuff. Apparently a portuguese family recipe for home made digestif. Careful what you drink.

Went to some new friends house for dinner later in the week. Had a super nice dinner, initiated by canteloupe and very thinly sliced italian ham (together), finished off with a little putting lesson on the living room carpet, and a family specialty mirabelle digestif. Apparently, in former times, certain regions of France retained the right to make distilled alcohol for family use. At any rate, the right to distill certain quantities is retained by the family as long as they continue to own the farm. The grandfather of our hosts for the evening makes his own special blend of mirabelle (a small plum, regional speciality) every year, and distributes to the family. Strictly medicinal. I did putt better afterwards.

Went to borrow a bicycle from Daniel in the cycle club. He invited us to stay for dinner. Very simple, yet elegant salad followed by beef, at the backyard patio table on a very pleasant summer evening. Turns out, it was their wedding anniversary, which they were going to celebrate more formally the next evening, so decided to share the evening with us. After dinner, Daniel said that his father makes a traditional family recipe of poire william (pear based eau de vie) if I would like a little digestif. Why not? This was something. He pulled a bottle out of the cooler that was labelled 1976 and we sipped a little homemade in the garden, long after the sun had set, just the four of us, sharing some conversation about the difference in life between US and France, and which boulangerie has the best baguette in town. Very strong stuff, served chilled, goes down very easy with friends of an evening.

Moonshine next?

07.05.17: Pilgrims, pelerins, pinot noir, past and present

In the middle ages, apparently there was a lot of sin. There was also a lot of anxiety about how to get absolution. Depending on income bracket and political connections, there were options for re-arriving in a good state of grace, before, well you know, an accident happened and you were standing at the gates for a final accounting. Wear clean underwear, you know.



One popular method, open to all income brackets, was to make a pilgrimage. One very efficient pilgrimage route was to make the trek to San Juan de Compostelle (or St-Jacque, if you are still in France, headed towards the Spanish border). For those with the fortitude to make the journey, all sins (up to that point in life, at any rate) were absolved. Starting over. Clean slate. Guaranteed by the Pope.

All of this was based on the fact that St John (allright, english version name) the apostle's body washed up at this spot in Spain, after having drifted at sea for like 400 years, and so the miracle happened, we have a church, and we have the promise from the pope that if you make the pilgrimage, all sins are wiped clean and a ticket to heaven is tucked safely in your pocket.

The pilgrims returning home would bring a seashell with them as a remembrance of the trek to the Spanish coast (and perhaps a reminder about their state of grace). The route is now marked with bronze shells embeded in the roads along the route throughout France, and you can usually encounter a few folks walking along the route most days.



Vézelay was an important stop along this route of pilgrimage. The day I visited, there were two men on a tandem bicycle who were making the pilgrimmage from eastern France and planned to make Compostelle a few weeks later. Don't know if you get full marks for taking a bicycle instead of the foot path. There was also a guy walking down the highway in the rain, red poncho, seashell necklace, heading west, 1500 km to go. Vézelay also makes the UNESCO list, as the orgin of the highly successful 2nd crusade, launched from here in 1146 by St-Bernard, and the launching point for Richard the Lion Heart for the 3rd crusade in 1190, the town continually providing alternate paths to forgiveness.

If you drive down the highway about 120 km east and south, you can find a modern day pilgrimage of another sort in full swing. Arriving in the heart of the Burgundy region, France's answer to the question: What to do with some Pinot Noir vines? Make Burgundy wine. Lots of it.

Divide up the land into very tiny parcels of mini-hectares; give each hectare a different fancy french name, and then invite the California pilgrims to traverse the Route de Vin. Gevrey-Chambertin, Nuits-St-George, Morey-St Denis, Chambolle-Musigny - all grand crus.

The pinot pilgrims, nicely tanned from sunny californie du sud, travel the route in BMWs, driven by their french drivers/guides, with their long hair, speaking impeccable english, smoking Marlboro Lights, and retaining enough of their strong french accent, so you always know just whose country you are in. Make some appointments at some of the grand crus, superior class wine houses, deguste a little wine here and there, pack up some cases at 600€ per, discuss shipping to the US, and seek coronation back home by having the well stocked cave. This pilgrimmage is not open to all income brackets. Not so obvious you leave in a state of grace, but you can certainly arrive at an altered state of consciousness with enough degustations.

