Sunny LA

After a terrific (but short), overnight visit with Eric and Karine and 3.5-year-old Liam in Montreal, I flew via Toronto to LAX. I checked in to a motel to get a good night's sleep. (I knew for sure I was in LA when, looking for something to read, I found a copy of the Bhagavad Gita in place of Gideon's Bible!).

The next day, my friend, Lev Rukhin, welcomed me to his loft and then left for New York. I am on my own for the weekend. Fine with me: Lever has a great library, wi-fi, and Netflix!

Lev Evgenievich Rukhin & daughter Evgenia Lvovna Rukhina

Lever, a fine cook,  also left directions to Fresh & Easy, his local grocer, which he described as the British version of Trader Joe's. The neighborhood is LA's version of Soho or our warehouse district - lots of converted space for lofts. But still lots of trucks and warehouses. lever's place is a big compound of conversions just for artists. Very cool.

Lever is a photographer:

His signature style is these big murals composed of smaller prints, which he calls "contextual photography." More on his website: check out the Galleries and Portraits menus for more fine pix, including several shot on his motorcycle tour through Russia, after which I met him by accident in 1999. 

We were both dumbfounded when we met at a cafe in Rome and discovered that we had met before in Leningrad! Lever's father, a noted Soviet Russian non-conformist painter, had invited the Yale Russian Chorus to a soiree at his apartment on the riverbank. Zhenia invited me back to meet a few friends the next day. Lever (short for Lev Evgenievich Rukhin) was six months old!

Lever and dad in Leningrad

Martinique, January, 2013

You wouldn't call Ste. Anne a “sleepy beach-front town”. There is nothing sleepy about it, except possibly in the mid-afternoon heat. The rest of the time the dozens of restaurants and tourist boutiques are going strong. And at night there is usually a live band somewhere around the square. It is a thoroughgoing tourist scene, even if most of the tourists are from the same country – France – or Quebec. Everyone speaks French and the euro is the currency, because Martinique is part of France, just like Hawaii is part of the United States.

“The Kingdom of the Banana” (la royaume du banane), and that is about it. There is still some sugar-cane, too – enough to support a dozen or so distilleries – but the Banana is King, for sure. 

The people are mostly poor (50% unemployment), but not miserable, due to the French socialist safety-net. This includes free universal health care and education, subsidized housing, and enough assistance so no one starves. The roads also get a lot of attention, which means work for a lot of people. In general, the Martiniquaises are doing a whole lot better than the Hatiians,  who freed themselves from French colonial control in the 19^th Century. Makes you wonder.

You also have to wonder about the Christmas decorations – still on the lampposts, not because they are laid-back, but because, I suppose, the custom is to observe the season right through Epiphany (La Fête des Rois). What is to wonder about is the shimmering, white, electric snowflakes! No one here has ever seen snow. What do you suppose people think when they see them? My favorite seaside restaurant also has a nice little artificial Christmas tree.

Among things not found in Martinique, in addition to snow, are trains, irrigation, cut flowers, and hotels. There are lots of small buses on all the roads; it rains almost every day or night, at least this time of year; there are so many brilliant blossoms growing everywhere wild that I suppose no one bothers to cut flowers that would wilt pretty fast in the heat, anyway. Of course there are tourist accommodations, but none that advertize or make themselves known along the road. I discovered this on my foray to the volcanic North, 

Mt. Pelée ~ active volcano

where I intended to find one and stay the night. I didn’t. Even towns marked “H” for hotel on the map kept them well-hidden. I suppose they are mostly resort-style facilities booked through agents or, now, online. Anyway, no motels or Holiday Inns. And no roadsigns inviting customers. Lots of signs for restaurants, but nothing about hotels. Not one. There is a Club Med right across the street from my rented studio, but no high-rise glamour-destinations. This ain’t Cabo or Cancun. I suspect the French have decided to keep it that way – low-key and under everybody-else’s radar. Still, it’s kind of odd. Every little town and suburb in metropolitan France, after all, has plenty of small hotels. I guess people here don’t get in their cars and drive around much, or if they do, they are never more than an hour or so from home. So, no motels.

The cuisine is pretty typically French: steak and fries, grilled chicken and fish, salads at the better places. Their local specialties are mainlyboudin noir (blood pudding), fluffy, light and mild, and acras, 



which are little fritters made of cod or shrimp. They seem to be a staple, sold at all restaurants and also by the side of the road, alongside BBQ brochettes and ribs. Bananas, of course, are to-die-for. I swear I have never had one as good. Could they be tree-ripened?