Last Thursday I went to the Musee d'Orsay for the evening opening hours--6-9 pm. This is a good way to avoid the hordes that crowd it during the day. It was a pleasant day, so I elected to walk there (and back) and thoroughly enjoyed that. The tourists are coming back, sigh, but still a walk down the quai is not a madhouse. Nor was the museum, thankfully. I bought a ticket online, but there was absolutely no line when I arrived at 6:15. Popped right in!

My goal was to see to see the Seurats and Sisleys, but on arriving I realized that I had another agenda: the connection between my boy Ed and his gal Berthe Morisot.

I started with The Balcony. This is one of my all-time faves. The best part was that I had it pretty much all to myself. I spent a good 15 minutes just soaking it in, waiting for the occasional tourist to step in front of me and take a picture. Then, I noticed on the adjacent wall a small painting by Manet of Berthe with Violets, very similar to the one I saw at the Marmottan. Smoldering. My word, what a babe. Seriously, they had a thing going on...

These were downstairs. I am forever confused about how they organize the works in these museums. These two paintings (and a few others by Ed) were in a gallery that included Matisse and some Gaugin. Pre-impressionist?

In another gallery on the first floor I saw Olympia. Well, well, guess who? I dunno what the 'experts' say, but I am here to tell ya, that was Berthe. Ooo-la-la. I mean, I don't know about the body, but for sure, those were her eyes. Right next to Olympia was a painting of Zola, with sketches of Olympia in the background, and an art history book in hand. Ed knew what he was doing, yep.

Then I headed upstairs to the Impressionist/Neo-Impressionist/Post-Impressionist gallery. There I found the other painting that I had looked forward to seeing: Dejenuer sur L'Herbe. Oh man, what a painting. I spent another half hour here, again occasionally interrupted by the photo takers, but enjoying all the details that I have seen but haven't, if you know what I mean. The flying bird, the still life (bread, grapes and cheese), the classic nude, the boat, tied up in the middle ground. Comments on art and aesthetics that drove the critics mad excited me yet again, on a whole new level.

Then, I wandered through the rest of the gallery. I have to say, they have some of the best of the best here, including Monet. Here I saw for the first time that it was his early works that I admire so much--the stuff from the 1860's through the '70's. This man had what I would call 'the hand'. Just compared with Sisleys, Pissaro's and (the sole) Morisot, he just had the touch. It makes the others look like they were stabbing at the canvas with their brushes.

Now after about 1880 or so, Monet seems to have lost the touch imho. After this, he had a much 'looser' (read less skilled) touch, leading into the Haystacks, the Amiens series and what I consider to be the worst, the Water Lilies. I know, I know, everyone fawns over these, but I seriously think they show a famous painter in decline.

By the way, a recent article I happened across revealed that he likely felt this way as well. Shortly before a major exhibition in 1908, he took a knife and a sharp pen to several dozen of his works, declaring them unfit. He might have been right--they works are lost to history, though. I suspect he would be horrified to discover what Michel did with all the works he didn't get around to destroying. Perhaps he just forgot about them, down in the basement?

In any case, the guy was a master, no doubt, but as I am sure he himself realized, how long can one sustain the mastery? How do you know when you are done? Actually, give him credit--he loved to paint, and sometimes it's the process, not the result that matters. My personal sense is that he grew to love his actual gardens at Giverny more than painting them. It's kind of sad that those works have come to define his oeuvre. After all the early stuff was the good shit.

After this, I was getting beat down and hurried through the rest of the gallery. I did enjoy the works by Seurat and Cross and one in particular by Caillebotte (whose lesser works were featured at the Marmottan) with the guys refinishing a floor, The Planers.

Out of energy, I whipped by all the crappy Degas and Renoir that everyone loves so much, leading me to wonder if look like all those folks I get so annoyed at, racing through the galleries without actually looking at the works. In my case, I'd like to think it's because I've been there, done that, but to them, I must look like the rest of the heathens, sigh.

On my way out, I noticed a small painting that resonated enough to stop me. On inspection, it was another Manet. Subject? Yep, Berthe! Just a study really, but even as I was on the move, it caught my eye. Seriously those two...

The Pearl in the Oyster

Yesterday, I managed to get out to the Marmottan. This was an interesting museum, one that I had never heard of until I saw a segment about it and the latest show on tv. In addition to the permanent collection of Monets, they had a special show called 'Collection Privees' featuring, as you might expect, works from various private collections.

First of all, there was a line when I arrived at 4pm, which surprised me. It turns out that there were several groups of French tourists, doing just what I was doing: taking in the show before it ends on the 10th. This meant that there were some serious crowds in the tiny gallery, so I slipped past them to take in the permanent collection, where few of them bothered to go.

This was quite a disappointment, as it turns out. Reading about the creation of the collection, I learned that it was the result of a gift from Michel Monet, Claude's oldest son and last survivor, in the sixties. Apparently, he had inherited the remainder of Monet's works (after all the best ones had been purchased), and gave them to the Marmottan, in exchange, no doubt for some money and plenty of faux prestige. I can tell you that these were positively the worst works by Monet that I have ever seen. These were the very dregs, basically, the stuff that no one wanted to buy and that, I am sure, the painter himself would have burned, had he had the chance. So...I blasted through that, then returned to the collection privee, after the crowds thinned out, where I saw a very nice Lautrec (The Laundress) and a spectactular Redon (Apollo's Chariot). All the rest (including some Sisleys and Seurats) was just average and most was just detritus.

Then, I wandered upstairs to see the rest of the permanent collection, the stuff that was there before Michel Monet turned the Marmottan into the 'Monet Museum'. Here I found a lot of laughable 17th and 18th century paintings, some pretty remarkable 14th century triptychs and some interesting illuminated manuscript pages, though the latter were very poorly lit (I suppose to keep from damaging them).

But the best was yet to come. It turns out that for some reason--familial I think--the Marmottan has a large number of paintings by Berthe Morisot. She was not just a painter (and a reasonably good one) but was also the subject of a number of paintings by other impressionists. I rounded the corner to one gallery and there, amidst a group of lackluster paintings by Morisot and some dreadful watercolors by her niece (or something like that) was a tiny painting (maybe 12 x 16) of Morissette herself.

I was stopped cold, transfixed and delighted. Before I even looked to see who painted it, I spent a good ten minutes just taking it in, resonating with the pure joy that comes from just such encounters with delightful and delicious art. Then, I had a look to see who the painter was: Edouard Manet. I can't say I was surprised (she was a subject in a number of his paintings, most notably The Balcony), but I was even more delighted to see this one for the first time. Just looking at it, I had the sense that this was a painting of a beloved by a lover. Her eyes were magnetic, her look smoldering. Geez even I wanted her--my thoughts were, quite frankly, carnal.

When I got home, I looked it up: 'Did Manet and Morisot have an affair?' As it turns out, probably yes, but as with so many things, it was complicated. He was married when they met, and she ended up marrying his brother Eugene. There's no proof of their affair, of course, unless you count that painting. And I do--I mean, it's right there for all to see.

It goes to show that sometimes one finds a pearl in the oyster, eh? It's the reason I have a love/hate relationship with museums. Thanks Lynda ;^)

DAU: Refund Required

What follows here is a copy of the email I sent to the organizers of the DAU exhibit, which, as both readers know, was a complete and utter disappointment to me.

Greetings,

My apologies for writing in English--I confess that while I can understand and speak French to a limited degree, I am unable to write with any certainty. I hope you will understand.

I also hope you will understand why I am writing to request a refund. I signed up and paid for an unlimited visa to the DAU.

My first inkling that this might have been a mistake came when I went by the visitor center at Chatelet on 24 January, when the show was scheduled to open, only to find that it had been postponed. In fact, as I looked at the two venues, I could see that they were still struggling to get them open--workers furiously working on the doors and scaffolding still up at the Theatre du Chatelet. No worries, I thought, as I was not scheduled to receive my 'visa' until the 28th. I had hopes that the technical difficulties would be worked out by then.

I came back to the visa center at the appointed time--thirty minutes early, as advised--and received my visa without delay. A good sign, I thought. I asked if both venues at Chatelet were now open, but was told that only one, the Theatre de la Hotel de Ville was open. The look of alarm must have registered with the clerk--she asked me if I would like information on how to receive a refund. Thinking this was a bad sign, I said, yes, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

Well, the worst is what I got. I went into the Theatre at my appointed time and was immediately surprised to see that workers were still everywhere, and that the venue looked, at best, half-finished. I had, per instructions, left my cellphone at home, expecting to receive a special device that would guide me through the exhibit. The instructions made it sound as if this was the key to my 'personal experience' that would be created from the rather invasive questionnaire that I filled out online as part of the registration process.

Well, once inside, I could see no place to obtain this device, and when I finally asked a rather harried young man about it, he explained sheepishly that the devices were not available yet. Asked when they might be and where I could expect to find them, he could only say that he didn't know.

