One More Thing To Despair Over ...

You can't see the actual captions on the poster that I am pointing to, but this was a popular poster in Paris, and it was for the show "Les Monologues du Penis." And the three hommes, er ... mecs, er ... guys in the photo are captioned "Un Intello, Un Macho, Un Homo." One of each, I suppose.

The other thing that has made me laugh and cringe recently is Michael Chabon's bizarre and embarrassing endorsement of Barack Obama. He had to give himself permission to hope? Wow. What adult talks like that? This leads me to my theory: there are two Michael Chabons. One is a spectacularly hideous middle-aged man, covered perhaps with scars and pustules, laboring away in a shotgun shack outside of Fresno. A genius writer capable of transforming even the most mundane soupçon of an idea into pure quicksilver, yes, but also incapable of appearing in public without attracting rage and scorn. The other Michael Chabon is a fine-boned bisexual actor. You get the picture.

No, please do not mistake me for a Barack Obama hater. I am far from it. But I do reserve the right to critique that which passes as praise, and that which passes as criticism to see if they pass the "whiff" test. And this, my friends, does not.

The Great Aimees / Amys

We live in an era of 3 great Aimees / Amys. They are, in no particular order:

Amy Poehler, Amy Sedaris and Aimee Mann [playing a wicked cool hippie telecaster.]

Now, some of you may think that Amy Winehouse belongs in the mix, but neigh! Too soon! These Amys have proved their mettle time and again. Wait your turn, young Jedi, and you may one day walk amongst these greats.

Living Icons from the 1930s

This is a game I like to play ... name three living icons from the 1930s. It used to be pretty easy, with Kate Hepburn, Artie Shaw [a local resident!] and Shirley Temple Black all still living. But then the former two passed, leaving a gaping hole in the list. So, my friend J. nominated Bob Feller. Rapid Robert qualifies, I suppose. But the third ... who could it be? Finally, after screwing around on the Interweb, I found a third: Patty Andrews [the blonde lead singer] of the Andrews Sisters is still with us. And who doesn't like the Andrews Sisters?

If anyone has any other living icons of the 1930s they'd like to nominate, please post a reply!

Day 10: Leaving Amsterdam

Okay, first, the jacket. I saw it on Day 1 or 2, and it was magnificent. I made a point to comment to D. [who suffers me better than anyone should] that the jacket was remarkably stylish in a way that would never be appreciated in America. It was a non-descript tan waterproof men’s jacket with a stand up collar. Straight cut, without the usual non-sensical elastic at the bottom that does nothing but make men look fatter. The jacket was smartly styled but non-descript save for one notable feature: orange piping around the zip pockets and zip front. That detail transformed the jacket from being a bore to being something that I will obsess over until my dying day. I’m like that.

That being said, I did buy one of the faggiest shirts [unknowingly] in Paris. I loved the pattern but the cut is one of those weird French dress shirts with fake French cuffs and a high collar. I look like a member of Spandau Ballet.

So we spent some time after Paris [and a brief sojourn in Brussels] in Amsterdam looking for that damned jacket.

We arrived back in Amsterdam late on Tuesday. We checked in to the Marriott and discovered that it did not have wireless connectivity, nor was the in-room connectivity anything close to affordable. So we trekked in search of connectivity, which we found outside of a bar near the Herengracht. D. had dinner at McDonald’s, though he did not have the McMomentje, or whatever it is called. That means that twice that day he ate at McDonald’s [I must note that the breakfast at the Paris McDonald’s was great. Their version of the McMuffin has it all over ours. And later that morning, in the bakery on Rue Beaubourg, the counter woman at the bakery chided my French, after which I said “Ecoutez et repetez!, and she laughed. I thanked her for the lesson.] We had a couple of drinks at the bar, I admired the nonpareil beauty of the Dutch women, and D. went out while I went back to the Marriott for some much-needed sleep.

