Snapshots from France II

It was drizzly but warm in Paris this mid-June.  We had a 7:00 p.m. reservation at Le Reminet,  a tiny restaurant on the Ile de la Cite, behind Notre Dame. Ile de la Cite sits in the middle of the River Seine, between the Right and Left Banks. Under our umbrellas we followed what looked like an alley but was a narrow street. The restaurant sat half-way down.

We pushed down on the brass levered handle in the middle of a stone facade.  The building must have been a fortress in the middle of the island at one time, but cafes and restaurants now occupied the narrow stone caverns. The interior was wide enough for only one table on either side of the door.  A bar sat at the rear of eight tables, and bright paintings punctuated the stone walls.  Behind the bar was a hall leading to a private dining room.

"Non, non, monsieur, not open!" was the greeting from the maitre d', who approached us in a striped button-down with rolled-up sleeves.

Our watches read 7:00, and since we were used to dinner reservations at home at 6:30, we were usually the first ones in a restaurant overseas. Technically it was 6:55 p.m., since Charley and I always kept out watches five minutes fast.  Two other couples came through the door behind us, happy to escape the drizzle.

"Not OK?" Charley said.

"Non, monsieur. Cinq (five) minutes!"

"It's raining," Charley protested.  "We have to stand outside in the rain?"

"There's awning, monsieur."

The six of us marched back outside and shivered under a three-foot awning.  Five minutes later we were readmitted.


             **********************************





We had a second 7:00 p.m. reservation at the Brasserie Closerie des Lilas in Paris. Brasseries are open all day and we really didn't need a reservation, but our hotel called to ensure a good table.

We arrived at 6:50 p.m., not having learned our lesson, and were shown to the bar because (one guess!) our table wasn't ready.  The restaurant was empty, with the exception of four tables of Parisians eating inside the glass enclosure facing the street.

Hemingway photo 1930

This was the same bar in the same brasserie that Hemingway called "one of the best cafes in Paris," a favorite of Gertrude Stein, Picasso, Lenin, and Trotsy.  We ordered Proseccos with a raspberry liqueur.  The bartender pointed to Hemingway's photo over his head.  Liquor bottles on glass shelves gleamed from celestial lights overhead.  Hemingway's face shone amber.

With his four words in English and my four words in French, the bartender
explained the name of the Brasserie.  The restaurant was a "closerie," or
greenhouse, with its glass walls and interior/exterior trees and flowering plants.
What I couldn't grasp was the "Lilas" part, since he kept pointing to a poster with the name of the restaurant and beautiful women in clothes from the Roaring 20's.
"Aura," he kept saying.  I guess the full name of the place meant "Greenhouse of Lilacs with Beautiful Atmosphere (Perfume?)."

At 7:20 we were shown to our table facing a wall of mirrors.  The concierge at our hotel must not have had much pull, if this was the best table in the place!  "May we sit facing the garden?" I asked.

Another famous Brasserie in Paris, Les Deux Magots

We were relocated to a row of windows inside the greenhouse facing the garden.  I ordered peppercorn steak "a la Hemingway."  Within fifteen minutes a group of ten American women on a tour sat at a table next to us.  They all ordered peppercorn steak "a la Hemingway" (the gravy was scrumptious and steak melted in my mouth!). Within thirty minutes a group of four Americans sat behind us.  The lineup of Americans reminded me of an experience at the famous restaurant Gundel in Budapest.  There, waiters in tuxes and gloves served traditional Hungarian meals from silver-covered platters while an orchestra played in the background.   The maitre d' seated all of us American diners together on a banquette with our backs along a wall, lined up like pigeons waiting to peck at their food.

Sacre Coeur, Paris

View from Sacre Coeur

Snapshots from France I

Luxembourg Gardens, Paris

We waited twenty minutes in drizzly rain in a line at Paris' Musee D'Orsay, a museum devoted to works from 1848 to 1914.  We had previously purchased our tickets, but those without tickets wound round and round stanchions under their umbrellas.

When we finally entered the building, we had to remove our sweaters and jackets and place our belongings through a security screen.  Everything backpack-size had to remain in lockers in the lobby.

We circumvented the mobs heading down the stairwell to ground floor exhibits of statues by 19th-century sculptors Rude, Barye, Carrier-Belleuse.  The statues sat where train tracks lay in the old Belle Epoch train station built for a 1900 exposition. A large, ornate gilt clock dominated the light-filled expanse.

