tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79716372202989772772024-03-21T12:53:16.763-07:00Kate's TrippingYou would too after the year I've had.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-18065494551172769712010-02-18T09:27:00.000-08:002010-02-18T09:32:45.200-08:00Joy in a chalk outline<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I’m pretty laid back when I travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I like to leave space for things to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I never have an itinerary, mostly because I can’t bear the idea of being obliged to leave a place before I’m ready or worse yet to stay longer than I want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I like to experience space actively, as it was meant to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I love to see how something that is a fundamental part of my existence, like reading, writing, making lists, running, skiing, hiking, etc., feels in a foreign place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When I am doing something that is so fundamental to me, I can more fully understand the energy a foreign place brings a moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I feel the sense of being alive more acutely in these moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The real beauty of travel for me is the joy that comes from feeling how I fit into a new place and what that shows me about myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I take that back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The real beauty of travel is experiencing inspiring places, people, customs, and food, but I digress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>These experiences cannot be scheduled so I try to leave plenty of time for them occur organically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Because of this, I don’t sightsee as much as I used to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have been lucky enough to see a lot of really amazing places and crossed a lot of sights off my list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now, I have different goals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Through this lens, the trip has been a big success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know a lot of people will think I’m crazy for not going to Venice or Capri or Provence, but I couldn’t be happier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The last few years have left me a shell of my former self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s not just the divorce, lay off, or loss of friends and a home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My marriage was slowly sucking me dry of all optimism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is so incredibly painful to love someone who doesn’t love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As my ex began to withhold his love, I tried to become something he wanted, losing all semblance of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>During my time in Italy and France, I was able to find a bit of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m still not a full person, more like a chalk outline from a murder scene, but I’m closer to me than I have been in a decade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is the beginning of joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I just hope I can keep it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Places you must go 1) Grand Canyon, 2) Taj Mahal, 3) Golden Pavillion, 4) Rodin Museum, 5) Pyramids of Giza, 6) Jackson Hole and the Tetons, 7) Augill Castle, Lake District, England, 8) Tuscan Vineyard, 9) Spanish Villa, 10) Hagia Sophia, 11) Wailing Wall, 12) Stonehenge, 13) St. Basil’s Cathedral, 14) Florentine Café, 15)Taroko Gorge, 16) Quechee Hot Air Ballon Festival, 17) </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The first day in a new place, I walk for hours to build a sense of belonging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:Calibri;"> </span></o:p></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-17093829356675664252010-02-12T09:50:00.000-08:002010-02-12T09:56:52.335-08:00Home<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss Mike, my family and friends, and speaking English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss the not so mighty dollar and bagels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>God, I miss bagels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss coffee to go and doggie bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss wide highways and big kitchens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss football and Project Runway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is the longest I have ever gone without running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss skiing, although I hear the snow sucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss men that can understand my words, if not their meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss my seemingly limitless underwear collection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(This sounds sexy, but it’s only because I never throw out old pairs.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss the majestic beauty that is Colorado with big, wide open spaces and lots of fleece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m embarrassed but I’m just going to say it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss Starbucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss working and thinking about something other than myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m bored with that topic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m coming home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-61869760080753363112010-01-29T13:36:00.000-08:002010-01-29T13:56:31.812-08:00It was a four pizza weekend...<div><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I spent my last two days searching for more gifts, drinking coffee, and eating pizza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I arrived in Rome on Saturday night and left Tuesday morning and ate a total of 4 pizzas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My final meal was a plate of cured meat and cheeses with two glasses of Barolo at Roscioli by Campo de Fiore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have missed the warmth of Italy, the food, the people, the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I went sightseeing on Monday, visiting Campo de Fiore, Piazza Navona, Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, Forum, and the Colosseum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The highlight was a cappuccino I had a couple of blocks from the Colosseum. Definitely the best cappuccino I’ve ever had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I ducked into a little café before lunch to avoid the rain and warm up. It was a little cold so I kept my coat on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes">After 15 minutes with no contact, I was thinking about leaving, never a good sign, </span>but the coffee was perfection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Strong, but not bitter with a touch of silky milk and tons of thick, rich foam, it warmed my body and soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My biggest regret is that I didn’t get the name of the place so I may never have another cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I guess the bright side is that I can wax poetic about the coffee without having to back it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">The cappuccino experience was followed closely by my visit to San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane designed by Borromini.