Trying to Keep Up

 

Wednesday was a miserable day, raining hard all day.  In all our visits to Venice I realize I haven't had rain, at least more than a slight drizzle, if that.  This was what much of the winter must be like in this city on the Adriatic.  No thanks.

Our friend S. from Paris arrived mid afternoon, just about the time my phone credit ran out so I couldn't text or call her to change our planned sunny caffè meeting place to an inside venue.  Luckily there was only one direction she could go from the vaporetto.  Va bene.

Dinner that night was at what is probably the only restaurant in Venice that does not serve fish, La Bitta on Calle Largo San Barnaba.  I asked the native Venetian woman who owns it why she come to focus on meats and poultry.  "Because I hate fish!" she replied. "I can't even be in the same room with it!"  She must have been a trial to her mother growing up in Venice.

The next morning we got on a train to Padua to visit the Scrovegni Chapel, entirely frescoed by Giotto at the beginning of the 14th century with the life of Christ, his mother Mary and his grandfather Joachim.  One must make reservations in advance for a 20 minute window to view the chapel, preceded by a 15 minute stay in a stabilized antechamber to protect the condition of the 800 year old work, which, when you finally reach it, is extraordinary.  Giotto is credited with the creation of Renaissance painting.  In Dante's Purgatorio he is mentioned as having far surpassed Cimabue, the previously acknowledged genius of his time.  This is more than worth the 30 minute train ride from Venice.  I'm sorry not to have done it before.

Also very much worth seeing in Padua is the Basilica of Saint Anthony of Padua, one of the major pilgrimage sites of Europe.  Quite spectacular but equally interesting because of the pilgrims themselves, groups from many Catholic countries coming to touch and kiss the tomb of the saint in its very elaborate chapel.

A return to Venice and dinner at what may be our favorite restaurant in Venice, Antiche Carampane.  Hidden on a tiny street in San Polo, I only know one way to reach it and have to recreate my steps every time so as not to get lost in the alleys and canals.  It was worth the trouble, as usual, with the freshest fish cooked the most appetizing ways.  Moeche, delicious little soft shell crabs, were in season and incredible.

Unfortunately we had to recreate our out-of-the-way route the next day because we had left an umbrella there the night before.  This turned out to be reason to have a lunch of cicchetti standing at the bar at Bancogiro, between Rialto bridge and the fish market.  Delicious and filling at E10 for 3 of us.

We usually try to avoid Piazza San Marco at any cost.  The crowds and souvenir crap make me very annoyed.  But we were nearby at this point and Gene had seen some pictures of the elaborate marble flooring in the Basilica that he wanted to see so we went in, climbing only to the loggia level to see the mosaics as close as possible and the original horses that had been restored and moved into the museum.  Pretty good view of the Piazza from up there too.  Once every 30 years or so will do for me though.

A dash back to our neighborhood to meet G and M, friends from Paris who are spending a long weekend here, drinks at the apartment and dinner at our new favorite restaurant, Ai Artisti.  The sauté of mussels and clams in a ginger spiked sauce may be the best thing I've eaten all year.

And so to bed ( after a walk to help digest it all.)

Schizophrenic Weather

That we've been having a very mild winter is obvious even to me, who has lived most of my life in California and where 45˚Fahrenheit is a cold day.  We've rarely dropped below that here, and here we are nearly halfway through December.  What we do have is a plethora of rainy days.  Not pouring down rain, not all day long rain, not flooding the streets rain, but some rain nearly every day.  Gray skies, wet sidewalks, smeared dog droppings kind of rain. 

We've learned not to leave the house without an umbrella, how to maneuver on the narrow sidewalks with packages, umbrellas and other pedestrians, and most importantly, to wear boots at all times.  I'm actually dreaming about wearing some pretty flats or pumps rather than being prepared for puddles at all times.  There are worse fates, I suppose, but I do love those shoes.

