Further Illumination Rounds....again by: Evan

Further Illumination Rounds (with apologies to Michael Herr): "Un petit canon" translates directly to "a little cannon" but might more accurately be taken as "a little shot" since it is how the old men in the cafes take their tiny morning draught of red wine.  As I do now. ...... Creed has, in exile, and much to my surprise, developed some skill at "Angry Birds":  firing upon Goliath structures with a slingshot, adjusting trajectories and velocities and burst intervals. So I should not have been surprised when, atop the majestic military mountaintop that is the Arc  de Triomphe, Creed occupied one of the brass telescope emplacements, found his range through the small sighting telescope, and prepared his angle for an artillery attack upon the Eiffel Tower!   While Zelda was knocking over the barricades and distracting the gendarmes down below, on the Place de L'Etoile, with its commanding access to Hausmann's axial consensus of avenues.  The twins are the latest occupying army to take this gateway to the Cité. ...... When Madame Gail Antoinette has reached the end of her rope, out in the streets, and the little peasants are revolting (literally and figuratively), and all seems lost, she reaches into her bag (Comme des Garçons) for her Secret Weapon, and deploys it:  she lets them eat ... Cake! ...... King Evan XIV is distracted from the Revolution around him by the images he finds on the street and in the Metro, of an idealized culture (where women are colorful sensuous models, and men are gray stern statues) that is tattered and crumbling at the same time that it is being papered over and reborn and critiqued daily.  Missives broken into shards and fragments: advertisements, mostly, placed in antique frameworks and then torn and "modified" by the street denizens.  Words untranslatable appear and disappear in these contexts, and he (Evan XIV) dreams and schemes how to bring the whole experience home and render it into paintings and constructions.  While he is thus transfixed, Zelda has wandered up the platform, and Creed has run up the escalator in the opposite direction. ...... Nothing so focusses the mind as traversing a dark apartment in the middle of the night, guided only by the antique ivory streetlight staining some of the walls, seeking the added-as-an-afterthought toilet near the front door, telling oneself it is better then the old system of walking out into the staircase naked to find the closet with the hole-in-the-floor à la Turque ... when one steps barefoot onto a tiny Lego landmine.  Trying not to scream and wake the sleeping combatants. ...... We, the family, had dinner on the terrace one evening.  Creed came up with a new version of his patented, but not necessarily popular, cut carrots and ham shreds, by adding bananas to the mix: carottes, jambon et bananes.  Zelda, of course, stuck to her Cheerios diet.  Gail made a salad of lettuce, salmon, dressing, and a little French soil or sand (we couldn't tell which) that snuck in somehow.  Evan served everyone their drink of choice:  Creed had nectar de pomme, Zelda had lait, Gail had inexpensive rosé from the market, and Evan had bière brune.  All was quiet, all was well. The setting sun lit the variety of chimney pots across the street.  "I don't care what it cost," Gail whispered to Evan, "I would do it all again for this meal together".

