Fall...

I have to admit that Fall is my favorite time of the year.  It has been since I was in high school, lo those many years ago.


After a long summer with little access to a decent library (Dana Point was small then and some of the social infrastructure was weak) I looked forward to going back to school.  My academic and social life became rich, then.  The school library was a well stocked.  My friends and I could play chess for hours.  Music classes meant I needed to practice one thing or another.  September meant all these things could start anew.

The American tradition of Friday night high school football meant I'd be out with the band on a cool (by southern California standards) night.  The air seemed crisp and clean (even as it was humid and polluted).  The lights over the stadium had an interesting quality that made seeing the action on the field difficult.  Sometimes I could see my breath as I played an alto sax.  Fall was magic and I was happy.

As a young man I worked a contract out on Long Island in New York.  My first Fall spent there helped me realize that California really didn't have seasons as the rest of the country might know them.  Fall on Long Island meant the sugars in the leaves of the trees could turn into amazing brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds.


On a NY style crisp and cold autumn day a colleague and I stumbled upon Bridgehampton Raceway.  It was Ferrari Day and we found ourselves track-side watching the prancing horses run.  The sound of a V12 carries rather well on cold days.  We knew when a fast runner was on his way well before he actually came into view.  The magic of the experience was capped by the setting.  The fall colored trees at the raceway were nearly impossible to look at, so sharp and bright were their colors.

As a married man with children I always looked forward to our children heading out on All Hallows Eve.  Everyone was usually excited to be dressed up in their favorite costumes.  The Hunt for Candy would begin and some hours later the Spoils of the Hunt were richly displayed on the livingroom floor.  When we lived in Hillsboro this meant the livingroom was heated by a nice fire gently burning in the fireplace.

Now that we live in Paris, my wife and I experience autumn in rather different ways.  The traditions of Fall would clearly not be the same and we set out to experience it.


Yesterday we headed out to BHV.  Our expedition was to find and capture a much needed "Defense de Fumer" sign.  We require one for the entry to our buildings underground parking garage.  The children (children! I tell you) from the school just next door congregate in the space just in front of the garage door.  There they smoke like only the French (children!!!) can smoke.  The problem for us is that their smoke comes up into the building air system and collects just outside our apartment door.  So a "Defense de Fumer" is required.  After four years of living here, the time seemed right to do something about the problem.

Jude did a little shopping and scored a very nice coat.  We then descended into the basement/cave where I asked where the signs were.  Once directed we scored our "Defense de Fumer" and made our way to la caisse.

An elderly lady seemed a little confused as to where the end of the queue was.  She'd walked up the side the cordon that led to the cash registers and she needed to be on the other side of the ribbon where Jude and I stood.


The French must be competition people with a spirit of "You Snooze, You Loose."  The elderly lady was completely taken aback by our offer to let her in front of us (which is where she would've been had she not taken a confused detour).  She didn't expect kindness as simple as letting her have a place in front of someone who was already standing in a queue.

Let it Never Be Said that the French don't like to talk with strangers.  Foreign strangers at that.  This was by no means our first encounter with talkative French and this one only added to our growing list of delightful conversations.  Our Little Kindness launched the elderly lady into a long conversation about this and that.  She showed us her intended purchase and rambled on about what she was going to do with them (little tacks from the looks of things).

Seeing la caisse was a bit understaffed, Jude mentioned it must be lunchtime.  At this the elderly lady launched into une petite histoire of her eating habits.  To begin, she did not eat lunch.  She ate only breakfast.  Breakfast for her consisted of a baguette with honey poured on it.  Skipping lunch meant that she needed a 16h00 goute.  16h00 is indeed Standardized French Goute Hour.  We've seen school children work their way into pain au chocolate right on schedule at 16h00.  Goute was required to keep one's strength ahead of le diner, which begins at 20h00 in these parts.


