TO MARKET

Is it really possible for a thunderstorm to last for 12 hours? I am waiting for the water to come into the house. One more day of rain and my un-sunny solarium will be flooded for sure.

This is my first day back moonlighting at L’Etoile (see yesterday’s post) and I am sure to get there by 6:30 a.m. (is it still 'moonlighting' if it's such an early morning schedule?). If I am to be a market forager for the restaurant, I need to make a first round of the stalls at the very beginning, just to acquaint myself with all that’s available on this day.




Besides, I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE BAKERS AT L’ETOILE’S MARKET CAFÉ ARE UP TO! Oh, but to breathe again that familiar wonderful smell of baking croissants and baguettes…










The summer staff for this season is efficient and together (this has not always been the case) and the bakers know what they’re doing. The croissants are even, the gougers are light, the eggs are there as well for those who like that market bun and egg combination.

It is always a balancing act on bad weather days: the L’Etoile Market Café relies on there being no over-production or under-production. The cost of organic ingredients is high and so a surplus is an automatic loss. On the other hand, it’s not good to run out of baked goods by 10 a.m. Today, when the weather changed three times in the course of the morning, the anxiety about getting it right was high.

But my job for today is really to be at the market (here’s the L’Etoile cart that makes the rounds with me-->). Odessa comes along if she’s in town (as in today), otherwise I am on my own. I carry a calculator, a clip board, a menu, and a pocket knife to test for firmness, as well as a sack of croissants to hand out as treats to farmers who have especially good offerings today.

What’s hot right now? Snap peas! Delicious! Asparagus, of course. I spotted the first baskets of strawberries at one stand (gone by 8 am, more to follow next week). Spinach, yes, it’s there, though the winter hoop farmer refuses to grow it anymore: a spinach purist will only eat the cold weather variety. Rhubarb. Oh, and I picked up a half dozen squash blossoms for my own use (sautee, stuff, whatever).



I have to say that I get a charge out of buying large quantities: a whole bucket of honey, a crate of Gourmet Farms cremini mushrooms, 12 bags of Harmony Valley spinach, on and on. The list is huge and each L’Etoile supplier has to be greeted, with a review of what’s there and equally important, what’s coming next week.

Okay, I mustn’t get carried away. I’ll end with the flower basket I get each year for my own back patio. The clay pots still need to be filled. Spring is such a good season!

“GALLIC WARTIME NOSTALGIA??”

I saw Bon Voyage tonight. I’ll not say much here. Everyone who watches it ought to do so with an open mind. They can then let the film unfold. It will unsettle or amuse, or both, or neither.

How the French, especially in Paris, reacted to the invasion of the Nazis would appear to be a topic that could not be treated with anything but utmost seriousness, especially by the French themselves. Not so. But in this farcical chaotic romp of a movie, can’t it be said that there are seeds of something other than humor? At least a small handful of critics thinks so. Newsday comments thus:

And the very real concessions that people are willing to make to keep their peace and their comfort, not just in 1940 France but everywhere, are treated with the contempt they deserve.

I do have to include a note on the acting. My friend asked if I recall seeing any French movie lately that did not have Gerard Depardieu in it. I’m sure I have, I just can’t remember what it might have been. And how about Isabelle Adjani! I remember thinking that she was drop dead gorgeous in ‘the Story of Adele H.’ That would have been almost 30 years ago. As the Village Voice says of her in Bon Voyage: “ The opulent hotel interiors are magnificently Lubitschian, though the best reconstruction by far is Adjani's impossibly youthful visage, a taut, wrinkle-free zone that brings new meaning to the term les arts plastiques.”

YESTERDAY A LINE-COOK AND BAKER, TOMORROW A FORAGER

A few years back I went up to Odessa Piper, Madison’s chef extraordinaire (so says the James Beard Foundation award committee) and asked her to hire me to do some cooking at her restaurant, l’Etoile. She did. I worked there several nights a week, for a couple of years, after my law school hours (meaning late in the evening). I was the one that did your desserts and appetizers if you happened to be eating on the night that I was cooking. Why did she hire me? She’s my age and quirky. I suppose we have that in common. And, I was a conversation piece: a law prof who got a kick out of getting her hands burnt in the hot ovens and her fingers dirty mincing vegetables.

