End

I'm going to start by telling you about our final evening.

We went back to that pierogi place and I indeed had the venison pierogis.  It was fallow deer, which for those of you picturing the prey of some guy dressed in orange, is domestic.  Naomi had apple pierogis and I also had a cup of warm, clear beet borscht.  The meal was fabulous.  We then sat in the square at a place that specializes in chocolate for a piece of layer cake (Na) and a cup of drinking chocolate with rum.  At that moments became convinced that I would have loved cafe society. Of course, I'd have to grow some kind of beard and there are those who might object to that.

We then walked back along the river.  There was a crescent moon, and lots of couples sitting and enjoying the night.  It was rather perfect.

Krakow is a place of excitement, hustle and secret sorrow.  The market square -- all the market squares -- is busy with people enjoying themselves.  There are bars everywhere.  But you can't step two meters (that's 1.75 Smoots, for you MIT folks) without someone hustling you.  "Try our restaurant."  "Do you want a tour?" "Carriage ride? The horses are guaranteed Polish."  In Prague there were beggars, everywhere actually.  But here it's hustle.

In a moment of extreme weakness I asked one of the booze hounds in the park for directions, which he kindly gave me, hit me up for money, then tried to bargain up, then tried the old I'll-loan-you-money-if-you're-so-hard-up guilt ploy.  I got away, but counted my fingers to see that they were all there.

 Oh, but the sorrow is there.  In people my age who remember what it was like before 1989. In older people who also remember the war.  The Jewish Quarter and the old ghetto have places where candles are lit and stones are placed.  Too many died.  The horrors were too real.  Auschwitz too close.

On the other hand, a lot of men cultivate a studies disheveled quality that, beyond a 20 year old hipster just wouldn't fly in the states.  We're Polish and we've got our own style - no jokes please.

In fact, if you're looking for the joke, it's only We Try Harder.  (Didn't that cause a minor diplomatic incident with Israel, once upon a time?)  In Paris, you can get a crepe on the street.  In Krakow you can eat some of the most glorious cuisine in the world.  In Krakow, you can eat pierogi. In Munich, Gwyneth Paltrow was on ads and billboards for makeup or perfume. In Krakow it's Mike Tyson for sports drinks.  In Prague, you can get a ticket that will let you into six or seven major sites in the Jewish Quarter where artifacts that have survived are respectfully preserved.  In Krakow, you can get a free tour of the Jewish quarter by a young Pole who can point out some buildings and tell you about the filming of Schindler' List.  If you've got less to start with, you've got to hustle.

The Poles do the Hustle very well.

We're now at the Krakow Airport.  We have entered airport space/time.  Our travels aren't over, but our adventures just about are.

***********

And now, the answer you've all been waiting for: a van, two airport shuttles, two airplanes, a bus and a taxi.  NONE OF THEM BROKE DOWN!

Auschwitz

There are the, "I'd never go there" people and the "Why would you ever go there" people.  I fall into the "I have to see; I have to know" group.  This morning, a Kiwi who is going to Auschwitz this afternoon asked me if it is emotionally difficult.  There it is, isn't it?  That's why people don't want to go, I suppose.  

For me, knowing that its emotionally difficult is the obstacle and its not a big enough one to overcome the need to stand in that place and know that others, untold numbers of others, stood there before me.

Impressions:

The stairs in the Auschwitz I barracks (those buildings are brick) are too worn for the 100+/- that the buildings have been standing.  Either the stone is softer than it looks, or many too many feet have tread them.

The shoes, eyeglasses, brushes, and luggage made me sad. The hair pierced my heart.  It wasn't just the quantity, it was the reality.  No pictures allowed out of respect for the dead.

There are trees that have been planted in Auschwitz I.  Somehow that seems wrong,

In Auschwitz II-Birkenau, all that's left of the 300 wooden barracks are chimneys.  All around is green grass.

I have seen many pictures of the gate to Auschwitz II-Birkenau, but being inside it gave me a physical sensation akin to dread--deep dread.  Not the dread of having to do your taxes.  A dread so deep it makes you ill.  It passed, though the memory of it lingers even now, 16 hours later.

