Salon des Vins

I’m not sure why my wine education hasn’t merited a post before. Maybe it needed to age, but the time has come to uncork these experiences. Enough with the wine metaphors, let’s talk about my new wine tutor. A Midwestern raised, Oxford educated, American poet living in Paris, Susan makes spare cash educating wine novices like me in private or on champagne cruises. She is a complex person offering insight, knowledge, poise, and juicy gossip. Her intelligence and elegance suit Paris, but her stories of past loves and current struggles are very American. She is like a French Burgundy that has been “jammed” up a bit to appeal to U.S. markets. Susan has taught me the many regions of French wine while being a good friend to me while in Paris.

Both Italy and France categorize their wine by region and have government monitored grading systems. If a vineyard is within a certain area, practices certain winemaking techniques, and uses the correct varietals in the correct proportions, it is rewarded with a special designation, DOCG in Italy and AOC in France. For instance, a DOCG Chianti must come from around Sienna and use 85% Sangiovese grapes. In France, Burgundy is region that has over 300 appellations (the A in AOC) primarily growing Pinot Noir grapes. Each DOCG or AOC may or may not be a blend and that may or may not be noted on the label. In fact most wines, even in the US are blended. Cabernet Sauvignon wine is blended to cut the tannic nature of the grape and lower production costs. In both French and Italian wines, the terroir (climate, soil) is most important. The varietals (or grapes) are planted for their ability to grow in local climate. In contrast, American producers lead with the varietal and the location is secondary. There are many vineyards that are better suited to a zinfandel but plant cabernet sauvignon to accommodate current tastes in the American market.

French and Italian wines have very different profiles from their American counterparts. Self professed wine geeks speak of Old World wines and New World wines. For the most part, Old World wines are meant to accompany food. They are sharper and more complex, but less full bodied than New World wines. Most New World wines are created for mass market appeal and their flavors are developed for flexibility and drinkability. Old World wines are less laid back in the palate and reflect centuries of tradition. They force you to notice them, where New World wines are perfectly happy to chill out, in a delicious way. New World wines are like Meg Ryan (before Russell Crowe and plastic surgery), easy to like, while Old World wines are like Angelina Jolie, complex and difficult but worth the effort. Of course, these are generalities in both wine and actresses and I love both Old and New World wines.

While in Europe, I have expanded my palate and found some beautiful wines. The Italian education, like all things Italian, was haphazard and disjointed, which was both charming and frustrating. The French system is rigid and exact, like all things French. Susan, an American, gives an interesting perspective to the world of French wine, and I’m thoroughly enjoying my education.

Recently, we were able to attend a trade show of over 1000 independent wine producers from all the French wine regions. Housed in a convention facility with booths and color coded identification flags for each producer, the Salon de Vins was pretty unbelievable. First, it was free and you could taste as much as you wanted. As an American I can’t begin to describe the glory of a free all you can drink wine tasting. It was like 5 cent pitcher night at Biddy Mulligan’s, except with gorgeous wine rather than watered down Busch Lite. Each booth had a trash can for spitting. With this much wine, you can’t actually swallow without behaving like an idiot by the end of the day. The French have no tolerance for this so I spit, unless the wine was really good. We travelled through Bordeaux first tasting the difference between the Left and Right banks, and then went to Burgundy to experience the vast differences within each appellation, vineyard and year. We also strolled through the Loire and the Rhone, finishing with a few amazing wines from the Alsace. Susan provided information about the soil, varietals, and the typical experience of an appellation. It was an amazing experience and I had a tremendous time.

I must put in a disclaimer here. I am just starting to learn about wine, and some of the things I have said may be wildly incorrect and are definitely oversimplified. If anyone finds an error, glaring or otherwise, please let me know.

Palm groves and Cockatoos

I wake up early Sunday morning, which is unusual because I’ve never gotten used to the time change. Since I got to Europe in September, I frequently find myself awake in the middle of the night and then sleep until ten. I know you are wondering what 37 year old sleeps until ten? Well, it is one of the perks of a barren, childless existence envied by tired parents everywhere. However, today I’m strolling the isles of the bird market by 8:00AM. I find it suspect that the avian demand in Paris is so strong that an entire market is dedicated to birds and their accoutrements. For the most part, they are not even exotic birds, just parakeets and sparrows jumping around their little cages. Maybe it’s another example of Americans' love of showmanship, but if I’m going to make the effort to go to the bird market early Sunday morning, I want to see Toucan Sam making the moves on a coquettish Cockatoo. At the very least, one of them should request a cracker from me.