Then I got tired of keeping such insane hours and so Odessa agreed to let me switch to something with even more insane hours. I did Saturday market baking (croissants, bread, and gougeres) for a couple of seasons. But at the end of the market term I backed off again. I wanted to reclaim my free days.

Now Odessa has been calling again and so tomorrow I agreed to return to the folds of that cool group of cooks, waiters and crew. It is a different world out there in the tiny kitchen of l’Etoile. I like that. No one has anything important to say. Banter flows freely. Physical dexterity is an asset. So is the ability to tolerate extreme temperatures.

This time I agreed to also do some foraging and basic prepping of some of the acquisitions. I’m willing to give it a shot. Sane hours and a chance to visit with the farmers again AND spend someone else’s money at the Market.

Besides, I’ve missed posting photos of foods, Sir Edwin.

GOING TO LAW SCHOOL IS NOT GOING TO BE FUN TODAY

I have been working at home the past several days. My work space here is seasonal: I am buried in a misguided solarium amidst jasmine trees and hibiscus plants and ferns that have grown unwieldy over the years. (I say the solarium is ‘misguided’ because the architect stuck it onto the northern end of the house; pleasing to the eye, perhaps, but any plant person will tell you that it’s daffy to have a plant room with so little sunshine). I can only work here in 3 seasons because it is too cold in the winter (again: great idea – a solarium without sun!). I could crank up the heat, but in truth, I want to respect the plants that need a bit of cool winter air, as well as my meager collection of wines which definitely would not thank me for a blast of dry warm furnace heat. So I move out instead. It’s not as if there aren’t any other corners in the house where I can work: SUNNY winter corners.

But I have been happy here this spring and see no reason to hike over to the law building which currently is having temperature problems and when it’s not having temperature problems it has other issues. Like for instance the fact that I can’t get up and pace outside without being observed. And there’s the risk of running into the wrong people. Indeed, the place is full of good people that are simply the wrong people to run into, say because I owe them work or time or something that I haven’t been delivering in any respectable fashion. It’s all terribly unsatisfying and so home in the shoulder periods is a good place to be.

But today, temporary grades are due and I have several appointments with students and so in I must go.

Still, the weather! Could it possibly be darker, gloomier, stormier, colder? No, it could not! This is not going to be a day of happy outcomes if things continue in this way. (Note the darkness in the photo, taken 5 minutes ago at 8 a.m. for Pete’s sake!)

A SUMMER-LIKE EVENING

At the moment, I am listening to my Chopin CD and thinking about the blog world. I’m quite attached to this CD. In fact, I had taken it with me to Japan last month. [One of only two; I don’t travel with my favorite music. If I did, I would have never discovered the little song on the plane’s audio system, right? And btw, I DID get in touch with Air France and they are ‘looking into’ my request for the names and songs on their ‘musique francaise’ station – see earlier post this week on falling in love with a song on an airplane.]

Just minutes ago I came across another blog (here) that had oh so kindly mentioned mine back in April, only I didn’t know it at the time. I never really pick up on most of these links because I am rarely aware of them. I hardly ever google or study referrals or do all that is part of a typical blogger’s life. I know I should be more at one with technology, but there isn’t time to become at one with so many things in life and so I split my minutes and become at one with dilettantish inclinations toward scattered places.

Today’s blog discovery underscores for me how little and how much blogs reveal about their authors. Having read most of this particular (extrememly good) blog, I think I know a bit about this person. Except in reality I do not know her at all. In fact I may go through life not knowing who she is, yet I will know even small details about the creative world she inhabits. This happens all the time in the world of weblogs.

I know that without the protection of anonymity, many of my favorite blogs would not be published on the Net. It is sad to note that for so many writers, this form of communication, if traced to its author, produces greater personal risks than benefits. On the other hand, one may say that personal identification is irrelevant to communication. A voice is a voice, whether it comes with a tag, or remains faceless.

