Mark's eJournal August 17, 2009 – Jardin du Luxembourg – Redux

By now you’re all bored with my running stories. I still hit the alleys and byways of Paris daily, usually keeping to tried and true runs like the Louvre-Tuillieries, the Seine quai [east or west], the Jardin des Plantes, the Jardin du Luxembourg [JdL], or runs back and forth to hotels where visiting friends have been staying [so that I can give them the best directions and accurate times to get to our flat]. And like all runs, familiarity breeds contempt….or boredom.

I’m not saying that I don’t get goosebumps when I run by Notre Dame and the bells are ringing but the runs have become routine. Sorta like the runs you have when you leave work at lunchtime. You suit up, hit the road, and go on autopilot. Sure, you notice things like road works, a new car, a pretty woman but most of the time you’re thinking about pace and breathing. So I have to say that when Katherine took a short-cut through JdL last week after walking me to my bridge game on the rue Notre Dame des Champs in the 6th, I was taken aback by all that she encountered and reported on!

She asked me what I’ve seen at the JdL. “Everything” I said; I run there nearly 2-3 times a week. “Everything?” she asked. Have you seen L’Orangerie? NO. The Statue of Liberty? NO. The people playing chess? NO. The beehives? NO. The espaliered fruit orchard? NO. The pleached trees? NO. The children’s fairground? NO. The children sailing their rental sale boats? NO. The horse and mule rental? NO. The tennis courts? NO. The petanque courts? YES!! See, I do know JdL like the back of my hand!

So there it was, like the Emperor’s new clothing. I run around all these things but never really noticed what I was running around. It was time to take a walk through JdL with Katherine.

And what a walk it was. First of all, it must have been the hottest day of the year, 90°+. I dove from shade to shade, seeking shelter from the sun. And all the time, Katherine is asking me if I’ve seen this or that. NO, I run around the park. Only occasionally do I cut through the park. And that is true. The park is almost a perfect one mile circumference. Add to that, the one mile round-trip to/from our flat or our health club and my runs are perfectly measured. Add or subtract a circuit to suit your running distance.

The first thing we come upon is L’Orangerie. It’s a free museum that has changing exhibits. This time it was a painter who did impressionist floral work and a stained glass artist. From here, Katherine asks if I can see the tennis courts and the chess tables. I actually could but never when I was running. In fact, it was hard to see the tennis courts and chess tables because of all these damned trees which Katherine then informed me, were the pleached trees; row upon neatly laid out row…..

We walked through the pleached trees, past the tennis courts, and came out onto a wide dirt path. Here were all the kids with their parents paying their 2 euro to ride the Shetland ponies and mules. Walking past the ponies, you come out into the center of the JdL. There’s a large central, massive fountain here along with bed after bed of flower plantings, all in bloom…which I have actually run past, sort of. But what I didn’t see was the boat rental stand or the kids with their rented stick, pushing their rented sail boats into the fountain.

But it was hot. I needed shade. We went back into the trees surrounding either side of the central gardens, passing 4 or 5 impressive sculptures, which I had never seen, and then, there it was…….the Statue of Liberty! I actually knew that there was a liberty statue here; I even went looking for it on one of my runs but if it wasn’t very close to my circuit, well, you understand. This is actually the second Statue of Liberty in Paris. The other one is in the middle of the Seine near the Eiffel Tower. The one in the JdL is actually Bartholdi’s maquette of the actual statue on the Hudson.

From the Statue of Liberty, it is literally a petanque’s throw away from the petanque courts. And this is a really nice place to be on a hot day. It is deeply shaded with loads of benches and chairs to watch the petanque matches. Anybody can play. The French are very friendly. You don’t even need to have your own petanques; they’ll let you play with theirs but don’t. This is one of those games that takes a minute to learn and a lifetime to master. Practice by yourself or with someone of your own caliber before trying to take one of these guys on. And they even have a creperie here making fresh sweet or salty crepes…and NO, I’ve never seen it before even though I’ve passed the petanque courts.

After cooling down, it’s time to continue walking south, towards the end of the JdL. There are large warning signs here, telling you not to cross the grass because they have their own beehive colonies….dozens of them. And the beehives are for the 800 varieties of apples and pears that they grow in the park on espaliered trees. I’ve actually run passed some of these trees, all the while noticing the large white bows which I assumed were tying the tree branches to the espalier wire. But, as Katherine pointed out, I was wrong….these were white paper bags that were placed around some, but not all, of the fruit. Neither of us knows exactly why but we think it had something to do with saving the fruit from spoiling on the vines.

It was getting kind of late. I asked if we could go by the chess tables. We walked around the tables and it reminded me of Washington Square or Dupont Circle, but with a difference. Some people were playing on the park-provided tables. Others just put two chairs together and place their board on the chairs. Some people had those wind-up chess clocks where that little red flag would drop indicating time expired. Other people had those expensive computer clocks while others had no clocks. Some people were playing chess. Others were playing checkers. And some were playing that French card game Belote-Rebelote. But the difference was the bottles of wine. No drunks. Just a little refreshment. They even sell and serve beer and wine from one of the concession stands! Very civilized. I didn’t order anything but I was invited to play so I sat down. I now go to the park on a regular basis to play chess. It’s a good way for me to practice my French. I don’t know which is worse, my French or my chess!

I still run around the JdL, on autopilot, but now I know what I am missing.

July 5, 2009 – Pont du Gard

Today, Wendy has a surprise for us. It’s warm in Provence. When Wendy and Katherine were planning this trip, Katherine asked if there was a place where we could go swimming, a lake, a pool, or a river. We knew we were going swimming somewhere but not exactly. We packed up our stuff including a picnic of wine and paella which we had bought at the Uzès market the day before.

The drive to Pont du Gard was short; maybe 30 minutes or so. The walk from the parking lot to Wendy’s favorite spot was equally as long or at least it felt that long, carrying all our picnic stuff but I took courage [bon courage?] knowing that it would be lighter on our walk back to the car.

We got to the entrance of the park where Wendy demanded that we close our eyes or at least keep them aimed on the ground. We obediently followed her orders until instructed otherwise….which happened after 300 meters. And looking, we saw nothing to raise our eyebrows. But as we turned a corner, there it was…….