There are places in Auschwitz II-Birkenau where the stench of the marsh water is strong and sickening.

Near the remains of the Auschwitz II-Birkenau ovens, I though I could smell the remains of a fire.  Probably a suggested olfactory state.

Our guide, a local woman in her 30s was excellent.  Her tone was serious and respectful.  More so than I needed, but I could see how it worked on other members of our group.  She settled them down so that they were no longer on an exciting holiday outing, but bearing witness to...

Whenever I've heard about cattle cars, the picture in my head has been wrong.  The reality is smaller.

They had a prison within Auschwitz I.  Imagine, people could do things that more punishment than just being there.  I left a stone at the wall where they shot prisoners.

I left another stone at one of the ash ponds.  Ashes were dumped in the river and spread on fields as fertilizer.  "All this area is a memorial, a cemetery," our guide said.

A woman was there with her son and daughter who looked to be between 11 and 14.  They were not part of our group.  I first saw them in Auschwitz I posing for a photo next to a sign in the roll call yard.  She then posed her children in front of the Auschwitz I ovens.  It made me very sad to see such extreme tactlessness.  Remember my little rants about this habit in Paris?  There it was puzzling.  Here? What is this mother going to do with the picture?  Show it to her friends?  Put it in a book of holiday photos?  And what is she teaching her children about what happened in this horrible place?

I want to know how being a guide here has changed this woman.  I gave her my card and asked. Was I rude!  There was no time to lead up to it.  So, I asked and invited her to email if she wishes.

It'll take me a long while to sort out everything I saw and felt.

Na and I had a late dinner afterwards, followed by ice cream.  We needed a goodie.  

On Krakow Time

There's not much this tourist can say about the first day in Krakow.  We walked around.  Wow.  I'm thrilled.  Are you thrilled?

Nope, that's not the story I want to write, so you don't have to decide whether or not to read it.  Here's the story.

As you remember from our last episode, Adam and Naomi took naps almost immediately upon arrival.  The big question then became, could we find Naomi a cup of coffee soon enough for her to enjoy the first day.  As we walked into the old town square, looked we heard a thud behind us and turned to see that an older guy, in his sixties, had fallen in the street.  An Asian woman, also a tourist, said he had walked past her, then suddenly veered into the street.  I tried to revive him with a cop trick I once saw of tapping the bottom of the foot.  I was a lot softer than the cops had been that time.  No doing.  A couple of women stopped to help by calling emergency, I think.  Though we didn't understand a word they said, the lack of cooperation and help was evident.  Naomi and I moved the guy further out of the road.  Then a larger group arrived, and two of the men and I got him on the sidewalk.  It turned out that he has paperwork saying he has epilepsy.  It was a fit, one that left him pretty damn close to the trolley tracks.  Once the Polish people, all in their 30s it seemed, had things under control, we continued on our way with many thank you's from the Poles.

Dinner was at a tiny pierogi joint.  Order at the counter for the best pierogis I've ever had..by far.  A dish each, plus their fruit kompote drink came to 30 zloty -- $11-$12.  Gotta go back there and try their venison pierogis before we leave.

Second day was oh so very different, dominated by one thing -- the trip to Auschwitz.  That, though deserves its own post.

 We walked around part of the Jewish quarter a bit, then back to the main square where we had an unremarkable lunch in another recommended traditional place.  The whole square is very festive with restaurants, gift shops, living statues, music, and horse drawn carriages.  I have a limited tolerance for that kind of thing, but the lure of one of the chocolate cafes will draw me back on our last night.

I must say that the layout of the area is confusing.  Even with a map, I've had trouble figuring out where I was and where I was going...and if any of you makes a crack about my age...

And the beat goes on

WARNING - THIS POST CONTAINS SOME RANDOM PICTURES JUST TO REMIND YOU (and maybe me) THAT LIFE ISN'T ONLY TRANSPORTATION MISHAPS.

I would like to report that our struggles with conveyances has reached an end.  I would like to, but, in all truth, I can't. I write this in the compartment of the night train from Prague to Krakow.  It is no longer night; it is morning.  For the past four hours or so we have been sitting in the station of a place called Bohumin - where that is, I do not know.  Why we are here, I do not know.  When we are leaving...one of the women in our compartment is trying to find something out.

