Paris, in words

We are having Jalapeno poppers and Dos Equis at Sammy’s, an airport eatery in the International terminal of the JFK airport.  We are watching the third quarter of the Christmas-day Lakers/Heat game.  Lakers are getting pounded.  I read the back of the menu at a commercial break and learn that Sammy’s is owned by former Van Halen front-man, Sammy Hagar.  I now notice that autographed guitars and posters adorn the wall.  Inset into the the bar is a glass showcase, securely displaying two laminated sheets of notebook paper.  On the papers, written in ballpoint pen—scratched out in places, then written again in others—are the original lyrics to Right Now, Van Halen’s classic pump-up tune from the mid-90’s; the lyrical skeleton of an American anthem that fueled the pre-game locker-room rituals of a generation of high school athletes, my generation, the Crystal Clear Pepsi generation.  The showcase, greasy with smudges made by (other) people that had just eaten Jalapeno poppers, doesn’t seem worthy of its contents.  Spontaneously, I sing, in a subdued, no-one-else-should-hear-this-but-Cynthia volume, a line from Right Now’s chorus in my best raspy/shrill Sammy Hagar voice: …It’s your MAAaaaGIC moment, do it RIGHT, here and now. Cynthia’s eyes make it clear that it was entirely WAY too loud.  From across the bar, I catch the bar tender’s eyes which suggest the same. Shit.

Minutes later we’re in line to board our plane to Reykjavic, Iceland.  Once there, we’ll take a flight to Paris.  While waiting, we notice a seemingly respectable couple, maybe in their mid-30′s, sitting in chairs about fifteen feet from our line, MAKING OUT, really intensely—seriously going at it.  But in a weird, exaggerated way; like two untrained, community theater actors, rehearsing a debut performance of their first “racy” scene in a yet-to-be-named, original production, soon to be unveiled at a municipal center near you.  They robotically heavy-pet each other’s backs, open palms, fingers spread wide, heads moving side-to-side.  Ten seconds pass; twenty seconds, thirty seconds, minutes.  Everyone in line notices.  Eyebrows raise, stifled snickering begins, awkwardness blankets the room.  Like teenagers in the back row of a movie theatre, still going at it.

Besides the fact that this level of public affection is just plain unacceptable, we innocent bystanders find this scene quite perplexing.  The thing is, at this point, both of them are through security, both are at the gate, and both have carry-ons at their feet.  Is this a passionate couple departing on two different flights, leaving at similar times from the same terminal?  Seems unlikely.  Maybe they’re on the same flight but just happen to, every now and again, lose all self-control?  Or perhaps they’re a brand-new couple, a new match—care of a few tequila shots at Sammy’s—now sadly going their separate ways. The room’s collective curiosity begs for this to make some kind of sense.

We board the plane without knowing.  We’ll never know. No one will ever know.

On my tray table I notice that the word for “life vest” in Icelandic is “bjorganarvesti”.  This word seems to have too many syllables for something that needs to be said in an emergency.  I think this is far more hilarious than it actually is.

The Reykjavic airport is clean and modern.  Airline workers wear tucked-in, navy v-neck sweaters, and the female attendants wear out-dated looking little hats perched on the top-left sides of their heads. With straight, business-like faces, all of them use motor-less, standing scooters (the kind with rollerblade wheels) to transport themselves from one part of the airport to another.   Scooter parking can be found behind the desk at each gate.  I think this is just as hilarious as it actually is.

We arrive at Charles De Gaule airport at noon, yet our bodies feel a sleep-deprived 6am.  We ride an escalator covered in a clear plastic tube through a sunlit atrium crisscrossed with other clear-tubed escalators.  It feels like an enormous hamster cage.

Although I’m exhausted and cranky, I see something that quickly changes my mood: hair.  In the waiting area I quickly spot my cousin Jeremy’s signature, curly do—longer and curlier (and higher) then I ever remembered.  Like an umbrella tree, he stands over his younger sister Camille—petite and stylishly dressed as always. Hugs and smiles are shared; tears of joy almost shed. Jeremy meets Cynthia for the first time.  Everything is great.