The Pont du Gard…built shortly before the Christian era to allow the aqueduct of Nîmes (which is almost 50 km long) to cross the Gard river. The Romans designed and built this bridge/aqueduct, which stands almost 50 m high and is on three levels – the longest measuring 275 m. It’s an impressive piece of work. Even better, having worked up a sweat getting here, it was now time to indulge ourselves.

We found a place on the riverbank to spread ourselves. Opened our paella, olives, and a bottle of white wine that we bought yesterday at the market and had a tasty picnic. Then it was time to take a dip. The water was cool but not cold. But swimming under one of the largest and oldest aqueducts in the world just put shivers up my spine. Gliding in between all the swimmers were kayaks and dinghies of all shapes and sizes – kayaks for 1 person, kayaks for two people and a picnic, kayaks for four people and a picnic plus a dog, all of them meandering downriver, the younger kayakers playfully splashing water with their paddles on other kayakers, or playing “ram the kayak” games…we have some wonderful pictures. We all went swimming (including Marie Antoinette) and enjoyed the wonderful cool water on a perfectly beautiful Provence day.

Now, wherever there is a river there are rocks to jump off. And this place is no different. But you also have the aqueduct. And while dozens of people were jumping and diving safely off the rocks, one young man was evidently goaded by some idiot friends to jump from the aqueduct….about 100 feet high. Not unexpectedly, the boy hit the water hard. The cops, emergency services, and firemen were on the scene within 15 minutes. (Wendy found out the following day at the Carrefour supermarche that the local boy suffered some very serious spinal injuries, which is so very sad). He was just out having some fun with a group of his friends on a beautiful day in Provence...

As we watched the emergency services attend to the boy underneath the historic arches of the Pont, some large back clouds and distant lightning were gathering. We hastily packed up our picnic baskets, grabbed our towels and Marie Antoinette and headed back to the car - we barely made it to the car, already soaking wet, before the heavy storm came roaring through. As we drove back through the rain to Masmolene (with a quick stop at the bakery and market at Uzes for bread, milk and chocolate - all of life’s essentials) we got some odd looks from the locals in our dampened state, especially Mark who walked into the shop wearing his swimming gear and carrying his shorts.. By the time we parked the car in the town square at Masmolene, the sun was shining again and we all trooped upstairs to shower and get into some dry clothes. Another very memorable day in Provence – The Pont du Gard should definitely be on your must-see list if you travel to this neck of the Provence woods…and think about taking a kayak downriver, you’ll marvel at the Pont hundreds of feet above you as you glide down the river.

July 4, 2009 – Uzès

Wendy knows I like to cook. She’s heard me talk about the fresh produce and meats that we have been buying at the local markets and has told me where some of the better Paris markets are. She’s even had a few meals of mine so her plan was two-fold. One, take us to the weekly Uzès market so that we could buy stuff to take back and cook dinner. And two, take us to a bistro to sample the local fare at her friend Tom’s restaurant.

The drive to Uzès was like our drive to Masmolene. Alternating fields of grapes, apricots, corn, asparagus, etc. and sunflowers which, in French is Tournesol because sunflowers turn their heads away from the sun! And the trip wasn’t nearly as scary since Wendy did the driving.

Uzès is a large hill town compared to Masmolene and it was built in the 5th century by the Romans, among others. It actually has shops, restaurants, bars, banks, pharmacies, etc. unlike Masmolene which has only one single post box! Now Uzès is a typical hill town. It has a circular road around it with spokes leading from that road to the town center [think of a wheel with spokes]. Park your car anywhere on the circular road and walk down any spoke and you hit the town center. And as you walk down these spokes, each one is filled with stalls selling clothes, craft items, plants, hardware, candles, and, of course, fresh produce and meats.

As you get to the end of a spoke, you hit the town center. The market is in full swing. You can’t see one side of the square from the other side. It’s hard to appreciate that the buildings that surround the square consist of dozens of restaurants and a few more shops that were built in that Roman “amphitheatre” style [at least to me] with those curved arched roofs undulating from shop to shop.

Wendy has her favorite merchants; she’s been coming here for 15 years. She explains to me each merchant’s specialty. What’s unique to Uzès. But best of all, she knows I want to speak French so she tells me to watch what the locals do and say when they order their stuff. “Trois têtes des artichauts” instead of me asking for three artichokes. Or “une cuillère des olives” instead of 100 grams of olives because in Uzès, the olive merchants use a large olive-wood spoon with holes in it to scoop up the olives. But the real killer is “bon courage” which you say to a merchant who’s being overworked by all the people buying from him. It always brings a wink and a big smile.

Having bought our dinner, we walk into Tom’s restaurant (“Terroirs”). Find it at www.enviedeterroirs.com. He has the best table reserved for us; next to the air conditioning which is a large fan. We order a few local tapas things to start like octopus salad, chevre, and anchovies and a few main courses which are thick slices of bread with warm toppings like cheese, tomatoes, sardines, onions confit, etc. and green side salad. And a bottle or two of the local wine. Parfait.

It’s now well past 1 o’clock and the market is being deconstructed in front of our eyes. White vans appear everywhere and the stalls with their wares, disappear. Slowly, you start to appreciate how large the square is. You begin to see the central fountain which used to be the town’s only source of drinking water. You start to see the other side of the square and appreciate the Roman architecture.

And then you realize that you’ve eaten too much. It’s time to go home, take a nap, and get ready for dinner. The perfect end to a perfect morning and afternoon in Uzès.

July 3, 2009 – On to Provence

Well, it’s the beginning of the end of my “birthday week”. Unbeknownst to me, Katherine and Wendy [our insider to all things French] were cooking up a birthday special for me. It began with Katherine taking me out to dinner on my birthday at one of Wendy’s [and now one of our] favorite restaurants called Fish in the 6th arr. And it ended up with us catching a TGV to Avignon and joining Wendy at her friend’s villa in Provence.

Now the TGV is the fastest passenger train in the world. At 150 mph you feel like you’re flying on the ground. That is, if you’re moving. We had a few problems. At first, we were told that we were pulling off into a siding because of some repair work up ahead of us. But after 5 or 6 TGVs came flying by us, another explanation was offered up to us over the loudspeakers (en francais, naturellement). We had some sort of engine problem but that it would only take a few more minutes to sort out. About 15 minutes later, we were given a call for help. Was there anybody on the train that could help with a medical emergency? Apparently, somebody was having a claustrophobia attack (the train was a double decker and the poor soul was travelling on the lower deck, 2nd class no less).

