tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25674286356619054202024-03-19T11:01:15.243+01:00Le Prof & La PoticheAlisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-7806222421655505072012-07-16T03:42:00.002+02:002012-07-16T03:59:52.192+02:00A winner, and a farewell.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8OKAC1YnGcG2uG7uGNzyTVTb8YphmHF74WhAixfhlIoO6cqqiqksIwm3KFaVN-yJJ4L4qHbqysUEdFdAtv1fJzvc0mV81go-UYp5moDoEE4t5UsMF7efD6z8nEAl88cs5cZkbiCORLaV/s1600/mystere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8OKAC1YnGcG2uG7uGNzyTVTb8YphmHF74WhAixfhlIoO6cqqiqksIwm3KFaVN-yJJ4L4qHbqysUEdFdAtv1fJzvc0mV81go-UYp5moDoEE4t5UsMF7efD6z8nEAl88cs5cZkbiCORLaV/s320/mystere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We have a grand prize winner! <br />
<br />
<b>Mystery Location #6: Where's Karl?</b><br />
<br />
<b>Answer: just outside the greenhouses at the Forum des Halles</b><br />
<b><br />Winner: <a href="http://medievalmeetsworld.blogspot.com/">Anne</a>! With her two correct answers, Anne wins the prize! Hopefully, it won't melt on its way from Texas.</b><br />
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If
you spend time in Paris, at some point, you're likely to pass through
the Forum des Halles. Or Les Halles métro stop. Or Châtelet-Les Halles
RER stop. Or Châtelet métro stop. Or all four of these destinations.
Who knows? Unless you are a transit enthusiast,you probably will not be
able to tell the difference between any of these destinations, because
they form a gigantic underground network-mall without any clear
demarcations from one point to the next. Châtelet-Les Halles, taken as a
whole, was once, and may still be (my quick search doesn't yield a
definitive answer) the largest subway station in the world.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bqzjQmKIUP29YzdM0g60si9QucJN2egSPjFKo0ZhvBt-vbt4CBZ5yg0jXhTEoK94iYb2KmhJwSLmJcpC87TWX1gfxASrrPJJQSJ8GI4SFdVBmWFAKPaGE95cqRAYZ0s9scPdUB9gJfmj/s1600/reseau.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bqzjQmKIUP29YzdM0g60si9QucJN2egSPjFKo0ZhvBt-vbt4CBZ5yg0jXhTEoK94iYb2KmhJwSLmJcpC87TWX1gfxASrrPJJQSJ8GI4SFdVBmWFAKPaGE95cqRAYZ0s9scPdUB9gJfmj/s320/reseau.png" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ha! Don't let the simple graphic fool you.</span></td></tr>
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On a soppy morning, when you want to go somewhere but it's too nasty
outside to bike or walk, and it's after rush hour so the worst of the
traffic is past, and you've got no luggage to carry, and you've had a
good night's sleep and a really nice espresso shot, Châtelet-Les Halles
can be kind of cool from the urban planning angle. You think, wow, if I
had to intersect eight different underground trains in a commercially
dense zone whose foundations seethe with a crosshatch of industrial
lines and tubes and two thousand-year-old archaeological remains, could I
do any better? (The answer, unless you are an urban planner, is No.)
And so you plunge into the station with a feeling of adventure (will I
find my way out by lunch?) overlaid with a doom-y feeling of This Is The
Best They Could Do, going in search of your train with the minimum
inconvenience of, say, walking through a quarter mile of narrow stinky
steeply graded uphill tunnels joined by two football-field-length people
movers, twelve flights of stairs, three ticket stop-points (even inside
the station, you have to keep producing your ticket from one nexus to
the next), and two escalators, with dim lighting (atmosphere!) and a
clean, elegant lack of signage (minimalism!). Imagine the Daedalian
labyrinth, with no Minotaur and no ball of string,
but a lot of fast food joints, urine, and 750,000 travelers
a day. (Who can blame us for taking a pee? Do any of us have any hope of getting out?) <br />
<br />
<br />
Châtelet-Les Halles is as remarkable for its
banality as for its inscrutability and complexity. As is the Forum des
Halles, the bleak, piss-smelling mall popular among kids from the
banlieues. The mall is like other malls, except it contains a vinyl library, a swimming pool, and
the greenhouse, which is nice in and of itself but contextually
bizarre: it's really cool-looking, and has nothing to do with the rest
of the mall, and, most significantly, you can't get in. Before it was a
labyrinth, Châtelet was a morgue. And a prison. And a fortress. And
before the Forum des Halles was a reviled architectural abomination of a
mall, it was a reviled construction site and hole in the ground (le
Trou des Halles), and before that, the central Halles, <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6470">the gut/belly/stomach of Paris</a> (Zola), the glass-covered wholesale food market whose last days
were captured by Robert Doisneau in a series of <a href="http://www.robert-doisneau.com/fr/expositions/expo-doisneau-paris-halles.htm">glorious, heart-rending photographs</a> we saw at Hôtel de Ville. That expo
was, for better or for worse, mounted in conversation with the current
construction project at Les Halles, which, by 2016, is intended to
transform the bleak, piss-smelling mall popular with kids from the
banlieues into an airy, light-filled ritzy mall topped with a leafy
park, with yoga studios and recording studios and high-end boutiques.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_611734451" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1JTodJQoqMaSmf01VPDW0RtflN16-r6GawQPObm1Iq4x_IOYMC-4gcrcJL65vWYGS5ryFuDbdUePYpOo-_QN7XpCe_nXGrrlDUxLqbnyn9bjhP6BqrZZm64gEvm-F4KsnwLVZeqnql5z/s320/doisneau.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://exploratricedesaveurs.com/2012/03/14/exposition-doisneau-paris-les-halles-iii-parcours-esthetique-au-coeur-de-lhumain-au-ventre-de-la-capitale/"><i>Doineau</i><br />
</a></td></tr>
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The obvious question is, what about the kids from the banlieues? Is
the new mall intended to displace and disrupt their community space, to
"reclaim" it for "Parisians," whatever that's supposed to mean? Or is
it an attempt to do better by the kids, to give them a community space
worth having, with a really gorgeous greenspace instead of consumerism
and fast food? And even if the intention is unreservedly the latter
(which, of course, we doubt), whose right is it to determine what
attributes (yoga?) make a community space worth having? (Because, of
course, my calling the mall "bleak" betrays my own prejudices; it could
also, perhaps, be called vital, fun, familiar, heartening, solidarity-making, or any number of terms
that I'd have no cognizance of, because it's not <i>my</i> community space.) And
even if a good answer to that question could be decided, who's to say
that, even with the best intentions, the disruption and displacement
won't still occur? Even if barriers of cost, culture, and class weren't raised by the nature of the new project, the four years of
projected construction will do their own share of disruption. The
history of gentrification says Uh-uh.<br />
<br />
And so, we leave Paris, and our Paris blog, with lots of unresolved
questions, and an impending feeling of doom, and return to the U.S.,
where, in our wanderings through three time zones, we've been
experiencing all kinds of different culture shocks (including the Glenn Beck
books in the checkout line at the supermarket in San Antonio) (also, the
supermarket itself). (Which is, of course, not to say that right-wing
bullshit doesn't happen in Paris. But this is <i>our </i>right-wing
bullshit.) But to round things out with a kind of narrative closure,
which is what passes for optimism around here, we will eventually return to
Paris to report on the ongoing progress of the Les Halles project. And
to get lost in Châtelet. And to broaden our experience with French
indoor gardening techniques. And, maybe, to actually learn some
French. We'll be going back to Paris, OH HELLS YES. But in the
meantime, we've got more of Seattle to see, and Portland, and then home.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<i>How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm<br />
After they've seen Paris?</i><br />
<br />
There's an answer to that, right there in the song. You can't keep them down on the farm, oh no, oh no. But, <br />
<br />
<i>How ya gonna keep 'em away from Broadway?<br />
Jazzin' around,<br />
And painting the town?</i><br />
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<div style="background-color: transparent; border: medium none; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
You can set them loose in New York, instead. So that's where we'll be, jazzin' around and painting the town.<br />
</div>
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Thanks for the travel recommendations, the awesome comments, the visits, and just following along with us! We're Le Prof and La Potiche, over and out. Or, wait, not. Because Le Prof says that he might, "possibly," post a real last post of his own. So, stay tuned, maybe.</div>
<b><br />Essays on previous contests:</b><br />
Contest #1: Winner: Anne: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-1.html" target="_blank">Le Parc des Buttes-Chaumont</a><br />
<br />
Contest #2: We are the winners, because we got to walk along it all the time: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-2.html" target="_blank">La Promenade Plantée</a><br />
<br />
Contest #3: Winners: Libya and Bridget: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/05/wheres-karl-contest-3.html" target="_blank">le Musée des Arts et Métiers</a><br />
<br />
Contest #4: Winners: Daniel and Stephanie: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/05/wheres-karl-contest-4.html" target="_blank">Opéra Bastille</a><br />
<br />
Contest #5: Winner: Bobinou69: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/06/wheres-karl-contest-5.html">Napoleon III appartements, Louvre</a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-17227708143226246122012-07-14T01:50:00.003+02:002012-07-14T22:59:50.106+02:00Au revoir, Food.<span id="goog_800623821"></span><span id="goog_800623822"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OIrghCX32v7-WJC7Zr4-eZzcnrRbKcooUz9KUQnffP5L5BlQlxm0HLLrbKwU702gFP1u1RBnQa-sxW-ms8ASEK-dPMAPmbWF7prhBgwPboeDqPS1xvYwKJDzKyuV9UgMpbBLfZ6LGfcv/s1600/asperges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggISGHwT5qHlhk0yC50tj4Eiavaw8022ks06QMlPNgyL5S3lkzb9zOXO2EUx-jXNyNeH7Ec3GumCU9ctZrWRvLxRC_uJpvAr58aqOHOfzYUbBc6LIGPWqTPMtrAvCP6bIZd2RDFtN-1a2j/s320/dinner+party.jpg" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h1 class="photo-title" id="title_div" style="font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Greta Alfaro, <i>In Ictu Oculi: </i>"Bêtes-Off" show, Conciergerie</span></h1>
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We are writing from Texas. Our internet connection is terrible right now, so this will have to go up somewhat unedited.</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
We gave up our
Paris apartment on June 18 and fled to Bretagne, or Brittany, in an
attempt to choke back the despair over our imminent departure. We
made a circuit of towns along the Breton coast, which was never less than interesting, and often
crazy beautiful, and above all, constituted another leg of the A.S.
Byatt Heritage Tour, the Baie des Trépassés chapter of <i>Possession
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">(“How can I come if you cannot hear the little thing dancing?”)! O, t</span>he blasted heath and crags of Pointe
du Raz and the homey, tidal stench of Audierne! And the
rose/coral/salmon rocky shoreline of the Île de Bréhat, which is
what Mars looked like back when it had water!<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MxUU-RBzRco7BoxOPbqRkn_n1DPoEhu8SCnPzUsQY7FbqrHYUsoUphVUoJsNQSbu73qGtVF_eCQijuWX6dmldoUxvwavwes3-Laot4ipIzdYFD9R8YcH9vhgk-Nsr0zyWqVbNq81AiAC/s1600/brehat.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MxUU-RBzRco7BoxOPbqRkn_n1DPoEhu8SCnPzUsQY7FbqrHYUsoUphVUoJsNQSbu73qGtVF_eCQijuWX6dmldoUxvwavwes3-Laot4ipIzdYFD9R8YcH9vhgk-Nsr0zyWqVbNq81AiAC/s640/brehat.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A washed-out pic of Bréhat, or Mars--this is the best we can do with the colors.</i></td></tr>
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The colors of rock,
water, and sky were so wacky that they burned out both the red and
blue cones in our eyes and temporarily blinded us with awesomeness.
Then we crossed the border to Normandie to visit Mont-Saint-Michel,
which is famous for having the Very Worst Restaurants in France. (It
ought to be famous for bugs: we inhaled swarms of flies and gnats—Le
Prof caught a fly in his mustache and almost fell off his bike, which
should learn him not to sport moustaches—and on the train back to
Paris we were continually brushing ants and baby spiders out of our
bras.)</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That,
Mont-Saint-Michel that is, brings us from the subject of Despair to
that of Food, about which several of you Gentle Readers have
requested more information. Where do we start, after five months? First, with
La Potiche's inability to edit for continuity on the I's, we's, and
they's. Le Prof is a game eater with great knife skills in the
kitchen, but nobody has ever accused him of having a palate.<br />
<br />
At
dinner in Quimper, Le Prof stunned La Potiche by identifying the
citrus segments in our refreshing langoustine tartare as pink
grapefruit, and making a neat comparison between the chive-crème
fraîche mixture dolloped on top and the Axelrod onion dip that is La
Potiche's favorite food back home. Then he reflected, “Langoustine:
that's a kind of melon, right?” For what it's worth, Le Prof has
been known to refer to grapefruits as “cantaloupes,” all smaller
fruits as “apricots,” and basil as “spinach.” (“I never
called an <i>apple </i><span style="font-style: normal;">an apricot!”
Le Prof shrieks defensively.) (In the interests of not being a jerk, I will point out that a langoustine is a kind of shellfish, like a crawdad.)</span></div>
<br />
Most of our French
eating consisted of French food we cooked at home, three meals a day.
Thus, we begin with the grocery notes:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The bread, cheese,
and wine are as good as they say. Great baguettes are, uh, great,
though we had a hard time rustling them up outside Paris, except in
Avranches, where a baker near the Scriptorial produced a good pain
ancien (the name for traditionally made sourdoughs), a good chausson aux pommes (puff pastry stuffed with apples), and a damn good pain aux raisins (puff pastry twisted in a circle with raisins):
if your pain aux raisins doesn't contain a swirl of yellow pastry
cream to moisten the raisins, find another bakery. While we were
gearing up for our final weeks in France, the best baguette of 2012 was
elected! But sadly, we didn't make it up to Montmartre for a tasting.
Somebody else can let us know if it matched up to 2011 baguette.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;">
<tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4D6d8MBB3I6vZPzvhi7SahoUvekKxKEt3f5I5o2gJsW6bs_5jZVbz_bPMj-7JKQXkgVY0Ma4gUACkzbqF8lmNMLFbiBBnM74W8SFw4792TViv-40ESPtMnXndPPjBU5QrqmYKwLULdff9/s320/camembert.jpg" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Raw milk Camembert</i></td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</li>
<li>Le Prof's Fromage
of the Week tastings turned into a Fromage of the Every Other Day.
His favorite: a peppery, moist Saint-Nectaire. La Potiche's
favorite: raw milk camembert, lovingly dented by the thumb of your
fromagère to make sure it's just ripe enough and tasting like
nothing we've ever had at home, for €5.</li>
<li>The wine: O, the
vins naturels from Le Garde-Robe! O, the cellars of Burgundy!
With Profs. K and J we toured the Côte d'Or, and also visited the Patriarche cave at Beaune, where we
tasted eighteen wines, ranging from the interesting to the
Way-Too-Sublimely-Complicated-For-Us-To-Understand. Some of the
flavors we detected: green apple, pepper, rose, litchi, cherry,
plum, mulberry, blah blah blah. Also, maple syrup, prosciutto, bananas
foster, and haricots verts. Because your vigneron isn't working hard
enough, if you can't taste Thanksgiving in New Orleans in every sip!
Even though La Potiche was spitting, she worked up a pleasant little
buzz, but she wasn't sick all night, the way she usually is after
four sips of wine, because it was an educational experience, not just
a gluttonous one.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;">
<tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhscx_fggX4Y9aqswg_VoIeYEG4bsvyx4x9NeAAcDUnAZrCpeHBcd5p0PeNYxdx-C_8ID5CBvr1zyh2N3bVvjaVIAVtzsjOzuK9ofOS6w789ifk0PoEihdDNOCf6BXvTMV8X5D2FH5OxnA/s320/wine+snack.jpg" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Snackie. Vin naturel.</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</li>
<li>Also delicious
were the juicy prunes, roast chickens, honeys, dried sausages, crème
fraîche, terrines, and jams (our B&B proprietor in Pontorson
made her own superb caramelized rhubarb jam (!), one of the most delicious things we ate in France, but any market carries a
rainbow of fruit varieties. “Plum” is not a flavor. “Reine
Claude” and “Mirabelle” are flavors). We easily bought almost any
ingredient we wanted (exceptions below): chipotles in adobo, cock
sauce, sherry vinegar, sesame oil, smoked paprika, peanut butter,
fenugreek, quinoa, kimchi, ssamjang. Some of the wonderful produce is unavailable
back home, like wild asparagus (which is not actually asparagus but
does make your pee smell funny); Charentais melons; mâche, a very ephemeral salad green (which we
can get at home, but not in such a pristine condition and not for a
couple euros per whopping sack full); Spanish clementines that really
do taste like a holiday, because they hadn't been picked too green to
travel 3800 miles in a shipping container to go moldy for U.S. Christmas
consumption; heirloom apples with winy flavors (prosciutto!
tiramisu!) unknown in the U.S.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;">
<tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OIrghCX32v7-WJC7Zr4-eZzcnrRbKcooUz9KUQnffP5L5BlQlxm0HLLrbKwU702gFP1u1RBnQa-sxW-ms8ASEK-dPMAPmbWF7prhBgwPboeDqPS1xvYwKJDzKyuV9UgMpbBLfZ6LGfcv/s320/asperges.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>wild asparagus<br />
</i></td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</li>
<li><span style="font-weight: normal;">Cauliflower!
La Potiche's favorite lunch was half a cauliflower, Greek yogurt with a
spoonful of black cherry preserves, and three grapefruits (</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">as Ana</span><i><span style="font-style: normal;">ï</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">s
Nin remarked of June Miller, La Potiche likes oysters and grapefruit
and will eat nothing insipid) </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">or their
equivalent in summer fruit. (</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You
are...a Fruit Eater,” Prof. E. observed at lunch once, having
watched her consume a quart of cherries, two nectarines, four
clementines, and a small melon). </span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Every
day after lunch, she'd throw herself on the couch, groaning, “I
ate too much cauliflower. Again.” </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">As M.F.K. Fisher remarked in </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Gastronomical Me, </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">French
cauliflowers
are different: they are starchier, sweeter, and give
off less water and fewer bad smells while cooking. They also grow
into much more compact heads, curling up all fractally, so you get a
higher flower-to-stalk ratio than from the cauliflowers back home.
And when, after virtuously steaming them, you toss them with pepper,
Breton salted hand-churned butter (which costs the same as
run-of-the-mill butter at home), and fleur de sel de Guérande (which
costs a little more than run-of-the-mill salt but is infinitely more
satisfying), they make a lunch that you can't quite seem to stop
eating till you need to throw yourself on the couch, thinking about
M.F.K. Fisher and how her third husband wrote an essay claiming that,
famous gourmand or not, her favorite breakfast was steamed zucchini with
butter. She divorced him, but went on eating piles of zucchini,
and sometimes peppers and pickles for lunch, and never gave a fig for
men's opinion, also like June Miller.</span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
</ul>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then there are the sweets. Maybe you're one of those “I'm not a
sweets-type person” people, like June Miller, also according to <span style="font-weight: normal;">Ana</span><i><span style="font-style: normal;">ï</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">s
Nin</span>. We rather think that
if <span style="font-weight: normal;">Ana</span><i><span style="font-style: normal;">ï</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">s</span> had taken June pastry shopping, instead of shoe shopping,
June might have, like, widened her horizons (incidentally: you want
to know what the women of Paris are wearing? They're wearing jeans
cut-offs over black tights, and sneaker-wedge-heels: stilettos
enclosed inside sneakers so you can't actually see the heel. And
summer scarves, and leather jackets in 85-degree heat. We have
nothing more to say about fashion in Paris.) Le Prof and La Potiche
weren't sweets-type people either, before they went to Paris. Then, on
two trips to <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/02/cold-and-pursuit-of-excellence.html">l'Étoile d'or</a>, they blew a hundred euros on candy,
which is why they never took their weekend jaunt to Strasbourg.
Instead, they instituted Sweetie Time after lunch every day. (Which
is when they eat candy and pastry, <a href="http://www.criterion.com/films/749-sweetie">smear themselves in pitch or black paint or grease or something, and leap about naked in their tree house to the chagrin of their sisters</a>.)<br />
<br />
Even if you're not a sweets-type person, if you like food,
you should experience the wonderful, unexpected flavors and textures
of really good French pastisserie and confiserie. You mostly don't
have to pay a hundred euros; that was just a bacchanal (the Kestener
Atlantique--a chocolate-coated, salted-caramel and brown-sugar sablé bar--goes for €6). Most things go for €2 or less. And here's some advice: you can buy items similar to these at any patisserie, and
you'll still say, “Wow, that's so much better than the XYZ at
home,” if you're lucky enough at all to live in place where XYZ=espresso éclairs. But for the two euros you'll be paying, you might as
well seek out the best, the “Wow, I didn't know they made this good
on this PLANET.” That is why we are going to help you by telling
you what's best (our food peregrinations were informed very heavily
by <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/">David Lebovitz's blog</a> and Chowhound. Thanks, people.):</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4wSw94F1nKZTQk2efVMaobOTBUPuIQP5_S2A5-wWx33of8Bs9cHDCannRir0omptVrrnPVRslsI6Y8RchB8pVeAIxiahLDYhUG6AGo4t9BV05QluSggfz28oX-dsolKE2lNmiid_ILkk/s1600/croissant.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4wSw94F1nKZTQk2efVMaobOTBUPuIQP5_S2A5-wWx33of8Bs9cHDCannRir0omptVrrnPVRslsI6Y8RchB8pVeAIxiahLDYhUG6AGo4t9BV05QluSggfz28oX-dsolKE2lNmiid_ILkk/s320/croissant.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>croissant, Blé Sucré</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-qQR2zyx0Rb81PpIQzrJkUBWFcEvOZJHMsUBKSfoZnt5_kkg9EgtkMGA-znI-2g7VfzEX-22Xgvo6wDKK4Rkdp7qvTRvk_-5jPW7RaW1yhzZmWA-nWlzcYgQg8V1qL87H2f5axVLDUL8/s1600/macarons.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>
<li><span style="font-style: normal;">The
Kayser coconut-chocolate financier, which tasted like the best,
moistest, American-style cupcake La Potiche had ever eaten, and La
Potiche prides herself on being a cupcake connoisseur.
Unfortunately, it appears to be off the menu now, but the plain,
chocolate, pistachio, and raspberry are pretty good, too.</span></li>
<li>
Vandermeersch's kouglof, a sugar-crunch-topped yeast cake studded
with golden raisins, recommended by D. Lebovitz.</li>
<li>
Blé Sucré's croissant, recommended by D. Lebovitz as the best in
Paris. It was, indeed, the best of the 12 or so croissants we
tasted, made of the most ridiculous BEST puff pastry ever, all the
layers caramelized and standing crisply, meltingly apart. No other
croissant even came close. NO OTHER CROISSANT. Really. The pain au chocolat was perhaps even
more delicious, though, as Prof. D noted, it would have been better
with darker chocolate.</li>
<li>
Pierre Hermé macarons were out of this world. Even the parfums that
we thought would be weird (carrot-orange, and jasmine—La Potiche
didn't like jasmine-flavored things before) were divine. Don't tell
us about Ladurée macarons, because Ladurée's are, frankly, crap.