I must have had a questioning look on my face because she started to explain that this way of eating was her habit.  That's just the way things are.  And, she added, it's worked out very well indeed.  She asked if we could deviner her age.  86! she told us.  "Just look at me" as she pulled back her overcoat to reveal a very svelte and shapely (fully clothed, I must add) 86 year old body.  She looked great!  In her younger years she must've been the Talk of the Town.  "See?  It's because of how I eat.  Isn't it great?"  Before a "vous etes vraiment joli, madame" could cross my lips the queue to la caisse moved and we found ourselves in front of yet another kind lady, this one who was ready to take our money in exchange for a new "Defense de Fumer".

Yes, it was time for lunch and we were hungry.  There was no way I was going to start down the path of the elderly lady and try and follow her life long diet.  So I suggested to Jude that pay Le Petit SP a wee visit for une ou deux coupes and steak frites.  One metro stop down from BHV we found ourselves trinquer deux coupes, and all remained right with our world.  The early afternoon light was golden and the sky was a deep, nearly Montana blue

It's not for this missive for me to explain my  transition from medium-well cooked steak to saignant (which means bloody - and I'm not using the English swear word here).  Suffice it to say, the steak frites were wonderful.  Jude had ordered one as well and loved it.  Accompanied with 25cl of St. Somethingorother from Bordeaux we soon found our plates empty and our tastes anticipating un peu de dessert.  We were part of what we call the Clean Plates Club.


This time it was Jude's turn to suggest something to do next.  Who could possibly say "no" to a gorgeous Fall day?  A beautiful passage, l'hotel de Sens, across les deux Ponts, a lovely stroll across l'isle Saint Louis, over another quai and through the Old City to la rue Saint Germain des Pres we went.  All taken at a slow strolling pace.

Half way across the second pont we paused a looked back toward Notre Dame de Paris.  There is something special about the light of Fall.  I think I like it here as much, if not more, than when we lived in the US.

Time for yet another rant...

Sorry to do this, but I feel I have to.

Someone just went nuts and killed students in a school located in our old home state.

Need I point out?  All it took was one failed shoe bomb attempt and all of us take our shoes off to go thru airport security checkpoints.

Yet just this year there have been 45 school shootings.  Since Sandy Hook there have been 142 shootings in schools.

Why do people in America feel that the problem of the shoe bomber can be "solved" and yet seem to do nothing when it comes to their own children being at risk while in school?

If arming teachers is somehow the answer, why is it that for every criminal killed in self defense, 34 innocent people die?

If taking guns away from anyone not part of a "well regulated militia" is somehow not part of a solution, then what is?

By comparison, when was the last time you heard about a school shooting in, well, just about anywhere else in the world?  Literally.

If a solution to the problem of killings in America is to be implemented, why not take an example of any of the over 180 democratic and free nations where children are not at risk for living beyond their young years?

... and some people still wonder why we left the US to live overseas.

Catching up...

Gods!  The last post was in June, fer cry'n out loud!!!  Where to begin?  Are we still in the midst of the On-Going Madness?  Or are we at An End yet?


Winter 2015 saw both Jude and I sick with various virus for nearly three months. We followed this with a Five Day Stay in a hotel in Tours to stabilize Jude's blood pressure meds and a month or two to sort it all out back in Paris.  Disaster wouldn't leave well enough alone.  Jude then came down with shingles on her face.

So, as you can see, we've been rather busy.  "Laying low" as they say.

Jude wasn't the only one to come down with it in our quartier.  At the local pharmacy we were told that six other people had also developed zona, as shingles are called here, on their faces, too.  It's taken two and a half months of terrible blisters, deep/hard pain, and countless nights of near no sleep to begin to get out the other side.  Fortunately Jude is beginning to feeling well enough that she is down to taking ibuprofen only twice a day to control the lingering pain.


During these illnesses I had more than enough time on my hands and couldn't help but note a few things as they unfolded around me.

I learned that deep histories of struggle, Catholics against Republicans and Anarchists, still have the power to divide families.  A vendeuse at Bio C'est Bon told us that she was getting married and that her future husband deliberately planned for the two families to meet in Beaune so everyone could get to know each other.  One side of the family are staunch Catholic and the other sound like they are strongly-idealist Republican or Anarchist (think descendants of the Communards - pretty serious stuff, that).  He hoped to lay to rest some of the divisions between families who have lived very different ideologies for what sounded like several centuries.