Anyway, we sat in the siding for about an hour with several more updates. First we would be going back to Paris. Then it was determined that our TGV could not go faster than 4 mph so another engine would be coming to push us back to Paris. No, another engine would come and pull us to Lyon…back to Paris, then maybe south towards Lyon and Orange…you get the picture. We ended up in Paris about the time we were supposed to arrive at Avignon.

And the silver lining to all this is the contingency plans that the SNCF [the national company that runs the TGV] have. As soon as we got back to the Gare de Lyon in Paris on the tracks right next to us was our brand new TGV. Off our broken train and onto the new train and we were rolling at lightning speed once again. And to sweeten the pot, we all got a free “coffret repas” – basically a French bento-box. And, unlike our air carriers who leave you stranded on the tarmac without so much as an apology, we were all given vouchers and postage-paid envelopes so that our fares could be refunded.

And now it was time to rent our car and drive to Masmolene. Avignon was hot as it usually is in July. Climatisation [or AC] if it exists, seems to be set to a cool 80 degrees! [or maybe it’s just set at 20 degrees lower than the ambient temp so you can feel the difference but really not get cool]. So as I am dripping in the Hertz office, I ask that we reserved a 4 car door. She tells me my sized car does not come with a 4 door model. Yes I know I rented the smallest vehicle made but I pick up the car sheet and show her the Hertz picture of my car in a 4 door variety. She says she doesn’t think there are any left. I summon up my best ass-kissing French that I can and ask her could she check one more time? And then I spring it on her “Vous êtes très gentile.” That did it. I got my 4 door car.

So we’re off. Katherine is directing the journey. I’ve got the AC on full blast [which seems to work as well as the AC in the buildings] so we’re basically forming small pools of liquid in our seats. Now Wendy was kind of enough to print out directions for us….the scenic ones. Now France has two main sorts of roads. N roads or national roads and D roads.

Now N roads aren’t all that bad. Think two lane each way highways only with smaller lanes. D roads think beautiful scenery, beautiful views, flowers, mountains, crops, animals and one lane each way except that as you plant your car comfortably in the center, it’s only when a car at lightnng speed and coming in the other direction that you realize it’s not a one-way street.

But the views……hard to imagine fields of lavender in all their purple glory next to a field of sunflowers in their yellow glory. You bob up and down over the gently rolling hills [and not so gently as you get closer to Masmolene – it’s a hill town]. A field of corn on one side of the road and maybe wild asparagus on the other side. Apricot orchards being harvested or vineyards with the grapes just forming after their flowering. And in the distance, up on the hillside, the village church and castle of Masmolene.

Now Wendy told us that Masmolene was tiny but that her friend’s house was comfortable and large enough for the 3 of us and Marie Antoinette [Wendy’s cocker spaniel]. She was correct on both accounts. The house, built in the 11th or 12th century just like the village, easily swallowed us up. On the outside, the house looked like every other building in Masmolene, entirely built with ancient limestone brick from the local quarry. The inside had been renovated a bunch of times [there was no running hot and cold water, toilets, or gourmet kitchen back in the 12th century]. And for being a tiny village, let me say truthfully that upon our arrival, we doubled the population.

We had got off to a bad start with the TGV challenges, but looking back, it was a valuable experience. Our 2 ½ hour journey ended up taking 7 hours. Our white-knuckle drive only lasted 45 minutes. The views were fantastic; we learned how to take a TGV; Wendy has a gourmet dinner prepared and cases of local white and red wine; and we’re here…..in Provence.

June 26, 2009 – A New Marche

The French have two things; their opinions and their love of food. Every French person has an opinion about the best wine, the best restaurant, the best part of Paris to live, etc. etc. and of course, the best market to buy food. Which is not surprising. They don't eat to live, they live to eat. And the basis of good food is good ingredients which in France means fresh. That is why the big supermarkets like we have in the States haven't really caught on. Instead, the are myriad local shops, each specializing in meat, cheese, bread, wine, deli, or vegetables where the French buy their stuff, daily. But to me, it's hard to say which market is the "best" since they all sell the same stuff at the same price. In fact, there are so many shops, all identical, that it baffles me how they can all stay in business. My local shops are just 4 blocks from our flat. But there is another set of shops, just a half block further down the street!

And to further add to my "baffleness" is that around each of these shops, about 3 times each week, is an open-air farmer’s market. Now these open-air markets are very interesting. They are all over Paris. There are dozens of open-air markets daily somewhere in Paris. On any given day you can find one. All that matters is how far you want to travel. So on top of the local shops competing with each other, you have the local open-air market competing with the shops, yet they all stay in business.

To me, again, these open-air markets are all the same. They are built the night before the market opens and torn down in the afternoon after the market closes. Posts are placed into permanent locking holes in the street or pavement and a canvas or plastic sheet is suspended over the posts. The farmers then set up their stalls in the early morning. Typically, these markets are built in the local square. Sometimes the market extends through one or two streets [or more]. In these cases, it looks to me that the local shops merely extend their store fronts by setting up a stall.....and that makes sense to me since it tries to stifle some of the competition. Invariably, the market terminates in the local town square.

And so, it was no surprise, that as I was trying to figure out what to buy and how to ask for it, at my local Marche Maubert, that this Asian guy in front of me, who spoke English, decided to help. As we spoke, I gushed how much I really liked Marche Maubert, the fresh ingredients, the negotiating, and then he burst my bubble. "If you think this market is great, you really need to go to Marche d'Aligre. It's better. It's bigger. It's open 6 days a week and it's cheaper. This local market is far too bourgeois. The real French go to Marche d'Aligre."

He said he was only shopping at the Marche Maubert because he didn't have the time to get over to Marche d'Aligre. Then I remembered that Wendy Lyn, our concierge, had mentioned le Marche d'Aligre and the penny dropped. Plus, the guy kept saying, "this cabbage, half the price at d'Aligre, these cherries, a third the price at d’Aligre...well you kinda get the message.

