What we mainly do is walk and eat: me pastries, C breastmilk. Before we arrived, J asked me if she could get anything for us like diapers or baby food. They also borrowed a crib for us.
I didn’t have any preconceived notions about what kind of parent I would be. However, I have gravitated naturally towards what’s called “attachment parenting”: baby carrying rather than using a stroller, cosleeping, breastfeeding, etc. What I didn’t realize as I made each of these decisions instinctively is that they make us a highly-mobile family unit. I never need cribs or bottles or really any extra equipment. I brought toys for her, but she’s really just as happy with a crinkly piece of paper as any rattle.
In the meantime, all this walking, or just my shift in hormones, helped me lose 20 lbs. Congratulate me for being back in the range of my normal weight after gaining about 45 in my pregnancy. (BTW, I personally think the doctors’ recommended 25-35 lb. gain is major BS. Nearly every healthy woman I know gained 50 lbs, and the last thing you need to get hung up on when growing a healthy human is your own size.)
As my body got smaller, C began looking like a baby chick with a tuft of blond hair newly grown on her head. It’s unbelievably cute! Of course, this began the debate about what her hair color will ultimately be since her eyes are surprisingly blue (!!). I remain absolutely certain that she will have dark brown hair, but not everyone we know is convinced.
The next stop in our big adventure was Switzerland to visit Dan and family. The train ride lasted a whopping 6 hours the primary event of which was C turning my éclair over onto herself resulting in one clothing change. (And I tried so hard to be careful! But a woman’s need for chocolate pastries can be powerful.) Then a massive poopy blowout which proved that poop and chocolate do not look the same at this age.
Every time I go to Switzerland, the clarity of the water in the cities’ rivers amazes me. Lucerne is all about its river and bridges to cross it, doll-house town centers surround. We missed the famous lion sculpture. A few minutes on the bus brought us to Dan’s little neighborhood where we wandered through a quaint school before finding their building. Wide, natural lawns were everywhere – the entire US is trying to emulate this look with lawns they must support with constant watering and chemicals.
Dan’s wife, A, is a wonderful cook, creating each meal for us like it was a work of art. Their daughter is 9-months old, a long skinny little dancer who loves to look around, sit and wave her hands in the air. (C, on the other hand, has very little interest in sitting. But she’s much younger.) A made baby food for her daughter with spices, ginger, garlic, herbs, to get her used to the flavors. We spent a magnificent afternoon walking through an idyllic valley to work off all this deliciousness. By the time we got back to Paris, C had outgrown the clothes I brought on this trip for her.
[We've been back for more than a week, but I still have one more post on our trip forthcoming....]
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
adventures with my baby: round and round
The big news since I last wrote is that C is rolling over from back to front. Our 5-month newsletter from the hospital suggested she should be doing this, and like clockwork (a few days later) she did. Admittedly this makes our mobile system a bit more awkward. For example, after I’m finished washing her in the bath, I put her on a couple nice soft towels in the floor while I finish with myself. She can now roll off these towels onto the cold hard tiled floor… and does. At home, I have a seat (or 5) that should contain her but not here.
Her first time rolling back to front was at Jacq’s (G’s mom) place in the countryside where the name of the game is delicious French cooking. One highlight was a recipe from a book called La Cuisine Mexicaine. Jacq apologized because it was spicier than she expected due to the peppers being from her garden. Of course, French very spicy is Mexican’s medium. So delicious!
Yes, that was a highlight. The other top highlight was the cherries which had just ripened on the trees. Jacq also had so many strawberries she had someone selling them for her at the market – and this wasn’t her usual occupation. Both were amazingly sweet, juicy, tasty. But everything was good… of course especially the company.
The house had 3-foot thick walls and a worn-away stone staircase to the second floor. I wish we could have stayed longer but J&G had to get back to work on Monday.
The Friday before, I had lunch with Tina, my favorite American living in Paris. She’s going to write a book about the recent twists in her life; so, I won’t give anything away. I asked her about the breastfeeding issue. She said French women have some idea that breastfeeding makes them a slave. It sounds to me like first-wave feminist – the idea that to be equal, women must be like men. Not to go on and on about food, but for lunch we got some tartes from the bakery across the street: leeks and chevre, and another with berries and apricots.
As I mentioned, we’ve been primarily riding the buses around town -- easier to get on and off in case of fits, good window views, more space – and I’m now in love with Paris’ bus system. Buses serve the city comprehensively. But what I love most about the bus system is the stops: every stop has a name that is both clearly labeled and clearly indicated as the bus approaches it. The buses serve the stops frequently and real-time-travel information is displayed in each shelter (all stops have shelters). It’s like the bus stops are Places which adds value to the bus system (once you try it – in all these years, I’ve never tried one before).
It fait chaud. Fortunately, C has a sunhat, but I can’t always get the strap around both her chins. Sometimes it gets stuck around just one of them. I feel very lucky to have such a fat baby. When she was tiny, I felt vulnerable with her – like she could get crushed or miss a meal and that would be that. A temper tantrum could burn all he available calories. Fortunately, she also tends to be happy.
I wanted a photo of her in front of the Eiffel Tower; so, we spent the day in the 16th. Trocadero had some kind of protest about genocide in Sri Lanka. She slept through our first visit to the area, but when we returned hours later, we, hopefully, got the shot. In between we visited my favorite hand-powered merry-go-round. I was overwhelmed by all the children, again, in the park on this beautiful weekday. In addition to the merry-go-round, they rode ponies and played in the sunlight.
Her first time rolling back to front was at Jacq’s (G’s mom) place in the countryside where the name of the game is delicious French cooking. One highlight was a recipe from a book called La Cuisine Mexicaine. Jacq apologized because it was spicier than she expected due to the peppers being from her garden. Of course, French very spicy is Mexican’s medium. So delicious!
Yes, that was a highlight. The other top highlight was the cherries which had just ripened on the trees. Jacq also had so many strawberries she had someone selling them for her at the market – and this wasn’t her usual occupation. Both were amazingly sweet, juicy, tasty. But everything was good… of course especially the company.
The house had 3-foot thick walls and a worn-away stone staircase to the second floor. I wish we could have stayed longer but J&G had to get back to work on Monday.
The Friday before, I had lunch with Tina, my favorite American living in Paris. She’s going to write a book about the recent twists in her life; so, I won’t give anything away. I asked her about the breastfeeding issue. She said French women have some idea that breastfeeding makes them a slave. It sounds to me like first-wave feminist – the idea that to be equal, women must be like men. Not to go on and on about food, but for lunch we got some tartes from the bakery across the street: leeks and chevre, and another with berries and apricots.
As I mentioned, we’ve been primarily riding the buses around town -- easier to get on and off in case of fits, good window views, more space – and I’m now in love with Paris’ bus system. Buses serve the city comprehensively. But what I love most about the bus system is the stops: every stop has a name that is both clearly labeled and clearly indicated as the bus approaches it. The buses serve the stops frequently and real-time-travel information is displayed in each shelter (all stops have shelters). It’s like the bus stops are Places which adds value to the bus system (once you try it – in all these years, I’ve never tried one before).
It fait chaud. Fortunately, C has a sunhat, but I can’t always get the strap around both her chins. Sometimes it gets stuck around just one of them. I feel very lucky to have such a fat baby. When she was tiny, I felt vulnerable with her – like she could get crushed or miss a meal and that would be that. A temper tantrum could burn all he available calories. Fortunately, she also tends to be happy.
I wanted a photo of her in front of the Eiffel Tower; so, we spent the day in the 16th. Trocadero had some kind of protest about genocide in Sri Lanka. She slept through our first visit to the area, but when we returned hours later, we, hopefully, got the shot. In between we visited my favorite hand-powered merry-go-round. I was overwhelmed by all the children, again, in the park on this beautiful weekday. In addition to the merry-go-round, they rode ponies and played in the sunlight.
Friday, May 13, 2011
adventures with my baby: Jim Morrison
5 days in Mallorca is really not enough to fully unwind. The last time, I think it was a week. Then, I felt like we had time enough to do little enough: get up late, have a coffee and pastry, wander around the town center, return for the typical 4-hour French lunch, take a siesta, go to the beach and swim, sunbath and read, return for dinner. Now that I type that out, it’s actually a lot. I certainly never got through that much in one day with my baby in tow. We almost never get out of the house before 2p.
But we’re back in Paris now. The flights were uneventful, and J very kindly met us at the airport.
As I mentioned, I’ve been riding the bus instead of the Metro because it feels safer with a baby. I stepped out of the house for the first time today at 3p. There’s a bus stop right in front of J&G’s building; so, I checked where those buses went. One goes near Pere Lachaise and was coming in 1 minute. We got on it.
