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~ Day 238: Thursday, July 4 ~
September 24th, 2009~ Day 237: Thursday, July 3 ~
July 19th, 2009
Contrary to popular belief, an evening of Flatliner shots do not provide the previous night’s reveler with a sense of bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed-ness upon the greeting of the new day’s sun. Rather, one’s just reward for facing the Flatliner challenge head on is a headache which mutates from a slight throbbing to a “Sweet Jesus I think my cerebellum is attempting to secede from the rest of my brain and escape out my ear…” If you happen to be an American engaging in intercontinental travel that morning, the Flatliner throws in a lack of Parisian taxis and a missed flight as a bonus. One begets the other, of course, so perhaps the Flatliner had merely intended for me to suffer from the taxi drought, with the missed flight an unintended consequence. Regardless, forgetting to set an alarm and waking up late surely does not help the matter.
Fortunately I was flying to Chicago so there was nary a problem taking a slightly later flight. NYC, Chicago, and Houston are the cities to miss flights to – it always seems like there is another one just an hour later. But, as a final insult, I was soundly berated by the ticketing agent at Charles de Gaulle airport for my continued incompetence with the French language.
A sigh of relief, in all my disheveled glory, on the flight to Chicago.
July 3 is a special night in Chicago. The Taste of Chicago is in full swing, and the 3rd is when the fireworks are shot off over Lake Michigan. I have great memories of the third of July. One such memory is dropping several friends off with a cooler full of Red Dog at the entrance to Grant Park, parking the car, and meeting up with them thirty minutes later only to discover that they had been issued a citation by the valiant Chicago Police Department for bringing beer into the park. It was for memories like this that I had planned my return trip to the USA for July 3, although my good friend’s wedding the night of July 5 certainly lent an initiating hand.
Now…since July 3 brings fireworks, the Taste is absolutely packed on this particular day. A teeming mass of people, and when I say teeming I mean it. If you have ever seen a giant school of fish swimming around on the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, this is what the Taste of Chicago is on July 3, except the fish in my story are carrying paper plates of Uno’s pizza, flaming Greek cheese, turkey legs dripping with BBQ sauce, burgers from the Billy Goat Tavern, and so on. It is a mass of people and the risk of getting sauce dripped onto your clothing as you navigate the crowds is extremely high. So into this vortex of humanity I plunged, fresh off a plane from France and carrying my enormous green backpack that is a common sight among college kids backpacking through Europe for a month. As difficult as it is to walk around the Taste normally, try doing it with the equivalent of an eight year old strapped to your back. Jostling was taken to a whole new level. I was also on the receiving end of many bemused looks and heard many creative comments along the lines of “Daaaaaaaamn, look at that guy’s backpack!”
This is what is great about the Taste of Chicago though. The sights, the sounds, the extremely non-French food…getting frustrated about the crowds at the Taste of Chicago on July 3 is like going swimming and then getting mad that you are wet. It’s absurd! Get yourself a Goose Island, an Italian beef / sausage combo sandwich from Buona Beef, a spot on the grass with a view of the Chicago skyline, and soak it in.
~ Day 236: Wednesday, July 2 ~
June 27th, 2009
This photo can be summed up best by Nick:
“As far as the shot in the picture…it’s called a Flatliner [the two on the left]. Why we decided to take it…because I just found out about the manliest shot in the world and you had to try it. (Tequila, Sambuca, Tabasco sauce). That was one hell of a night, especially when I got us thrown out of the bar when you tried to buy the poster and the waittress wanted 400 euro for it.”
Sinister Guest X did not return during the night. A smart move on its part, considering my living room had three people sleeping in it who gladly would have punted whatever it was off my balcony and onto the street for twenty euros. To celebrate, a night on the town was in order, with no area better than the sordidness of the fourth arrondissement near the Centre Pompidou. Trashy little bars and cafes abound in the blocks surrounding the museum, as do unpleasant pigeons who wish nothing more than to drop a present on your head if you walk under the line of trees on the west side of the square.
At O’Sullivan’s Rebel Bar, which describes itself as “a funky little haven of rebels, rum barrels & replicas in the heart of the Marais!”
~ Day 235: Tuesday, July 1 ~
June 27th, 2009
I arrived back in Paris this evening to several visitors in my apartment. Nick, a friend of mine from Kansas City, had been studying law in Ireland for the past month. He was passing through Paris during a multi-week, multi-city post Irish law class European tour and was joined by two other students. They had previously navigated their way through the Cinque Terre of Italy and Interlacken, Switzerland, the photos of which were enough to convince me that at some point in my life I needed to visit both.
While Nick and company had arrived the night before, another, more unwelcome visitor, had already come and gone. Here is how the greeting went as I dropped my luggage off in the hallway of my apartment:
Christian: “Bonjour, and bienvenue a Paris!”
Nick: “Hey Christian, what’s up? Do you have a cat?”
Christian: “No, no Parisian cats for me.”
Nick: “Oh. Well, something shit on your floor.”
The rogue defecator of June 25 had struck again! I cursed appropriately, then cursed some more upon discovering that the mysterious guest – henceforth dubbed Sinister Guest X – had urinated wildly on a stack of CD’s sitting upon the floor. With just one, presumably long bathroom break, Sinister Guest X destroyed all those little pamphlets which accompany a compact disc case. As if not being able to read through the song lyrics or find out who the artist wanted to thank wasn’t bad enough, several of the cases themselves were, to put it politely, beyond repair. I would have felt bad for my dishwasher to even try cleaning them.