The next day Katherine and I walked to Marche d'Aligre; about a mile or so across the Seine near the Bastille. First of all, the market is huge. Five or six blocks long with a covered market and square right in the middle and on both sides of the street. Stalls fill both sides of the streets that are blocked off from traffic. There are people everywhere. You can hear the market from about four blocks away. In order to accurately describe this market, let me use places that all you world travellers are familiar with. It reminds me of Washington Square with those independent rock bands blasting out their music. Petticoat Lane with the buskers screaming out what's on sale. It's as crowded as Mott Street on any given day. Or the Barras in Glasgow, on the weekend, with people selling the same stuff from 10 or 15 different stalls. Or, for the cost-conscience, it's like an open air Costco. [Yes, it really is cheaper by at least fifty percent or more!!]

It's great. We go here all the time now. We eat lunch at a little bakery. We drink a glass of wine at the Baron Rouge. We buy fresh fruit, veggies, bread, meat, and fish, not to mention "bricolage" (haberdashery). I am very happy. I have my first French opinion - the best market to go to is Marche d'Aligre. And, just when I think I've found the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial french rainbow of markets, yet another french guy offers up another opinion. As I gushed over the vegetables at d'Aligre, he quipped, have you been to the "bio" market at Blvd Raspail? You must go there on Sundays... Ah, another market to experience....Yes, all the markets are the same yet different.

June 16, 2009 – Jardin des Tuileries

Today, Katherine decided to go running with me. And she wanted to run the the Jardin des Tuileries. We walked there over the weekend and I thought it would make an interesting run. We started to run along the Seine but the hard irregular cobblestones soon were taking a toll on K's legs. So we took a quick exit onto the Pont des Arts [a walking bridge that crosses the Seine].

The interesting thing about this pont, is that it takes you right in front of the courtyard entrance to the Louvre. The courtyard entrance is basically an open air archway through the actual musuem. The courtyard is huge; surrounded on all four sides by the Louvre. In fact, you have to go through another open air archway to get out. But when you exit this second archway, there, in front of you, is the I.M. Pei glass pyramid. You either love it or you don't. I love it and apparently so does Dan Brown, most Parisians don't. After you run past the pyramid, you enter the beginning of the Jardin des Tuileries.

The soft, limestone pebbles that line all the garden pathways made a welcome and well appreciated running surface. Katherine's knees were already feeling the distance; this was her first run since her knees began hurting her. So we decided just to go it alone and meet up back at the fitness club. I started running up and down all the tree-lined paths that criss-cross the Tuilerie. I made a mental note to come running here in the deep summer. The tree-lined avenues were dark and cool. I didn't really need the shade today but in July and August, these paths will be a necessity.

It's amazing to run in a garden and nonchalantly pass 16th, 17th, and 18th century statues. Time just melts. I made it to the east of the garden and looked towards the southeast. There was the Tower. In front of me was the Obelisk of Luxor. And, in the distance, in line with the obelisk, was the Arc de Triomphe. And then it struck me.

For those of you familiar with DC and our balcony, this is the same sort of view that we see; the Lincoln memorial, the Washington monument, and the Capitol building. But then, I am architecturally-challenged. As I turned to begin my run back, there was Katherine. I unloaded my revelation to her. Whereupon, she quickly filled me in on the obvious.

It seems that Pierre Charles L'Enfant designed Paris or at least this section from the Louvre, the Tuileries, and on to the Arc. So when he designed DC, he decided to keep a good thing going. The Capitol building [the Louvre], the Washington monument [the Obelisk of Luxor], the Lincoln memorial [the Arc], and the Smithsonian museums and mall [the Jardin des Tuileries]....well, at least the streets, the Capitol bldg, the White House, and the foundation plans for the National Mall.

And if that is not entirely historically accurate, just remember that I am architecturally-challenged, but it sure made the rest of my run evaporate just thinking about the coincidences.

June 9, 2009 - I Joined A Pool

With much trepidation, I joined a pool and went swimming for the first time. During my many jogs, I've come across many pools that are run by the Mairie de Paris [the mayor's office] and several that are very close to our flat. I say, "with much trepidation," for several reasons. The first reason was, as you will all remember, that joining anything in France is an effort. I planned on this pool-joining to take at least a week. To my surprise, I asked for the 3 month membership, filled out the application, and gave them my VISA card. And, voilá, I was a member of the pool,

The second trepidation was clothing. Because I would pop into each pool and ask about joining and take a look at the facilities and notice the rules and regulations. The one rule that stopped me cold was the strict requirement to wear a speedo! And wear a speedo with a bathing cap.......

It's all about hygiene but you have to wonder. Here is a quote from a book I am reading to tune up my french:

SMELL - The French have a refined sense of smell, as evidenced by the vast number of delicately nuanced perfumes. Body odor is a sensitive subject between the French and Americans. What to Americans is "not dealing with body odor" maybe to the French "accepting the natural smells of the body."

And believe me, I come across quite a few "naturally smelling" French folks...... Anyway, moving along, I bought the dreaded speedo and bathing cap and it was off to the pool.

So joining the pool was surprisingly easy; nothing like getting a bank account or joining a health club. The real challenge is the swimming. The whole concept and organization of the pool is based, in my mind, on hygiene [what a surprise] and lack of coordination. First, you show your membership pass and receive a piece of paper. You walk up one flight of stairs and enter the "dressing area" that surrounds the pool below. The dressing area consists of little cabinettes all along the walls. Each cabinette has a little peep hole in it. You give your piece of paper to the attendant, you take off your outdoor shoes, and now you are allowed to find an empty cabinette.

In my broken french I asked what to do and I thought that you had to look through the peep holes, find an empty cabinette, and wait for the attendent to open it up for you. I was quickly informed and forgiven by a good looking woman who was putting on her bikini in the cabinette that I was peeking into, that you are not supposed to peep through the holes. Rather you find a cabinette with the door open, use that one, and close it behind you as you leave to swim. It is when you return that you look through the peep hole to make sure it's yours [at least that's my story] and then stand in front of it until the attendant let's you in. Having found an empty cabinette, donning my speedo and cap, it was time for my swim.

Now the pool has an ingenious layout. You can only get to it by one stairway which is not the way you came in. You are forced to go through either the male or female shower area, take a shower, and then walk through a foot pool for one final cleaning. Except that the male shower was closed so I had to go through the female shower. No woman even blinked an eye as I came through and showered. I think it was the speedo.....they were impressed!?!?

So I now have a pool membership and a speedo......and I won't be taking any pictures at the pool, so don't ask.....

