EUROCHINO

Paques Time

2006-04-11T09:14:00.000+02:00

Easter happens this Sunday. Over here they call it "Pâques"; just "Pâques", I'm told, no "le" or "la" before it. Pronounced "pack."

Which is what we've been doing.

Phony Phun Phrom GREVE-DAY

2006-04-04T12:29:00.000+02:00

DON'T ASK.

It's quiet right now.

Where are the parades?
And the riots?

I'm ready for someone to try and rip my cel.

We're all just captives.

p.s. I don't really have a cel.

"Elle Vous Fera Craquer!"

2006-04-02T12:29:00.000+02:00

Literally translates as, "She'll make you crack!"

Found on lunch menu at Laduree, in reference to the seductive powers of their gaufres, which is a type of sweet food over here that are typically just tasty, small sections of what we U.S.-type citizens would call Belgian Waffles, often sold by street vendors; but the Laduree version is much closer to a very fresh, slightly soft version of a cream-filled wafer cookie. We cracked. And we're buying a small satchel-sized stash for the plane.

Here are some more sketches from the Louvre, executed in pencil this time, (but in that annoying blue pencil of mine--it really makes for a bad scan because of the very tight tonal range--you just don't get a good dark with these compared to typical graphite--I can only defend my use of them by citing nostalgia). So the point of these drawings is improving my "Quick Sketch" execution; I wear my iPod and try to do a new drawing for every new song; well, that's the goal, but you know me--it's more like every two or even three songs! It's misleading and a little comical to call them "quick" sketches. So let's call them "kwik" and be done with it.

REMEMBER: click on any of these suckers, and they'll grow to a magnificent size--all for you, dear reader, all for you.

The April Fools

2006-04-01T12:59:00.000+02:00

Faces and postures glimpsed from a couple of favorite spots: the pyramide court at the Louvre, brasserie La Luxembourg, etc.

Anatomy Peek

2006-03-31T22:25:00.000+02:00

What do you think? Too crusty? Too old fashioned? Too morbid?

My Funky Ink Style Continues

2006-03-30T23:12:00.000+02:00

With all its pros and cons.

I was at the Rodin Museum yesterday because I had to return books to the library in the morning, and it's not a very long walk between the library and the Rodin. Was supposed to rain, but didn't, so I stood outside "sketching" for a while with my umbrella dangling from my shoulder bag.

I know these would look better if I just filled in the "shadow" areas somehow, (perhaps a clever discovery awaits), an area I am instead leaving blank after trying to encircle it with form shadows and silhouette edges; but I don't want to diminish my efforts with that pedestrian "wash" look (tho' it is quite pleasing, fer sure)--and besides, I'm supposed to be finding AN ORIGINAL way to make this all work.

Comments are welcome.

"I'm Sorry, We Are Out Of Nothing"

2006-03-30T00:32:00.000+02:00

Two weeks left here, and we're both gripping. We don't want to go, but knowing we have to go makes the time we have left joyless. If go we must, then let's just go now and get it over with. I'd planned to have my Mom visiting us during these final days, and I realize how perfect that would have been; alas, it was not to be. We did have the truly wonderful pleasure of a visit from Dear Friends Candy and Larry just last week; for nearly five days we ate great, told stories, checked out some art and generally enjoyed each other's company. Good times.

Now our mood is telling us to spend the next two weeks packing, and sulking; mentally, we are ready to close up shop. But we have so much work to do before our flight leaves, it would be impossible to just give up now.

So we sulk. And feel tense.

The drawing above came from the Louvre on Monday, watching people at the little café service area just across from the bookstore. The large-ish caricature is of a waitress who I believe has the best face I've seen in France.

Name the 18th Century French Luminaries!

2006-03-27T09:55:00.000+02:00

Here's a little pencil study from Houdon (pencil is amazing--you can erase!). It'll have to stand in for a real post.

We've been having a wonderful time working and esp. hosting friends for the last week. I will force myself to sit down and write more soon; for now you can see other recent art at tuesdayartgroup.blogspot.com.

Pete, tell me again how do you make those words light up and link?
(and the radio is playing "Hold Me Now," your best Thompson Twins cover--but not your best cover--that would be "(I'm in a)Time ZONE!")

Back on Anatomy

2006-03-14T00:17:00.000+01:00

Some doodle-type anatomy stuff; just trying to get the flow going, stay spontaneous, keeping it real in ink.

Here's one more for you since this site has been silent for so long.

American Library in Paris

2006-03-05T09:36:00.000+01:00

Out in the 7th Arrondissement, very near the Eiffel Tower, a few early Yankee ex-pat settlers put down stakes for an American Library. "Way out in the 7th?" Is that supposed to mean something? You probably know this already, but this city is very self-consciously segregrated by neighborhoods, or "Arrondissement"—you can provoke the same sort of laughs here by assigning a particular person or anecdote to the most apt Arrondissement as you can back in San Diego or LA by saying, "You know, they were very El Cajon," or, "So we spent the whole day driving around Burbank!" It helps in pigeon-holing and type-casting people and places. We are in the 6th, and that is somewhat like being in a fancy, happening part of town.

We spent most of Saturday sitting in the American Library, which is just what it sounds like, a non-descript little cave of a place, very like the shabby, over-crowded and under-decorated examples we live with in Southern California. Here it is a real boon. The staff say hello to you in English, and of course almost all of the books are in English, too. I wouldn't mind if they said hello in French, it is having all the books (and movies and CDs) in English that is nice. We can buy no more books, really, because we are so over-stuffed already. So it is wonderful to borrow them, and then return them.

I took advantage of our time there to read my first Elmore Leonard novel, Riding the Rap, and it was very good, especially the way I woke up the next morning and it seemed like I'd seen a very good movie the night before, not finished a very good book. Barely 300 pages, pretty big type. He only shows you the things a movie would show you, but adds in a few thoughts for his characters which give you the insights only a really good movie could. I was impressed with it as a movie. And with the spareness of the writing, although any shock from this, which I was sort of expecting just because I've read a couple of things about how precise and spare and really good Elmore Leonard's writing style is, was snuffed out because I'm in a rut or glut of very spare writers right now (Hemingway, Dick Francis, Daishell Hammet were my last three). In fact, he was sort of a let down compared to Hemingway and Hammet.

The drinks at the Bar Hemingway at the Ritz here are very good, but damned expensive, and the whole thing feels a bit like a Tommy Bahama's with booze. We spent 170, 180 Euros total on maybe six drinks and four tiny plates of tapas. But damn good drinks. I just asked the waitress, who was very nice, what she thought I should have next, and she always had an excellent follow up, though I veered from her plan once and ordered a Mojito and it was damn good, but I could see her point and then followed her advice on the next one. We met a nice couple from Pittsburgh, over here for his Fiftieth birthday on a surprise trip she planned. This was almost a month ago, the Monday night before Valentine's day.

This is becomming very journal-y.

One thing that is nice in reading the novel by Leonard is the sensation received reading a contemporary book that has a plot and yet is intelligent with very specific characters and an underlying moral force that is neither cynical nor treacle-y. A contemporary book that hinnges on plot. That specifically avoids the lyric, the writerly, the high-falutin'.

Sells well, too.

Something to Drive Ellis Crazy

2006-03-03T11:03:00.000+01:00

I mentioned how my Internet searches are often and inexplicably interrupted by French ads, pop-ups and solicitations, many of them the sort Collette, deSade and Henry Miller would have approved, (why does a search for "Soubrette" bring up sidebar ads for French porn?). Well, one persistent pop-up would be giving Ellis (and probably many Americans) fits: "Get Your American Greencard!"

According to some of the figures I've read in the Metro, where one often sees prominent posters promising a life of low taxes and prosperity in the U.S. of A., France is allotted more Green Cards per annum than any other country in Europe, possibly the world. Is that true? I wonder if the French are hoping that the U.S. will take a few of their African and Middle Eastern immigrants, along with the purely Gallic imports—or is the demand for Green Cards coming purely from French people wanting to leave France behind? As one of the hopeful students pictured in an ad for an English language school testifies, "I speak Wall Street English!"

Watch out folks: the French are coming.

A Palaver of Pusses from Paul

2006-03-02T01:18:00.000+01:00

That means faces.

I'm putting up some drawings from a few weeks ago because I have been without scanner for a couple months. And besides, I don't have to explain why I do anything, this is MY blog.

...And Happy Mardi Gras

2006-02-28T23:07:00.000+01:00

One of the unanticipated cyber implications of living in France is that your computer knows where you are. Why or how this is, I don't know. But more to the point, the websites you visit know where you are. So when I want to go to Amazon, I first get kicked over to the French site, and then the UK Amazon site (I had to rejigger it to get me to an English language site--and it doesn't want to give me the 'States! It'll only give me the UK).When I do Google searches a lot of the answers will come up in English, but the banner ads and sidebar ads will often be in French. And I get the French eBay popping up a lot, tho' I've never bought or sold anything on eBay, U.S or French. Weird, huh? I rarely surf French websites because I can't read a damn thing, yet they are often where my machine wants to direct me.

Is that, like, globalism or something?

The People In The Carrefour

2006-02-28T22:55:00.000+01:00

Here are some of the folks one would see at Les Editeurs, and walking through the adjacent little traffic island type area thing, the carrefour, an architectural phenom depicted in the previous post.

Anouk Aime Me

2006-02-27T22:05:00.000+01:00

Yeah, we saw a celebrity, right in the home furnishing store across the street. Anouk. She aimées me. This gave me the excuse to sing the theme from "Un Homme et Une Femme" for the next three blocks (seemed to be killing a little of Dear Wife's pleasure by the third block, sadly). You know the song,

Dah...

Dah...

Dah...

Da-Da Da-Da DA
(etc.)

I wanted to ask her about working with Démy and Raoul Coutard (one of the three greatest cinematographers of all time), ask her how much of a genius he was. Dear Wife reminded me of Justine, the late George Cukor adaptation of Lawrence Durrell's fantastic book, and that reminded me about the alleged difficulties she had with Cukor, and how the picture suffered for it (but seeing Anna Karina speak English and be so wonderful as Melissa--and bare her breasts--makes the film worthwhile). I would have loved to ask her about that, (the fueds, not Anna Karina's breasts), but she looked crabby, and the point wasn't to bug her, the point was to bask in the cinema-chic that is Paris.

We hope she lives nearby.

My cityscape skills are shabby and sad, but this should give you a taste of the view from the windows of Les Editeurs, a café/restaurant that's rather posh for that genre of eatery, and just what you'd hope for with such a name: a rarefied literary air, an intimate, bustling place for people in the business of writing (and those of us aspiring), with red velvet seats that are nicely broken in, and a decor that's 1950 Royére modern, with lots of dark woods and an extensive selection of books that you are encouraged to pull from the shelf and read. To their credit, Les Editeurs does not just look the look; there are hung throughout the entire two floors of the establishment a series of very fine, large format photo portraits of contemporary authors, with their names printed on cards posted next to their portraits. And not only that, this is not merely a one-time gesture that has been left to hang on the walls for years--these portraits have been completely replaced with a new series of new authors shot by a new photographer not once, but twice in the six months we've been here. Word.

The Sprig and The Hoarfrost

2006-02-27T13:13:00.000+01:00

Dear Wife and I were chatting one day not so long ago, (we like to chat), and I began to speculate on possible titles for my pre-natal Anatomy Book (you'll be the first to know); and then we began proposing titles for her (well along its way) dissertation, and thus descended into the silliness that is the typical "grabber" title you get in Academia.

Titles for Academia, titles from Academia.

So I began making some up.

Some of the better ones:

Fealty and Friendship: Courtly Gossip in the Age of the Enlightenment

Fecund Fires: Apocalypse Imagery and The Burning of Moscow, A Survey of Russian Genre Painting, 1832-1850

Rebuilding the Rain: The Forestry of Perserving Taboo Architecture in Pol Pot's Cambodia

Rude Health: X Chromosone Transmission Among the Puritains of 18th Century New Bedford

From Vomitorium to Vestibule: Transforming the Secular into the Sacred; A Redefinition of Roman Public Building, C.E 238-496

These are all completely bogus, yet they sound so right. You can see the pattern emerge; the colonate sentences, with their initial "Hook" to open you up for the assault of pompous, prissy exactitude.

How about a couple more?

The Sprig and the Hoarfrost: Agricultural Imagery in 20th Century Insurance Brochures

Completeing the Circuit/Making the Switch: Electrical Design in The Weimar Republic

Rind, Casing, Meat and Gristle: The Inception of the American Weiner Industry

Tender Tenaments: The Rise of the Babysitter Squatter in the Slums of N.Y., 1865-1965

I can't decide on my favorite for this one:
Tantrum At A Tea Party:
either T.S. Eliot and Aldous Huxley at Emma Thornbush-Thruxhall's, The Confrontation That Defined a Generation
or
Ritual Disruptions of the Victorian Garden Party in the Time of Byron

I'm crazy you say? Well, I resuscitated these invented titles and wrote this entry because, while doing a search on Google, I stumbled on the thesis title below (without even looking for such nonsense!), and was accordingly agog, realizing writing is a hell that you build for yourself, one dependent clause at a time.

The thesis was titled:

"My Favorite Mask is Myself:" Presentation, Illusion and the Performativity of Identity In Wellesian Performance

That's a real one! "Performativity of Identity In Wellesian Performance"!! Someone got an advanced degree for that.

Jey-sus, I can't even make that up.

Another Sign I've Been Too Long In France

2006-02-27T11:58:00.000+01:00

Had a dream last night (I know, "yawn"): Dear Wife and I were traveling, and staying overnight in some obscure-ish American Motel, in a locale possibly not unlike Victorville, or even Chino (God love it). We wanted to hit the pool in the dark, predawn hours--I don't know why.

And I decided to wear a Speedo.

Now, I've never worn a Speedo.

I don't even own any brief-style underwear.

But in the dream I was merely a little self-conscious about my swim wear choice, not mortified, like you'd expect; my dream persona comforted himself and his dream Dear Wife by insisting they'd be the only ones at the pool at 5AM, and therefore ran little risk of offending any "American" sensibilities—also, the hotel seemed practically empty—I was just wearing it so, you know, I'd have less visible tan lines, I explained. It was all I had! I also said, "I wore it in Europe," or "They wear it in Europe," I can't be sure which.

Over the Speedo I wore a robe, and walked with Dear Wife out to the pool; but while standing at the water's edge, and having just unlashed my belt, a dozen or so young girls appeared—unsettling enough. But these girls looked familiar.

In the darkness I couldn't be sure immediately, but they looked like girls I'd known in High School. I was confused because the girls seemed, on the one hand, to be too young to be actual classmates of mine, but on the other hand, looked very much like specific girls I recognized as fellow students during those Chino years. I didn't disrobe, I tried to act unaware, but it seemed they were all part of a junket celebrating a High School Reunion for my Alma Mater. They were dressed in prime late-Eighties fashion, but worn in an unfamiliar, costume-y way. I could overhear little bits of their conversation, and they clearly were not the girls I knew, yet they were using the names of those long-ago friends to address each other in a mock-serious way that sounded like play-acting.

Then it began to dawn on me; they were lookalikes hired to represent the girls I used to know. Not for my benefit alone, no; they all seemed to be actresses of some low order, employed for mimetic purposes; we seemed to have stumbled upon another installment of my High School Reunion, but this time with phony classmate impersonators. These girls had been hired to "hype up" the reunion crowd by imitating notable female personalities from our graduating class as they appeared in the late eighties, aged eighteen.

(Like those actors who are hired to dress like Abe Lincoln or Marilyn Monroe--or Mickey Mouse and Captain Hook, and are even willing to sign autographs in the name of their "persona".)

And evidently, such folk like to kick off such jobs with a pre-dawn pool party for themselves, to, y'know, "get in character."

There was an ersatz Beth Stare, a faux Erin Gibney (with nasal prosthetic, even!), a counterfeit Tara Simonson and Tanya Zimmerman....

And I was standing in a Speedo.

The dream, however, didn't seem bent on challenging my threshold for embarassment and/or sexual humiliation, like that ubiquitous, everywhere-repeated, "naked-in-front-of-the-classroom" jag. No, this one seemed bent on testing my commitment to eschew the frail architecture of embarassment altogether: these girls meant nothing to me, and I had promised Dear Wife I would go swimming in a Speedo ("threatened" may be a better word), and so I would....

The dream ended with me hesitating, shrugging deeper into my robe and whispering to Dear Wife, "I don't know, it's awfully chilly...."

Can't Cheat a Bottle Unbroke

2006-02-26T19:16:00.000+01:00

There's a great little restaurant next to the Marché St. Germain that Dear Wife and I used to eat at often. It's called Bergamote, and if you visit us here we will probably take you there.

It isn't fancy, and the menu is simple. The concept behind the restaurant, (which makes it a little different than most French eateries for having a "concept" behind it at all), is to showcase the herbs used in each and every one of their dishes (including the deserts). When you read the menu, you'll see the dominant herb denoted in bold type-face. This is for emphasis, stressing Bergamte's herb-o-centric raison-d'étre. But the herbs are never excessive, and the fare is pretty standard for a mid-priced French restaurant, (a magret de canard, an agneau, a cassolette, etc.); it is neither a bistro nor a fine dining establishment. This makes it comfortable for everyone, esp. foreigners trying to find their footing in the Paris dinning scene, (which is vast and intimidating); it's casual, and the staff is friendly. There is no pretension in the ambiance, which is instead sprightly, but gently so. The place appears to be run by a woman who is not old, yet already wears that matronly mantle, and she is enthusiastic and kind. They always provide a fine meal.

We hadn't eaten there since we'd taken Dear Pal Pete, which was well before our January holiday, way back in November of last year. On the Thursday of this week passed, the day we moved back into the Bonapartment, I kept myself motivated while hauling our bags up the stairs with thoughts of a return to Bergamote. Let's go tonight, I decided while sweating and heaving—we deserve it! So that's just what we did once our legs had stopped trembling. We walked (slowly, gingerly) to our dinner, which we justified as a celebration of our return to the old apartment and to our old neighborhood, and so too, a celebration of our moving success, (no luggage had been lost, and no one had died). I remembered the last time I'd been there, and how the kind lady overseeer had been clearing off the table next to us and in doing so, upset an empty bottle of Pellegrino, and sent it tumbling toward the floor. I just happened to see it in time to catch it, not my best save but pretty good, and words of thanks and appreciation had been spoken to me by Dear Wife and the young matron. I felt good remembering that.

And the staff remembered us, which was nice because we haven't always received the warm welcome back we'd hoped for at all of our former haunts. OK, expecting the impassive cashiers at the Champion grocer to smile and welcome us "home" is just wrong. It's a cold capital, afterall. But we took a remarkably smoke-free table in Bergamote, and once we'd made ourselves cozy and decided on a couple of apéritifs, we relaxed over the menu and looked for new dishes. It had been a rough day, and we'd been snippy for too long now, so in the vague spirit of all alcoholic rationales, I suggested we get some wine. Y'know, sort of whoop it up. Well, we're light-weights, barely above bantam I'd say, and accordingly ordered just a half-bottle of rosé, which is amateurish in the extreme if the point is to do some real drinking, but is well into our bleary spots if the point is to get into those bleary spots.

Dinner was very good; for our entrées, Dear Wife had the brick of goat's cheese with a tasty accompanying salad, and I had the curried mussle soup (for my muscles)—for our main course, the breast of duck, or magret de canard was ordered by both of us; then orange and chocolate tart with mint for my desert, apple and pear crumble with violet ice cream for D.W.; all really good. This meal cost about 80 Euros, with drinks, etc. We'd polished off two apéritifs, a (half) bottle of wine, and a full litre of sparkling water. I was feeling a little sloppy, which on my scale is probably where most people would be getting to a good "buzz." We'd settled the main bill, but found ourselves without cash for a tip. This is one of the maddening things in the restaurants here for us American types: they take credit cards, but they don't have a line for you to add a tip; the bill comes pre-totalled. Since the French State decrees a 15% gratuity be included automatically in your bill, (I think), there is no chance for you to tack a little extra onto your charge card as a tip. This means you need to have a little cash with you at all times. If you are just flying through the city on a one week "touristic" jag, you could probably skip tipping in most places (I wouldn't), but when you plan to revisit these places, and you are unsure of the proper French custom for tiping, (as we remain), you feel compelled to errr on the side of generosity. "Afterall, we have so much, and they..."

But after two taxi rides and various unexpected moving expenses that day, I was without anything but a 2 Euro coin, and we didn't feel good about leaving the friendly folk of Bergamote like that. So after paying the main bill, I pulled out the table and helped Dear Wife to her feet, promising Lady Matron that we would be right back, we were shy of money... All this was very confusingly explained, or half explained, in fake French and quick English spoken with a fake French accent and a couple of authentic french words, probably incorrect (Dear Wife rarely extricates me from this sort of thing). My rambling excuse about not having money raised the eyebrows on many of the faces of our fellow diners nearby. It sounded like we were leaving without paying the bill, but were promising to come back and pay later! This was seen as bad form on a variety of counts. But I pushed on ahead, and pushed our table back in so we could scoot out to the ATM, and that's when the table legs got hung-up in one of the deep seams between the wide stone tiles of the flooring. The table then jerked, and the half-dozen glasses upon it shivered one way, and then another as I sought to calm them—they steadied, but the movement that pulled them back to equillibrium was too much for the tall glass bottle of sparkling water, which heaved the opposite direction. I knew it was going to fall, and though it was falling very slowly, taking its time bobbling on the table edge, I knew I couldn't catch it, not without upsetting every glass on the table, not in the state I was in.

In this woeful moment of suspension, without too many people other than myself paying attention, but knowing fully that the bottle was going to crash onto the floor, I could not stop myself from letting out a long, dreadful, anticipatory, "Shhhit!"

But what was heard by Dear Wife, and indeed the rest of the room, was just my drawn-out introduction of the curse, "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh...!"

As though I was shushing them!

So everyone shushed.

And turned to see why I was shushing them.

And we all got to watch the bottle finally tumble from the table and hit the stone tile and explode with a satisfying F-WHAP! Which was superbly audible because the room was absolutely silent at the moment of impact.

Then I said, "Shit!"

It took everyone a moment to recover, a stunned pause which I took advantage of to say, "Desolé! I'll be right back!" and dashed out the door.

Visit Bergamote.org for menus and other glassware anecdotes.

Two Movers Resettled

2006-02-25T20:32:00.000+01:00

We are back in the Bonapartment after nearly a month squatting at a friend's very nice, very posh piéd-à-terre. Moving leaves our energies depleted. Our volume of luggage has burgeoned to the point that moving required two separate trips in taxis of minvan proportions—which is embarrassing. Too much baggage!

The apartment remains on the sixth floor, the narrow spiral staircase still the only means of ascension. We've been training at the gym for this move, and it helped us survive. We'd been short with each other since the day before the move, dreading it, and when moving day came, we were crankier still—cranky and snappish all day (mainly me), until all the climbing was done.

Now that it's over, and we are recuperated, we find it's very nice to be back here, in our special little aerie.

Word.

Bad Day For French Creatures

2006-02-22T20:50:00.000+01:00

While walking down the Rue Antoine Bourdelle today, I looked down at an odd grey shape between two parked cars and saw that it was a pigeon, flattened and bloody, crushed by a car so completely that he looked like a bleeding caricature of the American Eagle on the back of a quarter. His head and neck, which were extended beyond the outline of his body, were flattened too. The carcass hadn't begun to mummify or disintegrate, or whatever process it is that occurs to make most dead bird bodies you encounter look like bloodless, crumbling sheets of cardboard pasted with feathers--no, this kill looked fresh. It was the first time I'd seen something like that, I mean so gory and vivid, and on a small side street near a very nice museum. I moved on, to the café on the corner, where I'd never been before, and where I ordered a nice rumsteak (as they call it), and there forgot about the pigeon and instead lamented my rotten couple of hours drawing at the Bourdelle. We have to move again tomorrow, and this has me in a bad mood, and maybe that's why the drawing was so rough this afternoon.

Then on the walk home I looked down at another odd grey shape in the street and couldn't believe that it was another crushed pigeon, as fresh and as comprehensively flattened as the first, just around the corner from our borrowed apartment. Jesus! What is suddenly wrong with the pigeons here? I've hit a bird ONCE and killed it, and one time a bird flew right into the antenna of a truck I was driving, but lived. Each time I was in a vehicle and the bird was flying and complex vectors and high rates of speed were involved, and I can understand how every once in a while someone could get something wrong in a situation like that. But these pigeons were cut down by cars trying to park. Have you ever seen a bird so absent-minded or unconcerned about his own well-being that he let a car back over him?

Perhaps it is the winter that is getting to them.

So I was a little unsettled, as much by the implicit abandonment of animal instinct as the sight of twin grand guignal spectacles. I made it home, and Dear Wife let me in the front door and faced me with a shaken look. "What is it?" I asked.

"I've got something horrible to tell you." I immediately think of the pigeons.

"I went to ED," (the unsavory market at the end of the block, adjacent to pigeon #2), "And I was looking for some chicken and they had steaks there that were horse meat." She blanched even more and looked ready to vomit.

"It said 'Filet à Cheval' on the packaged and," she took a deep breath here,"They had a little sticker in the corner with a horse head on it."

Jesus.

We hugged and I tried to calm her, and she calmed down and I didn't know what to make of commercially available horse meat. She told me it hit her especially hard because before visiting ED she had been to our old grocery store, the much nicer but still kinda' skanky Champion, and there she had seen a mother and her children all dressed up in their riding kit, with jodphurs and dirt and horsehair on them, and it made her think about her days riding and how she hoped to do it again, and it was in this hopeful, horsey mood that she came across the horse steaks.

Paris. Cruel capital.

A Parisian Gym

2006-02-21T15:57:00.000+01:00

OUR GYM (click on pic for better view)

The walls of our gym were raised in the 13th Century, and the interior is largely from the 17th Century. This impresses us mightily. The photos above give a sense of the spectacular appearance such history imparts. You can see the splitting wooden colums I described in the previous entry on the gym.

The vaulted room on the left is the basement area, where the leg and neck machines are found. To the right is the main exercise room, where the weights, weight macines (non-leg and neck), and cardio machines await. Including the group room pictured below, these three areas define the entire workout space in the gym, and exclude only the byzantine locker setup and welcome desk. These photos do a less good job of showing how odd the spaces are, or how cramped everything is (notice the lack of people in the rooms, and the extreme fish-eye lens in use). But the lack of elbow room, and the narrow range of exercise machines available does not kill the joy of having such a pleasant place to go for our workout.

Check out the website (it includes an option for an English translation) for Club Jean de Beauvais.

It is a good blend of necessity and aesthetic treasure. If the place looks too pousty (pousty: adj. : given to airs and/or attitudes of hauteur derived not from traditional power sources per se, but from an excess of hip 2: at once too cool and too conscious of said coolness 3: trafficking in artificial or mannered chic), let it be known that a gym in Paris proper is not an easy thing to find. Ancient book stores? Hell yes. 24 Hour Fitness? Mais non.

This is the group excercise room, where sometimes séances or "meetings" are held for yoga, stretching, or aerobics. Neither of us has taken a class yet. Notice the eight-foot tall windows, which are open. Similar windows are located in the room to the right, hidden behind the charmingly rustic walls, where the three treadmills on offer do their duty. These windows are supposed to be left open, no matter the weather, and little signs taped to them command this; they might not always be WIDE open, but they are always at least ajar and usually more, even when it is snowing outside. I don't mind this in priciple, but it can get a little breezy while dressed for the warm indoor conditions, and running on a stationary treadmill placed right in front of the full winter blast. Yesterday I wanted to run, and feeling the cold wind on me, reached up and swung partially closed one of these panes. I statred my run and one minute later a gym staffeer appeared with a long stick which they used to swing the glass wide open again. I just ran faster.

Treadmills are called le tapis over here, which I think is the word for rug.

Smokey Folks

2006-02-19T10:58:00.000+01:00

I could write a long entry on all the smoking anecdotes we've been party to, but I'd rather summarize: smoking kills.

Smokers have freedom here to light up whenever and where ever they like. The common complaint on “the Paris Street” has it that the anti-smoking lobby is a rampaging beast, well-nigh unstoppable, and already everywhere truncating their liberty. I don’t see it quite that way. Yes, the small Chinese traiteurs hang one or two “defense de fumeur” notices on the wall, but these are comically amateur, small-scale computer print outs, not even a full-sized page, (and run off in that wonderfully primitive, lo-res, florid script that would be the first choice for a “fancy” print out by an eight-year-old); and what’s more, there’s no enforcement. Many times have I sat in one of these places and witnessed smokers blithely igniting and inhaling right below the signs. I don’t wish to blame the immigrants running these places, they’re in a desperate situation half the time, and it seems unimaginable that they would confront a customer, esp. a native Frenchman, over smoking--I say this, and then I remember the brutal Korean floor boss at JAPORAMA, and I amend my statement to say, they just don’t think smoking is worth the battle.
 THE SMOKERS of PARIS:

1. So few people who smoke really seem like hard-core smokers. They smoke in a restaurant or café in the same way people who don’t smoke will take a cigarette and smoke at a night club: they smoke as an affectation. We sat outside at a pizza place with a couple behind us and the girl lit and extinguished I kid you not 5 cigarettes in a row. The boy joined her on half. The pleasure seems to come from lighting up, blowing out the intial humid, tangy cloud, and then holding the thing as it moulders down, and finally, killing it with a flourish--or maybe just chucking it. Cigarettes are lit by a boy and a girl at a small table in a brasserie; these cigarettes are held in all sorts of interesting postures, they are used to emphasize gestures, they dramatize a hand reaching across the table to touch some paper they are both reading, and coyly lift it for better viewing, ashes are tapped off in satisfying flicks, and an increasingly dense cloud forms above them, and they make a very continental picture. But it’s bloody obvious hardly anyone is inhaling. Nothing new in saying “people smoke because they believe it looks good.” But funny to see the streets of Paris scleromatic with poseurs. What did I expect, right?

2. Diverse types (but never pretty girls) feel free to approach you and ask for a cigarette. Not a light. A cigarette.

3. The engineering of the non-smoking sections in most restaurants is cockeyed: more often than not, the non fumeur section is just a random group of tables that are well within sniffing distance of the vast swathes of smokers. And there’s the difficulty in producing effective smoke-free havens--it’s the non-smokers who are ghettoized over here.