Our companions are an interesting lot: three children, the oldest, a girl going into seventh grade, is the only one who speaks English; their mother, who just got the info we needed about what the heck is happening; their Grandmother, who is (gulp) about my age; and an unidentified woman of the same age who may be a great aunt or that determinate "auntie" and who functions as the court jester.

They brought a lot of food and beverages.  We each brought a small water and I have a candy given to me after a meal sometime in the last week and a half.

I don't want to resort to hyperbole; accuracy is my goal.  That said, the seats in this car look like they are built for humans to sit on, I have no reason to think they were designed for goats, iguanas or dolphins.  But they are the most uncomfortable things to sit on that I have ever experienced.  Sleeping is damned near impossible.  Honestly, my ass has been hurting for hours.

------------------

So, we're finally moving.  They added another car for us and I believe to outward appearances we look like a train.  My explorations reveal that we only have access to two cars.  No cafe car, doggone it.  That bit of candy is looking mighty tasty right about now.  I kinda dragged Na down to the other car, which is modern.  We got a compartment to ourselves and I slept for a couple of welcome hours.  Na is still asleep.  (That's "now" in writing time, not reading time.  I really must write that metaphysical treatise on travel and the space-time continuum.)

O! The seats in the new compartment are exquisite.  I sing the praises of whomever designed them.  He or she should be declared a knight or be given the Medal of Freedom or be declared a National Treasure or something.  There's power in here, too, so I'm writing and charging...and my ass doesn't hurt.  Life is looking up.

---------

One more needle from the fickle finger of fate.  When we finally got to the tram station in Krakow...the ticket machine was broken.  We got on anyway.

(Sigh)

We were ensconced in the Elephant on the Moon Hostel and asleep by noon thirty.  Now, off to see something of this town.

City of Magic

Prague is not at fault.  Prague is still Prague, filled with beauty and tourists and art and souvenirs.  No, the fault lies not in the city, Horatio, but in our stars.  

Naomi and I are plagued by the perversity of transportation conveyances.

After dinner last night, faced with a walk of at least 50 minutes, we asked our waitress for instructions to get to our hotel by tram.  So far, so good.  We went to the square where the tram stop is, found a cafe and bought Naomi a slice of chocolate cherry cake.  Things were great, but no real transportation had taken place.  At the tram stop, we went to the machine to buy a ticket, followed the first instruction.  Nothing happened.  The machine was broken.  No ticket, no getting on the tram.

50 minutes later, arriving hot and sweaty at the hotel, we got into the ancient elevator (maximum capacity: three people each with a small backpack) and that didn't work, either.  As we stood there scratching our heads, the super put up an out-of-order sign.

Did I do something wrong in a previous life? Perhaps I offended Shirley MacLaine or Egyptian Pharaoh Shepseskare Isi...unless they are the same person.  Actually, don't be fooled by all that. Shepseskare Isi was really Edward Devere.

Oddly enough the damned elevator was working fine at 7 am when I went out foraging.  I think if a conveyance wants to inconvenience you, 7 am would be a perfect time.  But then, I am not, strictly speaking a conveyance.

A very loud thunderstorm hit Prague as we were walking through the old Jewish cemetery.  Crack, roll, thunder and peal.  The words "Wrath of God" came readily to mind, though what I could have done to incite divine wrath is beyond me.  I did cover my  5 krona kippah with my Red Sox cap, but it was a paper kippah and the wind kept floating it off my dome.  The thunder added drama to a place that hardly needs it.

I made a crack way back in the beginning of this blog about the Catholics understanding awe better than the Jews.  Some people, who ought to remain nameless (Josh Conescu), but won't, took umbrage at the distinction.  Here's another delineation.  Take a walk through the Pinkus Synagogue in Prague and then try to tell me that as Jews we don't know how to evoke deep, profound sorrow.  The inside walls of the Synagogue are painted with the names of 80,000 Moravian and Bohemian Jews who died in the Holocaust.  There is no other adornment.  Just name after name after name.  Whole towns gone. No awe for me, but great sadness...

