Fighting the Urge to Channel Burton Cummings

(Originally published on my old LiveJournal.)

I’m sorry, Mike, but everybody gets at least one dejected post-election post.

I am not surprised by the outcome. This is pretty much exactly what I’ve been expecting since Howard Dean screamed in Iowa, if not before. Which is not to say “I told you so”, because a) who needs that shit? and b) I tried to make a point of not telling anyone so. But no, I’m not surprised by the outcome.

I am surprised by how much it hurt. At some point in the last four years, without really realizing it, I must have started thinking of the United States as my country too. At some point, American politics became my own deal, and not just a zany Hollywood blockbuster action spectacle mounted for my wry amusement. “To the thinking man, life is a comedy; to the feeling man, life is a tragedy.” I envy my fellow Canadians back home that cozy Hudson’s Bay blanket of ironic detachment I misplaced somewhere along the way.

Yesterday was our weekly luncheon with various fellows of the Academy. Of course, we talked about the election. I note in retrospect that all the Academy postdocs (who are smart liberal 30-year-olds) were, at noon yesterday, pretty optimistic for a Kerry victory, thanks to exit polls and Zogby and ” promised!” But all the Academy fellows (who are smart liberal 80-year-olds) were decidedly not. There’s something to be learned there.

Ah, well. We find solace where we can: The long view (a historian’s best friend), silly role-playing games, and John Harvard’s tonight at 6pm. Be there!

Edit: God bless Jim Carroll, who just made me feel a little better. And I changed the wording above because it sounded like I wasn’t Canadian any more. I still am. More than ever.


France part Dinkum: Professor, what’s another name for pirate treasure?

(Originally published on my old LiveJournal.)

Parlez-Moi, with Sol

“Professor, what’s another name for pirate treasure?”
“Well, I think it’s booty… booty… booty… That’s what it is!”

My Ontario high school French held up tolerably well in France. I was able to ask for directions, order in restaurants, and politely inform one stupid American woman in the airport that “19.08” was not the price of the sandwich she wanted to buy (“Nineteen DOLLARS for a SANDWICH? Is that REAL dollars or FRENCH dollars?”) but the day’s date. (The real price was clearly marked in LARGE BLOCK LETTERS.) Oh, and when Pitou ruined the picnic by stealing Mama’s poulet, I was all set.

I was thrown a curve, however, by our little Lonely Planet phrase book. Like any English to French phrase book, it listed words and phrases in English, in French, and then in a phonetic approximation of the French pronunciation. Simple enough, right? But any time we used the book we were met with uncomprehending stares.

It was bouteille, the French word for “bottle,” that finally tipped us off. I knew thought it was pronounced “boo-tye,” the second syllable sounding like “Thai” or “tie,” with a little bit of an “ayee” at the end if you’re feeling frisky. But Lonely Planet gave the pronunciation as “boo-tay.” I felt just a little funny calling for bootay in a fancy restaurant.

[Edit: Note schooling me on French pronunciation in comments below. Grumble grumble big shot Manitobans think they’re so great…]

What I’d forgotten when I bought the book was that Lonely Planet is an Australian company. The phonetics were written for Aussie accents. “Boo-tay,” rhymes with “g’day,” actually is a pretty good approximation of bouteille. Once we’d cracked that Rosetta Stone (and when I say “we”, I mean “Lisa”), we could see that the whole phrasebook was like that: ‘ay’ for ‘aye’ and ‘r’s on the end of everything except the few places they belonged: “ler” for le, “der” for de, “zher per” for je peux. So the book wasn’t worthless to us, but we did have to channel Crocodile Dundee while reading it, a tricky bit of cognitive processing that led me to walk into more than a few lamp posts and open manholes.


France part Trois: Royale With Cheese

(Originally published on my old LiveJournal.)

a.k.a. Ook Ook, the Lip Cancer Chimp

We got back nearly two weeks ago, so the statute of limitations must surely have expired on these France posts. They’re not very popular, either: not only have comments been light, but I’ve been un-Friended by at least one reader after each one. But, as I’m posting these as much for my own memory as for the general amusement, I’m going to stubbornly continue.

