Art Appreciation

I took the train to Paris last weekend, fully conscious that before too long, such a journey will cost more than $23 and take longer than 2 hours.

When a friend asked me about my plans for Paris, I listed the following activities: visit English-language bookstores, watch the Six Nations Rugby tournament in an Irish pub, dine at Breakfast in America, enjoy some Chinese food and/or sushi, and visit the Musee D'Orsay. The friend suggested that I was looking for a very American weekend, and suggested I find more Parisian pursuits.

Yes, well, Paris is fine, I replied, but I'm longing for home, and Paris offers more Americana than any other place I can get to by train, so there... And plus, I am planning to visit the Musee D'Orsay. So there, again...

It was a great weekend -- in the words of our Commander-in-Chief: mission accomplished. Bought three new books, watched two and a half rugby matches, shared pitchers of beer with a party of Welsh-men in town for their team's match against France, enjoyed a fine breakfast featuring un-French delicacies such as crisp bacon, buttered toast and salsa... and I visited the Musee D'Orsay.

And, I freely confess, the Musee was the highlight of the weekend.

The D'Orsay is dedicated to art from the second half of the nineteenth- and the early decades of the twentieth century, and is housed in a former train-station. I arrived early, and went directly to the fifth floor galleries to see the most famous Impressionists: Monet, Manet, Whistler, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, etc.

(As will soon become apparent, despite having attended an Art History class in college, I have never studied Art History. For those who have, I beg your forgiveness, if for example, Van Gogh is not an Impressionist. And if he was, then hang around a bit, because I'm sure to make some egregious errors shortly.)

On my way in I had rented an audio-guide, and also purchased a museum catalog. Thus armed, I stumbled past various master-pieces, audio-guide pressed to one ear, struggling to open the catalog to the appropriate page with my free hand. My mind was everywhere but on the paintings, so after thirty-minutes, I stuffed the book in my pocket, and dispensed with the audio-guide unless I saw something especially curious or intriguing.

And I had a terrific time. To use some hi-falutin' words, I interacted with the art directly. If a piece caught my eye, I stood there, absorbing it, observing the emotions I felt, noticing my "impression" of each painting (get it? "Impressionism"? I didn't either.) .

A painting by Leon Frederic entitled Les Ages de L'Ouvrier (The Ages of The Workman) put me in mind of my kids' school in Seattle -- the chaos of small children, the parallel societies of kids and parents, the sense that 99% percent of the kids will grow up to be doctors/lawyers/indian chiefs, just like their parents.

A canvas by Cuno Amiet called Paysage de Niege (Landscape of Snow) made me think about the way it feels to go to work lately.

And many other paintings made me miss my wife in a very specific way.

And then there was this rather famous painting by Edouard Manet called Dejeuner sur l'herbe (Lunch on the grass).

Ok, so let's talk about this painting.

I recognized it immediately, and knowing that this is universally recognized as a masterpiece, I did my best to absorb and appreciate it. Yes, it's a bit weird -- the ladies are nude, the guys aren't; and what the heck are those hats the men are wearing? But ok, I'm absorbing, I'm absorbing, I'm open to art, I'm open...

Step two: listen to the audio guide. The narrator explained that this painting caused a tremendous scandal when it was first shown, what with the ladies being nude and the guys wearing weird hats; then the guide described how Manet's technique was a departure, especially in his lack of attention to perspective -- the lady in the background doesn't look like she's in the background.

Ok, I'm absorbing... I'm noticing...

Yeah... nothin'... sorry, I'm not getting it.

The one lady is looking right at me -- that's pretty amazing -- as if she's inviting... no, daring me to join the group (sorry, left my funky hat in the car). But the guy on her left -- what's he looking at? Why is the guy on the right holding his hand that way?

Weird.

Ok, Next picture. Let's find another one that reminds me of Ceil.

As luck would have it, one of the books I picked up at the English-language bookstore tells "the rest of the story" about Dejeuner sur l'herbe. Here's what I learned:

Manet created this painting specifically to provoke the art "establishment" of his day which disdained any canvas not depicting a scene from antiquity, or illustrating a scene from the Bible. While nudes were a common subject for painters, they were idealized visions of loveliness and feminine proportion -- devoid erotic overtones and/or love-handles.

