Bobby Goes to Europe

Boats, Trains and Automobiles. Part 1: Venezia.

2007-02-24T22:00:00.000-08:00

After a full day of work and classes, we made our way to Gare de Bercy to board the Artesia night train to Venice. The train voyage is about 14 hours long and we had 1st class reservations for a private double cabin. I was already very excited on the way to the station but when we entered our cabin, I went positively giddy. Those who know how much of a geek I can be sometimes wouldn’t be at all surprised to find me opening all the compartments, uncovering the sink, running the water, turning over seat cushions to try and find the beds and flipping every switch on and off until I was finally satisfied that I had discovered the function of every element. The cabin was a beautiful, the walls and counters were all light wood trim Formica, the seats were pine green velvet and there was a very nice black and white mural above the seat, which had the look of a woodblock print. The train was also quite luxurious. There was a restaurant car serving a complete dinner, and I mean complete, but for an absurd 30€. There was also a snack and booze bar, from which we procured a reasonably cheap bottle of wine with the last of our cash.

Our room was furnished with 3 beds that folded out from the wall behind the seat, a functioning sink, a cabinet stocked with washing stuff and towels, hangers for coats, luggage racks and really nice reading lights. So we got comfortable, reclining together and staring out of our window into the night and the French countryside with a little wine in hand, some late night snacks, and my copy of the Idiot to read. The train porter came around and collected our passports and tickets to hold for us, then inquired whether we’d like coffee in the morning. When we got tired, it was time to flip down our beds. I of course, impetuous and overzealous as I am, tried to open the second bed first (despite the clearly stated warning printed right below the handle advising me not to) and immediately managed to badly damage the bed. Whoops! After a few attempts at correcting my mistake and trying to open the bottom bed first (as instructed), we gave up and went to find the train porter. The main problem was that the bottom bed’s handle was seemingly jammed, and against all my manly efforts, I couldn’t trip the latch! Of course, the porter gave the handle a good whack and the bed came right down, no problem.

Our train, not all that impressive from the outside let me tell you. This photo was actually taken in Venice, but it fits here better chronologically.

The hallway on the train, all the doors to the left are cabins. The restaurant and bar is just two cars down this way.

Zarita, not interested my photographing every detail of the cabin late in the evening.

So happy together on the way to Venice. Well, at least I was happy.

Zarita very ready for relaxing, while I just had to get a picture of the sink, and forced her to be in it … maybe it was time to put the camera away.

Ok, one more photo, I mean you guys had to see how cool this was. After this train I was totally addicted to trains. I mean, the other trips to Benelux and England were nice, but this was style man.

We had a pretty decent nights sleep, although even with the luxury and comfort of the train, its not the easiest thing to sleep on. Still, a better rest than a plane would ever give you. I did wake up early in the morning when the train came to a stop in Milan. Wow, Milan, Italy. What a trip, I had gone to bed somewhere outside of Dijon and woke up in Milan, on a train to Venice. I was pretty happy and excited, so there wasn’t any more sleep to be had. Much to the dismay of my bunk-buddy, I packed away my bed and sat to watch the ride from Milan to Venice. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that scenic. I suppose that the train tracks don’t pass through the most posh neighborhoods but still, many of the Italian towns we passed along the way reminded me of Mexico more than Europe. I don’t mean that with any disrespect to either country, since I am quite partial to Mexico and many of the cities I’ve been to there are as comforting as any in Europe. What I guess strikes a resemblance for me is the casual state of disorder. I suppose Italy is still in the process of economic recovery after suffering so hard after WWII.

It was pretty obvious when we were rolling into Venice. The train left the mainland and we passed over water along very long bridge. There were little boats moving to and fro along the bridge. A thick fog had filled the air all morning and now intensified substantially shrouding our destination until we were almost upon it. Then, before we could take it in, we were at the station coming to a stop. An hour late, but no worse for the wear, we stepped off at Venice San Lucia station. Our hotel had contacted me with directions before we left Paris, and made it seem as though it was just a short jaunt from the station. All we were to do was follow a main street straight for a few minutes then make one turn and there we’d be.

Zarita peering into the fog in anticipation.

Venice appears quite literally our of the blue … well I guess the grey.

The absolutely first thing we see upon exiting the station. There was really no explanation at all, just the artists name, the title of the work and list of people responsible for its presentation and some donors. Totally weird. All I can say about it, after so much experience with religious iconography in European museums, is that its Mary and Jesus, post-crucifixion.

I think Venetians take for granted that what they consider to be a straight main street is in fact a convoluted series of winds, forks, bridges and narrow passes. Within 10 minutes (as usual without a map) Zarita and I had wandered way off track. Fortunately, in spite of its absurd layout, Venice isn’t a very big place and with a glance or two at a couple of vendor’s maps (still avoiding an impulse buy) we were back on track. The hotel was in a typical looking rundown building and we had to buzz the front desk to be let in. We forced open the heavy front door and stepped inside the first floor foyer. The place was a dump! Paint and plaster flaked from the walls where it wasn’t already crumbling to bits. The floor tile, once likely ornate and beautiful, was worn like stones on a lakeshore. I noticed how the steps of the stairs, also stone, had deeply worn depressions in them as we climbed to the second floor to the hotel. I began to express my concern to Zarita and assumed total responsibility for the error in judgment when selecting the place.

Then we stepped in through the front door. Wow, judging from the front desk and entry, despite is unimpressive entry, it was quite well kept after all, modern, clean and pleasant. Then, the staff showed us to our room, just 10 feet from the front door. Spectacular! A fifteen to twenty foot ceiling, with windows stretching almost as high. Subtle yellow curtains adorned the windows that opened onto a canal affording a fine view of nearby bridge and square. The floor was marble and a mural on the ceiling gave a classic touch to the room. I think we were impressed to say the least. Unfortunately, the room wasn’t ready so we stepped out for some air, leaving our bags. We explored the immediate area and were pleased to find that the hotel was quite well situated. Very close to the Rialto Bridge shopping are and just a short walk to Piazzo San Marco. We took in the neighborhood, snapped some quick photos and then retreated to the hotel to make plans for the day and take a proper shower.

The Rialto Bridge, one of only 3 that cross the Grand Canal and join the 2 main Islands.

Shopping on the Rialto Bridge.

Zaritchka and me on the Rialto Bridge. A nice man took this after seeing me attempt to myself.

An older and mostly abandoned (not wholly uncommon) stretch of storefronts.

I dunno, I loved this picture. It’s a little grittier than the typical beautiful Venetian scene. It was also one of the few modern things in Venice I saw. I know I know, its just a mailbox.

I thought this photo looked like two separate photos stitched together. In reality, there was an absolutely tiny alley between these two buildings. Typical.

Just an alleyway view of a canal, a dirty disgusting canal, as most of them are.

The view from our room, pretty nice!

Zarita taking a break on the bed. The ceiling was so high, check out the mural on the ceiling, it was an awesome room.

More of our room, and the lovely Zaritchka.

After a refreshing shower, we made plans to start at the Rialto Bridge and cover the area of Venice south of the Rialto and our hotel all the way to Piazzo San Marco, the location of the St. Mark’s Cathedral and perhaps the most famous location in Venice (location of Bond’s hotel room and Vesper’s bank withdrawal at the end of Casino Royal). The Rialto Bridge is one of only 3 bridges in Venice that unites the 2 major islands, which look oddly like two clasped hands (or a big fish eating a little fish, depending on who you ask) and crosses the central water artery, the Grand Canal. Its not that the Grand Canal is all that wide, I just don’t think they’ve built a new thing in Venice in probably 300 years or so and I’m sure bridges were a bit more challenging to erect in the past. Or perhaps that just didn’t need them or don’t care? There are actually a number of islands that compose the city of Venice. Some of these are larger than others and some are easier for non-locals to reach than others. Yet only the main 2, whose names I forget, are linked by bridge. In our 2 days there, I don’t think it would have been practical to spend the effort to reach the others. Most everything we could have liked to see and do was all available on the main 2.

The Rialto Bridge was an impressive sight; it looked a lot more like another building along the Grand Canal than a bridge and in fact housed at least a dozen stores and many vendors. So it made for a nice shopping experience as well as an excellent vantage point for a good view of the city. The street running to and from the bridge was one of the widest we walked in Venice. It was littered with vendors and shops hawking everything from fruit to ties. Mostly though, it was a tourist trap like most of Venice. Shopping in Venice is perhaps the only activity to partake in save for boating and walking. I suppose I’d add eating to that list. Yet, with all the shopping the variety of goods is rather limited. In fact there are really only 2 items available for purchase, glass and papier-mâché masquerade masks. The glass, Murano Glass manufactured on the local island of Murano, is fashioned into everything you can possibly imagine. Ditto for the masks. The quality and subject of the masks varied from place to place ranging from total crap glitter and feathers to breathtaking hand painted fresco looking things. I took to the masks more than the glass. We found a small mask shop on the Rialto Bridge that looked promising. It was run buy a burly bearded fellow who was making the masks by hand as we passed by. The windows of the shop were pasted over with a collage of photos with celebrities and hand written thank you notes from the like of Woody Allen and Steven Spielberg. There was also a newspaper clipping linking this guy with the movie Eyes Wide Shut, which has a pretty creepy masquerade scene in it. I think being linked with that movie would have been enough to get me to buy something, but the stuff he had on display was perhaps some of the most interesting and original we saw while there. So I resolved to get an item. Well, he had something right in my price range that looked awesome. A red devil with an extremely long crooked nose, perfect for a nice Jewish boy like myself!

The store I bought my mask in.

A typical Masquerade Ball costume. They’re so obsessed with this stuff, mostly for Mardi Gras.

After wasting far too much time with glass and masks, Zarita and I made our way through the windy streets towards San Marco, following hand drawn or spray-painted arrows more than our map. Of course, along the way we passed uncountably many mask and glass shops. Somehow, even after all the glass and masks we had seen, we still managed to drag our feet and stop to look at more. Aside from all the little shops, walking through Venice is made harder by the fact that unless you’re on the Grand Canal, or the coast of the Islands, there is absolutely no way to see the horizon, or even a building behind the one right ahead of you. The streets are so narrow, and the buildings just high enough to produce the effect of a labyrinth. It’s a weird feeling because even when you are approaching a major landmark, you don’t know until you’re right upon it. Not unlike the effect the fog had as we entered Venice on the train. So, of course the imposing, impressive grand beauty of Piazzo San Marco is further exaggerated when you come to it from the side streets.

And thusly we stumbled into the square, agape. The Plazza looks like its right out of some renaissance storybook, and of course it is. The Square is filled with pigeons, which depending on your disposition with those winged rats makes it both slightly unpleasant and simultaneously playful and joyous. The main building is a massive several story white horseshoe shaped building that flanks 3 of the 4 sides of the square. The focal point though is the Cathedral. From the outside it lacks the modest glory of Notre Dame and instead shines flamboyantly, built from many colored stones and gilded to the point of gaudiness. Walking inside, the colored stone and gilding becomes overwhelming. The floors are brightly colored stone tiled mosaics of almost Islamic looking knots while the ceiling above is almost fully covered in gold tiles. At several locations on the ceiling, in the sea of gold, colorful mosaics depict epics from the bible from Genesis to the Crucifixion. Still, time and perhaps more importantly the sea has had its toll on San Marco. The floors are badly warped, like a wooden basketball court that has taken on water while the walls appear visibly crooked. Gaudy and time worn as it may be, I somehow was so much more impressed by San Marco, not so much in the fear of God sort of way, more in the great style sort of way. I guess that’s the Italians for you.

Another gritty behind the scenes shot on the way to San Marco.

Zarita sneaking into a private water dock.

Europe is very Catholic. These little Virgin Mary shrines were tucked away all over the place and showed definite signs of worship like candles and flowers.

Zarita in front of the Cathedral of San Marco, get out of the way fat head!

Oops, now I’m in the way.

They had these bare flagpole things in front of the Cathedral. I have no idea what they were about and I don’t think they were actually flagpoles, I just liked the birds flying through them.

This is actually two pictures, one I took and one Zarita took that I stitched together. She wanted to get a picture of the dude in the gondolier suit and I wanted a picture of the gilded top of the building. Voila, together it’s a great picture … and that’s true love!

The arch and a half dome above the entrance to the cathedral. The gilded mosaic scenes are repeated inside (where cameras are not allowed). Here the mosaic is an image of the cathedral itself. Its like infinite images in mirrors, I wonder if there is a mini mosaic cathedral in the mosaic cathedral, and so on.

There were all these kids feeding bird feed to the pigeons and Zarita, who hates pigeons, liked the kids.

Probably the only sepia shot to ever be shown on my blog, Zarita took it.

Zaritchka looking lovely in spite of being surrounded by flying rats.

The setting sun was a stunning deep red in the foggy evening. A view of the building flanking the square that housed the shops and cafes.

Past the Cathedral there was a wide-open path, almost another connected square, that leads to the water. Two massive columns, punctuated by mythical statues, stand tall at both corners where the square meets the water. Together the two columns serve almost as gates to the square. One might imagine that in some capacity or another, San Marco may have well been the entrance to Venice in days by gone. The sun had already fallen low on the horizon and the day was slowly fading to grey but not before passing through an eerie blue dusk that filled the air. All of a sudden, looking south out onto the water, Venice transformed from a romantic and warm place into something more cold and eerie. We took a few minutes to enjoy the remains of the day, gazing out onto the water, the gondolas beating against each other and their berths.

A really pretty, almost middle eastern looking building on the water. There was actually a lot of this type of architecture around Venice.

