I got married today.
A year ago, today.
It was awesome.
Some have called it, in fact, "the awesomest awesome that ever awesomed."
It ruled.
So, in memory of that splendid day, my wife and I decided to jerk around Paris all day long.
We just hung out together in lieu of crazy gifts from Dior and Gaultier; really, we didn't want to spend all kinds of money on gifts that we would probably put out on card tables in a few years at someone's garage sale, with little neon orange stickers attached that read "$1" or "Make me an offer."
Paris is loaded with ritzy restaurants. One of them, L'Arpege, charges around 300 euros a person (that's about four hundred and twenty dollars right now) for simple courses like an organic tomato picked hours earlier, sliced and dressed with a bit of sea salt and a drop of Balsamic. Yikes.
We didn't go there. I can't afford that tomato.
Instead, we just walked all day long, and spent the day together.
We started the day on our new friend Sylvain's house boat. It is moored on the Seine in full view of the Eiffel Tower. Sylvain congratulated us on making it a whole year and presented us with a variety of cheeses (brie, chevre, bleu, funky), two fresh baguettes, a huge salad of fresh tomato, avocado, bib lettuce with olive oil and mustard, and two bottles of red wine from the Languedoc region of France. It was a sunny day and breezy, as we listed our way through lunch. Sylvain and his wife Catherine are wonderful people. We talked about the organic foods movement, music, Paris, the war in Iraq, finance, language, photography, restaurants, fashion- you name it, we covered it. After lunch, we had a fruit salad of mangoes and apples and pears, and a nice tasse of espresso (which I have started to drink 'cause I likes the shakes). It was wonderful.
After heading out from there, we walked over to the Place de la Concorde and saw the gigantic Egyptian obelisk. It is pretty phallic, so that was nice.
Later, we took a leisurely stroll down the Seine, arm in arm. It was beautiful. The afternoon sun through the birch trees that line the quai, the breeze in the air, the lapping of the river.
Gradually we made our way over to Hotel de Ville (the town hall), and we called our families.
Hi Mom!
After that, we stood out with the three hundred or so people standing and staring at the side of the town hall. The French have decided that this Louis the 16th era building would be a bit more impressive than it already is, if a gigantic screen was laid over it to show the rugby game on.
Today was France v. Russian Georgia. France needed to win this game to secure their place in the quarter finals of the coup du monde. They did; an easy 65 to 7 win.
It was so cool to tell Ruta that I was ready to go, and to hear her say, "No, I want to see this. Its so passionate." I think I have a convert. The French though; these people are nuts for this game, and they keep getting crazier. The statues of water nymphs around the fountains, you know, those bronze statues of topless women who sit in the fountains and shoot jets of water out of their breasts all day, well, they have been made to wear French rugby jerseys. I love that. Someone four hundred years ago carves this woman out of bronze as a gift for the king to proclaim the eternal glory of France, and today, she is shouting "Go get 'em boys!" all while still shooting jets of water out of her four hundred year old nipples. I mean, come on, that's hot.
I wish I could do that.
After the rugby/nipple fiasco, we headed over from Rue de Rivoli (where the game was, and one of thee shopping districts of Paris, where Ruta will spend her day tomorrow), we walked on down to St. Germain. I showed Ruta a famous bookstore called Shakespeare and Company. It is several rooms of a centuries old monastery that have been loaded with books from floor to ceiling. This book store has been visited and written about by the likes of Henry Miller and Anais Nin, so it is pretty famous. I bought a copy of Victor Hugo's masterwork Les Miserables, since I live on the street where the whole thing takes place, and the house where he wrote the book is about three blocks down from me, right now. I thought it was appropriate.
After that we had dinner at one of Paris's few vegetarian restaurants: Le Grenier de Notre Dame. It was a wonderful and romantic dinner in a tiny little place on a tiny little street. We toasted one year of marriage and talked about our favorite memories of this trip and the past year.
When dinner was over, we walked across the street to Notre Dame Cathedral. We went in and sat down. I thanked the universe for sending me this incredible woman and lit a candle for the monks in Myanmar. It felt good to be grateful for someone else; I am aware that this marriage, any marriage, takes more than the two people involved to work. It takes a lot of luck and communication and laughter, but mainly, she is my best friend. I am so grateful for her. We're really lucky to have each other.
We strolled back over the bridges of the Isle Saint Louis, and I kissed her in the moonlight. An old man in the background played La Vie en Rose on accordion and the lights from the Eiffel Tower reflected on the river. It was a perfect moment in my life.
We got back to the apartment and exchanged paper gifts.
And so now I sit here writing this blog, while she finishes her book. Tomorrow is her last night in Paris until November.
Its funny how much time I spent waiting for her to come, and now that she is going, I will miss her, but I am all the more excited for the rest of my time here.
I am not so lonely now, and after all that I have to remember until she comes back, I don't think I will be lonely anymore at all.
I am glad for that.
30 September 2007
Narrow Road to the Interior
Once again, before starting this blog, I would like to make you all aware of some startling new additions to the page. First of all, only the last three blogs will be posted now, instead of the last seven, so as to make the page a little shorter. So, check out the archive to see if you have missed any entries.
Second, on a semi-regular basis, there will be polls added to this blog on which YOU can vote. This is basically just to make sure the kids in the back of the class are still participating, but, hey, its fun for everyone.
Also, there are a group of links on the right side of the page that you should check out weekly to keep yourself informed. These are varied and asundry sites, including everything from a soldier in Iraq's blog to the most intimate secrets of strangers in America. You'll love what you get for the value!
Finally, at the veeeeeeeeeeeeeery bottom of the blog, you'll find the brand spankin' new "Kiss My France COOL BOX," a box dedicated to things everyone here at Kiss My France finds cool. Feel free to make suggestions, but be sure to do it on your own damned blog.
And now, on with the show!
A long, long time ago, on a continent far, far away lived a short, little man with a whole lot of wisdom. Note: he was not a muppet.
Basho was an ancient Japanese master of the poetic form of haiku, and it is from his book that this blog draws it's title.
Basho was the dude, y'all, and he new how to take things easy and appreciate the moments in life.
It is this ability that I have come to appreciate while here in France.
Man, I have read over this blog, like, a hundred times, and it seems to me that there are always moments that are left out. There are always things that I forget to put into the blog, or stuff that just doesn't fit, or whatever, that just don't make it in.
Too bad, its these things that make the time here worthwhile.
Like this past Thursday, my wife and I decided to take things slow and head to the local movie theatre to check out Sept Heurre Cinqente Huite, Ce Samedi La (that's "7:58am, This Saturday" in English) or as it is called in the American release "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead." It is the new film from Sydney Lumet, the director of such greats as Serpico or Network or The Wiz (unfortunately). It stars Ethan Hawk, Marissa Tomei and Philip Seymor Hoffman, and it rocked ass. It is the story of two brothers who decide to royally screw over their parents in a get rich quick scheme that, of course, goes horribly awry. It will open in the States in about a month, so go see it, yo.
What was so great about the movie experience, though, was that feeling you get when the lights go down. Here in France, they show a good twenty minutes of commercials before their films, so people are showing up a while after the posted start time for the movie, since they know the movie wont start for a long time. People are laughing and chatting, and cell phones are a-ringing and what not. To quote my wife: "Geez, what's with social hour, here?"
But the minute the lights finally go down, the moment the title screen lights up, there is silence. In the dark, I can feel my wife's arm snake through mine, and her head rest on my shoulder, and that magic of a movie starting fills the room.
At Chicago's Landmark Century Cinema, there is this promotional screen before all the art films that says "The language of film is universal." I tell you, in that dark room, it didn't matter what country I was in. The joy of anticipation is beyond international borders or cultures.
I am convinced: heaven is a movie theatre... air conditioned, with great popcorn and cold cherry coke, and maybe a box of Junior Mints; hell is the line of people who cant get in and are forced to wait outside in the Chicago summer heat. Its enough to make you religious.
Or another moment, when Ruta showed up in Paris last Friday- it was wonderful to see her, but as any sports fan knows, if there is an important game going on, it will always land on an important day in your marriage. That was just the case for me; for as much as I anticipated my wife's arrival, I was also really anticipating the France v. Ireland rugby match. This game would decide if France had any chance at all of getting into the quarter finals. Ireland, it should be noted, is the snotty kid brother of English rugby, reputed the world over (except in the US) for being ruthless and cruel when it comes to contact sports, like rugby or child rearing.
France, as you may or may not have heard, is not reputed to be very aggressive at much of anything at all, except maybe giving the look to foreigners.
I didn't expect much; in fact, I didn't expect to see the game at all, but my loving and understanding wife was insistent that we find a pub and hunker down to root for Les Bleus.
Aint she great?
We found such a pub. I ordered my beer; she got out her Volvic mineral water, and the game started out.
The streets were crawling with potato eaters. They are rowdy and loud and very patriotic. They draped themselves in green, orange and white; they ran shirtless through Paris to flex their similarly painted biceps, and they drank and drank to the glory of the Emerald Isle. Earlier that night, while in the St. Germain quarter for dinner, Ruta and I came across a group of the Irish sitting outside of a local bistrot shouting out songs from the '80's in celebration of France's immanent demise. They were a right jubilant group. Proud and nasty and borderline arrogant in the face of their French hosts. It was as though with every pint of Guiness drained, with every flying Irish flag, with every shout and beat of the chest, the Irish were proclaiming their victory over the French in what could only be their God given destiny.
Oh, how wrong they were.
The final score of the match was 25 to 3.
Three, people.
France was in Ecstasy. Every time the French scored, crowds from all over the area could be heard screaming and cheering.
The Irish were strangely quiet. So much for bleating out favorites of the '80's.
This win doesn't secure France in the quarter finals though. They will still have to beat Russian Georgia. This is a very important game, perhaps the most important of the cup so far for France, so of course, it falls squarely on my anniversary.
Do I need to worry? Not at all... Ruta has already scouted out an outdoor, big-screen to watch it on.
And as far as the moment the French won over their much favored opponents? What can I say?
God loves an underdog.
Last night, I was taking a walk. I felt restless. It was grey and drizzly. That is exactly how I felt too. My mood was grey and drizzly.
Then I wandered into a nameless neighborhood bar. Ruta was across the street, at home, reading her book, and I had just decided to get out for a bit.
The bar was one of those small neighborhood pubs that isn't kept up too well, and looks just as you might expect the bar owner's living room to look.
In the corner was a band, though, and this always catches my ear. They hadn't started to play yet, so I got a beer and settled in for the show.
There were eight of them, all in what had to be their late forties or early fifties. Three guitars, drums, sax, bass, keyboard and a singer.
They must have been tuning and sound checking for half of an hour before the crowd, mostly composed of their children and wives, started to get restless.
I do not know how to yell "Freebird" in French, or I would have, just for irony's sake.
Eventually, the belted out their very best You Aint Nothin But a Hound Dog. It was jangly and out of step. Musically speaking, it was awful, but it was a lot of fun. It made me smile, so I wasn't complaining.
Then she stood up.
The word over, a woman in her forties who is getting off of work as someone's executive assistant can be identified by her black work skirt and blouse, usually made of a mix of cotton and polyester, her black nylons, and her leg warmers with Reboks.
This woman had added to that ensemble unkempt and bushy brown hair that fell just below her shoulders and very thick glasses.
She stood from a table near the corner stage, and kind of shimmied her way over to the mic. She clutched the microphone stand and stared out into the audience, as though she were waiting for her death sentence to come down.
Eventually, the band finished its obligatory ten minute tuning up session and started out. I couldn't tell, but I think this woman was grateful for the long intro the song had. I could see her reviewing the lyrics in her head, and wishing she had brought her lemon water with her, to clear her throat. She looked around at the growing crowd of people like a woman desperate for the doors of the bar to be sealed shut, to prohibit anyone further from entering.
I felt so bad for her. I wanted to get up there and hold her hand, to reassure, to take her mind off of what she was so obviously living in dread of.