Exile in Paris...guest writer: Evan

The French Revolution, fought door to door and street by street, in the catacombs of the Metro and on the ornate balconies of the past. Red wine.  Not my usual weapon-of-choice.  But they drink it for breakfast here, and I am trying to follow suit.  We have carried out all the empty bottles, down the five flights of stairs -- Creed prefers the antique spiral staircase to the modern ascenseur that threads the stairwell like a needle through DNA.  There's a basket in the apartment with 28 wine corks in it:  the empty cartridges of our ongoing fusillade.  Our French friends helped, of course.  Dinner parties on the  narrow terrace, overlooking the apartments and rooftops across the way, and rue Rambuteau far below.  We pick the tiny tomatoes as they ripen, courtesy of the landlady, and dry our laundry in the cool sunlight.  We eat what we buy from the bakery and the market across the street.   At night you can hear the occasional siren, and the clatter of high heels through the Marais.  By dawn it is quiet, with only the pigeons making noise at the windows open onto the streets and the outside air.  The kids stay up till midnight and sleep until nine.  As do we. Creed spent this evening finishing the "sculpture" he began last night for his "art exhibit" along the apartment's outside wall.  The crowning piece was the scrap of poster he liberated from the metro while Daddy was photographing the tattered remains of another such.  We want to believe that his "work" is influenced by the street art we saw displayed yesterday at the Palais de Tokyo, which claims to be the largest center for emerging/contemporary art in the world.  But the fact is, the art there wasn't very good.  Creed was more impressed with the skateboarders who have occupied the dead fountain plaza outside the building.  Daddy was more impressed with the human excrement "installation" he saw on one of the landings en route to that plaza, suspiciously close to the skateboarders.  Mommy was more impressed with her mojito at the outside cafe, as a slight refuge from the demands of Zelda, who wants access to Everything and Everywhere ... NOW!  The demands of six-year-old twins against the monarchy of Mommy and Daddy.  We can already feel the guillotine blade whispering to the hairs on the backs of our necks, We have determined, through non-scientific experimentation, that the kids can only handle short jaunts through the crowded streets and the maze and rumble of the Metro before they begin to melt down, usually upon arrival at some particular stimulus which we had intended to be our final destination.  Thus today we survived the lines and the climb to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, only to have them whirl into screaming fits when we reached the famous carousel at Montmartre later this afternoon:  "I want to ride the black horse the bouncy horse the bench the sleigh the spinning car again again again!". The attendant didn't seem to care how many times we rode, and the Sacre Coeur pigeons were eager to eat the Cheerios Zelda flung out headlong in her frustration. It got no better when we tried to break free and delve into the nearby fabric district, so that Gail could fortify her supplies for her next collection of clothing designs.  Fortunately there were dozens of stores for the kids to weave in and out of, feeling the scraps and bolts of cloth.  But they fought us every inch of the way. And of course, the real saving grace of Paris that there is a cafe every fifty feet, in case you need a break from the battle. And an endless supply of parks, museums, and monuments.  The water fountain at the Citroen Gardens, with a hundred wet screaming children running through it.  Followed by fruit sorbets served from the custom-fitted wooden bed of a 1920's Citroen convertible pickup (probably not a coincidence that the make of vehicle matched the park's patron).  The Pompidou, its distinctive rooftop visible from the apartment windows, just two blocks away, where Zelda circles the gypsies playing their antique fiddles, camped on their blankets on the cobblestones.   The Museum of the Hunt, a few blocks away on Rue de Archives, with taxidermy specimens including a talking boar that Creed thought was burping, and firearms so intricate that they resemble the plumbing and electrical harnesses of these ancient buildings. And I am studying those harnesses as a guide to solving our own architectural challenges at home.  At the Marches aux Puces we bought an antique brass faucet, as heavy and industrial as a sledgehammer, and intended to serve in our master bathroom in the Bough House, back in Texas. If we can survive until Friday, that is.

Jesus ...here we come...

...while spending a lovely weekend in Sancerre, chez des amis, we had the opportunity to visit the Cathedrale de Linard - a somehat revered folk art site of mosaic proportions..."Regardez mon oeuvre et vous saurez tout sur moi." - Jean Linard

Frites: or French Fry Friday was never like this in Austin...

...since the kids were in pre-school - French immersion Montessori pre-school, that is...we have had a tradition that we call French Fry Friday. It meant that I didn't cook dinner (not that I do anyway) but that either Evan or I would pick the kids up at Ecole and we would do the french fry drive thru on our way home. More often than not, it is at P Terry's, a fine Austin institution with properly made "frites" etc. - all very PC and supposedly not bad for you. So, this week Creed asked: "Mom, please can we do French Fry Friday and go and get frites? And pleeeaaasse, can we eat there?" Well, this summer, living only a mere 3 long blocks from last year's apartment, we returned to see "Les Turques": two turkish brothers and an old woman who sits guard at a little shot gun, hole-in-the-wall experience with a pass thru window to the sidewalk outside. Last summer they got used to us sitting out front and Zelda rearranging the furniture as Creed ate his brochettes de poulet avec frites. So tonight, on Creed's insistence, and my fatigue, we headed over for French Fry Friday now known as "Frites avec les Turques." Once there, we placed our order and took a table outside, as two gentlemen - and I use that term loosely - finished their meal. As always, distracted by Zelda doing her tour of the tables, I hardly noticed the debate that ensued. It all went something like this: big man with accent stands up and starts rustling tables as older Turque tries to hand him money. Other man with accent starts yelling. Big man picks up chair to crash it on table and cracks me in the elbow - yeowwww! Creed runs to kiss me, I shuffle the kids inside with the old Turque woman and another customer. Turque brothers are in heated argument with men with accents - tables jostling, threats of destruction. Police station happens to be right across the street. Someone gets them and three officers arrive about the same time as our food that pretty much had been forgotten by the Turques. Now men with accents are arguing with the police, screaming is involved, something about not getting a receipt (?) - really?! Everyone is blocking the exit. Creed thinks it's an actual "case" and wants to call his (imaginary) guys onto the scene. We get our food, distact the younger Turque by throwing 10 euros at him, dump the food in a to-go bag and escape down the street - French Fry Friday was never like this in Austin...and my elbow is still throbbing...

