Postcards from Paris

The Smoking Truck

2012-02-09T10:18:00.000-08:00

You may have been reading about the glacial Siberian air mass that has been blanketing most of Europe for the past couple of weeks. The thermometer hovers during the day at 18F or lower. My poor little geraniums have just about given up the ghost...

...and by the time I bundle and muffle myself up to go out, I am barely recognizable!

Matthew is suffering severe camp fever from not being able to go out on his daily bicycle ride to the Bois de Boulogne. He amused himself this past Sunday by documenting our deserted snowy neighborhood.

Scurrying past La Madeleine on Tuesday and turning down the
side street, I was, therefore, surprised to come upon a group of people lining up in the bitter cold by a truck!

Not just any old truck, however, but the new "hot" thing in the food world here: "Le Camion qui Fume" (The Smoking Truck)!

Yes, it's a food truck in a country that has never embraced the mobile food movement that you find in American cities. There are trucks in fixed locations that serve crèpes and waffles, but this one moves around the city, roving from site to site. On Tuesdays and Fridays, it is alongside La Madeleine.

Across the street, any number of warm, indoor eateries promote themselves, from the deluxe Hediard with its fancy teas and gift hampers...

...to the Maison de la Truffe...

...or the popular chain wine bar/café, L'Ecluse. Here one could enjoy a leisurely meal in a warm, comfortable atmosphere, savoring each dish as one is supposed to in France.

Instead, these customers have something very different and very specific on their mind, and on their tastebuds...

A good, old-fashioned American-style hamburger! It turns out a really good authentic burger is hard to find here. They are listed on most menus, but the quality leaves much to be desired. Now, you might ask why, when you're in Paris - world capital of food - would you want to eat a hamburger? Well, it turns out a lot of people do!

The brainchild of Kristin Frederick, a Californian who trained at the École Supérieure de Cuisine Française, the operation began last November.

This young woman, who took my order, explained that they began in the winter deliberately, so they could break themselves in slowly.

But with a menu like this, it's been anything but slow! Even the French, it turns out, have been waiting for a real American burger. The truck arrives at 11 am and stays until 2 pm, closing up earlier if they run out of burgers. At other sites they operate until 11 pm. Business has been so phenomenal they are already negotiating to buy a second truck.

The burgers are assembled by the all American crew in batches of ten. First the bottom buns are buttered...

... mayonnaise and salad stuff is added before the burger itself is put in place. Three different cuts of ground beef are mixed together, with extra fat added. (After all, for a real burger, you need about 20% fat!).

The top bun is added, the whole thing is wrapped in wax paper and popped into a nice crisp bag...

...and handed over to the lucky customer, with a cheerful "bon appetit" each time!

Meanwhile, the rest of us continued to wait, huddled together, stamping our feet, blowing into our gloves. Finally (40 minutes after I placed the order!) my number came up! I popped the bag into my tote bag and headed for home.

After thawing out my fingers and feet, I was ready to dive in, and I have to say it was really delicious! An artisanal bread bun that had just the right amount of heft to it, fresh salad layers, and a perfectly cooked and extremely tasty burger. The fries were gone in no time flat. Yum!! It was right up there with the best that Bill's on Clement Street in San Francisco offers -- the highest burger compliment!

À bientôt!

Back to School!

2012-02-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

I've set myself a goal during our time in Paris this year: that I will work to improve my fractured French grammar. I speak and read the language quite well, can certainly get myself around the city, can navigate the intricacies and rituals of daily life here, and can even hold my own at French dinner parties - up until about 10:30 pm or so, that is, when I inevitably "hit the wall". But, oh, the grammar, the tenses, the prepositions, and - especially - the dreaded subjunctive! They seem to have all vanished from my brain since my high school days. Mother Anselm, the Spanish nun who taught me French, would turn in her grave if she could hear me.

Luckily, a little online research produced Lutèce Langue at 23 rue Sébastopol in the 1st arrondissement. I took a deep breath and enrolled for two weeks, Monday to Friday, for an hour and half each day. After completing a test online in French (sans dictionnaire), and after being interviewed on the telephone to find my "level", and after giving them my Carte Bleue number for some Euros, I was accepted and asked to come Monday of this week at 10:45 am.

The offices are small and cramped, but staffed with cheerful, friendly people. I was quickly directed to a very small classroom #3, where Monsieur Denis welcomed me.

With M. Denis seated by the whiteboard, and three classmates from (from right to left) the United Kingdom, Manhattan and Vienna, we are quite international. A very pleasant group, and nice and small! No place to hide!

Homework assignments come almost every day from this imposing looking text book, to re-emphasize topics covered in class. The program is conducted entirely in French, seems well structured, and so far -- five days in -- I do believe some of it is sinking in!

I quickly discovered that the easiest way to get to school is to walk, so every morning I head down rue Montorgeuil, where at this time of year the cafés all have their winter coats on -- thick plastic walls to shield customers from the currently icy, sub-freezing temperatures (19 degrees F. at 10 am today), with heaters that blast hot air down onto your back.

And where the other day I passed this shocking sight of the sapeurs-pompiers mopping up one of our favorite bistros on the street, Le Petit Carreaux, after a kitchen fire. They will, alas, be closed for a while...

Naturally, there are several dress shops along the way, and I am beginning to notice a distinct trend toward RED as the upcoming seasonal color of choice -- perhaps in response to the growing possibility of François Hollande and his Socialist Party winning the national elections, which take place here beginning in April?

At the bottom of rue Montorgeuil, I cross over rue Turbigo, climb some steps and get onto rue Rambuteau, which forms one of the boundary streets of the dreaded Parisian eyesore, Forum des Halles. But there's good news! After 50+ years of living with this ugly monument to 60's architecture (built under the regime of President Pompidou), the City of Paris has decided to tear it down and "try again"!

Of course, nothing will recapture architect Victor Baltard's stunning 1863 steel pavilions, which covered the same area and kept alive the tradition of food markets in this central Paris neighborhood, going all the way back to the 12th century.

For over 100 years, these buildings were packed with butchers, fishmongers, fruit and vegetable stalls, cheese stalls, bakeries, etc. etc.

Starting in the dark, early hours of the morning, thousands of tons of meat, fish and produce arrived here, were put on display and sold to eager Parisians.

Eventually, the streets around the market became so congested, as the city population grew, that the decision was taken to tear down Les Halles and move the market out to Rungis, where it has now been since the late 1960s. I remember being in Paris with Matthew in 1972 and driving by the last remnants of Baltard's structures. Sadly, I never saw it in its heyday.

President Pompidou replaced it with a new structure that, he promised, would provide gardens and a carousel for children, and a multi-level subterranean mall that would be a shopping mecca for Parisians and visitors alike. Just like this photo purports to show. At the same time, the vast transit hub, Châtelet-Les Halles was built even further underground. Alas, today, there is no carousel, the gardens are unkempt and popular only with drug dealers, and the shopping mall is truly a vista from hell!

So, most people think it's a good thing the place is being torn down, and certainly it's fun to walk by there every morning and watch the progress!

I've been just amazed at the size of this crane that towers over the other, smaller ones...

...and also dwarfs the substantial stack of portable, temporary offices that have gone up to house all aspects of the construction.

Turning right onto rue Pierre Lescot, I love to peer through the grating at the growing piles of rubble.

Meanwhile, as if to keep our eyes looking forward, there are many billboards posted that show how the "new" Les Halles will transform this space with a swooping, open air roof, new gardens and playgrounds, new trees, etc.

There even seems to be some sort of plan to open up the underground mall so that daylight will bathe the lower depths! Now that would really be an improvement.

One thing's for sure: the venerable Église Ste.-Eustache that stands (both figuratively and in reality) above this site will always continue to hold the prize for steadfastness and dignity in the neighborhood!

Meanwhile, the grammar continues: With the words "après" and "avant", when to use the infintif passé and when to use the infinitif. I leave you with two options: Après avoir fini ce blog, j'ai continué mes devoirs. Or: Avant de continuer mes devoirs, j'ai fini ce blog.

À bientôt!

Les Flâneurs

2012-01-18T10:06:00.000-08:00

One of the joys of being in Paris for an extended period of time is that you don't feel in a panic to rush out every day, afraid of missing something. Instead, life takes on a leisurely pace. Some days we don't go out at all. Other times we don't plan to go out, but then suddenly the sun bursts out, blue skies appear and we decide, spontaneously, to go for a stroll, to become a couple of "flâneurs" for an hour or so.

A few days ago we were lured by the warm sunshine to wander a bit in our 2nd arrondissement neighborhood, which is the heart and soul of the garment district of Paris.

The streets are often full of men like this one, rolling carts piled high with bolts of fabrics.

I've been intrigued for a while by all the Egyptian names that adorn street signs and buildings in our quartier. We live on the corner of rue d'Aboukir. Across the busy rue Réaumur, I'd noticed a rue de Nil, and we'd been told of a Passage de Caire, all names honoring the exploits of Napoleon in his Egyptian campaigns. So that was my vague goal, to find this Passage, whilst Matthew was interested in yet another, Passage Brady, in the 10th arrondissement.

We stumbled across the Passage du Caire almost immediately and admired the large scale Egyptian heads on the building, and the more delicate carvings above the entrance to the Passage itself, a flying horse and sacred bird.

We were quite flabbergasted to find, inside, that this is one of the biggest Passages in the city. It covers several blocks, shooting out right and left to connect with adjoining streets. And it's almost entirely devoted to all things to do with the rag trade.

From shops selling fabrics...

...to shops selling all manner of lacy and sequin encrusted trim...

...to dress shops with astonishing bargains to be had, although I didn't quite see me in either of these outfits!

Nor this one, for that matter!

Should you be in the market for a mannequin, though, this is where you go to find one in all sizes, shapes and colors.

And if you want that dress to have a true stamp of authenticity, here's where you get your faux "haut couture" labels!

Right in the middle of the Passage du Caire, the Restaurant Beverly, under the control of the Loubevitch de France, is a reminder of the days when this was strictly a Jewish neighborhood. Today, most of the businesses seem to be owned and run by Asian and Indian companies.

Emerging at the far end of the Passage du Caire, we found ourselves facing the glorious arch dedicated to Louis XIV "Ludovico Magno", basking in the late afternoon sun.

We soon realized that we had come out onto rue St. Denis, the notorious "call girl" street, where every doorway seemed to be inhabited by a middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair and black fishnet stockings, desperately trying to recapture her youth. Really sad to see.

Crossing over behind the Louis XIV arch, and heading up Boulevard Strasbourg, we found ourselves in the gritty 10th arrondissement, with its slogans blazing out...

...and soon came across the chipped, worn entrance to the Passage Brady.

Once inside the Passage, however, we were delighted to discover Paris' Little Mumbai! Along with several delicious looking restaurants, which we will certainly return to sample...

...a whole row of Indian dress shops displayed their selections of multi-colored saris...

...and food stalls offered exotic, and in some cases unknown, fruits and vegetables.

Leaving the Passage Brady we came to the rue du Faubourg St. Martin. To the left, just a few blocks up, stood the Gare de l'Est, to the right this baby clothing shop caught the eye of both of us (soon to be grandparents!), and in particular this display of boxes of baby booties, emblazoned with symbols of countries and religions, two dozen in each box!

By now we'd been sauntering around for an hour or so. Time for an afternoon coffee and a bit of a sit down to watch the passing parade, before heading for home.

As we made our way along rue de Cléry, one more discovery awaited us. Linking the rue de Cléry and the street above, rue Beauregard, is this "street" - rue des Degrés. It comprises just fourteen steps, is 5.50 meters long, has no doors, no windows, and yet it is an official street! We joked that it must be the shortest street in Paris. And, after a little research, we discovered later that it is exactly that.

Ah, the joys and pleasures of passing an unplanned hour or two as a "flâneur" or a "flâneuse"!

À bientôt!

Les Galettes des Rois

2012-01-09T09:51:00.000-08:00

Barely a week goes by here in France without there being some kind of a holiday, or fête. Very often these are tied to a religious event, a saint's birthday perhaps or, in some instances, their grisly demise. January 6 celebrated two events that I know of: the birthday of Joan of Arc, the Maid of Lorraine, and the Feast of the Epiphany. Joan of Arc's birthday gets pretty skimpy coverage -- maybe because no one is absolutely certain if this is her birthday! -- but the Feast of the Epiphany seems to take over the town for the whole month of January.

You notice it right away at the bakeries, where lavish displays of "galettes" (cakes or wafers) appear front and centre in display cases. Tradition has it that these cakes, and the secret charms hidden within, drew the Three Kings, the Magi, as they followed the Star of Bethlehem to the stable of the Christ child. Their journey lasted 12 days, thus the 12 days of Christmas, ending on the Epiphany, the twelfth night.

The delectable treats consist of super flaky pastry layers with a dense centre of frangipane. Yum!

When you're ready to buy your own Galette des Rois, a gold paper crown is wrapped around it before it's carefully placed in a pretty wax bag that features a handsome looking king.

And so it was that we found ourselves yesterday chez our 4th floor neighbors, Ingrid and Olivier and their five month old baby, Gisèle, at their Fête des Galettes.

As Ingrid carefully cut the galettes into equal slices...

...both Matiis and Elena, from the other 4th floor flat, waited with excitement to see who would find the lucky charm, the "fève" in their slice.

Today, these "fèves" are tiny porcelain figurines. In earlier times, they were, literally, a bean, une fève. In either case, whoever finds the lucky charm is crowned "king" or "queen" for the day and gets to wear the paper crown.

At our party, it was Naïs, their sister, who found the lucky charm, and proudly wore the crown!

Not to be outdone, however, Matiis produced his very own crown that he'd made at school. And since les galettes des rois continue to be offered throughout January, he will no doubt find his own fève before the month is out.

In a new (to me) tradition for "twelfth night", our niece and nephew each year host a delicious dinner with American and French friends at their home here, followed by a reading by all the guests of the entire text of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night! I last read this play in high school and just loved revisiting it -- as we all munched our way through large slices of scrumptious Galette des Rois! The two are now forever entwined in my mind (and taste buds).

À bientôt!

Happy New Year!

2012-01-01T08:59:00.000-08:00

Seasons Greetings from our favorite city, where we arrived just a couple of days before Christmas to mild, damp weather and a city in full holiday swing. Long museum lines (the Louvre had a line that stretched clear around the courtyard and beyond!), stores jammed with last minute shoppers, and the streets, buses and metro filled with people, scurrying here and there. The popular "grande roule" (the big wheel), that stands at the bottom of the Champs Élysées by the Place de la Concorde, attracts thousands of visitors and residents alike, and every neighborhood somehow manages to deck itself out in festive splendor.

On our very own rue Montorgeuil, merchants organized sparkly street lights to augment their individual displays of holiday goodies. This being, basically, a "food" street, it's hard not to begin salivating as soon as you step into it!

Our first evening we took a stroll to see the local sights, and had only gone a few steps when we almost tripped over the dozens of boxes of Panettone spilling out from the Italian Deli's doorway and onto the pavement.

A little further down we passed the U-Marché and smacked our lips at its trays of shrimp, langoustines and bottles of champagne.

Our jaws really dropped, though, when we came to the window of Maison Collett! Our eyes could barely take in this amazing array of Bûches de Noël, the traditional Christmas Eve dessert. We resisted the temptation, however, because we'd received an excellent bottle of Sauternes from a friend and, with a substantial slab of our favorite butcher's homemade foie, we thoroughly indulged ourselves!

A feature of Paris at this time of year are the many Christmas markets that set up shop from mid-December on. Some of these offer regional foods and wines, others focus more on arts and crafts. On the Left Bank, on the Boulevard St. Germain, this row of stalls pretty much offered a bit of everything...

...from cosy hats on an extensive display of mannequin heads...

...bright, colorful stacking Russian dolls...

...charming wooden toys and decorations...

...to this jolly fellow, who seemed to be offering all of the above, as well as tasty-looking cakes and cookies.

Another "must see" stop during the holiday season are the famous windows of Au Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, the "grands magazins" that form the heart of the shopping hub on the Boulevard Hausmann. Every year, each store selects a theme and, under some corporate sponsorship or other, transform their windows into a moving, musical extravaganza. A couple of years ago, I remember the theme was Alice in Wonderland, with predictable displays of rabbit holes and tea parties.

This year, Maison Chanel has glitzed up Au Printemps‘ windows with a theme of a world tour. Each of the 11 windows has been transformed into a diverse city from Tokyo to Los Angeles to Venice. Karl Lagerfeld himself is featured in some, including this group of hip, silver-haired gentlemen making music against the backdrop of Parisian icons.

