Bailey Alexander

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.

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.

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...

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.....

Movin the dial, mice and erotic neighbors from Emmanuelle...

Time to change the channel, turn the volume down, attend a vernissage. The letter box provides a few new invites,the first, my favorite, an opening at la Galerie Thuillier in the 3rd; to support my friend and neighbor, N P Chau.

His work is so quiet, his painting serene and peaceful....

A Vietnamese ex pat, Chau paints landscapes of his homeland, hills so still, once or twice I thought I caught a contemplative soul kneeling near a cliff, in the corner of the canvas.

So hospitable is M. Chau, I stop by their 3rd floor flat for tea or champagne every so often, even their air is calm. Their art is everywhere.

Ms. Chau is tiny and kind too, speaks little English, quiet and quite talented, her painterly art delicate,  colorful, floral and specific, like my sibling's scrimshaw, only more exotic.

We got lucky with this space, our neighbors, 'cept one; the semi-famous-full-time drunk 70's french erotic film actress who shall not be named, conveniently located underneath one half my flat, where else?!

Neither Chau nor I have much time for her, she's mean, avec dark visage, almost always hidden underneath a vast array of hats.  She's a cinematic cypher of sorts, not a likable character, but we've all helped her, pick her up, find her keys, her way home, but still, so much angry energy left.  I think she's found work this week, this is good, I know I'm grateful.  Even more so that our bedroom lives on top of another tenant.

Mio marito's heard of her, who doesn't and could care less. She slams heavy doors with such vengence, then falls down as if folding into her anger, then gets up, plays the piano, badly, throwing things, having sex all over the place, making me channel Mickey Rooney's character in Breakfast At Tiffany''s every now and then.

Maryse had a funny story, once she was leaving to walk Colette and Godot.  As she exited the lift, the actress was zigzagging her way to the glass doors, saw Maryse, assuming she was me avec ma petite chien.  She hoarsely screeches in her deep smoker's voice, LES AMERICAN!!!!...she then went splat into the glass doors. Maryse just walked by, pretending to be me, then laughed and laughed while telling me the story.

It's strange how we rarely see her, but I hear her, often.

Mio marito used to have sympathy for me, but now, no, for recently I've learned and relayed she was in one his most cherished 'french erotica' film stars from his 'formative years', way back when...

Last month I accompanied one of my house-guests downstairs so she could catch her taxi to the airport.  It was 6amish.  I took a petite promenade w/thuh muffins around the block.  We're almost home but I quickly assess it must be the actress just ahead, swerving her ass from sidewalk to sidewalk, just barely bouncing softly off the phone booth, a car, herself, taking an early spin, returning from some late nite soiree for two; light white trench-coat, tight white slacks, black and white chapeau just right, as if in a movie except she can't quite find the camera let alone the sidewalk.

I veer quickly around the diva, reach our front door, punch in the code, rush up all 5 flights, gasping for air, the keys, then she; inebriated, falls out of the lift, tries to engage, leaning back against her door, accusing me with outstretched finger, so grateful for an audience, these types....why is she accusing me, anyway, did Godot bark, then, incapeable of missing the sheer joy that is Colette and Godot, dismisses me as quickly as my key matches the complicated, graceful system that is the three point lock in Paris.

I nod her way, then escape into my personal space, winding up the wooden  stairs to where I can deposit keys and things and decide, (why, we'll never know) to buy her a large bouquet of flowers, out of pity, just to be funny, who knows, I'm like Emily Watson in 'breaking the waves'.  There's a reason for that, shall come out in novel.

I compose a short note on personal stationary, suggesting it's difficult being such a small dog in such a large world. I sign Godot's name, ink out his footprint and provide petite pic of G. This gives me reprieve for maybe a month.

However, the actress must play second fiddle to my new house-guest; a mouse.

Two years, no trouble, but now, some hole has invited my first rodent into Chez Bay.  I've named her 'sarah'. 

She's appeared twice in the last week, while I write in the salon, late at night, she enjoys her first audition, scurrying from guest bath to kitchen.  She made an impact.

The day after I wake up early, inspired, racing down around the winding staircase, C n G hot on my heels, excited though oblivious to the mission we're on.

As I near the bottom, another of my favorite neighbors, Jean Luc wonders what all the fuss is about.  He and his excruciatingly cute mulatto children are running to and fro, hair so airless, eyes so soft and large, so well behaved they stop suddenly and blow out a sweet bon jour...i think they find me and thuh muffins curious.....the family owns both apartments on either side of the 2nd floor landing, this morning both doors are wide open with preparation for school.

