amyallyn2

Allyn#74, A Long and Liquid Day    2 March 2009 (written Dec 2008)

     Life here in
Paris is….well, just normal life.  I still enjoy it, of course, but the shock of waking up every morning and being here is now reduced.  I expect it and usually am more focused on what I have to do during the day.  I still wander the streets, as ever, and am amply rewarded each time by something momentous or mundane.  My social activities still exceed my capacity.  I take whole days (often Sunday) and just vegetate at home, practicing the guitar and, this time of year, luxuriating in American Football on NASN (now called ESPN America) and European/International rugby, a game of which I grow more and more fond with thanks to my tutor, Mike. 

     One Thursday in December (see dates above), while Amy was off playing bridge, I was out with two friends, one a Paris resident-expat from London and the other a former expat visiting from California.  Let’s call them Mike and Beatrice.  We started off in the morning at the Edith Piaf Museum, which occupies a small apartment in the 11th arrondissement.  Piaf is purported to have lived in this flat for a short time as a child.  Her grand apartment, which was depicted in the recent movie about her life, La Môme, was in a more up-scale part of Paris.

     The modest museum/apartment is small but not short on Edith memorabilia, including VHS videos for 25-euros a piece.  We agreed that someone should let the proprietor know that the world has moved on and DVDs might improve his sales.  There are also a number Piaf related books that one can purchase.  But these modest offerings quickly disappear as one confronts the displays and walls, which are lined with photos, portraits, notes, letters to and by the “Little Sparrow,” and other memorabilia.  There is also a life-size cardboard cut-out of her, which was interesting because it quickly put this giant of legend into real-life perspective – a giant, indeed, but one not nearly 5-feet tall.  And there was a giant teddy-bear she once owned sitting in a chair which for some reason was disconcerting.  If you like eccentric mixes of objects, you’ll enjoy this museum.  All the while, her singing makes the appropriate backdrop and aggrandizes the visit.

     There were letters and notes; some after her death, with well-known names attached, Maurice Chevalier, for starters.  There were also a number of letters that she wrote, several not mincing her ire at associates or lovers.  Was struck by the content of the notes and letters but also how handwriting has taken a nose dive in these “key- board” years of the computer.  The handwriting of the contributors (and Piaf, who had little formal education) was often well-formed, attractive, neat, and legible.  Besides Piaf there were photos and the “boxing gloves” of Marcel Cerdan, the great love of her life, who at one time was middle-weight boxing champion of the world.  He defeated Tony Zale for the title in 1948 and died in a plane crash shortly after taking the title.  Piaf never fully recovered from the loss of Marcel, according to the legend.  She did, however, continue to have lovers.

     As I walked around the flat and admired the memorabilia, I couldn’t help feeling a little sad, as this wonderful voice inhabited a body that had known so much pain – from childhood.  She had been blind for a time as a child, poor at a time when that also meant hungry and ill, and without any advantages, except her golden throat, to propel her into a harsh world.  She knew many disappointments, personal and professional, before and during her ascent to security and fame.  Some of the photos of her in her forties showed the effects of a hard life.  I couldn’t really feel her ghost in this place, but I was moved by being surrounded by many things she possessed and touched, as well the many tributes to her, like the gold records and notes from names even a non-French person would recognize – actors, performers, politicians, and the like.

     The apartment is only a few blocks from one of the better known cemeteries in Paris, Pere Lachaise.  The Piaf Museum seemed the right preparation for visiting the cemetery, as she and Marcel are buried there, side by side.  We wandered around the extensive cemetery for about an hour.  Cemeteries, for all of my tut-tutting about them, are interesting places, even when one isn’t looking for graves of well-known people or family.  Besides Cerdan and Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Maria Callas, some rock-n roll guy named Morrison (that a lot of people make a fuss over), are buried there.  Morrison’s grave suggests that the French authorities revered him less than his fans, as the grave is small, wedged in an awkward space, and simply marked.  He’d be easy to miss.  There are many other notables to list among its “permanent guests.”  If one goes there, one should secure the map of the place, which identifies the “who’s-who and where,” though one should be warned that navigating is not for the faint of heart.  The map is available in the office at the main gate.

     We didn’t look for any particular graves, as we’d been there before.  We meandered, focusing on the types of stone, mausoleums, and monuments one found there.  The mixing of people (internationally) and religiously was arresting.  My favorite grave was of two people, a married couple, with a Christian cross on one-half of the stone and a Jewish star on the other.  Some of the graves from the past centuries were in “grave” need of pruning, cleaning, or repair.  It was sad to think that they had gone neglected for so long with families disappearing or just losing touch with their ancestors.  We departed when that little lunch bell went off along with an accompanying thirst.  In leaving the cemetery, we passed a florist (big surprise); but the window showed an odd casket in the form of a race-car.  I’m not making that up and have the picture to prove it – and witnesses, M. and B.

     We then walked down rue de la Roquette to Place Bastille to a favorite restaurant, called La Framboisy on rue, Charlemagne in the 4the arrondissement.  The attractive proprietress of this restaurant is a bundle of energy and meticulously oversees every detail in the dining room, in the kitchen, and in the cellar, which she dramatically descends via an ancient contraption that shows her disappearing and reappearing with a bottle of wine not available at the bar.  The food is reasonably priced and delicious.  We met the new chef and were reassured that he had been trained in France (Provence) after initially learning that he was English.  Added to all of that, she offers a delicious Bordeaux wine at a less-than-expected price.  The maker is a small producer, and she buys direct.  Lunch or dinner there is a treat, and the visit this day was no exception.

     We managed to eat lunch and “limit” ourselves to two-bottles of wine, before settling the bill and heading out to the 8^th arrondissement (near Champs Elysées) to view the annual Oxford-Cambridge rugby match in a British pub/bar.  We arrived to find a small, fairly subdued crowd of Brits – a mix of Oxford and Cambridge fans and alums.  I didn’t think about it then, but they really did seem restrained, and I wondered if that restraint came before or after their university experience – or was it just a sign of middle age?  Oxford, my favorite because I like blue, won, though Cambridge rallied late in the game to make it interesting.  After the game and a couple of pints of brew, we decided to continue the evening, meeting a fourth friend, who joined us after work at a restaurant.  Let’s call her Alexandra.

