Thursday, May 10, 2012
The Charms of Paris
I have had one souvenir goal for this sabbatical; to buy a charm for a bracelet in each city that I visit. Some cities have sold charms that were pretty easy to locate and others were not quite sure what charms were or who would ever want one. Clearly their charm bracelets went out with poodle skirts and saddle shoes. But for the most part, I have been pretty successful in my search and will have a very noisy piece of jewelry once I get home. (The point of wearing the thing of course, is to drive those around you crazy with the jangling noise) I found two wonderful charms in Paris, The Arc and The Eiffel Tower. But Paris held many charms for me that were not of the metal variety. They are the kind of charms that, in any other city, would make you grimace and hiss through your teeth, "What is wrong with this place?!" But in Paris, you take it all in stride and murmur lovingly, "I just love this city and all of its charms!" I will tell you about three of them that endeared Paris to me forever.
My first "charming" experience occurred on my very first day of walking the streets of Paris. Our family had just left a department store where I had purchased two charms. (see above) The clerk had put them in a little shopping bag with handles, about the size of a piece of bread. I only note this to make a point in regard to how small and harmless this bag was. And, keep in mind, that bracelet charms do not weigh very much. I could have just as easily carried my purchase in my pocket but the clerk was wisely wanting me to feel like I had truly purchased something, justifying my self-indulgence.
As I walked along, I noticed a woman ahead of me with a similar shopping bag except that hers was the size of a refrigerator. I make the size reference again only to prove that this woman was carrying a personal weapon on her arm, in the shape of a shopping bag. As I walked the crowded sidewalk, I realized that I needed to move my arm and bag away from her direction or I was going to bump her with the teeny sack I carried. Even with my best efforts, as I passed her, my sack grazed against her Frigidaire-sized bag. Holding her bag out in front of her and swinging it with all she had, she hit me full-force with the weapon. Just like those little old ladies do in the cartoons with their purses. I was so surprised, I didn't know what to do or say. I just kept walking, asking my family, "Did you see that? Did you see that French lady hit me? Did you?" They hadn't, but thought it must be some type of charming French gesture. Kind of like an initiation. My arm felt otherwise.
My second charming experience involved French food. May I just say at this point that I loved Paris, its architecture, its people, its culture, its music. Everything, except its food. I tried all types but just could not find anything beyond dessert that I liked. Our medium-well cheeseburger was bright red throughout. The chef who made my club salad had only one criteria; throw in anything that was bigger than a golf ball and see if the silly American will still eat it, even when it's covered with oil and vinegar. One evening, my husband's special French dish was a plate covered with watery mashed potatoes with a sausage swimming in the middle. Not bad for only $27, no? In defense of the French, I could live off of glace, which is French ice cream. In fact, I tried to accomplish this goal, every single day. Thank goodness we were only there 3 days or I would have gained 12 pounds.
My last charming experience occurred in our hotel. On our first night in Paris, I laid in bed, drifting off to French dreamland when I was awakened by a scratching noise. I sat up, thinking that a bird was trying to enter by way of our window. I turned on the light and looked out the window. No bird. I turned off the light. The scratching returned. It was then that I realized that the noise was coming from within the wall, just under the window. I've read about the sewer rats in Paris. I saw the Pixar movie "Ratatouille". This was Remy come to visit. I laid awake, trying to gauge how much further he needed to chew before he was part of my room decor. But, this was Paris, where all things charming happen. I tried to think of him as Mouse-atouille since that sounded so much friendlier.....and smaller. The noise continued on the second night, as well as the third. By the third night, I found the sound to be comforting, in some weird way. The animal was not planning on coming into my room or he would have made it by then. He was just doing some kind of remodeling project within the walls of this old and charming hotel. He probably even wore a little black beret. After all, this was Paris, always a charming place.
My first "charming" experience occurred on my very first day of walking the streets of Paris. Our family had just left a department store where I had purchased two charms. (see above) The clerk had put them in a little shopping bag with handles, about the size of a piece of bread. I only note this to make a point in regard to how small and harmless this bag was. And, keep in mind, that bracelet charms do not weigh very much. I could have just as easily carried my purchase in my pocket but the clerk was wisely wanting me to feel like I had truly purchased something, justifying my self-indulgence.