So on our final full day in Europe, what did we do? Quite a lot actually. We had breakfast at the hotel [mediocre, but blissfully it was expensive as well], and went for a bike tour with Mike’s Bike Tours. Our gay stoner Canadian ex-pat guide, Pete, took us on a tour that revealed his profound and abiding interest in getting stoned. But we learned. And mainly – for me – we got off our asses in a way that did not involve walking. Traveling with D. means that your main mode of transport will be a la pied. And he has a pair of those god-forsaken Masai Barefoot Technology shoes that one would think can also cure cancer. So walk we did. But the bike tour was a nice respite from hoofing it. Next time I travel with D., I will get shoed by a blacksmith beforehand.

D. complained that the bike tour of Paris was not “vigorous” enough for him [what does that mean?], the Amsterdam tour made up for that. It was vigorous, lengthy and filled with all the dangers that biking through an unfamiliar city can bring.

The bike tour took us outside of town and we saw more of the canal system, a windmill, a statue of Rembrandt, and a cheese-and-clog factory [did you know that one existed?] The c-and-c factory produced some fantastic smoked gouda, so like the good tourist, I bought a wheel even though I am not a cheese person. We saw the making of both items, and then were shepherded in to the store to buy [feeling much like the cows that were outside making the raw materials for the cheese, but thankfully not for the shoes.]

During the tour, we befriended a woman from California named B., and we had beers and pancakes with her. D. had bacon and onion, I had ham and mushroom. They were much like American pancakes save for the fact that they were filled with meats and other savory flavors. That did not stop D. from putting Stroop on his. Stroop is a burnt sugar syrup product, essentially maple syrup without the maple. It was a nice meal, and a nice way to cap our evening. We then went to Haarlam, just to look around. It seemed like a nice little city, with a quaint little train station. We walked around for a bit and enjoyed the warmer weather that had finally come our way after a week of intermittent rain and biting cold. When we arrived back in Amsterdam, D. had a headache, I did not. So I walked the canals, much like the protagonist in The Fall, while D. went back to Marriott, where one of the largest and most comfortable beds in all of Europe waited for him.

The solitary evening walk was a most enjoyable way to end my first trip to the Continent. I found most of the trip to be near perfect. Europe was a riddle waiting to be answered, and I found the answer to be satisfying to me in many ways. From the people who laughed at my bad French [only a couple, mercifully], to the small kindnesses from many strangers, to the little charms I found in so many unexpected corners. And of course, the tiny cars, the brisk weather, the fashion sense, the seriousness and intelligence of the residents, the bicycles with baskets, the trains, the fact that – as D. remarked – literally half a dozen nations packed into a small space which had fought bitter wars against each other and still had distinct cultures and languages, yet managed to co-exist and share a currency, rail systems and so much shared history. It shouldn’t work but it does.

This morning, we went back to Pancake Corner, and amidst working girls, smokers and local eurotrash boys, we [again] had breakfast – but this time in the morning. This was the first non-McDonald’s breakfast that reminded me of home and it was vastly welcome. The orange juice, uniformly, has been excellent in Europe.

So, now, we’re on the plane, heading to Houston and then onto Los Angeles, and for the vast majority of the flight, it will be daylight until we arrive in Los Angeles this evening [it has been light late every night. So it goes in the higher latitudes] D. has it in his head that he will drive back to Napa tonight, I think that that is a ludicrous idea, but he is the border collie on steroids.

Day 8: April In Paris ... Is Freaking Cold

Wow. Paris. What can one say? It is a city that is literally overwhelming with potential experience.

First, some observations. The music on the radio, in cabs, and in shops – if it is typical of French music – is truly bad. They play a lot of American pop music; they require 40% French language content during prime hours [daytime], so the deejays at night take liberal advantage of the lack of restrictions by playing a lot of American music. I heard Credence, Sheryl Crow, Bill Haley & the Comets, Frank Sinatra …

Second, the people were almost uniformly friendly, helpful and pleasant to deal with. And contrary to what my friend S. says, the women do not have “stinky dog breath.”

Third, this confirms the cliché: People here dress so much better than Americans. Women tend towards skirts, dark colors, boots, and always dark hose. Lots of coats, gloves and scarves here as it is still very cold. Both men and women tend to wear their clothes more tightly here. But as they are thin, they can get away with it.