Me ... I bicycled a little along the côtes (steep, dry, scenic) and bought a few bottles of Gevrey-Chambertin for the cave from a very pleasant vignoble, whose son is living/working in California in the field of software.

To each, their own pilgrimmage. To each, their own salvation/salivation.

Bonne route.

07.04.12: Round and semi-round

Apr 12th, 1961 – Yuri Gagarin became the first human to orbit the earth. He went around in a big circle, and became an international hero. He simultaneously represented, to the East, all the best that human minds can bring to demonstrate technological innovation, and, to the West, all the fears realized of world domination by an evil empire. And it was just 46 years ago today.

Just for going around in a circle. But he did go all the way ‘round. I guess that was the key. No points if you don’t make it back.

I celebrated by having lunch with a bunch of Russians. Really. Why not?

I don’t remember 1961, but my lunch mates of today did. They spoke with great pride of Yuri, but also equally respectful of Mr. Shepard and Glenn’s similar accomplishments within the following year. Mr. Armstrong, too. As for circles and orbits and pendulums … I was having lunch with a bunch of Russians, just like any other business meeting, working for future shared successes. No evil empires, no world domination. Just trying to close the loop on some open action items, and have an enjoyable lunch or two in the process.

Apr 12th, 2007 – Also the birthday of a good friend, so we had dinner in Montmartre, on a balmy spring evening, sitting at a little bistro table that sloped with the hillside, on a terrace that overlooks all of Paris, with a nice view of the golden dome atop l’Hôpital des Invalides in the distance, the final resting place of Napolean Bonaparte. He, who also, completed a few orbits of his own between France and banishment.

The crème brulée wasn’t bad; the English translations on the menu were. Pavé de boeuf was translated as cobblestone of beef. A sauce, jus de viande, was translated as ‘dishwater.’ Sort of a half-English translation. Just read the French; it seems more appetizing. No points for half a translation.

So, Pascale is 45 today, also a number that seems like half-way to something; one can imagine that 45 years represents a half-life, human size. She is optimistic to continue the journey.

Apr 12th, 2007 – Half-way around for me. I signed a 3-year contract for this position, and today marks exactly 18 months to the day from which I landed my American feet on this foreign soil. Half way around. No points if I don’t make it back, I suppose.

I’ll be back; I need all the points I can get.

07.03.29: Age rules!

Merci à tous for the highly appreciated birthday wishes.

I greatly enjoyed all of them, even the one that had the audacity to remind me of a partial educational failure of mine from nearly 20 years ago. Yes, I am getting old(er).

So, what does a birthday look like from here?

Well, Thursday AM is my french class session. I have been accusing my french teacher of changing the grammar rules every week for about the last three weeks. Of course, in true french-y fashion, she completely denies it. It actually reached a peak last week, when, in a fit of passion for learning (er, perhaps just frustration), I actually vigorously, forcibly, enthusiastically, demonstratively scratched out an entire rule on pronoun usage in my text book, looked at her and screamed: "Vous n'êtes pas d'accord? moi, non plus!" (you don't agree? I don't either!).

It made me feel better.

Future french students ... you have me to thank if them frenchies can decide amongst themsleves the propoer usage of the pronoun 'en' in regards to referencing non-human, yet sentient beings.

At any rate, she didn't quit; she came back for another laugh at my expense this week. Must need the job, or more likely, just the entertainment. Well, I know she changes the rules just to force me to conjugate into a hypothèse, but there is no way a french person will ever admit to making an error.

Today, she bought the coffee during our coffe break. Bon anniversaire (un).

This afternoon ... meetings, phone calls, e-mails, blah, blah, blah, saved humanity from itself. Listened to a guy say that 50 years of data is not sufficient to claim that global warning is happening. Kept my mouth shut .. I work for that guy. BUT, it is performance appraisal season in the big factory, so I had the pleasure of giving an appraisal to one of my employees. Talk about changing the rules. Either EVERYTHING I was told in cultural awareness training was completely incorrect (strong possibility) or la employée du jour is an exceptionally unique française (just as likely, a very strong possibility). Well, as usual, I know I am right.

I am the boss. See rule #1. If you don't like that one, see rule #2. Bon anniversaire (deux).