Even supermarket macarons are tasty little figments, but any place
that flavors a macaron like Fruity Pebbles and charges you €3.75
for it is CRRRRRRRRRRRRRAP, unless they call it the Fruity Pebble
macaron, in which case, that might actually be kind of clever. But
that's not how it played out.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-qQR2zyx0Rb81PpIQzrJkUBWFcEvOZJHMsUBKSfoZnt5_kkg9EgtkMGA-znI-2g7VfzEX-22Xgvo6wDKK4Rkdp7qvTRvk_-5jPW7RaW1yhzZmWA-nWlzcYgQg8V1qL87H2f5axVLDUL8/s1600/macarons.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-qQR2zyx0Rb81PpIQzrJkUBWFcEvOZJHMsUBKSfoZnt5_kkg9EgtkMGA-znI-2g7VfzEX-22Xgvo6wDKK4Rkdp7qvTRvk_-5jPW7RaW1yhzZmWA-nWlzcYgQg8V1qL87H2f5axVLDUL8/s320/macarons.jpg" width="240" /></a></li>
<li>
The rhubarb, pear, and passionfruit pâte de fruits (fruit jelly candy) of Jacques Genin.
Each one's only the size of your thumbnail, and it will cost you
like €2, but it packs such a flavor wallop it's worth it.</li>
<li>
Breton salted caramels. On Breton salted caramels days, Sweetie Time
consisted of two caramels, and then, once our jaws were deliciously
fused together, we had to stop. Also a flavor wallop.</li>
<li>
Arnaud Delmontel, who is in my opinion the most criminally underrated
baker in Paris, makes an apricot-pistachio bear claw and an
outrageous bichon au citron: a puff pastry half-moon filled with
zesty lemon Bavarian cream. His was the best puff pastry we tasted
after Blé Sucré's. (His baguette aux grains, covered with
poppyseeds and other seeds, vies with the Kayser baguette and the Top
Baguettes for Top Deliciousness.)</li>
<li>
The immortal Pruneski, however, has vanished from this earth, and we
are sorry that none of you will be touched by the pruney angel that
touched us. We will experiment with making them at home.</li>
</ul>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are things
we miss. Like...</div>
<ul>
<li>Tingly oily
Sichuan food, which we'd last eaten in London. We had some
better-than-adequate Sichuan on our third-to-last evening in Paris,
but it wasn't tingly, since it lacked Sichuan peppercorns, and the
flavor would have been richer with dribblings of red chili oil.</li>
<li>Milk that doesn't
go bad after a single day. We didn't mind grocery shopping every day
to stock our tiny fridge with the day's rations, but we did mind
throwing away a whole bottle every day. Parmalat was okay till we
chanced upon several bottles that had rotted on the shelf, and now we
can't abide the cooked-rotten flavor. Also, we miss grass-fed.</li>
<li>French yogurts are
delicious, but <span style="font-style: normal;">most stores and
markets sell only individual servings in tiny pots, even if they're
charming little glass or ceramic pots, but we don't like the waste,
so we wound up going to a Greek deli for a bucket of Greek yogurt
once a week (which was not a hardship, especially since we were a
little bit in love with the proprietor). We'd have made our own
yogurt, as we do at home, but then there was the milk situation.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-style: normal;">$1
sacks of fresh corn tortillas, for those days when life is too awful
to bear unless you can whip up a vat of guac, slice up some radishes
and Whatever, and throw yourself a personal taco party, at which you
devour fifteen or twenty tortillas in a sitting. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-style: normal;">The French
red-spotted heirloom lettuces are ravishingly still-life-worthy, but La
Potiche, who eats about a head a day at home, must admit that she's
got a hankering for the American kind of garden lettuce that isn't
bitter. In general, foods have a slightly more bitter profile in France:
lettuces, radishes, olive oils, sodas, even candies. </span> </li>
<li>We also
miss kale. Ahhh, we love kale, we eat about four bunches a week at
home, but there is not a bunch to be found in Paris. If you want a
good time, check out the Chowhound France conversations about kale,
and whether or not you can buy it in Paris. Belligerent English and
American ex-pats argue for days and weeks about whether or not the
curly vegetables they've seen at their own, special neighborhood
markets are kale. They're not; they are frisée, which is not kale.
We've been to twelve or fourteen different street markets, including
the own, special ones mentioned on Chowhound, and they have No Kale.
And for the record, every foodie in Paris thinks that his own,
special neighborhood market is definitively the best in Paris, but
the ones that we visited were all awesome for different reasons;
there was no objective Best, just the subjective one.</li>
</ul>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It would be silly to write a food post on Paris without a restaurant
report. However, we don't dine out that often, our food budget being
confined to the maintenance of our prune-stuffed prune supply. And we generally don't take photos in restaurants. But
we did eat some notable restaurant meals, mostly when we were
traveling and couldn't get to our kitchenette, or due to the extreme
generosity of family and friends (thanks, Profs. D and H! Thanks,
Prof. E and Grad Student N! Thanks, Profs. K and J! Thanks, Mom and
Dad, for the anniversary dinner!). And so, notable restaurant food:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sG5A3UadiFazjofuWGCF7588UQOLMUw_Js_rgcyNp_an5FPnsb8qSiX9ZPWmoALlnMCop-uelX-VtDS-jEhoCjNMoCwx6UdeuSXqipowkv2QWxSuqIhXJsFCxHvp2a5SqWcA7SYD2K-D/s1600/fruits+de+mer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<ul>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCFHdQoMbuYwNLsyRc-2NXMN9Th4FiZoA73nzRuI71h3_vUCkkhzjztILd-jx7RmjFegYepPc2-ASeGcZiZkNsXoOwc-plt-9XUffHkfjcJB8iy7Knhpa5DjT59PaHSEAeGZxwvmaU97z/s1600/fruits+de+mer.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ0GqBw5VZEkb8HCKv0Y6j7jdTyRwiQC5p5TXQ_uOm8ZXJNITelo0_BlxrClIJu2KHJZr6BbHjhBtZUmVw-oLHnIXGZU4ZaAPrQvQo3Htvsf_6ZBusVpLf2G-s2rTYCyNT7UFiaVJXxZs/s1600/raspberry.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>
<li><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Couscous.
Early in our stay, we watched the marvelous movie </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Secret of the Grain</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
(</span></span><i>La graine et le mulet</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
which would lead you to believe that the Secret is le mulet)</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
about a man who loses his job and decides to invest his life's
savings in starting a couscous restaurant. We were all, Ick,
couscous, guess this movie's going to be a tragedy. That was because
we had only eaten couscous at home, where at its best it was a pasty,
Play-Doh-tasting blehhh. But, because we are highly suggestible, the
movie made us say, “Mmm, couscous,” and go out to the 10</span></span>th<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
in search of some. Were we surprised! Couscous made correctly is
just as delicious as a Pruneski; it is rich, nutty-semolina-tasting,
fragrant, bouncy, and rolls delightfully around your astonished
tongue; with harissa and an inexpensive stew of carrots, celery,
chickpeas, and raisins, it makes a feast! We are going to learn how
to steam it properly, because, in Quimper, we ate some take-out
couscous that tasted like couscous from home: quel horreur!</span></span></li>
<li>
Corails de coquilles St. Jacques: which is to say, the red-orange
bits of the scallop. When you buy whole scallops in the U.S., you
are probably not getting the blob of bright scarlet attached to the
round white nut. (You are not seeing <a href="http://www.augsburg.edu/home/biology/photoofmonth/scallop-eyes.html">the eyes</a>, either, which are
terrifying.) That scarlet blob is the coral, or roe, or gonads, and
when it's sautéed in butter (it curls into a firm comma-shape) and
sprinkled with mâche and a little red wine vinegar, that is a salad
of scallop gonads, and it tastes a bit like lobster.</li>
<li>
At various Parisian restaurants, the most memorable dishes were:
gouges out of a family-style terrine of pork with cornichons; morel
risotto; a perfect poached egg served in a foam of something (memory
begins to fail); steak frites; parmentier topped with mashed sweet
potato; new potatoes topped with crème fraîche and salmon roe; a
bouillon crémeux of spring peas topped with crab meat and a salad of
pea shoots, mint, and fenugreek leaves; pork belly; simple white
beans cooked with lamb; a mi-cuit, or partially baked molten
chocolate and caramel pudding; vanilla madeleines that were, unlike
any of the madeleines we'd ever eaten stateside, buttery, light, with
only a hint of sweetness. At La Régalade, Le Prof ordered vanilla
pots de crème with passionfruit coulis, and to his surprise, was
actually served pots: two of them, both containing a serving. They
were exquisite. They might even have been better than the rice
pudding à la grand-mère that La Potiche ordered: the best kind of
rice pudding (vanilla bean, arborio, full cream, and cooked-down
milk), served to her in a pint jar. A whole pint for her to dip out
of! “C'est tout pour moi?!?” La Potiche cried. “Tout pour
vous,” the waitress agreed. It is heaven to be served more rice
pudding than you can possibly eat in a sitting.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ0GqBw5VZEkb8HCKv0Y6j7jdTyRwiQC5p5TXQ_uOm8ZXJNITelo0_BlxrClIJu2KHJZr6BbHjhBtZUmVw-oLHnIXGZU4ZaAPrQvQo3Htvsf_6ZBusVpLf2G-s2rTYCyNT7UFiaVJXxZs/s1600/raspberry.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></li>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sG5A3UadiFazjofuWGCF7588UQOLMUw_Js_rgcyNp_an5FPnsb8qSiX9ZPWmoALlnMCop-uelX-VtDS-jEhoCjNMoCwx6UdeuSXqipowkv2QWxSuqIhXJsFCxHvp2a5SqWcA7SYD2K-D/s1600/fruits+de+mer.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sG5A3UadiFazjofuWGCF7588UQOLMUw_Js_rgcyNp_an5FPnsb8qSiX9ZPWmoALlnMCop-uelX-VtDS-jEhoCjNMoCwx6UdeuSXqipowkv2QWxSuqIhXJsFCxHvp2a5SqWcA7SYD2K-D/s320/fruits+de+mer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In Normandy, even the candy looks like fruits de mer.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<li>
In Normandy we dined at modest, homey restaurants serving: a
buttery, warm spinach mousse, fish pâté, rabbit terrine, a fine
skate wing cooked in cider, verbena-infused crème brulée, duck
breast with boysenberries, tarte tatin (upside-down puff pastry-topped apple pie), a really nice assiette de fruits de mer (seafood platter) with scrumptious bulots (sea
snails), icy-crisp oysters, and pear-stuffed crêpes with vanilla
crème anglaise and caramel sauce. La Potiche isn't mad for crêpes,
the same way she isn't mad for, say, breakfast cereal—it's just
<i>there, </i>nothing special—but a crêpe filled with homemade
vanilla pudding is something else.</li>
<li>
In the Dordogne, we ate goose gizzard salad, which is to say, goose
gizzards sautéed in goose fat and sprinkled with a little mâche and
vinegar (notice a salad theme?). Have you ever eaten a slice of
bacon whose lean, meaty part had a little myoglobin-y aftertaste of
liver? That is what a goose gizzard tastes like, and you dig in the
same way that you go to a friend's house for brunch and accidentally
eat the whole platter of bacon.</li>
<li>We visited Burgogne, Le Prof for both sociable and professional
reasons, and La Potiche for sociable reasons—and to complete the
first leg of the M.F.K. Fisher Heritage Tour! La Potiche LOVES to
order her travels around the travels of women writers who go by their
initials. So La Potiche forced Le Prof to scuttle over to Dijon's Halles
an hour before breakfast, just like M.F.K. and the women of Dijon in
<i>The Gastronomical Me. </i>And then, in the beautiful,
rose-festooned hilltop village of Vézelay, right “on the road to Avallon” (although the mill restaurant where
M.F.K. ate the truite au bleu is, according to other travelers on the
Heritage Tour who've blogged about it, no longer a fine place), La
Potiche ordered a lunch that perfectly satisfied her expectations of
the “spicy, winy” food M.F.K. felt too surfeited to describe
properly: oeufs en meurette (poached eggs in a red wine and mushroom
sauce). Pork cheeks served on little toasts of pain d'épices with
red wine and cloves. Pain d'épices is Dijonnais spice bread made
with rye flour, honey, fennel seed, and ground mustard, and sounds
kind of vile, but is actually well balanced and tasty. The
slow-cooked meat with the wine and the profusion of spices, not to
mention those little trenchers of bread, tasted like exactly how I imagine a dish
that the dukes of Burgundy might have ordered back in Le Prof's day.
For dessert, La Potiche got a clafoutis aux cerises, made with ground
almonds (clafoutis is a batter cake studded with fresh fruit, often cherries--cerises--or pears). La Potiche has had lots of clafoutis, but never thought
they were anything to write a blog post about till she tried this one
with ground almonds. Prof. J got a crème brulée that was bruléed
by brushing it with violet liqueur and setting it afire. Isn't that
a GREAT idea? Forget those little torches! We finished up the meal
with petits fours: hazelnut meringues, grape (because we were in
Burgogne) pâtes de fruits, and something else La Potiche can't
remember anymore.</li>
</ul>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ0GqBw5VZEkb8HCKv0Y6j7jdTyRwiQC5p5TXQ_uOm8ZXJNITelo0_BlxrClIJu2KHJZr6BbHjhBtZUmVw-oLHnIXGZU4ZaAPrQvQo3Htvsf_6ZBusVpLf2G-s2rTYCyNT7UFiaVJXxZs/s1600/raspberry.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZ0GqBw5VZEkb8HCKv0Y6j7jdTyRwiQC5p5TXQ_uOm8ZXJNITelo0_BlxrClIJu2KHJZr6BbHjhBtZUmVw-oLHnIXGZU4ZaAPrQvQo3Htvsf_6ZBusVpLf2G-s2rTYCyNT7UFiaVJXxZs/s320/raspberry.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jan Davidsz de
Heem, <i>Nature morte au citron pelé</i> (1650), Louvre</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
La Potiche will wrap up this post with our hotel restaurant
in Paimpol. For the price of an average bistrot meal in Paris, we
got the most surprising, elaborate meal either of us had ever eaten.
Most of the components were delicious. A few were not. All were
very well cooked, and the ones that weren't satisfying to us weren't
so because of bad cookery, but just because we weren't always willing
to follow the chef on his or her personal voyage to NeverNeverLand.
But overall the meals created such a circus-like experience—loud,
delicious, completely over-the-top fun, and kind of vulgar—that we
will never, ever forget the marvelous time we had eating them. Here
is a description, to the best of our ability, although we know that
there must be items we've either missed or misidentified.<br />
<br />
We began with an unexpected amuse-bouche: a nugget of foie gras
rolled in pistachios and dark chocolate. And tiny pellets of gizzard
(?) cooked, coated in chocolate, and served on a round garlic
crouton. And a scoop of foie gras ice cream, with flaky sea salt,
fine cracker crumbs, and raspberry coulis. Though foie gras was, for
obvious reasons, not something we'd meant to eat, our bouches were
amused, and pleased: the foie gras ice cream was the kind of thing
we knew that people made but had hoped, till that point, that nobody
would ever serve us, but it was tasty, and the salt, crumbs, and
raspberry were exactly what it wanted (other than, of course, wanting
not to have been the liver of a force-fed goose, but I digress).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Le
Prof's starter was the oyster plate. It included: a whole oyster
served inside a chilly gelatin made of its own brine; two trimmed
oysters served in gelatin rounds made with brine, trimmings, and
cream; a baked oyster (no surprises there, but then La Potiche,
absorbed in her own starter, declined a taste). When the waitress
cleared the plates, she told Le Prof, “You didn't eat your feuille
d'huitre.” “Excuse us?” we said, completely unable to understand what she'd said, because so far as we knew,
oysters didn't have leaves, but Lo and behold, the oyster leaf
(</span></span><i>Mertensia Maritima) </i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">is
the leaf of a seaside plant that tastes exactly like an oyster. When
Le Prof popped it into his mouth and expressed his wonderment, the
waitress went away and came back with a tiny platter containing one
more oyster leaf, for La Potiche.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
La Potiche's starter was the langoustine plate. It contained three
langoustines, two langoustine/onion beignets (delish), all bathed in
a tasty langoustine broth dotted with corn-kernel-sized crevettes on
a plate streaked with an interesting chocolate/langoustine-stock
reduction. Also, a raw quail egg yolk in its shell on a cracker piped with stars of
violet cream had wandered onto the plate, mistaking itself for a langoustine-flavored starter. La Potiche must admit to
not really liking violet-flavored things, though Pierre Hermé could
probably turn her around if he made a violet macaron, even a violet-langoustine or violet-foie gras macaron, because he is a genius
who could convince her to eat anything so long as he'd piped it onto
an almond shell.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
For her plat (main dish), La Potiche had a rouget with potatoes (completely
traditional), a fried little zucchini flower, marinated baby
artichokes, a negligible artichoke risotto, another chocolate sauce
(with balsamic this time), a coffee-flavored sauce (no), and white
pepper foam teardrops (yes). There were some powders dusted on her
plate, but she was losing her ability to keep track of things and
can't tell you what flavors they were. And that's also why she can't
really tell you what was on Le Prof's plate, except for cod,
cantaloupe balls, a heap of caramelized onion confit, green onion
something, mackerel, potato purée, spots of raspberry sauce, several
sprigs of cinnamon basil, and a crisped black fish skin forming
a St. Louis arch over the whole. He also had two sauces, some baby
crevettes, and a bunch of powders, we think.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
For dessert, Le Prof got the crème vanille, and neither of us
remembers what was on the plate, except that it wasn't really a crème
vanille. La Potiche got the basil macarons. Which translated into
three pink-and-green basil-flavored macarons stuffed with what we
think was basil-flavored rice pudding and a plastic liquid-delivery
system that looked kind of like an IV but delivered basil syrup.
Plus a lime-green sugar corkscrew. And a sprig of very sour lemon
thyme. And a scoop of raspberry sorbet, some strawberries, some
melon balls, and a dusting of homemade sugar pop rocks that fizzled
when she ate the sorbet. (Le Prof found his pop rocks first.
“Ahhhh,” he said, “Something is...exploding...in my mouth. Do
YOU have something like that on your sorbet?”)</div>
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<br />
But nothing they served us was so interesting as a dish that appeared
during lunch, two days later, at the same restaurant, where La
Potiche also ate a passionfruit dessert sauce with passion-banana
sorbet (YUM). Sharing the plate with her duck breast and two
ellipse-shaped pads of purple mashed potato (one of which was stuffed with
confit) and homemade black onion Pringle, appeared a round slice of Jell-O salad.
Or a macaroni salad? Or, a Jell-O macaroni salad, stuffed with more
confit! Jello-O macaroni salad stuffed with duck confit was not what
we were expecting to eat in France. But pourquoi pas? France was for
exceeding expectations.<br />
<br />
Au revoir, France. Au revoir. Au revoir...................................... </div>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-40855091861094058582012-06-29T16:51:00.002+02:002012-06-29T16:51:45.537+02:00Where's Karl? FINAL CONTEST!!!!!!!!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdu02d1d14wuqQutSWWzuYSoFCJ5DG6qJbiC0re5KIBdOBtPOHZAwz50XNPavGBbQRAkSPcRkGV6s5k5sPeUq1Kor8p2sYHERc7_30ZM_owH_dYjVUKUzp2ZvVQjC1_BAU2Iaa_aRx0Vfh/s1600/mystere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdu02d1d14wuqQutSWWzuYSoFCJ5DG6qJbiC0re5KIBdOBtPOHZAwz50XNPavGBbQRAkSPcRkGV6s5k5sPeUq1Kor8p2sYHERc7_30ZM_owH_dYjVUKUzp2ZvVQjC1_BAU2Iaa_aRx0Vfh/s400/mystere.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
This is not only the very last Mystery Location contest, but also a run-off for the winner! Only people who've won a previous contest may compete in this final round.<br /><br /><b>Mystery Location #6: Where's Karl?</b><br /><br /><b>Clue #1:</b> This photo was not taken in any of the parks or gardens you may have purposefully visited. But sooner or later, you will probably have to pass through the location (broadly speaking), whether you want to or not.<br /><br />
<b>Rules!</b><br />1. The final winner will be the semi-finalist who first comments, on the blog, by email, or on Facebook, with a correct identification of the location. <br />2. You are on your honor not to plug the photo itself into a Google Image search, but you may use Google to work through the clues.<br />
<br />
Good luck!Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-46962063276460834342012-06-04T16:24:00.000+02:002012-06-16T17:56:33.802+02:00Where's Karl? Contest #5<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uCne-975fPzQOsQXpu7llVSTzAbemelu6XtwSFtTZJ0rmgthSmPxReZ-s3UBXGT1tG19ESQdbS71da_6IaXjjyDDqFyK4Ly-UELB0LpRuS5STpazmxgWAoG93L55lhyphenhyphent3eKACLgt-vEK/s1600/karl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>We have another winner!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uCne-975fPzQOsQXpu7llVSTzAbemelu6XtwSFtTZJ0rmgthSmPxReZ-s3UBXGT1tG19ESQdbS71da_6IaXjjyDDqFyK4Ly-UELB0LpRuS5STpazmxgWAoG93L55lhyphenhyphent3eKACLgt-vEK/s1600/karl.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uCne-975fPzQOsQXpu7llVSTzAbemelu6XtwSFtTZJ0rmgthSmPxReZ-s3UBXGT1tG19ESQdbS71da_6IaXjjyDDqFyK4Ly-UELB0LpRuS5STpazmxgWAoG93L55lhyphenhyphent3eKACLgt-vEK/s320/karl.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<b>Mystery Location #5: Where's Karl?</b><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuZDdLWkGs5LoVMOhmQDYVmNTfx6RzvYdapqYXhps8cPZ7nUbc7whRURAMhLsZowNlxiSxS9wm5PUsT8K1kZSMStRLlSwsq7DA5GzfkxQfMsrsobF139JQJqszLN0c59F-9sgQc1zNNwO/s1600/piggs.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Answer: the dining room of the Napoleon III apartments at the Louvre</b><b></b><br />
<b><br />
Winner: Bobinou69. Bobinou69, who are you?</b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uCne-975fPzQOsQXpu7llVSTzAbemelu6XtwSFtTZJ0rmgthSmPxReZ-s3UBXGT1tG19ESQdbS71da_6IaXjjyDDqFyK4Ly-UELB0LpRuS5STpazmxgWAoG93L55lhyphenhyphent3eKACLgt-vEK/s1600/karl.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>
<br />
<br />
This picture to the right was taken in the Louvre's Napoleon III apartments,
which, not coincidentally, Napoleon III (nephew of Napoleon I) had fixed
up.<br />
<br />
It was a big surprise to Le Prof and La Potiche to find these rooms
in the Louvre; despite a number of previous visits, we'd had no idea
they were here. Maybe we were busy chasing after more important works such as <i><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/7054519641/in/set-72157628957222055">l'Objet plat et circulaire</a>.</i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvMD_bFTlfQEI_QzGoX8VhVFqzmlOoIzICrenLSs8jf8QPZ9Td_Eg_sKAzPYNUYxEMqyJSIFLUxQy7BZ25O994IZ2wYOEHCpcqyFnzoflagjFHinob__t2qA8q3TDS1QPbg9V9Teb5-z-/s1600/pig.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvMD_bFTlfQEI_QzGoX8VhVFqzmlOoIzICrenLSs8jf8QPZ9Td_Eg_sKAzPYNUYxEMqyJSIFLUxQy7BZ25O994IZ2wYOEHCpcqyFnzoflagjFHinob__t2qA8q3TDS1QPbg9V9Teb5-z-/s400/pig.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">left: <i>Tabriz. </i>On table: various <i>Moebius </i>and <i>Ring</i>, by Delvoye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In 1851, Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, as he was known back then, was doing his stint as first titular president of the
Republic of France, living at the Palais de l'Élysée, where the French
presidents still live. He invited the architect Louis Tullius Visconti to present some plans
for linking the Louvre and Tuileries palaces and generally furbishing up
the Louvre. Later that same year, Louis-Napoléon pulled a coup d'état,
and ascended the throne as Emperor Napoleon III--the last monarch of France.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rJfS-ev6hLMT1XBEsGPME5yDoch8raFYiNg5fjl3Fh4QNFhLlWsR8sCOj0bRc8TSVcoVejBLPBNZftNYG3bMtmeeaQYXR6-4JHLr5MelWXJyJHLT0n5p_RRmDulGsrSrGF_913Lygm1A/s1600/piggs.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rJfS-ev6hLMT1XBEsGPME5yDoch8raFYiNg5fjl3Fh4QNFhLlWsR8sCOj0bRc8TSVcoVejBLPBNZftNYG3bMtmeeaQYXR6-4JHLr5MelWXJyJHLT0n5p_RRmDulGsrSrGF_913Lygm1A/s400/piggs.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mughal Jail, Kashan, </i>and <i>Mashed</i>, Delvoye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
That was when he
gave Visconti the green light to go ahead with renovations. But Visconti
died of apoplexy and was replaced by Hector Martin Lefuel, who, among other things, pulled together the state apartments shown here between 1856 and 1861. It is probably not a coincidence that Napoleon III wanted them done up in Louis XIV style. To learn more about the building project, check out <a href="http://www.napoleon.org/fr/salle_lecture/articles/files/Quand_Napoleon_III_batissait.asp">this totally fun article on Napoleon.org</a>. Because Napoleon.org is the kind of web site you need to know about.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kDPnH3qLQOaqEGDavh_SK246af5kdgROnKPy3SpK0hUro5d3cRQFZZaoAlx-R9YQ_cY70F1jo3Kw4qnfZ1_WFnwpIKy1BOChOFoF2BavJYmIh_pkbfU1baw8KUQRstF9Od35CwCMMRZS/s1600/bacchantes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kDPnH3qLQOaqEGDavh_SK246af5kdgROnKPy3SpK0hUro5d3cRQFZZaoAlx-R9YQ_cY70F1jo3Kw4qnfZ1_WFnwpIKy1BOChOFoF2BavJYmIh_pkbfU1baw8KUQRstF9Od35CwCMMRZS/s400/bacchantes.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Deux Bacchantes (clockwise), </i>Delvoye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
After we'd made our
eighteenth visit to the Louvre in five months, we were a little Louvred out,
though we didn't want to admit it. We broke things up a little by taking
a promenade in a 136-acre postmodern garden, 136-acre postmodern gardens being the kind of thing they build here for kicks. Plus a trip to Burgundy (thanks, Anna and Eileen!).