WARM THOUGHTS

I was taking a walk minutes ago and I thought that I had hit the tropics. It is steamy hot outside!

Three memorable trains of thought from the walk:

First of all, I thought of a good blog post. It just suddenly hit me that I ought to write about this ‘Y’ topic. I thought of the contours for it and even began to contemplate title ideas. When I got back and sat down to write, something seemed odd and out of place. Only then did it strike me that I had already written about this in January. Conclusion no.1: I am a person of few ideas with a terrible memory who is likely to plagiarize her own writing. Conclusion no. 2: I should force myself occasionally to glance over my own blog. Unlike so many bloggers, I never reread anything of mine that is more than a day or two old.

Secondly, I thought about the email that I got this morning from Kyoto. It is from Mieko (Kazumi’s friend) and it says: “Last Saturday, we had an English Conversation Circle. You became a topic of conversation in the class. 'When Nina will be back again next year, we would like to invite her to our class.' we said.”
I had met at different times a total of four people from the English class at the Cultural Center of the town of Notogawa as they traveled to Kyoto to spend time with me and I had spoken to their teacher over the phone. I consider these “student meetings” no less important than the ones I had with university law students in Kyoto. However, something tells me that my funding source will not pay for me to travel back to Japan next year so that I can make an appearance at the English Conversation Circle of the Notogawa Cultural Center. Which is a shame.

Thirdly, I thought how fortunate it is that I have come to know a very kind soul who is computer savvy (and fellow blogger with a chirpy-looking kind of face; see sketch here) and who is willing to patiently explain to me the basics of the technology that I am using each day to blog with, thereby permitting me some degree of further experimentation with the size, shape and contents of the blog by the self-imposed June 1st deadline. In exchange I have offered to help him establish paternity rights over any nonmarital children that he may have (that is what I did for a number of years in my Legal Clinic). He has thus far not asked for such services, but you never know what the future may bring.

BOOK TITLES

Yesterday, a friend gave me a copy of Alexander McCall Smith’s new book, ‘The Full Cupboard of Life.” It was an extremely thoughtful gesture for a number of reasons, one of them being that she knows I am a fan of the person who wrote it. I have read numerous interviews with him and I find him irrepressibly funny and so full of zest that it makes me feel like I sleep my way through life by comparison. I have gone so far as to order McCall Smith’s 'Professor Dr. Moritz-Maria Von Igelfeld' series from England, since it is not available here in the States. His books are gently humorous, and from what I can tell, he himself is even more entertaining in person. I was sorry to miss his appearance at Border’s in Madison and so the gift of a signed book was an especially nice treat for me.

The book also made me think about the titles of novels I have come across just this year and how well suited or ill-suited they are, not only to the story, but to the market that they are attempting to impress. I like the title “The Full Cupboard of Life.” It is evocative and memorable and the publisher does well to include the picture of the ordinary cupboard shelves on the cover.

There are other titles that I am looking at right now that I also consider cool - ‘Global Soul’ (by Iyer), or ‘Ignorance’ (by Kundera) – brief, interesting titles.

Then there are, for me, the drip set: ‘Unless’ (by Shields) – completely forgettable, ‘Oryx and Crake’ (by Atwood) – I can never quite get the title right when I am talking about it, ‘Namesake’ (by Lahiri) – good book ill-served by boring title, ‘Pieces from Berlin’ (by Pye) – tells you absolutely nothing about the troubling Holocaust issues it confronts, ‘Three Junes’ (by Glass) – sounds like it should be about three women by that name, etc etc.

I know that some authors have a title in mind before they even write the first word of a novel. There’s a clever little book about this by André Bernard called "Now All We Need Is A Title," where he notes that mystery writer Raymond Chandler compiled lists of great titles for which he never wrote books, including "The Corpse Came In Person," "The Man with the Shredded Ear," "All Guns Are Loaded," "Too Late to Sleep."