How long can you be an executive assistant before rock and roll is drained from your veins? How long does the corporate world take to kill someone? How many good men and women have grimaced their way through corporate trainings, company parties, sensitivity trainings? How many hours wasted in the lives of good people just waiting to do the best they can, so they can put food on the table, so they can make the rent, or pay the tuition or afford the car? How long is it before the corporate world sucks every last bit of inspiration from you?
It had been a long while since this woman had seen the inside of a neighborhood pub, that was sure, and the crowd smelled it on her. We grew anxious for her first notes to dribble forth, out of tune and time, and then to die away in humiliation, so that we could heckle, and laugh, and confirm for her that this dare, this chance she took at singing in front of people, just to shake things up, just to put her foot down and say, "No, today will be different. Today will not be another day that flows into the next. Today, I will step out of my comfort zone and scare myself into a good time, a victory! Today I will be more than an executive assistant!" We waited in hunger to prove her wrong and to close the case on stepping out of your box.
And then the moment came.
She would have to sing, and her sweaty palms slid up the mic stand and her eyes widened in terror and she gulped down air like a woman drowning in a sea of her own inhibitions.
Every pore, every hair, every inch of this woman covered in cotton/polyester mix channeled and exploded forth Janis Jopplin.
She closed her eyes and screamed from the very deepest place in her gut- the place that couldn't make the rent, that cant pay for the car, that doesn't know how to cover tuition, and she howled and rocked.
Every preconception I have about the ferocity of a person being crushed by the corporate world was banished. We're always bigger than that.
The bar was turned on its side. Kids clapped and sang, men roared and cheered, an elderly couple danced in the aisles.
She was ferocious and LOUD.
It was the most glorious sound I have ever heard.
Rock and roll is here to stay.
Second, on a semi-regular basis, there will be polls added to this blog on which YOU can vote. This is basically just to make sure the kids in the back of the class are still participating, but, hey, its fun for everyone.
Also, there are a group of links on the right side of the page that you should check out weekly to keep yourself informed. These are varied and asundry sites, including everything from a soldier in Iraq's blog to the most intimate secrets of strangers in America. You'll love what you get for the value!
Finally, at the veeeeeeeeeeeeeery bottom of the blog, you'll find the brand spankin' new "Kiss My France COOL BOX," a box dedicated to things everyone here at Kiss My France finds cool. Feel free to make suggestions, but be sure to do it on your own damned blog.
And now, on with the show!
A long, long time ago, on a continent far, far away lived a short, little man with a whole lot of wisdom. Note: he was not a muppet.
Basho was an ancient Japanese master of the poetic form of haiku, and it is from his book that this blog draws it's title.
Basho was the dude, y'all, and he new how to take things easy and appreciate the moments in life.
It is this ability that I have come to appreciate while here in France.
Man, I have read over this blog, like, a hundred times, and it seems to me that there are always moments that are left out. There are always things that I forget to put into the blog, or stuff that just doesn't fit, or whatever, that just don't make it in.
Too bad, its these things that make the time here worthwhile.
Like this past Thursday, my wife and I decided to take things slow and head to the local movie theatre to check out Sept Heurre Cinqente Huite, Ce Samedi La (that's "7:58am, This Saturday" in English) or as it is called in the American release "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead." It is the new film from Sydney Lumet, the director of such greats as Serpico or Network or The Wiz (unfortunately). It stars Ethan Hawk, Marissa Tomei and Philip Seymor Hoffman, and it rocked ass. It is the story of two brothers who decide to royally screw over their parents in a get rich quick scheme that, of course, goes horribly awry. It will open in the States in about a month, so go see it, yo.
What was so great about the movie experience, though, was that feeling you get when the lights go down. Here in France, they show a good twenty minutes of commercials before their films, so people are showing up a while after the posted start time for the movie, since they know the movie wont start for a long time. People are laughing and chatting, and cell phones are a-ringing and what not. To quote my wife: "Geez, what's with social hour, here?"
But the minute the lights finally go down, the moment the title screen lights up, there is silence. In the dark, I can feel my wife's arm snake through mine, and her head rest on my shoulder, and that magic of a movie starting fills the room.
At Chicago's Landmark Century Cinema, there is this promotional screen before all the art films that says "The language of film is universal." I tell you, in that dark room, it didn't matter what country I was in. The joy of anticipation is beyond international borders or cultures.
I am convinced: heaven is a movie theatre... air conditioned, with great popcorn and cold cherry coke, and maybe a box of Junior Mints; hell is the line of people who cant get in and are forced to wait outside in the Chicago summer heat. Its enough to make you religious.
Or another moment, when Ruta showed up in Paris last Friday- it was wonderful to see her, but as any sports fan knows, if there is an important game going on, it will always land on an important day in your marriage. That was just the case for me; for as much as I anticipated my wife's arrival, I was also really anticipating the France v. Ireland rugby match. This game would decide if France had any chance at all of getting into the quarter finals. Ireland, it should be noted, is the snotty kid brother of English rugby, reputed the world over (except in the US) for being ruthless and cruel when it comes to contact sports, like rugby or child rearing.
France, as you may or may not have heard, is not reputed to be very aggressive at much of anything at all, except maybe giving the look to foreigners.
I didn't expect much; in fact, I didn't expect to see the game at all, but my loving and understanding wife was insistent that we find a pub and hunker down to root for Les Bleus.
Aint she great?
We found such a pub. I ordered my beer; she got out her Volvic mineral water, and the game started out.
The streets were crawling with potato eaters. They are rowdy and loud and very patriotic. They draped themselves in green, orange and white; they ran shirtless through Paris to flex their similarly painted biceps, and they drank and drank to the glory of the Emerald Isle. Earlier that night, while in the St. Germain quarter for dinner, Ruta and I came across a group of the Irish sitting outside of a local bistrot shouting out songs from the '80's in celebration of France's immanent demise. They were a right jubilant group. Proud and nasty and borderline arrogant in the face of their French hosts. It was as though with every pint of Guiness drained, with every flying Irish flag, with every shout and beat of the chest, the Irish were proclaiming their victory over the French in what could only be their God given destiny.
Oh, how wrong they were.
The final score of the match was 25 to 3.
Three, people.
France was in Ecstasy. Every time the French scored, crowds from all over the area could be heard screaming and cheering.
The Irish were strangely quiet. So much for bleating out favorites of the '80's.
This win doesn't secure France in the quarter finals though. They will still have to beat Russian Georgia. This is a very important game, perhaps the most important of the cup so far for France, so of course, it falls squarely on my anniversary.
Do I need to worry? Not at all... Ruta has already scouted out an outdoor, big-screen to watch it on.
And as far as the moment the French won over their much favored opponents? What can I say?
God loves an underdog.
Last night, I was taking a walk. I felt restless. It was grey and drizzly. That is exactly how I felt too. My mood was grey and drizzly.
Then I wandered into a nameless neighborhood bar. Ruta was across the street, at home, reading her book, and I had just decided to get out for a bit.
The bar was one of those small neighborhood pubs that isn't kept up too well, and looks just as you might expect the bar owner's living room to look.
In the corner was a band, though, and this always catches my ear. They hadn't started to play yet, so I got a beer and settled in for the show.
There were eight of them, all in what had to be their late forties or early fifties. Three guitars, drums, sax, bass, keyboard and a singer.
They must have been tuning and sound checking for half of an hour before the crowd, mostly composed of their children and wives, started to get restless.
I do not know how to yell "Freebird" in French, or I would have, just for irony's sake.
Eventually, the belted out their very best You Aint Nothin But a Hound Dog. It was jangly and out of step. Musically speaking, it was awful, but it was a lot of fun. It made me smile, so I wasn't complaining.
Then she stood up.
The word over, a woman in her forties who is getting off of work as someone's executive assistant can be identified by her black work skirt and blouse, usually made of a mix of cotton and polyester, her black nylons, and her leg warmers with Reboks.
This woman had added to that ensemble unkempt and bushy brown hair that fell just below her shoulders and very thick glasses.
She stood from a table near the corner stage, and kind of shimmied her way over to the mic. She clutched the microphone stand and stared out into the audience, as though she were waiting for her death sentence to come down.
Eventually, the band finished its obligatory ten minute tuning up session and started out. I couldn't tell, but I think this woman was grateful for the long intro the song had. I could see her reviewing the lyrics in her head, and wishing she had brought her lemon water with her, to clear her throat. She looked around at the growing crowd of people like a woman desperate for the doors of the bar to be sealed shut, to prohibit anyone further from entering.
I felt so bad for her. I wanted to get up there and hold her hand, to reassure, to take her mind off of what she was so obviously living in dread of.
How long can you be an executive assistant before rock and roll is drained from your veins? How long does the corporate world take to kill someone? How many good men and women have grimaced their way through corporate trainings, company parties, sensitivity trainings? How many hours wasted in the lives of good people just waiting to do the best they can, so they can put food on the table, so they can make the rent, or pay the tuition or afford the car? How long is it before the corporate world sucks every last bit of inspiration from you?
It had been a long while since this woman had seen the inside of a neighborhood pub, that was sure, and the crowd smelled it on her. We grew anxious for her first notes to dribble forth, out of tune and time, and then to die away in humiliation, so that we could heckle, and laugh, and confirm for her that this dare, this chance she took at singing in front of people, just to shake things up, just to put her foot down and say, "No, today will be different. Today will not be another day that flows into the next. Today, I will step out of my comfort zone and scare myself into a good time, a victory! Today I will be more than an executive assistant!" We waited in hunger to prove her wrong and to close the case on stepping out of your box.
And then the moment came.
She would have to sing, and her sweaty palms slid up the mic stand and her eyes widened in terror and she gulped down air like a woman drowning in a sea of her own inhibitions.
Every pore, every hair, every inch of this woman covered in cotton/polyester mix channeled and exploded forth Janis Jopplin.
She closed her eyes and screamed from the very deepest place in her gut- the place that couldn't make the rent, that cant pay for the car, that doesn't know how to cover tuition, and she howled and rocked.
Every preconception I have about the ferocity of a person being crushed by the corporate world was banished. We're always bigger than that.
The bar was turned on its side. Kids clapped and sang, men roared and cheered, an elderly couple danced in the aisles.
She was ferocious and LOUD.
It was the most glorious sound I have ever heard.
Rock and roll is here to stay.
28 September 2007
Everyday is Halloween
"Wow, Mark! What a fancy new page you have got going here? What's that quote beneath the blog title? Is that Greek or something?"
Yes, yes, the page has been updated. It was getting a little old and needed fumigating. So, nothing has changed except the look of the page.
I would like to thank everyone for reading and for all the encouragement. I would like to say that it has really propelled me to write more over the past few weeks. So, that in mind, I would like to say that I will be writing much more now and to keep all the comments (good, bad and otherwise) coming. I would like to update this blog on a daily or every other day basis, so when you check, make sure that you check the previous couple of entries also so that you don't miss anything that I have taken hours to write. Yes, these entries don't just fly out of my head and onto the page, you know. Some, like "Vignettes," took me several hours to write. So before reading this one, make sure you read "My wife and me and Paris makes three," the entry just before this one.
ONWARDS AND UPWARDS!!
What romantic reunion in the city of romance and light is complete without spending a day with thousands, nay, millions of dead people?
Yesterday, my loving wife and I walked ourselves down to the Parisian catacombs. I have been there only once before, the first time I was in Paris (with my friend Sean), but Ruta hadn't even heard of them before. In Paris, they say that you can only really get to know the city once you are past the front door- the front door being the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, etc etc etc. These are places the everyone goes, and should go, but the city, the real Paris, lies beyond these. If someone went to Chicago and only saw the Sears Tower and Navy Pier, or went to New York and only saw the Chrystler Building and the Statue of Liberty, would you say they had really seen those cities? Of course not. Paris is in the allies; she's in the crazily concocted rues that wind in fits and starts off of the main streets; she's in the drastic interplay of light and shade, of sun and cloud, of day and night that transforms the city from an open playground of art and life in the day, to a seductive and dangerous atelier of sex and sin and all things sumptuous by night.
So, off the beaten path we went, and down down down into the dark.
