2013-10 Bozeman, MT

And the adventure takes another turn on the winding road. Come 28 May I will become a Santa Fe resident in the Land of Enchantment directing Continuity of Operations for the State of New Mexico. For those unfamiliar, COOP is designed to insure continuation of a jurisdiction’s most essential functions in times of disruption. Santa Fe altitude is >7,000 ft. and a local ski resort has a $50 season pass for really old codgers. I qualify.

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In a recent post I proclaimed that Brie de Meaux was “the best,” and I expected someone to ask why. Well, you didn’t but I’ll tell you anyway.

Many, many years ago (before I learned there is a price to pay for consuming adult beverages all the way across the Atlantic), I stumbled off a TWA plane (remember them?) and into the waiting chariot of a dear friend and atrocious driver who (perhaps only because it was Sunday) delivered us to the Seine-et-Marne suburb of Paris, mercifully without incident.

This was the Marche de Coulommiers. My chauffer, a well-known local gourmand ushered me to a reserved table in the outdoor square and presented me with an oversized and quite unnecessary cognac (it was now all of 10-am local, or 4-am from whence I came). We were approached by a smiling, rotund, rosy-cheeked matron porting a full, uncut, easily 16” diameter wheel of what turned out to be Brie de Coulommiers. As I tried to focus on the meaning of all this the table was graced by a second (it could have been her twin) with an identical offering, except that she announced this was Brie de Melun. As my heart fluttered and my liver shrieked, a third approached with yet another uncut wheel of Brie de Meaux.

It was explained to my rapidly deteriorating psyche that these were the three best bries in the region (thus certainly the planet) and I was to taste all and render judgment. Each doyenne proceeded to cut a swath which appeared to be to be about 1/3 of the wheel while my host goaded me into polishing off my cognac as there was the remainder of the bottle to finish before the gourmet lunch he had planned several hours hence.

I would relate the rest of the story, but I have no recollection, other than at dinner at his nearby farmhouse he expressed great concern that I had slept through lunch (he finally found a pulse and called off the town medicine he had summoned through a message to the local church), and announced proudly that I had declared in strident terms the superiority of Brie de Meaux, his personal favorite.

I spent several wonderful days at the farm with him and his delightful wife, one of (at that time) the few female lawyers of note and substance in France. I would provide details but I have no memory now, nor did I on the return trip to Paris those many years ago. But I know I loved every minute.

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The Montana Legislature has passed and sent to the Governor a bill allowing residents to harvest roadkill for personal consumption. Skeptics can Google for confirmation.

But let’s say you’re a retired old coot in the high mountains and your Social Security check has been delayed by six foot snow drifts. You are motoring your ’75 Ford pickup down a dirt road and Bambi crosses your path oblivious to your approach. Do you slam on the brakes, or…

2013-09 On the road/rails/air

 

Went by the apartment in Montmartre I rented nearly 45 years ago (the one with the telephone). A few changes. The local neighborhood grocery is now a real estate office and the local “bar” is a garage. The 400-yard uphill trudge to Place du Tertre and Sacré Cœur Basilica seems steeper.

The “bar” was run by M. Georges and Mme. Nadine, pieds-noire, native French who lived in Algeria before Gen. deGaulle granted that country independence in 1962. This was a “bar” in that you could purchase alcoholic beverages, and as it was just several doors from my apartment at 27 Avenue Junot, it served as a convenient watering hole after a long day commuting to Le Bourget airport preparing the U. S. Pavilion for the coming Paris Air Show.

But upon reflection (and with consideration for my naivety at the time), it appears that Georges and Nadine may have actually been marketing a product quite apart from strong drink. The place was (very) dimly lit and the “hostesses” were exceptionally friendly (but never “pushy.”) I consumed only alcohol, practiced my virtually non-existent French, but never offered to buy a round for the gang and was never induced to do so. However my buddy Bill tried to arrange an Air Show translator job for one of the “hostesses” and got quite a shock when he saw her in daylight.