     I thought this restaurant disappointing (cooking, wine, and cost), especially when compared to our lunch experience.  Of course, one could make the argument that by this time none of us was a very reliable judge of anything.  I don’t drink that much, normally, but this day was an exception.  The company was excellent and thirsty, and we parted late in the evening a bit the worse for wear.  Beatrice was to leave the next morning for California, and I didn’t envy her having to get up early to make her flight.  I didn’t envy me either, as I had to get up at 7am to practice in preparation for my 10am guitar lesson.  I walked home on this cold night and was glad for it, as it helped snap me into a more conscious state.  I won’t mention the next morning, except to say that I did what I had to do.  All in all, it was an exceptional day.  I couldn’t afford too many such days, not fiscally or physically.  Amities….Allyn

Amy Speaks #72                                        August 2008

Coucou Mes Amis!

WARNING:  I may have written about some (or all) of these things before.  If so, my apologies . . . my senior moments are becoming senior hours, days, months.

1. There’s one around every corner. .

As I walk the streets of
Paris, I’m amazed at how many lingerie shops there are.  It seems like there’s one on almost every block.  And I’m not talking basic underwear here . . . I’m talking fancy, even extravagant, often very sexy lingerie.  And this stuff isn’t cheap, either. 

I can’t help but wonder . . . how do all these stores stay in business?  Does every French woman buy new sets of bras, panties, and nighties every year?  How can they afford it?  Or does every French man regularly buy new lingerie for the woman (or women) in his life?  (If nothing else, this could lead a man to be monogamous.)

I don’t know the answer to these questions.  But I can tell you this:  French women of all ages and sizes wear the beautiful, gauzy, skimpy, lacy things sold in these shops.   As many of you know, I take a modern dance class.  I arrive changed and ready for action, but everybody else changes in the changing room.  And all of them –- from the young, slim and gorgeous to the no-longer-young, no-longer-slim, and probably-never-were-gorgeous — wear fabulous “underthings”.

After reading this, Allyn reminded me that I don’t have to go to my dance class to check out the lingerie worn by French.  Walking down the street, I can easily see – peeking out from their clothes – women’s bra straps, bra backs, and panty tops.  Is it the same in the US?

2. Meeting and greeting

Of course, I’m an “obvious foreigner”.  Most French people figure this out just by looking at me (my shoes – comfortable thick-soled things from LL Bean - are a dead give-away).  But if it isn’t obvious from my appearance, it’s as clear as can be as soon as I open my mouth (and insert accented foot).  So I can get away with a lot.

Which is a good thing.  Because still, after three years here, I never know how to meet and greet the locals.

The natives are friendly here – at least the ones I’ve had the pleasure to meet – but I just can’t get used to the French social graces.  

Whenever you meet someone new, or see someone you already know, you of course say nice to meet you or hello.  That much is easy.  But then you either shake hands or kiss (two, three or four times) on the cheek.  How am I, a stupid American, supposed to know which is the right thing to do?  

My Wednesday bridge club is an excellent case in point.  Normally, I shake people’s hands when I arrive.  But I now know some of the people well enough that we’ve progressed to cheek-kissing.  But then some of them sometimes kiss me and sometimes just shake my hand.   Does my breath smell bad on the non-kiss days?  And once you start kissing, when do you stop – at 2? 3? or 4? 

And the whole process is repeated when you say good-bye.  So, if you kissed someone on the way in, do you necessarily kiss them on the way out?  What if you ate garlic or onions in the meantime?

In the US it’s so easy – a good wave to say “hi” and “bye” is all you need.

Allyn and I have talked about how all this meeting and greeting stuff might impact the typical French work day.  Presumably, you shake hands (or kiss???) everyone as you arrive each day.  Do you then repeat the exercise when you leave at lunch time?  And then when you return from lunch?  And again when you leave for the day?  Does this take more or less time than the “How ‘bout those Redskins/Nationals” conversations around the proverbial water cooler in the States?

On a related subject, there’s the “tu” and “vous” thing.  I try to let the French person decide when we move from the formal “vous” form of “you” to the informal “tu” form.  [Recently, a French woman told me that among the French it’s up to the older person to make the move.]

This sounds easy, but – trust me – it’s not. You have to listen carefully while the French person speaks to you, trying to understand what they’re saying AND at the same time noticing whether they’re “tu”ing or “vous”ing you.  And, even worse, until you notice how they’re addressing you, you have to avoid using either form in addressing them.  Try having a conversation with someone without saying “you”!  It’s really hard to ask questions!

I play bridge with a delightful older couple.  The man “tu”s me (and sometimes even gives me the two-cheek kiss).  His wife “vous”s me.  In order to sit at a table with both of them I need a split personality – or at least the ability to speak with a forked tongue!

Some French people have told me that they have trouble with the whole hand-shaking/kissing/vous/tu thing too.  But at least they speak the language.  I’m having enough trouble just getting words out of my mouth without worrying about offending someone in the process!

C’est ma vie,

Biz-biz,

Amy

Allyn Speaks, #73      A Man and The Women…..    4 August 2008

     Are there really as many attractive women (of all ages) in
Paris, or is there something in my eye rinse that I need to know about?  I may start wearing a neck brace to keep me facing in one direction.  I fall in love at least twice a day, sometimes not even with actual people but images of presumably, real people in ads pasted to bus-stops or just reflections in shop windows.  There is one lingerie ad now that’s particularly disturbing.  Then, of course, there are the sexiest pictures I have ever seen in public, the ads in Paris pharmacies.  I realize that this topic is a bit sensitive, but what can I say; I am a man who loves looking at women. 

     The reason this topic is a bit risky, is that Paris is, after all Paris; and men come here, traditionally (see an essay by Saul Bellow) to learn about sex and women.  When I first read Bellow, I dismissed the idea as ridiculous.  Now, I’m not so sure.  But let me first say that my roving eye has nothing to do with a roving person.  I know when I’m well off!  As Jimmeh Carter once said, we (men) “lust in our hearts.”  Other Presidents have done a bit more than lust in the heart.  So, my purpose in this piece is to try and offer a bird’s eye (sorry) view of my sidewalk experiences.

