short days, fat flakes

I take no risks catching flights home.  I leave for them in plenty of time. And so, shortly after six Wednesday morning, I'm pulling my little case up past the Luxembourg Gardens, which are, of course, closed for the night, up the slight hill toward the train stop to catch the RER to the airport. Still, I can't help pausing, just for a second. There is a neat display of 100 years of French political cartoons.




I thought Ocean readers (on any side of the political spectrum) might get a chuckle out of this one (from the postwar years), given what we think here of the French flirtation with socialism.



(we need to nationalize happiness)


And that's it. Good bye Paris.

I pick up a last little pain au chocolat at the airport, but then I concentrate on watching the clock. I will the plane for Amsterdam to take off on time.





And it does. And in Amsterdam, I have a full 55 minutes to connect to my Chicago flight, which takes off just a little late anyway. Packed jumbo jet. You have to feel sorry for flight attendants these days. Catering to the needs of so many in such tight quarters for so long can't be fun. They do it with panache. I haven't encountered a grumpy flight attendant for a long long time.

So I'm feeling plenty relieved. Until we land and my name is called and I am told that my little suitcase and duffel bag --you know, with all those gifts for the holidays-- were not put on the plane in Amsterdam and wont follow me home until the next day, maybe.

Yes, but the next day we are to have a blizzard and then there is the holiday itself!

It's hard to get incensed with the messenger of bad news. Here's a job no one should like: dealing with the almost tearful pleadings of travelers who cannot understand why their luggage didn't travel with them (given that it did for 500 others). I can only guess that the packed jumbo quickly filled the cargo hold before my little cases reached it from the connecting flight. Sigh.

It made for light travel for the rest of the trip home. And, on the up side, the bus pulled into Madison just as the first snow flakes began to fall and Ed was on time and I even had a chance to stop by my office before the Law School officially locked down at 9 p.m. And to go to the grocery store and to cook a light supper for Ed and myself.


Wet snow fell during the night and by the time I took these photos Thursday morning, it was thick and heavy everywhere.





And all this accumulation is before the official blizzard - which came in the afternoon.

Ed and I shoveled. And then we shoveled again.





We tossed around ideas about skiing, but the snow was too wild and furious. And wet. You could quite stand still and not be able to move much on skis where there are no trails, no slick places to glide. With a wicked wind holding you back.

So we walked instead. Tentatively at first, but picking up speed and enthusiasm even as the blizzard, too, picked up speed and enthusiasm.













It was an exhilarating set of hours.





And easy enough heading out: the wind pushed us forward.





A little harder coming back, with the sharp snow hitting our faces.










Finally: almost home. Do you see our farmhouse? Just a touch of yellow in a landscape that's quite beautiful, but without much color to it.





Yes, the kind of day where you can buckle down and work. And I do just that. Grade exams. Drink cup after cup of tea. Shovel again, make stew for supper. Miss Paris. Miss the little suitcase and duffel bag. But so happy. Because I'm home, warm and safe, while the blizzard rages outside, making the old farmhouse creak and groan at the bother of it all.

right to left then home

I'm thinking that there is a reason why the song Home for the Holidays became such a hit. It makes a good point: no matter how festive your surroundings, if you're away from home, you can admire all that pretty stuff -- the lights, the window decorations, but it seems (and it is) a world away from your holidays. It's someone else's show.

For those who think the Christmas season goes on for too long (I'm not one of them), I suggest taking a vacation break just before. It's very disorienting.

For me, Paris in December is the only time that I participate with pleasure in the act of shopping. Walking is a big draw. There is lots of walking, lots of looking, lots of looking, eventually picking up a few items -- holiday gifts, forthcoming birthday stuff, small treats for people who have done me tremendous favors lately. At least in the early hours, this was my right bank day.

Of course, one could shop at home. But Madison isn't a shopper's paradise (which is good: not much tempts and anyway the malls are crowded and the streets at this time of the year are cold) and Internet buying seems so instant and anomic. Click. I just spent $200! Without even running my fingers over the fabric and imagining what a daughter might look like wearing this scarf or that pair of socks.

Besides, we all know that our stock market does well when Europe shows signs of recovery, so in order to boost the value of your retirement savings, I may as well shop across the ocean. And the gift recipient is stuck with having to like and use said purchased items because there are no returns. That means a lot of thought has to go into the purchase. Which is a good thing.