Paris is, in truth, an ancient city. The island on the Seine that is now home to Notre Dame was where the original tribe of this area had settled. They called themselves the Parisii, and when Rome came by the check out the neighborhood, the Parisii were among those who found themselves speaking Latin all of a sudden. The point? This place is really, really, really old. Since ancient times, those who lived here have dug underground for limestone to build bridges and roadways and such above ground. So naturally, underground tunnels have formed all over the place. When mining was banned in the 19th century, these tunnels were exposed to a very 21st century business term: reappropriation.
When the Nazis came along to check out the neighborhood, the French resistance used these tunnels as a place to meet and plan and speak freely. The Nazis themselves used a small portion for that same purpose. These are long, low tunnels; they are dark and wet, and they are far below the subway system. When you descend to the tunnels, it is a good 10 minute walk down a narrow spiral staircase before you reach the first room. Ten minutes may not seem like much, but imagine walking for ten minutes in a given direction, say out your front door. How far you could get from home is how far down you go for these tunnels. It is a long walk down.
But before the resistance or the Nazis came along to party like it was 1899, another group of people were here. When the French revolution was going on, people were just losing their heads about it, literally. Turns out, you cant just throw rotting corpses into the same ditch that might be really close to your underground water table. I mean, I don't know about you, but I just don't go for dead Aunt Tammy rotting into the same water I use to brush my teeth. That's me. Anyway, lots of people were getting sick, so the government at the time, in the middle of the night, moved thousands of corpses from cemeteries to the tunnels, and stacked them there.
And that is where they stay to this day. For a good 45 minute walk, there are millions of bones, just piled on each other, on either side of the tunnels. There are skulls upon femurs upon hipbones upon tibias upon skulls for what seems like forever. And unlike American museums, there is no glass between you and the bones. These are right there for you to trip over and fondle and slip into your backpack (as two very unrespectful people did that day. Two skulls were recovered from visitors leaving the catacombs. What is wrong with people?).
We walked through this place in awe. There are listings of those that we know from history are buried here; too many to name, and so many are obscure anyway, but they include such famous names as Robspierre and The Man in the Iron Mask.
Along the tunnels are little poems and sayings written by priests or poets of the time: "Death is forever ahead or behind us. But in this place, it is here with us now, and already gone" or "The eyes of God are watching us, and his ears are open to hear our return to our right of glory." Its a really cheery place; oh, how we laughed and laughed!
But seriously, we met a man in the tunnels from Australia who asked Ruta if she had heard what was going on in Myanmar. Its not on the news here, and I guess not in the states, but it turns out that Myanmar (Burma to those not in the know) is run by a group of military generals. The Buddhist monks there have been staging protests for a while now, trying to get the current regime to promise to switch to a democratic style of government. The monks outnumber the military by 500,000 to 400,000, but they will not be violent. Their protests are peaceful.
They are doing no harm, other than speaking their minds.
This week, the military decided it was best to start firing into the crowds of peaceful protesters.
We walked for forty five minutes through endless numbers of 18th and 19th century bones- people who had died for what they believed in the revolution, for what they believed in the occupation, for no reason other than their time had come. People were executed in the French revolution for simply being with the wrong people at the wrong time; one man who published a journal on human rights was beheaded while screaming his wife's name because it "threatened the state."
It is easy to look on a million bones from 200 years ago and think about how long ago the oppression of the world wars were, but those bones were a reminder of how real our cruelty to each other is. When speaking your mind or just peacefully sitting at a protest to say "I don't like this" can get you shot... we must remember that injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere, that we keep catacombs of the innumerable dead to remind us of how very, very little progress we have made.
To cheer up after the catacombs, we thought it best to head to Montparnasse Cemetery. Yeah, I know; we're weird. Its a really old cemetery and kind of the place to be seen if you're dead. We sat and talked and planned the rest of the day in front of Sartre and Simone de Beauvoire's grave. Sartre, people, Sartre... you know, "No Exit" Sartre? OK, whatever, anyway...
It is amazing to just go hang out with famous literary characters or political figures or comedians or artists or actors or whomever and KNOW what a difference these people have made. It is because these people spoke up and LIVED their LIVES, instead of staying home with the desperate housewives that we have the little change and progress we do have. I am grateful for them.
Ruta told me that she was recently at a wake (I swear, we do happy things; its not all wakes and cemeteries and catacombs) and was talking to a man who told her that the French hate us. She said, "No, my husband lives over there, and he says that they don't." This person told her she was wrong, and that the French dislike for Americans goes all the way back to Vietnam and Cambodia and such. OK, well, I am here to say again- what the f*** ever. The French don't care anymore about us than they should. They care that we have invaded Iraq; they care that we wont sign the Kyoto Protocol (look it up), and they care that we seem to be using more and more of the world's resources without giving a damn. But what do they know? They're just the fricking greenest country in the world, and also happen to be independent of middle east oil.
They have also given the world Camus and Sartre and Monet and Manet and Caillbotte and Eiffel and Marcel Marceau and Renoir and Escoffier, etc etc etc...
They don't seem to be holding on to any antiquated notions of cross cultural disdain, like we are.
And that is really the point of this whole blog entry.
Its time to fess up.
As I write this, my wife is out walking the streets of Paris because she wanted some time to just be inspired by the city. No matter that it is grey and cold and raining, she is out there living her life, not worrying about the money or what people will think or whatever; she is living her life, and if we all just got out of the house and stretched our arms in the sun once in a while and woke the fuck up, we might realize that there is more going on in the world than our little concerns and our held-on-to animosities.
There is work to be done; there are people who are desperate to be loved. There are those of us who are holding back our capacity to love someone else, and in doing so, we are killing each other or tuning into sitcoms to tune out to the fact that we don't want to know that the world is suffering around us, and we are doing nothing.
And until we do something, anything, for the people around us, for the person sitting across from us, to the person just next to you RIGHT NOW all we can hope for, is the promise of a longer tunnel, a longer tunnel full to the brim with bones.
Yes, yes, the page has been updated. It was getting a little old and needed fumigating. So, nothing has changed except the look of the page.
I would like to thank everyone for reading and for all the encouragement. I would like to say that it has really propelled me to write more over the past few weeks. So, that in mind, I would like to say that I will be writing much more now and to keep all the comments (good, bad and otherwise) coming. I would like to update this blog on a daily or every other day basis, so when you check, make sure that you check the previous couple of entries also so that you don't miss anything that I have taken hours to write. Yes, these entries don't just fly out of my head and onto the page, you know. Some, like "Vignettes," took me several hours to write. So before reading this one, make sure you read "My wife and me and Paris makes three," the entry just before this one.
ONWARDS AND UPWARDS!!
What romantic reunion in the city of romance and light is complete without spending a day with thousands, nay, millions of dead people?
Yesterday, my loving wife and I walked ourselves down to the Parisian catacombs. I have been there only once before, the first time I was in Paris (with my friend Sean), but Ruta hadn't even heard of them before. In Paris, they say that you can only really get to know the city once you are past the front door- the front door being the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, etc etc etc. These are places the everyone goes, and should go, but the city, the real Paris, lies beyond these. If someone went to Chicago and only saw the Sears Tower and Navy Pier, or went to New York and only saw the Chrystler Building and the Statue of Liberty, would you say they had really seen those cities? Of course not. Paris is in the allies; she's in the crazily concocted rues that wind in fits and starts off of the main streets; she's in the drastic interplay of light and shade, of sun and cloud, of day and night that transforms the city from an open playground of art and life in the day, to a seductive and dangerous atelier of sex and sin and all things sumptuous by night.
So, off the beaten path we went, and down down down into the dark.
Paris is, in truth, an ancient city. The island on the Seine that is now home to Notre Dame was where the original tribe of this area had settled. They called themselves the Parisii, and when Rome came by the check out the neighborhood, the Parisii were among those who found themselves speaking Latin all of a sudden. The point? This place is really, really, really old. Since ancient times, those who lived here have dug underground for limestone to build bridges and roadways and such above ground. So naturally, underground tunnels have formed all over the place. When mining was banned in the 19th century, these tunnels were exposed to a very 21st century business term: reappropriation.
When the Nazis came along to check out the neighborhood, the French resistance used these tunnels as a place to meet and plan and speak freely. The Nazis themselves used a small portion for that same purpose. These are long, low tunnels; they are dark and wet, and they are far below the subway system. When you descend to the tunnels, it is a good 10 minute walk down a narrow spiral staircase before you reach the first room. Ten minutes may not seem like much, but imagine walking for ten minutes in a given direction, say out your front door. How far you could get from home is how far down you go for these tunnels. It is a long walk down.
But before the resistance or the Nazis came along to party like it was 1899, another group of people were here. When the French revolution was going on, people were just losing their heads about it, literally. Turns out, you cant just throw rotting corpses into the same ditch that might be really close to your underground water table. I mean, I don't know about you, but I just don't go for dead Aunt Tammy rotting into the same water I use to brush my teeth. That's me. Anyway, lots of people were getting sick, so the government at the time, in the middle of the night, moved thousands of corpses from cemeteries to the tunnels, and stacked them there.
And that is where they stay to this day. For a good 45 minute walk, there are millions of bones, just piled on each other, on either side of the tunnels. There are skulls upon femurs upon hipbones upon tibias upon skulls for what seems like forever. And unlike American museums, there is no glass between you and the bones. These are right there for you to trip over and fondle and slip into your backpack (as two very unrespectful people did that day. Two skulls were recovered from visitors leaving the catacombs. What is wrong with people?).
We walked through this place in awe. There are listings of those that we know from history are buried here; too many to name, and so many are obscure anyway, but they include such famous names as Robspierre and The Man in the Iron Mask.
Along the tunnels are little poems and sayings written by priests or poets of the time: "Death is forever ahead or behind us. But in this place, it is here with us now, and already gone" or "The eyes of God are watching us, and his ears are open to hear our return to our right of glory." Its a really cheery place; oh, how we laughed and laughed!
But seriously, we met a man in the tunnels from Australia who asked Ruta if she had heard what was going on in Myanmar. Its not on the news here, and I guess not in the states, but it turns out that Myanmar (Burma to those not in the know) is run by a group of military generals. The Buddhist monks there have been staging protests for a while now, trying to get the current regime to promise to switch to a democratic style of government. The monks outnumber the military by 500,000 to 400,000, but they will not be violent. Their protests are peaceful.
They are doing no harm, other than speaking their minds.
This week, the military decided it was best to start firing into the crowds of peaceful protesters.
We walked for forty five minutes through endless numbers of 18th and 19th century bones- people who had died for what they believed in the revolution, for what they believed in the occupation, for no reason other than their time had come. People were executed in the French revolution for simply being with the wrong people at the wrong time; one man who published a journal on human rights was beheaded while screaming his wife's name because it "threatened the state."
It is easy to look on a million bones from 200 years ago and think about how long ago the oppression of the world wars were, but those bones were a reminder of how real our cruelty to each other is. When speaking your mind or just peacefully sitting at a protest to say "I don't like this" can get you shot... we must remember that injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere, that we keep catacombs of the innumerable dead to remind us of how very, very little progress we have made.
To cheer up after the catacombs, we thought it best to head to Montparnasse Cemetery. Yeah, I know; we're weird. Its a really old cemetery and kind of the place to be seen if you're dead. We sat and talked and planned the rest of the day in front of Sartre and Simone de Beauvoire's grave. Sartre, people, Sartre... you know, "No Exit" Sartre? OK, whatever, anyway...
It is amazing to just go hang out with famous literary characters or political figures or comedians or artists or actors or whomever and KNOW what a difference these people have made. It is because these people spoke up and LIVED their LIVES, instead of staying home with the desperate housewives that we have the little change and progress we do have. I am grateful for them.
Ruta told me that she was recently at a wake (I swear, we do happy things; its not all wakes and cemeteries and catacombs) and was talking to a man who told her that the French hate us. She said, "No, my husband lives over there, and he says that they don't." This person told her she was wrong, and that the French dislike for Americans goes all the way back to Vietnam and Cambodia and such. OK, well, I am here to say again- what the f*** ever. The French don't care anymore about us than they should. They care that we have invaded Iraq; they care that we wont sign the Kyoto Protocol (look it up), and they care that we seem to be using more and more of the world's resources without giving a damn. But what do they know? They're just the fricking greenest country in the world, and also happen to be independent of middle east oil.
