And you thought wine in a box was bad.
The Santiago Times says it's only for curing meats and wrinkles, but I'm skeptical. Remember how excited you used to get when a representative of the aeronautics industry would come to your elementary school and hand out astronaut ice cream? What with the airline restrictions on liquids (30ml flask of Pomerol, anyone?), I can see Chilean vintners making a killing on handy packages of Cabernet Sauvignon sold at airport kiosks. I can also see a major grève in the making.
22.7.08
17.7.08
Claw-footy!
(That's my little brother's hillbilly heaven pronunciation of my all-time favorite dessert, clafouti aux baies rouges. He keeps me in check.)This afternoon, with four forgotten peaches, Julia Childs' wisdom, and my raging sweet tooth, I baked tomorrow's breakfast.
15.7.08
Le bal le plus hot de Paris
Le Bal des Pompiers is one of those mythical summer-time events that only us hard-core Parisians who don't ditch the City of Lights mid-July get to experience. Okay, it's actually where all the schmucks who blew out their vacation time in the spring, teeny boppers, and banlieusards mish-mash miserably, but still.
I'd heard my fair share of extensively raunchy tales about steamy nights spent in various of the city's casernes for the pre-14 juillet fête; when J-B proposed that we join the rowdy crowds, I happily accepted. I called up another dancing machine copine to see if she wanted to join the festivities, and we giddily discussed the awesomeness of such a shindig, both agreeing that the female fireman fantasy must be universally innate, sort of like Chomsky's inherent language theory. Totally. A few phone calls to faithful partying friends later, and I was rearing to test out our hypothesis.
With visions of dancing le rock, airborn champagne flutes, and blisters on my toes, we made our way to the caserne du Vieux Colombier in the 6e. The reveries I'd been entertaining, inspired by WWII footage of newly liberated, Parisian street dancing lovers, died in their tracks when we arrived at the entrance. A thick line extended beyond rue de Rennes, snaked into side-streets, and terminated at a point described as the three-hour wait point by fellow attendants.
Plan B, wherein we dance like fools to Antillaise music at a generic St. Germain pub went into effect. We danced unhinged and uninhibited; laughter gurgled from my belly as we invented new ways to strut and shake. Surrounded by friends who are revelers, an unmitigated happiness returned to me, the way that it always does when my limbs are sailing freely. There was no philosophy to it; I didn't have to convince myself that others, so many others, have it way worse than I do, or practice the art of faking it to become it. It felt richly good to be stomping and flailing and guffawing in conspiratorial buffoonery with François, cheering J-B on with his faux strip-tease gyrations. I saw that maniacal glee mirrored in my companion's face, and forgot -- for once, and truly -- that this wasn't where I thought I'd be six months ago.
The fireman's ball, where we did eventually end up, was a sardine can, Oktoberfest, and an ode to teenage pregnancy all wrapped up in one pulsing mess. We ditched after 10 minutes and caught a lucky cab home.
I'd heard my fair share of extensively raunchy tales about steamy nights spent in various of the city's casernes for the pre-14 juillet fête; when J-B proposed that we join the rowdy crowds, I happily accepted. I called up another dancing machine copine to see if she wanted to join the festivities, and we giddily discussed the awesomeness of such a shindig, both agreeing that the female fireman fantasy must be universally innate, sort of like Chomsky's inherent language theory. Totally. A few phone calls to faithful partying friends later, and I was rearing to test out our hypothesis.
With visions of dancing le rock, airborn champagne flutes, and blisters on my toes, we made our way to the caserne du Vieux Colombier in the 6e. The reveries I'd been entertaining, inspired by WWII footage of newly liberated, Parisian street dancing lovers, died in their tracks when we arrived at the entrance. A thick line extended beyond rue de Rennes, snaked into side-streets, and terminated at a point described as the three-hour wait point by fellow attendants.
Plan B, wherein we dance like fools to Antillaise music at a generic St. Germain pub went into effect. We danced unhinged and uninhibited; laughter gurgled from my belly as we invented new ways to strut and shake. Surrounded by friends who are revelers, an unmitigated happiness returned to me, the way that it always does when my limbs are sailing freely. There was no philosophy to it; I didn't have to convince myself that others, so many others, have it way worse than I do, or practice the art of faking it to become it. It felt richly good to be stomping and flailing and guffawing in conspiratorial buffoonery with François, cheering J-B on with his faux strip-tease gyrations. I saw that maniacal glee mirrored in my companion's face, and forgot -- for once, and truly -- that this wasn't where I thought I'd be six months ago.
