Arrival Day 2013 – Winter

Everything went as planned. 50 minutes from touchdown to sitting in a taxi. 50 minutes more to the hotel door (there was a little traffic). We saw homeless encampments all along the highway, we saw Aeroville in the distance, it was raining lightly. When the fast line in the passport control was empty, I was seen leaning against this thing that looks like a giant round desk (with my walking stick, which I do not call a cane, thank you) and a nice lady beckoned me into the fast line. It saved us about 10-15 minutes is all, but it is yet another example of the French attentiveness to common sense and to people with reduced mobility.

Check-in at the hotel (Hotel Paris Rivoli) couldn’t have gone faster or better, complete with a sweet little lesson in French from the man at the desk. He knew within two sentences of our speech that one of us was mostly American, but wanted to know a little more and we had a nice little discussion of French Polynesia and California (he used to live in L.A., had never visited our little hometown, but knew a beach nearby).

Then we crashed for 3 hours. Room is sweet, clean and more than enough for us. We have two little balconies, which is nice for checking the weather. Also for people watching. Really fun people-watching. Elevator works. It’s cool to stay in a hotel with all the little brochures.  THIS one is right in the middle of a neighborhood we know well, so after sleeping for about 3 hours, we freshened up (French style bathtub, no shower curtain, just like at home), and headed out for a walk. We walked past Saint Paul as the bells were ringing. We finally walked down Rue des Francs Bourgeois (fun, but I see why people wish it had stayed traditional). The garden at Carnavalet looked just as nice in winter. Lots of other medieval and somewhat newer buildings (we’re staying right off François Miron).  Room has a small closet, two little sleigh beds pushed together, hooks for purses and things and good quality soap.  There are abundant cafés nearby and an ATM right outside the door.  Have not yet tested whether cards work.

Went to tabac on Rue de Sevigny where very nice man sold us carnet and advised waiting to recharge Navigo Decouverte.  V.  figured out bus route to D’Orsay for the Male Nude exhibit tomorrow (bus stop right outside hotel).

Oh, almost forget:  we went to an art opening just around the corner, even into the caveau (V. had no trouble with claustrophobia; I definitely felt a little old to be there, which is unusual but…it was really a party for younger people…great exhibit about gender and gender-bending though).

In the end, we went to what must be one of our favorite cafés in all of Paris, it’s not on TripAdvisor and has only 3 Yelp reviews. Thank the gods. Sometimes we are the oldest people there, but as usual, tonight we were one of two fifty-something couples. Everyone else was young. Gay couples, solo female travelers, solo female locals, friends out with tourists, young French people sitting outside smoking. Prompt, correct service. We both had the same thing. Planchette. What is my thing with merguez? I really like it with hot mustard. V. ate half my other stuff, but none of the potatoes (they call them dauphinois or something, but they are roasted new potatoes with skins, and they taste SO good; we have no potatoes like this back home; we wondered if winter potatoes would be as good). Pichot of wine (red, Montagne Saint-Emilion) was very good.

We are NOT cold. I was too warm in the restaurant. My intuition that I should wear lightweight things under my coat was correct. Coat was perfect. I didn’t mind getting rained on a little (it was such a light rain), but I had a hood. My turtleneck with layering piece was too much for sitting inside. Turtlenecks may all stay here and never see the light of day again – regular clothes with a jacket seem to be the way to go. Newish Merrill rain/snow boots were fine in terms of comfort and there were some puddles, so that was good.

Saw the most adorable baby clothes. A designer dress for a 9 month old and an adorable military jacket for a 9 month old boy. And much else. Could not follow rule of buying immediately because it was past 7 pm.

Now for the HIGHLIGHT! ICE SKATING! Ice skating, decor at BHV (I know it’s not Galleries Lafayette but it’s very cute and we have nothing like it at home). Ice skating! And the statues at Hotel de Ville watching everything; misty Notre Dame in the distance and that spotlight from the Radio Tower they have here. BHV is very nicely lit up for Christmas.  Naturally, we did not ice skate ourselves.

