2014-12 Paris

It’s August in Paris and I have the city all to myself. Well, along with several million tourists gathered in clumps around street corners hovering over maps, looking dazed and confused.

The open marché down the street, operating Thursday and Saturday mornings, has been shrinking in alarming proportion. The bread man, the cheese lady, and now my favorite fruit stand are all MIA, some of their stands taken over by dry goods merchants. A majority of the local shops are tightly shuttered, with fermeture annuelle signs posted.

Twenty years ago a person could starve in August, but the French passion for nourriture now requires stores to post a list of the nearest open competitors.

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As one of the massive Gaza protests was wending its way down the nearby Boulevard des Invalides, I sauntered over I took it in…and left with the following impressions.

Were it a “stop the violence on both sides” I might have joined in, but it was virulently anti-Israel (coming just six hours after the latest violation of an agreed cease fire).

The demonstration was led by at least 500 French National police in full riot gear. Yet as the throng continued over a half mile long, not a member of the constabulary to be seen in the midst. I know where I would be if I wanted to cause trouble.

French unions were more than amply represented, suggesting that the left has clearly chosen sides. Or perhaps they just like parades.

In the midst of this angry mob of thousands, 4 young men held aloft a Star of David. Talk about courage, or perhaps something less admirable.

I’m still confused by the chap sporting a pineapple atop a 10 foot pole. Obviously some political statement of which I am ignorant.

I headed back to chez moi and just at the very moment the multitudes arrived at the end point on the Place des Invalides, a dark cloud covered the bright sun and a tumultuous downpour ensued, clearly drenching to the skin all not under shelter. Ten minutes later the sun reappeared. No political statement here, but it did seem quite orchestrated.

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I’ve remarked before how the French have taken to physical fitness. At almost any hour of the day there are joggers along Av. De Breteuil. But I have noticed they are mostly of a certain age, particularly the women. The young beautiful set, to whom perspiration is anathema, use tobacco to keep slim.

And yes, the French, including the young, do generally treat alcohol more respectfully that their American counterparts. At outdoor cafes, a single small glass of wine can languish for several hours undisturbed by animated conversation, while a half dozen Marlboros or Camels are consumed with gusto.

And while traditional begging is very low key, usually limited to a cup held aloft accompanied by a sad expression, I have witnessed numerous occasions where a passerby will stop at a café table and ask those seated for a cigarette. I have never seen the request refused. Go figure.

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Almost time to wrap up this chapter and head west. Want to get back to the mountains before the September snows begin.

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Taos the cat and I have bonded deeply. I will miss him. He’s an old codger, not unlike his temporary human companion, with a variety of aging annoyances, including a nasal discharge that vexes him. I’ve been attempting to teach him to blow his nose, currently without positive result.

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Next post will likely find me elsewhere. I’ll keep in touch.

2014-11 Paris

I don’t contribute to panhandlers (or whatever the PC designation is these days), but I do modestly support some of the many musicians that ply their trade on public transport. However, on one of the legs of my thrice weekly slog around the Invalides, a tent has been pitched on the sidewalk occupied by a raggedy street person.

He is usually sitting beside his makeshift home and unfailingly greets me with a smile and a wave as I pass. With some reservations I placed a 1€ coin in my slogging shorts and dug it out as I approached, planning to toss it into his tin cup (actually a ceramic bowl).

As I approached on my early morning slog he was groggily emerging from his abode and TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE!!! The coin stayed put. An analog to this is the homeless that always seem to be smoking, at a cost greater than US$ 10 a pack.

He has been in the same spot since I arrived 2+ months ago, but today he was gone, tent, bowl and all vestiges of his former abode. I hope he found a better place and the cell service is adequate.

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All Paris public transport is crowded during peak commuting hours, less so these days on the Metros which can run as frequently as every 90 seconds. But the relatively recent addition of tramways that circle the city have become extremely popular and can be crammed full of humanity as they run less frequently.

Today on the T3 a group of about fifteen 5-or so-year-olds facing the crush of humanity were split by their teachers and herded onto two adjacent tram cars. The separation stunned some as they looked on in horror as best friends were split up (this was mostly the girls, as boys were preoccupied in the universal pastime of punching one-another on the shoulder).

Six stops later they (and I) were disgorged, and the unbridled joy was touching even to a crusty curmudgeon who isn’t easily touched. You would think it was a reunion of the long lost, with shouting, laughing, jumping, and pointing.

Where does all that happiness and joy disappear to as we mature?

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And on the subject of the younger set, while languishing on a bench in one of Paris’ many parks, I witnessed a 10-year-old wailing on his younger sister with a series of taunts and pokes designed to intimidate and frustrate.