"J'ai vu une souris!"  I stop and await amazed reaction.

Oh, he wearily replies, and then goes into his apartment and gives me a trap, demonstrating over and over again how to set it, where to put the cheese, he knows my french is so so and wants me to understand, every so often he asks his invisible wife for an english word even though he can only describe in french.  He seems to enjoy in particular the part where the head is decapitated and the trap snaps.

Well, I opted for poison, as I can stuff the poison infested towels into the hole....everyone has given me advice, I've a feeling the drama is not over yet, stay tuned for more tales of moi et le souris, 'sarah'...

Brasserie Lipp and Gay Pride in Paree

Apres week of intense business particulars, revolving dates surrounding biz trips to Seattle and Dubai, scheduling meetings, discussing messaging about mio marito's company, my own co., how the two meet, we're tired. 

Just in time, the 6th and most gentle day of the week arrives, we greet it gratefully for we need to get away, if only from our laptops, the flat, for a sec.

Moi et mon mari saunter down the street to Brasserie Lipp for luxurious lunch, then wrap over to the right bank to walk it off at Princess Grace exhibit at Hotel de Ville.  Finally, after enough spent exploring such a city, we pine for our quiet home, alas, we've forgotten, it's Gay Pride Day.  To think my friends in Seattle suggested I'd miss gay pride in Seattle.

Barely.  A cacophony of craziness weaves its way, music thumping atop, within, alongside lorries the size of a city block, music is beating down Boulevard St. Germain, greeting us, exchanging Woodstock for all musical matters disco; Michael Shrieves is so '69, cuz it's 2008, la ville lumiere and the joint is hopping.

Gay Pride has arrived in Paris.  It's gorgeous.

Here's pics from our window, love the balloons....

I zoom in on the Banana Cafe Sponsor as one should....

It lasts for another hour, then it turns 6ish, and me and thuh muffins walk back downstairs and find the end, literally, as it's winding down towards the Arab Institute where it shall enter Bastille land.

 

Solstice + Paris = Woodstock and Ladies who still Lunch at Chez Bay

Chic house guest Gail arrives with enough Tumi luggage to keep her chic for weeks, however, you too would comb your closet carefully if your business itinerary included meetings with CEO's of BHV and Gallerie Lafayette.

Entire days spent at two of the largest department stores in Paris, each exhibiting a panoramic reflection of a country committed to fashion; frenchiness seeps through their respective escalators as recklessly as the calcium through our petite pipes in la ville lumiere. 

Gail came and conquered, or, rather, did her marvel best in sharing the mode of customer service that made Nordstrom such a class act. 

And so is she, my galpal Gail, an adroit composite of a kind, an American, a gal that inspires one to aspire...we can agree to disagree, we can have opinions so diverse and perceptions so staked within dissimilar experiences....yet our travels and deep desire to keep it decent make the company just lovely.

She's traveled the globe on behalf of Nordstrom, working with men that weren't accustomed to working with sr exec femmes, she's played out her competent nature beyond belief and yet still finds the time to commit to the non profit way, a philanthropic soul making sure she helps women less lucky than she, and to top it all off, she talks of her guy with devotion and good humour...he's a good egg, the last time he was here, he passed the test of great guest. D'accord.

I shared mon ami's mission for 'customer service' in the land of 'bitchiness' avec mio marito and he laughed...'Bon Chance!'  Of course, as he's taking his motorcycle from Malta to me, via 26hr baot trip to Genoa, I say to mio marito "Bon Chance!" 

In a way, I'm somewhat ambivalent.  I'm supportive of her endeavors but I quite like being left alone while I shop, which I rarely do, as the desire to acquire diminishes with contentment.  Not to mention the value of a greenback, certo.  But the concept means oh so much more, doesn't it.

Alas, if anyone can spread the philosophy of Nordstrom, it would be Gail......and it made me reminisce about the moment we Seattleites all dressed up in Nordstrom apparel, several decades ago, some friends grateful to wear and take back the next day.  I never did, but boy, did they.

I can recall the second Seattle shifted from Frederick and Nelson to Nordstrom, so obvious and immediate.  I was 15 years old, younger, maybe.  Improvisemente!  And then Nordstrom moved merrily along to conquer the rest of the world...but Seattle, creating some 40% of America's exports, conveying the entrepreneurial spirit more than most cities, for we never had powerful families in possession of overwhelming personalities, sososo quiet and understated, the moss grew under our feet; Volvo's and flannel forever.......you'd barely know it was there, so far away from the rest of the world.