The dusk made for wonderful silhouettes. Here a statue of someone vanquishing a dragon or sea creature, sits upon a massive column; one of a pair that mark the entrance to St. Marks Square.

Even on this foggy, mid-winter, off season day, near dusk, the square was crowded and bustling with people. Man, I’m actually glad I did Europe in the off-season.

Looking back towards a tower in St. Marks Square, against the soft dusk sky.

The setting sun afire in the Venetian sky.

Taking a little break on the water.

Gondolas beat against their docks.

With the setting sun came a brisk breeze and the cold night. We had been dressed pretty light in the warm day and decided it was a good time to stop back at the hotel to change into something a bit warmer. Actually, it was at this time that I decided to buy the mask from the guy near the Rialto. As with everything I ever do, I had been indecisive earlier and put off the purchase for later in the evening. Well, it was 5:30 and he had said he would close at 6:00. No problem I thought, Venice is so small that as long as we didn’t stop at any more glass shops and made a straight path to the Rialto, we’d make it in no time. I glanced at my map, pointed in the “general” direction of the Bridge and we started walking in the “general” direction. Well of course, a few streets, turns, bridges, dead ends, and passages later we were all turned around and walking in the wrong “general” direction. Moreover it was getting late and now we where short on time. I pulled out the map and we started speed walking (even jogging) through the streets. The key to Venice is either to stroll without care or purpose, or to use the tourist map like it was a Zelda labyrinth map (you know what I’m talking about). Still, there are so many damn streets, all coming out of nowhere or stopping short, that not all of them make it on the map. Conversely, some of the streets on the map either no longer exist, or may had only ever in theory. Still, we got to the mask guy at 6:05 and although he seemed to have left for the day, a light over his desk betrayed him. I waited a few minutes and he came right back to grab a last minute phone call. This distraction and his desire to close up shop worked in my favor. I got the mask 5€ off.

Zarah posing for a quick shot as we dart through the crazy streets of Venice with precious little light left.

After our long day starting with the train and then winding through the crazy Venetian streets, we were good and hungry. We went back to the hotel to change and I took the opportunity to ask the hotel staff for dining recommendations. A very lovely young Italian lady (wink wink, nudge nudge) was very forthcoming and even entertained my clichéd request for something “authentic”. To our utter shock, her recommendation, Osteria Al La Botte, was more authentic than our Italian (a mix of Spanish and bad French) could handle. We were definitely the only non-Italian speaking fools in the place. I was about to say the only English speakers, but that’s false since we did actually make friends with a Venetian couple there that night. To be specific, only the guy was Venetian, the girl was from New Zealand but now married and living in Venice (hence her English skills). She was quite surprised to find us at the Osteria and struck up a conversation to see how we had managed to even find the place, let alone learn of its existence (it was quite well hidden).

The Osteria was in my mind perfectly designed. The first room upon entering was occupied by a very minimal half-circle bar staffed by two young and good looking gentlemen. One half of the bar was open for orders, while the second half was something akin to a deli counter stocked with delicious antipasti ranging from olives to little meatballs to a leg of lamb for the cutting. So, at the bar you could get a glass of house wine for about 2€ and a few snacks to keep you satisfied while you waited for a table in the back dining room. The back room had about 6 tables, seating 4 people each. There was no menu, only a blackboard with quite sloppily handwritten daily specials in Italian. The seating, serving and busing was all handled by one middle-aged woman. Although we had no reservation and there was a rather large party there at the same time, the woman was very nice and made certain we were seated with haste. Of course since she was alone, that still made for a 30-minute wait. No problem, a spritz (the local drink of wine, seltzer and some aperitif) and a few little meatball things kept us happy enough. We had a wonderful meal to end a wonderful day. I, the porcini mushroom linguine and Zarita, a squid farfale dish.

Back in the lobby and stair well of our hotel at night … man it was so creepy.

To be continued (once Zarita passes along some more photos) ...

Boats, Trains and Automobiles. Part 0: Preamble.

2007-02-22T22:00:00.000-08:00

For my final week in Europe, which coincided with a weeklong break in Zarita’s classes and her birthday on the 27th, we planned and executed an ambitious tour through France by overnight sleeper train and automobile. We took an overnight train from Paris to Venice on Thursday night, spent Friday night in Venice and then took another overnight train back Saturday night, but this time disembarking in Dijon France. From Dijon, we rented a car and drove all day Monday to Strasbourg France, passing though the Alsace wine country. Finally on Tuesday, Zaritchka’s birthday, we drove back to Paris just in time to get totally smashed in celebration of the 21st and most legal annual celebration of her birth. Obviously, there’s a lot to share so I think this time, I’m going to break the story up into 2 parts.

Of Comics and Cubists

2007-02-21T22:00:00.000-08:00

Continuing our commitment to experience art and culture in Paris, we made two more exhibit/museum visits this week; the Herge exhibit at the Pompidou and the Picasso Museum. Herge was the dude who penned Tin Tin (pronounced Tawn Tawn in French), perhaps the most famous French cultural export after Merlot. Picasso on the other hand is the dude who pretty much defined art this century. Well, I’m sure I’d get my head bitten off if I said that to anyone who actually knows anything about art, but as a novice I feel confident that a significant fraction of art I see these days looks like derivative Picasso.

I hadn’t actually been inside the Pompidou, so I was pretty interested in the Herge exhibit both on its own merit and as an excuse to walk into the center. Turned out the Centre Pompidou is best seen from the outside. Unfortunately, having essentially zero French comprehension and only vaguely recalling some Tin Tin HBO series I watched over a summer years ago, the exhibit was a bit underwhelming, especially after the 30 minute wait in line. Still, I don’t intend to denigrate the show, Herge’s cartoon style is definitely classic and even though I have had so little exposure to the comic, I still managed to identify most of the characters and enjoy seeing them up on the wall. Also, I think our totally pathetic French language skills had some positive impact in that we were left to view the panels on their artistic merit alone. Even more, lacking the narrative, we were forced to invent our own to connect the sequences of images, which is arguably more fun.

This picture was awesome, that guy stared right at me, I thought he might ask me to delete the picture.

Tin Tin wasn’t apparently very into math.

Bush’s plan for future NASA moon exploration and settlement.

The Picasso museum was yet another shining example of how great European museums really are. The building was completely unassuming from outside, and actually quite easy to walk right by if you didn’t have a map. Yet once inside its courtyard entry, first impressions melted away. The museum is in a building that at one time frequently served as an exhibition space for Picasso’s work and now it does so permanently and exclusively. Picasso spent most of his productive career in Paris, shunning Spain during a time of great political and social unrest. So, the French revel in taking credit for his artistic accomplishments.

What makes Picasso such a special and important artist isn’t any particular work, style or school, but rather the diversity and extent of his life’s work. Picasso was actually initially schooled in very classic forms of painting, but quickly strayed and explored methods and styles that were often considered groundbreaking or controversial. Throughout his career he went through many periods of experimenting with color, shape, texture, and subject. He was also an accomplished sculptor in addition to painter. The museum does an excellent job of assembling a collection that is representative of his many periods of experimentation with both painting and sculpture.

As I mentioned in my Rodin post a while back, I have been quite intimately acquainted with Picasso since childhood. My parents hung several pieces of his work in our house, in particular the famous sketch of the hands clutching a flower bouquet. I’ve actually always been most frond of his line drawing sketches, in particular the Don Quixote I have hanging in my own room. I didn’t see too much of that work on display, but that was probably for the best as I got to experience things I was less familiar with. I think my favorite works on display were a sculpture of a goat and a series of collage like paintings. Anyway, I tried my best to capture the museum and the works on display in interesting ways, so I hope you enjoy.

I wanted to take this little guy home with me!

Detail of a sculpture of a girl skipping rope. Its so Saturday morning cartoonish.

Much of the museum is in the basement, which feels like you’re descending into a wine cellar or something. It actually makes for what I thought was a very intimate experience. That’s Zarita and her friend Rocks.

Frightening.

I belive that piece is called the Acrobat and I thought the ceiling of the cellar made it look like it was under a big-top tent.

Its not the greatest picture, and I couldn’t quite get it right, but I liked the play between the curves in the painting and the straight edges of the frame, wall and ceiling surrounding it.

Zarita, admiring the art, while I admired her.

The sculpture garden, awesome.

A totally creepy nanny with child sculpture.

The main staircase. The building was incredibly beautiful and classic looking.

I took this sitting on a bench staring at the floor and for just a second I imagined this scene of the people standing at the edge of a cliff with an endless drop into a thick white fog. The only thing keeping them safe was an ankle high fence that you might just trip right over. I think if you squint you’re eyes and stare at this picture you can see it too.

Zarita in front of the coolest collage ever. I wanna make science collages.

I saw the picture of the woman who modeled for this sculpture at the museum. She really looked just like that, I mean just not absurd, but like that.

A Tale of Two Cities

2007-02-18T22:00:00.000-08:00

London. Having spent so much time in continental Europe, or more importantly France, my view of London was bound to be skewed. If I had come to London directly from the States, I think I would have definitely felt like it was a charming, progressive, welcoming and cultured place. I think I would have found it just foreign enough to exoticise. Yet, comming by Eurostar train from France, I found it to be an elitist,obsessive compulsive, obnoxious, fascist police state. Arriving in London had the feel of arriving back in the US more than it did a major European city. Ok, ok, ok, I’m being a bit harsh, there was another side of London I did admire, and hence the entry title. Let me elaborate some.

I say elitist because I couldn’t afford a goddamn thing. At nearly 2 to 1, the British Pound kicks the Dollar's ass. Dinner, £10 for a cheap entrée in an average restaurant, translates to $20. Man, for $20 I better get some damn good fancy pants meal not some bullshit excuse for a “curry”. Speaking of “curry” and elitist, they call every slightly spicy Indian-ish dish a “curry”, be it one or not. Ok, so it's not their fault that the pound is just stronger than the dollar? Well, it is their fault that they charge an arm and a leg, in pounds, for everything. Just to enter Westminster Abby cost something like £7, just look inside a goddamn church! Shit, the Tower of London was £15 just to walk around. Did I mention everything is named the “royal” this or the “royal” that?

I say obsessive compulsive because the city seriously has OCD. There was not a spec of dirt anywhere to be found inside the center of London. No graffiti on the walls, no soot on the old buildings, no wrappers on the ground, no dog shit, no piss in the corner, no ketchup glob on the table at McDonald's. Zarita and I even witnessed a city sanitation worker vacuuming up the street with a special street vacuum. THEY VACUUM THE STREETS!

I say police state because there were CCTVs on every major building, on every street corner, at the entrance to every store, above garage doors, even in the public toilets! Cameras are monitoring the entire city 24 hours a day from every angle. Its no secret either, everywhere you look you are reminded by signs that you’re being monitored. Its downright frightening to feel like your every move is being watched. I was nervous to pick the wedgie out of my ass for fear someone might be watching on camera. Maybe thats a good thing huh?

I say obnoxious because of all the people in the street drunk by 10pm, stumbling around shouting nonsense or giggling like idiots.

Still, I’d have to say there is plenty to admire about London and Zarita and I definitely had a good time. There are a ton of museums, probably one for every pub. Of course I couldn’t afford to enter the majority of them with my salary, but there were many free national museums we could have visited. The modern architecture in London is also quite bold and the not so modern architecture is all the more impressive. While I wasn’t well-funded enough to see any of it from the inside, from the outside the national landmarks like Westminster Abby, Parliament, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge and so on were even more amazing in person than I had expected. Though they’re iconic monuments we all recognize from TV and movies, I was still awed. And while the drunkards in the street were a bit obnoxious, they definitely added a little life to the night. The pub culture is actually quite awesome. In a given pub you might find people of all ages, from teen to elderly, sometimes together, repeatedly buying each other rounds, drinking and having a great, relaxed time. Despite the cost, I also liked the pub food; meat pies and fish and chips, delicious.

So yeah, as far as I could tell London was both a bit of a rich snob and a common drunk all at once. Unlike Amsterdam though, the dichotomies that I thought defined the city were cleanly intermixed. Anyway, without further ado, our weekend in pictures.

070816 – Take the Eurostar Line

Having vowed to not get on any planes in Europe, we chose to take the Eurostar train from Paris to London. Definitely a wise move in terms of convenience, but passing through security is sadly unavoidable. The UK is not part of the group of EU nations that permit free passage between borders. This is likely due to the UK’s close ties to the US and ubiquitous terrorism paranoia. Still, rail security is not anywhere as frustrating as plane security and simply consisted of some simple questions and a baggage x-ray. The Eurostar train was pretty similar to the Thalys we took to Amsterdam and the whole ride lasted about 3 hours. Even though that’s probably longer than the plane would have taken, I cannot stress enough how simple it is to get on at Gare du Nord in the center of Paris and get off at Waterloo in the center of London.

Knowing in advance how strong the pound was, Zaritchka and I pledged to do London on the cheap. So, since our hotel was reasonably close to Waterloo, just a little south of Victoria Station, we decided to walk the whole way and save on taxi or tube expenses. The walk actually turned out to be longer than we had hoped, about an hour to reach the hotel. Notwithstanding our oppressively heavy bags and poor Zaritchka feeling sick, it was a pleasant enough stroll as we passed Big Ben and Parliament in our first few minutes in London.

Waterloo Station, not all that impressive but our first glimpse of the city.

The London Eye, an absurdly enormous ferris wheel that draws throngs of silly tourists with promise of a birds eye view of the city. We didn’t even consider wasting our time.

A totally random but awesome Lion.

Our hotel, the Stanley House … can you pick it out?