June 7, 2009 Lassiez Faire

France is a Catholic country; about 85 percent to be exact. But from the sounds of the church bells, you'd think it was 100 percent. Those cute bells sounds that Katherine has made each of you listen to while talking on the phone are definitely alluring and quite different from the DC street sounds....except on Sunday.

Today, Sunday June 7th, at 10am, those cute bells sounds took on monstrous proportions; as if some maniacal Quasimodo on crystal meth was swinging on the bell chain to make sure that nobody would miss mass this morning. The problem is, the French seem to have that Adam Smith attitude towards religion. I can just see some guy waking up to the church bells and saying "It's time to go to church mon cheri." To which, mon cheri replies, "Let's just do it one more time". "But them we will be late for church my dear." "Please". "Okay, but let me call my wife to tell her that we will be a bit late."

It's the same way in business. We joined a sports club. We signed all the papers and paid for the first month by credit card. But now we needed to give them a Euro bank account so that they could debit their monthly bill. "We don't have a bank account." "Okay, we'll give you 7 days to get one and in the meantime you can use our club".....so we're off to get a bank account.

Now, we enter our bank and ask to open an account. "Do you have an appointment?" "No, are you busy?" "No." "So can we open an account?" "Not without an appointment." "Okay, can we make an appointment for Now." "No." "When can we have an appointment?" "Tomorrow at 3." "With whom?" "With me." So to make a long story short, we show up at 3 the next day and open our account but........

This bank is a bank for current and former teachers. Thanks for telling us that yesterday. But wait, I was a university professor. Katherine was head of the university chemistry library. "Is that okay; can we open an account?" "Yes, but do you have any proof?" "What kind of proof, we're retired? Maybe we can get a letter from the University College London to verify our previous employment?" "Okay, bring that in." "But we won't be back in the UK for weeks." "No problem, just bring it in when you come back." "And we can have our bank account today." "Absolutely."

Now, back at the sports club, "Here's our bank account." "Great but you also need to give us a check for 2 months membership that we won't ever cash unless you stiff us." "But we don't have a checking account." So it's back to our bank who tells us that they are only a credit union and don't give checking accounts. Great so we go back to the sports club and they say, "Here are your permanent membership cards and I will ask the manager what we can do about you not having any check to give us."

So as of today, we do not have a checking account, we have not given anybody a check with 2 months membership, and it looks like we will never get any documentation that we ever taught at a university but we do have a bank account and a sports club membership.

My point about this rant is that the French believe in religion, documentation, procedures, sound business practices, etc. but in the end, if it gets in the way, laissez faire. And, uh oh, it must be time for the noon mass, Quasimodo is swinging from the bell rope again.....

May 28, 2009 – The Marriott Rive Gauche Run

I got up a little later than usual so I started my morning run around 11. Katherine wanted me to check out the distance and the neighborhood of the Marriott Rive Gauche [just in case some of you decided to use it while visiting us]. I decided to run north on Blvd St. Michel towards the Jardin de Luxembourg. I even decided to run through the Jardin even though it deviated me ever so slightly from an absolutely direct course.

As I entered the Jardin, it was quite empty; very few runners, one or two couples, and what looked to me, a few people taking a short cut to work. It was like a morgue. It was so quiet even I noticed how loud my footsteps were as they were making that sandpaper sound as my sneakers slide over the calcareous pebbles and dirt that comprise most of the Jardin's footpaths. But I was quickly through the park and back onto the Paris streets.

The problem I had was that even though I knew where I was going, having stayed at the hotel several times in recent years, and having looked at a map, the streets have a curious habit of converging into large intersections. Not just a simple two street convergence but what seems to me, a mini L'Etoile intersection. Regardless, I continued.

I'd like to say I got lost but how can I say that when getting lost in Paris means seeing even more of the quaint neighborhoods, local bakeries and butchers, and, of course, the local restaurants that haven't seen an American since WW II. But my "job" was to check out the distance so I had to find the hotel. I won't brag about how long I ran but I will say that I did find the hotel. So on my return run, I would make no mistakes and really estimate the distance and time to walk from our place to the hotel.

The return run was easy. I mean, I had been over every street in the neighborhood just trying to find the place. Rue St. Jacques to Port Royal to the Jardin; about 10 minutes of easy walking. But entering the Jardin, what a transformation. It must have been lunch hour now and every school in the neighborhood must have let their students out. And every student must have come to the Jardin for lunch. Students from every grade and parents walking those children too young to go to school through the park. Let's just say that I couldn't hear my footsteps even if my ear was on the ground!

After leaving the Jardin, it's all downhill, literally. I was back in our apartment in less than 10 minutes. So I estimate that the Hotel to our apartment is about a 20-30 minute journey through some really lovely Paris neighborhoods. Now that might be too much for some of you to consider since you will need to do it several times a day [or take a bus or train but that is the making of another blog]. But don't despair, Katherine is scouting out boutique hotels within footsteps of our flat. She has several already and several others on her interview list.

May 20, 2009 – The Weather

I don't complain about the weather. After traveling extensively in the States and abroad, there really isn't any point. This missive isn't a complaint; it's merely an observation. I've been jogging about one week in Paris and, now, about four days in Glasgow. There really isn't much difference. I have five VISTA weather widgets on my computer home screen; one for East Northport, Toledo, DC, Paris, and Glasgow. There's really nothing unusual about the widgets except that I see them every time I go back to my home screen. And what I've noticed is that Paris and Glasgow have the same temperature, more or less. They even seem to have the same precipitation. So why do I notice the weather here in Glasgow more than Paris?

I did some research. Paris and Glasgow have about the same amount of rain and days of sunshine. They have the same temperature....so far. So why am I more cold running in Glasgow than Paris?

I noticed the kerbs in Glasgow [aka, in the States, sidewalks]. They're made of macadam...an asphalt invented by the Scot James McAdam. The funny thing about the kerbs in Glasgow is that as soon as the Council decides to resurface them, within 24 hours, some utility company or phone company or cable company decides they need to dig a new trench in the new macadam. And the telecommunication companies are the worst. Their cables run the length of the kerb, for blocks and blocks. One, two, and sometimes three cable canals running parallel to each other for miles.