Bernard also tells of titles that were changed at the last minute. Hitler wanted to title "Mein Kampf" ("My Struggle") as "Four-and-a-Half Years of Struggle Against Lies, Stupidity, and Cowardice.” "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit," by Sloan Wilson was originally "A Candle at Midnight,” and "Catch-22," by Joseph Heller was all set to be "Catch-18" before the author changed his mind.

When books become famous, the title becomes associated with that work alone, so that you rarely remember that Shakespeare was the source for "Brave New World," "Pale Fire," "The Dogs of War," "The Sound and the Fury," and "Something Wicked This Way Comes."

To me, Kundera (see also ‘Ignorance’ above) struck gold, though, with “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” That title comes back to haunt me even more than the book itself. It is sheer genius to have four words play with a reader's psyche in such an enduring way.

IN TODAY’S LIGHT, I SEE GOOD THINGS EMERGING

I know I berated my perennial beds yesterday. I was too harsh. This morning, a closer inspection revealed this:


and this:


and this:











As for the weeds? Many are now in this (which is far far larger than it looks!):

ANOTHER EDITORIAL ABOUT THE AMERICAN RESPONSE TO THE EU

In the International Herald Tribune I read the following today:

And the proper way to begin this crucial project (of repairing damaged relations with EU members) is to use the presidential megaphone to teach Americans an appreciation of the European Union, despite its flaws and idiosyncrasies.

It was a sign of contemporary American myopia that the expansion of the EU from 15 to 25 members on May 1 was greeted in America with little more than polite indifference.

And further into the editorial:

Europe is a zone of peace. The 25 members of the EU, for all their quarrels and anxieties, belong to the biggest and most stable community of liberal democracies history has known.

It is interesting that if one were to poll Americans and ask where in the world could one find the biggest and most stable (liberal) democracy, they would probably not answer “in the EU.” I’m just guessing here.

EFFORT OR RESULT?

Last night I had dinner with a friend. We went to a restaurant expecting a relaxed evening of catching up on the past weeks. The food was fine, but the waiter was awful: he was slow, oh so slow on a relatively quiet evening and he got everything about the order wrong. When he was at our table, he was obtrusive and obsequious. The one thing you could not fault, however, was his effort. He seemed to be trying, it just wasn’t working for him. The result was horrible.

The question arose, how much do you tip on a night like that? The full 20%? It seems a reduction is in order. Or is it? He was, after all trying.

I thought about this later because it seems to me that the issue is ever-present for us only we don’t face it squarely: we are a result-driven lot. We disregard effort and applaud outcome.

Perhaps that is as it should be. Who cares if the cobbler put effort into your shoe if you can’t walk in it? Or, that the doctor exerted great effort to get your appendix out but missed it by a long shot? Wouldn’t you prefer the cobbler, the doctor who showed no effort but got it right nonetheless?

But I am uneasy about this quick response. Because there is, after all, something to be said for effort. I remember observing this equivocation in elementary school, where teachers would say that grades were handed out not based on polished work but on the effort put into the task. This was so as not to discourage those who were clearly trying. Yet at the same time they could not step away from the final product. A good result got the kid an ‘A’ as well, no matter what the effort.

And in Law School, do we not also reward effort in our Socratic teaching? Haven’t we dispensed with the old approach where a student would be humiliated for putting forth a thoughtful yet incorrect answer? When was the last time any of us said: you are so wrong, Ms Smith, just so very wrong!

But in the end, our noblesse is short lived because on the exam we grade strictly according to result. Ms. Smith, no points on that one: that is NOT the proper forum for adjudicating the matter. You clearly got it WRONG!

And so it continues, in every aspect of life: we hesitate, we pretend to equivocate, but in the end, result rules. Even in areas (for example outside the realm of commerce or paid services) where you want to see yourself as saying ‘no, I myself notice the effort. I tip according to how much a person tries.’ Test yourself, after all, on this one: A friend is perfectly amiable, cognizant of your every need, never overbearing, never forgetful, always on time with appropriate responses when you most want them to be there. Another gets it all wrong, clumsily tripping over him or herself, much like my waiter, and getting the order exactly in a mistimed way with all things on the ‘plate’ that you are ‘allergic’ to. Which one do you next turn to in a moment of need?