Since I planned to attend 10:30 mass at my neighborhood church, Saint Severin, I have some time after the bird market. I wander over to Notre Dame and I must say that I’m in love with flying buttresses. They are so typically French. The style of the period demanded the church appear “thinner” than the materials and methods allowed so the supports were placed on the outside. They remind me of those life size cardboard cutouts of Marilyn Monroe you find at Spencer's. As I’m touring, the organ starts for 9:30 mass. I consider staying (the organ is that impressive), but decide against it with my heart set on Saint Severin.
And it is amazing. Saint Severin is small with crazy architectural elements that create a sense of grandeur. The columns that delineate the aisles from the nave are in the flamboyant gothic style and have been dubbed the palm grove. Saint Severin is beautiful, austere, and a little goofy, just my kind of church, and mass was packed. I love a well used church. There were no benches for kneeling, as in Italy, but there was a great deal of smoke. I don’t really know the significance, since the mass was in French, but they were constantly waving around a gold goblet of incense. If you close your eyes, you might think you were at a spa or Dead show. I guess they are sacred institutions in their own right. The church is also delightfully close to Shakespeare and Company, an English language bookstore famous for such patrons as Hemmingway, Stein, etc. Books are stacked everywhere, and it has a whole floor filled with books that aren’t for sale. Very French. There is nothing worse than being easy. Where is the fun in just going to a store, finding a book, and purchasing it? This place has got some serious mojo. I buy A Moveable Feast by Hemmingway in celebration. When I’m checking out, the sales woman asks if I want my book stamped with the store logo, a Mecca for bibliophilic tourists.

Wine, apple tart, and white marble

Frequently, you create a picture in your mind of a place, a food, or an ex boyfriend where all the negative qualities has disappeared, leaving only the gorgeous moment and the pedestal you put it on. I am acutely aware of this innately human tendency and I can’t decide if I think we are better or worse for it. This remaking of an experience provides solace in your memory, but can often lead to disappointment if you have the good fortune to revisit it. I remember my first love as funny, kind, entertaining and engaging. I wonder if he actually was. In some ways, I wish I knew him now because he was so important to me then, but I doubt the reality would live up the fantasy that I have created.

It is with this trepidation that I go to the Rodin museum, and I find myself utterly shocked and delighted to say the my current reality was on par with my past. It was not the same as I had expectations which always color one’s experience of space and art, but my soul rested in this place. I wandered the formal garden, lined with trees and dotted with sculpture. Despite the chill, I sat outside and had a glass of white wine and rustic apple tart from the cafe. Inside, the mansion was warm and embraced its visitors. The sculpture was primarily of nudes in white marble. What I love about Rodin is his concentration on the emotion. The positions and characters come from the piece of marble, but emotion is the guiding principle. Rodin’s expression of emotion is so dynamic that it evokes personal memories of it. When I see the sculpture of Adam and Eve, I am transported to my own experiences of regrettable sex. The Kiss arouses a warm glow of love and passion. It may be trite. My reaction is undeniably so expected that it reveals the bourgeois nature of my existence, but I love it and you must go.

Adam and Eve

The Kiss

The Thinker

The Battle of Cubism

Sometimes I feel like I’m at war with Paris, and today was another one of those days. I decided to go to the Picasso museum before my French lesson at 4:00. I think the collection was donated by Picasso’s wife and daughter, and I like the idea of seeing what Picasso kept for himself. Plus, the collection is housed in an old mansion in the Marsais district, and I have a soft spot for museums in residences. It seems so much more romantic and really, that’s where it was meant to be.

I found the Picasso museum easily on a sunny morning among the up and coming designer shops and falafel stands. It was closed, like the Griswolds at Walley World closed. Apparently, it closed this summer and won’t reopen until 2012. I found this information on another small sign posted to the door. There was so little information that I questioned its authenticity, but the doors were definitely locked. I had mentioned that I was headed there to a shop keeper on my way, she just smiled. Advantage – Paris.

But I wasn’t going to let Paris win the battle for my Tuesday that easily so I went to Geraldine’s for my French lesson with a can do attitude. My ridiculously limited French is my biggest liability in this war, but I will eventually conquer. Geraldine believes in positive reinforcement. She says I have great pronunciation, but I don’t understand a word. I’m like a parrot. All day, it’s “bonjour” and “merci”.