Refreshed and sunburnt, we returned for our nineteenth visit, including a second peek at the appartements (having realized that we'd forgotten to take more pictures for our
contest), only to
find that the Louvre crew had anticipated our mood and decided to SHAKE
THINGS UP!!!!!<br />
<br />
The Louvre had invited the artist Wim Delvoye to do an installation in the
Objets
d'art section of the museum, which includes the Napoleon III
apartments. None of the works identified here in the photo captions were present during our first trip through. Why, hello there, corkscrewed bacchantes and piggies!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZExu-lf16twsMctrqYYqMqUojsPNEb5rIxs4Rtcc0v7BarJCYLePUIM40nv-TSlsRUuaeIcgg1J9w-rUFxzN_6GTXN14TIuEK09coRAcUesKWujzlPyE-rAIShPTPpPdcMrSDPsy_oZrm/s1600/dumptruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZExu-lf16twsMctrqYYqMqUojsPNEb5rIxs4Rtcc0v7BarJCYLePUIM40nv-TSlsRUuaeIcgg1J9w-rUFxzN_6GTXN14TIuEK09coRAcUesKWujzlPyE-rAIShPTPpPdcMrSDPsy_oZrm/s400/dumptruck.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Twisted Dump Truck, </i>Delvoye</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
This visit was like a scavenger hunt: there were monumental works
right out in the open, and little ones in casements hidden among the 19th-century
bric-a-brac. Big steel sculptures like twisted versions of marble
sculptures in the collection, big cathedral-like sculptures of steel
cut like lace, big "tapisdermied" pig sculptures, dainty porcelain things, and new stained glass windows installed in inconspicuous places.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRHFQNpFg0wvbElyGqlOvnT0YuO9zoFr-wPKg-NJe_6So8fROJoqj0JTwBd03e-zljRTa0D93ZlzQFOEWxGTFGat17CuyUHZhT1OHs_TMPhOhgmb8gp774XPcAFq1hrVNhotbs6RruV1a/s1600/window.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRHFQNpFg0wvbElyGqlOvnT0YuO9zoFr-wPKg-NJe_6So8fROJoqj0JTwBd03e-zljRTa0D93ZlzQFOEWxGTFGat17CuyUHZhT1OHs_TMPhOhgmb8gp774XPcAFq1hrVNhotbs6RruV1a/s400/window.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>L'Esprit d'escalier, </i>Morellet</td></tr>
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<br />
Speaking of inconspicuous windows, on our way toward the Renaissance Objets d'art, we walked through a stairwell we'd traversed before, but with an eye, this time, for
unexpected interventions. That was when we noticed
François Morellet's <i>L'Esprit d'escalier</i>, one part of which you can see
here. In 2010, the Louvre invited Morellet to redo the windows in the
Lefuel staircase, and he did, subtly shifting and skewing them. They are a delight!<br />
<br />
It's
wonderful to be able to spend enough time in the Louvre to visit
and revisit rooms and artworks enough times to get completely familiar with them. It's also wonderful to get our perspective skewed and
refreshed by the contemporary works, the performances, and the other
exciting projects the Louvre crew puts together.<br />
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Our very first visits
to the Louvre, back in February, coincided with the nighttime festival
<i>Amour à Mort </i>that juxtaposed musicians, dancers, acrobats, and performance artists
with works that inspired/provoked them. We chased through the museum, night
after night, in pursuit of a piano and operatic soprano heard in the
Galerie Médicis, or a dude covering Bonnie Tyler while surrounded by
Poussin's <i>Les Quatre Saisons</i>, or a scritchety-scratchety babble
of vaudeville exhortations accompanying the acrobats leaping onto each other's
shoulders in imitation of the sculptures in the Cour Puget, or the
silent, <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8ZYMleax3G9MxzIn4LjDYmvCyl06cOJZ3DXFJgTVIVNHCAolNkjBEtU02Oo5scgguIjjZulM6oIs3rFkBt1JOlRkhyphenhyphenX4IBROIlKqf3ktdGVYCe6DSiHHJYRpbarNRYmjXysKBISiK6hT/s1600/nest.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8ZYMleax3G9MxzIn4LjDYmvCyl06cOJZ3DXFJgTVIVNHCAolNkjBEtU02Oo5scgguIjjZulM6oIs3rFkBt1JOlRkhyphenhyphenX4IBROIlKqf3ktdGVYCe6DSiHHJYRpbarNRYmjXysKBISiK6hT/s320/nest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why, hello, unauthorized swallows' nest!</td></tr>
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<br />
uncomfortable crowd watching a group of dancers doing really
graceful but painful-looking things up and down the hard marble steps of
the Cour Marly (interacting more with the architecture than with the
sculptures) to the accompaniment of a string quartet. <br />
<br />
Every night, as we exit through the courtyards, we hear cellists and countertenors
busking, invisibly, under the arches. And sometimes, we see evidence
that other unauthorized individuals are hard at work, making their own
little changes to the Louvre, as in the photo to the right. It all reminds us to look at the
old and familiar with a fresh eye, and makes it possible, when <i>wanting</i>
to look freshly isn't quite enough to make it happen spontaneously.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-455YHr8p4wnvPRZwHpqN6lcnaR45Tsh4-hPthcnRgEbjru_7bo9sGSlPJfo5A6ot2nFGNZTb7xaSxVnJQ5msECuJUSIKZof4CWu1yPeEVGYKJghF6GdqdGwvnRBWbuarAcNWrtlkuzJD/s1600/cathedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-455YHr8p4wnvPRZwHpqN6lcnaR45Tsh4-hPthcnRgEbjru_7bo9sGSlPJfo5A6ot2nFGNZTb7xaSxVnJQ5msECuJUSIKZof4CWu1yPeEVGYKJghF6GdqdGwvnRBWbuarAcNWrtlkuzJD/s400/cathedral.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not really a cathedral. <i>Chapelle, </i>Delvoye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
It also makes us wistful (well, completely sick to our stomachs) to think of leaving, because it's not
true that we can always come back in the future to finish up, as it
were. We will miss the Louvre's special exhibitions, rooms opening and
closing, performances, temporary installations, and works
coming in and out on loan. Even such a big whale of an institution of the Louvre is always in flux.<br />
<br />
It goes without saying that we're also in despair about everything
we'll be missing at the dozens of other museums, galleries, and exhibition spaces
we've enjoyed in Paris, the monuments and churches, and the parks and
gardens. We
don't even dare think about the sixty-odd other museums and sights I
put on our Must-See list but didn't even get to.<br />
<br />
<br />I like to think that we'll be going back to New York with sharpened
faculties, to better appreciate our home city. Art galleries of Manhattan and Brooklyn, get ready to see us every other week again. Metropolitan
Museum of Art, you better dust up the study wing. Brooklyn Museum, you
will have two visitors at your inexplicably deserted Friday night
soirees. Queens....we will learn something about your museums, for once. <a href="http://justinwaldstein.com/">Justin Waldstein</a>, you're on our calendar for August. And all
you other art makers and art venues in New York, beware, because we are emboldened and desperate for more!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157628957222055/">Our Louvre flickr set, always a-growing.</a><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOm4NIg23TANRDyc22sliIzZHMVPKpIq9d79rl6vgA7h-U-d2yM1ppB74hWTrv4_G6dANjyB36nM63Z4cYYZwdpsWM7wnsClWf7OyBSOT_9FnDD0wttXM-NimXRc6J801T5uHA0GiIyXy0/s1600/holzer.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOm4NIg23TANRDyc22sliIzZHMVPKpIq9d79rl6vgA7h-U-d2yM1ppB74hWTrv4_G6dANjyB36nM63Z4cYYZwdpsWM7wnsClWf7OyBSOT_9FnDD0wttXM-NimXRc6J801T5uHA0GiIyXy0/s320/holzer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny Holzer, <i>Xenon for Paris</i><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Contest #1: Winner: Anne: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-1.html">Le Parc des Buttes-Chaumont</a><br />
Contest #2: We are the winners, because we get to walk along it all the time: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-2.html">La Promenade Plantée</a><br />
Contest #3: Winners: Libya and Bridget: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/05/wheres-karl-contest-3.html">le Musée des Arts et Métiers</a><br />
Contest #4: Winners: Daniel and Stephanie: <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/05/wheres-karl-contest-4.html">Opéra Bastille</a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-85593470121377109932012-05-19T16:19:00.003+02:002012-05-24T15:27:51.904+02:00Where's Karl? Contest #4We have a winner! Or, err, two.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWyinmYcPxBzhLmXot3awLCj81-ByoLQvOXGSYw_tLEXgbOoXgM1HHNvARSR-YhwrS0mzIfQC12muTkbc9YVv9qCyBePuuy4mKnF5igubPrfPjEakdktnsfGvqgFTbBSkqANzLDjZjDJw/s1600/IMG_4079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWyinmYcPxBzhLmXot3awLCj81-ByoLQvOXGSYw_tLEXgbOoXgM1HHNvARSR-YhwrS0mzIfQC12muTkbc9YVv9qCyBePuuy4mKnF5igubPrfPjEakdktnsfGvqgFTbBSkqANzLDjZjDJw/s320/IMG_4079.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>Mystery Location #4: </b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Clue #1: </b><i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJHpg_pUIeA">À Paris! à Paris, tous les deux! Nous vivrons à Paris! </a> </span></i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">We mentioned this place in an early blog post. There! Have at it!</span><br />
<b>Clue #2: </b>Those are song lyrics quoted above. <i></i>If you can figure out where they came from, you'll realize that there's only a limited number of venues in Paris where we might have heard it. Now, have at it!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Winners: Daniel and Stephanie</b><br />
<b>Answer: backstage at Opéra Bastille, Opéra National de Paris</b><br />
<br />
We have two winners this week, because Daniel first correctly identified the Opéra National, then Stephanie specified Opéra Bastille as the correct opera <i>house. </i>And, it occurs to us that perhaps we should have awarded two winners for the last contest, since our first answer (Libya) identified the building, while the second (Bridget) identified the museum to which the building belongs. Can it be wrong to try to multiply the winners and multiply the joy???<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc5ywEm-G2jopmrEAEgumgrcSf4hrM_BNl2b8eaccw1zwzPBHTuF1H9luLD_kaoMtHWivSAUGtoSOpF0ra6f5d8zLZMxl54hA8WVnMweJgHc4zkXHZ99YWv32MKM0JISbWXHhzwIs_uQR/s1600/backstage+pano.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc5ywEm-G2jopmrEAEgumgrcSf4hrM_BNl2b8eaccw1zwzPBHTuF1H9luLD_kaoMtHWivSAUGtoSOpF0ra6f5d8zLZMxl54hA8WVnMweJgHc4zkXHZ99YWv32MKM0JISbWXHhzwIs_uQR/s640/backstage+pano.jpg" width="640" /></a>A couple weekends ago, La Potiche got word that Opéra Bastille was
putting on a program called "Opera For All," welcoming visitors to a
free backstage tour! There's only one thing La Potiche likes better than
opera, and that's getting something for nothing, so we scuttled on over
to the opera first thing Saturday morning for a 75-minute tour. We had a delightful time looking at the sets and the big machines and going down into the bowels of the Opéra, and that's what we photographed. The text is a little background on the Opéra and information we got on the tour.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2a9tkWMR8JYeBg8YIkShq87HS-QYw8Tg0QBKY9YwoBs3P2EH30pTej3i5E1dNvfl5leatyLVQkttwYCBs8xPW1XHJkkZJXLk4kmecJOBk4wiCl3_cIaF_TOJyXOpadSbY0jmvrEfbXPT/s1600/oranges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2a9tkWMR8JYeBg8YIkShq87HS-QYw8Tg0QBKY9YwoBs3P2EH30pTej3i5E1dNvfl5leatyLVQkttwYCBs8xPW1XHJkkZJXLk4kmecJOBk4wiCl3_cIaF_TOJyXOpadSbY0jmvrEfbXPT/s320/oranges.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">set pieces for Prokofiev's<i> The Love for Three Oranges</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This is the history I've been able to glean from the Opéra National's web site and Wikipedia français: the Académie royale de Musique, also known as <i>l'Académie d’opéra</i> or <i>Opéra</i>, was founded in 1669. During the Revolution it became the Théâtre des Arts, then the Théâtre impérial de l'Opéra, then l’Opéra de Paris, moving, over the course of two centuries, in and out of thirteen different venues. In 1858, after Napoleon III survived a bomb attack at one of these venues, Le Peletier, he commissioned a new opera house, Opéra Garnier. In 1873, Le Peletier caught on fire and burned for two days. (Cue synthesized organ music!) Opéra de Paris opened in Opéra Garnier in 1875, joined with the Théâtre national de l’Opéra's Opéra Comique in 1939, to become La Réunion des théâtres lyriques nationaux, and dropped the Opéra Comique in 1978. Finally, in 1982, François Mitterand decided he wanted a new opera house, <i>moderne et populaire, </i>and started soliciting architectural designs for the Opéra Bastille, which would be coupled with the Garnier as the Opéra national de Paris. (Theater historians can feel free to correct me--I'm having a little trouble keeping it all straight.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6Nd66cMYaziDsbXwUXqjEa9WIhozP09d9LSfbp7LKzXA8wBbAyPQ_RGr8SMceTv3KXoApC5gYwfwEz7rIprbqz_PSn92cph-52Qen3u5NsSj29qpp8mVhTROrwRrse6UjfFPBRV9C29J/s1600/sea+monster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6Nd66cMYaziDsbXwUXqjEa9WIhozP09d9LSfbp7LKzXA8wBbAyPQ_RGr8SMceTv3KXoApC5gYwfwEz7rIprbqz_PSn92cph-52Qen3u5NsSj29qpp8mVhTROrwRrse6UjfFPBRV9C29J/s320/sea+monster.jpg" width="240" /></a>All this background is to prepare you for the narrative developed for us on the tour, which was that neither revolution, nor empire, nor bombings, nor fire, nor phantoms, was half so dramatic as what happened over the next thirty years with Opéra Bastille. Six years of construction, changes of government and changes of heart when nobody, not even Mitterand himself, wanted to keep going with the project; strikes and snafus with conductors and the failure to figure out, in advance, how the orchestra of the Opéra Garnier was supposed to be able, under the
rubric of the Opéra national, to play simultaneously in two theaters. There were accidents, spectacular failures of the state-of-the-art stage equipment, and every kind of aesthetic compromise.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/7257425234/in/photostream" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhHKQY2FHw_wDRAflDN_vj1a2XXmeP21ViHd5Neu4WQ-Hq0idL4puwfjQmylLbE-HJNNTUbJGskpynC4k2OfdIeE57sBK4fJe4-8xRWUcj2TXyOo56DP2JaKG6v8n3DN77fxoloINfqYa/s400/barber.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">set for <i>The Barber of Seville</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But this disaster narrative was full of affection: it is not easy, our tour guide suggested, to maintain the idealism of building a people's opera through the bureaucratic and material failures that accompany any major project--moreover, when your Opéra acts like a cute dog (or sea monster) with unpredictable behavioral problems. The "democratique" public spaces of the galleries are democratic in the way of claustrophobic airport tunnels where everybody's pushing forward to the seats. The "democratique" open-access ramps and stairs, intended to allow nosebleed seat-holders to take their seats as quickly and directly as the privileged orchestra-level visitors, turned out, after they'd been built, to violate both fire laws and later standards/notions of security, and were hastily refitted in such a way that, if you're a €5 ticket holder, as Le Prof and I were for <i>Manon</i>, you have to go up and down and up and down and ask three bartenders, a security guard, and a group of other lost, confused opera-goers why on earth your level eight seats are five floors up. (But still, €5 seats? Whoa.) Two years after the grand opening, the building began to fall apart; notably, when the exterior tiles began to fly off onto the sidewalk below, the Opéra began waging a sixteen-year lawsuit against the contractor for the replacement of the 36,000 tiles. And down in the lobby--though the architect had stipulated that no artwork was ever to distract from the minimalism of his design--is the world's least minimalist sculpture, of which nobody on the Internets appears to have a photo. Imagine a steampunk contraption of gears and belts (which, incidentally, don't work) topped with a gigantic rainbow-painted, lumpy plaster statue of a naked Roseanne Barr, and you'll come close.<br />
<br />
Architecture, opéra, sculpture.... At Opéra Bastille, all these arts are in a state of flux, being born, shifting, breaking down, and being taken down to the shop and fixed up again. What better kind of People's Opéra, than an opera that's always a work in progress!<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Contest #1: Winner: Anne, and her correct</span><a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-1.html"> answer!</a><br />
<b>Contest #2: We are the winners, because we get to walk along <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-2.html">it </a>all the time.</b> <br />
<b>Contest #3: Winners: Libya and Bridget, and the correct </b><a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/05/wheres-karl-contest-3.html">answer!</a><br />
<b>Contest #4: Winners: Daniel and Stephanie</b>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-21180997839907129472012-05-10T21:16:00.001+02:002012-05-15T21:35:08.918+02:00"Where's Karl?" Contest #3: Solution<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Well! We never thought it would happen, but...a Gentle Reader has requested another contest! Thanks for reading, Bridget!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Some of you may have thought that Le Prof and La Potiche had eaten too much fromage and untimely expired. Mais non! We were busy planning and packing, then running around the city with friends, and finally departing with said friends for central France, the Dordogne and Lot river valleys, for a vacation. Another vacation away from Paris! We will show you pictures, once we've finished uploading all 3,000 of them, and sufficiently detoxed on steamed vegetables to be able to think of blog-length things to say about the Wonders of Périgord et Haut Quercy. So.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj2gv41VuEv-JHOST2pljeLh03od2e_NPSLud0zdmWeBJNrSfY6EPl2xEaj79HIpfrT8qiPG5Oxb5UGVe-BqiIL_zExSR2oGEYtn_p1xxCXkzsK2ClYMv1H_hsXJA0yOW4A5TTFdeDBbF/s1600/plane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj2gv41VuEv-JHOST2pljeLh03od2e_NPSLud0zdmWeBJNrSfY6EPl2xEaj79HIpfrT8qiPG5Oxb5UGVe-BqiIL_zExSR2oGEYtn_p1xxCXkzsK2ClYMv1H_hsXJA0yOW4A5TTFdeDBbF/s1600/plane.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIj2gv41VuEv-JHOST2pljeLh03od2e_NPSLud0zdmWeBJNrSfY6EPl2xEaj79HIpfrT8qiPG5Oxb5UGVe-BqiIL_zExSR2oGEYtn_p1xxCXkzsK2ClYMv1H_hsXJA0yOW4A5TTFdeDBbF/s400/plane.jpg" width="300" /></a><b>Mystery Location #3: </b><br />
<br />
<b>Clue #1:</b> It's an apse! It's a plane! It's...Karl!<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Clue #2: </b>WYSIWYG. If you just describe what you're seeing in a web search, you'll probably find the answer on the first page of hits. Because that is the kind of nice people we are, and that's the kind of nice clue we write. Have at it!<br />
<br />
<b>Answer: </b>the former priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, now part of le Musée des Arts et Métiers (Museum of Arts and Crafts/Trades)<br />
<b>Winner: </b>Blibby, by a nose! Blibby, who are you? Are you somebody we know, posting under a Blogger name? We had two correct answers this week, but Winnerdom goes to the first! Thanks to Bridget, though, for providing me with a source to plagiarize for this blog post!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE18u9QMj8lOp_jqz_WXqraylC91c3T1Psjfkd-F1afXja3C6lbalkWLEa4W52zwz3l-6KRHZVvEExW9p0Z_-owKreF31eseYSNtxAmhax6tdrL4ngESyjSTcFzB5YS3Ioky_vAcQmTwu9/s1600/automata1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE18u9QMj8lOp_jqz_WXqraylC91c3T1Psjfkd-F1afXja3C6lbalkWLEa4W52zwz3l-6KRHZVvEExW9p0Z_-owKreF31eseYSNtxAmhax6tdrL4ngESyjSTcFzB5YS3Ioky_vAcQmTwu9/s200/automata1.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<b>The Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers</b> was founded in 1794 and
its museum collection of machines, tools, and documents related to science and
industry established in the Priory in
1802. Under normal circumstances, Le Prof would've been all fired-up about the Priory, built around 1130-1140. Under normal circumstances, La Potiche would have been all fired-up about Foucault's pendulum, though she has to admit that she remembers nothing about the Eco novel, which she read in 1997, except the resemblance of one scene to a scene in <i>Northanger Abbey</i>, and a feeling of dismay about her complete inability to understand HOW the pendulum demonstrates the rotation of the earth. She stared and stared at the pendulum and the placard and understood NOTHING.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbedpk-MKdjQnZ_IiwMl9meZRlhs64NhhPmYhcS0Kma8l2IZWnLHL-QzstIUdkKxGAceJJJ34bZS-V4q21llfOzgzsv5eIG9VUUXNN4G90NSA3JxG_QSNvfGYsDv7mHU9qzTx21OmCfOB/s1600/automata2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbedpk-MKdjQnZ_IiwMl9meZRlhs64NhhPmYhcS0Kma8l2IZWnLHL-QzstIUdkKxGAceJJJ34bZS-V4q21llfOzgzsv5eIG9VUUXNN4G90NSA3JxG_QSNvfGYsDv7mHU9qzTx21OmCfOB/s200/automata2.jpg" width="123" /></a></div>
But it wasn't normal circumstances! We were touring Paris with friends who were all fired-up about their discovery that the Musée hosts a
demonstration of old automata every Wednesday. Suddenly we, too, were all
fired-up about automata, because we want to be like our friends, and we also want to be like the French. The French have been fired-up about automata since Descartes and Jacques Offenbach. There is a Musée des Automates in Paris--just automates, all the time!--that we'd visited the day before. Le Prof had also just come back from
a robots conference at Penn State; as a result, he has been going about saying, "I like
robots," at every opportunity. LIKE A ROBOT! As for La Potiche, when she was little, she had not one, but two clown dolls whose heads spun around, and sometimes she still cries a little about missing Clownie and Clownie. <br />
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So we snagged 4 of the 40 available tickets and sat in on the demo and a very rapid, engaging, and somewhat technical 40-minute lecture, along
with about twenty extremely quiet and interested children, ranging in age from about 6
to 11, and their attendant grownups. Only one of them (the children, that is) spoke out of turn, but only because she was excited about the show. The children were so attentive and intellectually engaged that we would suspect they were automata themselves, programmed to demonstrate the superiority of French yuppie parenting methods, except that none of them had monkey heads or dogs popping out of boxes in their groins.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NKZNBiyZ-4xMFYtTqhxrNvcKhpp9zb54I-cPpW2W2ttA6sDdUYU3ZJQimRqhIVruga6MmZTHmtvtSfEIH9-tbOR8LAPyh1wpLr0H0hxzsph1jwLs0gtjtlimgtKXYxcEDLaNVYVscgxL/s1600/bat+plane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5NKZNBiyZ-4xMFYtTqhxrNvcKhpp9zb54I-cPpW2W2ttA6sDdUYU3ZJQimRqhIVruga6MmZTHmtvtSfEIH9-tbOR8LAPyh1wpLr0H0hxzsph1jwLs0gtjtlimgtKXYxcEDLaNVYVscgxL/s320/bat+plane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The demo des automates took a lot out of us. Or maybe it was the long
march in the rain earlier that day to buy a gazillion euros' worth of
sweetmeats (gentle readers, I bring bad news: Pruneski has been
discontinued. Or something. We couldn't quite grasp the blitz of
français that thundered upon our heads when we inquired after the
greatest candy in the world, except that the new version, with a
slightly bitter raw walnut in it and no date, is nowhere near as good).
