The French won my heart all over again today. Tens of thousands of ordinary Frenchmen (and some extraordinary ones) turned out for the funeral of Abbé Pierre at Nôtre Dame de Paris. "Abbé Pierre" was the nom de guerre of a leftist priest, who helped save Jews during the war and went on to found the world-wide Emmaus community.
Emmaus is a network of communes that collects clothing and furniture, much like the Salvation Army, and resells it to benefit the homeless. Volunteers help with the work. (Those of you who know Gregg and Marianne Westigaard may remember that they met at the Emmaus House in Sweden.) Abbé Pierre himself was always poor, walking around Paris in a beret and black cape. He was in the tradition of French religious eccentrics, priests and others, which includes the Jean-Baptiste Vianney (the Curé d'Ars), Charles de Foucault, Léon Bloy, and Peter Maurin.
His funeral was a national event. I wasn't able to get into the Cathedral, but I got up close to the barrier on the Parvis, right in front of the great doors, which stood open to receive his coffin. It was a beautiful day, but the Parvis was full, as was the Church. The place was crawling with police, gendarmerie, firemen in rubber suits (one with an outrageous Dali mustache and goatée), soldiers, commandos, and naval cadets in their cute little striped shirts and beribboned berets. Two of them were the official military honor guards flanking the great doors, and they were women. People of all ages came, some in buses from Emmaus houses all over Europe. Many dignitaries pulled up between me and the doors, including one who was booed and jeered (Sarkoszy, I think - it was kind of a left-wing crowd), and no one made a sound when the big, black Citroën, flying from its fender the tricolor with a black mourning ribbon, pulled up to disgorge the President of France. The Archbishop of Paris (not yet a Cardinal), vested in a purple chasuble and radiant pallium, formally greeted him and then turned him over to the Dean, who escorted M. Chirac, like a king, to a velvet throne just in front of the bier.
There was no bier, actually, just four huge candles arranged in a square. Like Pope John Paul II, Abbe Pierre, simple wooden coffin was laid on the floor. (All of this was on national TV, conveniently visible on two huge screens in the Parvis.) The hearse drove very slowly through the streets. Meanwhile, the great low bells began to toll and the procession rounded the corner from the sacristy, making its way outside to the fromt of the Cathedral. Led by thurifer (huge censer) attended by a middle-aged boat-boy, four big torches surrounding the processional cross, many vested priests and monastics, a whole slew of deacons (all wearing their purple stoles in the style of an Orthodox protodeacon), about a dozen bishops, including two of the RC Eastern Rite. Among the honored guests (not in the procession) also were the Rector of the Chief Mosque of Paris and the Orthodox Archbishop. There was also someone there in an Anglican cassock, but it wan't our American Bishop-in-charge.
The Archbishop said some initial prayers over the coffin while it was still in the hearse. Then eight men of every age and race carried it on their shoulders into the Cathedral. When they started to move, the crowd applauded, and this continued inside Nôtre Dame until it was laid down. (I don't know if that is traditional in France. The only other place I have seen it is at a Papal funeral.) The pallbearers carefully turned the coffin around, so that the head was nearest the altar, as befits a priest. Then they put his black cape over it and the formal jewelled insignia of the Légion d’Honneur rested on top of his beret on the coffin above his head. It was reported that Abbé Pierre recently relented and finally accepted the highest degree of the Légion, having refused it repeatedly over the years. It is France’s highest civilian honor.
This was the homage solonelle. There was also an homage non solonelle last night at a big soccer stadium for 17,000 people. All this for a rather irascible, unkemptly-bearded (he looked like Mr. Natural!), vaguely scandalous figure. Can you imagine the Predident of the United States and citizens from all over the country standing for hours to pay respects to Dorothy Day? Ha! But the French, though they may sneer and scoff and deny any belief and never go to church, still are proud of their saints. More, they are grateful for them. There was no sneering or irony in this huge crowd in one of the world’s most sophisticated cities. I was in tears. I left at the Kyrie .
France at her best.
Friday 26 January 2007
Tuesday 23 January 2007
The American Cathedral
For some reason, most of the significant places in my ecclesiastical life have been named for the Holy Trinity (the parish in my home-town of Excelsior, where I first received Commuion; the parish in which I was ordained, and now again serve; and the Russian Orthodox monastery in upstate New York, where I first encountered Apostolic Christianity as an adult. So is the American Cathedral in Paris.
The Cathedral of the Holy Trinity is a handsome neo-gothic building a bit smaller than our own Cathedral of St. Mark in MPLS. It serves as the center of the Episcopal Church (as distinct from the British, Anglican Church) in Europe. The Bishop is the Presiding Bishop in New York (now a woman) and the one who actully lives here is called the "Bishop-in-charge." The parishes of the diocese are in cities all over Europe, mostly in Germany and Italy, in addition to France. Though founded originally to serve ex-pats and military, there is an increasing ministry to indigenous Europeans. Many of them are married to Americans, others are people who wish to worship in the Catholic tradition, but can't stand (or due to divorce and remarriage aren't welcome in) the Roman Catholic Church. Holy Trinity Cathedral has liturgies and other programs in French as well as English, and at least one lesson at the main service is always read in French.
