Bailey Alexander: The Europhile

au revoir mon amour...

Le lease is up, time to bid a most fond farewell to la ville lumiere.

As the movers begin to box, tape and pack I try and count how many times our 186 boxes have  moved, alors, too many, time to stop moving, maybe.

And yes, a thousand times oui, si, Paris was a precious gift, providing the final chapter in the novel; death, allowing the familiar, concentric circles to slow down, if not complete. 

Some 7 yrs ago we docked in Gibraltar, post transatlantic voyage.  The plan inspired an Old Europe trilogy; 3 yrs in Rome, then Paris, with Berlin completing the proper residency. Unfortunately Allemagne will remain unopened due to logistical exhaustion as much as financial reality.  Aprez domiciling in London, NY, Seattle, Rome and Paris, living in such cities has finally done me in.

Naturally the final destination has been decided and will be about nature, naturally; Limone Piedmonte, Italy.  Of course, we're Maltese residents so the middle of the Med will have to be lived proper prior to...

Limone, the home base of mio marito's Caballo Clan. 

Not only because of views such as this...

 
but because my husband's heart beats best up North, his family boasts generations of stories, history and humble success, and because I've come to love it too.  We lived there for a spell before Rome, so no surprise to me Limone won "Best village in Europe"' last year, or that Prince Albert has bought up half the neighboring town, Limonetto. 

Just breathing in that air after Paris made me quiet and content, very.  Neurosis no more, svp.

Oh look, here I am thinking I can fly down the slopes in my cape.  So happy, en route from Paris to Malta, where the coffee tastes like milkshakes and the pasta is once again al dente once again.

  However, prior to taking 5 minute walk from the family flats to the lift,  we had to pack up Paris. 

The boys arrived and began to box and tape   and pack, just two, then 4, then 5 of them.

Finally I had to relegate the muffins to the guest bedroom

The elevator arrived, the video tape came out, course, they ordered the wrong lift so we waited for the right one...

 

At first they carefully place the items on the lift, whistle for the operator to float it down, then when the wind dies down they begin throwing our beds, books and glassware effortlessly, almost carelessly...either way we tip well, three days of work rewarded accordingly. The Frenchies are sweet.

  

I tried to say good-bye to everyone, but knowing I'd found the warmest spot in the 5th in which to live, I hadn't enough 'bon courage'. So lucky and lucky to know it.

Maryse gave me a lovely scarf and we hugged several times. Maryse...I love her.  Paris was truly all that and then it was time to leave...so we did.

I sense this time really wasn't about the few friends or acquaintances made and met, nor was it about visiting Degas at D'Orsay. It actually wasn't about the spacious atelier, the dinner parties, the expats I entertained, too tone deaf to sing for their supper, no, that was alright and it was quite nice old friends came to visit.  I was happy to host, everyone was fawned over, treated well.

Even the curious guests, like the french gallery owners and the Swiss Jewish banking couple, those dinner guests at Chez Bay that became curiouser and curiouser, as the details unfolded in French, the chatty banter highlighting people less than in luv....

It wasn't about the opening, the vernissage, the couture fashion shows, although I'm grateful, the highlight wasn't enjoying luncheon in private homes in Neuilly where I watched the elderly proprietor press his leather foot to the button on the floor underneath the table set for 4, discreetly alerting the maid our next course could arrive.  We could so care less, surrounded were we by a vast private collection that would soon live in the Louvre. 

No, those moments were precious and privileged, as were the less than romantic cast of characters, like the perpetually drunk, mean spirited soft porn actress Christine Boisson, located underneath half my flat on the 5th floor.  That was alright, especially because I'm not her. Nor the asshole Dr. Pablo Schmidt who dined once and once too often, an international 'humanitarian', an Argentinian Jew who makes Netanyahu appear sane, or the ditsy countess Linda de Nazelle who's really just a bitter hippy chick from North Seattle that happened to seduce the black sheep son of a famous french family.  Le Divorce anyone?  

Nope, the lessons learned and the journey was more akin to what Muv suggested; a period of time where one could appreciate and ponder life while viewing the prettiest of all architecture.

Outside, one could walk along Haussmann's glory and the Seine, etc, while inside, I had purple sunrises,

and sunsets.

In the end, it was about living in a city that allowed me to be sad when that wasn't my natural state of mind.

It was about feeling protected while grieving Muv and then some, and then moving on, which I have. 

Warhol's last gasp of cool and then China began to buy...

...alors, how time flies...Andy's dead and now our landlords prefer we no longer carry the power to print money.  Today, China suggests a new currency reserve, no more altering the value of their investment.  Mother is no longer happy with its greedy child.

Couldn't help but compare and contrast the present while viewing the past through Andy's lens.  The current collection at the Grand Palais left too few images for me to linger upon, wonder about. 

