Bailey Alexander

Paris in 33 hours.

Another petite sojourn to Paris, this trip slightly longer than last, perhaps the last for quite some time. A magical city, also expensive, dusty, musty and hyper busy when skidding through RER and a half dozen metros with two tasks to be accomplished within a short period of time, alas too dear. The French do love their contact sports, a fact that manifests up and down the escalators and along the conveyor belts throughout Les Halles.

Don't get me wrong, got an awful lot for the price; Catching Greg Proops, live, finally, laughed allot. Stayed overnite in a room with a charming view and most especially spoke with Mme. Sophie Descamps, curator for antiquities Roman@Le Louvre.

To be a amongst renaissance men...

A paid writing gig provides ample rationale to train it down to Paris for one long, luxurious day. To begin the process of collecting details to profile the kind of guy that could be construed as a Renaissance Man, the learned kind we once called Humanist.  

We meet in the 8th arrondissement, at the France-Amerique Club, a novel experience I'd never enjoyed while living in Paris, such lovely facilities with a long and luxurious history, befitting to this meeting.   

I feel fortunate to know a few Renaissance types but me thinks this species is diminishing, as if their extinction looms on the horizon or so it seems to me.

The pedigree arrives in various forms yet traditionally a typical renaissance sort boasts not only a comprehensive education, excelling in a variety of subjects, but athletic pursuits may play a part if only to make their broad education that much more comprehensive.

Such was the kind of Renaissance Man I met in Paris at the France Amerique club. Too bad there aren't more to go around. His grasp of history and economics is vital, a 'major player' as they say on the global stage. He's the kind of guy you can't google for discretion is key.  

He works on all continents, lives on a plane. Invited to the Jockey Club in Hong Kong one week, asked to  present a lecture on Peak Oil to the House of Commons the next. These guys don't grow on trees but I wish they did.

Gay Pride Parades; from Paris to Amsterdam

 

Watching the gay parade in Paris from our flat was immensely fun when living off of Boulevard Sainte-Germain; the emotional environs were so feisty, intense and aggressively interesting in the city of lights. Always so many distractions to compete with one another, it was amazing the options available to its residents.

 

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.

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.

Paris Fashion Week; An isolated, luscious gasp of luxury and style.

Mis en scene...George v hotel.... 

 My least favorite sensation; anticipation, is suddenly the opposite; even the soft hush rushing through the plush environs of this hotel feels highly stylized.

Posing occurs, quick glances collide and abide, women and men so gorgeously gay kisskiss while the ambiance of divas and drama queens is dutifully diluted by fur that fills and spills throughout the room. Fur is everywhere.  

As are such elegant efforts of milliners; hats askew, just so and below, dramatic face paint highlights Gallic features that follow the wafer thin mannequins gliding their narrow frames through our midst, rushing in from their last show.

Beckett & Death; Paris provides perfect mis en scène.

Anniversary's are rough, especially the first.

Last year was all about grieving; a proper death tour through Auschwitz and Eastern Europe, emancipatory efforts, embracing grief, then a reprieve was provided, assimilation could begin, and did. Grateful. Always.

But that was then, this is now.  There's nothing quite like the sensation of knowing one is exactly at the right place at the right time.

Paris is perfect, I could cry all day long at my local Auture Bistro with barely a glance my way. They are forgiving when malaise sets in, they grant a wide swath of empathy, expectations arise, their emotional climes give such license it practically kills off the fun of taking self-pity to new heights for this was the plan for this most auspicious day.

Views from Chez Bay...

Generally the sunsets captivate but purples penetrated our flat in the 5th at 8am...

Bienvenue L'hiver; From snow capped French Alps to the Pantheon in Paris..

Winter views from Chez Bay today...Le Pantheon and Notre Dame.

"The Reader"...will watching be anything like reading this book?

I suppose it was inevitable they attempt to translate this masterpiece into a movie.  But this book is so deeply philosophical and meaningful on paper, I'm weary of the visual.

When I was in London over a decade ago, I was staying with a friend who has a lovely library full of first editions behind rows of glass.  On a side table next to a chair I found this book and started reading it straight away.  It moved me from the first page. It was so compelling, so haunting, so unique, I vividly recall having to put it down every ten pages or so, just to ponder what I thought I'd read, only to have it morph into another meaning before I could continue reading 'The Reader'.  I've revisited that book and the same sensations occurred over a decade later.

It's simple, yet profound, a book about the Jewish Holocaust, yet mostly metaphorical.  It's written by a German judge named Bernhard Schlink.  An attempt to explore a piece of dark history through language, a way to explain away a time and people that proves practically impossible to articulate, especially those people and that history.  Then and now.

He cleverly uses chiasmus, a literary style to accentuate meaning.  This book is so beautifully written, I'm anxious to see the movie, but wondering how one can possibly translate such meaning and language onto the screen. 

Rome; as good as it gets...

All roads lead to Rome, if only for a day, as do we, via Termini late Saturday morn. As taxi takes us to the top of the Gianicolo my body temperature slowly goes down.Though not one of Rome's seven hills, this proves a favorite, with Garibaldi overlooking all he united, way beyond the vista, from North to South.It's low season, everyone's broke, so for 90 euro we get a room with a view and the largest terrace I've ever seen.

From Paris, our view, night prior to depart, dramatic orange sunset w/Pantheon at background

...to all things orange and ocher that is Rome below...

 The front of the hotel had it's charm of a garden.

Jesus was there to bless Colette and Godot.

 
 

The rain stayed in Spain for the rest of the day, leaving us to wander our itinerary umbrella free.

We unpack, then taxi it outside Trastevere, for luncheon con Signora Cavannarro, a literary editor/doyenne originally from the Connecticut/NY region, prior to marrying her Italian and moving to Italy several decades ago.

C n G stay quiet in the corner while we talk books, politics, books, Italy, books, Pasolini, then books some more...then it's over, just like that....here she is, a one off, knows everything there is to know about the important writers, I get a pic of Pat w/her De Chirico...I love to sit and listen, yet again, as she explains it away...

 

...after 4 hours we three taxi it back into Trastevere to hang out at the heart of Rome, our old hood.

We walk down the gianicolo, viewing some of the grandest views of Rome along the way, hit the bottom of the stairs, walk down the block towards our street 'via Angelo Tittoni', I look up for Sig Romitti, an old Italian journalist, she's not at home, I step across the street and say ciao to Alexandra, one of the most industrious and prosperous restaurateurs in Rome....she laughs as I ask for a pic, blowing me a big kiss from her door, too bad pic doesn't turn out....'L'Archetto'...people come from LA to enjoy this northern Italian fare...

I then veer left and hit Enzo's joint just prior to Piazza San Cosimato; twice a week I'd stop by his truck for vegetables, then dip inside to buy a bottle of frascati or dolcetto, one of many bottles lined precariously along the walls of this deliciously decadent hole in the wall.

By the time I arrive Enzo has already cracked open a bottle of red, he sees me, gives me kisses, too many, invites me in, calling me principessa, imagine!...I sit on the ladder and begin to inbibe, digesting the old cronies as they come in, as they always do and always will, talking smack, nothing worth repeating, these guys, hanging out, happy.

I capture Enzo in different poses, stepping out of his lair...I can see he's lost one of his teeth...he's so happy to see us, we him.....

