Home at last

April 30
Home again.  This reentry has been much more difficult than anticipated.  It is great to see family and friends, but the pace here and the traffic wears me out.  When I am in Laguna Canyon or Heisler Park, I am all right and completely at peace.  Otherwise, I feel “off” similar to how it feels when one’s clothes are on backwards.  My yard and house have lots of deferred maintenance so it is difficult to feel relaxed. Trees need pruning, the dishwasher is not working properly, the garage door is broken, a shower head has clogged up.  I will tackle one thing at a time so I don’t get overwhelmed.  Plus, I have been imagining the interior re-painted in a different palette—so that is on my “to do” list.
I am finally unpacked, laundry and dry cleaning done. I can’t seem to adjust to the closet space and bedroom organization—so I will be rearranging things soon.
I had a very intense dream during my first two weeks in London that has haunted me since.  I believe I finally have some insight about what it was.
The dream:  I needed surgery again on my left eye.  Coming out of surgery, the ophthalmologist reported that they had to go in through my forehead.  Looking in the mirror I see that there is an egg shaped large hole in my forehead that exposes my brain.  Feeling vulnerable, I am uncertain that it will be a good idea to walk around with this opening in my head.  The interesting part is how the brain looks.  It is a series of shapes and colors that change with my thoughts.  Some little barbell yellow lights, some pink rods, some Kelly green circles, some purple spurs, etc.  With every thought the lights shift and change colors.  It is quite amazing.
Now, I realize the dream was about the process of blogging--having the travel experience through my eyes reflected back out for strangers and friends alike to peek through.  All the stimulation of my experience exposed and made visible for anyone.  It created a very odd sensation at some deep level.
A dozen or so goldfinch are currently waging a battle in my back yard birch with a pair of purple finch.  The bird feeders are empty and have been since January, so I am curious what the attraction is.  Not only does it create a pleasing site for the eyes, but their twills and chirps are a soft start to the day.

In a week or so, I will give a grand finale reflecting on the whole experience.  Currently, I am "whelmed" (on the edge of overwhelmed, but not over the top) with the adjustment to life in the States.  I must say that the state of the "news" here is pathetic.

Happy Birthday to my Mother, Nell.

Yesterday was lost to jet lag, taking care of business (getting auto insurance limits changed, opening piles of mail, checking office mail at CSUF, etc.).  I did manage to see my morning people, see some of my colleagues and have walkies with the dogs.

By noon I was zombied out on lack of sleep (3 hours out of the last 36); I knew I was not safe to drive or cook when by 3pm I could not figure out how to dial the phone--really.  Willed myself awake to 8pm and slept 8 hours.

Today is jammed full of reentry errands.  I do plan to have some final reflections on this great adventure soon.
A pedicure, massage and visits with dearest ones will be the accomplishments of the day.
Be well.

April 24 Happy Birthday to my BIL, John Grisinger

My brother-in-law, John, has been in my life since I was 14.  I remember the moment I realized my sister was dating someone, not a square,  with an interesting take on the world: Patty & I were disagreeing over whether to simmer boiling water to cook eggs (my view) or to turn up the heat (her position) as we labored over the stove.  John calmly explained the evaporation process and make his point very clearly with no rancor.  It was that exchange and the fact that he knew who Art Blakey was that caused altered my perception of the Dodge Dart-driving engineer my sister was about to marry.  What gift John has been to our family since then.  Could not have a better brother in law.

Arrived an hour before departure at Gare de L’est for my speed train to Frankfurt.  Nothing is in English, but signs are color coded and not TOO difficult to decipher.

The presence of guards with machine guns was a tad unnerving.

Here is my gear.

I am enroute Paris to Frankfurt on the ICE de Bahn.  Au revoir, Paris.  Like every city train yard, the scene is the same.

Once out of Paris we pass miles and miles of cultivated mustard farms.  Seems improbable that what grows as a weed in the California hills is a farm product here.

