An American in Paris

Kan a ...shot?

2005-09-05T01:19:00.000-07:00

Those of you who know me well know my motorcyle too, as well as my trials and tribulations therewith. It's a Suzuki GSX750F Katana (I call it the Kan-a-tuna, lovingly of course). At least, in Les Etats-Unis it is. I found one in Europe, which was a bit of a trip, since they're very much into the naked-bike thing here, and I've seen several GSX750's (sans F) - the unfaired kind that were never offered in the States. In Europe, the thing is called the Slingshot. Interesting name for a motorcycle, and not just because it makes no sense in the indigenous language; after all, what does it describe? The action you might take if you rearend a Smart Car?

The Invalids

2005-09-05T00:55:00.000-07:00

As for Les Invalides, it is a hotel (in the old-French sense) built by Louis XIV to be a hospital and resting place for his veterans. Dear old Louis loved war, and fancied himself quite the general, and to his credit, he set up a good system for his injured veterans; today, the classical-revival building houses a military museum, one wing for World War II, which is incredibly interesting, and one wing for everything before it, which conjures up images of unthinkable brutality. To think that people fought hand-to-hand with those weapons is crazy. The highlight of the trip to the musee was seeing the royal armor of the Bourbon kings - Louis XIII, XIV, and XV's armor is quite exquisite, though I don't see it being too functional.

In addition, Les Invalides houses a church, originally meant to be used by the aforementioned veterans, directly in front of the cupola. Hanging from the rafters on either side of the church are the captured battle flags from each of the French military victories throughout history, including standards from Louis XIV's campaigns and German, Austrian, English and more standards from the Napoleonic wars. The last flag hanging is the Swastika. In keeping with the militaristic theme, Les Invalides is also the burial place of certain French military heroes, including Marshal Foch, the leader during World War I.

However, Les Invalides is most famous as the final resting place of Napoleon himself. To the historically impaired, Napoleon was defeated by Euoropean forces and exiled to Elba, off the coast of Italy. He then returned to power after being spirited back to France by those sympathetic to the empire, whereupon he was re-defeated at the famous battle of Waterloo. Not willing to exile him anywhere close to Europe this time, the allied forces put him on the island of St. Helena, which is off the western coast of Africa, well into the southern hemisphere. He was originally interred on St. Helena, but after his ancestors (Louis-Philipe and Napoleon III) were restored to the throne, it was decided that a more proper resting place was necessary. Below the cupola in Les Invalides was chosen. Napoleon now resides in seven coffins, nested on top of each other like Russian dolls, the outermost being mahogany, and the innermost of solid gold.

Thanks, it's a Ver-sayse!

2005-09-01T04:13:00.000-07:00

In general, I'm a Mopar-shirt, neighborhood-bar in West-Hollywood, kind of guy, but given les soldes in Paris, I (along with a good deal of prodding from Alison and Mark) decided to go in for some Haute Couture, a quick trip up Rue Tronchet to Galeries Lafayette, which is right next to Gare Saint-Lazare, for the aspiring traveler, brought me to the Versace store. After enduring quite a bit of merde for my almost-two-year-old shoes complete with very worn suede on top of the left foot from motorcylce gearshifts, I dropped a bunch of money on a pair of Versace shoes that, according to the aforementioned experts, would have cost $500 in the States. Needless to say, I didn't spend that much, but still. Pair these with a couple new pairs of designer jeans and a nice Dior shirt, and I'm ready for...well...for...

...all that clubbing I do! Oh yeah!

Hmmm, perhaps I'll have to venture a bit farther down Sunset and hit up some nice places in glitzy Hollywood to show off my new purchases. Either that or I could wear them to the bars I'm a regular at. Somehow, I don't think that will have the same effect though.

Familiarity Sets In

2005-08-31T00:06:00.000-07:00

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. This may indeed be true, but I have contempt for very few things in Paris. Thus, without further ado (that's not French, despite what you may have heard on the Dukes of Hazzard), I give the pictures of random stuff that I pass by all the freaking time, and which, for whatever reason, may not warrant their own post.

This is the Ecole Militaire; of all the Grandes Ecoles, this was the only one I was impressed with physically. It sits at the end of Champ Mars on the Left Bank, which puts it directly opposite the Tour Eiffel, which I happened to be standing under to take this picture. By the way, the building in the background is Tour Montparnasse, the highest in Europe.

This is the Place de la Concorde; it is literally about a block or two away from me, and although it is a very storied place (the site of the executions of the revolution, including those of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI), I usually just walk into the metro station. Pity. Assemble Nationale is right across the bridge on the opposite end of the Place from me.

The fabled La Sorbonne; this is at the intersection of Rue St. Jacques and Rue de Grandes Ecoles, and this institution, though it is not a Grande Ecole itself, certainly overshadows the latter in terms of physical beauty.

Le Grand Palais; directly across from the smaller, and aptly named Petit Palais, this now houses a museum. This view is looking south from the Champs-Elysees. Continuing down the road between these palaces takes you across Pont Alexander and to Les Invalides. In case you were wondering the Champs Elysees is named for Palais Elysees, which is where Monseiur le President resides.

Opera; a 10 minute walk from me up Rue Tronchet and east across Boulevard Haussman, this was not only a theatre, but also a place for the gentry to go in order to see and be seen. Apparently it was quite the meat market in its day. The golden statues on top were restored several years ago, and one of the statues on the side of the building, ground floor, is a replica of the original, which resides in Le Musee D'Orsay.

Centre Georges Pompidou; this building was built in the 70s, and much like the Pyramides, it is quite the anachronism in Paris. And, much like the Pyramides, I don't like it. To me it's a huge gerbil habitat, or a building that forgot its walls. Inexplicably, it is the largest tourist draw in Paris - yes, even more than La Tour.