Place du Tertre at the top of Montmartre was commercialized even when I lived there, with artists of varying talent sketching the faces of young and old. It was here I had my first French chien chaud – hot dog, drank my first pastis, and discovered why Paris is known as the City of Light.

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If you order a drink “at the bar” in a French café the price is approximately half of what you pay for the same beverage while seated at a table. In the last decade there has transpired a major concession providing bar stools in some of the more progressive establishments, but distained by the whizzed and bent retirees, who have been standing for well over an half century and see no reason to modify long established behavior.

I have never figured out why I should pay twice as much to sit vice stand. But today, after an extended winter (3+ weeks for me but months for the locals, including rare accumulating snow as opposed to occasional flurries) a warming sun seemed to convince the populace that perhaps printemps – springtime, was in fact not a cruel myth. I snagged one of the few sunlit outdoor tables at a Place Gambetta café, and spent a pleasant 90 minutes watching the world pass me by.

In France you can buy a $1.50 coffee (I prefer a different flavor refreshment) and occupy a table for an entire day if you choose. It’s the egalité thing – if we are all equal, what right do you have to ask me to give up this table?

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On all of the Metro quays there are signs warning against venturing on the tracks or into the tunnels due to Danger de Mort. I have investigated and determined that Mort is the guy with the spray paint can, whose (some call it) artistic work can be seen all over the city, even deep in the Metro tunnels where no (sane) man has gone before. The danger, I gather, is being sprayed with a panoply of pastel colors thus made to resemble a billboard.

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And change is indeed in the wind. I write this from Car 8 seat 91 on the Thalys high-speed train to Brussels airport, and thence to Chicago, Denver, and Bozeman, MT some 24 hours hence (if I’m lucky).

The “high-speed” is not as high as the TGV, and because of extensive track work between Paris and Brussels, the high(er) speed has been somewhat low(ered). But at least we are moving and haven’t broken down as happened on the inbound leg.

This leg of the adventure will return me to Montana which is in the midst of its requisite April snowstorm, M. Nature’s way of playing one last winter joke before spring emerges.

Here I will await final word (promised soon) on the next iteration of my odyssey, sneak forbidden treats to my grand puppies, and enjoy springtime in the Rockies.

I have been traveling to Paris is for some 4+ decades. I always arrive with great anticipation and depart without regret. This time I left a few personal items behind, a talisman designed to bring me back, and back, and back again.

 

2013-08 Paris

I saw Sandra Bullock in an Indian restaurant in the 10^th last evening. Her French is excellent. In a conversational lull with the gentleman at her table I whispered Bonsoir Mme. Bullock. She stared right through me and not wanting to blow her cover, I turned discretely away.

And several years ago when he was reported to be dying in a Virginia hospice, I encountered Art Buchwald in the 3^rd. “Hi Artie,” as we passed and he doffed his casquette in my direction.

It pays to be observant.

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As I waited for the 61 bus to take me in the proper direction (having hopped on one heading the wrong way) I was confronted by several hundred middle schoolers noisily exiting a Lycee. Most American schools are tucked away and those departing enter school busses to drop them on corners where suburban mothers gather in clumps exchanging news of the day and awaiting their progeny. But in Paris, and most large cities I suppose, schools exist in the thick of it all and students ride public transportation to and fro.

At this stage of life the routine is similar the world over, the age of almost but not quite enlightenment. Girls gather in a tight giggly nuclear knot, while boys (the electrons) flit about the periphery looking nervous, talking loud, and punching each other on the shoulder. Fission will soon occur!

But as there are always gradients in maturity and behavior, I notice two of the more “advanced” jeune filles (scientists might call them “fast neutrons”) staring with great intensity at a garcon of some development himself, hair combed over eyes and trendy sweater as opposed to the rowdy rag-tag appearance of the whirling electrons.