In front of each window display, a raised walkway allows children of all ages to get a good close look at it all...and then turn around so Papa can take their photo.

Between the musical marionnettes, the fashion windows of Au Printemps offer a glittering selection of haute couture items. This being Au Printemps, it was a good thing we were only window shopping!

Meanwhile, Galeries Lafayette is offering a ‘Rock ‘n’ Mode’ Christmas theme. Mini puppets, “kouklistars”, are shown rocking the day away in cocktail outfits though not before having their hair blow-dried and styled in sequins.

Other windows show the “kouklistars” waving to the fans within the window, and the fans looking on from the outside viewing stands.

Needless to say, all other displays tend to pale in comparison to these glittering windows, but I was surprised -- and amazed -- that the usually dreadful nightmare of an underground shopping mall, known as Le Forum des Halles, hung these beautiful, almost transparent giant balloon ornaments in the main square. For a moment it made you forget the million little ant-people scurrying around beneath.

Along with all the commercial aspects of Christmas, Paris does not neglect the spiritual side. Christmas Masses are celebrated in all the churches, with special recitals preceding or following the services. In past years, I have made the pilgrimage to Notre-Dame Cathedral, but this year we discovered a beautiful early 17th century basilica in our own neighborhood. Built by Louis XIII, its name, Notre-Dame des Victoires, was his expression of gratitude for what he believed was Mary's help in his battles and in consolidating his kingdom.

Today, it is known as a "Marian Sanctuary" and a place of pilgrimage. The walls of the basilica are covered with ex voto messages of thanks carved in marble, giving the whole interior a white glow. Side chapels are filled with candles, left by today's pilgrims. We attended Vespers on Christmas Day afternoon, followed by a recital on the basilica's impressive organ.

On a slightly more secular note, a couple of days after Christmas, the majestic Église St.-Sulpice, over in the 6th arrondissement, presented Mozart's Requiem in D minor. The large choir, chamber orchestra and soloists gave full measure to this work to a packed, enthusiastic audience. Among the encore pieces was César Franck's Panis Angelicus (Bread of Angels), a beautiful haunting melody, whose words date back to the 13th century.

With 2012 officially here, there remain just a few more days of "Christmas" before Twelfth Night (January 6), when all the decorations come down, and Paris gears up for the next big event: the winter sales!!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

À bientôt!

Summer Solstice, Paris Style...

2011-06-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

In case you hadn't noticed, I really love this place! Not just for its always fascinating history, the monuments, the size of the city. Nor just for the great neighborhood we live in. Or the great bus routes that run right by our front door, not to mention metro access, literally next door. Or the food, the wine, the cheeses! Even though, yes, the city and the country have problems, just like every place in the world, nonetheless one of the things I love most about being here, and admire greatly, is the "institutional" support for the arts and culture, that makes life just a bit more pleasant for everyone.

You have to pay to go to a lot of museums here, like the Musée d'Orsay, for instance, where the current Manet exhibition is packing in the audiences by the thousands. But what happens when the Musée d’Orsay closes their impressionist gallery for renovation? Well, the paintings can be lent to other establishments while work is going on! And, voilà, a new exhibition, Paris at the Time of the Impressionists makes its welcome appearance at the Hôtel de Ville (City Hall). But, unlike the Musée d'Orsay, admission at the Hôtel de Ville is free! And with two large exhibition spaces, we've also thoroughly enjoyed exhibitions there about the history of the Paris Commune in the 1870s and, currently, one on role of the literary world during the Occupation of France during WWII.

Right now, the area in front of the Hôtel de Ville has been transformed into "un jardin éphémère". For just three or four weeks, sparkling green lawns have been installed, surrounded by rows and rows of trees, providing a beautiful early summer retreat from the hustle and bustle and noise of the city.

I can wander through this temporary "forest", identifying the trees, or I can sit on a bench and watch the world pass by, and give a little vote of thanks to Mayor Delanoë for making this part of Paris a prettier place.

It's not always city government that provides these niceties for the populace, though. This past week, underwritten by various corporations, cinemas have been offering movie admissions at their theatres for just 3 euros, instead of the usual 11 euros and up. Alas, the dearth of good movies kept us from taking advantage of this offer!

I guess the bottom line here is that people in France pay a lot of taxes, but the revenue doesn't all go to making sure the transportation works and that you get good medical care (both of which are true). A fair amount also goes to improving the quality of life for citizens, be it free admission to museums, an ephemeral garden in the city centre, the Paris Plage that goes up each July and August along the banks of the River Seine, etc. etc.

All of this largesse struck me most forcibly this past June 21st, summer solstice. No witches or coven rituals here, but an extraordinary outpouring of music that filled the streets of Paris and cities throughout the country, continuing way into the wee small hours of the night.

In Paris, under the direction of city hall and le ministère de la culture et de la communication, official musical events were offered at major sites, such as at the Louvre, where Neeme Järvi conducted l'Orchestre de Paris, or at the Musée d'Orsay, where Kurt Masur directed the Orchestre National de France.

But it wasn't just classical offerings. Jazz, World Music, Pop, Rock, Electro, Blues, Folk: if it was music, you could hear it that night!

In our 2nd arrondissement, we spent a lovely afternoon hour in an auditorium at the Passage Colbert, listening to young pianists perform Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninov, Scriabine and Brahms.

Outside, near the Mairie, stages were being set up, mixing boards configured, ready for a staggeringly loud rock concert later in the evening...

...when the little square was jam-packed with happy music lovers

As well as the "big" musical offerings, I just loved some of the "local" concerts that were springing up on almost every street.

On the rue Bachaumont, around the corner from our flat, a group of young flautists played their hearts out for almost 45 minutes, their teacher sitting on the ground in front of them, conducting, and the proud parents, and passers-by, completely charmed by the scene, and by the music!

And right outside my butcher on rue Montorgeuil, a young lad belted out Jimi Hendrix songs, whilst his buddies looked on, and one of them fiddled with the pre-amp to keep the volume UP!

Meanwhile, over at St. Sulpice, on the Left Bank, these three young people had the musicians all to themselves, for a while.

As night began to fall, Matthew and I went out again, and found a group of musicians performing French folk songs behind the venerable Église St. Eustache, with the audience (lyrics in hand) happily singing along.

Elsewhere, musicians took their places on street corners, and outside cafés, where diners cheered them on....

...and this couple gave a great swing dance demo. My feet were tapping!

As we wandered back home, with the sky still tinged with daylight at 11 pm!, we passed through the Place des Victoires, with its imposing statue of Louis XIV on horseback. I wondered if he and his royal court celebrated the summer solstice with musical fêtes at Versailles, and whether he would bestow his approval on the City of Paris for providing this glorious night of music for its citizens -- a gift that celebrated its 30th anniversary this year!

With our stay here suddenly rapidly coming to an end -- the fastest six months ever! -- alas, it's time, with this post, for me to close the blog for this year, and bid you all a most fond adieu. Thank you for following our various adventures, and for writing comments, and for sending me emails. Be sure and tune in for the next round in January 2012!

Au revoir!

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more...

2011-06-21T02:57:00.000-07:00

So begins one of the most oft-quoted of Shakespeare's many texts (Henry V, Act III, Scene i). It continues: "Or close the wall up with English dead", and includes endless exhortations: "Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood", before ending with a final flourish:

"Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!"

The breach in question refers to a gap in the wall of the Normandy city of Harfleur at the mouth of the Seine, at one time the principal port in Normandy. During the Hundred Years War, the English soldiers, led by Henry, held Harfleur under siege from 18 August 1415 until 22 September 1415, when they attacked the city and Harfleur finally surrendered.

It was, indeed, a bloody battle, presaging the final, definitive Battle of Agincourt, both of them (for history buffs) captured vividly by Laurence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh in their respective movie versions of the play.

Today, the English and the French are at peace, and visitors to Harfleur might have a hard time picturing the grim battle that took place so many centuries ago.

The city flag continues to fly proudly throughout the town

And in the port, a tiny segment of the wall remains as a reminder, although I'm not sure that many people take note of it.

There are still plenty of old timbered houses standing, along with the impressive 15th century l'église Saint Martin, with its highly decorated spire...

...and apparently, from time to time, schoolchildren get to dress up in chainmail and re-enact the bloody battle!

But, for the most part, the history of this town -- now completely overshadowed by the sprawling port city of Le Havre -- stays within the walls of the Musée d'Harfleur, waiting for those interested in learning about the past.

Meanwhile, across the Seine estuary, the "sister" town of Honfleur was also occupied by the English during the Hundred Years War, but you would find that hard to believe as well, here in 2011. Instead, a delightful, very pretty holiday seaside town greets you, complete with harbor and sailboats, and interesting port-side buildings with cafés and restaurants on the street level.

On our visit, this last weekend, a wonderful street market was setting up by the water, that included some tempting summer sandals.

Just up from the port, overlooking the harbor, a big food market was doing brisk business, with local saucissons and onions a hot item.

This stall featured only garlic, with not too many customers at this point!

As an avid sardine lover, I spent a long time inspecting all the different ways to enjoy this lovely little fish.

Honfleur also boasts an interesting church, l'église Sainte-Catherine, built at the end of the Hundred Years War entirely from oak, stone being reserved to fortify the town itself at that time.

The interior has twin matching naves, leading one to wonder how you choose at which altar you will pray! This weekend, flags from around the world hung throughout the church in a bright, colorful display.

Back from the harbor, the narrow streets of Honfleur are lined with timbered houses and flower boxes brimming with bright geraniums, bathed in warm sunshine in this photo, although just two minutes later...

...the sun disappeared and the heavens opened with such an incredible fury everyone had to scurry for shelter. Typical Normandy weather, we were told.

The area around Honfleur and the neighboring towns of Trouville and Deauville is known as Basse-Normandie, offering spectacular, panoramic views, where you'll find many of Normandy's most celebrated products:

Tripe à la Mode...

...Pont l'Éveque cheese...

...endless varieties of Camembert!...

...and, of course, not forgetting Cider and...

...the firewater, known as Calvados!

It's also home to many charming old villages, filled with these typical Norman timbered homes that brighten up even the cloudiest day.

What caught our eye as well, as we drove around, were the peaceful sights of cattle...

...and the numerous stud farms, producing beautiful foals for major horse racing events around the world.

A future Secretariat, perhaps?!!

Back in Honfleur, the storm clouds were gathering again. Not another siege, just more rain! Time to make for the car and take the train back to Paris St. Lazare! We left knowing that a return visit to this very lovely part of France will be a top priority.

À bientôt!

(as always, many thanks to Matthew for these photographs!)

Porcelain Paradise

2011-06-15T06:27:00.000-07:00

On the western side of Paris, just beyond the city limits, across the Pont de Sèvres, stands an imposing building, housing one of the most spectacular collections of china and porcelain. We'd stumbled across it a few months ago on a Velib bicycle ride to the neighboring Parc St. Cloud, but with nowhere to park the bikes, couldn't stop. This past rainy Saturday, we went out on the metro and spent a couple of jaw-dropping hours wandering through the galleries. The two enormous vases either side of the main entrance were just the very tip of what was to come!

Our mouths fell open in the very first gallery, when we came face to face with this giant, gleaming white urn. For scale, check the figure of the man in the lower left back of the photo.

This entire gallery was devoted to enormous, stunning urns of every shape and from every era, going back to the 18th century, when the factory had its beginnings, first in 1738 at the Chateau Vincennes (where the kings of France lived for many years) and then to this site in Sèvres in 1753, where it was run under the royal monopoly of Louis XV.

Over the centuries, designs, colors and techniques produced an extraordinary array of these urns...from this 18th century example...

...to this beauty on the left, designed by Hector Guimard, whose Art Nouveau designs grace so many metro stations in Paris...

...and to this portrait of snarling tigers from the Art Deco period.

Being from the Bay Area, we neither of us could imagine such a collection being displayed so casually. The merest thought of an earthquake set our teeth on edge! We chatted with the museum guard about this, who was most amused. No, Madame, he assured us, that is not a problem here! He began to show us his particular favorites in the room, including this ornately gilded one, made during Napoleon's time, and featuring the same giant white urn that stands in the centre of the room, here reproduced on the decorative panel in the middle. He then put his hands on the vase, and turned it slowly on its base, explaining that many of them were made with a built in turning axle in the inside of the vase, so that they could be safely turned, and all views appreciated. He even allowed me to try, checking first that no-one else was in the gallery, and whispering that it was just "entre-nous, Madame"! (I wondered, for a moment, if Napoleon's hands had turned this very vase...)

Moving into the adjacent galleries, we strolled among the displays, all of them on a somewhat more manageable scale! Even so, the thought of watering my garden with this delightful porcelain watering can, made me smile.

As we meandered through the rooms, I was struck at what an important role porcelain (and paintings and other art forms as well, of course), played in recording life at the time.

With none of the modern means of capturing images, it fell to these artisans to leave lasting examples of fashion, theatrical figures...

...military battles, such as these plates depicting Russian soldiers on the eastern front...

...even guilds, such as this printing press shop...

...and this confectioner's atelier. It was like looking at 18th century photo albums!

Instead of having their portrait painted on canvas, some of the landed gentry chose to have their likeness reproduced on tea cups, and their stately homes on fine china plates.

I particularly liked these purely decorative figures, so full of movement and joy!

As well as all the ornamental pieces, there were, of course, dozens and dozens of examples of exquisite "utility" pieces, like this classic Sèvres serving tray.

And this fabulous tureen with lions' heads for handles.

Really, though, at the end of the day, I decided that one of the joys of these pieces, whether you are Catherine II of Russia, with your own personalised china...

...or you and me, sitting down to dinner at home -- one of the joys is that when you eat off a pretty plate, the food always tastes better!

So, I came away from the museum appreciating all that we had seen, but also being grateful for the good taste and generosity of parents and grandparents in passing on their treasures to their children. Having admired all these wonderful pieces, I will have an even greater appreciation of my own "best" china at home!

Before we left, we had a quick look at the buildings behind the museum, where Sèvres pottery is still made today. Based on the prices we saw in the gift shop, it is still a "luxury" item!

Right next to the museum, we noticed an overhead tramway system, the T-2, which runs around the the city on the outer edges.

So, we jumped on board and rode around the south-west edge of Paris, enjoying the views out of the glass doors and huge windows. We transferred somewhere in the 15th arrondissement onto the #39 bus, which took us clear across the city and dropped us at our front door!

Hooray for the beauty of Sèvres Porcelain, and for the outstanding French public transportation system!

À bientôt!

Les Noces: 28 May 2011!

2011-06-05T06:53:00.000-07:00

The mild spring weather Europe's been enjoying for months now disappeared in London on May 28th. However, the blustery, chilly, rainy skies could not dampen the excitement and joy of watching Alex marry his long-time sweetheart, Sonia Morange, at Hackney Town Hall, in what we called "the other, much more important, London Wedding." Here, in this imposing Art Deco building, family and many of the couple's friends gathered from around the world to celebrate what turned out to be a "right Royal Wedding!"

In the lobby of the apartment building where the out-of-town Robbins family stayed, we sat, decked out in our finery, waiting for the taxi...

...Sonya in her super pretty Marc Jacobs dress (unearthed at her local thrift shop in Brooklyn, NY), and me in my Louis Féraud 1980s vintage frock (spotted by Matthew at the Marché aux Puces at Clignancourt)!

Sonya's fiance, Alex Escalante, had just arrived the morning before, a little jet-lagged, but in time to join us all in the festivities.

Meanwhile, the groom kept his usual cool expression -- maybe a little excitement and nervousness in that smile...

Outside Hackney Town Hall, guests milled around the barrier...

...waiting for the previous wedding to take their leave of the front steps...

...and waiting for the arrival of the beautiful bride and her immediate family.

Shortly before 5 pm, the doors to the grand Council Chambers opened, and we escaped the chilly English climate!

As the guests took their seats, the groom went over to greet Sonia's grandparents, Ghislaine and Alec Head, the venerable matriarch and patriarch of the very large and wonderful Head/Morange family, almost all of whom were in attendance.

The Robbins' family was fully represented with members arriving from Paris, Berlin and Vermont.

And holding up the McMichael torch were my niece and nephew, Stephanie and David Harding!

Right on time, and to music by Bob Dylan, Sonia made her entrance on the arm of her father, Cyril. Her teal//aqua silk gown was stunning, offset by beautiful white peonies. No wonder Grandmère Ghislaine is smiling so broadly!

And, clearly, the groom is equally impressed!

