Ether, Anyone? (And other Paris thoughts that didn't fit into a coherent blog post)

I haven't forgotten about anesthesia entirely, and finding ETHER in the medicine cabinet certainly brought its memory back with a jolt! I know it's used in many countries as a disinfectant; in fact, I grew up on its scent, which greeted all visitors to the hospital in which my mom had her office. But it's still jarring for an anesthesiologist to find a bottle of anesthetic in the bathroom!

The mayor in Paris has made efforts to create a "cleaner and greener" Paris, and I applaud them. An example is the implementation of public rental bikes all across the city - drop a coin in the machine, take a bike, return it to a bike station near your destination, and voilà - fewer emissions, though motorists have grumbled about the increased volume of bicyclists in the city. Another thing we could learn from the French is how to do the groceries. It's BYOB, bring your own bag, over here - much less wasting of plastic bags.

I couldn't leave the country without taking a shot of an adorable pot de yaourt - those cute, little 2-person cars they have here that look like you could almost put them in your pocket.

This plaque about Picasso painting Guernica in this building on the rue des Grands Augustins reminded me of the ghosts of great artists that haunt this city. Just a stone's throw from here Gertrude Stein held her salon, as I recall. I was astounded to be reminded by the interesting book Literary Paris just how demonic some of the greatest artists were. Baudelaire was a complete misanthrope, and Rimbaud was about as horrible and piggish (in public) as could be.

My brother-in-law and his girlfriend had a chance to dine at Le Procope, hang-out of so many famous Paris writers, philosophers, intellectuals, etc., and the oldest restaurant in the city, having opened its doors in 1686. Says its website: "Voltaire, Rousseau and Diderot were loyal regulars and the Encyclopaedia was born under the crystal centre-lights of the Procope. During the revolution, Danton, Marat could all be found here. Benjamin Franklin even fine-tuned the American constitution here."

I noticed at the metro stop for the Sorbonne that instead of having the usual sign with the usual lettering, theirs had to be special. :)

Finally, there's the Paris no one talks about. When we were going through the Écluse de l'Arsenal in Eric Vincent's boat, we saw someone's tent set up against the wall there, out of most people's sight. I also walked by a squatter at the Cambronne metro on my last morning who, unlike the tent-dweller, made a public display of his plight. Paris isn't paradise for everyone.

Notre-Dame and Montmartre: Our Last Outing in Paris

"Débarrassons-nous de tous ce qui nous alourdit."

From 2nd reading (Hebrews 12) at Mass last Sunday, August 19, 2007

I had wanted to attend mass at St. Ephrem, the Syriac Catholic church, last Sunday, but to my disappointment it was closed. We decided to walk a few blocks to Notre-Dame to see if we could catch mass there, and fortuitously there happened to be one about to begin in 15 minutes, the international mass. We broke out of the already-crowded queue for tourists and went through the door for mass-goers, found seats in the front section, and breathed a sigh of repose as we quieted ourselves for prayer in the midst of the hustle and bustle of sightseers. The cordoned-off area for mass was like an island of sanctity amid a chaotic stream of circling tourists and endless flash pictures being taken (which never relented all around us throughout Mass).

A soloist in a visiting choir from England sang a haunting prelude that set a tone of reverence for the liturgy. Then the great organ began the processional hymn, "Nous chanterons pour toi, Seigneur," to a tune familiar to English-speaking worshippers as "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." Though at first this cathedral had not inspired in me the same strong emotional reaction that I had had at Chartres, at the sight of the tall gold cross being carried aloft in procession something stirred in my heart. I thought of hundreds of years of hopeful pilgrims and people of faith seeing that sign held high, visible even in a large crowd. The music of the great organ filled the whole space, 115-ft vaulted ceiling and all. I felt as if my spirit were being held aloft with it.

The mass began like any other, with a welcome. The priest gave the welcome in French. Then he repeated the same statement of welcome in beautiful Spanish. I was impressed. Then he did the whole thing in perfect Italian. By then tears were beginning to come to my eyes. By the time he got to English, I was completely drawn in, moved by being part of an international community praying together in the ancient space of Notre-Dame cathedral. One thing I love about Catholic liturgy is you can go anywhere in the world, and the ritual is recognizable, like a home away from home. The spirit of unity fostered by the priest's multilingual welcome was inspiring.

