Mark's eJournal October 22, 2009 – Odds and Sods #4 –The Gentleman’s Club

Katherine’s brother Bobby came to town. It was his 60th birthday in June, so as a present we brought him over to Paris for a visit. Now Bobby and I share similar tastes. We both are enamored of French doors. Separately, we have both been taking pictures of doors. As this picture shows, the doors are huge and beautiful. When I get enough door pictures, I plan on making an album. And for lunch, we like a little wine….well, at least he does….I save it for dinner. But we also enjoy trivial pursuit and Scottish pubs. Katherine and I haven’t really gone to many Paris pubs. Don’t get me wrong, we are single-handedly saving the French wine industry during La Crise Économique. But we have checked out where all the local pubs were, just in case we ran out of wine.

One pub we found was the Highlander…apropos given our heritage [or at least their heritage]. And to our great surprise, they had a pub quiz on Sunday nights. Without going into details, we came in second and won free shots of whiskey. And if it wasn’t for all those French questions like “what color is the number 4 Metro line and the name of its ending stations”, we would have come in first. But Bobby needed a pub with music, with characters, with life, and most of all, with cheap Guinness. And he found it. The Gentleman. Easily within walking distance of our flat, sober or not.

Now by himself, Bobby is a very friendly guy. He makes friends with everybody. Paris is no exception. And he makes important friends, like with the bouncer, Ahmed. This friendship ensured that no matter how crowded the Gentleman got, we were always allowed entry. It also allowed Bobby easy access to all parts of the pub especially where the music was playing. And the group [or should I say duo] that were playing were great. For a couple of acoustic guitars, they sounded great.

And I didn’t have any problems making friends with the locals either. I never met this guy, Vladimir, before but he and his friends loved Americans [or maybe just me]. Anyway, they were having this drink which looked very special. I think it’s called a B-52. I watched as he and his friends appeared to “snort” the flaming drink. Apparently, I was obvious so Vlad bought me one. Not to be outdone, I reciprocated…..twice. Not because I felt obligated but because Katherine didn’t really get a good first picture. Needless to say, I didn’t mind the retake. And for those interested few, here’s how you make one of these B-52s:

In a large shot glass layer Kahlua, Bailey’s, and then Grand Marnier.

In our case, the bartender used a tiny bent sugar spoon to pour each layer onto. This ensured three distinct layers. Then he ignited the Grand Marnier. Hence the reason the picture looks like we are snorting the drink….you suck the whole flaming drink [as in "on fire"] in one suck from the bottom using a straw.....hence the expression, bottom's up???

Needless to say, we all had a great time and we look forward to Bobby taking us through more pub crawls in Paris.

Mark's eJournal November 12, 2009 – Odds and Sods #5 – Le Tabac

It’s been awhile since my last eJ. No, it’s not that I don’t have anything to write about. Rather, September, October, and soon, November, have just been a blur with all the visitors we’ve had and trips we’ve taken. It started in September with Lynda and Ross visiting for a week. Then we left for 10 days for the States for our friend’s daughter’s big fat Greek wedding. Then Katherine’s brother Bobby came for a 10-day visit followed by my Glasgow University basketball buddy, Mike and his wife Hazel and son Grant. Then we left for Le Dordogne to meet up with our DC friends Peggy and Peter, whom we drove back to Paris with and spent a long weekend. Less than one week later, Katherine’s longtime friend, Liz and her husband Mike came for a visit. And sometime in there, Adriana [the big fat Greek wedding bride] came for a visit. November isn’t even over and we still have Katherine’s niece Kirsty and her boyfriend Graham and our DC friends, George and Doris, all circling the landing strip for a Paris visit.

Whew. Now I’m not complaining. The only bad thing about all these visitors is…..well, there really isn’t anything bad; just no time left over for writing blogs. The only good thing about all these visitors is….well, there are really lots of good things but my favorite is looking at Paris through their eyes; seeing things that I might have overlooked or never even noticed.

For example, Bobby fell off the wagon. He had given up smoking for a few months but I guess the French accent got to him. Studying French in Glasgow did his head in and he started to take a few puffs. By the time he got to Paris, he was out of smokes. And since Katherine and I are smoke-free, Bobby had to go out into the streets of Paris and fend for himself.

Now I knew that in France, you buy your cigarettes in a tobacco shop [Le Tabac]; not a supermarket or a pub. They’re all over the place but I really didn’t know exactly where the closest one was. In fact, I hadn’t even been inside a Tabac since I got to Paris. I didn’t even know what to look for except to peer into a store window and look for packs of cigarettes. And that’s where Bobby's new eyes come into play.