Every now and then we pass a village with a clump of homes and a tall church spire—always a church spire.
We moved through one forest, the rest is farms, two industrial areas but the scene is similar. My seat mate is an older German woman who does not speak—until she departs at Mannheim and in heavy accent, says: “Have nice trip.”

Yesterday was a wonderful day in Paris.  I met the Black Paris Tour in a second floor dining room of a bakery on the Champs Elysee near the Charles de Gaule Etoile. The subway is easy to use.  There were three couples, the guide, and moi—all American, although the guide lives in Paris nine months a year for many years.  We quickly became friends with a wonderful spirit de corps.

Ricki oriented us to the city telling how to get around and giving some history.  She had a very fascinating set of facts about Africans in Paris and African Americans who had made their home here.  She was not only factual and entertaining, but good at facilitating the group discussion. I bet none the blog readers could name the 10+ Blacks memorialized on the Arc de Triomphe.

Then we set out in driving rain to take a public bus to see three monuments to Alexander Dumas( 400+ books including The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, etc.  It was dicey given the rain, but we managed to stay together. The woman from DC and her husband left the tour early as she was on one crutch and finding it difficult to navigate on public transportation in the slick rain.

We moved around Paris with Ricki pointing out monuments to Blacks and areas where Frederick Douglas and other notables had lived.  I learned much I did not know.  We got on the subway and the group followed Ricki’s instructions to speak in French phrases she told us. Interesting people, really fun outings and great conversations.  We had a lot of laughs.  It was not long before we had a really nice repartee going.
For lunch (around 3pm) we had Sri Lankan food in a little restaurant and then we walked to Little Africa for shopping and site seeing.  The neighborhood is home to 250K immigrants of Caribbean and African origin who were recruited (largely post 1960) to work in construction.

 I bought some cotton fabric with wax prints of birds in green, pink and black.  The other Eileen (from Houston) was searching for a 14 carat gold charm; she and Irving have been married 10 years and she buys a charm in countries they visit.  She did find a darling Eiffel Tower at a reasonable price.  Linda (retired to Jacksonville FL from NYC) found some gold dangling earrings that were fantastic on her.  Her husband, Walter—retired middle school teacher—found an African shirt in a lovely print.  We all bought a praline from the Haiti shop and we headed back out to Sacre Cour.

 The subway was mobbed and Linda and I were puzzled by the persistent attention I was attracting from the young men.  We couldn’t figure it out; it was not threatening or molesting, but in-your-face.  Could not decipher what their proposition was about.

The weather had turned even fouler, so we decided at 6pm to call it quits.  My only regret is that I did not do this tour on day one.  Ricki had recommendations for restaurants, jazz clubs, etc.  It was a completely enjoyable and very educational day. Linda and Walter had come a few days before and gone to two clubs and one restaurant Ricki recommended—they were really delighted with the Speakeasy jazz.

After cleaning up and dressing for dinner, I ventured out at 8 for one of the seafood restaurants on the list.  Walking on a green pedestrian light, I came inches from being hit by a speeding minivan that swerved and almost killed me and three young Asian men who were coming opposite direction in the crosswalk.  When they heard me exclaim, “What the hell?” they turned around, followed me and asked (in accented English)  for directions to the Champs Elysee.  I obliged including hand gestures and then realized they spoke perfect English, although with an accent.  One asked if I was British.  “No, American.”

They then asked if I had any restaurant recommendations.  I explained that I left my list in the apartment, but I was headed for seafood.  They followed.  The maitre d spoke a little English: I asked for a table for one.  Since we had been talking while waiting, the waiter asked if we were together.  I explained the situation, was seated alone while the guys from Singapore were shown upstairs.  They must have been big spenders because I ordered soup—but the maitre brought 6 delicious mussels in buttery sauce “on the house.”  Before my soup, here comes another appetizer “complementary—thank you for recommending us.”  The soup was excellent.  Now here comes a thick piece of cod poached in a sauce and served with puree of fennel root.  I had to refuse the tart tartan that next appeared. An amazing four course meal for 14 Euros.