But as I extol the virtues of December travel and being away and Paris and all that goes with it, let me mention a few things that I surely will not miss when I return in a few hours home. Smoking comes to mind. I must have inhaled the sum of a half a pack of cigarettes since I stepped off the plane in Warsaw and through my time in Italy and France. People in Europe just will not quit smoking. And because they've been kicked out of indoor public spaces, they smoke on the run. On the sidewalk. I can't count the number of times I held my breath and scooted past an offender. May I suggest M. Hollande (and all your European counterparts) that, after you've successfully distributed poop bags for dog droppings, put rental bikes on nearly every street corner, and given everyone free WiFi in the parks and squares, you launch a new campaign -- forbid smoking on sidewalks!

So, when I was not running past smokers, I did my right bank promenade. But first, breakfast at les Editeurs where I watch professorial types grade papers (knowing that this task awaits me when I get home).







 


Onto right bank. With a glance toward the Eiffel Tower against a, once again, dramatic sky.





I reversed my walk this time, taking it from the Louvre and ending with Bastille. That was a mistake, because the area next to Louvre and around Les Halles is so awful right now that it immediately put me in the mood to long for twin number one (the left bank). [Les Halles is where the Parisian market once was; the deteriorated set of blocks is being completely overhauled and in a year or so we will see a new and possibly competing with Lyon, market.]

But, there were highlights.

For example, people watching. I liked this couple, even though both the man and his poodle look terribly droopy.





And this man studying the foie gras on display.





And yet another guy, this one with motorcycle helmet in hand, examining for the whole time I was in this cooking store, the displayed baking molds.





Here's a photo of a car that I would  buy in a snap if I was in the business of buying new cars which I am not as my 93 Ford Escort is so reliable, even as I bought it two years ago and paid only $600 for it. (I can even see myself driving around with the painted "Noel with style" ad on it.)





Oh, and I am absolutely baking this cake for breakfast some time this week. Apple and cinnamon.





In one shop I couldn't help but notice this waif of a French girl, trying on an exquisitely white coat. A coming of age movie in the making! -- she has that deep eyed look that makes you feel for her tortured soul.





And finally I am at the Place de Vosges which is so pretty that it deserves three photos, including one that demonstrates the reach of Apple ads.














I finish things off at the Bastille circle. This is the only photo for which I take a longer pause. Waiting for the moment where the cars, trucks and buses clear out and the sole cyclist remains. 






Eventually I flip river banks. And it is getting late enough that I take the metro over.





...alighting near to where I ate lunch yesterday. There is a twin cafe up the block which makes for a good alternative for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. This time a salad with warm goat cheese.









These are the very short days of winter and you have to take comfort that in Paris it matters less as things look warm and pretty even after dusk.





And now comes my final meal in Paris -- a dinner at a place I read about in the NYTimes back in October (Pouic Pouic -- just three blocks from my hotel). I love it when someone goes to the trouble of discovering a wonderful tiny bistro, even as it means that in a city like Paris, where there are always a ton of Americans, you're going to then find on any evening a whole bunch of them at the described place.

The food is truly great and main courses were mostly under 20 (Euro). Since I decided on this trip not to eat desserts (it seems somehow sad to indulge in a sugar overload alone -- I really like to share desserts), there were, as always, two courses.

To the food lovers out there, let me describe first the appetizer -- a thin ravioli stuffed with langoustine and infused with foie gras (truthfully, I didn't really pick out the foie gras infusion, but the dish was delicious and the broth so good that I had to bathe a whole chunk of bread in it -- something I rarely do these days).





The main course was lamb chops. I hesitated over that one because lamb chops recall for me the 60s when they were the ubiquitous and uninteresting meat dish with mint jelly served in pretentious places. Besides, Ed always makes me feel bad about eating lamb. I mean, I have a weird meat eating justification thing going: I don't eat it at all unless I'm fairly confident that it was a happy (pasture raised) cow or happy chicken, but lambs never even had a chance at happiness. So there's a little bit of guilt there. Still, putting that aside, I thought the meat was exquisite and what I loved, too, was the huge red onion -- roasted and stuffed with mushrooms. Superb!