They have also given the world Camus and Sartre and Monet and Manet and Caillbotte and Eiffel and Marcel Marceau and Renoir and Escoffier, etc etc etc...
They don't seem to be holding on to any antiquated notions of cross cultural disdain, like we are.
And that is really the point of this whole blog entry.
Its time to fess up.
As I write this, my wife is out walking the streets of Paris because she wanted some time to just be inspired by the city. No matter that it is grey and cold and raining, she is out there living her life, not worrying about the money or what people will think or whatever; she is living her life, and if we all just got out of the house and stretched our arms in the sun once in a while and woke the fuck up, we might realize that there is more going on in the world than our little concerns and our held-on-to animosities.
There is work to be done; there are people who are desperate to be loved. There are those of us who are holding back our capacity to love someone else, and in doing so, we are killing each other or tuning into sitcoms to tune out to the fact that we don't want to know that the world is suffering around us, and we are doing nothing.
And until we do something, anything, for the people around us, for the person sitting across from us, to the person just next to you RIGHT NOW all we can hope for, is the promise of a longer tunnel, a longer tunnel full to the brim with bones.
27 September 2007
My wife and me and Paris makes three
My Wang and I sat staring at my laptop for about five minutes.
Processing.........processing............processing......................................................................
And finally, after about a full five minutes of strait staring at a blank screen, finally the message from my mom, "Ruta's coming!" appeared.
Both my Wang and I started jumping and clapping together, as is local custom.
My wife was flying standby, which means that you get a nice cheap ticket, but you only get on the plane should there be an open spot or should someone not show up for their flight, but who doesnt show up for a trans-Atlantic flight? Turns out, historically speaking, about twenty people. Who are these people? "Oh, I'll just stay here in bed, eating bon bons and watching Days of Our Lives instead of flying to Paris. They probably don't have my soaps there anyway."
So, thanks to twenty lazy American housewives who cant be pried away from Luke and Laura, my lovely and talented wife made the flight. I told her she would, but you know women (especially if you are one); they never listen to their husbands. To quote my father, "Oh, woe is me."
Regardless....
It seems that if Paris was a vibrant and colorful place before, then my wife has brought the City of Lights into the age of technicolor. I love being here all the more when she is here with me.
She arrived on a Friday morning. We rented a little apartment near La Bastille. She got-in in the AM while I was at work. Brave soul that she is, she trudged all the way from Charles de Gaulle airport to La Bastille by herself with all her bags. This is not an easy trip. It requires two train transfers, innumerable stairs up and down, and that is followed by a good 15 minute walk (with your bags in tow), and all of this when she didnt exactly know where she was going. She's so tough. Later that day, she wrestled and pinned down a bear that had escaped from the Paris zoo with her bear hands. As a favor to us for her bravery, the mayor of Paris has required said bear to don the traditional French maid costume and serve us mint julips on our veranda. Good thing for that bear that we are vegetarians.
Anyway, she waited at the apartment until I got off of work. I got off extra late that day, and so made the mad dash to La Bastille as fast as I could, forgetting as I ran, the address of the apartment. I know the area well enough, and had been here before to check the place out before we rented it, but I couldn't remember the exact address.
I was walking down Rue Faubourg-Saint Antoine thinking of what I would say to her, when I finally did see her after over a month apart. If you dont know me, I am somewhat of a sap when it comes to the woman I love. And by "somewhat of a sap" I mean that I make Luke and Laura's torrid love affair look like an episode of Cops. Moving along...
So what do you say when you see the woman of your dreams after a month apart, and you are finally reunited in the little flat you have rented on the street where Les Miserables is set?
Well, turns out, I dont know and didnt have to.
(If this blog were a musical, this is where the strings would come in.)
Like I said, I am walking down our street, head full of scenes of meeting her, plotting what to say first, what to do, what will she be wearing, am I different? how to welcome her, and where the hell is this apartment anyway- when she leaned out of the window of our place, waved and called down to me. She actually say me coming down the street! (The strings and woodwinds would be rising here, to build the dramatic tension)
I took off running, threw open the door to the building, ran (really, really ran) up the three flights of stairs to our little door, and before I got to it, she ran out and I grabbed her, and I kissed that good woman with every second and minute and hour I have spent waiting for her to come back to me.
It was one of the great kisses of my life.
(The trumpets now, for the crescendo)
I didnt even say anything (this is an accomplishment for me); she didnt say anything.
When the kiss was over, I just looked at her and held her, and the kiss was so good, that I kissed her again.
After all of that was over, we caught up on the goings on about Paris and Chicago, her flight (poor thing had to fly coach, imagine!), and the neighborhood we are in.
It was great... until that night and the following day.
Turns out that I had a lot of pent up anger and frustration here, and thought it might be best to take it out on her.
See, for every night I spend sitting in front of the Eiffel Tower, for every afternoon spent wandering the Champs Elysses, for every open faced cheese sandwich at Hemmingway's favorite cafe or great book read in the Jadin du Luxembourg, there is someone missing to share it with. I am learning French, this is true. My English is also pretty good. But nobody here can understand my English well enough to convey what I am feeling, and my French isnt good enough to convey it to them in their language. And try as I might, my Mandarin Chinese just isnt coming along like I would like it to, so I could tell Wang.
It is so difficult to be having the greatest time of my life, and have no one who is here and warm and listening to understand. So, in typical male fashion, I bottled up all my emotions like a cheap bottle of champagne, shook it up, nice and hard, for a month, and then exploded all over her.
She, um, wasnt thrilled.
She understood though, and with that out of the way, I have been feeling much better, and we have been having a wonderful time. The night after she arrived, we went to a little restaurant called Ciao, that is right down the street from us. We sat at a side walk table, and talked and talked and talked. I bought her a rose from one of those guys who sell, um, roses. He wanted twenty euros for three roses. I told him no and haggled him down to three euros for one, long stemmed red rose. She loved the rose; I have always wanted to do that: sit outside at a Paris bistro with a romantic someone on a warm autumnal evening and argue with an Albanian about the price of a flower. It was super.
Since then, our days have been spent walking. We walked all over Paris, and for about 6 hours straight on Sunday. We ate at a favorite falafel chain here in Europe called Maoz (yes, like the Chinese dictator) that we discovered last year in Barcelona; we wandered the tiny streets of St. Germain; napped and read our books in the Luxembourg Gardens, and we even stopped to hear some great live dixie jazz on the street the other day.
During the week, I get up at about 5am, and go to work. She reads or goes to farmer's markets and shops Paris. I come home about 5pm-ish, and we have dinner or talk or whatever. It has been great.
This Sunday is our one year anniversary of marriage. For those of you who were there, I cannot believe it has already been a year. Seems like only yesterday my sister and I were dancing like fools to "Its the End of the World as We Know It," and my brother in law was hitting on one of the brides-maids (before falling asleep on the television in our suite, after forcing her out of bed to hang out... yeah, bet you forgot to mention that to your Marine buddies, Joe). A year later, I live in Paris, my sister lives in my brother in law's house, watching his cats, while he is living in Iraq. Wow. I mean, "And now for something completely different" is the understatement of the year.
This Sunday, we will rent bikes and ride along the Seine. We'll go to dinner at a veggie restaurant here that is reputed to be very romantic, and before all of that, we're going for a drink with the guy who rented us this apartment. His name is Sylvain, and is super good vibes. Just the other day, he stopped by to pick up the rent, and we were discussing Dostoevsky and Camus before he left. He has a boat on the river, so we will meet him there for a drink before heading out to eat.
Sounds good to me.
I have been telling Ruta that her being here has made me notice the difference between being a tourist and living someplace. I know that my sister in law Leah will understand this: she lives in Brazil now for about eight months (wow, my family travels a lot)- when you arrive in a new country, regardless of how long you are staying, you are a tourist. You stay for a while, see the sights, do the tourist stuff, but there has to be a point, and I'm not sure when it is, that you stop being a tourist, and start being a local.
I notice the way that Ruta looks at Paris, and I am excited by things again. She can see the cafes or the lights or the gardens, and it is like I am seeing it again for the first time. I see this stuff almost everyday, so it is just Paris to me. But through her, I get to relive that discovery, that feeling you get of overwhelm that there are places like this in the world: I get to see that in her everyday.
It is beautiful, and it makes me realize that I dont know if this is home yet, but I feel much more at home, now that she is here with me.
Processing.........processing............processing......................................................................
And finally, after about a full five minutes of strait staring at a blank screen, finally the message from my mom, "Ruta's coming!" appeared.
Both my Wang and I started jumping and clapping together, as is local custom.
My wife was flying standby, which means that you get a nice cheap ticket, but you only get on the plane should there be an open spot or should someone not show up for their flight, but who doesnt show up for a trans-Atlantic flight? Turns out, historically speaking, about twenty people. Who are these people? "Oh, I'll just stay here in bed, eating bon bons and watching Days of Our Lives instead of flying to Paris. They probably don't have my soaps there anyway."
So, thanks to twenty lazy American housewives who cant be pried away from Luke and Laura, my lovely and talented wife made the flight. I told her she would, but you know women (especially if you are one); they never listen to their husbands. To quote my father, "Oh, woe is me."
Regardless....
It seems that if Paris was a vibrant and colorful place before, then my wife has brought the City of Lights into the age of technicolor. I love being here all the more when she is here with me.
She arrived on a Friday morning. We rented a little apartment near La Bastille. She got-in in the AM while I was at work. Brave soul that she is, she trudged all the way from Charles de Gaulle airport to La Bastille by herself with all her bags. This is not an easy trip. It requires two train transfers, innumerable stairs up and down, and that is followed by a good 15 minute walk (with your bags in tow), and all of this when she didnt exactly know where she was going. She's so tough. Later that day, she wrestled and pinned down a bear that had escaped from the Paris zoo with her bear hands. As a favor to us for her bravery, the mayor of Paris has required said bear to don the traditional French maid costume and serve us mint julips on our veranda. Good thing for that bear that we are vegetarians.
Anyway, she waited at the apartment until I got off of work. I got off extra late that day, and so made the mad dash to La Bastille as fast as I could, forgetting as I ran, the address of the apartment. I know the area well enough, and had been here before to check the place out before we rented it, but I couldn't remember the exact address.
I was walking down Rue Faubourg-Saint Antoine thinking of what I would say to her, when I finally did see her after over a month apart. If you dont know me, I am somewhat of a sap when it comes to the woman I love. And by "somewhat of a sap" I mean that I make Luke and Laura's torrid love affair look like an episode of Cops. Moving along...
So what do you say when you see the woman of your dreams after a month apart, and you are finally reunited in the little flat you have rented on the street where Les Miserables is set?
Well, turns out, I dont know and didnt have to.
(If this blog were a musical, this is where the strings would come in.)
Like I said, I am walking down our street, head full of scenes of meeting her, plotting what to say first, what to do, what will she be wearing, am I different? how to welcome her, and where the hell is this apartment anyway- when she leaned out of the window of our place, waved and called down to me. She actually say me coming down the street! (The strings and woodwinds would be rising here, to build the dramatic tension)
I took off running, threw open the door to the building, ran (really, really ran) up the three flights of stairs to our little door, and before I got to it, she ran out and I grabbed her, and I kissed that good woman with every second and minute and hour I have spent waiting for her to come back to me.
It was one of the great kisses of my life.
(The trumpets now, for the crescendo)
I didnt even say anything (this is an accomplishment for me); she didnt say anything.
When the kiss was over, I just looked at her and held her, and the kiss was so good, that I kissed her again.
After all of that was over, we caught up on the goings on about Paris and Chicago, her flight (poor thing had to fly coach, imagine!), and the neighborhood we are in.
It was great... until that night and the following day.
Turns out that I had a lot of pent up anger and frustration here, and thought it might be best to take it out on her.