We stayed for much of our time in Paris in Montmartre, the semi-seedy, semi-arty district of the city that’s home to the Moulin Rouge. Montmartre is very cool, picturesque and funky with steep hills and narrow streets. (We had the most amazing chocolate desserts ever made in the history of the universe at a little bar / café there called A Zebra in Montmartre.) The movie Amelie was set there (the neighborhood, not the bar), and that gives you a good idea of the vibe. Except that when filming, the director of Amelie scrubbed every sidewalk and wall and alley clean to give it that sparkly magical realism glow. So picture the movie Amelie under a thin layer of dog shit—that’s Montmartre.

More specifically, we stayed in Place Pigalle. Pigalle has been a sex district since at least the days of the Moulin Rouge, a century ago. (When I mentioned Pigalle to my Dad, who was in Europe with the RCAF in the sixties, he said, “Oh, you mean ‘Pig Alley’!” a little too quickly.) But it doesn’t exactly look like a Toulouse-Latrec painting anymore. Our hotel was dwarfed by giant neon signs on either side flashing ‘SEXODROME’ and ‘LIVE GIRLS PEEP SHOW.’

French smut is so cheerful and up-front, isn’t it? No euphemistic names like “Adult Entertainment” or “Gentleman’s Club” here. (The two places you still hear the word “gentleman” in modern English: on strip clubs and when cops talk to the media about particularly loathsome criminals.) OK, “Sexodrome” sounds a little like an unappetizing Cronenberg film, but I do appreciate its directness. Likewise “Club Supersex,” the name of a Montreal strip bar that every adult male in Boston seems to have heard of. It is interesting, though, that all the signs in Place Pigalle are in English: LIVE GIRLS, PEEP SHOW, and so on. Is this because the clientele are English-speaking tourists, or has English somehow become the international language of smut? I’m reminded that while the English call syphilis “the French disease,” the French, of course, call syphilis “the English disease.” (In Montreal, those signs would of course say LES LIVE GIRLS and LE PEEP SHOW, in deference to Bill 101 and the delicate sensibilities of the Quebecois.)

But if the neighborhood was a bit declassé, our hotel was deluxe. Everything was covered with crushed velvet in purple or crimson. Every wall and every door was upholstered with pillows. Every door knob and light fixture and toilet brush was encrusted with “gold” and “jewels.” In the lobby and the restaurant, they piped in throbbing Euro techno. Grey-haired Scottish ladies tried to make conversation at breakfast as George Michael moaned over a bass track from a German leather club. Our TV was a flat screen, but with a huge and ornate gold “frame” around it as if it was a Renaissance painting—the kind of flat-screen TV that Marie Antoinette might have had. In fact, the whole place had a gorgeous, ridiculous, oversexed Marie-Antoinette-just-before-the-Revolution vibe to it. Let them eat erotic cake!

Best of all, the hotel rooms had names instead of numbers. On the first few floors, these were the names of classically romantic French figures: Renoir, Monet, George Sand, Edith Piaf. But by our floor, they may have been running out: there was the Maurice Chevalier room, then the “John Lenon” [sic] room, then the Madonna room, the Naomi Campbell room, and finally our room: Cindy Crawford.

Cindy Crawford? Sure, I appreciated her Diet Pepsi commercial during puberty, but is she really a timeless icon of romance? But the hotel staff seemed to think they were doing us a great favor by putting us in the Cindy suite. Whenever anyone on the staff heard what room we were in—at the front desk, at breakfast—they would give us a grin and a knowing wink: Ah, la Crawford! Oui, oui! C’est magnifique! At one point I asked the desk clerk for my room key by number rather than name, but he knew the name without checking: “Oh, Cindy Crawford, n’est-ce pas?” What could I do but give him my best “yes, we’re both men of the world, say no more, squire, say no more” smile? And he handed over the room key (avec Cindy’s picture on it, mole and everything), with an honest-to-god French “ONH ONH ONHHHH!”

It was such a perfect moment. I can’t believe they actually say that. It was kind of like it would be to have an Englishman say “Stiff upper lip, wot wot?” to you. Or if you met an American who spontaneously threw his ten-gallon hat in the air, shot it with his Colt, and hollered “yeeeee-haw!”

One of these things is not like the others. Well, maybe two.