 

someone comes in to buy the last of the punterelli, one divine lettuce only found in Roma....I made this all the time in winter con anchovy/olive oil/pepper sauce....deeeevine.

I ask Enzo to ham it up, he does.

On the ancient telephone, located in front of the old radio that's playing news/music from any of the cities listed on the dials; Salzburg, Istanbul, etc..

  ...we hang out, then make our way across the piazza, winding round towards Santa Doratea, so I have to have a glass at the wine bar in Piazza Trillusa where we would spend far too much time. 

I find the Thanksgiving party, a lovely combo of very crazy Italians and Americans...one young American informs me my motorcycle, my Honda rebel I left behind, not knowing whether Malta or Paris would most conveniently welcome without a proper new permit short term, the very same bike I thought was safely locked up, instead, invece, was being enjoyed by several ex pats in the eternal city.

I found this funny, as one should, after all, ne abbiamo visto di cotte e di crude, translation, 'who cares'...

Voila Jody, exhausted, spilling to the floor next to a well exercised oven, hugging little Godot, eventually we both end up on the floor of the kitchen, drinking, laughing, enjoying every last minute prior to flying out to Malta next day....Enfin.

My passion for Michael Powell, my deep obsession avec Anton Walbrook.

At least, until next week, when all things become Maltese.

Mais...until I board the overnight train from Paris to Rome, prior to a 10 hr itinerary of literary luncheons and parties in Rome, just now, piano, piano, my quiet Thanksgiving holiday inspires I view the full suite of M. Powell's movies. 

There's enough genius and joy to fill the entire place that is Chez Bay. 

For two full days and nights, in between daily particulars, my flat is free of everyone but me, c n g.  After regarding and ingesting their haunting beauty, we crawl under the covers and regurgitate their vivid Technicolor magic in our dreams.  

And because the weather in Paris is so cold, the air so still, there's plenty of room along our morning errands to repeat the process.  So we do.

 

I may lunch w//Mich @ Cafe Flore, as I did, prior to preparing to depart Paris for a month, but nothing can compete.  Nada, rien.  Friendship, 'Potage St Germain' and Puilley Fume may try, but I am still living within these movies, or maybe they wish to live within me.

I have to work, for we all do, more than before, but not now, maintenant, regarder le cinema, premiere la ville éternelle.

The black and white movies are grand.  I cherish 'I know Where I'm Going' most, if only because one never does, really.   

'The Canterbury Tale' resonates..I recall having to recite the first 20 lines while at University, the very same lines opening the movie, but the pilgrimage pales, a bit preachy, though still joyful, funny, even the creepy voyeur in The Peeping Tom' simply proves M. Powell could do nothing but what he did.  Better than most.

And then, there's the trilogy, the majesty of 'The Red Shoes', 'The Life and Times of Colonel Blimp' and 'Black Narcissus'. 

 

They linger in the mind, long after the end credits have ceased to crease the screen.  Especially Narcissus....aVermeer painting, for two hours.l

 

What is it with Powell...his deep devotion to aesthetics, his ability to immerse, not judge, absorb, the tensions in his characters, which are insurmountable.  The psychological journey, which is too intense.  The colors.

I can identify with the disorientation of living in otherly places.  My atelier may not compete with the altitude of the Himalayas, but I get 'that fact'.  The way it alters, adjusts, illuminates and jars the sensibilities.

The nuns in Narcissus set against the Vermeer painting that is the entire film.

And then Anton.  Even David Mamet, the most pro Israel playwright of all time considers the man christened Adolph from Austria his second favorite, only to Roger Livesey, mister buoyant, mr happy man of all time.

I even watch Le Ronde, a french film.  I have no passions, lets alone obsessions towards french film, but the film is palatable, gorgeous and memorable because we can ingest and obsess on the impresario that is Anton, formerly Adolph, M. Anton Walbrook, the most fascinating actor to watch on screen, past or present.

 

It's beaujolais nouveau day!

I'm invited to my local wine merchant @Market Maubert for the annual Beaujolais nouveau tasting. I suppose it needs all the advertising it can get, this lightweight vin rouge, so simple and immature. 

Mio marito won't touch the stuff so we stock not either at Chez Bay or in our cave downstairs. We do drink French, mostly Pomerol when I catch a good deal or wine from the Bourgogne region.  We do miss Italian and find true the following phrase, 'the french make wine to taste, the Italian make wine to drink'.

However, I would never deny myself free wine. Like opportunity, part of the process requires one show up, so I do, with Maryse.

Maryse arrives every vendredi apres midi to tidy up the flat and my little life.  After she's through I drag her and thuh muffins downstairs to the tasting.  I introduce her to the snobby Parisian proprietress and enjoy watching the dynamic unwind btwn the two women, the Parisian vs The French that reside outside.

Maryse is shy, but I am not.  After 3 years, I've earned and have been accepted as part of background that is my hood.  Even the snobby french proprietress invites languid chats to complain and partake in the general malaise that is Paris.

Godot is accepted and given far too much attention and bread, inhaling it so fast he has a cough attack.  Everyone laughs as they are Parisian after all, but show concern when he continues as few love their petite mignon like they do...though I wonder how much the snobby Parisian proprietress loves her pooch who lives in his little space underneath a row of wine when she's in the shop...he is the sweetest little spaniel, but she's named him Yusef, after the french tax....the French find this uproariously funny.

But then, I named my younger one Godot.  Better not to judge, too much, and just absorb, more....

Roberto Purvis, Pasolini, Garibaldi and political passions.

Dined w/Roberto Purvis, last time it was @ Chez Bay con mio marito on the left.

This week we dined downstairs.  I'd anticipated topics re his current passion, a documentary he's working on covering all things Italian, including terrorism and fascism for additional drama. I knew of just the place for such discourse.

This bistro, located near our flat, is surrounded by radicalism and confrontation.   

Weeks ago, I took a pic of the church next to the bistro, 'St. Nicholas Du Chardonnet'.  Just beyond the signage, you can see the genteel facade that, in fact, masks a truly unruly crowd of fundamentalist Catholics inside. On any given day one may find the priests, in full black frock garb punching one another out, literally....this place is wild.  The French like to get physical.

I do not exaggerate for there's no need in my life. On Sunday mornings you can hear the thunderous bells, beautifully competing w/Notre Dame down the street, while throngs of vigilant Parisians hold rear guard action against the modern and casual attitude towards religion in Paris. 

Caro Ianesco, who comments on my blog from time to time, knows the joint well, it's lock chock full of loonies. Enjoying a successful career in both writerly and painterly professions, Ianesco once took a detour along the studious and Priestly path in both Paris and Rome.  He is aware of this Church and its history.

I love the drama.  I've visited the place during the day, but unlike other churches that provide candles to light and meditation to occur, there is little peace, let alone candles to purchase. It possesses the eeriest energy. Makes me want to watch the Exorcist.  Again.

And then, just next door, lives this building, an official meeting place for political discourse and radical movement. While imbibing a petite glass of beer, one can practically hear the people screaming for Sarko's head.

What I find so fascinating is the juxtaposition of this rather sinister and radical petite space in Paris, co-existing quite nicely within the middle of such magical, peaceful energy that is the 5th arrondissement.

