Lisbon ~ Findings ~ Initial Report

We needed to escape Paris for awhile and Lisbon called to us.  We'd never been there before and didn't really know what to expect.  So off we went to spend the month of March in a place we knew nothing about to experience things we had no way of preparing for.

... with a huge steak there's no room for the veggies... Steak price?  2.50Euro.  No joke. Having spent the month of March, what we feel about Lisbon is probably best expressed by way of contrasts.  Paris against Lisbon.  Lisbon against Paris.  So here goes...

Organic porto... the same one Jude found in the US... Weather -
Paris - Wet, cold, gray for winter months.  It snowed the day after we left.  It's been cold and wet the entire month.

Lisbon - Arrived to 60+F, clear, warm, sun.  Most of our days have been clear and warm, with only the occasional rainy day.


Shrimp for lunch - just one - a Tiger Shrimp! - it filled the plate People -
Paris - Reserved, conservative, and it takes time to get to know someone.  But once you've gained their trust, your friendship is nearly unshakable.

Lisbon - While it's far too early to know how people will be over the long haul, our initial contact with the locals has been wonderful.  Lisboans seem to be warm, open hearted, and quick to smile and talk.  Many people we've talked to seem to feel the French are snobbish and are difficult tourists to please.


The white was on sale for 1.89Euro Restaurants -
Paris - Bistros are shutting down at a frightening rate.  The restos that are left tend to cater to tourists and leaves us with the strong impression that tourists can all too quickly be over-charged and served poor quality food since they won't complain and won't be back after their vacation is over.

Cafe - 2.50Euro
Entrecote pour deux - 60Euro (no sides)
Hamburger - 15Euro
Glass of red wine - 5-10Euro, depending
Mid-day formule - around 15Euro with soft drink (typically no wine)
Indian food - you have to go to the Gare du Nord area to find anything decent and you can spend 45Euro for two people for 2 dosa, wine, and desserts
Take-out BBQ - Ya, right.  No way, Jose.

Lisbon - The restaurants here cater to tourists, too.  But the wait staff are friendly (see "People" above) and the food is great.

Cafe - 0.60Euro
Entrecote pour deux - 29Euro with THREE beautiful sides (pumpkin/sweet mix, potato, fries, salad)
Hamburger - 6Euro
Glass of red wine - 1.50 to 3.30Euro, depending
Mid-day formule - around 8Euro with wine
Indian food - Oh man! Shrimp entree, salads, curried shrimp plate, wines, beers, desserts 30Euro
Take-out BBQ - Whole chicken 8Euro.  Rack of ribs + half a chicken 9Euro.  Sides are cheap, too.


... from the farmers market - great bread, sweet potatoes, chorizo sausage, and two un-marked bottles of fizzy "green" wine...
Markets - 
Paris -
Faux filet pour deux - 15Euro - enough for dinner with leftovers for lunch
Chicken - 11 to 15Euro, depending - enough for two dinners and one lunch
Salmon - 15Euro - enough for two dinners
Lettuce - 1.10Euro each
Potatochips - 3Euro for a medium sized bag of Tyrell's

Organic red wine - 8 to The Moon Euros for table wine
Commercial white wine - 8 to The Moon Euros, depending

Commercial red wine - 8 to The Moon Euros, depending

Organic Porto - forget it, I've tried to find the bio stuff and it's seemingly impossible

For serious drunks - 1Euro/litre in the south of France, 1.5Euro/litre in Tours, 3Euro/litre in Paris - BYOB

Lisbon-
Faux filet pour deux - 5Euro - two LARGE cuts with enough for 2 dinners
Chicken - 2.84 to 3.17Euro, depending - enough for two dinners and one lunch
Salmon - 5.03Euro for two HUGE steaks - enough for two dinners and one lunch
Potatochips - 0.99Euro - locally grown potatoes in LARGE bags - evil-good!
Lettuce - 0.50Euro each

Organic red wine - 4 to around15Euros for table wine
Commercial white wine - 1.89 to around 12 Euros, depending - ...and if you're at the Principe Real farmers market on the first Saturday of the month, there are folks who will happily sell you "green" wine in un-marked brown wine bottles for 2.50Euro - evil-good! with it's tart taste and light effervescence... or just go to a wine shop and see if the white Promessas on sale for 1.89Euro...

Commercial red wine - 2.89 to around 20 Euros, depending... the red Promessas is 2.89Euro - evil-good!

Organic Porto - 12.95Euro at the local Bio shop

For serious drunks - It's hard to beat the 1.89Euro Promessas white or the 2.50Euro "green" fizzy stuff from the Saturday Farmers Market.  However, it wouldn't surprise me if the Lisboans had their own well someplace hidden away where you could fill your own bottles for free.