Vouvray, hairy armpits and the toxotwins...

...so, I was one of those kids growing up on the east coast that started taking French in school in 5th or 6th grade. My teacher's name was Barbara Baker - she was tall, had a teased bouffant like a Shangri-la and wore Jackie Kennedy-like sleeveless, smart dresses (it was the late 60's) and...she didn't shave her armpits. She was an amazing teacher but as middle class, white, suburban kids, we were all struck by her underarm hair. She also had the same name of a major Roller Derby star of the era and I would watch her namesake, racing around the track on Sundays on NYC metro TV as she would obliterate her competition. Now that I think about it...they could have been one in the same. Madame Baker taught us to speak and ask questions in French by addressing "La Souris Mickey" - that is: Monsieur, the one-and-only Mickey Mouse. "Dites à la Souris Mickey que vous avez faim..." and she would point to one of us with her arm raised as we tried not to stare and coyly would respond: "J'ai faim!" I want to say that she even had a small plastic model of Mickey Mouse that sat in front of the classroom...She drilled into her adolescent heads that speaking French, hairy armpits and talking to Micky Mouse was really, not a choice but a requirement. So, by the time I got to high school - in the early 70's - I was thrown into the world of the hipster, recently back from France-educated bi-lingual duo of Madame Sardella and Monsieur Castaldo. Mme Sardella wore short skirts, had a reverse flip hair-do and told funny stories about living with a French family and making mistakes in translation and M. Castaldo had a goatee, was très sérieux, carried a man purse and said "Ouais!" instead of "oui." They would switch levels every year so we had our full dose of each of them. So chic, so French, so 70's...I wanted to live their lives, speak their French and be like them. When the opportunity arose to take "their" trip to France, the devotées were ready...3 jet-lagged days in London (only my friend Debbie cared about London as she was on the hunt for Ziggy Stardust) and then we were there: on French soil. My friends Pam, Ellen and Karen cried when we stood before Notre Dame at dusk - beautifully lit with the sun setting behind us. Versailles, la Tour Eiffel, Sacre Coeur - you name it, Monsieur Castaldo and Madame Sardella took us there. And then, they took us to Vouvray...We had been in the Loire valley, Chateau-seeing, and as we drove along the river, a stone hit the front window of our very "modern" tour bus and the entire glass blew out. No one was hurt - especially not the driver, but we stopped at Vouvray - the vineyard. We took a tour down into the caves and left with bottles of wine tucked under our arms. And then our teachers performed magic: took us to a hillside on the side of a French country road, opened the wine and a baguette and some cheese appeared. That was it. That was all it took. I have a photo somewhere. Did we really drink the wine as students in high school with our beloved teachers? That's not really the point but in my mind we did. And the memory remains. It was the perfect afternoon... And I think of this often - it becomes the ex-patriot, all-is-right with the world scenario. I was 16 then and I have kept coming back: for undergraduate university in the south of France, a Master's degree in Paris, school for clothing design, living, working and hiding out in my atelier in the 13eme arrondissement for years and now teaching. Soooo...do I want my kids to love this country? Of course I do. Will I force them to? No - not possible. Can I at least give them this experience, this opportunity, these memories before they start to complain that they are forced to summer in Paris? Ah, ...oui, yes, of course... SUNDAY AUX JARDINS DES TUILERIES: Creed on the giant toboggan...

Zelda on her favorite bouncy trampoline...

Tout va bien...