Let us now praise famous men

2005-07-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

With due apologies to Agee and Evans, the Pantheon was certainly on my must-visit list, although it was more of a pilgrimage, much like Pere Lachaise. The Pantheon is the former Eglise de Sainte-Genvieve, and it was converted to a resting place for France’s greatest men (et une femme, aussi!) A tomb in the Pantheon is the highest honor the French can bestow on a Frenchman; space is severely limited in the crypt, and it is not even half full yet. Andre Malraux was the last man interred there, in 1996.

My first stop was the tomb of the Enlightenment philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, followed by a stop at the great satirist and Enlightenment gadfly, Voltaire. In one chamber were buried the remains of Alexandre Dumas, Emile Zola and Victor Hugo (ironically, it was Victor Hugo, by being the first modern, post-revolutionary “great man” buried in the Pantheon, who gave it its modern significance to “les grands homes de la France” – Victor Hugo hated the Pantheon). In another chamber was Pierre and Marie Curie.

The memoir I found most bizarre – although his remains are not interred there – was the one to Pierre Dominique Toussaint L’Ouverture, the slave insurgent who overthrew white rule on Santo Domingo (Haiti) and delivered it its independence. Unfortunately, L’Ouverture was also bloody and brutal, and the revolution led to the butchering of any white man, woman or child who failed to flee. The French are perhaps unaware of this, but the Haitian rebellion caused mass panic in the southern American states, and it, along with such less successful American versions as Nat Turner’s rebellion, was certainly one of the considerations that led to nullification laws, and eventually, secession.

Hell in the 14e arrondissement

2005-07-29T11:00:00.000-07:00

In 1785, the Cemetery of the Innocents in the area of Les Halles became a public health menace; shallow and inadequate graves were causing disease among the living, and it was decided that the best thing to do was relocate the remains en masse. Thus began the transfer of bones from the Innocents and several other “overstocked” Paris cemeteries – carts were brought out and priests processed with the disinterred remains chanting the last rites as more than six million sets of exhumed human bones were marched to Les Catacombes. Upon reaching the former rock quarry, the bones were deposited, and the Paris Catacombs were born. Les Catacombes was soon being called Place d’Enfer, which translates to “Hell Square.” These days, it’s Place Denfert-Rochereau.

Upon the insistence of a friend of mine, I decided to check out the 14th arrondissement of hell, and a mere two euros fifty bought me passage down. And down, and down, and down. The Catacombs sit below the metro, below the water pipes of the city aboveground, and below the sewer system. Reaching the ground floor involves a set of nail-bitingly steep circular stairs that follow an interminable circular procession 100 feet downward that induce dizziness and not an insignificant amount of second thoughts. The final steps, however, spit you out into a brightly lit antechamber with large historical placards posted; this juxtaposition is met with an entirely unconventional mix of relief and disappointment in the soft visage of the expected hell.

Never fear – or perhaps begin to fear? – the creepiness sets in soon thereafter, as the ossement begins with a large sign saying “Arrete! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.” It ain’t “abandon all hope,” but I suppose it’ll do. Once beyond this passageway, you see the bones. Millions upon millions of them, sometimes with the skulls arranged in interesting shapes by 18th century undertakers who apparently had nothing more fun to do.

Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well.

After about a mile’s walk below the city, and more bones than I have ever wanted to see or planned on seeing in my lifetime, I hopped on Virgil’s back and we climbed past Judas, Brutus and Cassius back up a corkscrew staircase and onto the next chapter in the divine comedy of Paris.

The pilgrimage

2005-07-28T15:21:00.000-07:00

I almost wish Claude Monet weren't so popular, even though I don't think it productive to begrudge a deserving man his fame. The fact is though, that I wish my awe of him was not so cliché. In any case, going to his former homestead and gardens at Giverny, about 150 kilometers northwest of Paris, was quite nearly a religious experience, especially after seeing the bulk of his originals at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris.

It's amazing to know that I have walked the gardens that he walked every day, seen the water lilies and willow trees he so loved to paint, and crossed the Japanese bridge that is in many of his paintings, including the print that is hanging in my room at the Burgundy (see my prior post on Orsay).

I also managed to eat at the hotel where he took in many of his meals and drinks with the group of artists that themselves made the pilgrimage to Giverny, and carried on the tradition of Impressionism. I also stopped at his church and paid my respects at the Monet family grave plot. It was worth every second of the trip.

This picture: Me, Hélène, Orlàith, and Sonia at Giverny

Did I just eat sheep brains? A word on French dining

2005-07-26T16:00:00.000-07:00

First off, le cuisine de la France est peut-etre assez bizarre pour un americain. Despite the fact that you may be freaked out by the very idea that French people eat what they eat while maintaining tight control over their collective gag reflexes (they actually seem to enjoy it!), it is good for an American to dive into French cooking head – mouth? – first. After all, the fact is that people do eat these things every day, no one has died yet, and if you get caught up on the difference between what you are used to and what is normal in France, you’re likely to create a self-fulfilling prophecy on the assumption that the food is simply too weird. In general, it might behoove you to go to a restaurant, point at the menu, eat, enjoy, and look up just exactly what it is you ate after you get back home.

I used the word “restaurant” in the previous paragraph, but it ought to be known that there are several types of eateries in France, offering many different cuisines, all of which have their fierce partisans. In point of fact, a restaurant, or “resto,” is a fairly formal dining experience. It is always a sit-down place, the service tends to be slow with the expectation that the patrons will take their sweet time to enjoy the many courses. A “bistro” tends to a small, mom-and-pop type of organization, and along with cafes, this is where Parisians go to eat most often. These generally serve traditionally Parisian fare (more on that later). The aforementioned cafes are similar, but they tend to have quite a short menu and offer prix-fixe meals at very good prices. Common selections include salads, crudités, steak et frites. I find that cafes are actually best for a relaxing break in between destinations or activities; order a bottle of water or the most expensive thing on the menu, and you can “camp out” for as long as you like. Unless the place is closing, don’t count on someone asking you to leave. Bieres a la pression are also genially offered here, despite the fact that beer seems to be looked down on elsewhere, in favor of, naturally, wine. Brasseries are café-type places that are generally open early and closed late. Traditionally, they specialize in Alsatian fare, although the word is being used for more mundane cuisine quite often.