Interestingly, the mosaic of patch work macadam makes for a fun run.....who dug this hole?....who routed out this cable channel? But it's more interesting when it rains because all these patches cause myriad puddles....something that runners try to avoid. So now I'm thinking, it's the same temp as Paris yet I feel colder. Why?

Well Paris has the same macadam for some of their kerbs. Except that when it rains in Paris, it pours and then it stops. It dries out and the patch work disappears or at least the puddles do. And so, apparently does the humidity. Now, in Glasgow, when it rains, it's like a moderate spring rain. Small, fine, droplets that cover everything and everyone. You do need a brolly. But when it stops raining, well, that's a bit harder to discern.

Often, not raining means, I can't see the rain. In fact, I like it when it's 'not raining'. It's like a very fine mist. You can hardly see the rain but in the myriad puddles on the kerbs you can see the indelible ripples from the rain drops in the puddles. And that's the answer.

In Paris, it actually dries out between the rains. The puddles disappear and the humidity goes away. In Glasgow, the puddles rarely go away and the humidity never goes away. Sixty degrees, light wind, no humidity almost seems balmy. The same in Glasgow with 100 percent humidity seems downright cold.

But this is not a complaint about the weather. What's the point? It's six o'clock now and I think it's not raining. But who cares? It's six o'clock and the pubs are open. Cheers.

May 13, 2009 - Getting Lost

I know we all hate getting lost....at least us men. But getting lost in Paris is a different thing.....or is it? It's been one week now, and we've crawled over most of our neighborhood. We've found the local shops for bread, meat, vegetables, dairy, and wine. The locals even know us and as much as we want to learn how to speak French, they want to speak English....so it is a learning experience for all of us. Ever go into a butcher's shop and try to figure out how to ask for bacon? Good thing we asked for stewing veal [in french of course]...because it seems that the French stew their veal with bacon also...except it's not called bacon but we all knew what we wanted. The butcher even told me how long to cook the veal [like I really needed his help....but appreciated the assistance]. Today, I bought some chopped meat, not exactly how you ask for it in France.

It got a little confusing. I was also buying lamb chops. The butcher wanted to cut off some of the length of the long bone. He wanted to know if I wanted the bones but I was also asking for chop meat....we almost got chopped bones. But we learned how to ask for chopped meat, and how to ask for slices of meat as well as chops of meat [a la lamb].

My point is, we know our neighborhood even though it's only been a week, so taking little zigs and zags should not present a problem. Today was one of those days where the French don't go to work....or at least the people in our local food shops. CLOSED. So we just made a right turn and walked south, away from the Seine. We made it to the pool that I will be swimming in later this week....at least I know we can find it again but then we made the turn onto Rue Mouffetarde.

Rue Mouffetarde is a street that the locals know. Many small markets. Wine, cheese, meat, fish, vegetables, flowers, hardware, clothes, and, of course, the myriad restaurants. Katherine had been reading up on this area so she knew some of the places we should walk by. I stopped at the first Asian market I saw and bought a samosa....hot and tangy and lovely. We meandered through more markets and I saw another Asian market. Bought two egg rolls except they weren't but what they were, were lovely, fresh, crisp shrimp and pork rolls.

Katherine found a hardware store [bricolage, en francais] and bought a bread basket and for me, a spatter screen...which I used later that evening to prepare the dinner. And then we made a turn to go home.....and got lost.

We got lost in an area of our neighborhood that we didn't even know existed. No tourists, lots of local shops, and lots of local restaurants. We passed a Chinese restaurant, packed with people for lunch. It's on our list for tomorrow. I don't want to cook tomorrow and their cooking looked just fine....or at least the people in the restaurant thought so.

It took us a while to make our back home. Somehow, it didn't make a difference that we were lost in our own neighborhood. We expect to get lost here often.......

May 12, 2009 - Terroir or Not Terroir

I'm not a big believer in the variations of wine versus location....at least when the explanation is the terroir. I mean, how different can my lot of land be when your lot is adjacent to it? How different was the microclime as the say en francais? Sure, you may have a better wine master. And you might have been more selective in culling your grapes and choosing which grapes to squeeze. But really, my one square acre sharing an entire side with another acre, how different can my terroir be?

Well, I know I've only been in Paris less than one week and I have been to my local fruit and veg shop twice. I've cooked several meals using the fresh veggies that I've purchased from them.....so what can I say??? Let me explain. First, the vegetables looked weird. Potatoes and carrots that were still covered in dirt. Celery that had more leaves on top than celery on bottom [or at least it looked that way]. Tomatoes that were glowing and onions that screamed pungency. So what?

I made my first soup last night. It was a chicken soup. I used left over chicken from dinner and the bones and leftovers. I made it like I've made a hundred chicken soups. After boiling the bones, stripping off the meat, and adding a bouillon cube, it was time to add the veggies. I chopped the top of the celery off, diced a bunch of the leaves and threw them into the pot. Then I took a few stalks and chopped and threw them in. The onions didn't let me down....as my tears back up this statement. The carrots peeled just like carrots. But after a few hours of slow cooking, it was time to taste the concoction.

I can't describe it. We've all had chicken soup before but this was the first time that the vegetables screamed 'I am more important that the chicken!!!". We've never had carrots or celery that, in our taste world, now define what celery and carrots should....must taste like.

So does the terroir make a difference? I am still not sure about the wine but the French vegetables just blow the US veggies away [ organic et al] I know, it's just a chicken soup but we are sold on the French veggies. I made out first tuna fish salad....with diced celery....incroyable. Can't wait to make my first stew.

I know this blog is short and sweet and probably about nothing important. But you just have to eat the French veggies to understand the impact it made on Katherine and me.

May 10, 2009 —Sunday Afternoon

Getting back to my apartment after my run, it was time to learn some more french, or take a shower, or make breakfast. The shower took precedence but Katherine's moan for food reminded me that we had bought some of those really fresh baguettes from a boulangerie the day before but didn't eat. We split the baguette with a cup of hot Earl Grey tea. Tres bon. But what to do now?

We had been shopping at our local Monoprix [a large multi-story department store that sells fresh food and veg] but decided to find one of those discount stores either ALDI or LIDL. Neither had a store close to us but there was a LIDL about 2.8 km north of us near the Gare du Nord. So since Katherine hadn't exercised today, we decided to walk.

