Big Ben

Taking the EuroStar train from Paris to London through the Chunnel was a snap and a terrific experience.  It took only slightly over 2 hours, less than 25 minutes of which was actually in the tunnel under the Channel.  A cab ride brought me to Tom and Susanne's town house in a very posh part of central London.  (Sadly, I inadvertently deleted my pictures of it from the camera).  We had a delightful weekend that included a pilgrimage to Liberty of London, a tour of the Cabinet War Rooms and Churchill Museum in Whitehall, and lunch at the Wallace Collection with Tom, Susanne and Miriam Gilbert, my old friend from grad school.  Sunday evening, we enjoyed a terrific pub "Sunday roast" followed by the Seahawks game, which was utterly agonizing and lasted until almost midnight in London, but ended in a win.  Go Hawks!!

Set for last scene of "Love's Labours Won"

On Monday, I met Miriam at Marylebone Station for the train ride to Stratford.  The Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC) is currently producing "Love's Labours Lost" and "Much Ado About Nothing," which the director is presenting as a sequel titled "Love's Labours Won" based on some sketchy but not impossible historical evidence.  We saw "Love's Labours Won" on Monday night and will see the first of the two plays on Wednesday.  I'm also looking forward to Miriam's lecture on the play that afternoon as well as a Q&A session with the director.  The cast of both plays is the same and the leads are absolutely brilliant, actors who have not yet played major roles in American films but are not to be missed.  Edward Bennett plays Benedick in "Won" and Berowne in "Lost"; Michelle Terry plays Beatrice in "Won" and Rosaline in "Lost."

It is no surprise that the RSC does Shakespeare with more verve and imagination than anybody else.  In this case, "Love's Labours Lost" is set in 1914 and "Love Labours Won" in 1918, thus bracketing
the First World War.  But it's not just about imaginative settings, great costumes and good actors who can articulate their lines.  The music and comedic bits that are not in the script seem perfectly suited to the play.  Last night, I laughed until I cried at a bit of farce involving a small room crammed with two constables, two suspects and a crown prosecutor plus all sorts of other things littering the floor as the crown prosecutor attempts to get to the door.  Each person turns in exactly the wrong direction thus blocking someone else until they finally all pick up the large table that dominates the center of the room, hoping to rotate the crown prosecutor to the door, only to discover they've gone too far and are all back in the positions in which they first found themselves.

Miriam and I had a lovely walk and a bit of shopping in the center of Stratford this morning, will have dinner this evening with her next door neighbors, and hope to refresh ourselves in the midst of all our theatrical activities on Wednesday with a big English high tea.  And then I must say goodbye to all this magic and return to my own life in Seattle -- and to all of you.

It has been an extraordinary voyage of discovery for me, in spite of terribly cold weather, and only whets my appetite for more.  But at least I'll be home for the Superbowl!  Go Hawks!!!

Tomorrow, Friday, will be my last day at L'Atelier 9.  I've been very happy at the school.  Both students and staff have been incredibly positive and fun to be with.  Classes have been both informative and enjoyable, and watching the faces Vanessa made to take us through the nasal vowel sounds was worth the price of admission!  

I've also managed to access a small taste of French life -- living in an apartment, going to church, sharing the traditional Epiphany cake, "galette des rois," with my classmates and with the Sudours,

Galette des Rois, Marseille

dining out with new friends, taking the Metro to school every day, shopping in the various stores for groceries, and talking to Americans who actually live here.  That doesn't make moving to France and living successfully here easy; it just makes it seem slightly more possible.  And I've survived cold, wind and rain.

The café around the corner

It has also been amazing to be in Paris during an unprecedented challenge to France's idea of itself.  I will bring home a copy of this Wednesday's edition of "Charlie Hebdo," which I convinced a kiosk vendor to sell to me from the secret stash under his counter, so that at least some of you can experience for yourselves exactly what this defender of "laïcité" (secularism) looks like.  The cover is stunning -- but still an insult to many in the Muslim community.

And so, good-bye to Paris.  By tomorrow evening if the trains run on time, I'll be in London with my cousins Tom and Susanne.  

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On Sunday, according to the newspapers, a crowd as large as the one that gathered for the Allies' entrance into Paris in 1944 clogged the Place de la République and the boulevards leading up to it.   As so often happens in our lives, my weekend was a combination of rapt attention to the unfolding events and the simple joys of a family reunion as I spent the weekend in Marseille with the Sudour family.

