2013-12 Santa Fe

Greetings from Santa Fe. Initial impressions:

             …it is Taos at twice the price

            …it is New Orleans without the insanity

…it is the liberal artist colony where hippies migrate in search of eternal bliss.

 

The famous Plaza is awash in tourists and indigenous persona hawking local crafts and trinkets. The address, 109 East Palace, housed the office that coordinated initial phases of the Manhattan Project before moving to Los Alamos in the early 1940s. It is now a jewelry shop! Incidentally, a superb and fascinating history of the Project by Jennet Conant, granddaughter of one of the Project luminaries, is titled “109 East Palace.” It and the accompanying “Tuxedo Park” come highly recommended by one whose 4^th grade teacher tagged him “a reluctant reader.”

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While transiting Wyoming on the trek to New Mexico, I was fortunate to be a guest on a large working ranch, and while others were honing their marksmanship, I set out on a spargeljagt. Spargel, known locally as asparagus, though I prefer the German translation in homage to the obsession with which the locals embrace the green shoot each spring, even fashioning it into ice cream. Tracking the illusive spargel can be daunting and requires a keen eye and strong nerves.

 I found it prudent to approach cautiously, as when aroused they possess the ability to blend in with innocuous flora and render themselves virtually invisible. It is often necessary to lie flat on the ground to catch the near imperceptible movement of the larger stalks as they wave in the breeze.

 Day 1 was accompanied by bitter slanting rain threatening to turn to snow and severe wind gusts. Barely enough was bagged to provide dinner sustenance. And upon returning to base I was subjected to an extended debate over the simmering question of balsamic bath vs. butter and bacon sauté. I sampled both and refused aggressive attempts to render judgment.

Day 2 dawned windy but brilliantly sunny as only a western morning can deliver. Outfitted with all necessary accoutrements including spargelbag, comfortable shoes, and PBR, I sallied forth deep along the banks of the North Platte.

While never discovering the motherlode, the goddess of spargel was kind enough to reward me with some 10 pounds of the green delight, and I returned to base weary but with a full spargelpouch.

Fearing an inability by those assembled to consume the entire catch (and following the code of the west that we consume what we harvest), an adventuresome colleague braved the 12 miles of muddy dirt road to acquire pickling supplies. As a hunter I left the gathering to others and repaired to the back deck to observe antelope, deer, and assorted fowl frolicking in the glow of fading sun.

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 Upon arrival in the Land of Enchantment I spent several depressing days in 90+ degree heat viewing downtown “casitas” (small casas?), looking for a furnished 3-month sublet to become familiar with the local terrain. High prices and questionable quality followed but then luck (which I equate with perseverance) struck. I am now ensconced in a rather fru-fru condo with pool, fitness area, and “wine tasting room.”

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Santa Fe is clearly an artist mecca complete with a liberal tilt that extends about 88 degrees from center. I have seen several signs proclaiming that Santa Fe has 45,000 more liberals (pardon, progressives) than conservatives. Well actually 44,999 now!

But I am relieved to note that there are pockets of sanity hidden amongst the elite. I happened upon the “Cowgirl,” a true “cow person” bar, complete with a guitar/violin/mandolin/fiddle band playing tunes with which I identify. The comely Shelby served me with distinction, despite her confused expression when I asked if she was named after the automobile.

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 I take the public bus to the Plaza as there is no street parking there to be found. The ride offers exposure to a wide swath of humanity and a view of “laid-back” taken to heights (or depths) I have not previously encountered. Passengers pull the cord signaling their intention to descend, but as the bus pulls to a stop they seem to be in no hurry to cease conversation with their seat-mate (whom they have met but 8 minutes prior yet are deeply into discussion of their divorce/health issues/anti-nuclear campaign/etc. Bus driver and passengers wait patiently and eventually the conversation ends and the departure is affected, often with a jaunty wave.

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If you are lonely and crave companionship, Santa Fe is your oyster. Everyone extends greetings and on the bus it takes total strangers an average of 20 seconds to share their most intimate secrets with fellow passengers. It is the anti-Paris, where you can live cheek-by-jowl for decades with folks and not know their name. I was in a 24-hour Walmart this morning at 5am and employees stocking shelves all met me with a friendly greeting.
 