See, for every night I spend sitting in front of the Eiffel Tower, for every afternoon spent wandering the Champs Elysses, for every open faced cheese sandwich at Hemmingway's favorite cafe or great book read in the Jadin du Luxembourg, there is someone missing to share it with. I am learning French, this is true. My English is also pretty good. But nobody here can understand my English well enough to convey what I am feeling, and my French isnt good enough to convey it to them in their language. And try as I might, my Mandarin Chinese just isnt coming along like I would like it to, so I could tell Wang.
It is so difficult to be having the greatest time of my life, and have no one who is here and warm and listening to understand. So, in typical male fashion, I bottled up all my emotions like a cheap bottle of champagne, shook it up, nice and hard, for a month, and then exploded all over her.
She, um, wasnt thrilled.
She understood though, and with that out of the way, I have been feeling much better, and we have been having a wonderful time. The night after she arrived, we went to a little restaurant called Ciao, that is right down the street from us. We sat at a side walk table, and talked and talked and talked. I bought her a rose from one of those guys who sell, um, roses. He wanted twenty euros for three roses. I told him no and haggled him down to three euros for one, long stemmed red rose. She loved the rose; I have always wanted to do that: sit outside at a Paris bistro with a romantic someone on a warm autumnal evening and argue with an Albanian about the price of a flower. It was super.
Since then, our days have been spent walking. We walked all over Paris, and for about 6 hours straight on Sunday. We ate at a favorite falafel chain here in Europe called Maoz (yes, like the Chinese dictator) that we discovered last year in Barcelona; we wandered the tiny streets of St. Germain; napped and read our books in the Luxembourg Gardens, and we even stopped to hear some great live dixie jazz on the street the other day.
During the week, I get up at about 5am, and go to work. She reads or goes to farmer's markets and shops Paris. I come home about 5pm-ish, and we have dinner or talk or whatever. It has been great.
This Sunday is our one year anniversary of marriage. For those of you who were there, I cannot believe it has already been a year. Seems like only yesterday my sister and I were dancing like fools to "Its the End of the World as We Know It," and my brother in law was hitting on one of the brides-maids (before falling asleep on the television in our suite, after forcing her out of bed to hang out... yeah, bet you forgot to mention that to your Marine buddies, Joe). A year later, I live in Paris, my sister lives in my brother in law's house, watching his cats, while he is living in Iraq. Wow. I mean, "And now for something completely different" is the understatement of the year.
This Sunday, we will rent bikes and ride along the Seine. We'll go to dinner at a veggie restaurant here that is reputed to be very romantic, and before all of that, we're going for a drink with the guy who rented us this apartment. His name is Sylvain, and is super good vibes. Just the other day, he stopped by to pick up the rent, and we were discussing Dostoevsky and Camus before he left. He has a boat on the river, so we will meet him there for a drink before heading out to eat.
Sounds good to me.
I have been telling Ruta that her being here has made me notice the difference between being a tourist and living someplace. I know that my sister in law Leah will understand this: she lives in Brazil now for about eight months (wow, my family travels a lot)- when you arrive in a new country, regardless of how long you are staying, you are a tourist. You stay for a while, see the sights, do the tourist stuff, but there has to be a point, and I'm not sure when it is, that you stop being a tourist, and start being a local.
I notice the way that Ruta looks at Paris, and I am excited by things again. She can see the cafes or the lights or the gardens, and it is like I am seeing it again for the first time. I see this stuff almost everyday, so it is just Paris to me. But through her, I get to relive that discovery, that feeling you get of overwhelm that there are places like this in the world: I get to see that in her everyday.
It is beautiful, and it makes me realize that I dont know if this is home yet, but I feel much more at home, now that she is here with me.
18 September 2007
Vignettes
1.
11:45PM
An Irish pub called Millennium.
Six Hyatt employees gathered around a table full of quickly emptying Leffe beer glasses and two baskets of peanut shells.
She said her name was Mannon. Her English was flawless. She is the reception manager at the Hyatt, a job she is very obviously proud of. Rather, a title she is very obviously proud of, but never the less, a good woman, it seems.
She was born in Brazil but moved to Argentina when she was five. Soon after that, she moved to France for grammar school, but because of her father's job, had to move to Italy for high school. She moved back to France for university and works at the Hyatt now.
Work- real work, work that pays, is hard to come by in Europe. It is not uncommon to lose a job and stay with your parents for the four months it usually takes to find a poorly paying position.
Work is tough to find, and life is tough to manage after it is found.
So if Mannon only had a few years experience in hotels behind her, how did she come by the very prestigious title of Reception Manager at a four star hotel so easily?
Easy, she speaks Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French, English and Japanese.
Before knowing how and where she grew up, I asked which was her first language. She said kind of Portuguese and Spanish together. I wanted to know which was her primary language. She she said she didn't know.
I asked her, "Well, what language do you think in?" She said it depended on the situation. At work, French. With family, she speaks Spanish or Portuguese, but with friends from around the world she speaks English or Italian (unless they are from Japan).
Language is such an important thing. Our language can help to define our values, and it shapes our reality. In my conversations with my Filipino friend Sean, we have gone over the fact, time and again, that Tagalog (the Filipino national language), does not have a word for "sorry" because, why would you ever need to apologize? You would never do anything intentionally to hurt someone, and therefore would never need to apologize.
So, the way we speak and what we speak shapes the way we look at the world.
What if you don't have a language that you can call your own? What if every conversation or situation is a translation of a different language in your head? What if you could never really talk, really talk to anyone?
This woman, Mannon, was friendly, but she seemed a bit manic. She was always talking, always laughing loud, always jumping from topic to topic, always asking where we could go next. At 3am, she took us all into Paris to check out a new bar. We stayed until closing, and she wanted to go to another bar on the Champs Elysees at 5am.
She said it was to see more friends, but she didn't seem like she just wanted to go out.
She seemed desperate for connection. Lonely.
My friend Olivier agreed but said he didn't know why.
I don't know; it made sense to me.
2.
9:15PM
A metro train below Paris, half full of locals.
The train is quiet as it slithers along below the rues and avenues of the city above.
I was reading Camus' The Stranger on the train after a day of writing and carousing in the Vendome neighborhood of Paris. I was tired and needed a nap before plans to meet some friends at an Irish pub called Millennium that evening.
I hadn't eaten and was thirsty. These are two things I do not like to be- hungry or thirsty, for anything.
The book is good (great, masterful actually), but it isn't keeping my attention. I tried the iPod, but sometimes you just can't find what you want to hear. Try as you might, go through every record you own (if you still own records), and you just won't find a thing that you'd like to listen to.
The train stopped at Montparnasse-Bienvenue, a big station. The doors of the trains here don't open unless you push a button on the them, so you might not even notice the train has stopped if no one gets on. This was one of those times.
I had given up on reading or the iPod, and was just starring. You know how. The kind of stare you wake up from in a start and don't even remember what you were thinking.
I woke up from this stare when a thin man boarded the train, just before it pulled out of the station.
He looked around at all of us, with a look of displeasure. He didn't seem to like us.
He didn't sit, but stood motionless, with his back to the doors. Once the train started to move, he dropped a heavy metal case that he had in his left hand. He knelt next to the case,unlatched it, and took something small and black from inside, which he quickly concealed in his pocket.
The woman across from me made to stand up to move to another car, but he shot her a look and raised his hand very slightly to indicate that she should sit. Like a good dog, she obeyed.
People were getting nervous. I had my arm through my back pack, and my hand on my wallet.
The man was thin, and his skin was grey. His hair was very short, and his clothes were worn thin. He looked like a man who needed something. He looked like a man who didn't like being as hungry or thirsty as he was.
His head smoothly turned as he scanned the car again as he fingered the thing that he had stowed in his pocket, and quickly! pulled it out and brought it to his mouth.
"Besame..... besame..... besame...... besame mucho....."
The wireless microphone at his lips caught every silken note that he sang. He trolled the aisles of the cars, crooned to young girls (who giggled in delight and, I'm sure, relief), and winked at me, as if to say, "Yeah, baby, you know the score..." (I didn't).
The train had started to slow now, and the song was coming to its crescendo.
With a flourish of his right arm, he punctuated the final notes of the song, stamped his foot, and bowed low.
It was -exactly- what I had wanted to hear.
Everyone in the car stared for a moment. You know how. The kind of stare that you wake up from in a start, and immediately begin to doubt what was before your very eyes a moment ago. This is usually followed by a frenzy of applause and cheering and whistling...
But the train stopped, and this man had pushed the button to open the doors.
He looked around at us for a last time, and backed out of the train and off into the night.
Those that boarded the train took their seats, completely unaware of what had just transpired. They opened their books, put on their iPods, stared out the window. The rest of us closed our mouths, and looking around- smirked at each other.
We knew something they did not.
And the train picked up speed....
3.
8:30PM
Notre Dame Cathedral.
The square in front of the cathedral is loaded with people, clowns perform for children, Chinese "Write Your Name in Chinese" for a few euros, men play drums and guitars, tourists take pictures and twitter excitedly about how the lights around the cathedral have just come on.
I couldn't write anymore. I had had enough. Working on a short story that I have been planning in my head for about three years now. I can't get it out of my head and onto the page.
I had a drink of water, thought about getting a beer at a cafe, but chose not to. I would be doing it just to do it.
I wandered the square, watched the clown for a minute. I saw a man named Tony get his name printed in Chinese. I listened to the drums and guitars for a while- Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.
Something was missing. Usually, music or beer or writing fills me up. Even watching tourists get ripped off is usually kind of fun.
But tonight, I don't know... You know how there are times when you want something but you cant say what it is? Not hungry, not thirsty, not tired, not bored, not... not.... not....
But there is something you know you want, if you only had the name. If you could only say what you wanted, you could have it and satisfy yourself.
The word, the thing eludes you.
This was the state I was in when I found myself wandering into the cathedral.
Did you ever think to yourself, "Geez I'd like some pizza, only to have one show up on your door step?" You know that feeling of perfect satisfaction?
The cathedral is cavernous and warm. It is dark for the most part, but the lights of thousands of devotional candles dance and sway in the corners.
It is silent. It is utter silence.
You can lose yourself in the silence.
It is so quiet, so still and calm, that I worried other people could hear what I was thinking.
But I wasn't thinking anything.
I went to light a candle, I don't know why...
And I thought about who I would light a candle for....
I miss my grandmother on my mom's side. If I can make people laugh, it is because of her.
I miss her, and thought I should light a candle for her.
But I miss my mom too. If I am generous, it is because of her.
I should light another candle.
But I miss my father too. If I am intelligent, it is because of him.
I should light a candle for him too.
But I miss my sister too. If I know the value of family, it is because of her.
I should light a candle for her too.
But I miss my wife. If I know how to love, and how to dream, it is because of her.
But I miss my other grandmother too. If I know how to tell a story, it is because of her.
But I miss my friend Mike, if I know how to love music, it is because of him.
I miss my friend Paul. If I know anything about loyalty, it's because of Paul.
I miss my brother-in-law Joe. He's only been gone to serve in Iraq for a day now, and I have already learned so much about standing for your convictions, even when everyone tells you that you're crazy.
I miss my friends Sean and Mike. If I have learned to help people in need, whenever they are in need, it is because of them.
I miss my dog. I miss my neighbors. I miss my street. I miss my shit-heap of a car.
I miss my friends and cousins and aunts and uncles.
I miss Lake Shore Drive.
I miss Chicago style pizza.
I miss falling asleep in my own damned bed.
The cathedral is silent. It feels like it is silent because it is listening.
I think I just needed someone to listen.
For the first time, in a long time (a REALLY long time), I made the sign of the cross, said a thank you, and headed out of the cathedral to catch a train.
I was feeling better,
and wondering what the night had in store.
11:45PM
An Irish pub called Millennium.
Six Hyatt employees gathered around a table full of quickly emptying Leffe beer glasses and two baskets of peanut shells.
She said her name was Mannon. Her English was flawless. She is the reception manager at the Hyatt, a job she is very obviously proud of. Rather, a title she is very obviously proud of, but never the less, a good woman, it seems.
She was born in Brazil but moved to Argentina when she was five. Soon after that, she moved to France for grammar school, but because of her father's job, had to move to Italy for high school. She moved back to France for university and works at the Hyatt now.
