Since the advent of the modern Olympic games, the althetes have pledged and lived by the motto, Citius, Altius, Fortius. In Latin, this translates as Swifter, Higher, Braver. Somewhere along the line, the translation changed the last word to Stronger, but the intent is still the same. Each country is invited to send athletes to compete in a world arena, where being first is not necessarily the priority. There can only be one gold, silver and bronze medal winner. But each athlete is invited to give his or her best effort, to strive for personal excellence and to belong to a greater world community where everyone follows the same rules. I have always held in my heart that the Olympics were about setting aside politics, prejudices and power struggles. For me the Olympics embody friendship through sportsmanship and the good old axiomthat it is not whether you win or lose but how you play the game.
When I was a little girl, I always hoped and wondered why the leaders of our nations couldn't use the Olympic games to settle differences. It was so much more peaceful than war, or banging shoes or pointing warheads at each other. Ah to be seven again and not know what I know.
My first memories of the Olympics center around skating. Every one of my friends and I wanted to be Peggy Fleming! She was so beautiful and graceful. My sisters and I got ice skates because of Peggy Fleming and many a winter's afternoon was spent skating on the pond at Bear Hill Country Club...and our imaginations took us to Grenoble or Sapporo or Innsbruk. I had a crush on Mark Spitz...I sported Dorothy Hamill's hair-do at Stoneham High School ...yup, just look at my yearbook picture...and much to my own satisfaction and joy, I was inspired to be athletic. I was a fish in the water....swimming miles upon miles of laps in the Sand Pool at Fort Eustis. I still love to swim laps. I played volley ball and soft ball in school. I took up archery in college. Swifter, Higher Stronger...all part of a balanced life...not a competitive life though. I participated in sports to be a part of a team, but more so to challenge myself and center myself. I think if I were to take up an Olympic sport now, it would be Curling. I love curling...and at my age I think I just might be able to do it! Curling is a great team sport. It requires thought, patience, finesse and who doesn't love a sport with a broom?
My families then and now still love the Olympics. I don't think I have missed any of the Summer or Winter Games. I love that the Olympics are on during February school vacation and of course there are the Olympic games of summer vacation. Watching the Olympic is a family tradition...even across the ocean, my girls and Bill and I watch highlights and compare our own judging notes and scores. We swell with pride at victory or cry a little with defeat...but we always honor good sportsmanship! Hold on for the scolding bad sports get later on in this blog!
I grew up watching the Olympics and I grew up because of the Olympics. Munich 1972 was the year that I realized the world was not able to settle differences on the playing field. The terrorist attack on the Israeli athletes changed my life. A part of my childhood was stolen and that incident started to shape my own politics. It surprised me that I could go from a child who wanted the world to settle the score through friendly competition to a pre-teen, who grew up in schools with bomb shelters, thinking, why don't we just drop a bomb on the bad guys. I was sickened and saddened that something so pure was desecrated. I could not fathom the hate that must have existed to commit such atrocities. I was learning though. My mother encouraged me to deal with my grief by watching the rest of the games...by watching how the athletes grieved and continued, swifter, higher stronger. But, from 1972 on, the wound never really healed. There have been boycotts and bombings, mismanaged funds, doping, and an ever increasing desire to win at all cost...can you say Tonya Harding?
We are trying to watch the games here in Paris. But the 7 hour time difference is making it difficult. We try to catch the highlights and videos on NBC Olympics on-line...but it is not the same. We are used to six, seven, heck ten channels of Olympic sports coverage, live and delayed broadcast, expert analysis and those awesome behind the scene stories of how the athletes came to be our athletes. Here, I follow the games on Fr 1 or 2 from about 7-8pm and then again from 10:30 until I can no longer keep my eyes open. I have to watch with French subtitles on...there are no English ones available for these channels. And, I am watching loads of coverage of the sports where the French are contenders...mostly the Biathalon, some skiing and some of the snow boarding. It is interesting and a bit unnerving when you hear the local commentators dissing the Americans and hoping they will fall/fail/flop! Political correctness is not praticed the same way here as it is back home...refreshing sometimes, unexpected...always!
I got to see some of the first round of men's figure skating when Brian Joubert, from France performed. He did well, but fell once and you'd think the world had come to an end...lots and lots of disconcerted oh,la, la's....as opposed to ooh, la, la which is a good thing. There seems to be some shadow following he and his mother...whom from what I can gather is the reason Joubert cannot win Olympic gold in his sport. And this seems to be a growing and offending trend...blaming someone else for athletes' failure to achieve their goals.
For Joubert, the "establishment" blames his mother for not encouraging him to train in South Korea. The guy missed a jump and failed to complete some other planned elements...it happens. For Evgeny Plushenko, Silver Medalist in Men's Skating, he did not win gold because as he asserts, the judges were against him and other European skaters. He did a quad and bullied his way through the rest of his performance. The judges found it lacking. Lysacek did not do a quad, but his performance was technically and artistically better. Plushenko went on French TV after WINNING a Silver Medal and encouraged the European judges to bond together and "lobby" against the Americans...what??? He insisted that the IOC make mens' skating more athletic and require moves like the quadruple jumps and less about technical and artistic skill. Where is Citius, Altius, Fortis? Evgney, by all means, challenge yourself to do a hundred quads if you want...but a lousy quad is a lousy quad. Such ranting smacks of athletic elitism and does not belong at the Olympics. The person who places last has a much right to take the ice and try...to compete....to be braver than a person who has been groomed by his family and country since the day he was born to skate and win. Or in Evgeny's situation, skate and whine.
I remember Great Britain's Eddie the Eagle Edwards, careening down the ski jump., over weight and foggy eye glasses, but coming back time and again to compete...he never won a medal, but he won the hearts of the world. There's the Jamaican Bobsled team who didn't have a snowball's chance in Jamica and Afghanistan's Robina Muqimyar a Muslim woman who ran the 100 meters, ran wearing trousers and longer sleeves and a head covering...but ran for her country, ran for her gender, ran for her faith...these are examples of Citius, Altius, Fortius.
Patriotism and pride in those talented men and women who represent their fellow countrymen and women is not a bad thing. I sing and cry everytime I hear the National Anthem and see Old Glory. I tear up when we lose and I hold my breath and pray when someone falls or fails...but I never seek to blame. I love watching the best and I cheer louder for those who come in last...they all should be appreciated for their time and talent...maybe we need to focus more on the human side of the story rather than wonder what future endorsements may make this snowboarder a billionaire before he is thirty, hmmm?
I think it is high time all the modern Olympic athletes but most especially those whose sense of entitlement has driven the Olympic motto from their hearts should attend the next Special Olympics and Para-Olympic Games. There lives Swifter, Higher, Braver...Swifter, Higher Stronger. Theses Special Olympians find joy in the games, love the competiton and love their competitors. Here honor and sportsmanship, personal triumph over real challenges and satisfaction in doing your best are paramount. Gold, Silver and Bronze are cold metal...the handshake or embrace of your fellow athletes at the end of the contest is warm, real and far more valuable.
This year, I have heard and read that the Olympic Games are boring. Sports like curling and cross country skiing are dull. Ice dancing is lame. The future of the Olympics should be Sexy, Stylin' and Extreme..sounds like Super Bowl commercial. I hope the sports do grow and reflect the skills and realities of the 21st century, but not at the cost of Olympic ideals. It is not about money or brand names or being best. Citius, Altius, Fortius...it is about being human.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Bill: The Great American Ex-Pat...Not
This whole Paris deal is Bill's fault. He was offered a new position within his company and forever the risk taker, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I mean living in Paris for three years sounds so intriguing. As I have said before living in a foreign city and being a tourist in a foreign city are very different things. To matriculate into the environs, Bill bought snazzy new European styled glasses, outfitted himself with European cut shirts and suits and adopted the European trend of wearing sober colors...lots of black, brown and grey. He sports a lovely full length black wool overcoat, a grey, black and red scarf, worn in the Euro-style and un chapeau... a little black driving cap. He wanted a beret, but I talked him out of it! He really looks the Parisian, so much so that almost daily, he gets stopped and asked for directions...I do too, but the difference being, that in most cases I understand and can offer a simple response to the query. Bill starts talking and the poor folks move on to find real help.
