salut

lundi 2 juin 2008

So, here I am, sitting in the apartment, writing the final entry for my blog in Paris, packing my bags, and watching the French Open on TV at the same time.

As quickly as the journey had approached, it has departed, taking me along the way to enjoy this magnificent ride.

I wish I had something witty and insightful to say at this moment, but the words escape me, even my thoughts have fled elsewhere, probably the consequence of trying to do three things at the same time.

What to say about Paris?  After a total of five months here (including three in 2006), it's a beautiful city, a city with a monumental past and a present filled with tremendous wonder and yet a lonely sadness.  Tourists flock to the city of the Seine for good reasons, but those who inhabit and work in it often share the same feeling of hopelessness in the city of lights.  Perhaps it’s like this in any city where those who come overwhelm those who stay, but after all, people are people, we have the same desires and goals, no matter if we live in Paris or elsewhere.

In the past two months, I have shared these feelings of wonder, excitement, anxiety, loneliness, and sadness.   In the end, I am leaving very content, having accomplished all I had wanted.  Even though I still don’t know Paris in and out, I know it well enough now that at this moment I don’t have the desire to return for another long engagement.  Of course, I will return for visits to see friends and to enjoy the atmosphere and the food, but it’s time to move on.

For 2009, I’m hoping to spend a couple of months in Taiwan, exploring my native country, something which I really haven’t done.   In the short term, I will continue to study French and to start a film project with a friend in New York that will launch my film career and take me back to Taiwan next year.

I can’t define precisely what I am taking back to San Francisco, other than the two suitcases that have nearly the exact same content as when I arrived because the exchange rate between the dollar and the euro has discouraged me from making any significant purchases in Paris, except for several additional French books.  But in my mind, what accompanies me on my return is a new attitude about myself, a belief that I am not necessarily who I think I am, and that is a good thing for someone who doesn’t often see clearly into the mirror.

So it is with great content that I pack my bags.  Unlike last time, there is no more anxiety.  Even though I can’t always dictate what happens in my life, I look forward to the next challenge, as long as it isn't a hike in the mud.

I am happily moving on.

you don't say!

vendredi 30 mai 2008

Sometimes I surprise even myself.

Other times I just roll my eyes in disbelief.

This time I'm still wondering how it all happened.

Quickly, I think. When my friend Rick arrived in Paris six weeks ago, we talked about our plans in Paris, mine for two months, his for five. I told him it would be cool to do something really liberating, something I never thought I could ever do. We came up with something outrageous (for me); I thought it would be nice to work toward that, knowing that I would never be able to do what we discussed, not to mention that one doesn't come across such an "opportunity" everyday.

Fast forward to six weeks later. Incredibly, this opportunity came up this week. I hesitated, accepted, and did it. Sort of a modern version of veni, vidi, vici.

Incredible, it wasn't as difficult or embarrassing as I had thought it would be. I don't know what this means for me in the future - I suspect nothing, except now I've done yet another thing that I didn't think was possible for me.

What exactly did I do? I'll just end with this:

What happens in Paris stays in Paris.

after the rain...

mercredi 28 mai 2008

roland garros

mardi 27 mai 2008

Game, set, match - the rain.

Yes, it was the rain who won today, my only day at the French Open.  Despite having reserved three tickets for the main courts, I was only given a ticket for the outside courts today.  But what can you do?  Like my teacher said, it's a mafia.  I suppose she's right - all the major sporting events are mafias, the biggest one of which being the Olympics.  With nothing but money in sight and in pocket, they can do whatever they want.

But I digress.  The matches were scheduled to begin at 11 am; I dragged my lazy butt into the rain and arrived at 11:30 am.  What welcomed me was not a welcoming receptionist saying 'bonjour,' but a huge crowd of people, a sea of umbrellas, and busloads of smoking teens.  I don't know what was worse, kids blowing smoke into my eyes, or 80-year-old women nearly poking my eyes out with their umbrellas.

For a tournament this reputable and this rich, they sure were unorganized.  Now, if I were in charge...

I digress again.  Since I only had a ticket for the outside courts, I couldn't watch Amélie Mauresmo fighting her nerves nor Rafael Nadal constantly tugging at his shorts as if someone had given him a wedgie.  I chose court #5, featuring Feliciano Lopez, for obvious reasons if you know me.

I sat in the rain from noon to 1:30 pm, at which time the rain lightened up and attendants began to prepare the court with acceptable efficiency.  I think Feliciano was not happy to play under these conditions; he showed up ten minutes after his opponent did and looked grumpy the entire first set.  