Standing before the Hackney Registrar, Adam Creed, and under a somewhat faded portrait of HM the Queen, Alex and Sonia listened as Mr. Creed went through the required formalities to be sure they were, in fact, legally able to be married. He even asked "...if anyone here knows of any reason..."

...thankfully, no one did, and vows were spoken and rings exchanged.

The look of love on both their faces was a joy to behold!

The bride was not the only one with tears in her eyes!

With the announcement, "I now pronounce you..." the chamber broke into cheers and applause.

Grandpère Alec raised his hand in salute...

...as the newly weds sealed their troth with a kiss...

...before signing the register...

...which was then witnessed by future brother-in-law, Alex Escalante, and Sonia's Los Angeles friend, Rosha.

With the wedding certificate firmly in hand, the sound of guitar playing took everyone by surprise...

Sonia's high school friend, Juliette Commagère and her brother Robert Francis, both professional musicians and singers, performed Neil Young's Harvest Moon to honor the newly-weds.

As an added touch to this lovely moment, and in one of those never-ending twists of fate in life, I should mention that the father of this talented pair, Robin Commagère, went to USC film school with Matthew, and if anyone had said way back then, before marriage and parenthood, that one day his children would sing at our son's wedding, we would have thought them crazy!

Emerging onto the steps of Hackney Town Hall, we were greeted with some raindrops as we all tried to come together for the "group snapshot" -- Art Rogers, we needed you!!

Before the rain came down too heavily, guests made their way to the bus stop to take the number 48 London Transport over to The Rag Factory, just off the trendy Brick Lane, where the reception took place.

Alex and Sonia almost missed the bus! Must be hard to scurry in those beautiful shoes!

Sonia climbed to the upper deck of the double-decker, where the few non-wedding passengers were a bit nonplussed at all the excitement, but took it with good humor, as did the bus driver who had to "make change" over and over again.

At the Rag Factory, a gallery/performance space, the light-filled main room had been transformed into a dining hall, with peonies along the tables, and fronds of greens cascading down from the light tracks, filled with sweet peas. It was so beautiful!

In an adjacent equally light-filled and festooned room, we gathered to drink champagne and eat delicious hors d'oeuvres, and visit with one another before dinner...

...entertained by a delightful trio combo who played with great gusto!

The mothers-in-law shared some words with the groom, or maybe he's sharing words with us, and making us laugh.

Among the many guests, Alex's cousins Juliette and Sean - the elegant Parisian/Americans...

Grandmère Ghislaine, surrounded by children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

My English niece and nephew, representing all of my family, and having a great time!

Our friend Anne-Marie, who attended our wedding in 1970, currently leading a student program in Prague this summer, came for the weekend. She found two of her favorite young Parisian/American girls happy to see her again.

In the dining room, it was "hands off" the towering Croquembouche, an amazing confection of choux buns filled with crème patisserie, built into a pyramid and decorated with fine strands of caramel. Yum!!

Heading into dinner, the children -- some 16 or so in all! -- had their own table, where Ora Rose, as the eldest, presided.

Meanwhile, the rest of us looked for our name cards, and settled down to a delicious supper of roast pork, wonderful fresh vegetables, sea bass, several cheeses, wines.

Sonia, ever gracious, made sure everyone had what they needed, especially her Grandmère Ghislaine, and her honorary Grandpère, Jacques.

Then she returned to her own seat, where she "sandwiched" her new husband between Sonya and Sonia!!

Matthew, meanwhile, continued snapping guests:

Sonya's fiance, Alex Escalante...

Alex Robbins' highschool and college chums, Stuart Walker and Danny Field, who came from San Francisco and New York...

...and, familiar to West Marin readers of this blog, Claire Ptak and her husband, Damien.

There were speeches -- Cyril Morange paid a wonderful, touching tribute to his lovely daughter and welcomed Alex into his family...

...whilst Matthew's heartfelt and witty speech about a Sonya and a Sonia now being a part of the Robbins family, was read with great flourish by Sonya, because Matthew -- irony of ironies! -- was totally and completely without voice, having succumbed to a tenacious laryngitis three days before.

For maybe the only time in his life, he was utterly speechless!

With everything she had to do organizing this fantastic wedding day, Sonia also found time to surprise our niece, Miranda Robbins, with a birthday cake to celebrate her 40th birthday on this very day!

This utterly divine chocolate cake was baked -- no surprise -- by the super-talented pastry chef, Claire Ptak!!

After a few words from the groom...

it now remained for the bride's father to dance with the bride...

...and for the happy couple to take their turn on the dance floor...before some of us took ourselves off to bed, and the younger set went on to a neighboring nightclub for some serious dancing until the early daylight hours.

Long life and much joy! It was a beautiful day.

À bientôt!

(Many thanks to Matthew and to Sean for these great photos!)

"In an English Country Garden"...

2011-05-20T08:16:00.000-07:00

...except that, unlike the garden in Percy Grainger's song, this one is in France, tucked away into a very particular stretch of coastline in Haut-Normandie that runs from the busy port city of Dieppe down to the picturesque town of Etretat . Known as the Alabaster Coast, its distinctive chalky white cliffs mirror those along the English coast around Dover.

Here, in the small village of Varengeville-sur-mer in 1898, a French banker, Guillaume Mallet and his wife Adélaïde, invited a 29 year old English architect, Edwin Luytens (later Sir Edwin Luytens of English Arts & Crafts fame) to build them a family home. He was joined in this endeavor by the distinguished English garden designer, Gertrude Jeckyll.

Last Sunday, some 116 years later, we were lucky enough to take a guided tour of this remarkable house, led by the Mallet's granddaughter, Mme Claire Bouchayer. We explained our long-time interest in the Arts & Crafts movement and showed her photos of our Inverness home with its American Arts & Crafts furnishings, which led to much discussion as to the similarities and differences between the two movements. As we talked, we walked through the house. Many of the original furnishings were lost during WWII, when the house was occupied by the Germans. Fortunately, the basic structure remained intact and, thanks to quick thinking by some staff person at the time, enough pieces were hidden away, so that today they once more grace the elegant rooms.

From its soaring double-storey grand salon...

... with its handsome balcony and tall ceiling that provides excellent acoustics for the concert recitals held here...

...to its distinctive corner fireplace, a blend of stone and brick...

...its addition of delightful ceramic plaques above many doorways...

...the ziggy-zaggy shaped windows...

...whose detailed hardware took our breath away...

...to the warm light-filled feel to the rooms, the house works a kind of magic on the visitor. There's a sense of peace and intimacy, a balance between open flowing spaces and smaller, quieter corners that makes an indelible impression.

The house is just the beginning, though; still to come were the gardens!

Immediately surrounding the house, the gardens designed by Gertrude Jeckyll are formal extensions of the house, extending the privacy and intimacy of the home into the outdoors.

Linked with archways and pergodas, these gardens keep you connected to the house as you circle the exterior.

Boughs of white wisteria dripped off one pergoda.

While in the former vegetable garden, a quiet pond, planted with iris stands in the center of what is now the rose garden.

It was still early for roses, but the mild spring brought out this climbing species in full flower...

...while the fragrance of this Charles Austin rose was enough to make you swoon!

And the intense color of this blue clematis-like flower almost hurt your eyes.

Beyond the clipped hedges, though, glimpses of the Parc des Moutiers were beckoning.

Stretching some 12 hectares from the house down the gently sloping hill to the sea below, the natural soils of this region allow for an immense proliferation of exotic trees and shrubs, such as Himalayan rhododendrons, Chinese azaleas, cedars from the Atlas Mountains, and others. Mallet and his wife set about to create a tapestry of these trees and shrubs, planting them carefully to blend the colors of flower and foliage.

With map in hand we set off into the park, wandering through thickets of azaleas...

...passing flowering trees, whose blossoms reminded me a bit of our lacey hydrangea at home, but which weren't hydrangeas.

Overwhelmingly, though, it was the rhododendrons that were at their peak. They climbed and clambered everywhere!

The colors were so bright and varied, we felt as though we were walking through an artist's paintbox!

The closer we looked, the brighter the colors!

Along the way, we met some friendly Italians walking through the park, who snapped the two of us lost in a thicket of blossoms, a lovely way to remember our visit to this magical spot.

It would be hard to top our visit to the Bois de Moutiers, but just a couple of kilometers down the road, perched above the cliffs, we came across this beautiful church, parts of which date back to the 13th century.

Inside the church we found a stunning blue and white stained glass window installed above the main altar. We learned it was designed by the cubist painter Georges Braque, who fell in love with this area and lived here for many years. He and his wife are buried in the little cemetery outside.

Walking around the back of the church, we looked away from the sea and there, nestled in the trees, we spied the house Edwin Luytens designed for the Mallet family looking back at us!

Driving along the country roads of this part of Normandy, we found ourselves agreeing with Georges Braque and all the other artists, writers and musicians who became enchanted with the region. It's largely agricultural, lush green fields of barley, oats, flax, and apple orchards line the roads. Other meadows are dotted with plump, healthy looking milk cows, munching away happily, getting ready to provide the basis for delicious camembert cheese!

And along the coast, the dramatic chalk cliffs fall into the sea, often with startling shapes, like this arch at Etretat.

Finding ourselves on one such country lane, we made one last stop before returning our car to Rouen and taking the train back to Paris: the Manoir d'Ango!

Monsieur D'Ango, a wealthy ship outfitter from Dieppe, built this Renaissance-style manor house in the 16th century, complete with an Italianate loggia, towers...

...and, at the time, the largest dovecote (colombier) in all of France, holding 3000 doves!

Largely destroyed during the Revolution, the buildings were lovingly restored in the 19th and 20th century as a unique example of the French Renaissance. They stand today surrounded by woods and fields that surely must have looked very similar in 16th century Normandy.

Returning our rental car at the Rouen train station, we hopped on an express train back to Gare St. Lazare, arriving in just one hour, and marvelled again at how simple it is to get around here, largely on public transportation.

Meanwhile, in Paris, the sun is still shining and what can be more fun than picking up two charming girls from their school at 4:30 pm and taking them for "un gouter" -- a treat: hot chocolate and tarte au pommes!

À bientôt!

(A big thank you to Matthew for most of the photos in this post!)

Global Cuisine

2011-05-05T09:43:00.000-07:00

Today is Cinco de Mayo, a day when, no matter where you are, you might find yourself thinking about a delicious quesadilla or a burrito supreme and a Corona beer. I had no time for such thoughts, however, as I found myself, unexpectedly but with great pleasure, taking my niece's spot in a cooking class at the Ritz Hotel!

I entered the building from the back, through the staff entrance, far from the glitzy hotel hallways with the decadent displays of expensive gee-gaws, including the iconic Ritz Teddy.

Down in the basement, however, along endless corridors and known to a select few, lies something much more interesting: the exclusive École Ritz Escoffier Paris.

Here in its own "super" kitchen, under the guidance of Michel Roth (the "directeur des cuisines"), you can choose from an array of classes, all the way from a year long, full-bore course that takes you through every facet of French cuisine (and costs several thousand euros!), to a one-hour "atelier" catered to the amateur enthusiast with a leaner wallet.

Today's one-hour atelier "recette" was neither French nor Mexican. Rather, we travelled to the sub-continent, with a recipe for chicken curry madras, cooked in a coconut milk sauce, that placed it somewhere between India and Thailand! (Fricassée de volaille au curry madras.)

A group of 12 eager cooks gathered around the work table -- French, Brazilian, Canadian, American, English, Russian. A truly global group!

An apron, tea-towel, recipe booklet and pencil were set beside each work station, with the center of the table filled with bowls of ingredients: chicken breasts, onions, tomatoes, peppers, apples and bananas.

And a bowl of coriander and another filled with fresh green peas.

Our chef today, Adeline Robert, trained in Biarritz, Paris, New York, and at the Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco, before joining the team at the École in 2009. At 1 pm precisely, she began instructing us on exactly how we should slice and chop the bananas...

...peel, slice and chop the apples, the tomatoes, the red and green peppers, the onions.

Then it was time for us to go to work, carefully following her instructions as to how to hold the knife, so as to avoid chopping your fingers -- this gentleman doesn't quite have it down yet!

With a dozen eager knives peeling and chopping, we soon had all the vegetable ingredients ready for the next step.

Moving over to the stove, the pace picked up. After all, this meal had to be cooked and, more or less, eaten in one hour!! So, the peas went into a large pot of boiling, very salted, water. Adding lots of salt retains the bright color of the peas, Adeline explained. Once tender, they were placed in a colander over iced water, to stop the cooking.

A brief pause as we awaited our next instructions. The basmati rice had been soaking in water, salt added, and crushed cardamon seeds. The pan was covered, then brought to a boil, removed immediately from the heat, and left to stand, still covered, whilst we moved on to the rest of the cooking.

Time to sauté the chicken breasts, which had been deboned, skinned, and chopped into rough pieces about 1 to 2 inches square. Salt, pepper, and curry powder were all liberally added to the chicken pieces and mixed in before the whole lot was dumped into a marvellous copper pan. A few minutes of cooking and the chicken was removed to a side pan, more olive oil went into the copper pan and it was time to throw in the onions, tomatoes, half the bananas, and half the apples.

At the same time, the red and green peppers were being sautéed in their own pans. No stirring allowed, Adeline insisted, you have to "toss" them over the high flame!

The chicken pieces went back into the copper pan...coconut milk was added, and the whole thing simmered away for a few minutes.

Before we could turn around, Adeline had a few of us pouring the chicken liquid into a super blender, to purée the onions, tomatoes, apples and bananas, after which she tipped the liquid into a sieve, over the chicken, so that the resulting sauce would be smooth, like velvet!

We were almost done!!

Time to lay the cooked peas over the now cooked rice, and then add the "tossed" red and green peppers, with toasted almonds sprinkled on top

Are you hungry yet??!!

A stack of elegant Ritz Hotel bowls suddenly appeared, and Adeline began carefully dishing out the chicken into each one, garnishing with sprigs of coriander. A nifty tip: she put a small paper towel around the edge of the bowl to catch any drips! The basmati rice dish was served into adjacent, smaller bowls.

It was ten minutes to two, and time to adjourn to a small library nearby, where a table had been set up for us, with bottles of wine and water.

As we took our places, we raised our glasses to bid adieu and un grand merci to Adeline who, in less than an hour, had directed us all to produce this elegant and delicious lunch!

Believe it or not, she had to return, with her two helpers, to "our" work kitchen to prepare it for the next class, starting at 2:30 pm -- baking brioche!!

The rest of us spent a pleasant half hour or more, enjoying this Fricassée de volaille au curry madras, and sipping delicious French wine -- a Sancerre and a Medoc. As we sat there exchanging a few stories as to where we were all from, I was struck once again, at what a small and random world it is -- here we were from six different countries, somehow all finding our way to the basement of the Ritz Hotel in Paris on this Cinco de Mayo day, to cook and eat Asian food!

Bon Appetit!!

(And thank you, Juliette!!)

À bientôt!

May Day

2011-05-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

Every year, two very French traditions come together on May 1st: You have, of course, May Day, which celebrates workers throughout the country and the world, and then you also have La Fête de Muguet, the giving of little bouquets of lily of the valley (brins de muguet) to loved ones to wish them good health and happiness and to welcome spring.

On the rue Montorgeuil this May 1st, the street was packed. Most of the shops were open during the morning hours, as usual on Sundays, to give families a chance to buy this delicious veal roast, that fresh piece of salmon, or those "straight from the farm" butter lettuces for their Sunday dinner.

But outside almost every shop, stalls had been set up, selling the little sprigs (brins) of lily of the valley. From the poissonière half way down the street...

...to the bakery near the top end, and everywhere in between, someone was selling muguet, either planted in little pots like this gentleman...

...and in larger pots at one of the two flower shops on the street...

...or by the little bunch, like this Romany woman who set up her box on the street corner, and, for this one day in the year, she can relax and have no fears of the police coming to check her papers -- that simply is never done on May 1st!

Meanwhile, musicians stood outside the closed Paul bakery, entertaining the passers-by with songs and offering their cds to buy. A young passer-by here jumped up next to them and did a quick dance turn for us all!

And, just because it was May 1st, the Socialist Party headquarters for the 1st and 2nd arrondissements finally opened up their doors, put out their posters, and even had their own little "muguet" stall to benefit their coffers!

The main venue for political activisim on this day, though, took place at the large, sprawling Place de la République, where the 3rd, 10th and 11th arrondissements come together. Originally called the Place du Chateau d'Eau, it took its current name in 1871 when a public contest was launched for the construction of a monument dedicated to the Republic. The imposing figure of Marianne holds an olive branch in one hand for peace, and a tablet engraved with "droits d'homme" (rights of man) in the other. Seated around her are three other figures embodying the eternal French ideals of liberté, fraternité, égalité.