We took the direct path; north on rue St. Jacques which passes over the Petite Pont and is directly in front of Notre Dame. The street is straight but the name changes several times. We passed the George Pompidou Museum, the Saint Martin pedestrian shopping area, and ultimately found ourselves lost in front of La Gare de L'Est. We had come too far north and missed rue Sebastopol. A brief look at the map and two left turns and voila...back on track.

LIDL however was closed and we decided that it was too far away for any real shopping anyway. Walking back we decided to get a sandwich, but where? I was looking for a piscine to do my daily mile swim. I knew there was one in Les Halles so that's where we would find sandwiches. Within another mile we were there....a huge pedestrian area, hundreds of shops, restaurants and tourists. But first we had to find the swimming pool. Beautiful, 50m pool with 12 swimming lanes but alas, no 3 month membership; only a 10 pack for 28 euro....still not bad.

Then we started looking for sandwiches but decided to walk the rest of the way home instead. What a walk. We were only about a mile away, slightly lost, when Katherine said we should find the Louvre. Two quick blocks and two quick turns and there was the Louvre. Even better, the Louvre has a pedestrian walkway, right through its center. Passing through the Louvre arches we came out onto the Seine and the Francois Mitterand pedestrian bridge over the Seine. It was loaded with people of all ages; some sitting on the bridge's wooden planks, some on its benches, some eating food from their own houses, some eating those baguettes we didn't get, some smoking cigarettes, some drinking wine, some hugging, some kissing, everybody, however, soaking up the surroundings.

Getting to the other side, there was a photo shoot. A Japanese woman all decked out in a wild kimono-like dress. We're sure this picture will end up in some high end fashion mag. But hunger made us push on quickly. We passed several of the restaurants on our list of "must eat here". And they menu showed them not to be very expensive. We took a "short cut" which brought us around the back to rue St. Michel. We stopped into a Basque sausage shop, giving out samples of course. That decided it for us....Basque sausage, a baguette, and a beer. That would be our snack for today. And as I opened the beers in our apartment, cut the sausage and cheese, Katherine set the table with some bread and mustard. C'est magnifique.

But now, after relaxing for about 3 hours, it's time for me to make the dinner. Some fresh veggies we bought at the open market and some d'agneau that we got at our local boucherie. A bottle of the local chardonnay that we got for a pittance and can't get in the States for any price and that's our dinner.

May 10, 2009 — Sunday Morning

The morning started out just like any other morning. A cup of tea for Katherine and a demi-tasse of espresso for me. The terrace door was opened and the cool morning air and church bell chimes rushed into the living room. Blue skies with sheets of uniform clouds was also typical. And so it was time for me to take my morning run.

I decided to run north on rue de la Harpe and take a right turn down an alley and a left onto rue St. Jacques towards the Seine. I climbed down the stairs and onto the south quay and ran east, passing the Notre Dame Cathedral that stood on the other side of the river. I passed several bridal parties, all dressed in their tuxes and wedding dresses, waiting to take their wedding pictures under the Pont de l'Archeveche with Notre Dame in the background. The bells of Notre Dame were blaring, announcing the commencement of the morning service. But enough sight and sound seeing, I have to finish my run.

So pounding down the quay, I passed the Institut du Monde Arabe and their outdoor sculpture garden that spread out onto the banks of the Seine. Then I passed the restaurant and bar barges, all closed but still inviting. I made it to the Boulevard Périphérique, the Paris ring road, and decided to turn around.

It seemed strange today. I was but one of only a handful of runners; no bikers. And as I continued my return, there seemed to be more families pushing prams and couples taking pictures; no dock workers or office folks. The cement factories that dotted this side of the Seine were silent. I quickly ran by them and as I returned to the barges, they were bustling with activity. I don't know where all the people came from, but they were filling all the barges and sitting down for the brunch.

I caught a glimpse under the arch of one of the bridges of the two towers and steeple of the Cathedral. The bells were silent this time but in the distance you could hear the bells from other churches. The bridal parties were gone, only to be replaced by tourists or maybe just families with cameras? Back up the stairs and onto Quai de Montebello, I was in the final kilometer of my run. Montebello was unusually quiet; it was easy to cross. No cars, no velos, no buses. Back onto rue St. Jacques, equally quiet, jaywalking across the street was no problem.

My run was just about over but it seemed different. Ah yes. Today was dimanche. Or was it the third day of the long holiday weekend? Whatever, I'll find out next week when I redo my run.

July 19, 2009 – Le Lapin – The Cooking

I don’t like rabbit. That is to say, I’ve never really eaten rabbit. Sure, Katherine eats rabbit. She eats anything; but my tastes of her rabbit have been very limited; the cursory forkful followed by a large gulp of whatever liquid was at hand. So it was with trepidation that I was looking forward to Pierre’s lapin dinner. That was the good news.

The bad news, which I forgot, was that Pierre prefers to butcher his own rabbit. So upon our 6pm arrival [for an 8pm dinner], I was informed that before we could cook the rabbit, I had to butcher my rabbit! Pierre explained to me that if the butcher cut the rabbit, there are little bones and bone fragments that get broken off and lodge into the meat. And actually, having prepared my own rabbit and afterwards, seeing how the butcher cuts up a rabbit, I can see why little bone fragments get into the meat; butchers just use a meat cleaver to quarter the rabbit and crack the bones…not us…read on.

So I put on my apron, knocked back a shot of whisky [it’s a gourmet French cook thing], was given a knife that could slice through iron, and, oh yes, my own rabbit. Pierre showed me what to do using his rabbit and I dutifully followed. Unfortunately, the first thing was to separate the head from the body. I told Pierre that maybe I should have another shot…he understood. While knocking back the shot, he decapitated my bunny. After that, I was good. It was basically like quartering a skinny chicken except that after the legs were removed, we filleted the body. It was a surgical experience.

Then it was simple. Braise the bunny with garlic and olive oil. Add loads of mustard ancienne [coarse deli mustard to the NY folks], a cup or two of Pierre’s homemade wine vinegar [he makes everything himself, vinegar, wine, cider, etc.] and a slow boil for 90 minutes or so. And that was it. The easy part was done. The hard part, me getting this lapin down my throat, was next.

But the wine started flowing and the aromas starting rising. Pierre showed us the entrée [which in France, is what is should be, the first course]. It was a homemade pumpkin soup that needed a little more time chilling. Not a problem, more wine and time for Pierre to make an apple tart for dessert. As the pictures show, it was an artistic accomplishment. After the pie was in the oven, we began dinner.