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Sitting in the rooftop bar (the “top” is second story) of the Marble Brewery overlooking the Plaza, I am struck by how many of my fellow imbibers resemble characters out of Doonesbury. Perhaps a cosmic magnetism drawing the strange to the sublime.

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Santa Fe is famous for (among other things) its Opera. Tonight Lyle Lovett is featured. Not a ticket to be had in town. Just my luck!

pronto

2013-11 Lake Alcova & Douglas, WY

           

Those paying attention will note that I BLOG less in the new world than the old. Not exactly sure of the rationale here, but it is certain that Paris offers more street theatre from which to draw inspiration. The mountains offer introspection, which combined with fermented liquid refreshment, leads to long naps and periods of diminished lucidity.

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When I was young we blamed crazy weather on the Russians. Now it’s the political persuasion to which you don’t subscribe. Last Wednesday in Montana it passed 90F while Northern Virginia was under a freeze warning. But lest we smirk, there was a call for snow showers here yesterday.

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Twisting a tagline from Garrison Keilor, it was NOT a quiet week in Washington, DC, my (former) home town. I make full use of the recessive male gene that induces obsessive cable-channel-changing which in turn insures access to the full panoply of fringe opinion. On a recent excursion several talking heads noted the “back and forth” of discourse among those of varying political persuasion. It occurred to be that one must sally “forth” before venturing “back.” But then again, perhaps not in politics.

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Kenya has a new President. Recalls a story (as do most events these days). My first trip to Nairobi (eons ago) via an overnight flight from London landed on a sunny spring morning. I navigated the official taxi rank and my female driver immediately departed at a frightful pace down Airport Road, nick-named (I later learned) “suicide alley,” evidenced by the burned-out hulks of vehicles strewn along the way.

I dozed off and awoke to a surreal scene of flowers, chanting, huge murals, and universal anguish. My driver sat motionless, tears flowing down her ebony cheeks. I sat terrified, or would have been had I not been amply fortified by strong drink dispensed in the first-class cabin of the Kenya Airways 707 (See note below).

I sat frozen in the rear of the taxi for what seemed like hours, and eventually learned, through the taxi radio tuned to the BBC, that Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, the beloved father of modern Kenya had passed away in the night, and I was in attendance at one of the many makeshift mourning sites hastily assembled throughout the city.

This was long before cell phones, beepers, and pagers, so I set the alarm on my watch to ring two minutes hence, held it close to the driver’s ear, and upon execution whispered, as piously as I knew how, that I had an important meeting at my hotel. She slowly gathered composure and deposited me at the Nairobi Hilton. I left a nice tip.

As the hotel staff had entered an extended period of mourning, I languished in the lobby until a helpful Indian porter logged me into a suite, which three days later caused a bit of a ruckus when it was determined that I had paid only for a small single.

 

NOTE: Lest I be tagged as a closet oligarch, note than in a previous life I toiled for an organization that had an air freight division entitling it to 2 (almost) free annual first class tickets on each IATA airline. As the company grosses legumes (lit: large vegetables; French slang for “big shots”) took for the most part the best carriers (Singapore, Cathay Pacific, Lufthansa, et al), I was often relegated to travel from A to C (or M or X) to get to B.

This led to some memorable journeys, such as my 6 hour layover (11pm – 5am) in the Islamabad airport (a truly unforgettable experience) and the subsequent flight to Singapore on Pakistan Airlines, where, as the only occupant of first class I was invited into the cockpit (this was a VERY long time ago) as we traversed the snow-covered Himalayas. The pilot snored loudly and the First Officer regaled me with lurid accounts of the many conquests afforded him as the result of his uniform and position. After several years, the truly frightening sounds from the rear of the plane departed my conscious, though occasionally reappearing in nightmares. The view will remain forever.

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Within the week I will be the newest resident of Santa Fe, apartment hunting and preparing for my new métier. As an artist retreat made famous by the likes of Georgia O’Keefe, the housing market features a plethora of ateliers advertising zen accommodation, holistic furniture, and mesmerizing auras, the meanings of which I have no clue. Hopefully if you visit you won’t find me in a feather boa and love beads.

bientot

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...

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