The Cathedral is at a very good address, Avenue de Georges V, just a couple of blocks toward the Seine from the Champs Elysees, next door to the Most Expensive Hotel in the World (Paris Four Seasons). I saw two Morgans and a Bentley convertible parked outside, and distinguished-looking men in striped pants on the street. And not-so-distinguished-looking men in denim and high boots and rough jackets and stubble beards, standing in clumps near the entrance to the church. Out of place? No, security. Protection from terrorists provided to the Americans by the nice French police!
A contralto, Denise Graves - who must be the re-incarnation of Marian Anderson, sang a spiritual called "Give Me Jesus", to the accompaninment of the rebuilt baroque piano (all florentine inlay woodwork). As they say, there wasn't a dry seat in the house. I have never heard such a powerful lower register. Apparently, she's a regular at the cathedral. Another is the old lady Sharif once heard read the lesson. He was quite impressed with her elocution, and went up to her at coffee hour with congratulations. "Oh, thank you!" She said. "I was quite nervous about whether I could get it right."
Then she introduced herself as Olivia de Haviland! (For you younger readers, she was one of the stars of Gone With the Wind, in 1939.) She's ninety years old.
Right across the street is a nice little Lebanese restaurant called Diwan, which has a very adequate buffet (at the more-than-adequate price of 26 euros or about $30, but you just have to grin and bear it, these days, and after all, this is the toniest part of town). And right down the street, is Crazy Horse, the famous up-scale strip-club.
Only in Paris.
The Cathedral of the Holy Trinity is a handsome neo-gothic building a bit smaller than our own Cathedral of St. Mark in MPLS. It serves as the center of the Episcopal Church (as distinct from the British, Anglican Church) in Europe. The Bishop is the Presiding Bishop in New York (now a woman) and the one who actully lives here is called the "Bishop-in-charge." The parishes of the diocese are in cities all over Europe, mostly in Germany and Italy, in addition to France. Though founded originally to serve ex-pats and military, there is an increasing ministry to indigenous Europeans. Many of them are married to Americans, others are people who wish to worship in the Catholic tradition, but can't stand (or due to divorce and remarriage aren't welcome in) the Roman Catholic Church. Holy Trinity Cathedral has liturgies and other programs in French as well as English, and at least one lesson at the main service is always read in French.
The Cathedral is at a very good address, Avenue de Georges V, just a couple of blocks toward the Seine from the Champs Elysees, next door to the Most Expensive Hotel in the World (Paris Four Seasons). I saw two Morgans and a Bentley convertible parked outside, and distinguished-looking men in striped pants on the street. And not-so-distinguished-looking men in denim and high boots and rough jackets and stubble beards, standing in clumps near the entrance to the church. Out of place? No, security. Protection from terrorists provided to the Americans by the nice French police!
A contralto, Denise Graves - who must be the re-incarnation of Marian Anderson, sang a spiritual called "Give Me Jesus", to the accompaninment of the rebuilt baroque piano (all florentine inlay woodwork). As they say, there wasn't a dry seat in the house. I have never heard such a powerful lower register. Apparently, she's a regular at the cathedral. Another is the old lady Sharif once heard read the lesson. He was quite impressed with her elocution, and went up to her at coffee hour with congratulations. "Oh, thank you!" She said. "I was quite nervous about whether I could get it right."
Then she introduced herself as Olivia de Haviland! (For you younger readers, she was one of the stars of Gone With the Wind, in 1939.) She's ninety years old.
Right across the street is a nice little Lebanese restaurant called Diwan, which has a very adequate buffet (at the more-than-adequate price of 26 euros or about $30, but you just have to grin and bear it, these days, and after all, this is the toniest part of town). And right down the street, is Crazy Horse, the famous up-scale strip-club.
Only in Paris.
Monday 22 January 2007
Road-trip to Rotterdam
Rotterdam, like quite a few cities, I suspect, (Hamburg, Marseilles, dear old Minneapolis) has a quite undeserved reputation for being drab and uninteresting. Just because it got bombed and is not as picturesque and charming as Amsterdam, everybody thinks of it as an old frump. (Or new, frump, as the case may be.) But I found it quite attractive. Sure there are lots of new buildings, but most of them are beautiful. And the bridges are really stunning. They have one of those new-style suspension bridges that has one pillar at one end, from which the whole thing hangs. St. Paul decided against one like that to replace the high bridge, and chose a more traditional-feeling one instead. Big mistake, I think.
Anyway, R-dam is the largest port in the world, by tonnage. (Not just in Europe - in the world.) My host had some business to attend to there, so since we had to drop off some Sufis at the airport, very early, to catch their early flight for Delhi, we continued north on the Autoroute 1 for Lille, and watched the sun rise over Flanders. Signs for Chantilly, l'Oise, and la Somme. I shuddered when we crossed the last one - site of a great battle in the war the French still call La Grande Guerre.