I found my way into one of the (only) functioning parts of the exhibit, a film screening in a large and virtually empty auditorium. There was a indeed a film being shown, but the sound was so poor that I could not hear, let alone follow the dialog. And the film itself was unremarkable--poor lighting, awkward camera angles and a general lack of any action. This I might have forgiven if, as I say, I could hear the dialog. After watching this for about ten minutes, the screen went blank and another harried young man came up to tell me that the film had experienced 'technical difficulties'. Asked when it might resume, he simply shrugged and said he didn't know.

Ok, fine. I went back out into the exhibit space and stood in line to use one of the silver film booths set up on the mezzanine. A few minutes into the wait, yet another harried young man approached those in line, explaining further 'technical difficulties' had rendered most of the viewing booths inoperable. A few were working, he said, but the wait (after one filled out some sort of waiver) would be forty minutes to an hour. I left the line after hearing this, thinking with my 'unlimited' visa, I could just come back later. The woman in front of me, with a three hour visa, had no such luxury and elected to wait. One hour later, I walked by and she was still waiting.

I went back down the the ground floor to begin exploring the rest of the exhibit, but increasingly found this hard to do because there simply was no exhibit. I tried to enter the 'Brain' segment but was told by a rather surly guard that it wasn't open.

I retreated and opted to explore the 'Future' segment. I went into the stairwell and walked up several flights, eventually ending at a door with some indication that the 'apartments' were on the other side. I asked if this was the case, was told yes (ah success!) and went in. The 'apartments' were nothing less than a joke, small rooms 'furnished' with junk items that were clearly picked up from a garage sale and placed haphazardly on tables and dressers. It had a depressing 'Soviet-style' air about it, but more like what a young French millennial thought it might look like. Just random and sad. In one room, to which I was not allowed access, I could see an amazing 'Soviet' Macbook on the table--who knew, eh?

And in one of the rooms, someone had cut up an onion, presumably with a spoon, given the look, and put pieces of it into some tin bowls, like this was supposed to be dinner. I thought perhaps the intent might have been to introduce the smell of onion into the air, to add 'authenticity' to it, but this, like so many other aspects of the display, seemed to be the result of laziness (at best) and outright deception (at worst) and had only the effect of making me wonder who had even bothered to do this. No doubt, someone who was thinking of lunch, and only wanted to be done and gone.

In another room hung a tapestry, with a crude representation of what I assumed was supposed to be a family--a man, a woman and a child. I knew of their sexes at least, because each of the figures was adorned with crude but very obvious genitalia. I can't read Russian, of course, so I don't know what the saying or slogan was at the top, but I found myself wondering where in the world someone had found this and why they thought it was something that a typical Soviet might have on their wall. Oh, and from the looks of it, this was supposed to be a child's bedroom, with a stuffed bear and some games scattered about to give us clues about what the child might have been up to before being escorted out to the gulag. I can't help but think of that poor child, staring at the graphic tapestry, clutching his little bear hoping for some kindly storm-troopers to come and rescue him. I know life was bleak for the Soviets, but this little tableau had obviously no connection to the real world. Just junk collected and assembled in no order and with no meaning.

I left the apartments and asked the young woman standing outside (also, yes, harried) if they were still working on the displays. She said, no, except for a few details, this was complete. I think she saw the look of dismay on my face, but I opted not to tell her what I thought of it. My question really said it all.

After this, I wandered up and down the stairwells, searching for but finding no other content whatsoever. Looking for 'Animal' took me up five or six flights of dilapidated stairwells (which were not designed to reflect Soviet grimness, but instead reflected the laziness and incompetence of the designers of the show) and arrived at a dead end. A trip down to the bottom of the stairwell where I hoped to find 'Motherhood' yielded only another bored looking guard.

I did manage to get into one of the operating viewing booths on the ground floor, after being told that the film being shown on that level was 'complet'. Given a number hastily scrawled on a piece of paper and shoved into a plastic holder, a young woman guided me to the booth. It looked like it had been built the day before, raw wood and tape holding it together. I suppose that was meant to reflect more of the Soviet grimness, but by now my charitable assumptions were gone and I knew it to be the result of poor planning and execution, not by design.

Inside I managed to view a few of the films, but like the experience in the theatre, the sound was bad (in spite of having headphones) the film quality was poor, the camera angles were awkward (often lingering on the person who was not speaking) and often the scenes were obviously staged, or part of some introduction being given to the 'actors'. Nothing useful in terms of emotion or the experience were presented--it was as if instead of trying to edit or select interesting content, they decided to simply 'use' it all. The grid presentation was unhelpful and had the look of some crappy porn site, with the viewer being required to select the clip based on the tiny hint given on the thumbnails. In this booth, there was an iphone, shoved into a wooden base, and on it was the message 'swipe to continue your experience'. This yielded nothing but a view of some unknown person's face, and nothing happened.

The only functioning parts of the exhibit seemed to be those designed to make money: the cafe and the gift shop. The cafe was manned by at least a half a dozen bored baristas--bored because there were no customers, and the gift shop had little to offer other than postcards and glossy photo books. Most of the shelves were lined with canned goods, most of which had no labels, as if, not having a sufficient supply of actual Soviet canned goods, the staff had made do with modern cans of tuna, disguised as 'Soviet' by a lack of label. I felt sorry for the wax figure of a woman by one of the shelves, forced to peer over her glasses at this tawdry fake display for eternity. At least I could get out, and I did, right away.

I did take the time to talk with a young woman at the entrance, who was very kind, but clearly frustrated at having to tell viewer after viewer that yes, this was all there was to see. She made it sound like more content would becoming, and judging by the number of workers on sight (at least double the number of visitors) they were certainly up to something. And don't even get me started on the faux 'janitors' wearing white jumpsuits and dragging around dry mops. I hope they were well paid, for a more boring and potentially degrading job I cannot imagine.

If I have bothered take the time to write this extended review, it's because I had such high hopes. After all, this is Paris, the 'big leagues' so to speak, where one must bring their best game to succeed. I can't help but think of the concurrent fashion shows--can you imagine if Karl Lagerfeld (for example) put on such a pathetic show for Chanel?

By contrast and for comparison I hold up the show earlier this year at the Palais de Tokyo by Tomas Saraceno. This was an amazing show, visual, tactile and engaging. At every turn was something new, interesting and exciting visually and intellectually. This is sort of art I expected to find at DAU, and if you've read even a portion of this email, you will know that I did not. I have refrained from publishing an extended review like this, limiting my comments to a few on Facebook, but if you've read the reviews in the New York Times and Le Monde, you'll see that my words are not the only critical ones and would, and would, in any case, never reach an audience such as theirs. Ironically the photo that accompanied the Times article came from the exhibit itself and neatly sums it up: Betrayal.

Comparisons to the botched Frye Festival are perhaps unfair--I do not think the organizers of DAU intended to defraud, but the result is much the same. A lot of people spent a lot of money on this, and you would do well to start refunds as soon as possible.

Always Nearby

Another long hike yesterday took me to the outskirts of central Paris yesterday, this time 7.1 miles in just under two and a half hours. In general, I am trying to make my way round the edge of the city from north to south, along the eastern edge.

I started out going north on the Rue du Faubourg du Temple, up to the Boulevard de Belleville, where I turned right, and headed east. This is a broad boulevard and on Friday it was packed with people in the market. I chose not to walk through the market, just because it was so crowded, and also because quite frankly, there's not a lot to see, except the same things, over and over. Fruit and vegetable vendors, meats, cheeses and cheap clothing and household goods repeat themselves every few feet. It's hard to imagine shopping more than a few minutes here, as there is rather chaotic line at each vendor, and the shoppers aggressively vie for position. Mostly, the old women win this game, simply by moving in close and demanding attention. Any attempt at politeness leads to a delay in being served.

I skirted the market for a few blocks and then turned north again, up the Rue de Melinmontant. This is a narrow street that goes uphill for most of the way, and it is unremarkable in that the shops are nothing unusual and often just a little bit sad on the exterior and in the windows. This is a relatively poor section of town, so the frequency and quality of goods is low. For example, the meats in the butcher shops often looks poor, dry and rather suspect. I often wonder who shops here, as most of the time they are empty. The same with the bakeries and cheese shops, jewelers and clothing stores. Perhaps it's the time of day, but I can't help thinking that most of them are on their way to going out of business in a couple of months.

Some places, however, persist. There are a few shops that are always nearby, no matter where you go in Paris. First of all, there are the phone stores. There are at least two or three on every block. My own street, which is considerably busier than many that I have walked down, is no exception. The most common is Lycamobile, which appears to be a chain, but there are literally dozens of independent shops. Like so many other shops, there appear to be no customers inside, just a bored shopkeeper on his or her phone. These places are incredibly well-lit, with fluorescent lights so bright that it hurts to look inside. The windows are full of ancient phones, tablets and accessories. These days, when everyone already has a phone, it makes me wonder if they are not merely fronts for mob money.

Another place that you will find within a few hundred feet of any place you choose to settle in Paris are kebab shops. Like the phone stores, they are brightly lit and, nine out of ten times, empty. Oh, there is the occasional diner, but I suspect that they are just a member of the family of the owner, paid to sit and pretend to eat. For one thing, their menus are so extensive as to be suspect. They not only offer kebabs, but also falafel, fried chicken and sandwiches. These are offered on their own, or as a combo, with fries and a drink. I've eaten in just one of these joints, here on my street and the food was, as you might expect, awful.