As she approached the breaking point, little miss pointed skyward and shouted “Maman, regarde” (look Mama). As Mom turned away little miss kneed her tormenter forcefully causing him to fall screaming and clutching. Mama turned in horror not knowing to make of this lightning bolt. Little miss innocently exclaimed "he tripped” (Il trebucha, I had to look up the word in my Smartphone translator).

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The French are still working on the concept of customer service. They are well aware of customers, those annoying folks who invade their stores, disturbing their conversations and daydreams. The service part proves harder to grasp.

Two examples from my neighborhood Monoprix.

A shelf stocker approached with a brisk pardon as I was perusing the wine selection. When I didn’t respond with immediate dispatch she placed her hand on my arm and physically shoved me out of the way. I responded with a very loud HEY, which she totally ignored and began to restock the shelf.

The ATMs here typically spit out 50 Euro notes, and since my arrival I have been using the Monoprix checkout as a change machine, usually offering a 50 to pay a 20-30 Euro bill. Never a complaint, but today, Ingrid, my cashier looked in horror at my 50 and said she didn’t have change, to which I replied Moi non plus (neither do I).

She kept waving my 50 and looking pained, obviously waiting for me to cave. As it was early and she was the only open cashier, the line grew, and as those behind me began to grumble, she expelled a large zut, opened her cash drawer brimming with notes and coins of all denominations, made change which she thrust into my hand.

Merci, madame, bon journee. I could tell by the looks on the faces of those behind me that her reply was not a good day wish to me in return.

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This chapter is nearing an end. I'll be taking Horace Greeley's advice sometime in the next several weeks, destination TBD.

2014-10 Paris

I may have started a trend, stunning in a country where the most innocuous of inclinations can take decades to percolate. While slogging in North America, it is my custom to mumble a “good morning” or “good day” to passing fellow joggers. That does not fly in a country where every indication of friendliness, no matter how benign, is met with deep suspicion.

And so I have taken to showing a “thumbs up” to passing runners, in truth a single thumb, as I don’t want to get ahead of myself and make the locals crazy. Today I actually had one return the upward thumb. Well, on second thought it may have been a different digit.

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King Juan Carlos of Spain has abdicated his throne. It’s about time. That man almost got me killed! It was long ago in a land far away, Barcelona, Spain, to be exact. I was managing a U. S. government exhibit and had an office above the exhibit floor with large glass windows so one could peer onto the activity below. My event was several weeks hence and I was working catch-up on a Saturday afternoon, while another event was in progress on the floor below.

I was attracted to some commotion on the floor and pressed against the window for a better look, when all at once a gaggle of nasty looking no-necks were pointing at me excitedly. It appears the newly crowned King Juan Carlos was visiting the exhibit surrounded by security (the misnamed Nationalists had made bodily threats.)

As I saw the good King being hustled off the floor I simultaneously heard the thunder of heavy boots on the stairs and my office door crashing open. All I could think was to shout “Americano,” but in Spain that is a cocktail, so I meekly turned to the wall, hands above my head. Spanish security forces are not renowned for their multi-linguistic skills, and it took a call to the American Consulate to square things away. The only question raised by the junior Embassy staffer on call was “what in the hell were you doing working on a Saturday.”

A nice segue into the story of how I came to spend a night in a Spanish Canary Islands jail for "camping on a beach that might flood." But a story for another time. Be sure to remind me.

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Encountered a pick-pocket the other day, rather he encountered me. Emerging from the Bonne Nouvelle (translation: Good News!!!) Metro, I felt a slight tug on the light jacket I had tied around my waist. Turning around, a 20-something thuggish looking sort was already backing away. I threw several of my favorite Anglo expletives, and in response he banged fists together indicating he was ready to take me on.

These things tick me off mightily. Here was an able-bodied young man (his body appearing abler than mine), and without some instructive result, he will be pursuing this line of work indefinitely. Lessons not taught nor learned invite bad behavior.

And so I descended several steps back down toward him (and yes, I hear all the females in my audience yelling ”idiot,” and they’re likely right), when 2 clochards (street people) up above joined the party. I assumed they were simply there to provide color commentary and not active participation, but in a rare moment of lucidity I hurled a few additional morsels of choice invective and turned away.

Interesting that I was wearing the very same jacket over a decade ago when a successful pick-pocketing took place as I was watching a carnival parade in New Orleans. Perhaps not so interesting for one who wears the same clothes for decades.

Maybe the French pick-pocket union should offer training scholarships in the Big Easy.