As for the strange pose -- turns out Manet purposefully cribbed that from a famous etching the "cognoscenti" would surely recognize.

This painting was a thoughtfully conceived thumb in the eye of the authorities -- Manet took something they revered (reproducing figures from a well-known classic) but juxtaposed it with things they'd find scandalous (a realistic depiction of a nude woman, men dressed in modern clothing) and painted in a style that would offend them (little attention to gradients of color, little care for perspective, no effort to hide or obscure brush-strokes).

Ok, so now I love this painting. Sticking it to the man! Yeah, baby! Go Edouard! Go Edouard! That'll show 'em!

So here's my question, though, to those of you who paid attention during Introduction to Art History: am I supposed to know all this stuff before I see the painting? And if so, what about the thousands of other paintings I haven't (and won't ever) read about... can I ever truly understand and appreciate those paintings simply by standing in front of them?

In the end, I guess, the paintings I saw that day "worked": I was moved -- I felt wistful, I felt heroic, I felt humble, I felt very, very horny. Maybe that's enough. But after reading up on Dejeuner sur l'herbe I'm beginning to think that an audio guide and a catalog aren't nearly enough preparation for visiting Musee D'Orsay.

Peace.

Recommended reading / surfing

I picked up a copy of the Jan / Feb 2007 issue of the Atlantic Monthly and I recommend it highly. Alas, the on-line edition of AM reserves much of the content from back issues for subscribers, but you may still be able to find a copy on your newsstand.

PJ O'Rourke's article on Mapping Innovation stands out as especially good, and within the article, the highlight is the visual representations of global trends available at Worldmapper. The site takes a standard map of the world, and distorts it to create comparisons between nations and regions.

A standard map shows each country's land-mass:
But what if, instead of land-mass, we mapped the distribution of, say, total births?

Or, for instance, population over 65: (note Europe and Japan)

Or, more disturbingly, war deaths in 2002:

I recommend the Atlantic and Worldmapper.

Peace.

Not feeling the love...

There are many things I like about France... or more specifically, things I like about living in France. More about the distinction some other time.

But there are a few things I absolutely detest, and would change in a minute if I could... and at the top of that list is motor scooters without mufflers.

You must be eighteen to get a driver's license in France. You can, however, drive a scooter from age 14, provided the scooter's engine is less than 80cc. (I'm not a gear-head, but my sense is that in the US, such motors are reserved for the pre-school moto-cross set.) So French teenagers do whatever they can to soup up their tiny, tinny little bikes -- and the first step is ripping off the muffler.

As a result, I sit here in my room, with the window slightly ajar, and hear a local Peter-Fonda-wannabe from 3/4-miles away. At that distance, the bike sounds like a leaf-blower. As it gets closer, the sound becomes that of a chain-saw. And when the Monsieur Speed Racer careens down my street, it sounds like someone cutting up a steel drum on a band-saw. The pitch and timbre seek out key spots in my neck and back, and my shoulders hunch up my ears. Que Quasi Modo: "The bells! The bells!"

The weather has taken a turn towards spring lately. I welcomed this at first -- but on the first sunny day, I realized that I'd just as soon keep the rain, if it would keep the teen-chapter of Heck's Angels at bay. Alas, the sunshine continues, unabated. And given the way the same kids pass round and round the town on their scooters, popping wheelies, and accelerating / braking suddenly to induce skids or slides, I can only conclude that the nightlife here is as boring for them as it is for me.

But tough crap for them, damnit. I'm sick of the noise. Someone's got to put an end to this!

There's a music shop in town... I wonder if I can buy a length of piano wire?

Taking one for the blog: Tete a veau

There aren't many options for dinner in Issoudun, France. There's a Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, a few up-scale joints with linen tablecloths and crystal water glasses. And there's Cafe Paix (Cafe Peace) -- the only joint in town that's open six nights a week (not Sundays) and serves food continuously from 11a to 10p (most places don't open for dinner until 7pm).

The staff at Cafe Paix are great. All three of them. I eat there about every other night -- they greet me when I come in, we shake hands, I sit at my usual table, the waitress hands me a menu and then giggles as I order in French. Generally, I have an omelet or croque madame (a toasted ham and cheese sandwich with a sunny-side-up egg on top). I don't really need to look at the menu, but she hands it to me anyway, so I page through it. All three pages.