And so we crossed Belgium, which impressed me as a humble, dingy place. Utterly flat, and rather comfortingly run-down. Apparently the Flemish are not nearly so up-tight about things like neatness and paint-jobs as the Dutch. But they do have very beautiful old towns. We went deliberately by way of Ghent, to see The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, by Jan van Eyck (1432), an altarpiece displayed in a room in the cathedral. It was "worth the trip" as the Guide Michelin puts is. Definitely three stars. The painting is a triptych, whose central panel depicts the Lamb That Was Slain, blood streaming out of His breast into a chalice, censed by angels, and adored by four groups of saints: red-robed martyrs, blue-robed non-martyrs, prophets and others, and contemporaries. It is quite large, so the cities in the distant baackground can be minutely detailed. Around back (the two folding doors of the triptych, which are on the front when shut) is the annunciation, with a rather urgent-looking Gabriel, whose hair is touselled, as though he just got out of bed. He seems to be rushing at the Virgin,who appears somewhat startled, and not at all pleased to be interrupted in her studies. (As usual, she is reading something.)
In the Crypt there is a fine, small Passion showing Christ bearing the Cross, surrounded by numerous heads of extremely ugly, frightening people: Hieronymus Bosch.
We crossed the parvis to have some stew at a small restaurant. Like Holland, everybody speaks English, and you don't even have to try to speak French. Ghent is terminally charming. Lots of car-free streets (like most old European towns nowadays - they say the mayor of Paris even wants to ban cars entirely from the inner arrondisments, except for residents). Ghent has those step-ladder facades like holland - high and polychrome. And beautiful towers and half-timbered houses. It was an extremely wealthy cloth-trading city at one time. They are still very proud of their lace and tapestry fabric.
And on to R-dam. After about an hour there, we headed home. We stopped for dinner outside Lille at a little town called Hem, at a restaurant called L'Hempenpont (or something - I considered this uncannily appropriate), which claimed to have been in continuous operation for more than 200 years. It had a cheery wood fire in the bar (which was nice, because it was a bit chilly), and a big tiled hearth in the dining room, which was decorated to make you feel as though you were in a kitchen. The place was filled up after we sat down, on Sunday night, and the food was terrific, and at @26 euros ($30) for three courses and coffee, it was quite a bargain, as I have learned.
I started with a local cheese baked in a fine pastry shell, followed by perfectly rose calve's liver, served with sweet red cabbage and endive braised in a strong, brown stock. Then a flaming Norman tarte (apple flamed with calvados at the table) for dessert. I drove the last 200 km to Suresnes, which was pretty easy. You can go 130 km/hour, whcih is about 85mph, I think. We got home around midnight. The whole trip of more than 600 miles roundtrip took about 15 hours, but it was quite comfortable.
Apparently there was another big straight-line-wind storm of the kind that damaged much of France a few years ago. It didn't hit Paris this time, though, and I didn't noticse any damage in Belgium. I guess most of the damage was in Germany.
Anyway, R-dam is the largest port in the world, by tonnage. (Not just in Europe - in the world.) My host had some business to attend to there, so since we had to drop off some Sufis at the airport, very early, to catch their early flight for Delhi, we continued north on the Autoroute 1 for Lille, and watched the sun rise over Flanders. Signs for Chantilly, l'Oise, and la Somme. I shuddered when we crossed the last one - site of a great battle in the war the French still call La Grande Guerre.
And so we crossed Belgium, which impressed me as a humble, dingy place. Utterly flat, and rather comfortingly run-down. Apparently the Flemish are not nearly so up-tight about things like neatness and paint-jobs as the Dutch. But they do have very beautiful old towns. We went deliberately by way of Ghent, to see The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, by Jan van Eyck (1432), an altarpiece displayed in a room in the cathedral. It was "worth the trip" as the Guide Michelin puts is. Definitely three stars. The painting is a triptych, whose central panel depicts the Lamb That Was Slain, blood streaming out of His breast into a chalice, censed by angels, and adored by four groups of saints: red-robed martyrs, blue-robed non-martyrs, prophets and others, and contemporaries. It is quite large, so the cities in the distant baackground can be minutely detailed. Around back (the two folding doors of the triptych, which are on the front when shut) is the annunciation, with a rather urgent-looking Gabriel, whose hair is touselled, as though he just got out of bed. He seems to be rushing at the Virgin,who appears somewhat startled, and not at all pleased to be interrupted in her studies. (As usual, she is reading something.)
In the Crypt there is a fine, small Passion showing Christ bearing the Cross, surrounded by numerous heads of extremely ugly, frightening people: Hieronymus Bosch.
We crossed the parvis to have some stew at a small restaurant. Like Holland, everybody speaks English, and you don't even have to try to speak French. Ghent is terminally charming. Lots of car-free streets (like most old European towns nowadays - they say the mayor of Paris even wants to ban cars entirely from the inner arrondisments, except for residents). Ghent has those step-ladder facades like holland - high and polychrome. And beautiful towers and half-timbered houses. It was an extremely wealthy cloth-trading city at one time. They are still very proud of their lace and tapestry fabric.