4. The guys like to roll their own. Is that so it’s less filtered? These smell legal, but particularly bad.

5. Amusing and perhaps ultimately humbling sight (humbling to see how human all of us are, whatever our pretenses, postures and protestations of superiority) to see so many of the young, and beyond the young, the self-consciously political, (political in the way everyone is political, as a public posture of superiority), so readily pouring money into the pockets of some of the most clearly villainous corporations on the planet, (uh, that’d be “tobacco companies”), most of ‘em American (tho’ Brit cigs seem popular--isn’t Lucky Strike British?). There is a popular photo here, which is sold as a poster or postcard at many of the book stalls along the Seine, and it depicts 3 intellectuals, none of ‘em recognizable to me: the era seems to be 1968, probably during the student uprisings (I have a suspicion one is “Danny the Red”), and the three are seated around a dingy table (strewn with papers I want to say--and ashtrays) with a microphone or two in front of them (I could be wrong); the vibe is “marathon session,” and they all three look unwashed, but not fatigued, more like possessed with a weary look of shabby exultancy in their power, a power that has kept them up for a long time; they are all in self-consciously casual dress, one in a sort of Che Guvara military jacket (I could be confused, as this image is invariably displayed next to an image of Che), one in a thick turtle neck; they could be three intellectuals being interviewed on the conclusions reached after an all-night Marxist slumber party, or they could be three radicals making demands of the State. All three strike their self-mythologizing poses holding cigarettes.

(The image is interesting because you get the sense this photo was snapped at the absolute apex of these three guys’ lives; it’s so clear that they are so fully involved in the moment, so conscious that this is as good as it's going to get, their moment in the sun, etc.--and you rarely get an actual shot of that moment--it seldom comes on the victory podium, when the medal is placed around your neck; and if that moment does truly represent a person's apex, then we are left with very poor evidence of any transcendance--we can only feel sad when such a moment is spent in reflexive tears [as if running from self-knowledge], or leering triumphalism, both of which seem empty and pre-conceived and more than a little vapid, and worst of all, are completely unaware of the moment in the way these three guys with their self-importance and manufactured stance could find that bright doorway to...illumination.)(This train of thought makes the poster much more palatable, as opposed to the read, "What the hell are those three gas bags pontificating about? Tell them to get a shave and get a job!")

6. However bad Paris may seem, it is much better than Rome, where the people are truly smokers, and the air can be oppressively foul with body and breath exhaust.

7. Paris does acknowledge that not everyone smokes, and that everyone should not have to put up with smoke, so there are strictly enforced non-smoking zones, like the Louvre and the Metro.

BUT here is the worst thing I’ve yet encountered: now, I may be sounding like some anti-smoking crusader here, a very routine American phillistine, and I agree that is disagreeable. You are not wasting good electricity to read predictable rants. Let me contextualize the preceeding by saying I am really allergic to smoke fumes, and therefore a little sensitive to the whole thing, but I recognize that I am in a foreign country, and I do not seek to impose my values on these people; however, I do see inconsistencies in the fashion of smoking, and I comment on these. But I can take the smoking, and do, everyday, however silly it is (I guess I’m resentful because I’d love to see somebody step up and define a new way of living, a new way of being, a rearticulation in today’s terms of all the things we should believe in, a sort of force to counter, and in some way to fight the nihlism and short-sighted anti-moral vacuum we’re all living in--but I guess the French are a little too busy worrying about how they look)(that’s OK, so am I).
--The worst thing I’ve encountered is at the gym. The gym is very small, and all the machines are very close together, especially the cardio machines; there’s hardly room enough between two stationary bikes to dismount without upsetting the rider beside you. So I find it incredibly disturbing--unbearable, in fact--when I am into my workout, and here comes somebody who plants themselves ten inches away from me just REEKING of smoke--not just a smoker mind you, someone who is practically trailing visible clouds of nicotine burn. AND THEY’RE IN THE GYM?

Only in Europe, man.

A Few Quick Notes

2006-02-16T14:43:00.000+01:00

1. Blogger no longer lets me determine the date on a post. Hence the final, definitive word on the "back fill" debate.

2. We have been in Paris since the 2nd of Feb., but arrived to find our apartment, the Rue Bonapartment, which we were assured would be ready for our re-occupancy on the 2nd, had in fact been rented out by the owner until the 23rd. Rented to a Norwegian, and his wife. And their dog. (Very nice people, actually.)

3. Fortunate we are, though, for our friends who were storing our obscene load of luggage during our January absence have told us to go ahead and stay in their (fortunately vacant) flat until we get our old one back. And their flat is very lovely, posh and very convenient to everything, with a lovely concierge and nice folks residing throughout the building.

4. The scanner is still at the Rue Bonapartment, so no drawings to share.

5. I haven't posted fer shite since the start of 2006. It's a mid-blog crisis.

6. The fellows at tuesdayartgroup.blogspot.com are sharing great drawings and droll comments for everyone on the web to come see--free of charge!

7. MOST IMPORTANT: when one of you (very lovely, very appreciated) people post a comment, I receive it as an email, but I can't fer the life of me figure out how to get a message back to you. Steve, Skribbal, you others, let me know how to remedy this. Contact me at davischino@mac.com. Straighten me out (Dear Pal Pete probably knows how to solve this).

8. I took Dear Wife to a cooking demonstration at the Ritz Escoffier Cooking Scool Monday night for a pre-Valentine's Day soirée. Then we went to Disneyland Parc Paris for Valentine's Day (unplanned, spur of the moment). Both were good times.

9. Stay tuned for more Paris madness!

First Day I've Missed Driving

2006-02-16T13:56:00.000+01:00

That would be today, after reading an article on the new Corvette Z06. I am not a big fan of most contemporary auomobiles, but I was seized by some small thumbnail photos of the new 'Vette in yellow, photographed in a setting that looked like the Angelus Forrest, and I vividly imagined driving such a sporty car on one of those dry mountain roads.

Mildly remarkable that I, a life-long So-Cal, and therefore drivin' fool, have not felt the pangs of loss sooner. Not having to drive, not having to worry abot a car (except the sporty one we left with Brother Jon in CA), not having to park a car or provide fuel and insurance for a car, or even consider a car has been intensely freeing. But today I missed that old sensation of roaring through the backroads. Here it is cold, miserable, and just damn expensive for car rentals. I was reminded of an old Chevrolet slogan:

"It's not just your car, it's your freedom!"

Workouts in Paris

2006-02-16T10:05:00.000+01:00

A gym in Paris--what would that be like? We assumed it would be expensive, and came to the city without any leads on where to look, or what to expect.

After a few uncertain inquiries into possible health clubs (mainly pricey Yoga studios, all a bit too far away to be “convenient”), we were one day taking a side street shortcut between the Rue des Ecoles and the Boulevard St. Germain, and were fascinated by the sudden sight of a gym. “Jean de Beauvais” the sign said out front, looking like the insignia for a denim jeans manufacturer, but inside the tall windows we could clearly see a spectacular gym, with aerobics class stepping and swinging in French. The club, it seemed, was named for the tiny rue on which it lived.

We’d long wondered whether French people, or at least Parisians, worked out, and if so, where? Because if they did workout, we needed to join them. With the constant caloric assault of Kir’s, pain aux amandes and so many bread-y things, we knew we’d be lost without a return to regular (if half-hearted) exercise. All around us French people went about their business looking, on average, supremely svelte, and untroubled by the amount of carbs they were daily consuming.

“How do they manage this?” many people have wondered. You’re probably aware of at least one book on the subject, “The French Woman’s Diet,” or “The French Aren’t Fat,” or something. Wine drinking figures into the popular diagnosis, so does walking and self control, I think. And after living here for a while, I could see that. Just looking at some of these strictured, deadly earnest female faces, and their convincingly slender silhouettes, it was obvious their shape was the product of nasty discipline, less an individual than a cultural creation. I say cultural because there seems to be an accepted template/mold/look many Parisian women fit; seen from behind, gals of 22 and women of 58 are indistinguishable, wearing (right now, in the cold) the same 3/4 length winter coat in flattering A-line cut, the same fine denim fashion jeans with the narrow cut and flaring boot hem (their derriere discreetly hid), the same high heels--and the same mid-length hair, often wildly uncombed and even unwashed (all this hype about the finicky coiffure finishing of the average Parisienne is bosh). This defines the uniform for the majority of women we see here, their code of appearance.

Do they work out? We weren’t sure. Most have ambiguous, old-fashioned frames, the sort you’d see on Jean Harlow or Irene Dunne, bodies that were proudly displayed and admired in the days before six-pack abs and Bowflex. Un-toned, with contours that haphazardly, only faintly, briefly comply with our contemporary understanding of how an arm should look, which dictates recognizable muscle groups and no hint of lassitude. There are the sinewy among the population here, a minority among the women, but we believe few have come to this appearance by way of Nautilus machines or Stairmasters. At least not in the way an American woman would, with her proud display of veiny biceps and incisively inserted lateral delts.

No, these French women seem to come by their appearance in a charmingly old fashioned way: they seem to will it. Why the thin look? It is elegant, yes, but it seems deeply appropriate over here, with the emphasis on the mind, and where complexity is celebrated, in food especially, which means very rich dishes that can be taken only in measured doses; but this complexity extends to a physical preference for the brain over the body, too. You see someone, a pretty young girl, for instance, walking down the street, and she is eating a plain baguette. If you want to keep reading or keep looking at a painting, or otherwise don’t have the time or inclination to sit down for a proper meal, and by proper I mean aesthetically satisfying, then you just skip it, and satisfy yourself with a baguette, or coffee and pastry later on, after your intellectual curiosity is sated. Paris is emphatically not an on-the-go, American style hustle-ocracy, where your go-go results directly in your get-get: but neither is it as acquisitive, with as much routine gluttony. Haven’t I written how our old apartment building, with a dozen apartments to service, offered us one regular sized trash can to share among us, with one slightly smaller recycling can, and how these cans were rarely even full on trash day (admittedly, twice a week)? Everything’s more measured here, and the energy that is spent on work and the physical in the ‘States is here expended on flights of inspiration and pursuit as often as not having to do with some intellectual or emotional concern that is ultimately a private matter, whether it be meeting a friend for coffee, reading a book, or getting laid. This is most pleasingly manifested in the low-profile of cell phones in Paris, where they are less often seen or heard than in the U.S or Italy or the U.K.; and when used in public, the user’s voice is typically hushed. Cell service is continuous in the tunnels of the Metro system, but rare is the audible ring, or obvious phone-talker. This helps in making it the most peaceful public transport system in the world.

The gym Jean de Beauvais is in an 18th Century looking building, with stone walls and Romanesque vaults in the downstairs, basement level; most of the doorways are low and narrow, and there are surprisingly tight, winding staircases, with all sorts of half-steps up into little hidden rooms. The men’s lockers are in a compact pair of rooms, split into two stories, with one shower and a steam room in the lowest level, and three more showers and a sauna in the upper chamber. No toilettes. The girl’s locker room is similarly split-level, with conditions that sound even more compressed than the men’s. But all the architecture looks recently refurbished, and the fixtures look very new, and things seem clean, even if the occasional dust-bunny drifts across the locker room’s travertine floor while you’re undressing.

The weight room itself is a very airy, high-ceiling’ed place, with chiseled stone walls and intricate, highly polished dark-wood beams above, supported by authentically antique wooden pillars. These pillars are carved in a doric profile, but time has left them each individually afflicted by splits, which carpenters years ago sought to remedy through a series of beefy, black iron bands and anchors. The workout equipment is arranged between this architecture. It’s all quite spectacular, and impossible to imagine in America.

They also have a similarly lavish room for aerobic-type exercise classes. It all looks so good, you can’t wait to workout there, at least we couldn’t, and after the tour, we gladly signed up. 1,400 Euros for two people for 6 months of unlimited use.

Reflections On A Water Cave

2006-01-28T21:34:00.000+01:00

This is Part One of a series where the author recalls memorable events from his first few months living in Paris.

I've referred to the "Water Cave" a few times in these pages--but I never did post a proper entry explaining it. We were living in the apartment on Rue St. Sulpice (I am now inclined to believe any anteceding "rue" should be capitalized), the one owned by the French lady named Dominique. We had reserved the place over the Internet months before, while we were still in the ‘States, and therefore were deprived of any on-site inspection. Our first time through the door came after depositing a few thousand dollars with the rental agency.

Of course, our first worry was the condition of the one bathroom we’d be using for the next 70 days. Would it be clean, functional? You can’t really imagine a bad bathroom until you begin imagining a bad foreign bathroom, and even though France would presumably, on a per capita, strictly statistical incidence, provide much better facilities than a Bulgaria, say, or Khazikstan, or Somalia, it still represents the mildewed tip of that waddling middle-earth called Europe, where small people live in old buildings that were designed long before the arrival of indoor plumbing, never mind the arrival of Bed, Bath and Beyond. It’s not that the bathrooms are disgusting, though they can be that, too; they’re just off-putting, all with greater or lesser degrees of fecal force. People say you are really getting in tune with a culture when you begin to dream in the language. I say it’s when you stop feeling uneasy in their lavatories. And yet, we willingly signed on to the Water Cave.

 
Dominique showed us what looked like it had been a closet, or a footman's nook or something, and called it the bathroom. She wedged into the little room, the one with the toilet, and explained how everything functioned while Dear Wife and I listened and looked in from beyond the door. Then she sidled out, and we sidled in, one at a time, and took a look.

You can see the airplane-sized sink. I liked the slim-line look of it, but it was impossible to brush your teeth or wash your face over the basin without pressing the side of your face against the mirror. Otherwise all foaming and spillage went onto you or the floor.

But the real problem was the shower. It was just an elevated basin, with a low rim keeping the water from cascading across the floor into the foyer area (where the aged rafia rugging was already decomposed in an ominous semicircle beyond the bathroom door). No shower door or curtain. Just a small tile arch between the shower nook and the toilet cranny. We asked Dominique about this lack of any device to contain the inevitable water spray, but she explained that the water nozzle was hand held, and therefore easily controlled. I made a show of stepping into the shower and attempting to imagine the mechanics of a good cleaning. There was no attachment for mounting or fixing the shower-head in one operational position, so it would either be balanced on the water knobs, held in your hand, or flopped on the shower floor. Presumably while on. It sounded OK the way she was describing it, but wold obviously demand a little extra care. I didn’t want to seem too pampered, too American, as if I was expecting a full length marble tub and jacuzzi jets, so I didn’t make a fuss. Everything was clean, and looked recently installed (recent in a relative way, like when your building was built in the 18th Century); so we agreed we’d just have to control our stream. A good bathroom policy, n’est pas?

Well, it was totally unworkable.

Ah, we predictably concluded, this is why French people have such a reputation for rarely bathing: their showers suck. Of course the water went everywhere--all over the mirror, the tile floor below the mirror, the floor in the toilet cranny, and the rafia rug in the foyer. A strong waft of mildew was stirred everytime water dampened that rug, and in its disintegration, the plywood floor beneath was becoming more and more prominent. All this creeped us out, as if our shower water, dousing the rest of the room, was somehow mingling with the residue of hidden human waste, and cross-infecting the whole place. I feared these activated pockets of urine (and dirt and mildew) were becoming atomized and spread throughout the greater apartment, well beyond the visible arc of dampness. Very disturbing image, all of our bathroom detrius becoming a “weaponized” aerosol used against us. And all because of poor domestic engineering.

We couldn’t install a shower curtain because of the space and because all of the walls were impractically angled. Instead we learned to control our stream. We would turn on the water, splash up a particular body part, turn off the water, rebalance the showerhead on the knob/tap structure, then soap up the body part we’d dampened, grab the showerhead and turn the water back on for a rinse, and repeat steps for next body part needing a scrub. Once finished, find the sponge wedged between the wall and the pipe under the micro sink, mop up the tile floor outside the shower basin, lay down a small handtowel we'd designated a bathmat, step onto that and take second sponge out from beneath sink (also wedged between pipe and wall), lean down and mop up rest of bathroom floor. Rinse sponges thoroughly in micro-sink, wring out, wedge back into respective under-sink perches.

This routine had two advantages--well, three, really, because it #1 kept my showers short, #2 kept the bathroom very clean, and #3 became a ritual of zen-like exactitude. By the end of our time there, I had become very comfortable with this imposed rhythm, and I was actually sad to leave it. The Rue Bonaparte apartment, or Bonapartment, as we call it, our next home, came endowed with a nice big tub with a competently installed showerhead. Bittersweet....

Drawbacks to the Water Cave, however, (beyond the obvious), were potent. #1 it could be damn chilly, standing there with no water on to warm you, draughty winds through the flat snatching at yer naked, shivering, scrubbing figure--and the heat wouldn’t be turned on until our last two weeks. #2 though we learned to control the water flow so it didn’t contact the rafia and plywood disaster beyond the door threshold, stepping out into the shambolic foyer was always unnerving. #3 the drain soon became obstinately clogged, despite our scant shower-time, and the water backed up until it was threatening to spill over the modest lip of the shower base. This sucked. We searched the shelves of first Le Champion, then the Monoprix for an effective French Draino, with very marginal results. We made the pilgrimage to the BHV department store, which is a bit like Sears was when years ago it was simultaneously functioning as a Home Depot, a Best Buy and an upscale(ish) department store; we searched their basement for a suitably strong chemical clog-buster. What we found was a controlled substance, with a dummy model on the shelf, to be brought to a counter where some expert took the placebo into the “back room” and returned with the real thing. This stuff worked, which is probably why they make it so difficult to buy--a populace unencumbered with drain troubles might get restive... Within three weeks we were riding the Metro back to the BHV for another dose. The thing got clogged that quickly. And who likes to bathe with their feet submerged in standing run-off?

Bad thing #4 was that we were not always in the proper frame of mind for the demanding zen bathing ritual, or Water Cave Passage. Sometimes we just weren’t up to it, man, and dammit if we didn’t skip a day or two of showering. Some days it was just too harrowing, esp. in that first month--well, in the second, too--when we were trying to raise our consciousness to the level of Water Cave acceptance.

Sometimes we failed.

Minus Two

2006-01-27T15:33:00.000+01:00

Dear Wife checked the weather in Paris this morning, the first time she has done so all month. The low is currently being reported as minus 2.

She shouted this at me through the sliding glass door as I was walking out to the beach. It was 72 or so here, sunny.

"MINUS TWO!" she shouts through the sliding glass door. I acknowledge her, my face starts to go numb, and I stagger out onto the beach, my steps slowing as my state of shock keeps deepening.

"Minus TWO?"

That is so much colder than when we left. It was in the high 30's when the cab picked us up for the airport nearly a month ago. Now it's below zero?!?

I was unhappy knowing I should be forced to buy even more new clothes, the sort necessary to deal with that kind of cold. I hadn't bought a heavy overcoat while we were in Paris, it just seemed too expensive and too specialized, and besides, I couldn't find one I really liked. But now I'd need some kind of artic outerwear--heavy duty long underwear, too.

I'd stopped repeating, "Minus two?" out loud, over and over, but was still mutely agonizing over this news when Dear Wife came out to explain to me that the temperature was minus 2 degrees Centigrade, not fahrenheit. I'd never before been so thankful for the world of Celsius. Minus 2 C is just the high twenties or so (28.4, to be exact, thank you Versatile Unit Converter widget). High 20's we can handle.

2006-01-24T23:40:00.000+01:00

"The day that you understand that what belongs to someone else does not belong to you, things will go better between yourself and society."

Pronouncement by French court when sentencing the dude that took a crack at Duchamp's famed urinal with a hammer.

I'm Just Going To Pretend...

2006-01-23T13:46:00.000+01:00

...pretend I am still in Paris, and that I've been reliably posting a new entry every day for the past 3 weeks.

EUROCHINO, (EURO and not PARIS or FRANCOCHINO or something, because Dear Wife's continued research will be moving us to other European locations), was created to be a sort of online travelogue for friends and family. Sounds boring, does it? It is boring, apparently, because all of our immediate family convened for this post-holiday holiday, (a holiday that Dear Wife and I are still enjoying--a vacation from our vacation, we like to call it), and we learned they'd all barely glanced at EUROCHINO, the gift I thought I'd been giving them for Xmas. Back in good ol' 2005 (how long ago it seems already!), I'd been hesitating over every entry, knowing my mom might be reading it--or my father-in-law. Well, now I know better.

This news frees me up considerably.

I am no expert on blogs, or blogging, and anymore I can hardly stand to log onto one because I'm sure it'll be better than mine--and if not better, than certainly more popular. In this thickly settled blogosphere, a humbling experience is just a click away. There was a period of time not so long ago when the number of blogs and bloggers seemed roughly approximate to the size of an intelligible world, a place where you might not know everyone, but everyone seemed knowable: there were those two guys that did the animation blog, there was the girl in Paris, that guy in the Mountain Goats that did a tour diary, the nanny in New York, etc.... it all had the amiable scale of a 19th Century mid-sized city: an unexpectedly reassuring resurrection of this nostalgic notion of "a city," as opposed to a "community," (community implying homogeneity, i.e., "the animation community," or "The Bedouin community," whereas the city is that big blanket stitching together lots of little communities--that makes sense, right?). In the by-gone days of a comprehensible blogoscape (say, June 2004), there could be found a few self-directed voices representing many broadly definable communities: the fields of endeavor and expertise were vast, but the bloggers all shared a mixture of exhibitionism, a little embarassment ("I am not a geek"), some self-consciousness, and most of all, lots of enthusiasm for their subject. Frequently the subject they were so engaged by turned out to be their own life.

Now it feels different. And it feels different because of the scale. The scale is dizzying, the ambitions of every participant noticeably grander.

It makes me feel like a castaway Charelton Heston.

Which makes me wonder about the average above-average blogger--you know, the one who's got a readership of 1,000 and an expert entry nearly every day. The ones that have that sassy insouciance down pat. I know how back-breaking it has been crafting my meager output, so I imagine this fat wave of wow sites comes from a new breed of über-fecund authors. They must all share a very particular psychological/spiritual make-up, one unlike mine. Maybe it's a new sort of make-up, a new breed born of our digital age.

Sounds terrible when I put it like that, doesn’t it? But I think it’s true.

"Damn you! Damn you all to hell!"

POST HASTE

2006-01-04T03:09:00.000+01:00

The EUROCHINO staff is currently being detained on a small, tropical island, location undisclosed (a sort of GITMO for writers). The interrogations (mostly about Paris) have been amiable so far, though there have been disconcerting misinterpetations of my writing at EUROCHINO.

We may be held here for sometime.

In the meantime, now that Internet service has been established here (good behavior), I will continue writing about Paris, using my extensive notes and sources to continue bringing you color and commentary on the City of Lights.

"Radio Neige-Folle" Becomes "Radio Ye-Ye"

2005-12-28T13:58:00.000+01:00

Now, I thought one of the advantages to living over here on the Continent would be an Olde Worlde rhythm to Chritstmas, with Advent, Epiphany, the Twelve Days of, etc. Well, maybe in ENGLAND.

Here, they are even lacking that predictable blizzard of post-holiday mark-downs in all the stores (these Parisians are so above discounts) (I wrote that but I don't believe it)(they're just adept at masking their excitement for such things).

And now my favorite LIVE365 radio station (well, my favorite in French), "Radio Neige-Folle" has changed format. Just one day after Xmas?

Maybe there really is a War on Christmas....

And what has it been replaced by?

"Radio Yé-Yé," exclamation point.

They've dumped their fascinating exploration of the French Xmas cannon for "la radio des années 60."

It's actually pretty good.

Right now they're broadcasting some French songster belting out a numbers that would be at home in a French version of "Hair." But with a more primitive sound, which is a plus. The playlist mixes a little beatnik doo-wop, a little cabaret with twangy electric guitars, a little psychedalia. Nice.

Here's another shot of some neige from last night. Unfortunately, we did not wake up to a winter wonderland. The snow levels have even receded a bit today, though flurries have been seen out our window from time to time.

Still looks cold, huh? High today is 26.

It's Neige-ing!

2005-12-27T22:58:00.000+01:00

Well, We Just Had To Keep Playing "Let It Snow!"

A belated Xmas present for two SoCal transplants: SNOW. Let them flakes fly.

The day began grey, and by noon the first little feathery particles were starting to drift down. Dear Wife was at work in the living room (or salon) when she noticed this peculiar movement outside the window--like a small cloud of asbestos kicked off the roof above. But no, it wasn't asbestos, wayward lint, or anything else--it was snow.

Dear Wife was so excited she began to hollar and jabber and run around the apartment, dancing and cheering.

Not only did she enjoy this sudden, wintry event, but she had predicted it--nay, she had brought it upon us. She had been busily downloading Xmas tunes at the iTunes Music Store all morning, and her number one choice today, played over and over again, was "Snow," (by Irving Berlin[?], from "White Christmas"):

Snow!
It won't be long before we'll all be there with
snow!

Snow!
I want to wash my hands my face and hair with
snow!

We watched as a little mat of white begin collecting on the mossy roof across from us.

But then the snowfall began to fritter out, and it wasn't showing up on the newer, metal roofs, or the sidewalk below. They just looked wet.

Bummer.

So we went back to work.

And it started again.

Stronger, this time. Dear Wife took this picture, and it captures a bit of the "storminess." This is looking up rue Bonaparte (they just don't capitalize "rue" here, and I don't know why), toward the Seine.

And here lies the insidiously self-reinforcing power of Xmas Music: we were ooh'ing and ahh'ing to all this as we sang and danced to "It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas," "Let It Snow," and "Most Wonderful Time of the Year." Which is a memorable experience for this SoCal lad, this "heady nexus between carol, caper and climate."(V.I. Nabokov) It's like our emotional response is guided ever-so-slightly by this seasonal soundtrack...

...But, doggone it! It did look a lot like Christmas!

I went to the gym, and afterwards, up to our favorite little Chinese traiteur, just off rue des Ecoles. In the gym I'd seen little flurries come and go, but when I emerged, there still wasn't any snow on the ground. The sun was just beginning to go down as I walked over for my late lunch, and I hoped that nighttime would bring a blizzard. Soon, I was deep into my reading, ("A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again," by David Foster Wallace, a terrific gift from Dear Darling Tara, who shipped it all the way to France for us! Thank you!), and after an hour or so got up to leave. I looked out the door and--GA-ZOW!
It was like a blizzard! Even a street as big as rue des Ecoles was covered in snow! I ran outside, thankful that I'd brought Dear Wife's conveniently portable camera, and began snapping away.

Man, was it cold! I was having so much fun I hardly noticed, but my gloves were freezing to the camera (don't tell her), and my face was numb. I had to put on my hood and rewrap my scarf to better insulate me from the buckets, blankets and bushells of snow now falling on me.

OK, OK, those of you who know real winter weather must be laughing at my inexperience and wide-eyed wonder.

But even the congenitally hip Parisians were enjoying themselves, making intials in the snow sheets that covered every parked car, running and slidding in the icy stuff, etc.

Pretty cool!

RUE DES ECOLES at RUE ST. JACQUES (can you believe it?)

I wanted to photograph as much as I could, so I walked up rue Mazarine from St. Germain to the Institut de France; unfortunately, my pictures from here were too blurry, but it was quite a sight to see the cobblestone courtyard out front powdery white, and with just a little frosting on the dome. I kept walking on up to the Louvre. At the bridge (not the Pont des Arts, the other one, with traffic), there was some sort of accident--it looked like a chain reaction among scooter pilots. They all seemed OK. The snow was much heavier on the bridge, esp. on the sidewalks. I almost slipped on some icy parts. In the courtyard of the Louvre the snow was really starting to pile up--crazy! But poorly lit, so I turned to the Arc de Triomphe du Carousel du Louvre, which is the outstanding original work by Dear Wife's research subject, French Architect Charles Percier. I think it looks grand in the snow.
This is NOT the more famous, gigantic Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile, (if we want to be correct), that stands at the top of the Champs Elysées. This is a much smaller model, completed during the reign of Napoleon, and finished years before the big one. For some strange reason, Percier's little fella reminds me of the no-longer extant Septizodium, a monument in ancient Rome that was erected at the heel of the Palatine hill to honor the Roman Emperor Septimius Severus...hmmm.

A fun night frolicking in our neige-y streets.

C'est La Guerre

2005-12-25T23:26:00.000+01:00

We decided to make FRENCH TOAST for Xmas Day (they call it pain perdu over here, I beleive). I wasn't sure which type of loaf would best take the eggs/vanilla concoction, (remember all the choices at Le Bon Marché, plus we have our local Paul...), so we bought four loaves. Four in one day. Ga-zow.

EUROCHINO, the Blog of Record when it comes to the coming and goings of Dear Wife, myself, and all of Paris (I'd like to think), wants to wish all of you a very Happy Holiday. I would guess the prevailing American thought about France and Xmas (if, indeed, any thought is given to this subject), is that this country of committed secularists must represent something like the Avant Garde for those forces alleged to be destroying Xmas, ("The War Against..." etc.). But not so. Apparently, France is not against Xmas at all: despite a Parisian unwillingness to really abandon themselves to massive credit-funded holiday spending (true locals are much too savvy for retail Xmas exhortations), there was evidence all around us that the holiday, in all its holiday-ness, is very much loved here. However, it is not loved in that uniquely American, out-sized, world-will-come-to-an-end-NOW-if-you-don't buy-in-and-BUY-THIS! sorta Xmas we inflict on each other in the 'States.

Maybe this faux fracas in the 'States stems from a deep-rooted belief in the transformative powers of the purchase, a power respected and integral to American life, and recently absorbed into the sacred nature of Xmas itself. Maybe Xmas has expanded into a celebration of this culture of consumption--not just in an obvious way, a corporate-mandated way, where you assume people are following commercial directives like mindless lemmings. No, I think that by assigning religious responsibilities to the retailers, (essentially giving them a religious mandate), people seek to strenghten this bond between a ritual of commercial activity and the actual meaning of the holiday. We like shopping, and we want to validate this emotion. If you can get upset that someone is trying to sell you a "Holiday Tree" and not a "Christmas Tree,"--and not just upset, but spiritually offended--aren't you saying you find the spiritual relevant to your purchases, and that you need them to cross-confirm? Because really, if you find the act of BUYING stuff for friends, family, and YOURSELF as spiritually rewarding as prayer and church-going (and I bet many people do, especially at Xmas-time), why wouldn't, you want to put a spiritual gloss onto the secular activity of shopping? Buying has become so much a part of the Xmas ritual, it now carries with it the same responsibility for exactitude, repetition and confirmation that any church service does.