Last night, I myself under-tipped the guy – giving a cautionary 18%, so I doubt he even noticed. But I walked away thinking maybe I’d done the wrong thing. Maybe I should have handed over 20%.

I CANNOT SHAKE THIS THOUGHT

On the last metro (is this the title of a great movie?) ride from Paris to the airport, two musicians with accordions were going from car to car, playing some and collecting tips from passengers. They were quite good in that they complemented each other in their playing. Obviously they’d rehearsed this a lot.

The metro at this point had emptied out except for the small number of us that were flying out of CDG airport. I was surprised that no one pulled any small change for them. A group of travelers from the States was sitting up front and one of the women looked questioningly at what appeared to be her husband, as in, ‘why didn’t we give anything?’ He said to her “you know, of course, that we’re not supposed to pay. We’re not supposed to encourage them.”

I thought – encourage them in what? Music-making? Reaching out? Providing cheer in a sad and gloomy departure-oriented ride? (I’d never heard them play on the way OUT of the airport.)

Why is it that we must hold back and restrain ourselves from acting in good ways toward one another? Is it that we really have too much cheer and friendship and conviviality in this world? I do not understand.

A CHILL IN THE AIR

SIDEWALKS: I walk over from home to a gas station near Border’s where my disabled car is being looked after. It takes me 50 minutes. I pass not a single person during this walk. I think suburban sidewalks are a waste of taxpayer money. Today I may have been the only person using one. That’s pretty poor considering it isn’t even bad walking weather. A little brisk, but at least it’s dry.

LAW SCHOOL: The temperature inside the law building is hovering around 56 degrees. This has something to do with cleaning the pipes, cooling systems and other mechanical deficiencies that cannot be resolved in the immediate future. Therefore everyone moves quickly and those that can, work at home. I lend my space heater to a person who can’t leave the building, pack up my 45 exams plus 16 seminar papers and go home.

COLLEAGUES: Everyone I run into is looking bedraggled at the prospect of grading exams. I am not yet looking bedraggled because right now I can still set lofty goals and believe that I will meet them. As we get closer to the grading deadline (June 11) I will start looking bedraggled as well.

PHONE MESSAGES: In my office I have several desperate phone calls from people in the community who want free legal advice. I get a sprinkling of these throughout each week, but it is very depressing to get them in one batch. It’s as if the problems get magnified by the number of times they repeat themselves.

GARDEN INSULT: Bad enough to face all the weeds and disarray in the flower beds. But to have to contend also with this (-->) is too much. There’s no chance of winning the battle this year. I should not even try. Monet made slaves of his family in his garden: they had to tote water and pull weeds and generally listen to his authoritative commands. My smaller yard, however, should thrive on my work alone. My failings as a plant person today are so evident that it hurts.

Otherwise, I am very happy to be back.

A BLOG IN TRANSITION

I was away for almost a month. I decided that upon returning I would make some blog changes. Complete overhaul, from appearance to content. However, this kind of action takes time and when you come back after a month’s absence the stack of things requiring immediate attention is unreal. So I am giving myself a deadline: June 1st. By June 1st this particular blog renovation will be complete. That gives me two weeks to do nothing about it and one day at the end to madly put in changes.

EYE MOVEMENT

In the meantime I am still mulling over a comment I heard yesterday on the Van Galder bus from O’Hare. The driver, an extremely outgoing and friendly guy, tells a passenger that she might want to turn on her overhead light to avoid eye strain. It is dusk and she is reading away, inching closer and closer to the window, trying to catch that fading light. “No thank you,” she says. “I prefer to read in natural light.”

Is it a new movement? A self-at-one-with-the-world type of thing? She’s riding the bus from the airport, so two strikes there against thinking that she is technology-averse.