But what do they serve? Is it true that they eat frog’s legs and snails? Mais oui! And more, in fact. Here is a sampling of some traditional Parisian and/or French food.

- Andouillette: this is a sausage of pork organs cooked in the intestine. It is much better than it sounds. Look for the stamp “AAAAA” for the best Andouillette.

- Fruits de Mer: Literally, fruits of the sea, this usually comes on a large, layered tray filled with ice. You’ll find oysters, clams, shrimp, sometimes crab, and generally always mussles and periwinkles.

- Escargots: Snails, cooked in garlic. Go ahead, you know you should at least try it, even if it does give you the impression that you’re chewing Wrigley’s Garlic Gum.

- Cuisses de grenouilles: Frogs’ legs, another quintessentially French meal.

- Boudin: a sausage made from pig’s blood, roughly comparable to the “pudding” served in England. I haven’t had this, but it is supposed to sweet and very rich.

- Foie Gras: Engorged duck liver, served as a pate and generally expected to be spread on warm toast. Delicious.

- Bouillabaisse: a bit different from the Cajun-inspired New Orleans version, this is still, however, a stew made from fish, shellfish, croutons, cheese, and a few other ingredients. This is always good, especially for the poisson lover.

- Carpaccio: Thinly sliced raw meat or fish, generally tuna. If you have a problem with raw meat, don’t go here. Which brings me to:

- Steak Tartare: Raw ground beef, seasoned with egg. Expect it to be just-killed fresh.

- Boeuf Bourguignon: this is a Parisian staple; it is beef in burgundy wine, onions, and mushrooms. It is quite rich, like most French food, and it is very good, especially for the more timid eater.

- Choucroute: sauerkraut – this is a very Alsatian dish (history buffs will know that Alsace, and its partner, Lorraine, borders Germany and has in fact changed hands between the countries multiple times), and it has a distinctively German flair. Expect it to be garnished with potatoes perhaps sausage, and have a large joint of pork on top, probably with the bone and skin still on. Very good!

- Confit de canard: duck meat preserved and cooked in its own fat; once the outer fat layer is scraped away, you’ll find the meat underneath very juicy and delicious.

And in case you were wondering from the title, the French do indeed eat sheep or pig brains on occasion. These are called cervelles. Likewise cheval is horse meat, but it’s fairly hard to find. Not even I am bold enough to try these.

In case you are a smoking Nazi, France is not the place for you. Smoking is accepted and hardly separated from les espaces non-fumuer. Don’t be surprised to see someone light up right next to you. Likewise, if you do not like dogs, you might be in for an unpleasant surprise. Chiens are welcome inside all but the most formal restaurants, and it is quite common to see a Parisienne leading a cute little dog inside the café, and perhaps even feeding or watering it from the table.

Perhaps I’ve managed to scare you away from French cuisine by being upfront about it. But if this is the case, I would suggest that you bear in mind the fact that the French are world-renowned as epicures; their taste in food is widely imitated and their dishes considered delicacies nearly everywhere else in the world. Don’t you think there is perhaps a reason for this? And aren’t you curious to know what it is?

Chowing down on the moveable feast

2005-07-26T15:57:00.000-07:00

I had a very literary dining experience today. Being a Hemingway fan, I decided to take the trip to his old hangouts in Saint-Germain-des-Pres. For the unwashed masses among my readers, Hemingway wrote of eating potato salad in A Moveable Feast at the Brasserie Lipp, and in The Sun Also Rises, Lady Brett meets Jack Barnes at Les Deux Magots. (According to my handy dictionary, a magot is a hoard, as in money.) Conveniently, these are directly across S-G-d-P from each other and right off of the metro stop of the same name.

Enamored of the wait staff in flowing white aprons, the average tenure of which is around 15 years, I chose to eat at Brasserie Lipp. As the name would suggest – see my next post on French dining – Lipp specializes in the Alsatian. To start, I ordered foie gras, which was excellent. This is engorged duck or goose liver served as a pate with warm toast. Slightly tangy and rather expensive, it is an hors d’oeuvre that I recommend to anyone dining French. PETA be damned.

For the main course, I went with that staple of Alsace, choucroute, specifically Choucroute Lipp, which is a joint of pork, bone and skin on, served over a bed of sauerkraut with peppercorn and garnished with boiled potatoes and two types of sausage, including andouillette. My verdict: C’etais tres bon. Peut-etre assez bizarre pour un americain, mais maintenant je suis a Paris; alors, je vais essayer.

Hemingway would be proud – even if it wasn’t potato salad.

Paying respects at Pere Lachaise

2005-07-26T15:53:00.000-07:00

Pere Lachaise is Paris’ most famous cemetery, unless you include the Pantheon, which is probably not the same thing. Renowned for its size, beauty, statuary, pastoral setting, and abundance of famous resting places, Pere Lachaise is worth a visit for the Paris traveler. Just get a map. Here’s a hint: “Avez-vous la plan?”

Naturally, I paid my respects to Baron Haussman, the architect of modern Paris under Napoleon III, Moliere, the incredibly witty playwright of Louis XIV, Oscar Wilde, eminent author, and Jim Morrison, late of the Doors. A moment of silence for the legends of times past.