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s actually one of my favorite buildings from Architecture school, along with the Tempietto, which I visited in September.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Check, and check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I highly recommend the Tempietto.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s in Trastevere, a great neighborhood, in some sort of convent or monastery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> S</span>teep stone steps lead to the top of the hill. The building sits in the courtyard of another building, the cloister I think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s like a Tiffany blue box sitting among a pile of other Christmas presents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane was in a relatively remote location and might only be appreciated by architecture freaks, but its undulating façade was beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was grace in the middle of drab nowhere, which is always exciting to me.</p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432282946000970818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnF5gs5u9mzLUcJT3gZaiCjgB2POFJVEXNYEVdli4ZTPrqusCxXl9uVAQINxGTbdaGk3uPXIrckvdS_hgPp51uUZjxaHhTS7RYCHbDmrapzDqHBbepjqMxQ-zNk5BJXS0mRrJxGhQWmIty/s320/P1010064.JPG" /></span></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-65706118751413024552010-01-24T12:53:00.000-08:002010-01-24T13:02:51.671-08:00Woman with baggage available<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I don’t know if you have been able to discern this from my previous postings, but travelling by myself with two suitcases totally stresses me out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I think transfering the luggage responsibility is the best reason I’ve heard to get remarried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m totally serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That and changing my oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m not just out for myself; my future husband won’t have to clean the kitchen or grocery shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That seems fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I start to get nervous about my luggage days before I leave, especially in Europe because a lot of public transportation and walking is involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I worry about the weight of my bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I miss the days when I could pack as much as I could stuff into my suitcase without breaking the zipper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now I lug my suitcase to the scale, remove a few scarves, a couple t-shirts, a pair of shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s the shoes that hurt the most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For this trip, I removed everything that wasn’t black, yellow, or purple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For those of you who know me, you know this made for a strange wardrobe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As if travelling with two bags isn’t enough, now I also have to deal with the guilt of additional baggage fees as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I can handle having my wallet stolen, getting lost, not having a place to sleep for the night, and getting food poisoning, but my luggage is torture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know there is an easy solution to this problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Pack light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One travel blog even recommends packing clothes that you plan to give to Goodwill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That way you can just donate the clothes while in Europe, no need to bring them home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(No, it wasn’t Rick Steves, but good guess.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>These suggestions are so fucking depressing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m going to Europe and I’m going to wear crappy old clothes that I hate?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is this sort of mentality that gives Americans a bad name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I want to look and feel good so if there is any man out there that hates grocery shopping, give me a ring.</span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-68150748532532536692010-01-22T15:39:00.000-08:002010-01-22T15:41:35.864-08:00Like I don't have enough hang ups with weight, now my luggage is too fat?<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I made it to Rome and the journey was as difficult as expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Air travel between European countries is a bitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They have a thing with the weight of luggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I thoroughly researched the airlines that offered a Paris to Rome flight, and chose Vueling because they were the cheapest (40 euro + 20 for luggage) and they allowed 23kg/bag with a maximum single person luggage weight of 50kg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After shipping 3 boxes home, I was sure that I would be under the limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The journey began with a taxi to Orly airport, where the cabby asked, “what terminal?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have no idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Aren’t there signs for airlines at the airport?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I find the confirmation email and there is no terminal listed for Orly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Luckily, the cabby has a list of flights, times, and terminals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>According to his list, my airline only flies out of Fiumicino (the main airport).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But I show him the confirmation email and he grudgingly admits that I might not be an idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Based on “the list”, all flights to Rome on any airline are out of the west terminal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Great, let’s go there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He drops me off with my two carefully packed, extremely heavy suitcases and I wonder the terminal, which has an alarming lack of signage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I finally find an information booth where a lovely woman points me to Hall 1 (of four).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">There is one line in Hall 1 and it is long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course, it’s for Vueling Airlines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I take my spot at the end of the line and wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Parisians, like Italians, have no respect for the line and I am ditched frequently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When you don’t speak the language, you pretty much have to take it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The line is going nowhere, and I don’t mean that in a poetic kind of way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It wasn’t moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After 30 minutes, I discover that the line is for the Barcelona flight which has opened check in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In Europe, you can’t check in too early.