Work- real work, work that pays, is hard to come by in Europe. It is not uncommon to lose a job and stay with your parents for the four months it usually takes to find a poorly paying position.
Work is tough to find, and life is tough to manage after it is found.
So if Mannon only had a few years experience in hotels behind her, how did she come by the very prestigious title of Reception Manager at a four star hotel so easily?
Easy, she speaks Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French, English and Japanese.
Before knowing how and where she grew up, I asked which was her first language. She said kind of Portuguese and Spanish together. I wanted to know which was her primary language. She she said she didn't know.
I asked her, "Well, what language do you think in?" She said it depended on the situation. At work, French. With family, she speaks Spanish or Portuguese, but with friends from around the world she speaks English or Italian (unless they are from Japan).
Language is such an important thing. Our language can help to define our values, and it shapes our reality. In my conversations with my Filipino friend Sean, we have gone over the fact, time and again, that Tagalog (the Filipino national language), does not have a word for "sorry" because, why would you ever need to apologize? You would never do anything intentionally to hurt someone, and therefore would never need to apologize.
So, the way we speak and what we speak shapes the way we look at the world.
What if you don't have a language that you can call your own? What if every conversation or situation is a translation of a different language in your head? What if you could never really talk, really talk to anyone?
This woman, Mannon, was friendly, but she seemed a bit manic. She was always talking, always laughing loud, always jumping from topic to topic, always asking where we could go next. At 3am, she took us all into Paris to check out a new bar. We stayed until closing, and she wanted to go to another bar on the Champs Elysees at 5am.
She said it was to see more friends, but she didn't seem like she just wanted to go out.
She seemed desperate for connection. Lonely.
My friend Olivier agreed but said he didn't know why.
I don't know; it made sense to me.
2.
9:15PM
A metro train below Paris, half full of locals.
The train is quiet as it slithers along below the rues and avenues of the city above.
I was reading Camus' The Stranger on the train after a day of writing and carousing in the Vendome neighborhood of Paris. I was tired and needed a nap before plans to meet some friends at an Irish pub called Millennium that evening.
I hadn't eaten and was thirsty. These are two things I do not like to be- hungry or thirsty, for anything.
The book is good (great, masterful actually), but it isn't keeping my attention. I tried the iPod, but sometimes you just can't find what you want to hear. Try as you might, go through every record you own (if you still own records), and you just won't find a thing that you'd like to listen to.
The train stopped at Montparnasse-Bienvenue, a big station. The doors of the trains here don't open unless you push a button on the them, so you might not even notice the train has stopped if no one gets on. This was one of those times.
I had given up on reading or the iPod, and was just starring. You know how. The kind of stare you wake up from in a start and don't even remember what you were thinking.
I woke up from this stare when a thin man boarded the train, just before it pulled out of the station.
He looked around at all of us, with a look of displeasure. He didn't seem to like us.
He didn't sit, but stood motionless, with his back to the doors. Once the train started to move, he dropped a heavy metal case that he had in his left hand. He knelt next to the case,unlatched it, and took something small and black from inside, which he quickly concealed in his pocket.
The woman across from me made to stand up to move to another car, but he shot her a look and raised his hand very slightly to indicate that she should sit. Like a good dog, she obeyed.
People were getting nervous. I had my arm through my back pack, and my hand on my wallet.
The man was thin, and his skin was grey. His hair was very short, and his clothes were worn thin. He looked like a man who needed something. He looked like a man who didn't like being as hungry or thirsty as he was.
His head smoothly turned as he scanned the car again as he fingered the thing that he had stowed in his pocket, and quickly! pulled it out and brought it to his mouth.
"Besame..... besame..... besame...... besame mucho....."
The wireless microphone at his lips caught every silken note that he sang. He trolled the aisles of the cars, crooned to young girls (who giggled in delight and, I'm sure, relief), and winked at me, as if to say, "Yeah, baby, you know the score..." (I didn't).
The train had started to slow now, and the song was coming to its crescendo.
With a flourish of his right arm, he punctuated the final notes of the song, stamped his foot, and bowed low.
It was -exactly- what I had wanted to hear.
Everyone in the car stared for a moment. You know how. The kind of stare that you wake up from in a start, and immediately begin to doubt what was before your very eyes a moment ago. This is usually followed by a frenzy of applause and cheering and whistling...
But the train stopped, and this man had pushed the button to open the doors.
He looked around at us for a last time, and backed out of the train and off into the night.
Those that boarded the train took their seats, completely unaware of what had just transpired. They opened their books, put on their iPods, stared out the window. The rest of us closed our mouths, and looking around- smirked at each other.
We knew something they did not.
And the train picked up speed....
3.
8:30PM
Notre Dame Cathedral.
The square in front of the cathedral is loaded with people, clowns perform for children, Chinese "Write Your Name in Chinese" for a few euros, men play drums and guitars, tourists take pictures and twitter excitedly about how the lights around the cathedral have just come on.
I couldn't write anymore. I had had enough. Working on a short story that I have been planning in my head for about three years now. I can't get it out of my head and onto the page.
I had a drink of water, thought about getting a beer at a cafe, but chose not to. I would be doing it just to do it.
I wandered the square, watched the clown for a minute. I saw a man named Tony get his name printed in Chinese. I listened to the drums and guitars for a while- Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.
Something was missing. Usually, music or beer or writing fills me up. Even watching tourists get ripped off is usually kind of fun.
But tonight, I don't know... You know how there are times when you want something but you cant say what it is? Not hungry, not thirsty, not tired, not bored, not... not.... not....
But there is something you know you want, if you only had the name. If you could only say what you wanted, you could have it and satisfy yourself.
The word, the thing eludes you.
This was the state I was in when I found myself wandering into the cathedral.
Did you ever think to yourself, "Geez I'd like some pizza, only to have one show up on your door step?" You know that feeling of perfect satisfaction?
The cathedral is cavernous and warm. It is dark for the most part, but the lights of thousands of devotional candles dance and sway in the corners.
It is silent. It is utter silence.
You can lose yourself in the silence.
It is so quiet, so still and calm, that I worried other people could hear what I was thinking.
But I wasn't thinking anything.
I went to light a candle, I don't know why...
And I thought about who I would light a candle for....
I miss my grandmother on my mom's side. If I can make people laugh, it is because of her.
I miss her, and thought I should light a candle for her.
But I miss my mom too. If I am generous, it is because of her.
I should light another candle.
But I miss my father too. If I am intelligent, it is because of him.
I should light a candle for him too.
But I miss my sister too. If I know the value of family, it is because of her.
I should light a candle for her too.
But I miss my wife. If I know how to love, and how to dream, it is because of her.
But I miss my other grandmother too. If I know how to tell a story, it is because of her.
But I miss my friend Mike, if I know how to love music, it is because of him.
I miss my friend Paul. If I know anything about loyalty, it's because of Paul.
I miss my brother-in-law Joe. He's only been gone to serve in Iraq for a day now, and I have already learned so much about standing for your convictions, even when everyone tells you that you're crazy.
I miss my friends Sean and Mike. If I have learned to help people in need, whenever they are in need, it is because of them.
I miss my dog. I miss my neighbors. I miss my street. I miss my shit-heap of a car.
I miss my friends and cousins and aunts and uncles.
I miss Lake Shore Drive.
I miss Chicago style pizza.
I miss falling asleep in my own damned bed.
The cathedral is silent. It feels like it is silent because it is listening.
I think I just needed someone to listen.
For the first time, in a long time (a REALLY long time), I made the sign of the cross, said a thank you, and headed out of the cathedral to catch a train.
I was feeling better,
and wondering what the night had in store.
17 September 2007
The Month in Review
So, today at 11am, I was preparing the hot line for lunch service. Since we are seven hours ahead of Chicago, I can say that it was EXACTLY one month ago at that time that I woke up to be taken to the airport to come here.
Crossing the Pyranees from France to Spain, while watching the sun come up over the mountains and forests? Calexico and Iron and Wine's "He Lays in the Reigns."
Losing your virginity to a girl/guy you dont know and dont want to remember, in the bedroom of someone neither of you know, while a fourth party's party rages outside? John Philips Sousa, every day of the week, and twice on Sundays.
Regardless of all of that, the perfect song to walk through Paris to, while the leaves are changing, and the sun is setting, and the lights on the Seine are just starting to twinkle awake in the cool twilight breeze: Ray Charles' "Moonlight in Vermont." It is purrrrrrrrrfection.
I have to say this again: I love living here. I do.
A month seems like forever, and a really short time, at the same time.
I think this is the most beautiful city in the world.
So, emotionality aside, what else is new?
Well, my Wang threw a tantrum when he came home from work today. Seems there are often a large number of Korean stewardessessesses who stay in the hotel between flights. These are quiet, demure, perfectly groomed and coiffed women, whose uniforms, I believe, are permanently attached. They walk around the hotel, swishing their heads back and forth like they do when they are checking the aisles of the plane to see if anyone needs a pillow or is throwing up.
And if that wasn't odd enough, these tiny polite women eat like truck drivers. I swear, Hyatt is discussing replacing their spoons with silver shovels.
Well, Will, as you know, is a server in the Apollo. Today was his last straw. Two of said stewardessessesses asked him for a new plate of scrambled eggs, and handed him their plates, while he was walking by with two pots of hot coffee. He obviously could not take their plates just then, but they forced them in his face regardless and may just as well have growled, "More! Hulk must feed! Hungry!" Well, Will, the gracious man he is (ahem...), politely put down the coffee pots, and took their plates. And while he was walking away (this is the part that really set him off), they called after him that they would like some, as he recounts it: "caw-pee."
He was in a rage when he came home. "Wat dee f***! I don have no caw-pee. I have coffee! God damn!" I dont think I have ever laughed so hard.
This weekend, I didnt make it to a jazz club like I had hoped. Esteban might lose his job (because he is "unmotivated." His response? "Ai dios...") so we took him to a neighborhood bar called Millennium to saturate his spirits with spirits.
Saturday I was in Paris, writing and hanging out, but Sunday...
I have mentioned that Sunday I took a long walk, but what I did not mention was the game.
France V. Namibia.
People, this was a game.
It was fast and hard and people were going berserk.
So, to bring you up to speed here, France is crazed about this cup. It is everywhere. I even stumbled across Rugby Village. It is a huge tent near the Eiffel Tower that serves huge Heinekins (6 euros only) and has a restaurant, a lounge, plasma screens everywhere, a cafe and a stage. I saw a guy perform Crash Test Dummies's "Mmm Mmm Song." I didnt even remember that that song existed, but the guy was taking requests and people were jubilantly yelling out every song they could remember. It was German, Irish, French, Argentine, Mexican, everybody celebrating rugby together. I think there might be something to this whole "world peace through rugby" idea I have come up with (applause, please). The French have even hung a huge rugby ball between the legs of the Eiffel Tower:
In any event, New Zealand is favored to win the cup, with England, France and Argentina each posing a threat. But Mark, you wine, where is the US in all of this?
Oh, well, England kicked our asses pretty bad last week, so we're out of the whole cup. Boo hoo, move on.
I was seated in Pub Shywawa in St. Michel watching the game. One of the French players, Sebastien Chebal, this guy is like a train. He is huge and has a long beard and long, long dreadlocks. He looks like a viking. He would catch the ball and just run, screaming down the field.
Two things that I did not mention about rugby in my last report: they dont wear pads, and when you are tackled, the game doesnt stop. The other team just piles on and pummels you until you give up the ball, and whichever side grabs it, they're in possesion.
Well, the Namibians never had a chance with Chabal. He would streak down the field, and when one of the Namibians got in his way, he just kept running. He would collide with these unpadded guys at full speed, and they would either deflect off of him or grab on and get pulled along as he kept going down the field.
To put this in perspective: imagine all the passion that goes into the SuperBowl. You know how people get all crazy and hypnotized by that game? Well, imagine that that game was only played once every four years, and that every country in the world was playing. Like the best players from each team in the whole country play all the best players from every other country, and there are no commercials and the game rarely stops and there is blood everywhere and all they serve is Heinekin by the barrel full and the guy on your team is dragging two other full grown men behind him as he pulls across the finish line and you HAVE to win this game, or as host country, your team is out and you have to watch all the other teams play in your backyard, but you cant join in.