After over an hour of play, the rain returned, and so did I, at 4 pm, figuring it would be at least another hour or two of delay even the the rain stopped soon.

So, overall, even though it was a short and wet experience, it wasn't bad.  I'm happy to say I've waited through the rain at the French Open, even happier to say I wasn't stupid enough to buy any of the exorbitantly priced items there.  And after seeing some players live, I do believe that TV idolizes people.  In person, they're just that - people; they're not all that.

The best way to attend these events though, is as a VIP.  How, you ask?  Stay tuned, give me about ten years...

the world in paris

dimanche 25 mai 2008

Yes, it's true, the world is in Paris.

Since the beginning of May, I hear more people speaking English than French in the streets and restaurants.  A reminder that I'm still in Paris?  The banner of a boulangerie as a sponsor in a dance club.

Since I have but ten days left in Paris, I decided to take a stroll along the Seine toward the east side of the city which I haven't explored much.

Walking on the South Bank, I came across four separate areas (semi-circles) along the river, one after another, where random pedestrians stopped to enjoy some music and dance.  At the first semi-circle, there was a small group of musicians in traditional French costume playing folk music.  As I walked further, the music changed to Salsa, then hip hop.  This international festival of spontaneous Sunday afternoon merry-making concluded with the waltz at the fourth semi-circle.  

In case you're wondering, I didn't join them. 

A bit further along the river, there as a small group of picnickers enjoying the sun.  They called out to me and invited me to join them for some wine and pastries.  Having all the time in the world, I gladly obliged.  I spent about half an hour chatting with them and discovered that they were from France, New York, the Philippines, Hong Kong, and Russia.

I can't think of anything more appropriate to conclude my journey in Paris.

fantasie #2

jeudi 22 mai 2008

One of my projects in Paris is to work on the second draft of my script.  To be honest, during the first six weeks, I worked on it twice - by scribbling down random ideas that popped into my head every now and then.

Luckily, I got sick two Sundays ago.  Luckily?  Yes, since it forced me to stay home, very close to the restroom, if you know what I mean.  And since didn't go to class the following day, I made good use of my time by (finally) starting work on the second draft.

As the ideas came and the juices flowed, my fingers typed, in between bathroom breaks of course.  Sorry for the image, I hope you're not eating while reading this.  The next day, I thought of skipping class just to continue writing; I didn' skip class, but I did keep writing.  Now, in just ten days, I've finished the second draft.

Much work remains, but for now, I'll put it aside for a few months, until when a little voice reminds me again that it's time to return to my Parisian Phantasie.

je t'aime

mardi 20 mai 2008

Last week, to learn the structure of cause and consequence in French, we read mini-letters of love and break-up in class.  The homework of the day was to write our own.

So here is a sample of what we read, including my homework.  Warning, this is cheese beyond cheese, so read at your own risk.  Guess which one I wrote.

"Je te vois dormir

Je te vois lire.

Je te vois sourire

Je te vois reflechir.

Et puis, j'ouvre les yeux, mais tu n'es pas là.

Ne te voyant pas, je ne te vois qu'avec les yeux fermés."

"Tu me rends fou !

Tu me fais perdre la tête !

Je perds la raison à cause de toi !

Ne me demande pas pourquoi,

car je ne le sais pas."

"Ce n'est pas parce que je ne t'aime plus que je te quitte,

C'est parce que j'en aime un autre plus que toi."

a rainy impromptu

samedi 17 mai 2008

It's a rainy Saturday afternoon in Paris.

Perhaps rainy isn't the most accurate word here.  It's a thunderous Saturday afternoon in Paris, and once again her instrument sings to me through the open windows, mixed with the constant splattering of rain.

As usual, it's "Rêve d'amour," The Dream of Love by Franz Liszt.  She repeats this four minute piece over and over again, but I don't find it repetitive, for me it is one of the most magical four minutes in music.

As I revel in each note, each crescendo, and each sigh of her mind, the blacks and whites send her image to me.

On a cool Saturday afternoon in Paris, she is alone in her apartment on the fourth floor.  She sits by the window, cuddled against a comforting pillow with a book in hand.  But she is distracted and can hardly understand a single word she read.  She watches the threatening clouds and smells the incoming storm.

Her eyebrows reflexively arch into a slight furrow, as she is French and prefers a Saturday afternoon in Paris sunny, but the countenance quickly relaxes as she is a young woman and enjoys an occasional interruption from Nature.