The hotel was on a pretty street rather tucked away from what seemed like the more hustling and bustling parts of the city center. I picked it out of a bunch of seemingly similar options online only because it was not wholly denounced by reviewers for being despicable. As far as I could tell, affordable hotel accommodations in London are pretty shitty, but certainly not limited! The Stanley House was not impressive, our room was rather small, dingy and uncomfortable, but that’s the UK for you right? Anyway, after check-in, Zaritchka required a nap so we didn’t really make it out into the city until early evening.

Neither Zarita or I are the kind to get travel guide books to get around with, or even research where we’re going ahead of time, so as usual our first evening consisted mainly of wandering, buying a map and finding food. I also booked the Stanley house because it boasted of being near major attractions and in this case we were not disappointed. Buckingham palace was virtually around the corner from us, so we figured we might as well wander past there before dark and then perhaps kick around for a bit. Our winding about eventually lead us past Piccadilly Circus, Chinatown and Trafalgar square before ending up at a decent pub for dinner and then some ancient one for drinks. Not a bad, albeit late, start.

Victoria Station from the side, an interesting mix of modern and depressing post-industrial … like much of London ;)

Zarita in front of Buckingham Palace … so splendid. Actually, the palace was a bit of a disappointment. Its well adorned and on some prime real estate, but the architecture of the actual building it pretty bland. I suppose its just the town house, I’m sure the country home is much more posh.

I really liked the fountain in front of Buckingham, I believe its dedicated to Queen Victoria. I think that’s the queen that lost India and Australia or something right? They seem to be rather fond of her.

A CCTV in the public bathroom around Piccadilly. This one was just a warning, the real one was hidden from view.

Zarita’s friends are all big fans of this modest little publication, so I figured they might appreciate this.

These concrete towers were part of an installation in the courtyard of the Royal Academy Art museum. We really liked the towers although we couldn’t afford the museum entry fee, even with a generous student discount.

The Royal Academy of Art, it sure looked nice from the outside.

Chinatown looked very festive so we couldn’t help but take a jaunt through. We were even almost enticed to dine on premises, but I had a hankering to try some good ole British culinary delight, so we passed. I mean, I couldn’t leave before I had a fish and chips or meat pie dinner and our meals were limited after all.

We only got to see Trafalgar on this night and not during any daylight. Still, from what I could see under the spotlights, it was quite beautiful. I really loved the lighting of the fountains and pulled off these artsy fartsy long exposure shots of them with minimal blur.

We were quite amused to find this place, the Texas Embassy Cantina. Later I learned that many European countries opened Texas embassies after Texas declared independence from Mexico and before joining the US.

070217 – All the Pomp

After a late start the day before, we resolved to start our second day, Saturday, bright and early. To our advantage, the hotel served a very early breakfast of bangers (sausages), beans and eggs so that we were able to shower, eat and bust out well before 10am. Hey, that’s good time for us. We had caught word that the changing of the guards at Buckingham was going on at 11:30am but when we passed at 10:30 there wasn’t a soul to be found waiting. So, we felt no pressure to secure a position and went for a stroll through St. James Park, the sort-of front lawn of the palace. Wow, the park was beautiful, boasting an impressive pond stocked with a large variety of waterfowl. Amongst the more interesting birds were swan and pelican! It reminded me of a more “royal” Boston Commons, for that matter London reminded me of a more “royal” Boston.

Our little ass hotel room.

Zarita preparing for the day amidst the yellow glow cast by the curtains in the morning light.

Our first creature encounted in St. James Park. I think they call this one a big-footed booby … or bobby … I dunno I’m making it up anyway.

Zarita in front of a cute little cottage in the park. Its oddly labeled private property so we suspected someone might actually be living in it … weird.

DUDE! PELICANS!!!

Oh my god, this duck was totally deranged.

Zarita, slightly out of focus but for a good cause. The pond was beautiful mostly because it was pretty natural looking, just a few fountains but no overkill.

We found a rather large quad at the other end of the park that was surrounded by rather impressive buildings. At the moment of our arrival it began slowly swelling with a crowd. I asked the oldest looking man in the bunch what the fuss was all about. There was another guard changing ceremony that preceded the Buckingham one, the changing of the Horse Guard. Well, I thought horse guards sounded cooler and we stayed to watch it. It got lame pretty fast, so we hustled over to the other end of the park again to catch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace. Wouldn’t you know, in the 30-45 minutes we had spent strolling the park, all of the tourists in London managed to fill every available nook and cranny around the palace. So we only caught the marching bands that lead the procession and missed the actual changing. I think it was probably lame anyway but the bands were fun.

Zarita doing a little drumroll …

Tada! The Horse Gaurds plaza or something.

Zaritchka alerting me to the growing commotion around the Horse Guards building or whatever.

Wow, guards on horses, perchance changing!

All we got to see of the Buckingham changing of the guards, the marching band!

After the changing hooplah, we set out to revisit Parliament, which we had only skimmed past the day before on our way to the hotel. We were also hoping to slip into some of the buildings to get an inside view. Well, extremely high entry fees and security personnel equipped with automatic rifles dashed our hopes. They wouldn’t even let us walk down Downing Street, fascists. So, we decided to ditch the Westminster hood and hop over to the Tower of London. Somehow we still were naive enough to believe we could either see it for free or afford to pay the fee to get in. Well as explained above, the tower cost both your arm and leg to visit. Fortunately, it was free to walk across the Tower Bridge … yay!

All we got to see of Downing Street, a rifle is pointed at my head just off camera while a CCTV recorded the goings on.

Hey, when in Rome … take cheesy photos doing as the Romans do.

BIG BEN! It really is quite big. Zarita remarked how proper it was for them to build a big clock at one end of their parliament building. No excuses for being late son! What really makes it impressive is all the gold trim you can’t quite see from this far away.

Hey, they’re all into Honest Abe here too!

A pretty view of Big Ben, again.

The tower of a smaller chapel outside of Westminster Abby.

The other Parliament Building tower.

The backside of Westminster Abby. I neglect the front in protest.

Zaritchka in front of the Tower of London.

We thought that the “litter” on the garbage can might cause some confusion for Americans.

Zarita and me at the Tower of London.

A panorama of the Tower of London.

A view back into the city from the Tower of London. The stark modernity of the rocket shaped building in the background juxtaposed against the historic Tower was worth a note.

Zarita and me in front of the Tower Bridge.

The Tower Bridge is such a weird thing to see up close. Maybe it’s the shape of the thing or just the paint job, but its definitely the weirdest thing in London in my opinion. It just somehow felt like it belonged in Disney Land.

After the Tower of London we went for a stroll through Southwark, a neighborhood on the other side of the Tower Bridge, the south side of the river Thames. We were trying to make our way west to the Globe Theater and the Tate Modern, and then back across the river to check out St. Paul’s Cathedral. At this point we had wisened up and were no longer expecting to get into the Globe for a reasonable fee, but I still had hope. We weren’t sure about the Tate though, but I didn’t think it was a national museum. As for St. Paul’s, I didn’t really care, just thought it would be something to walk past.

As we walked westward along the river, we were quite pleasantly surprised by an amazing outdoor market. The market was packed with vendors selling what was in my humble opinion one of the finest assortments of fresh gourmet foods I have ever seen. Mushrooms, meats, fruits, chesses, seafood, and so on and so on. It was great and I rapidly got hungry so I satisfied myself on some oysters. After the first outdoor market we walked into another indoor market inside a greenhouse looking structure. It was fascinating and for the first time on our trip I was truly pleased. The Globe Theater was just past the markets and as expected was far to expensive for our pockets. Though miraculously, we were again pleasantly surprised to find the Tate Modern was free!

The Tate is awesome. The collection is as good as any modern art museum I’ve been too, but the museum itself was amazing. The building was an old early 1900s power plant, refitted to be a giant art gallery. Inside, the center of the building was hollowed out and fitted with crazy twisty tube slides that provided transport from the top floors back down. When we came the Tate was showing the works of some dudes, Gilbert and George. I don’t want to go on and on but if you get a chance to see their stuff do it, or just google them, its awesome. Gilbert and George are totally wild and crazy guys.

A cool little fountain/stream thing that ran down a street south of the River Thames in the neighborhood of Southwark.

Probably the coolest thing I saw in London was this outdoor market, beside a church under some train tracks; gourmet foods from mushrooms to cheeses.

This guy was carving up some smoked pork, straight off the leg.

Fruits and vegetables.

I got some amazing fresh oysters from this frightening lady. The oysters were huge, the meat was at least egg yolk sized and delicious. I found out after they were fished just 60 miles from London … I’m not sure that’s any good actually …

Another view of the market. I think it was called the Green Market.

Some delicious pig heads.

How I knew it was called Green Market. Opposite this entry was the entry to another market, but this one was inside a glass and steel structure. This other indoor-ish market was the Borough Market.

A fishmonger working the Borough Market.

Some very pretty flowers for sale.

We got some bangers in a roll across the street. They were being roasted on a spit over sprigs of rosemary so that the rosemary warmed by the roaster perfumed the sausage.

How I knew it was Borough Market.

I was pretty excited to be at the globe theater, but of course admission was absurdly expensive, so we turned away.

Zarah on the river, after an already long day. St. Paul’s is in the background.

Oh man I was so excited that the Tate Modern was free!!! I frolicked in the forest just outside. The building is an old power plant, designed by the same guy who designed the Battersea plant.

Dude, they had this awesome series of crazy slides that brought you from the top floors back to the ground. It was totally awesome but of course, you had to pay … bummer.

An awesome exhibit of a video of a lighthouse. I’m not going to go into details, but it was silent save for the sounds of birds in the night, and it was terrifying.

We concluded the night with a stroll past St. Paul’s and then dinner and pints at some very historic pub at Black Friars. The pub was one of the most elaborate I had seen. One of the rooms was constructed entirely from marble and alabaster and adorned with sculpted figures of friars serving beer. There were also a few murals throughout the pub depicting friars partaking in activities such as gardening and fishing for eels. Then, having sated ourselves on meat pies and beer, it was off to bed after a long day in London.

St. Paul’s Cathedral at the end of the pedestrian foot bridge across the Thames from the Tate Modern.

We got to St. Paul’s way too late after it had closed. Oh well, we probably would have had to pay with our first born to enter anyway.

070218 - In Search of a Small Bear

Sunday was our last day in London, but our train was leaving in the late afternoon so we had all morning to do a little bit more exploring. After seeing essentially all of the major sights in London on Saturday, in a whirlwind tour of the city, we decided to keep things a bit more low key and check out the less touristy parts of the city. We started our day in Hyde Park, in honor of our home in Chicago. There was one particularly intriguing spot there, Speakers Corner, where we had heard people would assemble to engage in public debate or just pure ranting. Sadly, there was no assembly on this particular morning (and likely ever) so we had little business in the park thereon. Confronted with a lack of agenda, Zarita suggested we head towards Paddington Station, just a few blocks north of the park, in search of the famous little bear that shares the name.

Man, this was totally ridiculous. A monument for the animals of war. I mean, I am an animal lover and all and definitely appreciate the role animals have played in the development of civilization and society (especially after reading Guns, Germs and Steel). Still, this is a little bit over the top.

A row of proper little 3-flats.

Zaritchka, post-spontaneous growth spurt.

The walk to Paddington from Hyde Park was pleasant enough, although I don't think it would make for a compelling read. Mostly it was just residential neighborhood, with modest but proper looking brick walled 3-flats, block after block, and gated little gardens scattered about. We did have a very humorous encounter with an extremely thin and lanky middle aged man walking with his nose far above his brow and a little white fur ball in tow at the end of a bright red leather leash. Actually, the puffball seemed to be walking his snooty master as they made their way quite delicately down the street. Zarita pondered the potential consequences of kicking the little white shit, amused by how she thought the flamboyantly proper gentleman might react. I think we decided he'd probably exclaim something along the lines of "Oh! My Word!", snatch up the rat and then scamper off quite positively insulted. I wish I got a picture of those two.

We finally reached Paddington and from first glance outside the station, I was disappointed. It looked downright shitty. Certainly it was overshadowed by the very impressive Hilton that stood before it. In fact, it wasn't even clear how to enter the station and the main entrance, which we unwittingly passed over, looked like the truck docks at the back of a supermarket. Stepping inside, my impressions were corrected. Paddington is probably the most train station-like train station I saw in Europe. It had the browned and worn look of something that must have been full of smoke and soot for at least the last 50 years. The high glass ceilings were supported by a gently curving wrought iron frame and the platforms were long and flanked quaint little commuter trains bound for the English countryside.

Of course these nostalgic feelings were intensified by the costumed actors all about us; part of the movie that was being filmed at the station. At first we didn't even realize that anything out of the ordinary was going on. My first indication that something was not quite right was when I remarked that the luggage scattered about the platform we were on was totally weird; large wooden and leather suit cases and chests were piled up on ancient looking luggage carts. Zarita strolled past a flower stand with beautiful flowers, but absolutely no prices or anyone selling them. Wow, I thought, this train is a total antique, I couldn't believe what amazing condition the British kept their trains in. Then I laughed at how funny English people coming in from outside London dressed. Everyone seemed to be dressed like they just stepped out of post-WWII Europe. Thats when we noticed the makeup chair and the cameras. Boy we felt totally silly and dashed away quickly before someone noticed that we weren't supposed to be on set!!! Not a moment later, the director blew a whistle and all the people we had thought were aimlessly loitering about the platform began to walk in synch. HAHAHAH!

Me on one of the platforms at Paddington.

Zaritchka on one of the platforms at Paddington.

The interior of the station had the feel of an outdoor station from some small town, complete with facades that evoked the front of a town hall or local general store. I really liked it, it was like an indoor mall concept from 1950 or something.

