Travels in Paris

  Ah, Paris, City of Lights

                                                                              

City of Love

                                                                  

City of Gold Statuary

                                                                                  

but most of all city of , je ne c’est quoi, city of very serious people who never smile, wear any kind of athletic gear, or eat, I'm convinced, more than 500 calories a day.

                                                                                  

       They say the French have a love affair with food. Mais, oui, judging by this, 

                                                                                    

which I happily savored at the Musee D’Orsay restaurant. A work of art, to be sure. But this is tourist food. The typical French breakfast of a hard boiled egg and bread (sounds like prison food to me), is followed by a lunch of coffee and a piece of ham, and then a leisurely dinner consisting of a tiny piece of protein with a tiny bit of carb, eaten at a snail's pace of 2-3 hours, accompanied by a couple of glasses of wine. I guess the slower one eats, the more food one thinks one has consumed. Quelle bonne idée!

But then the bastards burn every calorie off by, and I’m not kidding about this, WALKING! 

   They walk to work.

     They walk to shop. 

                                                                                   

     They walk their dogs. 

                                                                                

    and they walk just to walk. They also bike.

                                                                                    

 This is probably one reason why they never smile. They have to concentrate so hard in order not to get flattened by the many cars, taxis, motorcycles and scooters that zoom precariously in and out of traffic, that they get permanent “serious masks” for faces.

I think the other reason they never smile, is because they deprive themselves of all that wonderful food only the tourists eat at the destination restaurants, and café’s where they push large portions of American style food on you for breakfast. Juice, croissants, small baguette with butter, coffee, marmalade, pain au chocolate, ham and breakfast salad. This is called “Breakfast Americaine”.

                                                                                  

And they KNOW you’re American. One time, I walked into a café, nicely dressed in a black tailored coat, the required scarf, black pants and black shoes, (no sneakers, God forbid) and a waiter sat me down and brusquely announced, “Breakfast Americaine”, then walked away before I had a chance to say “Bonjour”. Mon Dieu! Maybe it was because I wasn’t as thin as everyone in the restaurant. Maybe I had my scarf knotted the wrong way. Maybe it was because I was smiling. I imagined a conversation with my waiter. He says, "You cannot fool us. You are not a REAL Parisienne!" and I reply, with a big American smile on my face, "Then you won't be wanting any of my REAL Euros!" But I kid.

And continuing to smile, I walked the streets of Paris, drinking in the beauty of the city at every turn,

                                                                                    

  devouring the heady smell of French lavender in the luscious surroundings of the Jardin Des Tuileries,

                                                                                 

  consuming every detail of Notre Dame,

                                                                                    

               imbibing the very light reflected off the batobus as I cruised down the Seine.

                                                                                 

       I’m getting hungry. Hand me a croissant, will you, Pierre? Preferably avec le chocolat.

                                                                                   

International Women's Day

On March 8, we are celebrating International Women's Day. To actually have to have an International Women's Day in 2011 is kind of sad. You'd think Women would be considered equal by now. I mean it IS the 21st century, isn't it? Of course we were supposed to have flying cars by now, as well.

Wouldn't it be nice if we women were so rooted in the main stream that we didn't need a day set aside to call attention to celebrate "the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future." as they state on the International Women's Day 2011 website found here: http://www.internationalwomensday.com/

IWD started in 1911 and thanks to the multi media world we live in, it will probably make its biggest impact this year. Celebs, editors, bloggers, and politicians are getting on board to promote women's rights and make people aware that we, as women, STILL do not have equal rights to education, employment, health care. Women still are victims of sex trafficking, genital mutilation, (and)gender based violence, which according to Oxfam "causes more death and disabilities among women of childbearing age than cancer, malaria, traffic accidents and war combined."

Annie Lennox is walking over the Millennium Bridge in London tomorrow in support of equal rights and so are millions of women around the world, each to a bridge in their own cities and towns.


Tina Brown, editor of The Daily Beast has just taken over Editorial duties at Newsweek and has put Hillary Clinton on the cover. Why?

"because her long-held conviction has always been that women are the leading indicator. That if you empower women, you’re gonna make huge changes in the democracy movement and, of course, in the GDP of the countries concerned. And she’s been pounding that drum for a long time."

From the Independant comes this. "Egyptian activists have called for a "Million Women March" tomorrow after accusing the military government of forgetting about the role of women in the uprising and maintaining a "backward" political system dominated by men.

Organisers of the march say that political changes being introduced by Egypt's Higher Military Council, which assumed power after the toppling of Hosni Mubarak last month, will entrench patriarchal systems of power which have dominated the region for years. "They are forgetting about women's role in the revolution," said Dina Abou El-Soud, a 35-year-old hostel owner who is helping organise the march. "I think it is because of the culture and how it used to be here."