In France, I imagine the seductions of transformation through the act of shopping has intrinsically less power here because people are not so interested in transforming. A chic person is a chic person and remains so, in a generally accepted, Franco-stylish way. The job is just to keep this up--much of France and French behaviour seems like it can be explained by the phrase, "keeping up appearances." Codes of behaviour and manner and dress exist for every strata of citizen here, from the low-rise jean-wearing, shag-haircut teens to the Grande Dames in their furs. In the U.S. there's always a little (or a lot) of pressure to be different, to redefine, to improve or expand. ("Maybe the look for me should be more Metrosexual Euro-Chic--but wait, maybe that looks too gay for me, maybe I should rough it up a little and ditch that town coat for an anorak...?") Here they are blessed with a cohesive national identity and a long-standing, easily identified culture, which keeps French people somewhat whole in a way that many Americans have a hard time equalling. We Americans have that continual responsibility--and pressure to completely invent (and keep reinventing) ourselves for our role (however small) on the American stage. French people are without this presssure, (their pressure may be to live up to what tthey are supposed to be), and are therefore able to escape a lot of the heavy significance shopping often holds for us. A man buys a coat here because it is appropriate to his role in society. A man buys a coat in the 'States because he imagines it helps exemplify the character and persona he wants to project.

Here in Paris, the only big battle is between retailers and their canny customers, who are always skeptical of everything, and esp. of the promises advertising and flashy aesthetics make.

Back home, the battle is for identity. And it's a war.

Here, it's just Xmas.

Hope you had a merry one.

Le Bon March-HEY

2005-12-24T17:32:00.000+01:00

Dear Wife loves foods: the fun foods that go into interesting recipes, and the fancy foods that come from far away places. She reads cook books with an almost physical delight. I can't accuse her of over-indulgence, nor can I accuse her of having any food hang-ups one way or the other--either too worried about gaining weight, or too guilty about the indulgences she thinks allowable. No, she is just fascinated by the whole pagent and arcana of good food.

So when Dear Wife discovered the big grocery store at the Bon Marché, she couldn't wait to tell me all about it. And insist we plan a trip down there to shop for our Xmas fare.

The Bon Marché is a department store chain, but like the other departmet stores here, it offers a broad mix of products; and also typical of the Grande Magasins I've seen in our adopted city, the store itself sprawls across streets and into adjoining buildings. One block carries the men's wear, the women's wear, etc.; the adjoining building houses the home collections; and across from that, the épicerie, or grocery store.

And it was fancy. Truly "Fancy von Fancy."

The fanciness really came from their extensive selection, and the internationalism of that extensive selection, which was exotic to our eyes, but is less exotic here, when the citizens live closer to Tanzania or Beiruit than New York.

Plus, we'd spent the last four months shopping in grocery stores not much bigger than a good Foot Locker.

Not that there's really anything good about Foot Locker.

But look at all the good stuff on display at the Épicerie Bon Marché!
Norwegian delicacies done-up in almost abstract arrangements.

This is the magisterial bread counter. A team of bread experts man the long counter, taking your requests, grabbing your selections, then weighing it up, bagging it, and attaching the pricing sticker. The variety of bread is vast, but there are also cookies, pastries, etc. available, also in impressively vast varieties. People just line up and wait to be served. The wait is short. They are very efficient.

The cheese counter--yowza. Dear Wife digs savory, and in true French form, the cheese counter here is gi-normous. This represents just a brief section of the see-through hull on this Good Ship Fromage--a veritable Super-tanker of curdled and fungi'ed goods.

We contented ourselves with a small, pre-composed variety pack of cheeses. Also bought some salami and bresoala cuts, two loaves of bread (we are planning to make French toast for Christmas Day, and I wasn't sure which type of bread would be best), and of course a couple of pain aux amandes. Two pre-fab sandwiches were très fab. If you visit this store in future, you can find these sandwiches waiting discreetly for takers at any number of their inviting chacuterie counters.

OK, it's "Amande," not "Amonde"

2005-12-24T00:46:00.000+01:00

See, my French is weak.

(Thank you, Dear Wife.)

By the way, (no, I am not going to abbreviate that), I ate one-and-a-half of these swollen butter-devils today!

Re-Strategizing

2005-12-23T23:06:00.000+01:00

Chimneys at dawn. Notice there's but one smoke trail wending skyward. Fortunately for my allergies, hardly anyone in our neighborhood burns wood in their fireplaces--which seems like such a cozy thing to do, esp. in this chill. But you can imagine the soot that would result. Not surprising then how few hearths kindle in Paris, because living in Paris is less "dirty" than you'd expect: at the end of the day, when you clean your ears out with a Q-tip, the cotton come out looking relatively untouched (depending on the state of your aural health). In L.A. or N.Y., the same procedure would bring a swab discoloration most shocking. This low-key personal pollution adds greatly to the city's charm. In a place like Rome, you feel a grit on your body after a day outdoors. Here, your only worry is the dog crap.

I called up Dear Pal Pete yesterday (returning his call, actually, but unbeknownst to me since I don't check our voicemail).

"Hey, have you checked out the new entries on EUROCHINO about our Thanksgiving in London?" I asked.

"Man, there's nothing new up about London."

"Yeah there is. I put it back on the date it originally happened. You have to go to the November archives, then scroll down--"

"Dude, that's moronic. Nobody's gonna' do that. Just put a link to those posts on your most recent posts--otherwise, who's gonna' know they're there? I don't spend all my time scrolling through your entire blog to see if you've 'back-filled' anything new!"

There is a pause.

"You don't?"

"No! Dude, how are people gonna' know you've been inserting new posts back in the old sections they've already read?"

"Oh....Well, I was gonna' announce it to everyone, y'know...like, with a new post?"

If this were a Peanuts comic strip, Dear Pal Pete would have followed my response with a "GOOD GRIEF!"

If this were the 1968 motion picture blockbuster "Bullitt," Pete would have told me, "Time starts now."

As it was, I just had to promise to keep current and let people know if I've added anything to "the past."

I added a bunch of stuff about the London trip and Pete and Kev's visits, which happened around November 16th or so until the 27th or so.

And then there was that stuff I filled in before their visit, in the early part of November. I know one entry was on the first, it had to do with Halloween.

Does that help?

From now on I'll stick to posting straight ahead, and just "recollect" from the present all of those interesting events from the past that I've yet to write.

PAUL Helps Paris Prepare for Pere Noel

2005-12-23T02:11:00.000+01:00

Another fine afternoon spent sitting in Paul. This time I did something constructive: I drew. The slightly intimidating older lady who often waits on Dear Wife and I was working the pas fumeur room today. She said nothing when she handed me my menu, but when I asked to order, she wanted to know where was Dear Wife. Flattered by this attention, but not quite sure what exactly she was saying to me (it was all in French), I came up with a French-ish sentence expressing something along the lines of, "She is working today." This effort was well received, and she followed by with some more off-hand comments that I couldn't quite make out, so I said, "Oui, c'est trieste," which was supposed to mean, "Yes, it's sad." I made a sad face to help put this over. She chuckled, and walked away before I had a chance to really get going.

So I sat and drew. The waitress, a lady named Germaine, (how apropos) looked after me, never hurried me, and didn't bring the bill until I asked for it. I was free to sit and stare and doodle. I ordered an almond croissant, (they had one), a cappucccino, the quiche lorraine, a bottle of Pelligrino and a hot chocolate for dessert. All this was consumed over a couple hours.

And there was some sketching between courses....

People were bundled up, and some were beginning to buy actual Xmas supplies, though I think the real crush will begin tomorrow (Friday). Most bought bread, or sandwiches. A lot of characters, and since the neighborhood is an actual neighborhood, I saw many faces that I'd seen before come in and wait in line for some bread, or take a table and dine. Kind of cozy, to feel a little familiar with such a foreign place.

REMEMBER TO CLICK ON DRAWINGS FOR BETTER VIEW

I liked this drawing of a father daughter combo getting ready to head out into the cold. I have very little clever commentary, so I'll let the drawings do the talking.

That Little Financier in All of Us

2005-12-21T17:17:00.000+01:00

And no, I don't speak of money matters. Over here there are bakeries, specializing in les baguettes, and there are pâtisseries, specializing in pastries; but both fill their shelves with delicacies like fancy cakes, tarts, croissants and other sweet things (attracted by the high-margins, no doubt). Bread, though just as delicious, remains remarkably cheap (60 centimes or so for a full-blooded French baguette that evaporates in your maw like a crusty cotton candy). It's an endless temptation, all these goodies, and causes a confusion just as endless when it's your turn to pick out the one you're going to take home. I often disobey this rule of one and order two different types, esp. when shopping for a new treat: this strategy is pretty safe because most times one of the little delicacies will taste crappy. Surprising, I know--maybe I'm rejecting indulgences that express some peculiarly French taste, (see escargot, foie gras, et al); or maybe I don't like 'em because my palate was formed on TasteeFreeze and the brownie portion of a Swanson's TV Dinner. It's always easy to toss that evening's underwhelming entrant into the trash. The next patisserie run will bring a new crop of contestants. And though I haven't sampled anywhere near everything the bakeries of Paris have to offer, and neither have I applied any consistent methodology to all this tasting, I can say that a few favorites have emerged. These judgments are those a rank amateur, so be forewarned, they are as illiterate a choice as anyone with my plebian, American background could make.

1. Croissant aux Amondes/ Pain Amondes (?): first taste on first trip was a revelation: ardent sampler and supporter during first month here; consumption tapered to nil as both (their) supply and (my) demand waned. Interest recently reborn, but supply remains tight: still hard to find. Is it seasonal?

2. Molleaux Chocolat/Chocolate Cake: best is from La Boulangerie Pain au Prince, made with hearty slices of pear. The chocolate over here seems one step more savage than what we are accustomed to in the 'States—as though Paris is closer to the source, the headwaters of some chocolate Nile. In fact, the chocolate doesn’t taste like it comes from a watery source, it tastes mined, dug up from the earth, dark as coal—and it's less sweet than the chocolate I grew up with, it’s more gritty and uncompromisingly present. A dry intensity. Dryness of a different sort, however, is what makes most cakes sampled over here a disappointment: dryness as staleness. Paul's Molleaux Chocolat comes in a solid second place to the reliably moist Pain au Prince.

(Am I actually writing up some kind of food ratings entry?)

3. La Financier:Tonight's dessert.

Dear Wife and I were strolling through our old neighborhood, rue Monge in the Latin Quarter, the place where we first huddled in this big city. I couldn't resist popping in at the old Kayser bakery and checking for a Croissant aux Amondes, but no dice. Instead we bought some Financiers.

Easily overlooked in the typical wall of buttery baked goods that greets you upon entering any respectable boulangerie/patisserie, the Financiers huddle quietly among their own, living in three distinct breeds (chocolate, plain [which means almond], and pistachio). They are typically placed alongside their more famous cousins, the Madeleines, and positioned near the register, or caisse to better court the impulse buy. I quote from Dear Wife's post-taste research:

"The little rectangular almond cakes known as financiers are sold in many of the best pastry shops in Paris. Perfect financiers are about as addictive as chocolate, and I'd walk a mile or two for a good one. The finest have a firm, crusty exterior and a moist, almondy interior, tasting almost as if they were filled with almond paste. Next to the madeleine, the financier is probably the most popular little French cake, common street food for morning or afternoon snacking. The cake's name probably comes from the fact that a financier resembles a solid gold brick. Curiously, as popular as they are, financiers seldom appear in recipe books or in French literature."

Quoted from Epicurious.com.

I like the larger financier sold at Gérard Mulot, made in a combined pistachio/chocolate form. Excellent. Positively wet with taste intensity. But these smaller numbers from Kayser were excellent, too, and in easily controlled portions.

PLEASE NOTE: In addition to these three superb delicacies, we should mention Dear Wife's favorite treat, which is BY FAR the Pistachio Macaroon from Paul. It is sensational, and highly recommended.

Here's a shot of the interior of our local Paul. Watch out, that man is munching a Macaroon!

Radio "Neige-Folle"

2005-12-19T23:37:00.000+01:00

Dear Wife and I subscribe to the Internet radio service "Live365." I think I've mentioned this before. But have I mentioned their Xmas channel in French? I think not. It is called Radio *Neige-Folle* (note "snowflakes" flanking the name). A whole new dimension in Xmas Music, experiencing all your favorite carols and croons entirely in Francais. It's been a great way for us to freshen up the season.

Sadly, Dear Wife began playing her beloved "A Charlie Brown Christmas" in early October, and has become a little innured to its beauty. Temporary, I'm sure, but we've had to reach out for new sources of Yuletide inspiration, and this station surely fits the bill.

Right now they are playing Rock et Belles Oreilles version of "C'est Nono Noël", an original composition I'm sure.

How about a little "Nous Sommes Trois Rois de l'Orient"?

Do you think they have a version of that old Exit House standard, "Jack Frost is an S.O.B."?

Shopping Sunday

2005-12-18T12:20:00.000+01:00

Normally, when Sunday comes around, you'd have a hard time finding any store open for business in Paris. This includes the grocery stores. Big department stores. Most pharmacies. I mean everything. These guys have a strictly enforced 35 hour work week, so they believe Sunday really should be a day of rest.

All that goes out the window when Xmas is just a week away.

Dear Wife and I took advantage of a beautiful Sunday (still damn cold, though) to walk through the city. I wanted to witness for myself the sight of so many stores open on a Sunday. We made it all the way to the BHV. Fun to see it packed on Sunday. Here's the view over to the Right Bank from the Ile de la Cité.

We walked to the Hôtel de Ville, the City Hall that looks like it could house Cruella deVille (and does, from what I've read of the French beauracracy contained within).

The entire square in front of the building had been turned into a winter carnival, with ice skating in multiple rinks, carousels, and a phony tobogan run for the kids. A giant igloo, too. I don't know if the igloo was made of real ice, but at the temperatures we've been seeing lately, I doubt they'd have too much trouble maintaining the ice. A little sad that the sound system was playing American female hip-hop, sung by a performer I wouldn't even dare to guess. For most of the 20th Century there existed a utopian belief that national identities would one day melt away, and we'd all become residents of the same small "Global Village." Evidence I've seen here takes the shape of Mariah Carey and baseball hats worn akew. Is this what those optimists of yore envisioned? French families ice skating to Missy Elliot?

Check out the cotton candy vendor.

Here they call it "Barbe a Papa" or Papa's Beard. The Fruedian implications are staggering.

The tower at St. Germain-l'Auxerrois looked lovely in our late afternoon light.

All in all, very good to get out and take a ramble through the streets of our adopted home. We will be leaving soon, and we want to enjoy these last days before our January vacation (yes, a vacation from our vacation).

It's a good life.

(About the quiet Sundays: it's really nice that everything is typically closed, except when it's annoying, and it hasn't been all that annoying yet.)

EUROCHINO still undergoing HOLIDAY RENOVATION:

2005-12-15T19:15:00.000+01:00

SANTA CALLED IN FOR HELP

Yes, I am still at work on this thing. Poke around if you must, but there remains much of the story to be told. Life keeps intruding on my writing time... and today I learn some of our Christmas cards have already arrived in the 'States. Cripes!

I hope to have everything done by the 20th. Maybe of December. Maybe December 2005.

As a child, I was especially fixated on one aspect of the Santa Claus story: how did he manage to get to all those kids in just one night? And as it was explained to me, Santa was not even allowed the luxury of an entire dusk-to-dawn night for his work: only in the deepest dead of night did the fat man move.

"Does he start at midnight?" I'd ask.

"Yeah, because he's gotta' go only after all the kids are really asleep," my father answered (why I remember my father, of all people, explaining this to me is anyone's guess--it does prove how early in my life I began obsessing over the control of time). Then he added, "And he's gotta' wait for the final list of who's been good, and who's been bad--he's checking up on you right to the last minute." They never missed a chance to link ethical behavior with Christmas upside.

"Yeah, but, how does he get to everyone in the whole world in one night?"

"Well, he's really fast. The reindeers are all really fast."

"How's he gonna get our presents to us," I asked, suddenly worried. "We don't have a real chimney and fireplace?"

"We'll leave the backdoor open." (This is all true, you skeptics. We did leave the backdoor unlocked for Santa.)

"Yeah, but will he get to us in time? Before Christmas morning? How can he visit all us kids in just one night? Look at all the houses he's gotta' visit just on our street..."

"Well, not all the houses have kids in 'em."

"BUT STILL! What about kids in India?" (I remember worrying about this) "Is he going to visit them, too? All tonight?"

I wanted to go quantum physics with Christmas from an early age.

This was all too much for my father (this, and many other things). I remember an uncle nearby, my Dear Departed Uncle Dave, who was in high school at the time and very science minded. He took over and explained to me how the earth rotates, causing night and day, how different time zones worked (more or less), how it is always night time in one part of the world, and how Santa could essentially keep ahead of the dawn as he made one 24 hour night time sweep of the globe.

That satisfied me for a year.

I realized this still wasn't enough time to hit every child-harboring house, and began forming complicated theories to explain Santa's ability to overcome this problem. I reasoned that the solution had to involve slowing time to a near standstill. Of great help in this formulation was an episode of The Wild, Wild West, the one in which Artemus and Jim West go undercover to work for an evil inventor who had devised a potion that allowed any imbiber to enter a world of super-speed; which, counter-intuitively, slowed everything else down. Just like quantum physics. Those endowed with super-speed could move about normally, but everyone and everything around them was frozen (just think of the CGI excesses that premise would invite in a movie/TV show of today--back then we had Robert Conrad trying to walk in slow-motion [when the potion began to wear off!], while all the extras had to stand stone-still and unsmiling as he did his best "mime-in-a-windstorm"). They utilize this alternate reality of quantum-time to walk into a museum and steal a large diamond. The real creative twist to all this occurs when evil inventor gets hip to Artemus and Jim's undercover roles, and shorts their super-speed dosages, which brings them back to real time during the middle of the heist, leaving them to get caught "red-handed"--literally red-handed, because in the transition out of speed-of-light living back to regular-speed reality, Arty and Jim both endure friction burns on their dermis because of the extraordinary heat generated by their "re-entry" to real-time. I guess you had to see it.

But it affected me profoundly.

Time compression, I used to stew, how does Santa manage to compress time? I decided that since he was a Saint and hence an agent of the Lord, God allowed him to slip the bonds of mortal time. But what was it like? If he was making his voyage in a blink of an eye, how could we hope to interact with him? And how could he really interact with us while outside the space-time continuum we lived in?

I decided it was like in The Wild, Wild West, and that Santa was able to move down the chimney (a physical paradox that didn't trouble me) and plant the presents and eat the cookies and drink the milk and then get back up on the roof and into the sleigh in an instant. I remember sneaking into the living room to watch the plate of cookies and wait for their disappearance. For their literal disappearance. Other kids stayed up expecting to see the Fat Man. I was expecting something more like physical proof of Einstein's theory.

The thought that Santa existed in an essentially separate dimension left me a little melancholy. While the Christmas parties were roaring, I would happily sing along about the jolly little man in a miniature sleigh; but once alone and in bed, these anthems took on the wistful tone of eternal separation, much closer to David Bowie's "Space Oddity;" Santa as a yuletide Major Tom, eternally circling a world he could no longer join. I would scan the skies as we drove home from Christmas Eve services or, more likely, Christmas Eve dinner at Aunt Judy's, and feel a shadow descend as I watched for him. I expected only to see a streak, like a shooting star, ("It has to be that way," I would tell myself). The sense of separation generated by the thought of a sighting mirrored very much the sort of personal space-time displasia that would occur if you looked into a backyard telescope and caught sight of the Space Shuttle miles overhead, looking like a tiny pale trident thrown across the wintry sky. How can he be up there, so far away and moving so fast, I wondered, while I'm down here, waiting for him?

Santa, please share with me your magic time-compression formula!

Xmas Marches to La Marseillaise

2005-12-13T01:16:00.000+01:00

I can't let EUROCHINO just languish while I'm at work on the archives (and Xmas shopping, mainly for myself), so here is a little photo log of our around-town rambles for the last two days.

Xmas, as you can see, is everywhere.

Two of the most prominent and visited department stores in Paris live but a block from each other, just behind the famous Opéra de Paris Garnier: Au Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. They are like the Gimbel's and Macy's of "Miracle on 34th St." Eternal rivals.

(You can just see nemesis Galeries Lafayette in the distance behind Au Printemps)

It was around Halloween when they put up the Xmas lights at Galeries Lafayette. Dear Wife and I were surprised, and we wondered if this wasn't a departure from the usual French approach to Xmas (an approach I did not and do not claim to know, but that I'd imagined would be less, uh, enthusiastic than America's). Perhaps Gal-Laf was stooping to this level because of desperation, we theorized--maybe they needed sales, and weren't above a little Yuletide Razzle-Dazzle to gain same. But then Xmas lights began blinking on all over the city. Public workers were stringing nets of blue lights in avant-garde designs between the buildings on the rue du Fauburg St. Honoré, right in front of Hermès. Shop windows were sprouting holly and pine. Our own Xmas Faire arrived in the place St. Germain-des-Prés. Ads with Pere Noël began appearing in the Metro stations. Clearly, Christmas was coming.

Two weeks ago we visited Fed Ex, and across the Boulevard Haussmann we saw Au Printemps, all done up in its Holiday Jewel Tones, clearly excited to be at the party--as every retailer, large or small, now seems to be. Perhaps the beginning of the Xmas season starts slowly here because the French (and everyone else, come to think of it) are without the helpful starting block of Thanksgiving; the decorations and ads began struggling into the public eye after Halloween (or All Saints'Day) here, and initially nobody seemed very happy to be reminded that the year is almost over and the cold weather is coming.

Well, the cold weather is here.

Tonight we again went to FedEx (anymore, this seems like the only thing that'll get us riding the 7 Metro line up to Opera--'though this time we refined our route by jumping onto the 3 at the Opera station instead of exiting there, and then we rode the 3 west northwest to its next stop, Havre-Caumartin, where we emerged practically at FedEx's doorstep) (cold weather is a remarkable engine for ingenuity). This time we'd planned to do some Xmas shopping after our shipping duty, (67Euros for a letter to be sent to PA, USA). We started at Au Printemps, but as it was already 7:30PM, and they had just closed.

So I began snapping pictures of their incredible lights with Dear Wife's still-new camera--and promptly lost Dear Wife. Or maybe she lost me. There were crowds on the sidewalks, it was dark, and everyone was in black, just like Dear Wife. Just like me. Standing there, turning around and around like Marlo Thomas, I strained for a glimpse of her, but she was nowhere to be seen. We had just decided to walk to Galeries Lafayette before she vanished--had she walked on? I could've sworn she stopped next to me when I pulled out the camera... I began moving forward in the chaos, up the Boulevard, toward Galeries Lafayette. What was she wearing, I tried to remember, and the image of trying to describe her appearance to a Gendarme flashed hot under my frantic brow. I remembered what she was wearing (that says more about living in Paris for three months than it does about my attentiveness as a husband, I'm afraid): most distinctly, Dear Wife was wearing her white wooly cap. I pressed on, focused on finding fuzzy frost colored bonnets bobbing at a height off 5'7", 5'10" in her boots. I was beginning to panic--"How am I gonna find her?!". Soon I was hustling up to every white-topped figure moving away from me, hoping it was her; I felt like a cop from North by Northwest, in the train terminal scene where they are trying to apprehend Roger Thornhill/George Kaplan/Cary Grant by grabbing every Redcap and spinning them around violently. North by Northwest: did you know this referred to the Airline?

I didn't spin anybody around violently. And I didn't find Dear Wife.

I felt completely spun by the time I reached Gal-Laf without a sign of her. "She must be looking for me on this same stretch," I thought, "Better go back again to where I lost her." Of course I was irritated by now--pissed, fuming, truly frightened, whatever, but on the walk back I recognized it was probably all my fault, and dammit I was missing her. I resolved to be nice about the whole thing and take responsibility for it, and I recognized the real scare I was having, losing her in such an impossibly congested, crazy area. When I got back toward the spot I'd started from, there she was, of course, sensible one she is, standing right where I'd decided I'd lost her 15 minutes earlier. She looked just as worried as I'd felt. I apologized.

We should put a plan in place: if ever we get seperated again, meet at the nearest Paul.

I could take their delivery buggy, illegally parked here on the corner of Boulevard Haussmann and Place Diaghilev.
She had been watching the window animation at Au Printemps, and with good reason--it was the funniest, cleverest display I'd ever seen. Spectacularly good.The little characters you see are automated marionettes, controlled by wires attached to overhead robotic puppeteers. Ingenious.

I marvel at something like this here in France, and then out comes the ugly worry that what I'm seeing was in the windows at Macy's New York for Xmas, 1999. A worry that the innovation took place in America a while ago, and has since been dumped for something newer, better, even more cutting-edge, so let's sell this old stuff to the French. The same way we'll gladly sell slightly out-dated military hardware to allies (and not-so-allies, sadly). It probably is not true. But this suspicion, this myth of the migration of American innovation, which creeps out and blows a little black cloud over every clever idea I've seen here, ideas that initially may seem to represent the best of 21st Century France--this suspiscion is insidious, and comes from American dominance (both perceived and real), and I wonder if French people feel this too. The problem is that on the one hand they want to defend and promote their French innovations, and claim them; and on the other, the disbelief that, in the face of such seemingly overwhelming American superiority, they can really create anything meaningful. It's a less shockingly toxic version of the oft-cited, popular Arab contention that the hi-jackers couldn't be Arab because they did such a great thing (perhaps many mean "great" in the sense of "evil enormity"), and look at how inept we Arabs are, how incapable we are of doing anything "great."

I'm not saying this perception of French uncompetitiveness, at least in the realm of ideas, is correct--I think people probably have it all wrong, because I think the genuinely original and the genuinely French do exist--look at films like "The Triplets of Belleville," or the truly well-done "Red Lights,"or "With a Friend Like Harry..." (all movies, I know--I'm trying to stick to what I know). But this feeling of inferiority...it's cancerous, and I feel fearful. Afraid France will be made to suffer. Not by America, but by life. The beautiful sister doesn't glide from triumph to triumph in order to insult her ugly sister and make her life a hell, but that's what happens. This may explain the rivers of schadenfruede over here at the American misadventures in you-know-where....

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CHRISTMAS PHOTOS, you ask?

CLICK ON that picture, would'ja, and appreciate just how much WHIMSY is at work here. Distinctly French whimsy, (if they didn't in fact buy the whole rig from WalMart). The guys on the ground are actually WALKING around the tub in circles, with a hilarious step movement. Just too cool. Au Printemps also devised a little raised gantry directly infront of the window so the junior set can step up and see everything up close.

And for the non-junior set, they provide this adjoining window:
I feel like a Tex Avery-style narrator should be announcing, "And now, something for the tired business man." There is something wonderful about a country, or perhaps just the mindset that would lead to this window being placed next to the Salle de Bain Muppets. And this pattern continues down the whole block-long row of Xmas windows: alternating displays of stag party and kiddie puppet show. Is it a truly foreign aesthetic at work here, something exotic and praiseworthy; or is it just a distillation of Xmas demographic demands, and what works for Au Printemps' bottom line: "sex and puppets sell"?

This window had mishappen monkey puppets cheering as their baboon-butt brother holds onto a rat's tail and gets pulled back and forth across the room at speed--truly, wonderfully bizarre.

There's a carbonated up and down movement to their simian hysterics. Look at how freaky those monkeys look! They are holding rolling pins!

Our carefree stroll through this consumer Christmasland took a sour turn. Guess who's moved into the BNP bank just off the Place Opéra? Weezbees, 9 o'clock.

Dear Wife and I decided to live a little and dine here in the Opera Quartier. We settled on a decent looking restaurant purporting to serve Italian food, a "Bistro Romain." After sitting down, I noticed that the restaurant name was written in a script that would look unsettlingly comfortable branded across a box of frozen food. Then Dear Wife's lasagne came out looking like it should have been served on a trans-Atlantic flight (coach-class, of course). "They just can't do Italian food over here," Dear Wife said after the first bite, obviously in a pique. But my veal parmagiana was good, even if the accompanying "tagliatelle" had been headed for that same coach cabin service cart as Dear Wife's dinner. Hey, we're still in Paris, man!

BLOG UNDERGOING HOLIDAY RENOVATION

2005-12-10T22:12:00.000+01:00

I am in the process of a total rebuild for EUROCHINO. This is my Xmas gift to our friends and family, a complete, in-depth account of our life overseas so far. The Blog will be in all its fabulous fullness 10 days from now (when the Xmas cards revealing its existence will be arriving in the mail boxes of said friends and family). That tenth day should fall on December 20th, unless either the cards or my writing get delayed. In which case I will have no qualm about changing the date I posted this promise.

So goes the Holidays.

IN THE MEANTIME....

Dear Pal Pete came for a visit, but his stay was so short, and so beset with commitments outside our little Bonapartment (the DaDa exibit, the Vanderslice concert, dinner at Bergamote, brunch at Paul, an ill-conceived trip to the Aston Martin dealer on rue Franklin D. Roosevelt, etc.), I didn't have a chance to show him the wild 2001:A Space Odyssey silverware the Bonapartment came equipped with:

"Rotate the Bonapartment kitchen drawers please, Hal."

They call them "Lardons"

2005-12-08T01:27:00.000+01:00

Lardons are just what they sound like: fat chunks of bacon-ish ham. And just as tasty as you'd expect. This is how the Quiche Lorraine at Paul appears, with a generous salad and half of a tomato, roasted with herbs á la provéncal(something tells me all those accents are going the wrong directions and over the wrong letters). I usually give my tomato to Dear Wife. Everything else I eat, including all the bread they set on the table. Paul is a famous chain of Parisian bakeries, many of them with very cozy cafés inside. We love eating there, and we love the fact that they all have a non-smoking room.