I have only ever heard men scream like this when you turn up the volume to full on your surround sound during the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan.
Men clapping and woofing! Jumping and screaming! Hugging people you dont even know while smashing your pints together every time Chebal explodes across the end zone line, and I found myself among them. I couldnt contain myself!
The final score?
Namibia- 10.
France- 83.
I tell you the felicity in the streets was such that I thought Napoleon might have returned from the dead and was throwing down free frog's legs from the top of the Arc de Triomphe.
I left the pub, horse from my cheering, deaf from the screaming, sore from the bear hugging of strangers, and glad...
Glad to have spent my first month so very, very well.
A lot has happened in the first thirty days.
Since arriving in the kitchen: my French has improved dramatically; my knife skills have improved a great deal; I am really getting cooking to temperature down. Also though, I have made some friends in the kitchen. When the chef calls the brigade together, I dont stand in the back looking at my clogs. That feels good: to be a part of the team. Further, we have a new stagiare in the kitchen now, and I am teaching him how things go. I showed him how to make a Caesar salad today (we make it with a poached egg, shaved Parmesan, dried Serrano ham and grilled chicken breast over succrine lettuce with, duh, house made Caesar dressing- heavy on the anchovies, with a toast point on the side drizzled with pesto). It was cool to show him that because that was the first thing that I was shown. Neat-o-rama.
Other than that, I am getting much more comfortable with Paris. I like to hang out in the Notre Dame area a lot and discovered the tiny jazz place I have been looking for. Its on Rue Saint-Severain. If you didnt know it was there, you would never see it. I dont know how I did, but I did. There is a trumpeteer coming in early October to play the American standards, so I will definitely go to that.
A month ago, I was saying goodbye to my wife, and now, I am preparing for her arrival. She will be here on Friday, and I am so excited. I have planned out too many things to do, so I think I will just chuck all those plans and we'll fly by the seats of our respective pantalons.
In other culinary news, I have recently heard from my first culinary instructor, Chef Pierre Pollin, and he has forwarded me some names of restaurants that he trained in, while he was living in France. This is a great, great chef, so I am excited to be able to share his experiences. I am going to try and work at these restaurants on the weekends for added experience. Those you of you who know me well will probably call this par for the course: there's Mark filling up his schedule to capacity again. It's true; I have a really, really hard time sitting still, but I think in this case, its a good thing. I dont want to miss out on anything.
Yesterday, I had nothing to do (until 9pm when rugby started, more on that later), so I decided to take myself on a long walk. I took the RER B train and got off at Trocadero. From there, you can see all the sights- the Arc de Triomphe is up the Avenue de Trocadero, the Eiffel Tower is around the corner, the cafes are right in front of the stop, tourists are being gouged for $20 a beer- like I said, all the sights.
Anyway, I got off there and walked clear across the city to Notre Dame. It was an awesome walk. As a side note, I have discovered in my life (as I am sure you have for your own), that there are certain pieces of music that go perfectly with certain places.
For example: driving angry on 290 West in the middle of the night? AC/DC hits to spot.
Crossing the Pyranees from France to Spain, while watching the sun come up over the mountains and forests? Calexico and Iron and Wine's "He Lays in the Reigns."
Losing your virginity to a girl/guy you dont know and dont want to remember, in the bedroom of someone neither of you know, while a fourth party's party rages outside? John Philips Sousa, every day of the week, and twice on Sundays.
(That is not how I lost mine, for those interested, but I always felt like that is how Marsha Brady would have lost hers, if the series had shown that "very special" episode. Marsha! Marsha! Marsha! Wow, that takes on a whole new meaning...)
Regardless of all of that, the perfect song to walk through Paris to, while the leaves are changing, and the sun is setting, and the lights on the Seine are just starting to twinkle awake in the cool twilight breeze: Ray Charles' "Moonlight in Vermont." It is purrrrrrrrrfection.
So, where was I.... so I am walking along, and I spotted a sign posted to a random building. No reason for it to be there, except for me to see.
It read: Bloom where you are planted.
Right on.
It made me thankful for everything I have here; I couldnt ask to be planted in better places. And it made me think that I have got to stop wasting time, and get down to business.
Oh, and right around the time I came to that realization, the proverbial light bulb came on. Here is how that showed up:
It was like magic. All the lights of the Eiffel Tower just burst to life. It was an explosion of color and light, and everyone around just started applauding. I would like to request of God or Buddha or whomever is currently taking calls up there, that every time I have a good idea, everyone around me should just start applauding.
Things would be a lot easier to figure out then.
Things would be a lot easier to figure out then.
I have to say this again: I love living here. I do.
A month seems like forever, and a really short time, at the same time.
I think this is the most beautiful city in the world.
So, emotionality aside, what else is new?
Well, my Wang threw a tantrum when he came home from work today. Seems there are often a large number of Korean stewardessessesses who stay in the hotel between flights. These are quiet, demure, perfectly groomed and coiffed women, whose uniforms, I believe, are permanently attached. They walk around the hotel, swishing their heads back and forth like they do when they are checking the aisles of the plane to see if anyone needs a pillow or is throwing up.
And if that wasn't odd enough, these tiny polite women eat like truck drivers. I swear, Hyatt is discussing replacing their spoons with silver shovels.
Well, Will, as you know, is a server in the Apollo. Today was his last straw. Two of said stewardessessesses asked him for a new plate of scrambled eggs, and handed him their plates, while he was walking by with two pots of hot coffee. He obviously could not take their plates just then, but they forced them in his face regardless and may just as well have growled, "More! Hulk must feed! Hungry!" Well, Will, the gracious man he is (ahem...), politely put down the coffee pots, and took their plates. And while he was walking away (this is the part that really set him off), they called after him that they would like some, as he recounts it: "caw-pee."
He was in a rage when he came home. "Wat dee f***! I don have no caw-pee. I have coffee! God damn!" I dont think I have ever laughed so hard.
This weekend, I didnt make it to a jazz club like I had hoped. Esteban might lose his job (because he is "unmotivated." His response? "Ai dios...") so we took him to a neighborhood bar called Millennium to saturate his spirits with spirits.
Saturday I was in Paris, writing and hanging out, but Sunday...
I have mentioned that Sunday I took a long walk, but what I did not mention was the game.
France V. Namibia.
People, this was a game.
It was fast and hard and people were going berserk.
So, to bring you up to speed here, France is crazed about this cup. It is everywhere. I even stumbled across Rugby Village. It is a huge tent near the Eiffel Tower that serves huge Heinekins (6 euros only) and has a restaurant, a lounge, plasma screens everywhere, a cafe and a stage. I saw a guy perform Crash Test Dummies's "Mmm Mmm Song." I didnt even remember that that song existed, but the guy was taking requests and people were jubilantly yelling out every song they could remember. It was German, Irish, French, Argentine, Mexican, everybody celebrating rugby together. I think there might be something to this whole "world peace through rugby" idea I have come up with (applause, please). The French have even hung a huge rugby ball between the legs of the Eiffel Tower:
In any event, New Zealand is favored to win the cup, with England, France and Argentina each posing a threat. But Mark, you wine, where is the US in all of this?
Oh, well, England kicked our asses pretty bad last week, so we're out of the whole cup. Boo hoo, move on.
I was seated in Pub Shywawa in St. Michel watching the game. One of the French players, Sebastien Chebal, this guy is like a train. He is huge and has a long beard and long, long dreadlocks. He looks like a viking. He would catch the ball and just run, screaming down the field.
Two things that I did not mention about rugby in my last report: they dont wear pads, and when you are tackled, the game doesnt stop. The other team just piles on and pummels you until you give up the ball, and whichever side grabs it, they're in possesion.
Well, the Namibians never had a chance with Chabal. He would streak down the field, and when one of the Namibians got in his way, he just kept running. He would collide with these unpadded guys at full speed, and they would either deflect off of him or grab on and get pulled along as he kept going down the field.
To put this in perspective: imagine all the passion that goes into the SuperBowl. You know how people get all crazy and hypnotized by that game? Well, imagine that that game was only played once every four years, and that every country in the world was playing. Like the best players from each team in the whole country play all the best players from every other country, and there are no commercials and the game rarely stops and there is blood everywhere and all they serve is Heinekin by the barrel full and the guy on your team is dragging two other full grown men behind him as he pulls across the finish line and you HAVE to win this game, or as host country, your team is out and you have to watch all the other teams play in your backyard, but you cant join in.
I have only ever heard men scream like this when you turn up the volume to full on your surround sound during the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan.
Men clapping and woofing! Jumping and screaming! Hugging people you dont even know while smashing your pints together every time Chebal explodes across the end zone line, and I found myself among them. I couldnt contain myself!
The final score?
Namibia- 10.
France- 83.
I tell you the felicity in the streets was such that I thought Napoleon might have returned from the dead and was throwing down free frog's legs from the top of the Arc de Triomphe.
I left the pub, horse from my cheering, deaf from the screaming, sore from the bear hugging of strangers, and glad...
Glad to have spent my first month so very, very well.
12 September 2007
Insert Fancy Title Here
So, its been almost a day since I posted some pictures for you people, and the reply has been fantastic. So, keep an eye out for more.
The goings on about Paris? Well, it has been a quiet couple of days.
In fact, as I write this, Will is watching Nicole Kidman in some very adult contempo movie. She is doing some very heavy breathing as we speak. That's all I will say.
Tonight, my friends Santiago and Esteban and I watched one of the qualifying matches of the Euro Cup. It's a European Football thing, it takes place every four years, and falls in between the world cup. Tonight France played Scotland, or as Scotland is known here: Ecosse. How do these places get these names? The Greeks refer to their own country as Ellas, so how did we come to refer to them as Greeks? Odd. Its the same with Ecosse, who the hell knows.
Whatever their name, as we speak, France is losing 1-0, but their passing game is amazing. These people really know how to lose in style.
Speaking of losing, on Sunday we are back in St. Germain for another rugby game. This time it will be France v. Namibia. Um, ok... the Namibians are known for.... their, um.... skill at.... um.... speaking Namibian. That's all I can think. It should be an easy win, so of course, France will lose.
Damn.
Oh, but the US played England yesterday at 2pm our time, so 5am your time, and we lost terribly. 30 to 10. The French played harder than we did, so there.
In other news, Will and I went up to a hill in our neighborhood with some wine and just watched the search light on the Eiffel Tower and the stars. This was last night.
The wine (Bordeaux) was good, as was the conversation. Will and I went over the whole siblings conversation again. He told me, again, that more than one child in China is forbidden. He says that there are people who have more than one child, but that you have to pay extra, and most likely, the child will be a paria. How strange. My cousing just married a man with 10 brothers and sisters. Will says that he will definately have more than one child, even if he has to sneak it, because he doesnt want his first child "to go through what I did." It made me appreciate my sister. If you dont know her, she rocks, and if you do know her, get to know her better. Hell, get to know your own siblings better; at least we have siblings. Weird.
The kitchen was an exciting place to be today. The day started with the dishwasher and one of the women from HR getting into a near fist fight. That was a nice wake up call.
After that, I did the sauces and made a horse radish mousse. Very tasty.
Later, I was put on the hot line.
I started my time her stocking the vegetable fridges and making the club sandwhiches. Now I do the sauces, and today, I made the steaks on the hotline. Its tough. Most French like their steak (entricot) cooked blue or saingant (rare, or literally, bloody), so the problem is that you have no room to over cook something. This is a weak point for me, so I had to really focus.
I dont want to brag, but I nailed it. Our steaks are served with your's-truly's very own bearnaise sauce, and a side of grilled veg or frites. The steaks themselves are garnished with fleur du sel (sea salt). Very good.
I also made the St. Jacques again today, and it came out very nicely. We are really picking up.