The actors and actresses preparing for the shot. I still laugh when I think about how I was totally convinced they were just dressed like that for real.

Well, much to our dismay, Paddington Bear was nowhere to be found. Still, some bright entrepreneurial mind had the gumption to open a Paddington Bear kiosk, stocked with goodies such as Paddington Bear stuffed animals and book marks. Zarita couldn't resist. From there wandered about and headed in the general direction of Bond and Oxford streets, the Madison Ave. or Magnificent Mile of London. We had absolutely no interest in that shit, but I wanted to get a glimpse of how they do it in London. As expected, there was absolutely nothing of value to be seen, albeit it was all being sold for heaps of cash. We dined on McDonald's, a testament to our pathetic financial state then proceeded back to Waterloo Station. So ended our foray, with McDonald's.

Zaritchka perusing the goods.

The truck-dock-looking main entrance to the station ... not so appealing.

Just a little nostalgia for home.

My attempt at a postcard shot on Oxford Street.

My last glimpse of London, couldn't be better! Its Battersea Power Plant, famous for gracing the cover of Pink Floyd's album, Animals. I would have died if I saw a giant floating pink pig.

So that was London. All in all a pleasant place. I think it could do with a few less cameras, a little more trash and graffiti and perhaps later pub hours. Still, we had a wonderful time and I'm really glad I got to experience the city. Also, I think I'm convinced that the only place to make money is in London. So if I ever decide to sell out and be a banker, I'm getting paid in pounds sucka!

Disaster

2007-02-15T12:21:00.000-08:00

My life, my love, my body and soul, my heart and mind … my computer … is broken.

Last night, Valentines Day, Zarita and I were hanging out in her room after the museum. We had come home for dinner because she wasn’t feeling well. I bought her some flowers and we got deserts and a baguette from the Boulangerie (get your boulange on!). Her friends Erin and Mary Soo came over to hang while we ate our dinner and drank a little wine. Oh wine, you bastard.

Z was on the bed with my computer and a glass of the evil red menace. She reached over to place the wine on the floor, the bottom of the glass caught her arm, she fumbled, the wine poured from the glass, landed on my laptop, infiltrated my keyboard and began to slither on its path of destruction. Action was taken with much haste. Z darted to the kitchen for sponges, Mary Soo suspended the laptop upside down to drain the wine, and I sat agape. Transfixed by the horror. Could this be it? Could this be the moment I have feared since the day I first opened the pretty black box that contained my baby?

In moments like those, you stop thinking, you freeze, time slows down and your life flashes before your eyes. The day I decided to take out a student loan to buy good ol’ Humbert, the trip to the apple store, all those days spent debating the advantages between the 15 and 13 inch screens, the RAM, the Apple Care package. Good times me and Humbert had together; trips to exotic lands, ripping and burning DVDs, downloading music, blogging, and so much more. Humbert knew everything about me. He knew my secrets, my hopes and dreams, all of my friends, my schedule, he kept all my music, my work, my dirty stuff. What would I do without him, how could I live alone again?

I sprung to action, but I knew there was little I could do. Humbert had to be shut off as soon as possible, before any liquid could cause a short. I shut him down and removed his battery, which I know is always a very disorienting experience for him. He was drained as well as possible, wiped down and set to dry in hopes that he might be revived in the morning, with minimal injury.

Well my dear readers, this blog entry has been written with Humbert, but sadly not on Humbert. The keyboard and mouse-pad are functional, but no longer working properly. I believe there must be a short somewhere in the keyboard circuitry. The good news is that I have been able to plug in an external USB keyboard and mouse. It seems that while his body may be lost, his mind is safe and sound. Hopefully, with time, Humbert can learn to use his god given appendages again.

As for darling Zaritsa, well last night we were both in a state of denial and great hope for a speedy recovery. Now that we are confronted with the truth, she is very upset and truly remorseful. Still, I expressed my deep state of extreme “pissed off” –ness to her this morning. I mean I understand that this was an honest blunder and I often myself consume food and beverage in proximity of good ol’ Hummie. I can tell that Zaritchka is very sorry and sad. Yet, I couldn’t help but be in a state of rage. If the computer broke on its own, I would be pissed off as hell at Apple, if I broke it, I’d hate myself. She broke it though, and as much as I didn’t want to be, I was extraordinarily pissed off at her. I tried to keep it to myself at first, but I am very bad at that. Anyone reading this who knows me well knows I’m not one to keep emotions bottled up. Once I let it out and she apologized, things were much better for the both of us I think.

Now I’m sitting here at the UofC Center in Paris with a keyboard a mouse swiped from their computer lab temporarily plugged into Humbert writing this blog entry and in generally good spirits waiting for Z to get out of class so we can go look for a keyboard and mouse at this electronics store, Fnac. So with that run-on sentence I conclude my little story. Tomorrow we’re off to London.

Rodan was a perv ... and I like it!

2007-02-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

Musee Rodin was a destination I had my sights on since I first considered coming to Paris. Rodin, Dali, Picasso and many others have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. My parents were big fans of most modern-ish art and I grew up with works from these artists hanging on the walls and adorning the rooms of my home. While the signatures on the paintings alerted me to what was Picasso’s or what was Calder’s, I never looked close enough to the Thinker replica on the living room TV to notice the A. Rodin subtly imbedded into it. I was always in rapture over the detail and seriousness of the piece, the bulging muscles, the lumpy texture, the cold dark metal. I remember even early on I was so intrigued as to what exactly it was he was thinking about, this always made me a little worried for him. Of course the Thinker is an ubiquitous cultural icon, appearing on innumerable marketing ploys boasting the intellectual merit of a product, that is of course if it isn’t already graced by an Einstein sketch. Yet having access to it at home always made me feel like I was part of some kind of special club; I knew what that thinking man in the ads was really all about.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult and finally made it through enough of the Met in NY that I realized what exactly Rodin was all about and how intimately connected I was with his work even having only experienced just one item of his many brilliant works. I was surprised to learn that the Thinker (Le Penseur) was perhaps his least ambitious or awe inspiring work. Since then I have managed to look through a few books and catch a piece here or there at this museum or that. Well, nothing could have prepared me for what I was to see and experience at Le Musee Rodin. So, let me share some of the work that I found most moving.

Musee Rodin is located adjacent to Hotel des Invalides, a magnificent building just a jog from the Tour Eiffel, on the Left bank just south of the Louvre. I was told by Paul (remember, Zarita’s conversation guy) that these Hotels (de Ville, Invalides, etc.) were once really hotels, serving as more permanent residences in some cases. Invalides was for veterans of wars; it contains a hospital and retirement community, as well as some buried war heroes and a military museum. We strolled past the building starting at Pont Alexandre III, a beautiful bridge across the Seine. From the street the Musee Rodin isn’t particularly impressive at all, but that changes once you enter the main entrance in a restored abbey.

It was a rainy day, perfect for a museum! Behind me, the Eiffel Tower.

Zarita struggling with her umbrella in the heavy wind. Behind her, Pont Alexandre III.

Hotel des Invalides, right besides Musee Rodin.

The museum was currently holding a temporary exhibit, entitled “Les Figures d’Eros,” showcasing some of Rodin’s sketches of models, which were used as inspiration for later sculpture. Rodin worked with nudes almost exclusively and moreover, he was most interested in particularly contorted positions and very intent on capturing instants in human motion. So, he had is models assume extremely explicit positions; bent over, spread eagle, fondling themselves, arched backwards etc. It was either that or flailing around, gyrating or dancing. The sketches, often little more than pencil-scratch with watercolor added after the fact for emotional effect, were explicit to say the least. Still, it was amazing how his hand could capture just a moment out of a series of intense motions.

One of the works on special exhibit. It is a sculpture of Jesus on the cross, with Mary Magdelene at his feet. Well, she’s not quite at his feet, she’s more grabbing his torso, totally nude, while Jesus, almost devoid of life, rests his head on his shoulder. His mouth is wide open as if in a gasp. The positioning of Mary, the gasping face of Jesus, the nudity somehow imposes some eroticism on the scene, something so perverse considering the subject. I LOVE IT. Then I got yelled at for taking this picture because there was no photography in the special exhibit hall.

At first, having exited the temporary exhibit, I was a little concerned because it seemed as though the only other room in the building was a gift shop. Well, Zarita, having studied the museum map, pointed out the garden and adjacent chateaux looking building to me. I couldn’t believe it. In the middle of Paris, prime real estate; there was this massive hidden garden, haphazardly adorned with Rodin sculptures, FANTASTIC! And so we passed through the garden first, ogling great works like the Burghers of Calais, Adam, Eve, the Gates of Hell, the Three Shades, and of course the Thinker to name a few. Inside the chateaux there was even more to see! Well, needless to say, I was blown away and very satisfied. I think of all the things I’ve seen in Paris, that probably takes the cake.

The Chateaux behind me was the main gallery. They really make some beautiful museums here!

That’s him! Le Penseur in the midst of some very accurately trimmed hedges. Just behind him is he Hotel des Invalides.

Detail from the Burghers of Calais. It’s a sculpture depicting 5 important citizens (burghers), all men of Calais, who volunteered their lives to end a siege of Calais by England in the Hundred Years War. They were headed to their deaths to save the city, but pardoned at the last minute by he Queen of England. It’s an amazing piece. For one thing, it’s a monument to a loss not a victory and the men in the sculpture are starved, emaciated, depressed and worn.

The Three Shades, creepy.

The Thinker, the Three Shades, and many other Rodin works were all part of his greatest project, The Gates of Hell. The Gates are inspired by those of the same name in from Dante’s inferno, much admired by Rodin. They are a massive and overwhelming piece, consisting of hundreds of individual figures of suffering men and women trapped within them. The Thinker can be seen at the center of the gates, just above the doors. Its thought to represent Dante or Rodin himself.

A view of the golden dome of Invalides from within the Rodin museum garden. Imagine the beauty in he spring!

Many of the works blend right into the nature they are imbedded in. Here a sculpture becomes nearly indistinguishable from the trees and shrubs.

Zarita at the back end of the Garden, by the pond. The figures in the middle seem to be wrestling, the man on top struggling to subjugate a figure below him, here almost appearing to be drowning the person in the pond. Either that, or its an orgy, you tell me.

A pretty leaf–strewn reflection.

The museum grounds, me center left. The museum was also once a hotel and also the workplace of Rodin himself.

Detail of a sculpture of a woman holding large stone block above her head. The raindrops and lighting almost make it appear real.

So, in Europe they take children to important art museums and run workshops teaching them about culture. Can you believe it? I mean, I guess they to that here too … but not nearly as regularly as I saw it there. Here, a class trip to the Rodin museum would be considered exposure to pornography.

The walking man, detail.

Jeez, this one was so French! Its like the typical winged Liberty motif … but Rodin manages to also make it simultaneously hideous rather than the typical sensuous.

This one was rediulous, it was a perfect narcissus-like male figure.

I couldn’t resist the raw sexual energy.

Oh my god, this may have been the most amazing sculpture ever. I dunno if my picture gave it justice, but the piece was a collage of many different materials from stone to plaster and glue. The net effect was somehow so human in quality though and the texture of the face was almost exactly that of soft skin.

Me and Balzac. Rodin really liked Balzac.

An individual cast of one of the 5 figures from the Burghers of Calais. Here the man has a noose around his neck. The 5 men were ordered to come out in robes, nooses around their necks, carrying the keys to the city and castle.

Zarita taking a photo of the Thinker through the window.

The Thinker through the window, by Zarita.

I don’t remember what this piece was called, so lets just call it “The Epileptic Fit”.

Zarita thought this one was very gross … like a fishboy or something.

This one was entitled The American Wrestler.

Me and Le Penseur.

I thought this was an awesome shot, gloomy and pensive!

I’m obsessed alright?

Wow, so the Rodin museum was truly amazing and something I will remember forever. Well, it was a gloomy, rainy, cold day and it was time to go home and make some dinner. Just a few more shots to leave you with …

A gas station with Zarithchka.

The gas stations here are a lot more subtle than those in the states, at least in the city. This one looked just like a convenience store, but on the curb there stood a little pump. Cars didn’t “drive into” the station, just pulled up and filled up.

My one obligatory photo of the Metro signs.

Me at the Bastille, no storming.

If you carefully inspect the figure atop the bastille, then scroll back to my Louvre posting, you’ll find the same winged torch bearer on exhibit. Man, they love this bullshit.

Next time on Booby Goes 2 Europe: London Calling!

Amsterdam, You Don’t Have to Put on that Red Light!

2007-02-11T22:00:00.000-08:00

My good friend Avinash, upon word of my jaunt to Amsterdam, posed the question, and I paraphrase,

“Is Amsterdam the drug and sex den portrayed crudely in the movie Eurotrip or the gorgeous, high class city in the movie Oceans 12?”

There was also some mention of how hot Catherine Zeta Jones is, but that’s neither here nor there. Well Avi, and all those interested and reading, Amsterdam is oddly both. If there were one word I would use to describe my experience in Amsterdam I suppose it would be “contradistinction”. I’ll be honest, its an SAT “hot word” I
just pulled out of a thesaurus about 5 seconds ago. Contradistinction means distinction made by contrasting the different qualities of two things. I guess the two things are the highbrow and the lowbrow, culture versus barbarism? Rather than wax philosophical about virtue and the lack thereof, something for which I am truly ill prepared, licensed or properly educated, let me instead take you through our experience in the city and perhaps share some feelings on the matter.