Off to our left we found a counter renting headsets for self-guided audio tours.  We could stop or start our tour at numbered paintings anywhere or anytime we chose.  We were interested to see the French Impressionists on the top floor.

Class of students learning about Impressionism

The crowds were still manageable at 10:30 a.m. and moved aside politely after studying each masterpiece to allow other spectators to take their places - unlike the crowds in Amsterdam at the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh Museum.  In room after room Monets, Sisleys, Manets, Van Goghs were just inches in front of us, while Degas' tiny ballerinas twirled for the crowds in another.  The twenty-four paintings highlighted on the audio tour took us 2 1/2 hours.

A budding Monet copying a Monet

On the facade of the last room on the top floor was a gigantic see-through clock that allowed views across the Seine (mimicking the one in the cafe on the other end of the floor).

View from of Tuileries Gardens across Seine from inside Musee D'Orsay 

We followed the crowd across a catwalk to a nearby elevator and squeezed on.  Since it didn't stop at "0" (the lobby), we all disembarked at -1 (the ground floor of statues).  However, we were at the furthermost wing on the floor.  We wound our way to a nearby stairwell but red tape blocked our access.  So we all turned around and found an escalator which we presumed would bring us one floor above, where we'd still have to walk the length of the museum to the lobby.

We presumed wrong!  One level up the escalator had no platform.  Instead there was a sign that read, "Impressionists, Floor 5," with an arrow which the mechanical caterpillar pursued up...and up...and up.  We were finally able to get off on Floor 5, where we'd started, and retraced our steps back over the catwalk.  It reminded me of Charlie on the MTA ("he never returned and his fate is still unlearned") in the song by the Kingston Trio.

We turned back through the crowds now viewing the masterpieces we'd just left and retraced our steps the length of the fifth floor to the cafe, where we'd entered the Impressionist exhibit. Twenty minutes after we'd finished our audio tour and glistening with perspiration, we joined a dozen others in an elevator to the lobby.

Sculptures on pedestrian bridge to Louvre

Fondation Louis Vitton

Sleep

This post is by Don Weiss, pharmacist, friend, and author of the murder mystery, Picture Perfect, available on Amazon.

Men of a certain age enter what is called the Age of Prostatism. Although it sounds vaguely religious, it has nothing to do with religion. Unlike the Age of Enlightenment or the Age of Reason, the Age of Prostatism refers to the time in a man’s life when the prostate gland begins to enlarge. This may lead toward the possibility of developing Prostate Cancer for some of us. For most of us, it means that we will be getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom (maybe two or three times a night), disrupting an otherwise peaceful night’s sleep.

History describes how young Indian braves were given water to drink on the eve of battle so that the would be up early ready for the fight ahead of them.

I’d be willing to bet that the young warriors had to stand in line behind the tribal elders to get to the bathroom.

An ever growing prostate is only one of the reasons for interrupted sleep. As we age our need for sleep seems to diminish. Maybe it’s God’s way of telling us that “Hey, you don't have that much time left, so don’t waste it!”

When I was a young man living in my bachelor apartment, I could sleep uninterrupted for eight, nine, or even ten hours. Once I slept through a fire alarm and when I was in college, I slept through an earthquake. Those were the days, my friends. Now it’s up at 3:30 a.m. on the dot to stumble to the bathroom and stumble back to bed. Sometimes I can go back to sleep, other nights I can’t. So what do I do?  I lie awake, thinking, looking back on my life (I recently turned 64), or I get up and write a blog post.

In the Moment

Happiness, not in another place, but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
         Walt Whitman

     There have been moments in life when I have become totally immersed in absorbing the present. These moments don't occur often, but when they do, I become aware that I'm experiencing something above the realm of everyday survival mode - something to be cherished, something intuitive and inspirational that I must surrender to and enjoy. The senses - sight, touch, hearing, smell, and sometimes taste - are involved.  I lose track of time, obligations, and chores. I'm not referring to any kind of Zen moment that is drug-induced, since these moments are based entirely on real situations. Click goes my brain - remember this! Live this moment fully.

     One of these moments occurred on my wedding day, as I stepped out of my parents' front door to go to the church to begin a new life.  It was late June and the air outside crackled with undulating heat waves; the sky had been scrubbed spotless; my gardenia bouquet radiated almost sickening sweetness in the high temperature; the taste of champagne lingered on my tongue from early toasting.  As anxious as I was to get to the church, I clicked on that magical moment.  Its unabated joy lasted throughout the day.