Her slender fingers caress each blue petal of the roses in her window box.  She sighs; she is bored by the blue, reminiscent of her grandmother's summer dress, maybe the storm would transform them and wash away the blue.  That would leave them white, also not a great color, since white is white; there is nothing, and she dreads nothing.

There she is again, that old dame downstairs across from her.  And the cat too, one of the most annoying creatures she has ever laid eyes on, why does it always have to look so arrogant like it's the smartest thing in the world?  Maybe it would be frightened by the thunder and jump off the window.  What is the lady doing?  Probably just rearranging her figurines like she does every Sunday afternoon.  But it's not yet Sunday, has she mistaken the days?

The old dame disappears from view again, leaving the cat at the window by itself. 

And there it is once more, someone making brioche.  It must be the monsieur from upstairs.  His voice is low and comforting, whereas that of his boyfriend is high and arousing.  They do complement each other well, at least as far as their voices are concerned, never actually met them face to face.  They probably have no idea that their conversations descend through the old creaking floors as easily as the aroma of his pastries permeate the entire courtyard.  He's alone today, the other one must be at dance class.  Good, there will be a few hours without words.

That's good.  It's better for a rainy Saturday afternoon in Paris.

make it work

jeudi 15 mai 2008

Do certain characteristics dominate our entire lives?

I wish I could say no, for the one I'm thinking of right now isn't a very likable one, and it is one that keeps resurfacing in my life.

Remember my sneakers formerly known as white Diesel leather?  Yes, the ones that were covered in mud in Haute-Savoie where I fell twice in the mountains.  They haven't been themselves lately; not because they've been blue, but because they've been brown.

My initial instinct when I returned from the trip was to throw them away.  Sure, they've only served me a few times and they're pretty to look at, but how could I learn to love them again with the unremovable stains that scream out their impurity?

As I began to think about a replacement, I realized that this has been my pattern.  When something doesn't go quite the way I want it to, or when it is marred by a slight imperfection, my first thought is to abandon or replace it.  But certainly imperfect things still retain good qualities, and stained shoes can still be worn, n'est-ce pas?

Surely and hopefully, I can use stained shoes, I can read a used book, and I can accept my imperfect self.  It's time to learn to love imperfection and to embrace all that isn't idea.  Like Tim Gunn from Project Runway says, "Make it work."

Next time I go out on a date, I won't think "But his shirt is wrinkled."  I'm going to keep my shoes after all, even with the stains.

le louvre

mardi 13 avril 2008

A few weeks ago, I took a short trip along the Seine and ended up at the Louvre early in the evening.  This was what resulted.

maman

dimanche 11 mai 2008

This weekend I'm visiting Brittany with Julien and Hermine.  It has been a rainy weekend so far, and I will update you with the activities here later.  

Since it's Mother's Day, I want to take this opportunity to wish all the mothers in the world a wonderful day and year to come.  Sometimes I don't take the time to thank the people around me, and Julien, who is a know-it-all and is telling me right now what to write in my blog, is about to take over and write the following paragraph:

"Chère maman,

Mon français n'étant pas encore assez brillant, je me vois contraint de passer la plume à mon meilleur ami français (Julien dont je t'ai déjà parlé tant de fois), pour qu'il porte ma voix à tes oreilles.

Tu sais que je n'ai pas l'habitude de m'épancher tant et plus, mais je suis en France et les Français sont des gens passionnés, je profite donc de cet élan pour te souhaiter un très bonne fête des mères, toi qui a toujours été là pour moi et mes frères et soeur, pour les bons moments et les moins bons...."

So let's tell our mothers today:

 

Joyeuse fête des mères, maman chérie, je t'aime

Happy Mother's Day, I love you mommy

am I (that) weird?

samedi 10 mai 2008

Sometimes things just don't go your way.

I had checked the forecast for the weekend and knew that it would be raining in Brittay (en Bretagne) most of the time.  As soon as I arrived at the TGV station in Auray, Julien said, "It has been sunny everyday until 5 minutes ago."  Then it started to rain.

For the weekend, Julien and Hermine invited me to stay at his family's vacation home in the small seaside town of Carnac - nothing specific planned, just to enjoy a few days by the sea.  The couple had already made a five-day journey on foot in the entire region before my arrival.  A sign that Julien knows me well, he told me last week of their trekking plans and added, "This is not for you, Alex, you can't handle it."  So wonderful to have friends who know you well, isn't it?

Both Carnac and Auray were exactly what they were supposed to be - small cities by the sea, but I thought they lacked the charm of Cassis.  Maybe it was the humidity that got to me, or perhaps it was the tremendous abundance of insects on L'Ile de Moînes (the Island of Monks), which we visited.  Don't ask me about the name, I didn't encounter any monks; the closest celibate and repressed being I saw was in the mirror.