And on to R-dam. After about an hour there, we headed home. We stopped for dinner outside Lille at a little town called Hem, at a restaurant called L'Hempenpont (or something - I considered this uncannily appropriate), which claimed to have been in continuous operation for more than 200 years. It had a cheery wood fire in the bar (which was nice, because it was a bit chilly), and a big tiled hearth in the dining room, which was decorated to make you feel as though you were in a kitchen. The place was filled up after we sat down, on Sunday night, and the food was terrific, and at @26 euros ($30) for three courses and coffee, it was quite a bargain, as I have learned.
I started with a local cheese baked in a fine pastry shell, followed by perfectly rose calve's liver, served with sweet red cabbage and endive braised in a strong, brown stock. Then a flaming Norman tarte (apple flamed with calvados at the table) for dessert. I drove the last 200 km to Suresnes, which was pretty easy. You can go 130 km/hour, whcih is about 85mph, I think. We got home around midnight. The whole trip of more than 600 miles roundtrip took about 15 hours, but it was quite comfortable.
Apparently there was another big straight-line-wind storm of the kind that damaged much of France a few years ago. It didn't hit Paris this time, though, and I didn't noticse any damage in Belgium. I guess most of the damage was in Germany.
Tuesday 16 January 2007
Driving in the non-tourist parts of Paris
I have been driving in new places the past few days, places not on the usual tourist itinerary. On Sunday, I tired to go to a concert (Negro Spirituals with a chorus led by a firend of Sharif's). Found the church without difficulty thanks to the peripherique (which has become my friend) and the excellent French street atlas, but there was no place to park, so I bailed and settled for driving around a new part of Paris: the 18th Arrondisement (north central, near the Porte de Clignancourt. This is a decidedly un-tony neighborhood, on the north side of Montmartre, with lots of head-covering and chodors and stuff. Then I decided to find my way home by the city streets. There was a big one going toward central Paris (south) it went right by the Gare du Nord, and it was hideous traffic.
Still, I found my way around, despite all the one-way streets. According to Irina (my French friend's daughter) the mayor of Paris is trying to discourage driving by making everything one-way, so that in any given neighborhood, there are lots of one-way streets leading OUT, but only one or two leading IN. This makes for alot of driving in circles unless you know where you're going. I kept getting routed back to the hideous-traffic street (Boulevard Magenta, for those of you following this on a map). But finally, I got on one of the Grande Boulevards that curve around the middle of town on the right bank (north side of the river). Soon I recognized landmarks (the Opera, the grandes magazines or department stores) as I headed west. I wanted to avoid the great traffic circle at the Place de l'etoile (the Mother of All Traffic Circles, around the Arc de Triomphe). I succeeded, and in the process found a nice way home - a leafy boulevard that also permitted me to omit the big circles at Por teMaillot, which is just about as daunting as L'etoile. The problem with these very convenient features of driving in France is that they are designed to get you through the big intersections as fast as possible, without stopping. There are strict rules about the cars on the right having priorite, so it's no problem getting INTO the circle (everyone has to let you in, since you are coming from the right, in the counterclockwise motion of the traffic). The problem comes when it's time to get OUT. Then you have to use all your mirrors and look over your shoulder and not expect any quarter from the drivers behind you. I'm getting the hang of it, though. The smaller cirlces are pretty easy. And they do avoid what would otherwise be apocalyptic traffic jams. And I have a sense of accomplishment.
Then today, I had lunch with my old friend Frank Kane. (I know him from the Yale Russian Chorus.) he has been living here for 18 years, but he has gotten tired of it and he is planning to move to the world's second largest francophone city, Montreal. After a fabulous "lunch" of glazed shoulder of mutton confit with home-made potatoe chips at Les Gallopins, I drove him home to St. Denis. (An even more de-classe suburb). This is all very interesting, because it is a part of Paris that, like most tourists, I had never seen. It was easy enough getting there: it's right down the Seine a few miles (the river is running SW to NE at that point, on one of its several ox-bow meanders, but I got all turned around on the way back I blame the overcast sky, since I had no idea what direction was what, and I ended up going in exactly the wrong direction. I figured this out when I got to Le Bourget (where Lindberg landed) before I turned around. But I did have an interesting tour of the drab, industrial suburbs of the northern side of town. The only thing worthy of note was a genuinely ancient village, now completely engulfed by urban sprawl, but somehow preserved in all its medieval squalor.
Then I resorted to the freeways and got back without difficulty. (The French traffic signs are really great - they are color-coded, so you can get the level of detail you need at a drive-by glance: blue is for the autoroutes [freeways - most of them pay-through-the-noseways, but only outside of Paris], then the green signs are for the bigger trunk highways, and white is for local roads. These colored signs have, in addition to the number of the road, the name(s) of towns indicating which direction you are going. If you have some idea of where you are going, you don't even need a map!) So, I arrived back at the Bois de Boulogne (great big park on the western edge of Paris)without difficulty. I feel I am home when I get there, because it's avery easy and hassle-free drive to the house from there.