The fireman's ball, where we did eventually end up, was a sardine can, Oktoberfest, and an ode to teenage pregnancy all wrapped up in one pulsing mess. We ditched after 10 minutes and caught a lucky cab home.
11.7.08
1.7.08
34.3 l'après-midi
I wait until I am completely submerged in the Mediterranean's turquoise water to untie the strings of my bikini top from my neck and back and retie them around my head. Jean-Baptiste stands tall beside me, pushing his torso against the gentle waves. I duck my head under water and wade vigorously, blowing bubbles until the air from my lungs feels completely evacuated. The water is early-season-cool, not yet warmed up from the summer heat, and refreshes deliciously.
The thermometer on the dashboard read 34.3 degrees. That was at 14h.
Mounting the chalky hill to the Barberousse tower that overlooks the bay of Gruissan, the blend of Ricard and local white wine swashing round in my belly conspires with the rays pelting my head from above to render me hazily blissful. The strip of shade extending a few inches from the stone look-out provides momentary relief from the sun's insistence; I press my clammy skin against the cool rocks and attempt to nap standing up.
The heat is assommant. Summer's sensual Mack truck wall of heat has hit Languedoc, and we're languishing in it gratefully.
The thermometer on the dashboard read 34.3 degrees. That was at 14h.
Mounting the chalky hill to the Barberousse tower that overlooks the bay of Gruissan, the blend of Ricard and local white wine swashing round in my belly conspires with the rays pelting my head from above to render me hazily blissful. The strip of shade extending a few inches from the stone look-out provides momentary relief from the sun's insistence; I press my clammy skin against the cool rocks and attempt to nap standing up.
The heat is assommant. Summer's sensual Mack truck wall of heat has hit Languedoc, and we're languishing in it gratefully.
21.6.08
pop muzak
What is the proper response to detoxed versions of The Doors' "Light My Fire" while wandering down an air-conditioned yogurt aisle at Monoprix? Does one sway one's hips as if lost in dreamy memories of naked summer solstice bacchanals? Melodramatically fill in the missing words, transforming the French grocery store into a produce-y karaoke? Giggle quietly to oneself, honoring the late Jim Morrison with a moment of recognition while contemplating the raise in prices of Comté?
Unsure of how to react when this very thing happened on Thursday, I did the same thing I'd done so many years before when an elevator music rendition of "Riders on the Storm" trickled through the stereo system at the Carmel Crossroads Safeway: I looked for my dad, eager to see how he'd turn a strange pop cultural situation into hilarity, accompanying the muzak with hippie flailing under the unflattering fluorescent lights.
But my pop lives in California, and I in Paris, and instead of pealing into grateful squeals of laughter at his ironic jerky dance, I remembered his unconventional sense of humor, and his infallible ability to make me laugh until I cry.
I miss our impromptu jollifications. It has long been an unending source of entertainment of mine to play sappy tunes from the 60's -- The Association will always do -- just to see his exaggerated parody. Before I left California in May, he confessed that when he worked at Sea World as a teenager, before he left San Diego for Monterey so many years ago, the management would play Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass on insanely heavy rotation. Not surprisingly, it drove his teenage mind mad, and ruined the cheery Dating Game tunes for him forever.
Discover Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass!
Joyeuse fête de la musique !
Unsure of how to react when this very thing happened on Thursday, I did the same thing I'd done so many years before when an elevator music rendition of "Riders on the Storm" trickled through the stereo system at the Carmel Crossroads Safeway: I looked for my dad, eager to see how he'd turn a strange pop cultural situation into hilarity, accompanying the muzak with hippie flailing under the unflattering fluorescent lights.
But my pop lives in California, and I in Paris, and instead of pealing into grateful squeals of laughter at his ironic jerky dance, I remembered his unconventional sense of humor, and his infallible ability to make me laugh until I cry.