For the first time, Bobby pointed out the one exterior identifying feature of all Tabac’s. Their lozenge-shaped sign. And if you look at all the pictures in this blog, that’s them. They are all different yet similar. Kinda like the three balls in front of all pawnshops or, for us old folks, that barbershop pole...at least in the olde days.

So there you have it. I’ve seen these red, diamond-shaped, illuminated signs all over Paris, all over France. I never made the connection. So to all of you who are planning to visit us and to all of you who have visited us, stayed tuned for more revelations as I see Paris through your eyes.

October 17, 2009 – Odds and Sods #3 – La Poubelle???

My garbage can got arrested today. Our doorbell rang. Not the interior doorbell which sounds like a poor man’s cheap alarm clock and which we don’t have a clue about so that when it rings we pick up every phone, cellphone, and electronic gadget in our apartment before we realize it’s our front door… No, this was the exterior doorbell that has the video camera attached. I ran to the screen and saw that this guy was a complete stranger. I buzzed him in anyway and ran down the stairs to meet him.

Clearly my French must be getting a little better because he didn’t speak English and he was asking me questions completely out of my frame of reference. Apparently, he was from the Mairie de Paris [the mayor’s office of our arrondissement]. Somehow, the Mairie was informed that we had an illegal garbage can [la poubelle]. Apparently, all garbage cans are registered with the Mairie de Paris. Apparently our green garbage can is supposed to be blue. He was here to check on the registration number of our garbage can! Apparently every garbage can has a registration number.

What makes this very strange indeed, is that our garbage can is inside our hallway which is locked. And then it is inside a locked closet inside our hallway. I opened the closet and the agent marked down the garbage can number. He checked it against his piece of paper with the supposed registration number of our garbage can. It did not match. Busted. We have an illegal garbage can!

Now the questioning, in French, moved to who lives here, who is responsible for the illegal garbage can, yadda yadda yadda? Yes, I live here but I only rent. The owner, he lives in the States. I have a concierge but she lives in the Marais. I don’t think she has a clue about the illegal garbage can. But, wait, we do have a local concierge or person who cleans the common areas and takes care of the garbage. Would you like me to take you to her? Follow me.

I took him to our local concierge, Maria; a 70+ year old woman who lives a few doors down from us. I left after he rang the bell; no need for me to stick around. I don’t know what happened after that. I think our garbage can got arrested and is doing 5 to 10 in the Bastille. Actually, I think they are just registering our dustbin’s number. I don’t really care because what was really important to me is that I actually understood the French the agent spoke to me….and vice versa. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying I am fluent in French; not even close. All I am saying is that today, without any help, I was able to successfully communicate with a local official about an off-the-wall subject.

October 15, 2009 – Odds and Sods #2 – The Mean Streets of Paris

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean the unsafe or dangerous streets of Paris. Sure any major city has its share of lovers, muggers and thieves. Hold onto your wallet in the crowded streets that attract tourists to protect yourself from either pick-pockets or scammers selling you gold rings that they found at your feet. No, I mean “look both ways before you cross the street” dangerous.

Paris is one of the most densely populated major metropolitan cities in the world. I mean Paris proper; those 20 arrondissements that the true Parisian considers Paris….not unlike what we New Yorkers consider New York [Manhattan] or a DC’er considers DC [inside the beltway]. True Paris is crowded. Inside true Paris, you buy or rent your flat very close to where you work. You don’t have a car. You use public transport for a stop or two or walk. Sure, you give up living space. A large Paris flat is about as small as what we are living just now, 53 sq.m. [570 sq.ft]. And about 40 percent of the folks live alone!... Don’t get me started on that one….that is material for another blog and why the French all have pets or why there are so many little parks dotted all around Paris.

But public transportation is the rule, although as I observe on my daily run, it’s hard to tell. The traffic in Paris is horrible [and the driver’s are super aggressive]. I think that’s why the city planners came up with an ingenious way to improve traffic flow. One-way streets. Sure, all major cities have one-way streets but not quite like Paris.

Yes, DC [and maybe some other cities] have timed one-way streets [like Rock Creek Park] where during rush hour, the entire roadway is one way or the other. And some other cities have bridges, roadways, or streets that have moving Jersey barriers or are just simply sign-posted to say "in the AM three of these five lanes are in-bound" and "in the PM three of these five lanes are out-bound". But the French have taken it to a new level.