We must be in Germany.  The trained stopped ten minutes ago and now there are six armed “national police” roaming the train with serious looks and Billy clubs next to their automatic weapons.
After the cab driver got lost going 1 mile to the hotel, I was very happy to see that my accommodation in Frankfurt is in the West End—financial district in a really lovely building.  The desk staff was very polite with broke English and took my bags to my room.  It is wonderful.

After a shower and change of clothes, I used the map provided and walked about a mile to a row of restaurants.  It reminded me of Boston’s Newbury street.  I decided on a “mediterrrean cuisine” in a basement.  The setting was divine.  Like an ivory cave with white candle lights, white llinens and black chairs with gray and black pillows.  The artwork consists of both traditional etchings and modern bright color abstracts.

There was only one other table of the 16 seats filled with a woman diner.  After the waiter and I conversed, the diner asked where I was from in the States.  She was from Sydney and we conversed throughout my meal.  She had finished, but was interested in discussing impressions of different palces---she obviously well traveled—and we had an engaging conversation.  The food was excellent.  The waiter was perfect in his service and eventually, the tables filled with businessmen speaking German and English, middle aged couples speaking French and German and an elderly man who spoke not at all—he must be a regular as the waiter brought this and that without any discussion.

I have packing to do.  I want to check the two small bags and carry only a handbag and a backpack.  That requires some planning on what goes where.  Luckily and thanks to Patty, I am upgraded to First Class for the Frankfurt to Dallas leg and Dallas to OC.

I will see you all soon.

If not asleep, I will write some reflections in flight on this whole four month experience.  I can’t believe how fortunate I am.  There have been no negatives—only interesting and delightful experiences.  I have learned more than I can chronicle.  I am so grateful.

April 23
One of the best scenes in Paris:  in the tunnel, under the Tuilerisies bridge, walking up from the river, I heard a small band—a trumpet, drums, keyboard and accordion (I know how improbable that seems).  And, in a heavy French accent, the singer was belting out:  “If you are going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.  If you are going to San Francisco, you’re going to meet some gentle people there.”
More about my apartment studio:  there is a ground floor here—a shop.  The first floor has one apartment.  The second floor (really the 3rd, but they don’t count the ground) has three apartments and the fourth, fifth and sixth have about seven apartments each.  So the stairs outside my window are busy and noisy until about 1am.  As in most EU cities, the hallway lights are on a sensor, so somebody walks in, the lights go on blast.  Not so good for a photosensitive sleeper like me.

This language barrier is very interesting.  Yesterday I could not remember to speak in the few phrases I could; instead, English just kept popping out. Unlike Spanish, which I “get” the gist of and in a few days of immersion, I can communicate—French escapes me.  Imagine my happiness and surprise this morning.  First, nothing is open before 10am and few things are open at all on Sundays.  So my morning was desolate.  Thank god I could brew a cuppa coffee in the studio before I set out in the cold drizzle. I have my melitta dropper and ground beans.

About a mile and half from here, there was an open boulangerie.  I went in for a hot expresso, but was so delighted to hear the music was hip hop and I recognized the lyrics.  Now, seriously, that is not my Sunday morning aural preference, but I was truly happy to hear English.  I lingered.

I also was delighedt to spot three mosaics by Space Invader, the graffiti artist who lays down tile mosaics instead of spray paint—in the shapes of ol’ skool video game characters. Very cool.

Then I was freezing so I started bus hopping with map in hand. No particular place to go—just a foray to try to create a three dimensional map of Paris in my mind.  Four routes later, I was still not getting the lay of the land, so I broke down and bought a ticket for the “hop on, hop off” bus—local company, not Gray Line’s big red bus. Finally, I had warmth, great views and narration with French music.  Oh, lovely day.  I was more than pleased NOT to hop off in the rain.  By tour route #3, there was no escape from the cold. People were streaming on to buy tickets wherever the bus stopped—most soaking wet; the bus was SRO a couple hours after I boarded.  

