I like it just because I like it

There are plenty of galleries and museums in Paris to keep you busy for a long time.  I started taking pictures of posters in cafes and on metro walls advertising artists at particular museums and galleries so I wouldn't forget what I wanted to see.  I couldn't keep up with it!  And then, in the last few months I discovered a new gallery.  It's the streets of Paris.  No one has already decided that the artist is important enough for an exhibition.  No one is telling me that they are talented and deserve praise.  I just see it and I get to decide by myself if it's good or not.  And I usually  make this decision of "goodness" based simply on the fact that I like it.  I thought this one was good.  Really good.  And then, someone came along and made it better. They set a pair of blacks boots on the street at the feet of the painting.  Would it have caught my eye as much without the boots?  I'm not sure.  It was brilliant.  And it was my favorite discovery of the day.  But, back to this idea of someone telling us that something is worthy of being admired. We seldom form opinions of things and people  on our own with no outside input.   There's almost always some kind of  influence to change the way we see things. We ask someone what they do for a living and we form an opinion.  We find out their address and we know how much money they make.  We see their clothes with labels or no labels and we know what's important to them.  I think it's actually impossible not to do it.  But, I've realized that's one thing I like about traveling.  When I meet someone, I just meet the person.   I don't know if their neighborhood is cool.  I don't know if their jeans are in fashion.  I don't even know if they have good or bad grammar!  (Which usually tells us a lot....no pun intended).  And I think this lack of outside influence has  brought me to some interesting people.  Probably people I wouldn't spend time with at home.  And for no other reason than the fact that they wouldn't be a part of my tiny circle.  I'm not saying that I'm not open to this in Chicago.  Actually, I think it's more a part of my life than most.  I used to cry with my dry cleaner, go to lunch with the building janitor and talk about how to have less fat in your diet with the 7/11 salesclerk as she lifted up her shirt to jiggle her fat stomach. (Strangely enough as I was typing this I realized that they are Turkish, Indian and Mexican.  Does this mean I'm always kind of traveling?)  Anyway, this day of Parisian graffiti reminded me that it's nice to spend a day liking what I like just because I like it.  And I liked this painting and I might like the guy who painted it.  And I'm sure I'd like the person who left the boots.

  

 

April in Paris? Paris in Springtime? It's all yours (and his and hers and theirs), but not mine

Yes.  It's the same person that wrote that she didn't like Mont St. Michel and something else, but I can't remember what.  Oh yeah.  Prague.  Well, you can add April in Paris to the list.  Really.  I don't know if it's just that I spent Easter weekend here, or if it will do nothing but continue to get worse.  Either way.  At the moment, you can have it.

The banks of the Seine are packed.  The sidewalks are packed.  And the parks are packed.  I've never been to an Italian beach in the summer, but I've heard that you are on top of each other.  Well, it seems to me like every park in Paris in April is like every beach in Italy in August.  There are people EVERYWHERE.  Bodies touch, phones ring, wine spills, and conversations spread.  I think I would have liked it when I was sixteen, but then there were no cell phones and I didn't drink wine.  Is the fact that I don't like it now because I'm too old?  I hope not. There are plenty of old(er) Parisians that seem to like it.   I guess it's just that this older American doesn't.

The flowers are in full bloom.  The trees are green.  And pink.  And white.  And purple.  And yellow.  The store windows are beautiful.  And fashionable.  And creative.  And ever-changing.  The graffiti is brilliant, the lights are bright and the evenings are long.  It's April in Paris like so many of us have dreamt about.  But, this one might be better as a dream.

Instead of going to the park on a 75 degree Easter Sunday, I took a four-hour walk to the outskirts of Paris where I knew everything would be closed and I'd have the sidewalks to myself.  It was perfect.  I walked through Parc Monceau on my way home. I'd remembered that it was a park with  more authorized grass use.  Authorized grass?  In parks in Paris, instead of telling you where you can't go, they tell you where you CAN go.  It appears as though almost all of the grass is off limits.  So, when you are allowed on the grass, they put out a little sign. It's a little sign, for a little piece of grass, for a lot of people.  So, I kept walking through Parc Monceau and came out on the other side.  But I did laugh when I saw an old man (an OLD man) running for a bench.

The picture I've included doesn't make much sense without an explanation.  I think if I stayed in Paris much longer I might end up like this guy.  He was on the outskirts, just like me.  He took his chair and he found a piece of grass all to himself.  The funny thing is it was on a small triangle of land on the edge of a roundabout and an entrance ramp and an exit ramp.  But, it was grass and he was alone.  Maybe this is what happens if you spend one too many springtimes in Paris.

 

Lost? Or just slipping by?

It's not a great photo, I know.  And maybe the whole idea of this will seem really dumb to you or you'll wonder what's happened to me over here and why I was touched by this.  In fact, I'm wondering the same thing myself.