A psychology class I once took in college mentioned that human beings operate according to a series of scripts, which dictate how one is to act in a given situation. For example, there is a restaurant script we all abide by. We walk in, we are seated with menus, a waiter or waitress comes by to take our drink order, and so on. But I tell you this: no previous life experience has provided me with a nice script on how to proceed with Sinister Guest X. Perhaps if I owned an insubordinate house pet I would be better prepared. With a lack of options – and closing my balcony doors during a Paris summer with no air conditioning is definitely *not* an option - a bounty was placed upon the head of Sinister Guest X. The first of my guests to capture Sinister Guest X and club it without mercy would receive a crisp 20 euro bill.
~ Day 233: Sunday, June 29 ~
March 8th, 2009
Time is brief! And as is such, goals will be kept to a minimum. Today, two primary goals. The first – make a triumphant return to the Horse and Groom, this time gaining entrance and securing a pint. Yesterday I had noticed a sign on the front door of the bar which, in addition to notifying the public that salted beef is now served on the premises, indicated that the Horse and Groom is open up for busines on Sundays at noon. The second goal was to not miss my flight to Valencia later that afternoon.
While sipping my victory pint I concluded that this bar could not be the same bar that was immortalized in Danny Wallace’s Yes Man. Simply too small, the vibe – yes, I know it was a Sunday – was such that I spent several minutes flipping through an electronics catalogue on the bar. I simply cannot accept that this was the bar of lore which I had been on the hunt for. Either there are multiple Horse and Grooms scattered about London, or I am mistaken on the name. I never figured it out.
Later in the evening, after a 175 euro taxi ride from Valencia to Denia (pricey, but well worth it – the scenery is quite pleasant on this particular stretch of road, and sitting in the backseat of a cab means one can enjoy it) I found myself strolling around Denia. Denia is a resort town, which means that lots of retired English people descend upon the town throughout the summer. Listening to English people complain is comical to say the least – the vocabulary, combined with the accent, means that walking behind an old English couple complaining about rice and the hot weather is a treat. But the point is that Denia is typically a quiet town on the edge of the Mediterranean. Except tonight, June 29th 2009! A disharmony of honking horns filled the evening air, and Spanish flags waved wildly from cars cruising past. And you would honk madly and wave a flag if your country just won the European Championship, too.
~ Day 232: Saturday, June 28 ~
March 8th, 2009It is hard to put into words how phenomenal it is to know someone who lives in an expensive city. I woke up today, not in an overpriced London hotel or in a hostel bunk bed, but in a vacant room in Lisa and Niel’s flat. Although they neglected to offer me a traditional English breakfast – generally bacon, eggs, beans, toast, and a tomato – they were nonetheless very gracious hosts, providing me with an empty bed, sheets, and a large glass of water the night before. They also filled me in on the chaos of Wimbledon, the oldest tennis tournament in the world (it began in 1877) and the only Grand Slam played on grass, which was taking place over the weekend and which I was contemplating attending. The details I gathered – long lines, no guarantees of entry, expensive beer - led me down the path to my backup plan: Greenwich, a district located in the south-east of London and lying at zero degrees longitude, birthplace of the Greenwich Meridian and hence the origin of Greenwich Mean Time, or GMT, the time zone from which all others throughout the world are measured. They have a clock there to make sure you know. Why would I go see a meridian when I’m in London? Ask a bird why it flies, or a fish why it swims. Because they can.
Google Maps calculates a trip from the Hammersmith tube stop to Greenwich at about eleven miles, and with London traffic that’s about a thirty-five minute commitment. I, sans car, was at the mercy of the London Underground, and today it exacted its revenge for any past, present, or future barbs I have made, or may make, toward it. Initially expecting to take the Hammersmith and City line and transfer perhaps one time, here’s the path that I ended up with:
- Hammersmith and City line to the East London line.
- East London line to the Docklands line.
- Get off at Canary Wharf tube stop and find the Canary Wharf Pier.
- Ride a big cool boat and get off at the Greenwich Pier ferry stop.
- Walk up a giant hill through Greenwhich Park and arrive, out of breath, at a big clock.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. In fact, I was even more impressed by everything because it was such a mess to get to. If I would have had to just hop off a train to see the thing, I very well may have been disappointed. But during the two hour journey to the Royal Observatory where the GMT clock is located, my imaginatiion ran wild and I thought about how incredible it would be to stand on zero longitude. And, maybe it was because there was a sausage place called “The Honest Sausage” right next to the Royal Observatory, or maybe it’s because I like seemingly unimportant and slightly ridiculous things, but unlike the Mona Lisa or Rome’s Coliseum this did not disappoint.
What is even better than the Meridian during the daylight hours is the Meridian at night. Allegedly, they flip on a green laser that goes shooting out from the Royal Observatory and across Greenwich Park, following the Meridian line. If I had more time in London I would have been fine settling down in the park until twilight just to see it. Celebrating longitude with lasers is exactly my style, and I applaud the borough of Greenwich from devising such a spectacle.
I celebrated my achievement with a Task Force 25 ale at the nearby Trafalgar Pub – it was a difficult selection, I was quite smitten by the name of another beer, the Cat o’ Nine Tails – but when in such a situation one must trust the opinion of the bar staff…who also told me never to live in the Canary Wharf area of London should I ever move here. Soon enough I was back aboard my boat – the Typhoon Clipper, which is quite a name for a boat sailing up and down the relative calm of the Thames – and headed in the direction of Central London. I had decided that despite seeing Big Ben, Parliament, and the Westminster Abbey on a previous trip to London, no London experience can actually be complete without stopping by. Think of them as old friends from college or high school who you don’t really need to see when you’re back home, but you feel compelled to call up anyway. Besides, Westminster Abbey is crammed so full of history and exudes such grandeur that it’s foolish not to go see it. What history, you ask? The coronation of William the Conqueror in 1066, and nearly all subsequent English kings! The tombs of monarchs! Poet’s Corner, with its final resting places for Chaucer, Dickens, Tennyson, and Kipling! And of course - Dan Brown broke out some vivid prose in setting a scene in the ol’ Abbey back in 2003’s The Da Vinci Code.