Be sure to try their Hot Cocoa, or Chocolat Chaud: it is outrageous, like a liquid chocolate bar.

And it's one of the cheapest places to eat in Paris, esp. with such comfortable surroundings. Price for the quiche: 6.60 Euro, or about $7.80 in U.S. dollars.

A steal!

Yes, "WEEZBEE"

2005-12-05T19:20:00.000+01:00

I told you, man.

These BNP Paribas Bank Fairies come from a series of books called "Arthur and the Minimoys," which I gather was originally published here in France. The material on the website betrays eager straining for English language success: has it already come, and I am just unaware? There's mention of a film that has been, or maybe is being directed by Luc Besson. Didn't he do "The Fifth Element," or "Delicatessen," or something?

They are disconcerting, n'est pas? These weird, generic characters, with Troll Doll heads grafted onto barely pubescent Barbie bodies, and the bodies unnaturally tanned (from a can?) and aggressively revealed beneath strappy, stringy leatherwear. And hawking financial products. For a bank. Is this what they call in France "La Synergie"?

"Joyeux Noël, mes petites Weezbees!"

The "Shag," Still Fashionable on the Continent

2005-12-05T11:43:00.000+01:00

An observational-type sketch today, at McDo's (McDonald's).

I ate my late lunch in the basement dinning room at the Cluny McDo. I brought my sketchbook, intending to draw hell out of all the great faces and wild characters to be encountered in an overseas McDonald's, but dammit if I didn't mis-time it! As soon as I finished my meal (Le Menu Royale Deluxe, Maxi size), everybody downstairs had cleared out. Me in an empty basement, pen in hand, poised to draw...something? Anything?

I was forced to the McDo at Cluny because their Luxembourg location remains in remodel-enforced closure. The Cluny sucks for drawing.

XMAS FAIRE!

2005-12-04T21:09:00.000+01:00

It's time I stop being sick and get this Blog back in action. I propose we commence with some shots from today.

The Xmas Faire is ON! Twenty or so small wooden boothes have been installed in the place in front of the eglise St-Germain-des-Prés. It looks like a village of elf cabañas.

They have boothes huddled on either side of rue Bonaparte, some crowded around the Zadkine (or is it Laurens?) sculpture right in front of the Louis Vuitton, and backing up to the café Les Deux Magots. What must the Paris literrati think of such a messy, low-rent yuletide scene? (The pitiable, consumptive figure loitering in the foreground of the picture is unknown to me--they have a lot of panhandlers in these parts).

Perhaps he was hoping for some candy. Be sure to CLICK ON THESE PICTURES for a better view. Attracting a lot of attention was this booth, one of the first in a long train attempting to escape the village on the place by squeaking out along the Boulevard flank of the church St. Germain-des-Prés (creating a sort of Banlieue de Noël). Most of these Boulevard break-aways were just as unpopular with the passing crowds as those shacks staking their claim in the village proper, but this booth was an exception. Lots of candy. Lots of action. Our intrepid photo team of Chino & Chino caught candy on the hook, slowly stretching itself to sticky equilibrium. Inexcusably, our photo team failed to capture the actual confectioner's aerial feat of kneading said candy into pliant smelt, an act wherein flaccid cartwheels of candy cud were swung around his head like a pizza maker spinning dough. Xmas pageantry, Paris style. The masses responded with purchases and admiration. Our camera team could only struggle to find the camera.

We walked on, not buying anything, me feeling pangs of guilt for every customerless booth (it just ain't Christmas if everyone's not making their numbers). Funnily, the silent Asian man who carves the vegetable sculptures (did I write about him before?) had possibly the biggest crowd in the village gathered around him. There he sat, on the sidewalk, a little band of rutabega roosters and carrot koi before him, his black sweatshirt hood drawn tight around his head, which gave his face the circular perimeter of a Japanesse Noh mask. He remained as ever, heedless of everyone around him, truly intent in his work, bowing reflexively each time a coin was dropped, never looking up.

Eventually we came to the front door at Paul--Paul, our favorite boulangerie/eatery. Happily, they were open (it was Sunday, afterall), as we'd been planning for at least a day to sit down here and order some omelettes and cocoa. But at the threshold Dear Wife hesitated and asked how did I feel about Chinese food? So we ate Chinese, crossing the street to visit the little traiteur (I have no idea what that means). The Dim Sum style raviolis were sensational, the chicken only so-so. The so-so-ness made us miss our little traiteur-in-the-wall next to the Grand Action Cinema Les Ecoles.

All the main stores were closed today, (Sunday, man, Dimanche), so we found a little grocery that wasn't and bought some bottled water, and while doing so we enjoyed an easy stroll in the blue glow of a winter's early evening. I hadn't been outside at night for a week. Mercifully, it wasn't so cold. And the walk was definitely worth the small risk of relapse. The city was beginning to show a nice Christmas mood in all sorts of places. We saw some funny muppet-like sculptures on the awning of one kids' store. They really look like they're gonna jump on those cars!

Even the banks are getting in the mood. I would imagine a French bank to be quite a stuffy place, but apparently not so. We are Societé Générale people, but BNP is finding a way to my heart with efforts like this:

YOU MUST CLICK ON THIS!
They have wrapped their entire St. Germain-des-Prés bank branch in this fantasy flower design. The genesis is unknown, but the imagery is meant to invoke fairies, in particular a type known as WEEZBEES(?), or having to do with WEEZBEE somehow. For the past few weeks, the bank's street-side vitrines had been showcasing some enigmatic scenes involving bland, CGI fairies with french text promising more to come. And then this appears.

First of all, what bank has shadowboxes at street-level? Architecturally, they belong at a large jeweller's, or a toy shop. And if a bank should have windows tailor-made for advertising to passing pedestrians, why showcase Weezbees? Whither the prudent practice of placing placards to trumpet CD rates, home mortgages, free checking and the like? Instead we have this massive fiberglass confection, jiggered up like a less luxe version of a Main Street window at Disneyland, USA or Euro. A big forest and elves? It looks like a tie-in for FernGully III: Return to Paribas.

Is this just authentic whimsy, or incredibly maladroit marketing?

That is what I like about living in a completely foreign place, I don't have to know the answer to that. There's no way I can know. I am allowed to appreciate gestures like these apolitically, with nothing beyond the scent of bondo and lacquer to distract me from the charm of such public poesies. Vive BNP!

It was beautifully blue and crepuscular when we returned home. This is the view of the Xmas Faire from the corner of our block, taken before we turned right, and headed for home, a few doors down and 96 steps up, (and those 96 Steps were not so easy after spending a week in bed).

A good first day back out.

P.S. After being laid up for so long, and so soon after our disorienting trip to London (menus in English? cars on what side of the road?), I was totally discombobulated returning to Paris city life, as estranged from my surroundings as if I had walked out into Istanbul. I couldn't decide which way to look when crossing the street, or what to say when confronted by another person. Even the Metro seemed totally wrong, all the routes I'd used before impossible to remember and the spacious cars not right, either. And then that damn BNP Fairy Forest thing just did me in....

Rude Health

2005-11-29T20:59:00.000+01:00

There have been no new posts for almost two weeks, and I'm as sick as a dog. Dear Wife took me to The American Hospital in Paris this evening, and they promised I'll be up and writing again in no time.

This is my souvenir from London I guess, a nasty nasty flu of some sort where I'm coughing up phlegm that's as sturdy as a superball. It has come on so suddenly and with so much strength, I was afraid I'd been infected with Anthrax or Bird Flu.

The sickness has provided me with my first moment of real home-sickness. Yesterday, after walking and Metro-riding through this cold city trying to complete a half-dozen necessary tasks (like FedEx'ing a birthday present to Mom, postage due, $120 please), I felt like I wanted to die--and not in Paris. I am recovering, now, thank you.

And then there are the stairs. When first we took up residence in the Bonapartment, I made sure to conspicuously hustle up our five flights at every opportunity: nothing but vanity, that. Well, my springy step ain't nowhere to be found now, under the oppression of my malady. Tonight, coming home from the American Hospital, I began our slow ascent moving like an eighty-year-old stooped and shuffling with fibromyalgia. A couple floors up, me panting, Dear Wife trying to assist, we heard someone begin bounding up the stairs from below. The quick cadence was so like the music I used to make. I tried to speed up. The stepping kept getting closer, and soon I was winded and unable to protect my lead. Finally he was right on our tail, his vigorous stomp announcing him with an unconcerned heartiness. The stairs are too narrow for anyone to pass without consent. Dear Wife had already skittered on ahead, perserving her own position. We were near the top, the merry stomper and I, and I was working hard to keep pride intact. But I was too weak. Never had I heard anyone attack the stairs with the same sort of gusto I used to flaunt--and now, I was undone by it. I couldn't keep up, and his insistent foot-falls were demanding I move over. So I did.

And as I did, I thought, "Now I know what they mean by the phrase 'rude health.'"

Our week in London was great because of the friends we visited there. The city itself was surprisingly inhospitable, shockingly cold, and outrageously expensive. Our hotel was just as bad as you'd expect, with $10 calling cards that don't work sold at the front desk, and a $6 fee for two hours of Internet use. Two hours of continuous use, that is, (they somehow forgot to tell us that until after we'd spent a scant 15 minutes online and used the "LOG OUT" button to save our remaining hour-fortyfive, only to learn our time was up when we logged back on the next morning). Fortunately, we soon moved into the lovely home of one of Dear Wife's college roommates, Mary. There her family (husband Kevin and two daughters, Katie and Megan) made us feel very welcome, and it was a real pleasure for me to get to know them. That part of the trip was great.

Two Little Girls in London

2005-11-27T21:01:00.000+01:00

Dear Wife's Dear Friend and Former Roomie Mary is mother to a pair of little girls, and they both emphatically fit that over-used child adjective, "delightful." I tried to get a quick sketch of the little critters, but my timing was off. Here's a couple of the younger, Megan, while Katie watches TV in the background.

We traveled home tonight (home to Paris, that is—our non-home home). The terminal floor at Waterloo Station was a shaggy carpet of French people (of all people), stretched into rambling "queues" leading to the gauntlet of automated ticket validation, security screening and passport certification. Why so many French folks wanted to spend their weekend in London was anyone's guess. Perhaps they were seeing friends, too. Dotting the dark crowd of heavy-coated continentals were the backpackers, the tourists, the British businessmen preparing for a workweek abroad, all of whom I can understand being in London. But the French? After spending so much time here in France, and coming to enjoy—and expect—the predictable, intermittent bursts and whispers of U.K. English one hears in passing while walking through the streets of Paris, it was disconcerting to enter a sort-of Bizzaro World inversion of this formula in London, where English I had a hard time understanding formed a flat blanket for the occasional satin pillow of la langue français; and this inversion became startling only while waiting for our train. "French people abroad? In London?" Even the French didn't seem to know why they had come, as they all seemed cranky, red-nosed and hacking, with an empty look in their eyes that asked, "Why did we bother?"

They clearly missed The Mountain Goats show.

And they were pushy. Dear Wife was irritated when a couple of aggressive French women herding a half-dozen enfants barged in front of us, insisting that they needed to get through. I was happy to let them go. We were all going on the same train, with seats already reserved, but those around us were getting edgy. When our line merged with another prior to x-ray, an elderly lady made a desperate lunge to get in front of me. I invited her husband to join her. Sure enough, we all just boarded the train and waited in our seats for another half hour. The ride across the channel was full, but not uncomfortable. In anticipation of our travel time, Dear Wife and I had bought a couple of newspapers (in English!) and a couple of magazines (also English!) while walking through the neighborhood this morning. Lots on George Best dying.

The best part of the journey was detraining at the Gare du Nord, looking up and seeing signs indicating Metro line 4, Porte d'Orléans/Porte de Clignancourt, and feeling back in our element, back home (sorry, Mom).

Victoria and Albert

2005-11-26T10:45:00.000+01:00

Here's the only drawings of any worth I managed at the Victoria and Albert Museum today. A great place, broad range of stuff on view, I was only able to scratch the surface. A very dim museum in the rooms I visited, my eyes were watery and beset with tremors (or tremours, in light of their location) after a few hours of searching for a light source...I spent most of my time in the Plaster Cast Rooms, wherein reside excellent recreations of diverse, famous works of sculpture (and architecture--I mean BIG rooms). These pieces were once believed to be essential to a proper artistic education. Now no one cares except weekend dabblers and credulous out-of-towners. And me.

I guess these guys cared, too. Somehow. CLICK on either pic for a better view....

Train Surfing

2005-11-22T23:03:00.000+01:00

After dropping Piet at CdG today, I had a slow meal at the Airport McDo, waiting out the strike. I go to the train terminal in Cdg Terminal Two and learn that, yes, the trains are running, they are sending one into Paris every thirty minutes....

Thirty minutes becomes 45 or so before the train shows up. It is gawd-awful cold waiting in the very large, semi-impermeable wind tunnel of a station. I keep pacing back and forth, thankful I wore my lined raincoat.

We're at the actual end of the line, so when the arriving, grateful looking group that stumbles out of the train makes way, we get on, and the engineer moves from one end of the train to the other, the rear end becomes the front, and after another very cold fifteeen minutes or so sitting in a dead train, doors wide open, wind rushing through, we power up and head down the tracks in reverse, toward Paris. There aren't very many of us, and I figure rush hour should be over by now, and what rush there is should be leaving the city, not returning, so I take a comfortable seat and look forward to a quiet ride home.

That lasts about five minutes, until we arrive at CdG Terminal One. I donate my seat to someone in this second wave of riders and stand. We're pretty full, but not insane. I guess these people had been waiting for a while....

The next stop is the Parc des Expositions. A throng of people waiting to get on, a throng of people pressing in. We're at maximum capacity and then some. I have to stand in the aisle, and I'm not alone. From then on, every stop we pass has waves of people waiting to board, few able to squeeze in. Looking at ttheir resigned faces, it feels a little WWII, a little mass evacuation. There are no overhead handholds where I'm standing, no convenient place to grab hold of, so I take this as a challenge and spend the next hour (a long ride) train surfing into the city. Didn't fall once. Glad to get home.

But in bed that night, as soon as I closed my eyes the sensation of the train floor pounding under my feet and driving me forward vibrated to vivid life. Just like with real surfing, the physical memory is uncanny, making me feel like I am rattling headlong while I simply lay in bed.

Great fun!

Cafe de Flore: Famous, Expensive, Sucks

2005-11-22T22:03:00.000+01:00

You can take the shotgun approach to cafés here, and you'll do alright half the time.

Today our buckshot caught dirt.

Café de Flore is famous, nearby, and had a table when we went out today for our noon o'clock breakfast. I wanted it to be special, because it was Piet's last day. But I broke my own rule when hosting visitors, whatever the town: don't experiment with their meals. I thought we were safe, I thought Dear Wife and I had eaten a pleasant lunch here on our first visit to Paris in '03.

What we got was a crappity-crap-crap meal that cost about 80 Euro--and we were only eating cheap stuff! And lest this give you the idea the place is too fancy for what we needed, and the error was ours (well, it was): the place is the closest thing I've seen yet to a Parisian approximation of a shabby American diner. Just crap. 80 Euro's of crap. Sartre ate here? No Exit, indeed. It's the kind of experience that leaves you so shell shocked you actually wonder if you should leave a few coins on the table anyways--like tipping the staff as you exit the casino that has just bankrupted you. Or something.

Second fiasco (again my fault): I wanted to share with Piet a manly oogling of that Aston Martin Zagato they've had on the showroom floor of the FDR Blvd. Aston dealer for months now. Here's a shot of what I'm talking about for all the poor, hardworking American businessman out there (a large constituency for EUROCHINO):

Note double-bubble roof. Nice. They were asking 349,00Euro (a Café de Flore kind of car). So I drag him on the two Metro lines necessary to get there, and damn if it ain't gone! And we're so behind on time, snapping a quick shot of the Arc d'Tri while crossing the Champs is all Piet can do before we're back on the Metro, back on the next Metro, back to the Bonapartment, back to the Metro, back to the RER "B" train, back to CdG.

Except we don't make it. This time the trains are stopping--stopping prematurely at the Gare d'Nord. No cops, no threats, no explanations, just no trains to CdG today. We have to take a cab.

The cab's fine, and isn't very expensive because we're departing from the far northern part of Paris Centre. Maybe we get a Transit Worker's Strike Discount. We learn it's a strike that has stopped the trains.

Once at CdG, I get to watch Piet in action with the British Air customer service folk, trying to track his bags. They have his green valise, "Oui," it arrived just today (3 days late). But as for Piet's bass...? Priceless to watch the uncontrite fatalism on the face of the B.A. flak as he explained to a very calm Piet that there was no record of his bass ever entering their system, "So, I'm sowwy, but I'm afwaid...pffft!"

Pffft!

Piet's got a concert to play tomorrow night (for his record label!), and instead of his instrument, he gets, "Pffft!"

Our buckshot was kickin' up a lot of dirt today.

POMP'ing UP for DaDa

2005-11-21T00:51:00.000+01:00

The Pompidou. A building unloved by us, with its bright blue roofline a long horizontal interruption of our prime Parisian panorama, cropping up right between the dome of The Institute de France, and the Grand Mansard of the Conciergerie. But you've gotta love its Glendale Galleria aesthetic from up-close at night.

Dear Pal Pete and I visited the DaDa exhibit, up on the top floor. They didn't take our one day museum pass for this exhibit. We had to go buy special tickets. 10 bucks or so a pop, I think. So I'd managed to spend 18 Euros for a museum card that got me into one 5 Euro exhibit (The Delacroix Museum, one block from the Bonapartment, and a real highlight two years ago, but this time disappointing in the extreme with a dull exhibit showcasing the landscapes of two of Eugene's friends--where are those great studies? Where are those two palettes of his, with the bizzaro color system he used?). I hope the Republic of France and the Mairie of Paris appreciate my blundering generosity.

DaDa was sensational. Loaded so heavy with material that I never did make it through every room before we had to depart. They had lots of films being projected, too, all made in the very interesting period of the 20's. Picabia really stood out. D.P.Pete was elated. He'd loved this stuff since his days as a sixteen year old in Chino, when we first met. We'd spend Biology class doing Exquisite Corpse games. DaDa is an enthusiasm we've shared ever since. But where I ultimately gravitated toward the Surrealists, Pete has always judged superior the initial anarchic crackle of DaDa. It's the nihilism, too.

To see so many works we'd known since our high school days was very satisfying, and rekindled something of that first early wonder at the possibilities for art-making. The perfect exhibit for his one day in Paris!

Cops on the Train to CdG

2005-11-20T23:34:00.000+01:00

From notes taken after arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport, via the RER “B” train:

“…Took a late afternoon (4 PM) train to CdG. Got on at Les Halles, crowded train, had to stand in the forward loading area (a sort of eight foot by eight foot open space where overflow commuters can stand with those carrying large items, like bicycles—we were in the front car, right behind the “engineer’s” control room) 3 national policemen came on board, navy blue fatigues—one, a big guy, strong, with a small, caramel head—one a little clownish, younger, the kid brother type—the third ,the veteran, smaller, white, white hair, grizzled. Two girls from N. Ireland, the two friends dropping them off at the train shout as the doors are closing, “They say there may be trouble—you may have to take the buses from Stade de France!” With that, doors close. The cops stand nearby, looking rearward, back along the length of the car. They look vigilant. But I expect they are like the trios of roving cops I’ve encountered riding random Metros twice before. These guys look more purposeful. Were they tipped off to something? They wouldn’t let the trains run if we were in danger…still, paranoia time. A shrunken man, Indian or Pakistani, stands next to me, practically leaning against me, with a large grocery sack filled with a row of identical boxes of something—looks safe, looks newly bought. He smells powerfully of falafel. Lots of haggard faces around, unkempt, all of us pressed together, making room for the cops, but not too much. We lurch up the line to next stop, Gare du Nord.

“Trio of cops get out, and three more get on to replace them—two females and one giant, hitting his head on the doorframe while entering, even as he stoops. He looks young. The three new national police personnel seem noticeably edgier—lots of “immigrants” get on—everyone looks like a potential suicide bomber because everyone is carrying a backpack, a large tote, a heavy sack, or in bulky coats, with duffel bags, etc. An Indian family get on just before we pull out, the son 11 or 12 and a deva angelic version of his genially bestial father, a man with a hairline threatening to completely devour his forehead from several points. At each stop the police look more fierce. They are conspicuously watching the car behind us. I turn and look down the aisle for suspicious faces, but I see, standing not twenty feet further down the aisle, three more policemen straddling the middle of the car, also looking strictly no-bullshit. This surprises me. Thought comes that I must write about this in blog—next thought, from fear and an affinity for predestination—my blog may turn out to be my obituary. 'A promising writer’s last words, an online account of moving to Paris tragically interrupted by…!'

“N. Irish girls see it, too, and they try to keep chattering between themselves, moving into the furthest corner of the car, huddling together, trying to ignore the tension.

“I see what looks like a newly burned down building just off the tracks as we pass through the blighted inner ring of the outskirts of Paris. After a few stops, the police start monitoring the platforms while we are in the stations, either stepping outside or leaning out the door the entire time we are stopped. Looking for trouble.

“I track the stops as they roll by—make it past Stade de France, no sign of buses. Are the cops just here to get us all off the train at some premature end-of-the-line? Is there trouble ahead, or are they worried about trouble on this train in particular? They looked like they were looking for something specific. Soon we come to Aulanay-sous-Bois, one of the hot spots in the riots of the last few weeks. Read reports of kids, miscreants, whatever, throwing Molotov cocktails and improvised acid-bombs onto and into trains at stops like this. The police are almost off their rocker—a group of kids, a big group sorta like you’d see in the ‘States, but everyone seeming just a little too old and adult for the whole thing, which makes it scarier, more deliberate, leave the train slowly, (were they in our car?); a motley group, with no one of them very intimidating on their own, altogether a sort of sad-sack, second-rate, import versions of a New York/Philly/D.C. “gansta’ posse.” But they are hyped-up and emboldened and project so much fury that I am surprised how quickly their half-assed hip-hop stylings fall-away and how menacing they become. Like in a fight, you focus on their faces and their body position and their hands, and everything else falls away. The trio of mean cops from the center of our car is out on the platform; the Giant is leaning out of our doorway, visibly trying to restrain himself. The kids are unabashedly staring down the cops, making a point to challenge their gaze, but cops remain impassive. “Regardez!” one of the kids shouts at the Giant, who’s standing not two feet from my head. The two female police officers hang back. The kids gesture threateningly as they ascend the stairs at the open-air train platform. The doors buzz their warning, and at the last instant the Giant allows himself to retreat back inside the car. As the train begins to pull out, the kids are just reaching the overhead bridge—is that something whizzing down toward us? Something flies past, no sound.

“Cops get off at next station. No trouble. Train empties at CdG. My brush with the ‘Banlieue’.”

Dear Pal Pete finally arrived. He flew in from the 'States via London. I told him I'd take the train out to meet him, and escort him back to the city. I told him it was no problem. Really. Pete's visit would be short (regrettably); he would stay with us in the Bonapartment, on the foldout couch (hey! I didn't know we had that!).

Is there anything duller than a story about fetching a friend at the airport? Especially when it is inflated with pretensions of internationalism?

The ride out adds thrills and social relevance, if all a bit over-stated. But still, a train route passing through neighborhoods stricken with riots for the past three weeks—that’s interesting, isn’t it?

Another aspect of the story: Dear Pal Pete's buddy and fellow musician John Vanderslice was playing a concert tonight at the foot of Montmartre, at the appropriately named Elysee Montmartre. That sort of thing crops up in blogs all the time, though, doesn't it? The concert visit to see an American performer, with emphasis on the narrator’s privileged position due to some “in” with said performer: get ready for the inevitable tales of being on the guest list, going back stage, after party, blah blah blog. Let's just talk about the amazing musicianship required to condense a four-person ensemble down to a duo, and to keep the sound as strong as ever. Dear Pal Pete was particularly impressed. Dave Douglas on drums and foot-activated bass, as well as playing keyboards (or whatever they are called now) with his right hand as he drummed. Ray Manzarek may have played bass with his feet as he played keys with his hands, but playing drums, bass and keys at once? Impressive. JV and Dave opened for the very-big-in-Europe Nada Surf. This is how JV and Dave looked in two-man band mode: ka-zow! How great they sound...

You can’t hear them? Well, check him out at his site, johnvanderslice.com. He sure doesn’t need me hawking his talents or wares, but I like his work. After JV's set, he and Dave and Pete and I climbed halfway up the Butte de Montmartre to sit down at the Bateau Lavoir bistro for a damn fine dinner. JV had eaten there the night before and wanted to eat there again!

Can we even accuse anyone of being an artist anymore without the word coming out as code for either, "incredibly lucky and getting-over on people," or, "worthless in every way except excessive schooling and an outsized sense of self-importance"? Is that what "artist" means now? In this world where we're encouraged to reinvent ourselves as the simplest personification of “our personal dream," has the vocation of "artist" become essentially meaningless? I can't utter it as a self-description without a shiver of shame. Lucky I can describe myself as a sculptor, instead…and since we've moved to Paris, as a "writer." Well, JV is a musician, and he’s an artist.

With all this "JV this," and "JV that," I sound far more familiar with this musician than I am. He is one of my closest friend's other closest friends, so there's a sort of assumed intimacy there. But JV doesn't really know me from Adam.

We all had a good time at dinner. And Piet got to see JV, which was the whole point of the excursion, and all our desperation to be somewhere specific by a certain time. “Mission Accomplished.”

So you know our tale will have a happy ending: on with the local color and airline confusion.

"Airline confusion?" you ask, and groan. Yes, we have Pete’s flight plan problems, another stinker of a subject, and ubiquitous in personal travel narratives like mine. This is just a blog, after all—a blog on expat Yankees in Paris, no less—what sort of subject matter do you expect?

Pete's problems began as the prosaic, flight-cancelled kind, but quickly erupted into a hail of broken promises from British Air. He was scheduled to land in Paris about 2PM today, and at 1PM I was preparing to walk out the door to meet him, but just as I was shutting down my computer, the electronic ping announcing new mail stayed my hand.

Message from Pete, subject line: “dude i’m fucked.”

The flight was cancelled, all flights out of Heathrow were cancelled, and he was waiting to get on another, later flight. It was the fog. He wrote this while standing in a line with "fifty million other fucked people" (notice even in his anger he takes the time to spell out "fifty"--that's class). So I sat back down and waited for instructions. It was four hours later before we heard from Pete again; he’d been standing in that line the entire time, and finally gotten a seat on a flight that would be landing at Charles de Gaulle in an hour or so. Right-ee-O!

To get out there, I employed the same ticketing technique first taught to us by the highly competent RATP agent who’d assisted us on our trip to fetch Kindly Friend Kev, (the good advice appreciated all-the-more for being delivered at 6:30 AM): I bought one all-day RATP pass for me, the one that goes all the way out to Zone 5 (CdG Airport—and the dreaded Banlieue), and I bought one return ticket from CdG Airport for Pete. Saves a few bucks (maybe a buck), and gives more flexibility, which is the name of the game with travel, I’m learning.

Wait, this is getting boring again? I just thought I’d throw in some travel tips—it’s added value, old boy—you’ll thank me if you have to fetch friends or family at a French airport.

And, again, for the aspiring traveler’s information, I took our local Ligne Quatre up to Châtelet station, and there boarded the big RER Ligne “B” train (c’mon, this is incredibly vivid for some former resident of Paris who may—or may not—be reading this).

Everything became interesting upon boarding the big train. The ride out to CdG was so noteworthy, so fraught with vivid uncertainty and tension, that upon arriving at the airport, I had to buy a small notebook and pen so that I could sit and write out a dozen-page description of the trip. Donc, the notes that began this entry.

I then used the pen and pad to write out Pete's name in big letters (as big as the pocket-sized pages would allow), and preceded to hold this up, blank-faced and chauffer-like, awaiting the moment he would step through customs. But I spelled it “Piet,” because we were on the Continent, and he needed something spiffy, but “Pierre” just wasn’t viable.

Piet was preceded through customs by the (I'm not kidding) South African National Rugby Team; by all the coaches, all the players—dressed identically—and by their mountainous carts of equipment. The two female customs agents were anxiously gathering signatures from the cutest or most famous members of the team. They were all in very natty suits of silvery grey, with white dress shirts and sky blue silk ties. A rich look, not very sporty at all. Some were tall, but most were simply bewilderingly wide and dense looking, most of them blond and blue-eyed. The most striking trait by far, and one they all seemed to share, was the enormous size of their heads. Some of their melons seemed physically disfigured by the extent of their hyper-enlargement. Facial features no longer aligned properly, and the ratios between certain landmarks were off. They appeared to be leaving the realm of Homo sapiens. Each one was a weird collage of human, Neanderthal and man-of-tomorrow—and this didn't look at all like you’d expect, nothing like a straight prehistoric physignomy, like the sort you see on those articulate Cro-Magnons in those recent commercials, (I forget the product), where they have dressed up to dress down an ad-man for his insensitive depiction of their kind in some other, fictitious commercial (uncomfortable viewing because you're not sure for a while if they're supposed to be Cro-mags or Aborigines)—no, that sort of primitivism we’ve all seen before. These rugby guys—all of ‘em, whether blond or black-skinned—looked very different from the mythic “cave-man;” when viewed up close, they looked more like a new “race,” something meta-human, re-engineered for hyper performance and consequently no longer like us in some profound, alien way. A strange sight as they wandered out among the airport crowds, moving with curt, awkward steps, drifting in small packs. None of these observations were tinged with any celebrity tingle, I was simply fascinated as an artist, an anatomist, and Homo sapien.

Was it the steroids, or were they just truly different?

I was so caught up examining them, I missed my chance to shout, “Go the All Black’s!”

Piet came out, received his continental christening, and told me that they lost his bags. What?

When Piet boarded a US Air jet in Rochester, NY, (and was still “Pete”), he handed them a modest sized, bright green suitcase, and a black guitar case containing his newly purchased Fender bass.

Neither one of these have come to Paris.