France part Deux: Damn, it feels good to be a Buddha.

(Originally published on my old LiveJournal.)

This is, in fact, the original Mona Lisa. Yes, I was surprised too.

Besides eating and drinking, what do you do in Paris? Well, museums. Mostly art museums, cause that’s L’s thing. I wouldn’t go to many art museums without her encouragement, but she’s a great person to see them with, offering a funny and idiosyncratic little art appreciation course with each trip. “The Bayeux Tapestry is not actually a tapestry, Rob, it is an embroidery,” she says, apropos of nothing, saying “Rob” like Coach McGurk says “Melissa”, in a tone of voice that shames me deeply for ever having thought such a thing. Even though, on reflection, I’m pretty sure I never thought about it one way or the other. And even though we aren’t even looking at the Bayeux Tapestry when she says it, or any tapestry at all, in fact.

So here’s the big museum roundup.

Musée d’Orsay
We almost didn’t go here, only changing our mind because it was raining while we walked by, and it ended up being my second favorite of all the museums we hit. (My first favorite gets its own journal entry, still to come. If you know me and you know Paris and you know geek culture you might be able to guess what it is.) I love the space, a huge and gorgeous Belle Epoque railway station, and I like much of the art better than what’s at the Louvre, though it is funny that all the great Impressionists are stowed away up in the attic to leave acres of room for the pompous and unremarkable nineteenth-century stuff on the main floors. Show me the Monet, I say! (Yeah, L didn’t laugh at that one either.)

The Louvre
Still, you have to do the big gruelling monster museum. It’s the House on the Rock of Paris! And I think we did it pretty smart, going in the evening, and dining in the slanting sun on the surprisingly secluded little balcony restaurant that overlooks the Tuileries and the big, um, Louvre-place-thing, while the throngs dwindled a little.

Forty hectares of paintings, what can I say? I like the Vermeers. I like the Rubens (“Mama Mia, I was-a master of-a form and-a lighting! Why-a you remember me only for-a fat chicks?” —Ruben, as quoted by <lj calamityjon>). I like the Winged Victory of Samothrace. We make our pilgrimage to the Mona Lisa. Lining up for half a mile to see a picture you’ve seen elsewhere a thousand times before is a funny experience, inspiring all sorts of high-toned meditations on the signifier and the signified, the image and the thing and the image of the thing, yadda yadda yadda. What magic property does the painting itself have that makes seeing the Mona Lisa here different then seeing it on, say, a T-shirt or airbrushed on a van? Or seeing the Mona Lisa on all the signs throughout the Louvre that direct you to the actual Mona Lisa? I’ll spare you said meditations (“Is it art just because we hang it on a wall? … is it garbage just because you threw it in the garbage? … hey, wanna make that dog smoke weed?”) but I couldn’t help notice that the very next thing you see after the Mona Lisa is a pair of giant paintings (by Giovanni Pannini) of rooms filled with paintings of other famous buildings and works of art. Paintings within paintings, man! There’s got to be some kind of commentary on the relationship between things and images. But, as Seinfeld‘s Elaine asked the New Yorker‘s cartoon editor, “What… is… the comment?” Well, I’m not quite clever enough to figure that out. Maybe just: “Ha ha, hope you enjoyed standing in line, suckers.” But a trip to France wouldn’t be complete without some heady theoretical jibber jabber, would it?

Musée Picasso
An entire museum devoted to Picasso seems like a swell idea at first. In the fifth room you’re digging it—”Pink Period? Sweet. Blue Period? Cool. Cubism? Bring it on, Pablo.” But by the tenth room or the seventeenth, you start to get a little queasy from all the non-Euclidean geometry and floppy elongated ladies. Couldn’t we have just one velvet Elvis to regain our equilibrium? Maybe a unicorn or a crying clown? And by the thirtieth room—the guy went through more periods than Gordie Howe! (wakka wakka wakka)—your visual cortex is so screwed up it’s hard to even walk in a straight line.

