I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.
Doesn't that sound lovely?
There is no internet in the French countryside, and very little spoken English. One is therefore forced to "relax," away from the computer, usually through HOURS of conversation.
Have I mentioned that I don't love French Meg?
French Meg smiles and nods a lot. She also laughs on cue. There are times when French Meg understands what you say, but she won't ask a single question. You may have covered that point already, and she probably already laughed.
Nod, smile. Ha ha HA!!
Not only am I a bit slow, I am indiscretely so. At 5'10'', I'm only slightly taller than average when playing on the home court. In France, however, I am walking talking circus show.
The result is that, in addition to babbling and smiling, I am often dressed kinda funny. It's not always my fault.
This weekend, the countryside hostess offered to lend me her slippers. I pantomimed something like "I don't think they fit!" looking at first disappointed, then smiling enormously.
She suggested that I just wear them over my toes, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.
Outside the chalet, her XS parka hit me just below the bra line. Even the mountain sheep were rolling their eyes. "It's cropped," I gestured in return, grinning madly the whole time.
My finest performance of the weekend can't be blamed on size. It came one night when I was too tired to climb the stairs for toothpaste, and instead started fishing around in the hosts' bathroom drawers.
Do I even need to type this? It's really too predictable...
Greetings from the Windy City, aka the City of Sodden Socks.
Note: this post is about Chicago. Fair city readers who care only for Paris may prefer this new article about the Paris restaurant scene, or this one about February concerts.
I was mildly deported recently, sent back to retrieve a slip of paper, and am making the most of this exile by stuffing my gullet with fried Americana.
The Health Fest began on Saturday when I was greeted by my hosts Nikki and Garen with, among other delicacies, a batch of homemade samosas.
The next day brought a Scotch egg and fried zucchini at the Gage, followed by a bag of takeaway pupusas.
Day three was deep dish Chicago pizza and a trip to Kuma's Corner, a metal bar cum hamburger shack where every sandwich bears the name of a band. Pictured below, the Pantera.
Yesterday began with a pilgrimage to Hot Doug's, one of my top five eateries in the world. My admiration for this man and his sausage is such that I made an offering of illegal foie gras at his alter counter.
In return, I feasted on the traditional Chicago dog, a Polish with peppers and carmelized onions, and an apple & cherry pork sausage with chutney and cranberry Wensleydale cheese. With a mountain of cheese fries, of course. Dinner chez Ed & Kathy offered no caloric respite: fried chicken, fried okra, and slaw.
At this point in the trip, I fear my digestive track may be shutting down. And I haven't even made it to Pilsen yet!
More to come from Chicago, site of my own personal war on moderation...
I could feel with my eyes closed that the train was slowing, and pulled down my headphones to hear "terminus."
I had only 30 minutes to wait before my friend's arrival in Brest, and then our hosts would arrive to collect us. The first leg of this journey had seemed to pass without incident, and I was looking forward to some time outside of Paris.
I trundled out of the train and was surprised to find a party. A band was screeching some traditional music and a cidre was placed in my hand. A sturdy Breton gal shoved some sort of finger-glistening dessert at me and I wondered if perhaps I was dreaming.
"What is all this?" was the first question that entered my mind.
"Where the hell am I?" was the second.
These festivities, you see, on the eve of Ascension, had been organized for visitors to Lannion.
"LANNION"
Had I not boarded a train for Brest? Had the conductor not punched my ticket? Was I maybe just a little bit drunk?
I considered these possibilities while the party moved off toward the exit. I looked back and forth between my bag and the sign, and before long was alone on the platform. My watch read nearly 11pm.
The conductor whistled past me. "Excusez-moi" I mewed, and explained my total confusion.
He put his hand in his pocket and then passed me some chocolates.
chocolates...?
This was intended to soften the blow, I suppose, that I'd be stuck overnight in Lannion. Brest was two hours away, he said, and there would be no more trains before morning.
but...?
My train, it seems, had separated while I slept. Train A, which included my assigned strapontin, broke off and went to Brest. Train B, which contained the all-important bar car, had continued on to Lannion.
And I, after downing a beer near Rennes, had found the first available seat and passed out.
I could picture my friend Andy, as I checked into a hotel, just shaking his head and muttering "Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..." Which is exactly what he did when I recounted the story yesterday.