Still, I found my way around, despite all the one-way streets. According to Irina (my French friend's daughter) the mayor of Paris is trying to discourage driving by making everything one-way, so that in any given neighborhood, there are lots of one-way streets leading OUT, but only one or two leading IN. This makes for alot of driving in circles unless you know where you're going. I kept getting routed back to the hideous-traffic street (Boulevard Magenta, for those of you following this on a map). But finally, I got on one of the Grande Boulevards that curve around the middle of town on the right bank (north side of the river). Soon I recognized landmarks (the Opera, the grandes magazines or department stores) as I headed west. I wanted to avoid the great traffic circle at the Place de l'etoile (the Mother of All Traffic Circles, around the Arc de Triomphe). I succeeded, and in the process found a nice way home - a leafy boulevard that also permitted me to omit the big circles at Por teMaillot, which is just about as daunting as L'etoile. The problem with these very convenient features of driving in France is that they are designed to get you through the big intersections as fast as possible, without stopping. There are strict rules about the cars on the right having priorite, so it's no problem getting INTO the circle (everyone has to let you in, since you are coming from the right, in the counterclockwise motion of the traffic). The problem comes when it's time to get OUT. Then you have to use all your mirrors and look over your shoulder and not expect any quarter from the drivers behind you. I'm getting the hang of it, though. The smaller cirlces are pretty easy. And they do avoid what would otherwise be apocalyptic traffic jams. And I have a sense of accomplishment.
Then today, I had lunch with my old friend Frank Kane. (I know him from the Yale Russian Chorus.) he has been living here for 18 years, but he has gotten tired of it and he is planning to move to the world's second largest francophone city, Montreal. After a fabulous "lunch" of glazed shoulder of mutton confit with home-made potatoe chips at Les Gallopins, I drove him home to St. Denis. (An even more de-classe suburb). This is all very interesting, because it is a part of Paris that, like most tourists, I had never seen. It was easy enough getting there: it's right down the Seine a few miles (the river is running SW to NE at that point, on one of its several ox-bow meanders, but I got all turned around on the way back I blame the overcast sky, since I had no idea what direction was what, and I ended up going in exactly the wrong direction. I figured this out when I got to Le Bourget (where Lindberg landed) before I turned around. But I did have an interesting tour of the drab, industrial suburbs of the northern side of town. The only thing worthy of note was a genuinely ancient village, now completely engulfed by urban sprawl, but somehow preserved in all its medieval squalor.
Then I resorted to the freeways and got back without difficulty. (The French traffic signs are really great - they are color-coded, so you can get the level of detail you need at a drive-by glance: blue is for the autoroutes [freeways - most of them pay-through-the-noseways, but only outside of Paris], then the green signs are for the bigger trunk highways, and white is for local roads. These colored signs have, in addition to the number of the road, the name(s) of towns indicating which direction you are going. If you have some idea of where you are going, you don't even need a map!) So, I arrived back at the Bois de Boulogne (great big park on the western edge of Paris)without difficulty. I feel I am home when I get there, because it's avery easy and hassle-free drive to the house from there.
Monday 15 January 2007
Gallette des rois (I think) and the dentist
[N.B.: this is a little out of order; the previous post had the menu for the Friday night dinner]
January 12
Things are fine here - Sharif is in FL for the weekend giving a talk, and I am on my own. I went driving around Paris yesterday. Literally ''around'' to get my bearings and revive my French driving skills. Actually it is very easy to drive here, once you know their customs (people on the right ALWAYS have the right-of-way) and they have lots of little traffic circles, which they call camemberts after the little rounds of cheese These make life a lot easier - as long as you keep eyes right!I am going to drive to the other side of town tonight to see my old French friends, who are leaving for Egypt tomorrow. I did a dry run yesterday to see how to get there, and it was pretty easy. On the way back, I took the boulevard perepherique, which is a beltway that runs all around the city proper, just within the city limits. All very rational. They have very informative LED signs above all the major freeways, telling you how many minutes to the next major intersection, and alerting you to accidents.
January 14
Dinner on Friday concluded with the gallette des rois - or king's cake. This is a large, round pastry made out of croissant dough, in which is hidden a little figurine or two. This is an old 12th night tradition (Epiphany), celebrating the visit of the Magi. This is when it was traditional to give gifts (like the Magi), and the poor, whio had nothing to give, made these simple cakes to give to friends. Spain and Mexico have very similar traditions (tres reyes), and it has survived in France as a delight to children. The cakes are sold with a paper crown, and whoever finds the figurine(s) gets to wear the crown. There was something similar in England, preserved among some Episcopalians, in which a sweet cake was baked with a ring in it, and whoever found the ring had to bake the cake next year. As Jean-loup observed, "it's good for dentists."