When we left Boston, our friends and Bill's colleagues were worried about Bill. What was he going to do without American Sports? Really, for Bill there are four seasons, baseball, football, basketball and hockey...with a healthy side of golf to round things out. In short order, upon arriving to Paris, we found a Canadian Pub called The Moose that has direct satellite feeds from ESPN, NBC Sports and Canadian broadcasting. We were in France for less than a day when we were watching the Bruins in the Frozen Classic at Fenway. And we only missed one Sunday of football before subscribing to NFL Gametime via the internet. Bill will be fine sports fans.
My husband truly is the world's biggest risk taker. He'll hop on a para-sail, jet ski into shark infested waters, walk a little to close to the edge of the quai along the Seinne and cross against the red light...ugh. I, on the other hand, am a nervous Nellie and an obsessive planner. I would rather walk five miles than try to understand the bus or metro system (that can get old fast though). I have notes to write notes. I know well in advance what I am going to say to the nice shop keeper when I walk to the market. Heck, I have already planned the route to and from the market before I even leave the flat. I am a bit of a perfectionist too. I hate to make mistakes, especially ones that I think might make people think less of me. A little conceited, I know, but it is who I am. Bill, on the other hand, walks in to an intersting store we've never been in before and points and blurts out what he thinks is the right word and still manages to get what he wants...of course he turns to me all the time and says, "Huh? What did he say?" "Do you want a receipt or a bag or anything else?"...is often my reply.
I have learned that if nothing else, s'il vous plait and merci are essential in communicating with our French voisins. Bill, here and often at home, forgets to use the magic words. I am forever, interjecting...please or thank you for him, and he looks at me like I am a pushover or something. Perhaps I will adopt the practice of saying, "What's the magic word?", just like I did when teaching our daughters manners when they were little. Manners will help you go far here.
My husband is a gentleman. He just gets enthusiatic and the enthusiasm shadows the refinements one expects. I guess that's my job; keep the polish on his shining armour. The bright side is, Bill is always pleasant and jovial when dealing with the people we encounter, so they tend to let his informality slide. I am pleasant too, but a bit reserved. I am way more cautious before approaching new people and new situations. For example, when Reilly, American Ambassador extraordinaire, and I walk in the Luxembourg Gardens, I always keep a wary eye on other dogs and owners. People are naturally drawn to her...elle est tres mignon! If I see folks who are calm and the dogs well mannered, we either approach or welcome the approach of these fellow promeneurs. Bill walks right up and lets Reilly and the other dogs sniff each other out and on occasion, duke it out. I am far less confrontational! Although as my family will tell you, I am blessed and cursed with a face that, no matter where I am, people stop me and ask me for help, directions or to take their picture. I am everyone's faithful assistant in any grocery store in the world...its the face.
I am a bit overprotective when it comes to Reilly. When we walk, she wears a harness and her foul weather gear if needed. I like the harness on her because if on the very busy streets of Paris, it becomes necessary to extricate her from harm's way, I can just hoist her up by the leash into my arms...if she is leashed by the collar, she would slip out or choke! I have trained her to wait on the correct side of the white, bumpy strip at the cross walks and we always cross when the nice little green man appears on the traffic light. We always look left for busses, taxis and bikes...cuz they don't always stop for little dogs and traffic lights. Bill's approach is cross when he thinks it is safe. Many's a time Reilly and I are on one side of the street and Bill on the other with the echo of a car horn honking in our ears.
True story: Day before yesterday, it was a cold, miserable day...surprise, surprise...and Reilly needed to go out for her afternoon consitutional. Bill gallantly volunteered to take her while I finished my most recent addition to my new cookbook. As I was preoccupied, I failed to notice that Bill did not put the harness or raincoat on the dog...add ominous, forshadowing music here...Out they went. On his way back from Reilly's favorite statue, a nice man, rather frantically ooh, oohed at Bill, pointed and took Bill a bit off guard. Not understanding what the man was saying, he tried to hurry around him, but thank goodness, the nice man was persistantly pointing down, for there on Bill's right side attached to the leash was Reilly's collar, dragging on the ground and to Bill's left, was Reilly at his heel...as we say, naked as a jay bird! She is such a good little dog, she stayed right with him for who knows how long. He thinks the whole thing is hysterically funny...I was just plain hysterical. She always wears the harness!
Yesterday, Bill had to take the train to Lyon for a business meeting. Bill is quite experienced at taking the trains. We love the European rail system...when it is working or there are no strikes. As we were walking back with Reilly after her morning visit to the park, he told me that when we got home he needed to head right out to Gare du Nord to catch his train. I said, "You mean Gare du Lyon...you are going to Lyon, right?" "Yah...but the train station is Gare du Nord.." I told him Gare du Nord (North) takes you to the North of France, Belgium, Germany and Gare du Lyon trains head to...Lyon! It was like the clouds parted and angels started singing..."OOOh, Gare du LYON, I get it." he said. He made it to his meeting and back again...starting and stopping at Gare du Lyon.
I have to cut Bill some slack here. We balance each other out. He takes risks which forces me to take more risks. I make plans and do the reseach which often helps us get out of what could be sticky situations. And, we have only been here for 7 weeks. In that time, Bill has had to create a whole new position, develop business contacts, etc as well as work with our many transistion contacts to get us established here. I have had the time to use Rosetta Stone for French language lessons and the internet, books and guides for information. Together we are making it work. But he has got to remember to say the magic words!!!
When we left Boston, our friends and Bill's colleagues were worried about Bill. What was he going to do without American Sports? Really, for Bill there are four seasons, baseball, football, basketball and hockey...with a healthy side of golf to round things out. In short order, upon arriving to Paris, we found a Canadian Pub called The Moose that has direct satellite feeds from ESPN, NBC Sports and Canadian broadcasting. We were in France for less than a day when we were watching the Bruins in the Frozen Classic at Fenway. And we only missed one Sunday of football before subscribing to NFL Gametime via the internet. Bill will be fine sports fans.
My husband truly is the world's biggest risk taker. He'll hop on a para-sail, jet ski into shark infested waters, walk a little to close to the edge of the quai along the Seinne and cross against the red light...ugh. I, on the other hand, am a nervous Nellie and an obsessive planner. I would rather walk five miles than try to understand the bus or metro system (that can get old fast though). I have notes to write notes. I know well in advance what I am going to say to the nice shop keeper when I walk to the market. Heck, I have already planned the route to and from the market before I even leave the flat. I am a bit of a perfectionist too. I hate to make mistakes, especially ones that I think might make people think less of me. A little conceited, I know, but it is who I am. Bill, on the other hand, walks in to an intersting store we've never been in before and points and blurts out what he thinks is the right word and still manages to get what he wants...of course he turns to me all the time and says, "Huh? What did he say?" "Do you want a receipt or a bag or anything else?"...is often my reply.
I have learned that if nothing else, s'il vous plait and merci are essential in communicating with our French voisins. Bill, here and often at home, forgets to use the magic words. I am forever, interjecting...please or thank you for him, and he looks at me like I am a pushover or something. Perhaps I will adopt the practice of saying, "What's the magic word?", just like I did when teaching our daughters manners when they were little. Manners will help you go far here.
My husband is a gentleman. He just gets enthusiatic and the enthusiasm shadows the refinements one expects. I guess that's my job; keep the polish on his shining armour. The bright side is, Bill is always pleasant and jovial when dealing with the people we encounter, so they tend to let his informality slide. I am pleasant too, but a bit reserved. I am way more cautious before approaching new people and new situations. For example, when Reilly, American Ambassador extraordinaire, and I walk in the Luxembourg Gardens, I always keep a wary eye on other dogs and owners. People are naturally drawn to her...elle est tres mignon! If I see folks who are calm and the dogs well mannered, we either approach or welcome the approach of these fellow promeneurs. Bill walks right up and lets Reilly and the other dogs sniff each other out and on occasion, duke it out. I am far less confrontational! Although as my family will tell you, I am blessed and cursed with a face that, no matter where I am, people stop me and ask me for help, directions or to take their picture. I am everyone's faithful assistant in any grocery store in the world...its the face.
