We'll Always Have Paris

Well thanks for coming back for more after an unfortunate technology break which crippled my posting ability. But I kept writing about our trip, in good old fashion pen on legal pads, and have a few things to update this blog with- and I hate to not complete the journey's tale. Look for at least one more post after this! Plus this is a BONUS double header- my post on Ryan's visit AND also a great tale of Fedora and Pleasant's trip to London with my sister Katherine (Kathy to family) that F sent me in email and I asked permission to post. She is a funny girl.

When the whole trip idea got started, Ryan was not impressed with Paris as the destination. His cultural homeland, Norway, or exotic Barcelona, maybe. France held no special calling to my scientist husband. But of course his joining us for a week seemed like a natural choice. He arrived with the required khaki bermuda shorts and Rick Steves (Mark Parrish)guide book. In an advanced email Ry had said "Get the museums out of the way" and we had followed orders. He arrived Sunday morning and by that afternoon we had shed the girls and were strolling along the Ste. Martin Canal flea market, and sipping cold Heinekens in a cafe, watching a bohemian slice of life parade by. We probably walked 10 miles that day with not a Modern Expressionist painting in sight. (On a later trip, we did find some apt graphitti, see pic, artwork even Ryan had to admire!)

The Norte Dame trip- so well covered earlier here by Fedora-was quite the family outing. While they climbed stairs, I sat in the church, absolutly mortified at the amusement park like atmosphere that prevailed, including tourists stitting in the pews, reading tour books out loud, while their partners filmed the interior. It was equally offensive in English, French, German, Japanese, Korean, Italian, Russian and Greek. Skimpy summer apparel, tripods and lights, loud conversation and staged "watch me pray" photos had me reeling after 45 minutes. I had already covered church etiquette 101 with my girls: don't go in bare shouldered, don't be loud, we are visitors, guests in someone's house of worship. Not everyone got that memo. I got some satisfaction at the end of the week when Ryan and I went to a favorite of mine, Basilique Sacre Coeur, and hoofed up ALL THOSE STAIRS. One of the most beautiful -and newer circa 1870's- in Paris, this church still had some self-respect, and there were gentlemen shaking their fingers and telling women to cover up at the door or refusing entry. Ten feet in the door there was someone 'Shhh' -ing the entering crowd. Zero cameras. You could walk thru, you could sit and pray if you were a 'club member', but this was no E-ticket ride.

Other family highlights included an hour and a half river trip on a big tour boat. A loop of city highlights from the Seine, you know, "On the right, on the left," in four languages. We had seen much of it up close, at ground level, but just as the sun had set and we turned around, putting us -starboard- directly under the Effiel Tower, it lit up in an explosion of glittering blue and silver lights. Wow, talk about timing. It was as good as National Monument Light Shows get. It was one of our last nights together as a family in Paris. We rode the metro home and took the girls to the pub we had found and adopted (The Pure Malt) and they had their first 'cocktails' Mojitos with champagne. I think I drank most of F's. Tasty.

Ryan's week included us spending a perfect day with his friend and fellow scientist, Adam, who came over from his home in Cambridge, England, to visit us in Paris. With the girls off on their own, we had a lengthy and French lunch, (the men caught up on professional gossip and I ate and ate and ate...) followed by a lengthy and French walk through the lengthy and French Luxembourg Gardens, then a lengthy and French afternoon of gelato and cold pints at places called things like 'The Valkrie'. This is a picture Adam took of us before we poured ourselves onto the metro to get him back on the train home where he has a nice wife and sweet daughter. We are all such good travelers, and the world is so small, who knows which 'side of the pond' we will see each other again?

Fedora's post-London email

Dear Mommy,
Just got back from London, sooooo tired!
I can still feel the train swaying, so that bit is standing out in my mind, but after I get some sleep memories such as the London Eye (we got you some stomach-twisting pictures!), high tea at Fortnum & Masons (we planned my birthday party) and buying gay porn at the largest bookstore in Europe (there was some confusion as to to the price in sterling) will return to the forefront. We also saw the Lion King! It was really pretty and had hot naked guys!

At Hadley's Toy Store ( think FAO Shwartz with about a zillion more toys) we went to the Build a Bear Workshop! I built a BUNNY! His name is Oliver and I love him. He has a little London Bobby's uniform. With a hat. Pleasant got a bear named James dressed as a beef-eater, and Aunt Kathy got the bill.

How come you never told me about Kendall Mint Cake???
At Fortnum & Masons candy department:
F: What's Kendall Mint Cake?
K: I dunno. Why, do you want some?
F: Well, it is on the shelf here, and I read about it....
P: It has 'mint' in the name. We're getting it.