Or the fascinating visit to the Musée de la Vie Romantique for a show
on 19th century theater, and out to Belleville for a grand couscous, and
then back to Arts et Métiers to be BEWILDERED by Foucault's pendulum.<br />
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At any rate, after marveling at the airplane in the apse, and marveling
at the steam-powered bat plane (above. Really! Avion III of Clément Ader, called "Chauve-souris," or "Bat"), and the History of Bicycles bike rack with the wooden bike in it, and the human-sized early model for the Statue of Liberty, we each downed a coffee, and two of us slunk home to do laundry and get ready for the (unbeknownst to us) seven-hour journey to the Dordogne the next day. But the awesome things we saw that day have convinced us that a second visit to the museum is in order. It goes without saying that somebody who named both her clown dolls Clownie is never going to understand the pendulum, but maybe she can catch a breeze in the Chauve-souris!<br />
<br />
Thanks to our participants! We'll have another contest ready for you, like, tomorrow or Thursday or something, maybe.<br />
<b>Contest #3: Winner, Blibby. </b><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Contest #1: Winner, Anne. </span> <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-1.html">Link to the answer!</a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-32600011003688943632012-04-08T18:53:00.019+02:002012-04-16T21:12:27.675+02:00Where's Karl? Contest #2Here's the answer to the second installment of the Le Prof et La Potiche Blog "Where's Karl?" Contest!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Where Is He?</span></span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74m7SCaKSju0umpY68sOj8SSoO158DfFXdK8XZzPMd2Owb6r3iVvvAQw-5KBeKqvE9pD-4ukT0fiXuaPy6Zupzi8J8GGKOwp7eOjsGzSG7m_f-jwH8MAH7AvAKU_i7QSD39CBgJr-pWSr/s1600/mystery+buildings.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74m7SCaKSju0umpY68sOj8SSoO158DfFXdK8XZzPMd2Owb6r3iVvvAQw-5KBeKqvE9pD-4ukT0fiXuaPy6Zupzi8J8GGKOwp7eOjsGzSG7m_f-jwH8MAH7AvAKU_i7QSD39CBgJr-pWSr/s400/mystery+buildings.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729075377657098562" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Clue #1: </span>He's just strolled along a road strongly associated, oddly enough, with the <span style="font-style: italic;">Dictionnaire historique des rues de Paris</span>. But what intersection is he overlooking now? And how did he get there?<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Clue #2</span></span>: Our path has led us along the decommissioned Vincennes railway line....<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Answer: La Promenade Plantée<br />Winner: Nobody :(</span><br /><br />Here's Karl, on the Promenade Plantée, or Coulée Verte, at the intersection of Rue Jacques Hillairet (Hillairet was author of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Dictionnaire historique des rues de Paris</span>), Rue Montgallet, and Rue de Charenton. We're <span>just past the Jardin de Reuilly, walking westward along the Promenade</span>.<br /><br />The Promenade Plantée is an elevated park in the 12th arrondissement, built on the abandoned Vincennes railway line and opened in 1993. It was the High Line before there was a High Line! And I know that recently, some of you have looked online at an image comparing the two parks from <span>Vahram Muratyan's book, <em><a href="http://thehighline.org/blog/2012/02/01/an-elevated-park-%C3%A0-la-fran%C3%A7aise">Paris vs. New York: A Tally of Two Cities</a>, </em></span><span>because you sent me links to it! The Promenade includes 4.7 km of pedestrian and bike paths, running from the Bois de Vincennes under the Périphérique </span>beltway, over the Viaduc des Arts to Bastille. It is a gorgeous park, and a gorgeous use of what had been decaying urban industrial space, and a wonderful peek into the backs of outer-arrondissement Parisians' apartments.<span><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-m0pEPHj39KPuu20sbXsmkoH8iays3SLr-vYRlk1T1NX-nzwPl92Vr88GQfJ643L2jzb_N6GlshEuTQ_Qs_fXHXNXkrse_hCC9k1yhCb3HIyhK_X82ZMDRHe4v3ocp8-7wTAxeD9-kzp/s1600/spring+jardin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-m0pEPHj39KPuu20sbXsmkoH8iays3SLr-vYRlk1T1NX-nzwPl92Vr88GQfJ643L2jzb_N6GlshEuTQ_Qs_fXHXNXkrse_hCC9k1yhCb3HIyhK_X82ZMDRHe4v3ocp8-7wTAxeD9-kzp/s400/spring+jardin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732068865517736002" border="0" /></a><span><br /><br />We took the métro out to Porte Dorée, </span>then Vélibed through this garden here.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-m0pEPHj39KPuu20sbXsmkoH8iays3SLr-vYRlk1T1NX-nzwPl92Vr88GQfJ643L2jzb_N6GlshEuTQ_Qs_fXHXNXkrse_hCC9k1yhCb3HIyhK_X82ZMDRHe4v3ocp8-7wTAxeD9-kzp/s1600/spring+jardin.jpg"></a><br />Click on any of the pictures for a closer look.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVLrcEgDESER_NvJa5GFg9xqyIMDfYHp1eCVY3ATjk9W65hyphenhyphen5hFl3U4nZZLCgS1MYD6bFvBF8JY1vc9K6IGe4mv389ZIt22Pek89bGD0qSaf1BqKDKTP-4eB-lW23B-B7TyeqLcrgB2G1/s1600/tunnel+1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVLrcEgDESER_NvJa5GFg9xqyIMDfYHp1eCVY3ATjk9W65hyphenhyphen5hFl3U4nZZLCgS1MYD6bFvBF8JY1vc9K6IGe4mv389ZIt22Pek89bGD0qSaf1BqKDKTP-4eB-lW23B-B7TyeqLcrgB2G1/s400/tunnel+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732070051772776594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Then we rode through tunnels.<br />Wheeeeeeee! The next tunnel contained a prehistoric-looking grotto. A French park is not a French park without a grotto. Prehistoric is also fashionable.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzlZCx1wYgr3SMcilK8WlSo-LkUay16fwDlBGM6N5S5F0mDPOl8j3w7pg3PeUw2U5R3kIfGXqrbxT1ke-RVq0oifNZ1fzOJlzzM_mbvRnwIuiSh-rbDih8dMzg_4wpxuSwK9a554G1ePw/s1600/tunnel+2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzlZCx1wYgr3SMcilK8WlSo-LkUay16fwDlBGM6N5S5F0mDPOl8j3w7pg3PeUw2U5R3kIfGXqrbxT1ke-RVq0oifNZ1fzOJlzzM_mbvRnwIuiSh-rbDih8dMzg_4wpxuSwK9a554G1ePw/s400/tunnel+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732072531210969922" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Shortly thereafter, we had to abandon our bikes, because the bike lane ended. Clearly, the park planners knew we'd be so staggered by the prehistoric grotto that we'd no longer be able to balance on wheels.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNFS3jNfG-3bIHvh9hNNA2G_dcG4muTW-MAu__J8LDBM-4IoqGmhmE1q-_X3vp3lgmZ6rJa55_JEK0hiW7iypcaXP-49hGNlgATwpl2FkZmUVS4lvujSHuzBHea-uPKoh5iYyzQOfA5gx/s1600/merovingians.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNFS3jNfG-3bIHvh9hNNA2G_dcG4muTW-MAu__J8LDBM-4IoqGmhmE1q-_X3vp3lgmZ6rJa55_JEK0hiW7iypcaXP-49hGNlgATwpl2FkZmUVS4lvujSHuzBHea-uPKoh5iYyzQOfA5gx/s400/merovingians.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732071643920557746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />We entered the Jardin de Reuilly, which advertised the proximity of an old castle that the Merovingian kings (mid-5th century to March, 752) once frequented. Karl was VERY excited! You don't get to see a lot of Merovingian stuff in the U.S. You don't even see a lot of Merovingian stuff in France.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioFWv1lLHVPr5WZ4GUwksAHCqWdmHzeiW5F6_HLTghBJceIb600BpeP-TpI5JLOfmUGoirIrYwRwM3Gc-RWyCpODA7vK9_xXftayTRNNcYQZ786pM9pR0vK1JshCmsbBEqiIiJ7-xuxePP/s1600/shed.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioFWv1lLHVPr5WZ4GUwksAHCqWdmHzeiW5F6_HLTghBJceIb600BpeP-TpI5JLOfmUGoirIrYwRwM3Gc-RWyCpODA7vK9_xXftayTRNNcYQZ786pM9pR0vK1JshCmsbBEqiIiJ7-xuxePP/s400/shed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732073170010303842" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But this was the only sight that even began to resemble a Merovingian castle. They say that people were smaller in those days. But who are "they," anyway?<br /><br />We approached, and passed through, the Mystery spot. Then we descended to visit the Marché Aligré, the first street market we've visited where the vendors were loudly hawking their wares (strawberries and fish were the big items) in at least two different languages. We bought merguez-frites (which are merguez and french fries stuffed into a baguette) <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>and went back up through a bamboo garden to sit on the Promenade and eat our lunch.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKGk9f5U1kmc1aBo30yqgeMiRTkm5hyphenhyphengMOvbiMGnUpFP5dFz7u3Krf7B6qTXGzwisdz_D4kzYRLcUO6mx84_KIFhUPAy8i1Ah0nW5PAmvVE-W30GFRkJuWG4KXoeHa6Dp-L8wUp8iOIBf/s1600/trio.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKGk9f5U1kmc1aBo30yqgeMiRTkm5hyphenhyphengMOvbiMGnUpFP5dFz7u3Krf7B6qTXGzwisdz_D4kzYRLcUO6mx84_KIFhUPAy8i1Ah0nW5PAmvVE-W30GFRkJuWG4KXoeHa6Dp-L8wUp8iOIBf/s400/trio.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732073923421972962" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here, I am marveling over the fact that this thing is nearly three miles long, and absolutely gorgeous, and nobody ever told me on any of my previous Paris visits that I ought to see it!<br /><br />So. Are the clues not helpful enough? Do we need to be more specific? Or is it just more fun to sit back and wait for the pictures to roll out?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Contest #1: Winner, Anne. </span> <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.fr/2012/04/wheres-karl-contest-1.html">Link to the answer!</a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-74687297395655908722012-04-02T14:32:00.021+02:002012-04-05T21:10:01.723+02:00"Where's Karl?" Contest #1This is the first installment of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Le Prof et La Potiche Blog "Where's Karl?" Contest</span>!<br /><br />When we feel like it, we will post photos of Le Prof posing in exciting Mystery Locations in Paris. The Mystery Location will always be a place accessible to the public--no sneaking around inside private backyards and asking you to identify them! The winner of each contest will be the first person to comment, on the blog, by email, or on Facebook, with a correct identification of the location. The person who correctly identifies the most mystery locations by June 30 will win renown and, possibly, if travel funds and luggage space allow, a tiny prize!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rules:</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFcM-caejrW_tIZKaTbc-hWsY18T2QiqEprl4-B3MpUtGC7URFhNzU_oAs03p8J7KX6xbPqvBgk5G1XzDULtURcXc1ZmXhMrXHDKCEJWd2g4_uGQX4S-yqPHZ7Ovyl21ytNzqmJcproZg/s1600/mystere+%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFcM-caejrW_tIZKaTbc-hWsY18T2QiqEprl4-B3MpUtGC7URFhNzU_oAs03p8J7KX6xbPqvBgk5G1XzDULtURcXc1ZmXhMrXHDKCEJWd2g4_uGQX4S-yqPHZ7Ovyl21ytNzqmJcproZg/s400/mystere+%25282%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727190412859590386" border="0" /></a><br />1. Each individual contest will last one week, or until a winner wins, whichever comes first.<br />2. If you were with us when the photo was taken, you may not participate in that installment of the contest, though the rest are fair game. That, I'm afraid, is the price of hanging out with us.<br />3. If nobody wins within a few days, we will post a clue. Or two, maybe.<br />4. If we decide to issue a prize, it will be of our choosing. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Le Radeau de la Méduse</span> will not fit in our luggage, and besides, it is currently on loan.<br />5. "France" is a correct answer; it will not win you the contest. We reserve the right to determine what is and isn't sufficiently specific.<br />6. EDIT: You are on your honor not to figure it out with a Google Image search, otherwise there's no point to the contest at all, and nobody will win a tin of prune-stuffed prunes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mystery Location #1: Where's Karl?<br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_oVZL70dbFz7cAEaY7N1C-YlMtb3hVwdFDX2FMKT1QCqakClfm9XC6UM-mhjw3lJMnrKeaxLCEw5IJ1RGfdOc6YEisKjqrLmS_LS9BARCQO-nDhxdbzbkNE3awrSKHtWn2lLD4y8uIOl/s1600/AK+grotto.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_oVZL70dbFz7cAEaY7N1C-YlMtb3hVwdFDX2FMKT1QCqakClfm9XC6UM-mhjw3lJMnrKeaxLCEw5IJ1RGfdOc6YEisKjqrLmS_LS9BARCQO-nDhxdbzbkNE3awrSKHtWn2lLD4y8uIOl/s400/AK+grotto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727985313405369714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br />Answer: the grotto of the Parc des Buttes Chaumont<br />Winner: <a href="http://medievalmeetsworld.blogspot.fr/">Anne</a>!<br /><br /></span><span><span style="font-size:100%;">Le Parc des Buttes Chaumont, a lovely and strange public garden in the 19th arrondissement, opened in 1867. </span></span><span>It was previously the site of a gypsum and limestone quarry. You can see where the quarry concept led to.</span><span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-size:100%;">Commissioned by Napoleon III, it was the work of engineer Jean-Charles Alphand, horticulturist Jean-Pierre Barillet-Deschamps, and </span></span>architect Gabriel Davioud<span>. The whole project was overseen by Baron Haussmann.<br /></span><span><br /></span><span><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pMw_CuxZEXM2FaPdar7xAWG4dqkWMRC49nU80NrTxSbkS8uAsCG6Z4CgI_v0aS4HDrokWkCygZ5AuOSji8SkvNj9nr7K3UmHrlu2pN_UGYJRsnazXkGnqTJDIZDInKsCG8KVSC7PzVMN/s1600/yellow.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pMw_CuxZEXM2FaPdar7xAWG4dqkWMRC49nU80NrTxSbkS8uAsCG6Z4CgI_v0aS4HDrokWkCygZ5AuOSji8SkvNj9nr7K3UmHrlu2pN_UGYJRsnazXkGnqTJDIZDInKsCG8KVSC7PzVMN/s400/yellow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727989954462329202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mnk1eOMFeI6qLmD6fNTmQ4fytfyntRchVnPLa1TcsRBp-gvTuBRb8Bs5LJPVV810KbTiQjo3L2ZNgmA-slL7xhUsnN2vapPZIo15R_mNvY8FNUav7SKWJPtAXCU4DH2iuY0YjxcJcwzn/s1600/waterfall.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mnk1eOMFeI6qLmD6fNTmQ4fytfyntRchVnPLa1TcsRBp-gvTuBRb8Bs5LJPVV810KbTiQjo3L2ZNgmA-slL7xhUsnN2vapPZIo15R_mNvY8FNUav7SKWJPtAXCU4DH2iuY0YjxcJcwzn/s400/waterfall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727990812926638194" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_kNMGhqDppF-qcixRtVLMBK2l5jrBO4gISEA8zD91yVtd0k0jmqaCsQjDV5XnRerkEh4kEW7J6vsmr9bfMB5lDCu70A9Ehbucw8ruDuu1LcsbWHBgQsBrafo3KvOP1To2rRUYXr7d8Ds/s1600/bridge.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 102px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_kNMGhqDppF-qcixRtVLMBK2l5jrBO4gISEA8zD91yVtd0k0jmqaCsQjDV5XnRerkEh4kEW7J6vsmr9bfMB5lDCu70A9Ehbucw8ruDuu1LcsbWHBgQsBrafo3KvOP1To2rRUYXr7d8Ds/s400/bridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727987836377644434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It is extravagantly lovely and bizarre. It undoes all your preconceptions about French gardening. Stalactites!<br /><br />More pictures available on our Flickr collection, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629747415343/with/7048244335/">Parc des Buttes Chaumont</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Here is Karl on the bridge to the belvedere of the Sibyl. We didn't see the Sibyl.</span></span> See the little folly in the background? That's the same folly seen in the picture above.<br /><br />Thanks Anne, and thanks to everybody for participating! We will post our next contest at 1 pm EST on Sunday. AND...we will be providing the clue at the same time, so ready your mad research skills now.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqBgPUYZH4pbU_6ZMasczhhflslSru_35SatgKVRSUYyeBaoVOg04y7LJpoo3XYxhzsvFUTR9KBnygUAOSIxrDMaEvC3p-2hIEWnbsa1tG7ciTICo9x47dFVbeRBVlZ65Xj3wvXQ1kDapv/s1600/waterfall.jpg"></a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-47864683456888062642012-04-01T20:30:00.020+02:002012-04-01T22:08:06.254+02:00Wheeeee!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-ZC2W1EdXZVvfYk0rPP1svZdOV72Cy3xaWuht0T_pQg7uQIL6pudk0XC0IMNK8YW2Me3iGYvVq8UKEkOXGNPcCOGNznCTAgV2o3egRjOvVPjj9B_9WjO8a4AEiviGIr8PTCI3KjqdLrz/s1600/bikey+deux.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-ZC2W1EdXZVvfYk0rPP1svZdOV72Cy3xaWuht0T_pQg7uQIL6pudk0XC0IMNK8YW2Me3iGYvVq8UKEkOXGNPcCOGNznCTAgV2o3egRjOvVPjj9B_9WjO8a4AEiviGIr8PTCI3KjqdLrz/s400/bikey+deux.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726507910969175234" border="0" /></a>Mostly, this blog is about telling you the Real Reason we came to Paris. But this post is about something that took us by surprise.<br /><br />O Paris! City of cycling amateurs carrying baguettes and avoiding hills! City of old ladies in belted trench coats pedaling sedately to market on bikes, and punks transporting meals for the homeless on bike-wagons, and children and teenagers and college students madly dashing to school on bikes, and old men wearing berets and smoking as they toodle along the river on bikes, and affluent-looking people wearing suits cut better than you'd ever thought you'd see in real life, leaving the stock exchange--on bikes! And everybody else--riding to and from work, running errands, and going out to see friends--on bikes! Who knew?<br /><br />If you, like La Potiche, are one of those people who learned to ride a bike as a child, but defied all platitudes by managing to forget how to do it, so that, the first time you remounted a bicycle as an adult, you promptly fell off, then got back on and steered sideways right into a shrub, whereupon you fell off again, then gamely got back on, only to find yourself going down a ramp, whereupon you crashed into a railing, fell off, and bloodied your hands and knees--then Paris is the place for you to relearn! There are lots of things about Paris that are not easy for your average American tourist, such as speaking French (my accent has gotten <span style="font-style: italic;">worse</span>. "Bon-JORE!"), finding food on a Sunday (we go out on a massive Friday grocery offensive to equip ourselves till the following Tuesday), and buying stamps anytime ("We have no stamps here," a postal worker told us recently. The three others working the counter all flung their hands in the air: no stamps). But biking in Paris is not one of those difficult things.<br /><br />They make it so easy here! And it's not for lack of car traffic: there's just good infrastructure.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-OrPg7JeUD-s3i1OU6e8LWdSm9BI23wU_uv099CPDHa82TgS1ZOC0gAwoweeRgmfNYq6q44OFblU__y2qrs5KXLsRlNvgwrVEPUmeG2dW8C0UnDRx18d0Vobio3XdugB-5msYjd3IpL9/s1600/bastille.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-OrPg7JeUD-s3i1OU6e8LWdSm9BI23wU_uv099CPDHa82TgS1ZOC0gAwoweeRgmfNYq6q44OFblU__y2qrs5KXLsRlNvgwrVEPUmeG2dW8C0UnDRx18d0Vobio3XdugB-5msYjd3IpL9/s400/bastille.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726507403658813442" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(left: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/feuilllu/140725144/">photo by Pierre Metivier</a>)</span></span><br />This is the Place de la Bastille. It was once a place where Parisians with pickaxes demolished a fortress. Now, it is the place where 11 lanes of vehicular traffic converge on a circle unmarked by any lines. In America, you would be taking your life in your hands to cross that intersection on a bike, but we are not in America, we are in Paris! And in Paris, you just get on your bike and pedal right through the middle of the Place....while the cars, coming at you from ten directions, SLOW DOWN, to let you pass. The first time we saw a bicyclist launch herself into the intersection, we were standing on the curb with our bikes, watching in horror. But she pedaled gaily across, and then another cyclist crossed, and another, and we realized that that was just the way things were here. So the next time we were at Place de la Bastille, it was nighttime....and all the traffic was going faster....but once again, when the light changed, and we pedaled fearfully into the intersection, everybody slowed down to let us go, and nobody beeped, nobody revved his engine to speed us up, nobody flipped us the bird, or, for that matter, nous a fait un doigt d'honneur. In Paris, nobody thinks it's worth killing another person, so you can save ten seconds driving to the gym or the mall.<br /><br />Almost anywhere else you want to go, there's a bike lane, and when there's not, nobody's going to run you down anyway. Many of the bike lanes in Paris are also bus lanes and taxi lanes: that is, buses are supposed to use them, and taxis sneak into them. When we heard about this, we were all, NO WAY, because we are from New York, and New York buses are ungainly giants that unwittingly crush everything in their wide-turning paths, while taxis want to veer onto the sidewalk, crush pedestrians to death, and park themselves inside restaurant plate glass windows, preferably windows with customers sitting just inside. But in Paris, the bus/bike lanes are wide enough for a bus to come up behind a bike, tinkle the special Pedestrian/Bike bell (which is purposefully gentle and charming-sounding, so that startled cyclists won't veer at the noise), and pass on the left with a margin of several feet. The taxis are similarly well-behaved--and what's more, they yield the right of way to cyclists. It's unbelievable. In two months of city cycling, we have been cut off only once: by a cop car, which made a right turn without signalling, right in front of La Potiche. <span style="font-style: italic;">Let it never be said that bike culture can flourish only in cities that have no motor traffic.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FTHY-8aTLqaxtT2fr5DRUoC6yTU6VnawS5F-elzTWLsCyqwiDiRWdNmndDMON7MF2ZQYi7CnbD1S6bW19sbB7xi3Ad43sh4hloSq-gm-i-8VoBjCnIUmlYMSyN_0bxtHIftaEEA1KWg_/s1600/veli.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FTHY-8aTLqaxtT2fr5DRUoC6yTU6VnawS5F-elzTWLsCyqwiDiRWdNmndDMON7MF2ZQYi7CnbD1S6bW19sbB7xi3Ad43sh4hloSq-gm-i-8VoBjCnIUmlYMSyN_0bxtHIftaEEA1KWg_/s400/veli.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726513041168524786" border="0" /></a>Those of you who knew La Potiche before the recent outbreak of outdoorsiness will not be surprised to hear that she's no athlete. She can only go a few miles before pooping out; she still falls off sometimes; and, going at top speed, she couldn't escape an angry dachshund named Vigo. Which makes Paris a perfect place for her to cycle, and Vélib a great way to do it.<br /><br />O City of Vélib! Vélib is the Parisian bikeshare program; it gives members unlimited access to bicycles, located all over the city, for short-term use. You can take as many rides as you like, so long as you keep them to 30 minutes (or 45 minutes, if you've subscribed to the Vélib PASSION plan. We have Vélib Passion, oh boy do we ever). If you want to take a long ride, you can ride around for 44.5 minutes--then pop your bike into the lock at the nearest stand--wait three minutes--and take your bike out again! And when you've ridden out to the 47th arrondissement and your legs are tired, no need to make your return trip: just pop your bike into the nearest stand and métro home instead! (If any Americans planning visits to Paris are reading this, note that there are various credit card problems that require you to sign up a few weeks in advance, online, so plan ahead!