I went to Pere Lachaise last in 1995 with Grayson, and we visited heady graves like George Elliot and Chopin. We never found Jim Morrison’s grave. I wonder if his grave is now more famous as he is? It’s one of the top tourist attractions in this city of famous things. Leaving the grave site, I directed 3 middle-aged American-in-the-worst-sense-of-the-word women to it. I can’t even imagine them listening to The Doors!
I just googled him to get the spelling of the cemetery and find myself surprised at how young he looks in the photo, like a teenager. Now that I have a baby I see everyone as somebody’s baby: bin Laden, Jim Morrison, Obama, Madonna…. Another strange coincidence: C shares Jim Morrison’s birthday, and he was born the same year as my mother.
I had my usual lunch of 2 pastries in the cemetery before heading back on foot.
But we’re back in Paris now. The flights were uneventful, and J very kindly met us at the airport.
As I mentioned, I’ve been riding the bus instead of the Metro because it feels safer with a baby. I stepped out of the house for the first time today at 3p. There’s a bus stop right in front of J&G’s building; so, I checked where those buses went. One goes near Pere Lachaise and was coming in 1 minute. We got on it.
I went to Pere Lachaise last in 1995 with Grayson, and we visited heady graves like George Elliot and Chopin. We never found Jim Morrison’s grave. I wonder if his grave is now more famous as he is? It’s one of the top tourist attractions in this city of famous things. Leaving the grave site, I directed 3 middle-aged American-in-the-worst-sense-of-the-word women to it. I can’t even imagine them listening to The Doors!
I just googled him to get the spelling of the cemetery and find myself surprised at how young he looks in the photo, like a teenager. Now that I have a baby I see everyone as somebody’s baby: bin Laden, Jim Morrison, Obama, Madonna…. Another strange coincidence: C shares Jim Morrison’s birthday, and he was born the same year as my mother.
I had my usual lunch of 2 pastries in the cemetery before heading back on foot.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
adventures with my baby: maternity leave and birthday dinner
You know how C likes to “talk” at length when she is moved to do so? Well, these guys have decided she is running for office. I don’t remember who it was, but one of my friends said she was promising that if she is elected, all mothers will get indefinite paid maternity leave. Of course, this transpired into a conversation of exactly how long is the right amount. The US’s 6-weeks paid something (not your salary – something else) is clearly not enough. Even California’s 12 weeks falls short. Here in France, they get 6 months fully paid. I took 24 weeks, but I certainly didn’t get paid anything for the second half. I took that time with the generosity of not losing my job…yet. On the other hand, 18 years is probably too much. They told a story of a friend who doesn’t work on Wednesdays. Her teenage daughter sent her to the movies on a Wednesday so that she could have the apartment to herself after school.
But back to our chronicles… the night of J’s birthday, we had dinner at the fancy restaurant, CaN’ai, where J and G had their wedding reception. The walls surrounded us huge and stone as the light faded through huge pointed windows, and everything seemed made of heavy wood. I was very worried about C’s ability to play it cool throughout dinner, but she cooperated wonderfully and never fussed at all. I did nurse her twice and held her on my lap throughout the dinner.
The meal began with an “amuse bouche” – a tiny seafood mouse with what tasted like guava jam in the bottom. They provided us with mini-baguettes and pads of butter. The red wine was particularly delicious, probably local. Next was onion soup – the plate arrived with a piece of hard toast topped with caramelized onions, cheese and fresh herbs. Then, the waiter circled the table pouring broth into the bowls. The main course choices were beef or fish. I choose fish, a thick white flaky fillet with mushrooms I didn’t recognize …among other things. G kindly shared a good portion of the meat from his plate with me as I had told the story about being low iron when I was pregnant: very tender. Dessert was almond cake with vanilla ice cream. We decided to take our coffee/post-dinner drinks as home as the selection there was extensive.
But back to our chronicles… the night of J’s birthday, we had dinner at the fancy restaurant, CaN’ai, where J and G had their wedding reception. The walls surrounded us huge and stone as the light faded through huge pointed windows, and everything seemed made of heavy wood. I was very worried about C’s ability to play it cool throughout dinner, but she cooperated wonderfully and never fussed at all. I did nurse her twice and held her on my lap throughout the dinner.
The meal began with an “amuse bouche” – a tiny seafood mouse with what tasted like guava jam in the bottom. They provided us with mini-baguettes and pads of butter. The red wine was particularly delicious, probably local. Next was onion soup – the plate arrived with a piece of hard toast topped with caramelized onions, cheese and fresh herbs. Then, the waiter circled the table pouring broth into the bowls. The main course choices were beef or fish. I choose fish, a thick white flaky fillet with mushrooms I didn’t recognize …among other things. G kindly shared a good portion of the meat from his plate with me as I had told the story about being low iron when I was pregnant: very tender. Dessert was almond cake with vanilla ice cream. We decided to take our coffee/post-dinner drinks as home as the selection there was extensive.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
adventures with my baby: rabbit, jetlag, and racism
So I got to J&G’s apartment a lot later than I’d imagined but quickly got my priorities straight again and began running our bath. J had left us a lovely note and some metro tickets. JP arrived. Once out of the bath, C began to fuss. I considered myself very lucky at this point, because she could have become fussy at any point earlier but kept it to a minimum. She was saying “Mommy, after our bath at home we go to sleep at home. Why aren’t we there?” or something similar. So, I thought it wise to take a nap. I was also completely exhausted myself; so I set the alarm for 2 hours.
JP prepared us a lovely dinner of “aioli” which is to say: steamed fish and veggies (including artichoke) with flavored mayonnaise. And of course we enjoyed my two favorite beverages: kir (to start) and red wine. For the cheese course, I contributed several local California options from Cowgirl Creamery which disappointed no one (much better than the time I brought wine from Napa Valley but maybe they were just being polite). For dessert, we had a range of amazing and indulgent French pastries: the religiouse (sp? basically stacked round éclairs) and a raspberry tart.
C and I slept 11 to 11 – rock on, team. She then proceeded to take her usual 2 morning naps during the second of which I wrote the previous post. We finally left the house around 2p and walked along the viaduct des arts with many others including lots of children. I spent a long time looking for a bench in the shade but with the long winters, Parisiens worship the sun or so the landscape architects assume. A not-very-young man approached us to do a photo shoot in his studio for a school project he was working on. I let him take our photo and took his card. I wonder if he’s going to have any luck with that – who would bring their young child into a stranger’s photo studio? (It’s like the night a stranger followed us home because C was crying and wanted to come in to help me sooth her. Like that would be good parenting.) But I fell in love with all the flowers along the viaduct.
I helped 3 Korean tourists who understood no French at all (but spoke English) find the billetteria at the Opera Bastille.
Then I popped into a children’s clothing store. The salesman said something to me I didn’t understand. Then he said “You want help with something?” I said “no, thank you.”
“What country are you from?”
“Etats Unis”
“Then you have to leave because I am Muslim.”
“I’m from San Francisco where we love all religions.” I said, turning away, as his companion tried to save the conversation by telling me that I didn’t have to leave and he isn’t Muslim. He went on to say what a beautiful city San Francisco is and how expensive it is to have a car there.
Interestingly, J told me we would see in Mallorca a celebration of dispelling the Muslims from the island which of course sounds terribly racist. It turns out it’s the celebration of a Masada-like event where they defended themselves against Turkish pirates. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Paris is filled with children of all ages, it seems, unlike San Francisco. We stopped in Place des Vosges and I enjoyed watching dozens of children playing in a big sand box. C got a break from the carrier. I wondered what it would be like, from a very American perspective, to go to college and tell your classmates that you played in the sand in Place des Vosges as a small child. Of course, these children probably grow up together and end up at universities with each other. So playing as a child in such a remarkable place will give them no cache.
With so many diaper blowouts in a row (4) I decided to invest in the next size up long before using up the ones we had. She weighs 15lbs which is well inside the current range, but I guess she has a large bottom or something. Getting more diapers involved finding a natural (bio) grocery store, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. I asked J later, and she said that yes, organic is all the rage. I also apparently forgot my baby soap, but that I got bio at Monoprix.
The thought of riding the metro at rush hour with a baby made me very uncomfortable. So, we found a bus, also crowded, and rode it back. Someone did kindly give us a seat and I loaded baby, backpack and huge pack of compostable diapers onto my lap.
C slept fine that night – she seems to except for the small matter of getting her to go to sleep. I woke up at 4 and finally got out of bed at 8a.
It was a quiet day as we were flying that evening to Mallorca. We walked around the block, ate some pastries, had lunch with J at home, and headed to the airport at 4p. A friend of JP’s picked us up at the airport – apparently no one bothers with carseats around here. So we sit in the back and I strap her into her carrier as tight as I can. Of course we prefer to walk or ride the bus anyway.