Far from home, it feels good to be with family again.

My French Family

Judy, my mom’s older sister, in her Junior year in Paris re-connected with her great-grandmother’s French heritage and fell in love with the university system and a dashing young man with a mustache. For both reasons she stayed..forever. They had three children: Jeremy (2 years older than me), Camille (1 year younger than me) and Chloe (5 years younger than me).

With most of our extended family still in Cleveland, it was always they who came to visit us when I was growing up.  One of my earliest memories in life is a moment I shared with Camille: at the ages of 3 and 4, respectively, she and I decided to lift, over our heads, repeatedly, my Mom’s collection of large ceramic bowls. Our excessive giggling soon gave us away, and we were quickly caught and forced to sit in “time-out” on two brand-new, oversized white chairs, still covered in the impenetrable protective plastic that they came in when they were delivered.  So worth it though—such a rush.

Despite my early hooligan tendencies with Camille, it was Jeremy whom I spent most of my time with during these visits.  We shared a deep love for Michael Jackson and, as little kids, tried to imitate his moves as best we could, often while wearing nothing but our tighty whiteys (freedom of movement, I guess).

Chloe was too young to get involved much with the older cousins, but she was an incredibly cute little girl.  During one visit, when she was 5 or 6, she became obsessed with watching my VHS copy of Ace Ventura Pet Detective.  She understood hardly any English at the time, but that didn’t stop her from watching the movie over and over, somewhere between 20 and 30 times in a two-week period.  She learned the words “video” and “cassette”, and in between viewings would say these words constantly, trying as best she could to convince us to let her watch it again.  “VID-AY-O KA-ZETT! VID-AY-O KA-ZETT!” she would say, begging for her next fix of Jim Carrey’s rubber-faced theatrics.

As we got older, our visits sadly became fewer and fewer. We always received updates about each other’s lives through our mom’s, and I studied French in high school and college to help “bridge the gap” (embarrassingly this was always my poorest subject).  But the various commitments that came with French and American adolescence unfortunately caused us to drift apart.

But now, thanks to a flurry of recent visits, we’ve all become close again.  Everything is different, but nothing has changed.  They all live in or near Paris and are doing great.  Chloe now works as a legal assistant for Guerlain, a fashion/cosmetics company, and is finishing up her required classes in order to achieve her tri-lingual administrative assistant degree (English, Italian, French).  Camille is an editor for a prestigious marketing firm in Paris and now lives with her boyfriend Nicolas—quite possibly one of the cutest, most hilarious little French guys you’ll ever meet (he’s also a phenomenal piano player and student/teacher of 16^th century French Literature, which, as I learned this visit, is much cooler than it sounds).  A few years ago, Jeremy quit his job as a financial controller (sounds familiar) and is now a freelance artist.  He is incredibly talented, and, in addition to establishing himself as an independent artist, he was recently contracted by 3M to design a cast of superheroes as part of a French marketing campaign for a line of safety products—a campaign that, due in large part to Jeremy’s art, was expanded to Italy and, most recently, to the entire EU!  Jeremy now lives outside of Paris in a town called Cesson with his lovely girlfriend, Laëtitia —a former accomplished gymnast, a capable (practice-wall) rock climber, a jewelry designer by trade, and an amazing chef to boot.

Although our ten days in Paris were without a doubt the coldest ten days of our trip so far, they were some of the most special.  Fighting through a wicked string of cold and flu symptoms, Cynthia wasn’t in the best shape, but we did our best to get the most out of our time exploring the most beautiful city in the world (with arguably the best food in the world).  Overall though, we cherished most our time with my family, as it unfortunately doesn’t come often enough.