And speaking of denstists, as soon as I got here (before the gallette des rois) I broke a tooth (it was ready to go: I broke it on a crust of French bread!) Since I could feel it when I sucked air, I thought I had better have it seen to. Sharif's dentist is a New Zealander expat. Here's how it goes with dentists in France. You call, and if he can't see you today, he can tomorrow. When you get there, the receptionist asks whether or not you have an appointment. Apparently, you don't really have to have an appointment, if you are willing to wait. I had an appointment, and I had to wait less than five minutes. Then you go into a room with a desk, computer, files, and medical cupboards and a dentist chair. The old-fashioned kind with a porcelaine spitoon on the left - just like I remember from childhood. In fact the whole thing was very much like my childhood experience of dentistry: one dentist, one assistant, and somebody out front, who serves as appointments secretary top a number of professionals on the same floor, who share a witing room. I was out in 15 minutes, and the installation of the temporary cap cost 30 euros ($39), which I delivered in cash into the hand of the dentist. This was so cheap that I am seriously considering having him do the whole crown, as long as I'm here. It would have taken at least a week to get an appointment at my denstist at home, and cost almost three times as much.
Jean-loup and I are planning an excursion to Normandy, Mont St. Michel, and Brittany in a couple of weeks. Just five days, but J-l wants to see an old friend in Normandy (a peasant woman, whom he befriended in their hamlet). I once helped him make hay for her husband. M. Denis is the one who makes cider with an old press, which J-l says is the twin of one in the museum of rural antiquities in Valogne (nearby). It is at least five hundred years old. When we arrived early in the morning, he gave us coffee and calvados (apple brandy). Then we went to work. Everything is on a smaller scale here: the tractor, the field, the hay-wagon, the bales themselves (about 25 pounds as opposed to 40 in America). This made it a piece of cake. It also required many trips back to the barn. Each time, we had to drink a nice big glass of cider. M. Denis died of alcoholism about 15 years ago. Mme. Denis lives on in the same old stone farmhouse, about as old as the cider press.
Then we will go to Mont St. Michel, which will soon be inaccessible to cars. (They're going to bust up the old causeway, which is causing sediment problems. The place is now a UNESCO treasure of humanity and they want to keep it an island. Good idea. J-l likes to visit it once a year. Then we will go on up the north coast of the Bretagne penninsula, stopping at St. Malo (Louis XIV fortified town in the English Channel) and Brest - France's western-most harbor, which J-l says is very beautiful, and then back along the south coast to Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire, where J-l wants to look for property.
January 12
Things are fine here - Sharif is in FL for the weekend giving a talk, and I am on my own. I went driving around Paris yesterday. Literally ''around'' to get my bearings and revive my French driving skills. Actually it is very easy to drive here, once you know their customs (people on the right ALWAYS have the right-of-way) and they have lots of little traffic circles, which they call camemberts after the little rounds of cheese These make life a lot easier - as long as you keep eyes right!I am going to drive to the other side of town tonight to see my old French friends, who are leaving for Egypt tomorrow. I did a dry run yesterday to see how to get there, and it was pretty easy. On the way back, I took the boulevard perepherique, which is a beltway that runs all around the city proper, just within the city limits. All very rational. They have very informative LED signs above all the major freeways, telling you how many minutes to the next major intersection, and alerting you to accidents.
January 14
Dinner on Friday concluded with the gallette des rois - or king's cake. This is a large, round pastry made out of croissant dough, in which is hidden a little figurine or two. This is an old 12th night tradition (Epiphany), celebrating the visit of the Magi. This is when it was traditional to give gifts (like the Magi), and the poor, whio had nothing to give, made these simple cakes to give to friends. Spain and Mexico have very similar traditions (tres reyes), and it has survived in France as a delight to children. The cakes are sold with a paper crown, and whoever finds the figurine(s) gets to wear the crown. There was something similar in England, preserved among some Episcopalians, in which a sweet cake was baked with a ring in it, and whoever found the ring had to bake the cake next year. As Jean-loup observed, "it's good for dentists."
And speaking of denstists, as soon as I got here (before the gallette des rois) I broke a tooth (it was ready to go: I broke it on a crust of French bread!) Since I could feel it when I sucked air, I thought I had better have it seen to. Sharif's dentist is a New Zealander expat. Here's how it goes with dentists in France. You call, and if he can't see you today, he can tomorrow. When you get there, the receptionist asks whether or not you have an appointment. Apparently, you don't really have to have an appointment, if you are willing to wait. I had an appointment, and I had to wait less than five minutes. Then you go into a room with a desk, computer, files, and medical cupboards and a dentist chair. The old-fashioned kind with a porcelaine spitoon on the left - just like I remember from childhood. In fact the whole thing was very much like my childhood experience of dentistry: one dentist, one assistant, and somebody out front, who serves as appointments secretary top a number of professionals on the same floor, who share a witing room. I was out in 15 minutes, and the installation of the temporary cap cost 30 euros ($39), which I delivered in cash into the hand of the dentist. This was so cheap that I am seriously considering having him do the whole crown, as long as I'm here. It would have taken at least a week to get an appointment at my denstist at home, and cost almost three times as much.