Let's hope those last six words prove prophetic. 

          "how it used to be here."

Fluffy Stuff

If I wanted to be living in Vermont, I never would have moved! I mean, really. This is Massachusetts, land of the founding Fathers, the Kennedys, Cape Cod and Marshmallow Fluff (which, when I'm in a good mood, I can imagine the snow to be) Here is my back yard covered in Fluff.

Yes, readers, Massachusetts is known for many things - its gorgeous beaches, its almost unduplicatable accent, The midnight ride of Paul Revere, The Berkshires, The Celtics (Basketball was invented here by James Naismith in Springfield, 1891) Ben Affleck and Matt Damon...I could go on. But in my thinking, albeit narrow minded and convoluted, I see Massachusetts as the land of the origination of interesting food items.

                                                                    MMMMM...FLUFF

In 1917 Archibald Query invented fluff in Somerville Massachusetts. The Fluffernutter was created in Union Square, Somerville.

My mother told me she would be given a whole jar of the creamy stuff and told to wait in the closet until she was done eating it. Harsh precursor to Sesame Street as babysitter. Fluff can not only be eaten out of the jar but can be combined with other food items to create other interesting food items - it's like an interesting food item replicator! There's Rice Krispie treats a.k.a. the Marshmallow Dream Bar at that haughty Starbucks.

 

And of course no school lunch would be the same without the Fluffernutter, or as we say it, the fluffah nuttah. Also created  in Somerville.

                         There's even a festival called the Fluff Fest each September in Union Square!

But I digress. Can we ignore Boston Creme Pie, the Chocolate Chip (or Tollhouse) Cookie, Graham Crackers, Fig Newtons, Boston Baked Beans, Necco Wafers, Sky Bars, and Cod Cakes as other interesting food items? How about Craisins? 

So many interesting food items - so little time. No that's a lie. I've had all the time in the world this winter to indulge in my yearly hibernation and by hibernation I mean eating interesting food items made in Massachusetts. And when I just cant eat those last bites of whatever, I conveniently store them in my Tupperware containers, also invented in Massachusetts by Earl Silas Tupper in 1947!

Ophiuchus Shmoffeeyoukuss

If you're like me (and I know I am), you struggle through life, trying to make sense of the occasional cluster-bombs thrown at you on the roller coaster fun ride we call "Life". This has been the struggle of Humankind since Eve, who, feeling justly indignant for being thrown out of the Garden for a mere taste of the apple, decided to take things into her own hands and turn tragedy into a really good apple pie - something my husband and others I've polled would equate with heaven on earth (especially warm from the oven with a dollop of Ben and Jerry's Vanilla Bean ice cream cuddling up to the first slice).

Control - we all want it - we all make believe we have it. We try to control our children from day one by giving them names that will carry them gallantly or elegantly through life - that perhaps will distinguish them from their peers. This is a bad idea. I know people (I am not kidding here) named April Showers and Snow White. 

We try to control our weight by watching what we eat. By this I mean watching each chocolate chip cookie magically disappear from the shiny black surface of the cookie sheet, not even stopping to rest on the wire rack as it goes through my cookie monster mouth into the depths of a VERY satisfied tummy.

We rely on our religious teachings, hoping our Archbishop knows better than their Pope, or our Rabbi, has a more direct line than their Dalai Lama, or Ganesh, the six limbed Elephant God who is known as the Remover of Obstacles. If we have solid rules, we can have some semblance of control.

Some of us even look to signs and portends, swearing by the I Ching or our daily horoscopes -  and here is where we now start to feel  adrift in the heavens, betrayed by those fickle gas giants and planets that dare to CHANGE THEIR POSITION in the sky!!!

Seems we've all been living a high life of lies because there's a new kid on the block. No not that one.

(Although by now, shouldn't he be calling himself the new MAN on the bloc? Love ya, Joey.)

It's the constellation Ophiuchus (pronounced Off-ee-YOU-kuss) or the Serpent Holder (eeeew)

Almost all of us are now NOT WHO WE WERE - Astrologically speaking. I'm crushed. O Heavens, dost thou condemn the gentle Libra who loves the arts and cross dressing to the Virginal Virgo who longs to clean up after him? Dost the assertive Aries who loves to set people on fire, now drown in the  waters of Pisces who only associate with people who are imaginary?

Woe are we. Confused are we. But wait. How does that change anything?

OK I'm feeling better now. I get it now. Humankind will always be confused because there is no constant. Everything is RELATIVE. HE knew.