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSCastDeEy4QI5lhV7hqg7PW3zDWeNmnPJBWjH_eVZVHhPXT92A1oXAlgeZQIElT7o4wwZMB29O1JcYLmkNZj9zXdPaxQXH-MVheeG6SujXcD3btzoXKpJpnsAjqr5OG-RNti8ldrGuCF/s1600/bagatelle.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSCastDeEy4QI5lhV7hqg7PW3zDWeNmnPJBWjH_eVZVHhPXT92A1oXAlgeZQIElT7o4wwZMB29O1JcYLmkNZj9zXdPaxQXH-MVheeG6SujXcD3btzoXKpJpnsAjqr5OG-RNti8ldrGuCF/s400/bagatelle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726511074022450994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> (left: Parc de Bagatelle, Bois de Boulogne)</span></span><br />Did I mention that many of the people biking Paris are far from athletic? One of the funny quirks of the Vélib network is that nobody ever wants to ride up a hill. So Montmartre, which is located, famously, atop an extremely steep hill, has several Vélib stations containing no bikes, because people want to ride downhill (wheee!) but they take the subway back instead, leaving their bikes at a low-elevation rack. However, many of those high-altitude stations award bonus time to people who return their bikes there, as a reward! Le Prof and La Potiche have racked up two Velib+ bonuses so far, without much effort, because most of the bike paths are graded at a gentle incline. The ride up to Montmartre isn't bad at all, if you only take the correct route. (The ride up and over the hill in the Quartier Latin, however, was rather harsh, because unexpected. We rode right by the Panthéon without noticing it, because we were too busy trying not to puke.) But mostly, cycling here is too easy to make anybody puke, unless you're puking from joy that it's springtime and the daffodils are blooming at the Parc de Bagatelle and every single chocolate shop in this city is selling real whole egg shells filled with ganache.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCa-V9WBGI6xunQEXBrwkJJ0DYgp1X8iGIyZEGQYqbZfZxg4tEKB0ZNdwiUHaOEL8ap1ucfkedjKwI6hGIv5FfBJA9_01ujiGZvXMGjxRj9ygsh5Big3FcNLqPMhXmQ3T68MVxNhtFhKC/s1600/canal.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 69px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCa-V9WBGI6xunQEXBrwkJJ0DYgp1X8iGIyZEGQYqbZfZxg4tEKB0ZNdwiUHaOEL8ap1ucfkedjKwI6hGIv5FfBJA9_01ujiGZvXMGjxRj9ygsh5Big3FcNLqPMhXmQ3T68MVxNhtFhKC/s400/canal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726511984335244898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(left: Canal. Bike paths.)</span></span><br />There is only one thing La Potiche likes better than cycling around Paris, and it is messing around with a Sharpie. Here she has started mapping bike trips through the city, but each route only gets marked once, so you can't see how many times she and Le Prof have gone zipping along the Seine path from the Pont Neuf, two <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkuOPpd5_xSdE15Ms30wpd316B45YHi4gNMJ3Ued4qpbcGNpKDZWsCAgAxl6YRbAvAhm3o0keIvG-WmOtct1oIKl_m46_rabYvYfyFoKwGZsDvehur7vIpYsJZP-GuPNE0ag2bCHwmwTL/s1600/bikemap.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkuOPpd5_xSdE15Ms30wpd316B45YHi4gNMJ3Ued4qpbcGNpKDZWsCAgAxl6YRbAvAhm3o0keIvG-WmOtct1oIKl_m46_rabYvYfyFoKwGZsDvehur7vIpYsJZP-GuPNE0ag2bCHwmwTL/s400/bikemap.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726519678301083026" border="0" /></a>blocks from their apartment, along the Left Bank toward the Tour Eiffel. It is a marvelous ride, looking out at the water, the boats, the pollards, the cream, yellow, and gray stone buildings (the Louvre! The Musée d'Orsay! The gold dome of Les Invalides a-glittering in the sun!)--and the freaking Tour Eiffel!!!! It makes La Potiche want to scream <span style="font-weight: bold;">WHEEEEEEEEE!</span> but she is trying to blend in. We've gone cycling along the Canal Saint-Martin and Canal de l'Ourcq, and through the crazy crowds at Montmartre, and in a loop around the Arc de Triomphe, and along busy commuter passages to Gare du Nord and Gare de L'Est, and out to double-digit arrondissements to look at cherry blossoms and follies (Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, Parc de Monceau), and through the Latin Quarter, along the gorgeous Rue St-Jacques, past la Butte aux Cailles, and down to the Porte de Choisy to shop in Chinatown and buy banh mi (real baguettes make all the difference). By the time we leave this city, we hope that our bike map will be a crazy black-hatched spiderweb of cycling trips. We've ridden dirt paths along the canals, and cobblestones down Rue Poissonnière, and a good chunk of the Bois de Boulogne, a park two and a half times the size of Central Park and absolutely baffling.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCa-V9WBGI6xunQEXBrwkJJ0DYgp1X8iGIyZEGQYqbZfZxg4tEKB0ZNdwiUHaOEL8ap1ucfkedjKwI6hGIv5FfBJA9_01ujiGZvXMGjxRj9ygsh5Big3FcNLqPMhXmQ3T68MVxNhtFhKC/s1600/canal.jpg"></a><br />And a highway or two. Last night we cycled home from the Cinemathèque Française, along the ugliest, most desolate bit of bike path we've seen yet in Paris. Once you get out of the park, the bike lanes edge the highway through a commercial/industrial zone that shuts down completely at night. You've seen places like this in American cities, where there are no street crossings for pedestrians because there are no pedestrians, and no stores, no restaurants, no homes or playgrounds: just deserted office buildings and highway. But here, somebody decided that if people wanted to go this way by car, they might, also, want to go by bike, so they built a safe, practical lane. It was an ugly, dark, cold way, but we took it, and saw, ahead of us, other bike lights twinkling along the way.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohSl_Ln2Nig37z2Sat0WJowAIPDSjS75IukZ8P6GA56a1YG9rnDvpmN-Zdjzi_KDYRfV3PMSSA4LGSjE5Ez5TwB3Ly_tMmznqUVjYbkLRIoOBL2ndk_G6SUZuR9VuGNuvwgnAzfZW8C9q/s1600/K+bike.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohSl_Ln2Nig37z2Sat0WJowAIPDSjS75IukZ8P6GA56a1YG9rnDvpmN-Zdjzi_KDYRfV3PMSSA4LGSjE5Ez5TwB3Ly_tMmznqUVjYbkLRIoOBL2ndk_G6SUZuR9VuGNuvwgnAzfZW8C9q/s400/K+bike.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726513291506652114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(right: K biking at Versailles. Because I don't have a picture from last night, because we don't have a handlebar-mounted camera.)<br /></span></span>Then suddenly, the path swooped down a ramp, and we found ourselves riding through an outdoor riverside sculpture museum. All along the river, people were walking, sitting around drinking wine with friends, dancing...or cycling. It was startling, coming so soon after the previous dark way, and beautiful in that forceful way that startlingly beautiful things have. We kept saying, "Isn't it amazing?" because we could hardly believe our luck to be living in this city. Cycling is not the reason we came here, but it'll be one of the reasons we'll come back.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-28164708403910228092012-02-20T18:57:00.040+01:002012-02-23T21:26:34.773+01:00The Real, Real Reason We're In Paris<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GeFi25hoD7meahCOJStisJNVIRKSIyyQmzYHXimc_TPgK819cOL6Q22GO2ldBmSBzIbpjQ32FrKD8Z25M7ZZnyt6_N-Vr4hR6qSOxIN2Mm0LEHfUFiGO1qxBD6IeXKtqEhguev-ktsxx/s1600/man+with+wine.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GeFi25hoD7meahCOJStisJNVIRKSIyyQmzYHXimc_TPgK819cOL6Q22GO2ldBmSBzIbpjQ32FrKD8Z25M7ZZnyt6_N-Vr4hR6qSOxIN2Mm0LEHfUFiGO1qxBD6IeXKtqEhguev-ktsxx/s320/man+with+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711293128940905410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(left: France (?), c. 1460, <span style="font-style: italic;">Man with a glass of wine</span>, detail. Louvre)</span><br /><br />Some of you have asked if we have a schedule. Yes, we do! First, La Potiche gets sick. She's on her second cold here. Le Prof writes in the mornings while La Potiche snoozes and sneezes. Once Le Prof routs her out of bed, we go shopping for the day's groceries, which can take anywhere from ten minutes (if we visit the Bio a few doors down), or four hours, if we walk to a new street market. These walks often detour toward churches, parks, and unanticipated confiseurs. Then, somehow, lunch always happens right after the market walk, regardless of whether it was a 10-minute or 4-hour walk: Le Prof eats a hunk of bread and cheese and wine, just like in this painting, and La Potiche eats a quarter of a cauliflower and a jam-jar of yogurt, which is probably in a Flemish still life in the salle of the Louvre that was locked the other day. Then we sit down to write some more (or, for La Potiche, there is a commencement), though, ten minutes later, La Potiche declares, "It's sweetie time!" and routs out whatever candy or pastry we bought earlier that day. Then we really do write. Then we make supper, and afterwards, sometimes we study a little French (Le Prof is trying to master conversational French. La Potiche is trying to master Proust, and elle se fiche de conversational French, because she's going deaf and can't understand anything said to her in English, anyway, and really, what's wrong with spending all your time in Paris alone, wheezing in a cork-lined room? More on that, later). Sometimes, we go out to see parades (two!), and movies (<span style="font-style: italic;">The Artist</span>--more on that, too, later), and friends in cafés.<br /><br />But the rest of the time, we are busy being Amis du Louvre (Friends of the Louvre)! We paid a membership fee that lets us make as many visits as we want for the duration of our stay in Paris. In the one month and three days we've been in Paris, we've paid five visits to the Louvre, at an average of three hours per visit. Which is to say, we have seen <span style="font-weight: bold;">nearly all</span> of the salles on one floor in one wing (Richelieu 2ème), which leaves us two more wings of four floors each. <span style="font-weight: bold;">(Correction: and all the rest of Richelieu, of course!) </span>To put this in perspective, we have also visited the following museums/things-like-museums:<br /><ul><li><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjKYSOTffY7OQnrbZ9-LsMxODXWgDmSiW7Z0KGGxMizHBZNVn3NFjaI8cuVfjIS-JTiy9kGuGZDIMPgK75pR5rKfCyZUAZ2nzdOeORqui2ZlTPA_h2xiHogpF1yC8vW3B1ilSGHYs3pul/s1600/amis.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjKYSOTffY7OQnrbZ9-LsMxODXWgDmSiW7Z0KGGxMizHBZNVn3NFjaI8cuVfjIS-JTiy9kGuGZDIMPgK75pR5rKfCyZUAZ2nzdOeORqui2ZlTPA_h2xiHogpF1yC8vW3B1ilSGHYs3pul/s200/amis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711303717573521362" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629085880097/">La Maison de Victor Hugo</a>, for a show on the Communard Louise Michel and to see his fancy dishes</li><li><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629066073029/">Le Musée du Quai Branly</a>, for the "The Invention of the Savage," an expo on the history of human expos and only a peek at the Mesoamerican collection<br /></li><li><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629229015241/">Le Musée national du Moyen Âge</a> ("Moyen Âge" = "Middle Ages"), for 3/4 of the permanent collection and the show "Gaston Fébus, Prince Soleil"</li><li><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629129116649/">Le Musée d'Art et d'Histoire du Judaisme</a>, for the expo on the Walter Benjamin Archives</li><li><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629289715715/">Le Tour Jean Sans Peur</a>, for "L'animal au Moyen Âge" and a dizzying climb to the top<br /></li><li><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629385069169/">Le Grand Palais</a>, for an expo on giant relief maps from Louis XIV to Napoléon</li><li><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629326739813/">La basilique-cathédrale de Saint-Denis</a>, which you heard about on Valentine's Day</li></ul>--And, most recently, today: the Galérie Saint-German and Réfectoire des Cordeliers, for a gallery show of the work of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/sets/72157629404421593/">Lydie Arickx</a>. The Réfectoire is a gorgeous gallery space.<br /><br />This brings me to a personal revelation, which is what blogging is for. Several years ago, a stranger trying to make smalltalk with me asked, "Do you like art?" And I almost choked on a burst of self-righteous indignation and condescension. What kind of a goon would ask a no-brainer like that? And how on earth could I lump the billions of cultural productions out there under the rubric of art, to be liked or disliked? I have no doubt that I replied in a pretentious, malicious way, then abandoned him to go in search of a cocktail shrimp to commune with on a higher plane.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj070AtMv70w_k66eqMBiwy42lKidvJc6jJKdtJe6-bUpFx58aIvzBb_jfysVKqnfGQCx_hx0EOOYd2TdbczqHSprQX8vsowTOIaFYexCB97p9GsSsWRCMvhsBW4dBcrDOQBUsDFRKxQhZo/s1600/alison.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj070AtMv70w_k66eqMBiwy42lKidvJc6jJKdtJe6-bUpFx58aIvzBb_jfysVKqnfGQCx_hx0EOOYd2TdbczqHSprQX8vsowTOIaFYexCB97p9GsSsWRCMvhsBW4dBcrDOQBUsDFRKxQhZo/s320/alison.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711302289763247106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(right: either a Mayan warrior sculpture, c. 800-1000, or La Potiche's attitude problem. Musée du Quai Branly)<br /><br /></span>Now, however, I know that there were much better ways for me to respond. Not only friendly ways, but also ways that might have pointed out to me some deficits in my aesthetic sensibilities, and enabled some great changes in my enjoyment of life. Because at that time, the truth was that I didn't like art. I had ideas about art, or rather, prejudices I'd picked up. They had nothing to do with an expansive knowledge of art, and a great deal to do with showing I was the right kind of person, with the right kind of biases, which I wore like the right kind of accessories.<br /><br />As a result, I didn't like anything that was too "popular" (the Impressionists, or the more floral Van Gogh productions, or anything else that might be represented on a mouse pad). Things made before, roughly, 1880 (like ancient Greek sculpture, or Leonardo's paintings), were to be admired for good form, but otherwise disregarded as irrelevant. (To what? I didn't ask.) Hieronymus Bosch was an exception to that rule, because he was Dark. Good art exposed the Dark Side of the Force, which meant that Goya, Schiele, Van Gogh in a bad mood, Bacon, and anything Japanese was okay; also, agony was good, because it was political, or something. Works made after, roughly, 1930, were also irrelevant, unless they were goth, steampunk, or graphic novels. Colors were to be regarded with suspicion. And having these views didn't mean you actually had to go look at art, because you could just sit in a coffeeshop listening to some cute guy with lots of opinions, and you'd learn all you had to know about Which Artists Mattered. Oh, and Barbara Kruger counted too, because these guys were always Feminists.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9w-QeyrWv90co7Zmj4q7sWhFKkMDLW6AKO6byUG79aRHjAcL99mkJLRxLLwAg3OatNsNAr6S5THHLf_7vOreqo43g8W2BgpxxAdzkRp_Xg3tHHEKMaZdcxrTv7JyUuAcqvAg4GfERfXa/s1600/6840283019_46af1a3277_b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh9w-QeyrWv90co7Zmj4q7sWhFKkMDLW6AKO6byUG79aRHjAcL99mkJLRxLLwAg3OatNsNAr6S5THHLf_7vOreqo43g8W2BgpxxAdzkRp_Xg3tHHEKMaZdcxrTv7JyUuAcqvAg4GfERfXa/s320/6840283019_46af1a3277_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711298450631418402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(left: The consul Areobindus presides over the games, 506, Constantinople. Cluny Museum)<br /></span>Then Le Prof, who wasn't yet Le Prof, just this skinny guy (he really was skinny; he weighed 156 pounds with his shoes on) who lived in a walk-in closet in Williamsburg and had somehow read Everything and really enjoyed it all, came into my life. That was when I began to realize that there was something lacking in the way I'd buzz through a museum in search of the Darkest painting in the collection, check it off my list of things to Darkly regard, then head out for coffee. "Oh my god!" Le Prof-Pas-Encore would cry. "LOOK AT THIS!!!!!!" And he'd point at a millimeter-sized detail in some ivory thing from the eleventh century--in a casement, or even a whole room that I hadn't even noticed--and I'd look, and realize that a whole world was contained in the ivory thing, from which Le Prof would spin out anecdotes from books he'd read and other ivory things he'd looked at and books he intended to read but hadn't gotten to yet. And then, after two hours of ivory thingies, Le Prof would want to move on to the Egyptian wing. Or Oceania. Or German Nostalgic Pastoral Works Between the World Wars. Or all the galleries on the Lower East Side. Or all of these and more. It was like Journey; it went on and on and on and o-o-on.... But it was fun. He made it fun to slow down and look.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl9eoevfG2YIc25UXzzsJlXH-BNgU2Rpt0G52CMr0VKwpZ-_sjRTiwk3dFaUGZuJ8ydqQFGrU0FejoNs7dowUXCXVjKJvpFrv5Db7X8Qk01Y3CBMAzlgg26OCZbBhuu-L4VUMILWjBWyP/s1600/sphinx.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl9eoevfG2YIc25UXzzsJlXH-BNgU2Rpt0G52CMr0VKwpZ-_sjRTiwk3dFaUGZuJ8ydqQFGrU0FejoNs7dowUXCXVjKJvpFrv5Db7X8Qk01Y3CBMAzlgg26OCZbBhuu-L4VUMILWjBWyP/s320/sphinx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711309896839903234" border="0" /></a>I'm not sure how much Le Prof realized what a constraint he put me under, to have to look. But it was thanks to him that I realized that I'd divided not just art, but also books and music and film and spectacles and walks and travel and foods and conversations and friends and work, into a narrowly defined realm of the Interesting, and a much wider, undifferentiated realm of the Boring, without having realized that interest is a state of mind in the beholder. I didn't just lack knowledge and experience; I lacked curiosity, without which I could never even realize the aesthetic, intellectual, and emotional boundaries I'd imposed on myself, much less do anything about widening them. What I had to do was to learn To Be Interested. I think that urging me toward that realization, and giving me a living example of how to Be Interested, not just in art, but in lots of stuff, are, by far, the greatest things that Le Prof has ever done for me. <span style="font-size:85%;"><br />(right: Not dark, and unbelievably gorgeous: Sarcophagus, Sphinx, İstanbul Arkeoloji Müzeleri. That stone is like velvet.)</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2obl5PjMXLdw82iMIj2-9iH27oORfU9i46pgDHCqmPP3x62y3Hzn9weQ7NYlfGM0JFhjIeOu-WXnvrzB_qhrWwfdWE3VS27Y-0KkYjQDfH0saeD4V0x6_XMxbeaoghEI72eBCFFC3m6R/s1600/poussin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2obl5PjMXLdw82iMIj2-9iH27oORfU9i46pgDHCqmPP3x62y3Hzn9weQ7NYlfGM0JFhjIeOu-WXnvrzB_qhrWwfdWE3VS27Y-0KkYjQDfH0saeD4V0x6_XMxbeaoghEI72eBCFFC3m6R/s200/poussin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711304923143278754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(left: hard-to-photograph detail from Nicolas Poussin, <span style="font-style: italic;">Triumph of Flora</span>, c. 1627-28)</span><br />This is not to say that my taste in or knowledge of art has deepened or improved in a significant way. Rather, in looking more, and liking more, I've only started to glimpse just how much I won't have time to learn or see before I up and die. We have friends who are artists, who are sometimes kind enough to discuss their and others' work with us, and it blows our minds: they know so many things about how to look, and what to look for; their taste is so exquisite; they tell us, "You must see this Poussin show,"or "This is the wrong place to look at Richard Serra," or, sometimes, "This show represents everything that is worst about the art world," about something we've liked, and they make us think. They have a voracious curiosity to make, see, and learn, that is the opposite of the kind of mastery that would claim to have already seen it all, known it all. Art is exciting to me now, not because I've seen it all and know what I like, but for the chance to look at what I don't think I like, and discover why I should; to be astonished by looking at that which I'd never imagined to exist; and to review that which I thought I knew, only to find that I didn't, at all. I enjoy my feelings of ignorance more than I ever enjoyed my pretensions of knowing, because now I'm able to marvel. At beauty! The more things I can find beautiful, the better. I hadn't realized, before, how savorless life was without it.<span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsODPcjNSFCLELB6uRq4PGS4WCqwiPJGv1ZEdC7SVMvRZBsHPK9yogOatWguFaC0uOw_Um4AgajBXkYSSkIbwWm1WboUNQLmUQNLkOBIIQC2i422EJ8URrPV8ZnxKxq8oGpAw5T3alM0FR/s1600/elizabeth.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsODPcjNSFCLELB6uRq4PGS4WCqwiPJGv1ZEdC7SVMvRZBsHPK9yogOatWguFaC0uOw_Um4AgajBXkYSSkIbwWm1WboUNQLmUQNLkOBIIQC2i422EJ8URrPV8ZnxKxq8oGpAw5T3alM0FR/s400/elizabeth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711313748441876258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(left: François Clouet, <span style="font-style: italic;">Elizabeth of Austria</span>. Louvre)<br /></span>So, the Real Reason we came to Paris was to go crawling through the Louvre and a hundred other museums, looking, very slowly, very carefully at the works, and trying to see what they are. (So carefully that, in fact, when La Potiche was examining a painting of fruit and flowers the other day, she suddenly screamed and bolted backwards into the midst of a tour group. She had spotted a caterpillar. La Potiche <span style="font-weight: bold;">really</span> does not like caterpillars.) And if you need any evidence that this was the Real Reason, you need only look at our Flickr galleries. Maybe there is something gauche about being the tourists with the cameras in the Louvre. But it's important to us to be able to revisit, again and again, the things we liked, and to record details of make and date so we can learn more about what we've seen; we also like to share things we think are marvelous and want everybody to see, especially those friends who want to see for themselves but can't get to Paris any time in the near future.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vdwTFcq7lfAKHDVUwVp5UyRlFTivDEX9nWvRMNGRBXtW5VeO0CwmKbJWh4qBSz4TIikX_xd27ib7YKR8BcHyWkZg8hvZKuvMQzU98yUs6t7_0PWx2g7U-gLLNtGVumKdKYEkEMrPKeI-/s1600/henri.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vdwTFcq7lfAKHDVUwVp5UyRlFTivDEX9nWvRMNGRBXtW5VeO0CwmKbJWh4qBSz4TIikX_xd27ib7YKR8BcHyWkZg8hvZKuvMQzU98yUs6t7_0PWx2g7U-gLLNtGVumKdKYEkEMrPKeI-/s320/henri.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711307639899782114" border="0" /></a>Our galleries are governed by certain constraints, however. We don't keep the many, many photos that inadequately capture what's awesome in a work; the Louvre, in particular, has terrible lighting, and hangs things in such a way that there's always a glare, even when you're standing right in front of a picture. Surveillance systems could learn a lot from their lighting. And we don't often photograph things you can find thousands of images of online, so you won't find <span style="font-style: italic;">La Joconde</span> in our files, unless, by chance, we see something spectacular happening near her, and she just gets in the way. Since Karl's the one who really enjoys taking photos, many of them are related to his research. And when they're not, they're often motivated by a mixture of whimsy and astonishment. And love of cat pictures.