Partially due to it's close proximity to the Sorbonne, one sees enthusiastic students running down rue des ecoles, colliding and diving into diverse bookstores, restaurants, deeply ethnic environs exist everywhere...just downstairs along my street I have Tibet, Russian, Italian, French and South American cultural realities well represented.

So we enjoy our drinks and dinner, outside amongst the large round heaters.  My dear friend is both brilliant and beautiful, really. 

And, Roberto Purvis is politically passionate, very. John Hopkins, his alma mater, is sponsoring him to give a 3 day political seminar in Bologna, which io and mio marito will attend this April.  He's finished a well received short doc w/Norm Chomsky and currently, his doc is keeping focus Italian history circa the 60's and 70's, full of fascism, Catholicism and terrorism, which fits cozily where we sit....his doc also highlights the role the CIA played, controlling and terrorizing the Italians from voting Communist. Ironic as communism, or a form of, allows modern Bologna to thrive.

My husband knows this history well, as it's embedded deep into the fabric of Northern Italy. 

Sig. Purvis delves into the famous Italian poet/intellectual/film director Pier Paolo Pasolini.  Pasolini's film '120 days of Sodom' transposed De Sade’s tale of decadence and debauchery from 18th Century France to the last days of Mussolini’s regime in the republic of Salò.  It's all so terrifically complicated, as is Italy, reflecting while forming its 's cynical political ways, how consumerism is complicit to themes...

and always, our CIA...sigh..our interventions...

Prior to our dinner, Roberto wants to check out a building nearby that once houses the Red Brigade, the terrorists that assisted the CIA. We walk along the Seine and find it, entering the courtyard, wondering about the past as it lives and incites my companion's mind.

I think about this later, while knitting, where I can meditate on work and writing.   Passions.

I haven't knitted for years but the cold has entered la ville lumiere just as the light has left, albeit temporarily.

I take some pics for my galpal Joni, for she inspired me to pick up the needles in the first place and notice a rather grand pic of Garibaldi in the background. 

Mio marito is most passionate about Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Father of Italy, the fierce fighter that inspired the country to unite, way back when.  Imagine.

France's female version of Obama proves how French she really is...

  Rachida Dati, Sarko's Minister of Justice is pregnant but will not disclose the identity of the father.  Her mother may be Algerian, her father, Moroccan, but she is proving now how very French Mme Dati is...discretion is key in Parisian love affairs.   So contraire to American political affairs, a al Palin and her Jerry Springer sideshow.

The Guardian contemplates whether Sarko's controversial gal will stay or go, using her pregnancy as an excuse, or staying to fight the good fight. 

Will Sarko stick by or let her hang out to dry...who knows, he's so busy with his summits, one could forgive him for being otherwise occupied.

Cultural realities collide quite nicely in my life...like Tunisia and Turkey, but will the latter ever enter the EU?

My life dictates cultural realities collide on a daily basis.  Whether the dance is graceful is dependent upon the day and my ways, but beyond my petite space, reality shifts.

I'm complicit in my life, certo, so I try to not project too much....some days prove impossible, being from such a specific space and time.  My mind may have traveled in my youth but our family did not.

Mio marito's family moved often, they are more open than most and all family members married partners from another country.

I know many friends that travel more than my worst nightmare, but mio marito's still the only person I've yet to meet who doesn't project one culture onto another. 

In our business universe, I watch Maltese, NZ'ers and Americans collide with mixed results, some days better than others..like life, a process.  Parfois, it tis Inspirational...

In Paris one can't deny the Maghreb issue. When not shopping at my blessed Market Maubert, I collect my sundries on Sunday night or Monday morning at local shops, almost all run by Tunisian merchants.  They know I'm not French, initially they assume I'm Italian or English, but now know I'm American. Clarity if key.

They are extraordinarily kind about Colette and Godot, one shop allows me to keep them next to their counter while I collect my things, we then take the time to chat about life and culture.  I find them kind, they share details about how connected, or not, they may be to their roots. 

The other day mio marito docked in Tunisia, en route from Genoa to Malta with his motorcycle, and I receivd texts throughout, Tunisia must be quite cool.  I'll know more as I'm having lunch this week with my favorite cuddly and cosmopolitan Liverpudlian M. Andrew Hussey, writer of award winning books on Paris and serious investigative pieces regarding the Maghreb issue. He is off to Tunisia next week.  Of course, his perspective is somewhat political, pertaining to cultures colliding within historical context.

Next month the plan is for mio marito, me, c n g to set sail to Istanbul.  We may only make it to the Greek Isles, depending upon crew, time and business particulars. But I do have Turkey and Tunisia and places like that on my mind.

Yesterday, per 'sempio,I had lunch with a lovely Parisian, exploring the reality of doing business here in la ville lumiere.  I asked my companion his thoughts about whether and when Turkey will enter the EU. 

"Maybe in 10 yrs."

Ouch. Human rights, Cyprus, the Armenian Holocaust, j'ai compris, but why don't I hear of for more news btwn Turkey and the EU collective.  I can assure you, I'm listening....

Turkey and Tunisia...now I will wonder whether these two countries have anything more in common than the fact they both boast coastal towns along the Mediterranean, a most unusual body of water, one we simply hope to coast along, whether or not we visit Turkey, Greece or get lost in Tunisia, en route to heading back to Malta on next month's cruise.

Silvio; often offensive, si, questa volta, non. Addesso; simply lost in translation.

My husband's left me. Again. Biz trip in Milan this time, promise of punterella, an Italian salad, mind you. 

I fear the Italians may make me eat my Issey Miyake and give us biz; hope springs all over our globe.

Alors, mio marito calls me early this am via Milano and passes me to Massimo, laughing his face off, finding the whole Silvio/Obama sidebar silly, out of proportion, like 'les chaussons rouges', running on endlessly, out of control.  

We both agree PC purists shall be the death of intellectual discourse altogether.

I digress. 

Max explains away, "Now, bayileee, I must explain to you and place in context this comment...."

Massimo, known as Max, is very, very elegant, successful and happy w/family and fortune. He could not offend a fly, but I, being an American, could sniff out a perceived slight anywhere, quite like the child catcher in 'Chitty chitty Bang Bang'.  I do try, but he diffuses, so easily.

Max laughs and suggests Silvio does, certo, often say the stupidest of things, this time, however, he did not.  That's why he hasn't apologized, and I can assure you, if it would garner more attention, as it could, he would, but does not.

His comment is meant to be affectionate, not offensive.  If you are tanned, you are happy and fortunate.

I can buy this...on more than one occasion we've ridden the ski lifts near the family home in Limone Piemonte, the Italian Alps, wearing fashionable daily frock, arriving to dozens of Italians spread out upon chaise lounge, fully clothed, holding tanning foil below their chins to expedite the bronzing process.

Silvio, from an older generation, was referring to a phrase, from an old song, abbronzato, in an old fashioned way, a term of endearment and affection...also, the italian verb, translated as “burnished” an adjective usually used to describe greek demigods, a complexion of polished bronze....

either too many anglo translations or simply lost in translation, but no longer for me.

You can't really translate Proust or Mann, why try something as trite as political farce. 

From Maori to Miro; The All Blacks & Modern Masters make up this weekend's itinerary.