Eventually the rain gave way to right, intense sunshine after two days, and that was when I complained about the heat.  Complaining about everything, I really felt French.

One thing I couldn't complain about was our meals, almost everything homemade except for the first meal of crêpes, for which Brittany is famous.  Like my meal of soufflés, the custom here was to have two savory crêpes for entrée and plat, ending the meal with a sweet one for dessert.

Some of the highlights of our meals included a seafood quiche, with smoked salmon, shrimp, and broccoli, a linguine and legume pasta, a lentil salad, which was surprisingly good, as I am not a huge fan of salads, and of course all kinds of bread for every meal.

Julien and Hermine thought my habit of putting Nutella and peanut butter together on bread (they didn't have peanut butter unfortunately) was weird and disgusting:  too much fat, they said.

Too much fat!  This from people who put butter, cheese, and cream in just about anything.  Go figure.

growing pains

mardi 6 mai 2008

So this is the week when I start making changes.

To prepare for joining the Frontrunners (an international organization that has a chapter in Paris and San Francisco), I ran last night for the first time in over a year.  What was the location for this momentous occasion?  Not too shabby - Le Jardin des Tuileries and Le Louvre.

There's something about running that makes me appreciate living in a fantastic city even more.  It's the same feeling I got when I ran around Dolores Park in San Francisco for the first time; the view of the city from the summit of the park was priceless, jast as running in Central Park last year when I stayed in Manhattan for two months.  Actually, the latter was a bit pricier; I had severe hayfever the night I ran and consequently had to change locations.

Now when I say run, I don't mean run like the wind, more like jog while window-shopping and people-gazing.  I knew I wasn't in good shape, so I wanted to give it a test run and see how it goes before meeting the Frontrunners.

It felt great.  Between jogging and walking, the entire endeavor took nearly two hours.  Afterward, I expected my muscles to ache somewhat, and I was hoping that the severity wouldn't be too great by 7 o'clock tonight.  Well, how can I make you understand?  Let's just say that even lifting my foot off the ground was a bit painful.  Nevertheless, I met the Frontrunners and followed through with my pain, I mean my plan.  I couldn't actually make the five laps around the park and had to stop after four, but it was still a great experience, even with all the bugs swimming in the pools of sweat against my face as I painstakingly lifted one foot each time.

Meeting the folks in the club was the icing on the cake (or as the French would say, the cherry on the cake).  They were all very welcoming to this San Franciscan, even as he struggled with placing in order all five parts of the past tense and the direct and indirect objects.

For the first time since I arrived in Paris, I felt like I stopped forcing myself to be on vacation, a vacation with several ambitious agenda, I might add.  I am glad to have lifted more than my feet tonight.

chocolates, banks, and watches, oh my

samedi 3 mai 2008

Switzerland is known for its neutrality with international affairs, and so it is with much of everything else.

During our visit to Geneva today, I was reminded of what they are known for - watch ads, chocolateries, and banks could be found everywhere.  I did try a brand of chocolate called Callier, and it was indeed very good; but most of everything else in Geneva was kind of bland - too neutral.

The streets were clean, luxury goods were displayed in every store, but there wasn't much chracter.  One thing which struck me as odd was that the Swiss have installed a small indicator light above each space in parking lots, as if one couldn't look at the space itself to see if it is vacant.  Sure, it's conveniently to look down the row of lights, but all the electricity and wiring just for that?

For dinner last night, Didier made a Haute-Savoie specialty - la Tartiflette.  It is a heavenly rich gratin of potatoes, Reblochon cheese, lardon (smoked fatty pork), onions, cream, and of course butter.  I would say one could reach heaven earlier by consuming more Tartiflette.  It's actually quite easy to make, so assuming I can find Reblochon in San Francisco, I will make it for you all.  Not that you're in a hurry to get to heaven.

A little story about the Reblochon cheese.  The word for milking a cow in the Savoy language is blocher.  In the past, there was a heavy tax on the farmers for all the milk their cows produced; and inspector would arrive at the farm on a regular basis to assess how milk he should take from the farmers.  So, as it is human nature to keep as much as possible for himself, the farmers delayed milking some of their cows so that the inspector would have less milk on which to levy the tax.  As it turned out, this delay in milking (re-milking, reblocher) turned the milk into a richer, more flavorful cream that became the basis for the Reblochon.