Two conversations overheard that tickled me.  First an obviously well-healed middle aged American couple got on and sat facing me.  She, in Burberry coat and scarf ,with big rings and very cunning green patent leather flats and perfect hair; him in a cardigan, slacks and a flashy ring.

Her:  Let’s get off at Notre Dame.  Him, “Will we see Quasimodo?”

Her:  Looking frantically through tour book and map, “See what?”

Him: Quasimodo?

Her:  Looking more frantically at things in her lap.  With some despair in her voice, “Is that a building or is it a monument?”

Him (with no apparent mirth):  “Quasimodo.  It is what it is.  The question is, will I see Quasimodo if we get off at Notre Dame?”

Her:  Looks more frantically through tour books.

The second was a group of no fewer than 35 college boys (in black nike slacks and Black vests with a coat of arms and name of some college along with 4 adults dressed the same.  The boys all headed for the top deck where they proceeded to sing drinking songs, college songs and old favorites in Italian.  Hilarious how many people got off the bus after a few minutes with that choir.  I rather enjoyed their energy.

 I finally hopped off near the Palais and walked home to get warmer clothes. Realizing it was close to 5pm and the buses would stop in a half hour, I decided to detour and stop at the one little open Mono Marche for provisions:  Mancheco, Jambon de la Mer (which I thought was tuna—it is not) a little square of duck pate, two pears.  No bread!  

Luckily a few blocks away I noticed the gelato stand had baguettes for sale.  A more careful look determined that store was not a gelato stand, but a boulangerie de bonbons—bakery of sweets.  At that moment all I really wanted was dry feet and a cup of hot tea.  I knew, however,  that without lunch and only an apple, a thin slice of ham and coffee for breakfast that I would hungry later in the evening. I didn’t want a mandatory outdoor outing if the weather got worse.  

I had carried my nylon, foldaway grocery bag in my purse (London created some strong habits), and I felt very sophisticated when entering my building with the secret code to street door and interior door with pink nylon grocery bag---when I almost bumped into a man going the other direction.  He was as surprised at the door opening before he pressed the button as I was to hear myself say:  “Pardon. Excusez moi.  Bonsoir.”  I can’t say I understood his response, but I said, “Merci” and went up the stairs.

So a quick internet search turns out that Jambon de la Mar is Pollack with crab flavor.  Now I have zero appetite.  I knew we call Tuna “Chicken of the Sea,” so I incorrectly guessed that Ham of the Sea was tuna.  Oh, well.

I plan to grade some more papers and see if I have energy for an outing to see the hourly twinkle lights on the Eiffel Tower.  It is a short Metro ride away and a sight I can’t miss.  This is some nasty rain, however.  I did not sleep well last night between the noise of many folks coming up the wood and tile stairs, the bed which is adequate but soft, and the disorientation of waking up multiple times unable to navigate the space in the dark.

Tomorrow morning I am taking the Tour of Black Paris which should be fascinating.  It includes places where American intellectuals, like W.E.B. Du Bois and James Baldwin , lived and worked and played in Paris.  It also covers spots from the self imposed exiles Miles Davis, Josephine Baker and other musicians who found refuge from American racism in Paris during the 20, 30s, 40s, and 50s. It will do my soul good to be with Black folks again who ( just guessing—based on how little interest most white folks have in Black history) will be the majority on the tour. 

 

This is my Metro station two blocks away.

Close up

Walking toward the Opera House.

From the left bank in the Latin Quarter

From under the Eiffel Tower

So, before I lay my head down tonight, I have to map out an efficient Metro route to the meeting spot and figure out the warmest clothes combination to comfort me in the morning.

Bonne nuit, mes bon amis.