From a ballast and stowage viewpoint, this made attending Vanderslice’s concert much easier. From the airport we took the B back to the Gare du Nord and sped for a Metro that would get us up to the nearby Boulevard de Rochechouart, which is just the Boulevard de Clichy as it continues eastward. Don’t believe me? We got off at the Anvers station, right in front of the venue—go ahead, check your own Metro map and see how we did it. We made it into the auditorium a couple of songs into JV’s set (sorry, Piet, but it was yr g-d flight that f-d us up in the f-st place!). Took us a while to talk our way backstage (it took JV coming to the rail to get us), but I was surprised to find myself for the first time among company (Piet) to whom my command of French seemed something like…a command of French. Pity poor, credulous Piet! Only a fellow son of Chino could be so happily deluded….

Horsemen of the Tuileries

2005-11-17T22:42:00.000+01:00

CLICK PIC FOR SLICK CLOSE-UP
Dear Wife snapped this shot this morning using her NEW CAMERA. Clear skies herald the new chill--and quite a chill, too. Nothing like the warm days we used to expect. As we hustled through the Tuilerie Gardens on our way to meet Kindly Kev at his hotel (just off the rue de Rivoli), we came across this trio of mounted Gendarmes. A real sight. Funny to think of Manet's Jardin du Tuileries painting coming from this same garden, (which is much smaller than I expected--the painting, not the garden, though that's small, too, in a way--the painting feels big, but is only 30"X46"--I just checked). The two scenes, Manet's and this morning's horsemen, are so opposite, but now, in 2005, the sight of either brings up the same sort of nostalgia for a "lost" Paris of yester-year.

But not the Occupation years. Everyone agrees those were crappy, and nobody wants them back.

D'Orsay with Kindly Kev

2005-11-17T11:29:00.000+01:00

The three of us (Dear Wife, Kindly Kev and myself) took a flyer through the D'Orsay today. This museum is often cited as a favorite by folks I know. I still haven't quite come to terms with it... here's some sketches to prove it.
CLICK on 'em, Dear Reader, and enjoy.

Internet Makes it Up Stairs to The Bonapartment

2005-11-16T23:56:00.000+01:00

...And boy, was he huffin' and puffin'. The pair of installation techs were hating life when they had to make multiple trips back down the stairs to their supply wagon, (and where this was parked, I have no idea, but I figured they parked illegally in the street, as empowered by Noos and the Republic of France).

Dear Wife and ONE of the Noos Technicians. It took a little bit to get everything working. I had to switch my computer to French. That's always a panicky operation, ("If I can't read the commands and instructions, what if I hit the wrong button and do something disasterous and irrevocable--like make the computer permanently run in French?"). Unnerving that the junior technician assigned to my machine seemed to have no idea how to configure a Mac. I watched him dither and fiddle from over his shoulder, and I kept saying, "Let's just wait...nous attends...for votre ami." He just kept fiddling and dithering. Finally his partner came over and straightened things out.

And so we have l'Internet again.

First let me thank those who have commented, and those who have written. The messages I have received via the blogger interface come from seemingly unlisted emails, and I have yet to figure out a way to track down the addresses for those I don't know. I will respond. I want to, but this may take a little bit. So thank you for your patience.

Also, we have been offline for the last few days. There's lots of material I've been working on for you, but I haven't gotten it up yet. Some of this stuff will be back-filled, meaning I am going to put up posts for days that have already passed. This may seem like cheating to some, but I'm going to bend the rules of blogging, (of which I have only a hack understanding anyway), and ignore the writing-in-continuity, "put it down the day it happened and never go back" blogger's code. My purpose here is to create an account of living over here--if it takes a few days or a week (or more) to properly commemorate certain events and thoughts, so be it. I hope you'll understand, and be willing to spin through the current page to make sure you haven't missed a new, possibly essential post. When everything gets caught up, I will let everyone know. There is just too much interesting stuff going on over here, and as it is I have been neglecting other work so I can commit some of it to "blog," if not to actual paper.

Actually, my working method has been to keep a diary of every days' events, written out in long-hand, and then condense these notes into an entry or two. This takes longer, but seems to work best for me.

And I will not neglect the requests for more drawings--I'd like to have much more, but I've been spending all my time writing!

Lastly, we have our first visitors in town, and and I won't be able to write as I like for the next week or so. In this time, we will be out of town (a trip to London to see The Mountain Goats!), and I have no idea if I'll be able to post--or if I'll even take my computer.

Look forward to some exciting reports about our first visitors, and what we saw in England, a place I've never been.

FUNNY ANECDOTE: Dear Wife and I were walking up Rue Monsiuer le Prince, coming home from a Le Luxemburg lunch, (the Mc Donald's is closed for remodel!), and on our way to the boulangerie Pain au Prince, where they are responsible for the best chocolate moelleaux in Paris. A very chic older lady appeared walking beside us. Her lower legs were wrapped tight in knee-high black leather boots, and she was sassy-stepping with a jaunty hip movement, a look of total self-possesion on her slightly stretched face. As we looked at her, she unexpectedly asked us if we knew where the Cremerie Polidor was located. Dear Wife and I stopped, debated this a second, unsure: it sounded familiar, but we'd never been. We continued debating, and Dear Wife became certain it was ahead of us, I figured she was right, and together we all walked a block up the street to the eatery Polidor, just where brilliant Dear Wife thought it was. I believe this place had been recommended in some New York Times article as a very authentic locals-only type bistro. The lady was restrained in her thanks--kind of dismissive, really, considering the way we walked her to her destination (they don't even do that at Home Depot anymore); but she must have been under the impression she was among locals, and decided to ask one last thing of us: was there anyplace in this neighborhood we'd recommend seeing?

We looked at each other: "Uh...." Dear Wife and I were suddenly bewildered, not a single good suggestion between us. "Uh, uh..." we stalled. We really didn't have anything. For us, just walking down the street in our little hipster shi-shi (chi-chi?) neighborhood was fascinating and life-affirming. What else could we really recommend?

"The Cluny?" we finally offered, half-heartedly suggesting this local Middle Age museum which we'd never even visited.

Uh hmm, she sniffed, already looking past us and moving away without a word of thanks or goodbye.

Clearly, we'd failed this test.

Humbled, we walked home racking our brains for some better response, in case anyone is ever silly enough to ask us again for advice on a local attraction worth visiting.

Still no dice.

The Night Movers

2005-11-15T21:51:00.000+01:00

It started on the eleventh, Dear Wife's birthday, when each of us took out a small valise, tossed in some overnight supplies, and made the 12 minute walk to the Bonapartment. That little trek signaled the commencement of our latest relocation. What started as a one-night stop-gap became our new moving method. Every night since, you could see us trudging up the boulevard St. Germain, now hauling big suitcases, loads of shopping bags, and even once, Dear Wife's foam roller ("everything must go"). We've decided the relocation of a thousand small moves is preferrable to the all-at-once one-day big-daddy gawd-awmighty kneee-shaker type. So when everyone in the building is asleep, we load up and clamber down the stairs of the St. Sulpice place with as much as we can safely carry.

Crossing the neighborhood to reach our new place is almost meditative, like a silent procession, with the boulevard and sidestreets cooperatively still. Only taxis pass us, and so far we've resisted the urge to hail one. And haughty Frenchmen that they are, none has even deigned to slow down and ask if we need a ride. Two people in the middle of the night dragging large suitcases. "They know what they're doing," they must say to themselves:"Either they've already got a ride, or they're idiots." And they drive past.

The streets have been (mercifully) free of pedestrians every time we've ventured out so encumbered. There would be little more embarassing than bumping into proper Parisians looking not so much like wayward tourists as the budding homeless.

Maybe that's why the taxis don't stop?

We walk up the south side of the boulevard, where the pavement is wider and there are no cafés hosting late-night crowds or narrowing our path with their outdoor tables. We cross at the curch St. Germain-des-Prés, at the big intersection where rue De Rennes splits off from rue Bonaparte. Civilian vehicles are remarkably absent, and taxis provide the only traffic. There's a weird preference among a lot of Parisian taxi drivers to leave their main headlights off at night, and they drive only with their parking lights illuminated. It strikes me as incredibly cheap, as if they're worried about wearing out their halogens (and indeed, it's always a newish car that seems to be doing this--and there are lots of new looking taxis here--the entire taxi fleet of Paris is notably fancy, with lots of Benzes and luxury Peugeots earning their keep as hacks, polished and sleek but crowned by a discreet eminence that just mentions, in whispering, glowing letters, the word "TAXI").( Everytime Dear Wife and I would make this commute, I would study the taxis and see if there was any connection between headlight activation and whether they were or were not carrying a fare: couldn't see any.)

As we walk, we are steeling ourselves for this last part of the trip: the climb up to the new apartment. We are on the fifth floor, which here means five flights of stairs because they count the ground floor as Zero. And the staircase here is interestingly unrelenting, without any landings until you reach our floor, the top floor: all the other doors on the way up make due with a triple-wide step for their porch. The steps resume without time to catch your breath.

By spreading the loads out over a half-week, we've avoided any suicidally dangerous missions, the ones carrying my biggest suitcase packed as full as possible, and me harumphing it up, one step at a time, always ready to totter backwards into the void, or just plain collapse. No, this time was different. We moved sensibly. And even though it was hard getting the bags up, it was within the realm of the humanly possible. A big improvement over last time.

And today we brought our last load. The computer stuff, primarily. Now that we've vacated the St. Sulpice apartment, we are without Internet. But we do have all of our equipement.

We called a taxi for this stuff. There's no way I could carry that printer between apartments and not have been in a bad mood for some time--and we have company coming tommorrow, Kindly Kev, our first visitor. I want to be in top spirits.

It's all up here, now (in the new apartment, the "Bonapartment"), and thank Jesus.

It's 96 steps from bottom to top. Which brings to mind the old song, "96 Tears."

And now that I've had a good cry, it almost seems funny.

Paris, Cinema Cite

2005-11-14T23:33:00.000+01:00

It's Monday, a little before 11 or so in the morning, and I walk past a movie theater, and there is a line beginning to form. Huh, I think, that's interesting. I'll take a picture. What movie they were seeing, I don't know--perhaps "Match Point," the latest Woody Allen. Their choices were that, "Cavaliers du Ciel," "A History of Violence," and "Combien Tu M'Aimes?"

I go about my business, do our laundry in preparation for the big move from St. Sulpice to The Bonapartment (no naked men espied). I head over to the Luxembourg McDo for lunch (a tragic case), and come across the same scene, different cinema: a line for a film. On Monday afternoon. 2PM or so. No idea what film.

Cinema Cité, indeed!

The French Call It "Le Karma"

2005-11-14T20:23:00.000+01:00

A few days ago, I wrote a little something about "The Frog & Princess Pub," a nearby watering hole that caters to English-speakers and student types (and, yes, Dear Wife and I fit that profile as well as anybody). I was denigrating their attempts at self branding, mocking their line of beers with names designed to showcase their mascot, a drunken frog. My criticism was mainly the similarity between “The Frog” and all those grasping micro-breweries we left behind in the ‘States. But y'know, God bless 'em, they are meeting a need, filling a niche, serving a base, etc. I say that now, after being struck by the wrath of the Frog...

It was a day of strenuous moving, and afterwards I’d rushed myself and Dear Wife over to The Village Voice English Bookstore—I was hoping to pick up a late-arriving gift for D.W.’s birthday—the second boxed set of The Complete Peanuts from Fantagraphics Books, (a great collection). But Vincent hadn’t received the box yet, and in apologizing, he comically let the secret out, saying, “Right, it was the Complete Peanuts Boxed Collection—no it’s not here, but maybe tomorrow—and you needed it for a gift, right…wasn’t it for…?” his voice trailing off a little as he looked at Dear Wife standing beside me. Then he realized, and was mortified. But we didn’t mind a bit, and it made for such a funny reaction from Vincent. Dear Wife was so happy about the present, she told him that now she has a double pleasure, the delight learning of the gift, and then anticipating its arrival.

Dear Wife and I were hoping for a quick meal. When you step out of The Village Voice, you are practically facing The Frog, and knowing that Dear Wife had been hoping to resample their fried shrimp won-tons for a month without success, I suggested we take advantage of the light crowd inside and have a quick meal. But I was uncomfortable going into the place so soon after writing about it so dismissively.

An aside: here is a shot of my new boots. They look a little pedestrian, but that is just the point—they dress up, they dress down, thay are perfect for me. You can't see it, but they have a snazzy toe that tapers, which creates a nice tension with their hearty profile. And I love the little touch of the striped canvas heel-pull, colored to commemorate their Swiss origins. These boots are the Second Big Purchase for me (the first was a cashmere zip-front sweater, in fact purchased as a gift for me by Dear Wife). This Parisian milieu is having its effect....

We took a table in the back, and the staff seemed especially solicitous. Though it had been at least a month since we'd dined there in the evening (our one and only nighttime visit), our waitress from that visit recognized us, came over to our table, and began flattering Dear Wife mercilessly. Straight off she saw that Dear Wife had a new haircut, and she complimented it sincerely. I was amazed. Now, if the difference between the two cuts had been severe, this would still be impressive, but Dear Wife had only had the same cut trimmed--it did look better, mind you, but for this girl to seize upon the difference so cannily--and so quickly--left me even more unsettled. And poor Dear Wife, she dislikes that sort of attention, and she looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

But still. This was very nice of the girl. And it was nice to be remembered.

So we ordered a bunch of appetizers, including the fried shrimp won-tons with sweet-and-sour sauce, and waited for them to appear. As we did, we looked around at some of the previously mentioned beer tanks, shiny stainless steel back in the section where we sat, and un-branded. No frog faces declaring their flavor, or flavour, I mean. One said "Hot Back Liquor." As I examined these tanks from my seat, I saw a sudden dark movement out from beneath one of them. A mouse, small and charcoal colored, was racing from the cover of one tank to the safety of the wall-sink's underside. Dear Wife didn't see this (thank God), but she saw my eyebrows shoot up, and an astonished look come over my face. "What?" she asked.

I decided there was no way to tell her what I'd seen and still enjoy our meal, and I didn't see any way to leave now. So I just told her, "Uh, that thing's labeled 'Hot Back Liquor'! Can you believe it?"

Well, I should have taken it as a warning.

Our food came out, four plates, which were too many for our small table. The food runner, a jolly fellow of indeterminate language, but proficient in English, said he'd grab us another table. He found a free table against another wall (dangerously close to the mouse--I said nothing), and, setting our won-tons down on its uncluttered surface, lifted it and turned to carry the whole thing over. But the table tilted slightly, the plate of won-tons began a slow slide to the edge, and as he stopped the plate's progress, the cup of sauce popped off the platter, and landed face down on the floor with an audible splat, sending a long tongue of sauce flying from the impact.

And where did that sauce end up?

A two ounce dollop landed square on the back of my calf, on my newly tailored and pressed pants, with a trail of red stuff tracing a line down the back of my leg to the floor. Included in this line was my new boot, with an expertly landed glob staining my natty little Swiss canvas heel strap.

Oh.

I see. This is how Karma works.

I think we got it all pretty well cleaned up. And while The Frog may deign to flatter you, they didn't deign to comp us even one drink, even as restitution for their faux pas.

Frogs and Moose, oh have I felt your wrath.

My French Vocabulary

2005-11-13T13:38:00.000+01:00

I have what some might uncharitably call a very limited French vocabulary: I know the merci, oui, and bonjour, that we all come equipped with from birth. To this I have worked to add the three "au's:" au revoir, ("until I see you again," or just, "later"), aujourd'hui (today), and aubergine (eggplant). I know that "I" am Je, I know that "you" are tu; but you can also be vous, and we can be nous. To these noun subjects I can append the verb "to be" (je suis, nous sommes—not sure of the others...) or the verb "to have" (particularly useful in the formal "you" form of address for the question, "Vous avez...?" {"[Do} You have...?"}: ie.,"Vous avez le moelleaux?" {"Do you have cake?"}).

This already seems like a lot of French, I know. But ever insatiable, I've been pushing beyond these boundaries. I learned very quickly how to mispronounce pardon, which looks like pardon in English, but is pronounced here with such effective insouciance that I am left flailing to properly mimic the method of the natives (something about stressing the vowels, not the consonants). For myself, as a person accustomed to addressing strangers with the smallest words of social kindness for the sake of politeness and our common humanity (“Excuse me,” “Oh, pardon me,” “After you,” that sort of thing), it was imperative to learn some word that would help me negotiate those moments of crowding onto sidewalks or into cafés, shops, museums and the Metro with strangers for whom French was their first language. “Excusez-moi” is a little too emphatic, and “pardon” is by far the preferred expression here. So I try. It helps grease the innumerable instances of close contact.

Also in this vein is the word problèm, again teasingly identical to its English spelling (do you detect a theme?). My pronunciation is a little better with this one; I can say “proh-blehm.” But nothing is ever a problem over here (except those things involving banks, Wi-Fi or the Internet), so I use this word in the more complicated construction, “Pas problèm,” or “No problem,” as I’ve come to understand its meaning. In an attempt to imitate the locals, I have adopted this as a way to say just this, “no problem;” a very useful thing in restaurants or anywhere you wish to lessen the pressure on a service person, or wish to show understanding of a sort: “The soup is coming,” they say, or, “The earliest we can have it for you is Wednesday.”

“Pas problèm,” I say. And I smile.

I think this “pas problèm,” is a sort of contraction of “It’s no problem,” or “Ce n’est pas de problèm,” which I have just had spelled out for me by Dear Wife, who also explained to me that the French people are in fact saying “Pas de problèm,” not “Pas problèm,” and that they are just muffling (or “eliding,” as she puts it) the “de” part. “Pas de problèm?” So I have been saying this incorrectly.

See, I am constantly learning!

Rounding out this arsenal of weighty French is the verb oublier, which means "to forget," as in "j'oublie" (I forget). I picked this up somewhere soon after we arrived, and have been working ever since to hone my usage; never mind that I am forced to look up in Dear Wife's dictionary the proper spelling for this verb in the infinitive (I just want to be sure), and then had to ask her how to correctly conjugate it for je. I have become confident enough to throw it around in public, in particular with sales people whom I wish to let down gently about some article I may have tried on and do not wish to buy today ("aujourd'hui"), but may buy in the future, after I have thought about it, ("Je pense," {"I think"}, I tell them incorrectly, looking thoughtful--I don't know how to tell them I will think about it). But to this mild assurance I've become fond of adding the more emphatic, "I won't forget." Then I smile again, and they smile, and I walk out of the shop, very contented in my obvious internationalism.

Could it possibly remain thus?

This morning Dear Wife and I finally managed a proper sit down meal at The Frog and Princess Pub, taking advantage of their Sunday Brunch (which disappointingly didn't offer Dear Wife's longed-for fried shrimp won-tons). I feel a little uncomfortable in this place, mainly because I see it as a twin of the despised Moose, a drink-'em-up watering hole catering to junior-year-abroad English-speaking students, and doubtless imposing the same nightly mayhem on the residents of its own quiet street. Also, I am not very charmed by their English-speaking waitresses, (who are nice enough), or their English menu (amazingly like a slightly down-scale Karl Strauss, or any other micro-brewery restaurant back in the States, with the dining room encircled by shiny beer tanks, each labeled with some self-consciously "branded" name for the brew it's stewing, like "King Frog Lager," or "Dark Froggy Night Ale," with attendant silly illustration) (I just made those names up without much thought, and I’m certainly as uninformed as any non-beer drinker [I only imbibe with the All Blacks], but I just looked up The Frog and Princess Pub on the web and found these “labels” from their actual stable of brews—uncanny).

The “F & P” was practically empty at noon-plus-ten-minutes on this non-raining Sunday morning (dry enough to go out in my new boots, and Dear Wife in her new jacket!), so we were shown to a table and began examining the brunch fare. I got the 18 Euro “American Breakfast” (it was too big, but was the most economical considering it came with a choice of orange juice or “jus de pamplemousse”—grapefruit juice—which Dear Wife ordered and I thought was even better than my orange juice; also a choice of coffee or tea—and free refills on the coffee! unheard of over here—and a big spread of two eggs, lots of bacon, two hefty sausages, a steamed tomato with herbs, a basket of toast and jam, and a pile of pan-fried mashed potato balls; as if this weren’t enough, also included as a second course—most unlike America, and the only give-away that we were in fact being served in Paris—were two large pancakes, competently prepared, accompanied by a petite pitcher of warm maple syrup); Dear Wife ordered the slightly smaller English Breakfast (much the same as mine, but with baked beans[?]).

As we enjoyed this meal (no smokers nearby for the majority of it), we talked about the fun of yesterday, our second big shopping day—which was really just a continuation of the our first big shopping day, because we'd returned to Bally principally to pick up Dear Wife’s previous purchases after their alterations, and only secondarily to make decisions about a couple of shoes we’d tried on a week ago. Dear Wife and I talked of all this at breakfast, both of us still feeling a little wobbly in the knees after spending what was for us an outrageous sum. Rising this morning after the sort of deep sleep that often follows transformative passages in one’s life, each of us had been quick to inspect our purchases of the previous evening, putting them on and walking around the new apartment in them, looking at ourselves in the mirrors and looking at each other, happy but also unsure if we had become completely superficial fashion sods who had been manipulated by a perfect storm of lovely, quality merchandise, an exceptionally warm sales staff, and a recent home sale that far exceeded our expectations—a sort of buyer’s non-remorse, both of us trembling and timid in our extravagance. Did we dare venture out in our new treasures? Were they in fact too ostentatious? Would we look out of place in them?

Were we worthy?

At the time of the first big shopping day, I had employed my genteel method of letting the sales staff down easily, of forestalling any hasty decision on our part: I told them we’d think about it, (“Nous pensons?”), but that we wouldn’t forget, (“N’obliais pas,” I imagined I was saying: “I won’t forget”). When we returned last night, to be greeted warmly by the staff, and we quickly began to resume shopping, revisiting items we’d tried last week and had been thinking about, I tried to signal that we hadn’t forgotten, that I’d been true to my promise: “N’oubliais pas!” I told the manager upon his greeting. “N’oubliais pas,” I told our wondeful sales girl (uh, "sales associate") Sandrine as we began rummaging through the shoes we’d been considering since last week. We didn’t forget!

As Dear Wife and I sat at the F & P, eating brunch and recalling all this, she paused here to correct me, “You were saying, ‘N'oubliez pas.’”

“Right, ‘N’obliais pas,’ ” I said. “ ‘I won’t forget.’ I say that so they know we’re still looking—I sort of let ‘em down easy, see, or in this case I let ‘em know I didn’t forget…”

“Yeah, but you’re saying, ‘Don’t forget,’ not, ‘I won’t forget’—you’re telling Sandrine, ‘Don’t forget!’ You’re saying ‘N’oubliez pas,’ as in ‘Vous n’oubliez pas,’ ‘Don’t you forget’—it would be ‘Je n’oublie pas’ for ‘I won’t forget.’ That’s why she was pointing to her head each time you said this—she kept answering you in French, ‘I will remember’—that’s why she began counting things off on her fingers, ‘I have to remember the boots, the deer skin shoes, the loafers, the pants’—you were telling her not to forget!”

As Dear Wife explained to me this unbelievable blunder, (well, quite believable, really), I felt my entire head begin to glow hot in a scarlet blush of shame.

“You—you mean, I was demanding she shouldn’t forget…?”

I was mortified. How could I be so blithely insulting? I could only stammer an apology, (heard by Dear Wife but directed to Sandrine and the rest of mankind), and promised to correct this as soon as possible, as soon as we returned to Bally.

For at least a month now, I have been ordering every salesperson from St. Sulpice to the Champs Elysées “Don’t forget!”

Je n’oublie pas.

Napoleon spoke Italian before he spoke French

2005-11-12T17:57:00.000+01:00

Dear Wife's birthday was yesterday, and instead of boring you with a long list of my incredibly thoughtful gifts and little loving acknowledgments, I will tell you about our dinner. Well, just a little about it.

We dressed up, me in a suit and Dear Wife in a new dress, bought for her that very day by me (there, I spilled the beans on one gift). I had spied this dress over a month ago, and as we walked through the city on her birthday, I'd cleverly steered her past this shop, and then convinced her to try the dress on—and it was immediately apparent what a brilliant choice it was, because she looks stunning, and the sight left me very gratified. We had made reservations earlier in the week for dinner at a very nearby Italian restaurant named Casa Bini, or Casabini, I'm not sure which. We'd been there once before, and it was pronounced by Dear Wife her favorite meal in Paris, and the place she'd most like to revisit for a special occasion. So revisit we did.

But the wonderful and maddening thing about this place is that it is staffed and run by actual Italians. So when we walked in through the velvet-draped portal, the Maître D is actually the Major Domo, and he greets us with a proud, "Buona Sera," which we answer unthinkingly in kind, our Italian being the most comfortable foreign language for both of us (I say this, and it’s true for Dear Wife, but for me this just means my 7 words of French are dwarfed by the 12 I know in Italian). Then we are asked if we have reservations, I think in French by an assistant Major Domo (a minor domo?), which Dear Wife quietly answers in French. We are attached to a hostess, who’s heard our initial accomplished Italian, and invites us to follow here in the language of the land of Michelangelo. We follow her up some steep stairs, and are then handed off to the overseer of our dining room, who seats us and, not hearing our initial, impressive exchange in Italian, greets us in French, which we then try to answer in kind. In comes the waitress who hands us our menus, and when I continue the line of French by saying “Merci,” (perhaps the Italian was just an affectation on the part of the staff, I think, and I shouldn't push it—maybe I should revert to French now that the actual discourse of the meal is at hand) she answers my “Merci,” with “Prego.”

And I’m totally lost.

After we’ve given our drink order to her assistant in fumbling French, mixing our insecure Franco syntax with items pronounced as if in Italian, ( Ferrarelle, Montepulciano, etc.), I ask to amend my order and add the house aperitif, a “Casabini”, I start with, “Per piacere,” and end the request with, “aussi.”

(Have you noticed my sudden ability to write in italics? All courtesy of Dear Pal Pete, as true a friend as could be—and damn handy with the html, too )

It just spirals downward from there, with grazie’s mixing with merci’s, je voudrais replaced by vorrei, etc., etc. Even language maven Dear Wife becomes totally flummoxed, and reverts to English a couple of times. The staff takes it in stride, and indulges our confusion by answering in whatever language formed the bulk of our statement.

Now that’s class.

Dear Wife had the excellent bresaola with truffle oil for an appetizer, while I had the mozzarella wrapped in “speck,” a very bacon-like dried meat; my main course was the linguine with lobster bits, and Dear Wife had the casareccia with the zucchini, (another pasta dish). It was all damn tasty. We skipped dessert, as I had some sweets stashed back at the apartment (in both apartments, actually, for whatever eventuality manifested itself), and some candles for a happy birthday serenade and wish-making. It was great fun, and we decided to spend the night at the new place instead of dealing with another all-night assault from the raucous revelers at The Moose and The Mystery Club.

A wonderful decision.

CLICK on the pic for a better view--it's un- believable! And this is what we see at the foot of our bed! (Note wooden safety rail)

Dammit, are we ever lucky.

The new place is sweetly silent, and our 6th floor bedroom has an excellent nighttime view of our neighboring buildings, and in the distance, the big Montparnasse Tower. With all those rows of eccentric chimneys sprouting from staggered rooflines, it looks like frickin' Mary Poppins out there!

Vive le Bonaparte!

Remembrance Day in France

2005-11-11T08:13:00.001+01:00

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month...

Today is Remembrance Day here in France (also in all British Commonwealth nations and Belgium, among others). They do a couple of very cool things to recognize this day, which was the day in 1918 that the Armistice for World War I went into effect,( "On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month"). Firstly, red poppies are handed out and worn to honor the dead of both W.W.I and W.W.II. The poppy tradition (so I read on Wikipedia, my first use of this site) comes from the poem "In Flanders Field" by John McCrae, Canadian. And people really wear them, people of all ages and appearances. I wish I had some shots of examples....

There's one other memorial gesture that I've noticed in the city, and I found it very moving. As you walk through the streets of Paris on any old day, you will come across many buildings adorned with some kind of modest commemorative plaque. I don't always stop to look, but I imagined the people and events they record are diverse: so-and-so lived here, this-and-that happened upstairs on this date, etc., etc. The plaques inevitably look like an afterthought, attached in our modern age to these old buildings at about street level, upon some unremarkable stretch of stone or stucco, with no attempt to integrate them gracefully into the facade. But when I've bothered to read one, they always seem to commemorate some French Resistance fighter who was killed on that spot during W.W. II; and if they don't, they instead honor some person or family deported by the Nazis from the building. I can't read much French, so I don't always know exactly how any given plaque reads, but I've had a vague awareness of these memorials for a long time, and have regarded them with some reverence.

So it was very touching to see all of these plaques suddenly adorned with bouquets of flowers come Remembrance Day. The bouquets came wrapped in cellophane with the words "Mairie de Paris" on them, which I believe means the city/mayoralty of Paris (for a long time I've believed this "Mairie," in its sassy shopping center script, to be a department store chain here in France--I didn't recognize its exuberence appearances on billboards and on maps as announcing the authority of the ancient city of Paris--I thought it was a place to shop). I took these pictures a few days after Remebrance Day, when the camera was fully charged again. This bouquet was still up Monday morning when I snapped it.

That Fish Died for Nothing

2005-11-08T23:57:00.000+01:00

Maybe I should just file this under, "What did you expect?" As in, "What did you expect, going for sushi at a place called 'JAPORAMA'?"

Well, we expected something edible.

There are a lot of Japanese restaurants in Paris, esp. in our area, (there are a lot of Chinese Traiteurs, places that are more like take-out joints, with fewer proper restaurants--and there are some Vietnamese eateries, which makes the most sense, I guess, given French colonial history). Nearby, that four block artery called rue Monsiuer le Prince is clotted with half-a-dozen Japanese eateries all on its own, (and the city has many other passages similarly clogged). We walked there tonight, looking for a new dining experience.

I have always been very skeptical of seafood in any foreign country--it's simply paranoia and narrow-mindedness on my part--so it took a little while to warm up to the idea of cold fish in Paris. But Dear Wife and I happened upon a dive-y sorta sushi bar while heading to La Luxembourg for lunch, and one of the staff lured us in off the sidewalk with a humble request to give 'em a try. This was a while ago, and on that day I stayed with the safety of meat skewers, but sampled Dear Wife's sushi, and it was OK. So we began eating there every once-in-awhile.