The next day was J’s birthday. C and I slept until 1p. I finally agreed to get out of bed because I could hear and smell wonderful things cooking: paella! My special lady friend isn’t yet on solid foods, and paella would certainly be the wrong kind for a 5-month-old anyway, but she stuck her hand right into it which of course made her quite upset (the only other time she’s done this was with Thai soup at the Thai Buddhist temple brunch in Berkeley though she’s reached for my room-temperature food before).
The paella had a range of seafood in it, all recognizable, and some other kind of meat. Through an internal process of elimination, I asked “is this rabbit?” it was. J said “I’m sorry. We should have told you.” Now, I am not a fussy eater. I despise that sort of thing (though of course am always respectful of other people’s choices). J had called me a “warrior” just the night before in that regard, which I think must be a normal thing to call someone in French. She knew I wouldn’t mind, but it’s always nice to be informed of what you’re eating.
It’s now 4a again, and C is fast asleep beside me. I guess I’ll give it a try, and catch you up at my next opportunity.
JP prepared us a lovely dinner of “aioli” which is to say: steamed fish and veggies (including artichoke) with flavored mayonnaise. And of course we enjoyed my two favorite beverages: kir (to start) and red wine. For the cheese course, I contributed several local California options from Cowgirl Creamery which disappointed no one (much better than the time I brought wine from Napa Valley but maybe they were just being polite). For dessert, we had a range of amazing and indulgent French pastries: the religiouse (sp? basically stacked round éclairs) and a raspberry tart.
C and I slept 11 to 11 – rock on, team. She then proceeded to take her usual 2 morning naps during the second of which I wrote the previous post. We finally left the house around 2p and walked along the viaduct des arts with many others including lots of children. I spent a long time looking for a bench in the shade but with the long winters, Parisiens worship the sun or so the landscape architects assume. A not-very-young man approached us to do a photo shoot in his studio for a school project he was working on. I let him take our photo and took his card. I wonder if he’s going to have any luck with that – who would bring their young child into a stranger’s photo studio? (It’s like the night a stranger followed us home because C was crying and wanted to come in to help me sooth her. Like that would be good parenting.) But I fell in love with all the flowers along the viaduct.
I helped 3 Korean tourists who understood no French at all (but spoke English) find the billetteria at the Opera Bastille.
Then I popped into a children’s clothing store. The salesman said something to me I didn’t understand. Then he said “You want help with something?” I said “no, thank you.”
“What country are you from?”
“Etats Unis”
“Then you have to leave because I am Muslim.”
“I’m from San Francisco where we love all religions.” I said, turning away, as his companion tried to save the conversation by telling me that I didn’t have to leave and he isn’t Muslim. He went on to say what a beautiful city San Francisco is and how expensive it is to have a car there.
Interestingly, J told me we would see in Mallorca a celebration of dispelling the Muslims from the island which of course sounds terribly racist. It turns out it’s the celebration of a Masada-like event where they defended themselves against Turkish pirates. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Paris is filled with children of all ages, it seems, unlike San Francisco. We stopped in Place des Vosges and I enjoyed watching dozens of children playing in a big sand box. C got a break from the carrier. I wondered what it would be like, from a very American perspective, to go to college and tell your classmates that you played in the sand in Place des Vosges as a small child. Of course, these children probably grow up together and end up at universities with each other. So playing as a child in such a remarkable place will give them no cache.
With so many diaper blowouts in a row (4) I decided to invest in the next size up long before using up the ones we had. She weighs 15lbs which is well inside the current range, but I guess she has a large bottom or something. Getting more diapers involved finding a natural (bio) grocery store, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. I asked J later, and she said that yes, organic is all the rage. I also apparently forgot my baby soap, but that I got bio at Monoprix.
The thought of riding the metro at rush hour with a baby made me very uncomfortable. So, we found a bus, also crowded, and rode it back. Someone did kindly give us a seat and I loaded baby, backpack and huge pack of compostable diapers onto my lap.
C slept fine that night – she seems to except for the small matter of getting her to go to sleep. I woke up at 4 and finally got out of bed at 8a.
It was a quiet day as we were flying that evening to Mallorca. We walked around the block, ate some pastries, had lunch with J at home, and headed to the airport at 4p. A friend of JP’s picked us up at the airport – apparently no one bothers with carseats around here. So we sit in the back and I strap her into her carrier as tight as I can. Of course we prefer to walk or ride the bus anyway.
The next day was J’s birthday. C and I slept until 1p. I finally agreed to get out of bed because I could hear and smell wonderful things cooking: paella! My special lady friend isn’t yet on solid foods, and paella would certainly be the wrong kind for a 5-month-old anyway, but she stuck her hand right into it which of course made her quite upset (the only other time she’s done this was with Thai soup at the Thai Buddhist temple brunch in Berkeley though she’s reached for my room-temperature food before).
The paella had a range of seafood in it, all recognizable, and some other kind of meat. Through an internal process of elimination, I asked “is this rabbit?” it was. J said “I’m sorry. We should have told you.” Now, I am not a fussy eater. I despise that sort of thing (though of course am always respectful of other people’s choices). J had called me a “warrior” just the night before in that regard, which I think must be a normal thing to call someone in French. She knew I wouldn’t mind, but it’s always nice to be informed of what you’re eating.
It’s now 4a again, and C is fast asleep beside me. I guess I’ll give it a try, and catch you up at my next opportunity.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Red Onion Lottery
I got some groceries last weekend -- everything fit in one pannier and one tote bungeed to the top of my rack. Half way home, a red onion rested in the bike lane on Harrison. Since nothing seemed to be wrong with it, and it was quite beautiful, I stopped to pick it up. Then, I noticed another one nearby. I picked that one up too. Thinking I had won the Red Onion Lottery and that was a bit strange, I glanced around.
Another cyclist was on the sidewalk nearby. He looked up at me and saw me holding the two red onions. "Oh, that's mine," he said. "My bag broke." And he motioned towards the sidewalk where a huge, broken bag of granola rested. What a bummer. He explained that not everything fit into the one bag he had left: his backpack, now bursting at the seams!
So, I gave him my extra tote. It was gifted to me when I volunteered at Sunday Streets. I keep it in my purse at all times in case of unplanned shopping because it folds up so small. He was very grateful and promised to return it (I gave him my address), but I didn't really expect him to.
Low and behold, the next day, resting in my entry hall, not just my tote, but also a little thank you note and... you guessed it! A red onion!
Another cyclist was on the sidewalk nearby. He looked up at me and saw me holding the two red onions. "Oh, that's mine," he said. "My bag broke." And he motioned towards the sidewalk where a huge, broken bag of granola rested. What a bummer. He explained that not everything fit into the one bag he had left: his backpack, now bursting at the seams!
So, I gave him my extra tote. It was gifted to me when I volunteered at Sunday Streets. I keep it in my purse at all times in case of unplanned shopping because it folds up so small. He was very grateful and promised to return it (I gave him my address), but I didn't really expect him to.
Low and behold, the next day, resting in my entry hall, not just my tote, but also a little thank you note and... you guessed it! A red onion!
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Romeo and Juliet
Last night, Julie and I went to the ballet. I have season tickets and have enjoyed Swan Lake, The Little Mermaid (my favorite -- I love her fishy movements) and, last night, Romeo and Juliet. We started the evening with a light meal at Samovar at the adorable corner of Page and Laguna. (I love the tea-food pairing.) After the show, we had a lovely dessert at Beretta, which (take note!) serves food until 1 am every night of the week.
But back to Romeo and Juliet...my friend Julie, a trained ballerina (Julliard, no less), said she had seen duets she'd liked better, but never duets with more passion expressed through them. I was sucked in when they danced, completely believing their love affair without words expressing it. I love visiting real estate open homes because you get a peak into people's lives. I will look in windows and watch their residents' private lives if given the opportunity. These duets felt like something real, like we were watching a private expression of how the two felt about each other. The dancers were really good actors.
Well, no, apparently not.
After the final bow, someone handed Davit Karapetyan (Romeo, from Yerevan, Armenia) a microphone. He thanked the audience, the orchestra, the cast, and then he proceeded to get down on one knee and propose marriage to Vanessa Zahorian (Juliet, from Allentown, PA). She nodded yes, and he placed a ring on her finger. (I, for one, was losing my body's moisture quickly through my eyes.) It was without a doubt the most authentically romantic thing I have ever seen in my life.
But back to Romeo and Juliet...my friend Julie, a trained ballerina (Julliard, no less), said she had seen duets she'd liked better, but never duets with more passion expressed through them. I was sucked in when they danced, completely believing their love affair without words expressing it. I love visiting real estate open homes because you get a peak into people's lives. I will look in windows and watch their residents' private lives if given the opportunity. These duets felt like something real, like we were watching a private expression of how the two felt about each other. The dancers were really good actors.