We had a wedding on Sunday night, and a home decor convention at the hotel all week. We are over filled. One guy came to the hotel for Day Service- basically, he wanted a room to sleep in during the day, while he waited for his plane at night. He waited for over an hour, so he demanded a suite. He got it, though why he cared whether he slept in a suite or a twin bed is beyond me. In any event, his plane turned out to be early, so he slept for an hour in his suite; for this he paid $400. I am sure his company paid for it, but still, yikes.
On that note, let me say that living in a four star hotel has its perks, but it also really lets you see how much money is wasted around the world.
We had a family of four in the hotel lobby order four oragne juices, for which they paid 32 euros, or roughly $40. That is $10 an orange juice. Now the menu does say Fresh Squeezed, but I am here to tell you, we pour that from the jug, just like the Marriot does. Ten dollars, what a rip off.
We also have a hammam here. A hammam is a type of North African/Islamic bath house, minus the illicit gay sex (you pay extra for that). It consists basically of a full body massage, followed by a steam room, followed by a seaweed wrap, followed by a shower or bath. I had one in Morocco, and it was lovely in every sense of the word (except the part where the hammam guy bathed me. Really bathed me. Its their culutre so I let him, but I have never felt so self concious about my body, or about paying someone to scrub my back. Dont worry; I tipped well).
Regardless, I dont want to tell you what we charge for that. Needless to say that all in all the expereince will take you about 2 hours, and you might not have the rent when it is over.
My point, people pay waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much for stuff here. But, it is Paris, and luxury is the name of the game, even if you are flat broke.
Yesterday, I had the opportunity to speak with a coworker regarding 9/11. A lot of people here were talking about it. I asked one guy I worked with what it was like for him, six years ago, to hear about the attacks. He's from China, and he reported, "Honestly, I didn't even notice."
Another guy I work with is from Egypt, and I asked him the same question; he said, "When I saw the attacks, I was so happy. Finally America will realize that they are not the center of the world, but then I was sad, because why should so many people have to die for America to see that?" Honest, at the very least.
The prevailing French opinion was, "We were very terrified and so sad. Then you attacked Iraq, and we didnt feel bad for you anymore." But the French have an expression that I have found to be very true: Les gens ne sont pas le gourvernmont. Translation: the people are not the government. It makes sense. And I am going to say this real slow-like for my red state readers:
the French dont hate the American people; they cant stand our government, but then, who can?
On another, more improper note, today the general manager of the hotel came into the kitchen to congratulate all of us on how well we are handling the sudden tsunami of guests. With him he brough a good deal of (cheap) champagne, so after a good twenty minutes of imbibing, some tongues were loosened. A coworker from Portugal named Odrey (a woman), started to speak to me in the few English phrases she knew:
"Hello Mark. My name is Odrey." "Hi Odrey, my name is Mark."
That was polite.
"I like USA and champagne, Mark. You like, too?"
"Yes, Odrey, I like them too. Thank you."
So far so good.
Then, long pause, while she pondered....
"F*** you, Mark!"
This was followed by a quiet moment of reflection.
I explained to her the translantion of this choice phrase in French, and she blushed. She admitted that her boyfriend had spent the previous evening with the stars of the American adult cinema, and this was a phrase she had picked up and was curious about. Since many people here dont know this phrase, it is how she has decided to great me and wish me on my way, when I see her. Tonight, upon entry to the emploee restuarant, the scense was as follows:
"Boy Santiago, I am really hungry. I hope they have something good for vegetarians tonight. Oh there is Odrey, I hope she doesnt...."
"F*** YOU MARK! Ha ha ha."
"Hello Odrey...."
Man, I should write for the theatre.
Well, that's about it from here. Hope you have enjoyed this slice of life.
This weekend keeps the promise of a jazz club on Friday night, the Bastille on Saturday, and, of course, rugby on Sunday.
Hope all are well, and more soon.
PS- a few pictures of some of my friends here, since people are obviously more excited by the pictures on this blog than the words. I knew I should have done an e-pop up book. Damn. Next time...
OK, so there you go: that's me in my uniform. I am not wearing my apron though, so I look kind of naked. Regardless, that's me on the right, my friend Lucia (pronouched lew-THEE-ah) in the middle (from Spain), and Roman on the left. He's French and one of the best cooks at the place. He has taught me a lot. He also recently became the father of one little girl named Mathilde. Bon chance, Roman!
So here are two of my friends that I was speaking about earlier in this blog: on the right is Esteban from Spain, and the left is Santiago. If you cant tell, both are well past the legal limit at the time of this picture. But you can't blame them: France had just let Ecosse score for the first time tonight.
And last, but certainly not least, in the center ring- ladies and gentleman, waving a BIG hello to everyone in the good ol' U S of A.... I give you my friend, my comrade in arms, my very own Oriental express......
My Wang.
Say hello, Willy!
11 September 2007
Lookie, Lookie, Who's Got the Cookie...
So, thanks to the eternal wisdom of my brother-in-law, Joseph the Wonder Stud, I have finally figured out how to upload pictures to my blog! 
So there you go: happy now? I see these two places almost every day, and frankly, the sight of them now makes me want to wretch. Enjoy!
So here are some of the pictures from Les Halles-Rungis, the farmer's market where I fell in love with the cheese. The first picture is from a gigantic tub of shrimp. I mainly took this picture for my dad, who loves seafood. He is also one of the reasons I dont eat seafood. Did you ever get so grossed out by something as a child that it still makes you queezy today? My dad used to eat raw mussels with a tall glass of milk when I was a kid. So, that was the end of that for me. Besides, raw mussels look like loogies.
Ahhh, the Louv-ra. Is there any finer way to spend an afternoon? Of course there is. But this way ain't too bad either.
On a warm, Sunday evening in Paris, I was trolling Montparnasse for a gigantic Beligan beer and an open-faced cheese sanhwhich to go with my very, very good book. And lucky for me, I found just that! That's picture number one. The ash tray is just for show. Calm down, Ruta.
A melenge, as we say here in France.
Three Cheers for Joe!
Hip, Hip, Hooray.... and what not.
Regardless, this is going to be one of those blogs where I dont write much, except to explain pictures that need explaining.
That in mind, there are no pictures of me or the hotel or the people I work with... yet. Those are coming soon. (I have to keep you coming back somehow.)
So, before the pictures begin, let me just say that this is a new camera for me, so please be gentle with your criticisms of my artistic prowess, and no food or drink in the theatre, please.
Finally, please turn off all cell phones and pagers now. Big ups.
So there you go: happy now? I see these two places almost every day, and frankly, the sight of them now makes me want to wretch. Enjoy!
So here are some of the pictures from Les Halles-Rungis, the farmer's market where I fell in love with the cheese. The first picture is from a gigantic tub of shrimp. I mainly took this picture for my dad, who loves seafood. He is also one of the reasons I dont eat seafood. Did you ever get so grossed out by something as a child that it still makes you queezy today? My dad used to eat raw mussels with a tall glass of milk when I was a kid. So, that was the end of that for me. Besides, raw mussels look like loogies.
The second picture is one of the roughly 45 stalls selling slaughtered cows or pigs. Yum.
You will be happy to know that this is all hallal meat though. Hallal is the Islamic practice of a priest praying over a cow before it is slaughtered, so that the meat can be eaten. That explains why you dont see so many cows in church these days, and it also probably explains why so many cows convereted to Hinduism.
You will be happy to know that this is all hallal meat though. Hallal is the Islamic practice of a priest praying over a cow before it is slaughtered, so that the meat can be eaten. That explains why you dont see so many cows in church these days, and it also probably explains why so many cows convereted to Hinduism.
The third picture is a box of crotan du chevre. That's French, y'all. It means goat cheese cakes. "But Mark, I remember from high school French that gateaux is cake. How can crotan be cake too?" Well, that's because crotan actually means horse terd. Really. That's what they think goat cheese looks like before it is molded and covered in grass (...to protect it. Protect it from what? What is the grass really gonna do?). So really, those are horse terds of cheese. To quote the devil herself, "Yum-O."
Finally, there is a box of grapes and other assortied fruits. I took a picture of fruits because it reminded me of Sean. (Hi Sean!)
Ahhh, the Louv-ra. Is there any finer way to spend an afternoon? Of course there is. But this way ain't too bad either.
So, the first picture is more about me realizing my photographic style than anything else. Remember when I said, "How many people have the same exact pictures of the same exact things?"; well this is when I started to think that. There were no less than one hundred people greedily cramming themselves into the 100 square feet provided to see Mrs. Lisa. When you get up close, she's not even that cute. She's kind of manish, actually. I took a picture just so I could say I did. Also, I hear that the flash from your camera degrades the quality of the actual painting, so in some small way I was doing my part to ensure that future interns living in France wont have to put up with a 4 foot 2 Asian woman jamming her elbo into the small of their back, just so she can get her five seconds with La Jaconde. But I digress...
The second picture is one of the heads from Easter Island. Its a real one. The Moari (sp?) tribe on Easter Island has allowed this one to visit the Lourve. It is amazing and gigantic. They believe that these statues help to channel the spirits of their ancestors and protect the island, and they gave one to the Louvre! That's a heck of a favor. So here it is, in all its bodiless glory.
What can I say, the Louvre gives great head.
Finally, the inverted glass pyramid designed by I.M. Pei (the famous Chinese architech, hello?) for the Louvre. Since the Louvre used to be a palace, every king of France has added something to it, to make it more grand and to make it their own. I think Presient Francois Mitterand asked to have Mr. Pei add his pyramids, but don't quote on that. I think they're great, and according to The DaVinci Code, the Virgin Mary is buried right under this pyramid. Didn't read the book? Well, now you don't have to.
On a warm, Sunday evening in Paris, I was trolling Montparnasse for a gigantic Beligan beer and an open-faced cheese sanhwhich to go with my very, very good book. And lucky for me, I found just that! That's picture number one. The ash tray is just for show. Calm down, Ruta.
The second beer is of the only cowboy I have met here in Paris so far. Surprisingly, the glut of cowboys in France that you always hear about seems to be an urban legend. Regardless, he was smoking a very fine cigar and spoke appalingly bad French, so I took of picture of him. He didnt budge. He reeked of tough; I like to think of that as the night I had a cheese sandwhich with the man who killed and ate Jack Palance.
And all of this happened at the famous Le Select. It was a favorite haunt of BFF's Hemmingway and Picasso, so it is good enough for me. I actually go there often, and am trying to get to know the new crowd there, including Mickey, the house cat.
A melenge, as we say here in France.
The first picture was of a guy who was drawing some kids playing in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It just seems like this is what Paris is all about. It struck me, so I took a picture. The gardens are one of my favorite places in all of Paris now. I thought this way pretty timeless though. Its what I think of when I think of evening in Paris on the weekend.
The second picture: when I was 15, and first in Paris, I had a crush on a girl named Karen Maisley. We were on a class trip together and staying in the same hotel. I thought she had no idea that I was even alive, but somehow I managed to convince her to sneak out of our hotel and to wander the streets of Paris, just the two of us, after curfue, on Valentines Day. I mean, break out the crackers because that is some serious cheese. We wandered around for a long time, and finally, we were hungry. We stopped in to a little Mexican place and had one of the first romantic dinners of my life. Well, the other day, I was in St. Germain and had stopped for lunch. Afterward, I was looking for a phone to call my wife, and lo and behold, I walked right past the very same place I had dinner with Karen, over 15 years ago. This is a picture of it, obviously.
Its still there, even though that Valentines Day romance only lasted about 4 hours.
Finally, this is a shot out the window of the king's bedroom at Versailles, looking onto the gardens. Actually, it is one of the king's bedrooms: he had two. In the first he had his official going to sleep ceremony, which was witnessed by any number of noblemen and courtiers and such, after which, he jumped out of bed, and ran across the hall to his real bedroom. I took this picture because I thought it was a nice view, and I thought that it was a view the king must have starred out at often, because maybe he was as bored with Versailles as I was.
Anyway, that's all folks. Like I said, more pictures to come, but I thought a quick review of some of the things I have been writing about was in order now that I understand this very 21st century camera.
Hope all is well, and I will write more soon.
PS- Ruta, this made me think of you. I like it especially because it is an orange, and you are always telling me to eat more fruit.
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