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For Vueling, that’s 2 ½ hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I go to the correct line for Orly which is blissfully short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Once at the desk, I put my two bags on the scale and hold my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The charming Vueling employee informs me that the maximum weight for baggage per person is 23kg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Anything above 23kg will incur a charge of 10 euro per kg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have about 20kg more than 23kg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>This is not good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He suggests that I carry on my small bag, which is bending the rules because it too big and too heavy, but I’m not going to mention it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The problem is that I have packed the small bag with all my toiletries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was planning to store my big suitcase at the airport and just bring the small one to my hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He also said I had to transfer 3kg from the small bag to the big bag for some inexplicable reason so I stepped out of line to transfer all sorts of personal items from one suitcase to another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I won’t go into the details, but was embarrassing and exhausting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was sweating and cursing (so American).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Plus, I really have no idea how much personal stuff constitutes 3kg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After 15 minutes of humiliation, I returned to the desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had overestimated the 3kg and now my bag was too heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He obviously felt sorry for me because he let it slide and I’m off to Gate 10. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>It is directly behind the check in desk so this should be smooth sailing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Well Gate 10 is made up of Gates A-P.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I look on my boarding pass, it only says Gate 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I go to the monitor, only Gate 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I check the monitor at each gate looking for Vueling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No Vueling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I decide to chill out for a while to see if it becomes clear later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is starting to remind me of a painfully long chartered flight from Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We are supposed to boarding by now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I find the Vueling information desk and ask the attendant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She looks at me with the “poor thing, it must be difficult to be that stupid” look and points to Gate N.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A line has formed for no apparent reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The plane isn’t even there yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, I have found that when in a foreign country, it is best to just do what everyone else is doing so I stand in line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>About 5 groups of people ditch me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Finally, I’m on the plane, on my way to Rome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m so excited for pizza I can barely stand it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I get to Rome and decide to take a taxi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I just don’t want to deal with my luggage and I’m already late for check in at my apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The cabby is ancient and has a serious case of the shakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He can’t lift my suitcase into the car by himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Again with the weight issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I put in the trunk and get into the cab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He asks where I’m going, but can’t understand me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Finally, I show him the address on my phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He turns off the meter and says “40 euro”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then, he has the nerve to charge me for the baggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m too tired to fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We get to Trastevere, and Stefano is waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I shower and get some pizza with salami picante.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I love Italy.</span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-43026665363590162772010-01-20T14:21:00.000-08:002010-01-20T14:22:31.596-08:00<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I love the experience of space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s where I find religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I see God in the way the light hits the Rockies on a clear day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The Rodin Gardens feel like heaven’s antechamber and Stonehenge, while not beautiful, gives me a sense connection to past civilizations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It can be man-made or natural, old or new, but certain spaces have a quality that inspires joy, hope, reflection, and sometimes even despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Space can be magical to me and Paris is filled with magic spaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I know it’s not perfect, but the air is charged with grandeur and beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you can, you must go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-43908981305395382912010-01-20T10:32:00.000-08:002010-01-20T14:21:17.536-08:00Thank you, I love it!<span style="font-family:Calibri;">I spent my last week in Paris shopping for gifts, reading and writing at the cafes and wandering the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I love to shop, but only for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> I know this sounds really selfish, and it is, but s</span>hopping for other people stresses me out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I belong to a family that would rather strut down Main St in a metallic gold, puff painted Christmas sweatshirt than suggest returning it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This unwritten rule sucks for everyone as we all get, and give, crappy gifts once in a while but that’s the way it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I envy those families that honestly and without malice tell family members that they hate their gift. My Midwestern upbringing makes that as likely as staying sober for Christmas dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m still blaming the divorce for the drinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I figure I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> got another two years before I have to find a new devastating life experience to drive me to the bottom of a nice Chianti.