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.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, May 13, 2011
Monday, May 09, 2011
adventures with my baby: thoughts and observations
Breastfeeding, apparently, isn’t very common here. J said that most French mothers she knows only breastfeed for the first few weeks. She also observed how much easier it is for me to feed C than these French mothers who have to organize bottles all the time. I really had the impression that the Europeans would be more advanced on this matter but alas. I guess it’s a bit like Italy where everyone just schedules their c-sections rather than waiting for a natural birth.
A major difference I noticed in Paris this time, compared with previous visits, is that people are wearing bicycle helmets – often the stylish ones but sometimes just the athletic helmets. Of course photos will follow.
They asked me if I thought it was strange that we permit children to drive at 16, vote at 18 and drink at 21. I believe everyone is allowed to do everything here at 18. I asked J when she thought people should be permitted to do things. She said that there should be no limit on drinking, that people should only be allowed to drive from age 40 to 60 (when our bodies start to fall apart but before our sight and brain begin to go), and since she is in charge, no one would need to vote anyway.
A major difference I noticed in Paris this time, compared with previous visits, is that people are wearing bicycle helmets – often the stylish ones but sometimes just the athletic helmets. Of course photos will follow.
They asked me if I thought it was strange that we permit children to drive at 16, vote at 18 and drink at 21. I believe everyone is allowed to do everything here at 18. I asked J when she thought people should be permitted to do things. She said that there should be no limit on drinking, that people should only be allowed to drive from age 40 to 60 (when our bodies start to fall apart but before our sight and brain begin to go), and since she is in charge, no one would need to vote anyway.
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.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
adventures with my baby: getting there
The flight with C was fine. She might have even loved it as she doesn’t usually get so sleep all the time ON her mother – I usually put her down once she falls asleep. This time I just held her because there was no where to be and nothing to do but wait until the plane landed in Paris. Her ears were never an issue as she sucked away at her pacifier throughout take off and landing although I had to encourage her to keep sucking and not fall asleep during take off. Beside us on one side was a very helpful lady who used to work for Y!Mail and now lives in Germany. She had an accent and appeared to be reading Chinese.
On the other side was a couple with a small 14-month old who was not as well behaved as C, but almost as cute. At one point she pulled her mothers straight blonde hair right from the top of her head. I don’t know how her mother would have reacted if it hadn’t been public – she was pretty mad. I was feeling particularly tolerant of C tho she only really cried once and did sleep a little. The bassinette was a lifesaver!
The landing was one of the roughest I’ve felt to date – I thought the plane would tip over. Good thing the babies were strapped in. my belt was accidentally very lose, and I slid almost out of my seat.
Air France played a couple very bad-looking movies and a nature program. So, I didn’t watch them. Yet the flight still went by pretty quickly – maybe we slept. I have no idea. The food was remarkably bad, but I enjoyed champaigne as an appero and red wine with dinner.
Customs, bag collection, etc. all went smoothly and took forever. I was worried about taking a taxi because we didn’t have a carseat, and drivers can be so crazy. I also wasn’t crazy about the fare for just us 2 (50 euros, I was guessing). So I thought we should take the bus. The one that goes to Nation is the 351 which, it turns out, is a local bus, and CDG is a long way from Paris. But first, we had to find the stop!
Yeah that took about 45 minutes. The bus stop was on the 5th floor above the train station, but I didn’t realize that we couldn’t just take any elevator that went to the 5th floor to find the bus stop. First, we found the place where the taxi drivers hang out.
But before that even, the information desk gave us the wrong info and said Air France bus #3 went to Nation. Turns out it just goes to the other airport (Orly, for about 20 euros). Fortunately we didn’t get on the bus because a nice Berkeley-type lady and her preteen son set us straight. I then asked tourist information, and she was much more helpful even selling us a “carnet” (10 Metro tickets, 12 euros), 3 of which got you into Paris on the 351.
A couple from Utah also waited for the bus, which took about 30 minutes to come. I enjoyed the company, but I don’t know how they selected a hotel at Nation for their first visit to Paris. While we waited, C lost her cool because she was starving. There was nowhere to sit and nurse her so I sat on the edge of a luggage cart. She was also on her 3rd outfit since we left home, after 2 massive diaper blowouts, and I hadn’t found socks for her (the previous 2 outfits had been neck to toe pajamas). I tried wrapping my scarf around her cold little feet but she hated it and it didn’t stay on. Eventually I figured out that I could put her little feet in the pockets of my sweater and they would stay in and keep warm.
So the bus ride took about 1.5 hours as we meandered through suburb after suburb. I was reminded of the people in front of us in line at Tourist information who had a 4-hour layover and wanted to sit in a Parisien café for some of it rather than just sit in the airport – was there someplace closer than the center that they could go? “No,” said the lady, and I agree. “You should go all the way into the center to either Les Halles or Bd. St. Michel.”