Sadly all I got out of Westminster today was a view of the exterior. I had arrived too late to get inside, which just means that I’ll have to come 
back again some day. So, it was on to my next item of the day – tracking down a pub which I thought I remembered the name of from one of the best books I have read in a long while. Entertaining writing, brilliant message. The book is Yes Man, by Danny Wallce, and I thought it would be fantastic to get a photo inside the pub saying to a pint glass or giving a jubilant thumbs up. One is safe performing a thumbs up in England, but in parts of Italy and the Middle East it is actually seen as a disrespectful gesture, much to the tune of telling someone to go have sex with themselves, repeatedly and unpleasantly. The Roman origin of the thumbs up – as in, “Hey gladiator, don’t slay the man you have pinned under your sandal. Shake his hand instead of decapitating him.” – is considered to be exaggerated at best, likely a mistranslation by careless Latin scholars of centuries past. The latest hypothesis is that it was popularized throughout Europe by American soldiers of World War II, who witnessed the gesture while in Asia. There it means, “You, sir, are number one.” The name of the Yes Man pub, as best I remembered, was called the Horse and Groom and was located in west London. This is all the information I had, but damned if I wouldn’t do my best to find it!
Believe it or not, asking a dozen taxi drivers if they have heard of a pub named the Horse and Groom is not as fun as it may sound. Neither is barging into hotels to ask concierges, or stopping elderly women on the street who happen to be walking very small dogs. Several bartenders, perhaps offended that I chose to ask them where a particular bar was rather than drink in theirs, tossed phonebooks at me. Not in a trying to hit me way, mind you, but in an exasperated, “you are an idiot” kind of way. I can’t blame them. The day had turned very warm and I was sweating profusely, and my eyes conveyed a touch of casual franticness, what with appearing on their doorstep demanding to know where a bar - for which I had no directions, phone number, and in fact may or may not exist – was located. Plus, my hair was absurdly spikey. Lisa B, being a stylist and all, was to cut my hair later today and I had been growing it out for some time in preparation of the event. No, I can’t say I blame the bartenders at all for their behavior.
But for all that I lack in the world – a remembrance of calculus, proper dance moves, a tuxedo, a decent joke to open a toast, appreciation of fine upholstery – perseverence is one thing I do have. I tracked down the Horse and Groom, eventually, on a street appropriately named Groom Place. It was a couple blocks down from Buckingham Palace Gardens, just off of Chapel Street in case you would ever like to visit. But plan carefully, because the Horse and Groom is not open on Saturday. I repeat…not open on Saturdays. This was a clue that perhaps I had the wrong pub. Danny Wallace does not strike me as a man who would speak highly of a pub which shutters its doors on Saturdays. Saturday! Having a drink on an early Saturday afternoon is like having a beer on Christmas…part of you may ask “Should I be in a room discussing 12 step programs?” while the other part answers “A refreshing pint makes all the things in the world seem right, just like the Care Bears would have wanted.” High hopes dashed, my dreams crumbled, I found a tube stop and returned to Hammersmith.
It was about forty-five minute later and I was engaged in yet another search operation. The reward was slightly different this time around. While I wanted a photo and a simple beer at the Horse and Groom, I was now looking for my first ever Lisa provided haircut. This required bus hopping around west London, as if I do not get lost enough on the English trains. I had been told to look for a barn, which would be the signal to debus. As one would imagine there was in fact no barn and I eventually found myself walking into Lisa’s place of business entirely by accident. This is how things generally work out for me during trips. Best intentions turn into getting lost which most of the time turns into getting lucky and finding what I was looking for in the first place, albeit much later than expected. In this instance, I arrived so late that most customers had left and the employees were finishing up the final haircuts, sweeping up piles of hair, cleaning scissors, and leaving for the day. It was only out of the benevolent nature of Lisa’s boss that we were able to stay alone in an empty salon and address the pile of hair growing recklessly atop my head.
Despite the year being 2008, well past the age when *NSYNC walked the earth, giving Lisa free reign over my hair resulted in receiving blond highlights. Agreeing to highlights is like noticing a ten car pileup on the highway and then steering directly into it. They are both senseless acts, and ones which will inevitably hurt you, whether it be by whiplash or ridicule. I began to question what it exactly was that they were teaching these days at the Vidal Sassoon school, then realized I had been rockin’ the same hairstyle for eight years. This means I don’t get to question anyone in the hair care industry, including the girls at Great Clips when they trim off a portion of hair I had been expecting to keep.
Eventually, after the two hour highlighting-and-a-cut experience followed up with a honey lager enjoyed on the banks of the Thames, a small consortium of us shuttled off to the Tiroler Hut, an Austrian restaurant in the Notting Hill neighborhood that has been in operation since 1967. After leaving the restaurant you will understand why it has been able to stay in business for over forty years:
- Singing, including yodelling, accompanied by saxaphones, keyboards, accordions, and an awesome cow bell cabaret.
- Boisterous crowds! On this particular night the Tiroler Hut was hosting a group of people dressed in animal costumes. For example, two guys were dressed in full cow uniform. Later, the downstairs dining area where we were sitting erupted in chaotic dancing.