I bought some shirts from a wonderful shop on Rue Vielle du Temple. The shopkeeper, an officious women of certain-age, showed me what shirts would fit me [size 42] and I was nosing around looking for interesting patterns when she firmly stated: “Non, monsieur, those are not for you! Those are slim cut.” Thank you very much. The fat boy from America buys shirts!

We had some great crepes, poulet avec Norman crème, soup a l’oignen [exceptional – much less reduced than in the US], entrecout [ribeye] aux fines herbes, and the wonderful bread and pastries. So good.

One thing I can’t get over is the lack of a protein based breakfast. They eat sugar and carbs for breakfast, and don’t seem to mind. Zut alors! We actually ate at a McDonald’s on Rue Beaubourg this morning! We did it just to satisfy our perverse curiosity and it was fun. Their egg mcmuffin has American style bacon, and tastes much less rubbery. The breakfast came with orange juice, strong coffee [they called it espresso, but it wasn’t], a yogurt with fresh fruit [delicious], the egg mcmuffin, and a choice of pancakes sucre [which tasted like the old Aunt Jemima pancakes my father made for us as children], brioches or pastries [a small croissant, and two other similar items, one with a chocolate filling, the other with raisins]. All in all, it was similar to the US experience, but better.

The Hotel Beaubourg was located right next to the Georges Pompideau. Literally. But the little street we were on [Rue De Simon LeClerc in the 4th Arrondisement] was quiet and easy to find, but close to many major landmarks. We were right next to the Notre Dame and the City Hall, and very close to the Seine. The Seine was much larger than I expected it to be, and very green and not a placid river by a stretch. If one leaps into the Seine, one can call it a day. It is cold and treacherous.

Saturday, we arrived mid-day. We had a great lunch, and took a boat tour of the Seine. That night, we crashed early.

On Sunday, we took a bicycle tour [Fat Tire Bikes] that was wonderful. We rode from the southeast corner of the Eiffel Tower throughout central Paris, lunching at the Tivoli Gardens near the Louvre. The tour guide, Crystal - a young, attractive girl from Texas, - was formerly a Starbuck's barista. She did a great job of telling us informative stuff about Paris, from the story of Gustave Eiffel having to finance the construction the Eiffel Tower, to the story of Napolean’s tomb [one has to lean over – bow, that is – to see Napolean in his crypt. One final act of arrogance.]

After the bike tour, we met up with a woman named Kelly from the tour who joined us for a trip up the Eiffel Tower. We unknowingly bought tickets to walk up to the second level [4 Euros!] and it is about 670 steps. Way too many. I was exhausted going up to that level. So it was a welcome relief to take the time to take the elevator to the top – some 81 stories above Paris. The view is magnificent. And as I was telling D., three things have conspired to make Paris the exceptional city that it is: central planning – the hub and spoke design of the city, the fact that the city was more or less completely built up by the 1920s, and the fact that zoning prohibits buildings of more than seven stories in height [although there are a couple of very notable exceptions.] The location on the Seine doesn’t hurt either. Sunday night, D. wanted to find a certain restaurant in the Latin Quarter, and it was another comedy of errors for us trying to find the place. It was cold and rainy, so we were both pretty miserable. But we did find the place and it was charming, with a pianist with espresso-fueled fingers playing bouncy standard after standard, entertaining the crowd. A group of convivial old men were seated next to us. A pair of hormone-supercharged young couples playfully occupied the table against the wall. It was a good time, though the main course was underwhelming. I think the place was called Les Trois Maillets. Great salad, and nice pommes frites [which are everywhere].

We got up and had breakfast at the Hotel yesterday, and it was very similar to all the other European breakfasts that I have had. No surprises. Yogurt, bread and coffee. We did see Montmartre yesterday afternoon. It does provide some of the most stunning view of the city, and the neighborhood is charming. But it is a bit on the touristy side. After that, we actually went into the George Pompidou. They had an exhibit of Louise Bourgious’ work, but it did not run to my tastes, so we headed for the permanent collection. The permanent collection, understandably, has a ton of Picasso, Miro, Bracques, Dali, and Man Ray. They have some fine Jackson Pollacks, but none of the Ashcan artists, no Diego Rivera, no Thomas Hart Benton, no Warhol or Hockney … in short, I would give the collection a B-. Not enough variety to show the impressive scope of the modern art movement. But I’m glad I went nonetheless. Being inside the Pompedieu reminds one of what Guy de Maupassant said about the Eiffel Tower. De Maupassant hated the tower, yet ate lunch there every day. When asked why, he said “Because it is the only place in Paris where I cannot see it.” The Pompedieu is a hideous structure but not from the inside.

