I have a crush on a new theater collective and I'm being really obvious about it.
How obvious? Four days after I saw Nu Puppis' deconstruction of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," I wanted to see it all over again, to see if my response had been solely a first time thing or if I'd still be laughing (or grimacing) throughout.
Bingo.
Because my delight in this production is so great, I had to bring a like-minded friend along, hopefully to experience the same jambalya of reactions I'd had. We met at my house and walked to Saison for fried chicken night first.
You don't approach this kind of ritualistic millennial mocking without a full belly.
Even though it had been months since I'd made it there on a Sunday night and despite a full reservation list, we were lucky enough to slide into the bar with no problem. My thirst after a busy day was quenched with a rosy combination of grapefruit juice, passionfruit juice and Cheerwine and arrived in a funky 60s-looking glass with palm trees adorning it.
Today's sides were redskin potato salad and squash casserole with still-recognizable squash in it, so neither cooked to death nor buried under too much cheese, but as I told our server, it didn't matter what the sides had been, my order wasn't changing.
Quarter chicken dark meat, washed down with my fruity libation. If only all Sunday suppers were so satisfying.
The plan was to arrive early enough at Firehouse to ensure getting tickets, a smart move given how quickly the room filled. Unlike with "American Idiot" when we were instructed to use our phones, tonight we were told to turn them off because there was no such thing in the '50s when it was first written, nor even during the 80s when it became a play.
So it just wouldn't be right. "We don't want to open up some weird wormhole," artistic director Bassin informed us. No, we don't.
Next thing you know, Max Erlich was belting out "Bless Your Beautiful Hide" and I was thrown back into the Oregon Territory circa Hollywood 1954. It was glorious.
Everything I'd been smitten with last week was just as (choose one or many) funny, irreverent, off-color, snarky, hysterical, smart-assed, well-rehearsed, culturally referenced, corny, stirring and memorably performed as the first night.
You haven't lived in the theater until you've watched a gaggle of 20-somethings show off their stage fighting skills or stuff their faces with microwave pancakes.
Seeing it a second time showed me where the ad-libs were and how different they were from night to night. The twenty actors were just as nimble and their voices harmonized even more beautifully from tonight's better seats. The actors' posturing and asides were every bit as side-splittingly funny.
Best of all, my friend reacted precisely as I'd hoped, doubled over laughing, grimacing at the sound of fist fights and gasping in amazement at some of the stuff that came out of their mouths, the sly side looks and creepy innuendo. In awe of young bodies springing, jumping and arching, oblivious to concrete and metal.
Bottom line: the kids are putting on a show capable of bursting every musical theater notion you might have in your pretty little head.
Get over it. If this is the direction Richmond theater is taking, it's a wonderful, wonderful day.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Lean In to Discomfort
When the world around you seems to be falling apart, you do your part to start knitting it back together.
By the time I got the notification about the RVA Roundtable on Race, it was full. I felt lame until reading that it filled up in less than an hour. My name went on the waiting list, along with enough others that a second session was scheduled.
My fist thought was to invite Mac to join me since we'd just been discussing this subject a few nights ago. What are inherently privileged white women going to do to make things better? Both of us were willing to join a roomful of strangers to find out.
We set out from my house, she with a fetching straw hat and me with an umbrella, intent on joining Stoplight Gelato for today's grand opening celebration. This long-time J-Ward resident has had to schlep to Carytown for ten years for her ice cream fix.
No more. Love you, Bev's, but sometimes a girl only wants to walk three blocks for frozen dairy product.
The place was bustling, the case full of appealingly rich-looking gelato and within no time, a tiny woman came over to thank us for stopping by. I reversed the thanks, happy to have a source in the 'hood. And unlike some places, portions are sized right, prices are just as fitting and the place oozes charm.
I got a cup of mint chip with chocolate bourbon sauce and Mac went with a sugar cone of coconut to enjoy as we sauntered over to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center for the roundtable, passing by the usual Sunday neighborhood characters in place, some under the shade of large Crepe Myrtle trees with coolers and a radio blaring a soul station, others sweating it out playing basketball in the bright afternoon sun.
Once inside the new museum, we joined participants, taking chairs in one of the small circles already occupied with a black man and woman. A younger white woman soon joined us and we were complete.
Like many facilitated discussions I've attended at the Valentine, the idea was to get us talking, first in our small groups, then together as a larger whole. A few rules- let one person speak at a time, use "I" not "you," but most importantly, "lean into discomfort."
About damn time.
The first questions involved our names and their significance, a subject that provided more fodder for discussion than you might thing.
When asked how many people have had their name mispronounced in their life, probanly close to 90% of the room raised their hand. My name is too basic for that, so I was one of the holdouts.
A woman in the back raised her hand and talked about frequent garbling of her names. "We took phonics out of learning years ago and it messed up the whole world!" she said. Preach it, sister.
Another woman said she'd married a Bobbit, with all the baggage that brought, and a round of laughter erupted. I looked at the young woman in my group and leaned over to ask her if she knew the reference. She didn't.
He was the first man most people read about whose wife had lopped off his member, I explained as her eyes grew wide. We elders have to pass on our knowledge to the young.
Moving through questions and discussions, it was startling to hear some of the stories. One man recalled confusion as a child about the races. "But, Daddy, that man ain't white, he's Jewish!" One woman told of her father having to pay a poll tax to vote. A SW Virginia resident said the KKK is still very active near where she lives today.
And it wasn't just native Richmonders, either. There were people who came up in the Bronx, Queens, Bed-Stuy and the southside of Chicago, all with interesting experiences when it came to race. One woman spoke of a brother who consistently broke the law, disrespected policemen and never got in any real trouble. Because he was white.
"White privilege means getting second chances," one white woman succinctly said.
After brainstorming how to move forward collectively, we cleared the room, so session number two could convene. It's a start and that's something.
The only logical thing to do was to march our privileged white butts over to the Basement to participate in their "Haikus for Change: Poetry to your legislators" event. I'd already scribbled out a first effort and I talked Mac through creating her own as we walked over to Third.
I was inspired by the scene- some people were being filmed reading their haikus, others quietly writing on the carpet or at high-top tables. All purposeful. I wrote my haiku on a sheet of paper and then wrote another. Name and address of registered voter. Boom. Done.
Seventeen simple syllables each about things that matter to me. They're graciously taking care of the enveloping and mailing to our lawmakers.
We, the people, right? Emphasis on "We."
By the time I got the notification about the RVA Roundtable on Race, it was full. I felt lame until reading that it filled up in less than an hour. My name went on the waiting list, along with enough others that a second session was scheduled.
My fist thought was to invite Mac to join me since we'd just been discussing this subject a few nights ago. What are inherently privileged white women going to do to make things better? Both of us were willing to join a roomful of strangers to find out.
We set out from my house, she with a fetching straw hat and me with an umbrella, intent on joining Stoplight Gelato for today's grand opening celebration. This long-time J-Ward resident has had to schlep to Carytown for ten years for her ice cream fix.
No more. Love you, Bev's, but sometimes a girl only wants to walk three blocks for frozen dairy product.
The place was bustling, the case full of appealingly rich-looking gelato and within no time, a tiny woman came over to thank us for stopping by. I reversed the thanks, happy to have a source in the 'hood. And unlike some places, portions are sized right, prices are just as fitting and the place oozes charm.
I got a cup of mint chip with chocolate bourbon sauce and Mac went with a sugar cone of coconut to enjoy as we sauntered over to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center for the roundtable, passing by the usual Sunday neighborhood characters in place, some under the shade of large Crepe Myrtle trees with coolers and a radio blaring a soul station, others sweating it out playing basketball in the bright afternoon sun.
Once inside the new museum, we joined participants, taking chairs in one of the small circles already occupied with a black man and woman. A younger white woman soon joined us and we were complete.
Like many facilitated discussions I've attended at the Valentine, the idea was to get us talking, first in our small groups, then together as a larger whole. A few rules- let one person speak at a time, use "I" not "you," but most importantly, "lean into discomfort."
About damn time.
The first questions involved our names and their significance, a subject that provided more fodder for discussion than you might thing.
When asked how many people have had their name mispronounced in their life, probanly close to 90% of the room raised their hand. My name is too basic for that, so I was one of the holdouts.
A woman in the back raised her hand and talked about frequent garbling of her names. "We took phonics out of learning years ago and it messed up the whole world!" she said. Preach it, sister.
Another woman said she'd married a Bobbit, with all the baggage that brought, and a round of laughter erupted. I looked at the young woman in my group and leaned over to ask her if she knew the reference. She didn't.
He was the first man most people read about whose wife had lopped off his member, I explained as her eyes grew wide. We elders have to pass on our knowledge to the young.
Moving through questions and discussions, it was startling to hear some of the stories. One man recalled confusion as a child about the races. "But, Daddy, that man ain't white, he's Jewish!" One woman told of her father having to pay a poll tax to vote. A SW Virginia resident said the KKK is still very active near where she lives today.
And it wasn't just native Richmonders, either. There were people who came up in the Bronx, Queens, Bed-Stuy and the southside of Chicago, all with interesting experiences when it came to race. One woman spoke of a brother who consistently broke the law, disrespected policemen and never got in any real trouble. Because he was white.
"White privilege means getting second chances," one white woman succinctly said.
After brainstorming how to move forward collectively, we cleared the room, so session number two could convene. It's a start and that's something.
The only logical thing to do was to march our privileged white butts over to the Basement to participate in their "Haikus for Change: Poetry to your legislators" event. I'd already scribbled out a first effort and I talked Mac through creating her own as we walked over to Third.
I was inspired by the scene- some people were being filmed reading their haikus, others quietly writing on the carpet or at high-top tables. All purposeful. I wrote my haiku on a sheet of paper and then wrote another. Name and address of registered voter. Boom. Done.
Seventeen simple syllables each about things that matter to me. They're graciously taking care of the enveloping and mailing to our lawmakers.
We, the people, right? Emphasis on "We."
Folly of Word Nerds
Because being on a screened porch strung with fairy lights while a July rain falls just outside is a practically transcendent way to wile away an evening.
That the gentle night also involved mocking, condescension and outright compliments only attests to our unlikely activity: my first foray into the oh-so popular game that's swept the nation.
You read right, last night I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity.
That's right, I killed new age music. How, you ask?
...An ice pick lobotomy.
It wasn't the plan. That had been determined months ago and consisted of dinner and "The Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft. Given the play's talking points about Jewish-ness, I'd chosen Dinamo for its fusion of Jewish and Italian food.
He Who Shall Not Be named (aka Mr. Google Scheduler) had us there before the propeller even began spinning. Naturally, we were the first eager beavers in the place other than staff. Ouch.
Not that I cared once I was sharing octopus salami that looked like paper-thin slices of a jeweled window and tasted like a seaside meal or polishing off my own cold plate of marinated seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and octopus. Keeping it simple, I finished with a Nutella cookie and we left for Agecroft.
We were a well-oiled machine, seated, with new Shakespeare fans in hand when the entire audience was directed inside due to "pool rules." Thunder and lightening were fast approaching and they didn't want any of us good patrons to be electrified, as house manager Noah so quaintly put it.
A brief wait, a decision to go back outside and begin and then the cold, hard facts. The show was called.
So, you see, it wasn't like we didn't try to get some culture before descending into the gutter of sexually offensive and politically incorrect conversation.
It was my first time on the porch since it had been fully tricked out, meaning I couldn't help but admire all the little touches - Wellies by the door, cushioned chairs of various styles, tables with candles and lamps, flowering plants and antique window frames.
The sole male commented that the ledge covered in necessaries - various bug sprays for body and room, aloe if you did get a bite, sunscreens of myriad strengths - was the only jarring note in an otherwise lovely space, but I disagreed. Vehemently.
A screened porch is an outdoor room, but also a utilitarian one. Such a ledge was completely appropriate, in my opinion, because all the assorted sundries you could possibly require while enjoying the porch were readily available. You never had to leave the porch to stay comfortable.
Decorating roundtable finished, we got down to the serious business of cracking each other up.
As a CAH virgin, I immediately was curious about the fact that there were black and white cards. You mean like the races? Setting the tone for the evening, my hostess arched an eyebrow and announced without so much as a chortle, "All cards matter."
Not going to lie, we had all kinds of fun trying to figure out what combination would win the favor of the round's card czar (or, more accurately, czarina, since men were outnumbered 3 to 1), taking into account who leaned toward corny and who always opted for sick or intellectual humor.
A girl's best friend?
...David Bowie flying in on a tiger made of lightening
Brilliant, right? Okay, but so is this one:
A girl's best friend?
...Licking things to claim them as her own
Turns out this game's underlying purpose is encouraging players to inadvertently remember things or share personal history. Now I know I have a friend who's not ashamed to say she's a territorial licker.
Sorry, teacher, I couldn't finish my homework because of...sniffing glue.
"Oh, yea, I remember that," one of the participants says. I wouldn't have pegged her for the glue-sniffing type, but who am I to judge? That said, no one would admit to being "balls deep in a squealin' hog" when that came up as an answer, but the night was still young then.
I soon learned that some black cards came with two blanks, necessitating each of us to choose not one, but two phrases that best completed the sentence.
The Academy award for...flightless birds
Goes to...battlefield amputation
To have two such disparate cards in your hand, much less to combine them so cleverly, well, kudos to me.
Although we'd begun playing around 9:30, it was probably sometime around midnight (post-Pimm's pops, Pimm's cups and Miraval) when we got our first card with three blanks.
"Having to come up with three cards is gonna take forever," our hostess warned, specifically looking at a certain slow player. "We're slow with two! We're good with one, one card, that's it."
What's George Bush thinking about right now?
...Not reciprocating oral sex
...Fiery poops
...Third base
Plausible, all of them, right?
As the night wore on, we especially enjoyed questions that referred back to the person asking. So when I read, "What's my anti-drug?" the friend in the colorful dress exclaimed, "Yours?" and stares at me as if she can discern it from my countenance.
Ultimately, it led to a big discussion of what exactly constitutes an anti-drug. That's one we didn't fully resolve.
After a while, I knew my competitors well enough to tickle their fancies with my answer, as when the formerly soggy one delighted at my response to his card.
I got 99 problems but...Count Chocula...ain't one.
Oh, he laughed. Man, if you only knew how long I held onto the Count Chocula card before finding the ideal place to drop it. A far better player, though, was the Bermudian, who caused us to about lose it when she proffered this:
Daddy, why is Mommy crying?
...The patriarchy
When I read the card, "What is my secret power?" a friend looked askance. "That's the question? I was about to answer!" No, please, tell me my superpower. I'm curious.
Looking at the answers submitted, the Czar mused, "It's between inappropriate yodeling and Toni Morrison's vagina," a sentence I would stake my life on has never having been uttered before in the history of humankind.
One minute we were playing, laughing almost constantly and next thing we knew it was after 1 a.m., and this is not a crowd that stays up late. With that in mind, I got up to leave, a different person than when I'd arrived.
Of course I didn't win, but I didn't do too badly, either. There's already talk of procuring other versions since we practically went through an entire box of black and white cards in one marathon session. Cards Against Humanity may be five years old to the rest of the first world, but it was brand new fun for me tonight.
Let's put it this way: I understood the game well enough to find my seatmate's two-part answer absolutely hilarious.
Step one...folly of man
Step two...Cards Against Humanity
That the gentle night also involved mocking, condescension and outright compliments only attests to our unlikely activity: my first foray into the oh-so popular game that's swept the nation.
You read right, last night I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity.
That's right, I killed new age music. How, you ask?
...An ice pick lobotomy.
It wasn't the plan. That had been determined months ago and consisted of dinner and "The Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft. Given the play's talking points about Jewish-ness, I'd chosen Dinamo for its fusion of Jewish and Italian food.
He Who Shall Not Be named (aka Mr. Google Scheduler) had us there before the propeller even began spinning. Naturally, we were the first eager beavers in the place other than staff. Ouch.
Not that I cared once I was sharing octopus salami that looked like paper-thin slices of a jeweled window and tasted like a seaside meal or polishing off my own cold plate of marinated seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and octopus. Keeping it simple, I finished with a Nutella cookie and we left for Agecroft.
We were a well-oiled machine, seated, with new Shakespeare fans in hand when the entire audience was directed inside due to "pool rules." Thunder and lightening were fast approaching and they didn't want any of us good patrons to be electrified, as house manager Noah so quaintly put it.
A brief wait, a decision to go back outside and begin and then the cold, hard facts. The show was called.
So, you see, it wasn't like we didn't try to get some culture before descending into the gutter of sexually offensive and politically incorrect conversation.
It was my first time on the porch since it had been fully tricked out, meaning I couldn't help but admire all the little touches - Wellies by the door, cushioned chairs of various styles, tables with candles and lamps, flowering plants and antique window frames.
The sole male commented that the ledge covered in necessaries - various bug sprays for body and room, aloe if you did get a bite, sunscreens of myriad strengths - was the only jarring note in an otherwise lovely space, but I disagreed. Vehemently.
A screened porch is an outdoor room, but also a utilitarian one. Such a ledge was completely appropriate, in my opinion, because all the assorted sundries you could possibly require while enjoying the porch were readily available. You never had to leave the porch to stay comfortable.
Decorating roundtable finished, we got down to the serious business of cracking each other up.
As a CAH virgin, I immediately was curious about the fact that there were black and white cards. You mean like the races? Setting the tone for the evening, my hostess arched an eyebrow and announced without so much as a chortle, "All cards matter."
Not going to lie, we had all kinds of fun trying to figure out what combination would win the favor of the round's card czar (or, more accurately, czarina, since men were outnumbered 3 to 1), taking into account who leaned toward corny and who always opted for sick or intellectual humor.
A girl's best friend?
...David Bowie flying in on a tiger made of lightening
Brilliant, right? Okay, but so is this one:
A girl's best friend?
...Licking things to claim them as her own
Turns out this game's underlying purpose is encouraging players to inadvertently remember things or share personal history. Now I know I have a friend who's not ashamed to say she's a territorial licker.
Sorry, teacher, I couldn't finish my homework because of...sniffing glue.
"Oh, yea, I remember that," one of the participants says. I wouldn't have pegged her for the glue-sniffing type, but who am I to judge? That said, no one would admit to being "balls deep in a squealin' hog" when that came up as an answer, but the night was still young then.
I soon learned that some black cards came with two blanks, necessitating each of us to choose not one, but two phrases that best completed the sentence.
The Academy award for...flightless birds
Goes to...battlefield amputation
To have two such disparate cards in your hand, much less to combine them so cleverly, well, kudos to me.
Although we'd begun playing around 9:30, it was probably sometime around midnight (post-Pimm's pops, Pimm's cups and Miraval) when we got our first card with three blanks.
"Having to come up with three cards is gonna take forever," our hostess warned, specifically looking at a certain slow player. "We're slow with two! We're good with one, one card, that's it."