Afterwards, I went to the Musee National d'Art Moderne in the Centre Georges Pompidou. It’s open late on Tuesdays so I had the time. Despite my morning mishap, I still saw around 20 Picasso’s, plus Matisse, and Gris, and Braque, and Mondrian. The collection was enormous, impressive, and at times bizarre. So much of modern art is in the process. The expression should be viewed through the lens of the experience. Knowing this, it is significant, and slightly demented, that I still refused the audio guide. Generally, I’m against any sort of tour. Those audio tours tend to distract me, diminishing my experience of the art and pissing me off. It’s like a sermon in church. You can only tell me to think so much before I reject everything out of principle. You can see my dilemma. I wandered through the museum viewing the art with ignorance, or innocence depending on your point of view. Some of it seemed silly and arrogant, others profound and groundbreaking.

As you can imagine, the morning fiasco left me feeling a tad negative about Picasso. But he is extraordinary. Many artists of the early 20th century practiced similar techniques, but Picasso’s vision was undeniable. When discussing other artists’ work, Picasso once said it is easy to make a thing pretty when someone else has already discovered it. You could see his struggle and the depth it created in his work. Others seemed aesthetic, while Picasso’s work had the emotional strength that only comes with meaning. Tuesday turned out to be a pretty bon jour indeed.

I don't know why I didn't take any pictures in the museum, but here are some of the Centre Georges Pompidou, where the museum is housed. It was designed by Renzo Piano in 1977 as a study of exoskeleton architecture (bones on the outside). All the systems are on the exterior and color coded. Of course, people love it and hate it in equal measure. I kind of love it.

Some pics from around town Saint Genevieve

I don't know the name of this church. I just came upon it one day.


Ile de la Cite


The 1st by the Louvre

Turn the page

I’ve been to Paris before. In 1993, I went for Spring Break with two girlfriends. We got a hotel so far outside Paris that it took an hour to get to the sites. They were good friends, but not great, and travelling with them was problematic. After days of togetherness, I took off for a day alone and went to Jim Morrison’s grave. Oddly enough, I became very territorial when some Germans were defacing his tombstone despite that fact that I really don’t care for the Doors.

Then, I went to the Rodin museum and loved it. It was one of those places that shaped me as a person. The sculpture, the building that housed it, everything was so monumental to me. It was the first time that I was genuinely and authentically awed by art. I had been in presence of great art before, but I was always expecting to be impressed. The Mona Lisa, Degas, Monet, Michelangelo. I was told before I arrived that I would be inspired by the greatness I was about to see. I think that knowledge can tamper the experience of art. You already know what you are going to think before you see it. Before going to the Rodin museum, I had never heard of Rodin. I knew of the Thinker, but didn’t have any thoughts on it in particular. When I went, his sculpture elicited a visceral response. I loved the way he captured a moment that was so poetic and emotional with nudes in white marble. With Rodin, it was about the moment, the emotion, The Kiss. The stuff moved me.

My Mother keeps asking if I have gone yet. To be honest, I am waiting until the perfect day to bask in the glory of his stuff and delaying the possibility that the connection will have disappeared. I’m like Grover, afraid to turn the page…

Layers of buttery delight

I have had the most wonderful day. OK, it didn’t start out great. I couldn’t sleep last night and finally took an Ambien (my personal savior) at 5 AM so I wasn’t out of bed until 10:30. Yes, I missed mass at St. Severin. Luckily, there is another one tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that…

I crawled out of bed and made myself a beautiful breakfast of poached eggs on a pile of prosciutto on a baguette. This is one of my favorite culinary indulgences. The velvety richness of the egg yolk streamed over the salty goodness of the prosciutto onto a fantastic piece of crusty, chewy bread. This meal is like a Renaissance depiction of heaven, rich with chubby cupids flying around it. Then, I took my first trip on the RER (public train) to Vitry Sur Seine. I know you are wondering how I have gone this long without using the metro. I’ve been walking everywhere. It gives me a chance to see the city, wondering through little known neighborhoods and working off the morning croissant.

Vitry Sur Seine is the home of Bong, a graduate of the Le Cordon Bleu pastry program, where I had my first pastry lesson. Bong is from Malaysia and sweet as all get out. She has the unbridled enthusiasm that is so stereotypical of people from Asian Pacific countries. She is shorter than me and so thin that I believe her when she says she doesn’t eat what she makes. She married a Frenchman, who she met in school, and they plan to return to Malaysia to open a French fast food restaurant as soon as they save enough money.