070208 – First Impressions

So as I had already mentioned in my previous post on Brussels, Zaritchka and I rode the evening train into Amsterdam, along with many of her friends from Paris. The others were all staying in 10 persons-per-room type hostels in or around the red light district, the area of the city infamous for its moral debasement. Our hotel, thankfully, was nowhere near there. We were staying at Jeanie B&B, near the Museum Plein, just due south of the city center. I think we would highly recommend it, so long as you’re in Amsterdam for a more down to earth experience, and on a budget. It was a tidy little place, on the corner of a canal and Beethoven Straat, a major street. It was a few stories high but lacking any substantial view. There were a handful of rooms rented by a jolly and extremely helpful couple that lived in the building a floor below our room. On the down side there was no elevator to carry us or our bags up the 4 stories, the double bed was two twins pushed together and the bathroom was shared. Yet, it was actually very cozy, clean and warm and perhaps best of all, breakfast was served anytime we liked in our rooms. What more can you ask for?

Our position slightly outside the city center gave us an interesting perspective on the city and a likely more “local” experience. Amsterdam is completely devoid of a metro or subway and instead relies on trams and busses for all of its public transportation needs. Like Brussels, the transit payment seemed to be honor based. Unlike Brussels, the tram and bus lines were very clearly labeled and easy to navigate. Of course this opinion might be biased, having received quite a bit of coaching from our very friendly B&B proprietors. The other major (and I mean major) way to get around the city was by bicycle. Those Amsterdamers are completely gonzo about bikes and the streets are totally engineered with the commuting biker in mind. Screw ubiquitous bike lanes, they have bicycle traffic signals and special road signs! We could have rented a bike, but the weather wasn’t exactly accommodating. Of course, taxis are also available, but as we learned our fist night by stupidly taking a cab from the train station, they’re pretty expensive.

Anyway, we arrived pretty late on Thursday night from Brussels and had no idea what to do, so we just decided to follow Zarita’s group of friends. They were all staying at the Bulldog hostel, right in the middle of the red light district on a major canal. It looked pretty nice in the lobby, certainly more original than many of the hostels in the area. They also commanded a chain of Bulldog cafes, coffeshops, bars, etc. throughout the red light district. I think it was a pretty decent place if you’re ever looking for cheap housing.

Somehow Zaritcka and I managed to avoid walking past anything too repugnant on our search for her friends’ accommodations. That’s not to say we passed along the streets without seeing our fair share of coffeshops, sex shops and paraphernalia dealers. It’s just that we somehow managed to miss the prostitutes, only noticing the alleys were all emanating a red glow. Z’s friends were not so disinterested and on our way out to find dinner, dove right into those glowing red alleys; gawking, gasping, giggling and gossiping right past room after room of Eastern European looking young ladies, behind big glass windows, bouncing in their undies under red lights waiting for a job. Just a few windows here or there were curtained advertising successes. Our little procession repeated itself numerous times throughout the night, even though there were certainly more direct routes from place to place. It became increasingly clear that the “staff” was not amused by our curiosity quenching, some even making faces or banging on the window as we passed. I’d like to say they weren’t happy to be on display like zoo animals, but it was far more likely they weren’t happy to be part of a free show.

“Well, I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I guess I was expecting more,” uttered a friend. Sad to say, but my initial reaction was the same; somehow I had pictured the lines of windows to be right on the street by innocent restaurants and cafes. I expected big prostitute arcades where you pay a buck and take your turn. Somehow these little tucked away single room holes-in-the-wall weren’t as shocking. Really though, MORE? Would it have been more impressive if they were spread eagle in the street stabbing each other with dirty heroin needles? What if there were some big bad pimps slapping them around? Or was the free show just not convincing enough, would it have been better if they were already nude? Was it the drawn curtains that made the whole thing so boring? After a pass or two through the alleys it became clear to me how gross it all actually was and how little more I wanted after all. I mean, there were dudes all over the place, hanging out in front of the windows checking out the goods, stepping in, closing curtains, and stepping out into the street like they’d just had a great nap. All of this within arms reach.

We grabbed dinner at a mediocre Tibetan restaurant and then went back to the train station to pick up another friend, eventually ending up at a coffeeshop, Baba, where without discussing anything incriminating, we topped off the night. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that late when the coffeshops started closing and we were tossed into the street. Most of Amsterdam begins to wind down not long after midnight, so much for the scary drug den of legend. The goods are too cheap and easy to get to bother committing crimes for and everyone’s too busy sleeping to be stalking the night all f’d up looking for trouble. Zaritchka and I passed through the now empty streets; once again back to the train station (small city) to pick up a late night bus to our hotel. This time, we had to pay. Incidentally, in case I failed to mention it beforehand, we had managed to dishonor they honor tram payment system and catch some free rides into the city center earlier that night.

So we arrived back at our hotel, a little tired and grossed out but otherwise satisfied with a pretty chill experience. It’s worth noting that as in Paris, I never once felt threatened or frightened roaming around late at night in a place I wasn’t familiar with. This even though police are scarce and lighting isn’t particularly bright. I think I completely stopped worrying when we paid the bus driver that night and he pulled out a loaded cash box to make change. I mean the bus driver pulled out a cash box at nearly 2am in the morning, at an empty train station, completely exposed. How could he do that? I’ll tell you, I’m pretty sure its because there are no guns. I don’t think he felt like his life was threatened! High and drunk people all over the place, prostitutes and shit down the street, and nobody’s a bit concerned for their safety. Shit, they don’t even really lock up their bikes.

070209 – The Amsterdam Experience

Having been thoroughly turned off by the red light district the night before, we resolved to spend the day trying to have a more “authentic” Amsterdam experience. We set our sights on the Albert Cuyp Market, a local outdoors thing that the B&B owner, George, recommended to us, claiming we might find cheap food, clothing and souvenirs. It took as a little while to find the place on foot, but it was well worth the walk. I guess the standard of living is a bit higher in Amsterdam than in the U.S., but George’s idea of cheap was certainly not mine. Still, the market was a colorful, friendly, and lively place full of fun things to look at, play with and eat! We strolled the market, taking some time out to browse in a clothing store with wild dresses, a spice shop with racks and racks of spices, candies and teas, a flower store full of bright tulips and exotic plants and eat some awesome frites with a peanut sauce and mayo.

The neighborhood right outside our hotel. Pretty residential and nothing fancy. Here you see a very typical bike rack, one of many on this block alone.

Another typical street on the way to the Alber Cuyp Market.

Tram lines run the length of most major streets.

About a block away from the market.

A butcher shop near the beginning of the outdoor market area.

We took this photo because the place was full of color but also because the little bike in front belonged to a boy we had passed, with his mother, much earlier along our walk. We thought he was totally cute and had an adorable bike. Apparently he lives in a house to match!

I dunno, I loved this sign!

In the heart of the Albert Cuyp Market.

A nice old couple shopping in front of the spice store.

One of the spice racks they had on display in the street ... woah.

One of several florist shops along the way.

Another perspective from the Albert Cuyp Market.

A flower stand selling tulips among other things.

Oh man, we thought we had gotten away from the debaucherous environs of the red light district. Well apparently even the average joe has some heat in his blood here. Zaritchka was thoroughly repulsed. I actually approached this because I thought the penises were tulips ... hehehe.

As nice as local entertainment and cultural experiences are, it was time for something more befitting a pair of American tourists, the Heineken experience! The Heineken experience is they Disney land of beer. It’s an amusement gallery set up inside the original Heineken brewery just outside the city center. The building was built as an extension to the original site, which was bought from a previous brewer. This new building was completed turn of the century and is mostly an unimpressive brick behemoth on he outside. On the inside it’s a modern marvel of funky colored lighting, interactive computer displays, video mail booths, multimedia pods and even a shaking beer bottle filling assembly line simulator. That was probably the best part of the whole tour. Guests file into a dark room with rows of standing spaces and rails to hold onto. A big screen at the front shows a film of the assembly line in a Heineken filling plant from the perspective of a bottle. “You” are washed, sorted, filed, labeled, packed, shipped and finally opened at a disco party. All the while the floor shakes, sways and shimmies recreating the jostling the bottle experiences along its way. With so many disturbances, it’s a surprise it ever makes it. The cost of admission was 10 euro, which included 3 beers at the two bars along the tour, and a parting gift, totally worth it. Our gift was a pretty decent silver bottle opened, but I managed to sweet talk a bartender in letting Z and me swipe two Heineken glasses with a James Bond image on them.

I thought this display of old Heineken adds was actually quite cool. Thats really how this place gets you though, succeeds in getting you to appreciate the art of their advertising schemes.

This advertisement was totally creepy, especially suspended in some dark, endless, concrete shaft.

A series of rooms explains the ingredients of Beer, this one was water and Zarita was thristy.

Mmmmmmm, smell the HOPS!

Poor little crazy, she thought the place was still working!

Well, I knew it wasn't working, I was just uh ...

Ohhhh, big beer kettle thing.

Just a little turn here, there ya go, every thing's fixed.

You have to appreciate her patience, she got to 23,456 before she gave up.

Soooo many caps ... who drank all this.

Oooooh, this place makes you thirsty!

OK Zarita, OPEN WIDE!!!

Ahhhh, it was almost worth it just for the fun and brainwashing, but the beers help.

After such a wonderful experience, we headed out to find some dinner. George had also suggested we visit what he kept calling “Lights Plein” but I couldn’t understand if he was actually saying lights or not. Anyway, he circled the location on the map where we eventually stumbled on Leidseplien. Well it might as well have been “Lights Plein” because while we were ready for a more authentic Dutch evening, Leidseplein was nothing of the kind. It was an American wonderland. Burger King, McDonalds, Steakhouses, cheap souvenir shops, Mexican food restaurants and even a place called the American Hotel, all made the plaza their home. The whole place was lit up as bright as any in the city and tourists swarmed around us. Oh well, George was 1 for 2. We used the toilets at the Burger King and rapidly passed through the plaza on our way to what we hoped was a more earnest location.

The American Hotel in Leidensplein.

A statue of a Dutch colonial scene, something to do with ripping off the natives, taken from a Rembrandt painting, in Rembrandtplein.

About this point our tummies were rumbling and we had wandered into what seemed like a snooty area along Leidsestraat. It wasn’t all that fancy, but the street was lined with tons of the typical global designer clothing stores, drawing the same tourist swarm. So all the restaurants we were passing were overpriced and out of our range. Hungry and tired, we persisted and broke off the street, finally stumbling on a series of Indian restaurants. I wasn’t expecting good Indian food in Amsterdam, so the astoundingly fine meal we had that night was a pleasant surprise to say the least. If you’re ever in the area, do yourself a favor and eat at Shiva. It was like in the top 5 of all time best Indian meals I have ever had.

Well, it had started to get rainy and cold so we wrapped up the night in Rembrandtplein with a Amsel beer in a pub and then a coffee in a coffeeshop not worth any particular mention. Somehow between waking up late and spending a little too much time wandering we had managed to waste the day and not see very much. That meant we had a lot to do the next day, our last. So we called it a relatively early night and headed home.

Ahhh, a little snack before bed ... too bad she got crumbs all over the place, I have evidence!

070210 – A Sad Day

So much for an early start. It was just too tempting to sleep late and take our time in that B&B. Breakfast was delivered whenever we wanted which afforded us the luxury of sleeping late and then rolling back into bed after eating. That and how could we leave early and miss the French sex show that was going on in the room next to us? Yeah, the obviously French couple in the room adjacent to ours was a little rambunctious. Not that we had our ears pressed against the wall, no it was quite obvious they had sex before bed, sex in the middle of the night, sex in the morning and on Saturday, sex in the shower; gross man, we had the shower after them.

Anyhoo, I really wanted to visit the Van Gogh museum and Zaritchka was very intent on seeing the Anne Frank House. The problem was we didn’t know when either would close and there was some concern the Anne Frank house wasn’t open late. So we figured we’d ask the friendly and helpful proprietors. George was out so his wife tried to offer her assistance …

“De Vaan Gawg,” she asked.
“Uh, no … the Van Gogh.” I clarified.
“Hmmm, I doughnt oohndersaand, Vaant Gwag,” she repeated.
“Um, no … the Von Go Museum,” I tried once more.
“Uh, Vann Gawg? Please hold, I call George.” She then proceeded to call George and speak with him quite seriously in a language I could not pinpoint. “George come now, he help.”
George stomped up the stairs and addressed us, “Now which? Ahhh, Vaan Gogh, yes yes, what is question?”
“Oh good, yes, we just were wondering if you knew when it might close today,” I asked, relieved that I wasn’t crazy.
George flashed a huge smile, lighting up his happy fat face and replied quite earnestly, “We don’t know this! Ok? Have a good day!” Then he held his smile as we thanked him, completely perplexed and stumbled down the stairs.

So we settled on the Van Gogh first and the Anne Frank later. The Van Gogh museum was located a tram stop or two away from our B&B in Museumplein, south of the city center. As expected, the Van Gogh was a total tourist trap yet nevertheless awesome. The first floor was dedicated to Van Gogh’s predecessors and contemporaries trying to provide a proper context for his early work and eventual revolutionary ideas. The second floor works you through many of his major works from the Potato Eaters to the famous bedroom painting and finally his sanatorium paintings of fields and trees, all in chronological order. The effect is to elucidate his intentions, inspirations and development while also providing a narrative of the man’s life and troubles. It was very moving and quite sad, as many of you may already know; Van Gogh’s life wasn’t glamorous. He was persistently impoverished, never saw the success of any of his work and was plagued by an epileptic-like mental illness that lead to his eventual suicide. I loved the place and barely had enough self-restraint to prevent myself from leaving the gift shop loaded with crap.