I am a bit overprotective when it comes to Reilly. When we walk, she wears a harness and her foul weather gear if needed. I like the harness on her because if on the very busy streets of Paris, it becomes necessary to extricate her from harm's way, I can just hoist her up by the leash into my arms...if she is leashed by the collar, she would slip out or choke! I have trained her to wait on the correct side of the white, bumpy strip at the cross walks and we always cross when the nice little green man appears on the traffic light. We always look left for busses, taxis and bikes...cuz they don't always stop for little dogs and traffic lights. Bill's approach is cross when he thinks it is safe. Many's a time Reilly and I are on one side of the street and Bill on the other with the echo of a car horn honking in our ears.
True story: Day before yesterday, it was a cold, miserable day...surprise, surprise...and Reilly needed to go out for her afternoon consitutional. Bill gallantly volunteered to take her while I finished my most recent addition to my new cookbook. As I was preoccupied, I failed to notice that Bill did not put the harness or raincoat on the dog...add ominous, forshadowing music here...Out they went. On his way back from Reilly's favorite statue, a nice man, rather frantically ooh, oohed at Bill, pointed and took Bill a bit off guard. Not understanding what the man was saying, he tried to hurry around him, but thank goodness, the nice man was persistantly pointing down, for there on Bill's right side attached to the leash was Reilly's collar, dragging on the ground and to Bill's left, was Reilly at his heel...as we say, naked as a jay bird! She is such a good little dog, she stayed right with him for who knows how long. He thinks the whole thing is hysterically funny...I was just plain hysterical. She always wears the harness!
Yesterday, Bill had to take the train to Lyon for a business meeting. Bill is quite experienced at taking the trains. We love the European rail system...when it is working or there are no strikes. As we were walking back with Reilly after her morning visit to the park, he told me that when we got home he needed to head right out to Gare du Nord to catch his train. I said, "You mean Gare du Lyon...you are going to Lyon, right?" "Yah...but the train station is Gare du Nord.." I told him Gare du Nord (North) takes you to the North of France, Belgium, Germany and Gare du Lyon trains head to...Lyon! It was like the clouds parted and angels started singing..."OOOh, Gare du LYON, I get it." he said. He made it to his meeting and back again...starting and stopping at Gare du Lyon.
I have to cut Bill some slack here. We balance each other out. He takes risks which forces me to take more risks. I make plans and do the reseach which often helps us get out of what could be sticky situations. And, we have only been here for 7 weeks. In that time, Bill has had to create a whole new position, develop business contacts, etc as well as work with our many transistion contacts to get us established here. I have had the time to use Rosetta Stone for French language lessons and the internet, books and guides for information. Together we are making it work. But he has got to remember to say the magic words!!!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I now know why women in Paris coif their hair!
Today I went for my first cut and color in a Parisian salon de coiffure! Yes, I know that is hard to believe that salt of the earth me colors her hair! Well I inherited my hair color from the Reilly side of the family and most of my aunts and uncles were gray by the time they hit 30. I started turning gray at thirty, so without my regular appointments to the colorist, I would be salt and pepper of the earth. Maybe when I turn 50, I'll go natural...or maybe not.
At 10 am, Bill and I walked but a block over and across Blvd St. Germain to the Salon du Coiffure of Jean-Phillippe Audebert. First of all, how totally cool is it to say, "Bonjour Jean-Phillippe!" to your stylist? We were fortunate to get this recommendation from Gabrielle, the daughter of our landlord and our new friend! This is her salon too!
Much like our experiences at my neice's place, The Salon @142 in Westford, Jean-Phillippe welcomed us warmly on this gray, drizzly day, offered to take our coats, offered cafe ou the' and seated us. Bill was met by a charming young lady who spoke some English and they discussed what he wanted for his styling.
With me, Jean-Phillipe consulted and made some recommendations. After 6 1/2 weeks in Paris, the hard water is taking its toll on my hair. It is still growing like a weed, but the hair is getting very dry. I was long overdue for a rendez-vous (that's what they call an appointment here...kinda sexy, eh?). Between the stress of the move, the change in water and being somewhat chicken to make an appointment sooner, my hair was frightful.
Jean-Phillippe suggested that I brighten my hair with a soft brown color, touched with copper undertones. He said the color would be just right for my skin tone. I looked at the sample and agreed...what else was I going to do, argue? Off he went to mix the color and when he came back he brought Alexi with him. Alexi is about 25, and cute...not cuddly in a teddy bear sort of way cute, but cute in a 40-something-ish woman not wanting to be creepy thinking someone who could be her son, is cute.
Alexi, spoke less English than I speak French, but we managed to have a very genial conversation about our move to Paris, the sights, the issues with water on skin and hair. After applying the color and letting me know that I needed to sit for 30 minutes, Alexi went off to tend to salon duties and I read Elle magazine... in French of course. I read an article about the recent US/UK/Afghan conference on negotiating with the Taliban last month. It was quite a bold and accurate appraisal of my view that the leaders of these three countries sold Afghan women's rights away from them and set them back 30 years. It was a great opinion piece. I also read an article about a French woman who was sentenced to 60 years in isolation in a Mexico prison. I wasn't able to figure out why...but she is using every resource to seek justice, for she claims she was unjustly accused. It seems to be a pretty big deal as President Sarkozy speaks to this woman regularly and this is big because she is limited to 2 phone calls per week and there are only 2 phones for 3000 female prisoners! I also learned that glam lips are in and that orange lipstick is the new red; silver nail polish is in, purple is out...green shadow and liners are in , indigo is out and nude/natural, soft make-up (with the exception of lips) is in and goth make-up, black liner and 60's eyes are out, out , out! Not bad... for an American girl!
Time is up and I go for my hair wash. And here ladies is why French women get coiffed! I have never had my hair washed and head, neck and shoulders massaged like this before in my life. I can only describe the experience as being as close to an affair as I will ever get. Alexi's hands were magic! The whole process lasted nearly 25 minutes...color rinsed, shampoo (rinse and repeat), conditioner (rinse and repeat because my hair was dry), color brilliance spritz, (rinse and repeat) and oh...the massage, my scalp, my skin, my temples, the crown of my head, the base of my neck and top of my shoulders...ooh, la, la! I couldn't help but smile and had to stop myself from nearly giggling once. And gents...Bill and I compared notes after our rendez-vous and he had much the same hair washing experience as I!
Visitors note: When you come to visit me in Paris, please plan to set aside a couple of hours for un coif! You must live this experience.
Alexi took my hand and helped me down the steps from the sink area over to Jean-Phillippe's stylist chair. I asked for a trim, but also suggested that if my hair needed something more, JP could take charge . And take charge he did...he took of a lot of hair from the back, which was weighing my hair down. He framed my face, leaving my hair slightly longer in the front and after much fluffing and hair blowing, c'est fini! I look younger, feel refreshed and more like I belong in Paris now.
Alexi, Jean-Phillippe and I have a rendez-vous in five weeks.
At 10 am, Bill and I walked but a block over and across Blvd St. Germain to the Salon du Coiffure of Jean-Phillippe Audebert. First of all, how totally cool is it to say, "Bonjour Jean-Phillippe!" to your stylist? We were fortunate to get this recommendation from Gabrielle, the daughter of our landlord and our new friend! This is her salon too!
Much like our experiences at my neice's place, The Salon @142 in Westford, Jean-Phillippe welcomed us warmly on this gray, drizzly day, offered to take our coats, offered cafe ou the' and seated us. Bill was met by a charming young lady who spoke some English and they discussed what he wanted for his styling.
With me, Jean-Phillipe consulted and made some recommendations. After 6 1/2 weeks in Paris, the hard water is taking its toll on my hair. It is still growing like a weed, but the hair is getting very dry. I was long overdue for a rendez-vous (that's what they call an appointment here...kinda sexy, eh?). Between the stress of the move, the change in water and being somewhat chicken to make an appointment sooner, my hair was frightful.
Jean-Phillippe suggested that I brighten my hair with a soft brown color, touched with copper undertones. He said the color would be just right for my skin tone. I looked at the sample and agreed...what else was I going to do, argue? Off he went to mix the color and when he came back he brought Alexi with him. Alexi is about 25, and cute...not cuddly in a teddy bear sort of way cute, but cute in a 40-something-ish woman not wanting to be creepy thinking someone who could be her son, is cute.