It's the menu's middle page, though, that always catches my eye. Menu Terroir it says -- menu of the local soil. There are three courses: tete a veau, porc au lentils vert, et cafe gourmand. So let's see, starting at the bottom: cafe gourmand -- coffee for the guy who likes to eat a lot -- usually its a cup of coffee and a selection of three or four small desserts; porc au lentils vert -- pork with green lentils -- I like pork, I like lentils; but then comes tete a veau -- head of a calf. Hmmm...

Finally, after three weeks of flipping past menu terroir I surprised the waitress (and myself) and ordered it. How bad, I figured, could tete a veau be? It's probably a stew made from the meaty bits around the head. My grandma Minnie probably ate tete a veau back on the farm. Who am I to get all prissy? Bring it on.

Ok. Bad idea. If Grandma Minnie ate tete a veau, then she was a better man than I am.

The waitress brought the plate out with an odd expression on her face: a bit of "yech, I can't believe I have to carry a plateful of this stuff", a hint of "I wouldn't want to eat this", and a healthy amount of "damn, why didn't I bring my video camera to work today -- I'm going to want a tape of this guys face when I set this down..."

She set it down. On the plate was a small pile... no, a large pile, of chunks... chunks of... hmmm... what is that? I found a couple of "meat-looking" pieces and ate those. Not bad. Except for the skin on one side. Kind of chewy. I poked around with my fork -- no more meat-looking bits; the rest looked to be pure fat. I tried a bit. Nope -- too chewy to be fat. Hmm... what is this stuff?

Curious, I began to spread the bits out, trying to associate each chunk with the head of a calf. I can't be certain, but I believe I found: upper lip, edge of nostril and tip of the chin. And a bowl of vinegrette.

I pushed the bits back into a pile, and called it quits, proud that I had at least eaten a few bites.

The owner came over to clear the plate (was the waitress behind the bar laughing? Gagging?). He made big show, grinning broadly and asking in French, it wasn't prepared well? You want me to tell the guy to make it over again?

No, no, I laughed -- the problem is with me... the head of the veal is excellent, I'm sure.

You don't like French food?, he asked. No, I replied, it's great.

Escargot?, he said. Love 'em, I answered.

Andouillette? Big fan, I lied.

Fois gras? I've got some in my pocket right now.

But not tete a veau? I have my frontiers, I said (and I don't know how to say "limits" in French).

So, now this is our schtick . I arrive at the restaurant, and he calls to the kitchen, "Ready with the tete a veau!" Or sometimes he'll call out, "Monseuir, we're fresh out of tete a veau, can I bring you the head of something else?" Occasionally, I beat him to the punch,, asking, "How's the tete a veau tonight?" He replies, "We still have some left from the last time you ate it."

And indeed, it was the last time I'll eat tete a veau.

Do not click on this... this is gross!

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Sick in St. Emillion

Since Ceil and the kids left, it's been my goal to travel each weekend -- primarily by car, through I hope to fly to some more exotic locales before too long.

On Wednesday, though, I could feel a cold coming on. By Friday morning I was pretty sure I had a low-grade fever. I lay in bed, as if stapled to the sheets, unable to rouse myself and go to work. My brain swam with small decisions: shall I pack and check out or tell them I'll stay through the weekend; if I check out, where will I go; how far am I willing to drive, given how crappy I feel.

I decided to stay put, reserve the room for the weekend and get better.

Then I stood up, threw all my stuff into my suitcase and checked out. It's good that my body and I get together for conversations now and again, but consensus is tough to come by.

During lunch, I reviewed my guide-books and decided to drive to St. Emillion -- about 4 hours away, just east of Bordeaux. St. Emillion is famous for wine. I'm famous for whining. So let's go.

I left town after lunch, pulled off to the side of the road at 4pm for a teleconference with folks in Seattle, and arrived in St. Emillion by 6pm. It's a charming, medieval village, surrounded on all sides by vineyards. One of the guide-books said there is one wine-shop for every eight residents in St. Emillion -- clearly, the place is designed to sell wine to tourists.