Several blocks away enjoying a beer to calm down, I had visions of finding a missile of some sort to even the playing field and returning to find the miscreant who was surely still in the area plying his evil trade. But the beer was so cold and tasty, the weather so warm, the view so inviting…

bientot

2014-09 Paris

Got involved in the “lost ring” scam today. Found myself at Opera, not sure why, quelle jardin zoologique” waiting for the light to change and wow, right at my feet a gentlemen picks up a gold ring. He gives me the zut alors look and I say pas le mien (not mine). He tries it on, doesn’t fit, another zut alors and is about to make his pitch, “it doesn’t fit me, so why don’t I let you have it for a modest stipend?”

I smile and say “do you speak English?” “A leeetle,” he replies.

"Then you will understand F*** off.”

He thinks for a second, twigs, scowls, and walks off.

Gotcha!

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A time-honored tradition for learning French is to watch TV, the questionable theory being that foreign words and phrases uttered by talking heads suddenly become intelligible. I tried this once. I lived with a cat that spoke constantly and I listened, faithfully, for what seemed like months but all I ever twigged was “feed me.

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Paris Metro stations are replete with warnings “ne pas descendre sur les voies. Danger de mort”. As every French schoolchild knows well, Mort is an evil troll who lives in the Metro tunnels and inflicts unspeakable carnage on those foolish enough to venture therein. Faire attention!

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The French are known for multitasking (if not multiachieving). Sit in a café and watch 6 women in conversation, all taking rapidly, non-stop, at the same time. Oh, and the men are worse.

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As I was slogging the other day, the thought occurred… If a gentleman of African descent is in charge of bats for a baseball team, given the sensitivity of the term “boy” in the minority community, should he be addressed as “Batman”? Just wondering.

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With my Commander-in-Chief in town last week I twigged on a long, long forgotten event. Don’t ask why. I was a junior staffer on loan to the White House assisting presidential advance teams (the folks who deploy in advance of a presidential foray and set the non-security agenda (the Secret Service handling the important stuff). 

I was in a meeting when one of the muckity-mucks noted that tomorrow is the President’s birthday and we’re all stumped as to how to celebrate it. The assemblage looked at one another and I, as yet unschooled in the maxim “never volunteer,” meekly spoke up.

“Whenever the President enters a public gathering the band plays “Ruffles & Flourishes (usually ta ta ta taaa, x 4), then breaks into “Hail to the Chief.” How about instead of Hail, after the Ruffles & Flourishes, the band strikes up “Happy Birthday.”

As the assemblage awaited official acknowledgement, the muckity walked over to me, asked my name, and sneered something like “you have no sense of protocol, the suggestion is absurd.” Though my body remained stationery, the rest of me slunk away mortified.

The following day in the rooftop bar of the Marriott Key Bridge where my staff and I often repaired at eventide to review the day’s events and kvetch about life in general, my ear caught a TV newscast covering a Presidential visit earlier in the day. I heard “ta-ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-ta-taaa, Happy Birthday to You, Mr. President…..Happy Birthday to You…” POTUS smiled ear-to-ear, and as the TV panned across the stage, there was muckity, himself smiling as though he had been conferred eternal salvation. It was perhaps the best lesson in politics I ever received, and which I carry with me to this day.

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Paris is in the throes of an early solstice canicule, with outdoor cafes overflowing and nubile young Parisiannnes in wispy summer dresses swishing by on the way to some delicious rendezvous…oh and the World Cup is on as well.

2014-08 Paris

Today is The Longest Day, June 6, 70 years from the day that names like Omaha and Utah ceased to be just cities and states. If you’ve not read The Longest Day by Cornelius Ryan, you should must. Like few other histories of that era, it weaves the joy (for some) the horror (for many), the serendipity and happenstance that came together on the beaches of Normandy. 

If you’ve read it, read it again! It provides a striking contrast to the giving of then to the taking of today where JFK’s “ask what you can do for your country” is but a distant memory, and dealing with the paparazzi is likened to the horrors of war.

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Heading out this morning to run jog slog I noticed a helicopter positioned stationery above the Invalides which I circumnavigate on the 5-k route I have set. Strange, never seen that before and don’t know if I have ever seen a chopper in the skies above Paris. Oh wait. My Commander in Chief is in town. Got it. Local joke is that half of Paris had to move to the suburbs to make room for his entourage.

The political world has descended on France to celebrate the D-Day occasion, most of whom never served honorably (or at all) in their respective militaries, save Putin who gets a pass based on his prior métier, and of course our own Commander in Chief, because he is, after all, the Commander in Chief.