What's George Bush thinking about right now?
...Not reciprocating oral sex
...Fiery poops
...Third base
Plausible, all of them, right?
As the night wore on, we especially enjoyed questions that referred back to the person asking. So when I read, "What's my anti-drug?" the friend in the colorful dress exclaimed, "Yours?" and stares at me as if she can discern it from my countenance.
Ultimately, it led to a big discussion of what exactly constitutes an anti-drug. That's one we didn't fully resolve.
After a while, I knew my competitors well enough to tickle their fancies with my answer, as when the formerly soggy one delighted at my response to his card.
I got 99 problems but...Count Chocula...ain't one.
Oh, he laughed. Man, if you only knew how long I held onto the Count Chocula card before finding the ideal place to drop it. A far better player, though, was the Bermudian, who caused us to about lose it when she proffered this:
Daddy, why is Mommy crying?
...The patriarchy
When I read the card, "What is my secret power?" a friend looked askance. "That's the question? I was about to answer!" No, please, tell me my superpower. I'm curious.
Looking at the answers submitted, the Czar mused, "It's between inappropriate yodeling and Toni Morrison's vagina," a sentence I would stake my life on has never having been uttered before in the history of humankind.
One minute we were playing, laughing almost constantly and next thing we knew it was after 1 a.m., and this is not a crowd that stays up late. With that in mind, I got up to leave, a different person than when I'd arrived.
Of course I didn't win, but I didn't do too badly, either. There's already talk of procuring other versions since we practically went through an entire box of black and white cards in one marathon session. Cards Against Humanity may be five years old to the rest of the first world, but it was brand new fun for me tonight.
Let's put it this way: I understood the game well enough to find my seatmate's two-part answer absolutely hilarious.
Step one...folly of man
Step two...Cards Against Humanity
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Last of the American Girls/She's a Rebel
That's refreshing.
The comment yesterday from a music impresario when I mentioned I didn't have a cell phone could also apply to today's 96 degree weather, a veritable cold front after yesterday's triple digits.
Even more refreshing, though, is that there's a theater in town where I can see a rollicking millennial deconstruction of a theatrical dinosaur such as "Seven Bride for Seven Brothers," and then just two nights later, a 21st century rock opera like Green Day's "American Idiot.
On the very same stage.
Yo, Firehouse, you are nailing this whole "breaking through" thing magnificently with that kind of variety in programming. Color me impressed.
The show began a tad on the tardy side because they were trying to seat those on the waiting list, which they managed to do, a fact that, when announced, garnered clapping.
"Applause for the waiting list?" artistic director Joel Bassin mused. "Good Friday night crowd!" He explained that they had chosen to cast the play with people who could play their instruments, sing and act rather than use a band and actors (I ask you, does it get any more DIY/punk than that?), which turned out to be far easier to do in this talent-filled town than anyone anticipated.
Like the other night's production of "Seven Brides," a surprisingly large number of people in attendance were first-timers, testament, perhaps, to the appeal of mixing things up.
My fellow Green Day fan and I were not among the Firehouse virgins.
Bassin then warned us things were going to get loud, as if a pop-punk rock opera about disaffected youth during the Bush administration and early stages of Iraqi involvement could have been anything else.
And it was very much a rock opera, and in true operatic form, there was almost no dialog beyond a video screen of Johnny's occasional messages home to his Mom, with a recurring theme: "I forgot to shower. Again."
Hey, it happens.
Although the only Green Day album I own is 1994's "Dookie," so many of the songs from 2004's "American Idiot" were familiar and the record unfolded in a clear-cut story line about dreams deferred and lessons learned with bad experiences.
Growing up, in other words, and I actually recall just how mature Green Day seemed all at once when they stopped complaining about how boring suburban life was and dove into addressing the ills of the larger world.
They all have to grow up someday, don't they?
It was an energetic production and from our seats in the front row, we could see well-earned sweat glistening off every face. There's nothing like watching youthful exuberance explode off furniture or spring up on a platform as tall as they are, but props also go to lone Baby Boomer Starlet Knight for holding her own among the flannel set.
Being so close to the action also meant that when a member of the ensemble was showing off his sweaty bicep mid-song, I was one of the people he offered it to.
Squeeze 'em if you get offered 'em, I always say.
Everything about the production worked, from the rock solid casting to the actors trading off instruments - including drums and violins - to the pure emotion they were putting out to the audience.
We couldn't have been the only ones wowed by the synergy of it all.
Central to the story was how the events of September 11th defined a young generation (the production's director was then in 7th grade...ouch) and when video screens showed footage of the twin towers being hit, I couldn't look. My younger seatmate, though, couldn't look away, especially when angles were being shown that he'd never seen before.
Some things you (okay, I) never need to see again.
Regardless of where a person falls on the Green Day spectrum, the production sucks you back to teenage universality, when life is either flippin' fantastic or absolutely as crappy as it can be and nothing matters.
Because that's how teen-aged minds and hormones work, at least until they get a little seasoning.
And, speaking of such things, entering the ladies' room during intermission, I found myself behind two chatty young women. One was relating a story about her actions that mystified her friend. "Who are you?" she asked incredulously.
Walking toward a newly-vacant stall, the young woman said over her shoulder, "I'm still trying to figure that out."
It takes years, I interjected, as if I were part of the conversation and they both smiled at me with what looked like gratitude.
And if you can turn that experience into a work of art, say an album or a rock opera (maybe a book?), nobody will care whether or not you shower. Really.
I feel certain Green Day will back me up on this one.
The comment yesterday from a music impresario when I mentioned I didn't have a cell phone could also apply to today's 96 degree weather, a veritable cold front after yesterday's triple digits.
Even more refreshing, though, is that there's a theater in town where I can see a rollicking millennial deconstruction of a theatrical dinosaur such as "Seven Bride for Seven Brothers," and then just two nights later, a 21st century rock opera like Green Day's "American Idiot.
On the very same stage.
Yo, Firehouse, you are nailing this whole "breaking through" thing magnificently with that kind of variety in programming. Color me impressed.
The show began a tad on the tardy side because they were trying to seat those on the waiting list, which they managed to do, a fact that, when announced, garnered clapping.
"Applause for the waiting list?" artistic director Joel Bassin mused. "Good Friday night crowd!" He explained that they had chosen to cast the play with people who could play their instruments, sing and act rather than use a band and actors (I ask you, does it get any more DIY/punk than that?), which turned out to be far easier to do in this talent-filled town than anyone anticipated.
Like the other night's production of "Seven Brides," a surprisingly large number of people in attendance were first-timers, testament, perhaps, to the appeal of mixing things up.
My fellow Green Day fan and I were not among the Firehouse virgins.
Bassin then warned us things were going to get loud, as if a pop-punk rock opera about disaffected youth during the Bush administration and early stages of Iraqi involvement could have been anything else.
And it was very much a rock opera, and in true operatic form, there was almost no dialog beyond a video screen of Johnny's occasional messages home to his Mom, with a recurring theme: "I forgot to shower. Again."
Hey, it happens.
Although the only Green Day album I own is 1994's "Dookie," so many of the songs from 2004's "American Idiot" were familiar and the record unfolded in a clear-cut story line about dreams deferred and lessons learned with bad experiences.
Growing up, in other words, and I actually recall just how mature Green Day seemed all at once when they stopped complaining about how boring suburban life was and dove into addressing the ills of the larger world.
They all have to grow up someday, don't they?
It was an energetic production and from our seats in the front row, we could see well-earned sweat glistening off every face. There's nothing like watching youthful exuberance explode off furniture or spring up on a platform as tall as they are, but props also go to lone Baby Boomer Starlet Knight for holding her own among the flannel set.
Being so close to the action also meant that when a member of the ensemble was showing off his sweaty bicep mid-song, I was one of the people he offered it to.
Squeeze 'em if you get offered 'em, I always say.
Everything about the production worked, from the rock solid casting to the actors trading off instruments - including drums and violins - to the pure emotion they were putting out to the audience.
We couldn't have been the only ones wowed by the synergy of it all.
Central to the story was how the events of September 11th defined a young generation (the production's director was then in 7th grade...ouch) and when video screens showed footage of the twin towers being hit, I couldn't look. My younger seatmate, though, couldn't look away, especially when angles were being shown that he'd never seen before.
Some things you (okay, I) never need to see again.
Regardless of where a person falls on the Green Day spectrum, the production sucks you back to teenage universality, when life is either flippin' fantastic or absolutely as crappy as it can be and nothing matters.
Because that's how teen-aged minds and hormones work, at least until they get a little seasoning.
And, speaking of such things, entering the ladies' room during intermission, I found myself behind two chatty young women. One was relating a story about her actions that mystified her friend. "Who are you?" she asked incredulously.
Walking toward a newly-vacant stall, the young woman said over her shoulder, "I'm still trying to figure that out."
It takes years, I interjected, as if I were part of the conversation and they both smiled at me with what looked like gratitude.
And if you can turn that experience into a work of art, say an album or a rock opera (maybe a book?), nobody will care whether or not you shower. Really.
I feel certain Green Day will back me up on this one.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Song of the South
Nothing needs to be hot right now. It's July.
Not showers or bath water, not food nor drink, certainly not clothing. It's time to embrace the heat. My method involves taking a walk along and knee-high dip in the river this morning and giving into my first heat nap this afternoon, both out of sheer necessity.
Sure those 96 degrees outside felt like 104 by 4:45, but it was a clear-skied, breezy 104. Honestly, it could be so much worse.
"Not sarcasm: I love this weather. #bringontheheat #you'll find me outside," a friend writes on Facebook. She was mocked and challenged, but I'm with her 100%.
So naturally, I did what any civilized Richmond woman living without air conditioning would do - and has done - since at least the 19th century: donned a thin cotton dress and grabbed a parasol to best deal with the heat outside.
My purpose was simply to stroll over to Rappahannock for oyster happy hour.
The dozen Old Saltes were chilled, the orgeat lemonade was possibly the most refreshing thing I ever put in my mouth and I could not have been happier to enjoy both in air conditioning that was doing its best to keep up, but mostly unsuccessfully.
Leaving the restaurant for the Valentine Museum, I passed one of Rappahannock's waiters standing on Fourth Street and joked about him being outside in the swelter.
"Like it wasn't sweltering inside, too?" he cracked, jerking his thumb at the dining room. True that.
Behind the Marriott's loading dock, a man in a black suit sat smoking a cigarette, pointing at my flowered umbrella as I walked by, saying, "That's a good idea." I wish I could say it was original.
At least I was walking East, so the worst of the sun was behind me.
The Valentine's auditorium was already filling up when I arrived hot and glistening, only to be reminded that of course the museum of the city of Richmond would be gracious enough to provide fans to its guests on such a sticky summer day.
After walking eight blocks, I was only sorry the fan didn't come with a bare-chested man to use it on me so I could just sit back and enjoy it. Addressing my own fanning needs instead, I spotted a Milky Way miniature at the feet of the woman next to me.
What, ho? There's chocolate?
On my way to score some of my own, I ran into a photographer friend and invited her to sit with me. Her backside barely landed when she spotted my candy stash and quietly asked, "Hmm, there's chocolate?''
You see, some messages get garbled as they're shared (like that childhood game "telephone") and other messages could be passed between dozens of women and the original message would stay true. Not to sound sexist, but we don't mess around when it comes to our chocolate.
But it wasn't chocolate we were there for, it was a screening of "Polyfaces," a documentary about Joel Salatin's game-changing Polyface farm, with a Q & A with Joel afterwards.
Between reading and having heard Joel talk before, I knew a fair amount about the unique farming methods and impressive results, but the Australian-made film showed how real people had become part of the movement by interning at Polyface to get grounded in farming basics or starting their own farms using his methods.
Hearing Michael Pollan of "The Omnivore's Dilemma" talk about asking Joel to ship him a chicken because he'd heard how fabulous they were and having Joel refuse, telling him to come to Virginia if he wanted to taste one of his birds, was a perfect example of how Joel marches to the beat of a different drummer.
His son picked up the tune, beginning by raising chickens as a boy and selling eggs to neighbors and progressed to then killing the old hens, cooking the meat and selling bags of chicken meat to neighbors for, what else, chicken pot pie.
The film wasn't shy about the rigors and realities of farm life - slaughter and processing animals, lots of cow pooping, farm dogs nursing - because one of the big differences in Joel's methods over mainstream U.S. farming is that his is more labor-intensive.
Somebody's got to move those cows, chickens and turkeys from field to field if you're replacing the use of chemical fertilizers with rich cow poop and yard bird scratching.
For those of us who recall the '70s, it was gratifying to see so many young couples excited to get back to the land and become part of a revolution in how we grow and consume our food. Watching a babe-in-arms eat through a fresh tomato like it was candy spoke to how we shape our children's palates and not in a good way.
I hadn't realized how fortunate we are to have access to Polyface eggs and meats since he only services an area three hours from the farm, but after watching the film, I'd have to say that his main role now is in teaching younger people his methods and inspiring new generations of conscientious farmers.
Who, coincidentally, look and sound a lot like the people being called hippies 40 years ago. Happy, groovy, nature-loving hippies. Not a thing wrong with that.
During the Q & A, things got feisty when someone asked about being told the farm now uses some GMOs and Joel wasted no time in disabusing us of that notion.
He raved about the contributions of the interns (even introducing three, two current and one former) and noted that they average one "all Polyface wedding a year," as in bride and groom were both employees or interns.
I've heard of people interning on farms and finding their soul mate that way, but I'm hardly the rise-at-dawn-and-do-chores type, so that was never really an option for me. So I may not be up to the rigors of farm life, but I can handle summer in the city like a boss.
"I'm fine with this weather," a guy tells me as I sashay by. "Think about February!"
Those of us who would prefer not to can be found outside. It's July. Sweltering, yes, but happy, too. #nosarcasm
Not showers or bath water, not food nor drink, certainly not clothing. It's time to embrace the heat. My method involves taking a walk along and knee-high dip in the river this morning and giving into my first heat nap this afternoon, both out of sheer necessity.
Sure those 96 degrees outside felt like 104 by 4:45, but it was a clear-skied, breezy 104. Honestly, it could be so much worse.
"Not sarcasm: I love this weather. #bringontheheat #you'll find me outside," a friend writes on Facebook. She was mocked and challenged, but I'm with her 100%.
So naturally, I did what any civilized Richmond woman living without air conditioning would do - and has done - since at least the 19th century: donned a thin cotton dress and grabbed a parasol to best deal with the heat outside.
My purpose was simply to stroll over to Rappahannock for oyster happy hour.
The dozen Old Saltes were chilled, the orgeat lemonade was possibly the most refreshing thing I ever put in my mouth and I could not have been happier to enjoy both in air conditioning that was doing its best to keep up, but mostly unsuccessfully.
Leaving the restaurant for the Valentine Museum, I passed one of Rappahannock's waiters standing on Fourth Street and joked about him being outside in the swelter.
"Like it wasn't sweltering inside, too?" he cracked, jerking his thumb at the dining room. True that.
Behind the Marriott's loading dock, a man in a black suit sat smoking a cigarette, pointing at my flowered umbrella as I walked by, saying, "That's a good idea." I wish I could say it was original.
At least I was walking East, so the worst of the sun was behind me.
The Valentine's auditorium was already filling up when I arrived hot and glistening, only to be reminded that of course the museum of the city of Richmond would be gracious enough to provide fans to its guests on such a sticky summer day.
After walking eight blocks, I was only sorry the fan didn't come with a bare-chested man to use it on me so I could just sit back and enjoy it. Addressing my own fanning needs instead, I spotted a Milky Way miniature at the feet of the woman next to me.
What, ho? There's chocolate?
On my way to score some of my own, I ran into a photographer friend and invited her to sit with me. Her backside barely landed when she spotted my candy stash and quietly asked, "Hmm, there's chocolate?''
You see, some messages get garbled as they're shared (like that childhood game "telephone") and other messages could be passed between dozens of women and the original message would stay true. Not to sound sexist, but we don't mess around when it comes to our chocolate.
But it wasn't chocolate we were there for, it was a screening of "Polyfaces," a documentary about Joel Salatin's game-changing Polyface farm, with a Q & A with Joel afterwards.
Between reading and having heard Joel talk before, I knew a fair amount about the unique farming methods and impressive results, but the Australian-made film showed how real people had become part of the movement by interning at Polyface to get grounded in farming basics or starting their own farms using his methods.
Hearing Michael Pollan of "The Omnivore's Dilemma" talk about asking Joel to ship him a chicken because he'd heard how fabulous they were and having Joel refuse, telling him to come to Virginia if he wanted to taste one of his birds, was a perfect example of how Joel marches to the beat of a different drummer.
His son picked up the tune, beginning by raising chickens as a boy and selling eggs to neighbors and progressed to then killing the old hens, cooking the meat and selling bags of chicken meat to neighbors for, what else, chicken pot pie.
The film wasn't shy about the rigors and realities of farm life - slaughter and processing animals, lots of cow pooping, farm dogs nursing - because one of the big differences in Joel's methods over mainstream U.S. farming is that his is more labor-intensive.
Somebody's got to move those cows, chickens and turkeys from field to field if you're replacing the use of chemical fertilizers with rich cow poop and yard bird scratching.
For those of us who recall the '70s, it was gratifying to see so many young couples excited to get back to the land and become part of a revolution in how we grow and consume our food. Watching a babe-in-arms eat through a fresh tomato like it was candy spoke to how we shape our children's palates and not in a good way.
I hadn't realized how fortunate we are to have access to Polyface eggs and meats since he only services an area three hours from the farm, but after watching the film, I'd have to say that his main role now is in teaching younger people his methods and inspiring new generations of conscientious farmers.
Who, coincidentally, look and sound a lot like the people being called hippies 40 years ago. Happy, groovy, nature-loving hippies. Not a thing wrong with that.
During the Q & A, things got feisty when someone asked about being told the farm now uses some GMOs and Joel wasted no time in disabusing us of that notion.
He raved about the contributions of the interns (even introducing three, two current and one former) and noted that they average one "all Polyface wedding a year," as in bride and groom were both employees or interns.
I've heard of people interning on farms and finding their soul mate that way, but I'm hardly the rise-at-dawn-and-do-chores type, so that was never really an option for me. So I may not be up to the rigors of farm life, but I can handle summer in the city like a boss.
"I'm fine with this weather," a guy tells me as I sashay by. "Think about February!"
Those of us who would prefer not to can be found outside. It's July. Sweltering, yes, but happy, too. #nosarcasm
Came in Through the Balcony Window
Because only a day that began on such an absurd note could end so hilariously.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't be washing screens after going to dinner and the theater, but I couldn't risk the raccoon showing up hungry like last night and finding a conveniently open window leading to my bedroom.
Why would a city raccoon climb a two story building to the balcony of my apartment at 4 a.m., you wonder? Well, to get to the empty soup can in the recycler out there, of course.