Having popped cold pills during the drive, I felt numb and dim-witted, but also hungry and anxious for a walk. The town is small and the cobblestone streets are narrow and steep. Most of the shops seemed to be closed for the season, and even on a Friday night there were few restaurants open. I found a likely looking place, though, and took a table near a large group of women out for a night on the town. (Later I realized that all the ladies were seated for dinner, while their husbands were standing in the bar. The husbands later filled out, en masse, waving and blowing kisses, headed for other bars, no doubt. Looked like fun.)

A few glasses of wine with dinner, and a couple of aspirin, and I collapsed into bed.

I was up early the next morning, enjoyed breakfast at the hotel: croissants, jam, coffee and orange juice. I hardly miss the eggs anymore. I set out for a walk about town, stopping at the Tourist Office and buying a ticket for a tour of the "catacombs" under the city. While I waited for the tour to begin, I climbed to the top of the near-by bell tower -- whacking my head hard at one point. Medieval French monks were a diminutive lot.

I climbed down from the tower and joined the group milling about outside L'office de Tourisme. It wasn't clear who the tour-guide was, but everyone was in high spirits, greeting each other and laughing. A few more folks showed up and we set off. When we were three blocks away, the bell in the tower struck 10:30am -- which seemed odd. This meant that the tour had left seven minutes early -- not a very French thing to do. Something was amiss.

So, having hung at the back of the group, I hustled up and tapped a guy on the shoulder. In French, I asked, Is this the tour? His answer: Yes, no, kind of, does anyone else speak English, who are you, anyway?

It soon became clear that I had fallen in with a bunch of folks who were indeed on an organized walk of some sort, but it wasn't the tour of the catacombs. I sprinted back to the Office de Tourisme.

My tour had yet to leave -- and when it did, it was only the tour-guide, myself and another couple. The tour-guide spoke a little English, but his French sounded weird. I could follow what he was saying, kind of, but I didn't recognize too many words. This must be the local accent, I decided.

At one point, the guy began to do his schpeil in halting English -- I shushed him, saying "Don't worry about it... French is fine." I turned to the couple on the tour and explained, in French, that my French was very poor, to which the woman replied, in English: I don't understand you. I took this to mean that my French was indeed very poor, and she couldn't make out what I was saying. But as she kept speaking to me I soon realized she was Spanish... and indeed, the strangely accented French the tour-guide was using was his crappy Spanish.

The lady spoke more English than the tour guide, and I spoke more French than the lady did, so the tour quickly became a collaborative effort. We'd pause to look at the sights, ask questions, nod at the answer and then turn to one another and say, "I have no idea. I'm pretty sure this is really old, though."

After the tour, I bid the Spaniards good-bye and set out to taste some wine.

I'll ask your indulgence at this point, because I'm going to skip past the wine-buying. Suffice it to say that I spent way more than I planned and more than we can afford and I'm still wracked with guilt and buyer's remorse. I'm also looking forward to having some really top-notch French wine to drink when I get home.

I ate lunch across the street from one of the wine shops -- the wine merchants showed up soon after I did, and sent a glass of wine over to me (a sure sign that I had thrilled them with my purchase). And then my fever caught up with me, so I retreated to the room for the rest of the day. I staggered out for dinner around 9pm-- sitting next to another solo-diner -- and then staggered back to the hotel room, plagued by feverish thoughts of Ceil's reaction to seeing my wine purchases on the on-line banking statement.

The same guy turned up at the hotel breakfast the next morning, and we laughed about seeing each other again. Turns out he's a photographer in town for some pictures to accompany a magazine article. The woman writing the article turned up a breakfast and we had a nice chat.

I climbed back in the car, took a few turns through the vineyards on my way out of town and typed "Issoudun" into the car's GPS system -- and then spent the next four hours steering to follow the pink line on the GPS display. Odd that the system took me home via a different route than I used on the trip out -- but it was a terrific drive on windy country roads.

And so now, back "home" in my dormitory room. Still under the weather, feeling crummy... but already thinking about next weekend.

Recommended reading re: life in France

Writing this blog has been a very satisfying exercise, and I'm grateful for all the feedback I've received. I confess, however, to feeling as though I'm "cribbing" some of my style from a few of my favorite writers. Perhaps this is inevitable.