It was from the same vendeuse that we learned an interesting French expression.  It goes something like this - a happy woman creates a village.  Which is to mean that for some women there is joy in having children.  Enough, it seems, to populate a village.  It was wonderful the way she described this to us in French.  It seemed so civilized and natural.

While out on rare outtings we can't help but be horrified at how Americans behave when visiting.  A recent visit to Chartres only added to our horror.


The labyrinth in the cathedral was closed due to renovations taking place overhead.  That didn't stop a group of Americans from occupying the center of the labyrinth.  They were bottling up the flow of visitors so they, the Americans, could have their "oh so special" spiritual/religious moment.  It was weird seeing something that the Europeans have had for 1,000+ years being discovered and laid claim to by Americans.  It was even weirder watching their guru hovering over them with a cell phone on a "selfie stick" while he shot video of his disciples (all women) in prayer.  He made no attempt to improve the flow of visitors by moving his disciples out of the way.

During lunch we couldn't help but notice the very same guru and his followers sitting near by.  The guru was loudly talking about his own path to enlightenment.  His path seemed to be strewn with one master after another.  Each had problems of various kinds that caused the guru to move on to the next sack of nuts with yet another sack of problems.  It was all nonsense to me, but his group of disciples hung on his every blessed word.

There was another group of Americans on the other corner from us.  At one point Jude got up to wash her hands and asked the woman, who was from NY, if she would please move her chair slightly so Jude could slip by.  The NY woman told her rather loudly and very bruskly "NO!"  So Jude asked her again as there really was no way to get to where she needed to go but through this narrow area.  The NY bitch, er, sorry, woman huffed and puffed as her friends suggested she move.  The NY Bitch inched her chair forward an inch.  It seemed as if the bitch was trying to lay claim to it's her own patch of France.


A little later we were sitting around the back side of the cathedral when I heard a woman tell me "I'm not being presumptuous..." as she reached under my seat and between my legs for something rather important.  It was definitely sacred to her.  Apparently it had been delivered from the sky and this little rolly polly bat-faced girl was filled with all kinds of "wonderful spiritual energy."  She was part of the American "spiritualists" group and felt it her duty to let me know something sacred had just taken place.  She told me "it's your's" as she held up a downy pigeon feather.  It took me a moment to realize what was going on and replied "No.  Really. It's your's."  Her face lit up, her puffy hands carefully caressed the feather, and she moved away in an obvious (oblivious?) state of "grace."

Oh, these have indeed been trying times.  A long hard winter followed by a long hot summer has given me the impression that I've become rather cranky.

Fortunately France remains a very sweet, civilized place to live.  Even as they have their very own brand of Special Olympic qualifying events.

Take, for instance, that wedding cake of a church sitting on top of Montmartre.  I shared with an American couple that Sacre Coeur is an abomination against all that is good and decent in Paris.  You can imagine the puzzled looks on their faces as I said this.  The obvious question is "why?".


Well, you see, a hundred years of history has done little to dampen the ardent hatred many Parisians have for that site.  Afterall, how can you blame them?  The royalist/monarchist Catholics built it in honor of their "victory" over the Communards who tried to rule Paris in a very true and interesting Anarchist way.  The event was a slaughter, actually.  French slaughtering their own.  All because someone needed to have things their way and only their way.

A Parisian I spoke with this week suggested the best view of Paris is indeed from Montmartre.  It's the only view of the city where you don't see that abomination of Sacre Coeur.

I must be becoming Parisian of some persuasion as I couldn't agree more with this.  To me it's incredibly moving to visit the place inside Pere Lachaise cemetery where the last of the Communards were stood against a wall and slaughtered by the Royalist/Monarchist army.

Often I see fresh flowers at the site.

Getting away...

Sitting around the apartment stewing over things I can't change and fuming over people I can't influence yields nothing.


So it was a pleasure to get out and participate in the kind of life we moved here to enjoy in the first place.  Our friends Jacky and Michèle invited us to la maison dans la compagne.