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m sure something will come up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span><br /><div><div><div><div><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">So with my puff painted sweatshirt stuffed into the back of my closet only to come out when family members visit, I struggle to find a decent gift for everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You would think this would be simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m in Paris after all, but I’m easily influenced by my environment, and what’s cool in Paris is not cool in Colorado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Trust me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I spent days browsing for the perfect object, a physical manifestation of my deep understanding and love for each family member.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To be fair, the recipients are especially difficult. My nephews are teenage boys now and would much rather have money, and I'm happy to oblige, but this year I feel I have to get something tangible from Paris for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Finding the right gift for m</span>y brother is virtually impossible and my boyfriend is VERY picky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So I shop and shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I found the perfect gift for my mother, but decided to wait to make sure. I have to actually leave the store for at least 30 minutes to know if I really like something. Telling, isn't it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The next day, I return to buy the gift, but can’t find the gallery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I tried three more times with no luck. It must be God telling me that Mom <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t want an ink drawing of a nude woman painted on cardboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is with this stress and a few tears that I purchase all the goodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">As if the exchange rate <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">isn</span>’t enough of an insult, I have to ship everything home because of the weight restrictions on trans-European Union airlines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You simply cannot bring more than 50 kg on the plane, no matter how much you are willing to pay, and anything over 23 kg is 10€/kg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I spend two days purchasing and packing the boxes only to unpack them at Le <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Poste</span> because they are over the weight restriction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is nothing like spreading your personal belongings all over the post office counter to really make you want to go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">But the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">café</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">crèmes</span> were fantastic, the wine was sublime, and the walks were wildly romantic despite my solitary existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I returned to the Louvre, the Rodin, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Notre</span> Dame, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pompidou</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Luxemburg</span> Gardens, and many other favorite spots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Paris really is beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>On my last day, I finally visited the Eiffel Tower where I climbed to the 2<sup><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">nd</span></sup> floor and enjoyed the 360° view of the city. My trip was complete.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428895587194166834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi967mgAu158Vm3ebLZ-eZiRjOUPGas4bQvEOU7W5qvFy0Ni5TuCayU-SoqpbLJxHS2fKtVId7Hv5eIo98hz-iMnU4ZmKdk-bRJxuaAvDgmGc9UPJtrMXKkiqVK-bB-7dU575A5Jcx3mnnc/s320/P1010032.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428895582569399586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WI8If7nrSCLi8RCReTgmxRs3VylqbYfyW58KzluvGlwYzntETrx6VruYjbMec-tDhWHeCisiL60UuPxW7duQ22rDLHjamjZCMEepoJj9b8PZqorF01mcwv6hm5qlrsSao7qkjldHmdRO/s320/P1010021.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428895574081315058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9SX9Nc8MdCguVLIA89Jz52_qqMgZhTW6EanCIXr5lXkOngh1_aUcbLNf31aDyRLAmTi7TuA9Poda9NLLaIgeF8lD2xzSHifnIatAej37NFb1jACrpzxhVBafqWEEEQ9pwfuLMLkshsmz/s320/P1010019.JPG" /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428895568892362050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiL55wNyndxUYnysddiPhC0ES9Ret2K65olce0kteKiaLvSj1Gy4S7vszF5FA8-pBp8sX2XzHK9VrISEYdj9Ny5gmlFMYi-axSlS5-Q4CWHddCqHF0oIFFOD2hk-hZqSewB__yN-jkJTfZ/s320/P1010018.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428895563468342738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlPoBnVDznrp2fwP1OgN4SaQBj0QaMsd6qT4BPPlkzKA643O7SQPUQX_yX4U3KSynp7glsG3ucuaKdBJsAhsvc_f8F-M3jezGzhtQNt9SK6714YOXc8_bPf24ctlueAOSCnOZ5ezRgS4HH/s320/P1010015.JPG" /></span></span></p></div></div></div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-46142656683765644532010-01-13T09:29:00.000-08:002010-01-13T11:38:00.482-08:00The Birth of a New Friendship, Me and Soup<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I have the opportunity to rent the apartment of my French tutor’s son for 600 euro/mo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He is a 21 year old smoker so it is a little disgusting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But with a deep clean, it could be great and cheap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She has also hooked me up with a job as a cook at an innovative local restaurant, <a href="http://www.lepreverre.com/">Le Pre Verre</a>, where I dined one afternoon for research. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>The food is traditional with a global twist and the prices are totally reasonable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Their cream of cauliflower soup whispers of Moroccan spice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Coriander, cumin, and turmeric gossip about the cauliflower with the cream and butter in delicious harmony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It may have permanently changed my mind about soup, and my lifelong opinion that I don’t drink my food has withstood clam chowder, tomato bisque, and minestrone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The roast chicken was delightful, but the mashed potatoes were inspired by the pancetta and butter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At first I was disappointed with dessert, tiramisu with endive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Don’t get me wrong, it was creamy, sweet, and delicious, but I feel that if you are going to put something as quirky as endive in your dessert, it should bring something to the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, I’m impressed that the chef was able to put a little vegetable in my dessert without ruining it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Food for thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you go, make reservations and don’t let them put you in the basement.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Back to my future, McFly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could get a student VISA, go to Le Cordon Bleu pastry school, live in the cute studio, and work at the restaurant under the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It sounds great, but not the right path for me right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When the best part about a major life change is the soup, you may want to reconsider.