We were to do a double decker bus tour late last night, but I was so very completely wiped that I had to call it a night.

So now onto Brussels and Amsterdam this fine Tuesday morning. We leave for America on Thursday, which will be sad. But I will return.

Day 5: Back to Brussels

Spent the second day [half day] in Bruges, and took a tour of WWI battle and grave sites, including the medical station when John McCrae worked and wrote “In Flanders Field.” The tour was inevitably depressing, but our tour guide Philip was exceptional. Very knowledgeable, and he covered a lot of ground during the nine and a half hour tour.

D. wasn’t so pleased; his heart was set on the “Medieval Bruges” tour, which takes you to a chocolate factory, a brewery, a country estate and you get Belgium waffles for lunch. So that didn’t happen. Instead of getting the Fellini train, he had to take the Bergman train. But I would have been bored on the “Medieval Bruges” tour, so I was happy. Circumstance has it that the chocolate-brewery-waffle tour because the microphone on the second bus was broken.

So last night, we took the train from Bruges to Brussels, which was in full Friday night mode. This time, we checked into the fabulous Welcome Hotel, and caught the Thailand Room. Which had cool skylights that gave us extra atmosphere in the amplifying the sound of the light rain that fell last night and this morning [I have been getting up at between 5:00 and 5:30 each day. Far earlier than most Europeans I can assure you.]

I have to go into some detail on the Welcome Hotel here, as it is exceptional. From the great brunch every morning [crepes, bacon, eggs, croissants, croissants with chocolate, Cocoa Pebbles, three types of juice, yogurt, what more could you ask for!], to the exceptional service provided by Stephanie and Vincent [they found all the stuff that D., the absent-minded traveler, left behind, they did laundry on short notice, they disposed of a suitcase that I no longer needed], the Welcome Hotel is fantastic. Not to mention the out-of-control rooms, each themed in a style that would make Elvis proud [each represents a different exotic country.]

Brussels is a big modern exciting city. It retains the cultural flavor such as the churches and 18th and 19th century shops and houses that define so much of Europe. But it is very alive with clubs, restaurants and people in the street at all hours. Young men were drunkenly singing pop songs in the metro station at midnight. A couple was passionately [a little too …] in the train station. People outside smoking, talking, just living and being with each other. All the things that we don’t do in America.

So now I’m on the train to Paris, arriving at the Paris Nord station in a couple of hours. My first time to Paris, and I can tell you that my French is abysmal. So, donc, it will be zut alors this and zut alors that.

Day 4: In Bruges

No, I did not see "In Bruges" in Bruges, although I was tempted. Sounds like a good flick.

But instead, we took a canal tour, walked our asses off [again], got profoundly lost [again], learned how to dial direct numbers from our hotel phone, ate Belgian waffles [delicious] and saw the only Michaelangelo to leave Italy during the artist's lifetime [here at the church.]

The train from Brussels to Bruges was crowded, which must be due to the vigorous tourism here in Bruges ... as there is no industry here. Only tourism, and lots of it. It's the most well-preserved medival town in Belgium. So it's a destination city. Not the sort of thing I'm particularly interested in. I mean, I'd rather spend a day in Cleveland than in Solvang.

A little rain today, a canal tour, chatted with a family [mother & 2 daughters] from Chatsworth on the boat. Odd to meet people who live 25 miles from you some 5,000 miles from home. Bus tour of WWI battlefields tomorrow.

Oh, and a strong recommendation of the Welcome Hotel in Brussels. What a cool place.

Day 3: Brussels

I will definitely need new shoes, and possibly new feet when I come home from Europe.

Which is to say that D. and I have walked, walked, walked around two of Europe's larger cities. And they have those cobblestone streets that pulverize one's feet. I'm hoping we can get some kind of rickshaw tour of Brussels.

A couple of thoughts about Amsterdam while the thoughts are fresh.