Alexi, spoke less English than I speak French, but we managed to have a very genial conversation about our move to Paris, the sights, the issues with water on skin and hair. After applying the color and letting me know that I needed to sit for 30 minutes, Alexi went off to tend to salon duties and I read Elle magazine... in French of course. I read an article about the recent US/UK/Afghan conference on negotiating with the Taliban last month. It was quite a bold and accurate appraisal of my view that the leaders of these three countries sold Afghan women's rights away from them and set them back 30 years. It was a great opinion piece. I also read an article about a French woman who was sentenced to 60 years in isolation in a Mexico prison. I wasn't able to figure out why...but she is using every resource to seek justice, for she claims she was unjustly accused. It seems to be a pretty big deal as President Sarkozy speaks to this woman regularly and this is big because she is limited to 2 phone calls per week and there are only 2 phones for 3000 female prisoners! I also learned that glam lips are in and that orange lipstick is the new red; silver nail polish is in, purple is out...green shadow and liners are in , indigo is out and nude/natural, soft make-up (with the exception of lips) is in and goth make-up, black liner and 60's eyes are out, out , out! Not bad... for an American girl!
Time is up and I go for my hair wash. And here ladies is why French women get coiffed! I have never had my hair washed and head, neck and shoulders massaged like this before in my life. I can only describe the experience as being as close to an affair as I will ever get. Alexi's hands were magic! The whole process lasted nearly 25 minutes...color rinsed, shampoo (rinse and repeat), conditioner (rinse and repeat because my hair was dry), color brilliance spritz, (rinse and repeat) and oh...the massage, my scalp, my skin, my temples, the crown of my head, the base of my neck and top of my shoulders...ooh, la, la! I couldn't help but smile and had to stop myself from nearly giggling once. And gents...Bill and I compared notes after our rendez-vous and he had much the same hair washing experience as I!
Visitors note: When you come to visit me in Paris, please plan to set aside a couple of hours for un coif! You must live this experience.
Alexi took my hand and helped me down the steps from the sink area over to Jean-Phillippe's stylist chair. I asked for a trim, but also suggested that if my hair needed something more, JP could take charge . And take charge he did...he took of a lot of hair from the back, which was weighing my hair down. He framed my face, leaving my hair slightly longer in the front and after much fluffing and hair blowing, c'est fini! I look younger, feel refreshed and more like I belong in Paris now.
Alexi, Jean-Phillippe and I have a rendez-vous in five weeks.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Julia and Me: Or so everyone tells me.
This has been a very cold week in Paris. Snow, snizzle, gray skies and a wind that takes your breath away. This is not exploring weather, unless your adventures take you into the pages of a cookbook. Snow and comfort food are forever melded in this New Englander's habitude.
I received Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child as a Christmas present. Actually, I got three copies as presents. With the popularity of the Meryl Streep movie, our move to Paris and my interest and ability in all things culinary, I guess it was a logical choice. I have lots to learn and wow, what a place in which to learn!! I only brought one copy with me and it has stains already.
I have been told I am a pretty good cook. Part of being a pretty good cook, as Julia has taught me, is to keep your knives and wit sharp. Eat and drink what you like and like what you eat and drink. And if you mess up...toss it...it will be your little secret with the garbage man.
I have used Julia's tome to help me preheat my oven, using her handy dandy temperature conversion chart. I would be lost without the pages on measurements...they stopped trying to teach us the metric system in fifth grade. I am honing my knife skills, improving my decorative presentation and re-examining menu planning.
I have come to learn that dinner is not a protein, two veggies and carbs on a plate. Dinner in Paris is a process. Armed with my cookbook, fresh produce and provisions from the open air market, and a vision of Dan Ackroyd as Julia Child wielding a chef's knife and spurting blood, I prepare the repast.
First one begins with an aperitif or amuse bouche, something to wake up your appetite after a long day of work and chores. This morsel, rarely more than a few bites, can be as simple as olives and bread, with a glass of something adult in nature or as complex as a verrine...a cute little melange, layered in a small glass and either sipped or spooned. The apertif beverage is also an important aspect of phase one of dinner. It helps you pause, for one sips and savors say Champagne or Champagne (or sparkling water) with a little splash of something. Kir Royal, Champagne or white wine mixed with a cassis used to be de rigueur, but is now considered passe', however, adding fresh berries, juices, or a unique liquor shakes it up a bit. I am partial to Bellinis myself. "American" cocktails like martinis or scotch or other mixed drinks are gaining in popularity in bars, but in homes wine still rules the roost.
Next comes the entree...which means to enter the meal...it is not the main plate. The entree can be a salad or pasta dish, soup, fish or a vegetable preparation. It is usually what Americans would consider an appetizer, but a bit more refined and integrated into the over all menu. And with the exception of some salads, one never puts hot and cold food on the same plate. Your beverage will be a lighter wine, red or white, whichever suits your palate. And there is always a caraf or bottle of water on the table. Do not expect in restaurants, cafes or in most French homes to have soda with your meal. Soda is a snack. And of course, bread...see earlier blog entry for that love affair!
The plat is your main course. This is the feature. It is usually a "protein", meat, chicken or fish, with perhaps a vegetable, rice or potato side dish. France is the land of sauces...the Mother Sauces to be exact and sauce there usually is with this act of the meal production. Bechamel, Espangnol, Veloute or Allemande, each is designed to take your food to the next level of deliciousness.
Make sure you have the appropriate cutlery for each course too. It is rare to end the meal with the same utensils with which one started. You will most likely have moved on to a different wine glass depending on the progression of the meal as compared to your entree...if you continue with the same wine though one glass is sufficient. More bread, please.
Now, depending on your day and what's up for tomorrow, your meal could go in different directions. If you need more time to talk about the day and unwind, enter the cheese course. President Charles de Gualle once said, " A country that produces 325 varieties of cheese cannot be governed." I am curious to learn if this is so! At the very least, it indicates to me many points of view!! Ainsi... my preference is to always serve three types of cheese, usually from the same milk source; goat, sheep, cow, water buffalo, cat, (just seeing if you are paying attention), or at least 2 of one and one of another. When enjoying the cheese course, I recommend that you start with the milder cheese and progress to the stronger ones. I have learned from a gastronome that one must repect the cheese. Always take small slices in such a way as to maintain the original shape of the cheese. I guess it is to help everyone remember which cheese is which...I mean after all that wine, one may lose directional orientation on the plate! Bring on the bread and more wine. Unless you are eating Fromage Blanc. Fromage Blanc is a fresh white cheese, low in fat, and is eaten with a spoon like yogurt, with sugar or honey, and often replaces the dessert course.
Speaking of dessert, it is the rule rather than the exception here in Paris. For lunch and dinner, I see many a local enjoying a little something sweet at the end of their meal. I am not a huge fan of desserts...I love the cheese course and happily end there. But, if you are a guest either at a restaurant or in someone's home, it is expected you will have dessert. Fortunately, the French are coming around to the idea that splitting dessert is acceptable...thank goodness. Desserts range from the simplicity of a fresh fruit cup to the glory of Crepes Suzette. And dear compatriots, coffee and tea arrive after the meal. Sorry, coffee AND dessert, it just isn't done!
You'd think that after all this food, you would need to wheel barrel yourself to bed, but no. Portion control is as much a part of the menu planning as are the ingredients. Separate courses slow you down. No wolfing food down, no agita, no Alka Seltzer. And at Chez Barbo, we skip the cheese and dessert when it is just the two of us, but we have learned to take our time.
We are in the habit now of taking a walk after dinner, strolling leisurely, arm in arm, dog pulling slightly at the lead. I can imagine Paul and Julia Child walking along the Seine, Americans in Paris but Parisians in heart.
The crisp night air clears the mind and the walk helps with digestion and signals the body sleep will soon come. Bon nuit!
I received Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child as a Christmas present. Actually, I got three copies as presents. With the popularity of the Meryl Streep movie, our move to Paris and my interest and ability in all things culinary, I guess it was a logical choice. I have lots to learn and wow, what a place in which to learn!! I only brought one copy with me and it has stains already.