We spend 6 ½ hours together making puff pastry dough which morphs into croissants, palmiers (heart shaped sugary croissants), apple turnovers, and a mille-feuille (essentially a napoleon pastry cake). Puff pastry dough from scratch is not hard, but it is time consuming. We made the dough (croissants have yeast, the rest do not) and let it rest for an hour. Then, we rolled it out and lay a slab of butter in the center and wrapped the dough like a present, then back to the refrigerator for another hour. With the butter nestled in the dough, we rolled it out again, folded it, then back to the refrigerator for another hour. This step is called making turns and creates the layers 0f the puff pastry by repeating it four times. I’m so excited about it that I’m bursting. Although all the puff pastry I ate might have something to do with that feeling.

Bong, the pastry chef

Mille FeuillePalmiers and Financiers (egg whites and almond powder with cocoa)

Friday night - Parisian style

Friday night in Paris is, well, crowded. If I was with a friend or twenty years younger, I might say incredible, but I am alone, and middle aged, and divorced, and unemployed. I know some people consider me outgoing and brave, while others consider me shy and judgmental. As with all of us, I guess the truth is somewhere in between. Maybe not in between as much as swinging violently one way or another. I do know that going to a bar on Friday night without a wingman in a foreign country does not work for me. I can eat alone. I have enjoyed so many solitary meals here that I am comfortable with my “table for one” status. I still need my book as a prop while I’m waiting for my food, but I now put it away when the meal arrives so I can savor every bite. But my book doesn’t really work in a dimly lit bar, and I’m not fishing for romance anyway. This may be incredibly helpful to the men out there. In general, I believe that women my age do not go to bars for any reason other than to get laid. It’s not the same as a man. I won’t settle for whoever is still there when the lights go on. I can’t imagine picking someone up and actually having sex, but I’m there to establish a connection.

Since I’m not looking to meet a man, I decide to go the Louvre on Friday night. It’s open until 10:00. I bask in the high minded culture of it all. Me? Friday night? Oh yes, I was at the Louvre… I assume that I will have the place to myself to peruse the collection at my leisure. I could not have been more wrong. The museum was packed. Like the only bar in a college town packed. Like the funnel cake stand at the Ohio State Fair packed. I opted for the special exhibit ticket to see some Venetian painters from the 16th century on loan from the British museum. (For those of you who are familiar with my travels will understand the irony.) There was a line to get a ticket into the museum. Then, there was a line to get into the temporary exhibit. The exhibit was like a kegger at Sigma Chi during homecoming weekend. There was elbowing and highbrow shoving. The French would gesture wildly in front of each painting and discuss the merits of the art with their companion, all the while blocking their territory so I couldn’t get any closer. While I was a little bored, they all seemed enthralled. I was completely out of my element. The only thing that I found truly interesting was the artists, who were essentially hired hands painting portraits for rich families, painted the families at the last supper with Jesus. No, it wasn’t Peter, and Paul. It was the Giraldi family, including the dog. WTF?

Desire is a funny thing

Paris is like a woman on her period, filled with racing hormones, swelling beauty, and inexplicable bitchiness. I not only appreciate it, I can relate. This Paris I understand. She is dirty and lethargic. Her elegant face is dotted with scores of stores hawking their wares. But she has both grand and petite moments of beauty, charm, and utter delight. I am lonely here. I have been completely ignored by everyone except foreigners and horny men that are still under the delusion that Americans are easy. Although I must say, virtually no one has been rude to me. They have returned my smiles and tolerated my completely incomprehensible French. All the same, I am comforted by the city, its buildings, its art, its age. Like the Parisian woman, Paris itself has aged gracefully.

Besides, being lonely is interesting to me, despite the sadness it brings. I have come to realize how easily others can influence me. I almost don’t want to break the spell and make friends. My thoughts here are truly my own. As I sit with them, I find a pleasure that is completely new to me. How is it that an intelligent and strong woman can reach 37 years of age and not know herself? And how did I become such a ridiculous cliché?

I am now free to meander through my desires as I choose. To be honest, I am mostly lost, completely lost. I have no idea how to tell which thoughts are folly and which are fiercely honest. A lifetime of trying to be what others want has left me wondering how to identify what I truly want. Without a person to approve of my decisions, I find myself swayed by my daily activities. Maybe I want to teach French or Italian. Never mind that I can’t find the correct rhythm or pronunciation. Maybe I should find a way to eat for living. Never mind that staying relatively thin and healthy has always been more important to me that eating. Who is this woman? What do these desires really mean? How am I, a woman who has spent a great deal of time being very selfish but very little time thinking about what I truly want, supposed to interpret these desires?

I had to...

Monet, Manet, what are the odds?