     I started this piece long ago – two-years, I think.  I was too timid to finish it, not knowing how to write it without sounding like a dirty old man.  Two-years here have given me a different perspective.  I am a dirty old man in the sense that I look at women on the streets as objects.  However, these women are and remain strangers, impersonal, no consequences to my “noticing” besides, perhaps, liking being looked at or not liking to be looked at.  I think that I usually manage to be discrete, not gawking, panting, or drooling on the clothing of particularly gorgeous women.

     There is something else that I also know about at least some of the women in Paris (and everywhere else, no doubt).  There are those women who like the attention.  There is a certain posture – shoulders back, hips moving, a sure and steady step, and a position of the head that simply cries out, “Notice me.”  I’m not saying all or most women project this image or that some project it all the time.  But I can’t help noticing those women who stare back, head back, and unsmiling.  As Sherlock tells Watson, “the game ‘s afoot” or perhaps, just a leg, or a pretty face. 

     I once read an anecdote about Marilyn Monroe, who fell into this category of women who like being noticed.  She was with another woman (who relayed the anecdote), and they were walking down 5^th Avenue or some other very busy New York City street.  The other woman remarked to Ms. Monroe that she was surprised that no one seemed to notice the famous sex goddess.  Marilyn replied something like, “Oh, you want to see “her.”  Where upon, her whole demeanor changed, starting with her posture and whatever else contributed to the famous public image.  Within seconds, according the account I read, they two women were inundated by both men and women.

     In Paris, more women seem bolder to me.  They do not turn away when they pass but eye one as one is eyeing them – a kind of mutual exploration society.  I admit that I like that idea at some subliminal level.  I just wish at these moments I looked less like George Costanza and more like Cary Grant.  But turnabout is, after all, fair play.  And there is no little relief in knowing that I am completely safe.  No woman has really ever “bothered” me in that way!  Often in my life being quite resistible has left me sadder but usually better off.  Age has a way of informing one – counting the blessings which are not recognized as such at the time!  George Costanza didn’t know when he was well off.  A simple life with straight lines is not to be shunned.

     Now that I have spent half of the space rationalizing and justifying my lusting, I will try to detail it, in good taste, of course.  How do I view women on the streets of Paris, or anywhere else?  Yesterday, I went to a Park east of Paris called Parc Floral near the Bois de Vincennes.  I was with a French man, and we got onto the topic of watching women.  He, like me, is no youngster, though his slim, energetic frame gives him the air of being younger than his years.  As several very appealing women passed by, I made a casual remark about them – saying particularly, that I found many women in Paris of all ages and degrees of beauty the possessors of great legs.  That is always the starting point for me, in the way that one woman friend said that her first stop on the gazing scheme was hair – did the man have any.  Well, there again, being bald, it’s good that I have thick skin – on top of my head and am loved.

     Next, on my checklist of observing women is the form – contour is good.  I’m not one of those men who thinks a woman can’t be too thin.  In fact, too many women in Paris are quite attractive but too thin to long engage my innocent voyeurism.  These thin women are usually seen to best advantage with jeans tucked into mid-calf boots.  That look is arresting, no matter how thin the woman.  I like defined hips in contrast to a waist that completes a parenthesis and makes for a comfortable lap.  On the other hand, there are women who like me, could lose a few pounds.  And for these women, the contour is a bit too severe for the skin tight clothing sometimes affected.  I wonder occasionally, if everyone has a mirror and uses it.  There are some styles, no matter how “in” they are, which should not be worn by some women or men, for that matter.  These tight tank tops worn by men with sagging flesh need to be rethought!  No clever slogan on a t-shirt can cover or justify, certain over-exposures in men or women.

     Next, of course, the ever popular and marketable feature of women that is so overdone that like the National Football League, one wonders why we aren’t tired of it, er, them.  I speak, of course, of breasts.  These fascinating anatomical objects have dominated magazines of high and low principles – ranging from “Life” to “Big Boobs,” (a name I made up).  As the years pass and I reflect on this feature, I think of the line from the movie “Notting Hill,” in which the “star” (Julia Roberts), in referring to her breasts points out that “every other person has them,” implying what is the big deal.  She makes a point – two of them, actually.

     In response, there is Seinfeld, who in one of the shows says something like, “If I had them (breasts), I’d never leave home.”  Breasts are big, so to speak in Paris, because of aided nature.  Bras (les soutien-gorges) have become sophisticated works of architecture, for lack of a better word.  Push ‘em up and out, seems to be the motto, these days.  Evidently, over exposure only increases the appetite for breasts, as plastic surgeons can only too well attest.  My own humble view is, “All things in moderation.”  There can be too much of a good thing or things.

     Notice, I’ve not mentioned, except in passing, the face, or eyes.  Both are riveting for me but less for “women-watching,” thinly veiled lusting, than for the profound aesthetic joy that a really beautiful face initiates.  I’m embarrassed to admit it, but my knees actually do get weak when I see a beautiful, truly beautiful face.  Eyes run a close second, and I’ve seen some lovely eyes in all tints – some American, some Eastern European, some Asian, some French, some British and in brown, gray, blue, green, and violet and in a variety of shapes.    

     Finally, I feel compelled to mention that this piece has at least one fatal flaw.  All of these elements for observation, as in bird watching – I mean the creatures that fly, have nothing to do with real people.  These objects which pass on the street are never seen again or recognized, even if they are seen again.  It’s totally impersonal.  As soon as one meets a woman, I will certainly look at her, but her personality then becomes the link between us.  If there are attractive features, that’s fine; but they do not define the relationship. 

     Obviously, in mating relationships, there is some need for mutual, physical/sexual attraction.   But with friends, it’s what’s between their ears and character that matter – are they interesting or not.  Girl-watching is by nature a first time event – a debut.  Friendship, however, is quite different.  Basically anatomy is the same across the species, usually coming in two basic types.  Let’s just call it irony and luck – on a grand scale that there is such pleasure to be found (innocent enough for most of us) in the non-toxic activity of noticing each other as we pass on the sidewalk.  There is no consequence – just a wee or greater surge of pleasure. 