Prior to a scramble of Scandinavians signing up to the Euro, leaving the Isle of London alone in their certitude of currency, even as rumours persist the 'the pound' may be reduced and renamed 'the ounce',

Prior to our sailing to Istanbul next month, that place most anxious to join EU states, due to layers of complexities, Europe's fragile sensitivities, alas, Turkey will have to wait,

Post productive week of work, more glorious news breaks our way, further proof we've officially exited our 21 month rut...we decide to pub crawl in Paris. 

After all, winter almost arrived, tis time to take head as blustery environs inspire hot toddies and hunkering down in places like pubs and museums.

Conveniently enough, The All Blacks are preparing to handily trounce Scotland with their second string and Miro, Dali, Breton et al are on exhibit at Musee du Luxembourg, looks like weekend itinerary is set.

So we head towards Pigalle, a piece of Paris, less than pleasing, almost uninviting and walk by Irish bar after Irish bar.  Peeking inside each dark space my eyes begrudgingly adjust to lines of depressed guys, situated along the bar, blank faces reflecting off large flat screens full of fluorescent green pitches, highlighting their sad eyes.

'Course, they aren't pissed yet, so maybe their expressions will alter eventually, perhaps, but after flying higher than other EU members, Ireland has crashed as hard as Iceland, or so it seems, for they were practically poverty stricken not so very long ago.

We've taken the long way out via metro so I suggest we taxi it back in as we're not of similar mindset.  We find our familiar Canadian bar in the 6th, along the Seine, drink some beer and warm ourselves up in preparation for the Maori dance.  We then meander over to the Scottish Bar, the Highlander, w/its intimate setting, just one big screen, a few seats, a couple of Scots and one very loud Spaniard. 

I have papers to distract, propaganda to peruse, but my guy's eyes are glued, glassy eyed by the time they do their dance, where they slap themselves silly then stick out their tongue in the end.   Oi! 

Black in uniform, enshrined in tattoos, square bodied, torsos, thuggish trunk like legs, flat stomachs, they produce a wall of such passion; this game grows on one...oh, but look, I note two very cute boys, the underwear model, Daniel Carter, and one much cuter, so I inquire, my guy knows all things 'bout All Blacks, his name is Richard Cahui. 

He loves them more than anything, 'cept me, c n g.  He's been to NZ so many times. Also, the NZ'ers are v. cool, which is nice, as they are crucial to the success of our business lives.

This match is more watchable than others, if possible, because my guy's been to Murrayfield, amongst the 80 thousand emotional Scots w/dozens of bagpipes pre show, certo.  This time they add silence and helicopters just before, v. effective.  

I've never had the joy but we've been to many an Edinburgh fest, watching the Military Tattoo with 1,000 bagpipes marching out of the mist at Edinburgh castle and yes, tears do follow. 

Oi Again! Sorry to report the Scottish were slaughtered by the All Blacks second string.  We exit, then walk through the bustling, colorful rue de Buci neighborhood that's too hip for us, walking as one against the wind, down boulevard st germain, gather thuh muffins at home, plop alongside the banquet at our neighborhood haunt, Auture Bistro, where the waiters feed c n g bits of bread, cooing, only to be surrounded by Le Blue playing someone else w/flatscreens here and there, frenchies drinking their 1664, gratefully I have my papers to distract, confit de canard to eat, le pichet, mon mari, c n g....

Miro tomorrow...

Nice/Competent, Asshole/Competent, Asshole/Incompetent, Nice/Incompetent Quadrant

Quadrant I represents Nice/Competent

Quadrant II represents Asshole/Competent

Quadrant III represents Incompetent/Asshole

Quadrant IV represents Nice/Incompetent

The X axis represents Nice/Asshole, the Y axis represents competent incompetent. 

One would love to surround themselves 24/7 by those living within Quadrant I.  But life isn't so nice, and, one must factor in additional theory; 2% of the people make stuff happen, 8% are trying to take credit or suing the 2% and 90% are just trying to hang in there, breed, consume and mind their own business. 

Obama falls into Quadrant I, obviously, that's why we voted for him and the world expresses such collective glee.

Rahm Emanuel represents Quadrant II, asshole balanced out by 'the velvet-gloved one, but then there aren't many Obama's out there, certainly not for Chief of Staff.

I find it tedious and off the mark for the English to compare Obama with Blair for the simple fact, Blair falls into Quadrant II.  Also he was weak, re Murdock, Bush, plus he's a closet evangelical and I've dined more than twice with the guy that fired him from his post as attorney in the private sector. 

Palin is Quadrant III,though mio marito thinks McCain falls into Quadrant IV, but because it's my blog I'll state that McCain belongs in Quadrant III.

*Quadrant theory thanks to Sean Jazayeri circa 2000.

Gore Vidal doesn't look so good...

Long before America decided to embrace their biographer, before 'thrilling critics' pretended to admire him, to admire Dawn Powell, which made him laugh in disdain...I was in love. 

Gore Vidal does encompass, for me, at least, the finest chapter of America's history.  It is the chapter my novel addresses, so obsessive I shall stay, in vain, for I'm a byproduct, n'est pas?

Obama is beautiful, in possession of keen intellect, discipline, Michelle blows me away, but I can't know what they could mean in such a society I no longer domicile within.  

I dread Gore's passing and fear every fall I now must read about, when checking in, online, just to make sure he's keeping us honest.  Never met him, but did stalk his estate more than twice down South in Ravello.  Never had the nerve to know whether the master was in residence...sometimes the idol should reside in the mind.

I walked by his address in Rome, often, decades after he'd lived in the eternal city, fantasizing about having a luncheon, know of one or two friends that did, but the joy was never meant for me.

Alas, after watching him on the beeb election nite, listening to the round table laugh at his inability to 'bond' with the presenter via video, I now must accept the grand lion has thinned, finally, verily, in mind, body and soul; he's no longer irritated with America, now he's just irritated and old and tired of both tedious facts.

But what a lion, like no other...and who better to capture the man on paper, having met Gore in person, circa 1954.  Reflecting adroitly in her diaries, "...he has more character, manliness, power, manner and general good breeding, intelligence...like other young men, capacity to work, in spite of perfect capacity for climbing as the others have..customary charm and ambition.  Latter has driven him to do too much and without direction..."

I've read some of his fiction, not a poetic writer, a gifted writer, like his friend Tennessee Williams, but then who was/is...Dawn goes on, validating why his essays are written like no other, as if you're sitting across from him, chivas in hand, relaxed, soothed even as he speaks with such strong language, warning....

 "Read Gore Vidal's Messiah. more impressed by the writer than the book, which was engaging enough, but the trouble with being a clear, sharply cut, extraordinary individual with a rich articulate gift is that no characters can equal the author himself, whose muscular skill directs most complicated interplay of plots, guides contrapuntal themes with suave, veiled power and a doom like rhythm that compels and lulls.

A genuine novelist-power at the wheel, a rich, regal, original mind with unlimited treasures and the serene generosity of one who knows he will come into more and more. 

Something of Disraeli-a high, patrician, Solomon-like judgment and philosophic power, with wit, poetry and music. 

Not to be fit in any fashion, but will outlive them all, like the great ones."

Oh, I hope he continues to do so...

George Monbiot, Susan Jacoby and the end of the affair with America.

"One theme is both familiar and clear: religion - in particular fundamentalist religion - makes you stupid. The US is the only rich country in which Christian fundamentalism is vast and growing"...So suggests M. Monbiot in today's Guardian

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/oct/28/us-education-election-obama-bush-mccain

As I've had to personally sit through a performance of "The American Evangelical", front row and center, my reviews are less than stellar.  So when I see this, I can't resist.