When his noisy visit awakened me, I experienced about a millisecond of fear (because it seemed unlikely a person could get up there) and then placated myself with assurances it had to be a 'coon. Finding a couple of cans and bits of newspaper in the middle of the balcony this morning seemed to confirm it.
Resolved: I will rinse my cans better.
I revisited the balcony just after Pru arrived to collect me for our evening out. I'd somehow managed to walk out without my keys, but not without locking my apartment door first. It was only when I went to lock the front door to the house that I realized my gaffe.
Rather than panicking, I suggested Pru smoke 'em if she had 'em and I'd be back momentarily, before going back to the balcony and removing the screens leading to my left bedroom window.
It wasn't the most pleasant of jobs just after showering (I confess, I hadn't cleaned those screens in the seven years since I put them in), but I at least had the good sense to reach in and snag a pillow case to place across the sill so as to save my legs from debris and dust as I clambered through.
Volia, keys procured and our night proceeds. Pru hadn't even finished puffing when I reappeared at the car.
Mom always said a woman must have an emergency plan when she finds herself locked out and mine simply involves breaking and entering. No big deal.
We joined the dinner crowd at Garnett's at mid-stream, but within 15 minutes, every table was taken and to-go desserts were walking out the door while a soundtrack that began with the unlikeliest sounding of bands - War - supplyied a solid bass line and constant good mood groove.
Over my farmer's salad and her cheese plate, we swapped tales of July, mine of Paris and castles, and hers of pricey chairs used in the pursuit of wooing. It was a more than equal trade.
But the evening was soon to get even better.
First, imagine trying to explain the plot of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" to an Englishman who'd never heard of it. Pru had done just that today when sharing with a coworker what we were going to see tonight.
Something about blunt force proposals, kidnapping and treating women as chattel didn't translate well and her friend was gobsmacked that such a story had ever passed as family entertainment, much less a classic Hollywood musical.
But for those of us who are dance fans, few musicals showcase as many terrific male dancers as this one, and not just in stereotypical dance moves, but incorporating dance into lumberjack activities like rolling a log or chopping wood.
Say what you will about lumbersexuals, but it always appealed to me.
Once at the Firehouse, I chose front row seats, the better to see all that glorious dancing, and almost immediately we were engaged with the woman next to us about the program's artistic note from the new (and young) Nu Puppis, the performing arts collective presenting tonight's play.
Both the woman and I had immediately been affronted by the wording on the program, namely, "...an ensemble of 20 artists took an archaic beast of the Golden Age and turned it into a joyous affront to the senses."
Rather harsh, don't you think?
Don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with joyous affronts to the senses, but "archaic beast" seemed a tad dismissive of a production I admit to having a huge soft spot for. Granted, it pre-dates me, so I know no world where "Seven Brides" didn't exist, so perhaps my attachment is understandable.
But the woman next to Pru took umbrage with the reference, too, convinced it spoke to not just the script but to fans of it.
Who you calling an archaic beast, anyway, kids?
Before long, though, Pru had mentioned my recent trip and she was sharing her own Parisian memories of when she was 32, newly married and regularly visiting friends in Frankfurt, Germany so the new couple would have a base of operations to tool around France in a VW Bug.
You read that right. If there could be a more exquisite way to visit France in 1972 than in a Beetle with your new husband, I'd like to know what it might be. Go ahead, I'll wait.
"We usually stayed in pensionnes and hostels, but the one place we camped on the whole trip was in Paris," she shared, amazing us both with this unexpected fact. Wait, you could still camp in Paris itself in the '70s? Did it get any groovier than that?
Artistic director Joel explained that this young company was about to give us a non-traditional production that amounted to coloring outside the lines. His hope was that it would affect us in some way and change the way we see everything.
I'd have been happy with just singing and dancing, but I was certainly up for more. And, man, did we get it.
From the opening moment when the actor playing big brother Adam burst through a door in a leather shirt open to the waist to reveal a six-pack and sculpted pecs singing "Bless Your Beautiful Hide," to his references to plowing that included major crotch thrusting, this was not my mother's "Seven Brides."
It was better. So. Much. Better.
This young troupe managed to stay true to the original while completely sending it up, using sight gags, pop culture references and physical humor to mock man's baser instincts at every turn.
When Adam comes to town to find a bride and first sees Millie, the world stops, a spotlight fastens on each of them and the first few notes of Cutting Crew's "Died In Your Arms" ring out. "I..." is all we hear before they bump uglies.
After Adam's brothers kidnap the women of their dreams, Millie refuses to allow the men in the house given their bad behavior. "I won't sleep alongside you, Adam Pontipee," she tells him. The millennial women in the back responded by snapping their fingers in support.
I could have started a discussion group off of that alone, but refrained.
Hands down, one of the most hysterical lines came about after Millie has worked her magic on the brothers, teaching them manners and dancing, even "sewing" them new shirts so they can go a'courtin in town.
Coming onstage in colorful polo shirts, one of the brothers muses, "Where'd we get these shirts?" which was really shorthand for "How the hell did this woman change our lives so drastically, so painlessly, so quickly?"
It's a talent, boys. Kind of like what we were seeing tonight.
Nu Puppis did more than just dust off a golden oldie, they rewrote it for digital natives. When brother Gideon admits to missing his girl, Adam offers him a Playboy magazine and a pump bottle of lotion to take his mind off love.
Howard Keel and Jane Powell were probably rolling over in their graves right about then. And if not then perhaps when Millie slid into the splits as they posed like rock stars, who knows?
The avalanche caused by the women's screaming after they're kidnapped was smartly accomplished by a stagehand holding a white sheet onto which projections of avalanches were shown to a vigorous drumbeat. A rolling metal riser was labeled "tree," a place where shunned husbands could sleep or courting bachelors could pluck flowers.
Now that's some creative special effects.
Humor abounded, like when Adam's log-winded explanations of his bad behavior have Millie looking at her imaginary watch or when the brothers sing of having to make it through winter, all the while clutching their loins to a march-like beat.
When Millie has her baby, it's a faceless form whose arms fall off and is held by its head by father Adam. A mannequin form subs for one of the brides, being tossed and kicked about by her hapless suitor. Sock puppets speak for characters like we're watching a down on its heels high school production.
Truly, this cast and crew was having fun with every nuance of the archaic beast they'd taken to their bosom, managing to insert social commentary, blatant physical humor and every pop culture reference they've ever seen to bear on the tragic plight of men without women.
And that would've been plenty to make for a raucously enjoyable night of theater, but they took it a step further, nailing the big dance numbers despite limited room and having to work around the "American Idiot" set, Firehouse's concurrent production.
There was the classic barn-raising scene, only here a bed subbed for the river in the log-rolling scene. And the "Lonesome Polecat" number where the men moon over their women? Every hatchet was in place, every lean and swing of the tool matched by that of their brethren.
My mother's "Seven Brides" was never far from the surface, even when all the men were in their boxer briefs or Adam was spattered in blood.
Which, thankfully, I won't be tonight after all because the roving raccoon won't have access to me now that I've washed and replaced the screen next to where he does his middle-of-the-night snacking.
Bless his beautiful hide.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't be washing screens after going to dinner and the theater, but I couldn't risk the raccoon showing up hungry like last night and finding a conveniently open window leading to my bedroom.
Why would a city raccoon climb a two story building to the balcony of my apartment at 4 a.m., you wonder? Well, to get to the empty soup can in the recycler out there, of course.
When his noisy visit awakened me, I experienced about a millisecond of fear (because it seemed unlikely a person could get up there) and then placated myself with assurances it had to be a 'coon. Finding a couple of cans and bits of newspaper in the middle of the balcony this morning seemed to confirm it.
Resolved: I will rinse my cans better.
I revisited the balcony just after Pru arrived to collect me for our evening out. I'd somehow managed to walk out without my keys, but not without locking my apartment door first. It was only when I went to lock the front door to the house that I realized my gaffe.
Rather than panicking, I suggested Pru smoke 'em if she had 'em and I'd be back momentarily, before going back to the balcony and removing the screens leading to my left bedroom window.
It wasn't the most pleasant of jobs just after showering (I confess, I hadn't cleaned those screens in the seven years since I put them in), but I at least had the good sense to reach in and snag a pillow case to place across the sill so as to save my legs from debris and dust as I clambered through.
Volia, keys procured and our night proceeds. Pru hadn't even finished puffing when I reappeared at the car.
Mom always said a woman must have an emergency plan when she finds herself locked out and mine simply involves breaking and entering. No big deal.
We joined the dinner crowd at Garnett's at mid-stream, but within 15 minutes, every table was taken and to-go desserts were walking out the door while a soundtrack that began with the unlikeliest sounding of bands - War - supplyied a solid bass line and constant good mood groove.
Over my farmer's salad and her cheese plate, we swapped tales of July, mine of Paris and castles, and hers of pricey chairs used in the pursuit of wooing. It was a more than equal trade.
But the evening was soon to get even better.
First, imagine trying to explain the plot of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" to an Englishman who'd never heard of it. Pru had done just that today when sharing with a coworker what we were going to see tonight.
Something about blunt force proposals, kidnapping and treating women as chattel didn't translate well and her friend was gobsmacked that such a story had ever passed as family entertainment, much less a classic Hollywood musical.
But for those of us who are dance fans, few musicals showcase as many terrific male dancers as this one, and not just in stereotypical dance moves, but incorporating dance into lumberjack activities like rolling a log or chopping wood.
Say what you will about lumbersexuals, but it always appealed to me.
Once at the Firehouse, I chose front row seats, the better to see all that glorious dancing, and almost immediately we were engaged with the woman next to us about the program's artistic note from the new (and young) Nu Puppis, the performing arts collective presenting tonight's play.
Both the woman and I had immediately been affronted by the wording on the program, namely, "...an ensemble of 20 artists took an archaic beast of the Golden Age and turned it into a joyous affront to the senses."
Rather harsh, don't you think?
Don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with joyous affronts to the senses, but "archaic beast" seemed a tad dismissive of a production I admit to having a huge soft spot for. Granted, it pre-dates me, so I know no world where "Seven Brides" didn't exist, so perhaps my attachment is understandable.
But the woman next to Pru took umbrage with the reference, too, convinced it spoke to not just the script but to fans of it.
Who you calling an archaic beast, anyway, kids?
Before long, though, Pru had mentioned my recent trip and she was sharing her own Parisian memories of when she was 32, newly married and regularly visiting friends in Frankfurt, Germany so the new couple would have a base of operations to tool around France in a VW Bug.
You read that right. If there could be a more exquisite way to visit France in 1972 than in a Beetle with your new husband, I'd like to know what it might be. Go ahead, I'll wait.
"We usually stayed in pensionnes and hostels, but the one place we camped on the whole trip was in Paris," she shared, amazing us both with this unexpected fact. Wait, you could still camp in Paris itself in the '70s? Did it get any groovier than that?
Artistic director Joel explained that this young company was about to give us a non-traditional production that amounted to coloring outside the lines. His hope was that it would affect us in some way and change the way we see everything.
I'd have been happy with just singing and dancing, but I was certainly up for more. And, man, did we get it.
From the opening moment when the actor playing big brother Adam burst through a door in a leather shirt open to the waist to reveal a six-pack and sculpted pecs singing "Bless Your Beautiful Hide," to his references to plowing that included major crotch thrusting, this was not my mother's "Seven Brides."
It was better. So. Much. Better.
This young troupe managed to stay true to the original while completely sending it up, using sight gags, pop culture references and physical humor to mock man's baser instincts at every turn.
When Adam comes to town to find a bride and first sees Millie, the world stops, a spotlight fastens on each of them and the first few notes of Cutting Crew's "Died In Your Arms" ring out. "I..." is all we hear before they bump uglies.
After Adam's brothers kidnap the women of their dreams, Millie refuses to allow the men in the house given their bad behavior. "I won't sleep alongside you, Adam Pontipee," she tells him. The millennial women in the back responded by snapping their fingers in support.
I could have started a discussion group off of that alone, but refrained.
Hands down, one of the most hysterical lines came about after Millie has worked her magic on the brothers, teaching them manners and dancing, even "sewing" them new shirts so they can go a'courtin in town.
Coming onstage in colorful polo shirts, one of the brothers muses, "Where'd we get these shirts?" which was really shorthand for "How the hell did this woman change our lives so drastically, so painlessly, so quickly?"
It's a talent, boys. Kind of like what we were seeing tonight.
Nu Puppis did more than just dust off a golden oldie, they rewrote it for digital natives. When brother Gideon admits to missing his girl, Adam offers him a Playboy magazine and a pump bottle of lotion to take his mind off love.
Howard Keel and Jane Powell were probably rolling over in their graves right about then. And if not then perhaps when Millie slid into the splits as they posed like rock stars, who knows?
The avalanche caused by the women's screaming after they're kidnapped was smartly accomplished by a stagehand holding a white sheet onto which projections of avalanches were shown to a vigorous drumbeat. A rolling metal riser was labeled "tree," a place where shunned husbands could sleep or courting bachelors could pluck flowers.
Now that's some creative special effects.
Humor abounded, like when Adam's log-winded explanations of his bad behavior have Millie looking at her imaginary watch or when the brothers sing of having to make it through winter, all the while clutching their loins to a march-like beat.
When Millie has her baby, it's a faceless form whose arms fall off and is held by its head by father Adam. A mannequin form subs for one of the brides, being tossed and kicked about by her hapless suitor. Sock puppets speak for characters like we're watching a down on its heels high school production.
Truly, this cast and crew was having fun with every nuance of the archaic beast they'd taken to their bosom, managing to insert social commentary, blatant physical humor and every pop culture reference they've ever seen to bear on the tragic plight of men without women.
And that would've been plenty to make for a raucously enjoyable night of theater, but they took it a step further, nailing the big dance numbers despite limited room and having to work around the "American Idiot" set, Firehouse's concurrent production.
There was the classic barn-raising scene, only here a bed subbed for the river in the log-rolling scene. And the "Lonesome Polecat" number where the men moon over their women? Every hatchet was in place, every lean and swing of the tool matched by that of their brethren.
My mother's "Seven Brides" was never far from the surface, even when all the men were in their boxer briefs or Adam was spattered in blood.
Which, thankfully, I won't be tonight after all because the roving raccoon won't have access to me now that I've washed and replaced the screen next to where he does his middle-of-the-night snacking.
Bless his beautiful hide.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
I'd Rather Leave When I'm in Love
After being away so much the past few weeks, it was time to buckle down and we know what that means.
Massive intakes of food and theater.
My partner in crime was the lovely Mac, who'd cheated on me while I was away by walking with a 5'9" co-worker who complained about her fast pace.
Eager to be clear, Mac explained that she and I usually go even faster on our walks. "You must be running," her co-worker presumed. Nope, despite my diminutive 5'5" and Mac's even shorter stature, that's just our pace.
Keep up if you can.
Once we'd done the plenty tasty work of my hired mouth, we directed our attention to Richmond Triangle Players' production of "The Boy from Oz," a musical about Australian songwriter and performer (not to mention Oscar winner for the theme from "Arthur"), Peter Allen.
I won't claim to have known lots about the man beyond him being a songwriter ("I Honestly Love You," "I Go to Rio") and Liza Minnelli's first husband, but, please, doesn't that alone qualify him for dissection under the musical theater microscope?
Richmond Triangle Players has brilliantly cast Chris Hester as Allen, thus ensuring the audience will be dazzled by his myriad skill sets from a spot-on Australian accent to effortless-looking and impressive singing and dancing chops.
Looking fine in a t-shirt doesn't hurt, either, as any man or woman in the audience could have attested.
His performance alone could have carried the show, but the uncanny likeness of Grey Garrett as a '60s Judy Garland and Anna Grey Hogan as a budding "Liza with a Z" - both in looks, movement and singing - ensured that a play many of us had never heard of would be completely memorable.
Personally, I'm partial to plays where characters sing an ode to my people, the snappy "Only an Older Woman," in this case, acknowledging the wealth of life experience Judy can bring to up and coming performers.
You need an older woman to teach you
One who is barely reaching her prime
Who thinks you're fun, not someone to preach to
What do you say? Let's have a good time
Cause with an older woman
Nothing you do is a crime
Almost as good were costumes that evoked Garland's '60s style, Liza's budding "look" and Allen's trademark flashiness (think Hawaiian shirts and shiny silver loafers), but I'd also credit the fabulous falls the women in the ensemble wore (so very mod London-era) for nailing the little details.
Not only did we both have nothing but raves for the play afterwards (duh, the play's run wasn't extended for nothing), it also had had the best possible effect on us. Now we're both dying to read a biography of Peter Allen's oh-so interesting life, followed by a Liza bio so we can see where the stories overlap.
Mac even wants to read Garland's story, but I've read a couple versions so I already know it's pretty tragic.
But isn't that what well-executed theater does to its audience? Entertains but also engages to the point of informing, maybe even inspiring some post-show learning?
You know, like in school, except with glitter and jazz hands and no pesky grades at the end.
And even if there were, older women grade on a curve.
Only one who's been round the block
Can give you the ride that you need...
Massive intakes of food and theater.
My partner in crime was the lovely Mac, who'd cheated on me while I was away by walking with a 5'9" co-worker who complained about her fast pace.
Eager to be clear, Mac explained that she and I usually go even faster on our walks. "You must be running," her co-worker presumed. Nope, despite my diminutive 5'5" and Mac's even shorter stature, that's just our pace.
Keep up if you can.
Once we'd done the plenty tasty work of my hired mouth, we directed our attention to Richmond Triangle Players' production of "The Boy from Oz," a musical about Australian songwriter and performer (not to mention Oscar winner for the theme from "Arthur"), Peter Allen.
I won't claim to have known lots about the man beyond him being a songwriter ("I Honestly Love You," "I Go to Rio") and Liza Minnelli's first husband, but, please, doesn't that alone qualify him for dissection under the musical theater microscope?
Richmond Triangle Players has brilliantly cast Chris Hester as Allen, thus ensuring the audience will be dazzled by his myriad skill sets from a spot-on Australian accent to effortless-looking and impressive singing and dancing chops.
Looking fine in a t-shirt doesn't hurt, either, as any man or woman in the audience could have attested.
His performance alone could have carried the show, but the uncanny likeness of Grey Garrett as a '60s Judy Garland and Anna Grey Hogan as a budding "Liza with a Z" - both in looks, movement and singing - ensured that a play many of us had never heard of would be completely memorable.
Personally, I'm partial to plays where characters sing an ode to my people, the snappy "Only an Older Woman," in this case, acknowledging the wealth of life experience Judy can bring to up and coming performers.
You need an older woman to teach you
One who is barely reaching her prime
Who thinks you're fun, not someone to preach to
What do you say? Let's have a good time
Cause with an older woman
Nothing you do is a crime
Almost as good were costumes that evoked Garland's '60s style, Liza's budding "look" and Allen's trademark flashiness (think Hawaiian shirts and shiny silver loafers), but I'd also credit the fabulous falls the women in the ensemble wore (so very mod London-era) for nailing the little details.