The eyes are peculiar kind of body part: apart from eating lots of carrots when told to do so by 1950s parents who said “Eat carrots or you’ll go blind!” we don’t do much preventively for them. We just patch up the problems as they arise (except for my purist nephew, the Krishna one, who believes that his prescription glasses are a sign of spiritual weakness and so he does eye exercises to improve his vision and get rid of the glasses; jury’s still out on whether there’s progress – he CLAIMS there is, but sometimes his spiritual self preordains a desired result even if science cannot prove it).

Is she onto something? I gave in to 5 minutes of googling on the topic, but ‘light and reading’ led me in all sorts of directions where I didn’t want to go (for instance on ‘seeing the light,’ or on very very ‘unserious’ reading).

[btw, I don’t know about eye-care, but I have decided that sleep is way over-rated and so I continue to view it with scorn and avoid it at all possible times.]

SONGS THAT HAUNT

On my very last flight I watched nothing on the nifty little TV monitor by my seat (and, I have to brag that I never once turned on a TV in any of my hotel rooms for the duration of my month away). This was NOT a naturalist thing. It was because I got addicted to the “musique francaise” channel on the audio program and so I listened to that over and over and over again (it was a 9-hour flight). Consequently, one of the songs is wedged in my brain and I WANT IT HERE AND NOW! If I wrote to Air France, would they understand this kind of inquiry: “Dear Madame or Monsieur, On your French Music Program, the one you’ve been running in April and May, there is a female vocalist and a male vocalist. I know the male one – Charles Aznavour. I don’t remember the name of the female. She sings this very pretty in an odd sort of way song that stays in the low range and then jumps into the higher ranges and I have a desperate desire for that little song now! Could you look it up in your files and send me the title? Thank you very much, Your loyal patron – the one who selected YOU as the airline of choice for a flight from Chicago to Tokyo, NC”

GARDENS THAT TURN INTO JUNGLES

My mind is still on the gardens of Japan and Giverny. Inspired, I come home with new resolve to rework and improve my perennial beds. This little sign noted in a Paris café is dancing in my head, and I cannot wait to get to my own little Giverny outside.



But inspiration is a short-lived thing. Especially when you wake up in the morning, go out to take stock, and witness this, which some may call a grassy stretch and others, the more realistically-inclined, may view as an intrepid assault of the weeds:



And how about this mess, where all spring blooms are spent and not a single summer perennial has yet to show signs of budding. My God, what was I thinking? Did I forget to plant for May??

PARIS, ONE LAST TIME

In a few hours I leave for the airport to return home. It is a clunky and awkward return because I have to navigate the subway with the suitcase, computer, bag, and now an additional sack because of the repacking that the painting necessitated. All this during morning rush hour on the metro. It can be done!

Last night I ate dinner outside, listening to street music, people watching to the hilt. (The street musician came around for his handout. I thought he deserved it. So did the waiter who called him over to give him some money as well. When I looked on with interest, the waiter explained that these guys rid him of his salary each evening, but he doesn’t have the heart not to pay, they are so good.)

I can’t not post a single food item from my last dinner, so I’ll post the salad for a change (with little crustacean tails thrown in; it did not take long to get used to French food again!).



This morning I get up at dawn and walk endlessly. It is a cliché, but I really do love watching cities wake up on a regular work day. In Paris, I have a perfect vantage point in a café that I know is close to an elementary school. There, I even took a photo of it -- one can see left-over croissant pieces at my table of choice.



I watch the parents walk the kids to school and I try to listen in on the conversation of a handful of women that gather here afterwards. The men routinely stand at the bar for their swig of espresso and a quick friendly exchange, the women stay at the tables, housewives obviously, seemingly privileged, for this is the 6th arondissement. It’s a ‘left bank’ sort of privilege, not quite the ostentatious wealth of the right bank, but everyone certainly is dressed well. And the children! Oh, the clothes on the youngest children are so carefully assembled, so navy, so tailored! The girls and boys are learning early about the aesthetics of appearance. (You can tell there's a parental hand in this because as they get older they lose the dresses and the tailored pants in favor of a toned-down (as in the photo below), though still polished, appearance.)