- Beer is available in pint glasses, yes…but also liter glasses! For those of us who may shun the metric system, a liter is slightly over two pints. So not only is the liter double the normal fun, but it also provides for superior cheers-ing performance.
- The hauptspeisen, or main courses. Austrian and Germon food is rife with schnitzel and sausages and all things pork. My choice off the menu was the Holzplatte für Zwei, which translates to “Wooden plate for two.” The description of the item reads: Lots of Meat, etc. for two. Our Speciality – Only for the Very Hungry!
The brew that filled our liter mugs has an interesting history. The Tiroler Hut servers Dortmunder (sometimes call Dortmunder Export), a lager which originated in the city of Dortmund, Germany in 1873. For reference, Budweiser was introduced to the American public in 1876. Your typical Dortmunder drinker was a coal miner or a steel worker, and the beer is meant to reflect the rough and tumble nature of these follks by way of maltiness, a decent touch of bitterness, and a 5.5% alcohol punch. Dortmund was an industrial town, and the brewers wanted their beer to have a “restorative” effect. Those same brewers had banded together in the 1800’s to form the Dortmunder Union Brewery, Germany’s largest at one point, and their creation became the most popular beer in Germany from World War II until the 1970’s. Nowadays the Dortmund style accounts for only about one tenth of beer sales in Germany.
We made such an attempt to increase Dortmunder’s beer sales that dancing ensued and every joke miraculously turned hilarious. Lisa also began making outlandish comments, such as we had abandoned her next to the bathrooms when in fact none of us had realized that she had gotten up from the table. Ultimately, having limited experience in coal mining, Lisa had to leave the Dortmunder several hours and liters later and take refuge on the sidewalk. This particular act caused a good five minutes of searching the Tiroler Hut before finally finding her outside.
With Lisa and Niel in a taxi back to their flat Dave and I headed next door for a cigarette and a last drink. Fate dictated that two girls of Eastern European descent – Russian, I think – were doing the same, and the next hour was spent discussing where the middle finger gesture came from while Dave tried to get one of the girl’s phone numbers.
A tip of the cap here is needed, because Dave in fact did end up with the Russian’s number. It just happened to be several hours later back in the basement of the Tiroler Hut, which was the only place in the area that was open late. No one seemed to mind, given that the music was louder than it was before and it was another opportunity for a liter of Dortmunder. Between 2 a.m. sips I placed a few calls back to Paris, attempting to establish credence to the claim that the middle finger was used by the victorious English to taunt the French during the 100 Years War (specifically the Battle of Agincourt in 1415). Allegedly the French had proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English bowmen, the reason being the middle finger was used to draw back the English bowstrings. As I discovered later this story is likely an urban (feudal?) legend, as the middle finger insult is referenced in ancient Roman texts. Another claim is that the middle finger represents a guy’s reproductive junk.
Mercifully the London taxis are a bit more prevalent than those in Paris, and we found one some time later while purchasing biscuits from a little convenience shop. Early morning taxis in London are infinitely more important than in Paris: London is an estimated 123 square miles, while Paris is a mere forty…and with that distance to cover on foot there is no way that I would have been able to play DragonForce’s “Through the Fire and Flame” for Niel and Lisa at 2 a.m.
~ Day 231: Friday, June 27 ~
March 8th, 2009Several years ago my good friend Lisa B quit her job, abandoned Kansas City and moved over to the United Kingdom. She is not English, Scottish, Welsh, or Northern Irish (the four countries that comprise the UK), nor have I heard her ever say one nice thing about the people of Great Britain. Rather, this move was a result of her acceptance into the Sassoon Academy in central London, a school in which she would receive instruction from stylists standing by to assist with the “learning needs to guide you in your search for technical and creative excellence.”
I had been living in France since November 2007 and never made the two hour, fifteen minute train ride from Paris to London. I’ve traveled further for things much more useless than seeing a dear friend in one of the greatest cities of the world – the drive from Champaign, Illinois to Iowa City, Iowa to get drunk on a Saturday night comes to mind – and so almost eight months after arriving in Europe I am righting this wrong. My chariot, the EuroStar, patiently sits on the tracks at Gare du Nord waiting to transport me off to London, where a litany of activities awaits..
I boarded the train after a hard day’s work and took a moment to contemplate how awesome the chunnel – the channel tunnel – really is. The chunnel refers to the piece of track running thirty-one and a half miles under the English Channel, and that mileage makes the chunnel the longest undersea tunnel in the world. And not only is it also 250 feet deep at its lowest point, it took only six years to construct! If you’re not impressed by 250 feet, remember that this is the size of a twenty-five story building. If you’re not imprssed that it goes under the English Channel, remember this is the same body of water which saved England from conquest from the likes of the Spanish Armada, Napoleon Bonaparte, Adolf Hitler, and took tweny-one hours and forty-five minutes for the first man to swim across in August of 1875. By the time I snapped out of my “marveling at the chunnel” haze I was halfway to London and drinking an espresso.
It is continually amazing to me how much most Europeans love soccer football. I was reminded of this as I sat at a pub outside the Hammersmith tube stop waiting for Lisa to finish work and began wondering if there are any online soccer fantasy leagues (and in fact there are, as some online sleuthing discovered – but if you know anyone that is in one, I will give you a dollar). It is especially interesting to note that England, the country which gets credit for exporting football worldwide, had at one time banned the game. King Edward, who reigned for twenty years beginning in 1307, had this to say:
“For as much as there is a great noise in the city caused by hustling over large balls, from which many evils may arise, which God forbid, we command and forbid on behalf of the King, on pain of imprisonment, such game to be used in the city future.”