I miss our impromptu jollifications. It has long been an unending source of entertainment of mine to play sappy tunes from the 60's -- The Association will always do -- just to see his exaggerated parody. Before I left California in May, he confessed that when he worked at Sea World as a teenager, before he left San Diego for Monterey so many years ago, the management would play Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass on insanely heavy rotation. Not surprisingly, it drove his teenage mind mad, and ruined the cheery Dating Game tunes for him forever.
Discover Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass!
Joyeuse fête de la musique !
11.6.08
Voulez-vous des frites avec votre Marc Lévy ?
"La culture qui, en France, forme un lien plus solide que la race ou la religion, est en crise. Le service public doit répondre à cette crise qui menace la démocratie... La télévision publique est-elle encore le lieu de ce combat ? Y a-t-il encore une place pour la littérature à l’antenne ? Ou bien sommes-nous condamnés à ces émissions dites « culturelles » où le livre n’est qu’un prétexte et un alibi ?"
-- Frédéric Ferney, Paris le 4 juin 2008, in a letter addressed to President Sarkozy regarding the end of his literary television show on France 5, "Le Bateau-Livre", via La république des livres
It wouldn't occur to me to turn my attention to the boob tube for the latest on book and author news, but that's probably entirely due to the fact that I grew up in the U.S. and culturally oriented programming -- save PBS, of course -- is a luxury one pays for, not an option on yer basic cable menu. This is unfortunate. And reminds me of nights of pant-wetting hysterics brought on by watching Los Angeles' public channel with my roommate; there we are, on the rug, gaping and gasping slack-jawed at the rotating, motley group of performers obliviously taking a stab at their 15 minutes of fame.
Anyway, yes, it is a tragedy when a television program dedicated to doing something that requires turning off the television ceases to attract viewers, funding, and then support from the very people who would wail over France's cultural demise at the hands of McDonald's, immigrants, and anglicisms.
France really ought to be counting its blessings, though: at least they don't have merde like this to contend with.
-- Frédéric Ferney, Paris le 4 juin 2008, in a letter addressed to President Sarkozy regarding the end of his literary television show on France 5, "Le Bateau-Livre", via La république des livres
It wouldn't occur to me to turn my attention to the boob tube for the latest on book and author news, but that's probably entirely due to the fact that I grew up in the U.S. and culturally oriented programming -- save PBS, of course -- is a luxury one pays for, not an option on yer basic cable menu. This is unfortunate. And reminds me of nights of pant-wetting hysterics brought on by watching Los Angeles' public channel with my roommate; there we are, on the rug, gaping and gasping slack-jawed at the rotating, motley group of performers obliviously taking a stab at their 15 minutes of fame.
Anyway, yes, it is a tragedy when a television program dedicated to doing something that requires turning off the television ceases to attract viewers, funding, and then support from the very people who would wail over France's cultural demise at the hands of McDonald's, immigrants, and anglicisms.
France really ought to be counting its blessings, though: at least they don't have merde like this to contend with.
31.5.08
French ain't easy
I've re-discovered this fact since returning to Paris, and pointedly today, while attempting to share a surfing anecdote en français.
As I approached the climax of the story, the part where I moon the entire sun-bathing population of Carmel after a shore-breaking wave planted my board in the sand, impaled me on it, and mutated my bikini bottoms from their posts as bum-encasers into ankle bracelets, I could feel the punchline kick slipping through my fingers as I paused, slack-jawed in mid-sentence contemplation, and searched the ceiling for appropriately sensational vocab.
Ah well. These discursive vacuums I'm finding myself in since arriving at CDG should be of no concern; apparently, it doesn't matter what you say, but how lovely it sounds when you say it.
As I approached the climax of the story, the part where I moon the entire sun-bathing population of Carmel after a shore-breaking wave planted my board in the sand, impaled me on it, and mutated my bikini bottoms from their posts as bum-encasers into ankle bracelets, I could feel the punchline kick slipping through my fingers as I paused, slack-jawed in mid-sentence contemplation, and searched the ceiling for appropriately sensational vocab.
Ah well. These discursive vacuums I'm finding myself in since arriving at CDG should be of no concern; apparently, it doesn't matter what you say, but how lovely it sounds when you say it.
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