Joy in a chalk outline

I’m pretty laid back when I travel. I like to leave space for things to happen. 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. I like to experience space actively, as it was meant to be. 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. When I am doing something that is so fundamental to me, I can more fully understand the energy a foreign place brings a moment. I feel the sense of being alive more acutely in these moments. 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. I take that back. The real beauty of travel is experiencing inspiring places, people, customs, and food, but I digress. These experiences cannot be scheduled so I try to leave plenty of time for them occur organically. Because of this, I don’t sightsee as much as I used to. I have been lucky enough to see a lot of really amazing places and crossed a lot of sights off my list. Now, I have different goals.

Through this lens, the trip has been a big success. 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. The last few years have left me a shell of my former self. It’s not just the divorce, lay off, or loss of friends and a home. My marriage was slowly sucking me dry of all optimism. It is so incredibly painful to love someone who doesn’t love you. As my ex began to withhold his love, I tried to become something he wanted, losing all semblance of myself. During my time in Italy and France, I was able to find a bit of me. 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. This is progress. This is hope. This is the beginning of joy. I just hope I can keep it up.

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)

The first day in a new place, I walk for hours to build a sense of belonging.

Home

Home. I’m ready. I miss Mike, my family and friends, and speaking English. I miss the not so mighty dollar and bagels. God, I miss bagels. I miss coffee to go and doggie bags. I miss wide highways and big kitchens. I miss football and Project Runway. I miss running. This is the longest I have ever gone without running. I miss skiing, although I hear the snow sucks. I miss men that can understand my words, if not their meaning. I miss my seemingly limitless underwear collection. (This sounds sexy, but it’s only because I never throw out old pairs.) I miss the majestic beauty that is Colorado with big, wide open spaces and lots of fleece. I’m embarrassed but I’m just going to say it. I miss Starbucks. I miss working and thinking about something other than myself. I’m bored with that topic. It’s time. I’m coming home.

It was a four pizza weekend...

I spent my last two days searching for more gifts, drinking coffee, and eating pizza. I arrived in Rome on Saturday night and left Tuesday morning and ate a total of 4 pizzas. My final meal was a plate of cured meat and cheeses with two glasses of Barolo at Roscioli by Campo de Fiore. Yum. I have missed the warmth of Italy, the food, the people, the weather. I went sightseeing on Monday, visiting Campo de Fiore, Piazza Navona, Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, Forum, and the Colosseum. The highlight was a cappuccino I had a couple of blocks from the Colosseum. Definitely the best cappuccino I’ve ever had. Ever. 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. After 15 minutes with no contact, I was thinking about leaving, never a good sign, but the coffee was perfection. Strong, but not bitter with a touch of silky milk and tons of thick, rich foam, it warmed my body and soul. My biggest regret is that I didn’t get the name of the place so I may never have another cup. I guess the bright side is that I can wax poetic about the coffee without having to back it up.

The cappuccino experience was followed closely by my visit to San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane designed by Borromini. It’s actually one of my favorite buildings from Architecture school, along with the Tempietto, which I visited in September. Check, and check. I highly recommend the Tempietto. It’s in Trastevere, a great neighborhood, in some sort of convent or monastery. Steep stone steps lead to the top of the hill. The building sits in the courtyard of another building, the cloister I think. It’s like a Tiffany blue box sitting among a pile of other Christmas presents. 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. It was grace in the middle of drab nowhere, which is always exciting to me.

Woman with baggage available

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. I think transfering the luggage responsibility is the best reason I’ve heard to get remarried. I’m totally serious. That and changing my oil. I’m not just out for myself; my future husband won’t have to clean the kitchen or grocery shop. That seems fair.

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. I worry about the weight of my bag. I miss the days when I could pack as much as I could stuff into my suitcase without breaking the zipper. Now I lug my suitcase to the scale, remove a few scarves, a couple t-shirts, a pair of shoes. It’s the shoes that hurt the most. For this trip, I removed everything that wasn’t black, yellow, or purple. For those of you who know me, you know this made for a strange wardrobe. As if travelling with two bags isn’t enough, now I also have to deal with the guilt of additional baggage fees as well.

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. I know there is an easy solution to this problem. Pack light. One travel blog even recommends packing clothes that you plan to give to Goodwill. That way you can just donate the clothes while in Europe, no need to bring them home. (No, it wasn’t Rick Steves, but good guess.) Ugh. These suggestions are so fucking depressing. I’m going to Europe and I’m going to wear crappy old clothes that I hate? It is this sort of mentality that gives Americans a bad name. No. I want to look and feel good so if there is any man out there that hates grocery shopping, give me a ring.

Like I don't have enough hang ups with weight, now my luggage is too fat?