We had café gourmand, after wisely deciding no entrée. Yum. We toasted Utah’s new stance on gay marriage, we toasted France and in general planned our time for tomorrow. Supposed to be at D’Orsay at 11:30. And still haven’t accomplished primary mission of seeing the windows in the Grands Boulevards.


Paris is lucky


I know that Parisians have their own problems, as all people do. And as we gazed tonight on the Golden Being atop the July Column at Bastille, I thought about how hard Paris tries to remember its past. The memorials to the people who disappeared into Auschwitz and into other atrocities are everywhere.  Memorials to historic events reside in so many street names.  Pont Alexandre III commemorates a gruff, somewhat ill-mannered Tsar known for his musicianship and his dedication to making sure he remained The Tsar of All the Russias, an autocrat who just missed being a tyrant.

Earlier today, we walked in Le Marais to one of our favorite gardens, which is near an elementary school and on the school building is a memorial to the children who were taken away with the cooperation of the Vichy government.  The memorial is right next to the place where parents are reminded about upcoming school events – no one can truly forget.  We took a different route than usual (and ended up finding a side door into St. Paul’s) and found another garden, gated, and placed at the spot where a 45 year old man and his 15 year old son fought, to the death, rather than be taken by the Germans. The daughter of this man survived, and the garden is her memorial to them. It was lovely, it was sad, and it was about courage.

We also saw, again, the longest segment of Paris’s old defensive wall, built 1190-1200 (Louis-PhilippeI think). This time I really took the time to marvel at its turrets and its age. It’s now the back wall of a playground/basketball court and still doing its job. It’s also on the street where Rabelais once lived and there’s a plaque at the point where they think his home once stood. Husband and I are both big fans of Rabelais.

This was all on the way to St. Paul’s, sans breakfast.

I am not a traditionally religious person, but you’d have to be anti-human not to be moved by the reminders of how often gallantry and courage are rewarded by a painful death, or how sad it is for mothers (and fathers) to lose their children. To me, it seems good to remember, because it brings us all together in our collective mourning – and for those who are incapable of this kind of sentiment, I feel both pity and a definite sense of being “other”.  This is a reason I like to go to churches, to ponder the circumstances that made so many people turn to faith.  Perhaps it was because they felt their feelings so strongly, and there was so much despair.

Most people, though, are moved by sculptures like the Pieta once owned by Marie de Medici (cruel as she was, she loved her son) which is now inside St. Paul’s.  I’m on something of a quest to see as many works of the prolific Delacroix as I can.  A master of realism, in a way not often seen since, he is called a romantic because, well, he puts so much emotion into his work.

christ on the mount of olives

His painting of Christ on the Mount of Olives is filled with the pain of a man contemplating his ultimate fate and knowing, as only some of us do, in what manner he will likely die. I think about the people I know with serious illnesses, people who will not survive those illnesses, people who have already died bravely – like Moira, who fought breast cancer from age 28 until age 42 and died between our visit last year and this year. And you know what? There was a glow about her.  Delacroix captures that in a way that even I, a non-student of art, can see.

Our day had started by getting up early to meet a professor of art history and architecture, from whom my husband had purchased a painting, a minor impressionist who painted the first known impressionist painting of Saint Etienne-Du-Mond, one of my very favorite churches.  The man has an apartment in Paris and came up to do some errands and hand deliver the painting on our first full day here.  It is really a treasure and now we have to figure out how to get it home. We’ll need a big suitcase, I guess. We see other people with huge duffel-rollers, so they must exist.

Anyway, I wasn’t expecting St. Paul’s to compete with Saint Etienne-Du-Mond.

We’d seen the outside of St. Paul’s, of course, and I had heard the interior wasn’t “all that.”  That’s because it lacks the stunning stained glass of the Gothic churches, and, for a royal church, it does seem rather plain.  Louis XIII died before completing it, I think. The first mass held there was conducted by Richelieu, which made me sit and think a bit more about history.  The church tries hard to be a royal interior, but without a mandala, without a unifying and universal symbol of light and enlightenment, the interior is a bit too much of a memorial.  Joan of Arc, whose representations I always want to see, is tucked into a corner, but she’s there, as much a reminder of human excess and violence as Bastille or Place de la Concorde.