For a few weeks I thought we might not see the sun again until spring, but one day I woke earlier than usual and noticed that it was shining.  Rushing out to play in the sun, I felt, if not physically heated, emotionally warmed.  Then, by midday, the dark skies were back.  A revelation: it's sunny in the mornings!  We've been trying to reset our body clocks, which tend to have us up late at night and sleeping til mid-morning, to allow us a few hours of that blessed sunshine.  It's sort of working.

At least we see enough sunshine to remind us it will come back someday.  The forecast for next week is snow.

Rainy Days and Art

We've been abandoned by that glorious sun of the last few days and the streets are wet and shiny.  Kids coming from school are bundled up in hooded coats, leaving their backpacks to get soaked.  With any luck the ink on their homework assignments will run and they won't have to complete them.  You can tell what kind of student I was, can't you?

My path today took me through the Place des Vosges.  On many days, in fact, my path takes me through the Place des Vosges, a circumstance that once seemed so far from likely as to be almost unimaginable. Sorry to belabor the point, but I still can't believe I'm writing that.  Okay, deep breath.  Today I held an umbrella in one hand, trying not to get too wet, while simultaneously taking a picture of the naked headless mannekins mooning me from their 17th century perch.  My head spins.

I was on the way to an exhibition appropriate to a rainy day, a collection of Flemish paintings from Transylvania.  The Samuel Brukenthal Collection, which includes Breughel, Memling and Van Eyck, among others, was on display at the Musée Jacquemart-André.  I love this museum, which was left to the state by Nélie Jacquemart, who with her husband Edouard André spent a considerable fortune collecting  art and filling their huge townhouse with it.  They were talented collectors, amassing not only French paintings but also a spectacular collection of Italian art, including the large Tiepolo fresco on the main staircase and of all things, a Tiepolo on the ceiling of the café, which was once the dining room.

Unfortunately the rooms set aside for special exhibitions like the Flemish one are quite small and because the shows tend to attract large numbers of viewers, it gets a little crowded in there, particularly when the museum allows guides to take groups through and stand blocking the paintings for many minutes.  Do I sound annoyed?  I was very polite, though, as I elbowed my way past them.

A prohibition on picture taking inside stopped me from photographing the paintings, but how could they object to me pointing the camera outside from the window of the grand ballroom?

French Blogging (one of two posts today)

Last night we attended an event at the American Library in the 7th arrondissement featuring ex-pat authors talking about living in France and the books they had written about the experience.  Two of them, Catherine Sanderson and Kristin Espinasse, had started out as bloggers and later got book contracts as a direct result of their blogging.  The third, Stephen Clarke, the author of AYear in the Merde, didn't show, sending word that he had an important meeting with his publisher in London.  Not that I cared, because I was there to hear the bloggers.

 

Sanderson, eight-plus months pregnant with her second child, is the author of the blog and book Petite Anglaise. Working as a bi-lingual secretary for a British accounting firm in Paris (boorringg!), she recorded, anonymously, her life with her French boyfriend and their daughter.  Over the course of the blog, she fell out of love with the French guy, had an ultimately unhappy affair with a blog reader, got fired when her employer discovered the blog, sued and won for unlawful discharge, got a book contract as a result of the publicity around the lawsuit, met another man, married him, wrote and published a novel and got pregnant.  Wheww!  Fair warning to anyone reading this: my blog is unlikely to be as exciting.

She's a very good writer, with a wry sense of humor and an interesting point of view, not to mention willing to open her life to the world.  She's also very generous with her advice to other bloggers.

Espinasse writes the blog French Word a Day, which she has turned into the book Words in a French Life.  An American married to a Frenchman and living in a small Provençal town with their two children, she found that learning the language and learning the life went together and helped her to integrate her Arizona trailer-living personality into a large French family life.  She's refreshing and forthright about the problems she met and the unlikely solutions she found.

It was a fun event, but I have to add that walking into the American Library was like walking into America.  No matter that the subject was ex-pat life in France, it might have been a branch library in Mill Valley. A wonderful resource for Anglophones but a strange and sudden displacement, repeated in the other direction as we left and raced through the rain to a great and not expensive dinner at chef Christian Constant's wonderful little French diner Les Cocottes.  At the moment I prefer being in France.