Aside from the NYTimes patrons, there were the Parisians and I hope you take a look at the two men to my left. They were gruff but jovial and the one who isn't cut off in the photo (hard to be discreet in taking photos in such intimate settings and in low light too) had the biggest Dennis the Menace cowlick ever.





What followed was the contentment that comes with a meal well eaten. And it leads me to think that Ed and I should not be so quick to watch library movies after (sometimes during) dinner. Some of the best moments of a meal come in the minutes after, when you sit back and think how good and precious life is.

And the minute I thought this, I remembered: the rush of a typical work day back home. Can I even imagine sitting back and doing nothing after a weekday dinner? Ridiculous, right? Perhaps that's why travel grips me so fiercely: I do the ridiculous.


So I sigh deeply when I leave Paris. No other city commands my affections in the same way. You could write a book about why this is so (and many have done so and filmed movies about it and written poetry and taken tremendous photographs). Me, I have this wee blog post where I can just state the obvious and let it go at that.

right and left

Time is an odd thing: there are days when it's of small importance. No deadlines, no storm brewing, no anxious waiting. And then there are days when it makes its presence known. Take this day -- Wednesday: I'm up, but it's the middle of the night still. Hours before dawn. I'll rush to the airport soon, hold my breath and hope that my flight leaves on time because otherwise there is no chance at all of making a tight connection in Amsterdam. Suppose I do make it: then will come a period of time when hours wont move quickly enough. All nine of them, in flight. But again, it's crucial that there be no delays, so I can catch a bus from Chicago to Madison early enough to beat the blizzard that's expected Wednesday night. If time is on my side, I'll be getting off the bus as the first fat snowflakes hit the ground. If Ed is even a few minutes late picking me up, time will feel interminable because I'll be tired and there will be snow.

In other words time will be my friend or enemy on Wednesday. But Tuesday -- it was irrelevant. The hours danced their own dance. No one cared what came in what order and when.

What few photos I have and the handful of comments I want to make on this last day in Europe I'll put together en route and post when I reach Madison. Or more accurately -- the farmhouse. For now, I leave you with just one photo, taken when I crossed the river. To the right bank? Well, not yet: Paris folk will note that this bridge first takes you to the island in the middle of the River Seine. So I'm suspended: between left and right, between Tuesday and Wednesday, between Paris and home.

the left bank

I think, sometimes, that here I have these twins (not identical) and I love one more than the other. I cannot help it. Try as I would to develop as deep an affect for the other one, I always throw up my hands and say -- it cannot be. I love this one more.

But of the two full days that I am in Paris, I'm going to play with one the first day and the other one the second.

So today was with my preferred twin: the left bank of the city.

But here's another curious thing: on neither day will taking photos be an important consideration. The irony of it! On farmhouse days, you get my seemingly never ending, almost identifying that I am alive photos of breakfast. I do like my breakfast and it is a time that I connect with the world outside. Ed and I pick our breakfast spot with great care. But I realize it is less than thrilling to a reader out there not sharing the meal with me. Moreover, sometimes I have no hope for anything more. It's breakfast or bust! Whereas today (and tomorrow) I have Paris! Paris!! -- for God's sake, a photographer's dream city! It's all so photogenic and you can even repeat shots from previous trips and no one will mind (or remember) because any shot from Paris is interesting and fun and here I am telling you that I can't be bothered.

I did make exceptions. And so here are my exceptions:

Breakfast at Les Editeurs. It's not a really typical Paris cafe. Because I'm close to the university, it picks up a lot of academic traffic. Professorial types discussing the mysteries of life, or more likely institutional politics (an academic favorite). And on this day I saw not one but two people with laptops -- something I never ever see in cafes here.

I go there because it's close and it has reliably good pain au chocolat. Note that it's not exactly an early breakfast.









Then I start my favorite-twin walk. And I am just so smitten by the peeks of sunlight that I cannot resist pointing the camera straight at it. A sun salutation!





Here's another one -- a little more subtle this time.





I spend hours, many hours walking and, too, holiday shopping and as usual, by late afternoon, I end up not too far from a neighborhood I used to stay in several decades ago. I still come back here for lunch. Every time. Here's the cafe where I eat -- and this one is as typical as they get.