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I thought of several really neat BLOG items while slogging today. Unfortunately they were left floating somewhere on the Quai d’Orsay.  Oh, and today’s slog was a personal best for Paris. Don’t embarrass me by asking the time.

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When I first came to Paris shortly after the American Civil War, those seen mumbling on the streets were deemed to be mentally deficient. Now they’re talking on their “mob-i-les.” And while the French often criticize les savauges (i.e. those not born in France or whose lineage does not extend back 5+ generations) for being loud, their voices rise an octave when speaking into cell phones.

In those early days the local joke was that half of France was waiting for a phone to be installed and the other half was waiting for a dial tone. At the time the wait for installation was 12-18 MONTHS, yes, not days or weeks but months. Now every 10 year old has her own pink princess cell.

My first apartment in Paris was arranged through the American Embassy and I insisted on a phone which I was told would be impossible. I dug in and they finally found one so equipped, for which I paid a handsome supplement. In 8 months I never used the device and it never rang, but I just couldn’t see living without a phone.

The philosophy was simple. Like with phone books. When I asked my Embassy secretary for a spare phonebook, she looked shocked and said n’existe plus (no longer available). The PTT produced books every 5 years, one for each subscriber, and no extras. I nicked hers!

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I maintain multiple mailing lists for this BLOG, a small one for acquaintances who, possibility out of charitable courtesy have not told me to bug off, and several larger ones containing the curious and those with too much idle time who have wandered in by happenstance. These lists have not grown, and while I have always maintained that I BLOG for personal satisfaction alone, ego dictates that an expanding audience feeds the self-esteem.

And so my first, and likely last promotion. Send me the emails of folks to add to the list. I won’t tell them who recommended their names! In return, your subscription will be extended for a year. But wait! The first 50 of you who supply names will get a subscription in perpetuity with a provision for passing on to your heirs when you leave the planet.

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I think my Commander in Chief is already in Normandy, but if I see him on the streets of Paris I’ll convey your regards.

Bientot

2014-07 Paris

Have you noticed how inertial I am (perhaps you haven’t been paying attention). No BLOG post for two months now 2 in one week. A body at rest tends to stay at rest; a body in motion…

Four years as an undergraduate physics student and that’s all I remember.

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My Carte Navigo (See note below) is dezonage on weekends and jours fériés, 19 of which are celebrated in France, mostly religious, and while the country has become highly secular, the French “religiously” retain an attachment to these holidays.

 

As I was saying, even though I pay only for the city of Paris with my Carte Navigo, on weekends and holidays I am permitted to venture beyond to most of the Ile de France, which, if you have been paying attention, you know refers to Paris and its suburbs, not the entire country of France.

 

So yesterday, one of the 19 jours fériés, (Ascension Day, if you care) I decided to visit Meaux, ville d’Art et d’historie…and brie I might add. It was closed, perhaps due to the holiday, but located on the Marne river with several bridges and the requisite cathedral, I spent a tolerable several hours searching in vain for an open brasserie. All I found open  was a “club” with several sketchy individuals lounging about. I demurred.

This weekend I might try Coulommiers, one of the remaining 2 (Melun the third) in the brie trifecta. Say tuned.

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Not satisfied with a mere 19 official holidays, the French live for those holidays that fall on a Thursday (preferred) or Tuesday. This affords the opportunity to faire le pont (make the bridge) so that the inconveniently intervening workday is taken as an extra day off. Wednesdays can also work, you just take off the preceding or succeeding work days.

But holidays that fall on Monday or Friday or (quelle horreur) weekends are met with distain and despair, an indication that life is truly unfair and cheats the working man. Won’t be long, I predict, before unions discover a loophole to counter this outrage.

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From time to time I feel an odd urge to include something educational or at a minimum useful herein. I am usually able to sublimate these urges…however...

Faux amis, false friends, a term applied to words in 2 languages that appear to be similar but are not, often leading to embarrassment or worse (read on). In fact the French preservative might lead one to stab at the English meaning, but it most definitely does not refer to jams or jellies (think ways of preventing pregnancy). There are many similar, but my favorite is not French-English.

Friend Hilde meets Pilar who is not looking too good.

“Pilar, you don’t look well.”

“I’m not Hilde, I have a bad constapado.”

Aha says Hilde, “I too have suffered from this condition. Take one of these pills. They always work for me.”

The next day Pilar is no better and Hilde says “well here, take 2, which should do the trick.”

Day 3 and Pilar seems worse. “I can’t understand it,” says Hilde “these have always done the trick for me. Here, take 3 and I guarantee it will work.”