As a bus line should work, it was nearly empty at first, the filled up right as it crossed the boarder into the City where most people got off at Gare du Nord or shortly thereafter. A woman with mismatched shoes and missing teeth ran for, and caught, the bus at one point. I nursed C near the end, and no one seemed to notice – it was her first time eating on a bus. A lot of people rode the bus until the end of the line at Nation. My huge bag and the space we took up with our stuff irritated the other passengers who wanted to sit in the space we collectively occupied (C+me + our stuff).
The 15-minute walk from Nation to J&G’s was not that difficult with my baby, backpack, tote and wheely bag tho originally I had intended to take a taxi for that short distance. So we arrived without significant incident – except maybe the lack of socks and that all together it took 2+ hours longer than a taxi would have. As my friends from Utah pointed out, we started our tourist experience of seeing Paris.
J&G’s place is always a magnificent oasis in the heart of a major bustling city. You can see the sky and hear birds. Equally charming is the sound of men playing ball in the parking area below and the chime of the church bells.
Sidebar: I wrote this as C slept. Just now, I mirrored her as she stretched after the nap, the kind of nap the often begins right when I’m ready to leave the house, but away, she kept looking where I was pointing with my stretching arms. She understands pointing! I never read that that was a developmental stage, but I don’t think she’s always understood pointing.
…Which is to say that we should leave the house now, and I’ll finish my story another time.
On the other side was a couple with a small 14-month old who was not as well behaved as C, but almost as cute. At one point she pulled her mothers straight blonde hair right from the top of her head. I don’t know how her mother would have reacted if it hadn’t been public – she was pretty mad. I was feeling particularly tolerant of C tho she only really cried once and did sleep a little. The bassinette was a lifesaver!
The landing was one of the roughest I’ve felt to date – I thought the plane would tip over. Good thing the babies were strapped in. my belt was accidentally very lose, and I slid almost out of my seat.
Air France played a couple very bad-looking movies and a nature program. So, I didn’t watch them. Yet the flight still went by pretty quickly – maybe we slept. I have no idea. The food was remarkably bad, but I enjoyed champaigne as an appero and red wine with dinner.
Customs, bag collection, etc. all went smoothly and took forever. I was worried about taking a taxi because we didn’t have a carseat, and drivers can be so crazy. I also wasn’t crazy about the fare for just us 2 (50 euros, I was guessing). So I thought we should take the bus. The one that goes to Nation is the 351 which, it turns out, is a local bus, and CDG is a long way from Paris. But first, we had to find the stop!
Yeah that took about 45 minutes. The bus stop was on the 5th floor above the train station, but I didn’t realize that we couldn’t just take any elevator that went to the 5th floor to find the bus stop. First, we found the place where the taxi drivers hang out.
But before that even, the information desk gave us the wrong info and said Air France bus #3 went to Nation. Turns out it just goes to the other airport (Orly, for about 20 euros). Fortunately we didn’t get on the bus because a nice Berkeley-type lady and her preteen son set us straight. I then asked tourist information, and she was much more helpful even selling us a “carnet” (10 Metro tickets, 12 euros), 3 of which got you into Paris on the 351.
A couple from Utah also waited for the bus, which took about 30 minutes to come. I enjoyed the company, but I don’t know how they selected a hotel at Nation for their first visit to Paris. While we waited, C lost her cool because she was starving. There was nowhere to sit and nurse her so I sat on the edge of a luggage cart. She was also on her 3rd outfit since we left home, after 2 massive diaper blowouts, and I hadn’t found socks for her (the previous 2 outfits had been neck to toe pajamas). I tried wrapping my scarf around her cold little feet but she hated it and it didn’t stay on. Eventually I figured out that I could put her little feet in the pockets of my sweater and they would stay in and keep warm.
So the bus ride took about 1.5 hours as we meandered through suburb after suburb. I was reminded of the people in front of us in line at Tourist information who had a 4-hour layover and wanted to sit in a Parisien café for some of it rather than just sit in the airport – was there someplace closer than the center that they could go? “No,” said the lady, and I agree. “You should go all the way into the center to either Les Halles or Bd. St. Michel.”
As a bus line should work, it was nearly empty at first, the filled up right as it crossed the boarder into the City where most people got off at Gare du Nord or shortly thereafter. A woman with mismatched shoes and missing teeth ran for, and caught, the bus at one point. I nursed C near the end, and no one seemed to notice – it was her first time eating on a bus. A lot of people rode the bus until the end of the line at Nation. My huge bag and the space we took up with our stuff irritated the other passengers who wanted to sit in the space we collectively occupied (C+me + our stuff).
The 15-minute walk from Nation to J&G’s was not that difficult with my baby, backpack, tote and wheely bag tho originally I had intended to take a taxi for that short distance. So we arrived without significant incident – except maybe the lack of socks and that all together it took 2+ hours longer than a taxi would have. As my friends from Utah pointed out, we started our tourist experience of seeing Paris.