Which a trip to the Old Town Square filled with tourists, a bubble making guy, a jazz band, and, I kid you not, Hipsters on Segues, helped to allay.

Now, rain and we wrap up our stay in Prague.  

The trip is winding down, but one more city to go. Krakow.  

So, we started out in a place where both of us could speak a little of the language and plenty of people spoke English.  Then we went to a place where neither of us spoke the language, but we could read a tiny bit of it and plenty of people spoke English.  Then to a place where we can't even read the language, though enough people speak English.  What's next? No common ground of language at all?  It's all an adventure.   C'est une aventure.  Es ist ein wirkliches Abenteuer.  Všechno je to dobrodružství.  To wszystko przeżyć przygodę.  

Which in Polish also means, "Have some sauerkraut with your pirogi."

Munchen on pretzels

Munich is behind us.

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS NO PICTURES.

Complaints may be sent to Life magazine and The Saturday Evening Post.

One of the things that I remember from each of my travels is that someplace becomes the rest stop.  Munich was ours.  There were not major events, no catastrophes, no wild experiences.  We saw the center of the city, split up for an afternoon, ate and drank in a beer hall, saw a museum and went to the park.  We did walk through the big beer hall, the one that Hitler hung out in.  It was loud, crowded and hot.  I can imagine it being the breeding ground for dangerous ideas.  The one we ate at was less hot less crowded and less, now a tourist trap.  We shared a plate of some kind of pork patty with chanterelles in a cream sauce.  Unfortunately, the mushrooms were over cooked.  It is chanterelle season in Nova Scotia and I know from experience that the simpler the preparation, the better.  We also share dessert: apple fritters with vanilla ice cream, a bit of chocolate sauce and whipped cream.  That was fabulous.

The park, the English Garden, was nice.  They had diverted a couple of rivers into it.  People gathered at the banks of the rivers to picnic swim float with the current and sun bathe the way urban people will in their parks. Some were naked, but only men and mostly my age, so it was hardly worth noting.

We heard a klezmer trio with a clarinet that was inspired.  The bass and the accordion were less than. There were other street musicians.  Overall, the atmosphere was friendly and festive.

I'll just come out and say it: German culture seems to prize systems.  There's a system for everything and the assumption is that the system is obvious.  For instance, I didn't realize that the sidewalks on many of the major streets were half stone and half asphalt until a bike rider snapped at me to move.  Bike lanes going in the direction of the traffic, but no signs.  And if the system is overloaded, there seems no backup, as we saw during our great train disaster to Fussen.  There are bike racks everywhere and about three times as many bikes as the racks can handle.  The end result is chaos.

I can't muster up a tone of sarcasm about Munich, however.  Nothing I think comes off as anything but mean spirited.  That's another legacy of WWII; after sausage jokes, what can I say that doesn't sound like payback?

The beer was gutt!

Storming the Castles

We are now leaving Fussen on the train to Munich.  This train differs from the one we took to Fussen in two major ways: a) it's older with windows that open and no air conditioning; 2) it's in the morning.  The consequence of these stark differences is that there are visual, audial and olfactory signs that we're in farming country.  The odors may be odious to some, but they are comfortably familiar to me, and I don't think I've heard a cow bell on a cow in over 40 years.

Fussen means charming-old-German-town-near major-tourist-site in German. Take the words cobbled, Bavarian, quaint, Alps, lederhosen, beer and schnitzel, combine them in a way that seems pleasing to you, and you'll have a fairly accurate mental image of the town.  Most people go there to make the trek (5 km) by foot, bus, bike or car to see the two castles: Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau, which are not, no matter what you think, kinds of German sausage.

If you decide to make the trip, you need to know that the first two hours of your adventure will be spent in the ticket line.  This is essential so that you know what it felt like waiting to see the King of Bavaria in his home.  No Kafka like trip here, though.  You will get to the castle - both if you so choose.  I don't know if anyone got to see the king.  The next thing you want to know is that you don't HAVE to walk up to both castles.  There are buses and horse drawn wagons.  Walking, however affords you the chance to stop when you want and it's enervating...so bring about a gallon of water per person.  For those of you who are environmentally conscious, neither the busses nor the horses qualify as zero emission - especially the horses, so watch your step.