From there we proceeded to the Anne Frank house, located in a completely different part of the city. The Anne Frank house was west of the city center, in an extremely posh neighborhood dense with art galleries, trendy nick nack shops, expensive elegant restaurants, cute bakeries and cafes, boutiques, and charming canals and brick row houses. Completely out of our budget. Quite reassuringly the Anne Frank house was a modest little museum not quite reflective of its surroundings. Well, there isn’t much I can say about the exhibit. You walk through the place where this unfortunate family tried to hide from the Nazi racist, fascist, bastard menace before being discovered, forced into work camps and left to die of disease, mal-nutrition, depression or outright murder. It was sobering to say the least. I hadn’t ever read the book, so I picked up a copy in the gift shop and I think I’ll try to read it on the way home to the states.

They also had a little exhibit called “Your Choice” or something of that kind. On a big screen in front of bench seating, they showed various scenes and stories depicting various human rights issues; neo-nazis protesting in Germany, Sikh cops in London allowed to wear their turbans on duty, Danish Muhammad cartoons leading to riots, etc. You were supposed to vote on whether you agreed with the policies that various political, social, or religious leaders adopted. Yes to free speech rights that lead to Muslim riots or marching Neo-Nazis, No to separation of church and state philosophy that leads to banning headscarves in French schools. Then the results of that moment’s polling were displayed versus the results over the course of the exhibit. It was a little frustrating to answer such complex questions with a yes or no, but also very interesting to see how the people around you felt (and comforting to see the majority in line with me).

A canal on the west side of the city on the way to the Anne Frank house. The homes along the canals here are beautiful brownstone looking things. I believe that many of the boats are also used as housing! Some of them are also museums or tour boats too.

A biker riding over a small canal bridge.

Zarita and I had this little picture contest at this canal, who could take the best shots. I think I won hands down.

Zarah thought she'd get in closer for a better look. To her amazement she found out its real water!

An impressive boat.

A less impressive, but much cuter little boat.

This building looked absolutely amazing with its red shutters all over.

After so much sadness, we headed to a pub for a few Belgian beers and burgers. Wow man, I think I had one of the best burgers of my life in Amsterdam, go figure. After our beers we found a little coffeeshop and grabbed some coffee, water and sat down to chill for a little. Right after we got settled a scrawny, very young looking, German kid sat down across from us. Of course he started to chat up Zarita while I was in the bathroom, but was equally friendly with me when I returned. He was very preoccupied with our ages and our business in Amsterdam while extremely excited to share his personal matters. He had taken a 6-hour train from somewhere in Germany in search of pot because apparently Germany is a little dry now. He asked where we were from and was oddly shocked to learn that we were US citizens. “No Way!” he would exclaim but then settle into an “ok, that’s cool man, that cool.” It wasn’t clear from his comments, but Z and I managed to piece together that he was looking to get a lot of stuff at a very low price and somehow wanted our assistance. We kindly declined but this still lead us to a conversation regarding penalties. Apparently from his region of Germany, 20-30 grams of pot is punished with little more than community service or small fines. He claimed that other parts of Germany were more or less lenient, but that generally the authorities overlooked recreational use.

I figured that with his reaction to our citizenship status, it might be fun to teach him a little bit about how we do it here in the states. I proceeded to explain how jail time and serious fines often followed even insignificant possession, but more importantly that in some states his little 20-30 grams of personal stash would be considered intent to distribute, punishable by serious jail time in real criminal prisons. Furthermore, transporting that much would be a trafficking violation, a federal offence. We even explained how some states adopted 3-strikes laws that sent repeat offenders to jail for life! To all this he replied, “No man, that’s hard. That’s really hard. That’s really too hard. I think that’s a human rights violation isn’t it?” I agreed and offered my view that human rights aren’t a concern in the good ole’ US of A. “But all the world smoke pot, all the youth of the world, its nothing, its no harm!” He pleaded with me. Well yes I offered, all they youth and much of the world do indeed. It was hard to explain to him that he, as are many people I’ve met in Europe, is part of a reality-based community doomed to extinction.

We ended our night on a very pleasant note. First we bumped into some other friends of Z’s that were staying near our delicious burger joint, at the fabulous Bob’s Hostel. Then we stumbled upon a cute looking bar serving absinthe (which I forgot to order) with Christmas lights in the windows. The place was a really cool, dimly lit local bar and the music was finally good too! I had been complaining how every bar played the same total crap pop techno shit but this place was playing awesome hip hop and later a live DJ. We walked in, took our place in line at the bar and waited. The bartenders, two young ladies, refused to serve us! We couldn’t believe it but they served everyone who came to the bar, before or after us, until there was absolutely nobody left. It finally occurred to us that we weren’t in a typical tourist bar, there was no Heineken or Amstel on tap and nobody was speaking English. It took a little while, but the bartenders finally warmed up to us after we refused to be driven out and even started joking around with us by the end of the night.

Our fabulous Dutch burgers.

WOW, I think this place was like Scientology headquarters.

Bar Tetra, a totally local spot. I recommend it for good music and ambiance, but be prepared to be overlooked as a tourist. Give the crowd some time to warm up to you but keep a low profile man.

Wow, this place wins the award for coolest name ever.

Well, that was our last night and after a decent sleep and another breakfast in bed we were off on the Thalys back to Paris. I think I definitely liked Amsterdam, save the red light district. It’s a very relaxed city with great food and a rich cultural offering. It’s also very pretty with its row houses, canals, Pleins, and cue lady bikers everywhere. As for that dichotomy of trash and high class, well each has their place in the city and each seems to stay out of each other’s way. I mean, if you came to Amsterdam and just hung out in the red light district, you could easily believe it was the entire city. Likewise, it’s easily avoided. In the end, I like that. All the crud and shit and nastiness are nicely confined to an area that is controlled and avoidable.

One final word on all that nasty business, in the U.S. prostitution is as rampant a problem as anywhere else in the world and it is criminalized. The criminalization of anything makes it dangerous. When I’m in Chicago I have no idea where or how prostitution is played out around me because its done in secret between high risk individuals. This is very disturbing because for one thing, it makes it much more dangerous for the people involved and even those not. In Amsterdam it’s accepted as a human vice and regulated, making it avoidable safer for everyone involved. While I don’t think this is the solution to the problem of prostitution, I think it’s a step in the right direction. Yet, one outstanding problem I had with it is the advertising. The red light district is sold to tourists through tee shirts, postcards, shot glasses, etc. I’d much better like it if Amsterdam wasn’t so damn proud of it and marketed itself this way. I think in the end that probably turns me off of the place as somewhere I could see myself making a life.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with some ridiculous pictures of a bike parking structure right outside the central train station, enjoy!

Mussels in Brussels

2007-02-08T22:00:00.000-08:00

Before I dive into Amsterdam, let me share a little Brussels, or as the French call it, Bruxelles. I went to Brussels to meet Zarita, who had boarded the 7:50am train with her classmates for a little field trip to the EU parliament building and the French consul to the EU office. I on the other hand had no business whatsoever in Brussels, except for a mild curiosity. I had heard the place was quite uninteresting and even a little uninviting. I was aware of its business-like atmosphere. I mean, Brussels isn’t exactly known for anything interesting, except perhaps for mussels.

Actually, I’d believe I was just imagining this mussels connection were it not for two references I’d like to share. First is the restaurant Leon in Paris. It’s a chain of seafood-ish restaurants that boasts its Brussels origin and traditional Belgian flavors. Their specialty, mussels. The second is a little known Men At Work song who’s title escapes me, but the chorus goes …

I come from the land down under,
Where woman work and men plunder.
Can you hear that thunder?
You better run, you better take cover.

Well, my favorite verse in this song is …

I met a man from Brussels, he was 6 feet tall and full of mussels.
Blah blah blah blah and gave him a vegemite sandwich.

So, although the reference does not pertain to the seafood, mussels, I think I may have adopted that interpretation subconsciously.

Anyway, I boarded the 8:50am Thalys train at Gare du Nord in Paris. There was a little scare before boarding because my travel documents, a Eurail pass that affords me discounts or free travel on rail, had not been validated. Furthermore, since it was a joint pass, I couldn’t validate it because Z was already in Brussels having traveled on a ticket purchased for her by the UofC. Let me say, rail travel is quite nice, but if you’re trying to do it on the chap, it’s a ridiculous hassle. Anyway, I paid for a full price ticket and got on board.

Gare du Nord in Paris.

The Thalys from side.

The Thalys from inside.

I disembarked at Gare de Midi in Brussels at about 10:30am, after some minor delays on the line, carrying all of our luggage myself. Walking through the station I realized that unlike when I arrived in Paris, where there was a beautiful loving girl to take me around town and get me situated, I was totally lost in Brussels. I hadn’t given I a moment’s thought to what it was I was going to do once I got there! Zarita was somewhat more fortunate to be part of a guided tour but I had no idea where the train station was, what the city looked like or what there was to see.

Zaritchka claimed that she would be busy until 1:30 and then would contact me on her cell phone, which I carried, and join me for a meal before we boarded the 5:25 train for Amsterdam. So I figured I had a few hours to wander before our rendez-vous. So, I formed a plan of action.

1. Deposit luggage in a locker.
2. Locate an information booth and obtain a map of the city.
3. Determine the best form of public transportation.
4. Walk about and find a decent place to sit down for a beer.

Step 1 was a piece of cake, but cost me 3 euro, a rip off like everything else in the train stations here. Step 2 was equally simple, and the maps were all free, bonus. Step 3 proved to be much more complicated than I had thought. The information booth had provided me with a city map and a metro map and tram map. For one thing, I had no experience with trams. You know trams, those bus like things that run on electric cables and rails in the streets. Then I tried to locate the metro stops on the city map, no dice. The metro stops seemed to only roughly correspond with locations on the map. Even when I managed to match a spot on the metro with a spot on the map, it made it seem as though the metro was totally useless unless (try typing that word combo rapidly) traveling outside the city. Furthermore, there was a severe lack of anything that seemed to be a substantial landmark I should visit. It seemed like Brussels was all government and business; no pleasure.

Ok then, if there was nowhere worth going, and no clear way of getting there, I suppose all there was left to do was wander about aimlessly. Ah, there’s the rub, for in my aimless wander what suffering may come. I thought I had been wise to wear my boots that day, as it had been slightly overcast in Paris and there was threat of snow in the Benelux area (Belgium, Netherlands and Luxembourg). Indeed there had been snow, with a healthy mix of rain and mild weather, forming an applesauce consistency, but thoroughly soaking coat of slush throughout the city! Cowboy boots are made for dry barren Texan or Mexican ranch land, not European winter shit. And so I began my path to freezing cold, soaking wet feet and general malaise. Misery notwithstanding, The city is quite small and I managed to have get a splendid tour of a substantial part of it, which I present to you know in photograph.

Oh Boy, I should have probably immediately turned back and tried a little harder to understand the tram system.

Hello Brussels, Avenue (or Laan) Stalingrad named for that infamous battle deep in the heart of Russia that turned the tide of WWII. Apparently the Belgians are very grateful.

Tram lines suspended above the streets, which seem to be designed with tram in mind as opposed to car.

Some awesome street art in a random side street.

A somewhat typical Brussels street.

Palais de Justice. I took this weirdo elevator thing to the upper level of the building.

A better view of the Palais de Justice.

A pretty little cathedral.

The lawn of the Palais d’Egmont, some rolayish estate in the middle of the city.

Another little cathedral, set affront a menacing sky. Fear the wrath of GOD!

Ok, after about 3 hours of stomping through slush, my boots had soaked completely through and I couldn’t take it anymore. If my mom had been there to see it she would have likely cried and begged me to take them off so she could soak my feet in some hot water, give me tea and put me to bed. Sadly, mom was not there and taking your boots off in public is a little odd. So I stopped in a relatively warm little café for some food and a warm drink.

Finally MUSSELS IN BRUSSELS!!! Ooooooh, these were gooooood too! They’re moulles au gratinee, mussels with tons and tons of cheese, tomato sauce, garlic and red bell pepper. Needless to say, delicious.

So, I waited till around 2:00 and then started calling all of Z’s friends to try and get in touch with her. No luck. At about 2:30 I decided it was best to head back to the train station. There was also almost no way I could continue walking around the city with my footwear in its current state of saturation. I had thoroughly soaked my feet and probably destroyed my boots. Ironically though, the weather had cleared during my meal and the streets had been slowly cleared by property owners and pedestrian traffic. If only I had restrained my itch to explore by a few hours. Yet, I had found some delicious mussels, so at least I could feel a sense of accomplishment. If and when Z contacted me, at least at the train station I’d be in the best possible place to make a move. By some slight planning on my part, and a little luck, I was already near a metro stop and proceeded there to take a train back to the station. It turned out to be simple enough and the payment was surprisingly honor based. You were supposed to buy a ticket and validate it yourself. There were no turnstiles, attendants, security personnel or cameras.

I reached the station and shortly after Zarita called, informing me that the group had been held behind and the talks and tours wouldn’t conclude until 4:30. Our train was at 5:25, Zarita and the other students were at least 30 minutes away and we still had to validate our train passes. This was not good. Well, I’ll spare you the details but I didn’t even see Zaritchka until 5:20. I found a way to validate our passes on my own, sans her passport, so that we managed to board the train by about 5:22 or so. Many of the students in her program were also going to Amsterdam that weekend and were on our train, rushing along with us, or likely without. I wish I had calm enough nerves to have my camera ready to take pictures when the 10 or so of them came running through the station, frantically searching for their lockers and the train platform. It would have been hilarious if I hadn’t been having a minor heart attack at the time.