Portugal looks like it's the "low cost region" of the EU.  No wonder the Germans and French reps in the EU have placed strict limits on how much Portugal can ship into the rest of Europe.  The EU is scared to death that prices would collapse and French/German farmers would starve from selling nothing.  The EU appears to have taken the American tactic of paying Portuguese producers _not_ to produce, just to keep their products off the market and the keep prices artificially high.  True story.  Such is the effect of the Deutschmark, er, I mean Euro, on the nature of "business" here in Europe.

... seen through a patisserie window... Language - 

Paris - Well, it is the capital of the French world, after all, so what language do you think is spoken here?  Parisians don't like to make mistakes.  The school marmes made sure everyone learns their place in the pecking order of culture and society.  So unless a language can be mastered perfectly, forget it.  English?  Out.  German?  Out.  Italian?  No way. OK.  In circumstances of extreme duress we'll speak some English.  But don't push your luck. 

Lisbon -   Surprise! Portuguese is definitely spoken here.  So is nearly perfect English spoken by much of the local population.  In the markets people start speaking English the moment they realize we're struggling with the Portuguese. Interestingly, when we sometimes/many-times forget which language to speak it turns out a great many Lisboans speak beautiful French, too.  I bought a hat and spoke only French with the kind sales-lady.  The bums on the streets beg in French to us.  On the other hand, we've had more than a few Americans who've tried to speak Portuguese with us.  No one is shy about speaking just about any language.

... goodness in two small packages - one dessert and one glass of porto - a perfect way to end any meal...
Reality Check -

If Lisbon is so fabulous, why aren't we moving here?  Here are a few good reasons.  

To start with, this would not be an easy city to grow old in.  There are hills steep enough to make you weep.  Second, the sidewalks are narrow and slick.  The stone used to make the sidewalks are highly polished and, therefore, slippery beyond belief.  We're just one fall away from a broken hip.

Thirdly, the summers here can be hot.  With global climate change Lisbon is bound to only get hotter.  You couldn't live here during the summer without an air conditioner or an apartment up in Bretaigne.

Lastly, our friends are in Paris.  It's impossible to leave them.  As we've become friends with Parisians we've come to appreciate the depth and breadth of the experience.  We would have to restart our lives again.  It would be a long process to form friendships in yet another country.  Jude and I just aren't ready to go down that road.  No, not at this age.

For the shoulder seasons, however, Lisbon is just the ticket to happiness, health, warmth and sunshine.  I'm sure we'll be back.

Escaping the Winter Doldrums...

Last year Jude asked a really good question; When it's late-winter here in Paris and after we've become too cold and stiff to enjoy the city and after we've become so bored that we feel we're going to go crazy, would you like to get away to somewhere warm and sunny?  Would you like to thaw out a little?

... on an unassuming little street...

The search for the warmest, sunniest place in late-winter Europe was actually quick and easy.  It came down to just two places.  Seville and Lisbon are, on average, 17degrees C/64degrees F during the month of March.  Both places seemed to have enough things to do to keep to old people entertained.  As a bonus, Jude's daughter, Jami, said she'd like to join us.

The two of them, mother and daughter, plotted and planned and scanned the internet and found a highly rated apartment in Lisbon.  It would be perfect as Jude really wanted to be close to the ocean and Seville seemed just a bit too far in-land.  A Paris-winter cold digit pointed to a place marked on the map as Terra Incognita Lisboa.

Terra Incognita, indeed.  None of us had ever been to Lisbon and we were concerned about signing up for Yet Another Great Adventure into the Vasty Unknowns.  As in the 1400's, we needed to ask a few serious questions. Would our airplane be able to traverse Large Distances?  Was this city on pilot's navigational charts?  Would the wax that holds the wings melt if we got too close to the sun?  Would the sea boil with Heat and Monsters?  If we arrived safely, would we be met with Head Hunters of the Skull Downsizing kind?  Or would Terra Incognita Lisboa be peopled with a kind and gentle race?  And most importantly, what in the Great Unknown Land do they eat?

... and with little to no warning...

Unfortunately, Jude's daughter had work to tend to and couldn't make the trip.  Fortunately, we'll see her later this year.  Which means we have a big (by Parisian standards) apartment all to ourselves and the entire Great Unknown to explore.

Against all Dread and Fear and Concern we left a cold, wet, and very dark gray in winter and safely landed in bright, clear, sunny, and springlike warm Lisbon.  The next day it snowed in Paris.  We'd gotten out just in the nick of time.

In the end, none of our Questions of Concern applied.  There were no Boiling Oceans and no sun-induced Dripping of Icarus` Wax.  No monsters were spied.  All seemed Good and Civilized.  Our apartment was beautiful and filled with light.  The only unanswered question was about food.