This is a photocopy of a photograph taped to the door of a restaurant.  It's a notice for a lost stuffed animal.  Not the back of a milk carton with a missing child.  Not a poster taped to a telephone poll with a missing dog or cat.  Nothing typed or printed on the computer with 36 little tabs to pull off someone's name and phone number if you have any information.  It's not like the missing pet that you can call and say, "Yes.  I saw Fido yesterday on Main Street" and that you should leave it taped up for the next person with a bit more information to call with a few more details.  Because Doudou won't be moving.  If you find him, you return him.  If you don't, you probably don't even notice the sign.  But I noticed it.  "My little boy lost his Doudou.  Thank you for calling me at..........."  At least I think that's what it says.  If not, it makes for a nice little story.  But I'm sure it's something like that.

Maybe this sign struck me because I lose a lot of stuff.  I think I lose a lot of stuff, anyway.  I usually find it again in a few minutes or an hour or a day.  And the stuff that's gone is never terribly important anyway.  Not like Doudou.  What have I lost?  Fortunately, at the moment I can only think of one thing.  And I really don't want to spend too much time thinking about it or I might get upset if I remember something else.  But for now the only thing that comes to mind is one of my sheepskin mittens.  Nope.  I just thought of another.  I also lost my favorite green beret.  I lost it in Nordstrom.  That's what really gets me.  I know I lost it there and since it never showed up in the Lost and Found, I know someone has it.  And if I ever see someone on the street with it, I will know it's mine because I made it and it was a very cool hat.

In the end, what's the big deal if you lose something?  I wish I could say and really believe, "Nothing."  But I have a feeling I'm not quite there.  As I type this blog from my apartment in Paris that loses almost every inch of floor space once you open the sofabed, I find myself thinking about stuff and the value of stuff.  I really do think I'd be more free with less stuff, so why can't I part with it?  When I move back home I'm going to do my best to leave a little behind in Paris and to find new homes for a lot of the stuff at home. 

Maybe it took seeing this sign and thinking about losing stuff and writing this blog to remind me of the one thing that I lose everyday.  In fact, it seems like the only really important thing that I lose.  And we all lose it.  Everyday.  It's TIME.  When that's gone it's gone forever.  You can't hang up a little photo in a restaurant and ask someone to return it if they find it.  It's just plain gone.

I know I spend too much time thinking about time.  That's one sure way to lose it.  I really can't tell you what I've done every minute that I've spent in Paris and Italy.  I only know that I have taken 1 nap in the past 7 months and I haven't slept in and I've almost never gone to bed before midnight.  But, what have I done?  I've spent lots of hours lying around in parks.  I've spent lots of hours in my neighborhood cafe trying to speak French.  I've taken lots of photos and gone on lots of runs and eaten lots of cheese. I've helped a lot of people improve their English. I've learned a lot of new words in French and Italian. I've ridden my bike. I've gone to London, Brussels, Zurich and Prague.  I've played with Matteo.  I've gone to lots of galleries and I've paid close attention to lots of graffiti.  I've bought some shoes.  And I've said more than once that I'm really, really lucky. It seems I've let a lot of hours slip by.  I'd like to think that these are the golden hours that James Matthew Barrie is talking about.

"You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by."  JMB

C'est tout ce que j'aime

It doesn't seem possible to me that this could get past a marketing team.  "Flurr'it yourself!" Maybe it's actually what the French people say and to them it doesn't seem tough so they just translated it into English.  But it's in  English with English speakers reading it.  And personally, I don't think we would ever say this.  Would we?  The funny thing is, I suppose, that I probably WOULD actually say it.  But that's me, "say it like you mean it Tenley."  But an advertising campaign??   Aren't they usually a bit more sensitive?  Or is the real problem here that I'm too sensitive?  After all, I kind of like kids now.  (Italian ones, anyway.)

Translating is a difficult job.  Take "I'm loving it" as an example.  That's what the title of this blog is in French.  But if I translate the above French phrase into English, it really says, "It is all that I love."   In my opinion those aren't even close. "It is all that I love" means that there is nothing else I want.  It's only me and this McFlurry (that I have to flurr myself.)  "I'm loving it" means that I am liking this McFlurry right now and maybe I also liked my cheeseburger and fries and my whole McDonald's experience, no?

So, seeing that on the side of my cup today made me a little mad at first.  Because, if you want the true McFlurry experience you really do have to flurr it yourself or else you basically have a sundae with a topping just in a different kind of cup.  That's not a McFlurry.  That's a sundae.  And it's only 1 euro instead of 3.