I went to the Musée d’Orsay the other day. I decided the best way to start my art tour of Paris is by dipping my toe in the shallow end of the pool. Not that Orsay is shallow, but Impressionist work is easy to like and the collection is simply amazing. I remember loving Monet the last time I went. This time Renoir captured most of my attention. I just love the dewy sweetness with which he paints women. Because I’m in Paris for 6 weeks, I felt I had the time to slow down. I took notes. I studied dates. I learned first names. I’m sure most of you are familiar with a lot of the collection so rather than tell you what moved me, I will tell you what I learned.

First, the building that houses the Orsay collection is a converted rail station. It’s an amazing place to display art. The modern additions and renovations to the museum are well done and add to the dynamic rather than diminish it. The modern shapes accentuate the beauty of the old building and even older art. I was impressed.

Second, there is a restaurant in the museum. It is only open on Thursdays, and you know I planned accordingly. It was such a surprising find. The room was amazing, the food was spectacular. I had the fixed menu (it’s cheaper) of white fish in a béarnaise sauce with saffron sauce over vegetables and a glass of white wine. What can I say, but yum. I finished with floating islands and an espresso. I was intrigued by the floating islands, what are the islands and what are they floating in? Well, the islands are meringue and they float in a butter and egg yolk sauce with almond extract(custard before it gels). I loved the consistency, white fish in butter and egg yolks, then egg whites in butter and egg yolks.

The Restaurant

Third, Thursdays are also “field trip” day so be prepared. In the right mindset, children and teenagers enhance the experience by seeing the collection through their eyes. The seven year olds were running around completing some sort of worksheet/treasure hunt. Their enthusiasm was charming. The teenagers were huddled together barely acknowledging the art as they gossiped about who loves who. It was pretty cute, but after a while, I turned on my ipod…

Finally, the art. All these guys drastically changed their style around 1876. One day it was strong brush strokes filled with self importance, and the next it was fuzzy dots creating a serene landscape slightly blurred. The effect was intoxicating and created the most accessible art, even today. I mean, I would love to have attended the party depicted in Degas’ Le Souper au Bal. The change in style was such a 180, and they all followed suit. They all hung out together in the 1870’s and painted each other too. The painting of Berthe Morisot (a woman) by Edouard Manet is amazing. You can tell they were friends and he respected her. It’s in her expression. It must have been a heady time. All I can say is go, on Thursday, start on the 5th floor, have lunch in the restaurant, and don’t forget to look at the building.

Le Souper au Bal by Degas

Morisot by Manet

Monet did turkeys. Les dindons 1877. I don’t know. It makes me laugh.

I ran out of floss the other day. I know you don’t care, but let’s embrace the mundane for a moment. I have been to every market and pharmacie (that’s how the French spell it, I swear) in the 5th and nothing. I’ve found the same ridiculous number of toothbrush choices as the US, hundreds of toothpaste options, and a dizzying number of denture cleaners, but no floss. Is it possible that the French don’t floss? I’ve been looking at French teeth ever since and they don’t seem to be falling out. Maybe when you eat your weight in butter every year, you don’t need to floss. This seems like a good plan…

I'm sorry Bessy

I went to a very nice and totally delicious restaurant the other night and found calf’s head on the menu. Either my online French translator is off it's rocker or it's another joke on the Americans. Really, who would eat a calf’s head? How much meat could possibly be in there? Brains tend to be served by themselves. Is it an extra special treat to open the skull yourself to dig into some brain matter? Maybe it’s the eyeballs that have the French swooning over a baby cow’s noggin. And even a calf’s head is still pretty large. Does it really fit on a plate? One of these days, when I not very hungry, I’m going to order it just to see.

Goth with a feather boa...

I had a strange morning today. I planned to go to Saint Severin to see the palm grove (the column and arch system that creates the nave and aisles), which is supposed to be the best example of Flamboyant Gothic style. When you have the opportunity to see the BEST flamboyant gothic Catholic Church, you go, and it’s literally 20 yards from my door. Upon my arrival, I find that it’s closed to visitors except for a tour on Saturdays at 7:00, which seems exceedingly specific to me, and mass. There is mass every day and almost all day on Sunday so my new plan is attend 10:30 Sunday mass. I can’t wait to hear how God sounds in French surrounded by flamboyant gothic palm groves.