I have been told I am a pretty good cook. Part of being a pretty good cook, as Julia has taught me, is to keep your knives and wit sharp. Eat and drink what you like and like what you eat and drink. And if you mess up...toss it...it will be your little secret with the garbage man.
I have used Julia's tome to help me preheat my oven, using her handy dandy temperature conversion chart. I would be lost without the pages on measurements...they stopped trying to teach us the metric system in fifth grade. I am honing my knife skills, improving my decorative presentation and re-examining menu planning.
I have come to learn that dinner is not a protein, two veggies and carbs on a plate. Dinner in Paris is a process. Armed with my cookbook, fresh produce and provisions from the open air market, and a vision of Dan Ackroyd as Julia Child wielding a chef's knife and spurting blood, I prepare the repast.
First one begins with an aperitif or amuse bouche, something to wake up your appetite after a long day of work and chores. This morsel, rarely more than a few bites, can be as simple as olives and bread, with a glass of something adult in nature or as complex as a verrine...a cute little melange, layered in a small glass and either sipped or spooned. The apertif beverage is also an important aspect of phase one of dinner. It helps you pause, for one sips and savors say Champagne or Champagne (or sparkling water) with a little splash of something. Kir Royal, Champagne or white wine mixed with a cassis used to be de rigueur, but is now considered passe', however, adding fresh berries, juices, or a unique liquor shakes it up a bit. I am partial to Bellinis myself. "American" cocktails like martinis or scotch or other mixed drinks are gaining in popularity in bars, but in homes wine still rules the roost.
Next comes the entree...which means to enter the meal...it is not the main plate. The entree can be a salad or pasta dish, soup, fish or a vegetable preparation. It is usually what Americans would consider an appetizer, but a bit more refined and integrated into the over all menu. And with the exception of some salads, one never puts hot and cold food on the same plate. Your beverage will be a lighter wine, red or white, whichever suits your palate. And there is always a caraf or bottle of water on the table. Do not expect in restaurants, cafes or in most French homes to have soda with your meal. Soda is a snack. And of course, bread...see earlier blog entry for that love affair!
The plat is your main course. This is the feature. It is usually a "protein", meat, chicken or fish, with perhaps a vegetable, rice or potato side dish. France is the land of sauces...the Mother Sauces to be exact and sauce there usually is with this act of the meal production. Bechamel, Espangnol, Veloute or Allemande, each is designed to take your food to the next level of deliciousness.
Make sure you have the appropriate cutlery for each course too. It is rare to end the meal with the same utensils with which one started. You will most likely have moved on to a different wine glass depending on the progression of the meal as compared to your entree...if you continue with the same wine though one glass is sufficient. More bread, please.
Now, depending on your day and what's up for tomorrow, your meal could go in different directions. If you need more time to talk about the day and unwind, enter the cheese course. President Charles de Gualle once said, " A country that produces 325 varieties of cheese cannot be governed." I am curious to learn if this is so! At the very least, it indicates to me many points of view!! Ainsi... my preference is to always serve three types of cheese, usually from the same milk source; goat, sheep, cow, water buffalo, cat, (just seeing if you are paying attention), or at least 2 of one and one of another. When enjoying the cheese course, I recommend that you start with the milder cheese and progress to the stronger ones. I have learned from a gastronome that one must repect the cheese. Always take small slices in such a way as to maintain the original shape of the cheese. I guess it is to help everyone remember which cheese is which...I mean after all that wine, one may lose directional orientation on the plate! Bring on the bread and more wine. Unless you are eating Fromage Blanc. Fromage Blanc is a fresh white cheese, low in fat, and is eaten with a spoon like yogurt, with sugar or honey, and often replaces the dessert course.
Speaking of dessert, it is the rule rather than the exception here in Paris. For lunch and dinner, I see many a local enjoying a little something sweet at the end of their meal. I am not a huge fan of desserts...I love the cheese course and happily end there. But, if you are a guest either at a restaurant or in someone's home, it is expected you will have dessert. Fortunately, the French are coming around to the idea that splitting dessert is acceptable...thank goodness. Desserts range from the simplicity of a fresh fruit cup to the glory of Crepes Suzette. And dear compatriots, coffee and tea arrive after the meal. Sorry, coffee AND dessert, it just isn't done!
You'd think that after all this food, you would need to wheel barrel yourself to bed, but no. Portion control is as much a part of the menu planning as are the ingredients. Separate courses slow you down. No wolfing food down, no agita, no Alka Seltzer. And at Chez Barbo, we skip the cheese and dessert when it is just the two of us, but we have learned to take our time.
We are in the habit now of taking a walk after dinner, strolling leisurely, arm in arm, dog pulling slightly at the lead. I can imagine Paul and Julia Child walking along the Seine, Americans in Paris but Parisians in heart.
The crisp night air clears the mind and the walk helps with digestion and signals the body sleep will soon come. Bon nuit!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Not Just Another Saturday Night
For the first time in our new situation, we actually made plans! Okay they were last minute plans, but plans none the less and with real people too!
Bill has been traveling a LOT. When he is home for the weekend, we do a lot of the mundane things that settling in require; fixing a cabinet door, buying a broom, visiting the post office and so on. We did all those things and in the midst of it all, we started connecting with some folks we'd met back in the Fall. We sent out invitations to lunch or dinner or drinks, you know, socializing. We were quite pleased with our little blitz and having completed our errands early, we started planning our Saturday night.
After a soggy walk down Blvd St. Germain de Pres, we found ourselves in the Odeon area, known for all the "Cinemas". Sherlock Holmes opened this weekend and we were interested in seeing it. So we strolled back down St. Germain, in the rain, hit the market for supper supplies, went home and settled down with a beer, bread and cheese and made our Saturday night plans...dinner at 20:00, movie at 22:45 and perhaps crepes after the show for our stroll down the boulevard.
As the afternoon wore on, Bill tended to some correspondence, skyped with the girls who were in the midst of the Blizzard of 2010 in the mid-Atlantic and I started making my homemade stocks and broths. Alors! The telephone rang, a rare occurance in our new place, and it was our new friend Nadine thanking us for our invitation for next weekend and she was curious as to what our evening plans were. Bill hesitated and said we were planning on going to the movies...pause..."Um, would you like to go with us?" Nadine laughed and asked if we might rather go to a concert with her and her husband Juan. A concert...at their Church...hmmm...to hear hunting horns and organ music...okay, sure. Plan on going back to their place for some salmon. See you outside the church at 20:15pm. A change in plans, but we still had plans! Yippee!
We wrapped up our business, ate about an hour earlier than intended and got dressed. What does one wear to a concert of hunting horns and organ music? Smart casual we guessed.
Nadine and Juan are our eldest friends in Paris, both well lived and still enviously vibrant. So even if the concert might be a novelty, spending time practicing our Franglish and catching up was most wlecome. We arrived at the Basilique Sainte-Clotilde promptly at 20:15pm found Nadine and after making a suggested donation for the free concert, headed for our seats.
The concert was a fundrasier sponsored by the Basilica for the L'Abbaye de Citeaux, which is a Trappist Monastery in Norway. So on a Saturday night in Paris, the City of Lights, Bill, Nadine, Juan, Olga (Nadine's Russian friend )and I joined over 800 other people in this beautiful old church to listen to fanfares and the history of the Trappists as told by narrators, representing a grandfather and his granddaughter. The first part of the concert was all about the Trappists' history and their philosphy of dedicating work of human hands to the glory of God, all set to music. This particular abbey is known for its milk, cheese and honey...honored work dating back to the 12th century and enduring on into the 21st.
Hunting Horns are similar in shape to French Horns, but do not have valves. All the music is made by varying the lips and breath...also known as embouchure. The horns were the same in size, but the music was divided into a chorus of parts from bass to soprano. And under it all was the musical vibration of the Church's pipe organ. I love classical organ music because you can actually feel it as you listen to it. The musicians were phenomenal! I had never heard concert music from hunting horns. So much more than the old stadium classic "Da ta da da ta dah, Charge!"...we sports nuts know. It really is quite unique. And the musicians' classic hunting costumes of velvet riding jacket and breeches made it all the more authentic.
And then I heard an angel sing! The soloist sang O Sactissima Vergine Maria and I cried. His voice was a beautifully rich baritone and you knew he was praying as he sang. Wonderful!