Amities….Allyn

Allyn Speaks, #72        Paris Sites Less Known      10 July 2008

     Part I.  I know that I promised not leave you alone, but I couldn’t help thinking about writing a bit about things we’ve been doing lately.  Once in a while someone asks me what things there are to do here that aren’t “touristy.”  My usual response is that I’m still a tourist, every chance I get and find these tourist activities - museums, music, parks, and gardens, the most interesting things to do.  Admittedly, my normal week is so busy that I do less of these explorations and visits than I anticipated in my “idea” of being here. 

     A couple of weeks ago I was reading “Le Parisienne,” which is a good tabloid - well-written at a level of French that I can handle without too much help from the dictionary.  The Friday paper usually lists interesting things going on around town.  One of them that I saw with interest was the “Cascad de St. Cloud” (pronounced St. Clue).  The description was of a complex of fountains in the Parc St. Cloud.  It sounded interesting enough to serve as an excuse to see St. Cloud, which I’d wanted to do.  I’d heard that it was a very nice suburb.  Of course, Amy has seen it because one of her bridge buddies lives there (or very near).  This area is in the south and west of central Paris on the Seine and is easily accessed via the number 10 Metro to the last Metro station at Boulogne.  One walks about 15-minutes, crossing the Seine and staggering up the hillside that is St. Cloud.

     The “cascade” is turned on only three-times a year, successive Sundays in June.  In fact, each Sunday, this year, there are three, half-hour displays of the great waterworks, which consist of water flowing underground, presumably in pipes, downhill to various levels of fountains and one great cascade, near the bottom of the great hill.  I have a friend who lives in St. Cloud, and when I mentioned that I would be going to see the display, we arranged to see it together.  I could not get any interest among my other friends for the visit.  I have harbored a secret objective in my attempts to reach some level of proficiency at French, though “proficient” is hardly what it feels like.  My goal was to be able to spend an afternoon with Robert, just the two of us, which would require me to have at least some level of conversational French.  He is a thoughtful and interesting man, and I prize my friendship with him.  Robert has English, but he is more comfortable in French. 

     So at 15h (3pm) on the second Sunday in June, I climbed the hill of St. Cloud and found Robert’s apartment complex, and we started out via a shortcut to the Park, which is larger and steeper than I’d imagined.  It is also lovely.  We entered at a relatively high level of the grounds.  After passing through a series of secluded areas to sit and enjoy the park, we passed a long lawn (pelouse), which was nicely bordered with shrubs and other green things.  We arrived at a large open area dominated by a large fountain with two-wings, and nothing was “turned on.”  We had about 10-minutes to wait for the great demonstration of the allure of running water and gravity.  A couple of men appeared with long t-shaped wrenches and stood by facing holes in the ground about 30-feet apart.  After receiving word via walkie-talkie, they turned on the flow.  There was a higher level that we saw in the distance already flowing, and soon, the great fountain, with its side fountains was sprouting water, higher and higher.

     I admit that at this point, I thought, what’s the big deal.  Across the street from our apartment is a great fountain that is on throughout the year (though, mysteriously, not every day).  Robert beckoned me to follow, and we began a descent of the great park, with each new level revealing a wonderful flow of water, higher than the level before.  Several levels down from our starting point, there was a wall of carved statuary and ramps in stone about 30 or 40-feet high.  Water flowed over, around, and through the wall, the figures’ mouths, and any other opening.  There were lions, people, head, and just large gaps, as well as two-chutes or slide-like descents of water.  My favorites though, were two huge frogs spewing forth.  This motif was picked up in the fountain below, as well, which after one descended to that level gave a wonderful and full prospect of the densest water activity of the day.  In short, “water; water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”  It was spectacular, and I was thrilled to see it.

     Part II.  An American who flits around the world like a gnat sent me an email a while ago, telling me about an exposition at the Albert Kahn Museum, located at the same Metro exit as St. Cloud - Boulogne-Pont St. Cloud.  She knew that Amy and I were thinking about a trip to India.  The museum that she mentioned had an exposition of pictures of India taken in the 1920s and 1930s, and she recommended that we see the exhibit as preparation.  On her recent visit, she reported that much of what she saw hadn’t changed very much.  The photos were among the earliest of color snaps, and they were spectacular, detailing the progress of the French expedition/visit to all the famous Indian places and sites, like Agra, the Taj Mahal, Lahore, and other of the magical names that one encounters in English novels, Bollywood movies, history books, and travel literature.  The photographs whet my appetite to go and have a look – making me even more curious to see, feel, and smell at least some of these arresting places.

     I won’t go into too much more detail, but I will recommend a visit to this museum as much for its setting as the expositions that appear there.  Albert Kahn was heir to a banking fortune and spent a lot of his time traveling to exotic places - until the Depression ended his privileged status.  But he had a wonderful home base and great adventures while the good times rolled.  The museum is set on the Kahn estate, which is still impressive.

     There is a mansion, of course, but far more compelling are the extensive grounds.  They are huge, for a private residence in a big city, and make a decent sized park.  There is an English garden, a French garden, a Japanese garden, and a “foret.”  After viewing the exhibit, we walked around the grounds, with small water cascades, beautiful plantings (we missed the roses in full bloom), and lovely nooks and crannies with comfortable benches for enjoying a good meal.  There were also several models (life-size) of Japanese houses, which looked very frail, indeed.  One wonders how the Japanese endure harsh winters in these structures.  Amy agreed.

     So, if you’ve been to Paris and have seen the “main” sites and are looking for something a bit out of the ordinary, I suggest the Grand Cascade of Park St. Cloud and the Albert Kahn Museum.  The Indian exhibit is on until next March, I think.  Alas, the Grand Cascade is only possible the last three-Sundays in June, at 3pm, 4pm, or 5pm.  And, of course, one should check before going, as this year’s schedule might not be next year’s.