Fall has Fallen

Jardin du Luxembourg, by objetsparis.

It rained today. I tried to sneak out quietly this morning to buy a fresh bread, leaving Gene still sleeping. As I pulled the street door open and saw the wet pavement and falling rain I realized I'd need to go back and get an umbrella. And by the time I opened the apartment door, poor Gene had already been awakened by my back and forthing.

So we stayed in, toasting up the remains of the bread and eating the last of the yogurt and persimmons. I adore persimmons, both the soft and hard varieties, and look forward to fall every year to get my fill of them. I wasn't sure they were available in France until I saw them in a market a couple of years ago, under a sign that read "Kaki", which is what they're called here. About the same cost as at home. Last week I helped a little old lady open one of those sticky plastic bags that make you crazy while we companionably discussed our mutual love of the little orange fruits. She put half a dozen of them into the newly opened bag, leaving only a few for me to choose from.  Hey, it's a war out there.

Later in the day the rain stopped and we went for a walk, winding up in the heart of the Marais, having coffee at Les Philosophes. We chose an outdoor table under an awning, looking to cover our bases, but by then the sun was shining brightly and the waiter rolled the awnings back, at which point the sky clouded over immediately and looked like it was going to rain again. Discretion being the better part of valor, we paid the bill and headed for home, taking the long way around just to thumb our noses at the rain god.

We're staying in tonight. I made soup, we finally bought that bread, and we have a fireplace that's begging to be used.

Still kvetching after all these years

Sacre Coeur rainy day, by objetsparis.

Oy vey, even first class is tough at this age, but thank god for all those miles we were able to use. We finally got to the hotel at about 10 p.m., (1 p.m. California time), having left the house 20 hours before.

They give you pajamas on Lufthansa! Now that's what I call civilized. We both slept several hours thanks to the magic of pharmaceutical chemistry, managed a quick shower in the Munich lounge, had wheelchairs throughout for the broken-toed gimpy husband, but still, it's never a breeze...god knows what we'll do when we run out of mileage! Spoiled? Hell yes, I'm a princess and we all know it!

When we checked into the hotel we got the message that G. and M. were waiting for us at Lipp, so we met them for a late dinner. First time we've met her, and we liked her a lot; I hope she made allowances for us.

This morning it rained just long enough for us to get wet moving into the apartment that will be our home for the next two months and to do a little damp grocery shopping, then a bit of sun finally came out. It's a wonderful neighborhood, lots of cafés, food shopping, restaurants, boutiques, and easy transport to nearly everywhere in the city. And luckily the apartment is just as charming as we remembered from our single visit last year.

The major challenge so far was our inability to connect to wi-fi, but I got hold of our landlady's cute young IT guy who came over, spoke English, and hooked us up. I would have settled for two out of the three, but we hit the trifecta. Voilá, we're connected to the world again. Amazing how everything seems magnified with jet lag; I was ready to throw things in frustration at being unhooked from my cyber-lifeline.

Actually I had gotten hold of our friend Linder, who in an incredibly bizarre coincidence lives in the same building we’ve just moved into, next staircase, who brought over a life-saving ethernet cable that would have allowed us to limp along on one computer, fighting for access with teeth bared, but that risk to our happy marriage is no longer one we have to deal with.

So now we're happily typing away at our separate laptops, just like home. I had another little glitch when I couldn't get Skype working, but that too has passed and I had a quick chat with my sister, whom I miss terribly already, even though we sometimes go days without speaking to each other on the phone at home. The distance, the long duration of this visit, and the fact that I can't just jump into the car to go see her, makes the inability to connect loom large.

And now that tout va seemingly bien, it’s time to find a café, have an aperitif, and begin our Parisian life. Yippee!!

(I'll try to limit future kvetching, so don't write me off yet)