But there are a lot of other Japanese restaurants on the same street. All of 'em look nicer than our place. A couple of them are always packed for lunch. Why not try one of those?

We picked JAPORAMA.

I liked the way the sign looked like the titles for a Godard movie.

It was a sushi joint run by Koreans; tough looking, no-nonsense, kind of misshapen Koreans. A short and nasty looking pit-boss of a maitre d' oversaw the outfit, and he patroled the floor as though itching to get rough with somebody. The whole staff followed his lead. They were unsmiling, but not unsmiling in a typically diffident, urban way, or even a haughty French way (something I've rarely been subjected to, but still); no, these guys were stern beyond simple sterness--they seemed angry. And beyond that, they acted like running a restaurant and serving customers was something they did with minimal interest. Something they collectively didn't care about, as though they were all here for some other reason.

Some other reason? And we let them serve us raw fish?

As we spent more time observing their weird disconnect from the actual job of running a restaurant, I became increasingly suspicious. The misshapeness--it's a classic sign of malnutrition, common among North Koreans. Their hard-scrabble, but collective demeanor--as though they'd been through tough times together, and had formed a bond. Maybe they were refugees from Kim Jong Il's land, and after escape and the stress of readjustment, they just didn't have enough in the tank to care whether you wanted that coke with ice or not.

Or maybe they weren't fugitives from the regime. Could they be North Korean agents, using this restaurant (with that innocently anti-Japanese insult JAPORAMA for a name) as a cover for something nefarious?

Hard to imagine something more nefarious than the dish we were served.

After we placed our order (sushi maki) with the listless, disinterested waitress (we were the only ones in the place, it was still a little early by Paris standards for dinner, but the whole city seemed slow tonight), she went back toward the kitchen and suddenly all the waitresses were laughing. And looking at us. And repeating, "Sushi Maki (hahaha!)."

"Sushi Maki?"

"Sushi Maki!"

"HAHAHA!"

Well, wouldn't it unsettle you?

Just seeing such dour, lifeless ladies laugh was a little unsettling, but for them to laugh at our dinner?

The bode-ing was not well.

The soup starter tasted wrong, but bland enough to be overlooked. Then the sushi came out.

You remember, Sushi Maki Ha Ha Ha.

I'm sure you can imagine bad sushi. This was bad sushi. Even the wasabi looked unhealthy. I joked that the wait was so long because the cook was out digging through the trash at the Champion Market, looking for their sushi discards.

I ate one roll and picked some pieces from another (even the rice tasted...sour, edging toward putrid) (and we are talking about CALIFORNIA ROLLS, the light-weightiest of the light-weight). I could eat no more. Dear Wife didn't even manage that much. We just asked for the bill and left. We were a little nervous--more customers had arrived and I felt sort of compelled to tell 'em, "Bad Sushi!" But the pit boss was already eyeing us intimidatinggly, and we were terrified he'd come over and demand to know what the problem was, talking in his unitelligible (to us neophytes) North Korean French. We sweated it a few minutes, but then the bill was signed and we were out of there.

I wasn't about to tangle with any North Korean agents.

JAPORAMA: I wouldn't, if I were you.

The Rest of Yesterday

2005-11-08T21:23:00.000+01:00

We are beginning to get worried emails. People want to know if we are OK with all these riots.

We're fine.

Like I said a few days ago, we don't really believe there are riots going on. We see absolutely zero evidence anywhere, except in the papers. I think it is a ploy by Sarkozy and de Villepin to mobilize the vote, and gain supporters. I see much more of them than either Chirac, or the rioters.

Perhaps I should take the metro out to Clichy-sous-Bois and see what all this alleged "unrest" is about...

Here's yesterday's Louvre page. CLICK it to see it larger. (I wanted to add, "Email criticisms to davischino@eat_merde.fr", but that's silly--just keep them to yourself!)

And that damn "Bound Hessian": I had it mapped out so well today, then I went in and tried to "tone it up." Bad choices in line direction ruined it--the arm is better than the rest, though it still has the lines running a curious direction in relation to the direction of the actual form in space. Sometimes I am making strokes that are convenient for my right-handed arm, but not good for the drawing. Oh, well, I'm learning....

By the way, these are all still straight ahead inks in Muji brush-pen. I'll tell you if I use something else.

The Lives and Faces of The Parisians

2005-11-07T20:22:00.000+01:00

Today I stopped in at Paul. It had been a vigorous day of drawing at the Louvre (I continue pressing for success drawing with this brush-pen), and afterwards I wanted to sit down, have a "chocolat chaud" (hot chocolate), and relax for a few minutes before going home to Dear Wife. The café was not very busy, so I took a table facing the cash register, which gave me an excellent view of the people waiting in line, a line that never goes away at this excellent and popular boulangerie.

Have I told you about Paul? It's an indoor café "seulement" (which means no outdoor tables), lovely inside with dark wood paneling and a good staff serving a limited but tasty menu. Dear wife and I love to sit and get a slice of quiche (which is served with a nice side salad), or the special "aujourd'hui", and some coffee. Best of all, they have an effective "pas fumeur" (non-smoking) policy for the front room. It's on a busy corner just off the Blvd. St. Germy, and the front of the place functions as a traditional boulangerie, with a long glass counter displaying lots of cakes and cookies and pastries (I guess that makes it a sort of patisserie, too), and baskets filled with different kinds of fresh breads made right there, in the next room. The line of folks waiting to buy bread is frequently a dozen or more long. (It is actually a chain restaurant, or boulangerie, but that doesn't mean it isn't damn good.)

So I couldn't resist, and I pulled out my pad and started drawing people, just making quickie sketches (these brush pens can be dang useful for the quick-sketch stuff--you get a lot of information down in a stroke, instead of having to go over your line again and again to broaden it, or soften it, etc., with a regular pen--these drawings only HINT at what would be possible with a real inking master at the helm--err, at the brush). They surround a portrait bust study from the Louvre. (Click on picture for a closer view)

Do these people look worried about the riots?

Letter From The Barricades

2005-11-07T14:43:00.000+01:00

Dear Pal Peter,

Ah, the riots. You are getting gleefully hysterical coverage in the U.S., I think. Here it is the opposite. Imagine the emotional state of the average U.S. citizen if car-torching rioters were on their 12th day of a rampage that had destroyed almost 6,000 cars, plus churches, schools, buses and buildings--imagine also that these riots had started in D.C. (well, New York would be a better analogy), but then spread to LA, Miami, Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Seattle, and, just for the hell of it, Provo. Well, take that imagined level of U.S. outrage, hysteria, and downright nastiness ("Shoot to kill!"), and then invert it. Flip it around 180 degrees.

That's France.

I have had a devil of a time finding news about these riots on French TV, (though the papers do devote major coverage to the story); when I do, the tone sounds calm, the faces look resigned. People in the suburbs are interviewed with an anthropologist's detachment. Much of the coverage centers on the contest between Sarkozy and de Villepin, the two leading candidates to succeed Chirac as president, and how each of them are faring politically in relation to "the crisis". Maybe the news will show a few fast clips of nighttime flames, firemen at work, and then the ubiquitous "morning after" shot of an ashen automobile carcass. It's not much. With the pronounced coverage in the States, it feels a little like a reverse of the disparity in Iraq war coverage between here and at home: over here the Iraq reports show much more violence, death and destruction; at home, much less so. Why the dif? Pleasure taken in the woes of others, I'm sure (get yr schadenfreude on). But, as far as this non-French speaking, non-citizen can tell, there is a dispassionate, cerebral tone prevailing, both in the discourse and the wrist-slapping response, and it baffles me. Where is the National Guard? Where are the air strikes?! There's a lot of angst over the fact that certain towns are being empowered to enact a curfew, this provision having come from the year 1955, enacted at the beginning of the Algerian "troubles." Seems to be much hand-wringing over the propriety of this step. Over a curfew. With 12 days of riots. With 6,000 plus cars burnt across the country.

There is no way such a muted "law and order" response would be tolerated in the US, from the personal level on up. I'm not saying the U.S. response would solve anything (I don't think the U.S. would be worried about solving anything at this point—they'd be worried about STOPPING this), nor am I saying the U.S. approach would be better, long term or short, than the French: I'm just amazed at the stark difference between our societies.

My impression is that the riots got out of hand early because there was a real reluctance and/or inability to squelch the initial uprising. Like the looting in Baghdad. The problem is almost the opposite of New Orleans: in New Orleans incompetence prevented effective action, and poverty exacerbated this; here apathy precluded the commitment of competency—though again, all exacerbated by poverty.

I don't think anybody here cares too much if the poor burn down their own methodically isolated ghettos. And this ambivalence kept the response weak. But now that cars are being burnt in the Marais (an old district in central Paris), and burnt in almost every major city in France, self-preservation kicks in. There is talk on the TV about the problems in immigrant communities, lots of high-minded rhetoric, I take it. There is real distaste for the ugly task of crackin' heads, and I suppose that's good. But you can't have the rule of law if you don't enforce it. And while I am very happy immigrants are having their problems put on the front burner (this is essential, but it was just as essential BEFORE these riots, and I was talking about this IN AMERICA before we even got over here--and I know NOTHING about France, so it's not like this is out of the blue), I don't think there's anything liberating about setting a 53 year old woman on fire in a bus, or beating a 61 year old man to death.

I feel there was a tacit acceptance of the riots, a shrugging response that acknowledged on the one hand that real problems exist for these immigrants, and that real grievances are behind the riots, and on the other hand, a sense of profound separation, a sense not only that these were not Frenchmen committing these acts of arson and assault, but that this wasn't happening in France. I think the regular French citizen not only views the perpetrators of these acts as aliens, but they feel these aliens live in alien territory, a sort of "Little Algiers" that may be within the Republique, but isn't really a part of it. I don't know how else to explain the weird indifference I've seen.

One thing's fer sure, in the U.S. there would be a lot more bodies droppin'.

Two policemen were shot in an ambush last night, but they were hit with buckshot, not 9mm bullets from a handgun or rifle. The low level of gun ownership here seems to have suppressed the level of personal violence—for instance, looting in the U.S. starts at the gun counter (look at New Orleans, with dudes shooting at rescue helicopters—very un-French), and once the guns and ammo get circulated, people have a way of "getting dead." Over here there have been no deaths until today, and that one from beating. On the other hand, if I lived out in the suburbs right now, and I saw the police unable to stop attacks, I would be looking to buy or borrow a Bazooka.

When there's a riot over racial problems in the U.S., it grieves me personally as a manifestation of inequality among citizens. I think most people who aren't outright bigots feel the same pain, when evidence is put before us that all are not equal in our State. That the aggrieved parties are citizens is never in doubt, and is, in fact, the source of the pain for the bystanders. I don't get the sense people here look at these so-called "immigrants" in the same way—as fellow citizens. They talk about this fact, but I think they only see them as citizens when they become recognizably French. Citizenship here is intertwined with an ethnic identity. Happily integrating immigrants into the Republique seems to suffer because of this.

All this analysis makes me sound slightly hysterical. Not at all. I have my Bazooka by my bedside.

I think I'll excerpt major portions of this letter for the blog, EUROCHINO. I will leave out the dirty bits, like ... and ....

We are fine. The center of the city remains safe, and daytime is quiet. Went to the Louvre today. Did some drawings. Hey, do you really mean it about bringing something over for me? I'd love a damn Apple wireless keyboard, the Bluetooth model. Can I have one sent to your casa? And then you can hand ferry it over for me?

Lots of Molotov Love,
Boom.
Daivis Chino

Oh, It's a Riot!

2005-11-06T22:25:00.000+01:00

Cars have been burnt in the 16th Arrondissement. That's northeast of here, beyond the river, but not far from the BHV (which we visit) and that byzantine city hall structure, the Hôtel de Ville (which we avoid). At least, this is what I have read on the NY Times website. Here I have heard very little. Last night I scanned all the TV channels we have, and only CNN and BBC were devoting noticeable time to the story. Perhaps I just missed the extended coverage on the French channels, but all I could find were variety shows and one channel showing NC-17 level sex. Dear Wife was in the room, so I gave her an astonished and then disapproving look, and changed the channel.

No, I don't really believe there are riots. We hear no sirens, see no rushing fire brigades, observe no columns of smoke in the distance, nor helicopters hovering overhead. There are no "Eye in the Sky" searchlights blasting into our room at 3AM, no incessant drone of chopper blades endlessly circling.

It is nothing like living in downtown San Diego.

The cafés are full, Paul still has a line of scarf-wearing folk waiting to buy baguettes, and the streets remain crowded with pedestrians both shabby and chic. At the Musée Rodin today the grounds were swarming with people, many with their children, all taking advantage of a beautifully crisp, clear day, and the free admission on this, the first Sunday of the month. The Metros (lines 10 and 13, Odéon to Duroc to Varenne) were running, and although they were not as crowded as usual, many of the seats were still filled. The passengers didn't look particularly alarmed, and most people reading the paper were immersed in the sports section. One man next to me was reading a very plain looking novel (so many books seem to be published over here that in their haste they make due with plain white covers adorned only by title and author--a curiously antique look for a softcover): the title was the memorable "Naufrages de Batavia". What this means, I have no idea (but I thought of Dear Pal Pete, Muckdog Supporter)(and now Dear Wife tells me "naufrage" means shipwreck, God bless her). As he read, this middle-aged French fellow betrayed no sign of worry, nor any obvious doubts about the government's inability to quell the unrest ("Quel quell?"); the fact that 1,300 cars had been destroyed last night didn’t seem to upset him, nor did the fact that over 3,300 cars and buses had perished so far in more than a week of violence; indeed, even as I watched him methodically turn each page of his book, the ten day duration of this French Suburban version of Detroit’s “Hell Night” was a worry invisible to me. He didn’t even look concerned that the riots had now breached the line of decorum that separates city and suburb! Or that these riots were now occurring in almost every major French city, and that they would surely continue tonight. He only seemed interested in naufrages and Batavia.

So Paris continues being Paris. I fail to detect any concern in the carriage or communications of those around me, so I myself will forego worry.

What the hell do I know--I don't even speak French.

Sculptures In Ink

2005-11-06T01:00:00.000+01:00

Went to the Musée Rodin today. Here's a page of highlights. This museum is often commended to me as a favorite when people find out I'm a sculptor. It is pretty wonderful, but the hi-drama and sex parts of the whole thing clash badly with crowds rushing to have their picture taken leaning against Pierre de Weissant.

Progress is being made on the ink front: I think the rear view of the standing male figure is getting somewhere, with the unrelenting mapping of the shadow pattern beginning to substitute for tonal explanation of the form.

Guillotine Revivalists

2005-11-05T10:21:00.000+01:00

Guillotine Revivalists

News has been spreading across the globe about these riots, and we’ve even received an email or two asking if we are all right. Riots? What riots? Aggrieved immigrants are burning down the Paris suburbs bit by bit each night, and we have been oblivious to all this until just two nights ago—a full week after the onset of "unrest." This is how it is in the capital of France for two Americans so very unaware.

The State Department has issued a warning that all Americans in Paris must stay out of the suburbs, or the "banlieues" as they are called, which encircle the city proper. We are also told (so I read in the NY Times) that we are not to take the rail line to Charles DeGaulle Airport: this route bisects a particularly nasty area, and there have been “problems” for some trains and their passengers….

When we rode the RER train to Disneyland a month and a half ago, we rode through these “hotspots.” And we shared the train with the people living in these dreaded banlieues. Onboard, we saw lots of hard, haggard faces, many from somewhere in Africa, North or otherwise; there were many women, some wearing headscarves. Some of the young men seemed mildly menacing, others more-so, but most not at all. I was aware that we stood out (like a pro-Bush billboard over the Bois de Boulogne)(to most Frenchmen every American is pro-Bush; but to most Parisians, no American intelligent enough to talk to them could be), and I remained alert for any antipathy directed at us. Mainly, people just seemed tired. The landscape outside the train windows wasn’t obviously desolate, it just seemed distasteful because it so obviously wasn’t Paris. The houses and apartment buildings had that unfortunate look, shared by most contemporary (i.e., post-war) building I’ve seen in Europe, which is a sort of half-assed combination of unconvincing Mies-ian modernist planning, generic, box-like construction, and all overlaid with a few traditional touches, like an elaborate tile roofs, or shutters. Blech.

It may well be worth burning.

So, with our ears ringing to this new reverberation of violence, we settled down to bed.

That’s when the trouble started.

It was late, as it always is when we turn in (two AM often comes and goes before bedtime). Once the lights are out, and you are quiet in bed, that’s when any noise from the street becomes the center of your attention. We just wanted to sleep. But no… it was the damn rowdies at The Moose.

People laugh differently in different languages—it’s true, I can’t explain it other than to guess a mouth becomes comfortable making certain shapes, causing certain sounds, and these naturally carry-over to non-language sounds like laughter. Well, the same is true of aimless yells and indulgent screaming: you can tell, more or less, when it is bellowed by an American, when it is hollered by a Frenchman, and even when it is yowled in non-native French—German, or Arabic, for example.
Now, this shouting downstairs kept getting louder, and it had an edge. Also unsettling, it sounded like a thick-tongued French, a sort of non-native flatness in its bark that added to its menace. The shouting became so insistent, and sounded so aggressive, that it no longer resembled the nightly drunken squalls we have become accustomed to, and I began to worry the street beneath our window was breaking out in a mini-riot.

Could that be? I mean, could it happen here?

Damn that Moose and that Mystery Club! It’s bad enough they keep us awake ALL NIGHT—now they have brought real danger to the neighborhood with their all-night hours and endless liquor. Encouraging delinquency!

I went to the window to see what was the matter. I was ready to call the cops if it looked like a riot. A riot—what does that mean? Mainly I was worried a couple of goons were going to smoke some hapless Nissan Micra parked on the side of the road. As you recall, the street below our apartment windows allows for street parking.

I sound paranoid, but you wouldn't have believed the noise. And why wasn't every resident at their window, or calling the cops? Did they just know this was harmless fun? Or had they all found ways of sleeping through the night which left them deaf to the racket on the street?

After a particularly intense noise burst would bring me to the window, I would catch sight of a drapery rustling behind some dark window in one of the other apartments. OK. So they are monitoring this, too. They would call the cops. They've got more at stake here than two transient Americans.

Terrifying, the sort of hatred that can grow in your heart, laying on your bed, trying to sleep, assaulted by deliberate obnoxiousness for HOURS. It sounded way too out of hand to go down there and start trouble this time. And I know how useless this would be when I don't speak the language. We didn't seem to be in danger. But over ther hours we roused by waves of voices, one group coming together, shouting, giving way to different voices who would then congregate, erupt, subside, be joined by new voices, who would then run off down the street, bang on the walls, rev their scooter engines to the redline, burn-out in their micro cars, stop, open the doors, play loud music, slam the car doors, drive off, etc., etc., until 7 AM.

Forget the rioters. Let's revive the guillotine for disturbing my sleep.

You Know You've Been Reading Too Many Financial Reports When...

2005-11-04T23:31:00.000+01:00

When you think about going to the corner café, and then worry about the downward pressure they must be feeling to limit their churn. And whether their YOY sales are improving.

I don't speak French, which is criminal, I know, and I don't deserve to be here for that reason alone. I don't deny the drawbacks of my laziness and ignorance, which are massive and continual. But it does force me to live in a space of extreme alienation, and this can be a very good place for an artist. I don't have any truck with traveling to a foreign land, and then carrying on as if you're on a bender at home, just in a different language. This ain't junior year abroad for me.

The pageant of a culture and its people are fascinating enough in pantomime, and appeal to the silent movie buff in me. I try to limit the inconvenience of my non-native presence to all the French folk I encounter, but I am surely exasperating in the same way that an American gets exasperated with a Mexican who doesn't speak English. And I sympathize with the added exasperation that is seeing your capital infested with and bought up by these foreigners who don't the language--imagine if those non-English speaking Hispanics were also moving into many of the nicest Manhattan apartments.

We aren't planning to live here for very long, and in the meantime I wll just struggle along. It is a constant source of embarrassment, yes, but I resist sitting down with a French textbook and digging into the language when I've got so much else needing my attention. And these other priorities do not include enjoying much of this city, either--you readers are probably all too aware how staid and homebound our routine is here. No, it just seems like too much time for a new language when I am still so wobbly in my native tongue, and when I'm trying to nurse my ragged Italian along until we make it to Rome, which leaves scant capacity in my brain for a third language.

Especially not with my current immersion in financialese.

The Falling Timbers of Paris

2005-11-01T00:50:00.000+01:00

Last night was Halloween. We went down rue Monsieur le Prince, looking for something exotic. Decided on the Moroccan place. It was good, damn good, if not quite as great as Le Loubane (?) the Lebanese place over by the end of rue Monge in the Fifth.

Not a lot of costumes to be seen tonight--but a few, most a little half-hearted. A night club just down the street was attracting patrons, and sometimes colorful characters would stroll past on their way to the party. One dude eating in the other dining room had an intense make-up job for the night, and when he walked out we all gasped at first, so convincing was his outfit of shredded clothing and convincing, bloody abrasions (an imitation scooter accident?). A group of five or so people came in and were shown to a table one over from us. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, trying to find their seats, taking off their coats, arranging themselves, and joking with the maitr d'. Then something odd happened.

In Paris, nearly every restaurant you go to that isn't a straight-up brasserie is in a room with exposed wooden beams; exposed beams, exposed wooden rafters, half-exposed, wooded posts built into the wall, and of course some rustic pillars distributed throughout the floorspace. There may be wall board between the wooden beams and boards, and it will be painted white; if stone is the other material, it is left bare. That's just the way they do it. It doesn't look English Tudor so much as Old Mill rustic.

They had the same decor here, a sort of unmolested Parisian intérieur rustique, plushed-out here and there with little Moroccan additions. The central pillars supported beams that were in turn riding wooden posts inset into the wall.

As the two girls at the next table lowered themselves into their seats, one caught a bit of her sweater on the wall-post behind her. As she descended, this post suddenly came loose and fell over on top of her.

As it fell, everyone was so stunned they both leapt up and froze. The pilar halted, halfway down, stopped by electrical wiring stapled to it. The girls, sitting next to each other, had both screamed a quick scream of utter shock, and covered themselves.

But even as it fell, something was wrong. Something was wrong in the speed and the trajectory and the way it came loose and then, in the way it stopped. Now it was sort of dangling there, its weight no trouble for a simple electrical wire to support.

And then we all saw it. The inside. On this night of costumes and tricks-or-treats, this supposed pilar was just a piece of plastic playing dress up. It was fake. The surface looked convincing, but it was just a phony prop, placed (inexpertly) to give the room more "ambience." And now it was flopping around like the 2 pound (if that!) plastic faker is was. It was, in fact, a plastic, hollow, mold-injected plastic, mass produced, not at all unlike the stuff used to make the old Halloween masks of yore, the stiff ones, not the latex, pull-on, rubber masks--the cheap ones, with a rubber-band to attach them to yr mug, and two eye holes (and a mouth hole, if you were lucky). The edges of the "pilar" gave way with that same stiff crackle and "thop!" that you'd hear when manhandling your Spiderman mask, circa 1975.

The waiter helped them get the impostor post back up on the wall, and we all had a good laugh at our fright, and its ridiculous cause.

Who says the French aren't into Halloween?

First Moment of Home Sicked

2005-10-31T13:20:00.000+01:00

I subscribe to the internet radio service "Live365." After arriving on these foreign shores my internet hours have exploded, and REPOSE has come from this musical smorgasboard. The revelation has been discovering a live feed from KSPC, the renowned broadcaster from the Inland Empire's very own Claremont Colleges. This is one of the very few stations that can claim the distinction of having broadcast Exit House, a lo-fi band of startling obscurity which counted me as a sort of singer.

With Halloween coming, I am especially keen to listen (and record, where possible, via CD Spin Doctor from Toast 7), as many Halloween-themed shows as possible. It is a very juvenile preoccupation, picked up as a kid listening to Dr. Demento. I still listen to tapes I made from the long defunct KMET when I was 12 or 13--over twenty years ago, my friends.

I am recording a KSPC show tonight, awake past bedtime with my hands on the controls, capturing the best bits from Randy Brian's great "Forward into the Past," a show I used to listen to (and record!) in 1987. The show is just what you'd expect, lots of songs from the 30's to early 50's, with a few half-hour old-time radio shows thrown in, too. There aren't really commercials, but every hour or so the DJ takes a minute to announce some community happening or other. This hour's bit was an announcement that next Saturday there was going to be a special W.W.II warplane lecture and demonstation at the Chino Airport (yes, we have one), and for a minute, not remembering where I was, I became flooded with enthusiasm, "Oh, man, we should go! It's not that far, it's just, it's just..18 hours or so, by jet."

Not really homesickness, but smacked by the realization, "I am far, far from what used to be home."

Inexcusable Hubris

2005-10-30T21:27:00.000+01:00

I went to Le Louvre today, but it was rotten. Had a serious bout of hubris, seeing three people planted around the "Bound Hessian" doing mediocre studies, and full of cocky-cock fer no justifiable reason, I decide to stand nearby and blast out what I planned to be a dominating study of a radically foreshortened view, done straight ahead in ink, without the aid of a penciled layout, and utilizing a battered brush pen.

(Already I'm blaming the tools...)

What a total dog bone. That taught me a lesson--y'know, the same lesson I've been getting taught with regularity ever since I first picked up a drawing implement (which have quite often been faulty, it must be said).

10 minutes into this mess, (the first one, the worst one, on the left--CLICK IMAGE to see larger, if you dare), I was blazing crimson in embarrassment, sweat pouring over my body and dripping into the most unnatural places. I gave up, just walked away, and found a window sill to lay my pad on, rest for a second, tried to cool off and collect myself, then decided to go back at it and see if I couldn't find some better solutions in a quick second study. It was done from memory, and that execrable first study. I think you'll agree it's much more palatable than the (let's face it) completely indigestible first effort. But still not good.

So why show it here? If anyone is interested enough in this blog to be reading about our life and struggles over here, I owe them some honest insight into the process of artistic growth. What better way than showing the evolution of my sketches, both long and short--and good or bad.

About the drawing: I'm not skilled enough to do tonal studies in black ink. Line should be the girding force for any ink drawing I attempt, not tone. Using line successfully is one of my glaring weaknesses, maybe my weakest, but that's why I'm forcing myself to do these studies. I am way too sculptural in my approach, and I consistently fail to grasp the graphic possibilities. In the second drawing, I think the pectoral/ribcage skin folds that cross the body are a better graphic solution to the problem of inking a dark bronze sculpture with no clear directional light source. But then, the ham-fisted thickness of these way-too-similar lines that cut horizontally through the torso have the effect of cutting the poor sculpture into something like salami slices. Not pretty. And that's on the GOOD one.

Here's the bulk of the day's work, mildly rearranged on the page to facilitate Blogspot layout. I STARTED with the kneeling cupid figure--it was kinda downhill afterwards, tho' I like the little museum-goer studies. It's a good lesson in how these things get away from you, and how hard it can be to regroup.

I don't know what's going on with that girl.

Had a decent cappuccino at one of the cafés inside the Louvre and did a sketch of a funny family where the wife was icily poised (in designer jeans and knee-high, six-inch-heel boots--worn to see the Louvre!), the father cross-armed and sullen in his low-key euro-chic, and their three preteen-to-early-teen boys arranged between them, all three sons with wildly gelled hair, hipster-baggy skater clothing, and bodies already beginning to chub up in a way unrecognizable as being related to their self-consciously attractive parents. But I won't bore you with the uneven sketch I made of this scene.

Oh, such a long way to go....

Packing the Trunk

2005-10-29T09:49:00.000+02:00

This acronym was meaningless to uneducated me until I became involved with Dear Wife. Back in 1999 when we began to fall in love, Dear Wife was applying to grad schools. By fall of 2000 she had moved four hours North to Santa Barbara, and The Great Trial began. I think it was in the process of finishing her Master's Thesis that I first became aware of "ABD." Now it looms over our lives like the buzzard in "Porgy an' Bess".

It's a grad school designation for "All But Dissertation," referring to the fulcrum moment in a student's life when there are no more courses to be completed for your advanced degree, and no more exams to pass, just the writing and acceptance of your dissertation.

Dear Wife is past this fulcrum moment, and beginning her full immersion into writing her dissertation, a sort of harrowing period where you find out if you've "got what it takes" to sit down and pull together disparate strands of research and then have it all coalesce into a quality volume of 150 pages or so. That's really why we're over here (and you thought it was for my blog). So when Dear Wife spotted this tree, its scuffed trunk looming behind our outdoor table at a café in Place St. Michel, it was viewed as a particularly relevant sign (good? bad? we could only tremble and guess). "Oh, we've got to get a picture!"

Was it carved by a triumphant, would-be scholar, just finished with their qualifying exams and ready to take on "The Big Write"? Or was it a last gesture from some anonymous despondent, a warning carved by the pen-knife of an humiliated wash-out, an epitaph intended for everyone unable to emerge from that most dangerous limbo stage of incipient scholarship, "ABD"?

And then I had a dream about Dear Wife's dissertation myself. That was this morning, not at the café. I’ve never ever had a stress dream on behalf of anyone else before. It appeared during that last stretch of sleep before I had to wake, that self-indulgent plateau where you’re conscious the room is bright now, but you roll over and fall back into sleep. The dream took place in that future moment when Dear Wife will be done with her dissertation, when it has been accepted and approved, and she is expecting graduation, perhaps even that day. But in a shabby conference room Dear Wife’s advisors were standing huddled, discussing something between themselves and then distilling these conversations into quick comments for Dear Wife, who sat at a table looking alarmed. Dear Wife said little in response. Every few moments an advisor would turn and stride out of the room, through a doorway that went into some other, more important room barred to us. I took advantage of my familiarity with the husband and wife who serve as Dear Wife’s primary advisors and began asking questions. I was concerned and wanted to know what was going on—why was Dear Wife seated stone still and sweating? Wasn’t all this dissertation stuff finished business? What’s the problem? They were evasive. The husband left abruptly, departed to the more important room. I wanted answers. The wife left too, but promised she’d be back. I turned to Dear Wife, aware I may have upset the process by inserting myself. “Are you OK?” I asked. She looked shell-shocked. Terror grew on her face as she tried to speak. That’s when I woke up.

