Christmas Day

For the first time in some thirty years I am not in my own home on Christmas morning. In this country, where everyone just packs up and goes, without great fuss or hesitation, this history of staying put must seem a bit quaint and self indulgent. But no. It merely reflects the reality that I store the family ornaments and Christmas is where the ornaments are. Mom’s place is, at the time of holidays, home.

Not so this year. Both daughters have their own homes and one is right here in Madison and so this year, we moved the family Christmas to her place. Which means that the ornaments were schlepped across town to her apartment (and since she has little storage room, they’ll be schlepped back in a few days) and the tree is there and I have the privilege of spending a night under the Christmas tree, or at least on the couch next to it.





I suppose I could have gone home last night and come back early this morning, but cinnamon rolls require oversight, especially if you want to do all but the baking in the late hours of the night, so that in the morning you can have the luxury of merely sticking them in the oven and mixing up the icing.


I listen to the trucks clear the streets outside – all night long they move up and down scraping and sanding and I think how we take for granted the clear roads and the de-iced planes, ready to zip us off to cousin Bertha’s, or wherever the ornaments are for us this year and I wonder if someday I’ll have to stretch and haul myself even greater distances over Christmas. It could be that the ornaments will never again go up on a tree at my place.

On the up side – at least I wont be the one forever vacuuming the tinsel out of odd places all year long,

Wishing you at least some pauses and still moments today... Enjoy the presence of people you love, or your own quiet corner if that’s where you find your peace.

Christmas Eve on the range, boys, Christmas Eve on the range...

And if you know that quote, you must be 1. my age, and 2. a one time fan of Dennis the Menace comic books.

That particular story was, as best as I can remember, in the style of a Charlie Brown Christmas – it had a touch of the underbelly of holiday cheer and a little bit of good will, coming from strange places. I loved it.

But then, as a kid, I loved books, comic books, TV shows – anything that had a holiday edition attached to it. There was so much less to choose from then, that what was there, was special. And, as my family had a low key attitude toward holidays in general, I peeked into the holidays of others to figure out what the fuss was all about. And it became obvious that each holiday had its mood and the mood of Christmas was musical and delicious and uplifting. Certainly not "just another day."

So it’s funny that I spend time with Ed, who feels even less inclined to think holiday thoughts – any holiday thoughts – than my family did.

Step aside then, today, Ed. We’re rolling our Christmas Eve. There’s the breakfast at the diner, the drive to a bakery for bread, to the grocers for food and then there’s the baking and the cooking which, I suppose, is a universal part of nearly every special day.

It’s a beautiful, white Christmas Eve here in Madison.






May it be a beautiful evening in your home too, whether, like Ed, you ignore the holiday completely, or, like my daughters, you plunge into it with tremendous zest and good cheer.

effects of snow

Who would have thought, ten years back, that Facebook would be where it is today? And, conversely, didn’t it seem, ten years back, that holiday cards were a thing of the past?

They’re not. I think they’ve made a bit of a comeback. E-cards, step aside! You’re worthless. Yes, holiday cards use paper, but it's a noble usage, isn't it? Of all the pieces of paper in the mailbox, isn't the card or letter from someone the most valuable of them all?

So I’m jumping on the card bandwagon. For this brief holiday period I look forward to the arrival of the mail again. And the envelopes, often with handwritten addresses (how archaic and lovely) catch my eye, and I rush to open them and I smile at the messages inside.


In other news, I have a mountain of work and so I am forced to shut out temptations to romp and be frivolous. Holiday or no holiday, I need to move past the old semester and roll in the new one.

Still, there’s all this snow...

And I know I’ve been burdened by it in weeks past (I just wrote out my claim letter to Air France listing all the financial consequences of lost bags, cancelled flights and unavailable connections and it was a very very long letter), but Europe’s airport troubles notwithstanding, I do like snow.

And so this afternoon I put things aside and nudged Ed to go skiing with me for an hour or two. Not big time skiing on complicated trails, just calm and quiet skiing.





At least that was the goal. It seems that I could not really slow down. I forged ahead in bursts of speed as if there was a destination I had to reach in record time.

Maybe it is that you cannot relax and take things slowly when you are in the forest unless elsewhere in life you’re relaxed and taking things slowly.





