I don't really remember how it came about--perhaps I mentioned her predilection for Italian food, perhaps she made a comment about being Italian on her own. Either way I found out that Morgane is one quarter Italian. I already "knew" this though because she claimed to have told me about it already. My active listening skills aside, I perked up during the second Italian conversation when I heard the words "Zappa."
"Wait. You said 'Zappa,' as in Frank Zappa?"
"Yes. I already told you that the last time too."
"Told me what?"
"That I'm related to Frank Zappa"
"You're related to Frank Zappa?"
"Yes. I told you that already."
This sounded vaguely familiar. I think the forgotten conversation probably took place sometime after I told her I was related to William the Conqueror. Once her laughter subsided I think she might have told me about Zappa. I was probably trying to figure out the quickest way to get proof instead of listening to her.
I'm not sure who wins the cooler relative battle but if you're keeping score at home, my girlfriend is now 1/4th Italian, 1/4 Hungarian, 1/2 Algerian (via Spain), born in the Congo (Kinshasa), and raised in Paris. The next plausible question is of course how in the hell did she end up with an asshole from Arkansas? Chance. Our lives have run together on pure chance. Maybe those New Year's black-eyed peas I've been eating for so long have been working after all.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Dessert as a rite
One thing I've noticed about France is the importance of dessert. Food in general has a very exalted place in "la vie francais" but dessert is the high point, the culmination of the day, of the efforts of the meal in general. It all builds to the dessert: the fondant au chocolate, creme brulee, tarte tatin, etc.
It occurred to me that in a way it's a lot like Catholicism. Mass is a central part of each Catholics life but the partaking of communion is the essential element. For a Catholic the point of the mass is communion, it all builds up towards the distribution of the consecrated host. What's the point of sitting down for a nice homily if you don't get your dessert at the end? Communion is the point of the service and like many French I've met, it is quite acceptable to skip the meal all together and just eat the dessert. The homily might offer the nutrition your soul needs but the dessert is all it requires for its true salvation.
It occurred to me that in a way it's a lot like Catholicism. Mass is a central part of each Catholics life but the partaking of communion is the essential element. For a Catholic the point of the mass is communion, it all builds up towards the distribution of the consecrated host. What's the point of sitting down for a nice homily if you don't get your dessert at the end? Communion is the point of the service and like many French I've met, it is quite acceptable to skip the meal all together and just eat the dessert. The homily might offer the nutrition your soul needs but the dessert is all it requires for its true salvation.
"Doing sport" in France
Being an outsider here in France I am apt to notice things that I find humorous or strange, things that might escape the eye of a native. Perhaps my childhood education via Seinfeld ingrained this predilection for particularities and minutiae of everyday life. This habit of mine shouldn't be taken the wrong way. I love it here.
In France there is the verb "faire" which is translated as "to do." The verb is one of the most prominently used verbs in the language. It is utilized in conjunction with most activities to signify the action. In France they "faire du sport," "faire la cuisine," & "faire une visite," which is to say that they "do" sport, cooking, and visits. They also use "faire" to describe what the weather is "doing" on a particular day. It dawned on me that never has a nation of "doers" done so little. What is one's conception of France? Can one deny that France is associated in the American mind with idle hours at a cafe? Deep pontification, philosophers, and endless discussions on life and love?
I suppose it is a somewhat juvenile, or perhaps ill defined preconception of the country but the point was comically driven home for me on a trip to the mall at "La Defense" yesterday with Morgane. I wanted to buy a pair of running shoes so I can attempt to stay in shape while I'm here. The first store we walked into was called "Athletes World." They had three large walls covered in shoes for me to choose from. However, none of the shoes could even remotely be considered for a running shoe, much less doing anything athletic whatsoever. The shoes they had looked like one might be able to "do sport" in them but of course that's the purpose. They want to give the illusion that you are athletic, or "sporty" without actually making you "do sport." After two more stops in different shops I realized it wasn't isolated to "Athletes World." These next two shops were large, cavernous spaces that stocked a multitude of athletic clothing. If you wanted to purchase footwear that would allow you to put that clothing to use you were out of luck. Out of the 75-100 pairs of shoes they carried only about 7-10 pairs were actual shoes for running. To cap it all I found a pair that fit me in the smallest of the athletic stores in the mall.