When we got home:
P: Let's try the Kendall Mint Cake!
F: It scares me..I still don't know what it is...
P: *opens it* It looks weird... *eats bit*
F: Well? What does it taste like?
P: ....try it.
F: *tries it* Pleasant, this...this is a brick of sugar.
P: YES!
F: It's sparkling. This is minty sugar. This would be FANTASTIC in tea!
K: Oi.
F: *finishes bite* Oooh, I'm all MINTY! I feel like I just brushed my teeth! With SUGAR!
K&P: ....ew.
I also bought souveniers today for my friends and...ooh! I forgot! We got two cashmere scarves in...the Gordon dress plaid. From a real plaid shop. They ROCK.

Well, the room is swaying and I have to tuck in Oliver. Aunt Kathy and Plez say hi, so do Oliver and James! There's a million exctiing events I forgot to talk about, but I'm sure you'll hear all the stories soon enough!

Enjoy your child-free weeks!
Bunny
PS FRIED BREAD! Combining my two favorite things...FRIED and BREAD!

Above It All Part 2: Why Stairs Were Invented By Satan

See I have a logical process.
Heaven is up, right? That's what those crazy Jesus freaks tell us. Stairs were invented by Satan so that getting up towards Heaven would be as difficult and painful as possible.

This was proved a few days ago when I and two victims made our way up up up to the top of Notre Dame. 400 steps. I didn't count them, owing to my brain slowly dying from lack of oxygen. Every time I thought we were getting close, it turned out we were only at the giftshop. We were not allowed to leave the giftshop until the subliminal tourist-aimed messages had penetrated our brains to the point of making us spend a certain amount of euros. It almost worked on me, luckily I realized that a Fleur de Lemon or Notre Dame pin might mark me as one of the aforementioned Jesus freaks.

I also wanted the 1500 piece puzzle of the Paris skyline at night, but the last time I tried to do a puzzle at mom's house, she killed me.

"Come join the gods, come join the gods, who wants to come with me and come join the gods?"

But we got up there and it did slightly resemble heaven. The view was amazing and we kept going higher and higher until we were getting smacked in the head by cell phone satelites. We met a lot of gargoyles who strongly resembled my family members. And there was a man in a Quasimodo mask doing street theatre for the people in line. Very funny. Today I picked up a very very cheap copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame just for giggles. The lil bunny took many pictures of me and of pidgeons.

"High in the sky, high in the sky, who wants to come with me and hide in the sky?"

It rained and winded and there were loud obnoxious koreans and also some very very fat americans. I swear to god there are only four of them and they just made thousands of clones of the same 8 months pregnant man with a fanny pack and dressed in shorts and sunglasses tied to his head with one of those cords I had to wear when I was a kid so they wouldn't break when I fell off of stuff. Also his fat, ill-groomed, hyperactive children. Usually two, a girl and a boy. And his wife, usually wearing the exact same clothes as her husband, desperately in need of a new hairstyle and some skin-softening cream.

Going down was harder then going up, as the steps were very slippery, and we were already quite shakey. Afterwards we found the mommy-doll and she and the three semi-catatonic dolls went to get drinks. My legs were being very vocal in their opinions of my activities, and refused to stop shaking. I firmy believe that they were trying to escape from further torture. They calmed down when I fed them a coke, which I would happily have killed for to change my poor appendages from jello back into Fedora.

Many other exciting things have happened in the last two days, but that's for the next time mom nags me into typing something that isn't a puzzle pirate command.

Pictures are courtesy of the lil bunny, big church is courtesy of Jesus, big city is courtesy of the Romans. The lyrics are System of a Down. Yeah, that's right, I like them. And I'm sick of people missaying their name! It spells SOAD! It's not hard! And the next cultural studies professor who gets it wrong is gonna get bit!

Above it all- Part I

So I have finally gotten some pics from P that she took at the carnival. She's been doing well with the pictures...my camera and my computer both stopped functioning within the first week, so F has saved the day by sharing both her camera and her comp. I give the girls credit for imploring me to let them go on the sketchy looking rides and enjoying the carnival after our long museum day, but the selling point was there was a 'Bar' tent where I could sit out the action.
It is not that common for women to sit 'alone' at a bar, but that wasnt going to stop me, of course, and the place was a classic tent with the 'bar' being made up of the plywood shipping boxes from the carnival. There was a woman about my age pouring who I became endeared to when I translated 'white wine' for two loud, pushy American men who were demanding 'Chardonay'. (At a carnival you get red, you get white, and it's out of a box in the fridge.) After they left we shared a giggle. She spoke no English. My French is limited to basic food and beverage vocab. Still, somehow, we had a good time. On starting my second glass of red wine, the temperature inside the tent had dropped and she asked me if I wanted it hot. I thought, did I get that right? Hot? So I said, sure, and she topped off my glass and took it to the steam wand on the espresso machine, brought it back and put a half packet of sugar in it and stirred. Ok, this was heaven. It was fabulous and warmed me up.