Now that is evidence of stress as contagion. And this thing isn’t due for years.

I'd like to promise you that this will be the last time I write about a dream.

But I'm just not ready to do that.

Way Too Tasty

2005-10-28T23:29:00.000+02:00

Today we met with our real estate agent, our "agente d'apartament," to sign the papers for the new apartment. They were very nice, very upfront, and the apartment remains six flights up. The price begins to make more sense...but nevertheless, relief begins to enfold us.

Best slice of chocolate molleaux yet, purchased on the walk home from coffee, and eaten after dinner. Wherefrom? A little boulangerie unnoticed before now, discovered on a new route home from Le Luxembourg, "Le Pain du Prince."

They even had Halloween decorations up.

I need to work on hands...

2005-10-26T20:37:00.000+02:00

...and everything else.

Went to the Musee D'Orsay today. Went to see the current special exhibit on 19th Century Russian Art, but drew mainly from the bronzes over in the Rodin corner. I tried to be quick on each little sketch, and the quickest, loosest ones are the best. But no one will mistake it for Frazetta. I'm trying to come to grips with this new brush pen from Muji, an interesting little store that sells dour, urban clothing for men and women, bright socks made of recycled thread, and Japanese office supplies. It's just down the street from us. Bought my pad there, too, and I like it a lot--it doesn't have a lot of pages, which keeps it light, and the rear cover is stiff enough to support working hand held. More info I cannot give, for the small descriptive tag on the cover speaks only Japanese, except for the dimensions, which are 332mmx242mm, (my favorite size--thank God it's not a 293x114).

The Russian exhibit was interesting, but as I went from canvas to canvas I couldn't stop thinking of my former associates at the Atelier in Encinitas (that's San Diego country, partner), especially one Ronzelevich Lemenov. How he would love this! This man was (is?) an ardent devotée of "L'École Russe", in particular I. E. Repin, a leading light of late 19th Century painting in Russia. Repin is well represented in the show, and I kept wishing Ronzelevich were present to see Rep's work in person. What amazed me was how similar Repin's paint looked to my friend Lemenov's work--an affinity much deeper than the sort shared by Pontormo and Bronzino, for instance, or Tintoretto and Veronese. It was uncanny, and I really couldn't be sure that R. Lemenov hadn't done these--Repin even looked to be a lefty from the tilt of his script and direction of his brush strokes! The color choices, the narrow range of variation in that tightly-loose, or loosely-tight style of rendering, rigidly observed across even the most epic of scenes. A way of indicating faces, too; of moving between values on a face through toned color and surprisingly consistent texture...the complete drawing of mouths with small strokes of paint applied in accurate wedges, less conjured than in a tonalist, something almost like Rockwell but with paint twice as thick, and the same kind of magenta shift in the wet reds of a face (lips again, inner and outer canthus, nostrils) that belies the dry yellow in so much of the routine flesh. Uncanny! Also a similar size to all the short strokes of the brush, which are not at all the sort of watery dabs you get with so many painters that came after the Impressionists; nor is it like the celebrated "petite tache" of Manet, et al., (whom R. Lemenov despises)--no, they populate their work (R. Lemenov anf I. E. Repin) with small shingles of paint of almost uniform size, creating a effect completely unlike Seurat, or the linty tapestries of stabbing dabs in later Renoirs. The surface of the Lemenov/Repin canvas reads like the a floor covered in sawdust, with all sorts of arid sheafes interlocking and overlaying one another, implying uniformity and flatness, which plays off of the strongly designed shapes of the rendered imagery they create. Uncanny.

The wild-eyed portrait of Mussourgsky, familiar to me through R. Lemenov's copy, hung next to a very nice portrait of Tolstoy. Tolstoy....

My War and Peace. The first moment of pleasure at recognizing the author of this work that has so thoroughly involved me dissolved quickly. I was feeling a little uncomfortable looking at this guy. First off, I had certain ideas of what he represented as "writer", that is to say, a man who has chosen to write. These notions may or may not be apparent in a portrait, or even a photograph, and they certainly could be completely wrong-headed on my part. But I remember (perhaps an imagining) a photograph of V. Nabokov's father on a street corner engaged in a smiling and animated conversation with this little man Tolstoi; and he seemed warm and genuine, a real person. But here was something different--in the paintings, (there were two big ones, and some drawings and photos), he seemed so determinedly messianic, so "branded" as "simple visionary, peasant/priest with a pen." It all felt a bit self-conscious, a bit manufactured. I just read an article on James Patterson that interviewed him on how he invests his money. It talked about his astonishing commercial success as a writer (both he and his success were completely new to me), and much of this success he and the article attributed to his successful "branding." Was this what Tolstoy was up to? Put this against a riveting photo of a really young looking Chekov sitting at a table next to Gorky--it feels honest, unselfconscious, and at the same time worth recording. You look at these guys and it strikes you immediately, before you even know who they are: you say, "There is something going on in those minds." Their thoughtful and observant lives are there to see plainly. Tolstoy seemed a little contrived, repeating poses in photos and portrait paintings, standing with his hand in his belt, wearing a peasant's tunic, self-consciously standing on the land, in nature, book in pocket, posed.

The Yellow Eye of Chino

2005-10-26T11:12:00.000+02:00

We needed to fax some paperwork back to the states. How dumb does that sound--how dumb, and self-important, too? But alas, it describes exactly what we had to do. We are trying to get out of our U.S. cell phone contract with Verizon (we loved that James Earl Jones voiced all the system announcements and admonishments: "Verizon Wireless is connecting you to 411 Connect..."--if a corporate gig can give so much pleasure to so many, is it really so risible?). But we've learned those cell phone contracts are hard to get out of!

After lots of back-and-forth, (kindly handled by Dear Wife), Verizon had demanded a letter from our rental company on letterhead showing the terms of our rental agreement, and most importantly, our residency outside of the U.S. (or Verizon's service area, whichever is larger). After a few weeks of trying, we'd gotten the required paperwork from the small vacation rental service we've been using (they are incorporated in the Seychelles?), and now we needed to fax it to Verizon. Why bother? With the contract structure, we'd be on the hook for hundreds of dollars--but if we could get out of the contract, we'd have $300 or so refunded to us.

Baby, let's fax.

But how?

I called up our excellent real estate agent, Jules, ostensibly to discuss some matter with our pending rental of their rue Bonaparte apartment--aka, our "Bonapartment"--and then I dropped a little hint about our dilema. "Jules," I ask, "do you kow where we can go to fax something?"

Oh, sure, he says, come over and you can use our fax.

Oboy!

Dear Wife and I get dolled up to go and see him: we haven't got the apartment yet, afterall; we have yet to sign any papers and the deal still seems sketchy, so we are worried that we are going to lose the place if we don't appear solvent and smiling.

We show up at the office. But despite my best effort to clean up, I realize Jules is staring at my left eye. He seems hesitant to ask why I have a black eye--well, a yellow eye, really, as you can see; and I am hopeful that the discoloration is subtle enough to make him doubt what is probably obvious: namely, that I've been involved in some sort of dust up. So I just try to act implacably genial; and the more he stares at my eye, the more intensely I affect an air of unflappable graciousness and good-humor. I try to be just the sort of fellow to whom you'd entrust a fancily-appointed Parisian apartment; not the sort who wanders in off the street with a black eye (well, yellow) and says bugger the for sale ads, you got any rentals--cheap?

In situations like this, I must say Dear Wife's presence by my side is a far stronger proof of character than any act I could muster. She is a marvel of goodness, and people respond instinctively to her quality. So any questions about the eye remained unasked.

The fax was sent, and without any sign of scuttling the rental deal. And with the $300 bucks of Verizon refund coming our way, we may just get a printer that includes a fax machine. $300 bucks may only translate to 234EURO's, but it's a start!

Writers In Paris

2005-10-25T17:39:00.000+02:00

Six weeks and a day have we been in Paris (Dear Wife and I), and I've yet to see as many museums as we tackled during a one-week stay, circa 2002. But do not take this as a complaint. Our time is spent living in the warm space between tourism and proper residence. This extended stay (almost two months and counting) allows us to get to know our neighborhood and many of its routines as a local might knows them (granted, a local with only the haziest understanding of the customs and language of the place): which dry cleaner is cheapest (forget it, they’re all expensive), which market is open Monday mornings, which is open Sunday evenings; what restaurant serves the best omelettes, which one has the best pasta, the best bresaola, the best sushi, etc. We can take this local knowledge, and then dine like tourists, which is to say at our leisure, with each meal a memorable novelty. But I am led to believe, from evidence both anecdotal and observed, that in Paris, it is the locals whose lunches are two or three hours, and the tourist who are most often anxious to pay up and be on their way.

Oh, that’s probably unfair.

Lunch today was brisk for two courses, taken in at Indiana, the Tex-Mex café just across the Blvd. St. Germy. The waitress was from Sweden, (she looked very far from the stereotype) and when I asked if she knew of the Swedish rock group Bob Hünd, (which Dear Pal Peter loves so much, and which is my stock question to any Swede I chance to meet), she said she did, and she didn’t like them. But she was tickled I asked.

I will tell you what we have seen in Paris, and that is writers. It is fitting, because so many people around here are to be seen reading: out in the parks, in the cafés, on the Metro, (mais bien sur!), people of all ages reading. Two twenty-something chicks sitting next to each other on the iron chairs in the Luxemburg Gardens; a sulky supermodel and her boyfriend under the shade of a tree in Place St. Sulpice, a husband and wife in their twilight years—all reading, and usually reading books. And there are bookstores everywhere—in the same way Rome has churches—so many bookstores that I am boggled by their solvency. Don’t they all run each other out of business? Is there some special State dispensation to keep these bookstores going? And they are all specialty bookstores, mind you: ancient and rare books, photo books, art books, etc. How high could the margins be in such sleepy shops? Are they all surviving by selling to each other via the Internet? But our neighborhood remains dense with ‘em, and while clothing stores go in and out of business, dissolving behind windows suddenly painted opaque, only to be replaced by the incredibly quick installation of a colorful kids clothier, these “libraries” (which is what they call bookstores—and libraries are called “bibliotheques,” funnily enough) just keep going.

So you would expect to meet writers in such a bookish capital, and we have. But it is surprising the ones we’ve met, and how we’ve run into them. And I’m not talking about famous writers, writers I would recognize by sight (and who would that be? Shakespeare? Truman Capote? I guess Norman Mailer would be recognizable, Maya Angelou, too—but would you or I really be sure if it was indeed Naomi Wolf we passed stepping out of Balenciaga? Or John Grisham coming out Casa Bini? Scott Turow? Anne Rice? DAN BROWN? Pundits we’d recognize, studied up close during The News Hour {how fun to see Tom Oliphant, or Michael Beschloss up close—a little sad if it was David Brooks}{imagine Brooks as a Frenchman, applying his exburbs/urburbs/bobo formulas to the Parisian Arrondissement-scape “You CANNOT find a ‘plat’ for more than 16 Euros in the 5th, no matter how hard you look!”}, but enough on the lack of recognizable writers).

Today we were in the line at Le Champion, our local grocery store, waiting to check out. In front of us was an old, old man, stooped over a shopping cart, no taller than 5’ 1”, shambling forward with the line in a musty suit and overcoat. And when he heard Dear Wife and I speaking English (in low tones, I’d like to add—well, those who know me probably doubt that—but I do try to be discreet with both my English, and my abhorrent French), he began to talk to us. He spoke in a heavily accented English, accented not by a French background, but an Eastern European one. When he turned around to face us, I could see one of his eyes was pointed askew and a milky white. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and his hair was just as untended. The picture was of extreme age and unhealth. But he chatted amiably, wanting to know where we were from, etc., so we answered happily, though I found myself trying to avoid the direction of his exhaled breath—whether it would be foul or not, I was afraid of his germs. I’ve been sick in this city too long!

But trouble was brewing. In front of this man at the check out was a young lady, and she was attempting to pay for five bags of groceries (a lot by urban European standards). But there was a problem. She was very chic, short but chic, she looked a sort of Rachel Ray-type with a prettier face maybe, but hard to tell behind her large black sunglasses, worn indoors. And there was a problem with her credit card. The checker told her dispassionately that the card didn’t work (this in French—checkers as a rule do not speak English to customers, and I do not criticize them for this, nor do I assume one way or the other whether they know English, I just report what I’ve seen—their silence may be the result of some government regulation or workplace code for all I know). The chic girl didn’t understand the checker, and the checker kept repeating “Ne marche pas…” which sounds like “Neh mosh paw” to me.

Dear Wife and I didn’t want to speak up: we’re the souls of discretion, and understood that the only thing more humiliating than credit card denial in a grocery store is having it explained to you in translation by two perky marrieds. Certainly credit card denial in Paris while you’re wearing your super-chic indoor shades would be a tough spot for any of us. And with a platinum card, no less.

No one is immune.

The chic young lady spoke, and betrayed herself as an American. She’d guessed that her card wasn’t going through, but was frozen with indecision. I know this moment, when I am trying to think how I can communicate with this foreign person before me who doesn’t understand me, and who I don’t understand. I usually go for body language and facial expressions—she went for looking in her purse. We stood mutely behind the old man, watching all this, sympathetic and a little shamed at not intervening, but what could we do? Offer to pay for her groceries? It may seem plausible while writing the scene out here, but it was impossible without embarrassing the be-jeezus out of everyone involved. We weren’t alarmed, though; we knew the situation would resolve itself (how many times had we come across Americans struggling with some aspect of the grocery checkout process in just the month-plus we’d been here—and very often the one with the problem is us). But then the old man spoke up, explained that the card had been denied, which the girl had already figured out. The card was run again, and miraculously went through, (as often happens at Le Champion), so the girl was free to now begin bagging her groceries, which slowed the line down even more. You bag your own groceries over here, and it can still catch me out. Oh, we pampered Americans!

In the meantime, the old man told us he was a writer. Really? What do you write? And with that, he reached into a big travel bag riding in his grocery cart.

“Do you like zee mystery tales?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like zee… ghost storeez?”

He had produced a fair-sized soft cover volume, looking new, if a little abraded by the journey in his bag, and handed it to me.

“The Moaning Mansion & Other Tales,” by Leo Gaton.

“They’re not too scary, right Leo? I mean, I don’t want you to scare the be-jeezus out of us…”

No, no, he said. He said they were good, not like Stephen King. Then he said he would sell us a copy, and chattered that it was popular on Amazon, people like it, we would like it, and he could sell it to us for only 25 Euro.

Well, what was I to do? I began to think, maybe it IS worth reading. I looked at the book—clearly it was self-published. But then, wasn’t that the route we’d be going with on the anatomy book? And would I want anyone to discriminate against us for that reason? Maybe this little man, who could have believably come from the dark hills of Transylvania, had written this to exorcise some personal terror, or supernatural recollection. Perhaps within these pages lived authentic horror, experienced first-hand. Damn, it could be great! Real contact with the spirit world? He looks half bat just standing here!

He would sign it for us, he said as he paid for his groceries. He would dedicate it to us if we told him our names. As he laid his hard sell on me for the book, he would switch to an even more unnerving French for the check out lady.

I gave him the 25 Euro.

Dear Wife is much too polite to even roll her eyes in such a situation, but I could feel her interior groan viscerally.

“Yes, and I shall dedicate it to you both—vat are your namez?”

And that’s how I came to own this book, “The Moaning Mansion, etc.” by writer and part-time Paris resident (every year with his wife for a month or two, then back to San Francisco), Leo Gaton. I have been greatly disappointed with the stories themselves, as they are nowhere near as portentous and offbeat as our meeting with Leo. But we can console ourselves with the personalized dedication from the author himself:

“To Mardí and Claire,
Best Wishes,
Leo”

Desolé means "Sorry."

2005-10-24T23:44:00.000+02:00

Dear Wife acheived something very difficult today. She and the owner of our current apartment had been talking for a little while this morning, and mainly in French. Now that's difficult enough in my book, by Dear Wife did a lot better than mere conversation. She made a joke.

In FRENCH!

And the landlady laughed hysterically.

They were discussing the Wi-Fi ("wee-fee" remember, as it is pronounced here), and we mentioned the compelling network name that had been set up for her service, "txavier." This is the name we see in our Airport (wee-fee) status bar as the network we are logged onto. This network works just as any wireless network at home, as far as we can tell, emanating from a little box plugged into the modified cable outlet. We assumed this name, "txavier," came from the efficient and nice guy who came to install the wireless router for the Noos company: we figured maybe his name is Thomas Xavier, or something. But when we brought this up to our landlady, she laughed and said, "Oh no, it was the name of my ex-husband."

Oh, we said (I was sorta in on the conversation), and there was a pause.

Then Dear Wife said, "Désolé pour la souvenir." ("Sorry for the souvenir"--get it??)

And the landlady squealed with laughter, literally doubling over.

Dear Wife would hardly fashion herself a big joker, even in her native language. But here she was, cracking this lady up. Brava!

Here is the scene of yesterday's early morning contretemps. The Moose is on the right, the blue mystery nightclub is on the left. They have just removed the tarps from the scaffolding next door, allowing a better view of the place than was to be had Sunday morning.

I really should have been in church.

Am I ever sore. My neck is especially unhappy. A modest shiner seems to be coming on, though our landlady tactfully avoided asking any questions. Perhaps people guess it's a domestic problem.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

2005-10-23T10:11:00.000+02:00

I've told you about living across the street from "The Moose," aka "The Moosehead,” aka the bar that revels 'til dawn (and when the sun comes up at 7:30, that's saying something). Last night/this morning was particularly obnoxious. I was wide-awake until three something, and Dear Wife's intermittent sleep was ended around 5AM, to the sounds of singing and shouting and screaming. I've told you that the bar doesn't sound four stories down, it sounds right outside the window. Dear Wife finally gave in and rose at eight with some bitter words. I woke to this. And it seemed something had to be done.

I sit here writing this in bed, lappy on lap, a Ziploc bag of frozen peas applied to my neck (they've done all they can for the left orbit, thank you), the bells of Saint Sulpice ringing out densely from two blocks away, the sun bright, revealing a glorious day after yesterday's rains.

What happened?

Some guy let out a long yell, clearly enjoying himself. I jumped out of bed, looked down and saw four guys standing in the doorway of The Moose. Something had to be done. I went straight to the dresser (our dresser), put on jeans, a light sweater and my heaviest boots, the ones with the grippy soles, and told Dear Wife I'd be back. I didn't think. Instead of feeling rage I recalled being enraged about the noise, the endless American yelling and whooping, and now something had to be done.

Fortunately, the exit/entrance to our building is on a different street than The Moose. We come in and out on Rue St. Sulpice, which runs parallel to Rue ..., location of The Moose. Our apartment, in the back of our building (which, as you see, spans the girth of the block), looks out over this other street, the street of The Moose.

It was still dark out, but the first glow of dawn was coming. I rounded the corner onto Rue ..., and was alarmed to see a group of three big guys, one really big and with a military looking haircut, walking energetically toward The Moose. But they stopped one door before The Moose and went into a nightclub, an unmarked place with no windows that is only open on Friday and Saturday nights. More guys were standing out front, more in military haircuts. I saw no girls. They were all speaking French as I walked past, glowering. I wanted to find the guys at The Moose, the Americans (weren't they?), and tell 'em to shut up. But these guys had me a little unsettled. Are these the guys I've got a beef with?

At The Moose, one swarthy dude that looked like he had been out a long time stood near a girl in a fancy black party dress, who steadied herself against a wall with her head drooping, oblivious. From time to time the guy spoke quietly to her in French. I stood in front of them, looking into the bar. It appeared closed, all the chairs up on the tables, doors shut, Satellite TVs off, no personnel visible.

"Must be the guys at the club next door."

I went back. Two guys were standing out front: one youngish but tall, a friendly face. The other taller, an ugly, gaunt, hawk-like face and a military haircut, everything shaved except the platter of fuzz on top. A jarhead cut, here in the heart of Paris, the same style as his even bigger friend inside, whom I'd seen earlier. Were they in the military, the French military? It didn't look good, but I wasn't about to stop now.

I told them to shut up. I said it in English and I glowered. They looked at me. Neither seemed drunk, neither was being outrageously loud at that particular moment, but there was a general garrulousness in the air, though most of the revelers were inside right now. The two out front queried me in French. I repeated, "Shut up," said in a general way to let them know I disapproved of all the noise, and not just from the two of them, standing on the street.

The military haircut guy started getting angry.

The guy with the friendly face tried to look friendly and profess ignorance. He was to my left. I was concentrating on the hawkish jarhead, who stood maybe three inches taller than me. They were both speaking at me in French, laconically at first, then more insistently as I kept repeating my senseless complaint. I don't know what I wanted but I wanted to make it known I was pissed. I was trying to forget the unknown number of their compatriots inside (there were at least four more). I wanted to concentrate on the angry guy, the guy in front of me with his big water bottle, his totally alert features, his menacing tone. They didn't seem drunk, and this was bad, I knew—the crew cut in front of me was wild-eyed and agitated now. Now he was getting aggressive. What was my problem, they wanted to know in French. I wanted to tell them.

But I didn't know how to say this in French.

They got angrier, and I elevated my tone, still in English, but I was beginning to realize how ridiculous this was. I was standing there, glowering silently, not backing away, but my belief in my moral superiority was crumbling. "Dammit, this IS their country--and I can't even convey a simple message like, 'Shut up.' What the hell am I doing?"

Then he slapped me.

A girl suddenly appeared, she got between me and the jarhead (no disrespect to any military personnel, anywhere), and she was trying to speak some English to me. I don't remember what I said to her. She was between the military guy and me and maybe I tried to explain myself, maybe I didn't, but she was moved aside, and once these things start they have a way of running their course....

Dear Wife was upstairs still, oblivious of my intent, and heard a fracas. Then, from four stories above, she heard me loudly saying "Shut the fuck up!"

And then there was a fight.

When I came back upstairs she asked me excitedly, "Did you see the fight down there?!"

"Oh yeah."

The girl who spoke some English and tried to intervene was drunk, but she had stepped aside and I really didn't know how to respond to the slap—call my second and order some pistols? The guys inside the club had taken notice, but the guy next to me, with the friendly face, seemed neutral. I figured the friendly face wouldn’t sucker punch me as I argued with the jarhead, so I focused my attention on this guy who had slapped me. Some more words were said—maybe I said 'em. I know the crewcut threw an overhand right that I think skidded over my head as I moved in with a right forearm to his ribs, catching him fully, but not as hard as I hoped. I tried to plant my feet and turn my hips, to let my body do the work, but he was back at me so quickly I didn’t know if the shot had been worth a damn. I did feel the satisfying flexing of his ribs as my arm sunk into his torso, going for that exposed shelf beneath the pec. It landed perfectly. But he wasn’t down.

The rest is hazy.

The main danger, which I sensed from the core of my lizard brain to the tippy-top of whatever reasoning was still working, was the friends factor: namely, this guy had six guys on his side, and I had none. That math didn’t look good. So I fought the main fight with the jarhead sort of half-assed, constantly holding back, constantly watching for the intrusion of his buddies and worried about how to fend them off. Twice, when I had the advantage, his friends leapt in to jarhead’s aid, kicking and punching me from behind—but both times I managed to squirrel away and reset. So I was always trying to protect my flank.

Things that remain crystal clear, if inexplicable: I somehow had a hold of jarhead, and was driving him into a parked car, this after the first few blows, punches traded that I can’t remember at all, except my first. I remember running with him toward the car because I wondered, as we fell toward it, whether I should try to put his head through the passenger door window. It seemed very doable, but no, I shouldn’t—if I did something wildly violent like that, all of his friends would not hesitate to kick my ass with equal violence. And what about the car’s owner? He wouldn’t like a broken window. As I was deciding this, during what seemed the very slow action of moving toward the car, I remember seeing very clearly the looming car window, rolled down just a little, set in the chipped, black doorframe of a beater Toyota Tercel; "It looks like a Hyundai that was spray painted black," I think. Do they have Hyundai’s in France?

I settled for pinning the guy to the car, (which seemed miraculous, I have no idea how I’d gained the advantage through all this, it didn’t seem that even one of my punches after the first had landed, yet we were punching, not wrestling, and then I had grabbed hold and run him at this car), but as soon as I did, punches and kicks began to rain down on me from behind: his friends. They kicked hard, and they punched hard. One guy landed a good one right below the lower edge of my ribcage.

What would Tom Moon do?

As they were whaling on me I told myself don’t get knocked out, get away from their blows. The next thing I remember was seeing with penetrating clarity a metal post before me, one of the metal posts that line the edge of the sidewalks on these small streets, tall as a man's crotch and meant to protect pedestrians from cars—"Don't fall over that," I thought, spinning away; "Don't let 'em skewer you on that."

Then I remember my neck felt funny.

I got away from the guys pelting me from behind, and out into the narrow street. Luckily, the tall jarhead’s crew didn't want to end it, they wanted to see their buddy take me.

Maybe they’ll just intervene when I get a little too far ahead, I thought, but this thought suddenly sobered me, and I realized I could be in real danger here. “I’m on an empty, dark Paris street, surrounded by half a dozen French military guys wanting me to get my ass kicked….Keep it close," I thought, "But don’t give ‘em a reason to kill you."

This makes it sound like I knew what I was doing. In fact I was completely unsure what to do, and my actions were all reactive: he threw a punch, I tried to punch back—he rushed me, I tried to repel him and throw him somewhere else. Never does a strategy crystallize, except for, “Protect yr flank—don’t let his friends get involved—y're f'ed if they do."

I remember jarhead coming at me in a rage, leading with a fast right kick that pushed me back a bit, and opened me up for an overhand right. This sequence was repeated two more times, each time the kick is so fast it distracts me, and twice the punches connect, once on my orbit (zygomatic process), and once under my cheek, against the side of my jaw. After the first connects I think, "That didn't hurt so much;" after the second lands (again, a solid connection, but not too painful), I realize I’ve got to counter—but he’s so damn tall, his chin seems so far away, and I’m afraid of hitting his beaky nose by accident and breaking it and then really bringing everyone down on my ass.

The third time he tried this kick/punch combo, I countered (another right, I guess—it’s unclear—where was that left hook? Where was that defense?), and he seems surprised.

Then more punches between us, and I somehow get gain the upper hand again, getting him spun completely around me and driving him down, away from my punches and onto the front grille of another car that’s on the opposite side of the street from where we started. I remember holding back a little, not going all-out for fear of his pals—still, I connect with a few good, quick shots that get him laid out on the car’s hood, trying to defend himself. I remember feeling the pain in my neck and now on my jaw and wanting to repay him, but once I got him on the car and threw something decent (more rights, I'm sure), there were again blows from behind.

I figure that’s it, his friends have seen enough and now I’m going to get that almighty ass-kicking I’ve been avoiding all my life.

But no.

First a few smacks from behind, which become suddenly less vicious, all the steam going out of ‘em—then somebody grabbed me; it was the friendly faced guy, who just an instant before had been punching me half-heartedly (and kicking); I am pulled off of jarhead. And now a businessman is next to me, a sort of French Tom Bosley, Mr. Cunningham, carrying a briefcase, looking concerned, saying something and coming forward to break things up. All of jarhead’s friends are intermingling with us now, but not violently, and even as I try to see them, I can’t—it’s like my eyes will only identify jarhead, and anything totally unexpected, like the Tom Bosley figure—the friends won’t come into focus. They are just a dark mass crowding around jarhead.

As I was pulled away, I was already lamenting my woeful performance: "Did I even hit him?" I wondered. Wasn't I supposed to knock him out with a single, killing blow? But I couldn't say for certain if anything I'd done had worked. I remembered the blows HE landed, or at least felt ‘em. I didn't feel like I'd hit him at all--dammit, I blew it, I'm thinking to myself, watching jarhead struggle free from his buddies restraining him. I yell at the friendly faced guy holding me, who’s given me a quick clench as jarhead struggles free, “Don’t stop me, stop HIM, fer chrissakes!” Jarhead wanted to keep going.

But he never makes it to me. The old man is speaking to him, to all the French youths, and other people seem to be around now. The spell had been broken. I looked past the calm-voiced Tom Boeslée to the lights of the Gérard Mulot Patisserie on the corner, open now, a girl behind the counter staring back at me with a shocked expression.

Jarhead is too close to me, angry still. I squirm out from the grasp of the friendly-faced guy. Everyone’s talking in French, but it seems far away. They don’t sound too excited, except for crewcut, who’s shouting. He seems pissed. The sky is starting to get light. Is someone gonna call the cops? I turn away slowly, and without a look back walk down the street and around the corner, back to our place.

When Dear Wife, who was unsighted from our apartment and couldn’t see the fracas, learns I’ve been in a fight, she is completely shocked. This after she tells me she couldn’t see the fight from our bedroom window, but that the guy across the street came to his fifth floor window naked, holding his balls, and watched the whole thing. Being a public spectacle does have it gratifications, I guess. Dear Wife says she saw fighting, but it was a guy pushing down someone who worked at the mystery club and was carrying a box of empties out to the curb, that it was a tall guy who did the pushing, that he was raging at everyone, and seemed very pissed off until he was dragged inside by his friends.

That part was gratifying.

Our Apartment Building

2005-10-22T23:03:00.000+02:00

We're on what is called the 3rd floor in France, but corresponds to the fourth floor in the U.S. The ground floors are level zero, and I'm sure that makes some computer programer somewhere very happy.

In this photo, our apartment is the topmost full-sized unit, just below the attic storey, (every now and again we hear a heavy tread above our heads, but with such tall ceilings--12 feet, man--the noise is much less intrusive than I've experienced in apartments at home). All three windows on our floor open into our apartment, which I believe is 50 or 60 square meters, (maybe 500 or so square feet? I knew this dimension at one point, but I've forgotten it).

These are the two shops occupying the "level zero" of our building. They are on the back side of the building, over which our windows open. I've never seen the cremerie open, but then I rarely walk down this street because the entrance to our building is on the opposite side of the building, on the parallel street rue St. Sulpice.