Gail, ex Nordy doyenne, one of my uber-idols, sans mari, regals the ladies at the luncheon with tales of being just 22, a kid from a small town, staying at the Ritz, a representative of the service oriented department store, terrified, but not for long, as she would become their first female Prez.

Snap.

Indeed.

And hey, the other ladies at the luncheon were swell as well, one beautiful guest, an 89 year old french women named Louisette,  shared her first missions on behalf of the UN in '46 and another guest, the daughter of Louisette, my dearest galpal in Paris, a do gooder that travels the globe in a much different, less corporate fashion than Gail, as diversity is key, for me, it's all such a gas, this soiree and esprit, enjoyed by all.  I'm a lucky kid and I know it.

Luckier than most, with perception in play.  Per sempio. I met Gail while volunteering for New Beginnings, the shelter and program to eliminate Domestic Violence, and though I've long stepped down from the board and crossed the pond, Gail continues to persuade the power brokers of Seattle to fork over the dough for a most serious disease that will never invade mainstream topic.  Such is the state of our humanity. 

But let's dream backwards to my beautiful drummer boy, as all roads lead to Sig. Michael Shrieves, at least for one more day until mio marito arrives to distract me his way.  While imbibing espresso at chez Bay one morn I share my recent obsession for M. Shrieves, at least for when he was 19, at Woodstock, and Gail airily replies, "Oh I know him he lives in Seattle, or did."  BOH! 

And so it goes, the luncheons, the window shopping, the conversations down memory lane, about Seattle personalities I hadn't thought about for a decade.  Timely, as Seattle biz trip is imminent, I'm already planting the seeds for mayhem and mischief in the Emerald City, but that is for a future post.

Back to present, circa Gail's last night, I'd completely forgotten about Summer Solstice in Paris!  Such is my obsession! for note bene, the world will almost always conspire to one's fantasy by way of key cliche 'be careful what you wish for'....

BRING OUT THE EARPLUGS for the longest day in Paris happens to be the most surreal, not to mention the noisiest on the planet. 

It's a peculiarly wonderful/horrible experience for all.  Every three feet, along Boulevard St. Germain, Gail and I navigate our way back from the last supper at Balzar Brasserie.  We giggle and guffaw as we listen and sidestep the annual, albeit bizarre event, tripping along several drummers, all Michael Shrieves wannabes, surrounded by bad bassists, and singers belting out classics or worse yet, homegrown tunes. 

Each and every block is covered, from early evening to morn following, petite bands screaming and screeching their musical aspirations throughout several arrondissements...this city gets very silly, sillier than most during the silly season.

And now Euro soccer 2008 makes every night a footballer's dream...

So gratefully, I shall soon state to the city of Seattle, can't wait....

"I'm baaaaack"

 

 

Spring has Sprung at Chez Bay

Cousin Marie just flew in from San Fran.  Post Spain excursion, prior to attending classed at Oxford, she skids into Chez Bay.   

Also, occupying two other seats, we have Sir Hillary Fusspot to my right, then Marie's husband, Leonard, to my left, another Capital C type Conservative via William F. Buckley, quintessential, slightly strident, almost kind in retrospect to today's neocon.

Two men, so complacent, comfortable. Hillary with his Harvard, then his father's Harvard  to re enforce his own.  But some gentle Okie southern root, via boarding school to soothe Hillary's conservative corners, then moi, your resident pragmatic hedonistic anarchist seated directly across from uber idol Marie.

Had more blanc de blancs Ruinart, no small feat to locate on a Monday morn in the city of light...

Cousin Marie is most unique.  She was appointed by Reagan, bypassing all reality, the 'TYPE AND TEACH' reality, the only one reality available for females circa 1952 San Fran.  I have Muv, Marie, Betty, Mama.  i have no excuse.

Back then, San Fran, a city still loving of deep formality, more than the most cities in the States, mid or other...always fresh food, long before others, fantastic cuisine that my city, her little sister, Seattle, benefited gratefully from..........

San Fran, a unique city with neighborhoods as deep and authentic as any found in New York, informing my muv and cuz marie...My grandfather Walter designed parts of Presidio...so nice to sit at my table, with hand painted tablecloth, designed for Muv, a product of said grandfather, lover of all little yellow birds.....the gal that painted the piece of linen, and she got color, hence a most specific treasure inspired by muv...