In fact, I wonder if fanatical belief rests at the very core of N. America's denouement, almost as if one is inspired to put the book down, ponder another, knowing the best chapters have already been read.

I've limited my daily blog addiction to 4 or 5; one blog is written by Andrew Sullivan at The Atlantic, a  self=professed ''gay, christian, conservative' blogger.  Sullivan's 'aura' is attractive, as Ianesco suggests, I agree, but I'm beginning to feel suspicious, as if he's inadvertently moving the goalposts from Christian/Quietly Christian VS Atheist to Christians VS Christianists.  He massages topical issues adroitly, referencing many, but I find his labels taxing, distracting.    

Christianists? WTF.  It's like George Carlin and the skit about words suppressing the subversive, negative connotation, masking the cold, brutal reality of modernity.

M. Monbiot references Susan Jacoby.  Her writing is fierce and her research brilliant, I've blogged about her book, "Freethinkers, A History of American Secularism".  

Such is the journey, the narrative, of a country; its intellectual and cultural zenith in the 60's, exhausted by the 70's, morphing into Gordon Greco's greedy 80's, suddenly stifling and pc laden 90's, then boom continues thru the naughts, then bust follows, naturally.

Bush, the wasp who turned evangelical, what a metaphor for modern times...

Another idea stems from the head, sans memoir, part deux.

Donc, I’m in need of an electrician; vite, pronto; capito?   Being the weekend, I opt to go expat transplant.

No husband on site; mio marito’s knee deep in need of Chez Bay but away for a few days, so I google and locate one Willy McWilliams. 

I telephonay, he telephonay's back and when he arrives I can’t help but channel back to Spike Lee, circa  ‘She’s Got To Have It’, which I do, need an electrician, that is.

He’s handsome, better looking than Spike, much, beauty in the eye of the beholder, but immediately  I’m drawn to les yeux;  inviting attention, but not nearly so weary, more focused, framed by black rimmed eye glasses,  still, Grey sweatpants cutoff just below the knee and big white Nike's.

Like Spike, even walks the same way.  Parfois, it’s just fine to be moi.

He’s quick, competent, fixes the issue in a timely fashion and I ask him to stay for a drink, its cocktail hour after all.

He does oblige, unassuming, quite happy in fact, in general, having lived in Paris for 15 yrs; 'takes the edge off', long married to a lovely Parisian, two beautiful Mullato children, and, after I’ve given a few games away, we’re both laughing, he’s from Jersey though family now lives in South Carolina. 

We talk expat, politics. 

He compared his views to those he held toward Sarkozy, our wee dauphin.  Irrespective of the press, the propaganda, his views stem from day to day reality.  Bottom line, he wants to see the change, similar to what he’s experienced with Sarko. 

I see the comparison and the need; makes sense.   We’ll see...ensemble.

M. McWilliams works by word of mouth, so I’ll mention his name again, Willy McWilliams.  I know a local or three hit my site…he does electrical, removal-moving.   He works predominantly in the 3^rd, 4^th and 5^th.   

Oh, and we both believe kids should be disciplined.  This whole BFF is bullshit or so we think.  But he does love the wife and kids.

‘Course,  if you met my kids, Colette and Godot, you’d know  a boundary has never been drawn, penciled in, outlined, imagined even,  but then last time I looked, all children do NOT go to heaven. 

All Dogs do.

Enfin

 

 

 

  

  

  

 

Forget FrOnce, Chez Bay's dinner discourse is pure, divine Italianate.

C  n G wait patiently for Roberto, Roberto and my fave galpal Miche.

Finalemente, mio marito arrives late from his latest plane ride, my 'baby brother' Roberto arrives from schmoozing w/french film people and Miche arrives from doing good somewhere in la ville lumiere...
Chez Bay was delightfully insane last night, gossip full of eccentric english men named Barry in need of rescue from the middle of frOnce, stories that would make Max Mosley look a proper poser, tales that made us laugh till the tears came, the kind that can't be replayed twice in written form, for some discretion is needed, n'est pas.

My bro Roberto, lifeboat, friend and neighbor when in Rome.  He's gorgeous, speaks 7 languages, at least, fluently, had some stints on Law n Order playing a man who rapes men, oh my! then had to make up and say nasty things in French for effect for the Americans, then riffs on some risque stuff, told the line writers a far more tepid version, No wonder the subtitles are often wrong, now I know!

Alors, his acting in the States and Italy is simply, like other, a vehicle for the political passions...he's just finished a short doc with Noam Chomsky, one that rec'd rave reviews and now, he's in Paris, looking for funding for larger doc, more controversial...

Mio Marito, mon mari Roberto, on the left; two happy Italian men with different views of modern Italy.  Because they work in different industries, perhaps, though both are well in sync of Italy's complicated past.  My guy knows the history well, for some of it occurred near one of the family's flats, in Riva, circa 40's.

Interesting bits and bobs, James Bond character, "the most dangerous man in Europe" during WW11, the German maverick soldier Otto Skorzeny, rescued Mussolini from the mountain prison of Gran Sasso.

The Social Republic was informally known as the Salò Republic (Repubblica di Salò) because the RSI's Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Mussolini) was headquartered in Salo, a town on Lake Garda.

But Roberto's doc focuses on Pier Paolo Pasolini and his perceptions of what happened circa '69 and America's interference w/ The Italian Social Republic, not just a puppet state of Nazi German, led by the "Duce of the Nation" and "Minister of Foreign Affairs" Mussolini.

Those Americans, always such good intentions, always managing, somehow, to fuck it up, no wonder the Europeans formed a union, weary of their 'assistance'. 

Will blog and sew threads together plus tard but at present I'm inspired to recall divine slices of bliss when we first arrived on this side of the pond some 8 years ago, staying at that flat for a month or so, on River Garda, as pristine as Lake Como, just not as trendy nor as Clooneyfied.  Those cliffs, the windsurfers skimming colorfully along the lake, the walks we used to take, wish I had time to go back...

Now that I think about it, the menus are still in Italian and German.....

Sadomasochism= Eccentric sex, or so Max Mosley says....

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/oct/20/mosley-privacy

"Feel my pain"  is an article written by Mme Chrisafis.  After being exposed as an S&M enthusiast by the News of the World, Max Mosley took on the tabloid - and won. In his first newspaper interview since his high court victory, he talks to Angelique Chrisafis about why he'll never change his sexual habits, the right to privacy and his notorious fascist parents.

Moi:  Believe it or not, the hottest dominatrix gossip for the British media is neither Madonna's imminent divorce nor her gruesome fetishist crotch tour across the continents. 

After all, Esther's just a poser, for no one does Anglo-German S&/M  better than the old world aristocrats.  Unlike celebrities, they're actually erudite, as is Max, blushing throughout, explainimg away how some are simply hard-wired 'that' way.

Really? Sounds like another club...I'm w/Groucho, anyone that would allow me membership....

O, c'est possibile I'm sympatico con mio cuddly and cosmopolitan Liverpudlian friend, M. Hussey; why not save the pain for the dentist! We're both inclined to follow Flaubert and live like bourgeois while writing like rebels, or some such nonsense, but then, we just found out over the phone we'll both turn 45 on the 30th day of this month, so why not agree on just about everything. 