Tomorrow will be my return to Paris after nine days of road trip.  It has been a journey that was long, exciting, delicious, and also frightening at times.  Merci encore à Didier pour tout ce qu'il avait fait.  I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.  Well, that's not possible since you didn't get to taste anything.  Ha!

top of the world

vendredi 2 mai 2008

Well, perhaps not the top of the world, but certainly the top of Europe.

Le Mont Blanc, the highest mountain of The Alps at 4,810 meters, was our focus today.  Annecy is just an hour drive from the city of Chamonix, which is the starting point for our ascent.  Chamonix itself is pretty much a ski resort for tourists from all over the world.

The cable car doesn't actually go to the summit of Mont Blanc.  It reaches Aiguille du Midi (midi means noon or south in French), which stands at 3,842 meters, and it's plenty high for anyone.  By the time we got up, it was clear that oxygen is a bit thinner there, since just five steps up the stairs caused some dyspnea, which cannot be attributed to not exercising for one whole month and consuming cheese, ice cream, duck confit, grilled chicken, and steaks everyday.

So I guess the view was literally breath taking.  I've got a large collection of photos now and share with you five.

what a day!

jeudi 1 mai 2008

Today was beautiful - the sky was blue, sprinkled with creamy whte clouds here and there, the air smelled freshly green from the lush vegetation.  Didier had planned a trip to the top of Mont Veyrier nearby Annecy.  "It's an easy walk to the top, no problem," he said.

In general, I'm not too much of a mountain person; I don't go camping or mountain biking nor do I hike on trails more narrow than my arms extended.  But I thought it would be fun to have a leisurely walk and enjoy the beautiful view surrounding Lac d'Annecy.  Yes, fun.

First problem - mountainous roads.  To get to the starting point of our "easy walk," we drove about 15 minutes up the mountain.  My genes tell me that I suffer from fairly severe car sickness, especially on tortuous roads like the ones today, and my stomach believes everything my genes say.  To make the twisted story short, by the time the car reached its destination, my breakfast had made its journey up toward my throat.  Luckily, after ten minutes or rest, I was feeling better.

Second problem - it rained last night.  Within 30 seconds of our walk, I was stepping in mud.  Since I hadn't brought appropriate shoes, I was wearing my white Diesel sneakers; you can imagine what they look like now.  With my baton (stick) in hand, I carefully traversed through the muddy terrain.  Unfortunately, another 30 seconds later, I slipped and fell heavily onto my butt, which, thanks to all the feasts I've enjoyed along the trip, cushioned my fall fairly well.  But my jeans and jacket were now coated with mud.  Not good for someone who doesn't even like to sit on dry grass.

Third problem - my fear of height.  After a three-minute walk in the mud, the path started to get better and not so wet, but by that time, I realized this wasn't an "easy walk."  What Didier had meant was a hike.  And it wasn't a typical hike.  Oftentimes we walked on trails barely wider than a foot, and the slightest slip meant a tumble at least 30 feet down - it was steep.  Several times I came to a very narrow path and just couldn't get myself to cross it.  I told myself, "go ahead, it's okay, you can do it.  Even the 70-year-old French woman ahead of you passed easily."  At the same time, my mind envisioned a long and painful fall down the muddy and bushy slope.  I guess what the mind sees is stronger than what it hears, since my body just wouldn't move, especially if I thought about the journey back down.  Many times I wanted to stop and turn backward, but two things prevented me - one, not knowing how to even hike down the steep hill, and two, not wanting to quit.

I know I've had a relatively easy life compared to most people, and I am grateful for that.  I also admit that oftentimes in the past, whenever something didn't go so easily as I had hoped, my first instinct was to give up and simply do something else.  So, as my easy and fickle life flashed before my eyes each time the fear of height prevented me from moving forward, I recited the mantra "I cannot quit again" and very slowly moved on, with the encouragement of Didier and Alim, who, by the way, each slipped a few times themselves.

I was elated after reaching the top at 1,400 meter altitude one hour later, but honestly, I was very concerned about how I would get down.  The mountain was definitely gorgeous.  The snow-capped Alps were within sight, and I knew I would be there tomorrow (not by hiking, so promised Didier).

Thankfully, there was another route down, so we took the route more travelled, and it was much easier.  At one point, Didier admitted that he must have taken a wrong turn on the way up and ended up taking a very difficult route.  At that moment, I was able to practice several French words and phrases I had learned but seldomly used, most of which included the word "merde."

To bring the hike back to a full circle, I managed to slip again on the way down and ended up with more mud everywhere.  I guess I got the mud bath I had always wondered about, and it was free!