My next stop is the Bibliothéque Saint-Geneviéve. It is one of the first buildings to use iron for the interior structure, creating a new aesthetic of lightness. The stone exterior is in contrast to the light interior and engraved with the names of many philosophers and scientists whose works can be found inside. It is an enormous rectangle that takes up an entire block. In the center of the elevation, there is one small green door, and it’s locked. The 8 ½ x 11 piece of paper tacked to the door says it is open from 8-8. I think. My French is not so good. Two attempts to site see and no luck. It felt very Twilight Zone to me (the 60's TV show, not the book series). The only antidote to that is coffee. I paid the extra $3 to sit down.Things really turned around for me in the afternoon when I met Geraldine, my new French tutor, for a lesson. She is fabulous, in an earthy Left bank way. Arty and bohemian - with thick grey hair, kind blue eyes, and full but subversive smile. She writes French screen plays in the morning and tutors in the afternoon. I like her very much. In her encouraging but stern voice, Geraldine tells me French is all about the rhythm and I should not think but feel it. Apparently, Americans only speak with their mouths and we are leaving a lot on the table. French requires the mouth, nose, and throat. I’m diligently working on my throat clearing sound. Unlike the rolling r, I can make the noise, just not on cue so I’m hopeful. I like Geraldine’s technique because it’s all speaking, no reading or writing. In my humble opinion, the people who invented written French must have started the meeting with some hallucinogenic mushrooms, sautéed in butter of course. The letters don’t correlate to the sounds in any way. I know that sounds ethnocentric of me, but Spanish and Italian seem to use the appropriate letter for a sound. Aren’t they all based in Latin? I accept and love French as it is, but it’s better for me not to see it in written form. I just get confused.

I know you are wondering how learning to speak, but not read, French will help me with my library situation. Honestly, I don’t know, but let’s take it one step at a time. I am a middle aged dog so I only have so many tricks left.

Paris in November

I’ve made it to Paris, and even in the cold November rain, it’s amazing. Paris is divided into 20 neighborhoods called arrondissements. The first arrondissement starts in the center by the Louvre, and the rest spiral clockwise from there crossing over the river 3 times. The bohemian, intellectual center of the city lies in the 5th 6th and 7th on the left bank, while tourism and business flourish in the 1st-4th on the right bank. Although I should say that is just a stereotype. There is plenty of tourism on the Left Bank and there really doesn’t appear to be much business going on in the Right. The banks are named by the flow of the Seine so if you are facing downstream the Left Bank is on the left. The logic is actually kind of shocking for Europe.

Everyone who is anyone, or at least anyone I know who has an opinion, says you must stay on the Left Bank. Although I probably tend toward tourist, I would like to be a bohemian intellectual so I agreed. Last week, I set up an apartment via the internet in the lower 5th arrondissement. Due to the late planning, which is the only way I travel, I had to spend my first night in Paris at Hôtel du Globe on rue de Quatre-Vents (four winds). It's cute and cheap in the center of the Left bank scene so I recommend it, even though my room only had a bathtub, no shower. They acted like it was a luxury. I agree, a bath is a luxury, if there is also a shower. And a hand held nozzle with no shower curtain doesn’t count.

I woke up early Tuesday morning to stroll past the apartment in the 5th before meeting Vincent to sign the contract and fork over the cash. And all I can say is No. No. No. Rue de la Clef (Key Street), was almost below ground. Modern, nondescript buildings surrounded my little flat. It was not a charming neighborhood, but a sterile suburban island in the middle of historic Paris. I let Vincent know that I would not be staying in the flat, rented my hotel room for another night and began a new search in earnest.

I found 29, rue de la Huchette. (I have no idea what the English translation is.) The apartment is a shoebox on the top floor of a building in the center of everything. The couch is really an ottoman, and the toilet doesn’t exactly work, but I love it. It faces a courtyard so it is shockingly quite, and has internet, phone, and a washer. There is a broken down sweetness that I adore and everyone else I know hates. OK, the toilet doesn’t work very well, but the shower is heaven compared to Florence. It stays hot the entire time. This is luxury. I buy my croissants and baguettes at the charming boulangerie (bread shop) right next door, and a café with excellent people watching and café créme (coffee with steamed milk) is just two doors down. I can see the spire of St. Severin (http://www.saint-severin.com/) from my dining room window. The apartment is definitely quirky, but exactly what I wanted. There is even a couple downstairs that fights all the time. I mean, how French is that?

I know you are all wondering about the future of my butt. Have no fear. This apartment is six floors up so the Italian booty project will continue through Paris. These stairs are wooden and not as steep as my Florence apartment, but they are definitely authentic Parisian, with narrow and uneven circular treads and an iron railing. There is an elevator that I used once when I arrived with my luggage. It starts and stops at the half floor so you must unload onto a stair tread and continue up. Seriously, it’s so ridiculous that I love it.