J&G’s place is always a magnificent oasis in the heart of a major bustling city. You can see the sky and hear birds. Equally charming is the sound of men playing ball in the parking area below and the chime of the church bells.
Sidebar: I wrote this as C slept. Just now, I mirrored her as she stretched after the nap, the kind of nap the often begins right when I’m ready to leave the house, but away, she kept looking where I was pointing with my stretching arms. She understands pointing! I never read that that was a developmental stage, but I don’t think she’s always understood pointing.
…Which is to say that we should leave the house now, and I’ll finish my story another time.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Mazatlan, January 2009
I'm not going to lie to you. 2009 was one of my least favorite years to date. Relationship drama, friend drama, health drama, you-name-it drama all decorated the otherwise structurally-powerful tree of the year. My vacations were wonderful: Alaska rocks the house, and France was beautiful though emotionally-intense due to M's cancer treatment.
Early in the year, I went to Mexico for a week to make art. I've been procrastinating editing those photos all year bc I didn't want to deal with the feelings I associate with adjacent times. But now that I have, they're stunning. Check them out.
Early in the year, I went to Mexico for a week to make art. I've been procrastinating editing those photos all year bc I didn't want to deal with the feelings I associate with adjacent times. But now that I have, they're stunning. Check them out.
Monday, September 21, 2009
David Byrne on Cities
First, the WSJ published his essay A Talking Head Dreams of a Perfect City where he identifies the best part of every city. San Francisco, he says, is beautiful but too small. The following week, last week, his book Bicycle Diaries was released. My pal Chris Carlson reviewed it in the SF Chron. Sounds like a sweet read.
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.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Dizy on bubbly en France
Dizy, Champagne, France
My plane was a few minutes late landing, but I had no checked bags. So, I was able to hit the road right away. I would have arrived at the apartment before 11 if I’d just jumped in a taxi. But, no, I had to take the train of course.
Unless you have Euro coins, Americans can’t buy metro tickets from the machines because the machines don’t accept our credit cards. I waited in line for a long time to get one little ticket to get me into town. Next time, maybe I’ll take the Roisy Bus which drops you off at the Opera, a stop on the 9-metro line, the one I need. I had to transfer twice to get to Montreuil, but I was there by noon.
M was out when I arrived, but JP told me to get washed up and ready for lunch. I took a shower and sorted myself a little. Their guest room is extremely comfortable – I don’t know why they don’t use it for themselves… other than it wouldn’t fit two single beds. The room has a balcony with a splendid view of city hall, which I have mentioned before has been run by a democratically-elected communist government for the longest of any place in the world.
France isn’t perfect (what?!). Outside the guestroom balcony in Montreuil (back in Paris metro region), there’s city hall and the town square in front, and a new theater center to your left, but between it all and this 9-story residential building is a parking lot chained off even from cars. The issue is a historic pharmacy on about 1/15th of the lot which apparently prevents anyone from building there at all. I should add that all this is less than one block from the Metro. I blame the development mentality and the (gasp!) capitalism of land use.
They claimed to have slaved all of yesterday making the lunch, but I think that was secret code for they just pulled it out of the freezer that afternoon. We had stuffed scallops and sautéed veggies, then salad, then cheese, then fruit of course. I ate a plum. It was delicious. Then coffee and chocolate. Of course.
The coffee probably kept me from napping, but after an hour of lying in bed, I feel asleep only to wake up an hour later feeling like my body was encased lead. Jet lag is a terrible thing. They should really find a cure for that.
I managed to get through lunch without a drink but not dinner. We drove to the Champagne region in the late afternoon, and I could hardly refuse a glass of bubbly in its native land. It would have been rude. We’re visiting their cousin, R, in the small town of Dizy just outside of Epernay.
We are in France, so all activities emphasize food. First, we had an appertif in the garden. Then dinner in the “winter garden”. The others watched some television (en francais) and I went to sleep. Petit dejeuner was toast and fruit with coffee. I was delighted that she had decaf. Then, we went to the market in Epernay.
French markets are also a really special experience rather like the horn of cornucopia spilling out of a parking lot. Speaking of parking lots, every little town here has paid parking in its center. People drive, but they rent invisible places to store their cars at their destinations. That way, town centers can be completely pedestrianized.I was particularly impressed with the parking in Reims, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
We went back to the house for lunch and had a leisurely meal in the garden with champagne and all the requisite courses. It went rather long for me, and I slipped away for a nap before the fruit (final) course after two hours. Drinking even one glass of champagne midday puts me straight to sleep ...Not to mention the jetlag.
After a rather substantial nap, we went to Reims to see the town and Cathedral.
Neither M nor I had ever been there before. The parking was 5 stories underground below the pedestrianized city center, and little lights in the pavement indicated vacant spaces.