After 9 selections in the first part of the program, which included a thunderous improvisation on the organ of themes played earlier, the pastor of the church spoke about the fundraiser, thanked all who attended and most greatfully thanked the musicians for bringing their music to Paris. The Hunting Horn troupe had just returned from a successful concert series in the US, including a visit to a famous Monastery in Kentucky. World renown...who knew!
Pere Olivier concluded his remarks (in French of course) by saying "La ou deux ou trois sont reunis en mon Nom, je suis au milieu d'eux." Roughly translated in my French from Scripture, "Wherever two or three are gathered in my Name, I am with you." And this beautiful scripture verse certainly was alive in that church during that concert. It was the perfect reflection for the occasion.
The second part of the concert featured independent classical marches and suites for the horns and organ. The soloist, again brought tears to my eyes and joy to my heart when he sang Ombra mai fu from the opera Xeres by Georg-Freidrich Handel. Breathtaking!
The show stopper though was the organ recital piece written by JS Bach, Toccata et Fugue in D Minor. Anyone who has ever seen a classic horror picture with a monster at the pipe organ knows this monumental piece...sent chills up and down my spine and then back up again. Magnificent!
The concert concluded with a ten minute ovation and one encore featuring the horns, organist and soloist, ensemble. Thank the Good Lord we where in Church, for to hear this anywhere else would have done the music a disservice. The Basilica herself was a performer too...adding subtle echos, virbrations, and of course the mood as set by candlelight and stautes, tall columns, graceful arches and that smell one only smells in Church.
At 22:30, our little entourage walked down the block to Juan and Nadine's flat. Three of us piled into the tiny elevator and Bill and Nadine hit the stairs to the third floor. We were once again welcomed to our new friends' home. We gnoshed on salmon on toast and blinis. We talked about the concert and articles in Le Figaro magazine about the Universe with its impending demise in 3-5 billion years and about the rebirth of Russian spy schools training children and "tweens" to be operatives like back in the old KGB days. Fascinating conversation. We talked about crop circles, astrology, Obama and healthcare reform and the French perception about the dichotomy of American greed and generosity. Truly stimulating.
The lovely red wine helped as well.
Before we knew it, it was after midnight and we had to go.
It was a perfect way to spend Saturday night.
Bill has been traveling a LOT. When he is home for the weekend, we do a lot of the mundane things that settling in require; fixing a cabinet door, buying a broom, visiting the post office and so on. We did all those things and in the midst of it all, we started connecting with some folks we'd met back in the Fall. We sent out invitations to lunch or dinner or drinks, you know, socializing. We were quite pleased with our little blitz and having completed our errands early, we started planning our Saturday night.
After a soggy walk down Blvd St. Germain de Pres, we found ourselves in the Odeon area, known for all the "Cinemas". Sherlock Holmes opened this weekend and we were interested in seeing it. So we strolled back down St. Germain, in the rain, hit the market for supper supplies, went home and settled down with a beer, bread and cheese and made our Saturday night plans...dinner at 20:00, movie at 22:45 and perhaps crepes after the show for our stroll down the boulevard.
As the afternoon wore on, Bill tended to some correspondence, skyped with the girls who were in the midst of the Blizzard of 2010 in the mid-Atlantic and I started making my homemade stocks and broths. Alors! The telephone rang, a rare occurance in our new place, and it was our new friend Nadine thanking us for our invitation for next weekend and she was curious as to what our evening plans were. Bill hesitated and said we were planning on going to the movies...pause..."Um, would you like to go with us?" Nadine laughed and asked if we might rather go to a concert with her and her husband Juan. A concert...at their Church...hmmm...to hear hunting horns and organ music...okay, sure. Plan on going back to their place for some salmon. See you outside the church at 20:15pm. A change in plans, but we still had plans! Yippee!
We wrapped up our business, ate about an hour earlier than intended and got dressed. What does one wear to a concert of hunting horns and organ music? Smart casual we guessed.
Nadine and Juan are our eldest friends in Paris, both well lived and still enviously vibrant. So even if the concert might be a novelty, spending time practicing our Franglish and catching up was most wlecome. We arrived at the Basilique Sainte-Clotilde promptly at 20:15pm found Nadine and after making a suggested donation for the free concert, headed for our seats.
The concert was a fundrasier sponsored by the Basilica for the L'Abbaye de Citeaux, which is a Trappist Monastery in Norway. So on a Saturday night in Paris, the City of Lights, Bill, Nadine, Juan, Olga (Nadine's Russian friend )and I joined over 800 other people in this beautiful old church to listen to fanfares and the history of the Trappists as told by narrators, representing a grandfather and his granddaughter. The first part of the concert was all about the Trappists' history and their philosphy of dedicating work of human hands to the glory of God, all set to music. This particular abbey is known for its milk, cheese and honey...honored work dating back to the 12th century and enduring on into the 21st.
Hunting Horns are similar in shape to French Horns, but do not have valves. All the music is made by varying the lips and breath...also known as embouchure. The horns were the same in size, but the music was divided into a chorus of parts from bass to soprano. And under it all was the musical vibration of the Church's pipe organ. I love classical organ music because you can actually feel it as you listen to it. The musicians were phenomenal! I had never heard concert music from hunting horns. So much more than the old stadium classic "Da ta da da ta dah, Charge!"...we sports nuts know. It really is quite unique. And the musicians' classic hunting costumes of velvet riding jacket and breeches made it all the more authentic.
And then I heard an angel sing! The soloist sang O Sactissima Vergine Maria and I cried. His voice was a beautifully rich baritone and you knew he was praying as he sang. Wonderful!
After 9 selections in the first part of the program, which included a thunderous improvisation on the organ of themes played earlier, the pastor of the church spoke about the fundraiser, thanked all who attended and most greatfully thanked the musicians for bringing their music to Paris. The Hunting Horn troupe had just returned from a successful concert series in the US, including a visit to a famous Monastery in Kentucky. World renown...who knew!
Pere Olivier concluded his remarks (in French of course) by saying "La ou deux ou trois sont reunis en mon Nom, je suis au milieu d'eux." Roughly translated in my French from Scripture, "Wherever two or three are gathered in my Name, I am with you." And this beautiful scripture verse certainly was alive in that church during that concert. It was the perfect reflection for the occasion.
The second part of the concert featured independent classical marches and suites for the horns and organ. The soloist, again brought tears to my eyes and joy to my heart when he sang Ombra mai fu from the opera Xeres by Georg-Freidrich Handel. Breathtaking!
The show stopper though was the organ recital piece written by JS Bach, Toccata et Fugue in D Minor. Anyone who has ever seen a classic horror picture with a monster at the pipe organ knows this monumental piece...sent chills up and down my spine and then back up again. Magnificent!
The concert concluded with a ten minute ovation and one encore featuring the horns, organist and soloist, ensemble. Thank the Good Lord we where in Church, for to hear this anywhere else would have done the music a disservice. The Basilica herself was a performer too...adding subtle echos, virbrations, and of course the mood as set by candlelight and stautes, tall columns, graceful arches and that smell one only smells in Church.
At 22:30, our little entourage walked down the block to Juan and Nadine's flat. Three of us piled into the tiny elevator and Bill and Nadine hit the stairs to the third floor. We were once again welcomed to our new friends' home. We gnoshed on salmon on toast and blinis. We talked about the concert and articles in Le Figaro magazine about the Universe with its impending demise in 3-5 billion years and about the rebirth of Russian spy schools training children and "tweens" to be operatives like back in the old KGB days. Fascinating conversation. We talked about crop circles, astrology, Obama and healthcare reform and the French perception about the dichotomy of American greed and generosity. Truly stimulating.
The lovely red wine helped as well.
Before we knew it, it was after midnight and we had to go.
It was a perfect way to spend Saturday night.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Ugly American (or Desperate Housewives of New Jersey)
The Encarta dictionary defines "Ugly American" as: stereotypical offensive American: a loud, boorish, nationalistic American, especially one traveling abroad, who is regarded as conforming to a stereotype that gives Americans a bad reputation. Also Dictionary.com defines "the Ugly American" as: Pejorative term for Americans traveling or living abroad who remain ignorant of local culture and judge everything by American standards.