So, at the end of the day, I am happily alive with just a couple of new scrapes, my clothes are in the washer, my white sneakers are still caked with mud after a good cleaning, and I can say I've taken roads both less and more travelled.  Did I conquer my fear of height?  I don't think so; I am certain that the same feelings would return if I were to return.  But at least I know that the next time I encounter something of which I am fearful, I can convince myself to take little steps, to hold on to my supports, and to count on my butt to brake my fall so long as I keep eating.  It doesn't hurt much, really.

from the sea to the mountains

mercredi 30 avril 2008

A day of transition.

We're going from the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azure (PACA) in the South to the region of Rhone-Alpes in the department of Haute-Savoie in the Southeast, near Geneva.  The name Provence isn't a region nor a department, it is just a name for the area.  Our base for the next few days will be the town of Annecy, which is Didier's hometown.  It has approximately 5,000 inhabitants and receives tourists all year round - skiing for the winter, and all sorts of water sports during the other season thanks to a grand and beautiful lake, Le Lac d'Annecy.

Today we visited a smaller laker, Le Lac du Bourget in St. Germain la Chambotte, which was on our way.  The two photos you see were taken there.

A word about the geography of France.  It is divided into regions which in turn have several departments each.  There are approximately 100 departments in France, each given a number, in alphabetical order.  How do you know what the number is?  Easy, there are two ways other than memorizing them.  Just like the U.S., there are zip codes.  The first two digits in the five-digit code is the department number.  Also, all automobile license plates end in two digits - the department in which they are registered.

For example, the zip code in Paris always begins with 75, and the last two digis correspond to the arrondissement.  A common game that French children play during long road trips is to recall the number of each department.  I guess that's better than repeatedly hearing "are we there yet?"

it's all cheese

mardi 29 avril 2008

Our final day in Provence.  On our agenda today - two of the top 100 most beautiful villages in France (there really is an official list) - Beaux de Provence and Gordes.

We began our tour in Beaux de Provence.  In all honesty, I don't think you could call it a village.  Sure, it's old, it's beautiful, but I saw no sign of inhabitants, just tourism.  Gordes, on the other hand, was quite nice, and indeed there were people living in this old and charming village.  Another city we visited was Roussillon, which is famous for its naturally red rocks, quite similar to Sedona in Arizona.

Didier made a reservation for lunch at "Le Bistrot du Paradou, Chez Jean-Louis" one month ago.  Paradou is the name of the town, and it means paradise in the old local language.  I don't know if the town really is heavenly, but the food at Chez Jean-Louis came pretty close.  People who have dined here inclue Nicolas Sarkozy in 2006 (before he became president of France), Sharon Stone, Tom Cruise, and now Alex Lin.

The concept is quite similar to Alice Waters' Chez Panisse.  There is no selection for your meal except for the entrée.  I began with the tarte aux tomates, which was absolutely delicious.  I love savory pastries, and this one was done perfectly.  The other choice, in case you were wondering, was escargot.  The bread was house made of course, just like everything else here.  The plat was gigot d'agneau (leg of lamb); the portion wasn't enough for me, but the flavor and the accompanying potato gratin were to die for.  We finished our lunch with a selection of cheeses and dessert.

Cheese - something I love but don't know much about, so Didier and Alim taught me a bit about the etiquette of eating cheese.  There were more than 15 types of cheese on the platter, so I stopped Didier after he named three, as I was sure I wasn't going to remember any that I didn't already know.  The ones I do remember:  Comté, Roquefort.  Although some Americans think the Roquefort is strong, it really isn't, relatively speaking.  There was a goat cheese marinated in olive oil that I caught a whiff of every now and then; I wished now and then didn't come every now and then.  I did taste it.  What can I say - cheese is pretty much mold.  There was one that Didier warned me about - the taste wasn't too bad, but if you happen to get any of it on your finger, it would smell for days.  I don't know if he was exaggerating, but I didn't want to find out; the cheese went carefully from my fork to my mouth.

And so concludes our stay in the South of France.  Overall nice, even though we didn't got to Nice.  Cassis is definitely my favorite town.  As for the people here, they are generally more friendly and willing to engage in a conversation than Parisians, but that probably has more to do with the style of living.  Here people are more relaxed, it's sunny (except when I visited Marseille), there is no hurry to do anything except taking the lunch break; so why not be nice.  I was warned in advance about the dialect, and I find that the French here isn't as nasal; all the nasal vowels (four of them) have a slight, flatter twist, somewhat like the Quebecois French.  Secondly, they're more relaxed with their pronunciation.  Oftentimes they drop the very end of the final syllable of each word as if they were too lazy to finish it.  Maybe living in this relaxed atmosphere does affect you in all aspects of life; maybe I should move here and see if it'll rub off on me.

