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!