There was an experiment once where the nefarious “They” put goggles on people that made them see everything upside down. For days the subjects stumbled around bumping into things, but eventually, their brain flipped their field of vision so the world seemed right-side up again. Then, when the goggles were removed, everything was upside-down again for the same period of time. (That moment when the goggles came off and the world flipped upside-down must have been fun for the subject, huh? Gotta love the days before ethics boards for scientific research.) Anyway, that’s what the Picasso Museum does to you. By the end, you’ve been staring through Picasso’s eyes for so long, you’re frantically checking your wife to make sure her eyes are still properly placed on her face. Or worse yet, you’re afraid to check. We sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg for a long time after that, breathing in the blessed straight lines and right angles.

Musée Guimet
The Guimet is a museum of Asian art and artifacts that has, apparently, the best collection of Tibetan paintings and sculpture in the West, if not the world. So with L fresh out of Vacation Buddhist Camp, of course we were going there. Tibetan paintings are great because: a) they’re intricate and brightly colored, b) they’re full of multi-limbed, multi-headed gods and beasties, and c) every single one of them is having sex. With all the limbs and heads and all, it’s not always obvious that’s what they’re doing, but trust me, they are. It’s practically hentai. The gods are, like I say, depicted as huge, brightly colored, multi-limbed behemoths, and then there’s always a little consort, or two, or eleven, just sort of stuck on somewhere, arching their backs in what I can only hope is pleasure.

I’m not sure just what religious message all these sex paintings are supposed to import. (The audio guide at the museum broaches the subject very delicately, in a plummy BBC accent: “These paintings encourage you to meditate on the union of opposites.” Like I needed any encouragement to meditate on that.) Quite possibly, the message is just, “Damn, it feels good to be Vishnu.” And in some cases, “Damn, it feels good to be the Buddha.” Ain’t it the truth, brother.


France part Un: Le Vrai Thing

(Originally published on my old LiveJournal.)

I’m not from here
But people tell me
It’s not like it used to be
They say I should’ve been here
Back about ten years
Before it got ruined by folks like me

—Larry McMurtry, “I’m Not From Here”

The Glorious People's Republic of Coke

Here comes a long, slightly downbeat meditation on our first dinner in Paris, in which I try to get all that “I’m a traveler, not a tourist” BS out of the way. Don’t worry, I won’t go on at this length about every single dinner we had.

The best thing L & I brought with us to France was Adam Gopnik’s Paris to the Moon, a funny and nimble memoir by a New Yorker (and a writer for the New Yorker) who lived in Paris for five years. We spent much of the trip reading bits of Gopnik aloud to one another, chuckling over his bon mots, agreeing and disagreeing with his generalizations (“American guys, they drive a car like this. French guys, they drive a car like this…”), delighting when we experienced something we had just read about, or when we read in Gopnik about something we had just seen.

AG talks a lot about Paris’ magnificent “commonplace civilization,” which stems, he says, from a very French talent for making or doing ordinary things much better than anyone needs. This includes the way packages are wrapped, both beautifully and unnecessarily; the way a French woman wears a simple scarf, just so, in a way nobody from this side of the Atlantic can quite duplicate; and all the little improvised courtesies that are the flip side of France’s official bureaucratic rudeness. And, bien sur, it includes Parisian restaurants, and French bread and coffee and wine and cheese.

“Most people who love Paris,” Gopnik writes (by which he means most Americans who love Paris, though Canadians would qualify too) “love it because the first time they came, they ate something better than they had ever eaten before.” The astonishing first meal in Paris was an experience shared by pretty much every American in France from Ben Franklin and Tom Jefferson in the 1780s through to young Adam Gopnik in the 1970s. Catherine de Medici (AG informs me) brought Italian cooks, then the best in the world, to Paris in the sixteenth century. The French Revolution forced the chefs of the great aristocratic houses to go public, opening up their cooking to the rabble or at least the bourgeoisie. And for the next two centuries, it was pretty much certain that any random meal eaten by any jet-lagged (or sea-lagged) North American traveler in any random Paris brasserie would be an order of magnitude better than anything the traveler had ever tasted back home.

But that transcendent first meal in Paris is much harder to come by today. This is not because of any great decline in French cooking—although it’s certainly true that while the Calvinism of the anti-fat (and now anti-carb) Reformation has swept every other land before it, the French remain devout and loyal to the Holy Trinity of butter, olive oil, and lard. But it’s really because of the great catching up that cooking in the rest of the world has done since the 1970s. (Let’s raise a glass to Julia Child at this point for her part in that transformation, or maybe pour a forty of Chateauneuf du Pape on the curb, as our own culinary machine entertainingly suggests. Does Pope’s Crib Nine even come in forties?)