But Paris does remember, it’s all there, in plaques and commemoratives, for the person who can read.

So we strolled down the street opposite St. Paul’s to catch the classic view of the façade and found a little Spanish tapa place, dedicated to bull-fighting, where it was good to have lunch.  I had quiche and some spicy potatoes (I’ll eat red chile whenever I can find it in Paris, Paris’s only real contemporary misfortunate is to be lacking enough spicy chile).  There were red chiles strung all over  and blinking red lights behind the little bar, and tables full of mostly grown-up and older French people ordering huge broquettes and dozens of tapa dishes.  I had a wine called de Solsticio, from Spain, and it was touched with vanilla and was a nice contrast to the excellent potatoes.  France may not have chile, but it has surely embraced the potato and they taste better here than in the US of A.

Then, we walked over to Hôtel de VIlle and found the fashion exhibit. For years, I’ve wanted to visit Galliera or whatever the fashion museum is called, but it’s always closed. Too delicate to be exhibited in the current space or something.  So they designed this amazing space inside Hôtel de Ville and put up dresses from 1865 to now, often with older pieces side by side with the modern dresses they inspired.  My favorite was a green 1920’s gown by Madeleine Vionnet (I need to check her name, not sure that’s right).  But there were so many dresses from the 10’s and 20’s that were just…beyond words, in real life. Something happened in the post-War years, the 50’s dresses were just as I remembered them, even the haute couture looks like it belongs at a barbecue instead of on the runway. Okay, I exaggerate, but only a little.

They wouldn’t let us take pictures, but here is a sample of  Vionnet (not the one I saw, but two other designs):

vionnet2 vionnet

And here is Mme Vionnet herself:


Yes, there was a real Chanel suit from the 1950’s, but the Chanel blue beaded dress from the 1920’s was a show stealer and even Coco’s “daytime” dresses (so simple, so feminine – why can’t they make a simple dress these days?) had an entire audience of admirers. The exhibit wasn’t too crowded, mostly women of course.  Lots of mothers and daughters, and quite a few grandmother, mother and granddaughter trios, most of them so tastefully dressed – well, that spoke for itself. That’s why Paris is lucky. It not only has many people willing to allow their treasured garments to be exhibited (the pieces were owned by so many different private individuals), but it has people willing to dress to come out to see them. The gloves, the fans, the shoes, the bits of embellishment exhibited as art rounded out the exhibit.

The exhibit was free.  We were there maybe two hours.

Then, back to the apartment on Ile Saint-Louis for a nap. We’ve given up on jet lag management and just sleep whenever. Husband wanted to go hear jazz, but was so hesitant to propose it, as the idea was that we were already tired. But, I pointed out, we were also going to be hungry eventually (I had ordered two small tapa dishes, and he ate half of one of them, not realizing that was my whole lunch, and we didn’t have breakfast). So he called and got a reservation for one of the few remaining tables at the jazz club and we found the bus to get there. This is quite a step for a person who started speaking French just last year and who hates telephones. The person on the phone switched to English (and greeted my husband warmly when we arrived).  We took the bus (for the first time, actually) to get out to Rue de Charonne, just beyond Bastille.

Angelo DeBarre is one of the world’s finest and most accomplished guitar players. He often plays much larger venues, but his “home club” is in Bastille and there, the lucky locals get to hear him frequently, and people come from all over the world to listen. His quartet (violin, rhythm guitar and bass) are superb musicians as well. The food wasn’t bad either.  Now, I know I’m going to be eating lots more French food, and since I actually love steak tartare, I know that a French cheeseburger is, well, for me it’s ambrosia.  Fresh sesame bun, the best onion, and nearly raw hamburger (it is warm in the middle though, husband swears the last French hamburger he had was still frozen in the middle). This meat was never frozen, well seasoned and so tasty.  Could not eat the rest of the meal (too full), but the fingerling potatoes were great. Of course there was an entrée first, I had creamy risotto with mushrooms (excellent) and he had salmon tartare (also excellent and we think we worked out the recipe well enough to try it at home).  He had chicken tikka masala as his main, and he said it was great. Usually I’d taste it, but…really, had to have every bite of that burger (I don’t eat burgers much at home, only in Paris, because they taste the way they used to taste out on the plains of eastern Colorado and Kansas when I was a kid, and they don’t taste that way most places back home). We joked about dessert.