     The two days (sixteen months apart) when our sons were born provided more surrender, not just because the rigors of natural childbirth were over and I was exhausted, but because unfathomable miracles of creation had just occurred. Each squiggly pink body found its place on my chest with closed eyes and perfect little fingers and toes, right down to the fingernails and one shapely bald head.  Salty tears and hungry squawks filled those moments with ineffable joy. Click.  The tears and cooing repeated themselves each time newborn grandchildren mingled their warmth against mine.

     The clicks have occurred more frequently in recent years.  And they've all involved our grandchildren.

     A tired grandchild climbed into my lap on a recliner, turned on her side, and fell asleep.  I pulled the throw over her, nestling her between my breasts.  One of my arms encircled her torso, another landed against her bum.  As she fell asleep, I watched a tendril of strawberry blond hair fly away from her forehead with each whistling exhale and fly back down with each inhale. I leaned my nose deep into the hair against her back and smelled "No More Tangles."  Her torso expanded and contracted with each breath under my arm while my other hand could feel the muscles of her bum so tight from gymnastics that I was envious.  "Cherish and remember this," I told myself. "Don't move."
     Click.

     Another granddaughter climbed into my lap to talk while her sister's team was playing a game.  Her head leaned back against my shoulder as I repositioned her legs to one side. Bending to kiss her neck, her curls got entangled in my teeth. "Do you think I could paint my room polka dots?" her voice chirped.
     "Maybe just one wall," I said, "if your mom and dad agree."
     "Would you help me move the furniture in my room?"
     "Of course.  We'll make a drawing first.  Now tell me about next year when your sister leaves your school."
     "Oh, I'll miss her!" she said.  "But I'll be fine."
     Click.

     

     Reading nighttime stories has always been a welcome ritual.  In the bed she inherited from my parents, a granddaughter squeezed against the wall to make room for me.  A dozen pillows partially submerged her shoulder-length hair. Flip Flop lay on her other side, a stuffed dog with long ears and floppy legs that somehow had survived ten years but like a real dog, was overdue for a bath.

     I pulled blankets and covers over us, as she pushed her pillow onto my shoulder.  Nursery rhymes and fairy tales had transformed

into chapter books telling of mysterious disappearances and mean kids at school.  I'd become a willing listener instead of a reader.  

     "Please slow down!" I requested in a whisper.  "I want to enjoy every minute."

     Click.

   
 

Flip Flop

  The twins, dressed in khakis, button-downs, and long ties with elastic behind their necks, attended their sister's first Holy Communion.  Seated in the third row of the bursting church, one twin sat between his mother and father.  He rose with each hymn and knelt with each prayer. The other grandma and a cousin sat between us. On my other side, the second twin contented himself by coloring superheroes he pulled from a backpack. Aside from the priest's intonations and the organ, the only sound was my wrist cracking, rotating the box of crayons from the cousin on my right to the twin on my left. A pillar blocked my view, so I focused on the music and the crayons.
     The twin between his parents needed a break. While they stood, he stretched out along the pew.  "Hi, grandma," he said, waving to me.
     Click.

     Be happy for this moment.  This moment is your life.
             Omar Khayyam

     

Even Horses Can Have Oddball Names

What's in a name?  We all know people whose names match their personalities, or perhaps their personalities became a function of their names.  There are also family names incorporated into the choice for newborns and names that follow a trend or names that set a trend.

And then there are the oddballs (to me), including in 2015, Atlas, Armani, Arrow, Chichi, Diem, Jedi, Pi, Sailor, Twinkle, and Tulip (at least three children received each of these names to be included in the survey results).

It got me thinking about the names for the entries in the Kentucky Derby this year.  I could guess at the inspiration for some of the horses' names, but needed explanations for others.  Here is a report by Pia Catton from The Wall Street Journal on May 4, 2016.

According to Ms. Catton, there are naming rules established by the Jockey Club, the organization that registers thoroughbred horses.  Names must be eighteen characters or less and must meet a long list of criteria (nothing commercial, vulgar, or rude).  And no copying the names of famous horses.

A horse's pedigree has traditionally been the greatest inspiration for names, but this year's racers demonstrated that the inspiration can come from just about anywhere.