Our trips typically begin with an exploration of the regional delights.  It's what fuels our adventures and (hopefully) thrills the senses.  Our Landing in Lisboa was no different. The Arrival Night's meal was spent looking from a windowed terraced restaurant.  A little bat flitted and angled, swooped and spun in the air.  The grilled shrimp and shrimp curry were excellent.  We easily sensed the fact that the Portuguese had strong connections with Goa, India.

... where things are warm and cozy...

The Second Night led us to a Take-Out Joint that Jude had researched.  Our lives will never be the same again.

I'm not sure that the Portuguese come by grilled meats themselves.  If I read the Charred Remains correctly, BBQ is here thanks to the Brazilians.  There are charcoal briquets in the local supermarkets.  There is wood to season the smoke.  There are meats just begging to be be BBQ'd.

The place Jude found is take-out only and can get pretty darned busy.

Chickens are butterflied flat and placed over a fire.  Turkey is skewered alongside onions (oignon - formerly in France, but now ognon - search me, the French don't like change, yet changed over 2,500 words this year) and green bell pepper.  Ribs, oh the ribs, are just as you've seen in America.  Glorious and ever so tasty.

... is a place more properly called Paradise...

Then comes the sauces.  There is a sauce that has a very mild but persistant "heat" to it.  I'm not sure what the peppers are, but they are glorious.  Dripped and laid over hot steaming fresh off the grill meats presents a perfect match of tastes and mouth watering sensations.

For sides, we saw that they have white rice, a nice tomato salad and a couple other things we haven't tried.  The potato chips are supposed to be pretty special.  The last time we were there they had brownies under glass for dessert.

If you need wine, the tinto Promessas at 5Euro a bottle was surprisingly good.  The blanco Promessas is available, as is a small selection of beer.  There is water for those crazy enough to be driving around Lisboa.

... with a grill manned by a True Master...

How good was it?  So good that we've eaten their BBQ 5 of the past 7 days.  Crazy.  Yes.  We are crazy.  But it'd been such a long time since we'd had anything this tasty.

The Hole in the Wall is up in the Principe Real on Rua da Imprensa Nacional at number 116.  The place is called Frangasqueira National.  The grill is manned by a True Master.  If you stop in, please tell him the old man with a waxed mustache says to say "hi."

... to the table with BBQ ribs, tomato salad,  and a few things we added to make a Most Perfect Meal.
[I took a few photos during our visit]

A most elusive beast...

It's Monday morning and I can't believe it.  I feel like a completely clueless dolt.  Really.  I do.  I missed it.  It was right here.  I saw it in a video someone posted to Flickr.  In fact, it was just down the street from where we live.  Just this past weekend, too. Ugh.  I feel terrible.  And Jude feels terrible for me.  She can feel the anguish I feel.  It may seem silly, but the fact I missed it is nearly unbearable.  I can't stop talking about it, either.

What is the it to which I refer?  The it is the Beast.  More fully said, the it is the Beast of Turin.

A year ago my friend Dave (Citizen Davide - if you must know) sent me a video of the recently restored Fiat S76 Record.  From that moment on I have plotted and planned and schemed and wondered how on earth I could see this in person.  I tried to see it when she ran at Goodwood in 2015, but we were mired deep in government processes in a (successful) attempt to buy healthcare insurance from the French state.  I wasn't sure when, if ever, I'd see her in person, the Beast.

The Beast stands higher than stout but fully grown men (like, for instance, me).  Even from a distance the car looks massive. The cockpit, such as it is, must be climbed into.   The motor dominates the front two thirds of the Beast.  The tail ends at a gorgeously sculpted wasp bodied point.

The cockpit has room for two seats.  Period photos show the steering on  what appears to be the English side of the Beast.  The right hand seat is still, of course, this being England and correct to the original and all that, for the driver.  It makes me wonder when Italy joined the rest of the Civilized World and put the steering apparatus on the Correct Side.  In any event, the second place must be there only to convey and transport one Terrified and Soon to be Rather Well Singed Occupant.  Looking at a promotional video for it's 2015 run at Goodwood confirms that the Terrified Second (in England) Seater will indeed be Well Singed if they're not careful.  It has been suggested that I add that the passenger could be deafened and well shaken, too.

The Beast has an enormous motor which was special built for just for land speed record setting.  This is not an aero-engine repurposed for terrestrial fun and games.  No, this is much more serious business.  It displaces over 28 litres (yes, you read that correctly - twenty eight glorious liters of Italian motor) and was claimed to put out 290 metric horsepower at 1900 revolutions per minute.

The motor is fitted with an overhead camshaft with sloping camshaft profiles.  The configuration allows changes to the timing from a starter cam profile position (to ease the motor start process) to an operational cam lobe profile. This is surprising as even modern engines rarely deploy variable valve duration timing mechanisms.  A hand lever in the cockpit moves the camshaft from one profile to another.