Angelo and his quartet are Rom (gypsy) and there were quite a few gypsies at the club. Angelo seemed to remember my husband (also a musician) from last year, smiling a greeting as he passed. We were too tired to go out and talk to the musicians and their crew, but they were friendly and lots of other people did.  Lots of video-making and picture-making. GIrls in lovely outfits, my favorite was a white tiered miniskirt paired with a black lace turtleneck and black leather jacket on a winsome young redhead.  They played this song:

And many others.

In the end, we stayed through two or three sets of amazing music, including Michel LeGrand’s I Will Wait For You and My Blue Heaven and a lot of other standards.  Vioinist Florin Niculescu has those jazz harmonics down perfectly and DeBarre’s 20-something son is coming along as a second rhythm player.  There were these moments of musical humor too, and a lot of the audience got it.  Los Angeles is known for its music, but you’d go a long time to jazz clubs in L.A. and never hear anything like what we heard tonight on our second night in Paris.  Yes, it was like Django and Stephane (and I’ve heard Stephane live – I’m that old).

After midnight, as we walked back to Ile, outside Starbucks, a woman (who was probably gypsy) bedded down with a baby and a small child.  Recently, 400 Roma were evicted from an illegal campsite in the woods north of Paris and dispersed. I guess it must be safer for them to sleep in front of Starbucks?  At any rate, for our own reasons and because we have both spent time helping refugees and other displaced persons back home, my husband gave the woman some money and we joked that, as we don’t spend $5 a day on Starbucks like many of our students do, we can afford to help a gypsy woman. So one day, and gypsies in two different lights.  The woman seemed astonished that we’d give her anything and was grateful.  She spoke French.  She was not begging at the time, she was simply trying to get her kids to sleep.

We stayed out later than the bus ran, so we just walked home. On the way home, I kept seeing this searchlight sweep the sky. Being tired, all I could think of was a Hollywood premier – or a car dealership. What could it be, I wondered?

Then I remembered. I am in Paris and that is the beacon on the Eiffel Tower.

It’s okay to be in love with a city, and it’s okay to shed a few tears for the sake of beauty – and the effort that Paris makes to be real and to be beautiful at the same time, for the fact of its survival and its civility.

Post Parisian Blues

I’ve been melancholy before, of course.  I never experienced anything like post-partum depression.  The years immediately followng Katey and Megan’s births were the happiest in my life, it was more like post-partum euphoria.  Just thinking about how much fun it was getting to know those two as infants makes me start crying – today.  Usually, I can think about it without crying, but from the moment we landed at LAX, things started making me cry.

Of course, I was exhausted and jet lagged, but after sleeping normally, it was the grocery store trip that forced some of the painful realizations.  Of course, I’m getting older and therefore, one might say, more prone to mood swings.  There were some interesting changes in the grocery store, in just one month, changes that had begun before I went to France:  less variation in items on the shelves.  No fresh pomegranite juice in any brand, no fresh blueberry juice.  Were we the only consumers of it?  Was our month long boycott enough to make the store – a rather large Von’s – stop stocking it?   No croissants (they usually have them).  Remarkably less diversity in fruits.  Is this because diesel is so expensive?  That was going on before we left.  The produce department looked way more like it did when I was a kid.

