Bailey Alexander: The Europhile

Venice; La Serenissima...

 

After a nite out w/the Genovesi we set sail to Santa Maria di Leuca

The Italians aboard the lovely 50ft beneteau with passarelle boasting black lights (tres chic), on our port side suggested we hit the well known fish joint across the marina.  They'd just spent two months sailing along Croatia and had much news to impart and we're listening as that's our next destination.

We met Allesandra, (pictured above) Michele, and Giacomo to enjoy the first proper meal I've had in too long...once again, all is right in life as some invisible magician orchestrates that food and wine simply appear, course after course, et.

Allessandra's one of those cool chicks from Genoa who works in Milan and speaks some English and likes to party, so we do. The cigarettes, cigars and camaraderie float down from up North and play surround sound for the night.  We may no longer smoke but its outside and just fine as Allesandra tries to seduce me into dancing into the nite, but I'm spent.

Her father, Michele, is the kind of Italian that exudes an ease with life; retired, content, happy to hang with his daughter and friend, and cook, Giacomo. Allesandra's twin brother is far away, in NY, learning English and Economics. I'm pretty sure I'll see Allessandra again and it's so nice to have to speak Italian, struggle though it may be after three years in Parigi.

When the pasta arrives, I can taste the Italian herbs.  The volcanic ash is at work and the cows have been sung to in Italian so the food is simply bettah, so there.  I can practically channel Paul Giametti in Sideways, identifying the grape within the Italian white wine butter sauce. Colette and Godot joined us at the table, we're all so relaxed, unfussed.

We set sail from Crotone at 8am, sailing at 15 knots until noon. This time I'm channeling my grandfather back when he used to sail one of his many mistresses in the san francisco bay, of the inanimate/yachting persuasion.  The waves and wind hid hard.  By mid afternoon, everything calms down, we then pull out the deck chairs at 6, have a cocktail and peacefully enter the harbor of Santa Maria di Leuca at 10pm and anchor out. 

So here we are, at the southern most tip of the heel, dello stivale, in Santa Maria de Leuca....

 

A bit of a slog, allot of bliss, but we're back...

...in the land where the coffee tastes like milkshakes and the pasta is al dente, finally! Benissimo!!!  Such a process this exercise of sailing.  It took some time to prepare. First I became at one with MADI.  Cleaned, bleached, waxed and varnished her back to life: packing along bits of Italy, France,Gore Vidal and  Dawn Powell to keep company. Provisioned for a coupla days but Maltese fruit, like the little banana, lasts little longer than a day.

Nav station, pilot house in order and V-birth stashed and organized

  We're ready to set sail...

6 hr watches, mio marito prefers the night, I the day...our times overlap, we all catch the sun rise and set along Sicily.

W'ere so blissed out, our thoughts focused on nothing other than the stars exploding, the sun's moods, life's so nice a dragonfly joins us 12 miles out from the coast along the Ionian Sea.

On the 3rd day we tie up at Porto Vechio Crotone, in blessed Italy as the cute kids whiz along the marina in their vespa...

Alors, with the Italians and French flanking either side, we're happy and secure....time to drink some milkshakes, wake up and explore the town prior to setting sail towards Otranto tomorrow...

Persephone's myth, Malta's archipelago and sailing away from Calypso's imprisonment

We'd hoped for Sunday but Monday's just fine by me.  One should never, ever challenge the weather gods or the gods of fate when setting sail long distance. 

So, now tis time to bid adieu to persephone's myth near Mdina, to 7,000 yrs of Maltese history and all that jazz. 

A good entrance and exit is key, to any country, we think.  Would have loved to sail away on Muv's b-day, but that's why we create pictorial blessays.

Escorted by my grandfather in their home in San Fran, Muv walks towards her betrothed, the man she would marry for some 55 yrs...

 The second is her last sketch, outlining her own exit; with style and strength; 

My biological realities, so much in evidence this past week as I spoke for the first time in 2 decades to my daughter.  We'd emailed and I'd provided the background to particulars surrounding her unique birth.  Even though she boasts a double degree from Univ of Washington, she opted to become a dancer in New York, a young women that proves both delightfully fierce and artistic, making her way into an all female dance company in the big city.  I sigh with wonder. I may have given her up for adoption while at University so long ago, but her DNA plays a part in placing her in the space in which she lives today.  The fact she studied in Argentina, speaking Spanish, simply completes the biological bookends, Basque et al.

Magic and mystery abounds, almost always.

So tomorrow, this time, when we set sail towards Sicily I'll pray to Calypso, documented as the first feminist, Homer's character of 2800 yrs ago that lived on the isle of Gozo, not far from Malta. 

I've never been in danger of placing a mirror to the nymph's mistakes but departing this patriarchal island and entering a more matriarchal spirit is more than a bit symbolic.

And if Muv was a bit proper, funnily enuf, she luved nothing more than painting La Nu.....

.

We stayed in a cave in Basilicata.

John Hooper@The Guardian has a great article about Matera, a place of caves where people have been living since Paleolithic times.  This place, in Basilicata, in the south, was surreal and a must see for anyone that wants to see what most others don't while living in or traveling throughout Italy.

We didn't stay in this hotel but one similar, in a cave, with a lovely bed, phone and candles.  Prior to falling into a blissful sleep our eyes hung off the window perched high above as the church bells rang and then silence, still, complete silence, like I've only heard in the middle of the Atlantic provided surround sound.

Hopefully I'll hear the same kind of sound on this sail to La Serenissima...

Still Alive like the hills of Salzburg

Basta cosi, enough of the emancipatory efforts already.  Two days at Hotel Sacher in Salzburg is enough to remind me that I'm alive and it's still rather nice to be me, isn't it. 

Last venture I made to where the hills are alive with music, was about 9 yrs ago, to meet the future in-laws...gawd, that was a lifetime ago according to my years.  And yes, it shows on my 44 year old face, finally.  Now, when I state my age, there's a deafening silence where that beloved phrase used to reside, 'oh you look so much younger'.

Apparently I now look my age. 

Didn't attend the opera, like last time, nor the salt mines, nor the beer halls which are so fabulous with those huge glasses of beer and sausages and sauerkraut absolutely everywhere.

No, this time, while staying the grand Hotel Sacher, mirroring the stay we had Hotel Sacher in Vienna, I opted for the corny "Sound of Music Tour"...I was so tired of spontaneously planning a million details it was time to do nothing.

The tour was anything but corny, in fact, going to the lake region was nothing short of bearing witness to the most gorgeous countryside in the world.  And listen, I've trained it and taken the Europcar rental through the Alps in October, twice, and I've sailed up north from Seattle to the Vancouver islands, so I'm not necessarily deficient in comparative countryside 101.

This simply is the most beautiful place in the world.  Saw a few places where movie scenes appeared, where Maria and the kids fell into the water and we almost lost little Gretel, but the interesting bits were that the Austrians wouldn't allow Hollywood to film any internal shots.  You see, the Austrians didn't like the movie because it had so little to do with the family's real life and also, there's that tiny and tedious fact that many countries just don't view WW11 through the Hollywood lens. 

Imagine.

I did watch the movie later that night, just to repeat the tour and hear those wonderful songs.  Apparently the tour guide met the lovely gal that played Leisel, the eldest daughter.  She fell in love in real life, and her lover-to-be-husband told her it's either movies or me.  So she became an interior designer.  Michael Jackson hired her to do one of his homes, which makes perfect sense to me, if only to tell her that whenever he feels blue he watched The Sound of Music.  And she told my tour guide.  And he told me.  Sometimes things are so silly they have to be true.  And you know he watched that movie alot.  Maybe Michael's comeback, which will happen, and which will make me happy, will be a hip hop version of verses rapping about needles pulling threads and stuff.

I can't wait.

Before you assume Muv will no longer be a player in my posts, au contraire. I've put together a space, I can visit, or maybe meditate, have a small chat, or simply place fresh flowers, if only to honour Muv for a minute.

I've wrapped Marilyn in Muv's mink and pearls.  The only piece of clothing Muv saved from the past was this little item, this little wrap.  I think it was her mother's...My heart stopped as I grabbed it, I used to model it for Muv in my nightgown before I'd sit down to several bowls of cocoa puffs.  She loved it when I played the ham, as long as it didn't resemble Betty Davis in her baby jane phase.  Which I didn't, as we left that to someone else in the family, who did.

Here's a pic of my meditational space...and no, I don't do Jesus, but Muv did and this cross has been in mio marito's Italian family for a million generations so one must honour such a relic.  And it lives well overlooking Muv's ashes.

It is time to get on with the business at hand and to begin to pretend the reality show posing as an American election is truly interesting and compelling stuff.

Gosh. Everything is so petty and personal with my fellow Americans.  Hillary or Hillbilly, or whatever they're calling her these days, for heaven's sake, she's simply smart and competent, what in hell is wrong with that....she is certainly worthy of the nomination.  Obama is thoughtful and inspiring and presenting a package I find practically perfect because I haven't a patriotic bone in my body and appreciate the global village profile. 

So. Both are great candidates, but I think Obama will beat her out and McCain will beat him out.  And America will officially go down the toilet.

I understand Wolcott's reservations. http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/blogs/wolcott/

Every time I inquire as to why absolutely everyone that I know hates Hillary I hear the same trite, personal attacks; basically they take issue she acts like a man, like any other second rate politician that couldn't make it in the private sector.

Listen, most Germans don't like Merkel, personally, but as long as she's doing the job, competently, which is practically impossible as Germany is going broke paying for the EU and the East German bill, which will hit there insurance costs and such, as long as Merkel slaps down the Polish twins or whomever pretends to rule that place, as long as she slaps down Sarko's silly Mediterranean schemes, they let her get on with the business at hand.

Well, shame those Americans can't handle Hillary and her set because they'll simply get another version, worse, McCain.

Glenn Greenwald states in Salon:

But there's an even more distortive aspect to all of this. The reality is that John McCain's understanding of foreign policy and his approach to national security has proven to be simplistic, destructive and idiotic. Nobody spewed more pre-invasion falsehoods and confused and misleading claims about Iraq than John McCain did. And he's been the Prime Cheerleader for one of the most destructive wars in U.S. history. The notion that he has expertise in foreign policy or sound judgment is a total myth, yet it's one that his press fans accept and enforce as orthodoxy.

There's a reason the Brits look upon their cousins as naive teenagers with better toys.

Let's not forget the Keating con. 

The pathological strains that I'm writing about, the litigious disease, the evangelical nonsense, the therapy ridden victim sensibility has taken over the looney bin and apparently, boh!, there's no reverse gear.

I'm going march right out and buy Susan Jacoby's new book, The Age of American Unreason. http://www.susanjacoby.com/

I read her 'Freethinkers' and find her kind of mind brilliant, giving one some sense of hope regarding my birth country.

There's always hope, in spite of it all!!!!