Ahh ... this evening ... I had une petite experience at the local cycle club meeting. OK, so I was out on my bike a few weeks ago, ran across a group that had the name of my ville on their jerseys, so I rode with them for about 50 miles. Very pleasant experience. They invited me to their monthly meeting, which I attended this evening. Meeting scheduled to start at 8:15. I arrived at 8:10 (Only had to ask for directions once to find the address). Noone. 8:25 ... a few people arrive. 9:00 ... meeting actually starts. So, we start the meeting about 45 mintues late, which bothers noone. Although, it can be noted that I noted the time. Perhaps I should say: noone was concerned about the time, except for l'américain. Meeting begins with an acknowledgement of the new person in the room (Yes that would be me ... please introduce yourself in french please ... don't forget to say thank you). About 25 people, almost all of them older than me, and all of them in better shape than me. A few people who run in the New York City, Chicago, and Rome marathons every year. . Discuss who will participate in which upcoming rides, the usual request for volunteers to help with coordination (I acted like I completely did not understand). After the regular business, the club president has a welcoming one-to-one chat with me so that I understand what they do, chastises me for using 'vous' instead of 'tu' ... afterall we are kindred sportive kind of guys; several people introduce themselves to me to make it very clear that I am very welcome to join their club, but only if I want, and then, in true french-y fashion, we popped the corks on several bottles of cidre - a kind of fermented apple based cider - and had a few rounds.

No rules. Bon anniversaire (trois).

Here's to no rules (except mine) for the rest of the year...Merci à tous,

07.03.21: St. Paddy's Day ... Long memories

Well, I might be a little late, but Happy St. Paddy's Day just the same.


I got a little busy late last week and didn't have time to write before la grande fête, and then, well, took a little trip for the week-end, which I now summarize for you below....

Went to Normandy last week-end for a visit. First time to that famous region. Hey, what's to see ...

Started off with a visit to a couple in Caen that we met in Sénégal last December, and we were invited to their house to spend a day or two. Turns out that Véronique is friends with all of the directors of the big hotels in Deauville (you know, where all the Hollywood stars hang out during the Deauville film fest). So, we took some tours of the 4-star-luxe hotels in Deauville, had a cocktail or two on the house, and short-sheeted the beds in the Susan Sarandon Presidentielle Suite. Took a tour along the northern coast between Honfleur and Cabourg, and ended up back in Caen for the evening.

Believe it or don't, but Friday night we went into Caen to a bar named "O'Donnell's Irish Pub", had a few pints of Guiness (pronounced here as uhn puhn de Geen-ace), and listened to a band (5 piece) play traditional Irish music. Very traditional, and nicely played. Mostly reels, and a few ballads. I never did figure out where the band was from. When the singer sang, his english sounded, well kindof irishy, and my french hosts said he spoke french with a bit of an accent, but when we were leaving I thanked him in english, and he looked at me kind of funny like he didn't understand. So, I don't know where they were from, but they played a nice set of music on the eve of St. Paddy's Day, in a northern French town, not that very far from Ireland. I didn't mind it a bit.

Normands can be persistent with their apple theme. Apples grow here, along with cows for cheese and butter. In the french tradition of combining economics and the necessity of a specialty drink for each course of the meal, the Normands have figured out how to make an aperitif (before dinner) and a digestif (after dinner) from the same fruit. I don't know the exact process, but apparently fruit, fermented and distilled results in a relatively strong apple-based, cognac inspired, digestif called Calvados. If you can find the aged (30 yrs, what patience!), it makes for a quite nice after dinner drink. One fruit region, two drinks needed ... add a little fresh apple juice to calvados, and voilà, you have Pommeau, a sweeter, lighter alcohol version suitable for an aperitif. I am not an expert on these matters, but I will be happy to report new discoveries, as experienced.

Spent the rest of the weekend visiting the famous sites ... D-Day beaches, American Cemetery in Normandy, and the Bayeux Tapestry, and on Monday, to an 1000 year old ruin of an abbey called Jumièges.

The Bayeux Tapestry is a tapestry (go figure) that is about 70 meters long and 50 cm tall which recounts the history of the Battle of Hastings and the conquering of England by William the Conquerer (Guillaume le Conquérant) in 1066, establishing the strong presence of the Normans in western europe for a few more centuries. Created as a sort of political propaganda at the time, it has taken on a life of its own in symbolism throughout the ages, and is preserved in an unbelievably wonderful condition 900 years later. Worth a stop, if you find yourself near Bayeux.