So, where does this leave me? Now that I've bad mouthed a proud nation's athletic tradition I might be out on the street after Morgane reads this. That's a Seinfeld ending for you.
In France there is the verb "faire" which is translated as "to do." The verb is one of the most prominently used verbs in the language. It is utilized in conjunction with most activities to signify the action. In France they "faire du sport," "faire la cuisine," & "faire une visite," which is to say that they "do" sport, cooking, and visits. They also use "faire" to describe what the weather is "doing" on a particular day. It dawned on me that never has a nation of "doers" done so little. What is one's conception of France? Can one deny that France is associated in the American mind with idle hours at a cafe? Deep pontification, philosophers, and endless discussions on life and love?
I suppose it is a somewhat juvenile, or perhaps ill defined preconception of the country but the point was comically driven home for me on a trip to the mall at "La Defense" yesterday with Morgane. I wanted to buy a pair of running shoes so I can attempt to stay in shape while I'm here. The first store we walked into was called "Athletes World." They had three large walls covered in shoes for me to choose from. However, none of the shoes could even remotely be considered for a running shoe, much less doing anything athletic whatsoever. The shoes they had looked like one might be able to "do sport" in them but of course that's the purpose. They want to give the illusion that you are athletic, or "sporty" without actually making you "do sport." After two more stops in different shops I realized it wasn't isolated to "Athletes World." These next two shops were large, cavernous spaces that stocked a multitude of athletic clothing. If you wanted to purchase footwear that would allow you to put that clothing to use you were out of luck. Out of the 75-100 pairs of shoes they carried only about 7-10 pairs were actual shoes for running. To cap it all I found a pair that fit me in the smallest of the athletic stores in the mall.
So, where does this leave me? Now that I've bad mouthed a proud nation's athletic tradition I might be out on the street after Morgane reads this. That's a Seinfeld ending for you.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Pictures from Bretagne
Here are a few pictures from the Bretagne weekend courtesy of the Magic Queen, Mme. Zoe Kovacs.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Back in Paris
Jan 11th
The trip to Portugal is now officially over. It’s funny how the trip came full circle—it was raining in Paris when we left and it was raining today when we got back (although today it’s warmer by 10® Celsius , thankfully). After a week of absolutely frigid temperatures in Paris, the weeklong break in Portugal was a nice respite. It was odd to see Lisboans walk around bundled up like it was Lillihammer instead of Lisbon. My feeling was that of a bizarre longing, a collective of wishful thinkers wanting it to be cold. It was like playing dress up when you were a child. You couldn’t experience the real thing so you might as well pretend. They pretended better than anyone I’ve seen. In a t-shirt, I was walking past frilly men in decorative scarves and giant coats and women in furry boots and chic little snow hats.
I’ve been thinking of Lisboa along the lines of an Austin in Europe. Perhaps it’s not the most accurate comparison, perhaps I’m searching for similarities—pointing at things without context. There does seem to be similarities (notably the weather, size, and age demographics). My “piece de resistance*” is the cuisine even though it’s an obvious paradox (the sea v. the ranch). The similarity is not the substance of the cuisine but in who dislikes each of them…Morgane. Lisboa, like Austin, has a very vibrant restaurant scene that we wholeheartedly enjoyed…as long as we steered clear of Portuguese. And likewise in Austin, Morgane loves the restaurants….but not BBQ or Tex-Mex. What sounds better: “Austin: The Lisbon of America” or “Lisboa: the Austin of Europe”
(*Is that a real phrase? Am I confusing it with “plat de resistance?” In a completely unrelated setting and argument I said it and got strange French looks. I hope someone can help me out on this.)
