2013-06 Paris

Bon Paques a tous. Though not religious I thought Notre Dame on Easter morning would be appropriate. And thus at sunrise I found myself before the 850 year-old cathedral, virtually alone as opposed to most days when the square is choc-a-bloc with tourists. France has been called a Catholic country in name only. Five minutes before the mass, less than 100 had assembled, and not a face found under middle age. It did fill up a bit as things got underway.

 

The week of gluttony has ended; the week of simple overeating has commenced.

 

Paris is in the throes of a pousette war. Baby strollars in France are elaborate affairs with deep pockets that shield young occupants from weather and the unwanted stares of clochards.  Pousettes enter city busses through double rear doors designed for egress, and there is an open area just inside for their placement. However, apparently the result of a baby boom in the French capital, a pousette explosion has developed, often resulting in 5 or 6 being jammed into and around the allotted space, rendering movement virtually impossible, resulting in plaintive cries of descende, s’il vous plait (let me the hell off this bus) at each stop.

A new rule (the other 83 are found in small print on a large placard behind the driver’s seat) limits pousettes to two per bus, but has no apparent effect on Parisian nannies and mamans who insist that their égalité affords them the right of entry. “If we’re all equal, why don’t you remove your pousette?”

The French understand well the national motto, liberté, égalité, fraternité. Liberté applies to me, égalité to us all, although just a tad more to me than others, and fraternité to anyone I have known for at least two decades and has treated me with unwavering liberté and égalité for that entire time.

 

"The French don’t smile” is a well-worn aphorism. In Polly Platt’s French or Foe she recounts the story (perhaps apocryphal) of the French TV anchor taking a year’s graduate study at the University of Virginia, called before the student tribunal for “not smiling.”

Incidentally, I consider the book an absolutely seminal read for anyone visiting France for the first time, or for those who have and exit disillusioned. Polly has departed the planet, but her book remains available on Amazon. It is less an apology than an explanation, and goes a long way to helping Americans understand that the French are not against them personally.

 

The sun has shown brightly for a second day in Paris and has the locals quite distressed. They walk hurriedly and look menacingly skyward as if the current conditions are some cruel celestial joke and inclemency (with perhaps a bit of brimstone thrown in for good measure) is imminent. Clearly the song “April in Paris” was written by someone ensconced in a well heated Greenwich Village apartment.

Another 5-k, on a weekday with enhanced challenge. And I have figured out why passing fellow joggers ignore me. I run in Wal-Mart sweatpants and a hoodie that marks me as more likely homeless than those decked out in 300€ multi-colored lycra running garb. And I joined a running group on-line. Got my first invitation for this weekend, a “shortened” run of but 2 hours in advance of the Paris marathon several weeks hence.  I plan to call in sick.

 

Bientot

2013-05 Paris

The dam has burst and you may well be inundated with posts (I told you that Paris has that effect on me as it did on Papa Hemingway). As I have previously noted, for those disinterested or overtaken by the press of events, The Supreme Being, with a bit of help from Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, provides the delete button.

 

Perhaps the only thing the French like more than food (not really, but a close second) is a manif or manifestation or “event,” often a protest.

 

Yesterday (Sunday) morning outside Chez Papa, a southwest restaurant chain, a group of 20 assembled with signs, banner, and bullhorn (all required manif paraphernalia). I thought for a moment they were protesting the manufacture of foie gras, but recalled immediately that anti-food protests are not tolerated in France.

 

 It was an anti-abortion rally, and across the street were 10-15 women sporting pink balloons. They were separated from the antis by some 50 gendarmes, with another 100+ streaming up and down rue Gambetta on both sides of the street.

 

And catty-corner a gentleman blowing up large condoms and floating them in the wind. I was unable to ascertain which side he was aligned with, or possibly a neutral dispatched by a condom distributor.

The gendarmes were directing everyone to circumvent the intersection and it was amusing to see how many disputed the direction for moments on end when the detour would take all of 30-seconds.

 

Then the pinks started to move on the antis. Police intervened. The pinks argued, gestured, pleaded to no avail. They retreated and circled, discussed, agonized, strategized, sent a rep out to confront les flics, without result. Then inspiration! “We want to go to the restaurant (in front of which the manif began).”

 

The police retreated, circled, agonized, strategized, and sent a rep to the pinks suggesting an alternate restaurant, without result.

 Finally with Gallic resignation, the police allowed the pinks to broach the antis Maginot Line and enter the restaurant, filing past a clearly exasperated Chez Papa manager asking plaintively why his restaurant, of the 9,645 registered in Paris, was selected. “Because you are across the street from a hospital that performs abortions and the police won't let demonstrators get any closer,” came the reply. QED.