One: you really get a sense of how over-regulated America is when you come to Europe. No one wears bicycle helmets. Not adults. Not kids. Not adults driving kids around in the little wooden baskets that are built over the front wheel. Second, there is no such thing as the ADA here. Sure, they may prohibit discrimination against the handicapped [and/or the "differently abled"] but they don't require buildings to be rejiggered to include ramps and handles. Also, I noticed no smoke detectors in any buildings that I have seen. Third, their cars are so tiny and underpowered and rudimentary, there is no way most of them would pass any sort of safety test. In short, if America thinks that it is the land of the free, in so many ways it is not.

And the two things that Amsterdam does regulate - sex [for money] and drugs - both do work for society's benefit. They provide safe environments for people to do what they would otherwise do but do illegally, and the government can gain taxation revenue and also look out for the public health [both appropriate uses of government authority.]

We did visit the Anne Frank house this morning. It is undeniably moving to see this building, which stands as the testament to one young girl's brave struggle to examine, preserve and document her humanity in a situation which sought to, and succeeded in, depriving her of that humanity. And in doing so, she became the symbol for the humanity in all the innocent victims of the Nazi and Axis killing machines.

But ultimately, the experience was a disappointing one for me. And if I fully explained why, it would take me too long. Let me say this much: to quote from Walter Benjamin's "Illuminations", the proper view of history is "to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled out in a moment of danger." The contemplative, precociously mature voice of Anne Frank, to me, is too safe, too perfectly cast as victim. She seems predestined for an early martyrdom, as if she knew her ultimate fate from the inception of her diaries [and what would her diaries mean if she would have lived?]

Rather, I believe the story of that era is the story of people like the Oxford and Eaton educated RAF pilots, who - though critically outnumbered - held the Germans at bay for two or more years prior to fortifications from the Americans. People who left privilege or safety for service. Fifteen and sixteen year old American farmboys who left Nebraska and Iowa, lied about their age, and enlisted, only to die on the beaches of Normandy and in the forests of the Ardennes. The well-known or monied who, though influence and connection could have evaded service [think George Bush the younger, or Ronald Reagan] but did no such thing. People such as Ted Williams and George H.W. Bush who valiantly served without expectation of anything more than the privilege of service to country. The negro, Mexican, women, or minority who even with bitterness against his or her native or adopted land a justifiable position, served without complaint for the greater purpose. And every businessman and woman who did not gouge, did not profiteer, did not collaborate, and sacrificed potential profit knowing that price controls, wage freezes, rent controls were part of that effort, too. That, to me, is the story of the good of World War II.

And let's not forget evil. The nameless collaborators, conspirators, profiteers, architects and actors both in Europe and abroad who designed, built, enabled and executed the plan to kill so many. These mundane evil, as Hannah Arendt so aptly put it, were like you and me in so many ways. In looks and lifestyle, in wants and in aspirations, they resembled us. But they defined themselves by acts as trivial as revealing the whereabouts of a small band hiding in the upstairs annex at Prinsengracht 263. And for some transgressions, there cannot be any meaningful human forgiveness. These images to me define the experience contextually of Anne Frank. Otherwise, her story is too pristine to truly resonate.

Also: the "liberation" was obliquely referred to in the presentation of the materials at the Anne Frank House. I wanted to yell, "The liberation made possible by American forces, armaments, British forces, free French and the very small but determined Dutch resistance." Or more like "When your country was staining its skivvies, waiting to be bailed out after stupidly and immorally clinging to neutrality, our women were building boats to carry the bombs to kill the bad guys."

But I digress ...

Brussels is a much more stately city than Amsterdam. Amsterdam has charm. Brussels is a big, serious, imposing city. In Amsterdam, the shops open late, the people seem to go to work late and knock off early. Shops may be open as few as 4 days a week, without that being considered abnormal. A local pancake house opened at noon each day. Brussels is much more conventional in the way that it operates. More traffic ... [there seemed to be 10 bicycles for every man, woman and child in Amsterdam] ... more people, more different ethnicities ...

And unfortunately, we travel south and west to Bruges tomorrow, so we leave the Welcome Hotel much too soon.