I was moved once again when the Eucharistic Prayer was said in French, Spanish, Italian, English. When I heard my own language my heart quickened, and a feeling of joy and excitement arose inside me, the joy of recognition and of feeling as if I were being spoken to and welcomed. For a moment I was reminded of Pentecost; this must have been the feeling that the scripture authors were trying to capture, when people rejoiced to hear and understand the gospel in their own tongues. I have heard multilingual prayers at masses before, but I had never been moved as I was that day, and I think it's because I knew that the people around me were from different nations and were, at some moment, having that experience of recognition when they heard their own languages in the Eucharistic Prayer. In short, it was a beautiful mass, with a spirited organ postlude at the end which my daughter enjoyed, blasting through the cathedral from the largest organ in France.

On our way to lunch we took a stroll down the Rue St. André-des-Arts and found a quaint alley, the cour du commerce St.-André, and a lovely toy store, the Terre de la Sienne. We wanted nothing fancy for lunch, so we found a reasonably-priced sidewalk cafe from which to people-watch. There were some interesting people walking by, including a couple of psychotic men arguing over a wine bottle and a guy in angel wings.

After a passing shower we made our way to Montmartre, where in front of the Sacré-Coeur an extreme cycling course had been set up down the steep steps, with ramps for banked turns and jumps added in. There were TV cameras and an announcer on loudspeaker, and a huge mob. Looking out over Paris we could see individual rain showers over certain neighborhoods here and there, rather than generalized rain over the whole city. We took the funiculaire up to the basilica, walked around a bit, then made our way to the Place du Tertre, which was a mob scene too, so we didn't tarry long there, though it was fascinating to watch the portrait artists at work. My daughter bought a pair of Eiffel Tower earrings for 2 euros. The dollar is in terrible shape against the euro these days.

We spent a quiet evening back in the apartment on Sunday night, which was just as well because the weather had turned quite gloomy, though not gloomy enough to spoil the glittering light display over the surface of the Eiffel Tower, which we saw from our window before going to bed. Paris is wondrous, but we were happy to be going back to the country the next day, where the first sound that greeted us when we opened the car door was a rooster crowing. Dinner at home was a hearty country meal: a gratin de pommes de terre and an omelette aux fines herbes, simple but delicious. It was good to be home.

Eric Vincent and our Dinner on the Seine

Evening of August 18, 2007

This has been perhaps the most magical night of our trip: a private sunset cruise on the Seine, on the houseboat of French singer and songwriter Eric Vincent, who is good friends with my father-in-law. It was tough finding parking in the Bastille area, but well worth the effort.

Eric welcomed us onto his well-appointed barge, which he pilots expertly, and took us through the Canal Saint-Martin and a lock, the Écluse de l'Arsenal. The kids enjoyed waving to tourist boats and yachts passing by, and I thought of another item for my list of "Two Types of People": those who wave back and those who don't. My son pointed to one particularly garishly decorated barge and said, "Look, Mommy, it's your theme!" and I thought, What on earth could he mean by that? It's so gaudy! But then he explained it looked like Christmas to him, and I realized how sweet it was for him to want to make sure I saw it.

We sailed down the Seine past one gorgeous bridge and edifice after another, each with its own long history and associated stories. Quasimodo and The Scarlet Pimpernel were definitely there with us in spirit! Flashes of literature and history came to us almost every moment - medieval times, the French Revolution, the World Expo. We appreciated our new perspective of Notre-Dame from the water, and of the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, and the Palais de Justice and adjacent Conciergerie, half-cleaned, half still dingy with years of pollution.

In front of the Palais de Justice I recalled Eric Jager's magnificent work The Last Duel, relating the story of how a knight, Jean de Carrouges, dramatically brought a complaint to the King of France against a squire named Jacques Le Gris. It was in the Palais de Justice that he cried out in a loud voice for all to hear,

"Most excellent and powerful king and our sovereign lord, I present myself, Jean de Carrouges, knight, as an appellant to your court and do hereby accuse this squire, Jacques Le Gris, of a most foul crime against my wife...I demand that he now confess his crime...And if the said Jacques Le Gris denies his crime, I do hereby offer to prove my charges with my body, on the enclosed field, as a gentleman and a man of honor shall do, before your royal presence, as judge and sovereign lord."

My husband and I have traced these two noblemen's journeys by happenstance, following in their footsteps from Normandy to Paris, adding a serendipitous historic pilgrimage to our other, more spiritual one. You can almost still hear these voices from the past, and those of memorable characters from literature, as you sail past the important places of Paris along the Seine.