Notes on a plane

Sunday, December 26, 2010 – Merry Christmas! We’re staying at Camille’s friend Damien’s apartment. It’s a studio with Eiffel Tower views (just the very top is visible, really far in the distance, but still!). It’s on Avenue du Maine near the Alecia metro stop, 10 minutes from Judy and Camille.   It’s simply furnished and clean and has a little kitchen and a futon. The shelves are packed with DVD’s, but there’s no TV in sight (or out of sight—only one closet with just coats inside). Vintage French postcards are taped-up on bathroom wall and an Obama poster is hung in the living room (hmmm).  The large, windowed wall can be sealed off by something a mechanical shade, closely resembling a garage-door, that can be opened and closed with a remote control.  When down, the room is pitch black, even at midday. These are apparently ubiquitous in France, and I really wish they were in the US.  Judy and Chloe welcomed us to the apartment with clean towels and sheets, a bowls of tangerines and some groceries—milk, cereal and brioche bread.  So good to see them! We tried a new boulangerie (bakery) just around corner with cousins, and had “croissants au chocolate”—what became a recurring daily theme throughout our visit.  Jeremy ordered a miniature galette, a flat, circular, crusty cake.  Larger galette’s are usually eaten in the home (especially in January to celebrate Three King’s day on Jan 6) and have a toy prize baked inside.  What I envision seems like a choking hazard (class-action lawsuit if it were in the US?).  We went to Judy’s for big kick-off dinner.  Everyone was there.  Visited with my uncle for first time of trip, and I freaked because I thought he shaved his moustache off (guy’s had it ever since I’ve known him).  He assured me it’s still there.  He just keeps it tightly trimmed these days. Huge amazing dinner: wine, cheese, turkey soup (that Judy said was inspired by one of my Dad’s recipes), a brochette-like dish with cherry tomatoes, and, for dessert, an assortment of French pastries.  We stayed until midnight and had a great time.  Jeremy walked us home, and the streets were covered in ice.   Icicles hung from an overhanging bridge.

Monday, December 27 – Took a coat from Damien’s closet since my Patagonia coat is too thin for this weather.  Hope he doesn’t mind.  After that we left for the day and notice pedestrians in France eat baguettes like candy bars. At the boulangerie, I got nervous when saying my order (first French communication since college)—instead of starting out with “Bonjour”, I said “Hola!”  Waitress laughed.   South America is still with me, I guess. Had lunch with Camille, Nicolas and Jeremy at an awesome Vietnamese Pho restaurant in her neighborhood, had dumplings and a great noodle soup that had a cinnamon taste. Jeremy ordered odd milky drinks with red and black beans that were actually pretty good. After that, we walked around Latin Quarter and went to Camille’s for dinner.  Nicolas played piano (Paul Simon, Brian Adams…Lady Gaga!). I was gearing up for a Brian Adams (Prince of Thieves sound track) sing-along just before Judy and my uncle walked in (we postponed it). Camille made a delicious risotto with scallops.

Tuesday, December 28 – Couldn’t sleep in the morning so I went to McDonald’s at 6am for a coffee. Cyn slept in.  French McDonald’s have coin operated coffee machines in the dining room, no human interaction needed. I happened to catch the Paris clubbing crowd getting late-night eats before going home.  Stylishly dressed guy was passed-out in one of the booths, his head on the table in his arms surrounded by wrappers and trays.  Back in apartment, Cyn was pretty sick (bad cold).  Jeremy and Laëtitia came over and brought soup and “essential oils” to rub on her throat (they use only homeopathic meds, no pills).  Laëtitia doesn’t speak very much English, but she is really sweet, I can tell.  I wish my French was better.  Cyn stayed in and rested for the day.  The rest of us went for tea at a Japanese tea house—had good green tea/hot chocolate combination drink and we all shared little, brightly colored snacks that had the consistency of silly putty (not so good).