"Do it yourself" doesn't strike me as odd.  Is "Flurr'it yourself" the same thing?  I suppose it probably is, but this just struck a funny chord with me.  How can McDonald's ask me to do something?  Isn't it their job?  Isn't part of fast food having it all done for you so you don't have to butter your bread or cut your meat or wind your spaghetti?  "We do it all for you."  Who says that?  I really can't remember, but I am going to crack up if it is an old McDonald's campaign.  If it is, now it should say, "We used to do it all for you, but now flurr'it yourself."

I'm not really sure why this had such an effect on me, but it did and I wanted to share it with you.  Maybe the next time I'm quick to tell you to do something yourself, you can tell me to think of the French McDonald's.  Better still, I suppose, if I "Thought'it myself."

Dream

What a day.  Instead of always heading out on the bike, I've been doing a bit more walking lately.  The beauty on foot is that I tend to see a lot more of the little stuff.  When I'm on the bike I'm so nervous about traffic and where I'm going (which is seldom anywhere, anyway) that I don't stop to smell the roses, or see the art, or buy the shoes, or eat the crepe, or yesterday....eat the art.

It looked like a church.  A big, stone, cold church.  But when I peeked in, I saw that it really just led to a courtyard.  There was a poster about an exhibit and I decided to check it out. If I'd been on my bike, I never would have taken the time to stop, find a place to lock the bike and go in.  Every now and then it's good to break your routine.

I don't know much about sculpture and I probably couldn't say that I'm a big fan of it, but this stuff caught my eye.  Maybe it was the way it was displayed, the titles of the pieces, the space they filled.....I don't know.  But I liked it.  And when I got to the end, I liked it even more!  There was a little jar of pretzels and a few mirrors sitting on a stone wall.  There were no instructions and nothing even indicating that you should go over and check it out, but how often do you see a little jar of pretzels sitting on a mirror on a stone wall?  Not very often, so it's worth a little investigating.  And what was it?   A little place to express yourself after enjoying, disliking, questioning or reflecting on what you'd just experienced.  A place to build your own pretzel sculpture, definitely something I didn't plan on doing when I woke up in the morning.  But definitely something I was happy to have done when I went to bed. 

A Damsel in Distress

I may have met my match.  I was riding my bike on the beautiful backroads of Veneto (Italy) and the pedal fell off.  It had started feeling a little funny under my foot and I wasn't sure why, but I kept pedaling.  That is, until I couldn't pedal anymore because it actually fell off and I had to turn around to go pick it up.  Now what?  A damsel in distress that couldn't speak Italian well enough to call someone and have them explain what to do over the phone.  The biggest problem was, I didn't know how to say pedal.  I could say, "The thing that you put your foot on and push around in little circles to make the bike move."  Do you think that would have worked? 
I decided it would be easier to deal with in person.  Fortunately, I had just passed a winery that a friend happens to own.  How cool is that?!  So, I pushed the bike back there and went in.  I knew my friend wasn't there, so I told the first person I saw that I didn't speak Italian very well (because that's what I say) and that I was a friend of Miriam's and I had a problem.  Instead of trying to explain it to her, I took her out to my bike.  She tried all the same stuff that I tried and none of it worked.  We decided to wait until Miriam's brother came back to the shop because he was a man and they can do everything we can't, right?  But, instead of waiting, she left me (I didn't know where she was going) and came back with another man.  He got the pedal on to a point that it wouldn't fall off and then went to his car for a tool and got it on even tighter.  Grazie!
When he left, I asked her who he was.  She said that she didn't know.  She just went in the bar and asked if there was anyone there that wanted to help a beautiful American with her bike (this is the damsel in distress part) and he volunteered.  I'm not sure how pleased he was with the beautiful American, but my pedal was fixed and I asked if I could take his picture and that was that!
I told my new friend to tell Miriam that Tenderly had stopped by for help.  That's what Miriam called me for the first week or two, until her 8 year-old son corrected her and said, "Mom.  It's Tenley.  Tenderly is toilet paper."  (Yes.  There is an Italian brand of toilet paper called Tenderly.)
I thanked Lucia for her help and somehow it came out that she spoke English.  She said that she didn't speak it very well and that she was always nervous.  (Sound familiar?)  She was born in Australia and had lived there until she was seven and there was no one in this part of Italy to practice with.  I told her (in English) that I'd be back and she told me her hours and was as excited as I would have been if an Italian had stopped by my studio and told me they'd come back to visit and speak Italian with me. 