I have been fascinated by the subtleties of the reactions among the French to the terrorist attack and its aftermath.  Some French people refused to go to the "manifestation," their way of protesting against the politicization of the tragedy as the chattering classes debated what game Sarkozy was playing and whether Marine Le Pen (head of the very right wing anti-immigrant party) would be invited and, if invited, would attend.  Others, while saddened by the deaths, were a bit astonished at the uproar over "Charlie Hebdo" a magazine that many consider merely adolescent and in bad taste.   It was also interesting that so little attention was paid in the French press to the slaughter of Jews at the grocery store relative to the obsession about the cartoonists and editor of the weekly newspaper.  Whatever the subtleties, however, all have been engaged in a fierce debate about what freedom of expression and that indefinable (to outsiders) French notion of "laicity" really means.  To take down "Charlie Hebdo" was about as close as you could get psychologically to taking down the Twin Towers -- it was a "défi", a challenge, like throwing down the gauntlet.  And it will take this country a long time to figure it all out -- as it has taken ours after 9/11.

I had a lovely reunion with Nathalie, Patrick, Louise and Elliott -- our friends from the Hutch -- at their lovely hideaway in Marseille.  Hard to imagine that this quiet and peaceful bit of land with its charming house, pool, garden and guest quarters can be found in France's second largest city.  Not only have the renovations of the Sudour's property produced stunning results since my last visit, the EU designation of Marseille as a major cultural city has generated incredible investment in the cultural and architectural heritage of this amazing place.

Fort St. Jean, Marseille

On Saturday, Nat and Pat and I visited the MuCEM, the Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilizations.  It is housed in a completely renovated Fort St. Jean -- originally built by the crusaders -- at the Vieux Port (the old port).  Inside the confines of the fort is the new museum, a structure housed within a carapace that Nathalie describes as like lace, but that I've come to think of like the foam the tide washes up on the shore -- dentillated in an open and irregular pattern.  Inside this structure is the museum, and on the roof of the museum, sheltered from the heat and sun by the carapace, is an absolutely stunning courtyard with incredible views of the town and the Mediterranean.

There is also a great view from Fort St. Jean to the Romanesque Cathédrale de la Major, which is in Le Panier, the western side of the old port that was bombed badly during World War II because of its proximity to the industrial area of the city (sort of like the East End of London).

Vieux Port, Marseille

MuCEM

Cathédrale de la Major viewed from the new museum

Vallon des Auffes

We all gathered for lunch at a charming "resto" (French shorthand for restaurant), Chez Jeannot, in a tiny inlet called Le Vallon des Auffes just off the Corniche in the heart of the City .  I ate delicious little squid until I thought I would burst -- and then clambered over some rocks to hear "le rocher qui souffle," the whispering rock -- it does indeed blow air when the sea swirls in underneath.  And then there was an afternoon basketball game that Louise's team won.

On Sunday, we went to the wonderful Notre Dame de la Garde, which stands on the highest promontory in Marseille and has been guarding the city and its sailors for hundreds of years.  It is a beautiful Romanesque structure and recently cleaned inside so that the beautiful mosaics sparkle.   Most touching are the models of ships lost at sea that hang from the cathedral's ceiling.  Lloyd and I had visited there in a terrible mistral, one that almost blew us over.  The wind was blowing on this Sunday too, a reminder to me that Lloyd was again with us.  We lit candles and hugged and it was a nice way to include this wonderful part of our extended family in saying goodbye.

Interior of Notre Dame de la Garde

More pictures of this wonderful weekend will follow.  Elliott has all his mother's skill with a camera and took some wonderful photos that Nathalie has promised to send along.

Nothing seemed to happen in Paris today that did not relate in some way to the extraordinary attack yesterday at the weekly paper "Charlie Hebdo".  I was so grateful that my French teacher, Vanessa, completely changed her lesson on such short notice to allow us to understand and talk through what had happened.

You may remember several years ago when a Danish cartoonist proposed to publish cartoons that, in the view of some, mocked the prophet Mohamed.  Turns out, the satirical weekly "Charlie Hebdo" in France took the cartoons and printed them.  It's building was burned down.  Other times, the paper was sued in court, but the charges were dropped.  The paper continued to publish such cartoons, working with some of France's most beloved political cartoonists.  Vanessa showed us several.  One of the most funny and least offensive depicted God at the pearly gates while a lot of young men marched toward him.  God is holding up his hands saying, "Stop, stop!  We've run out of virgins."  Others were more pointed and the ones showing a naked Prophet in bad taste.  Nevertheless, they were all aimed at a world view the editorial staff saw as rigid, intolerant and out of place in the modern world.  Free speech, after all, is about being able to say things even if most people would find them in poor taste.