Drivers paid with their credit cards upon exiting using the same slot where you also stuck your ticket to be processed.
This would be a great region for a little bike trip. Plus, there’s bubbly everywhere which is a perfect reason get off your bike (when there are really only a few good reasons to stop biking).
Here we are again, back at the house in Dizy, getting ready for dinner. The plates we used are hand painted with flowers, and we always have two sets of glasses, one for champagne and one for wine. (I use my wine glass for water generally.) Our napkins go in little doily slipcovers when not in use so we can tell them apart. R is babysitting the cutest little cocker spaniel you ever saw named Prunelle.
My plane was a few minutes late landing, but I had no checked bags. So, I was able to hit the road right away. I would have arrived at the apartment before 11 if I’d just jumped in a taxi. But, no, I had to take the train of course.
Unless you have Euro coins, Americans can’t buy metro tickets from the machines because the machines don’t accept our credit cards. I waited in line for a long time to get one little ticket to get me into town. Next time, maybe I’ll take the Roisy Bus which drops you off at the Opera, a stop on the 9-metro line, the one I need. I had to transfer twice to get to Montreuil, but I was there by noon.
M was out when I arrived, but JP told me to get washed up and ready for lunch. I took a shower and sorted myself a little. Their guest room is extremely comfortable – I don’t know why they don’t use it for themselves… other than it wouldn’t fit two single beds. The room has a balcony with a splendid view of city hall, which I have mentioned before has been run by a democratically-elected communist government for the longest of any place in the world.
France isn’t perfect (what?!). Outside the guestroom balcony in Montreuil (back in Paris metro region), there’s city hall and the town square in front, and a new theater center to your left, but between it all and this 9-story residential building is a parking lot chained off even from cars. The issue is a historic pharmacy on about 1/15th of the lot which apparently prevents anyone from building there at all. I should add that all this is less than one block from the Metro. I blame the development mentality and the (gasp!) capitalism of land use.
They claimed to have slaved all of yesterday making the lunch, but I think that was secret code for they just pulled it out of the freezer that afternoon. We had stuffed scallops and sautéed veggies, then salad, then cheese, then fruit of course. I ate a plum. It was delicious. Then coffee and chocolate. Of course.
The coffee probably kept me from napping, but after an hour of lying in bed, I feel asleep only to wake up an hour later feeling like my body was encased lead. Jet lag is a terrible thing. They should really find a cure for that.
I managed to get through lunch without a drink but not dinner. We drove to the Champagne region in the late afternoon, and I could hardly refuse a glass of bubbly in its native land. It would have been rude. We’re visiting their cousin, R, in the small town of Dizy just outside of Epernay.
We are in France, so all activities emphasize food. First, we had an appertif in the garden. Then dinner in the “winter garden”. The others watched some television (en francais) and I went to sleep. Petit dejeuner was toast and fruit with coffee. I was delighted that she had decaf. Then, we went to the market in Epernay.
French markets are also a really special experience rather like the horn of cornucopia spilling out of a parking lot. Speaking of parking lots, every little town here has paid parking in its center. People drive, but they rent invisible places to store their cars at their destinations. That way, town centers can be completely pedestrianized.I was particularly impressed with the parking in Reims, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
We went back to the house for lunch and had a leisurely meal in the garden with champagne and all the requisite courses. It went rather long for me, and I slipped away for a nap before the fruit (final) course after two hours. Drinking even one glass of champagne midday puts me straight to sleep ...Not to mention the jetlag.
After a rather substantial nap, we went to Reims to see the town and Cathedral.
Neither M nor I had ever been there before. The parking was 5 stories underground below the pedestrianized city center, and little lights in the pavement indicated vacant spaces.
Drivers paid with their credit cards upon exiting using the same slot where you also stuck your ticket to be processed.
This would be a great region for a little bike trip. Plus, there’s bubbly everywhere which is a perfect reason get off your bike (when there are really only a few good reasons to stop biking).
Here we are again, back at the house in Dizy, getting ready for dinner. The plates we used are hand painted with flowers, and we always have two sets of glasses, one for champagne and one for wine. (I use my wine glass for water generally.) Our napkins go in little doily slipcovers when not in use so we can tell them apart. R is babysitting the cutest little cocker spaniel you ever saw named Prunelle.
Friday, May 22, 2009
off the grid
Nasa had us over for a presentation (work). They said something interesting: a space station is potentially the most off-the-grid you can get. Since it costs $10,000 per pound to get anything up there, they have a huge incentive not to need to transport anything in or out. While space travel is enormously expensive, it also may provide lessons on how we can live on earth more lightly.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Towards a Boyfriend-free computer
I'm self sufficient in most ways. However, certain things are a man's job: sharpening knives, changing batteries, and fixing my computer come to mind. That battery died on my computer about a year ago. About a month ago, I took a deep breath and tried to navigate that mysterious world myself. It went pretty well, and now I can work on the train (which is good because I am on a train for like 3 hours a day).