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(right: in the category of the utterly rad, from the Entourage of Toussaint Debreuil, <span style="font-style: italic;">Portrait of King Henri IV as Hercules treading on the Lernean Hydra</span>. Louvre. That smirk! Those shorts!)</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBI_E5GIjnkqOBoNXOcnRsodAk7Za8RvIewzCpromxViEGiez0fHS6jIi_xuDLjdqCsfp1wq4WMS9R6PVzgP6usEebAYVysoI-PC_eUHBsGgY7bJIYpdxNvTwavU8mmPe40dRlM2EQz1E5/s1600/6672002777_1894332e43_b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBI_E5GIjnkqOBoNXOcnRsodAk7Za8RvIewzCpromxViEGiez0fHS6jIi_xuDLjdqCsfp1wq4WMS9R6PVzgP6usEebAYVysoI-PC_eUHBsGgY7bJIYpdxNvTwavU8mmPe40dRlM2EQz1E5/s200/6672002777_1894332e43_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711297197267762850" border="0" /></a>And Le Prof has a taste for ceramics. He really, really loves a certain kind of ceramic. If you view our gallery from the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, you'll find ceramic upon ceramic upon ceramic. It was our third trip to the museum together, and this was the first time we actually made it all the way through the ceramics wing, though by the end of it we were crying a little, because we just couldn't look at any more ceramics.<br /><br />There are also dozens or hundreds of things that just made us stop and say, "Wow," and stare, and appreciate. Having a record of all those moments of Wow, counting them up and realizing how many moments of our lives we're devoting to WOW, is reason enough for the project.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOx8O0cGSZXTOvxe-6pfeRg_11oKQroXr1g4RL6GdtkTyfKfMwncIWB7aBGrDiVGoH4MgM9KGiDIuZOOiUh4T0qKOpIPn_Fa4-wkrTY7ZLPP_vbzNHPUTb_i4_QN0jHEdICO6M-37Q-U8/s1600/weep.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOx8O0cGSZXTOvxe-6pfeRg_11oKQroXr1g4RL6GdtkTyfKfMwncIWB7aBGrDiVGoH4MgM9KGiDIuZOOiUh4T0qKOpIPn_Fa4-wkrTY7ZLPP_vbzNHPUTb_i4_QN0jHEdICO6M-37Q-U8/s320/weep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711300591731221362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">(right: Enguerrand Quarton, Pietà de Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, c. 1455, detail of the Magdalene, Louvre. <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wow. Holy freaking wow.</span></span>)<br /></span>So this is your introduction to our Flickr collections, which contain many images Le Prof couldn't bother to upload to Facebook. As some of you know, we left the U.S. on January 3 and visited friends (and museums!) in London and Istanbul before coming to Paris. You will see that our photos are sorted, conveniently, into art collections and slice-of-life collections. You'll also see that we haven't even gotten around to rotating and labeling some of them. If you don't <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to see 3000 pictures of 18th-century ceramics, you don't have to. But I really do think you will be the better for it, because everybody should cry a little at the beauty of the world.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Links:<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/collections/72157628812968715/">Our London Collection</a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/collections/72157628820970769/">Our Istanbul Collection</a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/collections/72157628940203493/">Our Paris Collection</a> (ever-growing)<br /></span></span><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-8928556352010235392012-02-14T17:25:00.017+01:002012-02-14T18:38:28.484+01:00Happy Valentine's Day From the City of Pentanoic Acid<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCJh8pcePUj6q-2GUmokPNa2gKpk6lXF6xn7HrtYQ9lnJa9rnqQR0xB2w7b9GuHhEmxkk2KtGUhcbZBFtYdY4FkxLdES5HGhGUXOP1t0OBOifTwwgNXldQ1mKwYMBPGQ-QIuHCL8evEEO/s1600/cupid.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCJh8pcePUj6q-2GUmokPNa2gKpk6lXF6xn7HrtYQ9lnJa9rnqQR0xB2w7b9GuHhEmxkk2KtGUhcbZBFtYdY4FkxLdES5HGhGUXOP1t0OBOifTwwgNXldQ1mKwYMBPGQ-QIuHCL8evEEO/s320/cupid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709030821422788386" border="0" /></a>How to spend Valentine's Day in Paris? The obvious answer was to do what we like best to do with our free time here: to stand by ourselves in out-of-the-way rooms in the Louvre, looking at paintings for hours and not really speaking much. But the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays, so we will have to save our thoughts on art for another post, apart from these two little valentines.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(</span><span style="font-size:85%;">left: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >The Triumph of Love, </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Domenico Zampieri and Daniel Seghers</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;">right, below: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Funeral of Love</span><span style="font-size:85%;">, attributed to Henri Lerambert, c. 1589)</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiVrZr4vIAsM2cicYLx8f2noEzEwgBAxulO6JMlBzVAYzREkl129wgPhgTEX8uRQROlavHUWRcqJHWa6-ZdQh4wnb8d3i5hYvka_KdPNyDnxdDm7N8a-dZtub4hpS9q88V_OJn3AL1DTt/s1600/funeral.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiVrZr4vIAsM2cicYLx8f2noEzEwgBAxulO6JMlBzVAYzREkl129wgPhgTEX8uRQROlavHUWRcqJHWa6-ZdQh4wnb8d3i5hYvka_KdPNyDnxdDm7N8a-dZtub4hpS9q88V_OJn3AL1DTt/s320/funeral.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709031087044056722" border="0" /></a><br />Plan B was hatched two weeks ago, when La Potiche arranged her desk with a cup of coffee, the tin of prune-filled prunes, and the Franck Kestener (a 2003 Meilleur Ouvrier de France Chocolatier*) Atlantique Sablé croquant et caramel tendre à la fleur de sel (the chocolate bar she mentioned before, from Ètoile d'Or: the brown sugar cookie covered with fleur de sel-salted caramel and chocolate), which is the second most delicious candy on earth, to do her and Le Prof's taxes. She'd calculated that their federal income tax refund would roll in just in time for Valentine's Day, so that she could spend the whole thing on Ladurée macarons and tell Le Prof that it was a present for him.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-ANUMYH07-Q" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe><br />(* Who are the Meilleurs Ouvriers de France, or Best Artisans of France? They are artisans recognized as the best from among 162 trades, including pastry chefs, chocolatiers, denture-makers, bra-fashioners, and lab photographers. Check out the reality show documentary <span style="font-style: italic;">The Kings of Pastry</span>, which, as seen in this trailer, starts to get really fun when the disasters start at the 1:00 mark.)<br /><br />But, even though the refund has come, we have decided, for reasons we won't go into, because the last thing we need is more vitriol-spewing hate mail inundating our mailbox, that we feel blasé about Ladurée macarons. We would rather spend our €uros on more Franck Kestener chocolate bars, or the box of Breton salted caramels we picked up yesterday for sneaking into the opera.<br /><br />Yes! Not <span style="font-style: italic;">Götterdämmerung</span> Live in HD, awesome as it was, but something Live in Live! L'Opéra Bastille! How could we spend a winter in Paris and not go to the real live Opera? Well, we did, and we chose <span style="font-style: italic;">Manon</span>, because it was French, and we're in France. What we didn't know about <span style="font-style: italic;">Manon</span> was that there would be a totally appropriate duet that went just like the time that Le Prof said, "What should we do with my leave time?"<br /><br />And La Potiche replied, "Go backpacking across China for six months! I wanna see Qinghai Lake and the Terracotta Army in Shaanxi and the panda reserve and the Harbin Ice Festival and the Guilin Mountains and the Yunnan rice terraces and hear a Flying Song in Guizhou!" Then she put on her shiny tinfoil hat and started singing a Flying Song, just like this:<br /> <iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/kpGFD0E6mJk" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />La Potiche's favorite song in the world, except for the Rainbow Bread song. She takes every opportunity to link to it.</span><br /><br />Anyway, Le Prof said, "You're not planning to do any work, are you?"<br />La Potiche said, "No way! No siree, Bob!"<br />Le Prof said, "Uh, I gotta write a thing on The Abyss and a response paper on Skin and a couple talks."<br />La Potiche said, "Uh. How about Paris, then? You know what they say about Paris: <span style="font-style: italic;">you can write lots of response papers there</span>."<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6PisS9jNgn4" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe><br /><br />And as it turned out, that's just how this song goes in <span style="font-style: italic;">Manon</span>!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">À Paris! à Paris, tous les deux! / Nous vivrons à Paris! </span><br style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(In Paris! In Paris, the two of us! We'll live in Paris!")</span><br /><br />And there's another song, wherein it is revealed that Manon and her boyfriend's apartment has only a tiny little table, and only a single drinking glass for tous les deux! It's just like ours! So anyway, the REAL reason we came to Paris is that, according to some people, you can't write things on The Abyss while you're fighting pandas. Although some other people ask, what is more abyssal, really, than looking into the eyes of a fighting panda? But it's what stranded us here on Valentine's Day, with nothing to do, because <span style="font-style: italic;">Manon</span> happened last night.<br /><br />After the Ladurée plan hit an epic Fail, La Potiche's Plan C involved buying raw milk crème fraîche and fromage blanc, cooking up sweet onions and chives, and making what would be The World's Awesomest Onion Dip, to go with Lays potato chips. But La Potiche realized that she'd rather save it for a time when she could enjoy her orgy of complete self-indulgence without having to share. When Le Prof heads off to State College, PA this spring to give one of his talks, and La Potiche will be all by herself for three days in Paris...<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucullus#Gastronome">Lucullus will dine with Lucullus</a>.<br /><br />That left her still pondering what to do for Valentine's Day. What two sexy words come to mind when YOU hear "Valentine's Day?" La Potiche finally came up with...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTVmfV67W5AVhY1iUwOcMQM5RM6HZLT6eGVBfVTv7972F1G2RLlcPF6WbdD2AzI2cYpp9h1d71EFnlxSRO_qhTIMJrNd-FFd9nFeMOCsirj9CB4QnwGsXeiKJxIsBdGKLilU4l5ojwPm1/s1600/necropolis.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTVmfV67W5AVhY1iUwOcMQM5RM6HZLT6eGVBfVTv7972F1G2RLlcPF6WbdD2AzI2cYpp9h1d71EFnlxSRO_qhTIMJrNd-FFd9nFeMOCsirj9CB4QnwGsXeiKJxIsBdGKLilU4l5ojwPm1/s320/necropolis.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709036294854387410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />NECROPOLIS</span></span><br /><br />and<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">BANLIEUE!</span></span><br /><br />So off we went to la basilique-cathédrale de Saint-Denis. And La Potiche has to say, there was something so romantic in Le Prof's eyes, as he gazed upon the statue of Jeanne de Bourbon (1338-1378) clutching her entrails to her chest, that all her hard work was rewarded.<br /><br />What's in the Ladurée box?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTITLthABya6fa2PGcXRxlNG_MwMPViQz3DWhtmruzSszLrYnFENZeYyEhfclhjENzxUmOhNlvbgyeD6CImXFNEcHHMx8J4dqnzJZ3CnG-yXbfEMLR58K47YjpHLTtLw6NzOKicgC8fmuc/s1600/box.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTITLthABya6fa2PGcXRxlNG_MwMPViQz3DWhtmruzSszLrYnFENZeYyEhfclhjENzxUmOhNlvbgyeD6CImXFNEcHHMx8J4dqnzJZ3CnG-yXbfEMLR58K47YjpHLTtLw6NzOKicgC8fmuc/s200/box.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709036826167426898" border="0" /></a> Why, it's the mummified heart of the Dauphin who would have been Louis XVII! Thanks, honey!<br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_4DaSMTNOAfF0vkyd7kAWJePv1WdVU8sStYNVXox_xFXgOBrz_bSqrk27hzN7oxzi5SWaisISpbSM70Rs4EWCusGpxkTj8wQ_Gje-JYwjZKdF9qJCICDV9kvfmFzowIxTaixsCu__BrO/s1600/heart.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_4DaSMTNOAfF0vkyd7kAWJePv1WdVU8sStYNVXox_xFXgOBrz_bSqrk27hzN7oxzi5SWaisISpbSM70Rs4EWCusGpxkTj8wQ_Gje-JYwjZKdF9qJCICDV9kvfmFzowIxTaixsCu__BrO/s200/heart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709038933484961298" border="0" /></a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-34209812894539375202012-02-07T10:46:00.005+01:002012-02-07T16:31:54.894+01:00Un Autre fourre-tout<b>Another Grab Bag</b><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6775210949/" title="Musée qu quai Branly. Scene of a Kanak dance. by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7017/6775210949_cf29cd4fff_z.jpg" alt="Musée qu quai Branly. Scene of a Kanak dance." height="476" width="640" /></a></div><br />Concerning cramped Parisian apartments, <a href="http://vimeo.com/16224943">Merritt Symes</a>, <a href="http://www.upress.umn.edu/book-division/books/human-error">Dominic Pettman's</a> wife, remarked that she feels gigantic. Here, the sinks, the lights and all the other household amenities are too close to one another. I feel like she does in this Hobbit-Town. We have outsized hands and bodies. We move, we destroy. The Potiche, though, pretends that she has a perfect lightness, but <a href="http://www.frenchpeterpan.com/article-e-e-cummings-65048811.html">no one, not even the Potiche, has such little hands</a>.<br /><br />Not long ago, la Potiche and le Prof visited the Museum of the Quai Branly and saw the show "<a href="http://www.quaibranly.fr/fr/programmation/expositions/a-l-affiche/exhibitions.html">The Invention of the Savage</a>." La Potiche said to me that she had never seen such a beautiful collection of horrible objects. She has other ideas, below, in the comments. For my part, I wish that the show had as much on interior colonialism as it did on foreign imperialism. The invention of the savage and the invention of France fed each other. Moreover, for Paris, even France was a foreign country. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here you go, a poster that satisfies me: <div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6775205299/" title="Musée du quai Branly. Poster, 1909. by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7004/6775205299_a095f920f3_m.jpg" alt="Musée du quai Branly. Poster, 1909." height="240" width="174" /></a></div>It seems to me that Paris also wondered at wooden shoes and <a href="https://www.google.fr/search?q=coiffes+bretonnes&hl=fr&prmd=imvns&source=lnms&tbm=isch&ei=xhkxT8i9IOLF0QXeoZTBBw&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=2&sqi=2&ved=0CB8Q_AUoAQ&biw=1360&bih=656">Breton head-dresses</a>.<br /><br />There are more fundamental problems for museums as a whole. It seemed to us that the show condemned colonial ideas and, at the same time, reveled in them. This is a touchy problem for museums: we visit them like tourists; we amuse ourselves; and no matter what horror we see there, we have the pleasure of leisure in them. To see correctly, to make museums more serious, we need more pleasure in our own lives.<br /><br />A rather silly remark: at the Cluny museum, we saw the show "<a href="http://www.musee-moyenage.fr/homes/home_id20722_u1l2.htm">Gaston Febus (1331-1391) - Sun Prince</a>." I really liked it, but <a href="http://books.google.fr/books?id=YmWF6E452ygC&lpg=PA203&dq=orton%20gaston&pg=PA203#v=onepage&q&f=false">where was his spirit adviser, Orton</a>? Cluny told us stories of hunting and filicide--thanks!--but if a very powerful man has a spectral friend...<br /><br />One more thing: I am slowly reading <i><a href="http://www.archive.org/stream/lesruesdeparispa01luriuoft#page/n11/mode/2up">The Roads of Paris</a></i> (1844): the roads before Haussmann! I'm losing myself in it/them. This book is a true treasure. You, <a href="https://www.google.fr/search?tbm=bks&tbo=1&q=discipline+and+punish+damiens&btnG=">reader of Foucault</a>, you know the story of the unspeakable end of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert-Francois_Damiens">Robert-François Damiens</a>. <a href="http://www.archive.org/stream/lesruesdeparispa01luriuoft#page/30/mode/1up">Here</a> are the words of Eugène Briffault on this subject:<blockquote>Regardless of these grand traditions, the deeds that we just recounted will be a kind of monument to abominable cruelty: they occurred in the era where the French nation prided itself on being the most polished of all. The Era of Louis XIV followed the birth of the philosophy that began to enlighten the world, and it was in this light, before such a people, that we displayed this splendid [or tawdry] ferocity!</blockquote><br /><i>Au sujet de l'exiguïté des appartements parisiens, <a href="http://vimeo.com/16224943">Merritt Symes</a>, la femme de <a href="http://www.upress.umn.edu/book-division/books/human-error">Dominic Pettman</a>, a fait remarquer qu'elle se sent gigantesque. Ici, les éviers, les lumières et toutes les autres installations sont trop près l'un de l'autre. Je me sens comme elle dans cette ville hobbitesque. Nous avons les mains et les corps démesurés. On déplace, on détruit. La Potiche, elle prétend qu'elle ait une légèreté parfaite, <a href="http://www.frenchpeterpan.com/article-e-e-cummings-65048811.html">mais personne, même pas la Potiche, n’a de si petites mains</a>.<br /><br />Il n'y a pas longtemps la Potiche et le Prof ont visité le musée du Quai Branly et ont vu l'exposition « <a href="http://www.quaibranly.fr/fr/programmation/expositions/a-l-affiche/exhibitions.html">L’invention du sauvage</a>. » La Potiche m'a dit qu'il eût la plus belle collection des objets horribles qu'elle n'ait jamais vus. Elle a des autres idées, en bas, dans les commentaires. Moi, je souhaitais que l'exposition exposait le colonialisme intérieur autant qu'il exposait l’impérialisme étranger. L'invention du sauvage et l'invention de la France se nourrissaient l'un et l'autre. De plus, à Paris, même la France était un pays étranger. Voilà, un poster que me satisfait ; il me semble que la Paris s'émerveillait aussi des sabots et <a href="https://www.google.fr/search?q=coiffes+bretonnes&hl=fr&prmd=imvns&source=lnms&tbm=isch&ei=xhkxT8i9IOLF0QXeoZTBBw&sa=X&oi=mode_link&ct=mode&cd=2&sqi=2&ved=0CB8Q_AUoAQ&biw=1360&bih=656">des coiffes bretonnes</a>.<br /><br />Pour les musées, il y a des problèmes plus fondamentaux. Il nous semblait que l'exhibition condamnait les idées colonialistes et conjointement se délectait d'elles. C'est un problème délicat pour les musées : on les visite comme touristes ; on s'amuse ; n'importe quelle horreur on y voit, on y a le plaisir de loisir. De voir correctement, de rendre les musées plus serieux, nous avons besoin de plus de plaisir dans nos propres vies.<br /><br />Une remarque assez frivole : au Muśee Cluny, nous avons vu l'exposition "<a href="http://www.musee-moyenage.fr/homes/home_id20722_u1l2.htm">Gaston Fébus (1331-1391) - Prince Soleil</a>.” Moi, je l'ai adoré, <a href="http://books.google.fr/books?id=a_l_vzU5tuEC&dq=orton%20gaston&pg=PA147#v=onepage&q&f=false">mais où était son fantôme conseiller, Orton</a>? Cluny nous a raconté les histoires de la chasse et filicide—merci!</i><i>—</i><i>mais si un homme très fort avait un ami spectral...</i></div><div><i><br />Une chose plus : je lentement lis <a href="http://www.archive.org/stream/lesruesdeparispa01luriuoft#page/n11/mode/2up">Les Rues de Paris</a> (1844) : les rues avant Haussmann! Je m'y perds. Ce livre est un vrai trésor. Vous, <a href="https://www.google.fr/search?tbm=bks&tbo=1&q=discipline+and+punish+damiens&btnG=">une lectrice de Foucault</a>, vous savez l'histoire de la fin épouvantable de <a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Fran%C3%A7ois_Damiens">Robert-François Damiens</a>. <a href="http://www.archive.org/stream/lesruesdeparispa01luriuoft#page/30/mode/1up">Voilà</a> les mots de Eugène Briffault au ce sujet:</i><blockquote><i>Malgré ces formidables traditions, les actes que nous venons de rappeler resteront comme un monument d'abominable cruauté; ils se passaient à l'époque où la nation française se vantait d'être la plus polie de l'univers. Au siècle de Louis XIV succédait l'avènement de cette philosophie qui entreprit d'éclairer le monde, et c'était à ces clartés, a la face de tout un peuple, qu'on déployait ce faste de férocité!</i></blockquote></div></div>medievalkarlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12440542200843836794noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-25386173079220130952012-02-05T09:32:00.026+01:002012-02-05T18:03:37.796+01:00COLD! And, The Pursuit of Excellence<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oCSrBqs2MyCLurHWebIgq0sGXOC8I9-QK-ZX4bHDSa0pRiCUUayEAEZajx6RGSsVKbIMeKYGIgQ_VZ6565Sf2wd83MzOnVWI-01uwe0WrgDOulhVgUcQSdMxrnaqIb_ZU6wu5kOMDz28/s1600/icy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oCSrBqs2MyCLurHWebIgq0sGXOC8I9-QK-ZX4bHDSa0pRiCUUayEAEZajx6RGSsVKbIMeKYGIgQ_VZ6565Sf2wd83MzOnVWI-01uwe0WrgDOulhVgUcQSdMxrnaqIb_ZU6wu5kOMDz28/s320/icy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705679846133097410" border="0" /></a>It's been <span style="font-weight: bold;">cold</span> in Paris; at night, it's dropping into the teens, and today it snowed. The streets are glazed with ice; the wind whips down the Haussmannian avenues; and all the piles of dog poop have frozen semi-solid on the sidewalks, which is about as good as you get. Our little space heater runs night and day, and we have taken to wearing long underwear all the time, and for a few days La Potiche had nothing to write for you, because she was busy rereading <span style="font-style: italic;">Dune</span> to keep warm. Even les Français are looking cold: they're wearing two scarves at the same time over their noses, and occasionally covering their glossy hair with HATS. The little dogs are wearing coats but still playing the flâneur, wandering unleashed up and down the sidewalks, browsing shop windows, and completely disregarding their so-called owners who stand shivering thirty meters away, shouting, "Vigo! VIGO!"<br /><br />On the first day of the cold snap, when the mid-afternoon high was predicted to reach 21, we decided to go for a nearly six-mile walk, the first half all uphill, to a bakery in Montmartre.