So Gopnik writes:

The new visitor, trying out the trout baked in foil on his first night in Paris, will probably be comparing it with the trout baked in foil back home at, oh, Le Lac de Feu, in Cleveland, or at Chez Alfie, in Leeds, or Matilda Qui Danse, in Adelaide. … Even the cassis sorbet may not be quite as good as the kind he makes at home with his Sorbet-o-matic.

Matilda Qui Danse. Hee. We would, as it turned out, have many spectacular meals in France. Like our second night’s dinner, which was North African food in the Marais; or lunch in a jaw-droppingly beautiful village in Provence; or this hilarious fondue place where the wine was served in rubber-nippled baby bottles and the proprietor made all the female guests jump over the table to get to their seat; or an astonishing chocolate mousse we went back for twice in some random Montmartre bar that did in fact create just the “I was blind but now I see” religious impact all those previous travelers were talking about.

But that first meal in Paris remains the one with the pressure on it, the one with all the expectations to live up to. On our own first night in the city of lights, we staggered in a jet-lag daze, like almost every other tourist in the city, into a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys across the Seine from Notre Dame. The streets were lined with restaurants, but the throngs of American tourists and the high number of places with names like “Le Vrai Paris” (the real, or the true, Paris), hinted to us that this wasn’t, you know, le vrai Paris.

Ah, le vrai Paris. That’s what we, and all the other tourists, are looking for, right? The true Paris. Not that crappy fake Paris they roll out to dupe the tourists. Authenticity. The real thing. But I am pretty confident that the one place we will not find le vrai Paris is in a chain of restaurants actually called Le Vrai Paris. Just like the best yogurt in the entire country is not, in fact, served at a stand in the mall called “The Country’s Best Yogurt” and “The Great Canadian Bagel Experience” (a name that L, closet Canadian-basher, finds unaccountably hilarious) is not where you should go to have the greatest possible Canadian bagel experience. Whatever that might entail.

Maybe I’ll open a restaurant called “Le Vrai Boston” or “The True Boston Experience.” I’ll serve frozen pasta from Trader Joe’s and make all the diners spend nine years getting a History PhD.

So we double-checked Lonely Planet, the bible of all foreign tourists desperate to imagine they are not in fact foreign tourists, and sure enough, there was a stern warning to avoid precisely the neighborhood we were in. “Pity the foreign swine-philistines all!-gorging at these filthy troughs,” said Lonely Planet (I’m paraphrasing). “Their eyes will never look upon le vrai Paris.”

When I worked for the Let’s Go travel guides, we were instructed not to do this: given that 99% of our readers would be tourists in whatever place the book was about, it seemed unsporting to denounce them for committing the crime of being tourists. But Lonely Planet takes shots at those detestable tourists on almost every page. And I can’t help thinking that is why it’s muscled Let’s Go and Berkeley’s Rough Guide out of the top spots in the budget travel market. This is the paradox of travel writing and traveling in general. What we want when we travel is a way to avoid people like ourselves.

Lonely Planet caters directly to this desire, but of course any place the LP guide describes as unspoiled or authentic—le vrai Paris, n’est-ce pas?—will soon be overrun by tourists carrying their own copies of the LP guide. Which is why you need a new edition every year. The act of going there in some way negates the reason you came.

The definitive work on this Catch-22 is, for me, Alex Garland’s novel The Beach, which I read while I was researching for Let’s Go in 1998, and which I still rank among the great Generation X novels, whatever you may think of the movie version or of Alex Garland’s subsequent career.

Anyway, thanks to Lonely Planet, we were able to escape the dreaded Tourist Quarter. We wandered down some darkened streets and chose, basically at random, a welcoming-looking brasserie on the rue des Ecoles called the Balzar. The food was great, if not life-changing. Mostly, I remember: the green beans, so fortified with butter as to have ceased being vegetables entirely (just the sort of vegetables I can get behind); the wine (a great Bordeaux, “muscular, with nothing to prove,” let’s say); and the waiters, who like most waiters in Paris, strike you as waiters—confident old professionals rather than aspiring screenwriters and aerobics instructors.