There are three spark plugs per cylinder.  Each were recently hand made by a man in Milan.  It's reported he hand rolls the mica, just like great grand-dad used to, as part of the manufacturing process.  In the interest of being Redundantly Repetitive, three handmade spark plugs are required per cylinder.  There are four cylinders to plug and spark.  I doubt the local autoparts store stocks a useful reserve of them.

The oil system is total loss.  That is, oil drips through the motor from the top to the bottom by gravity feed.  As the oil proceeds from top to bottom it lubricates the many important things that require lubrication.  Sitting in a garage the car has an oil catch pan under it to collect the leftovers and unspent oil.

The crank shaft runs on clam-shell journals.  I thought clam-shell journals were only found in modern engines and remember stories of crank and cam shafts running primarily on roller or on babbet poured bearings.  Interestingly, too, is the crankshaft.  It may be quite massive but it's also hollow.  It saves weight and, more importantly, allows top to bottom bound oil to reach places it needs to (such as the clam-shell bottom-end journals).

The gas tank delivers explosive essence under pressure.  The tank is hand pump pressurized through a line that links a pump to the tank from inside the cockpit.  If you're losing power, give the 'ol gas tank a few more PSI from the pump and away you go.

Two massive chains transfer those 290 horses from a transverse transmission output shaft to the rear drive shaft.  The chains whirl and swirl in open air for all the world to see.  Right next to the cockpit.  Right where fingers and arms might Dangle or Distend.

Speed runs took place around Europe, with the best places for high speed found in England.  One of the Beasts ran at Brooklands.  The steeply banked Brooklands was too bumpy at speed and, the story goes, speed record events were abandoned at that track.   The effort moved to a sandy beach.  Once there, the sand on the beach was not in good condition.  It was a little too soft and the Beast did not perform at it's full potential.  In 1913, running on a beach in Belgium it ran at 137mph, which, apparently, was insufficient to set a new record.

Hopefully this explains my being upset at not having seen the Beast for myself.  I am severely disappointed.

As I mull and ponder the Fates who failed to post alerting information to Retromobile's website a thought occurs to me.  I visited the Parc des Expositions a week ago Monday and uncovered a number of fun things on Move In Day One.  The show ended yesterday (Sunday).  Perhaps I should pay a visit on Move Out Day (Monday).

Entry to Building One is easier this time than it was one week ago.  No one stops to question me.  The building is a-buzz with crews destroying, removing, and cleaning up after the exhibits.  Cars are being trailered or driven from the venue.  Hoards of transporters sit outside awaiting their cargo bound for worldwide destinations.

I ask a security guard "Ou se trouve la bete de Turin?"  "Comment?" he asks.  I repeat the question.  He mumbles "Je sais pas.  C'est un bulot.  Voila.  C'est tout."

I ask one of the workmen.  He tells me he is just a driver of one of the transports and is only there to enjoy taking a few cell phone snaps of the Ferraris that are still here.

I ask an Englishmen in my best French and he just turns and walks away.

As I am photographing a bright red Porsche (red is entirely the wrong color for a Porsche) a couple of workmen ride by in an electric golf cart and one teases me by saying "elles sont interdit, les photos."  So I ask them.  "Comment?" comes the immediate return question.  "Ah.  Un moment.  Elle est deja parti, la bete."  "Merde!" I think.   Well, that's that, then, isn't it?

I've circumvented Building One inside and out and, well, I am dejected.  I really have missed, haven't I?

As I pass one of the huge open doors I spy a few pretty Ferraris.  The 512BB in black (black is entirely the wrong color for a Ferrari) is pretty enough and the Porsche backdrop adds a bit of humor.  A few last photos and then to home and hearth.

One last look around... and... hmmm... I'd better go check out these old cars near a long bank of doors...

My heart races before my mind can catch up.  I feel like a young child who's wish may be about to come true.  And.  Yes.  There she is.  Under tarps.  It has to be.  It simply has to be it.  The Beast.



As I contemplate my lack of authority to remove the tarps to get a better look, Stefan (the Beasts visual documentarian) asks if I'd like him to uncover her for me.  Would I?  Oh!  Would I!  My enthusiasm is impossible to hide.

During our conversation (thankfully in English) I learn a lot about the car that rests just there.  Two Beasts were built, then lost.  A chassis was known to exist in Australia.  It's condition was questionable.  An engine (marked on a side plate as Number Two) was found somewhere in Italy.  It was being used as a teaching aid in a Fiat building.  Restoration took twelve years.  The motor is running better than it did at Goodwood in 2015.  They've made a few small changes to the timing that allows it to burn a little cleaner.

A man who I'll call the President of the Association that runs the Retromobile event comes over and we shake hands and exchange a few words in French.  He is a man of obvious French style and grace.  Well spoken in English and elegant in French.

Duncan (the Beast's owner) arrives.  We shake hands and talk a brief moment.  They're off to Merry 'Ol this morning.  I doesn't sound like they're fire her up to drive to the trailer.  Oh well, push it shall be.