Jean-loup and I are planning an excursion to Normandy, Mont St. Michel, and Brittany in a couple of weeks. Just five days, but J-l wants to see an old friend in Normandy (a peasant woman, whom he befriended in their hamlet). I once helped him make hay for her husband. M. Denis is the one who makes cider with an old press, which J-l says is the twin of one in the museum of rural antiquities in Valogne (nearby). It is at least five hundred years old. When we arrived early in the morning, he gave us coffee and calvados (apple brandy). Then we went to work. Everything is on a smaller scale here: the tractor, the field, the hay-wagon, the bales themselves (about 25 pounds as opposed to 40 in America). This made it a piece of cake. It also required many trips back to the barn. Each time, we had to drink a nice big glass of cider. M. Denis died of alcoholism about 15 years ago. Mme. Denis lives on in the same old stone farmhouse, about as old as the cider press.
Then we will go to Mont St. Michel, which will soon be inaccessible to cars. (They're going to bust up the old causeway, which is causing sediment problems. The place is now a UNESCO treasure of humanity and they want to keep it an island. Good idea. J-l likes to visit it once a year. Then we will go on up the north coast of the Bretagne penninsula, stopping at St. Malo (Louis XIV fortified town in the English Channel) and Brest - France's western-most harbor, which J-l says is very beautiful, and then back along the south coast to Nantes, at the mouth of the Loire, where J-l wants to look for property.
Arrival in France
Pretty easy getting from MPLS to Paris on US Air. I like that service. Small, new airbus (only four seats across the middle row. I had to sit inside, but it was ok - movies on demand - no sleep , but ok).
Formalities in Paris were startlingly informal. The nice passport control official beckoned me forward, even though I was in the EU ONLY line, and stamped me right away. No one checked anything. It was like flying domestic in USA. In the hall marked "nothing to declare" there stood a number of pleasant-looking uniforms, who couldn't have been less interested in me, as I wheeled my cart right by them into France. Just outside the door, the street had my destination (Porte Maillot-Charles de Gaulle-Etoile) painted on the street. IN a few minutes, the bus came and 20 minutes and 11euros ($15) later I was there. My friend, Sharif, with whom I am working for these two months had just pulled up behind the bus.
Sharif lives up on the ridge, which is the highest in the Paris region, near Mont Valerien. This is a big fort, which was the Gestapo interrogation center, then the Allied headquarters. At the foot of the hill is a big American cemetery. His house is right around the corner from the high street, which offers considerable delight: three butchers, a charcuterie (sausage and pates 7 such), fish-monger, including occasional oyster-man who shells them for you right on the street, superette, cheese shop, and five bakeries. And a bit further down is a full-scale super-market, which is of interest only because the prices are considerable lower.
This is a consideration, because of the weak dollar. Not as weak as I had feared, but about 9% lower than last year at this time. Meanwhile, prices have risen, so in all, most things are more expensive. NOT. however cheese and wine. The latter doesn't help me, but the former certainly does. Great French cheeses (including the raw-milk kinds that you can't get in the States anymore) are about half what they are at home. Meat, though is higher. e.g.: a rotisserie chicken was $15 compared to $5 at Rainbow. But then, it was about twice as big AND fermier, which means free-range, single-farmer-raised. And BOY did it taste good! It came with little yukon-gold-type potatoes, which were roasted at the bottom of the rotisserie, with the chicken's drippings. There are two of these rotisseries on the street.
Been to Les Gallopins just once so far (the little bistro down the hill, which has a limited but excellent menu). I had pork cheeks, which was the special of the day. It was indescribably good. Tasted more like brisket of beef than porkm, and was just as tender. Knife not necessary. The owner remarked that an animals cheeks are always the best, from trout to beef, to pigs. Les Gallopins also has delicacies such as whole sauteed foie gras (goose liver NOT made into a pate), gizzard salad, and glazed shoulder of mutton confit (slow-cooked in hot oil), served with home-made, paper-thin potato-chips for two. The latter costs $46. The fixced-price menu of the day (including an appetizer or dessert and main course) is $32. This is at an inexpensive restaurant.
So, I am cooking for myself, as usual, and going our only occasionally. There will be one or two splurges, however. I am determined to try the tripe at the Lyonnaise brasserie, maybe brains, too. There is also a chain called Hippopotamus, which is about the best chain restaurant I have ever been in. They have them all over France, and they are like a fine French restaurant in the States. They specialize in French beef (Limousin, Charolais, &c.). The cuts are generous (though the butcher the carcass differently and have slightly different cuts from ours), and the cuisson or degree of cooking is meticulous: au point is medium, sangeant (I think) is "bloody", or medium rare, and bleu is cold and raw in the middle, warm on the outside. Of course, every bistro, brasserie, and restaurant has steak tatare on the menu, so you don't really have to have it cooked at all! And I don't even know how to orer something well-done. Some French chefs flatly refuse to cook it that way. (Just like Maurice, at the Cafe Bouef.) And they're right.