I made it to Rome and the journey was as difficult as expected. Air travel between European countries is a bitch. They have a thing with the weight of luggage. 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. After shipping 3 boxes home, I was sure that I would be under the limit. The journey began with a taxi to Orly airport, where the cabby asked, “what terminal?” I have no idea. Aren’t there signs for airlines at the airport? No. OK. I find the confirmation email and there is no terminal listed for Orly. Luckily, the cabby has a list of flights, times, and terminals. According to his list, my airline only flies out of Fiumicino (the main airport). But I show him the confirmation email and he grudgingly admits that I might not be an idiot. Based on “the list”, all flights to Rome on any airline are out of the west terminal. Great, let’s go there. He drops me off with my two carefully packed, extremely heavy suitcases and I wonder the terminal, which has an alarming lack of signage. I finally find an information booth where a lovely woman points me to Hall 1 (of four). OK.

There is one line in Hall 1 and it is long. Of course, it’s for Vueling Airlines. I take my spot at the end of the line and wait. Parisians, like Italians, have no respect for the line and I am ditched frequently. When you don’t speak the language, you pretty much have to take it. The line is going nowhere, and I don’t mean that in a poetic kind of way. It wasn’t moving. After 30 minutes, I discover that the line is for the Barcelona flight which has opened check in. In Europe, you can’t check in too early. For Vueling, that’s 2 ½ hours. I go to the correct line for Orly which is blissfully short. Once at the desk, I put my two bags on the scale and hold my breath. The charming Vueling employee informs me that the maximum weight for baggage per person is 23kg. Anything above 23kg will incur a charge of 10 euro per kg. I have about 20kg more than 23kg. This is not good. 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. The problem is that I have packed the small bag with all my toiletries. I was planning to store my big suitcase at the airport and just bring the small one to my hotel. 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. I won’t go into the details, but was embarrassing and exhausting. I was sweating and cursing (so American). Plus, I really have no idea how much personal stuff constitutes 3kg. After 15 minutes of humiliation, I returned to the desk. I had overestimated the 3kg and now my bag was too heavy. He obviously felt sorry for me because he let it slide and I’m off to Gate 10. It is directly behind the check in desk so this should be smooth sailing.

Well Gate 10 is made up of Gates A-P. OK. I look on my boarding pass, it only says Gate 10. OK. I go to the monitor, only Gate 10. OK. I check the monitor at each gate looking for Vueling. No Vueling. OK. I decide to chill out for a while to see if it becomes clear later. Nothing. This is starting to remind me of a painfully long chartered flight from Mexico. We are supposed to boarding by now. I find the Vueling information desk and ask the attendant. She looks at me with the “poor thing, it must be difficult to be that stupid” look and points to Gate N. OK. A line has formed for no apparent reason. The plane isn’t even there yet. 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. About 5 groups of people ditch me. OK. Finally, I’m on the plane, on my way to Rome. I’m so excited for pizza I can barely stand it. I get to Rome and decide to take a taxi. I just don’t want to deal with my luggage and I’m already late for check in at my apartment. The cabby is ancient and has a serious case of the shakes. He can’t lift my suitcase into the car by himself. Again with the weight issue. I put in the trunk and get into the cab. He asks where I’m going, but can’t understand me. Finally, I show him the address on my phone. OK. He turns off the meter and says “40 euro”. Then, he has the nerve to charge me for the baggage. I’m too tired to fight. We get to Trastevere, and Stefano is waiting. Perfect. I shower and get some pizza with salami picante. I love Italy.

I love the experience of space. It’s where I find religion. I see God in the way the light hits the Rockies on a clear day. The Rodin Gardens feel like heaven’s antechamber and Stonehenge, while not beautiful, gives me a sense connection to past civilizations. 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. Space can be magical to me and Paris is filled with magic spaces. I know it’s not perfect, but the air is charged with grandeur and beauty. If you can, you must go.

Thank you, I love it!

I spent my last week in Paris shopping for gifts, reading and writing at the cafes and wandering the streets. I love to shop, but only for myself. I know this sounds really selfish, and it is, but shopping for other people stresses me out. I belong to a family that would rather strut down Main St in a metallic gold, puff painted Christmas sweatshirt than suggest returning it. 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. 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. I’m still blaming the divorce for the drinking. I figure I’ve got another two years before I have to find a new devastating life experience to drive me to the bottom of a nice Chianti. I’m sure something will come up.

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. You would think this would be simple. 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. Trust me. I spent days browsing for the perfect object, a physical manifestation of my deep understanding and love for each family member. 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. Finding the right gift for my brother is virtually impossible and my boyfriend is VERY picky. So I shop and shop. 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? The next day, I return to buy the gift, but can’t find the gallery. I tried three more times with no luck. It must be God telling me that Mom doesn’t want an ink drawing of a nude woman painted on cardboard. Fine. It is with this stress and a few tears that I purchase all the goodies.

As if the exchange rate isn’t enough of an insult, I have to ship everything home because of the weight restrictions on trans-European Union airlines. 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. Fine. I spend two days purchasing and packing the boxes only to unpack them at Le Poste because they are over the weight restriction. There is nothing like spreading your personal belongings all over the post office counter to really make you want to go home.

But the café crèmes were fantastic, the wine was sublime, and the walks were wildly romantic despite my solitary existence. I returned to the Louvre, the Rodin, Notre Dame, Pompidou, Luxemburg Gardens, and many other favorite spots. Paris really is beautiful. On my last day, I finally visited the Eiffel Tower where I climbed to the 2^nd floor and enjoyed the 360° view of the city. My trip was complete.