For us it was up at the Crack of Dawn and hustle over to the Translien toward Provins out of la gare de l'Est.  We thought we were plenty early to grab a seat to enjoy a peaceful ride through the lush green isle de France countryside.  But as we walked toward our train we realized this was the weekend of the huge medieval festival.  Tout le monde was dressed in medieval attire.  Corsets, bustiers, cloaks, capes, leather boots and replicas of ancient weapons abounded.


Jude and I knew well our duty and we instantly laid siege to the train.  With shoulder and knee, with hand and foot, with sharp elbow and quick shove, and with strong, vigourous and, dare I say, courageuse action we stormed une grande porte de chateau, er, train, and won our vainglorious right to be braced, literally, cheek by jowl and, in my case, rump against very ample jiggly clearly overweight Americaine rump with the not yet drunken revelers bound for Provins.

Trying Times, these.  Once our Right of Place was gained we all too quickly realized we were required to wage on-going hand to hand, foot on foot, rump shoving ample rump close quarters combat.  There wasn't enough room in the train for the hordes.  It was nearly too much.  Not only this but the air conditioning was doing it's best to behave like old fashioned of the period medieval air conditioners would.  That is to say, AC was yet to be invented and we suffered the heat of a thousand humans in constant skirmish to win a few centimeters of space.


The spell was broken when Jude and I started a conversation with a woman who worked in Paris during the week but has her home in Provins.  She told us about how it is to live in a small, normally sleepy village and to have a vast feting horde lay siege to the upper part of town.  She tried not to grumble about it, but it was clear these were Trying Times for more than just Jude and I.

After a 45minute ride, er, running battle with the Time Travelers in the Way Back Machine (our Translien) Jude and I happily bounded out the door to breathe the wonderfully fresh air in Nangis.  The Future Drunken Revelers carried on to Provins, wine, fete, and combat against dragons of a by-gone era.  We bid them a fond(?) adieu.

What unfolded next was to prove our wisdom in having moved to France.


Our friends met us quai-side and drove us to their country home.  They showed us around their property and home.  They showed us their apple trees.  Those would be the ones that produce apples that, in turn, produce tasty cidre after the Fall harvest.  We shared an amazing wonderful delicious three hour lunch.  The table was set on the lawn under a cherry tree.  Under which we enjoyed the shade from a sun that shone brightly against the kind of azure blue that I thought only Montana could deliver.

Jacky insisted that I help him by drinking his allotment of wine.  He was our driver and he didn't want to be collared by The Authorities.  What?  No wine for le chauffeur?  Either this is not France or times have severely changed.

We went for a walk in a forest to visit an ancient, massive, though now dead, oak.  The forest smells are what Jude and I sometimes miss.  They can be delicious.  We visited a cloitre in a small village.  The grounds-keeper is a wonderful woman who showed us the medieval gardens, showed us around the church, and she opened the gates for us to enter the chapel.  It was through this chapel that passed the village's dead to (not) hear the mass said for them before they made their way to be buried.  We walked quietly to the gates of a medieval farm to look at the outline of a destroyed church.  We traded curious looks with race horses as they leaned out of their paddocks.


After so much fun we were running rather low on energy.  It'd been a full, long day.  After a quick drive back to the station we saw we had a 30 minute wait.  So we sat down and talked and traded more stories.  Our friends are very kind, cordial, and generous.  As we heard our Translien approach Jacky and Michele said goodbye.  We boarded our train for home.

It's hard to imagine a better tonique against stewing over unchanging things than a day out.  It's hard to imagine a better day than this.

Of light and floating things...

We awoke to the delightful sounds of baby birds being fed by their parents.


Raising the shutters revealed a pair of baby Mesange Charbonniere.  They seem to be closely related to what would call Chickadees in the US.  Their parents were busy finding tasty bugs to eat in the Dove Plum tree that's growing not three meters from out back window.

All day I pointed my camera lens toward the Dove Plum.  All day "click click click" went the shutter.  Hungry babies.  Parents hunting.  Babies fed.  Peaceable things, these.