Wednesday, December 29 – Cyn and I visited Notre Dame, Arabic Museum, Le Jardin des Plantes, and La Mosquee for mint tea with Judy and Chloe (huge, low-sitting gold table, a few birds flying around inside above us, great pastries on styrofoam plates).  We went to Camille’s and Nicolas’ for a Raclette dinner. Raclette is a cheese but also a term to refer to a fondue-like dining experience incorporating said cheese.  Everyone melts their own “fromage” using a common grill-like contraption in the middle of the table.  When the cheese is ready, you pour it over pre-cooked potatoes, meats, and vegetables—very popular to do in the mountains after a day on the slopes.  Outstanding meal!  Afterwards we had a few (little, classy, bottled) beers and a raucous piano sing-along (finally squeezed in Brian Adams among many others including Bon Jovi’s “Always” and “Imagine” by John Lennon). Neighbors were probably pissed (vent right behind the piano)!

Thursday, December 30 – Full day Versailles visit! Just me and Cyn.  The place is massive: 11,000 court members and 5,000 servants once all lived there. We took a long, room-to-room tour (lots of gold and ornate little beds that look very uncomfortable).  Walked gardens—extremely cold (snow-covered fields, lakes, and sculptures covered in protective tarps), but we could still appreciate the enormity of it all. We visited Marie Antoinette’s separate house in the property.  She lived here when she and Louis the XVI were on the outs.  There’s a huge billiards table in the front hall—overall, much more humble interior than the main palace.  The French Revolution saw both of them captured and hauled to Paris in 1782 and eventually executed by guillotine.  Afterwards, we met another American couple that had just been pick-pocketed. The guy had his wallet in his cargo pocket of his cargo shorts—yet another reason to never wear cargo shorts! That night we had a lovely dinner with Judy at a French Basque style restaurant.

Friday December 31 – New Year’s Eve.  We went by train with Chloe to Jeremy and Laëtitia’s apartment in Cesson, a suburb of Paris about 45 minutes outside the city—quaint and charming with lots of trees and nearly identical white houses with blue shutters, scattered around windy streets. Laëtitia made an amazing dinner: oysters, crab claws, salmon, cod, mashed yams, steamed vegetables, an amazing white garlic sauce, and store-bought macaroon pie and chocolate mousse cake.  We feasted for hours in their kitchen and listened to great music.  We lost track of time which forced us to rush to the party/festival/fair/rave extravaganza that we planned to attend at an old airport—a thirty minute drive away. The clock struck midnight as we sped the car down a back country road.  We ended up missing the pyrotechnics show that started off the night, but it was fine as we had an excellent time in the car, jamming to music.  We popped the cork on some champagne as we walked from the car to the festival down an old runway lined with huge plastic cubes (about waist-high), filled with water and lit by fluorescent, synchronized lighting—a trippy sign of things to come.  Euro-weird would be the best way to describe this night; awesome would be another. Thousands of people attended, dressed warmly for the cold, despite plenty of heat sources as “fire” seemed to be that main theme.  People lined up at vintage game booths that filled the dark, expansive parking lot, dimly lit by ornate hanging lanterns.  Each booth/game boasted some sort of combustible feature (throw the ball in a hole, fire shoots out, lift something high enough, fire shoots out, etc.)  We opted for an ancient looking gun-powder-smashing-mallet game that required leather gloves, a helmet, and goggles.  Random things flowed in and out of the parking lot—a team of kilted bagpipers, a rowdy “school” marching band with tubas.  We moved on to two abandoned airplane hangers: one with acrobats hanging from the ceiling doing rope and hoop routines above crowds; the other had a full-blown rave in it: movie-theatre sized projection screens hung from the ceiling, beams of light spun around us, smoke from smoke machines filled the room.  On stage, “DJ Ouf” spun techno (“ouf” is slang for “fou” which means “crazy” in French).  His beats were “ouf”.  The dance floor was packed and we joined in.  Hours later, an inconspicuous dance crew (maybe 10-15 people) cleared the dance floor and broke out into choreographed hip-hop routine.  Oh, they had jugglers with them too.  Moves were unimpressive, but still had to give it to them for the effort.  At 3am we went outside and saw 20 jacuzzis full of festival goers.  Despite the cold, people were getting in wearing rented bathing suits—simple white bikini’s and euro high-rise tighty-whiteys for guys.  We thought about it, but passed.  Long walk to car.  Home at 5am.