I’m assuming that such a ban would be received in England today much as the Prohibition (aka The Noble Experiment) was here in the USA in 1919, with soccer speakeasies springing up overnight and the bootlegging of soccer balls becoming widespread. But Indian food, not soccer, was the game tonight. Tonight was Brick Lane. Brick Lane is considered to be the heart of London’s Bangladeshi population and is to Indian food as Mulberry Street in NYC is to Italian (or used to be…that’s dwindling a bit these days). The street, taking its name from the brick and tile manufacturers located there in the 15th centruy, can be found in the East End of London at the Aldgate East tube stop. It’s a busy area, with restaurants, bars, and the scent of curry prevalent – if one were to ask for a taco or fish and chips, I would expect a merciless beating to ensue, administered by either an incredulous Bangladeshi or a drunk hooligan.
If you ever find yourself in an unfamiliar city, seek out neon signs. Besides potentially getting a nice massage or takeout Chinese, there generally is a lot of activity going on.
Dinner turned out awesome, and as an added bonus the bizarre paintings on the walls added to the dining experience. The waiter, responding to our questions, mentioned that the owner’s friend was the artist responsible…and what an interesting man he must be, for not many artists are out there painting flying centaurs spooning various women.
Post centaur beverages on Brick Lane with Lisa and Niel.
~ Day 229: Wednesday, June 25 ~
July 25th, 2008I arrived home today and discovered that something had shit on my floor.
I spent the last few days in Besancon, and I typically leave the doors to my balcony open. I am on the third floor by European measurements (fourth by American) so there is no real danger to this – and I leave them open due to the very real absence of an air conditioner. Without those doors open it would be stifling up in here. My first thought was my landlord walked his dog through my living room but remembered he didn’t have an extra key when I locked myself out of my apartment in December of last year. And I certainly did not provide any key after I replaced the lock.
Theory two was that centered around the concept of a vengeful pigeon, but upon additional investigation there was no way this small pile in the center of the room was from a pigeon, or any type of bird. Confusing matters even more is the lack of small creatures scampering around Paris. If I lived in a forest I would probably blame a wiley squirrel for leaping through my open door and dominating my floor, but there are no such furry suspects around my part of Paris.
It is slightly distressing that I will have to go to sleep tonight not knowing what beast made my apartment his personal bathroom. What if he comes back during the night? I’m worried that I will get up in the early hours of the morning and interrupt some animal taking care of business while reading a newspaper next to my TV.
~ Day 226: Saturday, June 21 ~
July 23rd, 2008I assigned myself a task today, which I do from time to time in order to make my weekends productive. I have no yard to mow, no car to wash, no TV to watch, and no roommate to annoy. This dearth of stuff, for lack of a better word, means it is likely that I will spend a random Saturday divided between sleeping and chugging three euro espressos at a cafe reading an English language newspaper.
The Great Plate Debate seemed an appropriate target for my attention. The GPD was ready for arrondissement number twelve, which is a forgotten area in eastern Paris. It lacks the sex appeal of many of the other arrondissements – just about anything you have on a list to see when you visit Paris is guaranteed *not* to be in the 12th. The only thing I know about the arrondissement is Gare de Lyon, named after the city of Lyon (second biggest in France!) is there. The gare is one of the six big ones of Paris, along with Gare d’Austerlitz, Gare de l’Est, Gare Montparnasse, Gare du Nord, and Gare Saint-Lazare. A list of gares is all well and good, but what I really needed was a list of good restaurants in the 12th. In order to get one I decided to go for a run.
I left my apartment in the 5th with a set of keys, a French credit card, a ten euro bill to buy a water when I was about to die (it was hot and even though I walk to a metro every day I’m not in any shape to run across a city), a scrap of paper, and a pen stuck behind my ear. Just normal running gear. I was initially hoping to snag one of those Velib bikes to get across the Seine but was predictably denied in my efforts by the anti-American credit card machine, and thusly reduced to running on pavement longer than expected. When I finally staggered into the 12th I was rewarded by a discovery of what is now one of my favorite “parks” – La Promenade Plantée. I use quotes because La Promenade is actually an old elevated railroad track that has been creatively and stunningly transformed into a 4.5 kilometer park and pedestrian path. Imagine if they converted the elevated tracks in Chicago to a park – that’s basically the concept. The distance – which is a bit over 2.5 miles – means that La Promenade spans the entire arrondissement. It’s hard to explain how awesome this really is. The pathway is lined with flowers, trees, bushes, benches, bamboo, and there was even a rectangular pond about fifty feet long up there. To be running through all that, assualted by the different fragrances and finally free of the exhaust from the street traffic, high above the ground was a very cool experience. The last part of La Promenade Plantée is an arching bridge over a bright green park, at the end of which is a restaurant called O Cantina – a Mexican restaurant. How much better can one park be?
There is an organization in New York City that is attempting to do the same thing with some abandoned tracks – http://www.thehighline.org/ – and if you live in NYC I would strongly suggest supporting it! Here is a quick blurb that the High Line folks wrote about the Parisian Version:
~ Day 224: Thursday, June 19 ~
July 23rd, 2008Missy had a couple friends in town for the week, and it just so happened they were looking for a quality place to have a nice dinner. Given that the Great Plate Debate has been going on for a couple months, of course there was a recommendation – Mon Oncle le Vigneron. When searching for the restaurant to get the address, guess what result came up number one?