I'm not going to describe the castles or Marienbridge.  Go look them up.  Ive stuck a couple of snapshots here to satisfy the imatient among you.  And no photos are allowed to be taken inside, so if you want to see, (and take it from me, you do want to see) look 'em up.  

King Ludwig, The Extravagant, grew up in the lovely and quite acceptable Hohenschwangau, the castle of his father and father's father and all that, but like Yertle the Turtle, wanted to get higher and fancier.  He managed to spend just over 170 nonconsecutive days in his Wagner inspired (and that should tell you something), unfinished fairy-tale castle before he was deposed and disposed of at the age of heirless 40.  One look at his hair at 13 years old in a portrait and you'll know that this king wasn't going to be satisfied with yesterday's fashion in castles.  Nobody knows why he was deposed, though at the time they said he was insane.  You tell me: when was that ever a reason to oust a king? And know one knows who killed him, not even his uncle who became the regent,which means "king Niall but title," nope, he never found out who did it.

Up to this point in our trip, Naomi's birthday wish list has included a puppy and a Mercedes.  Now she has added a Bavarian sword, a canopy bed made to look like a medieval German altar, and an ivory chest with gold-plated silver fixings and enameled decorations.  I plan on repainting the living room and dining room walls back home with murals commemorating the important historic and mythic events in Framingham's history.

When we got back to our hotel room after our double castle day, we realized that we had been on our feet for the better part of 8 hours with only a pretzel and a small ice cream cone to eat.  We showered, changed and stumbled out to find our first Bavarian meal. King Ludwig schnitzel for me (turkey with cheese, potatoes, and a grilled tomato) and Spatzle with cheese and onions for Na.    

Then we returned to our room and practiced being logs.

The only thing I'll add to our leaving is that while waiting for the train I was gripped with anxiety that the train would be over crowded.  If you don't know why, you didn't read my last post.

Stuttgart - Nobody told Me about the party

Picture this in New York.  

You go to the subway to buy a ticket. The instruction are overly detailed and confusing. (I was born here, how the f*** do I know what f***ing zone I'm in!?) You get the ticket and walk to the train platform.  Notice that I didn't say, "go through the turnstile."  There is no turnstile, gate or guardian.  You go two stops.  You get off the train.  There is no turnstile, gate or guardian. "Gedouda here!"

Toto, I don't think we're in Hell's f***ing Kitchen anymore.

You're supposed to validate it yourself, though I'm damned if I saw any sign telling us to do that. I'm thinking that this ticketing system exemplifies German culture in ways Americans find wholly foreign.

So, I come out of the metro in Suttgart expecting to explore the wonders of Stuttgart Mitte, the old center of the city with its kitchen and probably a clock and some old German architecture.  What I see is lots and lots of tents and thousands of people eating and drinking.  I've never seen that much beer.   It was served in glasses! Imagine that at an open air festival in the States. ("Hey, Marge, souvenirs!"  "Keep drinking, Harry. I want a set of four.")

It never occurred to me to make this a gastronomic tour. It sure could have been...for twice the cost. Still, I had the best sandwich from an on the street kiosk kind of place.  It was a fresh salad sandwich on a toasty kaiser bun with a fresh yogurt dressing and a kind of chicken falafel.  Not part of the festival, but thoroughly satisfying for less than $5.25.

In the morning we went to the Mercedes-Benz Museum.  This is the highest design transportation museum I've ever been to.

STOP THE BLOGOSPHERE PRESSES! STOP THE BLOGOSPHERE PRESSES! 

MAJOR UPSET IN THE TRIP PLANS!  WILL ADAM AND NAOMI MAKE IT TO FUSSEN?

Up to now i have tried to avoid any long discursive portions on single events, but today's  travels fall into a different category.  Some would call it a travel nightmare, some an adventure.  I leave you to decide which it is.  And you might want to go get a snack and beverage of choice, 'cause I'm going to be long winded.

The hardest part right now is that everyone around us is talking about the problems today, but we can't understand what the hell they are saying.  But you can sure tell the subject.