Over the years, the Place de la République has become the symbolic center of political demonstrations, marches, concerts, fairs and fêtes, and today was no exception.

Matthew, on his way back from a bicycle ride in the Parc Vincennes stopped and watched as people came up from the République Metro station into the square, where they were welcomed by stalls selling food from around the world.

Everywhere he looked groups had set up their banners and posters, including the MLKP (Marxist, Leninist, Kommunist Parti) group...

....and these communist Kurds standing proudly in front of their hammer and sickle flags. If you closed your eyes a little, you could flash back 40-odd years and see these same gentlemen in their young, idealistic years, when this symbol had real meaning.

Labor causes were in full force, with the unionized drivers of these Moto-taxis demonstrating for the right to charge higher rates.

Each table seemed to be equipped with its own megaphone and loudspeakers, making it difficult to know what anyone was actually exhorting the public to do!

More and more banners and flags were strung up or held in hand, ready for the big march which would tie up the streets for the next few hours. This banner extolled the rights of women.

At the end of the day, though, it all had a bit of a "pro forma" feel to it, without the fervent passion from the days when socialism and les gauchistes had real power here.

Meanwhile, back in the relative quiet of our rue Montorgeuil, I ended up buying one "brin de muguet" from the Romany lady, and another from this stall, whose counter was just overflowing with these sweet flowers...

...and where the young man took such care in handcrafting each little bouquet, 9 sprigs for 2 euros.

Here in the flat, my little posy sits on my desk, smiling down at me.

Happy May Day!

À bientôt!

Cycles & Chateaux!

2011-04-24T13:58:00.000-07:00

As most of the followers of this blog know, Matthew has two particular passions, both with French connections. One is his Citroën SM car, and the other is bicyling. Out in West Marin, he can be seen every morning, pedalling up Ottinger's Hill out to Kehoe Beach and back. For the past 20-plus years, he's been making that ride on a steel frame Puch bicycle, which has given him great service. But for quite a while now, he's been yearning for something new (and, no surprise, French). Last fall, he took the plunge, and bought a carbon-fiber bicycle from a dealer in Mill Valley. Bicycling immediately took on a new dimension with this technological wonder, made by a French company called Cyfac! As part of the purchase, Matthew was invited to visit the factory, "should he ever find himself in France."

And so it was, that last Monday found us taking the #4 metro line down to Gare Montparnasse and hurtling at 120 mph on the TGV train to Saint Pierre des Corps, near the lovely town of Tours, in the heart of the Loire Valley. As we barreled along, it seemed that every field we passed was brilliant with rapeseed flowers.

We picked up a little rental car at the train station and, following detailed directions, drove through tiny country lanes, through hardwood forests and lush farmlands, until we came to what could be mistaken for someone's storage locker in the small village of La Fuye. If you blinked, you would have missed both!

Inside, we found Ameyric Le Brun, one of the two owners of the plant (the other, Eric Sakalowsky, lives in Philadelphia!), and he graciously gave us the tour, that had been promised to Matthew when he bought his bike.

Walking into the main floor, we were struck at once by how empty it was; a few machines, hardly any people. We learned from Ameyric that of the total staff of 17, 13 are devoted to producing 700 bicycles each year.

As Ameyric explained, the whole process begins with tubes -- either aluminium or carbon-fiber -- which are manufactured in Taiwan (the world center, as it turns out, for most of the cycling industry's carbon-fiber materials). Once they arrive at the factory, they are cut and shaped for the various models that Cyfac builds.

Matthew carefully examined one such tube...

...and then met the resident designer, Fabien, who, smiling shyly, posed for a photo.

Continuing our tour, we soon realized that the word "factory" was a misnomer. We were, in fact, visiting a 21st century version of a medieval "guild". Almost everything in the construction of these bicycles is done by hand! This gentleman spends an entire day hand-sanding the welded joints of a bicycle frame, until the surface is so smooth you cannot even see the seam.

In room after room, we saw the same meticulous attention being paid, whether in the "wrapping" process...

...or in the delicate touch-up of a decal.

The end result was a rack of brilliantly colored, shiny bicycle frames, waiting for a particular customer's fat dossier of all of his or her particular measurements as to height, weight, leg length, etc. etc.

Suddenly, Matthew's own Cyfac "Gothica" took on a whole new persona -- these same people we were meeting in La Fuye had built it, mostly by hand, and here it is, living in Inverness, being ridden through the hills and dales of West Marin. Amazing!

After an almost two hour immersion in the truly remarkable art and craft of bicycle building, we retraced our route, checking into the swank Domaine de Beauvois, our hotel for the night. We had a quick, late lunch, and then drove back down to the broad, swift moving Loire River and spent the twilight hours at the Chateau Villandry.

The last chateau built on the banks of the Loire during the Renaissance period (1536), Villandry's builder, Jean le Breton, constructed the castle over the remains of a 12th century fortress. During the following centuries, various owners added wings and outbuildings, reflecting the particular style of the era.

In 1906, the castle was bought by Joachim Carvallo, a Spaniard, who devoted himself to restoring Villandry to its original Renaissance splendor.

Working with historians and research sources that described how gardens were laid out in France during the Renaissance, Joachim set about to bring them back to life. From this far end of the "kitchen gardens" we looked over a remarkable patchwork of "plots" each planted with seasonal vegetables -- green lettuce, red lettuce, fava beans, herbs.

Other gardens within the Chateau grounds provided a simple, tranquil aspect of still water, and swans drifting back and forth.

In some quiet corners, brilliant colors flashed out at us -- this iris type flower...

...and this opulent opium poppy.

As the light began to slip away, Matthew remembered a nifty device on his iPhone camera that takes a series of three photos at different exposures, then combines them into one, almost surreal, image, like a painting. This is Villandry at 7:30 pm!

Next morning, we made our way to another magical place, the 15th/16th century Chateau d'Ussé, a fairy-tale building of turrets and towers...

...and gardens designed by LeNotre, of Versailles fame.

Inside the chateau, opulent tapestries hang from the walls, early examples of the finest that the weavers of Holland produced.

And in an effort to bring some of the rooms to life, "mannequin" models take their places amidst the furnishings, dressed mostly in late 19th century gowns.

The castle has been owned by the Count de Blacas family since the 1880s, and, indeed, some members of the family still live there, although none were to be seen in these rooms!

Before we knew it, our time in this beautiful part of France was running out, but we did manage to find a very charming, very small private winery (7 hectares) in the Chinon area, where we had a little "dégustation" (tasting) and came away with two bottles of their very best red wine.

Tomorrow is a national holiday here in France - Easter Monday. We'll be having a family lunch with Juliette and Sean and family -- roast leg of lamb, apple pie, and our Chinon wine. Bon Appetit!

À bientôt!

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April in Paris

2011-04-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, it's such a cliché, but the truth of the matter is that there is no place quite like Paris in April. The songwriters, Vernon Duke and E.Y. Harburg, got it absolutely right with their lyrics: "April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom..."

Sure enough, by early April, there they are, wherever you look, every square, park or garden is full of horse chestnut trees, with their spectacular candelabra blossoms lighting up the world.

Some of them in a gleaming pink color.

But that's just the beginning. Once April arrives -- and this year we've had day after day of warm sunny weather -- a veritable explosion of growth and color covers the city. These cascading wisteria blossoms adorn a booth at the Marché aux Puces at Clignancourt, tumbling about every which way...

...while the flower beds around the busy Rond-Pont of the Champs Elysées show a more formal planting.

Over a few days, all the garden shops along the River Seine between the Pont Neuf and Châtelet suddenly put out all their bedding plants, potted herbs, even trees for your balcony or terrasse.

Just this week, peonies made their debut at one of the flower shops on rue Montorgeuil...

...and the lilac lady appeared, as if by magic.

It's as though someone took a giant paint box of colors and threw it all over Paris!

Then, right on cue, with perfect timing, white asparagus is everywhere! Plump, juicy, delicious!

I even spotted, and bought, the first rhubarb of the season. Yum!!

As well as all of Mother Nature's bounty, though, April also brings a number of special events to Paris, like the grand Show Jumping contest, sponsored by Hérmès and held in the Grand Palais. "Tent stables" line the edge of the Champs Elysées during the three-day event.

Magnificent horses are led in and out of the Grand Palais...

...a few with their riders still on board, heading back to the temporary tent stables!

If horses are not your thing, and you long for something a little more exotic, then a visit to the Musée Guimet should satisfy. Their current special exhibition focuses on the Nawabs of Lucknow in the early-mid 19th century.

At that time, the city of Lucknow in the province of Awadh, was considered the richest, most luxurious city in all of India, full of palaces with balustrades, fountains, pavilions, cupolas, a veritable city of gold -- also, as can be seen from this painting of Nawab Nasir al-Din Haidar, full of rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires!

Alas, it seems, these poor Nawabs were so occupied with their pleasures - including their concubines - that they seem to have forgotten to defend their territories. Between that and the dubious actions of the East India Company during the Sepoy Rebellion in the late 1850s, this magical culture declined to just a dreamy memory. Happily, for an hour or so, thanks to this extraordinary exhibition, we found ourselves completely immersed in this now vanished world.

Outside the museum, and taking advantage of the glorious April weather, brocantes spring up every weekend all over Paris. I particularly liked this stall, at the Place de la Bourse, with its antique dolls vying with muppets to attract a customer's eye!

At some of the larger brocantes, there are even amusements like this merry-go-round to entertain the small children.

Out in the Parc Vincennes, Matthew reports a huge increase in the cycling community in April, especially on Sundays, when they zip around in considerable numbers and at considerable speed.

Others enjoy a quiet stroll beside one of many lakes out there.

Meanwhile, in our little neighborhood, at the bottom of rue Montorgeuil, the cafés are crowded with sun-loving clients, drinking their coffee, and drinking up the warm spring air of April in Paris!

À bientôt!

House Museums

2011-04-11T03:44:00.000-07:00

Along with all the Grand Museums in Paris -- Musée du Louvre, Grand Palais, Musée d'Orsay, et al -- we have been finding great pleasure in seeking out, and appreciating, several smaller museums located in what were at one time private houses (hôtels particuliers).

The Marmottan Museum, for example, out in the far end of the 16th arrondissement, right next to the Bois de Boulogne, was once a hunting lodge belonging to the Duc de Valmy. In around 1832, it was purchased by Jules Marmottan, where he housed his growing collection of Napoleonic era paintings, furniture and bronzes.

Today, it is home to the largest collection in the world of the works of Claude Monet,

including his glorious Impression, Soleil Levant ("Sunrise")

Over in the 8th arrondissement, close to the Parc Monceau, stands the beautiful Musée Nissim de Camondo. Patterned after le Petit Trianon at Versailles, this private home was built in the early 1900s for Comte Moise de Camondo, to set off his prestigious collection of 18th century French furniture and art objects.

Tragedy struck the family several times. Comte Moise's son, Nissim de Camondo, was killed during World War I. In honor of his son, the home and its collections were bequeathed to Les Arts Décoratifs, and opened as a museum in 1935. More tragedy followed, a few years later, when Moise's daughter and family were deported and died at Auschwitz.

When you visit the museum, you of course admire and enjoy the immaculate taste and beauty of the family's furnishings and art objects. At the same time, though, the cruel, poignant losses suffered by this family are overwhelmingly palpable, and made even harder to fathom as you leave the museum and find yourself in one of today's most tranquil, peaceful neighborhoods in Paris.

In a much more bustling part of the 8th arrondissement, set back just a few feet from the Boulevard Haussmann, the Jacquemart André Museum has a much happier story to tell.

Built by avid art collectors, Edouard André, and his wife, Nélie Jacquemart, in the new Baron Haussmannian era of the late 19th century, this magnificent home gives a glimpse into the world of wealthy Parisians.

With its light-filled atria, flanked by potted palms and full-size marble statuary...

... its breathtaking Tiepolo fresco up on one of the top landings...

...its exquisite displays of fine porcelain china...

...and its grand balconies that look down into stately rooms, you could be forgiven for thinking that all of this was more than worth the price of admission.

However, lucky us, as well as all this splendor, temporary exhibitions also grace the walls of many of the rooms.

The current exhibition, Dans l'intimité des frères Caillebotte, Paintre et Photographe, takes us into the lives of the Caillebotte brothers, Gustav (the painter, on the left) and Martial (the photographer). I have long admired the paintings of Gustav, but had no idea he had a brother, let alone one who made his own mark as a photographer.

All the time that Gustav was chronicling the lives of the bourgeoisie in Paris in large paintings...

..his brother, Martial, was setting up his camera and doing his own chronicling of the life and times of Paris...

...including his own family and in-laws.

At the end of the day, though, I found myself gravitating more to the paintings than to the photographs, perhaps merely because they are in beautiful color and a much larger format than the photographs.

Gustav, an avid gardener, made many paintings of the gardens at Petit Gennevillers, the country home he owned with his brother. This particular one shows his mistress, Charlotte Berthier, tending his rose garden.

Both brothers developed a big passion for yachting in the late 1870s. One entire room in the exhibition is devoted to Gustav's paintings made at Argenteuil, a popular rural destination for Parisians wishing to escape the hurly-burly of the city. Here, on the banks of the Seine, they could relax, picnic and "watch the boats go by."

Paddling canoes on the River Yerres became another favorite pastime, whether by fellows in their lightweight summer clothing...

...or by this gentleman, who seems to have come straight from the office, not even bothering to take off his top hat!

Both brothers documented the so-called "march of progress", as modern amenities arrived in their lives. Gustav's Le Pont de l'Europe reminds us that the train tracks below this bridge carry passengers from the busy Gare St. Lazare to places like Argenteuil and beyond.

Obviously there have been many painters (and photographers) who have chronicled life in Paris, but something about the Caillebotte brothers struck me as being especially authentic. Perhaps because they grew up at a time when Paris was being transformed by Baron Haussmann's renovation works. Perhaps also because they were born into a family of privilege, able to pursue their interests at will, living the life of La Belle Époque to its fullest. With all of this in their background, no wonder we are taken along and drawn so completely into their world!

And because they lived for many years at 31 Boulevard Haussmann, how appropriate that this lovely show is on display just up the street in the former glorious "hôtel particulier", known today as the Musée Jacquemart André!

À bientôt!

Wedding Bells at the Mairie

2011-04-03T09:03:00.000-07:00

Shortly after our arrival here in January, we invited our neighbors in for "un verre" to introduce ourselves. The building has only four residential units, the remaining tenants being commercial businesses. To our delight, all the neighbors came to our little soirée, and we discovered we are quite an international group: Lorenzo (the dashing), who lives next to us on the 5th floor, is from Sicily. Below us on the 4th floor, Alexis, Christine, and their three children are a Moroccan-French family -- Alexis is from a Moroccan Berber family, Christine is French. Ingrid and Olivier, who live in the other 4th floor apartment, are both French.

After about an hour of pleasant chit chat, Olivier and Ingrid whispered shyly to each other, then Olivier announced that they had just become engaged and would marry in early April. I was flattered and honored that they chose our little gathering to share this happy news, and we all toasted them with much enthusiasm.

A few weeks later, we received an invitation to the wedding. Again, we were touched to be included and marked our calendars for April 2nd.

Needless to say, when you get married in France, there are strict protocols that must be followed. To begin with, no matter what kind of religious ceremony you might choose (or not), a civil ceremony at the local mairie (town hall) is required in order for the marriage to be legal, and this ceremony must take place first.

So it was that yesterday, April 2nd at 12 noon, under sunny spring skies, we made our way to our local Mairie du 2e Arrondissement on the rue de la Banque to attend the civil ceremony of Ingrid and Olivier.

The downstairs lobby quickly filled with friends and family from near and far. At first we knew no-one, but shook hands with one and all anyway, explaining we were the neighbors from the 5th floor. "Et je suis le ton-ton d'Olivier", one charming elderly gentleman said by way of introduction ("I am Olivier's Grandpa"!). Whoever said the French are not a warm and welcoming people!

I was happy to spot our neighbor Christine and her two daughters, Milena and Nais. In honor of the occasion, Milena wore a sparkling princess tiara!

The tall, handsome groom made his way through the guests, and, when it was time, led the way upstairs into the "salle"

Together with the other guests, we took our seats on red velvet benches in a grand room, with lighted chandeliers, ornate gilded ceiling and elaborate painted wall panels.

Along with Oliver and his Best Man, we all awaited the arrival of the bride. Ah, voilà!