Emancipatory efforts: Prague

It would appear I've been remiss, disingenuous even.

While perusing past itineraries I noticed I'd overlooked large swaths of Central Europe.  How could I possibly pose as a particular flavor of Europhile?

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

I decided it was high time I address my egregious ways.  I could also expunge a bit of grief by traveling to Prague, Slovakia, Budapest via Auschwitz.  If the house of cards dealt me the death card I would simply respond and up the ante.

Speaking of Houses...

The closest I’ve come to colliding with the House of Hapsburg and her Austrian Hungarian Empire was on holiday, circa 2002. Moi e mon marie avec Colette and Godot stayed at the most elegant cliché that is Hotel Sacher in Vienna at Christmas.

Ironic, innit. Especially and verily as my bourgeois character is perpetually in search of one character; le boheme. Contrary to Pirandello and his ½ dozen actor’s escapades, I search for only one, not quite unlike the Tin Man, for I crave just one Bohemian soul.

“Twooth, wuv and Beeuteeey” as John Leguizamo's dispirited and diminutive Toulouse Lautrec lisps at the beginning of Moulin Rouge.

Truth, Love and Beauty.

Humph. The closest I’ve come to this far fetched trilogy is to trip along the much more muddied terrain of ‘idealism, death and banality of evil.’   

Not even worth forgetting to mention the 'freedom' portion of le bohemian's credo.

You'd decline if you too began your central European tour by climbing to the top of the Kingdom of Prague only to spiral directly downwards into the Gates of Hell a.k.a Auschwitz.

First things first. Paris to Prague. Overnight train. When will I ever learn? So optimistic am I, each and every time, for these dark, long, late night ventures are antithetical to sweet dreams, unless you travel for a living, like mio marito, however, I don’t. Sleep on trains or planes or sailboats for that matter, especially inside ones that sail across the Atlantic, like ours did. And I didn’t. Sleep, that is. Neither that time nor this...no matter, that's why they invented books and Vanity Fair.

Prague is so very pretty and culturally luxurious in its post communist state of mind. The 20 to 40 yr olds I spoke with were mighty grateful for such opulent ideas as option and opportunity. Although, I might take a stab and assume much of the older set just misses the old style government committing the bidding for them.

On the first night I decided to buy a ticket for a perennial favorite, Le Boheme, at the State Opera House.

Right idea, wrong time.

As soon as the lights go down a very chubby Praguer prances front stage, playing the part of a Parisian bohemian. So tightly is she tucked into those faded jeans, so very fiercely chomping on her gum, and so wildly does she sway to her, what else, IPOD, I know immediately I've been served a personal slight by the Czech Republic.  The ill fitting jackets, the clashing colors, if you're going to sing in Italian might you enlist an Italian tailor? 

Classical opera when clothed in modern garb, specifically central Europe garb, screams nothing less than Madonna on a budget. Whenever the producers go post modern instead of period I feel cheated in a way.  I want to see the stitching of the muslin and feel soothed by those layers of silk, supposedly so authentic and exotic, representative of another era.

Well, No worries. I just close my eyes, channeling back to the chalice I was given while watching Le Boheme at the Viennese Opera House circa 2002. It was still the same music as it was then, just as divine.

Prague was just as lovely as my friends thought I might find it to be; a city to behold.  I enjoyed a massage by a male masseuse named Camille at the hotel, then roamed the Kafka Museum, buying the sliver of genius that is Kafka’s "Meditations,", then after 2 nights and 3 days of one version of Paris I took another long train ride to Osweicim, aka Auschwitz.

Emancipatory efforts: Auschwitz

I decided if death was going to knock on my door, I was going to knock on The Residence of Death, and visit Auschwitz.

Why?  Because the problem with grief is that few people around you get it.  I needed to go dark, to be around death and get rid of some of the grief and quit dwelling on death. So I did.

I arrived at Oswiecim late into the evening, a non-descript town. I ate something and drank something, then walked thuh muffins.  As we three lay in bed well past midnight, I began to have doubts.  Godot and I had our hands behind our heads; legs crossed, and contemplated the plan.   Colette just curled into a black and white circle of fur, willing to wait patiently until we made our way back to Paris. 

Why were we even here?  Godot concurred, Colette just kept silent, with one eye half open as if to suggest, "I have been to 3 continents and now 18 countries but you are not taking me there...."

Of course not, Colette.

The idea stemmed from a conversation I had with the bereavement counselor, the nice guy from the hospital that had ‘taken care’ of Muv in Seattle.

I’d received a message and returned it the night before I was to leave for Prague.  He addressed remaining questions that still idly lurked in my mind re Muv’s passing, in medical terms.  I was grateful and he was kind.

I told him I’d thought about going to Auschwitz and he suggested I write a letter to Muv and leave it there, at the death camp.

I started to ponder the possibility this nice guy may have been doing death for too long, even if it was his job.

I could follow his logic then, but now, laying awake just a few kilometers away, the notion felt far too maudlin, even for me, finally.  Godot confirmed my suspicions; Colette just wrapped herself more tightly into her circle of comfort, guilty of nothing but being perfect.

At about 2am I decided to write a short note (yes, I can, am capable and was culpable on this one occasion) on the back of one of the postcards I’d bought after visiting the Kafka museum in Prague, the one with Kafka’s youthful black and white visage on the front.

I woke up the next morning to find the central Europeans just as kind and friendly as the last batch.  Not professionally nice, not phony nice, just warm and anything but unfriendly.

I arrived at 'AuschwitzI' and walked through THAT sign that states 'Work Shall Set You Free’. One quick, cold shudder shot from head to foot, then I got on with my walkabout.

I roamed aimlessly, without any guide, grateful for the lack of fellow visitors. I went to the death block, and the executioner’s wall, absorbing the odd assortment of flowers from Irish students, cryptic prayers and such.  I looked for a place for my postcard to rest, undetected, if only for a day, a week, a month.

What can one say that Primo Levi hasn’t in “Se Questa e un uomo”, If This is a Man? 

I looked around slowly, taking in the bleak environs, trying to figure out where I was going to put this postcard.  I looked at the holding cells where victims 'lived' before they were massacred and thought about the Jewish visitors that came long after the fact.  They would hide in parts of the museum and stay overnight in order to experience what their ancestors went through…apparently that’s no longer possible, or so I read.  Not sure what other people feel but humanity is no where to be found on this parcel of land.

I started folding the postcard in my hands, making it smaller, accordion style, until I found a place, near a ‘cell’.  I would pretend, like Muv’s last sketch that she escaped death, unlike all those that did not.

Delusion is key, for me, at this time.

I hadn’t the emotional bandwidth to hiss and spit at the Nazi’s nor bear witness to all these poor souls, but one can’t deny the exercise, it comes with the territory. 

Apparently one or two Jews escaped, one by the name of Rudolph Vrba, from Trnava, Slovakia. I decided we'd travel to Trnava and bury the letter in his home town.

After an hour of entering buildings and absorbing pictures I’d seen all my life and roaming the grounds I took a taxi to the real ‘residence of death’, the larger, much more desolate space that burned them all to ash; Auschwitz II.

It is such a barren place so one’s eyes immediately fix upon the Gate of Hell, that archway living just beneath the tower, allowing just enough space for all those trains to pass through, carrying those souls to their imminent death.   I walked to the top of that tower and surveyed the scene.   

I couldn’t dare enter a building because one of the creepiest and crappiest parts of Muv’s death was dialing for a crematorium in the wee hours of the morning, trying to take care of yet another detail that was left for me, alone, to address.

I left the tower and walked up and down those long wide paths on which people waited to see which line they’d take, to work, or to their death, or to work for a while, then death.

The walk was several hundred meters to and fro but while heading back I had the most disturbing and distinct visual begin to run through my mind.  Suddenly I felt like a Meth addict who had miraculously survived a blast.  I could just barely peel myself from a wall, quickly counting all my toes and digits.  Then, when the realization sunk in I was still alive, I decided it was high time I join the living and stop swelling on the dead.  I wanted to run down the rest of the desolate path, reverse the journey through the gate of hell and scream "I want to live, I want to live", but my feet were so laden with experience I could only stomp the rest of the way and gratefully fall into the taxi and pray the train was on time and I could leave Auschwitz and all that it implies.

Emancipatory efforts: Slovakia

Life becomes less expensive, both literally and figuratively. The 4 star hotel I booked for one night was equivalent to a bistro lunch for two.

My new EU member tour continues and my mindset becomes less taxed, metaphorically moving further away and yet simultaneously closer to home.

Walking into the hotel, I couldn’t deny a foreign feeling, a small smile to call my very own, for the first time since Muv died.

Checking in I could see this was not simply a hotel but a mecca for all Slovak tennis fanatics. Immediately to my left I noticed several indoor tennis courts. I questioned the check-in chick in French as most everyone assumes I’m Parisienne. I can’t imagine why. Is it the two Papillons or possibly my black wool dartanian cape? Who cares!

They're hosting the Jr. Tennis championships of Europe.

I quickly unpacked, walked thuh muffins, then headed straight to the restaurant/bar that overlooked three of the many tennis courts that surrounded the hotel facilities. I watched two very driven youths practicing well past their bed times, showcasing their talents and devotion to all things tennis.

What better way to while away the time watching two kids whack the hell out of the ball. I used to do the same about a millions years ago. Such a great release, so many winter days, indoors, taking lessons before school, after, following my coach all over Seattle.

So very many summer days spent hitting the hell out of a tennis ball, up to 8 hours a day, in LA, in Seattle, in such heat, the hotter, the better I played, outdoors, wasting so much time, blissfully, carelessly, frivolously, but with so much concentration, really, on this most satisfying of pastimes.

The kids I watched were good, really good, all gangly and top spin and brute strength. I couldn't remember the last time I saw a superior game of serve and volley. My uber idol ,Stephi Graf, changed the game forever. Contrary to what all the idiots attest to, Martina did not add strength to the game, only to her ego. She barely hit the ball any harder than the backboard that was Chrissie Evert, and I should know, I played ball girl for them on the Virginia Slims circuit so many zillions of years ago.

Billie Jean helped Martina, alot.  I was given the opportunity to work with her while she toured the country helping underprivileged kids enter the game.  BJK was and always will be the high priestess, doyenne, purist and most gifted goddess and devotee of the game, responsible for giving women money, equal time and respect. I am so giddy to report she was practically perfect in person, quintessentially one of thee most most generous and authentic beings here on earth.

I digress.

The next day I woke up to tour the town of Trrrrrnava, which took about two secs, then buried the letter I’d written to Muv. The spot was not symbolic.  But I found the exercise cathartic.

I parked thuh muffins in their bag next to my chair, ordered a bottle of beer like the rest of the Germans and Slavs lining up the windows showcasing the two young women in the foreground and younger men in the background and the watched the two women warm up.