Maybe not - I prefer the life in Paris.

H2O, Harbor 2 Oursin

lundi 28 avril 2008

The forecast for today was showers by the afternoon, so we were hoping to get everything done as quickly as possible.  And no, oursin isn't our sin.

First stop was Cassis, a small seaside town not too far away from Marseille; it is also the name of an apéritif.  As soon as we got to there, I imagined returning there for a month or two while working on a script.  It has vibrant colors in its architecture, which is typical for Provence.  Even though it was a bit cold and the sky was menacingly gray, the town was still enjoyable.

The highlight for today was definitely our discovery for lunch.  Like any harbor town, there are numerous restaurants lined up along the harbor waiting for tourists.  We found one a little further away called "Le Mistral."  It was obviously a family-run business as the two portly gentlemen who greeted us at the door and behind the bar greatly resembled each other.  Its feature, like many other restaurants in town, was "dégustation de coquillages du 1er septembre au 1er mai," meaning "taste of shellfish from the first of September to the first of May."

I had wanted the seafood platter with oursin (sea urchin, uni for those of you familiar with sushi), oysters (huîtres), and an assortment of mussles, but oursin isn't in season.  So I settled (settled probably isn't the best choice of words here) for the bouillabaisse.  Just as a side note, I had always hated oysters in the past (cooked) until recently when my cousins N-bah and J-bah forced me to try a raw oyster for the first time.  I was actually very tasty.  I don't understand why the Taiwanese (and some other cultures) eat oysters cooked; it changes the texture to one that is plastique and... I guess disgusting would be the right word here.

So Didier and I ordered the bouillabaisse.  To be exact, we didn't actually have the bouillabaisse.  The menu states it was a fish soup cooked like the bouillabaisse.  Didier says it's the best he's ever had.  Me too, since it was my first.  Perhaps you need a special license to cook bouillabaisse, and they couldn't claim it to be that since they didn't have the license.  Who knows.  Later that night, Alim would order the bouillabaisse from a different restaurant; it was bland and poorly made in comparison to our non-bouillabaisse.  

Indeed our lunch was delicious, and the price (18 euros) couldn't be beat.  Huge - and I mean huge portions (some of you know how much I eat) - for each of us, with flavorful croutons and a great blend of sauce called rouille.  There were four kinds of fish, along with tender potatoes that have soaked up all the flavors of the fish.  Marvelous.  If you happen to come to Cassis, you must try this restaurant.

By the time we reached Marseille, it was starting to drizzle.  Marseille and Lyon fight for the title of the number two city in France.  Personally, I didn't care for Marseille that much, but keep in mind this judgment is based on a short visit of a few hours on a rainy day.  The traffice was awful (I was told that Marseille has this reputation), even though there were beautiful tramways that mostly went empty.  The trams looked quite new, with beautiful wooden benches inside as seats.  Heck, I'd take that over driving.  The city also has two metro lines, which is not too impressive compared to the fourteen that Paris boasts.

Marseille has an area called "vieux port," the old port, which is the napping place for tons of sailboats, similar to the Marina in San Francisco.  Again, plenty of restaurants along the harbor; we chose one and were quite disappointed.  Typical tourist routine - I knew it was bad before we entered since they served French food and sushi (what kind of a combination is that?), but it was raining and I didn't want to complain (more).

is it all bull?

dimanche 27 avril 2008

Second day in Provence - Nîmes.  I was transported back to my high school days when I ruled the world like Julius Caesar.  Actually, it was more like when I studied Latin, except I don't remember much of it now.

Nîmes is a very old city.  Proof?  There is a coliseum built by the Romans 2,000 years ago.  Les arènes (the arenas) isn't as large as the Coliseum in Rome, but it is a bit better preserved in my opinion.  It was built for spectacles involving gladiators and more recently has been used for bullfighting.

We also visited an ancient temple (again, built by the Romans) called La Maison Carrée in which we saw a short film in 3D depicting the history of Nîmes.  The title was Heros, and after recounting the stories of past citizens, it ended with the victories of a bullfighter whose name I cannot remember (not that I tried).  Someone explain to me why a bullfighter is a hero.  That's like saying Russell Crowe is a hero for making movies.  As much as the French criticize Hollywood and other American customs such as worshipping athletes, an act which I also find despicable, they themselves are also guilty of glorifying entertainers.