Well, no, apparently not.
After the final bow, someone handed Davit Karapetyan (Romeo, from Yerevan, Armenia) a microphone. He thanked the audience, the orchestra, the cast, and then he proceeded to get down on one knee and propose marriage to Vanessa Zahorian (Juliet, from Allentown, PA). She nodded yes, and he placed a ring on her finger. (I, for one, was losing my body's moisture quickly through my eyes.) It was without a doubt the most authentically romantic thing I have ever seen in my life.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Urban Homesteading
"'Alcohol is often the gateway to urban homesteading.'" I don't know about brewing cider (I prefer red wine) or making your own linen underwear. I am grateful for a community garden plot. But I'm just dying for a backyard of my own to grow food and chickens.
NYT: That Big Farm Called San Francisco
NYT: That Big Farm Called San Francisco
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
LA Journal, part 1... I hope....
My plane left at 8:45, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable hour when I booked the ticket. I arrived in LA at 10, Santa Monica by 11. On the bus from LAX I met a couple foreign boys studying business in Malibu who kindly gave me directions. They also observed that hamburgers are available on every street corner in the US.
What did you expect? I asked.
Steak, maybe, he replied.
The Pole told me of his obsession with Taco Bell, to which I shook my head. Why not try to get real Mexican food? He wasn’t convinced.
He also talked about Bay Watch, but the German instructed him never to talk to women about that show. (He said they’d seen it being filmed. It was a highlight.)
Without knowing where I wanted to go, they instructed me on where to get off the bus. I had to trek back a few blocks to the Santa Monica Pier where I planned to rent a bike. It was a fun detour since I got pulled into a market research study about chocolate covered almonds on the way. It began with a few simple questions about my eating habits. It’s always fun to be asked questions I know the answer to like that. Then I was instructed to taste 2 different kinds of almonds and rank my preference based on appearance and flavor, and describe why. Finally, for an additional $5 (the first part earned me a Starbucks card), I did an oral interview about my perception of different brands of almonds. Almonds aren’t that much different than buses; it was almost like work!
So, I rented a turquoise lady’s beach cruiser, and my bag was terribly heavy still despite all plans to pack light. I asked for “a bike, a helmet, a basket and a lock.” And the guy said “so, the works, hu?” With the map, he gave me directions along the beach bike path, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had no plans to bike along it but that I was going straight into the city.
By now it was after noon, and I wanted lunch. Under the direction of Yelp, I had selected an Bay Cities Italian Deli and Bakery which Yelp called “an institution”. It was more like an Italian deli and grocery shop with beautiful assortments of capers, sea salt, lemons in jars, peppers in jars, cookies, etc. I got out of there with “The Godmother” sandwich, a little Greek salad, and a box of mini cantalones. The place was mobbed, and procuring lunch took about an hour.
Overheard: now I know why this place is only for special occasions.
I ate at a table in the parking lot with sun-hat and –glasses. A mother and daughter (about 12), also celebrating something, joined me; I eyed the daughter’s meatball sandwich.
From there, I biked up Broadway, the closest adjacent street with a bike lane, to the Santa Monica Art Museum and the Bergamot Station which is filled with art galleries. The one exhibit that I found really interesting was in the far corner and involved acrylic cubes that formed 3D shapes such as a monkey and human scull, male and female human bodies with the internal organs, and a number of trees. If you looked at them from the side all you saw was clear acrylic.
Walking into one gallery, I greeted the person behind the desk as usual. He replied “Why are you so happy?” – I didn’t know I was “so happy” but I’ll take it. He spoke slowly and took a long time to get the point. I asked if the paintings were, more or less, done from photographs (most were of lovely blond young girls in surreal settings). And somehow we got into an impassioned (for him) conversation about artists over-pricing their art. Eventually, I pretended to get a phone call (something I almost never do) and snuck away to the restroom.
The Museum showed a movie of Jerusalem: the devout Jews blocking off the roadways to their neighborhoods for the Sabbath presenting a separation between two ways of life and thought in Israel.
Looking at art is exhausting, but I lasted as long as I could. I went from there to the Co-Opportunity Grocery Store, possibly LA’s only hippy-dippy co-op grocery store (?). I got some wine for Linda and Roger, Carolyn’s parents, who had kindly agreed to host me.
Classy Nails, found through yelp, was my next destination, and spending a hour getting pampered and having my nails tended was just what the doctor ordered. It wasn’t easy to find a color that matched the red of my dress for all of their 15+ available shades of red, but I think I did OK.
Then back to the beach to return the bike before meeting Rachel for dinner.
…
My first night here, I pulled off the shelf a book called “getting the love you want” a guide for couples. Saturday morning, Roger was trying to leave for Idaho and missing his book, it turned out the same one. (He called it a “convergence” that of all the books on their shelves, that’s the one I selected to read before sleep.) As a consolation prize, he suggested I look at “Lives in Progress” (Robert W. White).
More to follow… hopefully….
What did you expect? I asked.
Steak, maybe, he replied.
The Pole told me of his obsession with Taco Bell, to which I shook my head. Why not try to get real Mexican food? He wasn’t convinced.
He also talked about Bay Watch, but the German instructed him never to talk to women about that show. (He said they’d seen it being filmed. It was a highlight.)
Without knowing where I wanted to go, they instructed me on where to get off the bus. I had to trek back a few blocks to the Santa Monica Pier where I planned to rent a bike. It was a fun detour since I got pulled into a market research study about chocolate covered almonds on the way. It began with a few simple questions about my eating habits. It’s always fun to be asked questions I know the answer to like that. Then I was instructed to taste 2 different kinds of almonds and rank my preference based on appearance and flavor, and describe why. Finally, for an additional $5 (the first part earned me a Starbucks card), I did an oral interview about my perception of different brands of almonds. Almonds aren’t that much different than buses; it was almost like work!
So, I rented a turquoise lady’s beach cruiser, and my bag was terribly heavy still despite all plans to pack light. I asked for “a bike, a helmet, a basket and a lock.” And the guy said “so, the works, hu?” With the map, he gave me directions along the beach bike path, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had no plans to bike along it but that I was going straight into the city.
By now it was after noon, and I wanted lunch. Under the direction of Yelp, I had selected an Bay Cities Italian Deli and Bakery which Yelp called “an institution”. It was more like an Italian deli and grocery shop with beautiful assortments of capers, sea salt, lemons in jars, peppers in jars, cookies, etc. I got out of there with “The Godmother” sandwich, a little Greek salad, and a box of mini cantalones. The place was mobbed, and procuring lunch took about an hour.
Overheard: now I know why this place is only for special occasions.
I ate at a table in the parking lot with sun-hat and –glasses. A mother and daughter (about 12), also celebrating something, joined me; I eyed the daughter’s meatball sandwich.
From there, I biked up Broadway, the closest adjacent street with a bike lane, to the Santa Monica Art Museum and the Bergamot Station which is filled with art galleries. The one exhibit that I found really interesting was in the far corner and involved acrylic cubes that formed 3D shapes such as a monkey and human scull, male and female human bodies with the internal organs, and a number of trees. If you looked at them from the side all you saw was clear acrylic.
Walking into one gallery, I greeted the person behind the desk as usual. He replied “Why are you so happy?” – I didn’t know I was “so happy” but I’ll take it. He spoke slowly and took a long time to get the point. I asked if the paintings were, more or less, done from photographs (most were of lovely blond young girls in surreal settings). And somehow we got into an impassioned (for him) conversation about artists over-pricing their art. Eventually, I pretended to get a phone call (something I almost never do) and snuck away to the restroom.
The Museum showed a movie of Jerusalem: the devout Jews blocking off the roadways to their neighborhoods for the Sabbath presenting a separation between two ways of life and thought in Israel.
Looking at art is exhausting, but I lasted as long as I could. I went from there to the Co-Opportunity Grocery Store, possibly LA’s only hippy-dippy co-op grocery store (?). I got some wine for Linda and Roger, Carolyn’s parents, who had kindly agreed to host me.
Classy Nails, found through yelp, was my next destination, and spending a hour getting pampered and having my nails tended was just what the doctor ordered. It wasn’t easy to find a color that matched the red of my dress for all of their 15+ available shades of red, but I think I did OK.
Then back to the beach to return the bike before meeting Rachel for dinner.
…
My first night here, I pulled off the shelf a book called “getting the love you want” a guide for couples. Saturday morning, Roger was trying to leave for Idaho and missing his book, it turned out the same one. (He called it a “convergence” that of all the books on their shelves, that’s the one I selected to read before sleep.) As a consolation prize, he suggested I look at “Lives in Progress” (Robert W. White).
More to follow… hopefully….