Day 4 and Pilar is miserable, crying and shaking. “Oh Hilde, the constapado is no better and now I have this terrible diarrhea!”

Yes, dear friends, one of the translations for constapado in Spanish is a cold or flu…

And the Spanish embarazada means pregnant. Think how that could find you in a fix!

So beware of faux amis, both in language among bipeds.

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And while I’m on an informational jag, the Carte Navigo is a travel pass that can be loaded with weekly, monthly, or annual unlimited Metro, bus, and train travel in Paris, or for escalating prices, in zones that include the suburbs. Monthly and annual (not weekly) Navigos are dezonage on weekends, holidays, and school vacation periods, allowing Parisian to escape the inner city.

Weekly Paris rates run about US$ 28; monthly some US$ 93. Not cheap, but unlimited and a great way to explore the city. Once available only to residents, now the Navigo Decouverte is available to the great unwashed at a cost of 5€ and good for 10 years. Bring a 1” x 1” picture or have one taken in the booths located in most Metro stations. One disadvantage is that the weekly card is not 7 days but from Monday-Sunday.

 

Bientot

2014-06 Paris

Ok, OK, stop kvetching about my indolence.  I’m old and lazy and that is not likely to improve.

Actually I am motivated to BLOG based on an inquiry from an acquaintance asking if I am still alive. At the moment, yes.

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Update since my last BLOG post: Nothing important.

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Except that I returned to Montana for a month and am now back in the land of Gaul, recovering from a solid week of gastronomy with a family member who accompanied me and has now returned to the Rockies.

Spring has sprung in Paris, which means equal parts sunshine and rain, a requirement for the production of May flowers. I am experiencing the rain; awaiting the flowers.

My current abode is in the 7^th Arrondisement, a bourgeois neighborhood within easy walking distance of the Invalides and the Eiffel Tower. A quiet street with a park-like center ideal for running (or in my case slogging).

My housemate is Taos the cat, a geriatric feline who I have been instructed to periodically “provoke” into minimal physical activity as eating and (mostly) sleeping consume the bulk of his existence. My most recent attempt resulted in him putting the claw upon me with a warning to back off. I understand his temperament; I’m an old guy too.

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I tried to sign up for a coming 10k run, but was stymied by the requirement that I produce a medical certificate certifying that I would not spoil the day by dropping dead along the course.

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Things I have learned:

If it’s raining in Paris you probably don’t need an umbrella. Duck into a café for a coffee or beer. It will stop soon. If the sun is shining, you probably do.

 

           Pandora doesn’t work here. Perhaps the French live in fear of Dolly  Parton.

 

I rest my bones on Ave Bret-toy, not Ave Bret-tie (fr: Breteuil), a useful factoid to keep taxi drivers from attempting to ferry you to a suburb 15 km. out of Paris.

 

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Got caught up in a monster union manif last week.  Must have been 20,000 or so marchers, stretching as far as the eye could see. Weekday mid-afternoon, and all seemed to be having a grand time with bullhorns and firecrackers, but none of these folks were working. Probably most on the clock, just not involved in production.

A common theme was Solidarity Contra Austerity, with austerity in my dictionary being defined as ”a state of reduced spending and increased frugality in the financial sector. Austerity measures generally refer to the measures taken by governments to reduce expenditures in an attempt to shrink their growing budget deficits.”

So I gather the union stance is “to hell with deficits, just keep spending.” Pretty much sums up the position of these folks worldwide. A pity that their children and grandchildren (and ours) will be picking up the tab, either that or existing in a collectively universal cardboard box.

But nothing compared to the 25 or so Code Pink ladies (loose term) I encountered several days ago. I thought I had left that nut roll behind in North America, where they wear pink hats and disrupt congressional hearings. But here they have pink raincoats, pink shoes, pink umbrellas, (pink nickers? [I don't want to know!] etc. They were blocking the pavement in front of a building, the contents of which had apparently perpetrated a real or perceived offence. As I politely tried to thread my way, saying “pardon, pardon,” one of the domestic terrorists raised her umbrella in a menacing fashion. I split in haste, choosing to pick my battles where there is a sliver of successful result.

Based on last weekend’s elections, it appears that at least a quarter of Europe wants to junk the European Union. Just when I was getting used to the Euro.

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My temporary abode opens onto a lush garden and opposite a medieval church housing a nunnery. Today white smoke was emanating from a chimney. I wonder if a new Mother Superior has been elected?

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We are in the midst of Paris’ First (hopefully annual) Craft Beer Week. Something to keep me occupied (if not wobbly) for a bit. If and when the spiritual fog clears, I’ll BLOG again.