In Paris, of course, it’s a whole different system.  Every neighborhood has its produce markets and the produce comes in fresh from local sources.  When you fly into Charles DeGaulle or Orly, you can see miles of beautiful farmlands, and when you drive through the countryside, it’s like driving through miles of salad.  The carrots in France are amazing.  I loved raw carrots as a kid, rarely can stand them now in the U.S. – they don’t taste like carrots.  French carrots, on the other hand, are like those of my childhood.  I hate cooked carrots, but cooked carrots in France became one of my favorite foods.  Of course they cook them in wine and onions.   Even our onions, which are still edible, completely lack the variety in taste that Parisian onions do – oh, how the Parisians must take for granted their amazing produce, and I wonder what they think about our food, when they’re here.  How do they stand it?  Especially if they’re on a road trip in the U.S., how do they tolerate the typical roadhouse salads we serve?   In France, it’s not just wine-tasting that improves the taste buds, nearly every food does.

Anyway, the kinds of food we have in our stores, the hugeness of the stores, the expense of the lighting, the vast waste of energy on frozen food (all of it sucks, let’s face it), the enormous amount of bread – each one nearly identical in terribleness to the next one (same with the yogurt, same with the jelly, same with the honey, same with the milk), all of this using so much energy to stock and store, while I overhear store employees talking about their working conditions.

In Paris, I’ve now had the opportunity to go to the regular grocery stores many times and, well, the people who work there don’t spend any time in conversation with each other at all.  I had to think about my mom and the complaint she raised (my dad agreed) in the last decade of her life:  that nowadays, grocery store clerks talk too much – especially to each other.  Now, Mom had gone blind and so she noticed their gabbing way more than others, perhaps.  But I had started to notice it too.  Back from Paris, it’s like a stone in my shoe.  Two guys are talking about how dirty one of the dairy cases are, and how understaffed the store is and how they’re working overtime, but can’t ever get everything clean, much less stock things on time.  There are things on the shelves that are beyond expiration date, they say, but they can’t take care of that because during the night a delivery man dumped cases and cases of butter on the back dock without waiting for anyone to receive them, and when the fog finally burns off, the butter will have to be brought into the big refrigerator cases – that, said one, had to to be the one guy’s priority.  The more talkative guy said he was just putting out enough milk and butter at a time to try and satisfy the existing customers, that things had been in the big cooler for days without getting out to the shelves and he had no idea how the produce department was coping with the fact that not enough workers were on the floor.

By the way, my French is now good enough that if any store employees had been talking, I would have gotten the jist of their conversation.  Even in small shops, like the  wondrous Diwali Scarf Shop, the two shop girls are focused on the customers.  They stand a decent way away from you while you’re browsing, but if they see you liking some particular scarf, they tell you if it comes in more sizes and that they have new ones in stock and what other colors it comes in, things like that.  They judge your degree of interest, you look at them, you have a conversation and you get a great scarf – unhandled by anyone.  Then they want to know how you want your scarves wrapped – if they’re for different people, each person’s things go in one nicely stapled bag and this is all done quickly and so sweetly.  If there’s some special way a particular scarf can be worn, while they’re folding and packing, they quickly demonstrate, they do not talk to each other about paper towels.   If a scarf comes in two closely related colors and they think you might have missed that fact, they quickly show you, to make sure that red is exactly the red you want.  And you really should see how many reds they have.  And corals.  And blues.

Back at Von’s, the two guys in the dairy section were still talking.  Apparently, a lot of people are on vacation.  The manager should not expect total cleanliness or efficient stocking of shelves.  But, then again, neither worker was working throughout this conversation.  Maybe this happens in Paris too, but I just didn’t see it.  Maybe it was their break time.  Everyone in France seems to take their work  seriously enough that more than a minimum of competency is achieved.  Customers, too,  are expected to be competent and ready at the check out counter, have their money out, help to pack their groceries (or just pack them).  Nearly everyone has reusable bags, everyone puts their things on the belt efficiently.  Clerks are few and they all are seen to be working (and since many times we were mistaken for French people, it wasn’t just because they were pretending to work while Americans were there).