Lutetia Parisorum

2005-07-26T15:46:00.000-07:00

I chose this title for the post as it was the first name of the first settlement in what is now Paris, or at least the name that has come down to us from Roman times. The city of Paris proper began on what is fittingly named the Ile de la cite. Just to the west in the Seine is another island Ile Saint-Louis, named after the only French king to become a saint, Louis the IX (and, incidentally, the namesake of the Kansas/Missouri city). Interestingly, we now know quite a bit more about the early residents of Lutetia Parisorum, ever since the French undertook the building of a parking garage under the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris – they abandoned the project when they found the ruins of the Gallo-Roman city. This area is now called the Paris Crypt, and it contains an archaeological museum. As was the case in many areas (Troy, for example), succeeding generations simply built up on the ruins of old cities; naturally, the banks of the Seine are now quite a ways below the ground level of the modern city.

However, I went to Ile de la Cite for the common reasons, namely Notre Dame cathedral and Sainte-Chapelle, and a few uncommon ones, including the Hotel-Dieu, the Conciergerie, and the Hotel de Ville, just across the river on the left bank.

Notre Dame is nearly finished with its restoration – or at least the façade is. It is once again the sandstone color of the indigenous rock of Paris, of which much of the city was built. The stained glass inside is nice, but unfortunately it doesn’t amount to much more than cute when compared to Chartres. Sorry, but I’m spoiled.

Sainte-Chapelle was built by the aforementioned Louis IX to house the Crown of Thorns which he bought from the emperor of Constantinople at quite a staggering cost. Interestingly, building this beautiful “Holy Chapel” cost less to build than Saint-Louis paid for the crown of thorns, a relic that now resides in the vault of Notre Dame de Paris, across the island.

The Conciergerie, right next to Sainte-Chapelle, is a sight that is unfortunately often overlooked by tourists. In existence since the middle ages as an office of the king’s administrators, it was turned into a political prison. During the revolution, the far western tower, Tour Bonbec, became called the Tower of Babel, in reference to the many screams emanating from the tortured prisoners encased within. This is where the nearly 5000 people beheaded around the time of the Reign of Terror were kept, including, eventually, Danton and Robespierre, who were the administrators thereof (in a very particularly French twist of fate). When their time came, they were marched to the Place de la Concorde, then called Place de Revolution, which is a few blocks from me, to meet the guillotine. Poor Marie Antoinette had a dingy 2 meter-square cell here. It is now a chapel.

The Hotel-Dieu and Hotel de Ville, despite both being called “hotels” are two very different buildings. In fact, neither is actually a hotel, as we know it now. To the French of the 19th century and before, a hotel was simply a chateau, except in the city rather than the country. The Hotel-Dieu is a hospital, and it was the site of most of France’s important advances in chemistry, including those by Lavoisier, who was confined to a dank basement that doubled as his laboratory. The Hotel de Ville was the seat of the National Assembly, at least, when they were not in Versailles because of an abject fear of revolutionary Parisians (I don’t blame them). It served as the seat of republican government during several times in French history.

And of course, there is the Seine. What can be said of the Seine, except that it is very romantic? Yes, I definitely have a soft side.

Oh, Champs-Elysees!

2005-07-26T15:39:00.000-07:00

What trip to Paris would be complete without a march down the Champs-Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe? Not mine, clearly.

Taking Rue Royale south to the Place de la Concorde and hanging a droit brought me right to the Champs-Elysees within minutes; the trek the Arc is about a mile, and it ends in Place Charles de Gaulle. The Champs-Elysees continues west northwest from there, except that it is called Avenue de Grande Armee, after Napoleon’s forces that actually brought the French a few victories. Who’da thunk it, eh? Incidentally, at the end of Grande Armee is the Grande Arche, supposed to be the modern Arc de Triomphe, but actually not an arch at all, but a big square. I still think it’s cool.

The Arc itself was erected as a monument to Napoleon’s victories, the localities of which are each etched in stone. To his credit, there are quite a few. There is also some very intriguing, albeit rather arrogant, statuary mounted on the sides of the Arc in Napoleon’s honor.

And lest I forget the east side of the Champs-Elysees, the Place de la Concorde, the site of the guillotine during the revolution and the execution grounds of such notables as Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and Robespierre, abuts the Jardin des Tuileries, and from the Arc de Triomphe, looking east offers a beautiful view straight down to the Louvre. Furthermore, the Egyptian obelisk that now resides in the center of the Place is said to be Paris’ oldest monument.

Also along the Champs-Elysees, and among the many other things of note, are the Grand Palais, the Petit Palais, and Fouquet’s, one of the oldest restaurants in Paris. Fouquet’s was, in fact, Hitler’s headquarters during the one time he managed to take a visit to Paris.

Le Musee D’Orsay, or Thank you Jacko!

2005-07-26T15:34:00.000-07:00

Jacques Chirac, the current president of France, was at one point the mayor of Paris as well. Perhaps his greatest achievement in that office was the transformation of the Gare D’Orsay, on the south side of the Seine from the Louvre, from the abandoned train station that once housed the Paris-Orleans line, into the museum that picks up where the Louvre leaves off – namely 1850.

The museum’s claim to fame, and very rightly so, is its unbelievably spectacular collection of impressionist masterpieces from the likes of Manet, Degas, Monet, Van Gogh, and Cezanne. I realize that I do not usually lend myself to such ostensible hyperbole, but the Musee clearly warrants it. Thank you Jacko, indeed.

Certainly, for many years while growing up, I could not fit my mind around the idea of art collections. Why not spend the thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of dollars on houses, cars, and supermodels? Why waste it on a painting that’s only good for looking at? Touring the top floor of the Musee D’Orsay, however, afflicts one with a nearly overwhelming desire to take each tableau with you for fear that you will lose the feeling you get by looking at it. To say that I was pleased with my visit is perhaps the understatement of a millennium that is only just five years old. I think I might live there if I could.