<br /><br />Why? Because Pascal Barillon, of the bakery Au Levain d'Antan (which means, roughly, the Sourdough of Yesteryear, which may or may not be a pun on Yesterday's Bread?), won the Grand prix 2011 de la meilleure baguette parisienne (2011 Grand Prize for the Best Parisian Baguette). Jeffrey Steingarten wrote a thrilling account of the first such baguette competition in the '90s, an effort to revive and popularize the traditional baguette, which was being edged out by non-sourdough, machine-made loaves. Last spring, 136 baguettes were entered in the competition, after 38 were eliminated on technical grounds, and Barillon won and will hold the title till next spring.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEmgX-JJTLm3_J37qPC-22yBc1nKsneU-3jwGHs65EV0pSQvspA6Uk8nobhxQEopNQ3rT9pm0iOnb-fBQmULKvnnJV-vunRbsOYXb-7q1G4WQNP9AWTSvJbcOJC9Q59Gv0b3MtApPI849/s1600/bakery.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEmgX-JJTLm3_J37qPC-22yBc1nKsneU-3jwGHs65EV0pSQvspA6Uk8nobhxQEopNQ3rT9pm0iOnb-fBQmULKvnnJV-vunRbsOYXb-7q1G4WQNP9AWTSvJbcOJC9Q59Gv0b3MtApPI849/s320/bakery.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705680019644246002" border="0" /></a>The best baguette in Paris! Wow! And now you're wondering, how does it compare to lesser baguettes in Paris, such as the worst baguette?<br /><br />We have seen the worst baguette. It is lurking in the ready-bake stay-puft ziploc bag at the local crap supermarket that smells of rot. As for lesser baguettes, on our first afternoon in Paris, we visited the nearest bakery, one block away, which won the competition the first year and just happened to come in seventh in last year's competition. We took la baguette traditionnelle home and tore it open and put cheese and tomatoes on it (le Prof), and butter and plum jam on it (la Potiche), and devoured it, moaning all the while. It tore apart as easily as Wonder Bread, but was crunchy and flaky and gapped with giant bubbly holes; despite the crunch of the crust, it was feathery inside, but not mushy, not spongy, not insubstantial. And it was TASTY. It was good enough to eat by itself but even better with other delicious things all over it. We ate the whole baguette for lunch, even though La Potiche's throat was raw and the crust made her throat rawer going down, because it was so delicious, so much better than anything we'd called a baguette in the U.S., and it completely validated our sometimes exasperating and exhausting decision to move here.<br /><br />We've bought many more baguettes from that bakery. They are still good the next day. La Potiche think that they're even better toasted. (Maybe toasting a baguette is a travesty, but if you can make a delicious thing more delicious with a little heat and browning so that it feels like it just popped out of the oven (though sometimes when we get them, they <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> still warm from the oven!) and it hasn't yet been banned by l'Académie Française.... Now that I've said that, maybe I've branded myself as one of Those People, the ones who prefer red sauce, the ones who like sugar in their coffee.... And now that I've said that, maybe I'd better stop giving up all my claims to having a palate....) We visited another bakery, the 1996 winner and who-knows-what placer in 2011, and agreed that their baguette, while delicious, was not <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> as perfect. And we bought some country bread at Poil<span>â</span>ne, famous for their country bread, and some more baguettes, and blah blah blah.... Not a day has gone by without its chunks of bread.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXah5UZrLV-GtvcwGf9qXKlqcXSWlPt2TYrFdXYikmlIFEq0UB7qrALcPk_6eFpNuS7Kb6j80SSPx5L_KwSJzX-_ynS1X2NBIk8DWIuKAUg9q3xdVBq5npHqFab4nxq1g6XyuFQYz-6BJc/s1600/open+closed.jpg"></a>Then, last week, when we were foiled in our attempt to visit a street market and were forced to shop for lunch at the gourmet stores along Rue Montorgeuil instead, we dropped into the Maison Kayser, ten minutes away from our apartment, to buy the Baguette Malesherbes.<br /><br />Ohhhhh la la. We knew it was special even before we'd tasted it, because its crust crackled in a way that was positively electric. As we carried it home, we were afraid of handling it too much and impairing its FORCE FIELD. And then we were home, tearing into it. The Baguette Malesherbes' crust shattered crisply, delicately, into flakes that were almost as light as those old-fashioned Czech glass Christmas ornaments that crumple if you look at them funny. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlrry6DKKFT7KAcdtNUP72o6v9hy7mBkIxyhtjC3DFFIoHipSy9NY48iyjRewqFfRwPGW_HvzMqa5eJZrLIrRtiNjMoM5SYj9vMxgRaBsyzRdjpPzzwqHr2vslufxgrfJSkbpj9Ngun6Hg/s1600/glass.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlrry6DKKFT7KAcdtNUP72o6v9hy7mBkIxyhtjC3DFFIoHipSy9NY48iyjRewqFfRwPGW_HvzMqa5eJZrLIrRtiNjMoM5SYj9vMxgRaBsyzRdjpPzzwqHr2vslufxgrfJSkbpj9Ngun6Hg/s320/glass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705686118723537026" border="0" /></a><br />Its crumb, or mie, had the tenderness of SKIN, as though it were a living animal. It seemed to want to be rubbed against our cheeks (one of us did, and got covered with flour). Its bubbles, stretched thinner than Czech glass, were IRIDESCENT. It seemed to be made of a magic ingredient apart from microbes, flour, and salt. It tasted the way flour is supposed to taste when you're having one of those <i>Amber waves of grain </i>moments, imagining the sunshine and rainwater being absorbed by the wheat and rye stalks. It tasted winily of exhalations of gas and alcohol from the hungry little yeasts, and explosions of sea salt, and the caramel of the sugars in the flour. There are no photos of real baguettes here, because what makes a baguette good cannot be photographed.<br /><br />(Full disclosure: La Potiche samples a fresh bite of every Kayser baguette, but then she toasts her own portion. The Kayser baguette, toasted, is like falling in love. Kayser baguettes may very well be why the French invented toaster ovens. For that matter, lots of other things we've found here in Paris are totally awesome. Like Le Dustbuster? What a FANtastic idea! La Potiche is going to make her fortune selling the invention to Americans!)<br /><br />The Kayser baguette was so good that it relegated our neighborhood bakery's heretofore Perfect But Only #7 baguette to "Tasty and completely acceptable when we can't get a Kayser baguette." (Why can't we get a Kayser baguette every day, when Maison Kayser is only ten minutes' walk away? Because sometimes, often, we are coming back from a five-mile march in the opposite direction and are so tired from looking at Art that we cannot force ourselves to take the extra ten blocks out of our way, even for the Kayser baguette.) It was so good that, the other day, La Potiche ordered two baguettes for lunch, and succeeded in eating slightly more than a whole one all by herself. And this got us (her) thinking that we didn't know how Kayser placed in the competition. He may not have entered it; he may have gotten disqualified because his baguettes don't conform to weight and size standards. We knew his baguette was better than #7. We knew it might even be better than the competition winner. But there remained the disquieting possibility that six other baguettes, most especially #1, were better, and we wouldn't know till we'd tasted them.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FHacfMpxT13k_akO3UtwaAn8ndBiW_TFN7iCUhpq6ukxAQ8970uXjmHOONmX6gvRuC5ZByr7dmU6cFehYFbg-8NcnJDvUTUXxks8XfgYM_z5KXZ9n9IHkNKkDGQjMaH-v0OtwM1L9QcW/s1600/baguette.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FHacfMpxT13k_akO3UtwaAn8ndBiW_TFN7iCUhpq6ukxAQ8970uXjmHOONmX6gvRuC5ZByr7dmU6cFehYFbg-8NcnJDvUTUXxks8XfgYM_z5KXZ9n9IHkNKkDGQjMaH-v0OtwM1L9QcW/s320/baguette.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705680317857240914" border="0" /></a>Hence, the trek to Montmartre, in weather well below freezing, dodging some very slow-moving, gelid crowds, because the Real Reason we came to Paris was the pursuit of excellence. We found the bakery, bought two baguettes, stuffed them awkwardly into La Potiche's bag, because it was so cold that we'd forgotten to bring the roomy shopping bag, climbed a couple hundred stairs to swing by Sacré-Coeur and feel ambivalent about it, and then started heading home, because La Potiche couldn't feel her toes anymore and was afraid of falling down the stairs. Here she is, with a red, windburned face. She is not the Kwisatz Haderach.<br /><br />But before we'd gone too far, we dropped into a chocolate shop, L'Étoile d'Or (Gold Star), where our friends Rebecca and Rudy once bought us some beautiful chocolate bars stuffed with pistachio paste, because we were still In Pursuit of Excellence. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpk5Tc1gfKzohn1b3Bumtw1Fj_TRqeMvBgKtXWHre4QW3avwCt2Tn5uSZKGS9VD0Huc0kT3-OsAZPo4EDmyJGmwMxoQsflU2tKU1EfS_KdOFXKPwQTVSuXCJ9Z8GvpYgS3_fY-1K5MoLgr/s1600/pruneski.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpk5Tc1gfKzohn1b3Bumtw1Fj_TRqeMvBgKtXWHre4QW3avwCt2Tn5uSZKGS9VD0Huc0kT3-OsAZPo4EDmyJGmwMxoQsflU2tKU1EfS_KdOFXKPwQTVSuXCJ9Z8GvpYgS3_fY-1K5MoLgr/s320/pruneski.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705687185670453426" border="0" /></a><br />It was cold in the shop, as in all the other stores we've visited. By the time we'd looked at all the lovely things, and selected a bunch of handmade chocolates, and a tin of prune-stuffed prunes (I do not want to hear your negative opinions about prunes, which add nothing to the conversation), and a chocolate bar made of a brown-sugar cookie covered in layers of salted caramel and chocolate, La Potiche's hands were so stiff that she couldn't handle her money. Luckily, Le Prof still had the use of his hands. Then we marched three miles home, but it was downhill this time.<br /><br />When we got home, we sat down to eat our lunch of Grand Prix Baguette. It was very good. It was as good as the Kayser. It was exactly as good as the Kayser, apart from being ice cold. And beyond that, we cannot rank it. Because, despite our Pursuit of Excellence, it is simply too early in the game for us. We can tell the difference between a #7 and a #1 baguette, but not between two Top Sixes, or, perhaps, two equally good #1s, as a true connaisseur would. But this impasse is not a dreadful one. We simply have not eaten enough Really Good Baguettes, and we have five more months to educate ourselves. Even if we never actually learn to make those fine, fine distinctions, because our palates will simply not become refined enough--we won't know what to look for, fragrances and flavors will escape us, and our teeth won't sense the tiny differences in crunch and give--it is not a bad thing for excellence, or in this case ignorance, to abound. We can have SEVEN number one boulangeries and live happily, never the wiser.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGu1AeRpo_GuHyGa0bZrmpaj52Wz-2NNN6VDiCaliqdDiPSYus0J5mMGyb68pQHar_SOqAcset5DlAgLX0ovHHcy8ErORgj2lYZgsK-OYRotCltSq6h2Z29E4AGVjLmGYAy8tUHz3Grxs/s1600/candy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGu1AeRpo_GuHyGa0bZrmpaj52Wz-2NNN6VDiCaliqdDiPSYus0J5mMGyb68pQHar_SOqAcset5DlAgLX0ovHHcy8ErORgj2lYZgsK-OYRotCltSq6h2Z29E4AGVjLmGYAy8tUHz3Grxs/s320/candy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705680720820971762" border="0" /></a>Here is a picture of one of the candies we bought at L'Étoile d'Or: it is a mandarin pâte de fruit, or fruit jelly, filled with orange liqueur. Reflected in the mirror, La Potiche is having a fit. It came about because Le Prof told her to back away from the candy. His intention was to include her in the photograph. But La Potiche misinterpreted his request as an attempt to keep her from sniffing the candy as closely she would have liked to do at that moment, so she did back off, but then immediately flung herself into a Dance of Rage, which Le Prof captured on his camera. This, friends, is what it's really like here. The Pursuit of Excellence does not extend to Excellence of Character.<br /><br />And here is my favorite song ever. Like this blog post, it is about excellence and bread. La Potiche likes to dance around the apartment, singing, "Bread! You know that it's...BREAD!" and Le Prof says, "That's not how the words go." But for La Potiche, rearranging song lyrics to suit herself is like toasting: why NOT gild the lily?<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/v7Ca_25XvNg" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe><br /><br />And finally, did any of you notice the candy labeled "Pruneski"? It is a dab of sweet prune paste, stuffed inside a date that is dipped into a caramel bath and hardened into golden, sparkling rock sugar crystals...and then dipped in dark chocolate. It is possibly the most delicious candy that has ever been made. If I were a St. Petersburg matron in an unhappy marriage, I would totally fall for a dashing bald officer named Pruneski. But what is a Pruneski? The innerwebs are strangely silent on the subject. We will have to return to the store to find out where these glorious things come from, and how we can get them in New York.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-29400306176615371482012-01-30T11:31:00.004+01:002012-01-30T14:02:58.316+01:00Quelques choses que j’ai appris depuis mon arrivée<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6749453805/" title="January Trees in the Jardin des plantes by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7147/6749453805_149a6feae8_z.jpg" width="640" height="173" alt="January Trees in the Jardin des plantes" /></a></div><br /><br />(for why my prose style is so weird, my topics so constrained, and why, for this particular reason, I'm a lot less interesting than <i>La Potiche</i>...and why I've included what looks like a bad French translation, see my first post <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.com/2012/01/un-enigme-dans-un-sac.html">here</a>)<br /><br />Several things that I've learned since my arrival:<br /><br />my words stagger along; my broken-down French stumbles. But I knew this already and you are learning it from this blog. I wanted only to use a handful of the new words that I've just learned;<br /><br />not too far away, close by the church of <a href="http://www.saintgermainauxerrois.cef.fr/index.php/un-peu-d-histoire/histoire">St. Germain l'Auxerrois</a>, the Vikings set up camp during one of their ninth-century sieges of Paris;<br /><br />the same church rang its bell to announce the beginning of the St. Bartholomew Day's massacre...or, I read this but I believe it announced the second day of the massacre. The difference matters only to scholars and to the victims themselves. And in any case, the cruel church was mixed up in the massacre;<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6788926283/" title="St Germain-l'Auxerrois by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7153/6788926283_2963e4460f_m.jpg" width="180" height="240" alt="St Germain-l'Auxerrois" /></a></div><br /><div>in another wonderful book by Graham Robb, <i><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780393339734-2">Parisians: An Adventure History of Paris</a></i> (if you haven't read <i><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/2-9780393333640-5">The Discovery of France</a></i>, add it to your list), I learned that during the 1870 Siege of Paris, the farmers around Paris burned their fields to prevent the Prussians from supplying themselves with provisions. But the fire destroyed only those things on the surface; many things yet survived in the soil. Therefore, the new Republic had the potatoes and other root vegetables that had escaped the fire harvested; to do the job, it invited other farmers, the starving ones, living outside the fertile regions. With full stomachs, these farmers, this plague of locusts, soon returned to their homes. And I imagine that Paris starved more than the Prussians did.<br /><br />I have a lot of other things about the subject of new ideas and words, but that's enough for now. Soon I'll talk about <a href="http://www.quaibranly.fr/fr/programmation/expositions/a-l-affiche/exhibitions.html">this show.</a><br /><br /><i>Quelques choses que j’ai appris depuis mon arrivée :<br /><br />mes mots vont cahin-caha ; mon français délabré bronche. Mais je le savais déjà et vous l’apprenez par ce blogue. J'ai voulu simplement utiliser une poignée de nouveaux mots que j’ai appris tout à l’heure ;<br /><br />à quelques encablures, près de l'église Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, les Vikings ont établi un camp pendant un de leurs sièges de Paris au neuvième siècle ;<br /><br />la même église a sonné sa cloche pour annoncer le commencement du massacre de la Saint-Barthélemy...ou, je l’ai lu, mais je crois qu’elle a annoncé la seconde Saint-Barthélemy. La différence n'importe qu'aux érudites et aux victimes eux-mêmes. En tout cas, l’église sanglante s’est trouvée mêlée au massacre ;<br /><br />dans un autre livre merveilleux de Graham Robb, Parisians : An Adventure History of Paris (si vous n’avez pas lu The Discovery of France, l'ajoutez à votre liste), j’ai appris que pendant le siège 1870 de Paris, les fermiers autour de Paris ont brûlé leurs champs pour empêcher les Prussiens de se fournir des aliments. Mais les feux n'ont détruit que les choses sur la surface ; encore plus de choses survivaient dans le sol. Donc, la nouvelle république a fait moissonner les pommes de terre et les autres racines comestibles qui ont échappé les feux ; d'accomplir cette tâche, elle a invité les autres fermiers, les affamés, habitaient en dehors des zones fertiles. Leurs ventres rassasiés, les fermiers, cette nuée de sauterelles, ont bientôt retourné à leurs maisons. Et j’imagine que Paris aient affamé plus que les Prussiens.<br /><br />J’ai beaucoup d’autres choses aux sujets d'idées et de mots nouveaux, mais ça suffit pour le moment. Bientôt je parle à <a href="http://www.quaibranly.fr/fr/programmation/expositions/a-l-affiche/exhibitions.html">cette exhibition.</a></i></div>medievalkarlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12440542200843836794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-40097109148201325782012-01-29T11:24:00.010+01:002012-01-29T17:00:07.219+01:00A Word of Explanation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23mtDaI4YPmRbsLVIO73HdzwG0LbGfqQda3QM8wDgHV7dtt-l7qr-C70OFH_0V_KVhdGwJzqdX63sh5JTyWc9I339kQJlZKMFHA4ZISCEy8czeKiNzMuzNE_mN_-zIOgG-NEtNl9KtKyd/s1600/iznik.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23mtDaI4YPmRbsLVIO73HdzwG0LbGfqQda3QM8wDgHV7dtt-l7qr-C70OFH_0V_KVhdGwJzqdX63sh5JTyWc9I339kQJlZKMFHA4ZISCEy8czeKiNzMuzNE_mN_-zIOgG-NEtNl9KtKyd/s320/iznik.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703001877747685906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Qu'est-ce que c'est, la potiche?</span><br /><br />It all begins with François Ozon. He is the real reason we came to France. We love three of his films, <i>Gouttes d'eau sur pierres brûlantes (Water Drops on Burning Rocks), 8 Femmes (8 Women), </i>and <i>Potiche (</i>hey!<i>)</i>. We are kind of "Ehhh" about <span style="font-style: italic;">Swimming Pool </span>but look forward to seeing the other films. Ozon's work has all kinds of queerness and feminism and awesome technicolor set designs and more Douglas Sirk, Jacques Demy, and Rainer Werner Fassbinder references than Rock Hudson could shake his manly fists at, but sometimes there are things, little touches, that we can't resolve as misogyny or fetishism or cattiness or humor or all of those things at once, so that we're kept on our toes. When we have an apartment of our own, we will have a room decorated entirely in İznik tiles and a room that looks like the Nouvelle Vague, the Nouvelle Nouvelle Vague, and the Neuer Deutscher Film all wallpapered together IN VELVET.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWo54pKEpThuGoz7Ru4fdzIWHou7qv4zgvCcJ3p-lU2dUkNAHpZ0FsACQZke6xSathXa2whWCOch20jajAFwBHVe791y1RhAF8k70UgMCzw0ZbTxsZdW8ZTWaaag2P_iY6XU89OleWynNF/s1600/potiche.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWo54pKEpThuGoz7Ru4fdzIWHou7qv4zgvCcJ3p-lU2dUkNAHpZ0FsACQZke6xSathXa2whWCOch20jajAFwBHVe791y1RhAF8k70UgMCzw0ZbTxsZdW8ZTWaaag2P_iY6XU89OleWynNF/s320/potiche.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703001080760449266" border="0" /></a>Which brings us to <i>Potiche. </i>What exactly is a potiche, you ask? It is, in the first place, the 2010 film starring Catherine Deneuve. In the second place, it means "trophy wife." Deneuve plays the meek wife of an umbrella factory owner who takes charge of the works after her mean, philandering husband's heart attack; the film asks not only what is the role of the trophy wife, but also what she's supposed to do with herself when she no longer plays a decorative role in her husband's affections or status-seeking.<br /><br />The film does some very charming things with gender and labor and politics. It's also a highlight, and a skew, of Deneuve's transition into playing dignified, sexless, matriarchal supporting roles. I think that there are times when she seems to show traces of discomfort, even bewilderment, that is not entirely confined to the roles themselves, as though she too is wondering, "How did I, Belle de Jour, the Mississippi Mermaid, Peau d'Âne, always the gorgeous lead little more than a decade ago, get typecast this way for the new millennium?" Ten years ago, when hers was the face of Chanel No. 5, she might have thought it would be a fun experiment to allow Lars von Trier to cast her as Kathy, Bjork's sidekick at the stainless steel sink-making factory, and had no idea that she was letting herself in for another decade of sexless supporting roles. Or maybe she was sick of being typecast as beautiful and seductive? Or thought it would be funny? Or thought that it was the only thing for an actress of her age to do, to keep working? Or she wanted to invest those roles with variety and great acting and wanted a new challenge? Or maybe it was a relief?<br /><br />There is a similar mystery in watching Lauren Bacall play Ma Ginger in <span style="font-style: italic;">Dogville</span>. "Don't give me any of your lip, Thomas Edison Jr.: I'LL HOE AS I DARN WELL PLEASE." Lars wrote that line because he's a sadist. But it's also an incredibly amusing line, and it's more interesting to speculate on what Bacall herself might have been thinking as she hoed her gooseberries. Similarly, we can suppose that Deneuve has all these thoughts, or none of them, or something else entirely. All we can do is sit around obsessively watching the quirks of her expressive mouth and wondering just how much irony she's investing in her performances--or watch films like <span style="font-style: italic;">Potiche</span>, which seem to comment on and critique not just WOMEN and WORK and the PLIGHT OF AGING WOMEN ACTORS, but also Deneuve's career in particular.<br /><br />So. In case anybody is wondering, the title of our blog is my idea. Karl wouldn't have gone anywhere near it, if I hadn't insisted. I like that it's funny and also very uncomfortable. There is nothing terribly amusing about calling oneself La Romancière (The Novelist), though there is some value in claiming the name itself. La Potiche, on the other hand, carries with it so much ambivalence and provocation; there's no way you can talk about the word without discussing misogyny, money, and power, and no way you can disclaim it, without having to say something positive about women's unpaid domestic labor and so forth. All this stuff is present in my mind every time I sit down to write, but more often when I'm sitting down to not write--but in a funny way! Like Catherine Deneuve, I am profoundly ambivalent about the roles I've chosen. Like Catherine Deneuve, I often think back on that time that I was the allegorical figure representing la République Française, and wonder, WHA HAPPENED?