Yes, it is ridiculous, but I got a kick out of it. Flash forward several hours and we get to something I do *not* get a kick out of – taxis in Paris. Something is wrong when I had an easier time getting a taxi in Kansas City, city population of about 450,000, than I do in Paris, city population of 9.65 million. We had made the mistake of leaving Buddha Bar after the metro had closed, so maybe around 12:45 AM. I expected few problems since it was early on a Thursday, but guess what? We ended walking almost the entire distance home before we leaped out in front of a cab, finally convincing one to stop.
The frustrating thing about it all is that there are taxi stands throughout the city, but there is never a line of taxis waiting there. Rather, those taxi stands probably see an average of one taxi every fifteen minutes. The taxi situation is quite obscene, and it’s not a lie when people tell you there are basically two options – get home before the metro closes, or stay out until 6 AM when it opens back up.
I decided to break out my Frenglish on the taxi driver on the way back to my apartment, and I was able to determine that (according to him) there are 5,000 taxi licenses in the city. 5,000! That is one for every 1,930 people in a city where most people use public transportation. Sick. And this is what is bothersome about France – the reason there are so few taxis is because the taxi union refuses to allow additional cars on the road. If the government changed it, I’ll give you one guess what the French taxi union would do in response…
On the plus side, my cabbie did say the government is going to increase the number of taxis in Paris, although it is a process that is going to take a couple years. I abused the power of the Internet to find some facts, and I did find an article that is both interesting and probably more realistic, in terms of numbers, than my driver’s ramblings…
“There’ll be trouble,” spat the man behind the wheel as we hurtled through the pre-lunch traffic earlier this week, pedestrians hopping hastily aside and other motorists left gesturing Gallically in our wake.
“Whore of my testicles, there’ll be trouble. Eighteen years I’ve been in this job and I’ve never seen the boys so angry.”
As opening conversational gambits go this was unusually cheery, coming from a Paris taxi driver. But something was clearly up. What it was, the driver told me when he wasn’t accusing the man in front of having been born in a brothel, was that the town hall had decided, on the advice of the chief of police, to increase the number of licensed taxi cabs plying the streets of the French capital.
“Another 1,500 licences over the next five years,” he said. “When half of us are already on the equivalent of the minimum wage. It’s theft, pure and simple. We won’t sit by and let it happen.”
Under the circumstances (an urgent summons to the foreign ministry), it didn’t seem politic to disagree. But inwardly I blessed the good councillors: grabbing a cab in Paris is an exercise that requires, on a good day, time, patience and luck. On a bad day, forget it.
Intrigued by the driver’s news, I asked at the town hall.
Back in the Belle Epoque days of 1920, it seems, Paris had 25,000 taxis. But that clearly was altogether too pleasant for the people who used them, so a bylaw was passed in 1937 cutting their number to a more reasonable 14,000. Since then it has been increased just twice, in 1967 and 1991, to a grand total of 14,900.
This means, if my maths are not mistaken, that while the population of greater Paris has grown from 4m to nearly 10m, and incomes have risen such that many more people are inclined to take a taxi, a major European capital now has less than 60% of the taxis that it had 78 years ago. (London has more than four times as many taxis as Paris.)
The consequences of this are not immediately appreciable to the casual observer. Between, say, 9am and midday and 3pm and 7pm, finding a taxi in Paris is no problem: there are hundreds of them cruising the streets or waiting patiently at one of their 487 ranks, smoking a Gauloise (the driver, that is).
But when most normal people might actually want a cab, which is to say to go to lunch or dinner, out for the evening, or home after midnight, they vanish. This is because the Paris taxi driver’s dejeuner is as sacrosanct as his diner, and at night, naturellement, he sleeps.
Paris cabbies, enthusiastic mounters of strikes, go-slows and blockades whenever anyone threatens the status quo, say the council’s daring decision will slash their incomes by 20%, and ruin the market in taxi licences to boot.
These currently change hands for just under £75,000, and represent a handy retirement bonus for most drivers.
But what will really inflame passions is not so much the new licence-holders as the one condition that the town hall plans to place on them: the obligation to work from noon to 3pm, 7pm to 9pm, and after midnight.
“There’ll be trouble,” spat the cabbie who arrived to take the babysitter home the other night (after a 20-minute wait on the phone to book him).
By Guardian Unlimited © Copyright Guardian Newspapers 2008
Published: 2/28/2003
~ Day 223: Wednesday, June 18 ~
July 23rd, 2008Soccer, or dare I say…football, hit Europe with a fury on June 7 2008 in the form of the Euro Cup 2008. Sixteen teams vying for continental supremacy, divided up into four groups and bashing on each other for a couple games. France was part of Group C, the group that had been labeled as the “Group of Death” due to the collective football strength of France, Italy, Romania, and the Netherlands.
When in a foreign land, always bet against the home team. It really is your only option. If you lose, you are belittled in a language you don’t understand - no big deal. But win…win, and you get to play the mockery card for a day or two. So yesterday, when the French were taking bets on the victor and score of that night’s game against Italy, I went for the shutout: Italy 2, France 0.
Since I’m American and generally indifferent about soccer I spent the night forgetting that the fate of a nation hung in the balance. So it was a very rewarding email that I found waiting for me in my Inbox the next morning:
There really is but one correct manner in which to reply to an Italian victory over one’s host country…
~ Day 220: Sunday, June 15 ~
July 23rd, 2008Living in Paris definitely pushes you to amuse your eyes with something, especially when it comes to riding on a train for forty minutes twice a day. A lot of people rock the iPod while reading the daily publications handed out at the entrances to the metros. Those both greatly enhance the metro experience, because if you don’t have them all you can do is lament your lack of a seat and think about is how hot it is. Since I cannot read French I am forced to bring along a book or an ancient Economist. Today, as I was attempting to get my apartment into a presentable condition, I began to contemplate how many books I have read since I’ve been over here. I ended up deciding to make a list, and was surprised to see my average was only about three a month.