This magnificent new technology has given me time to sort and process my photos. The goal is to have a completely Boyfriend-free computer. In many cases, these photos have not been properly honored yet, either because they are painful for me to look at and/or there are just too many of them.
Towards that goal, I believe I have finished processing all the photos from my trip around the world with Grayson in 1994-95. I left out the ones that have neither of us in them (I might add those later) and the ones that have us both in them (for obvious reasons).
This magnificent new technology has given me time to sort and process my photos. The goal is to have a completely Boyfriend-free computer. In many cases, these photos have not been properly honored yet, either because they are painful for me to look at and/or there are just too many of them.
Towards that goal, I believe I have finished processing all the photos from my trip around the world with Grayson in 1994-95. I left out the ones that have neither of us in them (I might add those later) and the ones that have us both in them (for obvious reasons).
 |
| Grayson and Lilia around the world |
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Grayson and Lilia around the world
As you have surmised, I am processing old photos (slide scans actually). You can view the album here:
 |
| Grayson and Lilia around the world |
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Good Bye, George Bush
I saw this decoration in a window near my house. I don't know what it means, but it sure is entertaining. The photo may not do the window justice.
Cracker selection, I thought today, is like superstition. I always buy the same cracker. At some point years ago, I did a complete analysis considering price, taste and nutritional content and chose these. Now I buy them blindly, not remembering the content of my analysis. It's like not eating pork or filing the teeth of young people. People probably had a very good reason once, and that reason may no longer be relevant.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Why do people hate buses?
I was looking for pictures of the Highway 17 Express Bus for work today. I found many thousand photos with the label, but none of them were actually of the vehicle. I guess it isn't a sexy bus -- no one wants to post photos of it. I did find a photo of bikes on the bus on flickr incidentally posted by one of our favorite contributors of Velo Vogue.
Before I left for my trip around the world, I told a family friend "I don't do buses." She didn't let me forget that for years! She considered it a childish statement worth taunting. When I returned, having ridden buses, trains, planes, donkey carts, auto and cyclo rickshaws, bicycles and walked maybe thousands of miles, she puffed that I had "grown up so much." (This from a woman who hired a car and driver to take her around India, but don't get me started.) I do do buses now, but I don't like it.
I didn't like the experience of the ...company... bus with my former employer just because it was a bus on the highway. I did some miscalculations last week and ended up driving alone back and forth to work twice. I HATE being on the highway. The experience of it makes my neck ache. But is that the reason we hate buses so much?
I had a conference this week. A lot of people asked if I was doing bike planning. "No," I replied. "I'm all about buses these days." I believe in buses because I believe in people. But I can't help but wonder if they are just the socialist off-shoot of auto-supremacy. I mean, you do what you can with the existing system. Is it too much of a compromise?
Years ago, Grayson wanted to prove that "what is beautiful is good." The problem with his premise is that beauty is absolutely subjective. How then decide about the collective good? I love my job because it is both complicated and solvable... at least slightly solvable anyway... until the next big questions or trend comes along.
The conference had a session on blogging. You know I had to go. Some of my co-bloggers have complained about not having enough readers. I had lunch with a group of activist ladies. One said that she wasn't young enough to get into blogging. Knowing that I was about 10 years older, I said "I have more opinions than is really useful. Blogging helps me to get them out." I don't even care that I have 5 readers. Folks are invited to read or not. I blog for myself. I loved it when one of the guys in the session said blogging has "a bias towards you."
They influenced me to ask myself what's the angle of my drivel. Right now, I'm thinking: thirty-something, carfree, urban, single San Franciscan who thinks (and travels) too much. The specifics on my friends and life are probably what causes people who know me to return. But the positive feedback comes when I weave in the politics of my lifestyle.
Before I left for my trip around the world, I told a family friend "I don't do buses." She didn't let me forget that for years! She considered it a childish statement worth taunting. When I returned, having ridden buses, trains, planes, donkey carts, auto and cyclo rickshaws, bicycles and walked maybe thousands of miles, she puffed that I had "grown up so much." (This from a woman who hired a car and driver to take her around India, but don't get me started.) I do do buses now, but I don't like it.
I didn't like the experience of the ...company... bus with my former employer just because it was a bus on the highway. I did some miscalculations last week and ended up driving alone back and forth to work twice. I HATE being on the highway. The experience of it makes my neck ache. But is that the reason we hate buses so much?
I had a conference this week. A lot of people asked if I was doing bike planning. "No," I replied. "I'm all about buses these days." I believe in buses because I believe in people. But I can't help but wonder if they are just the socialist off-shoot of auto-supremacy. I mean, you do what you can with the existing system. Is it too much of a compromise?