"Did they know that you... y'know... do this sort of thing?" "They do now," I said, and we shook our heads together.
The bathtub, it turns out, was all I saw of the hotel. My rescue team insisted upon arriving that very night, and then promptly got a flat in the parking lot.
"It couldn't get any worse!" said our cheerful host, who clearly imagined that these would be my only antics. I didn't have the heart to argue as he changed the tire in the dark.
His naive optimism was shattered en route to the Ile d'Ouessant, on what will now be referred to as "the pizza boat."
"You threw up on the ferry - what are you, ten?" Andy teased. "It was choppy!" I protested.
"Mahgan, Mahgan, Mahgan..." ------------------------------------------------------- *TGV photo swiped from the dishy and talented Rion
We parked the car at 9pm outside a low slung cement block building. After knocking three times on a window, a man wordlessly opened the front door.
Adam appeared as my boss had descibed him: short and stocky, like a sports trainer. Not so different than the other men I'd met in Warsaw. What set Adam apart was his brow line - two hairy thickets that twisted upward toward the flourescent bulb.
A man in a suit hovered behind Adam, his function unknown. The suit motioned for me to sit down, and Joanne silently followed Adam into the bedroom. After a few minutes the suit mumbled something in French. "Not many people from Poland in Quebec," he said. Then he stood up and walked out of the apartment.
Alone now, I could examine my surroundings. In addition to the bare bulb, there were plenty of other "mood elements." A television, muted, showing rugby. A phone that rang off the hook and a cassette answering machine. Decorative knives. I heard footsteps in the hallway and then the flimsy door was flung open. Joanne emerged looking woozy, but gestured for me to go in. I followed dumbly and the door was closed behind me.
"Stand here," he said in French. "Close your eyes."
I had agreed to see the energy healer because my boss had offered to pay. She had her own appointment during my visit, and I was "lucky enough" to be added on. Adam had been in the papers recently, and was very much in demand.
At the very least, I thought, as he stood behind me doing God-knows-what, there is a blog post in this. And I began to imagine the opening lines.
"You're very sad," Adam said, interrupting.
"Am I?" I replied, imagining a serious poker face.
"This here," he said, passing open hands near my sternum, "is your (something-or-other) channel. Immediate family. Boyfriend, husband. Very ......"
The last word was represented only by a gesture. An anguished face, like he had stepped on something sharp. Or eaten Marmite.
"I see."
"This here (moving southward) is your spirit channel." He spent some time pawing the air in front of my belly, and then moved on.
He started in about digestion and I had to call him back.
"Excuse me, Adam... my spirit channel? Did you, uh, find anything there?"
His impressive brow collapsed into itself. He started to say something and then thought better of it. He moved his hands down and continued to talk about intestines.
Parlor tricks followed, with Adam pointing to my physical ailments. He correctly named all the current ones (a bad cough, a sore back) and even forecast a few that "will follow."
He then told me to sit, and looked directly into my eyes. His face hung with the over-wrought sincerity of a high school guidance counselor.
"You're very sad," he repeated.
Isn't everyone? I thought. "But what about my spirit channel?"
He started again to explain, stopped, and then called for Joanne. He took her in the corner and spoke very quickly.
My mind wandered to various versions of this story - the sad expat learning that she has, after all, no soul. It could be done like Lost in Translation with good music, Polish art students, and sexy casting. Or in a Sci-Fi direction, with a vampire soul! Or...
"It's your third eye," someone interrupted.
Joanne was explaining to me that it's broken. My third eye. And that this is very, very bad. "It's the way you relate to the world. It's the interface between you and everybody else. Or something like that. We can Google it."
The good news, she assured me, is that Adam can fix it. Only 2-3 more visits, and only 15 euros a pop. I could be a much better person before the summer.
I came back to Paris last night, dropped my bags, and went to an Andrew Bird concert. And the dashing multi-instrumentalist peered out from beneath his hair-mop, looked right into my eyes (so I imagine), and sang:
Do you wonder where the self resides Is it in the head or between your sides?
I decided this morning, after a proper night's rest and five cups of coffee, what this third eye business is really about.
It is not about me being soul-less. Or selfish. Or any other unflattering word that begins with S.