2014-05 Bozeman

The first day of Spring is upon us, the date when Montanans respectfully ask the Deity to refrain from 2-foot snow dumps until September next. The plea is often ignored. But last week as the east coast was enduring another horrific 6-inch snowmageddon, I sat on the balcony enjoying 60+ degree sunshine. We used to blame the Soviet Union for weather manipulation…someone should check Vlad’s intentions thereabouts.

And I just looked out the window. It’s snowing…

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The Crimean situation has got me to thinking…Idaho has a funny shape and is largely populated by a quirky citizenry. I wonder if a movement to annex might gather some steam (Montanaho?) I plan to ask around. If it works, watch out Wyoming.

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Work on the Paris apartment is apparently proceeding apace, and thus my next geographical transition may be in the works. I am however pixelated by an issue that may visit upon me some significant challenge.

Several weeks ago as I exited the 46 bus I was shocked to see a 4-foot x 3-foot poster in the bus shelter sporting a picture of the Duck Dynasty foursome in full camouflage announcing (in French, of course) the imminent arrival of the series to French TV (no Fox News, but Duck Commander. Go figure).

I may be called upon to explain this phenomenon, as I was 3+ decades ago when I first breached Gaullic shores to be greeted by “Vous êtes américain? Ah oui. Chicago, Al Capone, bang-bang.”

I was hard pressed to explain why I did not have a six-shooter strapped to my hip and queried whether I planned to commit mayhem during my stay. The canard crowd’s introduction to France may well release a new demand for explanation of bizarre North American behavior. Wasn’t easy then and won’t be now.

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MH370 consumes us and illustrates our intolerance of the unknown. The demand for instant clarification (if not gratification) spawns a genuine scramble for illumination. “We just don’t have a clue” doesn’t cut it in a post-NSA environment. Just as we were getting initiated to a “government knows everything” mentality, we must now grapple with a Sargent Schultz (I know nothing) mindset.

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It will, of course, be deemed mean-spirited that I recall the current Administration’s 2009 attempt to “mend international fences”, confronting a planet disdainful of the USA that had allegedly reached a high point reminiscent of the dark days of the Vietnam war. I do wonder if there is a country out there that now has an improved view of Uncle Sam. International BLOG recipients, feel free to chime in.

In that vein, as Uncle Sam transitioned over the last century to Uncle Sugar, a dichotomy persists. On the one hand we are the overbearing, meddling, policeman-of-the planet, while on the other the world seems perplexed when we don’t rush in where they all fear to tread.

It appears that our current President now shares a less than illustrious trait with his predecessor: he can do no right.

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I am beginning to question the wisdom of 3 months in the cradle of gastronomy. I returned from the City of Light with a “baguette belly” that has persisted as deep snow and howling winds have thwarted thrice weekly slogs. But my accommodation in Paris is situated on a wide boulevard with a central pedestrian area that diminishes (but does not eliminate) the possibility of collision with mechanized conveyances.

I am impressed with the number of joggers nowadays on the streets of Paris. Decades ago anyone running was deemed to be a lawbreaker fleeing a scene of carnage or pillage. Now there are even jogging groups in the city, though populated mostly by Scandinavians and North Americans. And the elderly are still inclined to stare at fully clothed streakers.

Bientot...

2014-04 Paris

Two days ago all the English-speaking channels on the apartment TV expired mysteriously, a particularly cruel occurrence as it coincided with the secession of sunshine and the onset of cold drizzle.

But being forced to watch local programming has certainly improved my French.

I was particularly absorbed by an film featuring the ubiquitous aircraft in danger plot where lots of people died (including the cockpit crew)…someone’s Air Force thought about shooting the plane down but decided not to…a flight attendant was groped by sinister character (I thought at first he was trying to highjack the plane but apparently was interested only in touchy-feely)…and the plane, a 747, was landed perfectly by a housewife from Cleveland who was met on the jet way by her daughter who announced she had been accepted at the Sorbonne, or perhaps it was Mt. Holyoke. I like happy endings.

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Now deposed Ukraine President Yanukovych joins Mr. Snowden as a guest of Mr. Putin. Interesting company. And at the moment things are heating up and world leaders are exchanging threats and warnings. Another red line perhaps?

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Last BLOG I commented on the singular nature of Cartesian logic applied by the French (“I am Mickey!”), but it is established fact that the French are masters of multitasking, at least when they want to be. Reminds me of the Month Python dirge

I like traffic lights

I like traffic lights

I like traffic lights

But only when they’re green

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The Barack & Francois show, in full swing as I left home shores 2 weeks ago, was a virtual love fest, calling each other by first names and joking together as they walked. A witticism making the rounds here in France is that “at least now each has one friend on the planet.”