Years ago, Grayson wanted to prove that "what is beautiful is good." The problem with his premise is that beauty is absolutely subjective. How then decide about the collective good? I love my job because it is both complicated and solvable... at least slightly solvable anyway... until the next big questions or trend comes along.
The conference had a session on blogging. You know I had to go. Some of my co-bloggers have complained about not having enough readers. I had lunch with a group of activist ladies. One said that she wasn't young enough to get into blogging. Knowing that I was about 10 years older, I said "I have more opinions than is really useful. Blogging helps me to get them out." I don't even care that I have 5 readers. Folks are invited to read or not. I blog for myself. I loved it when one of the guys in the session said blogging has "a bias towards you."
They influenced me to ask myself what's the angle of my drivel. Right now, I'm thinking: thirty-something, carfree, urban, single San Franciscan who thinks (and travels) too much. The specifics on my friends and life are probably what causes people who know me to return. But the positive feedback comes when I weave in the politics of my lifestyle.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Back!
My flight landed 30 minutes early due to favorable winds last night. I slept from 10 pm until 2, 3, 4 and 6 am and ate a burrito for lunch. My apartment is blazing hot sorta like the air outside... a lot warmer than Paris right now. I've talked with friends, updated Netflix regarding the movies I watched on the plane (Made of Honor - 2 stars, 21 and What Happens in Vegas - 3 stars, Fools Gold - 4 stars for personal reasons), watered my tomatoes, picked up my contacts and more sunscreen, done laundry, and now I have about a thousand photos to sort through. Oh, yeah, and I'm back to work. Wish me luck.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Stories and categories
Another overcast day in Paris, and I’m pondering how you never know where the gifts of your life will come from: love, money, music, joy, satisfaction…. I’ve wanted the complete Beatles on my computer forever, and I had this idea for unknown reasons they would come from DJ… which was strange since we have never shared music. Whenever left alone in a person’s apartment with my computer, I scour their collection for something I might like. Here, in J&G’s, waiting for the sun to come out or inspiration to strike, I find they have a complete Beatles anthology. (At home, I only have it in vinyl, and since I no longer have a record player, that doesn’t do me much good anymore).
I find it useful to avoid getting attached to any one storyline like where my Beatles will come from or who will refer me to a job when I need one. Stories are better when they unfold exactly not as you suspect. So, you try to make decisions for reasons, listen to your gut, and keep your options open… until you stop and commit to something. Then, you must have complete faith in that thing or you’re setting yourself up for misery.
My mother said when her first two marriages broke up, she was so heartbroken it never occurred to her that her divorce affected anyone else. Each marriage lasted less than 2 years and yielded a child. In French, one word, fierté, is for the pride you have in your country or your children, and another word, orgueil, is for the deadly sin. We use language to categorize things and understand them, but we also find that these same words and categories make them more difficult to understand.
I’m back in Paris after a week in Brittany with my mother. I can’t recommend Brittany enough. I’m also happy to be on my own again. Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, I head off to Zurich for the weekend and Sultan’s wedding. I’ve lots more to share but no muse and a day ahead of me to see again this whole city. Sometimes I feel like my waking activities are primarily for the purpose of creating a situation where I will be able to sleep that night.
I find it useful to avoid getting attached to any one storyline like where my Beatles will come from or who will refer me to a job when I need one. Stories are better when they unfold exactly not as you suspect. So, you try to make decisions for reasons, listen to your gut, and keep your options open… until you stop and commit to something. Then, you must have complete faith in that thing or you’re setting yourself up for misery.
My mother said when her first two marriages broke up, she was so heartbroken it never occurred to her that her divorce affected anyone else. Each marriage lasted less than 2 years and yielded a child. In French, one word, fierté, is for the pride you have in your country or your children, and another word, orgueil, is for the deadly sin. We use language to categorize things and understand them, but we also find that these same words and categories make them more difficult to understand.
I’m back in Paris after a week in Brittany with my mother. I can’t recommend Brittany enough. I’m also happy to be on my own again. Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, I head off to Zurich for the weekend and Sultan’s wedding. I’ve lots more to share but no muse and a day ahead of me to see again this whole city. Sometimes I feel like my waking activities are primarily for the purpose of creating a situation where I will be able to sleep that night.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
How to become a transportation planner, my story
1) How did you get into the field, what was your experience and education, what is your current job title?
That’s a long story, but I’ll try to do it justice. I studied literature and art in college. When I got out, I thought I would go into publishing or journalism. But I had no idea how to go about that. Then I met a man at a gumbo housewarming party, and we fell in love. He was finishing his degree in landscape architecture, and when he finished he won a fellowship to travel around the world and study design approaches to water in an attempt to address the urban runoff issue. I tagged along.
I’d traveled before but not to this extent. We went all over southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, the Middle East and Europe. We rode planes, trains, donkey carts, rickshaws, autorickshaws and bicycles, and we walked. When we came back from the trip, I very quickly got a job at a mental health insurance company doing admin and writing. The job was part time; so, I took calculus and other business classes at night for fun.