There is a jazz festival throughout Paris this month and there was a classic 3 piece Gypsy band with a brunette singer with dangling earrings and swirling skirt that began to play in the tent. In between the gypsy classics (think soundtrack to Chocolat), there was Louis Armstrong's hits, of which only one or two lines in English were known, but repeated over and over. F and P dashed in, rosy cheeked and laughing and asking for more money for more rides. They were like little kids and it made me smile, and the bartendress too when she saw the classic 'Mommy gets out her wallet' move.

The boss of the carnival was a woman about 60, dressed all in white men's clothes (pants, and loafers too,) which matched her white cropped hair and she came over and stood very close to me and spoke in French, welcoming me. Everyone greeted her as they came in the tent and I could tell these folks had been around a long time, and were a summer tradition. I noticed a canvas across the back of the room painted with her portrait and another woman next to her, not a daughter. This gal was perhaps mid 30's, thin and pretty in jeans and pointy cowboy boots, she sang a song with the band and then later as the evening wound down, and the girls had come back to sit and inhale a crepe, she came over to me to ask me to come back again. She flirted with me and I flirted back and in a mixture of Spanish and English and she told me about them.

Nine generations of their family had run this fair. They were Russians and traveled all over, doing a month in different European cities. The rides and games and food and music were all operated by the family or extended members. This was the real deal: carnies, gypsies. Everyone knew each other and had a grand time, laughing, drinking, clapping in time. I felt like we had stumbled onto a family gathering and were lucky guests. My new friend apologized they would have to close early because of the rules of the park (it was 11:00 pm) but as they were drawing the tarps around the tent I guessed fun would continue for quite a bit longer. But we were tired and cold and ready to go. I put down 20 euro for my 16 euro tab and bid fairwell to them all with thanks and assurance we would would return while in Paris. The girls gathered up the trinkets they had 'won' at the game booths and we headed off to the metro. It was an evening you would not find in a travel guide, hospitality as only a family would offer, and a moment where- on the ferris wheel above a twinkling Paris, or sipping hot wine on the rickety boards of a tent bar-we all got to run away with Gypsies.

Suffering for Art

Wednesday was the first day I actually ached from head to toe. We walked and walked and walked and there was that moment coming home this afternoon where we all eyed the 4 floor walk up and groaned in unison. The Centre Pompidou is several blocks from where we are staying and although we had walked round the outside of it our first weekend here, today we ventured inside to see an amazing collection of Modern Art. (12 euro for me, free for the girls!) This is my genre and I was beside myself with the beauty of the gallery set ups, the space, the lighting and the work itself, a grouping unmatched in my viewing since maybe the (Peggy) Gugenheim in Venice, Italy.

There was an entire room devoted to the work of Philppe Starck, including an aray of 'prototypes' of his more recognizable home furnishing items, which sat on a ledge above the final production models. Talk about an education in industrial design! I was lucky enough to stay in the Paramount Hotel in NYC a couple of times, where the entire place, down to the sinks and soaps had been designed be Starck. I think you can find many items in 'homage' to him in the aisles of your local IKEA.

F is less of a fan of 'modern' art, but was a goood sport as we wandered through it all. P shared my joy at seeing some lifetime-worthy masterpieces. We all picked favorites. It was easy for me, an amazing large canvas I recognized from a book, 'Slave Trade' by neo-expressionist Jean-Michel Basquiat. His short career was prolific, but there are very few publicly shown works, and this was a thrill to see. (And huge, at about 5ft high and 8 ft wide!)

"Every line means something." - Jean-Michel Basquiat. And how.

Thursday- Musee d' Orsay

In an attempt to avoid the crowds we went to this amazing museum at 4 pm because it's open Thursdays till 9pm. A converted train station, the place is HUGE and the lighting unbelievable even late in the day. It is just across the Seine from the Tuileries Gardens, where we walked from the metro stop through a carnival we had watched getting set up last week. (More on that later when I can get the pics from P.) We decided to split up so we could all see our various interests and meet back under the two story high gilt clock in 2 hours. The crowds were there- but all hovering around the Van Gogh and Renoir rooms listening to their tour guides give them a crash course in art appreciation. ("Got it- got it- got it...") I bee-lined for the Art Nouveau rooms (almost empty!) where furnishings, sculpture, paintings and -SIGH- glass (Lalique! Galle!) were set in scaled tableaus and cases. If I was born in a previous time, it was the late 1800's. In fact, the clowns that dance across my back are from a 1901 book and not only my favorite orange and green, but classic of the 'noodle' design lines of the era.