Speaking of awful, you will find a Macdonald's within blocks of any place you choose to pick in Paris. There are at least six of them around my neighborhood, and I long ago lost count of them in my walks. It seems that no no matter how far out nor desolate the street, there is a Micky Dees nearby. And unlike the kebab shops, these places are always doing a brisk business. There are KFC's and Pizza Huts out there too, but they are fewer and farther between.

Another common sight are the little house goods stores, whose wares are invariably out on the sidewalk, requiring passersby to step out into the street. Again, they are almost always empty, with a bored shopkeeper in the doorway, smoking or browsing on their phone or both. The goods here are usually cheap in quality but expensive in price. Plastic goods and suitcases seem to be the big sellers, based on what's usually displayed out front.

Women's clothing stores are also frequent sights, but again, it's hard to imagine that they are doing a thriving trade, as they are also empty save for the bored shopgirl and an occasional browser. I guess it would be unusual to see a line out the door, but still I cannot see how they manage to stay in business with what appear to be so few customers. The same with shoe shops--lots of goods but no one seems to be buying.

I'd be doing a disservice to the city if I did not mention the absolutely most frequent establishment, the cafe. Of course, this is the trademark of Paris, much more than the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe, probably since the cafe predates both of those monuments as symbols of the Parisian life. Like many other places, though, many cafes are either downright empty or nearly so. But this may be because they are so common--it's hard to find enough people to fill them all. And, to be sure, many cafes are mobbed in the evening, especially during the summer. Not unlike the British pub, these are gathering places for the locals, folks who actually live on the street. Close and convenient for a meetup, this is not so surprising, just slightly annoying at times.

So it was along the Melinmontant all the way up to the top of the hill. I've learned that walking north from my flat is usually an uphill journey--think about Sacre Coeur looking down on the city. Where Melinmontant becomes the Rue de Farageau has no view back down on the city, just a rather bleak plaza. This street leads to the edge of Paris, just short of the Peripherique, where I turned right on the Boulevard des Marechaux.

This is a broad and flavorless street, with massive and equally boring apartment building on either side. An occasional burst of small dwellings, sort of like brownstones, are intermixed, but for the most part it's just a long desolate stretch, punctuated by a tire store, a gas station and a fitness center. The buildings seem like terrible places to live, not because they are poor, just monochromatic and dull. I expect that the apartments are rather nice inside, or at least I hope so, since that would make up for the sadness that is the street life, or lack thereof.

A few blocks of this and I was ready to turn to home, a right on the Rue de Bagnolet. This street runs roughly parallel to the street I walked down the day before, the Rue de Belleville, but it was not nearly so interesting. This street also runs up alongside the Cimitiere Pere Lachaise, but I have already had a long walk through there and kept to my path toward home. This was a downhill walk, so it was a little easier, physically, but in general just tired and sad. The fruits and vegetables looked old and tired, the meats and cheeses dry and unappetizing. Even the people--though thankfully not tourists--seemed unenthusiastic and worn down.

Reading this , perhaps you think I have grown tired of Paris, but this is certainly not the case. If anything, it's given me new insight to this place. It seems very romantic from far away, but up close, it's a lot like every place, sometimes just old, sometimes just boring, mostly just ordinary. At least in these places one does not find all the tourist traps and souvenir shops that dominate in the city center, and that in itself is refreshing.

I have to point out that this journey is basically just begun. I have only seen the tiniest fraction of the city--all of it north of river. With a couple of exceptions, I have yet to venture south of the Seine, but as time goes on, I will go further, using the metro to get out and walking back. For now, though, I have a few more walks to take up here.

The last part of the journey yesterday was the most boring--a long hike up the Boulevard de Voltaire, all the way from just above the Place de la Bastille back to Republique and home. I've walked this a few times, and eventually it becomes a task, not unlike hiking back to base camp, looking forward to a drink and some dinner. 

Another Long Walk

Of course, as both readers of this journal know, I came to Paris to write a screenplay, possibly two, but of late I have realized that I also came to re-discover Paris. Not those parts of Paris that I already knew, nor those parts that typical tourists come to see. Make no mistake, I am a tourist, here for less than a year and that is hardly enough time to consider myself a Parisian.

But in the short time I have here, I am resolved to see as much of this city as I can, and hopefully to record what I see. To this end, I have been taking long walks through the city to those places that typical tourists never go--to the edges of Paris, to those places where people live, but do not go to 'see'. Here are my observations.

Yesterday I took my second longest walk, about 6.6 miles. I know that doesn't seem like a lot, but at the end I was more than a little bit tired--exhausted is a better word to describe it.

I set out up my street, the rue du Faubourg St. Denis, up to the Boulevard Magenta. I walked up to the Rue La Fayette and headed north. This took me above the Gare de L'Est, across train track behind the station and all the way up to Jaures, where I crossed the Canal St. Martin and headed up the Avenue Jean Jaures. This is one of those broad boulevards, without much of interest, mostly phone stores and the occasional supermarket. Few restaurants are on this street, and the ones I saw were all Kebab places, all empty, save for the lone attendant waiting for a customer and glued to his phone.  I walk by thinking how hard that job must be, boring and unsatisfying, wondering how these places even survive. Perhaps I have just come by at the wrong time, perhaps later in the day or night they are packed. Somehow I doubt it, more likely the old rule that nine out of ten restaurants fails seems to apply here too.

Eventually I reached the end of Jaures at the Parc de La Villette. I have been here before, on this trip, when I came to the the Museum of Science and Industry, but this time I passed it on the opposite side. A small amusement park, left over from the holidays was still going, but as far as I could tell, no one was there. Here I saw the monumental building that houses the Paris Philharmonic. It's a tribute to the worst of modern architecture, in the style of Gehry, oddly shaped and decorated with designs that recall Escher. It's dreary and ugly, even though it's fairly new, it looks tired and dirty, empty and desolate. I took a few pictures that reflect that mood and moved on, toward the edge of Paris.

From here I walked south, down along the Boulevard d'Indochine, which roughly follows the RER tracks just inside the Peripherique. I left the boulevard where it becomes the Boulevard d'Algerie, thinking it appropriate that these desolate streets were named after failed French colonization attempts and walked through the Parc de la Butte de Chapeau Rouge. The park was almost completely empty, just me, a couple of gardeners and a couple other unemployed wanderers, wondering what the Chapeau Rouge was. No doubt something to do with French heroism on far off shores.

Exiting the park, the street went sharply uphill. There were almost no shops and certainly no restaurants or cafes, and few pedestrians as well. Across the train tracks, I saw an an enormous hospital, the Hopital Robert Debre, which occupies several acres. Not surprisingly, a large church is right in the middle: Notre Dame de Fatima. At this point the street became the Boulevard Serurier, and at what seemed to be the top of the hill, I turned back into the city on the Rue de Bellville.

This is a narrow street that leads almost all the way back to Republique, and seems to be the heart of what could be called Chinatown, for all the signs were in Chinese, and most of the people on the street were Asian. I was pretty much the only round-eye on the street for several blocks. Here I saw butchers with pigs feet in the window, restaurants with menus in Chinese first, then French, no English at all. There were also a lot of jewelers and of course hair salons, bakeries and lots of little grocery stores, with various roots and vegetables out front next to the more familiar fruits of the season, tangerines and apples.

Eventually I found myself on the Rue du Faubourg to Temple, which terminates at Republique, and from there it was a ten minute walk back home. All in all, a long walk, two and a half hours of steady movement. Back home I collapsed in bed for a nap, thinking of all I had seen. Quite a day.

A Long Walk North

Late this afternoon I took a long walk to the northern edge of Paris. After yesterday, when I found myself amid throngs of tourists in the Marais, I felt the need to get out and away from all that.

I didn't get out until about 4:15, which, these days, is dusk, but sometimes the lights and colors are worth a walk in the dark. I headed up to the top of my street, Rue du Faubourg St. Denis and took a left on the Boulevard de Magenta. This took me past the Gare du Nord and up toward the Porte de Clingancourt. The Boulevard de Magenta is a 'grand boulevard' and at this time of day it was relatively quiet. From my street up to Barbes Rouchechouart the shops are mainly clothing: shoe shops, discount clothiers and close to Barbes, mostly wedding boutiques.

At Barbes Rochechouart there is a clothing store, Tati, that is, a 'grand magazin' for what we might call the regular folks. This part of town is populated mostly by Africans, and the further north one goes, the faces on the street are increasingly black. Unlike the grands magazins of the Boulevard Haussmann, where are the tourists go, this is a place for low cost clothing and shoes. The Metro runs above ground here, so I passed under it and headed north on the Boulevard Barbes. This street is wide and the crowds picked up here. For the most part, the shops are phone stores and more discount clothiers. At the Rue Ornano, I headed left, still going north to the Porte de Clingancourt.

Just north of the Porte is the Marche aux Puces (flea market) to which I have been a few times, both when I lived here and when I visited with Valery and Maddie in 2012. By the time I got there, it was really starting to get dark, so I turned right and headed up toward the Porte de La Chappelle. This was a long leg, and completely empty--I was the only one walking on the rue Belliard.