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Besides, Paris is a tough town, and I think I would be lonely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now if I could populate Paris with Italians that would be an opportunity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course then it wouldn’t be Paris.</span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-17058853949900854332010-01-07T11:35:00.000-08:002010-01-07T11:44:50.387-08:00The Parisian Pysche<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">My friends, I have been in a very dark mood lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m not sure if it’s Paris or a hormonal imbalance, but the extra 5 pounds of croissant buerre haven’t helped the situation, OK maybe 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Paris a place of glorious food, deliriously high fashion, and triumphant gothic architecture, but there is something so cold about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>People aren’t rude or uneven unkind, but there is little joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Parisians seem to</span> focus more on their image than their happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I honestly believe the reason people don’t smile is because they feel a little pout is sexier. (It is, of course, but that's beside the point.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They don’t see the beauty in unbridled laughter or any other outward manifestations of emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course, Parisians would say that I’m a loud and overbearing American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They may be right, but they are so busy conforming to an aesthetic ideal that they seem emotionally removed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I have hesitated to discuss this because it’s so negative, but I find myself uninterested in writing anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I feel like it would be dishonest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So here I am saying it out loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I think Parisians are so cool that they’re boring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is nothing wrong with the Parisian point of view, and most are incredibly good looking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s just that their demeanor leaves me wondering if Parisians are more satisfied by more surface connections than Americans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is disappointing because I often feel like kindred spirits with the French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s actually really fun to shove someone out of the way once in a while and it’s perfectly acceptable in Paris as long as you say 'pardon'.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They follow a strict social code, and the resulting interactions are quite nice and gracious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I love how intellectual and cultural pursuits are the backbone of the society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The streets are teeming with philosophy, poetry, and art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They believe in the culture of food, using meals to catch up with friends and experience pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is no bigger sin to Parisians than creating a bad meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One Thanksgiving, my mother in law served a store bought pumpkin pie, and I thought, “Doesn’t she love me?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I realize this is demented, but I blame my mother, who I’m sure would blame her mother and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, Parisians would completely agree with the sentiment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Alas, these common threads do not make a true bond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After spending some time in Paris, I can see why the US and France are constantly at odds politically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I respect the French point of view, even enjoy it, but I wouldn’t want to be like them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I believe the feeling is mutual.</span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-41518576359913551602010-01-06T13:03:00.000-08:002010-01-06T13:08:32.617-08:00Where have you been?<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">didn</span>’t hear from you so I stopped writing….</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I learned that trick from my divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When you (or your ex-husband) really screw up, blame the other person (that’s me in this sad little story).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s not just for divorce either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Any blow off can be healed with a little double talk and blame delegation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have a friend who made plans with a new man for New Year’s Eve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She called him, a lot, but received no return call, no text, no email, no page, and no telepathic message.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Two days later, he left a voicemail saying his phone <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t working and he was kinda pissed at her for bailing on him, until his phone started working again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe that’s true, but when you have plans with someone, you call, even if the other person <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m dubious, but she’s smitten so I will give him the benefit of the doubt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Either way, table turning is an excellent tactic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She’s still mad, but he stopped any discussion about his bullshit move with a short, goofy, and possibly true story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If she tells him to get lost, she will always wonder if she should have given him a second chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Brilliant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">So I will blame you for my lack of communication in the hopes that you will be so confused by my ridiculously vague and accusatory tone that you will start to wonder if you really are to blame and forgive my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">unforgivable</span> absence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Did it work?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Am I back in your good graces if only because you don’t know if you should be mad?</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Seriously, I fell off the map and of course I don’t blame you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I blame Rome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What is it with Italy and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">internet</span>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, now I’m back in the USA, drinking too much, sleeping too little, getting fat, and having lots of sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In a bizarre twist, I hosted my family Christmas despite the fact that I’m basically homeless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We served two types of handmade lasagna, traditional meat and butternut squash, followed by a deliciously rich chocolate cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, I made the pastas and sauces from scratch, and dinner was outstanding, but the real show stoppers were the Italian cured meats, cheeses, and wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Let me just say, we should consider renaming heaven <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">sopressata</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>With all this activity, I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">didn</span>’t have the emotional energy to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So here it is January 6<sup><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span></sup>, and I’m telling the story of my final days in Paris and Rome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.