There were two possibilities for us to get to Fussen today from Stuttgart.  We could take the 3:12 and connect in Ausburg with 10 minutes or take the 2:12 and wait the extra hour.  We opted for caution.  Then the train on the platform before ours jus st there for an extra half hour.  Na suggested we see if a new platform had been assigned.  Voila our train.

10 minutes late.  20 minutes.  30.  We sat there.  Finally someone translated the announcements for us.  A terrible storm had hit Ulm (on the way to Ausburg) with flooding and downed power lines. 40 minutes.  50. 60.

They announced that the train would not leave the station. 

We and half of Stuttgart went to see if the 3:12 had left.  It hadn't.  We and half of Stuttgart got on that train.

The laws of physics state, I think...or they ought to... that two bits of matter cannot occupy the same space in time.  That meant that some of us didn't get seats.  Actually, both of us.  After 20 minutes of waiting, they announced that there were more seats further up the train.  Leaving our suitcases, we walked the length of the train until we found the clog of people with the same thought.  We walked back as the train left the station too late for our connection in Ausburg.   

Somewhere along the way someone offered us a seat, which Naomi, bless her trouper's heart, let me have.  It was in a compartment of people all of whom were capable of translating the announcements.  "We don't know if this train will make it beyond Ulm."  "We still don't know if this train will make it beyond Ulm."  "This is Ulm. If you want to risk changing trains, it might not be a bad idea."

A compartment emptied.  We found ourselves with two 20 year old women who were very helpful in translating the announcements.  "We still don't know if this train will make it beyond Ulm."  "If you still want to get to Munich, you could take a train to (another city) , then a bus to Munich." "Remember that suggestion we just gave, you might want to try it, because this train isn't going nowhere."

Our friends checked the whole thing out, found out about trains to Fussen from Munich and led us to the new train...which had half of Stuttgart and a quarter of Ulm trying to get on board.

We got a hotel room.  It was hot.  No, we don't have air conditioning.  Yes, our wifi is 4.59 euros for the first hour.  Naomi, at the train station while I emailed our B&B in Fussen, braved the lines in the ticket office and found us a 4 train route to Fussen.  An American gave her an extra number ticket and helped translate.

Back to our hotel.  We got our bags and went to the front desk.  

Are you squeamish?  Here's where it gets creepy.  At the front desk I said we needed to cancel the rooms.  Then he said in a severe, innuendo laden voice, "No. You already used it." It was pretty damned clear what he thought happened in that room in the 45 minutes since we checked in.  I said we hadn't used it and he could look, then I pulled out both our passport and told him to read them.  By the time he looked at the room, with me at his side, he was eager to help us with perhaps a fan.  No? Can I help you make train reservations?  I suppose with a hotel in a train station he's used to it all, but he could have been polite about it.

Next was the chaos of buying tickets.  You need to understand that even with my hyperbolic prose there were lots of tired, stranded people.  The info desk had a couple of hundred in line at one point and the ticket office with three people on duty had at least 30 ahead of us when we got a number.  Not a normal afternoon in Ulm.

We were calmly waiting in line (Only 29 to go before us! 28!) a couple at one of the ticket windows had a minor argument with the agent. No big deal. Then everything ground to a halt. A different couple got into an argument with a different agent. It became heated. I don't speak German, as I said, but I believe the gist of the couple's complaint was "You guys suck and you suck specifically today and we hate you."  This went on for a while when another customer (Let's call him a potential passenger.  There was a lot of passenger latency in the station at that moment.) ran forward and started yelling. His German I understood: "I've been waiting in line for a long time! You're spending too much time with these people! You suck!" That seemed to spur the imagination of the guy I'll call the Skin Head because he had a shaved head, big muscles, and scary tattoos. He began to shout, too.  Naomi thinks he shouted about "This is what Germany has come to!" I'm fairly certain he threw in Big Banks.  

The police arrived 20 minutes after it all calmed down. 

Then began our mad dash to Fussen. Four trains with layovers of 14 min, 15 min, and 7 min. Train one was crowded with Ulm Station refugees.  Train two had two doors and people trying to ram in when we arrived.  Everyone from our train tried to cram in, too.