Interestingly enough, the print that is hanging in my room at the Burgundy is Monet’s “The Water Lilly Pond,” from 1900, a masterpiece that I was privileged enough to see in person only 20 minutes and a walk across the Seine away.

I’ll be going to Giverny next week, actually. About 100 miles northwest of Paris, this was Monet’s old haunt, and the site of the Japanese bridge and water lilies that he so loved to paint. Look for that update soon.

I'm a French celebrity

2005-07-24T08:50:00.000-07:00

Well, maybe not, but I just saw myself on Eurosport TV - the cameras were panning down Rue Rivoli at the end of the Tour de France, and they passed Rue Cambon, which was right were I was standing!

Lucky number seven

2005-07-24T08:06:00.000-07:00

I'm not really into celebrity worship. I live in L.A.; everybody knows somebody who knows somebody, myself included. But being in Paris on the final day of Lance Armstrong's final race, which happens to be his record-setting seventh consecutive Tour de France victory was too cool for me to pass up.

Once the riders get into Paris, they loop around the Quais on the Seine, and ride the entire length of Rue Rivoli, which for Paris, is quite a long street. It also happens to be a block and a half from me. So at around 5:00, I moseyed on down to the North end of Jardin de Tuileries and set myself up among the crowds of French, who really don't have an American-style respect for personal space. Nevertheless, it was all worth it when the tour riders went by. For a few brief seconds, I came face to face, tete a tete, with some of the best athletes in the world. I took a few pictures too - in the one on this blog, look for the red arrow; it's pointing to Lance.

Speaking of some of the world's best athletes, best wishes go out to my Trojan comrades who are and will be competing in the Worlds in Montreal this week. Congratulations to Blythe Hartley on her World Championship on the one-meter springboard.

A Royale with Cheese....

2005-07-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd keep everyone abreast of the fact that I buckled down and tried fries with mayonnaise last night. Not bad.

The 7 beers and three (shared) bottles of cheap wine might have helped though...

One Gentleman of Verona

2005-07-19T13:08:00.000-07:00

So, as I was saying, my sister and I raced to the last train to Verona (we had already missed our earlier one), and made it with about 20 seconds to spare. An hour and a half took us to a quaint northern Italian village, where my sister is staying in a monastery. It's better than it sounds.

The next morning, we decided to go and see the sights, and we managed to take quite a few of them in before I had to rush to the train back to Mestre and up to Treviso again. The Piazza Herbe (by the way, I could be spelling everything entirely incorrectly, but I'm learning French, not Italian - if you see a blatant error, feel free to correct me) is the center of the city, and it gets its name from the herbs that used to be sold there at market. The Pontevecchio (I think) is an old Roman bridge, partially bombed in WWII; the red brick is where it was subsequently rebuilt. In case you were wondering, it is not over the Arno. The ruins of an old Roman theater also reside in Verona, despite the fact that they decided to build a convent on top of them. I saw what remains.

The Arena is perhaps the biggest attraction in Verona. Seating about 30,000 (which is interesting, seeing as Roman Verona never had more than 20,000 inhabitants), it is reminiscent of a downsized Coliseum. That is to say, Rome, and not L.A. Shortly before reaching the Arena, we stopped in on the real family home of the Capulets, of Shakespearean fame, despite the fact that there was, in fact, no Juliet Capulet. Rubbing the breast of the statue of the bard's tragic heroine is said to bring good luck. Either way, it makes for a fun photo op.

The Torre dei Lamberti is a tower built by the Lamberti family, which was very influential in Verona back in the late Renaissance, and the Tower itself is, to borrow a phrase from the planters of old Charleston, bragging in brick. The panoramic pictures that you see here were taken from the top of the Torre, which itself looks quite a bit like the Campanile in Piazza di San Marco in Venice. In keeping with the theme of illicit bell-ringing - see the picture in the last entry - I decided to mess with the bells here too.

The Castelvecchio, which according to Joan, means "old castle" is, well, an old castle. We were running out of time, so we didn't get to stop in for very long, but at least I can say I've seen it. Next door is a victory arch, which, if I remember correctly, was built by the Romans, and partially rebuilt by Mussolini. Underneath is the remains of an actual Roman road, complete with the heavy, flat paving stones and chariot ruts tens of centuries old. Yes, I took a picture of the ground.

Completely by accident, Joan and I also stumbled upone what I suppose passed for a car show in Italy. Being a car snob, seeing all of those little Italian turds, that I likely could have pushed over on their sides with one hand, was nothing short of hilarious. If only I knew what kind of "car" I was laughing at.

The trip back to Mestre, on a Eurostar train, was easily completed, but let it be known that following the advice of both of the train station employees you may encounter in Mestre as to which train will take you to Treviso may not, in fact, get you to Treviso. So it was that I missed my flight back to Paris by 10 minutes. I spent the night in a five star hotel in Mestre for the grand total of 100 Euro; not bad for the accomodations, but there is absolutely nothing to do in Mestre. So much for that day.

However, were it not for the fact that I missed my plane on Sunday night, I would not have sat down next to Molly on the plane Monday night. Molly is a tres mignonne senior at Michigan who happens to be from roughly 20 minutes away from where I was born. Being the gallant lad I am, I helped her with her luggage, which consisted of about 8 suitcases worth of what were apparently paving bricks and/or cinder blocks. I escorted her to her hotel at Gare Saint-Lazare, about 5 blocks from me. It was a productive night, and I plan on seeing her again.

Too bad I missed the midterm on Monday. Priorities, priorities...

"Venice," or, "WTF is a Vaporetto?"

2005-07-18T05:50:00.000-07:00

So my little sister is spending the summer in Verona, and ironically, I am closer to her now when we are both half a world away from the US. A quick flight from Beauvais airport on Ryanair, which is the Southwest of Europe, took me to Treviso, just north of Venice. A bus and cab ride into the city later, and I was ready to get myself lost.