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5MLhyphenhyphenF7FDepiHv34eM1Gsa7-ILmNdkOipXlsEkCi1kfm-KyXxl8L6xDbYKJXINNL4s-1qLTBRJE01BjQ2PADiatf_J0rllNmUWgidYkf5d63Cv3F8HRV3GpDgfFhxQA2-uvSUkXMjj3Q4/s1600/Mariannes3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5MLhyphenhyphenF7FDepiHv34eM1Gsa7-ILmNdkOipXlsEkCi1kfm-KyXxl8L6xDbYKJXINNL4s-1qLTBRJE01BjQ2PADiatf_J0rllNmUWgidYkf5d63Cv3F8HRV3GpDgfFhxQA2-uvSUkXMjj3Q4/s320/Mariannes3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703000307353844770" border="0" /></a><br />The idea of La Potiche is my bugbear, my memento mori, and also, not unproblematically, a comfort, because there is nothing technically wrong with being one--that I must admit as both a feminist and a pragmatist. When I reckon the possibility that I will never write a sellable novel, and my dedicated, hardworking agent will never get paid, I comfort myself with the fact that Le Prof wakes up every morning with a big old grin on his face, to realize once more that he has won the competition and I AM THE PRIZE, and even if I did cook a completely inedible egg and rice soup for yesterday's lunch, he was still grinning with joy as he dumped the leftovers in the toilet. Seeing that grin, I sat down to write some more, because I, La Potiche, am une artiste tragi-comédienne, and if there's something rather misogynist or fetishistic or catty about all this, it's keeping me on my toes.<br /><br />Which brings me back to the Republic of France! We came away to Paris not just for le fromage, but also to get uncomfortable with language and culture and how we fit into the place where we're living, which is to say, who we are. That discomfort is meant to stimulate our work, our imaginations and criticisms and readings, so that we write, not about Paris, but because we've been provoked and shaken up by Paris. Or at least that's what we're telling ourselves this morning, because the dryer takes 6 hours to dry the socks, and the sink pipe dripped all over the floor, and the microwave fell off its stand, and last night's Fête aux Cris lasted till 3 A.M. (they really did scream till 3 A.M. Screamed. Really. Repeated high-pitched whoops and screams, as they danced to le techno). But, undaunted, we are eating oatmeal and drinking our second pot of coffee and coughing, and, around brunchtime, going forth again, Le Prof et La Potiche, to hoe as we darn well please.<br /><br />Postscript: Une potiche is also a kind of ceramic vase, like the one adorning the sidebar on our blog. And holy moly, but Le Prof is a big fan of ceramics, certain ceramics. More on that in a later post.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-68934269921447494062012-01-23T15:30:00.005+01:002012-01-23T15:48:41.062+01:00Les roches : ses courtes durées<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6742082275/" title="Louvre, Cassini statue by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7033/6742082275_a594761d44.jpg" width="360" height="500" alt="Louvre, Cassini statue" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>(for why my prose style is so weird, and why it's followed with what looks like a bad French translation, see my first post <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.com/2012/01/un-enigme-dans-un-sac.html">here</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div>(and of course, read La Potiche's <a href="http://profetpotiche.blogspot.com/2012/01/plus-ca-change.html">most recent post first</a>, before reading <i>mon flux de conscience</i>)</div><div><br /></div>For two or three years, more or less, my friend <a href="http://www.google.com/cse?cx=001179150895639728558%3Al550nonvxaq&ie=UTF-8&q=rocks&sa=Search&siteurl=www.inthemedievalmiddle.com%2F#gsc.tab=0&gsc.q=rocks&gsc.page=1">Jeffrey Jerome Cohen has been writing a book on the subject of rocks and time</a>. Is it possible for a human being, living for perhaps eighty years, to imagine the time of stones, which endure through ages that seem an eternity to us? However, for the universe, stones endure a few short moments between two abysses, the one black and the other hot, the end and the beginning of all. Too long and too short, rocks escape and hide themselves. So the book will be difficult, slow, and, of course, hard, like others.<br /><br />Here's a statue, I think, on the Louvre. There are many statutes like this one on the Louvre, all with famous names: Montaigne, Cassini, Rousseau, Rabelais, and also yours, my readers, I swear it. But this statue is the only one wearing a net. For what crime, I ask myself? Is this evidence that punishments continue openly, despite the analyses of Foucault?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6730638681/" title="captured statue, Louvre by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7149/6730638681_96803cd88b.jpg" width="372" height="500" alt="captured statue, Louvre" /></a></div><br />This is not such a stupid idea, nevertheless, I have another one, more amusing: thinking that the net is doing its best to stop the outflow of stones. According to Cohen, and according to geology also, even stones flow. The others without their own nets have soft surfaces. All the hazards of a wild life in the open air have made them multicolored. I chose to believe that the net is trying to do the impossible: to capture one statue, only one, to encourage it to remain itself.<br /><br /><i>Depuis deux ou trois ans, plus ou moins, mon ami Jeffrey Jerome Cohen écrit un livre au sujet de roches et de temps. Est-il possible pour un être humain, vivant pour peut-être quatre-vingts années, d'imaginer le temps des pierres, qui durent à travers le temps qui semble, à nous, une éternité ? Toutefois, à l'univers, les pierres durent quelques instants courts entre deux abîmes, le noir et le chaud, la terminaison et le commencement de toutes choses. Trop longs et trop courts, les roches échappent et se cachent. Donc, le livre sera difficile, lente, et sûrement dur...comme les autres.<br /><br />Voilà une statue, je crois, sur le Louvre. Il y a beaucoup de statues comme celle-ci sur le Louve, toutes avec les noms célébrés : Montaigne, Cassini, Rousseau, Rabelais, et aussi le vôtre, mes lecteurs, je le jure. Mais cette statue est la seule qui porte un filet. Pour quelle félonie, je me demande ? Est-il l'évidence que les punitions continuent ouvertement, malgré les analyses de Foucault ?<br /><br />Ce n'est pas une idée trop bête, néanmoins j'ai une autre plus amusante : penser que le filet fait de son mieux d'arrêter l'écoulement des pierres. Après Cohen, et après la géologie aussi, même les pierres coulent. Les autres sans les propres filets ont des surfaces mouillées. Tous les hasards de la vie sauvage en plein air les bariolaient. Je choisis croire que le filet essaie de faire l'impossible : capturer une statue, seulement une, pour l'encourager à rester soi-même.</i>medievalkarlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12440542200843836794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-54324258325783027232012-01-22T20:17:00.013+01:002012-01-22T22:01:38.837+01:00Plus ça change...La Potiche started this blog writing about the Daily Life. Le Prof weighed in, in his inimitably Duboisian way, to preserve the mystery of sacs. "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvqKR83m7nA">Oh look, we have created enchantment</a>!" And it's true! There is a great deal of mysterious enchantment to be gotten by the performance of everyday tasks and the observation of everyday things in an unexpected place. Imagine this scenario, which we played out our first night in Paris: what would you do if you had a pot of pasta boiling over on the stove?<br /><br />a. Turn off the heat.<br />b. Remove the lid.<br />c. Move the pot to another burner.<br />d. Panic and wring your hands, because French pots and French penne and French water and French stoves are entirely too mysterious and enchanting to be understood!<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. </span> (The more things change, the more they stay the same.) I hear that that's meant to be an expression of more-or-less bitter resignation. But for Le Prof et La Potiche, it has been a good thing. In our first days of head colds, travel exhaustion, and linguistic idiocy, the presence of familiar things and routines has eased our culture shock, while leaving us relaxed and ready for the appreciation of all that is wondrous and new (to us) here.<br /><br />Chores here are a mixture of the humdrum and the exciting. Our vacuum is mysteriously efficient. Our toilet cleaner is mysteriously familiar. Our microwave, which is also somehow an oven, mysteriously opens from the top. What's up with that, Professor? Our washing machine is also a dryer, and it takes four hours to efficiently (?) dry two towels. In Brooklyn, we are accustomed to going out in the morning for a walk, during which we run errands and buy our groceries at the co-op. On our street in Paris, there is an organic grocery with familiar bulk foods bins, whole grains, herbal teas, and even my usual brand of tampons. The store also, enchantingly, sells bottles of dirt-cheap delicious wine, jams made of fifty different fruits (mirabelle ET reine claude plums), and raw mare's milk. The eggs are kept at room temperature, in that way of a people (that is to say, the members of the Economy of the European Union) who know where their eggs come from and don't wash off the protective coatings along the way. A nicely kept egg that won't kill you is an enchanting thing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSINQ0cjGB5KwtBOIlgAaHtNRe0K9ZSr-ffGKgPYKFOfeQrxwEDTDm_JhnaAaoGSOTI6cMuy3iRLkaoQR_GgbEZ7ARJmFM6vEMhDmx1N6wXXBWbPYm63CHtchZkSeo8gHd_zr_PVJPH-fX/s1600/rossano.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSINQ0cjGB5KwtBOIlgAaHtNRe0K9ZSr-ffGKgPYKFOfeQrxwEDTDm_JhnaAaoGSOTI6cMuy3iRLkaoQR_GgbEZ7ARJmFM6vEMhDmx1N6wXXBWbPYm63CHtchZkSeo8gHd_zr_PVJPH-fX/s320/rossano.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700538928695203346" border="0" /></a><br />Le Prof interjects, "'I keeelled a man,' says the little egg." In Paris, all the eggs sound like Rossano Brazzi, who was the real reason we came to Paris. In <span style="font-style: italic;">South Pacific</span>, Rossano Brazzi played Emile de Becque, who, in his native <span style="font-weight:bold;">FRANCE</span>, keeelled a bad man, who was a booolly. Every day, and especially on enchanted evenings, we are inspired by Rossano Brazzi.<br /><br />Speaking of bullies, last night we went to see the Metropolitan Opera's new baroque pastiche, "The Enchanted Island," broadcast live in HD to a cinema in Montparnasse. They took <span style="font-style:italic;">The Tempest</span> and bits from <span style="font-style:italic;">A Midsummer Night's Dream</span> and set them to arias from Handel, Rameau, and Vivaldi. For all of you in New York, or with the chance to see a rebroadcast: go see it. It is robust, glorious fun; one of our fellow audience members commented, approvingly, of one of the leads, "<span style="font-style:italic;">Il est silly</span>!" (he's silly). It was lovely to see our old friends Joyce, Danielle, and Placido in such fine form. Also, there was the most gorgeous use of <span style="font-style:italic;">Zadok the Priest</span> ever. You know, <span style="font-style:italic;">Zadok the Priest</span>.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/p1W1XJ96y9k" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe><br /><br />Le Prof et La Potiche have been Met subscribers since 2004 (long before Le Prof was un prof or La Potiche was une potiche!!! More on that, in a later post), and during that time, have seen a wide range of bad behaviors both in the opera house and at the movie theater broadcasts. Opera-goers tend to be vigorous, passionate, irritable people between the ages of 36 and 106. We have witnessed bullying, yelling, scolding, grabbing, slapping, and the sneaking in of food. It is all part of the fun, till somebody gets hurt. We have engaged in none of that behavior except for the sneaking of Opera Snackies, usually chocolate, which can be eaten swiftly and silently without crumbs and hidden under one's playbill, and which hurt only us. We were nervous about doing this in Paris, where people might, we thought, enforce anti-outside-food rules with similar vigor, passion, and irritability. But were we ever surprised! No sooner had we sneaked our two little tarts out of their box, than we looked up and saw people all around us pouring champagne into real glasses that they'd sneaked in, opening plastic containers of homemade tabbouleh and green salad, unpacking dessert tarts and quiches and sandwiches. Six or seven women opened up their tiny handbags, pulled out whole baguettes, like rabbits from top hats, and started tearing at them with their perfect teeth (this is where the rabbit simile ends, I suppose). And we felt sad, because the tabbouleh and baguettes were beautiful, while our tarts were not so beautiful. They were, in fact, cheap-ass tarts bought along the way in St. Germain from a boulangerie that was not on La Potiche's list of Boulangeries Approuvés! Le Prof et La Potiche felt so bad that they decided to reserve the right to speak of themselves in both the third and the first person, <span style="font-style:italic;">even in the same sentence</span>, whenever we so desire.<br /><br />This morning, Le Prof et La Potiche set off on their Daily Errand Walk. This, mes amis, is our Daily Errand Walk:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6742079349/" title="IMG_6553_v1.JPG by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7033/6742079349_6b90382b9d.jpg" alt="IMG_6553_v1.JPG" height="363" width="500" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6742076985/" title="IMG_6554_v1.JPG by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7159/6742076985_f40953e810.jpg" alt="IMG_6554_v1.JPG" height="322" width="500" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcreZRjQcvDDQ8P_CNMlaLY_ZE7Ek4E5gvqQmuo2v_MQIipJmI-qlPd2lQnQgTF9Yvl6DYDTWTLNFvL464FRspqHMdVkh-04xfvyIjstukpxPaqYAYzRjvoynZ2cm7XYprXzema7gsbE5U/s1600/Karl+Louvre.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcreZRjQcvDDQ8P_CNMlaLY_ZE7Ek4E5gvqQmuo2v_MQIipJmI-qlPd2lQnQgTF9Yvl6DYDTWTLNFvL464FRspqHMdVkh-04xfvyIjstukpxPaqYAYzRjvoynZ2cm7XYprXzema7gsbE5U/s320/Karl+Louvre.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700542706367476018" border="0" /></a><br /></div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6742087001/" title="View from Pont Royal by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7015/6742087001_2e0410fd0d.jpg" alt="View from Pont Royal" height="198" width="500" /></a><br /><br />"Shall we take the shortcut through the Louvre?" we say, every morning. The only answer is, "Duh." We will never get sick of the shortcut through the Louvre.<br /><br />Then we say, "What <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> that?"<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6730640201/" title="White-faced primate, I think, escaping from Louvre by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7142/6730640201_3c8cc87648.jpg" alt="White-faced primate, I think, escaping from Louvre" height="398" width="500" /></a><br /></div><br />It is one of the mysteries of Paris, not that there is a large white singe escaping from a window of Louvre, but rather, that only one other person on the internets seems to be remarking upon it.<br /><br />Back home in Brooklyn, Sunday mornings are for walks to the greenmarket. So, today, we walked to the greenmarket. And we bought juicy pears. And a savoy cabbage. A sac full of mâche, which we may report on later. A pot of forest honey. A sac of spinach. A sac of dried green flageolets, which we may also report on. A ripe raw milk cheese, handmade by a farmer named Agnès, from the milk of a Jersey cow. I can't remember the last time I knew what kind of cow my cheese came from; I am particularly fond of the doe-like aspect of Jersey cows.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6742070937/" title="Sunday market haul by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7024/6742070937_14f4bb1e40.jpg" alt="Sunday market haul" height="371" width="500" /></a><br /></div> A bunch of parsley, which we forgot to take with us. A bag full of clementines, which were not grown in France. Then we walked the two miles home, bought a baguette from the other award-winning boulangerie a block from our apartment, and went home. We will not get to some of that food till tomorrow, but le Prof ate half the cheese for lunch. It had a strong smell and a flavor like fresh white cheese--very interesting and strange to us. Tonight for dinner we ate the spinach cooked with green lentilles de Puy and caramelized onions, topped with fried eggs. We also ate a DELICIOUS slice of tart from the good boulangerie: apricots and pistachio paste, the apricots so juicy they soaked through the wrapping paper--but not through the buttery crust. YUM.<br /><br />Not all the street markets in Paris are actually farmers' markets, and not all the food is organic. This stuff is, though. And it all clocked in at about $20.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-89364195650591756142012-01-20T15:08:00.003+01:002012-01-20T15:37:40.506+01:00Un énigme dans un sac.<a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7013/6730636133_45446d8e2a_m.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 240px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7013/6730636133_45446d8e2a_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Hi everyone, it's Le Prof!<div><br /></div><div>Before leaving, I had the idea for this blog, namely, to write in French and then to translate what I wrote into English. The result, I believe, would be a kind of foreign English, where I would become a stranger in my own language and, at the same time, I would learn French a little. Of course, my French will have many mistakes, but after several months, maybe I can write with the lightness, but certainly without the precision, of the masters, like Lacan, for example.<br /><br />Okay then. Here is a little bag in or near the Tuileries Garden. There are many like this in other trees; I could search for their purpose, but I prefer to imagine that they contain druidical eggs or, perhaps, only the fingers of druids, but with the regenerative power of starfish. For now, I want a Paris full of mysteries.<br /><br />And for you, now, a druidical song. Make the most of it! Learn something!<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Rg4L5tcxFcA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><br /><i>Avant de notre départ, j’ai eu une idée pour cette blogue, viz., d'écrire en français et, puis, de traduire mes écrits en anglais. La conséquence, je crois, soit un type d’anglais étranger, dans lequel je deviendrais un étranger dans mon propre langue et, au même temps, je apprendrais le français un peu. Bien sûr, mon français aura beaucoup des fautes, mais après quelques mois, peut-être je peux écrire avec le légèreté, mais certainement sans l’exactitude, des maîtres, comme Lacan, par exemple.<br /><br />Ah bon. Voici un petit sac dans ou près de jardin de Tuileries. Il y a beaucoup comme ça dans les autres arbres ; je peux chercher pour leur but, mais je préfère d’imaginer qu’ils contiennent les œufs druidiques ou peut-être seulement les doigts des druides, mais avec le pouvoir régénératif des étoiles de mer. Pour ce moment, je veux un Paris plein d’énigmes.<br /><br />Et pour vous, maintenant, une chanson druidique ! Profitez ! Apprenez quelque chose !</i>medievalkarlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12440542200843836794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2567428635661905420.post-37239776917985490552012-01-19T21:33:00.004+01:002012-01-19T21:43:23.565+01:00On Not Going Out in Paris<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6725277169/" title="first bottle of wine on this Paris sojourn by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img style="width: 450px; height: 337px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7017/6725277169_f3a5ab3aae_z.jpg" alt="first bottle of wine on this Paris sojourn" /></a><br /><br />Scott was sick in Rome, and Byron was sick in London. Karl got sick in London and brought it to Istanbul, where Scott was, and, as it turned out, was still a little bit sick. Karl coughed directly onto Alison's face, twice, at close range, though he had the excuse of being asleep. But it was Amy who got sick next. Back in London, Alison got sick, though it is entirely possible that she caught it from one (or a hundred) of the couple hundred thousand people who also had colds in London, Istanbul, Paris, on the planes, and in the Chunnel. Or from a passing Euro/lira/pound coin she'd licked. There are probabilities, and good ones too, but no certainty on this point, without genetic testing of germs.<br /><br />What this means for you, O lucky readers, is that Karl and Alison aren't going anywhere in Paris. Not anywhere YOU want to hear about, that is, though they have already gone to the bank, to make a deposit! And to the FNAC in the otherwise earth-swallowingly purposeless mall at Les Halles, to pick up theater tickets bought online! And to the Bio for lettuce and a demi-litre of organic red wine, very fruity but very dry (5 euros, or $6.48), and to the Boulangerie Julien for their award-winning Baguette Tradition (1.15 euros, or $1.49)!<br /><br />Which is to say, daily life in Paris has commenced. Daily Life in Paris is the reason we came here, and it is the reason we had time today to put together our travel blog and bring Le Prof and La Potiche into existence. There is no time for blogging (though there is, apparently, plenty of time for Facebook), when there are mosques to marvel at and puddings to eat and a bazillion cobbled steps to climb and even more whimsical ceramics to photograph--and friends, because friends are more important than the internet. But now La Potiche is sick, and Le Prof kindly declines to adventure without her, so they have put together this blog.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6721112759/" title="KTS washes up. Paris apartment by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7015/6721112759_6fb83e18ae_m.jpg" width="180" height="240" alt="KTS washes up. Paris apartment"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/medievalkarl/6725274015/" title="interior Paris apartment. wavy hands, clean teeth by Medieval Karl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7141/6725274015_03d67d01b6_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="interior Paris apartment. wavy hands, clean teeth"></a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01264114920869378801noreply@blogger.com2