Besides being a city of great art, architecture, history, and literature from past ages, Paris is pulsating with the music, dance, and story of our own age. On nights like this the banks of the Seine are alive with song and dance. During the summer there are tango lessons on some of the quais, and when we spotted one in progress Eric pulled the boat right up next to it so we could enjoy the sights and sounds and do some tango-ing of our own.

Further down a lone trumpeter was practicing under a bridge. My daughter waved, clapped, and swung her hips from side to side in a little dance of celebration, and the trumpeter turned his instrument toward her as she danced on deck and played her a little jazz ditty as we sailed by.

After that it was time to head back to the place where Eric docks his boat to have some dinner. Eric's wife, Claudine, is a beautiful Franco-Vietnamese woman who once owned a restaurant on a Greek island. She is an amazing chef and prepared a delectable salad of lettuce and gésiers. Although I knew what these were, I got over my nervousness about trying exotic foods and tried them anyway - and am I glad! They were delicious! There's a great picture of them here for curious cooks/foodies who may not be familiar with them. I have this crude photo of the salad, too, but it's hard to see the gésiers well. The main course was like a French version of a Brazilian barbecue. We enjoyed three tasty grilled meats: chipolata sausages, merguez sausages made with lamb and tomatoes, and chicken marinated in olive oil, soy sauce, and spices. A gigantic bottle of Saumur red paired beautifully with these.

I had to speak French the whole time, and though I'm grateful for the wonderful 3 years of training my excellent French teachers in high school gave me (the equivalent of 5 years in the space of 3, actually), I have such high standards for myself that I kept feeling like a complete donkey. It's one thing to be a beginner at a language and make errors or awkward phrases; at that point it's endearing or cute, but once you've progressed to a certain level, it's not cute any more - you just sound stupid or pretentious or awkward or all the above. I kept thinking of Mark Twain's words: "The gentle reader will never know what a consummate ass he can become, until he goes abroad." Thank goodness the company was basically composed of family who love and encourage anyway.

Eric played for us after dinner, and it was a moment I'll never forget. He sang and played a recent composition, Jardins suspendus, which he hasn't even recorded yet. It was such a privilege to hear a master musician and composer in his own home at his own table, making music. I wish I could remember the lyrics; all I know is it was difficult not to be a bit moist in the eyes hearing this lyrical song inspired by the war in Iraq.

Eric talked about his writing process afterward, another privilege I enjoyed greatly. He spoke of being taken by surprise when, to his delight, additional layers of meaning in the song came to the surface for him after he had already written it. To me this was just evidence of his genius as an artist. I've often thought artistic wanna-be's like me must sound so pretentious or laughably arrogant when we talk about "our work" or our creative process; with Eric Vincent, we had "the real deal." We had evidence of a talented poetic mind right in front of us, but instead of feeling envious, as is my tendency, I felt awed and inspired, like someone at the feet of a great teacher taking it all in. It was great. Later in the evening I tried to tell Eric how special it was for me, but it came out awkwardly, of course, which was frustrating because it was all from the heart but sounding so impossibly inane. Oh well - he seemed the kind of lovely, generous, kind-hearted person (with self-deprecating humor, to boot) who would give me the benefit of the doubt.

The end of the evening was one of wine and music. Eric played a few more songs for us, then pulled out his violin to accompany my father-in-law as he strummed "The Frozen Logger" and other American folk songs on the guitar. My brother-in-law took the guitar then, and he and my husband sang some Cat Stevens and James Taylor favorites. Throughout all this passersby on the boulevard above would stop and lean over the stone wall to listen for a while. One of them even pulled out a fancy camera and tripod - French papparazzi in search of Eric Vincent, perhaps? No matter - we sang to our hearts' content and ate our fill, on a boat in the middle of Paris, long into the night.

Gastronomic Delights in France

Monday, August 20, 2007

After these long Paris posts - journal entries, really - I wanted to write something "on the lighter side"- though perhaps not: the topic is food!

On the way to the Eiffel Tower the other day we stopped by our neighborhood boulangerie, the P. Weiland, on the corner, near the Cambronne metro stop.

There I bought what I think is the most delicious thing I have ever eaten in my life, no exaggeration: a petit pain au chocolat aux amandes, flaky and soft and perfect.

I'm convinced M. Weiland baked a hint of brown sugar into the outermost layer of this heavenly pastry. The next day I bought a few more.

The boulangerie also had the largest palmiers on display I have ever seen - one of my father's favorite pastries, so I have to include them here.