Not Las Vegas, Paris France

Rollling along in the Eurostar,  enroute to Paris. This is a perfect way to travel.  Seats were reserved, the French border control checked passports at the London St. Pancras station, and boarding was completely orderly.
I love that there was a plug onboard  in for the laptop.

Apparently, when I made the reservation I ordered a Kosher meal (a tactic learned years ago when traveling by air in coach class—for fresher food).  Each carriage has 3 attendants.  My breakfast was excellent, although the portions would have killed anyone to eat.  Served on china with stainless utensils (guaranteed to be “new” and not used to assure Kosher), I had freshly squeezed OJ, fresh grapefruit sections with some fresh pineapple slices, four types of hefty cheeses, delicious smoked salmon, a custard with cinnamon coconut topping, matzo, and coffee.  The attendants passed coffee and tea from  large pots throughout the journey as well as mineral water served in heavy glass.

Like the tube, everyone is very quiet except the four Americans who are loud, elderly couples from Minnesota.  It is embarrassing that my countrymen do not notice the norms and adapt rather than disturb and annoy the other passengers who are reading or speaking in hushed tones.
 The scenery is English country side.  I assume that we are traveling south to cross the channel where there is only 22 miles of the English Channel between France and UK.  Oops…….guess we are in France.  I just saw two signs in French.  That was quick.  Where ever we are, there are large  vast fields of flowers growing commercially.  Calais, says a sign.

 I now realize that there will be too much adventure in this new landscape and culture for me to have a minute missing London.
I will say the Europeans have much better means of moving from place to place than we do in the States.  Their public transit and trains are organized, efficient, low cost, and comfortable.  I’m signing off to see the amazing countryside.

Saturday night

The French train depot is clean and well signed.  Coming in to Paris, there were miles of gread public art but impossible to catch on camera due to speed of train and rain pounding the windows and roof.  I got a cab to the address of my studio, hoping that Jean Philip would meet me despite my losing his phone number (“Call one half hour before arrival”).  Here is the address as we approached—does not look like accommodation, but the secret code on the entry alarm worked and in I came with my very heavy luggage.  Nobody here.  I trudged up three flights of stairs to what looked like it might be a rental—on the landing I heard footsteps which turned out to be Jean Philip and his sidekick (trainee, boyfriend, last night’s lay??).  They opened the door and to my relief, the studio is fine.  The entry and stairs not so promising.

Seeing that there was less than ¼ roll of TP and no spares I knew I better find some for my 3 day stay (Shannon—no laughing at my obsession to have plenty of TP).  Well, I walked around for about an hour looking for anything that might have TP.  The pharmacist (one of the ONLY ones to speak English) balked and said: “Of course not.   Non, ce n'est pas un supermarchés."  Ah, at last a word to remember: supermarché.  Within 10 minutes I found a marché, but I got the same response in asking for papier toilette: Scowl. “Non, ce n'est pas un supermarché.”  OK. Off I go making sure I have landmarks to find my way back to the hotel—because, I left the map in the studio.

Finally, with that mission accomplished and some bubbly mineral water, too, I returned.  After a shower, things were looking up.  The shower stall is so small that I could shampoo with only one hand—using two would outstretch my elbows beyond the capacity of the stall.  The other oddity is that the toilet is electric flush.  So, press a button.  Wait.  After 5 minutes of belching noises and loud burps from the plumbing—comes a sound like a 747 warming up.  Then the flush is complete.
I remembered Jean Philip’s warning now: Use only a very small amount of papier Toilette or it will clog.  Oh, oh, no.

The futon is for day use.  If you look closely you will see there is Murphy bed behind it.  I had one of those years ago when I lived in St James Park in West Adams.  Cool for a small space.  The problem with that one on Scarff Street was that if you didn’t clamp the mattress tight after changing sheets (which I do a couple times a week—another peccadillo), the mattress would shimmy down the wall and get stuck in the alcove causing the bed to jam up.  It took three strong men to work out of that mess, so I have some apprehension.