</span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-74872577832452560302009-12-09T02:00:00.000-08:002009-12-09T02:01:38.379-08:00Salon des Vins<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I’m not sure why my wine education hasn’t merited a post before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Maybe it needed to age, but the time has come to uncork these experiences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Enough with the wine metaphors, let’s talk about my new wine tutor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She is a complex person offering insight, knowledge, poise, and juicy gossip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Her intelligence and elegance suit Paris, but her stories of past loves and current struggles are very American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She is like a French Burgundy that has been “jammed” up a bit to appeal to U.S. markets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Susan has taught me the many regions of French wine while being a good friend to me while in Paris.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Both Italy and France categorize their wine by region and have government monitored grading systems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For instance, a DOCG Chianti must come from around Sienna and use 85% Sangiovese grapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In France, Burgundy is region that has over 300 appellations (the A in AOC) primarily growing Pinot Noir grapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Each DOCG or AOC may or may not be a blend and that may or may not be noted on the label.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact most wines, even in the US are blended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Cabernet Sauvignon wine is blended to cut the tannic nature of the grape and lower production costs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In both French and Italian wines, the terroir (climate, soil) is most important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The varietals (or grapes) are planted for their ability to grow in local climate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In contrast, American producers lead with the varietal and the location is secondary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There are many vineyards that are better suited to a zinfandel but plant cabernet sauvignon to accommodate current tastes in the American market.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">French and Italian wines have very different profiles from their American counterparts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Self professed wine geeks speak of Old World wines and New World wines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For the most part, Old World wines are meant to accompany food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are sharper and more complex, but less full bodied than New World wines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Most New World wines are created for mass market appeal and their flavors are developed for flexibility and drinkability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Old World wines are less laid back in the palate and reflect centuries of tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They force you to notice them, where New World wines are perfectly happy to chill out, in a delicious way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course, these are generalities in both wine and actresses and I love both Old and New World wines.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">While in Europe, I have expanded my palate and found some beautiful wines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The Italian education, like all things Italian, was haphazard and disjointed, which was both charming and frustrating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The French system is rigid and exact, like all things French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Susan, an American, gives an interesting perspective to the world of French wine, and I’m thoroughly enjoying my education.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Recently, we were able to attend a trade show of over 1000 independent wine producers from all the French wine regions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Housed in a convention facility with booths and color coded identification flags for each producer, the Salon de Vins was pretty unbelievable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>First, it was free and you could taste as much as you wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As an American I can’t begin to describe the glory of a free all you can drink wine tasting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was like 5 cent pitcher night at Biddy Mulligan’s, except with gorgeous wine rather than watered down Busch Lite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Each booth had a trash can for spitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>With this much wine, you can’t actually swallow without behaving like an idiot by the end of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The French have no tolerance for this so I spit, unless the wine was really good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We also strolled through the Loire and the Rhone, finishing with a few amazing wines from the Alsace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Susan provided information about the soil, varietals, and the typical experience of an appellation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was an amazing experience and I had a tremendous time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I must put in a disclaimer here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am just starting to learn about wine, and some of the things I have said may be wildly incorrect and are definitely oversimplified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If anyone finds an error, glaring or otherwise, please let me know.</span></p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-77233056297519654472009-12-03T11:21:00.001-08:002009-12-03T11:44:28.997-08:00Palm groves and CockatoosI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411093488170854354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgQz_lLTf1FJEkOwcN_DzpOHw9HxoRLEURWH6fNMlQq93jc0x7afv3udXYadtJ5orgK1RknPsd7IJY9RjeNXi5rotlcjC8amUsT_5mpfbVPm1QuX5frplUNw3esJo2A5lUSS-ewJ9hoex/s320/P1010058.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411093499556876898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTCxxCe8Z8Jw1mCfx8WQG1IT2kYj5NPsH7TGXC1hJv4E1moHvYINTbuH6O55_TZKJl6pLgO-lAjgsIv4vqVJpkMM0GZUfiea5QLKrShAA34DngkRZq0RUwbsw31qNLFGQACqgd_PoMTfk/s320/P1010074.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411093667658620930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6veRHCrWYq-ul5uQGpanZBuArfnknafOeYsxKUGefFRfMJyHxwdANjpU_pqz18nTPfzYOheFxxddLkH9Z0SPTHHyOjgXYOooAu5j6GTLv8nUCH7biCWj69Y0YVUmqoQV4Z0uj11ywPaK/s320/P1010076.JPG" border="0" />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. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411093480751586194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIm_UEFWotmu5WW_z6YbXDP2KnRB24ZKu5y0se94JpXmb2hvTT0ggeNa_sHs8SbGjeRg3Q5wBIczVxau8jso4m5uO2R1RgO4J-_wv2mSl10EH36NK0pOfe7ikjPUYc7mhcZuL2_RSfNBEO/s320/P1010079.JPG" border="0" />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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-4482532182774037122009-12-01T12:12:00.000-08:002009-12-01T12:25:17.013-08:00Wine, apple tart, and white marbleFrequently, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410364580591585970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELQvLh7_vVt8dci35ADXl_f2hWoasZa8UZjB-WCOSpsNoBXp1ZJriIHjxUNqWXLHmJRM0FvG_jRBWFCC79y1NHeYCidAfCcBcr1VB7rCr1hcEfYoyJ6V7aoo5LVrxKRL7s4d4OyAQNSY9/s320/P1010038.JPG" border="0" /> <div align="center">Adam and Eve</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410364588626657298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3uPhhzN2EVNSWI9HlS9lbVYIp2pt5h5GRq0xtOlqiRIoHpyUva6v2_zPl2qa-4dfxwKvp909XZ43ruSmDwj_zXM7rJgp5_0kx9otug5WOvrZyMJnC6273I4WoCRt2UBX1uAFI4R1fpFs/s320/P1010020.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center">The Kiss</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410364593474759122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fV_Y5lzp0UBUXvlzHMO0y34mToN6-lrFoKjt-uI69BkcIpEC1av-_6BzOrfECFBlUF7TPT09lqf_jWhwzcL-gANZsyk_m1afZWCgSc9ZCKOo35aWPHujxVg44R69-40sMglxol-P5Ckx/s320/P1010021.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center">The Thinker</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410364585672056818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtoB462dmWsXXUvKyKnZ6BpNali5nUuYVIITy9jwVgM44kvYMCUsne-1_cPKmmnpTikyV5c6TTeqxDorBYLF6phR0sMSnGjEUEcmU-cm7fs6LtQBwEb5BX29jT7P_OsRO3jtPoeWiJ_RT/s320/P1010010.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410364597969082322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVw_3sSlHiJbMetKlYwBTljxmHdg8CB4_R_bEuZhFO3IvSzuGEww2_IBcP9TI75RRgBIwvPHf6H_qbDnqNtd9JgNs0zkKM8qUNbYj4ii9pczGJd5uV67RHHVKhj1yNo5NAWhSYsn8HZRT7/s320/P1010027.JPG" border="0" />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-45969854627167747592009-11-28T08:52:00.000-08:002009-11-28T09:13:25.931-08:00The Battle of CubismSometimes 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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”.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><div></div><div> </div><div>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. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTV3fj_jqGlyIDv_iRPREuVxVo22hrKX2pv7itOG5LorMgTd_mMPgW2VvBxvCtII6FTgztzbXv_-CS2EiqTMgj913_0HWZIyDC7Kj7cg2twk4bMK1Jsn2S3vf_L3hJ5DeBskzNzyw-v1V/s1600/P1010002.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409200300314901138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcTV3fj_jqGlyIDv_iRPREuVxVo22hrKX2pv7itOG5LorMgTd_mMPgW2VvBxvCtII6FTgztzbXv_-CS2EiqTMgj913_0HWZIyDC7Kj7cg2twk4bMK1Jsn2S3vf_L3hJ5DeBskzNzyw-v1V/s320/P1010002.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMn7kedGLaYHJOctWt57iG_4nEQ9oeLABOkpZNWg6gOHpKGIYjpBLyrwfBeNRGYfyMNec-8UmvKvMPn1fKaSN6wRPZhDYi9UuQ71Ys6qYfsvPGBoCIhlOvI2wFzWnRaGgU8IMWQIM_znDD/s1600/P1010001.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409200295739791650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMn7kedGLaYHJOctWt57iG_4nEQ9oeLABOkpZNWg6gOHpKGIYjpBLyrwfBeNRGYfyMNec-8UmvKvMPn1fKaSN6wRPZhDYi9UuQ71Ys6qYfsvPGBoCIhlOvI2wFzWnRaGgU8IMWQIM_znDD/s320/P1010001.JPG" border="0" /></a> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409200313939851618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXKgRH3LuTq4Xpt8jKu71ClPkaO9sAYJMZWs9j5VO6KYxGPhe88n9qrqORlNn__kKPNuNU1sDcBSOvZP69TEKeIbc21WB7CYUrKRhJLzwr7p60_mGBCOiW_z1-8fyx6O5bAxXseDytRmA/s320/P1010006.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409200310330997538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6X6CcvYjOPjJRyXrAOuofHPkxxJodvHUCK2GmDAFXUv7wcvvyt-vogRThmj7S71dE7ExNZgrKandmojpR1oR5-fosCdsB_n5cX79q5Gg6uqg7ElqX0Iu9lhWoVsJt2AIYlfUcvDCA0ih2/s320/P1010005.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-63647935595882680982009-11-26T12:26:00.000-08:002009-11-26T12:38:12.235-08:00<div align="center">Some pics from around town <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BRXmmzlqHqZRi4V2z5mdwC1oPmdYgBZVhlNsFa-ynf-ZLoNsYES7EkRLCF3MUTW-NAQB8Cytxv0avkMzoRDiLKK3O9521c_m74TgjqHE7B8DuJszyce1XCgWM3VfCc6aROrNoJhWkju7/s1600/P1010018.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408512429741428610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BRXmmzlqHqZRi4V2z5mdwC1oPmdYgBZVhlNsFa-ynf-ZLoNsYES7EkRLCF3MUTW-NAQB8Cytxv0avkMzoRDiLKK3O9521c_m74TgjqHE7B8DuJszyce1XCgWM3VfCc6aROrNoJhWkju7/s320/P1010018.JPG" border="0" /></a> Saint Genevieve<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQt8NPPzokJY0dBqWqZAVNPr7LJgcbW1y90rAj0JCYkq6-40UExZFTKfQjYADSXScCD22GVDTpPQWGuh_hLpvjHY6sqP3FXLzr5oruzRyc1xxyylBay-ccwF8BqzgQyHGIHKB37fSVm-BG/s1600/P1010077.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408512426558967346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQt8NPPzokJY0dBqWqZAVNPr7LJgcbW1y90rAj0JCYkq6-40UExZFTKfQjYADSXScCD22GVDTpPQWGuh_hLpvjHY6sqP3FXLzr5oruzRyc1xxyylBay-ccwF8BqzgQyHGIHKB37fSVm-BG/s320/P1010077.JPG" border="0" /></a> I don't know the name of this church. I just came upon it one day.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOg8uyRVK8LrjuzsM5hfmrutgyAmGhSjirHbk8NqGhC0t3JI4vQPTTC5W41SCWi2GGNmk7101AAccBThtLZfSw8a9klXT2wZn0MFWQoXepdgWmmmYNy79dZPjPXTCKOEINgQ2pYVbLYjns/s1600/P1010081.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408512418814136002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOg8uyRVK8LrjuzsM5hfmrutgyAmGhSjirHbk8NqGhC0t3JI4vQPTTC5W41SCWi2GGNmk7101AAccBThtLZfSw8a9klXT2wZn0MFWQoXepdgWmmmYNy79dZPjPXTCKOEINgQ2pYVbLYjns/s320/P1010081.JPG" border="0" /></a> Ile de la Cite<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408512434932288770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjWkZcvnv5Liyaq3uFMSY9_IJmSPA8YVpwdDV5GI2BpV2dvLIoqKbNQgieBzmlGQzaks-r1CiDxiewVFui_67-aZyjPPpVKT6FW8WP8wUyPEqp1zQ2odaZjScDSlbKZw-_hHCrNk1Sld2/s320/P1010086.JPG" border="0" />The 1st by the Louvre<br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-37971129149399546712009-11-26T12:15:00.000-08:002009-11-26T12:16:28.059-08:00Turn the pageI’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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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…Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-25640758837883872822009-11-22T08:44:00.001-08:002009-11-22T09:02:50.932-08:00Layers of buttery delightI 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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">Bong, the pastry chef</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406970470489470690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVBVCin7CZqeTpOANUVLZspfPhjaVbzxZBPgVU_cTO6dsNLWxEioY5XSaV5YXWcQ1OsohZtchmigbSqMSRWq3vR_h5Y3iWEsPrCbJe_b0ax3ruOlOTD10vVKIkxPfb-nEwvU1pGLa5CcY/s320/P1010022.JPG" border="0" /> <div align="center">Mille Feuille<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406970474019402898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3d4YVn1ZBdsr_wuai1osOZuRy7En2z64Xd6_mrYrYXUgRRdOrwzgSA_yZxsNLTsOveSn-YLzDCenGz-5bkg81D2WUAEXI_3qKeBpa6j4TsjIYvYQBA2x87fEMPx2AtlR75iIUQngkCyxf/s320/P1010021.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406970476751280946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI2s_n2UrJ7Qvl-nbqj3fAYyl_0Pbc8MuWueL7bwfVO4hQohh2myCV1pWwFUkJyrUqGpkos0tfSGWXT_BmAnXyfjg2AmxQq9AKFsQ5_xf7jWKotfpZ5sqhldUwELpOclAR3xPE1vdi2jLL/s320/P1010024.JPG" border="0" />Palmiers and Financiers (egg whites and almond powder with cocoa)<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406970481219743938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnXTqs8C6SOVMHwuECW767zlSvt9SF_LnuNFoe5sk39PuWYFtgI-GxACgrtVMasC-n3K-0sf6P9naPi4L_NWKAWVwGap0Owtn1Ef4B3nhEVxyM3j1Ph04vSycmnQpaHwTO7y4xurUPqe2l/s320/P1010004.