For example, Boulevard St. Michel is a 4-lane street. At one point, it was 2 lanes each way. The city planners decided to make it a one-way street. Then they decided to make one lane dedicated to public transportation and taxis (and bicycles). This is a good idea and not something new. Britain, for example, has been doing this for years. Except in Britain, the dedicated public transportation lanes have been repaved in bright bold red tarmacadam. I know this because I have been pulled over by a friendly Bobby or two who explained to me the difference between the dark black tarmacadam and the red tarmacadam.

However, the Paris city planners decided to make one of the public transportation lanes on St. Michel [and other main streets] travel in the opposite direction from the other three lanes. !!! This is still a good idea except that this one lane is not paved in red tarmacadam. All that is marked on the street is “Danger a Gauche”. So as you are looking to your right onto the three lanes of traffic bearing down on you, that five ton bus coming the opposite way up the “one-way” street has your name on it, en francais!!! Luckily Katherine has snatched me from this perilous situation several times, although she is certain that I am going to “buy it” one of these days when I am out wandering the streets of Paris on my own, sans chaperone…

October 14, 2009 – Odds and Sods #1 – A Tree Grows in …….

I can’t believe it. We are well into our 6th month living in Paris. And my familiarity with Paris has grown so much that it is hard to find the words to fill a blog or eJournal. Don’t get me wrong. I still pinch myself when I run past the Notre Dame Cathedral or get a couple of French “air-kisses” from my local boucherie when I buy my weekly meat from her open-air market stall. So I have decided to write about those little things that catch my eye. Yes, to be sure, there will be eJournal-worthy blogs to come but, for now, as I settle into an actual life in Paris, the big things that knock my socks off, are fewer and far between. But it’s the little things that catch my eye.

For example, on the block between our apartment and our fitness club, is a tree stump. It’s been there since we arrived. I must pass it at least twice a day; more when Katherine drags me out for a walk in the quartier. There are several full grown trees on this block in front of Place de Cluny but this one must have been hit by a car or bus.

I always remember this stump, which I named Brück-Lin and is ancien francais for stump. It just seemed odd that this stump remained. That the Mairie de Paris didn’t just gouge it out and plant a new tree. And then, one day, on the stump where the bark had come away and all that was left was that large smooth oval of under wood that, as a kid, I thought was the mouth of a tree, some artist had painted a face.

And not just any face. It was a sad face. And for emphasis, he drew one large tear falling from its eye. The tree was dead but the artist’s picture gave it life. Where else but Paris would some artist take the time to spruce up [forget the pun] this lifeless stump?

And so, for months, I would walk past Brück-Lin and smile at her painted face. Then, about four weeks ago, voilá, it sprang back to life. Little branches and leaves started sprouting. It was a sight to behold. The branches grew, more leaves appeared. There was life in this old stump after all. But last week…..another one of those massive, French, “we-have-nothing-else-to-do” parades occurred. And when I say “nothing else to do parades”, I mean that. Sure, we had the World War II parade; the Gay Pride parade; the Roller Blade parade; the best cheese in Paris parade [okay, I might be exaggerating] but the “we’re opening a new radio station” parade??? Give me a break.

And what made it even more surreal….it was larger than any of the other parades!! Tens of thousands of drunken French youths, dancing, drinking, smoking [yes], taking off their clothes [okay, that part wasn’t all that bad], puking, peeing, and standing on anything that would give them a better view of the parade….well, Brück-Lin just didn’t stand a chance.

I walked to the club the following day. Those newly sprouted limbs and leaves….gone. That tear in her eye…fitting, once again. Smashed and broken, she was a sorry sight. Katherine and I both thought she was mulch. But today, as we walked to the club, life was stirring. Just over her right “ear” was a bolt of green. I can’t promise she will live. You never know what other important parades Paris will have. But I can tell you this, a tree named Brück-Lin grows in Paris…

Mark's eJournal September 6, 2009 – The Misadventures of Visitors

For the past 5 days, we’ve had Lynda and her son, Ross, visiting with us from New York. Katherine, the Field Marshall of Concierge, has it all under control. Restaurants, markets, museums, churches, gardens, you name it, Field Marshall Katherine has it planned. But being a benign FM, Katherine does take requests. And Ross had his heart set upon Versailles.