And get lost I did! Once at the taxi terminal - there are no cars on the island of Venice, just canal boats and pedestrian alleys - I set off to find 555 Santa Croce. Now, before you ask, the islands of Venice proper are divided into districts, such as San Polo and Santa Croce. None are very large, and all can be walked. Nevertheless, it took me about four hours to find 555. After about three and a half I ended up at 548 Santa Croce, which was a hotel with a very helpful receptionist who spoke heavily-accented English.

"Where is 555 Santa Croce?" I ask.
"I donta knowa" he responds.
"Isn't this 548 Santa Croce?" I ask.
"Si." he responds.
"Then should it not be almost next door?" I ask.
"I donta knowa" he responds.

Well, for some reason, 555 Santa Croce is across two bridges and separated from what is the main part of Santa Croce (I know, I walked it all) by the 1300 block of San Polo. Hmmm. Anyhow, I finally got to my hotel and saw my sister at about one in the morning, despite the fact that my flight got into Treviso at 8:00.

The next day, my sister and I saw the sights of the city built on a Northern Adriatic marsh. We stopped for lunch, and she had cuttlefish (squid) cooked in its own ink, which was very tasty but had the tendency to turn one's teeth black. I had monkfish; I'm still not sure what that is, but it was also very good. We took a trip to Piazza di San Marco and saw the doge's palace and the campanile, and took a few pictures in front of the Basilica of San Marco. The doge's palace is rivaled, in my opinion, in over-the-top luxury only by the Louvre of Marie de Medici and Versailles of Louis Quatorze, and none of the three is the clear winner.

We finally raced to the last train out of Venice, headed to Verona, where we spent the night.

Mmmmm, cuttlefish!

Happy Bastille Day

2005-07-18T05:20:00.000-07:00

On this day, Quatorze Juillet, the French remember the storming of the Bastille, which the kings of France occasionally used to house political prisoners. In 1789, however, the Bastille held only seven people, including four check forgers. Furthermore, the Revolution was a revolting failure, leading to almost a century of discord, executions, unrest, and flip-flopping among kings, emperors and republics. This, however, does not temper the enthusiasm of the Republic of France, although they have yet to discover the joys of grilling hamburgers (or, depending on where you're from, frying chicken, making cornbread, and eating watermelon) on their equivalent of Independence Day.

Nonetheless, this American decided to head out and see the sights on the quatorze, including the "military" parade, which headed down Rue Royal toward Madeleine, half a block from where I live, and the fireworks show at the Tour Eiffel.

And as if the French military wasn't already the butt of hundreds of American jokes (1. Why do the French line their streets with trees? So the Germans can march in the shade. 2. What is the most successful French wartime industry? The manufacture of white flags. 3. How many gears do French tanks have? Five: one forward and four reverse, etc.), I must let it be known that, instead of Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, the French have about 80 branches of service, including sailors who wear cream puff hats with red balls on top, a regiment with berets that drape to their shoulders and knee britches, and what is apparently a lumberjack corps, full of men who wear leather aprons, carry axes, and all wear full beards.

The flyovers by the French air force were considerably less laughable, since they buy quite a few of their jets (many of them F-16s) from us. I was able to snap a picture of a flight of fighters and a passenger jet directly over the British embassy on Rue Faubourg Saint-Honore. The rest of the pictures I took right at the end of Rue Duphot, making mine a very easy walk.

At the end of the parade, I also saw what I consider to be perhaps the best looking motorcycle ever made by god or man. The new Triumph Sprint ST, a 1050 cc triple sport tourer that was just redesigned. This was the first I've seen in real life, and in the states, they are only available in silver or blue. When I get back to L.A., I am seriously considering trading in my junk and buying one straight out.

Le Louvre

2005-07-14T14:58:00.000-07:00

Living about 10-15 minutes by foot from Le Musee du Louvre, you'd think I would have gotten around to seeing it again sooner, but convenience seems to breed complacency. At least, as of today, I have a date for the top of the Eiffel Tower, so look for that update in the future.

Anyhow, the idea of a guided tour of Le Louvre is rather amusing, seeing as you could spend a whole day in one wing of three and still not see everything. It IS that big. However, as we streaked through the former residence of the French royalty since Catherine de Medici, we managed to see several famous masterpieces, and several less famous ones that really caught my eye as well. I have visited before, and was blown away by the Winged Victory of Samothrace, which is just as stunning now. Sonia and I both consider it our "favorite."

One of the most interesting things about the Louvre is how one leaves feeling sorry for many famous artists whose masterpieces have the misfortune of being displayed in the same room as, say, the Mona Lisa or the Venus de Milo. I could probably camp out in the Louvre for several days before I finally felt like I'd "seen it."

Finally, some French-ness

2005-07-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I took a couple day trips lately, and for those of us who care about this sort of thing (which does include me, believe it or not), here's the recap from Chartres and the Vaux-le-Vicomte.

Chartres is a city about an hour or so outside of Paris that houses what is considered the quintessential gothic cathedral, with legendary stained glass windows. After building Saint-Chapelle and Notre Dame de Paris, the French took what they learned and applied it to the remains of the recently destroyed Romanesque cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres and created the gothic masterpiece that was and is called "the earthly palace of the queen of heaven." Over almost two millenia, churches have been standing at Chartres, and in the crypt - the third largest in the world after St. Peter's in Rome and Canterbury Cathedral - there remains what is known as the Gallo-Roman well, from the time of Roman occupation of France/Gaul. It is said that, in a Viking attack, many faithful were martyred there by being tossed down the well.