     As I was typing this bit, Amy walked in with a set of expected invitations to the Bastille Day Celebrations.  I will provide more about this episode and the results in another update.  Amities….Allyn

Amy Speaks #71                                        June 2008

Coucou Mes Amis!

Sicily

In May, Allyn and I spent 10 days in Sicily.  For many years, Sicily’s been on our “go-to” list, and now, finally, it’s a “went-to”.  I had read that spring is the best time to go, and I agree.  The wildflowers were in bloom everywhere - gorgeous!

So, how was it?  Super!  Of course we ate and drank well.  The local food specialties included excellent swordfish and a pasta dish (alla Norma) made with penne or a thick, tube-shaped pasta, a tomato sauce with chucks of eggplant, and dried or cooked ricotta cheese.  Yummy.

I was surprised by the variety and beauty of the countryside and by the range of things to do and see - everything from Mt. Etna to Greek ruins to trendy resorts and beaches.  And not a Mafia-man in sight (at least, not in our sights).

Some general (and overly generalizing) observations:

• 1. The Sicilians are warm, friendly people. We often got lost, and they never failed to help us out. OK, so I don’t speak Italian. No problem! They’re sure that if they make enough hand gestures and speak loudly enough I’ll understand. And occasionally I did (well, at least enough to make the next turn or two and then ask someone else).

• 2. In fact the Sicilians are generally big on talking loudly while using hand gestures. One day at a café we watched a group of four, all talking and gesticulating at the same time. I wonder if anyone heard anything anyone else was saying. My guess is they didn’t and that no one cared.

And it’s fun to watch them in cars - gesticulating while shifting and steering. . . . .  and talking on their cell phones . . . . on streets barely wide enough for the car.  Quite a feat!!

• 3. Sicily is a relatively poor place. One day I tried to get money from a bank machine, but it was out of cash. I should have known better - it was the Bank of Sicily.

I guess paper is expensive for them, because it’s definitely a BYOTP (“bring your own toilet paper”) kind of place - even in restaurant bathrooms.  Fortunately, hotel rooms were well-stocked.

• 4. And, speaking of hotel bathrooms, each of the four places we stayed in had a bidet. On the other hand, the shower in each was a teeny, tiny thing (regardless of the size of the bathroom). They were so small Allyn had to get out and turn around in mid-rinse!

Here’s a brief recap of what we did and saw:

• Taormina:  a resort town built high on a cliff, with fabulous views of the sea and Mt. Etna.  Lovely and chic.
• Mt Etna:  impressive . . . and we missed an eruption by one day!!
• Lava formations - fascinating!  We saw one place where the lava flowed down to a river and was literally stopped in its tracks, leaving wild-patterned black rocks that arched down to the water.
• Siracusa - interesting Greek ruins and a totally magical old town (the island of Ortygia) with tiny streets, large piazzas, peeling old buildings, and charm galore.
• Valley of the Temples (near Agricento) - the best Greek ruins outside of Greece/Turkey.  One temple is practically in-tact (except for the missing roof), and all are perched high on ridge and lit up at night (seen from our hotel terrace).  Truly amazing.
• Noto - a quaint village of baroque splendor.
• Villa Romana del Casale - the ruins of an enormous mansion (50 rooms!) of a very wealthy Roman, where you can still see many of the fabulous mosaics that once covered all of the floors - even the corridors.  The colors are still almost vivid, and the designs include pastoral scenes of grace and elegance, formal portraits, life-like animals, and war scenes.
• Scala del Turchi -  stark white rock that the wind has formed into near-perfect and enormous steps leading down to the sea.  Awesome.
• And, perhaps my favorite - driving from one sight to another - through this beautiful island filled with craggy mountains, semi-arid landscapes, ancient hilltop towns, profusions of colorful wildflowers, palm trees and cactuses, and, of course, the sea.  Wow.

C’est ma vie,

Bis-bis,

Amy

Allyn Speaks, #71.    Endgame    1 June 2008

     I think that I am no longer able to continue writing these pieces for the blog.  Mostly, the things that I want to write about fall outside of its purview.  We promised friends that we’d write and talk about our experiences, and I think that we’ve been faithful to that promise.  In two-weeks, we will have been here for 3 years, and we’ve kept up the blog almost all of that time, first with weekly updates and later, monthly one.  And I think that we have both enjoyed developing the habit of continuing entries and will miss writing them.

     The novelty of being here is retreating.  Now, I just feel happy to be here for the reasons that I have been writing about for nearly three-years.  I love not working and, yet, working diligently on my French and music.  I love not having bosses and being forced to attend to many things that didn’t interest me - like errands, the politics of working, sitting in a car for long periods of time, and just feeling that my day belonged more to “events” not of my choosing.  In fact, when we left the USA, I’m not sure I even knew what those things were - what I really wanted to do, versus the negative ruminations of my iconoclastic nature.

     The years here have been a wonderful time for activity and self-reflection.  Won’t bore you with the details, but I have found that a number of things have fallen into place.  I’m grateful for the opportunity to step outside of the known and to finding satisfaction in having to learn how to do almost everything over again.  The advantages in doing that as an older (or younger) person are profound.  Over the decades, I’ve learned about myself and the world around me, so that starting out again was not starting with a blank slate.  And yet, I’ve had to re-evaluate basic premises and habits of a lifetime to adapt to living here.

     When I’ve talked about learning a new language, I realize now that it’s more than just speaking (or murdering) French.  I’ve been forced to rethink some of the most basic concepts in expressing ideas (simple and, worse, complex), as I try to acclimate to making French phrases and be understood.  One doesn’t just translate.  In fact, translating is a sure way to miss-communicate, via “faux amies,” that is words or phrases in common between French and English that do not mean the same things in the other language.  I realize as I make phrases in French that not just the grammar is different, but the ideas that underlie a way of seeing, as well, saying something can be quite different - so much so that using a direct translation is often an absurdity in the other language.