Not only did we both have nothing but raves for the play afterwards (duh, the play's run wasn't extended for nothing), it also had had the best possible effect on us. Now we're both dying to read a biography of Peter Allen's oh-so interesting life, followed by a Liza bio so we can see where the stories overlap.
Mac even wants to read Garland's story, but I've read a couple versions so I already know it's pretty tragic.
But isn't that what well-executed theater does to its audience? Entertains but also engages to the point of informing, maybe even inspiring some post-show learning?
You know, like in school, except with glitter and jazz hands and no pesky grades at the end.
And even if there were, older women grade on a curve.
Only one who's been round the block
Can give you the ride that you need...
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Sorry, Not Sorry
Jackson Ward is happening today.
First thing in the morning - okay 10:00, but who's keeping score? - I amble down Marshall Street toward an obvious "situation," complete with multiple police cars, a fire engine and a totaled car upside down against a seriously messed-up parked car.
The car's driver has already been taken to the hospital, but I join the other onlookers in pondering how on earth such a crash could've happened in a neighborhood with a speed limit of 25 mph and a stop sign on two of the corners.
Somebody needsparental guidance driver's school or perhaps an intervention. How could this have happened to someone who wasn't in an altered state?
Walking back later from an interview at Lift, a woman standing on the porch of a nearby house tells me the parked car had been hers.
"I had to put on pants just to walk down there and see what had happened," she shares about the hardships of her morning. "Then I just called the tow company when I saw it."
At the intersection in question, I hear my name called (along with, "Look at that tan!") from the other side of a car and head toward it, oblivious to who it might be. Just my favorite chef/gardener, that's who, along with her intern and daughter.
We chat about costume ideas for the "Coming to America" show and promise to catch up then.
The invitation was direct: Take a long long lunch break, come back from the beach early, do what you need to come to this. You won't be sorry. Oh, and it's free.
I can take a hint and besides, it helps to be the boss. What I hadn't anticipated was eight boys for every girl.
Guitarist Steve Gunn was playing at Steady Sounds, meaning I passed the crash site for the fifth time heading to it.
He and another guitarist were already warming up ("We're gonna do as much tuning as playing music," Gunn cracked) when I walked in to a sea of guitar nerds wearing everything from an Alice in Chains cap to a Slugbug t-shirt.
One guy had apparently slipped away from his job at one of our national outdoor treasures since he was wearing a park ranger uniform. People I'd never seen in work clothes showed up looking conventional.
From my perch in front of bins of "New Disco, R & B, Re-edits," I spot two friends who work for VCU, one from a favorite restaurant and an editor.
All guys and the usual suspects, in other words.
Gunn's songs came across like meditations, but full of embellishments from the two very talented men playing an assortment of five guitars.
It was so easy to get lost in the stellar guitar playing - lots of hooks, tasty solos and enough meandering to keep the geeks' eyes on the two guitarists' hands - that when his vocals were added to the mix partway through, it was almost surprising.
Midway through their abbreviated set in advance of a show tonight at the Southern in C-ville, a photographer friend lifted his phone and began a fast panning of the crowded record store on a Tuesday afternoon.
"Uh-oh, some of us are playing hooky," the friend next to me whispered. The restaurant friend had already cut out early due to guilt, so he missed being caught in the act, unlike the rest of us.
I like to think that what happens at Steady Sounds in the middle of the day stays at Steady Sounds and that's coming from one who doesn't even have to worry about answering to a higher up.
Walking the two blocks home with a fellow attendee behind me, I saw that he was now parked where the woman's car had been attacked earlier. Naturally, I had to tell him the story.
Turns out he's moving a half a block from me come August 1, so we made our introductions, shook hands and talked about the neighborhood from my vantage point as a ten year resident.
"That's wild! Sounds like I'm going to love it here!" he enthused.
I can't predict the future, my friend, but I feel safe saying you're never going to be bored. That much I can assure you.
First thing in the morning - okay 10:00, but who's keeping score? - I amble down Marshall Street toward an obvious "situation," complete with multiple police cars, a fire engine and a totaled car upside down against a seriously messed-up parked car.
The car's driver has already been taken to the hospital, but I join the other onlookers in pondering how on earth such a crash could've happened in a neighborhood with a speed limit of 25 mph and a stop sign on two of the corners.
Somebody needs
Walking back later from an interview at Lift, a woman standing on the porch of a nearby house tells me the parked car had been hers.
"I had to put on pants just to walk down there and see what had happened," she shares about the hardships of her morning. "Then I just called the tow company when I saw it."
At the intersection in question, I hear my name called (along with, "Look at that tan!") from the other side of a car and head toward it, oblivious to who it might be. Just my favorite chef/gardener, that's who, along with her intern and daughter.
We chat about costume ideas for the "Coming to America" show and promise to catch up then.
The invitation was direct: Take a long long lunch break, come back from the beach early, do what you need to come to this. You won't be sorry. Oh, and it's free.
I can take a hint and besides, it helps to be the boss. What I hadn't anticipated was eight boys for every girl.
Guitarist Steve Gunn was playing at Steady Sounds, meaning I passed the crash site for the fifth time heading to it.
He and another guitarist were already warming up ("We're gonna do as much tuning as playing music," Gunn cracked) when I walked in to a sea of guitar nerds wearing everything from an Alice in Chains cap to a Slugbug t-shirt.
One guy had apparently slipped away from his job at one of our national outdoor treasures since he was wearing a park ranger uniform. People I'd never seen in work clothes showed up looking conventional.
From my perch in front of bins of "New Disco, R & B, Re-edits," I spot two friends who work for VCU, one from a favorite restaurant and an editor.
All guys and the usual suspects, in other words.
Gunn's songs came across like meditations, but full of embellishments from the two very talented men playing an assortment of five guitars.
It was so easy to get lost in the stellar guitar playing - lots of hooks, tasty solos and enough meandering to keep the geeks' eyes on the two guitarists' hands - that when his vocals were added to the mix partway through, it was almost surprising.
Midway through their abbreviated set in advance of a show tonight at the Southern in C-ville, a photographer friend lifted his phone and began a fast panning of the crowded record store on a Tuesday afternoon.
"Uh-oh, some of us are playing hooky," the friend next to me whispered. The restaurant friend had already cut out early due to guilt, so he missed being caught in the act, unlike the rest of us.
I like to think that what happens at Steady Sounds in the middle of the day stays at Steady Sounds and that's coming from one who doesn't even have to worry about answering to a higher up.
Walking the two blocks home with a fellow attendee behind me, I saw that he was now parked where the woman's car had been attacked earlier. Naturally, I had to tell him the story.
Turns out he's moving a half a block from me come August 1, so we made our introductions, shook hands and talked about the neighborhood from my vantage point as a ten year resident.
"That's wild! Sounds like I'm going to love it here!" he enthused.
I can't predict the future, my friend, but I feel safe saying you're never going to be bored. That much I can assure you.
What a Difference a Day Makes
I'd have been fine, but I broke the seal.
Stay with me here.
I've spent my 48 hours at home focused and solo, despite Paris still very much occupying my mind, a fact not helped by comments from readers about their own undying affection for the City of Light.
Not surprisingly, the first song I needed to hear when I got home was Joni Mitchell's "Free Man in Paris" and it's been pretty much on repeat in the car, stirring up thoughts about how different experiencing Paris must have been in 1974 when she wrote the song than my recent adventures.
And as I allow all that to work itself out of my brain and pores, I turned my attention to home and hearth with laundry, vigorous house cleaning (ahem, even baseboards...at least a few of them) and gardening (Lowes times two in one afternoon, oh, my).
My little world returned to an orderly and attractive comfort zone, I could today focus on earning a living: editing, scheduling interviews and studying notes. I made appointments, I registered, I waited in lines.
The way I see it, it was the walk that weakened me.
Three blocks from home and I spot a friend for the first time since he moved to the neighborhood. We spend 15 minutes catching up in front of Saison, a breakfast sandwich cooling in its see-through container as we chat.
Less than a block away, I hear a friendly if accusatory, "Hey, stranger!" from a neighborhood acquaintance when I walk by the open door of his restoration business. I pause to explain my absence and he shares that a good friend of his left yesterday for Paris.
"We traded her for you, I guess," he jokes.
Walking away, it occurs to me that these are the first real conversations I've had since I got back. I've been existing completely in a vacuum, righting my world, processing my trip and decompressing alone.
Very much not my usual style.
But the seeds had been planted and in no time, I'm thinking it's already been entirely too long (hello, two whole days) since I've had the pleasure of company and conversation. I thought I was fine keeping to myself, at least right up until I started running into people I wanted to talk to.
Naturally, I did what any phone-hating person short on friendly contact would do: call up a friend and suggest getting together tonight.
"And do what?" he inquires, half whiny 8-year old and half curious about my purpose. I'm honest, saying all I'm looking for is some chatter after my self-imposed isolation.
Luckily, he bites. Grateful, I arrive with show and tell.
When I suggest My Noodle & Bar, he says it's the girlfriend's new favorite place. The July exodus of the city means it's not even a challenge to find a Monument Avenue parking space. I want a tiki booth, he wants the bar with backless stools and we compromise on a banquette for them with a comfy chair for me.
Meanwhile, playing overhead is the soundtrack to much younger days for two dancing fools at the table: "Good Times," "Ring My Bell," "Stayin' Alive" and a couple of worthy Al Green songs for slow dance grinding.
Did they see us coming or what?
Even without music to break a platform shoe by (unfortunately, she said, they were from legendary Grace Street boutique Sunny Day), the meal unfolded appealingly with a special of noodle-covered shrimp flash fried before plates of garlic beef, broccoli with chicken and ginger beef occupied our attention.
Of course I wanted to hear all about their Corolla trip last week (his boogie board stood sentry at the front door of his house) and they were a bit curious about my French outing. When it was my turn in the spotlight, I answered questions, shared stories and teased out their own long-ago Parisian experiences.
Chances are, I blathered like an idiot after my time in solitary confinement.
Since the meal took no time, we kept the social intercourse going at his house with my show and tell collection. A copy of Paul McCartney's set list on this current tour. The new Anderson Gallery retrospective book, chock full of pictures of most of her art professors from the '70s, long before I arrived here.
Now I know that the friendly artist I met in 2000 as an older man was once referred to by his students as the "Italian stallion" for his bed-hopping antics.
And while I'd brought a dozen or so albums from my vinyl collection - carefully chosen to include some I knew she'd flip for and others straight up his alley - the one that had him swooning and most envious (because he didn't own a copy) was Badfinger's "Straight Up."
For him, it had been one of those "everybody-owns-it-so-I didn't-have-to-but-I-still-heard-it a-million-times" records, so tonight was the first time he'd heard it in 40 years. It held up, we agreed.
High art form British power pop circa 1971, mostly produced by Todd Rundgren, with a few songs produced by George Harrison on uber-hip Apple Records. All that and "Baby Blue," "Day After Day," "It's Over," in other words, classic stuff for Beatles fans still smarting from the band's breakup at the turn of the decade.
All of which, as you might imagine, we discussed in earnest.
My fault, entirely. If I hadn't crossed the street, I wouldn't have seen my friend the new neighbor and I wouldn't have endangered my self-imposed isolation.
Now that I have, there's no going back. No matter what.
Stay with me here.
I've spent my 48 hours at home focused and solo, despite Paris still very much occupying my mind, a fact not helped by comments from readers about their own undying affection for the City of Light.
Not surprisingly, the first song I needed to hear when I got home was Joni Mitchell's "Free Man in Paris" and it's been pretty much on repeat in the car, stirring up thoughts about how different experiencing Paris must have been in 1974 when she wrote the song than my recent adventures.
And as I allow all that to work itself out of my brain and pores, I turned my attention to home and hearth with laundry, vigorous house cleaning (ahem, even baseboards...at least a few of them) and gardening (Lowes times two in one afternoon, oh, my).
My little world returned to an orderly and attractive comfort zone, I could today focus on earning a living: editing, scheduling interviews and studying notes. I made appointments, I registered, I waited in lines.
The way I see it, it was the walk that weakened me.
Three blocks from home and I spot a friend for the first time since he moved to the neighborhood. We spend 15 minutes catching up in front of Saison, a breakfast sandwich cooling in its see-through container as we chat.
Less than a block away, I hear a friendly if accusatory, "Hey, stranger!" from a neighborhood acquaintance when I walk by the open door of his restoration business. I pause to explain my absence and he shares that a good friend of his left yesterday for Paris.
"We traded her for you, I guess," he jokes.
Walking away, it occurs to me that these are the first real conversations I've had since I got back. I've been existing completely in a vacuum, righting my world, processing my trip and decompressing alone.
Very much not my usual style.
But the seeds had been planted and in no time, I'm thinking it's already been entirely too long (hello, two whole days) since I've had the pleasure of company and conversation. I thought I was fine keeping to myself, at least right up until I started running into people I wanted to talk to.
Naturally, I did what any phone-hating person short on friendly contact would do: call up a friend and suggest getting together tonight.
"And do what?" he inquires, half whiny 8-year old and half curious about my purpose. I'm honest, saying all I'm looking for is some chatter after my self-imposed isolation.
Luckily, he bites. Grateful, I arrive with show and tell.
When I suggest My Noodle & Bar, he says it's the girlfriend's new favorite place. The July exodus of the city means it's not even a challenge to find a Monument Avenue parking space. I want a tiki booth, he wants the bar with backless stools and we compromise on a banquette for them with a comfy chair for me.
Meanwhile, playing overhead is the soundtrack to much younger days for two dancing fools at the table: "Good Times," "Ring My Bell," "Stayin' Alive" and a couple of worthy Al Green songs for slow dance grinding.
Did they see us coming or what?
Even without music to break a platform shoe by (unfortunately, she said, they were from legendary Grace Street boutique Sunny Day), the meal unfolded appealingly with a special of noodle-covered shrimp flash fried before plates of garlic beef, broccoli with chicken and ginger beef occupied our attention.
Of course I wanted to hear all about their Corolla trip last week (his boogie board stood sentry at the front door of his house) and they were a bit curious about my French outing. When it was my turn in the spotlight, I answered questions, shared stories and teased out their own long-ago Parisian experiences.
Chances are, I blathered like an idiot after my time in solitary confinement.
Since the meal took no time, we kept the social intercourse going at his house with my show and tell collection. A copy of Paul McCartney's set list on this current tour. The new Anderson Gallery retrospective book, chock full of pictures of most of her art professors from the '70s, long before I arrived here.
Now I know that the friendly artist I met in 2000 as an older man was once referred to by his students as the "Italian stallion" for his bed-hopping antics.
And while I'd brought a dozen or so albums from my vinyl collection - carefully chosen to include some I knew she'd flip for and others straight up his alley - the one that had him swooning and most envious (because he didn't own a copy) was Badfinger's "Straight Up."
For him, it had been one of those "everybody-owns-it-so-I didn't-have-to-but-I-still-heard-it a-million-times" records, so tonight was the first time he'd heard it in 40 years. It held up, we agreed.
High art form British power pop circa 1971, mostly produced by Todd Rundgren, with a few songs produced by George Harrison on uber-hip Apple Records. All that and "Baby Blue," "Day After Day," "It's Over," in other words, classic stuff for Beatles fans still smarting from the band's breakup at the turn of the decade.
All of which, as you might imagine, we discussed in earnest.
My fault, entirely. If I hadn't crossed the street, I wouldn't have seen my friend the new neighbor and I wouldn't have endangered my self-imposed isolation.
Now that I have, there's no going back. No matter what.
Monday, July 11, 2016
As Observed by An American in Paris
Paris is always a good idea.
~Audrey Hepburn
After what felt like the longest day in memory, I am back from Paris.
And lest you think that's hyperbole, I'm talking rising at 6:30 a.m. French time and finally sliding between my own sweet sheets at the equivalent of 4 a.m. French time, a feat I'd never attempt at home.
But for Paris, anything.
I'm not saying it was a perfect place - too many smokers, tourists and selfie sticks - but I could definitely see what Audrey was talking about.
It's satisfying to be in a place where even older women always have on stylish shoes. Never in my life have I seen so many pairs of vividly colored shoes (the robin's egg blues! the petal pinks!) or the array of non-sensible cute shoes on the street...and don't even get me started on the abundance of sassy heels on women riding bikes.
Just as agreeable is a culture built around cafe society. No matter what meal time or in between it is, neighborhoods are lively with people sipping coffee or wine, talking or people-watching, for all I know, just passing time with a view.
And rare is the place that doesn't have a patio or, at the very least, a few tables strategically placed along the sidewalk, alley or street.
Best of all, table turnover is neither the expectation nor the norm. No one is going to rush over to greet you with menus and water when you sit down nor are they going to bring you your second course (or third or fourth) while you're still lingering over the prior one.
Especially near and dear to my heart were the open windows on every building, shutters flung wide whether it was gray and 63 or sunny and 75. These Parisians are no weather wimps and, like me, seem to appreciate the beauty of fresh air over that which is conditioned.
Translation: I would not be nearly the oddball there that I am here for my desire to bring the outdoors in all summer long.
Everywhere, a glance turned up architecture worth noting, street signs with mini-history lessons on them and public sculpture of important figures I did or should have known. You can't swing a dead chat without hitting a coiffure salon or patisserie. Boats parallel park along the Seine like houses arranged on a watery street. Colorful flower shops crop up on practically every block, a testament to the importance of a little beauty in daily life. Every third person walks by with baguette in hand, some already munching the heel.
Your city is a wonderland, Paris. Thanks for the memories.
~Audrey Hepburn
After what felt like the longest day in memory, I am back from Paris.
And lest you think that's hyperbole, I'm talking rising at 6:30 a.m. French time and finally sliding between my own sweet sheets at the equivalent of 4 a.m. French time, a feat I'd never attempt at home.
But for Paris, anything.
I'm not saying it was a perfect place - too many smokers, tourists and selfie sticks - but I could definitely see what Audrey was talking about.
It's satisfying to be in a place where even older women always have on stylish shoes. Never in my life have I seen so many pairs of vividly colored shoes (the robin's egg blues! the petal pinks!) or the array of non-sensible cute shoes on the street...and don't even get me started on the abundance of sassy heels on women riding bikes.
Just as agreeable is a culture built around cafe society. No matter what meal time or in between it is, neighborhoods are lively with people sipping coffee or wine, talking or people-watching, for all I know, just passing time with a view.
And rare is the place that doesn't have a patio or, at the very least, a few tables strategically placed along the sidewalk, alley or street.
Best of all, table turnover is neither the expectation nor the norm. No one is going to rush over to greet you with menus and water when you sit down nor are they going to bring you your second course (or third or fourth) while you're still lingering over the prior one.