On a lighter note, the stained glass deserves its reputation as the best in the world. When I told Dr. Robb I was going to Paris for the summer he told me to be sure I took the time to visit Chartres. "I've been there 36 times," he said. I asked him if he was exaggerating or if that was the real number. He said it's amazing enough to merit an accurate count. I wish taking photographs was easier inside a gothic cathedral, but without a tripod, this is the best I could manage. This is only one of hundreds of panels and rosettes that, with its characteristic Chartres-blue and later manganese-blue, have made jaws drop for hundreds of years.

The Vaux-le-Vicomte has a similarly intriguing story behind it, and like Chartres is considered the best of the gothic cathedrals, Vaux-le-Vicomte is considered the most beautiful French chateau ever built. Erected by Nicolas Fouquet, who was Louis XIV's finance minister, the chateau served as the model for the palace of Versailles later on.

In fact, after attending a party held by Fouquet at Vaux-le-Vicomte, Louis XIV decided that his finance minister had a more beautiful abode than he, since he was still "stuck" in the Louvre among the Parisians he so disliked. The night after the party, Fouquet was accused, judged and convicted on what were probably trumped-up charges of embezzelment and sentenced to a life in prison, his famed chateau seized by Louis Quatorze. Indeed, it is believed by quite a few that the legendary "man in the iron mask" that spawned a bad Leonardo DiCaprio movie was not the king's brother at all, but Nicolas Fouquet himself.

The model for all French gardens to come

The view from the Cupola

Ma Nouvelle Belle Chere, Sonia

It's a good thing we're in Paris...

2005-07-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

Over the last few weeks in the states, what with both Tina’s and my departure imminent, quite a bit of celebration took place, turning me and most of my friends alcoholic-lite. So what to do when in Paris? Go the Monoprix for 3-Euro bottles of wine (which are surprisingly good!) and, once again, drink up a storm, inducing contentment, sarcastic humor and extemporaneous, wine-fueled mass-napping. It’s not that I’m failing to see the sights – you see, right now I’m just soaking up the culture, wine glass in hand.

Actually, it is fairly true that I am not missing out the sights of Paris; I live next door to most of them. Madeleine is within spitting distance, the Opera within another two blocks. The Place de la Concorde is two blocks the other way, meaning that the Arc de Triomphe is a short hike down the Champs Elysees and the Eiffel Tower is a half-hour’s walk and across the river down the Champs Mars. The Louvre is perhaps a third of a mile east near the Place Vendome and down the Rue Sainte-Honore. The Isle de la Cite, with Notre Dame and Sainte Chapelle is just farther and over the Pont Neuf.

So it’s really not like I haven’t seen the city. I just don’t see it after mes camarades and I drink five bottles of wine and pass out in en masse on beds that are roughly 2 feet by 4 feet in size.

Place Opera

Happy America Day!

2005-07-05T08:09:00.000-07:00

Just so we can get this clear up front, the French do not hate Americans. They prefer a more socialized government, but they don’t have the same individualistic culture that we do, which makes it more suited to them. After all, France has been pushing for total unification of the state since Louis XIV. Likewise, they fear power concentrated in one nation’s hands since they’ve been at the wrong end of several wars in the past. With the exception of Pearl Harbor, America has never truly been attacked like France has, and since we have never had a Verdun, capitulation and diplomacy are much less attractive to us (for better or for worse, I suppose, but we all know where I stand on the French making “peace in our time”).

I got a good taste of what the French really think of America and Americans on Independence Day. Of course, my friends and I went out seeking a party, but I was quite taken aback to see so many French people out celebrating as well, American flags flying. We ended up in a bar with a bunch of Americans and French partying together, drinking Bud (pronounced “bood”), and singing American songs.

After the proper amount of beer, I started looking around for French chicks to hit on, and I acquired a target. I got one of the more advanced French students to tell me how to ask if I could buy her a drink, etc., and I went forth to ma belle chere.

“Comment t’appelle tu?” I said.
“Ummm…I only speak English,” she replied.

As it turns out, the chick was from Brentwood, perhaps twenty minutes from where I live in L.A. Like, oh my god.

So that was a bit of a failure, although I can’t quite claim fault in this instance. Someone asked me later what I would have done if the woman had turned out to be French like I wanted and started talking to me in French. I told her that I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Culture is more than just my yogurt!

2005-07-02T08:08:00.000-07:00

While I don’t normally tend to bleed blue, being in what is perhaps the cultural center of the known universe seems to bring out the aristocrat in me. Now I haven’t just seen it; I’ve lived next door, and it is giving me the urge to go to Place Vendome and shop for something, anything Dior.

The language is coming along fairly well, although a stock of phrases is a useful asset to have. Nevertheless, figuring things out as you go along, out of pure curiosity of course, is a very good way to learn. Hence, je la frapperais, my new favorite phrase which, although it would make no idiomatic sense to a Frenchman, would literally translate to “I’d hit it.” I cannot think of a better way to learn the conditional. After all, Parisiennes sont chaudes.

The Eagle Has Landed

2005-06-23T08:05:00.000-07:00

Remember Francis Gary Powers, the U2 pilot who was shot down over Soviet Russia by a SAM we didn’t know they had? Naturellement, he was vilified in the United States for singing like a caged canary in the hands of Ruskies, but I feel for him now. On what was a relatively short trans-Atlantic flight, my ass gave out before the 747 did. Ten hours in the air, and I was ready for a short hop to bed; ten hours over Russia and a missile up the tailpipe and it’s no longer surprising that Mr. Powers was ready to capitulate as well.

Of course, I surrendered pretty quickly, but I still had an RER ride to Gare du Nord and a Metro hop to Madeleine, neither of which were facilitated by my lack of usable French skills. A half-hour ride and what in the States would have been 10 minutes of buying tickets stretched into about three and a half hours of French-English dictionary-toting frenzy. In case you were wondering, voie means a train track. After stuttering je besoin une carte orange, which may very well make no grammatical sense whatsoever, to a ticket agent who seemed quite game for some sport with an American, I got my Juillet pass and found my train. At the Madeleine stop, I managed to make ou est Rue Duphot? understandable, and found the Burgundy.