...all is well. I was yelled at by the boulangère today. I was beginning to think that everyone was being too nice to me here because they secretly knew everthing we were experiencing in terms of theft, prescriptions, the undelivering postal system, migraines, doctors appts, etc. And especially when you walk around with 2 beautiful blond kids - one of whom is blind - and who willingly say "Bonjour, merci, et pardon" in the métro and everywhere else; one tends to be treated gently. For example: the people that work the guichets (behind the glass and are supposed to give information) in the métro are notoriously curt and unresponsive. Amercains often have trouble buying tickets or a carnet of ten through the machines with a credit card because our cards often don't have the assumed electronic "puce." So last night, running late, trying to buy a carnet for the kids at tarif reduit - they get a discount - I was busy cursing at the machine that wouldn't read my CC. Absorbed in my own drama, there's Zelda standing beside me but repeatedly pushing the big red button that calls the information person out from behind their glass cage. Believe me - just like in America - one shouldn't press the big red button. By the time I had fought with the machine and finally convinced it to take my CC and la dame had come out to see the elfen Zelda yet once again push the big red button, la dame and my daughter had become fast friends. They knew each others names, were exchanging kisses and la dame had a smile on her face that I had never seen coming from the behind the glass of a guichet in the métro. So this morning, Bastille Day - le 14 juillet - I snuck down to the only open boulangerie on the street, to buy 2 croissants beurre ( you always want to buy those made with butter), 2 pains au chocolats and une baguette - pas trop cuite (in other words: not well-cooked) as I like my baguettes served "rare". A line had formed and la boulangère (whether she was actually the baker or not) was curt, unresponsive and un-smiling. Hurray! She handed me a bag filled with croissants and pains au chocolats and one baguette. The girl working la caisse charged me 11+€. So, I said, "Madame, there must be some mistake, I asked for 2 of each and une baguette pas trop cuite." The neighbour behind me verified my request. Oh, la, la...the world had exploded!! "Non, Madame! Vous en avez demandé huit!" (She thought I had asked for 8!) She continued to insist on her point, the girl working la caisse smiled at me knowingly and sheepishly returned some euros as la boulangère waited for me to agree with her mistake. "Je suis désolée, Madame, mais je n'avais pas dit 8!" (Nope, didn't say that!) French stand-off! Hurray, all is right with the world! Paris is normal - as long as I don't leave the appart with the kids...

The fabric of our lives...

...and no, I am not talking about cotton. I am talking of friends. I was always a loner - still am - but I went through a serious phase (starting even as a kid) of believing that I could survive without attachment to friends that really heightened in my 20's. Whether it was the rebel in me, the desire to have the utmost confidence in myself, or maybe just plain old insecurity - I pretty much shunned deep friendships. But much has happened since then. I lived abroad for years, made bad decisions in relationships, changed careers and figured out that although it's lovely to spend evenings alone and hide in a movie theatre with obligations to no one for 2 hours - life is so much richer with relationships. Especially ones that tend to be able to handle forgiveness, are made of loyalty without severe expectation or judgement and come equipped with an amazing capacity to exchange ideas and information, creativity and laughter. It wasn't my first rodeo in Paris - I had already studied and lived here before, but when I came in 1986, I was enrolled in school for clothing design at ESMOD. I met Elsa: she was short, had dyed black hair that was spiked up with pommade as her head was shaved on the side and a "meche" - one of those tiny braids longer than all of her other hair. She wore mens' jackets and trousers - and we listened to the same music. It was Goth for us - the Bat Cave had launched earlier in the decade in London: Bauhaus, Siouxsie, Nick Cave, Sisters. We would stay out all night at the Boucanier, falling asleep on the couches to the side of the dance floor until the first metro would open at dawn and then our merry band would disperse and make our ways to our respective homes, as the boulangers were already at work baking the first croissants of the morning. There were a group of us that only got stronger after we graduated: Laurent worked for French TV and spent all of his money on vinyl and clothes by Yamamoto. Sandra was busy booking our collections on Parisian TV shows and getting as gigs to show our clothes around France. Armelle lived near Versailles and would have us over to her parents' apartment for holidays when they were out of town. And Manu would smoke cigarettes and fall in love with a different girl every week. We would go to afternoon Tea Dances and party next to JP Gaultier. BOY of London and their followers were huge. We sold our collections in a Galerie for Jeunes Createurs aux Halles. In those days Les Halles was more friendly...still seedy, still sex shops, even our landlady of the gallery was a Madame with rooms upstairs, but the Costes brother had opened their cafe. Laura Todd had introduced a chocolate chip cookie shop and we would meet every day to discuss fashion "Au Pere Tranquille" when we weren't at home in our ateliers, on the road or working selling our designs at the Galerie. When I moved back to the States in the nineties, I would return to Paris at least yearly, often for business or just visits (and now for teaching) but also for special occasions: a long weekend for the wedding of Elsa & Laurent (he wore Thierry Mugler!) and we partied til 5am, the birth of Evaluna so I could present her with her first shoes by Baby Dior and a little hand-sewn black dress and bloomers, Elsa's surprise party for her 40th birthday at Alcazar with drag queens and cigarette girls, my 40th birthday in Oberkampf with a huge cake shaped like an American flag...they would move apartments and arrondissements but there was always a bed for me. Their son Vermeer was born a week before the twins...and now our kids are friends. And if the Sisters of Mercy were to come on right now, we would all get out on the dance floor, wearing black, with our heads down, not speaking and dance: First and last and always...

Evaluna (13), Elsa, Laurent, and Vermeer (6 1/2)...my favorite French family