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406970486473239570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipb9cG6MFhiLzSsYdUwqQgvc1V_mfjdVS5sgdGclSligYpnVjNER7NrZ0dQr7xAZTwZu4ag8l-gGAZCfOvrtvfrS-bRXfNPP1bdN0zU7O8AY-aCFoVHFSrfEk7TquhmtQT0tyyT1O_2H8c/s320/P1010001.JPG" border="0" /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-68223176238549743892009-11-18T10:01:00.001-08:002009-11-18T10:05:02.265-08:00Friday night - Parisian style<div><div>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. </div><div><br />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?</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405505549556053042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFwi1ji-95957-BowUOxV4Po6uNft8tU1eGDX53MIuCYLVSS8UuumFepKHF-r4s2sFaXiAC6EpcjJCWDb8kFvz6z_K2YvfTJw20-sEawZTYDJHywEKqiIGoT9_jXHOn0m0C6U6Pn4GM0l/s320/P1010020.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405505553100847714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGulUmQ3vC0ZJMaiEmgS9u6q1yWy9gDlRSAXoGpnQ_2BGYgyZ-HVFJODA51LzWzV_E3Ju1wUbTMYa_aG6RYHa1Pq8vmEkJbFlF4TBVELy8KfOZoihww0TZN8UZsZIetCEQbM2wMr773PYa/s320/P1010018.JPG" border="0" /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-34007970198186429472009-11-18T09:55:00.000-08:002009-11-26T12:22:36.222-08:00Desire is a funny thingParis 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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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?Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-69218790223296365472009-11-16T03:27:00.000-08:002009-11-16T03:29:03.454-08:00<div>I had to...<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404661923594813618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJuXzDT1LuOeF5vzeclU2vzGHWGt-4vdByMoJPa2cgItFuFeg8uhrEbF1uVTCmERXv7NRYDfmsyO4ZKLY-AMy3cb8h-4xWrcNEr4EX8X1iD8iyH-BQ691EsaVbDDHWCz-eEJJOgur1dfX/s320/P1010020.JPG" border="0" /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-38914973879366480402009-11-16T02:58:00.000-08:002009-11-16T03:27:01.790-08:00Monet, Manet, what are the odds?<div align="left">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.<br /><br />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. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404658893168162306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxKfFRTJuXBj_TKmEt6V1GBKrHAdwifbV2cMJhbz1m7Lrf6t_sib-RJHPEeogpLd9sMtLvDD0-dTFudvVyXH3bvdIiSnGNz-f0wj6-biiCzCWPzBEpA5vPfrGVhzqasV1dXjyeduGGYvC/s320/P1010027.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404658898417531250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMT7PDOHWuXrcx6dF9Z2sPhsos0IBfYnhtRzQ7sjPOFehKRH8jzHAgyypEG_cI8_jp9PujaWnhlprQsnKWB3edlhQvuUTlVrzD1B0n9SfL6nDh2VZhAZPGHQ8UmKHo1UOSOow6Q_DPTnf/s320/P1010026.JPG" border="0" /> 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. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404658898991989682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsjUZ3qJv2K69jbnzrRpZvJb1ayc_JJE_yE-Zf-PnPrJKgOekHwx4shoAX2zzyEVEHugb_9nADPvitlwN-z5X8ZqNCDhr7M4Yr4Q-19ftM_q6RoxwErOS2QSvYaJD1CsFvLsYqOs5bI4I/s320/P1010051.JPG" border="0" /> <div align="center">The Restaurant</div><p>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… </p><p>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. </p><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404658912403730098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5feW_7NL9qJMtUE1ctgLHLhVEADXsty6PPj9zt3gun5R1J6Jpdfdl12JuQH7MZPKfHLXpVfMdfOwRwZCX5kQzfYeLLJFEEBWSgZHyN_74Fem7z2q46Z6KpmYN4chpaydQA7X2Ktlkbp6/s320/P1010039.JPG" border="0" />Le Souper au Bal by Degas </div><br /><br /><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404658918394223250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4G5p_sXH6XmOW5PgzBC4HL78MDPM02dsBNuqK37rlKYgJWGwYcszmXhPDKvk-PXW72qA0ArEOewOqsrh9UwxGNRsUNrz-1JXAuPuBGQQLUa5TR0v9Z0kCe9U-8OoSnkfKuW6gAFHweh8A/s320/P1010042.JPG" border="0" />Morisot by Manet </div><div align="center"> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404659788164105170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmuTSMQZAr0PUBWykDN-LUN3YUr539-Cnir0c7JESx933zC_-i9kBd1MevYHIu6c4fP7mFsIM2saSmsBjBu05hRahUFA75yUR0WEf-ISAvDBoF5AbICFCzLaK5lsxGYrXfWbA6bPdQUreP/s320/P1010038.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center">Monet did turkeys. Les dindons 1877. I don’t know. It makes me laugh.</p>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-87082803845342175512009-11-14T12:45:00.000-08:002009-11-14T12:46:11.989-08:00I 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…Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-29000259124785894402009-11-12T14:32:00.000-08:002009-11-12T14:35:45.323-08:00I'm sorry BessyI 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.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-71489607463717097372009-11-12T14:24:00.000-08:002009-11-12T14:54:21.339-08:00Goth 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.<br /><br />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.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403347304477771330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9GrhlxPT6MLfsPA1KfnhxNGpch2Kwjv3n46lehi0aTFLSba9bJ9ihNcw4EqlHtawn8w-ap50C4AiwLq5PsKFR8ShVk_XDlZ4jSwRjnsfBBEo8t18hVA0yKPr0ER6wJRFHzl9AQMgKtoz/s320/P1010016.JPG" border="0" />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.<br /><br /><div>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. </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971637220298977277.post-64514016993401888512009-11-10T09:46:00.000-08:002009-11-11T13:10:06.427-08:00Paris in NovemberI’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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 (<a href="http://www.saint-severin.com/">http://www.saint-severin.com/</a>) 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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402545763270449234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KvCcNnGNG-TG_h4TGIoJ5h4mZmirhi3WjVYwiXutrDRcRiilHDD9k9c9yUSypip8tzAHmVhBXSqpkmaipdItMcraFgr-CKhLwLqDPOny3jN8G2p5sxq_YcIRcQTsSOSNvIyRnBRwNjqE/s320/Fountain.jpg" border="0" />The fountain outside my apartment.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402545749033841506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX4FtmmzQx8_OYxwqpshYPguamJpVDW95CDl4QoPqIyq27eR9n4GOj_1pPXLemi3XT2WwOxO3cHwKZ6_gC_D1Hme9ryH0g_XcLjVFcixFTrlBXUuk0_K3d2wP7B8HUy8t0HRRIfQzalHOv/s320/livingroom.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402545748987888978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 122px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbSmir5hCydj83TCk_h9hpA5izDFENN27Y83voJ1J3Jsok_HKW9JVY8AsHFx1k_gFakfBv1ilptzMjpfHUg0gl0Nu5XHBUnSSx5r41rScC4QZEOXlxXoPyx7R8HPEMrHNTmKH_UlJHzqj/s320/BR.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402545754609074354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 129px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlb8zz5TqQcKTeRojS5NMY0i8LTrWWhFfxy-NtUJUyWnR0c7FCTxrdNJjA7bEVE74cjiMjLcVu4vptnVJmcuSzIYvplxFWMyNbL4u9zvcuIL6dADYl1Vzj3YkhnATdFLDOj2mvxOlRjJ57/s320/kitchen_window.JPG" border="0" /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGBsFt6BUUDNaRENrdgPNC1GAO5ilPFGRy5JsatWdqqtnMs-UVS89yyY1XYO5wW0FQWQ3Jwwd4gnUtH9ogGMsswAO26gaGjq0IGjLdjeT7nljlUwQ6qXcXkMnRhtwrSPw2DEF5XCkJ51a/s1600-h/ShowerRm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402545758320719250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 120px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGBsFt6BUUDNaRENrdgPNC1GAO5ilPFGRy5JsatWdqqtnMs-UVS89yyY1XYO5wW0FQWQ3Jwwd4gnUtH9ogGMsswAO26gaGjq0IGjLdjeT7nljlUwQ6qXcXkMnRhtwrSPw2DEF5XCkJ51a/s320/ShowerRm.jpg" border="0" /></a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04227643655958719826noreply@blogger.com2