I follow the crew a short distance through Building One to the nearest large door and outside to find we're covered with dark rain laden skies.  A few last photos and it's time to liberate these kind folk.  Duncan tells me I don't sound French.  The Basque beret and long beard confuse him.  I say the beard is not French, though the beret most definitely is.  Confessing that I am American brings a the President of the Association to comment that "... c'est impressionante, la barbe."  They turn to push the Beast onto the canvas covered trailer.

I can't believe my good fortune.  I saw the Beast.  A rather minor (in the broader scheme of things) personal Disaster has been turned into Grace.

[My Flickr set of photographs of the 1911 Fiat S76 can be found here]

Happy New Year!

[Jude shared the following email with friends and family.  All I can say is the French really know how to throw a good party.  With a little help from the Germans, of course.  :-)  ]

I have to share with you the New Years Eve gastronomic extravaganza we enjoyed, and after which, during the early morning hours paid a wee price for!  

Chris and I had accepted the invitation of our French friends, Claude and Renate, for a New Year's Eve theater performance and a "light" dinner in their apartment afterwards. There would be eight of us in all, a nice size group to celebrate the ringing in of the New Year. Claude is 100% Parisien, born and raised in the neighborhood where he and Renate have their apartment. Renate was born in Germany, Berlin to be exact, and has dual citizenship. Claude is passionately French and Renate is passionately German. They have a wonderful blend of the French and the German cultures in their marriage. I mention this specifically because it lays the foundation of understanding of the festivities and meal we all enjoyed.

I was asked to prepare les gâteaux apéritif  for the starter course.   I had to do a bit of research as to what I was being asked to bring.   Figured that out and after stewing over recipes I decided to do my now standard take to the party dish.

Our day preparing for what we knew would be a late night included taking an afternoon nap.   We then put together the appetizers and added a little spit shine to our boots and for Chris some wax to his mustache.   7:20 pm we start our walk up the hill, about 10 blocks to Renate and Claude's apartment.    Chris is the family pack mule so he carried the platter of appetizers and well as a sack with two bottles of Champagne.

The evening started out at a small neighborhood theater where we saw an 8:30 pm extreme acrobatics performance. That performance was a bit over one hour in length. After that we walked back to Claude and Renate's apartment for our New Years Eve dinner.

At 10pm we started out with my aperitif, which was a thin slice of baguette, smoked duck breast, mascrapone,and a dollop of cherry confit (jam), served with champagne. There were 8 of us and we ate all 24 servings. While we were having the appetizers Claude lit the candles on their real Christmas tree. The candles are a German tradition, and so we enjoy the German culture while eating and drinking like French people. The tree also had an antique German tree stand, beautifully carved silver, and before we knew it Renate had the tree rotating and the tree stand was playing traditional German Christmas Carols. The tree stand was actually a giant music box, circa 1800s. After finishing the appetizers and the first round of Champagne we moved to the dinner table.

First course, fresh marinaded salmon, served in large thin slices. Then we were passed lemon wedges and literally a piece of white bread, dry toasted. The butter for the bread was the one with salt crystals in it. Boy oh boy. Can we taste fresh beautiful salmon? More Champagne! 

Well what do you know, it is now midnight and we toast the New Year bis everyone (kiss) and then we sat back down and moved on with the meal.  

Next up was the main plate which was a rustic large spicy sausage and boiled potatoes. The sausage was sliced in thickly and we passed the plate to serve ourselves. On top of the potatoes and sausage we put a very special sauce from the Jura region of France. For the Jura region, think mountains and German style sausages. The sauce was made with a very light milk, half cream and cheese, light but flavorful. Never had anything like it before. With this we had a light red wine also of the Jura region. Plus more Champagne, oh and an occasional glass of mineral water...yep with gaz. Burp, ahh now we are finished, but no! Now the plate of sausage and potatoes reappears and everyone has seconds!

Throughout the entire meal we are laughing and chatting in French. Whee! But we are not nearly finished with the meal. Nope, after the main plate we move onto the cheese and salad plates. Three types of cheese, a Blue, a Compte and a Brie. The salad was mache. More baguette and more wine and champagne. I am by now just drinking mineral water.  

The grand finale was the most beautiful art object of a cake. Here's where I had to break rank and eat a very tasty rice cake with chocolate and a sweet clementine. Chris described the cake, which was several layers, long rectangular shaped cake, layers of light whipped cream, red fruit combo jam type yumminess, chocolate mousse, then chocolate cake, then a light cookie type thin crust and on the bottom a slab of dark chocolate. Killer cake! Beautiful and Delicious!