As I walked along, I noticed a woman ahead of me with a similar shopping bag except that hers was the size of a refrigerator. I make the size reference again only to prove that this woman was carrying a personal weapon on her arm, in the shape of a shopping bag. As I walked the crowded sidewalk, I realized that I needed to move my arm and bag away from her direction or I was going to bump her with the teeny sack I carried. Even with my best efforts, as I passed her, my sack grazed against her Frigidaire-sized bag. Holding her bag out in front of her and swinging it with all she had, she hit me full-force with the weapon. Just like those little old ladies do in the cartoons with their purses. I was so surprised, I didn't know what to do or say. I just kept walking, asking my family, "Did you see that? Did you see that French lady hit me? Did you?" They hadn't, but thought it must be some type of charming French gesture. Kind of like an initiation. My arm felt otherwise.
My second charming experience involved French food. May I just say at this point that I loved Paris, its architecture, its people, its culture, its music. Everything, except its food. I tried all types but just could not find anything beyond dessert that I liked. Our medium-well cheeseburger was bright red throughout. The chef who made my club salad had only one criteria; throw in anything that was bigger than a golf ball and see if the silly American will still eat it, even when it's covered with oil and vinegar. One evening, my husband's special French dish was a plate covered with watery mashed potatoes with a sausage swimming in the middle. Not bad for only $27, no? In defense of the French, I could live off of glace, which is French ice cream. In fact, I tried to accomplish this goal, every single day. Thank goodness we were only there 3 days or I would have gained 12 pounds.
My last charming experience occurred in our hotel. On our first night in Paris, I laid in bed, drifting off to French dreamland when I was awakened by a scratching noise. I sat up, thinking that a bird was trying to enter by way of our window. I turned on the light and looked out the window. No bird. I turned off the light. The scratching returned. It was then that I realized that the noise was coming from within the wall, just under the window. I've read about the sewer rats in Paris. I saw the Pixar movie "Ratatouille". This was Remy come to visit. I laid awake, trying to gauge how much further he needed to chew before he was part of my room decor. But, this was Paris, where all things charming happen. I tried to think of him as Mouse-atouille since that sounded so much friendlier.....and smaller. The noise continued on the second night, as well as the third. By the third night, I found the sound to be comforting, in some weird way. The animal was not planning on coming into my room or he would have made it by then. He was just doing some kind of remodeling project within the walls of this old and charming hotel. He probably even wore a little black beret. After all, this was Paris, always a charming place.
Friday, May 4, 2012
I Love Paris in the Springtime......With A Bucket List
Our family spent a whirlwind, 3 day exploration in Paris. It is always the Number 1 vacation spot to visit, falling to #2 this year only because so many people are going to London to see the Olympics in person. Next year, Paris will be the top vacation spot again (as usual) so I had to go to see what all the fuss was about. Everyone reading this blog has learned of my bucket list and "to do's" that have been met on this sabbatical and crossed off. Just like gondola rides and experiencing vertigo at the leaning Tower of Pisa, Paris held a very special and unique goal on my list. It involved the Eiffel Tower. I know that most bucket lists include this famous icon, but my requirements were truly unique. Just seeing it did not count. My goal stated that I had to gaze at the Eiffel Tower while sitting in a French cafe and sipping espresso. This meant that, not only did I have to find the famous tower, I also had to find a cafe within viewing distance that served espresso and even had an empty table and chair for me to occupy. (a challenge at most Paris cafes, even those far away from Eiffel). I think this strange requirement stems from seeing way too many Hollywood movies that show an Eiffel-filled view from every apartment window, restaurant, park bench and, yes, every cafe in Paris. I am not sure how this is possible, but growing up, I knew it was true and my goal would be very easy to meet. Just find any cafe, order some coffee, then sit back and gaze away. I now have been to Paris and I can tell you that such is not the case. We visited the structure twice and both times we had it in plain view and began walking towards it. Both times, half-way to our destination, we lost it and were turning in circles on a Paris street yelling "Where did it go? How did we lose something so BIG?!" (Either the French residents are use to this phenomena or they thought our family really strange, spinning in circles like Leslie Caron and Gene Kelly in "American in Paris") Both times, after some serious walking, we relocated it and resumed our trek, finally ending up at the equally beautiful and impressive structure. But where was my cafe? My espresso? My cute guy wearing a black beret and striped shirt? (Wait, maybe that was my mime) The second time we visited and I still had an Eiffel Tower on my bucket list, I was really feeling hopeless.