Meantime, I’ve got work to do. In between tasks, I'm beginning to fill out forms listing in great detail what may have been in that missing suitcase. Would you remember all items that you packed in a suitcase a week back? I would. Five bottles of wine, four pairs of very worn corduroy pants, a hairbrush, one pair of heavy snow boots...

from... Madison

Tuesday. Minutes before the flight from Paris to Chicago is to take off, my daughter and I are cleared for boarding. We shelve our Plan B of having a tiny Christmas tree in our tiny hotel room and exchanging small trinkets on Christmas Eve over croissants in Paris.

Though even as we settle in our seats (freshly ours!), it is by no means certain that we will take off. Fog. But, as I’ve said, Paris is used to fog and as one does well with familiar nuisances, so too, Paris functions well on this densely wet day. The plane takes off.

We land in Chicago in ... fog. And without my suitcase. My daughter tells me – it's only fair; mine was lost going there.

Indeed, there is a certain symmetry to this trip: what starts oddly ends oddly. What’s foggy there is foggy here. And so on.

Of course, once back, you forget the headache, the struggle, the cloudy sky. Or, maybe it’s that in Madison, you learn that clouds have their pretty side?





The lake has iced over. Wow, so fast?





And in other news, on Wednesday, that would be the 22nd of the month (late!), we finally decorate the Christmas tree. At my daughter’s home.

All is bright.

Paris: a final spin?

Monday. It’s a dark world out there, at 6 in the morning. Or is it? More like white. It’s snowing. I call Air France a minute after their office opens and I confirm that nothing can be confirmed. Stand-by for the Tuesday flight. We will be told exactly 60 minutes before the flight if we’re on or off. What if we're off? I can almost feel the shrug over the phone. Who can tell... What about accommodations for the night? Is Air France providing another night (at the Best Western at Roissy)? Yes, sure. Go back to the airport and wait in line to get a voucher. In the alternative, send us receipts.

Well there’s a challenge! It’s not easy to get to the airport, even from the Roissy Best Western. The airport is now officially closed (again) and so the shuttle has stopped running. Still, there are always very kind people floating around if you look around and sure enough the doorman is happy to give us (and a handful of others, with equally terrible and fascinating travel stories) a ride to the airport.

I have never in my life seen lines as long as those at CDG on this day. TV cameras are there to record it. From one end of the terminal to the other (and it’s a monstrously long terminal), each person presenting a complicated travel situation. We decide on option number two: head for Paris and ask for (promised) reimbursements later.

We return to our reliable wee space at the Jardin de l’Odeon, where they welcome us with the kind of welcome you like to see after you’ve spent too many hours overcoming hurdles of one sort or another. And, delightfully, they give us a room at a special “this is a calamity” price – a fraction of their standard rate. People can be so very very nice.

We were told by at least one Air France agent (in tough times, it helps to demonstrate airline loyalty) that we had a budget for replacement items (because our bags are officially irretrievable: stuck in some inaccessible and indeterminable spot) – clothes, personal items, etc. – of 100 Euros each. That’s sort of lovely. We’ll combine a walk through favorite neighborhoods with light shopping.


And so we're back at the RER train station, waiting for the (delayed) train into town, boarding it finally, passing now the drab outskirts of the city, transformed by the delicate snow...






The starting point is, as always, an encounter with Jardin de Luxembourg.





Then, by metro...





...we head out to the Marais neighborhood...










...where I’m so happy to see that some are in fact tickled by the unexpected appearance of snow in Paris.





...with a pause for lunch at a café facing the Square. Croque Madame for me (brioche with ham and grilled cheese and a fried egg)...










... and then we do a long, beautiful walk. It’s a soothing place to shop and window shop. Even though it’s the week before Christmas, it’s relatively quiet here. Holidays come and go. The Marais remains un-flustered by it all.










We challenge ourselves to find the perfect shopping bargains. A camisole at Maji, A shirt at the closeout sale at Et Vous, and so on. I tell my daughter that these items are, for me, special. To be worn only if we’re forced to stay beyond this day. There’s a bar of soap and warm water at the hotel to help care for what we’re wearing and a wonderful hissing radiator that’s almost as efficient as a dryer.