 


So you could tell me that I could have this lunch anywhere and you'd be right. But I love the vibe of this place. It has the most friendly, energetic waiters anywhere (I recognize some of them as being here all these years; in France, a waiter earns a good living wage and it's not unusual for him -- I think the gender ratio is as skewed as it gets -- to stay loyal, even to a small cafe). And as so often, I order  a green bean salad with a simple dressing of tomatoes, olive oil and lemon and it is delicious.





And then it's back to walking, shopping some, thinking a lot. Why is it that walking in cities energizes the thought process? Perhaps the pace: we all race through cities as if to keep up with the traffic, and brisk walking clears the head somewhat, even as you have to multitask while zipping ahead. In a forest, you slowly glance one way then the next. It's contemplative, but not goal directed. You consider a tree. Then the crunch of dried leaves. You listen for the song of a bird. In the city, you watch for cars, for people, for dog poop, all coming at you loudly and at an alarmingly rapid rate, at the same time that you want to keep an eye on shop windows, the light at the next intersection -- all this helps put things on a fast track. Including your thought process.

And sometimes you look up, amazed that here, too, not only in the Midwest, but in Paris, the sky can be very dramatic.





The light is fading now, giving off pretty pink and orange tones (had my mind been on photography, you may have seen this now on Ocean) and it strikes me that this would be a good time to head for the Eiffel Tower. But halfway there, I reconsider. It's out of the way. I have still other paths I want to navigate, other shops to pop into and besides, the light is fading now, quickly, without a polite wait until I get to a place where I can properly admire its beauty. So this is it for the Eiffel Tower on this day.





And now I am on my final leg of the hike and I wonder that I'm not tired at all -- all this walking, all week long, walking, walking. At least there isn't a great distance to cover to get dinner tonight. I had another spell of not wishing to confront a dinner decision. I made a half hearted attempt to call a place from the Polish book, but a recording told me to call back between 3 and 5. Well now, maybe a person with a cell phone can do that, but I'm out on the town, with my favorite twin today.

So I asked my newest favorite person in Paris - Madame at the hotel. The one who said bonne soiree Mme Camic (have a good evening). I was filled with eternal trust toward her and indeed she steered me well. Aux 2 Oliviers. Just on the other side of the Odeon Theater. (As I pass in its shadows, I notice that the pillars barely conceal a kissing couple...)





The restaurant is tiny and full of younger people. One waiter attends to us all, brilliantly, without mistake or hesitation. I order rolls of leek and goat cheese with shrimp and a salad...





And a simple fish with a veggie puree and it is a perfect, fresh and honest meal.

I'm ready to face the next day. As always, I'll give that second twin ample consideration. Maybe someday I'll be fickle and switch loyalties.

Not likely though.

Sunday in two cities

For this day, I have for you many point and shoot photos, one short story about the Ed-ification of dreams and a lot of thoughts on food and the people who prepare it, serve it and eat it.

So, let's start with the last morning in Lyon. Breakfast at the funky beautiful Vintage Loft. I fit right in with my orange pants.




Then a run to the train station and a successful change of rail tickets, for an earlier departure to Paris. And a pass through a mall. Nothing there to write home about. A mall is a mall. I did pause by the fake Santa and listed in my head the many ways in which he was not credible (let's begin with the mittens, shall we?).





The real goal was to make it to Les Halles Paul Bocuse. Those are words that inspire awe in anyone who loves classic French food. Les Halles -- food halls -- are what a fantasy market would look like: all forms of edible extravagance, coveted and beloved by the French, admired by anyone passing through. The halls are named after France's food giant -- the now 86 year old chef extraordinaire, called the pope of the kitchen, the chef of the century -- on and on. Bocuse hails, of course, from Lyon.

I have no ambition or dream to eat in one of his restaurants. Not that I am a stranger to extravagant meals -- I've eaten my share and worked as a cook in Madison's most extravagant restaurant for three years.  But his kitchen is so over the top that I can't see myself enjoying a meal there. Still, I have a great respect for him, as one does if one dabbles in French foods.

So, onto Les Halles Paul Bocuse. Me and a million other Lyonaise folk.







those macaroons!




here, taste my prosciutto




cheeses arranged just so




maman explains lobsters to a little girl



the rustic tart bakery




French people think these are the world's best chickens. Feathers and heads stay on. Don't know who, in the end, does the plucking and beheading...