But even as Hollande traverses France trumpeting “Yes We Can” in English (a phrase not heard inside American shores since it resounded so powerfully over 4 years ago yet lost much of its oomph when reality set in), the two world leaders share both philosophy and reality.

Both have faced the stark reality that kvetching from the outside is infinitely more challenging than leading from the inside. In America, certain media (i.e. Fox) have taken to playing side-by-side clips of Senator Obama then and President Obama now.

The contrast is stunning, with the young Senator crucifying the sitting president for trifling with the Constitution in a way that appears incredibly tepid in comparison to his current “pen and phone” line of attack. In 2008 “I am a constitutional scholar and I respect the Constitution and I will not trample it as it is now being defiled.” Oh well, times change.

And in France, the man elected on a hardline Socialist ticket that (among other things) vowed a 100% income tax on those making over $1 million Euros, is causing left-wing apoplexy by cozying up to the business community and proposing measures to make France “more business-friendly.” I suspect the 77% drop in foreign investment last year has helped to focus the Socialist mind.

It seems that “yes we can” has morphed into “gee it seems a bit more complicated than I imagined.”

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Next post will be from the New World...bientot

2014-03 Paris

The French do have a talent for catchy phrases, which they proudly display on buildings with spray paint. One yesterday caught my eye: Je suis Marxist; tendence Groucho.

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Marches are dangerous places. Wide-bodied matrons hauling 2-wheeled shopping carts the size of 50-gallon drums barrel down the narrow lane on their missions of domestic pursuit. But today it is raining, calling the umbrella factor into the mix. With stalls on both side and a center aisle often little more than 2 meters wide, eye protection becomes essential, typically in the form of keeping the head low and eyes downcast, adding a further impediment to the smooth flow of commerce. Gives new meaning to the phrase “sharp stick in the eye.”

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The Parisian transport system is a marvel. Rarely is one more than 2-3 blocks from a Metro station, and when busses, the new tram system that circles the city, and the occasional funicular are added to the mix, walking is often unnecessary, except of course during rush hour when all public conveyances are jammed to stifling proportions, a godsend to perverts and pickpockets alike.

A weekly pass to all of these services costs around $25 and a monthly equivalent about $75. The pass arrives in the form of a Carte d’Orange (color green) currently named Navigo (in purple). It comes with a chip on which one loads weekly or monthly (even annual) credit then holds it next to a reader on the bus or entrance to the Metro. A high-pitched “ding” confirms your validity to be conveyed.

Here it gets tricky. Over time I have noticed a steady deterioration in the proportion of paying public.  Youth, minorities, and those under 60 appear to feel that the nuisance of payment is beneath them. Bus drivers never question these miscreants (more on this downstream), but there are controllers that sweep onto busses or subway cars, covering all exits, demanding proof of compliance.

While few and far between, there is a performance metric here that confounds the process. Last year on the 96 bus that wends a near hour-long voyage from the eastern edge of the city to Montparnasse, a controller approached a well-dressed lady who it appeared was not in possession of valid proof of paid travel. She put forth a spirited defense, about 98% of which was beyond me, but drag on it did, and I purposely stayed beyond my stop to catch the resolution.

The normal result would be for the controller to demand a fine of about 40 Euros. But here the demand and repost continued through the Marais, across the Seine, along the student quarter and into trendy St. Germain de Pres district. When the bus pulled into the terminus at Montparnasse, the lady breezily departed, hotly pursued by the controller, discussion continuing with no apparent result.

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As promised, a discourse on why bus drivers never question the hordes that jump on their conveyance without paying. Simple Cartesian logic: It’s not their job. They are drivers, not ticket takers.

Years ago a story was related to me by an acquaintance of an American manager at the newly opened Disney Park outside Paris. He had hired several Mickeys, Minnies, and Plutos to dress up and mingle with the anticipated throngs. One day he approached an employee and noted that as several Pluto’s were down with the grippe, today he would be Pluto. “But I am Mickey,” the astonished staffer responded. “Well, today you are Pluto, and as you are head to toe in a costume, it’s no matter. “But I am Mickey,” and no amount of threat or persuasion would sway the worker. Simple Cartesian logic. “I am Mickey, not Pluto.” As frustrated as was the manager, more so the employee who could not fathom the request. “How can I be Pluto when I am Mickey?”