  

Wandering around, the series felt too well weathered, almost sour, past its expiration date. All those Polaroids and prints of beautiful people, most of which are dead or no longer beautiful, specially Jagger.  Two exceptions possibly; La Liz's light just won't go out until she's dead and Brooke Shields, she who defies nature...the layout of her entire face from brow to mouth is simply spectacular.

Andy Warhol's clever and contrived life, like his work, which was his life, was so deeply superficial, obviously, but what struck me were the two generic pieces; An American Man and An American Lady..  The former, the male blonde waspish figure, so familiar as this made up much of my childhood, has completely lost all perceived sense of authority, finally.

The latter, the American lady. Well, the women can still sport their clone blonde bobs over there, they can pretend they haven't aged, believe their lives and society are interesting. I knew and grew up amongst many of those kinds of clubs, still belong to some; their lives as boring and bland as their blonde bobs.

The surface, the image, the consumer.  Andy got the gig.  America as the little child that must be spoon fed its candy and sweets, producing nothing of substance nor value, unless you qualify fast food as something other than what it is....and now the parent, China, would like to  create a  global super currency reserve. Apparently the parent is no longer proud of its child, in fact, it's fed the monster and would gratefully trade it in for another country or continent if it could, but can't.

We shall wait and see until it digests that last waifer thin mint, when then, the dollar will literally implode.

The State of American Civil Society: The torpedoing of Freeman's nomination.

Message from Charles Freeman provides less than cold comfort. Glenn Greewald has written how Freeman failed the loyalty test.  And Antony Loewenstein notes that neocon fanatic Daniel Pipes is sending out mass emails crediting indicted AIPAC official/espionage suspect Steven Rosen with being the catalyst of the anti-Freeman campaign.  Sullivan's linked comprehensively throughout the process.

Like many, I've wondered how powerful the Israeli lobby really is across the pond, but the perception and reality of their authority probably won't be altered by Obama.

Atlantic rift btwn EU and US

Imagine, EU gov't doens't want to pile up debt like US, FT reports the rift.

Un mauvais quart d’heure

Un mauvais quart d'heure  translates into that painful space of time when a lover must tell the other, 'cest fini'. 

Or, maybe it's the time spent with your mother discussing your progress in the first semester away from home, at university, where time was misspent socializing with your sorority sisters rather than attend two lectures in a row...but then you suddenly find yourself with child, like I did, so my 15 minutes were greeted with shock and compassion rather than consternation.  After all, prior to hormones and sexual curiosity kickin' in I was so precocious and such a pleaser.

Now I can smile in hindsight as my level of curiosity insisted those tracks were just waiting to be jumped. The trouble began long before 'suddenly, last summer', but I rebounded quickly as I used to everything so quickly even as I try and find a more methodical approach at 45.

I imagine many are experiencing their own mauvais quart d'heure.  It may arrive in the form of a pink slip, or one must release the seal of their Dear John letter.  For the French, it's that annoying stretch of time your dinner guests insist upon; just after arriving and finally deciding to sit down to dinner.

The Flying Spaghetti Monster must be livid!

Not only did Israel,the country we give billions of Aid to annually, decide to dictate our policy on Iran by creating their own red lines, they've also denied trucks loaded with pasta for Gaza to enter until John Kerry intervened.  Apparently, only rice is considered Aid. Israel is irrational, always.

The Flying Spahgetti Monster must be mighty mad and I wouldn't even wanna be a fly on the wall down south as my Italian mother in law can't be thinkin much of her Israeli son in law this week. 

we're just meme machines then....

I assumed the word meme was poorly translated when used; after all, it's one of those trendy words that's recently entered the lexicon.  Like mendacious, by those who hadn't used it previously and hadn't read Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.  The southern accent helps...

Beyond the word there's a theory called memetics.  Dawkins uses it, or coined it, it means the evolution of those memes and how those ideas replicate themselves in another person's memory.

Kinda like toilet paper, it's an idea that catches on, everywhere, which is good.  But apparently people are now scared of the natural progression of said memes because these ideas are now replicating themselves via technology, without the assistance of a human brain.  These machines, or rather what they do, need their own name so people are anxiously trying to come up with catchy names like temes, or cybermemes. 

Ideas are flowing faster that our ability to categorize them, and control them, as if we can....

Monomyth vs Religulous.

Saw Bill Maher's "Religulous", but somehow found the laughs lacking.  I've a lot of time for Mr. Bill but the doc felt as preachy as those he tried to satirize.

Let 'em have their faith.  More than ever, people need scaffolding, an imaginary best friend, a sense of morality, an authority to remind them how to behave.  Yikes, after watching CNBC yesterday, anarchy must be close if not downright imminent. 

Then I read Obama's winding down the the war, gee, just in time, bit redundant, think the thief of Baghdad's already come and gone. Keep your Koran, and don't mind the flying blonde Dutchman in DC.

How patronizing to read this mornings' press; both American and English pray dearly and uncross their fingers long enough to type their anxiety about whether or not Iraqi citizens can keep a lid on their life. Jesus Christ.

Speaking of....