Ugly Americans, hmm. They do exist. I have seem them and at one time I might have been one. But I take exception to the part of the definition that classifies an Ugly American as one who judges everything by American standards. By what else is an American to make comparisons. I think the ugly part comes when American standards become the only acceptable standards. That's ugly. That's intolerance. But, in this most international of metropolises, I have seen lots of uglies. I have seen tourists of many ilks push and shove their way to the front of a group in order to see the Mona Lisa. I had a woman "pfft" at me because I asked her to repeat her question more slowly so I could try to answer her. She stormed off. I have had conversations with people about American versus European health care and had the conversation stop because they didn't want to hear about American healthcare...just blast us for not having socialzed medicine. Ugly.
I think all travellers can be ugly until such time that they gain experience and with experience understanding and appreciation.
So let me tell you a story about contrasts. Last fall Bill and I came to Paris to look for an apartment. Living in a foreign country is totally a new experience, but we are pretty competent travelers. The October/November trip was our fourth to France and third to Paris. With all that was facing us and strong emotions tossed in the mix, we were working hard to find a home in Paris. Most of the people we had met and were working with were kind, patient and really happy for us that we were coming to this great city. I had more than one person tell me that my French must be very good because, of what they heard, I had no American accent...a confidence builder and fear inducing commentary...crap, if I sound like I know what I am saying, people will want to speak French to me...yikes!
Well, I have learned that if you make a respectful attempt to communicate, people are willing to work with you and muddle through to happy conclusions. I have found too, that bringing a pocket dictionary and pointing helps sometimes too. I never assume that because I cannot make myself clear to people that they are at fault...I just keep tryng. The good news is that in Paris, most people have at least the same level of English skills as I do French and we work together.
Now the contrast...last November, while on our expedition, we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary. To be in Paris, looking for a new home after 26 years...kinda cool if I do say so myself. We found a restaurant review for a quaint gastronomic restaurant called La Truffiere...les truffes sont les specialities du maison.
This lovely little restaurant with its 17th century stonewalls and fireplace welcomed us in and down we were escorted into the stone cellar, quiet, private, romantic and candlelit! There were only seven "set-ups" in the caveau, and other couples and intimate groups were enjoying a very eclectic and excellent menu featuring French/Asian fusion cusine and the only mushrooms I willingly eat...truffles!
Our night started off with a classic Paris cocktail of red wine infused with berries and cognac. It was a delicious and a most welcome recommedation from one of the several gentlemen who would serve us that evening. Along with our cocktails came a lovely pumpkin creme concoction. Delightful! Bill and I began our tete a tete talking about his first major business meeting in Europe, the new Parisian neighborhood and so many other little intimate details of our lives to come. And then it happens...a party of six descend the spiral stairs, heading to the last remaining table in the intimate dining room.
Now let me preface this part of the story by saying that dining in Paris is an art form; a cultured, meaningful event. One savors all the elements using all the senses. It is a custom I have come to honor and appreciate during my previous visits to France. When dining in Paris, one is enveloped by a cone of silence--what happens at your table, stays at your table. If you do it right, you have no idea what is being said at any table in the vicinity. Nice actually.
Enter Jersey! If there ever were a stereotype of Jersey guys and girls, there they were at my anniversary dinner..not but a foot from our table. Big hair, thick necks, plunging necklines and voices that would make dogs howl.
I knew it was going to be an interesting if not uncomfortably entertaining evening when desperate Housewife of NJ #2 tried to order a dirty martini with blue cheese stuffed olives...in Paris!!! The sommelier tried as hard as he could to understand why this loud woman (she got louder and louder as it became apparent the server didn't understand) would want to drink something unclean!
He offered a gin martini, Kir Royale, Champagne, but no, #2 wanted her vodka with olive juice and 3 blue cheese stuffed olives. When our poor server, who spoke English well, apologized and said that such a drink was not possible, Housewife # 2 retorted, "Jeez then bring me a Cosmo!" Repeat the scene above, replace dirty martini with Cosmo and increase the volume.
Enter Jersey Boy #3 who spoke Italian. He took control and ordered wine for the table--a magnum of a lovely Merlot-- tres cher! So with wine in hand, the Jersey party continued at a dull roar, perusing the menu. Uh oh.
In the meantime, Bill and I order our courses and selected the truffle that will enhance our degustation. Truffles are something to experience with all the senses. The truffle cart is wheeled, squeakily table side, with the pungent treasures covered by a heavy glass cloche. The head waiter carefully lifts the glass and directs it to your nose.You are hit with an extraordinary scent; a combination of wood, warmth and what can only be described as the floor of the forest...ah, truffles.
Next, the keeper of the prizes, helps you examine them and based on his knowledge of your course selection and an indicator of how much you want to spend, selects the perfect gem. It is weighed and placed on a plate and covered by a smaller dome. I think with the exception of saffron, truffles are the most expensive legal food on earth. Theses treasures, rooted out by specially trained dogs in the Italian countryside, or by pigs or truffle hunters in France, are a time consuming and seasonal prize. Each truffle is unique-- its texture, color, smell, appearance and taste, oh the taste. The truffles are shaved with a special mechanism, similar to a miniature mandoline, flaking luxuriously over our salads and subsequently our entrees; scallops for me, veal tenderloin for Bill--exquisite. We have never eaten like this before!!
Well hello Desperate NJ Housewife #1! "OMG!", she explodes. "Those things are disgusting. It looks like $#!%." Housewife #3 who too speaks Italian and about 6 words of French, explains that the truffles at La Truffiere are the specialty of the house. The head waiter, who before so proudly shared his knowledge with us and spoke English quite well was speechless in any language. I was mortified and ready to guffaw all at the same time. With much discussion, proclamations that so and so was not going to eat this or that in Italian and Passaic, the Housewives ordered and the Jersey Boys drank.
Remember the very expensive magnum of Merlot...it is a very large format bottle of wine...about 10 to 12 glasses per bottle. It was gone by the time the salad plates were carted off. Much to Jersey Boy #2's consternation, they had consumed the last magnum of that wine. The sommelier had 750ml bottles of that same wine but no more magnums. Jersey Boy #2 would have none of that...he basically accused the sommelier of a bait and switch. Fortunately, the Italian speaking Jersey boy asked the sommelier to recommend a comparable wine in a magnum, which he did.
I am something of a wine enthusiast and I know that these large format wines are rare and usually quite expensive. The wine list for this place was like reading the yellow pages and most bottles were more than 600 Euros. Hence the sommelier. If a restaurant has a sommelier, it is a wonderfula nd wise experience to ask for hisor her assistance. What was killing me was these folks were swilling the wine as if it were Kendall Jackson. Not one stopped to savor the wine over time, appreciate the dynamics and character of the wine with each course, noting the subtle changes from harsh tannins to mellow leather and rich fruit. What a shame.
Out comes the next magnum and the assault begins anew. This too was the last bottle of its kind. The sommelier looked like he was handing a child over to molesters. Horror.
As the circus ensued next to us, Bill and savored our meals and the lovely Brugundy recommended by our steward. We tried to ignore the clowns and with the exception of an occasional eye roll from me, we pretty much resumed our meal under our cone of silence.
As our table was cleared, the maitre d' came to our table and invited us to retire to the lounge and seats next to the fire ~ so we could savor the last notes of our wine in quiet. What a precious gift. I wanted to apologize for the conduct of my fellow Americans but the staff of La Truffiere got it...they understood that not all Americans were ugly or desparate housewives of Bergen County.
Our evening ended at La Truffiere ended as it had begun, warm, quiet, and Bill and I, a tete a tete. Our hosts brought us an assortment of sweets, to help us finish the wine. We sat for a while immersed in the ambiance, and occasionally, a raucous caw would drift up the spiral stairs, but no matter.
It was time to go. Our coats retrieved, the maitre d' thanked us for our visit and presented us with a bottle of their "house vineyard" muscat, as a precious token of our visit.
We'll have to give this place another try and let the true colors...no, not true, for we saw true colors of this special place, but perhaps another window into the workings of this unique and pleasing cultural and gastronomic paradise.
New Jersey...do me a favor and go to Paris, Paris in Las Vegas next time.