Well, after all that stress and wet feet, we were on our way to Amsterdam where later, a hostel owner would remark to one of Z’s friends, “Calm down man, this is Amsterdam, sit down, relax and smoke a joint.”

au Louvre

2007-02-07T22:20:00.000-08:00

The Louvre isn’t an art museum, it’s a palace. I think this distinction is very important. The Louvre is a majestic and enormous building with a history dating back almost 1000 years (although more like 500 in its present state). The building that stands there now lies upon the site of a medieval castle and each of its wings were born from distinct periods of French history reflecting changes in architectural style and political influence.

Museums are often empty vessels that only take on true meaning from their contents. Certainly there are many museums that are beautiful buildings and brilliant architectural pieces, the Natural History Museum, the new MOMA and the Met in NY as well as the Art Institute in Chicago with is lion guards. Yet, each of these buildings isn’t quite whole until one considers the wonders they hold. The Louvre is something else; one might easily choose to wander its halls even if all the art was stripped from its walls. While many of the galleries have been modernized with bare white walls and overbearing lighting, so much of it still stands as it did long ago. Rooms are painted in deep rich colors, or crowned with gilded ceilings, or spread on intricate marble floors.

Taking photographs in the Louvre is restricted in many wings. I think this likely has less to do with the museum’s concern with security or limiting its exposure than it does with protecting the artwork. I’m going on a whim here to guess that repeated camera flashes would expose the works to high levels of UV light, causing pigments to degrade and colors to fade. So, I don’t have a lot of the Louvre to share with you, but luckily photography in the sculpture garden (my favorite art form) and elsewhere in the palace is allowed. So let me take you on a little tour of the Louvre.

La Louvre and L’Arc de Triomph lie at two points at the end of a line along which runs the infamous Champs Elysees and le Jardin des Tuileries, the sculpture garden that forms the lawn of la Louvre. A proper visit to the Louvre should start with a walk through le Jardin des Tuileries from the Obalisque at Concorde. It was pretty cold on the day we decided to go, so we cut the stroll short and entered halfway from the Tuileries Metro stop. Still, there was no shortage of fantastic sculptures for us to dawdle on as we walked to the glass pyramid that now marks the entrance to the palace.

A tidy row of trees along the north wall of the Jardin.

An amazing sculpture of a man about to trash a minotaur set against an ominous dark stormy sky, made all the more menacing by a cute little white bird perched at the top.

The Louve in the distance, Zaritsa in the foreground.

This sculpture was so terrifying. The man is protecting his children, who are clutched to his legs, from a serpent that has wrapped itself around his arm.

A view back across the Jardin towards Concorde and the Obelisk. L’Arc de Triomphe is visible in the distance, a straight shot at the end of the Champs Elysees.

One of the Napoleonic arcs built for one of his many victories.

Almost at the entrance, located at the glass pyramid that was installed in the 80’s at the start of massive renovations still taking place.

We made European paintings and sculpture the focus of our visit and managed to cover most of the wings that contained that shit. Our first stop was the Mona Lisa. Zarita was intent on catching a glimpse, while I was completely cynical and disinterested (for those of you who know me well, for the same reasons I scoff at Harry Potter … or for that matter, the Da Vinci Code). Amazingly, this time my cynicism was vindicated. The Mona Lisa is carefully preserved between two layers of plexi-glass or something bulletproof, and held safely at bay a few feet from the reach of any curious tourist. Just removed enough so that even if you managed to squeeze by the jerks pushing ahead to see it, you’d be hard pressed to make out any detail you couldn’t otherwise distinguish from a postcard. As I stood in awe [sic] of the masterpiece, a complete beast of a woman was snapping photos like a maniac while a security guard repeatedly called for her attention. Well, this little lady and her camera were somewhat roughly escorted away from Mme. Lisa. That was amusing.

There was plenty more to my liking than the Mona Lisa. I think I fell in love with Delacroix, the French revolutionary painter famous for the topless lady liberty leading the revolutionary bourgeois through the streets of France brandishing the flag in one hand and a rifle in the other. We’ve all seen that iconic painting, but as is true for so many things, the original was far more impressive, complimented by the brilliant red wall it was hung from. Another amazing painting, in the same room as the former piece, was the coronation of Napoleon by Jaques-Louis David. The painting was something like 20 feet by 30 feet and the people depicted were nearly life size. It was glorious. There were many beautiful Ingres (Turkish Bath) paintings and a number of really cool Ribera’s (Club Footed Boy). Then there was all this Christian crap. I mean no disrespect for the religion, or the painters expressing their devotion, but after 500 “Madonna and Child”, “Jesus Ascending”, etc. paintings, I don’t know what other word to use but crap. I swear, at least 95% of the paintings were directly related to something biblical and I lost my patience for it within a few minutes.

A hall of Greek sculpture.

Zaritsa and I call him, the “IPOD Guy”.

A pretty cool sarcophagus on a very cool marble floor.

Me at the base of some impressive stairs. At the top is a famous Greek statue of a winged woman at the helm of a ship. I forget the name of it, but its cool.

Lots of this type of stuff, lots of it.

Me and Venus.

A view from inside the Louvre of the pyramid and down the Jardin to the Obalisque and L’Arc de Triomph beyond.

Zarita looking quite small superimposed against a massive painting of the ascension of the Virgin Mary … we think.

My favorite part of the Louvre was the sculpture garden. It was a wide-open, marble-terraced room inside the Louvre, with a skylight channeling sunlight from several stories above you. Sculptures haphazardly occupied the space and surrounding galleries. I don’t know what it is exactly that I love about sculpture; I think it’s the action. Of course paintings and prints, photographs and movies can be very active, but somehow sculptures beat them all. It’s like a frozen moment, but in total 3D. Also, since most sculpture is of men or women, you often find them in situations you could only cook up with Hollywood special effects. I most love when things get grotesque. The look on a suffering man’s face, the pain inflicted by an attack, stress, fatigue, anguish. For this reason, Rodan has to be my favorite sculptor. He takes grotesque to another level, where every part of the body can be made hideous or overbearing. I can’t wait to go to La Musee de Rodan!

What looks like a Roman soldier removing a spear head from his leg, ouch.

Hercules battling that serpent thing he had to kill.

HAHAHAHA, so French.

Something about these sculptures of women, appearing so casually in front of a window overlooking a busy street lined with shops amused me. It was almost too real.

A man being ravaged by a lion. Only a sculpture could capture something so gruesome.

After the Louvre, we rushed home to eat a little dinner, clean and pack and get ready for our trip to Brussels and Amsterdam. Next time on Bobby Goes to Europe ... "woah, what's in these space cake things ... dude, you're head's purple and growing bunnies."

To Blog or Not to Blog ...

2007-02-06T12:30:00.000-08:00

Well, I'll make this clear from the get-go, I'm only doing this for you. Enough people have requested me to "blog" (I still hate that term) about this trip to Europe, or at least have flattered me on my "blogging" talent, to warrant another go at it.

So without further adieu (hehehe), I give you the next installment in the “Bobby Goes to …” series (for ages 6 and under), “Bobby Goes to Europe”.

( A note: The places and stories depicted in this Blog are true, while some names have been changed to protect the innocent. )

P.S.
I've dated the first few posts so they are in chronological order ... starting with the "first" or oldest post at the bottom, so don't forget to scroll down ...

Mon Vie en Paris

2007-02-05T15:59:00.000-08:00

Well, enough of all this sightseeing bullshit. I thought I’d spill a few lines on my actual day-to-day whatnot. First of all, its not the 5th, as the blog date above professes, it’s actually the 12th. I’m a few days behind here, but how could you blame me? Things are happening at a hundred miles an hour here and I’m struggling to keep up without letting it all fly by. For this alone, writing it all down like this serves its purpose well.

As I’ve mentioned quite a few times already, I love Paris. Its sort of what I’ve always thought a city should be. First of all, having few or no skyscrapers is a good start. I appreciate human ingenuity, but to a point, and anyway, most of them are soulless crap. Skyscrapers should be relegated to the periphery of the city if they are really needed at all, leave the heart of the city to something I can climb (although I did climb the Sears tower).

You might think it funny to mention the lack of tall buildings as the first characteristic of the city I admire, you’re probably right. Come on though, we all know its romantic, delicious and totally fashion conscious. So why beat a dead horse? O.K., besides lacking skyscrapers, Paris has an abundance of things I do love. First and foremost, Boulangeries; I think Z and me have stopped to buy a baguette almost every day that I’ve been here. We eat the WHOLE THING with some stinky cheese or Nutella, usually before dinner. Of course I’ve gained 30 some-odd pounds, but its way worth it.

Wine is cheap, so is beer. I mean really cheap. It’s cheaper to drink wine with dinner than juice sometimes. Chocolate milk, or “chocolate chaud”, is actually melted chocolate and milk, not powder and water, EVERY TIME. The Metro is almost a pleasure to ride. Its antiquated in an adorable way that totally excuses its inefficiency or slowness. You actually have to flip a latch to open the doors to get in or out of a car. Not that it’s really slow anyway. In fact, it’s designed to keep totally ADD people like myself at bay. There are signs indicated the waiting time for the next train, which is never more than 5 minutes away.

Of course, the French or at least the Parisians have been rude. They hate it when we start speaking English, but they don’t even try to understand our French; it’s a total catch 22. Still, I’m convinced that the attitude is not reserved for silly Americans alone. I think it’s a way of life here, a little snotty and cold. I can dig it though, it’s a little NY ‘tude. So as Z’s “conversation dude” Paul put it, (smiling a huge smile, condescendingly) “Parisians aren’t all like … Sure, Hello, Ohhhh, that’s so nice!”

So anyway, as exciting as it all is, life is still pretty simple. Z and I get up every morning, I make sandwiches and eat some European yogurt and a bannana and then we rush to get our asses out of the room. Then we take the metro together, the #11 from Port de Lilas to Chatelet, then the #14 to Bibliotheque Francois Miterand. Zaritchka has most of her classes at the University of Chicago Center in Paris while I go to work at the Laboratoire Astroparticule et Cosmologie (APC). The APC is on the University of Paris, #7, Diderot campus. The UofP (hehehe) is a pretty large public university with many campuses in the city, one of which is the famous Serbone. A QUaD telescope collaborator, Ken Ganga, has been very kind to offer me a desk in his office to use, so I connect my laptop to the internet and try to get some work done. On the weekday evenings, its usually grocery shopping or cooking dinner and then some HW and blogging.

We’re trying to see as much of the city as possible too. This is made somewhat easier by the “conversation dude” Paul. Paul is sort of a rent-a-friend the UofC has provided students in the program with. He’s supposed to take Z and other students (3 per conversation dude) out and about Paris, while trying to help them strengthen their French and learn about the Parisian way of life. While you can imagine these people to be slight weirdos, Paul is actually totally cool. Last week (the date of this post) Paul took us to a cool neighborhood full of bars off of the Republique Metro stop, near Oberkampf. We had a few drinks and a good chat. Tonight (the 12th) he took us to a movie at Oberon. We saw Bobby, the movie about Bobby Kennedy. It was so-so, not worth much of a mention, but the clips of Bobby speaking were enough to make me cry for a better world.

Yep, that’s pretty much the day-to-day.

All the Classic French Stuff

2007-02-04T11:49:00.000-08:00

Centre Pompidou, Hotel de Ville, Notre Dame, L’Arc De Triomphe and La Tour Eiffel all in one day, like a one-stop tourist shop. All that and we didn’t even get up until noon after all the excitement the night before.

Sadly I didn’t get a chance to make it inside Centre Pompidou, being so late in the day. Still, it was definitely something to see if even from the outside only. The exterior was designed so that the guts of the building were all on display, something akin to “Inside-Out Boy” (remember, the cartoon kid on nickelodeon, maybe 20 years ago). Scaffolding, escalators, metal framework are permanently exposed on the outside. Truth be told, while its certainly interesting and a bold architectural statement for the center of Paris, I can’t really say its very attractive. While the building itself isn’t all that pleasing to the eye the surroundings are pretty cool. I especially liked these porthole looking structures that surrounded a concrete, gently sloping, plaza and a little wading pool filled with colorful, grotesque and odd animal-like sculptures.

Le Centre Pompidou is hosting a Herge, the guy who penned Tin Tin, exhibit that I really want to see. The rocket is a piece being shown inside.

Zaritchka in front of these great porthole-looking things that made the whole plaza in front of the Pompidou seem like the deck of a ship.

We grabbed a gelato at this super pretentious and overpriced Italian gelato place right outside Pompidou. The guys serving behind the counter were making these amazing flower looking designs with the gelato in the cones for everyone … but not for us, probably because “nous sommes Americains”. Man, I hate that bullshit; “I didn’t land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on me!” Anyway, we carried our gelato and walked past the Hotel de Ville area near Pompidou. The Hotel de Ville is a hotel built by one of the later Louis’ and looks something like a grand city hall. The city had setup some sort of winter wonderland; ice skating, warm beverages and a little sledding hill. It was cute to watch the little French kiddies running around with their little sleds.

Z eating her gelato in front of a bunch of truly creepy statues; it reminded me of those freaky toys in that kids room in Toy Story.

Hotel de Ville.

Children sledding on a mock hill setup right outside the Hotel de Ville. It’s so weird to see something so beautiful and historic not cordoned off but rather integrated right into the city life.

Z and me have to take our own pictures. They turn out all right after the 10th attempt, you can even see a little of Hotel de Ville in the background there.

The next destination was Notre Dame, which we had seen the night before, but only briefly while on a desperate search for a bathroom. It was late afternoon and the sun was already pretty low on the horizon when we reached it, throwing majestic shadows off the cathedral and lighting its façade a deep orange. I wonder if they built it in that direction on purpose, probably not. It must have something to do with some religious crap about which way god faces or something; what do they call that, feng shui? Sadly it was hard to capture on camera.