I don't speak Italian very well

No matter where I am, if I meet someone new or I need help from someone, I still start off with "Je ne parle pas Francais tres bien", or "Non parlo Italiano molto bene."  I guess I figure that way I'm covered and I can make mistakes or say that I don't understand a thousand times and I won't feel like a total idiot.  Those conversations usually end with the person telling me that I speak Italian or French well and that they understood everything I said.  But, I still start the next conversation with the next person with the same phrase.  I don't know if I'll ever have the confidence to drop it.
However, I was extra happy (and maybe I should have been a little embarrassed) the other day when I realized that I was speaking Italian without worrying about it.  After lunch on the terrace with Matteo's mom and dad (fettucine handmade by their aunt for an average Thursday afternoon lunch) I picked Matteo up from school.  It seemed to be just like at home.  Some of the moms walk together and they all meet outside the school a little bit early and chat.  Then I realized that something was missing.  There was no line of black SUVs with their hazards on blocking traffic.  No moms with cell phones in one hand and Starbucks in the other.  (In fact, another mom had just come over for a cup of coffee after lunch and we all walked to school together.  It reminded me of 1969, if I can really remember this, at 15 Dean Street in Grand Rapids, when the dads would go to work and the moms would have each other over for a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.  Does anyone do this anymore?)
Anyway, we walked home from school and Ivana dished up three cups of gelato.  She asked Matteo where he wanted to eat it and he chose outside.  He wanted to sit on the swing that his dad had made from nothing.  It really was S.O.O.N.---Something Out of Nothing. I told Matteo that I loved it and he said, "I knew you would."
After gelato, Matteo wanted to play tennis.  We went behind the house to the driveway.  He lives in a little row of townhouses with garages below and in the back.  He keeps a string tied to the gutter and there's a nail in the concrete wall on the other side.  The nail's a little high, but it was already there and it works just fine.  He ties the other end of the string to the nail and he has a rather high tennis net made of one string.  This is where I realized I was speaking Italian with no fear.  There were lots of "sorrys" and "oops" and "nice shots" in a louder than normal voice.  Let me remind you, I don't like speaking English on my cell phone in public places in Chicago.  You should see me speaking Italian on the train or in a shop in Italy.  I usually whisper so no one can hear me. But, somehow, playing tennis with Matteo behind a row of Italian townhouses with a lot of windows and balconies, I was free. And maybe still "Non parlo Italiano molto bene," but "Parlo Italiano."

The Power of Cheese

Cheese.  Soft cheese.  Hard cheese.  Old Cheese.  Smelly cheese.  Cheese in a sandwich.  Cheese in a salad.  Cheese as a snack.  Cheese before dinner.  Cheese after dinner.  Italian cheese.  AND French cheese.

I've received a lot of flack in my life for my love of grilled cheese sandwiches.  My friends have said more than once upon entering a restaurant. "Do you think they're going to have a grilled cheese on the menu?"  It's not the only thing I eat, you know.  Well, maybe it is.  Kind of.  If I go to a Mexican restaurant, I get cheese quesadillas.  If it's Italian, it's a cheese pizza.  And in France, my favorite lunch is what I refer to as a "smashed sandwich" which is really just 5 kinds of cheese on a long piece of bread and smashed to toast on a grill.  (And voila!  A French panini or really a French grilled cheese.)  A French grilled cheese is not a Croque Monsieur.  This has a tiny sliver of ham which is impossible to pull off.  So, in MY opinion, a French grilled cheese is really a cheese panini, which was given it's name by you know who.

Anyway, I may have discovered the grilled cheese of grilled cheeses last weekend in the Czech Republic.  I didn't write Prague because it was not in Prague.  I did everything I could to get out of Prague and I found my real grilled cheese in Kutna Hora.  (Okay.  I'm happy to have gone to Prague and to have seen another Disneyland town like Mont St. Michel.  But to spend more than a few hours to feel the "magic", as one friend that loves Prague put it, seemed like too much).  Now, back to the more magical item, the grilled cheese.

I was traveling with a 14-year old friend and I knew we would both be struggling with the menu.  Then I found the grilled cheese and smiled.  I informed my culinary equal and we ordered two grilled cheeses and two french fries.  (They're French, right?)  We were happy.  But we were even happier when they arrived.  Okay....really it was me that was so happy when they arrived.  It was GRILLED cheese.  No bread.  Just two big slabs of cheese.  My partner was confused.  All I could say was that it was like a couple of giant mozzarella sticks!  Then she understood.  Makes sense.  Grilled cheese.  She asked how we were supposed to eat it and I told her with a knife and fork.  Then she pointed at the three little piles of different colored stuff on our plates and in true kid-to-kid fashion said, "I dare you to eat that."  Guess what?  I'd already had a bite.  Maybe I'm more like an 18-year old than a 14-year old.  I'm growing up over here.

Back to the surprise slabs of cheese.  The menu said nothing about a sandwich, so why was I convinced grilled cheese was a sandwich?  How often do we make this mistake of preconceived notions?  Adding something to something else just because you think it should be there or because you're used to it being there?  Having an idea about the way something should be and not giving it a second thought and in the end it really isn't what you thought it should be at all?  And guess what?  Sometimes......it's better.