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A perfect San Francisco Saturday
Topics to be cover in this post:
1) Aphrodesia
3) San Francisco Street Food Festival
2) Dan Savage and the campsite rule of dating
4) Backyard BBQ band parties and Danielle's bluegrass band Understory
I was going to open by complaining about the place where I get waxed, but I decided instead to post it on yelp. Sometimes, there's an appropriate place for all things.
Friday night, we went to see Aphrodesia at the Great American Music Hall. I'm a venue snob, and this is one of about 3 San Francisco music venues that I love. Non-loved venues I tend to avoid even when my most-favorite bands play there.
Apparently, it was prom night, and the vocalists donned gorgeous dresses and Henry wore a bow tie. I love their estrogen-fueled afro-beat, so much more accessible than the alternative. I read in the SF Weekly that these mostly-white Americans sang to a village in Ghana in the people's native tongue.
Saturday morning, I moved very slowly, but eventually ended up at the Street Food Festival on Folsom. It was absolute clusterf*#k (in the words of a friend of a friend on facebook). I was delighted that it was so popular, but the street was literally too crowded to walk down. All my crowd control skills painfully learned at Berkeley High School did me no good.
I considered stopping at Philz for a coffee (also with too many people -- maybe I will try again today) and noticed that the woman in front of me in line was texting that many stands had run out of food already (it was 3p and the event was supposed to end at 7p). My unsolicited advice to the organizers for next year: more space, more stalls, more space between stalls.... They are clearly onto something! It should be huge, and it needs huge space.
(Not to be mean but) I was delighted to see women search for parking in my Mission literally in tears and the sidewalks not wide enough for all the pedestrians 6+ blocks from the event. Here are a few cyclists searching for parking with much more calm.
I took my bike a little further away to Ritual Cafe where I used my "heavy drinker" 10-punch card for a free mocha. (There's a story about this I will cover another time.) I read the SF Weekly because it was on the table.
Savage Love this week exposed me to a new concept that I loved: the camp site rule of dating which says you must "leave him in better shape than you found him." I recall the boyfriend I taught to drive, the one who exposed me to the profession in which I still work, and the one I encouraged to take pictures, fix his bike, and ultimately moved from my apartment into one he bought (even if he's still angry with me, he can't argue with the facts). I see opportunity in people, and some of them find me incredibly irritating when I encourage them to realize their potential. But I think I wouldn't mind being left if I was in a better place than when I was found. I like this rule.
Last night was Danielle's band BBQ where her bluegrass group, Understory, played their first public set. But first, on my way over there, I saw these guys playing with red scarves in the middle of Valencia. I'm thinking Valencia may be the center of the Universe.
When Danielle plays the violin, tears literally fill my eyes it's so beautiful. In San Francisco, nearly everyone does something creative and quirky like affluent white kids singing about coal mining. (A random example that just spring to my mind out of now where.) I love it!
1) Aphrodesia
3) San Francisco Street Food Festival
2) Dan Savage and the campsite rule of dating
4) Backyard BBQ band parties and Danielle's bluegrass band Understory
I was going to open by complaining about the place where I get waxed, but I decided instead to post it on yelp. Sometimes, there's an appropriate place for all things.
Friday night, we went to see Aphrodesia at the Great American Music Hall. I'm a venue snob, and this is one of about 3 San Francisco music venues that I love. Non-loved venues I tend to avoid even when my most-favorite bands play there.
Apparently, it was prom night, and the vocalists donned gorgeous dresses and Henry wore a bow tie. I love their estrogen-fueled afro-beat, so much more accessible than the alternative. I read in the SF Weekly that these mostly-white Americans sang to a village in Ghana in the people's native tongue.
Saturday morning, I moved very slowly, but eventually ended up at the Street Food Festival on Folsom. It was absolute clusterf*#k (in the words of a friend of a friend on facebook). I was delighted that it was so popular, but the street was literally too crowded to walk down. All my crowd control skills painfully learned at Berkeley High School did me no good.
I considered stopping at Philz for a coffee (also with too many people -- maybe I will try again today) and noticed that the woman in front of me in line was texting that many stands had run out of food already (it was 3p and the event was supposed to end at 7p). My unsolicited advice to the organizers for next year: more space, more stalls, more space between stalls.... They are clearly onto something! It should be huge, and it needs huge space.
(Not to be mean but) I was delighted to see women search for parking in my Mission literally in tears and the sidewalks not wide enough for all the pedestrians 6+ blocks from the event. Here are a few cyclists searching for parking with much more calm.
I took my bike a little further away to Ritual Cafe where I used my "heavy drinker" 10-punch card for a free mocha. (There's a story about this I will cover another time.) I read the SF Weekly because it was on the table.
Savage Love this week exposed me to a new concept that I loved: the camp site rule of dating which says you must "leave him in better shape than you found him." I recall the boyfriend I taught to drive, the one who exposed me to the profession in which I still work, and the one I encouraged to take pictures, fix his bike, and ultimately moved from my apartment into one he bought (even if he's still angry with me, he can't argue with the facts). I see opportunity in people, and some of them find me incredibly irritating when I encourage them to realize their potential. But I think I wouldn't mind being left if I was in a better place than when I was found. I like this rule.
Last night was Danielle's band BBQ where her bluegrass group, Understory, played their first public set. But first, on my way over there, I saw these guys playing with red scarves in the middle of Valencia. I'm thinking Valencia may be the center of the Universe.
When Danielle plays the violin, tears literally fill my eyes it's so beautiful. In San Francisco, nearly everyone does something creative and quirky like affluent white kids singing about coal mining. (A random example that just spring to my mind out of now where.) I love it!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Final narrative from this France visit
M was feeling fine for the first 36 hours after her chemo, but then stopped feeling capable of speaking. Friday, the day after the chemo, we had a 3.5 hour lunch, then a nap, then a reasonably-sized walk to a nearby park. Later that day, J gave her mother the shot for her white blood cells (?) that M says makes her bones hurt. Saturday, she only wanted to cook, clean, and rest. We couldn't understand the cooking and cleaning part.
My mother (the one who gave birth to me) and I went to Paris Plage again (I can’t quite get enough of it),
another crepe (I can’t quite get enough of them), and rode the 69 bus which Rick Steves says passes by all the important monuments in Paris.
We didn’t get very far on the bus, as someone had parked their moped on the outside of the 2-wheeler parking zone on a narrow corner. Rather than attempt a 3-point turn, the bus operator preferred to wait for the moped owner to move his bike.
We met J at Place d’Italie at 5 and visited the nearby Asia town per my request. Then she surprised us by showing us Butte aux Cailles, a quiet little village in central Paris with its own fresh water spring. It used to be the center for the communist party; now it just has the some workers’ cooperatives and cute tree-lined streets with restaurants serving food at sidewalk tables.
Dinner was lamb which had grazed on the salty hills next to Le Mont St. Michel in Normandy with vegetables from my mother’s garden. M and I watched The Songcatcher after an extended conversation over dinner about lullabies because we were all so tired. M’s English is basically perfect, but she couldn’t understand perfectly when the mountain people spoke in the movie. We should have put on the subtitles. We both really enjoyed the movie and the music it was about.
My mother (the one who gave birth to me) and I went to Paris Plage again (I can’t quite get enough of it),
another crepe (I can’t quite get enough of them), and rode the 69 bus which Rick Steves says passes by all the important monuments in Paris.
We didn’t get very far on the bus, as someone had parked their moped on the outside of the 2-wheeler parking zone on a narrow corner. Rather than attempt a 3-point turn, the bus operator preferred to wait for the moped owner to move his bike.
We met J at Place d’Italie at 5 and visited the nearby Asia town per my request. Then she surprised us by showing us Butte aux Cailles, a quiet little village in central Paris with its own fresh water spring. It used to be the center for the communist party; now it just has the some workers’ cooperatives and cute tree-lined streets with restaurants serving food at sidewalk tables.
Dinner was lamb which had grazed on the salty hills next to Le Mont St. Michel in Normandy with vegetables from my mother’s garden. M and I watched The Songcatcher after an extended conversation over dinner about lullabies because we were all so tired. M’s English is basically perfect, but she couldn’t understand perfectly when the mountain people spoke in the movie. We should have put on the subtitles. We both really enjoyed the movie and the music it was about.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
hospital day
“It is rather like a 3-star hotel,” M observes as we sit in the oncology department at a hospital not far from her home. Pale periwinkle plastic padded chairs, orange vertical shades, and round tables decorate the room where three ladies wait for the doctor, and then for the bags of poison solution to finish dripping into their veins. A man in scrubs stops by periodically to offer us something: coffee, yoghurt, lunch which nobody eats. They served all in plastic bowls: 25 radishes, an apple (which M says is full of pesticides), a bread role, butter, a piece of orange cheese and a mystery hot plate the lids never came off. M’s treatment will take the longest. We got here at 8:30 and might get to leave by 5. M and I take turns napping.