And he had the foresight to be born on March 14, one of the few dates that doesn't change sign!!!

Way to go, AL.

The Ghosts of Christmas

Being partly of English lineage, Christmas, for me, has always been about the roast beef (not Turkey), plum pudding

and mince pies (not apple) and a good Charles Dickens ghost story (not Frosty and Rudolph). Of course this all played out in my imagination as a child, because I had no control over the Christmas experience. I was determined to have it my way when I was a "grown-up" but to no avail. Family demands dictated their tradition, not my imaginary one, so I had to be satisfied with the Dickens Village atop my fireplace hearth and my annual reading of "A Christmas Carol", the ghost story that for me, epitomized the true transformative powers of the Christmas Miracle.  Published 167 years ago today, "A Christmas Carol" has remained in print for all these years.

 There have been dozens of film versions of "A Christmas Carol" from Scrooge McDuck to Sir Patrick Stewart to a digitized Jim Carrey but I like the 1951 Alastair Sims version - maybe because it was the first one I saw.

I think he got the transformation from mean, contracted old Scrooge to a gleeful, childlike Christmas groupie the best of them all.

I've always wanted to write a Christmas ghost story, so I set to work and combined my English side with my Irish side and included a Banshee in the mix. 

"Miracle on Massachusetts Avenue", a tale about a little depression era girl who gets a very special Christmas present from beyond is my contribution to the genre of Christmas ghost story and has been published this month in Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, a magazine of speculative fiction that's well worth a look.

http://www.intergalacticmedicineshow.com/

So hop in bed tonight with your laptop or iPad and head on over to the "Show"for a couple of good Christmas stories, the other one, "Wise Men" by the award winning Sci-Fi and Fantasy writer Orson Scott Card (author of "Ender's War" and his latest - "Pathfinder") and have a very magical Christmas on us.

I Love Iceland

Maybe it's because in a past life, I was a marauding Viking, stealing lovely Celtic lasses from Ireland to bring to my new home with Leif Erikson and the guys, or maybe because I was a Bjork fan even before the "Swan Dress".

                                                                 Because I love Iceland.

I mean even the name is cool. Why do I find it so intriguing and magical?

It's got "Geyser", which means...you guessed it, geyser. I'm assuming this is the original one.

It's also got waterfalls to rival Niagara.

You can walk right up to the edge of Gullfoss and contemplate either the immense power of fast running  water or suicide. Sigridur Tomasdottir, who I call the first green peace protester of Iceland, did just that near the turn of the century and managed to stave off energy developers who were trying not to look bad by causing a young girl to fling herself to her death under the immense power of fast running water.

Then there's the interesting architecture and Art and Music scenes. Here's a church that looks like a  Buck Rogers space ship made out of buttercream frosting. 

They start partying in Reykjavik at about eleven PM and go through the night dancing, drinking and looking for elves, as the drinking continues into the wee hours of the morning. This is probably because beer was banned in Iceland until 1989 and they're trying to make up for centuries of being sober on the weekends.

Yes, I've been there and would jump at the chance to go back. I didn't get to see the Northern Lights, (Bucket List territory), or the Puffins. And the rotten shark dish the Icelanders hold so dear, and who wouldn't, was unavailable that week to the great relief of my digestive system.

But any country that has the most egalitarian government in the world, with a female President whose cabinet is fifty percent women and a new Constitution being drafted by an assembly made up of about thirty delegates from a pool of ordinary people from truck drivers to computer geeks has my vote.

So here's to Iceland - volcanoes, glaciers, people who sound like Latka from "Taxi", a restaurant that looks like a giant, overturned glass colander atop 4 humongous water towers and all!

 So save some hakari (that'd be the shark) for me and make sure the Northern Lights are turned on. I'll be back someday soon.

The Birds

    So I'm walking down the road and I'm wondering where the birds are. You see, every November, hundreds of some kind of black starling always make a pit stop in my back yard on their yearly migration to the South. They haven't come this year. I'm longing to see them.
    The next day, I trip and break my ankle. This is bummer central for me. Mobility is my thing, man. I'm nursing my wounds and wondering what positive thing I can concentrate on to pull my sorry ass self pity as far away from me as possible.
    I hobble outside on crutches and send a prayer up to whomever, to send me a sign, some hope, a diversion...
    I hear some twitters, some crackling sounds that get increasingly louder along with the beats of my heart.

    Hundreds of black silhouettes cover the sky, swooping and turning in beautifully choreographed precision. My birds are back and my heart becomes lighter for a few joyful moments - enough to last until my next prayer.