Just before we touched down at Orly I finished “The Impossible Country,” Brian Hall’s account of his travels through Yugoslavia just before its disintegration in the early 90s. Excellent book. If you are remotely interested in the Balkans or if you are simply in need of an engaging and insightful read, I urge you to check it out (I was luckily enough to find it on the bookshelves at the Casa de San Bernard, courtesy of Ms. Agnes Sekowski the week before I left). Though it was published 15 years ago it’s a timeless narrative whose insights into the people and politics of the region are still accurate, applicable, and important (more so even now with Kosovo’s formal independence looming). My plug is now officially over.
Morgane’s brother left for a two month journey through India. We’re staying in his apartment while he is gone. So for those in need or want of an address for me, I now have one. Just drop me a comment on here or an email me and I’ll get it to you. Now that I’m “back” in Paris, my stay is officially under way. For a sedentary person like me, these first two weeks have been a whirlwind.
The trip to Portugal is now officially over. It’s funny how the trip came full circle—it was raining in Paris when we left and it was raining today when we got back (although today it’s warmer by 10® Celsius , thankfully). After a week of absolutely frigid temperatures in Paris, the weeklong break in Portugal was a nice respite. It was odd to see Lisboans walk around bundled up like it was Lillihammer instead of Lisbon. My feeling was that of a bizarre longing, a collective of wishful thinkers wanting it to be cold. It was like playing dress up when you were a child. You couldn’t experience the real thing so you might as well pretend. They pretended better than anyone I’ve seen. In a t-shirt, I was walking past frilly men in decorative scarves and giant coats and women in furry boots and chic little snow hats.
I’ve been thinking of Lisboa along the lines of an Austin in Europe. Perhaps it’s not the most accurate comparison, perhaps I’m searching for similarities—pointing at things without context. There does seem to be similarities (notably the weather, size, and age demographics). My “piece de resistance*” is the cuisine even though it’s an obvious paradox (the sea v. the ranch). The similarity is not the substance of the cuisine but in who dislikes each of them…Morgane. Lisboa, like Austin, has a very vibrant restaurant scene that we wholeheartedly enjoyed…as long as we steered clear of Portuguese. And likewise in Austin, Morgane loves the restaurants….but not BBQ or Tex-Mex. What sounds better: “Austin: The Lisbon of America” or “Lisboa: the Austin of Europe”
(*Is that a real phrase? Am I confusing it with “plat de resistance?” In a completely unrelated setting and argument I said it and got strange French looks. I hope someone can help me out on this.)
Just before we touched down at Orly I finished “The Impossible Country,” Brian Hall’s account of his travels through Yugoslavia just before its disintegration in the early 90s. Excellent book. If you are remotely interested in the Balkans or if you are simply in need of an engaging and insightful read, I urge you to check it out (I was luckily enough to find it on the bookshelves at the Casa de San Bernard, courtesy of Ms. Agnes Sekowski the week before I left). Though it was published 15 years ago it’s a timeless narrative whose insights into the people and politics of the region are still accurate, applicable, and important (more so even now with Kosovo’s formal independence looming). My plug is now officially over.
Morgane’s brother left for a two month journey through India. We’re staying in his apartment while he is gone. So for those in need or want of an address for me, I now have one. Just drop me a comment on here or an email me and I’ll get it to you. Now that I’m “back” in Paris, my stay is officially under way. For a sedentary person like me, these first two weeks have been a whirlwind.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Sintra and Dreams
Jan 9th
Lord Byron called it a "glorious Eden"
We made the journey to Sintra today. It was a fantastical place. As we climbed the hills of Sintra towards Pena Palace I was reminded of the lush forest scenes from Pan’s Labryinth. The area surrounding Sintra (and the palace itself) seems as if it’s been plucked straight out of the pages of a fairy tale.
