Flocons de Neige

Traveling in winter can pose problems, but being from California, this usually means nothing more than waiting out heavy rain and wind. In Europe (and most places other than California) winter of course means snow and sub-zero temperatures both of which tend to ground trains, planes and automobiles. Cody and I just experienced that first hand. But we were lucky compared to the many who are still stuck at Heathrow.

We left Oakland via BART (train 1) and arrived at SFO with no issues. The big rains were not forecast to arrive until Friday so we weren't worried about delays. We enjoyed the lounge and boarded the plane with nary a problem. I watched one movie and then conked out until Cody woke me up in time for breakfast. I NEVER sleep on planes, so this was a nice treat. Business class (thank you air miles) makes such a big difference. We had to circle Heathrow once, but then landed mostly on time. Then we sat, stuck on the tarmac, with no gate to pull up to so we could deplane. Our pilot updated us that the tiny bit of snow that had fallen that day was wreaking havoc on the ground. We had no idea how badly until, about 1 hour later, we finally made it to a gate and exited the plane. I turned on my phone only to receive a text message that out flight had been canceled. Gulp.

We made our way to customer service only to encounter a line about 4 hours long. We decided to get our baggage and try customer service on the phone instead. When we got to baggage claim, the extent of the cancellations became clear. Hundreds of unhappy people were milling about waiting for their bags. Some had done this 2 days a row, only to have their flight canceled again. After about a half hour I decided to make my way to the main airport to try and get some help while Cody waited for the bags. The scene was utter chaos. British Airways was not even offering rebooking on the ground anymore and were advising folks to call or use the Internet to rebook. I tried both and both were down because so many people were trying to connect. At that point I decided to see if we could get tickets on the TGV to Paris. I managed to find a free Internet terminal and found 2 tickets for the last train out of St. Pancras at a whopping 300 dollars each. I called Cody and we decided to go for it, price and all (I will try and get some refunded on Monday) and I am so glad we did. All flights have been canceled since then and all the trains on Saturday and Sunday have been sold out.

Cody finally found our baggage and we hightailed it to the London Heathrow Express (train 2) to Paddington, where we hopped on the tube, having to transfer once (trains 3 and 4) and finally arriving at St. Pancreas with an hour to spare. The train (train 5) left an hour late and had it's speed restricted due to the cold weather. Time slowed to a crawl, but finally, 3 hours later, we arrived in Paris. Of course the metro had stopped running (it was 1 am local time) so our last hurdle was to find a taxi. The queue for them was terribly long so we got a little French about it and flagged one down a little ways from the end of the line. 50 euros later (we were so tired we didn't even care that we had paid a premium to this cab driver) we arrived. The key was under the mat and the concierge and even turned on the heat for us. We collapsed in to bed and slept like the dead.

It took 5 trains and 1 plane to get to Paris but here we are. The snow is falling in big beautiful flakes, like big fluffy pieces of wool or cotton. The lights of Paris are beautiful and the chocolate chaud and long underwear are keeping us warm. Out apartment is lovely and just next to arts et metiers metro and up the block from my favorite patisserie, pain de sucre. We have breathed a big sigh of relief and are now sampling the delights of our second city. Today my favorite food market and dinner with Flo and Jacky. We won't have to get on a plane for 3 weeks. Until then, I just won't worry about it.

8 days and counting...

...and Cody and I will be on a plane, headed for Paris (via Heathrow). The weather undergound tells me it is reallllly cold in Europe right now. Highs in the 30s at best! I am planning on buying some silk long johns for the first time in my life this weekend. And then continue to try and get everything done. Somehow it always does get done... But wish me luck, or better yet, “Bon Chance.”

One month ago...

we were in Paris.

Time is playing tricks on me again, moving forward while I blink and blink again.

French Makes Me Nervous

Or at least it does sometimes. It is frustrating not being fluent in a language. I am proud of the French I know, as well as the bits of Italian and deeply buried Spanish, but that is not the same as fluency.

It's not like I haven't had plenty of practice this trip. So far I have managed to negotiate getting our money back from the mousey apartment's owner (as well as the agency that booked it). I rented a new apartment. I negotiated with a French Bank to withdraw the funds needed for said new apartment. I signed a contract with our non-English speaking landlord and even joked about mice. I braved a French post office and successfully mailed special envelopes. I managed to get us help at the Apple repair shop and bought a new keyboard when the top case on Cody's computer died. I bought us food, negotiated the fresh market, read signs and learned new words.

But I always had to think first. (Cody and Jayme say I squint and look off into the distance when accessing the French dictionary in my head.) Most words don't come to me naturally for most encounters. Hello, Goodbye and Have a nice day are easy. Arranging to meet the landlord to get our deposit back and hand back the keys is not. I write notes down, prompts for the conversation, ask him to speak more slowly please and we manage.

But I would so like to do more than manage. I hate not knowing the language. Not being able to understand the tinny voice on the metro loudspeaker that apologizes that the train is late because there has been a suicide on line 8. Not being able to always tell how much something costs without looking at the receipt. Not being able to get the joke or joke back. And not being able to talk beyond the level of a preschool student.