Saturday is the day. With military precision, Ross and Lynda will arrive at our apartment absolutely no later than 7:45am. This is so we have enough time to buy our “aller-retour” tickets and catch the 8:19am RER train. Katherine’s alarm goes off at 7:00am, then again at 7:05, 7:10, and 7:15. Katherine finally gets up leaving me to lie in but her alarm still goes off at 7:20. So I get up. My job is to get some McMuffins from the McDonald’s at the end of our street. Quelle horreur, you say, eating McDonald’s in Paris??? Well, we feel the same way. I normally go to our bakery on the corner but it doesn’t open until 8AM while McD’s opens at 7:30. Ahhhh, and there’s the rub. They open at 7:30 but they don’t have anything cooked. I order two McMuffin breakfasts, one with coffee and one with tea. The drinks are poured immediately. The McMuffins come about 15 minutes later. You get the picture; cold drinks to go with warm McMuffins.

Lynda and Ross show up around 8 [for Lynda, this is on time]. I lead them to the station and we buy our tickets “aller-retour”. Through the turnstile and we walk to the appropriate platform. Our train is there. We jump on it just before it pulls away. Katherine asks me if this is the right train. “Of course it is” as I, in French ask a fellow passenger, “is this train to Versailles?”. “Oui”…. “I told you it was the right train”. Two stops later we all get off…it’s only a local train. But we manage to scramble onto the right train and we arrive at Versailles at the planned time.

Having heard my nephew Erik’s horror story of waiting on line at Versailles for 3 hours to buy tickets in early May, the Field Marshall had booked our tickets online. We took the audio tour of the palace, finishing it just in time to walk the gardens to music. About 3 times a year, they play music around the water fountains…this was one of those days. There were loudspeakers hidden away behind all of the tall hedges and hidden in tree limbs – classical music wafted out throughout the gardens as the fountains all sprang to life. You can imagine that in Marie-Antoinette’s day, hundreds of small string quartets were installed playing around the fountains for the courtesans.

Speaking of Marie Antoinette, Katherine insisted that we take in the Queen’s Hamlet near the Petit Trianon in Marie-Antoinette’s Versailles estate. We dutifully agreed this was a good idea. And we are glad we capitulated to her encouragements of “you won’t believe what you’re going to see next…!” To get away from French court life, Marie-Antoinette had an entire hamlet built in Norman style so she and her children could amuse themselves and play at French country life. We wandered around the Hamlet, Ross exclaiming how utterly decadent the whole concept was! Vive la revolution!

We trekked back to the Petit Trianon and gratefully hopped onto a bus-train that whisked us back to the palace. But the Field Marshall had just one or two more things that we had to see. First, there was L’Orangerie; an exquisitely laid out garden with potted fruit trees, bushes, and flowers. Then there was this fountain…which upon closer examination turned out to be a bunch of hoses, artistically arranged with Gardena hose bibs squirting out water. I have to admit; if you are going to view a hose fountain, this is the one to see. I also have to admit, I am being facetious. And because there is a water shortage in France [it’s been a very dry summer], the fountains were only on a few minutes each hour. A hose fountain with water flowing is one thing. A bunch of hoses stuck together in the middle of a pond….well, that’s another thing. But our Versailles trip was over and it was time to go home and see what the Field Marshall has planned for us tomorrow.

Katherine and Lynda did “girl” things, perusing the Marche Auguste-Blanqui in the 13th Arrondissement. Ross took off for the Louvre and The Eiffel Tower. I had the dinner to prepare. So we all went our separate ways with a plan for Ross and me to link up and go to the Jardin du Luxembourg [JdL] for some sightseeing and chess. Around 3PM, Ross showed up at the apartment; ready to play chess and explain his day’s excitement.

Although I’ve written about this before, Ross had a strange encounter which bears repeating, especially for those of you planning to visit Paris any time soon. While he was walking along by the Seine, taking in the gorgeous views and quietly minding his own business, a woman picked up a gold ring and asked if it was his. Despite his protestations, she made him take the ring and as he looked at it, she started walking away. Then she came back and asked Ross if he could give her some money for a sandwich. Ross is a prince and since there was a sandwich place right there, he offered to buy her a meal and a drink. She said no, that she wanted money to get her own sandwich so Ross repeated the offer…with the same response. Then the penny dropped and so did the ring, which Ross put back on the ground. That’s when the woman starting cursing him out and hitting him with her sweat shirt. And as Ross walked away, he saw several other women picking up gold rings in front of other tourists, and smiled…