Ingrid made her entrance on her father's arm, to smiles of joy from everyone. Like Oliver, she is tall and elegant, and wore a simple, slim white frock, topped with a short, black lacy bolero jacket, a black velvet choker, long long, dangling glass earrings and delicate lace-patterned half-gloves. She carried a pretty bouquet of pink roses.

After all the paperwork was checked and double-checked, it was time to get down to the business at hand. Monsieur Jacques Boutault, the mayor of the 2nd Arrondissement, took his place behind the high bench, and called the room to order. Smiling, he welcomed us all and invited us to be seated as he had a few words to share before the "official" ceremony began.

Wrapping the words "liberté, égalité, fraternité" into a metaphorical framework for a successful marriage, he delivered a delightful 15-minute homily. Perhaps he repeats the same remarks to every couple who come before him to be married, but to me, he managed to make it seem absolutely personal to Olivier and Ingrid only. I was impressed!

The legal requirements took less than one minute. In response to the question: "do you, Olivier... wish to marry....." and "do you, Ingrid...wish to marry..." and with both answering, promptly and firmly, "oui", M. Boutault officially announced them legally married according to the laws of the State.

To loud cheers and a hearty round of applause, the young couple embraced....

...exchanged rings...

...signed the register and received their official "certificat de mariage"...

...and emerged onto rue de la Banque as newly-weds! By this time, Milena has given Ingrid her princess tiara to wear.

A short stroll through the 2nd arrondissement brought us back to 95 rue Réaumur, where a lovely reception took place in Olivier and Ingrid's flat on the 4th floor. Thankfully, the repairs to the lift were finally completed Thursday afternoon, making the trip up a lot easier!

Along with our little band of neighbors, we raised our glasses to wish good health, long life, joy and prosperity to the young couple. We were so delighted to be witness to this happy day!

Meanwhile, the warm, spring sun continued to shine down and from the balcony we could just spy the Place des Victoires down the street, with its newly restored statue of Louis XIV, and, in the distance, the gleaming dome of Les Invalides.

Who doesn't love this city?

À bientôt!

Seeking Pearls...

2011-03-24T02:09:00.000-07:00

...pearls of barley, that is, although pearls of wisdom are always welcome and often needed! One day last week, as I was lounging around, resting my sore back, I spotted what seemed like an interesting recipe in The Guardian: Lamb Stew with Pearl Barley. Now, I love lamb in any shape or form, and this was a new recipe to me. One look at the photo, and I immediately began salivating. Yum!

Scanning the ingredients, I was pretty sure I could find everything at our local branch of the U-Marché on the rue Montorgeuil.

What held me back, though, was the fact that our elevator has been broken for almost three weeks now, so, due to the back problem, I've not been all that eager to go down, and then back up, six flights of stairs.

However, with Matthew at my side (to carry the shopping bag!), and with recipe in hand, I decided to give it a go.

At the U-Marché we had no trouble finding the neck of lamb, the carrots, turnips, celery, leeks and onions. My pencil checked off each ingredient as we went along, until all that remained was the pearl barley (orge pérlée).

We stopped in front of the "grains" shelf and looked around. Hmm. Thai rice, Basmati rice, Jasmine rice, Arborio rice, wild rice, three-grained rice, long grained rice, short-grained rice, even dear old Uncle Ben's rice! We found cous-cous in various flavors, several choices of lentils, and a big sack of kernels of corn. But no pearl barley.

Clearly we had a problem, because this was the key ingredient. What to do. Well, here in France, when you can't find something, then you find someone to help you find it. And this is where you run into a most endearing trait of life in this country.

Matthew went off in search of assistance, returning a few minutes later with two members of the staff, both women. We explained what we were looking for. They looked puzzled. "What are you cooking, Madame?" "Un ragout d'agneau," I replied, showing them the recipe. There then followed a lengthy conversation about how delicious lamb stew is! I translated the ingredients, going down the list. They nodded at each one, until we got to pearl barley. "Orge pérlée," we repeated. Ah, now they understood. They scoured the shelves again, finding only another row of rice at the very bottom.

Well, perhaps I could substitute rice for the barley I suggested. They shook their heads emphatically. No no, Madame, that wouldn't work because this one was the wrong shape, that one was too soft, those others wouldn't have the right texture, etc.

They must have spent close to fifteen minutes discussing the problem with us, as if they had all the time in the world, and our search for pearl barley was the most important thing they could be doing at that particular moment. This is not unusual here. No matter what kind of store you're in, you almost always have to wait to get help. Sometimes the lines in the post office can be incredibly long, for instance. But once it's "your turn", then you hold center stage for as long as you need to solve your problem. For visitors, and especially Americans, it definitely requires an adjustment to be patient when you're waiting, but none of the locals complain because at the end of the day, you will have your turn!!

We thanked the two women for their time and efforts, wished them "bonne journée" and turned to go to the checkout. Before we left the market, one of them suggested we try the Moroccan Spice Store further down the street.

Matthew headed down to the bottom of rue Montorgeuil, where this delightful Marrakesh emporium offers nuts and fruits and fresh spices. And there...right inside the entrance...front and center...

...stood a large bin of "d'orge pérlée!" Eureka! Matthew explained to the proprietor that we'd been up at the U-Marché, and had just about given up when they had suggested we try his store. "Ah, yes, we all know each other here on rue Montorgeuil," he said measuring out half a kilo. "If it's not enough," he went on, "come on back, we're open until 11 pm."

Luckily, it was more than enough. I went to work in the kitchen, and before long, delicious aromas permeated throughout the flat. At dinner that evening we sat down to sample this new dish. What can I say, it was utterly delicious. Perhaps made even more so, by the sweet memories of the friendly, helpful merchants on the rue Montorgeuil.

BON APPETIT!

À bientôt!

Le Marché aux Puces

2011-03-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

When people here talk about going to the flea market, it's usually assumed they mean the sprawling "marché aux puces" at the northern end of Paris, by the Porte de Clignancourt. Established as a fixed market at this site in the 1880s, it followed centuries when the city was filled with roving groups of rag-and-bone men and women. Also known as "pêcheurs de lune" (moonlight fishermen), these scavengers would poke through the city at night, looking for abandoned treasures which they would re-sell at local markets.

Today, this marché aux puces stretches over 17 acres, comprises several buildings and hundreds of outdoor stalls, boasts 2500 dealers, and attracts well over 100,000 visitors every weekend - a daunting prospect, which is probably why it's been years since we've gone up there!

For us, a much more appealing flea market is the Marché au Vanves, which can be found (every Saturday and Sunday) at the absolute opposite end of the city, right by the Porte de Vanves, an easy metro or bus ride out to the 14th arrondissement.

Here, among 200 traders, you'll find a wonderfully eclectic collection of objects and curiosities, most of them reasonably priced, and most of them portable, although delivery of larger items can be arranged.

The sun was shining this morning -- there was even a faint sound of bird song! -- so we took ourselves down to the Avenue Marc Sangnier, and spent a happy couple of hours, strolling slowly along the two streets that comprise this flea market.

Some visitors like to browse the bookstalls or the cd/dvd stalls, hoping to find bargains, or, perhaps, pirated new movie releases...

...while others might pore over the extensive array of woodworking tools. I can imagine several West Marin folk hanging out here!

One of my favorite stalls sells only buttons...regular, ordinary-looking buttons, a dozen or more to the card...

...or exotic, jewel-like buttons, sold by the piece. They almost look like candy!

This stall gets Matthew's total attention; an old movie projector in its original box, with an accompanying selection of what looks to be 8mm home movies. At this point in its life, it's become a piece of sculpture, begging for an honored place of display.

If you need some refreshment as you go along, this good woman will sell you hot chocolate or coffee from her caddy of flasks which she wheels through the market, along with a tray of baked goodies.

As always, I am drawn to anything having to do with natural history, whether it's gaping shark teeth, grinning at me...

...or a sad looking heron, lost amidst barstools and flower vases!

The stallholders tend to sit by their vehicles, pretending not to be all that interested in anything but their newspaper, but, somehow, they're right at your elbow if you examine any object for more than a few seconds. I particularly liked the "saintly" figure standing guard behind this merchant -- Joan of Arc, perhaps?

Towards the end of the first street, this stall caught my eye as having so many stories to tell. Who are those people in the photographs and drawings? Who wore that lace-edged cap? What treasures were hidden in the little wooden box?

When you reach the cross-street of Avenue Georges Lafenstre, a cheerful fellow belts out tunes on his "box piano", whilst behind him,
someone is roasting chestnuts.

For us, one of great pleasures of going to the Marché au Vanves is that we can take the #95 bus home, and enjoy a pretty complete tour of many iconic views of Paris, including this archway to the Tuileries, across from the Louvre!

Back home, we admire the treasures we found this morning: a caned chair from the 30s or 40s, which goes very nicely with my desk from the 50s...

...and these charming dessert forks, also from the 30s or 40s -- the perfect accompaniment to the Napoleon dessert plates we bought on a previous visit to the Marché au Vanves.

Who knows what we'll find next week....

À bientôt!

'Allo, Paris Calling (redux)

2011-03-13T07:00:00.000-07:00

If you were following this blog last year, you'll remember that when it came time to make my radio recordings for KWMR, I was able to convert a tiny linen cupboard into a perfect hideaway "booth". Our current flat, alas, has no such convenient space. There's only one cupboard in the entire place, with barely room to hang a couple of coats. Certainly no room for recording equipment. Time to put our heads together with nephew Sean to come up with a solution!

With windows that run the entire length of one side of the flat, there was only one possible area to consider -- the interior hallway, just to the left of the front door, presently home to a coat rack and a Cuban film poster.

Hmmm. If there was a way to create an enclosed nook somewhere there, I just might be in business.

Off I went on my infamous trip to Ikea (see blog The Right of Return), where I found a narrow, white drop front desk.

At home, after Matthew put in a few hours of herculean assembly efforts, this little "pip of a rig" tucked itself discreetly into the corner, next to the coat rack, barely visible to anyone.

All that remained was to order a light-weight, shoji screen, drape the spare bed quilt over it and the coat closet door, open up the drop front desk, connect my computer to my Mbox, go to ProTools, create a new session ...

...and, voilà! I'm off and running. "Good morning, and welcome to Turning Pages at Nature's Pace...."

You can check out the results tomorrow, Monday, 10 am PST at www.kwmr.org

Best of all, the whole thing takes less than five minutes to set up and, once I'm done, it's folded and put away as quickly and as neatly as The Great Walled City of Xan!

Meanwhile, out in the Parc Vincennes, where Matthew frequently bikes, daffodils are bursting out everywhere.

Spring is tip-toeing around the corner!

À bientôt!

Street Smarts

2011-03-05T07:18:00.000-08:00

One of the things I love about walking in Paris is how much French history I learn, just by reading the street names! Some are straightforward, like rue de l'Opera, but others offer tidbits of information that, inevitably, lead me to dig a little deeper to find out more.

Here's our street name, for example, honoring someone named Réaumur, a physician and a naturalist. Curious to know more, I looked him up.

I discovered, among other things, that René Antoine Ferchault de Réaumur was prolific in many fields of science, was elected a member of the Académie de Sciences in 1708, and from then on, for nearly half a century, barely a year went by without at least one paper by him being published in the Mémoires de l'Academie. These included one confirming that crustaceans can replace lost limbs and another confirming that corals are animals, not plants. An 18th century Stephen J. Gould perhaps!

Then there's rue Étienne Marcel, another major street in our neighborhood.

The street sign tells you that M. Marcel was the Provost of Merchants of Paris during his 14th century life.

But it turns out that Étienne Marcel's life was also full of drama, danger and political intrigue. Yes, he did have this title of Provost of Merchants during the reign of King John II, known as John the Good, but then he tried to set up Charles the Bad of Navarre (that was his real name!) to oppose John the Good. Bad idea. Not only did he run afoul of the King, he further undermined his name with the aristrocacy by murdering two marshals, and then was himself murdered by guards at the Porte Saint-Antoine on July 31st 1358.

In spite of all this notoriety, though, his name is officially remembered on the street sign (and also on a big statue near the Hotel de Ville) as merely Provost of Merchants.

Walking down the rue du Louvre in the 1st arrondissement the other day, I noticed this street sign recognizing a Colonel Driant. The final line of the plaque, "mort à Verdun", made me think at first, "oh, another tragic loss of a young life," but then I calculated his dates and realized he was 61 years old when he died. Obviously, there was a story here...

...and it didn't take long to find out that Émile Augustin Cyprien Driant had been a distinguished career military officer until 1906 when he devoted himself to journalism and politics, serving in the Chamber of Deputies in Nancy.

Throughout all this time, however, he also moonlit as a fiction writer. Using the pseudonym Danrit, he produced 30 novels over 25 years, all of them with heroic military themes.

When WWI began, he was recalled to the army, at age 59, as Captain, and sent to the Eastern Front. In a desperate defence of the Bois des Caires in Flabas, he was killed by enemy artillery on 21 February 1916. Today, he's still considered a hero in France, remembered every year on the day of his death, along with his comrades, although his novels seem to have fallen into oblivion...

Then there's rue d'Argout, which bisects both rue du Louvre and rue Étienne Marcel.

"homme politique" it says -- politician?

Well, yes, but le Comte Antoine Maurice Apollinaire d'Argout was a politician who seems to have navigated the treacherous waters of 19th century French politics by following a centrist, moderate path through the Bourbon Restoration and the July Monarchy. He even contracted cholera and survived. His skills did not go unnoticed by the Banque de France, where he was appointed Governor, retaining this position until his death on 9 June 1857. His prominent nose made him a popular target of the caricaturists of the day, including the inimitable Honoré Daumier!

During the same period as le Comte Argout was pursuing his steady, straightforward life, a young man from Limoges was following a different path.

Born near Limoges in 1818, Dennis Dussoubs became a left wing political activist, participating in the uprising at Limoges in 1848, and serving two years in prison. His brother, Marcellin, was elected a social-democrat deputy in Paris in 1849, and, two years later helped organize the resistance movement against Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte's coup d'État. In a cruel twist of fate, Marcellin fell ill, and it was Dennis who picked up his brother's tricolor banner and took his place on the barricades at the rue Montorgeuil. He walked toward the soldiers, alone and unarmed, urging them to rally to the Republique and reject the Monarchy. To no avail. He was hit by rifle shot and died on the barricade. In Limoges, a statue in Juliette Square honors his sacrifice. In Paris, he has a street name to intrigue the curious passer-by.

As one such curious passer-by I love the fact that all this history -- and much more -- lies within a three block radius from our flat!

À bientôt!

Hooray for Bollywood!

2011-02-22T04:35:00.000-08:00

Berlin, February 2011.

Potsdamer Platz lies in the very center of Berlin. Named for the town of Potsdam some 25 km away, it marks where the old road entered through the city wall into Berlin. By the end of WWII, the square and much of the surrounding city had been flattened by bombing.

In 1961, the Berlin Wall completely bisected Potsdamer Platz, leaving it in a limbo wasteland until 1989.

Today, it is home to huge modern skyscrapers and stunning architecture....

...including this soaring atrium that connects several buildings.

There are still reminders of the past, though. For just a few euros, you can have your photo taken in front of remnants of the notorious wall...

...and on the back of the wall, photographs give a "before and after" reminder of that divisive time.

But we weren't here just to absorb Berlin's history. The middle of February is definitely not a time to choose to go to Berlin. The temperature hovers around zero during the day, icy winds blow in from the East, everyone walks around bundled in warm coats, hats, scarves, gloves, boots. In spite of this, several thousand people arrive from all over the world at this time to attend the annual Berlin Film Festival, known as the Berlinale, based in and around Potsdamer Platz. At ticket offices throughout the city, Berliners line up to book their seats for the hundreds of screenings that take place all day long and late into the evening.

We were lucky enough to be there to attend the screening of a film Matthew wrote a year or so ago with a Bollywood director from Mumbai, Vishal Bhardwaj, which was showing in the Panorama Section of the Festival. Vishal and his team of 9 colleagues, including two of the actors, made the journey from India. We came in from Paris, and with our official badges in hand, or rather hanging round our necks, we spent three nights at the Grand Hyatt in the heart of Potsdamer Platz, absorbing all the razzle dazzle.

The premier theatre, next to our hotel, had a permanent "Red Carpet". No matter the time of day, there always seemed to be some actor, director, producer being applauded by eager fans, and happily waving back. Press conferences with Festival participants played on the big jumbotron above the entrance.