Checking in took a matter of minutes, and at 4:30 I was in bed. I know they say you’re supposed to wait until at least 5:00 to counter the jet lag, but I’m a rebel.

Days in Paris: one. Sights seen: Madeleine. While walking by.

C'est Madeleine

Skunkenstein!

2005-06-22T08:03:00.000-07:00

Poetry in motion is quite the overused cliché, so I shall spare you the comment, but needless to say, it is one thing to see a car sitting still at a show and quite another to see it moving. Show cars are appreciated calmly, show cars on the freeway are greeted with enthusiasm and perhaps even measured use of one’s horn in acknowledgement.

So where does that leave actually experiencing the car? Especially when you manage to take one of San Francisco’s most scenic roads, a serpentine series of hairpins that double-dog dare you to go too fast while admiring the view. Driving a Charger at all in San Francisco seems no mean feat; driving the Charger on that road as if you’re Swede Savage is another thing altogether, and it makes me wish that I could do the same with a car that I can call mine.

All in all, I’d say Dave and I had an enjoyable jaunt through the Bay Area – plus some very high quality crab louie – and I came back with some pretty cool pictures of a real R/T SE that’s not afraid of being driven. It's a perfect way to say goodbye to San Francisco.

Comme ci comme ca

2005-06-13T07:59:00.000-07:00

I met my roommate. As it turns out, he is a self-acknowledged stoner, which I’m sure is reinforced by the fact that everything I own now reeks of weed due solely to proximity. And even though he is from UCLA, it turns out that my new roommate was better able to illustrate the comical properties of the Berkeley commune than even the legion of bums or the hare krishnas.

After all, it is only in Berkeley where you can start out at a research university, work your way through a sea of homeless, hippies, handicaps, and affirmies of every stripe, passing more vintage clothing stores than Starbucks, and hit up not one, but two cannabis clubs, all on foot.

But more importantly, I started French classes today. We are taking half a semester of basic French and putting it on frappe. We’ll be done with eight weeks’ worth of class in one-fourth the time. Nonetheless, I’ve found that I take to French fairly well. I am not sure if it is the Latin in my background – the first time that has become useful outside of inscriptions on buildings from centuries past – or if it is because so much of French has the same roots as English. Either way, I am getting in the zone.

And this is all as it should be, because I will find myself in the city of lights very soon. I will be staying in le premiere arrondissement, about three blocks from the Place de la Concorde and half a mile from Le Louvre, from what I can tell on the map. I’ll also be close to Notre Dame a la Isle de la Cite, the Arc de Triomphe will be about a mile and a half hike down the Champs Elysees, and the Tour Eiffel will be just across the Champs Mars on the rive gauche. On the map, look for the border of the 1st and 8th districts, halfway to the Seine. That's where I'll be.

I plan on making Paris my own, just as I was able to do with Boston; it is one thing to visit a city, or even to exist in it, as I did in Austin, but it is quite another to set out to see, understand and own the city. Despite having spent little more than three months in Boston, I add it to my ever-expanding list of hometowns. I hope to be able to do the same with Paris, and, toujour l’optimiste, I think I will be able to, for Paris is, to borrow from Hemingway, the moveable feast.

I am also hoping to make some side trips while I am there, one to the South of France, via Toulouse, where I will be able to drop in on Lauren, and another to northern Italy, where Joan is interning in Verona. We should be able to take the short trip to Venice, which is one of the destinations that has always been among the foremost in my travel desires. I am also thinking of stopping in on Jessica and Kelly in Pamplona, Spain, since the running of the bulls happens in July, but this is tentative, as I won’t let anything interfere with Bastille Day. Isn’t it ironic how I will be closer to my siblings as we all travel halfway around the world than I am for the rest of the year? To have to coordinate a trip to Toulouse just to see Lauren for the second time this year…well, that’s weird enough for Berkeley.

I haven’t called Dave yet, because I’m currently sitting through 6 hours of class each day. Rest assured that I will when the weekend comes around, since I want a ride in the Stratocharger even more than you want to hear about it. I’ll be sure to take plenty of pictures.

I already miss mon frere de l’autre mere, German, ma chere, Tina, et mon camarads in Los Angeles. Merci beaucoup to Brett. Take good care of mon chat, “Ravages.” I’ll see you all again before you know it. A toute a l’heure.

A Worker's Paradise

2005-06-11T07:58:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the People’s Republik of Berkeley. Perhaps welcome is too strong a term for a guy who, without so much as thinking twice about it, donned his USMC (Semper Fi) t-shirt this morning before flying out to the Bay Area. What’s this? An American who supports America? In Berkeley? Who’s the freak now?

Entre nous, had the Marine Corps shirt been the result of an enlightened frolic through the closet, I might have expected to be viewed as I was: the obvious outsider. Such at it was, however, it took me several awkward minutes and several more awkward stares before comprehension rose above my horizon. Nevertheless, Berkeley seems to have that effect on an outsider, military garb or no. It takes more than one trip through the streets and alleys around the University of Kalifornia before it dawns on you that there is no method to the madness, nor is there an escape, for Berkeley is not a city that hides its fruit-basket tendencies, nor does it tacitly acknowledge them and move on. No, Berkeley revels in its insanity.

Why won’t Berkeley fall into the ocean when the “big one” hits? Because there’s a wingnut on every corner.

Le Premiere Poteau

2004-07-13T07:55:00.000-07:00

So I completely ripped off this idea from Tina (thanks, hon) but I already have several things written about my summer in Paris, so I'll go ahead and post those. I'll try to keep it fairly updated, although I'm already behind, naturellement.