I rented the apartment from Naomi. She is a New Yorker married to a Romanian that flips apartments in Paris. She has a wild hippy chic (chic not chick) vibe with a bit of scatter brain mixed in for fun. Naomi strikes me as the kind of person that is always late, but is so completely unaware that you forgive her. I asked her if the apartment had a hairdryer and she said she hadn’t dried her hair in years. I get that I’m vain, but really, it’s cold here and walking around with a wet head just isn’t smart. I’m hoping to pick her brain about the apartment thing. Who knows what might happen.

The fountain outside my apartment.

Ahhhh Tuscany...

The fourth week of cooking was all about Tuscany in the fall with hearty soups and pastas. When most people think of Italian food, they think of Tuscany. We can all talk about the healthy fish dishes from the coast, but nothing beats a nice mushroom crostini followed by some potato and pancetta ravioli in butter sage sauce. And that is exactly what we cooked on Monday night. The Lees had finished just in time for me to notice that they never ate anything Sheila, Addie, or I cooked. This made dinner a little awkward, but pretty hilarious. Ted said that he hated every meal he has ever had in a restaurant. He and Helen were travelling the world taking cooking classes so Ted could learn to cook for himself. In theory a really fun retirement plan, but if you hate everything you have ever been served, it’s probably not a good idea to travel to foreign countries in search of food. A private chef might have been a better/cheaper choice for the Lees. By the way, there is no way that their names are “Ted and Helen”. In honor of them, Stacey and I chose Italian names as well. She is Devon and I am Eva. Eva plans to accompany me to Paris as well, but so far, no one has cared to ask her name. Ah Paris… Back to dinner. It was fantastic and I will definitely make it for anyone who brings wine to dinner. Once again, I must say that fresh pasta is so amazing, and so easy. That is my kind of magic trick.

In Tuesday’s Tuscan cooking class, we made ribolita. It is such a staple in Tuscany that I’m almost embarrassed I don’t know how to spell it. I must quickly mention my obvious and severe decline in mental ability since arriving in Italy. Maybe it’s the wine at lunch, or maybe it’s the wine at dinner, or maybe it’s my hormones, but I have completely lost my memory and intellect. I have become one of those people that can only pontificate about useless topics that require no actual supporting facts. I don’t really mind it at all. Only those around me suffer. Now, where was I? Oh yes, ribolita. Take onions, leeks, carrots, and celery and sauté, then add white wine, vegetable stock, black cabbage (which may be kale), and white beans. Simmer for an hour, and then pour over crusty bread. You are supposed to add crusty bread, then refrigerate for a day then “re-boil” it. However, cooking class is only 3 hours so we just poured it over the bread. Delicious, and I’m not a big fan of soup. I love pureed root vegetable soup, like carrot and butternut squash or leek and potato, but that’s it. However, I’ve found another category, soup with bread. It’s brilliant really. We also made chicken, roasted with potatoes, bell peppers, dried hot peppers, and olives. It was rich but healthy and wonderfully easy. Surprisingly, the chicken arrived already butchered. Even more surprising, it was not butchered with any rhyme or reason. In the US, chickens are butchered by cutting pieces at the joints creating wings, thighs, legs, and breasts, but the butchering philosophy behind this chicken was a mystery. Looking at the carcass pieces, I recalled the cartoons where a butcher takes his cleaver, raises it above his head, and whacks wherever it lands. This “technique” leaves you with bone fragments in every piece. It’s like the Italians don’t want to go through a single meal without pulling bones from their mouths. Butchering aside, I was delighted by the dish. While roasting at a high temperature, we stirred the mixture frequently to distribute the goodness of red wine, rosemary, and garlic. I think, but really I can’t remember (see above) and my recipes are packed away. It is strange that I haven’t discussed the desserts that much. Since my spell check is now in French, I feel I must admit that I don’t know how to spell dessert, or desert. One is an indulgent luxury, while the other is a foreboding pile of sand. I love the irony so I won’t bother to look it up on dictionary.com. You can tell me, but I won’t remember. I’ve looked it up so many times and it just won’t stick. Anyway, the desserts were always a disappointment, but Italy is not about dessert unless it’s gelato. They tend to be either too bland or too sweet. I’m blessed that the cured meats and aged pecorino cheese were there to fill the void…

Santa Croce... Michelangelo is entombed here. Dante is a fake out. There is a tomb for him, but his body is elsewhere. It's just a monument that happens to look just like a tomb, otherwise known as a tourist attraction. This church is east of my apartment. Addie and Sheilas' apartment is just to the left.