At our press conference, streamed live on the internet, and also simulcast in the main square, Vishal, Matthew and the two actors, answered questions about the film from the, mostly, Indian press. The movie, 7 Khoon Maat (in English 7 Sins Forgiven), follows the notorious life of Susanna, who marries seven husbands and becomes widowed each time under suspiciously murderous circumstance...

Meanwhile, outside in the middle of Potsdamer Platz, one of this year's sponsors, L'Oréal, had set up shop, where shapely beauties could be seen having their hair coiffed, their flawless complexions creamed and nails buffed...

...brown bears stood proudly everywhere, on the streets and in the shopping malls

...and even though this giraffe, made from lego, seemed a little out of place, it added a charming splash of color to the grey, cold days.

Thursday evening arrived and, in spite of the temperatures, the brave women from Mumbai emerged in their gorgeous silken finery. (I opted for a Kashmiri wool jacket!). A fleet of BMWs (another sponsor) brought us to the Friedrichestadtpalast theatre, where Vishal was greeted by many eager fans.

Wieland Speck, the director of the Panorama section welcomed us all warmly, and posed for a photo shoot with Vishal and the two actors who had come from India. The young man on the right, Vivaan Shah, plays the lead male role. He's 22 years old and this is his first movie! On the left is the veteran character actor, Annu Kapoor, who almost steals the movie with his role.

The film played to a packed house, receiving a big ovation at the end. Vishal, Matthew, the actors and the other members of the Mumbai team were each called to the stage to further applause. A great moment for them all.

Many in the audience lingered afterwards, seeking autographs or a chance to shake Vishal's hand. In India, he is quite a superstar. Eventually we found our coats and were whisked off to a nearby Indian restaurant, where we feasted on course after course of delicious food, everyone just so happy at the film's reception. A truly memorable evening.

At dawn the next morning, our Mumbai friends flew back to India. We, however, had another two days to visit with niece Miranda and family, and other friends. And to dip into the extraordinary cultural richness of Berlin.

First up was a train ride from Potsdamer Platz Bahnhof (S-bahn line) out to the town of Wannsee, about 45 minutes away. Here, in a spacious mansion overlooking Lake Wannsee, The American Academy in Berlin sponsors residential fellowships to forge ties between the US and Germany in the arts, humanities and public affairs.

Our dear friend Pamela Rosenberg became Dean of Fellows at the Academy last fall. We enjoyed a lovely lunch with her, meeting several fellows, and imagining how beautiful it must all be when everything is in full leaf and flower!

Taking the train back to Berlin, we found our way to the Pergamon Museum of Antiquities, where an extraordinary show is currently being featured, Die Geretteten Götter. Roughly translated, this means The Saved Gods. The exhibition tells the story of Max von Oppenheim, who during the early part of the 20th century led several expeditions to the Upper Khabur region, now part of north-east Syria.

Here, he found a a royal palace from the lst millenneum BC, adorned with gigantic figures of gods and mythological creatures.

Bringing them back to Berlin, he eventually opened his own museum, the Tell Halaf Museum, in 1930.

Unhappily, in 1943 the museum took a direct hit from an aerial bomb, which gutted the exhibition building. Everything was shattered or destroyed.

Somehow, the rubble was gathered and moved to the Pergamon's vaults. There they remained until 2001 when a group of scholars and restorers began the challenging task of piecing together the shards.

Amazingly, many of the former glories have been recreated, sometimes with all the pieces miraculously fitting together. A great testament to the devotion and scholarship of the restorers.

A final outing on Saturday afternoon found us in the Science Museum, with its breathtaking entrance hall, sure to take the breath away of every four year old in sight -- and a few older visitors as well!

Matthew even found a familiar face -- Vermithrax, of Dragonslayer fame. Hooray for Hollywood as well!

À bientôt!

The Right of Return...

2011-02-15T06:57:00.000-08:00

...or perhaps I should say "the rite of return", because here in France, whenever you want to return a purchase, you find yourself facing an immovable, implacable, impossible wall of rigid rules, rituals and regulations. This is also known as the French Bureaucracy!

For example, at the end of last month, I went to return three small items -- total value 17.70 euros (about $23) -- at Conforama, which is a smaller version of Ikea with the advantage of being in the centre of Paris instead of out by the airport. After a bit of aimless wandering, I was directed to an adjacent building. Here I tapped a few icons on a computer screen to indicate I was returning items, and was rewarded with a piece of paper with the number 4 printed on it. An overhead monitor indicated that customer number 3 was being served in the adjacent room. I took a seat and waited.

Some 20 minutes later, my number flashed. I went into the office and sat down across from an unsmiling Monsieur. I explained that I wished to return three items (cloth-covered cardboard boxes that I had hoped would fit in a hanging closet thingie in our bedroom). I handed them over, along with my receipt.

"Mais, Madame, ils sont ouverts," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. Well, yes, two of them had been opened, because it was only after I tried them that I found they did not fit. He was unmoved. I explained again, adding that I had repacked them carefully, and that the third one had not been opened. Frowning, he began tapping on his computer, then looked at me carefully and announced that he could give me a credit for the unopened one, but not for the opened packages. "But how could I know they did not fit," I pleaded in my best French, "if I did not try them out?"

He sighed, tapped some more information into his computer, and then told me that just this one time -- "exceptionnellement, Madame..." he would allow me to return the two opened packages for a store credit - "un avoir" - of 11.20 euros.

That was not the end, though. He finished typing and hit a key. Across the room an ancient dot matrix printer started up, spitting out two sheets of paper. Monsieur collected them, signed in various places, had me sign, carefully tore off the tractor feed guides and gave me one copy. He then took my receipt and meticulously placed a stamp next to each item and noted the date of return, gave me my "carte d'avoir" and wished me "bonne journée, Madame." The whole transaction had taken almost one hour!

I took my 11.20 euro credit, went back to the main store, bought six champagne glasses, four tumblers, all on sale, and have not been back to Conforama since!!

If that was a heads-up of the hurdles in returning purchases, my experience at Ikea the following weekend was beyond bizarre.

I had bravely gone out there on my own. Without a car, it's a 25 minute ride on the RER B to Parc des Éxpositions, and then a short bus ride. Once inside, I could have just as easily been in the Emeryville, California Ikea. The same merchandise, the same winding route through the showrooms, same elevator down to the "marché" where I picked up my shopping cart and got down to business.

Arriving at the checkout, I stood in the usual long line, put my stuff on the moving belt, handed over the two slips of paper for items that were to be delivered, paid my bill, and packed the smaller items into my rolly cart.

So far, so good.

Glancing at my receipt, the total seemed higher than I had expected. The young cashier had the same thought. She took it back from me and studied it carefully. We both noticed a third item among those to be delivered, for 88 euros. I had no idea what this item was, had not ordered it, and had no slip of paper for it.

Uh oh.

First, the young woman asked, would I please unpack my rolly cart and check the items against the receipt. Done. All correct and accounted for, except for the mysterious 88 euros item. Perplexed, the cashier called for help. It was clear a mistake had been made, but not by her, she assured me (and certainly not by me, I added!). Her supervisor studied the receipt and called for a third person who asked me to repack my rolly cart and follow her. Leading me clear across the vast check-out area, she asked me to wait by the "Returns" counter, then disappeared, with my receipt. After 20 minutes I began to get worried. After 30 minutes, I asked someone behind the desk where this woman had gone. She made a phone call. "She's on her way back." Another 10 minutes, and she arrived, with my receipt. We were not finished, however. In order for me to receive a credit for the 88 euros, this woman had had to go to where you retrieve the larger merchandise and wait in line for someone to find the items. Having completed this task, she was only now in a position to initiate the lengthy, paper-laden process of "return of merchandise" of the mystery item, and issue a credit to my carte bleue!!! (I never did find out what the item was.)

By this time, I was speechless in both French and English. The thought of struggling with my overloaded rolly cart back to the bus and train loomed. I took a taxi instead -- cancelling out, of course, all the savings I had made by shopping at Ikea. To add insult to injury, there was an enormous "manifestation" at the Place de la République in support of the Egyptian protesters. Traffic was at a standstill. I paid off the cab somewhere in the outer 18th arrondissement, and humped and bumped my heavy rolly cart up and down the Metro stairs all the way home!

BUT I was learning the system. A few days later, at the venerable BHV, I sailed back to the curtain rod department...

...plonked down my unopened packets of curtain accessories I had bought the previous week, along with my receipt, and, even though it still took a form to be completed, signed by two BHV staff and me, followed by a walk to the other end of the floor...I was instantly rewarded with a credit slip for the full 25 euros!!

Vive la France!

À bientôt!

Au Secours!

2011-02-12T03:50:00.000-08:00

Our Metro Sentier neighborhood in the 2nd arrondissement not only claims the fabulous rue Montorgeuil as its centerpiece, it is also the heart of the garment and fabric district in Paris. On the way to my Club Med gym, in the narrow, winding streets that angle off the big rue Réaumur, I pass shop after shop displaying the biggest array of "tissu" I've ever seen.

Bolts and bolts of cloth stand like glittering soldiers behind windows.

Most of these boutiques are for the wholesale trade only, and most are small, but they crowd each other, cheek by jowl, offering splashes of bright colors on a grey day.

Stepping out of our building the other afternoon, -- on my way to the Romanov Exhibition at the Pinacotèque Museum -- I was brought up short by the sound of sirens and the sight of several trucks from the famed Parisian sapeurs-pompiers, right across the street!

In France, 79% of these highly trained firemen (men and women) are volunteers . In Paris, though, and certain other large metropolitan areas, they are part of the professional military. The term "pompiers" comes from the handpumps used to put out fires before the industrial revolution; "sapeurs" is the French word for sapper, or soldier, and dates back to the Napoleonic era.

Turning the corner, I saw at once why they were there. One of those small wholesale fabric shops on rue Cléry was on fire!

With their dashing silver helmets, the sapeurs-pompiers sprang immediately into action, with me trotting alongside, camera in hand!

Grey/black smoke billowed out through the doorway of the shop and into the street, choking the air.

As this young sapeur hurried to catch up with his comrades...

...others in the brigade readied all the equipment before entering the burning building. Policemen stood at either end of the cordoned-off area, politely but firmly forbidding anyone but the firemen to enter and ordering all the other shops to close their doors and shutters.

These young sapeurs had been among the first to arrive. They look like 15 year-old teenagers! As replacements continued to come up the street, they took a well deserved water break.

Some 30 minutes later, the fire seemed to be under control, so I retraced my steps down the rue Cléry, and made my way over to the Pinacotèque Museum in the Place Madeleine. Here, I spent a happy, though very crowded, couple of hours in the company of the Romanov art collection from the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. Covering the history of their collecting over 214 years of tsarist rule, it begins with Peter the Great's secret journeys, in disguise, to France and England where he fell in love with western art, and continues with Catherine the Great, Alexander 1st all the way to the Russian Revolution and the ill-fated Nicholas II.

There was much to enjoy. Before the guard stopped me ("pas de photos, Madame") I managed to snap a couple of shots with my trusty iPhone! Here's the 18th century French artist Hubert Robert's Ancient Ruins Serving as a Public Bath....

...and this exquisite painting by the most famous French woman painter in the 18th/19th century, Marie-Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun. Titled Portrait des filles de Paul 1er, it captures both the innocence of childhood still apparent in the younger girl on the right, with the emerging sophistication of her older sister on the left -- note the earrings. Their father reigned over Russia for just five brief years, before being assassinated in 1801.

Standing in front of this Rembrandt, Portrait d'homme barbu, coiffé d'un beret, one could only stare in awe and bow before the master.

After a nice coffee on the Place Madeleine, I took the bus home and found, to my amazement, that at 5 pm there was still a considerable presence of sapeurs-pompiers, although the operation seemed to be in its final clean-up phase.

The next day, the shops opened up their shutters and doors again.

Bright colors once more livened up the street.

Except, that is, for the unfortunate proprietors of the Elite Boutique, who must now begin the arduous process of repair and dealing with the insurance companies. Bonne chance!

À bientôt!

The Dying Art of Printing on Paper

2011-02-07T06:35:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday, our friend, Alain Philippe, invited a small group of us to visit 49, rue Montparnasse in the 14th arrondissement, a quiet street between the bustling Boulevard Montparnasse and Boulevard Edgar Quinet. The fairly nondescript, tall brown street door opened into a passageway at the end of which another door revealed a messy reception area: piles of stone, lumber, tools and lots of dust. Here our host greeted us and led us through an even bigger door, where, as we stepped through, we stepped back in time and all of us, quite literally, gasped out loud.

A vast 19th century studio space of 1400 square meters stretched away from us under huge skylight windows that bathed the interior in soft, winter light.

"Welcome to Idem" said Alain.

In today's digital, multi-pixelled world, L'Imprimerie d'Art Idem à Montparnasse, stands alone as one of the last remaining fine arts printing studios in Paris, providing the services of 6 master printers, 2 colorists, and 6 Voirin and Marinoni lithographic presses.

Lithography stones in all sizes line the walls, along with an exceptional selection of papers. Samples of work lie on tables or are propped up for close inspection.

Here, artists such as the filmmaker David Lynch and Chihiro Minato, an artist, writer and professor of art from Tokyo, use the small artist studios upstairs to create their works, before handing them over to the master printers and colorists.

Working with the massive presses, gleaming with shiny metal and colored inks...

...one of the master printers and his assistant, Mathilde, get ready to pull the lever...

...and engage the multiple rollers that will transfer the image onto paper...

...ready to be checked for color and alignment.

It's an extraordinary, time-honored process that, unbelievably, is today no longer offered to art students at the Beaux Arts schools in Paris! One of Idem's many goals is to set up courses for students to come in small groups and learn from the master printers and colorists how to work with paper and stone, to pass on the knowledge and keep the art form alive. As the Idem website so poignantly points out, it would be hard to name one major artist who has not wanted to express his or her oeuvre on fine art paper.

We spent several hours, happily exploring all the nooks and crannies of this other-worldly place, admiring old posters lining the halls and stairways, leafing through piles of prints, marvelling at the quality of the work, at the smoothness of the stones, the texture of the paper. This new poster by Francis Coppola's long-time art director, Dean Tavoularis, is now a label on certain bottles of Coppola's wines. As you can see, the original poster is stunning. Tavoularis works frequently with Idem.

But my favorite -- a bit the worse for wear, bent at the edges, tucked away in a little corner upstairs -- was this 1935 poster advertising the biggest horse race in France, le Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe. Look at that design, those colors, that quality! It tells the whole story of the race.

Suddenly, it was lunchtime, and we all repaired to the nearby La Coupole, the grand 1927 Montparnasse Brasserie, with its extravagant art deco design, and, at this time of day, packed with hungry customers, including our merry band.

Here, we devoured their signature oysters, onion soup, fresh fish, sitting under this highly ornamental milk glass ceiling.

To find out more about L'Imprimerie d'Art Idem à Montparnasse, the hopes and dreams of its founders and its artists, check out their website: www.lesamisdidem.org. Their efforts to preserve this singular art form are truly inspiring.

À bientôt!

Location, Location, Location!

2011-01-25T09:55:00.000-08:00

We're back in our favorite city, and by some amazing piece of good fortune, it turns out that our apartment on the rue Réaumur (2nd Arr.) lies in one of the great neighborhoods of Paris. We sort of knew it when we found the flat last summer, but we had such a short and madly busy time before we left at the end of June, that it didn't really sink in just how fantastic it is. Monet, however, clearly knew when he made this famous oil painting, La rue Montorgueil, in 1878.

So, here's a little tour of the area known as Montorgueil, which means "Mount Pride". The name celebrates the French Revolution, when a tree was planted at its highest point. Today, the tree is long gone, but the site is marked with this wrought iron archway "Marché Montorgeuil", just two steps from Métro Sentier, and one short block from our flat.

Long before the Revolution, though, in fact, since the days of the 12th century king, Philip II, the rue Montorgueil (known then as the rue Comtesse d'Artois) has been a food market street. Throughout the centuries, it has provided some of the city's best produce, fish and meat, along with all the other necessities of life!

You are barely two steps down the pedestrian-only street, when you find your mouth watering at the sight of delicious oysters, fresh from Normandy, available Friday through Sunday.

Across the street, customers line up for the daily delights at one of three bakeries, all of them offering an incredible array of fresh breads, croissants, brioche, quiches, tartes, sandwiches.

Whilst you wait, you can pick up your newspaper next door!

The serious food shopping begins at one of three butchers, this one with a delightful painted panel above the awning of a stag at bay.