Again, back at Von’s, one person – a store worker – is purchasing two melons, a couple of pineapples and two packages of grapes. She used the entire check out belt for these five items.  They stretched from the very beginning of the belt to the end.  She did not put the little bar down that signifies the next order – she couldn’t have, her melon was in the way.  So me, with my big bag of groceries, could not get started putting things on the belt.  I thought about my spine and all the items in the cart.  How I longed to get started and do my own job of putting things on the belt the way I wanted to, without feeling too rushed.  The checker, the store employee/fruit buyer and the bagger began a conversation.  First it involved someone being late to work, then it involved someone not coming back from vacation on time, then it involved the fact that only one regular lane was open, while there were two express lanes.  The person behind me looked a bit more exasperated than I did, but I was too tired to show any exasperation.  I thought about simply collapsing on the floor or bursting into tears.  The belt did not move.  A fourth worker joined the conversation to ask if she had the right paper towels to go into the store restroom.  They were different than the usual ones, but, she said, they were the only ones on the stock shelves way at the back of the store.  Could someone go and look and see if they were the right ones?  The checker assured her they were the right ones.  “The old kind are too expensive, we’re using this kind now.”  “But they’re terrible!” said the fourth worker.  “Look at this!”  She demonstrated out when one tried to pull on the paper towel roll, it shredded like thin tissue paper.  “And it’s rougher than the other one!”

No fruit had moved.  No one had though to move the food closer together.  I’m still thinking about how many times I’ll have to bend into the grocery cart to collect all the catfood and wishing that instead of always asking me if I want help out to the car and instead ask if I want help taking things out of the cart (God Bless Trader Joe’s).

In the middle of the paper towel issue, while I am still standing patiently, in a reverie about various things, the clerk suddenly shouts to someone two checkout stands over about the paper towels.  I had grown unaccustomed to shouting in Paris, Parisians are generally very quiet.  The person could have gotten the message to the fellow employee without such shouting – and there was, after all, a person sanding holding paper towels who could have walked 10 feet to ask the question.   As it was, the shout took place about 48 inches from my ear drums and I could feel my pulse rate accelerate.  When you’ve been traveling, and people shout only in true emergencies (rare), shouting is alarming.  It was a really loud shout.  But we noticed in Europe that Americans (and English) do this a lot.  Shout.  For no good reason.  In gift stores, restaurants, other places, like museums and chateaux.  This is apparently a way of avoiding the exercise of walking a few feet to communicate.  It certainly is attention-getting and thought-interrupting.

Finally, the paper towel issue is resolved and the fruit is checked through and I can begin organizing my stuff on the belt.  The checker gives me a grimacey smile (she isn’t happy to switch gears and deal with a customer).  I’m trying to be nice.  “How are you doing today?, did you find everything?”  This greeting is obligatory – that bothers me a little.  I say I’m good and that I found everything (even though there was absolutely no Charmin toilet paper in the store).  I feel resentful that I have to tell the clerk how I feel.  French store clerks ask no one how they are doing, unless they appear to be known customers.  Perhaps this is why the French are perceived as rude by Americans?  No meaningless niceties?    There were several other things I can usually find at their store that weren’t there, but I learned last month that I will simply be told they don’t have it – they will not do as they used to do and write out on a slip of paper that goes to the manager to do special orders.  I already got the “we don’t do special orders any more” speech two months ago.  That’s fine – no one in Paris would hold up a check-out line to describe in detail some special item so unusual that they were the only one who wanted it – they’d go to a specialty store for that.  At least, no one I saw in Paris ever did any such thing and by now I’ve seen a few Parisian check-out lines.

When my stuff is halfway checked through, the checker starts up a conversation with the next customer about a gossip magazine.  The customer immediately puts the magazine back in its slot.  “Oh, you don’t have to put it away, I didn’t mean you should put it away,” says the clerk.  “It’s fine if you do your reading in line.”

By now, my stuff is nearly checked through and the magazine-reader could be putting her stuff on the belt, which is what she is now doing.  “I need to put my stuff on, anyway,” she says.  “I feel guilty even reading those magazines.  I never buy them.  I don’t support them any more.”