I turned right, back toward the center of Paris on the Rue des Poissionnieres, which runs all the way back down to Barbes. At first, it was a solitary walk, but after crossing the Rue Ordener again, it got narrower and much more crowded.

This part of town is almost exclusively black. In fact, I was the only white person I saw for a long time. At this time of the evening the street was thronged with shoppers, and the shops were all small food stores featuring mostly African and Haitian goods. There were a lot of clothing stores, shoe shops and a many small African boutiques, featuring brightly colored dresses, scarves and hats. Small hotels, restaurants with fogged up windows and tiny cafes line the street.

By the time I got back on Barbes, the street was completely crowded with shoppers and families out for a walk. Again, I was the only white face in the crowd. At Barbes Rouchechouart the intersection was so crowded that it was difficult to thread my way through, but soon enough I was back on Magenta and down past the Gare du Nord and home to Faubourg St. Denis.

This only took about an hour and a half, but it was fascinating, a reminder that Paris is full of much more than tourists. It was a relief to see real people going about their lives in a way that has been going on for centuries. One of the things I wanted to experience here was the 'real' Paris, and today, I got a wonderful dose of just that. I will start going out to the edges more often--perhaps I can make a full tour of the city from the 'outside' in the coming weeks, in spite of the cold and dark.

Winter in Paris

Well, winter has finally arrived here in Paris. The temperatures have been below freezing for the past couple of days, but at least it was sunny yesterday. After spending a few days indoors during Christmas, I got out for a walk and it felt good.

I have been in a bit of a down mood for a week or so, having stalled on what I hope will be the last (for now) version of Oui Madame. Of course, it has a lot to do with the light, but at least we've passed the solstice, so I can take some comfort from that. I do miss summer, among other things, especially my family.

I can also take comfort from knowing that this little struggle is far from difficult, considering what others have to endure. I noted, for example, that one of the two men crossing Antarctica, alone and unaided has reached his destination (https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/26/sports/antarctica-race-colin-obrady.html). The other man will reach his goal in the next day or two. I mention this because the burden of writing a screenplay hardly compares to what they've been through, and I should indeed consider myself lucky. The apartment is warm and I am well-fed.

In the news today is a story about a 71 year old Frenchman who is crossing the Atlantic in a barrel, so when I think about what he will go through in the next couple of months, again, I am not going to complain. I noted in the article (https://edition.cnn.com/2018/12/27/europe/barrel-atlantic-crossing-scli-intl/index.html) that his space is roughly the same size as mine, but at least I can get out and do not expect to get seasick!

Yesterday I went looking for a kosher deli, thinking that in a city this size, I should be able to find a good pastrami sandwich and perhaps a bagel, but alas, it seems not to be the case. I walked down to the Marais, which was known as the 'Jewish' quarter when I was here in the 70's but found it to be completely transformed into an 'upscale' shopping district. It seems as if this is all that's left in the new millennium, the same stuff that one finds in every city from Austin to Paris. A recent trip to Amsterdam revealed the same reality: Chanel, Gucci, Coach, The Kooples, Louis Vuitton etc, on and on. And it's all the same, derivative and repetitive, as if the imagination from the fashion industry has long been drained and with a purpose toward self-advertisement: wealthy consumers want to wear a brand, devoid of originality, simply proclaiming their excess assets to the world.

I have long wondered why people wear advertisements on their sleeve without compensation, but the way the major brands have evolved, that's all that's left and is perhaps the whole point. If you can afford Prada, you want everyone to know it. What's worse is the fact that these stores look not much different than Walmart, with racks and racks of identical clothing and accessories. I think if I paid that much for a dress or a purse or a suit, I'd want it to be in limited supply if not unique. But in store after store, neighborhood after neighborhood, it's all the same.

Having just seen a documentary on Paris haute couture, I realized that while Karl Lagerfeld may indeed be a creative genius, what becomes of his vision is just more trash, coveted but hardly valued except in the basest sense. It must be disappointing to him, I think, to realize that once he's let it go, the world will corrupt his vision by reducing it to the lowest common denominator, the sale rack.

Ok dear reader, just a little venting today. Tomorrow will be better, I am sure.

On Art

Art is human, the rearrangement of light matter (more on dark later) by humans.

This is an intentionally very broad definition.  This means that thought is art. In fact, it was the first art, a manifestation of what makes the human experience unique among life forms on this planet: consciousness. The fact that we alone possess this trait makes us unique is the basis for concluding that art is human.

If we begin within the brain and move outward, we can conclude that every action we take results in art. Our breath, our footsteps, our lives and deaths are all art. Of course, this means that most art is invisible, or at least so ephemeral as to go unnoticed--marks in the sand on the beach. Most art is never seen, lost in the very moment of creation.

This broad definition opens up the vector of thought about art to allow for more important questions than 'what is art?'. There are many such questions, some having to do with the purpose, or the value, or the need for art.

The most important question is one I have grappled with since I saw a painting by Monet in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge in 1976. I had never seen anything like it in my life, and thanks to my parents, it was hardly the first time I'd seen a painting. I stood in front of that painting for a long time--so long that my parents had to come back and get me.

Why? For a long time, I had no idea, nor did I think of it much. A couple of years later, I took a course on aesthetics and started the long process of thinking about beauty and art and the intersection of those two ideas. What is beautiful art? As so many have said, 'I'll know it when I see it' certainly applied to me, and I really tried to figure it out. What happened to me in front of that Monet?

It's happened to me many times since then, of course, which is why I now love going to museums and seeing art, new and old. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, when I am arrested by a work of art and stand transfixed by it, the feeling I have is a delight, unique and familiar all at the same time. A rush, brain on fire.

That rush is resonance. It is like a pair of tuning forks--one vibrates and the other responds. They resonate. This is what happened to me in 1976 and what happens every time I see good art. I resonate, I feel something physical that is so sensitive and unique that it can only be measured by human consciousness.

Physically, that force, that exchange of energy during this resonance is so small as to seem inconsequential, but the fact is that it is an exchange that is non-zero. Something happens, not always and not to all, but sometimes and to some people, there is an exchange, a 'real' physical exchange of energy when observing a work of art. Consider that the case of the Monet, it was light that conveyed that resonance, just a few photons, but enough to cause a chain reaction in my brain, leading to this very essay.

The question of what is beautiful art is misleading. The intersection of beauty and art is an interesting trap. I do not equate resonance with beauty because it leaves unanswered that key question of the location of beauty: In the work or in the viewer? It's a trap because the answer is: It's in both. And that seems too simple, an answer with no depth, like Schroedinger's Cat or the Particle/Wave duality. It's an answer but a non-answer.

So, my question is different: What is good art?

At first, this looks like the same question: beautiful, good, aren't they the same? Isn't beautiful always good and the other way around? A couple of thought experiments can set this assertion aside, but there is still the question: What is good? Specifically, what is good art? And why does matter that good is not always beautiful?

It matters because without trying to substantially define either good or beautiful, I can address the question I came for: Why did I resonate in the presence of the Monet? The answer is that I thought it was good. I may, at the time, have thought it was beautiful, but looking back, I realize that it was good. Or at least I thought it was.

The difference here may seem semantic, but trying to decide why I think a work of art is good. Basically it's a simple as admitting that you like it. In this way, I can see a painting and say that since it does not resonate with me, it's no good. Or at least, not good enough for me. This allows for the fact that some people resonate with some works and some resonate with others. The fact that these overlap fairly frequently is why we have art galleries and museums.

Museums in particular are evidence of this. The history and basis of museums is theft. We steal what we think is good and put it on display. To me, many things in museums are no good, but the fact that they are there is because somebody at sometime thought they were good enough to steal.

I think that when we talk about what makes a work of art beautiful, we are actually talking about what is good. Good is what we like. The lines, the color, the subject. We can say 'I love this line, or this color or this subject'. It's personal, but then, that's what we are experiencing, a personal resonance with art. It's always personal, even if we share that feeling with a million people.

Good art is what you like.

On Museums: Musee de l'Homme

I came to Paris to make art, but I also came to see art. Today I went to see the Musee de l'Homme.

It was a cool day, wet but not raining. I took the metro to Trocadero and got my first good look at the Tour d'Eiffel from across the river. It's a great place to see it and because of the weather and time of the year, there were relatively few tourists. I took the obligatory selfie and posted it then headed for the museum.

I got there about 12:30, but there was no line. It cost 12 euro, no discount for seniors. I paid for two things: The special exhibition on the Neanderthal and the the regular collection.

I went to the Neanderthal exhibit first. It was interesting, but reminded me of my earliest trips to the Museum of Natural History in New York (thank you Lynda), starting with a diorama and moving into a collection of bones, mostly skulls, and lots of reminders that though they weren't exactly human, they had a lot in common with us and probably interbred with us. Ok, got, we are all a little bit Neanderthal.

The exhibit varied between stuff, like bones and educational 'interactive' segments. I tried a few of these interactive displays, but by today's standards, even I know that they are dated. So, I cruised past this stuff, tried out a few of the video booths--which didn't work--and exited through the gift shop, warily eyeing the life-sized mannequin of a Neanderthal woman in 'modern' dress. Creepy.