The D-Day beaches and war memorials are, as always, moving. La Pointe du Hoc is a spit of land that juts out into the Channel that was strategically important to capture in the initial phases of the Normandy landings. In preparation, the small strip was aerial bombed to the extent that no spot of earth was left untouched. The nazi defenses persisted, and the Rangers who scaled the cliffs to arrive on this spot found tough resistance. Today, the strip of land is American soil, and the remains of the aerial bombing are evident everywhere, while the grasses and potentillas, in yellow spring bloom, put some soft edges on the remains of the concrete and steel bunkers that were constructed by Rommel's crews in anticipation of the eventual Allied attacks.


At the American Cemetery we hooked up with a British couple to take a guided tour given by a French lady, who is employed by the American Battle Monuments Commission ( abmc.gov). Quentin Roosevelt, son of Teddy, died as a pilot in WWI near where Grandpa was engaged in Eastern France. Theodore, Jr, also son of Teddy, died in Normandy during WWII. As a tribute to the family, Quentin's grave was moved from eastern France to be next to his brother in Normandy. I recalled seeing some photos of Quentin and his wrecked plane in Grandpa's photo albums, which I mentioned to our French guide, as she had discussed that they are always trying to tie together pieces of history. She said that they had some photos of the original burial site of Quentin, but that they had not previously seen any photos of Quentin's plane nor the surroundings. So, I e-mailed her some digitized photos from Grandpa's stash, including the photos of Quentin, for which she is very thankful to have. She may contact me to have at the look at some more of the family archives. We'll see.



In a turn of history, at the British war memorial, there is a large engraving in stone, commemorating the contributions of the British soldiers in liberating France, that references the Battle of Hastings, and essentially says: "We, the previously conquered, return 900 years later as your liberators."

Europe has a long memory like that.

Hope your week-end was memorably pleasing,

07.02.25: Home Field Advantage

Rugby action for the week-end:

- France defeats Wales at Stade de France.

- Ireland defeats England at Croke Park, a stadium with emotionally charged history contre les anglaise. To wit:

o It's the first time a British team will play at the cathedral of Irish nationalism and scene of "Bloody Sunday," the darkest day of Ireland's war of independence. On November 21, 1920, Dublin police and British troops - infuriated by the Irish Republican Army assassination that morning of 14 British spies and associates - retaliated by firing wildly into the Croke Park crowd during a Gaelic football match. They killed 11 spectators and a player, Michael Hogan, while two other people were trampled to death. [http://www.rugbyheaven.smh.com.au]

Home field advantage -- get it when you can.

Last week-end I was in the mid-west, slogging thru the winter ice and snow. Loving every minute of having a fourth season again, and knowing, for me, it would only last 6 days, until the next non-stop back to Europe. In between snow plows, spent some time with Dad.

The locations to find some home field advantage are diminishing for him. He was having some difficulty with his cell phone, not sure which button is hang-up, which button is call. The few angstroms that differentiate between the colors red and green are not obvious to the color-blind, and to remember left vs. right is not so obvious to the early Alzheimer's crowd.

The cell phone ... a great tool for the elderly has become too sophisticated for it's own good.

We went to the Phone Store, you know, run by the local current Ma Bell to look for a simpler phone. Talked to the salesperson, explained we wanted a phone that was just a phone ... you know, no internet surfing, no text messaging, no extra features, just 10 digits, a call and a hang-up button, easily read, easily understood, no significant human memory or sophisticated thought processing required.

She looked at my Dad, my Dad of tall stature, with his long grey hair, his military straight spine, the handsomest man in his neighborhood, not the least bit physically tired, even though he had already swum two miles earlier that day, with his grey-blue eyes that look at you uncomprehendingly if you say a sentence too long. And so she looked at my Dad and she said, in a not overly pleasant nor kind tone of voice, "I'm sorry, sir, but we just don't make phones like that. I guess everything has just gotten too complicated for you." That's what she said. And then she looked at me and said, as though my Dad were no longer there, and she said: "Is there anything else, today?" I don't think I answered.