My boyfriend’s roommate when we met was also a landscape architect and around the same time we started dating, the roommate started dating a woman from the planning program. I met her and her friends, and I was impressed with how smart they were. My first thought was, I wish I was that smart. My second thought was, maybe I am.
Actually, backtracking, I had the same reaction to the movie Singles, which I saw when I was in college, where the one guy is a planner for the regional train system. Except back then, I didn’t have the second thought.
My boss was irritating me at the mental health insurance company; so, I quit to find an admin job in planning to see if it interested me. I did temp jobs related to the field (riding SF Muni, our city bus and lightrail system, and writing down how I felt about it) and that caused me to register for this temp agency which I eventually let assign me (very reluctantly) to work as an admin asst for the regional rideshare program. I revamped their systems, built them a new database for their marketing department and improved the tracking system. I guess they were impressed bc within a few months, I convinced the Director of Planning to hire me as his staff planner. That’s the word used, but the job was really market research and program evaluation. It was a tremendous break since normally you have to have a relevant degree for a job like that.
I completely loved that job. And then I started getting bored with the limits of our perspective. For example, I wanted to take land use into consideration when looking at the region’s transportation problems. But that was outside our realm. So, I applied to graduate school at Berkeley, and finally they admitted me.
I was pretty wishy-washy about what my focus would be. I wanted to do land use (I think because it was new to me), but I kept getting pushed in one way or another back to transportation. The reality was and remains that there is more interesting work in transportation (to me). So, that’s where I’ve stayed. I’m glad now.
I’ve changed jobs several times and worked for myself. My current job title is Senior Transportation Planner. Since grad school, I have worked in transportation, but not always planning. I’ve done a lot of transportation demand management work as well.
2) How would you describe the work you do in a typical day? What are the most common tasks?
Research such as reading and synthesizing reports, talking to people, and surfing the net for relevant information
Writing memos, reports, and emails
Public speaking, meeting facilitation, determining how to frame an idea for the right response (this also goes under writing)
Project management – paying attention to schedules and budgets, checking in with people about their schedule and budget, organizing people, paper, ideas, motivations
3) If you could give advice to a young person who wants to work in this career field someday, what would you tell them? How can they best groom themselves for this field?
Get trained and volunteer.
You will need the Master’s degree.
Be well-rounded.
Pay attention.
4) What promotional and advancement opportunities exist in this field? What salaries could one expect (entry level to advanced top level.)?
Opportunities for advancement are endless. I guess the best you can do it run a planning department for a big city, region, state or country, but you could get out of the field a little and climb more. You could also run a successful planning non-profit or consulting firm. Salaries vary substantially based on your location, focus, and sector (npo, consulting, public). You can definitely be comfortable but probably not get rich.
I’m guessing:
Entry level: 30k-60k/year
Midlevel: 50k-100k
Upper level: 80k-150k+?
5) In your opinion, what are some of the best schools, degrees and certificates that are most marketable for jobs in this career field?
Planetizen has a ranking. I think Berkeley is best. MIT is supposed to be good, but it’s in Boston and doesn’t have a transportation concentration. As with all things, see which professors/researchers/professionals you admire and ask them.
6) How does someone without previous experience in this career field land a job? What are the best strategies for job-hunting in this field?
You get a Master’s degree. With admin or marketing skills and no degree in the field, you can get a job working with planners. I would shoot for nonprofits or private consulting firms for the best exposure (before you get your Master’s). You can get a planning job without the Master’s degree, but you’ll probably have to get the Master’s eventually. I’ve had the most luck networking as opposed to responding to listings.
7) Are there any professional associations that you would recommend joining?
Join advocacy groups relevant to your interests. Attend the public meetings to watch the proceedings and speak your mind. There are a lot of professional associations – I’m not a member of any of them tho.
8) What emerging or high growth careers do you see developing in the future for this career field?
I wouldn’t use the words “high growth”. I would use words more like “steady” or “solid” or “recession-proof” at least regarding transportation. Urban design is probably more volatile, and the salaries are lower, but you get to design things. People become planners because they are practical and they care about people and the planet not because they want to “emerge” or “grow”; we leave that to the politicians. People who succeed in planning, generally do so because they are convincing and have natural social skills, but you can wonk out and be a techy too if that compels you.
Written April 8, 2008, A shorter version of this "interview" will be included in a forthcoming book titled "Green Careers"
Photo by Mitch Aidelbaum of me manning a commute fair table while editing a survey on Halloween
That’s a long story, but I’ll try to do it justice. I studied literature and art in college. When I got out, I thought I would go into publishing or journalism. But I had no idea how to go about that. Then I met a man at a gumbo housewarming party, and we fell in love. He was finishing his degree in landscape architecture, and when he finished he won a fellowship to travel around the world and study design approaches to water in an attempt to address the urban runoff issue. I tagged along.