Our courtyard is filled with birds this time of year.  We have at least one pair of nesting doves and one pair of Merle, or what one might call Blackbirds in the UK.  There are several pigeon families as well as these cute little Mesange Charbonniere.


Jude and I agreed that the day had been a wonderful one.

The next morning we awoke to the sounds of very agitated Mesange Charbonniere.  Raising the shutters we looked on a scene of death and destruction.  A Geai des Chenes was on the hunt.

It was terrible to watch the efficiency with which the bird hunted.  The Geai des Chenes is closely related to Jays in the US.  Unlike the Jays we used to see the French version is lethal.  Little bits of fluff and feather floated through the air.  Terrible strings of meat and gut were unstrung.  Tiny legs and claws soon hung limp in a laurel tree.

On a human level, the two days which started in beauty and grace but later ended in dismembered white and dripping red is the perfect metaphor for what's happening around me.


It is all too easy for me to compare the cute little birds being cared for by their parents with the feelings words can bring when someone says you are regarded and things will be shared.  Someone else says to you is given this very important future task.  There is safety and comfort sometimes in words.  Particularly in important words.

Death came both figuratively and in reality.  The aftermath of floating downy feathers are beautiful words too soon pulled from the body of beautiful truth.  Lies and half lies, darker truths and controlling demands are the beak of destruction.  Words that do not lead to proper action is death of a terrible and disturbing kind.

Those supposedly close, those who uttered such fine words are instantly seen as false and shallow.  They are shown to be simple managers of their own self interests.  Greed and gain, responsibility and authority lay on different bed rock than their words described.  Like a Geai des Chenes on the hunt the effect is swift, brutal, and efficient.


Those who can and could say, don't.  Those who know and have known for a long time remain silent.  Their claim that all one needed to do was to ask so as to know what was really meant, what was really the truth use tightfisted, thuggish ways of avoiding what they have done to their own family.  Their approach only works if you know the questions to be asked and it is very well understood that you cannot know nor could ever imagine the right questions to ask.  Thereby, those who have motive and opportunity gain.  Those who were said to be included, those who were to shoulder serious responsibilities won't.

It is in the deep and very nature of those involved that their lives unfold as they do, is it not?  There is no mystery how this happens.  The only mystery is why they are believed for as long as they are.  For that I must bear full responsibility.  For all the rest, the drama they created is their's to live and deal with.

The Geai des Chenes has so far destroyed two families of Mesange Charbonniere.  The first attack took place in full sun.  The second on a cold and rainy day.  The cute little birds keep trying to bring to adulthood a brood of chicks.  Their optimism is sometimes horrible to consider.  The attacks were 30 days apart.


We see that a third family of Mesange Charbonniere are in the nest.  Will they survive?  By the looks of the middle of the courtyard where Pigeon feathers are spread all about after yesterday's attack by a crow or perhaps a cat we have our doubts.

It's been a brutal Spring.

au Mans!

The day started poorly but it changed for the better the closer I got to le Mans to watch the MotoGP Grand Prix de France.

When I was young my uncle gave me a copy of Road &Track to read.  It fueled my young mind with visions of exotic racing machines, high speed, and good European living.  I've dreamed of visiting le Mans ever since.

Five decades later my dreams came true.

This is the story in pictures.

Waiting for the departure platform to be announced

I'll take the one on the left, thank you

This must be the place.  It even says so.

Tramway to Antares

Show your support by buying a name or number

Or show your support by hauling a flag with the number of some famous racer

No doubt the barbed wire keeps the racers from getting into the crowd

Demanding French Independence from Normandy?  Or???

I'm ready to make a few photos

Italians like #46

Pict advanced invasion forces scout enemy terrain

Wow!  What a beer!! er, I mean race!!!

Premature frites death

Hoping to get a few more photos before heading to dinner

Spotted in the parking lot (1)

Spotted in the parking lot (2)

Spotted at the gare (1)

Spotted at the gare (2)

Before steak-frites with red

Inspecting the Mens Room at the gare

Please don't let the train be late

This is it.  Home to Paris we go.

One last look at the Madness

I processed the images to resemble faded scenes from fuzzy Road & Track illustrations and my memories of them.