Out into the atrium and cafe. I went back into the collection. Of course, I was going backward in the sens de la visite.

This part of the museum is what I really came for. Not the skull of Descartes--yes really it's there-- or Lucy--very small, missed it on the first pass--or the zillion stone implements. I enjoyed most of the latter, by the way, as they moved me closer to my objective: art.

This I finally found in a tiny gallery on the mezzanine. It was enclosed and dark inside so I could see and examine the treasures up close. This was, without a doubt, the best part of the museum.

I saw some of the earliest carvings and paintings ever made. It gave me a thrill, just to see and examine these rare and beautiful objects, so mysterious and familiar at the same time. The room was tiny, the objects maybe numbered fifty. But what objects. I doubt I closed my mouth the whole time, except when I was talking out loud with delight. There was no one else in the room at the time, whew.

It is part of my central thesis about art and aesthetics that art that resonates is good art. And so it was in this tiny gallery, with these objects that so resonated with me. I draw personal power from seeing these things, from the connection that binds me to them over deep time. They were made for me. That's some good shit.

Mind blown, I waded through the rest and made my way out the entrance back to Paris and life itself.

Old and New

Ah, what to do when I feel the need to write, but am not ready to haul out the typewriter? Write in my journal, of course.

Today dear reader, I offer some thoughts on Paris old and new, in no particular order, just the way they come up.

The old:

Dog Shit. Still everywhere. Watch your step.

Trash. Also still everywhere. It amazes me, often, on my walks, just how much trash people in a city the size and density of Paris can generate. Myself, I make a small (a gallon or two) sack of garbage every day. But everywhere on the street, I see trash. Cigarette butts, sinks, furniture, appliances and just plain garbage. And that's not even in the garbage cans, the ones that line the street at all hours of the night and day. The trucks seem to run continuously, but they hardly get one street clear before it's full again.

Bums: I saw my first Parisian bum way back in 1976, and they are still here. They sleep on the street, in corners and sometimes just right in the middle of the sidewalk. They shuffle down the street, accosting passersby and patrons in the cafes. There are at least two that I now recognize on my own street. I wonder how long they've been here, how long they will last. The Parisian winter is coming.

Beautiful People: It should come as no surprise, I guess, this being one of the fashion centers of the world, that people look so good, dress so well, just going about the regular business of life. Men in sharply tailored suits made of delicious looking materials. Women, in delightfully colorful and stylish outfits, carefully matched and combined elements. Shoes, oh man the shoes, on both men and women.

Traffic: Streets are congested, horns blare, drivers sit stuck behind delivery vans and people trying to park in impossibly small spaces.

The New:

Scooters: They are everywhere now. Just six years ago there were none. Now they zip along the bike lanes, in and out of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks and through the slow (and often stopped) traffic in the street. Once used, they are abandoned, often right in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course, the riders all young and oh so stylish, likely on their way to some hip little cafe to meet their hip and good looking friends--see above.

Bike, moto and car self-services: In addition to the scooters, many places for these services have been carved out of what would have been parking places just a few years ago. Often--especially the car services--the spaces are empty, prompting me to wonder if they really have enough vehicles available that actually work. I've seen one bike parked in the storage area of my building every day, as if someone has figured out a way to keep it without paying.

Art: There has always been street art in Paris, but in the past six years, it has exploded. Murals, graffiti and stickers cover every square inch of many walls. Some of it is interesting, but for the most part, it's just dull and repetitive, as if the artists are trying to be the next Banksy, but can't figure out how to do that without just imitating. One the other hand, I did see my first Bansky a couple of days after arriving.

Diverse People. When stayed here in 2012, I could not help but notice the number of black Africans in our neighborhood. It seemed natural, though, as one of the streets near our apartment was lined with hair salons dedicated to blacks. Today, however, the number of black Africans in this neighborhood has increased many times over. Just a short walk up the rue Faubourg St. Martin in the late afternoon leads me through throngs of young black men, usually dressed well, leaning on storefronts, sitting on motorbikes and scooters, drinking, laughing and talking loudly. They are not at all threatening, at least not to me, but I have to wonder what they do for a living, where they live. Blacks are not the only diverse people, I see Asians, Arabs and of course, Whites.

Screenwriting

I am a screenwriter.

I have never had a script made into a movie, never sold a script. Hell, I haven't even written a script, but I am a screenwriter.

So far, in about three weeks of actual writing, I have gotten about one-third of my first script, Oui Madame, on 'paper'.

I have no idea if I will sell it; no idea if it will ever get made into a movie; no idea what it will be called if it gets that far. Geez, I don't even know if I will get credit. Maybe William Goldman will re-write it. Maybe it will get made. Maybe it will star Jennifer Lawrence, Helen Mirren and Daniel Craig. Maybe it will even be called Oui Madame. Nope. no idea.

I do know this. It will get written.

I have the story completely written. In my head. What I am working on now is getting the story out of my head. This is easier said than done, of course, but consider that before wrote I wrote a single word, I had been thinking about it for more than a year.

Many nights I went to sleep, thinking about how the story would begin, unfold and end. I spent a lot of time in traffic, commuting to work at UT, then running errands at Valentina's, thinking about this. By the time I had it fully worked out in my head, I started to think I was obsessed, and that if I didn't get it out, I'd just go crazy.

I decided to not go crazy, but in typical form, I decided to make a plan.

The Plan: 1) Move to Paris; 2) Write screenplay; 3) Sell screenplay; 4) Write another screenplay.

So, here I am, at step 2).

I have, as I said, written what looks to be about a third of the play. I've also spent a lot of time learning about how to write from online classes, watched a lot of movies (not one a day as I hoped, but at least 3-5 a week) and read a few books and screenplays.

Of course, that's like nothing.  It is nothing. Not 10,000 hours. Hell, maybe not even that many minutes. I know. Newb.

One book I am reading--of course not finished--is by William Goldman, who is recognized as one of the great screenwriters of the last half of the 20C.  He wrote The Princess Bride, which is the best film I have ever seen. It could have its own channel on TV. I'd tune in every day.

Goldman also wrote a lot of other screenplays (and novels, which he adapted for the screen). You look them up. This isn't a biography of Goldman.

Adventures in the Screen Trade is a dated book (1983), so a lot has changed since it was written. Some things have not. Hollywood still rules the film industry, and even though there are a lot more opportunities out there (Amazon, Netflix, etc) for new screenwriters than there were just a few decades ago, most Goldman's advice so far has been sound and encouraging. At least that's how I see it.

One of the most important things I have learned from this book (and Sorkin's class) has been that whatever I write, it will not be made into a movie.

It will certainly not be made into the movie that I have envisioned, not the one in my head, not the one hardly one-third written.

On the other hand...

If I am lucky, someone will buy this script.

If I am lucky, I'll get an agent.

If I am lucky, I'll get a chance to write my second script--the one that will win the Academy Award.

Ah. I am not in a casino, but I am gambling. I am gambling with the time, money and health I have left in my life. I am gambling with my family and friends. It's all on the line here and now.

So what will it be? Red or black?

Laundry

Dear readers, just a thought or two here before I eat. I have some pork chops braising in a tomato sauce on the stove, and I am about to watch the rest of a movie.

I didn't write today. Well, not technically. I did make some index cards for the next eight to ten beats coming up in the next scene of Oui Madame. Yesterday I finished what looks like scene 10. Onward tomorrow.

I wrote the cards while doing my laundry, which, although it sounds mundane, was a remarkable milestone for me today. Today marks the beginning of my thrid week here in Paris, and for the first time, I am starting to feel just a tiny bit comfortable. If that sounds like an exaggeration, it is not. Each day, I have had to face the uncertainty of where to be, what to eat, what to say. Each day has brought some progress on those fronts.

I know where I live. I know whether to turn right or left when I leave my building. That was the start. Then, I found a grocery store. The first one I found was a Franprix, just up the street. There I bought some of the basics on my first day, butter, salt, pepper and food for a couple of days and nights, some ham, can of tomatoes,a couple of pork chops and some hamburger meat. I also bought a six pack of beer (Heineken seems to be the cheapest) and a bottle of tequila. Hmmm, San Jose. Never heard of it, and it may not even be tequila, but it seems to work. Last week, I learned that the Monprix has the better prices and more selection. The I found a bigger Monoprix on the Boulevard Bonnes Nouvelles, just a block away. Little by little, I am learning my neighborhood.

Now I know, sophisticated Parisians and ex-pats 'know' that you have to have a favorite set of shops: boulangerie, boucher, primeur, epicierie, fromager, charcuterie, etc. But so far, and it's just been two weeks, Ihave found it easier  to shop at one of these little (by American standards) grocery stores.

As an American, I am used to things coming in packages, so it's not all that weird, and, other than meat and produce, most of the things I needed right away were more practical: dish soap, hand soap, shampoo, toilet paper, paper towels, etc. I needed all the spices, but so far I have only four: salt, pepper, garlic and fine herbs. I'll add to the collection as I go.