“Oh, neither do I,” said the clerk.  “But I read them, they can be very interesting.”

“Yes, but they are so mean!” said the magazine-reader.  “But I love to read them.”

Meanwhile, the clerk has finished swiping all my food but has also stopped helping the bagger, a late middle-aged Asian man with a pronounced accent, in order to talk about the gossip magazine.  They mention a celebrity I’ve never heard of.   I finish paying, the clerk whips the receipt and useless obligatory advertising “coupon” off their rollers and because she is leaning around to look for some specific magazine headline, she sort of tosses the receipts at me and misses my outstretched hand by quite a bit and the receipts fall under some already bagged goods.  I retrieve them, she apologizes, and then sees that the bagger guy maybe could use help.  But he’s almost done.  Single-bags the wine, puts dog food can in with wine, bag rips immediately, but he puts it in the cart anyway.  She starts asking him if he’s sure he got all my stuff.  He says he’s sure.  I start feeling that old feeling – the one every American must have at the supermarket (Did they give me all my stuff?  Which thing will be missing?  Will it be an important thing?)

“How are you, today?”  asks the bagger guy.  I truly am thinking about a lot of stuff in my head, private stuff, some news I’ve gotten that I’m emotional about, private life stuff, but I say, “I’m fine, thank you.”  I can’t bring myself to ask how he is, because when I speak, my voice is so low and quiet and unusual that I can tell I’m about to cry.  At the grocery store.  It’s true I have some other things on my mind, but I wish the man would make eye contact instead of asking a question, that I could say, “Bonjour, monsieur,” quietly and nod, and he would say only, “Bonjour, madame.”  And then he’d say “Merci, auvoir” and I would say the same.  Of course, there would be no one to ask me if I needed help to the car, but I swear I’ll manage that aspect of life until I’m ready to be euthanized if only other things could be different.  If you’re going to ask someone how they are doing today, at least look at them and smile or try and perceive how they might be doing and change your tone accordingly.  If they’re smiling brightly, maybe smile back.  If they’re somber, maybe be quiet or something.  I know that’s way too much to ask.  It’s much more important to discuss gossip magazines and paper towels.

Truthfully, I would have liked help out to the car, my back is as bad as it gets, the last leg of the trip was very hard.  But there’s no way I want to deal with this man for one more minute.  I wish the store was closer to my house.  I wished I could just walk down a flight of stairs and go a block and pick up wine, cheese and fruit and go home again and not have to walk past so many aisles that I never go down and see so much stock that people simply don’t need.  50,000 types of cake mix.  I mean, come on, really – learn to make some effing cake, America!  Buy some apples and cinnamon and bake them or something.  Drizzle some Framboise liqueur on top – quit buying those teensy plastic things of apple sauce that end up in land fills – NO ONE LIKES THEM.  Your kids don’t eat them – they throw them away at school!  Produce some apples that taste like apples, for god’s sake!

When I get home, the Indefatigable Man of the house unloads everything immediately, so I still don’t know if I got everything and probably never will.  At least we have toilet paper and paper towels.  I have a new brand of paper towel (store brand) because there was virtually nothing else to buy and the difference in price between the named brands and the store brand was enormous.  French paper towels are not anything to write home about – they are like store paper towels.  There is usually just one brand and it all costs the same.  There’s no standing in the aisle for minutes comparing price per piece of towel going on, which so many Americans (mostly women, is my observation) endure.

There was a bright moment.  A new, idealistic burrito store has opened up in town, near the grocery store.  They had a local rock station doing one of those load public relationships gigs with giveaways and music blaring and DJ talking, out in the parking lot, in the virga  No one was going into the burrito store, it was still too early, but I certainly became aware of Freebird Burritos, which seems to be advertising that it uses fair trade produce and local ingredients in their food.  Something socially conscious, anyway.  The music – all contemporary rock and roll, so of course I’ve never heard it, was making things a little worse at first, being in a sad mood, I didn’t want upbeat rock and roll – but you know what?  It was that upbeat rock and roll (or the attempt at it, since it sort of fell short of good rock and roll) that made me feel my feelings about America even more fully.  And although the rock and roll was not the Best of the Sixties – there was a lot of crap in the 60’s and 70’s too, and this wasn’t too bad.  By the time I’d finished unloading the car, I’d heard one song that I thought had promise.