Nonetheless, if any of you are interested in visiting or living in France, or simply enjoy the humor to be found in others' stories of exasperation and futility, I recommend the following authors / books most highly.

Stephen Clarke
Clarke is a Brit who has lived in France for twelve years. His first two books, A Year in the Merde and Merde Actually describe his initial attempts to open an English Tea-house in France. Both books were best-sellers, and are easy and amusing reads.

Someone planning to visit France would benefit more by reading Talk to the Snail - Ten Commandments for Understanding the French. Note: there are eleven commandments listed -- a very French situation. Clarke speaks French fluently and offers insights into life in France that a piker such as myself intuits, but cannot describe. He also offers simple, concrete tips that'll speed anyone along in acclimating to life in France.

Bill Bryson
If you haven't heard of Bill Bryson, please stop reading this, click over to Amazon and order a copy of A Walk in the Woods, far and away, the funniest book I have ever read. I also recommend A Brief History of (Nearly) Everything and I'm a Stranger Here Myself. But none of these books deal with France.

For that, one must turn to what I assume is one of Bryson's earlier books, Neither Here Nor There, which documents a summer Bryson spent re-tracing a back-packing tour of Europe he took when he was eighteen. It's a funny read, though at times I felt as though he carried a bit too much disdain for the various countries and cities he visited. The tone is a bit caustic. Nonetheless, one would be well-served to adopt Bryson's attitude towards travel: this is amusing, isn't it? I must look quite ridiculous right now. Good thing I'm not taking any of this (or myself) too seriously.

David Sedaris
If I'm ever to be re-incarnated as a chain-smoking, formerly drug-addicted, deeply neurotic homosexual man from North Carolina by way of New York, I want to come back as David Sedaris. Sensitive readers may not appreciate some of his essays -- he treats his experiences with sex, drugs and family very bluntly. And whenever I read his books, or hear him on the radio, I put down my coffee -- lest I burst out laughing and spray my drink all over the place.

Sedaris moved to France for a few years, and he describes his (non-) adjustment in the second half of Me Talk Pretty One Day. His stories about learning French, his fears of sounding like an idiot, his joy in finding shops where people treat him kindly are painfully and wonderfully familiar to me. Keep in mind though, Sedaris is deeply neurotic, and utterly lacks Bryson's and Clark's self-confidence and bemusement when things go awry -- they all share, however, an ability to laugh at themselves and see the absurdities of daily life.

Adam Gopnik
I read Paris to the Moon a few years ago and loved it. I haven't re-read it yet -- not sure why, but there is some reluctance. Perhaps I'm afraid that it'd give me the idea that we should move to France permanently. Gopnik loves France, especially Paris, and he writes movingly about the self-discovery that comes with being a foreigner. Paris to the Moon lacks the knee-slapping, gag-a-minute energy of Clarke and Bryson's books, but it is deeper, more tender and a wonderful exploration of why one might be willing to put up with all the merde associated with living in France.

Name the Memorial – a game for ignorant tourists

France has a lot of statues.

Maybe we have them in Seattle, and I simply over-look them, but it’s nothing like what they have here. I say statues mind you, but that’s just the start of it. There are arcs and obelisks, friezes and facades, tombs and topiary, plaques and corner-stones. Even the smallest town usually has something or someone made of marble, bronze or granite standing watch over the town square.

Generally, there are words indicating the name of the person, or the event being commemorated. Generally, too, these words are in French, the names are un-familiar and the events are not addressed (or not addressed memorably) in US public school history curriculums.

Thus, these installations take on an air of mystery: someone thought enough of this guy to build a statue. And someone else thought enough of the statue to put it up on a huge pedestal. And to this day, someone thinks enough of the statue to clean in now and again, plant flowers around it, etc. But who is this guy?

Hence the game – Name the Memorial. It’s simple really – let’s play a multiple choice version of the game, but once you get the hang of it, go free-form and come up with your own answers.

______________________________________________________

This figure is:


a. An angelic soccer player protesting a referee’s call of “off-sides” during a mythic match in biblical sports history.

b. An angelic representation of a French laborer, reacting to the proposal that France revert to a forty-hour work-week.

c. An angelic representative of the Lord, our God, urging French soldiers to take up arms and stab, shoot, kill, maim, maul, and pillage someone… anyone… just don’t surrender, okay?