Now it is 2:15 am and coffee must be served. I passed on that, just way to late for me. We left their house at 3:15 am, having arrived at 7:30 pm! We walked down the hill marveling at the incredible experience we had. 5 am was another story with us waking and both of us not feeling very good. Just way too much food, wine ,champagne, and chemicals I'm sure. We staggered out of bed at noon, and we will be recuperating today.

Happy New Year!

Windows to the mind...

[I rewrote sections of the following entry.  I felt my word choices and sentence structures failed to articulate what I wanted.  I must've been pretty angry when I wrote the first version]

Someone recently asked if we were going to go see the Christmas lights around the city.  Shortly after the question came up I was up at Paris' only True Opera House (le Garnier, merci, very very French) and couldn't help but be attracted by the bright twinkly lights seen just up the street.  Like many living things, I'm attracted by shiny objects.  Les Galeries Lafayette were well lit in commercial celebration of the season (in a glorious American-style consumer commercialism).

Our Season of Celebration is off to a good start.  Our Gouter and Singalong began the festivities.  We then went to lunch with our apartment owners (very French) in a fabulous art nouveau restaurant (oh so French that it nearly breaks one's heart at the beauty of it all).  Just last night we had our apartment neighbors (Irish) up for a small apero (leaning into the Parisian, we must say).

Later this week we'll be visiting our friends (very French) who's country home we visited earlier this year. This will be followed by spending New Years Eve reveling with yet more friends (three Germans, three French) by seeing a circus (German, apparently) that's situated just behind le parc George Brassens (Parisian).  Dinner and drinks are to be shared shortly thereafter (a very French thing to do on 31 Decembre).

We are only half way through our Fun and Festivities, and a pattern seems to be emerging.

Many of our conversations revolve around the present state of American politics.  More specifically, we are questioned as to our feelings about Americans actually and in the final end voting for The Donald.  We try to quickly turn the conversations around to ask them how they feel about the Republican Clowns Who Would Be King Of America.  To a person we've been told of (French) people's shock at America' anti-intellectualism.

And there it was.  The Correct Way of putting it.  It's true, isn't it?  It all seems to come down to America' anti-intellectualism.

A quick look reveals many areas that might illustrate the point.  Conservative christianity in America celebrates anti-intellectualism in many obvious ways.  Sports (football, basketball, NASCAR, etc) work to evoke emotional "feel good" responses at the cost of "over thinking it all".  Reality TV is anything but reality as many people would know it.  America's response to the crisis of man-made global climate change seems to be based on desire, not fact.  America's response to the gun violence crisis is anything but intellectual.  America's response to the refugee crisis is based, not on what is actually happening, but on what could happen if ____ [fill in the blank with unfounded fear].

All too often it seems to me that America is quick to give an emotional response which "feels right" and "expresses what we the people really feel" and are very slow to think things through based on fact and truth.

It's not surprising, to me, that American politics has become the politics of anti-intellectualism, too.  It's in this climate of emotional reactionism that someone like The Donald (and all the other howling Would-Be Kings of America) can thrive.  It "feels right" that America is under attack by poor Mexicans who cross the southern boarder to take jobs away from hard working legal citizens.  It "feels right" that Social Security will go bankrupt in just a few years if the politicians don't kill it.  It "feels right" that 1200 noble prize winning scientists are wrong about global climate change and that the two or three "scientists" who work for oil companies are correct.  It "feels right" that America is not to be granted health care because to do so would be just too damned socialist for us.  Etc.  Etc.  Etc.

Living overseas and talking with people who come from intellectual cultures (such as here in France, or in Germany, Italy, and parts of Spain) demands we have a well thought-out response to their questions.  They seem to know much more about the US than we know about Europe.  In short, they are well informed in ways Americans simply are not.  Someone recently suggested that's because America is the 900 pound gorilla stomping around on the world stage.

Honestly, this is what I've come to appreciate and love about Europe: We value intellectuals, intellectualism, intelligence, and rational frameworks of thought and philosophy.

I feel proud of our ability to get out while the getting out was good.  I feel a kinship with those who ask questions about how America can do what it's doing.  I feel as bewildered as our friends at how Americans behave.

From this perspective I feel Europeans can stand up to American Globalization.  They have a long history of making their voices heard, here. They have a long history of casting out the Would Be Conqueror.  I just hope they see America for what it is before it's too late.

Perhaps The Donald will play an important role in a much needed European awakening to what America really is.  Perhaps.

The entire album of Paris Holiday Lights can be seen here

Quel petit monde...

My beard enters it's 8th month of only slightly trimmed growth and I've taken to telling folks in our French/English conversation group that the bottom half of the beard is reminiscent of the SDF (Sans Domicile Fixe - or homeless people) and the mustache evokes the late dix-neuvieme siecle (late 19th century).  On days where I don't wish to stand out completely as someone who is SDF I wax the 'stache.  It's a little dandy-ish I suppose.  Still, it's an important distinction around these parts.  Or so it seems from the stares I sometimes get from passersby.