I have found a favorite boulangerie, and have been there enough times to  warrant a smile of recognition. The bread is fantastic and the croissants (au beurre) are delightful--I have to be careful not to crush it on the way back to my apartment, it's so light and luscious. The baguettes are perfect of course, and cheap, just 1 euro. One baguette lasts me two days, with Bon Maman cherry jam and butter in the morning, and with Nutella for dessert that night.

My next shop to frequent will be a charcuterie, but so far I haven't found one that I like nearby. I bought some packaged pate at the grocery store the first week but it was so bad I could not eat it. I want the real deal, and I will find it soon enough.

My first efforts have been to find myself in the neighborhood. I want to be able to walk in any direction for a few blocks and know where I am and how to get back. Then, I will gradually widen the circle and travel to some more distant spots.

I've been to the Canal St.Martin, a delightful place where I had lunch on a sunny Sunday. I thinkit was in week two that I finally ventured down to the Seine, down the Boulevard de Sebastopol, all the way to Chatelet and finally the Seine. It was beautiful, of course, the kind of deep green that comes with the late summer sun--in a few weeks it will be dark and grey.

I went down to the Seine again today, this time all the way down the Rue St Denis. This time I crossed the river. I walked across Cite, past the Palais de Justice and Ste Chapelle, ending up walking along the upper part to the Pont Neuf, past the fake booksellers where all the tourists stop to get that authentic Parisian souvenir. They also sell Eiffel towers six sizes and three colors. Sigh.

I headed back north again, toward that part of Paris I call home, the part that seems separated from all the tourism, though I know that's an illusion because I often hear English and German. And after all, I am just another tourist, here for a few months, not for a lifetime. But when I get to my street, I start to feel at home. I at least recognize the shops, the vendors and some of the waiters in the cafes--there's no connection other than in my head.

So that is why today, going to the laundry was so important. It marked another step in my attempt to create a routine, a pattern that will ease my fear and give me the strength I need to keep writing.

Where I live

Dear readers, both of you know, as I do, that I should be writing the screenplay instead of this journal, but I am waiting for dinner to warm up, I've had a shot, a beer and half a cigarette. As the desire to write wells up, so does the interest in dragging out the typewriter (my term for the PC I use to write the play) diminish, and here I am writing just to keep writing.

Of the three things I was most curious about discovering when I finally arrived here, at the top of the list was the view out the window. I was careful to choose a place that not only had a window, but which appeared to be well lit with the possibility, at least of a pleasant view. Not included in the photographs of the flat was the view, so I had good reason to be concerned. One flat that I looked at early on had the requisite window, and thankfully the landlord included a shot of the view, which was a wall. Not at all what I had in mind. Turns out, I got very much what I had in mind.

When I arrived last Monday, it was a warm day, and I hiked the six or eight blocks from the Gare du Nord, found the building an texted my contact to check in. Actually, thanks to the internet and my phone--wifi on the train from London to Paris--I had already checked in with her, but the time had come for me to meet her and ah, well, actually speak French for the first time in six years. It would be an understatement to say that I was nervous, even a bit scared, but I kept telling myself that's what I'd come for. Right? Right.

The text came in, "Vouz pouvez montez". Ack. I  crossed the street and said my first bonjour to the man standing next to the building entrance, whom I assumed (correctly it turns out) was the concierge (or guardien, as the sign says on the door of his ground floor flat, next to his horaires)
and  stepped inside the courtyard.

Actually it is more of a corridor, with three story apartments on both sides. Quickly, the address I'd been given by the landlord, Batiment 9, 3eme etage, became apparent. On the left I could see that the numbers of the buildings were going up, and soon I came to number nine. I am familiar enough with this part of living in Paris: one has an address, and then a sort of sub-address that enables things like letters or packages to make it to your door. I opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by exactly what I was expecting, a narrow staircase, with a stone first step and wooden steps up to the concrete landings, a cast iron railing painted gloss black and that smell. People. Food. Paris.

In 1980, when I lived a worked here for a year or so, I lived in very small flat. It was so small, that I couldn't even stand up in half of it. On the top floor of the building, it was just under the roof, so that the slant of the roof literally cut the space in half, vertically as well as horizontally. The two advantages (besides my own toilet and shower) were the two windows. One was one of those classic French windows that open up from about one's waist to the ceiling, opening inward to reveal a delicious view the city skyline. The other was what I friend of mine told me is called a, get this, 'vasisdas' because, I know this will sound lame, and no I haven't fact checked it, when the Germans arrived during WWII they occupied the apartments, and when they encountered the windows in the ceiling, that up up and are propped open for ventilation or opened fully to give access to the roof, the Germans asked, 'was is das?' I said it was lame.

Ok I digress. The current apartment has no wasisdas and has a non-sloping ceiling, but in many other respects it is the same. First of all, it is tiny. It was hard for me to grasp just how small eleven square meters actually is, but when I got to the room, my eyes were wide. I really thought I was in the wrong place, and the contact, Stephanie, saw my wide  eyes and asked me if anything was wrong. Of course, it was just the American in me, and it was hot, I was sweating having hiked up the three floors (83 steps) and terrified at the prospect of having to actually speak French.

Yes, it was the correct apartment, and yes, it is everything I expected and hoped it would be. The window looks out onto the corridor that I walked through to get here--building 12 is at the end, and it's lined with plants and flowering trees. The pavement is cobblestone, though likely from the 20C, and it's clean, light and quiet.

It's also just about twenty feet wide, which means that my window looks almost directly into my across-the-way neighbors on at least two floors. It also means that they have an equally good view of my apartment. Just today I learned while cooking dinner that one of my neighbors across the way is American--I heard her talking to her French husband.

I have actually met one of my two next door neighbors, Ahmed, who lives on the right. I saw but did not meet my neighbor on the left, who has the rest of the third floor. Today I heard her out in the hall, vacuuming, mopping and cleaning, but I was writing and wasn't inclined to greet her while she was at work. In any case, when she retreated to the apartment I set out for a walk and found that she'd put down three new runners on the floor. It's nice to have neighbors that care for their space. All I've done so far is stick a longhorn logo on my front door.

During the day, it's quiet, and at night, the familiar city noises come up along with the smell of cooking and music and tv in a dozen apartments. The courtyard is full of different kinds of light, smells and sounds. I love it. It's why came. Home. Paris.

PS - The other two things? Smell. Check. Internet. Check. 

First Week

Well, dear reader, if you are here, you must know where I am and why I am in Paris. I have just a few notes for this, my first full week.

My flat is tiny. There is literally just enough room for a bed, a table and me. That's enough, though, I am here to write. When I first saw it, the place looked much different than what I was expecting, but that's just the American in me. Now that I have been here a week, I've realized that any more space would simply be a waste.

The quartier is amazingly busy and diverse. I go out for a walk at least twice a day, especially now while the weather is warm and sunny. The streets are packed with pedestrians and the cafes are full. It seems like everyone is smoking, especially in the cafes. The people are remarkably diverse: Africans, Asians, Eastern Europeans and the occasional American like me. Bakeries, butcher shops and vegetable stores are abundant. I can chose from three of each, and that's just in a block two. The food is fresh and looks fabulous, though as I yet I have to go in most of these places, I know in time I will find the ones I prefer and go back until I am recognized as a regular. In the meantime,  I continue to explore and discover places.

Walking in Paris is an art form. One must learn to be quick and nimble, look down for dog poop, look up to make sure you don't run into or over anyone.You must be prepared to step into the street in an instant and return to the sidewalk in the same amount of time, lest you get run over by a car or cyclist. People walk, ride scooters, motorbikes and skateboards. Cars are ubiquitous, of course, but painfully inefficient--I pity the poor drivers trying to get somewhere.

I  haven't seen any 'sights' nor do I want to for a while. I saw the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame last time I was here, and I know they are still there. I've no desire to see them right away. What I want to do is figure out whether or not to turn left or right when I exit the building to get to the grocery store or the bakery. It's wonderful, actually, to have enough time here not to worry about seeing something--there will be time for museums and churches, perhaps. Maybe I'll just stay away from all the 'big' things and learn something about the little things, the shortcuts, the small restaurants, the cool cafes. One thing I see right away--I don't have to go far to see Paris.

I've begun to establish a routine, though it will take longer than a week to get there. Since I don't have to be at work at a particular time, it's a bit challenging to figure out what to  and when. Of course, it's also been an adjustment to sleep, but I think that, too will come with time.

I've been writing. I've already gotten a couple of scenes down and think I am developing some momentum. At least I find myself wanting to write--I was concerned that I would get here and just dry up, but that's not the case. The story is eager to get out and it just takes a few minutes to get it out every day. I started writing on day three, and so far I have managed to sit and work every day since.

I miss my family and friends, of course, but it's only been a week, and the newness and energy far outweighs any sense of loneliness. I suspect when sun disappears and the rain comes, it will be a different matter, but for the moment, I am quite happy, where I want to be. Home.

Provocation

Readers note: I wrote this months ago, but just decided to publish it today.

I have to take a few moments to try and put the events of the last couple of days in some sort of personal perspective.  I have not posted my thoughts publicly on social media, but feel that I  have to say something, even if it is only to myself.