That me on a bridge on the Seine, with Notre-Dame visible as the tallest structure in the background. Notre-Dame is located on an Island that splits the Seine in the center of the city. That island made up the original Paris settlement.

Notre-Dame from the side.

The entire westward face of the building was adorned with intricate sculptures of important saints, Jesus, Mary and all those dudes. Plus there were many little how to stay out of hell storyboards sculpted into the walls and arches too. Demons and cretins on the lower parts of the walls lead a series of increasingly more holy things on the way up to the pinnacle. There were also lots of little depictions of various sins to avoid such as enjoying life. The best sculpture though was of someone who was decapitated and right below him was the guy who did it, ax in hand!

That’s the decapitated dude, and the fellow I think did it right below him.

One of the entrances to the cathedral.

Walking into Notre Dame is a little like walking onto the set of Lord of the Rings. The ceiling is something like 30 stories high (may even reach heaven) and light streams in through the stained glass windows, painting the walls in eerie deep colors. The smell of incense is pervasive (almost nauseating) but fills the air with a haze adding to the mysterious effect. Honestly, I couldn’t help but feel struck. Being in a place like that really fills you with awe and wonder, even living in a completely desensitizing society of special effects and Fox News. I can only image the impact something like it would have on people of a different age. In conclusion, Notre Dame puts the fear of God in you.

I’m telling you, Lord of the Rings man. Think the battle in the underground dwarves palace place, with all the orcs and the giant things. When the Hobbits drop the book into the well.

While we were walking around, there was a mass in session. Can you believe people actually go to Notre-Dame for mass. I feel like such a stunned little tourist.

A little prayer alcove in the back.

A view across the whole cathedral of the “Rose window” from behind the altar.

A truly frightening statue. I think its Christ being buried in his tomb. The figure behind the coffin is Death, with a skull face and hooded robe.

A cross on the way out.

The last must see tourist hot spots left on our agenda were L’Arc de Triomphe and Le Tour Eiffel. We walked the Seine for a bit then jumped on the Metro at Chatlet (one of the busiest Metro stations in Paris) and rode to the Champs Elysees to walk up to the Arc. It was here I realized my battery was dying. So the pictures from here on are weak, rushed attempts to generate some evidence that I had actually visited the sites. I haven’t much to add to the likely universal awareness of the oh-so-famous monuments, but here are a few quick observations.

Crossing the Seine again on our way to Chatlet.

First of all, the Champs Elysees is deeply disappointing. Man, of all the people I thought would withstand the homogenization of global culture and stand as a bastion of culture, it was the French right? Non! The Champs is an outdoor mall, plain and simple. Yeah, there are a few restaurants and cafes that provide it some character, but they’re totally obscured by the Toyota and Nike stores. Even the Louis Vuitton store was like the Nike store, but of course just filled with ugly bags not ugly sneakers. I mean honestly, I really love Paris, but this famously beautiful historic street doesn’t even hold its own against Short Hills mall in Jersey.

Now the Arc, well that was pretty cool. It’s not even that its some particularly stunning or beautiful monument (although it is), its more the history I felt like I was standing on. I mean Napoleon marched his victorious armies through there, as of course did Hitler, a little humbling to stand at such a spot. Le Tour Eiffel was pretty much awesome too. It didn’t really defy expectations or anything; rather it looked just as promised from countless cultural cameos. Still, it’s really a damn colossal mass of metal shooting into the sky. They do a great job of lighting it orange, with strobe lights going off all over the tower every hour making it sparkle like fireworks. We made the horrible mistake of going to the top though. Crammed in between obnoxious Greek, Russian and Chinese tourists, all pushing and shoving to get on the next elevator while on their cell phones (one Russian girl arguing with her boyfriend about sleeping around) was a little too much for me to handle. I think by the time we reached the top, Zaritchka and I were ready to start another world war. My advice, don’t go to the top. If you are dying to spend precious euro while there, stop at the first deck a third of the way up.

Me at L’ Arc de Triomphe.

Me at Le Tour Eiffel.

After so much of Paris tourism, we ended our night with some of Z’s friends here in Paris watching the Super Bowl at a restaurant/bar/strip club called the American Dream Café. Apparently the French have a complete misconception about the American dream and are in the dark when it comes to buffalo wings. The place was a very poor knockoff of a Ruby Tuesdays or something. Sadly, the stripping was modestly reserved for the second floor and football on the first floor and in a basement theater with a movie screen sized picture. Actually, that was pretty close to the American dream, football on a movie theater screen. We stayed until the end of the 3rd quarter, at which point most of us were sick to our stomachs from what we had seen. How could the Bears drop the ball like that (literally and figuratively)? Especially after that kickoff return touchdown? It was 4am by the time we got back to the room and the Bears had pathetically disappointed the city of Chicago and a few expats in Paris.

Montmartre (pronounce the last ‘r’ but not the last ‘e’ … what?)

2007-02-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

I’ve got to say after 5 years of middle to high school French I suck; I mean it’s pathetic. All right, maybe it has been 8 years or more since my last French class, but still. I have no idea how to pronounce Montmartre; I’ve been told to pronounce the last ‘r’ but not the last ‘e’. In theory that sounds easy, but I’ve no clue what that means in practice (try it smart ass … with a French ‘r’). I feel like if I ever do, then I’ll be able to say anything in French.

After a good night’s sleep on Friday, we set out to go on my first round of Parisian sightseeing. I spotted Sacre Coeur from Zarita’s window and we decided it was a good a spot to start with. It also had the upside of being in Montmartre, a quintessentially French neighborhood on the north side of the city. Sacre Coeur sits atop one of the only hills I’ve seen in this city and whose pinnacle provides as good a view of the city as the Eiffel Tower.

I think Sacre Coeur means Sacred Heart, as in the Sacred Heart of Christ or some shit. I’m not entirely sure what the place is all about, but I think I can safely say it’s a Cathedral. Its got all the Cathedral-like elements one would expect to find. There were lots of pews inside, high ceilings, pictures and statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary, confessionals, and people praying. I wish I could have taken some pictures, but a big sign outside said NON!

(A word of advice: If a total stranger, of seemingly North African decent, requests that you slip your finger through his loop of yellow, red and black string, REFUSE. He will follow you, he will nag you, he will beg you, he will flatter you, mais ... NON MONSIEUR!!! Be warned, if you oblige, you will be forced to watch him produce a miserable faux African 'peace' bracelet and ask for 7 Euro for it. Don't give him more than 1 ... if you find yourself obliging).

Me in front of Sacre Cour, near the middle of the hill we climbed to get up there.

The stairs at the base of Sacre Cour were full of stinky people listening to some north African dude play reggaeish music … some Bob Marley mixed with french.

The front doors to the Sacre Cour were amazing huge copper doors adorned with lions.

After touring Sacre Coeur for a while, we set out westward back down the hill through the side streets of Montmartre. The streets were narrow with amazing little 4 flat apartment buildings along the sides adorned with wrought iron balconies and private residences behind recessed driveways and decent sized front lawns. Cafes, brasseries, small shops and specialty food markets lined the streets everywhere. My favorite stop of the night was at a Fromagerie on Rue Lepic It was a small shop with one huge glass refrigerated case full of hunks of white, yellow, green and sometimes brown blobs of dairy goodness. Each was carefully labeled with information I couldn’t for the life of me decipher. The only thing I could recognize was Chevre (goat cheese). So I just pointed and said “Je voudrais ca” until I had 3 chunks of soft smelly goodness in my bag. I know none of them was goat, and at least one was a brie, but besides that … something sheep I think?

Then we got a little hungry and Zaritsa just happened to know of a little café by the name of “Les Deux Moulins”, made famous by the film Amelie. That’s right, it’s where Amelie worked as a waitress. Well Zaritchka, being a huge fan of that movie, myself as well, couldn’t pass by the opportunity to drop in and have a glass of wine and a crème brule. Finally we wrapped up our little Monmartre adventure with a stroll past Moulin Rouge in what I guess would be called the “Red Light District”. It wasn’t much more than Times Square was before some presidential wannabe converted it to an NYC Disneyland. Although, far more boobs than one would ever see on an American street … outside of New Orleans.

Good bye Sacre Coeur … a view from a little side street.

A wrought iron balcony thing … and an orange room, my favorite color.

This awesome restaurant had a windmill on its roof … what?

Some apartment building with an awesome little pacman/video game mosaic thing.

An average apartment building with a nice green balcony, but an even cooler graffiti-ed truck parked outside!

Oh my god, I was in heaven!!! This seafood shop was amazing as hell!!! The selection kicked any other place I have been in the ass. Urchin, snail, large clams, mussels, shrimp, weird lipstick looking things that were still moving … shit, most of the stuff was still moving, i was beautiful! People on the street thought I was completely insane as I stood and took repeated photos.

Zaritchka very pleased with the café selection.

The Moulin Rouge … I think we all know what that’s about. If not see the horrible movie/musical.

After a healthy dose of French living, we decided to go get drunk American style. So we set off to St. Michel, another neighborhood in central Paris on the south bank of the Seine. It’s a hip place, something like The Village in NY or Bucktown in Chicago. Littered with bars and cheap restaurants, it’s a cool place to live I hear, but most of all it caters to young tourists, particularly the American kind. So we proceeded to drink ourselves silly. Then a shocker. As we’re stumbling around looking for a place to take a piss (the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore failing us with restroom facilities) we stumble upon a little place by the name of Notre Dame. NOTRE DAME, in the middle of a drunk, DUDE? This is why I love Paris, it’s like the greatest and most beautiful of human achievements lie at your feet like they’re happenstance. Just something you pass on your way to the bathroom drunk.

Notre Dame mother#$&%er!

Arrivé

2007-02-02T20:00:00.000-08:00

Ahhhhh, Paris, cloudy, rainy, humid and warm. I arrived slightly hung over, totally exhausted and 1 hour early. Zaritchka had been adamant that she come meet me at the airport (Charles DeGaul for those interested) so I had nothing to do but laze around place. That didn’t last long though. Zaritchka came running in, a little late but making up for it with big smiles and hugs. Needless to say I was happy.

It was too late to make it home before her next class started. So I just sucked it up, resolved to stay up for 24 hours and cabbed it with her to class at Dauphine, a University of Paris campus. 3 hours of lecture/presentation about the EU charter/treaty/constitution or whatever. I thought I was going to pass out for sure. It turns out that you can’t leave class in France either; it’s a big taboo to go to the bathroom during lecture. Being that I was already intruding, I had to keep my impact to a minimum. Not to say I didn’t raise my hand and ask questions, how could I avoid an opportunity to look smart.

Zarah happy to see me as we eat lunch at Dauphine …

There was a very interesting guest speaker from Turkey though. I learned all sorts of interesting things about Turkey that defied many expectations and notions I had about the country. Especially some opinions about the Cypress problem that I don’t get from my Greek friends.

It was about 6pm when we finally made it back to Zaritchka’s place at the Residence Lila, right by the Port des Lilas Metro stop, not far from Cemetarie de Pere Lachaise, on the far east side of Paris. I hadn’t slept for well over 24 hours and I had to crash ASAP. So although Zaritchka was off to the Opera, I was off to bed. Sadly, the only views I have to offer on my first night in Paris are from the Metro stop and her window.

The Europeans definitely have no problem with scooters, motorcycles, or any cheap form of transportation.
Its really funny how many of my friends call my bike a death trap, etc. after seeing so many around here.
Parisians also have no problem leaving their bikes anywhere they please.

The view from our window at Residence Lila.
During the day you can see Sacre Cour (more on that later).

Departé

2007-02-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

Not much to say except that once again (see my South Pole Blog regarding return travel from NZ) the damn stewardesses refused my fair share of whiskey on the plane! Ok, so 5 in a row might be a little much, but I can’t sleep on planes so what else am I supposed to do all night? Maybe I should back it up just a bit …

As I was saying, not much to say. I left Midway airport in Chicago on Thursday (Feb. 1) evening. The airport was packed with hopeful Bears fans waiting to board their planes for Miami, Super Bowl Tickets in hand, covered head to toe in orange and blue, belching, scratching, harassing and giggling. One “biker” couple tried to get their paws (yuk yuk yuk) on some big Budweiser “Congratulations Bears” banner in the airport bar I was pre-boarding-drinking at. The bar tender kindly informed them they were out of luck, as were the previous 300 people that had asked him for it that day.

Then a quick stopover in Detroit, very quick, I had to run. Detroit Airport is amazing. I hear Detroit not so much.

The big haul wasn’t all that bad. The plane, a Northwest flight, was pretty new and the movie selection was amazing, I mean it. Notwithstanding, I chose the worst of the lot. Let me save you 2-3 hours of your life, “The Prestige” is anything but. Well, who knows, maybe it was excellent and I was just too drunk and sleep deprived to appreciate it (unlikely). Of course I didn’t resort to film until I had completed my reading, the pulp sci-fi classic Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card, the sequel to Ender’s Game. I hear the guy is a total kook these days, but man those books are great.

Which incidentally was how I made my first French friend and likely my last French friend. I mean, we hit it off but I don’t think the French are really looking for any more friends right now. At least it seems that way in the streets man. Anyway, who knows what his name was, some garbled French that started with a silent ‘g’ and ended with a silent vowel or something. He really liked the Ender series and then we got to talking about Nabokov, Cosmology and “Children of Men”. We had a good chat.

So I didn’t sleep, didn’t get drunk enough and didn’t see a good movie but I did manage to finish a book and make a friend. Not the worst flight experience ever.