There's a nice comradery that can occur in adversity when no ticket agents are around. People were very helpful once they were on board. We squeezed in, held up by the press of bodies and luggage...for a 42 minute train trip.  Really, it would have been horrible if everyone there weren't so happy to be on a moving train.  We cheered when the doors closed.  We sighed together when no one tried to get on or off at a stop.  We handed luggage for the few who did need to get off. We laughed when we discovered that the platform at our station was on the other side of the train.  Then the train emptied and everyone rushed for their connection.

The next two trains only required running between platforms to get our trains. We made it. We didn't think we would, but we made it, helped in the end by three American women, one of whom grabbed Na's suitcase going up the last flight of stairs.

I'm done.  You can start the Blogosphere presses, again.

The Last Metro, etc.

We are saying goodbye to Paris, our garret, and Rue Montorgueil.  "Auvoir, Rue. Auvoir, Garret. Auvoir, Paris."

On our denier jour (That either means "last day" or it's some kind of cheese.  From what I can tell all words and phrases in French have at least two meanings: the thing itself, and some kind of cheese.) we started with cafe and jus with Olga Samoilenko, who owns the several times aforementioned garret.  She was in town because of press and television interviews about her solo show in Provence.  You can see some of her art at http://www.art-olga.com/  though I believe the show is all new work. She was charming and gracious and very interested in Naomi's art.

Na traipsed off for shopping and some freedom and I went back to Monmartre to see what I didn't before.  I would like to report that the next Picasso was in Place Tertre working on her art.  If she is, she's slogging it out doing tourist portraits and boring cityscapes.  I saw people drawings and painting; I did not see art.  I did see some lovely streets, and Parisian type architecture.

We had dinner at a fabulous Creperie in 3ieme arr. I can't verify that it's authentic Bretonnaise, but that's their claim.  As the former Breton crepe king of Burlington, VT. I can verify that the food was excellent.  The place is crowded, a bit rustic, and very friendly.  They kept the music so low you could barely hear it.  However, I heard just enough to know it was the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.  So, the volume was either too low' too high, or just right depending on your proclivities.

Now we're on a train to Stuttgart passing fields of grain and vegetables. Na is going to sleep, having finished her coffee.

I have a few last things to say about Paris.  I don't want to appear to be a complainer, but if it must be said, it must.  First, there are entirely too many directional signs.  Speaking as a 17 year Massachusetts resident, this is confusing.  The streets are properly twisted, why do they muck them up by telling where you are and where you want to go?  Second, the language thing.  I came prepared for stumbling in my French, working hard to be understood and suffering the scorn of the French at my linguistic ineptitude.  Instead, almost everyone switched to English at the slightest hesitancy, cheerfully helping me, even when I clung to the mangled nest of cabled that I call my French.  Third, the Walk/Don't Walk signs.  The green is a green that I can see.  That's just wrong.  I know its time to cross when the red light goes out and the colorless light comes on.  i have no idea what to do if I can actually see the green. Lastly, I was just getting used to the stairs and we now had to leave.  Another 5 days and I bet I could have made to to 5 1/2 floors before my legs started to ache.  That's 5 1/2 French floors.  I've almost forgiven them for the floor counting.  Given time...

The train that we're on gives the speed! How cool is that?! The top I've seen so far is 319 km/h.  For you Massachsettsers, that "wicked fast."  For everyone else, it's 198.2174103 mph...or it's some kind of cheese.  

From The Color Master to Simply Rouge

Disclaimer: This blog employs such literary devices as metaphor, satire, truth, semi-truth, sarcasm, whimsy, and out-right lies.  Proceed at your own risk.

Have you been to see Monet's Gardens at Givenry? He created his canvas, then spent his life painting it.

Getting there was quite a journey. We left before the bakery was open for business.  This was a sad thing.  We had to settle for croissants at the Gare De Saint Lazare; a sorry second cousin to the local boulangerie artisan.  We took the RER A, the express metro specially designed to be unpronounceable by Americans, a train to Vernon, then a bus to Givenry.  It was about a 7 minute walk to Monet's house.

Les fleurs! Les fleurs! Les fleurs! Good gracious the man loved color and shape.  We wandered the gardens for a bit, then over to the pond for willows and water lilies.  What I would have liked was to stay past closing and wallow in the beauty of it all.  It's no wonder he painted it over and over.