He is trying not to return the stares, but he can’t help himself and his head keeps involuntarily snapping back each time he turns away. This is a phenomenon known in pediatric circles as “the tic of teen awakening.” I crossed the path separating them to board the bus and the electricity crackled my hair.

 

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The friend whose apartment in which I am squatting keeps a menacing aluminum rod next to her bed in the event of unwanted intrusion. I have taken to keeping the remnants of a day old baguette, less lethal but no less intimidating were its use required.

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Yes I know I am supposed to attach those annoying accents on top of French words, but I’m afraid if I modify my keyboard to French I’ll never be able to change it back. Decades ago while spending some time in Dusseldorf, I joined a radical movement to ban the umlaut, a German language accent that causes foreigners to gurgle and suck air up their noses with occasional unpleasant results.

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 “Senor Del Regno? Hi, this is Jorge…Jorge Bergoglio, yeah, yeah, the Pope. Listen, I want to cancel my newspaper subscription.” Can you believe this guy? A genuine, down-to-earth, simple, humble, human being in a position of power? Might this begin a trend among the elite of the planet? Naaaahhh. I’m not Catholic, but you gotta love this man.

 

I sense a change in the air. Bientot.

2013-07 Paris

Paris has much about which to appreciate, and also the occasional disappointment – traffic, merde de chien, aggressive clochards (most aren’t). But I find nothing more depressing than to pass on the street a stunningly beautiful 14-15 year old maiden, perfect complexion, long flowing hair, who stops, rummages in her purse, picks out a pack, lights up, takes a deep drag, blows smoke into the air with upraised face, and continues on.

Would this were an isolated occurrence, but it seems that virtually every fair maiden I pass is sucking on a cigarette, even more apparently so than young men. And at US$ 11 a pack, I bet there are “illegal” drug habits less obtrusive to the pocketbook.

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 Last post I noted “the French don’t smile,” at least not in public and not before strangers. If a young woman shows teeth on the streets of Paris, she will most assuredly be American, Aussie, or Brit, in that order.

Mais attend! I am seeing an increasing number of young local females with broad smiles on their faces. Can this be? But there is something even stranger. They all seem to be mumbling to themselves. An explosion of the deranged? Mais  non! They are talking on their cell phones (ear piece and dangling mic) to someone who obviously brings a smile to their face.

It now seems that tout Paris has a mobile phone, and perhaps to compensate for prior depravation, seem to be constantly engaged in conversation.

When I first encountered Paris, shortly after the Spanish-American war, I was trying to rent an apartment and asked my secretary at the American Embassy why none of the available flats had a telephone.

Shrug!

No problem, I’m here for about 9 months so I’ll have one installed. “Yvette, how long does it take to get a phone installed in Paris?”

“Deux annee.”

“Two days, that’s pretty quick.”

“Deux ANNEE.”

“Two weeks?”

“ANNEE, ANNEE, years, YEARS!!”

I thought for a moment she was pulling my jambe (by this time I had mastered colors and was on to body parts).

“How can this be?”

Shrug!

I learned that a popular saying of the day was that half of France was waiting for a phone to be installed and the other half was waiting for a dial tone!

I did manage to rent an apartment in Montmartre with a phone, for which I paid a massive supplement. I then realized that no one knew my number and I had no one to call, but I had a phone.

I asked Yvette for a Paris phone book.

“Ils n'existent plus”

“Of course they exist, I’ve seen them.”

““Ils n'existent PLUS. They no longer exist.”

It appears that the French telecommunications authority prints one phone book for each eligible citizen and business and not a single copy more. If you lose yours, have it stolen or otherwise become separated from it, that is not the problem of the French PTT.

I always wondered why Yvette kept hers locked in her desk.

“Yvette, how can this be?”

Shrug. A gesture I came to regret until I realized that I could avoid its occurrence simply by no longer asking questions.

 

Paris continues colder than Montana, but the food is better!

 

Bientot...