After wasting time creating my above list, I got out of my chair and almost tripped over my running shoes. Since I’ve had these new sweet sweet bright red running shoes I’ve been quite happy. I will be able to see much more of the city now that I’m panting above ground, embarassing myself in front of Parisians instead of underground on a train. I decided to set forth a second running goal, which I thought of while running past the Notre Dame cathedral – I shall (eventually) run out my apartment door, to the Eiffel Tower, make a lap, and then run back. Without stopping, except for maybe a baguette.
I’m in no position to accomplish this right now, but after mapping it I was happy to see that a round trip run should only torture me for approximately seven and a half miles. Give me a bit of time with these shoes and I should be able to cross this one off my Paris list of things to do.
~ Day 219: Saturday, June 14 ~
July 23rd, 2008I developed a running challenge while I was out today, maneuvering through throngs of tourists walking along the Seine. This one involves the Metro 1 line, which begins in the Chateau Vicennes park, runs past a fair amount of the popular sights of Paris, and deposits its passengers in the office park that is La Defense. This line is indispensable, given that it gets me to work each day, but it is also the source of my metro loathing. If you attempt to board this train between 8:20 and 9:30 in the morning you will soon become a sweaty mess who wishes that the French either A) Install a metro air conditioning system, or B) Get the hell off the train so you would have some space to un-smash your face from the door. Regardless, the metro line is 16.7 kilometers long (about 10.5 miles) and I intend to run from one end to the other, even if a significant portion is through the bum shanty-tent town east of the city center and alongside the Seine.
Map of pain.
By the time I had finished dreaming up impossible running dreams it was late in the afternoon, and time to experience the Hidden Kitchen for the first time. If the name sounds mysterious, good – it’s supposed to. The Hidden Kitchen is the delicious creation of two Americans who decided that becoming a couple of chefs at the neighborhood Applebee’s was no way to live, and instead hopped a plane to Paris with their small dog, along with intentions to open an underground restaurant. Now, when I first heard the term “underground restaurant” I too imagined several individuals cooking away in a cave beneath the Parisian sidewalks. But oh, how wrong I was. In fact, the Hidden Kitchen is several floors above the sidewalks. I do not have access to Wikipedia at this time so I cannot secure the Internet approved definition of an underground restaurant, but my interpretation is of a unique and stellar dining experience schemed up by several foos-ball loving chefs who can not bear to share secrets of their customized creations with a French kitchen staff.
I had been attempting to gain access to the Hidden Kitchen since the beginning of January 2008, and for a variety of reasons it never worked out. By the time I finally tracked down a reservation I was slightly worried that I may have built the moment up too much, like spending your entire life wishing you knew how the secret of how to perform cartwheel. And then when you do one you’re like, “Yes, that was indeed a cartwheel,” and then realize you have grass stains all over your pants. But the Hidden Kitchen did not disappoint. The Hidden Kitchen chef power duo (there are two!) combat high expectations with not one, not two, not three, not four…but ten different courses and a wine pairing with most. By the time your dinner ends, any thoughts you may have had about spending your precious euros at a Michelin starred restaurant have been gorged into a delightful submission.
Besides the outstanding – I would say inspired, but that would lead me question the source of the inspiration, and I don’t even know where to begin contemplating the events that would lead to inspirational thoughts in regards to a duck – dishes, you are also treated to a dining experience. If you are like most attendees, upon arrival you will find yourself sitting in a secret dining room with a terrier and eleven other people (most likely a scattering of nationalities) while two American chefs cook an elaborate meal using ingredients purchased hours ago at a Parisian market. Not too bad! I believe the participants on this particular evening ranged from Canadian to English to French to Middle Eastern, with a couple Americans included, of course.
Not on the menu.
I must applaud not only the spectacular dinner and casual dinner chatter, but also for the Hidden Kitchen creators. On your bold jump to Paris, a city where there were no established connections or reason to come except for the purpose of trying out this restaurant concept…on there success I salute you! I highly recommend attempting to get a reservation the next time you’re in Paris – hopefully you don’t have to wait as long as I did!
Behold! Courses one through ten…
~ Day 218: Friday, June 13 ~
July 23rd, 2008“An American executive and a German guy wearing a crumpled baseball cap walk into a train…” This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but in actuality it describes my activities at 7:30 AM this morning. I had been tasked with a show-and-tell type of mission on this particular Friday – specifically, accompany this visiting corporate exec, in from Kansas City, out to a French hospital and show him what we are dealing with. I also had invited an associate over from Germany, hoping that he would be able to help out with the topic which was the purpose of my day’s meeting. Quite honestly, I cannot think of better conditions under which to wow a company exec: travel to a French client site for a meeting (which will be in half English, half French) about something that I know little about (the project changed last week) while being supported by a mysterious German (who actually knows precious little in regards to the day’s subject) with a penchant for chain-smoking and wearing black baseball caps.
Truthfully the day wasn’t too bad, with the exception of having to travel about an eighty minutes out of my way to pick up my visitors. Not the most pleasant thing to do early in the morning, but given that was the worst thing to happen to me today – and that includes the train breaking down on the way out of Paris – I’ll take it! To commemorate the day I rewared myself with a refreshing Orangina at lunch, something I would recommend doing consistently if you have the means.