Two days later, we read in the Gopnik book:

The Balzar, on the rue des Ecoles, in the Fifth Arrondissement of Paris, happens to be the best restaurant in the world.

Sacre bleu! Le vrai Paris, and we’d stumbled onto it entirely by accident!

Well, I had no choice but to regard our accidental discovery of the Balzar as a great personal victory. I am, for the most part, terrible at choosing restaurants, or really at choosing food of any kind. It’s not that I choose badly, it’s that I can’t choose at all. Major, life-changing decisions are never hard for me. Indeed, they never feel like decisions. I just know what’s right. But the less a choice matters to me (Indian or Chinese food tonight? do you like the green skirt or the blue? paper or plastic?), the more difficult it is for me to muster up any sort of preference. I’ve had more than enough “What do you wanna do tonight?” “I dunno. What do you wanna do?” conversations to know that I am not alone in this affliction. But I also know that my case is particularly acute. When an old girlfriend of mine broke up with me, after three years together, in my first year of grad school, I was pretty shattered, and I begged her to tell me why—to name some flaws or faults in myself that I could change to win her back. The only concrete reason she would give for dumping me was my apparently infuriating inability to decide where I wanted to go for dinner.

Here’s Gopnik on the waiters at the Balzar:

It is the waiters who give the Balzar its soul. A team of the same ten men has been in place for decades. They are courteous, warmhearted, ironic, and mildly lubricious. (They have been known to evaluate sotto voce, the size and shape of a woman’s rear even as they pull out the table to make way for it.) They work hard. By tradition at the Balzar, the plats arrive beautifully arranged on an oval platter and then are carefully transferred by the waiter to a round plate. This doubles the work but creates an effect. Whenever I am feeling blue, I like to go to the Balzar and watch a waiter gravely transfer a steak au poivre and its accompaniments from an oval platter to a plate, item by item. It reaffirms my faith in the sanity of superfluous civilization.

So. It may not have been the absolute best food ever to touch our lips, but the New Yorker called it “the best restaurant in the world.” That vrai enough for ya? What better proof could you ask for of L & my good taste, and indeed of our innate superiority to all those other tourists? We felt pretty flush for the next couple of days. L mentioned the coup in a post card home; I composed a long and self-congratulatory weblog post in my head.

But then, le dénouement. It was a week later when we read the sequel to AG’s Balzar column, farther along in the book. Turns out the Balzar was bought out, in the summer of 1998, by the Flo Group, a chain now owning virtually all the brasseries in Paris. It is no longer, Gopnik sadly reports, the best restaurant in the world. It’s just another pretty good Parisian restaurant.

O crushing blow. O cruel twist of fate. The taste of those haricots verts turned to ashes in my mouth. (Delicious, golden, buttery ashes. But ashes nonetheless.) Live by the New Yorker columnist, die by the New Yorker columnist. Le vrai Paris is a harsh mistress, and she does not give her favors away that easily, monsieur.

AG and the other Balzar regulars did fight back against the decline of the place at the time, grabbing some media attention, and staging a sit-in, which he drolly describes:

There was, I sensed, a flaw in our strategy: If you take over a restaurant as an act of protest and then order dinner at the restaurant, what you have actually done is gone to the restaurant and had dinner. … Having come to say that you just won’t take it anymore, you have to add sheepishly that you will take it, au point and with béarnaise sauce.

But despite la Resistance, the Flo Group prevailed, and things at the Balzar have never been quite the same. Rumor has it that the new management welcomes tour groups from (gasp) America. The food is still excellent, but certain showy items, like oeufs crevettes, have crept onto the menu. The waiters are still canny old professionals, but now, alas, you must eat your food on the same plate the waiter brings you. And those same waiters will, after seventy minutes, bring you your check—even if you haven’t asked for it! Zut alors! So goes the decline of civilization. Gopnik says he’s never been back to the Balzar. “I would still send visiting Americans there,” he allows. But it’s no longer, you know, le vrai Paris.

Sigh. Those green beans were pretty good, though.