I've blogged about M. Hussey; writer of many fine books, many awards, 'specially 'Paris, A Secret History', he, a masterly muse on the maghreb scenario here in Paris, Director of The Univ of London Institute in Paris, etc, etc, etc, but I digress, let's go back to the S n M aristocrats.

i giggled while reading this article, as one should. But thought of MMe. Mosley as well.

Max Mosley's mother was Diana Mitford, one of the Mitford sisters; the most exciting set since the Bronte's.  After reading Diana's Auto, I agree, she was a finer writer than Nancy.

Max, like his mother, continues to tell the tale of why she liked Adolph. I realize it's vulgar to many, impossible to recall for almost all, but Hitler was quite in fashion at one time; prior to war and the truth.

Read a history book or watch a "Ship Of Fools" like I did the other night, and listen specifically to one German Jew who felt so so very German at the time, muse bemusedly, 'how can a country that has produced Bach, Beethoven and Goethe wish ill will to anyone?

how, indeed.....

Language trends, Media attends, Limbaugh offends, again.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/oct/15/features

The Guardian's  M. Marcel Berlins is sad Rwanda is ditching the French language.  The natural trend of language in a globalized world; dialects disappearing, morphing, simmering into one melting pot; a multi-version language we refer to as English, in all its variations.

So many juxtapositions; globalization erases diversity even as nations collide awkwardly.  The media tries to spin excitement even as Obama pushes down anxiety, fear.

My in-laws down South watch the English version of Al Jazeera for their main news, they may read German, French and Italian journals, but their tv media is now distilled through the Al Jazeera. Not sure how much the Israeli son in law enjoys a sit down after dinner, but they're indisputably the only network that is truly everywhere, even Pakistan, Palestine and Iran, imagine! 

When the network launched we were sad they stole our favorite correspondent Rageh Omaar, boh!, they stole much of the best of the BBC actually, because they could afford the cost. Just imagine how much more fantastic the Beeb could be with that kinda dosh. 

We don't buy cable in Malta, as mio marito doens't 'do' teevee, cept w/me. Here in Paris we've discussed getting English Al Jazeera, but then I whinge at having to purchase 200 additional channels; that would prove too distracting for me, a teevee baby.  Best I keep my English channels limited to cyclical, short news reflecting off of BBC, CNN over morning coffee and late night oldies on the Turner Movie Channel.

I watched my first full day of American teevee on the squawk box the other day and it made my queasy, feeling all clock work orangish, I know not why, the content, maybe, the meltdown, ensemble, probably .

The political chatter is less than.  Not since I domiciled in the states have I engaged in the discordant task of hearing Limbaugh, but he's reared his fat head again, apparently, still in the game, chatting with Palin, exploiting that old 'fear the black mob mentality' via titillating talk of 'natural systemic institutional racism', if only to refresh and cast once again, that old bait.

Curious how offensive it will be to some, effective yet, for others. As I gaze amiably across the pond I have a hard time believing the polls, I'll believe it when I see it with Obama.  I'm still sticking by my theory that Palin reflects a large majority of Americans with her evangelicalism, vindictive and litigious behavior; for heaven's sake, further proof the latest debate is now between Christians and extreme Christianists.  I read often about  'mainstream' Evangelicals creating new groups everywhere; at University, in the media, developing their own neighborhoods in San Fran, gay clubs, school boards and grass roots politics, etc...

I shudder with hope there's not another fresh hell on the imminent horizon. 

"The Big Night"; another metaphor, maybe, or just one very funny film.

Finally, one of my favorite movies is found. 

Movie Plot: Two Italian brothers come to America to make good by opening an 'authentic' Italian restaurant. Primo the elder, the cook, is willing to bring his blessed Italian cuisine to the new promise land, Secondo the younger, isn't too fussed about the food, he just wants to touch every shiny and plastic new thing America has to offer. 

Secondo, basically the front man, the broker for the talent, Primo, puts up with his brother's desire to stay true, but Secondo's not such a savvy restaurateur; this new way of doing business, like Italian cuisine, takes time.  Both business and art must be learned, or rather, in the promise land, business trumps true talent. 

The successful 'Italian' restaurant across the street thrives, in this 50's milieu, the food's American style and they have entertainment.  People don't want to wait for something 'foreign', they want a steak and a scotch, now! basta cosi, capeeeech?

Primo and Secondo, even their names are funny.

The first scene is the fave; a dumpy couple from Jersey show up.  When Secondo serves the ravioli with basil on top to the husband, the risotto to the wife, the woman's response is nasal and knee jerk, "oh, hey, look, you got some leaves with yours, but what's this, where's the stuff that supposed to come with this, I don't see any seafood"...she moves the foreign rice around, upset.

They then request a side order of spaghetti, with meatballs. 

Secondo, "no meatballs"

"Whadayamean, no meatballs"

"Sometimes the pasta just wants to be alone," Secondo suggests. 

Secondo takes the order to Primo but Primo refuses to serve the woman two starch dishes.

"Philistine!" he yells.

It just gets better and better.  The crescendo occurs on the Big Night, the night they expect a famous patron to attend the party, a famous jazz musician who will then bring them both business and stature.  They spend their last red cent preparing  a 10 course feast in which a young girl begins to cry after the final course, so sated is she, weeping, 'my mother can't even cook...'

My beloved Muv could, she didn't necessarily relish the day to day, but every blue moon she'd host an elegant dinner party, sometimes 'themed' before they were 'in', with divine fare, her cheesecake recipe was stolen by a top restaurant in Seattle, she was making marzipan before anyone, she was so skilled and artistic those miniatures are not any different from what I see here in Paris....I can recall a time I was to attend a reception where something home made was required, as I was heading out the door she handed me an elegant egg white canister, long before 'packaging' was understood, she'd whipped up some amazing duck pate that afternoon.

Some people try to buy style, Muv was style.

I digress.

I love this movie.  Food is integral to our lives.  Until I met mio marito, I was an independent working girl, hedonistic even then, but entertaining my clients in restaurants only.  Pauvre mon marie, he's rarely allowed in the kitchen, but every now and then he whips up something fabu, Italian children learn early and well.

His uncle Giacomo is a bit of a Primo. He lives near Bordeaux, spends his entire morning finding the right ingredients, then eats and drinks his way through a superb lunch, sleeps, then does the same thing for dinner. Everyone is surprised he hasn't died of a heart attack, but no one is having as much fun as Giacomo. 'Cept for me, maybe, until last week.

The other uncle, Franco, lives in Milan, he's an engineer, thin and fussy, different, he and his wife have a very serious garden, it has everything.  I've seen Carla make hand made pasta, the thought of not cooking first principal is simply implausible.  Slow food is not a concept, it is their life.

Btw, they're northerners.  Once, when I was dining with Giacomo, we swapped recipes, I was describing my eggplant bundles which are such a hit.  No one has been able to replicate my dish in the same way as I, Caro Ianesco suggests he has, but he's the only one I'd believe. 

Anyway, as I'm rattling off the recipe he begins to grow very agitated and I'm clueless as to why until he goes on a rant about how Mozzarella is an 'Arab' cheese.  This is so predictable, the Northerners call the Southerners Arabs and the Southern Italians call the Northerners Germans, which is sort of true, in a way, even though they are all very Italian, some cultural differences persist, I suppose. 