All this came up in conversation during our annual Winter Holidays Singalong et Gouter.  This is the time when we gather together in song and celebration of having spent pleasant times together.  This is the time when we bring in a few musician members of WICE who lead us in our merrymaking.  First it's a song in French.  Then it's a song in English.  Back and forth we go alternating languages.  All in a register none of us can really sing in and in such a high octave that more than a few of us complain rather loudly about not being able to sing.  I tend to croak like a grenouille.  Other people tend to just give up and hum along as best they can.

These things are wonderfully doused into submission after the Singalong by le Gouter.  People bring their favorite beverages and apero-like plates of yumminess.  All the croaking and humming is forgotten.  All the off-key and stratospheric octaves are forgiven.  Down goes the wine.  Munch go the many tasty goodies.  Jude's smoked canard dolloped with mascarpone on small bread rounds were a hit.  We were able to take home more nice memories and a completely empty gouter plate.

When the cupboards are bare we make our lists and plan our plans and head out to the markets.  Yesterday it was our turn to march through the vasty student strewn sidewalks with air heavily laden with cigarette smoke to make our way to Bio C'est Bon.  Yes, these young people are driving us nuts! with all their smoking.


Once safely inside the Smoke-Free Everything Bio market we set about doing our shopping.  It was nearly time for the dejeuner and many mothers were out picking up their children and stopping in at Bio C'est Bon Thank The Gods There's No Students Smoking Here! to pick up a few last minute items.

There was Good News, and not just with the lack of cigarette fumes.  One of the young ladies who works there was rather nicely dressed and Jude asked her why.  We learned she'd been promoted to store manager.  This after she'd been told in her recent review that she'd first have to work at several other stores before being considered for the position.  Well then, Minds Changed and a Minor Missed Opportunity was corrected.

As we set about our shopping a SDF brushed past on his way down a side aisle.  I grumbled about the shabbiness and wondered where his money came from.  The mothers who were there with their children looked a little askance, too.


A few minutes later out basket was filled to the brim and we were in line to talk with another employee while she scanned out items.  Jude and I speak in heavy accents and are constantly asked where we're from.  This time was no different and Jude shared the Important Details of our lives.  The checker seemed to know something about our Old Home Town, as did the SDF who happened to be next in line behind us.

Suddenly the SDF is talking with Jude and I can see his snaggle-toothed mouth form the worlds "Tektronix."  Er?  Wot's all this, then?  The next thing I know Jude is telling the man that I too used to work at Tektronix.

My mind was having difficulty keeping up with the context switch.  It really was.  I figured the SDF was just some shabby good for nothing drunkard in to do a Little Theft Exercise and to be on his way.  How utterly and completely wrong I was.  Words failed me.

Walking back up the street I told Jude about how judgemental I'd been and what a pleasant surprise it was to run into someone who'd worked at Tektronix in several capacities, in Beaverton, on the original campus, and just before the company transitioned from analog to digital.  I told my wife I really needed to reconsider how I view the world and how I "see" or not "see" people.


It's shocking, actually, to realize how deeply ingrained my American view of homeless and poor people is.  I've learned a little too well to view the poor as being in positions of their own creation and that people who put themselves into these positions are undeserving of anything. It's easy to point to the many conversations with Americans about how weird and strange people can look who shop at Walmart.  How we know when the state welfare check has arrived by the provisions piled high in a cart, filling it with junk foods.  Why can't they buy an apple instead of a frozen pizza?  Don't they know they're killing themselves by eating all that shit?  And, and, and, can't the poor see that all they need to do is just get off their lazy asses and go find a job!, forcryingoutloud.  Gawds! how we absolutely hate it when people are "taking advantage of the system" and the taxes we're paying that support their special/lazy/bankrupt "needs"!!  Yes, I'm embarrassed to admit that I still look at the poor and homeless with a judgemental uncaring America-bred-and-raised eye.

Up went went the fob.  Open went the door to our building.  In stepped Jude.  One last look down the street and... here he comes.  He's a small man.  Slightly hunched.  Very slender.  Ill-shaven.  Very much snaggle-toothed.  His clothes hang in the manner of someone you might not otherwise want to approach.  He was hauling two 4 litre bouteilles d'eau.

Monsieur.  Monsieur.  Regardez quelque chose d'interessant.  I pulled back the cuff of my jacket to show him the watch I wear.  It still has the two rubies on a small plaque on the side of the wrist band.  It was a 15 year anniversary gift.  In small silver bold lettering it says "Tektronix."

Having recovered my mind a little, we talked about some of the trigger mechanisms he'd worked on, all the tools he was familiar with, and the oscilloscope he'd brought back to France with him when he came home.  It was then that I remembered that here in France, in general, the poor and homeless are viewed not as being lazy and undeserving of state care and attention, but rather as the product of a system that has failed.  This is why we've seen the "deserving" (in American terms) having friendly conversations with the "undeserving" (again in American terms) who many times populate the benches and sidewalks in our quartier.