My dreams have been strange lately. Food related? The squid is probably a tally on the yes side of that question. Last night’s dreams included some sort of weird witch marriage that I think saved the world somehow, running from some sort of serial killer with Ashton Kutcher, and walking through a mall with Ghandi. When I couple that string of dreams with the epic baseball dream from the previous night (featuring Tom Pagnozzi, Glenallen Hill, Kelly Saviers, Mia Iseman, my grandmother’s front lawn, Buffalo, NY, and Scott Sagen among others) it seems as if Portugal has done something to my head. Let’s hope it was the squid.
Lord Byron called it a "glorious Eden"
We made the journey to Sintra today. It was a fantastical place. As we climbed the hills of Sintra towards Pena Palace I was reminded of the lush forest scenes from Pan’s Labryinth. The area surrounding Sintra (and the palace itself) seems as if it’s been plucked straight out of the pages of a fairy tale.
My dreams have been strange lately. Food related? The squid is probably a tally on the yes side of that question. Last night’s dreams included some sort of weird witch marriage that I think saved the world somehow, running from some sort of serial killer with Ashton Kutcher, and walking through a mall with Ghandi. When I couple that string of dreams with the epic baseball dream from the previous night (featuring Tom Pagnozzi, Glenallen Hill, Kelly Saviers, Mia Iseman, my grandmother’s front lawn, Buffalo, NY, and Scott Sagen among others) it seems as if Portugal has done something to my head. Let’s hope it was the squid.
Squid
Jan 8th
Morgane and I took the Lisboa Metro (fast, cheap, and easy) to Praca Marques de Pombal this evening. After we got off the train we took a stroll down Avenue de Liberdade—the Champs Elysees of Lisboa—until we found a spot for dinner. Prior to this evening Morgane and I were under the impression that no one worked in Lisboa. We were constantly passing people loitering in the street smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves. Our trip to the Praca Marques de Pombal finally enabled us to see the heart of the Lisboa business world.
We had dinner at La Café. It was an impressively pretentious place but the magic of Portugal lies in its price. It had a water list (exactly like a wine list but for water), a “complimentary” piece of chocolate covered foie gras to begin the meal, and a very interesting waiter/chef combination (waiter=cross between Benicio del Toro and Goofy, or perhaps a Portuguese incarnation of Spud from Trainspotting. The chef was a foot shorter than the waiter and a foot wider. He spent 5 minutes trying to convey his thoughts, in French, on food and life).
My food experiment continued—the chocolate covered foie gras was surprisingly good. It was hard to detect the foie gras beyond the wall of chocolate. For dinner I had stuffed squid. It too was fairly good though I have to admit it was somewhat akin to eating spaghetti. The squid had a chewy texture and was stuffed with a sort of ground pork (meatballs).
Morgane and I took the Lisboa Metro (fast, cheap, and easy) to Praca Marques de Pombal this evening. After we got off the train we took a stroll down Avenue de Liberdade—the Champs Elysees of Lisboa—until we found a spot for dinner. Prior to this evening Morgane and I were under the impression that no one worked in Lisboa. We were constantly passing people loitering in the street smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves. Our trip to the Praca Marques de Pombal finally enabled us to see the heart of the Lisboa business world.
We had dinner at La Café. It was an impressively pretentious place but the magic of Portugal lies in its price. It had a water list (exactly like a wine list but for water), a “complimentary” piece of chocolate covered foie gras to begin the meal, and a very interesting waiter/chef combination (waiter=cross between Benicio del Toro and Goofy, or perhaps a Portuguese incarnation of Spud from Trainspotting. The chef was a foot shorter than the waiter and a foot wider. He spent 5 minutes trying to convey his thoughts, in French, on food and life).
My food experiment continued—the chocolate covered foie gras was surprisingly good. It was hard to detect the foie gras beyond the wall of chocolate. For dinner I had stuffed squid. It too was fairly good though I have to admit it was somewhat akin to eating spaghetti. The squid had a chewy texture and was stuffed with a sort of ground pork (meatballs).
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