We walked back towards our hotel, looking in shops and restaurants. All I could think about was my bucket list failure. How could I come this far and fail? Without looking for anything in particular, I glanced over my shoulder as I had this feeling that someone was following me. To my total surprise, there stood the Eiffel Tower, looking down at me even though we had already walked for blocks! I quickly looked around and saw a cafe just down the block with an empty table. Like a kindergartener making a mad dash for the last available seat in Musical Chairs, I ran down the sidewalk and skidded into the chair, moving it a few feet. (OK, several feet) I'm sure my fellow diners were impressed as well as startled. I put packages in the other 3 chairs for my family members who were still searching for me. When Jim finally reached the table, his obvious question was something about what in the world was I doing? I simply stated, "Look behind you. I am going to mark one off the list." He and the girls sat down and I ordered espresso for Jim and I. Forgetting my own rule of speaking s-l-o-w-l-y so that the French who know English as a second language can follow my train of thought, I began talking a mile a minute to our unsuspecting waiter about how this spot was on my bucket list and now I was meeting my goal and the Eiffel Tower was in front of me and he would soon be bringing my coffee. He merely nodded, smiled and said, "Good!" I knew he had probably only understood Eiffel Tower and coffee and was wondering why Americans needed to compile a list of all of their buckets. He brought my espresso and Jim's, keeping his distance so as not to catch the crazy American lady's mental illness. That turned out to be a good thing because as soon as the cup was placed on the table, Jim knocked it off, baptizing the French sidewalk. The waiter doubly liked us now. He was gracious and brought us another espresso, free of charge, with the instructions to drink up, as in fast, and cautiously backed away from the table. I didn't care. I was basking in the glow of the Eiffel Tower, sipping an espresso, humming La Vie En Rose and imagining that every person that walked by was wondering who the cute French girl was. Speaking in a fake French accent, singing to herself, and clearly a little crazy, no?
Je Amour Vous!
Becky
We walked back towards our hotel, looking in shops and restaurants. All I could think about was my bucket list failure. How could I come this far and fail? Without looking for anything in particular, I glanced over my shoulder as I had this feeling that someone was following me. To my total surprise, there stood the Eiffel Tower, looking down at me even though we had already walked for blocks! I quickly looked around and saw a cafe just down the block with an empty table. Like a kindergartener making a mad dash for the last available seat in Musical Chairs, I ran down the sidewalk and skidded into the chair, moving it a few feet. (OK, several feet) I'm sure my fellow diners were impressed as well as startled. I put packages in the other 3 chairs for my family members who were still searching for me. When Jim finally reached the table, his obvious question was something about what in the world was I doing? I simply stated, "Look behind you. I am going to mark one off the list." He and the girls sat down and I ordered espresso for Jim and I. Forgetting my own rule of speaking s-l-o-w-l-y so that the French who know English as a second language can follow my train of thought, I began talking a mile a minute to our unsuspecting waiter about how this spot was on my bucket list and now I was meeting my goal and the Eiffel Tower was in front of me and he would soon be bringing my coffee. He merely nodded, smiled and said, "Good!" I knew he had probably only understood Eiffel Tower and coffee and was wondering why Americans needed to compile a list of all of their buckets. He brought my espresso and Jim's, keeping his distance so as not to catch the crazy American lady's mental illness. That turned out to be a good thing because as soon as the cup was placed on the table, Jim knocked it off, baptizing the French sidewalk. The waiter doubly liked us now. He was gracious and brought us another espresso, free of charge, with the instructions to drink up, as in fast, and cautiously backed away from the table. I didn't care. I was basking in the glow of the Eiffel Tower, sipping an espresso, humming La Vie En Rose and imagining that every person that walked by was wondering who the cute French girl was. Speaking in a fake French accent, singing to herself, and clearly a little crazy, no?
Je Amour Vous!
Becky
Friday, April 20, 2012
Shakespeare 101 or What Your English Teacher Never Taught You
The third city we visited in Italy was Verona, a small, historic town and the oldest city in Italy. It has the second largest arena, right after the Colosseum in Rome. It contains walls and tiled floors that were built in 100 BC. It even has great ravioli. But the number one reason I chose to spend 3 days in Verona is that it is home to the families Capulet and Montague - the families that raised those two rebellious and star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet. I am a major fan of the book, thanks to my 9th grade English teacher who taught me that reading Shakepeare would not make one suddenly sprout nerd glasses and saddle shoes. Not only did I survive reading the play (with the help of the handy margin notes) but I found that I really enjoyed Shakespeare. Please don't share this with any of my 9th grade classmates. I feigned lots of eye-rolling and "PU's" just like they did when we were told we had to read "yet another" Shakespeare play. In my head, I was doing the literature happy dance.
Like all good travelers, I went on-line and searched for a guide to give our family an authentic tour that covered, not only the historical locations connected with the play, but also the locations used for the movie "Letters to Juliet." (Hey, I had to have a selling point for my 16 year old daughter) I began email correspondence with the tour company owner, Michelangelo. My first email covered the important issues of cost for a private tour and whether his real name was truly Michelangelo. He assured me his name was genuinely given to him by his parents at the hospital and I felt the tour charges were within my price range. It was a "go".