If you can resist the many oyster bars here, you are a finer person than I am




who wouldn't enjoy a snack of four oysters along with the beverage of choice, served with a professional flair by these young oyster experts?




my relationship to meringues being what it is, these tempted me no end; they just don't fare well in tight suitcases


I leave Les Halles and walk back to the Vintage Loft to retrieve my suitcase. I come upon this humbler market at a quiet square, where it's equally interesting to watch the comings and goings of the Lyonaise. BTW, the city is demographically quite diverse. You would see that at this market.







I watch from below, he watches from above




I mean, the definition of a rogue, no? I got a whole lecture from a shopper on how not to buy orange chanterelles at this time of the year, only gray ones. I didn't realize there even were such a thing as gray chanterelles;




cheap; from Spain, I'm sure




 smelled so great I almost bought one




ah, the beautiful cabbage



And now it's back to the train station, hesitating only for a minute at this bakery. I will always admire a good baguette with cheese.





And two hours later (yes, 465 kilometers in 1 hour and 58 minutes; I will never forgive the automobile enthusiasts in America for depriving me of a right to travel via public ground transportation in the States), I am in Paris.


Let's pause for a little story here about dreams. Because I'm feeding a dream right now and it brings back memories. For years and years I have to admit I was one of those who dreamed about owning a small second house somewhere in France. Within a train ride to Paris.

Then I met Ed and he talked me right out of that idea (mind you, it was just a dream; I haven't such resources). Who would take care of it -- he asked again and again. And the more we traveled, the more I noticed how much landlords are always taking care of problems: the plumbing, the ants, the internet -- always something. So I said -- you're right -- and I switched dreams.

The new one was an apartment in Paris (again, all hypothetically speaking). And again Ed protested (my dream). For a tiny fraction of the expense, you could stay at a hotel you liked. They would treat you as a regular. They'd clean your towels and make your bed every morning. You like that stuff. Why would you prefer your own place?

To return to! Anytime! Often! Just an airfare away!

Again, he did the math for me. So, good-bye that dream. No house, no apartment, no ownership, no responsibility ever again.

A third dream emerged: that I should travel to Paris once a month (yes, that often!), stay in my familiar hotel, eat simply, in a neighborhood place, see every exhibit in any museum, have a grand creme and a croissant every morning.

Life has treated you well if you can have a modest version of your dream. And I do. I live simply, but I travel extravagantly (meaning often). And I am in Paris, if not once a month, than at least once a year. More, if a routing has me passing through this way.

What was missing was the familiar greeting. My (small) hotel is precious and special and it feels like home every time I step through its big glass door, but in the past, they never acknowledged that I was a familiar face.

On this day though, during an off chance encounter, I swear I heard the manager say -- bonne soiree, Madame Camic (have a good evening, Mrs. Camic...)

My heart leapt.

Is there a moral to the story? Sure: we can have our dreams and visions of where we want to be in life, those are fine, but in the end what brings the greatest pleasure is a modest "bonne soiree, Madame Camic." I will remember that always.


So, I arrive in Paris.



The imposing Gare de Lyon (train station) that Monet loved to paint, from a somewhat different angle




I cross the River Seine to catch a metro line there (hi, Notre Dame in the distance!)




the cool retro metro along the M10 line




crepes are a Paris favorite too




it's actually not that cold here now (around 50), but I remember eating here with my daughter two years ago, using these blankets to protect against the bitter cold then




my sweet, sweet (and inexpensive! under 100 Euro, for a major world capital) single room at the Jardin de l'Odeon




the sliver of a moon, this time over Paris




there was a huge demonstration today on the Blvd St Germain: gay rights.




the familiar scenes of this gorgeous city




Pierre Herme's rendition of yule logs



And now it's time for dinner. As I've said here before, when I do not want to think about where to eat in Paris (it's such a complicated decision!), I go to Le Procope. It's never bad, always special, with fine waiters and that old Paris feel to it that leaves me happy to be there. And often, even as a single diner, I get the best table by the window. They really try hard and hundreds of years of opening their doors to the public hasn't toughened them at all. So, tonight I had two terribly unphotogenic dishes -- a mixed appetizer of grilled veggies, prosciutto and a salmon tartare:





...and a coq au vin. I relented and extended the camera beyond the food, so you can feast your eyes on the fine waiters instead.





A final late night walk by the Seine...





...and a happy return to my little room on the next to last floor of the hotel. Always the same, comforting, warm.