Dad has lost home-field advantage. Wherever he goes, he doesn't get to hear the home-town crowd, he doesn't stand firm, knowing the turf, knowing which direction the sun will come from, which direction the wind blows in the afternoon, which pub is next door after the game. Every day is an away game. Every away game, the odds are on losing. Every loss, just extends the streak. And he is not very happy about it. This is my take-away.

I live in France. I don't speak no good, very well, you know, that french language. I got no home-field advantage, either. I smile a lot. A lot. Either they think I am an idiot, or that I am happy for no obviously good reason. But I smile and always say please and thank-you. I get a lot of help, because of that.

When you don't have home field, do your homework, play smart.

07.02.03: Patience, Woody, Patience

I am in a Woody Allen movie. In fact, I've become Woody.

I have been observing for the last year how patient I am becoming. This is a forced response. I have attributed it to dealing with french people day in, day out. We don't always a share a common language. Patience, patience.

I imagine that there are multiple ways to learn a foreign language. A seemingly necessary evil is memorizing verb conjugations. Another aspect is actually talking to real people who (quite naturally) speak the foreign language you are trying to learn. This can be scary, intimidating, humorous, and sometimes enjoyable. A way to make take the edge off is to go to a structued environment where you sit in small groups with actual real-live french people and talk for 45 minutes in English -- ostensibly for them to learn english, but quite honestly I find it to be some of the more sane conversations I have here anyway, and then 45 minutes in french -- ostensibly to learn some french conversational skills, but actually a way to defend américain's honor in the face of several massively stupid international "gaffes" (le mot de la semaine this week on RFI, associated to M. Chirac and Iranian-awareness) by our gouvernement. The hour and a half for this exercise is acceptably banal, and perhaps a little educational. The shared lunch afterwards is actually the good reason to participate. At lunch I can manage an interesting conversation with one or two francophones, and honestly share some interesting perspectives.

So today, after the obligatory Bush-bash (or you don't get invited to lunch) we were walking up the street to a resto, when one of the elderly américaine participants asked me to wait for her while she managed her affaires. She said she knew where the resto was for lunch, which I didn't question. After I waited to accompany her, we walked around St-Germain des Pres several times while it became painfully obvious she had no fricking idea where the resto was to meet up with the others. So, I didn't get to have lunch with my frenchy friends today. I really thought I would kill her.

That's when I knew I had become Woody. Patience, patience. This time for an american in paris. Go figure.

She told me she met President Eisenhower when she was a young woman. Namedropper. In Paris, no less. She looks like Diane Keaton will look in another 10 years. She told me she was very attractive when she was young. These are the other things she told me: her father was abusive, her mother was an alcoholic until the day after her father died, her ex-husband, now deceased, was french, haute bourgeoisie, and non-communcative, she is much younger than my father (who is 77), and she loves living in Paris -- in fact, it was her destiny, fulfilled.

All this while I had a little pasta and a glass of vin rouge in a little Italian restaurant off Metro Odéon, on a brisk, sunny winter day. It really seemed like a Woody Allen movie. But a little less funny. But then, the character played by Woody in his movies doesn't see the humor either.

06.11.05: Un an

The maple leaves are bronze, laying on the lawn in the front garden. The fog appears thick every morning lately; this morning the visibility was under 50 meters at the river's edge, the other bank barely discernible through the mist. In the early mornings during this most recent vacances scolaires, the quiet is as thick as the fog. This afternoon, bicycling, the breath visible, signaling the end of automne indien, full-fledged autumn now undeniably here.

It must be one year since I have been here now; the seasons have fully cycled.

Just like last year this weekend, the Sunday market was again a necessary pleasure of the day. Unlike last year, today, several of the vendors recognize me, look forward to a few pleasant words to exchange, a small sale of some bananas, merguez, saucisson dinde, and without fail, une tranche de cantal. The clémentines are in season again.

The clothes vendors were in full force today. At one booth I was encouraged to look at the Levi's. Sixty euros a pair for 501s. I bought a pair of 501s at Sear's last week in Cincy for 20 euros (oh yeah, I received a $15 discount for opening a Sears charge, which undoubtedly I will cancel, so I can get the same discount again next time I make it to a Sear's.) I didn't tell them how much less expensive I can get Levi's for in the US. What would be the point.

By the same token, I went to Carrefour yesterday to pick up some coffee and chocolate to bring to the US this week for some former expats who are on a "I need some french stuff that I can't get in the midwest" craving. So, that is the point. There are some very nice things to enjoy, wherever we are.