Saturday January 1 – A bit hung over. We hiked in the Fontainebleau forest, one of the oldest forests in Europe.  In one area, the forest has huge, natural rock formations (some 30-40 feet high) that are set up as rock-climbing practice walls by way of blue and white arrows denoting the certain routes (blue advanced, white beginner).  We did some whites for an hour or so, during which we learned Laëtitia used to be a climber (she was very good).  Later that night, we had a great dinner at Judy’s: Pancake-like hors d’oeuvres with pink minced roe spread, quiche bites, and a great Thai beef main dish that we ate with chopsticks.  As usual, we ended with cheese and crusty baguette.  Judy served a galette for dessert, and my piece had the prize in it.  As one does in this situation, I had the privilege of wearing a Burger King-ish, paper crown for the rest of night. At the time, I wasn’t aware that the crown came with the cake.  I thought Judy just kept it lying around the house, just in case.

Sunday January 2 – National museums in Paris allow free admission on the first Sunday of every month. We went to a boat load of them.  After a foot-long sausage and hot wine on Champs-Elysees (busiest road in Paris) we visited the Arc de Triomphe (went to top, great views but overcast); Museum D’Orsay (beautiful old train station that houses, among other things, many Impressionist works); Museum l’Orangerie (massive Monet water lily paintings, lining the curved walls of naturally lit, egg-shaped rooms); and the Pompidou Modern Art Museum (housing weird things that were a blur then, and even murkier now).

Monday January 3 – With Jeremy, we visited the boutique jewelry store below the workshop where Laëtitia works.  She was off that day, but we saw some of the finished jewelry that she had made and was on display in the shop (silver, very cool, modern stuff— impressive).  We visited the Jewish area and had mouth-watering falafel followed by late-afternoon ice skating in a public park. Later we had crepes for dinner with cousins at a restaurant.  As is customary, we ate one savory crepe and one sweet crepe.  For the sweet, we tried one with a chestnut cream filling (Jeremy’s favorite and previously unknown to us).  It tasted like circus peanuts.

Tuesday January 4 – Cyn stayed home again to fight her cold that she’d toughed out the whole week.  It was freezing outside, and the busy pace was not helping her recovery.  Jeremy and I walked to Monte Martre and walked around Sacre-Couer and an art museum advertising an exhibit of art work done by mentally insane artists.  Exhibit was closed so we only visited the bookstore.  That night, we had our send-off dinner at Cambodian restaurant with everyone.  We had drinks at Camille’s afterwards and finally met Damien, the guy whose apartment we were staying in. I thanked him for the use of his apartment (and his coat) for the week. He’s a film critic and goes to New York often for work.  He’s tall and once asked Johnny Depp a question in a group interview. He asked him why he only does fantasy-type movies and never movies with more historical significance or political agendas.  From what Damien recalled, the answer was unmemorable, but I assume Depp delivered it with a strange, gravelly voice, while unnecessarily squinting through thickly framed, purple-tinted lenses.

Wednesday January 5 – We had a send-off lunch with Judy and cousins before taking the bus to the airport in the afternoon.  The restaurant was around the corner from Camille’s office.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough time to visit Camille’s office (we really wanted to meet her “Tony Soprano-looking-and-acting” boss.  Camille said he was wearing a beret around the office that day).  Afterwards, we sadly said our goodbyes, but knew that we would see everyone soon, as they’ll all likely come for our wedding in October.  In the Orly airport I had one more baguette sandwich before leaving.  It wasn’t the best one I’d had that week, but still, it was a reminder of the food (and family) that we will greatly miss until we rendez-vous again.

(Below, same pics as previous post, but duplicated here for convenience.)