Ugly Americans, hmm. They do exist. I have seem them and at one time I might have been one. But I take exception to the part of the definition that classifies an Ugly American as one who judges everything by American standards. By what else is an American to make comparisons. I think the ugly part comes when American standards become the only acceptable standards. That's ugly. That's intolerance. But, in this most international of metropolises, I have seen lots of uglies. I have seen tourists of many ilks push and shove their way to the front of a group in order to see the Mona Lisa. I had a woman "pfft" at me because I asked her to repeat her question more slowly so I could try to answer her. She stormed off. I have had conversations with people about American versus European health care and had the conversation stop because they didn't want to hear about American healthcare...just blast us for not having socialzed medicine. Ugly.
I think all travellers can be ugly until such time that they gain experience and with experience understanding and appreciation.
So let me tell you a story about contrasts. Last fall Bill and I came to Paris to look for an apartment. Living in a foreign country is totally a new experience, but we are pretty competent travelers. The October/November trip was our fourth to France and third to Paris. With all that was facing us and strong emotions tossed in the mix, we were working hard to find a home in Paris. Most of the people we had met and were working with were kind, patient and really happy for us that we were coming to this great city. I had more than one person tell me that my French must be very good because, of what they heard, I had no American accent...a confidence builder and fear inducing commentary...crap, if I sound like I know what I am saying, people will want to speak French to me...yikes!
Well, I have learned that if you make a respectful attempt to communicate, people are willing to work with you and muddle through to happy conclusions. I have found too, that bringing a pocket dictionary and pointing helps sometimes too. I never assume that because I cannot make myself clear to people that they are at fault...I just keep tryng. The good news is that in Paris, most people have at least the same level of English skills as I do French and we work together.
Now the contrast...last November, while on our expedition, we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary. To be in Paris, looking for a new home after 26 years...kinda cool if I do say so myself. We found a restaurant review for a quaint gastronomic restaurant called La Truffiere...les truffes sont les specialities du maison.
This lovely little restaurant with its 17th century stonewalls and fireplace welcomed us in and down we were escorted into the stone cellar, quiet, private, romantic and candlelit! There were only seven "set-ups" in the caveau, and other couples and intimate groups were enjoying a very eclectic and excellent menu featuring French/Asian fusion cusine and the only mushrooms I willingly eat...truffles!
Our night started off with a classic Paris cocktail of red wine infused with berries and cognac. It was a delicious and a most welcome recommedation from one of the several gentlemen who would serve us that evening. Along with our cocktails came a lovely pumpkin creme concoction. Delightful! Bill and I began our tete a tete talking about his first major business meeting in Europe, the new Parisian neighborhood and so many other little intimate details of our lives to come. And then it happens...a party of six descend the spiral stairs, heading to the last remaining table in the intimate dining room.
Now let me preface this part of the story by saying that dining in Paris is an art form; a cultured, meaningful event. One savors all the elements using all the senses. It is a custom I have come to honor and appreciate during my previous visits to France. When dining in Paris, one is enveloped by a cone of silence--what happens at your table, stays at your table. If you do it right, you have no idea what is being said at any table in the vicinity. Nice actually.
Enter Jersey! If there ever were a stereotype of Jersey guys and girls, there they were at my anniversary dinner..not but a foot from our table. Big hair, thick necks, plunging necklines and voices that would make dogs howl.
I knew it was going to be an interesting if not uncomfortably entertaining evening when desperate Housewife of NJ #2 tried to order a dirty martini with blue cheese stuffed olives...in Paris!!! The sommelier tried as hard as he could to understand why this loud woman (she got louder and louder as it became apparent the server didn't understand) would want to drink something unclean!
He offered a gin martini, Kir Royale, Champagne, but no, #2 wanted her vodka with olive juice and 3 blue cheese stuffed olives. When our poor server, who spoke English well, apologized and said that such a drink was not possible, Housewife # 2 retorted, "Jeez then bring me a Cosmo!" Repeat the scene above, replace dirty martini with Cosmo and increase the volume.
Enter Jersey Boy #3 who spoke Italian. He took control and ordered wine for the table--a magnum of a lovely Merlot-- tres cher! So with wine in hand, the Jersey party continued at a dull roar, perusing the menu. Uh oh.
In the meantime, Bill and I order our courses and selected the truffle that will enhance our degustation. Truffles are something to experience with all the senses. The truffle cart is wheeled, squeakily table side, with the pungent treasures covered by a heavy glass cloche. The head waiter carefully lifts the glass and directs it to your nose.You are hit with an extraordinary scent; a combination of wood, warmth and what can only be described as the floor of the forest...ah, truffles.
Next, the keeper of the prizes, helps you examine them and based on his knowledge of your course selection and an indicator of how much you want to spend, selects the perfect gem. It is weighed and placed on a plate and covered by a smaller dome. I think with the exception of saffron, truffles are the most expensive legal food on earth. Theses treasures, rooted out by specially trained dogs in the Italian countryside, or by pigs or truffle hunters in France, are a time consuming and seasonal prize. Each truffle is unique-- its texture, color, smell, appearance and taste, oh the taste. The truffles are shaved with a special mechanism, similar to a miniature mandoline, flaking luxuriously over our salads and subsequently our entrees; scallops for me, veal tenderloin for Bill--exquisite. We have never eaten like this before!!
Well hello Desperate NJ Housewife #1! "OMG!", she explodes. "Those things are disgusting. It looks like $#!%." Housewife #3 who too speaks Italian and about 6 words of French, explains that the truffles at La Truffiere are the specialty of the house. The head waiter, who before so proudly shared his knowledge with us and spoke English quite well was speechless in any language. I was mortified and ready to guffaw all at the same time. With much discussion, proclamations that so and so was not going to eat this or that in Italian and Passaic, the Housewives ordered and the Jersey Boys drank.
Remember the very expensive magnum of Merlot...it is a very large format bottle of wine...about 10 to 12 glasses per bottle. It was gone by the time the salad plates were carted off. Much to Jersey Boy #2's consternation, they had consumed the last magnum of that wine. The sommelier had 750ml bottles of that same wine but no more magnums. Jersey Boy #2 would have none of that...he basically accused the sommelier of a bait and switch. Fortunately, the Italian speaking Jersey boy asked the sommelier to recommend a comparable wine in a magnum, which he did.
I am something of a wine enthusiast and I know that these large format wines are rare and usually quite expensive. The wine list for this place was like reading the yellow pages and most bottles were more than 600 Euros. Hence the sommelier. If a restaurant has a sommelier, it is a wonderfula nd wise experience to ask for hisor her assistance. What was killing me was these folks were swilling the wine as if it were Kendall Jackson. Not one stopped to savor the wine over time, appreciate the dynamics and character of the wine with each course, noting the subtle changes from harsh tannins to mellow leather and rich fruit. What a shame.
Out comes the next magnum and the assault begins anew. This too was the last bottle of its kind. The sommelier looked like he was handing a child over to molesters. Horror.
As the circus ensued next to us, Bill and savored our meals and the lovely Brugundy recommended by our steward. We tried to ignore the clowns and with the exception of an occasional eye roll from me, we pretty much resumed our meal under our cone of silence.
As our table was cleared, the maitre d' came to our table and invited us to retire to the lounge and seats next to the fire ~ so we could savor the last notes of our wine in quiet. What a precious gift. I wanted to apologize for the conduct of my fellow Americans but the staff of La Truffiere got it...they understood that not all Americans were ugly or desparate housewives of Bergen County.
Our evening ended at La Truffiere ended as it had begun, warm, quiet, and Bill and I, a tete a tete. Our hosts brought us an assortment of sweets, to help us finish the wine. We sat for a while immersed in the ambiance, and occasionally, a raucous caw would drift up the spiral stairs, but no matter.
It was time to go. Our coats retrieved, the maitre d' thanked us for our visit and presented us with a bottle of their "house vineyard" muscat, as a precious token of our visit.
We'll have to give this place another try and let the true colors...no, not true, for we saw true colors of this special place, but perhaps another window into the workings of this unique and pleasing cultural and gastronomic paradise.
New Jersey...do me a favor and go to Paris, Paris in Las Vegas next time.
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