He has since warmed to me, we are kindred spirits after all, but at that lunch he was so pissed that when I didn't finish my dessert he began shoveling the baked apple into my mouth.

Even their humour is sorta German.

This movie is so endearing, I love absolutely every minute of this film, it's not just a perfect recipe, like our favorite classics, its messages resonates, but that ship has sailed, hasn't it.

The States are great, but mio marito's uncles wouldn't move to the States, now or then, and when mio marito's mother lived there briefly after the war, acting as seamstress for Scaasi, even delivering a dress or two to Mimi Eisenhower, even then, I don't think she liked the States much. 

When she visited Seattle a decade ago, the 'coffee capital' , mio marito showed her the 16oz latte, it was incomprehensible to her, I think she secretly mused 'Philistine!'

Lolita, life, near death and enuf metaphors to last a lifetime.

What a week, time for a break, from work, from everything, it's Friday night.

Calgon, take me away!!!

I draw the bath, search the library for something old and random and find a collection of essays, circa '87,  I slide right in, then begin to read about a German translator slated with the task of interpreting Lolita. 

Which is the most apt metaphor he wonders? "old Europe debauching young America?" or "young America debauching old Europe?".

Who cares, I prefer Nabokov's "Pnin", but it does invite the exercise. Or does it, I imagine the Economist has run out, and listening to commentators last week, none are memorable.  'Cept for the Scottish guy.

So Saturday arrives, finally, it's unseasonably warm and sunny, encouraging optimism, not to mention a day off.

We take our morning stroll, me, c n g, so content, relaxed, "c'est mignon, coucouc' and such endearing endearments, such a swell morning as we turn the corner and suddenly, that horrible sound of metal buckling, collapsing, occurs, so jarring to the ear,; a car has thrown a motorcyclist far from his vehicle. The poor guy is flat on his back, in shock, the crowd begins to surround, kneeling down, investigating the damage, life or death, shall be decided in a minutes. 

Now, there's a metaphor.

I luv the Frenchies but they are horrifically hopeless and should be labeled 'vehicularly challenged',  the most distracted drivers I've even seen.  When I am on my bike, w/ thuh muffins in the basket I am on the offensive at all times I tell you...

We wait, watch, it appears he may be fine, but who really knows.

I deposit C n G to bask in the sun pouring throughout the flat while I head uphill towards the Luxembourg Gardens.  As I exit the outer peripheral, ideal for joggers and speed walkers, I walk by my favorite part, the reflecting pool, towards the central section, Stevie Wonder's 'As' is playing on the Ipod but you have to view this in silence; the gravel looks so very white, as if mirage, maybe, against the bright sun, a very black and absolutely glamorous wedding party is walking towards me, I'm trying to adjust my eyes....

I step to the side, as I should, in honour, smiling, how can you not, the bride is clothed in white satin avec simple white floral arrangement, lovely, with 12 groomsmen carrying her satin and lace train, they are clothed in oyster colored suits, impeccable tailoring, you can tell from afar, 8 bridesmaids following the men, dressed in the softest celadon satin green, delicate gowns, so soft and long, hanging off beautifully shaped bodies, so much contrast, the flowers, the statues, the austerity, everywhere, want to take a pic, but can't, no camera, per usual, but it's just one of those moments, so hopeful...

Then, when I get home I receive an email re Gail, a gal I'd called just last week, I've blogged about often, one of my special uber idols, a friend who'd just visited chez bay, or so it feels, I'd just stayed with in Seattle, or so it feels, the email is from her husband, Ren:

Gail’s bilateral mastectomy went “exceedingly well” yesterday. It was a long day for her having arrived at 7:30am and finally getting to her room at 6pm last night. Dr Clarfeld was a fabulous surgeon (the surgery itself was almost 5 hours long) and expressed nothing but praise for how well she did.

She will be coming home later this afternoon and I (in my role as Nurse Cratchit) will make sure she gets all the TLC she needs.

Thanks to all of you for your prayers – it looks like the “Big Guy” upstairs has responded positively.

I start crying because I'm so happy for her....I'm so grateful for the world putting it all in perspective, but I think i need a bit of a breather...

Calgon, take me away....

Diabolically, incalculably, indubitably insane.....'specially in the eurozone

Britain VS Iceland.  Round two; Gordo's threatening Iceland with anti-terrorism laws in order to obtain sterling.  Must admit, he's looking almost calm, not uncomfortable, per usual, of course, he's the ex exchequer and this ex is desultory no more...no awkward, slow response, like the run on at Northern Rock.

The English and their brothers just love to get pissed; drunk or mad, doesn't' matter, either/or, they're simply thriving...just listening to the Scottish guy on CNBC, forget semantics, the emphasis and accent provides pure unadulterated joy, the ability to say fuck over and over and over again without actually using the word is theatrical gold I tell you, why watch "Gone With The Wind" when you've a better version on the Squawk box.

Alors, pauvre Eurozone.....only 15 of the 27 members trade and play with the euro so there's a clusterfuck currency just waiting to happen, or just did.  Who can tell.

Oh, they've just mentioned Malta, well, mio marit's skidding in this weekend from the middle of the med so I'll get a long view perception, my guy's all about big picture.  No petty particulars via phone or skype that can and do occur throughout the day, I'll wait patiently for the full Monty.

Though, have to admit, he called with an odd question the other day, me thinks he's fighting with a banker....the Maltese are sophisticated and wise in many ways, why, I have a concall with one this very morn, but re banking, i think they follow the french rationale.

Isn't the scene just crazy.....value schmalue.  "Where's the value?!" they ask, "When will a stock hold value again?!" they whine.  "Where's the bottom?!" "It's gotta come soon?!" 

Right?  Well, dunno. No one does.....most of the financial gurus I know just study the fundamentals and it appears the fundamentals have left the building.  

"Iceland, well, that's just a side story", states the sage Richard Quest (now,when Richard Quest plays the sage, the fat lady has sung out her last lung) Moscow, the Middle East, well, they're just casino.  Really, Richard, et tu?

The Germans?  Well, they are taking a breath, reviewing the toxic assets, the Germans have lived through worse, since, still, this too will pass.

The French, well, they are having deep, deep thoughts about it at Luxemburg Gardens.  Each day I take my sports walk, observing the French, briefly, as it is a sports walk after all, I see asorted types seated along the various gardens, taking a mental health break, hands under chin, thinking, deeply, deeply.....about their next sexual rendezvous....

The English, The Americans, well, Let the Blame Games begin...

Brown: "It started in America..."

Remember the good old days when the dreary drama began on this side of the pond? 

Over here, the English pundits are crying how incapable the EU is at being EU-esque.  Well, for me, the EU simply means NO WAR.  There's no way in hell the Germans are going to follow the French to lead the financial way.  France may be current Prez of EU, the Eiffel Towe may beam blue for 6 months, but politicians must get elected, each country will nationalize their own. merci, danke schon and grazie mille.

Fair enough. 

I'm told the Americans wander around in a daze, depressed and confused, half-heartedly educating themselves in Accounting, which comes in the form of media, glued to their flat screens, listening to Erin 'the fast talking big hair babe' on CNBC's Squawk box. Or maybe that's just me.