Especially near and dear to my heart were the open windows on every building, shutters flung wide whether it was gray and 63 or sunny and 75. These Parisians are no weather wimps and, like me, seem to appreciate the beauty of fresh air over that which is conditioned.
Translation: I would not be nearly the oddball there that I am here for my desire to bring the outdoors in all summer long.
Everywhere, a glance turned up architecture worth noting, street signs with mini-history lessons on them and public sculpture of important figures I did or should have known. You can't swing a dead chat without hitting a coiffure salon or patisserie. Boats parallel park along the Seine like houses arranged on a watery street. Colorful flower shops crop up on practically every block, a testament to the importance of a little beauty in daily life. Every third person walks by with baguette in hand, some already munching the heel.
Your city is a wonderland, Paris. Thanks for the memories.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Leaving With a Full Memory Card
If you're going to spend one last night in Paris, let it be in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.
When we bade good-bye to Madam and the Loire Valley late this morning, it was with real regret. As much as I love traveling, it's rare to get attached to a place along the way, but the Chateau de l'Aubriere is one I will truly miss.
Our consolation to ourselves for having to leave was a detour on the way to Paris to Chartres, a beautiful old medieval city, so we could visit one of the biggies from my architecture history books: the 13th century Chartres Cathedral.
Walking toward the magnificent structure with one Gothic and one Romanesque steeple, I was reminded that Chartres is a long-time place of pilgrimage for religious nuts wanting to see Mary's veil, supposedly the one she wore while giving birth to you-know-who.
Personally, I find this notion complete bunk, but not so the hordes of nuns snapping selfies of each other in the garden in front of the cathedral. Is it just me or was there a time when nuns would have been appalled at the self-importance of taking their own pictures in front of so significant a holy place?
Welcome to the new Catholicism.
Levity jostled me out of my condemnation of the nuns when a man came strolling across the cobble-stone streets singing "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands," a seashell extended in his hand for those who liked his song.
He may or may not have been drunk. I'm not here to judge.
Inside, things got serious fast with a placard asking visitors to "sense the faith that has impregnated the cathedral for 800 years." Rather colorful language for fanatics, don't you think?
But the cathedral itself was impressive, even if its flying buttresses looked positively clunky compared to the thin, soaring ones we'd seen a few days ago at Notre Dame. Parts of the cathedral had been restored and the stone cleaned to a pristine near-white while other parts bore the dirt of daily candle burning.
Probably the nerviest thing we saw was a woman carrying her dog through the cathedral despite signs prohibiting dogs. Probably the most surprising thing was when the massive pipe organ began playing a haunting song, although we saw no sign of an organist.
Sign from above, perhaps? Out, out, damn heathens!
Lunch found my companion and I in the shadow of Chartres, actually just across the rustic street at Café Bleu's crowded patio, where we indulged in classic "snacks," as the menus here always refer to Croque Monsieurs and Madames, under shady umbrellas with a view of the Cathedral and a balmy breeze blowing.
Interestingly enough, a man walked by us, looked straight at me and said hello as if he were an old friend. I was told by my companion that it was the yellow dress and legs, but I couldn't be sure.
Paris welcomed us back with unexpectedly sunny skies, this time to the west side of the Left Bank at a small hotel where the French doors in our room open out to a busy street and a quintessential view of the Eiffel Tower from them.
What better way to pass time until dinner than to walk over and admire the "metal asparagus" from all angles? The giant soccer ball still hangs in its center, but the views from underneath and the sides were fabulous, picture postcard-like, even.
I snapped pictures furiously, like a Japanese tourist without the Hello, Kitty backpack. If not now, when? I'm incredibly lucky he brought me once, but I wouldn't be so preumptuous as to think he'll bring me again.
Leaving the hordes behind to ascend its lacy heights, we wandered over to Le Zinc (zinc bar, two stools, mostly standing only and an enormous patio), joining throngs of Parisians and visitors on the patio for Friday night happy hours.
Because, of course, in Paris, why limit happy to just one hour?
Sitting one table in from the sunburn-inducing patio, we had the best of both worlds: fresh air and no direct rays. A table away sat four pretty young things sipping le Coca Cola in glass bottles while all around them, people sat squinting into the sun rather than putting on sunglasses. Go figure.
Our last dinner in Paris was simple - salmon salad with sardine rillettes and the Friday special of fish "burger," I mean how much more Catholic can you get than fish on Friday? - and set to a club music soundtrack (all except one inexplicable Doobie Brothers song) and savored in the typically unhurried usual French way.
Not that we needed a reason, but we used today's especially warm weather as an excuse to finish with cold, namely salted butter chocolate ice cream and green apple sorbet.
The only thing that could have made this final night any more perfect wascanoodling in the shadow of watching Gustave Eiffel's tower, aka the metal asparagus, light up and twinkle, which it did promptly at 11:00, even though clouds and deep blue skies behind it attested to the fact that it wasn't yet fully dark.
Dark, shmark.
Leaning on the balcony railing, watching the Eiffel Tower show off, that's how I want to leave Paris.
Helluva way to finish out my marvelous birthday trip. Merci, Paris.
When we bade good-bye to Madam and the Loire Valley late this morning, it was with real regret. As much as I love traveling, it's rare to get attached to a place along the way, but the Chateau de l'Aubriere is one I will truly miss.
Our consolation to ourselves for having to leave was a detour on the way to Paris to Chartres, a beautiful old medieval city, so we could visit one of the biggies from my architecture history books: the 13th century Chartres Cathedral.
Walking toward the magnificent structure with one Gothic and one Romanesque steeple, I was reminded that Chartres is a long-time place of pilgrimage for religious nuts wanting to see Mary's veil, supposedly the one she wore while giving birth to you-know-who.
Personally, I find this notion complete bunk, but not so the hordes of nuns snapping selfies of each other in the garden in front of the cathedral. Is it just me or was there a time when nuns would have been appalled at the self-importance of taking their own pictures in front of so significant a holy place?
Welcome to the new Catholicism.
Levity jostled me out of my condemnation of the nuns when a man came strolling across the cobble-stone streets singing "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands," a seashell extended in his hand for those who liked his song.
He may or may not have been drunk. I'm not here to judge.
Inside, things got serious fast with a placard asking visitors to "sense the faith that has impregnated the cathedral for 800 years." Rather colorful language for fanatics, don't you think?
But the cathedral itself was impressive, even if its flying buttresses looked positively clunky compared to the thin, soaring ones we'd seen a few days ago at Notre Dame. Parts of the cathedral had been restored and the stone cleaned to a pristine near-white while other parts bore the dirt of daily candle burning.
Probably the nerviest thing we saw was a woman carrying her dog through the cathedral despite signs prohibiting dogs. Probably the most surprising thing was when the massive pipe organ began playing a haunting song, although we saw no sign of an organist.
Sign from above, perhaps? Out, out, damn heathens!
Lunch found my companion and I in the shadow of Chartres, actually just across the rustic street at Café Bleu's crowded patio, where we indulged in classic "snacks," as the menus here always refer to Croque Monsieurs and Madames, under shady umbrellas with a view of the Cathedral and a balmy breeze blowing.
Interestingly enough, a man walked by us, looked straight at me and said hello as if he were an old friend. I was told by my companion that it was the yellow dress and legs, but I couldn't be sure.
Paris welcomed us back with unexpectedly sunny skies, this time to the west side of the Left Bank at a small hotel where the French doors in our room open out to a busy street and a quintessential view of the Eiffel Tower from them.
What better way to pass time until dinner than to walk over and admire the "metal asparagus" from all angles? The giant soccer ball still hangs in its center, but the views from underneath and the sides were fabulous, picture postcard-like, even.
I snapped pictures furiously, like a Japanese tourist without the Hello, Kitty backpack. If not now, when? I'm incredibly lucky he brought me once, but I wouldn't be so preumptuous as to think he'll bring me again.
Leaving the hordes behind to ascend its lacy heights, we wandered over to Le Zinc (zinc bar, two stools, mostly standing only and an enormous patio), joining throngs of Parisians and visitors on the patio for Friday night happy hours.
Because, of course, in Paris, why limit happy to just one hour?
Sitting one table in from the sunburn-inducing patio, we had the best of both worlds: fresh air and no direct rays. A table away sat four pretty young things sipping le Coca Cola in glass bottles while all around them, people sat squinting into the sun rather than putting on sunglasses. Go figure.
Our last dinner in Paris was simple - salmon salad with sardine rillettes and the Friday special of fish "burger," I mean how much more Catholic can you get than fish on Friday? - and set to a club music soundtrack (all except one inexplicable Doobie Brothers song) and savored in the typically unhurried usual French way.
Not that we needed a reason, but we used today's especially warm weather as an excuse to finish with cold, namely salted butter chocolate ice cream and green apple sorbet.
The only thing that could have made this final night any more perfect was
Dark, shmark.
Leaning on the balcony railing, watching the Eiffel Tower show off, that's how I want to leave Paris.
Helluva way to finish out my marvelous birthday trip. Merci, Paris.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
If It's Love, There's Dancing
I can already see that bread withdrawal is in my future.
Never in my life have I had so much fabulous bread and it keeps coming at breakfast, lunch and dinner. For that matter, the butter is also extraordinary and I'm slathering it with abandon. And don't get me started on the cheese.
Breakfast at the chateau means being up by 10:30 (not gonna lie, it takes some effort) for a meal eaten in the elaborately traditional dining salon surrounded by door sized windows and views of trees and sunlight.
Outside, we hear the chateau peacock and church bells on the hour.
Today's road trip in search of a castle took us to Chateau Villandry, not nearly as showy as yesterday's Chenonceau, but with far more impressive and often symmetrical gardens: the sun garden, the water garden, the kitchen garden and - I'm not making this up - the love garden.
I find this particularly charming since I'm only here because I am here as the result of a birthday gift.
According to the creators of this exquisitely manicured ornamental garden, there are merely four kinds of love and each was represented in plants differently. There's tender love (the young, no doubt), flighty love (the fickle, I'd assume), passionate love (dancing is involved) and, sigh, tragic love, where the flowers are red, symbolizing bloodshed for love.
I have many opinions about love's variations, both at home and here in France, but they all involve getting it right before I die.
In line to get tickets for the circa 1536 castle, a snotty young Brit whined because he'd not thought to apply sunscreen despite today's gloriously sunny weather. Even after his Mum said she'd get him some for tomorrow, he announced to his family, "I'm not terribly keen to see another castle interior," and walked away, abandoning the queue.
We were hoping it was for good, but, alas, he reappeared in the garden, describing the allee as "an amuse bouche to the garden," and cementing our opinion once and for all that he needed nothing so much as a good slap on the head.
Today's castle barely held a candle to yesterday's (except for the garden views), a statement that could probably only be made here in the Loire. Still, it's always enjoyable to see Goyas casually hung on the wall.
After climbing all the way to the uppermost level for a stupendous view of the property and gardens, we made our way back down dangerously precarious curving stairs to exit behind a man with a mullet. We're talking a serious party in back.
In no time at all, we were at Chateau de Miniere, a family winery with 150-year old Sequoias, multiple wooden hammocks and a chapel filled with gardening supplies.
I know this only because the tasting room pourer insisted we use her handy guide to tour the property before she poured us so much as a sip. By the time we'd fulfilled our touring obligations, the tasting room was empty and we could step right up to the counter.
Tasting through Roses, sparkling Roses, Reds and a sparkling red, our engaging pourer spoke of 20-30 year old vines as young, which they were compared to the 50-60 and 90-100 year old vines that produced some of the others we tasted.
It's like my Scottish friend said about U.S. architecture when she first came here, "You guys really don't know old." Grape vines, same thing.
Here's the beauty of the Loire, okay, there are many, but here's one. You barely finish sipping a glass of Bulles de Miniere Rose when a short drive deposits you on the steps of Chateau Langeaise with miniature quiche Lorraines and cookies for lunch.
Life is good in the Loire.
And sometimes, so accommodating that all you need to do is nap, shower and mosey down three flights of stairs at the chateau where we're staying for a candlelit dinner in the formal dining room.
I wore my best Rousseau flowered dress for the occasion.
We were greeted in the lobby by a new face, David, who took off in search of our apperitifs (sparkling Vouvray) and returned to find us ensconced on the front patio. The dear man had brought not just bubbles but also amuse bouches and answers to our questions.
A traveling chef (son of two chefs) and professional surfer (as soon as he said it, we could see it), he'd spent time in Australia (tell-tale sign: he used the descriptor "heaps") and Canada (where he'd met his girlfriend) before returning to his motherland. Tonight he was our genial chef, gracious server and, in some ways, third conversationalist, as we ate our way through another outstanding Loire meal.
Our table was set up in front of open doors with a view of the valley and the faintest of breezes wreaking havoc with the candles' flames. We were the sole diners, making for romance with a capital "R.".
Jokingly announcing our first course as surf and turf, he put lidded Mason jars in front of us, insisting that we guess the ingredients. As delicious as it was unlikely sounding, these jars of bay scallops and foie gras with shredded zucchini and carrot was like nothing I'd ever tasted and I mean that in the best way.
Rosy pink duck breast with cranberry sauce shared the plate with Mediterranean grains, a hearty course paired with a Chinon red made for such a meal.
After taking our time with all that, David brought out a cheese cart and let us pick from cow and goat cheese options to go with two kinds of bread.
When he said that the red-rind Boulette d'Aveysne was the strongest flavored of the bunch, I said yes, please, but in reality its bark was worse than its bite and assuming you could get beyond the distinctive barnyard floor aromas (David said many can't), the cheese itself wasn't half as strong.
Explaining that there are two kinds of people, those who eat Reblochon with the rind and those who eschew the rind, I had to know who I was. Rind and all, it was not only my kind of cheese, but my companion's as well.
The only thing missing was a sweet element to our cheese plates, but David winningly procured some boysenberry jam to provide a little sweetness for our overload of cheese, but only after lamenting that the French didn't usually do sweet with cheese.
Even the French make occasional faux pas.
Full as ticks and still lounging by the open doors, we welcomed Madame and David with the final course, a dessert of fruit- strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon and one perfect cherry - with whipped cream between crisps studded with poppy seeds, which she'd made herself. Tiny malted milk balls completed the appealing riff on a classic flavor combination.
We're not terribly keen to leave the Loire - I could quite happily never leave - but Paris calls us back.
The good news is, that means my bread withdrawal will have to wait a few more days.
Never in my life have I had so much fabulous bread and it keeps coming at breakfast, lunch and dinner. For that matter, the butter is also extraordinary and I'm slathering it with abandon. And don't get me started on the cheese.
Breakfast at the chateau means being up by 10:30 (not gonna lie, it takes some effort) for a meal eaten in the elaborately traditional dining salon surrounded by door sized windows and views of trees and sunlight.
Outside, we hear the chateau peacock and church bells on the hour.
Today's road trip in search of a castle took us to Chateau Villandry, not nearly as showy as yesterday's Chenonceau, but with far more impressive and often symmetrical gardens: the sun garden, the water garden, the kitchen garden and - I'm not making this up - the love garden.
I find this particularly charming since I'm only here because I am here as the result of a birthday gift.
According to the creators of this exquisitely manicured ornamental garden, there are merely four kinds of love and each was represented in plants differently. There's tender love (the young, no doubt), flighty love (the fickle, I'd assume), passionate love (dancing is involved) and, sigh, tragic love, where the flowers are red, symbolizing bloodshed for love.
I have many opinions about love's variations, both at home and here in France, but they all involve getting it right before I die.
In line to get tickets for the circa 1536 castle, a snotty young Brit whined because he'd not thought to apply sunscreen despite today's gloriously sunny weather. Even after his Mum said she'd get him some for tomorrow, he announced to his family, "I'm not terribly keen to see another castle interior," and walked away, abandoning the queue.
We were hoping it was for good, but, alas, he reappeared in the garden, describing the allee as "an amuse bouche to the garden," and cementing our opinion once and for all that he needed nothing so much as a good slap on the head.
Today's castle barely held a candle to yesterday's (except for the garden views), a statement that could probably only be made here in the Loire. Still, it's always enjoyable to see Goyas casually hung on the wall.
After climbing all the way to the uppermost level for a stupendous view of the property and gardens, we made our way back down dangerously precarious curving stairs to exit behind a man with a mullet. We're talking a serious party in back.
In no time at all, we were at Chateau de Miniere, a family winery with 150-year old Sequoias, multiple wooden hammocks and a chapel filled with gardening supplies.
I know this only because the tasting room pourer insisted we use her handy guide to tour the property before she poured us so much as a sip. By the time we'd fulfilled our touring obligations, the tasting room was empty and we could step right up to the counter.
Tasting through Roses, sparkling Roses, Reds and a sparkling red, our engaging pourer spoke of 20-30 year old vines as young, which they were compared to the 50-60 and 90-100 year old vines that produced some of the others we tasted.
It's like my Scottish friend said about U.S. architecture when she first came here, "You guys really don't know old." Grape vines, same thing.
Here's the beauty of the Loire, okay, there are many, but here's one. You barely finish sipping a glass of Bulles de Miniere Rose when a short drive deposits you on the steps of Chateau Langeaise with miniature quiche Lorraines and cookies for lunch.
Life is good in the Loire.
And sometimes, so accommodating that all you need to do is nap, shower and mosey down three flights of stairs at the chateau where we're staying for a candlelit dinner in the formal dining room.
I wore my best Rousseau flowered dress for the occasion.
We were greeted in the lobby by a new face, David, who took off in search of our apperitifs (sparkling Vouvray) and returned to find us ensconced on the front patio. The dear man had brought not just bubbles but also amuse bouches and answers to our questions.
A traveling chef (son of two chefs) and professional surfer (as soon as he said it, we could see it), he'd spent time in Australia (tell-tale sign: he used the descriptor "heaps") and Canada (where he'd met his girlfriend) before returning to his motherland. Tonight he was our genial chef, gracious server and, in some ways, third conversationalist, as we ate our way through another outstanding Loire meal.
Our table was set up in front of open doors with a view of the valley and the faintest of breezes wreaking havoc with the candles' flames. We were the sole diners, making for romance with a capital "R.".
Jokingly announcing our first course as surf and turf, he put lidded Mason jars in front of us, insisting that we guess the ingredients. As delicious as it was unlikely sounding, these jars of bay scallops and foie gras with shredded zucchini and carrot was like nothing I'd ever tasted and I mean that in the best way.
Rosy pink duck breast with cranberry sauce shared the plate with Mediterranean grains, a hearty course paired with a Chinon red made for such a meal.
After taking our time with all that, David brought out a cheese cart and let us pick from cow and goat cheese options to go with two kinds of bread.
When he said that the red-rind Boulette d'Aveysne was the strongest flavored of the bunch, I said yes, please, but in reality its bark was worse than its bite and assuming you could get beyond the distinctive barnyard floor aromas (David said many can't), the cheese itself wasn't half as strong.