It'is a blissful moment in Paris. My girl says it’s like playing hooky from school (now, how would she know how that feels, I wonder...). We have no work now, no burdens, no lines to wait in, nothing to do but enjoy this day in Paris.


It’s above freezing. Parisians are out and about. A line forms, here on the right bank as well, but it’s for innocent (and free) pleasures – skating, the merry-go-round. Things that spin you around and toss you out as a happier person.










No spinning for us. A quiet walk, now past the Notre Dame, but in the fading light of the day. The snow is nearly melted in the center of the city. Wet sidewalks, nothing more.










We pause again for food. A crepe from a stand near the Place de l’Odeon.





...nd a glance at the delightfully modern buches de Noel at the food halls of Bon Marche.





A lovely day. A good weather day now. We’re hoping that planes are flying again. That people stuck in lines, or sleeping on mats under blankets provided by the airport are finally able to get home.

Home. My other daughter has Ed to help her put up the tree in Madison. We’re getting closer to the holidays and yet it’s amazing how all the stresses of the season can disappear if you’re forced to do nothing at all.


Evening. I’m thinking that it’s the last one in Paris. There is a mist creeping in, enveloping the Eiffel Tower in the distance, but Paris is used to fogs. Planes take off into misty skies here often enough. Surely we’ll be on one of them?

We eat dinner at Rotisserie d’en Face. A simple meal, a meat and potatoes kind of meal. With chestnut soup and creamy desserts that I’ve seen on the menu here and elsewhere for years and years. Paris Brest. Tart Tatin. Forty years from now, they’ll still be on menus throughout this city.













One last walk in the light drizzle of a December night. Surely tomorrow we’ll be home.

there's always Paris

On a trip that was to have only one RER train journey from the airport into Paris proper, so far, we're into our sixth.


It's early in the morning. Five maybe? We don't have suitcases (where are they?) and so it feels slightly odd to be gathering our things at the hotel, hoping for a flight home today.


We're on stand-by on a flight that has many, many stand-bys. It's this flight or no flight at all. I'll post about our last day in Paris (am I being overly optimistic?) when we have news as to what's next. Of course, you can read about Europe's air travel this week elsewhere too. In the New York Times for example.


In the meantime, I'll leave you with one photo. Paris, somewhat misty and surreal.

forever in Paris

People will say – if you have to get stuck somewhere, you could only wish that it would be in Paris.

I’ll offer a counter to that: if you have to get stuck somewhere, wouldn’t it be nice if it were Paris and not the Paris airport?

It was interesting to watch the screen with flight departures on Sunday. Our Chicago flight was scheduled for 10:35. We were checked in and waiting by 8:30. In small increments of time, our flight got pushed back 10:50. 11:00. 11:15. And so on. Then the airport closed. Whatever that means. People were checking in, handing over luggage (what a mistake), going through security, proceeding to gates as usual, even though officially, CDG was shut down.

Then, somewhere around noon, it “reopened.” A few flights started taking off. This is when, if you looked outside, you’d wonder what the issue was. The snow had stopped. There was almost no accumulation. But after watching the screen and seeing that our flight was still doing its march through the minutes of the clock – 2, 2:15, 2:30 – and observing, too, that the departures of other flights now seemed stalled, it was clear as anything that we were merely marching into oblivion. Snow or no snow, CDG had broken down. With too many cancellations and delays, it could not get its grip on the day again. It was only a question of when it would admit to it. I got in line long before the announcement came: Chicago is cancelled.

And so my daughter and I are, I suppose, lucky because we got one of the earliest standby spots. Two days from now. After repeat assurances from the agents that my airline loyalty got me the best that they can do.

Mind you, we may not get on. And it appears that between now and the holidays, every transatlantic flight is full on this and other airlines (due to the massive cancellations all week throughout Europe).

So we’re stuck. But not in Paris – at the airport.

We are such unfortunate experts at this, my daughter and I. We’ve learnt all the rules to follow when this happens – how to avoid the ten hour lines (agents will help anyone who asks for help, so find someone at the counter), how to claim cosmetics cases and free t-shirts (because you can assume that your bags will now be lost again and indeed, baggage services got overwhelmed quickly and responded as a child would under the circumstances: slam the door shut. Gone for the day. Fill out claim forms and submit them later. Somewhere, someday you may see you suitcases again).