I’d traveled before but not to this extent. We went all over southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, the Middle East and Europe. We rode planes, trains, donkey carts, rickshaws, autorickshaws and bicycles, and we walked. When we came back from the trip, I very quickly got a job at a mental health insurance company doing admin and writing. The job was part time; so, I took calculus and other business classes at night for fun.
My boyfriend’s roommate when we met was also a landscape architect and around the same time we started dating, the roommate started dating a woman from the planning program. I met her and her friends, and I was impressed with how smart they were. My first thought was, I wish I was that smart. My second thought was, maybe I am.
Actually, backtracking, I had the same reaction to the movie Singles, which I saw when I was in college, where the one guy is a planner for the regional train system. Except back then, I didn’t have the second thought.
My boss was irritating me at the mental health insurance company; so, I quit to find an admin job in planning to see if it interested me. I did temp jobs related to the field (riding SF Muni, our city bus and lightrail system, and writing down how I felt about it) and that caused me to register for this temp agency which I eventually let assign me (very reluctantly) to work as an admin asst for the regional rideshare program. I revamped their systems, built them a new database for their marketing department and improved the tracking system. I guess they were impressed bc within a few months, I convinced the Director of Planning to hire me as his staff planner. That’s the word used, but the job was really market research and program evaluation. It was a tremendous break since normally you have to have a relevant degree for a job like that.
I completely loved that job. And then I started getting bored with the limits of our perspective. For example, I wanted to take land use into consideration when looking at the region’s transportation problems. But that was outside our realm. So, I applied to graduate school at Berkeley, and finally they admitted me.
I was pretty wishy-washy about what my focus would be. I wanted to do land use (I think because it was new to me), but I kept getting pushed in one way or another back to transportation. The reality was and remains that there is more interesting work in transportation (to me). So, that’s where I’ve stayed. I’m glad now.
I’ve changed jobs several times and worked for myself. My current job title is Senior Transportation Planner. Since grad school, I have worked in transportation, but not always planning. I’ve done a lot of transportation demand management work as well.
2) How would you describe the work you do in a typical day? What are the most common tasks?
Research such as reading and synthesizing reports, talking to people, and surfing the net for relevant information
Writing memos, reports, and emails
Public speaking, meeting facilitation, determining how to frame an idea for the right response (this also goes under writing)
Project management – paying attention to schedules and budgets, checking in with people about their schedule and budget, organizing people, paper, ideas, motivations
3) If you could give advice to a young person who wants to work in this career field someday, what would you tell them? How can they best groom themselves for this field?
Get trained and volunteer.
You will need the Master’s degree.
Be well-rounded.
Pay attention.
4) What promotional and advancement opportunities exist in this field? What salaries could one expect (entry level to advanced top level.)?
Opportunities for advancement are endless. I guess the best you can do it run a planning department for a big city, region, state or country, but you could get out of the field a little and climb more. You could also run a successful planning non-profit or consulting firm. Salaries vary substantially based on your location, focus, and sector (npo, consulting, public). You can definitely be comfortable but probably not get rich.
I’m guessing:
Entry level: 30k-60k/year
Midlevel: 50k-100k
Upper level: 80k-150k+?
5) In your opinion, what are some of the best schools, degrees and certificates that are most marketable for jobs in this career field?
Planetizen has a ranking. I think Berkeley is best. MIT is supposed to be good, but it’s in Boston and doesn’t have a transportation concentration. As with all things, see which professors/researchers/professionals you admire and ask them.
6) How does someone without previous experience in this career field land a job? What are the best strategies for job-hunting in this field?
You get a Master’s degree. With admin or marketing skills and no degree in the field, you can get a job working with planners. I would shoot for nonprofits or private consulting firms for the best exposure (before you get your Master’s). You can get a planning job without the Master’s degree, but you’ll probably have to get the Master’s eventually. I’ve had the most luck networking as opposed to responding to listings.
7) Are there any professional associations that you would recommend joining?
Join advocacy groups relevant to your interests. Attend the public meetings to watch the proceedings and speak your mind. There are a lot of professional associations – I’m not a member of any of them tho.
8) What emerging or high growth careers do you see developing in the future for this career field?
I wouldn’t use the words “high growth”. I would use words more like “steady” or “solid” or “recession-proof” at least regarding transportation. Urban design is probably more volatile, and the salaries are lower, but you get to design things. People become planners because they are practical and they care about people and the planet not because they want to “emerge” or “grow”; we leave that to the politicians. People who succeed in planning, generally do so because they are convincing and have natural social skills, but you can wonk out and be a techy too if that compels you.
Written April 8, 2008, A shorter version of this "interview" will be included in a forthcoming book titled "Green Careers"
Photo by Mitch Aidelbaum of me manning a commute fair table while editing a survey on Halloween
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