Trojan Nation - Owner Julie Gilbert is a USC Trojan fan, and her father was class of '53.

Suddenbreakingnews - Owner Samuel Henderson was too late to claim "Breaking News" as his horse's name, but by adding a word and dropping the spaces he established a new identity.

Creator - It's obvious that the inspiration came from above, but racing manager Elliot Walden said he waited for the right horse to fit the name.  Twenty-nine other horses belonging to WinStar Farm didn't qualify.

Mo Tom (not Mo Town!!) - Sired by 2010 champion "Uncle Mo," this name combines pedigree and owner Tom Benson's name.  When the owner was going through health issues, the family needed "more Tom."

Gun Runner - Owner Ron Winchell wanted a strong name that others would be afraid to run against.

My Man Sam - This horse was named after one of the Sheep Pond Partner's sons.

Oscar Nominated - The mare of this horse is "Devine Actress," daughter of the sire "Theatrical and Devine Beauty."

Lani - Hawaiian for "sky," this colt's mare was "Heavenly Romance."

Destin - "Destiny" was already taken, so the owners at Twin Creeks Racing had to come up with another name relating to fate (the mare's name was "Dream of Summer").

Whitmore - Named for a talented athlete, Wilbur Whitmore, in trainer Ron Moquette's high school in Pocola, Oklahoma.

Exaggerator - Resulted from a discussion between owner Matt Bryan and trainer Keith Desormeaux about a few women in their lives who were prone to exaggerating.

Tom's Ready - Tom Benson, who also owns "Mo Tom," was asked if he was ready to spend $100,000 on a horse.  He answered, "I am ready."

Nyquist - Owner J. Paul Reddam loves the Detroit Red Wings and named this year's winner for forward Gustav Nyquist.

Mohaymen - This name is from an Arabic word meaning "dominant."

Outwork - Owner and entrepreneur Mike Repole said, "I always talk about outworking your competition."

Shagaf - Named after the Arabic word for "fond of."

Mor Spirit - "Mor" is "mother" in Danish, and owner Michael Petersen't mother is a spirited woman.  His wife suggested the name.

Majesto - This name combines the initials of two of the owner's sons, Mauro and Jesus.  The "TO" stands for "todos," representing all seven of the owner's children.  It also means "glory" in an ancient language.

Brody's Cause - "Brody" is the name of owner Dennis Albaugh's great nephew.  "Cause" came from the horse's sire, "Giant's Causeway."

Danzing Candy - This name is connected to the horse's pedigree.  His sire is "Twirling Candy," and the mare is "House of Danzing."

This is an Arabian thoroughbred, not Danzing Candy.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Funeral

The death of a loved one is perhaps the most traumatic event during a lifetime, particularly if it is the death of a parent in a close-knit family.

Solomon Wykoff was living in Rhode Island when his father passed away in Florida. Sol detested flying.  A dutiful son, he drove to Florida in his long silver Mercedes to claim the body that had been prepared for burial in Rhode Island.  He would be his father's guardian.

Sol was an attorney, so he knew what had to be done.  Body transport is governed on the state level, and a few states boast independent licensed body transportation, such as Virginia and Florida.  Sol wasn't going to trust his father's body to a transport company.  He was going to drive his father himself.

Embalming is almost never required, but in Florida, a body must be embalmed or refrigerated if disposition does not occur within twenty-four hours.  Obviously driving from Florida to Rhode Island would take more than twenty-four hours.  Refrigeration or dry ice can usually preserve a body for a short time.

A death certificate with the local registrar must be filed within five days of the death before final disposition. The deceased's doctor or medical examiner must supply the date, time, and cause of death.  Sol received the original certificate and copies within the allotted time and it was filed with the State (Florida now uses electronic as well as paper registrations).  Sol was good to go.

Or was he?  The county chief deputy registrar had to issue a burial-transit permit allowing Sol to move the body for purposes of burial or cremation.  This had to be obtained within five days after death.

And he needed a container to transport his father that would "prevent the seepage of fluids and escape of offensive odors" (Florida law).  Knowing that it would be less expensive to drive his father rather than to have the body flown north, Sol checked with all the states that he needed to cross so that he could learn what each state required to transport the body.  Sol was an attorney - he'd done his homework.

He carefully put his father's body bag in the trunk of his black Mercedes and started north. The first night he stopped just over the border of North Carolina to get a quick six hours of sleep.