Just a closing photo of a 'sight,' not just any sight, taken from the vantage of the Place des Invalides, home of my first green ice-cream cone. And now I’m off, to post again, from Madison, on Tuesday.

PARIS & BEYOND

IF YOU LOVE IT SO MUCH, WHY DID YOU LEAVE IT TODAY?

Because innocent obsessions can be indulged and my love for the spring garden knows no bounds.

I have always thought that Giverny (Monet’s garden, about an hour away by train from Paris) was overwhelming in its outrageous beauty. But I’d never seen it in spring. Now is my chance. And it follows well on the heels of Japan since, as I wrote earlier, Monet himself was fascinated by Japanese gardens and had them in mind in his design of the lily pond, the ‘second’ half of the Giverny garden.

I leave Paris very early, even before the cafés have poured their first café crème. (I am staying close to the Sorbonne and so the cafés have names with literary pretensions.)



It’s a bit of a hike from the train station in Vernon to the gardens in Giverny (most people take the bus), but I am up for it. The day is brilliant with sunshine and I pass old houses on the river Seine and blooming chestnuts.





But my hiking plans are foiled half-way through by the generosity of an older couple who take pity on me and pull over to offer a ride. I can’t resist such niceness. They take the time to drive me around and show a better route for my return walk later in the day. I sit in the back seat amidst clutter that includes a stack of baguettes. The smell is terrific! The older man tells me I have a good accent. I say that maybe it’s because I am French. He responds – absolutely impossible! Okay, okay, I wasn’t really serious. I can be fluent in one sentence and completely lost in another.

I am at the gates when the gardens open but it is still crowded. Tour groups are the wrost: they move slowly and block paths.

The garden is indeed splendid, really splendid, but I have come too late for the early spring flowers and too early for the later spring ones. I had thought that I would like this version of the garden better than the mid-summer brilliant spill of nasturtium, lavender and climbing roses, but I’m not sure I do. This garden (unlike mine!) seems to improve with each month. Still, it never disappoints. It remains in my mind the champion of all gardens.







And of course, there’s the part with the pond and the Japanese bridge, so favored by Monet in his paintings, even when he was already losing his sight.







Only after I finish walking through the gardens do I search out a place for the morning café and croissant. All good things have to have their right moment.



I have time before the noon train to Paris and so I walk along dirt roads up the hills behind Giverny. Wild poppies and buttercups are everywhere. I feel like I’m inside a Monet painting. The old village houses contribute to this.





Just outside Giverny I find a small house where a woman is displaying some of her own paintings. Her daughters come in and out, sometimes resting on her lap, other times talking to friends outside. I am tempted beyond temptation by one small painting. It is NOT expensive, really! I’m supporting local artists after all. And I’ll frame it when I get back to Madison. You are not allowed to say you don’t really like it!





Outside the little ‘gallery’ I run into my old village pal who gave me a ride this morning. He is out on his bicycle now and pauses to ask about my morning. We talk and then I tell him that I am on my way to find the secret path into town. He asks when my train is and expresses surprise when I say 50 minutes. “Better really hurry” he warns and pedals off.

Indeed, he is right. The path goes on forever. FOR FUTURE REFERENCE IT TAKES MORE THAN AN HOUR OF SPRINT WALKING TO GET FROM THE GRADENS TO THE STATION.

As I alternate between a jog and a sprint (with the painting, it’s really hard to jog), I begin to think that I cut it too close once again.

But no! At an intersection with the road there stands my village pal! He had gone back to his home, gotten his car and came back to find me and give me a lift to the station.

I AM SO TIRED OF PEOPLE SAYING THAT THE FRENCH ARE RUDE AND UNFRIENDLY!

I learn that he is a retired elementary school teacher. He tells me that a life of teaching in the village has been supremely agreeable. The parents tend to their children, classes are small, and when the weather is good, he’d take the kids for long walks in the woods. What could be easier? He has lived just outside Giverny all his life. His children and grandchildren live here as well. And is there a big family dinner each Sunday, I wonder? But of course! Ah, hence all those fresh baguettes in the car. I tell him it’s like straight out of a movie: time standing still in the village of Giverny.