I had to admit that I really didn't know if this former Tektronix employee was poor or homeless and that my judgements of him were very likely false in every way imaginable.  I have no idea of the system failed him (from the French point of view) or if he is just an old retired guy who enjoys life as much as anyone else.

I told him in a sad tone of voice that une grande entreprise est venu vendre Tektronix.  C'est completement detruite maintenant.  C'est fini, en fait.  He understood that the formerly great  electronics test and measurement company had only recently (8 years ago) been destroyed and nearly disappeared by Corporate Takeover Greed that netted senior management hundreds and hundreds of millions of dollars.   Thank you Danaher, or whatever you call yourselves now.  You can kindly go to hell for what you stole and the company you destroyed.

As we wagged our heads at the woe that has befallen Tektronix we bid eachother une tres bonne journee and went our separate ways.

Equal opportunities for all...

I recently wrote about our three day visit with les vignerons independent.  Wine is good.  Wine is great.  Wine keeps the ship upright and sailing smoothly in the right direction.  But there's more to life than just wine.

Beer!

What's not to love?  More complex carbohydrates than wine.  This gives beer a sense of volume and complex taste.  It's sometimes brewed by drunken monks.  You know the ones.  Those who were chased out of France by the Revolutionaries during the 1789 King Removal.  While their religion was revolting to the Revolutionaries, the beer... well... it's really hard to fault them on their beer making abilities, no matter what country the drunken monks land in.

It's rather like Christmas every time I head over into the 14eme.  The kind Beer Gods and Goddesses seem to have something interesting to sample each and every time I go in.  This time is no different.  Belgiums.  Belgiums.  Belgiums as far as the eye can see.  That's where all the French Beer Making Religious Types escaped to shortly after the Bastille was torn down to make way for a vast roundabout (c.1789) with a pole called the July Column stuck in the middle (c.1840).

In the interests of Equal Opportunities for All, this week's segment could have been more properly titled What's In Mr. Caddy?

Who's Mr. Caddy, you might ask.  Well, he's our trusted friend and confident.  He's been with us for nearly four years and is by our side through thick and thin.  He's what we haul our groceries and purchased items in.  He's what I use to carry the empties back to the beer shoppe for a recycle refund.  He's what I use to bring another Month Of Happiness back.  Very French, Mr Caddy is.  He's required, actually.  Where Americans have cars to haul things in, the French have these little caddys.

So... what's in Mr. Caddy this week?  Well, let's have a look, shall we?

This trip saw me choosing a few triple and quadruple fermented brews.  I also selected a few porters and stouts.  These are nothing like the American beers that go by similar names.  The Belgium porters and stouts are Real Beers.  Nothing less than 7percent ETOH, and many times several degrees more than that.  Real Rocket Fuel, this stuff.  And their taste is fantastic.  I also selected a couple bruns (brown) and several Winter Warmers (lightly spiced beers).

I've become something of a Beer Snob.  While likely to be a little different that a Wine Snob, it's still Snobbery.  So I have to admit to it.  There.  I've done my Confession.  OK?  What form does my Snobbery take?  None of this "Brewing Since 1983" for me.  No siree, Babo.  I want the Real Thing.  The oldest brewer I'd found imported to Paris from Belgium dated from 10-something-or-other.  I thought that was really neat and crowed to my American friends at having found something old and tasty.  Old is good in my Beer Snobbery Book.  The oldest is the best.

As is my habit I asked if there was something new (to the shoppe) and tasty I needed to try.  The Beer Folk guided me to something called l'Abbaye d'Alune.  There were three types of brew on offer and I picked up several of each for a thorough sampling and tasting.

A short history of l'Abbaye is that it started as a Benedictine monastery and converted to the Cistercian order 400 years later.  It's anyones guess as to whether it was a bloodless take-over or not.  I guess what happened after that was rather wild and wooly at times.  This included the destruction of the original monastery by French Revolutionary Guards in 1794 and the Last Monk dying in 1850-something (may he RIP).

Fast forward to the present time and what we have is a bunch of lay folk who took the original three or four recipes for monks beer and restarted the fermentation processes.  All I needed to do was crack open the first bottle to know this was truly something special.  The second type I tried was better than the first.  The third type I tried nearly rose me up into the heavens.  Monks beer can do that, right?

Any guesses as to when those Drunken Monks first started brewing?  Looking at the bottles when I got home caused my jaw to drop.  We have a new winner.  Anno 657 it said.   Old is good, right?  In this case it's brilliant!  Or so me-thinks.  Golly these are old recipes.  They're nearly 1400 years in the perfecting.

Album of what was in Mr. Caddy is found here