I think I'll skip the snails, but the shellfish are very inviting. Coquilles St. Jacques (scallops) are sold on the sidewalk, still attached to their shells. Lots of mussels and oysters, too. Sharif's wife and daughter were back for the holidays from Saratoga Springs, where Kore is teaching French for the year. She had all the nearby Sufis in for oysters on New Years' Day. Four dozen, opened by the street vendor. To die for. Apparently, this is some kind of French tradition. I intend to make oyster stew with creme fraiche sometime soon.
So far, I have been to my French friends twice. Rabbit stew the first time and gigot (leg of lamb) the next. The first course was smoked trout with dill sauce and asparagus timbale. Something I used to make. I think I'll try it again.
Formalities in Paris were startlingly informal. The nice passport control official beckoned me forward, even though I was in the EU ONLY line, and stamped me right away. No one checked anything. It was like flying domestic in USA. In the hall marked "nothing to declare" there stood a number of pleasant-looking uniforms, who couldn't have been less interested in me, as I wheeled my cart right by them into France. Just outside the door, the street had my destination (Porte Maillot-Charles de Gaulle-Etoile) painted on the street. IN a few minutes, the bus came and 20 minutes and 11euros ($15) later I was there. My friend, Sharif, with whom I am working for these two months had just pulled up behind the bus.
Sharif lives up on the ridge, which is the highest in the Paris region, near Mont Valerien. This is a big fort, which was the Gestapo interrogation center, then the Allied headquarters. At the foot of the hill is a big American cemetery. His house is right around the corner from the high street, which offers considerable delight: three butchers, a charcuterie (sausage and pates 7 such), fish-monger, including occasional oyster-man who shells them for you right on the street, superette, cheese shop, and five bakeries. And a bit further down is a full-scale super-market, which is of interest only because the prices are considerable lower.
This is a consideration, because of the weak dollar. Not as weak as I had feared, but about 9% lower than last year at this time. Meanwhile, prices have risen, so in all, most things are more expensive. NOT. however cheese and wine. The latter doesn't help me, but the former certainly does. Great French cheeses (including the raw-milk kinds that you can't get in the States anymore) are about half what they are at home. Meat, though is higher. e.g.: a rotisserie chicken was $15 compared to $5 at Rainbow. But then, it was about twice as big AND fermier, which means free-range, single-farmer-raised. And BOY did it taste good! It came with little yukon-gold-type potatoes, which were roasted at the bottom of the rotisserie, with the chicken's drippings. There are two of these rotisseries on the street.
Been to Les Gallopins just once so far (the little bistro down the hill, which has a limited but excellent menu). I had pork cheeks, which was the special of the day. It was indescribably good. Tasted more like brisket of beef than porkm, and was just as tender. Knife not necessary. The owner remarked that an animals cheeks are always the best, from trout to beef, to pigs. Les Gallopins also has delicacies such as whole sauteed foie gras (goose liver NOT made into a pate), gizzard salad, and glazed shoulder of mutton confit (slow-cooked in hot oil), served with home-made, paper-thin potato-chips for two. The latter costs $46. The fixced-price menu of the day (including an appetizer or dessert and main course) is $32. This is at an inexpensive restaurant.
So, I am cooking for myself, as usual, and going our only occasionally. There will be one or two splurges, however. I am determined to try the tripe at the Lyonnaise brasserie, maybe brains, too. There is also a chain called Hippopotamus, which is about the best chain restaurant I have ever been in. They have them all over France, and they are like a fine French restaurant in the States. They specialize in French beef (Limousin, Charolais, &c.). The cuts are generous (though the butcher the carcass differently and have slightly different cuts from ours), and the cuisson or degree of cooking is meticulous: au point is medium, sangeant (I think) is "bloody", or medium rare, and bleu is cold and raw in the middle, warm on the outside. Of course, every bistro, brasserie, and restaurant has steak tatare on the menu, so you don't really have to have it cooked at all! And I don't even know how to orer something well-done. Some French chefs flatly refuse to cook it that way. (Just like Maurice, at the Cafe Bouef.) And they're right.
I think I'll skip the snails, but the shellfish are very inviting. Coquilles St. Jacques (scallops) are sold on the sidewalk, still attached to their shells. Lots of mussels and oysters, too. Sharif's wife and daughter were back for the holidays from Saratoga Springs, where Kore is teaching French for the year. She had all the nearby Sufis in for oysters on New Years' Day. Four dozen, opened by the street vendor. To die for. Apparently, this is some kind of French tradition. I intend to make oyster stew with creme fraiche sometime soon.
So far, I have been to my French friends twice. Rabbit stew the first time and gigot (leg of lamb) the next. The first course was smoked trout with dill sauce and asparagus timbale. Something I used to make. I think I'll try it again.
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