     Didn’t mean to start a lecture in crossing cultures, just wanted to make the point that it has been humbling and enriching to become aware of the sources and shadings of phrases in my native language of which I was ignorant.  Negation, active and passive voice use, prepositions uses, and other structural differences add to the adventure of communicating more precisely.  And I’ve a long way to go - in both French, and as I now understand better, in English, as well.

     While writing these stuffy words above, what I think of is some of the human experiences that overlay them - funny, profound, ridiculous, cruel, and more that I’ve been scribbling about for a couple of years.  I think of the experience with the pharmacist in my first attempts with fledgling French to accomplish an errand without benefit of Amy’s French.  He had even less English than I had French.  As we faced each other, I could feel the tension rising in both of us without any rancor - just the fear of humiliation that would result from failing to complete a simple transaction. 

     I think of the discovery of the personal salience of jazz and its emotional underpinnings in my psyche in a tiny, smoky gypsy bar that I still visit.  I think of my attempts to buy a CD player that took all day and included more adventures and running around than I had done in years - without the help of a car!  On the upside, I enjoyed (and still enjoy) the wonderful exploration of all those markets, bakeries, and chocolate shops, where pointing is enough to earn a most satisfying reward.

     When Amy and I started this adventure, I had very little idea of what I was getting into - how big the challenges would be.  I know that sounds ridiculous, in the sense that living in Paris is hardly moving to a primitive setting.  But there was and remains so much to learn.  I had no idea….

     Writing a regular entry has forced me to articulate (mostly to myself) or try to articulate what in the hell was going on.  Without the blog, I would have not had the motivation to make as much sense of it all.  I blush to think of some of the facile generalizations and foolishness that I thought and wrote at first.  My conclusion now is that much is made in books, movies, and conversation about differences between French, Americans, and others.  And there is certainly truth in that view; however, I find that we have far more in common as members of the same species, stuck somewhere in a normal/abnormal distribution, than I realized.  Every generalization, even the best of them are both right and wrong some proportion of the time - too often mostly wrong.

     Finally, I would like to thank all of you who have patiently (or impatiently) read the blog (occasionally or regularly), especially, those that took the time to write comments.  I would like to wish all of you well and regret that ceasing to write will close down communication - one and two-sided with many of you.  Amities, au revoir, and, alas, adieu……Allyn

Amy Speaks #70                                        April 2008

Coucou Mes Amis!

• 1. (Just a Little Bit) More on the French Language

“Apres la soupe, un verre de vin, autant de moins dans la poche du medecin.”

I love this old French expression.  We speak of eating an apple a day to keep the doctor away.  The French, of course, put their faith in a glass of wine!  And, of course, most doctors now agree with the French.

• 2. No More on my Life in Paris?

I’ve been writing for three years now about how different my life is, living in Paris.  True, I’m only writing once a month now instead of once a week, but still . . .

And now, this month, I find I’ve nothing new to say.  I could tell you about the day I saw a woman pulling her dog-on-a-leash while he was in mid-pee.  Or the day I saw a woman dragging her dog across the street in mid-poop.  And how that same day - two blocks later - I saw a woman standing in the middle of a busy street talking on her cell phone.  (Boy was she surprised when the light changed and traffic started to move towards her!).  But these are not really Paris experiences - they are just stupid-people-anywhere experiences.

Or I could tell you about my plumber experience.  It started with the usual dreaded French phone call, and was followed by four no-shows (necessitating four more dreaded French phone calls).  But even dreaded French phone calls are no longer the terror-filled, cold-sweat-inspiring experiences they used to be.   They’ve improved to just humiliating.

Am I adjusting?  My thighs are actually getting thinner (yippee!) - are they becoming more French? Or is it just the effects of my dance class?

C’est ma vie,

Bis-bis,

Amy

Allyn Speaks, #70    Exit Pattern      28 April 2008

     This month there have been a couple of subjects to consider for the blog; but when a good, ex-pat friend mentioned that she’d decided to quit Paris and return to California, this month’s subject was set.  I was sorry for the news, as she is one of the people whom we regularly see - with whom we hear music, dine out, and visit various expositions.  She, like me, is ready to go at a moment’s notice.  She is level headed and shares an inclination to explore the Paris.  We’ve also traveled with her to Honfleur and Strasbourg.  We meet on Mondays at a favorite salon de thé for lunch and to read (out-loud in French) and then translate selected passages from French fiction.  She paints, and her painting has been a great benefit for me.  Besides enjoying her pictures, she has given me two of her paintings, one of which is me playing the guitar and another of a favorite Paris guitarist, Ninine Garcia. 

     As usual when confronted with unpleasant news, I become analytical.  It’s a nice way to delay the sad emotion of events.  I think her reasons for leaving are good ones, some compelling.  Briefly, she misses her daughter (a reason that I well understand); she misses the sun during the gray Paris winter; she misses a better exchange rate for euros; she’d like to transfer her Paris lifestyle to a comfortable, urban lifestyle in America (where everything is easier to do!); she would like to be able to conduct all of her errands and business in English; she would be closer to her American friends; and, finally, California is a good home base for her, as she can reduce her cost of living, leaving more money for travel.  She loves to travel, and I think the worst of the dollar crunch is a diminishment of travel opportunity.  She has been around the world and shows no less inclination to continue!

     My thoughts then turned to my own reasons for having no inclination to leave.  I could state similar reasons for wanting to leave.  Why don’t I have the least impulse to do so?  I think my disposition starts with the idea of the adventure.  In truth, being here is one of the few choices that I have made about where to be that wasn’t motivated by necessity or desperation.  We could have gone almost anywhere and chose Paris - or more to the point, Paris seemed to choose us.  We hadn’t intended to stay here permanently.

     A somewhat related reason was that retiring to our comfortable home in Lyon Village would have lacked the kind of intense challenge that we both wanted.  We loved traveling and had thought for a decade that it would be engaging, difficult, and, hopefully, fun to try and live in Europe.  The idea of learning a new language and way of doing things had great curb-appeal.  Little did we realize how big a bite we were taking out of that metaphorical apple (tart au pomme).  Just about everything proved more difficult than anticipated (and much of that difficulty wasn’t anticipated), especially learning a new language and renovating an apartment.  The upside has been the sense of accomplishment for small and larger achievements.