We got to the JdL. And before we got to the chess tables, we walked around the garden; me showing Ross Le Senat, the main fountain, the petanque courts, the Statue of Liberty, and this strange game called “Longue Paume”…a sort of cross between tennis and badminton only there was no net, just red lines on the concrete court and what appeared to be a plastic ball. Nobody around us could explain the rules so we moved onto the chess tables. All the tables were taken so we made a table with cardboard and a picture that Ross bought as a gift. I don’t know what the attraction was, there were certainly more exciting players and games going on but for some reason we attracted a few folks….some of whom actually offered us alternative moves! Ross is a good player; I lost all my games….even the ones we played later. By now Lynda and Katherine had joined us; apparently they had been observing us for a few minutes. So we wrapped up our pieces and went home to dinner except that Katherine said she had one more little surprise.

As tired as we all were, we reluctantly agreed (don’t mess with the Tour Guide formidable!)…We entered L’Eglise Saint Sulpice, despite all the scaffolding that surrounds it’s much-needed multi-year renovation, and she guided us to a point just left of the altar. There it was – Dan Brown’s “Rose Line” as featured in “The Da Vinci Code.” Never mind that there are several notices mounted on the church’s walls that condemn any or all claims by a “certain recently-published novel of some commercial success” that this is not in any way a Rose Line nor is it connected to the Priory of Sion. Nevertheless, we followed the line across the church and imagined the chase and dastardly deeds that Brown described here in this church in “The Code.”

But all good things come to an end. Lynda and Ross’s time in Paris was coming to an end. The one thing that struck me was seeing Paris through their eyes. We’ve been living in Paris for 4 months but so much has seeped in unconsciously. During our walks and talks with Lynda and Ross, the stuff that came out of our mouths about Paris, France, the customs and mores, the food, the people, etc., just shows that we are truly absorbing it all. I just hope that the next time Lynda and Ross come to visit that the stuff that comes out of my mouth comes out in French…

Mark's eJournal August 24, 2009 – Glasgow

The French take their summer 4-week vacation usually between July 15th and September 15th. It’s known as Les Grandes Vacances. They desert Paris and leave it to the tourists. Restaurants put signs on their doors stating the dates they will be on vacation but these dates are merely suggestions. Check before you decide to walk to your favorite restaurant. That “back August 15th” sign is approximate. It could be the 17th, the 20th or even September 15th. This long vacation ends with “La Rentree” [or homecoming]. No more telephone messages stating that due to the short-staff situation no calls can be answered or returned at this time. Revived, reinvigorated, and refreshed after La Rentree, the French return to work on all cylinders. Instead of the short staff excuse, it’s “why don’t you call somebody who gives a merde”…..

So it comes as no surprise that we too, being Parisians, decided to leave for a fortnight’s holiday in Glasgow.

Stepping off the plane, it is hard to not make comparisons. Leaving the dry, hot weather of Paris and landing in the cool, moist weather of Glasgow; the 90’s of Paris for the 60’s of Glasgow [or 30’s of Paris for the teens of Glasgow for you metric-minded folks]; is like night and day. It’s refreshing. It makes my long runs easy. And then you notice that instead of the calcareous pebbles that dominate the paths and fields of the gardens and parks of Paris, the pavements and paths are dominated by tarmacadam…..which is not surprising since the Scot John MacAdam invented the stuff. We arrive at Katherine's sister May's house in Glasgow and immediately notice how green & lush her garden is.

And while you’re running, you make another observation. The Scots are friendlier than the French. Now, don’t get me wrong. The French friends we’ve made are every bit as friendly as our Scottish friends. Even the shopkeepers whose local shops we frequent are as friendly as their Scottish counterparts. But the French don’t go in for “glaikit” smiles, eye contact, and good morning to passing strangers. The Scots, on the other hand, encourage it. French runners don’t even acknowledge other runners. The Scots nod their head or wave a hand. Pass a Scot walking their dog or just walking in the park, and they’ll say good morning to you. Not so the French.

But the most shocking comparison is prices. After years of traveling to Britain, we usually pack the grocery advertisement section of the papers so that we can compare prices between the US and the UK. The UK is always more expensive. It’s always dollar to pound ratio. Now living in Paris for 4 months, we know that Paris is expensive but not by how much. What the UK prices are to the US prices is what the Paris prices are to the UK prices!!! With the exception of wine prices, it’s amazing how anybody living in Paris can afford anything…..including us.

But the silver-lining in Scotland is the beer prices, easily half the Paris prices. So it’s wine in Paris and beer in Glasgow…..and that’s it from me, I’m off to the pub.