Then we almost missed the bus back to Vernon for the train.  Damn gift shops!  I actually ran to try to catch it.  is that legal at my age?  But "almost" is the key word. We made it on and made it back.

As we got off the train, a dog with a raggedy bandana jumped out of a car from which a man was unloading plastic shopping bags filled with clothes.  The man yelled, a woman yelled, too.  I looked into the car and there was a whole pile of bags next to which sat a woman with crutches.  The dog came back, the man grabbed it roughly by the scruff, the bandana came off, the dog squealed, and all the nice people tried to give the whole thing a wide berth.  We left it behind with no idea about the safety of the dog or the people.

10:15 pm we were standing in another line - hot, sweaty line in Monmartre for ( drumroll, please) The Moulin Rouge.  What I liked: sitting in the tiered cabaret audience at a table with 4 people we didn't know, the first look at those lovely, topless women, the excitement, the glitz.  What I didn't like: with one exception, neither the musical/dance numbers nor many of the acts had a good sense of how to end.  I was left, not so much with a sense of wanting more; rather I felt incomplete.  Oh, yeah, and the champagne was very nice.

I was reminded after a while of George Burns on Johnny Carson. He mentioned that there was a woman in a see through blouse on his flight.  He added, "You know, if you've seen one, you've seen them both."  In this case, having seen then both, you've seen aaaaaall of them, over and over.  The women were all tall, young, slender, fit, beautiful and with surprisingly small variation in breast size and type.  The rocketed got nothing on this place for strict casting qualifications.

The show let out after the metro closed. We walked back, a 35 minute jaunt through a decidedly hot, but otherwise peaceful Paris night. We had no hassles nor, in spite of my fears, were we ever lost.  Clearly the gods want us to walk, rather than take the metro.  Luckily, we're leaving on Saturday, so the train station will be open, I presume.  It's not Tuesday, at any rate.  And I hope the metro is running,

Musee revisited

Disclaimer: This blog employs such literary devices as metaphor, satire, truth, semi-truth, sarcasm, whimsy, and out-right lies.  Proceed at your own risk.

We returned to the Louvre on Wednesday.  Because we got there after 3:00 am,the line was long.  ( I'm fairly certain. With the ends of two lines fairly close together, some people were confused over which line was for the Hermitage.) but the day was nice, the company in comparable, and the line moved quickly enough.

NOTE:  I COMPOSED AND ERASED A COMPLETELY SNOBBISH RANT THAT CROSSED SEVERAL COUNTIES BETWEEN HUMOR AND SARCASM BEFORE LANDING ON INTOLERANCE. THE BETTER COURSE OF WISDOM OR COWARDICE OR SOME SUCH CONVINCED ME TO START OVER AND TRY SOMETHING A TAD LESS EFFETE.

I think I understand the impulse to take a picture of a great work of art when on a trip, but in reality you can see a better picture in a book, or even on the Internet.  The impulse I can't wrap my brain around is the one that says, "I'll fight my way to the front of this mob just to take a picture of me standing in front of the Mona Lisa."  There they are with their backs to the thing that they figure is worth the effort to get a picture of. I guess to them, it's a trophy, like the trout they caught at Uncle Jimmy's Corn 'n' Catch when they were 9.

I shouldn't complain I suppose. At least they came to a museum.  The jostling mobs do make it hard to just stand and look, but Na and I braved them and managed to get to the front to see M.L. for a few minutes. Not long enough, but the mystique start to reveal itself.  The Venus de Milo was similar. At least with the statue I could stand back and marvel at how much humanity Milo got from that hunk of rock.  That is, until people realized I was in the way of their picture taking.

There were too many pieces of art that distracted us and we never made it to the Vermeer. You try just walking past The Death of Marat; we couldn't do it. Such is Museum going.  The Musee de l'Orangerie ( Rough translation: Museum of the Orange Underpants.) was a whole different kettle of art.  Two large oval rooms, each containing 4 Monets, door to door.  They were mesmerizing; it was like being inside his work, swallowed like an happy, aesthete Jonah. No photos allowed, either.  Ahhhhh!  It was the perfect prelude to a trip to Givenry.