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Perhaps Ernest was right (or was it Oscar [Wilde, not the Grouch] who writing in “The Importance of Being Hemmingway” remarked it is easier to write in Paris?

Bientot.

2014-02 The City of Light

Back in the Ile de France, as Johnny Halliday might paraphrase Lennon–McCartney.

Nothing like an 8-hour layover at Chicago’s O’Hare to stimulate the journalistic juices. Airports in general are no fun, although Denver is an exception and some of the smaller, Bozeman & Colorado Springs come to mind, are quite tolerable.

But not O'Hare. There used to be NO place to recharge a laptop or phone, and now there are plenty, but most don't work. Like the menus in Moscow restaurants that offer untold gastronomic delights, but in reality there is only chicken available.

I was almost tempted to drop into downtown until I checked the wind chill.

Had enough of that in Paradise, with minus 35F and a wind chill of minus 46 (that’s minus 200 Celsius for my European followers and near absolute zero on the Kelvin scale). My truck started much to my amazement, albeit amidst bizarre shrieks of protest not previously encountered.

It doesn’t take a heap of airport observation to recognize that personality is a zero sum game. For those few that suffer from multiple personality disorder, there a bunch that have none.

Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town that Frank Sinatra called is “kinda town.” Fairly certain he never spent much time in concourse C at O’Hare.

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The Paris apartment may or may not be available in April, depending on whether reconstruction of the 17^th century wall proceeds smoothly. It’s always something. But I have decided to pop over to recon the landscape and offer advice to the workers.

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I wonder if anyone has ever expired from an overdose of cheese. I could be in trouble here. I have always distained the “shop til you drop” mentality, but trudging through the marché ouvert today with enough dairy to cause a cholesterol riot, I twigged that when it comes to nourriture I am as vulnerable as any fashion diva. Bon appétit.

And gluten. Don’t get me started! Gluten et fromage, a marriage made in gastronomic heaven.

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I departed on Valentine’s Day, the day of the year when much love is expressed, often to the exclusion of the other 364. As, perhaps, the throngs who descend on Christian churches each Easter to pay their annual respects to the deity.

And I wonder how many of the X chromosomes give a Valentine gift to the Y’s? Who wrote that rule? But I did get a card from some very special 4-legged friends.

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Revisiting my decades-old haunts for favorites pizza (best on the planet), confit de canard, cous-cous, sole meuniére, etc.

Bientot

2014-01 Pray, MT

The less to be done, the less gets done.

                                                R. Will 2014

 

Soaking in the hot spring, thinking (but doing nothing) about taxes, contemplating sunrises, and bonding with the landlady’s dog and cat consume many hours and the bulk of psychic energy I can comfortably expend. Blogging suffers.

M. Nature continues to confuse and confound. Two weeks ago at the hot spring the temp was -4F, making the barefoot 20-yard walk from the changing room to the small hot pool approximate the longest mile.

I bought snowshoes, and after getting stuck (despite 4-wheel drive) on the dirt road leading to my cabin (which required an excruciating “by-hand” dig out), I acquired 10 60-lb sacks of sand to ballast my truck. Within 24-hours the temp skyrocketed – today it will top 50F – a virtual tropical heat wave for Paradise Valley. Rain is contemplated, RAIN!, a phenomenon normally encountered hereabouts only during the nominal spring/summer/autumn period from  1 July to 12 August.

And as I type, Washington, D. C. is shuttered in anticipation of 6-12” of frozen precip. Go figure. Once again, for the benefit of my eastern neighbors, I reproduce the Rockies snow depth chart:

            >6”      flurries

              6-12” dusting

            12-18” covering

            12-24” snow

            >24”    dump

 

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I can almost hear the groans whenever I venture into political thickets, which currently have grown to tropical rain forest proportions. One telling observation: FOX (no one else of course) has taken to running video clips of Senator Obama then and President Obama now, in his own words, as it were. The contrast is absolutely stunning. Acts of the former Administration then deemed marginally treasonable are now trumped by events of darker color and deeper hue. It’s a bit different to be piloting the craft than lounging in the parlor car sipping champagne.

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Contemplating a trip to the City of Light (not, as often mischaracterized, “lights.”) April (in stark contrast to the song) is perhaps the most miserable month, when invariably M. Nature tosses a few rays of sunshine at the locals then dumps scads of freezing rain and howling wind that morphs hope to despair and turns the surly to churlish on steroids.

And literally as I am typing (I’m really not making this up) an e-mail from a longtime acquaintance informs me that a family member has been banished by his firm to Philadelphia! for 3 months and his apartment is available from May through July. Be still my heart. Film at 11…