After class, Meg and I went to the Place de la République where a spontaneous gathering of Parisians occurred last night.  Some of the signs and flowers were still there.

Place de la République, 1/8/15

Liberty Muzzled

French class is uncovering a lot more of my chronic errors than I ever knew

I had.  I wish I could continue studying at this pace, taxing though it may be.  Nevertheless, the weekend looms and I am heading by train to Marseille Friday afternoon for a visit with Nathalie, Patrick, Louise and Elliott.  I will have to tell them that a week at school in France has demonstrated that I speak French "comme un vache espagnole" -- that is, that I speak French like a Spanish cow, an expression that is common in the country, but one that we don't usually hear.  At least it's not as bad as the French expression for American coffee (presumably Starbuck's included).  It is described as "café au jus de chausettes" -- coffee made from the juice of crushed socks:).  À bientôt (until next time).

I wrote the following, but did not get to post it, before the shooting of the staff of the weekly satirical magazine "Charlie Hebdo" on Wednesday, January 7.  Here it is now.  More to follow on the event and its aftermath in the next post..................

On Tuesday, January 6, Meg and I went exploring the area around the Parc Monceau, which is on the border of the 8th and 18th arrondissements.   Lloyd and I discovered the Park and the area south and west of it when we visited Meredith in Paris some years ago.  The park is utterly charming, though a bit denuded in winter, and well-known for its statues of composers.  We were browsing neighborhoods in which it might be fun to live and definitely were impressed by the 18th.

Of course, one never wanders about Paris without discovering all sorts of wonderful things.  This time we were rewarded by discovering the old Banque de France building, which is being renovated as a museum.  We were particularly taken by the drain pipes.

Banque de France

Whimsical Drain Pipes

Pagoda Paris

We also went by the Pagoda Paris, one of this city's more delightful structures, on the corner of the rue des Courcelles and the rue de Monceau.  As we continued our walk, we came to the Musée Jacquemart-André on the Boulevard Haussmann.  Their tea room is an utterly delightful space bordering a classic Parisian courtyard.  January 6 is the day the Parisians celebrate Epiphany by serving the Galette des Rois, a cake made with puff pastry and frangipani.  None was on offer but we had a wonderful tea with beautiful pastries anyway.

French class continues to be a delight.  It's taking a lot of energy because it is so intense.  Added to the cold, both inside and out, we don't have much left over for larking about.  But who cares?  This is Paris!  And one can always eat.  We've discovered a little place on the nearby Île St.-Louis, Mon Vieil Ami.  It is not strictly vegetarian, but offers a good many more vegetables in its dishes than is the usual custom in France.  I highly recommend it.

All of Paris is stunned by the terrorist attack on a satirical newspaper in the 11th arrondissement this morning.  I was in class when the event unfolded and only heard about it when someone picked up the news on the internet during our lunch break.  Parisians are streaming into the streets this evening in solidarity with both the news staff who were killed and the policemen as well.

I'll report more on my time here when it is more appropriate.

I attended services at the American Church in Paris on Sunday morning.  It was an amazing congregation, large and diverse, with many inter-racial couples and their children in attendance.  I was particularly stuck by the large number of African Americans, although flight from the US to the more tolerant culture of France has been something of a tradition at least since the twenties.

I had another faux pas adventure getting there.  The #63 bus goes right to the door and is just a few blocks away from my apartment.  I had been told to simply stand at the bus sign and wave to the driver to ask the bus to stop.  I had reconnoitered the street and found a nice round blue sign with the picture of a bus on it at every street corner.  I thought it rather quaint that the bus would stop on a  corner sticking into the intersection of the cross street but, after all, the French are a bit whimsical at times.  So, I stood by the round blue bus sign.  The bus approached; I waved twice; and the bus sailed right on by me.  I turned to find out what the bus was doing and discovered that it had stopped at a bus shelter two blocks further along the street, one that I had not noticed.  (The sign at which I stood indicated only that this was a bus lane.)  So, in good NY style, I waved my arm in the air shouting "Arrêtez, arrêtez!" and began running -- as only a woman of a certain age can -- in the direction of the bus.  Fortunately, there were a lot of people getting on but as I neared, the last person entered and the bus driver closed the doors.  Undaunted, I kept shouting and waving my arms, hoping to position myself in the side view mirror.  When I arrived panting at the door, the driver gently opened the door for me with the most amused smile on his face and I managed to pay and insert my ticket in the machine (only after he had called me back to do so).  As I settled into my seat, I realized that I had been calling "Stop, stop" to a bus that had already stopped when I should have been calling "Attendez, attendez" (Wait, Wait!).  I think I made that bus driver's day.  I know he made mine:).