     The lifestyle here is in many ways more difficult.  We have no car, so that in bad weather and for all errands, we must walk or take public transportation.  I walk just about everywhere, which means finding ways of schlepping, sometimes considerable loads.  Amy does our marketing at the wonderful supermarché, Monoprix, with her rolling-cart (or “yenta” wagon).  She has to walk about nine or ten blocks to get there.  I have wheeled back small furniture items on a convenient hand-truck.  Neither is as easy as driving to a mall.  And I still remember our carrying back a lamp (more than a mile) that was in a box about the size of the late and great Wilt Chamberlain - one of us at each end!  This fact might encourage leaving; but for some reason, I still find it amusing and satisfying.  I also don’t have to belong to a gym to get exercise!

     Next, I love our “quartier,” neighborhood and apartment.  Talk about an accomplishment, Amy’s mind-numbing and frustrating efforts in trying to communicate and instigate our renovation with she-who-must-be-the-devil (except not as well organized), rests as a great life achievement!  I love living in our apartment, which is quite comfortable for the two of us.  I didn’t expect that, especially, after seeing it for the first time in its state of disrepair.  I love having only good directions to pass through, no matter where I go when leaving home - e.g., Luxembourg Gardens - especially now, with dense beds of colorful flowers appearing and disappearing for new more dramatic ones every few weeks. 

     We both love our routines, which would be possible, though not easy to duplicate in the USA.  In a relatively short time, we have built a network of friends here.  We’ve been fortunate to make French acquaintances, and in a couple of instances, friends.  The ex-pats from all over the place are also stimulating and make life easier - in English.  There is something fresh and renewing about being here.  And Paris affords wonderful things to do throughout the year.  When I think about how over the top the gardens in Paris are and the sterility of the Mall in DC, it stops me in my tracks.  A good friend and colleague once complained about the blandness of the Mall, and I now understand even more what he meant.  Paris is designed as a feast for the eyes, as well as the stomach.  Did I forget to mention that I love the food - at home and in restaurants?

     Frankly, I never developed much affection for the DC area.  I enjoyed being close to family, which is another downside to being here.  And Lyon Village is a wonderful place to live, but I never really loved living in the general DC area, after the first few years of moving there.  I was ready to leave, and I have to admit that if we return to the USA, it would not be among the places in which I would want to live.  I will always miss and visit my friends there.  But I do not miss living there.  I suspect that Amy feels differently on this one, so again, c’est juste moi.

     Saving the best for last….I’d hate to leave Paris because of music - the great jazz clubs, concert venues, and the imposing agenda of the performance arts.  I would also hate to lose my current guitar teacher!  I’ve had more time to play since retiring, which has helped; but I have to allow that Serge has been a great motivator.  I’m not terribly focused on music theory.  I just want to play!  Serge’s careful transcriptions and my practicing more have made a significant difference in the quality of play and the pleasure derived from the music, no matter the genre or who is playing it. 

     So, all in all, I’m content to stay here, and, at the same time, I will miss family and good friends very much.  They are too far away.  Email and cheap phone service defray some of the effects of distance, but they are not the same as face to face visits.  And I wish Beatrice the best of everything in her move back to California.  Amities and au revoir.  Allyn

Amy Speaks #69                                        March 2008

Coucou Mes Amis!

• 1. More on the French Language

While there are many English words that just “don’t translate”, there are also instances when the French language contains “le mot just”.  Just think of all the French words we’ve incorporated into our language - including bon voyage, tête-à-tête, ambiance, nuance, risqué, and liaison, not to mention café.  And I just recently realized that we use the word “derriere” (translation:  behind), for a woman’s behind!

Here are some of my favorites:

Oh la la:  or sometimes even oh la la la la la la

Voila:  “There you go” just doesn’t have the same panache

Bon courage:  “Chin-up” sounds like something we did in high school gym class

Rendez-vous:  I love being able to use this for any meeting or                 appointment 

Tout a fait:  Sort of like “exactly” or “right”

Comme il faut:  How something is done properly (e.g., the French way)

          Sadly, the French are incorporating more and more English into their language too - so, for example, they say “le cash flow”, and “le design”.  And then there’s tech language. Apparently an appalled Mitterrand once asked, “Must we give orders to our computers in English?”  I understand that the French tried to translate “an oil-rig” into French, as “un appareil de forage en mer”.  Try yelling “L’appareil de forage en mer” is on fire!!!  No wonder it didn’t take.

2. Weather or Not

You don’t live in Paris for the great weather.  Last May-August we had the “no-summer” summer.  I wore my raincoat virtually every day - for warmth as well as for rain protection.  A French woman I know recently told me that rain is the norm in February, and drizzle is the norm in March.  I asked what happens in April.  More rain, she said.

Last year, however, we had an unusual April.  In fact, during April 2007, France was at war with Africa.  You didn’t hear about this war?  Africa attacked France - not with rifles and bombs, but with weapons of crop destruction - sun and heat.  [The French, being very practical in these matters, didn't fight back.]  The farmers were distraught, but I loved it.  I’m hoping for more warfare this April! 

It may rain a lot in Paris, but that doesn’t stop the residents from getting out and demonstrating.  Today I passed a very large, festive, “celebration” by people in wheelchairs.  Yesterday, there was a demonstration just in front of our building.  It had something to do with schools, but that’s about all I can tell you.  It’s always something, and most of the time we foreigners just don’t get it.   (Allyn’s Comment:  The marchers are upset with the government’s budget cuts in public education, and, particularly, for not replacing retiring teachers - only half the number will be replaced, I think.  The students and other supporters threaten to warm up with the weather!)

C’est ma vie,

Bis-bis,

Amy

Allyn Speaks, #69  Road To Morocco  19 March 2008

     When I was a kid, I watched on several occasions one of the Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy Lamour “road” movies - “The Road to Morocco.”  It looked very exotic - desert, seraglio pants, fez hats, curved daggers, and a relentless banter between  the principal actors and a young Anthony Quinn.  There were several of these films (Road to Singapore, Zanzibar, and, optimistically, Utopia).  Each of these movies identified a new and exciting place that in no small way contributed my curiosity about these places with all their mystery, danger, and romance.  Little did I know that Dorothy Lamour lived about two-miles from my suburban home in Baltimore - at least had one home there!