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 I am periodically hassled over my limited use of French expressions. I try to vet all through Google Translate. As such, complaints should be directed to: Eric Schmidt, CEO, Google, Inc., Silicon Valley, USA

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I actually got a 5k jog (slog) yesterday morning. At 7am on Sunday Paris sleeps, providing a 50-50 chance of a non-intrusive result (cobblestones, merde de chien, vehicular traffic, et al, comprise the second half.)

 

Paris has changed. I actually passed half a dozen fellow joggers on the circuit, but unlike their North American counterparts, they look away rather than give a friendly nod, “hello,” or thumbs up. Come to think of it, one of the half dozen I passed kept looking over his shoulder, so he may not count.

Elderly matrons pulling their shopping carts still jump as I pass, but not as high as in prior years. They do clutch their purses tightly as they hear my approach. Perhaps a racial anti-jogger statement, tu pense?

 

bientot

2013-04 Paris

Well, shame on me; lethargy consumes the aged. But in an attempt to jumpstart the neurons, I am headed to a place that offers unbounded BLOG fodder. Currently languishing in the Bozeman, Montana airport, heading to the City of Light via Chicago and Brussels (don’t ask).

 

This BLOG began there circa 2008 and flourished (if only in the mind of the BLOGger) until my return to Washington in 2010.

 

And alas, through the miracle of flight, I am looking out the window of an apartment in the 20th Arrondisemnt of Paris. Already today I have seen rain and sun and wind and rain and sun and rain, and wait, here comes the sun.

Today I fell (again) to the lure of the marche ouvert (open market). I had been warned that the weekday markets were losing participation of both client and marchand, but today at 10:30 the several hundred yards stretching along Blvd. Richard Lenoir were chock-a-block with locals (and the occasional bewildered tourist) stocking up for le weekend.

Succumbing to the Costco affect, I bought (way too many) huge strawberries from Morocco, avocados from Haifa, a mélange of olives from an unspecified but certainly exotic place, three cheeses, a brie de Meaux (the best) a bleu d’auvergne, and a tomme from some mountain region. A tad under $25 US.

My first night extended a decades-long tradition of beer at the Pick Clops (I think he’s the guy with the one eye in the middle of his forehead) and pizza du Chef at the Jardin du Marais across the street. “Pizza on your first night in Paris?” some would ask, but it’s a tradition and I honor all food-borne customs.

 

News of the day concerns the EU debt crisis solution by picking the pockets of ordinary Cypriot citizens, a masterful stroke that avoids the messy requirement for politicians to act fiscally responsible.  

 

So enthralled was I by the mountains that ring Montana’s Paradise Valley 360 degrees, that I allowed a momentous date in U. S. history to pass unheralded. February 3 was the 100th anniversary of the ratification of the 16th Amendment to the U. S. Constitution, the act that affirmed Congress’ authority to levy an income tax.

 

The first tax maxed out at 7%, with the top bracket (the fair share crowd) kicking in $11.6 million (in 2013 dollars; all numbers quoted here are adjusted to current dollars)). The standard deduction (adjusted) was $93,000.

Total tax revenue (adjusted) was $16.6 billion or $171/per person in the country at that time. Today’s take is $2.7 trillion, or $8,510/person. This amounts to fifty times more per person comparing then to now. Are we 50 times better off? Perhaps, but how much progress derived from government and how much from the entrepreneural private sector?

Three decades ago when I lived and worked in Paris I was a babe who took restaurant meals with more knowledgeable colleagues to translate menus (although I did once end up with a blood sausage purported to be steak). And in perhaps 30+ subsequent trips, stay was limited to less than a week and required scrambling to consume favorite dishes – confit de canard, sole meureniere, couscous, entrecote at the Relais du Venice,etc. As this trip will last nearly a month (and who knows, perhaps forever!) I have the luxury of exploration, both restaurant-wise and at markets and small shops.

 

I eat better and cheaper in Paris than back home, but the six (or more) small meals I consume per day seem to weigh (literally) heavily upon me.

 

In past years running in Paris was assumed to be away from authority or les gens mechant (bad guys). But now there is a steady (if small) stream of joggers in the area, including a gaggle of firemen from the station down the street who run on the hilly cobblestone alley where I reside. I’ll have to haul out my sorry butt and join them (one of these days).

 

 

 

The Seine and the pont d'quelquechoses

bientot