M is the only one who bothers with a wig. The other ladies wear their bald heads with pride. They say it is too hot. Yesterday, we found thin polyester caps for 1.50 euros from a clothing store for Moslem women; M bought two for sleeping. She says her head gets cold, but I wonder if she feels modest. She looks fantastic, and (except today) I haven’t seen her this happy in years.
From a conversation about my life, she expressed that in France it is impossible to find a new job if you are over 45. She’s been miserable in hers for years. She told herself that the only way out was to get sick, and her body complied. Meanwhile, her oldest daughter unexpectedly gave birth to twin girls with only one month’s warning to others (the twins knew for 8 months). My paranoid mind hasn’t discovered the cosmic significance of that event yet.
Grayson always said: “the more you do, the more you do.” So, today I can only tell you about the waiting room in the oncology wing of this hospital. I’m grateful to be here for M, but I don’t have much to blog about. I’ve been reading Ilana’s subscription to the New Yorker and Margot’s copy of Refuge, and editing photos of Champagne.
A few things I have learned in conversations: the electric company runs like a for-profit with the goal of expanding business. Thus, it has an incentive to bring electricity to developing countries where France is involved or it will not be able to expand its business. They can do this because no one seems to be critical of nuclear power, which of course can be provided in endless supplies if you’re not worried about human error or what to do with the waste.
If a person’s job is to transition functions overseas to India (in this case, but it could be elsewhere), he would be working to put his colleagues out of work while trying to keep his own job. Is the ideal result for all work to be taking place in India, and the information streams be perfectly maintained by a few people in France while everyone else works in another field or not at all?
The people who say things say that “rules are made to be broken.” The Germans love rules. The French love rules too… particularly for the purpose of breaking them. I appreciate that about this culture. I loved the story in Paris to the Moon where the EU rules for making Rockfort cheese were so strict that it didn’t mold properly. The cheese makers fixed the problem by opening a window to let the night air blow onto the fermenting cheese and bring with it the necessary bacteria.
On the same day (yesterday), both Gwen and J (who have never met) complained to me about Parisiens. They love the city without them. (Everyone goes on vacation in August.) I made the statement here recently that Parisiens aren’t rude, but both these Parisiens disagree. They also love the lack of traffic and many languages being spoken in the streets. I just love Paris.
M is the only one who bothers with a wig. The other ladies wear their bald heads with pride. They say it is too hot. Yesterday, we found thin polyester caps for 1.50 euros from a clothing store for Moslem women; M bought two for sleeping. She says her head gets cold, but I wonder if she feels modest. She looks fantastic, and (except today) I haven’t seen her this happy in years.
From a conversation about my life, she expressed that in France it is impossible to find a new job if you are over 45. She’s been miserable in hers for years. She told herself that the only way out was to get sick, and her body complied. Meanwhile, her oldest daughter unexpectedly gave birth to twin girls with only one month’s warning to others (the twins knew for 8 months). My paranoid mind hasn’t discovered the cosmic significance of that event yet.
Grayson always said: “the more you do, the more you do.” So, today I can only tell you about the waiting room in the oncology wing of this hospital. I’m grateful to be here for M, but I don’t have much to blog about. I’ve been reading Ilana’s subscription to the New Yorker and Margot’s copy of Refuge, and editing photos of Champagne.
A few things I have learned in conversations: the electric company runs like a for-profit with the goal of expanding business. Thus, it has an incentive to bring electricity to developing countries where France is involved or it will not be able to expand its business. They can do this because no one seems to be critical of nuclear power, which of course can be provided in endless supplies if you’re not worried about human error or what to do with the waste.
If a person’s job is to transition functions overseas to India (in this case, but it could be elsewhere), he would be working to put his colleagues out of work while trying to keep his own job. Is the ideal result for all work to be taking place in India, and the information streams be perfectly maintained by a few people in France while everyone else works in another field or not at all?
The people who say things say that “rules are made to be broken.” The Germans love rules. The French love rules too… particularly for the purpose of breaking them. I appreciate that about this culture. I loved the story in Paris to the Moon where the EU rules for making Rockfort cheese were so strict that it didn’t mold properly. The cheese makers fixed the problem by opening a window to let the night air blow onto the fermenting cheese and bring with it the necessary bacteria.
On the same day (yesterday), both Gwen and J (who have never met) complained to me about Parisiens. They love the city without them. (Everyone goes on vacation in August.) I made the statement here recently that Parisiens aren’t rude, but both these Parisiens disagree. They also love the lack of traffic and many languages being spoken in the streets. I just love Paris.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
kind, gentle, abundant world
I forgot the mention yesterday my feeling upon returning my velib after the first use. I had a moment of anxiety – thoughts like “I need to remember where I put it” And “is it locked up well enough?” but then I remembered that it wasn’t my bicycle to begin with. It belonged to all its users for the moment they were together. I took a breath living in the present moment without attachment to the material. Then, I forgot which bicycle I rode.
This practice is also rather like trusting that the universe will bring you cardboard boxes when you need them and not hording empty ones in your limited closet space. Or leaving a bad relationship knowing that if that love is meant to be, it will find a way back to you… or that the universe has something better in mind for you. It becomes a fine balance, but I think a good analogy is taking care of the bikeshare bike you use so that its next rider has a wonderful experience, and trusting that the previous rider of your next bikeshare bike will do the same for you. Like Never-Never-Land, that kind, gentle, abundant world only exists if you believe it’s there.
I finally found a bikeshare station near where I am staying just outside Paris. The closest one appears to belong in the land of Brigadoon, but the next one out is not that much further. I figured all this out on the website. J, G and JP had told me where the closest one was supposed to be. When I couldn’t find it, G said something about me not seeing it. J replied: do you think it’s possible that Lilia didn’t do everything she could to find that station?
I had to admit that I hadn’t. That was the day before yesterday. Yesterday, I found another station.
There, I found a bike that was completely not broken at all. I rode it to the center of Paris, I figure about 4 miles, to see Gwen.
I’ll do a full profile on Gwen in another post, but we had a lovely time catching up in his atelier (where he does clothing art/fashion design) and a nearly café.
Later, I met J, G and M at Gare de L’Est where M was returning from Champagne (I rode another velib to get there). Her train was 50 minutes late. The day before, one of them asked me how to you say “charcuterie” in English. I said it is the same word. So, we went to Café Strasbourgeous for choucrute garnie, which was a huge quantity of pork and quite delicious (J got de la mer, which is not a bad idea to try at home). I’ve only had it made at home before, either improvised chez moi or at the real thing made by J’s grandmother in Alsace.
This practice is also rather like trusting that the universe will bring you cardboard boxes when you need them and not hording empty ones in your limited closet space. Or leaving a bad relationship knowing that if that love is meant to be, it will find a way back to you… or that the universe has something better in mind for you. It becomes a fine balance, but I think a good analogy is taking care of the bikeshare bike you use so that its next rider has a wonderful experience, and trusting that the previous rider of your next bikeshare bike will do the same for you. Like Never-Never-Land, that kind, gentle, abundant world only exists if you believe it’s there.
I finally found a bikeshare station near where I am staying just outside Paris. The closest one appears to belong in the land of Brigadoon, but the next one out is not that much further. I figured all this out on the website. J, G and JP had told me where the closest one was supposed to be. When I couldn’t find it, G said something about me not seeing it. J replied: do you think it’s possible that Lilia didn’t do everything she could to find that station?
I had to admit that I hadn’t. That was the day before yesterday. Yesterday, I found another station.
There, I found a bike that was completely not broken at all. I rode it to the center of Paris, I figure about 4 miles, to see Gwen.
I’ll do a full profile on Gwen in another post, but we had a lovely time catching up in his atelier (where he does clothing art/fashion design) and a nearly café.
Later, I met J, G and M at Gare de L’Est where M was returning from Champagne (I rode another velib to get there). Her train was 50 minutes late. The day before, one of them asked me how to you say “charcuterie” in English. I said it is the same word. So, we went to Café Strasbourgeous for choucrute garnie, which was a huge quantity of pork and quite delicious (J got de la mer, which is not a bad idea to try at home). I’ve only had it made at home before, either improvised chez moi or at the real thing made by J’s grandmother in Alsace.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Day 4: Paris
Recently, Mose posted a facebook update that said something like: I don’t know why Parisiens go on vacation. Why would anyone want to be anywhere else?