It is about grammar!
My interface with the world, like a radio dropped in water, has been cutting out. I am third eye blind mute as a result of speaking french like a six year-old.
My next trip to Warsaw is in May. This leaves me plenty of time to master the subjunctive and return triumphant to Adam's "office."
"All clear," he will say, brows twitching happily. My sternum will reveal that I am good.
Whether t'is nobler in the mind to suffer the stings and stares of jellyfish and fellow swimmers while clothed, or to bare arms and legs against a sea of turquoise...
Hamlet, remember, was European. One can deduce, then, that he had no problem exposing his (royal) family jewels while on vacation.
For an ameriçaine, however, going natural is anything but. And thus I found myself recently wrestling with the question along the crystal blue waters of Naked Cove. A secluded spot on the southern tip of Istria, we found this place following a vigorous bike ride past the tourist hordes through pine stands and berry-laden brush.
Our group, composed of 2 Americans and 2 Europeans, had discussed this on the previous day. "You will see me naked in Croatia," said the Austrian, his tone carrying a finality that promised no escape. True to his word, Bernhard was the first among us to doff his drawers, splashing into the sea in the way that God intended. This reasssured the naked Slavs who had been eyeing us warily from their spot several hundred meters to the right. Upon seeing genitalia they returned to smoking and playing with their dog.
I, meanwhile, was warily eyeing my toes. And everything north of them, egad. Was I really qualified for this?
"Americans believe that nakedness is sexual," Bernhard told me. Yes and no. Americans believe in the perfectability of the body. And every freckle and roll is a reminder that we have not worked hard enough, will not be going to heaven, and deserve neither sex nor sunshine. Whether this reminder is personal or shared depends on the alcohol available.
Fueled only by lemonade, I was taking a particularly long time with my bikini.
It was the only child in me, the competitive one who tries to out-cliff jump the boys, who won out in the end. There was no way I was going to be left behind on the safe and sexless shore. So I dropped them. And then ran like hell into the protective waters of the Adriatic.
Hours later, after seeing my scraped and sunburned companions pulling themselves gracelessly over sharp rocks, I too settled into a state of corporal indifference. I put on my flippers and mask, and set out for some naked snorkeling.
Otherwise, it would have never occurred to me to hop a train and spend the day biking in the countryside.
Which is what we did, Saturday, my active friends and I.
After city-biking to Gare du Nord, we took the train to a little village 40 km north of Paris. Bikes are allowed on all regional TER trains during non-rush hours for no charge (more info here). On board, bikes can simply be laid to the side if there isn't a special train car for them.
Descending to the platform at Luzarches, we rode away in search of country roads and fresh air. What we got, instead, was incredibly humid air and highway riding. That's right: the active friends' guide to train/bike adventure had us peddling down the interstate for at least 1/3 of the way.
All was certainly not lost. The ride, most of the time, looked like this, and was punctuated by a well-deserved stop at the Royaumont Abbey. Founded in 1228 by King cum Saint Louis, the Abbey was occupied by Cisturcian monks until the Revolution when it was partially-destroyed and turned into a cotton mill. Today, it's a cultural center and a site for fancy wedding parties like this.
We stopped for beers at their pretty cafe and Bernhard gave us a history lesson about monks and architecture. A friend who is active and historically-inclined? Le Meg wins.
At the end of the ride, we stopped for dinner at Le Saint Come (26 rue Cygne) in Luzarches, and I indulged in an apéro of kir pèche before a menu of 1) Salade Auvergnateand 2) Steak Hachéavec Bleu d'Auvergne. We also shared some cheese and a thin slice of apple tart.
Did I mention it was air conditioned? It's amazing how the appetite can return when one isn't sweating to death.
We returned home on the last train to Paris and I landed in bed just before midnight, ready for the best-ever sleep of the dead.
Summary:
Round-trip train ticket Paris-Luzarches: 7 euros
Entry to the Royaumont Abbey: 5 euros
Beer at the Abbey café: 2.50 euros
Dinner at Le Saint Come: 16.50 euros
Pole dance and karaoke performance by Andreia on the train ride home: priceless
In total, ten wonderful hours for 31 euros. Thanks Bernhard & Andreia!
I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.
She suggested that I just wear them over my toes, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.