We know, too, how to ask for a hotel voucher or at least a partial refund on your expenses (even if a cancellation is weather related, because honestly – it’s not about the weather anymore – it’s about chaos at Europe’s airports this December), and so on.

This time, we are given a voucher for the first night. Best Western at Roissy – the pseudo-village adjacent to the airport.

It is an indifferent place amidst other similarly indifferent and dated concrete structures and it serves the purpose of providing rooms for travelers who would much much rather be elsewhere. Hotels that are about as much fun as a dentist’s waiting room. At the Roissy Best Western, there is a Christmas tree, but after that, you’re given the shrug of indifference. Internet not working? Yes, we know. Shuttle bus not shuttling regularly? Yes. One traveler was hungry and asked for food. Restaurant’s closed now. But I’m hungry – traveler tells them. Yes. Desolé.

We are out of the airport and at the hotel by 4, with countless others similarly situated, each batch dropped off at different and indifferent overnight places along the shuttle bus route (one bus serves a half dozen hotels), group by group, like children off to camp – and this cabin is yours, and you go here...

And now it is getting dark. We can wait for the Roissy Best Western to open its restaurant... or not. I am with a traveler who has spirit and grit and she is willing to take the same slow-moving shuttle back to the airport and then the RER back to Paris for a better eating situation there.

Paris. You look so normal! It’s Sunday evening, people are out and about, the temperature is in the mid thirties, the moon is out.





Why did you ask your troubled child – the CDG airport – to act as the welcoming agent for those who travel here?

When in need of comfort, you go to Le Procope.










Reliably there, with a fixed dinner option of 19.90 Euro (and a la carte options as well), and such old time and all time favorites as French onion soup, fish meuniere, coq au vin, always served professionally by caring waiters, making you feel like the special person that you are, just because we are all people with good souls who occasionally need a comforting word, or meal, or both.

We finish with a shared flambéed crepe and I have to laugh here because when I ask – where are the flames, the waiter tells me – these days we do that in the kitchen. And he hands the remains of the cognac and tells me – you can sip what’s left over. Sometimes one has to take short cuts.





We travel back to CDG and then back to the Roissy Best Western and after further calls and consultations we conclude that there is not a chance in hell that we’ll be leaving Paris in the next day or so and that it is completely pointless to stand around at the airport watching the screens show nothing of help to us.

It’s Monday morning. We’re heading back to the city. For the day, for the night, who knows how many nights. My work back home is accumulating in ways I cannot even begin to describe. Christmas is around the corner and the tree is resting on the floor of my condo garage.

What can you do. At least we’re now officially out of the airport area and back in Paris. Where it’s snowing again. Snowing hard.

to and from Paris

Saturday morning. We step out onto Charlottenstrasse in Berlin and we are dazzled by the bright light. We haven’t seen much of the sun these past days. Snow – yes, plenty of it. Snow falls from gray skies. Today the skies are incredibly blue.





But that’s in Berlin. How is it in Paris?

It appears that early flights have been canceled because of snows there, but ours is scheduled to take off. Packed again with people from previous canceled flights. There is a delay, however, and as minutes pass, I realize that our time in Paris will be very very brief.

We land in somewhat wet weather. It’s just at freezing outside, which, in a city like Paris means the sidewalks are too warm for snow to stick. We don’t quite reach for the umbrella, but others do.





But we do walk. I have a Christmas list in my head and I am dangerously close to the stores’ closing time. Holidays or no holidays -- 7 p.m., and often times, when the clerks get antsy, a few minutes before. Still, it is quite festive here. The lights dazzle.





We have one errand that’s across the river and as we cross the Seine, the snow intensifies. It must be just below freezing and the flakes are falling, fast and furious, big flakes, huge monster flakes, some surely two inches in diameter.










Beautiful! Here’s the hour for a snowstorm! Come flakes, fall now so that I can wipe everything three times over and still remain wet. And I am wet. When we go into a wine store, I wipe my glasses, the camera lens, everything, and still it’s no use. Everything is dripping with melting snow.










But then the snow tapers off. Our boots are soaked through because there is so much slush on the ground, but no matter. We had a few hours of walking through this gorgeous, snow beleaguered city. And we have a reservation here:





And we’re on time. The meal – a sampling menu – is as good as it gets and I could write more about, but I want a balanced post, so I’ll just show off the fantastic (and not too fussy) root vegetable carpaccio with smoked bacon foam and almond bits, and the final sweet bite of chocolate.