Post perfunctory practice serves and volleys, they walked up to the net and met. One tall, lanky, lean blonde aggressively twirled her racket and they both watched while it fell flat next to the net. The tall, lanky, lean blonde showed the other tall, lanky, lean blonde who had won the toss.

Suddenly I was so happy, I mean really happy to witness this small, silly, simple tradition, it was the same. Like when we played a million years ago.

The one who won didn’t necessarily take the advantage. The other tall, lanky, lean blonde questioned the other tall, lanky, lean girl on more than one occasion, a ‘hooker’, as we used to call those cheating kind. I thought I saw her hook twice. The one who had been possibly ‘hooked’ became self defeating, but then she won one game and got her groove back, or finally, or for the first time. I peeled my eyes away from the match for just a sec to watch another match. One of the boys threw his racquet ‘A Mac Attack!’ Enjoy it, my son, for responsibility and emotions held in check await shall decide your future.

I was having such a swell time I almost missed the train. I fantasized about touring the tournaments. I did Roland Garos last year, but wouldn’t it be just fab to hit Wimbledon and the rest? 

Slovakia.

Whoda thunk. No longer feeling so punk.

Emancipatory efforts: Budapest

BudapeshshshT! 

Found a screamer of a deal at Hotel Gellert. Old and famous and fabulous, just seedy and grand enough to fill the bill.

Upon entering my room, I readily stripped, put on my bathing suit, slipped into my white cotton robe and slippers supplied by the hotel and walked up to the second floor. 

Standing in front of the old wrought iron scaffolding that houses the ancient lift, I eagerly rang for the little elevator lady, not quite sure if she was a buda or a peshtie, not sure from which tribe she might herald, two tribes united and married by one very romantic Danube river.

I rode the lift down to the public place that houses the famous baths...showered, then lounged in the water, found a fountain or two to live under, as one does, went back to the room, changed, walked thuh muffins, only to repeat the Turkish exercise, set at 38, so hot and gorgeous and therapeutic, just what the doctor ordered. 

I came here to dance with the gypsies, and I suppose I did, while combing the city, taking in all the detail, feeling the new monied ways of this part of the world, so much money to be made now, money for the new industrious set, set against such an historic background. 

Went down the Danube, isn't that what I was supposed to do?  So many rivers to ride on this trip.

They gave me a great deal over the internet, which meant some dosh was left for Salzburg. 

BudapeshshshshshTTT is indeed magical, like Paris, like Prague. 

I was going to dip down into the drama that is Slovenia but it was time.  To get on with life.  And news reports I'd watched while combing the thermal hotels, thinking I'd swim back home via hot baths became less enticing as this part of the world has started just a few too many wars and wasn't quite finished. 

I'd had enough of the long, slow train rides that stop at every single little village, I was starting to long for the West and those high speed trains.

I would continue my journey via Austria and re visit if only to confirm whether or not the hills were alive with the sound of music...

Recalling a death en route to Dijon

8 yrs ago my brother died of a brain tumor.

8 yrs ago, Muv and I drove from Venice to Paris.

Once again, I'm traveling along a similar route, recalling the death, 8 yrs on...

My brother and I were the pretty much the perennial favorites amongst a loose knit group of 5 siblings. Tragedy brings some families come together, others fall apart.  Our benign clan chose the latter.

The fallout was hardest on our parents, two people that had loved us all terrifically well, certainly better than most other parents I'd seen to date.  And I’ve seen a lot.

It was time to take my mother to Italy, for a month. I’d just resigned from a consulting company, was ready to begin another business venture, in transition, time to make the time. Muv and I spent 3 gorgeous weeks touring Italy from top of the boot to Italy’s toe.

I wanted her to see a bit of Paris and London.  So I spontaneously grabbed a rental in Venice and we drove up to Paris.

Serendipity sends me along the same environs, this time, via trenitalia vs voiture...

I have a lot of time for the Germans, especially those living in Berlin.

En route, on the train from Milan to Bern, while watching Lake Lugano stretch before our eyes, over and over again, I met a lovely young Berliner, had a great chat.

He was young, professionally successful, fluent in English, gorgeous, and hit Turin, Barcelona, London,Paris on a regular basis, but we agreed, Berlin is the coolest city on the planet.

The French and Italians may be 'cousins' even though the Italians favor the joke "A Frenchman is an Italian in a bad mood", but Berlin and Barcelona appear to be forming their own cool school in Western Europe.

We covered all the topics, the Polish elections, the Swiss elections, etc, Sarkozy, Brown...

But when Merkel the Magnificent became the topic of conversation, along w/her quiet triumphs, we both took a long pause in respect. Even he couldn't believe how effective she was. And he's a competent Berliner. She is truly magnificent.

I may not have much time for evangelicals, but I do have a lot of time for Berliners, even though they don't have a lot of time for evangelicals, the other kind, like Tom Cruise and his Scientology nonsense.

He explained it to me this way, "We do not like to see these kinds of subversive attitudes creep into the State, you see, we have learned..."

They've paid for East Berlin, they are cool with that, they've also paid for their sad past. Basta.

Now it's time to party. And everyone who's anyone knows it.

Berlin has always been deeply interesting, but now it's affordable, cooler than ever, intellectually and culturally happening, more than any other city.

I have a lot of time for Berlin. I think this may our next move...

London, The Fringe, Gosford Park and the lambyrinth of my own limbo-land.

Feels as if I've been to London a lot as of late but this last visit was simply an excuse to exploit the ease of using Eurostar. 

Why wait in line for another humiliating strip search at some such airport when you can arrive 20 minutes before departure, step aboard, readily find a space large enough for you and a laptop on the train, feel inspired while you gently retire as the beautiful scenery unfolds throughout the 3hr journey.

So, instead of skidding directly into the world's best arts festival I made the city of London become my traveling bookends for a week's itinerary lending perfectly to my kinda week; high, low and nobrow climes collide seamlessly....

The Fringe Fest at Edinburgh was fab, v.v.cool and no, didn't see Ricky Gervais smugly anoint himself KING OF COMEDY at 37.50 pounds of sterling a seat.  This IS the fringe fest after all, where the world's best descend upon the industrious city to compete and coincide with just about everyone who's anyone worth watching for theatrical entertainment.

Piano, piano, Ricardo, note bene.  'Member Wacky Jacko? MJ, the world's most gifted pop artists decided it was time to refer to himself as the king of Pop?  Immediately following this vain announcement we watched the most disappointing demise, the denouement to end all finitos, pauvre Michael...

Well, Ricky, not just the tabloids, but the British broadsheets are having a field day avec vous maintenant...tsktsktsk....

Distinctly nobrow. 

Edinburgh isn't, especially this time of year.  Suppose I'll stick to my mantra; if Paris and Amsterdam got together in the biblical sense, leur fils would resemble Edinburgh.  It has the same eye for detail as Paris but lacks the elan and whimsy but, does boast the calm, brooding dark elegance of Amsterdam with all that lovely grey to beige to black limestone.

Unfortunately, we only had time for a petite rendezvous, but on my 5thish visit to the fest I wasn't tempted like before...I'd made a call to one of the old timers that helped form the festival, the book portion, a delightful guy that now lives in Paris, Jim Haynes...he'd suggested there was no 'must see' this year, like last, both of which I caught.

This year though, was too late to see Meow, Meow, she sounds quite titillating and clever, but maybe next...met up with most stressed out mio marito and after seeing some funny stuff we hopped into the rental car and rode the genteel tour towards our destination, to Perthshire, to this place.

To hang out on this lawn again

to engage in yet another Gosford Park kind of experience.  Or the country pile as the toffs are wont to say.

Rather than hunting with Mr. G, Nigel, Charlie and the Burberry's as we did last time....

....instead, there was skinny dipping for anyone bold enough, young enough, drunk enough, to join in, and well, one of the Burberry's, though not drunk, was certainly bold enough, but no, no pics for your perusal. After all, I do want to be invited back again...and anyway, I forgot the digital...sigh...

All these pics are from last year, which was too bad because there was one that I'd have liked to have captured on this trip...it would have showcased the grand proprietor himself, alone, just after a long lunch with Sir such and such, lounging on his chaise, an hour to himself, catching the last burst of sun on the front lawn amongst a sea of calm green, his long leg squarely folded over the other so that from behind, if one could be such a serendipitous lurker as I, walking thru the morning rooms I admire the view and suddenly see Mr. G is part of it, I stop, catch the silhouette of of his elegant leather shoe pointing towards the pool to his right and underneath his left hand his loyal little white Scottish White Terrior lays blissfully, the scene so perfectly sedate, so very, very Gosford Park like indeed.

Alas, such a scene was so different from the night before...the pool hosted and boasted a alternative mis en scene.  Skinny dipping had followed the annual ceidligh/dinner that invites all the locals to dance and drink away the bankers holiday on this side of the pond.

The only reason there had been any skinny dipping to begin with was due to the informal and potentially raucous climes of the Scottish reel portion of the weekend's itinerary.  This is when formal kilts are replaced with informal kilt kit and strong ales are served right alongside the claret, just beyond the wild boar that's been turning all day long, to be served right before the band encourages the reels to begin.

I didn't even try to do much dancing this year, I'm lousy at it anyway, but there was so much more going on at the tables, especially the one in which I sat.

Mr. G had placed a princess next to me, quite suddenly, saying that she was going through her second divorce and would be in Paris for the following three days and wouldn't she and I like to meet.  Of course, we'd already met last year at the same event.  She reminded me of the conversation and wished to continue in the same vein but I didn't as I was intrigued and deeply distracted by familiar and not so familiar but fascinating characters sitting all around me.....normally I would engage but directly across from we two sat a most lovely Berliner, sniffing indirectly at our banter, wondering what in hell we were talking about, this self help stuff.

A German connection was the common thread and a pattern was laid out before me, a couple of the guests even spoke fluent Russian, one who happened to be the Clan Chief of Mc., which in these parts is a pretty big deal.

So, after a few false starts I share my trips to Berlin and finally pass the test when I share the memory of meeting the world's greatest conductor, Herr Daniel Barenboim, then I add a chaser or two of my Europhile philosophy and suddenly I don't appear so typical and then I get mio marito to sit down and sprechen sie deutch and next thing I know, I have a new friend in this lovely Berliner, I think she speaks 9 languages or someone else said she did which means she does.  She was there because she was friends' with my favorite gals' brother Nigel who happens to have a nice country pile of his own somewhere in the region but lives in Berlin and escorts people like Tom Cruise around Berlin when he's not delivering armed vehicles to Gaddafi.

There were so many funny and fascinating bits throughout the entire weekend.  Mr. G was in fine form and informed me I might want to host a dinner for he and his friend while they visit Paris.  If this goes down and I don't make a complete assclown of myself i shall have even more bragging rights that I did today.

Speaking of bragging rights, I now understand the elegant exercise that is the quintessentially English idea called cricket.  I understand what an Over is.  Not sure if I even spelled it right, but that's the piece I now understand.  All the rest is still a mystery, but I'm making progress, and regarding cricket, as an American, if you are too, I now understand more than you do.

I was able to attend my first Sotheby's 'pre auction' viewing at Gleneagles, which was interesting but the featured artists felt lived before, and many regular attendees felt it was a less than inspired event....the weekend then went on, as it does, and finally, we must pack our bags and put a stop to this elevated lifestyle, say au revoir to the orange room, sign the guest book, then mio marito must go back up to Edinburgh to work and I must pass through London on the way back and deal with potentialities there before heading back home...

My hotel is called, appropriately enough, "Baileys" and I check in, then meander about Kensington, the neighborhood in which I lived some 23 yrs ago...I find my way towards Brunello's and enjoy the rare vodka martini...the staff all speak Italian, I partake...then I go to where I stayed last time, the nice hotel that allowed moi and ma petite chien to stay....the bartender is French, certo, and I can practice my bad french, then I taxi it to the theatre and see "Wicked" as I had to...book was so much better, so clever, so right and real.  Musical was less than, especially with a load of shrieking children living in too many seats, applauding loudly just because a song has come to an end, over and over again.

But anything to do with The Wizard of Oz is bound to bring me joy.

Next day I have lunch with one of my favorite galpals, a survivor of breast cancer who now has lupus, a chronic autoimmune disease.... do YOU really have anything to complain about?  she's gorgeous, bright as hell, functioning most days at full throttle which is more than I can say and dare say, if I'm very lucky she and I may do a bit of IT business together, and funny enuf, the woman that we barely noticed, sitting to my left at the sushi joint asks me as she's leaving if I'm the same woman that was sitting near Mr. G at L. estate, well! small world, very.  Gawd, what did I say, hopefully nothing much was lifted, but she informed me that she too attended the Sotheby's pre auction and it may be the last in fact at Gleneagles.....but this notion and so many other pieces remain to be seen.

Hence the labyrinth of my own limbo land.....so much of my life hangs on the ledge, inching over the edge, and, as I always suggest, one must simply jump off the cliff....find otherly cultural realities, make the change, embrace the novel idea...but I'm hanging on the precipice, dangling, enjoying the last gasp of freedom without having to make the choice..the labyrinth of my own limboland....so many items still waiting to be ticked off, literally and figuratively, making the London/Paris connection officially occur, whether my IT company will take another form in the upcoming months, whether we will find ourselves living in a post american world which feels quite real to me, whether my chapters will make sense to the 'editor', whether the contagion will continue and america's greed will continue its havoc on this side...will B. Bhutto replace the military man in pakistan, will I be traveling to Berlin sooner rather than later...many of these musings are inevitable, some will need protean will, others will simply fall as they may...but hey, what say, time to get back to work at Chez Bay

Anticipating the Silly Season in Normandy

Sterling is at 26 yr high,Euro 1.37, sub prime fallout possibly, asia and europe reaching for their kleenex

Conrad gets hung jury? combo of bad actress posing as journalist/media baron/bully, voila, what a lovely nexus

The propinquity between private equity, debt and ambition may prove tricky for investments, when is too much, too much?

Who cares, Harry's imminent return in both book & film will dictate where the media make a fuss

Now we know Doctors R terrorists, on first name basis avec Grim Reaper, their very own license to kill

Damn ethics, Hippocratic oath, sociopaths unite! death is inevitable; a necessarily evil

At least Tony Blair's gone, so tiresome to hear him exchange cliche for eternal verities

Cherie, ugly frump, "I was the clever girl, interested in ideas," arrrivederci, we clever and bright fashionistas say

And Israel's new envoy Tzipi Livni scares the living BUJESUS outta me,as a wasp, I suppose she should

Suckled as a babe of visions for Eretz Israel, groomed by Sharon, by the way, what happened to Likud?

Where's the suave nutcase BeBe, ou el la rapist, oh, c'est mieux, bring in Mme. Livni, she's sooo much more sensitive

Greater Israel & military might won't work so they've scrapped the desire to lay pavement, for PR purposes, why not let a few Palestinians live

So what's with the exploding chinese cellphones, are you telling me cheap trade doesn't produce quality?!!!

Muv always taught me 'why discount?' we'll never experience that otherly concept called poverty

Looks like she's still buying Ferragamos', in spite of it all, thankfully, she and Duv are still alive

W/a view of Billg's park, eraser et ampersand et al, Seattle, last of the literate cities, still thrives

Unlike Iraq, now 4M refugees, & Sweden's just removed the world's largest welcome mat, no more! they scream, or we'll deport!

But Sarko's got an idea to bring peace via trade w/ Southern Europe, Africa and Israel, hmmm, where's Gaza, I ask, in this effort?

Is this just a ruse to keep Turkey engaged Sarko, btw, has your Cecelia left you AGAIN for a taller escort?

The world's paved w/good intentions, motivation transparent, le Dauphin just wants foreign job seekers to stay home

But why isolate Palestinians from peace, let them trade for peace and profit if that IS the point, don't leave them alone

The Muslims argue for a Mosque in Cologne, that's legit discourse btwn assimilation and diversity, looks to me quite the fair fight

Why proselytize one method like our western culture when so many say no! isn't that why the world's so uptight

Blair's sterile appeal to moderate w/Muslims was disingenuous at best, to assume ersatz 'progressive' versions will appeal to many

Well, we westerners don't like to sweat the minor details but isn't that where the devil is held hostage currently?

OK now, let's forget the serious stuff, LET THE BRITS BRING BOJO on and elect him mayor of London!

Why not give ourselves a giggle or 20 with gaffe prone Boris Johnson, isn't it about time for The Silly Season?

Leaving Las Vegas

Thanks to BillG, Muv et Moi walk about Sculptor Park, nestled against the Sound, just South of the spot the Beatles went 'fishing' at the Edgewater circa 1965.

My parents, ageing as parents are wont to do, enjoy the view from their flat, overlooking this creative park, erasers, ampersands, et al.  We study and laugh at the witty bits, then soon feel the need to walk amongst the literate humour, for it begs to be experienced even if some of the strollers are too young to remember what a typewriter eraser actually looks like.

This park made a major imprint for daily I'd skid into their flat, in between the other highlights, each and every one a memorable piece that made up the sum of yet another visit home, the same home that sometimes feels as it it's still reeling from the fact that injustice is endemic to the human condition.

At least in my spiritual home, Old Europe, the kings would lop off the heads and be quite honest about it.....in fact…

Louis 14th, Signore Sun King, used to stamp ‘ultima ratio regnum’ on his cannon implying that war was the ‘last argument of kings’.

Alas, fast forward and we’ve barely budged, simply a different century, ‘nother time zone.

So…for two blessed weeks I found myself safely ensconced within PST, GMT +1, 9 hrs behind the city that sheds light on my alternative solution, a retaliation, a reaction!

Imagine! Dorothy’s perceived enlightenment at the end of that Technicolor yellow brick road.  I argue in my novel that there is something better than home, a spiritual abode, this one ruled by otherly, frenchie style neocons named Sarko.

Of course I face the inevitable wrath and aftermath from friends as I cannot refer to the Emerald City's social barometer without mentioning the word 'provincial' and using the phrase 'emotionally flat' to explain away the social climes.  However, I might argue, were it not for aforementioned fact we could not boast such a highly industrious city that gives license to a space so delightfully and disturbingly removed from the rest of the country, one in which the resourceful energy produces 40% of America’s exports....a city that reads, still, more than any other in North America, creates more and doesn't necessarily buy into the adage that cleavage is the best excuse to hide the fact you’re homely, overweight or simply taking advantage of the fact you're preggers.

That was a rather gratuitous and petty slam against a petite viewing of The View one morning.  It was basically 4 sets of cleavage sitting on the desk and 2 very argumentative mindsets, representing the black and white version of the War On Terror in the States.  I couldn’t even hear Rosie and the right wing blonde playing out their modern version of William F. Buckley VS Gore Vidal, it’s painful, pathetic, not to mention shrill, and visually insulting.  Michael Moore and Ann Coulter provide a poor replacement but these two just parrot last night's news.

I’m not sure what’s worse, Rosie’s middle-aged, unintentional disregard towards fashion or the blonde stepford wife's very intentional regard for bad fashion...she appears to be smack in the middle of breeding yet another consumer, most likely a clone of her very plastic self, barely allowing those faux d-cup any chance of staying within a blinding yellow slip of a dress that I thought went out of fashion post baby Spice.  I'm not sure if it's the fashion of just the base, hysterical consumer like noise that demands I turn to C-Span for a reprieve and good book review. 

Or maybe, Papa forgive me, it has something to do with living in Rome for 4 years, experiencing the hooker chic adopted by women in reaction to the machismo, bravado and papal atmosphere....sans humour, absolutely everybody wants to showcase their breaststststs or new breaststststs.  Why?

My sister had implants, did they make her happy? No. My closest friend, while growing up, was flat, cute, gorgeous figure, popular, both of us, funny kids, but,while in Seattle...Muv flashed her Christmas holiday pic, her brand new shelf, shocked the childhood outta me.

Muv put it "darling, they are all doing it"..I suppose she did it for professional reasons, certo, for she's a realtor.  What skillsets do they have? 

Not going there...

Well, this is the first time and probably last time I've been back twice in the same year, maybe I'm simply tired of all the new breaststst.  In Paris, they are small and generally covered up, so forgive me if the experience appears jarring and extreme.

Alas, my trip home was meant to encompass an adventure far beyond bad fashion and vulgar trends.  My sojourn was to focus on family, friendships.  And to become less ambivalent about marketing WebConsult.  Generally, when I am experiencing a peculiarly fierce internal debate I simply work it out by paying it the attention it deserves.

I suppose this is why I don’t fit into the victim type mentality in which many of my fellow Americans cling onto, and resent me for ignoring outright. I am constantly amazed by how this fact plays out in the blogsophere and in the MSM on that side of the pond. 

I could wax and whine about the litigious disease, the drug/talk therapy cure and the nutty evangelical/ conservative messages so overtly irrational, so intolerable, so willfully ignorant, but I won't.

My friendships proved more ripe and real than ever, but I must admit to one or two casualties.  Within a relationship one side gets lost for a bit and quite possibly one finds the other, eventually, but some unions are simply doomed to go south.  Forever.  My opinionated, strong personality is doomed to drive others away even as it attracts so many others....such if life.

My galpals, per usual, proved they must exceed expectation....I visited Koryn again in her most aesthetically perfect flat, a space she designed...this time we were not alone, rather I, was simply one amongst an audience of many.  The feast, a recipe of chamber musicians, the top in their field surrounding her black grand, two concert pianists playing alone or simultaneously, made for a surreal afternoon and the sound competed gorgeously against any music hall, Benaroya or otherwise.

 

Of course, typing away on Typepad this time has proved to be tres unfun, for Typepad is not working properly and neither spellcheck nor pics want to behave so I shall try to continue the post, although it keeps slipping offline, deleting material and misbehaving in general, so for what it's worth, I shall continue, at all our expense....

Another Gosford Park Weekend at the country pile...

Thrice I've enjoyed sole yank status, observing, imbibing, relishing the cold and clear climes in Perthshire.

Pheasant shooting w/the Gibbons clan, the Burberry's, all appropriately attired in their plus 4's,  consomme and vodka consumed, itinerary full of entertainment, packed withe various formal and informal dinners with formal and informal kilt attire to match....most every minute protocol adhered to but , finally, after black tie and ballroom conversation have subsided,  after the last vivid moment has passed, some staged, so many spontaneous memories gorgeous but now gone...the last minor flirtation, the final major moments of politics have been discussed, digested, regurgitated, let to rest....

Finally, the last day, one more for Robert and I to partake with a quiet greediness, so grateful, after the main party has left, we've an extra day where we can just lounge by the fire with Nigel and Sarah, all of us happily ensconced by the fire, nestled in our comfort with one another, fixing tea for one another every few hours.  we can just lounge, relax, enjoy the stormy weather from inside, the environs so calm, suddenly......we can converse about anything and everything that comes to mind...everything from semantics  to quantum physics to selling virtual reality real estate in the web, patterning, stuff, everything, nothing, the last gasp of their world......you get it all at the country pile....

Sleepless in Seattle

When crossing the ocean aboard flight BA 049, I can finally relax.  I’ve successfully passed through the tedious drama that dictate pre-flight protocol and can now safely dream delusional thoughts, the sort that tease my mind the rest of the world just might as well be at slumber, if only for one day.

But for several days following the flight, the inevitable jet lag that makes the transatlantic journey so unattractive is gently compensated by the contentment of being home.

So much to do and only 14 days in which to complete the following, cross market my company WebConsult with Robert’s company Atlas TG and see dozens of friends in between and drop by Muv and Duv’s flat as often as possible.

As with each sojourn, some that allow more than a year to transpire in between, force the emotional distance to loom larger, if only in my head.  But, as with such profound perceptions, nothing really changes and yet everything changes immensely.  My connections stay strong, my loyalty as steadfast as ever but my contacts stay there and my mindset cannot do the same.

To illustrate, even my Papillion’s, Colette and Godot have traveled with us to at least 15 countries and 3 continents, 15 more countries than 90% or my fellow Americans.  It has no impact on them but much on me.  The country is which I grew up in has become far more conservative than before but Seattle, well, it's still unique and quintessentially Seattlesque.

The day I arrive I hit the ground running, jettison my way to Muv and Duv’s flat, give kisses and hugs, assessing their health, then, when appropriate, I take their car and drive to the Yacht Club to meet w/ Peter and Dennis to discuss business particulars..  It was quiet and the two glasses of wine that accompanied dinner might as well have made up a bottle due to jet lag.  Eventually the kind waiter warned us that several fat snow flakes were falling, more aggressively as time occurred quietly outside our window overlooking Portage Bay near downtown.

As Seattleites all well aware, we must prepare for the embarrassing fact that the psyche of the city would freak out quickly so best solution is always the same, go home before the slippery hills prohibit this nostalgic idea.

My host is known to Seattle and San Fran as Dr. Bob.  Dr. Bob informed me I just may encounter trouble navigating the steep hills on Queen Ann. Well, yes, I may very well be a typically dismal driver in the snow but I have crossed the Atlantic Ocean in Madi, our 43 Nauticat, so sliding up and down a few hills shouldn’t prove too impossible.  It did not. I arrived at his large classic craftsmen style abode safely, after all, my journey only witnessed two other idiots careening this way and that, but Dr. Bob met me at the door, we deposited luggage, chatted, but sleep was imminent.  Of course, wake up call came far too early. 

There is no fighting jet lag.  One can address the issue by taking sleeping pills, but my way is to simply give in to it and get up at a most vulgar hour, each day after allowing one hour later than the last for wake up, until one’s body clock, finally, safely arrives at local time, only to find same said body boarding flight for other side of the pond, and a much more fierce jet lag battle going east…. 

Listen, my husband just finished a 22 leg D Class ticket around the globe, so all things relative, not too terribly painful in comparison.

And. Wonderfully enough. Dr. Bob boasts one of the most impressive espresso machines, actually, the most idiot proof model I’ve ever seen, even I could figure it out, all one had to do was press a button, steam milk, done. So the time it took to move beyond my slumber state was gleefully expedited as my wigged out body digested café after café.  I found C-Span and watched David Brewster, publisher of the Seattle Weekly, or The Weakling as we used to call it, give a most impressive talk about 50 yrs of  Seattle history.  Well, after so many café’s I probably exhibited a bit too much interest in the subject. But it really was interesting to me for the simple fact I’m such a product of that 50 yr history, to some extent, at least.

In defense of Brewster’s publishing prowess, Seattle just doesn't do content very well, we leave that to the east coast.  But it would appear we do just about everything else better than most if you look at the financial numbers.  And this brings me to the inevitable discussion of  Seattle as a brand.   A paradoxical one at that.  This point was adroitly illustrated by Brewster’s observation that this city is possibly one of the few that could equally allow both Amazone.com and Elliot Bay Bookstore to comfortably co-exist.  Amazone.com is what it is, but Elliott Bay is a lovely, classic lofty space, layers of dark, weathered wood,  cupboards and columns of books, all nestled in the cool space that is Pioneer Squarejust south of Downtown. Elliott Bay Bookstore, a joint so beloved and supported by the country’s most well read per capita city, well, the very fact it still exists to compete with Amazon speaks volumes for why and what makes Seattle so quietly unique.

We’ve come a long way baby.  I recall studying at the  University of London, and when asked, some 20 yrs ago, from which city or state I called home, their faces would almost always look blank “the logging town, Alaska? oh no, you mean that Washington”.oh of course, and then they’d sort of make fun of the name and get cute with pronunciation.

Well, then, back to the brand.  As I am often wont to say, simply to inform  others less in the know, I suggest they realize and embrace the following fact: we should all be quite content that the world’s richest man is from this town and not, well, say, Larry from the Valley. You know, Mr. Oracle, Mr. Whatever Gates Can Build I Can Build Bigger.

Seattleites do philanthropy.  It’s in the water.  Whether or not you grew up in Magnolia or the central district, you do non-profit.  I sat on several boards, both funky and lowbrow as well as professional and well known and regarded.  Everyone does something, serves on boards, in soup kitchens, everyone does non-profit.

My itinerary was intense but after lounging in the love that lives at my parent’s fancy little flat on 1st I made my way towards the shopping district on 5th and

6th avenue

.  It was so quiet.  Alright, so cold weather tends to clear out the streets, but downtown has always been relatively quiet.  This is one of the paradoxical natures of Seattle.  Even though we may receive and welcome the largest # of newcomers, one can be guaranteed of yet another fact, this city will not be reflected by new money from NY or Bellevue, hipster types from LA, geeky professionals recruited by the usual corporate suspects or anyone else for that matter.  Instead, those newcomers, no matter how much attitude and cache will invariably slide gracefully into the provincial, somewhat socially insecure and emotionally flat environs that Seattle provides…..the moss will quickly grow under their feet, many will face the inevitable challenge of finding a mate to settle down with just because of aforementioned observations.  I can assure you they will think that they want to settle down because it’s a family town.  A place that doesn’t party until Thursday or Friday nite, a place that just doesn’t party well at all. Just look at what happens when we do.  Kids get killed in

Pioneer Square

during our attempt at Mardi Gras and aren’t they making a movie about WTO, well, that’s not a good example.

But look, even Dan Savage, the saucy sex columnist for the alternative weekly to Brewster’s publication, settled down, got married and had kids.  And he’s gay. (Listen, no overtly PC comments pleez, capito?)

Now, with all that said, I’ve placed bets with three of my friends, three souls from the outside, Dr. Bob, Martin and Jon.  All three living in Seattle, all three surely convinced this very paradigm of which I elaborate upon, this provincial state of which I speak, this emotionally flat dimension I opine about will morph into something otherly, otherworldly, other than Seattle-like.  They inform me that my views are flawed; dated and future data will dictate the influx of people moving into downtown will put my thesis to shame.

Right. Don’t hold your breath boys.  More than happy to be proved wrong, would welcome and luv the fact….

Of course, being as hypocritical as the next fool, I have to admit that as I often write about this post modern glaring global yuckiness, this result of a state of mind in denial of entering a collective consciousness, this dreary and I fear nearly known impact will altar my ability to enjoy the last gasp of old Europe. So, it might naturally follow that this Europhile does realize change will occur gradually and Seattle will lose some of its grace, its well read status and even the charmed neighborhoods, though still intact today, will lack, well, their individual charm.

Gratefully enough, I was able to hit all the neighborhoods of which I hold dear.  There’s the peculiar charm of Fremont ( it’s become the drinker’s paradise apparently), funky, gay, gorgeous, eclectic Capital Hill(gentrification is happening), the upscale yuppiness of Queen Anne and the quiet coolness of downtown(the bridge and tunnel crowd is having an impact, ugh).  But for now, still, it’s still resembles that which I remember, what it represented to me, for many years.

I can still go to the Queenie on 1st and receive a warm hello from the owner and feel the sophisticated ambiance that has kept me coming for 20 years. 

I could still race down to  DeLaurentis and deal with Steve the wine guy and get a cocktail party catered within 24 hrs with super spread and selection of Italian and Northwest blends.

I still could converse with the same vegetable guys at the market.

I could still drive by my various apartments on 4th avenue, 1st avenueas well as the funky penthouse that I occupied at the Olive Towerfor 3 years. Now that was a blissfully good time.  Except for that ass clown that stole my jeep. He really ticked me off.  Of course, this is where Seattle is so small and interesting. One early evening I’m meeting with a friend at a funky bar on 2nd and the bartender is a classic fixture in bell town, quite engaging and easily enters our conversation every now and then while we sit at the bar. He tells me of his meth addiction.  Fortunately he turned his life around, but it reminded me of the as clown that stole my jeep while I lived at the penthouse.

I tell him the story about how these punks stole my jeep one evening and how I found out who they were because some young gals quite liked the fact a single gal lived on the top and wanted me to know they knew who did it.  I confronted them, a very stupid thing to do as they probably just inhaled more pool pneumonia that very day, for I can still eerily recall their vacant black eyes amidst wan, white faces….yeesh, their eyes still creep me out to this day. I was just going to work; they were just coming home from another binger, obviously.

It’s a long story that I needn’t elaborate upon but end result I was able to get the cop I reported the incident to initially, a classic New York transplant, a cop named Sam, full of do’s and dems if you get my drift, and with a wee crush on moi, maybe, to stop by enough times to scare what was left of their brains and pack up their meth lab and find another place to ruin.  The bartender, a guy named Chris, otherwise known as Babe said, “hey, that was Jeff, the dealer of Meth, good job getting rid of him.”….closure is always key.

I digress per usual, but I’m simply trying to paint a picture of a place that is small, diverse, but even as the number of newcomers increase and enter Seattle, few of the classics take exit. And they still take priority and dictate the emotional climes. 

Seattle just doesn’t appreciate too much edginess.

The food’s always been good in a place that boasts the first farmer’s market in America.  But the sticker shock.  Am I in  London or Seattle.  Well thank you newcomers!

And then!  I come back to the  Emerald Cityand suddenly we have 5 new billion dollar stadiums and yet traffic is worse than ever. Such denial about mass transit.  I will not go into that snake pit of silliness. Of course, the fact that people don’t want to leave their dear neighborhoods contributes to this complicated issue.

Paul Allen is still throwing more money at the infrastructure of downtown and yet he’s still criticized more than anyone else. This large village does not prefer change or encourage too much at any one time.  It prefers it’s cozy, quiet, cliquish ways.  I grew up knowing all the cliques because of competitive tennis and because kids from Magnolia generally moved in a few circles. But as a recruiter and because I entertained and grew bored with one clique I knew a lot of people that migrated from other places and always the same refrain, “Why does it take 7 years to meet anyone’s family?”

Like I said, quiet, cozy, cliquish ways.

I left skid marks in several different sectors, connecting some people that just needed that one person removed, and other friends returned the favor. So many fantastic friends, several I’ve known for decades. I really need that hit every so often. Andy, as always, such an agile yet giddy mind, Dan L., such a beautiful man, both Teri and I love to look at him and proud pics of his beautiful new babies, Matthew, such a dear old friend sans new love, Lee, articulate and verbose, Leigh, so seattle scene, so much, Martin, delightfully anal and engaging, Dr. Bob, the best, Dee Dee, Audrey and Aiden, funny and odd as ever, dear, Teri, too, well, Teri, Scott and Marti, so nice to reconnect, the VanDerbeek, always, a treat, Bella, well, Beautiful, certo w/child, Andrew still Andrew, even more so, my dear old friend Claudia, well, we’ll never let the old humbugs get us down.. and on and on and on…..

I was grateful for Dr. Bob’s hospitality and btw, if you’re a single woman, living in Seattle or San Fran or willing to move to either place, Dr. Bob is certainly one of the most eligible men I know, he’s a leading Oncologist (last time I looked cancer wasn’t going anywhere) he’s handsome, plenty of vacation, brilliant on a range of topics and always up for a good time.  If you’re interested, please reply or if not, I suppose I’ll have to make good on my promise to line up some candidates on this side of the pond..

I was most impressed by my female network: Koryn still creating and making the moon move, directly addressing the drama, Shauna still covering all local, national and international politics with an ease and knowledge that should prove a model for others, then there’s Sue, still assisting start ups, (I quite like her pal’s new idea about directly competing with The Seattle Times),Gail, maybe the most amazing of all, raising another 80K for New Beginnings with assistance from Nordstrom, Gail, making UTango a presence, providing me with contacts galore, but most lovingly and importantly, my Muv, the love of my life, hanging on for her own dear life as the chemo wreaks havoc upon her tired body, but she, always so positive, rallied for a quiet little cocktail hour with just a very few of us, so grateful am I, to have such a role model, so much a product of an old school, one of grace, style beyond any other….Muv, forever my most favorite.

Seattle simply makes stuff happen, the city is completely and quietly competent.

They invent a new trend, then go back to the garage for 9 months and invent something else.  It doesn’t need to scream from the rafters like New York, nor deem itself too precious like LA, it just makes shit happen.  And I’m for that, as long as it’s good karma.  As long as it’s assisting the collective consciousness in some way, allowing good people to meet other people.  A bit of profit never hurt, after all, one does have to pay for the dog food.  But it was too nice being back in my old environs…knowing every street, every nuance, every clique, everyone.  It felt good to be loved, to know the scoop, but as I boarded the plane, the same flight that I’ve been taking for over a decade, BA 048 I knew I was grateful to be heading back to my spiritual home, to a place that forces me to engage with the rest of the world, speak another language, appreciate another culture’s protocol, get outside of myself, over myself.  Some days I actually succeed.

But I shall be back, sooner rather than later. No need to allow another year to come and pass before I become Sleepless in Seattle, but may I suggest they place the electrical wires underground, rather than amongst the evergreen trees of their evergreen state? 

I guess I'm not going home via Naples...

I was actually thinking of taking the ferry from Malta to visit my favorite place in the world, THE AMALFI COAST.....guess not.

Italy sends extra police to fight crime in Naples Posted 11/1/2006 8:52 PM ET E-mail | Save | Print | Subscribe to stories like this

Enlarge By Salvatore Laporta, AP Forensic policemen inspect the spot where two members of a local clan were fatally shot in a city known for organized crime. By Eric J. Lyman, Special for USA TODAY NAPLES, Italy — Hundreds of police started arriving here Wednesday to combat a crime wave that has left at least seven people dead since Friday and led the government to consider sending in troops. Prime Minister Romano Prodi is scheduled to visit the city 125 miles south of Rome today to assess the situation firsthand. The seven deaths since Friday came amid a crime wave that has included armed robberies around the picturesque and historic seaport known for its cuisine and architecture. Naples also is the gateway to the island of Capri, the treasures of Pompeii and the scenic Amalfi coast. The city of 1.2 million has long been a center of criminal activity, much of it tied to the Camorra, Naples' version of the Sicilian Mafia. Last year, Paolo Di Lauro, the alleged head of one Camorra faction, was arrested after a turf war killed 130 people in 2004. The spike in criminal activity in recent weeks has brought tourism, one of Naples main industries, to a virtual standstill. Alessandra Viti, a manager at the Vesuvius travel agency near the main train station, said the agency mostly has fielded cancellations and postponements this week. On Wednesday, police were stationed on most street corners in Naples' historic center. Most of the 1,000 new officers, dispatched by the federal government to bolster the local 13,000-member force, were deployed from Rome. Some came from as far away as Sicily to the south and Genoa to the north. "All they told us is that the situation here is getting worse and we need to be on the lookout for suspicious behavior and surges of violence," said Sergio Rossi, 23, a Rome-based officer with the paramilitary Carabinieri forces. Rossi, who arrived early Wednesday, said he was not told how long his deployment would last. In the latest violence, a 36-year-old man was shot and killed Tuesday in his computer games store about 8 miles north of Naples, police said. A few hours later, two suspected Camorra members were shot just south of the city. Scores of shops also have been broken into and ransacked. Government moves to curb the violence include deploying extra security and installing hundreds of new surveillance cameras. The prime minister said he was considering sending in the army to guard public buildings and free the police to combat the crime wave. "We have started an analysis of this important topic that could mean sending the army to Naples," Prodi was quoted as saying in Wednesday editions of the Naples daily newspaper Il Mattino. "We must study the long-term impact of that move because we cannot do it simply to calm public opinion for a short time." Interior Minister Giuliano Amato, a former prime minister, stressed the need for long-term decisive action. "We have to break the back of organized crime in Naples, and so for the first time we are betting on permanent measures rather than temporary ones," Amato said in a statement released by his office. Neapolitans, who have suffered through years of crime and murder years, most of it blamed on organized crime, are calling for extreme measures to stem the problem. "This is the first time since the war (World War II) that I don't feel safe getting groceries at the market near my house," says Adele Missoni, 83, who lives in Naples' Spanish Quarter in the city center. Antonio Greco, 31, an engineering student, agrees. "Send the army in. Send the air force in. Send in anyone who can help," Greco says. "Who can live like this?" If the government does send in troops, it would be the first use of them domestically since 1998. That is when the army ended its six-year deployment in Sicily, where soldiers were sent after two anti-Mafia prosecutors were killed in 1992. Contributing: Wire reports

I COAST, en route to back home....guess not.

Hanging out with Hans...

Just back from latest trip….Amsterdam and Brussels were more than perfectly pleasant…Amsterdam exceeded expectation with those layers and layers of canals….Colette and Godot were grateful for the wide space the sidewalks allowed for promenading pleasure…we miss that while living in the middle of the 5^th in the city of lights, competing w/tourists and Parisians.

Of course, one cannot avoid the obvious perk that those coffee shops provide, I did partake in just one, if only to assist the environs of strolling along those layers and layers of canals…. and the mussels in Brussels did not disappoint, nor the kind company of my dining companion, M. Hans.

Not only was Hans fun to chat with, being the Dutch kind of guy that he is, he reminded me just exactly why Amsterdam is such a cool kind of place.

But one shouldn’t underestimate the Belgians, those serious folk, so competent in business, chocolate and cuisine in general.  What flavor these people lack in personality they poor generously into their menus and onto the plate for our gastronomic pleasure, and for that alone, this aesthete is most grateful indeed.

.

Another Gosford Park weekend at the country pile.

Preparing for a weekend of black tie  dinner,  cricket of course, Scottish dancing, champagne at 3......

We gathered on the front lawn in our formal attire, full of flashy plaid and fancy dress to meet and greet and imbibe before dinner at 8 on the first night....

and finished the annual soiree with morning papers, listening to Dame Joan Plowright discussing the genius and demons of Olivier while seated at the same spot that allowed a view that went on forever, comfortably ensconced under weather that denied all Scottish logic and stayed dry throughout the entire weekend.

They can explain away all day long and I will never understand the game...therefore, I've no way of knowing whether or not we lost against the home team of C.

There were lots of hairy things roaming around Lawer's estate...even though I didn't see any of his racing horses this time, we did catch one of them on the television as we scurried into the smallest room, the tv room, to catch Mr. G's Scotland The Brave race at Yorkshire on Sunday afternoon....unfortunately his thoroughbred wasn't so brave at that race...it was all quite classic as we listened to Mr. G put a call into his bookie and place his bets....he was quite gracious about his own not placing but  i've a feeling the trainer or whomever might be shaking in his racing boots.....it was such a dramatic, albeit small stretch of time, but just one stretch of time, timeless and only one major moment amongst so many others.

As the only American I can say that my social gregariousness fared well at times but when having a lite meal before going to the floral show to hear Mr. G, the Laird, or Lord of C, in company with only the elder set of toffs I couldn't help but find myself much more overtly outside my element as the combination of accent and reference point was simply beyond..but I must say they always graciously tried to include me in on the conversation. 

One afternoon Robert and I tried to escape back into modernity by taking the laptops into the morning rooms.  At this moment, Mr. G provided us with a rare visit, offering champagne (it was about 3, after all)  Robert accepted, I declined, I was already high off the moment in that Mr. G talked about political moments with heavies like Cheney on that continent, notables like Qaddafi on that continent and on and on so it went.  We just listened.  I was able to ask him about a photograph I'd noticed last time I visited.  It was a picture of Nixon and he'd signed it "Dear Bob, May you never have the troubles I've had."  Mr. G educated on me on the fact it wasn't what I thought, ironically, or rather prophetically, in that he'd given it Mr. G after a particularly grueling election campaign, long before his real troubles would become apparent. 

There were similar kind of stories all weekend long and guests would just sit at his feet and wait patiently for some titillating and irreverent observation to emanate from the proprietor. He didn't disappoint and sitting immediately to his right at the formal dinner on Friday was heady indeed.  It really was Gosford Park like, time stood still as leisure walks were taken to see his lovely walled garden with trees flown in from everywhere to create just the right environ,  amidst greenhouses with vital items to be packaged and enjoyed for a very long time on the estate and beyond.

Actually, there were one or two nobrow moments during the weekend.  I think eating while boar just before drinking enough libation has kicked in to see you through a reel or two of Scottish dancing might fall into that category.  I was crap, but then I'm an American, I supposed to be awful at this type of thing and anyway, it reminds me of western line dancing, my least favorite activity.  My miserableness is compounded by the fact that there's always that obnoxious know it all that runs around the pairs and groups of three and four dictating everyone's next move, to no avail, simply creating more complications than existed before the intrusion, if possible.  But the conversation was as colorful and the cloth.

But before the band could strike up a tune and long before half the county could arrive at Lawer's that boar had to rotate throughout the entire day...

But the time spent in the UK was ideal, really, as I could incorporate the highbrow with the low, rather my favorite sort of combination.  Just prior to joining the party for the weekend I went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival for the second time in 6 years.  There was enough American bashing at the comedy shows to go around for a few festivals.  I heard more than one middle class white woman from Denver, the more non descript cities sniff over breakfast one morning in response to aforementioned fact...."well, we don't need to hear that sort of thing"...actually, it's just what that woman needs to hear...but then again, this is just wishful thinking by this Europhile...part of the problem is just that notion,  turning a deaf ear, leaning on the great wall of denial for temporary support....but as Prince Charles says, a visitor to Lawer's estate, of course, just another sort of dignitary that has run around Mr. G. both in their plus fours...he has said, and it feels all too true...."it shall all end in tears...."

The Festival was fabulous, did not disappoint at all.

Luved the play based on my uber idol, Gore Vidal and Timothy McVeigh, written by Edmund White called "Terre Haute".  The actor that played Vidal was brilliant and captured his essence, it was almost unnerving.  As the festival is a major launching pad for some of theatre's best work AND there's thousands of performances to choose from one can find themselves seated in a packed, albeit small room, just room enough for 30 or 40 people.  The ambiance so intimate that Peter Eyre made me feel as if i was having a nice chat with Gore, a fantasy that must live in my mind, only, which is probably a good thing as I can't quite imagine meeting Gore in person.  I imagine it's both safe and sane he live in my mind.  I've put his up so high on that pedestal.  instead I can re visit him within the confines of Palimpsest, study his gorgeous, laid back prophetic essays , etc.  Of course, this preference is probably informed by the fact I tried to locate his villa on one or two occasions while visiting Ravello along the Amalfi coast, alas, to no avail.  My timing off, he had already put the grand piece of land on the market and was feeling old enough to move back home, to the States, full time.  His companion, Howard, gone, it was time.

Sigh. When Gore goes, a particular world be lost forever.

So....after the glamorous highbrow, the stimulating lowbrow of local Edinburgh comics I had to pass through London one last time.   As the entry had been a nightmare, the inevitable low grade stress kicked in and frightening expectations of exit loomed large in my mind as the train arrived in London. Actually, because it was bank holiday weekend and they didn't dare inform the first class ticket holder that they would only take us as far as Peterborough, alternate routes would have to be found.  I dreaded the drama that would follow.  And it did not disappoint.  Every step of the way my low expectations were met and surpassed with new and improved ways of reminding me this would be our last venture, together, to the UK.

I don't even think I can write about all the small, irritating pieces of drama that made up the two ends to this trip.  Even though I had their proper passports, pics et all via the UK Pet Travel Scheme they still made it practically impossible.  But  I did take advantage and get some good pics of us while staying at the Milestone hotel across from the park.  They were much more accommodating than the first hotel even though the well intentioned but incredibly incompetent concierge had decided that my carrier, even though fully ventilated should and could be unzipped, if only for a moment.  Even though I'd just stepped out for a short taxi down to Harrods as they were the only place opened on bank holiday upon my return complete papillon pandemonium as several guests were laughing and no less than 5 hotel management tried frantically to catch Colette and Godot as they jumped up and down and around the lobby.  I think the men had tears of joy, not to mention relief as I walked through the door and easily scooped them back into their carrier. 

Finally, we were off, with just two more train rides and one more ferry trip back to our home, the city of lights and civility, finally, I could fantasize that we could be parked in our apartment in the sky, in Paris.  But I did get one last shot at Hyde Park.  London, of course, does provide its own moments....

Hanging out at Hyde Park..

When I visit London I love to see the women in full garb, their robes flying into the wind, a dramatic silhouette against the sun, walking down Gloucester road....

  I miss many an opportunity for a good pic.....I always receive a nice smile  when I can see it, or see their eyes soften when I smile their way....

it seems whenever the moment is just perfect I might not have the camera or the time just feels too false or contrived or somesuch, but finally, the night before I went back to Paris I was grateful to invade a family in their calm, relaxing at sunset in Hyde Park, unfortunately, they are, afer all, well prepared for an american pre emptive strike

The husband took the pic, the women asked me to sit down...they were kind and obliging......they asked me... "do you think our clothing strange"...as i was wearing many layers of my own sort of black, Issey Miyake i quickly replied..."no, I think it's beautiful"...

Saint Malo....

It’s August.  Time to holiday, finally, if only for a week.  We’ve decided to replace the din of Parisienne city life with the more melodic din of seagulls and the sea.  But alas, it would appear, in the middle of our spa holiday London ’s 9/11 has finally happened.  At least that’s what my mind began to compute as the data flowed from screen to brain while watching CNN International.  ‘Course, the French news puts a completely different spin on it, but they’ve a different agenda as there government is slightly closer to the people.

CNN International has replaced their coverage of the Middle East with the FOILED hijacking attempt in London. One cynic might say Tony Blair desperately needs his 9/11, especially at this moment, just days before the labor party conference, chalk full or members ready to revolt.  Well, he didn’t get his 9/11 but based on the coverage one could be excused for thinking he did…..the reporting follows along the lines of…”unprecedented numbers could have been killed…up to 3,000 could have…..19 suspects rounded up…”.

What we do know for fact is that Bush and Blair and their desperate cronies are exploiting and politicizing the FOILED terrorist’s attacks. Cheney’s response regarding Lieberman’s inevitable loss falls into that creepy cove of ‘fear mongering’.

Apparently a group of Richard Reid types, recklessly using cell phones and computers, were hell-bent on hijacking a bunch of jets w/bottle bombs. Had this group NOT been caught, Blair would have been fired, but alas, the authorities got their guys, or did they?

I couldn’t help but think back prior to 9/11.  Our response had been to get on our yacht, cross the Atlantic and get the hell out of Bush’s  America.  And, either the universe or I was conspiring to pursue my Europhile status rather than continue on my twenty year bird’s eye view of Europe after living in London so many moons ago and my European husband was more than obliging as he’s just as soon be closer to family and nearer to common sense.  Those last two items are completely unrelated by the way as my mother-in-law is Italian.

Of course, 7/11 happened so once again I found myself listening to the same jingoistic garbage in the British press as I had in the States post 9/11 corporate media arena. I’d often been suspicious the British sort of secretly wished for their own 9/11.  It’s not just about global cultures melding and duplicating successful television and media franchises but the English are even adapting the American vernacular. The English have peculiar issues, not just particular cultural realities but issues that go beyond the repressive/we still like to be spanked genre. There was an interesting article a few years back about the English, by an Englishman.  The Germans have Schadenfreude, obviously, a phrase that applies to their angst and takes Goethe’s literary Sturm und Drange phrase regarding the emotional state of the individual towards a more collective conscious. The article dissects the British psyche and how it could be accused of twisting that uniquely German phrase to explain away their own culture by making it Freudeschaden; translation: they enjoy the misery of themselves.  I’ve lived there and read their left and wing propaganda daily because I find them so much more literate than my birth country’s journalists, therefore I can swiftly and confidently concur.

But, truth be told, it’s hard to get too excited about anything, especially a foiled attempt.  But Robert has to travel to the UK for business and I have to hit the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and join Robere for another Gosoford Park gig in the country for a longish weekend full of black tie, cricket and Scottish dancing.  So, some attention needs to be paid to the fact we may not be able to take toothpaste in our carry on let alone Colette and Godot.  Alas, I’m going by train, several of them in order to get in through the Pet Travel Scheme so shouldn’t alter my plans but Robert may have to hop the Eurostar if he wants to avoid fedexing laptop and precious data.

Although, lucky for us, we’re not feeling too fussed with anything beyond the next scheduled rendezvous.  And that’s saying a great deal for this duo due to the fact we’ve embraced the concept of risk as second nature ever since we set sail 4 years ago and crossed the pond. We are never far from our laptops and their lightweights lids rarely have time to lay down but we are much less compelled to awake them and stay up to date with every little thing.  In fact, our lives have been loaded with calculated risk and periodic freefall what with businesses covering several countries and three continents.  And to compound matters I’ve become delusional enough to think my novel “The Europhile”, when complete, may find a publisher.

However, who cares.  We’ve been massaged, pedicured and thalossotherapied to death.  This last term is invented by the French, it simply means one spends a great deal of time in salt water baths with jets coming and going from every angle imaginable; from the side, from the bottom (ooh la la), over the top (might as well be on your front lawn with a sprinkle pointed at your neck, waterfalls pouring from above, etc.  The rates and velocity vary, as does the temperature is you’re in the large pool areas with multiple sections, one section full of three very fat French women laughing hysterically as they find themselves stuck in lounge chairs that lay precariously at the end of one of the pools.  Then there are a few light shows to keep you entertained and currents to make you pretend your swimming laps, but mostly, it’s very French I that it’s soothing for the most part and provides one with the illusion you just might be back in the womb. Not sure how you feel about that last prospect as we’ve all experienced complicated relationships with our mothers, but personally, I just jiggy with it all. It’s pleasant, this feeling of living in the water and we’ve felt no need to imbibe, the only artificial stimulant that’s entered my system other than fresh fish, grapefruit juice and salad has been the café au lait at breakfast.  Otherwise I’d just stay in bed in all day long and read Proust or order movies and watch Pride and Prejudice over and over and over again.  (Petit review, Mathew MacFayeden, good, Keira Knightly, too light, literally and figuratively for Mademoiselle Bennett, but nice and right enough.)