Explaining that there are two kinds of people, those who eat Reblochon with the rind and those who eschew the rind, I had to know who I was. Rind and all, it was not only my kind of cheese, but my companion's as well.
The only thing missing was a sweet element to our cheese plates, but David winningly procured some boysenberry jam to provide a little sweetness for our overload of cheese, but only after lamenting that the French didn't usually do sweet with cheese.
Even the French make occasional faux pas.
Full as ticks and still lounging by the open doors, we welcomed Madame and David with the final course, a dessert of fruit- strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon and one perfect cherry - with whipped cream between crisps studded with poppy seeds, which she'd made herself. Tiny malted milk balls completed the appealing riff on a classic flavor combination.
We're not terribly keen to leave the Loire - I could quite happily never leave - but Paris calls us back.
The good news is, that means my bread withdrawal will have to wait a few more days.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Undisclosed Desires
If there was anything that made leaving Paris easier, it was the labor march.
A big city has non-stop big events - I get that - but after the soccer madness and the Pride parade/concert in our 'hood, we awoke to signs in the hotel elevator warning us of a labor march that would end at the Bastille.
As in, the Bastille neighborhood where we were staying. Lots of streets were already closed when we walked to the Louvre to pick up a rental car and dozens more by the time we got back with it.
Time for us to get out of Dodge.
Destination: Loire Valley. New digs: Chateau de l'Aubriere, circa 1846.
Greeting us with unbridled enthusiasm and a scent of wine on her breath, our hostess led us to our room on the third floor, explaining that to the French, it's the second floor. All I care about is the window taller than me that she opens to the great lawn, allowing in the breeze, night or day.
The grounds look a little fairyland-like with enormous old trees, gardens around the chateau and along the roadway and a sense of being in another time. A peacock roams the property and an aviary holds parakeets of many colors.
It's the complete opposite of Paris.
Happily, the tipsy owner also made suggestions for dinner in town - that would be Tours, a university town full of students - and we managed to find it with plenty of light left in the evening. And by that, I mean 9:30-ish. The late light here is truly amazing.
Wandering through narrow, twisted streets, we made our way to the packed town square of eateries (most catering to poor students with menus heavy on cheese frites, or any kind of frites, for that matter) and oddities, like a man leading a goat on a rope leash through the packed tables of bistro after bistro.
A random alley led us to La Famille, a sleek restaurant we'd been recommended, with tables along the alley and a handsome server who admitted to little knowledge of English but smiled a lot. Of all things, across the street was an Italian joint where every potential customer was greeted with, "Buena sera!" and peppers hung from their window boxes.
The influence of that place apparently wafted over to La Famille, where we began our French meal with Italian standards: a plate with four kinds of tomato under creamy Burrata and vitello tomato, both dishes so generously proportioned they could have been entrees.
With chimney swifts swooping overhead between buildings on either side of the alley, I tucked into dorade royale, a perfectly delicious Mediterranean fish while across the table, it was pork and potatoes dauphinoise for the hearty eater to whom I am devoted.
We were losing the last of the evening light around 11 when chocolate and cheese arrived, and despite there being no one in the restaurant and only one other alley table occupied, encouraged to linger. Considering it had been our best meal in France so far, we did.
The French are masters at lingering and we have mastered the art easily.
Today's adventure took us on a drive to the 16th century Chateau de Chenonceau built over the River Cher, the kind of place you'd find pictured in the dictionary under "castle."
Known as the "ladies castle" for the three women who defined it - Henry II's mistress Diane, his wife Catherine de Medeci and Henry III's grieving widow Louise - it had all the trappings of wealth: tapestries (showing "everyday activities such as proposals"), art, elaborate marble fireplaces, a grand hall for parties.
And while I'd have happily danced in that hall overlooking the river, my two favorite things about it were windows and flowers.
It wasn't just the river and garden views out the windows, though they were spectacular, but the sheer variety of window and shutter styles. And, of course, out of necessity, they all opened to allow royal air circulation. Every room's window panes, frames and hardware were different, as much a part of the room's style as the distinctive furniture.
Surprisingly, sometimes the view was strikingly modern, like the stand-up paddle boarders we spotted, and sometimes contemplatively identical to what Catherine or Diane would have seen.
I also fell hard for the sight and smell of flowers everywhere.
Every room, every hallway, the kitchen and bedrooms, everywhere you went, there were scores (no exaggeration) of flower arrangements taken from cuttings in the extensive gardens. Arrangements ranged from a single bloom in a small glass bowl (where there would be dozens on a table) to towering combinations using delphiniums, calla lilies and roses.
A table in the pantry held miniature potted pepper plants between succulents and marigold arrangements. I've never seen so many stunning flower arrangements in one place.
That floral abundance would include inside and outside The Orangery, which was labeled a tea room but more appropriately would be called a nouvelle French restaurant inside of the castle's l'orangerie, where royal citrus fruits spend the winter.
We spent only a couple hours, but enjoyed our best meal in France (or maybe tied with last night's for best) with a bottle of Chateau Gaudrelle sparkling Vouvray - especially cool since we'd passed by the town of Vouvray on the way there - and a view of the lawn, complete with stone busts and castle cat napping in the sun. Tres romantique.
A trio of amuse bouches set the tone for our meal on the covered patio. Cheese with "grass" sauce ("Sorry, I don't know word for sauce" our charming server explained), a perfect bite of crabmeat, and foie gras were clear indicators that very good things were to come from the kitchen.
It only seemed logical to order from the flavors of Touraine prix fixe menu, the better to eat as locally as we were drinking.
Everything I chose - French onion soup, grilled pork pluma with mustard and rosemary tomato sauce, gougere filled with Roquefort and finally, chocolate blueberry dome with red fruit sorbet over an intricate chocolate swirl, the likes of which I'd never seen - was as impressive as the castle and that's saying a lot.
We'd been so wrapped up in savoring such a fine meal that we only then realized we were (again) the last guests. But we weren't finished with the castle yet.
That there were grape vines surrounding the grounds ensured that we needed to make a stop at Chenonceau's Cave for a short tasting where the friendly pourer was impressed enough with my hair to inquire if I liked Keith Richards (bien sur!) and before long he was name-checking Jeff Beck and Ronnie Wood in his fractured English and I was doing my best with halting French.
By the time we'd purchased a few bottles, he was asking me about Muse, a band, it turns out, we both adore.
Which is kind of how I'm feeling about chateau life at the moment.
A big city has non-stop big events - I get that - but after the soccer madness and the Pride parade/concert in our 'hood, we awoke to signs in the hotel elevator warning us of a labor march that would end at the Bastille.
As in, the Bastille neighborhood where we were staying. Lots of streets were already closed when we walked to the Louvre to pick up a rental car and dozens more by the time we got back with it.
Time for us to get out of Dodge.
Destination: Loire Valley. New digs: Chateau de l'Aubriere, circa 1846.
Greeting us with unbridled enthusiasm and a scent of wine on her breath, our hostess led us to our room on the third floor, explaining that to the French, it's the second floor. All I care about is the window taller than me that she opens to the great lawn, allowing in the breeze, night or day.
The grounds look a little fairyland-like with enormous old trees, gardens around the chateau and along the roadway and a sense of being in another time. A peacock roams the property and an aviary holds parakeets of many colors.
It's the complete opposite of Paris.
Happily, the tipsy owner also made suggestions for dinner in town - that would be Tours, a university town full of students - and we managed to find it with plenty of light left in the evening. And by that, I mean 9:30-ish. The late light here is truly amazing.
Wandering through narrow, twisted streets, we made our way to the packed town square of eateries (most catering to poor students with menus heavy on cheese frites, or any kind of frites, for that matter) and oddities, like a man leading a goat on a rope leash through the packed tables of bistro after bistro.
A random alley led us to La Famille, a sleek restaurant we'd been recommended, with tables along the alley and a handsome server who admitted to little knowledge of English but smiled a lot. Of all things, across the street was an Italian joint where every potential customer was greeted with, "Buena sera!" and peppers hung from their window boxes.
The influence of that place apparently wafted over to La Famille, where we began our French meal with Italian standards: a plate with four kinds of tomato under creamy Burrata and vitello tomato, both dishes so generously proportioned they could have been entrees.
With chimney swifts swooping overhead between buildings on either side of the alley, I tucked into dorade royale, a perfectly delicious Mediterranean fish while across the table, it was pork and potatoes dauphinoise for the hearty eater to whom I am devoted.
We were losing the last of the evening light around 11 when chocolate and cheese arrived, and despite there being no one in the restaurant and only one other alley table occupied, encouraged to linger. Considering it had been our best meal in France so far, we did.
The French are masters at lingering and we have mastered the art easily.
Today's adventure took us on a drive to the 16th century Chateau de Chenonceau built over the River Cher, the kind of place you'd find pictured in the dictionary under "castle."
Known as the "ladies castle" for the three women who defined it - Henry II's mistress Diane, his wife Catherine de Medeci and Henry III's grieving widow Louise - it had all the trappings of wealth: tapestries (showing "everyday activities such as proposals"), art, elaborate marble fireplaces, a grand hall for parties.
And while I'd have happily danced in that hall overlooking the river, my two favorite things about it were windows and flowers.
It wasn't just the river and garden views out the windows, though they were spectacular, but the sheer variety of window and shutter styles. And, of course, out of necessity, they all opened to allow royal air circulation. Every room's window panes, frames and hardware were different, as much a part of the room's style as the distinctive furniture.
Surprisingly, sometimes the view was strikingly modern, like the stand-up paddle boarders we spotted, and sometimes contemplatively identical to what Catherine or Diane would have seen.
I also fell hard for the sight and smell of flowers everywhere.
Every room, every hallway, the kitchen and bedrooms, everywhere you went, there were scores (no exaggeration) of flower arrangements taken from cuttings in the extensive gardens. Arrangements ranged from a single bloom in a small glass bowl (where there would be dozens on a table) to towering combinations using delphiniums, calla lilies and roses.
A table in the pantry held miniature potted pepper plants between succulents and marigold arrangements. I've never seen so many stunning flower arrangements in one place.
That floral abundance would include inside and outside The Orangery, which was labeled a tea room but more appropriately would be called a nouvelle French restaurant inside of the castle's l'orangerie, where royal citrus fruits spend the winter.
We spent only a couple hours, but enjoyed our best meal in France (or maybe tied with last night's for best) with a bottle of Chateau Gaudrelle sparkling Vouvray - especially cool since we'd passed by the town of Vouvray on the way there - and a view of the lawn, complete with stone busts and castle cat napping in the sun. Tres romantique.
A trio of amuse bouches set the tone for our meal on the covered patio. Cheese with "grass" sauce ("Sorry, I don't know word for sauce" our charming server explained), a perfect bite of crabmeat, and foie gras were clear indicators that very good things were to come from the kitchen.
It only seemed logical to order from the flavors of Touraine prix fixe menu, the better to eat as locally as we were drinking.
Everything I chose - French onion soup, grilled pork pluma with mustard and rosemary tomato sauce, gougere filled with Roquefort and finally, chocolate blueberry dome with red fruit sorbet over an intricate chocolate swirl, the likes of which I'd never seen - was as impressive as the castle and that's saying a lot.
We'd been so wrapped up in savoring such a fine meal that we only then realized we were (again) the last guests. But we weren't finished with the castle yet.
That there were grape vines surrounding the grounds ensured that we needed to make a stop at Chenonceau's Cave for a short tasting where the friendly pourer was impressed enough with my hair to inquire if I liked Keith Richards (bien sur!) and before long he was name-checking Jeff Beck and Ronnie Wood in his fractured English and I was doing my best with halting French.
By the time we'd purchased a few bottles, he was asking me about Muse, a band, it turns out, we both adore.
Which is kind of how I'm feeling about chateau life at the moment.
Monday, July 4, 2016
Going Cafe to Cabaret
Sometimes the universe gets bossy with you.
One of the places I definitely needed to see while I was here was the Musee d'Orsay, you know, the world's largest collection of Impressionistic and post-Impressionistic paintings.
So on a cold and dreary morning, my man and I had boarded the Batobus so I could feast on art inside a grand former railroad station. Except that the line was so incredibly long (first Sunday of the month there's no admission) that we took one look and high-tailed it to the Louvre instead.
No big deal, after all, since we could return this morning - a mere four and a half mile walk - to what surely would be a far shorter line of paying visitors. Instead, we rounded the corner to see the usual strident pigeons along with a few disappointed-looking tourists milling about.
The d'Orsay, it turns out, is closed on Mondays. Time to punt.
Because I'd very much wanted to experience Jardin de Tuileries and it was finally mostly sunny, we began the day assuaging our loss with a stroll through the manicured gardens. Unique to me was a narrow, double-hedged Boxwood formation with flower gardens of lavender, hollyhocks, roses and other blooming specimens in between the symmetrical hedgerows.
People lolled in chairs and picnicked on the grounds, some creating a slightly more elevated meal setting by spreading a tablecloth on a stone bench and surrounding it with the ubiquitous green metal chairs that fill the park.
Volia! Instant Tuileries picnic in high French style.
Enjoyable as the garden was, we'd set out for art which was conveniently found at the Musee de l'Orangerie near the back of the Jardin.
I have to think that this last-minute substitution was meant to be once I realized that the building's top floor housed two oval rooms designed to showcase eight of Monet's colossal waterlily canvases, depicting light from morning sunrise to evening sunset.
Being surrounded on all sides by Monet's final work was nothing short of breathtaking, although, like everything else here, experienced through the prism of tourists more intent on capturing Instagram/Facebook photos to prove they were there than on actually absorbing the contemplative mood of Monet's efforts.
An appalling number of people needed to take panoramic shots of the waterlilies, even when it meant knocking into people as they swung around, camera or phone in hand.
I took particular pleasure in strolling directly into their panorama scope to get a closer look at the paintings, uncaring that I'd just spoiled their shot. Close up, you could see streaks of purple or blue where Monet's paintbrush had left the canvas and wound up on the edges of the gold frame.
That's not going to show up on your flippin' panoramic shot, kids.
Seeing the waterlilies in situ would have been a wonderful enough substitution for the d'Orsay, but downstairs more treasures awaited in the form of art dealer Paul Guillaume's collection of Cezannes, Renoirs, Matisses, Modiglianis and Picassos.
Guillaume's collector's eye was apparent in every work, from Renoir's ripe women and even riper fruit still life paintings to the full range of Cezanne's stylistic changes to Matisse's post-Fauve highly colorful and decorative canvases done in Nice.
New to me was Russian painter Chaim Soutine, his almost violently colorful paintings a far cry from the French Impressionists in the other gallery. Bloody meat with tinges of inexplicable yellow hung next to scenes of houses and streets on acid.
I'm guessing that Soutine's world was not a happy place.
Not everything new to me was art, as evidenced by a sign in the Musee de l'Orangerie's bathroom: "For your convenience, this toilet is also a bidet," a fact to which I can now attest.
When in Paris, do as the Parisians, non?
Strolling back down Rue de Rivoli, we suddenly heard sirens as a motorcade approached, led by police bearing weapons, fingers poised on triggers. I tell you what, the French are not messing around
about displaying their readiness should more bad guys decide to misbehave here.
Besides armaments before lunch, the Rivoli was choked with pedestrians, so we escaped to a side street in search of lunch, finding it at a tiny place (aren't they all?) called La Fontaine d'Italia, with the words, "Air conditioning" painted right on the window.
Of course, because they're Italian, the front door was wide open and any feel of A/C absent, but that was okay by me.
The extensive pizza menu was notable for its crème fraiche pizzas and while my preference is always for white pizza, I wasn't entirely certain about the sound of that.
Let me be the first to say that I was wrong and the Royale pizza of ham, cheese and onion over crème fraiche and herbs was a hit, in no small part due to the stellar crust, which, like all the bread here, benefits from spring water and non-treated wheat.
Oh, to have such quality bread at home!
Taking the long way home, we stopped at a couple of patisseries until I saw something I wanted - no surprise, a dark chocolate cup filled with chocolate mousse under chocolate ganache - and balanced the artfully wrapped package until we got back and I could dig in without looking like a tourist eating and walking.
That would be as opposed to the locals smoking and walking, an epidemic almost, despite such habits being anathema to every mother of a smoker who warns her daughter not to smoke on the street.
Our evening commenced with a walk along the elevated railroad track which, like NYC's High Line, has been transformed into a garden-filled walking path with killer views both above (church steeples which feel just barely out of reach) and below (rooftops and balconies).
Back on sea level, I was struck by just how different Parisians live than most Americans.
Sure, everywhere you look, doors are open to balconies and windows to fresh air, but it goes further: here businesses open their transom windows and gyms prop open full-length windows for maximum air circulation, whilst inside, young men work on their six-packs, raising and lowering their bodies using impressive ab muscles.
Surprisingly, Richmond very much resembles Paris for Monday night dining options and we struck out three times (nearly 2 1/2 miles of walking only to miss out because of no reservation, closed on Mondays and out of business, respectively) before ending up at an old school French bistro a mere 400 meters from the hotel.
It's not that we were lazy (after all, we'd already done at least 8 miles' worth of walking today), just hungry.
L'Ecrier was in full swing when we arrived, but a genial server promised us a table outside within ten minutes, a promise also extended to a couple from Nebraska (and their young son) in town after a wedding in the country.
Once seated at the table recently vacated by the smoking contingent, he placated us with an aperitif, which we sipped while watching the surprisingly busy side street where the little bistro sat. Much of its popularity was due to the tiny pizza joint next door which never lost its crowd awaiting a hot pie out of the oven.
When I inquired of our server if L'Ecrier was always so mobbed on a Monday night, he suavely attributed it to the "beautiful weather," which I have come to understand means not cold and raining, at least to Parisians, but can still require an extra layer for mere mortals visiting from Virginia.
But rolling suitcases and frequent clutches of smokers aside, we had a fine view of the darkening night sky where the sun miraculously doesn't set until just about 10 p.m. (and rises before 6 a.m., not that I can verify that), despite being underpowered for July warmth.
Fleurie Beaujolais provided the grape to accompany our prix fixe dinners - mine began with artichoke tarts, moved through whole sea bass (minus eyes) and finished with profiteroles with ice cream filling under chocolate sauce - as, once again, armed policemen drove down the street.
Our hope is that it's the big European soccer games here that have increased the police presence, but that's only the best guess of a couple of clueless Americans and not based on any actual information source.
Paris decides what it's going to offer up and a free man and woman visiting take whatever it offers up. Gladly.
One of the places I definitely needed to see while I was here was the Musee d'Orsay, you know, the world's largest collection of Impressionistic and post-Impressionistic paintings.
So on a cold and dreary morning, my man and I had boarded the Batobus so I could feast on art inside a grand former railroad station. Except that the line was so incredibly long (first Sunday of the month there's no admission) that we took one look and high-tailed it to the Louvre instead.