My friend Meg was waiting for me when I returned from church and we celebrated our reunion in Paris at Terroir Parisien, a restaurant near our apartment that celebrates farm to table cuisine based on the produce of the Île de France.  We had a lovely meal, mine including beet root remoulade as a first course, scallops and leeks with shellfish foam, and a bite of coffee mille feuille shared with Meg for dessert.

Today, school began, and we were off early, managing to operate the photo machine in the subway station (with difficulty) in order to get a "carte navigo" that lets us travel on trains and buses in central Paris for a whole week.  I wound up in the advanced intermediate class with a wonderful teacher named Vanessa and four other students.  By 1:00 when the "intensive" ended, we were exhausted and hungry -- and I was so happy.  My preparations have served me well and my weaknesses (mostly in comprehension) will be addressed.

The Famous Deux Magots

Meg and I celebrated our baptism with a "noisette"  (a cortado in Spain -- espresso with a bit of hot milk) at Les Deux Magots and a long walk appreciating the flower vendors, chocolate and pastries of Paris.

Flower Market

When it rains in Paris, one is put in mind of the 1955 "Rififi" more than the 2011 "Midnight in Paris." Black and white and wet all over. Undaunted (I am a Seattleite after all), I walked over to the Mauberg Saturday market where, as promised, I found an enormous variety of market stalls (Pike Place without the panache): fresh oysters, cheese of every description, dried fruit and nuts, fresh fruits and vegetables, smoked and fresh meats, and more in profusion.  Plus a few stalls featuring bits of jewelry and antiques.  It was great fun and I managed to acquire a small piece of cheese that was, in my broken French, not too hard, not too strong (in other words, just right).  I was indifferent, I told the lovely young woman who waited on me, as to whether it was goat or cow -- and I still don't know which I got.

I had hoped to follow the theme of the day and attend a screening of a 1949 American film noir at the little Action Christine Theater off the rue des Grands Augustins in the afternoon, but -- mon dieu! - I couldn't keep my eyes open and opted for a nap instead.  That left me more than ready for this evening's concert at the Église Julien-le-Pauvre, which is just a block away from my apartment.

The altar of St.Julien-le-Pauvre

As the oldest church in Paris, it has had quite a history.  It was rebuilt in the Norman style in the 11th century and served as a salt warehouse during and after the revolution.  Since 1889, it has been a Greek Melkite Catholic Church.  Whatever it's history, it has beautiful acoustics and was a perfect setting for a concert of piano pieces by Beethoven and Chopin performed by one of Paris' own stars, Jean-Chrisophe Millot.  Among the pieces he performed was Claire de Lune and I felt strongly that Lloyd was somehow with me in the little church, urging me to move forward, as he always has.

Christmas tree at Notre Dame

After the concert, it was necessary to see if the (reputedly) hideous Russian Christmas tree still graces the front of Notre Dame (it does).  I leave you to decide whether it deserves its reputation.

And, of course, I couldn't resist the temptation to make sure that Shakespeare & Co. is alive and well on the banks of the Seine.  Happy to report, it is -- and as full of books as ever!

As I left for the airport, Seattle was brilliant in the delightfully unexpected sunlight of a cold winter day and I arrived in Paris to the weather I should have had in Seattle -- cloudy and relatively warm.  But Paris is like the beach -- the weather really doesn't matter -- and the day has improved all the way along.

My apartment is a true atelier in the heart of the Latin Quarter -- perfect for a student.  And the views were as promised. Not only of Notre Dame, but also of the oldest church in Paris,
St. Julien-le-Pauvre.

The Rose Window of Notre Dame

L'Église de St. Julien-le-Pauvre

I've spoken as much French as I possibly can including some catastrophic faux pas.   I just keep smiling and saying "Bonjour" and "Merci" and hope that will smooth over troubled waters.

I'll tumble into bed this evening hoping that in the next two weeks France will perform its "mission civilatrice" on me.