In Paris, everyone, EVERYONE is flooding to the parks. The little children ride merry-go-rounds and sail boats, an older man feeds the birds. So much good spirit, all because of the gorgeous Sunday weather.







I pass my favorite bookstore. It’s ‘favorite’ status is entirely attributable to the fact that it is on a restaurant path and it stays open late into the night. I often buy a book or two with the resolve to get through it back home, to keep up the language. But I never do get to it and so this time I show great restraint and buy nothing. Even though I was tempted by this title:



It translates to “why don’t the French and Americans understand each other anymore.” It begins with an 1849 quote from Victor Hugo: “Un jour viendra ou l’on verra ces deux groupes immenses, les Etats-Unis d’Amerique et les Etats-Unis d’Europe, se tendre la main par-dessus les mers…” (which, correct me if I’m wrong, seems to mean: ‘A day will come when one will see two immense groups, the United States of America and the United States of Europe, extending a hand over the oceans’; okay, so he was a half visionary). There is a chapter on “la Francophobie Americaine” and “Antiamericanisme” as the author attempts to locate the hostilities each feels toward the other in a historical context. Yes, of course, it’s understandable. But I see the author speculating about a Bush reelection and I know that the vision of a stronger Europe building better relations with the US is suddenly very much in doubt.

I have to pause now. Excessively long posts are disconcerting –even to the writer. Besides, There are still blocks to be walked, cafés to be visited. I’ll end with a sight picture again. On a day like today, the Louvre is competiting with the parks to attract visitors.

PARIS

In retracing my steps from Japan, I am like a movie on rewind: Siberia, the Baltic states, France.

I’m recovering my lost day as well: no longer 14 hours ahead of Madison, just 7.

Ah, Paris… (a 2 night stop-over on my way home). Why do I love it so? There is a less apparent reason: Paris has always been my bridge between home in Warsaw and home in the States. Travel from Warsaw requires a connection in western Europe and since my first crossing of the ocean at age 7, my awed gaze has remained transfixed on Paris. I remember my amazement back then at eating a green ice cream (pistachio) on Place des Invalides. I honestly still recall that sweet taste that hit me 44 years ago. [Today I have a preference for the red flavors; for instance, this one is made from the essence of rose:]



The hotels that I stay in are always the teeny places on the left bank. It is a leap from the big, splashy Japanese hotels. Here, we’re talking about 3 to 4 rooms per floor, a little worn at the seams, but so homey and so charming in an uneven contours and peeling wallpaper sort of way.

My flights were all on time and so I was in downtown Paris by evening. I have been up and traveling for 24 hours, but I cannot sit still. Paris sings!



To me, the very first thing to notice is that French men will always, always help me with my suitcase. I take the subway from the airport to downtown and most station have long flights of steps to maneuver. I have NEVER had to carry my suitcase up. A young man will inevitably come to the rescue. That is a given.

And how is it to be here from Japan? A couple of perhaps obvious points:

People are so much more physical here. Every friend and lover and grandchild is kissing, walking arm in arm, holding hands, massaging the back of another.



People also smoke more:



And write postcards (does anyone elsewhere still write postcards?):



The food is so DIFFERENT that I am actually having adjustment problems. I go to one of my trilogy of repeat restaurant places. They’re homey and full of French people, the waiters are flirtatious and fun, and the food is always very simple and reliable. Here was, for instance, my dessert:



But I am not used to the butter nor the wine! I ask if it’s true what I’d read in the NYTimes – that the French are now doing ‘doggie bags’ with unfinished restaurant wine. Complete puzzlement. Thanks, NYT.


Tonight I walk and walk and I let myself fall in love with the city all over again. I am not abandoning Japan, I am just putting it aside for the moment, just because this is Paris.

Just a few evening shots:

The banks of the Seine, looking like Bascom Mall on a warm day:



How can I not love this bridge at sunset? For one thing, it holds the initial of my name…



Like me, people don’t sleep here. They talk and eat:



Just one ‘sight’ so that you indeed know it’s Paris: