Dreams and Markets
Dreams and Markets
You know you’ve really become acclimated to a culture by the content of your dreams. Two nights ago, I had a very long and detailed dream about how I became the next Pope. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy, and I didn’t win by a landslide in the conclave. I suspect not being a Catholic was a real negative in my election process. Nonetheless, Bob Selby was Pope for a night and they even let off a puff of gray smoke in my honor! I was dismayed today when I heard they chose a German Cardinal instead.
Last night I dreamed that I couldn’t remember where we actually lived. The house, town, people, were a mosaic of nothingness. I was particularly upset because I couldn’t remember where the Sequim library was. Finally the pieces started falling in place. First I remembered the new traffic circle, Walmart, and thank goodness the Sequim library. Personally, I would rather have continued my explorations of the Vatican. The only negative to that dream was those robes the Pope wears. They are very mega starched and ultra scratchy. I would have given anything for a pair of cuddle duds or sweat pants.
Yesterday, we had a relaxing picnic in Park Monceau. Picnics are no small event in the lives of Selby. We started out refilling a small ½ bottle of wine with nice Bordeaux, taking our portable wine glasses, picnic sheet that we toss over benches drenched with bird poop, fresh fruit, and plenty of good, French cheese. Then we jump on the Metro and get off close to our favorite market street, Rue Poncelet. You know when you’re getting close to the oasis of food because you can hear the produce sellers chanting their specials of the day. In addition, there is always a seller of cell phone covers and knockoff Pucci sunglasses at the corner. Cell phone covers are big in Paris. Funny though, everyone I see seems to have a nude phone to their ear! Demand has not caught up with supply.
A market street is a carnival of food and French folks. The streets are cobble stoned in shiny, uneven red brick. The street is a roomy single lane, the sidewalks are wide but for the last 300 years, chocked with vegetables, fruits, and the occasional oyster stand. As I said before, there is simultaneous musical chanting by several vendors of their wares. I often wondered if the song goes, “Yay, here come the Americans, let’s try and sell them some leg of goat.” The people range from businessmen and women, elderly Madames toddling around with their shopping carts (laundry hampers on wheels) and poodles, and mother/daughter teams, the future of the market being trained.
Then there are the Selby’s, we are on a mission, a bomb strike, drop a few euros to get our stinky cheese, a few slices of fresh roasted pork, a baguette and sortie (exit) the other end. I was in charge of the pork. I sized up three butcher shops. I rate them on these three criteria; product, accessibility, and whether or not they walk around with butcher knives. In broken French I told him I wanted 100 grams of roast pork (porc roti). Before I could point, he pointed at a raw leg of pork hanging behind him. The leg still had the foot attached. I blanched, and he laughed, and we safely finished our business. This was a big inroad for me as butchers have always appeared rather stern and almost grim in their task. From now on, I point before I speak!
Our big excitement for the day includes a reunion with Dave and Linda and tomorrow Kimball and Marilyn.
Picture Set 1
Beaune – Buildings, Wine, and One Big Problem
Beaune – Buildings, Wine, and One Big Problem
Going back over my notes, this all started in the wine caverns of Beaune. Patriarche, the grand father of fine burgundy wines has been in business since the mid 1700’s. Alec was no fool. The self guided, self pouring, wine tasting tours threaded their way across over 4 acres of caverns. Ancient walls built sandwich style of misshapen bricks slathered together with mortar of questionable nature. Four million bottles of wine, some more than 100 years old. Larger rooms were supported with ice cream cone shaped columns, the sharp cone point tapered to the floor to a meager 1’x 1’ section. If it wasn’t for the wine I could get claustrophobic down here. The wire I hastily attached to Alec’s coat on the slow bullet train down from Paris was coming in loud and clear. He had left my sight behind one of the 1,000 gallon casks which covered a fancy wrought iron doorway and the dark passages beyond. The only thing I needed to know was that this was all about oil, a fitting location for such a discussion, lost in the candlelit caverns of Beaune.
When Beaune (pronounced “Bone”) residents want to build a roof, they really know how to do it with class. Several of the historic buildings have a mixed tile roof composed of a red, yellow, and green mosaic. They also must have a big heart and probably horrible livers, as the two most popular sights is a hospital for the poor that was created over 500 years ago and was still being used in the 1970’s. They also house in underground caverns some of the best burgundy wines anywhere. Burgundy wine in the US is called Pinot Noir. Gayle and I still like Bordeaux a bit better (Cabernet Sauvignon in US) but some of these went down pretty darn smooth.
Speaking of hearts, we ran into a perky shopkeeper, whom we will call Anna-Malena. Rarely is one first name enough in France apparently. Anna was so delighted that we stepped into her shop. She said she had missed the Americans. 70% of Beaune visitors used to be Americans. She was truly saddened because she felt that either the Americans were mad at the French or even more ludicrous to her, fearful that the French were angry with the Americans. She told us that French children were taught never to forget what the Americans did for them in WWII. She said: “We love the Americans and always will.” She also said that French children are taught never to fight another war unless they are physically attacked. For example Anna-Malena lost every relative in French concentration camps except her grand mother. This not only includes her grandfather but all of her cousins, everyone! Her last words were that the French are not upset with us about Iraq. They think Saddam was a bad man, although she said there exists many bad leaders in the world.
Now the One Big Problem. When we left Patriarche my $700 digital camera fell out of it’s case. Chunks of the camera pored across the rocky floor. When I reinstalled the battery the camera was dead. It was a very sad night after that. This morning I was able to get the camera to work but it will never be the same. A dark cloud still hangs over the Selby’s over this one important avenue of creative expression. Life goes on in Paris! !
Picture Set 1
Gayle Gets French Legionnaires Disease
Gayle Gets French Legionnaires Disease
Definition: Legionnaires Disease a rare ailment that generally strikes members of a small northwest Washington State hill clan made up of Norwegian, Dutch and California immigrants. The disease occurs when members of this enclave relocate to Paris and eat moldy cheese, sugar spiked desserts and drink cheap Bordeaux. Symptoms include a sore throat, a reduced euro blood count and a desire for reduced activity.
So now you know, Gayle is sick down with LD, predominantly having a sore throat and prolonged stays in bed. I have taken her off of cheese, dessert, wine but not middle east food. Naturally it’s Sunday and most of the pharmacies are closed. Every pharmacy in France must post on their window the location of the one open store in their district. Pharmacies are critical here. When someone gets sick it’s the first place one goes for medical advice. Does this sound familiar; the French assume there is a pill to cure any ailment. Oddly though if you watch French TV there are no drug commercials. All I can figure is that they learned this from the Americans, tourist by tourist!
In addition to sickness, pharmacists have large collections of pills and devices that are proven to remove cellulose, increase bust sizes, turn back the bio clock by at least 10 years and reduce that ones derriere. The latter could require an anti cellulose and shrinking bottom pills. Come to think about it, I need the anti, anti, bottom shrinking pill. Notice I did not mention a French preoccupation with weight loss. Gayle once said, “gees that woman has thighs the size of my arms.” Atkins is dead here!
Metros
Paris moves by way of the primarily underground subway system, the Metro. Rarely are you more than 2-3 blocks from a station. Now this is deceiving as many stations are 1-3 blocks long. If you read “Watership Down” it’s a regular rabbit warren of passages going up. Down, left (gauche), right. Inside these ceramic tiled dens, is a vast source of musical minstrels. We have heard violins, oboes, keyboards, and a nine member Peruvian band, which after a short discussion with a young lady about why we don’t want to buy their CD, represents most of the young people from their village. These conversations usually start when we stop and I take their picture. “Buy CD, American Souvenir, Remember Paris!” Also a small but prominent arm or oboe motion is made indicating that they accept donations. Thus you fellow bloggites, I do this for you, so you’re going to owe us big time when we return! Ha
There is a certain metro etiquette that Parisians strictly follow. Groups of teens are of course exempt from these or any rules. Men tend to sit erect, head bent downwardly scanning the feet of fellow travelers a row or two away. They have their arms clasped where the fig leaf would be if we were in the Louve. Women on the other hand, tend to look to the side, out the windows toward the blurred subway walls. I have detected brief fashion checks of the other women in the car. These Mademoiselles and Madame’s, have their arms crossed, purses clutched, in such a fashion that the fig leaf and fruits are guarded.
Now the bus are very different! We were sitting in the famous 69 bus that goes by most of the Paris biggies. Everyone was following metro etiquette when simultaneously I heard two couples speaking loudly. French speak very softly especially in tight quarters. I could understand what they were saying! Blessed English! In harmony they were saying, “It says here that inside that building is where Napoleon is buried”. Looking back, both couples had Rick Steve’s Paris tour books. We had forgotten ours, The man and woman couple, had the woman reading, that man numbly was nodding but not looking. Directly behind us was a mother daughter team, the mother reading the daughter staring at a bus stop billboard sign. The daughter replied, “there is that advertisement with that blonde women wearing a lacey nighty. I hate the way she pouts!” Looking back, the daughter reminded me of a Persian cat with their little pushed in noses. Talk about pouty! “The Orsay museum is a few blocks to the right…” Life goes on in Paris!
I have decided to post this less my local reader and sans pictures!