At the market today, two young women in white lab coats walked up to me and spoke for a few minutes, too quickly for me to understand what they said. After I said: "Je n'ai pas compris", they paused for the few seconds that it takes one to ask oneself what they said that wasn't understandable, before recognizing that I spoke with (just a little bit of) an accent (for them, anyway), and then they asked me where I am from. One of the two then explained, in a sort of hesitating, but perfectly understandable simple english, that they are med students collecting donations for a student association. When she finished explaining, she asked, rather shyly: "Did you understand me?", in a way that communicated that she had absolutely no confidence that what she said made any sense. It made me realize that when I speak french, although it sounds completely foreign too me, I can be understood, if they choose. And when french people speak halting high school english to me, I can understand, if I choose.

Maybe something to consider as we got to the polls on Tuesday, and in the days to soon follow. We think we talk in a strange language, not understood; but in fact, it's not that difficult, motivation to make a connection and a little patience going a long way to bridge the gap.

I gave the med students all the coins in my pocket. For me, that was the point. Just to prove that I really did understand.

I think I need to go rake a few maple leaves off the lawn.

Un an, et puis àpres? Je ne sais pas, mais je suppose qu'il serait intéressant, encore.

06.08.23: Visit to Grandma's

So, I went to Germany for a week, and I have only have four things to say about it:

• Benefiziumsgässlein (19 letters, ~7 syllables)
• Exclusivherstellung (19 letters, ~6 syllables)
• Riemenschneideraltar (20 letters, ~6 syllables)
• Motivschachtabdeckungen (23 letters, ~7 syllables)

I have no idea what any of that means. But, what the hell kind of language / culture would willingly torture themselves with these kinds of words? Maybe Saxons?

And these were just the easy pickens from one day's touring along the 'Romantische Strasse'. Somehow, these little signs don't have the same romantic caché as, say: "Tu veut rencontrer à Paris?" (5 words, 22 l, 8 syl)

Nevertheless (1 word, 12 l, 3 syl), there are other things to discuss ...

The food ... all right, I really tried.

Everywhere I went, I tried to ask about local specialities and recommended items to try. Maybe I was just in too touristy or too non-touristy of places. Or maybe the germans just don't celebrate food in any way resembling the french-y local terroir thing. Anyway, I never found a resto that was very excited about sharing some local specialty, in the way that it is insisted upon in France. So, I had some brats, had some beer, had some sauerkraut ... I'm not coming up with anything particularly memorable here. I should go back and give it another try. Or not.


The culture ... I share just one memorable observation...

I had a really scary experience.

Sunday afternoon, I needed to go to Julia's grandparents' house to return some clothing articles as a favor. So, drove out to the 'burbs in a little german town outside of Braunschweiger, turn left and right a few times thru a residential neighborhood, houses all seemingly built in the last 60 years (consult history of western europe 101), pull in the driveway, and regard grandma's house, grandma's neighborhood.

I thought I was right back in the neighborhood where I grew up on the west side of Cincinnati (consult 45248, google earthers). Small yellow-red brick ranch house, neatly maintained yard and gardens, little picket fences between the neighbors' driveways. Went inside. Think I have rolled the clock back a few years ... same furniture styles, same floor plan layout as every house I can remember from the days on the west side. Sat down. Grandma offered me everything from coffee to champagne, and chocolate to chicken sandwiches. Just like everybody's grandma I always knew. We chatted. Skiing, football, hunting, taxes, ... The coffee was damn good. The chocolate was quite nice, but she admitted that I could buy some richer chocolates, at a good price, closer to the Swiss border. I was just stunned and amazed at how this home, these people, this visit, felt just like thousands of home visits with grandmas and parents and friends that I have spent in one little neighborhood on the west side of Cinti, 5000 miles away.

When I first arrived in France, people referred to me as an Anglo-Saxon. I had never heard this before, and it sounded a bit odd to me. My family's ancestry is Irish-Italian. So, Anglo ... no, we're Irish, dammit! Saxon ... prego .. I'm Italian. But I guess the few non-germans who migrated to western Cincy do not a culture dictate.

The Braunschweigerians are Saxons ... how was I to know?

I felt so at home, I had to leave.