In the morning the Mercedes was gone.  The car and the body were recovered in New Jersey, but Sol had to fly home.


This is a true story.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

My Phobias

I must admit, I have a few phobias.  The one that invades my dreams most frequently is of snakes - and being trapped amid them, as in "Snakes on a Plane."

It probably resulted from growing up with snakes on my parents' property in Connecticut - in the rock wall, on the bank of the brook, in the woods behind our property.  Nowadays I buy a foul-smelling powder which I spread around the foundation of our Massachusetts house.  Since snakes can't see but they can smell, the manufacturer claims the snakes won't go near the powder.  One beautiful July day I found a garter snake taking a snooze on top of the powder!

Another phobia I have is of being trapped underground, although in my imagination asphyxiation would be slow and gradual, almost like falling asleep.  I don't suffer from claustrophobia and have often taken excursions in famous caves and tombs around the world.  I draw the line at exploring the catacombs of Rome, however, where I might become trapped with human heads and bones, or the tunnels under the pyramids of Egypt, where a guide's single candle lights the way and if extinguished, would leave me trapped in a  labyrinth forever.

There's another phobia I have, much less severe - it's of being on a ship and never being able to get off.

Now this might sound like utopia to some, especially if it were a cruise ship.  I know there are millions of travelers who don't want to pack and unpack to move around during a trip, so all they'd have to do is continue to uses the washer and dryer on board year after year. But cruise ships aren't my thing, since I always feel confined and want to explore LAND, not water! I admit that one of the best trips Charley and I have ever taken was through the Galapagos Islands of Ecuador, where the only way to explore the differing flora and fauna of the islands was to travel among them by ship (we had 100 people on board) and disembark on tenders. The only time we spent aboard ship was late afternoon through dinner, lectures, and sleep.  The next morning we were off again to explore completely different terrain and wildlife.

That has been our only experience as a couple on a ship (excluding ferries and cruises around city harbors). It freaks me out to think about possible storms aboard (and nausea!), and how 1000-6000 people would scramble to evacuate in an emergency.

Not to mention the viruses and germs one could pick up from the ventilation system or contaminated food or being isolated without the inability to reach loved ones in an emergency.

I recently read in The Palm Beach Post (March 14, 2016, page E1) about a woman who has chosen to spend eight years living aboard a ship. She is a Florida woman who had taken 89 cruises with her husband before he passed away.  After his death, she sold her home and became a permanent resident on the five-star Crystal cruise ship, Serenity. The twelve-year-old vessel has 655 crew members and Lee Wachtstetter has circled the globe fifteen times on the ship.  Her cruises total four hundred in number.

She rarely goes ashore because she figures she's already been there. Really?  But she sure knows the in's and out's of her ship's hallways and the square-footage of her compartment!  How about exploring NEW alleyways in ports along the route?  She says she loves the quiet when everyone else departs for excursions and spends that time watching a movie, reading, or doing her needlework.

She keeps up with her mail via laptop. Family members visit her when she docks in Miami, sometimes up to five times per year.
I wonder if she would list to starboard if she tried to walk on shore?

And resident Lee Wachtstetter has permanent company on board! Three other women live on the ship, too. They receive nice floral arrangements from the cruise line, occasional shipboard credits, and actual cash rewards upon reaching high-level cruise milestones.

"My daily average cost is $450," says Lee. "It's pricey, but my husband was a good provider."

Crystal Cruises provides dance hosts for passengers traveling alone (there are meet-and-greet cocktail parties).  Her husband didn't like to dance, but now Lee gets all the dancing she wants.

Before living on the Serenity, she lived on a Holland America liner for three years.  She switched when Holland America announced they were stopping the dance host program.

She meets new friends at dinner around a table for eight.  Guess how much weight she's gained?  Twenty-three pounds!  She has begun to order half portions for meals.

She teaches needle work to passengers and gives her work away to crew members, who make every attempt to create a "home" for Lee, even if they have to build it.  One crew member built extra storage shelves for her.  Another made a framed cushioned wall-hanging to hold her earrings.

A former R.N., she rarely has to visit the shipboard doctor.  Once, trying to get rid of a lingering, nasty cold, the ship's doctor advised, "You have laryngitis.  Don't talk."  On a ship?  Was he for real?

Speaking of reality, to each his own.

Let me know your thoughts about your phobias or living aboard a cruise ship by posting in the "Comment" box.