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I 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.

I 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:

Missy 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 

Soccer, 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…

Living 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.

I 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!

“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.

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…

The 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.

Amsterdam coming…hold on por favor!

The Great Parisian Plate Debate claimed another victim tonight – the 14th!