Today I had the worst esophagal seizure yet. It was on a minor bit of duck from a really tasty and cheap little place not three medieval blocks from home. Dear Wife and I were eating lunch, and three bites into our delicious main course I experienced suddden lock up. Total misery. I could breathe, as always, but I couldn't clear it. I tried to in the tiny bathroom the restaurant supplied its patrons with, just off of the kitchen, but after15 minutes locked in there, I had to go. I went back to the table, sat down in the vain hope it was going to pass, and just as quickly stood back up and said to patient, understanding, sympathetic and long-suffering Dear Wife, "I'm gonna run back to the apartment--I should be able to get it free there," and left.

My barely unmolested dish was still on the table when I returned, Dear Wife looking lovely in her relief. It had been forty-five minutes, at least. A titanic struggle, ugly. Normally, release is followed by a relief so great, and so total, that I am able to resume eating almost right away. But this time was different. I was so stricken I just sat with Dear Wife for a long time, sipping a little water and testing myself with tentative nibbles of mashed potatoes. After a while I worked myself back up to regular consumption. So I ate a bit. Through all this the staff batted not an eyelash, never pestering Dear Wife about my whereabouts, or whether I was done or not (so she reported to me), and they did not even clear her plate until I had returned and finished with mine. Now that is discretion, Parisian style.

In the evening I visited one of the shops on the street below our windows, Pierre Samary, a purveyor of fine woolens and cashmere duds for dudes. I bought myself a handsome pair of wool socks, and more importantly, I learned that they carry linen boxer shorts every spring. "They come in around February," the friendly fellow with the scotch accent who runs the place told me.

I had a pair of linen boxers a few years ago, and didn't realize how difficult it would be to replace 'em. It has turned out to be impossible. I even charged Dear Wife with a mission to locate some for me on her ten day trip to Ireland last year--no dice. She found everything else imaginable done up in linen, but not men's boxers. And let me tell you, linen boxers are great--at least the pair I had. So I know what shop I'll be visiting come springtime, 2006.

And hopefully I'll be free of this nasty choking habit by then.

Feast or Fnac

2005-10-21T11:30:00.000+02:00

I like the sound of that.

Yes, we're on our way to return the euro-keyboard (my head hurts just thinking of trying to type on that thing). But where will our 59 EURO refund go? Probably to buy the 500 EURO worth of software now needed to allow the dblDVD burner to serve a purpose besides taking up valuable floor space. Valuable, hairballed, dust-bunnied, unlevel, creaky "parquet" floor space, with half-inch gaps between every board and no vaccuum cleaner to suck the filth out (we thought the cleaning lady would bring one).

Before Fnac (pronounced "fnac"), we are going to look at another apartment, as urged by our realtor. We are still praying for the little slice of heaven with closets on Rue Bonaparte. But the contract remains elusive, the owner enigmatic. We are patient, but less so ever day.

And now we've got to move all this computer stuff....

ONLINE and FINE

2005-10-20T06:43:00.000+02:00

Our Internet Service Provider (NOOS!) has finally recoverd, and we are back online. It only took two days, which is a hell of a lot quicker recovery than either Dear Wife or I have been able to effect for ourselves (yes, we still malinger). Yesterday was sad, both of us wandering around the apartment, not knowing what to do without our online world. "What the hell are these things for?" we wondered, looking at our offline orphans. My computer suddenly seems such a useless device without the internet, and doesn't that show you how much things have changed...I remember when everyone was being hooked up for "The Web" at my old employer BlueSky Software, and I resisted. A waste of time, I said. I have work to do, I said. How prescient.

So I celebrated our return to webdom with a shopping trip. I walked down the Blvd. St. Germy to the FNAC, which is a sort of electronics boutique, a nice one, without that Circuit City/Good Guys wholesale mayhem. Three floors of computers, printers, games (lots of games--I think my next pronouncement after, "Why the hell would people want to spend time on a 'web'?" was: "And who the hell's gonna wanna keep playing all our dumb video games?"

French people?

Funny to see games that friends have worked on lining the shelves over here--I think this was more exciting than seeing my own games oh-so-many years ago loading the walls at "Electronic Boutique" (or was it "ElectronicS Boutique"?). We hope they are earning lots of Euro royalties.

[I miss the ITALIC function on this Blogger text interface--my kingdom for a well placed slanting comment! (imagine that word "slanting" was italicized--see? It's much funnier that way!)]

I spent more than an hour investigating printers. For some reason I thought Dear Wife wanted a wireless setup, one where we could place the printer somewhere out of our way (say, the balcony--or the landing outside the door) and then without any worry over cord connections we could just press a button and voilá! Out pops my receipt for another online purchase! But WiFi [remember, pronounced "wee-fee" over here (oh does that cry out for italics!)] is so much more expensive, and the printer/scanner/faxes that are thusly enabled looked so ungainly. I dithered. [Which is what I spent a lot of time doing back in 1994--Oh! the tales I could tell of the vertical dither(italics)! What an axiom-smasher THAT was for the video game world!]

Instead I bought a dual layer DVD burner, an external hard drive (advertised as 200GB, but you spin that thing up and first thing it does is meekly announce "189GB real capacity"--what happened to the other 11?? The damn thing's blank! Does 11 GB now qualify as slough, as chaf? There are still lotsa folks who don't even have 11 gig hard drives in their computer!); also bought some dual layer DVDs to go with the burner (of course! Never mind that five of these babies cost 59 EURO's, which is like $13 or $14 bucks each(italics-a-go-go!)--clearly the first effective step ever taken toward combating piracy), and the coup de grace (remember it is pronounced "coo dA grawS," grace like "loss"--not "coo duh graw", which means "blow of fat" or "fat blow" versus "finishing blow"--though "fat blow" is kinda catchy...I offer this up not as the fruit of any expertise in FRENCH (esp. not any newly gained expertise--perrish the thought!), but because I was so effectively and punctiliouslly corrected on the pronounciation years ago by a student of mine that I can't resist playing the pedagogue on this one little phrase! I enjoy emulating her authority); the coup de grace was a wireless keyboard for my lappy. An Apple product. And the last thing I install, at around 10:30 PM.

The keyboard software goes in fine, I put the batteries into the keyboard and switch it on, the computer finds the keyboard's BlueTooth (where did they come up with that one?) and begins pulling on it. I see that we're in business, so I start writing an email to my mother (dear old Mom) (this is true!). I type what I believe to be, "Dear Mom," (I'm sort of formal as a correspondent), but onscreen what I've typed appears as, "Deqr :o;.".

What?

Now those of you that are scolding me because you know Euro keyboards are laid out differently than US keyboards, well, I realized that too when I pulled this baby out of the box, (it all came rushing back to me, our first days here, visiting the Cyber Cafe on Rue des Boulangers, keyboard confusion...). And I typed accordingly, looking at the keys (I always have to do that!), finding the "D", the "e" the "a", etc. But they came out wrong! I keep trying to type, keep getting letters coming up that do not correspond with the buttons I am pushing...hey, this is f'ed up!

It's after 11PM now, a no hoper for tech support back home, but wait! With our Vonage phone number (760 area code), I can call Apple Support in the States and it's only 5PM Eastern time.

A three minute wait: (reasonable in my book, esp. for the level of service they provide--lordy has that $300 bucks for Apple Care been worth it) a kindly technician: (not overseas--you can just tell--tho' I get lots of Canadians on Apple Support--does that count as outsourcing?) some fuddling around, and then, violá (second time used in this post). Turns out the computer was pretending the keyboard was really American, and just ignored all the little foreign signals it was trying to send. If I hit the top left hand letter key, which is labeled "A" on my euro-scheme key, my manly American Mac mainframe believed it should be "Q", dammit, just as Mom (dear Mom), God and George Washington intended. Doesn't matter if some snivelling French keyboard wants to "Wee-Fee" it some other way!

It all came down to clicking some other button. Somewhere. International preferences? Now I have a choice about what colors I fly: the little Stars and Stripes flying on my desktop masthead can be swapped pour Le Tricolour in an instant, and then my WeeFee can run rampant and free, with all its attendant accents aigu, EURO symbols and circumflexes.

I will be returning the keyboard tomorrow.
And my WiFi aspirations will have to wait until I can get a friend to bring me an American keyboard.
I'm too old to learn to type again...esp. never having learned in the first place.

KLEENEX for MEN

2005-10-19T15:56:00.000+02:00

Lemme say, one of the coolest things I've yet found in Paris, France, is this Man-Sized Kleenex Box. When Dear Wife and I first wandered into the corner apothecary's shop in search of cold remedies, I caught a glimpse of these babies hiding on a low shelf, and I did a double take. Being stupid with sickness, pseudofed, etc., I couldn't quite wrap my mind around what I was seeing, and therefore didn't summon the necessary strength to reach down and grab this mysterious carton.

But I didn't forget.

And when I returned to the place, and saw that, indeed, here was a goliath version of the Kleenex boxes I'd spent the first half of my life emptying with sickly gusto, I knew that I had to buy one, price be damned (5 Euros, a not inconsiderable sum).

Look how big they are!

They are bigger than my laptop!

Look at the size of this mighty container compared to Dear Wife's bookish spectacles. She couldn't believe these things. But we both agree they are the best Kleenexes we've used yet, on any continent. Their coming is especially appreciated after days of struggle with the prevalent nose tissue product over here, the dinky folded rags in the pocket-sized cellophane wrapper. God those suck. Over here they are incredibly abrasive, and I have rubbed my nostrils bloody raw with them. Regular Kleenex are also available over here, but thay are harder to find.

And now that we know Kleenex FOR MEN, we will never go back.

I think you will appreciate the manly bravado these snot rags evince.

I guess some marketers must have been worried that the Kleenex brand was losing out on that all-important 18-34 male demographic, and devised this product to reverse the trend. I haven't been watching any football matches over here (uh, soccer), but I am sure half-time sees a heavy rotation of commercials touting this product.

What we need are those Arch-Snots of Europe, MAN-chester United, to switch their kit over to Kleenex sponsorship. How intimidating would Wayne Rooney look with this on his jersey?

Clearly, a match made in heaven. And it would have the Queen's approval, a point the underside of the box is quick to trumpet:

How come we don't have any Presidential Endorsement for an All-American nose tissue?

Sicked

2005-10-18T11:51:00.000+02:00

Alright, I am tired of this now. So is Dear Wife. It's been over three weeks. We're halfway into a weeklong antibiotic treatment, and we sleep intermittently and wake feeling just as crappy as the previous morning.

I think we are allergic to the apartment.

Haven't heard anything from the real estate agency that showed us that unbelievable fifth floor oasis they so casually called "an apartment," (to us, "heaven with closets" wouldn't be too strong). We don't want to think about it, don't want to jinx it....

(...and for HALF what we pay now!!)

2005-10-17T11:07:00.000+02:00

I have been told this face looks like Homer, or Plato. I've been told it looks like a Civil War general. Or a great Russian author....

I think it looks like my new Blogger self-portrait.

Louvre in Pencil, pt. II

2005-10-15T11:14:00.000+02:00

Here is one from today. I like this one. Pencil is almost like cheating. And I'll take it--I need all the help I can get. It's the belly button area that's giving me grief. This could have been the most poetic, skillfull passage. Instead it's just...pffft! (Please note: both big toes were broken off of this marble statue)
CLICK ON THE PIC, y'know, for a larger view.

Louvre in Pencil

2005-10-13T10:58:00.000+02:00

Here are two pages from today's Louvre visit. They are in pencil, which is so much easier than pen. Done from sculptures. HOPE YOU LIKE 'EM!
(As always, CLICK on 'em for a larger view, which is damn near essential with work this refined.)

OK, OK, they're a little "piece-y," as we say: too many unintegrated spots, places where darks are jumping out, a mood of over-developed parts and underdeveloped whole.That's piece-y. But I'm working on it.

Renting Movies?

2005-10-13T01:04:00.000+02:00

I haven't yet.

But I was sitting, thinking about Dr. Zhivago, (or "Dr. Chicago" as I've called him for years, or Zhiv, MD as I'm thinking of titling my ruminations on the film over HERE at the "Evenings In/Evenings Out" blog, my journal of film meditation), and I would have liked to rent a copy, but I'm here in France now, and it's not as easy as driving to the local Blockbuster.

Dammit.

The Sunny Side

2005-10-11T18:33:00.000+02:00

A reasonable request was made by Dear Wife to go out for lunch today. Following our usual pattern, we worked through the morning, looking forward to a lunchtime break. We were both anxious to continue working, and didn't want lunch to become a bloated middle passage for the day, just a crisp invigorating walking in the warm sun to some tasty morsels, and then back home.

But the Pomme de Pain, or the Snack Time on the Boulevard, while quick, sounded bland. The adventure of yesterday made a routine meal unappetizing. "What about Dana's Mexican food suggestion? We could find that and eat there for lunch," I said. Dear Wife was hungry, and knew it would take a bit of travel to reach her old room mate's reccomendation, but thought this sounded OK. She looked up "Le Texan" online, gave me the address (3 Rue St. Philipe du Roule), and then I looked it up on the map. It was far away, up above the Arc d'Triomphe and near the end of the Rue de Faubourg, a street I'd never visited, but knew as a shopping mecca. "Be fun window shopping. We'll have to take the Metro," I said.

From our apartment it was further to the Metro than it looked on the map. I rarely consult the map anymore, and now that I've become accustomed to walking everywhere, I didn't realize how much hoofing I'd gotten us into, despite using the Metro for the bulk of the journey--well, so I thought. (It should be said that we rarely take the Metro--we just walk).

The Metro (the 12) was fine, but we had to take it from the Rue Tabac station since the Sévres station is closed, and on our way over there, we stumbled on the very chic rue Grennelle? and a Tod's store (Dear Wife's footware brand of choice). There were lots of interesting stores, in fact, and we lollygagged long enough in the sun that I was beginning to roast. I kept moving us to the shady side of the street. My back and brow were sweating, and after the ride on the Metro (uneventful, though our pride in this illusory competency was about to be, y'know, shattered). But Dear Wife's happy melody was becoming overwhelmed by some sour notes from her stomach, which, though inaudible, bagan to give her a pressured expression and fatigued posture. She didn't complain, but I could tell she was starving--by now I was, too. We came out of the Metro at La Madeleine, skirted this famous church (the church, not the children's book franchise, or cookie, both of which are spelled differently, I THINK)("franchise"? How insidious is this box-office, bottom-line, psuedo-business talk!). We found and passed the Ralph Lauren Polo store (in the windows Beryl Markham/Amelia Earhart stuff for les dames, the guys looking like high-end grape OtterPops in a pinstripe suits), and began trudging up the famous shopping street. Last night Fashion Week, Fall 2005 had ended, and on this following afternoon here we were walking through the front lines (Rue Montaigne must be CENTCOM), feeling anything but presentable (Dear Wife looked lovely, she just felt crappy) (whereas I looked AND felt like crappy). Lots of government ministries along this street, lounging their bulk between the fashion houses, and patroled by guards who shoo'ed us away from their shady stretches of sidewalk and back into the sun on the opposite side of the street for blocks on end.

The walk was much further than I expected. Dear Wife was wilting. Very few Bistros to be seen as we walked, and the ones we did pass seemed unwelcoming, filled to overflow with locals and fashionistas. We walked on.

At last we found the simple, one block long Rue de St. Phil.... But number three was no longer home to "Le Texan." "Le Texan" was gone, booted out for political or culinary reasons, who knows. The other restaurants on the street, which we inspected one by one (even sat down once, only to get up and walk on) were either too full, too smokey, or too questionable--and they were all too nice for the way we were feeling, which was very sweaty rabbit, very American, very Yankee Pot Roast to their bouiallbaise and foie gras.

"Let's just go to the McDonald's on the Champs Elysees," Dear Wife finally says.

No one's happy.

We see an inviting facade advertising Indian on the next street as we are walking toward the Champs--we walk over, but as we come closer we realise it is too fancy for us right now--but lo! A few doors down is "Le Chalet" a mock ski-lodge done in mid-budget style (which is just low budget style properly cleaned) . We walk in and a friendly "Maitre'd" greets us. They have non-smoking in the ubiquitous basement, which we see as we walk down STEEP STAIRS to be very much like a set from the original "Pink Panther." (Read the EVENINGS IN/EVENINGS OUT entry on the Pink Panther at evenings-in.blogspot.com)

Meglio stasera, baby.

A few drinks later, a tartine and a few crepes later, all is well. The staff is exceptionally kind, even by Paris standards (which I still say, despite all the other testimony, is a pleasantly high standard, better than San Diego, certainly better than LA and New York--esp. given my very insulting level of non-proficiency in francaise) (I didn't even have enough wits about me to drag the "t" sound from "et" onto the frontporch of the following "une"--which should have been "un" anyway, for my "café"). After lunch, I devised a route home that was far more reliant on rail, deciding to take the 9 to the 1 to the 4 to Odeon, virtually at our doorstep. Our return ride is swift, and we are even feeling strong enough to visit Le Champion and pick up two six-packs of water (1 litre per bottle) and carry them home.

Four hours have elapsed since we walked out the door.

"Baby, I'm sorry--lunch got bloated."

Again.

Frais means "Fat," I think

2005-09-14T23:56:00.000+02:00

The milk over here.

For at least 15 years, maybe 20 or 25 I've drunk only non-fat milk. But non-fat milk is a thing unknown in France, even in Paris. The best you can do is something they call Lait Frais 0,5 (I'm respecting their maddening preference for a comma over a decimal point--how do these people run an economy and engineer automobiles with commas substituting for decimals?!)

(Oh, I guess I answered myself there)

This milk only comes in one litre size, which looks like a quart. They don't offer the gallons we are used to in the States. And that's probably good, because boy, is it rich. Nothing like nonfat (water with some white dissolved in it). I can only handle a quart at a time. We have to get used to going to the store nearly every day if we want to keep ourself properly supplied. The small 'fridge here keeps us from any extravagant stockpiling.

I still like cereal in the morning. The Special K over here is great. But with this milk, it's like eating my morning cereal in a bowl of ice cream.

It's that rich!

So I'm trying to cut back on my milk intake. I don't want to become one of those fat Americans, esp. after going to the trouble of moving to France.

(And regarding the French know-how low-blow: I know, I know, Renault just won the Constructor's World Championship in Formula One, and God bless 'em--but they sure didn't do it in a Twingo, Mégane or Espace.)

Please Note: Photo added after the fact, once I learned how to do it.

Tuesday is Mardi

2005-09-13T12:02:00.000+02:00

Last night we resisted the overwhelming temptation to sleep until 9:30PM, which is just after nightfall here. Once all was dark we gave in to magnificent slumber, not stirring once in our heavy, dreamless sleep until the next day.

3:30 the next day. 3:30 PM, or 15:30 as they say over here.

That was some kinda sleep!

After 18 hours motionless and unconscious, we rose stiff and bodily disoriented. Food? Let's go out. Just down our quiet street (disorientingly quiet--"Does anyone live around here?") we came upon the noise and bustle of bigger avenues. In the midst of this pie-sliced intersections of Rue Monge, Rue Cardinal Lemoine, and Rue des Boulangers is a preeminent delta, and on this sits the Café du Cardinal. It looked mighty fine.

And it was. In the spirit of a new life, of starting over, I ordered a salad with ham, potatoes, tomatoes and egg, no coke, a cappuccino, and a litre of Badoit sparkling water. Dear wife had tea and the Omelette du Cardinal (3 eggs, chicken and ementhal cheese and tomatoes). The bill came to 28 euros. There was some smoking around us, but in our expansive mood, basking in the newness and endless possibilities of what lay beffore us, we were untroubled by this, each of us silently noting our ability to withstand second hand smoke while eating. "This is fine--in fact, it's damn good!"

Despairing over getting our alleged internet connecction running, we walked down to a cyber café just across the street from our apartment. We used one of their PC terminals, (which was strange to use, after years and years on Macs--"So this is how the other half lives. Huh. Tough fer them.") and with a little trouble, we were able to get our email. A young man ran the place, a slightly built asian guy with a hip haircut and outfitted in the current interrnational uniform of the acceptably hip: a nylon tracksuit top, tee, jeans with a modest flare that brushed their frayed hem against his bright fashionista running shoes. So the guy looked absolutely indistiguishable from many many guys I would encounter daily in San Diego, esp. in the hipper areas of town. And so often had I spoken to these guys ("Can I have that Chai with nonfat milk?") and so often had their voices answered, all sounding exactly alike--kids raised in America, of mixed race parentage (I don't know if that's unPC to say, but I felt uncomfortable just typing it--"I mean no disrespect!"), which is to say american kids, with all the self-conscious posturing and pronunciations endemic in their age group.

So it was very disorienting to see one of these guys over here running a cyber cafe, and though I ventured to speak to him in French at first, it was sort of a sham, and I expected him to reply in broken French just as unruly as mine and then he'd begin telling us how to log on and how much they charge per hour in that perfectly predictable American English hipsterease.

But of course, mais non, he spoke French and only French, and when my French failed me (somewhere after "Bonjour,") he was left to speak in low tones that I found completely incomprehensible. He looked just as confused when I spoke English.

Thank God Dear Wife was there.

Chuck de Galled

2005-09-12T17:37:00.000+02:00

A typical, hazy arrival in a foreign land, the two of us walking across the tarmac (ah, fresh air!) to crowd into strange airport buses, exhausted from pre-departure responsibilities that precluded much rest, and airline seats that precluded much comfort. We left San Diego on the eleventh of September, and arrived the next day.

September 11th, an anniversary on which I've flown twice now, and this time it was very noticeable how the solemnity of the day had faded to imperceptibility. In all of the air terminals and airline aisles I spent the day wandering, no one seemed particularly mindful of this anniversary, by simple forgetfulness or deliberately, I couldn’t say. The only real marker of the date was TSA’s higher level of emotional preparation and fastidiousness. They seemed consciously up for the responsibility of 9/11 duty (which one of them would not fear being the screener caught on tape handing Mohammed Atta, Jr. his briefcase of boxcutters?); they appeared less visibly defeated than I'd seen during recent air travel, a sense of importance in their mission somewhat restored, maybe a little more communicative with the passengers, and a little more civil in addressing each other. It was like they felt they were being observed a little more closely, a sort of "special inspection day" vibe, which went unnoticed I think, by everyone, except for the unhappy increase in procedural fastidiousness. And this is what had everyone miserable, the insistence by EVERY screener and official on seeing your ticket at every possible juncture in our miserable migration through the metal detectors. Never mind that the TSA flak now asking you for your ID just watched you show it to their partner 3 feet away.

And I sensed for the first time people not only resenting this—which I've noticed people beginning to do slowly over the last two or three years--but seeing the futility of it, for the first time seeing the futility hellish and futile world created by some overall scheme of incompetence and misdirected energy that couldn't be blamed on any one person but suddenly seemed an inescapable part of being American after the wars, the hurricanes, the unceasing violence and the endless continuation of everything we were told would change, the unchanging misery and stupidity that we all hoped would end. People were burdened by this, and it overshadow and even tainted the Sept. 11th anniversary.

To me this seemed a sobering watershed, everyone impatient in our overcrowded security line, the words, "God-damn-it" on the verge of slipping past the clenched teeth of every fuming face. Even I was pissed, and usually I'm very patient with that stuff, always finding jet travel a mortality gut check, reminding myself to imagine how terrible it would be to fall from the sky with hundreds of other helpless folk, and how truly awful it must have been on one of those hijacked planes. But now people are past that, and even for me the horror is fading, and now we just want to get on our bankrupt airline flights and get our damn shoes back on.

So we arrived a day after leaving, 11AM or so on the twelfth, and lingered in the Charles DeGaulle Airport to change travelers’ checks at the AMEX office in the terminal (Dear Wife discovered this convenient place in her preparations for our trip, and it worked great). I suggested we take a commemorative photo of ourselves in one of those great photo-booths that live in the nooks and corners of so many public interiors here.

I think we looked damn good, considering.

We tried to decipher the scant signage referencing taxis, but were confused by what little we found, and I asked an airport worker for directions in what I thought was French-ish, if not actually French. He answered in French (I understood nothing) and then asked if I was Italian. I considered this a moral victory and didn't correct him. We kept wandering—you know the scene, disoriented couple pushing overloaded baggage cart, awaiting disaster....

We drove into La Cité in the biggest mini-van taxi I could find (declining a continual stream of taxis after we'd reached the head of the inevitable queue, waving our fellow travelers past until we were offered a rig big enough for the job—and even this one ended up being a tight fit!). We had a lot of luggage to load--did I mention our luggage? My second checked suitcase (the fourth in our complement of full-sized checked baggage), is one of those hard cases made of hi-impact PVC, and into which I packed everything heavy—like all our books (and we thought we left behind SO MUCH!). This weighed in at 95lbs, and that cost us an extra $125.00, but mercifully all of our other bags were allowed the OLD maximum weight (75lbs?), whereas all four would have carried transit surcharges if they’d applied the new, post-bankruptcy standard. As it was, we had to do with the crimson shame of multiple “HEAVY” stickers applied to every piece of luggage we put on the scales.

I helped the taxi driver by loading some of our bags, but when he moved to lift my monster case (the Porta-Studio), I told him to wait for my help. He didn’t care to wait, and tried to give it a solo heave anyways—I found the look of sudden shock on his face very gratifying.

And thank God they allow us males a laptop/briefcase AND a carry-on!

On Our Way

2005-09-11T17:20:00.000+02:00

Airline travel causes my Dear Wife great anxiety. Always eager for a trip, but never happy to hear the announcement that our group is now boarding, she will sit silently as the plane begins to back away from the gate, craning her neck to look about for the source of every new sound. Once in the air any rustling of the fuselage (esp. those sharp hydraulic throbs and jabs) causes her to leap. If not totally discombobulated, she certainly has a hard time remaining combobulated. When the turbulence becomes stronger, she will resignedly fold her upper body forward and literally rest her head between her knees, all without complaint. It is actually very touching. I have always wished I could help her. And now I have a found a way.

Move to Europe.

We've been so long preparing for this trip, on every front, logistically, financially, and emotionally; and then, unable to rent our house, we decided to put it on the market two weeks before leaving. I would say all this craziness kept us so occupied and preoccupied that after weeks of racing just to finish as many tasks as possible, we were glad to get on the plane--but we weren't even glad. We were just out of body.

Trying to figure out what we should bring for a year living overseas left us boggled and baffled. I surrendered to the overwhelming sensation and let my hand be guided by a sort of instinctual attraction. A suit? Yes, I like suits. I think I'll take three. Heavy wool sweaters? Um hmm.

"If we need (BLANK), we can just buy it," Dear Wife and I would shout to each from different rooms, packing the morning of our flight.

Now that we're here, a soft fear has risen in my chest that inevitable calamities begotten by our inevitable oversights shall soon be visiting us. Did I cancel that service? Did I properly enroll for online bill pay with all of my outstanding accounts? We even changed banks three weeks before departure. Total chaos.

We left behind the printer/scanner. We brought software. We left music CD's (I'd barely copied any to my hard drive before leaving--just didn't have time to get much beyond "The Mellomen" and "The Firehouse Five plus Two"). We left DVD's ("I regret this most", Euro Chino and Dear Wife, in unison, Oct. 29, 2005). And our largest suitcase wound up dominated by anatomy books and drawing gear.

In the short drive to the airport, Dear Wife's father (aka, Respected and Feared Father-in-Law), had been given packages to mail, pages of instructions for front door reassembly (lavishly illustrated by you-know-who), garage door openers, a begging request to go get my fabulous fancy ladder from my old studio (I left it behind!), and still more keys. His head full of all these missions and admonishments, he stopped at the terminal curb and we said our goodbyes (no tears, it's a positive thing afterall), and then we clambered (yes, clambered) out of the minvan, faced our obscene amount of luggage that still felt like half of what we needed, and waved "Au revoir, et à bientôt!"

And after all that, Dear Wife didn't really seem to care what happened to the plane.

Striking Northwest mechanics were picketing the terminal entrance, one with a memorable sign "Hope You're Feeling Lucky." Dear Wife shrugged apathetically. I wanted to explain to them, to say we bought the tickets months ago, and we hope there is a quick resolution they find satisfactory. I didn't. The ticket counter representative said she couldn't talk about the strike with an expression that could have been mocking our concern or signalling her sympathy with the mechanics, I couldn't tell. We were unnervingly delayed on our first flight by "maintanence issues" for an hour and a half. Dear Wife was unfazed. Still perfectly combobulated. Our late arrival in Detroit made for a tight connection, but when we checked the gate, people seemed to be milling around, waiting to board, so I thought picking up some quick Mc Donald's to bring along would be OK. But the counter workers at "McDo" (as the french call it) weren't feelin' it, and gave me a good blast of Detroit vibe while failing to fill my simple order in less than (seriously) 15 minutes--with all the items I'd requested just lying about in their little slots, waiting to come with me to France! I tried kindness, (smilin big, "Thanks!")--I tried authoratative calm ("That McNugget right there? I believe that's mine...."), I contemplated imitating Peet's urban cred, ("Hey yo'--them's my Nuggets, man"). Nothing. I kept looking back at the gate, watching everyone board, and soon everyone was gone, with just Dear Wife left alone, looking uncomfortable. I plead one last time to be handed the entirety of my order, grabbed what I could when refused, and ran to our gate.

And then stood in the jetway for the next 20 minutes along with 50 other people waiting to board the plane, my food getting cold.

One other food note: I try to order the Kosher meal whenever we fly, which has offered two benefits: I'm the first to be served, and it is usually damn good. The fact that it might put me in the front line of any hijacking situation by Jihadists is just a bonus ( TERRORIST: "Give me the list of everyone who ordered the kosher meal! Line them up here!--next, all the people that ordered the ham sandwich!!"). But aparently anti-semitism is becoming pervasive, because these meals sucked. Maybe it is a slyly anti-terrorist ploy, since those boys keep as kosher as any Orthodox Jew. I recall a frightening cabbie in Boston, circa '99 (the Sargent Retrospective at MFA) detailing how he and his "room mates" insisted on ordering their pizzas uncut, "So that we know it is untouched by the blade of the pizza cutter, which is defiled because it has touched pork."

"But you don't have any pork on your pizza," I said.

"But it has sliced other pizzas WITH PORK," he says with a menacing look in the rearview mirror.

We had a very nice flight attendant on the overseas leg who was from Germany and said I was cute. I fell asleep for a while until jostled awake by some turbulence. I looked over and Dear Wife had silently folded over and placed her head between her knees.