Inside, your eyes can barely take in the rich selection of meat, poultry, saucissons, even some of the unmentionable (to Americans) innards, all ready to be sold to Madame by one of several friendly, enthusiastic butchers. They'll also tell you how to cook it!

For those preferring the veggie route, there's no shortage of fruits and vegetables and salad. The delicious grapefruit at Le Palais du Fruit makes this Matthew's favorite stop on the street.

Even in the dark, cold days of January, you can also stop and engage in a game of chess with the proprietor of this stall, offering spiced, honeyed breads.

Paris wouldn't be Paris without a good cheese shop. Rue Montorgueil has two to tempt your palate. Right now, we are all feasting on the seasonal Mont d'Or cheese, only available October to March. Made from the winter milk of cows in the Jura region, brought down from their mountain pastures, it comes in a special round pine box with a layer of waxed paper over the cheese. At its perfect ripeness, it is very soft, almost liquid, scooped out with a spoon. Yum!!

About halfway down the street, le poissonière has the most friendly group of workers, who stand on the sidewalk, hawking their specials in loud, cheerful voices. Sometimes, they hold a tray featuring fileted dorade -- just for you Madame!

Most of the fish comes from the North Atlantic, which means it is fresh, fresh, fresh!

When you're ready for some serious dessert, keep on walking and you'll come to La Maison Stohrer, one of the oldest (1730) and most prestigious pastry shops in Paris. Anyone who has seen the documentary film Kings of Pastry knows with what serious dedication le patissier plies his trade.

Here are just a few examples to whet your appetite!

Not to be forgotten are the three wine shops, one a branch of Nicolas, a big chain of wine shops found throughout the city, and two others that seem to be sole proprietors. We are looking forward to endless sampling!

As well as all these speciality food shops, and two divine chocolate boutiques, rue Montorgueil also boasts two branches of U-Marché (supermarket), a couple of pharmacies, many cafés and restaurants, beauty parlors, telephone shops, eyeglass shops, and, very important, two lovely florists.

And, of course, a neighborhood is never complete without the all-encompassing Quincaillerie (hardware), full of all things imaginable to make your flat run more smoothly, from pots and pans, to floor coverings, to nuts and bolts and screws, etc. etc. I love the word "quincaillerie" - when you say it, it's as though you are hearing pots and pans tumbling to the floor.

Round the corner, there's even a little model train shop that would delight a certain dear friend in Portland!!

Finally, just to remind us of our political responsibilities, rue Montorgueil is proud to host the main office of the Socialist Party for the 2nd Arr.! The party itself is currently in considerable national disarray, which may account for the fact that we have never seen any sign of life in this branch!

At the bottom of rue Montorgueil, a sign reminds you that you are leaving the small, villiage-like, pedestrian-only area. The busy rue Étienne Marcel is in front of you, and the Forum Les Halles just ahead. We'll cross that road some other time.

Meanwhile, this is the view from the windows of our flat -- Saint Eustache stands proudly in the winter light, with the Panthéon way in the distance across the Seine, in the fifth arrondissement.

It is good to be back!

À bientôt!

Au Revoir!

2010-06-28T01:22:00.001-07:00

Our final two days! Where did the last six months go? As you can imagine, we're running around like mad things, finishing up this and that, but before I shut down this blog and bid you all a fond adieu, I do have one more story to share. And it has to do with saying "goodbye".

A few weeks ago, we went to our favorite flea market at the Porte au Vanves. After several hours of browsing, we walked over to the bus stop to take the #95 all the way across Paris to our neighborhood. One of those bus rides that acts like a sight-seeing tour because it passes one Parisian icon after another, ending up by crossing the Seine by the Louvre and going up the Avenue de l'Opéra with the Opéra Garnier standing resplendent at the end.

As we waited for our bus, another bus approached, a #191, coming in from the outskirts of Paris and terminating at Porte au Vanves Metro. We noticed right away several things that were not normal. First of all, the driver's official RATP tie was tied onto the outer side mirror, merrily flapping in the breeze. Secondly, the front of the bus was festooned with balloons.

The driver pulled over to the curb and tooted. Immediately, the door of a nearby RATP office (the local MUNI) opened and several men came running out, smiling, cheering and whistling. One of them had a camera. They posed with the driver in front of the bus.

It was then that we noticed the third unusual thing about the situation. Tacked onto the windshield of the bus was a yellow sign that read "MON DERNIER BUS". Suddenly it all made sense. The driver was retiring and he had just completed his final bus route!

Passers-by stopped and smiled and applauded his big moment. We joined in, adding a few "bravos!" Some people called out "bonne retraite"!

In the picture above, the driver is the fellow with the shaved head standing on the left, holding on to his tie. He beamed at everyone before climbing back into the driver's seat to take the bus to the depot. What struck us, of course, is the fact that he looks to be about 45 years old! In fact, he would be 55 years old, the age at which certain categories of workers here are allowed to retire with full pension benefits. One of the biggest financial burdens on the French economic system, it is precisely this whole retirement age issue that is currently sparking furious discussion in the French Senate and almost weekly "manifestations" in the streets.

This fellow managed to complete his working career under the old system, and one hopes he does, indeed, have a "bonne retraite", even though from our perspective, 55 years old seems a ridiculously young age to call oneself retired!

Be that as it may, dear readers, it is now time for me to take my leave of you all, and "retire" this blog. Thank you for following along with all of our adventures, thanks to those who were able to navigate the BlogSpot website to leave comments on the blog, and thanks to all of you who wrote emails. It's been an unforgettable six months!

With the full moon rising over the rooftops of this beautiful city last Saturday night, and the lighted towers and spire of Notre Dame gleaming in the distance, I bid you all a very fond AU REVOIR!

Going...Going...Gone!

2010-06-14T08:05:00.000-07:00

Paris is well known for its large number of fancy galleries, both on the Left Bank and the Right Bank.

Usually they can be found on narrow streets in the elegant neighborhoods of the lst, 2nd, 6th and 7th arrondissements.

Perhaps you are in the market for a painting, fine antique furniture, or a rare print...

...Maybe exquisite bone china or silverware is your passion...

...Or that very special piece of jewellry.

You'll certainly have your choice of destinations where, after pressing a discreet button by the door, you can enter into the hushed and hallowed heart of those fancy galleries, where negotiations are conducted with great formality, and where the gallery owners are usually far more elegant, and definitely more snooty, than the potential client.

If, on the other hand, you want to find all of those things under one roof, then there's really only one place to go: the sprawling, bustling Drouot Auction Gallery on rue Drouot, right in the noisy, congested commercial area of the 9th arrondissement. Here, on almost any day of the week, you can find paintings by the grand masters, furniture and furnishings, trinkets, stamps, rugs, jewellery, rare books, coins and other items, all up for sale in some 16 "salles de ventes."

The original building on this site, known as the Hotel des Ventes de Drouot, opened its doors for business in 1852, although the company itself had been in existence elsewhere for the previous 50 years. During the 1970s and 1980s, the building was demolished, and the enterprise moved into the old Gare D'Orsay building, whilst the current building was constructed.

When you visit the building today, you'll find the lobby filled with people milling around, checking through La Gazette Drouot for news of recent and upcoming sales, looking up at the big screen that tells you what each "salle" is selling that day, at what time the sale will begin, when you can walk through beforehand to inspect the items up for sale, see if there's anything you fancy.

Each room is usually a veritable pot-pourri of somebody's "treasures". Are they items from Grandma's house that no one in the family wanted? These elegant dining room chairs, for example, are stacked on top of their matching table, up against rugs and armoires. How many wonderful dinners had taken place around this table, we wondered. And why did no one in the family want them?

The rugs and mirrors here line the walls, whilst the chandeliers sparkle down on the rapt audience from the ceiling.

At 1:30 or 2 pm, promptly, the auction begins. Starting from one side of the room, small items are sold first - jewellry, photos, china, guns, sometimes clothing.

Front and center, and in complete control is the auctioneer. Surrounded by staff who carry the small items to a table in the middle of the room, or go and stand by the larger items, the assistants who are taking phone bids, or recording each sale carefully in a ledger, the auctioneer drives the energy of the auction. He has a microphone on his lapel, announces each item by number and description and opens the sale up to bid. Depending on the item, the bidding can begin as high as 500 or 600 euros, or as low as 30 euros. Sometimes the bids come fast and furious. Sometimes, he has to cajole the audience to get the bidding started.

In this short video clip, our favorite auctioneer is trying hard to stir up some interest in some little piece of "tat", I can't remember what it was, but we just loved the way he pouted and sulked even, until someone raised their hand to start the bid at 30 euros.

Although we saw a few women in attendance, and bidding, the audiences at these auctions seem to be mostly men. Sometimes businessmen, stopping by on their way back to the office after lunch, but more often they seemed as though they had their own small brocante business, or a stand at the various weekly flea markets around town. All of them hoping to pick up a bargain that they could then turn around and sell for a small profit.

Mr. Rasta Man sat in front of us at this particular auction, although he was not successful with any of his bids. "Non, merci", he said ruefully again and again -- the standard phrase when you're dropping out of contention.

Smaller items are taken from the side displays and put on a central table, often it's several small items, or a bundle of things. Immediately, those interested leave their seats and crowd around the table, checking the condition, even as they are nodding and bidding. Or walking away with a "non merci" tossed over their shoulder.

Sometimes, as in this little video clip, the auctioneer's assistant is with the piece in the middle of the room. Here, the item in question was a beautiful mirror. His job seemed to be to whip up enthusiasm, encourage higher bids, sometimes he was bidding himself, for an absentee person we presumed. In this particular case, the mirror was sold for 850 euros to the young man in the leather jacket who came forward to get the "ticket", which he then takes to the cashier.

At the end of the day though, the most important part of each bid, is when the auctioneer decides that the bidding has reached its limit. He raises his gavel, calls out "adjugé" (literally "awarded"), gives the price, and bangs the gavel on the table. At this point the item is legally sold. If he doesn't follow this protocol strictly, then apparently anyone has the right to go to the cashier and offer to buy the piece at a mutually satisfactory price!

We've attended several of these auctions for the fun of seeing who's there, what's being sold, what the prices are like. They can last for over 3 hours, with the larger pieces of furniture and the rugs coming up last. By this time, the room is quite empty, and some remarkable bargains can be had.

Without doubt, though, the most astonishing item we came across during our various trips to Drouot was this painting of sheep coming down to drink from a creek, followed by the shepherd.

Astonishing because we have almost the identical painting in our little TV room in Inverness. Our painting belonged to my father, who loved it and always told us that it was undoubtedly worth a fortune. It's a pretty schmaltzy piece, but I like it because I associate it with my father. The signature on the canvas says "E. Pail". My father always thought E. Pail was some unheralded-but-soon-to-be-discovered Scottish painter, Ernest Pail.

Imagine our amazement to discover that it actually was painted by a 19th Century French painter, Edouard Pail (pronounced "Py-ee") 1851-1916, part of the Crozant school -- similar to the Barbizon School -- whose members principally painted pastoral landscapes in and around the Nièvre part of southern France. Plein air painting. Pail's paintings appeared in various Paris Salon exhibitions, where he won awards. Unfortunately, we weren't able to go to the actual auction this time, but the estimate was between 500 and 600 euros. I think my father had a somewhat larger figure in mind!

But at least his painting is still in our family. In spite of all the energy and fun, there is a measure of sadness in these auctions, when you realize that all the items on sale come from someone's home and that for a whole variety of reasons they are leaving that family and being scattered near and far. Hmmm, is that the fate that lies ahead for all of our "treasures"?!!

À bientôt!

Welcome to France!

2010-06-02T09:24:00.001-07:00

We left the flat in Paris early last Thursday morning to catch the Roissybus out to Charles de Gaulle for our flight to Corsica. In spite of a big detour for another bus driver to come on board, which we thought at the time was a bit odd, but which made sense later, we still got to our terminal in good time to check our bag, and for me to put my bionic limbs through the security gate -- with all that that entails!

Boarding the EasyJet plane right on time, we buckled ourselves in, ready for take-off. Only then did the captain come onto the PA system to announce that due to the National Strike going on that day throughout the entire country, the air traffic controllers had informed him that our flight would not leave for three hours!!!

The woman in front of us turned around and smiled. "Welcome to France," she said.

Ah yes, the National Strike days that do their best to paralyze the country! This particular one centered around the whole retirement system in France, with the government attempting to push back retirement age for certain categories of workers. The air traffic controllers are not included in these categories, but, this being France, they wanted to show solidarity ("Fraternité") with those affected, and elected to have a "go slow" day.

So, we sat on the plane at the gate for a good half an hour. Then word came we were cleared for take-off. We taxied to the runway, stopped, then kept going to the farthest corner of the airfield and stopped again. "We have no idea why we have been sent here," apologized the captain, "we are the seventh flight today that this has happened to. These are the games they play." More time went by, then we returned all the way to the gate where it was announced that it would, once more, be three hours to take-off!

People stood up and stretched. Restless babies were passed around to be amused by other passengers. Everyone was, as always in these situations, very jolly. Strikes are part of daily life here. We realized that the changeover of the bus driver earlier was part of the work stoppage strategy going on in all walks of life. Many schools were closed, swimming pools closed, post offices closed.

Finally, over two hours after our scheduled departure, the word came: "cleared for take off." People scrambled back into their seats, buckled up and off we went, heading south to the "Isle of Beauty" La Corse, where dear friends of ours spend part of each year in their beautiful villa near Ajaccio.

Birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte, Corsica has been inhabited by humans since the Mesolithic era! Scattered remains can be found throughout the island, whose current population is a mere 200,000. Throughout its long history, it's been occupied by the Holy Roman Empire, the Saracens, the Lombards, the Genoese, and even, for a while, as part of some Franco-Ottoman alliance in the 16th century!

There was a brief period of Corsican sovereignty in the mid-18th century before the island was incorporated into France in 1770. However, national feelings still run high, town names are in French and the local Corse language, and the flag of Corsica still features
the head of a fiery Corsican with a bandana firmly tied around his head.

Today, the island shares its beautiful, craggy mountains...

...with cheerful poppies that line the roadways...

...and with warm sandy beaches, quite empty on a late Thursday afternoon.

Our friends live across Ajaccio Bay on Isolella Peninsula, from where the tall buildings of the bustling city of Ajaccio shimmer in the warm air.

From this side of Ajaccio Bay, the rugged, rocky coastline spills into quiet bays, and gentle beaches, offering families a paradise for building sandcastles, swimming in safe waters, and sunning for hours on end.

We joined our friends at their spacious and elegant villa, where I had last visited 23 years ago when Sonya and Alex were 12 and 8 years old, respectively! Now, as then, the roses were in full bloom and the garden lush with jasmine, fragrant herbs, green lawns, and palm trees...

...near one of which Matthew happily sat at his computer under a broad umbrella, working on a current script project for a Belgian production company...

...until, that is, word came from our host -- whose happiest hours are spent "messing around" in his boat -- that a regatta was in full swing across Ajaccio Bay, and we should go check it out...at once!

As eager shipmates, his crew quickly assembled on the beach, clambered aboard his boat, the "Haleakala", and raced across the water, holding on to our hats and riding out the bumpy thumps as the boat hit the sea swells and wakes of other boats.

There, against the backdrop of Ajaccio, full-masted sailboats, crewed in some instances by at least 20 people, tacked and jibed their way along the race course through choppy waters and strong winds...

...some of them letting loose a billowing spinnaker.

Under warm, sunny skies, our four days passed in a lazy cycle of leisurely breakfasts, a little walkabout (for me), "messing in boats" (for Alain), reading and sunning (for Marthe), writing (for Matthew), lunch on the terrace, an afternoon somewhat similar to the morning, with a late elegant supper to round off the day.

On our last evening, we headed inland for the mountains, that stretch from one end of Corsica to the other, and rise to over 9000 feet.

Here's where you find many of the original settlements, far from the coast and the dangers of invading armies, where villages took root and communities thrived. One such village, Peri, lies about an hour's drive from Isolella, hanging on to the side of the mountain, with a beautiful church bell tower at its heart.

And right next to the church is Chez Séraphin, where Chef Séraphin (whose tummy arrives a good five seconds before the rest of him) served a sumptuous seven-course dinner: sturdy, multi-vegetable soup, beignets stuffed with squash flowers, courgettes, the most delicious gigot of lamb we have ever tasted, garden fresh salad from behind the restaurant, local cheeses, baked caramelized apples and ice cream. All accompanied by local Corsican wines and served under the beamed ceiling of a warm, cosy dining room. Bliss!

Corsica is aptly named "Île de Beauté". After a gap of so many years, I felt just as much at home in its gentle pace and stunning beauty as I did in 1987.