The soup was marvelous but the rabbit was next. It smelled great but it was rabbit. One bite into it and I knew I had been wasting all those years passing up bunny. I even asked for seconds. And true to French form, Pierre followed the main course with a green salad [and homemade dressing, of course] which was followed by cheese which was followed by the apple tart.

You would think that the coffee would be the final touch but no…..no dinner at Pierre’s house is complete without fine Cuban cigar or pipe! That’s Wendy and me knocking back a stogie [and me turning green]. But the highlight was Pierre’s antique pipe. It’s an ivory pipe shaped like a woman’s leg; fill the thigh with tobacco and suck on her toes. It’s over a hundred years old!

And that, my friends, is how you cook and eat a rabbit dinner.

July 19, 2009 - Le Lapin - The Shopping

Pierre is a wonderful, gentle person. He looks, to some, like Mark Twain with his wiry gray hair and unkempt mustache. To me, he looks like a cross between Mark Twain and Albert Einstein. It’s hard to gauge his age. He could be a few years younger or older than me but he has a joie de vivre and twinkle in his eye that make him ageless.

We both love wine and cooking. He speaks less English than I speak French (although he is incredibly cultured and worked for the house of Dior in New York City, so he knows more than he lets on…). The good news is we seem to be able to communicate on several levels. Today he took Katherine and me around our local open market, Marche Maubert. He has a few favorite vendors for meat, fish, vegetables, and fruit. He introduced us to each vendor. He bought a ton of stuff for the rabbit dinner that he is going to make for us. He says the only way I can learn to cook rabbit is to be his sous-chef. But when he bought the rabbit [two of them], he asked for a pair of lapin! Not deux, I asked? Nope, pair is just fine.

So we carried all the stuff back to his 17th century apartment, just a few blocks from the market and just around the corner from our apartment. Incredible. I actually said “bordel de merde” when Pierre showed us some of the 15th, 16th, and 17th century artifacts all around his apartment. It used to be the stables, then a coal bunker, then a garage, and now, it’s his flat. He made us a coffee, showed us pictures of his lovely house in Brittany, and his boat…..he goes there often even though it takes 6 hours by car because he needs to “feel the ocean”. And then it was time for Pierre to go to work.

So we left but Pierre took us back to the market because his favorite meat guy wasn’t there earlier. And this time, his meat guy was there. Pierre got some lamb neck which he slow cooks and kisses his fingers to show me that it will taste “sublime.” Then, I step up and order a “pair” of lamb chops to which Pierre smiles, nods approvingly, and says to Katherine that I have that joie de vivre. Even the meat vendor had a laugh.

So all that’s left is my lapin-cooking lesson. Stay tuned.

July 18, 2009 - La Premier Soirée

I know the rumor is that the French are hard to get to know and the Parisians even harder to know. I’m not so sure. This is the beginning of our third month in Paris. We weren’t sure if we actually made friends with some Parisians or if they were just being nice to us. So far, everybody we’ve met, friends or strangers, have been very accommodating. They patiently wait for me to spit out my poor French and gently correct my pronunciation or grammar. Thus, it was with some trepidation that we asked some locals to dinner.

Now, Katherine, Wendy, Mike [Delphine’s boyfriend from Hawaii who knows even less French than me] and me, all speak American [yes, American, get over it]. Delphine speaks French [obviously] and her English is incredible. Pierre speaks French but has the occasional “Oh my God” outbursts. Therefore, since we are here to learn to speak French fluently, the plan was to speak as much French as possible.

Paris custom is to arrive no later than 15 minutes from the appointed time which in this case, was 8pm. The reason for this promptness is that no libation can be offered until the last guest is present. Delphine, Mike, and Pierre arrived together 5 minutes early. Being a Yank, it was hard for me to stick to the Paris custom so I asked if we should wait for Wendy. Since the champagne they brought was getting warmer and since the Paris custom is variable depending upon who’s invited and how thirsty you are…..the corked got popped immediately. I don’t really remember what time Wendy arrived but by Paris soirée time, it was one bottle of champagne late! And as I started to open a bottle of white wine, Wendy arrived with “Je suis desolée” and another bottle of champagne was popped. Now the party really got going.

I made one of my signature dishes, Veal Shank Redemption; the aromas were sensual [or at least that’s what I thought Pierre said]. Katherine made cold asparagus soup which I doctored up with pistachio oil, a gift from Wendy. If you’ve never had pistachio oil, you will just as soon as we return from Europe. It is fantastic stuff. We collaborated on a cauliflower purée and some steamed carrots and haricot verts. With two bottles of champers dead, and two white burgundies dying, it was time to begin dinner.

By the time we finished our asparagus soup, the crowd got unruly. I don’t remember which demand had the greatest urgency…bring on “la viande” or “more wine”….it was a no-brainer for me; two bottles of great red burgundy. Then we plated the veal. I never expected 3 kilograms of veal to be consumed by six people; but we did! By this time, the French was flowing as quickly as the red wine was being poured. I’m not sure if I actually understood everything that was being said [Katherine managed about 80% of it all] but apparently I held up my end of the conversation…..until.

Until I was asked by Katherine to speak my latest slang expression “bordel de merde” or “holy sh*t”. Unfortunately, these words must be uttered with the proper enunciation, alacrity and volume, which Pierre proceeded to demonstrate and then required me to repeat…several times until I got it right!

By this time, there was no doubt that the party was a success. So we finished the meal with some cheeses, black cherry jam, raisin bread and yoghurt. Oh, and another 2 or 3 bottles of red wine. And as the party was beginning to break up, we started talking about food, the local markets, and lapin [rabbit]. Katherine said she loves rabbit but that I don’t make it. Pierre asked me if I wanted to learn and I said yes; it’s easy to speak French when you’ve had a bit too much wine and even easier to agree to do something that you have no idea about. So we arranged to meet promptly at 9:30AM the next morning at our local market to pick out the ingredients for cooking on Monday. My expectation is that this next meal might make an eJ, especially since Pierre will undoubtedly conduct the entire shopping experience “en francais.” Stay tuned.

(I think this is Pierre either showing us how to suck marrow from a veal bone or showing Wendy something else......)