The San Lorenzo Library, part of the San Lorenzo church and one of my favorite architectural sites. I'm not a professional photographer, but these are especially bad because flash was prohibited.

The ante room stairs and me

The library...

The cloister of the church, and the duomo in the distance.

I have a small study of the duomo and here are some samples...

Another quick note to my readers. You may experience a bit of a time warp while reading my posts. I am now online and in my new apartment in Paris. It's in the Latin quarter, bordering the St. Germain, which could not be more amazing. However, due to my complete inability to refrain from late night drinking with Addie and the lack of actual "free wi-fi" in Paris, I am behind. I blame everyone but myself.

BTW, the spell check on my blog site is now in French so I also beg you to forgive my terrible spelling.

Offering collection, it's not just for Catholics.

It’s Sunday and that means mass. This week I talked Sheila into going with me to the Duomo, otherwise known and Santa Maria dei Fiore. It was a 10:00 mass with another at 10:30 so we could be in and out in a jiffy. I like my God in small doses. We arrived at 10:00 to yet another parade outside the Duomo. The Italians love a parade. Inside we were treated to some Gregorian chanting, a recorded version piped in through speakers. That’s when I realized the entire 30 minutes would be chanting. Not great, but really I can take anything for 30 minutes. A priest entered at around 10:15 and asked us all to move closer. Sheila and I moved inside the fence to the inner sanctum. I find the fence to be a bizarre but totally appropriate architectural feature within the nave. It’s a physical representation of the hypocritical attitudes of almost all churches. Be kind to your neighbor, but make sure he is the right kind of neighbor first.

As we sat down, the priest, who reminded me of a mixture of Leslie Nielson and Dick Van Dyke, was chatting up the crowd. He was hunting for young people to collect the offering (carry the baskets and collect money from parishioners). He approach us and asked where we were from (Colorado and California), then he dropped the bomb. “Would you collect the offering today?” Yes. We didn’t tell him that we weren’t Catholic. I think he would have asked if it was important. However, this may have been another step in that slow spiral to hell. The church filled up with about 250 people, making me a little nervous about my pending duty. But more importantly, we now had to stay for the 10:30 mass, which meant 1 ½ hours of church. Sheila was not happy with me.

The rest of the service flew by and it was finally time for the offering. We were both dressed up, wearing heels that made a lot of noise on the marble floor, which is just so American. Italians don’t dress up for church. It’s a strictly jeans and sweatshirt affair, which is weird because they wouldn’t wear that anywhere else. We go to the back room for instructions with 4 other women, 3 Italians and 1 Brit. It turns out Father “Dick Van Dyke” can’t speak English. There was a lot of smiling and pointing.

I have not yet mentioned that they choose offering collectors based on age. It is supposed to be youthful innocents with their dewy faces and open hearts that collect the cold hard cash. I got roped into this by an inauspicious seat close to the priest and 25 year old Sheila. I am way too bitter to collect the cash. I’m of the age where I might take a euro because the church really owes me something after the last two years…

We collected. It was not pretty, but successful. We had to stop at the front of the church and curtsey to God. It was a little foreign to me, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything. Then, there was communion. In the program there was a note in English, French, and German that communion was for Catholics only (OK) free of grave sin (what?). I couldn’t help wondering if all those Catholics were really free of grave sin.

San Gimignano and the Vernacchio grape

Saturdays are meant for travelling, and this Saturday I went to San Gimignano with Sheila and Mia, a woman Sheila just met while they were both struggling to get online at an internet café. I think café owners put the “free wi-fi” sign up as a joke to watch us crazy Americans stress out.
San Gimignano was gorgeous. It is a medieval town with lots of towers, wine, and cured meats. They had me at wine. With towers and cured meats, this could be heaven. The weather was warm and crisp like only a fall day can be. The town was pleasantly empty of tourists. We climbed a tower to take pictures and work up an appetite for lunch then went to an out of the way Osteria. I had ribollita, a delicious traditional Tuscan soup that is yesterday's bread soup reboiled, and a side order of spinach with garlic and olive oil. We tested a San Gimignano Vernacchio, the local white wine, which is made from the vernacchio grape. It was fresh (high acids, low sugars) with pear and minerals, a very Italian wine. Afterward, we continued our tour of San Gimignano with some church hopping and wine tasting. See pics…