________________________________________________________

This figure is:

a. A French soldier, turning towards the on-rushing armies of Prussia and saying, “The French soldiers? They went THAT way! Go get ‘em!”

b. A French sailor, who after a long night at the café is telling his comrades, “No, no, I think we parked the boat over THERE… near the water.”

c. A French corsair, leading a raiding party onto enemy shores, crying, “C’mon lads, they store their best cheeses up THERE.”

________________________________________________________

This figure is:

a. The inventor of the upholstered armchair

b. The inventor of the napping in an upholstered armchair.

c. The inventor of the “come sit on my knee and tell me what you want for Christmas” (who was shamelessly ripped-off by that German St. Nicholas).


_______________________________________________________

This figure is:

a. Indicating the dimensions of the perfect baguette: “This thick, and this long.”

b. Indicating the Napoleonic ideal of paternal discipline: “Grasp the child by the back of the neck, lift them aloft, and slap their behind.”

c. Indicating to his chambermaid: “Please do not discuss the details of my anatomy with my potential bride; but if you must, please do me a favor and exaggerate a bit.”


_______________________________________________

This figure is:


a. The founder of a university in Paris. Students touch his foot for good luck on their exams!

b. The founder of a high-fashion shoe manufacturer in Paris. Designers touch his foot and pledge their commitment to his standards of craftsmanship!

c. The founder of a society in Paris dedicated to combining foot fetishism and pedophilia. Out of town parents pose their kids for pictures because they have no idea!

_______________________________________________________

This figure is:

a. A memorial to the brave under-sea divers who perished before science learned that making wet-suits from stone and steel cables was a bad idea.

b. A French rip-off of the DC Comics character “Thing”. In France he’s called “Le Thing”. Totally different.

c. A gambler, behind in his payments to the French mob, waiting to catch a one-way boat ride out of Monaco

Alone in Beaune

Traveling alone is going to take some getting used to.

On the plus side: I awoke this morning, showered, dressed and was out the door. No negotiating, waiting, hurrying, forgetting and back-tracking. Up and out.

On the negative side: Once I got out the door I felt lost and apathetic.

That’s not entirely true, but close. As I left the hotel, I asked whether there was free parking available for hotel guests. The woman explained that there was a lot near-by. “Where did you park last night,” she asked. “Around the corner,” I replied. Her eyebrows launched up towards her hairline and she (literally) exclaimed: “Today is Saturday – market day – and you’re parked in the middle of the market! You better move your car! Fast!”

I played it cool, but there was a spring in my step as I walked towards the car. Thankfully, my car had not been towed; I was not blocked in; merchants were setting up on either side, but getting the car out would be no problem.

As I went to the car, I said to one of the merchants, “That’s my car. I drive away now. Sorry.”

He smiled and nodded his head and began speaking rapidly. I felt an instant of gratification: clearly my declaration to him was intelligible because he was addressing me as if I spoke French fluently. This pride quickly gave way to panic: I had utterly no idea what he was saying.

Context is my crutch in these situations – I winnow down the list of topics a person might or would be raising at a given moment – but in this instance, I had few clues. The guy was smiling, but his tone had an edge to it. He shrugged (which usually indicates “such is life”) but I thought I recognized the words “it’s written on the signs – Market on Saturday.”

I retreated with a flurry of “yes”, “no”, “I agree”, “Sorry” – but the merchant carried on, walking with me towards the car. At this point, I began off-loading French vocabulary willy-nilly, like a balloonist jettisoning his equipment in hopes of regaining altitude: “Yes, but of course”, “But no”, “then…”, “because…”, “chicken cooked in red wine”, “on the right”, “no-smoking to-go please”.

Perhaps this stumped him, or raised the possibility that I was a crazy person. The conversation ended with smiles and nods on both sides. I drove away and parked in another lot. There was a ticket for thirty-five euros on my windshield.

The rest of the day was tedious by comparison.