No big deal, after all, since we could return this morning - a mere four and a half mile walk - to what surely would be a far shorter line of paying visitors. Instead, we rounded the corner to see the usual strident pigeons along with a few disappointed-looking tourists milling about.
The d'Orsay, it turns out, is closed on Mondays. Time to punt.
Because I'd very much wanted to experience Jardin de Tuileries and it was finally mostly sunny, we began the day assuaging our loss with a stroll through the manicured gardens. Unique to me was a narrow, double-hedged Boxwood formation with flower gardens of lavender, hollyhocks, roses and other blooming specimens in between the symmetrical hedgerows.
People lolled in chairs and picnicked on the grounds, some creating a slightly more elevated meal setting by spreading a tablecloth on a stone bench and surrounding it with the ubiquitous green metal chairs that fill the park.
Volia! Instant Tuileries picnic in high French style.
Enjoyable as the garden was, we'd set out for art which was conveniently found at the Musee de l'Orangerie near the back of the Jardin.
I have to think that this last-minute substitution was meant to be once I realized that the building's top floor housed two oval rooms designed to showcase eight of Monet's colossal waterlily canvases, depicting light from morning sunrise to evening sunset.
Being surrounded on all sides by Monet's final work was nothing short of breathtaking, although, like everything else here, experienced through the prism of tourists more intent on capturing Instagram/Facebook photos to prove they were there than on actually absorbing the contemplative mood of Monet's efforts.
An appalling number of people needed to take panoramic shots of the waterlilies, even when it meant knocking into people as they swung around, camera or phone in hand.
I took particular pleasure in strolling directly into their panorama scope to get a closer look at the paintings, uncaring that I'd just spoiled their shot. Close up, you could see streaks of purple or blue where Monet's paintbrush had left the canvas and wound up on the edges of the gold frame.
That's not going to show up on your flippin' panoramic shot, kids.
Seeing the waterlilies in situ would have been a wonderful enough substitution for the d'Orsay, but downstairs more treasures awaited in the form of art dealer Paul Guillaume's collection of Cezannes, Renoirs, Matisses, Modiglianis and Picassos.
Guillaume's collector's eye was apparent in every work, from Renoir's ripe women and even riper fruit still life paintings to the full range of Cezanne's stylistic changes to Matisse's post-Fauve highly colorful and decorative canvases done in Nice.
New to me was Russian painter Chaim Soutine, his almost violently colorful paintings a far cry from the French Impressionists in the other gallery. Bloody meat with tinges of inexplicable yellow hung next to scenes of houses and streets on acid.
I'm guessing that Soutine's world was not a happy place.
Not everything new to me was art, as evidenced by a sign in the Musee de l'Orangerie's bathroom: "For your convenience, this toilet is also a bidet," a fact to which I can now attest.
When in Paris, do as the Parisians, non?
Strolling back down Rue de Rivoli, we suddenly heard sirens as a motorcade approached, led by police bearing weapons, fingers poised on triggers. I tell you what, the French are not messing around
about displaying their readiness should more bad guys decide to misbehave here.
Besides armaments before lunch, the Rivoli was choked with pedestrians, so we escaped to a side street in search of lunch, finding it at a tiny place (aren't they all?) called La Fontaine d'Italia, with the words, "Air conditioning" painted right on the window.
Of course, because they're Italian, the front door was wide open and any feel of A/C absent, but that was okay by me.
The extensive pizza menu was notable for its crème fraiche pizzas and while my preference is always for white pizza, I wasn't entirely certain about the sound of that.
Let me be the first to say that I was wrong and the Royale pizza of ham, cheese and onion over crème fraiche and herbs was a hit, in no small part due to the stellar crust, which, like all the bread here, benefits from spring water and non-treated wheat.
Oh, to have such quality bread at home!
Taking the long way home, we stopped at a couple of patisseries until I saw something I wanted - no surprise, a dark chocolate cup filled with chocolate mousse under chocolate ganache - and balanced the artfully wrapped package until we got back and I could dig in without looking like a tourist eating and walking.
That would be as opposed to the locals smoking and walking, an epidemic almost, despite such habits being anathema to every mother of a smoker who warns her daughter not to smoke on the street.
Our evening commenced with a walk along the elevated railroad track which, like NYC's High Line, has been transformed into a garden-filled walking path with killer views both above (church steeples which feel just barely out of reach) and below (rooftops and balconies).
Back on sea level, I was struck by just how different Parisians live than most Americans.
Sure, everywhere you look, doors are open to balconies and windows to fresh air, but it goes further: here businesses open their transom windows and gyms prop open full-length windows for maximum air circulation, whilst inside, young men work on their six-packs, raising and lowering their bodies using impressive ab muscles.
Surprisingly, Richmond very much resembles Paris for Monday night dining options and we struck out three times (nearly 2 1/2 miles of walking only to miss out because of no reservation, closed on Mondays and out of business, respectively) before ending up at an old school French bistro a mere 400 meters from the hotel.
It's not that we were lazy (after all, we'd already done at least 8 miles' worth of walking today), just hungry.
L'Ecrier was in full swing when we arrived, but a genial server promised us a table outside within ten minutes, a promise also extended to a couple from Nebraska (and their young son) in town after a wedding in the country.
Once seated at the table recently vacated by the smoking contingent, he placated us with an aperitif, which we sipped while watching the surprisingly busy side street where the little bistro sat. Much of its popularity was due to the tiny pizza joint next door which never lost its crowd awaiting a hot pie out of the oven.
When I inquired of our server if L'Ecrier was always so mobbed on a Monday night, he suavely attributed it to the "beautiful weather," which I have come to understand means not cold and raining, at least to Parisians, but can still require an extra layer for mere mortals visiting from Virginia.
But rolling suitcases and frequent clutches of smokers aside, we had a fine view of the darkening night sky where the sun miraculously doesn't set until just about 10 p.m. (and rises before 6 a.m., not that I can verify that), despite being underpowered for July warmth.
Fleurie Beaujolais provided the grape to accompany our prix fixe dinners - mine began with artichoke tarts, moved through whole sea bass (minus eyes) and finished with profiteroles with ice cream filling under chocolate sauce - as, once again, armed policemen drove down the street.
Our hope is that it's the big European soccer games here that have increased the police presence, but that's only the best guess of a couple of clueless Americans and not based on any actual information source.
Paris decides what it's going to offer up and a free man and woman visiting take whatever it offers up. Gladly.
How Cool Was My Paris
Here's what no one tells you about going to Paris in July: bring leggings.
Sure, I'd looked at the two-week forecast, but nothing in it had prepared me for walking outside in the morning and feeling a cool breeze on my bare legs. The man in my life, on the other hand, was suitably attired, but knows me well enough to know how easily I get chilled. So after consulting with the front desk, he led me to a nearby supermarket's sock section to procure not leggings, but black tights to ward off the early July chill.
Properly attired, we made our way back down to the water to pick up the Batobus to lose most of a day to the Louvre. Standing in line to have our bags checked, street vendors wandered the line of easy targets calling out, "Umbrellaumbrellaumbrella" and "Umbrellaumbrellapark," the latter a reference to the plastic ponchos they were selling.
Not necessary. Here's what even I, a Paris virgin, already knew: bring an umbrella with you to France.
Like everyone else, I'd imagine, I was overwhelmed at the sheer size and ornamentation of the Louvre and its seemingly endless corridors chocked with the booty of years of earnest acquisitions, not to mention oblivious and often rude visitors.
We didn't even bother with the Mona Lisa, obscured behind hordes of selfie-stick-wielding tourists, but I'm not going to lie, as an art history nerd, the wall of other Leonardos in the grand hallway was humbling.
And nothing could have been better than discovering that Winged Victory of Samothrace was surrounded by stairs and multi-levels, the better to view it from various angles.
Humor arrived in the form of other tourists, like the British woman (bad teeth, hair growing out of chin, mint green sweater) who walked up, turned to her mate and inquired, "Eh, what's the name of that one?" as if she'd stumbled on a piece of street art.
Moments later, an Aussie dressed like he was going out for a run nonchalantly asked his friend, "Nice, huh?" Nice would be one way to put it, but certainly not mine. The energy of the headless figure was extraordinary, as if it might stride right off its pedestal and down some Greek hill.
That must have been some victory, all right.
Guide books warn you of "museum fatigue," but honestly, if I got tired of anything at the Louvre, it was Jesus. After a while, I just couldn't muster any enthusiasm for another Annunciation, Crucifixtion or bloody head on a platter.
It was time for a change of scenery.
The formerly bohemian St-Germain-de-Pres neighborhood called to me for its literary roots, so we meandered to Les Deux Magots where writers such as Hemingway, Sartre and Joyce wiled away hours drinking, eating and talking.
Ditto us, except we were in the outside café, essentially a covered patio, especially convenient since a gentle rain fell intermittently the entire time while the nerviest sparrows I've ever seen walked up to us looking for crumbs.
Les Belles Vignes Sancerre Rose accompanied Deux Magots salads - a minimal layer of lettuce weighed down by ham, cheese, chicken, hard-cooked eggs and an abundance of creamy dressing - while all around us, people puffed away on cigarettes - both Dunhills and Marlboros - and vaped, many while nursing a cup of coffee.
Like Hemingway, Sartre and Joyce hadn't done the same?
It was charming to see dogs under tables throughout the outdoor and indoor café, including one which its owner picked up like a suitcase by its harness and deposited in the chair next to him. Pet as pick-up accessory, I suppose.
Choosing a dry moment to wander out into the neighborhood, we headed to Shakespeare & Co. Books, where the ex-pat authors were also known to hang, passing a city sign on the street reading, "Dreamers: Guard your belongings!"
Since I had no worthwhile belongings with me, I felt free to dream.
High drama greeted us a block before the store when three soldiers in fatigues came down the street, arms drawn and fingers on the trigger. I have to say it's the closest I ever hope to be to that situation again and yet nothing seemed amiss.
Shakespeare was so crowded that it was one in for one out and once inside, the aisles of the winding rooms were clogged with people, but I at least got to browse (including a section labeled "beautiful old books," of 30s and 40s hardback copies of classics like "How Green Was My Valley") before making a purchase and allowing one more visitor their moment of book heaven.
Our day had been so leisurely that it was already happy hour, so we paused at a corner café for a glass and some of Paris' finest entertainment, people-watching.
The open doors afforded a fabulous view of passersby and traffic, including hearing and seeing a taxi's tire blow out as he rounded the corner, watching a nerdy older couple suck face at a nearby table and witnessing a young American woman steal a small French flag off the cafe's awning, only to have her nervy friend come in and ask directions to another place.
There's a reason we're considered ugly Americans and we've seen not a little of it while here.
Make no mistake, this was a place with a decidedly tourist bent - a special of hot dogs frites and a pay toilet for non-customers - but good behavior should still be the order of the day, non?
When we left there, it was in search of somewhere for dinner, but specifically somewhere that wasn't all about the big soccer game between France and Iceland, not an easy thing to find given the excitement about it.
Between Saturday's massive Pride parade (the massive neo-Renaissance Hotel de Ville was sporting rainbow banners the size of which I will never see again) and scads of soccer tourists decked out in jerseys and flags, Paris is full of targeted demographics right now.
We got lucky with Les Garnements because they only had one small screen and the fans wanted many and large. Vintage magazine and newspaper pages were decoupaged on the walls, providing a mini-history lesson of the neighborhood's shows and activities.
For a change we weren't automatically given the English menu (score!) and given how slow it was, our server seemed happy to translate a few things for us after dropping off a fish-shaped bottle of Les Celliers de Ramatuelle Cote de Provence Rose.
So far, the French haven't been nearly as disdainful as legend holds.
"Ooh, good choice!" the server said when I asked for the daily fish, a delicious sea bass over a mountain of haricots verts, while my date couldn't resist the mammoth rib-eye special that wasn't so much cooked as walked by a stove to warm the outside.
As we were finishing up a molten chocolate cake ("Ours has Toblerone inside!" he bragged, so why not go there?), a few soccer fans showed up, probably because the big screen places were already full now that the game had begun.
We may not have been watching, but it wasn't hard to keep track of how the game was going as cheers erupted periodically from inside cafes during our walk back to the hotel. By the time we were home, France had won.
Mais oui, nobody had to tell me that Paris is a place where you walk out after breakfast and don't get back until it's time to go to bed. All the better when you've got a fellow walker beside you all day.
Bon soir...
Sure, I'd looked at the two-week forecast, but nothing in it had prepared me for walking outside in the morning and feeling a cool breeze on my bare legs. The man in my life, on the other hand, was suitably attired, but knows me well enough to know how easily I get chilled. So after consulting with the front desk, he led me to a nearby supermarket's sock section to procure not leggings, but black tights to ward off the early July chill.
Properly attired, we made our way back down to the water to pick up the Batobus to lose most of a day to the Louvre. Standing in line to have our bags checked, street vendors wandered the line of easy targets calling out, "Umbrellaumbrellaumbrella" and "Umbrellaumbrellapark," the latter a reference to the plastic ponchos they were selling.
Not necessary. Here's what even I, a Paris virgin, already knew: bring an umbrella with you to France.
Like everyone else, I'd imagine, I was overwhelmed at the sheer size and ornamentation of the Louvre and its seemingly endless corridors chocked with the booty of years of earnest acquisitions, not to mention oblivious and often rude visitors.
We didn't even bother with the Mona Lisa, obscured behind hordes of selfie-stick-wielding tourists, but I'm not going to lie, as an art history nerd, the wall of other Leonardos in the grand hallway was humbling.
And nothing could have been better than discovering that Winged Victory of Samothrace was surrounded by stairs and multi-levels, the better to view it from various angles.
Humor arrived in the form of other tourists, like the British woman (bad teeth, hair growing out of chin, mint green sweater) who walked up, turned to her mate and inquired, "Eh, what's the name of that one?" as if she'd stumbled on a piece of street art.
Moments later, an Aussie dressed like he was going out for a run nonchalantly asked his friend, "Nice, huh?" Nice would be one way to put it, but certainly not mine. The energy of the headless figure was extraordinary, as if it might stride right off its pedestal and down some Greek hill.
That must have been some victory, all right.
Guide books warn you of "museum fatigue," but honestly, if I got tired of anything at the Louvre, it was Jesus. After a while, I just couldn't muster any enthusiasm for another Annunciation, Crucifixtion or bloody head on a platter.
It was time for a change of scenery.
The formerly bohemian St-Germain-de-Pres neighborhood called to me for its literary roots, so we meandered to Les Deux Magots where writers such as Hemingway, Sartre and Joyce wiled away hours drinking, eating and talking.
Ditto us, except we were in the outside café, essentially a covered patio, especially convenient since a gentle rain fell intermittently the entire time while the nerviest sparrows I've ever seen walked up to us looking for crumbs.
Les Belles Vignes Sancerre Rose accompanied Deux Magots salads - a minimal layer of lettuce weighed down by ham, cheese, chicken, hard-cooked eggs and an abundance of creamy dressing - while all around us, people puffed away on cigarettes - both Dunhills and Marlboros - and vaped, many while nursing a cup of coffee.
Like Hemingway, Sartre and Joyce hadn't done the same?
It was charming to see dogs under tables throughout the outdoor and indoor café, including one which its owner picked up like a suitcase by its harness and deposited in the chair next to him. Pet as pick-up accessory, I suppose.
Choosing a dry moment to wander out into the neighborhood, we headed to Shakespeare & Co. Books, where the ex-pat authors were also known to hang, passing a city sign on the street reading, "Dreamers: Guard your belongings!"
Since I had no worthwhile belongings with me, I felt free to dream.
High drama greeted us a block before the store when three soldiers in fatigues came down the street, arms drawn and fingers on the trigger. I have to say it's the closest I ever hope to be to that situation again and yet nothing seemed amiss.
Shakespeare was so crowded that it was one in for one out and once inside, the aisles of the winding rooms were clogged with people, but I at least got to browse (including a section labeled "beautiful old books," of 30s and 40s hardback copies of classics like "How Green Was My Valley") before making a purchase and allowing one more visitor their moment of book heaven.
Our day had been so leisurely that it was already happy hour, so we paused at a corner café for a glass and some of Paris' finest entertainment, people-watching.
The open doors afforded a fabulous view of passersby and traffic, including hearing and seeing a taxi's tire blow out as he rounded the corner, watching a nerdy older couple suck face at a nearby table and witnessing a young American woman steal a small French flag off the cafe's awning, only to have her nervy friend come in and ask directions to another place.
There's a reason we're considered ugly Americans and we've seen not a little of it while here.
Make no mistake, this was a place with a decidedly tourist bent - a special of hot dogs frites and a pay toilet for non-customers - but good behavior should still be the order of the day, non?
When we left there, it was in search of somewhere for dinner, but specifically somewhere that wasn't all about the big soccer game between France and Iceland, not an easy thing to find given the excitement about it.
Between Saturday's massive Pride parade (the massive neo-Renaissance Hotel de Ville was sporting rainbow banners the size of which I will never see again) and scads of soccer tourists decked out in jerseys and flags, Paris is full of targeted demographics right now.
We got lucky with Les Garnements because they only had one small screen and the fans wanted many and large. Vintage magazine and newspaper pages were decoupaged on the walls, providing a mini-history lesson of the neighborhood's shows and activities.
For a change we weren't automatically given the English menu (score!) and given how slow it was, our server seemed happy to translate a few things for us after dropping off a fish-shaped bottle of Les Celliers de Ramatuelle Cote de Provence Rose.
So far, the French haven't been nearly as disdainful as legend holds.
"Ooh, good choice!" the server said when I asked for the daily fish, a delicious sea bass over a mountain of haricots verts, while my date couldn't resist the mammoth rib-eye special that wasn't so much cooked as walked by a stove to warm the outside.
As we were finishing up a molten chocolate cake ("Ours has Toblerone inside!" he bragged, so why not go there?), a few soccer fans showed up, probably because the big screen places were already full now that the game had begun.
We may not have been watching, but it wasn't hard to keep track of how the game was going as cheers erupted periodically from inside cafes during our walk back to the hotel. By the time we were home, France had won.
Mais oui, nobody had to tell me that Paris is a place where you walk out after breakfast and don't get back until it's time to go to bed. All the better when you've got a fellow walker beside you all day.
Bon soir...
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Shelty on a Boat
Paris is both kicking my ass and delighting me at the same time.
Okay, it is un petit gray almost all the time. And rain, well, that's almost a constant. It may be dry for a while, but ultimately (as I've learned over the past couple days) it's going to sprinkle or shower and Parisians don't even react, just pull out their umbrellas and soldier on.
While there's still a whole lot of walking around this ancient city involved, the brilliant man who brought me here suggested we use the Batobus, a floating bus that stops at significant points along the Seine to allow tourists (and, perhaps, locals?) to disembark somewhat close to their destinations.