I have been, to say the least, consumed by the terrorist attack on the newspaper in Paris two days ago. I saw a very small video clip, not ten minutes after the event had begun to unfold, and I've not been able to tear my attention away from it for long ever since.  Yesterday, as I read the same stories over and over on the BBC and the New York Times, I found myself wondering why it is that I find this so compelling.  Why, for example, wasn't I as concerned with the London or Madrid bombings?

It's possible that they simply happened at a time when I wasn't connected, but that's not it.  The truth is, I am a Francophile, and I feel a strong connection to the French culture and to Paris in particular.  Even though I am not French, and am several thousand miles away, I feel somehow that this is happening to me. In particular, I feel a strong desire to be there now, to go out in the Place de la Republique and stand with all those people, even in the cold, the rain and dark.

I recall how difficult it was to  live in Paris during this dark time, and how important the social life of the city was to me.  I was alone most of the time I lived in Paris--I can't romanticize my depression because it's what eventually drove me from the city.  Still, living there, going out and seeing other people and all the lights; hearing the sounds of the street mixed with constant, far-off sirens; smelling the exhaust fumes mingling with the smell of food--all this is part of the tapestry of memory that I wove during during those long-ago day, and something still retain today.

Seeing pictures of Paris always makes me nostalgic, but seeing the pictures of the Charlie Hebo massacre, especially the murder of the policeman makes me almost desperate to be there. Why, I do not know.  That's why I am writing this, hoping to find out as I work my way through it.

Last night, we had dinner with a couple who own a local newspaper.  It's an actual paper, printed and distributed in our area of town.  'Hyperlocal' is what they call it, and though it has an online 'presence' (which is to say, a website), it is an actual printed paper which continues to survive, even in these times when everything seems to have gone entirely digital.  As the co-editor of my high school newspaper now forty years ago, I would never have supposed that I might praise a local paper just for surviving. Oh, we saw the coming of digital journalism even back then, in 1972 (it was obvious even in the local newsroom), but the printed paper was such a permanent part of my life and culture, even though I had big ideas about the future of journalism I wouldn't have concluded that the profession was simply going to all but vanish in my lifetime.

Well, it hasn't vanished.  And even though hyperlocal journalism seems to be an important part of journalism in the coming years, we know that even hyperlocal news can go viral, and that the locality of the news has sometimes less impact than the perception of it's influence.  By this I mean that it easy to overestimate the importance of a bit of media and consequently overreact to it by becoming enraged. Just reading the comments on pretty much any website (that still allows them) will prove this point--it is only two steps from 'I don't like that' to 'You are nazi'.  Thankfully most of this rage is simply vented with key pounding fury, but occasionally, as we've seen, it provokes unstable and nihilistic individuals into violent action.

So should we refrain from provoking others?  Trolls clearly think otherwise. Personally, I find the activities of internet trolls to be among the worst possible uses of the internet.  Cats and porn notwithstanding, this whole provocation thing, starting with flame wars, moving to trolling and emerging as violent confrontations seems to be driving a lot--not all, or even most, but a lot--of the 'traffic' on those interwebs.

The hard part for me to reconcile is the fact that is seems like the writers at Charlie Hebo were acting like trolls.  It's fair to say that satire can actually have a purpose, but sometimes that purpose is just to offend and nothing more.  I am not suggesting that all criticism must be constructive, but seems to me that any one-way conversation (especially trolling) simply to exercise free speech is ironically bound to fail.  Something gets said alright, but no one's the better for it.  The 'talkers' in this case are simply being self-righteous and smug and the 'listeners' are hurt and insulted.

I am also struggling with the concept of provocation.  I find myself asking, what provokes, and why?  This is often--perhaps only--a personal question, but trying to answer it seems to bring me closer to what bothers me.  Ideally, I could not be provoked.  I would be to wise, to circumspect, too knowing to be fooled by provocation, no matter how flagrant.  In fact, it seems that the more flagrant the attempt at provocation, the more farcical it becomes, like calling someone a nazi because they prefer the toilet paper from the bottom. It's all a matter of degree from wherever you happen to start.  And some things, especially the little things, are provoking.

But what does that really mean?  Does provocation lead to violence?  Of course, not always.  Does it even lead to action?  Again, not always.  But it does arouse feelings, and these can cause us to react, or even just act.  I guess I can only examine this--at least here--from a personal context.

What provokes me?

This is actually an easy question. It's been the same since I can remember.  It's this:  someone telling me that they know what I am thinking and/or feeling.  It provokes me because I know it cannot be true.  Of all the things I know to be true, the fact that my thoughts and feelings are know to me first--and often to me alone.  If I share them, it's something else, but my thoughts and feelings are mine alone.  No one can ever know them but me.  It's not just a selfish feeling, though it certainly might be seen that way.  I see it as an immutable truth--it is clear that of all the things I know, and that of course is nothing, then then only thing I really know is just that, my sense of knowing nothing.  That's not a riddle or a paradox, just the hard edge of truth.  It cuts sometimes, so handle it gently.

I say all this to point out that provocation is not so hard, and it's not easily controlled or dismissed with a shake of the head and a knowing smile.  Even if you know it's just your button, it's still being pressed and that sets it off.  Is anyone immune to this?  Is anyone so controlled that they cannot be provoked?  If the answer is no, then isn't it just a matter of degree?  Isn't your ox the only one that matters?  The flame is there, already lit and ready to be fanned.

This does not excuse action in the name of provocation, however.  This is the classic defense of rapists, homophobes and racists--forced into action by relentless provocation.  It doesn't even have to be relentless, just timely, whenever the insult is perceived, and boom, the spark leads to the explosion.

Food for All

I see them every day. The construction workers,  HVAC guys, welders, plumbers, stonemasons, city inspectors, water truck guys, lawn care crews, Google fiber teams, trash truck drivers, Fedex and the UPS guys, of course postmen, firemen and police. The delivery drivers who bring the produce and the linen and chips to the restaurant. Rich people, in fancy cars and on expensive motorcycles. Hipsters on bikes, and skateboards. There are poor people who dig out the last two dollars out of their jeans and rich couples from Lakeway drinking expensive red wine out of foam cups. Families come too, with two, four, six, even ten kids in tow. College students, high school kids, a guy with no shoes or shirt, a guy in a tux, tourists from China and San Francisco and LA and New York. Relatives, moms, dads, sister and brothers--some dragged in on their first night in town. Folks come with their luggage, straight from the airport. Some people come every week. Some come every month.

It might be hip to wait in line, but it ain't necessarily fun. In the summertime, it can get very hot, and on cold rainy 'winter' days in the ATX, days it's downright miserable. But the people come. And, they wait. It's not a long line, but there's no inherent chic to waiting--it seems cool at first but then it's hot, dusty, the music is loud, you are standing in a parking lot and and oh yeah, you are hungry. The guy at the window seems to be taking forever. But the smell! Oh that smell. You have to tell yourself: It's worth the wait. It's worth the wait. Oh god what is taking that guy so long? Is he ordering for a baseball team?

Food is more than just smoked meat. It is love made manifest in good food, served in good restaurants. 

Hard Work - First Day

I arrived early but of course Miguel and the others were already working. No hellos or paperwork greeted me, just my first order of the day: break down boxes and put them in the back. Then, Miguel had me come into the trailer and strain some beans into a quarter pan. "My guy didn't do 'em right," he said, "They have too much liquid." He gave me a measuring cup and showed me where to find a quarter pan. "Get one of the deep ones." The beans were still hot, but I dipped the cup into the liquid anyway and scooped them out into the pan.

Once I did that he showed me where to put them and then said, "Get back there and clean up those dishes." He pointed to the back corner of the trailer, where a huge mound of dishes awaited. I dove in, turned on the water and got to work.  Almost immediately, Miguel yelled at me, "Hey, we don't have a lot of water! Somebody show him how to do it!" I turned off the water and realized that of course, since it's a trailer, it isn't hooked up to a water system--there's got to be a tank somewhere. After that, I used paper towels to scrape out what I could, then washed each dish in soapy water, 'clean' water and a sanitizer. The whole thing broke down pretty quickly, as the sludge in each of the basins got thinker and thinker.  Finally, I drained and refilled them to start over, and at that point someone showed me how we refill the tank. Miguel gave me a key and I walked over to the corner of the Brodie Mart, opened the padlocked gate and turned on the spigot. A hose runs all the way through the parking lot to the trailer. I waited to get a sign from the guys in the trailer that the tank was full, then shut it off, relocked the gate and headed back to the trailer.

When I got back, Miguel told me to make potato salad. He showed me the station with a bin of cooked potatoes and a pan with a few ingredients already in it. Someone, he said, had started but he wanted me to finish it. He handed me the recipe book, pointed to the ingredients and told me to get to work. It only took me about ten minutes to get that done, then I packed them all up in small plastic containers and put them in the line fridge.

After that, it was back to the dishes. I did that for about an hour and a half. At one point Miguel asked me if I ate everything, to which I said yes and in the next minute he handed me a breakfast taco. I devoured about half of it before I felt the need to get back to the dishes, and I never finished it. I soon learned that in addition to washing the dishes, that station required me to keep an eye on the tortillas on the griddle. My job (or part of it) was to reach over and flip the tortillas once or twice, then place them in the holder for the line guys to reach back and grab.