My photos from the practices, qualifying, and Saturday races can be found here.

Birds in a Bird Bath

The alarm was set for 06h00.  I was to rise early to catch a 08h00 TGV au Mans.  I was off to watch the Big Motorcycles run at the MotoGP Grand Prix de France.



06h00 - I'm out of bed and into the shower.  The water is freezing cold.

06h30 - Now I'm freezing cold after a terrible attempt at showering.  I check the fuse.  It looks good.  I check the fuse box.  Hmmm.  Somethings tripped.  Reset the switch and "BANG", we're dark.  The chauffe-eau has died.

06h45 - Email our proprietaires to let them know there's a problem.

07h15 - Breakfast finished.  Wishing Jude "good luck" (after verifying that, yes, there was nothing to be done by me sticking around).  Out the door to catch the metro to the TGV railhead.

Thus begins a rather long story of what it takes to get something fixed in this country.

One of my brothers explained it this way.  In some countries you have 1st world, 2nd world, and 3rd world experiences all in the same place and at the same time.  I am rather unhappy to put France on the list of such countries.

Le moins de Mai has not three (like I originally thought) but FOUR Four Day Weekends.  When did our chauffe-eau die?  Dans le moins de mai!  Zut alors!!

All work slows to a crawl.  No one is around to do anything.  You can't get sick.  The doctors are all out of town.  You can't meet friends.  They're all out of town.  You can't have a Critical Component of Modern Daily Living die on you and expect it will be attended to in a quick manner.  Technicians who manage Critical Components of Modern Daily Living are all out of town.

My father pointed out that if the chauffe-eau died in the US, the job would've been done the next day.  Or if the part wasn't available, certainly the day after.

Here?  Well.  First you have to schedule a man to come take a look and gather the information on what is to be replaced.

Then you need to wait while the contract is written up.

Followed by a review of the contract and verification what all is correct (and not too expensive).

After which the signed contract is returned and the Date of Installation is, well, discussed.

To their credit, our proprietaires did an amazing job.  They were responsive and concerned.  They worked their French Magic as best they could.  They pushed l'entreprise who was doing the work as hard as they could be pushed.  Would couldn't wish for finer landlords.

While things were Thrashed Out, Jude and I heated water on the stove and hauled it into the shower.  We'd then help eachother bathe.  A splash here.  A dunk there.  A little scrubbing where needed.

We were like two little birds splashing about in a bird bath.

In the end, it took four hours to remove the dead chauffe-eau and to install the replacement.  Pipes needed to be removed.  The building water needed to be turned off (for a short time).  New copper plumbing needed to be installed.

At one point we heard a lot of Heavy Work taking place.  So I went to inspect and found two plombieres sweating and breathing hard.  They'd just lowered the old chauffe-eau.  It was exceedingly heavy.  So I went out to inspect the replacement and found it rather light.  I could easily move it around.

After a conversation with le chef plombiere I learned something rather interesting.  What I learned was related to something Jude and I saw when we heated the water on the stove.  If we brought the water to near boiling a surface of "scum" appeared.  When we first saw it I suggested that it was calcium coming out of suspension.  Without fully realizing the implications of this we tried to bring our water to something less than a boil.

Le chef plombier asked what the temperature was set to in the old chauffe-eau.  "Plus de soixante degree" I replied.  "C'est ca, alors."  Our old chauffe-eau's thermostat was set so high that it was bringing calcium out of suspension and depositing it in the ballon of the old system.

I knew, but, again, didn't full appreciate the long term impacts, that Paris' water runs over and through ancient limestone deposits.  You can get a sense of this by descending into the Catacombs.  All you see are limestone walls, steps, paths, ceilings.  That is where the calcium is coming from.  The old rock-bed that Paris sits on is limestone.

Le chef plombier and I talked about what the new chauffe-eau should be set to.  We agreed that 50degrees centigrade was about right.  This temperature would be warm enough to be comfortable and cool enough to avoid calcium build-up.

After a few hours of heating Jude took her first hot shower in eleven days.  I took mine a few hours later.

It was good to rejoin Modern Civilization.