Getting off at the Eiffel Tower stop, I was more than a little surprised to see a giant soccer ball hung midway up the tower, a nod to the big soccer game scheduled for this weekend. I had to assume the game was a tres big deal to warrant such acknowledgement on a landmark.
Sustenance came first and with thon - that's tuna to us Yanks - slathered on a baguette, we found a park and watched couples play table tennis and listened to the sounds of nearby live music while we ate.
Now this was Parisian living.
My first desire was Musee Marmottan-Monet, improbably housed in a former hunting lodge (and, even for me, uncomfortably hot on the second floor), but also the site of the largest collection of Monet paintings in the world.
We're talking "Impression: Sunrise," for goodness' sake.
That alone would have been enough to get my juices flowing, but what sent me over the moon was what was included in the collection. We're talking entire series that I'd not only never seen, but never even heard of.
I can't be the only one who hadn't known that Monet had journeyed to Norway, capturing scenes of red barns in white snow and a completely different feel than anything that existed in France.
Just as wonderful were some of the Giverny paintings, several of which displayed completely different palettes than those of his Japanese bridge and water lily paintings.
One thing that was readily apparent was the change in his painting after his cataract surgery. The almost unrecognizable images that preceded surgery came across as studies in color and light.
Probably the best moment came early on as I studied one of Monet's pieces from his Charring Cross bridge series (sure, I knew about his Thames studies but had never so much as heard of his multiple
Charring Cross studies) and a Frenchman spoke to me, telling me to move to where he was.
"Ca change," he pointed out, nailing how completely different the painting appeared when viewed from the left side. Moving to where he stood, the random lines of color melded, becoming a brilliant depiction of the bridge.
Almost as captivating was the small gallery of images of Monet himself. I was particularly struck by one by Duran showing him as a young man, all dark beard and hair, but with the same penetrating eyes as the more well-known photographs of the wizened painter.
Two of the portraits were by Renoir (deviating from his usual rosy-cheeked, big-bottomed girls), one was by Manet (with all the black you'd expect), one showed him in the uniform of an African chasseur, complete with billowing red pantaloons and sash, plus a knowing caricature, all nose and attitude.
To put it bluntly, regardless of sex, this museum was a Monet lover's wet dream.
Afterwards, we headed down to the water to wait for the Batobus, resting our barking dogs on the steps leading down to the Seine, when all at once, we were greeted by the sight of a handsome young German guy in one of those appalling Bourat-like unitards that essentially only covers the bare minimum of genitalia. I just might have a photograph.
Surrounding him were a bunch of fellow German soccer players, laughing about his attire. After posing for pictures and taking some good-natured ribbing, he removed is shoes and socks and began easing himself down the last step into the river.
Naturally, a fellow team member had to push him off balance, sending him backwards into what had to be uncomfortably cold water. He came out with a smile (and decided shrinkage, if one were to notice such things) and shivered into additional clothing.
It was only then that I spotted the back of his shirt: "Schulze Loser." None of his fellow Aryans had anything but their last names on their shirts, so it was obvious Schulze had screwed up or lost a bet. For the little girl standing behind us, her wide eyes were riveted on his nether regions, not tough given his minimal coverage.
There wasn't much we could do to top that except go home and nap because, come on, how is it possible to top a scantily-clad German man being publically humiliated?
Petit Pontoise got our business for dinner after a solid recommendation from one who knew. The tiny little bistro gourmand had room for only two when we arrived, so we squeezed into a table and waited for one of the servers - one in cut-offs, the other in torn jeans - to approach us.
Chalkboards listing the wine offerings covered the wall, providing something to read until our server stopped by, but that's hardly a complaint. One thing I'm really enjoying is the leisurely pace of service of restaurant service here.
No one's in a hurry and neither are we.
But their real skill became apparent after a delicious supper that began with an artichoke and Parmesan tart followed by rack of lamb in a garlic crust and scallops Provencale, when our server knowingly asked if we wanted to look at a dessert menu or wait a while.
Duh. By the time we (okay, I because my companion does not have the dessert jones I do, though h tolerates mine well) chose chocolat Amadeus, much of the restaurant had cleared out. What was especially noticeable was that the staff had placed two late-arriving singles, a man and a woman, at adjoining tables, in case either wanted company.
I'd guess that it took less than ten minutes before they were deep in conversation and even laughter. Brilliant seating, if you ask me. Dinner and company? Now that's service.
Wandering back through the Latin Quarter, we decided to stop at the Artisan Café for a nightcap, just as most of their customers were leaving. Hospitality ruled, though, and we lingered long enough for my spiky hair to catch the attention of a young woman who came over to ask if I was a famous singer before the staff began stacking chairs on the patio where we were sitting. Even so, our server insisted we stay and finish our wine.
As you might guess, we're not the kind of people who have to be asked twice to stay and sip, no matter what country we're in. But given that this is my birthday trip, of course we lingered.
Especially when it's past midnight in Paris.
Okay, it is un petit gray almost all the time. And rain, well, that's almost a constant. It may be dry for a while, but ultimately (as I've learned over the past couple days) it's going to sprinkle or shower and Parisians don't even react, just pull out their umbrellas and soldier on.
While there's still a whole lot of walking around this ancient city involved, the brilliant man who brought me here suggested we use the Batobus, a floating bus that stops at significant points along the Seine to allow tourists (and, perhaps, locals?) to disembark somewhat close to their destinations.
Getting off at the Eiffel Tower stop, I was more than a little surprised to see a giant soccer ball hung midway up the tower, a nod to the big soccer game scheduled for this weekend. I had to assume the game was a tres big deal to warrant such acknowledgement on a landmark.
Sustenance came first and with thon - that's tuna to us Yanks - slathered on a baguette, we found a park and watched couples play table tennis and listened to the sounds of nearby live music while we ate.
Now this was Parisian living.
My first desire was Musee Marmottan-Monet, improbably housed in a former hunting lodge (and, even for me, uncomfortably hot on the second floor), but also the site of the largest collection of Monet paintings in the world.
We're talking "Impression: Sunrise," for goodness' sake.
That alone would have been enough to get my juices flowing, but what sent me over the moon was what was included in the collection. We're talking entire series that I'd not only never seen, but never even heard of.
I can't be the only one who hadn't known that Monet had journeyed to Norway, capturing scenes of red barns in white snow and a completely different feel than anything that existed in France.
Just as wonderful were some of the Giverny paintings, several of which displayed completely different palettes than those of his Japanese bridge and water lily paintings.
One thing that was readily apparent was the change in his painting after his cataract surgery. The almost unrecognizable images that preceded surgery came across as studies in color and light.
Probably the best moment came early on as I studied one of Monet's pieces from his Charring Cross bridge series (sure, I knew about his Thames studies but had never so much as heard of his multiple
Charring Cross studies) and a Frenchman spoke to me, telling me to move to where he was.
"Ca change," he pointed out, nailing how completely different the painting appeared when viewed from the left side. Moving to where he stood, the random lines of color melded, becoming a brilliant depiction of the bridge.
Almost as captivating was the small gallery of images of Monet himself. I was particularly struck by one by Duran showing him as a young man, all dark beard and hair, but with the same penetrating eyes as the more well-known photographs of the wizened painter.
Two of the portraits were by Renoir (deviating from his usual rosy-cheeked, big-bottomed girls), one was by Manet (with all the black you'd expect), one showed him in the uniform of an African chasseur, complete with billowing red pantaloons and sash, plus a knowing caricature, all nose and attitude.
To put it bluntly, regardless of sex, this museum was a Monet lover's wet dream.
Afterwards, we headed down to the water to wait for the Batobus, resting our barking dogs on the steps leading down to the Seine, when all at once, we were greeted by the sight of a handsome young German guy in one of those appalling Bourat-like unitards that essentially only covers the bare minimum of genitalia. I just might have a photograph.
Surrounding him were a bunch of fellow German soccer players, laughing about his attire. After posing for pictures and taking some good-natured ribbing, he removed is shoes and socks and began easing himself down the last step into the river.
Naturally, a fellow team member had to push him off balance, sending him backwards into what had to be uncomfortably cold water. He came out with a smile (and decided shrinkage, if one were to notice such things) and shivered into additional clothing.
It was only then that I spotted the back of his shirt: "Schulze Loser." None of his fellow Aryans had anything but their last names on their shirts, so it was obvious Schulze had screwed up or lost a bet. For the little girl standing behind us, her wide eyes were riveted on his nether regions, not tough given his minimal coverage.
There wasn't much we could do to top that except go home and nap because, come on, how is it possible to top a scantily-clad German man being publically humiliated?
Petit Pontoise got our business for dinner after a solid recommendation from one who knew. The tiny little bistro gourmand had room for only two when we arrived, so we squeezed into a table and waited for one of the servers - one in cut-offs, the other in torn jeans - to approach us.
Chalkboards listing the wine offerings covered the wall, providing something to read until our server stopped by, but that's hardly a complaint. One thing I'm really enjoying is the leisurely pace of service of restaurant service here.
No one's in a hurry and neither are we.
But their real skill became apparent after a delicious supper that began with an artichoke and Parmesan tart followed by rack of lamb in a garlic crust and scallops Provencale, when our server knowingly asked if we wanted to look at a dessert menu or wait a while.
Duh. By the time we (okay, I because my companion does not have the dessert jones I do, though h tolerates mine well) chose chocolat Amadeus, much of the restaurant had cleared out. What was especially noticeable was that the staff had placed two late-arriving singles, a man and a woman, at adjoining tables, in case either wanted company.
I'd guess that it took less than ten minutes before they were deep in conversation and even laughter. Brilliant seating, if you ask me. Dinner and company? Now that's service.
Wandering back through the Latin Quarter, we decided to stop at the Artisan Café for a nightcap, just as most of their customers were leaving. Hospitality ruled, though, and we lingered long enough for my spiky hair to catch the attention of a young woman who came over to ask if I was a famous singer before the staff began stacking chairs on the patio where we were sitting. Even so, our server insisted we stay and finish our wine.
As you might guess, we're not the kind of people who have to be asked twice to stay and sip, no matter what country we're in. But given that this is my birthday trip, of course we lingered.
Especially when it's past midnight in Paris.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Bad Boys and Good Bubbles
It pays to tell people I'm on my way to Paris as a birthday present thanks to companion.
When the genial Delta staffer heard the news, he first called me "the lovely Karen," then congratulated me and followed up with cards entitling us to free wine or drinks on the plane. Not a bad start.
Having successfully conquered a 20 hour flight to South Africa and back over a decade ago, I'm not one to complain about flights and this one to de Gaulle Airport via Detroit would have been completely painless (except maybe for the being up for 26 hours part) had it not been for the guy sitting two rows behind us who managed to talk loudly to his friends for the entire six-plus hours.
The cabin was dark, most people were sleeping or attempting to and he just never shut up, a non-stop stream of blather, fortunately in an unidentifiable language so at least it was just noise and not over-sharing.
After dropping our bags at the chic hotel Marceau Bastille, we gathered our forces to head out and force our bio-rhythms to adapt to the jump ahead in time. Sure, it felt like the middle of the night, but to Paris, it was mid-morning, so we joined the fray and struck out, bleary-eyed for adventure.
The weather was gray and overcast but temperate enough that my two-dress combination - a first for me but rather clever, I thought - combined with plenty of walking was sufficient despite a complete absence of sun.
Strolling along the canal admiring fancy houseboats fitted out with weathered teak dining sets, rattan seating areas and lots of colorful potted plants, each one all but screaming "party boat," our route took us almost directly to Notre Dame, so we climbed up in search of the ever-present queue to enter the magnificent structure I first encountered in a college architecture history class.
Everything I recalled from books and slides was right there in front of me: flying buttresses, the Rose window, the towers.
Unexpected was the seating for those waiting to make confession with one of the two priests nearby ("The priest doesn't have all afternoon," I was warned) and a sudden, "Shhh, silencio!" announcement as a children's choir paraded out in formation, songbooks in hand.
As crowds formed to watch or film (don't get me started), we paused to appreciate the sound of children's angelic voices filling the incredibly high space. And while I don't tear up at the sound of children's choirs, some people most definitely do.
But my absolute favorite part of Notre Dame was seeing that individual panels of the massive stained glass windows opened into the church, the overall design of the larger window interrupted by the colorful glass squares propped open to the July air.
Wandering the streets afterwards in search of lunch even though it felt like the crack of dawn, I spotted Les Mauvais Garcons, the name too irresistible to pass up. Who doesn't like a bad boy after church?
My companion and I were the only customers and our server, a pleasant woman whose English was only slightly better than my French, welcomed us in to the tiny bistro, delivering a bottle of Muscadet with a beatific smile.
Although the menus she gave us were written in English, the food was straight French: a salad of lettuces, tomato and thick-cut bacon and what was charmingly translated on the menu as "beef mouth" with lentils and potatoes, a rich combination that all but guaranteed we'd be asleep soon.
Too full for anything more, we nonetheless had chocolate gateau with creme anglasie when she all but insisted that we needed dessert. Actually what we needed was a nap, but on returning to the hotel, we were informed it would be another half an hour before our room was ready.
It was apparently 30 minutes too long because I sat down on a chair in the lobby and was soon fast asleep, right there in front of the world and guests coming and going.
But the real payoff came once we were up in the room and could crash completely for five straight hours despite the clamorous sounds of Paris outside our open French door-style windows. Honestly, I'm not sure fireworks four floors down could have awakened either of us from our stupor.
Determined to hew to Parisian time in earnest, we awoke to wash off the detritus of travel and go out for a Friday night in the City of Light, albeit one in the neighborhood so we didn't have to tax our brains with too many logistics.
Letting the guidebook do the work, we chose Les Siffleur de Ballons, a wine bar with a good attitude, cactus in the front window and a tiny room with five tables and three walls full of bottles for sale. Mobbed when we arrived around 9, a handsome Frenchman promised us it would be "deux minutes" and we waited, watching the staff bustle about the satisfied-looking crowd.
Once ensconced at our tiny two-top, glasses of Champagne in front of us, the leaden sky opened up and rain poured down outside, the perfect setting for a meal as we tucked into an extensive cheese and charcuterie plate that no one in Richmond could possibly serve for the same price.
Or the same ambiance. From the white-haired woman in black leather pants and a ridiculously fashionable white silk duster to the adorable server who had to ask the woman in the red pumps to move so she could retrieve a bottle of Champagne from over her head, everyone seemed to be having an effortlessly stylish and sparkling Friday night at the neighborhood wine bar.
Tired yet be-scarfed, I'm beyond excited to for my birthday celebration to begin anew in Paris.
When the genial Delta staffer heard the news, he first called me "the lovely Karen," then congratulated me and followed up with cards entitling us to free wine or drinks on the plane. Not a bad start.
Having successfully conquered a 20 hour flight to South Africa and back over a decade ago, I'm not one to complain about flights and this one to de Gaulle Airport via Detroit would have been completely painless (except maybe for the being up for 26 hours part) had it not been for the guy sitting two rows behind us who managed to talk loudly to his friends for the entire six-plus hours.
The cabin was dark, most people were sleeping or attempting to and he just never shut up, a non-stop stream of blather, fortunately in an unidentifiable language so at least it was just noise and not over-sharing.
After dropping our bags at the chic hotel Marceau Bastille, we gathered our forces to head out and force our bio-rhythms to adapt to the jump ahead in time. Sure, it felt like the middle of the night, but to Paris, it was mid-morning, so we joined the fray and struck out, bleary-eyed for adventure.
The weather was gray and overcast but temperate enough that my two-dress combination - a first for me but rather clever, I thought - combined with plenty of walking was sufficient despite a complete absence of sun.
Strolling along the canal admiring fancy houseboats fitted out with weathered teak dining sets, rattan seating areas and lots of colorful potted plants, each one all but screaming "party boat," our route took us almost directly to Notre Dame, so we climbed up in search of the ever-present queue to enter the magnificent structure I first encountered in a college architecture history class.
Everything I recalled from books and slides was right there in front of me: flying buttresses, the Rose window, the towers.
Unexpected was the seating for those waiting to make confession with one of the two priests nearby ("The priest doesn't have all afternoon," I was warned) and a sudden, "Shhh, silencio!" announcement as a children's choir paraded out in formation, songbooks in hand.
As crowds formed to watch or film (don't get me started), we paused to appreciate the sound of children's angelic voices filling the incredibly high space. And while I don't tear up at the sound of children's choirs, some people most definitely do.
But my absolute favorite part of Notre Dame was seeing that individual panels of the massive stained glass windows opened into the church, the overall design of the larger window interrupted by the colorful glass squares propped open to the July air.
Wandering the streets afterwards in search of lunch even though it felt like the crack of dawn, I spotted Les Mauvais Garcons, the name too irresistible to pass up. Who doesn't like a bad boy after church?
My companion and I were the only customers and our server, a pleasant woman whose English was only slightly better than my French, welcomed us in to the tiny bistro, delivering a bottle of Muscadet with a beatific smile.
Although the menus she gave us were written in English, the food was straight French: a salad of lettuces, tomato and thick-cut bacon and what was charmingly translated on the menu as "beef mouth" with lentils and potatoes, a rich combination that all but guaranteed we'd be asleep soon.
Too full for anything more, we nonetheless had chocolate gateau with creme anglasie when she all but insisted that we needed dessert. Actually what we needed was a nap, but on returning to the hotel, we were informed it would be another half an hour before our room was ready.
It was apparently 30 minutes too long because I sat down on a chair in the lobby and was soon fast asleep, right there in front of the world and guests coming and going.
But the real payoff came once we were up in the room and could crash completely for five straight hours despite the clamorous sounds of Paris outside our open French door-style windows. Honestly, I'm not sure fireworks four floors down could have awakened either of us from our stupor.
Determined to hew to Parisian time in earnest, we awoke to wash off the detritus of travel and go out for a Friday night in the City of Light, albeit one in the neighborhood so we didn't have to tax our brains with too many logistics.
Letting the guidebook do the work, we chose Les Siffleur de Ballons, a wine bar with a good attitude, cactus in the front window and a tiny room with five tables and three walls full of bottles for sale. Mobbed when we arrived around 9, a handsome Frenchman promised us it would be "deux minutes" and we waited, watching the staff bustle about the satisfied-looking crowd.
Once ensconced at our tiny two-top, glasses of Champagne in front of us, the leaden sky opened up and rain poured down outside, the perfect setting for a meal as we tucked into an extensive cheese and charcuterie plate that no one in Richmond could possibly serve for the same price.
Or the same ambiance. From the white-haired woman in black leather pants and a ridiculously fashionable white silk duster to the adorable server who had to ask the woman in the red pumps to move so she could retrieve a bottle of Champagne from over her head, everyone seemed to be having an effortlessly stylish and sparkling Friday night at the neighborhood wine bar.
Tired yet be-scarfed, I'm beyond excited to for my birthday celebration to begin anew in Paris.
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