That’s how I feel. Today, it felt like heaven. After a leisurely morning at the apartment and running local errands, I headed out into the world around 1p. I didn’t find the Velib station in Montreuil; so, I took the Metro to Strasbourg/St. Dennis. I was going to visit B’s nephew Gwen at his Atelier, but I realized I wasn’t dressed nicely enough for that report back. Instead I went shopping. The Kookai outlet never lets me down.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but my plan was to get a pastry somewhere. I didn’t see any place to get one; so, I got a Velib and rode to my favorite crepery in St. Michel. It dripped with butter and nutella and was an astounding success. I wanted to go back and immediately get another one, but I have been practicing self-restraint lately. I didn’t.
From there, I walked back across the Seine to the Paris Plage on the right bank.
The installments are about the same as last year, but I am always amused by the exercise machines. What Americans make a chore, the French to make fun. Food also falls into this category.
Can you think of others?
The day had gone by quickly, and I needed to get back to the apartment to check my email to see where I was meeting J, G and Muriel for dinner. So, I grabbed another bicycle and rode it as far to the east as I felt comfortable and then jumped on the metro for the last few stops.
Muriel lives in a converted clothing factory which means loft-style big windows, big open spaces, temporary-style wall-dividers. It’s in central Paris, a beautiful ornate building that even has a fancy French restaurant on the ground floor although the neighborhood is extremely diverse. She says there’s a mosque across the street (which is narrow). I’ve house-sat for her multiple times, and I love being there. We met there.
She just came back from a month of vacation with her Brazilian boyfriend and his family in Brazil. So, she made us caperanas (sp? mine and G’s were virgin) and served us snacks of Brazil nuts and shavings of that sugar stuff I don’t know the name of. None of them had ever had a Brazil nut before, and these are very-worldly Pariens. Eventually, we moved down to a nearby Syrian/Lebanese restaurant. For both dinner and dessert, we ordered the combination option. Everyone got a chance to try just about everything on the menu. Meanwhile, we sat on the sidewalk, had good conversation and watched all the different kinds of people pass by as the light faded on the historic buildings.
The apartment in Montreuil is in a new 9-story building one block from the Metro. It appears to have one car parking space per unit, but I didn’t count the parking spaces – the garage has 2 levels. M and JP don’t rent out their parking space, it never occurred to them to do so, they keep it for their occasional rental cars. I would guess they rent a car 4 to 6 times per year for a few days to take the whole family, including children, seniors or sick people, on vacation somewhere else – often to the home of another family member. About half of the parking spaces appear to be empty whenever I am down there. I suggested to JP they could reduce the number of parking spaces necessary in the building and instead provide rental cars in the building that everyone shares. He had difficulty understanding this concept until I compared it to the electric carshare cars being discussed for Paris which didn’t seem to interest him particularly. This family never uses cars in the carshare style – they would just take a taxi. In fact, I think they take a lot of taxis. Since the parking garage is underground and already built, it doesn’t have other potential uses. There is a video store on the ground floor, but I bet they don’t have much need to store their massive collection of videos (for example).
When I was here last year at the end of August, all the beautiful people were on vacation. That is, all of Paris was on vacation. Now, that isn’t the case. The beautiful people are here, although they aren’t wearing particularly beautiful clothes. And for the record, I haven’t encountered a rude French person in years; as you know, I spend a lot of time here.
That’s how I feel. Today, it felt like heaven. After a leisurely morning at the apartment and running local errands, I headed out into the world around 1p. I didn’t find the Velib station in Montreuil; so, I took the Metro to Strasbourg/St. Dennis. I was going to visit B’s nephew Gwen at his Atelier, but I realized I wasn’t dressed nicely enough for that report back. Instead I went shopping. The Kookai outlet never lets me down.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but my plan was to get a pastry somewhere. I didn’t see any place to get one; so, I got a Velib and rode to my favorite crepery in St. Michel. It dripped with butter and nutella and was an astounding success. I wanted to go back and immediately get another one, but I have been practicing self-restraint lately. I didn’t.
From there, I walked back across the Seine to the Paris Plage on the right bank.
The installments are about the same as last year, but I am always amused by the exercise machines. What Americans make a chore, the French to make fun. Food also falls into this category.
Can you think of others?
The day had gone by quickly, and I needed to get back to the apartment to check my email to see where I was meeting J, G and Muriel for dinner. So, I grabbed another bicycle and rode it as far to the east as I felt comfortable and then jumped on the metro for the last few stops.
Muriel lives in a converted clothing factory which means loft-style big windows, big open spaces, temporary-style wall-dividers. It’s in central Paris, a beautiful ornate building that even has a fancy French restaurant on the ground floor although the neighborhood is extremely diverse. She says there’s a mosque across the street (which is narrow). I’ve house-sat for her multiple times, and I love being there. We met there.
She just came back from a month of vacation with her Brazilian boyfriend and his family in Brazil. So, she made us caperanas (sp? mine and G’s were virgin) and served us snacks of Brazil nuts and shavings of that sugar stuff I don’t know the name of. None of them had ever had a Brazil nut before, and these are very-worldly Pariens. Eventually, we moved down to a nearby Syrian/Lebanese restaurant. For both dinner and dessert, we ordered the combination option. Everyone got a chance to try just about everything on the menu. Meanwhile, we sat on the sidewalk, had good conversation and watched all the different kinds of people pass by as the light faded on the historic buildings.
The apartment in Montreuil is in a new 9-story building one block from the Metro. It appears to have one car parking space per unit, but I didn’t count the parking spaces – the garage has 2 levels. M and JP don’t rent out their parking space, it never occurred to them to do so, they keep it for their occasional rental cars. I would guess they rent a car 4 to 6 times per year for a few days to take the whole family, including children, seniors or sick people, on vacation somewhere else – often to the home of another family member. About half of the parking spaces appear to be empty whenever I am down there. I suggested to JP they could reduce the number of parking spaces necessary in the building and instead provide rental cars in the building that everyone shares. He had difficulty understanding this concept until I compared it to the electric carshare cars being discussed for Paris which didn’t seem to interest him particularly. This family never uses cars in the carshare style – they would just take a taxi. In fact, I think they take a lot of taxis. Since the parking garage is underground and already built, it doesn’t have other potential uses. There is a video store on the ground floor, but I bet they don’t have much need to store their massive collection of videos (for example).
When I was here last year at the end of August, all the beautiful people were on vacation. That is, all of Paris was on vacation. Now, that isn’t the case. The beautiful people are here, although they aren’t wearing particularly beautiful clothes. And for the record, I haven’t encountered a rude French person in years; as you know, I spend a lot of time here.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Prunelle
I spent a bad night after my nap etc. yesterday afternoon. Eleven pm is an excellent bed time, but not if you wake up a few hours later and can’t get back to sleep. I spent the time thinking about old wrongs and then asking myself “why am I thinking about this?” The human psyche is mysterious. This is the same reason I had my doctor prescribe me sleeping pills – so the mouse running on the wheel in my head can be drugged and put down. Mediation, not that I really know how, does no good.
M woke me up at 11:30a, which was probably good since I was awake so long during the night.
Having just finished lunch, I feel compelled to tell you about it. We’ve been drinking Pierre Callot, blanc de blancs champagne, brut, although one day we had Moet & Chandon brut imperial which we didn’t like as much. For my readers who are not familiar, the typical French meal begins with an aperitif with a snack like breadsticks or baguette and cured meat like salami. Then comes the main course, some form of meat. A cooked vegetable dish is served either with or shortly after the meat. The salad rests on the table this whole time, but you eat it after the cooked vegetables. I have fond memories of my second favorite ex-boyfriend (Eric) sitting down to lunch with the family, serving himself some salad, and passing it to the person next to him. No one had a problem with him eating it first, but the poor guy had to do it on his own since it wasn’t yet time for the salad course. After salad comes cheese (which is the same every day until a given type of cheese is finished and replaced with another wedge either the same or different), and finally fruit which is sometimes served with yoghurt and/or pudding as an additional option. Coffee is another option here or shortly after. The whole process takes about 2.5 hours depending on how much time you have.
M bought a book about the cathedral in Epernay. It took 400 years to build, and the substantial building looks it. After 300 years, it caught fire and partially burned down. When they finished restoring it from the fire, they decided to be done even though it lacked some key components they’d planned for like 7 spires (it has spires, just not all 7). Can you imagine a building now taking 400 years to build? Our political processes would never permit that. People want to see major infrastructure completed while they are still in office so they can claim they did it all themselves. We learned this afternoon that one of the angels, which I noticed right away, smiles. When the Germans were destroying the church, they beheaded all of the angels except the smiling one. Is this a lesson?
After my very long sleep and quick petit dejeuner, we drove to the small town of Hautvillers which didn’t have any underground parking. It definitely rivals other towns claiming to be the prettiest in the world, but it makes no claims. It doesn’t need to. The land here is the most expensive per square meter in all of France due to its ability to produce grapes for bubbly. Don Perignon is buried in the church.