Marie got it, early on. Marie became the first female Superior court judge in her very large part of the world, Alameda specifically, in spite of it all.

Marie and I sit across from another, ignoring, or trying, but respectful of Capital C types, as we are part of the past, of an America that could argue towards the middle.  We were just happy to be together, talk about Muv and her sister's health aside, we're in Paris, in spite of it all.  Nothing else matters, today.  Manners.

An hour later, after Sir Hillary Fusspot and Capital C have departed, long after Marie has left the building, Godot and I sit and think about our uber idol.  Someone relayed their take on the competent quadrant notion to me on my last trip to London;  2% of all people do stuff.  8 % try and screw those that are doing the stuff (litigious disease,in part), and 90% do nothing at all.

Marie gets it, I think I do, sadly enough....

Godot, my little one, agrees........

Table, B, C n G await for NY crew to drop by Chez Bay on Wednesday......

 

Prior to the  arrival of imminent and impressive guests , I tap into my creative skills to enable the table to impress as well.  I know the conversation may be in danger of too much French for my beginner status, so possibly I am partially intent upon creating enough diversion to compensate for barely conversational French speaking skill along with the fact one of the very reasons I throw a dinner gig is to set a table well.  It allows a creative process to complete itself, something my novel writing rarely provides.  I can start a creative process, prepare a lovely meal, set a gorgeous table, enjoy old and new friends and as the last dish is placed back in the cabinet I have brought the entire process full circle. 

Next.

But prior to absorbing my own sense of accomplishment I have to begin the process.

Many years ago, a friend, a rather talented artist painted a piece of linen for my mother, who happens to be an avid bird watcher and Audubon society enthusiast.  As a kind gesture, Muv sent it to me last year as we both agreed it should live in Paris rather Seattle.  She's beyond her dinner party days and I am not.  So the daughter takes the torch, proudly and brings out the matching napkins, each with their own colored bird amidst green branch.  I find some live flowers to compete with the table, some candles to create more aesthetically pleasing chaos and voila, dinner at Chez Bay is about to commence.                                                                                                                                                                                                               

But before the conversation can start, the menu must be reviewed and the wine determined.  I know I want to stay with white as red is too difficult for my tablecloth.  White linen is always easy and can come clean, but not with this mini-masterpiece.  It's best to avoid or anticipate the first inevitable spillage. 

I'm serving my staple, eggplant bundles, a lovely concoction of eggplant, tomato, Parmesan, mozzarella, parsley, basil, garlic and have decided on tuna steaks for the second course so a bottle of Chateau Simone 2003 will see us through my gorgeous pastry presentation avec elegant and edible long chives tied adroitly into a lovely little bow. 

At 8:30 the guests arrive, the Ruinart Champagne creates the mood, the candles almost everywhere and trio of orchards here and there assist our environs and the emotional climes just begin to move as they will.  I love to entertain.  I love to spread good karma, avoid the tedious particulars of our lives as my husband is down south with his parents near Nice, far enough away for me to enjoy the collision of diverse personality and let it happen as it will. 

The dinner is intimate.  Linda, la countess, or rather fellow Seattlelite that happened to marry into a prominent french family knows just about everyone and gives me the gift and shares her little black book every now and then.  Actually, I prefer, and request it only now and then, it makes it more meaningful and fulfilling.

Two of the guests, Catherine and Florence are particularly interesting.   Catherine, from a family that owns a bank in Switzerland, had a salon in Paris for years and continues to share her diverse passions with many and Florence owns many Flemish paintings and not just a few Brueghel's.  her passion is more concise but similarly interesting.  Florence is less than comfortable speaking English so French is the main mode of communication, therefore I must practice the art of listening and engage when I can.  Always a good exercise, even in one's mother tongue, n'est pas? 

    

The dinner goes well, politics, art and all the usual suspects are covered.Marie Antoinette is prominent, American policy, fortunately enough, less so.

The bottles of Rully keep steady even as Bernard deviates and gives more than just a little respect to my bottle of Chivas at the bar.  We finally wrap up and decide it's time to call it a day as it is has become another well past midnite.

I'm just grateful to imbibe.   One may perceive such flights of fancy as too indulgent in these dark times.  But hey, what say, what's wrong with a bit of hedonistic pleasure.  Rien.  For this is highbrow at its best.   

And, it all goes by, like life, in a flash from a digital....   

Who's next....