We walk back along the Seine... quiet now, after the rage of snow. Somber even, here by Notre Dame.





And very very early Sunday morning, we leave the hotel, glad to see that the predicted snow is holding off...





...and we make our way past the Gardens, to the RER train and then, straight to the airport. We check in, go through security clearance and wait, happy that today it was all rather easy. We wait for our flight. And wait. And wait some more.

And then we hear the loudspeaker: there is snow, the Charles de Gaulle airport is closed.

crossing

I'm crossing the ocean today (weather permitting) and so a post collecting thoughts from the last stages of fighting snowstorms in Europe will have to wait.

But I leave you with this photo for now. It speaks brilliantly, I think, about our final day.

Berlin, continued

I look outside at the street. The snow of this never ending European winter storm continues to fall. Not in large amounts, but steadily, without hesitation.










It’s a slow morning for us. Not enough time before our flight out to do big things, so why hurry.

For the first time in a long time we do an exceptionally leisurely breakfast. The kind where you eat a little, get up and add some foods, eat some more and this continues, slowly, without thought as to what comes next.





Finally, the urge to get going pushes us out and since we have time for a stroll through the neighborhood, we do the usual bundling and buttoning and head out.  











It’s pretty outside, but the flakes are falling more rapidly now and I notice that the black coats and hats are starting to look like someone has taken a salt shaker to them.


 


But we’re close to the chocolate emporium of Fassbender and Rauch. German chocolates on display in the week before Christmas. It’s like examining gelato choices on a hot day in Italy. Some pairings are made in heaven.





Indeed, Fassbender and Rauch does chocolate in a big way. Landmarks in Berlin? Don’t waste your time stomping through snowdrifts in the cold. See them here, done in chocolate!















And so we stroll between shelves packed with chocolate in all forms and especially in combination with another German favorite – marzipan, and it’s so aromatic there that of course you cannot leave empty-handed. We don’t.



Time for the airport. Our flight into Paris is to leave after 3 and we’re hoping for a few good hours there tonight and a solid day of that city tomorrow.

But why are there such long lines around the Air France booths? Our flight is on the schedule, on time, but earlier ones have been cancelled. The snow again. That pretty mass of whiteness keeps falling and the agents keep rebooking and the flights keep swelling...

I can see the writing on the wall.

We pull some things from suitcases. Lost luggage suddenly becomes a possibility again.

We wait.

First there is only a delay. Of five hours.

And then there is the (expected, really) cancellation. The airport officially closes.

More lines, rebookings, patient clerks, weary travelers. Air France is, as before, quite sympathetic, empathetic and singularly helpful. We may even get some refunds and reimbursements (missed hotel reservations mess with travel budgets in most awful ways).

We call our Berlin hotel and whimper our way back into a room.


It's evening. We both agree that it’s time to eat something other than game meat. Our German feast was last night. We need to move beyond central Europe in food, if not, as it appears, in travel.

Cookies Cream is an oddly named place, but it is a hot little heaven of vegetarian cuisine here. In our previous Berlin stay, we were not able to get a table for any of the nights. Today, the Berliners must be staying indoors. We’re set.

It's a short walk, a twinkly walk, past brilliantly lit trees -- with a spot for a warm wine, if you feel the need, or a bit of curling with your friends.










The restaurant itself is through an alley way, hidden behind a dark door. There is a club part downstairs, but we’re told to take the stairs up to the dining room.

It’s a modern industrial chipped floors and deliberately not enough paint on the walls kind of place. Where the thirties something congregate. I am by far the oldest in the room.





And the food is superb. I eat a baked cheese with Jerusalem artichokes and beet, then parsley gnocchi with pumpkin something or other and finally gingerbread mousse. With a fine, dry Riesling.














So in the end, the last word comes from a fresh Berlin, pushing out yesterday's older one. Our trip here ends with this modern twist, as if we’re supposed to remember the city in its new incarnation.

We leave through the club part again, where the sounds and lighting are beyond my comprehension.





Yep, leave it to the next generation.

Now, let’s see if the snows let up Saturday so that we can continue our protracted return home.