     Not long after arriving in France and meeting French people, I heard about one of their frequent winter vacation targets, Morocco.  My ears perked up, and I made a mental note to add this to the list of places to visit conveniently from Paris.  Planes fly from Orly, a far more convenient airport than Charles De Gaulle, to Morocco - three-hours to Agadir, in the southern part of the country.  After a dreary December and January, Amy leapt at the idea of a vacation to a sunny place, and she planned a trip to Morocco.  She decided that we should see something of “real” Morocco, besides the most famous cities - Fez, Marrakech, Casablanca (be still my heart), and Tangiers (a long stone toss from Spain).  I relented on Casablanca but insisted that we see at least one of the fabled cities and decided upon Marrakech. 

     On 1 March, suitcases in-hand, we appeared at the Air Morocco counter and next thing I knew, we were landing in Agadir.  Since we were only spending a week, and didn’t have time to do our usual “hunt, get lost, and find” routine, Amy enlisted a “semi” tour service - guides for the day, if we wanted.  The risks in this sort of trip are that one will find disagreeable  people on these day-trips, but the convenience in a strange place for a short time outweighed this possible downside.  At the airport we were met by a guide who drove us to Taroudant.

     We drove an hour or more to Taroudant, our home for 4-days, in southern Morocco, an old, walled city of modest size.  There are tourists, but “normal” life in the city dominates unlike in certain quarters of Marrakech.  Morocco is populated mostly by Berber peoples (40% Berber, 35% with at least some Berber ancestors), which are tribes distinguished from the Arab tribes, though in modern times there has been much assimilation into Arab culture and language.  The pure Berbers populate the rural areas, including the stunning Atlas Mountains.  They are farmers, and I read that many Berber people are migrant workers in southern European.  Our first glimpses of the city announced clearly that we were neither in Kansas nor Paris.  The vivid colors and varied modes of dress drew a striking contrast to habitude.  In fact, there was a remarkable absence of sidewalks - they were the exception in much of the city that many navigated on-foot.  And the animal pulled carts  (donkeys and horses, mostly inside the walls) and a plethora of cars made walking challenging - even risky, at times.

     But the streets were a feast for the eyes, once the dust settled from the passing, wheeled traffic.  The fresh, open food markets were dazzling.  Most women had their hair covered with scarves, though not all.  Some younger women wore minimal scarves or none at all.  Many wore jeans.  A small proportion of others had all but their eyes covered - giving a bit of the exotic quality that I remembered from the movies of my youth.  The men wore more drab clothing and made less of an impression.  I was struck how “normal” life in Taroudant (and many other places in the world, no doubt) was quite different from life in the West - poorer, less well-kempt, yet organized and comfortable. 

     One adapted, as we tried to do in walking around town - looking out for two-wheelers (motorized and un-motorized), carts, cars, trucks, and in the center of town, buses.  The buildings were flush with the streets (or occasional sidewalks) and of lighter colored materials, some with a reddish hue.  There were a number of small cul-de-sacs, allowing entry and exit into residences off of the main streets.  Our guest-house was in one of these.  One of the delights at being out was the weather, which remained sunny and about 80-degrees all week.

     There were a half-dozen or so others staying in the guest house, and they were all British and a delight.  We had some wonderful experiences. Some of the best were the dinners that we shared at the guest-house.  These meals were the best I ate in Morocco, and Amy spent one evening “helping” to prepare dinner.  I think that she enjoyed the chance to spend time with these hospitable Moroccan women, as much as stirring the soup and adding the spices.  (The meal was excellent.)  I came away from the trip with a passion for tagine-prepared meals - everything from omelets to varied stews blended in a steaming apparatus (a tagine) that looks a small, symmetrical volcano, complete with the vaporous hole at the top.

     We visited a true oasis, a Berber, hillside village, and a National Park on half-day tours from Taroudant during our stay.  The oasis was quite beautiful with the most remarkable, natural canopy I’ve seen.  It is large (about 60-feet in diameter), green, and cools the air wonderfully, blocking out hot sunlight.  The Berber village was my favorite visit, largely because of the children who accompanied us throughout.  We watched the town potter at work, using a simple wheel, his hands, and the kind of tools that have probably been used for thousands of years.  We were served mint tea and lunch - tagine, very good.  We explored the residences, seeing simple, modern kitchens and rooms spare of furniture.  We ate lunch comfortably sitting on cushions in a pleasant, bright “living-room.”

     The National Park was a narrow stretch of green bisected by the first flowing water I’d seen.  The south of Morocco is mired in a three-year drought which menaces their livelihood - agriculture.  The intermittent, green orchards through the countryside contrast with the dry, dusty fields along side of them.  In the park we spotted a number of birds, many of which have a presence in Europe some time of the year.  We also hiked to the seacoast (the Atlantic Ocean), which had a large, lovely and empty beach.  The smells and the breeze were all they should have been.  The wild flowers added a lovely touch to hiking through the park.

      The fourth morning of our trip we shared a taxi with one of the British couples, driving the scenic route to Marrakech, which took all day.  We made stops along the way, at an old mosque (no longer in use), for lunch, and to enjoy the breath-taking views of the mountains, its valleys, and the hillside villages.  The company was excellent, as well, including the taxi driver.  We kept up our chatter most of the day, stopping only when awed by our surroundings - often enough.  The curving roads and streams that etched the mountain sides and valleys, as well as the visible snowcaps just out of reach made this day my favorite of the trip.

     Marrakech was a beehive of activity, once the day got going.  Souk markets stretched in all directions, winding this way and that.  It was impossible to navigate these alley-ways without noting landmarks to spot on the return trip.  Usually, I forgot one of them, making the return trip to the hotel a new exploration.  Bob, Bing, and Dorothy did well to get where they were going!  We had a marvelous week, and I’ll save Marrakech for a future piece.  Have gone on long enough!  Amities….