The bathroom scale in Paris said I lost 3 kilos. How is that possible? (And why on earth did I get on it in the first place?) It's absolutely ludicrous. Obviously the device is defective. But wait, the pants are a little looser too...Could two intense days of stair-climbing have worked miracles? Nah!

But facetiously, let me outline the rules for The Paris Miracle Diet (or, The Anti-Atkins Revolution), just for fun:

-Have a small breakfast, a heavy lunch, a light goûter, and a light dinner every day.

-Butter your bread generously and eat it with gobs of home-made confiture.

-Drink French lait demi-écrêmé every day, which is supposed to be low-fat milk but which I am convinced is the equivalent of Half-and-Half; how can it taste just like cream, otherwise?! Is it just that the COWS in France are different? For that matter, how come almost EVERYTHING tastes better in France? Is it a conspiracy?!

-Eat rich cheeses twice a day.

-Eat meats of all kinds.

-Have wine with lunch and dinner.

-Have fromage blanc with your berries.
-Have dessert - don't deprive yourself - but only have a WHOPPING dessert once in a while.

but also

-Don't eat between meals.

-Limit your portion sizes.

-Climb lots of stairs each week.

-Avoid processed food; have milk from the cow, pork from the pig, fish from the river, etc. with as little interference from industry as possible.

-Finally, SAVOR EVERY BITE! Live in the moment! :)

Ah, Paris!

We drove into Paris this morning in glorious weather. It's so interesting to think the Eiffel Tower was so controversial when it was being constructed, with people complaining it was an eye-sore. Now it's iconic, and I have to say, the sight of it from the quai as we entered the city still took my breath away.

We dropped off our things at my in-laws' apartment in the 15th arrondissement, then walked to the tower with our kids, my brother-in-law & his kids, & his girlfriend. I already have many lovely memories associated with the Eiffel Tower. I remember pushing my son's stroller here when he was 6 months old and sharing a crêpe with him. Now he's almost 7 and saying things like "Are these (the Eiffel Tower stairs) made of titanium?" and, from up at the top of the tower, "The people walking look like molecules."

I can't help but think of decades of visitors from all over the world in this place. Paris has been international for hundreds of years. Even Filipinos, faraway as they are, came in the 19th century; Jose Rizal, for example, studied at the University of Paris before he went to Heidelberg. Perhaps he saw the tower during its contruction?


This might sound geeky but every time I look at the metalwork I think of the trabeculae of the femur, sketched by anatomist Hermann von Meyer, which inspired Gustav Eiffel's design for the tower and advanced in engineering the concept of building along lines of force.

Climbing up the stairs to the first and second étages is the way to go. At 10:30 a.m. on a sunny Saturday morning the line for the stairs is much shorter than the line for the elevator. I have to reprogram my stair-master protocol when I get back - a Chartres setting, and a Tour Eiffel setting! There are 329 steps to the first level, at 187 ft (57m), and another 341 to the second, which is at 377 ft (115m). I have to admit I got a little bit vagal (intense wave of nausea) looking up toward the top (but weirdly, not looking down). With tiny clouds passing so quickly overhead and us looking up at the top of the tower from the second level, the tower seemed to be swaying toward us, adding to my queasiness, but it was an optical illusion; in reality the construction is so solid, according to my little Dorling Kindersley guidebook (Top 10 Paris), that it doesn't sway more than 2.5 inches (7cm).

The tower is 1050 ft (320m) tall, but the highest overlook is at a still-dizzying 877 ft (274m). The view of Paris from up there is amazing on a clear day. We could see the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre. We're hoping to visit the latter tomorrow.

***

This afternoon we walked along the Quai de la Tournelle and Quai Saint-Michel, sans enfants, to visit the bouqinistes and take in the beautiful view of the cathedral of Notre-Dame. My husband and I try to do this every time we come back to Paris.



I love the Quai de la Tournelle. Where else can you find a cello shop next to a shop of antique toy soldiers? A little further down the quai we swung by Shakespeare and Co., an English language book store which has to be my favorite in Paris.

It has so much character, with books floor to ceiling on two stories, and an occasional object of interest tucked between the shelves now and again, like an upright piano. I can understand why this book store has been a gathering place for writers / Paris literati. Upstairs, in fact, a writers' workshop was in progress, down a tiny corridor off which there were also small areas containing books piled high in no particular order. What a dream, to enjoy a workshop like that in this place, in this city!

Tonight we dine on a friend's boat on the Seine. I think that will have to be a post unto itself.