I walked around town for a couple of hours, had a coffee and croissant in a friendly bistro, walked back to my room to get a pen and a notebook to make notes on the wines I was planning to taste, relaxed in the room for a bit, went to a wine-tasting cave where I had to buy a pen and a notebook (having left mine in the room), tasted ten different wines (spitting each time), crossed the street to another cave and tasted the same wines again (not kidding – the two caves are part of the same outfit), walked some more, visited a church, ate lunch, bought a thirty-five euro cashier’s check to pay the parking ticket, visited a different church, went back to the room, napped, walked around town some more, shopped for souvenirs, visited an old castle in town, bought post-cards, walked back to the car to drop off the stuff I bought, walked to the hotel, asked about internet access, and climbed the ¾-kilometer spiral staircase to my room.

That’s what today felt like: a run-on sentence.

I called Ceil during one of the walks – she and the kids are having fun in NY, but when I hung up, I realized that I’ve got the easy end of this deal – no jet-lagged little girls waking me at 3:30am, or slothful pre-teenage boys refusing to get out of pajamas before dinner-time.

And yet, and yet… my day was pretty empty without them.

My dinner with Andre (e.g. alone)

Ok, look: nobody move, ok? Let’ all just sit here for a moment, very still. Deep breaths. Maybe undo my belt a notch, okay? Don’t panic… I’m too weary to pose a threat. Can we just be quiet for a few minutes? Ugh. Deep breaths.

I’ve just gorged myself (go ahead and look it up… I did, and the definition is apt) at dinner here in Beaune. Two eggs, poached in beef stew and served on toast, followed by coq au vin with a potato side prepared by an angelic sous-chef, a cheese plate, and a dessert which I cannot describe except to say that it involved vanilla ice cream in all of its elemental forms (earth, wind, fire, water…).

And a bottle of really good red wine.

I thought I might need to bring left-over wine back to my room, so throughout dinner, I mulled over my limited French vocabulary for the necessary words, searching for a series of declarative, present-tense, and plural (so as to be gender-neutral) constructions which would not require me to roll an ‘r’ or risk projecting spittle into the face of my waitress. I came up with bupkis, so in the end, I finished the bottle. I must learn more French.

Okay… I’ve got to pace a bit. Wait here. Oh, lordy…

Alright. Belching helps. Sorry about that, but it does. I think taking my shoes off would also help, but I’m not up to it just now. Give me another few minutes.

I’ve checked into a 12th century Abby which was converted into a hotel sometime after the 12th century. The street out front is about seven feet wide, and the hotel is marked by a sign affixed high on one wall. There’s another sign on the street with an arrow pointing towards the opposite wall. Following the arrow on the street-level sign, one approaches an official-seeming door which is locked. There are some door-bells with French-sounding names posted… none of them involving the words “hotel”, “Abby” or “helpless-Americans-push-this-button”. One is well-advised to stagger back a few steps and turn two or three circles in the middle of the street.

On the opposite side of the street, under the wall-mounted sign, there is what appears to be an old carriage-house door – very wide, but exceedingly low – perhaps 5’ tall. The windows in the top of the door let onto what is obviously a restaurant or wine cellar. It would appear, at this point, that I am looking through the basement window. But where is the door?

Back-track a bit and peek around the corner. Have I arrived at the back of the hotel? And if so, why put two (contradicting) signs here? No, I’m in the right place. There must be another door. What would Harry Potter do? Touch the right cobblestones in a secret sequence?

Hmmm…

Ah! Look, there’s a door! a few more paces down the road (alley). There’s the name of the hotel on yet another sign, and voila…

Oops: the door is locked.

We’ll it’s late: 7:45pm. Perhaps they turn in early. Or maybe they’ve gone out of business.

No… wait… see? a big round button to push! A door-bell. And hear that? A vigorous and satisfying ring from somewhere up above. Now we’re getting somewhere! I see a stone, spiral stair-case through the window of this door… any minute now, some gentle, elderly hotel-keeper will descend these steps and welcome me. Any minute…. Hmmm… well, they’re stone steps, so you wouldn’t hear her / him coming. Any minute.

Hmmmm. No.

Okay. Tell you what: let’s go back to the car. We’ll drive out of town, turn-around, and try this again.

Suddenly the low door / window onto the cellar (5’ is an exaggeration—4’6”) opens and a petite, young Frenchwoman says, “Allo? Was that you ringing my bell?”