The process of making tortillas was non-stop throughout the day. They are all made fresh and practically to order. The dough has been pre-made and rolled into little balls, which are then placed in tupperware containers stacked above the dish station. There is a tortilla press at the front up by the door, and the person making the 'torts' as they are called takes a ball of dough, tosses it around in a little bowl of flour, then smacks it lightly to compress it a bit before dropping in one side of the press. The they press down on a big handle at the back of the machine, press for about five seconds and release it and out slides a fresh tortilla.  This then gets tossed over to the griddle, and the person standing on the other side does the flipping and pulling. They also have to hand the tortilla maker the tubs of dough balls, and take the empties and wash them.

The next thing I did was to shuck and de-cob a bushel of smoked corn. Some of the corn went into an iron kettle, along with some butter and spices and I put that out into the smoker out back.  Next up was pulling chicken. This reminded me of my first kitchen job at the Treehouse, where the chef caught me deboning chickens with a knife and taught me how to do it with my bare hands. This time, I needed no such instruction. I put on a pair of gloves, grabbed a half steam pan and got to work, tearing apart the smoked chicken and placing the torn pieces into the half pan. The thing was, those chickens were hot! Not enough to actually burn my hands, but enough to make it physically painful to do. And, I had at least eight birds to debone, fast. I decided that a good defense makes for some good offense, so I opened up the foil on the other seven chickens and tore them in half, letting out the steam and heat. I also stripped off the skin, since that is easier when it's hot.  Then it was just a matter of putting my head down and my hands into the heat. Eight birds in the pan. Pan in the hotbox. Next?

Back to the dishes. Miguel told me to watch the line and the tickets, and I stared at them but it was still too soon for me to absorb that kind of information. In fact, most of my effort, mentally, was directed at learning where things were in the trailer. There is so much and everything is moving so fast, it can be disorienting. One thing for sure, it is dehydrating. I completely forgot not only to bring water, but to drink any at all, until about one o'clock, my hands started to cramp. Now, since I am so thin, that's where it starts first, and I already know if that happens, I am in trouble. I tried to drink as much as I could as fast as could, downing a coke and two bottles of water in desperation. This staved off the cramping, but I learned that hydration is a key to staying alive and safe in the kitchen.

Besides having a feel for the pace of the kitchen, I also have learned about keeping my body motions to a minimum and making the most out of a tiny bit of space, and this helps when it comes to my single biggest concern in that space: safety.  I do not want to get burned or cut or hurt a shoulder because that's the end of the job. Keeping the job means not getting injured. Of course I don't want to get hurt, but more than that, I have a responsibility to the team to stay healthy. When someone goes down with an injury, someone else has to step up. In this business, there is no sick time. I had forgotten this basic rule when it came to hydration and it almost cost me the job on the first day.

I did get burned a couple of times on the grill, and cut the inside of my thumb slightly on the edge of a pan while washing dishes. I figure my fingertips will become desensitized in just a few weeks so I can flip tortillas and buns without wincing. The cut on my hand took twice as long to heal as a 'regular' cut--there's a lot in that dishwater. No germs per se, but plenty of food for the microbes already living in me. So, keeping clean is important, too. I have learned to wear gloves--something we never had in the 'old' days--and how to keep a clean grill towel in my pocket. That's actually very important, as we are forever cleaning things.

So around and around I went, washing dishes, pressing limes and lemons, making tortillas, sweeping and cleaning, emptying the trash, cleaning, cleaning cleaning. Oh, and making tortillas. Cleaning, tortillas, cleaning, tortillas...you get the idea.

At six o'clock it was quitting time and I was beat. I was also not sure if I had the job. After all, Miguel had really only offered me a test, and I had to ask him if I'd passed. He smiled for the first time and said yes. "So I can come back next week?"  "Yes." That's when I blurted out, "Oh and I can also work in the evenings, after 6:30, like Mondays or Tuesdays." Miguel looked at his brother Alfonso and said immediately, "OK then, we can use you both days." Of course, I was thinking either/or not both, and I couldn't back out now, so I said "Ok, I'll be here."

After that I walked home, feeling happy, tired and hopeful.

Hard Work - Facts of a Kitchen

I found this posted on the wall when I got to work yesterday.

THE FACTS OF A KITCHEN

Working here, or any kitchen is mentally and physically draining

- NO EXCUSES - Always stay focused and BE READY to perform!

- Over-communication is KEY! Answer with a clear Yes or No

- #1 complaint is not about the food but rather how long it takes!

- You will stand for 10 hours without a break

- Rarely is there time to chill - Always be doing something

- Urgency and Precision are Paramount

This is not an office or warehouse job so if something takes a minute too long, 50 other items stack up causing you to slip into oblivion!

LEAD, FOLLOW OR GET OUT OF THE WAY

Hard Work - The New Job

Author's Note: I know, dear readers, it's been a long time since I posted anything.  Both of you have been very patient, thanks, but it seems that I just haven't had anything to say for some time. Today, though, I want to write a bit about my new job and why I love it.  

Both of you already know that I just got a job in a BBQ trailer here in Austin, which, after twenty years of 'fine dining' in a very nice restaurant might seem like a bit of a step down for me.  After all, who would willing go from being a (well paid) 'wine guy' to a (low paid) prep cook in a trailer in South Austin?

Well the short answer is me. I love hard work. Now, working at my last job was often physically demanding--in a typical 6 hours shift I would almost never sit down, moving constantly through the restaurant in a circle.  I never actually counted my steps, but it's safe to say that I walked a lot.

I did a lot more than walk, though. I often cleared tables, carried trays, picked up trash and generally occupied myself with tiny but relentless tasks like folding napkins, polishing silverware and glasses and, of course, opening wine. After twenty years, though, the work had a certain routine--hard and fast at times, but often slow enough that staying focused could be a problem.

There is no such problem in this new job.  The work is hard, fast and hot. I love it. On my first day, I worked ten hours and I haven't been that tired since I tried working for a landscaper when I was in high school. I only lasted a few days on that job, but it wasn't because the work was too hard--it just wasn't a real challenge, mentally. Hard work isn't just about the amount of physical labor involved, it's also--perhaps even mostly--about the mental effort.

Of course, just learning a new job requires a great deal of mental effort, and some jobs require a higher level of sustained effort than others. I've come to realize that when a focused mental effort is combined with a demand for a strong physical performance, the result is just the sort of work that I crave.

What? Craving?

I have thought a lot about this in the past few weeks, and the best answer I can think of is that for me, hard work is the equivalent of physical exercise. Other than walking, which I love, I do not like to exercise. I certainly don't like to exercise just for the sake of exercising. With apologies to those whom I love who love to work out, I find that sort of physical effort to be, well, a waste of time.

Well, a waste of my time that is. Obviously many people do not find exercising to be a waste of time, and they are right. They crave it. I actually understand just why so many people love to run and do yoga and work out in general. Why? It makes them feel good. And that in and of itself is a good thing. The way I see it, the more folks who feel good physically, the more folks will be in a good mood generally and the better off we'll all be. It's not utopian, but you know, that rising tide floats all boats. We all benefit from all feeling good.

So, yay to exercise, but just not for me.

Actually that's not true.  In fact it's the very point here.  For most of my life, I thought I did not like to exercise. Until this month though, I don't think I ever made the connection between my love of hard work and my need for exercise. Now, it certainly helps me mentally knowing that the activity is 'work', and not just a 'workout', but really, does getting a few dollars an hour for doing something really justify doing it? I mean, I could sell my time for a lot more--in fact, I have for decades.  Taking a pay cut to work harder just seems nuts, right?

Well, to me so does doing ten sets of thirty reps on eight different machines in a sweaty, stinky, noisy gym.

Give me the aroma of cooking food (yes, even grease) plus sweat any day. Actually, these days, it's the aroma of smoked meats and hot, fresh tortillas on the grill that fill my senses, and when I am on the line tonight, making sandwiches and tacos, I'll be loving every minute.

Even at .25 cents a minute.

My theme song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3buNBwjstPY

Jack the Cat

Paw in claw out
Head turned in
Eyes tight and limbs loose

Blank soft silent wings
Steal life love long on feather tips
Gone gone
Feed fowl found for night
Blood fur and bone
No I will have those things too

I am the night before and the day after
A dream
A death
A scream
My breath
Lost
Cost
Cause

I am the root
The leaf
Ant
Wind
Night
Not here
Unheard

Bark and branch

Drop down from
Canopy the way is
Short
But safe
Eat until you
Must then get home

The Dubov-Caselli New Restaurant Notice and Rating System

1.  You are lucky if we come

2.  It will be amazing if we like it enough to tell others

3.  You will have made it if we come back

Our ratings:

1. Not coming back

2. We’ll be back

Flavor

What is flavor?

It is not

ambience
Ingredients
Imagination
Invention
Service
Presentation

What is taste? Where is it?

What is smell? Where is it?

What is satisfaction?

What is enjoyment?

Is flavor an absolute? Is it relative? Is it unique to each individual, like color?

What is the shape of flavor in the brain?