Nevertheless, to be in the midst of these monuments that date back to the Romans two millennia ago is truly astounding.  Just think I walked on the same stones that Augustus once graced with his sandals.  My Latin teacher Mr. Shickle (RIP) would be proud.  Well, maybe not, since I've forgotten most of my Latin.

After Nîmes, we headed to Le Pont de Gard, also a remnant from the Roman era.  It has three tiers, and it is truly magnificent to behold.  Didier tells me that because of the frequency of visits by French citizens who probably weren't taking their Prozac (or Paxil, Zoloft, Celexa - take your pick, I am not endorsing any of them, nor do I own stocks in any company that makes them) - meaning they jumped - the top tier was permanently closed to visitors.  I am a bit surprised since I think jumping off the lowest tier would probably produce the same result.

A demain (until tomorrow).  I'm too tired to write in French, so that will have to do for now.

far above, but not too far away

samedi 26 avril 2008

I woke up early this morning to make sure I would get to Gare de Lyon on time.

To have major train stations accessible by a short metro ride is simply marvelous.  Certainly that doesn't exist in San Francisco.  Gare de Lyon, by the way, isn't in Lyon; it is in the heart of Paris, and it is beautiful.

There is something about arriving at a train station and watching and hearing the hustle and bustle of adults and children all around, the adults scrambling to track their trains and validate their tickets, the children chasing each other and seemingly finding every way to annoy their parents.  The smell of croissants and pains au chocolate permeate the entire station.  Lines of TGV trains extend beyond what the vision can perceive as it is temporarily blinded by the rising sun peeking out behind them.  The senses are stimulated beyond what a visit to the airport can conjure.

By the way, a few of you have asked if I am eating croissants everyday.  No.  I've had exactly one croissant in the past month.  Typically, I prefer pain au chocolate (I'm not a masochist nor do I have a strange fetish for sweets; pain is in French), roulé au myrtille (a very delicious blueberry roll), or viennoserie au chocolat.

But back to my journey that was about to begin at Gare de Lyon.  The ride at about 300-350 km/hr from Paris to Avignon would take a little under three hours.  There was no point in taking pictures; the speed of the train was too great.

Alim and I met Didier at the TGV station in Avignon, after which we drove into the ancient town of Avignon, which is surrounded by a "rempart," which, as you may have guessed, is a rampart.  Avignon is famous for a few things "Les demoiselles d'Avignon" by Picasso, "Sur le pont d'Avignon," which is a famous French folk song (notice my not so clever alliteration); and the papacy.

The Palace of the Pope was constructed in Avignon in the 14th century; it was the center of Christianity prior to its settling in the Vatican City.  Now you all know I'm not a religious person, but after a visit to the palace, it was even harder to contain myself.

The Pope and his entourage really lived in luxury beyond perhaps the king.  There were several towers and "treasure rooms" in the palace, conveniently located above and below the pope's chamber.  God only knows what kind of treasures these people held.  I couldn't help but repeatedly ask myself:  If Jesus Christ suffered for humanity and is a symbol of the religion, why do people so blindly accept that the Christian leaders should live in luxury?  Even if they don't accept it, why do they allow it?  Yes, I use the present tense correctly.  My classmate Giovanna, who comes from Rome, tells me that many residents of Rome scramble to make ends meet while the select few (or many in this case) are living luxuriously in the Vatican; unfortunately, this isn't something that Italians from other cities experiences.  Additionally, a classmate from Berlin revealed that Germans who identify themselves as Christians must contribute a percentage of their income tax to the church.

But then I thought: perhaps people don't want to wake up.  Perhaps they know very well what they are paying for their so-called religion.  We are, after all, only human.  We all make mistakes.  We all know we do things that we shouldn't.  Perhaps some of us feel that by paying and contributing, these mistakes can be erased and we can then deny that these mistakes were ever made.  After which, of course, we can do the same things over and over again.  Maybe that's why some of us proudly march on the streets telling one group they are sinners and another they are going to hell.  Is this the price and the message of Christianity?

I know not all Christians conduct their lives this way, and I know that the people I've described exist under all religions; it's just that the power and wealth of Christianity is simply incredible and... unreligious and anti-Christ.

After exiting the palace, I got the feeling that it was really a big closet.  I gladly walked out of it into a warm spring afternoon.  The spirits of the past, however, seem to have trapped themselves inside.

Not too far away in a foreign city, there is a far grander closet whose residents continue to trap, continue to control the present, the past, and very likely the future.

P.S. In the pictures, you see images taken from and around the Palais des Papes as well as Le Pont d'Avignon.  You are also blessed with picture of Saint Didier - notice the halo above him.