My new favorite artist has become Georges Lacombe, who is identified as a sculpture primarily. His series of four carved wood rectangles depicting the cycle of life really were breathtaking and tucked unceremoniously in a hall way between rooms. My favorite was L'Amour. (A poor pic here above, but look at the d'Orsay archives on line for more...www.musee-orsay.fr) He must be my "guide" on this trip as I remember his stunning grave at Perre Lachaise, black marble near Proust- where I stopped to read his name twice, before I realized it was not spelled the same as my pricey cosmetics. As I was on my way out of the d'Orsay, I saw his "ISIS" which was oddly prophetic and made me tear up a bit before I pressed on to meet the girls and venture into the dusk and the sparkling lights of the Gypsy's carnival.

Life and death, wine and chocolate

We missed a couple of days of blogging due to complete mental and physical exhaustion. We slept thru the Gay parade on saturday, emerging around 7pm in time to see the dissapating crowds of jockey-short clad men and rainbow flag waving women wandering thru our neighborhood. (Hey, we're here, we're actually not queer, we got used to it.) We did buy a copy of Cabaret on DVD to add to the flat's odd ecletic library and that certainly should show our pride.

So all the "Sale" signs went up in all the shops this last week and I wish I could get more excited but I'm too busy investing in gelato and wine. We continue to go through museums, two days ago it was the Cluny which holds "one of the finest collections of Medeivil art in the world" and Sunday the Carnavalet which is actually on the corner of our street. At the Cluny I was overhwlemed by my commercial self, wondering why no one had developed salable 'gift' properties out of things other than the widely reproduced Lady and the Unicorn Tapestires. For instance, why had no one thought the 16th century carved and painted 'towel bar' depicting a maiden, couldn't be an exclellent toilet paper holder? I mean, I can see it at the Bed Bath and Beyond now, can't you?

The Carnavalet, holding a chronilogical history of France, was actually the home for Mme Sevigne, for whom our street was named, for the 20 years preceding her death. She was actually an author, a celebrated letter writer, and I found that more than re-assuring as one of my goals for this trip was to finish the novel I have been working on for over two years. I don't expect it will be ready for the editors just yet, but I just wanted to be able to write "The End" while in Paris. I brainstormed the plot and its potential with the girls the other day and they actually both gave me some excellent ideas for furthering the story I readily admit I came here not knowing the end of. In the museum I saw lots of inspriational items, a coat of arms I wanted to levrage for a graphic and the highlight for me, the Fouquet Jewllery Boutique, lovingly reproduced in its 1900 Art Nouveau splendor.

Today, Monday, when many shops and museums are closed, we went to the infamous Pere LaChaise cemetary and joined others making the pilgrimage to seeking Jim Morrison's final resting place. We didn't find it. However, we were successful in locating Fedora's destination of Oscar Wilde's grave. She came prepared with garish magenta lipstick to add her lip prints to the hundreds of others on the massive monolith and left a handful of stones in the Jewish tradition.

We also found Proust (we saw his bedroom reproduced at the Chatavalet) and the Columbarium where Isadora Duncan's ashes were, although we didn't find her specific box among the hundreds. I love cemetaries and always have. This one was extra fabulous with its Gothic crypts and black granite slabs. I appreciated the mix of old and new- 1808 next to 2008- and the Protestants, Catholics and Jews all laying eternally together in peace. Even without the famous, this place was an amazing diarama of history and culture.

Back in the hood we hit the super market and Plez whipped up some pasta and I enjoyed an amazing bottle of wine for 2 euros while we watch 'Chocolat' and ate, well, lots and lots of cheap and sumptious chocolate, happy to be alive and in Paris.

From the desk of Pleasant!

So I'm finally doing a blog!

Day 9 in Paris. Last bag of crack eaten. (It's crackers, really!)

I know this was in high demand, and finally my mom and wonderful beloved sister talked me into sitting down and doing it. They encouraged me to write about the food, being a 'chef-in-training' at home, but what could I say beyond, it's French, and therefore even the sidewalk cafe crap is superior in every way to anything we have at home.

Despite my grave irritation with events such as mom talking to me, my sister demanding cuddles, and being devoured by bugs, Paris is turning out to be a blast. I solved the bug problem by the way, turns out I was sleeping under an open window. Who could possibly have figured that out? Stupid bugs.

So far this week I have said every terrible thought that has stomped through my brain. I have also begun repeating the phrase "Sheath for Jew Harp" constantly because I saw it written on a card in a museum next to a Medieval artifact. This has been my favorite thing in all of Europe and therefore an excellent punch line to nothing in particular.

Next week: Stalking Karl Lagerfeld. Have potential lead on his whereabouts. Stay tuned.