The Birth of a New Friendship, Me and Soup

I have the opportunity to rent the apartment of my French tutor’s son for 600 euro/mo. He is a 21 year old smoker so it is a little disgusting. But with a deep clean, it could be great and cheap. She has also hooked me up with a job as a cook at an innovative local restaurant, Le Pre Verre, where I dined one afternoon for research. The food is traditional with a global twist and the prices are totally reasonable. Their cream of cauliflower soup whispers of Moroccan spice. Coriander, cumin, and turmeric gossip about the cauliflower with the cream and butter in delicious harmony. 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. The roast chicken was delightful, but the mashed potatoes were inspired by the pancetta and butter. At first I was disappointed with dessert, tiramisu with endive. 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. It didn’t. However, I’m impressed that the chef was able to put a little vegetable in my dessert without ruining it. Food for thought. If you go, make reservations and don’t let them put you in the basement.

Back to my future, McFly. 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. It sounds great, but not the right path for me right now. When the best part about a major life change is the soup, you may want to reconsider. Besides, Paris is a tough town, and I think I would be lonely. Now if I could populate Paris with Italians that would be an opportunity. Of course then it wouldn’t be Paris.

The Parisian Pysche

My friends, I have been in a very dark mood lately. 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. Paris a place of glorious food, deliriously high fashion, and triumphant gothic architecture, but there is something so cold about it. People aren’t rude or uneven unkind, but there is little joy. Parisians seem to focus more on their image than their happiness. 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.) They don’t see the beauty in unbridled laughter or any other outward manifestations of emotion. Of course, Parisians would say that I’m a loud and overbearing American. They may be right, but they are so busy conforming to an aesthetic ideal that they seem emotionally removed.

I have hesitated to discuss this because it’s so negative, but I find myself uninterested in writing anything else. I feel like it would be dishonest. So here I am saying it out loud. I think Parisians are so cool that they’re boring. There is nothing wrong with the Parisian point of view, and most are incredibly good looking. It’s just that their demeanor leaves me wondering if Parisians are more satisfied by more surface connections than Americans. This is disappointing because I often feel like kindred spirits with the French. 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'. They follow a strict social code, and the resulting interactions are quite nice and gracious. I love how intellectual and cultural pursuits are the backbone of the society. The streets are teeming with philosophy, poetry, and art. They believe in the culture of food, using meals to catch up with friends and experience pleasure. There is no bigger sin to Parisians than creating a bad meal. One Thanksgiving, my mother in law served a store bought pumpkin pie, and I thought, “Doesn’t she love me?” I realize this is demented, but I blame my mother, who I’m sure would blame her mother and so on. However, Parisians would completely agree with the sentiment. Alas, these common threads do not make a true bond. After spending some time in Paris, I can see why the US and France are constantly at odds politically. I respect the French point of view, even enjoy it, but I wouldn’t want to be like them. And I believe the feeling is mutual.

Where have you been?

I didn’t hear from you so I stopped writing….

I learned that trick from my divorce. When you (or your ex-husband) really screw up, blame the other person (that’s me in this sad little story). It’s not just for divorce either. Any blow off can be healed with a little double talk and blame delegation. I have a friend who made plans with a new man for New Year’s Eve. She called him, a lot, but received no return call, no text, no email, no page, and no telepathic message. Nothing. Two days later, he left a voicemail saying his phone wasn’t working and he was kinda pissed at her for bailing on him, until his phone started working again. Maybe that’s true, but when you have plans with someone, you call, even if the other person doesn’t. I’m dubious, but she’s smitten so I will give him the benefit of the doubt. Either way, table turning is an excellent tactic. She’s still mad, but he stopped any discussion about his bullshit move with a short, goofy, and possibly true story. If she tells him to get lost, she will always wonder if she should have given him a second chance. Brilliant.

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 unforgivable absence. Did it work? Am I back in your good graces if only because you don’t know if you should be mad?

Seriously, I fell off the map and of course I don’t blame you. I blame Rome. What is it with Italy and the internet? However, now I’m back in the USA, drinking too much, sleeping too little, getting fat, and having lots of sex. In a bizarre twist, I hosted my family Christmas despite the fact that I’m basically homeless. We served two types of handmade lasagna, traditional meat and butternut squash, followed by a deliciously rich chocolate cake. 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. Let me just say, we should consider renaming heaven sopressata. With all this activity, I didn’t have the emotional energy to write. So here it is January 6^th, and I’m telling the story of my final days in Paris and Rome. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

Salon des Vins

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

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

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

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

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

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

Palm groves and Cockatoos

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

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

Wine, apple tart, and white marble

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

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

Adam and Eve

The Kiss

The Thinker

The Battle of Cubism

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some pics from around town Saint Genevieve

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


Ile de la Cite


The 1st by the Louvre

Turn the page

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

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

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

Layers of buttery delight

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

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

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

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

Bong, the pastry chef

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

Friday night - Parisian style

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

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

Desire is a funny thing

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

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

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

I had to...