I have taken classes. I probably should take more. I am always far rustier at the beginning of our trips to Paris. By the end I am busting out the French I do know confidently. But a small part of me is still nervous that I will order the wrong food or book us on the wrong train. Or that I won't be able to figure out an alternate way to say something because I don't know the verb or noun.

I think we would need to move here for a year. Then maybe I could attain some level of fluency. We would need to bring the cats and the hens so they would learn French too. And then they could tell us how they prefer living in Oakland, where there is room to roam and the sun shines on the hardwood floors. And I would completely understand every word they said.

Paris Day Something: Sunday June 7th 2009

Time Flies in Paris and Bruges and Paris Again


Ack! Somehow the Sunday before we leave Paris is upon us. I walked through Marché Richard Lenoir today, taking my now familiar circuit to my favorite vendors. 3 weeks has been just enough time for me to be recognized and to have become a regular.

"Bonjour Madame, ça va? You want some cherries. Taste these. They are the sweetest today. And these tomatoes are the best of the season so far. Hello Madame. Two crepes with butter and sugar to go? Have a lovely day."

And then, limiting my purchases to what can be consumed in 3 days, I realized that we have to leave on Wednesday. And that the next market is on Thursday and that I will be on a plane instead of negotiating for fresh produce in my mediocre (but steadily improving) French.

Time has a funny way of tricking you, especially when you are on vacation. Just two days ago we were on a crash tour of Bruges. Time seemed to stop, or at least slow way down.

Bruges is a small city, full of an overwhelming amount of beautiful things to see, and see them we did. The whole city is a Unesco World Heritage site, amazingly preserved, somehow avoiding destruction from centuries of war and is now filled with tourists by day and patient, laid back Bruggians all the time. (I think the mellowness has something to do with the copious amount of cheap and delicious beer available at all times.) We tackled the cobblestoned streets and experienced more in our short two day stay than should have been possible. Beer, chocolate, cathedrals, little boats, canals, fries, swans, holy blood, ancient hospitals, ancient breweries, more relics, statues, paintings. It seemed like we were there for a week or more, but that is tricky time for you.

The high speed train whisked us back to Paris, where we emerged from the metro into a different, but familiar world—out home away from home. The Obamas dined in an old bistro across town, while Cody and I dined on Falafels and fruit.

This afternoon, Cody and I took a long walk, from the Arena of Lutece (an ancient Roman arena, now a park in the 5th), meandering back toward the Hotel de Ville, where we watched Federer handily roll through the first set, on a giant TV set up for all of Paris to watch the French Open. It started to sprinkle so we marched through the Marais, finally ducking out of the rain at Caves St. Gilles. The Open was on tv, the sangria good and strong, the olives delicious, free and plentiful and the mood convivial. This is why I love this town.

Oh and by the way, Cody's hair is like Mary Poppins' purse.

Bon Soirée et Bisous

Paris Day 14: June 1st, 2009

Dix bouteilles de vin + huit heures + nous amies en Paris+ beaucoup de SUPER cuisine a La Table d'Orphee = un jour supreme.

Cody Joins the Blogosphere. Time Stops. Volcanoes Pause.

I am suspicious of all things bloggy, zine-y or artist-centric. Sue me. The artist is the last person I trust, and daggummit, you should give anyone sporting a paintbrush a wide goddamn berth. They don't know nothing, least ways about their own. (Maureen has been watching the so-bad-it's-actually-bad True Blood during our evening downtimes and I think the patois is rubbing off.) My scribblings in Paris have been largely very narrowly targeted (JeffG I'm looking at you) and would bore the tar out of most of you. (My sweet, sweet grandmother used to say "the tar out of..." and only as of late did I realize how utterly vulgar that phrase is.)

Got to go to the French Open. Real highlight. I've always wanted to attend a major, and I actually got to sit Centre Court and watch Sharapova play coy with some poor girl from Kazakhstan (Shvedova).

My goal: less tightly wound. I present a quick sketch of a poem.

(Also: See the following for one of most flattering things to ever happen to moi. Click all four links. Superb.)

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hD3XOJXI8W8

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6QQQBkAF4o

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIg3mB9-s7I

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXwCa1jUPJ4



Sketches

Primeur du Marais
(Early product of the marsh)


These are awkward moments, the price not lust
but watching the waiter go straight from serving

your beer to getting into the back seat of a car
with dark windows. Is he coming back?

You're most likely on your own.
That's how it is.

No obscure painting will illuminate this scene.
No museum you've ever been to whose

name changes with the currents of arte du monde.
This century has started three times now,

paused at least once, can't figure out
its August from its ass, but what are we going to do?

The fabric hasn't shrunk so much as the threads
have a new relationship to the shirt you used to wear.

I'm pretty sure that's not where our camera points
but where it comes from. We're not the window

anymore when we jump, we're out of the fucking picture.
The garden below

turns out to be a box of artichokes
and we're lucky to land in the bananas.