The hotel’s just swell, a lovely 4 star number in Saint Malo in Brittany overlooking the Atlantic so it’s hard to get worked up about anything, even Bush and Blair, but I can and will in the next paragraph.  But in this one, I shall wax poetic about how each and every practically perfect day is finished off after a long walk along the beach.  Then we await the last trace of sun as it lowers and lingers on the top of the water’s horizon for a sec before the final phase of sunset begins.  One is witness to the last bit of contrast as it teases softly, then suddenly that brief flash of green light appears for barely an instant thus informing us the glow is very much gone.  At this peaceful time I am truly convinced that all of our troubles and perceived worries follow that ball of light into someone else’s sky and sleep is imminent, deep and uneventful.

My tedious particulars are small are petty at present, but Bush and Blair are still out there.  Prior to 9/11 when Bush was on holiday and therefore not responsible for our troubles and Condi Rice whined with that strange combination of wide smile and quivering voice during the 9/11 testimony hearings “they didn’t give us their cell phone numbers”..life was rather nice.  Rather, our lives were pretty nice; we were happy to have found one another, finally, as a couple, we were financially successful, our abode, a houseboat in Seattle romantic, our yacht was yar, our friends loyal and diverse but it felt lived before, as if the play had already been written and it was simply a matter of acting out the dinner parties, wine tastings and heavy work schedule.  All in all, it felt rather superficial.  And, outside my large circle of friends and acquaintances there were warning signs on a much grander scale, floating precariously from coast to neurotic coast.  There were disturbing signs of a nation incapable of coping with its wealth, its prestige. 

Talk therapy via Oprah and Dr. Phil was temporary and reality show driven, drug therapy via prosaic was untested, litigation had replaced sex for many middle aged men and worse beyond all aforementioned, the nutty evangelicals were coming.  These troubling indicators were simply sowing the seeds for future jingoistic nonsense post 9/11 and beyond.

But rather than go on about the backasswardness of the news, propaganda, etc I’m going to do some comparative analysis.  Hotel de Thermes in Saint Malo is quite alright as far as spas go.  I’m not going to apologize for the blatant bragging to follow but I’ve been to some of the best spas in the world, I know what treatments to buy, and in which country they should be bought.  After you’ve done La Costa and enjoyed the trend setting vogue that LA provides in spa and long after you’ve spent hours in the hot thermal baths at Thermes des Saturnia in Tuscany, which I’ve done several times, all other spas be they in renovated castles or theme like institutions just feel second rate. 

But Hotel Des Thermes is fine, especially as it boasts something so frenchy, this thalossotherapy stuff…it’s so light and pleasant, so much akin to that peculiarly light and pleasant muzac one pays to hear while waiting for nice service rep to assist with whatever it is that isn’t working quite right in one’s household in the city of lights.

Knock on wood as we’ve had no problem with the plumbing in our Parisienne digs, but just about everything else has allowed me the opportunity to dial France telecom, pay for the pleasure of Parisienne muzac, finally driving me to take the tiny train ride from Paris to Saint Malo and spa and thalossotherapy so I can simulate the sensation of being back in the womb…..

Jerry's Springer's Birthday Bash

A few months ago, while still living in Rome I received a phone call from a youngish German woman inquiring as to whether or not a Robert Altinger lived at our address.  I hesitated for just a moment as my memory jumped several hundred dinner parties back to when Robert regaled our friends with the time he took the Tran Siberian railroad trip from Russia to China with a German poetess.  Conveniently enough, she was also a nymphomaniac.  So, some twenty plus years ago my husband passed through 8 times zones, 14 provinces, 3 regions, 2 republics and one autonomous region of Russian Federation and 16 rivers with a, uh, well, a poet.

As this memory failed to provide much comfort I started moving into the fantasist’s phase, imagining that I was Jackie Kennedy circa 1961 when Marilyn phoned the White House to have a chat with the fashionable First Lady.

The spell, however, was quickly broken as the nice German woman went on to explain that she was Jerry Springer’s wife and wished to speak to Jerry’s old friend and ex-Frankfurt roommate as she wanted to invite him to Jerry’s surprise 40^th birthday soiree.  Although they’d been friends for years in Germany, various continents and job transfers forced them to lose one another.  Of course, one can be in the same time zone and even the same marriage and lose one another but it’s quite nice when we eventually trip upon one another, especially in a marriage.  I digress, per usual, but as my guy travels more than most, technology does play a key role and this lost and found concept can be addressed quite effectively with the assistance of a webcam on one’s laptop.  But it’s less than convenient when your husband wants to call you from the office and you’re not necessarily dressed for success.  But, this is another blog entirely.

So, Jerry’s wife gradually became more enthusiastic as I released the past and the phone so she could locate the chalice herself and extend a personal invite to Robert.  Fast forward many weeks and one move from Rome to Paris which means we’re closer to the location of Jerry’s 40^th which would happen near their home in Frankfurt, at a grand location, the  Ronneburg Castle. 

Robert was in the right time zone this month so we gathered Colette and Godot, threw a few pieces into the rental car and drove the scenic passage through the Champagne region. As 25% of the French live in Paris, there are long drawn out bits of France that don’t hold the same charm that driving through Italy does, at least that portion from Paris to Frankfurt.  They’ve even enlisted artists to create very Frenchy soft pastel like installations of reflecting groups of squares, triangles and circles every kilometer or so to keep the truck drivers awake and diverted.  These designs appear to be the hard copy cousin to their soft and sweet on hold muzak that is meant to comfort this Prozac nation while you wait for assistance for any number of things that don’t quite seem to work consistently in the city of lights.  Although I have to admit I can watch the Eiffel tower go up in glitter like clockwork from my apartment, no muzak needed for that unit.

But the fun really began when we entered Germany as Robert informed me that I could now drive as fast as I pleased. And even though I hit 180, then inched toward 200 kph the Germans still passed me comfortably in the left hand lane.  They, like the Italians, take their driving very seriously and always mind the fast lane.

Therefore we made it to the castle in a timely fashion and Jerry was appropriately surprised.  I had met Jerry 7 or so years ago just before we got married so I knew what to expect.  Jerry is the anti Jerry Springer that lives jarringly in our collective consciousness.   

Everything about Jerry is calm and kind.  That is until you see him on the dance floor.  After the biergarden, dinner and mandatory German style entertainment where one politely watches three hausfrau in colorful costume, lip-syncing to the German DJ’s repertoire of German tunes, each quite camp but steady, every song melodic but then feisty, in perfect possession of a big finish where the audience joins in and all is well in Allemagne.

After the hausfrau the DJ turns invariably to ABBA and everybody gets in on the act.  Jerry, the mild mannered man of moderation suddenly becomes king of the dance floor, imitating every sort of garden implement one could imagine; the garden clipper, the lawnmower and the sprinkler. If I have to explain, well, I don’t want to, although there’s nothing quite as infectious as someone truly enjoying themselves.

Before leaving Frankfurt we enjoyed a nice brunch with Jerry and friends and then Robert wanted to take a sentimental journey through Frankfurt and his old haunts before we set off to stay an extra nite in the Champagne region.  Frankfurt has changed quite a bit and it does appear as if Germany is returning to its previous role if not the main, certainly one of Europe’s powerful economic engines.  Merkel continues to bring good feeling and fortune to a country relatively young by European standards with such a devastating history dating back to the 1800’s.  I don’t know if you saw Bush at the G8 summit but beyond the frat boy behavior overheard between he and his soon to be replaced poodle Blair he actually surprised the hell out of Merkel by giving her a spontaneous shoulder massage that she quickly brushed off.  What about boy king Bush is not downright disturbing?

So after a high speed exit we entered the Champagne region only to realize it was the Monday following their Friday Bastille Day, therefore every single cave of champagne was closed.  We did manage to enjoy a gorgeous dinner at Café Flo, in Reims and enjoyed a bottle of Pommery, a blanc de blanc which resembles wine with a bit of bubbly, fitting and fun.  Actually, the only other time I can recall drinking Champagne with the meal was when I prepared Cappellini pasta with caviar and lemon and beure blance which I served with with a Heidsieck Rose Brut , green top.  It was one of those perfect meals if I don’t blatantly brag/blog myself…which I do, blatantly, with no sense of embarrassment, but then I am of partial German stock so that would explain that….and it was so pleasant to go to Germany.  When we lived in Rome avec all its classical beauty it felt like an emotional release to travel to Vienna, drinking in the contrast and gorgeous blast of modern art of Schiele and Klimt.

And this time was particularly nice, seeing old friends, meeting some very nice new ones, enjoying German style entertainment, very high and lowbrow indeed, not to mention the fact there is no speed limit…..

From Rome to Paris

Moving from the eternal city to La Ville Lumiere.  Finally.

April 21 finds just we three, Colette, Godot and I, completely homeless.  After two day move, the truck has finally come and gone.  Nothing but an overnite suitcase, about three years worth of memories and one last night in Rome. 

Not enough energy to say good-bye, not again.  Enough emotion already.  Weather was so peculiarly unroman like.  Rain, again, like the last three months.   Quiet and sad, just as it should have been.  Gorgeous white  light the following morning, just as it should have been on our last day, before the cornetto became a croissant.

Sitting on the terrace of our hotel, we spent the last morning overlooking our favorite building, breathing in the last environs of our spiritual home. 

Princes, thieves, colorful characters et al.  We lived it, and then some.  The Italians don't have much time for the rest of the world as the opposite holds true.  But why should they, la dolce vita continues, amazingly enough, in spite of it all.  But other nations could learn something precious as it's not such a bad idea to keep the focus on one' s own. But the death of their own, unlike the death of American soldiers stirred them to make their gov't have a better think about it. 

But now vacation's over, time to go back to school, learn another language, listen to another reality, absorb another country's take on WWII, the states, food, etc. 

That's the one thing I shall dearly miss.  The food.  Sigh. 8 ingredients is all that you need.  But as the food states, it only appears easy, on the surface.  I learned well how to make punterelli sauce. Like I said.  I learned allot about life. How it ceases to move and forces you to stop relying on escape, appt's and the silly exercise of staying busy simply for the sake of....

So much can happen in three years. 

But it's time to shift gears.

Time to enjoy our last cornetto and cappuccino at one Pantheon

Time to spend April 22 at the next...

   

Ciao Sylvio, Garibaldi and Mussolini

 

Ciao to my street of angels, my dear friends

I think I will always regard Rome as the loveliest city of them all, the heaviest with history and emotion, molt pesante, molto, like the summer, almost too much.

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But it's time to say Bonjour to our next address.  The longest named street in Paris, named after it's own patron.  From the angels to the saints, from primo piano to Paris penthouse.