The morning of our tour, we were met in the hotel lobby by our guide, Daniel. (I didn't feel it necessary to ask if his name was legit.) The entire tour was on foot as Old Verona is pretty small. Daniel and I led the way, the 2 girls made up the middle of our duck line and Jim kept us safe by walking in the back to beat up any houligans (as Katie calls them) that might accost our group. I had plenty of time to talk with Daniel and find out his life story. Anyone who lives in Verona and makes his living walking the streets and giving history lessons has got to be living an enviable life. He told me he knew Italian, English, Spanish, German, French and was currently working on Russian. I told him I knew English. "And by the way, can YOU knit a sweater from the top down and do a spot-on impersonation of the Wicked Witch of the West?" OK, I didn't say that last part but it did go through my head and I felt so much better about the language thing.
Daniel took us to the historical points of interest and several of the movie locations. We all snapped pictures like the goofy tourists that we were/are. But the fascinating part of the tour was our discussion of "Romeo and Juliet." I am here to tell you that for years, we all have been douped by English teachers and old William himself. If William lived today, I'm sure there would be a cover story on People magazine, exposing him as the fraudulent, plageristic guy that he was. First, I need to tell you that Shakespeare never darkened the door of Verona. He never stepped foot in the city. Second, and most scandulous, is that decades before William was even born, another man wrote the story about the Capulets and Montegues - and this man had actually been to Verona. Shakespeare read this original story and decided to write a play, adding a few fabricated details here and there. It seems that the Montagues and Capulets were two families at war with each other, similar to our Hatfields and McCoys. This part is true. One of the members of the Montague family did kill a member of the Capulet family but we do not know if that man's name was Romeo. Nor do we know if the name of the Capulet man was Tybalt. Unlike the play, the entire Montague family was asked to leave Verona, not just "Romeo." This made the Montague family really mad and regret that they ever begat "Romeo" in their already shakey family tree.
As far as map issues, the Montague house was indeed within walking distance of the Capulet house so Romeo could have easily made it that far. However, the wall that surrounds the Capulet house would have required a catapult to get him to the other side so he could hide in the bushes and spy on Juliet who was talking out loud to herself. I'm not sure why this activity did not seem to deter Romeo's ardour towards her. He must have thought her crazy as well as beautiful.
Then Daniel drops the tour info bomb: no one really knows if Juliet ever really existed. Shakespeare made up the romance situation to give a motive to the murder of a Capulet member. I was so disillusioned. Even knowing that Juliet may have been totally fabricated by Shakespeare, I still wanted to visit her home and balcony. I also wanted to see the mailbox where damsels in distress send letters to Juliet for love advise. (just like in the movie). Daniel assured me that the Juliet council of advisors is indeed real (he could tell I was getting fainty from the possible fake Juliet thing) and they do actually answer letters from women who can't seem to figure out life and love for themselves.
We entered the Capulet courtyard to find it packed with other love-struck tourists, just like us, snapping pictures and visiting Juliet's statue. I need to tell you that there is an immense number of square feet of wall in this place. And every inch of it is covered at least 3 layers deep in sharpee notes, sketches, band aids, chewed gum and pieces of paper. The idea is to get your thoughts, initials, little hearts or revenge message onto the wall one way or another. Bandaids and blobs of bubble gum are just a great way to accomplish this as you can write on them. It was kind of an "Eewww!" moment for me and seemed to detract from the romance of the area. I tried to overlook the gross factor and not touch a thing. I did take a picture of Juliet's balcony. Which leads me to one other piece of fabricated trivia that I hope does not burst your Hollywood trust-bubble. When MGM came to Verona in the 1930's to shoot the "Romeo and Juliet" movie, they decided the real balcony was too plain to be believed. They found an alternate fancy balcony in Lucca for Norma Shearer to stand in and talk to herself. The city of Verona was so insulted (they seem to have lots of citizens there who fly off the handle) that they added a fancy bacony just below the actual, historically plain one.
After we walked back to our hotel, I shook Daniel's hand good-bye, expressing my thanks for such an awesome tour. As I stood in the street, fabricated playwright info swirling in my head, I decided that every bit of my beloved play was real. Someone along the way got a little jealous of Shakespeare, probably one of those hot-headed Verona people, and tried to muddy his reputation. It may not have been a couple named Romeo and Juliet. It could have just as easily been Rodney and Jane. But it happened and it lives comfortably, in my 9th grade English mind.
By Becky Capulet
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)