After the supermarche outing, I was feeling very out of it wearing trainers with a skirt.  So I dressed up in good flats, tights and skirt for my scouting out the city.  The walk was fantastic as around every corner was new, beautiful site.  I didn’t care where I was or where I was going—just wandering.  I ended up walking through squalls of rain interspersed with sun for a couple hours.  The city is really smaller scale than you might think from a map.  My studio is in the 1st arrondissement about 2 blocks from the Louvre and another direction a long block to the Tuileries.

Before long, I was at the Place de le Concorde.

Enjoyed window shopping and walking under the alcove as the rain was brutal whenever the strong wind blew it in.  Then there minutes of sun.

I walked on the Champs Elysees and the Grand boulevards, before deciding my flats were not suited to this activity.

Dogs are everywhere, but these are very special ones.  They speak French and respond to the commands in French.

Aimed for studio again and with a change of shoes was off for dinner.  Jean Philip had three recommendations for moderate priced “restaurants de cuisine francaise proches.”  I was not hungry after the Eurostar breakfast, but knew I should have some soup and vegetables before the day was over.  Well,  that was an interesting experience.  First I ordered (at the garcon’s recommendation) Café Gourmand.  It smelled funny and I suspected correctly it was an alcoholic drink.  He had disappeared, so I took a teaspoon and got a taste.  Beyuch. I don’t know what the concoction was, but that was 9 Euros wasted.  Now, I was completely fermished and any few words of French were gone.  So I ordered what looked like potato and veggies only to get served—Cheeseburger and French fries with a vegetable salad.  Hmm.  Looking around me for the next hour I watched table after table of tourists get surprised when their plates came—three Asians next to me spoke both English and Chinese: they laughed at what they got.  Some Germans across from me could not recognize what they ordered—so either the waiter was passive aggressive, or I need to do more studying.

As usual in EU, including UK, one cannot expect to get service or a check in a timely manner.  So, two hours after I sat down, I finally cleared the tab.  Although I wanted to go see the Eiffel Tower lit up tonight—tomorrow will be soon enough.  I had a long day and am tired.  Plus, I have to deal with the Murphy bed and pray that there is no fire because I can barely navigate the warren of stair to escape with lighting.

My other observations from today.
1.There seems to be a higher tolerance for the crazy here than in London or the States.  I saw a woman with dreds dancing with the pigeons in the square.  She had her Ipod earbuds in, her Bob Marley hat on, and she was swaying—whatever way a pigeon landed, she would swoop down and follow the bird until another one came along.  She was there both times I passed the square—so at least 3 hours.  Plus she was talking outload to nobody.
2.  In the train depot there were two young women begging who both looked battered.  One had scrapes on her cheeks, glassy eyes and she was begging in 3 languages.  The other one had a black eye and smelled of alcohol.  Everyone seemed to ignore them
3.  There is a lot of yelling on the street.  Plus, even when pedestrians have the little green man light indicating, “Walk,” cars will come within inches and honk. “Toot toot,” yield to the crazy driver.
4.  Strangest of all.  Near the intersection of L’Opera and Rue de Honor, I watched a little Fiat stop in the intersection.  A tiny, old, Asian woman in a down coat exited the car, walked around it, kicked the driver door closed with what looked like all her might, and yelled, “C**ks*cker.  F you.”  And she parked the car right there. In the intersection and went into a bakery. Never* saw*that*anywhere. Nobody was in the car.
I have not found Paris dirty as many of my students observed. Rather, the buildings are beautiful, although marred with a layer of soot.  Not much litter on the streets.  I guess if Paris were a woman, she would be an eccentric one with very old, valuable jewelry wearing expensive costumes.  She would have, however, a Kleenex tucked in the wristband of her $8,000 watch and some schmutz dribbled on her blouse.  London, on the other hand, would be a woman in a tailored suit with perfect, matching and predictable accessories;  unlike Paris, there would be no doubt that London was wearing all her under ware.
Au revoir.