~ Day 216: Wednesday, June 11 ~
July 23rd, 2008
One of my favorite activities thus far here in Paris has been the random gatherings for the mere purpose of smoking cigars and drinking scotch. This is an activity that I fully expected to be participating in one day, but I figured that day to be about fifty years from now at a time when I am confined to either a golf course or a porch. A mid-week cigar is an enjoyable experience – on this particular day I arrived late and found several individuals already slightly inebriated, although perhaps it was mere jubilation at the scent of a Monte Cristo. The most impressive thing about these events, in my humble opinion, is the spontaneity – rarely are there specific plans to fill a friend’s home with smoke while his girlfriend is off working in Spain, but that’s what ends up happening…
~ Day 214: Monday, June 9 ~
July 23rd, 2008The Paris office has been undergoing a renaissance of sorts for the past month, and not necessarily in a good way. The Renaissance, which as many likely know translates to “rebirth,” began in 14th century Italy before spreading across Europe – but did you know that the word “renaissance” is actually French? Why we do not refer to this time period in the language of the country from which it came – that would be “rinascimento” – is beyond me. Unless…maybe it is because Italy (as we know it today, and not a collection of individual states) was unable to adopt a standard language until the 1860’s, after the wars of unification swept the peninsula. Although…the stage was set for what we know as Italian in the 16th century, when both the Accademia della Crusca and a gentleman from Venice named Pietro Bembo succeeded (on some levels) in pushing out some accepted linguistic models based on the dialect spoken in Tuscany. Except, really…the stage was set even before all this if we go all the way back to the 14th century. That’s when Florence made the decision to get powerful and influential, and also when Dante Alighieri, poet of the same city, wrote the instant classic, the Divine Comedy (yes, even in the Middle Ages there were instant classics). These two variables set the stage for the Accademia and Pietro, who set the stage for Italian – sometimes called the language of Dante in France – to climb to the top of the language heap post unification. So why do we call this enlightened age of Europe the Renaissance instead of the Rinascimento? I don’t know, either.
The office renaissance has been going on for a month or two, and there has been very little in the way of painted masterpieces. However, another feature of the Renaissance – the rebellion from classic, formerly accepted sources – was in effect. Transition at the peak of organizational leadership was nigh, the frustration of the masses growing and a rebirth of attitudes and practices necessary. This need was formally recognized by an invite sent out to our leadership team, of which I – to the amazement of countless, to be sure – am part of.
Leaving work early is always a pleasure, especially when the promise of a chef’s hat awaits. For tonight our team would not only dine on some fine French cuisine, but we would make it ourselves! In a nod to the importance (and elusiveness of?) of teamwork, the company coordinated an evening with the good people at EAT-SENTIVE, and in fact I would encourage you to coordinate one of your own should you ever happen to visit Paris. For the next couple hours we would be hanging out in a kitchen, cooking up a quadruple course threat under the guidance of several EAT-SENTIVE chefs. The menu for the night – accompanied by various cocktails Norah and I concocted, learned from our friendly chefs – read as follows:
- Tartar of salmon, ricotta cheese with dill, stewed peppers & green vinaigrette.
- Filet of chicken stuffed with mushroom and foie gras cinnamon juice
- Chocolate cake with orange cream (doesn’t this sound increasingly stellar in French? – fondant au chocolat, crème anglaise a l’orange)
The appetizer was bizarre in the context of the entire menu…if one recalls the Pillsbury dough that comes in a tube, it was basically that with hot dogs wrapped up inside of them. I love both hot dogs and Pillsbury dough, but one must admit it’s a struggle to piece that into the above menu. My theory is that when EAT-SENTIVE heard that Americans crashing the party they panicked – “What do Americans like for dinner? Ah, bien sûr! Dough and hot dogs!” – and it was only fitting that I spent a large part of the evening preparing this little appetizer. A second team took care of the salmon, while a third took turns bashing chicken with a rolling pin in order to flatten it out. My team had fondant and hot dog responsibility, which never should one take lightly.
Dinner – both the preparation and consumption of – was incredibly enjoyable. It is always nice to see people outside the confines of professionalism and deadlines. All too often we come to view those we work with as relentless e-mailers, always demanding our time and sometimes stealing our desk toys. If you ever find yourself raging upon a co-worker, just picture him or her with a big white paper chef’s hat on, a drink in one hand and a mixture of chives and basil in the other. Maybe that will help out.
~ Day 213: Sunday, June 8 ~
July 23rd, 2008Amsterdam coming…hold on por favor!
Hold….
July 23rd, 2008~ Day 207: Monday, June 2 ~
July 22nd, 2008
~ Day 204: Friday, May 30 ~
July 22nd, 2008Spain is a very pleasant place to visit, as I’m sure virtually anyone who has been there will tell you. Arriving under the cover of extreme early morning darkness on a Wednesday and missing a MGMT show in Paris, for which I had already paid precious euros, can make anyone slightly ill-tempered. But, do you know what the antidote is? Swipe a Toblerone from the minibar along with a refreshing Fanta beverage and go take a walk on the beach.
Hey MGMT, sorry I cannot be in the audience to hear your show. But maybe you can use the money from my ticket to buy a shirt, or perhaps an improved scarf.
This week has been filled with its fair share of chaos (as had long been expected), but lounging upon a rock and eating Swiss chocolate while watching a dog struggle mightily to pull a giant piece of driftwood out of the ocean happens to be therapeutic. Also I had numerous opportunities to stroll past that same Spanish door that I had seen during my first Denia visit. I like this door because in a world of normal doors – be they red, white, or just a simple varnish – this door stands up and confidently says “Hey, I know you’re on your way to the schwarma stand around the corner, but check me out. You like glass? Do you like glass that is yellow, green, blue, and purple? Yes, I thought you might.”