The sudden confluence of bawdy and flirtatious opening lines, and one’s truly limited ability to achieve any level of innuendo en francais is deeply frustrating. At this point, one is well-advised to stagger back a few steps and turn two or three circles in the middle of the street.

“Yes…or… no…umm… oui… c’est moi…je suis une peu perdu…”

Try not to whack your head on the door frame as you follow her down the steps, through the wondrously low door (3’10” at most).

Having finally found the front desk, the rest of my check-in process goes smoothly. Room for one (easier to find and cheaper than a room for four). Will I eat breakfast at the hotel tomorrow? No. Will I eat dinner there on either night? What do you recommend? Well, the food is good hear. Really? Yes. Okay – I’ll eat here tonight.

“I’ll show you to your room now”, she says. What’s the French word for bell, I wonder? Damnit… too many straight lines slipping past me.

We climb the same spiral stone staircase…my room is on the deuxesieme etage -- the second floor, though, in France, they begin counting at zero, so the second floor is really the third floor. And besides which, the front desk is in the cellar, so we’ve got to climb about seven stories. Or so it seems.

“No, I can manage the luggage”, I say, hoping that she cannot hear my wheezing.

"I’ll be down for dinner in fifteen or twenty minutes," I tell her…. Right after I do whatever debonair and sophisticated travelers do in their hotel rooms right after they climb to a room atop the bell-tower. Vomiting comes to mind.

I lay on the bed. I fiddle with the tv – same old story: two channels and nothing on. Boy, that stone-wall looks old. Nice desk over there. I’ll need to scounge a chair, though. Check out the bathroom. Lie on the bed.

Okay…. That should do it… I won’t look too pathetic if I head downstairs now.

Back to the front desk. The hotel-keeper-lady is also the matiré-de for the restaurant. And the waitress / wine-steward / bus-boy. She recommends the less expensive of two red wines I’m considering – that’s a good sign. I accept the recommendation, and we’re underway.

Two hours later, I can barely move.

I appropriate a chair I found in the hall outside my room. I had considered carrying one up from the dining room, but cooler heads prevailed. The desk is warped, and my laptop wobbles to and fro as I type.

Ugh. Give me a second to attempt the shoes. I’m beginning to see the wisdom in my son’s practice of never tying the laces of his sneakers. Note to self…

Not sure what tomorrow holds, but Beaune is the “capital” of the Burgundy region of France, so the forecast calls for red wine followed by an afternoon nap, and maybe a bit more wine later in the day.

But at this point, any thought of ever eating or drinking again makes me woozy.

Night, all.

Ceil and the kids head home

Having taken the “scenic route” to the airport, we returned to Paris on Wednesday for lunch and a bit of last minute souvenir shopping. We spent the night at an Ibis Hotel (“ibis” being French for “Motel 6”) near the airport, suffering through a terrible dinner in the hotel restaurant. Bad food is a fact of life throughout the world… but it seems like an especially egregious sin so close to Paris!

It was a sleepless night for Miles and Lee – Miles because he was so excited by the prospect of returning home; Lee because she was not looking forward to the security check at the airport: “They might arrest us.” No, they won’t Lee. “Well, they might yell at us.” I think they’re pretty nice people, Lee. “Well, the line will be long.” Hmmm… yes, but is that any reason for you to be throwing up at 2am?

Morning came too quickly. We loaded the car, struggled with the gate at the hotel-parking lot (a bad omen, so far as Lee was concerned), and made our way to Terminal Two. Thankfully, the drop-off area was deserted, and I left the car and walked Ceil and the kids (and their luggage) all the way to the check-in.

The goodbyes were quick, and tear-less, though on my end, they didn’t begin to sink until 30 or 40 minutes later when I found myself stuck in traffic and suddenly conscious of the utter silence from the back seat of the car.

I stopped in Orleans on my way back to Issoudun. I shopped for a small duffel bag and a chicken sandwich (sold in two different stores – how quaint and un-American), and ruminated on how grouchy and stand-off-ish the citizens of Orleans seemed. Even then, it occurred to me that I was only noticing this because I was not insulated and distracted within my own little troupe of Americans. It was a melancholy notion.

Ceil called and left a message last night – she and the kids have arrived at her mother’s house in East Northport. The trip went well… though that was Ceil’s impression. I’ll later and confirm that with Lee.

Peace.