Prunelle came with us to the village. It rained intermittently. So, when we returned, her little paws may have been muddy. She’s a dog; so, very excited a good bit of the time. R didn’t want her tracking mud all over the house of course, and scolded her almost immediately. Prunelle retreated to a tiny little square of carpet and waited there until R had cleaned Prunelle’s little paws. She’s not leash-trained, but otherwise she may be the best, least crazy dog I have ever met.
When I declined champagne at lunch today, R said with shock: “I am probably the descendent of Don Perignon” (the monk who invented champagne). Then the others explained: the monks would visit the houses to explain the bible. They would leave their clogs outside the house when visiting. When the man of the house was returning home and saw the clogs, he would take a little walk instead of entering his home right away.
I said: “I don’t understand.” (Are all Americans as naïve as I am?)
M said: “the monks made more than champagne.”
I still didn’t get it.
M tried again: “many children in the town were of uncertain paternity. But it is only spoken of in very discreet terms.”
At the moment, M is snuggling with Prunelle. The ladies are chatting en francais. JP is napping. I am typing. Perhaps a walk before I return to Paris au voiture avec JP. J&G return from Mallorca tonight, and we’re going to use the rental car to pick them up at the airport. Tomorrow, JP goes to Chine for two weeks for work.
M woke me up at 11:30a, which was probably good since I was awake so long during the night.
Having just finished lunch, I feel compelled to tell you about it. We’ve been drinking Pierre Callot, blanc de blancs champagne, brut, although one day we had Moet & Chandon brut imperial which we didn’t like as much. For my readers who are not familiar, the typical French meal begins with an aperitif with a snack like breadsticks or baguette and cured meat like salami. Then comes the main course, some form of meat. A cooked vegetable dish is served either with or shortly after the meat. The salad rests on the table this whole time, but you eat it after the cooked vegetables. I have fond memories of my second favorite ex-boyfriend (Eric) sitting down to lunch with the family, serving himself some salad, and passing it to the person next to him. No one had a problem with him eating it first, but the poor guy had to do it on his own since it wasn’t yet time for the salad course. After salad comes cheese (which is the same every day until a given type of cheese is finished and replaced with another wedge either the same or different), and finally fruit which is sometimes served with yoghurt and/or pudding as an additional option. Coffee is another option here or shortly after. The whole process takes about 2.5 hours depending on how much time you have.
M bought a book about the cathedral in Epernay. It took 400 years to build, and the substantial building looks it. After 300 years, it caught fire and partially burned down. When they finished restoring it from the fire, they decided to be done even though it lacked some key components they’d planned for like 7 spires (it has spires, just not all 7). Can you imagine a building now taking 400 years to build? Our political processes would never permit that. People want to see major infrastructure completed while they are still in office so they can claim they did it all themselves. We learned this afternoon that one of the angels, which I noticed right away, smiles. When the Germans were destroying the church, they beheaded all of the angels except the smiling one. Is this a lesson?
After my very long sleep and quick petit dejeuner, we drove to the small town of Hautvillers which didn’t have any underground parking. It definitely rivals other towns claiming to be the prettiest in the world, but it makes no claims. It doesn’t need to. The land here is the most expensive per square meter in all of France due to its ability to produce grapes for bubbly. Don Perignon is buried in the church.
Prunelle came with us to the village. It rained intermittently. So, when we returned, her little paws may have been muddy. She’s a dog; so, very excited a good bit of the time. R didn’t want her tracking mud all over the house of course, and scolded her almost immediately. Prunelle retreated to a tiny little square of carpet and waited there until R had cleaned Prunelle’s little paws. She’s not leash-trained, but otherwise she may be the best, least crazy dog I have ever met.
When I declined champagne at lunch today, R said with shock: “I am probably the descendent of Don Perignon” (the monk who invented champagne). Then the others explained: the monks would visit the houses to explain the bible. They would leave their clogs outside the house when visiting. When the man of the house was returning home and saw the clogs, he would take a little walk instead of entering his home right away.
I said: “I don’t understand.” (Are all Americans as naïve as I am?)
M said: “the monks made more than champagne.”
I still didn’t get it.
M tried again: “many children in the town were of uncertain paternity. But it is only spoken of in very discreet terms.”
At the moment, M is snuggling with Prunelle. The ladies are chatting en francais. JP is napping. I am typing. Perhaps a walk before I return to Paris au voiture avec JP. J&G return from Mallorca tonight, and we’re going to use the rental car to pick them up at the airport. Tomorrow, JP goes to Chine for two weeks for work.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
All my exes live in Texas; that's why I live in Tenesse.
Charlotte from Sex in the City once said "I've been dating for 20 years. I'm exhausted." That pretty much summarizes my feelings on the subject recently... or should I say usually.
My love life can be broke down into 5-year increments:
Age 16-22: serial monogamy
22-27: serious LTR
27-32: single
32-38: serial monogamy
...And here I am, tired of all the options.
For a long time, I noticed that all my exes remained single. I wondered if I permanently damage them. My sister said I pick commitment-phobic men.
My highschool sweetheart got married a few years back. (I am still close with his parents.) (I guess he had enough time to recover from whatever damage I did to him.) Then, my college boyfriend friended me on Facebook, and I learned that he is married too. Today, I got an email that another former boyfriend from that cohort who I have been good friends with for years since is planning to get hitched. I wonder if I wait long enough, if the wave of my boyfriends getting married will reach the guy I am currently dating, and he'll marry me.
What is the appropriate reaction to this information? Can you guess?
You guessed it! I cyber-stalked the boyfriend after him to see if he's married yet.
I didn't find out if he's married, but I did find out that he's placing in full marathons and winning regional awards for his cooking (he's a chef at an upscale Italian restaurant). If he isn't married, he's certainly using his time well anyway. He also strangely resembles a more recent boyfriend, and I hadn't noticed that resemblance before.
The one after that is definitely single. We talk all the time.
My love life can be broke down into 5-year increments:
Age 16-22: serial monogamy
22-27: serious LTR
27-32: single
32-38: serial monogamy
...And here I am, tired of all the options.
For a long time, I noticed that all my exes remained single. I wondered if I permanently damage them. My sister said I pick commitment-phobic men.
My highschool sweetheart got married a few years back. (I am still close with his parents.) (I guess he had enough time to recover from whatever damage I did to him.) Then, my college boyfriend friended me on Facebook, and I learned that he is married too. Today, I got an email that another former boyfriend from that cohort who I have been good friends with for years since is planning to get hitched. I wonder if I wait long enough, if the wave of my boyfriends getting married will reach the guy I am currently dating, and he'll marry me.
What is the appropriate reaction to this information? Can you guess?
You guessed it! I cyber-stalked the boyfriend after him to see if he's married yet.
I didn't find out if he's married, but I did find out that he's placing in full marathons and winning regional awards for his cooking (he's a chef at an upscale Italian restaurant). If he isn't married, he's certainly using his time well anyway. He also strangely resembles a more recent boyfriend, and I hadn't noticed that resemblance before.
The one after that is definitely single. We talk all the time.
Friday, June 05, 2009
DFF: Food (off topic, but critical)
Warning: this post does not contain any bicycles.
In my on-going effort this week to paint a complete picture for you of the magnificence that was the DFF Bike-in Movie screening, I'm now going to tell you about the food.
Food carts in San Francisco have begun to tweet so that their fans know where to find them. Early in the night, several people told us they learned about the event by following the creme brulee guy on twitter.
Here, creme brulee and magic veggie curry set up:
The popcorn princess awaits your order:
People line up for their creme brulee including Colin the tweed ride guy:
He uses the torch to crisp the top after you order your flavor, right in front of you. This is great to watch for children ages 1 to 101.
I didn't try the magic veggie curry, but I heard it was excellent.
Here's how to follow them -
Magic Curry: http://twitter.com/magiccurrykart
Amuse Bouche: http://twitter.com/AmuseBoucheSF
Creme Brulee: http://twitter.com/cremebruleecart
In my on-going effort this week to paint a complete picture for you of the magnificence that was the DFF Bike-in Movie screening, I'm now going to tell you about the food.
Food carts in San Francisco have begun to tweet so that their fans know where to find them. Early in the night, several people told us they learned about the event by following the creme brulee guy on twitter.
Here, creme brulee and magic veggie curry set up:
The popcorn princess awaits your order:
People line up for their creme brulee including Colin the tweed ride guy:
He uses the torch to crisp the top after you order your flavor, right in front of you. This is great to watch for children ages 1 to 101.
I didn't try the magic veggie curry, but I heard it was excellent.
Here's how to follow them -
Magic Curry: http://twitter.com/magiccurrykart
Amuse Bouche: http://twitter.com/AmuseBoucheSF
Creme Brulee: http://twitter.com/cremebruleecart
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