In the end, I will not be deterred from finding the right Bourdeaux to make as good a Beef Bourguignon as I can, and I will learn to make that chicken fricasee Provençale style that we had off Rue Mouffetard, near Rue Descartes, because red meat is only for special occasions.  I will continue to make our own dog food, and somehow, there has to be a way to get cats to eat homemade cat food (seriously, there are not a bunch of little cat food tins in French stores – what do French cats eat?  Sure – there are some cat foods on sale, but not entire acres of them like here).  If anyone knows recipes for cat food that spoiled cats will actually eat (ours won’t eat people tuna or boiled chicken), please put them in the comments!

Why I Love Paris, partie première.

I ran into a woman today who said she had no desire to go to Europe. It’s true she lives in a California beach town, and we have great wines, and rolling hills and it’s lovely here.

Inwardly, though, I just started stammering. But-but-but-but!

I guess there’s no way to explain it if you don’t already get it, and if you already get it, you probably want to share your love for Paris. Paris is like a lover that your partner has no trouble accepting into his or her life. Paris cannot grow old, and yet it is already old and beautiful and still sexy. A person can get a little jealous of Paris.

The small town I grew up in was cheerful, and a great teacher of lessons about people. But it was not Paris. How the Parisians stand themselves, I don’t know. I would be inwardly gloating every minute, if I lived there. It seems to me that most of them do have that je ne sais quois attitude, and when I think about it, most of the words I’d use to describe what I love are…French:

Style. Attitude. Elegance. Sophistication. Art. Music. Towers. Cathedrals. Museums. Culture. Enchantment. Glamour.

If these words aren’t completely French, they’re still derived from French – which I wish I could speak. After years of trying, it’s not the language itself that defeats me. Non, c’est l’aire, la mystique, la mystère.

Now, it’s true that some French are a bit imperious, which is why I’m shy speaking to them. And they really do cut people’s heads off, occasionally, usually for the right reasons – but sometimes, the wrong person. But the ideas behind the violence are good ones. I totally understand the motive.

And then, there’s the Art. Where else can you stand in front of a huge painting of a huge historical event, with realistic detail, from centuries ago – and the events depicted took place just steps from where you’re looking at the painting? Who did that, back then? Who recorded history so meticulously – or had the talent on hand to do it? The French.

Sure, some of the people who painted were immigrants, but the French don’t care – as long as as you are a good painter. Not a good painter? Don’t paint in public, please, and we won’t exhibit your drawings. You can still draw and paint – just do it at home.

They say that 75% of Parisians play a musical instrument of some kind. On the Summer Solstice, at Fête de la Musique, anyone who pleases can come out on the street and play. Manu Chao gives a concert up on Montmartre hill, the college kids bring their stereos into the streets, the Churches get their groove on with sacred music and organ work, classical music is never overlooked, and jazz is everywhere. Just wandering around, on our first night on our first trip to Paris, we ran into Potzi and part of his manouche group. We stayed up until 2 a.m. in Montmartre, at Au Clarion des Chausseurs (highly recommended – ignore Tripadvisor on this one; and I’m a Tripadvisor Destination Expert – just not for Paris). Potzi was amazing, but his bass player was equally amazing. I tried to tell him that – he thought I was confusing him with the guitar player (of course – most bass players think that). I think I managed to tell him I was a bass player too and that I admired his bass playing. I said it was “Superbe.” He corrected my pronunciation. Really. He did. I should have said “Magnifique” in the first place.

So I’m boning up on French words for Awesome (okay – now, that’s one great English word):


Extra. C’est extra! Genial!



En plein forme!








And sometimes, Dingue.

That’s crazy, dude. C’est dingue, gars argot.