The English, well, they're a bit more feisty and there's fewer or them; they have more in common which basically means THEY ARE COLLECTIVELY PISSED OFF.  At this morning's press conference at Downing Street Brown tried to assuage the press by stating "Our plan is VERY DIFFERENT from America's, 'we're not buying bad assets, we're buying shares...' blah blah blah.  The keep on yelling at Brown, 'now what's the downside, what's up, tell us the truth dammit!  why didn't you nationalize 10 yrs ago...'blah blah blah.

So, the UK, Europe and the rest are entering the area of recession, at least they admit it.

Talked to an English friend yesterday, an actor, who's rather flush at present, muses he just may take his marbles out of the bank and purchase his very own pied a terre in la ville lumiere, doubt Brown will have changed his mind this morning ....another friend in Seattle heads towards the Gulf on business, even she, well entrenched in that region, suggests the financial ride is wild, making me wonder if the Gulf will go local and take the last of the liquidity, who knows, nobody, that's who......at the end of the day, we're all doomed, it's all going to end in tears and we're all going to die.  So there.

Read the debate was a bomb.  Like I've said forever, the next prez will have little impact to alter the pathological strains ingrained over there...like a lot of people i don't believe in coincidence...you can't go boom without the bust, we lived through the seattle bust, we'll live through this, just time to roll up the sleeves and work a bit harder....or maybe that's just me.

Faith is on the march in Paris as well...

A friend suggests we attend the open house of Les College des Bernardins, a new religion related arts centre in a 13th century monastery. 

Located a few blocks from my flat, a stone's throw from Notre Dame, the linewraps around several blocks but moves quickly.  What a coup for the Catholics, what a propaganda tool, the Pope himself will be dropping by this Friday. 

They'll open the College up proper early October, a cultural and intellectual arts center for the world to enjoy, when in Paris that is....well, gotta give it to the Catholics, never aesthetically challenged, they do it with style.  

Spring has Sprung and Chez Bay is thriving once again....

The weather is parfait and Paris feels at peace.  Maybe this is simply my state of mind. 

Transformational events seem to occur in the same vein as May guests at Chez Bay.  Some are unexpected, either from Seattle, San Fran or London, but they are all powerfully positive, almost tectonic in their ability to shift and inspire in most adroit fashion.

Also, finally, gratefully, as Marie promised, I am assimilating my beloved Muv, her strength and sense of self subversively striving to combine with my own; my mother will always be the gift that continues to give. 

Although managing my father's small estate is a tedious task Muv requested I take on, I do diligence but am tested as trusted advisors who should interpret simply quote me the Patriot Act and bankers who aren't asked as many questions as I ask, make me really wonder how much of a scam this all is, after all.  It's no wonder the mortgage crisis occurred, one is oft reminded how shallow is this gene pool.

Calls and emails are pouring in from positive forces.  My creative and younger 'brother' Roberto is living out his dream, working with Noam Chomsky and doing documentary in London.  Another visit is imminent.

My two favorite galpals on this side of the pond, Michele and Mary, sat down at Chez Bay the other night.  I gave a small dinner soiree to honour my guest Jules, my dear old friend and future business partner. 

The Mis En Scene at Chez Bay played out its part well, we laughed and imbibed, both, alot.  These are all competent, adventurous women, with businesses and dreams  and artistic sensibilities or MBA's and children and stresses, living on more than one continent, striving to keep the balance, stay sane and love as much as possible in such an insanely impossible world.

My friend Gail is teasing me with a visit, Gail, the first female President of Nordstrom's, one of my uber idols.  She's visited Chez Bay before but is up to some form of new business mischief at Galerie Lafayette, I can't wait to hear and prance about Paris avec lei.

The Eurostar dropped off my funny and astute guypal Ralph at Chez Bay for one night, most unexpectedly, showing me surreal videos and pics of the Taj Mahal, making me even more grateful for my choice of homes and travel. India is not a place I need be.  Ever.  The Middle East, yes, exotic and interesting, always, Asia, even though it's the bomb in business language, alas, my place to live and work is still in the Western hemisphere. 

Ralph was one of my IT consultants back then, at Microsoft and EMP... we went down the memory lane of names and faces, reminding me of my past life and career in Seattle, a part of my life I am terrifically proud of...I've worked hard for my independence and success.  It comes at a price, such is life, but this is an emotional currency I am more than willing to continue to pay.  Philosophical musings abound but it is a transformational time to be sure, a new phase has begun and I am more than willing to embrace the industrious behavior required and the fun that shall be had by all.  Weeding out the wrong and reeling in the right, always a continuum.

Moi and Mio marito appear to be finding one another again...in a marriage/relationship, one can become lost, through business ventures with too few thoroughbreds, with the passing of parents, not to mention less than benevolent forces finding their way into our professional lives, unnecessary though inevitable strains if you're as adventurous as we two....but he and I have a bond and strength and will that supersedes all, and all is well, indeed.

Jules plopped her suitcase here for a week.  We hit the Loire Valley, my locals, The Crillon.  We discussed the tech booms of past, the passing of our Mothers, our biggest fans and muses and friends.

Did we really make it?  Yes.  And now we will forge together and make Webconsult thrive even more....as we drove into the Loire Valley we discussed the strange vibrations and repercussions of the tech boom back when we were in the midst, benefiting, reeling, just trying to work the tight rope. 

Jules, a high level business consultant recalled the whole Silicon silliness.  Moi, as a technical recruiter I remembered paying guys double and helping bartenders obtain their MCSE's, I played mother, therapist and job advocate to all these techies, but they loved me because I was fair and forthright and transparent in my business ethics, but boy, back then, it was an insane club, but one you had to aspire to belong to, or be crazy enough to join....

But now the employers are boss again and the global economy is as serious as the soft heart attack it's experiencing, but so are we, combining and conspiring to pool our resources and apply our competence, our professional attitudes, but when we weren't working or waxing poetic about past friends and colleagues, we cried into our Quiche Loraine at Angelina's near the Louvre, we two recent orphans, then we laughed and plodded and planned, so very much to do and now is exactly the time to begin loving life a lot more than before.

As I always said and shall say yet again.  Life isn't a dress rehearsal.  It's this time or never, n'est pas?

Jules caught thuh Muffins playing in front of the Canenceaux Chateau

Tribal Tendencies btwn friends or family can shift with battling perceptions...

The intelligence and compassion of Dawn Powell never ceases to enhance my day...every once in a while one needs to tend to their garden, oui?

Here's a lovely metaphor from the finest; circa 1947, NY, when it was interesting.  Dawn's Diaries, Dec 23:

"The difficulty of making people believe their eyes and ears, Faragoh (on a bus with me) called me a liar when I marveled at a lovely bright-eyed woman who suddenly got up and showed everyone her locket and said in a pleasant, conversational tone: "This is my son-imagine, only four years old-this is his picture-only sick a day-hardly four years old-he would have been four today-only sick a day-we had no idea-his hair was light but you see it looks dark in the picture..." She showed it to everyone, smiling quietly and got off the bus.

I was absolutely struck dumb by the implicit tragedy of the lonely lovely woman-Ophelia herself- not really convinced in a way except by the words repeated politely but without meaning as a child saying I'm sorry.  There was the second marvel that nobody seemed surprised or interested; they might have been dear; they were like the ones in The Lady Vanishes.  I wanted to run after her and say "How did it happen?  Tell me about it if you like and I promise my heart will break too."