A far cry from the bustling streets of Paris, it offers a quiet, historic, welcoming paradise all of its own. I know it won't be 23 years before I return!

À bientöt!

More Motor Mania

2010-05-25T04:43:00.000-07:00

I promise this will be the final post that has anything to do with cars in general and Citroën cars in particular! BUT we did just spend the past holiday weekend (Day of Pentecost) in and around the Cathedral city of Reims, where the 40th anniversary of the Citroën SM car was celebrated in a 3-day, jam-packed series of events.

With its super-streamlined, futuristic shape, its powerful Maserati engine capable of cruising comfortably at 120 mph, and its dramatic interior styling, the SM was considered the flagship vehicle of the Citroën fleet during its five years of production - 1970-1975. Around 13,000 were produced, with maybe 2400 being exported to the US.

Production tailed off dramatically during the fuel crises of that era, and when the Peugeot car company bought out Citroën, they shut this model down.

In the States, the sight of one of these cars is a rare event (unless you live in First Valley, Inverness, that is!), so you can imagine how our jaws dropped when we stepped out of our motel room on Saturday morning and were greeted by this sight: a parking lot containing ONLY Citroën SMs.

During the course of the weekend, more and more SMs and their owners joined the gathering, arriving from all over France, as well as several from Belgium, Holland, Germany, Monaco, Switzerland, England and Italy. Then there were the SM owners from "overseas" who attended without their cars -- from as far away as New Zealand and, of course, California!

Wherever a group of these cars parked, people flocked to check them out. At one of our many stops, one fellow circled several times in his Ultralight to get a good look.

And no matter how well individual owners might know and love their own vehicle, they never tired of checking out each and every other car at the rally, looking under hoods, in the trunk, checking what kind of wheels, headlights, original paint, modified bits and bobs.

French law forbids modifying the car from its original design, but other countries don't seem to care and there were some rather extreme re-design elements on a couple of the German and Swiss cars, that had the French owners clucking with disapproval.

This doesn't count as an official modification, but owner of this car made a cute display of model cars on the rear window ledge of his vehicle.

After being surrounded by so many of these beautiful SM cars (150 by the end of the weekend), I found my eyes glazing over during the group visit to the Reims Automobile Museum, where there were vintage cars of every other make and model on display. Until, that is, I came across this amazing room full of kiddie model cars, and wanted to jump into one and try it out for myself.

The organizers of the weekend made sure that a great deal of time was spent in the cars, driving from one event to the next through the beautiful Champagne country of the River Marne and River Aisne. People went at their own pace, but there would often be at least 20 SMs rolling along a highway, one behind the other! Since we had no car of our own, this gave us the chance to ride with other SM owners, which, looking back, was really one of the highlights for us.

These were ordinary French people (or German, Dutch, Swiss, English, etc.) from all walks of life, brought together by their love for this car. Not a single Parisian among them! And no one asked or told what their daily work was. For all we knew, we were riding with captains of industry or longshoremen. Only one person, Thierry, mentioned his occupation, and then only because he rather shyly commented one morning at breakfast on how great it was to be up and about during the daytime because he worked at night. We asked him what he did, and he explained that he is a baker working from 11 pm to dawn every day, baking all the delicious breads that we so take for granted when we pop round to the local boulangerie. Ever since he was a small boy, he added proudly, he always wanted to be a baker. And he owns an SM! He and his wife had driven from eastern France near the Swiss border to be at the rally.

It's hard to go anywhere in Northern and Eastern France without coming up against memories of both World Wars. One of the destinations on Saturday's agenda was a visit to the Caverne du Dragon, located on the Chemin des Dames, a long roadway that runs across a plateau, called, ironically, Plateau de Californie.

During WWI, a fierce battle was waged, not only for the rolling landscape surrounding the museum, but also for control of a deep, enormous, underground quarry that stretches a great distance beneath the fields and the roadway.

Occupied by the French troops at one end and the German troops at the other, the battle waged long and bloody under unimaginably brutal conditions, and with unspeakable cruelty inflicted on soldiers of both sides of the conflict, very often by their own officers. We were reminded of the early Stanley Kubrick film, Paths of Glory, that so poignantly and devastatingly captured this era of warfare.

Today, the museum is dedicated to the memory of all who lost their lives. A series of tall metal black posts on the hillside commemorates the lives of the French Senegalese soldiers who fell during this particular battle.

As well as WWI monuments and memorials, this particular region of France is most famous for its fantastic champagnes: Veuve Clicquot, Pommery, and Mercier, to name just a few of the bigger brands. Vineyards rise up on the chalky hills around almost every small town in the area, with little tasting rooms (dégustation) lining the main streets.

A museum, near this vineyard is devoted to explaining the production of champagne, with its incredibly strict protocols at every step of the process, from how to prune -- 3 and only 3 choices there! -- to the cutting of the stakes, the training of the vines, the timing of the harvest, etc.

Saturday evening, we were able to taste the fruits of these precise labors at the Gala Banquet, held 30 meters below ground in the Caveau Bacchus of the Champagne House of Mercier, founded in 1858.

In this grand vaulted, candlelit cellar, surrounded on every side by several kilometers of wine storage tunnels, we feasted on the following:

Compotée de Lapin aux Fines Herbes
Foie Gras de Canard et Jeunes Légumes
En petit Pot Parfait

Quasi de Veau Poêlé
Au Beurre Demi-Sel
Fricassée de Légumes de Saison
Croustillant Dauphinois

Fromage de Troyes et
Son Fouillis de Salade

Feuillantine au Chocolat et
Son Crémeux de Mangues
Au Coulis de Fruits de la Passion

Cuvée du 150ème Anniversaire
Mercier Brut Rosé
Mercier Brut
Mercier Demi-Sec

By Sunday morning, we were all in need of some quiet leisure time! Geneviève Fraleux, the fantastic organizer of the whole weekend, did not disappoint.

The weather continued to be glorious, warm, sunny, calm. After a short visit to the charming village of Reuil and another sumptuous luncheon under a tent beside a very pretty lake, we boarded a cruiser for a gentle ride along the River Marne, passing several more villages.

The somnolent pace of the boat and the warm temperatures, along with the vast quantities of food and wine we had enjoyed, had us all nodding off, although we managed to perk up a bit for this souvenir snapshot!

Our final "tourist" stop was the glorious Château de Montmort in the small town of Montmort Lucy. Originally a fortress, it was purchased in 1074 by Rémond de Montmort, whose descendants have lived here ever since, transforming the fortress into this stunning XVIth century castle. In the late afternoon sun, against the picture perfect blue sky, it looked like something out of a fairy tale.

Our guide this time was quite extraordinary. With an encyclopedic knowledge of every stone and pillar in the place, he proceeded to share every part of it with us. Of indeterminate age and with a voice that verged on that of a castrati, he trilled and twirled his way through the rooms, skipping here and there, rolling his eyes dramatically, waving his arms like a young ballerina, swooping his head from side to side and up and down as the timbre of his voice followed suit. Or vice versa. A mesmerising theatrical performance that kept his audience captive to the last word!

At the end of the day, though, it did all come back to the SM cars. To Jerry Hathaway, proprietor of SM World in Southern California, who has devoted his entire adult life to this car, and is considered a legend in France and throughout the world for his knowledge and passion for all things SM.

He came to the rally with his wife, Sylvia, who holds the land speed record for SM cars at the Bonneville Flats -- over 200 mph! People waited eagerly in line for them to sign posters.

The final event took place at the empty, desolate Circuit de Gueux, just outside Reims. Formerly a renowned race track for cars and motorcycles, it now stands a bit forlornly on a stretch of two-lane blacktop, surrounded by farm fields.

But for one glorious hour on Monday, Day of Pentecost, under clear blue skies and hot, hot sun, over 150 Citroën SMs lined up in perfect angle formation in tribute to this high-performance, beautiful car.

And we were so glad to be there!

À bientôt!

Dates in History

2010-05-15T01:38:00.001-07:00

Certain dates in history, just by their very mention, conjure up unforgettable images and dramatic stories. Two of these happen to collide in the town of Bayeux in Normandy, just a couple of hours by train from Paris. We spent last weekend there, immersing ourselves in the following dates, which are separated by almost a thousand years: 1066 and 1944.

Bayeux itself is a charming medieval town with excellent restaurants and hotels, and a stunning Norman-Gothic cathedral that rises, almost protectively, above the town. Dating back to 1077, its flying buttresses, bell turrets, naves, arches and stained glass windows all speak of an era when it seems such churches and cathedrals were springing up all over Europe.

Along with all this Christian grandeur, there are also delightful winding streets, several water wheels, still in operation...

...and small ateliers where this young man has come to learn how to make the beautiful lace, for which Bayeux is also well known.

The biggest attraction, though, is that jewel of Romanesque art, the Bayeux Tapestry, housed today in an 18th century building in the center of town. As every English schoolchild knows from the earliest of ages, this tapestry and its date, 1066, depicts the rise of Duke William of Normandy, and the fall of the Saxon, Harold, at the Battle of Hastings.

As you slowly move past the 58 detailed scenes, embroidered in colored wool on a piece of linen, and displayed in one long horizontal line almost like a cartoon strip, the story unfolds with such amazing clarity and detail that you find yourself gripped by the dramatic course of events:

Of how the King of England, Edward the Confessor, having no children, designated his cousin, William of Normandy, to succeed him to the throne. Of how he sent Harold, much beloved by the Saxon nobles, and with his own aspirations to the throne, to Normandy to deliver the news. Of how Harold took an oath on holy relics and a bible, and swore to William that he would not stand in his way. And then, of course, of how, when Edward died, Harold betrayed his oath and had himself crowned King of England.

William promptly assembled a huge fleet, set sail for England, defeated Harold at the Battle of Hastings, and earned for himself the name, William the Conqueror. It was the last conquest suffered by England, and as if to send a message that the Normans were there for good, William ordered all his boats to be destroyed once they landed in Sussex. There would be no going back!

Along with all the gory details of the battle -- ending when Harold took an arrow in the eye, dying on the battlefield -- the tapestry also provides a vivid picture of 11th century life: the foods people ate, the clothes they wore, their domestic animals, how they built their houses, their boats, fashioned their weapons, rode their horses. All of this can be read and experienced as you make your way past the 203 foot long, 19 inches high linen document.

Flashing forward almost a thousand years, and you find yourself face to face with the other date that resonates in Bayeux: June 6, 1944, D-Day, the beginning of the end of WWII with the landing of American, British and Commonwealth troops on the beaches of Normandy. We signed up for an all-day tour of the American beaches -- Omaha and Utah -- and towns and cemeteries associated with the American effort. This particular Operation Overlord tour began and ended in Bayeux, which, by some miracle, escaped bombardment, and was the first town to be liberated by the Allies.

No more bows and arrows or chain mail. Instead, the Allied soldiers found themselves facing Hitler's famous Atlantic Wall -- a series of concrete bunkers that stretched all the way from northern Norway to the Spanish border. Inside the bunkers, huge "long tom" guns capable of reaching targets up to 15 miles away, pointed out to sea. This surviving one stands above Omaha Beach. Despite its crumbling rusty condition, it still managed to be a chilling reminder.

Part of a small band of 8 participants, all American and every one of us shivering, we braved the unseasonably freezing temperatures to hang on to every word our guide, Stéphane, uttered. (I was very glad I had brought along my 30 year-old Grannie Slater woolly hat!)

A passionate student of military history, Stéphane knew every last detail of the planning and execution of the landings, and every anecdote about all the major and some of the minor characters, on both sides of the conflict. Over the years, he has made an effort to meet many surviving veterans, American, English, Canadian, German, etc. in order to collect their personal stories. His bulky folder held maps, charts, photos, diagrams, letters, newspaper articles. The narrative he wove kept us all spellbound the entire day.

Invasion planning had begun over a year earlier, the Allies learning much from the North African and Italian campaigns. Aerial photography, pinpointed the landing sites in Normandy, although decoy plans were leaked to the enemy, suggesting an invasion in Norway or the Pas de Calais. Military intelligence revealed that although Hitler suspected Normandy would be the site, he was persuaded by his generals that the landings would be at Calais -- a much shorter crossing from England.

Standing on these beaches today -- empty, windswept, tranquil -- it was hard to imagine the chaos and scope of an invasion of this magnitude, even having seen both The Longest Day and Saving Private Ryan. The timing had to be precise -- a full moon, and between low and high tides were vital in order to be able to pinpoint and avoid the barricades the Germans had laid along the beaches. At high tide, they would have been invisible, splintering the landing craft and spilling the troops into the English Channel.

Despite the extraordinarily detailed planning and the accompanying, continual aerial bombardments, so much went wrong that it all came close to being a disaster. At Omaha Beach, for example, the strong ocean currents caused the landing craft to veer way off their target landing spots. Troops struggled to get to their right coordinates and it was only with extra reinforcements and efforts of incredible bravery, that a foothold on the beach was established, at an appalling cost of life.

The Utah Beach landings went more smoothly, if one can use such a word for a deadly military operation. And at Pointe du Hoc, with the German defences poised to strike out on both sides of the point, I was struck by two things in particular. First, this bullet-ridden bunker, incongruously still standing in the parking lot...

...and then a quotation from Franklin Roosevelt, carved along the side of this lookout spot above the beach. It ends with "I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees."

It was below the Pointe du Hoc that Stéphane told, perhaps, his most vivid story, that of the assault of the cliffs by the Rangers. The plan was to shoot up ropes to the top of these cliffs to gain access to the top and destroy the German guns that aerial intelligence had shown to be there. However, during the landing, heavy waves spilled over the landing craft, soaking the ropes and making them too heavy to shoot up. Instead, the Rangers scrambled and clawed their way through a gap, and hand over hand, made it to the top, only to discover that the "guns" were actually telephone poles shrouded with camouflage. The real guns, set up further inland, let loose their cannons.

Meanwhile, behind enemy lines, another major part of the invasion was in full deployment -- thousands of paratroopers of the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions parachuted through the night skies onto French soil.

One poor fellow got his parachute caught up on the side of the church in the town of Sainte-Mère-Église. He hung there, feigning death, as the battle raged beneath him in the streets of this small town, which today hosts an amazing museum dedicated to the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions. Veterans from this elite American group still maintain contact with families here. Today, a mannequin records the drama of that church ordeal!

Again, it is hard to imagine today how this seemingly unimportant, peaceful, pastoral landscape was once the center of some of the fiercest fighting for control of the narrow bridge you see here. Many of the paratroopers missed their mark, due to fog and winds, landing in the dark in the marshes near this bridge, some of them perilously trapped in their chutes, and in danger of drowning. A local farmer and his young daughter bravely went out in the dark and rescued many, allowing the troops to prevail.

A lovely stained glass window in a local church is dedicated to the members of the 82nd & 101st Airborne Divisions.

As fascinated and moved as we were by everything Stéphane told us, nothing prepared us for the impact of walking through the American Cemetery at Colville-St.-Laurent. Here, above the Omaha Beaches, lie 9386 American soldiers, four of them women, a fraction of the total number of lives lost, because American families were given the choice of repatriating their loved ones back to America for burial in military cemeteries throughout the States.

But, nevertheless, here at Colville-St.-Laurent you will find the melting pot that is America.

Row after row of white crosses, interspersed with Stars of David, stretch to the horizon. Alongside familiar American names are Italian names, Jewish names, Polish, Hispanic, Scandinavian, German names...

...and some whose name, as the tomb says, are known only to God.

Each tomb represents its own story, mostly unknown to others. A few narratives have survived: The two brothers, whose death formed the basis of Saving Private Ryan and whose real name is Niland, are buried here. Two other brothers from the 29th Infantry Division, the Hoback brothers, fell on the same day. One of the earliest groups to land on the beaches, the entire division was almost lost in the first ten minutes. Bradford Hoback died outright, his brother Raymond was severely wounded, dying within minutes of Bradford. With the chaos of the landings, and the strong currents, Raymond's body was washed away at sea. His name is recorded here on the wall of the "missing."

As we looked out over the English Channel, we couldn't help thinking that in spite of the span of the 1000 years between the Battle of Hastings and the Normandy Landings, the human tendency to wage war has not diminished one bit; rather, alas, it continues unabated.

And this was just the American Cemetery. There are Canadian and at least 16 British cemeteries in Normandy. It has always been a tradition, and considered an honor, for a British soldier to lie where he fell, giving context to Rupert Brooke's WWI poem The Soldier, written as he was deployed to the front:

If I should die

Think only this of me
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England.

À bientôt!